Death Walks the Woods

by Cyril Hare

  "That's how I remember him," he said. "I told you I met him once, didn't I? I was in an accountant's office at the time, and he came in about his income-tax. It had gone up to something over a shilling in the pound, and he was fearfully worried. Of course tax evasion was in its infancy in those days. I was only a junior clerk—not more than an office-boy really, and it was no part of my job, but I was able to suggest something fairly useful and it made him very happy. I was very green, then, or I could have made something out of it for myself. As it was, I only got..."

  He seemed to have forgotten Godfrey for the moment. "I wonder where that damned thing is now?" he murmured to himself. He stood abstractedly in the middle of the room, as though contemplating the green office-boy of those distant days and the long road that he had travelled since then. "Let's get out into the fresh air," he said abruptly. "It's musty in here."

  Outside, Rose looked at the cottage with disfavour. "These museum people don't know their own business," he said. "Properly run, it should be worth a lot of money. It can't take enough to pay expenses as it is."

  "Do you think a Spicer roadhouse would be better?" Godfrey suggested ironically. "With postcards and souvenirs on sale, and Solipsist teas at half a crown a head?"

  "Why not?" said Rose. "Look what those Stratford fellows have done. Spicer isn't Shakespeare, but you could put him over just the same. It's simply a question of publicity. Publicity is the key to success, and why anyone should be afraid of it——"

  "Good morning, Mr. Rose!" said a voice behind them. Rose swung round and found himself facing a young man with a camera. The shutter clicked, and the man jumped on to a bicycle and rode off towards the main road. Rose looked after him sourly.

  "Now that will be in all tomorrow's papers, I suppose," he grumbled. "I shan't be able to stay here if that sort of thing goes on. I should have thought by now I was entitled to a certain amount of privacy if I wanted it."

  "Perhaps Henry Spicer, too?" Godfrey suggested.

  Rose had the grace to laugh. "Very well, we'll leave the museum as it is," he said. "But even by its own standards it's a poor show. I'd like to improve it if I could."

  They strolled on down the lane to its junction with the road. The only traffic in view was a bicycle, travelling away from them in the direction of Yewbury. It was being ridden by a woman. She was in some difficulties up the moderately steep slope and wobbled dangerously from side to side. They were about to cross when a car shot past them, going in the same direction as the bicycle. It overtook it some fifty yards from where they stood. There was ample room for the car to pass, but instead of going over to its offside it appeared to drive directly at the labouring bicycle as it tottered on the crown of the road. At the last moment, when a collision seemed inevitable, the driver sounded his horn, at the same time swinging out by the barest minimum necessary to avoid running it down. The startled rider for her part made a vain attempt to get back to the side of the road, turned her handlebars too quickly and crashed to the ground, her machine on top of her, as the car dashed by.

  "That," said Rose, "was a bloody piece of driving."

  "He looked as if he was doing it on purpose," said Godfrey. "I wish I could have got his number."

  "I didn't get it either, but it looked uncommonly like the hearse that met me at the station last night."

  As they spoke they were hurrying to where the fallen bicyclist, having disentangled herself from her machine, was painfully trying to rise. Godfrey got to her first. It was not until he had his hands under her arms and was lifting her to her feet that he realized that he was clasping Mrs. Pink. He helped her to the side of the road, sat her down upon the bank and set himself rather clumsily to brush the dirt off her skirt with his hands. Rose, meanwhile, had picked up the bicycle and was salvaging the contents of the basket that lay strewn about the roadway.

  It was clear that Mrs. Pink was not seriously hurt, but she was shocked and exhausted. She sat on the bank, her eyes closed, breathing heavily and clasping to her bosom the battered remains of her straw hat.

  "We saw what happened," Godfrey told her. "It was a shocking bit of driving. We ought to tell the police. Did you get his number?"

  "No, no," Mrs. Pink murmured faintly. "I don't want the police. I don't suppose Mr. Todman knew what he was doing. Marlene had her baby last night. I expect he's dreadfully upset."

  "I think I've collected all your bits and pieces, madam," said Rose, wheeling the bicycle up to the bank.

  At the sound of his voice Mrs. Pink opened her eyes.

  "Humphrey," she said flatly.

  "Well, if it isn't Martha!" said Rose.

  And that, as Godfrey subsequently recorded with some surprise, was the only conversation that he heard exchanged between them.

  Mrs. Pink stood up.

  "I am feeling all right now," she answered. "I think I'd better be getting home."

  Rose picked up the bicycle.

  "Godfrey, my dear fellow," he said, "do you mind making my excuses to your mother and telling her that I shall not be back for lunch?"

  Without another word said, Mrs. Pink set off along the road, walking slowly and stiffly. Rose went beside her, wheeling the bicycle. Whether they were talking as they went Godfrey could not determine. He watched them out of sight and then turned for home.

  * * *

  VII

  POSTPONEMENT OF A BAZAAR

  Two days of driving rain and mist had eliminated the view from Pettigrew's window, and the dissertation on the Law of Torts had profited accordingly. On the afternoon of Maundy Thursday the weather miraculously improved, and Eleanor was not surprised on entering the study to find her husband unashamedly occupied in looking out of the window. But this time she did not share his enthusiasm.

  "Have you read this week's Didford Advertiser, Frank?" she asked, in a tone in which her husband's ear could detect a note of reproach.

  "Not yet," said Pettigrew. "I've been too busy since lunch. Do look, Eleanor, there's a totally new effect since those beeches in the foreground came out. It's quite remarkable how——"

  But Eleanor refused to be sidetracked.

  "You ought to," she said, and laid the paper on his desk. "Lady Furlong's cook has given notice."

  "Good heavens! I knew that her ladyship was a fairly important personage, but I had no idea that her domestic misfortunes were hot news. Do let me see what it says."

  "It doesn't say anything about the cook, naturally. Lady Furlong rang up just now to tell me. She's putting off our invitation to dinner next week."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, but I don't quite see the connection."

  "The cook has given notice because of something you said in the paper."

  "Something I said? But, my dear girl, I've never written anything for the Advertiser in my life. And if I did it would certainly not be about my neighbour's cook. Cuckoos, perhaps—they are always a fair topic for correspondence at this time of the year. But not cooks. It's clean out of my line. There must be some mistake."

  "There's no mistake at all. Just look at it yourself."

  Pettigrew found himself confronted with yet another report of the dressmaker's action at Markhampton. The Didford Advertiser's layout did not run to the facetious headlines which had surprised him so much in the daily press. Instead, a column of solid print carried what he was horrified to see was an almost verbatim report of his judgment.

  "Giving judgment," he read, "the learned deputy observed that the plaintiff had alleged that Mrs. Gallop was a very difficult customer to fit. Having seen Mrs. Gallop in the witness-box he could well believe it."

  "Well?" said Eleanor accusingly.

  "What's wrong with that? It was perfectly true. Mrs. Gallop was the most cantankerous female I've seen for a long time. She found fault with everything. I don't think the dressmaker has yet been born who could have made anything that she would admit was a proper fit. My remarks were perfectly just, and very mild in the circumstances." He read the passage through again. "Goo
d Lord!" he murmured. "Does the woman think I was referring to her shape?"

  "Obviously. Wouldn't anyone?"

  "Ridiculous! She must have known I only meant... Now I come to think of it, she was built on rather baroque lines. ... Well, it's all most unfortunate, but how was I to know that she was Lady Furlong's household treasure?"

  "She wasn't. Mrs. Gallop is Lady Furlong's cook's mother-in-law. When she read what you had said about her in the paper she took to her bed with a fit of hysterics and the cook has gone home to look after her. Now do you see what you have done?"

  "I give it up," said Pettigrew wearily. "The sooner Jefferson recovers, the better. Doing justice in such a temperamental neighbourhood is altogether beyond my powers. Now I suppose I must sit down and read this rag from cover to cover to see what other dreadful solecisms I have committed."

  Pettigrew was as good as his word. He carefully scanned every column of the Advertiser, and was relieved to find no further references to his activities on the bench. One item of local news, however, caused him some little amusement.

  "Just listen to this, Eleanor," he said. "The popular Henry Spicer Museum at the foot of Yew Hill has been enriched by an autographed cartoon of the famous author by the celebrated artist Fly. This has been generously donated by Mr. Humphrey Rose, at present staying in the neighbourhood for the Easter holiday, and to whom the novelist presented it at an early stage in his career. Mr. Rose is well known as an admirer of the works of the bard of Yew Hill. What a wonderful country is England! Do you suppose that anywhere else on earth a quite celebrated swindler just out of jail would be called well known as an admirer of somebody's books?"

  "You forget," his wife reminded him. "That paragraph was probably written by somebody who was at school when Rose went to prison. He has probably never heard of him."

  "He has never heard of the cartoonist 'Spy', evidently. But that's a minor point. What I feel is a bit hot is that a dangerous ruffian should plant himself among us and then pose as a local benefactor."

  "Aren't you being rather unfair, Frank? I don't expect he's a bit dangerous after all those years in prison. He probably just wants to live quietly and respectably. I dare say giving things to the local museum is his way of getting back into decent society."

  "If the only decent society he gets into consists of readers of Henry Spicer, it will be a very restricted one. Anyhow, from what I know of him, Rose will never cease to be dangerous. But we shall see."

  There was a ring at the front door. Pettigrew went to answer it.

  "That will be Mr. Wendon, I hope," Eleanor called after him. "If he has brought the chicken, will you tell him——"

  But it was not Mr. Wendon. It was Mrs. Pink. Pettigrew greeted her in some confusion. It was most awkward, he felt, the way that litigants had of bobbing up in one's path as if they were ordinary human beings.

  "You want to see my wife, I expect," he said. "Do come in."

  "Thank you," said Mrs. Pink, "but I only wanted to leave her the parish magazine. And this note—it's about the bazaar. We have had to change the date, because of the mission week, you know."

  "Quite," said Pettigrew, trying to look as if he did know all about the mission week. He noticed that she looked rather tired, and added, "Have you walked all the way here, Mrs. Pink."

  "Yes. But it doesn't matter. I'm used to walking. And this is the last house in East Yewbury. I've only The Alps to visit now, and then all the notices will be out."

  Pettigrew was familiar with the village custom by which parish notices were always delivered by hand, whether to save money or through some atavistic suspicion of the reliability of the post, but he was shocked at the idea of this obviously exhausted woman trudging such a distance up such a hill.

  "But you'll kill yourself!" he exclaimed.

  "Oh no, Mr. Pettigrew, I'm not so easily killed as that. But it is a long way, that I will admit, and if the Vicar wasn't in such a hurry to get the notices out before Easter I'd leave it till I got my bike mended. I had an accident with it, you see, and the people in Didford won't so much as look at it till the holidays are over."

  "But surely Todman's garage could—— No, I suppose they couldn't, in all the circumstances. Well, Mrs. Pink——"

  He was interrupted by the stuttering roar that announced the arrival of Mr. Wendon's jeep. By the time that he had dealt with the important business of the fowl Mrs. Pink had walked away on her long, self-imposed journey.

  "You were all wrong about that pig meal, you know," Mr. Wendon observed, as he was counting out the change.

  "I'm sure I was," said Pettigrew easily. Oddly, he felt no difficulty in meeting Wendon, whom he had ordered to pay two pounds a month, whereas talking to Mrs. Pink, who owed him the very roof over her head, caused him acute embarrassment.

  "By the way, I've paid the money—all of it."

  "Good show."

  "Not a good show at all—a damned swindle, if you want my opinion. And the chap I got the cash from was a damned swindler too. So long."

  He was about to leave when Pettigrew stopped him.

  "By the way," he said, "Mrs. Pink was here just now. I suppose you know her?"

  "The widow Pink? Of course I do. Who doesn't?"

  "Well, she's proposing to walk all the way up to The Alps to deliver some tom-fool message from the Vicar. Are you driving in that direction by any chance?"

  "As a matter of fact," said Wendon slowly, "it would rather suit me to go that way. I'll give her a lift up the hill, is that the idea?"

  "Splendid! It will really take a load off my mind. You're sure it won't be too much trouble?"

  "No trouble at all. I'll pick her up in the lane."

  Pettigrew went back into the house warm with the consciousness of having done a kindness. When he told Eleanor of the arrangement he was a little dashed to find it treated in a very matter-of-fact fashion.

  "My dear Frank, Mr. Wendon must have seen Mrs. Pink here. He was probably waiting for the chance to take her out."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "Has it never occurred to you that he had designs on her?"

  "Good gracious, no! They're not at all the same sort of people, I should have said."

  "Obviously they are not. She is much too good for him. Anyone can see that. But he badly needs somebody to look after him, and she is an excellent housekeeper and must have a little money of her own——"

  "Very little," said Pettigrew. "I happen to know exactly how much."

  "Even a little would mean a lot to Mr. Wendon. And if he's not interested in her, can you tell me why he should have driven her home from Didford the other day and stayed to tea?"

  "Really, Eleanor, after eight years of marriage I had begun to think I knew something about you, but you continue to surprise me. Since when did you develop into a village gossip?"

  "I am nothing of the sort, Frank. I simply listen to what I am told. Lady Furlong has been full of the affair for the last fortnight."

  "And where does Lady Furlong get all these precious details from?"

  "That is the tragedy. She used to get them from her cook. Now, thanks to you, there will be no more of them."

  "This is terrible. The least we can do is to supply the deficiency ourselves to the best of our feeble powers." He took up the field-glasses. "There is just one stretch of the hill road which you can see from here, where it crosses the shoulder. They should be nearly there by now.... Yes, there they go," he exclaimed a moment later. "Enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke. No, I am sorry to report her arm is not round his waist. She is holding on for dear life while he buckets over that rough patch by the corner.... They've gone behind the trees now." He put the glasses down. "And some people call country life dull!" he exclaimed.

  * * *

  "My mother's out, I'm afraid," said Godfrey politely to Mrs. Pink. "But I'm expecting her back any time. Won't you come in?"

  "I won't trouble her, thank you very much," said Mrs. Pink, with the air of one repeating a well-l
earned lesson. "It's only a notice from the Vicar about the bazaar. We find we've had to change the date."

  "I'll tell her, then. I'm afraid it will only be of academic interest to her, though. I mentioned that matter of her taking a stall, and she turned it down flat, as I thought she would."

  "I quite understand," said Mrs. Pink.

  Mr. Wendon meanwhile was rummaging in the back of the jeep.

  "I expect your mother could do with a dozen eggs over Easter," he remarked, producing a battered cardboard box.

  "Thanks; I expect she could. Wait a bit, though—aren't they supposed to be on the ration, or something?"

  "'Supposed' is the word. Just give them to your mother with my compliments and she won't ask any questions."

  "Look here, sir," said Godfrey, going rather pink, "I dare say you'll think I'm a fearful prig, but I'd much rather not take them. You see, I had a bit of an argument with Mother about—well, about a rather similar thing only a day or two ago, and I should look rather an ass if she came home and found I'd been taking in eggs off the ration. So do you mind frightfully if I say, No?"

  It was clear from Mr. Wendon's expression that he did mind. He returned the box to its place in silence and climbed back into the driving-seat. He fiddled with the starter for a moment, and then said abruptly: "Is that blighter Rose anywhere about?"

  "No," Godfrey told him. "Mr. Rose went to London yesterday. I don't know when he'll be back."

  "Very well, young fellow-my-lad. I'll just wait here till your mother comes back. Then we'll see who looks an ass." He turned to Mrs. Pink. "What about you, Mrs. Pink? Do you mind waiting?"