“Come, Mr. Blair,” said Mrs. Kent; “you sit there, next to Mr. Kent,
where you can talk about archaeology. Mr. Carter tells me he knows
nothing about such subjects, so he will have to amuse Kathleen and me.”
“What errand brings you to Wolverhampton, Mr. Carter?” inquired Blair,
thinking to unmask his opponent's weapons as quickly as possible.
Carter was a little staggered by this, but his effrontery was up to the
test.
“The Bishop sent me down,” he said, “to look over the surrounding
parishes with a view to establishing a chapel in the suburbs.”
“How very interesting!” exclaimed Mr. Kent. “But surely this does not
lie in the Oxford diocese?”
“Quite true,” said Carter. “The Bishop had to get special permission
from Parliament. An old statute of the fourteenth century, I believe.”
“Indeed! Indeed!” cried Mr. Kent. “How absorbing! My dear Mr. Carter,
you must tell me more about that. I take it you are something of a
historical student, after all.”
“I'm afraid not, sir,” replied Carter. “My studies in divinity have been
too exacting to leave much opportunity--”
“You must not believe Mr. Carter's disclaimers,” said Blair. “I have
heard of his papers before the Oxford Historical Society. He has a very
sound antiquarian instinct. I think you would find his ideas of great
interest.”
“We were speaking of the battle with the Danes at Tettenhall,” observed
Mr. Kent, turning to Blair. “I think that if Kathleen could arrange to
take you out there you would find the burial mounds of unusual interest.
My dear, could you walk out there with Mr. Blair to-morrow morning?”
Kathleen assented, but Blair noticed that she was not eating her soup.
He also noticed that the maid, in the background, was seized with
occasional spasms, which he was at a loss to interpret.
“Did I hear you say Tettenhall?” ventured Carter. “That is the very
place the Bishop mentioned to me. He was particularly anxious that I
should go there.”
“You must come with us, by all means,” said Kathleen.
“Bravo,” said Mr. Kent, beaming genially upon the young people. “I wish
I could go with you. You know they say Wulfruna, the widow of the Earl
of Northampton, who founded Wolverhampton, had a kind of summer place
once near Tettenhall, and I claim to have located--By the way, my dear,
what do you suppose has happened to this soup?”
“I think that Eliza Thick has a heavy hand with the condiments,” said
Mrs. Kent. “You may take it away now, Mary.”
“As I recall, Wulfruna founded the town about 996,” observed Blair. “I
presume it takes its name from her?”
“Exactly--Wulfruna-hampton. Really, Mr. Blair, your historical knowledge
does you honour. I had no idea that Americans were such keen students of
the past.”
Blair began to think that he had overplayed his hand, for he noticed
that Falstaff was getting in some private conversation with Kathleen. He
attempted to catch her eye to ask a question, but Mr. Kent was now well
launched on his hobby.
“Wulfruna was descended from Ethelhild, who was a granddaughter of
Alfred the Great. You recall that the Etheling Ethelwold, the son
of Alfred's brother Ethelred, took sides with the Danes. To stem the
invasion, Edward and his sister Ethelfled--”
“Ethel fled, that's just the trouble,” interposed Mrs. Kent. “Kathleen,
my dear, do run downstairs and see what's wrong in the kitchen. I'm
afraid Eliza is in difficulties again. Mr. Blair, you and Mr. Carter
must excuse this irregularity. Our substitute cook is a very strange
person.”
Kathleen left the room, and it seemed to Blair as though the sparkle had
fled from the glasses, the gleam of candlelight from the silver. Across
the cloth he had watched her--girlish, debonair, and with a secret
laughter lurking in her eyes. And yet he had not had a chance to
exchange half a dozen sentences with her.
The maid reentered, whispered something to Mrs. Kent, and began to place
the dishes for the next course.
“Kathleen begs to be excused,” said Mrs. Kent. “She thinks she had
better stay in the kitchen to help Eliza.”
“Oh, I say,” cried the curate. “That's too bad. Do you think I could
help, Mrs. Kent? I'm a very good cook. The Bishop himself has praised
my--er--my--”
“Your what?” asked Blair.
“My ham and eggs,” retorted the cleric.
“Perhaps you will let me wash the dishes,” suggested Blair. “I should
be only too happy to assist. I feel very embarrassed at having intruded
upon you at so inconvenient a time.”
“I should not dream of such a thing,” said Mrs. Kent. “I believe that
Eliza is perfectly capable, but as Joe said, she is eccentric.”
“I am quite accustomed to washing dishes,” said Carter. “In fact, the
Bishop always used to ask me to do it for him.”
“Dear me,” remarked Mr. Kent, “surely the Bishop has plenty of servants
to help in such matters?”
Blair applied himself to the food on his plate to which he had helped
himself almost unconsciously. He well knew the daring hardihood of
his rival, and feared that the other might find some excuse to follow
Kathleen to the kitchen. As he raised his fork to his lips, suddenly his
hand halted. The dish was stuffed eggs. His mind reverted to the Public
Library the evening before. Was it possible that the Goblin--?
He determined that the first thing to be done was to get Carter so
firmly engaged with Mr. Kent that the wolf in cleric's clothing could
not withdraw. Then perhaps he himself could frame some excuse for seeing
what was going on downstairs.
“Mr. Kent,” he said, “you should draw out Mr. Carter concerning his
views on amending the liturgy of the Established Church. He has some
very advanced ideas on that subject which have attracted much attention
at Oxford. One of his interesting suggestions is that radical churchmen
should wear the clerical collar back side foremost, as a kind of symbol
of their inverted opinions.”
The wretched Carter's hand flew to his neck, and he glared across the
table in a very unecclesiastical manner.
“Really!” said Mr. Kent, “that is most interesting. I had noticed his
modification of the customary dress. In what other ways, Mr. Carter,
would you amend the ritual?”
The unfortunate curate was caught.
“Er--hum--well--that is, the Bishop and I both think that the service is
too long,” he faltered. “I am in favour of omitting the sermon.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Mr. Kent. “It is most refreshing to hear a high
churchman make such a confession. And what else do you propose?”
“Why--ah--hum--it has always seemed to me that the--thirty-nine articles
might--well--be somewhat condensed.”
“Bravo indeed, though I fear the Bishop would balk at that,” said his
host.
The maid, appearing in the dining-room again, whispered to Mrs. Kent.
“Philip,” said the latter, “that gas-man is here again, and says he
_must_ see the meter. He claims that there is a dangerous leak which
should be fixed at once. Perhaps I had better go down to the cellar with
him. Your rheumatism--”
“My dear Mrs. Kent,” cried the curate, seeing his chance; “do nothing of
the sort. It is the privilege of my cloth to take precedence when there
is danger of any kind. If any one should be overcome by fumes, the
consolations of the church may be needed.” And without waiting for
another word, he leaped up and ran from the room.
Blair fidgeted in his chair, seeing himself outwitted, but there was
nothing he could do.
“Pray go on with your supper, Mr. Blair,” urged Kent. “You must overlook
anything that seems strange this evening. Everything seems to be
widdershins. Perhaps because it is St. Patrick's Day. I do believe that
woman in the kitchen is at the bottom of it all. These stuffed eggs are
positively uneatable! If I were not crippled with this lumbago I would
go down and fire her out of the house.”
“Let me do it for you!” cried Blair, half rising from his seat.
“Nonsense! I'm not going to sacrifice our good talk on antiquities so
easily. I want very much to tell you about the Battle of Wolverhampton.
The town was strongly loyalist in the great rebellion; in fact, in 1645
it was the headquarters of Prince Rupert, while Charles the First is
said to have stopped at the Blue Boar for a drink--”
At this moment came a ring at the front door, and Mr. Kent stopped to
listen. They heard a male voice mumbling to the maid, who then came to
her mistress to report.
“There's a policeman out here, ma'am, to see Mr. Kent.”
“A policeman?” queried the antiquarian. “What next, I wonder? Well,
supper is suspended, send him in.”
And to Blair's dismay the gigantic form of Whitney, the Iron Duke,
crossed the threshold, in the correct uniform of the Wolverhampton
police force.
If Blair was dismayed, the counterfeit policeman was no less disgusted
to see his fellow Scorpion sitting at the dinner table, but they gazed
at each other without any sign of recognition.
“Begging your pardon for interrupting, sir, but the chief sent me around
for a word with you. There's been a gang o' sneak thieves operating
'round 'ere, sir, and some of 'em 'as been getting admittance to 'ouses
by passin' themselves off as gas inspectors, sir.”
Mrs. Kent screamed.
“I 'ad a notion that one o' these birds is along Bancroft Road to-night,
sir, an' I wanted to warn you. Don't let the maid admit any tradesmen or
agents from the gas company unless they 'as the proper badges, sir.”
“Heavens, Philip!” cried Mrs. Kent. “That dreadful man is downstairs
now! Eliza threw him out once this afternoon, but he's here again. He
may have murdered Mr. Carter by this time. Oh, inspector, do hurry
down at once and see what's happened! There's a defenceless high-church
curate in the cellar with him. Mary, show the way downstairs.”
Blair poured out a glass of water for Mrs. Kent.
“Don't you think I had better go down, too?” he asked.
“Oh, please don't go!” begged Mrs. Kent, faintly. “Stay here, in case he
should escape upstairs. I believe we shall all be murdered in our beds!”
“Come, come,” said Mr. Kent. “We mustn't let all this spoil Mr. Blair's
supper. Have another glass of wine. The policeman will attend to the
gas-man. We don't often get a chance to talk to a genuine antiquarian.
I think, Mr. Blair, that you will be greatly interested in the
architectural restoration of our parish church. It exemplifies the worst
excesses of the mid-Victorian period. The church itself is one of the
finest examples of the cruciform type. The south transept dates from the
thirteenth century; the nave, clerestory, and north transept from the
fifth. The chancel was restored in 1865, but I must confess that the
treatment of the clerestory seems to me barbarous. Now what are your own
ideas as to the proper treatment of a clerestory?”
The wretched American was non-plussed. He had a shrewd suspicion that
matters were moving rapidly downstairs yet he did not see any way of
leaving the dining-room to investigate for himself. He had hardly heard
what was said.
“Why--ah--to tell you the truth, Mr. Kent, I read very little fiction
nowadays. I'm rather worried about that gas-man downstairs. Do you
suppose your daughter can be in any danger? There might be some sort of
explosion--don't you think I had better run down to see if I can help?”
As they sat listening Kathleen's voice was heard from the kitchen,
raised in clear and angry tones.
Blair could contain himself no longer. With an inarticulate apology he
hurried out of the room, leaving the puzzled antiquarian and his wife
alone at the supper table.
X
The Rhodes Scholar was correct in having feared the Goblin as a
dangerous competitor in the quest of the Grail. King, as we have
intimated before, was a quaint-minded and ingenious person, modest in
stature but with a twinkling and roving eye. He was one of the leading
spirits of the OUDS, known in full as the Oxford University Dramatic
Society, and his ability to portray females of the lower classes had
been the delight of more than one Shakespearean rendering. No one who
saw him as Juliet's nurse in a certain private theatrical performance in
the hall of New College can recall the occasion without chuckles.
When the Goblin left the Blue Boar on Saturday afternoon he also made
his way out to Bancroft Road; but instead of patrolling the main street
in the vague hope of catching a glimpse of Kathleen (as did Falstaff,
Priapus, and the Iron Duke), he hunted out the hinder regions of the
district. In accordance with a plan he had concocted before leaving
Oxford, he carried a little portfolio of “art subjects,” of the kind
dear to domestic servants, and with this in hand he approached the door
of the basement back kitchen, where Ethel the cook and her assistant,
Mary, the housemaid, were having a mid-afternoon cup of tea. The
windings of the humbler lanes of service, behind the Bancroft Road
houses, were the proper causeway for tradesmen, and it was easy for him
to reach the back garden gate unseen by those in front.
He knocked respectfully at the kitchen door, and Mary came to answer.
“Good day, Miss,” said the supposed pedlar. “I 'ave some very pretty
pictures 'ere which I wish you would let me show you.”
Mary was a simple-minded creature, but she knew that her mistress had
strict rules about pedlars.
“I'm sorry,” she said, “but Missus don't let no pedlars in the house.”
“If you please, Miss,” said the artful Goblin, “I am no pedlar, but
representing a very respectable photographer, and I would like to show
you some photographs in the 'ope of getting your order. I 'ave taken
a number of orders at the nicest 'ouses along Bancroft Road. I thought
maybe you would like to 'ave a photo of yourself taken, to send to your
young man.” And he opened his case, exhibiting a sheaf of appropriate
photos.
It was a slender chance, but the pedlar had a wheedling eye and a
genteel demeanour, and Mary hesitated. She called the cook, a stout,
middle-aged person, who came to the door to see what was up. The pedlar
rapidly showed the best items of his collection, which he had selected
with great care in a photographer's studio in Oxford. Fate hung in the
scales, but the two servants could not resist temptation. They knew that
Mrs. Kent and Miss Kathleen were upstairs sewing; and the master was
confined to his study with his rheumatism. They invited the photographer
into the kitchen.
It is a psychological fact well known to housekeepers that there is a
vacant hour in the middle of the afternoon when Satan sometimes finds
a joint in the protective armour of the domestic servant. After the
luncheon dishes are washed and put away, and before five-o'clock tea
and toast are served, cook and housemaid enjoy a period of philosophic
contemplation or siesta. Even in the most docile and kitchen-broken
breast thoughts of roses and romance may linger; dreams of moving
pictures or the coming cotillion of the Icemen's Social Harmony. Usually
this critical time is whiled away by the fiction of Nat Gould or Bertha
Clay or Harold Bell Wright. And close observers of kitchen comedy will
have noted that it is always at this fallow hour of the afternoon that
pedlars and other satanic emissaries sharpen their arrows and ply their
most plausible seductions.
The Goblin has never admitted just what honeyed sophistries he employed
to win the hearts of the simple pair in Mrs. Kent's kitchen. But the
facts may be briefly stated by the chronicler. After getting them
interested in his photos he confessed frankly that he was an old friend
of the family from Oxford. He said that he and Miss Kathleen were
planning an innocent practical joke on the family, and asked if he could
take the place of one of the servants for that Sunday. He made plain
that his share in the joke must not be revealed to any one. And then
he played his trump card by showing them the text of the bogus telegram
recommending Miss Eliza Thick, which he had dispatched from a branch
postal office on his way through the town.
“And is Miss Josephine in the joke, too?” inquired the cook.
This question startled the Goblin, but he kept his composure and
affirmed that he and Miss Josephine had concocted the telegram jointly
in Oxford. And by a little adroit pumping he learned “Joe's” status
in the family. The cook, Ethel, admitted that she was to go out that
evening for her Saturday night off. At last the Goblin, by desperate
cunning and the exhibition of two golden sovereigns, completely won the
hearts of the maids. While they were talking the door-bell rang, and
Mary, returning from the upper regions, announced that it was “another
telegram from Miss Joe. Missus and Miss Kathleen laughed fit to kill
when they read it,” she said.
“You see?” said the Goblin. “That's the same telegram I just showed you.
It's all right; it's a joke. You don't need to worry, cook. Mrs. Kent
won't be angry with you. You let me take your place for to-morrow, and
write a little note saying you're ill and that your friend Eliza Thick
will do your work for the day.”
It was arranged that the Goblin should meet Ethel at her home that night
to borrow some clothes. The cook showed him the menu for Sunday that
Mrs. Kent had sent down. This rather daunted the candidate for kitchen
honours, but he copied it in his notebook for intensive study. Then,
as it was close upon tea-time, he packed up the photos, distributed his
largesse, and retired. Mary, the housemaid, promised to stand by him in
the coming ordeal. Both the servants felt secretly flattered that they
should be included in the hoax. The kitchen classes in England have
great reverence for young 'varsity men.
The Goblin was a canny man, and he had brought with him a wig and
certain other properties. He hunted out a little tea shop, where he
meditated over three cups of pekoe and hot buttered toast. Then he
made his way to the Public Library, where he spent several hours over
a cook-book. He was complimenting himself on having shaken the other
Scorpions off his trail when Blair looked over his shoulder and caught
a glimpse of the stuffed-eggs recipe to which the Goblin was addressing
himself for the fourth time. The meeting was embarrassing, but it could
not be helped. After Blair had left him, the cook-to-be returned to his
memoranda.
Mrs. Kent trusted many things to Ethel's judgment, and her instructions
as jotted down on a slip of paper included three possibilities. “_Eggs,
stuffed, devilled, or farci_,” she had written, and the Goblin was
endeavouring to decide which of these presented the least distressing
responsibility. He was a student of mathematics, and had attempted to
reduce the problem to a logical syllabus. He read over his memoranda: