THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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do," said Joan. "I know I'm a horn blunderer. I've dropped more bricks than any other girl of my weight in England. But the whole trouble is—I usually hand round the truth."
"I'm sure of it. You've got breadth between your eyes. I shouldn't think you could tell a lie."
"No, I'm not a liar. I was brought up by a grandmother, who was a queer old character, but pretty fine in her way. She had some grim ethics, but they seemed to work out all right. She used to say, 'Never tell a lie. Lies are miserable, petty things that brand you a coward. But, if you ever have to tell one, tell a big lie and stick to it.'"
"Now I know that, you may have me guessing, one day. But it's fine."
In spite of his praise, Joan knew that she was sharing his attention with the postman, who was trudging through the wild parsley which bordered the lane.
"The last post," said Ignatius. "That postman is the hero of our scenario. I wonder what he is bringing Miss Sheriff."
Vivian—slim as a crescent moon in her white frock—slipped out of the garden and took a letter from the postman. They heard the glassy tinkle of her laugh as she rejoined the Major.
"He's brought her no thrill, anyway," said Joan.
"Don't believe it," Ignatius told her. "Like all of us, she has her secret life."
Suddenly Joan thought of her novelist-friend as she stared at him.
"Odd you should say that," she remarked. "But I have to go. I'm paid for my company. Give my love to the little Rector."
"Little?"
"Yes. I always call people 'little' when I like them."
Ignatius accepted the oblique compliment, and—as Joan had anticipated—recalled her to the Rector's memory, by praising her, at dinner.
When the sunset glow was drowning in the violet sea of twilight, they strolled over the green. The Rector glanced at the tower of the Clock House, and suddenly felt sociable.
"The Scudamores will be back from their walk. Let's go in. They're so normal, they always do me good."
The lawyer and his wife had proved their moral superiority to the new conditions. Although they did not give any formal entertainment, after their one experience of refusals, they continued to invite other couples to dine, while Mrs. Scudamore rarely drank her afternoon tea without the company of a picked acquaintance or friend.
Directly the two men were inside, they felt the formal atmosphere of the house; even the cat dressed for dinner, for his shift-front was immediately white against his black coat.
Mr. and Mrs. Scudamore were in the pleasant drawing-room, drinking barley-water, which they invited their guests to drink, on the score of health. From health, it was a natural step to illness.
"Heard how the Squire is today?" asked the lawyer.
"Is he ill?" asked the Rector. "Perry's never mentioned going to the Hall."
The lawyer and his wife exchanged glances.
"Probably he was taken ill, when he was in Cheltenham, so saw a local doctor," said Mrs. Scudamore. "I know it was sudden."
"That sounds probable," agreed the Rector, shying from the same unpleasant possibility which was troubling the lawyer. "What's the matter with him?"
"Blood-poisoning. Sharp attack, which might have proved fatal, only it was taken in time...No, they wouldn't have had time to wait to get Perry...But this is the funny part about it."
Mr. Scudamore was glad to get away from the doctor, for he stressed his account of the illness. Ignatius listened with boredom, which suddenly sharpened to attention.
"He had some fish at a restaurant, in Cheltenham, which was tainted. He only swallowed enough to taste it, and then sent it away and ordered something else—cold meat in jelly. And that was where he went wrong. The Squire told me that the doctor explained to him, that, as he'd eaten so little fish, and was in very good shape, it would have passed harmlessly through his system...But he chose a second dish which had jelly; and the gelatine proved the right medium to incubate the poison-germs."
They all agreed it was tough luck. And then Ignatius looked around the discreetly tinted room, with its stiff arrangement of good furniture, its family treasures and shaded lamps, and deliberately asked an inapposite question.
"Have you received an anonymous letter, Mr. Scudamore?"
"Certainly not," replied the lawyer. "In my opinion the whole unsavoury nonsense is ended."
"I agree with my husband," said Mrs. Scudamore.
"My wife should be in a position to judge," said the lawyer proudly. "She probably meets more people socially, than anyone else in the village, although she never listens to gossip."
Ignatius saw that their assurance was, to the Rector, as drink to a droughty man. He bowed his head in his old grand manner, like a Roman Emperor accepting tribute, as Mrs. Scudamore gazed at him with her large mild eyes.
"I think your attitude is the only right one, Rector. We must go on as usual, and forget. A sore cannot heal if it is perpetually rubbed."
Ignatius felt that she was trying to say, in a lady-like manner, 'For Heaven's sake, padre, get rid of that little brute, who will keep stirring a wasp's nest, in the hope of gingering up a last stinger'.
While they sat and smoked—with the exception of their hostess—the last post was brought in to Mrs. Scudamore. It was one letter in a thick white envelope, with a crest, and the lawyer could not resist the temptation of a comment.
"That looks like Mrs. Bevan's handwriting."
"Yes," smiled his wife, "that must be the invitation to the wedding." She added, in explanation, "The Bishop's eldest daughter is being married next month. I promised to be present."
Ignatius saw the pleasure that the Rector received from this item of social intelligence. The mere name of 'Bishop' seemed a spell to exorcise the spirit of malicious slander.
Ignatius was so silent on their homeward walk that the Rector began to exult.
"You're sulking," he declared, "because you don't want to be cheated out of your puzzle. But Scudamore is the most level-headed lawyer in the district, and he held the same view as myself."
Ignatius shook his head.
"I was thinking about the Squire's illness," he said. "It gave me a useful pointer. Suppose the original poison was present in the village, lying dormant, probably harmless, until the chance introduction of the innocent gelatine. But what, exactly, is our gelatine? I should know if I could make certain who wrote that first letter...And, when I try to solve that problem, I find myself blocked by another."
"And what is that?" asked the Rector indulgently.
"The problem of a woman," replied Ignatius. "A woman who never smiles."
CHAPTER XX — POSTAL REGULATIONS
As the days merged into each other, without jar or incident, even Ignatius seemed to accept his status in the village as a summer guest. The Rector was glad of his company, for he was an easy visitor, and his own car provided his entertainment. Insignificant as a monkey on a milk-float, he steered his glittering monster through the winding lanes, with Charles Dickens—who had acquired a luxury complex—for passenger.
He developed one habit, however, which gradually got on the Rector's nerves. Every evening, when the first distant knock sounded down the street, he used to go to the gate and watch the postman's tubby figure, rolling from door to door.
"What's he bringing?" he used to ask. "Which of them is going to get theirs tonight?"
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