Kathleen: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The Scorpions (continues Blair's diary) were all very merry at
dinner that night--particularly at my expense. I was the only one
who had not been out to Bancroft Road to look over the ground.
Apparently they had had a very cheery time.

"Well, Falstaff, what luck?" I asked Carter.

"Splendid!" he replied. "The local butcher has given me a job and
I'm going to call there for a meat order tomorrow morning."

"What!" shouted someone. "On Sunday? Not likely!"

I knew mighty well that Carter would not concoct anything as
crude as that, and wondered what deviltry he had devised.

"I noticed that two telegrams were delivered at the house this
afternoon," said Forbes, in a quiet, non-committal kind of way.

"Perhaps Joe is on his way here," said I. "If so, Good-Night!" As
I spoke, I wondered rather anxiously what the _other_ telegram
could be.

"Well, we saw her, anyway!" said Whitney, "and she's marvellous!
She wears a blue tam-o' shanter and has an ankle like a fairy
tale. We saw her walk down the street."

"That's nothing," I retorted, "I saw her hours ago. She was on
the train with us from Birmingham this morning."

This started a furious wrangle. They said I hadn't played fair,
as the contest didn't begin until two o'clock. My point was that
I had not transgressed the rules as I had done nothing to profit
by my accident in seeing her first.

"I couldn't help seeing her, could I?" I asked. "You could have,
too, if you hadn't been all frowsting over _Tit-Bits_ in the
train. And after all, I didn't _know_ it was Kathleen. I only
suspected it."

I changed the conversation by asking where the Goblin was.

No one had noticed before that he hadn't turned up. This was a
bit disconcerting. I secretly thought him the most dangerous
competitor. He has a quiet, impish twinkle in his eye, and an
unobtrusive way of getting what he wants. However, the others
scoffed at my fears.

Although they all talked a great deal about the amusing time they
had had, I could not gather that they had really accomplished
much. Forbes claimed to have seen Fred, and said he looked like a
rotter. We drank Kathleen's health a couple of times, and then
the other three sat down to dummy bridge. I slipped away to the
Public Library, partly to get some more of my antiquarian
information about Wolverhampton, and partly because I knew my
absence would disquiet them.

I found the Library after some difficulty. In the large
reading-room I hunted up some books of reference, but to my
disappointment Mr. Kent's volume was out. Looking round for a
place to sit, the first person I saw was the Goblin, bent very
busily over a book and making notes on a pad of paper. I leaned
over him.

"Hello, Goblin," I whispered. "Getting ready for a First?"

He started, and tried to cover his volume with a newspaper, but I
had seen it. It was a cook book.

"That's a queer kind of fiction you're mulling over," I remarked.

"I'm looking up a recipe for stuffed eggs," said the Goblin,
without a quiver. "Our Common Room steward does them so poorly."

"Well, don't let me interrupt you," I said. I sat down in a
corner of the room with a volume of the Britannica. When I next
looked up the Goblin was gone.

As usual, I wasted my time with the encyclopedia. I got
interested in the articles on Wages, Warts, Weather, Wordsworth,
and Worms. By the time I got to Wolverhampton it was closing
time. I did just seize the information that the town was founded
in 996 by Wulfruna, widow of the Earl of Northampton. Then I had
to leave.

I got back to the Boar about ten-thirty. The coffee-room was
empty. The landlord said that Whitney and Forbes were out, but
that Mr. Carter had gone upstairs.

Falstaff and I were rooming together, and when I went up I found
him reading in bed.

"Hello, Wulfruna!" he said, as I came in.

Evidently he, too, had been reading up some history. Just as I
got into bed he fell asleep and his book dropped to the floor
with a thump. I crept quietly across the room and picked it up.
It was "Memorials of Old Staffordshire," by Philip Kent, F.S.A.,
the very copy that I had looked for at the Library. I skimmed
over it and then put it carefully back by Falstaff's bedside. Was
he on the antiquarian trail, too? I began to realize that these
rivals of mine would take some beating.

The next morning (Sunday) I found a note waiting for me on the
breakfast table. Three indignant Scorpions were weighing it,
studying the handwriting, and examining the stationery like three
broken-hearted detectives.

"It's not Kathleen's hand, but I'll swear it's the same
notepaper," Forbes was saying.

Under a venomous gaze from all three I took the letter out of the
room before opening it. Forbes was right: it was the well-known
Bancroft Road notepaper. It ran thus:

318, BANCROFT ROAD,
WOLVERHAMPTON
Saturday Evening.

DEAR MR. BLAIR,

Mr. Dunton, the vicar of S. Philip's, has just told me of your
visit to him. I am so glad to know that you take an antiquarian
interest in this region. Curiously enough, only this afternoon we
had two wires from our cousin Joe in Oxford, one of which
mentioned your being here. That gives us additional reason for
looking forward to making your acquaintance.

Mrs. Kent wants you to come to lunch with us to-morrow, at one
o'clock. Unfortunately I myself am laid up with rheumatism, but
some of the family will be delighted to take you to see the quite
surprising relics in this vicinity. Joe has probably told you all
about Fred, who is really quite one of the family. The poor
fellow needs exercise dreadfully; you must take him with you if
you go tramping. Charlie and Oliver, my boys, are away at school.

Don't attempt to reply to this, but just turn up at one o'clock.

Sincerely yours,
PHILIP KENT.

This gave me several reasons for thought, and disregarding the
appeals from the coffee-room to come in and tell them all about
it, I walked into the courtyard of the Inn to consider.

First, what was the _other_ wire from Joe? Heavens, was he on his
way from Oxford to Wolverhampton? If my fake telegram were
discovered too soon I should be in a very embarrassing position.
Second, Joe was a cousin, was he! One of those annoying second
cousins, probably, who are close enough to the family to be a
familiar figure, and yet far enough away in blood to marry the
daughter! And then there was this sinister person, Fred, who was
"really quite one of the family." Another cousin, perhaps? What
was the matter with the devil, anyway? If he needed exercise why
didn't he go and get it? Certainly I didn't want to spend an
afternoon antiquarianizing with him. How was I to get him out of
the way, so that I could get a tete-a-tete with K.?

I could see that if this game was to be played through
successfully it must be played with some daring. _Toujours de
l'audace_! I thought, and let breakfast go hang. Moreover, my
sudden disappearance would help to demoralize my rivals. I stuck
my head into the breakfast-room where Priapus was just dishing
out the bacon and eggs. In that instant it struck me again that
the Goblin was not there. I cried "Ye Gods!" in a loud voice, and
slammed the door behind me. As I ran out of the front door I
laughed at the picture of their disconcerted faces.

My idea was to lure Fred away from Bancroft Road at all hazards.
This could only be done by another telegram. And as it was Sunday,
the railway station was the only place to send one from. It was
a beautiful, clear morning, and I hurried through the streets with
exultation, but also with a good deal of nervousness as to the
outcome of this shameless hoaxing. At any rate, I thought, I may
as well live up to my privileges as an irresponsible American.
The Great Kathleen Excursion was beginning to take on in my
mind the character of an international joust or tourney.

At the station (or at the depot as one would say at home), I sent
the following message:

FREDERICK KENT,
318, Bancroft Road,
WOLVERHAMPTON.

Unavoidably detained Oxford hurt leg playing soccer wish you
could join me at once urgent.

JOE.

I got back to the Boar in time for a cold breakfast. None of
the others was there. I ate with my antiquarian notes on
Wolverhampton propped against the coffee pot. I was determined
that Mr. Kent should find me as intelligent as possible.

There was nothing to be done before lunch time. I read Mr. Kent's
letter over several times, and I must confess that the mention of
that other wire from Joe worried me a good deal. Just how far the
telegram I had just sent might conflict with the facts as known
to the Kents, I could not surmise. I could only trust to luck and
pray for the best. I learned from the chambermaid that the Goblin
had come in very late the night before, and had gone out at six
A.M. That bothered me almost more than anything else.

Finally, after hanging round the empty coffee-room for a while, I
got nervous, and determined to go to morning service at St.
Philip's. There would be plenty of time to get out to Bancroft
Road afterward, and perhaps Kathleen would be at church and I
could get a distant view of her. I walked round to the church.
Service had begun, but I went in and sat down at the back. During
a hymn I took a good look round. To my horror I saw in a pew a
few feet in front of me a young person whose robust outline
seemed familiar. I looked again. It was Falstaff Carter in the
get-up of a curate. Trembling with indignation, I crept out of
the church. I hardly dared speculate on what low device he had
planned for winning his way into the sanctum.

At any rate, I thought, I am fixed for lunch: once I get there, I
guess I can gain ground as fast as any pseudo-curate. I ran over
my antiquarian data another time.

It was half-past twelve, and I was just brushing my hair for the
third time, preparatory to starting for Bancroft Road, when the
chambermaid came to the bedroom door. "This note was just left
for you, sir." I tore it open.

BANCROFT ROAD,
Sunday Morning.

MY DEAR MR. BLAIR,

I am afraid you will think it very strange, but, owing to a
sudden domestic disarrangement, will you come to _supper_, this
evening, instead of to luncheon? I am exceedingly embarrassed to
have to make this change, but (to be quite frank) one of our
maids has been taken ill, and our luncheon to-day will have to be
a haphazard affair. We are also rather distressed by strange news
from our cousin at Oxford.

But we shall be very happy to see you at supper time, seven
o'clock.

Cordially yours,
PHILIP KENT.

It came over me that this was pretty dirty work we were putting
up on the poor gentleman, and I suddenly felt thoroughly ashamed
of myself. I don't know whether any of the others came back to
the Boar for lunch, or not. I put on my cap and went for a long
walk in the country, out toward Tettenhall Wood. I didn't come
back until tea time.

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