“Stay the night,” suggested Burt, not, of course, answering my question.
“No. Lend me your torch,” I said. I was rattled. I admit it.
“Take the gun,” said Burt, putting it into my hand. We were somehow, inside the Bungalow again, although, for the life of me, I can’t remember re-entering. That shows what your nerves do for you. I just simply cannot remember re-entering that bungalow. Queer!
“No, thanks,” I said, deeming it inconsistent with my profession to carry fire-arms in time of peace. Besides, although the occurrences had startled me, I was still inclined to think that we were being terrorised by some of the young devils in the choir, who had had it in for me since I swiped three of them for scribbling vulgar phrases in the margins of the hymn books.
We started out again, William filling in the blanks of the story as we went, and arrived at the vicarage without adventure. Mrs. Coutts received us in the dining-room, and demanded from William an explanation of his lateness. It was then about twelve o’clock. William, with an economy of the truth which I could not but admire, stated that Mr. Gatty had been found in the church crypt, and he told the story with such convincing detail that his aunt accepted without demur the implied assertion that the releasing of Mr. Gatty had been the last item on William’s programme for the day. William referred to it casually and modestly as his good deed for the day, too, and having received a piece of bread and butter and a mug of cocoa, he went to bed, virtue bally well triumphant.
“Mr. Coutts out?” I said. “Still out, I mean?” Making conversation with the woman, of course. Couldn’t stick her at any price!
“Mr. Coutts is still out,” replied Mrs. Coutts. She closed her thin lips so tightly that I realised she had no more information to give me. I learned later that the vicar was talking with the Lowrys about Meg Tosstick at the Mornington Arms. He was not allowed to see her. I remained up, chatting with Mrs. Coutts, until the vicar returned home, and then, perceiving that there was going to be a domestic typhoon on the subject of Meg Tosstick and her mysterious baby, neither of whom must be seen by any living soul, apparently, I retired to bed. For some time I chewed over the identity of the person or persons who had chucked tiles at us from Burt’s roof, and decided to thrash out the matter with the choirboys at the next choir practice. I am choir-master, as the organist is a free- thinker, and Mrs. Coutts doesn’t think the lads ought to come under his baleful influence. (She won’t have him play for the Women’s Meeting, either!) As the lads themselves couldn’t very well be more baleful than they are, the argument didn’t cut much ice with me. But I bore up, because Daphne used to attend all the choir practices and help with the treble parts, and we had to wait to see everybody off the premises, of course.
Chapter III
sir william’s large maggot and daphne’s small one
« ^ »
Margaret Kingston-Fox passed her father the cucumber sandwiches. We were at tea at the Manor House. The other guests were Bransome Burns, financier, and Mrs. Bradley.
“And that’s your seventh, you pig,” Margaret said, as Sir William took a sandwich from the plate.
“I’m superstitious about the perfect number,” Sir William answered. He lay back in a long armchair and popped the sandwich into his mouth.
“Of course, if that’s the way you eat them!” his daughter continued. “Mrs. Bradley, do have another. Come along, Mr. Burns. Mr. Wells, you’re daydreaming!”
“Bread and butter for me,” said the financier. Like most kings of commerce, he was a slave to his digestion. “Isn’t this the day your poacher comes out?” he continued, addressing his host.
“No. Johnstone’s got another month. The silly fool bunged a brick at Heath, my head keeper, and laid him out. I hope he never does anything of the kind to me,” replied Sir William, selecting a piece of cake.
“Unpleasant to stop a large stone,” agreed Burns. I thought of the tiles which had been thrown at William and me on the previous night, but said nothing.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” said Sir William.
“Father can’t control his temper when people knock him about,” said Margaret. She laughed, but not happily, and was accompanied in her rather forced mirth by Mrs. Bradley’s eldritch screech of laughter. That woman is clever, I suppose, but one gets no repose in her company. I like old women to be soothing.
“It really is no joke,” said Sir William, smiling. “One of these days I shall find myself in the dock! I know it.”
He had a brown face, finely wrinkled about the corners of the grey eyes, dark-red close-cropped hair, and very red ears. His nose was short, well-shaped but pugnacious, and his full lips were pleasantly sensuous. His close- clipped dark-red moustache added to the pleasing masculinity of an open and attractive countenance, so to speak, and his teeth were strong and good. He was dressed in reddish-brown tweeds, and his fox-terrier, Jim, lay on the floor at his feet. In all, he was the novelists’ ideal of a country landowner, and was amusingly conscious of the fact.
Tea was being taken in the drawing-room instead of on the terrace, for outside the long windows the rain tore down, and every tree in the park dripped heavily and continuously. An electric fire was alight in the drawing-room to combat the raw dampness of the August weather. It was a record-breaking August—the worst for one hundred years, according to the newspapers.
“Well, well,” said Burns—I couldn’t stand the man, of course— after he had refused cake and a second cup of tea, “the poaching fellow—what’s-his-name?—will probably escape pneumonia by being in prison this weather.”
“He won’t escape my shot-gun if I catch him on my land and assaulting my keepers,” said Sir William. He took a cake and bit into it so incautiously that a sinuous portion of cream from the interior of the innocent-looking pastry shot on to the leg of his trousers. Sir William gave a yelp of annoyance, and swore, and wiped the mess off his trousers. He lost his temper very easily, as his daughter had indicated to us. Irritating, of course, cream on the trousers.
“Really, father,” said Margaret, grinning, “I do think it’s time you learned to manage your food better than that.”
