寓所谜案5

Four

I had entirely¹ forgotten that we had asked Lawrence Redding to dinnerthat night. When Griselda burst in and scolded me, pointing out that itlacked two minutes to dinner time, I was quite taken aback.

“I hope everything will be all right,” Griselda called up the stairs afterme. “I’ve thought over what you said at lunch, and I’ve really thought ofsome quite good things to eat.”

I may say, in passing, that our evening meal amply bore out Griselda’sassertion that things went much worse when she tried than when shedidn’t. The menu was ambitious in conception, and Mary seemed to havetaken a perverse² pleasure in seeing how best she could alternate under-cooking and overcooking. Some oysters³ which Griselda had ordered, andwhich would seem to be beyond the reach of incompetence⁴, we were, un-fortunately, not able to sample as we had nothing in the house to openthem with—an omission⁵ which was discovered only when the moment foreating them arrived.

I had rather doubted whether Lawrence Redding would put in an ap-pearance. He might very easily have sent an excuse.

However, he arrived punctually enough, and the four of us went in todinner.

Lawrence Redding has an undeniably attractive personality. He is, I sup-pose, about thirty years of age. He has dark hair, but his eyes are of a bril-liant, almost startling blue. He is the kind of young man who doeseverything well. He is good at games, an excellent shot, a good amateuractor, and can tell a first-rate story. He is capable of making any party go.

He has, I think, Irish blood in his veins⁶. He is not, at all, one’s idea of thetypical artist. Yet I believe he is a clever painter in the modern style. Iknow very little of painting myself.

It was only natural that on this particular evening he should appear ashade distrait⁷. On the whole, he carried off things very well. I don’t thinkGriselda or Dennis noticed anything wrong. Probably I should not havenoticed anything myself if I had not known beforehand.

Griselda and Dennis were particularly gay—full of jokes about Dr. Stoneand Miss Cram⁸—the Local Scandal! It suddenly came home to me withsomething of a pang⁹ that Dennis is nearer Griselda’s age than I am. Hecalls me Uncle Len, but her Griselda. It gave me, somehow, a lonely feel-ing.

I must, I think, have been upset by Mrs. Protheroe. I’m not usually givento such unprofitable reflections.

Griselda and Dennis went rather far now and then, but I hadn’t theheart to check them. I have always thought it a pity that the mere¹⁰ pres-ence of a clergyman should have a dampening effect.

Lawrence took a gay part in the conversation. Nevertheless I was awareof his eyes continually straying to where I sat, and I was not surprisedwhen after dinner he manoeuvred to get me into the study.

As soon as we were alone his manner changed.

“You’ve surprised our secret, sir,” he said. “What are you going to doabout it?”

I could speak far more plainly to Redding than I could to Mrs. Protheroe,and I did so. He took it very well.

“Of course,” he said, when I had finished, “you’re bound to say all this.

You’re a parson. I don’t mean that in any way offensively. As a matter offact I think you’re probably right. But this isn’t the usual sort of thingbetween Anne and me.”

I told him that people had been saying that particular phrase since thedawn of time, and a queer little smile creased¹¹ his lips.

“You mean everyone thinks their case is unique? Perhaps so. But onething you must believe.”

He assured me that so far—“there was nothing wrong in it.” Anne, hesaid, was one of the truest and most loyal women that ever lived. Whatwas going to happen he didn’t know.

“If this were only a book,” he said gloomily, “the old man would die—and a good riddance to everybody.”

I reproved him.

“Oh! I didn’t mean I was going to stick him in the back with a knife,though I’d offer my best thanks to anyone else who did so. There’s not asoul in the world who’s got a good word to say for him. I rather wonderthe first Mrs. Protheroe didn’t do him in. I met her once, years ago, andshe looked quite capable of it. One of those calm dangerous women. Hegoes blustering¹² along, stirring up trouble everywhere, mean as the devil,and with a particularly nasty temper. You don’t know what Anne has hadto stand from him. If I had a penny in the world I’d take her away withoutany more ado.”

Then I spoke¹³ to him very earnestly. I begged him to leave St. MaryMead. By remaining there, he could only bring greater unhappiness onAnne Protheroe than was already her lot. People would talk, the matterwould get to Colonel Protheroe’s ears—and things would be made infin-itely worse for her.

Lawrence protested.

“Nobody knows a thing about it except you, padre.”

“My dear young man, you underestimate the detective instinct of villagelife. In St. Mary Mead¹⁴ everyone knows your most intimate affairs. There isno detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age withplenty of time on her hands.”

He said easily that that was all right. Everyone thought it was Lettice.

“Has it occurred to you,” I asked, “that possibly Lettice might think soherself?”

He seemed quite surprised by the idea. Lettice, he said, didn’t care ahang about him. He was sure of that.

“She’s a queer sort of girl,” he said. “Always seems in a kind of dream,and yet underneath¹⁵ I believe she’s really rather practical. I believe all thatvague stuff is a pose. Lettice knows jolly well what she’s doing. And there’sa funny vindictive¹⁶ streak¹⁷ in her. The queer thing is that she hates Anne.

Simply loathes¹⁸ her. And yet Anne’s been a perfect angel to her always.”

I did not, of course, take his word for this last. To infatuated young men,their inamorata always behaves like an angel. Still, to the best of my ob-servation, Anne had always behaved to her step-daughter with kindnessand fairness. I had been surprised myself that afternoon at the bitternessof Lettice’s tone.

We had to leave the conversation there, because Griselda and Dennisburst in upon us and said I was not to make Lawrence behave like an oldfogy.

“Oh dear!” said Griselda, throwing herself into an armchair. “How Iwould like a thrill of some kind. A murder—or even a burglary.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anyone much worth burgling,” said Lawrence,trying to enter into her mood. “Unless we stole Miss Hartnell’s false teeth.”

“They do click horribly,” said Griselda. “But you’re wrong about therebeing no one worthwhile. There’s some marvellous old silver at Old Hall.

Trencher salts and a Charles II Tazza—all kinds of things like that. Worththousands of pounds, I believe.”

“The old man would probably shoot you with an army revolver,” saidDennis. “Just the sort of thing he’d enjoy doing.”

“Oh, we’d get in first and hold him up!” said Griselda. “Who’s got a re-volver?”

“I’ve got a Mauser pistol,” said Lawrence.

“Have you? How exciting. Why do you have it?”

“Souvenir of the war,” said Lawrence briefly¹⁹.

“Old Protheroe was showing the silver to Stone today,” volunteered Den-nis. “Old Stone was pretending to be no end interested in it.”

“I thought they’d quarrelled about the barrow,” said Griselda.

“Oh, they’ve made that up!” said Dennis. “I can’t think what people wantto grub about in barrows for, anyway.”

“The man Stone puzzles me,” said Lawrence. “I think he must be veryabsentminded. You’d swear sometimes he knew nothing about his ownsubject.”

“That’s love,” said Dennis. “Sweet Gladys Cram, you are no sham²⁰. Yourteeth are white and fill me with delight. Come, fly with me, my bride to be.

And at the Blue Boar, on the bedroom floor—”

“That’s enough, Dennis,” I said.

“Well,” said Lawrence Redding, “I must be off. Thank you very much,Mrs. Clement²¹, for a very pleasant evening.”

Griselda and Dennis saw him off. Dennis returned to the study alone.

Something had happened to ruffle²² the boy. He wandered about the roomaimlessly, frowning and kicking the furniture.

Our furniture is so shabby already that it can hardly be damaged fur-ther, but I felt impelled²³ to utter a mild protest.

“Sorry,” said Dennis.

He was silent for a moment and then burst out:

“What an absolutely rotten thing gossip is!”

I was a little surprised. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I don’t know whether I ought to tell you.”

I was more and more surprised.

“It’s such an absolutely rotten thing,” Dennis said again. “Going roundand saying things. Not even saying them. Hinting them. No, I’m damned—sorry—if I’ll tell you! It’s too absolutely rotten.”

I looked at him curiously²⁴, but I did not press him further. I wonderedvery much, though. It is very unlike Dennis to take anything to heart.

Griselda came in at that moment.

“Miss Wetherby’s just rung up,” she said. “Mrs. Lestrange went out at aquarter past eight and hasn’t come in yet. Nobody knows where she’sgone.”

“Why should they know?”

“But it isn’t to Dr. Haydock’s. Miss Wetherby does know that, becauseshe telephoned to Miss Hartnell who lives next door to him and whowould have been sure to see her.”

“It is a mystery to me,” I said, “how anyone ever gets any nourishmentin this place. They must eat their meals standing²⁵ up by the window so asto be sure of not missing anything.”

“And that’s not all,” said Griselda, bubbling with pleasure. “They’vefound out about the Blue Boar. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram have got roomsnext door to each other, BUT”—she waved an impressive forefinger—“nocommunicating door!”

“That,” I said, “must be very disappointing to everybody.”

At which Griselda laughed.

Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to quar-rel about the church decorations. I was called in to adjudicate betweentwo middle-aged²⁶ ladies, each of whom was literally²⁷ trembling with rage. Ifit had not been so painful, it would have been quite an interesting phys-ical phenomenon.

Then I had to reprove two of our choir²⁸ boys for persistent²⁹ sweet suckingduring the hours of divine service, and I had an uneasy feeling that I wasnot doing the job as wholeheartedly as I should have done.

Then our organist, who is distinctly “touchy,” had taken offence and hadto be smoothed down.

And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion againstMiss Hartnell, who came to me bursting with rage about it.

I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in highgood humour, having sentenced three poachers, in his capacity as magis-trate.

“Firmness,” he shouted in his stentorian³⁰ voice. He is slightly deaf andraises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. “That’s what’s needednowadays—firmness! Make an example. That rogue³¹ Archer³² came out yes-terday and is vowing³³ vengeance³⁴ against me, I hear. Impudent³⁵ scoundrel.

Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. I’ll show him what his ven-geance is worth next time I catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! We’re toolax nowadays! I believe in showing a man up for what he is. You’re alwaysbeing asked to consider a man’s wife and children. Damned nonsense. Fid-dlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his acts just be-cause he whines³⁶ about his wife and children? It’s all the same to me—nomatter what a man is — doctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunkenwastrel—if you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punishhim. You agree with me, I’m sure.”

“You forget,” I said. “My calling obliges me to respect one quality aboveall others—the quality of mercy.”

“Well, I’m a just man. No one can deny that.”

I did not speak, and he said sharply:

“Why don’t you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man.”

I hesitated, then I decided³⁷ to speak.

“I was thinking,” I said, “that when my time comes, I should be sorry ifthe only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean thatonly justice would be meted³⁸ out to me….”

“Pah! What we need is a little militant³⁹ Christianity. I’ve always done myduty, I hope. Well, no more of that. I’ll be along this evening, as I said.

We’ll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you don’t mind. I’ve got tosee a man in the village.”

“That will suit me quite well.”

He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. Ithought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid⁴⁰ himmildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled⁴¹ orshelved, but seeing his white strained face, I felt that the man was ill.

I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently⁴². Finally heconfessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept myadvice of going home to bed.

I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had goneto London by the cheap Thursday train.

I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching⁴³ the out-line of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr. Redding was waitingfor me in the study.

I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked whiteand haggard.

He turned abruptly⁴⁴ at my entrance.

“Look here, sir. I’ve been thinking over what you said yesterday. I’vehad a sleepless⁴⁵ night thinking about it. You’re right. I’ve got to cut andrun.”

“My dear boy,” I said.

“You were right in what you said about Anne. I’ll only bring trouble onher by staying here. She’s—she’s too good for anything else. I see I’ve gotto go. I’ve made things hard enough for her as it is, heaven help me.”

“I think you have made the only decision possible,” I said. “I know that itis a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end.”

I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said bysomeone who didn’t know what he was talking about.

“You’ll look after Anne? She needs a friend.”

“You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power.”

“Thank you, sir.” He wrung⁴⁶ my hand. “You’re a good sort, Padre. I shallsee her to say good-bye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and gotomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have theshed to paint in. I’m sorry not to have finished Mrs. Clement’s portrait.”

“Don’t worry about that, my dear boy. Good-bye, and God bless you.”

When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with verypoor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.

I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half pastfive the telephone rang. I was informed that Mr. Abbott of Lower Farmwas dying and would I please come at once.

I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two milesaway and I could not possibly get back by six fifteen. I have never suc-ceeded in learning to ride a bicycle.

I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in thecar, so I departed, leaving word with Mary that I had been called away,but would try to be back by six thirty or soon after.

 

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