Corpse Path Cottage

by Margaret Scutt

  ‘It’s nothing of importance. I can go later. Won’t you come in, out of the rain?’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you indeed. Only for a moment. I fear that I shall drip . . .’

  Amy, with a sudden recollection of Mrs Oliphant, stifled a nervous giggle. She ushered Mr Richards into the hall, further than which he declined to go.

  ‘No — no, my dear Miss Faraday. I will not keep you, damp and unwelcome guest that I am.’

  He sneezed suddenly and obscured his long mild countenance with a handkerchief. Amy thought he looked tired and ill, and forgot her own troubles in a momentary pity. The life of a country clergyman was not so easy, after all, especially when the pride and hope of that same clergyman’s life had not returned from a night raid over Berlin. And with the thought she recalled the affronted face of Mrs Richards, seeing her no longer as an interfering busybody but as an unhappy woman, striving to continue the ordinary business of a life which had lost its meaning. Pity made her bold.

  ‘Mr Richards,’ she said.

  Mr Richards removed his handkerchief and looked at her with courteous attention.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you. About Mrs Richards.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Mrs Richard’s husband, rather apprehensively.

  ‘I was very rude to her the other day. At the time I was angry and said more than I should have done. I see now that I was wrong.’

  Mr Richards smiled, and was transformed from an elderly and undistinguished clergyman to someone tolerant and wise.

  ‘My dear,’ he said gently, ‘that is a brave thing for anyone to say.’

  ‘No. I was bitterly hurt and angry, but I am sure that she meant to be kind.’

  ‘She does, invariably,’ said Mr Richards. ‘But even the kindest souls can, at times, tread on our favourite corns. And between you and me, the wife of a clergyman needs to walk more delicately than Agag, and to own qualities more than human if she is never to give offence.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘You know, Miss Faraday, I have discovered that most of us, poor, simple souls groping in darkness, are actuated in the main by good intentions — and that despite the light which psychological novelists have shed on impulses which are hidden — thank God — from all, save them.’

  He looked at Miss Faraday for her agreement, to see with surprise that her face was suddenly dyed a violent crimson. Somewhat disconcerted, the poor gentleman harked back mentally, lest he had inadvertently uttered words unfit for the ears of a diffident spinster. He discharged himself without a stain on his character.

  Still scarlet, Miss Faraday said faintly, ‘You do not approve of the modern novel?’

  ‘Insofar as it portrays the lowest motives, giving no man credit for simplicity of purpose, I do not. Why set to work with a muckrake?’ demanded Mr Richards, forgetting his hearer’s discomfiture and sailing happily into the arguments which he had aired so often. ‘Clever? Alas, yes, amazingly so. And to that end? To such base uses I — but forgive me. My tongue runs away with me, and I fear that you are not feeling well.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Miss Faraday faintly. ‘I have a slight headache.’

  ‘Dear me, dear me,’ said Mr Richards sympathetically. ‘Migraine?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Just a headache.’

  ‘You look a little feverish. Aspirin and bed, if I may venture a prescription. Also quiet, which you will certainly not have unless I carry myself off. Now, I can see myself out. Please do not trouble to move.’

  He looked at her with genuine kindliness.

  ‘I am glad to hear that you are to have Miss Morris with you. A nice girl, and it is not good for any of us to live alone.’

  Amy smiled faintly. Mr Richards pressed her hand, picked up his hat and made for the door.

  ‘Ah!’

  He pulled up suddenly, swung around and pointed a finger at her. Amy watched him with apprehension.

  ‘I am a dunderhead. It has just dawned on me that I am leaving without having so much as mentioned my reason for disturbing you. It was about the fête.’

  Miss Faraday, who had expected she knew not what, heaved a sigh of relief. Through a kind of mental fog she heard the vicar talking steadily on. When he left she was uncertain whether she had committed herself to help with the jumble, tell fortunes, or manage the treasure hunt. She put a hand to her forehead, which was by sharp throbs giving verisimilitude to her statement regarding a headache, and laughed mirthlessly. For the third time she took up her burden and sallied forth.

  The way to Corpse Path Cottage was this morning at its worst. The little wood was hidden by the driving rain, the path itself a repulsive affair, with every hole full of brown liquid. Miss Faraday squelched along, her small nose reddened and with raindrops clinging to her lashes. Her head still throbbed, and she was heavily oppressed by a feeling of guilt. She turned towards the cottage, looked down on it, and saw the form of the Reverend George Richards standing at its door.

  Miss Faraday lost her head. She turned and began to run madly for the shelter of the wood. Her feet skidded on the greasy surface and she sat down heavily, her hat shooting over her eyes and adding darkness to her nightmare sensations. She pushed it back with a trembling hand and looked cautiously around her. With a gasp of relief, she found that she was still alone.

  With an ominous chill creeping through her skirt, she picked herself up and continued with more circumspection on her way. Back to her home she would not go with her errand still undone; from the shelter of the wood she might, unseen, espy Mr Richards returning from his ill-timed visit, and know that the coast was clear.

  The idea was sound, but she had not realized the discomfort of the wood on such a day as this. As she stood, her feet sank steadily into black and evil smelling mud; every twig, laden with moisture, gladly discharged it upon her. With icy trickles making their devious way down her shrinking flesh, Miss Faraday realized yet again that the way of the transgressor is hard.

  After an age of discomfort she was faintly cheered to see the figure of the vicar emerge from the hollow and trip it featly from tussock to tussock towards the field gate. When he was lost to view, she lifted her feet one by one from their resting place and made for Corpse Path Cottage once again.

  Mark’s morning had not been a good one. He had overslept and awakened unrefreshed and with all the symptoms of a bout of malaria clearly present. The range had showed its disapproval of the change in the weather by belching out sullen clouds of smoke as soon as he attempted to light it, and had continued to misbehave at frequent intervals throughout the morning. Mark knew well enough that in his present state he was incapable of work, and that the only sane course would be to dose himself and return to bed, but driven by an obstinate demon he determined to try. He had wasted four sheets of paper and was feeling a great deal worse when Mr Richards arrived.

  Mark would not have been pleased to see his dearest friend at this moment, but he found himself unable to be rude to his visitor, who welcomed him to the village with disarming simplicity, and fortunately did not prolong his stay. His own cold was troubling him and, having done his duty, he was glad enough to go. Mark saw him out and returned morosely to his typewriter.

  Most unexpectedly, drifting from out of the blue, came an idea. He pondered for a moment, blinked to clear his vision which was somewhat muzzy and began to type. James, passing a restful morning on the rug, lifted his head and barked. Mark looked up with a scowl and became conscious of a gentle tapping on the door.

  With a loud oath he rose, staggering slightly, and went to see what new danger threatened his peace. The damp and disconsolate Miss Faraday met the fury in his gaze and blenched.

  ‘I — I’m afraid I interrupt you,’ she faltered.

  Mark put a hand to his throbbing brow.

  ‘God knows you do, but come in — come in,’ he said.

  * * *

  Amy finished her tale and looked unhappily at her host, whose expression, to say the least, was not encouraging. She said timidly, as he remained
silent, ‘You told me you would help me.’

  ‘Oh Lord, yes,’ said Mark. ‘The little friend of all the world — that’s me.’

  Amy’s look of strain remained. Mark thought that she much resembled a small dog which had gone sadly astray and had now crawled home, wet and miserable in search of pardon. Certainly his visitor, now looking her worst, was using no feminine weapons of beauty or charm to gain her ends. Her troubled countenance was hung by damp wisps of hair, and her nose was red and gleaming. She sat on the extreme edge of her chair, and the hands in her lap twisted and writhed. Mark thought with deep self-pity that his lot was hard. By now he was feeling extremely ill, and the last thing he desired was to share in another’s burdens. His own, he felt, was quite enough for him. And here was this nerve ridden spinster . . . He shivered and rose to poke the sullen fire.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, more curtly than he meant.

  ‘Only have them here. I can’t,’ said Miss Faraday, with sudden emotion, ‘have them in the house.’

  ‘Oh, all right, all right — leave them with me, by all means. Though I think you’re making a stink about nothing. You live alone—’

  ‘In God’s Blessing,’ said Amy darkly, ‘living alone doesn’t mean that you can keep your affairs to yourself. And I shan’t be alone much longer. Miss Morris is coming to live with me.’

  ‘Is she?’ said Mark incuriously. He put his hand to his head and shivered again. He said thickly, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go. I don’t feel well.’

  He blinked, trying to get the figure of Miss Faraday into focus. His head was swelling, and his whole body felt light, like a balloon. The hazy figure grew yet more indistinct, the creature of a dream, then faded completely. He slumped across the table, his face pressing into the litter of papers. James began pawing the still form, uttering little whines.

  Miss Faraday, for one moment transfixed by amazement, the next realized that there was work for her to do. She crossed the hall to the kitchen, discovering with gratitude a brimming pail of water by the sink. She soaked her handkerchief and returned to her fallen host.

  She thought as she bent over him that it was considerate of him to have collapsed in his chair, since it would most certainly have been beyond her to raise him from the floor. Watched with quivering interest by the dog, she gently lifted the fallen head until it rested on her arm and began to bathe the temples. The dark strongly featured face looked unfamiliar with the eyes closed and all expression wiped away. She recalled another face which had looked thus the last time she beheld it.

  With the memory came a stab of fear, causing her heart to beat unevenly. This collapse had been so sudden and was lasting so long. If he did not recover, her own position would be a strange one. All the perfumes in Arabia cannot cleanse my reputation, thought Amy foolishly. Emboldened by fear, she thrust a hand under Mark’s coat, and was rewarded by feeling an undeniable heartbeat. As if to underline the information thus given Mark stirred, groaned, and opened his eyes.

  ‘Oh!’ said Amy, almost hysterical with relief. ‘You are alive!’

  Mark spoke no word of agreement or dissent. Instead he shivered with such violence that only Miss Faraday’s arm saved him from overbalancing. Apparently becoming conscious of her presence he looked up muzzily into her pink and anxious face.

  ‘Hullo, darling,’ he said faintly.

  Amy started, and half withdrew her arm.

  ‘It may seem funny to you,’ she began stiffly, looked at the face still resting confidingly against her, and broke off. Mark Endicott was not speaking in jest. His eyes were open, but they were looking on some figure conjured up by his fevered brain. A wave of sympathy swept her. She tightened her clasp unconsciously and felt his weak but instant response.

  ‘I feel ill. Damned ill,’ said Mark querulously.

  ‘You should be in bed,’ said Amy. ‘Oh, dear, I don’t know what to do.’

  She looked wildly around her, as if seeking inspiration. Mark laid his hand on her arm.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ he said thickly. ‘I can’t lose you again — ever.’

  ‘I won’t leave you,’ promised Amy. Her own cheeks were burning almost as fiercely as Mark’s; even through her coat she could feel the heat of his touch. She began to feel seriously alarmed. To her troubled mind, Corpse Path Cottage seemed a desert island, far removed from any chance of casual assistance. There was no need of a thermometer to tell her the state of Mark’s temperature, even had his attitude to herself not shown his condition. His hold on her was that of a drowning man.

  ‘I must put you to bed,’ she said, reaching a decision from sheer desperation. ‘Can you get upstairs if I help you?’

  He looked up at her, his eyes brilliant but empty of comprehension. He muttered, ‘Feel foul.’

  ‘Come to bed,’ urged Amy, in the voice of a siren.

  To her relief the words went home. Mark rose like an obedient child and moved unsteadily towards the door.

  ‘You come too,’ he said plaintively.

  Miss Faraday’s cheeks burned with a yet fiercer glow. She buried deep within her a sudden and disturbing vision of the countenance of Mrs Richards and spoke soothing words. This undoubtedly sick man must be humoured in his delusions, though the position was a trying one for herself. It was entirely her fault, she told herself sternly, and forgot her own affairs as Mark reached out his hand for her again.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Amy optimistically, steadying him with difficulty. ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘Darling,’ said Mark, staring glassily ahead.

  In Miss Faraday’s troubled breast, like the unfolding of a flower, something came gently to life. Until this moment she had scarcely seen Endicott as a person. Vaguely sorry for him, definitely sorry for herself, she had striven to help him partly because she could do no less, partly as the quickest means of getting free from an embarrassing position. Now, for the first time, impersonal pity was mingled with a warmer emotion which, paradoxically, made her feel weaker whilst adding strength to her arm. This fevered creature stumbling obediently up the narrow stairs was utterly dependent upon her. It was true that he had confused her with some unknown female by him beloved and for whom at that moment she felt extreme distaste, but the unknown was heaven knew where, whilst she, Amy, was steering him precariously to the haven of his chamber, clasped by him and addressed by him (twice) as Darling. The warm weakness at her heart grew and dominated her. Anything I can do, thought Amy incoherently, anything, and felt that her strength was as the strength of ten.

  Before they reached the landing, Mark began to shiver violently. Looking at him anxiously, she saw that the flush had left his face, which was shadowed and grey. He stumbled at the last step and almost fell.

  ‘There, my dear,’ gasped Amy, staggering under his weight but upheld by an almost maternal solicitude. ‘Just one more — there! We’ve done it.’

  Panting but triumphant, she steered him through the open door to her left, into a room furnished without vulgar ostentation by a single iron bedstead and a very ugly washstand with a marble top. Amy thought that the article might have been dragged from the dark recesses of a junk shop, and in this surmise she was perfectly correct. Not that she need pause now to consider Mark’s taste in furnishing; the great thing was that here was a bed. She led him to it, and he instantly and obligingly collapsed, snuggled his face into the pillow, and appeared to fall asleep.

  Amy looked down on the dark rumpled head and was momentarily at a loss. Her right arm and shoulder ached from the recent Jane Eyre and Rochester-like progress up the stairs; it was certain that she could not, without assistance, move him now. I came to Taffy’s house; Taffy was in bed . . . The foolish words jingled through her brain. And this Taffy was not precisely in bed, though there he most certainly should be. Well, she could at least remove his shoes before going, as she certainly must, for help. Be sure your sins will find you out, thought Amy dismally, kneeling to wrestle with stubborn laces. After all her
foolish precautions, all her miserable sneaking across country like a thief in the night, her presence here must needs be made known. Not that it mattered . . .

  One shoe came off, disclosing a large toe peering nakedly from a hole in the grey sock. Maternal warmth again swept Miss Faraday, and a little smile crossed her anxious face. Men — so utterly self-satisfied and dominating, yet at bottom helpless creatures enough. She pulled off the other shoe and swung the dangling legs on to the bed. Mark did not stir; he was breathing comfortably and looked quite peaceful.

  Amy tugged at the grey army blanket on which he lay and succeeded after some difficulty in disengaging it. She covered him carefully, tucking in the blanket at the sides. As, being well trained, she began at the foot of the bed, the closing stages of this operation brought her face close to the unconscious one on the pillow. As if answering a signal Mark stirred and opened his eyes. He smiled, murmured something which she did not catch, and pursed his lips appealingly. Like a mesmerized rabbit, Miss Faraday drooped towards him. From the foot of the stairs, James uttered a loud and startling bark.

  Amy sprang back, her heart thumping violently. Mark closed his eyes again with a look of fatuous contentment and fell asleep. Downstairs James continued to bark.

  Poor Amy had already experienced the feelings of a discovered criminal; now a veritable scarlet woman moved down the stairs to meet the gaze of the world, which, in the person of Mr Jimmy Fairfax had opened the front door and stood on the threshold. Farther than this, James, who took his arrival ill, had not allowed him to come. There he stood framed in the doorway like a damp and inquisitive Father Christmas, his blue eyes taking in with the most lively interest first Miss Faraday’s mud caked shoes, then her ankles, and so, by gentle degrees, the whole person of that harassed lady as she made her way down the stairs.

  CHAPTER IX

  DINAH MORRIS ROLLED UP the last pair of stockings, rammed them into a corner of her suitcase and sat back upon her heels to survey the room. Amazing how the removal of her few personal belongings had changed it; for three years, since she had come from college to instruct the infant population of God’s Blessing, it had borne the impress of her personality, yet already it looked on her with a stranger’s eye, cold and faintly unfriendly. Oh well, it was a poor enough room at that, thought Dinah, striving to fasten an overfull case; the thing was it had represented home to her since her parents had been buried in the ruins of their London flat in the closing stages of the blitz. Because of that gap in her life, she had come to cling to this poor little room and was sorry enough that the time had come to leave it. A woman put out roots, it seemed, on the slightest provocation. Besides, she had been happy enough after the first shock of her loss had passed. Until the past few weeks, when another loss of a different kind had come to take the brightness from her days.