‘Thank you for nothing,’ said Fenella, scrubbing her face with her handkerchief. ‘And now I really must be on my way.’
‘And I on mine,’ he said. ‘These are not the trappings in which to attend the funeral rites of the lord of the manor, even if he did not die of natural causes.’
‘Was he … is it true that he was murdered?’
‘So the coroner’s jury said, and who am I to contradict them? Personally, I wouldn’t put it past his lady wife. He was a sottish old devil and rumour had it that he kept a woman somewhere or other. But don’t repeat any of this, will you?’
‘Nobody would be interested – at least, not in the place to which I’m going.’
‘To be married,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Why didn’t I meet you before you got yourself tied up in this very undesirable way?’
‘Goodbye,’ said Fenella. ‘If you’re going to get cleaned up and changed for the funeral, you’d better hurry, hadn’t you?’
‘Oh, there’s no particular panic,’ said Jack-in-the-Green. ‘They’ve got to take the wagon back to the manor house, switch the coffin on to the official hearse, (which is a family heirloom and looks the part), and collect the so-called mourners. Tell me just one thing: where is your wedding to be?’
‘A long way from here, thank goodness.’
‘Cross my palm with a kiss, and I’ll wish you luck.’
‘Don’t be silly. If you really want to know, I’m to be married in Douston parish church. My official home, although not my real one, is Douston Hall.’
‘A fair answer.’ His voice had changed again. ‘Well, Squire’s been murdered, and poor Tom’s a-cold.’ He took her right hand and brushed his lips across the back of it. ‘Think of me sometimes,’ he said, ‘even after you’re married.’
Fenella reversed the car and drove back to the main street. She was almost at the entrance to the village and was soon clear of the last of the cottages and on the narrow, winding lane down which she had come so lightheartedly on the preceding day in search of a sandwich and a drink. As she drove with due attention to the road and the possibility of meeting oncoming traffic round the bends, she attempted to place Jack-in-the-Green. He had spoken, at the end, in the accents of an educated man and, within the limits (she supposed) of folklore, he had behaved like a gentleman. She could not make up her mind whether he was a genuine supporter of the village Mayering, or whether (as she was inclined to believe) he was a lone wolf who chose to enact the part of Jack-in-the-Green, Green George, the Green Man, or whatever other folk-name he used, merely in order to satisfy or, more likely, to amuse himself. It was tantalising to realise that she had heard his voice before.
She was occupied with these thoughts when she had to slow down and hug the grass verge of the lane in order to make room for a funeral cortège to pass. By the number of expensive cars which followed the hearse, which was of conventional type but carried no flowers, she realised that this must be the procession which was bound for the churchyard at Seven Wells and the Squire’s family vault. In the end she pulled up to allow it to go by, and an association of ideas caused her to go back mentally to the trapdoor and its ladder which led to that other vault, the crypt below the More to Come. She certainly would have a story to tell when she reached her cousins’ house at Douston, she reflected. On second thoughts, she found herself wondering whether she would tell quite all of it.
She came to the end of the lane and turned on to the Cridley Road. In three hours or less she would be back in the sane, polite, completely accountable world of a country house and the preparations for a fashionable if provincial wedding. To her own surprise, the prospect failed to appeal to her. Her thoughts returned to the Green Man. She began to wonder whether he was real or whether, after her strange experiences, she had conjured him up out of her imagination. Then she glanced down at the wheel. She was not wearing gloves, and she noticed a smear of soot across the fingers of her right hand where he had lightly touched it with his lips.
‘So the luck has brushed off on to me after all,’ she thought. ‘And – good heavens! I know now who he is.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Douston Hall
‘Let never a man a wooing wend
That lacketh thingis three;
A routh o’ gold, an open heart
And fu’ o’ courtesye.’
Border Ballad – King Henry
One thing of which Fenella had entertained no doubts was the warmth of her reception when she arrived at her cousins’ house. She was not mistaken. They received her rapturously. Tea was being served by the time she arrived, and she was glad of it after her unusually early lunch, and although they were eager to hear about her mishap with the car they let her have her tea in peace.
The cousins were equally related to her, for they
