8

‘Idecide to have it out once and for all with C. H. “O Thou, the central orb.” Destructive thought destroys.’

How vividly that entry from my diary recalls the afternoon of October the 26th! Lady Hargreaves sat in her usual place in the Close stalls. Archie Tallents had a solo in Gibbons’ anthem, ‘O Thou, the central orb’. I see him now, opening his large mouth and warbling his dulcet tones directly to her. It was always Archie’s habit to pick upon one particular member of the congregation to sing to. He used to call it ‘the personal touch’. A shadow of a smile passed over Connie’s face. Yes, I reflected bitterly, if I were to sing to you like that you’d frown and report me to the Dean for irreverent behaviour. The conversation she had had with my father that morning seethed in my mind. It was the turning-point in my relations with her. Was it fair that she should attack me in this way? If father could play at her concert, why shouldn’t I? Could I go on for the rest of my life, or the rest of hers, silently suffering her insults? Destructive thought destroys . . . destructive thought destroys. To-day, I swore, we should see what destructive thought could really do. The moment had come to end it all. After Evensong I would go to Lessways and, once and for all, prove to her that I was still master. While Archie drooled blithely on and, outside, the west wind battered against the Cathedral walls, thoughts such as these surged madly in my mind.

Evensong over, I tore off my cassock and walked quickly down the south aisle. Far ahead of me I saw her going out of the west door. I ran; I actually ran. It came back to me how, a short while ago, in this same building, she had been the pursuer, I the pursued; I began to understand what the psalmist meant when he complained about the iron entering into his soul. I don’t know whether iron’s ever entered into your soul, but I can tell you it’s pretty grisly.

Her car drove off just as I went out of the west door. Hot on the scent I leapt on my bicycle and pedalled furiously to Lessways. She had arrived only a few moments ahead of me; the car was still standing outside the door. I rapped peremptorily on the door-knocker. Almost immediately a curtain to a small side-window in the porch was drawn aside. Lady Hargreaves looked out. For one second I met her eyes. Then the curtain was pulled back; I heard her steps receding to the back of the house. I waited. I knocked again.

Austen, the chauffeur, came round the side of the house from the garage. I swung round, hearing his footsteps on the gravel.

‘Anything you want?’ he asked. He looked large and determined. Whatever I wanted, I could see I shouldn’t get it from that fellow.

‘I want Miss Hargreaves,’ I said. ‘At once.’ I tried to make my voice sound important.

‘There’s no such person as “Miss Hargreaves” here. Try farther down the road. And that’s a door-knocker, not a coal-hammer.’

‘Lady Hargreaves, then.’

‘Her ladyship is ’aving tea. In case you’re selling anything, we don’t want it. But her ladyship, with her customary kindness of ’eart, asked me to give you–’

Furiously angry I dashed the half-crown out of his hand. For a moment Austen looked at me curiously, pursing up his lips as though he were considering the best thing to do.

‘I don’t want to ’it you,’ he said, ‘not a little fellow like you, I don’t. It isn’t in me to do it.’

Now that made me really furious, because I’m not little. I’m five foot ten and a half if I’m an inch.

‘I won’t have any of your insolence,’ I snapped. ‘I’m here to see Lady Hargreaves, and if she won’t open the door I shall bang it down.’

‘Ho! So you’re going to be like that, are you? All right. I’ll go and phone for the police.’

He turned and disappeared the way he had come. ‘Coward–’ I cried. ‘Coward–’ I ran after him a few steps. Then I stopped. If he did call the police I shouldn’t stand a ghostly chance.

All right, I thought; all right. We’ll find another way. I went down the drive to my bicycle, propped up against the gate.

Under the rhododendrons, glinting in the earth, I saw silver. I took my bike, wheeled it out into the road, hesitated, then came back. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t have the half-crown. After all, it was more mine than hers.

Janie had laid tea. I sat down and cut myself some cake. An idea was simmering in my mind; rather a big idea, undeveloped as yet. As usual, it turned out to be quite mad, but I didn’t see that then. Ideas, as I dare say you’ve noticed, are very like eruptions with me; before I know where I am I’m wallowing in my own lava.

So it was then. Gulping down some tea, I flew to the telephone and called Cornford 4277, the Lessways number. Another Spur of another perilous Moment.

A maid answered, and I asked to speak to Lady Hargreaves. Who would it be speaking? For a moment I hesitated. Who would it be? Certainly not Norman Huntley. Then, plunging down from the Spur, I said in my most plangent voice, ‘This is the Dean.’ Would the Dean hold the line? He would. He did.

A second later Connie’s voice floated cordially to my ears.

‘How nice of you to ring, my dear Dean! I was just sending you an invitation to a little musical party next week. I hope you will be able to come. Yes?’

‘Delighted,’ I murmured.

‘I have engaged a local musician for the occasion. A somewhat interesting–though eccentric–creature.’

‘Oh? Who is that, pray?’

‘One Huntley. A bookseller. I have always believed in encouraging the gifted amateur.’

‘Oh, quite, quite!’

‘I understand he has a touch with the violin. By the way, Dean, now that I am talking of this man Huntley, I wonder if I may bother you with a matter that has given me considerable anxiety of late?’

I paused. Should she bother the Dean?

‘By all means,’ I said. Janie came out from the kitchen with a plate of bread and butter. I waved her aside impatiently.

‘It is about’–continued Lady Hargreaves–‘this man’s son. He is being a very great nuisance to me, claiming a friendship with me solely because of an unfortunate accident which threw him across my path. What is one to do about such people, Dean?’

(What was one to do?)

‘Shall I–’ I paused and coughed. ‘Shall I have a word with him?’

‘A most capital suggestion! But I would like to talk to you first. There is another matter, as well, rather more serious. May I look in to-morrow morning, after Matins?’

Again I hesitated. Did I want her to come in after Matins? No! I saw at once what to do. The pit that she was digging for others she should fall into herself; bang down to the bottom.

I said, ‘I was just about to call on you, as a matter of fact. That is why I rang. Would it be convenient? I wanted to discuss confidentially this difficult question of the hour for closing the Cathedral.’

Beautiful bait. She took it almost ravenously.

‘Oh, splendid! By all means. Do come. Incidentally, this man Cornelius Huntley is coming in at nine. Perhaps we might talk to him about his son. We must be tactful. I abominate fuss.’

‘Oh, quite, quite!’

‘Good-bye, then. Good-bye.’

I rang off. For the first time I noticed Jim who was standing in the passage.

‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘You sound like a rural dean with adenoids.’

‘Oh, quite, quite!’ I muttered gloomily. Going upstairs, I shut myself in my room to think it all out.

As usual, it was the sort of idea that on paper looked well; but when it came to actuality–no! I might manage to impersonate the Dean on the phone; I’ve always been good at altering my tones of voice. Anyway, a phone gives you confidence. But could I ever make myself up to look like him? It was possible. If I put a collar on back to front, wore some horn spectacles and a black hat, the maid who opened the door would probably admit me, at any rate. Once inside I could beard Connie, lock the doors if need be, and spend the whole evening hammering home the truth.

Beard Connie? Beard her?

I laughed. A more attractive, more dramatic idea came to me. A beard, even a false one, gets you anywhere; it might even get you past Austen, particularly if it was submitted to him that this was Canon Auty’s beard. In spite of the Canon’s well-known admiration for Lady Hargreaves, he had not yet made his call to Lessways. Lady Hargreaves, it was said, was waiting keenly for this occasion. Very good. Very good indeed. He should call that evening.

I rushed to the theatrical chest on the landing. We’re mad on charades at number 38, and we store everything in this chest that might come in useful. A year ago I had acted Father Time in a New Year’s Eve sketch at a choristers’ party. Here was the cardboard scythe; the hour-glass. I shouldn’t want those; impatiently I rummaged down farther. At last the beard tucked away in a black felt hat which might almost have belonged to Canon Auty. I returned to my room, put on the beard and looked in the mirror. Hat, thick wool scarf, old dark overcoat of father’s. Magnificent–so long as I kept my hat on. Skull-cap? Yes! We had used them in a performance of the Boy Bishop. I rummaged again in the chest and found a purple one. Why not a cassock under overcoat? Yes! Canon Auty was known to have High Church leanings, and when you lean that way you always wear your cassock in the street. I went back to my room, locked– myself in, found some grease-paint, and began to get under the skin of the noble canon.

There was a knock at the door. Mother called.

‘We’re going to the pictures, Norman. It’s Greta Garbo. Are you coming?’

I adore Greta Garbo. It was a pity to miss her. Still–

‘Not to-night, mother.’

‘Whatever have you locked yourself in for?’

‘I’ve got a frightfully difficult bit of counterpoint to do for the doctor. I don’t want father interrupting.’

‘That’s a good boy. Don’t get cold. Put on the heater.’

‘All right, mother.’

She went down. Ten minutes later I heard the front door close, saw from my window mother and Jim walking along the street. It was nearly eight now. The moment had come. Limping a little and bowing my shoulders I left the house, crossed the road, walked up the drive to Lessways, and tapped in an Autyish manner on the door. A pretty little Irish maid came. Seized with a fit of asthmatic coughing, I asked to see Lady Hargreaves. ‘What name would it be, sir?’ I fumbled impatiently for a card. Then, ‘Canon Auty,’ I said gruffly.

‘Will you wait a minute, sir? I’ll tell her ladyship you’re here.’

I nodded without speaking and the maid went upstairs. I was sitting in an oak armchair, holding out my hands to the fire and coughing hoarsely. Curiously I studied the furnishing. It was all antique, mostly Jacobean, beautifully polished. Firelight glowed in a grandfather clock. There were samplers, glass paintings and old prints on the walls. A lantern clock struck eight. Behind me, a wide staircase rose to the second floor and doors opened on to the other rooms. The stair-carpet was of pale gold; so were the curtains. On a table, under a gigantic chrysanthemum embedded in a brass pot, I saw several copies of the Cornford Mercury and two volumes of Wayside Bundle.

Some minutes passed. Nobody came. I grew more and more uneasy. Was she suspicious? Was that devil Austen spying on me somewhere? Were they sending for the police? Could I ever hope to claim the owner of this house a house branded by so many years of impeccable taste as my Connie Hargreaves?

The maid came down the stairs.

‘Her ladyship won’t be a minute, sir,’ she said. ‘And won’t your reverence let me take your hat and overcoat?’

‘No, no–’ I mumbled crossly.

She was a darling girl. Black hair and rosy cheeks; simply topping in the firelight. I was getting more and more sick of my beard. There aren’t many pretty girls about and when you meet one you don’t want to be whiskered. It was damned hot too.

Suddenly a voice called from an open door upstairs.

‘Mollie–Mollie–’

The girl hurried away, and I heard voices on the landing.

‘Have they covered up Dr Pepusch, Mollie?’

‘I’ll go and see, your ladyship.’

‘Do. He must always be covered when we have visitors. Remind cook.’

‘Yes, your ladyship.’

‘That is all, then. I shall not need you any more. I hope you are not forgetting your prayers, Mollie?’

‘Oh, no, your ladyship.’

‘Whenever you wish to go to this Mass, you must tell me. I do not approve of the Roman Catholic religion, but since you are one I expect you to fulfil your obligations. I believe you are obliged to go to this Mass?’

‘That’s right, your ladyship.’

‘Quite wrong–quite wrong–still–by the way, is the Dean arrived yet?’

‘No, your ladyship. Canon Hauty–he’s waiting downstairs.’

‘Dear–dear! How stupid of me! I quite forgot. Tell him I am just coming. Offer him Wayside Bundle to read.’

‘Oh, my dear Canon! Too bad of me to have kept you waiting. But why do you not take off your greatcoat? Are you cold?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m hot.’

I took off my beard.

‘How dare you! How dare you!’

She moved towards a bell-rope that was hanging by the side of the great open fireplace. With a sudden wild vehemence Dr Pepusch screamed from somewhere in the back of the house. ‘Avaunt! Avaunt!’ A door slammed. I ran to the bell-rope and caught her by the arm.

‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ I said. I stood with my back to it. I felt my power rising. I fixed her with both my eyes. ‘Sit down,’ I commanded.

Panting a little, wringing her hands, she began to speak. ‘I–I–’ But she could not go on. She was weakening. I knew I was winning the first round. Brutally, I determined to deliver a knock-out blow, now, at once, while my power was on me.

‘You’re a naughty old woman!’ I said sternly. I hated it; I loathed calling her that. But it was no use showing any mercy now.

Amazed, speechless, she fell back into a chair as though I had struck her. Quickly I continued. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you. A lot of bones. And when I pick bones I don’t like an audience. You leave that bell alone.’

Her head fell forward on her chest; she was breathing heavily. I suppose it must have been a terrible shock to her, particularly as she’d put on a puce-coloured velvet dress with a high lace collar brooched by a handsome cameo. All done in honour of Canon Auty, of course; you could see that. I believe, though I won’t swear to it, there was a dash of rouge on her cheeks.

‘I’ve given you every chance,’ I said. I spoke hurriedly and tried to avoid looking at her. There was something so terribly pathetic about her; it was hard to speak sternly.

‘You forced me to this,’ I went on. ‘I don’t like getting into your house in this way. It’s beastly; I hate it. But when you go round telling vile lies about me–when you turn your horrible chauffeur on to me with half a crown–’

‘Which you took!’ she snapped, with sudden spirit. ‘Contemptible!’ Her eyes glittered angrily.

‘And why not?’ I cried, her anger infecting me. ‘Who are you, I should like to know? You think you’re Lady Hargreaves, don’t you? Well, you’re not. You’re a thought, that’s all you are; a mere thought. Uncle Grosvenor! I’ll Uncle Grosvenor you! You reckon you can do what you like ever since I gave you that title, don’t you? Well, you can’t! You’re going to do what I like. Suppose I had turned you into a mouse, eh? A small, underfed mouse; a church mouse. And then set our ginger Tom on you? I might have done that if I’d had a spiteful mind. But I didn’t. I made you Lady Hargreaves. And this is the thanks I get–half a crown flung at me by an illiterate chauffeur. You ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, downright ashamed–’

I stopped. It was like the scene I had had with her in the lay-clerks’ vestry over again. She was holding her handkerchief to her eyes; her shoulders were shaking. A most unaccountable anguish came over me. I could not bear to see her cry. It was no good. Minute by minute I was losing my ground. And minute by minute I knew with a fatal certainty, she would gain the strength that I was losing. Power ebbed from me and rose in her. It would always be so; always. If I relinquished my power over her, she would seize it and exert it over me. What I had made was becoming too strong for me.

There was a long silence. I made a last valiant effort.

‘Well, what have you to say?’ I demanded.

‘What–can–I say, dear?’

‘Eh?’ I sat up and took notice. ‘Did you call me–dear?’

‘Yes, dear. I did, dear.’

Had I then won? Had I for ever driven away her assumed independence?

‘Oh,’ I grunted. ‘So you’re sorry, are you?’

‘My dear boy–I–’ She burst into floods of tears. With an immense effort I bit the tender, consoling words from my tongue. But they were in my heart.

‘What can I say?’ she sobbed. ‘I am but human.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ I muttered uneasily.

She looked up at me with tearful eyes. ‘I have wronged you–yes! I confess it. I have treated an old friend badly. And yet–am I entirely to blame?’

‘What do you mean?’ I felt my bones turning to water.

‘Did you,’ she cried with sudden passion, ‘welcome me to Cornford as an old friend deserves to be welcomed? Have I once been able to recapture with you the happiness of that sunny day we spent together upon the Serpentine, when all your youth and–’––

My voice rose wildly. ‘You’ve got to come right off that stuff once and for all. You know as well as I do that we never went on the Serpentine. The whole story is a pack of lies. Lies–Miss Hargreaves! You are my lie!

’ It was my last bolt. She stared at me–half frightened–half frightening.

‘Norman’–and her tone was almost pitying–‘there can be no doubt. No further doubt. Your brain is rapidly becoming affected. My dear, I am so sorry. For a long time I have been fearing something like this. I should have faced up to the matter sooner. I am afraid that you are not–quite as you should be, dear. Try to realize it. Hold on to yourself. Get grip. Grip is essential in such cases. My poor Agatha suffered in much the same way. You would not care to end as she did.’

‘No,’ I muttered. ‘I wouldn’t care to end as–she did.’ And, in my mind, I conceived a hundred different deaths for Agatha, each one more horrible than the last.

She rose slowly from her chair.

‘Stay–where–you–are,’ I hissed malignantly. But it was a half-hearted hiss, I knew that.

‘Sit down!’ she snapped suddenly. I stared at her. Was I crazy, or was she actually growing larger, seeming to tower above me? Her eyes blazed out at me from her powerful little head; her fingers clutched an ivory paper-knife on a console table.

‘I warn you–’ I began weakly.

‘SIT DOWN!’ The words were like iron. I fell back into a chair. My God, I thought, this is the end; this is the terrible end. She is beginning to control me. In a week or so I should be powerless to do anything except what she desired. Already my will was impotent; I could do nothing but stare at her feebly, as a rabbit must stare at a snake. They say the rabbit enjoys being hypnotized by the snake; I can believe it because, in spite of my wretchedness, I could not be otherwise than wholly fascinated by her. It was terrible to realize that I had given her this power; that I had, from the depths of my misguided compassion for her, silently willed strength into her mysterious being.

‘You witch,’ I murmured. ‘You absolute old witch!’

‘That is enough!’ she rapped out. Then she let me have it, true and proper. In blazing anger she told me exactly where I got off. And I got off; meek as a lamb.

‘I have tolerated too much far too much. No doubt but you are suffering from an aberration of the mind but is that any reason why I should be inconvenienced? You have insulted my family, you have dogged my footsteps from place to place, you have written a scandalous letter about me you have, most seriously, imperilled my name in this town. And now you have the impertinence to come before me, wearing a beard, abusing me in language that would be criminal did I not mercifully assume it to be insane. It is an outrage, Mr Huntley; it is an outrage. Only one of two courses is now open to me. Either to invoke the power of the law upon you or have you sent away to a mental home. You have gone too far, Mr Huntley; I do not know whether anybody could go farther.’

It was true. It was horribly true.

‘Yes,’ I muttered. ‘I have gone too far. I know that.’

‘Then you must be prepared to pay for your foolishness. I cannot any longer allow the twilight of my days to be clouded by the menace of a criminal lay-clerk who happened to cross my path because of an accident.’

‘I–do wish you wouldn’t keep saying I crossed your path,’ I said weakly.

She held up an imperious hand. ‘Cease!’

I ceased. I watched her wonderingly as she swept across to a bureau on the other side of the room. Finding paper, ink and a quill pen, she sat down. After a little thought she began to write.

‘What are you doing, Miss Hargreaves–please?’ I asked. I started to rise.

‘Stay where you are!’ she snapped immediately. ‘I am writing to my solicitor. There shall be no more anonymous letters, Mr Huntley.’

‘But–’ A ruined career stared me in the face. I didn’t like the look of it. ‘Please don’t do that,’ I cried. ‘Please don’t.’

‘And why should I not?’

Why should she not, indeed? I racked my brains in search of an argument that would touch her. ‘You couldn’t do it,’ I said. ‘Not after–not after the wonderful times we’ve had together. Look at that morning in the Cathedral! The person who played the organ as you did, couldn’t write the sort of letter you’re going to write now, Miss Hargreaves–’

‘Lady Hargreaves, if you please!’

‘Lady Hargreaves, I mean. Please don’t give me away by all that we have in common please don’t give me away. I won’t bother you any more, I swear I won’t. I was mad. I don’t know why I did it.’

I was almost down on my knees before her. It was ghastly.

She put down her pen and slowly came over towards me.

‘Norman,’ she said in a gentle voice, ‘because of what we have in common–yes, I will once more overlook your conduct. But it must not happen again. It must never happen again.’

‘I promise it shan’t.’

She rang the bell suddenly.

‘James Burley,’ she said briskly, ‘would, I know, give you special attention if I write to him. I imagine he is still in Harley Street. Yes, I will write to-night. Expense? Tut! You must have the best advice. Obviously it is a very complicated case.’

Mollie came in, stopping and staring at me in bewilderment.

‘Oh, Mollie,’ said Lady Hargreaves, now completely herself, ‘bring a carafe of water and some sal volatile. Mr Huntley is unwell. Is Sarah fed?’

‘Y-yes your ladyship.’

‘Go along, child go along. Don’t stand staring at Mr Huntley like that.’

Mollie went out, still looking back at me over her shoulder. Lady Hargreaves settled herself in an armchair, crossed one leg over the other, played with a golden chain round her neck, and looked at me with a patronizing smile.

‘Yes. James Burley’s little establishment on Exmoor would, I think, be the place for you. Poor Norman! No matter for the moment. Let us put aside the tragedies of life. You told me, I think, some time ago that your mother was similarly affected? Yes? Rest, I beg you. Relax. Close your eyes.’

I felt drowsy, numbed of all movement. Like a shadow in a dream I was aware of Mollie coming in. I heard Lady Hargreaves speaking.

‘Thank you, Mollie. That will do. Oh–take Mr Huntley’s beard and skull-cap and hang them in the coat-cupboard. I abominate untidiness. Yes, yes, child –the beard.’

Mollie took them gingerly. I stared at a glass of sal volatile Lady Hargreaves was holding out before me. I shuddered. I loathe sal volatile.

‘I don’t want it,’ I protested feebly.

‘Naughty! Tch! Come now–you mustn’t excite yourself again. I abominate scenes! Let me put a cushion behind your head. There–there!’

Vaguely I realized that somebody was knocking at the front door.

Mollie showed father in.

‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Am I interrupting ? You said something about coffee.’

‘Come in, my dear Mr Huntley. Mollie, take Mr Huntley’s coat; and beard Oh! he has no beard. Then bring some coffee–and a bottle of cognac. Sit down, Mr Huntley. Your son and I were having a little tête-à-tête. I was about to read him my sonnet sequence, “The Nine Owls”.’

‘Owls, eh? H’m.’ Father wandered about in his usual large manner, picking up things and looking at pictures. ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ he said. ‘Oliver Goldsmith used to live here, you know. Or was it Grinling Gibbons? Never can remember. Their style’s very alike.’

He sat down. ‘I suppose you two have settled everything about the concert?’ he said.

‘Well–’ began Connie.

Father nodded. ‘Good. Now we can have a nice little chat about books and things. One or two stories I should like to tell you. Ever met Conrad?’

Lady Hargreaves screwed up her face. ‘I cannot quite remember,’ she said.

‘I didn’t,’ said father. He lapsed into an unusual silence.

‘Such an age–such writers–’ began Connie.

‘You remember Henry James’ story about the owl?’ asked father.

‘I think not.’

‘Never can be sure of it myself. But it seems he kept an owl–an albino bird it was–in his bathroom. Well, one evening he took up the sponge, see–and it bit him and said, “Lovely-lovely-lovely”. Like that. Of course, he’d picked up the owl by mistake. But this is the interesting part. The owl saying “lovely” gave him the idea for one of his best lines. Dare say you know it. “Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping, wavy in the dusk lit by one large star.” Beautiful poetry, Lady Marston. You and I couldn’t write like that, not even if we kept ten white owls in our bathrooms.’

‘But surely, Mr Huntley, George Meredith wrote those lines?’

Father nodded. ‘So everybody thinks. Actually he stole them from Henry James. Happened to be lighting his pipe outside the bathroom. They had a cottage at Winchelsea. My aunt lived there later. Funny, really.’

Mollie came in with the coffee, cognac, and three balloon glasses.

‘Ah!’ Father rubbed his hands together. ‘I like brandy. My father was a smuggler, y’ know. Practically lived on brandy. Nice life, really. Thanks.’

I waited, wondering whether I should be offered any. But I was not. Father pushed his coffee aside and closed his palms round his glass. He looked over to me. ‘Put it to your nose, boy,’ he said. ‘Get the bouquet.’

I looked down at my empty hands and shook my head slowly.

‘Norman is a little unwell,’ explained Lady Hargreaves. ‘It would be most unwise for him to take brandy.’

‘Unwell? How do you expect the boy to be well without brandy? Here, boy–’ He poured out a stiff glass for me and passed it over. I took it. Lady Hargreaves frowned and tapped her stick on the floor. I drank quickly before she should snatch it away from me. ‘Here,’ cried father, ‘you mustn’t drink brandy at that speed. What’s the matter with you?’

‘I told you,’ Lady Hargreaves said coldly, ‘he is unwell.’

‘H’m,’ said father. ‘H’m.’ He drank, and we were all silent for a little while.

‘I’ve brought my tune,’ remarked father presently. ‘Here it is.’ He drew a postcard from his pocket. ‘Doesn’t look very long, but I always add bits as I go along. Norman’ll have to write out the accompaniment.’

Lady Hargreaves, glancing at the tune briefly, rose and went over to a Sheraton cabinet in a small boudoir adjoining the hall. She returned with some manuscript paper which she gave to father.

‘This is the Canzona I spoke of,’ she said. Father glanced at it cursorily.

‘The great thing about my tune,’ he said, ‘is cantabile. I’ll run over and get my fiddle and play it for you.’

‘You see,’ Lady Hargreaves was saying, leaning over father’s shoulder and pointing to a bar in the manuscript on his lap, ‘you see how skilfully the tune leads into the variation, without a break. I hope you will bring that out, Mr Huntley. This appoggiatura here is, of course, the willow-wren. You must bring that out too.’

‘H’m. Yes. Like that bit,’ said father vaguely. He sipped his cognac and casually dropped the manuscript on a chair by his side.

Stifled by the great fire, feeling almost incapable of speech or movement, I struggled up from my chair.

‘I’ll leave you to discuss the concert,’ I said wearily.

‘Yes. It would be as well for you to retire early,’ said Lady Hargreaves. ‘By the way, before you go–what was the name of that most interesting young man–a friend of yours who came to the station with you? Henry–something. I cannot remember.’

‘Henry Beddow,’ I said.

‘Beddow. Ah, yes! I must make a note of it.’ She turned to father again, taking her manuscript from the chair and holding it out before him. I wandered out to the coat-cupboard.

‘This bar,’ I heard her saying, ‘is very subtle. Observe how the theme, now inverted and accelerated, creeps in to–’

‘And it ends niente, you see,’ said father. ‘And by niente I mean niente. Want you to notice how–’

I took the beard, the hat, skull-cap and coat, closed the door behind me, crossed the road and wearily went home to bed. I felt that years had been added to me.

Destructive thought destroys. But it had failed to destroy. What I realized was this; it is a thousand times more difficult to destroy than to create. You will laugh and say I am mad; that destroying is far easier. But it isn’t so. Try to destroy anything try to annihilate it. Burn it and consider the ashes. Then consider how easily you create. Every time you open your mouth you create something. The chord of D flat major sounding to infinity from father’s little Bord. How do you destroy that? What was Miss Hargreaves? She was the embodiment of my lie. It was no good my just trying to will that lie away. It was, that lie; it absolutely was. Some formula had to be found; something that would cancel the lie from the very beginning. Could it be done in Lusk church? Could it? And what was the formula?

Those were my thoughts as I lay on my bed that night.

About midnight father came in without knocking. Father never knocks.

‘My God!’ he said, ‘she’s a grand woman! Congratulations, my boy! If I had my time over again, I’d–I’d be damned if I’d stop at lizards.’ (I wondered how much of that cognac was left.) ‘What the devil do you mean,’ he snapped suddenly, ‘wearing beards and skull-caps? She says she’s going to put a specialist on to you. Better wait till after the concert. She’s agreed to let you play. We’ve got to practise this damned fugue of hers. Funny. Found we’d both known Hardy quite well. She says she comes in one of the novels and, of course, as anybody knows he put me in “Far from the Trumpet Major”. Must read the others and see where she comes in. Hope she’s not Tess. Don’t want to see her hanged. Good night, my boy. Congratulations. She’s no ghost.’

Over the tankards in the Happy Union:

‘I ’ear tell as ’ow th’ ’ole bitch’ve bin sent ’ere by those I.R.A. devils . . .’‘

She’m no woman at all. All that ’obbling about on sticks never did take me in . . .’

‘Serve the old Dean bloody well right if the Cathedral was blown sky ’igh. . . .’

Over the teacups in the Close:

‘My dear Mrs Auty, I wouldn’t say a word against her. But the most extraordinary story is . . .’

‘Of course, Miss Linkinghorne, these Irish titles are most remote and . . .’

‘Nonsense, my dear! Women of that age don’t carry bombs about . . .’

‘But, my dear Mr Dean, I saw her myself, making plans of the Cathedral and . . .’

In the lay-clerks’ vestry:

‘Always knew she was a bloody Guy Fawkes ever since I saw that ’at . . .’

And in the choir school:

‘Say, chaps, have you heard? Old Hargy’s an anarchist. Fact!’

‘Go on! How do you know? . . .’

‘What’s an anarchist, anyway? . . .’

‘Old Meaks says he saw her trying to get down into the crypt with a black bag. It was ticking too, he swears to it . . .’

So the tale flickered, from a spark to a cinder, from a cinder to a flame. Within a week, whenever Connie went abroad, she was the victim of curious and resentful eyes. God–how I suffered! More, I swear, than she did. Innocently sketching the Cathedral from Meads one fine autumn afternoon, a lout from the town threw a clod of earth at her and quickly disappeared. With great dignity, Connie brushed her clothes, gathered up her sketching materials and returned home. For three days she did not leave the house. The flame of rumour grew to a bonfire of fact. There was an Irish maid at Lessways. Yes, that settled it. Hargreaves must go. The town spoke as one man.

On the fourth day she dropped her bomb. It appeared in the form of a letter in the Cornford Mercury.

‘To the Editor.

‘SIR,–Recently you were good enough in your columns to welcome me to the ancient Cathedral town of Cornford whither I had come to reside. I was proud to become a resident of Cornford and I looked forward to many happy years here. But what has happened? You, sir, must know only too well. I have become the victim of a cruel and malicious rumour which threatens to undermine my very existence here. I am not deaf. I have heard what is being said about me. I am, I understand, associated with bombs. Ridiculous as I regard this, there are apparently some people who believe it. I can no longer, therefore, be expected to remain silent.

‘I know full well how this wicked rumour arose. I am able to refute it and I shall take immediate steps to do so. Let the lying tongues cease before hot burning coals fall upon them.

‘Meanwhile, the honour of Cornford is at stake. Is it to be said that she drove an old lady beyond her ancient walls because of the wickedness of a deceitful pen?

‘The poison of asps is under her lips, sir. The poison of asps is under her lips.

‘HARGREAVES.’

Mother ran up to father’s room early one evening with the paper in her hand. We were rehearsing for the concert, only a few days ahead now.

‘Look at this!’ she cried. ‘It’s all round the town. Nobody’s talking of anything else.’

We read the letter. ‘H’m,’ said father. ‘Can’t understand why towns are always female.’

I said nothing. She’d attack now, I told myself; she’d attack.

‘I must say,’ said mother, ‘I think it’s rather splendid of her. Don’t you, Norman?’

‘Yes. Fine,’ I said uncomfortably.

‘Whatever she is, whoever started that story ought to be horsewhipped. Horsewhipped! I can’t bear that sort of thing. Of course, I never did believe it.’

‘A few days ago, mother,’ I said, ‘you said you wouldn’t put anything beyond her.’

‘Of course, I never meant it.’

‘You go along now, Dorothy,’ said father, ‘we’re busy’.

‘I do think you ought to go and see her, Norman,’ said mother. ‘Ask her to come to tea if you think she’d like to. It would show people that we don’t believe this absurd tale. I hear Mrs Auty’s been spreading the most awful stories. How I do hate those Close people!’

‘Honestly, mother, I think she’d prefer it if I left her alone.’

‘I do think she might have asked Jim and me to come to her concert. If you went over now, Norman, and asked her in to tea, and said how sorry you were about this awful gossip, she’d probably give us invitations to her concert. It would serve Mrs Auty right to find us all there. Anyway, I should like to hear father play properly for a change.’

‘Always play properly,’ said father. ‘Norman, there’s a bar you haven’t filled in here, you devil.’

‘No, mother, if you don’t mind. I won’t go just now.’

‘Well, you are a queer boy. I shall never understand you.’

Mother turned and went out. Father shouted after her, ‘See my dinner-jacket thing is pressed, Dorothy; and sew up the moth-holes.’

Father and I went on with Connie’s Canzona. It was a rather sticky composition–Spohr at his jammiest–full of pretty work in six sharps and a good many double ones. You had to cross the hands. As I crossed mine I looked at them gloomily and wondered how long it would be before they were handcuffed. Sure as nuts, Connie would attack now. I knew it.

Cathedral towns are funny, fickle places. The day after Connie’s letter had appeared in the Mercury, she drove up the High Street. It was four days since she had been seen abroad. Stopping in the market, she got out and, with Austen’s help, purchased a number of potted cinerarias from a stall in Disraeli Square.

Connie was news, of course; more news than ever since the publication of her letter. At her appearance in the centre of the town at the busiest hour of the week, tongues which had been wagging for days–some in support of her, many more against her–suddenly stopped wagging. You almost felt that the drivers of buses and cars would stop their engines.

I had just come out of the bar of the Swan and I stopped, watching her as with minute care she examined the cinerarias, handing some over to Austen, dismissing others. She did not see me. Finally she handed a ten-shilling note to the woman at the stall and, refusing the change, turned slowly back towards her car.

All this time she had behaved as though the people of Cornford didn’t exist, although she must have been acutely aware that everybody was looking at her. Suddenly, as she stepped up into the car, somebody–they said it was young Sanderson, son of the old man who was now head-gardener at Lessways–sang out at the top of his voice:

‘Three cheers for her ladyship!’

There was a second’s silence. My heart beat wildly. Which way would Cornford turn? Then there was a roar of cheering. Bowing graciously, she paused on the step of the car and raised her hand. A mighty silence fell. She might have been Queen Mary.

‘Thank you, my friends,’ was all she said. Still bowing a little, still smiling, she got back into the car and Austen slowly accelerated to the usual thirty-five.

From that moment Constance Lady Hargreaves could do no wrong.

I never expected she would spare me. She didn’t. This is what happened.

That afternoon father was out and Squeen and I were in charge of the shop. I had a vile headache, and I don’t wonder.

About three o’clock the Dean came in. My heart fell. I’d never been easy in the Dean’s presence; I was less easy now.

Squeen buzzed busily round him, of course.

‘Would Mr Dean like to see a very nice clean set of Jeremy Taylor’s Discourses? And would it please Mr Dean to know that his little monograph on the Cathedral glass was selling very well?’

The Dean turned to me. ‘Huntley, put aside these Bampton Lectures of Hutton’s, will you? I’ll take those. Oh–what have we here? An early edition, eh–’

He murmured away to some back shelves. He was in a very buying mood. After twenty minutes he’d selected a pile of a dozen or so books.

‘I’ll have them sent round, Mr Dean,’ I said, edging him nervously to the door. Sure as a bee smells honey I smelt trouble.

‘Oh, no.’ He smiled amiably. ‘Let us take them round to the Deanery now. Squeen can look after the shop, can’t he? You can help me carry them.’

‘Oh, no–no–’ I protested. ‘I couldn’t dream of your carrying them, Mr Dean. I–’

But he hitched three volumes under his arms and was piling the rest upon me. ‘Come along,’ he said. And from the tone of his voice I knew I should have to go along.

We walked slowly up Canticle Alley (not a favourite place of mine nowadays) and out into the Close.

‘And how are you getting on with your music?’ he asked, as we came within sight of the Deanery arches.

‘Oh, not so bad, thank you, Mr Dean.’

‘Have you taken your diplomas yet? The Royal College, isn’t it?’

‘No. Not yet, I’m afraid.’

‘Really? I quite thought you had. Oh, come in–bring the books in. Yes, put them on the table. Have you seen my dahlias, Huntley? I have quite a show. Come along.’

It was a superb autumn day and the splendid garden, stretching away its long smooth lawns to the two great walnut trees at the bottom by the stream, had never looked more attractive. Slowly we walked down, the Dean waving his silk handkerchief at various shrubs and flowers and naming them in Latin for my benefit. I grew more and more uncomfortable. After all, I do like the Dean. I didn’t want to quarrel with him.

We paused on a rustic bridge at the bottom and leant over, looking at the clear, thin stream where trout were darting from weeds to stones. The Cathedral clock chimed the half-hour. Thank heaven, at any rate, that I should soon have to get away for Evensong.

‘I wanted to have a talk with you,’ said the Dean suddenly, smiling still and blowing his nose. ‘I suppose you’re quite free now? I don’t wish to keep you from your work.’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Dean. That is–until Evensong.’

‘I can dispense you from that, can’t I, if I wish?’ He smiled at me almost warmly.

I laughed feebly. ‘Yes, that’s right. So you can.’

‘Well, let us take the books up to the library. It is a little chilly, isn’t it? Dear me! I wish the Bishop would learn how to prune his plum trees! He is for ever complaining that he cannot grow fruit against that wall, and it is entirely his own fault. There are my dahlias. Fine, are they not?’

My mind wandered. ‘Oh, quite, quite!’ I said, both absently and inadvisedly.

He frowned. He blew his nose. He smiled.

‘You are quite a good mimic, aren’t you?’ he remarked gently. ‘But’–and suddenly his voice was as sharp as an east wind ‘let me remind you, Huntley, that mimicry has got people into very serious trouble. So have’–he looked at the Cathedral spire and paused before the next two words. Then he glared at me and added–‘an-on-y-mous let-ters.’

Again he blew his nose. My heart sank to the bottom of my shoes. I said nothing. I couldn’t.

We went into the hall. Carrying the books, we proceeded slowly and silently up to the library.

It is a long, splendid room with a great Gothic window at the end, lit by coats-of-arms of former Deans, and framed by a long view of the garden with the Cathedral and the Thames meadows beyond. Lined along the walls are bookshelves, stacked with ancient books. A first-folio Shakespeare has a place of honour. Against the shelves are bureaux, cabinets, side-tables groaning under masses of papers. In the window-sills framed photographs of distinguished friends and many jars of flowers that day, golden–– rod, michaelmas daisies, dahlias, roses. A lovely room. It broke my heart to have to face trouble in it. I wished he could have taken me to the kitchen.

‘Now, sit down,’ said the Dean. He spoke kindly. ‘I think,’ he continued, standing in the middle of the floor as clergymen always do on such occasions, ‘I think you understand what I was referring to just now. Don’t misunderstand me, Huntley. I suppose a Dean can appreciate a joke against himself as well as any reasonably minded man. But when’–he paused, his voice rose–‘that joke–is directed against a lady, moreover a newcomer to Cornford, and a very honoured member of our Cathedral society then it goes–beyond the bounds of a joke and becomes what I can only describe as’–(business with handkerchief)–‘im-per-tin-ent and’–(approach of handkerchief to nose)–‘of-fen-sive!’ (Nose-blowing.)

I bit my lip and said nothing. I fumbled with some keys in my pocket. The Dean continued:

‘I suppose you must be aware of the terrible things that have been said about Lady Hargreaves in this town in the last few days?’

‘Yes,’ I muttered.

‘She, very rightly, came to me about the matter. Most reluctantly she told me that all these dreadful rumours had their foundation in an anonymous letter which you sent to Mr Carver. I was most unwilling to believe this. But I promised her I would at least see you about it. I hope, Huntley–I hope with all my heart that Lady Hargreaves is mistaken.’

He waited. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘It is true,’ I said.

The Dean stared at me, pursing up his lips thoughtfully. ‘I also hear,’ he said, ‘that you actually’–the shadow of a smile crossed his face–‘impersonated’–here he frowned again–‘Canon Auty.’

‘Yes. That’s true too. I didn’t look much like him, though.’

He walked abruptly to the window; then came back again to the centre of the room.

‘Huntley, are you–out of your senses?’ he asked. ‘I might as well tell you that Lady Hargreaves is convinced there is really something wrong with your mind. I–’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m dotty. That’s the truth, Mr Dean. Something’s gone wrong with me.’

But he didn’t seem to approve of this idea.

‘Rubbish!’ he snapped. ‘I refuse to believe it. I have no desire to be hard on you, Huntley. I very willingly give you credit for the way you came to Lady Hargreaves’ assistance when you first had the privilege of encountering her at Oxford–’

‘Yes,’ I blurted out, ‘and what does she say about that? She says I bungled it. There’s gratitude for you! The old devil actually–’

‘Stop, Huntley! Stop!’

Again the Dean walked to the window. This time he spoke from there, with his back turned to me. He spoke quietly and gravely.

‘We–you and I, Huntley–are both servants of this great Cathedral. I want you to remember that. It is our paramount duty to preserve it from even a breath of scandal.’

There was a long silence. ‘Well, have you nothing to say?’ he snapped.

‘It’s–it’s like this, Mr Dean. She–I–that is–well’

I could not go on. What was the good of trying to tell him the truth? I suddenly wished to God Father Toule had been the Dean.

He left the window, sat at a bureau and slowly polished his spectacles with his silk handkerchief.

‘I will be quite frank with you,’ he said. ‘Lady Hargreaves is not a poor woman. You, it is well known, are in debt. Oh, yes–Huntley! I have to keep my eye on such matters, you know.’

‘I’ve never asked her for a penny!’ I cried. ‘If she says things like that I’ll–I’ll have her up for slander.’

‘Come, sir–come! Surely the boot is on the other foot? What do these foolish pranks mean? I will not believe they are merely prompted by malice. I have always had an interest in your future, Huntley. It is still my desire to help you.’

‘If I were to tell you the truth about Miss Hargreaves–’

Instantly his hand shot up.

‘Why do you insist upon addressing her as Miss Hargreaves? That alone is unnecessarily offensive.’

‘But, Mr Dean,’ I pleaded, ‘you don’t know. It’s all something I can’t understand. My whole life’s gone to pieces over this Miss Hargreaves affair–’

‘Lady Hargreaves!’

‘Lady Hargreaves, that is.’ I swallowed. ‘She’s not real, that’s all I can say.’ I felt myself working up to the truth, whether he liked it or not. ‘You ask my friend, Henry Beddow. We made her up we made everything up even the Duke of Grosvenor–’

‘Stop! Stop!’

‘I’m not myself,’ I muttered. ‘She’s quite right. I expect I’m going potty. If I could go away for a bit–things have got on top of me–if you’d give me leave, Mr Dean–I can’t help feeling once I got away from Cornford I don’t know–’

He sighed as my idiotic babblings ceased. ‘You completely bewilder me. Go away, by all means, if it is going to drive any sense into your head. You may have to go away if you persist in this extraordinary behaviour. I must confess I am deeply disappointed that you can’t be frank with me. I am your friend, not your enemy.’

The two bells started to chime for Evensong.

‘I can’t be frank,’ I said. ‘It’s no good, Mr Dean. You wouldn’t understand. Nobody can, except Father Toule.’

‘Father Toule? ’ The Dean stared at me. I wished to God I hadn’t mentioned the name.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He–well, he knows all about it.’

‘I see,’ said the Dean coldly. ‘You prefer to place your confidences in Roman Catholic hands. The Cathedral clergy are not–imaginative enough for you. I quite understand.’

There was a pause. I wondered whether I might edge to the door. I was longing above everything for a cigarette.

‘What you must understand,’ snapped the Dean suddenly, bringing out his handkerchief again, ‘is this. If there are any more complaints of you from Lady Hargreaves–or anyone else–you lose your position here. I am not a hard man. But I will not tolerate this pantomime behaviour. You may go. It is time for Evensong.’

As I walked slowly and heavily of heart down the great staircase, past portraits of older Deans sulking in oils and elaborate gilt frames, I heard him savagely blowing his nose up in the library.

That evening, in an agony of misery and fear, I went to see Father Toule again. I told him everything the anonymous letter, my last meeting with Connie, my interview with the Dean. He didn’t seem at all surprised. He had a wonderfully simple way, that man, of taking everything for granted. I suppose hearing all those confessions makes them used to anything.

‘Of course, Mr Huntley,’ he said, ‘it was very unwise of you to do what you did. But it doesn’t help you to hear me say that. Still, I do wish now you would make a firm resolution to leave the matter entirely alone–’

‘I can’t, Father Toule. I’ve got one idea into my head–and one only. It was your idea. I’m going to Lusk.’

‘Indeed? H’m. Yes. I am not sure about that–except that I feel you might be easier if you told this sexton the truth–’

‘It isn’t only that. It’s my last chance. I feel I–can do something there. Besides, I must find out whether there’s a gravestone with her name–’

‘Really, Mr Huntley, I wouldn’t worry about that.’

‘I’m not. She’s not a ghost. She doesn’t frighten me in the same way as a ghost would. She does frighten me–but– not in that way. I can’t explain. But I must make sure. For all I know, I may have seen her name there.’

‘Could you not write to the sexton and leave your researches alone? I do feel’–Father Toule seemed quite agitated ‘I cannot help feeling although I certainly suggested it–that something might happen which you would–regret. It hasn’t proved a very lucky place for you so far. I am inclined to think you should avoid it.’

‘No. I must go. I must go.’

I left the presbytery. I was certain, now, that for better or worse, the last card had to be played in Lusk church and nowhere else. But I hadn’t the slightest idea how I was going to play it.

Alone up in my room, I stared miserably over the street to the warm chimneys of Lessways. How dreary it would be–the house empty, the strains of the harp for ever silenced!

‘Murder!’ I moaned. ‘Murder! That’s what it is.’ I shuddered. I shivered. I pulled down the blind and turned on the light. I smoked three cigarettes straight off. I shivered. I shuddered.

Mother came in.

‘Henry wants you on the phone,’ she said.

It was days since I had seen anything of Henry. There’d been a good deal of coolness between us ever since Pat Howard had insulted my father.

‘Tell him I’m out,’ I said.

‘Norman, what is the matter with you? You’ve never quarrelled with Henry before. I don’t say much, but I’m very worried. You ate no tea; you hardly ever talk to us; you sit up here alone. I shall really have to get a doctor if you go on like this–’

‘Doctor–doctor–!’ I screamed suddenly. ‘Yes–you all want to lock me up in a lunatic asylum, don’t you? Oh, God! Why has this happened to me?’

Mother came up to me. ‘Norman — Norman — darling boy — don’t go on like this. It’s terrible. You’re simply breaking our hearts.’

I pushed my way past her. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll speak to him.’ I ran downstairs to the telephone.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘what do you want?’

‘Norman, old boy, I haven’t seen much of you lately. Are we on speaking terms, or not?’

‘I’m sorry, Henry. I’m about dead. The Dean’s just threatened to sack me for insolence to you-know-who.’

‘Norman–what a damn shame! Don’t take it too much to heart. I’ll tell you what I rang up about. That fellow whose house you and Connie spent a night in–did you say he was called Major Wynne?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, there’s a lot about it in the paper to-day. The place has been robbed. All the silver, jewels–everything. Major Wynne was away in the South of France and has only just returned. It strikes me the fellow who caught you in the orchard must have been the crook. It says the police are following up a valuable clue. Do you think that’d be the bag you said she left behind? If so, I can’t help thinking it looks rather black for both of you.’

‘Yes,’ I echoed, hardly taking it all in, ‘it looks–rather black for–both of us.’

‘Once they start asking her questions–she’ll probably refer them to you, and of course they’ll come to you. Well, I don’t want to see you doing ten years, old boy. In fact, Uncle Henry’s rather worried. We’d better do something about it somehow. Are you there?’

I woke up suddenly.

‘Henry, you’re quite right. We’ve got to do something about it. This is the very last straw.’

‘I’m damned if I know what we can do.’

‘I do. And I can’t do it alone–that’s the point. You’ve got to help me–as you did before.’

‘I don’t reckon I’ve helped you very much, old boy. To tell you the truth, I was feeling I’d rather let you down.’

‘You helped–in the beginning. Without you I couldn’t have created her. Without you I can’t–’ I paused. ‘Henry–come round to the Happy Union now, will you? I must see you.’

‘Right-o! Be there in ten minutes. Glad to hear your voice again, Norman. All drinks on me to-night.’

I rang off and went out. Across the road from an open window I heard the strains of ‘Dear Little Shamrock’ slowly plucked from a harp. My heart ached. A policeman passed. Already I could feel his eyes upon me. I turned quickly up Candole Street, and swung into the private bar.

For over an hour we sat in the Happy Union talking.

‘You gave me the solution,’ I said, ‘when you said “we’ve” got to do something about it. My God, Henry, what a fool I’ve been. I can’t do anything powerful alone. That’s the point. I couldn’t have created her without you. How can I expect to the whole thing’s gone hopelessly wrong because I’ve been working without your co-operation.’

‘Look here, Norman. This business has worried Uncle Henry as much as it’s worried you. I’ve tried to pretend all along that there must be some perfectly natural explanation–’

‘There isn’t. You must, must believe that Miss Hargreaves is utterly and solely our creation.’

‘I hardly had anything to do with it, you know.’

‘Finishing touches. Without you, she’d have been nothing but a shadow. If I’d have gone into the church alone that day, do you suppose Connie could ever have really come to life? No.’

‘I suppose you never found out anything about that bath?’ ‘Never.’

‘I wish to God I could get an explanation of that.’

‘Oh, damn you and your bath! God alive, Henry we’re on to something–tremendous–something elemental–and you go on harping on baths–’

‘Go easy, old boy. I can’t bear the idea of Connie harping in her bath.’

He ordered another round of drinks.

‘Are you going to help me?’ I challenged. ‘Or are you afraid?’

‘Afraid? What do you mean?’

‘Destructive thought destroys. That’s what I mean.’

‘Enlarge on that, old son.’

I did so for a long time.

‘You see,’ I ended up, ‘this isn’t just a joke now. You and I have got to find some formula whereby we can convince ourselves and that fool sexton that Connie Hargreaves does not exist–just as we convinced him and us that she did exist. We’ve somehow got to get back to the state of mind we were in before we created her. You and I together, as before.’

‘It’s no good merely telling that squint chappie the truth,’ said Henry suddenly.

‘I’m glad you say that,’ I said. ‘Because I don’t think that’d be the slightest bit of good.’

‘We’ve got to know what we are going to do, haven’t we?’

‘Yes. And that’s what I don’t know–yet.’

Henry slowly drained his glass. He looked at me. He smiled suddenly. ‘What fools we are!’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Plotting and planning–like this. Tell me–did we plot and plan for hours before we created her?’

I saw daylight; I saw it as clear as you see it at four on a summer morning.

‘You mean–’ I cried. ‘Leave it–to the Spur of the Moment?’

Henry nodded and started to fill his pipe, spilling tobacco all over the table. I could tell he was excited.

‘This is what I reckon we must do,’ he said. ‘It’s just an idea. We must go to Lusk church and wait outside it as we did before. Simply that. No planning or plotting at all. She didn’t come into the world that way, and she mustn’t go out of the world that way. We don’t even want to talk about what we’re going to do any more. Just go there and–hope for the best.’

‘Or the worst,’ I said. But I could see his idea; it was a sound one.

‘We’d better go to-morrow,’ he said, ‘and put up at the hotel at Dungannon.’

‘I must see this concert through on Monday night.’

‘What the devil for?’

‘I don’t know. I–well, if it’s going to be the last time. I see her, I want to remember it. I can’t help it, Henry. Besides, she’s so looking forward to this concert. I couldn’t bear to spoil it for her.’

‘I call it damn dangerous.’

‘Perhaps it is. But I’m going to risk it.’

‘Tell me this, Norman’–Henry was knocking out the pipe he had just filled. I wondered why he was suddenly so worked up–‘tell me this. Can you remember the first actual moment when Miss Hargreaves came into your mind? Was it when you gave the sexton her name?’

I thought. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it was. I think she was in the back of my mind when we stood by the lectern and I madly said, “Dear Mr Archer”. I didn’t know she was there, if you get me; but I’m sure she must have been. In reserve, so to speak. The moment the sexton said, “You knew Mr Archer?” I said–do you remember–that I didn’t know him but that I knew somebody who did–’

‘I believe you said you’d heard a lot about him.’

‘Yes. Well. I knew then that I might have to create somebody who had known Mr Archer. She was in my mind then–only half visualized–but there right enough.’

‘Dear Mr Archer!’ murmured Henry. ‘So that was the dangerous moment?’

‘Yes. That was the dangerous moment.’

We were silent for a long time. Henry had completely forgotten his pipe now. I felt that there was something on his mind which he wouldn’t tell me.

‘My God!’ he said presently, ‘I don’t mind telling you that this business makes my flesh tingle.’

‘Round the back of your neck; up your spine. Yes.’

‘It’s like–murder, almost.’

‘It is murder.’

‘Don’t talk so loud, old boy, for God’s sake.’

‘No good calling it anything else,’ I whispered. ‘It’s murder. But if we don’t do it, then I might as well be dead.’

‘So might I,’ muttered Henry.

‘And another thing,’ I said. ‘This Major Wynne affair. She’ll get me locked up over that. But worse than that; she’ll ruin me, body and soul. I shan’t have one free moment. The situation’s reversed, don’t you see? And here’s another thing you may not have thought of. When she’s finished with me, she’ll start on you –’

Henry spluttered over his beer as though I had hit him on the back.

‘What’s bitten you?’ I asked. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: ‘Norman, old boy. I’ll own up. She has started on me. That’s why I rang up. To tell you God’s truth well, I’m scared.’

‘Henry tell me, what’s happened?’

‘Nothing much outwardly. She gets her petrol at our place, you know. Well, there’s nothing in that. But just lately, whenever she stops, she asks for me. She won’t rest unless I fill up for her. Gedge was starting to give her ten this morning when he comes round to me I was working on that old Sunbeam of Canon Auty’s and he says to me, “Mr Henry, Lady Hargreaves wants you to fill up her tank”.’

‘Did you go?’

‘Yes. And, do you know, she kept her eyes on me all the time. When I’d finished and was giving the chauffeur the change, she leant out and said to me, “Mr Beddow, I am thinking of buying another car. Will you be good enough to call and see me about it?”’

‘Oh–not much in that,’ I said.

‘Ho–wasn’t there! It was the way she said it, my boy; the walk-into-parlour way she said it.’

‘You know’–I suddenly remembered it–‘the other night when I was there, she asked for your name. She’d forgotten it.’

‘Well, something in her manner got me, Norman. I began to understand a bit of what you must have been through. And I felt a toad–

‘Don’t talk about it, Henry. You were a bit off-hand. But never mind. I know I’ve been a damn bore.’

‘The trouble is–’ He paused and hesitated. ‘Well, I like the old witch.’

‘That,’ I said, ‘is the trouble. We loved her from the start. And we shall go on loving her, whatever happens.’

‘But we’ve got to do this for her own good. That’s how I see it.’

Henry walked slowly to the bar and came back with two noggins of rum which he poured into our glasses.

‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘how we drank her health on the boat coming over?’

‘I said “Long may she live”. I meant it.’

‘Silly of us.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘If only we had known! And yet–’

We raised our glasses, looked at each other solemnly, and drank in silence.