He said quickly, "Don't tell me the past. Tell me the future."
It was as if he had pressed a button and stopped a machine. The silence was odd and unexpected. He hadn't hoped to silence her, though he dreaded what she might say, for even inaccuracies about things which are dead can be as painful as the truth. He pulled his hand again and it came away. He felt awkward sitting there with his hand his own again.
Mrs Bellairs said, "My instructions are these. What you want is the cake. You must give the weight as four pounds eight and a half ounces."
"Is that the right weight?"
"That's immaterial."
He was thinking hard and staring at Mrs Bellairs' left hand which the light caught: a square ugly palm with short blunt fingers prickly with big art-and-crafty rings of silver and lumps of stone. Who had given her instructions? Did she refer to her familiar spirits? And if so, why had she chosen him to win the cake? or was it really just a guess of her own? Perhaps she was backing a great number of weights, he thought, smiling in the dark, and expected at least a slice from the winner. Cake, good cake, was scarce nowadays.
"You can go now," Mrs Bellairs said.
"Thank you very much."
At any rate, Arthur Rowe thought, there was no harm in trying the tip -- she might have stable information, and he returned to the cake-stall. Although the garden was nearly empty now except for the helpers, a little knot of people always surrounded the cake, and indeed it was a magnificent cake. He had always liked cakes, especially rich Dundees and dark brown home-made fruit-cakes tasting elusively of Guinness. He said to the lady at the stall, "You won't think me greedy if I have another sixpennyworth?"
"No. Please."
"I should say, then, four pounds eight and a half ounces."
He was conscious of an odd silence, as if all the afternoon they had been waiting for just this, but hadn't somehow expected it from him. Then a stout woman who hovered on the outskirts gave a warm and hearty laugh. "Lawks," she said. "Anybody can tell you're a bachelor."
"As a matter of fact," the lady behind the stall rebuked her sharply, "this gentleman has won. He is not more than a fraction of an ounce out. That counts," she said, with nervous whimsicality, "as a direct hit."
"Four pounds eight ounces," the stout woman said. "Well, you be careful, that's all. It'll be as heavy as lead."
"On the contrary, it's made with real eggs."
The stout woman went away laughing ironically in the direction of the clothing stall.
Again he was aware of the odd silence as the cake was handed over: they all came round and watched -- three middle-aged ladies, the clergyman who had deserted the chequer-board, and looking up Rowe saw the gypsy's curtain lifted and Mrs Bellairs peering out at him. He would have welcomed the laughter of the stout outsider as something normal and relaxed: there was such an intensity about these people as though they were attending the main ceremony of the afternoon. It was as if the experience of childhood renewed had taken a strange turn, away from innocence. There had never been anything quite like this in Cambridgeshire. It was dusk and the stall-holders were ready to pack up. The stout woman sailed towards the gates carrying a corset (no paper wrappings allowed). Arthur Rowe said, "Thank you. Thank you very much." He felt so conscious of being surrounded that he wondered whether anyone would step aside and let him out. Of course the clergyman did, laying a hand upon his upper arm and squeezing gently. "Good fellow," he said, "good fellow."
The treasure-hunt was being hastily concluded, but this time there was nothing for Arthur Rowe. He stood with his cake and The Little Duke and watched. "We've left it very late, very late," the lady wailed beneath her floppy hat.
But late as it was, somebody had thought it worth while to pay for entrance at the gate. A taxi had driven up, and a man made hastily for the gypsy tent rather as a mortal sinner in fear of immediate death might dive towards a confessional-box. Was this another who had great faith in wonderful Mrs Bellairs, or was it perhaps Mrs Bellairs' husband come prosaically to fetch her home from her unholy rites?
The speculation interested Arthur Rowe, and he scarcely took in the fact that the last of the treasure-hunters was making for the garden gate and he was alone under the great planes with the stall-keepers. When he realized it he felt the embarrassment of the last guest in a restaurant who notices suddenly the focused look of the waiters lining the wall.
But before he could reach the gate the clergyman had intercepted him jocosely. "Not carrying that prize of yours away so soon?"
"It seems quite time to go."
"Wouldn't you feel inclined -- it's usually the custom at a fête like this -- to put the cake up again -- for the Good Cause?"
Something in his manner -- an elusive patronage as though he were a kindly prefect teaching to a new boy the sacred customs of the school -- offended Rowe. "Well, you haven't any visitors left surely?"
"I meant to auction -- among the rest of us." He squeezed Rowe's arm again gently. "Let me introduce myself. My name's Sinclair. I'm supposed, you know, to have a touch -- for touching." He gave a small giggle. "You see that lady over there -- that's Mrs Fraser -- the Mrs Fraser. A little friendly auction like this gives her the opportunity of presenting a note to the cause -- unobtrusively."
"It sounds quite obtrusive to me."
"They're an awfully nice set of people. I'd like you to know them, Mr. . ."
Rowe said obstinately, "It's not the way to run a fête -- to prevent people taking their prizes."
"Well, you don't exactly come to these affairs to make a profit, do you?" There were possibilities of nastiness in Mr Sinclair that had not shown on the surface.
"I don't want to make a profit. Here's a pound note, but I fancy the cake."
Mr Sinclair made a gesture of despair towards the others openly and rudely.
Rowe said, "Would you like The Little Duke back? Mrs Fraser might give a note for that just as unobtrusively."
"There's really no need to take that tone."
The afternoon had certainly been spoiled: brass bands lost their associations in the ugly little fracas. "Good afternoon," Rowe said.
But he wasn't to be allowed to go yet; a kind of deputation advanced to Mr Sinclair's support -- the treasure-hunt lady flapped along in the van. She said, smiling coyly, "I'm afraid I am the bearer of ill tidings."
"You want the cake too," Rowe said.
She smiled with a sort of elderly impetuosity. "I must have the cake. You see -- there's been a mistake. About the weight. It wasn't -- what you said." She consulted a slip of paper. "That rude woman was right. The real weight was three pounds seven ounces. And that gentleman," she pointed towards the stall, "won it."
It was the man who had arrived late in the taxi and made for Mrs Bellairs' booth. He kept in the dusky background by the cake-stall and let the ladies fight for him. Had Mrs Bellairs given him a better tip?