Читать книгу Murder in the Mill-Race - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 11

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Anne Ferens was much too busy for the remainder of that morning to think any more about Sister Monica. Being a methodical woman and a bit of a genius at home-making, Anne had thought out the position of all her belongings beforehand, and she was kept busy running round after the vanmen, seeing that everything was placed where she wanted it placed. At intervals she paused to sing songs of praise to herself because she and Raymond had furnished with old pieces and not modern ones. It had been a toss-up when they started as to whether to invest in modern ‘functional’ style, or to collect old furniture, and Anne’s decision had been made partly because she had inherited a few beautiful old pieces from her parents, partly because she found modern furniture boring and lacking in character. When everything was in place, Anne had to admit that the big rooms looked a bit empty, but it was a very pleasant emptiness. The floors were all of beautiful wood, and if carpets and rugs were rather like islands on the parquet or oak boards, it didn’t seem to matter, and spaciousness was dear to Anne’s heart.

At lunch time, Raymond took her out to have a meal at the Milham Arms, and they fed in style on very excellent salmon caught in Sir James’s waters. They were waited on most ceremoniously by the ex-butler, Simon Barracombe, who was almost pontifical in his slow solemnity, and the meal was rounded off by that rarest of pleasures in an English inn, first-class coffee. After the meal, Anne went and stood outside the inn while Raymond paid the bill, and she studied the village street with delight. She stood on a plateau; there was a little open square in front of her backed by the lovely stonework of Church, Manor and Dower House. To right and left the street ran steeply down hill between cottages which were mostly thatched and colour washed, built straight on to the street, but each cottage had a strip of flower bed below its front windows, where aubrietia and arabis and saxifrage made vivid carpets and cushions of mauve and white and yellow and pink around the daffodils and narcissi. To Anne, who had been inured for four years to the drab sootiness of an industrial town, the vivid colouring of flower beds, cottages and thatches was as exciting as music or poetry, and she stared with delight, her eyes gay with happiness, so that the villagers who passed smiled back at her.

When her husband joined her, they stood for a while, while Raymond pointed out the places he knew: “Post Office to your right, the pink cottage: smithy farther down the hill, also on your right: Sanderson’s house is the white one, and the Mill is at the bottom of the hill, near the bridge. The vicarage is behind the church and Gramarye just below that. There’s also a garage and another small shop and the village Institute. That’s about the lot, except the Infant school. The older children are taken to Milham Prior, much to the fury of their parents.”

As they strolled back across the little square, Anne said: “That was a very good lunch, Ray. Did it cost the earth?”

Raymond screwed up his face. “Well, for a village inn, it was a bit steep, but, as you said, it was a very good lunch, and a very good sherry and the best coffee I’ve had in years, apart from yours.”

“He’s a wicked old man, that Simon the Cellarer. I felt it in my bones,” said Anne. “Thank you very much for my good lunch, but we won’t do that again.”

Raymond Ferens laughed as they strolled in through the wrought iron gates of the Dower House. “I’ve always thought of you as a kindly, charitable sort of woman, Anne, very tolerant of the backslidings of poor humanity. You’ve only met four people in this village: our noble landlord, whom you confidently expect to overcharge us for all produce supplied: poor old Brown, whom you described as a bad old man at the first glance: Simon Barracombe, whom you say is wicked, and Sister Monica, who according to you is bogus.”

“Oh, she’s plain wicked. I know she is,” said Anne. “And it looks such a virtuous village, Ray: could anything be more innocent looking?” She paused and looked back at the sunny coloured cottages, and her husband laughed.

“Human nature’s never innocent, angel. Whenever you get a group of people living together, whether in town or village, you find the mixed characteristics of humanity—envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness mingled with neighbourliness and unselfishness and honest-to-God goodness. This place is beautiful: Stourton was hideous, but if a social statistician could get busy in both, he’d find the same percentages of human virtues and human failings. But I like humanity, and even its sins are sometimes endearing.”

“Yes. You’re perfectly right,” said Anne soberly, but he laughed.

“No one is ever perfectly right, my wench, neither you, nor I, nor anybody else. And remember this: the country looks innocent and towns often look the reverse, but human nature is the same whether in town or country—it’s a mixture of good and bad. The only people who really get my goat are the ones who kid themselves they’re a hundred per cent good. Now do you want me to do any heaving or shoving or manhandling this afternoon, or can I go and get the bits and pieces fixed in my surgery?”

“You go along to your surgery, Ray, or go and talk shop with that snuffy old mass of iniquity in his surgery. I know you’re panting to get started on a nice pneumonia or obstructed twins. All manhandling’s done: I’m going to make beds and get rid of the mess. Tea at five and don’t be late. And I won’t criticise anybody else or say anybody’s wicked.”

“Leave the aspersions to the village,” he laughed. “They’ve had a good look at you, and they’ll all have a few words to say on the subject of Jezebel, bless them.”