The Ministry of Fear Read Free

he said, ‘good fellow.’
    The treasure-hunt was being hastily concluded, but this time there was nothing for Arthur Rowe. He stood with his cake and The Little Duke and watched. ‘We’ve left it very late, very late,’ the lady wailed beneath her floppy hat.
    But late as it was, somebody had thought it worth while to pay for entrance at the gate. A taxi had driven up, and a man made hastily for the gypsy tent rather as a mortal sinner in fear of immediate death might dive towards a confessional-box. Was this another who had great faith in wonderful Mrs Bellairs, or was it perhaps Mrs Bellairs’ husband come prosaically to fetch her home from her unholy rites?
    The speculation interested Arthur Rowe, and he scarcely took in the fact that the last of the treasure-hunters was making for the garden gate and he was alone under the great planes with the stall-keepers. When he realized it he felt the embarrassment of the last guest in a restaurant who notices suddenly the focused look of the waiters lining the wall.
    But before he could reach the gate the clergyman had intercepted him jocosely. ‘Not carrying that prize of yours away so soon?’
    â€˜It seems quite time to go.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t you feel inclined – it’s usually the custom at a fête like this – to put the cake up again – for the Good Cause?’
    Something in his manner – an elusive patronage as though he were a kindly prefect teaching to a new boy the sacred customs of the school – offended Rowe. ‘Well, you haven’t any visitors left surely?’
    â€˜I meant to auction – among the rest of us.’ He squeezed Rowe’s arm again gently. ‘Let me introduce myself. My name’s Sinclair. I’m supposed, you know, to have a touch – for touching.’ He gave a small giggle. ‘You see that lady over there – that’s Mrs Fraser – the Mrs Fraser. A little friendly auction like this gives her the opportunity of presenting a note to the cause – unobtrusively.’
    â€˜It sounds quite obtrusive to me.’
    â€˜They’re an awfully nice set of people. I’d like you to know them, Mr . . .’
    Rowe said obstinately, ‘It’s not the way to run a fête – to prevent people taking their prizes.’
    â€˜Well, you don’t exactly come to these affairs to make a profit, do you?’ There were possibilities of nastiness in Mr Sinclair that had not shown on the surface.
    â€˜I don’t want to make a profit. Here’s a pound note, but I fancy the cake.’
    Mr Sinclair made a gesture of despair towards the others openly and rudely.
    Rowe said, ‘Would you like The Little Duke back? Mrs Fraser might give a note for that just as unobtrusively.’
    â€˜There’s really no need to take that tone.’
    The afternoon had certainly been spoiled: brass bands lost their associations in the ugly little fracas. ‘Good afternoon,’ Rowe said.
    But he wasn’t to be allowed to go yet; a kind of deputation advanced to Mr Sinclair’s support – the treasure-hunt lady flapped along in the van. She said, smiling coyly, ‘I’m afraid I am the bearer of ill tidings.’
    â€˜You want the cake too,’ Rowe said.
    She smiled with a sort of elderly impetuosity. ‘I must have the cake. You see – there’s been a mistake. About the weight. It wasn’t – what you said.’ She consulted a slip of paper. ‘That rude woman was right. The real weight was three pounds seven ounces. And that gentleman,’ she pointed towards the stall, ‘won it.’
    It was the man who had arrived late in the taxi and made for Mrs Bellairs’ booth. He kept in the dusky background by the cake-stall and let the ladies fight for him. Had Mrs Bellairs given him a better tip?
    Rowe said, ‘That’s very odd. He got the exact weight?’
    There was a