Chapter III

Pondering deeply (for he was very much annoyed) on Dr. Kershaw’s manners or lack of manners, Michael followed the crowd towards the inn, and was not at all soothed to find that he had apparently attached to himself the man in the bowler, who followed at his elbow, telling interminable stories of relations and friends of his who had been cut off by violent deaths, interspersed with inquiries into the habits of the late Mr. Meston.

“I know nothing at all about him, I tell you,” Michael said in desperation. “I don’t suppose we’d exchanged a dozen words, all told.”

“But being in the same hotel, sir,” the man persisted, “you must have formed a himpression, if I may say so. You could tell me if the deceased seemed cheerful in his manner, you know, or restless, perhaps. Any little thing that suggested to you what his mood was, you know.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything,” Michael said untruthfully, for the late Mr. Meston’s mood was of the kind which made itself apparent without any intercourse whatever. But he disliked the inquirer exceedingly, and was quite determined that if he nosed out a newspaper story about the poor corpse, it should not be through him. Fortunately, the end of his purgatory approached, for they reached the inn door, and Michael, passing into the bar, plunged into a hubbub of delighted conversation.

Wason, who held the floor, was retailing, for the fourth or fifth time it would appear, his account of the finding of the body. Seeing Michael enter, he broke off the narrative to give a brief description of Michael’s views of Kershaw’s manners. There was a general roar of laughter.

“Doctor, he thinks he’s Scotland Yard and God A’mighty too, these days,” said one. “It’s all along o’ being so thick wi’ Squire.”

“Lard, he’s always as cross as two sticks,” another said. “I remember when my missus had her last, he pretty near had us art of harse.”

“Must be gettin’ used to it, by this time, William,” was the answer, provoking another general laugh.

“Aye, but did ye hear the trick a played on Joe Billings, Friday night?” another reminded them. “Two hours they was settin’ up for him, and a didn’t come----”

“Dancin’ at Squire’s, I’ll bet. They’d fine doin’s up thar, Friday night.”--“Old Joe were hopping mad when a did come, but Karshaw, he wouldn’t hear nothin’. Shut him up wi’ a flea in his mouth, a did.”

“Where be corpse now?” put in an ancient.

“Tommy Linton’s taken it along to mortuary. Us’ll get a look at it, maybe. Tommy’s a kind soul.”

“Yes, I couldn’t get near ’un at the barge,” another complained.

“Ye didn’t miss much,” a newcomer said. “Doctor wouldn’t let us get so much as a sniff of ’un.”

“Aye, he ought to be a fine niffy feller,” cackled the ancient.

“Whar’s corpse’s missus?” said a small wizened man. “She’ll ought to be told.”

“Whar d’ye think, Matthew? Up to Grange, o’ course.”

“I’m thinkin’,” said the small man, looking round for applause, “there’ll be one as’ll be main pleased carpse is found and the drowneder the pleaseder, I’m thinking.”

There was a general snigger, in the midst of which Walter Hicks’s mutter of “Scarlet Woman, I sez. And sooicide, that’s what I sez,” went unheard.

A man dug Michael in the ribs. “He means Missis Meston,” he observed. “It’s a known fact she couldn’t abide him.”

“There’s more’n that’d be pleased as Punch to know he’s drowned,” the small man went on. “There’d be more than pigs run over in Meadon if some had their way.”

“And that’s a fact,” the first speaker said truculently, as though he expected to have it disputed.

“Pigs or no pigs,” said the little man, “I’ve them in mind as’ll be sorry enough they wasn’t down by the riverside to-day.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to absent friends, boys,” he said, with a wink. There was another guffaw, after which the conversation descended into such abysses of allusiveness that Michael gave up the attempt to understand, and made his way out to the front of the inn, where another crowd was discussing the calamity with as much interest but less esoteric information. His last vision was of his bowler-hatted acquaintance eagerly buttonholing the little man. “Pah! the stinker!” thought Michael to himself. “He’s worse than Dr. Kershaw,” he angrily added. At that moment a car drew up at the Old Malting House.

“Hullo, Michael!” a well-known voice called. “What’s the matter? You look as though some one had stolen your savings.”

“Harry!” All Michael’s troubles slid from him as he turned to greet his friend. “I thought you couldn’t be here till after lunch.”

“Nor ought I to have. What my respected colleagues will say of me I can’t think. I’ve left half a dozen jobs for them to finish off. But the weather tempted me, and I did come. What a populous neighbourhood you seem to have chosen,” said Wilson, looking round. “Is it a wedding, or an election?”

“Neither. It’s a bit more in your line,” said Michael. “It’s a corpse.”