Winter found his own ear straining for he knew not what.
‘You see,’ prompted Winter presently, ‘though not a detective I have been brought down to be introduced to a mystery. The tip of it keeps appearing and disappearing in rather an annoying way. Timmy Eliot, though he seems seriously concerned, enjoys wrapping the mystery in mystification. Eliot himself hitches it to metaphysics and you seem to hitch it to magic. As a newcomer with more or less an objective view I see an elaborate and possibly purposeful practical joke. If only the thing were brought forward and inspected, so to speak, we might be able to decide who was right.’
Mrs Moule was looking increasingly nervous. ‘Mr Winter, you have heard – ?’
‘Part of the story – yes.’
‘Oh – the story.’ The old lady seemed slightly relieved. She considered; braced herself. ‘Mr Winter,’ she said solemnly, ‘there have been manifestations .’ The bird’s nest nodded resolutely. ‘The whole truth is in that. If you are incapable of believing in such things – and I know very well that nowadays many of the best minds are – the whole truth will elude you. You might as well not have come down. A spirit, a spirit connected with – with the books, is abroad in this house. I know .’
‘Dear me, you sound most positive. You mean you have seen–’
‘I have seen’ , said Mrs Moule with faint emphasis, ‘nothing.’ She paused, slightly changed the subject. ‘You have heard about the manuscripts? Certain of Mr Eliot’s manuscripts have been–’
‘Rewriting themselves. I know. But really rewriting themselves in holograph? Or just retyping themselves? It is that sort of thing that is important. And before I acknowledge that there was a spirit at work I should want to know quite a lot about locks and keys.’
For a moment Mrs Moule appeared to be endeavouring to take this commonplace point of view. Then she laid her hand on Winter’s sleeve. ‘I know’ , she said, ‘that there is danger, real danger, in this house. Something is being prepared. Disaster. A trap.’ Her blush came and went. ‘I know this is the language I spend my days throwing into stage dialogue. But that is the point. It is our own imaginings, our own stock-in-trade, being brought to bear against us. The subtlety is in that.’
‘I agree. But the subtlety, surely, of an idle flesh-and-blood joker – and one probably with no very sinister ends in view.’
‘Mr Winter, do you know just how the manuscripts have been rewriting themselves?’
‘According to Timmy the effect has been of this chief character – the Spider – changing his mind and determining to go his own way.’
Mrs Moule nodded. ‘That is the outline.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t really know if I’m entitled to tell you more.’ She looked at him so sharply that for a moment he felt positively uncomfortable. ‘But I will. I feel I must justify what I have said: that there is peril at Rust Hall.’
‘Peril,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘That reminds me.’
It was not, Winter repeated to himself, a milieu for the thoughtful elucidation of mysteries. He looked glumly at the publisher Wedge.
‘It reminds me’, said Wedge, ‘of how I must hold myself accountable for all this mass of political publishing. Mrs Moule, did I ever tell you about that?’
Mrs Moule, who was perhaps glad of a respite, assured him that he had not.
‘It was like this. I never do anything of that sort myself; nevertheless I set the ball rolling. It was with a series of scissors-and-paste poetry books in awful neo-Victorian plush bindings. I called them Gems and they were a great success.’ He gave Winter a quick appraising glance. ‘I don’t expect that at Oxford or Cambridge the demand was exactly heavy, but in the great world the sales were all that I could wish. You know Andrew Urchart?’
Without cordiality Winter acknowledged having met Andrew Urchart at a party.
‘Andrew is smart enough. He
‘You see,’ prompted Winter presently, ‘though not a detective I have been brought down to be introduced to a mystery. The tip of it keeps appearing and disappearing in rather an annoying way. Timmy Eliot, though he seems seriously concerned, enjoys wrapping the mystery in mystification. Eliot himself hitches it to metaphysics and you seem to hitch it to magic. As a newcomer with more or less an objective view I see an elaborate and possibly purposeful practical joke. If only the thing were brought forward and inspected, so to speak, we might be able to decide who was right.’
Mrs Moule was looking increasingly nervous. ‘Mr Winter, you have heard – ?’
‘Part of the story – yes.’
‘Oh – the story.’ The old lady seemed slightly relieved. She considered; braced herself. ‘Mr Winter,’ she said solemnly, ‘there have been manifestations .’ The bird’s nest nodded resolutely. ‘The whole truth is in that. If you are incapable of believing in such things – and I know very well that nowadays many of the best minds are – the whole truth will elude you. You might as well not have come down. A spirit, a spirit connected with – with the books, is abroad in this house. I know .’
‘Dear me, you sound most positive. You mean you have seen–’
‘I have seen’ , said Mrs Moule with faint emphasis, ‘nothing.’ She paused, slightly changed the subject. ‘You have heard about the manuscripts? Certain of Mr Eliot’s manuscripts have been–’
‘Rewriting themselves. I know. But really rewriting themselves in holograph? Or just retyping themselves? It is that sort of thing that is important. And before I acknowledge that there was a spirit at work I should want to know quite a lot about locks and keys.’
For a moment Mrs Moule appeared to be endeavouring to take this commonplace point of view. Then she laid her hand on Winter’s sleeve. ‘I know’ , she said, ‘that there is danger, real danger, in this house. Something is being prepared. Disaster. A trap.’ Her blush came and went. ‘I know this is the language I spend my days throwing into stage dialogue. But that is the point. It is our own imaginings, our own stock-in-trade, being brought to bear against us. The subtlety is in that.’
‘I agree. But the subtlety, surely, of an idle flesh-and-blood joker – and one probably with no very sinister ends in view.’
‘Mr Winter, do you know just how the manuscripts have been rewriting themselves?’
‘According to Timmy the effect has been of this chief character – the Spider – changing his mind and determining to go his own way.’
Mrs Moule nodded. ‘That is the outline.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t really know if I’m entitled to tell you more.’ She looked at him so sharply that for a moment he felt positively uncomfortable. ‘But I will. I feel I must justify what I have said: that there is peril at Rust Hall.’
‘Peril,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘That reminds me.’
It was not, Winter repeated to himself, a milieu for the thoughtful elucidation of mysteries. He looked glumly at the publisher Wedge.
‘It reminds me’, said Wedge, ‘of how I must hold myself accountable for all this mass of political publishing. Mrs Moule, did I ever tell you about that?’
Mrs Moule, who was perhaps glad of a respite, assured him that he had not.
‘It was like this. I never do anything of that sort myself; nevertheless I set the ball rolling. It was with a series of scissors-and-paste poetry books in awful neo-Victorian plush bindings. I called them Gems and they were a great success.’ He gave Winter a quick appraising glance. ‘I don’t expect that at Oxford or Cambridge the demand was exactly heavy, but in the great world the sales were all that I could wish. You know Andrew Urchart?’
Without cordiality Winter acknowledged having met Andrew Urchart at a party.
‘Andrew is smart enough. He
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