British Mysteries Collection: 7 Novels & Detective Story. Ethel Lina White
as he wondered whether he should try to repeat his success, and kiss the hand of the afflicted lady in farewell. But she seemed to have forgotten his existence, so he followed Miss Mack's hint, and left.
He carried away with him a memory of Miss Asprey's face glimmering whitely against the dark wood, as though she were already enshrined, and fading away to the bleak immortality of a saint.
He walked slowly back to the Rectory, in a depressed mood, and horrified at the mere idea that his perfect village sheltered a poisonous mind. But as he passed each person of the limited social circle in review, he was able to shake his head and brace his shoulders, as though he had shaken off a load.
No one he knew could have done this thing. To his mind, it was obvious that this letter had been written by some unbalanced person who had known Miss Asprey in the past, and who bore her a grudge. The fact that the envelope was stamped with the village post-mark was of small importance, as this subterfuge could be arranged.
When he entered his cheerful study, the whisky was on the table and the Wireless turned on. The essential parts of a fat spaniel—named 'Charles', after Dickens—were crowded on the doctor's lap, while the dog, from his intelligent look, was helping their guest to solve a chess-problem in the evening paper.
"Well?" asked Dr. Perry eagerly.
"Well," echoed the Rector, crossing to the table and juggling hospitably with the various bottles. "Soda or plain water, doctor? Say 'when'."
Dr. Perry bit his lip and pulled Charles' silky ears for moral support, before he repeated his question.
"Well? Was it so important?"
The Rector laughed as he hunted in a cupboard for the biscuit-barrel.
"It was nothing," he said. "She was just a bit upset. That's all."
"I see," said the doctor quietly. "That's all." He took his glass. "Thanks. 'Prosit'."
The Rector felt sorry for his baffled curiosity, but he was guarding the secret of the Confessional. He turned to his dog, who was registering all the symptoms of acute starvation at the sight of the biscuits.
"Here you are, Charles," he said, tossing him a cracknel. "You're an overfed scoundrel, but you know your poor fish of a master can't resist a moist nose and swimmy eyes. But it's no good our friend the doctor looking pathetic, is it, Charles? We've nothing for him. By the way, doctor, please don't mention the fact that Miss Asprey sent over for me this evening."
"I quite understand." Dr. Perry laughed acidly. "You're giving me my own medicine—'Shall a doctor tell?'...My dear padre, not for worlds would I wish you to betray a confidence. There is no one I respect more than Miss Asprey, although there are many I like better. I am sorry she has suffered annoyance."
"How do you know she has?" asked the Rector.
"I don't, so, naturally, my mind is busy with every absurd impossibility...Well, I suppose I must go home and see if I still have the same wife."
Dr. Perry glanced at the clock, tossed off his whisky, and rose to go.
"Good-bye, padre," he said, patting Charles' head. "I admire you for your admirable policy of silence, and I bear you no ill-will."
The Rector's jaw dropped in surprise as the doctor added, "But I confess I should have liked your account of how the saintly Miss Asprey defended her honour."
CHAPTER V — ENTER FEAR
When Miss Asprey declared that the affair was ended she did not know that the parlourmaid was listening outside the door. Rose lingered in the hall, not only to satisfy her own curiosity, but to be forewarned of any annoyance which might threaten her mistress.
She possessed a testimonial from a Bishop's wife to prove her loyalty and discretion, and she did not repeat an actual word of what she overheard. But—like an unconscious germ-carrier—she liberated the poison in her system by gradual leakage. Somehow or other, she conveyed an impression to the cook, who transferred it to the beautiful Ada, in the form of a hint. Ada promptly elaborated this to a whisper, and then passed it on to the Squire's chauffeur.
Within twenty-four hours, through the Wireless of village communication, the rumour spread that Miss Asprey's moral character had been attacked in an anonymous letter from an evil-minded person, who was jealous of her.
Miss Corner was sitting cross-legged in her library, smoking and reading, when her cook-housekeeper told her about the letter. The novelist was on friendly terms with her staff, as she studied their comfort; in fact, it was rather a local grievance that their bathroom was far superior to Miss Asprey's.
The housekeeper's story fell rather flat, for Miss Corner was still bewitched by Edith Sitwell's Bath. She might sell cheap home-brew herself, with her insipid romances and absurd school-stories, but she could appreciate rare vintage—and her library-shelves testified to selective literary taste.
She puffed away grimly at her cigarette, as she mechanically listened to the tale, while the shrunken pupils of her eyes betrayed the fact that she was still marooned in the Eighteenth Century, and half-drunken from the savour of exquisite language.
'Russets, shalloons, rateens and salapeens.' The sentence swam through her brain, like an elusive gust of mignonette borne on a vanished summer breeze.
Her housekeeper—Mrs. Pike—became conscious that her story had fallen unaccountably flat, and began to apologise for it.
"Of course, madam, we don't know all that was in the letter. Depend on it, we've only been told the half."
"In every story," remarked Miss Corner, "there's the half we tell, and the half that others tell, and the half that's true. Add that up, Mrs. Pike, and see what it comes to."
Then, taking pity on the woman's bewilderment, she changed the subject.
"I'm throwing a little bun-fight this afternoon," she said. "You must provide a lavish tea, for the look of the thing, for it'll all be left. I'm expecting Mrs. Sheriff, Mrs. Scudamore, and Lady d'Arcy."
"Well, you'll have something to talk about, for a change," remarked Mrs. Pike, as she produced her housekeeping-tablet.
As a matter-of-fact, the incident of the anonymous letter only seemed to prove that the life-blood of the little community was too healthy to admit infection. It was received either with raised brows of polite incredulity, or with gusts of healing laughter. Yet, even at this early stage, certain events indicated that the village was not immune to poison, but only resistant.
Dr. Perry was motoring out to visit a country patient, when, at the cross-roads, he met Vivian Sheriff—the Squire's daughter—who was also driving a Baby Austin. They were not especially friendly, but their cars always insisted on stopping to fraternise with each other, so their owners had to make the best of it.
"I'm just cooling my engine," explained the doctor hastily. "We've been exceeding the speed-limit. How's your little car behaving?"
"Never better," boasted Vivian. "But my petrol's rather low." Then, as though dimly conscious that she was clutched in the grip of machinery, and had to await its Robot pleasure, she began to gossip.
"Heard about Miss Asprey's anonymous letter?" she asked.
The doctor had not heard; but, as he listened to Vivian, his eyes gleamed with interest, which gave way to resentment. This, then, was the origin of the Rector's secret mission. He, himself, had been present at the birth of an intriguing human development, and had been shut out in the cold.
But the Rector, apparently, had lost no time in spreading the story. In the doctor's eyes his admirable policy of silence was now revealed as pure pose.
'The fellow's nothing but a human gramophone,' he thought contemptuously, as the cars grew suddenly tired of each other and agreed to start.
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