Chapter 4 #2
“That’s utterly unfair! You can’t arrest him for just trying to protect himself.”
“Who says I arrested him?” Red in the face, Puckle was quite as indignant as Daisy by now.
“Didn’t I talk her out o’ pressing charges?
Breach o’ the King’s peace, likely he’d get thirty days seeing as he’s got no money to pay a fine and the magistrate’s a friend o’ Mr. Hammett’s.
A night in the wash’se out the back won’t do Sid any harm.
More comfortable nor his shack, I reckon. ”
“Fred!” A stout woman bustled in. “What’s that poor creetur doing in the wash’se? Sobbing fit to bust his heart, he is. You just hand over that key.”
“Now you’re not to let him go free, Martha,” Puckle said feebly. “Creating an affray, he was, and Mrs. Hammett wanting to charge him.”
“Well, I won’t then,” Mrs. Puckle conceded.
“You’ve your job to do. But I’ll take him some nice hot soup to cheer the poor soul up, for ’tis a nasty, chilly day for August. And then I’m off to the vicar to get some decent clothes to cover his back.
There’s plenty suitable in the jumble for the sale, and I won’t have him leaving this house in rags.
” She held out her hand for the washhouse key.
Seeing Sid was going to be well looked after, Daisy slipped out before the constable could take out on her his ire at his wife’s interference.
The mention of soup had reminded her that the fried plaice and chips in Abbotsford was a long time ago and Mrs. Anstruther would have tea on the table by now. Nonetheless, she descended the slippery slope with caution.
At last the sun was beginning to burn through the fog.
There was blue sky overhead and the hills across the inlet were no longer invisible but veiled in mystery, like a Chinese painting.
As Daisy reached the quay, a ferry was pulling in from Abbotsford, with the usual shouting and tossing of ropes.
Donald Baskin stood at the rail, near the gangway, waving to her.
She stopped to wait for him. “You’re back early today,” she said as he caught her up and they walked on together.
“Yes.” The sun-browned face was serious. “I wanted to talk to you, privately, and you mentioned that your husband will arrive tomorrow.”
“He’s coming down tomorrow, yes,” Daisy said guardedly. “What is it?”
Baskin chewed on his lip for a moment, as if having second thoughts on the wisdom of what he meant to say. Then he made up his mind. “It’s George Enderby. You may have noticed that I’ve asked one or two questions about him.”
“I certainly have.”
“Well, I’ve noticed that Mrs. Anstruther is reluctant to talk about him. Of course, it’s only natural that she doesn’t care to gossip about a neighbour.” He paused.
Not at all natural, Daisy considered. In her experience, neighbours in general loved gossiping about their neighbours. Cecily Anstruther had a far more potent reason for avoiding the subject.
“Yes?”
“So I thought I’d better catch you alone. Being a visitor, you won’t know as much as she does, but I hoped you might have heard something.”
“About what, exactly?”
“Oh, well, you see, in the pub in the evening, they’re both serving and they kid each other a lot and laugh and seem to get on like a house on fire and—well, I want to know if it’s real or just show for the customers.”
Daisy was puzzled. If, as she had assumed, Baskin was a betrayed husband after his wife’s seducer’s blood, why should he care about the relationship between the Enderbys?
Perhaps he was afraid of upsetting Mrs. Enderby if he bloodied Enderby’s nose, in which case, Daisy could relieve him of that apprehension.
Nor would she suffer many qualms about doing so: George Enderby deserved a bloody nose.
Or was it possible that the hiking schoolmaster had fallen for the fair Nancy and wanted to know whether she might be available?
Though he was rather too old for blind calf-love, a man could make a fool of himself at any age.
In that case, to inform him of the state of things between husband and wife would be to encourage his pursuit.
Daisy didn’t consider herself a prude but, despite rationalizations about matching sauces for goose and gander, she couldn’t consider it proper to promote any such scheme of Baskin’s.
“Why do you want to know?” she asked.
He flushed. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. It’s not my secret.”
Unfaithful wife, Daisy decided. How much could she decently reveal to him?
“The Enderbys may not be my neighbours,” she said cautiously, “but I don’t care to pass on gossip about them, all the same.
I will just tell you this, because I heard it myself and several other people in the street were close enough to hear: The other afternoon they were quarrelling in the bar after it closed. ”
And if that earned George Enderby a pasting, thought Daisy, so be it. With luck, he’d be in no shape for Cecily Anstruther’s husband to wreak vengeance upon him, which would lessen the likelihood of disruptions to Alec’s first proper holiday since their honeymoon.
But Baskin did not look as if he contemplated mayhem. In fact, he looked relieved.