“And that is all?” said Father Alfred.
“All,” said the Chief Constable, firmly.
“And what do you think?” said the priest.
The man filled his pipe slowly and carefully, struck a wooden match and lighted the pipe. “And what do I think?” he said, musingly. “I think his lordship was murdered.”
“By Lady McLeod, or someone she had hired to do the job?”
“Nay, nay,” said the officer, emphatically. “Not Lady McLeod, and ye’ll be doin’ well, sir, not to listen to the women. ‘Demon lady!’ Ach, they are soft in the head. And jealous and mean and gloatin’, always lookin’ for scandal. Niver was a pretty lass that the women were not down on her, with the lies and the tales.”
The Chief Constable glared challengingly at the priest. “It’s the agnostic I am,” he said, “and I dinna believe in — things. But I do believe that the young laird’s soul did come to her ladyship and tell her the truth, that he was murdered in cold blood.”
Father Alfred was no ‘agnostic’ himself, and he was decidedly fey in spite of the Church’s admonitions against ‘superstition’. The Church, after all, did acknowledge apparitions, though with certain strictures.
“But why should anyone murder Lord McLeod?”
The Chief Constable shrugged, looked darkly at the priest. “That I dinna know. But for certain, he was murdered. I hae seen the truth on her ladyship’s puir lovely face, and in her eyes. She didna lie.”
Father Alfred was sure of that, himself. He also was afraid for Lady McLeod, who had ‘fallen away’ from the Church, had cursed the old priest who had wanted only to comfort her, and who had riotous festivities at the mansion almost every night, and who was an adulteress. So Father Alfred went to his Anglican colleague, who said he had arrived in this hamlet three months after his lordship’s death, and therefore knew nothing. Father Alfred went to the Presbyterian minister. “Aye,” said Mr. Russell, “I believe his lordship was murdered, and sae do we a’,” he added. “Her ladyship?” He shrugged. “It’s nae in a mon’s power to know a woman. I hae niver seen her. And what would be your interest, if I may ask?”
“Her soul,” said Father Alfred, sadly.
What a sorrowful story, he thought, later, but not without some excitement, which he sternly interpreted as a love for justice and the saving of Lady McLeod’s soul, which was now blackened with many mortal sins. Was she a murderess? Father Alfred delicately approached the nuns, who overwhelmed him with indignant denials, especially the old Sister Superior who had once been Lady McLeod’s confidante. “Your language, Sister,” Father Alfred murmured to the old lady, who had become vehement and hostile.
“I’ll nae hae a word spoken against the puir lassie,” cried the Sister Superior, “for all she willna see me now! It’s her heart that is broken. Mad? It is possible. It is your prayers she is needing, Faether, and nae your curiosity,” she added, with some shrewdness which made the young priest blush. So Father Alfred, followed by the sparkling eyes of the Sister Superior, went into the small neat church and prayed for Lady McLeod’s soul. After his supper that night, he reread his favorite book concerning Sherlock Holmes. This was another occasion of ‘the locked door’, without doubt. But, what was he thinking? Scotland Yard, itself, had affirmed the verdict of death by misadventure.
The next day was soft and golden in its autumnal hinting. Father Alfred thought of Umbria as he stood in his little garden and saw the wide and gilded light. How sharp were the scents of mowed grass, of ripening fruit, of harvests!
He brought out his bicycle, and tied a prudent bag to the handles, containing a small but sturdy club, a large flannel cloth and sundry tidbits from his own larder. His short but muscular legs moved rapidly and within a short time, though he was covered with dust, he arrived at the high walls of McLeod House. He leaned the bicycle against the granite structure and surveyed the enemy territory. The walls were topped by formidable iron spikes at least a foot high, and Father Alfred suspected that broken glass was sprinkled between them. While he was reconnoitering slowly he heard a rushing sound and then the insane howling and barking of dogs on the other side. Father Alfred knew all about dogs, and he said aloud, but absently, “Quiet, there.” He was not in the least astonished when the howling and barking subsided to confused whimpers, and questioning murmurs.
He found a place where two spikes were missing, and he studied the wall. Easy! Tying his bag to his coat, he found apertures for his feet and began to climb the wall; the dogs on the other side questioned him. “I know what I am doing,” he admonished them, and they murmured respectfully in reply. “Just be patient,” he said. The dogs yelped a little. He climbed carefully, studying the mortar and the stones. His head rose above the wall and the dogs were ecstatic. “Nice lads,” he said to them. “Just be patient.” As he had suspected, there was shattered glass on the top, and he removed it with his thick flannel cloth. The spaces between the spikes: would they be sufficient for his plump buttocks? He decided it would be a tight fit, but when was the world not a tight fit for everybody? He swung his legs over the wall and sat on the top of it, like a short, stout cherub. The dogs below laughed and smiled at him; big dogs, black and gray and shaggy. He opened his bag again and tossed down bits of meat and fowl and scones, with jam, and a few bones, and watched them scramble with joy. Not one dog was smaller than a good-sized wolf.
He loved all animals. He knew that food was a mere introduction to them, and that afterwards they wanted more information. So he waited until the dogs swirled below him again. “It’s just,” he said reasonably, “that I’ve come on an errand. I hope you understand, laddies?”
“Certainly,” said the oldest dog, who now spoke for all. Father Alfred barked back in subdued tones. The oldest dog gave an order, and all the animals, at least fifteen of them, lay on their bellies and fixed their eyes on Father Alfred seriously. “I think we’ll wait awhile, for the mistress,” said Father Alfred, addressing the leader.
“It is only courteous,” responded the old dog. “After all, we have a duty to do.”
“And so do I,” said Father Alfred. He looked about him. Never had he seen such beauty before. Green lawns, like ruffled silk, rolled away from the walls and mounted in a stately fashion to a long, low, gray mansion, almost smothered in oaks and larches. Here and there flower beds flamed with red autumnal flowers, and here and there a tree was almost strangled in scarlet vines. Beyond the house the land dropped away to kitchen gardens and arbors. Bees hummed in their extreme hurry; a bird or two questioned the young priest. The silence was wide and sunlit, and full of peace. The distant windows glowed with gold.
“A person could be happy here,” said Father Alfred to the old dog.
“Indeed,” he responded. “We are happy. All, but the mistress.”
“For whom we must wait,” said Father Alfred, tentatively.
“For whom we must wait,” said the old dog, quietly.
“Ah, well,” sighed the priest. “I understand your position. But these stones are infernally uncomfortable.”
The old dog snuffled in sympathy, and his companions snuffled also. But the old dog was firm; there was no moving him. He was apologetic. But one must stick to one’s responsibilities. How else could the world survive?
“Quite right,” said the young priest.
He heard a sudden shout of female laughter. The dogs got to their feet immediately, and stood at attention. The oldest moved off majestically to where a girl was standing in the shade of an enormous oak.
“Why are you barking at my silly dogs?” she asked, in a fresh young voice.
“We were not barking; we were talking,” said Father Alfred.
“Pardon me,” said the girl, with mockery. “It sounded uncommonly like barking.”
“Then you do not understand animals,” said Father Alfred. “They all have a language of their own, and it is our stupidity that we have never taken time to learn it.”
“Well, well,” said the gir
l. “What have we here? Another St. Francis?”
“Not at all. But I’ve lived with dogs all my life, and sometimes their conversation is very interesting.”
Father Alfred peered at the slim figure under the deep shade of the trees. The old dog said, “We must have patience.”
“I have all the time in the world,” Father Alfred responded.
“What are you two talking about now?” asked the slim, vague figure.
“We are having patience with you,” said Father Alfred. He wished the girl would emerge from the blue-black shade so that he could see her clearly.
“Indeed,” said the voice, somewhat coldly.
“For instance,” said the priest. “I’d like to see you and talk with you. I don’t care for lurkers.”
“Neither do I,” said the shadow. “What are you doing, lurking on my wall?”
“Waiting to talk to you.”
“I don’t talk with priests.”
“Very unfortunate. For you, Lady McLeod. I assume you are she?”
“Yes. And who are you? The nappy-priest who has just come?”
Father Alfred considered this affront gravely. “I am twenty-two years old,” he said. “Hardly an infant.”
“Elderly,” the shadow agreed. There was a silence. The old dog looked back and up at the priest, imploring more patience. The priest nodded. The bees hummed. The birds asked each other what was going on. The wind loitered softly.
“Aren’t you going to invite me to descend?” asked Father Alfred.
“Why don’t you?”
“Your dogs have a duty. Unless you give them the word they’d be honor-bound to tear me to pieces if I jumped down.”
The girl was silent a little. Then she said in a queer, soft voice, “You do know about animals, don’t you?”
“God’s darling creatures,” said Father Alfred. “He must have a great sense of humor, and fantasy, and joy. After all, He made the raucous parrot with its ridiculous colors. He gave dogs a sense of honor and humor. He gave dignity to the cats, and He gave laughter to the rooks. He decked the caterpillar with the rainbow, and gave whimsy to the robin. He told the noble elephant about monogamy and faithfulness, and informed the tiger how to use his stripes to protect him from enemies. He explained safe mating principles to the hedgehog, and taught the eagle how to train her young. He — ” Father Alfred stopped, for he had heard a sound of weeping.
“You sound like George,” said the young female voice, smothered in sobbing.
“Perhaps,” said the priest, “George wanted me to come to you.”
“I think,” said the oldest dog, “that she will give me the order to let you down. I apologize — ”
“No apology is needed,” replied the priest. “I understand perfectly.”
The girl said to the oldest dog, “Down.”
“You see?” said the oldest dog to the priest, and lay on his belly. The other dogs obeyed his word.
The priest carefully climbed down the inner wall. The dogs wagged their tails and watched his progress. The oldest dog trotted to him and kissed his hand meekly. “Fine laddie,” said the priest, rubbing him behind the ears. “I wish men were as good.”
“Do stop that barking,” said the girl, and she emerged from the shadows. “It isn’t quite clerical.”
She stood before Father Alfred, considerably taller than he, and slender; much too slender in her light blue dress which swept the grass. She was like a blue flower, swayed by the wind. Her golden hair lay unbrushed on her shoulders, like a cape; her eyes were blue in the tight pale face with its beautiful white lips and sharp little nose. There was about her an aura of restlessness and agony. Then her face became convulsed; it took the priest a moment or two to understand that she was trying to smile at him and that she was not just grimacing.
“How do you do?” she asked, primly.
Father Alfred rubbed his buttocks. “I seem to have missed brushing off all the glass,” he said.
The girl contemplated him a moment or two, then laughed aloud freely, and the dogs rose up as a man and laughed with her. Father Alfred touched the sore spot, then examined his finger. There was no blood. So he laughed also.
“Why didn’t you ring the bell?” asked Lady McLeod.
“If I had done so, would you have let me in?”
“Of course not,” she agreed. She examined him carefully with her eyes. “You don’t look very formidable.” She hesitated. “Would you like some tea?”
“I’d be delighted,” said the priest. “Strong, of course.”
She led the way towards the house, and he could see how very thin she was as the blue dress blew about her. The wind lifted her long golden hair, and revealed the haggard outline of her white cheeks, the marks of gray agony about her lovely mouth. So this was the ‘demon lady’ of the hamlet, this suffering girl, this tormented, lost girl. The dogs followed, commenting among themselves. The oldest trotted at Father Alfred’s side, touching his hand occasionally with a cold nose. “It is very sad,” said the dog.
“I can see that,” said the young priest.
“But what should trouble mankind, which rules the earth?” asked the dog.
“I trust,” replied the priest, “that you will be spared the knowledge.”
“Are you two talking again?” The girl glanced over her shoulder.
“We have just made some sorrowful comments,” said the priest.
“George,” said Lady McLeod, going on again with her head bent, “always talked with animals. Just as you do. Do you really talk?”
“Yes, certainly we do,” said the priest.
The grass was like velvet under the sole of one’s shoe. The wind was full of spice. The sun was a blessing, and a promise. The long gray mansion lay under its blue tangle of shadow, and the door was open, and a harsh woman stood on the threshold.
“Maggie,” said Lady McLeod, “tea in the morning-room, and oat cakes with strawberry jam, and some slices of pound cake.”
“I didna hear the bell,” said Maggie, staring with affront at the priest.
“I didn’t ring it. I climbed over the wall,” said Father Alfred, with a human desire to discomfit the woman.
“Over — ” she began, and then stared at the affectionate dogs.
Lady McLeod led the way through the stone-vaulted hall with its stained-glass windows and to a sunny room beyond, fresh with prints and gay with hand-woven carpets. The oldest dog had followed as a matter of course, and then lay down over the priest’s boots and contemplated him with gratitude. “I hope you can help her,” he said. “But, what is the trouble?”
“God has blessed you,” said the priest. “You will never know, for you are not a murderer.”
“She has the kindest heart,” said the dog, after considering a moment. “She would never injure any living thing.”
“That I know. Now,” said the priest.
“I should like to know what you two are rumbling about,” said Lady McLeod, who had seated herself at a little distance.
The priest studied her candidly. “We have just informed each other of the goodness of our hostess,” he said.
The girl’s mouth opened slightly, then closed in its pale carving of silence.
The tea was brought by the stiff and haughty Maggie, who departed with a clatter of heels. Lady McLeod filled a fragile cup for Father Alfred, then, after a little hesitation, she filled one for herself.
“Why did you come?” she murmured.
“For one reason only: to know you, to find out if I could help you.”
The girl put down the silver pot and stared at it. “No one can help me but myself,” she said. When the priest did not answer she looked at him quickly, with a blaze of blue eye.
“You know all about it!” she cried.
“I know what I have heard,” he said.
“George was murdered!” she cried again.
“I think so, too,” said the priest. “I want to help you discover the murderer, and bring
him to justice.”
Grandmother and the Priests Page 34
