Your Secret Friend (Timothy Herring)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve got to get Mavis first, and Gillian’s so big headed, but we’ve got to have her.”

  “Why can’t it just be the three of us?”

  “Because there are too many things to be got, so we must have help. If I knew of anybody else we could trust, I’d ask her as well. That would make seven, with the postulant, and seven is one of the sacred numbers.”

  “Like three?”

  “Yes, but don’t keep on about three. We’ve got to have more, I tell you!”

  “I wasn’t keeping on. Is thirteen a sacred number?”

  “Not in an initiation. When they initiate witches they hit them with a stick or a lash or something, and the strokes are three . . .”

  “See? That’s what I . . .”

  “Seven, nine and twenty-one.”

  “Nobody’s going to hit me!” said Stephanie firmly. “They’ll get a bash over the head with a rounders stick if they do!”

  “That’s all right. Very few covens do it nowadays—hit the postulant, I mean.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind about her,” said Caroline, the third member of the coven. “Why don’t you choose Veronica? She’s always trying to suck up to us and hang around, and she’s a poisonous reptile, anyway. She wouldn’t show me her translation of that beastly French poem Miss Cuttler set us last week, and Sally Watts had to absolutely grab her algebra answers from her yesterday to get a look at Exercise Five. Veronica absolutely stinks!”

  “Veronica?” said Sandra thoughtfully. “She’d do anything to be allowed to come in with us. I’ll think her over. But first we’ve got to collect the things we shall need, and then I’ll show you how to draw the magic circle. We’ll do it in that empty farmhouse where we went before.”

  Stephanie, as aforesaid, had been only reluctantly prepared to join the coven, but Mavis, a dark, fat, rather stupid child whose value to the gang was a monetary one—she was well-supplied by over-indulgent parents and was ready and willing to buy the friends she might not otherwise have made—embraced the idea of becoming a witch with shudderingly agreeable delight.

  “You ought to ask Deirdre,” she said.

  “Deirdre?” The chief witch pursed her lips. “She babbles. Don’t you remember . . .”

  “What about Connie Moosedeer?” suggested Caroline. “She’s half Red Indian, and they will always let themselves be burnt at the stake before they’ll tell any secrets.”

  “They’re superstitious, though, aren’t they?” asked Mavis. “Don’t you remember the fussation there was last term when Gloire-Marie Deschamps went to Miss Salter and asked her to stop Penny Docherty telling ghost-stories in their dorm, after lights-out?”

  “Yes, but Gloire-Marie is a West Indian. That’s not a bit the same as a Red Indian,” retorted Sandra. “All right, I’ll swear Connie to secrecy and then I’ll sound her. With Veronica, that will make up the seven we want. And when we’ve finished with April Fool, she’ll be sorry she was haha funny about me in class. Fancy me having to apologise to her, after what she called me!”

  “I think she ought to be sacked,” said the loyal Caroline.

  “Not until we’ve given her the full treatment,” said the vengeful Sandra. “We’ve got a fortnight before the end of term, so we’ll think up something really beastly. Getting her sacked is only a beginning.”

  In spite of April’s apprehensions, Miss Pomfret-Brown, briefed in confidential chat with her chief-of-staff, was not an unreasonable woman. She realised (perhaps not fully, but certainly in part) the difficulties faced by the younger members of her staff, and although she did not condone April’s ill-considered jests at the expense of children she did not like, she also had a certain amount of sympathy with the young teacher’s task of maintaining law and order. Nevertheless, although Miss Salter informed her, to her satisfaction, that she had taken that little nuisance Sandra Davidson back to the classroom and had caused her to apologise in front of the rest of the form, she felt doubtful about the ethics of this proceeding. She advised Miss Salter to keep a finger on the pulse of both combatants for the rest of the term. The child, in her view, had not been altogether in the wrong.

  As matters turned out, Sandra and her coterie behaved for some time with exemplary discretion, so much so that April, who, as her relatives and close friends knew to their cost, was no psychologist, was inclined to refer, in airy tones, to the apparently incontrovertible fact that she had “got the better of those little horrors in Middle Three,” having shown them, once and for all, that she could hold her own and would stand no nonsense.

  “Well, of course, Miss Salter put the fear of God into Sandra Davidson,” commented an outspoken contemporary, “so Sandra and her gang will naturally lie low for a bit. You might sling over Lower Two’s reports if you’ve finished libelling the dear children. I’ve got something to say about one or two of them.”

  “Little headaches!” put in a loyal friend.

  “I think Sandra Davidson is playing Brer Possum,” said another young teacher. “I don’t suppose she cared much about being made to apologise to you, April. After all, you did ask for lip. Personally, I think it’s a bit cheap to give the children nicknames. They don’t really like it.”

  “If one can’t treat a child of that age to a bit of chaff,” began April.

  “Do you mind?” asked a peevish senior member of staff who was trying to correct Remove algebra papers. “I should rather like to get these done before tea.”

  Her juniors subsided. A quarter of an hour later Marchmont Pallis came in. April caught her eye and made a gesture towards the door. Marchmont nodded and settled herself and her examination papers at a table. The silence continued for another five minutes, then April yawned, pushed aside her work and left the common room. Ten minutes later Marchmont joined her in the library which, at that time in the afternoon, was deserted while the school was out riding or at tennis and rounders.

  “What is it?” she asked. “I’ve an awful lot to do.”

  “I know. So have I. Marchmont, I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve said something to Vere I ought not to have said.”

  “Why?”

  “It was all because of that loathsome little Sandra Davidson. One of these days I shall murder the brat. She’s insufferable.”

  “From what I hear, you were rather insufferable yourself.”

  “I’ve got the better of her, anyway.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “I–I’d better tell you what I said to Vere.”

  “Does it matter? She is well able to take care of herself.”

  “It isn’t that. I mean, I know she is. You see, I—well, I didn’t mean to, but I brought you into it.”

  “Did you?”

  “Oh, Marchmont, you’re not being very understanding.”

  “What is there to understand?”

  “That—that—well, without thinking what I was saying, I mentioned her and you and—well—Simon Bennison.”

  “Oh, did you?”

  “And—and—look, Alison—Marchmont, I mean—I don’t think I want to go shares in Little Monkshood, after all. I mean, I know I can’t afford it, and it will be rather a tie, and I believe Miss Pomfret-Brown intends to kick me out, and, well—if you see what I mean.”

  “Perfectly. You don’t want to live with me at Little Monkshood.”

  “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve—I’ve just changed my mind. I really am sorry.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Shall you—shall you still go ahead with it?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I didn’t mean—I mean, I didn’t think . . .”

  “No, you never do, do you? Well, if that’s all, I’ll go back to the common-room and finish my reports.”

  “Don’t go yet. I—are we still friends?”

  “Must you be childish?”

  “You’ll be better off at Little Monkshood without me, I expect.”

  “Opinions sometimes differ, but on this occasion they do not.�
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  “I’m sorry if you’re hurt. I didn’t mean . . .”

  “So what we want,” said Sandra, at the same moment as these remarks were being concluded, “are these things. Have you all got a pencil, as I told you? All right. Put these down, and then you can tick off the ones you think you can get. Ready? And don’t ask me to spell anything. Spelling doesn’t matter, so long as you know what it is.”

  The list was a long one. It included such items as salt, a censer, a black-handled knife, a white-handled knife, an awl, candles, a sword, a brass water-sprinkler, garters, a table, chalk, charcoal, some cord (preferably white), and some incense.

  “We can never get all these things,” protested Caroline.

  “Besides all those,” pursued the chief witch, ignoring this puerile plea, “I want you to get some herbs. We only need nine . . .”

  “There aren’t nine herbs!” said Stephanie. “There can’t be!”

  “I shall give you a list of—let’s see—yes, I’ve put down fifteen, so if you can’t get some, there’s others which will do. Ready? Musk, bergamot, rosemary, basil, tansy, rue, fennel, dill, camomile, mint, sage, thyme, orris root, wormwood, veronica—”

  “I’ve never even heard of half of them!” wailed Mavis.

  “It’s up to all of you,” said the leader. “We only need nine, and you’ve got fifteen to choose from. It ought to be simple.”

  “What’s bergamot?”

  “What’s tansy?”

  “I thought dill was something you gave babies.”

  “Of course it isn’t, silly! It’s American pickles.”

  “What’s fennel?”

  “I thought musk was some sort of an ox.”

  “It’s used in scent, silly!”

  “That’s skunk.”

  “My nurse used to give us camomile tea. It was absolutely beastly!”

  “Wormwood? Ugh!”

  “Oh, shut up, the lot of you! Don’t natter. We haven’t time!” said Sandra impatiently.

  “What about cloves?” asked Gillian.

  “Cloves are spices, like nutmeg and ginger and things. You know—pepper and all that,” said Sandra. She looked at the only member of the group who had not spoken. “Will you be able to get any of the things we want, Connie?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said the Canadian Indian, with great composure. “When do you want them?”

  “Well, you can collect them at any time, and then I’ll let you know. We’ve got to go to a meeting-place where we won’t be disturbed.”

  “You didn’t mean it about the churchyard, then,” said Stephanie, greatly relieved.

  “I don’t believe modern witches meet anywhere except inside a house, unless they’re doing the Black Mass,” said Gillian, “and then I suppose it would have to be a church. And I don’t believe orris root is a herb, any more than cloves, so there!”

  “Witches don’t do the Black Mass,” said the chief witch. “That’s the Satanists. We don’t want to do any of the things they do.”

  “Like not saying things out of the Bible?” asked Stephanie.

  “Yes, that’s right. Anyway, we couldn’t meet in the churchyard in the daytime, and it’s too beastly at night. We’ll go where we went before, to that old empty house. It’s ever so good. The next thing is about Veronica. She’s willing to be our postulant, so first I’ll show you how to draw the magic circle, and then I’ll tell you the ritual, because it’s got to be done right, or else the spell won’t work.”

  “What spell?” enquired Mavis. The leader lowered her voice to tones of sepulchral significance.

  “The spell that means death and destruction to rotten old April Fool,” she murmured. “Floreat St. Trinian! Floreat Hecate! Floreat Diana of the . . . Oh, no! Floreat Diana, although it doesn’t sound half so good! Now you all say it. Come on!”

  The coven responded. Somewhere in the house a bell rang.

  “That’s prep.,” said Mavis. “Couldn’t we make a spell to mean death and destruction to prep.?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Incoming Tenant

  “We might take a picnic lunch if the weather is fine,” said Diana Parsons.

  “But the village has quite a good restaurant, likewise a very pleasant pub,” said Timothy, who, like many men, detested picnics unless there was no other way of obtaining a meal.

  “Oh, no, I love picnics. It’s so nice to eat in the open air,” said Diana, putting the usual mistaken feminine view. “Tom likes them, too, don’t you, darling?”

  “Oh, yes, I love the company of wasps and ants and the salad-dressing mixing itself up in the fruit salad. Delicious,” said her husband.

  “Will there be champagne?” asked Timothy.

  “Let’s say a couple of bottles of hock.”

  “And a corkscrew? Anyhow, be that as it may, I thought, if you didn’t mind, I’d find out whether the prospective owner would care to join us. She ought to hear what Tom has to say about Little Monkshood.”

  “What about your cousin April? Isn’t she mixed up in all this?” asked Parsons.

  “Not now. She wrote to say that she has opted out. Her excuse is that she hasn’t the money. My own impression is that she and the other party have had a row. End of term, nerves on edge, tempers short, everybody ready to take umbrage at the drop of a hat—that kind of thing. You know what women are!”

  “That is a most unmannerly remark, Tim, dear,” protested Diana.

  “I apologise. I took it for granted that present company was excepted. Anyway, I’m glad the unspeakable little April is out of it. I couldn’t bear the stigma of nepotism.”

  “You’ve made up your mind to approach the committee, then?”

  “I haven’t been so keen on anything since we did up Peakstone, in Derbyshire. Is it all right, then, if I ask Miss Pallis to join us? I’d like her to get the gen at first hand. I think you’ll find her an intelligent sort of person, Tom. You won’t have to stick to words of one syllable. She’ll know what you’re talking about.”

  “I can’t wait to see Little Monkshood,” said Diana. “It isn’t often Tim gets all excited to this extent. I suppose,” she went on, eyeing him, “it is the house, and not the owner, which is responsible for all the boyish enthusiasm?”

  “The owner is a maiden lady of uncertain age, ma’am. She is what my cousin unkindly describes as the prototype of unwanted spinster.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” said Diana.

  “There’s no such animal nowadays,” said her husband. “Those who aren’t bespoke are volunteers for celibacy, and maybe are not all that celibate, anyway. What you mean is that, so far as you are concerned, she is elderly, ugly, and uninteresting.”

  “Oh, well, you’ll see,” said Timothy, surprised by the vehemence with which his mind rejected this description of Marchmont Pallis, in spite of what he himself had said of her.

  “I wonder whether it will be embarrassing to her on the financial side, now that your cousin isn’t going into partnership,” said Diana. “What did Little Monkshood go for? Do you know?”

  “More than I would have paid for it in its present condition, but there’s some land attached to it and it’s a biggish house as it stands at present, although at the back of it there’s a nasty Victorian addition which will have to be scrapped. The sale was to Miss Pallis, anyway. April would have had to touch the bank for her share, having failed to extract it from me, unless Miss Pallis had subbed up.”

  Marchmont Pallis answered Diana’s invitation by return of post, and, having been asked to name the date most convenient to her, suggested the following Saturday afternoon at three, and promised to get Little Monkshood clean and tidy beforehand. Tom and Diana were to spend the week-end with Timothy, so the picnic was held at one o’clock on the way down, and at three o’clock Marchmont Pallis met them at the broken gate which led to the smallholding and the farmhouse. Parsons and Miss Pallis went into the house, while Timothy and Diana remained in their deckchairs beside
the car.

  “Didn’t you want to go with them and take a look inside?” asked Timothy.

  “Oh, I don’t intend to stand first on one leg and then on the other, and listen to Tom being technical. You can take me round when they’ve finished, and tell me in words of one syllable what it’s all about. You explain things so beautifully, and you’re so nice and brisk about it.”

  “One does one’s best to please a goddess, and I offer Ben Jonson’s prayer to Diana every time I look at you.”

  “What lovely things you say! That’s because you’re a bachelor. Married men never pay compliments—at least, never to their wives.”

  “Sometimes when I say lovely things I hit a bullseye I didn’t even know was there, and that can be extremely disconcerting.”

  “You’re talking about Miss Pallis. When did you hit the bullseye?”

  “When, in my innocence and ignorance, and desiring only to please, I quoted a bit of Gerald Gould at her. It was intended as an Elizabethan-type compliment—you know, utterly insincere—so I suppose I deserved what I got. Anyway, it came back at me like a boomerang.”

  “She’s a hidden volcano, of course. You can’t mistake the type, if it is a type. What did you uncover—a secret love-affair?”

  “I almost think I must have done. She gave herself away pretty badly. A sudden shock, I fancy, but she very cleverly capped the quotation and adroitly changed the subject.”

  “You know, Tim dear, you might do worse.”

  “You horrify me! Can’t women ever keep themselves from match-making? You’ve no idea how repulsive it is!”

  “Anyway, I shall pray to Saint Anthony for her. You’d better join me.”

  “Not here and now. Let’s get the debris out of the car and go down to that little stream we crossed, and while you dabble the crockery, and I dry it, I will sing you songs of Arcady.”

  “Araby.”

  “Pardon me, not Araby, and you can also keep fair Kashmir. I said, and I meant, Arcady.”

  “I don’t know that I’m flattered. Weren’t the Arcadians simple shepherds, and rather despised by the intellectuals?”

  “Ah, but the songs will be mine, not yours, so, fair Juvenal, despise me not, even though ‘the country of Chastellerand abounds with Arcadian nightingales.’ Rabelais.”