Fear Stalks the Village (Murder Mystery Classic). Ethel Lina White

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      CHAPTER V — ENTER FEAR

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      When Miss Asprey declared that the affair was ended she did not know that the parlourmaid was listening outside the door. Rose lingered in the hall, not only to satisfy her own curiosity, but to be forewarned of any annoyance which might threaten her mistress.

      She possessed a testimonial from a Bishop's wife to prove her loyalty and discretion, and she did not repeat an actual word of what she overheard. But—like an unconscious germ-carrier—she liberated the poison in her system by gradual leakage. Somehow or other, she conveyed an impression to the cook, who transferred it to the beautiful Ada, in the form of a hint. Ada promptly elaborated this to a whisper, and then passed it on to the Squire's chauffeur.

      Within twenty-four hours, through the Wireless of village communication, the rumour spread that Miss Asprey's moral character had been attacked in an anonymous letter from an evil-minded person, who was jealous of her.

      Miss Corner was sitting cross-legged in her library, smoking and reading, when her cook-housekeeper told her about the letter. The novelist was on friendly terms with her staff, as she studied their comfort; in fact, it was rather a local grievance that their bathroom was far superior to Miss Asprey's.

      The housekeeper's story fell rather flat, for Miss Corner was still bewitched by Edith Sitwell's Bath. She might sell cheap home-brew herself, with her insipid romances and absurd school-stories, but she could appreciate rare vintage—and her library-shelves testified to selective literary taste.

      She puffed away grimly at her cigarette, as she mechanically listened to the tale, while the shrunken pupils of her eyes betrayed the fact that she was still marooned in the Eighteenth Century, and half-drunken from the savour of exquisite language.

      'Russets, shalloons, rateens and salapeens.' The sentence swam through her brain, like an elusive gust of mignonette borne on a vanished summer breeze.

      Her housekeeper—Mrs. Pike—became conscious that her story had fallen unaccountably flat, and began to apologise for it.

      "Of course, madam, we don't know all that was in the letter. Depend on it, we've only been told the half."

      "In every story," remarked Miss Corner, "there's the half we tell, and the half that others tell, and the half that's true. Add that up, Mrs. Pike, and see what it comes to."

      Then, taking pity on the woman's bewilderment, she changed the subject.

      "I'm throwing a little bun-fight this afternoon," she said. "You must provide a lavish tea, for the look of the thing, for it'll all be left. I'm expecting Mrs. Sheriff, Mrs. Scudamore, and Lady d'Arcy."

      "Well, you'll have something to talk about, for a change," remarked Mrs. Pike, as she produced her housekeeping-tablet.

      As a matter-of-fact, the incident of the anonymous letter only seemed to prove that the life-blood of the little community was too healthy to admit infection. It was received either with raised brows of polite incredulity, or with gusts of healing laughter. Yet, even at this early stage, certain events indicated that the village was not immune to poison, but only resistant.

      Dr. Perry was motoring out to visit a country patient, when, at the cross-roads, he met Vivian Sheriff—the Squire's daughter—who was also driving a Baby Austin. They were not especially friendly, but their cars always insisted on stopping to fraternise with each other, so their owners had to make the best of it.

      "I'm just cooling my engine," explained the doctor hastily. "We've been exceeding the speed-limit. How's your little car behaving?"

      "Never better," boasted Vivian. "But my petrol's rather low." Then, as though dimly conscious that she was clutched in the grip of machinery, and had to await its Robot pleasure, she began to gossip.

      "Heard about Miss Asprey's anonymous letter?" she asked.

      The doctor had not heard; but, as he listened to Vivian, his eyes gleamed with interest, which gave way to resentment. This, then, was the origin of the Rector's secret mission. He, himself, had been present at the birth of an intriguing human development, and had been shut out in the cold.

      But the Rector, apparently, had lost no time in spreading the story. In the doctor's eyes his admirable policy of silence was now revealed as pure pose.

      'The fellow's nothing but a human gramophone,' he thought contemptuously, as the cars grew suddenly tired of each other and agreed to start.

      An hour later, when Dr. Perry met the Rector trudging along the road with his fishing-tackle his greeting was rather cool. He still felt slightly disgusted, while the Rector was horrified by his own unworthy suspicion, as Dr. Perry's parting remark kept stirring in his mind. How did the doctor know that the letter attacked Miss Asprey's moral character?

      Both men talked of fly-fishing, but did not refer to the letter. The doctor offered the Rector a lift, which was refused. A little of the poison had spread.

      The subject was also raised at the Hall, where Lady d'Arcy was having lunch with the Squire's family. Mrs. Sheriff, who was a youthful, flaxen-haired little person—rather gummy, but with a sweet and self-sacrificing disposition—was human enough to be mildly excited.

      "I wonder who wrote it," she exclaimed, with school-girlish interest.

      Her husband pulled down his lip, and the vague Lady d'Arcy drifted up to the occasion, for the Rector had made no idle boast that the village was almost free from the vice of scandal.

      "Not one of us," said Lady d'Arcy, in her lightest voice and changed the subject.

      Her speech sounded above reproach, but the Squire frowned, pulled his lip again, and grew thoughtful. The village accepted no one who had not been a resident for fifteen years. Companions and governesses did not count, of course, while Mrs. Perry crept in under her husband's wing.

      There remained only the Martins—the rich absentee owners of the Towers—and the local novelist.

      Miss Julia Corner had entirely returned СКАЧАТЬ