Say It With Flowers

by Gladys Mitchell

  “My card, Hilary,” he said. “Let me know when you would like your little reward, won’t you?” He scribbled hastily on the bit of pasteboard and thrust it into her hand. She did not even glance at it. She smiled, and put it into her jacket pocket. Phlox raised his panama hat and he and Marigold walked on, Phlox holding Marigold’s arm to steady her.

  When she had walked on a little further down the road, the other woman took out the card, read what he had written, smiled again, and transferred it to the slightly torn lining of the otherwise immaculate handbag she was carrying. The whole transaction had been watched and the conversation overheard by a small, rather disreputable boy who was on the other side of the hedge and whom none of the party had spotted. He was taking an afternoon off from school and had no desire to be seen by anybody, even a stranger and a visitor.

  “Well, that was all very, very peculiar,” said Marigold. “Don’t look round. I don’t want her to think we’re discussing her. She really is a strange and terribly frightening woman. Don’t you think so?”

  “I thought her quite charming and very helpful,” said Phlox, with a peculiar smile. “You know, Marigold, I think I shall go to Southampton and buy a fishing rod.”

  “There is not much free fishing around here, I imagine. I suppose the Avon would be your nearest river and the fish there are not confined to trout,” observed Marigold, paying no attention to the fact that her last question had not been answered truthfully.

  “No,” agreed Phlox, turning to look back. “There are barbel, I believe, and giant pike. Oh, well, to greet Farmer Topps and bargain with him for food and lodging. Two miles? We shall just catch the farmer at tea. I hope he invites us to share it. It seems a long time since we consumed our sandwiches and weak tea on Beaulieu Heath.”

  They did not get to Topps’ farm, after all. Along the road they met a party of small boys in grey flannel suits, scarlet caps, and scarlet-topped grey football stockings. They were in charge of a bull-voiced, aggressively genial man of about thirty years of age. As the Carmichaels came level with the party, which, apart from the booming tones of the master, was shrill-voiced and cheeped incessantly, one of the children yelled, above all the rest:

  “Oh, sir! Oh, rot it, sir! The heel’s come off my shoe!”

  “Oh, hell! Rot you, Simon!” bellowed the master. “What on earth were you doing to drag the heel off a shoe, you clumsy young idiot?”

  “Sir, nothing, sir, really I wasn’t. It just fell off. Look for a big stone, you bronchos, so I can bash it on again!” And the casually seated himself on the grass at the side of the road, took off his shoe, and waited serenely for assistance from his fellows. These seemed less eager to help him than he appeared to anticipate.

  “Sir, if we louse about here getting stones, we won’t have enough time to look for the Roman finds, sir.”

  “There aren’t any big stones, sir, anyway—only these little flints at the side of the road.”

  “If we found a Roman quern, sir, and used it to bash old Sysko’s shoe, sir, wouldn’t that do? We could leave him here until we come back, sir . . .”

  “With the Roman quern, sir . . .”

  “If we found a Roman catapult, sir, we could hang Sysko’s shoe on a tree, sir, and wham at the heel with the catapult. That ought to fix it on.”

  “Doyng!”

  “Splat!”

  “Phee-ee-ee!”

  “Wham!”

  “Shut up!” said the master. “Simon, there aren’t any stones. Stay where you are until we get back. I can’t dish the whole expedition for one silly ass who can’t keep the heels on his shoes.”

  “Hot dog, sir!”

  “Jolly hot dog!”

  “So long, Sysko! Be seeing you!”

  “Suppose we find a skeleton, sir?”

  “Whacko! Bags I find it first!”

  “Could we put it in the school museum, sir?”

  “Would it haunt the school, sir? I read a story once about a skeleton that was built into a grandfather clock, sir, and it used to clump upstairs in the middle of the night, sir . . . the clock, sir . . . and knock on people’s bedroom doors, sir . . .”

  The voices faded in the distance and Phlox and Marigold came up to a dismal little boy who, wearing only one shoe, was dispiritedly banging the other on to the surface of the road. Phlox unslung his rucksack.

  “One moment, my dear fellow,” he said. He produced a geological hammer. “Allow me.” He picked up the heel and the shoe, scrutinised both, then took out a wooden darning aid shaped like a mushroom. A few scientific taps of the hammer, with the shoe supported on the mushroom, and the heel was on again and, tested by Phlox, seemed fairly firm.

  “Oh, thanks awfully!” said the child, beginning to back away.

  “Go very gently on it,” said Phlox. “And, before you leave us, do tell me the object of the expedition and why your companions were so eager to continue on their way.”

  “Oh, well, a chap—he keeps pigs and chickens and things—was digging up his place and found some Roman treasure, so we asked Mr. Colson if we could have a go, so he asked Mr. Brooker and Mr. Brooker wrote to the chap, and the chap said we could, so Mr. Colson’s taking us.”

  “Splendid. I wish you every good fortune.”

  “Thanks . . . and thanks an awful lot for the shoe.”

  Regardless of Phlox’s warning that the shoe repair had been of the most temporary kind, the little boy, with a polite tug at the peak of his cap, tore after his companions, screeching joyously.

  “Well,” said Marigold, “it seems as though Mr. Pierce had something more to go on than just a hunch when he declared that there was a Roman road near this village. I am all agog to get to the vicarage to be regaled with full details, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed. But now for the farm, unless . . .”

  “Oh, I do agree! I should love to see those dear, enthusiastic little chaps at work. How thrilling for them if they do find something! And, of course, they might.”

  The progress of a party of little boys is invariably on the slow side, and it was easy enough for Phlox and Marigold to catch the children before they arrived at the smallholding. Phlox addressed himself politely to the master-in-charge.

  “Would you have any objection? Officially interested, don’t you know. Tremendously keen archaeologists. Guests of the vicar of Wandles. So fascinating if your lads actually found traces of a Roman road. The vicar is convinced that there was a villa hereabouts, and that does rather argue a road, does it not?”

  “Yes, it might,” said the master. “I don’t suppose anyone will object if you come along with us, so suit yourselves. My name’s Colson, by the way.”

  “Ours is Carmichael. Thank you so much.”

  The discoverer of Roman coins and pottery was at the gate of his smallholding to let the party in and gave no indication of surprise to find it richer in adults than he had expected. He conducted the excited, chattering gathering of little boys past piggery and chicken-run to the northwest corner of his property.

  “There you be, then,” he said.

  “Now, we haven’t shovels for everybody,” said Mr. Colson. “You know that. You’ll have to take turns.”

  An hour’s strenuous exercise yielded no results except for some spirited expostulations from the members of the group, and a few dozen shrill questions.

  “Look out, you ass! You nearly got my fingers with that shovel!”

  “Come on, Pragso! Let someone else have a go! Sir, barge Pragso off the shovel, sir! I’m sure he’s had his five minutes!”

  “Let’s have the trowel, Markso! Sir, it’s my go with the trowel, isn’t it? Give it up, funny cad! . . . Yes, you jolly well will! Sir, why didn’t we bring the gardening forks from school, sir?”

  “Sir, is it true you can get fifteen pounds for a first-century Roman coin, sir?”

  “Shillings, you fool! Yes, you can. I read it in the paper. Did you read about it, sir?”

  “Oo, sir, look, sir! Saint
so’s found a bone, sir! Woof! Woof!”

  “Shut up, you clever lunatic! It’s more than you’ve found, anyway! I suppose it couldn’t be a Roman bone, sir, could it?”

  “Buried by a Roman dog, sir?”

  “Cave canem! Woof, woof, woof!”

  “The Romans didn’t have dogs, Bighead!”

  “How could they have said Cave canem if they didn’t have dogs, you fool?”

  “They did have dogs. The Britons exported them, sir.”

  “I should be interested to know their real names,” said Marigold, as the archaeologists, firmly and vociferously (at last) debarred by Mr. Colson from prosecuting their researches, reluctantly put down shovel and trowel and wiped soiled palms and fingers down the sides of their grey flannel shorts.

  “Simon, Charles, Richard, Francis, Mark, Nicholas, Andrew, and Raymond,” replied Mr. Colson. “Otherwise, in obedience to the social code of the moment, Sysko, Pragso, Chardso, Frankso, Markso, O’Lasko, Saintso, and Mondso.”

  “Thank you so much. How very interesting. A social code, you say? I understand all except Pragso, which appears to derive from the name of Charles.”

  “The Prince of Wales, you know.”

  “Oh, the Duke of Windsor was at Oxford, and this little lad is named Charles. The new Pragger Wagger, of course! How very clever and ingenious! Did they think of all that for themselves?”

  “I suppose so. Well—er—good-bye. Now then, chaps! Pick up the dogs!” Shooing his charges ahead of him, Mr. Colson managed to get them to the gate where the proprietor was waiting to see them off his land.

  “Charming little fellows,” said Phlox. “Where would they come from?”

  “A school called Pelican House Academy, sir, about a mile and ‘arf t’other side the village. It’s new. House used to belong to the Farnham family, but they sold it last year and the school took over. But I thought you and the lady was with ‘em.”

  “No, no. We met them along the road and were interested in their errand. We are keen amateurs of archæology ourselves.”

  “Oh, ah, be ee? Well, there’ll be another lot along s’arternoon.”

  “From the same school?”

  “Oh, no, sir. This other lot is from a convent school—young ladies in charge of the nuns.”

  “And do they propose to dig?”

  “Well, so the Reverend Mother said in her letter, sir, but if there’s anything left to find, now that they young boys has had a go, I’d be hard put to it to say what it might be.”

  “I should be most interested to see your own finds. Would you permit . . .?”

  “Well, if you be staying with vicar, sir, p’raps he’d bring ee along.”

  “I quite understand. He will vouch for us, of course. Yes, yes, I quite take your point. One further favour, then. At what time do you expect the girls’ school to get here?”

  “Not before ‘arf-past three, sir.”

  “Well, now, if we get back here by that time or a little later, may we come and watch their efforts? It may be that these will prove to be a little more scientific than those of the small boys.”

  “Ah, if they’ll have you. Don’t make no difference to me.”

  “Good. We’ll go for a short walk, then, and make our arrangements later on with the farmer for spending the night in his barn . . .”

  “You said you was friends of the vicar.”

  “So we are, so we are. But his guest-rooms are full at the moment.”

  “Folks as stays at the rectory don’t generally get putting up for the night in barns.”

  “Be that as it may, we look forward to seeing you here again at about half-past three, then.”

  “Be that as it may,” repeated the smallholder to himself as he regarded their retreating backs, “I don’t make head nor tail of you two customers, blowed if I do. Still . . .” he looked at the ten-shilling note which Phlox had left in his hand . . . “I do suppose you’re just a couple of ‘armless Londoners. Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a world.”

  Phlox and Marigold caught up the convent contingent that afternoon just as the girls (and the two nuns who accompanied the party) reached the smallholding. They followed and, having obtained permission from the nuns to do so, they sat down to watch the girls at work. The nuns did not take part, but seated themselves on chairs brought by the smallholder and supervised the activities of their pupils. The girls were considerably older than the morning excavators, and worked, on the whole, quietly and with some attempt at science.

  At the end of half an hour nothing of interest had come to light, and Marigold, at Phlox’s instigation, approached the Sisters and suggested that, if the girls would like to have a rest, she and her husband would be very pleased to go on with the work. The girls, however, declared that they were not in the least tired, so the Carmichaels continued to watch their efforts until Phlox, slightly bored, suggested that Marigold might go and converse with the nuns while he went and talked to the smallholder. Marigold, also bored, assented.

  The nuns, silent with one another, joyously accepted the opportunity (which their Rule allowed) to talk to a stranger. Their names, in religion, it appeared, were Sister Mary Pontianus and Sister Mary Epiphanius. They were from the Convent of Saint Thomas Aquinas in the town of Bossbury and had come in by motor-coach—rather an expensive journey, Sister Mary Pontianus observed, since the whole of the coach had had to be booked for only eight people. They had left it at the village crossroads, where it could be parked in front of a garage. The girls had had to pay for it. Coach journeys were, of course, an extra. She chatted on. The girls were called Dympna, Brigid, Clare, Agnes, Bernadine, and Elizabeth. The first three were Irish, Agnes was English, Elizabeth was an American, and Bernadine was French.

  “We have them from all countries,” said Sister Pontianus with modest self-congratulation.

  “And what gave them this interest in archæology?”

  “The local finds here, naturally, and then Father O’Canlon, our chaplain, is interested and has given lectures on how to dig.”

  “How disappointing for them if they find nothing.”

  “They will not be disappointed,” said Sister Epiphanius. “If you remember, it has been said that to travel hopefully is better than to arrive, and in some respects that is very true.”

  “I am surprised to hear you quote Robert Louis Stevenson,” said Marigold. “I would not have thought him a favourite with you. Of course, he spoke well of the Trappists at Our Lady of the Snows, but would you not regard him as a heretic?”

  Sister Epiphanius smiled, but refused to answer the question. She said:

  “Have you done very much digging? My brother helped dig in Syria last year. He found it very interesting and enjoyable.”

  “Your brother?” Marigold’s voice was more shrill than she had intended. “I—forgive me, but—”

  “But you do not connect us with brothers?”

  “Well, I never think of nuns as being members of families, like ourselves.”

  “I have three brothers, one a priest, one a farmer, and one a doctor. Have you no brothers?”

  “I—oh, yes, of course. He’s a—he’s in the Civil Service.”

  “How nice. So useful and unostentatious, isn’t it? You must love him very dearly.”

  “Oh, yes. It would be wrong not to, wouldn’t it?”

  “I think family ties are very important,” said the nun. “Dympna, dear, the sides of the trench must be quite vertical. You are not a terrier at a rat-hole, dear child.”

  “No, Mother. I don’t think this is a very good tool. The more I excavate, the more the soil seems to fall in.”

  “Allow me, please, Sister,” said Phlox. He took the shovel from the girl, cleared the trench and then, with a small spade which formed part of the girls’ equipment, squared off the sides of the tidied-up hole and began to dig down deeper. “You may need to go down eight or nine feet,” he said. “Actually, it isn’t really a job for amateurs.”

  “Eight
or nine feet sounds a formidable depth,” said Sister Epiphanius. “We shall not have time for so much.”

  She drew out a small whistle, blew it, and gave the word to knock off. There was polite but definite protest.

  “Oh, please, Sister, just another five minutes!”

  “It would be awful if the very next people dug up something really interesting.”

  Sister Epiphanius laughed.

  “You must not be selfish and envy others their triumphs,” she said. The squad cleaned their tools with handfuls of hastily-pulled coarse grass and strolled off, chattering amiably, to the gate, where Marigold was now talking earnestly with the smallholder.

  “But we adore living rough, don’t we, Phlox?” she said, as the party reached them. “I was just telling Mr. Dickon here that if we can’t get any other lodging while we are waiting for beds at the vicarage—”

  Phlox laughed, and broke in hastily.

  “Oh, you mean the farmer’s barn? Oh, rather! Rather! Much more fun living rough. Very inspiring, the simple life, I think.”

  “Oh, lovely, lovely!” said Marigold. “We are true children of the wild, Mr. Dickon.”

  “Like the gippos, I do suppose,” said Dickon, “though, come to think on it, I doubt whether farmer ‘ud ‘ave ‘ee kippin’ down in ‘is barn!” He looked at Marigold. “Tell ee what. Barns is all very well for gents for a couple o’ nights, but they ent the place for a lady. Why don’t ee ketch up wi’ the nuns—they’m on’y just passed us while we bin a-talking—and ask for a bed at the convent? Wouldn’t cost ee nothen if ee didn’t want for to give. Give what you can afford, that be their motter. Real good people they are, though, o’ course, I’m Church myself, when I goes at all.”

  “Why, what a splendid idea, Marigold!” exclaimed Phlox, with great enthusiasm. “Come! We’ll ask them at once. It will be far better for you than the barn.”

  “But we’d never thought—” began Marigold.

  “A splendid idea!” repeated Phlox. “After the Sisters at once, dear! I insist! After all, there is plenty of room in their motor-coach.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Enthusiasts

  “I am, I confess, naturally inclined to that which misguided Zeal terms Superstition.”