“I say, Snubs.”
“Hullo?”
“Look here, I mean …”
“Well?”
“Could you put me down when we get near the village? You see——”
“Why?”
“Well, it just struck me——”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“Well, it’s rather important, you see. I mean, if I have a sort of squint at Mrs. Shirley’s house, then I’d prob’ly know whether they’re there or not. And——”
“You want to call there?”
“Oh, no! Oh, Lord, no. Oh, no. No, of course not. Well, not this morning, anyhow. In fact——”
“All right,” said Snubs. “You don’t want me to squint too, do you?”
“No, no. You go on, and I’ll cut across the fields. I’ll be there prac’ly as soon as——”
“Oh, I say.”
“What?”
“Talking of letters—I forgot to tell you.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“My governor this morning. Heard from him, you know. Clean out of my head.”
Gertie’s liveliness on a stretch of pot-holes accounted for a certain Jingle-esque quality in Snubs’s speech which made him rather difficult to follow.
“What?” said Beaky again. “What’s that?”
“Who do you think turned up there the other day? Relation of yours. Said so, at least. Governor rather took to her. Mother too.”
“Relation of mine?” said Beaky. “Haven’t got any.”
“Said she was, anyway. Funny thing to lie about. Mrs. Something. Forgotten the name. In my pocket though. Oh, yes!”
“What?”
“Some kind of fish. Hake? No. Halibut? No.”
“Here, I say——”
“Think of some more. I’ll get it in a second.”
“What the dickens——”
“Ah—got it! Not a fish at all. Stupid. Name was Millet. Mrs. Millet. Eh?”
“Great Scot! Aunt Caroline.”
“There you are. Aunt. What did I say?”
“But I haven’t seen her for ages. Centuries, I mean.”
“Can’t help that,” said Snubs, and as the pot-holes died away his speech became practically normal. “My governor said you were digging with me, and she got quite excited. Wanted to know all about Noodles, too. Would have it that you were both about thirteen. Nice woman, they both said, but a bit mad. Does nothing but travel and take snapshots.”
“That’s her,” said Beaky. “That’s Aunt Caroline all right. Millet ran away from her and dropped down dead. Not a bad chap, though. He gave me an air-gun once. What a rum thing.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Snubs.
“Funny, I mean.”
“Yes.”
Idle and kindly reflections on Caroline Millet, her restless present and her turbulent past, accompanied the two-seater for quite a number of miles. Snubs wondered if she were at all like Noodles. Beaky wondered what sort of a show he had made when reconstructed from scraps of Snubs’s letters. They both felt rather sorry for her, for some reason, and sorry for Millet, too, who had run away from her and dropped down dead. Things that had happened a long time ago like that often seemed sadder than things that happened just now; except, of course, when they happened to yourself. Relations, also, are so much more romantic when you never see them. “Rum,” they both thought. “Queer business. Odd sort of life.” And suddenly Gertie began slowing down.
“Anything wrong?” asked Beaky, roused by the change of key.
“No,” said Snubs. “But we turn off here somewhere, don’t we?”
The exodus began sweeping past them, hooting and tooting as it swept. Beaky looked round for recognisable landmarks.
“That’s the place,” he announced. “At that fork there. We go to the left.”
“Right.” Jerk. Crunch. Crash. Crunch, again. Slap! The exodus roared away to the right, as the great Carter had roared yesterday afternoon, and Gertie swooped off where the signpost said “Packley and Nibfield.”
“It’s straight on,” said Beaky, “till you come to a sort of place that I can’t describe. But I’ll tell you when we’re getting near. There’s a pond with an old water-cart in it.”
A most useless place for a water-cart, though the picture seems vaguely familiar as a rural glimpse. Snubs nodded an acknowledgment of the information, and Gertie continued to charge the vista of white road and thick hedges and flashes of bright blossom. Packley came dashing towards them, and dashed away behind them, giving the impression as it did so that its principal industries consisted of education and burial. Nibfield had apparently vanished from the map, or else had been overcome with modesty, for the next signpost said “Kingsbourne 4 miles.” A little later another, and more punctilious, signpost pointed in the same direction, and said “Kingsbourne miles”—but motorists with any experience have long ceased to wonder at such freaks of relativity, and Gertie forged steadily ahead.
“Here we are,” shouted Beaky. “There’s the pond. Next turning on the right. Just past that— Yes, that’s it.”
Uphill now. Downhill again. Through a nameless hamlet which might possibly be Nibfield after all. Principal industries, Teas Provided and—judging by the rich scent—cows kept. If not pigs.
Another sharp rise, this time leading to cross-roads. As usual, the signpost here made it comparatively easy to distinguish any destination except that which lay straight ahead. But as Gertie screeched and shot past it, both driver and passenger caught the same word from the tails of their respective eyes.
“Pippingfold.”
4
Now it was as though our heroic ancestors had foreseen the coming of motor-traffic, and had done all that they could to prepare for it. The road wound insanely between high banks and hedges, dipped sharply in one acute bend, and rose confusingly in another. Narrowed, also, especially at those points where its intentions seemed more particularly open to doubt; and developed a curious granulated surface which kept Gertie darting from side to side in the effort to spare her tyres. A later generation had planted a number of red triangles on metal stems at odd and irrelevant intervals—more, it would seem, as propitiatory emblems than with any considered reference to the lie of the land. Sometimes they alarmed you by peeping out of the undergrowth just when you thought that the danger had temporarily abated; or again they had been so placed that you only saw them, and were distracted by them, even as the danger was at its height. Occasionally they warned you of something so obvious that you looked wildly about for further perils, and in doing so became an additional peril yourself.
But Gertie’s horn, and still more the constant enmeshment and disengagement of her various gears, advertised her access as unmistakably as though she had been preceded by a man with a red flag. Moreover, the winding lane was as empty on this Whit-Saturday morning as at any other date or hour that you might choose to select; and so, presently, the travellers arrived at the spot where Noodles had once fallen off the parlourmaid’s bicycle, and without a single collision or narrow escape to be added to Gertie’s score.
“That’s better,” said Snubs, preparing to rush the long rise ahead of them.
“Steady!” shouted Beaky.
“What?”
“On the right here. Woa! You’re going past it!”
“No, I’m not,” said Snubs, vibrating violently owing to the necessity of holding the gear-lever into position with his knee. “It’s another half—— Oh, sorry. I’d forgotten.”
There was no doubt that Gertie could stop when she was going uphill as well as most cars. She did so; began to roll backwards; and stopped again.
“But what are you going to do?” asked Snubs.
Beaky didn’t quite know.
“Well,” he said, disentangling his legs and starting to climb out; “it rather depends, you see. But if they were there——”
“Who? The Shirleys?”
Beaky blenched.
“Well
, yes, of course. I mean, if they are there, then—well, I’d know where they are. Don’t you see?”
“Are you going to ring and ask?”
“Good Lord, no. Only going to—well …”
“What?”
“But I don’t suppose they are. They wouldn’t be, I mean. Not with luck like mine.”
There was more than a hint here that this luck was being challenged to prove the speaker wrong. But Snubs must have misinterpreted the tone.
“If you’re as certain as all that,” he said, “it hardly seems worth it. Or are you going to ask where they’ve gone?”
“Good Lord, no. Don’t you see I can’t possibly do anything when I don’t know whether she’s had my letter or not? Only if they are there …”
It was apparent that this sentence would never be finished, and Snubs felt at liberty to go ahead.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Wait?”
“Good Lord, no. Supposing they came along the road and spotted me getting in again. Just think what it would look like!”
Snubs thought, but couldn’t see it.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well, it would look exactly as if I’d come down here to try and squint at them. Do use your head a bit.”
“Oh,” said Snubs. If squinting, when used in this context, signified spying, then as far as he could make out this was precisely what his old friend was proposing to do. And if only the tenderest and most insupportable of passions hadn’t been involved, not lightly would even his old friend have been suffered to submit that advice about his head. But we have remarked that Snubs Tipton was a philosopher.
“Oh,” he repeated. “Well, what do you want me to do?”
“Quite simple,” said Beaky. “I’ll just dodge up the drive, and beetle about a bit, and see if the place looks inhabited—without going too close, of course—and then I’ll nip across the fields and meet you.”
“Where?”
“At the Manor House, of course. Say in ten minutes.”
“It now being …”
They both looked at their watches.
“Twenty to twelve,” said Snubs.
“Half-past eleven,” said Beaky. “But that’s not the point. In ten minutes, anyhow. Outside the front door. And what we’re going to say to the old boy, Heaven only knows; but for Heaven’s sake don’t be late, or Heaven only …”
He kept glancing up and down the deserted road, in obvious terror lest the Shirleys or their butler should spring out on him.
“Well,” he suddenly added. “Ten minutes.”
And he was gone. The dodging and beetling implied, apparently, that he couldn’t even approach Green Hatches by the conventional drive. He must have detected that little gap in the hedge while his eyes roved and his tongue babbled, for he had stooped and shot through it like a denizen of the jungle.
“Beaky! I say!”
A crashing sound in the undergrowth.
“Shut up, you dashed idiot!” said a muffled voice. “Shut up and go away!”
So the philosopher left it at that, and Gertie began roaring up the hill again, and from the top beheld Pippingfold village straggling down towards the level crossing; but cared not two cotter or gudgeon-pins whether the gates were closed or open, for her way lay off to the right. A few hundred yards of twisting and turning, and the roof of the Manor House appeared through the trees.
“Steady,” said Snubs, suiting the action to the word. And Gertie drew to a standstill.
It was remarkably hot and fine, and Snubs lit a cigarette.
Yes, remarkably hot and fine. Almost too hot, in fact, sitting here in the sun, and with Gertie’s engine only a few inches from one’s shins. Let’s see; what’s the time? Thirteen minutes to twelve. In three minutes, then, Beaky should be along. Outside the front door, he had said, but if he came across the fields one wouldn’t see him until he popped round the corner of the house. Just a little awkward—especially if he were at all unpunctual—because so many windows looked down on that gravel sweep, and visitors, as Snubs well knew, were natural objects of suspicion. Lucky, he thought, as he swung himself out on to the hot roadway, that Mr. Cottenham didn’t keep a dog.
He looked at his watch again.
Better make a move.
For the second time that morning, and in that peaceful rural district, a young gentleman began creeping through the grounds of a private residence in a distinctly furtive manner. The drive itself was again avoided, because of its crunching characteristics and its dangerous lack of cover, but by moving from tree to tree, and from bush to bush, Mr. Tipton had in a very short time attained the protection of the laurel behind which Noodles had once hidden from the unspeakable Fitzgibbon. He threw his cigarette down, stamped on it, and passed his handkerchief across his forehead.
So far, he seemed to be considering, so good. But where was Beaky?
He peered cautiously from his retreat, beheld an open front door, a quantity of open windows, and nothing else.
Late, of course. He would be. It was absurd to think that ten minutes were long enough for what he had set himself, but it was equally absurd to suppose that Snubs could remain here in the blazing sun, with all these insects buzzing round him, and still preserve the calm necessary for the forthcoming interview.
In London that interview had seemed simple enough. In London one had toyed with Mr. Cottenham, as befitted the son and heir of a Colonial Governor, drawing information from him in a series of swift, cunning questions, and revealing nothing whatever in return. But at Pippingfold, and in Mr. Cottenham’s own garden—well, perhaps it wasn’t going to be quite so simple after all.
The handkerchief again; and another cautious glance at the deserted gravel sweep.
It was different, of course, for Beaky, because Noodles was his sister. Beaky would have every justification for putting swift questions, without bothering whether they were cunning or not. But then whose idea was it that had brought them here? And how much help was Beaky going to be with an old boy who invariably afflicted him with the staggers?
Not much, thought Snubs, looking at his watch again, and noting that it was now exactly noon. “If only she were my sister …” he added. But the thought seemed impertinent, and for some reason slightly revolting. He dismissed it impatiently, but found nothing useful to take its place.
Poor old Noodles.…
He peeped out again, giddily and uncertainly because of this frightful heat. There was nothing to be seen. But—— Hullo, there was something to be heard. Voices—or at anyrate a voice—proceeding from that open window on the ground-floor. A rapid architectural calculation. Mr. Cottenham’s study.
“Good Lord!” said Snubs. “They’re at it. Beaky must have slipped in when I wasn’t looking, and—— By Jove! what ought I to do?”
Fly to his friend’s assistance? Go on hiding and doing nothing? Butt into another family’s family scene, or skulk outside though it was entirely his own creation?
“Awkward,” said Snubs again, as he crept unconsciously into the open. The third alternative of eavesdropping at the open window had certainly not suggested itself to his honourable soul, but as certainly it would be forced on him if he continued on his present course.
“All done to annoy me,” came the querulous tones from the open window. “More trouble. More expense! Where’s it all going to——”
The third alternative was shattered before it had a chance to blight Mr. Tipton’s stainless record. You couldn’t possibly call it eavesdropping when the alleged eavesdropper had just tripped over a pair of garden-shears, and saved himself by plunging right across the flower-bed and seizing hold of the window-sill itself.
“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” he gasped.
Mr. Cottenham came sailing towards him, waving him back.
“What the devil!” he retorted, dancing with surprise and irritation. “Who the devil are you? What the devil do you think—— Great Jupiter, it’s young Tipton! What the bla
zes do you want? Eh? Go away!”
“I’m awfully sorry, sir, if I——”
“Eh? Go away, go away! I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I’m busy. I’m working. Can’t you see I’m in my study?”
Undoubtedly Snubs could see that, but in vain did he peer past the infuriated inmate for signs of his fellow-tenant.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I had an idea that Beaky——”
“What? What? Reginald, you mean? What about him?”
“Well, sir, I thought …”
But clearly he had been mistaken. Clearly Beaky was still sauntering along the field path, and might arrive at any moment to add fuel to this unfortunate situation. Perhaps the thought had better be kept to himself.
“Well, well?” snapped Mr. Cottenham. “What’s the matter? Has Reginald run away too?”
“Oh, no,” said Snubs, but much illuminated by that last word. “Oh, rather not. No, he’s all right, sir. In fact——”
“Well, I’m not,” said Mr. Cottenham. “People telegraphing, and writing letters, and asking questions, and popping up in the garden. It’s enough to wear anyone’s nerves to shreds. What’s it got to do with them? I tell you, England’s no place for a decent citizen. Giving votes to girls, and all that. Worrying me morning, noon and night. First this, and then that. Bah! What do you want?”
This speech, which was accompanied by a great deal of violent but quite unintelligible gesticulation, struck Mr. Tipton as more comprehensive than clear. What, for instance, had the extension of the franchise to do with it all, and why had people been telegraphing and writing letters? And had other people, as well as himself, been popping up in the garden? Yet the last, explosive question had been extraordinarily direct.
“Oh,” said Snubs, politely. “Well, you see, sir——”
“I don’t see,” shouted Mr. Cottenham, in a frenzy. “Either it’s my business, or it isn’t. Either I’m responsible, or I’m not. If they want to start plaguing me now, why didn’t they say anything before? I’m not a lawyer. I’ve got no head for figures. I’ve never pretended I had. Very well, then. They can sue me if they like, and a lot of good it’ll do them. You go and tell ’em that. They’ll find it damned expensive, but that’s their look-out. I’ve had enough of this place, I tell you. I’m going abroad.”
Another Part of the Wood Page 14