Her last visit was to the “Oriental”—an establishment singularly ill-adapted for espionage. It consisted of three very small rooms of irregular shape, dimly lit by forty-watt bulbs in Japanese shades, and further shrouded by bead curtains and draperies. Miss Climpson, in her inquisitive way, wandered into all its nooks and corners, disturbing several courting couples, before returning to a table near the door and sitting down to consume her fourth cup of coffee. Half-past twelve came, but no Miss Booth. “She can’t come now,” thought Miss Climpson, “she will have to get back and give her patient lunch.”
She returned to Hillside View with but little appetite for the joint of roast mutton.
At half-past three she sallied out again, to indulge in an orgy of teas. This time she included the Lyons and the fourth tea-shop, beginning at the far end of the town and working her way back to the ’bus-stop. It was while she was struggling with her fifth meal, in the window of “Ye Cosye Corner,” that a hurrying figure on the pavement caught her eye. The winter evening had closed in, and the street-lights were not very brilliant, but she distinctly saw a stoutish middle-aged nurse in a black veil and grey cloak pass along on the nearer pavement. By craning her neck, she could see her make a brisk spurt, scramble on the ’bus at the corner and disappear in the direction of the “Fisherman’s Arms.”
“How vexatious!” said Miss Climpson, as the vehicle disappeared. “I must have just missed her somewhere. Or perhaps she was having tea in a private house. Well, I’m afraid this is a blank day. And I do feel so full of tea!”
It was fortunate that Miss Climpson had been blest by Heaven with a sound digestion, for the next morning saw a repetition of the performance. It was possible, of course, that Miss Booth only went out two or three times a week, or that she only went out in the afternoon, but Miss Climpson was taking no chances. She had at least achieved the certainty that the ’bus-stop was the place to watch. This time she took up her post at “Ye Cosye Corner” at 11 o’clock and waited till twelve. Nothing happened and she went home.
In the afternoon she was there again at three. By this time the waitress had got to know, her, and betrayed a certain amused and tolerant interest in her comings and goings. Miss Climpson explained that she liked so much to watch the people pass, and spoke a few words in praise of the café and its service. She admired a quaint old inn on the opposite side of the street, and said she thought of making a sketch of it.
“Oh, yes,” said the girl, “there’s a many artists comes here for that.”
This gave Miss Climpson a bright idea, and the next morning she brought a pencil and sketch-book with her.
By the extraordinary perversity of things in general, she had no sooner ordered her coffee, opened the sketch-book and started to outline the gables of the inn, than a ’bus drew up, and out of it stepped the stout nurse in the black and grey uniform. She did not enter “Ye Cosye Corner,” but marched on at a brisk pace down the opposite side of the street, her veil flapping like a flag.
Miss Climpson uttered a sharp exclamation of annoyance, which drew the waitress’s attention.
“How provoking!” said Miss Climpson. “I have left my rubber behind. I must just run out and buy one.”
She dropped the sketch-book on the table and made for the door.
“I’ll cover your coffee for you, miss,” said the girl, helpfully. “Mr. Bulteel’s, down near the ‘Bear,’ is the best stationer’s.”
“Thank you, thank you,” said Miss Climpson, and darted out.
The black veil was still flapping in the distance. Miss Climpson pursued breathlessly, keeping to the near side of the road. The veil dived into a chemist’s shop. Miss Climpson crossed the road a little behind it and stared into a window full of baby-linen. The veil came out, fluttered undecidedly on the pavement, turned, passed Miss Climpson and went into a boot-shop.
“If it’s shoe-laces, it’ll be quick,” thought Miss Climpson, “but if it’s trying-on it may be all morning.” She walked slowly past the door. By good luck a customer was just coming out, and, peering past him, Miss Climpson just caught a glimpse of the black veil vanishing into the back premises. She pushed the door boldly open. There was a counter for sundries in the front of the shop, and the doorway through which the nurse had vanished was labelled ‘Ladies’ Department.’
While buying a pair of brown silk laces, Miss Climpson debated with herself. Should she follow and seize this opportunity? Trying on shoes is usually a lengthy business. The subject is marooned for long periods in a chair, while the assistant climbs ladders and collects piles of cardboard boxes. It is also comparatively easy to enter into conversation with a person who is trying on shoes. But there is a snag in it. To give colour to your presence in the Fitting department, you must yourself try on shoes. What happens? The assistant first disables you by snatching off your right-hand shoe, and then disappears. And supposing, meanwhile, your quarry completes her purchase and walks out? Are you to follow, hopping madly on one foot? Are you to arouse suspicion by hurriedly replacing your own footgear and rushing out with laces flying and an unconvincing murmur about a forgotten engagement? Still worse, suppose you are in an amphibious condition, wearing one shoe of your own and one of the establishment’s? What impression will you make by suddenly bolting with goods to which you are not entitled? Will not the pursuer very quickly become the pursued?
Having weighed this problem in her mind, Miss Climpson paid for her shoelaces and retired. She had already bilked a tea-shop, and one misdemeanour in a morning was about as much as she could hope to get away with.
The male detective, particularly when dressed as a workman, an errand-boy or a telegraph-messenger, is favourably placed for “shadowing.” He can loaf without attracting attention. The female detective must not loaf. On the other hand, she can stare into shop-windows for ever. Miss Climpson selected a hat-shop. She examined all the hats in both windows attentively, coming back to gaze in a purposeful manner at an extremely elegant model with an eye-veil and a pair of excrescences like rabbits’-ears. Just at the moment when any observer might have thought that she had at last made up her mind to go in and ask the price, the nurse came out of the boot-shop. Miss Climpson shook her head regretfully at the rabbits’ears, darted back to the other window, looked, hovered, hesitated—and tore herself away.
The nurse was now about thirty yards ahead, moving well, with the air of a horse that sights his stable. She crossed the street again, looked into a window piled with coloured wools, thought better of it, passed on, and turned in at the door of the Oriental Café.
Miss Climpson was in the position of one who, after prolonged pursuit, has clapped a tumbler over a moth. For the moment the creature is safe and the pursuer takes breath. The problem now is to extract the moth without damage.
It is easy, of course, to follow a person into a café and sit down at her table, if there is room there. But she may not welcome you. She may feel it perverse in you to thrust yourself upon her when other tables are standing empty. It is better to offer some excuse, such as restoring a dropped handkerchief or drawing attention to an open handbag. If the person will not provide you with an excuse, the next best thing is to manufacture one.
The stationer’s shop was only a few doors off. Miss Climpson went in and purchased an indiarubber, three picture post-cards, a BB pencil and a calendar, and waited while they were made up into a parcel. Then she slowly made her way across the street and turned into the “Oriental.”
In the first room she found two women and a small boy occupying one recess, an aged gentleman drinking milk in another, and a couple of girls consuming coffee and cakes in a third.
“Excuse me,” said Miss Climpson to the two women, “but does this parcel belong to you? I picked it up just outside the door.”
The elder woman, who had evidently been shopping, hastily passed in review a quantity of miscellaneous packages, pinching each one by way of refreshing her memory as to the contents.
“I don’t th
ink it’s mine, but really I can’t say for certain. Let me see. That’s eggs and that’s bacon and—what’s this, Gertie? Is that the mouse-trap? No, wait a minute, that’s cough-mixture, that is—and that’s Aunt Edith’s cork soles, and that’s Nugget—no, bloater paste, this here’s the Nugget—why, bless my soul, I believe I have been and gone and dropped the mouse-trap—but that don’t look like it to me.”
“No, Mother,” said the younger woman, “don’t you remember, they were sending round the mouse-trap with the bath.”
“Of course, so they were. Well, that accounts for that. The mouse-trap and the two frying-pans, they was all to go with the bath, and that’s all except the soap, which you’ve got, Gertie. No, thank you very much, all the same, but it isn’t ours; somebody else must have dropped it.”
The old gentleman repudiated it firmly, but politely, and the two girls merely giggled at it. Miss Climpson passed on. Two young women with their attendant young men duly thanked her in the second room, but said the parcel was not theirs.
Miss Climpson passed into. the third room. In the corner was a rather talkative party of people with an Airedale, and at the back, in the most obscure and retired of all the Oriental nooks and corners, sat the nurse, reading a book.
The talkative party had nothing to say to the parcel, and Miss Climpson, with her heart beating fast, bore down upon the nurse.
“Excuse me,” she said, smiling graciously, “but I think this little parcel must be yours. I picked it up just in the doorway and I’ve asked all the other people in the café.”
The nurse looked up. She was a grey haired, elderly woman, with those curious large blue eyes which disconcert the beholder by their intense gaze, and are usually an index of some emotional instability. She smiled at Miss Climpson and said pleasantly:
“No, no, it isn’t mine. So kind of you. But I have all my parcels here.”
She vaguely indicated the cushioned seat which ran round three sides of the alcove, and Miss Climpson, accepting the gesture as an invitation, promptly sat down.
“How very odd,” said Miss Climpson, “I made sure someone must have dropped it coming in here. I wonder what I had better do with it.” She pinched it gently. “I shouldn’t think it was valuable, but one never knows. I suppose I ought to take it to the police-station.”
“You could hand it to the cashier,” suggested the nurse, “in case the owner came back here to claim it.”
“Well now, so I could,” cried Miss Climpson. “How clever of you to think of it. Of course, yes, that would be the best way. You must think me very foolish, but the idea never occurred to me. I’m not a very practical person, I’m afraid, but I do so admire the people who are. I should never do to take up your profession, should I? Any little emergency leaves me quite bewildered.”
The nurse smiled again.
“It is largely a question of training,” she said. “And of self-training, too, of course. All these little weaknesses can be cured by placing the mind under a Higher Control—don’t you believe that?”
Her eyes rested hypnotically upon Miss Climpson’s.
“I suppose that is true.”
“It is such a mistake,” pursued the nurse, closing her book and laying it down on the table, “to imagine that anything in the mental sphere is large or small. Our least thoughts and actions are equally directed by the higher centres of spiritual power, if we can bring ourselves to believe it.”
A waitress arrived to take Miss Climpson’s order.
“Oh, dear! I seem to have intruded myself upon your table…”
“Oh, don’t get up,” said the nurse.
“Are you sure? Really? because I don’t want to interrupt you—”
“Not at all. I live a very solitary life, and I am always glad to find a friend to talk to.”
“How nice of you. I’ll have scones and butter, please, and a pot of tea. This is such a nice little café, don’t you think?—so quiet and peaceful. If only those people wouldn’t make such a noise with that dog of theirs. I don’t like those great big animals, and I think they’re quite dangerous, don’t you?”
The reply was lost on Miss Climpson for she had suddenly seen the title of the book on the table, and the Devil, or a Ministering Angel (she was not quite sure which) was, so to speak, handing her a full-blown temptation on a silver salver. The book was published by the Spiritualist Press and was called Can the Dead Speak?
In a single moment of illumination, Miss Climpson saw her plan complete and perfect in every detail. It involved a course of deception from which her conscience shrank appalled, but it was certain. She wrestled with the demon. Even in a righteous cause, could anything so wicked be justified?
She breathed what she thought was a prayer for guidance, but the only answer was a small whisper in her ear, “Oh, jolly good work, Miss Climpson!” and the voice was the voice of Peter Wimsey.
“Pardon me,” said Miss Climpson, “but I see you are a student of spiritualism. How interesting that is!”
If there was one subject in the world about which Miss Climpson might claim to know something, it was Spiritualism. It is a flower which flourishes bravely in a boarding-house atmosphere. Time and again, Miss Climpson had listened while the apparatus of planes and controls, correspondences and veridical communications, astral bodies, auras and ectoplastic materialisations was displayed before her protesting intelligence. That to the Church it was a forbidden subject she knew well enough, but she had been paid companion to so many old ladies and had been forced so many times to bow down in the House of Rimmon.
And then there had been the quaint little man from the Psychical Research Society. He had stayed a fortnight in the same private hotel with her at Bournemouth. He was skilled in the investigation of haunted houses and the detection of poltergeists. He had rather liked Miss Climpson, and she had passed several interesting evenings hearing about the tricks of mediums. Under his guidance she had learnt to turn tables and produce explosive cracking noises; she knew how to examine a pair of sealed slates for the marks of the wedges which let the chalk go in on a long black wire to write spirit-massages. She had seen the ingenious rubber gloves which leave the impression of spirit hands in a bucket of paraffin-wax, and which, when deflated, can be drawn delicately from the hardened wax through a hole narrower than a child’s wrist. She even knew theoretically, though she had never tried it, how to hold her hands to be tied behind her back so as to force that first deceptive knot which makes all subsequent knots useless, and how to flit about the room banging tambourines in the twilight in spite of having been tied up in a black cabinet with both fists filled with flour. Miss Climpson had wondered greatly at the folly and wickedness of mankind.
The nurse went on talking, and Miss Climpson answered mechanically.
“She’s only a beginner,” said Miss Climpson to herself. “She’s reading a text-book… And she is quite uncritical… Surely she knows that that woman was exposed long ago… People like her shouldn’t be allowed out alone—they’re living incitements to fraud… I don’t know this Mrs. Craig she is talking about, but I should say she was as twisty as a corkscrew… I must avoid Mrs. Craig, she probably knows too much… if the poor deluded creature will swallow that, she’ll swallow anything.”
“It does seem most wonderful, doesn’t it?” said Miss Climpson, aloud. “But isn’t it a wee bit dangerous ? I’ve been told I’m sensitive myself, but I have never dared to try . Is it wise to open one’s mind to these supernatural influences?”
“It’s not dangerous if you know the right way,” said the nurse. “One must learn to build up a shell of pure thoughts about the soul, so that no evil influences can enter it. I have had the most marvellous talks with the dear ones who have passed over…”
Miss Climpson refilled the tea-pot and sent the waitress for a plate of sugary cakes.
“… unfortunately I am not mediumistic myself—not yet, that is. I can’t get anything when I’m alone. Mrs. Craig says that it will come by pr
actice and concentration. Last night I was trying with the Ouija board, but it would only write spirals.”
“Your conscious mind is too active, I expect,” said Miss Climpson.
“Yes, I daresay that is it. Mrs. Craig say that I am wonderfully sympathetic. We get the most wonderful results when we sit together. Unfortunately she is abroad just now.”
Miss Climpson’s heart gave a great leap, so that she nearly spilled her tea.
“You yourself are a medium, then?” went on the nurse.
“I have been told so,” said Miss Climpson, guardedly.
“I wonder,” said the nurse, “whether if we sat together—”
She looked hungrily at Miss Climpson.
“I don’t really like—”
“Oh, do! You are such a sympathetic person. I’m sure we should get good results. And the spirits are so pathetically anxious to communicate. Of course, I wouldn’t like to try unless I was sure of the person. There are so many fraudulent mediums about”—(“So you do know that much!” thought Miss Climpson)—“but with somebody like yourself one is absolutely safe. You would find it made such a difference in your life. I used to be so unhappy over all the pain and misery in the world—we see so much of it, you know—till I realised the certainty of survival and how all our trials are merely sent to fit us for life on a higher plane.”
“Well,” said Miss Climpson, slowly, “I’m willing just to try. But I can’t say I really believe in it, you know.”
“You would—you would.”
Of course, I’ve seen one or two strange things happen—things that couldn’t be tricks, because I knew the people—and which I couldn’t explain—”
“Come up and see me this evening, now do!” said the nurse, persuasively. “We’ll just have one quiet sitting and then we shall see whether you really are a medium. I’ve no doubt you are.”