‘That is so true; and yet, if vox populi is vox dei, who are we to set ourselves against it?’ asked her hostess.
The visitor rose to take her leave. She tore a leaf out of a tiny notebook and handed it to Dame Beatrice.
‘It is good of you to promise to visit Caxton. Here is his address,’ she said abruptly. ‘It is a little off the beaten track. The best way is to take the Brockenhurst road and enquire at Buckett’s farm. Caxton is their tenant. I have to thank you for a most delicious tea.’
‘She may have enjoyed a delicious tea, but I do not think she saw mine as a delicious mind,’ said Dame Beatrice to Laura when the latter returned. ‘As for giving my kind co-operation in the matter of attempting to persuade William Caxton to lead the Ladies’ Guild through the streets of Chardle, I would not have agreed except that I want an excuse to meet this aptly-named printer.’
‘Do I gather you didn’t much take to our Clarice?’
‘I am sure she is the worthiest of women and, no doubt, a good wife and mother.’
‘But, as a companion on a walking tour she wouldn’t be exactly your first choice. Oh, well, we don’t always recognise or appreciate the highest when we see it. She’s a bit cheesed off, you know, because Denbigh has ridden rough-shod over her. She’s accustomed to try to produce our shows as well as stage-manage them, I’m told, so I do rather hope you didn’t tease her, but I’m rather afraid you might have done. Did she touch you for a subscription?’
‘In the beginning, yes, but at parting she refused it. I think the refusal was a mark of her displeasure. In fact, I am quite sure it was.’
‘Too right, I’d say. Well, you’ve agreed to tackle Caxton, it seems, so do you want me to accompany you on your visit to this wild man of the woods?’
‘If you will agree to leave all the talking to me, I shall be glad of your company. I have the liveliest suspicions concerning him.’
‘What is he? – clad in goat skins, like Robinson Crusoe, or a demander of cheese, like poor Ben Gunn?’
‘Neither, I trust. Does the name William Caxton convey anything to you, apart from the printing press and the date 1476?’
‘Convey anything to me? No. Why should it? There are probably dozens of Caxtons in the telephone book and William isn’t exactly an uncommon Christian name.’
‘You relieve my mind.’
Laura stared hard at her employer. ‘What is all this?’ she asked.
Dame Beatrice cackled. ‘Just a foolish notion I entertained; an idea which you have now, I am glad to say, relegated to its proper sphere, which is limbo.’
Laura looked dissatisfied.
‘You don’t often get ideas which have to be treated like unbaptised infants,’ she remarked. ‘Limbo is where they’re supposed to go. You wouldn’t care to come clean and give me the gist of your thoughts, I suppose?’
‘I am ashamed of them. The clear light of your commonsense has shown me how foolish they are.’
Laura went into the library, the adjoining room, to write to the handsome husband whom she had recently left in London, but, instead of beginning her letter, she scribbled on the blotting-pad – an anachronism in an age of ball-point pens – William Caxton, William Wallace, William Shakespeare, William Wilberforce, William of Orange, William Wordsworth, William Butler Yeats, William Congreve, William of Wykeham. She tapped on the blotter as she studied the list. Then she read it aloud. When she came to the last name she repeated it and then uttered it a third time. She scribbled all across the list of names, took a piece of writing paper from a drawer and began her letter to Assistant Commissioner Rober Gavin.
When she had stamped the envelope and put it in the tray ready for posting, she went back to Dame Beatrice, who was industriously but purposelessly knitting.
‘William of Wykeham. William Wayneflete. Wayneflete College. Alfriston C. Swinburne, Thaddeus E. Lawrence, William Caxton,’ said Laura. ‘Am I right? But it’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?’
‘I am sure of it, and I have already confessed as much.’ Dame Beatrice cast aside the repulsive network of pale mauve wool which she had been knitting and added, ‘Let us think no more about it. When shall we go and see this young man?’
‘The tooter the sweeter.’
They set off next day, Laura driving, took the Brockenhurst road and branched off past Buckett’s farm, but did not call there. The open common gave place to woods and a little stream. The car crossed a narrow bridge. Beyond this there was open forest and then a boundary lane bordered by a couple of shallow ponds. Some ponies were grazing and beyond them was the cottage which Laura, whose knowledge of the Forest was encyclopaedic, had found easily enough from the address which Mrs Blaine had left with Dame Beatrice.
From the narrow road which the car had been following after it had crossed the bridge, not much more than the roof and chimneys of the cottage could be seen, for it was down in a dip. From the road an ill-defined path made by the feet of pedestrians across the turf could be seen leading to a wicket-gate. Laura pulled up off the narrow road and she and her employer took the path to the cottage.
It was in a small enclosure which could hardly be called a garden and in this space there was an open shed containing a motor-cycle and an old mangle. The cottage itself was in need of a coat of paint. The door to it was open and through the doorway came the sound of song.
Laura called out unnecessarily, ‘Anybody home?’ and a young man came to the open doorway.
‘Somebody asking for me?’ he enquired. Dame Beatrice came forward.
‘Mr William Caxton, I believe,’ she said. The young man smiled at her.
‘If you’ve come on behalf of the ladies of the town,’ he said, ‘you’ve wasted your time, I’m afraid. I have no intention whatever of appearing in their Caxton pageant.’
‘Not even if I am willing to give you the printing of all posters, tickets and programmes for the Festival play?’
His face changed. He looked alert and interested.
‘That’s different,’ he said. ‘Would you do that?’
‘On condition of your appearing in the pageant, of course. Payment will be made when the pageant is over and you have taken part.’
‘Trusting, aren’t you?’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘O.K. I accept. I can do with the money. Incidentally, my work is good and not cheap. Come inside and I’ll give you an estimate.’
‘Forgive me for mentioning it,’ said Laura, when they were back in the car, ‘but surely Clarice Blaine didn’t authorise you to bribe the chap, did she?’
‘No, and I have not committed her or the Ladies’ Guild or the dramatic society to any financial transactions. I intend to pay for the printing myself if this obliging William Caxton undertakes to appear in the pageant. I feel that I owe Mrs Blaine something for having shocked her so deeply by my refusal to lend my support to her ban on The Beggar’s Opera. Besides, I have satisfied myself of one thing.’
‘I’ll take a guess. You know now that Caxton is really Caxton, although I bet it’s simply a trade name to advertise the fact that he has this printing press. And you also know that he isn’t Thaddeus E. Lawrence, not to mention Alfriston C. Swinburne.’
‘You are right, but you had already convinced me that my suspicions were foolish and irrational. Still, it is always as well to be sure.’
‘But our professional blonde, who opted for a pantomime as our Festival offering, could be Coralie St Malo,’ said Laura. ‘No, of course she couldn’t, any more than Caxton could be Lawrence.’
‘Sure, these are but imaginary wiles,
And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here,’
quoted Dame Beatrice, with an eldritch cackle. ‘There still remains R. Crashaw, of course.’