Too Many Cousins, page 11
“Terrible, sir,” said Mr. Twitchell, wagging his bald head. “A very p-p-pleasant young gentleman. In here that v-v-very evening, he was. Had his pint, and says ‘g-g-good night, all/ and walks out as happy as Higgin-b-b-bottom.”
“Excuse my ignorance, but who is Higginbottom?”
“It’s a s-s-saying, sir. As happy as Higginbottom, who laughed when his wife hanged h-h-herself.”
“It was still daylight then,” Harvey remarked. “I suppose Mr. Shearsby came out again after dark.”
“He did most of his writing at n-n-night, sir, and he’d often go for a walk after, before he went to b-b-bed.”
“I looked in at the window of his cottage. All the furniture seems to have been taken away.”
“His cousin, that was, sir. A gentleman from B-b-bedford. He took ch-ch-charge of everything, and he sold the furniture to p-p-pay for the funeral.”
“Mr. Raymond not haying left much money, I dare say?”
“Only a few p-p-pounds, his cousin said. He never had a lot. But he was always free with his m-m-money, when he had any. Not like s-s-some,” Mr. Twitchell added darkly. “The cousin, for instance?” Harvey queried at a venture.
“No names, no p-p-pack-drill,” said Mr. Twitchell cannily. “But furniture f-f-fetches a rare price these days, and the funeral was done cheap enough. Well, it takes all s-s-sorts to make a world. There’s some is freehanded gentlemen, like our Mr. Sh-sh-shearsby, and there’s others as mean as M-m-morris.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard of him either. What did he do?”
“It’s another saying, s-s-sir. As mean as Morris, who hopped on one l-l-leg to save shoe-leather.”
Mr. Tuke was so pleased with these parables that he offered Mr. Twitchell a Larranaga. When this was lighted, he said:
“Had Mr. Shearsby any particular friends here?”
“Only the V-v-vicar, sir. He’s lived abroad, like Mr. Shearsby, and it was a link b-b-between them, as Hopkins said.”
“On what occasion did Hopkins say that?”
“He was handcuffed to a b-b-bobby, sir.”
“On that evening Mr. Shearsby left here at a quarter-past seven, I’m told,” Mr. Tuke said. “A little early, wasn’t it?”
“He’d come and go at all t-t-times, sir. It was just on the quarter that night. I remember he l-l-looked at the clock there, and then at his watch, and w-w-went off.”
Mr. Tuke changed the subject. “I had a look at your Cat Ditch. It is quite a little river. What is the depth?” Mr. Twitchell finished his ale, set down his tankard, and wiped his lips with a hand like a ham.
“Three to f-f-four feet now, sir. But there was another three feet more water at the end of 1-1-last month.”
“As much as that?”
“It had been raining c-c-cats and dogs, sir, and you’d be surprised the amount of water the old D-d-ditch’ll bring down when she’s in flood. C-c-cattle get drowned in her, and last w-w-winter a little old pig was c-c-carried clean along to the Cam. Most of the streams hereabouts are shallow and slow, like, but the Ditch is d-d-different. Rises out of a spring, she does, up in the hills behind W-w-whipstead. Slap out of a f-f-face of rock.”
“I didn’t know there was any rock in this part of the world. I thought it was all chalk and gravel and clay.”
“Chalk makes clunch, sir, and it’s m-m-mighty hard,” Mr. Twitchell said. “And it makes w-w-wonderful clear water, and good beer, too. This here ale comes from the C-c-cat Ditch. Marston’s B-b-brewery, at Whipstead. We live by the old D-d-ditch, you might say.” He waved his immense hand towards the street and the village at large. “Once upon a time there was a t-t-terrible drought. Even the old Ditch near d-d-dried up, and the wells were dry, and th-th-that’s how the village got its name. D-d-dry Stocking they called it, ever after. There’s a s-s-saying about it. As d-d-dry as Stocking when there was no b-b-beer.”
Two labouring men entered the bar, and in the road outside a car could be heard drawing up before the inn. Mr. Tuke prepared to take his departure, and as he bade Mr. Twitchell good morning two more customers were coming in. The leader was a man in a rather loud check jacket, loose in the shoulders but short as to the sleeves, and flannel trousers that also had the air of being adapted to a different figure. The broad peak of his cloth cap almost rested on a large pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, so that little was to be seen of his face beyond a long nose and an ingratiating smile which showed indifferent teeth. Tufts of silvery hair were visible above his ears. His companion, shorter and stouter, with a coarse red face and hands, was dressed in a stained and shiny suit of blue serge and an ancient felt hat. As Harvey passed the pair, the owlish horn-rims and the smile were turned benevolently on him for a moment.
A blue Morris saloon, a good deal older than the war, was drawn up in rear of the Delage. Before Harvey moved off, he looked at his map: then he backed, turned, and headed south, away from the village. As Inspector Vance had mentioned in his report, the road from Dry Stocking to Whipstead Station curved eastward to take in the few houses which were Stocking End. Then it turned westward to complete a wide loop; the embankment and telegraph poles of the railway appeared ahead; and within a minute the Delage ran into the station yard. The road passed on, to turn once more due south and cross the line by a high bridge on its way to Whipstead village, hidden among trees half a mile away. The little railway station stood isolated, with only one house, obviously the stationmaster’s, near by.
Map in hand, Harvey strolled onto the bridge. From this eminence, as Mr. Vance had also remarked, a good view was obtained of the shallow basin in which Dry Stocking lay. That village and its church were plainly visible, and the sweep of the road by which Mr. Tuke had come, and the footpath cutting the chord of the arc, taken by the man in the grey suit on the evening of Raymond Shearsby’s death. West of this the willows and shrubs lining the Cat Ditch made a curve in the opposite direction to that of the road. Near at hand stream and path and road drew together as they approached the railway; and here the observer could see the branch path, with its plank footbridge, striking off towards the lonely cottage in the lane. The cottage itself, three miles away, could not be detected among the distant trees. Just beyond the road bridge on which Mr. Tuke was standing another bridge, of iron girders, carried the railway over the Cat Ditch. To the south, beyond Whipstead, rose the low hills where the little river had its spring.
After a thoughtful survey of this green landscape, Harvey walked back to the station. It was deserted, for only certain morning and evening trains stopped here. Having studied the time-tables, he returned to his car and drove back to Stocking.
CHAPTER XIV
THE Vicarage stood beside the church, an ugly house with its window surrounds painted the repellent chocolate colour favoured by the Ecclesiastical Commissioners. Mr. Tuke pulled gingerly at an old-fashioned bell-knob. Its behaviour was true to type. First it appeared to have stuck, and then about a foot of shank came away in his hand and a fearful clanging rang through the house.
The echoes still reverberated as the front door opened. A woman with a shock of untidy grey curls peered up at the visitor.
“It’s my husband’s fault,” she said. “He’s been going to oil that bell ever since he was inducted——”
She stopped abruptly, her mouth open, as she took in Mr. Tuke’s features. Any clergyman’s wife, meeting a personification of the Devil on her doorstep, might well be startled.
“You can warn your husband what to expect,” said Harvey, grinning. “Is he at home?”
Rallying, the lady turned and called loudly: “Athanasius! Athanasius! ”
A distant voice replied from somewhere above.
“What’s the matter?”
“Someone to see you.”
“The name is Tuke,” said Harvey. “Your husband would not know me. I am making some inquiries about a late neighbour of yours, Raymond Shearsby.”
This news having been relayed, the distant voice announced that its owner was coming down. The Vicar’s wife opened a door beside her and led the way into a shabby but comfortable drawing-room.
“Our name is Fawkes, by the way,” she said. “My husband is always trying to prove that Guy Fawkes was a member of his family. Ah, here he is!”
A round little man burst into the room. The Reverend Athanasius Fawkes had rather the air of bouncing like a ball, which in figure he resembled. His very bright blue eyes stared aggressively from a pink round face, ornamented by tufts of white eyebrow and a bristle of white hair which grew into an unruly cockscomb. His dress was unorthodox —a baggy flannel suit and a grey flannel shirt with an open collar.
“Well, well,” he said, looking truculently at the visitor. “Mr. Duke, eh?”
“Tuke,” said Harvey.
“My mistake,” said the Vicar in his abrupt way, but with a sudden attractive smile. “So you knew Shearsby?”
“No, I only knew his work.”
“Clever fellow. Nice fellow, too. I shall miss him. You a Cambridge man?”
“John’s.”
“Thought so. I was at Caius. Long before your time, though. Well, why not sit down. Have a cigarette. Have we got any cigarettes, Alice?”
“You gave the last to that tramp yesterday,” Mrs. Fawkes said. “I haven’t been to the shops yet. Perhaps Mr. Tuke smokes a pipe. Or cigars.”
Being assured that cigars were permitted in the drawingroom—shag, said Mrs. Fawkes, was often smoked there, and clung terribly to the curtains—Harvey passed his case to the Vicar. The latter, as they all sat down, remained poised on the edge of his chair with an air of impermanence. His head cocked to one side, he was staring with critical interest at the caller. “Will you be here at Christmas?” he inquired suddenly. “It is most improbable.”
“Pity. I’m thinking of running a small miracle play. We shall want a Devil. You’re just the man. Well, about poor Shearsby. What can I do for you?”
“I gathered at the local pub that you saw more of him than anybody else here.”
“I saw a good deal of him. He’d lived in France, you know. I was at Grenoble in my student days, and then curate at Cannes. That gave us something to talk about.”
“A link between you, as Hopkins said.”
The Vicar chuckled. “I believe Twitchell makes up those sayings of his as he goes along. Well, then Shearsby used to talk books. He borrowed most of mine. Hadn’t many himself—he got away from France with what he could carry in a haversack, and about twopence farthing. Not a writer yourself, are you? Look more like a lawyer.”
“I am a lawyer. In the Department of Public Prosecutions. Hence, in a way, my interest in Shearsby—which, however, is quite unofficial. And I’ve met what is left of his family.” Mr. Fawkes raised his tufts of eyebrows. “Public Prosecutions, eh? What is there about Shearsby to interest you? Oh, I know the police have raked it all up again. Fellow called Oake, from Cotfold, has been here. But there’s no mystery about it. The inquest cleared it up. The poor chap was practically blind at night, and he was always forgetting his torch, or finding his battery had run down.”
“It has more to do with his background,” Mr. Tuke replied vaguely. “Did he ever talk about his relations?”
“He mentioned some cousins. I’ve met one of them. Mortimer Shearsby. He came to the inquest, and handled the funeral.” The Vicar’s round pink face grew a shade pinker. “And a nice way he handled it, too!” he said explosively, bounding in his chair. “Insufferable prig! Typical little provincial snob. And as mean as——”
“M-m-morris ? ”
“Twitchell again, eh? Yes, I think I’ve heard that one. Well, he’s right. This insupportable bounder kept moaning about being out of pocket over the funeral expenses. Sold every stick of poor Shearsby’s stuff to pay for ’em, and then buried him like a pauper. I offered to pay myself. I did pay for an obituary notice in the Argus. Waste of money, says this skinflint. Puffed up pomposity!” said Mr. Fawkes, bouncing again. “Some sort of analytical chemist. Full of himself. Work of the greatest national importance. Stuff and nonsense! He’s with Imperial Sansil, making sham silk stockings. He cracked some ponderous joke about the name of this village.”
“He’s not making them now, my dear,” Mrs. Fawkes put in. “And even sham silk stockings would be work of the greatest national importance. All the same, Mr. Mortimer Shearsby was just a little complacent. He talked of his cousin as though writers were rather disreputable. And he lectured me about my garden.”
“Did he want you to stick a few stone imps and frogs about?” Harvey inquired.
“He did, Mr. Tuke. So you know him?”
“We have met. I believe both the Mortimer Shearsbys came to see their cousin a month or two ago?”
“They did,” said the Vicar. “I didn’t see them. He told me. He said he wondered why. He wasn’t much interested in his family, and he couldn’t stick that inflated ass, anyway.”
“Did he ever comment on any of his other cousins?”
“Comment? No. He only mentioned them casually.”
“Or refer to some money that was coming to him?”
“Oh, yes, he talked about that. His great-grandmother, wasn’t it?” He said he was content to grub along now, because he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. Then he’d be able to write the sort of stuff he wanted to write. Poor fellow!”
“A tragic business,” Harvey agreed. “Did he happen to speak recently of meeting another relative whom he’d supposed to be dead?”
The Vicar’s energetic nod made his white plume dance. “Yes, he did. Let me see, when was it? A couple of months ago. He’d been to London, and he met this chap there.”
“Did he mention the name?”
“No. I think I assumed it was Shearsby too.”
“Did he say how they came to meet, or anything about the man?”
Mr. Fawkes shook his head. “No. He merely said that an odd thing had happened—he’d run across some cousin of sorts who was supposed to have died abroad fifteen or twenty years ago. It was just a casual remark. I’d asked if he’d had a good time in London, or something of the kind. He didn’t go into details, and he never mentioned it again.”
Mr. Tuke’s hopes, which had risen, were being dashed again, but he persisted.
“I should be grateful if you would search your memory, Mr. Fawkes, for anything, however trifling, that Shearsby told you about this meeting.”
The Vicar’s very blue eyes looked inquisitively at the visitor. They narrowed as his bristling white brows contracted in an effort of recollection.
“I told that policeman all I knew, which wasn’t much. Shearsby seemed rather amused. He seemed to think his other cousins might be annoyed if they heard the news. But I gathered they were not to hear it. This—er—resurrection was to be very hush-hush, for some reason. He’d promised not to tell the others. And after that he made a remark about his own work. Something to do with a story, and a coincidence. But I’m afraid I didn’t catch the connection. I was on all fours in the garden at the time, grubbing up weeds, and I wasn’t paying much attention. Shearsby had really come along to return some books. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“And that was all?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Mr. Fawkes ran a hand through his cockscomb of white hair, turning it into an aigrette, and making him look very like a plump bird. Then suddenly he clicked a thumb and finger. “Shearsby did make some other remark. I’d forgotten. But I’m afraid I missed it too. I remember I said, ‘What?’ and he laughed, and said it reminded him of some poet. And he quoted a couple of lines of verse.”
“Do you remember them?”
“Ah, there you have me again. I don’t. I know they didn’t strike any chord at the time. There was something about owing . . .” The Vicar shook his aigrette, smiling apologetically. Suddenly his bright eyes gleamed. He clicked his fingers again. “Wait a minute! Would you believe it? It was on the tip of my tongue then. Extraordinary how things come back. . . . ” Frowning ferociously, he began to mutter to himself. “/Owe’, ‘woe’ . . . ‘and then I’ . . . No, that wasn’t it. ‘And while I . . . and while I . . . tum-tum-tum . . . and feel’. . . . It’s coming! ‘And while I comprehend’ . . . No. ‘Understand’. That’s it. I’ve got it!” He bounced on his chair, his blue eyes twinkling at Mr. Tuke with excitement and pride. “There it was, all the time!
‘And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe . . .’
Remarkable thing, the memory. I paid no attention. . . . But I must have come across those lines before, after all. They seem familiar now.”
Mr. Tuke, taking from his pocket a notebook and pencil, was repeating the couplet as he wrote it down.
“‘And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe’. Just those two lines?”
“That was all. I’m sure that was all.”
“You still can’t remember what led up to them, that made Shearsby laugh and quote them?”
Mr. Fawkes frowned again. “No,” he said, after further thought. “That’s gone completely. I don’t think I really heard it.”
“But he was definitely referring to his new-found cousin?”
“Yes, I feel sure of that.”
Harvey studied the lines he had copied in his notebook.
“I can’t say they convey anything to me,” he said. “They are not even familiar. It is a long time since I read any verse. Isn’t there a smack of Wordsworth about them?—in one of his pedestrian moods?”
“The ‘old, half-witted sheep’?” quoted the Vicar with a chuckle. “Yes, they suggest him, as you say. Lines of prose cut up to scan. Well, I have a Wordsworth here. Somewhere.”
He looked dubiously at the untidy ranks of books in some low shelves beside the fireplace. Mrs. Fawkes got up and unerringly picked out a fat green volume.
“Wordsworth was a very prolific writer,” she remarked with a smile, weighing the book in her hand.
“And obviously they are not first lines,” her husband added.
Mr. Tuke looked at the volume with apprehension.
