THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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today."
"No," suggested Vivian. "Better wire it over the phone. It's quicker."
"I will. And I must let Lady d'Arcy know at once. I'll ring her up—and Mrs. Scudamore."
"You'll have trouble in getting through to Mrs. Scudamore," remarked the Squire grimly. "Her line's permanently out of order."
"Oh dear, I forgot. How dreadful of me." Mrs. Sheriff lowered her voice. "Vivian, I want to send flowers. But is it the usual funeral?"
"They're burying the usual body," grunted the Squire.
"You don't understand, Osbert. This is suicide. There are probably differences. Flowers may be in bad taste...I do wish someone could tell me."
She knew that she was missing Mrs. Scudamore, who would have known exactly how to behave in such a case. Even now, she vaguely feared to offend the guardian of public taste by outraging her funeral.
"Anyway," she said, blinking away a tear, "I shall go and see her, and strew some of my own lilies inside her coffin, where no one will see them. But I should like her to have known about Vivian. She'd have been most interested."
The postman proved the bearer of other important news that morning. Among the letters which he brought for Ignatius, was one that the little man read with keen interest.
He looked up from the flimsy, typed pages with a chuckle.
"I've just got the reports in from my confidential enquiry agent. In view of the latest development they're invaluable. They prove that I am on the right track."
The Rector frowned.
"Are you burrowing into the private affairs of my parishioners?" he asked.
"I told you I had done so. Don't you ever listen to me? I say nothing that is irrelevant."
"Well—what have you discovered?"
"A little back-history of two ladies. Don't worry. It is all very discreet."
"It's indecent."
"No, they'll never know. I keep within limits. I would like to question the old clergyman who lunched here the other day; but I knew that it would be an outrage, and that he would refuse—and properly so—to tell me anything."
The Rector sighed heavily.
"When will all this end?" he asked.
"Soon, I hope," replied Ignatius. "But it is essential to get a specimen of the handwriting—or rather, the printing—of our anonymous friend. We have only Miss Asprey's envelope. That's where you can be useful."
"How?"
"Preach on the tragedy, and make it one of your special efforts. Heavy guns. Don't ask your congregation for their secrets—for you won't get them. But appeal for the envelope in which any letter has been sent. Someone might have kept theirs."
"Do you mean to tell me that there have been other letters, besides Mrs. Scudamore's?" asked the Rector, aghast.
"My good man, they've been broadcast over the village. Everyone knows about them—except you."
The Rector took the taunt in silence. He was horrified to learn that, all this time, a poisonous sewer had been flowing just under the surface of his clear, sparkling river. The village was tainted by an undertow.
"Very well," he said. "I will do my best to induce someone to speak."
Even though the world in general had to wait twenty-four hours for the formal announcement of Vivian's engagement, the news was soon known locally, through the usual village wireless. It was a pleasant antidote to the Scudamore tragedy. Only one person—Joan Brook—was not moved to unselfish pleasure.
She was still restless and unhappy on her own account, and was too honest to force jubilation over the good-fortune of a girl she did not like.
That evening, after sunset, Ignatius met her, drooping on the green.
"So you've overcome your fear of the dark?" he asked.
She smiled back, glad, for once, of his spiteful company.
"Amusing fiction, isn't it? I've got two fists and a complete set of finger-nails, besides a kick like a kangaroo...Hulloa, Edie."
She broke off to greet a tall, overgrown girl of about sixteen, who had just emerged from the shadow of the chestnut avenue. She was walking quickly while she finished eating a wedge of Cornish pasty, cramming the crust inside her mouth, in her haste to swallow it.
"Eating as usual?" went on Joan. "You'll lose your waistline. Anyone would think you were kept short."
"Oh, no, miss," protested Edie. "I get plenty to eat in my place. But mother's baking, and she gave me this, just to try."
Joan looked after her retreating figure.
"That girl worries me," she said. "She goes home, every evening, to see her mother, and I meet her coming back, always eating. But she is growing thinner. What d'you make of it?"
It was Ignatius' chance, and he took it.
"It is evident that she doesn't get enough to eat at her employer's and dare not complain, because of local prejudice. Probably her mother is in poor circumstances and is supported by charity."
"Good shot. That girl's mistress is a philanthropist and does an awful lot of good. But she's terribly refined, and thinks it's gross to eat too much. She and her daughter divide an egg between them for their lunch, and their old cook-housekeeper is a shrivelled mummy, and does the same...It's not meanness. They simply don't understand a growing girl has an appetite. I expect there's a regular allowance for food and it's never been altered. But isn't it hopeless?"
"It illustrates an abuse of the Feudal System, which seems to work so excellently here. I've no doubt that girl's family is much better off than most families on the Dole. So, naturally, her mother would forbid her to say a word."
"If she did, she wouldn't be believed," declared Joan. "Suppose, for instance, I tackled her mistress, she would merely suspect Edie of telling lies, and me of being a mischief-maker. She could only be influenced by the pressure of public opinion. And there's no one here—not even the Rector—who would attack a pillar of all the charitable societies."
She shook back her mane of hair impatiently.
"What's the use of talking when you can't do anything? I am going to stroll through the village before I get back. I love it when it's lit up and everyone indoors."
Ignatius walked with her to the end of the village. Joan was silent, most of the time, as she gazed into shadowy gardens, choked with flowers and lumpy with bee-hives, or lingered to stare at lighted windows.
They turned back when they reached the dark stretch of country, outside the 'King's Head'. On their return journey, Joan was moved to another confidence.
"I'm always fascinated by this night-scene. It reminds me of something out of a play. I have a friend who writes, and she once turned it all into a sensational serial. According to her, everyone here led a double life. The extraordinary part is, she was right about the Scudamores."
"Did she say they were not married?" asked Ignatius.
"She said they were living in sin, and she made up an idiotic yarn, describing Mrs. Scudamore's absurd French farce pyjamas and the bucket of champagne, tied up with a pink ribbon bow."
"What else did she say?"
"I forget. Oh, she pretended Miss Corner was a secret drinker. That was rather odd, too, for I heard they found a bottle of whisky inside her wardrobe. She said, too, that the doctor was poisoning his wife."
"I wish he would. But he won't. Anything else?"
"You are interested," laughed Joan. "Let me think. Yes, this really will amuse you. She declared that Miss Asprey was a monster of cruelty and that she ill-treated her poor little companion."
"Aha.