I had already arrived at some preliminary conclusions about Wilton. But for the sake of our friendship, I was careful to keep all conclusions of that kind entirely private. For the plain fact was that Wilton was past it. No doubt in his youth he had been a wizard at unravelling things. The mere name of Wilton Pasha may once have hung like a three-generation curse over every dope-peddler in the Nile delta. But in this, his Bodmin period, the wizardry had all too obviously departed. What deductions he did make were mostly pretty fumble-fingered and unsubtle.
Like the one about Hilda and me, for instance. Simply because he knew that I had once given her a lift in my car, Wilton seemed to assume that I would be buying a ring as soon as my first pool combination came out right.
“She’s the religious type, isn’t she?” he asked.
“That certainly is what first brought us together,” I replied.
“Ever say much about it?”
I shook my head.
“There are some things you can’t put into words,” I explained. “Perhaps music comes nearest to it.”
Wilton filled up my glass for me.
“More tonic?”
I shook my head.
“Gets on well with the Vicar, doesn’t she?” Wilton asked. I locked my two forefingers together.
“Like that,” I told him. “Been a second father to her.”
“Know why she left the Vicarage?”
This was where it was beginning to get difficult. Because I didn’t know that she had left. I’d only had one real conversation with Hilda so far. And neither of us had thought to bring either the Vicar or the Vicarage into ft. But if Wilton wanted to talk about parish politics it was all right with me.
“It was the sermons,” I said. “Always used to go through them out loud in the room next to hers. Took all the freshness out of it on Sundays.”
“Keen churchgoer, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Morning, afternoon and evening,” I replied. “That’s more than you can say for some people.”
I’d got him on the raw there. And he knew it. But he tried to pass it off.
“Must be a good sort the Vicar,” he said vaguely.
“Fine type,” I agreed. “Grand men, these old country parsons. Son of the manse myself, you know.”
“I thought you’d get on well together,” Wilton replied. “That’s why I asked him over.”
“You haven’t,” I exclaimed. “How delightful.” I paused long enough to light a cigarette. “I wonder if he’ll recognise me, though,” I added. “I always make a point of sitting right at the back. Less conspicuous, you know.”
“Much,” said Wilton, and left it at that.
It was the tinkle of a bicycle bell that announced that the village padre had at last toiled up here. And as I sat back waiting for him to come in, I could picture the machine— green, probably, with a wicker basket in front and a great felt cushion strapped on to the top of the saddle.
Then the door opened and the breathless old thing tottered in. He must have been somewhere in the early thirties. At first glance he was all flashing teeth and horn-rim spectacles. Teeth particularly. His two front ones came down on to his lower lip as though a small white butterfly were resting there. And it was obvious that he was the keyed-up sort. He spoke in short, staccato sentences like a telegram, and added a little laugh in place of the full stops.
“Evening,” he began. “Got your message, ha-ha. Came straight away. Something absolutely red-hot, ha-ha. . . . ”
He saw me standing there. Then, realising that he had just been indiscreet in the presence of a total stranger, he blushed deep red like a schoolgirl. If he’d had long plaits he would probably have begun chewing at them in sheer embarrassment.
“Sorry,” he started up again. “No idea anybody here, ha-ha.”
Wilton sat him down, and made him take his goloshes off. Apparently he’d seen quite a bit of him before. Because he knew all about his habits.
“Cider?” he asked.
“Oh, rather.”
“Smoke?”
“Never use them.”
Except for indicating the gin bottle with his thumb, Wilton seemed to have forgotten all about me. His back was turned full in my direction by now, and he was concentrating on the parson.
“What’s the position?” he asked.
There was a little wriggle of excitement as though the parson had been saving himself up for this bit, then the reply came.
“Worse,” he said. “Much worse, ha-ha. Last three Sundays not a sign. Not even Communion. Resigned from Sunday School, too. Said the work was too much. All very mysterious, ha-ha.”
“Spoken to her?” Wilton asked.
I could tell from the tone of his voice that his eyes were probably closed. Wilton always did most of his questioning in a state that was only just this side of sleep.
“Tried to yesterday,” the Vicar answered. “Not satisfactory. Both on bicycles. Wouldn’t wait for me.”
Wilton stretched himself. It was the creaking sound that made me look at him. And those creaks were always telltale. Whenever Wilton stretched himself it meant that he was getting bored and wanted to change the subject.
“Oh, well,” he said, “thanks for telling me. They all get a bit run down, you know. She’ll probably be all right again when she’s had a holiday.”
But the Vicar wasn’t going to be brushed off like that.
“More to it than that, ha-ha,” he replied, going faster than ever now, as though he were delivering the telegram as well as sending it. “Real evidence this time. Only came this morning. On my way up here when you rang. Look at this.”
Out of the inside pocket of his jacket he produced a thick roll of something done up in a newspaper wrapper. The stamps, I saw, were foreign ones.
“Postman tried to push it through the letter-box,” he went on. “Too big. Got stuck, ha-ha. Wrapper torn all down one side, ha-ha. Look what it says.”
That was really too tempting. I couldn’t resist the Vicar’s exhibit. So I came over. And I must admit that it was interesting. Through the long slit in the wrapper the name of the journal showed plainly enough. L’ Action Communiste was what it was.
“Ever had any like these before?” Wilton asked through a yawn.
“Rather,” the Vicar answered. “Every week. Ever since October. No idea what they were. Burned them if I’d known, ha-ha.”
“Better leave ’em with me,” Wilton told him.
But that brought out another side of the Vicar’s nature.
“That all right?” he asked anxiously. “Her property, you know. Rights of the individual. Interception of letters criminal offence. Don’t like being a party to it. . . . ”
“More cider?” Wilton asked.