Mystery Mile. Margery Allingham
place for the tender sex.’
The old man shook his head. ‘In the words of the poet, “I do remain as neuter”,’ he said. ‘Personally, I always obey her.’
Mr Campion looked abashed. ‘You’re making it very awkward for me,’ he said. ‘I’d never have done it if I’d dreamed that I was bringing you into it, Biddy.’
The girl laid her hand upon his knee. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she said. ‘You silly old dear, I’m with you to the death. You know that.’
Mr Campion almost blushed, and was silent for an appreciable space of time. The rector brought him back to the subject on hand. ‘Let us be specific,’ he said. ‘No doubt you have your own dark secrets, Albert, but what are we expected to do?’
Mr Campion plunged into the details of his scheme. ‘First of all,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to keep the old boy here. And that means we’ve got to keep him interested. St Swithin, I rely on you for the archaeology and whatnots. Show him the village trophies. Get out the relics of the witch burnings and polish up the stocks. Make it all bright and homely for him. Then there’s the doubtful Romney in the drawing room. Get his opinion on that. He’s a delightful old cove, but obstinate as sin.’
He hesitated. ‘What he’s really interested in,’ he went on after a pause, ‘is actual folk-lore and superstition. Haven’t you any prize yokels who know a few ancient wisecracks?—old songs and that sort of thing?’
Giles glanced up. ‘Plenty of those,’ he said. ‘Did I tell you, Biddy, I set George to cut down that dead thorn at the end of the home paddock this morning? When I passed by at lunchtime he grinned at me, as pleased as Punch—he’d been all the morning at it. “How are you going, George?” said I. “Foine, Master Giles,” he said, “I can cut that down quicker than that took to grow.” When I said, “So I should hope,” he seemed quite offended. We might pass him off as the original Old Saw himself.’
‘That’s the sort of thing,’ Campion agreed. ‘But I warn you to go carefully. The old boy’s no fool. This sort of thing’s his hobby. You’d be surprised how much more the average American knows about England than we do.’
The Reverend Swithin Cush coughed dryly. ‘There is enough here to interest a genuine antiquary for some time,’ he said. ‘How long do you expect him to stay? Is the length of his visit indefinite?’
Mr Campion became suddenly vague. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve cracked up the place a lot, but he may give us one swift look and go home, and then bang goes little Albert’s fourpence an hour and old Lobbett’s sweet young life, most likely. Oh, I forgot. He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. Can you be ready in time, Biddy?’
The girl sighed. ‘Just,’ she said. ‘It’ll be a bit of a camp at the Dower House.’
They sat discussing their plans until after midnight, when the old rector rose stiffly out of his chair.
‘Biddy, I’ll have my hurricane,’ he said. ‘You ought all to be in bed now if you’re going to move tomorrow.’
The girl fetched the storm lantern, and they watched him disappearing into the darkness—a gaunt, lonely figure, his white hair uncovered, the lantern bobbing at his side like a will-o’-the-wisp.
As they came back into the shadowy hall, Mr Campion grinned. ‘Dear old St Swithin,’ he said. ‘You’ve known him since you were muling and puking in Cuddy’s arms, haven’t you?’
Biddy answered him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s getting old, though. Alice—that’s his housekeeper, you know—says he’s gone all Russian lately. “Like a broody hen,” she said.’
‘He must be hundreds of years old,’ said Albert. ‘There’s an idea in that. We might pass him off as the original St Swithin himself. Dropped in out of the rain, as it were.’
‘Go to bed,’ said Biddy. ‘The machinery wants a rest.’
Up in the chintz-hung bedroom the oak floor was sloping and the cool air was fragrant with lavender, toilet soap, and beeswax. Mr Campion did not get into the four-poster immediately, but stood for some time peering out into the darkness.
At last he drew a small, much-battered notebook from an inside pocket and scribbled ‘St S’. For some time he stood looking at it soberly, and then deliberately added a question mark.
CHAPTER 4
The Lord of the Manor
‘Although you’re a foreigner, which can’t be helped, and therefore it ain’t loikely that you’ll be used to our ways, all the same we welcome you. We do ’ope you’ll live up to the old ways and do all you can for us.’
The speaker paused and wiped round the inside of his Newgate fringe with a coloured handkerchief. ‘Now let’s sing a ’ymn,’ he added as an afterthought.
He was standing by himself at the bottom of his cottage garden, his face turned towards the meadows which sloped down sleekly to the grey saltings. After a while he repeated his former announcement word for word, finishing with an unexpected ‘Morning, sir,’ as a thin, pale-faced young man with horn-rimmed spectacles appeared upon the other side of the hedge.
‘Morning, George,’ said Mr Campion.
George Willsmore surveyed the newcomer thoughtfully. He was a gnarled old man, brown and nobbled as a pollarded willow, with great creases bitten into his face, which was surrounded by a thick hearthbrush of a beard. As the oldest able member of the family of which the village was mainly composed, he considered himself a sort of mayor, and his rural dignity was enhanced by a curious sententiousness of utterance.
‘You come upon me unawares,’ he said. ‘I was sayin’ over a few words I be goin’ to speak this afternoon.’
‘Really?’ Mr Campion appeared to be interested. ‘You’re thinking of making a speech of welcome, George?’
‘Summat like that,’ conceded the old man graciously. ‘Me and the rector was ’avin’ a talk. ’E was for singin’. And me bein’ churchwarden, seems only right, seems, I should do the greetin’. Him bein’ a foreigner, ’e mightn’t understand the others.’
‘There’s something in that, of course,’ said Mr Campion, who had followed the old man’s reasoning with difficulty.
George continued.
‘I put on some new clo’es. Seems like ’tis a good idea to look smart. I be a wunnerful smart old man, don’t you think?’
He turned himself about for Mr Campion’s inspection. He was dressed in a pair of tight corduroy trousers which had once been brown, but were now washed to creamy whiteness, a bright blue collarless gingham shirt, and one of his late master’s white waistcoats which hung loosely round his spare stomach. His straw hat, built on the Panama principle, had a black ribbon round it and a bunch of jay’s feathers tucked into the bow.
‘How’s that?’ he demanded with badly concealed pride.
‘Very fine,’ agreed the young man. ‘All the same, I wouldn’t make your speech if I were you, George. I was coming down to have a talk with you about this business. Aren’t there some customs, maypolings and whatnot, suitable for this afternoon?’
The old man pushed back his straw hat, revealing an unexpectedly bald head, the crown of which he rubbed meditatively with the edge of his hat.
‘Not give the speech?’ he said with disappointment. ‘Oh well, sir, I reckon you know best. But I’d ’ave done it right well, that I would. I do be a powerful talkative old man. But the time for maypolin’s past,’ he went on, ‘and Pharisees’ Day, that ain’t come yet.’
The young man sighed. ‘None of these—er—feasts are movable?’ he suggested hopefully.
George shook his