Pondering deeply (for he was very much annoyed) on Dr. Kershaw’s
manners or lack of manners, Michael followed the crowd towards the
inn, and was not at all soothed to find that he had apparently
attached to himself the man in the bowler, who followed at his elbow,
telling interminable stories of relations and friends of his who had
been cut off by violent deaths, interspersed with inquiries into the
habits of the late Mr. Meston.
“I know nothing at all about him, I tell you,” Michael said in
desperation. “I don’t suppose we’d exchanged a dozen words, all told.”
“But being in the same hotel, sir,” the man persisted, “you must
have formed a himpression, if I may say so. You could tell me if
the deceased seemed cheerful in his manner, you know, or restless,
perhaps. Any little thing that suggested to you what his mood was,
you know.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything,” Michael said untruthfully,
for the late Mr. Meston’s mood was of the kind which made itself
apparent without any intercourse whatever. But he disliked the
inquirer exceedingly, and was quite determined that if he nosed out a
newspaper story about the poor corpse, it should not be through him.
Fortunately, the end of his purgatory approached, for they reached
the inn door, and Michael, passing into the bar, plunged into a
hubbub of delighted conversation.
Wason, who held the floor, was retailing, for the fourth or fifth
time it would appear, his account of the finding of the body. Seeing
Michael enter, he broke off the narrative to give a brief description
of Michael’s views of Kershaw’s manners. There was a general roar of
laughter.
“Doctor, he thinks he’s Scotland Yard and God A’mighty too, these
days,” said one. “It’s all along o’ being so thick wi’ Squire.”
“Lard, he’s always as cross as two sticks,” another said. “I remember
when my missus had her last, he pretty near had us art of harse.”
“Must be gettin’ used to it, by this time, William,” was the answer,
provoking another general laugh.
“Aye, but did ye hear the trick a played on Joe Billings, Friday
night?” another reminded them. “Two hours they was settin’ up for
him, and a didn’t come----”
“Dancin’ at Squire’s, I’ll bet. They’d fine doin’s up thar, Friday
night.”--“Old Joe were hopping mad when a did come, but Karshaw, he
wouldn’t hear nothin’. Shut him up wi’ a flea in his mouth, a did.”
“Where be corpse now?” put in an ancient.
“Tommy Linton’s taken it along to mortuary. Us’ll get a look at it,
maybe. Tommy’s a kind soul.”
“Yes, I couldn’t get near ’un at the barge,” another complained.
“Ye didn’t miss much,” a newcomer said. “Doctor wouldn’t let us get
so much as a sniff of ’un.”
“Aye, he ought to be a fine niffy feller,” cackled the ancient.
“Whar’s corpse’s missus?” said a small wizened man. “She’ll ought to
be told.”
“Whar d’ye think, Matthew? Up to Grange, o’ course.”
“I’m thinkin’,” said the small man, looking round for applause,
“there’ll be one as’ll be main pleased carpse is found and the
drowneder the pleaseder, I’m thinking.”
There was a general snigger, in the midst of which Walter Hicks’s
mutter of “Scarlet Woman, I sez. And sooicide, that’s what I sez,”
went unheard.
A man dug Michael in the ribs. “He means Missis Meston,” he observed.
“It’s a known fact she couldn’t abide him.”
“There’s more’n that’d be pleased as Punch to know he’s drowned,” the
small man went on. “There’d be more than pigs run over in Meadon if
some had their way.”
“And that’s a fact,” the first speaker said truculently, as though he
expected to have it disputed.
“Pigs or no pigs,” said the little man, “I’ve them in mind as’ll be
sorry enough they wasn’t down by the riverside to-day.” He raised
his glass. “Here’s to absent friends, boys,” he said, with a wink.
There was another guffaw, after which the conversation descended
into such abysses of allusiveness that Michael gave up the attempt
to understand, and made his way out to the front of the inn, where
another crowd was discussing the calamity with as much interest but
less esoteric information. His last vision was of his bowler-hatted
acquaintance eagerly buttonholing the little man. “Pah! the stinker!”
thought Michael to himself. “He’s worse than Dr. Kershaw,” he angrily
added. At that moment a car drew up at the Old Malting House.
“Hullo, Michael!” a well-known voice called. “What’s the matter? You
look as though some one had stolen your savings.”
“Harry!” All Michael’s troubles slid from him as he turned to greet
his friend. “I thought you couldn’t be here till after lunch.”
“Nor ought I to have. What my respected colleagues will say of me I
can’t think. I’ve left half a dozen jobs for them to finish off. But
the weather tempted me, and I did come. What a populous neighbourhood
you seem to have chosen,” said Wilson, looking round. “Is it a
wedding, or an election?”
“Neither. It’s a bit more in your line,” said Michael. “It’s a
corpse.”