“You could not form a jury in Lewes which would convict them.” He waved his hand round the inn parlour. “They are all in it,” he said, “for fear or profit. If you searched the crypt of Southover Church you’d find barrels there, and the parson winks an eye. Do you think he wants to lose his whole congregation or perhaps be whipped at one of his own pillars? If you want to stamp out smuggling you must do away with the idea of justice. Have another drink.”
“I will wait a little if I may,” the stranger moved his position, so that the full light of the oil lamp fell on Andrews’s face. The act thrust suspicion into the other’s mind. “I must be careful,” he thought. “I must have no more to drink.” And yet he was certainly not drunk. He saw his surroundings with perfect clarity, and his thoughts were more than usually vivid. He had longed for human companionship and now he had it, and the desire to fling his arm round the shoulder of the little man opposite him was nearly overmastering. He had so longed to talk to someone, who knew nothing of his past, who would treat him with neither kindness nor contempt, and consider his words with the same respect as he would show to those of any other man.
“You will take another glass?” the stranger said stiffly and shyly, as though unaccustomed to the procedure of standing drinks.
“What is your name?” Andrews said quickly, with a feeling of pride at his own cunning.
“Mr. Farne,” the other replied without hesitation.
“Farne,” Andrews said slowly. He pondered the name. That it was an honest one he could not doubt. “Thank you,” he said, “I will.”
When he had drunk, the world seemed a fairer place than it had seemed for a long while. There was companionship in it and Mr. Farne, who listened to him without mockery and never once reminded him of his father.
“Perhaps you did not know my father?” he asked hopefully.
“I had not that pleasure,” said Mr. Farne.
Andrews laughed. Mr. Farne was an ideal companion, for he was a wit. “Pleasure!” he grimaced. “You can’t have known him.”
“What was his name?” Mr. Farne asked.
“The same as mine,” Andrews retorted, with a laugh. It seemed to him that he had combined in a sentence of four words the quintessence of a witty retort and of caution. For clearly he must not disclose his name to Mr. Farne.
“And what is that?” asked Mr. Farne.
“Absolom,” Andrews mocked.
“I am sorry, but I am a little deaf …”
“Absolom,” Andrews repeated. Mr. Farne, the sweet simpleton, was taking him seriously. To prolong the excellent joke he searched his pockets for a scrap of paper and a pencil, but could find neither. Mr. Farne, however, supplied both. “I will write my name down,” Andrews said. He wrote “Absolom, son of King David.”
Mr. Farne’s laugh suddenly ceased. He stared at the scrap of paper in front of him. “You make very curious capital letters,” he said.
“Long tails to them,” Andrews answered. “I was always fond of women.” He stared round him. “Isn’t there a woman in this place that’s worth looking at?” he called angrily. “There’s no one here, Mr. Farne,” he said, “let’s go into the town.”
“Women do not attract me,” Mr. Farne said coldly.
“There’s one that would,” Andrews stared at him with serious melancholy eyes. “Have you ever seen a saint surrounded with white birds? And yet a woman you know that could give a man pleasure. But she’s too good for that. You mustn’t laugh. I mean it. I call her Gretel. I don’t believe that any man will ever touch her.”
“You are a very strange young man,” Mr. Farne said deprecatingly. Andrews was arousing attention. They were being stared at. A few men were pressing close, while a fat woman began to laugh shrilly and continuously.
“You don’t believe me,” Andrews said. “You would if you saw her. I’ll show you though. Give me that pencil and paper and I’ll draw her.”
A tall loose-jointed man with a scrubby beard began to clear a circle on a table. “Look, folks,” he said, “here’s an artist. He’s going to draw us a woman, a peach of a woman.”
“Where’s the paper and the pencil?” Andrews asked.
Mr. Farne shook his head. “Here is the pencil,” he said. “I can’t find the paper. It must have fallen on the floor.”
“Never mind, dearie,” the fat woman called. “Here George, get us some paper,” she implored the potman.
“Any paper will do,” Andrews cried, exhilarated by the attention he had aroused.
They found him an old envelope and crowded close; Mr. Farne, however, stood a little apart. Andrews knelt down at the table and tried to steady his hand. “Now, nothing indecent, mind,” the potman called across with a laugh.
“Here, give the boy a whisky on me,” said the fat woman. “There, that will clear you, dearie. Now, show us your little friend.”
Andrews drained the glass and picked up the pencil. Clearly in front of him he saw Elizabeth’s face, white, set and proud, as he had seen it first, when she pointed the gun at his breast. He knew that they were mocking him, but he had only to show them that face for them to fall quiet and understand. He held the pencil awkwardly in his fingers. How should he begin? He had never drawn a picture in his life, but when he could see her there so clearly, it must be easy. He would draw the candles first with their yellow flames.
“She’s a bit of a stick, isn’t she, dearie,” said the fat woman, “where are her arms?”
“She wants more than arms,” the loose jointed man winked and grinned over Andrews’s head and made obscene gestures with his fingers. “Give him another drink.”
“That’s not her,” Andrews said, “those are candles. I’m going to start her now.” He
