commandeered! So has the library, which I have been compelled to place at the disposal of the authorities so that the servants and ourselves may be put through a humiliating questionnaire concerning our movements during the past few days! And it is all James’s fault! Every bit of it!’
The bishop lifted whimsical eyebrows.
‘Indeed, Reginald, it is so! I know that James is a favourite with you. I think it is a pity. It seems that James has told Various Lies’ – the bishop’s smile broke bounds at the sound of the capital letters in her voice – ‘and that Rupert never had any intention of going to America, as James had falsely led us to believe he had had, and, in fact, that he did not go, and that James was fully aware that he did not go, and that, with intent to mislead us all – deliberate intent, quite deliberate – he concocted a whole series of Untruthful Explanations in order to conceal the true whereabouts of his unfortunate cousin.’
‘And where abouts
‘We do not know. It seems that James, in a fit of animal passion which a civilized person cannot but deplore, laid violent hands upon his cousin, and smote him on the head.’
‘I doubt whether that would have had a great deal of effect upon Rupert, you know,’ murmured the bishop thoughtfully. ‘A thick-headed –’
‘The blow,’ Mrs Bryce Harringay continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘caught Rupert under the chin and –’
‘Laid him out,’ interpolated the bishop appreciatively. ‘Go on, Constance.’
‘Really, Reginald!’ his sister-in-law remonstrated warmly. ‘One might almost imagine that you condoned, if not actually countenanced, this act of Sheer Barbarity.’
‘No, no. Oh, no,’ the bishop hastened to observe. ‘It is your pithy narrative style which evokes my admiration, not the unworthy subject of your discourse. You should have – you have a decided gift for exposition, you know. Pray proceed.’
‘Well,’ continued Mrs Bryce Harringay, somewhat mollified, ‘now comes the Really Mysterious part of the affair. The heartless and unprincipled James, for whom I find myself unable to feel anything but the most utter contempt, left his unfortunate cousin lying prone upon the damp ground at eight o’clock at night in that horrible place –’
‘I shouldn’t have thought the ground could be damp anywhere after this long spell of fine weather,’ remarked the bishop. ‘But what horrible place do you mean?’
‘I told you. In the midst of the woods near the Druids’ Stone. There is blood on the stone where the poor boy struck his head in falling. From that moment, Rupert has never more been seen.’
‘I think it is rather soon to speak with such finality,’ said the bishop. ‘I expect the truth is that Rupert is suffering from concussion and is wandering about, helpless from temporary loss of memory.’
‘Well,’ pronounced Mrs Bryce Harringay in funereal tones, ‘that is what we all
II
‘I shall bathe,’ said the bishop three hours later. They had drawn up on a piece of flat grassy land at the head of chalk cliffs. Below them the sea foamed shorewards over low black rocks, for the tide was just on the turn. Across the water the sun shone in a great breadth of glory; above the waves and up and down the face of the cliff the strong-winged seagulls wheeled and swooped and screamed.
There was a precipitous way leading down to the beach. Mrs Bryce Harringay had already refused to attempt it. The bishop, however, had been sitting on the short grass at the top of the cliffs, inhaling the splendid air and longing for a swim. The chauffeur had been sent over to the adjacent town to get himself some food, and Mrs Bryce Harringay some literature and a box of sweets.
‘I really must have a swim,’ the bishop observed, finding that his previous statement had had no effect.
Mrs Bryce Harringay looked pained.
‘So soon after lunch?’ she enquired coldly. ‘I think you are unwise.’
‘Rubbish!’ said the bishop, with an incisiveness which Mrs Bryce Harringay’s late husband would have envied. ‘I’ll make my way down to the beach and see whether there is a suitable place for undressing. Some rocks or something. If there is no suitable spot, I shall come up again and undress in the car. You don’t mind being left alone for a quarter of an hour or so, do you, while I bathe?’
‘Since I observe Cooper in the distance, I do not object in the very slightest,’ Mrs Bryce Harringay replied. ‘Particularly if he has brought the magazines I asked for and not some others of his own or the shopkeeper’s choice.’
The bishop descended the steep little path and arrived safely at the bottom. He was fortunate enough to discover a small recess, scarcely large enough to be called a cave, which formed an admirable shelter. In about three minutes he was trotting joyously into the sea.
Mrs Bryce Harringay sat contentedly reading. Cooper, on the step of the car, smoked a cigarette. In the clear shallow water the bishop splashed and grunted. Far up the beach towards the town stood a solitary red-striped tent.
The bishop enjoyed his swim. After about fifteen minutes he came trotting back up the beach, happily puffing and blowing, seized his towel, and began to rub himself vigorously.
Suddenly a voice from above cried out:
‘I say, come and look at this!’ And a young man of about twenty-five hung his face over the top of the cave and looked in.
‘Buck up and get dressed,’ he said. ‘I must show somebody what we’ve found, and there’s only you, so you’ve got to see it. Excuse me. My feet are slipping.’
And the face was withdrawn.
The bishop was in high good humour after his swim. He did buck up and get dressed. Inside ten minutes he was ready, gaiters and all.
‘Smart work,’ said an approving voice above his head. ‘I suppose they’ve invented a patent method of doing ’em up by now, like the girls’ Russian boots. I say, just come up here a minute. Right foot here – give us your hand – up-se-daisy!’
The bishop found himself on a small promontory which was occupied by a large young man in shorts and a shirt. He wore nothing else except a pair of extremely dilapidated brown suede shoes, brogue pattern, of a style which had enjoyed a short measure of popularity among men some years previously, but had since gone completely out of fashion. His face was bronzed, keen and very good-humoured. He grinned companionably at the bishop.
‘That’s my dug-out down there,’ he said, pointing to the striped tent. ‘A bit gay, isn’t it? My sister chose it. I say, look what we’ve found! Isn’t it a beauty?’
And he drew out from a hole in the face of the cliff a human skull, complete except for a deep cleft from the top of the crown to half-way down the forehead.
Twenty minutes later the bishop, rosy and smiling, climbed the precipitous little path again and rejoined his sister-in-law. Mrs Bryce Harringay glanced at her watch.
‘You’ve been a very long time, Reginald,’ she observed. ‘I do hope you will take no harm from so prolonged an immersion in the water.’
‘Oh, I was not in the sea for more than a quarter of an hour,’ replied the bishop, taking his place beside her in the car. ‘Something else delayed me.’
‘Let me spread out that damp towel,’ said Mrs Bryce Harringay. ‘It will quickly dry in this breeze.’
‘On no account!’ cried the bishop hastily. ‘I have a real treasure wrapped up in it which I intend to present to the Culminster Museum. I think I will leave it there with Brown as we pass. He can then examine it at his leisure, and I will call tomorrow and talk with him about it. I am proud of the Culminster Museum, and it is a very long time since I sent them anything. And, as I was instrumental in founding it, I feel it is my duty –’
‘What are you talking about, my dear Reginald?’ asked Mrs Bryce Harringay, frowning as Cooper took a very sharp corner at a greater pace than she considered safe.
‘I am talking about a brachycephalic skull,’ replied the bishop happily. ‘A young man on the beach gave it to me. This type of skull, as perhaps you are aware, was common among –’
