Campion regarded him speculatively.
‘Perhaps I had better introduce myself more fully,’ the stranger went on. ‘My name is Anthony Datchett. I am an itinerant palmist. It is my custom to tell fortunes for a small fee—’ He paused and glanced round the room, his curious eyes resting at last upon Giles. ‘I should be delighted if one or two of you would consent to let me give a reading. If I do, I can promise you one thing. The truth.’
He was still looking at Giles as he finished speaking, and the others were surprised to see the boy get up immediately and cross over to him. He was not mesmerized; there was no suggestion of any trance or coma, yet he seemed completely subjected to the stranger.
Giles held out his hands. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
The stranger glanced towards the deep window-seat at the far end of the room. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Shall we go over there? I don’t like an audience for my readings,’ he explained, smiling at the others. ‘It prevents one from being frank, I feel.’
‘The only man who ever told my fortune,’ said Mr Campion, ‘was an income-tax collector.’
The stranger turned. ‘Did he tell you about the Seven Whistlers?’ he said.
No flicker of surprise appeared upon Mr Campion’s rather foolish face, and the stranger glanced round swiftly, but nowhere had the thrust gone home. He walked over to the window-seat with Giles beside him, and was presently engrossed in the boy’s hand.
Mr Campion perched himself beside Biddy on the arm of the settee in a direct line between the fortune teller and Judge Lobbett.
‘The time has come,’ he began, the fatuous expression returning to his face, ‘when I think our distinguished visitors ought to hear my prize collection of old saws, rustic wisecracks, and gleanings from the soil. After years of research I am able to lay before you, ladies and gentlemen, one or two little gems. Firstly:
When owd Parson wears two coats
It be a powerful year for oats.
Consider the simplicity of that!’ he continued with complete seriousness. ‘The little moral neatly put, the rustic spirit of prophecy epitomized in a single phrase. And then of course:
Owl hoots once up in the rafter,
’Nother hoot be comin’ after.
That needs no comment from me.’
They laughed, eager to escape the tension of the last few minutes. At the far end of the room the murmur of the fortune teller went on steadily.
Mr Campion continued. He chattered without effort, apparently completely lost to the rest of the world.
‘I knew a man once,’ he said, ‘who managed by stealth to attend a Weevil Sabbath at Mould. He went prepared to witness fearful rites, but when he got there he found it wasn’t the genuine thing at all, but the yearly outing of the Latter Day Nebuchadnezzars, the famous grass-eating society. He didn’t see a single weevil.’
He would have gone on had not Giles suddenly returned to the group. His expression was one of incredulous amazement.
‘This is astounding,’ he said. ‘The chap seems to know all about me—things I hadn’t told to anybody. Biddy, you must get him to tell your fortune.’
Some of the uneasiness the occupants of the room had felt at the arrival of their strange visitor began to disappear, but all the same there was no great eagerness on anyone’s part to hurry over to the strange slight figure in the window-seat whose eyes seemed to be gazing at them all impartially.
It was at this moment that the attention of the party focused upon the rector. He had not moved nor spoken, but a change had taken place in his appearance. Biddy, glancing at him casually, was appalled by a look of great age which she had never noticed before. His jaw seemed to have sunk, his eyelids became grey and webby.
To their surprise he rose to his feet and walked a little unsteadily across the room to the fortune teller, who appeared to be waiting for him.
As the soft murmur began again Giles began to talk enthusiastically about his experience. ‘He’s an amazing chap,’ he said quietly.
‘What did he tell you?’ said Campion.
‘Well.’ Giles was childlike in his mystification. ‘What really got me was when he said I was thinking of entering a horse for the Monewdon Show next month. I know, of course, that’s fairly obvious. But he told me I wouldn’t send my favourite mare as I’d intended, but I’d send a hunter. That’s really most extraordinary, because I went down to look at Lilac Lady just before dinner and I made up my mind that I couldn’t get her into really decent condition in the time. I was wondering if I wouldn’t enter St Chris, or let it go this year. I hadn’t mentioned that to a soul.’ He laughed. ‘It’s crazy, isn’t it? He also told me the usual bunk—to beware of wagging tongues, and so on. He hinted at some sort of scandal, I thought. I didn’t quite get it. I wonder what he’s telling old St Swithin.’
He glanced over his shoulder to where the fortune teller sat upright in the window-seat, the candlelight making fantastic shadows on his unusual face. He was speaking in the same subdued monotone, which they could hear quite plainly without being able to distinguish the words.
They could not see the rector’s face. He was bending forward, his hands cupped before the stranger.
‘He seems interested all right,’ said Marlowe.
Biddy laughed. ‘Doesn’t he?’ she said. ‘I do hope he’s promising him plenty of adventures. He has led such a good quiet life.’
‘I doubt if he’d like it,’ said Giles. ‘Tranquillity has always been St Swithin’s note.’
‘That seems to be the note of the whole place,’ said Judge Lobbett, and sighed.
‘Hullo, they’ve finished,’ Marlowe said, as the rector and the stranger came down the room together. The fortune teller was smiling, suave and completely at ease. Swithin Cush looked thoughtful.
Biddy turned to him smiling. ‘What sort of luck did you have, St Swithin?’ she said.
The old man put a hand on her shoulder. ‘My dear, I’m too old to have any fortune at all,’ he said. He pulled out his old turnip watch. ‘I must go to bed,’ he remarked. ‘I know you won’t mind.’ He turned to Judge Lobbett. ‘We keep early hours in the country.’
He spoke the words absently as if he did not expect any reply, and while the others gathered round the fortune teller he returned once more to the girl. ‘Good night, my dear,’ he said. ‘Give my love to Giles.’
She looked up at him without surprise. He often said unexpected things; but as she did so she caught his eyes before he had time to lower them, and for an instant she was afraid.
The old man departed, taking his storm lantern from Cuddy in the hall, although the night was fine and moonlit.
The fortune teller still dominated the room, and the old man’s going made very little impression. The stranger’s quiet, even voice was raised a little in surprise.
‘I did not realize that it
