‘That was before I knew her. Basil—my dear—you’re not thinking of marrying this other creature.’
Basil Chester said soberly:
‘I’d marry her like a shot if she’d have me—but I’m afraid she won’t.’
Cold chills went down Mrs Chester’s spine. She sought and found Mr Parker Pyne, placidly reading a book in a sheltered corner.
‘You must do something! You must do something! My boy’s life will be ruined.’
Mr Parker Pyne was getting a little tired of Basil Chester’s life being ruined.
‘What can I do?’
‘Go and see this terrible creature. If necessary buy her off.’
‘That may come very expensive.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘It seems a pity. Still there are, possibly, other ways.’
She looked a question. He shook his head.
‘I’ll make no promises—but I’ll see what I can do. I have handled that kind before. By the way, not a word to Basil—that would be fatal.’
‘Of course not.’
Mr Parker Pyne returned from the Mariposa at midnight. Mrs Chester was sitting up for him.
‘Well?’ she demanded breathlessly.
His eyes twinkled.
‘The Señorita Dolores Ramona will leave Pollensa tomorrow morning and the island tomorrow night.’
‘Oh, Mr Parker Pyne! How did you manage it?’
‘It won’t cost a cent,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. Again his eyes twinkled. ‘I rather fancied I might have a hold over her—and I was right.’
‘You are wonderful. Nina Wycherley was quite right. You must let me know—er—your fees—’
Mr Parker Pyne held up a well-manicured hand.
‘Not a penny. It has been a pleasure. I hope all will go well. Of course the boy will be very upset at first when he finds she’s disappeared and left no address. Just go easy with him for a week or two.’
‘If only Betty will forgive him—’
‘She’ll forgive him all right. They’re a nice couple. By the way, I’m leaving tomorrow, too.’
‘Oh, Mr Parker Pyne, we shall miss you.’
‘Perhaps it’s just as well I should go before that boy of yours gets infatuated with yet a third girl.’
Mr Parker Pyne leaned over the rail of the steamer and looked at the lights of Palma. Beside him stood Dolores Ramona. He was saying appreciatively:
‘A very nice piece of work, Madeleine. I’m glad I wired you to come out. It’s odd when you’re such a quiet, stay-at-home girl really.’
Madeleine de Sara, alias Dolores Ramona, alias Maggie Sayers, said primly: ‘I’m glad you’re pleased, Mr Parker Pyne. It’s been a nice little change. I think I’ll go below now and get to bed before the boat starts. I’m such a bad sailor.’
A few minutes later a hand fell on Mr Parker Pyne’s shoulder. He turned to see Basil Chester.
‘Had to come and see you off, Mr Parker Pyne, and give you Betty’s love and her and my best thanks. It was a grand stunt of yours. Betty and Mother are as thick as thieves. Seemed a shame to deceive the old darling—but she was being difficult. Anyway it’s all right now. I must just be careful to keep up the annoyance stuff a couple of days longer. We’re no end grateful to you, Betty and I.’
‘I wish you every happiness,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Thanks.’
There was a pause, then Basil said with somewhat overdone carelessness:
‘Is Miss—Miss de Sara—anywhere about? I’d like to thank her, too.’
Mr Parker Pyne shot a keen glance at him.
He said:
‘I’m afraid Miss de Sara’s gone to bed.’
‘Oh, too bad—well, perhaps I’ll see her in London sometime.’
‘As a matter of fact she is going to America on business for me almost at once.’
‘Oh!’ Basil’s tone was blank. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll be getting along . . .’
Mr Parker Pyne smiled. On his way to his cabin he tapped on the door of Madeleine’s.
‘How are you, my dear? All right? Our young friend has been along. The usual slight attack of Madeleinitis. He’ll get over it in a day or two, but you are rather distracting.’
Sanctuary
The vicar’s wife came round the corner of the vicarage with her arms full of chrysanthemums. A good deal of rich garden soil was attached to her strong brogue shoes and a few fragments of earth were adhering to her nose, but of that fact she was perfectly unconscious.
She had a slight struggle in opening the vicarage gate which hung, rustily, half off its hinges. A puff of wind caught at her battered felt hat, causing it to sit even more rakishly than it had done before. ‘Bother!’ said Bunch.
Christened by her optimistic parents Diana, Mrs Harmon had become Bunch at an early age for somewhat obvious reasons and the name had stuck to her ever since. Clutching the chrysanthemums, she made her way through the gate to the churchyard, and so to the church door.
The November air was mild and damp. Clouds scudded across the sky with patches of blue here and there. Inside, the church was dark and cold; it was unheated except at service times.
‘Brrrrrh!’ said Bunch expressively. ‘I’d better get on with this quickly. I don’t want to die of cold.’
With the quickness born of practice she collected the necessary paraphernalia: vases, water, flower-holders. ‘I wish we had lilies,’ thought Bunch to herself. ‘I get so tired of these scraggy chrysanthemums.’ Her nimble fingers arranged the blooms in their holders.
There was nothing particularly original or artistic about the decorations, for Bunch Harmon herself was neither original nor artistic, but it was a homely and pleasant arrangement. Carrying the vases carefully, Bunch stepped up the aisle and made her way towards the altar. As she did so the sun came out.
It shone through the east window of somewhat crude coloured glass, mostly blue and red—the gift of a wealthy Victorian churchgoer. The effect was almost startling in its sudden opulence. ‘Like jewels,’ thought Bunch. Suddenly she stopped, staring ahead of her. On the chancel steps was a huddled dark form.
Putting down the flowers carefully, Bunch went up to it and bent over it. It was a man lying there, huddled over on himself. Bunch knelt down by him and slowly, carefully, she turned him over. Her
