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Authors: James Hilton
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obliterated, and in quite the most natural manner, too. He flung down the stump of his cigarette and ground it under his heel. Really, if there were anything in Lambourne’s theory, it had all been managed with devilish ingenuity.
As he descended the outside steps of the swimming-bath a small female figure on a bicycle suddenly dismounted in front of him and greeted him with a bright smile. “Hullo, Mr. Revell—how are you? I didn’t know you were up here.”
The encounter relieved him momentarily of his load of doubts and apprehensions. “Hullo, Mrs. Ellington—delighted to meet you again. Yes, I thought I’d come up for Speech Day. Not going to be such a joyous festival, though, is it?”
“It’s just frightful,” she answered, her dark eyes clouding over instantly. “Have you been brave enough to look where it happened? I haven’t. It was a terrible sight for poor Wilson, I’m afraid. And, you know, I feel particularly awful about it myself, because— in a sort of way—I was responsible. I know it’s foolish of me to think so, but really I can’t help it.”
“But how on earth—“
“You see, Mr. Revell, it was I who suggested having the bath cleaned. It wasn’t very dirty, but I happened to be looking in on Monday afternoon in connexion with the seating arrangements for the gala display, and it just occurred to me that the bath might be a little bit cleaner. So I mentioned it to my husband, and he mentioned it to the Head, and the order was given to Wilson almost immediately. And but for that . . .” She shuddered and stared miserably at the handle-bars of her bicycle.
“But really, Mrs. Ellington, I don’t think you can possibly feel responsible—there was no real negligence on your part or anything like that. The whole affair was just a most frightful accident—“ He said it before he realised what he was saying.
“Oh yes, I know, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling how I do about it. . . . Will you come along to tea, by the way? I’m just putting my bicycle in the shed before I go in. I’m sure my husband will like to see you again.”
Revell accepted the invitation and, taking her machine away from her, wheeled it to its allotted space in the covered bicycle-stand. It would not be a bad idea to meet Ellington, he reflected, and to observe him from the standpoint of one who already suspected him of being a double murderer. Apart from which, Mrs. Ellington’s company was itself sufficient to make the suggestion attractive.
Ellington was not in when they reached the house, so they prepared the tea themselves, chatting pleasantly meanwhile. She was, he decided once again, a charming little creature—full of elf-like vivacity and so childishly frank as well. “You know,” she said, “we come into an awful lot of money through that poor boy being killed. It sounds terrible to be thinking of it even before he’s buried, but it’s hard not to. Tom’s his nearest relative, you see— there was simply nobody else to leave it to. We shall be quite rich.”
Revell assumed polite surprise. “Will you leave Oakington, do you think?”
“Oh, I do hope so. The life of a schoolmaster’s wife isn’t all fun. Have you seen that play Young Woodley, by the way, that’s on in town?”
“Yes, several times. I liked it immensely.”
“Oh, so did I. And I do sympathise so much with the schoolmaster’s
wife—not so much in connexion with the boy—but just generally. I
mean—oh, I don’t know quite how to express it in a way that you
won’t misunderstand, but—“
And as if to illustrate the inexpressible, Ellington himself came in at that moment in an obvious bad temper. Really, thought Revell, for a man who, whether by accident or design, was about to inherit a hundred thousand pounds, he was remarkably peeved. He shook hands perfunctorily with Revell, planked himself down in the most comfortable chair,
As he descended the outside steps of the swimming-bath a small female figure on a bicycle suddenly dismounted in front of him and greeted him with a bright smile. “Hullo, Mr. Revell—how are you? I didn’t know you were up here.”
The encounter relieved him momentarily of his load of doubts and apprehensions. “Hullo, Mrs. Ellington—delighted to meet you again. Yes, I thought I’d come up for Speech Day. Not going to be such a joyous festival, though, is it?”
“It’s just frightful,” she answered, her dark eyes clouding over instantly. “Have you been brave enough to look where it happened? I haven’t. It was a terrible sight for poor Wilson, I’m afraid. And, you know, I feel particularly awful about it myself, because— in a sort of way—I was responsible. I know it’s foolish of me to think so, but really I can’t help it.”
“But how on earth—“
“You see, Mr. Revell, it was I who suggested having the bath cleaned. It wasn’t very dirty, but I happened to be looking in on Monday afternoon in connexion with the seating arrangements for the gala display, and it just occurred to me that the bath might be a little bit cleaner. So I mentioned it to my husband, and he mentioned it to the Head, and the order was given to Wilson almost immediately. And but for that . . .” She shuddered and stared miserably at the handle-bars of her bicycle.
“But really, Mrs. Ellington, I don’t think you can possibly feel responsible—there was no real negligence on your part or anything like that. The whole affair was just a most frightful accident—“ He said it before he realised what he was saying.
“Oh yes, I know, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling how I do about it. . . . Will you come along to tea, by the way? I’m just putting my bicycle in the shed before I go in. I’m sure my husband will like to see you again.”
Revell accepted the invitation and, taking her machine away from her, wheeled it to its allotted space in the covered bicycle-stand. It would not be a bad idea to meet Ellington, he reflected, and to observe him from the standpoint of one who already suspected him of being a double murderer. Apart from which, Mrs. Ellington’s company was itself sufficient to make the suggestion attractive.
Ellington was not in when they reached the house, so they prepared the tea themselves, chatting pleasantly meanwhile. She was, he decided once again, a charming little creature—full of elf-like vivacity and so childishly frank as well. “You know,” she said, “we come into an awful lot of money through that poor boy being killed. It sounds terrible to be thinking of it even before he’s buried, but it’s hard not to. Tom’s his nearest relative, you see— there was simply nobody else to leave it to. We shall be quite rich.”
Revell assumed polite surprise. “Will you leave Oakington, do you think?”
“Oh, I do hope so. The life of a schoolmaster’s wife isn’t all fun. Have you seen that play Young Woodley, by the way, that’s on in town?”
“Yes, several times. I liked it immensely.”
“Oh, so did I. And I do sympathise so much with the schoolmaster’s
wife—not so much in connexion with the boy—but just generally. I
mean—oh, I don’t know quite how to express it in a way that you
won’t misunderstand, but—“
And as if to illustrate the inexpressible, Ellington himself came in at that moment in an obvious bad temper. Really, thought Revell, for a man who, whether by accident or design, was about to inherit a hundred thousand pounds, he was remarkably peeved. He shook hands perfunctorily with Revell, planked himself down in the most comfortable chair,
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