Since she had had the horrid accident which had laid her up, Timmy had
not gone to see his old Nanna nearly as often as he ought to have done.
Nanna herself, however, with the natural cunning of those who love, had
made certain rules which ensured her a regular, daily glimpse of the
strange little being she had had under her charge, as she would have
expressed it, "from the month." Nanna did not desire his attendance
before breakfast for she would not have considered herself fit to be
seen by him till she herself was neat and tidy. Like all the women of
her class and generation, the Tosswills' old family nurse was full of
self-respect, and also imbued with a stern sense of duty. Timmy stood
far more in awe of her than he did of his mother.
One of the stated times for Timmy's visits to the old night nursery
was just before he had to start for church each Sunday, and on this
particular Sunday, the day after that on which had occurred Dolly's
engagement, and Mrs. Crofton's return from London, he came in a few
moments before he was expected, and began wandering about the room, doing
nothing in particular. At once Nanna divined that he had something on his
mind about which he was longing, yet half afraid, to speak to her. She
said nothing, however, and at last it came out.
"I want you to lend me your Bible," he said, wriggling himself about. "I
want to take it to church with me."
This was the last thing Nanna had expected the boy to ask, for, of
course, Timmy had a Bible of his own, a beautiful thin-paper Bible, which
she herself had given him on his seventh birthday, having first asked his
mother's leave if she might do so. The Bible was in perfect condition. It
stood on a little mat on his chest of drawers, and not long before her
accident Nanna had gone into his bedroom, opened the sacred Book, and
gazed with pleasure on the inscription, written in her own large,
unformed handwriting, on the first page:
Timothy Godfrey Radmore Tosswill on his seventh birthday from his
loving nurse,
Emily Pew.
All this being so, his mother, or even his sister, Betty, would at once
have enquired, "Why don't you take your own Bible to church?" But somehow
Nanna thought it best not to put this question, for a lie, shocking on
any day, is more shocking than usual, or so she thought, if uttered on a
Sunday. So, after a moment's hesitation, she replied: "Certainly, Master
Timmy, if such is your wish. But I trust you will be very careful with
it, my dear."
"I will be very, very careful!" he exclaimed. "And I will bring it
straight back to you up here after church."
He threw her a grateful look. He did more, and Nanna felt amply rewarded
as he climbed up on her bed and, putting his arms round her neck, kissed
her on each cheek.
"I hope," she said impressively, "that you are going to be a good boy in
church--a boy that Nurse can be proud of."
Nanna never called herself "Nanna" to the children.
"I am always very good in church," cried Timmy, offended. "I don't
see why you should go and spoil everything by saying that!" With
these cryptic words he slid off the bed, taking with him the large
old-fashioned Bible which always lay by Nanna's bedside.
Dolly, and Rosamund, who was Dolly's stable-companion, were attending the
service held by Dolly's fiancé, Lionel Barton, in the next parish. As for
Betty, her heart was very full, and as she did her morning's work and
while she dressed herself for church, she still felt as if she was living
through a wonderful dream.
Jack, who did not always go to church, had elected to go to-day; so had
Tom and Godfrey; and thus, in spite of the absence of the two younger
girls, quite a considerable party filed into the Tosswill pew.
All the people belonging to Old Place were far too much absorbed in their
own thoughts on this rather strange Sunday morning to give any thought to
Timmy. So it was that he managed, after a moment's thought, to place
himself between his father and his godfather. He judged, rightly, that
neither of them would be likely to pay much attention to him or to his
doings.
When the rather nervous young rector had got well away with his sermon,
and had begun to attract the serious attention of Mr. Tosswill and of
Godfrey Radmore, Timmy very quietly drew out of his little, worn tweed
coat a long sharp pin. Wedging the Bible, as he hoped reverently, but
undoubtedly very securely between his knees, he thrust the pin firmly in
the middle of the faded, gilt-edged leaves of Nanna's Bible, where there
were already many curious little brown dots caused by similar punctures,
the work of Nanna herself.
Having done this, Timmy carefully lifted the Bible from between his knees
and let it fall open at the page the pin had found. The text where the
point rested ran as follows:
Deliver my soul from the sword; my darling from the power of the dog.
His father's eyes flickered for a moment and fixed themselves on Timmy
with a worried, disturbed expression. As a child he himself would have
been sternly reproved for reading, even the Bible, during a sermon, but
he supposed that Janet knew better than his own mother had done. Timmy
certainly loved Janet far, far more than he, John Tosswill, had loved his
own good mother. So he averted his eyes from his little son, and tried to
forget all about him.
But John Tosswill did not know his Janet. Though three off from
Timmy, she had become aware that her son was bending over a very big,
shabby-looking book, instead of sitting upright, listening sedately. She
gave him one glance, and Timmy, with a rather confused and guilty look,
hurriedly shut Nanna's Bible, and turned his mind to the sermon. He had
seen what he wanted to see; and further, he had made a mental note of the
page and place.
At last the service was over, and the congregation streamed out of
church. Timmy hung back a little, behind his mother. He did not wish
her to see that he had Nanna's Bible instead of his own, but she was
far too full of her own exciting and anxious thoughts to give any
attention to her little boy. Rather to her surprise, she found her mind
dwelling persistently on Enid Crofton. It was at once a relief and a
disappointment not to see the young widow's graceful figure, and her
heart ached when she saw the cloud come down over Jack's face.
All at once she felt a detaining gesture on her arm, and turning, she
found Miss Pendarth at her elbow. They generally had a little talk after
church, for it was often the only time in the week when these two, both
in their several ways busy women, felt that they had a few minutes to
spare for gossip.
"I wonder if you could come in to Rose Cottage for a minute? I want to
show you something which I think will interest you as much as it has me."
Neither of them noticed that Timmy had crept up quite close and was
listening eagerly. In a village community the gossip holds a place apart,
and Olivia Pendarth, though by no means popular with the young people of
Old Place, nevertheless had her value as the source of many thrilling
tales.
Janet Tosswill hesitated. "I wish I could come back with you," she said
at last, regretfully. "But I promised to go straight home this morning."
She debated within herself whether she should say anything here and now
about Dolly's engagement; then she made up her mind not to do so yet.
Miss Pendarth, slightly lowering her voice, went on: "Perhaps I might
come in this afternoon, and bring what I want to show you with me? It's a
full report of the inquest held on Colonel Crofton."
Janet looked up quickly. "I confess I should very much like to read
that," she exclaimed, and then she added, "but I shan't be in this
afternoon. I've promised to go over to Oakford."
That much information she would vouchsafe her old friend.
A slightly satirical look came over Miss Pendarth's face. She told
herself how foolish it was of Janet to suppose for a single moment that
that good-looking young clergyman was ever likely to make an offer to
tiresome, stupid, untidy Dolly Tosswill!
"I wonder if you would lend me the paper?" Janet suggested hesitatingly.
"Timmy could go for it now, and I would send it you back the moment I had
read it."
"Very well," said the other, not very graciously. "I suppose Timmy can be
trusted to be careful of it? I went to great trouble to get a copy, and I
don't think I should be able to get another." She added slowly: "I got it
at the request of Colonel Crofton's sister, but I have not yet sent it to
her because I thought it would distress her too much."
* * * * *
A few minutes later Timmy was gazing round the hall of Rose Cottage with
eager, inquisitive eyes. Miss Pendarth did not care for children, and
though Timmy frequently came to her door with a note, he was very seldom
invited inside the house.
Even now his hostess said rather sharply: "Run out into the garden,
Timmy, while I go upstairs and find an envelope big enough in which to
put the paper for your mother. I daresay I shall be away five minutes,
for I want you to take her a note with it."
The boy went through the glass door into the garden. He walked briskly up
the path, kicking a pebble as he went, and then he sat down on the bench
where, not so very long ago, Olivia Pendarth and Godfrey Radmore had sat
discussing the curious and tragic occurrence which still filled Miss
Pendarth's mind.
Timmy asked himself what exactly was the meaning of the word inquest? Why
had a paper printed what Miss Pendarth called a full account of the
inquest on Colonel Crofton's death? Was it "inquest" or "henquest"?
His agile mind swung back to the mysterious words he had heard Mrs.
Crofton's ex-man-servant utter in the stable-yard of The Trellis House.
At last Miss Pendarth opened the door giving into the garden, and Timmy,
jumping up, hurried down the path toward the house. He then saw that she
held a neat-looking brown paper roll in her hand, and over the roll was
slipped an india-rubber band.
"I thought it a pity to waste a big envelope," she observed, "so I have
done up the newspaper and my note to your mother into a roll. Will you
please ask your mother to put it back exactly as it is now--with the
india-rubber band round it? These bands have become so very expensive.
She need not send it back. I will call for it to-morrow morning about
twelve. Mind you give it to her at once, Timmy. I don't want to have a
thing like that left lying about."
Timmy slipped into Old Place by a back way often used by the young
people, for it was opposite a garden door set in the high brick wall
which gave on to one of the by-ways of the village.
But instead of seeking out his mother, as he ought at once to have done,
he went upstairs and so into what had been the day nursery. There he
locked the door, and having first put Nanna's Bible on the big, round
table, at which as a baby boy he had always sat in his high chair, he
went over to the corner where Josephine was peacefully reposing with her
kittens, and sat down on the floor by the cat's basket.
Very carefully he then slipped the india-rubber band off the roll of
brown paper which had been confided to him by Miss Pendarth. He spread
out the sheet of newspaper, putting aside the brown paper in which it had
been rolled, as also Miss Pendarth's open letter to his mother. And then,
with one hand resting on his cat's soft, furry neck, he read through the
long account of the inquest held on Colonel Crofton's death. As he worked
laboriously down the long columns, Timmy's freckled forehead became
wrinkled, for, try as he might, he could not make out what it was all
about. The only part he thoroughly understood was the description of
Colonel Crofton's last hours; the agony the dying man had endured, the
efforts made by the doctor, not only to save his life, but to force him
to say how the virulent poison had got into his system--all became
vividly present to the boy.
Timmy felt vexed when he realised, as he could not help doing, that Mrs.
Crofton had looked very pretty when she was giving evidence at the
inquest; in fact, the descriptive reporter had called her "the dead man's
beautiful young widow."
And then, all at once, he bethought himself of Miss Pendarth's letter to
his mother.
Now Timmy was well aware that it is not an honourable thing to read
other people's letters; on the other hand, his mother always left Miss
Pendarth's notes lying about on her writing table, and more than once she
had exclaimed: "Betty? Do read that note, and tell me what's in it!"
And so, after a short conflict between principle and curiosity, in which
curiosity won, he began to read the letter. As he did so, he realised
that it formed a key to the newspaper report he had just read, for Miss
Pendarth's letter ran:
My dear Janet,
I am longing to talk over the enclosed with you. I was lately in Essex,
and when we meet I will tell you all that was said and suspected there
at the time of Colonel Crofton's death.
_Someone we wot of got off very lightly._ You will realise from even
this rather confused report that _someone_ must have put the bottle of
strychnine into the unhappy man's bedroom--also that he absolutely
denied having touched it. No one connected with the household, save of
course Mrs. Crofton, had ever seen the bottle until after his death.
It is a strange and sinister story, but I remember my father used to
say that Dr. Pomfrett (who for fifty years was the great medical man of
_our_ part of the world) had told him that not one murder in ten
committed by people of the educated class was ever discovered.
I think you know that Mrs. C. has had a very handsome offer for The
Trellis House from that foolish Mrs. Wallis, but I believe that up to
yesterday she had not vouchsafed any answer.
Your affectionate,
Olivia Pendarth.
P.S.--Please burn this note as soon as read. I don't want to be had up
for libel.
Timmy read the letter twice through. Then he very carefully folded up the
newspaper in its original creases, put Miss Pendarth's letter inside, and
made as tidy a roll as he could with the help of the brown paper. Finally
he slipped on the india-rubber band, and scrambling up from the floor,
unlocked the door. Taking Nanna's Bible off the round table, he went into
his own bedroom and there laboriously copied out, with the help of a very
blunt pencil, the text where the pin had rested in church. Then he took
the Bible into Nanna's room.
"What's that you're holding?" she asked suspiciously.
"It's something I have to give to Mum."
Somehow the sight of Nanna, sitting up there in her big armchair, made
him feel extremely guilty, and he was relieved when she said mildly: "You
run along and give it to her, then."
He found his mother in his father's study, and they both stopped abruptly
when he came in. Timmy supposed, rightly, that they had been speaking of
Dolly and her engagement.
Janet took the roll of paper from her boy and slipped off the band
absently: "What's this?" she exclaimed. And then, "How stupid of me! I
remember now." She turned to her husband. "It's an account of the inquest
held on Colonel Crofton. What a tremendous long thing! I shall have to
put it aside till after lunch."
She did, however, read through Miss Pendarth's letter.
"Oh! John," she said, smiling, "this letter is _too_ funny! Olivia
Pendarth may be a good friend, but she's certainly a good hater. She
simply loathes Mrs. Crofton." Then, deliberately, she went over to the
fireplace and, lighting a match, set fire to the letter.
Timmy watched the big sheet of paper curling up in the flame. He was glad
indeed that he had read the letter before it was burnt, but he made up
his mind that when he was a grown-up man, he also would burn any letter
that he thought the writer would prefer destroyed. In a way Janet was her
son's great exemplar, but he was apt to postpone following the example he
admired.