by Clara Benson
‘Have you got any more of those? I’ve just had a rather bruising encounter with the vicar’s wife and I’m dying for a cigarette, but mine are in the house and I don’t think I can bear to go back in just yet.’
He obliged immediately and lit it for her, and they stood in companionable silence for a few minutes, although Angela could not help casting the occasional nervous glance about her in case Elisabeth or Humphrey should come upon them and tell her off for hob-nobbing with the lower orders.
‘I hope you’re quite comfortable here,’ she said at last. ‘Have the servants made you welcome? I don’t know much about this lot. Most of the ones I knew seem to have left long ago.’
‘Yes, quite comfortable, ma’am,’ he said. ‘And the servants are friendly enough.’ He glanced at her sideways. ‘They all seem a little frightened of her ladyship, though.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Angela. ‘I’m rather frightened of her myself. But don’t you dare tell anyone that.’
‘I shouldn’t dream of it,’ he said in some amusement. He paused for a second, then said hesitantly, ‘I guess she’s scared of you too.’
‘Scared of me?’ said Angela in astonishment. ‘Whatever for?’
‘Why, because she doesn’t know how to take you. She’s lived all her life in the same place with the same people, but you—you’ve been places, and you’ve seen and done things that she’ll never see or do. Maybe she finds that a little intimidating.’
Angela paused to absorb what William had said. She had never considered things from this angle, and had always supposed that Elisabeth’s air of barely-concealed impatience when in her presence was due purely to disapproval.
‘I’d never thought of it like that,’ she said. ‘I wonder whether you mightn’t be right. Banford is a small place and most of the families here have lived in the area for centuries without feeling the need to go anywhere. I suppose they might be wary of someone who has lived abroad and developed foreign habits. Odd, though, isn’t it, to think that I might be the only person from here ever to have travelled.’
‘Oh, but you’re not,’ said William. ‘There’s an old fellow here who’s been in the States. I met him yesterday. When he found out I was American he insisted on telling me all about his time in Chicago.’
‘Ben Shaw,’ said Angela, remembering her strange conversation with Mr. Norris.
‘That’s right,’ said William in surprise. ‘Do you know him?’
‘No, but I’ve heard of him,’ said Angela. ‘He works at Low Meadow Farm, I believe.’
‘Well, we’re the best of pals now,’ said William. ‘At least, I think so.’
Angela laughed. Just then two kitchen-maids came out, carrying a large tub of apples between them.
‘Those must be for the fête tomorrow,’ said Angela. ‘I’m supposed to be helping. As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if Elisabeth were to give me some job or other as soon as I get in.’
‘Aren’t you baking?’ said William wickedly, and she turned to see a mischievous look on his face. ‘I was talking to Mr. Doggett this morning, and he told me all about your particular expertise in the kitchen.’
‘Don’t tell me he told you about the exploding blackberry pie,’ said Angela. ‘He was under strict instructions never to mention that again. The gunpowder was an experiment, but the cook gave notice and I don’t believe they ever got the stains off the ceiling.’
William seemed to be looking at her in a new light.
‘I always assumed you were a well-behaved little girl, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Goodness, no,’ said Angela. ‘I was tremendously naughty. Humphrey was the good one. My mother was the only person who could manage me. When she died I rather lost any reason to stay here.’
She looked a little sad for a moment, then seemed to realize that perhaps she had said too much. She smiled awkwardly and went away, leaving William to watch her go with raised eyebrows and some sympathy.
SIX
The day of the fête dawned and everybody looked anxiously out of their windows to see what the weather was going to be like. There was some sun, but it was more often than not hidden by heavy clouds which threatened rain at some point. The Two Tithes family were all up early, and after a hasty breakfast Elisabeth and Angela headed down to the lower field, which the Cardews had kindly given up for the day, and set to work. Angela wanted to be helpful, but rather feared she was getting in the way, since every time she finished one job she had to go and ask Elisabeth to give her another and, furthermore, to explain how to do it. In the end Kathie took pity on her and they spent a merry half an hour stringing up bunting across the stalls. Elisabeth, meanwhile, was setting up the cake stall with great efficiency, assisted by a woman of sixty or so whom Angela guessed to be Margaret Tipping. She glanced about and saw Tom Tipping setting out seats for the brass band concert which was to be held later in the afternoon.
By half past ten everything was ready, and Angela now took the opportunity to have a look around. She was to be on the bric-à-brac stall, but there was also a jam and preserves stall, a cheese stall, a tea tent, several handicraft stalls, a hoop-la and a coconut shy. At the very end of the line was a stall that appeared to consist of nothing but a plain wooden table with a glass jar on it. By the table a man sat in a chair, his arms folded and his feet planted firmly apart. His very air said, ‘I’m here and I’m not moving.’ As Angela came closer she saw that just beyond the table was a makeshift wooden pen containing what appeared to be a small pig. The animal snuffled about and snorted happily, and the man in the seat said:
‘Guess the weight of the pig. Sixpence a go.’
‘Oh!’ said Angela, looking at the glass jar, which was empty. ‘Very well, then.’ She put sixpence into the jar, and said, ‘Now what do I have to do?’
‘Guess the weight of the pig,’ said the man, as one speaking to a person of limited intelligence.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Angela. She regarded the animal, which obligingly presented its rear end to her. ‘Twenty-four pounds and two ounces,’ she said at last.
The man removed a pencil from behind his ear, then brought out a dog-eared notebook, licked his finger and opened it.
‘Name?’ he said.
Angela gave her name and he wrote it and her guess down laboriously, then sat back and without another word began to watch the pig. Angela waited for a second, then retreated uncertainly.
‘That’s Mr. Toft of Lees Farm,’ said Kathie, who had been watching. ‘He insisted on having the pig stall because he’d heard of them doing it in some other village. It’s hardly practical, of course—after all, this isn’t exactly an agricultural show—but Mr. Hunter didn’t want to offend him as he’s the best bass voice in the church choir.’
‘I think he might do better if he were a little friendlier,’ said Angela.
At twenty to eleven there was much consternation when it suddenly began to rain and they all had to run for shelter. For ten minutes they watched as it threatened to become a downpour, but then, as soon as it had begun, the rain stopped, the clouds cleared away and the sun began to blaze down. Soon the ground was steaming and it looked as though the fête would take place under sunny skies.
At eleven o’clock Lady Cardew, in all her glory as the wife of the squire, triumphantly declared the fête open, and the fun began. The event had drawn quite a crowd, and Angela found herself kept busy with the bric-à-brac stall, which for some reason was attracting a great deal of attention. It was not until she had been there for over an hour that it occurred to her that many of the visitors to the stall had probably come to see her, and the idea quite startled her. It made sense, though—everyone must surely know that Sir Humphrey Cardew’s sister, the famous Mrs. Marchmont from the newspapers, had come to visit, and there was bound to be some curiosity. And in fact that proved to be the case, for rather than selling things, Angela found herself answering questions and trying to place half-remembered faces, and altogether getting very
little done. At last she decided that if everybody was going to come and gawp, then they should jolly well buy something while they were there, and so she set herself to exerting all the charm she could muster. Before long the sixpences and shillings were rolling in and she began to do rather well, much to her relief, for she had been afraid that her stall would meet with similar success to that of Mr. Toft, which was doing little business, as far as she could see from where she stood.
At lunch-time Kathie came to relieve her and Angela went off to find something to eat. Presiding over the tea tent was Elisabeth’s mother, Mrs. Randall, who appeared to have left her lorgnette at home and spoke to Angela as though she had never seen her before. As Angela stood, balancing a saucer in one hand and a plate in the other, she saw Humphrey, who had been striding about all morning with an air of great superiority.
‘And how are you getting along?’ he said to her. ‘I hope it is not too dull for you. I know you are used to more excitement than we can generally offer in a little country village such as this one.’
He might have been talking to a visiting dignitary’s wife rather than his own sister, but Angela smiled and said she was enjoying herself very much.
‘At half past three we will have a brass band,’ went on Humphrey. ‘It will be rather a forlorn affair, I fear, since there was a dispute last week between the two trumpet players which ended in one of them—the best one, unfortunately—resigning. The vicar has promised to replace him, but his playing is somewhat rusty and the quality cannot be guaranteed, I am afraid. Still, we must all clap loudly and encourage them as much as possible.’
Angela promised to do her best, and shortly afterwards returned to duty. Her efforts had been so successful that by half past three her stall was looking very bare. The brass band was due to start playing at any moment, and she thought she might take a few minutes off to go and watch it, since she judged there was unlikely to be any urgent and last-minute demand for the cracked china shepherdess or the dented pewter tankard which were all that remained to be sold. She saw Humphrey and Elisabeth sitting in the front row of seats and went to join them. Elisabeth was looking crosser than usual.
‘Well, at least you’re still here, Angela,’ she said. ‘Margaret Tipping has disappeared so I’ve had to leave the cake stall unattended. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her, have you?’
‘Not lately,’ said Angela. ‘Can’t Kathie help?’
‘I can’t find her either,’ said Elisabeth. ‘But we’ll be finishing soon and I do hope they aren’t trying to get out of the clearing-up. There’s such a lot to do.’
The band struck up then and they had to stop talking and pay attention. Angela did her best to enjoy it, but it was evident that the musicians had not rehearsed enough, for they made more than one false start—and indeed, at one point the vicar, a stringy little man who was the physical opposite to his wife, seemed to be playing an entirely different tune from the rest of them. As Humphrey had said, Mr. Hunter was rather rusty, and his face grew purple with the effort of getting a note out of his trumpet. Mrs. Hunter, who was sitting on Angela’s other side, was quite obviously tone deaf and was enjoying it immensely, for she applauded loudly after every number.
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ she called. ‘Stephen’s musical ability was one of the things I loved about him as a young man,’ she confided to Angela. ‘It’s very gratifying to see that he has lost none of it.’
At last the band ran out of puff and the audience began to disperse. It would soon be time for everyone to go home, but first there were raffles to draw and prizes to award, with Sir Humphrey and Lady Cardew doing the honours. Angela clapped politely when called upon to do so, but then was button-holed by Mrs. Hunter, and was standing to one side in conversation with her when she heard her name announced. She turned to find Mr. Toft standing before her, clasping something in his arms that squealed and wriggled.
‘Eighteen pounds, four and a half ounces,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Angela.
‘Eighteen pounds, four and a half ounces,’ he said again.
‘You’ve won the guess the weight of the pig competition,’ said Mrs. Hunter with a malicious smile.
‘Really?’ said Angela. ‘But my guess was nowhere near that.’
‘Fourteen entries altogether. Yours was the nearest,’ said Mr. Toft. ‘Here.’ He took a step towards her and made as if to hand her the struggling animal. Angela stepped back in a panic.
‘Do you mean I win the pig?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘I thought the prize would be a jar of jam or something.’
‘No,’ said Mr. Toft, with a withering look. ‘Guess the weight of the pig. You win the pig.’
Then without further ado he pushed the piglet into her arms and walked off.
‘But what shall I do with it?’ cried Angela at his retreating back. The pig had its own ideas on that subject. No sooner had it been handed to its new owner than it began to scrabble wildly at her frock with its muddy feet. It then stuck its bristly snout into her face, gave a tremendous squeal and with one giant leap was out of her arms and heading straight for the tea tent.
‘Quick, catch it!’ cried Elisabeth. There followed several minutes of confusion as people variously leapt out of the pig’s way or tried to stop it as it passed. But the animal had quite a turn of speed, and easily dodged all the hands that reached out to grasp it. The children all thought this was great fun and soon a group of five or six boys and girls, with Peter Montgomery at their head, were shouting with laughter as they tried to catch the escaped pig. It reached the tea tent but swerved off to the left as someone emerged. For a second it seemed to hesitate, then it made a bee-line for the cake stall, and Elisabeth gasped in horror as it shot under the table, dragging a line of bunting with it. Unfortunately, the bunting was attached to the tablecloth that covered the stall, and there was an ear-splitting crash as platefuls of bath buns, Bakewell tarts, rock cakes, walnut cakes, sponge cakes and a very fine fruit cake were all dragged to the ground. Angela winced.
‘You’ll get the blame for that,’ said a voice by her ear. It was Mrs. Hunter, who wore an expression of great satisfaction.
Angela glanced at Elisabeth and very nearly laughed at the look on her sister-in-law’s face. Perhaps it had been worth it for that alone. The pig was now rooting happily among the ruined cakes, while a small crowd of people watched it with great amusement. This had been a fine end to the day, and as it gradually became evident that nothing more exciting was likely to happen, the visitors now began to drift off and go home.
Elisabeth had pulled herself together and was bidding a gracious goodbye to everyone as they left, while the stall-holders began to pack things away and clear up. The pig was still helping itself busily to cake, and Angela regarded it from a safe distance.
‘Who will rid me of this turbulent pig?’ she said to herself in consternation. ‘I can’t just leave it here.’
In the end she was rescued by William, who had been watching the fun with great enjoyment. He caught the animal in his coat and deposited it neatly back in its pen before it could escape again.
‘But what am I meant to do with it?’ said Angela after she had duly thanked him. ‘We haven’t room for it at the flat.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a word with old Ben Shaw and he says they’ll gladly take it at Low Meadow farm. He doesn’t think much of Mr. Toft but he won’t say no to one of his pigs, he said.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Angela. She looked down at her dress and sighed. If she went to get changed Elisabeth would think that she, too, was trying to avoid clearing up. She brushed at the mud with her handkerchief but to little effect. She would have to see what Marthe could do with it later.
‘Come and help me take the bric-à-brac stall down,’ she said to William, and they set to work with the few helpers who remained. They had almost finished when Angela noticed that Elisabeth, instead of helping to clear up, was standing by the gate to the field with Kath
ie, who was talking animatedly and pointing in the direction of the village. Angela packed away the last few things and then went across to join them.
‘Is anything the matter?’ she said.
Kathie turned to her. She looked very serious.
‘I’m afraid there is,’ she said. ‘Someone has shot Mr. Tipping.’
SEVEN
It was not long before the essential facts of the matter were established. Shortly after lunch-time, Kathie had run home for a spare tablecloth, as there had been a spill in the tea tent and the only one they had was soaked. On the way back she happened to meet Norman Tipping, who was on his way to the fête too. They walked together along Dead Man’s Path and met Norman’s father going in the other direction. Tom said he would see them later and they went on their way. A minute or two later they heard the sound of a shotgun going off, which puzzled them a little but not unduly. Shortly after that, they passed Daniel Tyler from Burdett’s farm, who was heading in the same direction as Tom Tipping. They had almost reached the fête when Tyler came haring after them in a great state, and said they had better come quickly as Mr. Tipping had been shot. Naturally, they had rushed back with him and found Tom Tipping lying dead, shot in the head, with his dog next to him, pawing at him and whining pitifully. Kathie ran to fetch a doctor but there was nothing to be done. The doctor insisted on calling the police, and Norman came to fetch his mother and break the news, and the Tippings and Kathie had spent the rest of the afternoon at the Tippings’ farmhouse talking to the police, until Kathie was given permission to go and tell everybody what had happened.
Further details were soon known. By Sunday lunch-time the word was all around the village that Tom Tipping and Andrew Norris had been seen together on Dead Man’s Path earlier on Saturday, engaged in an altercation in which Norris loudly threatened to shoot Tipping if he found him trespassing again. The feud between the two men was well known, of course, and everybody nodded sagely and said that it had only been a matter of time before Norris had gone off his head and carried out his threat. On this particular occasion the rumours were slower than the local police, for by Saturday evening Andrew Norris had already been arrested on suspicion of murder and his house was being searched.
