THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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give me their full history."
Ignatius did not appear to listen while the Rector was talking. Apparently he was more interested in blowing smoke-rings. But at the end of the tale he nodded.
"Good. I have the facts. I gather this village has a stagnant population of life-residents. But I suppose you get occasional new-comers? Who's the latest?"
The Rector bit his lip.
"A Miss Brook," he replied. "She's companion to Lady d'Arcy, and she's been here for a few months only."
"And the letters have been written since her arrival?"
"Yes. But she's a charming girl—nice and clean-minded. No one could suspect her."
"Of course not. It's obvious that she is the last person to be suspected."
"Why?" asked the Rector, in surprise, although his face cleared.
"Didn't you attach any significance to my remark that, by merely looking out of the window, I'd solved half your problem?" Ignatius spoke in an acid voice. "I don't talk for effect. Directly I realised the beauty of the village, I knew that it was a partner in crime with your anonymous letter-writer. For it is so lovely that, as you remarked—you see, I remember—no one voluntarily leaves it."
"But is that harmful? Our ancestors didn't travel, and they did very well."
"Who told you that? You only know they're dead. Keep fowls too long on the same bit of soil, and it sours. The same applies to human beings. It's not good to become root-bound."
"I don't agree. I could give you instances of people who have never left their homes, and who lead happy, useful lives."
"I grant you that," said Ignatius. "But you, in turn, must concede to me the exception, who would be adversely affected. Remember, I'm here to deal with an exceptional case. Suppose you tell me—if you can—who has lived longest here, without going away?"
The Rector thought for a minute.
"When I said people never go away, I meant very rarely," he explained. "One family—the Martins of the Towers—have been away nearly two years, globe-trotting."
He spoke casually, little dreaming the importance of the return of the absentee family, as he answered his friend's question.
"Only the other day someone remarked to me that she's not slept under a strange roof for nearly thirty years."
"Then, that's your suspect." The little man's voice was triumphant. "Who is she?"
"Miss Asprey. The first person to receive an anonymous letter. And, certainly, the last person in the world, to write one."
"I must be judge of that," said Ignatius. "I shall have the lady under special observation."
He drew out his note-book and screwed his monocle tighter.
"You've stated, that from the evidence of good-quality paper, correct spelling, and accurate intimate knowledge, that this pest must belong to your own little social circle," he said. "Now I want to know their names, and all the information you can give me about them, especially about Miss Asprey."
The Rector—who did not know shorthand—was impressed by the dots and dashes with which his friend covered pages of his note-book. Ignatius—who did not know shorthand, either—had counted on making this effect. He guessed accurately that the Rector would rank an ordinary Commercial-College accomplishment higher than his own exceptional memory.
"I want to meet all these people as soon as possible," he said. "You must give a party."
"No one would come."
"Well, then, some typical country entertainment." Ignatius shut his eyes and snapped his fingers, as though summoning some elusive memory. "Wait. A dim shaded light. The temperature of a furnace. Smell of hot mashed grass and peaches. Dahlias stuck into squares of cardboard. Give it a name."
"You mean a flower-show." The Rector shook his head. "Too early."
"Then there's no help for it. I must go to church. Draw me a diagram of the important pews and name them, like a theatre-plan."
The Rector obediently sketched a rough plan, although he disliked the secular comparison.
"I usually have a full muster," he said. "So you'll see most of my parishioners before the Service begins."
"All of them," corrected Ignatius. "They'll come to see me."
The Rector grinned, and then his eyes grew grave. "Ignatius," he said, "this thing's far worse than you suspect. May I rely on your help?"
"No. Help implies a division of labour. But—you can leave it all to me."
Stooping to pat the dog, Ignatius addressed it in a humbler voice.
"Charles Dickens, I'm only a little man. But don't they ever give you lunch?"
The Rector leaped to the bell, full of regrets for his lack of hospitality. Although his friend was accustomed to the cookery of expert chefs, he thoroughly enjoyed the simple meal. At the end of it he insisted on sending for the housekeeper, to offer his congratulations. A little later, he fell asleep, on the lawn.
When tea was finished, he re-opened his campaign.
"I propose a tour of the village. You must stop everyone we meet. Introduce them to me, but do the talking, so that I shall be free to observe."
The Rector's eye lit up at a sudden memory.
"Just come and see the church, first," he said.
As he had expected, Joan Brook was doing the Altar flowers, for Lady d'Arcy. He noticed, at once, that Ignatius and Joan were mutually impressed; their eyes met in a long intent look, as though each were appraising the other.
Then Joan, with characteristic rashness, spoke too quickly. "You've come down about the letters?"
Ignatius threw the Rector a reproachful look.
"Did you tell her that?" he asked.
"He didn't," said Joan hastily. "Only, a long time ago, he told me about you."
"You see, someone else has a memory besides yourself," remarked the Rector, who was obviously proud of Joan's penetration.
"I see that someone has a memory for your remarks," said Ignatius. "How far back does your memory go, Miss Brook?"
"Goodness knows. My most vivid memory is pinching money from my mummy's purse."
"Mine is of fighting a baby smaller than myself," said Ignatius. "I suppose I was about eleven months old, but it was a gorgeous sensation. I lost sight of that infant, so I go through life, looking for someone smaller than myself, to lick."
Joan's laugh rang out too loudly, considering that she was in church, so the Rector did his best about it.
"My earliest memory," he said gravely, "is of sitting on my dad's knee, in the firelight, while he told me stories."
"But he wouldn't be old then," remarked Joan. "Were they angel stories?"
"No. The Dick Turpin kind. I suppose they came under the category of crime."
Even as the Rector smiled, he stiffened again. Ignatius, who responded to a mental atmosphere, was conscious of a slight recoil, like a sensitive plant which has been touched by a rough finger.
He watched, with interest, as Dr. Perry walked up the aisle to be introduced, in his turn, to the visitor.
"Here's the lucky man," said the Rector, literally scooping up heartiness. "He's just come into a fortune."
"So I'm told," remarked Dr. Perry, almost inaudibly.
"Are you going all round the world?" asked Joan enviously. "I would."
"I may pass from this world to the next, but, at present, I don't contemplate going round it."
"But, aren't you terribly