“Well, I won't deny, sir, that it did come into my mind that this Pole with the unnatural name whom you all call Ladislas lodges in one of those cottages,” admitted Hemingway. “But if you know what I'm thinking it's more than I do myself, because I've always found it a great waste of time to think about things until I've got a bit more data than I have yet. However, I'm glad you've mentioned him, because what any gentleman in your position has to say about one of his parishioners seems to me well worth listening to.”
“I cannot, I fear, describe Ladislas as my parishioner,” said the Vicar depreciatingly. “He is not, you know, of my communion. One is apt, of course, to look upon every soul living in one's parish as a member of one's flock, and particularly in such a case as this, when the young man is so tragically bereft of family, home, even country, one feels impelled to do what one can to bring a little friendliness into a lonely life.”
“And I'm sure it does you credit, sir,” said Hemingway cordially.
“I am afraid it rather does Ladislas credit,” said the Vicar, with a sudden smile. “We had Poles stationed in the vicinity during the War, and the impression they made upon us was not entirely happy. One makes allowances, of course, but still— No, not entirely happy! Indeed, to my shame I must confess that I was far from being pleased when I heard that one had come to live permanently amongst us. However, I thought it my duty to visit the young man, and I was agreeably surprised by him. A very decent fellow, determined to make his way in his job, and combating, I grieve to say, a good deal of insular prejudice. I had no hesitation in introducing him to one or two people whom I thought he might find congenial, and I have had no reason to regret having done so. I should add, perhaps, that his landlady, our good Mrs. Dockray—a most respectable woman!—is quite devoted to him, and that is a more valuable testimony than mine, Inspector!”
“I wouldn't say that, sir, but at least it means he hasn't been spending his spare time getting all the village girls into trouble—not to mention the wives whose husbands are doing their military service,” said Hemingway.
Haswell, who had retired to the window-seat, laughed suddenly; but the Vicar, though he smiled, shook his head, and said that when he thought of the infants, of what he must call mixed parentage, whom he had been obliged to baptise, he felt more like weeping. From this reflection he was easily led to talk about the humbler members of his flock, the Chief Inspector listening to his very discursive descriptions with great patience, mentally sifting possible grains of wheat from obvious chaff, and guiding him adroitly, by way of Mrs. Murton, who obliged for Mrs. Lindale, into the higher ranks of Thornden society. But the Vicar could not tell him very much about the Lindales. Like Ladislas, Mrs. Lindale was not of his communion, and her husband, although brought up in the Anglican faith and a very good fellow, was not, alas, a churchgoer. It was a pity, the Vicar thought, that such pleasant young people live such retired lives. It was rarely that one had the pleasure of meeting them at any of the little entertainments in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Lindale was thought to be standoffish; he himself believed her, rather, to be shy. Miss Patterdale—whom he always called the good angel of the parish—had been most neighbourly, and spoke well of Mrs. Lindale. Indeed, she had persuaded Mrs. Ainstable to call, but nothing had come of it, Mrs. Lindale excusing herself from accepting invitations on the score of being unable to leave her little girl. A pity, he could not but think, for although the Ainstables were not of the Lindales' generation, and did not, nowadays, entertain a great deal, they must be considered, in every sense of the word, valuable connaissances.
“Yes, I've just been having a chat with them,” said Hemingway. “A gentleman of the old school, Mr. Ainstable. The Chief Constable was telling me that he lost his only son in the war, which must be just about as bad a thing for Thornden as it was for him, I should think.”
“Indeed, indeed you are right, Inspector!” said the Vicar earnestly. “One of the finest young men I have ever known, and one, moreover, who would have upheld traditions which are so fast vanishing. The flowers of the forest . . . A bitter blow for the Squire! One must hope that the present heir will prove a worthy successor, but I fear there will be a sad change in the relationship between the Squire and the village. Thornden does not readily accept strangers.”
“Nor any other place I ever heard of,” said Hemingway. “Still, we'll hope it won't happen for a good many years to come. The Squire looks pretty hale and hearty—more so than Mrs. Ainstable, I thought.”
The Vicar sighed. “For thou knowest not what a day may bring forth,” he said, as though he spoke to himself.