Mystery Mile. Margery Allingham

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СКАЧАТЬ how much more the average American knows about England than we do.’

      The Reverend Swithin Cush coughed dryly. ‘There is enough here to interest a genuine antiquary for some time,’ he said. ‘How long do you expect him to stay? Is the length of his visit indefinite?’

      Mr Campion became suddenly vague. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve cracked up the place a lot, but he may give us one swift look and go home, and then bang goes little Albert’s fourpence an hour and old Lobbett’s sweet young life, most likely. Oh, I forgot. He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. Can you be ready in time, Biddy?’

      The girl sighed. ‘Just,’ she said. ‘It’ll be a bit of a camp at the Dower House.’

      They sat discussing their plans until after midnight, when the old rector rose stiffly out of his chair.

      ‘Biddy, I’ll have my hurricane,’ he said. ‘You ought all to be in bed now if you’re going to move tomorrow.’

      The girl fetched the storm lantern, and they watched him disappearing into the darkness—a gaunt, lonely figure, his white hair uncovered, the lantern bobbing at his side like a will-o’-the-wisp.

      As they came back into the shadowy hall, Mr Campion grinned. ‘Dear old St Swithin,’ he said. ‘You’ve known him since you were muling and puking in Cuddy’s arms, haven’t you?’

      Biddy answered him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s getting old, though. Alice—that’s his housekeeper, you know—says he’s gone all Russian lately. “Like a broody hen,” she said.’

      ‘He must be hundreds of years old,’ said Albert. ‘There’s an idea in that. We might pass him off as the original St Swithin himself. Dropped in out of the rain, as it were.’

      ‘Go to bed,’ said Biddy. ‘The machinery wants a rest.’

      Up in the chintz-hung bedroom the oak floor was sloping and the cool air was fragrant with lavender, toilet soap, and beeswax. Mr Campion did not get into the four-poster immediately, but stood for some time peering out into the darkness.

      At last he drew a small, much-battered notebook from an inside pocket and scribbled ‘St S’. For some time he stood looking at it soberly, and then deliberately added a question mark.

CHAPTER 4

      The Lord of the Manor

      ‘Although you’re a foreigner, which can’t be helped, and therefore it ain’t loikely that you’ll be used to our ways, all the same we welcome you. We do ’ope you’ll live up to the old ways and do all you can for us.’

      The speaker paused and wiped round the inside of his Newgate fringe with a coloured handkerchief. ‘Now let’s sing a ’ymn,’ he added as an afterthought.

      He was standing by himself at the bottom of his cottage garden, his face turned towards the meadows which sloped down sleekly to the grey saltings. After a while he repeated his former announcement word for word, finishing with an unexpected ‘Morning, sir,’ as a thin, pale-faced young man with horn-rimmed spectacles appeared upon the other side of the hedge.

      ‘Morning, George,’ said Mr Campion.

      George Willsmore surveyed the newcomer thoughtfully. He was a gnarled old man, brown and nobbled as a pollarded willow, with great creases bitten into his face, which was surrounded by a thick hearthbrush of a beard. As the oldest able member of the family of which the village was mainly composed, he considered himself a sort of mayor, and his rural dignity was enhanced by a curious sententiousness of utterance.

      ‘You come upon me unawares,’ he said. ‘I was sayin’ over a few words I be goin’ to speak this afternoon.’

      ‘Really?’ Mr Campion appeared to be interested. ‘You’re thinking of making a speech of welcome, George?’

      ‘Summat like that,’ conceded the old man graciously. ‘Me and the rector was ’avin’ a talk. ’E was for singin’. And me bein’ churchwarden, seems only right, seems, I should do the greetin’. Him bein’ a foreigner, ’e mightn’t understand the others.’

      ‘There’s something in that, of course,’ said Mr Campion, who had followed the old man’s reasoning with difficulty.

      George continued.

      ‘I put on some new clo’es. Seems like ’tis a good idea to look smart. I be a wunnerful smart old man, don’t you think?’

      He turned himself about for Mr Campion’s inspection. He was dressed in a pair of tight corduroy trousers which had once been brown, but were now washed to creamy whiteness, a bright blue collarless gingham shirt, and one of his late master’s white waistcoats which hung loosely round his spare stomach. His straw hat, built on the Panama principle, had a black ribbon round it and a bunch of jay’s feathers tucked into the bow.

      ‘How’s that?’ he demanded with badly concealed pride.

      ‘Very fine,’ agreed the young man. ‘All the same, I wouldn’t make your speech if I were you, George. I was coming down to have a talk with you about this business. Aren’t there some customs, maypolings and whatnot, suitable for this afternoon?’

      The old man pushed back his straw hat, revealing an unexpectedly bald head, the crown of which he rubbed meditatively with the edge of his hat.

      ‘Not give the speech?’ he said with disappointment. ‘Oh well, sir, I reckon you know best. But I’d ’ave done it right well, that I would. I do be a powerful talkative old man. But the time for maypolin’s past,’ he went on, ‘and Pharisees’ Day, that ain’t come yet.’

      The young man sighed. ‘None of these—er—feasts are movable?’ he suggested hopefully.

      George shook his head. ‘No, you can’t alter they days. Not for nobody,’ he added with decision.

      Mr Campion regarded the old man with great solemnity. ‘George,’ he said, ‘take my advice and make an effort. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you could think of some sort of turnip-blessing ceremony. You’re a smart man, George.’

      ‘Aye,’ said the old man with alacrity, and remained in deep thought for some time. ‘No, there be nothin’,’ he said at last. ‘Nothin’ but maybe the Seven Whistlers.’

      ‘Seven Whistlers?’ said Mr Campion with interest. ‘What’s that? Who are they?’

      The old man studied his hat intently for some time before replying. ‘Seven Whistlers, sir,’ he said at last. ‘No one knows if they be ghosts or Pharisees—that be fairies, if you take me. You ’ear ’em passin’ overhead about this time of year. Whistlin’. Least, you only ’ears six on ’em. The seventh’s got a kind o’ whoop in it, trailin’ away like a barn owl, terrible to ’ear, and when you ’ears that, that’s the end of the world. Only no one’s ever ’eard it yet.’

      ‘That sounds all right,’ said Mr Campion. ‘But it doesn’t get us more forrarder, does it, George?’

      An unexpectedly crafty expression appeared upon the old man’s venerable face. ‘Toime was,’ he said, ‘when the old squoire used to give a barrel o’ beer СКАЧАТЬ