Heavy as Lead (Timothy Herring) Page 2

  “I am told, Timothy dear,” said his hostess, “that you are about to re-roof Tutankhamen’s tomb with old iron.”

  “ ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

  Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair,’ ”

  Timothy responded, lifting his glass to her.

  “No, but, really, Tim, is there any truth in this story that the last Phisbe man who went there died an unnatural death?”

  “Are we referring to Tutankhamen’s tomb?”

  “Don’t be silly! You know I’m talking about Parsons Pleasure.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be. It’s not a ladylike subject.”

  “I . . . you idiot! You know what I mean.”

  “Perish the thought! I wouldn’t venture to know what you mean.”

  “Well, this village you’re going to look at. What about it?”

  “That is what I have to find out. Parsons Purity is its name, and it seems to be spelt without any apostrophe S, if you are interested.”

  “So you don’t know whether it refers to one or more parsons?”

  “It’s probably a corruption of Persons Parity, you know. A throw-back to those dear old democratic days when Adam delved and Eve span.”

  “Spun . . . and stop being silly!”

  “No, no! It had to rhyme with, ‘Who was then the gentleman?’ Of course, they may have pronounced it ‘gentlemun.’ Anyway, I’m not being silly. It takes brains to be silly, nowadays. Ask any successful clown.”

  On the following morning Timothy set off in his car. In his brief-case he carried the letter of complaint from Mrs. Stretton, an official letter signed by the president of Phisbe, a sketching block and an Ordnance Survey map, and along with these and other tools of his trade, three well-thumbed books. What Happens in Hamlet, by John Dover Wilson, John Macnab—John Buchan’s best story, Timothy thought—and the collected ghost stories of M. R. James.

  Fellowby had stayed at the nearest inn to Parsons Purity. It faced the market square in the town of Cranthorne Minster, occupying most of the south side. Shops and a branch of Barclay’s Bank were on the west, more shops were on the north side, and the ancient minster church was tucked away behind an auctioneer’s and a row of shops on the east, and was reached from the square by a narrow road which fronted a small public house and a Woolworth store.

  Upon arriving at the inn, which, by virtue of possessing five bedrooms and a bathroom, dignified itself by the name of the Nesting Pheasant Hotel, Timothy clocked in at the desk, was shown to his room, washed, and went down to the bar. It was furnished with three long tables in front of a wooden settle which ran the whole length of the room. Half-a-dozen high stools stood at the counter. On the walls were a set of prints depicting some members of dragoon regiments from 1775 onwards and, in glass cases at the far end, were two well-worn military uniforms, one for an officer of the 14th Hussars in South Africa service dress of the year 1900 and the other for a sergeant of the 11th in 1904. A coloured portrait of Sir Winston Churchill dominated the partition behind the bar, and a faded photograph of the local cricket team, surmounted by a County cap (presumably an accolade bestowed in times past upon the landlord or his father) was hanging in a place of honour below the portrait. A tortoiseshell cat lay asleep on an end of the counter beside a hideous yellow vase. This vase contained some of the finest dahlias Timothy had ever seen. He ordered a drink and commented admiringly upon the flowers.

  “Ah,” said the barman, “Mr. Ashford brings ’em in once a week for the gov’nor’s missus. Won prizes with dahlias three year running at the flower show at Parsons Purity.”

  “Parsons Purity?” said Timothy. “Isn’t that the place where they’ve got a nice little old church?”

  “Maybe,” said an old man standing beside him. “Most of the villages roundabout here have a nice little old church. What you want to see is our minster. Stood these eight hundred and fifty year, our minster have, ah, and like to stand till Doomsday if us don’t have they atom bombs. You don’t want to waste time with village churches when you got our minster just acrost the way.”

  “Now I,” said a man on a stool at the end of the counter, “don’t go so much for dahlias. What I say is, why not a rock garden? In a rock garden you get variety. And variety, so I hear say, is the spice of life.”

  “Rock gardens? I wouldn’t be bothered with ’em,” said a man seated at one of the long tables. “Fiddly, that’s what they be. Roses, now! You’ve got something when you’ve planted a nice rose bed. What’s more, roses beant no trouble, no trouble whatever. Why, seven year ago it would be . . .”

  “All up the minster paths,” said the old man, pursuing a subject which seemed to be the uppermost one in his mind, “be Queen Elizabeth, and a lovely rose that is. Look really nice, do our Queen Elizabeth, and the setting’s right, too. The minster being grey—all the stone being grey, and the graves and such—well, there you are. Pink, you see. Pink against the grey stone. You don’t want to go wasting your time with village churches when you got our minster. Eight hundred and fifty year old, and as solid as when it was built. So long, Bob. See you tomorrow. Good day, all.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Timothy, when the swing door had closed behind the old man.

  “Elias Bagge, and an old windbag he is,” said the barman. “We’re all proud of the minster. Brings visitors to the place. But with him, well, he’s fanatical. Don’t you, whatever you do, sir, let him invygle you down to the crypt, or up to what he calls the archives. He’ll keep you there an hour or more, and gassing away all the time like it belonged to him personal. Still, there’s no harm in him that I know of, beyond being a right old belly-ache when he gets on to the subject of his wrongs. We was lucky today, I reckon.”

  “Well, his wife was run down and killed last year,” said the rock gardener. “Anybody could be excused for bellyaching about that.”

  “Might be a rare bit of luck for some people,” said the rose-grower darkly, “But he’s right about Queen Elizabeth. I recommended it to ’em special and got the price knocked down, too. Mind you, I prefers a bit of yellow, myself. Old Gold, now. That’s a beautiful rose. Keeps its colour right through the blooming, which some yellows, I’m bound to say, don’t. Hullo, hullo!” he added, in a low and guarded tone, as a tall, thin, middle-aged man in tweeds came into the bar. “Look who’s here!”

  From the way in which the men at the counter moved aside to give the newcomer room, Timothy concluded that he was either disliked or was a person of importance, or, possibly, both. He himself remained where he was and finished his pint, while the newcomer ordered stout. Then the conversation, which had lapsed for a moment, went on.

  “Peace, that’s a nice rose for you,” said the rose-fancier. “Easy to grow, don’t want much pruning, big flowers and plenty of ’em, pretty colour, good growth in the foliage—the lot.”

  “Grammer Jenny is a better rose nor Peace,” said a man in gaiters.

  “T’other or which. Same stock. Jenny’s newer, that’s all.”

  “I still say a rock garden is the best to have, and in these parts the stone is easy enough to come by. Just go along to the quarry and help yourself when they finished work for the night. Nobody misses a few good chunks, and there’s always plenty laying around.”

  “Ah, plenty. Enough to bash people’s heads in with, too,” said the rose-grower. “Anyway, that’s ancient history. Now, with roses . . .’

  “Well, all right, then. What’s to stop you having roses on a rock garden?” interrupted the enthusiast. “Have to be dwarf ones, of course, but they’re quite as pretty as the real thing—a sight prettier, in my opinion. Why, on mine I’ve got red, pink, yellow, and white. Fairy roses my little girl calls ’em.”

  “She’s not far out, at that,” said an elderly man in a grey suit, who, so far, had not spoken. “The first of the miniature roses was Rosa rouletti, originally from China, and it was nicknamed the Fairy Rose because of its size. It is not, however, in my opinion—and I am supported by no less an authority than Mrs. Anna N. Griffith—it is not an entirely happy addition to a rock garden. It does not seem in the right society there. If you must put a rose in a rock garden, the only really permissible specimen is the dwarf form of Rosa pendulina, Elliott’s variety.”

  “How’s that, then, sir?” asked the barman, as nobody else seemed prepared to make a remark.

  “It comes from the Alps.” The grey-suited elderly man finished his whisky, nodded to the company and walked out through the swing door which opened on to a passage leading to the lounge and the dining-room.

  “Who was that?” asked Timothy.

  “Mr. Gerald Manciple. Got a big house just outside the town. Don’t often condescend to speak to the likes of us. Comes over every now and again of a Sunday to read the lesson at Martins, on account of knowing the Reverend Austin Fitzrichard from college days, or something of that,” said the barman. “Has his lunch here Thursdays, regular. Care to glance over the menu for today, sir?” The waiter had just brought a handwritten copy into the bar. Recognising this as a strong hint that no more was going to be said about Mr. Gerald Manciple in front of present company, and curious to know why this should be, Timothy scanned the menu, finished his drink and ordered a chaser of gin.

  The man in tweeds, for whom room had been made so hastily at the bar, looked at the door through which Manciple had passed, muttered something, drained his glass, and pushed it towards the barman.

  “Same again, Sir Ganymede?”

  “Same again? Don’t ask silly questions, Bob! Mr. Manciple staying here for lunch?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. Usually does, of a Thursday.”

  “Well, this is Thursday, isn’t it? Find out whether he’s staying. No, never mind. I’ll take a look for myself.”


  He finished his drink amid silence, slammed down the glass, and stalked out.

  “Funny for him to come in of a Thursday,” said the barman, in a confidential tone to the man in gaiters, “seeing he knows as well as I do as it’s Mr. Manciple’s day.”

  “Something behind it, like. He had a look in his eye, if you ask me. Summat blowing up, I wouldn’t wonder. Never happy, Sir Ganymede, unless he’s making trouble for somebody.”

  “No wonder Mr. Manciple skedaddled. I bet he don’t stay to lunch now he knows Sir Ganymede is here,” said the rose grower. “Another of the same, Bob, please.”

  “And who might Sir Ganymede be?” Timothy enquired, although this information was contained in Mrs. Stretton’s letter. There could not be two men called Sir Ganymede to be found in the same county and so near to the village of Parsons Purity. The surname, however, had not been mentioned by Mrs. Stretton.

  “Why, Sir Ganymede Troggett. Makes himself out to be squire of Parsons Purity, as where you mentioned you was going to look over the church. The Troggetts have lived in these parts for twenty generations, so it’s reckoned. There’s Troggetts here, there, and everywhere, farmers most of ’em, and there’s Mr. John Troggett, the lawyer, and his brother, Mr. Miles, the bank manager, and a whole lot more.”

  “Is he liked?—Sir Ganymede, I mean. Sympathetic landlord, good employer, dedicated public servant, lenient magistrate—all that kind of thing?”

  “He’s a bloomin’ menace,” said the rock garden man. “Pinches my plants. I’m waiting to catch him at it, that’s all. He’s got a hundred yards of rockeries at Parsons Purity, up at the Hall there, and he comes snooping round my place when I’m not about and bloody well helps himself. If he can’t afford to stock his rockeries, let him go without, that’s what I say.”

  “You’ve never caught him at it, though, ’Orry,” said the man in gaiters. “You’re only going on suspicion.”

  “Who else has got a rock garden similar to mine, then? You tell me that! Ah, and it’s my belief he ran over my dog on purpose, just to put poor old Buster out of the way, so as he could get into my place more easy.”

  “Dog shouldn’t a-been roving the streets. Bound to cause accidents. And your Buster used to rush out at cars and bark at ’em. Ah, and more times than not he’s nearly had me by the ankle when I’ve been on my bike,” said the man at the table.

  Timothy went out by the swing doors and into the dining-room. There were only five tables and all were occupied.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the waiter, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. Very full, sir, this morning.”

  Timothy was about to turn away when a peremptory voice called out,

  “Hey! William!”

  “Yes, sir?” said the waiter, going over to Sir Ganymede, who was sitting alone. “Something not to your liking?”

  “Ask the gentleman if he’d care to share my table.”

  Timothy disliked sharing a table with a stranger, although, like most people, he felt illogically affronted by being told he must wait for his meal. On this occasion he was tempted by the hope that it might be possible to learn something about the situation at Parsons Purity from one who, presumably, would have inside information about the state of the church roof, and, possibly, other matters of interest, so he bowed and said,

  “Very civil of you, sir. Thanks very much.” Then he seated himself opposite the squire. The latter took no more notice of him for a time. Timothy finished his soup and was beginning upon a plate of roast mutton with red currant jelly and three vegetables when the squire, who was eating ice-cream, looked up and asked,

  “Staying here?”

  “Well, for a day or two,” Timothy replied. “I’m interested in old churches and so forth, and I believe there are quite a number within motoring distance, so I thought I’d make this place my centre.”

  “You’re interested in old churches, are you? Well, there’s the minster here. Rather good, so they tell me. Never been inside it myself,” said Sir Ganymede, laying down his spoon.

  “Yes, well, not exactly a village church, is it? I’d rather thought of having a look at Parsons Purity. I believe it’s in the neighbourhood,” said Timothy.

  “Parsons Purity? Why, yes, it’s in the neighbourhood. I live there. Two miles as the crow flies, five miles as the main road runs, eight miles as the bus (at a most extortionate fare, let me warn you) meanders upon its way. Oh, yes, it’s in the neighbourhood, I suppose.”

  “I shall be all right, then. I came down by car.”

  “You did? Splendid! Then you won’t have any objection, I trust, to giving me a lift? Otherwise, I shall have to catch the bus. Give me a lift, what? I live in Parsons Purity. I said so. Show you round the church, if you like.”

  “It will be a pleasure,” said Timothy, somewhat surprised that so important a local big-wig should not have a car of his own. The explanation was immediately forthcoming.

  “The fact is, you see, my dear chap,” said Sir Ganymede confidentially, “they’re not too keen to let me drive. To cut the story short, they’ve taken my licence away. Manciple was on the bench, of course. Don’t wonder he wouldn’t stay to lunch and look me in the eye. Never could stand the chap, and it’s entirely mutual, so they took my licence away.”

  “I shall be delighted to give you a lift, sir. By the way, my name’s Herring.”

  “Oh, I’m Troggett, my dear chap, Troggett. Everyone knows me about here.”

  “I bet they do,” thought Timothy, remembering the conversation in the bar. He said, “I’m representing my Society. I’ve a particular interest in the church at Parsons Purity.”

  “Have you? Yes, they had the infernal crust to keep me off the road, and all for running down a couple of damn-fool women who couldn’t make up their minds whether to cross or not. I ask you!”

  “Bad luck!” said Timothy. “Couldn’t you plead extenuating circumstances?”

  “They wouldn’t listen, my dear chap, they simply wouldn’t listen. It was the tramping fellow and somebody’s blasted dog that let me down. I might have got away with the blasted women, and even the tramping fellow, but not the blasted dog.”

  “Oh, I see. I take it you saw service with the Tank Corps.”

  “Eh? No, no, I was with the Grenadiers.” He looked piercingly at Timothy, his middle-aged aristocratic façade losing some of its natural dignity by reason of a blob of vanilla ice-cream which had attached itself to the left-hand side of his moustache. His gaze expressed deep suspicion, but all he saw was a grave-faced, clean-shaven man of about thirty, with a sympathetic expression, an enquiring nose, and a good-tempered but purposeful mouth. He added, after he had made his inspection, “Don’t ask for the ice-cream. It’s filthy. William, bring me a large whisky. Your ice-cream’s filthy! Filthy! Do you hear?”

  “Very good, Sir Ganymede,” said the waiter. “And for you, sir?”

  “Cheese and biscuits,” said Timothy, “and I’ll have a large whisky, too. The room number is three.”

  “Very handsome of you, sir,” said the baronet. “Five bob saved is five bob earned, eh? I shall drink your health, sir.”

  Slightly astonished to discover that he was to pay for both whiskies, Timothy bowed politely, and said that the pleasure was his.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mrs. Stretton

  “Nice little box of tricks, this,” said Sir Ganymede, casting an approving and envious eye over Timothy’s Humber.

  “Yes,” said Timothy. “Hop in, sir, won’t you? Property of Phisbe, actually, but I have carte blanche to use it.” (This was another of his fictions. The car was his own, but in Phisbe’s interests he usually disguised the fact that he was a man of substance.)

  “Thisbe? Your wife, I take it?” said the baronet, when the car had been backed out on to the roadway and was following a narrow one-way street which ran out of the square and three-quarters of the way round the minster before it turned on to the secondary road for Parsons Purity.

  “No. Phisbe is the name of my Society.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You may know it under its full title. Mrs. Stretton got on to us, as I think you’ve heard.”