Archery looked to the engraved words for confirmation.
Sacred to the Memory of
John Grace
Who departed This Life
February 16th, 1945
In the Twenty-First Year
of His Age
Go, Shepherd, to your rest;
Your tale is told.
The Lamb of God takes
Shepherds to his fold.
A pleasant, if not brilliant, conceit, Archery thought. It was apparently a quotation, but he didn't recognise it. He looked round as Imogen Ide approached. The leaf shadows played on her face and made a pattern on her hair so that it looked as if it was covered by a veil of lace.
"Are you reminding yourself of your mortality?" she asked him gravely.
"I suppose so. It's an interesting place."
"I'm glad to have had the opportunity of showing it to you. I'm very patriotic—if that's the word—about my county though it hasn't been mine for long."
He was certain she was going to offer herself as his guide on some future occasion and he said quickly: "My son is coming tomorrow. We'll have to explore together." She smiled politely. "He's twenty-one," he added rather fatuously.
Simultaneously their eyes turned to the inscription on the stone.
"I'm ready to go if you are," she said.
She dropped him outside the Olive and Dove. They said good-bye briskly and he noticed she said nothing about hoping to see him again. He didn't feel like tea and went straight upstairs. Without knowing why he took out the photograph he had of Painter's daughter. Looking at the picture, he wondered why he had thought her so lovely. She was just a pretty girl with the prettiness of youth. Yet while he looked he seemed to realise for the first time why Charles longed so passionately to possess her. It was a strange feeling and it had little to do with Tess, with Tess's appearance or with Charles. In a way it was a universal diffused empathy, but it was selfish too and it came from his heart rather than from his mind.
10
And if he hath not before disposed of his goods, let him be admonished to make his will ... for the better discharging of his conscience and the quietness of his executors.
"You don't seem to have got very far,' said Charles. He sat down in an armchair and surveyed the pleasant lounges. The maid who was operating a floor polisher thought him very handsome with his rather long fair hair and his scornful expression. She decided to give the lounge a more than usually thorough do. "The great thing is to be businesslike about it. We haven't got all that long. I start at the brewery on Monday week." Archery was rather nettled. His own parochial duties were being overlooked. "I'm sure there's something fishy about that fellow Primero, Roger Primero. I rang him up before I got here last night and I've got a date to see him this morning at half eleven." Archery looked at his watch. It was almost ten.
"You'd better get a move on, then. Where does he live?"
"You see? Now if I'd been in your shoes that's the first thing I'd have found out. He lives at Forby Hall. I suppose he fancies himself as the lord of the manor." He glanced at his father and said quickly, "Be all right if I have the car?"
"I suppose so. What are you going to tell him, Charles? He might have you thrown out."
"I don't think he will," Charles said thoughtfully. "I've found out a bit about him and it seems he's mad keen on publicity. Always trying to create an image. He hesitated, then added boldly, "I told him I was the top features man on the Sunday Planet and we were doing a series on tycoons. Rather good, don't you think?"
"It doesn't happen to be true," said Archery.
Charles said rapidly, "The end justifies the means. I thought I could put across a line about his early life being dogged by misfortune, father dying, grandmother murdered, no prospects—that sort of thing. And look at him now. You never know what will come out. He's supposed to be very forthcoming to the Press."
"We'd better go and get the car out."
It was as hot as ever, but more sultry. A thin mist covered the sun. Charles wore an open necked white shirt and rather tapering trousers. Archery thought he looked like a Regency duellist.
"You won't want to start yet," he said. "Forby's only about four miles away. Would you like to look round the place?"
They walked up to the High Street and over the Kingsbrook bridge. Archery was proud to have his son beside him. He knew they were very much alike but he didn't for a moment deceive himself they might be taken for brothers. The heavy muggy weather had brought on a twinge of lumbago and today he had utterly forgotten what it felt like to be twenty-one. "You're reading English," he said to Charles. "Tell me where this comes from." His memory hadn't begun to fail, at any rate. He was word perfect in the little verse. " 'Go, Shepherd, to your rest;
Your tale is told.
The lamb of God takes
Shepherds to his fold.' "
Charles shrugged. "Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't place it. Where did you see it?"
"On a gravestone in Forby churchyard."
"You really are the end, Father. I thought you wanted to help me and Tess and all you've been doing is messing about in cemeteries."
Archery controlled himself with difficulty. If Charles was going to take everything into his own hands there seemed no reason why he shouldn't just go back to Thringford. There was nothing to keep him in Kingsmarkham. He wondered why the prospect of returning to the vicarage seemed ineffably dull. Suddenly he stopped and nudged his son's arm.
"What's the matter?"
"That woman outside the butcher's, the one in the cape—it's that Mrs. Crilling I told you about. I'd rather not come face to face with her."
But it was too late. She had evidently seen them already, for with her cape flying, she came bearing down upon them like a galleon. "Mr. Archery! My dear friend!" She took both his hands in hers and swung them as if she were about to partner him in an eightsome reel. "What a lovely surprise! I was only saying to my daughter this morning, I do hope I shall see that dear man again so that I can thank him for ministering to me in my wretched affliction."
This was a new mood. She was like a dowager at a successful garden party. The cape was familiar but the dress she wore under it was an ordinary cotton frock, simple and dowdy, somewhat splashed with gravy stains on its front. She gave a broad, calm and gracious smile.
"This is my son, Charles," Archery muttered. "Charles, this is Mrs. Crilling."
To his surprise Charles took the outstretched, none-too-clean hand and half-bowed over it. "How do you do?" Over her head he gave his father an angry glance. "I've heard so much about you."
"Nice things, I hope." If it occurred to her that Archery had seen nothing nice about her to relate she gave no sign of it. She was quite sane, gay, even frivolous. "Now, don't refuse to gratify my little whim. I want you both to come into the Carousel and take a wee cup of coffee with me. My treat, of course," she added archly.
"Our time," said Charles grandiloquently—absurdly, Archery thought, "is quite at your disposal. Until eleven fifteen, that is. Don't let us discuss anything so absurd as treats in the company of a lady."
Evidently it was the right line to take with her. "Isn't he sweet?" she gurgled. They went into the cafe. "Children are such a blessing, don't you think? The crown of the tree of life. You must be proud of him, even though he quite puts you in the shade."