A Pocketful of Rye (14 page)

When it came to the Communion I bet myself the little pain in the neck wouldn't take it, he had been too long away from Confession. But he did, and the way he shut his eyes turned me over. Most of the congregation went up and as he passed up and down the rails with the patten I felt the corner of his eyes slanted towards me. What a hope! How long was it now since they caught me? Must be more than five years, since that Mission at Nottingham. I went in for a lark, to hear that Franciscan, Father Aloysius – they said he was dramatic, as good as Charles Laughton – and came out reconverted. I had kept it up, too, for a couple of months until I met that red-head North of Ireland nurse from the local hospital. She was a dandy too, except for that Belfast accent. For a bet she could crack glasses with it in the Sherwood Bar.

After the blessing I went out to the clean fresh air and waited for him. He did not keep me long, and came out spry and cheerful. I did not respond.

‘The Father was so anxious to meet you, Dr Laurence. D'you know he speaks four languages?'

‘Don't mix me up with that Pole. He needs money.'

‘Oh, yes, he's terribly poor. A big debt was made building the church. And now he's running things on practically nothing. That's why there's so little oil for the heating. I don't think he even gets enough to eat.'

‘That's his problem,' I said. ‘Mine is to get the
Sunday Telegraph.
We're going to the station.'

As we set off he said:

‘Did you see that wonderful carving on the wall?'

‘Only when I looked at it, which is something I avoid.'

‘Apparently it was done by a young sculptor who was ill in Davos.'

‘Then he died.' I shot at him. ‘The masterpiece was his last act.'

‘Oh, no. He got cured and is quite famous now. He has an exhibition in Vienna this year.'

‘Let's go,' I said. ‘I can't wait. Now come on and don't be so full of yourself.'

You couldn't shake him. He had about him a kind of glow. Was it due to these few extra red corpuscles he had managed to manufacture overnight? I doubted it.

We were at the kiosk and the Sunday papers were in, which gave me a slight lift. It made a dull day for me when they missed the connection at Zürich. I bought my
Telegraph
, without much palaver, and was turning away when he said:

‘Could you change me a half-crown into Swiss money, Dr Laurence?'

‘You have a half-crown?'

‘Naturally.' He smiled. ‘The old Canon gave it me before I left. And now we have snow I'd very much like to send him one of these pictures.' He pointed to a colour postcard of a big St Bernard and a pup, both with brandy flasks around their necks.

‘I'll give you fifty centimes for the card,' I said, thinking how often this old bag of bones came up between us. ‘You can bore a hole in the half-crown and wear it round your neck.'

I regretted that immediately I had said it. But he did not seem to mind.

‘It wouldn't be very spendable there. Besides, I already have a medal that he gave me.'

I bought the card and lent him my ballpoint. Although I was curious, I avoided looking at what he wrote since I felt he would show me the effusion, and he did.

Dear Very Reverend Canon
,
Your pupil and esteemed chess enemy sends you greetings from the Alps where in company of (scored out) with his pysician he has just passed through an avalansh, small but troublesome. These two St Bernards, the large with brandy for Dr Laurence, the small with lemonade for me, were fortunately not needed. I am very well today, but may be coming back soon. So beware of P to K4 with the Ruy Lopez opening.

‘Two mistakes in spelling,' was all I could say.

‘Yes, I'm an awful speller,' he agreed. ‘It's my Achilles' heel.'

Yet the effort was commendably neat, so I softened and bought him a stamp from Gina who, all through, had watched the proceedings with particular interest. I knew she would rib me mercilessly later.

‘You're quite attached to old Dingwall?' I said, as we walked off.

‘Oh, yes … closely,' he said seriously. ‘He's always been so kind to us, lately especially.'

‘After the … the accident?'

He nodded, expansively. ‘You know, Dr Laurence, it's something for a boy of my age to be, well, trusted by someone like Canon Dingwall.'

‘Who wouldn't be?' I said encouragingly. ‘Still…' I smiled. ‘ I don't quite see how he'd need to trust a little nipper like you.'

‘But he does.'

‘In what way?' I laughed.

‘To keep a secret.' This came out proudly, then his face closed down as though he had said too much.

‘I can't believe it.'

‘But it's true,' be persisted.

‘Then won't you let me into it?'

He kept silent, still with that shut expression, then he looked up at me.

‘I couldn't,' he said slowly, ‘ although I would like to very much. You see … you can't break the seal of confession.'

This was one out of the bag that I would never have dreamed of. But I couldn't push it too far. I had to drop it for the time being. I must wait for that report from the Levenford
Herald.
But I was not at all discouraged. Something queer, decidedly queer and more than decidedly suspicious lay beneath all this, well below the surface, deep down in fact, but sooner or later if I kept digging I would strike pay dirt. These, I reflected, not without satisfaction, might prove to be appropriate words.

We had reached the end of the platform before he spoke again.

‘I hope you're not offended?'

‘Oh, no,' I said, on just the right note of hurt reluctance. ‘I'd never want to come between Dingwall and you.'

Nothing more was said until we were outside the station, then he made an obvious effort to change the subject.

‘There's nothing else we can do, now we're in the village? I'm feeling so … sort of well. No chance of that game of chess?'

‘They'll all be out on a day like this,' I said. ‘But if you like we'll stop in at the Pfeffermühle for a drink.'

We did just that, stepping off the side road into the snug little dark-beamed Stube. As I had expected, it was empty. I gave him an apfelsaft and had an Eichberger. The place seemed to thrill him and when he saw the cups of the Chess Club, most of which had been won by Bemmel, the former schoolmaster, he made me promise to bring him back again. When he saw on the notice-board the name Schachklub, he gave out that brainy little yelp, prelude to the exposition of some special tit-bit of knowledge.

‘Schach! How very interesting, Dr Laurence. Don't you see, deriving directly from Shah. Of course chess too is a corruption of that word, though less obvious.'

‘What are you drivelling about?'

‘Chess was the Shah's special game and is believed to have originated in ancient Persia.'

‘You're kidding. It's as old as that?'

‘Terribly old, and royal. A favourite of ever so many kings, like Charlemagne and Harun-al-Raschid. Even King Canute played it.'

‘Wasn't he too busy with the waves?'

‘Far from it. There's a historical record of a game he played with a courtier named Earl Ulf, which he lost and got up in a rage knocking over the board. Oddly enough, two days later Earl Ulf was mysteriously murdered.'

He looked so serious I burst out laughing and, after a shocked moment, he joined me. We both laughed our heads off over the end of Ulf.

Strangely enough, my mood had mellowed, not entirely due to the good beer. Things were beginning to work well for me. And I did not mind young Davigan showing off in this sort of atmosphere, I was getting used to him, in fact I almost liked him. All the way home he talked his head off. Even when we got back after one o'clock he couldn't keep his trap shut. They were both waiting for us, Davigan and the Matron, and the soup tureen was on the table.

‘You are late, Herr Doktor.' Hulda made meaningful play with the watch that was always pinned on to her left protuberance.

‘You must forgive us, Matron,' the kid yodelled. ‘ We've had such a nice time and we stopped for a drink at the Pfeffermühle.'

You could almost see Hulda's hair rise. The widow was giving me a nasty look.

‘Ach so, the Pfeffermühle. That is
kein Platz
for Sonntag. And to take the leetle boy.'

‘What is it?' said Davigan.

‘A low drink place for low peoples.'

All the rungs I had made on the ladder slipped away from me. I was down, with a bump.

The
Mittagessen
began and ended in silence. They had ganged up on me again. Never mind, Carroll, your time will come. And soon.

The british postal services have neither the speed nor the accuracy of the Swiss, and the response to my letter to the Levenford
Herald
did not arrive until Thursday morning of the following week. But it was more than worth the delay. The
Herald
had splashed the inquiry on the front page and besides a full report of the proceedings had added a special article on the legal aspects of the case which I found particularly illuminating.

Naturally, I devoured that worthy paper, even letting my coffee cool, in my haste to get to the meat of the news. Then I read everything with extreme care, and with a growing interest and satisfaction. This was all I needed, had hoped for, had indeed expected. I lit up an Abdulla and took a long, deep aromatic breath. What a beautiful day! – the sun shone into my little sitting-room, a mavis was whistling outside my window, all was well with the world of the Hon. L. Carroll.

During the forenoon I was bright, cheerful, and in no hurry. The Davigan had been so beastly to me lately, anticipation became a greater pleasure. I chose the appropriate moment with due care and circumspection. I waited until after the
Mittagessen
when Matron, always a heavy eater, took her usual cat-nap in her room. The brains trust, well wrapped, was stowed away on the far, sunny side of the terrace. From my window I saw Davigan cross to the chalet. I gave her ten minutes then took a leisurely stroll over.

There had been heavy rain during the week, clearing away much of the snow, and the lower pastures were green again, sappy with verdure. The cows, turned out for a brief spell, were jangling around nosing each other skittishly and cropping the succulent grass like mad. From the rain-swollen valley below came the soothing hum of the distant waterfall. In the Spring there would be trout in that deep pool. I liked it all better than before, and soon it would safely be mine again.

I tapped on the chalet door, waited. There was no answer. I stepped in and at once, as she had not heard me, I had a fair uncensored view of her.

She was in the little kitchen behind the living-room, with the sleeves of her blouse rolled up, ironing some of Daniel's shirts and, if you can believe it, singing. I had never heard her sing before and she hadn't a bad voice either. Ninety-nine per cent of Scottish songs are sad, filled with broken trysts, absconded lovers, drowned miller's daughters, or downright laments choked up with sentimental longings for the isles, lochs, hills and heather that make up most of that poor bleeding neglected orphan of a country. But this was one of the happy songs and she sang it happily. Yes, I could see that she was happy, fancying herself nicely dug in, and with no real idea of the boy's illness. From the first she had never believed a word I had told her, and the ever-loving Hulda had considerately kept back the worst of the bad news.

‘Speed bonny boat like a bird on the wing?

She paused for a minute to change the iron. In that kitchen we had no electric iron switch and she was heating them on the stove. Once it was in the shield she put out a neat little spit and saw it sizzle off. I liked that neat little spit – it was human, but it wouldn't get her off the hook. Satisfied, she resumed the ironing and the song.

‘Over the sea to Skye.
Carry the lad that is born to he king.'

Believe it or not, although I have just panned them, I am a sucker for these old Scots ballads, perhaps it is my Bruce blood responding.

They soften me up. It was time for me to go in, before I started to hum an accompaniment.

The instant I appeared she gave a slight start and stopped the song, but went on with the ironing. After a moment, not looking up, she said:

‘Well, Carroll, what are you selling today? A cheap line in smutty postcards?'

‘No,' I said. ‘But I'll see what I can do for you if you're interested.'

‘I'm not. And I'm busy. So let's have it.'

‘It's nothing of importance,' I said easily. ‘But somebody seems to have sent me this.'

And I handed her the Levenford
Herald.

Now she did stop. She put the iron on the stand and, as she saw the date, her face changed. The colour drained out of it.

‘Sent you?' she said. ‘ The Davigans … they'll never let me be … but they don't know I'm here.' Her brows suddenly drew together. ‘No, of course … You … you wrote for it.'

‘I will admit to a little natural curiosity,' I said, shrugging it off. ‘I was naturally interested in my old friend's accident, and you were so reticent I thought I'd go to the fountain head.'

‘The fountain head! And your old friend! Carroll, you'll make me die laughing.'

‘I hope not. At least not until we've had a little chat. Now I'm no expert on Scots law, but from this worthy paper I learn that it was the Procurator Fiscal, instructed by the police, who petitioned the Sheriff to hold the Public Inquiry.'

She pushed back a strand of hair from her forehead, disconcerted by this approach. I parked on a convenient chair and went on.

‘The Sheriff then granted the petition, witnesses were cited at the notice of the Procurator Fiscal and the Inquiry was held by the Sheriff and a Jury of seven, relatives of the deceased being entitled to be represented by a solicitor.'