Agatha Kent was currently engaged in throwing open all the windows of Mr. Tillingham’s garden studio to air it out before the weekly meeting of the Belgian Relief Committee. As committee secretary, she made a point of coming early to supervise the arrangement of the sandwiches and tea urn. The other committee ladies claimed not to have the patience for such menial work as taking minutes and ordering sandwiches. They could not understand that such a position meant complete control over the committee, whether in the arrangement of the chairs or in their decisions and plans, all of which Agatha was at complete liberty to shade and direct in the small space between note taking and transcription into the public record.
“That tall-backed teak chair with the carving should be moved to opposite Mr. Tillingham’s,” she said, directing Mr. Tillingham’s man to place the knobby throne, a relic of some previous owner’s trip to the Far East and the favorite perch of Mrs. Fothergill, as far away as possible. “Perfect, thank you,” she added, dropping her shawl on a chair to the left of the chairman’s seat, and a spare pair of cream-colored gloves on the chair to its right, for Lady Emily. Taking an atomizer of lavender water from her bag, she began discreetly to spray the curtains. The room, used every afternoon by the Belgian refugees as a clubroom, was always filled with the acrid smoke of their thick black pipe tobacco.
As she looked out of the window, she could see several small groups of refugees still lingering in the garden. Young Celeste, who seemed to have swiftly taken upon herself the smooth running of the afternoons, was reading a story to some small children under a tree. Agatha admired the quiet grace with which the girl was always ready to read, to write correspondence for those who required a scribe, or to cross the lawn to refill carafes of lemon water and fetch stands of small cakes donated by the ladies of the town. When at rest, she seemed always to gravitate to the same low stool, set in close proximity to her garrulous father. The Professor ignored her presence to a degree that Agatha thought inexcusable, but the girl seemed perfectly content, quietly listening with lowered eyes and knitting hats and jerkins for Belgian children out of the kinked wool unpicked from old, donated woolens.
Under the studio window, Mr. Poot and Beatrice Nash were sitting at a table, finishing one of their interviews with an elderly refugee. Mr. Poot had been coming most afternoons, looking officious in his black suit and bowler hat, to bully the refugees for stories that would make headlines in the yellow press. Were it not for Beatrice having asked her help, Agatha thought, she might have put a stop to him already. As she watched, the elderly man banged his walking stick on the table and left with a well-rounded string of curses.
“I’m not sure I can translate the last bit accurately,” Agatha heard Beatrice say. She was trying to look demure. “Did you get the gist?”
“Goats again!” said Mr. Poot, lifting his hat momentarily to mop his forehead with a pocket handkerchief. “I’m trying to collect atrocities here and all they want to do is log the size of their goats for possible reparations.”
“Apparently his was a very large goat with a good stud reputation,” said Beatrice.
“It’s not funny,” said Mr. Poot.
“No, it’s not,” said Beatrice. “I know it is not an atrocity exactly, but these people have lost everything. To you and me it’s just a few goats, but to them it represents all their wealth, all their income.”
“Two nannies, one stud billy, four wooden chairs, three cooking pots, one cotton quilt, and a wooden crucifix,” said Mr. Poot. “Did I forget anything?”
“No German hordes, I’m afraid,” said Beatrice, reading back from the notes she had written. They began to pack away their papers, and Agatha turned away to inspect the sandwiches one last time.
As the Belgians departed, the committee began to arrive and Agatha moved to the open doorway to greet the procession of nodding hats coming up the path of Mr. Tillingham’s garden. A shadow at an upstairs window of the main house suggested that Mr. Tillingham was watching. He preferred to make an entrance after all were gathered. It seemed to Agatha that he delighted in making small talk and dispensing greetings when his interlocutors were encumbered by mouths full of cucumber sandwich.
“I do hope you’ve made sure the tea is a little weaker today,” said Bettina Fothergill, sweeping up the steps under one of her absurd hats and frowning as if the tea were Agatha’s fault. “Last week it was far too strong and hot for the weather and I felt quite faint on the way home.”
“Lovely to see you, Bettina,” said Agatha.
“Strong tea flushes the veins and opens the mind,” said Alice Finch, coming in behind with her friend Minnie Buttles clutching her arm. “Stronger tea and looser corsets, Mrs. Fothergill!”
“I have never heard such nonsense,” said Bettina Fothergill. She stared rudely up and down at Alice’s ensemble of narrow flannel skirt suit, striped waistcoat, and mannish straw boater before sweeping off to the tea table murmuring, “As if we needed looser women.”
“I’m so glad you are both here,” said Agatha, shaking hands with Miss Finch and Miss Buttles. “I hear you are making great strides with your subscriptions.” Going door-to-door to sign people up to a weekly subscription towards Belgian Relief was a critical task, but one that had sent the other committee ladies scurrying for excuses. Agatha had invited the two ladies onto the committee for the sole purpose of irritating Bettina Fothergill, who sputtered in their presence as if she would like to denounce them for something but could not be sure what, but in taking on the subscriptions they had proved themselves two of Agatha’s most useful members.
“People are very generous by the time we’re done with them,” said Alice Finch. “Though there are some who’d feign poverty to Saint Peter if they thought they could get away with it.”
“I’m afraid some people might not be able to afford their own generosity,” said Minnie Buttles, looking worried as she twirled a bodice ribbon on her voluminous sprigged muslin tea dress. “The Misses Porter are already hosting the nuns, yet they insisted on signing at sixpence a week.”
“I’ve had a long talk with Minnie’s father, so I’ve pretty much mapped out who has the income,” said Alice. She produced a folded paper from a leather folio and proceeded to open and smooth it out on a convenient side table. “A good vicar always knows who puts what in the collection plate.”
“You don’t mean you have an actual map?” asked Agatha.
“No competent general launches a campaign without scouting the battlefield,” said Alice. The map of the town contained arrows from most residences with tiny notations in the margin as to the occupants and their circumstances. “This afternoon we’re making a second foray up Rye Hill. Some of your neighbors are very astute about not being home, Mrs. Kent, but Minnie has made little pots of damson jam, which we shall employ as Trojan horses.”
“Goodness, better not let this map fall into German hands,” said Agatha. “In fact, I’d suggest not displaying it to the entire committee. Its brilliance lies in its secrecy, does it not?”
“I think you’re right,” said Alice, folding the document again and stuffing it away. “We shall remain modest about our contribution and silent on our methods. Shall we get a sandwich, Minnie?”
“Yes, please,” said Minnie. “I shall ask dear Mrs. Fothergill to recommend a selection from the many she is now enjoying.”
Lady Emily arrived with two dachshunds running about her ankles. She seemed hot and cross and drank a glass of cold water standing with her gloves on.
“I am exhausted to the point of collapse,” she said to Agatha. “I came to get away and rest for a few moments.”
“How are the plans for the hospital?” asked Agatha.
“We are ready to receive patients now, but some puffed-up little inspector from Headquarters had the effrontery to tell me that they had a surfeit of officers’ hospitals,” she said. “He asked me to consider housing regular troops or perhaps Indian and other colonial casualties.”
“I suppose we have an equal duty to all who serve King and Empire,” said Agatha.
“Yet I see no reason why I should be unduly imposed upon,” said Lady Emily. “As I told Major Frank, the director, some of the ancient and drafty estates on the list are much more suited to those used to deprivation. I can only assume approval is coming.” She had taken off her gloves and now began peeling ham sandwiches apart, feeding the ham to her dogs.