The Incredible Crime Page 14

  “I confess,” began the Master slowly, “that…I…should find some of them very hard to digest.”

  “You’re a reactionary Tory; the indigestible ones are as good as any,” said Temple in his worst and most abrupt manner.

  “Professor Temple,” said Prudence in her soft voice, “can you recall to your great mind a simple and elementary work called the Catechism, which I am sure you once learned?”

  Temple, who had, as a matter of fact, been watching Prudence all the time he had been talking to her father, replied promptly, “Anyhow, I know what it is.”

  “Yes, but I think—you have forgotten an important part of it.”

  “My godfathers and godmothers,” he murmured to himself thoughtfully, then, turning suddenly to the Bishop, “that revives an old memory of many years ago; I remember as a boy having to repeat something like that to you, in the small library at Wellende it was; Ben was there too, and he could only say the part about his godfathers and godmothers, but I was supposed to know the rest; dear me, dear me, why, I don’t suppose you were even born then,” he said, turning to Prudence with a smile.

  “The part I want to remind you of,” said she, busy with her flowers as she spoke, “which you seem to have completely forgotten, is that in one place you undertake to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors and masters, and to call your spiritual pastor and Master a reactionary Tory in that tone of voice is deplorable,” and Prudence turned and looked at him with a world of derision in her eyes.

  Temple was entranced. She had never looked at him like that before, and he was engaged in making the surprised discovery that Prudence’s eyes were the most beautiful things in the world! Here his thoughts were rudely interrupted by the Master saying, “and I in my turn would remind you, my dear,” turning to his daughter, “of the next sentence in that admirable work, where you undertake to order yourself ‘lowly and reverently’ to all your betters.”

  “So it does, I had forgotten that; ‘order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters,’” she repeated; “what a lovely sentiment it is, especially in these democratic days. Why, I’ve got no betters,” she said, looking the Professor full in the face.

  “Prudence,” said her father, laughing, “at times you go far to make me ashamed of you; there stands Francis infinitely your better morally and intellectually—”

  “Yes, and socially too,” interrupted the Professor, returning Prudence’s look with interest, “a Temple is—” Prudence literally gasped aloud with astonishment.

  “You—you—of all men, you.”

  “That’s right, Francis,” said the Master, who had observed the twinkle in the Professor’s eye, and was perfectly aware of his daughter’s weakness, “rub it in well, rub it in well,” and he went off chuckling to his study.

  “Morally, intellectually, and socially,” repeated Temple in a slightly arrogant tone of voice, and drawing up his fine person to its full height, as he stood in front of the fire.

  Prudence collapsed into a chair.

  “And you call yourself a socialist,” she remarked bitterly.

  “No,” replied the Professor blandly, “I doubt if I ever have, though I have often heard you call me one.”

  “You say you don’t believe in class distinctions; I’ve heard you.”

  “You’ve heard me say I don’t value them, I have never denied their existence.”

  “I understand you now to say that you are my social superior?” and Prudence, sitting on the arm of her chair, deliberately looked at him through her eyelashes.

  There was a pause; it was an extraordinary thing, thought the Professor, how fascinating a pair of eyes could be; but he wished she would look at him full again and then he would make quite sure…

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “but I am willing to overlook the fact as long as you just bear in mind,” and in a moment he got his desire, they were the most beautiful—

  “Of all the arrogant, overbearing, conceited and odious—”

  “Yes, yes, and I am going to be worse than that; I propose to teach you to order yourself lowly and reverently to one whom your father has pointed out as your better.”

  “Go on,” said Prudence, with a dangerous meekness, “I should like to hear you out to the end.”

  “I am an able teacher, as your father was good enough to observe; I have taught, and can still teach, those who don’t even want to learn.” He moved a little nearer her, “To order yourself lowly and reverently to all your betters—come, Prudence—that would be quite a fresh experience for you.”

  “It would indeed,” she agreed fervently, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes; “but fresh experience is the salt of life, and it might end in my teaching the great Professor Temple that there are some things even he can’t do!”

  “I can spare you a couple of hours this afternoon,” said Temple, taking out his engagement-book, “we’ll go for a walk.”

  “Oh, I really don’t think I can manage it this afternoon,” said Prudence, taken aback by his promptness.

  “If you don’t come, I shall know that you are afraid you will have to learn from me in spite of yourself.”

  “Oh, what a mean thing to say, how very mean!” laughed Prudence, “that makes me obliged to come.”

  After the Professor left, Prudence fell into a brown study, and the flowers that morning took long a-doing. She was feeling a little ashamed of herself; she had deliberately made eyes at a man, a thing she hadn’t done for years, and at Temple of all people in the world, and what was more degrading, she had to admit that she had enjoyed it. The utterly impossible part of it was that Temple had responded…he had looked at her once or twice in a way—(but of course, it was impossible, coming from him)—in a way that, coming from any other man, would have meant he was flirting with her; and there came in the sting again—she liked it. Here she considered for some time, and finally came to the conclusion that arrogance, if sufficiently colossal, was distinctly attractive.

  Chapter XXI

  When the afternoon turned out wet and cold, with that specially penetrating damp that forms so large a part in the climate of Cambridge in winter, Prudence was distinctly disappointed. To take a walk was out of the question. Soon after lunch, however, when the Master and his daughter were still drinking their after-luncheon coffee, a note was brought in for Miss Pinsent. “Professor Temple’s man was waiting for an answer.”

  “Professor Temple wants me to go to his rooms this afternoon,” said Prudence to her father; “He says he has something to show me, and a walk is impossible. I suppose there is no reason why I shouldn’t go?”

  “None at all,” replied her father, and so an acceptance was sent; and when later that afternoon Prudence presented herself at the Professor’s open door he was waiting for her inside. Miss Pinsent, for once in her self-satisfied existence, was feeling a little nervous, but she was a good deal reassured by the Professor’s ceremonious greeting.

  “I take it as very kind in you to have pity on my solitude,” he said.

  “I think your room is the most delightful of all College rooms, and it’s a pleasure to spend an afternoon in it, in weather like this,” replied she pleasantly, and as she spoke, her attention was caught by a scuffling noise on the other side of the door.

  “What on earth—” exclaimed Prudence, “you don’t mean to say you’ve got a—,” and at that moment, as Temple opened the door, a fat, wriggling, twisting bundle of brown fur shot out and began rubbing itself all round his master’s legs, amidst snuffing cries and licks.

  “This is what I thought you would like to see,” said Temple. “I know you are fond of dogs.”

  “It’s a perfect darling; where did you get him and how do you manage to keep him? Here,” as she sat down, “give him to me.”

  The Professor picked up the wriggling puppy and dropped him on to Prudence’s lap. Ther
e the dog, with the endearing ways of his kind, so certain that no one could repulse their affection, began licking Prudence’s face and literally anything he could get hold of. She did her best to ward him off her face while she exclaimed:

  “You terrible little mongrel, but how adorable. Tell me how you got him.”

  “I have got more real pleasure, apart from satisfaction, out of that piece of goods than anything, I do believe,” answered Temple. “Ten days ago he was a shivering skeleton in the streets, half dead of distemper and neglect, and now just look at him!”

  Prudence hugged the soft, fat figure to her. “I think it’s grand,” she said with enthusiasm; “Is it a new discovery?”

  “Yes, I have been experimenting lately a good deal with a special drug, and to use it in this way for injections against distemper was an experiment which has succeeded beyond my most sanguine hopes.”

  “I think that sort of thing is simply splendid; you’ll tell Ben about it, won’t you? He’s pretty good in that sort of way himself, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, Ben is a veterinary surgeon, which of course is unusual in a man of his position. Oh, yes, I shall certainly share my discovery with him first.”

  Prudence wished so much that she could ask if it was this interest in common which was taking him again to the Old Hall; but she knew too much on the one hand, and too little on the other, to make it possible for her to question him at all.

  “Will you show me the drug that you cured this little fellow with?” she asked.

  Temple was delighted, and going to a big cupboard he produced all sorts of boxes and glass tubes and bottles; and showed her various things with wonderful powers, explaining their uses in a way that an amateur could follow and understand.

  “I never realized before how many different things can be got out of one,” she said, “and out of that, which is called ecgouin, you get cocaine? But is anyone allowed such things in their possession?”

  “No,” replied Temple, “ecgouin in this form is supplied to only two firms in Great Britain, they sell to the chemists, and every grain is supposed to be accounted for, and a history kept of where it goes. People like myself have special concessions for buying.”

  “Can you always get what you want?”

  “I can always get some, but it’s difficult or impossible to get it in much quantity.”

  “Have you any X.Y.X., isn’t it called?” asked Prudence nonchalantly.

  “What do you know about X.Y.X.?” asked Temple, busy in putting away his things.

  “Nothing. I’ve only heard it mentioned,” and Prudence did not fail to note that her question remained unanswered.

  “Bless my soul,” she exclaimed, looking at her watch, “I had no idea it was so late, I must be going.”

  “But it’s just tea-time,” said Temple, as he locked up his cupboard with a key from a bunch in his pocket; “Of course you are having tea with me, and here it comes.”

  His man came in with a bright copper kettle which he put on the fire; it started to sing at once. He then drew the curtains and brought in an ample tea, putting a plate of hot cakes in the fender. Nothing more comfortable could be imagined. The fine old book-lined room, the leaping fire, a kettle singing on the hob and the tea spread out in front of it. The Professor made his own tea with meticulous care, warming the pot before putting the tea in. He then rather formally invited Prudence to pour it out for him. She did so, and as they had it they talked a little of Wellende. Temple told Prudence he was contemplating another visit there shortly.

  “Then we ought to meet, as I expect to be there till Christmas for the hunting.”

  The Professor was sitting in a low chair with his legs crossed, and the puppy had bestowed his fat little person across the foot on the ground, where he was asleep, safe in the knowledge that his master couldn’t get away without his waking up.

  “When you have done your cup of tea, tell me: don’t get up, you can’t wake that fat darling, I will get it for you,” said Prudence, and when finally she rose to replenish his cup for him, the self-sufficient and conceited Miss Pinsent experienced an odd feeling of pleasure in doing the little service.

  “And the hounds are doing uncommon well, too,” said Prudence, continuing the conversation. “What a dear Ben is! I love that man, even his shortcomings are endearing.”

  Temple frowned, but as Prudence went on to recite Ben’s account of the last school managers’ meeting with much humour, his expression cleared. From this the discussion passed on to books, what were the best sort to take to read in bed.

  “I like something that leaves a pleasant picture in your mind,” announced Prudence, “and for that I don’t believe you can beat Somerville and Ross.”

  “I haven’t read any of them,” replied Temple. “I find I must have something just interesting enough to hold my attention, but not to make me think. I have one here that I found pleasant, light reading. I will lend it you,” and he reached out a long arm and handed Prudence a flat red book. She looked at the title and gave a little gasp.

  “I don’t hardly think,” she said. “You see I have no medical knowledge at all.”

  “You don’t need it, ordinary intelligence is all that’s required, you’ll enjoy it,” said he, thinking of the interest Prudence had been displaying that afternoon. Prudence said no more, but became rather thoughtful. As she rose to go, she said:

  “The rule about not keeping dogs in College rooms is not still in force, I suppose?” sarcastically.

  “Oh, yes, it is,” replied Temple blandly.

  “Any law which happens to get into your way, I suppose, you would ignore?”

  “No, no,” answered Temple gravely, “only laws which impede me in my scientific work, I should ignore them.”

  Prudence’s heart sank, for she felt it was true. She picked up the book she had been lent and, regarding it thoughtfully for a moment, she looked at her host, and said hesitatingly, without her usual assurance of manner: “Professor Temple, you haven’t been trying to…to teach me…what you said you would…all this afternoon, have you?”

  “What was it I said I would teach you?” he asked, remembering it for the first time since she had been there, and he took her hand as if to say good-bye, and held it. Silence. “Come, Prudence, tell me.”

  She wasn’t looking at him, so she didn’t see the ardent expression of his face. “To order myself lowly and reverently,” she said reluctantly.

  “As a matter of fact, it never occurred to me, till you reminded me just now!”

  “That’s all right, then,” said Prudence, taking her hand away. “I’ve enjoyed my afternoon enormously.”

  Chapter XXII

  Outside, Prudence collided with Mrs. Skipwith.

  “Oh, Susan!” she exclaimed, “you are just the person I want. Come along into the Lodge, I have something I simply must show you. Who do you think I have been having tea and spending the afternoon with?”

  Mrs. Skipwith glanced back at the staircase from which Prudence had just emerged. “Never Professor Temple?” she said.

  “Yes; just think of it!”

  Thinking of it was what Mrs. Skipwith was very much engaged in doing. Certainly now that he had once faced facts, the Professor was not letting the grass grow beneath his feet.

  “Do you know, Prue,” she said, slipping her arm into that of her friend, “I am beginning to think that perhaps we have always been a little hard on old Temple; I almost doubt if he is as inhuman as we have been inclined to suppose.”

  “I never did think him altogether inhuman.”

  “No, but pretty near so. He came to call on me the other day and was really quite charming.”

  “Most of to-day he has been like that, and quite as nice as any other man,” said Prudence thoughtfully, “and then, I want to show you the book he has lent me to take up and read in bed—a soothin
g book to go to sleep over was what he said.”

  They were inside the Lodge by now, and Prudence handed her friend the volume in question. Mrs. Skipwith took it, looked at the title, swallowed twice, and looked up at Prudence; then she read out slowly: “‘A Treatise on Anthroposophical Medical Research.’”

  “Yes,” replied Prudence in a whisper, “nice light reading, was how he described it.”

  “‘Anthroposophical Medical Research,’” chanted Mrs. Skipwith again.

  “When I said I didn’t think it would be much good my taking it, as I knew nothing about medicine, he said it didn’t matter, it only required a little ordinary intelligence.”

  “‘Anthroposophical Medical Research,’ and that’s his light reading!”

  “What do you suppose his deep reading is?”

  “God alone knows! Still,” said Mrs. Skipwith, after a pause, “you might intone the title over and over again to yourself as you go to sleep.”

  “I should certainly have a nightmare if I did, if I ever got to sleep, which I should doubt,” asserted Prudence firmly. “And do you know, Susan, what galls me most is, I hadn’t the courage to tell him that I don’t even know what the word means!”

  Mrs. Skipwith burst into laughter. “Cheer up, Prue,” she said, “after all, it is not your brains he cares tuppence about, it’s your face.”

  “Do you know,” said Prudence gently, “I think that is rather a vulgar thing to say; my face has nothing to do with Professor Temple.”

  “Do you know,” replied Susan, imitating her friend, “I think that’s a very stupid thing to say; the man is at perfect liberty to admire your face, which he happens to do…He told me so the afternoon he was calling on me.”

  “Told you he admired my face!” And then, after a short pause: “I’d far rather he admired my intellect.”

  “There are times,” said Mrs. Skipwith, “when I would like to take and shake you. That’s not true, as a matter of fact, though I know you genuinely think it is. The truth is, you’ve always been so sure your face is all right, that you’ve never given it much of a thought; but your intellect you are very much less certain of, and so you think more about it in proportion; you’ve a very average brain, my dear.” But Prudence was too much surprised and interested in what Mrs. Skipwith had been saying to feel resentful.