‘The devil’s loose in Neot House. I’ve been up there to find Tom Tebbutt.’
‘Tom Tebbutt? Why, haven’t ee heard the news?’
‘Of course not. Tell me.’
‘Why, Tom were picked up on top of Godrun Down. Took him to the doctor’s straight away, they had to. Poor chap was fair dazed and couldn’t say nothing of what he’d done to himself, Mr Jones.’
‘And he’s at the doctor’s now?’
‘Likely to be. They say he can’t be moved for some days yet. Doctor thinks to get him to Stowhall hospital and put the X-Rays on him to see what’s broke and all.’
Jones stayed only to finish his drink. Then he made for the doctor’s house to see Tom. The doctor himself opened the door.
‘Ah, here you are. I’m glad you’ve come. I’m called away. Will you sit by the boy? The police may want to know anything he says when he regains consciousness—if ever he does!’
‘He’s very bad, then?’ said Jones. The doctor did not answer. He led the way upstairs, and there in a white bed in the smallest room lay Tom with a bandaged head.
‘You can’t do anything. There’s nothing to do,’ said the doctor. Without waiting for any kind of response from Jones, he hurried away. A moment later Jones heard the engine of the car which was garaged at the back of the house.
Jones rang the bell for the maid. No one answered it. He rang again, but there was no response. He was alone in the house with the injured boy. He picked up a silver-backed hair brush from the dressing-table and stepped to the side of the bed. A slight dimming on the bright surface of the silver informed him, to his relief, that the boy was breathing. Jones left the bedroom door wide open and went into the front bedroom of the house. It gave indisputable evidence of accommodating two people. Jones scratched his jaw.
But he had not come there to investigate Mortmain’s private affairs—he recollected that Lily Soudall had left the doctor’s service rather suddenly—but to look out for some passer-by who could take a message to the vicarage.
The village street was deserted. Jones began the wearisome business of gazing up and down the street, returning to make certain that Tom Tebbutt needed no attention, and then tip-toeing back to the front of the house again. He was experiencing that helpless and anxious feeling common to sensitive persons who are left with the sole responsibility of dealing with a situation which they do not understand. Jones found himself hoping that the boy would remain unconscious until Mortmain returned.
Suddenly the street was filled with tumult. Jones left the injured boy’s bedside and leapt to the front bedroom window. A procession was passing. It appeared to be composed of the whole village. Men, women and children, all were there. The only notable absences were those of the two Passions and Mrs Gant from the post office. Even Mrs Pike, wild-eyed and wild-haired, was there. The people at the sides and rear of the procession appeared to be spectators rather than participators, but the bulk of the village was en fête, if such an expression can be used to describe an assembly in which seven-eighths of the parties were completely, and the remaining eighth, partly, intoxicated.
They were singing a hymn tune, but the words which floated up to Jones’ amazed and horrified ears were blasphemous and filthy beyond anything that he had ever heard. At once, and completely, he believed every one of the vicar’s oft-stressed jeremiads about the viciousness and vice of the community where he had come to stay. Saxon Wall, uninhibited, was a fearful and terrible thing.
The lustiest singer, and the chief master of gesture as well as of words and music, was the water diviner, Thomas Part. Twirling a hazel wand like the bâton of a drum major, he headed the procession, capering like a satyr and bellowing the scurrilous words of the ditty with a gusto which Jones had only once seen equalled, and that by a drunken undergraduate on Boat-race night.
Most of the men were armed with cudgels and some carried scrips full of sharp flints. Even the women had broomsticks, hayforks and pebbles, and, in the rear of the procession, came a grim-looking group drawing the wheelwright’s largest barrow, laden with coils of rope.
‘What in hell?’ thought Jones. He crept back and looked at Tom. There seemed nothing to be done for him. On the other hand, the people at the vicarage might be in grave danger from the drunken mob. There were not less than forty people in the procession, and Jones knew enough of the herd instinct in men to realise that as soon as the fun began the onlookers would readily become participants.
He wondered where the liquor had come from, but reflected that with people as angry as the villagers were, a little beer would go a long way towards making them utterly unmanageable and irresponsible.
He slipped out by the back door of the house, scaled the fence, broke through a hedge, leapt a bone-dry ditch, and began to run. He was soon level with the procession. He crouched down under cover of the hedge, which separated him from the road, and, once past the leaders, he began to sprint. Blown, sticky with perspiration, heaving and gasping, he projected himself at the front door of the vicarage and crashed on the knocker.
‘They’re here!’ he said, tumbling in on top of Nao. ‘Barricade everything! Is the well guarded?’
Less than five minutes afterwards they could hear the approaching procession, but instead of coming as far as the vicarage, it turned off into the churchyard. Before his intention was realised, Hallam had dashed out of the house and across the garden to the gate in the wall which gave on to the churchyard.
‘Come on! They’ll kill him!’ cried Jones. Followed by Nao, Lily Soudall and Mrs Bradley, he raced after the vicar.
But the mob were not prepared to enter the church. The building was dedicated to Saint Thomas the Apostle, and over the Perpendicular porch, standing in a small, rounded niche, was a statue of the saint. Willing backs made the ascent of the porch a safe and simple matter, willing hands dragged the statue down. It was caught in sheets brought by the women, and placed in the wagon.
Jones and Nao held the struggling Hallam.
‘It’s all right,’ said Mrs Bradley, soothing him. ‘The figure is only an early nineteenth century restoration, child, and, in any case, they’ll bring it back when they have done with it.’
Hallam ceased to struggle.
‘What unholiness are they up to, anyhow?’ he said.
‘See “The Golden Bough,” dear child.’
‘Not magic?’
‘Well—yes and no, child. Yes and no!’
‘How long will they be?’ asked Jones.
‘Where is the nearest water?’
‘At the top of Godrun Down,’ said Lily Soudall, ‘though it beant no more than a patch of mud by now.’
‘Well, the point is, I’ve left Tom Tebbutt all alone in the doctor’s house. He’s got concussion or something. He’s not recovered consciousness.’
‘Where is Mortmain?’ asked Hallam.
‘Goodness only knows!’ said Jones. ‘There’s something sinister about that man, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Doctor Mortmain is not in mischief. He is helping me hide the body,’ said Mrs Bradley. She hooted with mirth at the sight of their startled faces.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘I have been sometimes thinking, if a man had the art of second sight for seeing lies, as they have in Scotland for seeing spirits, how admirably he might entertain himself….’
SWIFT
The Art of Political Lying.
TOM TEBBUTT HAD regained consciousness. His first remark to Mrs Bradley, who had entered the doctor’s house by way of the kitchen window, and who was soon in the act of removing a bloodstained bandage from his head with celerity and, apparently, professional callousness, took the form of a question.
‘Was it that there Mrs Passion as poisoned I?’
‘Goodness knows,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘Dad wasn’t in the bed,’ continued Tom.
‘I thought he wouldn’t be,’ said Mrs Bradley. She examined the blood on the bandage, pursed her lips, grinned tigerish
ly and, rolling the bandage, tossed it into the fireplace and gave her attention to a superficial cut on Tom’s left eyebrow.
‘“What done that? Mice,”’ said the boy, eyeing her amusedly.
‘What did happen to you, Tom?’ asked Mrs Bradley.
‘Well, I busted in, and dad, he weren’t there, nor the bed any different to what it ever were, so far as I could see—embroidered bedspread and all—nothing took off nor folded away, and all the winders shut and the same stuffy smell—not the smell of people, just the smell of dust and front room furniture—you know how—and I tackles her and says: “Where be dad?”
‘Her takes her time about answering, and then her says: “Dad be passed away, and us didn’t like to let on to ee for fear ee’d start in roarin’!” Me roar for ’im!’
There was silence. Then Mrs Bradley said:
‘Could you get as far as the vicarage, Tom?’
‘Ay, if I beant sick on the way.’
‘Be off with you, then. Tell them I’m gone up Guthrum Down to learn a little folk-lore.’
Tom grinned.
‘Village be gone up-along to give that there idol a bath.’
‘St. Thomas’ statue, Tom.’
‘Ay. That’s right. Parson pray to she.’
‘It isn’t she, you ignorant booby.’
Tom grinned again. His face was pale, but he appeared entirely good-tempered. Mrs Bradley nodded slowly and rhythmically. She had guessed accurately the temperament of Tebbutt senior.
‘Anyhow, I’m off,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘as soon as you’ve told me what took you to the top of Guthrum Down.’
‘When?’
‘When the men found you and brought you to Doctor Mortmain.’
‘I weren’t up Godrun Down.’
‘Amusing,’ observed Mrs Bradley, appearing to lose all interest in the subject.
‘Mother brought me here-along, when I said I reckoned I were poisoned with they mushrooms Mrs Passion cooked for me.’
‘Did Passion eat any of them?’
‘Ah. He were sick as a dog.’
‘Dear, dear!’ said Mrs Bradley absently. ‘Passion’s being as sick as a dog is such an unlucky sign or portent in this village, isn’t it?’
‘He’s sick before a death, no doubt of that. Or so she says.’
‘She being——?’
‘Mother.’
‘And she brought you here?’
‘She did. And I done a faint along the road, and I never woke up till I see you in the room.’
‘Hm!’ said Mrs Bradley, sniffing delicately.
‘I reckon I were poisoned right enough.’
‘Undoubtedly, child.’
‘And for the purpose, like.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because I found out dad weren’t in the bedroom.’
‘Oh?’
‘I reckon they done in dad.’
‘What makes you imagine that?’
‘Or else he done himself in because he done in Mr Middleton.’
‘Describe Mr Middleton, Tom.’
‘Big, black-haired, red-faced fellow. Flashing eyes and white teeth when he laughed. Joke and a shilling for everyone, and not half a one for the ladies, he wasn’t, but only to rescue ’em like, out of clutches.’
‘Out of——?’
‘Clutches. You know—unwelcome attentions and that.’
‘I see,’ said Mrs Bradley. She bestowed on the smiling youth a smile of her own which wiped the pleased expression from his face and replaced it with a stare of fascinated apprehension. Hers was a pleased smile, too; the pleased smile of a tiger which licks its lips when it beholds its prey. Tom got out of bed and put his boots on. Then, with a look which mingled apprehension and defiance, he removed the blood-stained bandage from the fireplace and twisted it round his head.
‘Well, I’ll be off,’ he said, moving towards the door.
Mrs Bradley let him go. She went to the front of the house and watched him as he went along the road. Then she let herself out at the front door and walked back to the vicarage. Her thirst for folk-lore appeared to have been assuaged. Arrived at the vicarage she poked a bony yellow forefinger into the ribs of the unsuspecting Jones, and demanded, cackling with joy, which person in the village possessed a copy of his collected works.
Jones had the grace to blush—a feat of which his acquaintance believed him incapable.
‘I believe the Misses Harper have one of my earlier books, and loan it out occasionally,’ he said.
‘Tom Tebbutt’s borrowed it,’ said Mrs Bradley. She eyed him with the kindly smile of a boa-constrictor which has engulfed a donkey and is preparing for a week or two of slumber.
‘I hear the village returning,’ she added suddenly, holding up her finger. The village was making considerably less noise in its descent of Guthrum Down than it had made going up.
‘I hope they’ve brought St. Thomas back,’ said Jones. ‘What, exactly, did they want him for, Mrs Bradley? You gave us the reference, but I must have forgotten the text and I’m immensely curious about it.’
‘They are taking him up to the pond on Guthrum Down to cast him into the water, child, that’s all. It is a way of pointing out to him that the village wants rain to fall. I thought the custom was French, but they seem to have heard of it here.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Hallam, aghast.
It was very nearly dark. From the upper windows of the south side of the vicarage Guthrum Down loomed like a heavy cloud. Two stars appeared to the right of it, and a long wash of greenish sky behind it marked the end of the summer day. The villagers, unwilling to face the long thin man after sunset, were already in the village street. Their singing and shouting was carried a long distance on the still air of the evening, and there was something threatening and something pathetic in it. It was as though they were defying the gods, and knew that their defiance was useless because it was unregarded. It was as though they knew they were shouting at something which had no ears; which had never been able to hear.
They brought back St. Thomas’ statue to the churchyard. The rain-clouds which had given their false promise earlier in the day, had passed over the village hours since, on the shoulder of the southwest wind. The people entered the churchyard, looked at the sky, and left St. Thomas standing beside the west door.
‘Too fed up even to knock spots off him,’ said Jones, peering through the dusk to where the knot of black-clad people were standing around the handcart on which the statue had been transported at immense labour up the hill. ‘Tired, too. Most of ’em seem to have cleared off home.’
There were not more than fifteen people at the church door. Jones went out to them. Amid silence, he walked up to the statue and touched it. It was wet and slimy with mud.
‘Good Lord! Is that what the dewpond is like?’ he asked in friendly tones. A growl from the men, and, from some of the tired women, a sob, were the replies that he received. He turned and went in to Hallam and Mrs Bradley.
‘They’ll have to have water, Hallam. However godless they are, they’ve got to have water,’ he said.
‘I am going to them now,’ said Hallam. His face was very pale. He looked straight in front of him as he walked. He put Jones aside when the other offered to accompany him.
‘They are my people. I shall go alone,’ he said.
‘They’re in a funny mood,’ Jones warned him. Hallam smiled.
‘So am I, my friend.’
Mrs Bradley placed herself between him and the door. She waved a skinny claw.
‘Not yet, dear child, not yet,’ she said. She lowered her voice, and added, with a sense of ultimate conviction in her tone which caused Hallam to bow his head and Jones to stare in surprise:
‘“The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.”’
The villagers began to disperse. A stone struck one of the windows and shattered it. A few more rattled against th
e side door. But the demonstrators seemed utterly tired and dispirited, and after some lurid threats in respect of what would happen on the morrow, they departed.
‘Now for the body-snatchers,’ said Jones with relish. Mrs Bradley shook her head. Hallam, with a murmured excuse, had gone into his study.
‘They may not come tonight,’ she said. ‘By the way, I must have a message taken to Doctor Mortmain. I wonder who could go?’
‘There’s Lily,’ said Jones. ‘Or what about Nao?’
‘Nao? Splendid,’ said Mrs Bradley briskly. She summoned him.
‘Doctor Mortmain? Can go,’ said the Japanese with suspicious readiness.
‘Wants an excuse to get into the village,’ said Jones, when he had gone. ‘I say, what about Hallam? Does it strike you that—oh, you wouldn’t realise the difference, though. You didn’t know him before the time of the murder. But it’s dashed odd, all the same.’
‘Where is Lily?’ demanded Mrs Bradley, whose thoughts seemed to have strayed.
‘In the kitchen, I suppose,’ Jones answered. ‘Do you want her?’
‘I think she has gone home to her mother,’ said Mrs Bradley, not answering the question.
‘Why on earth? Oh, scared of the villagers and their little demonstration, I suppose? Poor girl! I should think she finds the village a change after Surrey.’
‘She’s found Jasper Corbett, child. She’ll be married soon. By the way, has it struck you that for such an unusually awful village, Saxon Wall has a high percentage of most respectable inhabitants?’
‘From which you deduce——?’ said Jones courteously. Mrs Bradley cackled, and her reply, when at last it came, took the form of a doggerel verse by Gilbert, which she sang, to a tune she fondly imagined to be Sullivan’s, in a voice which was unarguably contralto:
‘Nothing venture, nothing win:
Blood is thick, but water’s thin:
In for a penny, in for a pound,
It’s love that makes the world go round.’
Then she led him by the arm to the kitchen.
‘Look,’ she said. Jones looked. All that he could see was a large dresser with a space underneath it which had the appearance of a place where shoes were habitually kept. He wondered why he thought this, and then recollected that he had visited the kitchen once to talk to Nao about his employer, and he supposed that his visual memory retained what his reasoning mind did not—the spectacle of shoes under the dresser.
The Devil at Saxon Wall Page 23
