Bredon Is Taken for a Walk
In front of the _Load of Mischief_ stands an ale-house bench—that is
the description which leaps to the mind. Ideally, it should be
occupied by an old gaffer in a white smock, drinking cider and smoking
a churchwarden. A really progressive hotel would hire a gaffer by the
day to do it. A less appropriate advertisement, yet creditable enough
to the establishment in the bright air of the June morning, Angela was
occupying this seat as her husband came back from his shopping; she
was knitting in a nice, old-fashioned way, but spoilt the effect of it
rather by whistling as she did so.
“Well, did you get a bargain?” she asked.
“So I am assured. I have got a very good line; I could go a long way
and not find another handkerchief just like this one. Or indeed six
other handkerchiefs just like these six. They are distinctive, that is
the great point. Even you, Angela, will have difficulty in getting
them lost at the wash.”
“And how was Mr. Simmonds?” asked Angela, dropping her voice.
Bredon looked round cautiously. But Angela had chosen her place well;
she knew that publicity is the surest safeguard of privacy. In the
open square in front of the inn nobody would suppose that you were
exchanging anything but trivialities. Bredon communicated his
mystification and his alarm, depicting the strange behaviour of that
haberdasher in terms that left no room for doubt.
“Yes,” said Angela when he had finished, “you were quite right not to
press him with any more questions. You do seem to be rather
heavy-handed, somehow, over these personal jobs. Now, I’ve been having
it out with ‘Raight-ho’ since breakfast, and I got quite a lot out of
her. Miles, that girl’s a jewel. If she wasn’t going to be married,
I’d get her to come to Burrington, in spite of your well-known
susceptibility. But it’s no use; the poor girl is determined to sign
away her liberty.”
“To Mr. Simmonds?”
“So I gather from what Mr. Leyland told me last night. But of course I
was far too discreet to ask for any names.”
“How did you manage to worm yourself into her confidence? I’d as soon
tackle a stone wall.”
“One must unbend. It’s easier for us women. By a sudden inspiration, I
reflected that it must be an awful nuisance washing up all those
plates after breakfast, especially in a pub where they seldom have
more than two guests at a time. So I offered to help. That was just
about the time you went out shopping. I’m quite good at washing up
plates, you know, thanks to having married beneath me. She said
‘Raight-ho,’ and we adjourned to the scullery, where I did wonders. In
the scullery I saw a copy of _Home Hints_, which was very important.”
“I don’t quite see why.”
“Don’t you remember that cantankerous old bachelor friend of yours who
came to us once in London—Soames, I think his name was—who told us
that he wrote the column headed ‘Cupid’s Labyrinth’? The column that
gives advice to correspondents, you know, about affairs of the heart.
It’s the greatest mistake in the world to suppose that the modern
pillion-girl is any less soppy about her amours than the young misses
of last century. I knew instinctively that ‘Raight-ho’—her name, by
the way, is Emmeline, poor thing—was an avid reader of ‘Cupid’s
Labyrinth.’ And I’m afraid I rather prevaricated.”
“Angela, you surprise me. What particular form of lie did you blacken
your soul with this time?”
“Oh, I didn’t exactly _say_ anything. But I somehow allowed her to get
the impression that it was I who did the column. After all, Mr. Soames
is a friend of yours, so it wasn’t so very far from the truth. Miles,
she rose to the bait like anything.”
“Heaven forgive you! Well, go on.”
“It was all to save you twenty quid, after all. Up till then, she’d
been saying all the ordinary things—she’d got a sister in London, whom
she goes and stays with; and she finds Chilthorpe rather slow, hardly
ever going to the pictures and that; and she’d like to get up to
London herself—it’s what they all say. But when I let on that I was
Aunt Daphne of ‘Cupid’s Labyrinth,’ she spread herself. How would I
advise a friend of hers to act who found herself in a very delicate
situation? So I told her to cough it up. The friend, it seemed, had
been walking out with a young man who was quite decently off; that is,
he had quite enough to marry on. But one day he explained to her that
he had expectations of becoming really very rich; if only a relation
of his would die, he would then come into a property far above his own
station, let alone hers.”
“The situation sounds arresting in more ways than one.”
“Don’t interrupt. Well, the man suggested they should get engaged, and
they did, only on the quiet. And then, a few weeks ago, or it might
have been a fortnight ago, this man suddenly informed her friend that
all his dreams of wealth had suddenly collapsed. The rich relation had
made a new will in which he made no provision for his family. And he,
the young man, was very nice about it; and said of course he’d asked
her to marry him at a time when he thought he could make her a rich
woman; and now he couldn’t. So if she wanted to back out of the
engagement now, he would give her complete liberty.”
“Sportsman.”
“Her friend indignantly said ‘No’; she wouldn’t dream of backing out.
She wanted to marry him for himself, not for his money, and all that.
So they are continuing to regard the engagement as a fixture. But her
difficulty, I mean the friend’s difficulty, is this: was it just a
sort of melodramatic instinct which made her say that the money meant
nothing to her? Was it just her pride which made her think she was
still in love with the man, now that he was no longer an heir? Or was
she really still in love with him? That was the problem, and I had to
set to and answer it.”
“And what was your answer?”
“Oh, that’s hardly important, is it? Of course, I put on my best Aunt
Daphne manner, and tried to think of the sort of tripe Soames would
have written. It wasn’t difficult, really. I said that if the man was
quite comfortably off as it was, it was probably far better for them
both that they shouldn’t become enormously rich; and I laid it on
thick about the deceitfulness of riches, though I wish I’d more
experience of it, don’t you? And I said if they were already walking
out before the man mentioned anything about the legacy, that proved
that her friend was already in love with him, or half in love with
him, before the question of money cropped up at all. And I told her I
thought her friend would be very happy with the man, probably all the
happier because he knew that she wasn’t mercenary in her ambitions,
and all that sort of thing—I felt rather a beast doing it. She was
very grateful, and it didn’t seem to occur to her for a moment that
she was giving herself away, horse, foot and guns. She can’t have
known, obviously, that you and Leyland were rubbering in the lane last
night. And so there it is.”
“And confoundedly important at that. Angela, you are a trump! We’ve
got Leyland down, both ears touching. He himself said that his theory
about Simmonds would break down if it could be proved that Simmonds
did know about the codicil, did know that he’d been cut out of the
will. And it can be proved; we can prove it! It’s too much of a
coincidence, isn’t it, that all this should have happened a fortnight
ago or thereabouts? Obviously, it was hearing about the codicil which
made Simmonds offer to free ‘Raight-ho’ from her engagement, and jolly
sporting of him, I consider.”
“Candour compels me to admit that I’ve been rather efficient. But,
Miles dear, the thing doesn’t make sense yet. We know now that
Simmonds wasn’t expecting anything from his uncle’s will, and
therefore had no motive for murdering him, unless it was mere spite.
Then, why has Simmonds got the wind up so badly? You aren’t as
frightening as all that.”
“Yes; it still looks as if Simmonds had got something on his mind. And
we know that Brinkman’s got something on his mind. Perhaps Brinkman
will react on this morning’s conversation and let us know a little
more about it.”
Almost as he spoke, Brinkman came out from the door of the inn. He
came straight up to Bredon as if he had been looking for him, and
said, “Oh, Mr. Bredon, I was wondering if you would care to come for a
bit of a walk. I shall get no exercise this afternoon, with the
funeral to attend, and I thought perhaps you’d like a turn round the
gorge. It’s considered rather a local feature, and you oughtn’t to
leave without seeing it.”
It was clumsily done. He seemed to ignore Angela’s presence, and
pointedly excluded her, with his eyes, from the invitation. It seemed
evident that the man was determined on a _tête-à-tête_. Angela’s
glance betrayed a surprise which she did not feel, and perhaps a pique
which she did, but she rose to the occasion. “Do take him out, Mr.
Brinkman. He’s getting dreadfully fat down here. Instead of taking
exercise, he comes out and chats to me in public, more like a friend
than a husband—and he’s making me drop my stitches.”
“Aren’t _you_ coming?” asked Bredon, with a wholly unnecessary wink.
“Not if I know it. I’m not dressed for gorge inspecting. You may buy
me a picture post-card of it, if you like, on the way back.”
The two strolled off up the valley. Bredon’s heart beat fast. It was
evident that Brinkman was taking advantage of the overheard
conversation, and was preparing to make some kind of disclosure. Was
he at last on the track of the secret? Well, he must be careful not to
betray himself by any leading questions. The post of the amiable
incompetent, which he had already sustained with Brinkman, would do
well enough.
“It’s a fine thing, the gorge,” said Brinkman. “It lies just below the
Long Pool; but fortunately Pulteney isn’t fishing the Long Pool
to-day, so we shan’t be shouted at and told to keep away from the
bank. I really think, apart from the fishing, Chilthorpe is worth
seeing, just for the gorge. Do you know anything about geology and
such things?”
“You can search me. Beats me how they do it.”
“It beats me how the stream does it. Here’s a little trickle of water
that can’t shift a pebble weighing half a pound. Give it a few
thousand years, and it eats its way through the solid rock, and digs a
course for itself a matter of fifteen or twenty feet deep. And all
that process is a mere moment of time, compared with the millions of
years that lie behind us. If you want to reckon the age of the earth’s
crust, they say, you must do it in thousands of millions of years.
Queer, isn’t it?”
“Damned rum.”
“You almost understate the position. Don’t you feel sometimes as if
the whole of human life on this planet were a mere episode, and all
our boasted human achievement were a speck on the ocean of infinity?”
“Sometimes. But one can always take a pill, can’t one?”
“Why, yes, if it comes to that. . . . An amusing creature, Pulteney.”
“Bit highbrow, isn’t he? He always makes me feel rather as if I were
back at school again. My wife likes him, though.”
“He has the schoolmaster’s manner. It develops the conversational
style, talking to a lot of people who have no chance of answering
back. You get it with parsons too, sometimes. I really believe it
would be almost a disappointment to him if he caught a fish, so fond
is he of satirizing his own performance. . . . You haven’t been in
these parts before, have you?”
“Never. It’s a pity, really, to make their acquaintance in such a
tragic way. Gives you a kind of depressing feeling about a place when
your first introduction to it is over a death-bed.”
“I am sure it must. . . . It’s a pity the country out toward Pullford
has been so much spoilt by factories. It used to be some of the finest
country in England. And there’s nothing like English country, is
there? Have you travelled much, apart from the war, of course?”
“Now, what the devil does this man think he’s doing?” Bredon asked
himself. Could it be that Brinkman, after making up his mind to
unbosom himself, was feeling embarrassed about making a start, was
taking refuge in every other conceivable topic so as to put off the
dreaded moment of confession? That seemed the only possible
construction to put on his conversational vagaries. But how to give
him a lead? “Very little, as a matter of fact. I suppose you went
about a good deal with Mottram? I should think a fellow as rich as he
was gets a grand chance of seeing the world. Funny his wanting to
spend his holiday in a poky little place like this.”
“Well, I suppose each of us has his favourite corner of earth. There,
do you see how deep the river has cut its way into the rock?”
They had left the road by a foot-path, which led down steeply through
a wood of fir-trees and waist-deep bracken to the river bank. They
were now looking up a deep gully, it almost seemed a funnel, of rock;
both sides falling sheer from the tumbled boulders and fern-tufts of
the hillside. Before them was a narrow path which had been worn or cut
out of the rock-face, some five or six feet above the brawling stream,
just clear of the foam that sprang from its sudden waterfalls. There
was no habitation in view; the roaring of the water drowned the voice
unless you shouted; the sun, so nearly at its zenith, could not reach
the foot of the rocks, and the gorge itself looked gloomy and a little
eerie from the contrast. “Let’s go along the path a bit,” said
Brinkman; “one gets the effect of it better when one’s right in the
middle of it. The path,” he explained, “goes all the way along, and
it’s the regular way by which people go up when they mean to fish the
Long Pool. I’ll go first, shall I?”
For a second Bredon hesitated. The man had so obviously been making
conversation all the way, had so obviously been anxious to bring him
to this particular spot, that he suddenly conceived the idea of
hostile design. A slight push, disguised as an effort to steady you
round a corner, might easily throw you off the path into the stream;
they were alone, and neither rock nor stream, in such an event, would
readily give up its secret. Then he felt the impossibility of
manufacturing any excuse for refusing the invitation, Brinkman, too,
was a good foot smaller than himself. “All right,” he said, “I’ll
follow on.” He added a mental determination to follow at a safe
distance.
About twenty yards from the entrance, they stopped at a resting-place
where the rock-path widened out till it was some five feet in breadth.
Behind it was a smooth face of rock six or seven feet in height, a
fresh narrow ledge separating it from the next step in that giant’s
stairway. “Curious, isn’t it,” said Brinkman, “the way these rocks are
piled against one another? Look at that ledge that runs along, over
there to the right, almost like the rack in a railway carriage! What
accident made that, or was it some forgotten human design?” It looked,
indeed, as if it might have been meant for the larder-shelf of some
outlaw who had hidden there in days gone by. A piece of white
paper—some sandwich paper doubtless, that had fallen from above—tried
to complete the illusion. “Yes,” said Bredon, “you expect to see a
notice saying it’s for light articles only. By Jove, this is a place!”
Forgetting his tremors, he passed by Brinkman, and went exploring
further along the gorge. Brinkman followed slowly, almost reluctantly.
There was no more conversation till they reached the end of the gorge
and climbed up an easy path on to the highroad.
Now, surely, if there were going to be any confidential disclosures,
they would come. To Bredon’s surprise his companion now seemed to have
grown moody and uncommunicative; whatever openings were tried he not
only failed to follow them up but seemed, by his monosyllabic answers,
to be discouraging all approach. Bredon abandoned the effort at last,
and returned to the _Load of Mischief_ thoroughly dissatisfied with
himself, and more completely mystified than ever.