Holy Disorders

‘You’d better go to the Whale and Coffin,’ said the girl.

‘It sounds terrible.’

‘It is terrible, but there’s nowhere any better. Look, Mr Vintner, leave your bags in the porch. Someone will take them in later, I dare say. And would you like a wash?’

‘What I really want,’ said Geoffrey, ‘is a drink. Several drinks.’

‘All right. We’ll all go down to the Whale and Coffin. It is after six, isn’t it? Then we can talk about things.’

‘I don’t want to drag you away…’

‘Away from what? Don’t be so silly. Come on, both of you. It’s only three minutes from here.’

Geoffrey had nearly arrived before he realized he was still carrying the butterfly-net. He cursed it inwardly, murmuring under his breath.

‘Have a good, rousing swear,’ said the girl. ‘You’ll feel better.’

The Whale and Coffin turned out to be a large, low, rambling building of indefinite date situated in the middle of the old town. It was provided with innumerable bars, labelled variously: Bar, Saloon, Lounge Bar, Public Bar, Private Bar, and so on; these departments being ineffectually presided over by a small shortsighted, elderly man who hurried constantly from one to another, less with any hope of being useful, one felt, than because it had become a habit and he couldn’t stop it. He peered astigmatically at Geoffrey as he ordered drinks.

‘Stranger?’ he said. ‘Not been here before?’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey shortly. He refused to be kept from his beer by well-meaning chatter.

‘I think you’ll like it,’ said the other without particular confidence. ‘It’s a good local brew and we get a nice crowd here.’ From his accent it was evident that he was not a Devon man. ‘Strange name for a pub, isn’t it?’

‘Very.’

‘You’d imagine there’d be some story connected with a name like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘There isn’t, though. Someone just thought it up one day.’

Geoffrey looked at him with contempt and moved shakily back to the others, carrying drinks. They had settled in a remote alcove. Frances Butler crossed her legs, smoothed out her skirt with automatic propriety, and said:

‘You needn’t have worried – Harry never talks to anyone for more than a minute at a time. I’ve watched him.’

‘Do you come here often?’ asked Fielding.

‘Oh, so-so. I don’t haunt the place, if that’s what you mean. But it’s the nearest pub to the clergy-house.’

‘I thought,’ said Fielding vaguely, ‘you might have found a lot of silly prejudice about going to pubs at all – your father being Precentor, and so on.’

‘Can’t help that,’ said Frances, and grinned. ‘I expect there is some, but they think I’m a tart as it is. Going to pubs doesn’t affect matters much. And Daddy doesn’t seem to mind – that’s the chief thing. He brought me up terribly strictly till I was eighteen, but since then he’s just given me a lot of money and let me do what I like. Poor old Meg – the housekeeper at the clergy-house – got ill, and one can’t get servants for love or money nowadays, so I gave up living with Daddy and went to housekeep there. I don’t think the men like it very much, though. Each of them’s afraid the others will think he’s got designs on me. You’ve no idea the way they keep clear of my room, and the rumpus they make when they’re going to the bathroom.’

She laughed, and drank pink gin with a theatrical air of wickedness. It occurred to Geoffrey that she probably got an innocent, childish enjoyment out of pretending to be wicked. He greatly doubted, at all events, if she actually was. But he realized that with his present knowledge of her an adequate assessment of her merits and demerits was out of the question. Certainly she was attractive – very attractive, he suddenly felt. And he sighed, recognizing the enormity of his inexperience in love.

‘Tired?’ she asked.

‘No. Just content.’ It was not, he reflected, entirely a lie, at that. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that I’ve been attacked three times today?’

She laughed. ‘Attacked? What on earth do you mean?’

‘One man tried to knock me on the head in a shop’ – ‘Store,’ said Fielding automatically – ‘another tried to drop a suitcase full of iron on my head, and another locked me in a lavatory on the train. That is to say—’ Geoffrey struggled for a more suitable form of words. Put like that, it didn’t sound nearly as serious as in fact it had been. ‘There were anonymous letters, too,’ he concluded lamely.

‘But how awful,’ said the girl. ‘No – what a stupid thing to say. I mean’ – she gestured helplessly – ‘well, why?’

‘I don’t know. That’s just the point. But I think it’s got something to do with the attack on Brooks here.’

Frances put down her drink rather suddenly. The movement was a slight one, and in itself unimportant, but it brought a curious unease to the atmosphere. There was a long pause before she said:

‘Do you mean that?’ Her voice was suddenly very quiet.

‘That’s all I can think. If it hadn’t been for Fielding, I might now be dead – almost certainly should be, in fact.’

When Frances took up her glass again, her hand was a fraction unsteady. But her voice was calm as she asked:

‘Was Dr Brooks a friend of yours?’ The question seemed to have a greater urgency, a greater importance, than common sense would allow. Geoffrey shook his head.

‘I only knew him slightly – a professional acquaintance.’ He hesitated. ‘You said “was”—’

She laughed again, but there was no humour in it. ‘No, he’s not dead, if that’s what you mean. I –’ She seemed abruptly to make up her mind about something; with intended deliberateness and ostentation the subject was changed. ‘And Daddy asked you to come down here and play the services in his place?’

Geoffrey acquiesced, repressing an almost irrepressible curiosity. ‘Well, no, not exactly. That is to say, I suppose he knew about it. Actually it was Fen who wired me to come.’ He became uncomfortable. ‘If I’m not wanted, it doesn’t matter. I’m glad of the break, and I shall like to see Fen again…’ He stopped, conscious that the words were meaningless.

The girl’s tone was lighter now.’ Oh, I’m sure you’re wanted – I don’t know who else would have played, if you hadn’t turned up.’

‘I was wondering – surely there’s a deputy? In fact, you mentioned one.’

‘Little Dutton – yes. But he’s in the middle of a nervous breakdown. The silly boy overworked himself, trying to get God knows what stupid musical degree. The doctor won’t let him go near an organ at the moment.’

Geoffrey nodded portentously. ‘That explains it,’ he said. In fact, he reflected, it explained very little. Frances had as good as refused to talk about the attack on Brooks – and, confound it, he ought to know the facts if anyone ought. He was summoning up courage to reopen the subject when the landlord hurried past, peering intently at a huge pocket-watch supplied with a magnifying-glass which raised the hands and the figures on the dial to grotesque dimensions. When he was almost out of the door he paused and came back to them.

‘Didn’t recognize you at first, Miss Butler,’ he said. He clipped his words with the nervousness of the very shortsighted. ‘How’s Dr Brooks getting on? Any improvement?’

‘I haven’t heard this evening.’ Frances spoke shortly. ‘Harry, you don’t know if Professor Fen’s in here this evening?’

‘What, that tall, mad fellow?’ There was something like awe in the landlord’s voice. ‘He might be in one of the other bars. I’ll look. But I don’t think so.’

‘If you see him, you might tell him I’m in here. And a friend of his, Mr Vintner.’

The landlord’s reaction to this last piece of news was unexpected. He took a step back and began breathing very quickly. ‘Geoffrey Vintner!’ he exclaimed.

‘Really, Harry. What on earth’s the matter with you? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.’

The landlord hurriedly pulled himself together. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Didn’t quite catch the name. Thought you were referring to a friend of mine, who – who’s dead.’ He stood wavering in front of them for a moment, and then made a little too rapidly for the door.

‘Well, I’m damned!’ said Frances in frank surprise.