“It’s a fact. Sometimes it’s the war what unhing
ed them—never been right since.”
“I—I expect you’re right.”
“I don’t hold with wars,” said the young man.
His companion turned on him.
“I don’t hold with plague and sleeping sickness and famine and cancer…but they happen all the same!”
“War’s preventable,” said the young man with assurance.
Mr. Cust laughed. He laughed for some time.
The young man was slightly alarmed.
“He’s a bit batty himself,” he thought.
Aloud he said:
“Sorry, sir, I expect you were in the war.”
“I was,” said Mr. Cust. “It—it—unsettled me. My head’s never been right since. It aches, you know. Aches terribly.”
“Oh! I’m sorry about that,” said the young man awkwardly.
“Sometimes I hardly know what I’m doing….”
“Really? Well, I must be getting along,” said the young man and removed himself hurriedly. He knew what people were once they began to talk about their health.
Mr. Cust remained with his paper.
He read and reread….
People passed to and fro in front of him.
Most of them were talking of the murder….
“Awful…do you think it was anything to do with the Chinese? Wasn’t the waitress in a Chinese café….”
“Actually on the golf links….”
“I heard it was on the beach….”
“—but, darling, we took our tea to Elbury only yesterday….”
“—police are sure to get him….”
“—say he may be arrested any minute now….”
“—quite likely he’s in Torquay…that other woman was who murdered the what do you call ’ems….”
Mr. Cust folded up the paper very neatly and laid it on the seat. Then he rose and walked sedately along towards the town.
Girls passed him, girls in white and pink and blue, in summery frocks and pyjamas and shorts. They laughed and giggled. Their eyes appraised the men they passed.
Not once did their eyes linger for a second on Mr. Cust….