Chapter 4

“Nonsense! I'm not going to sacrifice our good talk on antiquities so easily. I want very much to tell you about the Battle of Wolverhampton. The town was strongly loyalist in the great rebellion; in fact, in 1645 it was the headquarters of Prince Rupert, while Charles the First is said to have stopped at the Blue Boar for a drink--”

At this moment came a ring at the front door, and Mr. Kent stopped to listen. They heard a male voice mumbling to the maid, who then came to her mistress to report.

“There's a policeman out here, ma'am, to see Mr. Kent.”

“A policeman?” queried the antiquarian. “What next, I wonder? Well, supper is suspended, send him in.”

And to Blair's dismay the gigantic form of Whitney, the Iron Duke, crossed the threshold, in the correct uniform of the Wolverhampton police force.

If Blair was dismayed, the counterfeit policeman was no less disgusted to see his fellow Scorpion sitting at the dinner table, but they gazed at each other without any sign of recognition.

“Begging your pardon for interrupting, sir, but the chief sent me around for a word with you. There's been a gang o' sneak thieves operating 'round 'ere, sir, and some of 'em 'as been getting admittance to 'ouses by passin' themselves off as gas inspectors, sir.”

Mrs. Kent screamed.

“I 'ad a notion that one o' these birds is along Bancroft Road to-night, sir, an' I wanted to warn you. Don't let the maid admit any tradesmen or agents from the gas company unless they 'as the proper badges, sir.”

“Heavens, Philip!” cried Mrs. Kent. “That dreadful man is downstairs now! Eliza threw him out once this afternoon, but he's here again. He may have murdered Mr. Carter by this time. Oh, inspector, do hurry down at once and see what's happened! There's a defenceless high-church curate in the cellar with him. Mary, show the way downstairs.”

Blair poured out a glass of water for Mrs. Kent.

“Don't you think I had better go down, too?” he asked.

“Oh, please don't go!” begged Mrs. Kent, faintly. “Stay here, in case he should escape upstairs. I believe we shall all be murdered in our beds!”

“Come, come,” said Mr. Kent. “We mustn't let all this spoil Mr. Blair's supper. Have another glass of wine. The policeman will attend to the gas-man. We don't often get a chance to talk to a genuine antiquarian. I think, Mr. Blair, that you will be greatly interested in the architectural restoration of our parish church. It exemplifies the worst excesses of the mid-Victorian period. The church itself is one of the finest examples of the cruciform type. The south transept dates from the thirteenth century; the nave, clerestory, and north transept from the fifth. The chancel was restored in 1865, but I must confess that the treatment of the clerestory seems to me barbarous. Now what are your own ideas as to the proper treatment of a clerestory?”

The wretched American was non-plussed. He had a shrewd suspicion that matters were moving rapidly downstairs yet he did not see any way of leaving the dining-room to investigate for himself. He had hardly heard what was said.

“Why--ah--to tell you the truth, Mr. Kent, I read very little fiction nowadays. I'm rather worried about that gas-man downstairs. Do you suppose your daughter can be in any danger? There might be some sort of explosion--don't you think I had better run down to see if I can help?”

As they sat listening Kathleen's voice was heard from the kitchen, raised in clear and angry tones.

Blair could contain himself no longer. With an inarticulate apology he hurried out of the room, leaving the puzzled antiquarian and his wife alone at the supper table.

X

The Rhodes Scholar was correct in having feared the Goblin as a dangerous competitor in the quest of the Grail. King, as we have intimated before, was a quaint-minded and ingenious person, modest in stature but with a twinkling and roving eye. He was one of the leading spirits of the OUDS, known in full as the Oxford University Dramatic Society, and his ability to portray females of the lower classes had been the delight of more than one Shakespearean rendering. No one who saw him as Juliet's nurse in a certain private theatrical performance in the hall of New College can recall the occasion without chuckles.

When the Goblin left the Blue Boar on Saturday afternoon he also made his way out to Bancroft Road; but instead of patrolling the main street in the vague hope of catching a glimpse of Kathleen (as did Falstaff, Priapus, and the Iron Duke), he hunted out the hinder regions of the district. In accordance with a plan he had concocted before leaving Oxford, he carried a little portfolio of “art subjects,” of the kind dear to domestic servants, and with this in hand he approached the door of the basement back kitchen, where Ethel the cook and her assistant, Mary, the housemaid, were having a mid-afternoon cup of tea. The windings of the humbler lanes of service, behind the Bancroft Road houses, were the proper causeway for tradesmen, and it was easy for him to reach the back garden gate unseen by those in front.

He knocked respectfully at the kitchen door, and Mary came to answer.

“Good day, Miss,” said the supposed pedlar. “I 'ave some very pretty pictures 'ere which I wish you would let me show you.”

Mary was a simple-minded creature, but she knew that her mistress had strict rules about pedlars.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “but Missus don't let no pedlars in the house.”

“If you please, Miss,” said the artful Goblin, “I am no pedlar, but representing a very respectable photographer, and I would like to show you some photographs in the 'ope of getting your order. I 'ave taken a number of orders at the nicest 'ouses along Bancroft Road. I thought maybe you would like to 'ave a photo of yourself taken, to send to your young man.” And he opened his case, exhibiting a sheaf of appropriate photos.

It was a slender chance, but the pedlar had a wheedling eye and a genteel demeanour, and Mary hesitated. She called the cook, a stout, middle-aged person, who came to the door to see what was up. The pedlar rapidly showed the best items of his collection, which he had selected with great care in a photographer's studio in Oxford. Fate hung in the scales, but the two servants could not resist temptation. They knew that Mrs. Kent and Miss Kathleen were upstairs sewing; and the master was confined to his study with his rheumatism. They invited the photographer into the kitchen.

It is a psychological fact well known to housekeepers that there is a vacant hour in the middle of the afternoon when Satan sometimes finds a joint in the protective armour of the domestic servant. After the luncheon dishes are washed and put away, and before five-o'clock tea and toast are served, cook and housemaid enjoy a period of philosophic contemplation or siesta. Even in the most docile and kitchen-broken breast thoughts of roses and romance may linger; dreams of moving pictures or the coming cotillion of the Icemen's Social Harmony. Usually this critical time is whiled away by the fiction of Nat Gould or Bertha Clay or Harold Bell Wright. And close observers of kitchen comedy will have noted that it is always at this fallow hour of the afternoon that pedlars and other satanic emissaries sharpen their arrows and ply their most plausible seductions.

The Goblin has never admitted just what honeyed sophistries he employed to win the hearts of the simple pair in Mrs. Kent's kitchen. But the facts may be briefly stated by the chronicler. After getting them interested in his photos he confessed frankly that he was an old friend of the family from Oxford. He said that he and Miss Kathleen were planning an innocent practical joke on the family, and asked if he could take the place of one of the servants for that Sunday. He made plain that his share in the joke must not be revealed to any one. And then he played his trump card by showing them the text of the bogus telegram recommending Miss Eliza Thick, which he had dispatched from a branch postal office on his way through the town.

“And is Miss Josephine in the joke, too?” inquired the cook.

This question startled the Goblin, but he kept his composure and affirmed that he and Miss Josephine had concocted the telegram jointly in Oxford. And by a little adroit pumping he learned “Joe's” status in the family. The cook, Ethel, admitted that she was to go out that evening for her Saturday night off. At last the Goblin, by desperate cunning and the exhibition of two golden sovereigns, completely won the hearts of the maids. While they were talking the door-bell rang, and Mary, returning from the upper regions, announced that it was “another telegram from Miss Joe. Missus and Miss Kathleen laughed fit to kill when they read it,” she said.

“You see?” said the Goblin. “That's the same telegram I just showed you. It's all right; it's a joke. You don't need to worry, cook. Mrs. Kent won't be angry with you. You let me take your place for to-morrow, and write a little note saying you're ill and that your friend Eliza Thick will do your work for the day.”

It was arranged that the Goblin should meet Ethel at her home that night to borrow some clothes. The cook showed him the menu for Sunday that Mrs. Kent had sent down. This rather daunted the candidate for kitchen honours, but he copied it in his notebook for intensive study. Then, as it was close upon tea-time, he packed up the photos, distributed his largesse, and retired. Mary, the housemaid, promised to stand by him in the coming ordeal. Both the servants felt secretly flattered that they should be included in the hoax. The kitchen classes in England have great reverence for young 'varsity men.

The Goblin was a canny man, and he had brought with him a wig and certain other properties. He hunted out a little tea shop, where he meditated over three cups of pekoe and hot buttered toast. Then he made his way to the Public Library, where he spent several hours over a cook-book. He was complimenting himself on having shaken the other Scorpions off his trail when Blair looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the stuffed-eggs recipe to which the Goblin was addressing himself for the fourth time. The meeting was embarrassing, but it could not be helped. After Blair had left him, the cook-to-be returned to his memoranda.

Mrs. Kent trusted many things to Ethel's judgment, and her instructions as jotted down on a slip of paper included three possibilities. “_Eggs, stuffed, devilled, or farci_,” she had written, and the Goblin was endeavouring to decide which of these presented the least distressing responsibility. He was a student of mathematics, and had attempted to reduce the problem to a logical syllabus. He read over his memoranda:

THEOREM: STUFFED EGGS.

_Data_: six hard, boiled-eggs (20 minutes).

(a) Cut eggs in halves lengthwise. (b) Remove yolks, and put whites aside in pairs. (c) Mash yolks, and add (1) Half the amount of devilled ham. (2) Enough melted butter to make of consistency to shape. (“Half _what_ amount of devilled ham?” thought the Goblin. “And where does the devilled ham come from? How does one devil a ham? What a pity Henry James never wrote a cook-book! It would have been lucid compared to this. _To make of consistency to shape_--what on earth does that mean?”) (d) Clean and chop two chickens' livers, sprinkle with onion juice, and saute in butter--(“No!” he cried, “that's _eggs farci_. Wrong theorem!”)

(d) Make in balls (“Make _what_ in balls?”) size of original yolks (“Note: remember to measure original yolks before cutting them lengthwise”). (e) Refill whites (“Let's see, what did I fill 'em with before?”) (f) Form remainder of mixture into a nest. (“That's a nice little homely touch.”) (g) Arrange eggs in the nest and (1) Pour over one cup White Sauce. (“Memo: See p. 266 for White Sauce.”) (2) Sprinkle with buttered crumbs. (“Allow plenty of time for buttering those crumbs; that sounds rather ticklish work.”) (3) Bake until crumbs are brown. (h) Garnish with a border of toast points and a wreath of parsley.

Q. E. D.

“Integral calculus is a treat compared to this,” he said to himself as he reviewed the problem. “I hope they have plenty of parsley in the house. That nest may need a little protecting foliage. I don't see how I can make any kind of proper asylum for those homeless, wandering eggs out of that mess.” So saying, he left the library to call upon Ethel at her home and complete his disguise.

XI

Mrs. Kent was a deal puzzled by the bearing and accoutrements of her substitute cook. Eliza Thick appeared on the premises about seven o'clock, and with the aid of the housemaid breakfast went through fairly smoothly. It was Kathleen's query about the coffee that elicited the truth. Mary, with nervous gigglings, announced to her mistress that Ethel was ill and had sent a substitute. The coincidence that Josephine's nominee should turn out to be a friend of Ethel struck Mrs. Kent as strange, and presently she went down to interview the new kitcheneer.

Eliza Thick, a medium-sized but rather powerfully fashioned female, generously busted and well furnished with rich brown hair, was washing the dishes. She curtseyed respectfully as Mrs. Kent entered the kitchen.

“Good morning,” said Mrs. Kent. “You are Eliza Thick?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You brought a note from Ethel?”

“Yes, ma'am;” and fumbling in an opulent bosom, Eliza drew forth a crumpled scrap of paper.

“I had a telegram from my niece in Oxford recommending you. How did she know of you?”

“I worked at Lady Marg'ret 'All, ma'am, where the young lady is studyin'.”

“Why did you leave your place there?”

“If you please, ma'am, my dishes was so tasty that it made the young ladies discontented when they got 'ome. Their parents complained that it gave 'em too 'igh ideas about wittles. The principal said I was pamperin' 'em too much, an' offered to release me.”

Mary, who was listening, gave a loud snort of laughter, which she tried to conceal by rattling some plates.

“Well, Eliza,” said Mrs. Kent, “that will do. You must get on with the work as best you can. Judging by the coffee this morning, I don't think your cooking will have the same effect on us that it did on the students at Lady Margaret Hall. We were expecting a guest for lunch but I will have to put him off until supper. I have written out the menu for the day. Mary will give you any help she can.”

“If you please, ma'am?” said Eliza.

“Yes?”

“Cook gave me a message for Miss Kathleen, ma'am, which she asked me to deliver in person.”

“A message for Miss Kathleen?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, you can tell me, I will tell Miss Kathleen.”

“Cook said I was to give it to her personally,” said the persistent Eliza.

“How very extraordinary,” said Mrs. Kent. “What did you say was the matter with Ethel--is it anything contagious?”

“Oh, no, ma'am, I think it's just a touch of--of nervous debility, ma'am--too many white corpuscles, ma'am.”

“Well, I don't think Miss Kathleen can come down now, Eliza; we have just had a very strange telegram which has rather upset us.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The new cook sat down to peel potatoes and study the mechanics of Kitchencraft. She found much to baffle her in the array of pots and pans, and in the workings of the range. From a cupboard she took out mince-meat choppers, potato mashers, cream whippers, egg-beaters, and other utensils, gazing at them in total ignorance of their functions. Mrs. Kent had indicated jugged hare and mashed potatoes for lunch, and after some scrutiny of the problem Eliza found a hammer in the cabinet with which she began to belabour the vegetables. Mary, who might have suggested boiling the potatoes first, was then upstairs.

By and by Kathleen heard the thumping, and came into the kitchen to investigate.

“Good morning, Eliza.”

“Good morning, Miss,” said the delighted cook. “Oh, I _am_ so happy to see you, Miss!”

“Thank you, Eliza. Did you have a message for me from Ethel?”

“Yes, Miss. Er--Ethel said she hoped you'd give me all the help you can, Miss, because--er, you see, Miss, cooking for a private family is very different from working in a college where there are so many, Miss.”

“I see. Well--what on earth are you doing to those potatoes, Eliza?”

“Mashing 'em, Miss.”

“What, with a _hammer_!”

“I washed the 'ammer, Miss.”

“Surely you didn't mash them that way at Maggie Hall, Eliza?”

“Yes, miss. The young ladies got so they couldn't abide them done any other way.”

Kathleen looked more closely, and examined the badly bruised tubers. “Good gracious,” she exclaimed, with a ripple of laughter. “They haven't been cooked yet!”

Eliza was rather taken aback.

“Well, you see, Miss,” she said, “at the college we used nothing but fireless cookers, and I don't understand these old-fashioned stoves very well. I wanted to get you to explain it to me.”

“It's perfectly simple,” said Kathleen. “This is the oven, and when you want to bake anything--_Phew_!” she cried, opening the oven door, “what _have_ you got in here?”

She took a cloth, and lifted out of the oven a tall china pitcher with a strange-looking object protruding from it.

Eliza was panic stricken, and for an instant forgot her role.

“My God! I put the hare in there and forgot all about it. What a bally sell!”

Kathleen removed the hideous thing, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry.

“Look here, Eliza,” she said. “They may jug hares that way at Maggie Hall, but I doubt it. Now, what _can_ you cook? We've got guests coming to-night. A gentleman from America is going to be here and we must put our best foot forward.”

Eliza's face was a study in painful emotion.

“Excuse me, Miss,” she said, “but is that American gentleman called Mr. Blair?”

“Yes,” said Kathleen. “Really, Eliza, you are most extraordinary. How did you know?”

“I've heard of him,” said Eliza. “I think I ought to warn you against him, miss. He's--he's a counterfeiter.”

“Nonsense, Eliza. What notions you do have! He's an antiquarian, and he's coming to see my father about archaeology. He's a friend of Miss Josephine, from Oxford. Now I think you'd better get on with your cooking and not worry about counterfeiters.”

“Miss Kathleen,” said Eliza, “I think I'd better be frank with you. I want to tell you--”

Here Mary came into the kitchen, and although Eliza Thick made frantic gestures to her to keep away, the housemaid was too dense to understand. The opportunity for confession was lost.

“Now, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “Mary will help you in anything you're not certain about. I'll come down again later to see how you're getting on.”

By supper time that night Eliza Thick began to think that perhaps she had made a tactical error by interning herself in the kitchen where there was but small opportunity for a tete-a-tete with the bewitching Kathleen. The news that Blair was coming to the evening meal was highly disconcerting, and the worried cook even contemplated the possibility of doctoring the American's plate of soup with ratsbane or hemlock. Once during the afternoon she ventured a sally upstairs (carrying a scuttle of coal as a pretext) in the vague hope of finding Kathleen somewhere about the house. Unfortunately she met Mrs. Kent on the stairs, who promptly ordered her back to her proper domain. Here Eliza found a disreputable-looking person trying to cozen Mary into admitting him to the house. He claimed to be an agent of the gas company, in search of a rumoured leak. Eliza immediately spotted Priapus, and indignantly ejected him by force of arms. In the scuffle a dish pan and several chairs were overturned. Mary, whose nerves were rather unstrung by the sustained comedy she was witnessing, uttered an obbligato of piercing yelps which soon brought Kathleen to the scene. Eliza received a severe rating, and so admired the angry sparkle in Kathleen's eyes that she could hardly retort.

“One other thing, Eliza,” said Kathleen, in conclusion. “There are to be two guests at supper. Mr. Carter, a curate from Oxford, is coming, too. Please allow for him in your preparations.”

“If you please, Miss,” cried the much-goaded cook, “is that Mr. Stephen Carter?”

“I believe it is,” said Kathleen, “but what of it? Is he a counterfeiter, too?”

“Miss Kathleen, I know you think it strange, but I must warn you against that curate. Dear Miss Kathleen, he is dangerous. He is not what he seems.”

“Eliza, you forget yourself,” said Kathleen, severely. “Mr. Carter comes with an introduction from the Bishop of Oxford. I hope that is satisfactory to you! In any case, we do not need your approval for our list of guests. Mrs. Kent wants you to take great care with the stuffed eggs. Those mashed potatoes made her quite ill.”

“Please, Miss, I'm dreadful worried about those eggs. The book says to make a nest for 'em, and truly I don't know how to go about it. The young ladies at college never ate their eggs in nests, miss. And when I gets nervous I can't do myself justice, Miss. I never can remember which is the yolks and which is the whites, miss.”

“Now, that will do, Eliza,” said Kathleen. “You are a very eccentric creature, but I don't think you are as stupid as all that. What do you want? Do you expect me to come down here and oversee all your preparations?”

“Oh, if you only would, Miss, it would be _so_ gratifying!”

Kathleen laughed, a girlish bubbling of pure mirth, which was dreadful torment to the jealous masquerader. She departed, leaving the cook a prey to savage resolve. “Well,” thought Eliza, “if the supper is bad enough I guess she'll just _have_ to come down and help me. Thank goodness Blair and Carter are _both_ coming; they'll cut each other's throats, and perhaps the stuffed eggs will win after all. As for that gas-man, he won't get into this house unless it's over my dead body!”

XII

It was a feverish and excited Eliza that Kathleen found in the kitchen when she tripped downstairs after the soup course. On a large platter the cook had built a kind of untidy thicket of parsley and chopped celery, eked out with lettuce leaves. Ambushed in this were lurking a number of very pallid and bluish-looking eggs, with a nondescript stuffing bulging out of them.

“I forgot to measure the yolks, Miss,” wailed Eliza. “That's why the stuffing don't fit. Shall I throw a dash of rum on board to stiffen 'em up?”

In spite of her vexation, Kathleen could not help laughing. “No, no,” she said. “We'll tidy up the nest a bit and send them upstairs.”

“That's grand,” said Eliza, watching Kathleen's quick fingers. “'Tis a beautiful comely hand you have, miss, one that it's a pleasure to admire.”

“Now, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “you must not shout up the dumb waiter so. I distinctly heard you cry out '_This plate's for the parson_!' as you sent up one of the dishes of soup.”

“If you please, Miss,” said Eliza. “That was because it was the plate I spilled a spoonful of pepper into, and I thought it had better go to the cloth than anywhere else. Miss Kathleen, I have something very urgent to say to you before them two counterfeiters upstairs commit any affidavits or sworn statements.”

“You dish out the eggs, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “and I'll send them up the dumb waiter. Quick, now! And where's your dessert? Is it ready?”

“All doing finely, Miss,” answered Eliza, but as she opened the oven door her assurance collapsed. She drew out a cottage pudding, blackened and burnt to carbon.

“A great success,” said the bogus cook, but holding it on the other side of her apron so that Kathleen could not see. “Here, I'll just shoot it up the shaft myself before it gets cold.” She hurried into the pantry, whisked it into the dumb waiter before Kathleen could catch a glimpse, and sent it flying aloft.

“That smelt a little burnt, cook,” said Kathleen.

“Just a wee bit crisp on one side, miss.”