Your Secret Friend (Timothy Herring)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Why should you? That seems more to the point. What on earth do you want with a farmhouse?”

  “We want your Phisbe to do it up for us.”

  “You’ve got a hope! What’s the idea? You’re not getting married, are you?”

  “Nobody’s asked me, sir,” she said. “No, we want somewhere quiet, away from the school, where we can write our book.”

  “We?”

  “My senior, Alison Marchmont Pallis, is the other one . . . What did you say?” “Nothing. Go on.”

  “Well, it’s a book that’s going to revolutionise history teaching in schools. Marchmont’s got it all planned. It’s terribly exciting. Besides, if we live out of school, we can’t be called upon for extraneous duties like taking prep and supervising dormitories and all those other tiresome chores the resident staff have to do.”

  “You always were a lazy little toad.”

  “Don’t be nasty. Look, this is the point: Marchmont can pay her share of the house, but I can’t pay mine, at least, not nearly all of it. I had an expensive holiday last year, and it’s left me with hardly a bean. Will you lend me six hundred and fifty pounds?”

  “No.”

  “But, Tim, it’s an investment.”

  “No.”

  “You are a stinker, then. Besides, you’ve seen the house. Well, I think you have. Miss Salter said she’d told you about it.”

  “You mean Little Monkshood?”

  “Yes, of course. If you won’t lend me the money—and I do think you might, you know you’re rolling . . .”

  “Nothing doing.”

  “Well, listen! I’ve told Marchmont that your Society is certain to help us. You see, even when we’ve bought the place, it’s still got to be done up, so I’m bringing her over on Saturday and you can give us lunch and then we’ll talk. Is that all right?”

  “No, of course it isn’t, you frightful kid!”

  “But, Tim, I’ve promised Marchmont, so you’d better expect us. One-thirty. We’ll come in my little car.”

  “I hope you get caught in a breathalyser test and quodded.”

  “Thanks. Well, I’d better ring off. Goodness knows what the school will have to pay for this call! Be seeing you. ’Bye for now.”

  Timothy rang for his cook.

  “Saturday lunch for three, Mrs. Nealons. Something suitable for my girl cousin and a learned lady who will accompany her. Why are we burdened with cousins, do you suppose?”

  “They round out the family, sir.”

  “Does the family need rounding out?”

  “It looks better at christenings and weddings, not to mention funerals, sir, to muster a nice attendance. About Saturday’s lunch, sir . . .”

  “Well, I don’t suppose the school provender is anything very special. What do you suggest we could give them for a change?”

  “What would you think to a nice prawn cocktail, sir, followed by my chicken done with almonds and thin orange-peel, and for afters my meringues with thick cream, followed by a nice bit of Caerphilly or it might be Wensleydale or Double Gloucester, and a dish of fresh fruit?”

  “Couldn’t be better, Mrs. Nealons. Make it enough for five, would you? I might ask Mr. and Mrs. Parsons to come along.” It had occurred to him that it might be as well to bring Phisbe’s architect into the affair at the earliest possible moment. Parsons, however, was not available.

  “Come to lunch and stay for dinner on Saturday, and you’ll put us up for the night? Awfully good of you, old man, but I’m afraid there’s nothing doing. We’re off for the week-end to visit Diana’s parents.”

  “Damn!” said Timothy. “I particularly wanted you here.”

  “Thanks. But why?”

  “Well, you know April?”

  “For more years than I care to remember. It comes after March and in front of May.”

  “My cousin, April Bounty.”

  “Oh, ah, yes. The girl with the swan-like neck.”

  “If you mean she’s in the habit of sticking it out a mile, you’re about right. She’s thinking of buying an old farmhouse and wants Phisbe to do it up, if you ever heard of such damned cheek.”

  “Well, look, if you want somebody to back you up and throw cold water on the scheme, why don’t you ask the president? His wife’s away, so he’ll probably be glad of an invitation.”

  “That’s an idea. You see, as it happens, the place is well worth a second thought. I’ve seen it. The trouble will be to convince April that Phisbe isn’t a charitable institution. I mean, if we do up the place for them free of charge, she and this friend of hers will have to agree to show it.”

  “You think they’ll burke at that?”

  “I could do with some backing, anyway. Come to think of it, I believe my sister might be a better bet than the president. He’s apt to be soft where women are concerned, and April has a habit of riding rough-shod and in all directions, fair and foul, when she intends, as always, to get her own way.”

  He rang up his sister forthwith.

  “I say, you know April?”

  “Laughing her girlish laughter, weeping her girlish tears?”

  “Don’t rot. I want you . . .”

  “And after April, if you remember, May follows, and the white-throat builds and . . .”

  “For goodness’ sake! I want you to help me cope.”

  “With April? But it’s July, dear. The Glorious Fourth. Didn’t you know?”

  Recognising all this persiflage as his sister’s method of indicating that she did not propose to come within miles of her cousin April, Timothy cursed her with brotherly liberality and rang up the president, who accepted the invitation and expressed himself delighted at the prospect of meeting Timothy’s young cousin.

  April, informed beforehand of his visit, was equally delighted to be introduced to the fountain head of the Society. She was a plump, reckless-looking blonde beside whom Miss Pallis, her companion, looked faded, gawky, and sallow, although, Timothy decided, her eyes were remarkable. They were deep-set and were of a strange, cloudy blue, the eyes of a visionary—melancholy, far-seeing, unworldly. Another thing which appealed to him about her was her obvious shyness and a vulnerable simplicity which her good breeding and schoolmarm competence could not disguise or hide. She was far more attractive than her severe and virginal half-sister, he decided.

  “It’s awfully good of you to bother with me,” she said, as she gave him her hand. “I believe you’ve seen this place we’re buying.”

  Timothy introduced the president, who said:

  “Yes, Tim tells me he got the key and gave Little Monkshood a fairly thorough going-over.”

  “I knew we could rely on Phisbe,” said April.

  “Tim hasn’t had a chance to give me much of an outline,” said the president cautiously. “What exactly are you proposing that we should do?”

  “Up Little Monkshood,” said April pertly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, your Society does do up places for people, and Little Monkshood could be a gem. It’s horrible at present, because it’s dirty and slummy and is all partitions and kitchen ranges and things, but it will be fabulous when it’s cleaned out and torn to bits and restored to its original shape. You’ll love to do it for us, won’t you?”

  “Extraordinarily persuasive young woman, your cousin,” said the president, when, lunch over, the two schoolmistresses had gone and he was left alone with his host.

  “A pain in the neck,” said Timothy. “I was half afraid you were going to commit us to drastic action.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that until the committee has agreed to it, but it wouldn’t hurt for you to bring Parsons into the thing and get him to have something concrete to put before them at the next meeting.”

  “Right, if you say so, but I think I’d like to look at it again first. It’s in a right mess, as I’ve told you, and, if we do decide it’s worthwhile, I think we ought to see to it on our own behalf, not for the sake of my confounded cousin, who is
n’t able to find her share of the money, anyway.”

  “What about the other girl—the quiet one?”

  “Oh, she seems to be all right. I only hope she knows what she’s doing, teaming up with April.”

  “You don’t suppose . . .?”

  “Oh, no, not for an instant. Other women aren’t April’s cuppa, I do know that. No, the little beast’s only reason for embarking on this thing is to get out of extraneous duties at school. I feel sorry for Miss Pallis. She’s being led up the garden, and I’m going to make jolly sure that Phisbe isn’t taken for the same walk. Of course, there’s this nonsense about writing a book, but if Miss Pallis thinks that April’s young enthusiasm is going to last, she must be more starry-eyed than is good for her. I give April a couple of months of draughts and of things that go bump in the night, and the next thing we shall hear is that she’s taken a seaside flat on the south coast and is setting up as a rival to Old Moore’s Almanac, and has left Miss Pallis flat.”

  “Have they actually committed themselves to buying the place, do you think?”

  “Well, I was hoping not, but, from the way they spoke, I should say that the whole thing is signed and sealed, and that they’ve already taken possession of the keys. I’ll ring up Sir Thomas Purfleet and find out, although, as a matter of fact, he promised to let me know if these girls decide to take the place. I went to see him, you know.”

  “Of course I didn’t know. You were prepared to commit us, then?”

  “I was prepared to take an option on the house. It’s something quite out of the ordinary, and I didn’t want somebody else muscling in if the two girls turned it down. The beauty of it is that it’s complete. There are later additions, but, so far as I could determine—I’ll have to get Parsons on to it, of course, because it needs an architect’s eye—the extra bits of horror could come off without any serious damage to the original fabric. The place is another Boothby Pagnell, except that it’s a century later. We simply can’t pass up on it.”

  “I thought you told your cousin April. . .”

  “Yes, of course I did, I always fob off April as a matter of principle. All the family does. In spite of that, I think we ought to get a foothold and restore the house.”

  “What will Sir Thomas Purfleet think about that? Are there conditions attached to the sale? I understood that he won’t let the school do anything to alter Purfleet Hall.”

  “That’s a different matter. Purfleet Hall—I was shown the principal rooms—is a very fine Georgian mansion which, except for occasional repairs and re-decoration, is in perfect condition and it would be a sin and a shame to touch it.”

  “I see. But you don’t think Sir Thomas would object to having Little Monkshood pulled about?”

  “I’ve spoken to him. He’s all for it. He ought to be one of us. Almost the first thing he talked about was Earls Barton tower. Some people claim it was built in the ninth century. I opted for the tenth and so won his regard and esteem, and he says that once Little Monkshood is ours, we can rough-hew it how we will.”

  “But it doesn’t look as though it is going to be ours.”

  “No, but it means that, if we can get the new owners’ permission, we can carry out a restoration without let or hindrance. In fact, permission is the wrong word. They’re determined that we shall do it, as you heard.”

  “The committee aren’t going to agree to an expensive caper like that, unless the owners will agree to our rules, you know.”

  “You mean about opening it to the public on one or more days a week? Yes, that might be a snag. And it wouldn’t be much fun doing it all up regardless, if nobody except the owner is going to benefit. What I’d really like is for my atrocious cousin to throw in her hand and leave Miss Pallis holding the baby.”

  “You mean that Miss Pallis might be unwilling to go it alone, and that you’ve got the next option on the place? Would you foreclose on the widow and the orphan? Shame on you, Timothy Herring!”

  “Miss Pallis can’t be a widow, and if she’s an orphan she must have got over it by now. Anyway, shame on me be blowed! If young April welshes—as I’m morally certain she’s bound to do, because she never sticks to a job or a project for five minutes together—Miss Pallis may be frightfully relieved to be rid of her commitments so easily.”

  “Sophistry, my dear Timmy, and you know it. What did you make of the lady, by the way?”

  “Turned thirty, and more starry-eyed than is good for her.”

  “Starry-eyed? I’m not so sure. I’d like to canvass my wife’s opinion on that. Idealistic, possibly, but the other sounds derogatory, and she didn’t strike me as a woman whom it would be fair or proper to denigrate.”

  “You’re right, and I apologise to the lady. Do you know, I think I’d like to look over the house again and then put this snag about the public viewing to her.”

  “Oh, yes, before you commit Phisbe, you’d better warn her about that, but it will do after you and Parsons have made up your minds about it, and have prepared something to put before the committee.”

  Timothy telephoned his cousin on the following day.

  “Look over Little Monkshood again? Yes, of course. Marchmont has the keys now, because she’s put up three-quarters of the money and has guaranteed me with the bank for the rest. Yes, we had to buy it outright. The agent said that nobody on earth would give us a mortgage on it. I told you that I shall have to get this loan from the bank. I haven’t got any savings. No, I don’t want to go over the house with you. I know what a wet blanket you are, and you’d probably be very rude to me. Take Marchmont with you. Hang on to the telephone. I’ll send a girl to bring her along.”

  Miss Marchmont Pallis—Timothy had noted, at their previous meeting, what a beautiful voice she had—was delighted to think that he was prepared to look over the house. She met him there on the following Wednesday at three. She had walked from the school and was already in the lane when he arrived. He apologised for being late, although the church clock had stood at only a quarter to three when he had passed it six minutes before.

  “No, I’m early,” she said. “I’m free until five, so I thought I would come along immediately after school lunch. Shall we go in? I’m afraid the last people left the house—particularly the undercroft, which they seem to have converted into a kitchen and scullery—in an awful mess.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it, of course,” said Timothy. “You may be wondering why I’ve come along. I didn’t give my cousin any reason when I telephoned.”

  “Well, I hoped you might have decided to get your Society to help us restore the place, that’s all.”

  “So far as Phisbe is concerned, I’m not a free agent, you know. All I do is to sniff round any place that’s brought to our notice, or that I happen to find for myself, and then I report upon it, usually after I’ve pulled in our architect, Tom Parsons, to confirm my opinion.”

  “Unofficially, I suppose?”

  “Oh, strictly unofficially, although our president, the man you met the other day at my place, knows exactly what goes on.”

  “It sounds like the inner Cabinet. Wasn’t it Mr. Parsons who designed the new church at Maghampton Marvell?”

  “That’s the chap.”

  “I’d love him to see Little Monkshood. I feel he would understand it. I wrote to Sir Thomas Purfleet, and it seems there is no objection to having it restored to its original form. Will your Society really do the work, do you suppose?”

  “I can’t commit Phisbe, as I say. I came down today to have a second look round, a more leisurely one, if I may. Before I tackle Parsons, let alone pass on my ideas to my committee, I must assure myself that the house is really worth the money we should have to spend on it.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. But—you were attracted by it, weren’t you?”

  “Very definitely so, but I distrust a hasty judgment.”

  “Yes, so do I.”  There was a pause.

  “So your judgment of my cousin April wasn’t hasty, I suppose,”
said Timothy, but to this she made no reply. She said,

  “I’ve set my heart on this place—or, rather, on this place when it looks as it ought to look.”

  “Don’t count your chickens, will you? You see, I had rather hoped, when I saw it first, that it would still be in the market. If it had been, I should have suggested—if, after this second inspection of it, I had felt inclined to suggest anything at all—that Phisbe buy it, do it up, and show it. As it is, I came here prepared to make you an offer for it, although I think you’ve paid pretty heavily for it, you know.”

  “I believe my headmistress, Miss Pomfret-Brown, saw to it that we did.”

  “Really? How was that, then?”

  “Sir Thomas sold Purfleet Hall to her, you know, so when I found out that he was the owner of Little Monkshood, I wrote to him and he wrote back to Miss Pomfret-Brown to ask—well—”

  “Whether you were good for the money?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “And Miss Pomfret-Brown, anxious that two of her resident staff should not venture out into the cold, bold, naughty world, told him to stiffen up the price and freeze you out.”

  “Yes. She sent for me and told me what she’d done, and it made me so angry that I agreed to his terms forthwith.”

  “On the principle of ‘sucks to you,’ I suppose. Very rash and rather childish, if I may say so.”

  “Well, you mayn’t! It’s no business of yours!” She flushed angrily and suddenly he saw that she was beautiful.

  “I hasten to add that, in your place, I should have behaved in exactly the same way. Well, let’s go up this dark and dangerous stairway and feast our eyes on the chicken-farmer’s dream of home,” he said.

  “You go. You’ll be much happier, and it’ll be more satisfactory, if you’re not cluttered up with me.”

  “It may be more satisfactory, but I assure you I shan’t be happier,” said Timothy gallantly, delighted and somewhat surprised to be left to his own devices. He spent the best part of an hour in again going over the interior of the house and making rough notes of his findings. When he returned to her, it was to find Miss Pallis in the vaulted undercroft which had been turned into kitchen and scullery. She was sitting on a decrepit kitchen chair which formed part of the debris the previous tenants had left, and was reading a paper-back novel. She looked up as soon as he came in.