Corpse Path Cottage

by Margaret Scutt

  ‘Ow!’ cried Miss Margetson, with a squeal of girlish enthusiasm. ‘I love Annabel Lee’s tales. They are so sweet, and so romantic. I read The Duke’s Quest three times. Of course, I’m passionately fond of historical novels, and hers are my favourite of all. I wish she’d write another.’

  ‘Very pretty stories,’ agreed Mr Heron, a soft gleam in his eye. ‘What do you say, Miss Faraday?’

  Miss Faraday who had been sitting mute and inglorious in a corner gave a little jump.

  ‘Oh, yes — yes, indeed. I think them charming. But my tastes are not highbrow in the least.’

  ‘A most misused term,’ said Brian Marlowe, closing his eyes. ‘And surely one need not be highbrow to recognize highly coloured nonsense at its true worth. Mrs Richards implies that dirt is dirt; might I add that trash is also trash, even when hidden by a dust cover depicting a maiden in distress?’

  ‘Oh, surely,’ said a lady in a purple dress, leaning forward to smile warmly on Marlowe, ‘there is room for all tastes in our little circle? And I must confess to a teeny-weeny weakness for Annabel Lee myself.’

  She blinked several times and sat back. The chairman cleared his throat.

  ‘We seem to have travelled far from our friend Trollope and along a rough and stormy path, ha ha!’ he observed. ‘But however interesting the discussion — and I, for one, have found much er h’r’m stimulation in it — tempus fugit. We have yet to hear from Mrs Oliphant. She knows with what eager anticipation we await her latest oblation to the Poetic Muse. Mrs Oliphant.’

  The lady in the purple dress rose, turned, and faced her audience with a wide smile.

  ‘Dear friends,’ she began.

  There was a loud creak and the door opened. The enquiring countenance of Endicott, like a morose Daniel viewing the lions, peered in. All eyes turned to him. Brian Marlowe scowled. Miss Faraday blushed, glanced round to meet Mrs Richards’s pregnant gaze, and blushed the more.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Endicott generally. ‘I hope that I am not intruding. I was told that the meetings of the Literary Circle were open to all.’

  ‘They are indeed,’ said the chairman. ‘Glad to see you, sir. Plenty of seats. No housing shortage here, ha ha.’

  Endicott thanked him and turned to the nearest chair.

  Discovering his neighbour to be Miss Faraday, he greeted her with a pleased grin.

  ‘What might the long lady with the teeth be proposing to do?’ he asked out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Read one of her own poems,’ whispered Miss Faraday.

  ‘Good God,’ said Endicott.

  The rustle of movement and comment caused by his entrance died. There was a hush of anticipation or dread. The chairman, Colonel Stroud, set his brick red countenance in a smile as determined as that of the poetess herself, and leaned back in his chair. Endicott looked cautiously about him, unobserved, since all eyes were fixed on Mrs Oliphant, who appeared to be going into a smiling trance. He saw scornful boredom on the face of Brian Marlowe, otherwise the faces were of those who awaited uplift, not happily, but in the spirit of martyrs to a cause.

  ‘Drip!’ thundered Mrs Oliphant.

  The chairman started, pulled himself together, and smiled again, a trifle apprehensively.

  ‘A thought, dear friends,’ said Mrs Oliphant, speaking in prose and in her customary high-pitched voice, ‘suggested by a defective kitchen tap. I should have mentioned this before. Forgive me.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Colonel Stroud courteously.

  Mrs Oliphant bowed, dropped her head to one side, and began once more.

  ‘Drip!’ (she declaimed deeply.)

  ‘The slow drops fall

  Slow,

  So slowly!

  Yet inexorable,

  Like blood, reluctant,

  Welling from out a mortal wound

  Or grudging charity, heavily bestowed

  By an unwilling hand.

  A-ah!

  Ah, heaven!

  The torture of it,

  Monotonous, soul sickening, inhuman,

  Until one screams aloud

  For anything — for anything on earth

  With power to bring relief

  From the inhuman, soul sickening, monotonous

  Drip . . . drip . . . drip.’

  Mrs Oliphant’s voice, gradually diminishing, died on a gasping croak. She drooped as if virtue had gone from her. Out of all the room she knew true happiness.

  There was a stunned pause as her voice ceased, followed by a rattle of applause. Endicott clapped more loudly than the rest. Miss Faraday looked at him with surprise and suspicion.

  ‘If I stamped on the floor,’ he said, ‘would she give an encore?’

  Miss Faraday shook her head.

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Endicott philosophically, ‘I suppose it would be too much to ask.’

  Colonel Stroud rose and thanked Mrs Oliphant. The audience clapped again.

  ‘Has any other member a contribution to offer?’ asked the Colonel, looking warily around him. ‘No? Ah well, better luck next time.’

  ‘It couldn’t be,’ said Endicott under his breath.

  ‘Which brings me to the announcement of our next meeting a fortnight hence. The guest speaker will be Mr Wilberforce Browne, the well-known critic, who has kindly consented to address us, his subject being the novel — then and now. Judging from this evening, his talk should give rise to an interesting and animated discussion. There will, I need scarcely say, be ample time allowed for original contributions by our members, in verse or prose. And that, I think, closes our proceedings for tonight.’

  In the general move towards the door, Endicott found himself accosted by a pretty dark-haired girl bearing a small notebook and with a purposeful glint in her eye. As he halted, Miss Faraday murmured a word of farewell and was gone.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr . . . ?’ said the dark-haired girl interrogatively.

  ‘Endicott.’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m Dinah Morris, and the Treasurer of this society.’

  ‘Of course. I must settle with you. Miss Morris. Just a moment.’

  Brian Marlowe was passing them on his way to the door. Endicott touched his arm.

  ‘Could I have a word with you?’

  Marlowe favoured him with a hard stare.

  ‘Strangely enough, I was hoping for one with you.’

  Endicott looked somewhat surprised at his tone. Dinah glanced quickly from one man to the other.

  ‘Right,’ said Endicott pleasantly. ‘I’ll see you outside when I have made my peace with Miss Morris here.’

  Marlowe nodded ungraciously and turned away. Endicott found the girl’s eyes upon him.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked directly.

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Endicott. ‘I’m a stranger here myself, as you may have heard.’

  She flushed suddenly. ‘I must seem very inquisitive. But Brian sounded queer.’

  ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘He was,’ said Dinah briefly.

  ‘Um,’ said Endicott noncommittally.

  The girl became conscious that she was giving herself away. She shot him an angry glance, and said coldly, ‘What I meant was that I had seen very little of Mr Marlowe just lately. And in any case—’

  ‘It is no possible affair of mine. You are perfectly right. But I can’t think,’ said Endicott plaintively, ‘why everyone is so cross with me tonight. After I had enjoyed myself so much, too.’

  Her eyes danced suddenly. ‘The poem?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. The poem.’

  ‘Pooh! That was a weak effort. You should have heard the one on “The Frustrated Cat”.’

  ‘You open an agreeable field for speculation. How frustrated?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Mrs Oliphant would probably be delighted to read it to you.’

  ‘Really? Blessings light upon her, so she shall.’

  ‘You are an idiot!’ said Dinah, laughing.

  ‘That’s better. Now you sound
neighbourly. But what about this financial transaction of ours?’

  ‘One shilling per meeting non-members, yearly sub ten and six. Will you be joining us?’

  ‘Having sampled your quality, nothing would stop me. Here you are.’

  ‘Thank you. Name and address, please, and I’ll give you a receipt.’

  ‘Now I must go,’ said Mark, having complied. ‘Mr Marlowe will think I shun him, and that would make him sad. Goodnight, Miss Morris. We shall meet again.’

  Dinah watched him out, her face troubled. ‘I wonder?’ she said.

  * * *

  James, who took a dim view of the Literary Society, greeted his master with pleasure and fell in behind him as he strolled to the group of elms where Brian Marlowe stood waiting. He swung around impatiently as Endicott approached, and greeted him with a scowl.

  ‘You’ve taken your time,’ he said, without preamble, and with great animosity.

  Endicott raised his brows.

  ‘This flattering desire for my company—’

  ‘You can cut that out and get on with your dirty business.’

  ‘Dirty business?’ Endicott, who had been merely intrigued by the other’s manner, felt the first faint stirring of anger. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’

  ‘You know well enough what I mean. You wanted to speak to me, didn’t you? Well, I’m here — what more do you want? Or do you find it easier on paper?’

  Endicott stared, actually wondering if he held converse with a lunatic. He said, speaking mildly out of very bewilderment, ‘My good fool, I haven’t the vaguest idea what you mean.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’ snarled Brian, pushing a white face close to his. ‘Why did you want to speak to me? Would it be, by any chance, about a compact?’

  ‘At last,’ said Endicott with relief, ‘you begin to talk sense. I’ve got the thing here.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Marlowe softly. ‘I thought you had.’

  Immediately upon the words, and without the slightest warning, he smote the startled Endicott with great force upon the nose. Endicott dropped like a felled tree, and blood streamed down his chin. James uttered a yelp which changed to a menacing growl and launched himself upon Marlowe. Endicott, struggling muzzily to his feet, saw the dog kicked aside, and was helped in his recovery by a wave of fury. He knew pure satisfaction as his knuckles connected painfully with Marlowe’s jaw. Marlowe instantly took up the position which he had himself vacated.

  Mark pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his injured nose, while James pawed at him in deep concern. Soothing him, Mark gazed down on his fallen foe, who looked very young and defenceless with the bitterness wiped from his unconscious face.

  ‘You asked for it, you know,’ said Mark, justifying himself.

  ‘You’ve killed him!’ said an accusing voice.

  Endicott jumped. Dinah Morris, her eyes burning in her white face, stood beside him.

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said thickly but reassuringly. ‘He’s worth a dozen dead men yet.’

  Dinah cast herself down beside the prostrate figure, took one of the limp hands and began to rub it.

  ‘Can’t you do something? Fetch a doctor—’

  ‘I tell you, he doesn’t need a doctor.’

  ‘But look at him, poor boy! And you just stand there, bleeding all over the place—’

  ‘My God!’ said Endicott, stung. ‘Is it my fault if I’m bleeding? He hit me first!’

  ‘Then you must have given him cause,’ said Dinah coldly. ‘And see what you’ve done to him.’

  ‘And what about me? For no reason at all he comes at me like a lunatic, busts me on the nose, skins my knuckles—’

  ‘Brian skinned your knuckles?’

  ‘Certainly. On his jaw. And furthermore you will be pleased to observe that your boyfriend with the pleasing manners is now opening his eyes and in five minutes or so will be ready to sock me again.’

  He jerked his head towards Marlowe, who was now looking up with a glassy stare. At length he recognized Dinah with a slight and rueful grin.

  ‘Hello, Dinah,’ he said.

  The observant Mark noted the glow which transfigured the girl’s face and was moved to pity. So much wasted on this conceited pup, who could not give a snap of the fingers for her now, whatever he had felt for her in the past. A nice kid, too — he was glad to see Marlowe’s hand move gingerly to caress his jaw.

  ‘All right?’ he asked gruffly.

  Without replying, Marlowe scrambled to his feet. Mark shrugged.

  ‘I take it our conversation will be resumed later?’

  ‘It certainly will,’ said Marlowe.

  ‘Are you two going on like this again?’ demanded Dinah, flushing. ‘For two grown men I must say it seems pretty silly.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Endicott. ‘A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying damn all. If you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ said Dinah helplessly.

  ‘And why should you? I,’ said Endicott handsomely, ‘am not completely clear in understanding myself, though I have played some small part in our drama. However, I will now make my exit.’

  He removed the sodden handkerchief from his nose and looked sorrowfully upon them.

  ‘Gooddight,’ he said.

  ‘Wait — your nose is still bleeding,’ said Dinah. ‘You can’t go through the village like that. I’ll get some water.’

  The two men watched her run lightly back to the Hall. When she was out of hearing, Endicott turned to Marlowe, thrusting a hand into his pocket.

  ‘You might as well take this now. You could have done it in the first place. And I may add that I hope never to be mixed in your damn silly affairs again.’

  Marlowe looked at the compact in his hand, his brow creased with an almost stupid bewilderment.

  ‘But — are you giving it to me?’

  ‘Did you think I should make a charge?’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘You can keep your thoughts to yourself. Here comes Miss Morris. And the next time I come, at great personal inconvenience, to return your baubles, kindly refrain from dotting me on the nose.’

  Marlowe opened his mouth and closed it again as Dinah came up breathlessly carrying a jam jar full of water. Soaking her handkerchief, she set about her ministrations with business-like competency, Endicott submitting meekly. Marlowe looked on, the frown on his face no longer of anger but bewilderment. A faint rustle in the nearby hedge went unnoticed by all save James, who moved off to investigate.

  ‘There!’ said Dinah with relief. ‘It has stopped now.’

  ‘It’s very good of you,’ said Endicott. ‘I don’t know why you should bother.’

  ‘This business is quite silly enough without you spreading the news of it abroad.’ Dinah, who taught in the village school, spoke as if she stood before her class. ‘The sight of you bleeding like a stuck pig—’

  ‘Bleeding, I admit. Like a stuck pig? — oh, surely not! But I take your meaning. It is scarcely worthwhile to give our respected poetess material for another work.’

  Marlowe’s lips twitched. Under other circumstances he felt that he might have liked Endicott well enough. It was queer that he should have handed over the compact in the end. What in God’s name was at the back of it all? Suddenly, standing here in the quiet spring evening, he felt lost and afraid. All that was sure in life was shifting of late, values fading, Dinah, looking at him with her wholesome face puzzled — he had been glad enough to see her when first he opened his eyes. In that moment he had recaptured the simple pleasure which he had once found in their companionship, but only for a moment. He looked back with a kind of wonder at the past. Had he indeed ever known the serenity of that uncomplicated relationship? At least, he would never know it again. Laura Grey had seen to that.

  James, returning from his investigations, bustled cheerfully up to the group. It appeared that he had forgotten the varied incidents of the
evening.

  ‘Which reminds me,’ said Endicott to Marlowe, ‘just as a matter of interest, what the devil did you mean by kicking my dog?’

  ‘Kicking the dog! Oh, Brian,’ said Dinah reproachfully.

  ‘Damn it, he bit me!’

  ‘Good old James,’ said Endicott.

  Brian and Dinah watched him go before silently crossing the path to the road. The girl, glancing at the sulky, handsome face of her companion wondered what was passing in his mind and reflected that she knew nothing whatsoever of his mental makeup. Who could have imagined that Brian, cold sober, would leave a meeting of the Literary Society to indulge in a vulgar brawl with a stranger? It would be mirth-provoking if it were not so utterly incomprehensible. And it had brought her into contact with Brian again, since here they strolled together through the cool evening. She had sworn to herself that she would have no more to do with him, and her vows meant so little that when he opened his eyes to give her that queer, unselfconscious smile, her heart had melted within her.

  ‘Queer bloke,’ said Brian suddenly.

  ‘He seems slightly mad. But I think I like him.’

  ‘I don’t dislike him myself.’

  ‘Well, I must say you show your affection in a peculiar way.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose you are wondering what the dickens it’s all about.’

  ‘A vague curiosity had crossed my mind.’

  His colour deepened. ‘The thing is, you see, I had an anonymous letter.’

  Dinah stopped to stare. ‘Honestly?’

  ‘You don’t imagine I should invent it for your benefit, do you?’

  ‘You mean you had a letter about Mr Endicott?’

  Brian kicked savagely at a stone. ‘Don’t be silly. Naturally, I thought he had written it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Dinah digested this. ‘You know,’ she said frowning, ‘I don’t think he would.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, neither do I. At the time I could have sworn to it. And even now — if not Endicott, who the devil could it be?’

  ‘Does it matter? The only place for an anonymous letter is the fire.’

  ‘That’s easily said by people who’ve never received them.’

  Dinah shrugged her shoulders. She opened her mouth and closed it again without speaking. What was the use, after all? Brian obviously did not intend to confide in her further, nor did she wish to hear more. No need to be told that the unspeakable Laura Grey was at the back of it all. A cold desolation enfolded her. It was all so nasty, so miserably sordid. And what would happen if the rising tide of gossip reached Ralph Grey? No anonymous letters from him! Murder, perhaps . . .