Hearing Secret Harmonies - Anthony Powell [9]
I said that defensively, speaking as if everyone under thirty always wore blue robes for that sport. I felt a little diminished by being caught with such a crew by Mr Gauntlett.
‘Ah?’
‘We landed four.’
Mr Gauntlett laughed.
‘Many a year since I went out after crayfish. Used to as a boy. Good eating they make. Well, I must go on to be looking for the old girl.’
He was already moving off when Murtlock addressed him.
‘Seek the spinney by the ruined mill.’
He spoke in an odd toneless voice. Mr Gauntlett, rare with him, showed surprise. He looked more closely at Murtlock, evidently struck not so much by eccentricity of dress as knowledge of the neighbourhood.
‘Ah?’
‘Go now.’
Murtlock gave one of his smiles. Immediately after speaking those two short sentences a subtle change in him had taken place. It was as if he had fallen into – then emerged from – an almost instantaneous trance. Mr Gauntlett was greatly pleased with this advice.
‘I’ll be off to the spinney, instead of the way I was going. That’s just where Daisy might be. And my thanks to you, if I find her.’
‘If you find her, make an offering.’
‘Ah?’
‘It would be well to burn laurel and alder in a chafing dish.’
Mr Gauntlett laughed heartily. The suggestion seemed not to surprise him so much as might be expected.
‘I’ll put something extra in the plate at church on Sunday. That’s quite right. It’s what I ought to do.’
‘Appease the shades of your dwelling.’
Mr Gauntlett laughed again. I do not know whether he took that as an allusion to his haunted house, or even if such were indeed Murtlock’s meaning. Whatever intended, he certainly conveyed the impression that he was familiar with the neighbourhood. Perhaps he had already made enquiries about haunted houses round about, the spinney by the old mill entering into some piece of information given. Murtlock would have been capable of that. Mr Gauntlett turned again to continue his search for Daisy. Then, suddenly thinking of another matter, he paused a moment.
‘Is there more news of the quarry and The Fingers, Mr Jenkins?’
‘They’re still hoping to develop in that direction,’ said Isobel.
‘Ah?’
‘We mustn’t take our eye off them.’
‘No, for sure, that’s true.’
Mr Gauntlett repeated his farewells, and set off again, this time in the direction of the old mill.
‘How on earth did you know about Daisy being at the spinney?’
‘The words came.’
Murtlock spoke this time almost modestly. He seemed to attach no great importance to the advice given, in fact almost to have forgotten the fact that he had given it. He was clearly thinking now of quite other matters. This was where we should leave them. Henderson had set down the bucket containing the crayfish. Rusty was sitting on the grass beside the trap. When Fiona handed over the gardening gloves she allowed a faint gesture in the direction of humdrum usage to escape her.
‘Thanks for letting us put up the caravan.’
She looked at Murtlock quickly to make sure this was not too cringing a surrender, too despicable a retreat down the road of conventionality. He nodded with indifference. There was apparently no harm in conceding that amount in the circumstances. Henderson, blinking through the yellow specs, simpered faintly under his Fu Manchu moustache. Rusty, rising from the ground, scratched under her armpit thoughtfully.
‘Why not take the crayfish as hors d’oeuvres for supper – or would they be too substantial for your limited fast?’
Fiona glanced at Murtlock. Again he nodded.
‘All right.’
‘They have to be gutted.’
Murtlock seemed pleased at the thought of that.
‘Fiona can do the gutting. That will be good for you, Fiona.’
She agreed humbly.
‘You’ll be able to prophesy from the entrails,’ I said.
No one laughed.
‘Bring the bucket back before you leave in the morning,’ said Isobel. ‘I expect we shall see you in any case before you go, Fiona?’
The matter was once more referred to Murtlock for a ruling. He shook his head. The answer was negative. We should not see them the following