Fear Stalks the Village (Murder Mystery Classic). Ethel Lina White
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ladies from town. As for your doctor, he's slowly poisoning his wife, and their tennis is his opportunity. When they've finished their game, she'll be thirsty, and her devoted husband will see to it that she gets the right quencher. Something safe, and very painful."
"Ugh," grimaced Joan. "When I'm Mrs. Padre, I'll ban your novels in our village library."
Once again she was urged to speak recklessly of her designs on the Rector, from a clouded feeling that she was protecting herself from the unforgivable charge of sentiment. Lighting another cigarette, she strolled after her friend, who was peering through the scrolls of lacey iron-work which ornamented the gates of 'The Spout'.
In the distance, against a background of laurels, the novelist saw an austere, silver-haired woman, seated on a bench beside a lily-pond. Her hands were clasped and her eyes raised as though in meditation. She held her pose so rigidly that the folds of her white gown appeared to be carven marble, creating the illusion of an enshrined saint.
But even as the novelist readjusted her monocle, the statue dissolved into life at a touch of warm humanity. Down the yew alley, pottered a little dumpy woman, carrying a glass of milk on a tray. The tall lady patted her shoulders, in thanks, and then drained the glass hastily, as though in obedience to the laws of nutrition, but with a supreme contempt for digestion.
When she walked towards the house, followed by her companion, the difference in their heights was ludicrous, for she was above the usual stature, while her employee was below the average.
"Miss Asprey and her companion, Miss Mack," whispered Joan. "She's an earthly saint, and so good she's not quite human. Miss Mack simply worships her, and runs after her like a little dog."
"Then they shall go into my serial," announced the novelist. "Listen. In reality, your pure, saintly Miss Asprey is a secret sadist. Directly the blinds are drawn, she will begin to torture her poor little companion."
"Can you help being a fool?" asked Joan unkindly.
"You asked for this story, didn't you? Now I'll outline the plot, while we're waiting to go to the bus."
Leaning against the white posts which ringed the green, Joan listened dreamily to her friend's sensational story, which foamed with melodramatic incidents. But even while she laughed at its utter absurdity, she resented it, subconsciously, as an outrage.
'What's the matter with me?' she wondered. 'Purley's really terribly funny. It's only a leg-pull. But—it's cheap.'
She was grateful when her friend grew tired, and glanced at her watch.
"Better be pushing on," she remarked. "Although I just hate to leave this."
The grass was like water-silk, mottled with bars of sunken gold and the cottages rocked through a lavender mist. Twilight was veiling the street as they walked towards the inn, but there were no lights in the village. People sat at open windows, or hung over gates, exchanging greetings and gossip with passers-by. Everyone seemed to be sharing the universal friendship of this interval 'between the lights'.
The moment of withdrawal was at hand.
Presently the novelist stopped, arrested by the sight of a dim, low, lath-and-plaster building, enclosed within a paved garden.
"Gosh, I can smell mildew," she said. "I take it, that is the oldest house in the village."
"I knew you'd make that mistake," exulted Joan. "Every tripper does. That's only a fake-antique, built from fragments of old barns, and it's got every sort of modern improvement. I love it, but the village resents it, especially as its owner is a newcomer. She's only been here eleven years."
"Who's the lucky woman?" sighed the novelist.
"Our local novelist—Miss Julia Corner."
Instantly the writer registered that automatic nonrecognition of her profession towards other members of the tribe.
"Never heard of her. What name does she write under?"
"Her own, and she does jolly well, too. She's a dear old Jumbo, with a perfectly grim sense of humour."
"Hum." The novelist thought of her own tiny mansion-flat. "Evidently, she makes virtue pay. Any special line?"
"Yes, she's the President of our local Temperance Society, and she makes the children sign the Pledge."
"Then, to pay her out for having a better house than me, I'll put her into my serial. She's a secret drinker and hides a bottle of whisky in her wardrobe. At this minute, she is lying under the bed, dead drunk."
Even as she spoke, the oaken door, white with age, was opened, and a massive figure blocked the entry, waving a teapot, in welcome.
"Come in for a cup of tea," she shouted.
"Sorry, but we're catching the bus," called Joan.
Instantly Miss Corner swayed down the flagged path to the garden gate, moving with the deceptive speed of an elephant. The writer from London saw a big red face, radiant with good-nature, bobbed iron-grey hair—cut in a fringe—and beaming eyes behind large horn-rimmed spectacles. Miss Corner wore an infantile Buster Brown blouse, adorned with wide collar and ribbon bow, and a grey tweed skirt.
"I'm just writing a short tale for the Christmas Number of a Boy's Annual," she announced proudly. "It's commissioned, of course. I take a generic interest in boys. Won't you come in and be introduced to my collaborator—Captain Kettle?"
She laughed heartily at her joke, but the source of her amusement was the stranger's painted lips and monocle. When Joan introduced her friend, she held out her big hand cordially.
"A fellow writer?" she exclaimed. "What name do you write under?"
"I'm sorry, but we mustn't stop," said Joan hastily.
"Pity," remarked Miss Corner. "I should love to talk shop. For instance, do you let yourself be grabbed by your characters, or do you go out deliberately to collect copy?"
"She's already found a story in this village," said Joan.
"Then I presume it's for your Parish Magazine," grinned Miss Corner. "Well, since you persist in going, I must return to my boys. Good-bye. Give my love to my special boy—Eros."
They heard her chuckle rumbling from behind the sweet-briar hedge as they walked away.
"What'd you think of her?" asked Joan.
The novelist did not reply, for she was suddenly gripped with overwhelming nostalgia. At that moment, London seemed so far away—a place to which she would never return. She felt as though she were being held by the village—no longer a sunset pool of beauty—but a witched, forgotten spot of whispers, and echoes, and old musty twilight stories.
"Are we far from the inn?" she asked wearily.
"No. Nearly there."
"Good. I could do with a gin-and-it."
The King's Head was a long, low, ancient building, with the faded oil-painting of some dead monarch pendant above its doorway. A faint glow from a hanging ironwork lantern flickered feebly on peeling plaster walls and tiny lattice windows. The writer flopped down on an old settle and stared out at the spread of dark silent country.
"Didn't you want a drink?" asked Joan hospitably.
"No. Desire is dead."
The friends sat in silence, which was presently broken by the novelist.
"Do people ever try to get away from here?" she asked.
"They don't want to," replied Joan. "Miss Asprey has a housemaid—Ada—who's the most beautiful girl I've seen. You'd think she'd want to go on the Stage or the Films, but her only ambition is to be Miss Asprey's parlourmaid. It would take about a ton of dynamite to shift her to Hollywood."
The writer made no comment, for her very mind seemed root-bound.
And then—suddenly—the miracle happened. Two golden sparks appeared in the distance, while a