Heavy as lead timothy he.., p.9
Heavy as Lead (Timothy Herring), page 9
Timothy drove back to the church. The tarpaulins were on again, and Sir Ganymede’s ladders had gone. Leaving the car where it was, he went into the churchyard and crossed it by the path which led to the vicarage. He might as well canvass the opinion of the vicar at once, he thought. It would give a talking-point at dinner with Sir Ganymede. The afternoon was still sunny, although the sun had begun to decline. He looked at his watch and decided that there was plenty of time. He could always break off a protracted conversation by pleading the squire’s invitation to dinner.
As he passed the low and narrow priest’s-door which led to the vestry, Jane Stretton came out.
“Hullo,” she said.
“Hullo. Been organising?” he asked, in what he felt, immediately, was an unnecessarily ironic tone.
“If you mean to enquire whether I have been playing the organ, the answer is no,” she replied, standing squarely in his path and giving him a very direct look. “If you really want to know, I’ve been organising some flowers for tomorrow’s services.”
“Really?” He was astounded. “But I thought . . .”
“You thought correctly. I am not on the rota of the Women’s League of Help and Friendship. I said I had been organising some flowers, not the flowers. Do you understand the difference—do you understand me?”
“I understand you well enough to believe you’re up to some devilment,” said Timothy, grinning. “What exactly have you been a-doing of?”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing I did, with Trudi’s help. Last night she and I climbed the tower and smashed that rickety, unsafe ladder that leads to the open top where the parapet is.”
“You and Trudi?”
“Don’t look so shocked. It’s quite all right. Trudi’s an atheist. She’s also as strong as a horse.”
“No, but I mean—why?”
“So that you shouldn’t go up to the top of the tower again, of course.”
“What was the tremendous thought behind that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just decided I didn’t want you to, that’s all. I hear you’re dining and staying the night at the Hall. Well, lock your bedroom door. Promise me you will.”
“You know, you’re having a rush of blood to the head,” said Timothy, shaking his own and speaking mock-seriously. “Take a couple of aspirins and have a nice lay down, as I’ve heard it called.”
“And you,” she retorted, “be mamma’s good little boy for once, and do as you’re told. You’ll live to thank me.” She walked past him. He watched her until she had left the churchyard and was hidden by some fine yew trees which grew by the churchyard wall, then he went on his way to the vicarage. A maid opened the door.
“Yes, sir, he’s in,” she said, before Timothy could make the enquiry. “He’s expecting you. He said you was to be showed into the study directly you come.”
The vicar again appeared to have shed his inimical attitude.
“Ah, my dear fellow!” he exclaimed. “I was hoping to see you. I understand that you are to be a near neighbour of mine.”
“Sir Ganymede has kindly offered to put me up for the night. Then I shall attend morning service and, after your meeting on Monday and your assessment of it on Tuesday, I shall take myself back to London and hand in my report.”
“So soon? I had hoped you would be staying among us longer, although I know you mentioned Tuesday morning.”
“Nice of you to say so. I’ve come to tell you of my findings and to put a suggestion to you. May I come to the point?”
“Of course, of course. Do sit down. I have my sermons ready for the morrow. In the morning I shall preach to the text from John two, seventeen: The zeal of Thy house hath eaten me up. The zeal, you know, my dear Herring. That should have some bearing upon our enterprise. Do you not think so?”
“I do indeed,” said Timothy. “Do you propose to add anything of a more secular nature?”
“In what sense, my dear fellow?”
“I was thinking of a direct appeal for funds when you give out the notices, perhaps.”
“I see. In the evening I shall preach on: to give us a reviving, to set up the house of our God, and to repair the desolations thereof. Ezra nine, nine.”
“Most apt, if I may say so,” said Timothy. “Well, we shall need all the help we can get, so I hope your people will be inspired to do their bit. The fact is, Vicar, a close inspection of the roof convinces me that there will have to be a quite substantial sum spent upon repairing the timbers before we can think about the weather-proofing.”
“I still think corrugated iron would sufficiently protect the timbers without the necessity for repairing them as well.”
“When we remove the wagon-roof . . .”
“The wagon-roof?”
“The barrel-roof, if you prefer it.”
“But—do you refer to the ceiling?”
“I do. Please let me finish. When we remove the ceiling, I am pretty sure we shall find that the death-watch beetle has had a go at the principal rafters, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find dry-rot in some of the other timbers. Of course, I’m not an expert. It would be for our surveyor to say, but I’ve had a pretty close look, as you know, and that’s my opinion, for what it’s worth. Even if you do use corrugated iron for the roofing—although I do hope you won’t—you’ll still be faced by this far greater problem of the rafters.”
“But—death-watch beetle! Dry-rot! That could cost hundreds of pounds to put right!”
“Well, Vicar,” said Timothy gently, “unless you want the thing falling on your head, the money will have to be found. But now for my proposition. I have just come from an interview with Mr. Badbury.”
“Oh, now, really, my dear fellow!”
“Just a minute! He made what I think may be a very helpful suggestion, but I don’t propose to act on it without your approval.”
“I am hardly likely to approve of any scheme which that idolatrous old man has put forward.”
“The cost of lead, or of tiling,” said Timothy firmly, “is fairly high, but to use corrugated iron, as you propose to do, although ever so much cheaper, would be sacrilege.” He looked at the vicar, but Winterbottom made no protest about the use of the word. “Mr. Badbury’s suggestion, therefore, is that we have the roof thatched.”
“Thatched? You must be joking!”
“Not at all. Thatch was in common use during the early Middle Ages, and was used, most likely, when your church was first built.”
“But the danger of fire!”
“Is negligible. There are no houses near enough for sparks to fly from neighbouring chimneys. Both the vicarage and the Hall are out of range, and there is no other building even remotely contiguous to the church. Moreover, I already have this one volunteer to do the job, and he knows of another man who has the necessary experience. I don’t think they would charge very much for their skill and labour. Apart from that, there would be nothing to pay for, except the rods and the reeds.”
“Reeds?”
“My volunteer is familiar only with reed thatch, I fancy.”
“Mr. Herring, all I can say is that I would not allow him to work on my church if he offered me a thousand pounds for the privilege. I do not wish to be stiff-necked or uncharitable but I could not allow him access to the church roof. He does not come to church.”
“I should have thought that to allow him to work on the church roof might put that right, you know. I believe he’s a real craftsman, and such chaps like to do a good job.”
“I will not allow him to touch the roof of my church. In any case, the idea of thatching is ridiculous.”
“There are thatched cottages in the village,” said Timothy, “but it’s up to you, of course. I thought it might be worthwhile to mention the old chap, and what he’s willing to do.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But I am afraid I must be firm over this. A thatched roof is quite out of the question. I could not possibly agree to such a solution.”
“Right. I’ll be off, then. Sir Ganymede will be expecting me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Night at Troggett Hall
The gates, this time, were open. This, Timothy surmised, was in anticipation of his arrival. He drove up to the front door and did not need to knock or ring. Sir Ganymede was there to greet him.
“My dear chap, come in, come in. This is delightful. Leave your bags. They will be taken care of. Let me show you to your room, then you must come straight down, and we’ll have a stirrup cup before we move off, eh? That’s to say, before we dress for dinner.”
Prattling genially, the baronet made his way from the hall to the gallery, closely followed by Timothy.
“I trust no ladies will be at dinner,” said Timothy. “I haven’t brought dress clothes.”
“Nobody but Mrs. Prynne,” said Sir Ganymede. “Well, here we are.” He opened a white-painted door. “The Uncanny Room we call it. Just a joke, you know, but if the name unnerves you, we can always make a switch. I’ll leave you to sort yourself out. Bathroom’s round the next bend, but don’t stop now. That stirrup cup is waiting.”
Timothy had not been told where this would be, so he went down to the hall. It was empty, so he went up the stairs again and tried the library, the only room with which, so far, he was at all familiar. The library also was empty; so, to his surprise, was the case which had contained the priceless collection of antique silver. He loitered by the window for a minute or two, but nobody came, so he decided that the most sensible plan would be to return to his bedroom and wait to be summoned. Having regained his room, he closed the door and saw that his suitcase and briefcase had been brought up. Before he had time to do more than notice this, the door opened and Sir Ganymede put his head in and informed Timothy that the drinks were in the drawing-room and awaited him there.
“Not a word to Prynne that I’ve put you in this room. She’d have a fit,” he said. “Well, come along, if you’re ready.”
He hurried away, and, by the time Timothy joined him, Sir Ganymede was standing at a small Chippendale table in front of one of the tall windows.
“Ah, here you are,” he said. “I always drink whisky before I dress for dinner. Same for you? Splendid! Here, say ‘when,’ but don’t say it too soon. Lots of fine drinks been ruined because decent fellers felt bound to say ‘when’ too soon. Makes for bad feeling, my dear feller. Experienced it myself. Simply shocking, and very disappointing, to feel you’ve got to say the word inches before you really want to.”
Timothy refused a second drink and at the same time the dressing-bell went. He returned to his room and went along to the bathroom to find out whether the water was hot enough for a bath. There was no hot water, so he took a cold plunge and went back to his room to put on the lounge suit in which he had travelled from London. There would be a gong to announce dinner, Sir Ganymede had told him, so, having made himself as presentable as his limited wardrobe allowed, he seated himself in an armchair by the side of the four-poster bed and picked up his brief-case.
He did not take out its contents immediately, but sat gazing through the window at the prospect, or as much of it as he could see from where he sat. The length of the drive, the width of the road, and a stretch of the churchyard separated him from the church itself. The evening was quite light enough for him to be able to see that some activity was going on out there, but he could do no more than guess at its nature. The probability, he thought, was that a ladder was being installed in place of the one which Jane Stretton and Trudi had jettisoned. He had been speculating upon their motive in doing this. That it had been in the interests of his own safety he found it difficult to believe. He began to open the brief-case, which he had been holding on his knee, but before he could take out his notes to glance through them, the gong sounded.
Dinner was as good a meal as he had expected. Mrs. Prynne brought in each course, sat down with the two men to eat it, collected the plates, and came in again with the next selection of dishes. It was, in this respect, like a suburban party when the mistress of the house does not keep a maid.
The table was a long one. Sir Ganymede sat at the head of it, with Timothy on his right, and Mrs. Prynne sat at the foot, opposite her employer. Conversation with her would have been difficult, therefore, in any case, but was rendered more so by the fact that, whenever Timothy ventured to make a remark to her, she kept her gaze strictly on her plate, and replied in such cold and fruitless monosyllables that, by the end of the fish course, he thought he would give up the attempt to include her. When she had retired with the fish plates, Sir Ganymede, casting an eye on the door, said:
“Don’t bother with her. She don’t talk at meal-times. The only word she really knows is touché, and I bet she didn’t need to say that very often. Well, what mischief have you been up to this afternoon since I left you? I heard you went to see old Badbury and then you spoke to the vicar. You didn’t get much change out of either of ’em, I wouldn’t mind betting.”
“I received a sensible suggestion from Badbury, as a matter of fact. Unfortunately the vicar won’t consider it. Badbury thinks the church ought to be thatched.”
“Thatched? You’ll never get anybody here to go into it if old Badbury is involved. As well have the devil put the roof on! Better, perhaps. Plenty of people have a fellow-feeling for the devil, no doubt, but they’d like to see old Badbury burnt at the stake.”
“But why? He seems a decent, sane old chap, and he and a chap named Bingham would do the job at workman’s wages.”
“Lay off it,” said Sir Ganymede seriously. “If you let that roof be thatched by old Badbury you’ll have the church set alight, and I don’t mean maybe, and I don’t mean metaphorically.”
“Would you yourself oppose the idea?”
“No, I like to see a good bit of thatching, but you can take it that I’m about the only person here, with the possible exception of Jane Stretton, who wouldn’t be dead set against the idea. If you don’t believe me, you attend the parish meeting on Monday night. That’ll show you. Here, let me top up your glass. How d’you like this claret?” Timothy praised it, and with justice. It was a beautiful wine. “All smuggled,” said the squire, in tones of great satisfaction. “You shall try the brandy after dinner.”
Timothy was reminded of the empty show-case in the library.
“I see you’ve locked away your silver,” he remarked.
“Always do, when I have anybody staying in the house,” explained Sir Ganymede. “Easy come, easy go, you know, and I could tell you were a connoisseur.”
This bare-faced insult had to be taken in one of two ways. Timothy decided to take it as a joke.
“Yes, you never know, you know, do you?” he said. “Light-fingered Larry is my name with the wide boys.” He and the squire sampled the brandy when the meal was over and Mrs. Prynne had brought in the coffee, and then Timothy pleaded that he had his report to finish. He added that he could not really complete it until he had found out whether the parish would be prepared to make a contribution, however small, towards the cost of the repairs, but that he supposed he could write off the suggestion that the roof should be thatched.
“Yes, indeed. Rats!” exclaimed Mrs. Prynne, with venom.
“The library, my dear feller, is at your service,” said the baronet. “Mind if I join you? Promise to be as quiet as the proverbial mouse. Stupid sort of saying. Don’t think mice are quiet at all. Scrabble, scrabble, scutter, scutter, squeak, squeak! Dashing irritating little animals, if you ask me.”
“I thought my room . . . ,” began Timothy; then he saw the disappointment in his host’s face.
“Don’t get much company except Prynne,” said Sir Ganymede, eyeing his housekeeper with loathing. She returned the look with one of pure malevolence, and, swallowing the last of the brandy in her glass, gave them an abrupt goodnight and took herself off in eloquent and dignified silence.
“Oh, the library, by all means,” said Timothy. “I’ll just pop up and get my brief-case.” He went to the window. The lodge-keeper—ah, she’s getting some help with those gates.”
“Poor old Lizzie!” said the squire. “She’s never been the same since John Hemsley’s birth, you know. His mother, her only daughter, died of it. Pity! Wouldn’t have had it happen for the world, but one can’t foresee these things.”
Timothy, deciding that John Hemsley’s birth might better be a matter for neither question nor comment where he was concerned, went off to get his brief-case and returned to join Sir Ganymede in the library. A bright fire was burning and a little of the antique silver was back in the glass-topped case. The baronet occupied an armchair at the fireside. Timothy seated himself and opened his brief-case. It contained nothing but his three printed books.
“Hullo!” he said. Sir Ganymede looked up.
“Something you want, my dear feller?”
“No, no, it’s all right,” said Timothy; but it was not all right. His notebook, the late Fellowby’s report, Mrs. Stretton’s letter, and the note from Mrs. King were all missing. He bent to his work, but, before reconstructing his report, for which he would have to depend upon his (fortunately excellent) memory, he made a list of the possible occasions on which his brief-case could have been rifled. Then he drew out his wallet and examined the contents. His money had not been touched.
“It ain’t all right, though, is it?” asked the baronet. “What’s up?”
“Only that I’ve mislaid one or two bits and pieces. Now what can I have done with them? Let’s see.” He began to jot down some hasty notes.
“Brief-case presumably intact on arrival at Nesting Pheasant on Thursday. Brief-case left in bedroom for rest of day. Nobody at pub with any interest in contents, so far as I know. Only possible suspects are the vicar, but came nowhere near pub, and Mrs. Stretton, but under my eye all the time she was at Nesting Pheasant except for less than five minutes while I went to bar to get drinks to take into lounge. Unthinkable she touched brief-case, (a) Not enough time to investigate contents (b) did not know then what my room number was (c) I had not then received note from Mrs. King, and that is one of the missing items.
