Tossing the pencil angrily aside, Ernest rose and began to pace the room. “Yes,” he muttered. “I thought I had a lot of ideas. I thought for instance I might base something on the story of the three wise men, and show scenes from various parts of the Empire where one might imagine them to have hailed from. My people once took me to a church in Goa, in India, where they claim to have originally been converted by the Apostle Thomas. And I’ve seen services in Singapore, too, and Hong Kong. I was very young at the time, but I still remember a lot of details. But it seems—well—somehow wrong!” Slumping back into his chair, he concluded, “You’ve talked to the local folk much more than I have. Any suggestions?”
Tinkler hesitated for a moment. At length he said, “If I’m not presuming, sir—”
“Out with it!”
“Well, sir, are there not stories from the New Testament that would be more relevant to the present situation? For example, how about the woman taken in adultery?”
For an instant Ernest sat as though thunderstruck. Then he snapped his fingers.
“Of course! And Mary Magdalene—and the woman who met Jesus at the well! That’s apt, if you like! There’s a Bible under the night-table, isn’t there? Pass it to me, there’s a good chap.”
Complying, Tinkler said, “Will there be anything else?”
“Hm? Oh—no, not tonight. You can turn in.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night.”
And he was gone, having uncharacteristically forgotten to draw the curtains.
By the time the church clock struck eleven-thirty Ernest was surrounded by a dozen rough sketches. Without seeing the promised photographs of Mr. Faber’s creations he had no idea whether they would prove acceptable, but he had a subconscious conviction that they would, for into the background of each he had contrived to incorporate a haughty, self-righteous figure modelled on his aunt. At first he had considered portraying her full-face, but then bethought himself of the difficulty of showing fine detail using a mosaic of natural objects bedded in clay, and concluded it would be best to depict her turning her back on those in need of help. Was that not most appropriate?
Yawning, stretching, he set aside the drawings and rose. Turning to the window, meaning to close the curtains, he checked in mid-movement.
Beyond the trees that fringed the left side of the garden, there was a fitful red glow.
For a moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks. Then he whistled under his breath.
“That’s a house on fire, or I’m a Dutchman … Tinkler! Tinkler!” And, seizing the blazer he had hung on the back of his chair with one hand, with the other he tugged frantically on the bell-pull.
He met his valet in a nightshirt on the landing, looking sleepily puzzled, and explained in a rush.
“Get some clothes on! Rouse the coachman and tell him to wake everyone he can! There isn’t a fire-engine in Welstock, is there?”
“I believe it has to come from the next village, sir.”
“Then tell them to bring buckets and ladders. Dr. Castle had better be woken up, too; someone might be hurt.”
“Where is the fire, sir?” Tinkler demanded.
“Over that way, but you can’t miss it. I’ll go via the vicarage and have the bells rung … What’s wrong?”
“There’s only one cottage near the house on that side of the estate, sir. And that’s Mrs. Gibson’s.”
“What is this infernal row?” a stern voice demanded. Through her partly-opened bedroom door his aunt was peering.
“There’s a house on fire, and Tinkler says it must be the Gibsons’!”
He couldn’t see his aunt’s expression, but he could picture it. Because he heard her say, “It’s a visitation, then.”
“What?” Beside himself with rage, Ernest took a pace toward her. But Tinkler caught his arm.
“The alarm, sir—the church bells! That’s the important thing.”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right. The rest can wait. But not for long …”
And he was hobbling down the stairs, outside into the clear spring night, across the garden towards the vicarage. From here the smoke was already pungent, and he could hear faint cries.
By shouting and hammering on the oaken door, he managed to rouse a middle-aged woman armed with a poker whom he took for Mrs. Kail. He uttered instructions as though he were again briefing his men against an enemy attack: do this now, then do that, then come and help. And was off again, struggling through thorns and underbrush on the straightest line to the burning cottage. Before he reached it a ragged clang was sounding from the tower.
The fire had obviously begun in an ill-repaired chimney, for it was still uttering most of the smoke. But by now the adjacent thatch was well alight. Outside, weeping and terrified, were three scantily-clad children. Where was their mother—? He glimpsed her through the open door, striving to rescue her pitiful possessions. At that moment she turned back with her arms full of oddments, coughing and choking and with tears streaming from her reddened eyes. She had on nothing but a soiled linen shift.
Limping forward, he shouted that she mustn’t go inside again, but she seemed not to hear, and he had to hurry after and drag her away by force. She fought to break his grip, whimpering.
“I’ve raised the alarm! Help will be here soon! Look to your children!”
There was a crackling of trodden sticks behind him, and he turned gratefully to the first of the promised helpers, whom he took for a young man in the dimness.
“See if you can find a ladder! We’ll need a bucket-chain until the engine comes! Where can we get water—? Alice!”
To his amazement, it was indeed. She had donned, practically enough, boots and trousers and an old jersey. Women in trousers or breeches had been a common enough sight during the War, but he hadn’t seen one since and certainly had not expected to in Welstock. He was still at a loss when more half-glimpsed figures arrived at the double, laden with buckets and an invaluable ladder.
“I’ll take care of her and the children,” Alice said. “Take them to the vicarage and calm them down. You get things organised. There’s a pump round the back.”
Her coolness steadied his own racing thoughts. He issued brisk orders. By the time the fire-engine negotiated the rutted lane that was the only access to the cottage the unburnt portion of the thatch had been saturated and despite the mingled smoke and steam coachman Roger, who had been first to the top of the ladder, had begun to douse the glowing rafters.
Realising that hoses were playing on the roof, Ernest discovered his eyes were full of tears. Some were due to smoke, no doubt, but he felt that more stemmed from the sight of this small tragedy, one more burden inflicted on an innocent victim.
“You can come away now,” a soft voice said at his side. “You’ve done wonders. Without you, the whole place would have been in ruins.”
Blearily he looked at Alice. He wasn’t the only one. Now they had been relieved, the volunteers were staring at her too, and one or two of their expressions were disapproving, as to say, “Her, in trousers? Shocking!”
He heard the imagined words in the voice of his aunt, and remembered what Tinkler had said about the glint in her eyes … Where was he, anyhow? Oh, over there, talking to the Stoddards.
“I don’t want to go back under that woman’s roof,” he said without intention. “Know what she said when I told her Mrs. Gibson’s house was burning down? She said it was a visitation on her!”