THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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Rector continued to frown.
"I can't leave things like this," he declared. "The suspense is torture. I must tackle Joan about it. I know I can believe her."
"No, you must leave that part to me," commanded Ignatius. "You'd only wreck the whole thing. Remember, you're under a pledge of secrecy to Mrs. Pomfret...How can we get hold of Miss Brook in a natural way?"
"We might call on Lady d'Arcy this afternoon," suggested the Rector. "I'll talk to her and give you your chance to sound Joan. I shall have to trust you. Don't frighten her. Give her every loophole to clear herself, and don't judge by the surface."
Ignatius merely smiled in an acid manner. He drove the Rector, and his inevitable dog, over to the Court, that afternoon, when his car covered the distance so quickly that Charles—who expected an outing—was plainly disgusted at this misuse of his property.
It was a still hot day, when the trees in the park hung motionless, in dark-green umbrellas of shade, and clouds of gnats danced in the sunshine, like quivering sheets of bronze gauze.
When they reached the pillared portico of the vast biscuit Georgian erection, they were disappointed to see another car waiting on the drive. Blind to the workings of Destiny, they could not tell that Lady d'Arcy's visitors were to be instrumental in clearing up their mystery.
These turned out to be the Misses Martin, of the Towers; and both the Rector and Ignatius heard them before they actually entered the drawing-room. Lady d'Arcy, looking utterly lost, was being battered by the barrage of conversation; while Joan—cool and attractively sunburnt in white—did her best to reassemble her, and to shield her from direct hits.
Even after the interruption of the two men's arrival, Miss Martin held the general attention, by sheer determination and powerful lungs. She and her sister were exactly what Ignatius had expected from Mrs. Scudamore's description of 'unaffected', as applied to wealth; for both were good natured and frank to rudeness.
They talked exclusively of their travels, or rather, of a special topic incidental to their travels.
"The Arabs are terrible thieves. They stick up the price of everything. Cairo's quite played-out. It's lousy with tourists, and there's not even the smell of a bargain. But the Chinese are a shade more honest. We got some gorgeous shawls dirt-cheap in Canton, didn't we, Con?...Italy, now that's a beautiful country. Real blue sky, not like this. We nearly bought up one village shop. They didn't know the value of their goods. But there's nothing in Rome—except the sights."
Constance Martin agreed with everything her sister said, and added some specialised information on the subject of securing a bargain.
"We want to see the gardens," declared Miss Martin, "and then we must push off. We're doing all our return-calls in one day, so as to get them over."
"Yes, we've just come from 'The Spout,'" said Constance. "The old lady looks as if she was cracking at last."
Everyone looked slightly startled at this description of the immortal Saint Asprey. Then Joan intercepted a glance which flashed between Ignatius and the Rector. As the men rose to go, she asked a question.
"Oh, padre, how are my Altar flowers standing the heat?"
"Dropping all over the place," answered Ignatius quickly.
"I was rather doubtful of that white campanula. I'll bring down some fresh flowers this evening."
"A wasted afternoon," complained the Rector as they drove back through the park.
"I'm not so sure," said Ignatius. "I am interested in Miss Brook's personality. Exactly how astute is she? Was that a clever move of hers to secure sanctuary?"
"How could she tell we were going to ask her anything?"
"She'd only to look at you, to know something was on your mind. And she's familiar with your special obsession. She's cleverer than you. The question is—Is she cleverer than I?"
Ignatius stood, as sentry, at the Rectory gate that evening, when he reported Joan's arrival at the church, to the Rector. A few minutes later, the two men entered the ancient building, through the West door. Directly she saw them, Joan left her station on the Altar-steps and went to meet them.
"I've tidied up," she said, nodding towards the vases. Then she turned directly to the Rector. "You're not really going, are you?"
"Not now," he replied gravely.
"Oh...Then someone sent you something? What is it? An anonymous letter, or only the envelope?"
"The envelope...Do you know anything about it?"
Joan shook her head, with a light laugh.
"How should I? Who was this letter sent to?"
"That I cannot say."
"I see. You're to do all the asking, and I'm to do all the telling. Sorry. It doesn't appeal."
Ignatius saw that the Rector was helpless before the mockery of her smile. When he intervened, his own eyes were inquisitorial, and his lips hard as twisted wire. They compelled Joan to be serious, and she looked at the ruthless face. "Miss Brook"—his voice cut like a whip—"the letter has been traced to you."
"To me?" Joan's voice was light, but she was plainly on guard. "How is that possible?"
"By the stamp."
"Still, I don't understand? Did it tell you?"
"Yes. It was marked."
"That's interesting, because I haven't bought any stamps since I've come here. I never write letters."
"Then how do you communicate with your family and your friends?"
"I ring them up and talk to them over the phone."
"Oh, come, Miss Brook," said Ignatius impatiently. "Surely you cannot expect me to believe that you never write even a note?"
"If I do, it's only an occasional one. So I take one of Lady d'Arcy's stamps. A secretary's perks, you know. Isn't there a proverb about not muzzling the ox that treads out the corn, or something?"
As Joan made her fatal admission, Ignatius glanced at the Rector, and saw that the blow had been a heavy one. At that moment, he was almost sorry for the girl, because of the airy triumph with which she believed she had proved her innocence. He was about to question her further, when the Rector intervened.
"That's enough. You're not the Counsel for the Prosecution."
His voice softened as he turned to Joan.
"Joan, I wonder if you'd be very angry if I asked you a question. Whatever your answer is, I shall believe you. And the matter will be closed for ever."
Joan opened her lips impulsively, and then hesitated. Ignatius guessed at the swift chase of her thoughts as she first pressed her finger against her teeth, and then glanced at her watch.
"I'll answer anything, of course," she declared, "as long as it's not my real age. But you'll have to cut it short for I'm due back at the Court, to make up a four at Bridge, after dinner. So I've got to hurry. If you'll come outside with me, while I throw these in the stoke-hole, it will save time."
As the Rector picked up her empty basket, she snatched up the bundle of dead flowers and ran from the church, towards the furnace-house. Ignatius followed her, with an offer to help; but she almost thrust him aside, as she mounted the tiny flight of steps and faced the Rector.
"What is your question?" she asked.
He looked closely into her clear eyes.
"Have you written an anonymous letter?" he asked.
She looked back at him with a steady, unfaltering gaze. "No," she replied. "Never."
"Thank you." The Rector caught his breath. "Will you forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive. Don't be sorry about nothing. My basket. Thanks. Good-bye, padre. I'm glad you're not going."