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She looked at him then—a steady slightly amused look it was.
‘I hate to destroy the dramatic picture you are building up,’ she murmured. ‘But actually I left here when I was two and a half, so you see the old home motive doesn’t apply. I can’t even remember this place.’
‘You’re right,’ said Luke. ‘Forgive the lapse into film language.’
She laughed.
‘Truth,’ she said, ‘is seldom romantic.’
And there was a sudden bitter scorn in her voice that startled him. He flushed a deep red under his tan, then realized suddenly that the bitterness had not been aimed at him. It was her own scorn and her own bitterness. Luke was wisely silent. But he wondered a good deal about Bridget Conway …
Five minutes brought them to the church and to the vicarage that adjoined it. They found the vicar in his study.
Alfred Wake was a small stooping old man with very mild blue eyes, and an absent-minded but courteous air. He seemed pleased but a little surprised by the visit.
‘Mr Fitzwilliam is staying with us at Ashe Manor,’ said Bridget, ‘and he wants to consult you about a book he is writing.’
Mr Wake turned his mild inquiring eyes towards the younger man, and Luke plunged into explanations.
He was nervous—doubly so. Nervous in the first place because this man had no doubt a far deeper knowledge of folklore and superstitious rites and customs than one could acquire by merely hurriedly cramming from a haphazard collection of books. Secondly he was nervous because Bridget Conway was standing by listening.
Luke was relieved to find that Mr Wake’s special interest was Roman remains. He confessed gently that he knew very little of medieval folklore and witchcraft. He mentioned the existence of certain items in the history of Wychwood, offered to take Luke to the particular ledge of hill where it was said the Witches’ Sabbaths had been held, but expressed himself regretful that he could add no special information of his own.
Inwardly much relieved, Luke expressed himself as somewhat disappointed, and then plunged into inquiries as to death-bed superstitions.
Mr Wake shook his head gently.
‘I am afraid I should be the last person to know about those. My parishioners would be careful to keep anything unorthodox from my ears.’
‘That’s so, of course.’
‘But I’ve no doubt, all the same, there is a lot of superstition still rife. These village communities are very backward.’
Luke plunged boldly.
‘I’ve been asking Miss Conway for a list of all the recent deaths she could remember. I thought I might get at something that way. I suppose you could supply me with a list, so that I could pick out the likelies.’
‘Yes—yes—that could be managed. Giles, our sexton, a good fellow but sadly deaf, could help you there. Let me see now. There have been a good many—a good many—a treacherous spring and a hard winter behind it—and then a good many accidents—quite a cycle of bad luck there seems to have been.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Luke, ‘a cycle of bad luck is attributed to the presence of a particular person.’
‘Yes, yes. The old story of Jonah. But I do not think there have been any strangers here—nobody, that is to say, outstanding in any way, and I’ve certainly never heard any rumour of such a feeling—but then again, as I said, perhaps I shouldn’t. Now let me see—quite recently we have had Dr Humbleby and poor Lavinia Pinkerton—a fine man, Dr Humbleby—’
Bridget put in:
‘Mr Fitzwilliam knows friends of his.’
‘Do you indeed? Very sad. His loss will be much felt. A man with many friends.’
‘But surely a man with some enemies too,’ said Luke. ‘I’m only going by what I’ve heard my friends say,’ he went on hastily.
Mr Wake sighed.
‘A man who spoke his mind—and a man who wasn’t always very tactful, shall we say—’ he shook his head. ‘It does get people’s backs up. But he was greatly beloved among the poorer classes.’
Luke said carelessly:
‘You know I always feel that one of the most unpalatable facts to be faced in life, is the fact that every death that occurs means a gain to someone—I don’t mean only financially.’
The vicar nodded thoughtfully.
‘I see your meaning, yes. We read in an obituary notice that a man is regretted by everybody, but that can only be true very rarely I fear. In Dr Humbleby’s case, there is no denying that his partner, Dr Thomas, will find his position very much improved by Dr Humbleby’s death.’
‘How is that?’
‘Thomas, I believe, is a very capable fellow—certainly Humbleby always said so, but he didn’t get on here very well. He was, I think, overshadowed by Humbleby who was a man of very definite magnetism. Thomas appeared rather colourless in contrast. He didn’t impress his patients at all. I think he worried over it, too, and that made him worse—more nervous and tongue-tied. As a matter of fact I’ve noticed an astonishing difference already. More aplomb—more personality. I think he feels a new confidence in himself. He and Humbleby didn’t always agree, I believe. Thomas was all for newer methods of treatment and Humbleby preferred to stick to the old ways. There were clashes between them more than once—over that as well as over a matter nearer home—but there, I mustn’t gossip—’
Bridget said softly and clearly:
‘But I think Mr Fitzwilliam would like you to gossip!’
Luke shot her a quick disturbed look.
Mr Wake shook his head doubtfully, and then went on, smiling a little in deprecation.
‘I am afraid one learns to take too much interest in one’s neighbours’ affairs. Rose Humbleby is a very pretty girl. One doesn’t wonder that Geoffrey Thomas lost his heart. And of course Humbleby’s point of view was quite understandable too—the girl is young and buried away here she hadn’t much chance of seeing other men.’
‘He objected?’ said Luke.
‘Very definitely. Said they were far too young. And of course young people resent being told that! There was a very definite coldness between the two men. But I must say that I’m sure Dr Thomas was deeply distressed at his partner’s unexpected death.’
‘Septicæmia, Lord Whitfield told me.’
‘Yes—just a little scratch that got infected. Doctors run grave risks in the course of their profession, Mr Fitzwilliam.’
‘They do indeed,’ said Luke.
Mr Wake gave a sudden start.
‘But I have wandered a long way from what we were talking about,’ he said. ‘A gossiping old man, I am afraid. We were speaking of the survival of pagan death customs and of recent deaths. There was Lavinia Pinkerton—one of our more kindly Church helpers. Then there was that poor girl, Amy Gibbs—you might discover something in your line there, Mr Fitzwilliam—there was just a suspicion, you know, that it might have been suicide—and there are certain rather eerie rites in connection with that type of death. There is an aunt—not, I fear, a very estimable woman, and not very much attached to her niece—but a great talker.’
‘Valuable,’ said Luke.
‘Then there was Tommy Pierce—he was in the choir at one time—a beautiful treble—quite angelic—but not a very angelic boy otherwise, I am afraid. We had to get rid of him in the end, he made the other boys behave so badly. Poor lad, I’m afraid he was not very much liked anywhere. He was dismissed from the post office where we got him a job as telegraph boy. He was in Mr Abbot’s office for a while, but there again he was dismissed very soon—interfered with some confidential papers, I believe. Then, of course, he was at Ashe Manor for a time, wasn’t he, Miss Conway, as garden boy, and Lord Whitfield had to discharge him for gross impertinence. I was so sorry for his mother—a very decent hard-working soul. Miss Waynflete very kindly got him some odd window-cleaning work. Lord Whitfield objected at first, then suddenly he gave in—actually it was sad that he did so.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the boy was killed that way. He was cleaning the top windows of the library (the old Hall, you know) and tried some silly fooling—dancing on the window ledge or something of that sort—lost his balance, or else became dizzy, and fell. A nasty business! He never recovered consciousness and died a few hours after they got him to hospital.’
‘Did anyone see him fall?’ asked Luke with interest.
‘No. He was on the garden side—not the front of the house. They estimate he lay there for about half an hour before anyone found him.’
‘Who did find him?’
‘Miss Pinkerton. You remember, the lady I mentioned just now who was unfortunately killed in a street accident the other day. Poor soul, she was terribly upset. A nasty experience! She had obtained permission to take a cutting of some plants and found the boy there lying where he had fallen.’
‘It must have been a very unpleasant shock,’ said Luke thoughtfully.
‘A greater shock,’ he thought to himself, ‘than you know …’
‘A young life cut short is a very sad thing,’ said the old man, shaking his head. ‘Tommy’s faults may have been mainly due to high spirits.’
‘He was a disgusting bully,’ said Bridget. ‘You know he was, Mr Wake. Always tormenting cats and stray puppies and pinching other little boys.’
‘I know—I know.’ Mr Wake shook his head sadly. ‘But you know, my dear Miss Conway, sometimes cruelty is not so much innate as due to the fact that imagination is slow in ripening. That is why if you conceive of a grown man with the mentality of a child you realize that the cunning and brutality of a lunatic may be quite unrealized by the man himself. A lack of growth somewhere, that, I am convinced, is at the root of much of the cruelty and stupid brutality in the world today. One must put away childish things—’
He shook his head and spread out his hands.
Bridget said in a voice suddenly hoarse:
‘Yes, you’re right. I know what you mean. A man who is a child is the most frightening thing in the world …’
Luke looked at her with some curiosity. He was convinced that she was thinking of some particular person, and although Lord Whitfield was in some respects exceedingly childish, he did not believe she was thinking of him. Lord Whitfield was slightly ridiculous, but he was certainly not frightening.
Luke Fitzwilliam wondered very much whom the person Bridget was thinking of might be.
CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_b045780e-ab34-5b1d-b50e-4b0c223ed430)
Visit to Miss Waynflete (#ulink_b045780e-ab34-5b1d-b50e-4b0c223ed430)
Mr Wake murmured a few more names to himself.
‘Let me see now—poor Mrs Rose, and old Bell and that child of the Elkins and Harry Carter—they’re not all my people, you understand. Mrs Rose and Carter were dissenters. And that cold spell in March took off poor old Ben Stanbury at last—ninety-two he was.’
‘Amy Gibbs died in April,’ said Bridget.
‘Yes, poor girl—a sad mistake to happen.’
Luke looked up to find Bridget watching him. She lowered her eyes quickly. He thought, with some annoyance:
‘There’s something here that I haven’t got on to. Something to do with this girl Amy Gibbs.’
When they had taken leave of the vicar and were outside again, he said:
‘Just who and what was Amy Gibbs?’
Bridget took a minute or two to answer. Then she said—and Luke noticed the slight constraint in her voice:
‘Amy was one of the most inefficient housemaids I have ever known.’
‘That’s why she got the sack?’
‘No. She stayed out after hours playing about with some young man. Gordon has very moral and old-fashioned views. Sin in his view does not take place until after eleven o’clock, but then it is rampant. So he gave the girl notice and she was impertinent about it!’
Luke asked: ‘A good-looking girl?’
‘Very good-looking.’
‘She’s the one who swallowed hat paint in mistake for cough mixture?’
‘Yes.’
‘Rather a stupid thing to do?’ Luke hazarded.
‘Very stupid.’
‘Was she stupid?’
‘No, she was quite a sharp girl.’
Luke stole a look at her. He was puzzled. Her replies were given in an even tone, without emphasis or even much interest. But behind what she said, there was, he felt convinced, something not put into words.
At that moment Bridget stopped to speak to a tall man who swept off his hat and greeted her with breezy heartiness.
Bridget, after a word or two, introduced Luke.
‘This is my cousin, Mr Fitzwilliam, who is staying at the Manor. He’s down here to write a book. This is Mr Abbot.’
Luke looked at Mr Abbot with some interest. This was the solicitor who had employed Tommy Pierce.
Luke had a somewhat illogical prejudice against lawyers in general—based on the grounds that so many politicians were recruited from their ranks. Also their cautious habit of not committing themselves annoyed him. Mr Abbot, however, was not at all the conventional type of lawyer, he was neither thin, spare, nor tight-lipped. He was a big florid man, dressed in tweeds with a hearty manner and a jovial effusiveness. There were little creases at the corners of his eyes, and the eyes themselves were more shrewd than one appreciated in a first casual glance.
‘Writing a book, eh? Novel?’
‘Folklore,’ said Bridget.
‘You’ve come to the right place for that,’ said the lawyer. ‘Wonderfully interesting part of the world here.’
‘So I’ve been led to understand,’ said Luke. ‘I dare say you could help me a bit. You must come across curious old deeds—or know of some interesting surviving customs.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that—maybe—maybe—’
‘Much belief in ghosts round here?’ asked Luke.
‘As to that I couldn’t say—I really couldn’t say.’
‘No haunted houses?’
