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  Guffy looked profoundly uncomfortable. A naturally law-abiding soul, he was appalled by the illegality of the project.

  ‘I say, you know, it’s stealing,’ he objected.

  Eager-Wright shrugged his shoulders. ‘We could always call it kleptomania of an usual kind. And, besides, we can put it back in the church when we’ve finished with it. It belongs there, anyway. Hang it! we should be performing a valuable public service, as old Ramsbottom, or Glencannon, or whatever his name is, points out. Look here, let’s do that, Guffy. We’ll all go up to Norwich this afternoon and interview the curator. If we mention Glencannon’s name I don’t see why we shouldn’t get away with it. We can explain we’ve offered our services and our car to save the parish the cost of transport. People often do that sort of thing.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ agreed Farquharson. ‘I’m afraid we shall have to leave you in the town, Wright. With your face in its present condition, you hardly look bona fide as the Reverend Campion’s right-hand man. How about it, Guffy?’

  Mr Randall hesitated. ‘It’s rather an extraordnary thing to do,’ he said cautiously. ‘We shall have to do the thing properly. If we make a hash of the interview we shall never get hold of the drum. Perhaps if we wore dark suits and called about four o’clock in the afternoon just before closing time we might get away with it. We may be getting on the right track at last.’

  ‘What about defence here?’ enquired Farquharson. ‘Lugg will be your only assistant, Hal. Look here, shall we leave Wright behind?’

  ‘Oh, Lord, no.’ The boy was polite but firm in his refusal. ‘We shall be ready for anyone this time. Besides, I imagine they did everything they wanted to do .last night, or else satisfied themselves there was nothing here.’

  The inference of the first part of his remark dawned upon Guffy before the others and he glanced up to see the boy staring gloomily out of the window, suspicion and discomfort in his eyes.

  As though in answer to their thoughts, there was a whirr and a rustle from without, and the ‘car’, every inch of its crimson surface a-quiver, slid out of the coach-house and shot across the drive. Amanda, bolt upright and impudent, sat at the wheel, with Scatty, huddled and a little scared, beside her.

  Moved by a sudden impulse, Hal threw open the casement and shouted to her:

  ‘Amanda! Come back! I want to talk to you.’

  His sister waved her hand with blissful disregard, and was gone.

  ‘Where are you going!’ he bellowed.

  Very faint, but clear and triumphant, her voice returned to them on the wind.

  ‘To spend three hundred pounds, you poor fish!’

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Churchworkers

  ‘EVER STOLEN ANYTHING before, Farquharson?’ said Guffy as they pulled up in the market place at Norwich to drop Eager-Wright and enquire of a policeman for the Brome House Museum.

  ‘Hundreds of things,’ said Farquharson. ‘What’s a little drum, anyway? If I see anything else I like I shall bring it back as well. If we get away with this we might start on the South Ken. There’s a large-sized model of a flea there I’ve always had my eye on.’

  Left to themselves, however, their mood sobered. Neither was particularly keen on the task, and the prospect of misrepresenting themselves to some eagle-eyed guardian of the city’s treasures appeared uninviting in the extreme.

  Since Mr Campion’s mantle had descended upon him, however, Guffy was determined to see the thing through. The only museum he ever remembered visiting was the Victoria and Albert, and he pictured himself being thrown out ignominiously by resplendent officials and delivered to the local police to be brought up on the following day, on a charge of attempted theft, before his old acquaintance Sir Geoffrey Partington, the magistrate for the district.

  Farquharson sat quiet and placid, prepared, apparently, to take everything in his stride.

  Guffy swung the car into Maple Street, and sought for Number 21. To his surprise this building turned out to be an ordinary house, presenting an even greater problem than an impersonal stone palace. It was not even a particularly large house, but a pathetic, rather dingy late Georgian edifice with a small brass plate on the front door which announced timidly to the curious that the ‘Brome Grotto and Museum’ lay within.

  Here was no magnificent concierge, no stream of people, no confusion under cover of which they might secure their treasure and depart. Even the door was latched.

  Guffy rang the old-fashioned iron bell-pull and waited, his heart thumping ridiculously. So great was his alarm that he almost turned and fled when heavy footsteps on the tiles within warned them that someone was coming to obey their summons. The next moment the door was opened and the two nervous desperadoes were confronted by a somewhat disastrous spectacle.

  A man who had once been tall and broad, but who was now both bent and shrunken, stood before them. He was clad in a shiny blue serge suit, which had evidently been made for him in the days of his former pride, and a dull red face, greasy eyes and dusty sandy hair completed his unedifying appearance. He smiled at them hopefully.

  ‘You’ve come to see the Grotto?’ he enquired. ‘I shan’t be half a minute. I’m just getting a letter off to the post, so perhaps you’ll go round by yourselves. If you’ll just step in I’ll give you a ticket. That’ll be threepence each – thank you.’

  While he spoke he backed, waving his hands in front of him with a curiously enticing movement, and they found themselves in a very ordinary narrow hall adorned with a few cases of stuffed birds and some packets of faded picture postcards spread out on a decrepit table. From among these the unpleasant person produced a roll of tickets, two of which he traded for a sixpence.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ he said, pointing to a room on their left. ‘Go though the museum, down the steps and across the garden to the grotto. I’ll just finish my letter and then I’ll come and give you the history.’

  He had wandered off and disappeared through a small archway at the end of the hall before either of them could speak. The closing of a door seemed to jerk Guffy back to his senses.

  ‘Perfectly absurd,’ he muttered. ‘I say, it wouldn’t be difficult to lift the thing completely and simply walk out with it. Hang it, we’re the only people in the place. I expect it’s in here.’

  They turned into the room vaguely described as the museum to find themselves confronted by a heterogeneous collection of curios. Here were stamps, fossils, more stuffed birds, flints and Roman pottery, a large boat in a bottle and a mummified two-headed calf. But of the Malplaquet drum there was no sign at all.

  They went on still further and discovered yet another room devoted to the same distressing confusion. One or two pleasant pieces of china and a vast amount of worthless material, an ancient boneshaker and a miscellaneous collection of swords and early sporting guns were heaped upon one another with the profusion of a second-hand shop.

  A neatly printed notice directed them to the grotto, and they were about to follow it hopefully when the person who admitted them returned.

  ‘It’s very dull,’ he remarked from the doorway. ‘Very dull, isn’t it? The exhibits are not good. Very ordinary. I don’t suppose you thought much of the grotto, either.’

  He had a sing-song voice with a suggestion of tears in it, and as he stood looking at them a wave of hopeless melancholy seemed to flow over the entire room. He did not give them time to speak but continued unhurriedly, his voice plumbing even greater depths of wretchedness.

  ‘I’ve been here thirty years. When old Dr Poultry died and left this house and collection to the town, I was appointed Curator. And I’ve been Curator ever since. It’s been growing duller and duller every year. I don’t know why I stay. It’s a rotten life. People used to come once; they don’t come now. Hardly anyone ever comes. I don’t blame them. It’s a rotten collection. You’re tourists, I suppose, at a loose end? You must have an old-fashioned guide book, too, because the newest ones don’t even mention this place. I can’t compla
in: it’s a terrible show. Have you seen all you want to? No one stays here long.’

  He was backing out of the door with the same beckoning motion of his long damp hands, and they were in serious danger of being hypnotized out of the place by his very gloom. Farquharson nudged Guffy, who took the plunge like a hero.

  ‘Oh, so you’re the Curator, are you?’ he said, his voice becoming unexpectedly severe in his efforts to sound confident. ‘Well, we’ve come from the – er – Vicar of Pontisbright. I am one of his parishioners, you see, and I’ve – h’m – lent my car for the purpose.’

  The man was looking at him blankly and he floundered on.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not making myself very clear,’ he said fiercely. ‘You may have heard from Duncannon – hang it, man, it’s about the drum.’ Nervousness and a sense of guilt were making Guffy irritable and inarticulate.

  The faded sandy person in the doorway began to betray a flickering gleam of intelligence.

  ‘Oh, the drum,’ he said. ‘You’ve come from Pontisbright. It ought to have gone back, I know that. It’s been here for years. Nothing remarkable about it. No history attached to it. Just an ordinary drum. Very dull. Always in the way. Still, if you want it there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have it. People are very funny over church property. I suppose they’re justified.’

  Guffy heaved a sigh of relief. It was going to be easy after all, in spite of the hash he had made of his opening.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s very satisfactory,’ he said. ‘There was some doubt in our minds as to whether you would be willing to part with it. After all, it’s hung in the church for a long time and we – h’m – people of Pontisbright felt that it ought to go back in its proper place, don’t you know.’

  ‘Very natural, I suppose,’ said the Curator wretchedly, his sing-song becoming wellnigh unbearable. ‘Very natural. It’s a rotten drum. You don’t mind my saying so. Nothing of interest about it. It isn’t even dated, or autographed by Marlborough. It’s just an ordinary drum. Have it back in the church by all means. Sorry we’ve kept it so long. I’d have sent it back before, but we’re so poor. There’s no money for carriage.’

  This pronouncement, unflattering though it was, was definitely encouraging, and Guffy and Farquharson already felt the glow of triumph.

  ‘Oh, well, then, that’s perfectly all right then,’ said Farquharson. ‘Since we can have the drum, we’ve no complaint to make. Although I may add,’ he went on with a brilliant effort at improvisation, ‘our last parish council meeting was a somewhat fiery gathering. Now I imagine there’s a certain amount of formalities to attend to and then we can call the matter settled.’

  ‘There’s no formality,’ droned the deplorable person, now actually hovering on the brink of tears. ‘It’s all been done. Done this morning. And I’m glad to get rid of the drum.’

  ‘It’s all been done, has it?’ Guffy’s jaw fell open. ‘Oh, I see,’ he went on with an effort. ‘When you got Mr Glencannon’s note I suppose you made the necessary arrangements?’

  ‘There weren’t any arrangements. It was only the receipt, and I’ve got that. Naturally I didn’t part with the drum until I got the receipt.’

  The monotonous voice did not alter in tone in the least on these momentous words, so that it took some seconds before their sense actually percolated to his two visitors.

  Guffy sat down heavily on a chair which was providentially behind him. Farquharson, however, kept his head.

  ‘Oh, it’s gone already, has it?’ he said, striving to make his voice sound casual. ‘I see there’s been some slight mistake. My friend here, Mr James, was under the impression that the Vicar wished him to call for the drum as he was bringing his car into Norwich to-day.’

  The Curator looked at him stupidly. Then he laughed, showing an unexpected array of craggy yellow teeth.

  ‘Just like a vicar, isn’t it?’ he said, the gleam of cheerfulness dying out instantly. ‘Just like a vicar. A lot of old women, I call them. They’re always bothering people to do things and then doing them themselves.’

  Farquharson repressed a start of surprise.

  ‘Did the Vicar call himself?’ he asked faintly.

  ‘No,’ said the Curator. ‘Not exactly. As he’s so deaf he stayed in the car. His wife came in. Hardly the sort of woman for a vicar’s lady, I thought. I hope I don’t give offence. But it wasn’t that way when I was young. The vicar was expected to marry a woman of his own age, and she was supposed to know how to behave.’ He paused and looked at them dubiously. ‘I’m not being very gallant, am I?’ he said. ‘I hope the lady isn’t a personal friend. One gets indiscreet at this job. Hardly ever seeing a soul makes a difference. It wears down a man’s spirit. It’s all so dull!’

  ‘Dull!’ said Guffy explosively, and controlled himself instantly, granting the startled Curator a distrait smile.

  ‘Dull,’ said the sandy man. ‘Dreadfully dull. Nothing ever happens here. We’ve never even had a burglary. Nothing here worth stealing.’

  Farquharson, catching sight of Guffy’s eye, received the impression that the Curator’s thirst for excitement was going to be gratified by a murder, and he hastened to intervene.

  ‘So you didn’t like our Vicar’s wife?’ he said with forced joviality. ‘Well, well, a lot of people don’t. Er – which one was it?’

  ‘Eh?’ said the Curator.

  ‘The old one or the young one?’ floundered Farquharson. ‘I mean, the mother or the wife?’

  ‘Oh, the wife, I think,’ said the sandy person gloomily as his one chance of a sensation was dashed before his eyes. ‘Dyed red hair; very unsuitable with her old-fashioned clothes. I haven’t seen a leg-of-mutton sleeve since my wife left me. Oh, I am being indiscreet! I must apologize. But it’s so dull. I haven’t had a chat with anyone for so long.’

  ‘Dyed hair and leg-of-mutton sleeves?’ said Guffy, who had apparently given up any idea of playing his part.

  ‘It must have been the old lady,’ said Farquharson hastily. ‘Or his sister, perhaps.’

  ‘No, it was Mrs Campion,’ said the Curator. ‘Mrs Albert Campion. She signed the receipt and gave me twopence for the stamp. No money passed, but it seems to make it legal. Oh, well, I’m sorry you’ve had your journey for nothing, but it was nice to have someone to talk to. You’ll find the drum in the church, I expect, when you get back, if Mrs Campion got it safely home. She said she had a new car, and the old Vicar by her side didn’t look too grand. But then these country vicars never do. They don’t see enough of life, and so they get narrow-minded and dull.’

  His voice rose to a passionate wail of misery on the final word and he snuffed at a none too clean handkerchief.

  ‘The Vicar,’ said Farquharson in a desperate effort to identify their precursor, ‘is quite an athlete in his way.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t look it,’ said the Curator. ‘Bald as an egg, and deaf as the proverbial coot, according to his wife.’

  It was in this instant that inspiration came to both Guffy and Farquharson. For a moment they stood looking at their informant with glazed eyes. Then Guffy rose to his feet. He seized the astonished official by one damp, limp hand, shook it firmly like a man accomplishing some unpleasant duty, and walked out of the house.

  Farquharson glanced after him and then bent confidentially towards the bewildered museum keeper.

  ‘Mr Walker is a little put out,’ he said. ‘You see, the Vicar especially requested him to call in here. There was a lot of feeling about it at the parish council meeting.’

  ‘I can understand it,’ said the Curator wretchedly. ‘But I thought you said his name was James?’

  ‘Whose?’ said Farquharson.

  ‘Your friend who’s just gone out, banging the door and raising the dust.’

  ‘So it is,’ agreed Farquharson rather stiffly. ‘James Walker.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ The Curator seemed saddened by the news. ‘Well, good-bye. Come again and I’ll show you the grotto. But you won’t l
ike it. It’s a rotten show. As I tell the executors, it’s dull.’

  Farquharson fled. Guffy was waiting for him, the engine running. He let in the clutch the moment the other man was in the car. When they got to the end of the street he turned.

  ‘Amanda!’ he said thickly.

  ‘Amanda,’ echoed Farquharson. ‘And, God bless my soul, Scatty Williams.’

  CHAPTER XV

  The Stricken Drum

  THE SUNNY AFTERNOON air was warm and pleasant as Hal leant over the half-door of the mill and gazed with thoughtful unseeing eyes into the clear water of the race, shooting out over the green stones towards the narrow bridge which marked the end of the Fitton territory.

  Behind him the giant wheel was turning slowly and its gentle creak could be heard behind the whine of Amanda’s dynamo.

  On the cobbled yard in front of him stood a heap of packing cases, deposited there not half an hour before by a lorry from Ipswich. Hal had so far demeaned himself as to wander over and inspect the labels. They bore the name of a big electrical firm, and he had returned lowering to his position to await Amanda.

  He was contemplating the complete subjection of Amanda, and while he was planning exactly what he would say and what she would reply – a natural but singularly useless proceeding at the best of times – he became aware of Dr Galley’s rotund figure striding down the lane. Having assured himself that the doctor had not already seen him, Hal, who did not feel like general conversation, withdrew a pace or two into the shadow.

  Dr Galley bounded forward, his peculiar springing gait creating the illusion that he bounced. Hal watched him idly.

  When he reached the front door, instead of pulling the bell he peered about him furtively, and then, drawing something from an inner pocket, he stretched up to his fullest height and thrust the tiny object into a crack in the plaster above the lintel.

  Hal took a step forward in his surprise at these extraordinary antics, and now the little doctor, glancing over his shoulder, caught sight of him. He thrust his hands hastily behind his back, puffed out his chest and sauntered over towards the mill with elaborate carelessness.