‘Who was that?’ asked the girl sharply, after a moment.
‘I suppose the fool who’s bought the place.’
‘Bought it? For heaven’s sake, who?’
‘Some lunatic. Endicott, he said his name was. Big ugly chap, with foul manners.’
The girl caught her breath sharply. She said, in a stifled voice: ‘Did you say . . . Endicott?’
‘Yes. Why, do you know him?’
‘I knew a man once — years ago. How much do you think he heard?’
‘Nothing, probably. We weren’t shouting. God knows where he sprang from.’
‘Probably from the wood gate. Some man was leaning over it as I came by.’
‘Did he speak?’
‘I didn’t give him the chance. The gate was open and I thought it best not to pause for light conversation. Well, his coming puts paid to all this.’
‘All this? You can’t mean—’
His voice was muffled in her hair as he pulled her to him. She resisted him for a moment, then turned her face to his.
‘I don’t know what would happen,’ he muttered, ‘if you turned me down.’
‘Would it hurt so much? Poor boy!’
‘Don’t laugh,’ he said. ‘I’m a fool, I know. You needn’t rub it in. Sometimes I think you don’t give a damn for me.’
‘Do you? That’s rather surprising.’
‘But I never know — never have — if you aren’t playing with me all the time. You’re bored here — out of your element and I suppose my feelings offer you some form of distraction. Like a butterfly wriggling on a pin.’
She said mockingly, ‘How touching. And not at all correct. Because I don’t hold you in any way. You’re free as air, my darling.’
‘Free!’ he said.
‘You know,’ she said, suddenly impatient, ‘your trouble is that you dramatize yourself all the time. At the moment you are the tragic hero of an unhappy affair. Well, you needn’t be. There’s always the Morris girl, and a happy ending — yours for the asking.’
‘Shut up,’ he said.
‘Oh? Mustn’t I mention the pure girl’s name?’
‘Now you’re being common.’
‘Thanks very much. In that case, let’s drop the whole thing. I assure you, it’s becoming damned dull for me.’
‘Only because you’re tired of me,’ he said bitterly.
‘Oh, for God’s sake! I come here risking everything to meet you — Ralph’s temper is worse than ever lately — and all I get is the tale of your woes. Could you bear to think of me for a moment?’
The husky voice changed on the last words, murmuring an unmistakable invitation. His bewilderment and pain were vanquished, as always, by her nearness.
‘I must get back,’ she whispered at last. ‘We are mad to stay here. That man may be peeping round the hedge all the time.’
‘No. Look, there’s a light in the cottage. I can see his shadow moving. I wish the fool had kept away from here.’
‘So do I,’ she said under her breath.
They moved off slowly towards the wood.
* * *
A moment after the linked figures had disappeared, a man came quietly to Endicott’s door. His tap was answered by an explosion of barks from inside the cottage. Endicott, with visions of the tall slenderness of Brian Marlowe, and in no good mood, flung open the door.
‘Evening to ’ee,’ said the visitor affably. ‘Mr Endicott?’
‘That’s my name.’
‘Well, mine be Fairfax. You may ha’ heard it,’ said Mr Fairfax with a chuckle, ‘afore.’
‘Oh. The philanthropic gent who sold me the cottage. Come in, Mr Fairfax. I take it you know your way.’
‘I do. I do indeed,’ said Mr Fairfax cheerfully, and followed Endicott into the kitchen. In the light of the candle stuck to the mantelpiece by a blob of grease, he was revealed to be plump, bald and rosy — a Mr Pickwick without spectacles or gaiters. His blue eyes shone with childlike candour. Endicott recalled the price asked for his abode and reflected that the guileless countryman in excelsis stood before him.
‘I can’t ask you to sit down, I’m afraid. No chairs until Monday.’
‘Quite all right, sir, quite all right. Stand and grow good, so they say. And how do you find yourself, Mr Endicott? You like the place?’
‘It will suit my purpose.’
‘Ah?’ queried Mr Fairfax hopefully.
Oh no, said Mark to himself, that’s not in the bargain and remained silent.
‘Erh’r’m,’ said Mr Fairfax, clearing his throat with surprising violence, ‘if it suits you, it suits me. I’m sure. But speaking of chairs, I did have a few bits and pieces put by as I thought might be of use to ’ee.’
‘Why,’ said Mark cordially, ‘that’s very good of you. And, of course, that explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘The price you asked for the place. Furniture being thrown in makes all the difference.’
‘Ha ha ha,’ said Mr Fairfax, without conviction. ‘I see, sir, as you like your joke.’
‘I wasn’t joking. However, I see that I was mistaken. You mean your furniture is for sale?’
‘Well, there,’ said Mr Fairfax, disparaging filthy lucre by his tone. ‘You might call it so, but cheap — dirt cheap. As nice a table—’
‘Very good of you, and I’ll let you know later. I think I have all I need — except, indeed, stock to give meaning to the legend on the door.’
Mr Fairfax followed his gaze to ‘BAR’ and smiled, no whit abashed.
‘A nice piece of work, that door,’ he said. ‘Last your time, I daresay. Picked it up at a sale. Surprising what you can pick up at sales.’
‘I daresay.’
‘But I mustn’t be keeping you. I really came to ask if you would be wanting a woman.’
‘A woman?’
‘To clean and cook and wash, and such like. Unless your arrangement be made.’
‘I might be glad of someone. I shall be alone.’
‘I thought as much,’ said Mr Fairfax obscurely. ‘Well, my housekeeper, as good a woman as you would wish to have — her and me have talked it over, and she would be willing to oblige. Me being a widow man, and the house small, she finds time on her hands. I’ll send her round come Monday, and you can arrange it between you.’
‘Very good of you,’ said Mark.
Mr Fairfax radiated kindliness, and the consciousness of a good deed done. ‘Any eggs?’ he said.
‘Eggs?’
‘I bought half a dozen on the chance. Two shillings to you.’
‘That sounds fair enough.’
‘You deal with me,’ said Mr Fairfax impressively, ‘and you won’t go far wrong. There be folks out from town as would go on their bended knees to me for as many eggs as I could give ’em — ah, and at my own price. But what I say is, fair’s fair. I’m content, and I ask no more — only keep it dark. There be those I could touch wi’ a short stick as would take the bread out of an honest man’s mouth, ah, and glad to do it.’
Honest, is it, thought Endicott, looking into the baby blue eyes. He might well have been giving away the eggs from the loving kindness which shone from the rosy face.
‘By the way,’ he said, struck by a sudden thought, ‘how did you know that I had arrived?’
‘Came by bus, I believe,’ said Mr Fairfax simply.
‘Well, well. You said two shillings, I think?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
Mr Fairfax, with the air of a benevolent conjurer, pulled a paper bag of eggs from a capacious pocket, and placed it on the mantelpiece. The operation took a long time.
‘Here’s half a crown,’ said Endicott, rather impatiently. He felt that a little of the smiling Fairfax went a long way, also he was thirsty. ‘Can you change?’
‘I can, certainly,’ said Mr Fairfax obligingly. Taking the half crown, he jerked his head in the direction of the mantelpiece. ‘A pretty thing you have there, Mr Endicott.’
<
br /> The candlelight glinted from the gold compact. Mr Fairfax absently pocketed the coin, picked up the compact and turned it in his hands.
‘A very pretty thing, and costly, too, I should say. I have a brother with a nice little watchmaker’s and jewellery business, and judging from his stock, I should say this cost a pretty penny.’
‘I daresay.’ Endicott took the compact and dropped it into his pocket. His tone did not invite further discussion.
‘Ah, put her in a safe place,’ said Mr Fairfax approvingly. ‘The owner will be ready to give her pretty ears for that, I shouldn’t be surprised.’ He turned to the door. ‘You’ll be wanting the place to yourself, no doubt. You can be quiet enough here, if that’s what you want.’ He opened the door. ‘All the same, there’s a neighbour close at hand, if you should fancy company. A nice lady, too, though not so young as she used to be. But there, you’ll have found all that out for yourself. Good night to you, Mr Endicott.’
The door closed behind him.
‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Endicott.
It was not until he was halfway to God’s Blessing’s pub, The Ring and Book, that he realized that Mr Fairfax had gone into the night, guilelessly omitting to give him his change.
CHAPTER IV
‘. . . AND HAVE DONE THOSE things which we ought not to have done . . .’
The meek voice of Miss Faraday faltered and failed. She felt that she had, indeed, done those things which she ought not to have done, and the burden of her sin lay heavy upon her. The feelings of a hunted criminal were hers; the bumbling tones of old Colonel Stroud just behind her, the deep bass of Mr Heron, the schoolmaster, alike accused her. Looking up, she saw the mild face of the Reverend Richards, and even that seemed to condemn her. As for his wife . . . Amy felt her ears burn yet again. What she must have thought was beyond her. If she had been able to introduce her new neighbour by name it would not have been so bad. And even then, Mrs Richards did not know the worst. The tea party a deux with a stranger was nothing compared to that.
Strangely enough, for a moment she forgot her troubles to recall the feel of Endicott’s coat under a damp face and found that not only her cheeks were burning. It seemed a dream that she, of all people, should have behaved with such abandon — should have found a father confessor and a comforter in the peculiar stranger. And she could not but admit that he had been kind, amazingly kind. He had shown neither amusement nor boredom, though heaven knew he might have been excused for either. Chide herself as she might, a little glow of pleasure strove for life, and would not be denied. She, never before the recipient of more than a polite hand clasp from any male, had literally thrown herself into the arms of a stranger, there to be petted and comforted. It was terrible and shameless beyond all words; she looked on herself with fascinated horror, yet the little glow remained.
Across the aisle, Laura Grey stifled a yawn with the tips of her gloved fingers and wondered what would happen if she rose and walked out. It was part of Ralph’s general foulness, she thought resentfully, to drag her here. The manor womenfolk had always attended morning service . . . he would have to learn that times had changed. And apart from her boredom, she had been afraid to enter the church after what Brian had told her. Not that it was likely that Mark would be here, unless he was on her track. She felt a little shiver run down her spine and moved uneasily. Probably she was troubling herself for nothing — a mere accident that a man of the same name should make his way to the village. And she had enough to trouble her without that — Ralph, ever more jealous and exacting — ever on the watch to see that she was doing her duty as his wife. Not yet, my dear, she thought, you may wait for what you want so badly.
Ralph Grey shot his wife a sidelong glance and felt her beauty mock and hurt. It was strange that she, his wife, should look so virginal and remote. Or was it strange? He had never felt that she was truly his; it was that knowledge which maddened him, making those dark fits of anger more frequent, widening the gap between them. His marriage had been an act of sheer folly, he knew well enough — a man with his background and a girl twenty years younger. And such a girl; and, for the matter of that, such a man. A cripple.
Well, cripple or not, she had married him, and even now it might be possible to pull something out of the ruins. If she had a child that would solve so many problems; only there was no sign of a child — instead unmistakable signs that she was looking for interest elsewhere. That at least should not happen. Unloved he might be, but not betrayed. Betrayed. The stained-glass window over the altar swam in a crimson mist. It faded, and once more he glanced at his wife. Her lashes lay on the soft curve of her cheek; her black hat accentuated the dazzling fairness of her hair and skin. He thought, if she could love me a little . . . only a little . . . and found that the palms of his hands were wet.
Mrs Richards thought that Mrs Grey was wearing another new hat and wondered what she had given for it. Far more like a film star than Ralph’s wife with that hair, undoubtedly bleached, and those scarlet lips. Theatrical. Naturally, since she was on the stage when he met her. Well, she would give that marriage another three months at most. Whatever had possessed Ralph Grey, when he could have married anyone — but all men were the same when it came to women like that. And he was mad about her, he made that plain enough. Poor fool . . . and not even a child. Well, it was to be hoped that she would cause no scandal in the village. George had such a hatred of scandal. It was worse for him, since he would never believe ill until the unhappy moment when it was forced upon him. He is too good for this world, reflected Mrs Richards, looking up at the unconscious face of her husband, and feeling, as always, a blend of affection and exasperation. And talking of scandal — she glanced across the aisle at the bent head of Miss Faraday. Unbelievable, had she not seen it with her own eyes, and a queer business, however George might think fit to belittle her fears. Of course she was just the age to make a fool of herself over some worthless man. It would be necessary to have a word with her.
Jimmy Fairfax in the suit of sober black reserved for church, weddings and funerals, joined in the responses made by his rigid housekeeper and was well content. A good ’ooman and a working ’ooman, he reflected, and with no nonsense about her. She had not turned a hair when he made his suggestion about Corpse Path Cottage, though he had expected signs of annoyance, if not a flat refusal. If that foolish newcomer wished to help him, James Fairfax, to keep down his household expenditure, so much to the good, for if Mrs Shergold was doing part time work for another, she would certainly not get so much from himself. And money apart, Jimmy was one who, if not precisely loving his fellow-men, had certainly a lively and insatiable interest in their affairs. With Mrs Shergold visiting Corpse Path Cottage, it would be strange if he could not discover much of interest concerning its inhabitant. Rising to join lustily in hymn, Mr Fairfax smiled.
The sermon, vague and scholarly, came to a decorous conclusion. The congregation stirred and rose, with furtive movements to pockets and handbags. Mr Richards gave out the closing hymn.
‘For-tee days an’ for-tee nights,’ mourned the choir. The collection plopped into the bags and was carried to its destination. Walking in beauty side by side, Mr Heron and Colonel Stroud returned to their seats, on their serene faces consciousness of a task well done. Mr Richards pronounced the blessing.
On the heels of Miss Faraday, murmuring nervous greetings and scuttling across the churchyard, came Mrs Richards with a purposeful glint in her eye. Miss Faraday glanced back at her, smiled politely, and pressed on. Mrs Richards called her sharply by name. Miss Faraday shied like a spirited horse but halted obediently.
‘Did you want me, Mrs Richards?’
‘If you could spare the time to walk up the path with me, I should like,’ said the lady ominously, ‘a little chat with you.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Amy feebly.
Mrs Richards stared. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Amy passed a hand across her forehead, causing her hat to rise, thus giving her
self a slightly inebriated appearance. She looks half-witted, thought Mrs Richards. She said not sympathetically, ‘Don’t you feel well?’
‘A headache. It’s nothing. What were you saying, Mrs Richards?’
‘I had not said anything as yet,’ replied Mrs Richards with some asperity. ‘If you would kindly not race up the path like an Olympic runner I might find breath to do so.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Amy meekly, slackening her pace. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
‘Ah, now, that’s it.’ Mrs Richards rather cleverly seized her opportunity. ‘I’m so afraid, my dear, that just lately you have not been thinking. Or shall we say that you have been a trifle thoughtless?’
‘Thoughtless?’
‘It is only that you have not quite realized how careful a woman living alone should be. Your dear mother—’
‘Would you mind,’ said Amy speaking in a voice which Mrs Richards had never heard from her before, ‘saying what it is that you have to say? I am in rather a hurry.’
Mrs Richards actually gasped. If a worm on the path had reared itself on end to defy her she could not have been more taken aback.
‘I don’t think you can be yourself. To speak to me — me! In such a tone!’
‘I am still waiting,’ said Amy stonily.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Richards, two red spots appearing high on her cheeks, ‘as your vicar’s wife, I thought it might not be out of place for me to give you a word of advice. Of course, if you take it in this way . . .’
She paused. Amy clasped her hands tightly before her and was amazed by the violence of the anger which shook her. She fought back an urgent impulse to slap Mrs Richards’s affronted face.
She said clearly, ‘When my misdeeds are laid bare before me, Mrs Richards, I shall know whether I should apologize or not. In the meantime, may I say that I am no child to be intimidated by hints or insinuations.’
The words rolled out grandly. In the midst of her anger, Amy felt a glow of pride, mingled with a dreamlike wonder that she, of all people, should be capable of uttering such a speech.
Corpse Path Cottage Page 4