Overture to Death

“I’m sorry I told you.”

“No, it was much better you should. I’d better see the damn’ thing.”

Mrs. Ross went to her writing-desk and unlocked a drawer. She took out a sheet of note-paper and gave it to him. He stared at six lines of black capitals.

“YOU ARE GIVEN NOTICE TO LEAVE THIS DISTRICT. IF YOU DISREGARD THIS WARNING YOUR LOVER SHALL SUFFER.”

“When did it come?”

“This morning. The postmark was Chipping.”

“What makes you think it’s her?”

“Smell it.”

“Eucalyptus, my God!”

“She’s drenched in it.”

“She probably carried it in her bag?”

“That’s it. You’d better burn it, Billy.”

Dr. Templett dropped the paper on the smouldering log and then snatched it up again.

“No,” he said. “I’ve got a note from her at home. I’ll compare the paper.”

“Surely hers has a printed address.”

“This might be a plain sheet for the following on. It’s good paper.”

“She’d never be such a fool.”

“The woman’s pathological, my dear. She might do anything. Anyway, I’ll see.”

He put the paper in his pocket.

“In my opinion,” said Selia Ross, “she’s green with jealousy because I’ve rather got off with the parson and the squire.”

“So am I.”

“Darling,” said Mrs. Ross, “you can’t think how pure I am with them.”

Templett suddenly burst out laughing.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Catastrophe

i

At ten minutes to eight on the night of Saturday, November 27th, the parish hall at Winton St. Giles smelt of evergreens, wet mackintoshes, and humanity. Members of the Young People’s Friendly Circle, harried and dragooned by Miss Campanula, had sold all the tickets in advance, so, in spite of the appalling weather, every seat was occupied. Even the Moorton Park people had come over with their house-party, and sat in the front row of less uncomfortable chairs at two shillings a head. Behind them were ranged the church workers including Mr. Prosser, chemist of Chipping, and Mr. Blandish, the police superintendent, both churchwardens. The Women’s Institute was there with its husband and children. Farther back, in a giggling phalanx, were those girls of the Friendly Circle who were not acting as ushers, and behind them, on the back benches, the young men of the farms and villages, smelling of hair-grease and animal warmth. In the entrance, Miss Campanula had posted Sergeant Roper, of the Chipping Constabularly, and sidesman of St. Giles. His duties were to collect tickets and subdue the backbenchers, who were inclined to guffaw and throw paper pellets at their girls. At the end of the fourth row from the front, on the left of the centre aisle, sat Georgie Biggins with his parents. He seemed strangely untroubled by his dethronement from the position of call-boy. His hair was plastered down with water on his bullet-shaped head, his face shone rosily, and there was an unholy light in his black boot-button eyes, which were fixed on the piano.

The piano, soon to achieve a world-wide notoriety, stood beneath the stage and facing the centre aisle. One of the i

There was a notice in the programmes about the object of the performance, a short history of the old piano, a word of thanks to Jocelyn Jernigham, Esq., of Pen Cuckoo, for his generous offer to make up the sum of money needed for a new instrument. The old piano came in for a lot of attention that evening.

At eight o’clock Dinah, sick with apprehension in the prompt corner, turned on the stage lights. Sergeant Roper, observing this signal, leant across the row of boys on the back bench and switched off the house lights. The audience made noises of pleasurable anticipation.

Improvised footlights shone upwards on the faded green curtain. After a moment’s pause, during which many people in the audience said, “Ssh!” an invisible hand drew the curtain aside and the rector walked through. There was a great burst of applause in the second row, and the reporter from the Chipping Courier took out his pad and pencil.

Mr. Copeland’s best cassock was green about the seams, the toes of his boots turned up because he always neglected to put trees in them. He was actually a good-looking, rather shabbily-dressed parish priest. But, lit dramatically from beneath, he looked magnificent. It was the head of a mediaeval saint, austere and beautiful, sharp as a cameo against its own black shadow.

“He ought to be a bishop,” said old Mrs. Cain to her daughter.

Behind the curtain, Dinah took a final look at the set. The squire, satisfactory in plus-fours and a good clean make-up, was in his right position up-stage, with a telegram in his hand. Henry stood off-stage at the prompt entrance, very nervous. Dinah moved into the wings with the bicycle bell in her hands.

“Don’t answer the telephone till it’s rung twice,” she hissed at Jocelyn.

“All right, all right, all right.”

“Clear, please,” said Dinah severely. “Stand by.”

She went into the prompt box, seized the curtain lines and listened to her father.

“—So you see,” the rector was saying, “the present piano is almost a historical piece, and I’m sure you will be glad to hear that this old friend will be given an honourable place in the small recreation room at the back of the stage.”

Sentimental applause.

“I have one other a

The rector paused again while the audience wondered if it should applaud Dr. Templett’s efficiency, but decided that, on the whole, it had better not.

“Now, although you will be disappointed and will sympathize, I am sure, with Miss Prentice, we all know we mustn’t disobey doctor’s orders. I am happy to say that we shall still have our music — and very good music, too. Miss Idris Campanula, at literally a moment’s notice, has consented to play for us. Now, I think this is particularly generous and sporting of Miss Campanula, and I’ll ask you all to show your appreciation in a really — ”

Deafening applause.

“Miss Campanula,” ended Mr. Copeland, “will play Rachmaninoff’s ‘Prelude in C Sharp Minor.’ Miss Campanula.”