annoying, and ridiculous! And what is more, I don’t believe a word of it! Rupert gone to America indeed! Either my nephew James was wilfully deceiving you – a not inconceivable idea, I may say! – or else he has been misled. James was always an idiot! But the vicar will know, I should think, one way or the other, because he witnessed Rupert’s last will, and so, I suppose, is in his confidence, which is more than can be said’, she concluded bitterly, ‘of his nearest relations.’
The lawyer coughed sympathetically, and Mrs Bryce Harringay led him at a rapid pace, which was unsuited to the heat of the afternoon, across the lawn, into the park, and over to a path which meandered into the beautiful, thickly wooded outskirts of the demesne. On the farther side of these woods was a small wicket gate which opened on to the main Bossbury-London road. All this formed a short cut from the Manor House to the Vicarage.
To Jim Redsey’s surprise, therefore, there was no one on the lawn when he returned from his visit to the gardening-shed and the stables, except for a man-servant who was setting the tea on a small table outside the summer-house. Jim turned to him for information.
‘Mrs Bryce Harringay, sir? I think I caught sight of her and the gentleman walking towards the woods, sir. They’ve disappeared now.’
‘Towards the woods!’ cried Redsey. ‘Good God!’
He bounded across the springy turf of the lawn, took a fourteen-foot flower-bed in his stride and leapt a clump of low-growing bushes like a steeplechaser. Into the longer coarse grass of the park he plunged like a swimmer dashing into the waves, and so galloped into the woods.
He yelled as he ran – the loud, terrifying and terrified yell of the panic-stricken man.
‘I say! Aunt Constance! I say! Grayling! Grayling! I say! Stop! Stop a minute! Half a minute! Dash it! I say! I say! Hi!’
A turn of the narrow woodland path, and he sighted them. Attracted by his wild cries, the magnificent orange-clad figure of his aunt and the neat black form of the lawyer halted and looked back. A tall, loose-limbed, untidy, overheated young man in a suit of plus fours and a pair of golfing shoes, his tie flying loose and a dank lock of fair hair straying into his eye, came flying up to them. He halted, panting heavily, and leaned against a tree.
‘Really, James!’ his aunt protested frigidly. ‘You are a most offensive-looking object, most! You are
‘Sorry! Yes, I know,’ gasped Jim. ‘Beastly hot weather. Damned well out of training! Had to run the hell of a way after you! Came to tell you – came to tell you –’ he rolled his eyes wildly and racked his brains.
He pushed the lock of hair out of his eye and smiled feebly.
‘You are puerile, James,’ observed his aunt, commencing to swell ominously. ‘I suppose fresh tea can be made for us! Pray return to your other guests! Mr Grayling and I are going to the Vicarage to discover the Truth about Rupert.’
‘The truth about Rupert?’ Jim Redsey stared helplessly at her. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about! The vicar doesn’t know the truth about Rupert! The truth about Rupert – ha! ha! ha!’ And he went off into shouts of hysterical laughter, until the woods resounded with the terrible, crazy sound.
His aunt regarded him with horrified and the lawyer with pitying amazement.
‘You are ridiculous, James!’ announced Mrs Bryce Harringay. ‘Pray control yourself. A most foolish exhibition, most!’
Theodore Grayling grasped the young man by the arm.
‘Come, Mr Redsey,’ he said sharply. ‘Come, now, come!’
‘Not to the Vicarage,’ said Jim decidedly. ‘You come, now, come! Come along to tea.’
‘The Vicarage,’ began his aunt, eyeing him with contempt, ‘is not more than –’
Jim set his jaw. The spasm of hysteria had passed. ‘Look here, Aunt Constance,’ he said stubbornly, ‘you can’t go to the Vicarage now. Besides, you would only be wasting your time if you did go. I assure you – you must take my word for it – the vicar knows, nothing about Rupert, nothing at all.’
He turned to Theodore Grayling with gregarious Man’s instinctive confidence in a member of his own sex.
‘I say, Mr Grayling –’ His eyes were eloquent.
‘Quite, quite! With pleasure!’ said Theodore Grayling, rising to the occasion nobly. ‘Tea. Very nice. Very welcome. Come, Mrs Harringay.’ Gallantly he offered his arm.
‘But the vicar will be out after tea,’ objected Mrs Bryce Harringay, obstinately determined not to abandon the project on which she had set her heart. ‘He always takes a Boys’ Class at Bossbury Mission on third Mondays. He is never at the Vicarage after five o’clock.’
‘Then,’ remarked Theodore Grayling, glad to find a simple way out of the difficulty. ‘I fear we should scarcely catch him.’
He drew out his massive gold watch, a gift from a grateful client, and held it out towards Mrs Bryce Harringay, who gazed at it, snorted angrily, and, with as good a grace as she could muster, allowed herself to be escorted back to the summer-house by the lawyer. Jim walked behind them, his large frame blocking the narrow path as though fearful that they might take it into their heads to make for the Vicarage after all. As he walked he sweated. It had been a near thing.
On top of the old Observation Tower, Felicity Broome and Aubrey Harringay were looking at each other in amused surprise.
‘But why the spade – ?’ began Felicity.
‘All dressed up and nowhere to go, too! Going to dig for buried treasure to-night, perhaps!’ contributed Aubrey.
‘You don’t think he’s got a touch of the sun, do you?’ asked Felicity, in some anxiety. ‘And then to go dashing all over the park like that – it’s positively dangerous this weather. What do you think is the matter with him?’
‘Heaven knows, sweet child.’ Aubrey balanced himself precariously on the iron railing which ran round the platform on which they stood. ‘Perhaps he’s going to bury one of the family heirlooms in the shrubbery. How’s that for an idea? And he wants the mater to hold his coat while he does it!’
‘You’re making yourself so filthy, climbing about on that railing, that I think we’d better go and wash if we want any tea at all,’ retorted Felicity, giggling at the picture of the stately Mrs Bryce Harringay holding anybody’s coat for any conceivable reason whatsoever. ‘How’s that for an idea? I wonder if Rupert will be in to tea? Where is he to-day, by the way? Not still in bed, surely?’
‘So long as he isn’t among us, I don’t see that it matters where he is,’ said Aubrey, abandoning his perilous gymnastics and beginning to descend the stairs. He leapt down the last eight in a highly spectacular manner and then turned to finish his remarks. ‘Personally, I don’t care a dime where Rupert is, as long as he isn’t with me. I can’t stick the chap at any price. Most frightful outsider that ever lived, I should think. Awful bounder – and his friends are worse. And it makes me jolly sick, I can tell you, young child, to be lugged down here by the mater, who’s got the hide of a hippopotamus when it comes to saving money by sponging on other people.’
‘Really, Aubrey,’ protested Felicity, rather horrified by the scalding candour of the young.
‘Yes, I know it sounds a bit thick about one’s own people. But it’s the truth. I’m fond of the mater, of course, but I can spot her weak points. She won’t tip taxi-drivers, you know, and grouses because I do. And down here it makes me jolly well squirm to be forced to eat the chap’s beastly grub and sleep in his rotten, over-furnished bedrooms, and be taken out in his putrid car and accept his greasy favours, and pretend I’m grateful!’
‘But I haven’t seen him all day,’ said Felicity, reverting to the original topic. ‘
‘Dunno. Cheer up, angel,’ replied Aubrey, brightening visibly at the sight of the chap’s beastly grub, which was tastefully and lavishly laid out on a table shaded from the sun by a brightly striped awning. ‘There
