“We ought to be going soon,” she whispered.
“Yes, love, I know…” But he went on staring in thoughtful abstraction at the physic researcher, who was standing his ground with an obstinacy so publicly declared that now it could hardly be retracted. Yet to do him justice, he must have meant it from the beginning, since he had come provided with a packet of sandwiches and a small flask of coffee as well as his raincoat and torch. Retreat before his own accusing eyes would have been even harder than retreat in the face of all the mockery and terrorisation “The Sitting Duck” was exercising upon him. And perhaps he was as stupidly big-headed as Hugh had said. Whatever his motives, scientifically pure or humanly stubborn, he meant to go through with it. He would go through with it.
“Drink up, then, my fond and fair one! Sure you wouldn’t like the other half?”
“No, really, thanks. We promised Dave we’d cut it short.”
Hugh held her coat for her, and they withdrew among a chorus of good nights. Everyone who remembered about the rally added fervent good wishes. One or two even had bets on him. They passed close by the earnest stranger, who was also climbing into his coat with slightly defiant resolution. The torch he fished out of a deep pocket was truly formidable in size. Hugh eyed it respectfully in passing.
“You need that to see the ghosts, or what?”
“They don’t like light,” said Eb Jennings mysteriously, as if, had he wished, he could have given this amateur a lot of valuable tips.
“He’s right, you know,” said Hugh seriously. “Much better leave it behind. You’re taking this whole thing too lightly. In for a giggle, in for a thrill, if the monks don’t get you, the devils will!”
“You’re awful!” said Dinah, as they darted through the rain to the car, the everyday Mini they used for general transport. “You just don’t give a damn for anybody!”
“Those people burn me up. Coming to a place they know nothing about, and feel nothing about, where if they had sense they’d sit and listen, and put out feelers until they understood at least the language! I can’t stand phoneys!”
“I’ll drive,” said Dinah, slithering behind the wheel, for she had, in any case, to drive herself home from the Abbey after dropping him. They threaded the roads between autumnal, leaning trees, streaming and gleaming with rain. She drove well; both Dave and Hugh had had a hand in teaching her, and her vision was phenomenally sharp and her reactions naturally rapid and decisive. “Take me as navigator,” she said suddenly, “I mean next time. Ted wouldn’t mind, just for once.”
“Ted wouldn’t mind anything you suggested, and you know it. Ted dotes. Sometimes I’m downright jealous. You sure you want to run yourself into the ground on a stint like that?”
“I could do it,” she said confidently. “I bet I can stick out anything you can.”
“If only it hadn’t got so damned professional these days, we’d do the Monte together. I’d love it! Dinah, Dinah…”
“Hey, cut it out!” protested Dinah, unexpectedly kissed behind the left ear and—by mistake on a curve—in the left eye. “You’ll have us in the hedge!”
They turned into the Abbey drive. There were lights in the drawing-room.
“Good, Mother’s still up.” It was not much after nine o’clock. “She’s got a bit of a cold, Rob said, but it probably won’t be much. Anyhow, I’ll go and give her your love, shall I?”
“Yes,” said Dinah, “do that.” It wasn’t love she felt, but it was something outgoing and grievous and urgent, and the word love would do for want of one more exact. She was sorry for everyone who was old and lonely, and narrow, and cold.
Hugh kissed her, now with a more assured aim, and at leisure. “See you some time Tuesday morning, then.”
“Give me a ring when the results are out, I’ll be waiting to hear how you got on.”
He promised, and disentangled himself reluctantly.
“And go to bed as soon as she does,” ordered Dinah, as he got out of the car, “or you’ll be dropping tomorrow.”
He mouthed one more promise and blew a kiss back to her, and was gone. Dinah turned the car in the broad stretch of unkempt gravel before the door, and drove back home. The rain continued, steady, soft-voiced and impersonal, a curtain of pearl-textured sound against the stillness of the night.
The Saturday night dances in Comberbourne ended, in deference to the English sabbath, at midnight, but in practice no one actually left before half past twelve, even if the extra half hour was spent in gossiping and finishing up the last drinks after the band had gone. Consequently it was regularly after half past one in the morning when Brian Jennings roared back into Mottisham, accompanied by the hearty curses of all the residents he disturbed in passage. Brian considered he was entitled to one anti-social moment in his week, and this was it. He admitted he could have made his machine quieter if he’d cared to, but he just loved the music it made. At about twenty to two on this particular Sunday morning Dave, whose bedroom overlooked the road, heard him thunder by on his way home. About ten minutes later the offence was aggravated by a second disturbance, just as Dave was drifting into sleep again. A handful of gravel rattled sibilantly down the window. Dave rolled out of bed and flung up the sash. “What the hell do you think…”
“Don’t shoot, Dave! It’s me, Brian Jennings…” There was the slender black figure, anonymous as a skin diver in the P.V.C. overalls he wore over his good suit. As if he felt the need to identify himself beyond question, the boy hurriedly hauled off helmet and goggles, and tilted upwards a tense, wide-eyed face.
“Let me in, will you, please, I’ve got to use the ’phone. Honest, it’s urgent. I didn’t want to knock up the Rev., and there’s no copper there tonight…” His voice was a strenuous whisper, and conveyed just enough of shock and excitement to restrain Dave from argument. Reactions were quick in Mottisham these days.
“What’s happened now?”
He kept his voice down, too. Dinah slept on the other side of the house, no need for her to be disturbed.
“There’s another one copped it,” said Brian tersely. “Only this one isn’t dead—not yet…”
“I’ll come down,” said Dave, and vanished from the window.
Brian was pressed against the jamb of the door by the time Dave reached it, and slid inside as soon as it was opened. He was quivering gently, but more with a terrier’s excitement in the hunt than with superstitious alarm. “Sorry about this, I’d have gone straight to the police, but this is the one night there’s nobody there… I’d better get the doctor first…”
“Who is it?” asked Dave, steering him towards the office.
“One of those new chaps—the spook-hunters…”
“In the porch, like the other one?” Dave hoisted the telephone from its rest. “Here you are, go ahead, it’s your story.”
“Right up against the door on his face, just like the first…” Brian’s hard young finger dialled rapidly and without error. Somewhere distant at the other end of the line a furious but controlled voice addressed him. Doctors are used to being called out at night, and used, moreover, to making the rapid decision as to whether to come or not on the evidence given, On public business Brian talked with the efficiency and authority of one sure of his ground.
“We’ve got a bad case of inquiry here at the church at Mottisham, I think it could be a fractured skull—head injuries, anyhow, and he’s unconscious. Should I call the ambulance or leave it to you? No, it wasn’t an accident, it looks like the last time. I know, I am getting on to Sergeant Moon as soon as this line’s clear…If you think I’m fooling, I’ll give you Mr. Cressett to talk to if you like. —Right, thanks, I’ll be standing by till you come.” He held down the rest and began to dial again, flashing a fiery glance at Dave. “They don’t trust anybody, do they? ‘Is this a hoax, young fellow?’ ” he mimicked savagely. “If you’re under twenty they think you’re missing on one cylinder.”