Your Secret Friend (Timothy Herring)

by Gladys Mitchell

“Party walls have been erected to divide up the rooms, and will have to come down, as will the lath and plaster ceilings which at present hide the very fine timberings of the roof. The undercroft houses a large kitchen range and other appurtenances which will have to be discarded, and I really think we ought to replace the present roofing slates. They are sound enough, but, if left, they would spoil the character of the rest of the house. Still, that, of course, could come later.

  “There are some nineteenth-century windows which will have to go, and so will a nineteenth-century wing which you will see in the photographs. I think, however, that it would be in order to retain the two very fine sixteenth-century windows in the hall and solar. For one thing, without them the house would be depressingly dark, and, for another, the new owner wants to keep them.”

  “Thank you,” said the elderly member. “Well, shall we have the lady in, Mr. President?”

  Marchmont, after all, had come alone. Timothy wondered why, and also what impression she would make on the committee. He went into the ante-room to get her.

  “Come along, Daniel,” he said. “I am sent to guarantee that the lions won’t eat you.”

  “Have you any idea what they think?”

  “The atmosphere seems favourable. I can usually tell.” He escorted her into the committee room and Parsons gave her his chair so that she sat at the foot of the table where everybody could see her. If she felt nervous she did not show it. Parsons found himself another chair and set it down beside her.

  “It is extremely kind of you to come so far,” said the president. “We are always glad to see the interested party or parties before we undertake the work they want us to do. Are you prepared to answer questions?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly. I expected them.” There was no doubting the quality of her voice, thought Timothy.

  “When do you expect to take possession—to move into this house?”

  “At the end of the third week in September, if that is possible. I should like to move in before I go back to school.”

  “Parsons?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Tom. “I should think that might be possible. I should have to see our contractors, of course, but that gives us two weeks of July, the whole of August and three weeks in September. As I see it, our best plan is to begin at the top and work downwards. We couldn’t possibly finish the whole job in that time, of course, but we could make the main rooms habitable, and then Miss Pallis would have to put up with a bit of inconvenience while we finished.”

  “I should be out all day on five days a week,” said Marchmont. “Do I understand, then, that the Society is prepared to undertake the restoration?”

  “I haven’t put it to the vote yet,” said the president mildly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Not at all. Are there any more questions?”

  “Yes,” said the crusty member. “You do realise, madam, that if we restore your house you will be obliged to open it to the public? That is one of our strictest rules, you know.”

  “Yes, I have been told that. How often would it be necessary?”

  “Once a week is our minimum,” said the treasurer. “Twice a week during the summer months is more usual.”

  “And the summer months would include . . .?”

  “May, June, July, August, and September. Then there would be Easter Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, and the other two Monday holidays.”

  Marchmont stood up.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said, “but I can’t agree to all that.”

  “Plenty of people open their homes a great deal more often than has been suggested to you, madam,” said the crusty member. “Some open them all the year round.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they do, but their houses are very much larger than mine, so that they still have some privacy.”

  “Just a minute,” said the president, interposing before the crusty member could continue. “You would be prepared to open the house to the public, Miss Pallis, I take it, if we could agree upon the details?”

  “No, I don’t think I would. The conditions are too severe. After all, the house is my property.”

  “In that case,” began the treasurer.

  “Suppose,” said the president persuasively—he had, as usual, been briefed previously by Timothy—“we made it one day a week in the months of June, July, and August, and arranged for a curator to be in charge that day, so that you wouldn’t be bothered with that side of it at all?”

  “Well”—her eyes sought those of Timothy—“would I have to show the whole house?”

  “I suggest,” said Timothy, “that the undercroft, the kitchen and buttery (when we have re-established them), and the great hall should be shown, and that the solar and the second chamber should remain private. It is only reasonable to keep the public out of Miss Pallis’s bedroom and sitting-room, don’t you think?”

  “We could ask only a very moderate fee for viewing, then,” said the treasurer gloomily. “People would expect a good deal more than that for half-a-crown.”

  “One shilling for admission and a leaflet given free,” said Lady Grace Norton firmly. “Members of the Society and their families to be admitted free on presentation of membership card. It’s not as though we need the money, but we do need to do up Little Monkshood.”

  “We don’t have membership cards,” snarled the crusty member. “This isn’t a demnition trade union!”

  “My dear Mr. Cholley!” retorted Lady Grace. “What is to prevent our excellent young Mr. Coningsby getting cards printed? Now, Miss Er . . . what do you say? Let us have the full proposition from Timothy Herring who, I can see, is determined, as always, to have his own way. What is more, I intend to have mine, and if you’re all going to make such a fuss I shall put up the money myself for the restoration, and then I’m hanged if Miss Pallis and I will let any one of you put his nose inside the place! That house is a gem—a gem, do you hear?—and I’m not going to let it go to waste.”

  “Lady Grace, I kiss your hand,” said Timothy, when the meeting was over and full agreement had been reached.

  “Go and kiss that young woman,” retorted the dowager. “By the look of her, she can do with a bit of pettin’.”

  Timothy found Marchmont waiting for him in the hall.

  “Well,” he said, cheerfully, “that’s that.”

  “I’m very grateful,” she said.

  “What time do you have to be back?”

  “It doesn’t really matter.” She smiled. “I’m senior staff. We’re trusted not to behave ourselves unseemly. Anyway, my train will decide for me. It goes at half-past six and I can get a taxi in Bournemouth to take me to school.”

  “I can think of a better plan than that. We always get the caretaker here to make us a cup of tea after meetings. Why not join us? I’m sure your tissues need restoring. Then I’ll drive you home and we’ll have a bit of dinner on the way.”

  “Oh, but, really, I . . .”

  “That’s all right, then. Through the green baize door and down the back staircase and I’ll guarantee that Mrs. Dewes has heard the meeting break up and has put the kettle on. I’ll bet, too, that the canny Coningsby is on the same lay. Yes, here he is. Coningsby, old lad, meet our client socially and then be a good chap and phone up the garage and tell them to bring my car round in half-an-hour. I’m going to take Miss Pallis home.”

  It was clear that Marchmont was not accustomed to cope with this sort of behaviour. She made no protest, accepted tea and a biscuit, and by half-past five Timothy’s Rolls was gliding through Chelsea. So far, she had said nothing since Timothy had put her into the car, but when they were headed for the A3 en route for Guildford, she asked,

  “Do you always get your own way, as Lady Grace Norton said?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  “I don’t think people who always get what they want ever do notice. They take things for granted.”

  “Well, isn’t that the best way to take them?”

  “It’s
a matter of temperament, I suppose, and, of course, a matter of upbringing.”

  “Say on. We invite and welcome criticism.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream—I didn’t mean—I don’t know you nearly well enough to criticise you.”

  “A matter which time, I hope, will remedy. What did you mean, then?”

  “Well, it was more than coincidence, wasn’t it, when your president came out with exactly the same proposition as you had already put to me, and which you knew I’d accept?”

  “Oh, the one day a week, three months a year, caretaker included? Yes, that was a put-up job. I had tipped him off that that was as far as you would be prepared to go.”

  “Was Lady Grace Norton in the plot?”

  “Don’t give it nasty names. It wasn’t a plot. The committee have full powers, and could have smacked us down.”

  “But they tend to follow the president’s lead, and you manage the president. Is that it?”

  “You do me too much honour. Where would you like to dine?”

  They did not linger over the after-dinner coffee, although Timothy, who felt considerable curiosity concerning his companion, would have liked to do so. He sensed, however, that she would be glad to be back at the school, so, at the decorous and seemly hour of a quarter to ten, he drove through the open gates of Purfleet Hall and up to the front door.

  “One thing you might like to do,” he said, before they parted, “is to get that broken window at the back of the house repaired.”

  “I thought you were going to demolish that wing.”

  “We are, but that will come a good bit later on. Remember the ashes of that fire in the undercroft? I don’t care to think that a tramp can get in. There’s enough to do without having to fumigate the place beforehand.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Postulant

  “First,” said the Chief Witch sternly, “do you know your catechism?”

  “I—I think so,” replied the trembling postulant.

  “All right, we’ll see. What are the measurements?”

  “Nine feet.”

  “What shape is drawn?”

  “A circle.”

  “Where is it drawn?”

  “On the floor.”

  “How many circles altogether?”

  “Three.”

  “Are they concentric?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far apart?”

  “Six inches.”

  “What words do we write outside the biggest circle?”

  “I—I’m not sure how to pronounce the words. I’m sure I know them, though.”

  “Do your best. We’re not fussy about foreign accents—not like some I could name!”

  “You mean Mademoiselle,” said the postulant, with a sycophantic snigger. “All right, then. On the north, Adhby. On the east Agial. On the south, Tabaoth. On the west, Jahweh.”

  “What do you understand by these words?”

  “That ours is the oldest religion in the world.”

  “What else is drawn on the floor?”

  “A triangle for the manifestation of spirits.”

  “What do we place in the centre of the smallest circle?”

  “An altar.”

  “What form does the altar take?”

  “It’s a table.”

  “Who stands beside this table?”

  “The—the magician, if there is one.”

  “And if not?”

  “Well, I—I suppose you do.”

  “That is not the proper answer. Look here, do you want to join, or don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, Sandra, you know I do! Of course I do.”

  “You mustn’t use my name, then. You ought to know that. What should you call me?”

  “The chief witch, I suppose.”

  “Well, don’t forget again, or we’ll blackball you out. We can’t afford to have people with short memories, so mind!”

  “Sorry, really I am. I didn’t think.”

  “All right, then. What is placed upon the altar?”

  “A knife with a black handle, a knife with a white handle, a cauldron, a wand, some candles . . .”

  “Well, go on.”

  “Er—let’s see. Oh, I know! Incense, a piece of cord, a thing—I mean, a brass vessel—to hold salted water—and—er—and—”

  “Are you afraid to say it?”

  “It sounds horrid. You—you don’t hit me with it, do you?”

  “It may or may not be used on you. I don’t suppose it will, but you must chance it, because it’s part of the ritual, so go on, say it.”

  “All right. A whip, but what I mean to say. . .”

  “What figure is drawn upon the altar?”

  “A—a pent-something, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “Never mind what it is. You’ll find out later. What does it look like, and what does it mean?”

  “It means the earth. It—it looks like a funny-shaped star.”

  “Go on.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Tell me the meaning of some of the other things.”

  “Oh, I see. The black-handled knife means the air, the cauldron means water, the wand means fire and—er—well, I’ve said about the pent-thing, haven’t I?”

  “What does the whip mean?”

  “Oh—er—purity, I think—yes, purity.”

  “You seem a bit doubtful about that.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not. Really I’m not. And—and the cord means the thing that binds together earth, air, fire, and water.”

  “Otherwise known as . . .?”

  “The four elements.”

  “What’s the salted water for?”

  “I—I don’t think I know.”

  “Well, stupid, what’s water usually for?”

  “For—for washing things, I suppose, and—and people, of course, and for drinking, and making tea and swimming in, and boating on, and—whatever more do you want?”

  “All right. It’s for washing things. What things?”

  “Oh, well, the things on the table—er—the altar—and so on, I suppose.”

  “And so on! You suppose right. Well, you haven’t done too badly with the catechism. Now, about your beliefs.”

  “Well, actually, my family are . . .”

  “Your family’s got nothing to do with it. Now, then: what are your beliefs? What do the witch-hunters mean by Night Travellers?”

  “Evil spirits.”

  “Do you believe in evil spirits?”

  “Yes—no—yes—well, I mean, I suppose there are such things. The Bible says so, and . . .”

  “You seem a bit hazy about evil spirits, I must say. Of course they exist, but, remember, our power is for good, and the Things that haunt the hedgerows are not for us. Right? You can cut along now. Don’t forget the meeting during eleven o’clock break tomorrow. That’s when you will get your final briefing. Meanwhile, on pain of death, not a word to a soul!”

  “Oh, no, of course not, Sand—er, Chief Witch. All right, then. See you at break tomorrow.”

  “I think she’ll do,” said the chief witch, critically. “She’s in a bit of a funk, and that might be either good or bad for our project, because it could mean one of two things—either she’ll go and squeal to someone and land us all in the most gosh-awful row, or else she’ll be too dumb to think of doing anything except exactly what we tell her. We’ve just got to take a chance. We’ve got to have a scapegoat, and she’s goat enough for anything, I will say that for Veronica Tooby.”

  The rest of the coven giggled, and Connie Moosedeer said:

  “When are we going along to get things ready?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. Don’t put your names down on the games list, and, for goodness’ sake, don’t go playing the fool in class and get yourselves put in detention.”

  “Look who’s talking!” muttered Gillian. “Now what about these herbs we’ve collected?” she added hastily, observing the scowl upon her leader’s freckled bro
w. “Did you buy those candles you promised, and did somebody manage to snaffle a clean tablecloth?”

  “Do you mind?” asked the chief witch, fiercely. “If I say I’ll do a thing, I do it, not like some people! And when this Sisterhood make promises, they’d jolly well better not break them!”

  “Sorry. I was only trying to help.”

  “You leave it to me, and stop being a bossy cat.” With this, the coven broke up.

  “But, darling, it’s madness!” said Simon Bennison. “What are people going to think?”

  “What do some of them think now? This meeting in empty classrooms after school, and both of us telling lies about where we’re going to spend our holidays and then meeting secretly in some out-of-the-way place where nobody else on the staff has planned to go—do you think people haven’t talked? I know they have. I’m tired of it, Simon. If we’re going to live in sin, let’s do it openly and properly. Who’s to blame us? Your marriage doesn’t work any more, unless Eunice recovers. If ever she does, I shall go out of your life as though I had never existed. I’ve always promised you that, and I shall keep to it. Meanwhile, I can’t go on like this. If we belong to one another, as you say we do, let’s belong cleanly, and let the world go hang.”

  “There are our jobs to think of.”

  “I don’t need mine, and what I have would keep the two of us.”

  “I couldn’t live on your money.”

  “Well, get a post where your private reputation doesn’t matter so much. You could go into industry, couldn’t you?”

  “I suppose I could, but I wouldn’t want to. I don’t like teaching, and I don’t like the school, but I need time to write my book and compose my music, and I couldn’t get that in industry.”

  “Then let’s make an end of things.”

  “You couldn’t be as cruel as that! I thought you cared for me.”

  “I care for you far too much to go on with this hole-and-corner business. You must make up your mind. I shall live at Little Monkshood anyway, when Mr. Herring’s people have done it up for me. I don’t ask you to live there all the time—I wouldn’t want you to do that. I need some sort of freedom. That’s why I wouldn’t marry you, even if you could get a divorce. It’s best to be honest about it. To have somewhere where we can really be together sometimes, and let the rest of the world go by, that’s all I want. I hoped you would want it, too.”