“Nature I loved, and after Nature, Art…” murmured Ramona like an incantation.
“Eh?” said her client, a plump and comely farmer’s daughter called Lily.
Ramona pulled herself together. “I can see,” she began, and then stopped. The usual patter about the handsome young man and the short journey simply would not come. It stuck in her throat. Suddenly it seemed to Ramona that everything went dark, like blood, before her eyes. Only the mesmeric surface of the shining bowl grew brighter, compelling attention, and in the shimmering brightness she seemed to see a face. She heard her own voice saying, “Dark — dark — dark and fair — dark and light — he brings the darkness — there is darkness in the light — there are people — I see people — many people…”
“Eh?” said Lily again. She had heard people say that Lady Manciple was a little touched, and she was beginning to think it an understatement.
“Evil,” moaned Lady Manciple, “coming nearer — darkness — people — people are coming — ”
“I can hear a funny noise, now you mention it,” said Lily, “like people running.”
Ramona stood up, her eyes wild, “Fly!” she cried, “Fly from the evil! Fly from…”
She got no further. Neither she nor Lily had time to act on this very sensible advice, for the mob was upon them. The tent, of course, never had a chance. Frank Mason’s entry ripped the flap from its moorings; Violet tripped over a guy rope and uprooted one peg; and the whole thing collapsed with a certain slow grace. The darkness, as Ramona had prophesied, descended.
It took a considerable time to disentangle the tent from its occupants. Lily, who had jumped to the not unreasonable conclusion that the end of the world had come, was having hysterics somewhere beneath the canvas folds. Another part of the wreckage, which was behaving like an active and blasphemous sack of potatoes, was Frank Mason. The guy rope had brought Violet down, and she was now sitting, rubbing her ankle, on what appeared to be a comfortable cushion covered in canvas. It was, in fact, Ramona.
Sir Claud was shouting for his wife. He had given up all thoughts of rational and predictable behavior by now and was solely concerned with getting out of the Fête alive. As for the crowd, it had swelled to include virtually everyone left within the grounds of Cregwell Grange. Only those privileged few who had been in on the affair from the beginning had even the haziest idea of what it was all about. Rumor ran riot. They were chasing a dangerous burglar. Young Mr. Mason had gone off his head and attacked Sir Claud. Something was on fire. The Communists were at the bottom of it. Somebody had been shot — the sound of firing from the range reinforced this theory. Mrs. Richards was tearfully begging the Vicar to intervene, and the Reverend Herbert Dishforth advanced — all hundred and fifty-one pounds and six ounces of him — to take part in the affray.
“Er — is something wrong, Mrs. Manciple?” he inquired.
“Where’s Ramona?” shouted Sir Claud.
“Oh, Vicar,” Violet began woefully.
“Somebody,” said a deep, clear voice from beneath her, “is sitting on me.”
Violet jumped up as though stung.
“Ramona!” yelled Claud. “Speak to me!”
“Get me out of this bloody tent!” bellowed Frank.
“Help!” screamed Lily.
“Get my wife out of there, Violet!”
“Who the hell are you?” came a muffled roar from Frank.
It was answered by Lily’s shrill, “Take your hands off of me!”
The tent appeared to undergo some sort of convulsive fit. At the end of it, Lady Manciple emerged. Her hair was tangled and her dress torn and she had lost one earring, but she was surprisingly serene. She got to her feet with her husband’s help, and said, “I have just had the most extraordinary experience, Claud.”
“I can see that,” said Sir Claud grimly. “Come out of there, young Mason. I want a word with you.”
The tent heaved again. From beneath it Lily giggled and cried, “Oh, you are a one!” She seemed to have made a rapid reappraisal of the situation and decided that the world had not ended for the time being. Perhaps fortunately, all that could be heard of Frank Mason’s reply was an urgent demand to “Get out of my way, damn you, you…” The rest was inaudible.
Ramona said calmly, “A spiritual experience, Claud. In the light of it, I shall have to reconsider my whole attitude to psychic phenomena. What a pity Aunt Dora could not be with us.”
Mason emerged from the wreckage of the tent like a cork from a champagne bottle. His appearance had not been improved by his most recent experience. Mingled with the bran was now a quantity of mud, and several cabbalistic signs in colored paper adhered to various parts of his person. Addressing Ramona, he said, “Where’s my book?”
“Your what, Mr. Mason?”
“My book! My book! The one you bought from the jumble booth! The leather-bound…”
“Oh, the book from the Manciple library? That’s not your book, Mr. Mason.” Ramona sounded perfectly calm.
“It damn well is. It’s from my father’s library. He bought it, and it was his, and now it’s mine, and I want it.”
“I bought it,” Ramona corrected him gently, “from the jumble booth.”
“It shouldn’t have been there. It was all a mistake…”
“In any case,” Lady Manciple went on, “I haven’t got it any more.”
“What d’you mean, you haven’t got it?”
“Julian has it. He came to visit me in my tent, saw the book, and took it away with him. I don’t know why he seemed so interested in it.”
Mason let out a howl of fury. “Let me get at him! Where is he? Where is he?”
As if in answer, a shot rang out from the range, and the Vicar said, “I saw Mr. Manning-Richards making his way toward the shooting range not many minutes ago. I think he must be there with Major Manciple and the Bishop.”
Once again there was a moment of silence, of scenting and pointing, as all heads turned toward the privet hedge. And then the pack was off.
***
There were several quiet men in the car with Henry, and they all looked grave, not to say grim. They also looked curiously alike, one to the other, as impersonal as Erinyes, and as implacable. Henry sat miserably in the driving seat, wishing himself a thousand miles away.
He said, “There’s a Village Fête going on in the grounds, as I told you. I think we should be able to get him without attracting too much attention.” The quiet men remained quiet. “I’d be grateful,” said Henry, “if you could do this with as little — as little fuss as possible. It’ll be bad enough for the Manciples, without…”
Again the silence. At last one quiet man said, “The girl will have to be thoroughly investigated. You understand that, Tibbett?”