Corpse Path Cottage

by Margaret Scutt

  ‘This author,’ continued Mr Browne, leaning forward and sending hypnotic glances around the room, ‘has taken a group of people, as it might be you and I, to delicately, mercilessly, and with an uncanny perception, dissect them, discover their most secret inmost being, and lay it bare before our eyes. This, you may say, has been done before. I reply that it may have been attempted; we have here an achievement. These figures live, breathe, and have their being. They suffer, hate, lust, sin, move through a darkling forest of frustrated emotion, all beneath the cloak of conventional everyday life. Take the rector’s wife—’

  Mrs Richards started.

  ‘—who, to outward seeming a placid matron, as far removed from suspicion as Caesar’s wife, is destroyed by her passion for the half-witted jobbing gardener — a longing which dates from a frustrated urge of her early childhood. The village schoolmaster—’

  A slow smile creased Mr Heron’s large face.

  ‘—to all appearances the most respectable and placid member of society, yet tormented by a dark secret which, for all his sedulous striving, comes at last to light. The village postmistress who, forced unwillingly to attend church in her youth now practices devil worship, and draws into her net many villagers—’

  ‘I never did!’ gasped Miss Margetson, giving utterance to an exclamation, and not a denial.

  ‘And so it goes on — one after another, each the victim of his own frustrated ego, working out their appointed destinies to the grand tragedy of the climax. How Does Your Garden Grow? is not a pretty book — heaven forbid that it should be so. It will not, in all probability, be a popular book. We have, may God forgive a generation which craves for trash, no bestseller here. Nevertheless, read it. I repeat, and I repeat with enthusiasm, read it. If it does not make a deep and lasting impression on you, I shall be amazed.’ He glanced at his watch and raised his brows. ‘Mea culpa! I have used the greater part of my time on this one modern novel, yet why should I apologize? It is not every day that a swan is found amongst the ducklings, a jewel on the dust-heap. Read it for yourselves, and in the printed page you will, I trust, find my justification.’

  He sat down, wiping his brow, the noble echo of his own words mingling pleasantly in his ears with the sound of applause. A hum of conversation, unusually animated, broke out.

  ‘What’s this private life of yours, Mr Heron?’ asked his neighbour.

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Heron, and slowly closed one eye.

  Colonel Stroud rose and made himself heard with some difficulty.

  ‘Ah, well now, ladies and gentlemen, I know I put your own feelings into words when I express our thanks to Mr Browne for his most able and telling exposition. I, for one, intend to put How Does Your Garden Grow? on my library list at once. What did you say was the author’s name, Mr Browne?’

  ‘Tom Pinch. And it is published by John J. Twitterton at nine shillings and six pence.’

  ‘Thank you. And now, in accordance with our usual custom, we may put questions to the speaker. Prepare for a bombardment, Mr Browne.’

  He sat down. There was a deathly silence.

  ‘Don’t all speak at once,’ said Colonel Stroud, laughing heartily.

  Mrs Richards rose. A faint murmur of anticipation ran through the room. Miss Faraday closed her eyes.

  ‘Ha! Mrs Richards,’ said the Chairman nervously.

  ‘I have listened,’ said Mrs Richards sternly, ‘with deep interest to our speaker. Touching this — this work mentioned by him which I understand has just been published, I must admit one question leaps to my mind. May I put it to you, sir?’

  ‘Do, do,’ said Mr Browne, closing his eyes.

  ‘It is this. Does the author of such a book stand in no danger from the application of the laws of libel?’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Mr Heron cordially.

  ‘Touched schoolmaster on a tender spot, seemingly,’ said a sepulchral voice from the back of the hall.

  The remark went well. Most of the audience, including Mr Heron himself, were convulsed with mirth. Mrs Richards was not amused. She waited, unsmiling, until the last guffaw had died. Mr Browne leaned forward.

  ‘Yais. Indeed, yais,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Er — may I ask, madam, if you have read the book in question?’

  ‘I have not,’ said Mrs Richards frigidly. ‘In fact, I had not known of its existence until today, and I cannot say that I feel any great desire to read it now. That, however, is surely beside the point. I should be grateful for an answer to my question.’

  ‘Well, now,’ said Mr Browne, gazing upwards as if in search of inspiration, ‘there is a law of libel, yais indeed, and a very powerful and far-reaching one. But if you will forgive me for saying so, I see no reason in the world for your assumption that this writer has infringed it in any way.’

  ‘One up to you, old boy,’ said Endicott, under his breath.

  His neighbour, lost in a trance of misery, neither moved nor spoke.

  ‘I was going merely on your own description,’ retorted Mrs Richards, her colour deepening. ‘You spoke of a group of ordinary decent people put under a distorting mirror and shown to be foul and loathsome.’

  ‘Butchered to make an author’s holiday,’ murmured Endicott.

  ‘Shut up!’ snapped Amy.

  Mr Browne was pained. He looked at Mrs Richards reproachfully.

  ‘Oh, really, I must protest. Surely I said nothing of the kind!’

  ‘In that case I misheard you. As I understood your description I can only say that I — and not I alone — deplore this type of book. It has not even the merit of giving pleasure. As far as I can see it does no atom of good; it can easily do untold harm. I only trust the author may realize what he has done. Thank you.’

  Mrs Richards sat down, quivering. Mr Browne smiled with sad superiority but spoke no word. After a moment Colonel Stroud rose.

  ‘No further questions? Then I will call upon the Reverend George Richards to propose a vote of thanks to our speaker,’ he said.

  CHAPTER X

  DURING THE NEXT FORTNIGHT a certain James Joy, the proprietor of a small bookshop in Lake, was surprised and gratified to find that he had sold no less than fifteen copies of a book by an unknown author entitled How Does Your Garden Grow? Fourteen were purchased by a like number of the members of God’s Blessing Literary Society, the remaining copy being snapped up by a holiday maker who had remembered the birthday of a horticulturally minded and well-to-do aunt, and who was misled by the flaming blossoms which decorated the dust cover. No critics, however, shared the fine careless rapture of Mr Wilberforce Browne; for any notice shown by them, the novel might not have existed. God’s Blessing, on the other hand, or the section of it which read anything other than the Football Echo in youth or the Farmer’s Weekly in maturity, was much intrigued.

  ‘Have you read it yet?’ asked Miss Margetson of a friend across the post office counter.

  ‘Not yet. Both copies are out of the library, and I can’t run to nine and six. I might get a book token for my birthday.’

  ‘It’s well worth reading, believe me,’ said Miss Margetson impressively. ‘Powerful. If you know what I mean. Makes you think.’

  ‘What? That you’ll study the practice of Whatsit like the postmistress in the book?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Well, I think a spot of black magic might cheer God’s Blessing up. God knows it could do with it.’

  They giggled together, somewhat taken by the picture of a witch’s Sabbath attended by members of the village. Miss Margetson sobered first.

  ‘You know, Milly, joking apart,’ she said, ‘there’s one thing I did notice. The vicar’s wife in the book—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The way she talks, finishing off other people’s sentences before they have a chance — it’s Mrs Richards to the life.’

  * * *

  Mrs Richards closed her book with finality and a loud snort. Her husband looked up from his crossword with mild interest.


  ‘Finished, my dear?’

  ‘I have,’ said Mrs Richards.

  ‘Well, what is the verdict?’

  ‘A horrible book — horrible. Oh, clever, no doubt, in its way, but perverse and altogether foul. As to the characters living and breathing as that ridiculous man said, well! Such creatures never were on land or sea. And as to the vicar’s wife—’

  ‘I was rather curious with regard to that lady myself,’ murmured Mr Richards.

  ‘You will be disappointed. A mere caricature, and not even an amusing one. I have become used to a clergyman’s wife being the butt of writers, but this is beyond everything. I have met no clergyman’s wife — nor the wife of any man, for that matter — who resembles her in the least degree. In the whole dreary concoction,’ said Mrs Richards, giving the words the effect of a blighting curse, ‘I found one solitary thing which struck me as being lifelike. You remember Mr Browne mentioned the village schoolmaster?’

  ‘Yes, I remember that,’ said Mr Richards, smiling. ‘Heron was rather funny about it, I thought.’

  ‘It’s really rather strange. You know that habit he has of hissing a kind of rhythm in the intervals of a conversation? The last time I spoke to him he hissed ‘Old Hundredth’, until I could have screamed.’

  ‘Why yes, so he does. A queer habit. Nice fellow, too. But what about it?’

  ‘Well — the schoolmaster in the book does it too. He does it all the time.’

  * * *

  ‘I’ve read that tomfool book,’ said Mr Heron to Brian Marlowe. ‘Got it from the library.’

  ‘Which book?’ asked Brian, without showing much interest. The two were on their way to a Cricket Club meeting, having met at the corner of the green.

  ‘The one that pansy bleated about at the last Lit Society — don’t you remember? Sss-sss-sss-sss-sss-sss-sss-sss-sss.’ Mr Heron absently gave his own rendering of the first line of ‘Tipperary’.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Brian, momentarily shedding his superiority and grinning. ‘The one with the wicked schoolmaster. It sounded pretty average tripe, I thought. Did you find a portrait of yourself?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. A miserable little pipsqueak of a feller — off his head, if you ask me. Wouldn’t have kept his job for a fortnight. But there’s one funny thing — you know that damsel at the post office?’

  ‘The new one? Miss Margetson?’

  ‘That’s it. She and her Trollope! Well, she’s got a horrible habit—’

  ‘Devil worship?’

  Mr Heron hissed derisively. ‘That I wouldn’t know. The thing is, if she’s sitting next to you, with every remark she makes she gives you a jab in the ribs with her damned pointed elbow. Like this.’

  ‘She does, does she?’ said Brian, wincing.

  Mr Heron hissed a few bars to the effect that Greensleeves was all his joy, and who but his lady Greensleeves.

  ‘She does indeed,’ he said. ‘And what is more, the postmistress in the book does it too.’

  * * *

  ‘You know,’ said Dinah, ‘you really must read this.’

  Miss Faraday looked upon the flaming cover of How Does Your Garden Grow? and smiled a sickly smile. She said feebly, ‘I read very little fiction.’

  ‘Do you?’ asked Dinah in surprise. ‘I thought you were so fond of Annabel Lee.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ said Amy fervently, with the sensations of one who, sinking in a morass, had reached a tussock which would for the moment uphold her weight. ‘I think her writing is delightful. There is a kind of gaiety about all her books — a freshness, don’t you think? I have often thought what a charming person she must be.’

  ‘Um,’ said Dinah.

  ‘Oh. Perhaps her novels don’t appeal to young people like you.’

  Dinah, who privately considered the works of Annabel Lee to be pure escapism for the emotionally frustrated, picked her words with care.

  ‘I do think they’re a trifle adolescent, don’t you? I suppose as romances they’re good, and the writing is quite pleasant.’

  Miss Faraday, feeling adolescent and slightly crushed, smiled uncertainly. Dinah continued her theme.

  ‘Of course they are amazingly popular and must have given a great deal of pleasure. But what I really meant was that a book being charming is not an indication that the writer must necessarily be the same. I expect Annabel Lee is completely hardboiled. Her novels are her bread and butter, and she’s found the way to spread the butter good and thick. I bet my bottom dollar you would have the shock of your life if you were to meet her.’

  ‘She hasn’t published anything since before the war, and I don’t suppose there is any likelihood of my setting eyes on her,’ said Amy. ‘So I may as well keep my illusions.’

  ‘Just as well. Now, what does intrigue me,’ said Dinah, picking up her book again, ‘is the personality of this Tom Pinch.’

  Amy slumped back into the mire.

  ‘T-Tom Pinch?’

  ‘The author of How Does Your Garden Grow? You imagine a tall man with black brows and a piercing gaze — a sort of ultra-perspective Mr Murdstone. Actually he’s probably a retiring inoffensive little creature who wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’

  Drawn by a fearful fascination, Amy picked up the book and fluttered the pages. The sentences which met her eye struck her as being worse than even she had imagined.

  Thinking that Dinah was looking at her with some curiosity, she stammered, ‘Is it good?’

  ‘I — don’t know. Really it’s rather a hotchpotch, with a queer kind of power running through it. The climax is too silly for words — all due respect to Mr Browne — but there’s no doubt that you do become absorbed by the characters. I should say the psychological studies were amazingly good. And the funny thing is that the three main characters — the vicar’s wife, the postmistress and the schoolmaster — might have been drawn from our own three here.’

  How Does Your Garden Grow? had burst upon the world three weeks before suspicion fastened on the innocent, and it was Mr Richards, gentlest and least censorious of men, who first put it into words. For all his dreamy ways, his perceptions were keen enough. He read the book, which struck him as poor stuff, and was intrigued to notice likenesses in the small mannerisms of many of his parishioners, besides those of the three main characters. It was probable that he noticed this before other readers, owing to his total lack of interest in the more lurid developments of the plot. Those pages referred to by Miss Margetson and her friends as ‘the spicy bits’ he flicked over with faint disgust. On the other hand, when he read that the village sexton could not utter a sentence without prefacing it by the phrase ‘I’m now agoing to tell you’, he was moved to lively interest. The vicar, he was somewhat disappointed to find, was a complete contrast to himself, being large, forceful, and a preacher of the hellfire school. In the vicar’s spouse, however, he saw clearly portrayed the idiosyncrasy of speech shown by his beloved wife. It was true that in her actions she moved wildly and unbelievably away from life, as did the unhappy schoolmaster and the sinister postmistress; yet, in the tiny habits so clearly set down, it seemed to Mr Richards that the long arm of coincidence had been stretched indeed.

  He mentioned as much to Ralph Grey, meeting that gentleman outside the Manor when on a begging errand connected with the forthcoming Garden Fête. Thirty years of ministering to a parish had not proved time enough to harden Mr Richards’s shell and asking for alms was still one of the least pleasant parts of his duties. Having on this occasion got it over, and with Ralph’s promise not enthusiastic but not withheld, the reverend gentleman was glad to find a change of subject.

  ‘You know,’ he said confidentially, ‘I am much intrigued.’

  Ralph grunted. He was looking even more worn than usual, and his complete lack of interest might have daunted another speaker. Mr Richards, however, gently burbling on, noticed nothing.

  ‘It is touching, this novel, How Does Your Garden Grow?. It was the theme of the speaker at the meeting which you and Mrs Grey
were so unfortunately forced to leave. Have you come across it?’

  ‘My wife had a copy, I believe. I’ve no time for reading novels myself.’

  ‘Er, no. Well, the strange thing is that from various straws which point how the wind is blowing, I am of the opinion that it is written not precisely about members of this village, since the capers they are made to cut would be out of place,’ said Mr Richards austerely, his mild features momentarily twisted by disgust, ‘in Bedlam itself, but that our gathering has been observed by a satirical eye, and any little eccentricities of speech or bearing used—’

  ‘Add verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative?’’

  ‘I would scarcely call it bald. Unconvincing, most certainly. But don’t you see what this implies?’

  ‘I can’t say that I do.’

  Mr Richards’s eyes flashed. He leaned forward slightly, reminding Ralph with surprising vividness of a white rabbit owned by him in youth.

  ‘It means,’ he said, ‘if I am right, that we have the author in our midst.’

  He drew back with a pleased smile, and awaited Ralph’s reaction. But Ralph was not looking at him. His eyes were on the house, and a figure which was emerging from it. Mr Richards, a trifle dashed, turned likewise, and saw Laura Grey coming towards them.

  The reverend gentleman was content in his marriage, the few small indiscretions of his youth all but forgotten, yet even he felt a stirring of the pulses as she approached. The sun set her pale hair glinting; only the faintest smile touched her lips. ’Tis beauty truly blent, thought Mr Richards, pleased that the words came so trippingly to his tongue, and greeted her with his usual slightly old-fashioned courtesy.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked her husband.

  ‘To the post office. I’m out of stamps.’

  ‘There are some in my desk,’ he said.

  ‘I think I’ll go, all the same. I’m tired of the house.’

  ‘You could come with me.’

  She looked down at her smart shoes. ‘Through hedges and ditches? I don’t think so, thank you very much.’

  Mr Richards, feeling faintly uncomfortable, stepped into the breach. ‘Ah — we were speaking of the new book.’