The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

you get blood out of a stone, Mr Cargrim? No, you can’t. Is that red-cheeked Dutch doll a pelican to pluck her breast for the benefit of her mother? No, indeed! I daresay she passes her sinful hours drinking with young men. I’d whip her at a cart’s tail if I had my way.’

      ‘Gabriel Pendle is trying to bring the girl to a sense of her errors.’

      ‘Rubbish! She’s trying to bring him to the altar, more like. I’ll go with you, Mr Cargrim, and see the minx. I have long thought that it is my duty to reprove her and warn her mother of such goings-on. As for that weak-minded young Pendle,’ cried Mrs Pansey, shaking her head furiously, ‘I pity his infatuation; but what can you expect from such a mother as his mother? Can a fool produce sense? No!’

      ‘I am afraid you will find the young woman difficult to deal with.’

      ‘That makes me all the more determined to see her, Mr Cargrim. I’ll tell her the truth for once in her life. Marry young Pendle indeed!’ snorted the good lady. ‘I’ll let her see.’

      ‘Speak to her mother first,’ urged Cargrim, who wished his visit to be less warlike, as more conducive to success.

      ‘I’ll speak to both of them. I daresay one is as bad as the other. I must have that public-house removed; it’s an eye-sore to Beorminster—a curse to the place. It ought to be pulled down and the site ploughed up and sown with salt. Come with me, Mr Cargrim, and you shall see how I deal with iniquity. I hope I know what is due to myself.’

      ‘Where is Miss Norsham?’ asked the chaplain, when they fell into more general conversation on their way to The Derby Winner.

      ‘Husband-hunting. Dean Alder is showing her the tombs in the cathedral. Tombs, indeed! It’s the altar she’s interested in.’

      ‘My dear lady, the dean is too old to marry!’

      ‘He is not too old to be made a fool of, Mr Cargrim. As for Daisy Norsham, she’d marry Methuselah to take away the shame of being single. Not that the match with Alder will be out of the way, for she’s no chicken herself.’

      ‘I rather thought Mr Dean had an eye to Miss Whichello.’

      ‘Stuff!’ rejoined Mrs Pansey, with a sniff. ‘She’s far too much taken up with dieting people to think of marrying them. She actually weighs out the food on the table when meals are on. No wonder that poor girl Mab is thin.’

      ‘But she isn’t too thin for her height, Mrs Pansey. She seems to me to be well covered.’

      ‘You didn’t notice her at the palace, then,’ snapped the widow, avoiding a direct reply. ‘She wore a low-necked dress which made me blush. I don’t know what girls are coming to. They’d go about like so many Eves if they could.’

      ‘Oh, Mrs Pansey!’ remonstrated the chaplain, in a shocked tone.

      ‘Well, it’s in the Bible, isn’t it, man? You aren’t going to say Holy Writ is indecent, are you?’

      ‘Well, really, Mrs Pansey, clergyman as I am, I must say that there are parts of the Bible unfit for the use of schools.’

      ‘To the pure all things are pure, Mr Cargrim; you have an impure mind, I fear. Remember the Thirty-Nine Articles and speak becomingly of holy things. However, let that pass,’ added Mrs Pansey, in livelier tones. ‘Here we are, and there’s that hussy hanging out from an upper window like the Jezebel she is.’

      This remark was directed against Bell, who, apparently in her mother’s room, was at the window amusing herself by watching the passers-by. When she saw Mrs Pansey and the chaplain stalking along in black garments, and looking like two birds of prey, she hastily withdrew, and by the time they arrived at the hotel was at the doorway to receive them, with fixed bayonets.

      ‘Young woman,’ said Mrs Pansey, severely, ‘I have come to see your mother,’ and she cast a disapproving look on Bell’s gay pink dress.

      ‘She is not well enough to see either you or Mr Cargrim,’ said Bell, coolly.

      ‘All the more reason that Mr Cargrim, as a clergyman, should look after her soul, my good girl.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Pendle is doing that.’

      ‘Indeed! Mr Pendle, then, combines business with pleasure.’

      Bell quite understood the insinuation conveyed in this last speech, and, firing up, would have come to high words with the visitors but that her father made his appearance, and, as she did not wish to draw forth remarks from Mrs Pansey about Gabriel in his hearing, she discreetly held her tongue. However, as Mrs Pansey swept by in triumph, followed by Cargrim, she looked daggers at them both, and bounced into the bar, where she drew beer for thirsty customers in a flaming temper. She dearly desired a duel of words with the formidable visitor.

      Mosk was a lean, tall man with a pimpled face and a military moustache. He knew Mrs Pansey, and, like most other people, detested her with all his heart; but she was, as he thought, a great friend of Sir Harry Brace, who was his landlord, so for diplomatic reasons he greeted her with all deference, hat in hand.

      ‘I have come with Mr Cargrim to see your wife, Mr Mosk,’ said the visitor.

      ‘Thank you, ma’am, I’m sure it’s very kind of you,’ replied Mosk, who had a husky voice suggestive of beer. ‘She’ll be honoured to see you, I’m sure. This way, ma’am.’

      ‘Is she very ill?’ demanded the chaplain, as they followed Mosk to the back of the hotel and up a narrow staircase.

      ‘She ain’t well, sir, but I can’t say as she’s dying. We do all we can to make her easy.’

      ‘Ho!’ from Mrs Pansey. ‘I hope your daughter acts towards her mother like as a daughter should.’

      ‘I’d like to see the person as says she don’t,’ cried Mr Mosk, with sudden anger. ‘I’d knock his head off. Bell’s a good girl; none better.’

      ‘Let us hope your trust in her is justified,’ sighed the mischief-maker, and passed into the sickroom, leaving Mosk with an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. If the man had a tender spot in his heart it was for his handsome daughter; and it was with a vague fear that, after presenting his wife to her visitors, he went downstairs to the bar. Mrs Pansey had a genius for making mischief by a timely word.

      ‘Bell,’ said he, gruffly, ‘what’s that old cat hinting at?’

      ‘What about?’ asked Bell, tossing her head till all her ornaments jingled, and wiping the counter furiously.

      ‘About you! She don’t think I should trust you.’

      ‘What right has she to talk about me, I’d like to know!’ cried Bell, getting as red as a peony. ‘I’ve never done anything that anyone can say a word against me.’

      ‘Who said you had?’ snapped her father; ‘but that old cat hints.’

      ‘Let her keep her hints to herself, then. Because I’m young and good-looking she wants to take my character away. Nasty old puss that she is!’

      ‘That’s just it, my gal. You’re too young and good-looking to escape folks’ talking; and I hear that young Mr Pendle comes round when I’m away.’

      ‘Who says he doesn’t, father? It’s to see mother; he’s a parson, ain’t he?’

      ‘Yes! and he’s gentry too. I won’t have him paying attention to you.’

      ‘You’d better wait till he does,’ flashed out Bell. ‘I can take care of myself, I hope.’

      ‘If I catch him talking other than religion to you I’ll choke him in his own collar,’ cried Mr Mosk, with a scowl; ‘so now you know.’

      ‘I know as you’re talking nonsense, father. Time enough for you to interfere when there’s