Dead Man's Quarry (33 page)

“And she chose to stay by herself in a cottage miles away from anywhere!” murmured Rampson sceptically. “Don't you believe her, John. She is fooling thee.”

“Ah, but that was just why. She wanted to be within call of her loving niece.”

“Within call! Is Sheepshanks Cottage on the telephone?”

“Shouldn't think so. But that's what she said. And of course there's no accounting for the caprices of a
malade imaginaire
. In fact, I should probably have believed her if she hadn't tried to poison my tea. Very inartistic touch, that. Puts one on one's guard at once. Well, I'm going to bed,” said John, much refreshed in spirits. “Good night, Felix. Good night, Mr. Clino.”

“Good night,” responded the elderly gentleman without warmth. “I think I shall take a turn on the terrace before going up. What about you, Felix?”

“I'm off to bed, Cousin Jim,” responded that young man uncompromisingly, and followed Rampson and Christmas up the broad, shallow stairs. He paused with them outside Rampson's room.

“I say, have you told Rampson about that bank-note? If what Hufton says is true, it's valuable evidence on our side, isn't it? Because no one could imagine that my father would have taken the notes. And they were found in a field at the other side of the quarry. My father came straight back to the Rodland Road.”

“Hufton's evidence is certainly valuable,” replied John guardedly. “And I don't see any reason to doubt the truth of it. Won't you come in for a moment or two and have a talk?”

Felix refused, somewhat to the relief of John, who wanted a private word with Rampson, and with friendly good nights went along the passage to his own room.

“What was all that about Hufton and evidence?” asked Rampson, closing the door of his room. “Didn't sound very convincing to me. If Morris could do the murder, I don't see who's going to imagine he'd stick at pinching a bank-note or two and planting them in a field.”

“No, of course not. But I wasn't going to discourage Felix's new-born optimism. Hufton's evidence wouldn't be in the least convincing to a jury. But I think it's convinced Felix. Hence his sudden cheerfulness.”

“Oh, well!” said Rampson, shrugging his shoulders. “I don't understand these Prices. They're altogether too temperamental for me. Old Clino seems to be the most rational one of the bunch, and he's an unspeakable old bore, goodness knows!”

Rampson spoke feelingly and sighed.

“We've been fatiguing one another to death all day,” he explained, “except for an hour in the afternoon when he providentially fell asleep in a deck-chair. I was sorely tempted to go off by myself for a ten-mile walk, but I remembered what you said about staying on the premises, so I stayed. But nothing happened, except a few more hours of boredom. Funny thing,” added Rampson pensively, “I believe he found my society quite as tedious as I found his.”

“Remarkable.”

“Ass! No, but seriously. After tea he just sat on the terrace with me and yawned at nearly everything I said. Yet when I got up for a stroll, up he got too and trailed along by my side, obviously racking his brains to think of something to say to me that he hadn't said before. He even asked me who were my favourite authors, and said he never read any novels but Scott and Thackeray. Oh, Lord! I've had a hell of a day! I feel a wreck!”

“Didn't you see anything of Blodwen?” asked John, lighting a cigarette.

“At lunch-time. I don't know where she was all the rest of the day. Lying down, perhaps. I must say she didn't look at all well at lunch. Quite white, and she'd put rouge on her cheeks, and looked ghastly. I suppose she didn't want to harrow our feelings by looking ill. But her conversation wasn't equal to her cosmetics. She hardly said a word all lunch-time, but just stared out of the window like a—like a sick little owl. After lunch, I ventured to be sympathetic and said that she must be feeling the strain of this business awfully; and she gave a kind of ghastly smile and said: ‘Strain? What strain? I don't know of any. If you mean this absurd business of my uncle's arrest, I can assure you it doesn't disturb me unduly. I am quite confident of the outcome. But then,
I
know my uncle.' And she turned her back on me and went away. Did you ever? ‘This absurd business!' And I used to think Blodwen was a sensible woman, though as hard as nails. Really, John, I'm awfully sorry for the Prices, especially as you seem to like them, but they're enough to drive an ordinary person crazy.”

John looked thoughtfully at the tip of his cigarette.

“Didn't you see Blodwen again all day?”

“Oh, yes, at dinner. Same white face, same ghastly rouge, same silence. I wonder,” said Rampson thoughtfully, “whether this business has unhinged her mind. Or do you think she believes at the bottom of her heart that Morris is guilty, and can't keep up the pretence of courage any longer?”

“Her emphatic remarks to you certainly sound like it,” murmured John. “But it's a very sudden loss of courage, if so. She seemed perfectly cheerful yesterday. So you've had a quite peaceful day?”

“Peaceful!” echoed Rampson scornfully. “Oh, yes, awfully peaceful, with old Clino chirping in my ear all day. Tell me, John, why were you so keen on leaving me to hold the fort here? Did you expect anything to happen?”

“No. But, you see, Rampson, we haven't found the murderer yet, and so long as we haven't found the murderer, anybody may be the murderer.”

Rampson thoughtfully drew back the chintz curtains and let up the blind on to the moonlit garden scene.

“I see. Even Blodwen.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Rampson with a sigh, leaning on the sill. “I hope she didn't. Not that I like her much, but I felt sorry for her to-day. When she made that idiotic speech about not feeling any strain there was real blank fear in her eyes, I could swear. I was sorry for her. Well. It's a lovely night. The moon's almost at the full.”

John stood by his side and looked out over the grey, mysterious lawn to the black shrubbery and trees beyond the roses that showed pale in the moon.

“Lord, what fools we mortals be!” he murmured softly. “Why can't we leave one another alone?”

“We can't do that,” said Rampson, “for obvious reasons. But we can, and should, leave one another alive. Well, good night, John. See you in the morning sometime. At present I feel it will take me a week to sleep off the tedium of the day.”

It was about an hour before John finally dropped into an uneasy, dream-haunted sleep. He woke abruptly, every nerve taut, to hear his name whispered urgently. “John! John!”

The room was in darkness, but the door stood ajar and somebody stood in the opening.

“John! John!”

“What?”

“Wake up! There's something going on.”

It was Rampson. Wide awake on the instant John sprang out of bed and had stretched out his hand for the switch when his friend, a dim shape in the darkness, caught his sleeve.

“No, don't show a light. It's in the garden.”

“What?”

“I don't know.” Rampson padded to the window and looked out. “I couldn't sleep after all, and I thought I heard somebody moving about the house and a door opening. It sounded like the front door. So I went to the window, and there was somebody in the garden. The moon's gone down. I saw an electric torch go on among the bushes.”

He spoke in whispers.

John, slipping on his tennis shoes and dressing-gown, felt a queer thrill of excitement go through him, mingled with apprehension and—yes, fear. In the darkness, listening to Rampson's fluttering whisper, he knew a strong foreboding of disaster.

“Are we going out to see who it is?”

“Of course.”

“Have you any idea who it is—out there?”

“No,” whispered John, getting to his feet and pocketing his own electric torch. “I'm a rotten failure as a detective. I've collected dozens of clues, but none to account for this. Come on.”

At the door Rampson paused.

“What about a weapon? Have you got one?”

“Lord, no! I suppose we ought to have something. Half a jiffy.”

He disappeared into the room on the opposite side of the passage and came out in a moment with something gleaming in his hand.

“The revolver out of Charles's room,” he whispered as they crept cautiously downstairs. “Luckily for us it was still there, and the cartridges with it.”

In the wide, ghostly hall he paused a moment to load the weapon. The front door stood ajar. Silently, keeping under cover of the house, they crept along the terrace and across the lawn in the shadow of the rose-pergola. The shrubbery was before them, pitch-black and faintly rustling, as if small, secretive creatures were moving stealthily among the stems. John stood still a moment, trying to pierce that darkness. And suddenly a faint gleam of light showed among the rhododendron bushes and went out again.

He took a few paces forward, his eyes fixed on the leaves where the light had shown through. He dared not use his own torch as yet. To his strained ears his own quiet footsteps sounded loud, alarming. A dry twig cracked and he stopped, listening for a repetition of the sound.

Suddenly Rampson at his side closed his fingers gently and firmly over John's forearm. John turned. Had Rampson touched him suddenly he would have been hard put to it not to utter an exclamation. But the hand closing gently over his arm seemed more urgent in its, message than any sudden clasp.

“Look!” murmured Rampson in his ear, and turning his head John saw a dark figure moving stealthily over the lawn by the herbaceous border towards the shrubbery.

“Another!” he breathed, and strained his eyes to identify the figure that crept along so quietly; hunch-shouldered, draped in some loose, dark garment, oblivious of John's and Rampson's eyes. John could dimly make out that the person, whoever it might be, was carrying a stick.

About six yards away from the two friends, in the shadow of a tree, the figure came to a sudden halt. Too late John realized that Rampson and himself were standing unprotected from such light as there was in the sky. Too late he realized that they had been seen.

“He's seen us,” he murmured to Rampson. “Don't make a sound. Stand still. Leave the first move to him.”

For what seemed an age they stood quiet, watching the figure which, dimly made out under the tree-shadow, stood equally quiet, as if watching them. John gripped his revolver tightly, and perhaps the slight gleam of the barrel caught the eye that was watching from the darkness. For without warning there came a sudden explosion that sounded deafening in the stillness of the night, and the stranger stepped away from the shadow of the tree, levelling his gun for another shot.

“Good God!” said John. “He's got a gun! What lunatic is this? Take cover, quickly! Behind the cedar!”

From behind the great cedar that stood near the edge of the shrubbery, John peered out across the lawn. The dark figure was plainer now, standing out in the open. Muffled in a long garment that fell almost to the ground, with the gun still pointing from the shoulder. John was somewhat relieved to observe that it was pointing several degrees to one side of him. The nocturnal rambler, whoever he might be, was obviously not a crack shot. He took aim with his own revolver at a spot a foot or so to one side of where the stranger stood.

“Fire, John!” said Rampson urgently. “Don't hit him, but fire, fire! Frighten him off and then we can go for him.”

John perceived the soundness of this advice. A revolver in a capable hand was a more effective weapon than a sporting gun in incompetent ones. He pulled the trigger, expecting to see their adversary take to his heels. Nothing happened. No report broke the stillness of the night. He quickly examined the hammer, and taking aim, pulled again, with the same result.

“Fire, John, fire!” whispered Rampson urgently.

“There's something wrong!”

“Is it loaded properly?”

“Yes. Did it myself. Oh, damn! It's no use, Syd. The spring's gone. This revolver's a dud. We must just chance a rush at him. He'll never hit us with that great awkward thing.”

“I'm game,” whispered Rampson. “Both at once. Now!”

The figure on the lawn, as they emerged simultaneously from behind the tree and rushed towards him, seemed to make a tremulous, ineffective effort to fire his gun, hesitated, dropped the weapon and fled. The flapping draperies flew around the corner of the herbaceous border, but as John broke through the tall flowers in the same direction, doubled and came back straight into Rampson's grasp. There was a squeal, a gasp and the sound of curses and blows.

“Good God!” said Rampson blankly, as John came up. “It's old Clino!”

Flashing on his torch John saw the old man struggling in Rampson's hands. A grotesque, queer figure in a long Inverness cape over pyjamas of purple silk, and a black Homburg hat crammed down on his thick grey hair. His eyes were wild with terror and a sort of exaltation, and he was resisting Rampson's hold to the utmost of his powers.

“Villains! Crooks!” he was gasping as he struggled. “Lay a finger on me if you dare! You daren't! You daren't!” he cried, oblivious, apparently, of the fact that Rampson had all ten fingers on him. “Crooks! Villains! How do I know you're not even murderers?”

“We're not yet, and we don't want to be,” said Rampson patiently. “Do stop struggling. I don't want to hurt you. It's no use, you know. We're two to one.”

But one was quite enough to hold the old man, towering with his wrists imprisoned over his stocky captor. A queer group in the light of the little torch. John was irresistibly reminded of a healthy terrier with his teeth firmly fixed in the throat of an effete greyhound.

“I'll leave him to you, Syd,” said John hastily. “I must go after that light we saw in the shrubbery. Let him go, but not out of your sight. Get him to explain what he's up to, if you can.”