Dead Man's Quarry (25 page)

“Yes, it was really quite funny the way all the people in the street rushed to pick her up. She wasn't a bit hurt; she was laughing so much she couldn't move.” Felix moved restlessly, got up and walked to the opening of the summer-house and stood looking out at the brilliant lawns. Nora became aware of him and broke off suddenly. The animation faded from her face.

“And nothing much happened after that,” went on John, “until you got to the Tram Inn and had hard-boiled eggs for tea.”

He slowly re-rolled the map and slipped an elastic band round it.

“I'm afraid it doesn't suggest anything much,” said Nora.

“I don't know. Why did Charles go off and buy those bulls' eyes without telling anybody?”

Nora looked mildly surprised.

“I suppose he wanted to give us a nice surprise. Isabel had been wishing she had some bulls' eyes or acid drops to suck, and I suppose when he saw there was a village near he thought he'd slip off and get some.”

“Wouldn't he have told Felix or your father where he was going?”

“Well—he didn't.”

“Perhaps because he was afraid somebody would offer to go with him.”

“Why should he have minded that?”

“Perhaps he had other business in the village, besides buying bulls' eyes. Some private business.”

Felix turned and stood facing them in the entrance, dark against the brilliant sunny grass and flowers.

“You didn't know Charles,” he observed dispassionately. “If you had known him, you wouldn't have seen anything remarkable about his going off down a side-road without telling anyone. I don't imagine for a minute he had any private business there. He just thought he'd go and get some sweets and so he went, without considering the rest of us at all. He was like that.”

There was a pause.

“How do you know?” asked John slowly. “You only knew him for three days. Did he do other things of the same sort?”

Felix kicked moodily against the table-leg and frowned. “I don't know. He seemed to be a pretty complete egoist. Don't you think so, Nora?”

“Perhaps.”

Felix resumed his seat on the bench at Nora's side.

“For instance,” he said slowly, “that first night, when we slept at Highbury Down. I don't know whether your father told you this, Nora—probably not, he took it beautifully at the time and pretended not to notice anything. You remember, you and Lion and Isabel found rooms at the cottage by the bridge, and your father and Charles and I went to the pub?”

“Yes.”

“It was a small pub and they only had one double room and one single one. Of course we took the rooms, because one's bound to get pushed in with another person sometimes, when there's a party of six looking for beds in a small village, and I took it for granted Charles wouldn't mind sharing with me. Well, he didn't say anything, but he just took it for granted he was to have the single room. He just went there, saying good night in the friendliest way in the world, and left your father to push in with me. I thought perhaps he didn't realize there weren't three rooms, so I went after him and said hadn't we better give the single room to Dr. Browning? Not that the doctor minded where he slept, really, but naturally one must give the ancients first choice. But I couldn't get Charles to budge. He said he hated sleeping with other people, and Dr. Browning and I were used to one another, so we'd better do the sharing.” Felix broke off. “That was all,” he added. “He just wouldn't budge. I got rather annoyed, but he was perfectly good-humoured, didn't ruffle a feather.”

“That's interesting,” said John slowly. “And it was typical of him, was it?”

“Absolutely. A chap who'd behave like that wouldn't have much difficulty about going out of his way on the road without warning anyone, would he?”

“I suppose not. And of course if he was that kind of thick-skinned egoist, my theory that he had some special motive in not telling you where he was going is rather discounted. But all the same ”

Nora Browning interrupted gently:

“But, Felix—” She paused, wrinkling her broad forehead.

“M'm?”

“
Was
that typical of Charles, that bedroom episode? It rather surprises me. I shouldn't have expected him to behave like that.”

“Wouldn't you? Didn't you think Charles was the complete egoist?”

“Y—es.” Nora spoke hesitatingly, picking her words with care. Evidently, in her view, there were egoists and egoists. “He was. But—he always seemed to want to make a good impression. His manners—they were too flowery, rather than otherwise. As if he'd learnt his book on etiquette by heart, poor man! I could imagine him taking the best room for himself, without thinking. But I can't imagine him sticking to it, after he'd been told that it wasn't expected of him. See? All the things like that—opening doors for me and Isabel, fetching and carrying and so on—he made one feel quite uncomfortable, he was so punctilious. No! You surprise me, Felix. I think he was an egoist, surely. But he was very anxious not to be thought a boor.”

Felix pondered this in silence for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.

“I dare say you're right, Nora. You're more observant than I am. But still! There it is. He
did
behave on that occasion in just the way I've described.”

“Well, thank you both,” said John cheerfully. “You've both been very enlightening. And we must remember that if a person's behaviour is based on a book of etiquette and not on habit, he may conduct himself beautifully most of the time and then behave very badly in circumstances which the book hasn't provided for. I think I shall take an opportunity soon of satisfying myself that he had no motive except bulls' eyes when he turned off to Moseley, all the same. What is it, Rampson?”

“I said,” replied his friend, who seemed to have become suddenly afflicted with alarming facial convulsions, “that the shadows are lengthening.”

Nora and Felix turned and gazed at him in surprise.

“My poor, dear chap,” said John sympathetically. “Is it the heat?”

His friend made a fierce grimace evidently intended to convey some information, and frowned out on to the lawn.

“I know,” he replied, “that it is still early in the afternoon. But already, you will, notice, the shadows are lengthening out.”

John followed the direction of his glance.

“Oh! Dear me, yes, I see they are. Well, it's September, you know. We can't expect the long summer days to go on for ever.”

Nora and Felix turned their astonished looks on John, and saw what he saw—the shadows of a man's head and shoulders falling on the grass at the side of the summerhouse. It remained very still. John wondered how long it had been there. Somebody had been listening to their conversation—was still listening. They were all simultaneously afflicted with a complete inability to think of anything to say. The shadow moved.

“Hullo!” said John. “It's Mr. Clino! . . .Come inside! We saw your shadow. I'm glad it's you, and not one of the big five from Scotland Yard. Though I don't think we said anything very incriminating, did we, Nora?”

“I'm sorry if I alarmed you,” said the old man amiably. “I was watching a remarkably beautiful butterfly on the creeper.” He looked vaguely about the sparsely furnished summer-house. “I was just coming for—yes, my rug.”

He carefully gathered up the rug, felt about on it and looked in a worried fashion about the floor.

“My rug,” he repeated. “Yes. Even on these warm afternoons I feel the need of some kind of covering while taking the air. I shall go and sit in the rose-garden for a while, I think. Now I wonder where I can have left— Oh, no, don't trouble, please! I just came for my rug.”

He cast a worried glance around the summer-house and departed, the empty rug trailing dejectedly from his arm.

“Mr. Clino,” remarked Rampson, when the old man had crossed the lawn and disappeared behind the rose-pergola, “seems a little distrait.”

“I think he's lost something,” said Nora carelessly; and then, with a laugh:“Oh, John! Don't tell me the ‘Murder in the Purple Attic' belongs to him!”

“Hush!” said John solemnly. “It does. But it's one of the darker secrets of his life. That's why I didn't hand it over just now. He's sensitive on the subject of his literary taste, and doesn't want Blodwen and Felix to know how low he's sunk.”

Felix half smiled, rather impatiently.

“Heavens! I don't mind what he reads, the old silly. Nor does Blodwen, I'm sure. We've got something else to think about.”

“Of course you don't. But you'll oblige the old thing, won't you, by keeping his awful secret locked in your bosom? And now I must leave you. No, I'm not taking the car, Syd. Just walking into the house.”

As he passed around the summer-house John casually examined the creeper growing on it for signs of insect life. He found none. But butterflies are notoriously averse from staying long in one place.

He went into the small panelled parlour, and finding it empty rang the bell. Waters, the footman, appeared. “Will you ask Mrs. Maur to come here, please?”

“Certainly, sir.”

There was the slightest pause.

“Well?”

Turning quickly from his feigned interest in a Kang s'Hi vase, John surprised a queer expression on the footman's narrow face—a look, he could have sworn, of amusement.

“Certainly, sir,” repeated Waters, and withdrew.

“Well, I'm dashed,” murmured John to himself. No doubt Waters had discovered that the fair Ellie had been questioned. And no doubt, being a man of intelligence, he had seen where the questions trended. His look of amusement could only mean that the story he had told the girl had been true. Mrs. Maur had been out, as he had said, and he had left Rhyllan late; and now he was enjoying the thought of his approaching vindication through the severe lips of Mrs. Maur.

“You wished to see me, sir?”

The housekeeper par excellence, in her tight, black bodice and full cloth skirt, entered the room and stood looking at John with cold, placid eyes.

“Please. Shut the door. It's just this, Mrs. Maur: can you remember anything that happened last Monday evening? When Sir Charles was killed, you know?”

He framed his question thus vaguely to avoid startling or offending her; but she did not, it appeared, appreciate his thoughtfulness.

“I can remember everything that happened, sir, but there was nothing unusual, if that is what you require.”

“Were you at the Hall the whole evening?”

“Yes, sir. I did not go outside the house all that day.”

John paused. In the light of Waters's confident, slyly amused look, this answer was unexpected. He must have shown a slight surprise in his face, for the housekeeper went on immediately:

“Have I your permission, sir, to ring the bell?”

“Certainly,” said John, a little mystified.

Waters, the footman, appeared with suspicious promptitude.

“May I ask Waters, sir, to send two of the maids here?”

“If you like,” said John, who had not bargained for an interview with the entire staff.

“Kindly ask Jenny and Lilian to come here, Waters. You see, sir,” went on Mrs. Maur when Waters had departed, “I think it would save you trouble if I brought witnesses to prove as I was here last Monday evening. I can't expect you to take my bare word for it, of course, and I know that at a time like this everybody must be ready to answer questions, and prove their answers if they can, sir.” She smoothed the back of one soft, small hand with the palm of the other and looked at the floor.

“I hope you don't think that any suspicion attaches to you,” said John gently, with visions of Blodwen bereft of her ideal housekeeper through his clumsy handling.

“Not at all, sir,” replied Mrs. Maur with respectful dignity, and having smoothed her hands to her satisfaction, clasped them together and turned to the door as two young girls entered and dropped quick, awkward curtsies. Their combined ages would not have totalled forty, and with their flushed pink cheeks, round, frightened eyes and white caps and aprons they looked almost like twins.

“Shut the door, Lilian,” said Mrs. Maur sternly. “Now, tell Mr. Christmas what you were doing last Monday evening.”

The two children looked at one another, at Mrs. Maur and at John, and appeared to be struck dumb.

“Don't be frightened,” said John, smiling. “You haven't been doing anything wrong. Just see if you can remember.”

Lilian, the taller of the two, swallowed and finally brought out in a nervous squeak:

“Last Monday?”

She looked anxiously round the floor, as if hoping to find last Monday under one of the chairs, and murmured desperately again:“Last Monday?” and at the housekeeper's disapproving tongue-click looked ready to burst into tears.

“Yes,” said John encouragingly, “last Monday, when Sir Charles was killed, you know. What did you do after tea?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I remember now. We had tea at five o'clock, and then we washed up, Jenny and me. And then—then we went to Mrs. Maur's room”—she cast a shy glance at the dragon, who evidently inspired her with more awe than did John—”and helped with mending the linen.”

“Who was there?” asked the housekeeper.

“Why, there was me, and Jenny, and—and you, ma'am,” faltered the girl. “Don't you recollect? There was a lot of mending, and we was all at it from six o'clock till near seven.”

“
I
recollect, Lilian. Please to answer questions, not to ask them.”

The unfortunate Lilian went crimson and looked helplessly at her companion, who took up the tale.

“And then we was picking over bilberries to make jelly till near eight,” she said nervously. “We was in the kitchen, if you remember, ma'am, while you was looking over receipts and seeing to the jars. And then at eight we had our supper.”