Hard upon this discovery, Gadberry found his own fright deepening. For a few moments it might even have been described as terror, so that it became his impulse to run for it – literally to run for it – here and now. He’d take to his heels through the snow until he found a railway-station, a bus, a friendly motorist willing to give him a lift – or, all else failing, just a frozen haystack into which he could burrow and hide.
He realised that this was panic. In fact it was quite strictly what used to be called panic in ancient Greece: a conviction that some supernatural power was coming after him. Of course this was nonsense, absolute nonsense. It must have been that damned cock that had done it. He recalled that the bird had affected him with a sense of horror he couldn’t account for. Perhaps he’d suffered a traumatic experience with a similar creature in some forgotten woodshed during his childhood.
Trudging doggedly on towards the Abbey – for he commonly discovered in himself some small emergency stock of resolution in extremity – he brought his mind back to Grimble. A mingling of fear and malevolence, he told himself, is precisely what you might expect in one who has dabbled in black magic once too often. It must be the typical emotional state, that was to say, of a man who has yielded to diabolical possession. To have passed wholly within the power of the Devil must be very frightening. It must also make one, in all one’s own impulses, very devilish indeed. That was it. The wretched Grimble was a man constrained by an external power to wickednesses that at once scared and attracted him.
That Gadberry should have come to entertain this highly coloured and Faustian vision of the Vicar of Bruton must appear surprising. Generally speaking, he owned a fairly rational mind. When he departed from the dictates of this – and in the present narrative he has undeniably been discovered as doing so – it was in the direction of behaviour which, if freakish, was yet enterprising and directed to quite reasonable ends: economic security and a recognised place in society. If his course of conduct had been one scarcely to be entered upon by a person of unimpaired moral perception, it had yet not been accompanied by any positive clouding of the intelligence. Yet here he now was, on the verge of believing himself involved in what old magazines would have called a Tale of the Supernatural. Walking towards Mr Grimble’s vicarage, he had known very well that certain tracks in the snow had been made by a running hare, and not a prowling Demon. Now he was not so sure.
The Abbey was before him. He stopped and stared at it broodingly. The vast and rambling house, half Gothic and half Gothicised; its peripheral ruins, culminating in a broken and ivied tower which was the chief fastnessm of the Bruton owls; the gardens which were mostly cavernous cypress alleys with here and there a marble statue like a petrified corpse; the fishpond, enormous and mysteriously deep, now frozen over but with here and there a hole driven through the ice for the benefit of the enormous and voracious pike lurking in it: all this must be in part at least responsible for the mediaeval turn which his speculations on Grimble had taken. And of course it was superstitious nonsense, he told himself once more. There must be some other explanation of the puzzle that the old creature presented.
What that explanation could be, Gadberry unfortunately didn’t tumble to.
THE PASSING OF NICHOLAS COMBERFORD
Gadberry’s sole companion at the breakfast-table was Miss Bostock. Fortunately it was the custom at the Abbey that Boulter’s principal assistant should be in attendance throughout this meal, and Gadberry was relying upon this to protect him from anything in the nature of renewed full-scale attack. As soon as breakfast was over he’d go out on another prowl, pay his proposed visit to Captain Fortescue, and get back just in time for the luncheon party at which, as Nicholas Comberford, he was going to blot his own copybook – cut his own throat, indeed – gloriously and for ever. Then he’d make his getaway. That Miss Bostock would subsequently denounce him as having been an impostor he continued to think highly doubtful. All the same, he’d do everything his ingenuity could suggest to leave a hopelessly broken trail behind him.
When he entered the breakfast-room, Miss Bostock, who had the air of having been up and about for some time, was accepting a second cup of coffee from the parlourmaid.
‘Good morning, Mr Comberford,’ she said, and helped herself to sugar.
‘Good morning, Miss Bostock. It looks like more snow, wouldn’t you say? But at least the gale has dropped. Later on, I hope a little sunshine may break through. We must expect bleak conditions in the next month or so, all the same. The Yorkshire Dales–’
‘Quite so.’ Miss Bostock had the appearance of proposing to acquiesce amiably in this chatty manner. ‘The kidneys are excellent, and this morning I have no criticism of the bacon. You must be hungry after your long tramp.’
‘Oh, decidedly.’ Gadberry poured thick cream over porridge which wasn’t at all like Mrs Lapin’s. He gave, in fact, an extra tilt to the jug. He was aware, as he did so, that this was an act of bravado. His appetite wasn’t really all that good. He had a suspicion that his inside was proposing to behave as it had been accustomed to do long ago on those three dread mornings in the year when he was due to return to his private school. This terminal phase in the life of Nicholas Comberford was being as nasty as – he supposed – death agonies commonly are.
‘How did you find the dear vicar?’
Thus challenged, Gadberry put down his spoon. Since he had taken so much cream, he even put it down with an awkward splash. Was it possible that this ghastly woman had been trailing him? He didn’t see how it could have been done – not across all that naked snow.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said easily. ‘I thought I’d just look in on old Grimble, in case last night should have been a bit too much for him. He must have had a chilly drive home. And the vicarage is none too warm and comfortable.’
‘No doubt you will be able to do something about that in future years. Evans, I think we shall need a little more toast.’
Evans provided more toast. This, fortunately, didn’t involve taking her out of the room. She also stirred the kidneys gently in their sauté dish and dealt expertly with the
filtre à café
. Gadberry watched her gloomily. These high-class ministrations no longer held any charm for him.
Were I from Dunsinane away and clear
, he was telling himself,
Profit again should hardly draw me here
.
‘Certainly one’s heart bleeds for Mr Grimble’s visitor,’ Miss Bostock said. ‘One can only hope he has brought a hot-water bottle.’
‘How on earth can you know–’ Gadberry checked himself. Miss Bostock’s talk had taken an alarming turn. It looked as if she had spies all over the place. But he himself ought, of course, to remain unperturbed.
‘I am a person of some observation, Mr Comberford. You must by this time have remarked the fact. And I am particularly fond of bird watching.’
‘Bird watching?’ Rather absurdly, Gadberry’s mind took a dive in the direction of Grimble’s black cock. Perhaps the woman was intimating that she knew about this too.
‘The Abbey tower is an admirable station for that sort of thing. Of course the climb is a little hazardous. But I don’t mind that. As you know, Mr Comberford, I have fairly strong nerves.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Gadberry’s own nerves were allowing him only to poke rather dubiously at the kidneys which Evans had now placed before him. ‘You mean you go up there with binoculars?’
‘Quite frequently. And I see what is to be seen. There is a very clear view of the vicarage. Not, of course, that it holds any particular interest for me. Mr Grimble has a hen-run, indeed. But domestic poultry scarcely engage the attention. You will no doubt agree with me there.’
‘I suppose so.’ Gadberry felt slightly dizzy. The woman
did
know about that black cock.
‘Vultures are another matter,’ Miss Bostock said.
‘
Vultures?
’
‘Hawks, of course – yes. I saw several when up on the tower earlier this morning. Local birds of prey are one thing. And they will do well to stick together.’ Miss Bostock took a quick glance at Evans, who had moved over to the fireplace to replenish the grate. ‘You and I are birds of a feather, are we not?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Even as he uttered these words, Gadberry was conscious of their pitifully feeble character. Before he could improve on them, however, Evans was back within hearing again.
‘Exotic predators are another matter. Vultures, for example, Mr Comberford. Mr Grimble has his ornithological interests, I think you will agree. But what if he should be harbouring a vulture? You and I might have to tell him he was making a great mistake.’
Gadberry almost repeated ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’. It would have been a remark at least having the merit of veracity. On the other hand, it would probably be a tactical mistake to admit ignorance at any point where he was not driven to it. So he said nothing at all.
‘I have to admit that I am ignorant,’ Miss Bostock said – so that Gadberry positively jumped. ‘I should like to help dear Mr Grimble to a better ordering of his affairs. I have a notion that he is a little
helpless
. You follow me? It would be well if we could rid him of – well, an
incubus
. Am I right?’
Gadberry had to admit that his breakfast was a shambles. He pushed away his kidneys, half consumed, and groped for a cigarette. An
incubus
was primarily a visitant from a supernatural world. Perhaps this was what Miss Bostock meant. Perhaps she was merely advancing the benevolent thought that the Vicar of Bruton should be disengaged from his injudicious implication with the infernal powers. Or perhaps she was talking about something different. It was already her line that she and Gadberry were fellow conspirators, and that Gadberry would attempt to break away from that only at his peril. Conceivably she had now become aware of some new threat from without, and was proposing that the two of them must close their ranks against this too.
‘What is required in bird watching,’ Miss Bostock said, ‘is patience. But there are times when I feel that rapid results are essential. When this happens, I appeal to fellow students. I admit my ignorance at once. I don’t pretend to know what is in fact obscure to me. I say “Tell me what you know, and I will undertake to make sense of it. I will undertake to bring our joint study-project to a successful conclusion.”’
‘Most interesting,’ Gadberry said. He had scrambled to his feet. ‘But I must be getting along. I’ve promised to go across and have a word with Fortescue.’
‘I could wish it was fortified with a better breakfast. But perhaps you are saving up for our interesting luncheon.’
‘Well, I am rather looking forward to that.’ As he said this, Gadberry allowed himself an injudicious grin. Miss Bostock’s sharp eyes narrowed on it, and she too got to her feet.
‘I hope,’ she said, ‘that the Shilbottles won’t be held up by more snow. Do you know, I think you and I might consult the barometer?’
Gadberry didn’t in the least want to consult the barometer. Nor, for that matter, did Miss Bostock. She was merely proposing a course that would take them through the cloisters and out of earshot of Evans. But Gadberry, despite his perception of this, followed her out of the room. It was craven, after all, positively to cower away from the woman.
‘By the way, are you a professional actor?’ Miss Bostock asked this, casually but suddenly, as soon as they were by themselves. ‘It has just come to me that you probably are.’
‘I’m not telling you anything about myself. I’ve said that before.’
‘Very well. I was going to inquire if you’d ever played in
Macbeth
. Perhaps as Third Murderer. Anyway, fail not our feast.’
‘What do you mean – our feast?’ Gadberry very much disliked this riddling talk.
‘The luncheon party we were talking of. Go off and see Fortescue, by all means. You’re going to have the whole management of the place on your hands, after all. And you won’t be wanted for this morning’s earlier engagement.’
‘Earlier engagement?’
‘I sometimes think you’re going to be a disastrously stupid confederate. The visit of Mr Middleweek, of course. As you are the principal beneficiary, you can’t be called on to act as a witness. I don’t know whether I can. But I hope at least to be present. I want to see with my own eyes those dotted lines signed on. The situation is then transformed. We can proceed.’
‘Proceed?’
‘You certainly are a fool. But about the Shilbottles. You will be civil to both girls indifferently, as the old woman suggested. There isn’t any
danger
, you know.’ Miss Bostock paused to glance at Gadberry sardonically. ‘Long before they can get you in even up to your ankles, the whole thing will be over.’
‘It certainly will. I’m going to–’
‘You’re going to do as you are told. And what you are to be told is extremely simple. It’s in
Macbeth
again.
Be bloody, bold, and resolute
. Either that, or leave it to me.’
Gadberry was struck dumb. He could think of nothing to say. Dimly through his head there passed the conjecture that Miss Bostock was as mad as nearly everybody else at Bruton. Perhaps she really saw herself in the character of the Thane of Cawdor’s fiend-like Queen.
The raven himself is hoarse… Unsex me here… Make thick my blood…
That sort of thing.
But they had reached the barometer. Miss Bostock – or Lady Macbeth – tapped it briskly and unnoticingly, and walked away.
A car drew up at the gatehouse as Gadberry plunged once more into the snow. There could be no doubt about whom it brought to the Abbey. This was Mr Middleweek, Aunt Prudence’s solicitor, and in his briefcase were the documents which, in Aunt Prudence’s word, were to be executed. The very word itself was somehow sinister. Gadberry had a confused feeling that, once the documents were executed, it mightn’t be long before he was executed himself. At least he could no longer pretend that he hadn’t a tolerably clear view of what was in the mind of Miss Bostock. When Mrs Minton signed her new will she would at the same time be signing her own death-warrant.