“I’d like to put in a word,” said Mrs. Goldsmith, suddenly. “It’s about my buns. It said in that book that my buns was full of electricity. I’d just like to say that’s not true, and anybody who says it is true is telling lies. There’s no electricity comes near my buns. I don’t hold with these new electric ovens for baking, I don’t. My oven’s a brick oven, heated with an ordinary furnace, same as my father used. The dough’s rolled by ’and. There’s no electricity comes near my buns, and no seconds neither. I use nothing but first-grade flour in my bakery—there’s people living not a hundred miles from here who couldn’t say the same—and that’s the truth,” added Mrs. Goldsmith, leaning back and fanning her hot face with her handkerchief.
Mrs. Featherstone Hogg rapped on the table. “I’m sure it is very interesting to hear about Mrs. Goldsmith’s methods of baking,” she announced in patronizing tones. “But I don’t see how that is going to help us in our search for John Smith. We could all point out the horrible lies that he’s written about us if we liked, but what good would that do? I must ask the members of this Meeting to keep to the matter in hand or we shall be here all night.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoke up like I did,” said Mrs. Goldsmith apologetically. “But it’s hard to have people making wicked aspirations about my buns and lie down under it.”
“Quite right too,” said Mrs. Dick, nodding her head so that the ostrich feather round her hat waved like a milk-white pennon in the breeze. “Quite right too. Stand up for yourself, I say, for there’s nobody else going to stand up for you. And while we’re on the subject I’d just like to mention that if my guests are late for their breakfasts their breakfasts are kept hot—there’s nobody in my establishment is asked to eat congealed bacon fat like it says in that book—Mr. Fortnum and Mr. Black will bear me out,” she added firmly, looking toward the paying guests who had accompanied her to the Meeting.
“That’s right,” said Mr. Fortnum hoarsely.
“—And there’s another thing,” continued Mrs. Dick. “Just one more thing, and I’ll have done, for I’m not going into the question of my mattresses in Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s drawing-room. It’s enough to say that they’re all good horsehair mattresses every one of them, and anyone who says they’re stuffed with potatoes is a liar—what I really want to say is this: my guests are all respectable and well-behaved, and I’ve never had a gentleman of the name of Mason staying in my establishment, and if I did have, I’d have seen to it that he behaved as a gentleman ought. None of my gentlemen ever spent all night in a lady’s garden playing on a mandolin. Mr. Fortnum plays the ukulele and very nice it is of an evening in the drawing-room and the other gentlemen singing—”
Mrs. Featherstone Hogg rapped on the table—
“Mr. Bulmer will now read out the apologies from the absentees,” she said loudly.
“It ought to have been done at the beginning,” said Mr. Bulmer crossly.
“I know, I forgot about it.”
“You had better do it yourself.”
“Very well,” said the chairman, “if you don’t want to do it, I will.” She took up a sheaf of papers and cleared her throat. “Mrs. Bulmer is away from home and therefore regrets that she cannot be present. Dr. Walker is unavoidably detained, but hopes to come in later. Miss Pretty is in bed with a feverish cold; she much regrets that she is unable to be present at Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s drawing-room meeting, but hopes it will be a great success. (I am sure we are all much obliged to Miss Pretty for her kind message.) Colonel Carter has sailed for India and regrets that he is unable to attend. Major and Mrs. Shearer regret that owing to a previous engagement they are unable to accept Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s kind invitation to her drawing-room meeting. Miss Dorcas Pemberty regrets that she is unable to be present. Mrs. Sandeman is unable to be present as she is still in bed; she much regrets that she cannot accept Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s kind invitation. I think that is all; we can now proceed with the—er—proceedings,” said Mrs. Featherstone Hogg, and she sat down.
“What are you going to do when you find John Smith?” inquired Miss King in her deep sensible voice. “It appears to me that you can’t do anything at all. No reputable lawyer will touch the case with a barge pole.”
“Leave that to me,” replied the chairman of the meeting in a voice that boded ill for John Smith.
“I move that the vote of the meeting shall be taken on the point,” said Miss King firmly.
Sarah Walker seconded the motion and Mrs. Featherstone Hogg was forced to ask for a show of hands. Hands were shown on the point, and it was found that the majority lay with Miss King. In other words they all wanted to have some say in what punishment should be meted out to John Smith rather than leave the matter entirely in their chairman’s hands.
“I think we should send him to Coventry,” said Isabella Snowdon, savagely.
“Poof—what would John Smith care for that,” snorted Mr. Bulmer. “A good ducking in the horse-pond is what he wants.”
“It all depends on what sort of a man he is,” Mr. Snowdon pointed out. “As Miss King so rightly says, no lawyer will touch the case—but there are other means of procedure.”
“What means?” demanded Mr. Bulmer.
“Most men have a weak spot,” replied Mr. Snowdon significantly.
“You mean we could find out something disgraceful about his past, and blackmail him?” inquired Sarah Walker, sweetly.
“I never mentioned blackmail,” retorted Mr. Snowdon. “I merely said that most men have a weak spot. In dealing with a person of John Smith’s caliber one cannot be squeamish. The man obviously needs a lesson. Find his weak spot and you have him at your mercy.”
“What’s it all about?” inquired Mr. Durnet suddenly in a piping voice. “What’s it all about? Ella said we was going to ’ave tea. It’s a long time coming.”
“After the Meeting,” shouted Mr. Black who was sitting next to the old man. “After the Meeting.”
“Yes, eating. That’s what Ella said,” piped Mr. Durnet disconsolately. “But I don’t see no signs of eating, nor drinking neither.”
Mrs. Featherstone Hogg took no notice of the interruption. “You’re all quite wrong,” she said firmly. “John Smith ought to be horse-whipped; that’s the only thing for a man like him. And horse-whipped he will be, if I have any say in the matter.”
“You haven’t,” said Mr. Bulmer. “You are the chairman—or at least you are supposed to be the chairman—and therefore you have no say in the matter beyond giving a casting vote.”
“If I had known that, I wouldn’t have been the chairman,” replied Mrs. Featherstone Hogg with some heat. “Do you mean to say that because I am the chairman I have to sit here like a dummy and not give the meeting the benefit of my ideas?”
Mr. Bulmer did not attempt to answer this question: perhaps his experience was insufficient to deal with such a fine point.
“Who’s going to do the horse-whipping?” he inquired, passing on to safer ground. “Who’s going to horse-whip the man and probably find himself in jail over the affair? That’s what I want to know.”
“Colonel Weatherhead, of course,” said Mrs. Featherstone Hogg calmly.
The entire meeting gasped with amazement.
“I’d like to see the fun,” announced Captain Sandeman.
“So’d I,” agreed Mr. Black, “but the Colonel’s an oldish man for a job like that, and we don’t know what size of a chap this John Smith will be. I’d like to know the size of a chap before I said I’d tackle him—still I admire pluck.”
“It’s a pity more people are not as brave as the Colonel,” said Mrs. Featherstone Hogg with asperity. She had pondered for so long over the horse-whipping business that she was now convinced in her own mind that the whole thing was settled with Colonel Weatherhead. It would have been almost impossible to disabuse he
r mind of the conviction that Colonel Weatherhead had agreed with alacrity to horse-whip John Smith. Fortunately, nobody present was in a position to try.
“I wouldn’t mind taking him on if he was smaller than me,” retorted Mr. Black, who felt that the chairman’s remark was especially addressed to him, and resented the aspersion upon his personal courage. “But it wouldn’t be the least use me undertaking the job if I couldn’t be certain of getting the better of the chap.”
Captain Sandeman was heard to murmur something, and was asked by the chairman to repeat his remark. It was obvious that she hoped he was a volunteer; he was young, and strong, and had broad shoulders, and his profession was militant.
“I just said, ‘First catch your hare,’” said Captain Sandeman.
“Very pertinent too,” remarked Miss Olivia Snowdon.
“Good Heavens! What’s impertinent about it?” demanded Captain Sandeman indignantly, “I merely said, ‘First catch your hare.’ It’s a proverb. It means you can’t punish the man till you’ve caught him. ‘First catch your hare, then cook him.’ You can’t cook John Smith till you’ve bowled him over, can you? We aren’t within a hundred miles of finding out who the feller is yet.”
“I know, I know,” soothed the harassed chairman. “Nobody said impertinent.”
“Miss Snowdon did.”
“I said pertinent,” Miss Snowdon remarked scornfully. “Perhaps you do not realize that pertinent means to the point; it means the reverse of impertinent. The word has now lost its original meaning, of course—”
“Is it necessary to go into the etymological meaning of the word?” inquired Mr. Bulmer in a tired voice.
“I considered it necessary to explain my meaning to Captain Sandeman,” returned Miss Snowdon, with some heat.
Mrs. Featherstone Hogg thought it was time to interfere. She rapped on the table with her hammer.
“We must really confine ourselves to the business in hand,” she said sternly. “We keep on wandering away from the point—”
“It’s the chairman’s business to prevent that occurring,” retorted Mr. Bulmer.
“I’ve been trying to,” Mrs. Featherstone Hogg said, with pardonable irritation. “I’ve been trying to keep people to the point ever since we started. If you think you could do it so much better you had better be chairman and conduct the meeting yourself.”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Mr. Bulmer.
“I’m only trying to help you all,” continued the chairman in pathetic accents. “I’ve had you all here today to try to get to the bottom of this—of this distressing affair.”
“And very kind of you it is, ma’am,” put in Mrs. Goldsmith, who had determined to ally herself with her best customer at all costs. “Very kind of you to take all the trouble you have taken, and to have us all here today in your nice drawing-room—so it is. I propose a vote of thanks to Mrs. Featherstone Hogg,” she added with sudden brilliant inspiration.
“Very unconstitutional!” exclaimed Mr. Bulmer.
“Very kind of you, Mrs. Goldsmith,” said Mrs. Featherstone Hogg, with a defiant look in Mr. Bulmer’s direction. “Very kind indeed of you, and I’m glad somebody appreciates my efforts, but the only thing is a vote of thanks comes at the end of the proceedings.”
“Does it?” inquired Mrs. Goldsmith in an interested voice. “Well, I never was at a drawing-room meeting before, so I didn’t know. I’ve been to Quaker Meetings of course. My aunt who lives in Herefordshire is a Quaker, and we used to stay with her when we were young. And of course at Quaker Meetings you just speak as the spirit moves you, so I thought it was the same kind of idea—”
“Well, it’s not,” said the perplexed chairman. “If anyone has anything to say which will throw light upon the identity of John Smith we shall be only too pleased to listen to them, but if not I must request members to remain silent.”
“How would it do if we all remained silent for ten minutes?” suggested Miss Isabella Snowdon, timidly. “Those who cared to pray for guidance could do so, of course, and the others could just concentrate upon the problem. The power of thought is so immense and so—so—er—powerful, I feel sure that we should gain something valuable in that way.”
“I didn’t know this was going to turn into a séance, or I should have stayed at home,” announced Mr. Bulmer, who was getting more and more irritable every moment.
“My sister never suggested a séance nor anything to do with spiritualism,” cried Miss Olivia, rushing into the fray. “Concentrated thought is an entirely different matter—”
“The Meeting should have been opened with prayer,” suggested Mrs. Dick, who had suddenly thought of this contribution to the debate.
“I think it would have been most unsuitable,” said Miss King firmly.
“When you’ve all finished quarrelling I would like to tell you about my idea,” Vivian Greensleeves announced. There was something significant in her tone that quelled the rising storm. Everybody looked at her, of course, which was exactly what Vivian liked. She lay back with her legs crossed, smiling in a mysterious manner, and toying idly with the tassels on the arm of her chair. It was the first time that Vivian had opened her mouth since she had arrived, except to yawn once or twice in a ladylike manner behind her hand—she had been waiting, more or less patiently, until everybody present had made complete fools of themselves; she considered that she had now waited long enough, and was ready to contribute her quota.
“We shall be very glad to listen to your idea,” Mrs. Featherstone Hogg announced graciously.
“Well,” said Vivian Greensleeves, slowly. “I’ve been thinking it over ever since I read the book, and it seems to me there’s only one person in Silverstream who is not caricatured in the book and held up to scorn, only one person who knows us all well enough to write about us and is not in the book herself. I think that John Smith is Mrs. Walker.”
Everybody immediately turned and gazed at Sarah Walker. It would have taken a more brazen person than Sarah not to blush in the blaze of limelight suddenly thrown upon her.
“Oh!” she said.
“Oh no, it’s not her,” cried Barbara Buncle.
Mrs. Featherstone Hogg swallowed once or twice. There seemed to be a sort of lump sticking in her throat—possibly a form of excitement. Why had she not thought of Mrs. Walker herself? Sarah had just the sort of perverted sense of humor which disfigured Disturber of the Peace. Sarah knew them all; she had opportunities of hearing things about her neighbors which are denied to the wives of stockbrokers. Sarah had ample time to write, for she was by way of being delicate and did not go about much. She made an excuse of her delicacy to abstain from such excitements as tea-parties and musical evenings at The Riggs. What more likely than that she stayed at home and ridiculed them all? Sarah went her own way, and lived her own life; she did not bow to the sovereignty of Mrs. Featherstone Hogg. Mrs. Featherstone Hogg did not like Sarah; she was pretty sure it was Sarah who had written the book.
Several other people seemed to be arriving at the same conclusion; Mrs. Carter was arguing loudly with Miss King; Mrs. Goldsmith was arguing loudly with Mrs. Dick; the Snowdons were whispering among themselves; Mr. Bulmer was glaring at Sarah like a gargoyle.
Mr. Bulmer was convinced that Mrs. Greensleeves had hit the bull’s-eye with her first shot. He disliked Sarah intensely, and, moreover, he knew that Sarah disliked him (Sarah never made any concealment of her likes and dislikes). Sarah was Margaret’s closest friend; of course Margaret had told her all about him, and she had travestied him in her hateful book. The thing was obvious.
Mr. Bulmer plucked at Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s sleeve and whispered in her ear.
The chairman rose, and rapped upon the table.
“Mrs. Walker,” she said solemnly. “It is my painful duty to ask you in the name of this Meeting whether or not you wrote the no
vel, Disturber of the Peace. Please do not let us have any prevarications; we desire the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Sarah leaped to her feet; she was furious. How dared Mrs. Featherstone Hogg put the question in that way? As if she, Sarah Walker, told lies!
“I will tell you the whole truth,” she cried, nerved by wrath. “I did not write Disturber of the Peace, but I wish I had. I wish I had the brains to do it. I think it is a very clever and amusing book, and I hope it will do you all good to see yourselves as others see you for once in a way. A set of smug hypocrites—that’s what you are. It’s a great pity there aren’t more John Smiths about.”
Having said her say, Sarah made for the door, and Barbara, who had had quite enough of the drawing-room meeting, got up and followed her. The remainder of the company was too astounded to move.
Barbara seized the door out of Sarah’s grasp and closed it gently but firmly behind her. She heaved a sigh of relief—they had escaped without being torn in pieces—and pursued the flying Sarah down the stairs. In the hall was a tall familiar figure struggling out of its great-coat. Sarah flung herself into its arms and began to laugh hysterically.
“John,” she cried. “John, John, John!”
Barbara stood on the stairs and gazed at them, open-mouthed.
“Sally dear!” cried the amazed Dr. John. “Sally dear, what on earth’s happened?”
“They all think John Smith is me,” cried Sarah, gasping for breath.
Chapter Seventeen
Inspiration
Barbara Buncle rushed home and shut herself up in the small room that she had begun to call her study. She cast her hat and coat onto the nearest chair and seized her fountain pen. Words were hammering in her brain. They poured out onto the paper in an endless stream. The floor was gradually covered with sheets of closely written foolscap. It looked as if a snowstorm had been raging in the study when Dorcas came in to say that supper was ready.
Miss Buncle's Book Page 16