“Yes, indeed. They are—were—very dear friends of ours.”
“Do you know of anyone who could possibly have had a grudge against the vicar?”
“No, indeed.”
“He never spoke of such a person?”
“No.”
“And they got on well together?”
“They were perfectly mated—happy in each other and in their children. They were badly off, of course, and Mr. Babbington suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. Those were their only troubles.”
“How did Oliver Manders get on with the vicar?”
“Well—” Lady Mary hesitated, “they didn’t hit it off very well. The Babbingtons were sorry for Oliver, and he used to go to the vicarage a good deal in the holidays to play with the Babbington boys—though I don’t think he got on very well with them. Oliver wasn’t exactly a popular boy. He boasted too much of the money he had and the tuck he took back to school, and all the fun he had in London. Boys are rather merciless about that sort of thing.”
“Yes, but later—since he’s been grown up?”
“I don’t think he and the vicarage people have seen much of each other. As a matter of fact Oliver was rather rude to Mr. Babbington one day here, in my house. It was about two years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Oliver made a rather ill-bred attack on Christianity. Mr. Babbington was very patient and courteous with him. That only seemed to make Oliver worse. He said, ‘All you religious people look down your noses because my father and mother weren’t married. I suppose you’d call me the child of sin. Well, I admire people who have the courage of their convictions and don’t care what a lot of hypocrites and parsons think.’ Mr. Babbington didn’t answer, but Oliver went on: ‘You won’t answer that. It’s ecclesiasticism and superstition that’s got the whole world into the mess it’s in. I’d like to sweep away the churches all over the world.’ Mr. Babbington smiled and said, ‘And the clergy, too?’ I think it was his smile that annoyed Oliver. He felt he was not being taken seriously. He said, ‘I hate everything the Church stands for. Smugness, security and hypocrisy. Get rid of the whole canting tribe, I say!’ And Mr. Babbington smiled—he had a very sweet smile—and he said, ‘My dear boy, if you were to sweep away all the churches ever built or planned, you would still have to reckon with God.’”
> “What did young Manders say to that?”
“He seemed taken aback, and then he recovered his temper and went back to his usual sneering tired manner.
“He said, ‘I’m afraid the things I’ve been saying are rather bad form, padre, and not very easily assimilated by your generation.’”
“You don’t like young Manders, do you, Lady Mary?”
“I’m sorry for him,” said Lady Mary defensively.
“But you wouldn’t like him to marry Egg.”
“Oh, no.”
“I wonder why, exactly?”
“Because—because, he isn’t kind…and because—”
“Yes?”
“Because there’s something in him, somewhere, that I don’t understand. Something cold—”
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at her thoughtfully for a minute or two, then he said:
“What did Sir Bartholomew Strange think of him? Did he ever mention him?”
“He said, I remember, that he found young Manders an interesting study. He said that he reminded him of a case he was treating at the moment in his nursing home. I said that I thought Oliver looked particularly strong and healthy, and he said, ‘Yes, his health’s all right, but he’s riding for a fall.’”
She paused and then said:
“I suppose Sir Bartholomew was a very clever nerve specialist.”
“I believe he was very highly thought of by his own colleagues.”