‘New book?’ She raised her brows. With some interest he observed that they were surprisingly dark considering the colour of her hair. He mentioned this fact to his wife on a subsequent occasion, when her reply caused him to bewail the lack of charity shown by the best of women at times.
‘I refer to How Does Your Garden Grow?’
‘Oh, that. I thought there would have been more to it. It doesn’t come up to—’
‘The thing is,’ Ralph broke in, ‘Mr Richards feels that the author must have known this locality.’
‘Really? In that case, who?’
‘Young Brian Marlowe,’ said Ralph, ‘has literary ambitions. Or hasn’t he?’
There was a short pause. Laura’s colour did not deepen, nor did her expression change, but the visitor had the impression that she was suddenly on her guard. Had she been a cat, he thought, the fur would be rising along her back. And he rebuked himself inwardly, thinking that but for the ever-present voice of gossip, such an idea would never have crossed his mind.
‘Well — has he?’ she asked negligently.
‘One would think so.’ Ralph stopped, plucked a daisy which blossomed at his feet, and began stripping the petals from it. ‘Judging from his spate of high-flown speech at the literary meetings.’
‘Talkers are not necessarily writers,’ Mr Richards pointed out. ‘The only author I have known well — a most prolific and successful novelist — was taciturn to the point of dumbness in company. I do not think I ever heard him utter more than four consecutive words at any social gathering.’ (And that finishes the topic of Master Marlowe, I hope.) He added, aloud, ‘But what guesses have you at the identity of our mysterious writer, Mrs Grey?’
‘I’m a stranger here myself. I’ve no idea. Unless it would be you, Vicar.’
Mr Richards laughed. ‘I fear I must deny the soft impeachment.’
‘Of course, there’s always the fellow in Corpse Path Cottage,’ said Ralph, a momentary smile lighting his dark face. ‘He’s a bit of a dark horse, I understand.’
‘He’s also a writer,’ said Mr Richards.
‘No! Really? How do you know?’ demanded Laura, showing animation for the first time.
‘I called there one morning and found him at his typewriter in the throes of composition. Apparently the muse was far from kind, for sheets of discarded paper littered the floor, but I imagine all writers strike such patches.’
‘Well then, if he is an author, why look further? I suppose he came to that ghastly hole to write and has been studying types ever since.’
‘Not good enough, my dear,’ said Ralph, throwing his stripped daisy aside. ‘He’s only been here a matter of months.’
‘No,’ agreed Mr Richards, ‘it won’t do.’
‘He might have come here in secret — who knows? And anyway, how long does it take to get a novel printed?’
‘Years, I believe. You’d better ask this Endicott.’
‘I might, at that,’ said Laura slowly.
Ralph frowned. ‘If you don’t want your head bitten off you’d do well to leave the fellow alone.’
‘Don’t be so intense, Ralph.’ She looked at him coldly. ‘I don’t believe in getting my head bitten off by the mysterious Mr Endicott or anyone else. Goodbye, Vicar, nice to have seen you.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Ralph sharply.
‘I told you,’ she said, speaking with patience, as if addressing a slow-witted child. ‘I’m going to the post office. To get some stamps. Goodbye, my sweet, for now.’
Ralph grunted. Without looking at her disappearing figure, he took out his pipe and began to fill it. With deep discomfort the vicar saw that his hand was shaking.
* * *
‘Who went by then?’ asked Mr Fairfax, guileless interest lighting his rosy face.
His housekeeper, who was dusting the desk in front of the window, straightened her back. She said, without expression, ‘Mrs Ralph Grey.’
‘Oh, ah. Was it now,’ said Mr Fairfax, with deep interest. ‘And going towards the crossroads, too. I wonder where she mid be bound.’
‘There’s no bus,’ said the housekeeper distantly, ‘not for another three quarters of an hour.’
Mr Fairfax looked at her grey and indeterminate features with warm approval. Whether the doubts cast on their relationship by evil minded villagers were founded on fact or no, there could be no doubt of his satisfaction in this twin soul of his. Never had so bountiful a flood of gossip come his way. What he himself regretfully missed, Mrs Shergold was certain to make good. If he had been called to the back of his dwelling at the moment when one or other of the members of the village passed by, he might rest happy in the knowledge that the nose of this pearl amongst women would not be far removed from the front windows. Like Jack Sprat and his wife, they lived in amity, and between them licked their platter more remarkably clean.
‘A tidy piece, Mrs Ralph Grey,’ observed Mr Fairfax, his cherubic features creased by a bland smile. ‘No doubt of that.’
Mrs Shergold dusted vigorously. After a moment she observed repressively, ‘I daresay.’
‘No better than she should be, for all her pretty looks,’ said Mr Fairfax, gently rubbing his hands together.
‘Her path,’ said Mrs Shergold, ‘leads down to destruction.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ agreed Mr Fairfax happily. ‘I think,’ he added, ‘I’ll step out myself. My baccy’s running low.’
‘Dinner’s at twelve,’ said Mrs Shergold.
‘I’ll be there,’ said her employer amiably, and ambled from the room.
CHAPTER XI
‘WELL, WELL,’ SAID MARK mildly. Spreading the flimsy sheet on the table, he stared down, as if by the frowning intensity of his gaze he might wrest its secret from it. The straggling block letters, once again, were green, the paper pink and common. The matching envelope was addressed in a round unformed hand, completely without character, this time in blue-black ink. The postmark was a Sandbourne one.
Mark put the letter back in its envelope and began to fill his pipe. Outside the cottage the morning was scented and beautiful, the hawthorn buds on his untidy hedge white balls on the verge of breaking. A lark tossed itself ever higher, casting back a glittering trail of song. Basking in the sunshine, James awaited the coming of his Lord.
‘Oh, what a beautiful morning,’ carolled Mark, not as melodiously as the skylark. The sentiment was sardonic, since for him the thing lying on his table had effectually blotted out the beauty of the day. Something was here which, for the life of him, he was unable to understand. The first anonymous letter he had tossed with contempt into the fire — a fine and level-headed gesture, but one which he now rather regretted. Taking the new epistle, he folded it, and carefully placed it in the wallet in his breast pocket. This affair, he felt, would pay for investigation. The local police, undoubtedly, should be approached, but this he did not intend to do. There were reasons . . . He stalked out of the house, greeted by James, and wandered moodily across the field.
The first letter had surprised and disgusted him, but he had been able to put it at the back of his mind. This one, coupled with its predecessor, was quite another matter. He grinned without mirth as he thought of his motive for coming to God’s Blessing. Peace, solitude, and forgetfulness — too much, it seemed, to ask. But who could have done this, and why? No ordinary anonymous filth was here. The letters were written with a meaning, their venom coldly considered, a means to an end. But what had he said or done during his sojourn in the village to put anyone on this strange trail? God’s Blessing, remote, peaceful, dreaming away its blameless life — yet in God’s Blessing a hand which had penned the words which tormented his mind. The voice of Brian Marlowe on the occasion of their first meeting recalled themselves to him — ‘The peace of a stagnant pool with ugly things moving beneath the surface.’ Perhaps Master Marlowe had not been so far out, after all.
‘And, apart from the foulness of it all,’ said Mark, kicking moodily
at a tussock, ‘it’s playing merry hell with my writing.’
There, indeed, lay the crowning offence. He had risen from his chaste couch, pleasantly certain that a good day’s work lay ahead. A tricky situation in his novel needed tackling, and he felt modestly certain of his ability to do so. But how the devil could a man settle to his work when a half-sheet of notepaper had sent endless questions jigging through his brain? It was no use; the first fine careless rapture was lost, and he felt darkly that it might never be recaptured.
He was passing the White House without thought for its occupant when a window was thrown up and a voice called his name. Without pleasure he saw Miss Faraday leaning out and nervously brandishing a duster. He paused enquiringly.
‘Oh — could you spare a moment?’ called Amy, appalled by the looseness of her behaviour, but conscious of a duty to be done. ‘It’s rather urgent or I wouldn’t bother you.’
‘Very well,’ said Mark, by now resigned to all that fate might bring. ‘Will you come out, or shall I come in?’
‘I’m all alone—’
‘I’ll be good,’ said Mark, with a diabolical grin.
Amy flushed. ‘I was going to say, please come in,’ she remarked coldly.
‘Right,’ said Mark, and opened the gate.
The window slammed, and the lady disappeared. And what now, he wondered. Surely this fluttering spinster could not be about to confess to the authorship of the anonymous letters; the mere thought of his neighbour cutting such capers was enough to restore his good humour. As well as suspect the mild Mr Richards of robbery with violence. Yet after all, should it be so completely out of the question? When all was said and done, Miss Faraday was a horse of surprising darkness.
The door opened, and the dark horse stood before him. She still clutched her duster, and was dressed in a gaily patterned overall, which suited her much better than her usual drab attire. Her soft hair was loosened and she was still flushed, either from annoyance or nervousness. He decided that she was younger than he had thought.
She took him into a neat sitting room, where James flopped on the rug, looking rather disgusted at this curtailment of his walk. Miss Faraday seated herself on the extreme edge of a chair; Mark leaned back comfortably, observing her.
‘I suppose it’s the book,’ he remarked.
‘How did you know?’ asked Amy, surprised.
‘I didn’t imagine your strange desire for anonymity would last. The first sight of a printed page would kill it. I suppose you want those presentation copies to send round to your admiring friends.’
‘Very clever,’ said Amy bitterly.
‘We strive to please.’
‘Only you happen to be wrong. I want no such thing.’
Mark raised his eyebrows. ‘You must be unique as an author.’
‘I wish,’ said Amy passionately, ‘that the presentation copies and every other copy of the wretched thing were at the bottom of the sea.’
‘Oh, come,’ said Mark, regarding her with irritated curiosity. ‘Don’t you care for such mundane things as royalties? What the devil did you write it for, if that’s the way you feel?’
Amy muttered something and stared at her feet.
‘And besides,’ said Mark magnanimously, ‘the book might be worse.’
‘Worse? It’s vile,’ said Amy, two spots of colour appearing high on her cheekbones. ‘It started as a joke.’
‘A joke!’ echoed Mark, honestly taken aback. He had read through How Does Your Garden Grow?, moved both by surprise at its situations and by an unwilling admiration for the efficiency of the whole thing. He had not liked it; he had been at one with Dinah in considering the gloomy grandeur of the climax ridiculous, but the idea of anything in the nature of a joke permeating those sombre pages had never occurred to him. He looked at Amy with a new interest and respect.
Amy met his gaze without shrinking. She was far beyond caring what Mark, so strangely placed yet again in the role of her sole confidant, might think. In a spate of words, she unburdened her soul.
‘It would never have happened if I hadn’t attended a course of lectures on psychology. I used to come home and tell Mother about them — she was always interested in everything I did,’ said Amy, her voice softening. ‘She couldn’t go out herself, and whatever I did I made a story of it for her, and she would laugh. We used to laugh a lot, just she and I. Mother was very good at seeing the funny side of things. When school was awful and everything went wrong, I knew that by the evening we should be laughing together over it.’
Mark took out his pipe and filled it thoughtfully. His hostess had fallen silent, a tender reminiscent smile lighting her face. She might have been a young girl recalling the sayings of a lover. Once again she had taken him by surprise.
He said, ‘So she found the psychology lectures amusing? Fortunate woman.’
‘It wasn’t so much the lectures. They were the usual stuff — you know. The thing was, we got hold of a whole lot of books mentioned by the lecturer, and some of them were really — well, I should never have believed it. Such stuff!’ said the student of psychology scornfully. ‘You would never think that anyone led a decent, normal life.’
‘And do they?’ murmured Mark.
‘Of course they do. Only I suppose these people have such tortuous minds that they simply can’t understand simplicity when they meet it.’
‘You may be right. Only I don’t quite see how that attitude leads up to your book.’
‘No,’ agreed Amy dispiritedly. ‘You wouldn’t, of course.’
She fell silent, twisting her hands in her lap. Funny little devil, thought Mark.
He said encouragingly, ‘Come on. Spill the beans.’
‘Well . . . it sounds quite mad, but we began to make a sort of case history of people we knew, purely as a joke, of course, saying what their inhibitions and complexes and frustrations might lead them to do. I got quite good at it,’ said Amy sadly. ‘The more outrageous my ideas were the more Mother would laugh. Even when the pain had been bad, she would say, as soon as she could speak, “For goodness’ sake, Amy, make a book of it. I believe they would take it. Not like those others.”’
‘Others?’
‘Six. In my case. Upstairs,’ said Amy, with mournful pride.’
‘You mean six other novels?’
‘Of course I do. I said so. They all came back. Oh yes, they came back!’ An expression of bitter offence crossed the face of the slighted authoress. ‘I write good clean romances that many a simple person would read with pleasure, and back they come. I’ve sent them to every publisher in England, I believe. You should see my letters of rejection.’
‘You must show me some time,’ said Mark.
‘And then write this monstrous rubbish, this utter tripe, which makes me perfectly ill every time I think of it, and do they send that back? Oh, no! They take it. They take it right away.’
‘For Pete’s sake, why did you send it in if you feel like that about it?’
‘I wanted the money,’ said Amy simply.
‘He does but do it for his bread,’ murmured Mark.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. Merely a plagiarism.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ said Amy peevishly.
‘Never mind. I’m frequently in that condition myself. But touching your troubles, I can’t see what you’re making all this fuss about. The book is published, and no-one will be giving it a thought a month or so from now. It’s not half as bad as you imagine, and you got your money, which is what you wanted.’
A queer little smile crossed her face. She shook her head.
‘Well, damn it, you said so yourself!’
‘I wanted the money for Mother. If they had published it quickly I could have put up with everything. It would have been worth it all. There were little things that meant so much to her. And they accepted it, and then it went on for months and months, until it was too late.’
She looked across at him, smiling a
gain. ‘I suppose it was a judgement on me,’ she said.
Mark recalled the sobbing creature who had come to his arms that first day and began to understand.
‘My dear girl,’ he said impatiently, ‘don’t talk such utter nonsense. One would think you had committed the unforgivable sin instead of bringing off a damn capable piece of work. Pull yourself together, and don’t get things out of proportion. You want a thicker skin than that if you intend to write. And with regard to the delay, did you never think of asking for an advance?’
Amy’s face flamed suddenly. For a moment she looked the girl that he had called her. She said in a small distressed voice, ‘I didn’t know one could.’
‘She didn’t know one could,’ murmured Mark, gazing up at the ceiling. ‘Well, well.’
‘But would they have given it to me?’
‘You could have tried. But it’s too late now.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Amy. ‘It’s too late now.’
He looked at her with some apprehension, but she was gazing down at her hands again, showing no sign of emotion or distress. He felt sympathy mingled with exasperation. What a foolish unpredictable creature it was — and how in the name of goodness came he, Mark Endicott, to be caught up in her affairs? Looking back, it seemed that the stars in their courses had fought to bring the two of them together, from the moment of his arrival in God’s Blessing. And even before that, had not her shrinking form shared his seat on the bus? Not so bad, to come here for solitude and instantly to find oneself saddled by an unhappy spinster — and not for the usual reason since, he would be prepared to swear, she did not look on him as a man at all. A sharer of her guilty secret — a kind of sexless father confessor. A peculiar position, to say the least.
He said, a sudden thought striking him, ‘I never thanked you for being so good when I passed out on you that day.’
Amy came slowly back to her surroundings.
‘It was nothing,’ she said wearily.
‘How the dickens did you get me upstairs?’
‘You walked. I helped you.’
Corpse Path Cottage Page 11
