Petticate prowled on. He came to the dovecot. What if the Hennwifes, finding themselves about to be unmasked in their criminal courses, simultaneously hanged themselves here? The structure, after all, was admirably adapted to the purpose. It simply cried out – Petticate reflected as he looked up at the narrowing roof – for the spectacle of those two evil people with their toes dangling in air. And they would, of course, leave behind them some sort of confession of wrong-doing – one, naturally, that had nothing to do with Colonel and Mrs Ffolliot Petticate.
But again, clearly, it wouldn’t do. Or rather, it just couldn’t be managed. Hennwife was tough. To overpower him and his foul associate severally, and then to string them up here, would be virtually impossible in itself. And moreover some act of forgery would be required which in these circumstances, could scarcely fail to be questioned and detected.
Once more, Petticate walked on.
Dusk had fallen when he got back to the house. His limbs were aching from unaccustomed exercise, and his mouth and throat felt parched with dust. He was convinced, however, that he had found the solution of his problem.
There was still a big job ahead – particularly since he must not on any account use a saw. Of course nothing in the nature of foul play was going to be suspected. But it was not unlikely that the Hennwifes were involved in some small way with life assurance, and if an insurance company, sent down some sort of investigating expert there must be absolutely nothing in the debris that might set him thinking. Parts of the massive roof of the barn had already fallen in. But most of it was intact although approaching a condition that was dangerous; and it was still entirely supported by the original structure of tie-beam, king-post, and struts. He had often studied it with some care, so that he had a very good idea of the points at which he must go unobtrusively to work.
Within a week, he reckoned, and without staying in the place long enough at a time to attract suspicion, he could turn the barn into a death trap. As a boy he had evolved, out of cardboard boxes, sticks and a roll of string, a contraption which would come down neatly enough, at a single twitch of the hand, upon an unsuspecting blackbird or sparrow. It was something of just this sort – but this time at the pull of a stout rope – that was going to come down upon the unsuspecting Hennwifes. That he could effectively construct his trap he now had no doubt. It remained to think out some means of baiting it. Meantime he must put as much dignity and fortitude as he could into the business of sharing another and less physically threatening roof with his prospective victims.
The Hennwifes were not the less intolerable because they did, for some inscrutable reason, continue to perform their normal menial functions with a reasonable approach to efficiency. Whether this proceeded from some sense of irony entirely inappropriate to persons in their station of life, or whether it had its occasion in some motive of policy, Petticate was unable to determine. But the fact remained that his meals appeared, his rooms were dusted, and his clothes were valeted. In Mrs Hennwife’s manner there was almost nothing out of the way to be remarked. Hennwife himself, on the other hand, alternated between his normal stage-manservant’s turn and savage and outrageous flights of insolence. Probably – Petticate thought – the idea was further to soften him up and utterly break him down; to keep him guessing in the sort of fashion that had proved so inimical to the nervous stability of the celebrated Professor Pavlov’s dogs. There was nothing to do but resist as best he could this peculiar variety of torture until his trap was ready to spring.
And it would have been ready the sooner but for an unexpected distraction. With an altogether unexpected celerity, the proofs of What Youth Desires turned up from Wedge.
Petticate had much looked forward to this event. And, at a first glance, the proofs pleased him very much. There was evidence that unusual care was being given to the production and appearance of the book. And it was, after all, his book. Although the circumstances in which he was commencing authorship were admittedly peculiar, there seemed no reason why he should not obtain from them that sort of satisfaction which commonly proceeds from going into print in a big way. Moreover it was to be a recurrent pleasure. Definitely, although perhaps with rather less intensity, this sense of satisfaction was to renew itself year by year as the roll of Sonia Wayward increased.
It was with astonishment and dismay, therefore, that Petticate now found all these expectations betrayed. He hadn’t read the first chapter of What Youth Desires before he was undeniably disliking the thing. Halfway through, he was loathing it.
What was the occasion of this extraordinary volte-face? He asked himself the question in dismay. And the answer seemed to lie in a consideration of his own wonderfully complex, and therefore absorbingly interesting, personality. Like some other outstanding men, he carried about with him a divided mind.
He had obtained great satisfaction from writing the book, but the process had appealed entirely to the intermittent vein of the sardonic in his composition. Now a different impulse – which a hostile criticism might term the purely self-regarding – was predominant in him. He was appalled that a person of his sensibility, cultivation, and intelligence could have produced such tripe as this: poor old Sonia’s nonsense raised to a new and higher power.
He remembered indeed that poor old Sonia herself, when she did occasionally read the proofs of one of her novels, used to surprise him by sometimes inadvertently betraying signs of a similar distaste. Not that she didn’t predominantly believe her stuff to be enormously good. Not that she had the slightest settled awareness of the chasm that yawned between it and the sort of writing which has any place within the sphere of criticism. Yet, with the print before her, she did sometimes display tokens, poor dear, of a divine discontent. It was probably something that all writers were subject to in varying degree. But its impact on Petticate himself was both unexpected and violent. And he knew, too, that he would never now get away from it. The future was going to be much more laborious than he had supposed. Apart from rare moments when the original sardonic pleasure might reassert itself, he was never again going to write a new Sonia Wayward except as a disagreeable and humiliating chore.
All this naturally didn’t contribute to Petticate’s nervous ease as he continued to work discreetly on his death-trap. But he was a resolute man, as determined that the Hennwifes would die as that Sonia Wayward – at least in a metaphorical sense – should live. He read the proofs with care, made a few corrections and alterations, and returned them to Wedge without any comment on Sonia’s supposed present whereabouts.
And then he turned to the really tough problem of the moment.
Part Three
The New Sonia Wayward
1
All that was needed was a cat!
Petticate could hardly believe his good fortune when he realized that it was as simple as that. But there could be no doubt about it. Ambrose, the Hennwife’s revolting Pekinese, he could make a grab at at any time – a satisfactory consequence, this, of the fact that the Hennwifes now chose to regard Ambrose and himself as having about equal rights in the house at large. If Ambrose chose to settle down for the day in the study, Petticate knew that he mustn’t disturb him. Or it might be fairer to say that Petticate pretended to know this. For of course he was now playing his own game with the Hennwifes. Overtly he was giving every sign that he was rapidly breaking up before them. Secretly he was making his final preparations to crush them in the most literal and deeply satisfying sense.
It was cardinal to his design that, oddly enough, Hennwife himself was as attached to Ambrose as was his accursed spouse. Were the creature in distress or even mild discomfort, either of them equally would hasten to its aid. In anything suggesting crisis, they would undoubtedly hasten together.
So all that he needed was a cat. He couldn’t suddenly buy one, since he was resolved to do absolutely nothing that could attach to himself the shadow of a suspicion in the affair. And borrowing was similarly excluded. So he must simply grab a cat. Or rather – w
hat was a little more difficult – he must put himself in the way of being able to grab a cat when the appropriate moment for the grand operation arrived.
Petticate began to study the habits of the local cats. Not many of them came near the place – presumably because of the strong dislike which Ambrose was accustomed to take to them if they did. But there was one exception to this in a large ginger or marmalade-coloured creature which did quite regularly prowl up and down an unfrequented lane immediately behind the barn. Discreet observation resulted in the discovery that it was the property of Mrs Gotlop – from which it had to be inferred that neither Boswell nor Johnson shared Ambrose’s extreme distaste of the feline species. And an equally discreet inquiry made of Mrs Gotlop’s cook whom Petticate had fortunately been accustomed to say a few suitable words to when they met in the Post-Office, elicited the further fact that the name of the marmalade cat was Mrs Williams. This proved not particularly useful. When addressed as Mrs Williams – and, even in the solitude of the lane, Petticate found some difficulty in saluting a cat in this way – Mrs Williams paid no attention at all. When addressed less precisely under the general style of pretty pussy or the like, Mrs Williams commonly waved her tail – which Petticate understood to be a sign of displeasure – and disdainfully moved away. He saw that the animal must be fed.
It seemed probable that Mrs Williams shared with Ambrose a liking for good quality fish. By insincerely professing a new-born fondness for the dog, Petticate was thus able plausibly to frequent the fishmonger’s and so provide himself with bait for the cat. After a number of vain attempts, in which the fish was sometimes totally scorned and sometimes eaten only after Petticate had abandoned it and left the place, he did at last begin in some measure to make Mrs Williams’ acquaintance.
Eventually Mrs Williams came to realize that it was worth while to keep a rendezvous with the gift-bearing Petticate every evening. After that, it looked as if it ought to be plain sailing. While feeding, the creature appeared to have no objection to being stroked. A cat that you can stroke, you can pick up and pitch into a basket. Petticate was in fact sitting on an upturned pail in the lane, stroking Mrs Williams, and reflecting that with one full dress-rehearsal he would be ready for his bold bid for freedom, when he became aware of a phenomenon best to be described as a large warm breathing in his ear. He turned his head and found himself gazing into the eyes of Johnson; he raised his head and found himself gazing into the eyes of Johnson’s – and Mrs Williams’ owner. It was an awkward moment.
It appeared that Mrs Gotlop was even more amused than usual. Her laughter had a note that was submarine and profound. When she spoke, it was to address Petticate by her customary appellation.
‘Blimp!’
Petticate jumped up, so that the pail clattered under him. Disturbed by this, Mrs Williams bounded away. Johnson put his head into the pail and made horrible snuffling noises. A scuffling in the undergrowth suggested the even more objectionable vicinity of Boswell.
‘Blimp the animal-lover,’ Mrs Gotlop expanded. ‘Well, well, well!’
‘Good evening,’ Petticate said. ‘It’s very mild. How are your Keswick Codlins, your Ribston Pippins, your Warner’s Kings?’
Mrs Gotlop, who had no particular reputation as a keen orchardist, ignored this random attempt at rural converse. Instead, she pointed towards the ground.
‘Blimp, what in the devil’s name is that?’
Petticate frowned – partly because he disliked profanity or imprecation in women, partly because he resented the suggestion that the devil was at all involved in the matter, and partly because he found nothing convincing to say.
‘That?’ he managed. ‘A bit of fish, you know. Our Ambrose likes fish. And I’ve discovered that your Mrs Williams likes fish too.’
‘You come out and feed my Mrs Williams?’
Petticate tried to manage an easy laugh.
‘Yes, indeed, I hope you don’t mind. Just from time to time, you know. Delightful creature, Mrs Williams.’
There was a moment’s silence. Johnson, who had sat down on his massive haunches, glanced at his mistress and mournfully shook his head. Both were clearly convinced that Colonel Petticate was out of his right mind.
‘And that?’ Mrs Gotlop asked.
Petticate saw that she was now pointing to the plate which he had taken to keeping in the barn for the purpose of serving Mrs Williams with her fish. He now realized that it was rather an impressive plate. The Hennwifes having taken to presenting Ambrose with his meals upon the best porcelain in the house, he had been unconsciously following their example.
‘Quite a pretty piece,’ he said feebly. ‘Just a single odd plate. Found it up on a shelf.’
‘On the shelf yourself, aren’t you, Blimp?’ Mrs Gotlop roared with laughter at her own humour. ‘I saw Gialletti the other day, by the way. He’s looking for Sonia. He’s looking for her hard. But I don’t suppose he’s asked you.’
‘Well, no – he hasn’t.’ Petticate found himself continuing to cut the most wretched and unready figure before this confounded woman.
‘Ah! By the way, I’ve heard what Ambrose Wedge has told Rickie Shotover about Sonia’s new book. I’d never have believed it.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Petticate had the uneasy feeling of one who suspects himself to have been left in the dark about pertinent matters. ‘But why not?’
Mrs Gotlop looked at him keenly. So did Johnson. So, suddenly breaking cover, did Boswell as well. It was an alarming inquisition.
‘I see,’ she said, ‘you know nothing about it. More surprises, I suppose. Well, well!’
And, with a final roar of mirth, Mrs Gotlop marched off.
Petticate found himself disproportionately unnerved by this awkward but probably insignificant encounter. He found himself contemplating an unbidden image of Mrs Gotlop in the witness-box, improbably flanked by her two canine familiars, and giving damning evidence in the sensational case of the murders in the barn. This was a senseless freak of imagination, and he saw that his nerves were getting out of control. If he wasn’t going to crack up, the time had come to act.
He went back to the barn and made a final examination of his handiwork. There was a good excuse, he reflected, for his being thoroughly nervous. The task he had achieved had been not only arduous but mountingly dangerous as well. The Hennwifes must have terrified him more than he knew in order to drive him to all this hazard. The tons of stone represented by the roof didn’t yet precisely hang by a thread. But they were supported by timbers most of which had now been adequately monkeyed with in their sockets and on their corbels. He had no doubt whatever that a single heave on his rope would bring the whole impending mass thundering down.
It was now almost dark in the barn, and bats were fluttering. His nervousness increased so that, like a child, he suddenly wished the place lit up. This put him in mind of something. There was electricity laid on to one corner of the barn, and he had noticed that there was still a bulb in the socket. He musn’t grope his way to it now – that would be far too dangerous – but he must remember to take it out in the morning. It wouldn’t do to have one of the Hennwifes switching it on. He didn’t, somehow, fancy the prospect of even a second’s naked glimpse of them as they advanced to their doom.
Petticate paused in the great wide doorway, listening. There wasn’t a sound. Although he was scarcely a quarter of a mile from the centre of Snigg’s Green, this part of his property was as remote as if it were buried in the country. The Hennwifes, he told himself with a satisfied chuckle, were going to be most peacefully accommodated. Within twenty-four hours now they would be sleeping as soundly as any of the rude forefathers of the neighbouring hamlet.
Petticate made sure of the position of the basket into which Mrs Williams was to be dropped. Then he returned in good heart to whatever dinner his victims had prepared for him.
Ambrose, although objectionable as a social anomaly, was an accommodating and indeed almost rational animal. In the following ev
ening, as dusk fell, he was entirely amenable to being put on a lead by Petticate and walked through the garden and the orchard. When tethered to a post just beyond the barn, he settled down in a dignified acquiescence in whatever was going forward.
It was Mrs Williams who gave trouble. At what was now her accustomed hour she quite failed to turn up for her refection. Petticate began to fear that Mrs Gotlop, disapproving of the direction in which Mrs Williams had extended the circle of her acquaintance, had confined her to the house. This would be a disaster. The whole process of cat-hunting would have to begin all over again.
At length however Mrs Williams did arrive – or her eyes arrived, glinting in what was now beginning to approximate to darkness. It was some time before Petticate could make any more substantial contact. Mrs Williams was perhaps aware of Ambrose, although he was well in the background. Or perhaps some special animal instinct warned her that matters were not as they had hitherto been. Eventually indeed she settled down to her fish. But when Petticate, with his basket ready beside him and after a cautious preliminary caress, made a firm grab at Mrs Williams, the creature gave a quick hiss of fury, and Petticate instantly felt a sharp pain in his wrist. He had been badly scratched. He didn’t however let go, and after a further second’s struggle he had Mrs Williams safely shut up. He made his way back with her to Ambrose and the barn. The delay which had occurred was a little upsetting his calculations, and he realized that he had been foolish not to bring a torch. He had planned his operation as an affair of the twilight. Now it was going to take place – with an appropriateness that he didn’t altogether fail to feel – in darkness.
The New Sonia Wayward Page 12
