Читать книгу Murder in the Mill-Race - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 17

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“Your very good health, sir,” said Anne, raising her glass to Sanderson with an air half gallant, half mirthful, and wholly charming. “And now will you tell me why you’re frightened of Sister Monica?”

“I’m not frightened of her,” he replied. “I’m aware that she’s dangerous, in the same way that a virus or blood poisoning can be dangerous. I take steps to avoid trouble from them. You see, I like my job here. There aren’t many good jobs going in estate management, and this is an interesting job. Sister Monica nearly got me sacked some months after I came here. If I gave her the opportunity, she’d try it again.”

“How?”

“By telling lies about me with a grain of truth in them. She is one of those people who can not only lie plausibly and with conviction, but she can tell a lie to your face without batting an eyelid, knowing that you know it’s a lie, and it’s very hard to bowl her out.”

“But doesn’t Lady Ridding realise that?”

“She won’t let herself realise it. Sister Monica is very useful to her. Lady Ridding wants maid servants at the Manor, and Sister Monica can always produce some village youngster whom she has ‘influenced’—hypnotised is a better word—and trained in the ways of genteel service. It’s a wonderful gift, and Lady R. profits by it.”

“I think it’s awful,” said Anne.

Sanderson put his glass down and leant forward. “Look here, Mrs. Ferens. Don’t let this thing worry you. Those children aren’t ill-treated, they’re only dominated. At the age of five they go on to other homes connected with schools. They soon forget the Warden of Gramarye. And in the nature of things, Sister Monica can’t go on very much longer. She’s over sixty now. When she retires Gramarye will be closed.”

“I’m delighted to hear it, but I can’t bear to think of her going on in that unctuous way. It’s terribly bad for small children to be terrorised as those poor scraps are being. Besides, if she’s a liar, somebody ought to bowl her out.”

“Nobody’s ever managed to do it. There are plenty of people who have tried, and it’s they who have suffered. I tell you she would take your character away more easily than you could take hers. She has all the powers that be in this place on her side. Give her a wide berth and ignore her. She’ll die one day, in God’s good time.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” said Anne. “Do tell me, why did she take a dislike to you?”

“Because I criticised her adversely. I thought she was—well, a tyrant and a bad influence in some respects. It was pointed out to me that I had no evidence and my opinion had not been invited. Oh, it was a sickening story. Don’t let’s talk about it.”

“All right. I won’t, but do tell me this. Is there nobody in the village who dislikes her?”

“Plenty of them, but they won’t say so. This village has its own peculiar character, you know. You’ll realise that when you’ve lived here a bit longer. At first one sees only its charm, everybody fitting together pleasantly, according to their station in life—but there’s more to it than that.” He broke off, laughing a little. “I’m getting prosy. I don’t want to bore you.”

“You’re not boring me,” said Anne. “I want to get this village in focus, and you can help me. Please go on.”

“Well, you’ve always got to remember its remoteness and its antiquity. Throughout the centuries, Milham in the Moor has been cut off from towns and society and affairs. Here it has been, on its hill-top at the edge of the moor, and it has flourished because it made itself into an integrated whole, in which everybody was interdependent. A small group of people living in such conditions are conscious of their interdependence. ‘Never make trouble in the village’ is an unspoken law, but it’s a binding law. You may know about your neighbours’ sins and shortcomings, but you must never name them aloud. It’d make trouble, and small societies want to avoid trouble.”

Anne nodded. “I think I follow. And applying what you say to the subject of Sister Monica, nobody will attack her because she’d hit back. And then there would be hell to pay.”

“There would, indeed. She knows everything about everybody, and quite a lot of people in this village don’t wish their affairs to be made public. Villages, as you may know, are not really more virtuous than towns. They only look more virtuous, and are more successful in coating the past with lime wash, as they do their cottages. What’s underneath is nobody’s business.”

“That’s a very good exposition,” said Raymond’s voice at the door. “Are you teaching Anne a bit about villages, Sanderson? She’s never lived in one before.” He came into the room and sat down happily in his favourite chair, while Anne fetched him a glass of sherry. “How nice all this is,” he murmured. “I’m enjoying our village. Apropos of what you said just now, Sanderson, people in villages don’t want their transgressions to be publicised. That’s true: but it’s also true that everybody knows where everybody else has erred, only it’s a convention that it’s never mentioned in public. That’s the very essence of village life—never noise it abroad.”

He turned to Anne. “And how about the tea party, angel?”

“A most elegant tea party,” she replied. “China tea in Rockingham cups and pre-war b. and b., cut like wafers and arranged on lace doyleys. I saw all over the house and it’s the cleanest house ever. I saw the children at tea. One of them recited a little po’me, and they sang a verse of a hymn. All very high-minded. It roused the worst in me, but Mr. Sanderson has given me a good talking-to, and I’m going to emulate village conventions. Say what you like, but say it within doors and let not your right hand know what your left hand doeth.”