Kathleen | Page 9

She said she could not do so, but I happened to
have a five-bob piece in my pocket and that persuaded her. I convinced
her that it was a harmless joke.
I didn't see that there was anything further to be done immediately. If
the telegram brought no word I should have to think up something else.
In the meantime, if I was to pose as an antiquarian investigator I had
better get up some dope on the history of Wolverhampton. I poked
about until I found a bookshop, where I bought a little pamphlet about
the town, and studied a map. Bancroft Road was out toward the
northern suburbs. A little talk with the bookseller brought me the
information that Mr. Kent was one of his best customers, a pleasant and
simple-minded gentleman of sixty whose only hobby was the history of
the region. He had written a book called "Memorials of Old
Staffordshire," but unfortunately I couldn't get a copy. The bookseller
said it was out of print.
Then I went to have a look at St. Philip's Church, a fine old Norman
pile with some lovely brasses and crusaders' tombs. Here I had a piece
of luck--fell in with the vicar. One of the jolly old port-wine and
knicker-bocker sort: an old Oxford man, as it happened. I pumped him
a little about the history of the church, and in his delight at finding an
American who cared for such matters he talked freely. "Why," he kept
on saying, with a kind of pathetic enthusiasm, "I thought all you
Americans were interested in was Standard Oil and tinned beef."
Finally he invited me over to the vicarage for tea. As I sat by his fire
and ate toasted muffins I couldn't help chuckling to think how different
this was from the other Scorpions' plan of attack. They were probably
all biting their nails up and down Bancroft Road trying to carry the fort
by direct assault. It's amazing how things turn out: just as I was
wondering how to give the conversation a twist in the right direction,
the vicar said:
"If you're really interested in the history of this region you should
certainly have a talk with old Mr. Kent. He's our leading antiquarian,
and knows more about the Stour Valley than any one else. He says
there was a skirmish fought here in 1645 that all the books have

overlooked. The Battle of Wolverhampton, he calls it. He wrote a little
pamphlet about it once."
I assured the good parson that my eagerness to know more about the
Battle of Wolverhampton was unbounded. I nearly spilled my tea in my
excitement.
"Is that Mr. Kent of 318, Bancroft Road?" I asked.
"Yes," answered the vicar. "How did you know?"
"They told me about him at the bookshop."
I explained that I was in Wolverhampton for a day or so only, and
finally the excellent man came across with the suggestion I was panting
for.
"Well," he said, "as it happens, I have one or two calls to make in that
direction this evening. If you care to have me do so, I'll speak to Mr.
Kent about you, and he can make an appointment. You said you were
stopping at the Blue Boar?"
I thanked him with such warmth that his eyes twinkled.
"My dear fellow," he said, "your enthusiasm does you great credit. I
wish you all success in your thesis."
I got back to the Boar feeling that I had done a very good afternoon's
work indeed.

VI
The Scorpions (continues Blair's diary) were all very merry at dinner
that night--particularly at my expense. I was the only one who had not
been out to Bancroft Road to look over the ground. Apparently they
had had a very cheery time.

"Well, Falstaff, what luck?" I asked Carter.
"Splendid!" he replied. "The local butcher has given me a job and I'm
going to call there for a meat order tomorrow morning."
"What!" shouted someone. "On Sunday? Not likely!"
I knew mighty well that Carter would not concoct anything as crude as
that, and wondered what deviltry he had devised.
"I noticed that two telegrams were delivered at the house this
afternoon," said Forbes, in a quiet, non-committal kind of way.
"Perhaps Joe is on his way here," said I. "If so, Good-Night!" As I
spoke, I wondered rather anxiously what the other telegram could be.
"Well, we saw her, anyway!" said Whitney, "and she's marvellous! She
wears a blue tam-o' shanter and has an ankle like a fairy tale. We saw
her walk down the street."
"That's nothing," I retorted, "I saw her hours ago. She was on the train
with us from Birmingham this morning."
This started a furious wrangle. They said I hadn't