‘What’s the matter?’ asked Brian.
‘I’m cold,’ said Dinah sadly. But it was not the cold which had made her shiver.
‘The hall was unbearably stuffy. All the hot air blown off in it, I suppose.’
‘I wonder you bother to come if it bores you so much.’
‘If I don’t turn up, Mrs Oliphant is on the doorstep the next evening to know the reason why. The remedy is worse than the disease. And why this hot defence of our so literary evenings? Rather a change from you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. They’re pretty grim, of course. But you sounded so unbearably superior.’
He looked down on her, a little surprised.
‘You don’t like me much, do you, Dinah?’
She did not reply, and they walked on in silence. Dusk was falling, and it was very quiet. Dinah thought, for two pins he would begin talking about Her, and that would be the end.
‘Goodnight, Brian,’ she said with relief, pausing outside her own gate.
‘Goodnight, Dinah. I’m not surprised, you know.’
She looked at him doubtfully.
‘Surprised?’
‘That you don’t like me. It’s quite understandable. I’m not precisely in love with myself.’
CHAPTER VII
JOHNNY COSSETT LURCHED INTO his ancestral home a few minutes before nine that evening. He was a youth of fourteen, short for his age and with a freckled countenance which should have worn an expression of vacuous amiability. Johnny, however, owned a deep admiration for the more rugged types of American manhood, as portrayed in the gangster films which his soul loved, and except in moments of forgetfulness, his face was disfigured by a scowl or sneer. The scowl was easy, but the sneer, involving a slight lift of one side of the upper lip, had needed practice before a mirror in the seclusion of his chamber. He spoke three languages — the broad Dorset which was his by right of birth, the form of English painfully imparted to him by his pastors and masters in the shape of Mr Heron, and the American of the films and comic strips. Mr Heron, who would be attached to him for another year, during which period he knew well Johnny intended to do as little work as he could whilst causing as much trouble as was humanly possible, looked on him with a resigned loathing. In his mother’s eyes, he was fair, all fair, with no spot on him.
‘Where you bin, Johnny?’ she demanded as he entered, speaking in the querulous tone with which she cloaked her enormous pride. ‘Yer Dad were looking for ’ee.’
‘Let un look,’ said the youth simply.
‘You be a bad boy,’ said Mrs Cossett, shaking her head. ‘Off ’ere, there, and everywhere, and never thinking of yer mother. High time this schooling were finished.’
‘You said it, Maw. What’s for supper?’ asked Johnny, seating himself and drawing a crumpled comic from his pocket.
‘Supper. Oh, ah,’ said Mrs Cossett. ‘I mid ha’ knowed ’twas yer belly as brought ’ee home. There’s half a cold pie in larder, if so be that’ll do for yer Lordship?’
‘I wish,’ said Johnny dreamily, ‘as we lived in Lake.’
‘Why?’
‘Pictures twice a wick. And fish and chips for supper.’
‘Stinking dear, and poor stuff at that,’ said Mrs Cossett austerely. ‘Nor they don’t fry every night, neither.’
She laid down the pair of pants she was mending, rose heavily and went to the larder, returning with a plate containing the despised half pie and some cold potatoes. This she handed to her child, who accepted it without obvious gratitude.
‘I see a fight tonight,’ he observed, when the first pangs of hunger had been stayed.
‘Fight? Barney Burden again?’
Johnny shook his head. ‘Naw. Him from Corpse Path Cottage.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Mrs Cossett, instantly consumed by curiosity. ‘Him and who else?’
‘Brian Marlowe,’ said Johnny, swallowing noisily.
‘Now I know you be telling a tale,’ said Mrs Cossett, picking up her mending again. ‘You can try that on someone else, my lad. I knows better.’
‘Oh yeah?’ observed Johnny, pausing in his supper to give a perfect example of his sneer. ‘Then you know what ain’t so. I see ’em as plain as I see you, and Ken, he’d tell ’ee the same.’
‘Where?’ demanded Mrs Cossett, still sceptical.
‘Outside the Hall. Ken an’ me were birds-nesting on t’other side hedge, an’ they never knew we was there. Ha! I ’low they thought no-one saw ’em. Except her.’
‘Her?’
‘Teacher. Dinah Morris. Always after Brian Marlowe.’
‘She be sweet on un, sure enough. But did they fight over her?’
‘She never got there till he were down.’
‘Down? Who were down?’
‘Mr Pretty Marlowe. Don’t I kip tellin’ ’ee?’
‘I can’t make head nar tale o’t,’ said Mrs Cossett, marvelling. ‘Not but what I’d believe anything o’ that there Endicott. A bad un he be, if ever I saw one. But why did he set about young Marlowe?’
‘I ’low,’ said Johnny simply, ‘as ’twere on account o’ young Marlowe setting about he.’
Mrs Cossett’s jaw dropped.
‘Lord save us all! You don’t never mean as he began it?’
‘Course he began it. Blood! ’Twere like a pigsticking,’ said Johnny, pushing away his empty plate and leaning back to savour his memories. ‘Laugh! Ken an’ me, we nigh busted ourselves. Young Marlowe was waiting, see, under this clump o’ ellums just outside Hall. Wold Mother Richards, she come out, an’ Pecker Heron an’ whole lot more, but Marlowe, he was just there stood. Presently outcome Corpse Path Cottage feller by hisself, and up to Marlowe. They was talking, and we never took much notice, till all of a sudden up comes Marlowe’s fist and bam! he give t’other a proper buster slap on the snitch.’
‘Gaw!’ breathed Mrs Cossett.
‘Feller went down like as if he were pole axed, and that black spannell, he went for Marlowe. Then up comes Endicott, an’ whop! he gets Marlowe on the kisser! One up, t’other down. Laugh! I tell ’ee—’
Overcome by mirth, he rolled in his chair. Endicott and Marlowe, licking their wounds in the chaste seclusion of their homes, little knew the simple pleasure which they had given that night.
‘What happened then?’ demanded his mother.
Johnny wiped his eyes. ‘Dinah Morris, she come running over to ’em like a hen in a fit. “Ow!” she says, “You’ve killed un,” she says, an’ down she flops by Marlowe an’ starts rubbing his hands. Marlowe, he never knew nothin’ about it. Dead to the world, he were. She up at Endicott, an’ she says, “You bleedin’ rogue” —’
‘She never said that?’
‘That’s what it sounded like. That dame,’ said Johnny, swiftly crossing the Atlantic, ‘was sure all burnt up. Yes, sir! Endicott, he says, “I can’t help bleedin’, can I, an’ anyhow,” he says, “he hit me first.” And she says, “If he did I bet ’twere your fault.”’
‘Ah, an’ so it would be, sure enough,’ said Mrs Cossett warmly. ‘What do he want ’ere, getting up to God knows what, shut away in that wold cottage? What did he say to me the very day he came, and wi’ his own lips? Thief, blackmailer, forger, murderer — them was his words, and Mrs Hale, she’d tell ’ee the same. And Miss Faraday — she were there sat, right next to un. Well, now, this be the start. Young Marlowe be the first, but who comes after? You answer me that.’
This Johnny was unable to do. With some justification he felt that his mother had stolen his thunder. He said sulkily, ‘All the same, Marlowe started it. Can’t get away from that.’
‘That’s as may be,’ said Mrs Cossett infuriatingly. ‘What happened in the end?’
‘You know so much I should think you’d know that too, an’ wi’out my tellin’,’ said Johnny, with awful sarcasm. ‘I don’t know nothing. I never sat in no bus to hear tell o’ forgers and murderers. All I did was see it all.’
His mother became conscious of error.
She said cajolingly, ‘Now, Johnny, my dear, we know you saw it. Bain’t that why I be asking ’ee? You tell yer mother, like a good boy.’
‘Well, you listen, then,’ said Johnny, slightly mollified, ‘an’ not be cluckin’ like a wold hen. Miss Morris, she says, “you go an’ fetch a doctor,” an’ Endicott, he says, “not likely.”’
Mrs Cossett opened her mouth, met her son’s eye and closed it again.
‘Miss Morris looks at un like a spittin’ cat an’ goes on pawin’ Marlowe, an’ Endicott, he goes on dabbin’ his nose wi’ his bloody handkerchief—’
‘John-nee!’
‘Don’t be so daft! That ain’t swearing.’
‘That’s as may be. I don’t like to hear it, none the more for that.’
‘Well, anyway, he did. And then Marlowe sits up, and Miss Morris, she helps him to stand, an’ she says as she’ll get some water. An’ when she be gone Endicott takes summat out o’ his pocket an’ gives it to Marlowe.’
‘What? What did it seem to be?’
‘I couldn’t see what ’twere,’ said Johnny, reluctantly admitting defeat. ‘An’ just then that wold spannel come sniffin’ through hedge, so Ken an’ me, we come away. We went back after a bit, but they’d gone, so we never see them no more.’ He brooded happily for a moment. ‘You ’pend upon it, ’twere good while it lasted,’ he said.
Without speech, Mrs Cossett rose, laid down her neglected mending, and took a coat from its peg behind the door. Johnny looked up in surprise.
‘Where you goin’, Mum?’ he asked.
‘I just thought as I’d step round to Mrs Hale for a word or two,’ said his mother, smiling. ‘I won’t be above a minute or so.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘If I were you I’d get to bed afore yer dad comes in. Not too pleased wi’ you, yer dad isn’t.’
‘So what?’ muttered Johnny, turning gloomily to the stairs. Mrs Cossett did not hear him. The door closed behind her. Great with news, she passed into the night.
* * *
From Johnny to his mother, from his mother to Mrs Hale, the story spread, gaining colour and sensation on its way. By the following evening, there was not a soul in God’s Blessing who had not heard some version of the affair. The village constable, who was the father of Johnny’s friend Ken, made his way to Corpse Path Cottage, cunningly masking his curiosity by asking to see Mark’s dog licence. This being produced and a few compliments having passed, PC Marsh took his leave, conscious that he would recognize the man of mystery if called upon to apprehend him at any future date.
All day long the noise of battle swelled, in shop, post office, or bus. Brian, returning from his day’s toil at the bank, found, to his disgust, that his mother had joined the ranks of those who knew. Her placidity was unruffled by the surprising knowledge that her fastidious son had been involved in a brawl, but she showed a desire to be given details of the affair which he was not disposed to gratify. He told her simply that he had been drawn into an argument, in the course of which both he and Endicott had lost their tempers. It was all over, and he could not imagine what the fuss was about.
‘Lor bless you, Brian, I don’t fuss,’ said his mother comfortably. ‘You know that.’
‘Yes.’ He looked at her queerly. ‘How do you manage it, Mother?’
‘Manage what?’
‘To go through life so smoothly. Nothing ever seems to move you. It’s a kind of protective coat, I suppose. I wonder how deep it goes?’
‘You’re too clever for me. You always were, and your father was another. It’s the clever ones who worry, and fret and fume. Not me! I must say I should like to know why this Endicott wanted to see you, and what the argy-bargy was about. But if you don’t want to tell me — well, you know I shan’t lose any sleep over it.’
‘No,’ said Brian, ‘I didn’t suppose you would.’
She looked at him, not anxiously, but with a glint of shrewdness in her eyes.
‘You haven’t got yourself into any kind of trouble, Brian?’
‘Now, what should make you think that?’
‘I just wondered. All this — it isn’t like you.’
‘I’m all right, Mother. I keep telling you, this means nothing. Endicott’s a queer fellow. He’s probably forgotten the whole thing by now.’
She sat in silence for a moment. Suddenly a spark of interest lit her face.
‘Did you remember the fish?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘What did you get?’
‘Plaice.’
‘Ah! Don’t be late for supper.’
‘I’m not going out.’
‘I’ll do some chips,’ she said, with sudden animation. ‘The fat will run to it. Thank God for those parcels from Canada—’
Looking up, she found herself without an audience. For an instant, a flicker either of resentment or trouble moved her placid face and was gone.
‘I’m glad he brought plaice,’ she said, and went out to the kitchen.
* * *
Mark was blissfully unconscious of the sensation which he and Marlowe had caused. His nose was swollen and somewhat stuffy, and his knuckles reminded him painfully of their contact with Brian’s jaw, otherwise, absorbed in his own affairs, he had put the matter out of his mind. It did strike him that an unusual number of loiterers crossed the right of way past Corpse Path Cottage to the wood, but this he innocently attributed to the call of spring and went on with his work — or endeavoured to do so. The two chapters which had sprung from his brain with scarcely a birth pang had been a false dawn, followed by gloom and blasphemy. Page after page left the typewriter to be hurled aside in crumpled balls. Those who were privileged to meet the unhappy author on his walks abroad observed his disinheriting countenance and generally sinister appearance and nudged one another, leaning to Mrs Cossett’s opinion of the stranger within their midst. Endicott, with his own nagging preoccupations, and tormented by his elusive muse, certainly looked capable of any crime.
‘Don’t see that there feller down to Corpse Path Cottage in ’ere no more,’ remarked a visitor to the Ring and Book one evening.
‘Did ’ee poison un, Joe, or what?’
‘Company don’t suit un, maybe.’
‘Bad,’ said a patriarchal gentleman, shaking his white head. ‘I don’t care for a man to drink solitary.’
‘Best go in and help un out, Mr Garrett.’
Mr Garrett glanced around him benevolently.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I mid do just that. I feel for the feller, shut away in that godforsaken place all alone by hisself. I call it agin nature.’
‘Oh, I dunno.’ A morose looking man sitting in the corner was moved to join in the conversation. ‘He mid do wuss. A dog for company, nor no woman to mind his business for un.’
‘Hark to Nabby, now!’
‘Almost say as married life didn’t suit the feller.’
‘Bain’t the bed o’ roses, then, Nabby?’
The exchange became Rabelaisian. In the baiting of Nabby, who had lately been married to a local widow, the subject of Endicott was forgotten.
CHAPTER VIII
A COLD CHEERLESS DRIZZLE wiped the colour from the spring. Amy Faraday, moving furtively from her doorway and clasping a bundle to her breast like the heroine of a melodrama, felt the chill strike through to her guilty heart. She latched her gate, and turning into the lane, almost collided with a tall figure.
‘Oh!’ said Miss Faraday, uttering a mouse like squeak. ‘Good morning, Mr Grey.’
Ralph Grey touched his cap.
‘Morning, Miss Faraday. Afraid I didn’t see you. Beastly weather.’
‘Yes. Such a change.’
The parcel in her arms seemed to be growing larger. Thank heaven the label was hidden. She might have guessed that she would run into someone. Any other day, one could count with all confidence on the lane being deserted. She hugged her secret to her breast until the edges of the parcel caused her bodily pain.
‘How is M
rs Grey?’ she asked nervously.
‘Very well, thank you. She is away at present, visiting friends.’
‘How nice. Oh!’
From some little distance a gunshot had sounded, causing Miss Faraday, whose nerves were jingling, to jump and drop her parcel. It fell heavily in a puddle, causing quite a fountain of muddy water to spring up around it. Ralph bent and picked it up, his eye casually drawn to the brilliant publisher’s label.
‘You won’t improve your books that way,’ he observed, handing over the muddy parcel.
Miss Faraday clutched it feverishly. Ralph saw with surprise that her face was crimson and wore an undeniably hunted look.
‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked.
Miss Faraday shook her head.
‘They won’t be damaged, you know, through that stout paper,’ said Ralph reassuringly. ‘I was only joking.’
Amy found her voice. ‘Yes, of course. I must just tie them up again,’ she added, on a sudden inspiration. ‘I can’t post them like this, can I?’
She was gone, popping inside her gate like a rabbit bolting into its burrow. Ralph limped on, somewhat intrigued. The mud-splashed label had borne, as he had noted in that one quick glance, the name and address of Miss Faraday herself, typed upon it. And Miss Faraday, when they met, had been heading in the opposite direction from the village.
It was half an hour before the unfortunate Amy ventured out again. This time, on the well-known principle of locking the stable door when the steed was stolen, she had removed the tell-tale label, and forced the parcel into a large bag. She moved with a pessimistic certainty that fate was against her, and was not in the least surprised to find the Reverend George Richards fumbling for the latch of her gate. Let them all come, she thought, and murmured a mournful greeting.
‘Ah, Miss Faraday! I come at an inopportune moment. You are on your way out?’
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