The Devil at Saxon Wall

by Gladys Mitchell

‘Firstly, sevenpence towards the outing for they boys,’ she said. The vicar took out the cash book and entered the amount. Again, to Jones’ surprise, he made no attempt to thank the donor.

  ‘Second,’ said Mrs Passion, her voice barely under control, ‘the lies that wicked old devil have told against me notwithstanding! But there! Well is it said we wrestle not again flesh and blood, but again all the rulers of the darkness of spiritual wickedness.’

  ‘Come to the point, Mrs Passion. Are you complaining about your mother?’

  ‘No mother of mine, no and all, she isn’t. If you ask me she have a mouse in——’

  ‘Enough! Say what you have to say.’

  ‘Her’s bewitched I. That’s what I have to say.’ Her greenish eyes, the colour of stagnant water, gleamed suddenly and evilly at Jones.

  ‘Rubbish, and you know it is! Be sensible!’

  ‘But it isn’t rubbish, sir. She have bewitched me! Passion too, poor man.’

  ‘What has she done, then?’

  ‘We can’t stir out of our house without we hear the crying of little lambs. Piteous it is. But there isn’t lambs about now, as you know, sir.’

  ‘You’re making this story up. And why do you milk your mother’s cow and steal her eggs from her?’

  The woman looked at him sideways and giggled.

  ‘Mother surely do beat everything for wicked lies,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t have no fowls. Her steals my eggs and I takes them back again. That surely ain’t stealing, is it?’

  ‘Be off with you!’ said the vicar, suddenly losing his temper. ‘Go on, and be quick about it!’

  ‘Yes, and all,’ said Mrs Passion mechanically. She seemed to have forgotten her grievance, and, after a moment, suddenly giggled again. ‘That Lily Soudall does be on her way to you, about the long thin man it is.’

  ‘And who is the long thin man, Mrs Passion?’ asked Jones. She did not answer, but directed her next remark to the vicar again.

  ‘Why do they call it Godrun Down, sir? Do there be any explanation of that, do you know?’

  ‘Guthrum Down, woman, Guthrum Down.’

  ‘Ah, you says so,’ said Mrs Passion, unconvinced, ‘but there’s more things in this village stranger nor they Salvationists speaking with the sounds of brass, or with a tinkling cymbal either, for that matter.’

  When she had gone Jones ventured to remark that it was extraordinary how often one found that biblical quotations had become part of the everyday speech of the country people in remote villages. The vicar snorted.

  ‘If only they’d quote correctly it might not be so bad,’ he said. ‘But when you know, as I do, what a blasphemous lot they are, and what pools of filth their minds, and how bestial their intelligence, it is terrible to listen to them mouthing words to which they attach any significance but what was meant according to the context. I won’t attempt to take sides in a quarrel between Mrs Fluke and Mrs Passion. They’re as bad as one another. They vilify each other to me, on an average, once in every six weeks. All the accusations are based on some sort of actual reality and then are built up of lies upon lies until it’s profitless and maddening to attempt to dig up the truth. The one time that they did join forces the village was flooded with anonymous letters. Nobody ever discovered who wrote them, but I’m prepared to swear that it was those two beauties in collaboration. Mrs Fluke supplied the bulk of the filth, and Mrs Passion wrote it down. Here, let’s have a whiskey, and wash away the taste of them. By the way, I wonder what the long thin man has been doing to Lily Soudall?’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Maid at the doctor’s. I should have thought her too sensible a girl to be affected by local legend, but one never knows.’

  ‘Isn’t she a village girl?’

  ‘Oh, no. The doctor won’t have a village girl. Says they’re sluts and hussies, although I don’t know what he knows about it. He came just after I did. He’s not exactly popular, but he’s feared. It’s rather extraordinary.’

  ‘And are they sluts and hussies?’ Jones inquired.

  ‘Oh, yes. I suppose they are. Lily comes from Surrey. I’m sorry she’s turning out to be silly and superstitious.’

  ‘What’s the story of the long thin man?’

  ‘He’s our elemental spirit. Are you interested in psychic research?’

  ‘Not actively. I’ve had the usual crop of people tell me the usual crop of “authentic” ghost stories, of course, and certainly have not believed them. But I confess to an unreasoning disinclination to sleep in reputedly haunted rooms and the like, so I suppose I am an unconscious subscriber to the doctrine that “there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio——”’

  Both laughed, and the vicar was putting back the siphon on to the tray when the Japanese entered again.

  ‘Miss Soudall. Business not stated. Has wept.’

  Lily Soudall was a pretty girl neatly dressed. She certainly had been weeping, and was not entirely mistress of herself. It appeared to cause her considerable confusion to be confronted by Jones as well as by the vicar.

  ‘Oh, Mr Hallam,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t I speak with you alone, please, sir?’

  Jones started for the door.

  ‘Next room,’ said the vicar, calling after him: ‘Read a book or something. Shan’t be long.’

  It was not more than five minutes before the vicar recalled him.

  ‘This concerns you, Jones. These back-biting women! What on earth am I to do with them? Tell him, Lily.’

  ‘I couldn’t bring myself, sir.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll tell him. It’s that wretched Mrs Passion, Jones. Swears that you’ve been sleeping with this girl.’

  ‘Glad of the chance,’ said Jones, with a bow and a smile. Lily hiccupped and giggled.

  ‘That’s better,’ said the vicar. ‘Dry your eyes, sit down, and let’s consider what is best to be done. Is Mrs Passion annoyed with you, Jones, do you know?’

  ‘I haven’t any reason to suppose so.’

  ‘No, I thought as much. Then it’s Lily she’s determined to annoy. Now, Lily, what have you done to make her angry?’

  ‘Nothing at all, I’m sure I haven’t, sir.’

  ‘Now, Lily, think again.’

  ‘Nothing, I’m sure, sir, unless——’

  ‘Aha! We’re coming to it. I thought we should.’

  ‘But I don’t think anybody could possibly think I meant any harm, sir. I’m sure they couldn’t. Besides, it was a rare long time ago.’

  ‘Out with it. I expect we’re on the track.’

  ‘Well, if you remember, sir, last harvest festival the little gentleman from Middleton’s, sir, came into Sunday School and sat among my boys.’

  ‘Lily is quite our most dependable Sunday School teacher, Jones.’

  ‘Well, sir, I happened to say to Mrs Passion on the Monday, me having had a good chance to study the features of the little gentleman, sir, how very like her in the face he was, thinking it a bit of a compliment, in a way, sir, and certainly meaning no harm, seeing he never hardly comes anywhere near the village, sir, and is so rich in his own right and simply no connection whatever with the likes of us.’

  ‘Mrs Passion is a funny woman, Lily. It’s apparent that the remark offended her. Look here, I don’t think I should take this any further. It will die down all the sooner if we show ourselves superior to it, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She paused.

  ‘Go on,’ said Jones. ‘Young man turned sticky on you because of what has been said about you and me?’

  ‘How did you know, sir?’

  ‘They always do. Take my advice and kick him in the gizzard. That’ll learn him.’

  ‘I don’t like to quarrel with him, sir.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Jasper Corbett, at the—at the——’

  ‘At the Long Thin Man. He’s the inn-keeper’s son, Jones, as a matter of fact,’ said the vicar, ‘and as nice and steady a young fellow as you could wish for. Good prospects, to
o.’

  ‘I’ve met him. I’ll have a word with him,’ said Jones. ‘I expect I can settle his hash and make him see reason.’

  The girl looked as though she would like to protest, but with the instinct of her class to feel that the ways of men are higher than the ways of women and therefore suitably beyond their comprehension, she took her leave.

  ‘Queer how she funked the name of the pub,’ said Jones.

  ‘Not queer at all,’ said the vicar, who seemed to perceive a jest that was withheld from Jones. ‘Ever looked at yourself in a full-length mirror, my friend?’

  Chapter Four

  ‘The snowflakes settled swiftly on his hair, his beard, his shoulders. But soon the traces of the sledge-runners vanished, and he, covered with snow, began to resemble a white boulder, his eyes all the time continuing to search for something through the clouds of snow’

  ANTON TCHEKHOFF

  On the Way, translated from the Russian by R. E. C. Long.

  WHEN JONES GOT back to his cottage, supper was on the table, and Mrs Passion had taken off her apron as a sign that she was ready to go home. Her hat she always wore except when she brought in Jones’ tea.

  Jones tackled her.

  ‘Look here, Mrs Passion, what’s all this about that girl Lily Thingummy and myself? Do you want to give the girl a bad name or something? Understand, you’ve got to take it back! I won’t have it.’

  Mrs Passion’s heavy face did not change.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir. Asking pardon, but nothing I said again Lily Soudall could have anything to do with you, sir.’

  ‘But, dammit, you’ve been telling people she slept with me!’

  ‘That, sir, I certainly have not.’

  ‘But she says you did. A girl of that age wouldn’t invent such a tale. Come, now!’

  ‘What I did say, and what I admit to, Mr Jones, is that she slept along of the long thin man, which was by way of being my little joke about her being engaged to young Jasper Corbett, whose father keeps it, and that’s all sir, and the truth, sir, may I be called Delilah, sir, if not.’

  The words of themselves were not passionate, but Mrs Passion herself appeared to be deeply moved. Jones, surprisingly for a man who prided himself upon keeping all his sentiment for his books, was righteously angry, and continued sternly:

  ‘Well, the girl is very much upset, and I’m annoyed. You’d better see that things are made all right, and that all ridiculous rumours are contradicted. Do you see?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ She took the cover from a dish of eggs and bacon, pushed a tureen containing cabbage towards him, and, with dignity, made for the door. Jones grinned.

  ‘Good night, Mrs Passion.’

  ‘Good night, sir.’ But she did not turn her head although she shut the door without undue force.

  Jones looked at the clock. It was half-past nine. There was plenty of time to finish his supper and still get to the Long Thin Man before it closed. So far as he could make out, Saxon Wall had never heard of the licensing hours.

  The Long Thin Man did not boast a bar-parlour. Jones walked in at the double gates which gave on to the yard, stooped to pat the dog, and entered the taproom. The man he sought was in charge, a fine big boy of twenty-two or so, with a face burnt the colour of red brick and intensely blue eyes.

  ‘Busy, Corbett?’

  ‘No, Mr Jones, not if you want me.’

  ‘Well, I won’t get you away under false pretences. I want to curse you.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Jones. Just wait while I call dad to mind the custom. He’s nearly finished his supper.’

  ‘It’s this,’ said Jones, when they were away from the house. He came to the point, with an incisiveness which surprised himself, still glowing with a righteous indignation he had not experienced for nearly twenty years. ‘What are you upsetting Lily What’s-her-name for?’

  ‘Lily Soudall, sir?’

  ‘Lily Soudall.’

  Young Corbett cut at the rank nettles with the switch he was carrying.

  ‘I made a mistake, sir, and no doubt said things I hadn’t ought to.’

  ‘And are too pig-headed to take them back, I suppose?’

  ‘It don’t do girls any good to own yourself in the wrong, sir. I thought best to let it blow over, like.’

  ‘And what about me? No thought of my good name in the village, I suppose?’

  Young Corbett grinned.

  ‘Gentlemen like their fun, sir, and never take no harm from it, as I suppose.’

  ‘And where do you get that idea?’

  ‘Miss Phoebe lent me a book by a bloke of your name, Hannibal Jones, where a chap called Kaspar Dillmotway behaved wrong with a young girl, sir. So far as I could see, the man done what he liked, and if he was to be punished it would only be after he died.’

  ‘My sins be upon my own head!’ said Jones. ‘Let that go, then. But look here, Corbett, you don’t believe that tale about Lily?’

  ‘Not now, sir, I don’t.’ He looked abashed.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I thought it over and I see I was hasty and—well, I reckon I had a bit of a guilty conscience, Mr Jones, over going with Vilert Teezy one night, and that made me speak sharp to Lily when I hadn’t ought to.’

  ‘Well, it’s none of my business what you’ve been up to with any other girl, but if you’ll take my advice, you’ll be a sensible chap and stick to Lily. And you go and eat humble pie. It won’t do you any harm, and you deserve it.’

  ‘That’s right enough, sir. I’ll go and say I’m sorry. I am sorry too. Rare and sorry. But that isn’t right to let Mrs Passion off free. She’s a real wicked woman, that one.’

  ‘How do you mean, lad?’

  Young Corbett’s face was serious.

  ‘What do you think about them little babies, Mr Jones?’

  ‘What little babies?’

  ‘Didn’t Miss Harper and Miss Phoebe tell you? They told dad they’d told you. Miss Harper said you was a London gentleman, and could put two and two together, so she reckoned, quicker than most. And Miss Phoebe said it was all of a crying shame—that was her own words—and that if there was anything to be done you’d do it.’

  ‘But in what connection? I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Them little babies. Middleton baby, Pike baby, and Passion baby, sir. Miss Harper and Miss Phoebe said they told you all they dared.’

  Jones shrugged.

  ‘I heard a tale of sorts about some babies from Miss Harper and her sister, but it didn’t mean much to me. As a matter of fact, and as man to man, I put it down to old maids’ love of scandal.’

  ‘My mother’s fine and angry about Mrs Passion and the lies she telled about Lily Soudall and you, sir,’ said young Corbett earnestly. ‘And she believe there’s something in the tale. Would you come back home with me, and talk to my mother a bit? Mother was wondering if someone didn’t ought to have the law of her for doing of it.’

  ‘Who? Mrs Passion?’

  ‘Ay.’ He cut again at the nettles. They had come to a break in the hedge and ditch, where a stile invited the pedestrian to walk over Guthrum Down. Jones put his foot on the wooden step of the stile, laughed and suddenly clapped Corbett on the shoulder.

  ‘And do you want your mother to talk to me?’ Corbett’s brick-red countenance flushed deeply, and his blue eyes blazed.

  ‘I’d like fine to see that damned old woman in trouble, so I would.’

  ‘You go and make it up with Lily, then, and I’ll go and talk to your mother. But, mind, I make it no business of mine to punish Mrs Passion, although she told that silly tale about me. You understand?’

  ‘But if my dad and mother telled you all they knew about her, you’d advise them whether to take the law of her, sir, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Probably. But it’s more than possible I should not know whether they had a case. I might be able to advise them whether or not it was worth while laying their facts before a solicitor. I doubt whether I could take
the responsibility of going further than that.’

  Young Corbett nodded. ‘Very good, sir. Well, I’ll get off to the doctor’s. It’s Lily’s evening out, but I doubt she hasn’t gone home to her mother. She’s fair and upset, Lily is, and she don’t want her mother to know what the folks are saying. She’s a hard old woman, is Mrs Soudall, sir. She’s a Methodist, and they can’t abide anything that’s got to do with morals. They’re strict, the Methodists are.’

  Jones laughed.

  ‘You’ll have a good time making-up the quarrel, anyway,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later, then.’

  For some time after Corbett had left him, he remained at the stile, and gazed across a barley field to Guthrum Down. The rounded hill, close-cropped by sheep, still green in spite of the drought, humped itself like a giant creature asleep, its dorsal curve clear-cut against the sky. A chalk-white path climbed round and up and over it, and away towards the west lay the neolithic chieftain in his grave, possibly the uneasy spirit that brooded upon the village, possibly the original of the long thin man himself.

  There was menace in the brooding hill and menace in the unnatural heat and dryness of the air. Jones sighed, and longed for rain. The thought of it made him thirsty. With no intention of taking sides in the suit of Corbett versus Passion, he walked slowly down the lane towards the inn.

  Mrs Corbett saw him coming. She stood beneath an arch of Paul’s Scarlet climber which had been trained over the side entrance to the house, and greeted him as he was about to walk into the tap-room by way of the double gates.

  There was nothing for it but to give in gracefully, and listen to what she had to say. She took him into the dark, bow-windowed living-room and shut the door. Then, having leaned far out at the open window and turned her head from right to left and back again, she shut the casement, smiled conspiratorially at Jones, set before him cherry pie and port, and, having congratulated him upon his changed appearance since the beginning of his stay at Saxon Wall, made graceful allusion to Miss Harper and Miss Phoebe.

  ‘I go to their At Home, Mr Jones. We’re very close friends. It’s so nice for Jay. They lend him books, you know, and invite me and Corbett to their little swarries. Very genteel and nice, they are. Of course, we don’t see much society in Saxon Wall, there being no lady at the vicarage, so we have to do what we can between ourselves. There’s Miss Harper and Miss Phoebe, me and Corbett—when I can get him to come, although you’d think a hotel proprietor would be more sociable—little Miss Banks the school teacher, a very refined young lady, you’d be surprised, and I’m sure the behaviour’s been better, of course poor Mrs Woods was getting very old—over seventy, they said—the pensions forgot her, living so far from the railway, and in her way a bit peculiar, nothing much, but she would keep telling us Hamelin town’s in Brunswick by famous Hanover City, and something about a river washing the walls, quite interesting the first time you heard it, and I wish we could get a little rain, of course, we do more with the bottled this weather, though that’s not everything, is it, as I tell Corbett, and I hope I’m a Christian woman, I said.’