Meldon was even more energetic than usual on the morning after the
boating picnic. By getting up very early indeed he was able to shoot
four rabbits, members of a large family which lived by destroying Major
Kent's lettuces. He also bagged two wood-pigeons which had flown all
the way from the Ballymoy House trees for the purpose of gorging
themselves on half-ripe gooseberries in the Major's garden. He then
rowed out in the boat about a mile from the shore, and had the
satisfaction of bathing in absolute solitude and diving as far as he
could into deep water. He had, as was natural, a fine appetite for
breakfast, and ate in a way which gratified Major Kent and afterwards
startled his housekeeper. But nature takes her revenges even on those
who seem best able to defy her. After breakfast Meldon settled himself
in a comfortable chair on the lawn, and was disinclined to move from
it. The Major went into his study to make up some accounts, and the
day being fine and warm, sat beside an open window. Meldon's chair was
only a short distance from the window, so that he was in a position to
carry on a conversation without raising his voice. For some time he
did not speak, for his morning pipe was particularly enjoyable. Then
he felt it necessary to make some excuse for his idleness.
"There's no use," he said, "my starting before eleven. Simpkins won't
be out of bed until late to-day. He'll be thoroughly exhausted after
all he went through on the _Spindrift_."
"Start any time you like," said the Major.
Meldon's remark interrupted him in the middle of adding up a long
column of pence. He failed to recollect where he had got to and was
obliged to begin over again.
"I can have the trap, I suppose," said Meldon, a couple of minutes
later.
Major Kent had got to the shillings column.
"Yes. But do stop talking."
"Why?" said Meldon. "Without conversation we might as well be living
in total solitude; and Bacon says, in one of his essays, that solitude
is only fit for a god or a beast. You may like being a beast, Major,
but I don't. You'll hardly set up, I suppose, to be a god."
"Hang it all, J. J.! I've forgotten how many shillings I had to carry,
and now I shall have to begin the whole tot over again."
"Hand it out to me," said Meldon, "and I'll settle the whole thing for
you in two minutes."
"Certainly not," said the Major. "I know your way of dealing with
account books. I may be slow, but I do like to be tidy."
"Very well," said Meldon, "if you choose to be unsociable, merely in
order to give yourself a lot of quite unnecessary trouble, of course
you can. I won't speak again."
Ten minutes later he did speak again, to the great annoyance of Major
Kent, who was estimating the total cost of the hay eaten by his polo
ponies during the year--a most intricate business, for hay varied a
good deal in price.
"Doyle's coming along the road in his trap," said Meldon, "and he looks
to me very much as if he was coming here. He must want to see you
about something. He can't possibly have any business with me."
"Hang Doyle!"
"If you like," said Meldon, "I'll deal with him and keep him off you.
I should rather enjoy a chat with Doyle."
"Thanks. I wish you would. It can't be anything important."
"I expect he has come for your subscription for the illuminated address
he and Dr. O'Donoghue are getting up for the police sergeant. I
promised the other day that you'd give something. If you sign a cheque
and stick it out on the window-sill, I'll fill up the amount and hand
it on to Doyle. I should say that one pound would be a handsome
contribution, and I may get you off with ten shillings. It'll all
depend on how the money is coming in. He's turning in at the gate now,
so you'd better hurry up.--Ah! Good morning, Doyle. Lovely day, isn't
it? Seen anything of our friend Simpkins this morning?"
"I have not," said Doyle, "and I don't want to. I wouldn't care if I
never set eyes on that fellow again."
"You'd have liked to have seen him yesterday," said Meldon.
"I would not."
"You would. The Major had him out for a day in the _Spindrift_, and--"
Meldon winked.
Doyle got down from his trap and stood at the horse's head.
"A sicker man," said Meldon, "you never saw."
"Sick!"
"As a dog. Beastly sick. I don't care to enter into details; but,
considering the small amount he ate during the day, the way he kept at
it would have surprised you."
"Sick! What's the good of being sick? Why didn't you drown him?"
"We had Miss King out too," said Meldon, "and we didn't want to drown
her. Besides, it wasn't the kind of day in which you could very well
drown any one."
"What brought me over here this morning," said Doyle, "was--"
"I know," said Meldon. "You want to gather in the Major's subscription
to the illuminated address with the apple trees in the corners. You
shall have it. He's signing the cheque this minute."
"I'll take it, of course," said Doyle, "if it's quite convenient to the
Major; but it wasn't it I came for."
"What was it, then? If you have any idea of dragging the Major into
that salmon ambuscade of O'Donoghue's, I tell you plainly I won't have
it."
"It's nothing of the kind," said Doyle. "After what you said on Friday
we gave that notion up. What brought me here to-day was to see if the
Major would lend me a set of car cushions. The rats got in on the ones
I have of my own, and they've holes ate in them so as you'd be ashamed
to put them on a car."
"You shall have them with the greatest possible pleasure," said Meldon.
"Not the new ones," said the Major through the window.
"I thought," said Meldon; "that you didn't want to be disturbed, and
that I was carrying on this negotiation with Mr. Doyle. You must do
one thing or the other, Major. Either come out and manage your own
affairs, or else leave them entirely in my hands.--You can't," he said,
turning to Doyle, "have the new cushions unless for some very special
purpose. Is Miss King thinking of going for a drive on your car? If
she is, the Major will lend the new cushions."
"She is not," said Doyle; "not that I heard of any way, though she
might take the notion later."
"Then what do you want the cushions for?"
"It's an English gentleman," said Doyle; "a high-up man by all
accounts, that has the fishing took from Simpkins. He'll be stopping
in the hotel, and he'll want the car to take him up the river in the
morning. The kind of man he is, I wouldn't like to be putting him off
with my old cushions. They're terrible bad, the way the rats has them
ate on me."
"If he really is a man of eminence in any walk of life," said
Meldon--"a bishop, for instance, or a member of the House of Lords, or
a captain of industry, you can have the cushions. If he's simply a
second-rate man of the ordinary tourist type, you can't."
"He's a judge," said Doyle, "and what's more, an English judge."
"I'm surprised to hear you saying a thing like that. As a Nationalist
you ought to be the last to admit that an English judge is in any way
superior to an Irish one. He may be better paid--I daresay he is
better paid, for we never get our fair share of what's going--but in
the things that really matter--in legal acumen, for instance, which is
the great thing we look for in judges--I don't expect the Irishman is a
bit behind. However, English or Irish, the mere fact of his being a
judge doesn't prove that he's a man of what I call real eminence. I
don't think the Major will let you have his best car cushions for some
sleepy old gentleman who sits on a bench and makes silly jokes. There
are lots of judges knocking about that rat-eaten car cushions would be
too good for. What's your man's name?"
"Hawkesby," said Doyle. "Sir Gilbert Hawkesby, no less."
Meldon started from his chair.
"Are you sure of that?" he asked, "absolutely dead certain? This is a
business over which it won't do to make mistakes."
"It's what was in his letter, any way," said Doyle, "when he wrote
engaging rooms in the hotel."
"When does he arrive?"
"To-morrow," said Doyle; "to-morrow afternoon, and I told Sabina to
kill a chicken to-day, for it's likely he'll be wanting a bit of dinner
after the drive over from Donard. I thought if he had a chicken and a
bit of boiled bacon, with a custard pudding after that--"
"Go into the coach-house at once," said Meldon, "and take any cushions
you want. I can't talk any more to you this morning. I'm going to be
frightfully busy."
Doyle, grinning broadly, led his horse round to the yard. He did not
believe that Meldon was ever busy. Like most people he failed to
appreciate the real greatness of the clergyman.
Meldon hurried into the house and flung open the door of the study.
Major Kent looked up from his papers with a weary smile.
"Couldn't you and Doyle settle that business of the car cushions
between you? I shall never get these accounts done if I'm interrupted
every minute."
"We could have settled it," said Meldon. "In fact we have settled it,
but a question of vastly greater importance has arisen. We are
threatened with something like an actual catastrophe."
"If it's the kind of catastrophe which involves an hour or so of solid
talk, J. J., don't you think you could manage to put it off for a
little? I shall be quite ready to go into it at any length you like
this evening after dinner."
"Major," said Meldon, "if an earthquake came--the kind of earthquake
which knocks down houses--and if thunderbolts were falling red-hot out
of the sky, and if a large tidal wave was rushing up across the lawn,
and if a moving bog was desolating your kitchen garden and engulfing
your polo ponies, would you or would you not sit calmly there and go on
with your accounts?"
"If all those things were happening I'd move, of course."
"There's no 'of course' about it. Some men wouldn't."
"Nonsense, J. J. The tidal wave alone--"
"Some men," repeated Meldon, "would sit on and finish their accounts.
There was a soldier at Pompeii, for instance--they found his body
centuries afterwards--who wouldn't stir from his post even when he saw
the molten lava flowing down the street. I thought you might be that
sort of man."
"I'm not."
"I'm glad to hear it. That sentry has been made a hero of. I've
frequently heard him mentioned in sermons as a person to be imitated.
In reality he was the worst kind of ass; and I wouldn't like to think
of your getting embalmed as he did, and being dug out afterwards by an
antiquary with a chisel. For the matter of that I shouldn't care to
hear of people writing odes about you on account of your going under
while your sword was in its sheath and your fingers held the pen."
"What was he doing with the pen?" said the Major. "If he was on sentry
duty--"
"It wasn't that sentry whose fingers held the pen, but brave
Kempenfelt, another man of the same sort; though there was more excuse
for him, because he seems to have been taken by surprise when the land
breeze shook the shrouds."
"I don't in the least know what you're talking about," said the Major.
"Is there a moving bog, or a high tide, or anything unusual?"
"There's something a great deal worse," said Meldon. "Did you hear
what Doyle said to me a few minutes ago?"
"I heard him asking for the loan of my car cushions. I don't
particularly want to lend them, but I shouldn't regard his getting them
as a catastrophe at all to be compared to the earthquake and all the
other things you were gassing about."
"The cushions in themselves are nothing, and less than nothing, but did
you hear who he wants them for?"
"Some judge or other, wasn't it? Salmon fishing."
"Some judge! What judge?"
"Did he mention his name? If he did I have forgotten it."
"He did mention it," said Meldon. "It was Hawkesby--Sir Gilbert
Hawkesby. Now do you see why I say that we are threatened with a
disaster worse than the eruption of Mount Vesuvius or the fire and
brimstone that overwhelmed Sodom and Gomorrah?"
"No, I don't see anything of the sort. What on earth does the judge
matter to us?"
"Can you possibly be ignorant of the fact? No, you can't, for I told
it to you myself. Can you possibly have forgotten that Sir Gilbert
Hawkesby was the judge who tried Mrs. Lorimer for the murder of her
husband?"
"Oh!" said the Major, "I had forgotten. I never took the same interest
in that case that you did, J.J."
"Well, he was. He was the very judge who summed up so strongly against
the poor woman. I suppose now it will hardly be necessary for me to
explain how his arrival at Doyle's hotel is likely to affect our plans?"
"Do you want me to invite him out in the _Spindrift_? If so, I hope to
goodness he won't be sick. I had enough of that yesterday."
"I sometimes think, Major, that you pretend to be stupid simply to
annoy me. Don't you see that sooner or later he's bound to come across
Miss King? He'll see her next Sunday in church, if he doesn't meet her
sooner. He'll recognise her at once. The trial occupied ten days, and
during the whole of that time she was standing opposite to him and he
was studying her face. He can't fail to know her again when he sees
her. Now, recollect that he believed in her guilt. I pointed out to
you at the time that he summed up dead against her--"
"I don't believe she was guilty, J. J."
"Nor, apparently, did the jury," said Meldon. "But the judge did.
That's the point to bear in mind. Under the circumstances, what is he
likely to do? He finds Mrs. Lorimer here masquerading as Miss King,
and--"
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that. Since I have met Miss King
I'm less inclined than ever to believe in that identification of yours.
She strikes me--"
"We are now considering how she will strike the judge," said Meldon,
"and how he's likely to act. It seems to me there's only one thing he
can do, and that is warn every marriageable man in the neighbourhood of
Miss King's real character and past record, and then what will happen
to your plan? Will Simpkins be prepared to marry her? Certainly not."
"Well, I'm extremely glad the judge is coming if he puts a stop to the
way you're going on."
"I'm not quite sure yet that he is coming," said Meldon.
"I thought Doyle said--"
"Doyle said he had engaged rooms at the hotel and taken the fishing.
It doesn't absolutely follow that he'll occupy the rooms and catch the
salmon. Sabina Gallagher is, I understand from Doyle, to kill a
chicken, but it's not quite certain yet that the judge will eat the
chicken."
"It'll depend a good deal on the way it's cooked, I suppose," said the
Major.
"It will also depend upon the judge's reaching Ballymoy. As a matter
of fact, I have a plan in my mind which may--which probably
will--prevent his getting further than Donard. I intend to ask Dr.
O'Donoghue to co-operate with me. I can't be quite certain yet that
we'll be successful in heading off the judge and sending him somewhere
else for his salmon fishing. But my plan is an extremely good one. It
ought to come off all right. If it fails, I shall try another. I
shall try two or three more if necessary."
"I wish you wouldn't. These plans of yours always end in involving us
all in such frightful complications."
"Do you mean to say, Major, that you wish to give up the idea of
Simpkins' marriage and subsequent death?"
"I've always wished to give it up," said the Major. "Since the day you
first suggested I never liked it, and I like it much less now that I
have got to know Miss King. It seems to me a wicked thing even to
think of a girl like that being married to such an utter cad as
Simpkins."
"I don't know how you can sit there and confess without a blush that
you don't know your own mind for two days together. I'd be ashamed to
go back on a thing the way you do. And I'm not going back on this.
For one thing, I have a duty to perform to you and Doyle, and
O'Donoghue and Sabina Gallagher, and the rector and the police
sergeant. In the next place, after all the trouble I've taken to carry
this scheme through, I'm not going to give in just at the moment of
success. I shall go in this morning and see O'Donoghue. To-morrow he
and I will drive over to Donard--"
"I can't give you a horse to-morrow," said the Major.
"You can if you like."
"I won't, then."
"Why not?"
"Because, if you go playing off fools' tricks on a judge, you'll end in
getting yourself put in prison. There is such a thing as contempt of
court, and judges are just about the most touchy men there are about
their dignity. They don't hesitate for an instant to--"
"A judge isn't a court," said Meldon, "when he hasn't got his wig on,
and besides an English judge has no jurisdiction in this country.
However, I'm not going down on my knees to you for the loan of a horse
and trap. If you don't choose to oblige me in the matter of your own
free will I won't place myself under any obligation to you. I shall
simply borrow a bicycle and ride to Donard. O'Donoghue will have to
ride too, though I don't expect he'll like it. It's twenty miles, and
O'Donoghue drinks more than is good for him."
"Are you going to tell O'Donoghue the whole cock-and-bull plan about
Simpkins and Miss King and the murder?"
"No. O'Donoghue is a reasonable man. He doesn't argue and browbeat me
the way you do. When I tell him that the removal of Simpkins, and
consequently his own future happiness and comfort, depend very largely
on our being able to keep Sir Gilbert Hawkesby out of Ballymoy, he will
believe me at once and act in a sensible way."
"What do you mean to do to the judge when you catch him?"
"I don't mean to _do_ anything. I suppose you have some wild idea in
your head--"
"No ideas could be wilder than yours are, J. J."
"Some wild idea of my maiming the old gentleman, or bribing a man to
kidnap him, or sending him a bogus telegram to say that his wife is
dying. As a matter of fact, I'm going to do nothing except tell him
the simple truth."
"I don't believe you could do that, J. J. You've never had any
practice since I knew you."
"If you think that you will get me to reveal the details of my plan by
taunting me you're greatly mistaken. I can stand any amount of insults
without turning a hair. A man who is in the right, and conscious of
his own integrity--you recollect what the Latin poet says about that--"
"No. I don't. You know I don't read Latin poets, so what's the good
of quoting bits of them to me?"
"Very well. I won't. But I won't tell you my plan either. I'll say
no more than this: what the judge will hear from my lips to-morrow will
be the simple truth, the truth as Simpkins or any other unprejudiced
observer would tell it. But the truth in this particular case is of
such a land that I should be greatly surprised if he doesn't turn
straight round and go home again."
"Are you going to tell him that Mrs. Lorimer is here? Not that that is
the truth, but I'm really beginning to think you believe it is."
"No. I'm not going to tell him that. When I said I was going to tell
the truth, I didn't mean that I was going to sit down opposite that
judge and tell him all the truth I know about everything. It would
take days and days to do that, and he wouldn't sit it out. No, I'm
going to tell him one solid lump of truth which he will listen to--a
truth that O'Donoghue will back up; that you'd back up yourself if you
were there; that even Doyle would be forced to stand over if he was put
into a witness box on his oath. But I can't spend the whole day
explaining things to you. I must go in and hustle Simpkins a bit.
There's no reason in the world that I can see why he shouldn't go up to
Ballymoy House and propose this afternoon. Then I must see O'Donoghue
and make arrangements about to-morrow. I shall also, thanks to your
churlishness, have to borrow a bicycle for myself. Then I must look up
that doddering old ass Callaghan, and tell him to precipitate matters a
bit if I succeed in hunting Simpkins up to Ballymoy House. If I fail
to head off the judge--I don't expect to fail, but if by any chance I
do--we shall have no time to spare, and must have Simpkins definitely
committed to the marriage as soon as possible. Not that it will really
be much use if the judge gets at him. Simpkins is just the sort of
dishonourable beast who'd seize on any excuse to wriggle out of an
engagement; particularly as he'll know that Miss King is scarcely in a
position to go into court and get damages for breach of promise."