“Oh.” Ellis’s eyes opened wide. “Matt would lend, would he?”
“Some books—to some people—but always for a stipulated time. If you said you wanted a book for a day, or two days, or a week, then you had to bring it back punctually at the end of that time, or there was trouble. I had promised to bring the book back yesterday, and, as I was going to pass the house, I took the opportunity to leave it in on my way.”
“Why,” asked Ellis softly, “did you not leave it there in the morning, when you were passing the house with Mrs. Rattray?”
Rattray’s flush, which had been fading, deepened.
“You forgot it, perhaps?” Ellis prompted him. “You hadn’t it with you?”
“No,” Rattray said. “I had not forgotten, and I had the book with me. I—— It sounds foolish, I know; almost incredible, perhaps. But Mrs. Rattray has not been very well these last few days, and, when she is like that, she gets foolish fancies. She doesn’t like me to take her into the Baildons’ place.”
“Why?”
Rattray raised his brows.
“I can’t tell you, I’m sure. Once she heard Mr. Baildon screaming in one of his rages, and that was very painful to her. Her hearing is abnormally sensitive. It may have been that. More probably, there was no rational basis. So often, there is none. At any rate, she wouldn’t let me wheel her in; and, when I went to put her chair by the gate, and go in alone, she became frightened and said that I must not leave her. So I had no choice but to obey, and bring the book up again in the afternoon.”
“She doesn’t mind being left at home?”
“There is always someone with her. I never leave her otherwise. Either it is the girl from next door, or the woman who does the house, or another neighbour. Mrs. Rattray is never alone in the house.”
Ellis regarded him with speculative eye.
“Did you give the book back to Mr. Baildon?”
Rattray stumbled in his speech and swallowed, shaking his head in his haste to deny this.
“I left it on the table just inside the door. I did not see Mr. Baildon at all.”
“I can understand that one wouldn’t exactly seek an interview with him. What book was it, by the way?”
“The Cruise of the Cachalot, by Bullen.”
“Good book. First edition?”
“Yes. In mint condition.”
“Anyone see you on your way in or out?”
“No one. Wait—yes. There was, I think, someone in the road when I came out.”
“Anyone you knew?”
“No.”
“You didn’t see Mrs. Baildon? Or Joan?”
“No. I just went straight in and out again.”
“When would this have been?”
“I can’t say, within a few minutes. I think I left home soon after three. Yes. That would be it. The girl came in about three.”
“Right, Mr. Rattray.” Ellis got up. “That’s all for now. We shall be in again soon, I expect.”
“Any help I can give, at any time,” Rattray assured him earnestly. “I’ll be only too glad. I feel convinced, you know, that you will find the whole thing was an accident.”
“It would be much simpler for all of us, wouldn’t it?” They walked up together towards the house. “What splendid lupins. Do you do anything special for them, or is it just the soil?”
“I tend them carefully; but I haven’t given them any special fertiliser, if that is what you mean.”
“Wonderful. Wonderful. You must have a green thumb. Well—here we are, Mrs. Rattray! Thank you for lending your husband to us all this time. We won’t keep him from you any longer. You must so seldom get him all to yourself for a whole day.”
“Yes, indeed.” She responded at once to the warmth of his voice, with a moue of self pity. “He’s out so much. And in the evenings, too.”
“In the evenings. Well, welclass="underline" that is hard, Mrs. Rattray. But then, you know, he’s such an important man here. So much depends on him.”
“Yes.” Her voice was a faint wail. “Three nights a week. Till ten o’clock.”
“Ah well. One of the penalties of marrying such a useful and popular man. At all events, Mrs. Rattray, we won’t steal any more of your time. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” she said. Gilkison, taking his leave, saw the momentary animation fade from her face.
The schoolmaster walked them to the gate.
“Well,” Ellis assured him, “we’ll be meeting again. Any chance of seeing you at the Plume of Feathers? Or do you give pubs a miss?”
“Not at all. I take a glass of cider every now and then. I’m not at all narrow-minded. I find, too, one can have far more influence with the men if one does not hold aloof from their pleasures and pastimes. And exercise, too, perhaps, a restraining influence at times.”
“Good. Well, if you’ve nothing better to do any time, look us up. We’ll be there most evenings.”
“My evenings are rather mortgaged.” Rattray smiled wanly, and inclined his head towards the house. “But we will meet soon, I hope. Good day. Good day, Mr. Gilkison.”
He gave each of them the same vigorous handshake, then turned and strode manfully back to his wife.
“Well”—Ellis let out a long breath—“what do you make of that?”
“Wouldn’t it perhaps save time if you gave your opinion? I notice you only use mine in order to correct it.”
“Inaccurate, Gilk. Not so at all. But never mind.”
A stone lay in the road. Ellis kicked it neatly into the ditch.
“That man,” he pronounced, “is in a hell of a funk about something. Talking to him was like a doctor sounding a sore abdomen. The whole thing’s tense and alert: the fingers go about, prodding, until the patient winces. ‘Sore just there, eh?’ Prod about some more. ‘There too, eh?’ And again. And all the time the patient keeps saying with a hollow ring in his voice that he’s sure there’s nothing wrong really, and it’s only a trifle, isn’t it, doctor, and he’ll be all right the next day.”
“Very apt,” Gilkison commented drily. “Only I didn’t notice very much collaboration on the patient’s part.”
“You know, Gilk, as I’ve often said, you’re nothing like the fool you let on to be. Oh, all right, all right. The general impression which you give is misleading. There—is that better? And now, if you’ve done sparring, we’ll get back to business. Shut up. I know you didn’t. Good God, man, I don’t have to wait for you to put your thoughts into words.”
“I admit it is much more convenient for you to invent them. Then you have some chance of providing an answer.”
“Rattray,” Ellis said, “has something on his conscience. That’s the general bellyache. Did you observe the sensitive spots? Did you see how he shied off and his foot stopped tapping when we got on to Joan? And t’other wench? No likee proddee. Now—just what’s up, I wonder?”
Knowing no answer was required, Gilkison said nothing.
“Nothing specific, perhaps. A man who is obviously vigorous and healthy and a prig and a bit of a flesh-mortifier, and married to that poor wretched scrap of human wreckage—he might well be in a state of tension, and tighten up at the mention of any girl, particularly a girl he knew. There’s always the risk of reading too much into a symptom. We’re too apt to find the sort of thing we’re looking for. I’ve seen chaps in a situation like Rattray’s madly jumpy over nothing but the general strain of it. All the same, I think there’s more to this bloke. I have the feeling there is something specific here. He’s worried about a definite thing, wouldn’t you say?”
“I should have thought so, certainly.”
“You get that artificial, pumped-up manner with lots of ’em when they’re not sure of themselves. Plummy voice, false emphasis, heartiness, and so on. He’s married above him, socially, and in a village I dare say that still matters.”