Miss Blow stood at the window of her bedroom in Jimmy O’Loughlin’s
hotel, and saw Mr. Dick and Mr. Sanders ride by on their bicycles. She
did not for a moment suppose that they were the Members of Parliament
who had arrived by the train. They looked like hilarious but shabby
tourists. It is not with such faces or in such clothes that candidates
for election woo their constituents in Merrie England. She afterwards
saw the three ladies drive by, followed by the car which carried their
luggage. She did not see Mr. Goddard. She supposed, very naturally,
that he and the Members of Parliament were consulting together
somewhere, perhaps in the waiting-room at the railway station, devising
plans for the rescue of what still might remain of Dr. O’Grady’s body.
She waited patiently, sustained by the hope of heroic measures to be
taken in the near future.
At half-past one Bridgy knocked at the door, and told her that her
dinner was ready for her.
“Will Mr. Goddard be in for dinner?” asked Miss Blow.
Bridgy did not feel that it was her duty to disclose the fact that Mr.
Goddard had driven away in the direction of Ballymoy. She answered
cautiously.
“He might,” she said.
This was unquestionably true. It was possible that Mr. Goddard would
repent as he went on his way, and come back to dine with Miss Blow. It
was not, in Bridgy’s opinion, at all likely that he would; but she did
not say this to Miss Blow.
“Will the other gentlemen be with him?”
“Well, I don’t know, miss.”
She did know, but she held charity to be a higher virtue than truth. If
Miss Blow hoped for the company of other gentlemen, Bridgy would not
subject her to a disappointment sooner than was absolutely necessary.
Miss Blow dined alone. After dinner she waited another half-hour. Then
she rang the bell for Bridgy.
“Has Mr. Goddard come back yet?”
“Well, I don’t know, miss.”
“Are the other gentlemen in the hotel?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Go and find out, then,” said Miss Blow.
Bridgy went downstairs and summoned Jimmy O’Loughlin from behind the
bar.
“The young lady above,” she said, “is asking me this two hours if Mr.
Goddard is come back.”
“You know as well as I do,” said Jimmy, “that he hasn’t, and, what’s
more, won’t.”
“Sure, I do know that. Didn’t I see him making off out of the yard by
the back gate the way she wouldn’t see him go?”
“Well, then, go and tell her so.”
“Is it me? I dursn’t.”
“Do it at once,” said Jimmy. “It was you she asked, and it’s you that
ought to answer her. Off with you now, and not another word out of your
head.”
Bridgy, who saw no reason why she should face the wrath of Miss Blow,
retired to a small room which opened off the scullery, and spent an
hour cleaning her own boots. Miss Blow waited, and after a while got
tired of waiting. She rang the bell again. Bridgy heard it, and, for
greater security, went into the yard and concealed herself in the cow
byre. Miss Blow came downstairs and found Jimmy O’Loughlin. He had not
thought of hiding, and was caught unawares.
“Is Mr. Goddard in the hotel?” she asked.
“He is not,” said Jimmy. “It’s himself was sorry to go; but there
came a messenger over from Ballymoy, a police sergeant, to say he was
wanting, and wanting badly. It might be cattle driving that’s in it, or
it might be a meeting about the land or maybe an eviction. They’re a
queer lot down in them parts. Anyway, he was wanting, and he went.”
“It’s a curious thing,” said Miss Blow, “that he went off without
saying a word to me.”
“Well, now,” said Jimmy, “if I amn’t the fool this day; but I thought
Bridgy would be sure to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“The last words he said to me as he was getting up into the trap was
these; ‘Jimmy,’ says he, ‘it goes to my heart to be leaving Miss Blow
behind me, and her in trouble. She’ll never forgive me.’ ‘Believe you
me,’ says I, striving to encourage him, for I could see he felt it,
‘she will.’ ‘She will not,’ says he. ‘Don’t I know she won’t?’ ‘She
will,’ says I. ‘There isn’t a young lady ever I met with a better
heart.’ ‘Will you tell her,’ says he, ‘that it was forced on me or I
wouldn’t do it, not if you was to give me the full of my hat of golden
sovereigns?’ ‘I’ll tell her,’ says I; ‘I’ll break it to her quiet and
easy the way she won’t be feeling it.’ And, glory be to God, I have.”
“You might have done it a little sooner,” said Miss Blow.
“I might, and that’s a fact,” said Jimmy apologetically.
“Where are the other gentlemen?” said Miss Blow.
“The other gentlemen! Is it them ones that come in on the train? Did
you not see them going by on their bicycles? They’re the most of the
way to Pool-a-donagh by this time.”
It occurred to Miss Blow that she had been deceived, tricked,
abominably insulted by Mr. Goddard. She distinctly remembered the
bicyclists. They had passed down the street almost immediately after
the arrival of the train. It was quite impossible for Mr. Goddard to
have had any serious conversation with them. She hesitated, on the
verge of tears. Then the utter futility of weeping in the presence of
Jimmy O’Loughlin struck her. She pulled herself together and, with
prompt decision, settled her course of action.
“Get the car,” she said, “at once. I shall drive over to Ballymoy and
see Mr. Goddard.”
“The car’s not in it,” said Jimmy.
Miss Blow stamped her foot.
“Get any car,” she said. “I don’t care whether it’s your own or
another.”
“Divil the car there is in Clonmore this minute,” said Jimmy. “The
ladies that came in by the train has the both of them took, and they’re
away off with them to Pool-a-donagh, if so be that the horses can do
the journey.”
“Do you mean to say that there isn’t a horse and car to be got in the
place?”
“There is not. It’s the truth I’m telling you; and if you don’t
believe me, go up and ask Sergeant Farrelly at the barrack.”
“Then,” said Miss Blow, “I’ll walk.”
“Is it to walk to Ballymoy? You’d never over it, and the weather as hot
as it is. It’s better than twelve miles.”
“I’ll do it,” said Miss Blow.
She did. A little footsore, very tired, but still blazing with
indignation, she arrived in Ballymoy at a quarter to six o’clock.
Just outside Ballymoy, close to the Clonmore road, is the ground
belonging to the tennis club. There are three courts and a galvanized
iron hut, known as the pavilion. On club days, when some lady gives
tea to the players, there are usually twenty or thirty people on
the ground. On other days only a few enthusiasts go to the club. It
happened that when Miss Blow came in sight on the road there was no
one at the club except Mr. Goddard and Captain Fielding, the Resident
Magistrate. They were playing a vigorous game, having a final practice
in preparation for the tournament which was to be held next day. Mr.
Goddard was serving in the fifth game of the set when he caught sight
of Miss Blow. He paused, stared at her, dropped the two balls which he
held in his hand, and fled without a word into the pavilion.
Captain Fielding gaped with astonishment, looked up and down the road,
saw nothing very alarming, and followed Mr. Goddard into the pavilion.
“What the devil----” he began.
Mr. Goddard took no notice of the remark. He was staring out of a small
window which commanded a view of the road.
“What the----” said Captain Fielding again.
Mr. Goddard turned suddenly.
“Fielding,” he said, “jump on your bicycle and ride like hell to my
house. Don’t lose a moment. Get a hold of my housekeeper, and tell her
that if any lady calls she’s to say I’ve gone away on leave and won’t
be back for six weeks. Don’t stop to ask questions. I’ll explain it all
to you when you get back.”
He pushed Captain Fielding out of the pavilion.
“You’ll be in time,” he said, “if only you’ll go. Thank goodness my
house is at the far end of the town.”
Captain Fielding did as he was told. He rode fast, because he was most
anxious to hear Mr. Goddard’s explanation as soon as possible. He
delivered his message to the housekeeper, and then rode back.
“Did you pass a girl walking along the road?” said Mr. Goddard.
“I did; a pretty girl in a grey dress, a stranger.”
“Well, she’s mad--stark mad. She’s been bothering me out of my life
these two days. I’m sick and tired of talking to her. If she catches me
now I’m done.”
“If she’s mad,” said the R. M., “why don’t you have her locked up? I’ll
sign the papers for you if you get a medical certificate.”
“She’s not mad in that sort of way,” said Goddard, “although she is
mad.”
“I see,” said the R. M.; “temper. It’s not a breach of promise case, is
it, Goddard?”
“Nothing of the sort. I never set eyes on her in my life till
yesterday. In fact, she’s engaged to quite another man.”
“I see,” said the R. M. doubtfully.
“The fact is,” said Goddard, “she has a theory that there has been a
murder over at Clonmore. There hasn’t, of course; but she thinks there
has--and--well, the fact is, I promised to investigate it. She cried,
you know, and that sort of thing. The whole business is utterly absurd
from start to finish.”
“And what do you propose to do now?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps she’ll go away when she gets the message about
my being on leave. I shall stay here till after dark, anyhow, and then
sneak down to the house and find out what’s happened.”
“I think,” said Captain Fielding, “that I’ll stay with you. I’d rather
like to see this business through. Besides, when she finds she can’t
get you she’ll probably go up to my house for me.”
Miss Blow received the message from Mr. Goddard’s housekeeper with open
incredulity.
“I shall wait here,” she said, “until Mr. Goddard comes home.”
The servant was in a difficult position. She recognized Miss Blow as
the lady to whom she had given tea the day before, who had driven
off, apparently on the most friendly terms, with Mr. Goddard. It was
plainly impossible to slam the door as doors are slammed in the faces
of drunken tramps. She was a woman of kindly disposition. She saw
that Miss Blow was dusty, tired, in need of rest and refreshment. Her
natural impulse was to be hospitable. At the same time she had no doubt
as to what Mr. Goddard’s wishes were with regard to this particular
visitor. She was a woman of intelligence, and she realized that the
message delivered by Captain Fielding was urgent and important. She
hesitated, standing in the middle of the doorway. Miss Blow put an end
to all uncertainty by walking past her into the house, opening the
dining-room door, entering the room, and sitting down.
Mr. Goddard’s housekeeper retired to the kitchen and meditated on the
situation. It was plainly impossible to remove Miss Blow without the
use of actual force. At seven o’clock pity triumphed over her sense of
duty to her master. She made some tea and took it in to Miss Blow on a
tray. At eight o’clock a police constable came to the door and asked
to see Mr. Goddard. He refused to believe that the District Inspector
had gone on leave. The housekeeper, despairing of anything except the
actual truth, confessed that there was a young lady in the house, and
gave it as her opinion that Mr. Goddard was afraid to meet her. The
constable disappeared, grinning. The housekeeper was uneasily conscious
that he was putting a wrong meaning into the fact of Miss Blow’s
presence in the house.
At nine o’clock Mr. Goddard, still in tennis flannels, and accompanied
by Captain Fielding, climbed over the wall of his own back garden, and
slipped through the yard into the kitchen.
“Mary,” he said to the housekeeper, “is that young lady gone?”
“She is not; and, what’s more, it’s my opinion that she won’t go.”
“There,” said Mr. Goddard to Captain Fielding, “what did I tell you?
She’s an amazingly persistent woman.”
“Go and turn her out,” said Captain Fielding. “Tell her it’s highly
improper for her to be sitting here in your house in the middle of the
night.”
Mr. Goddard sighed. The advice was well meant, but it was useless. He
knew Miss Blow, and Captain Fielding did not.
“Mary,” he said, “slip upstairs as quietly as you can, and get my
pyjamas and tooth brush. I’ll have to go to the barrack for the night.
They’ll give me some sort of a shake-down.”
“And will the young lady be sleeping here?” asked Mary.
“I expect so,” said Mr. Goddard. “If she does, she’ll tell you so
beforehand quite plainly. Make her as comfortable as you can.”
Mary went upstairs on tiptoe. Unfortunately, owing to nervousness
induced by excess of caution, she upset a hot-water can, which fell
with a hideous clatter against Mr. Goddard’s bath. She hastened from
the bedroom, and was met on the stairs by Miss Blow.
“What have you got there?” said Miss Blow, eyeing the pyjamas
suspiciously.
“It’s clothes from the wash,” said Mary. “Now that the master’s away, I
thought I might as well be doing that as nothing.”
“You can tell him,” said Miss Blow, “that I’m going to the hotel now,
and that I’ll be round to see him the first thing in the morning.”
She left the house, slamming the door behind her. Mary carried the
pyjamas and the tooth brush upstairs again. Then she went into the
kitchen and broke the happy news to her master and Captain Fielding.
“Thank God!” said Mr. Goddard. “I’m safe for to-night, anyway.”
“She’ll be back with you in the morning,” said Captain Fielding,
grinning. “I don’t see that you’ve much to congratulate yourself
about.”
“Something may happen before then,” said Mr. Goddard.
It is very seldom that things happen just when they are wanted to. The
prisoner on the verge of execution hopes, but as a rule hopes in vain,
for an earthquake at early dawn. The debtor whose bill is due the next
day prays for, but scarcely expects, a fire in the bank premises during
the night, an effective fire destructive of iron safes. Mr. Goddard’s
feeling that something might happen before Miss Blow caught him again
was hardly a hope. Nothing short of some wholly unprecedented event
would be any use to him. But Mr. Goddard was exceptionally fortunate.
Something did happen. He was roused at six o’clock in the morning by
a violent knocking at his door. He looked out of his window and saw
Constable Moriarty standing in the street with a bicycle.
“What on earth do you want at this hour?” said Mr. Goddard.
He had slept badly during the early part of the night, and was greatly
annoyed at being roused from a doze at six o’clock.
“If it’s Miss Blow you’re after,” he went on, “I haven’t got her here.
She’s at the hotel. Go there and get her. Take her with you, if you
want her. She’s no use to me.”
Constable Moriarty grinned. He did not want Miss Blow any more than his
officer did. Then, in the very middle of his grin, he grew grave again.
“It’s what Sergeant Farrelly is after sending me over to tell you, sir,
that the two English gentlemen that went off to Pool-a-donagh on their
bicycles is after getting lost.”
“Lost! What do you mean by lost?”
“According to the word that came to the barrack at Clonmore, sir, the
ladies arrived at Pool-a-donagh at four o’clock or thereabouts and
didn’t find the gentlemen. It was thought that maybe they’d taken a
wrong turn, though it’s hard to know how they could, seeing there isn’t
a wrong turn to take, and that they might have come back to Clonmore.
So the sergeant at Pool-a-donagh sent a wire to Sergeant Farrelly; but
he didn’t know where they were, and no more did Jimmy O’Loughlin, for
we asked him. We sent a few more wires to the barracks round about, but
we got no tidings of them good nor bad. There was men out searching
all night from Pool-a-donagh, and Constable Cole and the sergeant took
a look round when they were on patrol. They do say the ladies was in
a terrible state. There was a mounted man came into Clonmore between
three and four this morning, and Sergeant Farrelly sent me over to you
on a bicycle the way you’d be able to tell him what he’d better do.”
“I never heard of such a thing in my life,” said Mr. Goddard. “How
can they be lost? The thing is impossible. Hang it all! they must be
somewhere.”
“So you’d say, sir. But there isn’t a police station anywhere round but
it’s been wired to, and not one has seen the gentlemen, dead or alive.”
“Don’t talk about their being dead,” said Mr. Goddard. “Good heavens,
man! They’re Members of Parliament. If they’ve gone and committed
suicide there’ll be a most frightful row, and everybody will say it’s
the fault of the police. They must be found at once.”
Mr. Goddard was in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. He told Constable
Moriarty to go into the yard and harness the horse while he shaved
and dressed. He was inclined at first to be angry with the Members of
Parliament. It is a stupid thing to get lost, and men have no right to
be stupid. He did not want to spend the day searching bohireens and
bog-holes. He wanted to play in the Ballymoy tennis tournament. He had
engaged himself as partner to Mrs. Fielding, the Resident Magistrate’s
wife, and it vexed him to have to disappoint the lady. By degrees the
matter began to present itself to him in a brighter light. He was now
obliged, absolutely forced, to leave Ballymoy, and by leaving early
he would escape Miss Blow, escape her for a time at all events. He
reflected that if she sought him out with her usual relentlessness he
would, in any case, have been unable to play in the tournament. A man
cannot with any decency appear on a tennis court while a beautiful
and angry girl hurls reproaches at him from the side lines. Even if
he succeeded in evading her, his nerve would be shattered by the
consciousness that she might appear beside him at any moment. It seemed
to him that the loss of the Members of Parliament was, after all, a
blessing in disguise; that, in fact, his wish had been fulfilled beyond
his hope--something had happened.
He sat down and scribbled a note of apology for his absence.
“Dear Fielding,” he wrote, “will you ask your wife to be so kind as to
excuse me. I am exceedingly sorry to disappoint her, and I assure you I
would not do it if I could possibly help it. Two Members of Parliament
have disappeared during the night, and I have to go out and look for
them. Perhaps the rector would play with Mrs. Fielding if you asked
him. He’s no earthly good, but he’s on the handicapping committee, and
would let himself in soft. In any case she would get a game of some
sort. If you happen to come across that good-looking girl in the grey
dress, you might tell her that I promised to play to-day with Mrs.
Fielding, and that you expect me up at the club between twelve o’clock
and four. That will keep her in Ballymoy for most of the day, anyhow.
The Lord knows I don’t want her on my track. I shall have worry enough
without that.”
He stuffed some biscuits into his pocket and went out into the yard.
Constable Moriarty promised to deliver the note to Captain Fielding.
Mr. Goddard got into his trap and drove off. He had to pass the hotel
on his way, and was half afraid that Miss Blow might sally out and
seize the horse’s head. She did not. It was not yet seven o’clock, and
the blinds of all the upstairs rooms were drawn down. Miss Blow was,
apparently, sleeping off the fatigue of the day before.
Mr. Goddard reached Clonmore at half-past eight. He found Sergeant
Farrelly and Constable Cole at breakfast. They had been up all night,
and were looking fagged, nervous, and harassed.
“There’s two more wires, sir, that’s come in since eight this morning.
The one of them says that there’s no further news of the missing
gentlemen in Pool-a-donagh, and the other says that the ladies started
back to Clonmore at seven this morning, and is in hopes that you’ll be
here to meet them when they arrive.
“If I’m not,” said Mr. Goddard--“and it’s quite possible that I
won’t--if I’m not, you’ll have to see them, sergeant. They’re very nice
ladies,” he added, noticing a gloom on Sergeant Farrelly’s face, “not
the least like Miss Blow.”
“It’s a queer thing,” said Sergeant Farrelly, “that a man could get
lost between this and Pool-a-donagh. It’s a straight road, and they got
started right on it. Jimmy O’Loughlin was telling me last night that he
seen them going through the town, and them heading straight on the same
as if they knew the place all their lives. Without they took a boat and
went out to sea in it--and I don’t know where they’d get a boat along
that road--it’s a queer thing.”
“It is a queer thing,” said Mr. Goddard. “But what’s the use of
spending the morning saying so? Show me all the telegrams that came
last night.”
He worked his way through a sheaf of pink forms. The messages were,
for the most part, very monotonous. In language which hardly varied
and with a strict attention to the number of words which can be sent
for sixpence, the sergeants of all the police barracks within a wide
circle disclaimed any knowledge of the missing gentlemen. No one had
seen them. The most careful inquiries brought no information. Here and
there, among these cold, official statements, Mr. Goddard came upon a
message which breathed anxiety, heartbreak, and despair, a despatch
from a wife or an aunt. These were verbose, reckless of expense, and
always ended by urging the necessity of immediate action on the part of
the police.
“I can’t do anything,” said Mr. Goddard; “at all events, I won’t do
anything till I’ve had some breakfast. It’s after nine now. I’ll go
down to the hotel and see what I can get out of Jimmy O’Loughlin.”
He found, when he reached the hotel, that the table in the commercial
room was laid for breakfast. A pleasant scent of frying bacon reached
him from the kitchen. He became aware that he was extremely hungry.
“Jimmy!” he called. “Jimmy O’Loughlin!”
“Is that yourself, Mr. Goddard?” said Jimmy, speaking from the top of
the stairs. “They’re just getting the breakfast ready for the doctor’s
young lady. I’ll tell them to fry a couple more eggs for you. She’ll be
glad of your company. It’s lonely for the creature taking her meals by
herself, and her in trouble about the loss of the doctor and all.”
Jimmy O’Loughlin in his shirt-sleeves and without a collar leaned over
the banisters as he spoke. The grin on his face was malicious.
“Is Miss Blow here?” said Mr. Goddard. “I don’t believe she is. How
could she?”
“She is not here,” said Jimmy, “but I’m just after getting a wire from
her to say that she’ll be in for her breakfast at half-past nine. It
must be that now, if it isn’t past it. Bridgy! Are you there, Bridgy?
I say, will you fry a couple of eggs and some rashers for Mr. Goddard?
He’ll be taking his breakfast along with the doctor’s young lady as
soon as she comes.”
“Look here,” said Mr. Goddard, “there’s no use your trying to pull my
leg in this way. Miss Blow can’t be here. She was sound asleep when I
left Ballymoy at seven, and she couldn’t possibly do the drive in the
time.”
“Not if she drove,” said Jimmy; “but she’d do it on a bicycle.”
“How do you know she has a bicycle?”
“I don’t know. How would I? All I say is that, being the sort of a
young lady she is, it’s likely she’d get a bicycle, or for the matter
of that a motor car, if so be she wanted one. Anyway, she’ll be here
at half-past nine, for that’s what she said.”
“Then,” said Mr. Goddard, “I’ll not stay for breakfast. I’m going up
to the Castle. I have business with Lord Manton. And look here, Jimmy,
when Miss Blow arrives, if she does arrive, there’ll be no need for you
to say anything about my being here. It would only upset her.”
“I will not. Why would I? Hasn’t she trouble enough without that? But
tell me now, Mr. Goddard, is it true what I hear them saying about them
gentlemen that was through the town yesterday on their bicycles?”
“Is what true?”
“That they’re off.”
“They’re lost,” said Mr. Goddard, “if that’s what you mean.”
Jimmy O’Loughlin winked. “The same as the poor doctor,” he said, “and
Patsy Devlin.”
“Not in the least the same. We know what happened to them well enough.
But these fellows are quite different. But I can’t stop here talking
to you all morning. I’ve something else to do. Don’t say anything to
anybody about my being up at the Castle.”
“I will not. If I open my mouth about you at all, I’ll say you’re
searching high and low for the men that’s gone.”