“A sandy coast?” said Miss Phipps politely, merely making conversation.
“Yes — with quicksands here and there. Very treacherous.”
“Is it like that all around the island?”
“Oh, no! To the south, by the College, we have cliffs and bays.”
“Is it far from the harbor to the College?”
“About four miles,” said Mrs. Brooke. Her foot kept tapping, and her hands clenched themselves about the wheel of the car.
Miss Phipps was so affected by this impatience that whereas ordinarily she would have much enjoyed the process of disembarkation — the throwing and securing of lines, the dignified lowering of the stern, the parade of foot passengers along a gangway surrendering tickets, the laying of planks for the car’s wheels, and the bumpy ticklish drive from ship to shore, solemnly superintended by an elderly policeman — today she found it almost unbearably slow and tedious. Once they were on land, however, they flew along the russet autumn lanes, rushed through the old stone gateway of the College, and drew up sharply with a squeal of brakes in the gravel circle in front of the Headmaster’s residence. Mrs. Brooke leaped out and ran up the shallow steps to a handsome cream perambulator with a fringed awning, which stood on the terrace beside the door. Bending over this she lifted out a sleeping infant, then returned to Miss Phipps with the baby in her arms and the frown quite gone from her face, which now looked very young and yearning.
“Will you come in? They’ll fetch your bag later,” she said, and led her guest into a large, pleasant sitting room with French windows on two sides, one set overlooking the terrace with the baby carriage, the other, on the opposite wall, having an agreeable view of beach, cliff, and sea to the right, with the long row of gray College buildings on the left.
Miss Phipps sat down, feeling a trifle ruffled. A middle-aged woman with bluish hair, a rather superior expression, and dressed in white, was arranging a large tray of glasses and sherry on a table nearby; it appeared that a rush of masters, invited to meet the great lecturer, was imminent. The older woman was introduced to Miss Phipps as Miss Bellivant, the College housekeeper.
“I’ve read one or two of your books, Miss Phipps,” said Miss Bellivant in a condescending tone. “Just as light reading, at night.”
“I hope you enjoyed them,” said Miss Phipps, commending herself for keeping her temper.
“Oh, yes, quite. Other people enjoy them too — I can’t seem to keep them on my shelves,” said the housekeeper in a rather puzzled fashion. “They keep disappearing.”
“I do beg your pardon, Miss Phipps,” said Mrs. Brooke when Miss Bellivant had gone, and still rocking her sleeping child gently in her arms, “for rushing you along like this. It was unforgivable. And that sweet Mrs. Tarrant. I’m afraid I was rude to her — I am most truly sorry. But you see — I was so anxious about Tommy.”
“Why?” said Miss Phipps bluntly.
“Leaving him alone,” said Mrs. Brooke, hanging her head.
“But surely you have plenty of staff here,” objected Miss Phipps, “to keep an eye on him?”
“Yes, in a way. But... oh, well, a young mother, you know,” said Mrs. Brooke, laughing falsely. “One gets these fancies.”
“What fancies?” said Miss Phipps. Mrs. Brooke was silent. “What kind of fancies?” pressed Miss Phipps. “You’re too intelligent, too well-educated, to indulge in groundless fancies, I’m sure,” she continued. “You feared some danger for the child?”
“It was so strange,” began Mrs. Brooke hesitantly. “Such a mysterious little incident.” She stopped. “I’m ashamed to trouble you with it.”
“What did your husband say when you told him of the incident?” inquired Miss Phipps.
“Henry? He laughed. But I think he was worried. He’s rather worried about a good many things just now,” said Mrs. Brooke.
There were occasions when Miss Phipps, usually the mildest and most modest of women, found it useful to play the celebrated novelist. She did so now.
“My dear,” she said in the commanding resonant tone which she used to impress fans at literary cocktail parties, “you had better tell me all about it. I have had a good deal of experience in solving these small mysteries, both as a detective novelist and as an occasional assistant to the police. Confide in me. You may trust in my discretion absolutely.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Brooke, still hesitating; then she plunged: “It was like this. It sounds so silly, but really it was strange. Last Sunday morning I’d just put the baby in his pram on the terrace. I was upstairs in our bedroom, putting on my hat and coat, meaning to slip late into Chapel. I heard the baby begin to cry. I looked out and saw that he had thrown his rattle out of his pram.”
“They often do that,” said Miss Phipps, nodding her head wisely. “Throw things away and then want the discarded objects back again. Just like adults.”
“So I ran downstairs and out to the terrace,” Mrs. Brooke went on, “and the rattle was in his pram.”
“In his pram?” exclaimed Miss Phipps stupidly.
Mrs. Brooke nodded. “Lying on the coverlet.”
“But somebody must have put it there!”
“Agreed. But who? All the boys, the teaching staff, the secretarial staff, Miss Bellivant, and several of the masters’ wives — everybody, in fact — were in Chapel. We have our own College chapel, you know. We had the Bishop of Southshire over here that morning, as a matter of fact, and he’s a very good preacher, so everybody was there.”
“One of the domestic staff?”
“We have no domestic staff of our own; nowadays all that work is done by the College domestic staff.”
“Then one of them?”
“Miss Phipps,” said Mrs. Brooke very earnestly, “believe me, it was nobody. I’ve asked everybody. After all, it was kind action; nobody need be ashamed to own up to it, need they? But nobody admits to having put the rattle back in the pram.”
“My dear,” said Miss Phipps in her most soothing tone, “don’t be vexed with me when I tell you I really think you are making a mountain out of a molehill. The postman passed by, perhaps — oh, no, not on a Sunday. The milkman — no, not by your private front-entrance. Well, somebody,” concluded Miss Phipps pettishly. “It’s a very small matter, after all.”
“Not when taken in conjunction with other small matters which have been happening here,” said Mrs. Brooke. “There seems a jinx on the school this term. And Henry cares so much, you know. Everything was going so well — till now.”
“What other small matters?” demanded Miss Phipps.
“Here we are, my dear,” said Henry Brooke, entering the room with a flock of masters behind him.
He was one of the new type of Headmasters, Miss Phipps observed with interest — short, slight, fair, utterly unpompous, but with a dynamic energy informing his whole personality. His gray eyes were shrewd and bright.
“Ah, Miss Phipps,” said he, shaking hands.
His tone was courteous but noncommittal; it was clear to Miss Phipps that his judgment on his visiting lecturer was as yet suspended.
“And why not?” thought Miss Phipps honestly. “He knows nothing of me as yet.”
She exerted herself to make intelligent conversation.
“My dear boy,” said old Mr. Pryce in mild, sad, mellifluous tones. “My dear Deighton, if you would only understand that I am not reproaching you in the least for upsetting the pile of reports. It’s the easiest thing in the world to do, especially as my desk stands under the common-room window. I entirely acquit you of any desire to wound or annoy me.”