When they came into the coffee room, Bredon had the instantaneous impression we all get occasionally that the room was too full. Then, on disentangling his sensations, he was delighted to find that the newcomer was Mr. Eames, who was exchanging a word or two with Brinkman, though he seemed not to have been introduced to the others. “Good man!” said Bredon. “I don’t think you met my wife, did you? This is Mr. Pulteney . . . it was very good of you to keep your promise.”
“As it turned out, I should have had to come in any case. The Bishop had to go off to a confirmation, so, when he heard the funeral was down here, he sent me to represent him. You see, we heard from the solicitors about our windfall—I suspect you were keeping that dark, Mr. Bredon—and he was very much touched by Mr. Mottram’s kindness. He wished he could have come, Mr. Brinkman, but of course a confirmation is a difficult engagement to get out of.”
“I really knew nothing about the will when I came over to Pullford,” protested Bredon. “I’ve heard about it since, of course. Can I offer my congratulations to the diocese, or would it look too much like gifts from the Greeks?”
“Nonsense; you serve your company, Mr. Bredon, and none of us bears you any ill-will for it. I hope, by the way, I have not been indiscreet in mentioning the subject?” he glanced for a moment at the old gentleman. “The Bishop, of course, has not mentioned the matter except to me, because he quite realizes there may be legal difficulties.”
“I can keep a secret as well as most men,” explained Pulteney. “That is to say, I have the common human vanity which makes every man like to be in possession of a secret; and perhaps less than my share of the vulgar itch for imparting information. But you know Chilthorpe little, sir, if you speak of discretion in the same four walls with Mrs. Davis. I assure you that the testamentary dispositions of the late Mr. Mottram are seldom off her lips.”
There was a fractional pause, while everybody tried to think how Mrs. Davis knew. Then they remembered that the matter had been mentioned, though only incidentally, at the inquest.
“To be sure,” said Eames. “I have met Mrs. Davis before. If it is true that confession lightens our burdens, the Load of Mischief must sit easily on her.”
“I’m so glad they haven’t changed the name of the inn,” observed Angela. “These old-fashioned names are getting so rare. And the Load of Mischief is hardly an encouraging title.”
“There used,” said Eames, “to be an inn in my old—in the parish where I lived—which was called ‘The Labour in Vain.’ I sometimes thought of it as an omen.”
“Are you of the funeral party, Mr. Pulteney?” asked Leyland, seeing the old gentleman dressed in deep black.