Portrait of Elmbury by John Moore Read Free Book Online Page A

like Cobbett’s some unreasonable dislikes; and that he shared with Cobbett an abhorrence of parsons because he objected to having to pay tithe.
    The vicar, as a matter of fact, was a most generous man, who’d have given back to Mr. Jeffs double the value of the tithe if he had asked for it. Indeed the vicar’s generosity amounted to a mania; he gave away everything he possessed, including large sums of money, and then innocently borrowed from moneylenders in order that he might still be able to give things away. But we did not know this at the time; we merely thought that he must be immensely rich; and Mr. Jeffs also thought that he was immensely rich, and that he waxed and grew fat at the expense of agriculture, out of the tithe. So, whenever he met him, Mr. Jeffs would shake his whip angrily and cry out in a loud voice: “Let them as wants Parsons pay for them!” And the vicar, who was also a hot-tempered man, would engage Mr. Jeffs in argument. Soon they would begin shouting at each other, the chestnut cob would prance excitedly, the lash of Mr. Jeffs’ whip would flick ever closer to the vicar’s nose until at last a crowd began to collect and the two protagonists in sudden embarrassment hurried away.
The Mystery of Fred
    Sitting in our window seat, we got to know the habits of people; for the inhabitants of a small town, much more than city-dwellers or country-folk, are creatures of habit. Always at exactly one minute past six Mr. Robertson the draper would pass our window on his way to the Swan; but he didn’t take long over his drink, for always at twenty minutes past he was on his way back again. You could set your watch by him. Mr. Williams the ironmonger took his wife for a walk, wet or fine, always in the same direction and presumably by the same route at half-past two on early closing day. Mr. Tanner, who kept a green-grocer’sshop, neglected his business only on one day in the year, June 16th, when he let his cherries and strawberries rot and his customers go hang and went fishing; for June 16th was the first day of the season.
    In particular was our cousin Fred addicted to invariable and apparently unalterable habits. He was a lawyer, and his office was a few hundred yards from Tudor House, on the opposite side. At nine-thirty, never a moment later, he entered his office; at twelve forty-five, never a moment early, he went home to lunch. Back again at two-fifteen, home for tea at five. He was a mild-mannered, unassuming little man of about thirty-five. In summer he wore a straw boater, in winter he wore a bowler hat; and the change was effected always upon the first of May and the first of October, irrespective of what the weather might be on those days.
    We grew so used to the passage of Fred to and fro between his office and his home that when one day he failed to appear it was as if the clock had stopped. Next day he was still missing. “Where was Fred?” we asked. “Was he ill?” No. “What has happened to him?” He had gone away. “Where had he gone?” Tight-lipped silence.
    There were whisperings between Old Nanny and the nursemaid. We knew that “something was up.” We watched Fred’s office and witnessed unusual goings and comings. The police-inspector entered at ten o’clock and didn’t come out till lunch-time. We went into the kitchen and tried to find out the truth from Old Cookie; but she was sober and surly, she’d had no drink to loosen her gossiping tongue, and all we got from her was a dollop of uncooked cake mixture, the scrapings of the basin which was so much nicer than real cake, and the usual admonition: “Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies.”
    We never saw Fred again; and it was more than ten years before I heard the strange story—no, fifteen years, because it was told me, when I was old enough to drink beer, in the bar of the Swan Hotel by the old men who sat there after