THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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morning he announced his intention of paying a visit to the Post Office.
"I must find out if any of our new issue of stamps is in circulation," he said.
The Rector suddenly became preoccupied with his dog. "Charles, you're getting fat. Too many rides...I never thought much of that idea of yours, old man."
"Neither did I," agreed Ignatius. "I confess I know nothing about setting traps. It is the business of the police. If you had given them the job they would know how to tackle it, from A to Z...But you must admit, I am specially in the dark, as everyone has thoughtfully destroyed all the evidence. I have only one envelope to work on."
"One for me," said the Rector. "Of course, I tore up mine. It's a natural recoil."
"Never mind. My mind is still working on remote possibilities. For your sake, I'm not neglecting sidelines. Miss Reed's trap seemed clumsy and creaky, but it may catch something. I'm off to see."
Ignatius drew on his hat, which shaded his face, so that he looked like a slim school-boy, and strolled into the garden. The Rector shouted after him a piece of news.
"I've a visitor coming for lunch. Another parson. One sharp."
Unaware of future benefits, Ignatius pulled a face at the prospect, while, behind his back, the Rector grimaced like a culprit expectant of blame.
Directly Ignatius entered the Post Office—a floral bower of white Seven Sisters rose-clusters—he learned the secret of the Rector's uneasy conscience. Miss Cassie Reed nodded to him coldly, and held out a ten-pound note.
"I've been expecting you," she said. "Please to take this back. I'm not going on with it."
In spite of his former pose, Ignatius was staggered by the check.
"Haven't you sold any of the books of stamps?" he asked.
"Yes, one, I'm sorry to say. To Lady d'Arcy."
Ignatius recalled a vast vague lady to his memory.
"Why have you changed your mind?" he asked.
"I never liked it, from the first," declared Miss Reed. "But I thought that as you were staying with the Rector, he wanted it. I remembered his sermons. And I was carried away, to help. I slept on it, but still I didn't like it, one little bit. After I sold the first book to Lady d'Arcy I felt a traitor to my position of trust."
"And then, I suppose, you tackled the parson?" asked Ignatius.
"Yes, I spoke to the Rector, and told him that it was a sacrifice of all my principles. And when he said that he had nothing to do with it, himself, I destroyed the list of names and took all the marked books of stamps out of the drawer."
"But you mustn't be put to any loss," declared Ignatius.
"That's all right. The stamps have their face-value. I can dispose of them to friends in London, and elsewhere...But not one shall be sold in this district, where they might do harm."
"I'm glad of that," said Ignatius. "But I'm exceedingly sorry to have given any pain to a lady of your high principle."
Miss Reed made her swift mental comment. 'Soft soap. He wants something else.'
But although Ignatius made his request, he had no real hope.
"I suppose it's no good asking you if any more printed envelopes have been delivered in this village?"
"That's right," agreed Miss Reed. "It isn't. And it's no use trying to bribe the postman. I knew we're supposed to read all the postcards, in the country, but that's only comic-paper stuff. You'll get nothing out of Tomlinson, but what he wants you to know—and that's not enough to spread on the head of a pin."
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of bribing a Post Office official," protested Ignatius.
"And why not indeed? You tried to bribe me."
Ignatius looked at her, marking her neat grey crop, her tight, shrimp-pink face, her spikey blue eyes. At that moment he knew why crimes were committed. This hostile little woman could tell him what—at that stage, he wanted to know most.
He had that object only in view when he proposed the stupid issue of marked stamps. It was merely a Knight's move—an oblique approach to his objective. He had hoped to establish a partnership between them, in order to gain her confidence, and, gradually, to pave the way to a betrayal of official confidence.
He looked so small and dejected, as he turned to go, that Miss Reed, who was, herself, as light as a sparrow, felt sorry for him.
"I can never forgive myself," he told her. "I hope you will bear me no ill-will."
"Now that I'm straight with myself, I've nothing against you," she said. "But I stand for the Government of England."
When Ignatius walked out of the Post Office he almost expected to see the Union Jack floating from the small building, and to hear the strains of the National Anthem.
It was not until his stratagem had failed that he knew how much he had counted on it. He strolled through the village, glancing at the passers-by, with baffled curiosity. They all wore their masks—or were they their usual morning faces? Not a single person looked short of a night's rest, except the Rector.
'Of course,' he argued, 'an anonymous letter would be merely an annoyance, until it went near the bone. No one here may have walked in the mud, or been out in the rain.'
On the green, he was accosted by Marianne Perry, rather to his annoyance. She looked a beautiful wanton, in a transparent frock, although its colour—a deep coffee cream—could not irritate his fastidious taste.
"Will you have lunch with a murderer's wife?" she asked lightly.
He did not smile as he answered her in his most formal manner.
"I should be delighted. Only I have to return to a clerical lunch-party."
"I know," she nodded. "Roast saddle of mutton and onion-sauce. I make you a better offer. Come in, and have one on the house. No? What can I do for you? You look lost. Shall I tell you the way to the Rectory?"
"Thanks, no. I have no wish to be led up the garden."
Marianne nodded and left him. A laughing lady, of fluid lines and fleet feet, she skimmed over the Green, and ran into her garden.
There was the usual nursery festival on the lawn, where the babies, with a nurse and nursemaid in attendance, were splashing about in the canvas swimming-bath.
As Marianne lingered to admire Mickey, who was 'almost' swimming, her smile faded, and a horseshoe of worry appeared between her eyes.
"Isn't he rather pale, Nurse?" she asked. "You don't think he's anaemic?"
The nurse pursed up her lips. Marianne paid her the high salary she had demanded on the strength of her short engagement by a titled lady; but the woman was a born bluffer, and chiefly justified her wages by her extravagant suggestions.
As Marianne possessed the mentality which despised Jordan, her confidence in her expensive nurse was absolute. She waited anxiously while the woman thought of a new way to waste the doctor's money.
"The children ought to go to the sea," she declared. "It is too relaxing here. They want salt water to strengthen their bones."
"Then they must go," declared Marianne.
Whistling like a blackbird, she ran into the study, where the doctor, in a shabby alpaca coat, was raking through the pigeon-holes of his desk to find a formula.
"Horatio," she chanted, "you've got to send the family to the sea."
"No," said the doctor. "The change of food and habits will do more harm than good. Babies are best in the country."
"But Nurse says they must go."
"Then that settles it. I suppose Nurse will pay?"
"Aha, I'm glad you mentioned payment. Her wages are due tomorrow. Write me out a nice