DEATH TAKES THE LIVING

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I

The Right Reverend Gerald William Kinghorn, Bishop of Fencaster, sat in his study at the Palace one January afternoon. It was a vast and rather gloomy room, and the smouldering embers in the great fireplace did little enough to warm it. On the central table, at which the Bishop sat, was a mass of correspondence, illuminated by a reading-lamp, for dark was already falling. One by one the items of correspondence were being read, annotated in a clear and precise hand, and stacked neatly aside. The Bishop had the gift of working quickly and accurately.

He was a man of sixty, tall and slender, with a pronounced stoop. His expression, and for that matter his official manner, was so distant as to seem at first acquaintance forbidding. But those with whom he came in contact very soon learnt that this was misleading. In familiar conversation the austerity was relaxed, and the steady grey eyes revealed, not only a glint of humour, but a wealth of sympathy. Gerald Kinghorn had not allowed his prelacy to shield' him from the concerns of lesser men. He was at all times approachable, even in his busiest moments. And those who consulted him came away feeling better able to cope with their own immediate problems.

Before his elevation to the See of Fencaster, he had been for many years Master of Satterthwaite College, one of the leading public schools. Here he had been universally popular with staff and boys alike. Even anxious parents, coming to consult him about the welfare of their progeny, had found this tall, severe-looking headmaster unexpectedly human. At Satterthwaite he had always been referred to as “G. W. K.,” from his initials. Perhaps the fact that at that time a popular motor car bore that designation made the letters come pat. This was behind his back, of course. Nobody would have ventured to address the Master in such disrespectful terms. But Gerald Kinghorn, who had an almost uncanny awareness, rightly regarded the appellation as a token of affection.

The door of the study opened, and the Bishop's chaplain came in. He was a bustling little man, with a perpetually harassed expression, as though he could never find himself able to get abreast of his work. This was quite possibly the case, for few people could keep up with the Bishop's rapidity in dealing with matters. The chaplain, who had learnt not to waste words, laid a card on the table and silently awaited instructions.

The Bishop picked up the visiting-card and read the name inscribed on it. “The Rev. Jonathan Denby” for the moment conveyed nothing to him. He knew all the parsons in the diocese, not only by name, but personally, and Denby was not among them. “Who is he?” he asked. “Do you know him?”

“No, my Lord,” the chaplain replied. “I have never seen him before. He asked if you could spare him time for a few minutes' interview. He told me that he was at Satterthwaite in your time.”

Then the Bishop remembered. He did not pretend that all of the thousands of boys who had passed through his hands remained in his memory, but there were exceptions. Boys who through outstanding brilliance, or even outstanding depravity, had made a lasting mark. Clearly now he recalled the two Denbys, major and minor, not brothers, but cousins. This must be Denby minor, for every one knew his cousin, at least by name. Something of a prodigy in his way was the Right Honourable Henry Denby, Minister of Iron and Steel, the youngest member of the Cabinet.

The Bishop picked up the card again which he had laid down, forming a mental picture of Denby minor as he had known him. He portrayed a lad of sixteen or thereabouts, for it was at that early age he had reached the Sixth Form, and so came under the immediate eye of the Master. Exceptional in that he combined a remarkable intellectual ability with an equally remarkable athletic prowess. Not only a true scholar, but by far the best three-quarters Satterthwaite had ever known. So Denby minor had taken Orders! Well, a man could do no better. But somehow the Bishop found his choice of a career unexpected. He would have imagined something more worldly for him. The Bar, perhaps.

While he meditated, the chaplain fussed round the room. He added some coal to the dying fire. The Bishop was apt to get so absorbed in his work that he would let the fire go out before his eyes. The Bishop, recalled from the past by this clatter, raised his head. “I will see Mr. Denby now,” he said.

The chaplain bustled out, to return a couple of minutes later with a man in clerical garb. He was in the early thirties, tall, athletic and good-looking. His expression was open, almost childlike in its trustfulness, but the firm set of his mouth and his prominent chin showed a strong determination. As the chaplain went out, closing the door behind him, Denby came forward. “You won't remember me, my Lord,” he began. “But—”

“I remember you very well, Denby minor,” the Bishop broke in. “And now that I see you again after all these years, the man recalls the boy very vividly. Sit down. There, in that chair by the fire. Now tell me what you have been doing since we last met.”

“I don't want to waste your time, my Lord,” Denby replied as he sat down. “It's very good of you to see me at all.”

“I am always glad to renew my acquaintance with my old pupils,” said the Bishop. “And a conversation with one of them is a welcome relaxation from the cares of office. A bishop is forced to become a mere scribe, rather than the spiritual father of his flock. Tell me about yourself.”

“Well, my Lord, after I left Satterthwaite, I went up to Oxford,” Denby replied simply. “While there, I decided that the Church was my vocation. Almost immediately after I was ordained, I volunteered as a temporary chaplain in the Royal Air Force. Most of my service in that capacity was in the Middle East. I have only recently been demobilised, and that is my reason for intruding myself upon you. I have wondered whether you have any vacant livings in your diocese, and if so, whether you would consider me a suitable incumbent.”

The Bishop's eyes twinkled as he looked at him. “Have you any preference for this diocese over any other?” he asked.

“I'll be quite frank about that, my Lord,” Denby replied. “In the first place, you, as my late headmaster, are the only Bishop I could venture to approach. And in the second, I have hoped for the opportunity of studying the vestiges of Saxon England. This part of the country seems a most suitable field for that.”

The Bishop nodded. “My diocese covers Icenshire, the ancient land of the Iceni. The site of this city may have been Boadicea's birthplace. Well, Denby, no one would be better pleased than I to see you established as one of my clergy. As you are probably aware, parsons, like all other useful commodities, are in very short supply just now. There are, I regret to say, many vacant livings in the diocese, but whether any of them would appeal to you I cannot say. What have you in mind?”

“A country living for preference, sir,” Denby replied. His form of address showed that he had slipped back in imagination to talking not to the Bishop of Fencaster, but once again to the Master of Satterthwaite. “I don't feel that I could discipline myself to the restrictions of life in a town. I am unmarried, I should say.”

The Bishop picked up a pencil, and began tracing the outlines of a Norman arch on the margin of a letter. This was a favourite trick of his. The chaplain always kept a piece of rubber handy, in order to erase these embellishments of the correspondence before it was filed. The Bishop had in mind the most flagrant case of a vacant living-a parish which had been without an incumbent for three years. During that time the place had gone utterly to pieces. A young and energetic man like Denby was just what was wanted to pull it together again. But there were difficulties. Would it be fair to ask Denby to face them?

Denby must to some extent have read his thoughts. “I should like a place where there is scope for good strenuous Christian endeavour, sir,” he ventured.

The Bishop smiled. “If you really mean that, I have a parish in mind that might suit you. Clynde, a village about twenty-five miles from here, on the edge of the marshes. But I must warn you that any rector who accepts the living will not find his task an easy one. The parish has been without an incumbent for so long that the parishioners have had time for a complete lapse into paganism. It would not surprise me to learn that they offered sacrifices to Baal, or passed their children through the fire to Moloch.”

Denby fell in with the Bishop's fantasies. “My antiquarian tastes would find that most interesting, sir. And I should enjoy using my powers of persuasion to induce them to return to the narrow path.”

“Perhaps by the employment of the methods once known as muscular Christianity,” said the Bishop. “I have not forgotten watching you play rugger. Do you remember that famous match against Petterbridge, when you scored the only try of the game? But to return to Clynde. There are other difficulties, of a more material nature. The parish is exceedinglv remote and difficult of access. Further, the living is by no means financially attractive. The stipend barely totals two hundred pounds a year.”

“That consideration would not weigh with me, sir,” Denby replied. “I'm in the fortunate position of having means of my own. My father settled a generous income on me when I came of age. And, as I say, I'm a single man.”

“You may not wish to continue permanently in the celibate state,” said the Bishop. “However, that is entirely your affair. Now you must understand that I am not entirely free where Clynde is concerned. There is a patron, whose wishes must, of course, be consulted. And he is a man who seems strangely difficult to please.”

He paused, to draw another arch in continuation of the first. His expression suggested that his whole attention was concentrated upon making it perfectly symmetrical. Actually, he was wondering how much he ought to tell Denby. The young man was obviously interested, and it would be a crowning mercy if at last a rector could be found for Clynde. But the Bishop was determined to use no persuasion. He had a feeling that Denby's abilities would be wasted in a remote village. Better state the facts impartially, and leave the decision to Denby himself.

“The patron is Lord Mundesley,” the Bishop resumed abruptly. “Alfred Victor Smith, the second baron. His father made a fortune out of a once popular patent medicine, and was rewarded with a title. You are too young to remember Smith's Elixir, but when I was a curate the name met me at every turn. I believe that it was responsible for the deaths of comparatively few people.

“However, that is beside the point. The present Lord Mundesley lives at Bromhoe Castle, in the next parish to Clynde. He is a good churchman, and on the few occasions that we have met we have got on quite well. But his attitude as patron is somewhat peculiar. He appears to allow personal considerations to override all others. On two occasions I have introduced him to men who might have accepted the living. And on both occasions he has told me that he did not like them, and did not want them as his neighbours. He contends that there is no need for undue haste in finding a rector. He would rather wait until the right man presents himself. Meanwhile he argues that the rector of Bromhoe is perfectly capable of looking after both parishes. Since the reverend gentleman in question is a widower in the late seventies, I find myself unable to agree.”

“Perhaps, sir, you would give me an introduction to Lord Mundesley?”Denby asked eagerly.

The Bishop smiled. “Behold the impatience of youth!” he exclaimed softly. “We must not be precipitate, for there are many things to be considered. Have you seen much of your cousin, Henry Denby, since your demobilisation?”

“I lunched with him at the House the other day, sir,” Denby replied, surprised at this change of subject. “But that's about all. He's a very busy man, of course, and he's not likely to have much use for a humble parson.”

“Would it be impertinent to inquire whether you share your cousin's political views?” the Bishop asked.

“Not at all, sir,” Denby replied readily. “To be quite frank, I have no strong political views, either way. Party politics have always seemed to me rather like a nursery game.”

“And, following St. Paul's example, when you became a man you relinquished childish things,” the Bishop remarked. “Well, that is all to the good. I have always set my face against the clergy concerning themselves in party politics. But what is in my mind is this. Lord Mundesley is a stalwart liberal, as his father was before him. I believe that the barony was conferred in recognition of services rendered to the Liberal cause. He might not be favourably disposed towards the cousin of a member of the present government.”

“Surely, sir, if you were good enough to recommend me, your wishes would prevail?”Denby suggested.

“They might, or they might not,” the Bishop replied. “In any case, I am in a position to override any possible objection on Lord Mundesley's part. But I am not prepared to ford that stream if I can find a bridge to carry me over it. May I ask if you came to Fencaster to-day for the sole purpose of calling on me?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Denby replied. “I came here yesterday, to study the Saxon exhibits in the museum, and I am putting up at the King's Head for a day or two. Being here, I had the presumption to think that you might see me.”

“It was not presumption on your part,” said the Bishop. “Now my advice to you is this. While you are here, go to Clynde and have a look round for yourself. You may find that so lonely a spot has no attractions for you. And there is the matter of accommodation to be considered. I lunched at the rectory when the late incumbent was in residence, and I remember it well. It is a rambling barrack of a place and, far from being Saxon, displays all the characteristics of the early Victorian period. One wing of it was shut off years ago and has since been disused. But enough of it remains to make it a formidable residence for a single man.”

“I will go to Clynde to-morrow, sir,” Denby replied promptly. “The size of the rectory doesn't alarm me. I could make myself comfortable enough in a couple of rooms in it, I dare say.”

The Bishop chuckled in fatherly indulgence. “You show a most praiseworthy spirit of determination, my young friend. There is one more thing. The rectory is alleged to be haunted. Would that be likely to deter you?”

“Not at all, sir,” Denby replied. “I might receive your authority to become an exorcist.”

“It shall not be withheld, should the necessity arise,” said the Bishop dryly; “though personally I am a confirmed sceptic on the subject of ghosts. Very well then, Denby. You say that you will go to Clynde to-morrow. Whatever may be your impressions, do not come to a decision too hastily. Your father is alive, I gather. Consult him, and any one else who may share your confidence. If, as the result, you decide that you would like to become the rector of Clynde, the necessary steps towards that end shall be taken.”

He paused, then continued impressively: “You must ask yourself, very humbly, whether you feel yourself competent to perform the manifold duties of a parish priest. Of these duties you have hitherto had no experience. The needs and claims of rural parishioners are very different from those of a body of disciplined men. And of this I must warn you. You must feel within yourself the abnegation of a missionary. For a young man like yourself to seek isolation in a place like Clynde must necessarily involve sacrifice. You will have to rely upon your own intellectual resources, for your immediate neighbours will afford you no help in that respect.”

At that moment the chaplain came in, bearing a tray full of correspondence. “I beg your pardon, my Lord,” he said, with a side glance at Denby, whom he privately thought had already taken up far too much of the Bishop's time. “The afternoon post has just come in, and there are several letters relating to the Diocesan Conference.”

Denby rose hastily, with a guilty appreciation of the chaplain's style of address. “Thank you, my Lord,” he said as he walked towards the door. “I will do as you say.”

The Bishop had already turned his attention to the letter the chaplain had handed him. “Good-bye, Denby,” he replied absently. “I shall hope to see, or at least hear from you, in due course.”

II

Denby's proceedings on leaving the Palace were typical of the habits of self-reliance he had acquired. It did not occur to him to make inquiries as to the location of Clynde, or the best means of getting there. He went first to a stationer's, where he bought a map of Icenshire. Studying this, he found that Clynde lay to the north-west of Fencaster, a couple of miles or so from the shore of the North Sea. A black line on the map indicated a single-line railway running deviously from Fencaster to the junction of Melby. In the course of its meanderings, this line passed within five miles of Clynde. Where it did so was the wayside station of Rendolvestone.

Having folded up the map and put it in his pocket, Denby walked to the Central Station, where he consulted the timetable. A train left Fencaster at 10.5 in the morning, arriving at Rendolvestone at 10.58. That would suit him well enough. His next call was at a bicycle shop, where he arranged to hire a machine for the following day. These preliminaries completed, he returned to the King's Head Hotel.

When he got up next morning he did not put on clerical dress. He chose instead a pair of flannel trousers, a pullover, and a sports coat. Since his object was merely to spy out the land, there was no point in advertising his calling. He had some experience of life in a village, and he knew very well what gossip would be excited in Clynde at the sight of a strange parson prowling around. If this gossip should reach Lord Mundesley's ears, he might be offended that he had not been first approached.

After breakfast he set out, collected the bicycle, and wheeled it to the station. After taking a third-class return ticket to Rendolvestone, he had the bicycle put in the van and took his seat. The only other occupant of the carriage was a commercial traveller, who was too much occupied with an attaché case full of papers to take any notice of him. The train pulled out, and proceeded on its leisurely way through the countryside.

As it plodded slowly along, stopping interminably at every station, Denby had plenty of time to think over his interview with the Bishop. Old G. W. K. hadn't changed much since those far-off days at Satterthwaite. He had still the same precise manner, with its occasional flashes of caustic humour. But beneath this Denby had sensed a genuine friendliness. For his part, he had always felt for the Master the loyal affection of a schoolboy. Now, in his riper years, this might develop into something deeper. It would be grand to become a parish priest in the Bishop's diocese. Whatever the difficulties connected with Clynde might be-and G. W. K. had outlined them frankly enough-he would always feel that he had behind him a strong and sympathetic mind.

Once more the train pulled up, and a raucous voice cried “Rendolston, Rendolston!”Assuming correctly that this was the local rendering of Rendolvestone, Denby opened the carriage door and stepped out. He collected the bicycle from the van and wheeled it out of the station. No need to ask the way, for staring him in the face was a signpost, one arm of which indicated “Clynde, 4 miles.”

He mounted and set off along a narrow road with high hedges on either side. Through the gaps in these he saw wide tracks of arable land, with tractors, each followed by a flock of gulls, busily ploughing between the widely-spaced farm houses. A pleasant country with woods at intervals to relieve the monotony of the furrowed fields. The road wound gently upwards towards a range of low hills in the distance. He pedalled gently along, enjoying the sharp clean air, with the faint scent of the sea in it. As he reached the hills, the gradient increased, and he got off his bicycle and walked. As he pushed it up the slope, he saw that the nature of the landscape was changing. The fields were giving place to rough moorland, with here and there bold groups of trees. As he neared the summit the fences ceased, only low banks bordering the road.

He topped the last rise, and stopped abruptly, overcome by the wonder of the panorama spread out before him. In the far distance was a mysterious shimmer beneath the winter sun. That must be the sea, but it was impossible to tell where the water ended and the land began. The shimmer blended imperceptibly into a wide belt of marshland, seamed with dykes over which the wild-fowl circled. Far away to the westward was a narrow inlet, brimming with the flood tide. A tiny dot on this marked the boat of some solitary fisherman.

Denby sat down on the bank beside the road, took out his map and oriented it. The inlet was a conspicuous feature, and he identified it easily enough as Bromhoe Creek. At the head of it, low down on the northern slope of the hills, but well above sea-level, was a church with a high square tower, surrounded by a cluster of buildings. This was the village of Bromhoe. Half a mile inland, and at a higher level, Denby could see a big house against a background of woodland. Reference to the map showed this to be Bromhoe Castle.

This, he remembered, was where the formidable Lord Mundesley lived. But his immediate concern was with Clynde, and that lay no more than a mile away, directly before him. The contour of the land was such that from where he sat the village itself was hidden. Only the top of the church tower appeared. Beyond it stretched out the unpopulated marshes, merging at last into the shimmering sea.

Denby remounted his bicycle and rode on. The descending slope was gentle, and the unfenced road curved down it easily. The highly cultivated land had now been left behind for good, and only a few clearings relieved the barrenness of the woodland. He wondered how the men of Clynde obtained their livelihood. Not by agriculture, apparently. If, indeed, the village was inhabited at all. Since he had crossed the hills he had seen nobody.

A turn of the road brought him in full view of the church, a sentinel standing above the village, and some little distance outside it. Almost opposite, on the other side of the road, stood a few stunted trees, surrounding a square, unprepossessing house, which seemed disproportionately large. As Denby approached it, he saw that it was empty and unoccupied. The windows facing the road had been boarded up from inside, and most of the panes were broken. This must be the rectory that G. W. K. had mentioned.

Even the most enthusiastic house agent could hardly describe it as a desirable residence, Denby thought. It stood only a little way back from the road, the boundary being a low brick wall, falling into ruins. In the wall were two gateways, with a weed-grown sweep between them. The gates, or what remained of them, hung drunkenly on their hinges, half open. The massive front door, from which most-of the paint had peeled, was uncompromisingly shut.

But Denby was not disheartened. Remembering the Bishop's words, he realised that the part of the house nearest the road must be the wing that was closed. He dismounted, wheeled his bicycle through the first gateway he came to, and leaned it against the inside of the wall. Better not leave it outside, to advertise his trespass. Then, seeing a wide path leading through the trees on the further side of the house, he followed it.

It led him past the disused wing, into a clearing, occupied by a lawn surrounded by flower borders, all sadly neglected. Facing this was the western front of the house, a narrow veranda covering the whole of its width. Into the veranda opened a door, with wide french windows on either side. This part of the house had been kept in good repair, and seemed to Denby not unpromising. Feeling slightly guilty, he tiptoed on to the veranda and peeped through one of the windows. It was that of a large, well-proportioned room, with panelling half-way up the walls. If the rest of the wing was equally habitable, there was little fault to be found with it.

He returned to his bicycle, and rode fifty yards or so further, until he came to the gate of the churchyard, which was tidy and well cared for. From the gate a wide concrete path led to the door of the church. The building was not very large, and rather dwarfed by its tall square tower. Denby tried the door, but found it locked, with a notice pinned to it to the effect that the key could be obtained from Number Two. Fisher's Row. There being no rector in residence, this was only to be expected.

He remounted and followed the road, which curved round the wall of the churchyard, still on a gently falling gradient. And then, almost suddenly, he found himself in the outskirts of the village. A few scattered cottages, weather-boarded and thatched with reed. Then a short and narrow street, which debouched upon a second, running at right angles to it. At the junction stood a signpost, the western arm pointing to Bromhoe, three miles away.

Denby rode for a short distance in this direction. This village street, if such it could be called, had buildings on one side of it only. The other was bordered by a wide dyke, full of water, upon the surface of which flocks of ducks sailed fussily. Beyond the dyke stretched for a mile or more the marshes, an expanse of marram grass, crossed by lesser dykes. The further edge of the marshes was bounded by a low seawall, an earthwork thrown up to secure the land from flooding. This hid the sea beyond from an observer on the level of the road.

The buildings on the landward side did not extend very far. Among them Denby noticed first Fisher's Row, a group of four low and snug-looking cottages. Then a taller and more imposing building, with an open space in front, and a post bearing a sign, on which was the faded painting of an anchor. There seemed to be not many people about, but the few he passed eyed Denby with a heavy curiosity. He guessed that, at this time of the year at least, strangers were rare birds of passage in Clynde.

He rode on to the extremity of the village, then turned back as far as the Anchor. Leaving his bicycle propped against the signpost he opened the door and walked in. On his left was the taproom, empty but for a burly middle-aged man behind the counter, on which he was leaning, reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe. He looked up as Denby came in. “Good morning, sir,” he said in a deep, powerful voice. “Nice bright morning for the time of year. But we'll get a sharp frost to-night, I reckon, the wind being where it is.”

“It is a wonderful morning,” Denby agreed. “May I have a glass of mild and bitter? And I've brought something to eat with me. Do you mind if I sit here while I have it?”

“Not a bit,” the landlord replied. “You please yourself. Sit yourself down by the fire, and I'll draw the beer.”

As he did so, Denby took a packet from his pocket and opened it. It contained a couple of stale rolls, cut open and smeared with potted meat. The best austerity could provide. He started to munch these, working the dry mouthfuls down with the contents of the glass the landlord had brought him. “There don't seem to be many people about to-day,” he remarked, as an opening gambit to conversation.

The landlord seemed ready enough to respond. “That's a fact,” he replied. “But it's always the same on Bault market day.”

Denby remembered that the station before Rendolvestone had been Bault Road. The commercial traveller had got out there, now he came to think of it. “Bault is the nearest town?” he asked.

“That's right,” the landlord replied, with thinly-veiled curiosity. “You're a stranger in these parts, then, not to know that?

Denby felt bound to give some explanation of his presence.

“I've never been to this part of the country before,” he said. “I'm staying in Fencaster for a day or two. I came by train to Rendolvestone, and rode here from there.”

“Ah Fencaster!” the landlord exclaimed nostalgically. “It's a fine city, to be sure. Plenty of folk there, and always someone to pass the time of day there. I ought to know, for I spent the best part of my life there, in the police. I dare say if you was to ask, you'd find lots to remember Sergeant Wayburn. That's me.”

“I've no doubt I should,” said Denby. “How long is it since you retired from the police?”

“A matter of a couple of years,” Wayburn replied. “I always meant to keep a pub when my time was up, and when we heard this place was going, the missus said we'd better take it. She wanted to get out of the city and live somewhere she could have a garden and that. So that's how it is we came here.”

“You find Clynde very different from Fencaster, I dare say,” Denby remarked. Wayburn shrugged his shoulders. “It's like living in another world. It's not so bad in summer, for then there's plenty of visitors about. At least, there used to be when there was any petrol to be had. But at this time of year it's a proper caution. You'd hardly believe it, but often enough I don't see a strange face from one week to another. But there, the missus likes it, so I mustn't grumble. She's got her garden, and a few fowls and ducks. And once a week, on market days, there's a bus into Bault and back. That's where she's gone now.”

“Leaving you alone,” said Denby sympathetically. “But you've got your customers to look to.”

“In the evenings, maybe,” Wayburn admitted. “I don't get many in till then, as you can see for yourself. But there's not much talk to be had with them. Not what you'd call talk, that is. They've got nothing in their heads but the weather and the wildfowl and the shellfish. It's always the same thing, over and over again. It makes me fair tired to listen to them. What one says the other contradicts, and so they go on.”

Denby nodded. “I don't suppose there is much here to occupy their minds? No amusement of any kind?”

“That's a fact,” Wayburn agreed heartily. “A few of them will come here to play darts or dominoes of an evening, but that's about all. They don't seem able to get anything up for themselves, such as a whist drive or dance. And the trouble is that there's nobody to do anything like that for them. Nobody to give them a lead, if you take my meaning. There hasn't been a parson here for a long time. And not even a school teacher, for the children go to Bromhoe. The missus I and I tried to pull things together a bit when we first came, but it was no good. You see, we're foreigners, even though we come from no further away than Fencaster.”

“Is there no squire to take an interest in the village?”Denby asked.

“Not properly speaking,” Wayburn replied. “I suppose you'd call Lord Mundesley the squire, for he owns most of the property hereabouts. But his place is in Bromhoe, which is the next parish. He doesn't seem to find time to concern himself overmuch with Clynde. Not that I've anything against him, for the once or twice I've met him he's been pleasant enough. But I will say this: It's his job to find us a parson, as I understand it, and it's time he did. It's a parson we want here, more than anybody.”

“Wouldn't the villagers regard a parson they didn't know as a foreigner?”Denby suggested.

“Maybe they would,” Wayburn replied. “But a parson's different. He's a cut above the ordinary run of chap, and that gives him a sort of authority. If he was the right sort, who knew how to handle folk, they'd soon get to look up to him, even though they mightn't go to church. He'd have to interest himself in things, of course, and get about the village. Not sit at home in that old rectory all day, and only show himself in the pulpit on Sundays.”

Denby found himself in full agreement with this definition of a parson's duties. But he made no comment, and after a while Wayburn went on: “They're a rum crowd, and no mistake! Most of them have never gone anywhere or seen anything, and they seem to think that the whole world is like Clynde, maybe a bit bigger. One or two of the older chaps have never been as far as Fencaster. It's my belief they'd be frightened out of what wits they've got at seeing so many folk together.”

Denby smiled. “They don't meet many crowds on the marshes, I take it,” he remarked.

“It's a fact they don't,” Wayburn agreed. “Some of them go all day without speaking to a soul. And there's another thing. Clannish isn't the word for them. You see, they've married among themselves so long that they're all related. All one family, as you might say, and as usually happens in families, they're always squabbling among themselves. But let a stranger come along and interfere, and they're up in arms at once. It doesn't do even to ask a simple question. They think you're being nosy, and shut up tight.”

“How do they earn a living in a place like this?”Denby

“That's one of the questions it's best not to ask,” Wayburn replied. “I've wondered myself, but most of them seem to have a shilling or two to spend on a drop of beer. A few of them work on the land over the hill. You saw the farms there as you rode from Rendolvestone, I dare say. As for the rest, they pick up what they can. Longshore fishing, crabs in the season, wild-fowling, shellfish in the creeks, samphire from the marshes, and what not. There's not what you'd call a fortune in it, but they manage to make enough to rub along.”

Denby finished his glass of beer, got up, and laid an unfinished roll on the counter. “Will you dispose of that for me?” he said. “I'm very glad to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Wayburn. Perhaps we shall meet again.”

Wayburn glanced at the roll without enthusiasm. “It'll do for the fowls, maybe,” he replied. “If you should be coming this way again, sir, I hope you'll look in. Good morning to you.”

As he left the Anchor Denby looked at his watch. He had a couple of hours before him before he need start back to Rendolvestone to catch his train. Leaving his bicycle where it was, he walked a short distance along the road to a rough bridge spanning the dyke beside it. Crossing this, he found himself on a track which stretched out across the marshes towards the sea-wall. As he followed this, he congratulated himself upon having found such a mine of local information as Mr. Wayburn. Being a foreigner, his opinion of his neighbours might be tinged with prejudice. One thing at least was certain. In Clynde, a parson was badly needed.

And Denby felt that he was the right sort, as defined by Wayburn. His experience in the Royal Air Force had taught him the art of handling folk, men especially. He might, by patient effort, succeed in raising the mental and spiritual standard of his parishioners. And that, in his own view, was the whole duty of a parson. The remoteness of the place had no terrors for him. Such time as he could spare from his duties he intended to devote to study. And the rectory, from the glance he had had of it, seemed an ideal place for that.

The track followed a more or less direct course. Here and there it crossed a lesser dyke by means of a perilous plank, slippery and without a hand-rail. Not a pleasant path to negotiate after dark, Denby thought. He had the marshes to himself, but for the flocks of birds feeding upon it. At length he reached the sea-wall and scrambled up the steep slope to the top. On the farther side was a bank of shingle, sloping sharply to the grey-blue sea, empty but for a few fishing boats, far off from shore.

To his left was the mouth of Bromhoe Creek, seeming in the clear light to be nearer than it actually was. Turning round, he found a wide panorama. The line of low hills, bare but for a few scattered trees here and there. The cluster of houses that was Clynde, dominated by the church standing above the village. Away to the right, at the head of the creek, the slightly larger cluster of Bromhoe. This contained two landmarks: the church tower and a tall iron chimney, stayed so that it resembled the funnel of a ship. A clump of trees on the hill beyond marked the position of Bromhoe Castle, but from this point the house itself was hidden.

For a long time he stood there, absorbing every detail of the scene. His mind was already made up. If it could possibly be managed, and his faith in his old headmaster was such that he felt sure it could, he would become the new rector of Clynde. He walked briskly back to the Anchor and picked up his bicycle. Then he rode to Rendolvestone, and thence by train back to Fencaster.

III

Sir Ambrose Denby, tenth baronet of that name, had had a rather unusual career. The second son of the three sons of the eighth baronet, he had, at his father's death, been left with very little money, but a keen determination not to allow this to hamper him. What slender resources he had he invested in purchasing an interest in a small engineering firm. By dint of hard work, aided by his own mechanical genius, the firm had prospered and grown out of all recognition. In 1946 he had retired, a rich man, from active participation in the business.

His elder brother had died childless some years earlier, and he had succeeded to the baronetcy. His younger brother had been killed in an air raid in 1941, leaving an only son, Henry, who had adopted the career of a politician. Having a natural gift for hoodwinking the simple electorate, he had been returned to Parliament. Since then he had soared like a rocket to the political stratosphere, and was now a member of the Cabinet.

Sir Ambrose's own son, Jonathan, was an only child, two years younger than his cousin. The two boys had been at Satterthwaite together, where, without being antagonistic, they had gone their separate ways without much regard for one another. Of the two, Jonathan, Denby minor, as the Bishop had remembered him, had seemed by far the more promising. Henry's cocksureness, and his gift of getting what he wanted by dubious means, were not such as to appeal to either masters or pupils. It was supposed by most people, including his father, that Jonathan would develop into a shining light in one of the learned professions.

It had come, if not as a shock, at least as a matter of profound surprise to Sir Ambrose, when, after a couple of terms at Oxford, Jonathan had announced his intention of taking Orders. Sir Ambrose, far from being antagonistic to the Church, was a man of strong and genuine Anglican convictions. Nor had there been any question of Jonathan following his father in the engineering business. His undoubted brilliance was intellectual rather than mechanical. Jonathan had always known his own mind. If he had decided upon his vocation, argument would serve no purpose. But Sir Ambrose had always been ambitious on his son's behalf. It hardly seemed to him that a parson had very much chance of making a name for himself in this world.

Lady Denby, an eminently sensible woman, had been alive at that time. And, after discussion with her husband, summed up the matter: “Jo means to be a parson, and we couldn't do anything about it even if we wanted to. The boy has brains, as you know well enough, and brains can't be kept under. Our son will be Archbishop of Canterbury one day, though it's not likely that either of us will live to see his enthronement.” She did not, for she died shortly after her husband's retirement, leaving him forlorn in the house in Kensington where they had lived together, 12 Guist Square.

It was here, in the comfortable drawing-room, that Sir Ambrose and his son were sitting on the evening of the day after the latter's visit to Clynde. Jonathan had described his interview with the Bishop, and the steps he had taken in consequence. “I'm strongly attracted to Clynde,” he said. “I feel I might be able to do some good there. G. W. K. wants me to go there, I could see that, and I'd rather be in his diocese than any other. But he told me I was to discuss the matter with you before I came to any decision.”

Sir Ambrose smiled, for he knew very well that the decision was already made. That his son wanted to bury himself in a remote country parish was a bitter disappointment to him. He had seen little or nothing of Jo while he had been with the R.A.F., and he had hoped that now he was demobilised they might have some life in common. He had had visions of a London parish for Jo, where his abilities would surely earn him preferment. It seemed to him that a country parson, lost in the wilds of Icenshire, would be lucky if he ever became a Canon of Fencaster. And from that to the Primacy was a far cry.

“Discuss it with me?” he said as cheerfully as he could. “Well, I'm ready. I remember your Bishop when he was Master of Satterthwaite, and always thought him a wise man. He doesn't seem to have tried to persuade you; rather the reverse. Do you think you would be acting for the best in going to this place?”

“I do,” Jonathan replied earnestly. “Not materially, perhaps, but owing to your generosity I needn't consider that. But, spiritually, I feel I can be useful there. And, after all, a parson ought to consider the spiritual before the material. There's only one lion in the path, as I've told you. The patron, Lord Mundesley.”

“Yes,” said Sir Ambrose. He was sorely tempted, for a word from him in season might put an end to this Clynde idea. But what would be the good? If Jo found he couldn't go to Clynde he might well hit upon some other outlandish spot, even more remote. “I know Lord Mundesley,” he went on quietly. “He's a fellow-member of my club, and I often see him there when he's in town. It took him some time to forgive me for being Henry's uncle. To say that he dislikes the members of the present government and their works would be an understatement. But since I've convinced him that I don't share Henry's political views, we've become good friends.”

“G. W. K. gave me a hint about that,” Jonathan replied. “It never occurred to me that you might know Lord Mundesley. That ought to make things much easier. What sort of a fellow is he?”

“You won't find a bottle of Smith's Elixir in his medicine chest at Bromhoe Castle,” said Sir Ambrose. “He does his best to forget that he's the son of a patent medicine vendor, and he's very much the grand seigneur. But when you can persuade him to unbend, he's not at all a bad chap. Mind you, I've only met him at the club. I know nothing of his family, or what sort of state he maintains at Bromhoe Castle. I enjoy talking to him, for I find him remarkably intelligent. So much so, that I've wondered more than once if he hadn't something up his sleeve.”

“What sort of thing?”Jonathan asked, puzzled by his father's cryptic remark.

“I've no idea,” Sir Ambrose replied. “Something unexpected, if you know what I mean. He makes a great show of being a landed proprietor, looking down on us lesser mortals who are, or have been, engaged in industry or commerce. But he knows quite a lot about such things, just the same. The patent medicine strain in his blood, I dare say. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that he was the hidden hand behind some enterprise or other.”

Jonathan laughed. “The hidden hand? That sounds a bit sinister, doesn't it?”

“Oh, no,” his father replied. “It's a form of snobbery, that's all. There are men like that. They don't want their names to appear in connection with any commercial activity. Such matters are not compatible with their aristocratic dignity. So they remain in the background, exercising their control through their members on the board. It's only a guess on my part that Lord Mundesley is one of these men. But his violent reaction against the associations of Smith's Elixir would make such an attitude on his part quite understandable. And there's another thing. He comes up to London pretty often. What for?”

But Jonathan was not really interested in the possible commercial interests of Lord Mundesley. They could have no bearing upon his patronage of the living of Clynde. “I wonder if you could say a word to him on my behalf?” he asked.

“Wait a bit,” Sir Ambrose replied. “You're supposed to be asking my parental advice, you know. And in my capacity of a fond father I'm going to ask you a question. Is there any one else whom you ought to consult?”

Jonathan smiled affectionately. “I know very well what you mean. No, there isn't. It's not that I'm allergic to women, or that I believe in a celibate priesthood. The simple fact is that I have not yet met any woman whom I have had the slightest inclination to marry. You'll believe me when I say that, I know.”

“Of course I believe you,” Sir Ambrose replied. Secretly he wondered how Jo, with his many attractions, had escaped so long. “Very well, then. You, a bachelor, propose to establish yourself in this outpost of civilisation. Have you considered the material factors? To begin with, where do you mean to live?”

“At the rectory,” Jonathan replied unhesitatingly. “Married or not, that's where the rector ought to be. I've thought it all out. I've still got my old campaigning kit, camp-bed and all. I shall start with that, and get what furniture I want by degrees. I've been far less comfortable in many a R.A.F. station overseas.”

“Yes,” said his father doubtfully. “But there at least you had someone to look after your bodily needs. You needn't worry about furniture. There's far too much in this house for my needs, and you can take what you like. I hope you won't be too spartan to equip a spare room, so that your aged parent can come and stay with you now and then. But who's going to look after you? Do the cooking, and that sort of thing?”

“Again, I've thought of that,” Jonathan replied. “I'm not all that unpractical, you know, I don't want a housekeeper living on the premises. There's sure to be a woman in the village who'll come in every day and do what's necessary. But I'm not going to make any arrangements of that kind in advance. I'd rather have time to look round and get to know my parishioners before I make a selection. Meanwhile, I shall set to and fend for myself. It won't be the first time I've had to do that, I assure you.”

Sir Ambrose shrugged his shoulders. “Very well. I suppose you know better than I do how a rector should enter upon his duties. Now I don't know whether you've ever given thought to the future. Taking the longest view, I don't suppose that you'll be permanently content with a remote country parish. This is what I want to impress upon you. Don't let financial considerations stand in the way of anything you may want to do. You know very well that you can always call upon me for anything you want.”

“I do know that,” Jonathan replied sincerely. “And I can't tell you what a comfortable feeling it gives me. It means I can stretch out a helping hand to those in need. But it isn't likely that I shall ever call upon you. You've already given me more than I want for myself.”

“For yourself, perhaps,” his father said meaningly. “But some day you may have others beside yourself to consider. Never mind. Let's look further ahead still. At my death you will be amply provided for. I have made a will, leaving everything I possess to you. And since at the time I made it there was always the possibility that you might be killed in action, I made a provision that, should you die unmarried, the money should go to Henry, my only surviving relative.”

Sir Ambrose checked Jonathan's instant protest at any mention of his death. “We've all got to die sometime,” he went on tranquilly. “And now that we're on the subject, you'd better know exactly how you stand. I'm going to tell you, in the strictest confidence, something that until now I've kept to myself. Some years ago, when Henry was an obscure opposition backbencher, he came to see me. He told me frankly that he was ambitious, but that to realise his ambitions would cost him more money than he possessed. He had in mind some political job or other, but what it was I didn't ask him. By the way, has it ever struck you what a subtle jest it is that a successful politician should acquire the title of the Right Honourable? When any consideration of honourable behaviour is the last thing to enter into their calculations?

“But that's beside the point. To cut a long story short, Henry asked me for a loan of five thousand pounds, and, though I disagreed with Henry's particular brand of politics, I let him have it. After all, he's my nephew, and I could afford it. He has never mentioned the matter since, nor has he made any attempt to repay the money. I dare say that he thinks the word loan, as between uncle and nephew, is a mere euphemism for a free gift. The point is this. My will provides that all debts due to me on my death shall be forgiven. And that, as it stands, includes Henry's five thousand. I hope you don't feel that you've been swindled by that provision?”

“Why, of course not!”Jonathan exclaimed. “I look upon it as just one more example of your generosity. From this moment I mean to forget that you've ever told me about the loan to Henry.”

“I'm relieved to hear you say that,” Sir Ambrose replied. “We'll both forget it. Perhaps, if and when Henry becomes Prime Minister, he'll remember it for himself. By the way, I thought it only fair to tell him at the time that, failing you, he would be my heir. You see, if you'd been killed, and while the war was on that horror was always present in my mind, he would have been the heir to the baronetcy in any case, and he might as well know that the money would be his too. Well, I've got that off my chest. Now let's return to your affairs. If you have definitely made up your mind you want to go to this place, Clynde, I won't attempt to dissuade you. What do you want me to do?”

Jonathan hesitated. He could tell, from his manner, that his father was not wildly enthusiastic about the Clynde idea. “Well, if you could have a word with Lord Mundesley,” he said. “I gather from what G. W. K. said that he can insist upon an appointment, but naturally he'd rather things didn't come to that. Lord Mundesley might be more kindly disposed if I were introduced to him by you, rather than more formally by the Bishop.”

Sir Ambrose nodded. “I'll do that. Lord Mundesley isn't in town just now. At all events he hasn't been to the club lately. The best thing I can do is to write to him at Bromhoe Castle.”

“That's awfully good of you,” Jonathan replied gratefully. “I'll write to G. W. K., telling him that you've done so.”

In the course of a few days Sir Ambrose received a cordial reply. The gist of it was that Lord Mundesley would be in London very shortly. Would Sir Ambrose and his son lunch with him at the club on the following Thursday?

Sir Ambrose chuckled as he showed this to Jonathan. “I shall have a diplomatic cold that day,” he said. “I'm not going to play the part of a proud parent exhibiting his off-spring to a prospective patron. You can go alone and show on your paces. Once the stiffness has worn off, you'll find him easy enough to get on with, I fancy.”

Jonathan had been to the club more than once before with his father, but it was with some trepidation that he presented himself there on the appointed day. He was left standing in the hall while the porter took his name to the smoking-room. Shortly Lord Mundesley appeared. He was a man verging on sixty, rather short and inclined to stoutness. There was nothing aristocratic about his features, which were rather commonplace. Jonathan's immediate impression was that his manner was more dignified than his appearance.

Lord Mundesley stopped short, a yard or so away, and looked at Jonathan searchingly. “I should have known you anywhere for Denby's son,” he said in a slow and ponderous voice. “The likeness is quite remarkable. But where is your father, may I ask? Has he not come with you?”

Jonathan was not prepared to tell even a diplomatic untruth. “My father felt unable to come with me,” he replied.

“I am sorry,” said Lord Mundesley. “But no doubt we shall meet another day. You and I shall have a few minutes' conversation before lunch. Come with me.” He led the way to a small room, which they found unoccupied. “We can talk here undisturbed,” he went on. “I am given to understand that you are seeking my sanction to your appointment as rector of Clynde?”

“That is so,” Jonathan replied. “The Bishop of Fencaster is prepared to appoint me, subject to your approval.”

“So he informs me,” said Lord Mundesley. “I received a letter from him to that effect a few days ago. But you appear somewhat young to perform the duties of a rector. How old are you?”

“I'm thirty-three,” Jonathan replied. “I'm bound to confess that I have had no previous experience as a parish priest, for since my ordination I have been a chaplain with the R.A.F.”

“Indeed?” said Lord Mundesley, with an air that such details were beneath him. “I fail to understand why the Bishop is so insistent upon an appointment to Clynde. He has already introduced candidates to me, who were in my opinion quite unsuitable. It seems to me that one rector should suffice for both parishes. You are a single man, I believe?”

“I am,” Jonathan replied. “And I have, at present at least, no intention of getting married.”

“Perhaps you are wise,” said Lord Mundesley. “A parson's wife can do much good in a parish. On the other hand, she can do considerable harm. What terms are you on with that brilliant star in the political firmament, our gifted Minister of Iron and Steel, Henry Denby?”

Jonathan was struck by the bitterness in his voice. “We're friendly enough when we meet, which isn't very often,” he replied. “But I do not share his political views, to which I am completely indifferent. I believe that it is not consistent with a parson's duties to concern himself with politics.”

Lord Mundesley nodded pontifically. “I fully agree. The rector of a parish should confine himself exclusively to the , spiritual welfare of his flock. You are aware, I assume, that the stipend attached to the living is inconsiderable. In your own interests, would it not be better for you to seek a more lucrative post?”

“The stipend doesn't worry me,” Jonathan replied. “Thanks to my father's generosity, I have means of my own.”

“And one day you will succeed to the barony,” said Lord Mundesley, as though speaking to himself. He relapsed into silence, regarding his guest with a contemplative frown. Jonathan had an acute sense of being weighed in the balance, and earnestly hoped he would not be found wanting. Then, after a long interval. Lord Mundesley roused himself abruptly. “Let us go in to lunch,” he said.

During the meal Lord Mundesley did most of the talking. He described Clynde and its neighbourhood in terms which were hardly encouraging, pointing out the remoteness of the district and the difficulties of access. From this he went on to speak darkly of the winter storms which ravaged the unprotected coast. But he must have realised that his words made very little impression upon Jonathan, for over the coffee he grudgingly gave his consent. “I have a great regard for your father,” he said. “I am prepared to accede to his wishes in regard to his son. If the Bishop desires to appoint you to Clynde, I shall raise no objection.”

“That is extremely kind of you, Lord Mundesley,” Jonathan replied politely.

Lord Mundesley waved this aside. “Whether you are wise to accept the appointment is another matter. You may find conditions such that you will be forced to relinquish it before very long. There can, of course, be no question of a single man inhabiting the rectory. It is a large and rambling house, and most of it is in a state of hopeless disrepair. However, I own most of the property in the parish. No doubt I shall be able to arrange for you to occupy a house more suitable to your needs. You will leave that to me. I will take the necessary steps on my return to Bromhoe Castle next week.”

Jonathan saw nothing to be gained by arguing the point. He had obtained the patron's not very enthusiastic approval, and that was enough to go on with. He took his leave of Lord Mundesley and returned to Guist Square, where he found his father awaiting him. “Well, Jo, how did you get on?”Sir Ambrose asked.

“Not too badly,” Jonathan replied. “At all events. Lord Mundesley promised to raise no objection to my appointment. I can't make him out. His attitude seems to be that he doesn't particularly want a rector at Clynde. But if there's got to be one, I should be no more undesirable than any other.”

Sir Ambrose laughed. “He's a queer chap. I found him difficult at first. But you'll get on with him all right, once you've settled down.”

“I hope I shall,” Jonathan replied. “It's comforting to know that once I'm appointed he can't turn me out.”

IV

Jonathan said nothing, even to his father, about the matter of the rectory. His ideas on that subject he kept to himself. But nonetheless they were very definite. He had no intention of being beholden to any of his parishioners, even to the patron. He felt that Lord Mundesley's intention of establishing the rector in one of the houses he owned was not altogether disinterested. Such an arrangement would give the squire a very definite hold over the parson. Any difference of opinion between them would be overshadowed by a veiled threat of eviction.

Whereas, entrenched in the rectory, the parson's position would be impregnable. It was Church property, beyond Lord Mundesley's control. The only person who could dispossess the parson of his freehold was the Bishop. Besides, other considerations apart, it was Jonathan's view that a rector should live in his rectory, or at least in a part of it. Not only was it his official residence, but his parishioners would expect it of him.

Jonathan did not anticipate any serious difference with Lord Mundesley. His father was a good judge of character, and when he said that once one had got over Lord Mundesley's pompous and dictatorial manner, he was comparatively easy to get on with, he was probably right. But Jonathan's interview had shown him that the patron was a man who expected his dictates to be obeyed. That was all very well in the material sphere. But in spiritual matters Jonathan was resolved to preserve his complete independence. He would allow of no interference with the manner in which he performed his duties. And, now he came to think of it. Lord Mundesley had displayed little interest in Jonathan's clerical qualifications. He hadn't even asked him if he was High Church or Low. That hardly suggested the likelihood of interference.

In any case, Jonathan had no intention of beginning his incumbency by bickering over where he was to live. Lord Mundesley was a masterful sort of person, and in Jonathan's experience such types were best met by a show of determination. He would, so to speak, take the position by storm, and face Lord Mundesley with a fait accompli. When he woke up one morning to learn that the new rector had already established himself in his rightful habitation, he would probably shrug his shoulders and say that if the silly young ass liked to live by himself in a barrack, it was no concern of his.

So Jonathan made his preparations, quietly but swiftly. On Monday, January 31st, he took leave of his father, and went by a morning train to Fencaster, taking with him a kit which would have served him for a remote station in the desert. On arrival at Fencaster he left this in the cloakroom, and, having lunched, called at the Palace.

The Bishop was away visiting a town in the diocese, but the chaplain received him. The chaplain's attitude, though distant, was not unhelpful. “The Bishop was glad of your decision to accept the living of Clynde,” he said. “I understand that you have secured the patron's approval. The Bishop wrote to Lord Mundesley on the matter, and received the reply that he had no objection to your appointment.”

“Is there any reason why I should not start my duties at once, pending formal induction?”Jonathan asked.

“None whatever,” the chaplain replied. “The sooner the better. The date of the ceremony of induction can be arranged later.”

Little more was said. On leaving the Palace, Jonathan went to a firm of taxi proprietors, and engaged a car and driver to take him to Clynde. He picked up his kit and started off. The driver proved taciturn, and replied to Jonathan's attempts at conversation merely in monosyllables. After a silent journey they reached their destination, and under Jonathan's direction drew up at the rectory. Their arrival was entirely unheralded, for there was nobody about. Between them they carried the kit round the house and deposited it in the veranda. The driver, having been paid, with a substantial tip in addition, set off on his way back to Fencaster.

Left alone, Jonathan felt strongly elated. This was his first parish, and he was, in his own sphere, master of all he surveyed. The gaunt appearance of the empty rectory, and the growing darkness of the afternoon, did not depress his spirits in the least. Obviously, the first thing to be done was to secure admission to his future home. He recalled the notice on the church door. Whoever held the key of the church would have the key of the rectory as well. Or at all events they would know where it could be obtained.

He set off down the slope, and passed through the village without attracting attention. He was wearing a heavy black overcoat over his clerical dress, and in the failing light a casual glance would not reveal him as a parson. He reached Fisher's Row, and knocked on the door of Number Two. It was opened by a middle-aged woman, bent and rheumatic, who eyed him with evident curiosity. “If it's my husband you want to see, he's not back from work yet,” she said.

Jonathan unbuttoned his overcoat sufficiently to display his collar. “My name is Jonathan Denby, and I'm the new rector,” he replied cheerfully. “I've come to ask you where I can get the key of the rectory.”

“Bless my soul!” she exclaimed. “We did hear a new parson was coming. My husband is one of the churchwardens, and he heard about it from his Lordship. Well, sir, he'll be glad to know you're coming, to be sure.”

Evidently she took this to be merely a preliminary visit. Well, so much the better, Jonathan thought. He didn't want any fuss made over the fact of his arrival. Let the parish awake to the reality of the rector being already in residence. “May I ask what your husband's name is?” he suggested tentatively.

“George Docking, sir,” she replied. “He works over at Bromhoe, and he won't be home just yet. And you're asking for the key of the rectory. You'll be wanting to look over it, I don't doubt. It's here, I'll get it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Docking,” said Jonathan. He waited on the doorstep for a minute or two until she returned with a key, to which a label was attached. “It's the key of the door round at the back,” she explained. “The front door, what you can see from the road, is nailed up and has been these many years.”

Jonathan thanked her, and went off with the key in his pocket. Next morning would be time enough for him to begin making the acquaintance of his parishioners. The very few people he met glanced at him inquisitively, but did not speak. He regained the rectory, and inserted the key in the lock of the door leading on to the veranda. It turned with some difficulty; evidently the door had not been unlocked for a considerable time. However, at last the key turned, and the door swung open, squeaking on its hinges.

He went in, to find himself in a fairly wide hall, at the further end of which he could just perceive in the dim light . the foot of a staircase. On either side an open door revealed an empty panelled room. The first thing to be done was to shift his kit from the veranda. He brought it in piece by piece and deposited it in the room on the right, of which the marble mantelpiece suggested that it was intended as a drawing-room.

This done, he continued his exploration. Passing down the hall he found a third and smaller room, which he immediately decided should be his study. Like the other two rooms it was panelled, and had a distinctly ecclesiastical appearance. Under the rise of the staircase was a baize door. Pushing this open, be found himself in a stone-flagged passage. Facing him, at the end of this, was a heavy oak door. He tried this, and found that it was securely locked and fastened; it was too dark to see how. This door, he realised, had been the connecting link with the wing of the house now disused.

Opening off the passage were the domestic premises. A kitchen, with a fairly modern, but very rusty range, probably installed by the late incumbent. A pantry, fitted with shelves, empty but for a number of empty bottles. A big scullery and wash-house, in one wall of which was the back door of the wing, locked and bolted. Beside the sink was a pump with a long handle, from which radiated a complicated system of pipes. The purpose of the pump was obvious enough. Water was not laid on from the mains, and this was the sole source of supply. Jonathan did not mind. Pumping the water every day would be good healthy exercise.

Another thing he had already noticed was that neither gas nor electricity was available. During his visit to the Anchor he had seen electric fittings there, but evidently the current had not been led up from the village. That matter could be rectified in due course, and meanwhile he would have to be content with oil lamps. Details like that didn't worry him overmuch. Though it bore every sign of having been for long unoccupied, with plenty of dust everywhere, this wing of the house at least was in excellent repair.

He mounted the staircase, to find at the head of it a landing. At the far end of this was an archway, bricked up and plastered, which had evidently been the first-floor communication with the disused wing. On this floor were five bedrooms, two of them large, and a combined bathroom and lavatory. There were no attics above, but a trap-door in the ceiling of the landing gave access to the roof.

Having finished his exploration, Jonathan went downstairs again to unpack his kit. It was quite dark by now, but he had brought with him a couple of portable electric lamps, and a supply of batteries for them. These he set so as to throw light upon his proceedings. While rummaging about in the scullery he had found a bunker which contained some scraps of wood and several lumps of coal. With these he started a fire in the room that was to be his study. In front of the fireplace he set up a folding table and a camp stool. Then he divested himself of his clerical garb, folded it up carefully, and laid it on a second camp-stool This done, he put on the clothes he had been wearing when he first visited Clynde. For to-night he could afford to be, not the rector, but a householder intent upon setting his house in order.

When he had finished changing, he carried upstairs his suitcases, and his old camp-bed with its equipment of bedding, and put them in one of the smaller bedrooms. He had brought with him a Primus stove, a few pots and pans, cutlery and a supply of food. These he took into the kitchen, and having arranged everything else to his satisfaction, he set to work to prepare a meal. Water was the first requirement. The pump in the scullery worked stiffly but efficiently, and after a couple of hundred strokes or so the overflow pipe began to trickle. He got the Primus going, filled a kettle from the tap over the sink, and put it on. When it boiled, he made a pot of tea. Then he put on a frying-pan with a couple of chops in it, cut two slices of bread and smeared them with margarine.

As he ate his meal before the study fire he felt supremely contented. This was luxury, compared with some of the billets he had known. He could carry on like this for a week or two, and then, when he had got the rectory furnished, it would be an ideal place in which to live. What his father had said was perfectly true. There was plenty of superfluous furniture at Guist Square, stored away and never used-enough at all events to satisfy his son's requirements. He decided that he would furnish the three ground-floor rooms, the drawing-room as a lounge in which he could receive visitors, the dining-room, and his own study. Upstairs, the two larger bedrooms would be enough. One for himself, and one for his father when he chose to visit him.

When he had finished his supper he cleared away, and sat down to make a list of what he would want. It was extraordinarily quiet and peaceful in the study. The only sound that came to him was the faint whispering of the breeze in the tops of the trees surrounding the house. It took him all the evening to make out the list, thinking of every detail. Then he wrote a letter to his father, asking him to get a firm of movers to pack the things and bring them to Clynde. He concluded the letter: “Don't you worry about me. I'm going to be very happy here, and I hope it won't be long before you come and stay with me.” He enclosed the list with the letter, addressed it, and laid it aside, ready for posting in the morning.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was past ten o'clock. He tidied up what few belongings he had, and locked the outer door. Then he went upstairs, washed and went to bed. He read a chapter in his pocket Bible, then turned off the lamp he had set on the floor beside the bed. A few minutes later he was asleep.

When he woke, it was with a sudden start. Had he been dreaming, or had he really heard a queer noise? He listened, but the noise was not repeated. The luminous dial of his watch showed the time to be half an hour after midnight. The uncurtained window was plainly visible, for the moon had risen and shone fitfully between the drifting clouds. Jonathan turned over to compose himself to sleep again. But this time there could be no mistake about it. A faint but unmistakable scraping, as of a heavy object being dragged across a floor. It ceased; then, after a fairly long interval, recurred again.

The first explanation that occurred to Jonathan was rats. One might expect a house so long unoccupied to be infested with them. And, in the silence of the night, rats made the oddest noises. Then he remembered something he had almost forgotten: the Bishop's remark that the rectory was alleged to be haunted. Well, ghosts wouldn't worry him, as long as they refrained from keeping him awake. Then came a heavy muffled thud. It would take an outsize rat, or a particularly hefty poltergeist, to make a row like that.

It was impossible to tell where the noises came from, but their source seemed to be inside, rather than outside, the house. Jonathan sat up and listened. Burglars were unthinkable, if only because no burglar would operate so noisily. Wait a minute, though. Nobody, with the possible exception of the Dockings, knew that he was in the house. An intruder might believe that he could make as much noise as he pleased with impunity. On the other hand, if he thought the house was empty, what could he gain by breaking in?

As these reflections passed rapidly through Jonathan's mind a fresh sound reached him. A faint rattling, as of glass bottles being moved about. He remembered the empty bottles he had seen in the pantry. There was a famous case on record of bottles being thrown about by supernatural agency. Was this a manifestation? A protest against the rectory becoming occupied again, after having stood empty for so long? Well, the poltergeist was sadly mistaken if he thought that such disturbances would drive out the present occupant.

The rattling was repeated, and Jonathan decided that it was too muffled and distant to proceed from the pantry, which was immediately beneath the room in which he was. In any case, he told himself, supernatural manifestations were the last resort of the credulous. All the same, he was not quite so unperturbed as he tried to pretend. These mysterious noises in an empty house were eerie, to say the least. He felt the hair at the back of his head rising uncomfortably. Then an inhuman screech, at which he started violently.

Inhuman? Yes, but it didn't follow that it was necessarily superhuman. It had been not unlike the noise made by an iron-bound crate being dragged across a stone floor. Anyhow, it would never do just to sit up in bed and listen. That could only end in reducing him to a state of dithering funk. He felt he must take some sort of action before his courage ebbed away. Without switching on his lamp, he got out of bed and put on his trousers and coat over his pyjamas. Then with a pair of bedroom slippers on his feet, and his lamp, unlighted but ready for instant use, in his hand, he softly opened the door of the room.

For the moment all was quiet. He crept out on tiptoe to the landing, and listened there. All the windows were of course uncurtained, and, as he had expected, enough dim moonlight filtered through them for him to be able to see his way about. He glanced into all the rooms on that floor, especially the bathroom. It occurred to him that the plumbing there might be responsible, but the only sound that came to his ears was the slow drip of one of the taps into the bath.

He made his way silently downstairs, and went to the outer door leading on to the veranda. This was locked, with the key on the inside, just as he had left it. In the pantry he found the bottles undisturbed. The fire in the study had gone out, but his belongings there had not been touched. In none of the other rooms was there any sign of interference, and the back door in the scullery had not been unbolted. It was perfectly clear that no human intruder had entered the house, and Jonathan felt the creepy dread of the supernatural returning.

He shivered as he stood in the flagged passage beyond the baize door. It was cold there, and the dim light, coming and going as the clouds sailed across the moon, cast the most disturbing shadows. One might easily imagine spectral forms flitting in and out through the open doorways. Then, suddenly, there was another muffled thud. This time there could be no doubt of the direction from which it came: from beyond the fastened door leading into the disused wing.

This was so incredible that Jonathan felt he must be mistaken. But the thud came again, removing any vestige of doubt. Whoever, or whatever, had caused it was on the other side of that door. He switched on his lamp and examined it. It was rigidly fixed, but the fastenings were invisible. They must have been secured from the other side. But one thing was manifest. The door had not been opened for a very long time. The dust and cobwebs clinging to the edges of it showed that clearly enough.

The only other means of access to that wing, apart from the bricked-up archway on the first floor, was the front door. This, according to Mrs. Docking, had been unused and fastened up for a long time. If the noises Jonathan had heard had been due to human agency, the wing must have been broken into. But why, if it had been empty and unoccupied for so long? And then an idea occurred to him. Was it possible that squatters, unaware of his arrival, had decided to take possession of the vacant property?

Anything more unlikely could hardly be imagined. But Jonathan knew very well that further sleep was impossible until he had solved the mystery. One thing was pretty obvious. If any one was in the wing, he could only have got there by breaking down the front door.

He switched off his lamp, came back to the veranda door, unlocked it and stepped outside. As he did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud. Keeping under the shadow of the trees, he made his way cautiously along the path, noiseless m his slippered feet. So he reached the corner of the deserted wing, and turned it.

V

After Jonathan's departure from the house in Guist Square, in a taxi laden with his carefully chosen kit. Sir Ambrose Denby felt strangely lonely. During the last few weeks he had got used to having his son about the place, and now he realised he was going to miss him badly. To distract his thoughts he went to the club, as he frequently did in the morning when he was alone. He looked into the smoking-room, but found none of his cronies there. Lord Mundesley was not in London, and he saw no one else he felt like talking to.

He picked up a newspaper, and sat down to read it. But he couldn't concentrate upon the news of the day, for his thoughts were with Jonathan. How would he get on in his parish? Perfectly well, of course. He had the gift of making himself popular wherever he went, and he would very soon find his feet. There might be some initial friction with Lord Mundesley, but that would very soon smooth itself down.

Sir Ambrose sighed, wishing that his son had found a living rather less remote. As it was, it might be months before he saw him again. For a long time to come, Jonathan would be far too busy to spare much thought for his old father. Sir Ambrose put the paper aside, got up and went into the writing-room. He might be a sentimental old fool, but he would like to know that the first letter Jonathan received had been from him. He sat down and wrote, no more than a few lines, wishing him the best of luck. This he posted in the box in the hall. Jonathan would be sure to get it by the first post next morning.

About an hour after Jonathan's visit to Mrs. Docking that afternoon, her husband came home. George Docking was a heavy, taciturn man nearing sixty. He had been born and bred in Clynde, and rarely journeyed further than Bromhoe, where he worked. Mrs. Docking was getting tea, but when he entered by the back door she desisted. “What do you think, George!” she exclaimed. “The new parson's been here, and a very nice young gentleman he is too. He wanted the key of the rectory, so I gave it him.”

George nodded. “I guessed he'd be along soon. But what did he want the key of the rectory for? He's not going to live there.”

“What do you mean, not going to live there?” his wife asked. “Where is he going to live, then?”

“I'll tell you about that later on,” George replied impatiently. “Now we've got to get those arks shifted before we have tea. Bring the lantern along, so we can see what we're at.”

They went out by the back to the little meadow where they kept their fowls. Assisted by his wife, and with much clacking protest from their inhabitants, George shifted the wooden structures to fresh positions. It took them half an hour or more, for George was deliberate in his movements, and Mrs. Docking was unhandy with the lantern. When the job was finished to George's satisfaction, they went back to the cottage and at length sat down to tea. “Now then!” said Mrs. Docking. “Just you tell me about the parson, and how you know he isn't going to live at the rectory.”

George knew that he would get no peace until he had satisfied his wife's curiosity. “I don't know that it's any concern of yours,” he grumbled. “But if you must know, I'll tell you. Lordy”—Lord Mundesley was always referred to as Lordy by his humbler neighbours-” Lordy sent for me up to the castle at dinner-time. He told me he'd seen the new parson while he was in London and that as he was a single man he wouldn't want to live at a great place like the rectory. He said he'd arrange to let him have that house in the street, that old mother Hanson went out of at Christmas.”

“He'll do well enough there,” Mrs. Docking replied. “It's large enough for a gentleman all by himself.”

“Lordy told me I was to see Ted,” George went on. “He's to look round the place, see what wants doing, and let Lordy know. I'll slip round to Ted's presently.”

“He told me his name was Denby,” Mrs. Docking replied. ' I expect he came over from Fencaster or somewhere, just to look round. And he'd want to see what the rectory's like, even if he isn't going to live there.”

George had no comment to make upon this. He didn't feel called upon to concern himself about the new parson until he came to take up his duties. He finished his tea in silence, then smoked a reflective pipe by the fireside. When he had digested his tea, he got up and went out, again by the back door. Like most country folk, the Dockings always entered and left the house by that door. The front door was rarely used, and was habitually kept locked.

George's first visit was to Ted, the local builder and decorator, who lived in the village street. He gave him Lord Mundesley's message, then retraced his steps to the Anchor. Half a dozen customers were in the taproom, arguing the point what effect the latest weather forecast would have upon. the tides. George took no part in the discussion. He probably did not utter a dozen words before he left at closing time. It certainly did not occur to him to mention the visit of the new parson.

Next morning, after breakfast, he took his bicycle from the shed at the back, and wheeled it to the road. Happening to look back, he saw something hanging on the knob of the front door. On going to investigate, he found it was the key of the rectory, with the label attached. He took it round to the back. “Here, missus!” he called. “Here's that key. I found it hanging at the front. You'd best put it back where it belongs.”

“Well, I never!”Mrs. Docking exclaimed. “Mr. Denby must have brought it back yesterday evening while we were in the meadow. As he couldn't make any one hear, he left it there for us to find.”

“That'll be it,” George replied, lacking interest in the matter. He mounted on his bicycle and rode off towards Bromhoe.

Mrs. Docking was busy in the kitchen after her husband's departure when a female voice summoned her. “Are you there, Mrs. Docking?”She went to the back door to find the postwoman, smart in her uniform. “Good morning, Mrs. Docking,” she said. “Sorry to trouble you, but I've got a letter here I hardly know what to do with. I'll show it to you.”

She looked through the bundle of letters she was carrying, took one out, and gave it to Mrs. Docking. It was addressed to the Rev. Jonathan Denby, M.A., the Rectory, Clynde, Icenshire. Mrs. Docking nodded. “That's right. That's our new parson. He was over here yesterday.”

“So we've got a new parson coming at last?” the post-woman asked. “And high time too. The place has gone all to pieces since the last one left. But he's not living at the rectory yet, is he?”

“No, nor likely to,” Mrs. Docking replied. “If you like, you can leave it with me, and I'll give it to him when he comes.”

“I'm not supposed to do that,” said the postwoman doubtfully. “It's addressed to the rectory, you see.”

“Then drop it in the letter-box there,” Mrs. Docking replied handing the letter back. “Mr. Denby will be over here again before long, I don't doubt. And when I see him I'll tell him it's there waiting for him.”

The postwoman went on her way, and Mrs. Docking returned to her household duties. As she scrubbed the kitchen table, it occurred to her that she had better see if Mr. Denby had shut up the rectory properly. She had to go out to do some shopping anyhow, and it wouldn't take her long to go up the rise. So, later in the morning, which was fine for the time of year, she set out with the key and her shopping basket.

Mrs. Docking did not share her husband's taciturnity, and she was thrilled with her importance as the first person in the village who had spoken to the new parson. She found occasion to go into each of the three shops in the village, and to stop and speak to every one she met. Within half an hour nearly everybody in Clynde must have known that a new rector was coming, that his name was Denby, that he was young and ever so nice to look at, and, most exciting of all, that he was unmarried.

Eventually Mrs. Docking tore herself away from the village, and laboriously climbed the slope towards the rectory. Truth to tell, she felt a trifle guilty. It was her job to keep the empty house aired and dusted, and for some time she had neglected to do so. The last time she had been at the rectory must have been well before Christmas. Mr. Denby must have noticed the dust lying everywhere. Well, if he said anything, she would tell him that the weather had been that nasty, and her rheumatics that bad, that she hadn't been able to manage it.

With this resolve she entered the gateway, and walked along the path round the house. Everything looked exactly the same as she had last seen it. The door opening upon the veranda was locked. She inserted the key, turned it, and entered. The daylight from outside, shining through the open doorway, showed up the dust on the floor of the hall shockingly. It was so deep that it showed Mr. Denby's footprints quite plainly. She looked into the rooms on the ground floor, and found just the same state of affairs. Upstairs things were no better. Mr. Denby couldn't have failed to see the dust for himself, for his footprints were all over the house. And that was the only trace of his visit. He must just have had a good look round, then locked up and hung the key on the knob of Mrs. Docking's front door.

But it would never do to neglect the place any longer. If Mr. Denby didn't come there again, someone else might. Perhaps, if he wasn't going to live there, the rectory might be let. Mrs. Docking decided that she would get to work that very afternoon, and give the place a good sweep round. As she left, she glanced at the wire letter-box fixed inside the veranda door. The letter the postwoman had shown her was there all right.

The Bishop returned to Fencaster that Tuesday. As soon as he entered the Palace, the chaplain fell upon him with the correspondence which had accumulated during his absence. The Bishop glanced through it, and laid it aside to be dealt with in due course. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Nothing of any importance, my Lord,” the chaplain replied. “Mr. Denby, the newly appointed rector of Clynde, called here yesterday afternoon, and I had some conversation with him.”

“Ah!” the Bishop exclaimed reminiscently. “Denby minor, rector of Clynde! How the years pass! It seems only yesterday that he was sitting in the Sixth at Satterthwaite. I am very glad that we have at last been able to present someone acceptable to Lord Mundesley. What did Mr. Denby say to you?”

“He seemed most anxious to commence his duties immediately, my Lord,” the chaplain replied. “He asked me if there was any objection to his doing so before he was inducted, and I told him there was not. That meets with your approval, I trust?”

“Certainly it does,” said the Bishop. “I will arrange to induct him at the earliest possible opportunity. Look through my list of engagements and let me know when it will be most convenient to do so. We shall hear from Mr. Denby again very shortly, no doubt. Did he tell you when he meant to take up residence at Clynde?”

“At once, my Lord,” the chaplain replied. “I gathered that he was on his way there when he came here.”

“Excellent!” the Bishop exclaimed. “That shows a most commendable keenness. I have no doubt that Mr. Denby will come to be numbered among the most active clergy in the diocese. Thank you, that will do.”

That same morning Sir Ambrose Denby went again to the club. He was thinking that by now Jonathan would have got his letter, and might be pleased to know that his father had not forgotten him. Perhaps he would be able to spare time to scribble a line in reply.

Shortly before one o'clock Sir Ambrose was sitting in the smoking-room. He had decided to lunch at the club, for he found meals by himself at home rather trying. He would get over Jonathan's departure sooner or later, he supposed, but meanwhile it was no use pretending that he didn't feel lonely. As someone approached his chair, he looked up from his newspaper, to see his nephew standing beside him.

Henry Denby was a member of the club, but since he had become a Cabinet Minister he had found very little time to make use of it. He was tall, rather cadaverous, with sparse sandy hair and a cunning, foxy expression, and habitually gave the impression of being in a tearing hurry. He was the typical popular demagogue, without a trace of natural dignity or even of good manners. Perhaps he considered such things as incompatible with the doctrines of the party to which he belonged. “I thought I should find you here,” he began, without preliminary. “Anyway, having five minutes to spare, I dropped in on the chance. I've got something to say to you.”

He lowered himself into a chair beside his uncle, and went on in a low impressive tone: “I was speaking to the Prime Minister just now. He happened to mention that the rectorship of St. Withberga's, Westminster, has become vacant. The chap who's there now has been made a Dean or something. The job is in the P.M.'s gift, and he asked me if I knew any one to fill it. He wants a young and energetic parson, who'll put his back into the job. Of course I thought at once of Jonathan. Nothing like keeping the plums in the family. Will you tell him to come and see me at the Ministry at four o'clock? 111 take him over to Number Ten and introduce him to the P.M.”

Having given his message, he got up to go, but Sir Ambrose detained him. “Hold on a minute, Henry. Jonathan isn't in London. He left yesterday to take up the living of Clynde, to which he has been appointed.”

“Clynde?”Henry replied vacantly. “Where the devil's that? I never heard of the place.”

“It's in Icenshire,” Sir Ambrose replied. “About twenty-five miles north of Fencaster, I believe.”

Henry frowned. “North Icenshire? The member for that constituency is one of those confounded Liberals. I can't think how he got in; our agent must have been asleep. The trouble there is the influence of that pompous old reactionary, Lord Mundesley. How electors can let themselves be diddled by a man like that I can't imagine. And that reminds me. The P.M. will want some assurance from Jonathan that his views are perfectly sound. It would never do to appoint a man to St. Withberga's who might run counter to the party. Send him a wire, will you, and tell him to come back at once and get in touch with me. We mustn't let the grass grow under our feet, or some other candidate for the job is bound to come along.”

“This wants talking over,” said Sir Ambrose. “Can't you stay and have lunch with me?”

Henry shook his head. “Not possibly. I've got to attend a function at half-past one. Lunch with the Women's League of Progress, at which I'm to speak. I shall be late if I don't dash off. Besides, there's no need for talk. Just you tell Jonathan to come and see me without delay. I'll fix it up all right.”

Before Sir Ambrose could say another word Henry was gone, striding across the smoking-room towards the door. Sir Ambrose frowned at the retreating figure of his nephew, resenting his dictatorial manner. He had made up his mind that Jonathan should take what he called the job. The wishes of Jonathan or his father need not be considered. It would never enter Henry's head that the behest of a Cabinet Minister should not be obeyed. Confound the fellow's swollen head!

Later, while Sir Ambrose was having his lunch, his indignation abated somewhat. After all. Henry's intentions, if not his manners, were good. His instinct had been to keep the plums in the family. Or was it that, by doing Jonathan a good turn, he hoped to set off the loan he showed no inclination to repay?

Well, that hardly mattered. The point was that St. Withberga's was indeed a plum. The incumbent there was always in the eyes, not only of the public, but of the politicians. Henry had said that the present rector had been preferred to a Deanery, and he was by no means an exception. St. Withberga's had always been regarded as a first step towards promotion in the Church. Whereas, at Clynde, Jonathan in spite of his talents might languish in obscurity indefinitely. At the back of Sir Ambrose's mind was the thought that, as the rector of St. Withberga's, Jonathan would be close at hand. But he tried to put this behind him. He must consider his son's interests, without any selfish bias on his own part. And surely those interests would best be served by Jonathan obeying Henry's instructions.

But would those material considerations weigh with him? Having set his hand to the plough, would he consent to turn back? And there was a further difficulty. Henry had said that the Prime Minister would require an assurance from Jonathan that his political views were perfectly sound. That was quite understandable, even though it implied that his doctrinal views were a matter of indifference. Sir Ambrose knew that his son had always kept aloof from politics. Would he be prepared to conform, if only outwardly, to the programme of any particular party, as a necessary condition to appointment to a clerical post?

One thing was quite certain. Henry's easy suggestion would not work. No telegram, however urgently worded, would bring Jonathan back to London. In the first flush of his enthusiasm he would refuse to abandon his parish for any prospect, however bright. Persuasion would have to be brought to bear, and the only person who could apply that persuasion was Sir Ambrose himself.

But what line was he to take? He knew that his son would listen patiently to his arguments, but would he agree with. them? Material arguments alone would not suffice. He must discover some appeal to Jonathan's conscience, point out to him that his talents would be far more valuably employed at St. Withberga's than they could possibly be at Clynde. Talents, that was the clue! The parable of the talents! He would accuse Jonathan to his face. By burying his talents in the seclusion of Clynde, he was playing the part of the unprofitable servant. It was his manifest duty to accept Henry's offer.

Sir Ambrose realised, clearly enough, that this involved a journey to Clynde, and that with the least possible delay. Under ordinary circumstances he would have shrunk from such an undertaking. But Jonathan's welfare must not suffer from considerations of his own personal discomfort. Jonathan had told him how he intended to reach Clynde. His father could do the same. Go by train to Fencaster, and hire a car there. He would drive to Clynde, talk to Jonathan, and bring him back to London.

But that could hardly be done in a single winter afternoon. When he had finished his lunch Sir Ambrose consulted a timetable. He found that a train left Liverpool Street at 10.25 in the morning, arriving at Fencaster three hours later. He decided to take that next day. Should he warn Jonathan that he was coming? No, better not. Let him burst suddenly upon Jonathan, with his arguments red hot. He contented himself by writing a note to Henry, asking him to make an appointment for Jonathan to see him on Thursday morning. This he left at the Ministry on his way home.

In the course of the afternoon he received a telephone call from Henry's private secretary. The Minister would see the Reverend Jonathan Denby at eleven o'clock on Thursday morning. So far, so good. Jonathan could hardly refuse to keep the appointment, whatever the outcome might be. Sir Ambrose spent the evening in marshalling his arguments and anticipating any difficulties that might arise. There was the Bishop to be considered, of course. He might not be best pleased at Jonathan's resignation of the living as soon as he had accepted it. But the Bishop was an eminently reasonable man. He would not stand in the way of any one's advancement, especially that of a former pupil of his. He, of all people, would understand the application of the Parable of the Talents. Sipping his port after dinner. Sir Ambrose persuaded himself that the Bishop might be regarded, not as an opponent, but as a powerful ally.

VI

On Wednesday morning. Sir Ambrose set forth, rather in the spirit of a crusader. He lunched on the train, and on arrival at Fencaster asked a porter to find him a taxi-driver who was willing to drive him to Clynde, wait there for a while, then drive him back. After a short delay a man willing to do this was found.

In contrast to the driver Jonathan had engaged on Monday, this man proved both talkative and helpful. He was perfectly familiar with Clynde and its neighbourhood, for he was a native of Bault, the market town. He was very interested when Sir Ambrose told him that he was the father of the new rector. He had heard that a parson was coming, but didn't know that he had got there already. A parson was just what Clynde wanted, to brighten things up a bit. The folk there were no better than savages.

They reached the rectory about half-past two. Sir Ambrose recognised it at once from Jonathan's description. A forbidding-looking place, he thought at first sight of the boarded windows. But when he reached the further side, he changed his opinion, as Jonathan had done. Beside the veranda door was an old-fashioned bell-pull. He tugged at this, and a bell clanged emptily in the distance. But no one answered it, and after a pause he impatiently tried the door, to find it locked. He peered through the windows, to find both rooms empty. Quite obviously, Jonathan was not at home.

Sir Ambrose told himself that this could not be wondered at, in the middle of the afternoon. Jonathan was probably in the church, or he might be visiting his parishioners. He decided to try the church first, and crossed the road to the gate. As he passed through the churchyard, an ancient stone vault caught his eye. In the side of it was a nail-studded oak door, and it bore a carved inscription, now undecipherable. The tomb of some forgotten family, no doubt. He reached the church, to find the door locked. But the notice regarding the key might be helpful. Whoever lived at Number Two, Fisher's Row, should know where Jonathan was to be found.

He returned to the car, and gave this address to the driver. They drove down the slope to the village, where the driver hailed the first person they met, to be told that Fisher's Row was just round the corner. They proceeded on their way, and pulled up outside Number Two. Sir Ambrose got out and ignorant of the ways of the countryside, knocked on the front door.

After an interval, he heard sounds inside the cottage and the turning of the key in the lock. The door opened and Mrs. Docking appeared, to stare at him open-mouthed. To receive two strange visitors within a couple of days was an event entirely outside her experience. “Good afternoon,” said Sir Ambrose civilly. “Can you tell me where to find Mr. Denby, the rector?”

Mrs. Docking shook her head. “No, that I can't, sir. He was over here on Monday, and spoke to me, but I haven't seen him since.”

This seemed rather puzzling. “I've tried the rectory,” said Sir Ambrose, “but he's not there, and the door's locked.”

“Yes, that's right,” said Mrs. Docking. “Mr. Denby did look over the rectory. He got the key from me and brought it back again. But he's not going to live there. Lordy-Lord Mundesley, I should say-is fixing him up with a house in the street. It's being got ready for him now.”

Sir Ambrose found this most astonishing. Had Jonathan allowed himself to be persuaded by Lord Mundesley not to live in the rectory after all? Such compliance on his part, after the determination he had expressed, would be most unlike him. “Are you quite sure that. Mr. Denby isn't living at the rectory?” he asked.

“Well, I ought to know,” Mrs. Docking replied scornfully. “I was up there only yesterday, giving the place a thorough sweep out. And Mr. Denby wasn't there; no, nor nothing belonging to him neither. And what's more, he couldn't be, for I've got the key here, put away safe.”

“Then where is he living now?”Sir Ambrose asked. “Is he staying somewhere in the parish?”

“He's not stopping in the parish, or I should have heard about it,” Mrs. Docking replied with decision. “As I say, he was over here on Monday, but he didn't tell me where he was stopping. In Fencaster, I expect. Or maybe nearer than that, in Bault, at the Crown there.”

Sir Ambrose thanked her and walked thoughtfully back to the car. Why on earth hadn't Jonathan left word where he was to be found, he wondered irritably. But there was one obvious clue. If he had agreed to fall in with Lord Mundesley's plans they must have met. Perhaps, on inspecting the rectory, Jonathan had found it definitely unhabitable. It was then that he had gone to see Lord Mundesley, who had told him to leave the matter of a residence to him. He might have offered to put Jonathan up at Bromhoe Castle, while the house in the street was being got ready for him. Anyhow, he would know where he was.

The driver was quite willing to take Sir Ambrose to Bromhoe Castle, and they set off along the road past the Anchor. It followed the edge of the marshes, in wide curves to avoid the swampy ground.

In a few minutes the car covered the three miles to Bromhoe village, a trifle larger than Clynde, and looking much busier. In the centre of it was a group of brick buildings, above which rose a tall iron chimney. Over the main gateway was a signboard: “North Icenshire Transport Ltd., Agricultural and General Hauliers.” In the yard beyond were several lorries, with men at work among them.

The driver, with local pride, pointed this out to Sir Ambrose as they passed. “They be a go-ahead lot,” he remarked. “I've got a brother working for them and he says they've more to do than they can properly manage. And it's only a few years back that they were quite in a small way. Just two or three lorries, carting sugar-beet to the factory and that. Now they've got a fleet of them, going about all over the country. And they've got their own repair shop, where they can do everything for themselves.”

Sir Ambrose was politely impressed, and they drove on, past the church, which looked rather neglected, and then up a winding and fairly steep rise. After half a mile or so they reached a lodge with a pair of gates standing wide open. The driver turned in, and Bromhoe Castle came into view. The house belied the name, for though an ancient castle might have occupied the site, the present building was comparatively modern, and had nothing castellated about it. It was square and unbeautiful, imposing only by its size.

The car drove up to the front entrance, and Sir Ambrose got out. He rang the bell, and the door was opened by an elderly butler. Yes, his Lordship was at home. Sir Ambrose gave his name, and was led to a room where Lord Mundesley was seated before a blazing fire. He rose as his visitor was announced. “Why, Denby, I am delighted to see you,” he said. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“I'm hunting my boy Jonathan,” Sir Ambrose replied. “I have an urgent message for him. You know where I can find him?”

Lord Mundesley's expression evinced a certain displeasure.

“I certainly do not. I understand from the Bishop that your son has been presented to the living of Clynde. I told him that I would take steps to find a house suitable for him to reside in, and I have done so. I have expected to hear from him, but he has not communicated with me. I have neither seen nor heard anything from him since he lunched with me at the club that day. I am bound to point out that this displays a discourtesy on his part which I should not have expected, particularly from a son of yours.”

Sir Ambrose curbed his annoyance with Lord Mundesley's pompous manner. “Jo didn't mean any disrespect, I'm quite sure,” he replied. “He left me on Monday morning, and got to Clynde that afternoon. I've spoken to a woman who saw him. I can't think where he can have got to.”

Lord Mundesley's manner showed that he had very little interest in Jonathan's whereabouts. “I am sorry that I cannot help you, Denby. You will, I trust, remain and take tea with me?”

“I can't do that, I'm afraid,” Sir Ambrose replied. “I've got a car waiting for me.”

“I will not detain you,” said Lord Mundesley. “I regret that you are unable to pay me a longer visit, but no doubt you are anxious to resume the search for your son.” He pressed a bell-push, and the butler reappeared. Sir Ambrose made his farewells and was escorted to the front door. It passed through his mind that Smith's Elixir must have been a gold-mine to its proprietor, for the castle flaunted an air of slightly vulgar opulence.

His first sensation when he regained the car was one of relief. After all, Jonathan hadn't allowed himself to be browbeaten by that pompous ass. He had gone his own way, with the self-reliance he had always shown. But where could that way have led him? Even if he had found the rectory impossible, he was the last person in the world to have abandoned the living in despair. He must have settled somewhere temporarily close at hand. That woman at Fisher's Row had declared that he was not in the parish. Her conjecture was probably right. He was staying in Bault, or possibly at the fine's Head in Fencaster, where he had stayed before.

Sir Ambrose consulted the driver, who had by now become almost an old friend. If Mr. Denby was staying at Bault, he would be sure to have gone to the Crown, for there was nowhere else a gentleman would stay. It wouldn't be far out of the way to return to Fencaster by Bault. So once again they started off. Their route took them through Clynde, and Sir Ambrose could not resist a second visit to the rectory. But as before the door was locked, and judging by what he was able to see through the windows, the woman had been right. The house appeared completely empty, with no sign of Jonathan's belongings anywhere.

On reaching Bault, a small but prosperous-looking market town, Sir Ambrose inquired at the Crown. But here again he drew blank. The Reverend Jonathan Denby was not staying there, nor had any one in the hotel heard his name. On the way back to Fencaster Sir Ambrose began to feel just a trifle anxious. It was so unlike Jonathan to behave as he apparently had. He had set out from London fully intending to camp out in the rectory and get down to work without delay. It appeared that he had actually been to the rectory on Monday afternoon. What on earth could have induced him to change his plans? It could not have been the patron's insistence, for Lord Mundesley had not seen him.

At the King's Head in Fencaster the girl in the reception office remembered Jonathan's name. He had stayed there for a few days, a few weeks previously. But he had not been back since then. He might, of course, have gone to one of the other hotels in the city. She mentioned the names of one or two of these, but Sir Ambrose was not inclined to drive round making inquiries. He had another idea. If Jonathan had, for some reason of his own, decided to stay in Fencaster for the present, he would certainly have informed the Bishop. So the next call might profitably be at the Palace.

Sir Ambrose was received there by the chaplain, who listened to his explanation with a polite show of interest. “Mr. Denby called here on Monday, and I understood that it was his intention to proceed at once to Clynde. I am expecting to hear from him on the subject of his induction.”

“He did go on to Clynde,” Sir Ambrose replied. “I am sure that he looked over the rectory. But he is not there now, and apparently no one in Clynde has seen him since. Don't you know where he is?”

“I regret that I do not,” said the chaplain. “It is possible that the Bishop may know. If you will excuse me, I will ask him.” He went out, to return shortly. “The Bishop will see you himself. Will you come with me?”

The Bishop was in his study, and greeted his visitor warmly. “I remember you quite well, Sir Ambrose. You were a. regular attendant at Satterthwaite on the annual speech day. I am very glad of this opportunity of telling you how pleased I am that your son has become one of my diocesan clergy. I understand that you are in search of him. Can I help you in any way?”

Sir Ambrose felt that he had found a sympathetic listener. “I have a very urgent message for my son,” he replied. “I've just come from Clynde, and he isn't there. I may say that I've had no word from him since he left London on Monday.” And he proceeded to give a brief summary of his adventures.

“That is curious,” said the Bishop thoughtfully. “You tell me that Lord Mundesley has offered your son a house in the village?”

“That's what he said just now,” Sir Ambrose replied. “When he saw Jonathan in London he told him he would do so. Jonathan didn't want to make trouble by arguing with him, but he was determined to live at the rectory, whatever its drawbacks might be. He left London intending to take possession.”

The Bishop smiled. “I admire his strength of purpose. But I am not at all sure that Lord Mundesley is not right. I warned your son myself that a single man might find Clynde Rectory something of a white elephant.”

“He was prepared for that,” Sir Ambrose replied. “But he's not there, and I can't imagine where he's got to.”

“And you have an urgent message for him,” said the Bishop. “Nothing of a distressing nature, I hope?”

Sir Ambrose hesitated. He had not told Lord Mundesley why it was so necessary for him to find Jonathan without delay. The mention of Henry Denby's name would have caused the reaction of a bull to a red rag. But the Bishop would have to know sooner or later, and this was an opportunity of enlisting his support. “Distressing?” he began, feeling his way tactfully. “Oh, no, far from it. I don't know what your views on the subject may be, my Lord. The fact is that Jonathan has a very good chance of being appointed to St. Withberga's, Westminster.”

The Bishop raised his eyebrows slightly. “One has almost come to regard St. Withberga's as a political, rather than a clerical, appointment. The living is in the gift of the Prime Minister. Do I sense the intervention of another of my late pupils, Denby major, as I knew him?”

After this it was no use trying to hide anything, and Sir Ambrose came out with the whole story. “Like most parents, I am ambitious for my son's career,” he went on. “It seems to me he'd stand a far better chance of advancement at St. Withberga's than he ever could at Clynde. But I know Jonathan well enough to be sure that he will be guided by your advice in the matter.”

“It is a matter which must be left entirely to your son's conscience,” the Bishop replied gravely. “He gave me to understand that he felt his vocation to be that of a priest of a country parish. If he decides that the prospects of advancement outweigh that vocation, I shall in a measure be disappointed, but I shall not stand in his way. On the contrary, I will do all I can to further his choice. Does that satisfy you?”

“It more than satisfies me, my Lord,” Sir Ambrose replied gratefully. “But the first step is to find Jonathan.”

“Obviously the offer will not remain open indefinitely,” said the Bishop. “Your son might be spared a painful mental conflict if he were not found until the opportunity had passed. But we must not let that consideration influence us. Your son is a free agent, and the choice must be his.”

“Yes,” Sir Ambrose agreed. “It's up to him. But it's most exasperating not to know where he is.”

The Bishop nodded. “Just so. And in that I cannot help you. My advice to you is this. Whenever I lose anything, I go to the police, and they nearly always find it for me. I recommend you to call on my friend Colonel Heythrop, the Chief Constable of Icenshire, and ask him to set enquiries on foot. If you do decide to do so, I will tell my chaplain to ring him up and tell him that you are on your way to see him.”

Sir Ambrose thought this an excellent idea. He expressed his gratitude to the Bishop and left the Palace. As he drove to the headquarters of the Icenshire Constabulary, he felt more puzzled than ever. Self-reliance was an excellent quality, and he had always encouraged Jonathan to develop it. But he was carrying self-reliance rather too far in not letting any one know where he was to be found.

Upon introducing himself at police quarters. Sir Ambrose found that he was expected. “The Chief has had a message from the Palace, saying that you were coming, sir,” said the sergeant on duty. “Will you come with me?”

Colonel Heythrop, a man of vigorous appearance and shrewd expression, greeted his visitor cordially. “Sit down, Sir Ambrose, and tell me what I can do for you.”

Sir Ambrose repeated his story. “Of course, my son has billeted himself somewhere not far off,” he said. “I should not have troubled you, but for the fact that it is most important that I should get into touch with him without delay. It was the Bishop who suggested that you might be willing to help me.”

“Of course I'll help you,” Heythrop replied warmly. “As it happens, I've heard about your son already. I was at Bromhoe Castle the other day, shooting the last of the pheasants with Lord Mundesley. He told me that a new rector was coming to Clynde, and mentioned the name, though I had forgotten it until now. Don't you worry, Sir Ambrose. If your son is anywhere in the county we'll find him before many hours are past. What shall we say to him when we do find him?”

“I shall be very much obliged if you will ask him to come back to London at once,” said Sir Ambrose. “Tell him that his father wishes to see him upon a matter of the utmost importance, which cannot be delayed.”

Heythrop scribbled a note on a pad. “We'll do that,” he replied jovially. “And if he refuses, we'll bring him to you under escort. I'll send out instructions to my people at once.”

Sir Ambrose drove to the station, where he paid off his driver and amply rewarded him. It was very late in the evening when he reached Guist Square. His first words were to ask if any letter or message had come from Jonathan. There had been nothing.

VII

No policeman was stationed at Clynde. Constable Swale, who lived at Bromhoe, kept a supposedly watchful eye upon both parishes. His rather uneventful existence was disturbed by no very serious crime, for the local population seemed law abiding enough. His main concern was alleged poaching, a subject upon which, in his own private opinion, Lord Mundesley was just a trifle potty. Many a night had he spent in the woods adjoining the castle, in the company of the gamekeeper, who was almost as sceptical as he was himself. But never had they encountered a poacher there, nor any sign of one.

It was natural that Swale should be among the first to receive the instructions from headquarters. He could have given a negative reply off-hand, for he knew very well that no strange parson could have stayed in the neighbourhood for a couple of days without the fact coming to his ears. But that would not satisfy his superiors. He must make enquiries, and send in a formal report. Well, a real parson, as an object of search, would be a change from imaginary poachers.

He set out and made a round of Bromhoe, ending up at the inn. But, as he had anticipated, the only parson any one had seen was the Reverend Edmund Laverstock, the aged rector of Bromhoe. It occurred to Swale that birds of a feather flocked together. Mr. Laverstock might know where his colleague was to be found.

So he called at the rectory, a pleasant house just beyond the church, on the road leading to the castle. The rector's youngest daughter admitted him, and called her father. Mr. Laverstock was an old man, infirm and rather deaf, who disliked being disturbed in the evening. “Ah, Swale, what's all this about?” he asked testily. “If you want to see me, can't you come in the morning?”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Swale replied. “I only wanted to ask you if you know where Mr. Denby is.”

“Eh, wha