so that I could pick out the likelies.’
‘Yes—yes—that could be managed. Giles, our sexton, a good fellow but sadly deaf, could help you there. Let me see now. There have been a good many—a good many—a treacherous spring and a hard winter behind it—and then a good many accidents—quite a cycle of bad luck there seems to have been.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Luke, ‘a cycle of bad luck is attributed to the presence of a particular person.’
‘Yes, yes. The old story of Jonah. But I do not think there have been any strangers here—nobody, that is to say, outstanding in any way, and I’ve certainly never heard any rumour of such a feeling—but then again, as I said, perhaps I shouldn’t. Now let me see—quite recently we have had Dr Humbleby and poor Lavinia Pinkerton—a fine man, Dr Humbleby—’
Bridget put in:
‘Mr Fitzwilliam knows friends of his.’
‘Do you indeed? Very sad. His loss will be much felt. A man with many friends.’
‘But surely a man with some enemies too,’ said Luke. ‘I’m only going by what I’ve heard my friends say,’ he went on hastily.
Mr Wake sighed.
‘A man who spoke his mind—and a man who wasn’t always very tactful, shall we say—’ he shook his head. ‘It does get people’s backs up. But he was greatly beloved among the poorer classes.’
Luke said carelessly:
‘You know I always feel that one of the most unpalatable facts to be faced in life, is the fact that every death that occurs means a gain to someone—I don’t mean only financially.’
The vicar nodded thoughtfully.
‘I see your meaning, yes. We read in an obituary notice that a man is regretted by everybody, but that can only be true very rarely I fear. In Dr Humbleby’s case, there is no denying that his partner, Dr Thomas, will find his position very much improved by Dr Humbleby’s death.’
‘How is that?’
‘Thomas, I believe, is a very capable fellow—certainly Humbleby always said so, but he didn’t get on here very well. He was, I think, overshadowed by Humbleby who was a man of very definite magnetism. Thomas appeared rather colourless in contrast. He didn’t impress his patients at all. I think he worried over it, too, and that made him worse—more nervous and tongue-tied. As a matter of fact I’ve noticed an astonishing difference already. More aplomb—more personality. I think he feels a new confidence in himself. He and Humbleby didn’t always agree, I believe. Thomas was all for newer methods of treatment and Humbleby preferred to stick to the old ways. There were clashes between them more than once—over that as well as over a matter nearer home—but there, I mustn’t gossip—’
Bridget said softly and clearly:
‘But I think Mr Fitzwilliam would like you to gossip!’
Luke shot her a quick disturbed look.
Mr Wake shook his head doubtfully, and then went on, smiling a little in deprecation.
‘I am afraid one learns to take too much interest in one’s neighbours’ affairs. Rose Humbleby is a very pretty girl. One doesn’t wonder that Geoffrey Thomas lost his heart. And of course Humbleby’s point of view was quite understandable too—the girl is young and buried away here she hadn’t much chance of seeing other men.’
‘He objected?’ said Luke.
‘Very definitely. Said they were far too young. And of course young people resent being told that! There was a very definite coldness between the two men. But I must say that I’m sure Dr Thomas was deeply distressed at his partner’s unexpected death.’
‘Septicæmia, Lord Whitfield told me.’
‘Yes—just a little scratch that got infected. Doctors run grave risks in the course of their profession, Mr Fitzwilliam.’
‘They do indeed,’ said Luke.
Mr Wake gave a sudden start.
‘But I have wandered a long way from what we were talking about,’ he said. ‘A gossiping old man, I am afraid. We were speaking of the survival of pagan death customs and of recent deaths. There was Lavinia Pinkerton—one of our more kindly Church helpers. Then there was that poor girl, Amy Gibbs—you might discover something in your line there, Mr Fitzwilliam—there was just a suspicion, you know, that it might have been suicide—and there are certain rather eerie rites in connection with that type of death. There is an aunt—not, I fear, a very estimable woman, and not very much attached to her niece—but a great talker.’
‘Valuable,’ said Luke.
‘Then there was Tommy Pierce—he was in the choir at one time—a beautiful treble—quite angelic—but not a very angelic boy otherwise, I am afraid. We had to get rid of him in the end, he made the other boys behave so badly. Poor lad, I’m afraid he was not very much liked anywhere. He was dismissed from the post office where we got him a job as telegraph boy. He was in Mr Abbot’s office for a while, but there again he was dismissed very soon—interfered with some confidential papers, I believe. Then, of course, he was at Ashe Manor for a time, wasn’t he, Miss Conway, as garden boy, and Lord Whitfield had to discharge him for gross impertinence. I was so sorry for his mother—a very decent hard-working soul. Miss Waynflete very kindly got him some odd window-cleaning work. Lord Whitfield objected at first, then suddenly he gave in—actually it was sad that he did so.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the boy was killed that way. He was cleaning the top windows of the library (the old Hall, you know) and tried some silly fooling—dancing on the window ledge or something of that sort—lost his balance, or else became dizzy, and fell. A nasty business! He never recovered consciousness and died a few hours after they got him to hospital.’
‘Did anyone see him fall?’ asked Luke with interest.
‘No. He was on the garden side—not the front of the house. They estimate he lay there for about half an hour before anyone found him.’
‘Who did find him?’
‘Miss Pinkerton. You remember, the lady I mentioned just now who was unfortunately killed in a street accident the other day. Poor soul, she was terribly upset. A nasty experience! She had obtained permission to take a cutting of some plants and found the boy there lying where he had fallen.’
‘It must have been a very unpleasant shock,’ said Luke thoughtfully.
‘A greater shock,’ he thought to himself, ‘than you know …’
‘A young life cut short is a very sad thing,’ said the old man, shaking his head. ‘Tommy’s faults may have been mainly due to high spirits.’
‘He was a disgusting bully,’ said Bridget. ‘You know he was, Mr Wake. Always tormenting cats and stray puppies and pinching other little boys.’
‘I know—I know.’ Mr Wake shook his head sadly. ‘But you know, my dear Miss Conway, sometimes cruelty is not so much innate as due to the fact that imagination is slow in ripening.
