THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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next morning, I made discreet enquiries of the Postmistress, and a few others, and established the fact that the lady was known, locally, as 'Miss Asprey', although everyone knew her Christian name—'Decima'. But no one could tell me of a second Christian name—"
"Was that why you called on her?" asked the Rector.
"Yes, and I went early, purposely, to get a peep at her old books. I wanted to find out when the second initial was dropped. I failed in my design, but Miss Asprey confirmed my guess at the dropped second name. She also revealed herself to me as a preordained victim for blackmail, owing to her sensitive vanity. Like a soldier who has been shot in rather a ridiculous place, she would rather suffer anything than admit that she had accused herself of having a Past."
Ignatius stopped to smile at a recollection.
"Wait," he said, "I must be fair to her. Once, she was on the point of confession. It was after your historical sermon, when you threatened your flock with desertion. She came back to the church, but Miss Mack followed her, and headed her off. She could not screw up her courage for a second effort. I realised, then, the strength of Miss Mack's hypnotic hold over her."
"Go on," said the Rector, with his first show of real interest.
"Miss Mack seemed to suspect me, for she followed me into the garden, when I visited Miss Asprey. To throw her off the scent, I pretended to believe she was the victim of Miss Asprey's secret cruelty, and offered my help...Then, I reviewed the situation.
"As I told you, there were two explanations. The obvious was that Miss Corner had written both letters. But—if she did not know Miss Asprey had a second Christian name, the only other person who could conceivably have written it, was Miss Asprey herself."
The little man's face radiated joy in his acuteness.
"The one explanation seemed to entail another. I was perplexed as to the hold Miss Mack had over her employer, and guessed there must be some evidence. I remembered, too, that Miss Mack was the natural custodian of the waste-paper-basket. It seemed probable that Miss Asprey would not write her anonymous letter without first making some sort of rough draft, in her own writing. It was evident that, when she made her printed copy, the mere repetition of the charges had inflamed her to such a state of emotional frenzy that she unconsciously used her discarded initial when she addressed the envelope.
"She would not, therefore, realise the importance of the draft, which she presumably threw away."
Ignatius crowed with triumph, as he waved a long finger at the Rector.
"You see, Tigger? I knew there must be a draft, which Miss Mack had got hold of, and which was proof of authorship of the letters. When I had established this probability, I instructed a private enquiry agent to find out something about Miss Asprey and Miss Mack. He had no trouble in verifying Miss Mack's past, as a thief. He also got in touch with a contemporary of Miss Asprey's, who was at her last school, with her, and she told him of her hysteria.
"I had further proof of this, when that old clergyman came to lunch. Of course, decency forbade me to ask questions of him, and he would have told me nothing, if I had. But it seemed evident, from his reluctance to meet Miss Asprey again, that he wished to spare her a painful and embarrassing memory. So I was sure that she had given way to a violent fit of hysteria, when she crashed, and gave up her work, and that he had been a witness of it."
"I see now," said the Rector, "why it all hinged on who wrote that first letter."
"At last," sighed Ignatius. "I don't think there is much more to add. I kept my eye on that poison-head. The Scudamore tragedy proved that letters were being received, while, in the absence of general blackmail, Miss Asprey appeared to be the natural victim. I also discovered that Miss Asprey searched the house, to discover the draft, and, on one occasion, obtained it, for there was a struggle, when Miss Asprey was hurt. Joan Brook was with me when we heard her cry out in pain."
"Horrible," shuddered the Rector.
"It was. To my mind, there was something hideously grim in the way those two women clung to each other, like vines. In order to protect her guests, Miss Asprey did not dare let Miss Mack out of her sight, while even my offer of travel would not tempt the leech to leave her victim...Of course, I had to await developments and definite proof. And that is all."
The Rector stopped rubbing his eyeballs.
"I know I should thank you, Ignatius," he said. "But I'm thinking of my beautiful village. It stood for so much. What is left to me?"
"Everything," declared Ignatius. "All this should confirm your belief in human nature. To begin with, I expect nearly everyone here has received an anonymous letter; but they only reacted to the general uneasiness, and certainly did not lose their sleep. All this proves a marvellously healthy moral record, and sound consciences.
"Miss Asprey shows up well, too. Although she worshiped popularity, she laid herself under suspicion of bullying her companion, rather than expose Miss Mack in her true character of a shop-lifter.
"Even my old enemy, Miss Corner, was rather decent, for, although she didn't care specially for Miss Asprey, she never gossiped about old school-days.
"The Scudamore tragedy was nothing but a triumph of false social values. And the whole wretched business has served to rid Miss Asprey of a dangerous parasite, who would not have been satisfied until she drained her dry."
The Rector's face was a study in conflicting emotions, as he listened to the long speech. Presently, the light returned to his eye, as he felt a gush of his old joy of life. He wanted to thank his friend for his deliverance, but found himself suddenly tongue-tied. Therefore, although he did not know it, he showed his gratitude to Ignatius in the way most calculated to please him. He asked him a last question.
"You spoke of a woman who never smiled. Who is she?"
"Miss Mack, of course," replied Ignatius.
"But she is always smiling," said the Rector.
Ignatius was in his element, as he explained.
"That is exactly why I said she never smiles. A person will smile to express certain pleasant emotions—kindness, joy, amusement, and so on. But, as no one can experience perpetual happiness, a perpetual smile cancels itself out. I was on my guard directly I realised that Miss Mack's smile was no clue to her nature, but was worn as a mask."
A little later, Ignatius took his last walk through the village, accompanied by the Rector. The rain had ceased and the air was washed and fragrant. The black-and-white Tudor cottages gleamed under the starlight, like models of ebon and ivory. Every window was screened with its glowing blind of rose or orange.
Each house preserved its privacy, even while it had nothing to hide. There were no sinister secrets. Inside was domestic peace—contented maids in the kitchen, well-fed cats on the rug. Clocks ticked serenely, and music was drawn from the air.
The postman's knock sounded faintly in the distance. He was bringing the last post—family news, invitations, Charity appeals, receipted bills.
That was all. For nothing had happened here. Nothing would ever happen.
THE END
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