by Jack Mann
“Well, they are—noticeable, I suppose,” Gees admitted. “Odd, though—I’d have said that as her real self she wasn’t conscious of my existence, unless you told her about me—”
“She told us,” Norris interrupted again.
“Very odd indeed,” Gees remarked thoughtfully, “and in that case—what about Sunday afternoon? I could just look in on you, then.”
“For tea—I’ll tell them to expect you,” Norris said.
“Very well, then, but for heaven’s sake tell ’em to treat me like an ordinary stranger and not make a fuss, to save me from jumping through a window in desperation. And now I expect you’d like to get back to them. Glad to know you, Mr. Norris, and just as glad to know I was right about it. Guessing right always makes me think no end of myself—till I go and spoil the effect by guessing wrong next time.”
“I’d call it inspiration, not guessing,” Norris observed. He stood up. “And over—over anything of that sort—I never believed in the possibility of it, but for the future I’m keeping an open mind.”
“Yes, do,” Gees advised. “It’s as valuable as—as a traction engine, though either of them may run you down.”
After Norris had gone, he took up The Golden Bough again, but sat for a long time without opening it. Just when, in the terrible state in which he had seen her, had May Norris noticed his big hands and feet?
He settled to the book in the end, and ceased to be conscious of the rain pattering steadily on the window of the room. Nicholas came in, laid the table and finally appeared to put down a covered dish.
“Thy sooper, sir,” he announced, and withdrew.
Gees moved to the table, and removed the cover.
“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Is there no originality in that woman’s mind?”
It was ham and eggs, again!
Rather than spend the whole evening with no company but his thoughts, Gees went into the bar at near on nine o’clock, and found a larger assembly of worthies celebrating pay-night in their modest way at what was, for them, the only form of congenial club available. His entry brought an absolute cessation of the buzz of conversation, and he made his way to the bar and ordered a half-pint tankard in an awesome silence, except that Phil Bird, also up at the bar, returned his smile and nod with a cheerful—“Evenin’, sir,” that seemed to convey deep respect.
Then Tom Myers piped up, bravely but nervously.
“Us as was here last night, sir, ’d like to thankye f’r helpin’ out a Thu’sday night the way yu did. It wur good o’ yu, sir.”
“Aye, it wur,” chorused Jacob Hood and some others, including a wizened-looking little man in the corner of the side bench.
“Forget it,” Gees counselled them, “and have another on me, all round. Set ’em up, Mr. Churchill—whatever they like to call. I’ve had a good day, and feel just like that.”
“Nay,” objected the little man in the corner. “Reckon, bein’ pay night, it’s f’r us to ast yu What’ll yu like, mister, specially since we heerd the beauty o’ Denlum’ll be seen about again, now.”
“Thass right, Tod,” Tom Myers assented. “Now, chaps, give it lung!”
He led off with—“For he’s a jolly good fellow,” and the rest joined in, even Nicholas Churchill squealing his contribution from behind the bar, while Gees wished himself anywhere but there. When the final three cheers had finished, Tom spoke up again, with high self-approval.
“Us said we would, an’ us did,” he announced. “Now, mister, whatever Nick’s got that’s best, yu have, an’ us’ll stand it.”
Gees finished his half-pint, on which he had made inroads for occupation while the chorus was in progress, and put the tankard down.
“Right,” he said. “One pint tankard of bitter. I don’t think he’s got anything better than that.”
“Somethin’ short in it,” Jacob Hood urged persuasively. “Us’ll pay.”
“Not for the world,” Gees dissented, and kept his gravity. “It’s very good beer, and from the standpoint of health, now—” He took up the tankard. “Good health to you all,” he added, and drank to them.
“An’ yu too,” was the general response.
“Mister,” piped up the little man whose name had been revealed as Tod, “yu be mortal clever, bain’t yu?”
“Very,” Gees agreed gravely. “I’m glad you realise it.”
“Aye. Then happen yu know a cure for warts?” He held up two hands specked as might be buns with currants—fruity buns at that.
“Of course I do,” Gees assured him, when the laugh had died down. “Drink four pints of water first thing in the morning, and another four pints before coming along here in the evening.”
“Thankye, mister,” Tod said after considering it, “but I reckon I’ll keep the warts.”
“Mind ye, Tod, they’ll soon be past countin’ if they keep on,”
Jacob Hood warned him gravely. “Might try th’ cure. It’s cheap.”
“I don’t like worter,” Tod objected gloomily.
“Countin’ ’em,” Tom Myers observed after a silence that nobody appeared anxious to break. “Mind me, that du, o’ Sam Cottrill an’ his pig!”
“Why, what happened to the pig?” Gees inquired interestedly.
“Bacon, an’ fry, an’ things, years ago,” Tom said gravely. “Sam, he uster work f’r Noah Lewis, him ’at got so done over killin’ turnip-fly, an’ Sam alius kep’ a pig to help things out, farm wages not bein’ more’n ten shillin’ a week in them times—my father knew him, right well. An’ he got a pig once ‘t he took a real likin’ to, named it Ahab, outer Scriptur, ’cause he ’ouldn’t take a name for a pig outer Scriptur like a prophet or a ’postel or anything o’ that sort. Reckoned to fat it on what Noah Lewis give him i’ the way o’ skim milk an’ a drop o’ middlin’s now an’ then, an’ scraps, through the winter, an’ kill it about Easter. An’ he looked at it one day an’
counted it warn’t fattin’ as nice as he wanted, an’ allowed it oughter have some green stuff. So he ast owd Noah for some swedes outer a clamp what ’ouldn’t keep much longer, an’ Noah said he could have what he wanted for his pig.”
“Swedes ain’t green stuff,” Tod objected, interrupting.
“All right,” Tom said, “yu know best,” and subsided to silence.
“No, no, tell us the rest—please,” Gees urged.
“Sam took a couple o’ big swedes outer the clamp, an’ cut ’em each inter fower quarters, an’ laid ’em out while the pig was busy at the skim milk an’ middlin’s in the trough,” Tom went on after a long, injured interval, “an’ it happened he laid ’em out in a row. When Ahab, which was the pig’s name, got done all there was in the trough, he come along an’ set down in front o’ them quarters o’ swede, on his hunkers, an’ Sam said he counted ’em afore he begun on ’em.”
“Hoo-oo-oo!” A general chorus of derision.
“Counted ’em,” Tom insisted doggedly. “Like that.” He nodded emphatically, eight times. “Two big swedes, eight quarters. An’
ev’ry day, for about a fortni’t, Sam fed him eight quarters o’ swede, an’ ev’ry day he set down on his hunkers an’ counted ’em first, an’
then et ’em. An’ that pig, Ahab his name was, fatted up most wonnerful, Sam said.”
“Swedes don’t last till Easter,” Tod observed gravely.
“Yu’re right,” Tom assured him. “Sam reckoned on gittin’ fresh green stuff for the pig when they run out. An’ what wi’ him a takin’ ’em, an’ Noah Lewis a using ’em f’r his stock, they come to the end o’ the clamp, an’ it wur only littl’ uns. So one day Sam took three little swedes hoam f’r his pig Ahab, an’ bein’ as they worn’t big, he cut ’em into halves steddy quarters, an’ put ’em down while Ahab was at the trough like he’d allus done. An’ Ahab cleaned out the trough, an’ come along an’ set down a’ front o’ them halves o’
swede like he’d done afore, the q
uarters o’ big uns, nodded at ’em to make sure, like. Then he grunted hard, an’ steddy startin’ on ‘em, he counted agin. One—tu—three—fower—five—six—an’ no more!
An’ he looked up at Sam, an’ the good fat was runnin’ away down his cheeks in tears, because there worn’t on’y six pieces, an’ he’d been done outer tu.”
“Well, if that bain’t a master one!” Tod said reverently.
“An’ Sam was in a tur’ble to-do,” Tom pursued. “He run hisself outer breath all the way to Noah Lewis’s swede clamp, an’ got another little’un, an’ cut it i’ half an’ took the halves to the sty. An’
there set Ahab, still cryin’ i’ front o’ them six halves till Sam put the other tu down wi’ ’em. Then he stopped crying an’ et ’em all up like anything, an’ arter that, as long as them swedes lasted, Sam didn’t never give him no more’n no less’n eight pieces, an’ he alius counted ’em afore he et ’em, an’ got so fat he c’d hardly see to count, but the swedes was all done an’ Sam took to givin’ him green stuff long afore Easter. An’ when Sam killed him, my mother spoke f’r some o’ the fry, an’ I ‘member it wur rattlin’ good an’ my father said it come from Sam’s pig Ahab. Which go to prove it’s all true, an’ his name wur Ahab.”
“Don’t prove nothin’ about the pig knowin’ how to count,” Tod objected. “But it mind me,” he went on with his gaze directed at Gees, before Tom could protest the pig’s mathematical prowess,
“o’ Henery Purkis an’ his donkey. Henery kep’ the donkey in a medder next his garden, an’ one day he stood a basket o’ cabbages close up to the garden hedge, an’ it’s easy to see what happened to them cabbages, ain’t it, mister? “ He addressed the query directly to Gees.
“One guess is enough,” Gees assented.
“Arter that,” Tod pursued, “Henery was keerful about that basket, but one day he forgot an’ left it close up agin’ the hedge agin, an’ this time he’d got it full o’ young spring carrots—toppin’ full, it wur. An’ the donkey put his head over the hedge an’ seen that basket an’ all them carrots, an’—well, yu c’n tell what he was thinkin’, I reckon, mister?”
“I can,” Gees agreed heartily and unsuspectingly.
“Aye, I thowt so,” said Tod, hugging himself, “an’ so c’d the rest o’ his family.”
He had got his own back for the wart cure, his expression said. Gees waited till the laughter had died down.
“On me,” he said frankly. “Tod, I’ll hope to catch somebody else with it, yet. Drinks all round, on me, Churchill, and don’t forget yourself, if you don’t mind drinking with my family here.”
Nicholas set up the round, and then turned in response to a call from the wicket at the back of the bar. He turned again and motioned Gees toward the entrance. He himself went out at the back of the bar, and met Gees in the passage.
“T’ squire. Coom to see thee,” he said.
“Ah!” Gees observed quietly. “Where did you put him?”
“T’ dinin’ room.”
“Right. I’ll attend to him, and don’t forget—put that round on my bill.” And he went on to the dining-room and entered. Hunter, standing on the hearthrug, his shirt front and dinner jacket showing from under an unbuttoned waterproof, gave him a cold, silent stare. He was an angry man, evidently.
“A late call,” Gees remarked coolly. “I’d say—Mahomet, behold the mountain, if I were not afraid of being disrespectful, but the rain, and I’d been wet through once—”
“You may save your excuses, Mr. Green,” Hunter interrupted coldly. “I called to see you this afternoon, but you were out—in the rain.”
“Yes, I said I got wet through,” Gees reminded him, still quite calmly. “Had you—er—any further information that might be useful?”
“My object in making that call is of no consequence now,”
Hunter answered, and thrust his hand in his pocket to take out a small, folded paper. “Since then, I have heard that you have restored the girl Norris to sanity—been instrumental in restoring her, I should say, and so”—he put the paper down on the table—“I bring you this.”
Gees took it up and, unfolding it, saw a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds, made payable to himself and not crossed. He stared from the cheque to Hunter, in utter surprise.
“But—but I’ve hardly begun!” he protested.
“On the other hand,” Hunter said, with almost a sneer on his face,
“you have finished. That girl’s state was all I wanted put right.”
A lie, Gees knew—or else Hunter had lied more than had been apparent, in London. Then again, as over a phrase in the letter Hunter had sent him that day, Gees saw daylight.
“That—the girl—was no more than an effect,” he said. “I have yet to locate and deal with the cause.”
“You have not,” Hunter contradicted with quiet firmness. “In curing her, you have fulfilled your mission here. So I pay you, and dismiss you, and”—he added it as an afterthought—“thank you for your aid.”
“Very good of you, but I’m not satisfied to leave the case like this,” Gees objected. “It’s not finished—the cause of the trouble still exists. And then”—as a thought struck him—“how do you know the girl is really cured? Your intelligence service must be good, if you are able to say that already—which is more than I can.”
“I had it from the best possible source, the rectory,” Hunter said.
“The rectory, eh?” Gees echoed musingly, after a long pause.
“Why not? Perivale knew I was distressed about the girl’s state, and as head of my family felt a responsibility over her, although”—his face darkened momentarily—“her swine of a father dared to insult and go so far as to spit at me. Perivale would let me know, first.”
“He told you himself that she is quite cured?” Gees asked.
“No,” Hunter answered, after a pause in which, Gees felt sure, he decided not to risk the lie. “Instructed that I should be told, by telephone from the rectory to the House.”
“Yes? And by whom?” Gees asked, still apparently musing.
“I fail to see why you should catechise me over it,” Hunter retorted sharply. “By your tone, one might think that you are the employer and I the employed. It was either Celia Perivale or her stepmother, though I don’t know which. Is that enough for you?”
For a few moments Gees stood silent, reflecting. He had heard both those voices, and knew them to be so dissimilar in pitch and intonation that it was impossible to mistake one for the other.
“Either Mrs. or Miss Perivale,” he remarked at last. “Yes.”
“Do you dare doubt the truth of what I am saying?” Hunter demanded, openly angry, now. “The telephone distorts voices. I heard that the message was from the rectory, and was instigated by Perivale himself, who was too exhausted or something to speak to me but knew I should be glad to hear of the girl’s recovery. The message told of that—why this senseless curiosity about the messenger?”
“Of course—it is,” Gees assented placidly—but he knew it was not.
“Aside from that,” Hunter said, “I wish no further investigation whatever made. As I said, I pay you, and dismiss you, here and now.”
“Curtly, and most unsatisfactorily,” Gees protested.
“As for the curtness, the amount of love lost between your family and mine ought to help you to account for it,” Hunter told him with a certain vindictiveness in his tone. “For the rest, I am satisfied, with the cure of the girl Norris. You have your pay as agreed, and the absence of that is your only possible cause of dissatisfaction. As a workman, you have been quick and efficient. As an idle personality, I should prefer your absence from this village. Good night, Mr. Green.”