Gilkison was making enquiries of a porter.
“Come on,” he said. “The train hasn’t gone yet. Here—keep that infernal thing to yourself. What in heaven’s name did you want to bring that easel for?”
“Always bring everything. Never know what you may want. But you haven’t told me about our fellow-travellers. Did they pour out their hearts?”
“They were likely to, after your saying I was a policeman, weren’t they?”
“You think it put them off? Surely not. People talk to me all right.”
“Before they know what you are. Not after.”
They climbed into the small local train, where they had a compartment to themselves. Ellis flung himself back in the seat.
“Don’t go to sleep again,” Gilkison admonished him. “It’s only twenty minutes’ run.”
“I’m short of a good twenty hours.”
“You’ll get plenty to-night.”
“That’ll only put me back to normal.”
He closed his eyes, but did not sleep. The train joggled along through placid fields and wooded valleys, stopping every few minutes at stations where nobody seemed to get in or out.
“This train walks in its sleep,” Ellis observed. “Lord! Are we there?”
The station at West Nattering has nothing to distinguish it from a thousand of its kind, but in the afternoon sunlight it looked well enough. Declining the services of an aged porter, Gilkison led the way outside. The porter, pulling himself together, followed and apologetically took their tickets. A decrepit taxi was standing in the sun. After some difficulty, Gilkison succeeded in rousing its driver, and demanded to be driven to the Plume of Feathers. Ellis took no part in these proceedings, looking about him and snapping his fingers in satisfaction.
The drive was not long, and they were soon decanted into the cool porch of the inn. Gilkison paid the driver, and went inside to the office, whence Ellis heard his clipped tones and a soft answering murmur. He stepped outside, and stood sunning himself. A cat picked its way across the road, fastidiously, as though a puddle threatened each step.
As Ellis stood, blinking and stretching himself, a burly man pushed past him and went sharply off to the right, Ellis’s trained senses took in his appearance, his well-pressed clothes, and the fact that he seemed to be in a hurry: but he paid the man no conscious attention. The sun poured down in almost solid warmth. He could feel its weight upon his upturned face. Hens were clucking lazily somewhere at the back. The peace of a Devon village: Ellis thought of his free days ahead, and purred with pleasure. This had happened well. He was glad he had come.
Then he was aware of Gilkison standing beside him, staring after the man who had gone up the road.
“That’s odd,” Gilkison said. “Did you see who that was?”
“No.”
“That was our friend Josh Nelder.”
“What—of Cuffe Street? The bookseller?”
“You could call him a bookseller; though booksellers wouldn’t like it.”
“Touchy lot, booksellers.”
“What can he be up to? There’s only one thing to bring any one who has to do with books down here; and that’s Matt Baildon.”
“Has no one else a book?”
“Nothing to interest Josh.”
“Perhaps he’s here in one of his other capacities.”
“Surely the old devil can’t have written to him too.”
“That’s it,” suggested Ellis happily. “He’s written to every bookseller in the kingdom. Twenty-five will arrive on the next train, and a further forty by the midnight. He’ll make you all bid against each other.”
“Matt isn’t selling.” Gilkison had learned to extract from Ellis’s utterances any sense they contained. “I only wish he were.”
“He may not sell to you. As I told you, you lack the human touch. Too self-centred. Josh may be more successful.”
“Josh has a very different sort of touch, certainly.” Gilkison bit his nails. “Look here. D’you mind if we go and call on old Matt this evening, after all?”
“Weren’t we going to, anyway?”
“No. Our appointment’s for to-morrow morning. I can make an excuse, and say I wanted to introduce you, and ask if you might come too.”
“You seem scared of the estimable Mr. Baildon.”
“A crusty, curmudgeonly, miserly old ruffian. But he does love books. When it’s to do with books, he’s almost human.”
“The sooner we meet this paragon, the better. But—I warn you—I must have my tea first.”
“Your dishwater, you mean.”
Gilkison led the way in, and rang the bell. A remote and rusty jangling was heard, and presently a young girl came in to answer it.
“Tea for two, please. And a great deal of hot water. This gentleman likes his tea very weak. And brown bread and butter, and marmalade.”
“I don’t know ’bout the marmalade, sir. I’ll ask.”
“If you can,” Ellis said, with an enormous smile. The girl withdrew in confusion.
“Disgusting,” Gilkison said severely.
CHAPTER THREE
A square, uncompromising box of a house, Matthew Baildon’s stood a little way back from the main road, protected by a crop of singularly hideous trees. The catch of the blistered gate was broken, and had been replaced by a loop of wire. The short drive was untidy and weed-grown, and the whole house much in need of paint.
“Doesn’t spend much on appearances,” Ellis remarked.
“All goes on books.”
“Any family?”
“Wife and daughter. They have a tough time of it, I should think.”
The Baildon bell-pull was one worse than the one at the Plume of Feathers. Of the same pattern, it didn’t work at all. Gilkison was nervously preparing to knock, when Ellis reached past him and beat an outrageous tattoo with his knuckles.
“Sssh!” Gilkison hissed.
The noise was certainly effective. An old man’s voice creaked testily inside; there was a subdued answer; a pause; soft footsteps, as if some one were hurrying out of sight; another pause; more footsteps, and a hand at the door.
The door opened, and a woman stood against a background of almost total darkness. In the still bright sunlight, she had the pallor and clarity of an apparition.
For a moment she did not see them clearly against the light. Then, as Gilkison smiled and introduced himself, it seemed to Ellis that a spasm of terror agitated her face. It was gone, a shiver only, as the face relaxed into a conventional smile: but he could swear it had been real.
“Why, of course, ’tis Mr. Gilkison. How do you do, then.”
“This is a friend of mine, Mr. McKay. He is an expert on the literature of the ’nineties, and I’ve taken the liberty of bringing him along to introduce him to Mr. Baildon.”
A look of doubt came over Mrs. Baildon’s long, smooth face. “I don’t think—how do you do, Mr. McKay—I don’t think he was expecting you till to-morrow.”
“I know he isn’t.” Gilkison was at his most charming. “That’s why I’ve brought Mr. McKay along now, to know if I might bring him with me to-morrow.” He raised his voice, as a querulous call sounded down the passage. “His opinion will be of the greatest value to me.”
As Mrs. Baildon hesitated, the noise off became articulate.
“Annie! Annie, I say.”
She looked at them with an apologetic, hunted expression, backed a step or two, and called back over her shoulder.
“Yes, Matthew?”
“Come yer w’en I calls ’ee. I can’t go scritchin’ me guts out.”
She gave the visitors another glance of apology, and went in further.