“But what have they got against me, Doctor?”
“Well, I’ll be frank with you: several things! One woman said she had been told you had been a co-respondent in a divorce case at Folkestone. Another said that you were mixed up with a visitor from the Far East, with a growing daughter, who stayed in your village last year. Then you are said to get fighting drunk, to shoot off your gun at people, including a friend who once lived with you. You know how rumours get about in a small place.”
“But it’s not true, Dr. MacNab! Mrs. Irene Lushington has not been divorced. And I’ve never hit any man, old or young, anywhere, except perhaps in the War, and certainly not in Devon. I did fire a gun off at midnight once, for a joke. As for being a drunkard, well, I’ve been tight in the past, but not for two years at least.”
“Well, there it is, I’ve told you all I know, old chap.”
“I see. By the way, Doctor, can I have a sputum test for t.b.? Would it be convenient now?”
The doctor sounded his lungs, then took a specimen of his sputum. “I’ll let you know, old chap. Meanwhile, don’t worry. Good food and exercise in fresh air will clear up any little pocket there might be.”
In Queensbridge the next day, to get his hair cut, Phillip passed a lady with whom he had played several times at the club: he raised his cap, she looked straight ahead, ignoring him.
Dr. MacNab’s advice about proper food was taken. He arranged to have lunch and supper in the kitchen of the pub, with the family. Supper, or high tea, eaten after the landlord and his son, a mason, had returned from work, washed, and changed their clothes by 6 p.m., was the time of day he looked forward to. The kitchen behind the bar parlour was warm, heated by the iron cooking stove, and lit by an oil-lamp suspended from the lime-washed ceiling. The only trouble was the landlord’s wife: she would talk to him when “feyther” and her son were serving behind the bar. But soon he found that he could read or muse under the amiable flow of words, shutting them off between ear and brain. On Sunday there was always beef, well-roasted or toughened in the village way in a coal-fired oven and served in dark-brown slices concealed by Beefo, a brown gravy out of a packet. He was soon on intimate terms with the family, who greeted nearly all he said with undisturbed amiability.
“Why can’t the British serve a meal without camouflaging it with ‘Beefo’? Every village in England should erect a monument to Saint Beefo, the patron of burnt offerings. Indeed Macaulay, in one of his essays, claims that William the Conqueror, after a few weeks in Britain, said it should be renamed ‘Great Beefo’.”
The landlord’s wife, an amiable hazy woman with an invariable sweet smile, appeared to take this seriously. “Go on, you don’t zay, my dear zoul, vancy that now,” as she shook her head.
On Mondays the weekly old-cow beef was served in hard dark slices with little or no taste left in the meat; on Tuesdays the scriddicks were put through a mincing machine for reappearance on the table as either rissoles or shepherd’s pie.
“I wonder how it got the name of shepherd’s pie,” said Phillip. “Since when have shepherds attended to the last rites of bullocks? It should be called drover’s pie.”
“My, vancy that now! ’Tes all the studying of those yurr books, no doubt,” was the good wife’s reply.
One evening she said, “You’m not looking very well, I do hope you’m a-right with the food I serve? ’Tes plain, I know, but ’tes what us be used to.”
“Oh, please don’t ever think I was complaining! The fact is I’m rather worried by something on my mind.”
*
Gales of the equinox blew away yellow leaves from the churchyard elms; rain drove over a misty landscape; smoke billowed down his chimney. No letter or visit from Dr. NacNab: he decided that the test had proved positive, and the doctor shrank from telling him the worst. He became a prey to various fears which could not be resolved by taking thought against them: what had seemed to be the piffling situation of the tennis club became vampiric. Chronically the thought recurred: why should all concerned, including Mrs. Nunn, suffer and so lose vitality when the simple truth could make everything plain? In this belief he wrote to Mrs. Nunn and asked her if she would be kind enough to let him explain personally what he felt to be an unhappy misunderstanding.
Mrs. Nunn replied by return of post saying that she was unable to agree to his suggestion, adding that she did not see what good it would do. This reply he showed, on impulse, to the good wife when she had got his breakfast—a boiled lump of what was called tea-fish, some of which were to be seen hanging up in the village store like little pale mats covered with frost—salted, kippered cod from the Newfoundland banks. He ate it somehow, munching away. Even Rusty refused a chewed mouthful, so he put it in a piece of paper for the cattle dog, who later scoffed it, apparently without tasting.
“Us wondered why you were off your food,” said the good-wife. “Us thinks it be a shame the way they do talk about ’ee. It ban’t for the likes of us to criticize the gentry, all the same Mrs. Nunn didn’t ought to say things like that. Mrs. Crang was lookin’ after Mrs. Lushington all the time she was yurr, and ’er says it ban’t true, and ’er ought to know, didn’n’m?”
“I can’t write, with this hanging over me, you know. Otherwise I wouldn’t care.”
“If you’ll excuse me saying so,” said the landlord, a quiet, steady man, “I don’t think a proper lady would say such things and then not give anyone a chance to defend themselves.”
Meeting Mrs. Carder in Queensbridge, he was about to go past with reserved expression and lift of cap, but she stopped him. “Those absurd remarks! I do hope you will stand up for yourself, because many parents will feel otherwise that they won’t be able to ask you to their parties.”
A week later he walked around the streets of Queensbridge and saw a brass plate with the lettering G. H. M. Wigfull, Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths, nearly worn away by polishing, on the wall of a building. Against his better judgment he went in; hesitated before the clerks’ window, and went out. Wig full called up a Johnsonian figure, without the wit of Boswell’s friend.
It appeared to be a lawyers’ settlement, for farther along the wall of the long building were other plates. Gollopp, Mutton, and Co. was one, Winkles & Gunn on the final plate. Wigfull fires his Gun at Winkles and hits Mutton—let there be an end to it—“he who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence”.
The odd thing was that Mr. Wigfull turned out to be bald, flabby, and big-faced. Phillip felt immediate unease in his presence, a feeling confirmed when Mr. Wigfull, after he had listened to his recital, seized a pen and said, “We shall soon stop that old woman’s mouth!” He wrote at his desk for several minutes. “This is a draft of a letter I suggest should be sent.”
The letter contained alarming phrases like “given our client considerable pain,” “unless we receive a reply within four days, a writ for slander and defamation of character will be applied for.”
“Now you go home until you hear from me,” ordered Mr. Wigfull. “We shall cut that old woman’s corns for her! Good morning.”
Two days later he was standing again before the roll-top desk, waiting while Mr. Wigfull read through correspondence which he imagined referred to the case of the farmer who had gone out just before. At last the big face jerked up and said, “Sit down!”
Phillip sat down and waited. When the other correspondence had been put aside, Mr. Wigfull said accusingly, “You didn’t tell me that Mrs. Nunn was a lady!”
The big, preponderant brown face with the almost lifeless eyes stared at him with a reserved expression. A hand took a pencil, waggled it nervously between fingers, and continued, “Now I must advise you to consider very carefully before you decide to institute any proceedings for slander and defamation! For one thing, any questionable behaviour in your past life will be known and exposed by the defence. Of that you may be very sure! Now let me ask you, Have you ever been a co-respondent in a divorce case? You say you have not. Very well. Have you ever b
een drunk? You have been drunk. Be sure that will be known! You say you met this woman, a Mrs. Lushington, on the sands—you became friends. But what kind of friendship is it that begins by a chance meeting, a meeting which is, to say the least, unconventional? You say you made enquiries about a furnished cottage on her behalf in the village where you are living. The defence will naturally make the most of that.”
He stared at Phillip and went on. “I must tell you that I have had a talk with the other side’s solicitors. They say in effect that you are a very bad hat. They say that you were seen going into this woman’s cottage in pyjamas in broad daylight. You were observed shaking mats against the garden wall outside. You tell me there has been no divorce. Very well. You also tell me that three years ago at Folkestone you often took a married lady, the wife of a General, on the luggage bracket of your motor-bicycle. Did you have a chaperon as well?”
“You mean two on the luggage carrier?”
“Your answer reveals what we are up against.” Mr. Wigfull looked accusingly at Phillip. Shaking a finger, and with an admonitory look, he continued, “Be sure that the defence will make the most of that! Now I advise you to reflect seriously before thinking further of applying for a writ. There is another most important point. May I enquire if you brought letters of introduction with you when you came to live in South Devon?”
“No.”
“Ah!” remarked Mr. Wigfull. “Now you see what is confronting us! You arrive with no letters of introduction! You behave in a bohemian manner—on your own admission, by the act of speaking to a woman on the sea-shore without being properly introduced to her! The defence will plead justification. Furthermore, if you arrive without letters of introduction, how can you expect to be received in the company of ladies and gentlemen?”
“You mean at the dance?”
“Any dance—any social occasion, be it tennis party, ball, assembly, or any other function which generally is understood to include the society of ladies and gentlemen. Why, I tell you frankly, I would not expect to find you in my house, among my wife and children, without letters of introduction!”
*
Two mornings later, as he was trying to write, he heard a crackling roar and looking out saw a Vauxhall Prince Henry with large open exhaust stop by the pump. A dark man in leather coat got out and walked towards his door. Going downstairs, Phillip saw him standing there, holding out a card.
MR. H. O. THISTLETHWAITE, M.C.
Solicitor
4 The Stews,
Queensbridge Late Grenadier
Guards
“I have a proposition to put before you, Captain Maddison. May I come in?”
“Please do. I am afraid I can only offer you a cup of tea, or cocoa——”
“Wash it out. I won’t beat about the bush. Let me come straight to the point. I’m a lawyer, as you can see, and just starting up on my own in the salubrious town of Queensbridge. I’ve heard—never mind how—about your little difficulty, and I must say you have my sympathy. Now this is what I suggest. You get rid of Wigfull—and from what I hear it will be no crying matter with him! Right! Tell him you have other plans in mind, write him a letter to that effect, and then allow me to act for you. How does that appeal to you?”
“I’d like to hear more, I think, before I——”
“Rightyho. By the way, that’s a nice ’bus you’ve got here. Old James L. Norton is years and years ahead of his time, with that long-stroke engine. I’ve got a Prince Henry Vauxhall, as you may have observed. I can pass anything on the road in the West Country! But to come back to brass tacks. Mrs. Nunn’s an old busybody, who thinks her money gives her a right to dictate to all and sundry, including the vicar of the parish church, whose churchwarden, need I tell you, is our friend Wigfull! Now all cards on the table! I must ask you some questions, my lad. Firstly, have you ever been a co-respondent in a divorce case? Not that I’m against divorce, but a solicitor must know everything about his client in a case like this.”
Phillip wondered where this was leading while he replied that he hadn’t been a co-respondent.
“Good! Splendid! We’ve got her where we want her! When you are shot of Wigfull I’ll write to Mrs. Nunn and say on your behalf that I am applying for a writ for slander and defamation of character. From what I know of her she’ll pay up before allowing it to go into court, and you should get a nice lump of hard cash in the process.”
“Oh, I don’t think I would ever sue anyone in the courts.”
“You wouldn’t have to. Mrs. Nunn’s timid under her nosey-parker manner, she’ll cough up rather than risk appearing in court.’’
“May I think it over?”
“By all means. Only don’t take too long about it. We want to strike while the iron’s hot.” Then seeing the dubious expression on Phillip’s face he changed direction. “Let me tell you who I am. I started the war as a guardsman with the Bill Browns, then took a commission in the Lancashire Fusiliers—anyhow, that’s beside the point—but this is what I want to tell you. When the local war-memorial was unveiled, and before the Colonel of the Devonshire Regiment arrived with the Lord Lieutenant to do the job, Wigfull, as a staff-major with red tabs up, took it on himself to arrange the ex-officers on one side of the buglers, and the other ranks opposite them. They were all civvies by then, you understand. Well, while they were waiting for the high-ups to arrive, the local sanitary inspector strolls up and joins the row of ex-officers. Wigfull is then heard to say, in a loud whisper, ‘What is that man doing among officers and gentlemen—that fellow who cleans out our dustbins’. Need I say more? Well, I must buzz. Let me know what you decide. Meanwhile can I take it that what I have told you remains strictly in confidence between us?” Mr. Thistlethwaite gave Phillip a cunning look before adding, “If you do talk, I tell you frankly that I shall deny everything, for your sake as well as mine! By the way, I ought to tell you this before I go: apparently your friend, who stayed with you—Warbeck I think was his name?—well, in his cups Warbeck told somebody in a Queensbridge pub that you had won the D.S.O. but lost it after a civil conviction? Is there any truth in that?”
“None.”
“But you were in quod for a month? Well, that won’t look too good if old Charley Mutton, who is acting for Mrs. Nunn, gets to hear of it!” He got up and left.
Phillip determined to go no further with this somewhat irresponsible fellow; and when a brief letter arrived from Wigfull, requesting his “attendance at my office”, he went there with a feeling that he ought to end the whole thing.
“I have been talking to Dr. MacNab,” began Mr. Wigfull. “He tells me that you came down here to Devon to write, on the advice of Lord Castleton, who had previously appointed you to the editorial chair of one of his motoring journals. Is that so?”
“Yes, more or less.”
“Had you told me that you were in effect a protégé of Lord Castleton, it would have ameliorated the impression I received from Messrs. Mutton. Now this is what I advise. We will send a letter to them saying that it is a case of mistaken identity. We will suggest that their client has—” he began to write—“yes, mmm-m’yes—has possibly relied on reports that are untrustworthy—mmm’m, that our client denies he has shaken mats outside any gate in—mmmmm—sleeping attire——” He wrote rapidly. “We will explain that our client was a protégé of the late Lord Castleton who advised him—yes—mmm-m—yes—advised him to go into the country to develop his talent for literature. Yes, that the—er—statements made—your client—caused considerable pain to our client—that our client requests an apology—and that yes’mmmm and yes I think mmmm’yes—a donation be given ’mmm—to the Queensbridge and District Infirmary. And I think they will agree. I will write to you. Good morning.”
A couple of days later he met Mrs. Carder. “I’m glad that you’re standing up for yourself and getting an apology, it will clear the air. Come and see us soon, won’t you?”
He wondered how she had known he was getting an apology before
he had got it.
The next morning he sat again beside Mr. Wigfull’s roll-top desk.
“Mr. Mutton brought this in yesterday.” He read out “‘Our client wishes us to say on her behalf that she is prepared to accept the statements made by you on behalf of your client, and she willingly expresses regret for any pain caused thereby to your client. She cannot, however, see her way to make a donation to the Queensbridge and District Infirmary’.”
“Well, here is your apology, as you can see for yourself. I advise you to accept it, to avoid investigation into and possible revelation concerning your past life before you came to live in Devon. Do I make myself clear?” He looked accusingly at Phillip.
“Extremely clear, Mr. Wigfull.”
“Very well. Mr. Charles Mutton brought this to me yesterday, and tossed it on my desk saying, ‘The old girl’s got plenty of money so we have agreed to pay your costs, as we don’t see why otherwise you should have to work for nothing.’ So the other side will pay costs.”
“I wish to meet my own obligations, and so if you will tell me the charge for your services, I will write you a cheque now.”
“You don’t understand! Costs are usually paid in a case like this by the other side. Here is your apology, which is what you wanted. Their client will pay my costs. That concludes the matter.”
“I prefer to pay my own costs, thank you.”
Mr. Wigfull’s expression changed a little. “Oh, certainly, as you wish, of course. Er—it will be two guineas. Pay it to my clerk, will you?”
He got up to open the door and this time he bowed to his client. Phillip wrote the cheque in the clerk’s office, took a receipt with the typewritten apology, stuffed them into his poacher pocket and walked away. As he turned the corner he saw a Prince Henry Vauxhall draw up outside the adjoining offices of Messrs. Mutton. Peering round the coign of the public house he saw a man jump out of his car and enter the Mutton archway. It was Thistlethwaite.
The Innocent Moon Page 36