She was occupied with these thoughts when she had to slow down and hug the grass verge of the lane in order to make room for a funeral cortège to pass. By the number of expensive cars which followed the hearse, which was of conventional type but carried no flowers, she realised that this must be the procession which was bound for the churchyard at Seven Wells and the Squire’s family vault. In the end she pulled up to allow it to go by, and an association of ideas caused her to go back mentally to the trapdoor and its ladder which led to that other vault, the crypt below the More to Come. She certainly would have a story to tell when she reached her cousins’ house at Douston, she reflected. On second thoughts, she found herself wondering whether she would tell quite all of it.

  She came to the end of the lane and turned on to the Cridley Road. In three hours or less she would be back in the sane, polite, completely accountable world of a country house and the preparations for a fashionable if provincial wedding. To her own surprise, the prospect failed to appeal to her. Her thoughts returned to the Green Man. She began to wonder whether he was real or whether, after her strange experiences, she had conjured him up out of her imagination. Then she glanced down at the wheel. She was not wearing gloves, and she noticed a smear of soot across the fingers of her right hand where he had lightly touched it with his lips.

  ‘So the luck has brushed off on to me after all,’ she thought. ‘And – good heavens! I know now who he is.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Douston Hall

  ‘Let never a man a wooing wend

  That lacketh thingis three;

  A routh o’ gold, an open heart

  And fu’ o’ courtesye.’

  Border Ballad – King Henry

  * * *

  One thing of which Fenella had entertained no doubts was the warmth of her reception when she arrived at her cousins’ house. She was not mistaken. They received her rapturously. Tea was being served by the time she arrived, and she was glad of it after her unusually early lunch, and although they were eager to hear about her mishap with the car they let her have her tea in peace.

  The cousins were equally related to her, for they were not husband and wife but brother and sister. The owner of the property, which was a charming old house in a smallish, well-wooded park a couple of miles outside the town, was a middle-aged widower for whom his older sister kept house. They were informal in manner and in outlook, and Fenella had always got on well with both of them. They were related to her on her mother’s side and their name was Cromleigh. Her mother had been the youngest of a well-spaced family, and the cousins were the children of her mother’s eldest brother, so that Fenella sometimes felt (and they invariably did) as though they were more like uncle and aunt to her than cousins.

  She was as eager to relate her adventures as they were to hear them, so as soon as she had finished her tea and had been shown her room, the three of them settled down to a recitation of the tale which began with the story of the détour and then of the hold-up when Fenella found that she could not get away from the inn after lunch on Mayering Eve.

  ‘And you still don’t know what went wrong with the car?’ asked Hubert Cromleigh. ‘What does it say on the bill? – or haven’t you bothered to read it?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I don’t suppose it would mean very much to me, anyway. I simply paid the man what he asked and was thankful to get on the road again. My own idea is that somebody tampered with the car, and the man said I ought to have locked it, but I always do. It’s automatic with me to turn the key and then test all four doors before I leave. It wasn’t as though I was in any desperate hurry, either, or anything like that.’

  ‘Perhaps the hotel needed custom,’ suggested Miriam Cromleigh, ‘and were determined to make certain that you stayed for dinner and at least one night.’

  ‘I don’t think the place is anything more than a big pub,’ said Fenella. ‘I don’t believe they usually put people up. The bedroom they gave me was miles from anywhere, and I didn’t see signs of any other accommodation for guests. There wasn’t even a dining-room. I started off with a snack lunch in the saloon bar, and after that I had my dinner – such as it was – in my room and this morning’s breakfast in the so-called lounge. I lunched there again before I came away.’

  She gave them an account of her invasion of the lounge while it was in possession of the signs of the zodiac, and followed it with the tale of the rest of her strange experiences. The only incident she left out was her meeting with the young man on Mayering Eve and her May-Day encounter with the same man as Jack-in-the-Green. Why she felt unwilling to refer to these she did not know at the time, although it became plain enough to her later on.

  ‘Well,’ said Miriam, when they had listened with interest and appreciation to the extraordinary story, ‘now I’m afraid it’s our turn for some news.’ She glanced at her brother.

  ‘Better not to beat about the bush,’ he said. ‘The fact is, Fenella, my dear, that we have to postpone your wedding.’

  ‘Postpone it?’ she said. ‘Why? What has happened?’

  ‘What has happened is that Talbot has contracted to go abroad on his firm’s business and does not expect to be back for another fortnight,’ said Miriam grimly.

  ‘So that’s why he hasn’t written, the coward!’ Fenella exclaimed. ‘What a thing to do, to go off like that at the last minute! Oh, Miriam! And you’ve made all the arrangements! I’m terribly sorry! What a wretch he is! He’s his own master, though. He wasn’t compelled to go, was he?’

  ‘Of course he wasn’t! But no need to be sorry for me, my dear. It’s quite the other way about. We can’t imagine anything more frustrating than having one’s marriage postponed. Now, look, Fenella, we want you to stay on here, and notify your own friends of the postponement. We’ve let everybody else know. What do you think? It’s quite ridiculous for you to go all the way back to your flat and then come here again for the wedding.’

  ‘But it’s such an upset for you.’

  ‘Nonsense. We’ve been looking forward to your visit and are delighted to have it extended,’ said Hubert.

  ‘Although, of course, we’re sorry about the reason,’ said Miriam. ‘It’s sickening for you to have the thing put off when you were all keyed up to go through with it.’

  Fenella looked at her, suddenly enlightened.

  ‘Why do you put it like that?’ she asked, with a deep flush of embarrassed comprehension crimsoning her neck and cheeks.

  ‘I must apologise for Miriam,’ said her brother, laughing. ‘John Blunt – Joanna Blunt in this case – is dreadfully apt to call a spade a damned shovel. Pass off her ill-considered remarks in tactful silence, my dear Fenella, for, believe me, they will not abide your question.’

  ‘But I must question them,’ said Fenella wildly. ‘I must ask her to explain what she means.’

  ‘What I mean,’ said Miriam, ‘as you have a perfect right to know, is that I have never been in favour of this marriage. It was a put-up job, in the first place, by your father and Talbot’s mother. I don’t suppose you knew it, but, in their young days, they were in love with one another. I don’t know what happened, but the marriage didn’t take place and each of them married somebody else. However, they kept in touch and the two families were on friendly terms, and when you and Talbot were both youngsters there was this thing that you and he should marry. Of course, there was no suggestion that pressure should be brought to bear on either of you. That would be unthinkable in this day and age. They simply saw to it that conditions were right, that’s all, and I suppose propinquity and common interest did the rest. You’re not in love with Talbot, you know.’

  ‘Really, Miriam!’ protested Hubert. ‘How can you decide a thing like that? Fenella knows her own business best.’

  ‘I didn’t decide it. It’s self-evident, isn’t it, Fenella?’ said Miriam. ‘I’m an old maid and a happy one, and I’ve seen too many of my friends’ marriages go astray to be content to let this one go on without a word of protest. Mind you, Hubert, I wouldn’t have taken it upon myself to interfere and I was quite prepared to see it through if Fenella wanted it that way, but I consider that Talbot’s conduct lets Fenella out, if she’s looking for a way of escape, and I think she is.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fenella, still flushed and feeling, at this forthright setting out of what she recognised as her real feelings, much inclined to weep, ‘I must say that if Talbot thinks a business deal more important than the date of his wedding, I don’t think he’ll make a very considerate husband. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go and unpack. Has a new date been suggested? I mean, people will want to know….’

  ‘No,’ said Miriam, almost violently. ‘I have written and told people that Talbot is indisposed – a useful word which commits me to nothing – and that the wedding is postponed sine die.’ She looked anxiously at Fenella, who rose from her chair and went hurriedly out of the room.

  ‘You know, Miriam,’ said Hubert mildly, ‘sometimes I really think you take too much on yourself.’

  ‘I take more on myself than you know about,’ said Miriam. ‘I have never had a high opinion of Talbot. He is selfish and conceited. I knew that, if he went running off to Europe like this, the marriage would never take place. I took it upon myself to tell him so. Besides, if you ask me, Fenella has met somebody else.’

  ‘Really, my dear Miriam! How on earth do you deduce that?’

  ‘Oh, I know Fenella pretty well,’ said his sister complacently. ‘I just hope it isn’t the landlord of that pub where she stayed last night, because he seems to be married already, but I don’t think that’s who it is. It is likelier to be somebody she has met in London. She is loyal enough and foolish enough to believe that she was in honour bound to Talbot, but this jaunt of his will have given her second thoughts, as she indicated just now. I think she will stay with us until Talbot returns next week, and then she will give him a piece of her mind and hand back the engagement ring. You see if she doesn’t!’

  ‘Well, really!’ said Hubert, helplessly.

  Talbot’s letter was beside Fenella’s plate when she came down to breakfast on the following morning. She recognised the writing on the envelope, as she could scarcely fail to do, and tucked the letter unopened into her handbag, preferring to read it in the privacy of her room.

  ‘Dear Fenella,’ it ran, ‘you are probably a bit sore with me for going off like this and dishing our wedding date, but your cousins seemed prepared to put off the honoured guests for a week or so, and I know you are only inviting one or two of your London friends. Believe me, dear, this deal was too important for me to pass up on it, and the firm were particularly keen that one of the partners should go, and it was decided that I was the best man for the job, which, of course, is a tremendous compliment. Everything is going beautifully smoothly, so I should think we need only postpone the wedding for about a fortnight. The best man is acting as my second in command at the office while I’m away, so he’ll still be available, and so will the bridesmaids, as they are my sisters, so it will be all the same in the long run, and your cousin says he is willing to give you away at any time which suits you. Not to fret, dear, at the short postponement. See you soon. Love, Talbot.’

  Fenella tore the letter into very small pieces. Then she took out a writing pad and replied:

  ‘Dear Talbot, please don’t bother about marrying me. I should hate to come at any time between you and your business interests. I don’t love you and never have. Why don’t you team up with a computer and have a jumbo jet as best man? Regards, (as I must find some way of ending this note), Fenella.’

  She did not trouble to read through what she had written, but thrust the letter into an envelope, took it down to Miriam, who was in the garden cutting flowers for the house, and said,

  ‘I’ve torn up Talbot’s letter and now I don’t know where to address this one.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got the address in my bureau somewhere,’ said Miriam. ‘Don’t forget you’ll need extra stamps for abroad. You’d better let Salmon take it down to the village and send it at air-mail rates. Thank goodness this has happened. Your breakdown in the car may be the best thing that ever came about for you.’

  ‘Well, yes, I think it was,’ said Fenella soberly. ‘I’ve had time to think things over, and the letter has clinched matters. I’m never going to marry him, Miriam.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. Here, hold these, will you, while I snip a few more. I like flowers about the place.’

  Fenella took the flowers and when she and Miriam had carried them into the house and arranged them in vases, she said,

  ‘I think I’ll drive into Douston myself and post my letter. Can I shop for you while I’m there?’

  ‘Why don’t you write the rest of your letters while you’re about it? – the putting-off ones, I mean. Then they will be done and done with, and we can all settle down and enjoy your stay. I’ll tell you what, Fenella! Why don’t you add a bit to the letter you’ll have to write to your great-aunt? She was coming up for the wedding, so why not ask her to come in any case? We always enjoy her company, and as I expect she’s put off all her engagements for the days she was staying here for the wedding, it won’t cause her to have to change her plans, will it?’

  ‘I’d love her to come,’ said Fenella. ‘May I phone her? That’s such a good idea, and very kind of you, Miriam.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear! Glad to see dear old Beatrice at any time. Don’t know how she manages to keep so busy at her age. Remarkable old lady. She, for one, won’t be sorry about this business, you know. I’ve talked to her on the phone about it and she absolutely agrees with me.’

  ‘Really? She always seemed interested in the thought of my getting married.’

  ‘Oh, well, we all thought the thing was in the bag, and that you’d made up your mind to go through with it, you see. It wasn’t for us to be jeremiahs about the wedding, was it, now? But, O Lord, my dear, I’m so thankful it’s all off!’

  Dame Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley was the great-aunt with whom Fenella had been spending a few days before she began her journey to Douston. Dame Beatrice was surprisingly old, incredibly energetic and was liked by all her relatives except by Fenella’s other great-aunt, the Lady Selina Lestrange, who considered her frivolous.

  She was listening to a discourse on Rugby football from her secretary’s son, Hamish Gavin, when she was called to the telephone, and excused herself to him with a promise to return later and hear more.

  ‘It is Mademoiselle Fenella, madame,’ said her maid, handing over the receiver. Dame Beatrice said to the mouthpiece of the telephone,

  ‘Good morning. Fenella, my dear. So you arrived safely at Douston Hall?’

  ‘Yes, darling, but yesterday, not the day before. Great-aunt, I’ve broken my engagement. Will you come quickly and hold my hand?’

  ‘Of course, dear child. I will order the car at once and lunch on the way.’

  ‘Well, don’t take the turning to Seven Wells, that’s all.’

  Dame Beatrice did not turn aside to the surprising village of Seven wells, neither did George, her chauffeur, take the quieter but lengthier route which Fenella had followed across country. The big car, keeping strictly to main roads, whirled through the long miles and Dame Beatrice, correctly if somewhat individually gowned for dinner, was able to leer amiably across at her great-niece without having kept her hostess’s table waiting.

  Fenella accompanied her to her room when the meal was over, ostensibly to help her to finish her unpacking, but actually to confide in her in private. That her great-niece was anything but unhappy about the breaking-off of the engagement was soon made clear.

  ‘I never did like Talbot as much as I ought to have done if I was going to marry him,’ said Fenella, ‘and now he’s proved himself such a hound….’

  ‘He is aptly named,’ said Dame Beatrice, with her eldritch cackle. ‘Well, dear child, I, for one, am not at all sorry that you’ve changed your mind. Who is his supplanter? Anyone known to the family?’ She gazed blandly at Fenella’s blushes.

  ‘There isn’t anybody. How could there be?’ said the girl, avoiding her elderly relative’s sharp black eyes.

  ‘You spend a night on the road when you were expected to spend it here. You immediately break your engagement. You send post-haste for me. These things are signs and portents. Recline on the bed, whilst I occupy this excellent armchair, and tell me all.’

  ‘It’s a long story, and it certainly doesn’t have the ending you seem to suggest,’ said Fenella feebly, remembering (with shame) how reluctant she had been to wash the black smudge off her hand on the evening of her arrival at Douston Hall.

  ‘Fire away. I am all ears and you have my undivided attention. Begin at the beginning. The last I saw of your car was on Wednesday morning as you drove off in the direction of Cadnam.’

  ‘Do you mean you want every detail, however slight?’

  ‘If you please. I prefer my stories to be told in the round, and this one promises to be full of interest.’

  ‘You can say that again, darling,’ observed Fenella emphatically. ‘Well, it all went according to plan until I went mad and left my perfectly straightforward road to pick up a snack lunch in a village called Seven Wells. I got the lunch all right, but then the car broke down, and that’s how I came to spend a night at the inn. It’s a pub, actually, and the people in it are the landlord and his wife – their name is Shurrock – a gipsy cook called Sukie, a general maid named Clytie – she’s only a girl, of course – and a youth who acts as general factotum. I saw almost nothing of him and I’ve no idea what his name is. Oh, yes, I have, though. It’s Bob – not that it matters.’

 

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