"Up at the rectory."
"I'll ride it down for you," said Kitty, "or better still, I'll walk up with you and make you a nice pot of tea. You look as though you need one. And I've got my cakes to see to..." These were cakes she was baking for the garden fete on Monday.
"Actually," said Lady Mullings, "I don't think there is any more to do. Except perhaps tidy up the pulpit." She looked round the church. "It all looks quite lovely, better even than last year—" She broke off abruptly, staring up toward the chancel. "Oh, dear, there's Mr. Platter! And Mrs. Platter, too. I'd forgotten all about him again. He's such a quiet man. Miss Menzies, dear, where did I leave my handbag?"
"In the pew. I'll get it. I've left mine there, too."
In the end, they went together. Lady Mullings sat down. "I'll just make sure I did bring my checkbook." She felt about in her handbag. "Yes, here it is. And Mr. Platter's bill—" She drew out a beige envelope. "No, it isn't: it's the other thing he brought me. Do sit down for a minute, Miss Menzies. I really am a little curious to see what's inside..."
She slid a thumb under the flap of the envelope and drew out a very small, neatly folded piece of cambric. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed in an exasperated voice, crumpling the envelope and contents together in her lap. "I do wish people wouldn't send me things like this!"
"Why, whatever is it?" asked Miss Menzies.
"Washed and ironed! I can never do anything with things that have been washed and ironed. It leaves no trace whatever of the original owner. You see, dear," she went on, turning to Miss Menzies, "to get my 'feeling', or whatever you might like to call it, it has to be from something that has recently been handled or worn, or close in some way to another human being. I couldn't get any feeling from this, except perhaps of soapsuds and Mrs. Platter's ironing board."
"May I see?" asked Miss Menzies.
"Yes, of course." Lady Mullings passed it to her. "It's some kind of doll's apron..."
Miss Menzies, unfolding the scrap of material, gave a sharp gasp. "Mr. Platter brought you this?" Her voice sounded almost fearful with astonishment.
"Yes. He—or, rather, Mrs. Platter—wanted to locate the owner."
Miss Menzies was silent for a moment, staring down at the little object on the palm of her hand. "Mr. Platter?" she said again, in a tone of tremulous wonder.
"I must admit I was a little surprised myself. When you think of Mr. Platter, it does seem a little out of character." She laughed. "I suppose I should feel flattered..."
"You have found the owner," said Miss Menzies quietly.
"I don't quite understand—"
"I am the owner. I made it."
"Good gracious me!" exclaimed Lady Mullings.
"I remember every stitch of it. You see these little stroked gathers? I thought I'd never get a needle fine enough ... Mr. Platter! I mean, how did he...? It's quite extraordinary!"
"I suppose you made it for one of your little model figures?"
Miss Menzies did not reply: she was staring into space. Never had a face looked more bewildered. Mr. Platter? For some reason, she thought of the cut wire, the trampled streets, the broken shop fronts, the general devastation in the model village. What thoughts were these? Why had they come to her? Mr. Platter had a model village of his own (one might almost say a rival model village if—as she was not—one was of a jealous disposition), and as Lady Mullings had remarked, he was "such a quiet man"—always courteous, so good at his job, so scrupulous in his building, such a comfort to those who found themselves bereaved. Miss Menzies tried to resist these bad, unworthy thoughts, which somehow of their own accord had crept into her mind.
"Well, my dear," Lady Mullings was saying, "I think we've solved Mr. Platter's little problem." She picked up her bag and gloves. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go and settle up with him."
Arrietty, in her eyrie, had not quite heard the confidential exchanges going on halfway down the church: she had been too much taken up by trying to overhear the Platters. She had heard Miss Menzies's first, sharp repetition of Mr. Platter's name and thought perhaps the Platters had heard it, too, because both had turned their heads warily to glance behind them. Even then Arrietty did not pay too much attention. All her anxiety now was concentrated on Timmus: would he be wise enough to keep absolutely still?
Then she noticed that Lady Mullings had eased herself out of her pew and, handbag in hand, was coming up the church towards the Platters. She held her breath: something was going to happen!
Mr. Platter rose when she approached, and so did Mrs. Platter, with whom Lady Mullings shook hands. "Ah, Mrs. Platter, how very nice to see you! Come to see the decorations, have you? We're rather proud of them this year."
Mrs. Platter mumbled some reply, but her face looked oddly anxious as the three of them sat down again.
Mr. Platter produced his accounts, which took a little explaining. Lady Mullings listened amiably, nodding her head from time to time. She completely trusted him. When she had written out his check and received his receipt, she rose to her feet. Mr. Platter rose too.
"And that other little matter," he said. "I don't suppose you've had time—"
"Oh, the little thing you brought me—what a scatterbrain I am! I didn't need any time, Mr. Platter: I find it belongs to Miss Menzies. She made it." She turned to Mrs. Platter. "Here it is. Perhaps you'd like to give it back to her yourself? She's sitting down there by the west door..."
Mrs. Platter did not seem to hear her. She was staring at the rood screen. There was the strangest expression on her face, and her mouth had fallen open. Lady Mullings, envelope in hand, looked puzzled. What was the matter with the woman? "Well, here it is," she said at last, and put the envelope down on the seat. Mrs. Platter turned towards her then, her face still looking curiously dazed. But Lady Mullings saw that she was trying to pull herself together. "No. Please—" she stammered, "you give it to her. And thank you. Thank you very much. It was—" and her eyes flew back to the rood screen.
"Well," thought Lady Mullings as she made her way back towards Miss Menzies, "I suppose there is rather a lot to look at in that rood screen." Perhaps Mrs. Platter had never seen it before? Perhaps it had rather shocked her, brought up (as Mr. Platter had been) to a more austere form of worship. And, now that she came to think of it, some of those medieval faces (although beautifully carved) did appear rather devilish...
Belongings were collected and good-byes said. Lady Mullings left by the west door, and Kitty and Miss Menzies came up the church to leave by the vestry, which gave them a shortcut to the wicket gate. Mr. Platter, too, was standing up as though preparing to leave, but Mrs. Platter was still sitting down. It looked, as Kitty and Miss Menzies passed them, bidding them good night, as though Mrs. Platter was gripping Mr. Platter by the sleeve.
The church became very silent. Mrs. Platter looked round cautiously. "Don't go, Sidney," she whispered urgently.
He pulled his arm away from her grip. "Oh, come on, Mabel. We've played our trump card—and we've lost. I'm tired and I'm hungry. Is there any of that hot pot left?"
"Oh, forget about the hot pot, Sidney! This is serious—" Her voice seemed to be trembling with some kind of excitement.
"What is?"
She pulled on his sleeve again. "Sit down and I'll tell you." He sat down unwillingly. "One of them yawned!"
"Well, what of it?" He thought she was referring to one of the ladies. But Arrietty, up above, understood immediately and went cold with fear.
Mrs. Platter was pointing with a shaking finger at the rood screen. "One of those creatures up there—it yawned!"
"Oh, don't be silly, Mabel." He attempted to stand up again. "You're just imagining things."
"Sidney—it yawned, I'm telling you! You don't imagine a yawn. I saw the flash of its teeth—"
"Which one?"
Mrs. Platter began to gabble. "Well, you see that long kind of face, that one with a hat on—some kind of bishop something—there, just by the edge of the arch? And you see a sma
ller face, just below its ear, sort of leaning against it? Well, that's the one that yawned!"
Mr. Platter leaned forwards, peering hard in the direction of her pointing finger. "Oh, Mabel, it couldn't have. It's carved out of wood!"
"It could be carved out of rock for all I care, but it yawned!"
From where Arrietty crouched, she could not see Timmus, except for one little leg that overhung the vine leaf. This was because the eaves of the gallery stood out a little on either side of the rood screen. To see the whole of Timmus, she would have to lean right over. This, at the moment, for fear of being "seen," she did not dare to do. Oh, why had she left him so long climbing about in the ivy? Of course he had yawned: he had tired himself out.
"It's one of them, Sidney, I know it is!" Mrs. Platter was saying. "And one would be better than none. Could you reach it, do you think?"
"I could try," said Mr. Platter. He rose to his feet and, rather gingerly, approached the massed blooms at the foot of the rood screen. He leaned over, stretched up an arm, and rose up on tiptoe. "It's no good, Mabel, I can't reach it." He had very nearly overbalanced into the flowers. "I'd need something to stand on."
Mrs. Platter looked around but could see nothing movable. Then her eye lighted on the two shallow steps leading into the chancel. "Why don't you try from the other side?" she suggested. "That's higher. You could put your hand round the edge of the arch, like..."
Arrietty was filled with a sudden anger: these two awful human beings were talking as though poor little Timmus had neither eyes nor ears.
Mr. Platter went up the two steps and disappeared on the far side of the rood screen. Arrietty, watching from above, saw the bony hand come out and feel its way along the smooth edge of the arch. "Inwards a bit more, Sidney, you're nearly there," said Mrs. Platter, watching excitedly. "That's the bishop's face. Can you stretch a bit more and then go lower?"
Arrietty decided to stand up and lean farther over: those dreadful feeling fingers were approaching the little leg. At last, they touched it. She heard Mr. Platter give a strangled gasp as though he had been stung by a wasp, and the fingers flew away again. "Its warm'." he cried out in a frightened voice. Arrietty realized then that Mr. Platter had only been trying to humor Mrs. Platter and had never believed that Timmus was alive.
"Of course it's warm!" Mrs. Platter's voice had risen almost to a scream. "Grab it, Sidney! Grab it! Quickly ... quickly!" But the little leg had been withdrawn. The groping fingers, now in a panic of hurry, spun frenziedly about the vine leaf. It was empty. The prey had gone.
Mrs. Platter burst into tears. As Mr. Platter emerged in a crestfallen way from behind the rood screen, Mrs. Platter gasped out, "You nearly had it! You actually touched it! How could you be so silly...!"
"It gave me a shock," said Mr. Platter, and Arrietty, crouched back in her old position, could see he was looking pale. His eyes roved despondently over the rood screen, but with little hope that, among the myriad strange figures and faces, he might see the one he sought.
"It's no good looking there," gasped Mrs. Platter, feeling for her handkerchief. "It's down among those flowers. Or was. These creatures can move, I tell you!"
"Did it fall?"
"Fall! Of course it didn't fall. It nipped along to the edge of the screen and slid down it into the flowers. Like greased lightning it went!"
Mr. Platter looked down at the flowers. "Then it must be in there still," he said.
"There's no must about it, Sidney. It could be anywhere by now."
Mr. Platter still stared down at the flowers, as if hoping to detect some kind of faint stir among the leaves and blossoms. He seeemed to have gotten over his sudden attack of nervousness. Stooping, he put down a careful hand into the mass of color. He felt about for a moment and then withdrew it. He had discovered that, although the display had looked like a growing border, the cut stalks of each clump were set in containers filled with water—jam jars, tins, vases of all shapes and sizes—among which any creature small enough could move with ease. Well, that was that.
Sighing, he sat down beside his wife. "We'll just have to watch and wait," he said.
"What's the point of that, Sidney? It may have run out already." She turned her head towards the open west door, where the sunlight seemed to be fading. "And the light will be going soon..."
"If you didn't see anything run out—and you didn't, did you—"
"No, of course I didn't." But she wondered about those moments when she had been wiping her eyes.
"Then it stands to reason that it must still be in there somewhere."
"But we can't sit here all night!" Was he really thinking of another vigil?
He did not reply immediately: he seemed to be thinking hard. "There's only one other thing we can do," he said at last. "That is to remove all these pots and vases one by one—you starting at one end and me at the other."
"Oh, we can't do that, Sidney. Supposing somebody came in?"
Even as she spoke, they heard voices in the porch. Mrs. Platter sprang to her feet. "Sit down, Mabel, do!" hissed Mr. Platter. "We're not doing anything wrong." Mrs. Platter sat down again obediently, but all the same both of them turned round to see who had come in.
It was Lady Mullings, followed by Parkinson, who was carrying a small folding card table. "Just prop it up beside the door," Lady Mullings was saying, "and do ask Mrs. Crabtree to come in—"
"She'd like to, but she's got the dog, my lady."
"Oh, that doesn't matter on this sort of day, as long as she's got it on the lead. We won't be staying more than a minute or two, and I do want her to see her pelargoniums." She made off swiftly in the direction of her cherished flower arrangement. She did not even glance at the Platters, sitting so quietly at the other end of the church. All her attention was centered elsewhere.
Mrs. Crabtree was an extremely tall, elderly lady, dressed in shabby but very well-cut tweeds. The little dog, a young wire-haired terrier, was pulling at the lead. "Oh, come on, Pouncer," she was saying irritably as they made their way into church, "don't be a fool! Walkies, after..."
"I'm here, dear," called Lady Mullings, in her pleasant rather musical voice, "down by the belfry."
The Platters had half turned in their seats again to take note of the newcomer. Arrietty was watching, too. Mrs. Platter seemed especially interested in Mrs. Crabtree's frail right hand as she hauled her unwilling little dog down the aisle. "Just take a look at those diamonds," she whispered to Mr. Platter. Mr. Platter said, "Hush!" and turned away abruptly: the less attention they drew to themselves, the better. But Mrs. Platter went on staring.
The two ladies stood in silence for a moment before Lady Mullings's masterpiece. "It's magnificent," said Mrs. Crabtree at last, "quite magnificent!"
"I'm so glad you think so," replied Lady Mullings. "I did so want you to see it before the light failed."
"I do congratulate you, my dear."
"Well, you must take some of the credit, my dear Stephanie: it was you and Bullivant who grew the flowers."
What persuaded Timmus to bolt then always remained a slight puzzle to Arrietty. Was it because he had overheard the conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Platter about moving the rood-screen flowers pot by pot? Or was he taking advantage of the unexpected distraction caused by the sudden entrance of two ladies and a dog? Or was he banking on the dimness of the aisle in this fading, pew-shadowed half-light? But there he was, barely more than a shadow himself, streaking down towards the bell chamber, as fast as his little flailing legs would carry him!
She guessed his destination: under the curtain, on to the bell rope, up through the hole in the ceiling, and then safety!
But Mr. Platter, facing forwards, had seen him run out from among the flowers; Mrs. Platter, looking backwards, had seen him chasing down the aisle; and Arrietty, watching so intently from her perch above the rood screen, of course had seen every stage of his panic-stricken dash. And now, (oh, horror of horrors!) the dog had seen him! Just as Timmus was about t
o chase round the far end of the collecting box, which still was standing on the floor, the dog gave a joyous yelp and pounced, his lead freed in a second from Mrs. Crabtree's frail
and inattentive hand. He had not been named Pouncer for nothing.
The collecting box slithered along the floor, pushing Timmus with it. Arrietty saw two little hands come up and grip the top, and, with an agile twist, the slim, little body followed. Mrs. Crabtree groped down for the lead and jerked the dog aside, but not before Timmus, lithe as an eel, had
slipped down through the slot. Was it only Arrietty, in the short sharp silence that followed the dog's first yelp, who heard a shifting and clinking of coins in the bottom of the collecting box?
Lady Mullings came out of her dream. "What was all that about?" she asked.
Mrs. Crabtree shrugged. "I don't know: he must have seen a mouse or something. I'd better take him home." She patted Lady Mullings on the shoulder. "Thank you, my dear, for showing me: you've worked wonders. I can have a good look at all the rest of the flowers after the service tomorrow—the light will be better then."
As Mrs. Crabtree went out, Kitty Whitlace came in, humming "County Down" and swinging the key on her first finger as usual. Her cakes had turned out beautifully, she had put Miss Menzies to rest on the sofa, where she had fallen asleep again, and tomorrow was Easter Day. Kitty Whitlace was feeling very happy.
Not so Mr. and Mrs. Platter. A certain amount of anxiety still gnawed at their vitals. Neither could withdraw his or her gaze from the collecting box. Both were standing up now. What must be their next move?
"At least we know where it is," whispered Mr. Platter.
Mrs. Platter nodded. After a minute she said, her voice a little uncertain, "It's a very young one."
Mr. Platter gave a grim little laugh. "All the better: it'll last us longer!"