“You don’t have to,” Alice answered. “Not tonight. I can make up a bed at the vicarage. And I’ll run you a bath, too. You need one.”
For the first time Ernest realized he was grimy from head to toe with smoke.
And utterly exhausted.
“All right,” he muttered. “Thanks. Let Tinkler know.”
Oddly, during what was left of the night, for the first time in years his sleep was free from fearful dreams.
It was broad daylight. Opening his eyes, he discovered himself in a narrow bed, in a small room under the eaves, wearing—good heavens—his skin. Memory surged back. Alice had apologised for the fact that her grandfather had retired again and she didn’t want to disturb him by creeping into his room in search of nightwear he could borrow, but produced a large towel that she said would do to cover him returning from his bath.
Someone, though, had stolen into this room while he was asleep. Neatly arranged on a chair were clean clothes, his own, and underneath a pair of shoes awaited him.
Bless you, Tinkler!
Abruptly he discovered he was ravenous. Rising, dressing hastily, he went downstairs, finding his way by guesswork. This was an old and rambling house, with many misleading passages and stairways, but eventually he located the entrance hall—and Mr. Pollock.
“Good morning, young fellow! I understand from Alice that you did sterling work last night!”
Embarrassed, Ernest shrugged. “I just happened to be the only person awake, I suppose. I spotted the fire by sheer chance.”
“Professionally,” the vicar murmured, “I tend not to think in terms of ‘sheer chance’ … The Gibsons, you’ll be glad to know, are in reasonable spirits this morning; Mrs. Kail is looking after them. But we’ll talk about that later. In the meantime, how about breakfast?”
“I’ll get it for him,” Alice said, appearing in one of the hall’s many doorways. She looked amazingly fresh, considering the experiences of the night. Looking at her—she had put on a brown dress this morning, as plain as her usual grey—Ernest wondered how, even for a moment and in trousers, he could have mistaken her for a boy.
“There’s no need,” he protested. “Tinkler can—”
“Tinkler has gone to fetch the rest of your belongings.”
He stared blankly. The vicar explained.
“I hope you won’t be upset, Mr. Peake, but—well, you did say, I believe, that you couldn’t face another night under your aunt’s roof?”
“I … Well, yes, actually I did.”
“It would appear that the feeling is mutual. First thing this morning, I received a note from her ladyship to the effect that if I proceed with plans to revive the well-dressing she will report me to my bishop and invoke ecclesiastical discipline. Apparently I am embroiling you, who are already a soul in danger of damnation, in pagan rites that will doom you past redemption. Fortunately”—his usual thin smile—“I happen to know that my bishop is, like myself, something of an antiquary, and had taken the precaution of notifying him of my intentions. I confidently predict that he will cast his vote in my favour.”
“You must forgive us, Ernest,” Alice said. “But we have taken the liberty of temporarily re-planning your life. We consulted Mr. Tinkler, and it was his view as well as ours that you might be better able to concentrate on your designs for the well-dressings here rather than at the Hall. Do you mind very much?”
“Do I mind?” Ernest blurted. “I’d give anything to be out of that—that gorgon’s lair! I can’t say how grateful I am!”
“There are,” the vicar said sententiously, “many in Welstock this morning who are equally grateful to yourself … Alice, my dear: you promised Mr. Peake some breakfast?”
“Of course. Right away. Come along!”
Ernest could scarcely believe the transformation in his life. About noon a delegation from the village waited on him—he had to use the archaic term, for they were so determined to make it a formal occasion—led by Hiram Stoddard, who presented his publican brother’s apologies, as well as Henry Ames, who practically overnight seemed to have been accepted as a full member of the community, and into the bargain Gaffer Tatton, who declared more than once that it would have taken far worse than rheumatism to keep him at home today. Apparently he was some sort of distant cousin of the Gibsons; probably, Ernest thought wryly, they all were.
They moved a vote of thanks to him in the drawing-room and uttered three solemn cheers, which struck him as rather silly since there were only eight of them, but kindly intended. Trying not to seem unappreciative, he contrived at last to drag the conversation around to something that interested him far more, and sent Tinkler for his sketches.
“Of course, I still haven’t seen your brother’s photographs, Mr. Stoddard,” he said as he diffidently removed them from the portfolio. “But would something on these lines serve? You’ll notice”—he recalled and consciously echoed Tinkler’s remark—“they are in a sense relevant to certain recent events around here.”
For a moment they seemed not to catch the reference. Then, unexpectedly, Gaffer Tatton banged the floor with his stick. “‘Tes the very thing!” he exclaimed. “Bain’t it to do her honour as we dress the wells? She’m bound to be pleased. Don’t all on ’em show ladies?”
Ernest was about to comment light-heartedly—light-headedly?—that “lady” was perhaps a misnomer for somebody like Mary Magdalene, when he realised it would have struck a false note. Grave, they were all nodding their agreement.
“Well, sir, we’ll get the boards cut by the weekend,” Hiram said. “And puddle the clay ready. Can you tell us what colours you have in mind, so we can set the young ’uns to gathering the right bits and pieces?”
“I haven’t finished working that out,” Ernest admitted. “But I can give you a rough idea. For instance …”
And spent a happy quarter of an hour explaining.
It was not until they had left that an odd, disturbing point occurred to him.
The central female figure in each of his three designs bore a remarkable likeness—in his imagination, at least—to Alice Pollock.
What had Gaffer Tatton said? That “she” would certainly be pleased! But he, equally certainly, must have been thinking of a different “she” …
Customary doubt assailed him yet again. This time, though, he drove it back, secure in the conviction he had found a worthwhile task at last.
“You may be pleased to hear,” the vicar said at lunch a few days later, “that the eviction of the Gibsons from their cottage may not prove as simple as Lady Peake might hope.”
Ernest, who had been thinking as little as possible about his aunt and as much as possible about the wells, came to himself with a start.
“How is that?” he inquired.
“The chief fire-officer who attended the conflagration has submitted a report, a copy of which I saw this morning. He says the chimney of the cottage had been long neglected, and its upkeep is not the responsibility of the tenant, but of the landlord. A high proportion of the Gibsons’ belongings were inevitably damaged, many beyond recall. One of my nephews is a solicitor and he informs me that the possibility arises of a claim for financial recompense.”
“You mean the Gibsons might get some money out of my aunt?” The family were lodging as best they could in one of the vicarage stables, but while this was tolerable in warm weather their stay could not be indefinitely prolonged.
“Blood from a stone,” Alice sighed. “But it’s worth a try.”
“I meant to ask!” Ernest exclaimed. “Sorry to change the subject, but what did the bishop say?”