THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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"Too soon. The estate will take a long time to wind up. Probably, the house won't sell. Property's a drug in the market."
"When it does," said the Rector, "I want a new peal of bells from you."
"I'll remember, padre." The doctor's professional glance marked the Rector's bagged eyes and sunken face. "Still fussing over this absurd letter-business?"
"Yes, I admit, I'm worried."
"Don't. Remember the Arab proverb—It is but for a night, oh Muleteer'."
For a man who had just come into a fortune, the doctor's smile was strangely wistful.
"I want to consult you about a convalescent case in the village, padre," he said. "I think, between us, we ought to manage a change to the seaside."
As the doctor and Rector drew apart, Ignatius, who was examining a mural tablet, spoke in an undertone to Joan.
"That doctor has an arresting face. It's almost spiritual. That is how our husky friend, the padre, should look."
His comparison did not make him popular with Joan, who glared at him.
"I don't agree. I like a man to look like a man."
"Do you estimate manhood in terms of stones and inches?" asked Ignatius bleakly.
Joan's slip was unintentional, for she bit her lip and began to talk too quickly.
"I love the doctor. I'm never ill, but he gave me gas when I had a tooth out. I swore horribly, and kicked him in the face. He was really sweet about it. He said I was only a bit amusing...I think it's foul the way people are putting the letter on him."
Ignatius' alert expression was like that of a pointing dog.
"So he's the latest suspect?" he murmured. "I wonder why?"
"I should say it was obvious," said Joan. "People say the letters—all except Miss Asprey's—show intimate personal knowledge. And, you see, a doctor's got a sort of privileged position."
"Only, there's another man who has better—and more numerous—opportunities to watch people's houses, and their owners, when they're off guard," observed Ignatius.
"Who?"
"The window-cleaner."
"But there's not one in the village. The gardeners or chauffeurs clean the windows."
"In that case," said Ignatius, "I suppose I mustn't deprive you of the doctor."
Joan resented the slight inflection of scorn in his voice.
"Not me," she said. "Not I, or whatever it is. Dr. Perry is far too fine for that sort of thing. An anonymous letter-writer must have a mind like mud."
Because contradiction was second nature to Ignatius, he had to put Joan in her place.
"Not necessarily," he told her. "I know a very nice man whose employer kept his dog on the chain. Now this man dared not make an open complaint, as he had a wife and family dependent on him. So he wrote, anonymously, to his employer, telling him that his conduct was the scandal of the neighbourhood—with no detriment to himself, and excellent results for the dog."
Joan merely smiled as she collected her belongings.
"Say 'good-bye', for me, to the padre," she said, glancing towards the west door, where the Rector was parting from the doctor.
The Rector waited until they reached the green before he spoke to his friend about Joan.
"What d'you think of her?" he asked casually.
"She's interesting," was the reply. "Although she doesn't pluck her brows, her eyes have that slightly Oriental look. She'd go straight up—or down—as the case may be. No half measures about that young lady."
"You mean, she has both courage and character?"
"Yes." Ignatius changed the subject. "I'm grateful to you, Tigger, for putting me on to your little problem. I'm in the position of a water-diviner. I hold my twig over buried human nature. And I never know when it is going to twitch."
He stopped, arrested by the sight of the beautiful Elizabethan manor—'The Spout'. The tall iron-work gates were open, so that they had a clear view of a tall, gracious lady, with a strip of white Spanish lace over her silver hair, and a little dumpy woman—who—in spite of the heat—wore a grey woollen jersey.
"Miss Asprey and her companion," whispered the Rector.
"A charming picture," said Ignatius. "Things are often not what they seem on the surface. So, I'm going to presume, that the tall patrician lady is the companion, and the little plebeian the mistress of the house."
"Wrong," the Rector told him. "In my perfect village, appearances are not deceptive. Come on."
But Ignatius lingered, to gaze at the garden.
"So that is Miss Asprey," he murmured. "To my mind, Tigger, that is a situation ripe with possibilities. Two women living together—one on top, the other below. One rich, the other poor. One in the power of the other."
"What d'you mean?" asked the Rector irritably. "Are you referring to the fact that Miss Asprey pays Miss Mack a salary?"
"Yes. She pays her to be bullied."
"Rubbish. Miss Asprey's a delightful and considerate employer. And even supposing—for the sake of argument—that she was not, Miss Mack is a free agent. At a moment's notice she could pack up and go."
Ignatius walked on, frowning at the vista of Tudor cottages.
"Yes," he said, "she could leave, provided that her willpower was not sapped. Sometimes, the prisoner will stay in his cell, after the door is unlocked, because the wish to escape is dead."
"Ignatius," remarked the Rector, "for a clever man, you are talking like a fool."
"Perhaps," said Ignatius. "But remember, I have to consider every likely—and unlikely—contingency. And I want you to remember what I say now. If the key to your problem lies in that special house, then the situation is very grim indeed."
CHAPTER XV — ROMEO FROM LONDON
Ignatius proved a true prophet, for curiosity drew the village, in bulk, to church, the next morning. The important visitor proved a disappointing spectacle, looking more insignificant than usual, as he slumped down in his seat, in an apparent wish to escape notice.
As the Service proceeded, however, the frostbitten little man thawed visibly, and he began to display interest in Miss Asprey's pew. Some among the congregation noticed, with amusement, that his attention had been attracted by Miss Asprey's housemaid.
Ada looked beautiful in the plain white dress which her mistress decreed as the correct wear for Church; moreover, she had no competition, for she sat between Miss Asprey and Miss Mack.
Although her sea-blue eyes looked demure, she was up to every move of the game, and knew exactly when to drop her prayer-book, and where to pitch it. Ignatius gave himself away completely, for he leaped instantly across the aisle, to pick it up.
In order to return it, he had to stretch across Miss Mack; but she appeared unconscious of the incident, while Miss Asprey never relaxed a muscle. She sat, rigid as a statue, with her hands tightly clasped and her austere lips set in concentrated meditation.
The Rector's sermon was both dramatic and sincere, but Ignatius was unmoved by its appeal and deaf to his friend's elocution, as he sat, looking at Ada, as though thanking Heaven for the gift of a beautiful face.
He was abstracted and silent during lunch, and, after the meal was over, he went out to walk on the village green. As he stood by the gates of 'The Spout', Ada appeared, in her legitimate Sunday finery—a