THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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swimming-bath, brimful with water, which was warming in the sunshine. At the front door, two white nurses were removing two white babies from snowy perambulators.
Hearing the children's voices, Marianne came rushing out, to smother them in maternal passion; but she restrained herself, as she saw Ignatius.
"Do you want to see the doctor?" she asked.
"Regretfully, yes," he replied, accepting the invitation of her eyes. "But not professionally."
"Of course not. You're staying at the Rectory. I saw you in church."
"And I saw you."
In regarding the baby's mother, Ignatius appeared blind to the fact that a baby was waving a hand in languid welcome. In spite of her pose of detachment, Marianne had to call his attention to this rare honour.
"The family has just returned. Isn't it a collection? But I suppose we must consider Posterity."
"Why?" Ignatius formally saluted the baby and then turned his back on it. "Nothing annoys me more than to be called on to make sacrifices for a lot of unknown people who'll enjoy all those discoveries of the future, which are denied to me. I wrote a poem on the subject, for our School Magazine. It began, 'Posterity, Posterity, It isn't you—it isn't me, then why the Dickens should we be The victims of Posterity?'"
His face relaxed at Marianne's tribute of laughter, so that he began to overlook her flamingo-red frock and haggard charm. Vivid colour always disturbed him, and he classified her among the man-eating species.
"Could I see the doctor?" he reminded her.
"I'm terribly sorry." Marianne shook her head with a violent sway of coral earrings. "He went up to London by the early train, and won't be back until dinnertime."
"Then, may I call later?"
"Do." She hesitated and then spoke on impulse. "And, if it's anything to do with these blasted letters, good luck to you. They've simply shot the village to bits."
Ignatius—who felt the pull of her attraction even under his tough rind, walked hastily towards the gates. He wanted to be removed from the radius of such dangerous magnetism.
After dinner, when he was about to start on his second visit, he enlisted the aid of the Rector.
"Stroll over with me, Tigger, and keep Mrs. Perry out of the way. It's always sound policy to break up the combination of husband and wife. They kick each other during Contract Bridge."
Dr. Perry and his wife were just finishing their coffee when the two men were announced. But the Rector proved a spare part, for, apparently, the doctor had anticipated the need for privacy. After a few minutes' chat, he rose to his feet.
"Shall we come to my study?" he asked.
He gave the impression of an exhausted man, although, according to his story, his visit to London had been a pleasure-jaunt.
The evening was rather gloomy, so a small fire was burning in the grate. Ignatius sat looking at the leaping flames as he mentally reviewed his impressions. He had noticed that the furniture and decorations of the house showed extravagant expenditure, which had not been maintained. Even the sun had entered into the conspiracy to impair credit, for the brocade curtains, as well as the carpet, were faded and slightly shabby.
Money was being spent like water, but it was the waste of a leaky tap, which did not make the grass grow. Ignatius remembered the absurd ostentation of the nursery parade, and he laid the blame on Marianne.
"That lady's a cash-register, which gives no change. I should say the poor devil could do with his legacy."
As the doctor remained silent, he produced an old copy of the local newspaper.
"I've read the report of the inquest on Miss Corner," he said. "It's very long and seems to cover the ground. But can you tell me of any additional details which have been left out of this account?"
The doctor was slow in skimming the newspaper.
"No," he said, at last, "you have all the facts here."
"Then I must congratulate all of you on your loyal discretion."
"I don't understand," said the doctor quietly.
"I think you do," insisted Ignatius. "It is obvious to the meanest intelligence that the most significant fact was ignored. The Coroner must have noticed it, besides yourself, and, probably, everyone in the Court."
The doctor smiled faintly.
"You're being rather unusual, Mr. Brown," he said. "Most clever people under-rate the intelligence of others. You go to the other extreme. But we stagnate here. You must not expect too much from us."
"On the contrary, I am sure that your intelligence is acute."
"In that case, why should I tell you what you profess to know already?"
"Only to save time," replied Ignatius. "I hope you will forgive my discourtesy when I say I did not wish your charming wife to be present at what I want to be a secret interview."
"Yes," agreed the doctor, "Marianne is indiscreet. It is unfortunate that she mentioned the anonymous letter to Sergeant James."
"My point of view exactly. For she established the fact that you knew the contents of the letter on the evening it was received."
"Of course. I mentioned, in my evidence, that she first read the letter, and was merely amused by it. So she gave it to me to read."
"Yet, although every intelligent person in the Court knew that it was nearly dark when the last post was delivered, no one expressed surprise that the short-sighted Miss Corner should be able to read the letter without her glasses, which were previously smashed?"
The doctor said nothing, so Ignatius continued.
"Since it was obvious that Miss Corner knew the contents of that letter, by heart, it also follows that she wrote that letter to herself."
"That might be the inference," said the doctor. "After all, there is no harm in her wishing to clear herself of a false suspicion. Perhaps her method was a bit childish and ingenuous, but she was rather fond of the bludgeon."
Ignatius noticed that the doctor had quite recovered from his attack of reticence, and seemed anxious to talk about Miss Corner.
"She under-rated the local intelligence," he said. "Really, she was an extraordinary mixture of simplicity and acuteness. But she had a fund of good nature and courage and was the most vital person I knew. I cannot tell you how much I miss her."
The doctor's listless eyelids drooped no longer and his voice was animated. Ignatius, who was watching him closely, believed that his regret was genuine.
"People played her too low," continued the doctor, "because she believed in her own literary trash. But was her attitude so absurd? She made money by her writing, and she always declared that no fiction could be a financial success if written with the tongue in the cheek. It seems to me a sign of brain-power that she willed herself to believe in her own poor stuff. Besides, it gave her pleasure and that, in itself, was a tonic for her."
Ignatius made an admirable listener, while the doctor continued to talk in the same strain, in a post-mortem oration to his friend. But, at its end, he harked back to an original remark.
"You spoke, just now, of a 'false' suspicion. But I possess evidence that Miss Corner did write that letter to Miss Asprey."
"No," declared the doctor. "She was incapable of such poisonous spite."
"We'll soon clear up that point," said Ignatius. "Can you tell me the initial of Miss Asprey's second Christian name?"
"She hasn't a second name," declared the doctor. "On one or two occasions, I've required her signature on certificates."
"Apparently, she hasn't had one for about forty-five years," said Ignatius. "Names go through cycles of unpopularity or ridicule, and, as a child, she took a violent dislike to