'Cursed, George,' said Mrs Bradley, as he arranged the rug over her knees. 'That elderly woman has the local reputation, didn't you tell me, of a witch?'
'That was pub talk, madam.'
'She also claims to be a relation of mine.'
'I wouldn't be greatly surprised at that, madam. I have often been aware of the eldritch in you.'
Mrs Bradley gazed at her man as stout Cortez gazed at the Pacific. George had often surprised her, but never more so than at this particular moment.
'George,' she said solemnly, 'you have hit it. And now, since there is not only the eldritch in me but a particularly nauseous witch's brew of strong sweet tea laced with gin, get me back to the house at once, and have the car ready again at ten o'clock to-night.'
*
'Well, go on, knock,' said Merrys. Skene tapped delicately on the cottage door with his bare and, by this time, cold knuckles. There was no reply.
'It isn't any good,' he said. 'I expect they've gone to bed.'
'There's a light downstairs, you ass.'
'I expect they left it on by mistake,' said Skene, who disliked the whole aspect of the situation in which they found themselves.
'Oh, rot. Here, let me try,' said Merrys, covering his knuckles with his school cap and then pounding vigorously on the door.
'I say, you know, they'll be pretty sick if they have gone to bed,' said Skene, nervously.
'Be your age,' retorted his friend; and pounded again. This time the sound of footsteps rewarded the bold effort. The door was opened by an old woman carrying a candle.
'Come in,' she said. 'The candle is to light you, not me. I require no illumination ever contrived by man. Step past me into the house, and sit down. When you have sat you may cross my palm with silver, if you will.'
Suddenly, over her shoulder, there appeared the face of another old woman; a yellow face with brilliant black eyes and a little beaky mouth now writhing back its lips in silent laughter.
Merrys turned, cannoned into his friend, gulped, and, cramming his cap on to his head, raced back to the hedge beside which they had left the bicycle. Just as they gained it a man loomed up in front of its headlamp and took the path through the open gateway between the ragged bushes.
'Good Lord!' said Merrys. 'Did you see who that was?'
'Of course I did,' said Skene, with the nervous anger of extreme dismay.
'He didn't recognize us, did he? Do you suppose he can pick us out in the morning?'
'Don't know. Hope not. We didn't have our caps on.'
'I did! I pulled it out to knock on that beastly door, and shoved it on when we bolted.'
'I say, you are an ass!'
'Well, who would expect to run into a beak out here at this time of night? Come on. It's no good beefing about it now. I don't honestly think he saw us.'
This opinion, delivered roundly, slightly comforted Skene. They ran with the bicycle down the dark road until they were out of breath.
'Ease up!' gasped Merrys, at last. 'He isn't following us. Where the heck do we go from here?'
They dropped to a walk and then were about to stop and mount when Merrys said, his hand to the breast-pocket of his jacket inside his waterproof coat:
'I've lost my fountain pen!'
'You've probably left it in your locker,' said Skene. 'Come on.'
'No, I haven't, you ass! I had it clipped into my pocket. I always carry it there.'
'Well, it'll have to stay lost,' observed Skene unsympathetically. 'I'm not going back to that beastly cottage to look for a fountain pen, and perhaps run into Spivvy again. Besides, we'd never find it in the dark.'
'But it was a jolly good pen. I had it for Christmas. I'm almost certain I must have dropped it in that garden. I had it out just before that, because it's got a torch at the end.'
'Well, hang it, we can't go back there again!'
'But if the Spiv finds it, we're sunk. It had my name on it, on a band round the barrel, and even an ass like Kay –'
'Oh, Lord!' said Skene, disgusted by this revelation. 'You really are an ass! Oh, well, come on, then. I suppose we'd better go back.'
But when they reached the cottage there were further terrors in store. The light in the little room seemed brighter, and in front of it they could see in silhouette a fiercely gesticulating figure, whose waving arms were casting a gigantic shadow on the blind. Suddenly an arm went through the window. There was the sound of the breaking glass, and then a voice, rough with fury.
'If I have to hang for him, I'll finish him, the swine! Here! Who the devil's that outside? I could swear I heard – oh, blast! I've cut my arm!'
The boys turned tail again.
'Did it sound like the Spiv's voice?' asked Skene, when they were well away from the house. 'Do you think that's who it was?'
'I suppose it must have been. I say, come on! Let's pedal as fast as we can along this road. It must lead somewhere, mustn't it?'
'Shouldn't think Kay would be the sort to talk about finishing people,' observed Skene, when the fever of fear and excitement had cooled with the difficulties of making progress uphill on the sandy and interminable road. 'Still, you can't tell, I suppose. After all, he's really a Dago. They do have funny tempers and all that.'
'Oh, those weak-kneed sort of asses always threaten what they're going to do, but they never dream of doing it. Always saying they'll report you to the Head, but they never do. I say, I wish we'd found that cursed fountain pen!'
The culprits, with the luck of the undeserving, came into the village at last, and, anxious now to get back to the House and to return Mr Loveday's bicycle, they were soon at the School gate.
'Better walk the bike past Spivvy's cottage, just in case,' muttered Skene.
'In case of what, you ass?'
'Well, in case anybody should hear us.'
'Be your age. There's nobody there to hear us. They don't keep a proper servant, and his missus is still on holiday. Issy told me. And we know where Spivvy is, anyway.'
'He might have got back himself by now.'
'Pigs might fly, but he didn't,' said the bold Merrys, still pedalling on. He stopped the bicycle as soon as they drew near the School buildings, however, and the two boys crept like cats towards Mr Loveday's kitchen garden.
They restored the borrowed property to its shed, and were rounding the side of the House preparatory to climbing into the dormitory when they saw a surprising sight. From the direction of Mr Loveday's Roman Bath, which lay at the far end of Big Field, could be seen two lights which might have been rather powerful will o' the wisps, or, mundanely, a couple of lanterns or electric torches.
'I say, what do you think that is?' asked Skene.
'I don't know. Somebody playing the fool. A.W.O.L. like us, I shouldn't wonder.'
'Would they use lights? Anyway, the water would be beastly cold. They only stoke it up two days a week, ready for first Thursdays, you know.'
'I don't know, then. Think we ought to go over and have a look?'
'No, I jolly well don't! It can't be burglars, because there's nothing to steal. Perhaps it's Nancy the Nark having her weekly tub!'
Merrys giggled at this well-worn and libellous jest, and the two boys, having skinned their knees but come to no other harm in climbing up to their dormitory, soon rejoined Eaves and Meyrick, the other occupants of the room.
'What was it like?' whispered Eaves.
'All right. Dry up,' responded Merrys.
'I say!' whispered Skene, raising his head from the pillow. 'Aren't we in luck? Hear that?'
What he had heard was the swishing down of the rain.
'Missed it by less than five minutes! Golly!' said Merrys. 'Been dashed awkward if we'd had to account for soaked clothes. I never thought of it raining! Did you, Skene?'
Skene said nothing. He took off his shoes, socks, and jacket, left them on the floor, and went to bed in his trousers. Merrys found pyjamas and struggled into them in the dark. 'Tell you in the morning,' he whispered as he
crept between the sheets. 'We think there might be a murder.'
'At the Dogs?' was the excited, anticipatory response.
'No, of course not. Dry up. You'll wake somebody. Good night. The Dogs are a washout. You have to pay half a crown just to go in.'
'But what about the murder?'
'Nothing, you fool! I was only pulling your silly fat leg. And, look here! Don't you two go shooting your heads off in the morning!'
'What do you think we are!' said the injured pair.
'Often wondered,' responded Merrys. 'Pax, you damned idiot! You'll bring old Albert-Edward! Oh, damn you! That was my knee-cap! Shut up, you fool!'
'Tell us about the murder, then!'
'There isn't any murder. It was only that we heard the Spiv having a frightful row with someone.'
'His missus, I expect. They do row. Elkins told me so. His people know her a bit.'
'Elkins is a cad.'
'Yes, he is, rather. What did the Spiv say?'
'Oh, nothing much. It wasn't his cottage, anyway. He jammed his fist through a window. . . . Don't chortle, you ass! You'll bring somebody up! Shut up! And it wasn't his missus, either. She's still away. But the whole thing was rather rummy, and if you'll swear not to tell a soul, we'll tell you about it in the morning.'
*
'I was born under Taurus,' said Mrs Bradley complacently, 'or so I am led to believe.'
'I should like to cast your horoscope,' said Mrs Harries politely. 'But you wanted to see my book. There is just time to show you a little of it before my client appears.'
Mrs Bradley had scarcely hoped for such luck. She glanced at her watch. It showed twenty-five minutes to eleven. She had been in the cottage less than a quarter of an hour. She had sent George and the car packing, with orders to return for her after breakfast, for she anticipated a long and interesting session with the sibyl from whom she hoped to purchase Mary Toadflax's treasury.
'I am indeed curious to see the book,' she agreed. 'Did you read it?'
'No,' said Mrs Harries, who had given up the rough speech of the countryside and reverted to her natural enunciation. 'I might be tempted, so I left it alone. I would be glad to be rid of it. I think perhaps I will give it to you as a symbol of sisterhood. What was your maiden name?'
Before this interesting secret could be disclosed there came a very muffled tap at the door.
'Drat!' said Mother Harries. 'There he is already! Too early. Let him cool his heels for a bit.'
'The man I saw before?' Mrs Bradley enquired.
'The same. He pesters me. He is a foreign man. He came on a night wind. I think that he, too, has wind of Mary Toadflax's book.'
The knock was repeated, very much more loudly.
'Are you sure it is he?' asked Mrs Bradley, whose ears were keen. 'It sounded to me as though there were voices, very young voices, outside.'
'No one but he would come,' pronounced Mrs Harries with an air and in a tone of omniscience. The knock came again, louder still. Mrs Harries picked up the candle, upon whose supporting saucer she laid her aged hand with sure instinct, and shuffled her way to the door. Mrs Bradley had conceived the impression that she could see, although possibly only dimly. She followed her and stood at her shoulder.
The candle lighted the young, strained, pallid faces of a couple of fourteen-year-old boys, who, upon perceiving the countenances of their receptionists, turned in terror and fled. The expected visitor arrived some two minutes later, and must have met the boys at the gate. He knocked softly.
'If you wouldn't mind going into the kitchen,' suggested Mrs Harries, 'I think you might hear something of interest.'
Mrs Bradley obediently retired, and the new arrival was admitted by the witch.
'Parcae,' she pronounced solemnly.
'Three-fold Hecate,' replied the dark man.
'And three Dianas,' said the witch.
The session having thus been declared open, there followed a heavy ritual in which various demons were invoked and the One Morer referred to, and then the visitor broke out in an impassioned, hysterical diatribe against some unknown enemy upon whom he threatened vengeance.
Mrs Bradley came out of the kitchen just as he put his fist through the glass of Mrs Harries' front room.
'Either get rid of him or put him to bed,' said she. 'He is your client, I know, but, if he goes on like this, very soon he will be my patient.'
The man under discussion decided matters for himself.
'Two of you? Two of you?' he said suddenly and loudly. 'I don't believe in your witchcraft! I don't believe in your witchcraft!' He rushed out of the cottage, banging the door behind him.
'What did you tell him?' Mrs Bradley enquired.
'Of nails and the wax,' said the witch. 'He will try both, never fear.'
Mrs Bradley, who had long held the view that the victims of witches and warlocks, fortune tellers, necromancers, and the like, deserved what they got, merely resumed the subject of Mary Toadflax and her book.
The book which was produced at four in the morning proved to be without value. It was an expurgated French nineteenth-century copy of the life of Simon Magus.
'I'm sorry,' said Mrs Bradley after she had glanced perfunctorily through its pages, 'but I am not interested in this book.'
It was the most definite statement that she had made for fourteen years. Mrs Harries smiled.
'You know what it is?' she demanded.
'Oh, yes,' Mrs Bradley answered. 'And it is neither what I expected nor what I want.'
'As I thought,' said the sibyl contentedly. 'And now I will tell you something interesting. That young man will see bad trouble in the future.'
'If you encourage him to commit murder he will certainly see trouble in the future,' said Mrs Bradley. 'He is in a sad state of mind.'
'You think he needs your services, not mine,' said Mrs Harries, 'but you are wrong. It does him good to come here and shout away his hate.'
Mrs Bradley agreed with this view, but only cautiously, and returned to the subject of the book.
'Is that the only one you possess?' she demanded.
'You may rummage for yourself,' said Mrs Harries. 'I know that if you discover anything worth while you will tell me. I trust you as I would trust myself. I shall go to bed now. Take the candle and try your luck.'
'Thank you. I have my torch,' said Mrs Bradley.
'Then my house is at your disposal. Search until daylight, but do not touch the elm that grows under the stairs.'
Mrs Bradley bade her hostess good night. She went to the cupboard under the stairs, but the only thing she found there was a birch broom. She did not touch it. She assumed that the handle was made of elm, sometimes called wychwood. There was no trace of the book she sought in the cottage. She satisfied herself of this, and wondered what Mrs Harries had done with the black-letter spells and charms of Mary Toadflax. She did not, however, wake Mrs Harries and ask her. Instead, she sat in the chimney corner of the cottage and spent the rest of the night wide awake, alert to all sounds and uncomfortably aware of a sense of danger.
George came, according to orders, in the morning, and she slept in the car whilst George drove her back to the rooms she had taken in Spey village. Her hosts were the local doctor and his wife. They knew of her errand, and were glad to see her at breakfast. She retired to her room when she had made a frugal meal, and was interested to find a large toad, with eyes which reminded her somewhat of those of Lecky Harries, squatting amiably on the middle of the counterpane.
She suspected the doctor's young son of a practical joke, and, removing the toad to the front garden, she decided to challenge the child at midday.
The little boy denied all knowledge of the toad, however, and asked to see it, but although he and Mrs Bradley searched the garden, no trace of it was to be found.
Mrs Bradley returned to Mrs Harries and gave her five pounds, all in silver. The blind woman – if blind she was – seemed pleased with the present. She returned a florin 'for luck,' a
nd wished Mrs Bradley well.
'Come again in the dark of the moon,' she said. 'Who knows? The luck may have changed.'
3. 'Mr Perrin and Mr Traill'
*
A Lawyer is an honest Employment, so is mine. Like me too he acts in a double Capacity, both against Rogues and for 'em.
IBID. (Act 1, Scene 1)
SPEY SCHOOL was well endowed; so well endowed, in fact, that Education Acts passed it by and government grants were as pointedly ignored by its trustees as though they had never existed.
It was not an expensive school, as schools go, and had not increased its fees since 1909, when it had become so much sought after that the governing body had decided upon a slightly discouraging scale of fees although they did not need the extra money.
Scholarships to Spey were not numerous, but there were more than a dozen bursaries offered every year to clever boys of the school who wanted to go to Oxford or Cambridge in what a sadly undemocratic deed of gift referred to as a 'gentlemanly manner'.
The School was very well staffed and the masters were very well paid. Once appointed, they were expected to work for their living, and it was understood (and an article of their signed agreement) that the Headmaster would present a written report on each of them to the governors on every twenty-fifth day of November.
There were so many masters that cliques and parties formed as naturally among them as among a large band of courtiers.
The younger masters at Spey were divided into two main sections. There were, of course, cross-sections, permutations and combinations, pairs, special interests and occasional changes of allegiance, but, speaking generally and in abroad way, there were two main sections, one under the leadership of Mr Conway, and the other under the leadership of Mr Semple.
Mr Semple was an Old Boy. He was modest, firm, and popular, and had destined himself to take a wife and, later, a House. He was a good fellow, a bit of a prig, and more than a bit of an athlete. He had been a double Blue, for he was a footballer and a runner.
He disliked Mr Conway very much, but rarely upset himself about this because Mr Conway was, in point of fact, afraid of him, and so left him alone. He was not subjected to such witticisms and rudeness as made some of the older masters and one or two of the young ones feel like murder, but he was a decent fellow in his rather prim way, and it gave him a feeling of discomfort when Mr Conway's malicious shafts were directed towards others.
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