The rivals of Sherlock Holmes : early detective stories by Unknown Author Read Free Book Online Page A

vicar.
    “Not any,” said Munday.
    “The vicar—”
    “Call me Bob, please.”
    “Very well, then. Bob was speaking figuratively, I’m sure.” She said, “They can be very nasty. They’re nasty to Indians and nasty to each other. Alfred says he likes them but sometimes I think he doesn’t like them any more than I do, and I don’t like them at all. They’re cruel and silly and they’re so ugly their faces scare you.”
    “They speak figuratively, too,” said Munday. “And there were times when I wouldn’t have blamed them a bit for taking the odd missionary scalp.”
    “He doesn’t really mean that,” said Emma.
    “I’m sure your friend in Ghana is an angel,” said Munday. “But missionaries can be so arrogant. So damned righteous and discouraging. I’ve always felt there’s something fundamentally subversive about a mission—the vicarage, the church, vespers, the Land Rover, and those beautiful English children playing croquet on their patch of lawn while the village kids gape at them through the fence.”
    “That used to happen to my children,” said the vicar, “when I had a parish in Gillingham!”
    “I should have warned you, vicar,” said Emma. “Alfred’s an anthropologist.”
    “So I gathered.”
    “One never hears a good word about missionaries from them. Alfred won’t tell you this but our nearest hospital was run by Catholic priests—White Fathers. That’s where our friend here used to go when he was poorly.”
    “That doctor was about as pious as I am,” said Munday. “An Irishman. Dowle. Drank like a fish. Father Tom, they called him. He was a cunning devil, and he had the usual prejudices—a regular old quack. But he was first-class at curing dysentery. ‘Bug in your bowel, eh?’ he’d say. ‘Take some of the muck, then.* And he’d hand me a bottle of gray liquid. Did the trick practically overnight.” Munday smiled. “We used to call it Father Tom’s Cement.”
    “Sounds jolly useful.”
    Munday said, “Dowle sent me home. Said I had a dicky heart.”
    “Don’t start,” said Emma.
    “I imagine you boiled your water?” said the vicar. “We boiled our water,” said Munday.
    “And we had one of these filters,” said Emma, outlining the shape of the container with her hands.
    The vicar straightened up and jerked his lapels. “I’m going to let you good people have your dinner.” Emma rose from the chair. “Don’t rush off,” she said. “We’ve just had tea.”
    “I’ll come again. I’d love to hear all your stories,” said the vicar. He turned to Munday and said, “I can’t wait for your book.”
    “Book?”
    “The one you mentioned in your letter to The Times”
    “Oh, that,” said Munday.
    “I was intrigued by your letter,” said the vicar. “Really, it held me.”
    “Just dashed it off,” said Munday. “Wanted to set the record straight. Glad you liked it.”
    “Yes, I did,” said the vicar: “Actually, Mr. Awdry put me on to it. And that’s why I sneaked in here tonight. Once a month we have a sort of educational do at the church, a film-show or a talk, refreshments beforehand. It’s partly to get people together in some kind of fellowship. We have so many new people in the village, like yourselves. We charge a small admission—that goes toward the new hall and the fuel bill. Last month we had a lecture on Hardy.”
    “How appropriate!” said Emma.
    “Chap came over from Drimpton. He’d actually met Hardy—acted in the stage version of Tess, though I’d no idea there was such a play. It was fascinating.” “It sounds fascinating,” said Emma.
    “And you want me to do one of these talks?”
    “I was hoping you’d be December. I’d be very pleased if you would. Perhaps talk about some of your experiences. Your travels.”
    “I never saw it as travel,” said Munday. “For me it was residence. Travel bores me—it constipates me. All those bad meals. Surly staff. Strange beds.”
    “Your residence then,”