The Search Party/Chapter 12

R. GODDARD met Miss Blow at breakfast next morning, and nerved himself to the task of telling her that the search for Dr. O'Grady's body must be put off for twenty-four hours on account of the visit of the Members of Parliament to the district. He did not know exactly how she would take the news. He half hoped she might get angry and say something which would give him an excuse for washing his hands of her affairs. He feared that she might cry again as she had cried in his dining-room the day before. He did not want to comfort her under Jimmy O'Loughlin's roof. Either Bridgy or Mrs. O'Loughlin might enter the room at any moment. Even Jimmy himself, under some pretext, might interrupt the affecting scene. Mr. Goddard was conscious that an account of his dealing with a tearful Miss Blow given by Jimmy O'Loughlin would add to the gaiety of the neighbourhood. His hope, as it turned out, was quite vain and his fear unfounded. Miss Blow took the news in a most unexpected way.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said.

Mr. Goddard was surprised. Miss Blow explained herself, and he came to see that she had not given up her plan of a search party. It appeared that she had a very high regard for Members of Parliament. Next to the Habeas Corpus Act, which did not apply in Dr. O'Grady's case because no one knew who had the body, and trial by jury, a notoriously uncertain thing in Ireland, she looked to Parliament as the great safeguard of individual rights and liberties.

It became obvious to Mr. Goddard that Miss Blow expected the touring Members to take up her case at once and vigorously, perhaps to make a special law about it on the spot. He tried to explain that these particular Members were travelling unofficially. Miss Blow did not seem to think that fact made any difference. A Member of Parliament, according to her view, is a Member of Parliament, whether he is actually delivering a vote at Westminster or not. Mr. Goddard then gave it as his opinion that there were too few Members of Parliament in the party to do anything effective.

"It isn't," he said, "as if we had enough of them to constitute a majority of the House."

Miss Blow, by way of reply, stated her intention of meeting the party at the railway station. She said she was sure that as soon as they heard her story they would bestir themselves just as Lord Manton and Mr. Goddard had, but rather more vigorously. She even suggested that a telegram might be sent to the Prime Minister. Mr. Goddard discouraged her. He felt that he was being rapidly edged into a very awkward position. It was utterly impossible to calculate the effect that a story like Miss Blow's might produce on an enthusiastic Member of Parliament. Almost anything might happen. Publicity, newspaper paragraphs, and questions in the House of Commons would be certainties. And he had been warned to show the approaching party every civility. It would certainly not be civil to plunge them into a vortex of mysterious crime. The Inspector-General would naturally be vexed if such a thing happened, and Mr. Goddard's prospects of promotion, never very brilliant, would be injured.

"I don't think it would do," he said, "for you to meet them at the railway station."

"Why not?"

The Miss Blow at the other side of the breakfast table with a teapot in front of her and a decisive way of handling it seemed quite different from the Miss Blow who had wept so pleasingly in his dining-room the day before.

"I rather think," he said feebly, "that they have ladies with them."

"All the better," said Miss Blow.

"And their tour is quite unofficial. We're not supposed to know that they are Members of Parliament."

"But we do know," said Miss Blow.

The argument ended by Mr. Goddard promising to lay the case before the Members. It was only by making the promise that he was able to induce Miss Blow to refrain from going to the railway station. Having made it, he slipped out of the room. It was after ten o'clock, and he still had to make arrangements for the comfort of the party. He found Jimmy O'Loughlin in the yard behind the hotel.

"There's a party coming in by the train to-day," he said, "and I want a brake and four horses to meet them. They'll be driving to Pool-a-donagh."

"Is it the Lord Lieutenant? " said Jimmy O'Loughlin.

"No, it's not. It's a private party."

"I asked the question," said Jimmy, "because, if it was the Lord Lieutenant itself, he couldn't get the brake."

"Oh, well, that's all right. It's not the Lord Lieutenant."

"And if the Lord Lieutenant wouldn't get it," said Jimmy, "you may take your oath that another won't."

"And why not?"

"Because the two front wheels is off the only brake there is in the town, and Patsy Devlin has them up at the forge fixing them, and he's gone from us. That's why."

"And there isn't another brake?"

"There is not."

"There are five in the party," said Mr. Goddard. "We'll have to get two cars."

"It's a good eight miles to Rosivera," said Jimmy, "and better than ten on from that to Pool-a-donagh. I wouldn't say that there was a horse in the town fit to do the journey with four on the car, and there'll have to be four on one of the cars, if there's five in the party, that'll be counting the drivers. My own mare was over at Ballymoy yesterday with Constable Moriarty and the doctor's young lady. It's a day's rest she ought to have by rights, and not to be going off on the road again."

"It can't be helped," said Mr. Goddard. "I must have the horses."

"There isn't another gentleman about the country," said Jimmy, "that I'd do it for only yourself; but seeing that the party is friends of your own, I'll let my mare go, and I'll get Patsy Devlin's grey pony that was promised to Mr. Byrne for the day to be carting home the turf, the same pony that the priest was thinking of buying. It's little use Patsy's widow will have for a pony now her husband's gone from her, the creature. I don't know another that you could put under a side car for a gentleman to sit behind, and it's badly able for the road the grey pony will be this minute."

"Give her a feed of oats between this and the time the train comes in," said Mr. Goddard.

"I will; and I'll see if I can't get the loan of the priest's cushions for the old car. The ones that are on it are terrible bad."

Jimmy O'Loughlin was certainly not guilty of raising any false hopes about the quality of his cattle or his vehicles; but Mr. Goddard had a feeling of cold disgust when he saw the two cars standing together outside the railway station. Jimmy O'Loughlin's mare was the better of the two animals, and she looked extraordinary feeble and depressed. The grey pony, which should have been drawing home Mr. Byrne's turf, was clearly unfit for the journey before him. He may have been fretting for the loss of Patsy Devlin. He may have been insufficiently fed by Mrs. Devlin. He looked as if his spirit was completely broken either by starvation or great grief. The cars were dilapidated, and the harness evidently untrustworthy. On the other hand the drivers were full of life and vigour. They looked forward to receiving handsome tips from the strangers at the end of their day's work, and were quite prepared to earn them by saying all the things which tourists expect from Irish car drivers. They were primed with stories of the most popular kind about every point of interest along the road. They had a store of bulls and humorous repartees ready to their lips. They touched their hats jauntily to Mr. Goddard as he passed them. He was a benefactor, and they owed him respect and thanks.

The train drew up at the platform. The door of a first-class compartment was flung open, and a gentleman bounded from it. His face expressed a feeling of irresponsible holiday happiness. His movements and the pose of his body suggested abundant vitality and energy. He turned and assisted three ladies to alight. One, the youngest of them, he lifted out in his arms and deposited three or four paces from the carriage door. He laughed merrily as he did so. She also laughed. The other two ladies, who had not been embraced, laughed. The holiday spirit was strong in all of them. Then, still laughing, he turned to the carriage again, and received from some one inside a number of bags, boxes, coats and parcels. He took them two by two and laid them in a long row at the feet of the ladies. Then a second gentleman got out of the train, a long, lean man, of sallow complexion and serious expression.

Mr. Goddard felt that it was time to introduce himself. He approached the party cautiously, skirting an outlying hold-all. The first gentleman, who was also a good deal the younger of the two, spied him coming and bounded forward to meet him.

"You are Mr. Goddard," he said joyously. "I'm sure you must be. I'm delighted to meet you. My name is Dick, surname, you know. Christian name similar—Richard Dick, M.P., not yet in the Cabinet."

He had to the highest possible degree that air of breezy joviality assumed by many Englishmen when they cross St. George's Channel. It was as if, having at last reached the land of frolicsome recklessness, he was determined to show himself capable of wild excess and a very extremity of Celtic fervour.

Mr. Goddard bowed, and murmured that he felt it a pleasure and an honour to make Mr. Dick's acquaintance.

"This," said Mr. Dick, "is Mr. Sanders. Sorrowful Sanders we call him, on account of the expression of his face. He's not in the Cabinet either; but he soon will be." He caught Mr. Goddard by the arm and whispered a clearly audible aside. "He's a Scot, and that's nearly the same thing, you know."

"Shut up, Dick!" said Mr. Sanders. "How can you talk such nonsense?" said the eldest of the three ladies, whose appearance suggested some strength of character, and suddenly brought back Miss Blow to Mr. Goddard's mind.

"This," said Mr. Dick, indicating the lady, "is Miss Farquharson, Sanders' aunt. This"—he pointed to another lady—"is Mrs. Sanders, his wife. And this"—he drew forward by the hand the lady whom he had lifted out of the carriage—"is Mrs. Dick, the 'woman that owns me.' Isn't that the way you express it in this country?"

Mr. Goddard bowed three times, and then glanced doubtfully at the bags which lay on the platform.

"I've only been able to get two cars for you," he said. "Have you much more luggage in the van?"

"Oh, but an Irish car can carry any quantity of luggage," said Miss Farquharson. "I've seen them absolutely packed, and still there was room for more."

Mr. Goddard admitted that this was true; but he thought of Patsy Devlin's grey pony and the long miles between Clonmore and Pool-a-donagh.

"And if there isn't room," said Mrs. Dick, "I'd like to sit in the middle—on the well—isn't that what they call it?—with my back against the driver. I saw a boy sitting like that the other day, and it looked lovely."

"It's all right," said Mr. Dick. "We have two bikes with us. Sanders and I will ride. You shall have my machine, Sanders, and I'll take my wife's. Come along. The spin will do you all the good in the world. We'll pedal along and let the ladies have the cars."

Mr. Sanders protested strongly against this plan. He had, he said, a weak heart, and cycling did not agree with him. He was overborne by a command from his aunt, and towed down the platform towards the luggage van by Mr. Dick. Miss Farquharson confided to Mr. Goddard that her nephew's heart was not nearly so bad as he thought it was, and that the exercise would do him good. She was, unquestionably, a lady of commanding character.

"He's so full of energy," said Mrs. Dick, watching her husband's progress admiringly. "I say the air of Ireland has got into his head."

"Is he not so energetic at home?" asked Mr. Goddard.

"Indeed he isn't. Just fancy if he was!"

She giggled convulsively at the thought. It was evident that Mr. Dick, though not a Scot, belonged to some part of the country where decorum of demeanour and a certain gravity are expected from Members of Parliament.

"'Fare thee well,'" shouted Mr. Dick from the end of the platform, "'and if for ever, still for ever fare thee well.'"

He was wheeling the two bicycles out of the station, and was followed by the obviously reluctant Mr. Sanders.

"Richard, Richard!" said his wife.

Mr. Dick paused and looked round.

"Have you got your sandwiches? Don't go without your sandwiches. I'm sure they're in my hold-all."

But Mr. Dick patted his coat pocket triumphantly. He had the sandwiches. He was not the kind of man, so his attitude suggested, the feeble and inefficient kind of man, who goes off without his sandwiches. A moment later, having compelled Mr. Sanders to mount, he was cycling gaily down the road towards Clonmore.

"Richard, Richard!" shouted his wife again. But it was too late. Her voice did not reach him.

"I'm sure," she said, turning to Mr. Goddard, "that he doesn't know the way. He has never been here before. He'll get lost. Whatever are we to do?"

Mr. Goddard consoled her. He pointed out that Mr. Dick had started in the right direction; that it was generally possible to make inquiries when in doubt; that, as a matter of fact, once clear of Clonmore, there was only one road on which anybody could ride a bicycle, and that it led straight to Pool-a-donagh. Miss Farquharson helped to reassure her.

"Where there's a will there's a way," she said sententiously.

"Do stop him," said Mrs. Dick. "You must stop him. He's got my pocket-handkerchief in his pocket. I gave it to him to keep for me in the train."

"I can't," said Mr. Goddard. "He's gone. He's out of sight. Even if he wasn't, I don't think that I could stop him. But I can lend you a pocket-handkerchief. I have two. This one is quite clean."

Then came the business of packing the ladies and their belongings on the cars. Mr. Goddard, after consultation with the station master and a porter, gave all the luggage to the driver of Patsy Devlin's grey pony. Jimmy O'Loughlin's mare was the more likely of the two animals to reach Pool-a-donagh, and the station master pointed out that if there were to be a break down it would be better for the ladies to arrive without their luggage than for the luggage to arrive while the ladies were left on the side of the road. Mrs. Dick, recovering her spirits, insisted on carrying out her plan of sitting on the well of the car. There was a small crowd outside the railway station, which watched with reverent wonder her climbing and wriggling. She waved both hands to Mr. Goddard as soon as she had settled herself comfortably, and was very nearly thrown off the car when the mare started with a jerk. Afterwards she clung to Miss Farquharson and Mrs. Sanders, who sat one on each side of her.

It was not until the two cars were well on their way down the road that Mr. Goddard recollected the promise he had made to Miss Blow. He had really intended to fulfil it. He had it in his mind to say something of a light and jocular kind about the disappearance of the doctor, something which would redeem the letter of his promise without exciting the Members of Parliament. It was not, he reflected, in any way his fault that he had failed. He had no opportunity of speaking. Mr. Dick's impetuous energy had made it quite impossible to approach the subject of Dr. O'Grady. But, while his own conscience absolved him, he was quite sure that he would not be able to explain himself satisfactorily to Miss Blow. She would not believe that Members of Parliament could possibly behave as Mr. Dick had behaved. She would not understand the effect of the Irish air upon naturally staid men. There was some comfort for him in the thought that the cars, with Mrs. Dick's legs swinging off the foremost one, must have passed the hotel, and that Miss Blow might have seen for herself that the party was in no mood for investigating murders. The bicyclists, unless they deliberately turned aside before reaching the town, must also have passed the hotel. Mr. Dick very probably sang some song of the open road as he sped through Clonmore. Miss Blow might have heard it, might have seen for herself the sort of people these tourists were. If she did, Mr. Goddard's reputation as a man of honour would be safe. She could not possibly expect him to redeem his promise.

Then a fresh and most depressing thought attacked him. The Members of Parliament had come and were gone; but there was another promise of his unfulfilled. Miss Blow would certainly expect him to start at once and search for Dr. O'Grady. He knew that he could not postpone the matter any longer. She would pin him to his word, insist upon immediate action, refuse to rest satisfied with excuses. He walked very slowly down the hill from the station.

A cowardly way of escape presented itself to him at the last moment. His horse and trap were in the hotel yard. If he could get them without being seen by Miss Blow he might drive back to Ballymoy. Miss Blow, since the Members of Parliament had got the only available cars, could not follow him. Forgetful of honour and chivalry, of Miss Blow's tear-stained face, of the pressure of her hand, of the kiss which he had nearly given to her glove, he made up his mind to fly. He approached the hotel very cautiously.

Like a thirsty man on a Sunday who has not been able to travel the number of miles which make drinking legal, he climbed over a back wall into the yard. He glanced nervously at the windows, hoping that Miss Blow's room looked out on the front and that she would be expecting him to reach the hotel along the road. He caught sight of Bridgy staring out of the scullery window. She had watched him climb the wall and was most anxious to discover what he intended to do next. It seemed to her unnatural that an officer of police should enter an hotel in such a way. Mr. Goddard, taking shelter in the stable, beckoned to her through the door. Filled with curiosity, she crossed the yard and joined him in the stable.

"Bridgy," he said, "here's a shilling for you. Is Mr. O'Loughlin inside?"

"He is, sir," said Bridgy.

"Then tell him to come out here. I want to speak to him."

"Is it out to the stable?"

Mr. Goddard had sacrificed his own self-respect when he yielded to temptation and made up his mind to escape. He now flung away all hope of ever being respected by Bridgy.

"Yes; here in the stable. And if you meet Miss Blow, don't tell her where I am."

"I will not. Why would I? But sure"

"Go on now, like a good girl, and don't waste your time talking to me."

Jimmy O'Loughlin was a man of tact and good manners. He greeted Mr. Goddard cheerfully as if there were nothing surprising in the choice of a stable for the scene of an important interview. He had been warned by Bridgy that Mr. Goddard, for some reason stood in terror of Miss Blow; but he made no allusion to her. He opened the conversation with a remark on a safe, indifferent topic.

"Them was queer people," he said, alluding to the Members of Parliament and their party.

"I want my horse and trap," said Mr. Goddard, "and I want to pay my bill. I am going back to Ballymoy at once."

"I wouldn't say but you're right," said Jimmy, "if them ones is likely to be back here in the course of the day."

"It's not that. I don't mind about them. It's business that's taking me home—important business."

This was too much for Jimmy O'Loughlin. His tact and manners were good, but he was not going to allow Mr. Goddard to escape without an allusion to Miss Blow.

"The doctor's young lady is within, waiting for you," he said.

"I know that; but I haven't time to talk to her now. In fact, it is most important that I should get away without her seeing me—on account of my business."

"I wouldn't say but you might be right there too," said Jimmy.

They set to work together and harnessed Mr. Goddard's horse. They led him into the yard and put him between the shafts of the trap as silently as possible.

"I'm thinking," said Jimmy, "that maybe it would be better for you not to be paying me the trifle that's due for your bed and your dinner until the next time you're over."

"Very well. Then I'll be able to start at once."

"You will. And, what's more, when the young lady asks me what's happened to you, I'll be able to say that I don't know because you went off without paying your bill."

Jimmy O'Loughlin had a sensitive conscience. He could lie without hesitation when circumstances required it of him, but he preferred, where possible, to deceive without departing from the literal truth.