Died in the Wool (29 page)

At that moment, above the men's quarters, there was a rattle of chains. The Mount Moon dogs, plunging by their kennels, broke into clamorous barking. A man's voice cursed them: ‘Lie down, Jock! By God, I'll warm your hide!' The chains rattled and a faint metallic echo, the wire fence down the track twanged again. A light came bobbing round the annexe.

‘Hell and damnation!' said Alleyn violently. ‘Am I never to get a clear run!'

T
OMMY JOHNS AND
his son Cliff followed Markins through the sacking door and stood blinking in the lamplight. Tommy nodded morosely at Alleyn. ‘What's the trouble?' he said.

‘There it is.'

He moved forward. Cliff said loudly: ‘It's Fabian.'

‘Yes,' said Alleyn.

‘What's happened to him?' He turned on Markins. ‘Why didn't you say it was Fabian? What's wrong with you?'

‘Orders,' said Markins, and Tommy Johns looked sharply at Alleyn.

‘Whose orders?' Cliff demanded. ‘Has he had another of his queer turns?' His voice rose shrilly. ‘Is he dead?'

‘No,' said Alleyn. Cliff strode forward and knelt by Fabian.

‘You keep clear of this,' said his father.

‘I want to know what's happened to him. I want to know if he's been hurt.'

‘He's been hit over the head,' said Alleyn, ‘with the branding iron.'

Cliff cried out incoherently and his father put his hand on his shoulder.

‘I don't want to say so when he's conscious again,' Alleyn went on. ‘Remember that please, it's important. He's had a nasty shock and for the moment he's to be left to his own interpretation on it. Tell nobody.'

‘The branding iron,' said Tommy Johns. ‘Is that so?' He looked across to the corner where the iron was usually kept. Cliff said quickly, ‘it wasn't there. It was left over by the press.'

‘Where is it now?' Johns demanded.

‘Safely stowed,' said Alleyn.

‘Who done it?' In reply to this classic, Alleyn merely shook his head.

‘I checked up on the men, sir,' said Markins. ‘They're all in their bunks. Ben Wilson was awake and says nobody's gone or come in for over an hour. Albie's dead to the world. Soaked.'

‘Right. Have you got a stretcher?'

‘Yes, sir,' said Markins. ‘It's the one Mrs R had for her first-aid classes.'

‘Have you been down to the house?' Alleyn asked sharply.

‘No. It was stowed away up above. Come on, Tommy.'

They had dumped a pile of grey blankets inside the door. Markins brought in the stretcher. The three men covered it, moved Fabian on to it, and laid the remaining blankets over him. Cliff, working the palms of his hands together, looked on unhappily.

‘What about this damned icy track,' Alleyn muttered. ‘You've got nails in your boots, Johns. So's the boy. Markins and I are smooth-soled.'

‘It's not so bad on the track, sir,' said Markins.

‘Did you come up the kitchen path?' Tommy Johns demanded.

‘Ready?' asked Alleyn before Markins could reply.

They took their places at the corners of the stretcher. Fabian opened his eyes and looked at Cliff.

‘Hallo,' he said clearly. ‘The Infant Phenomenon.'

‘That's me,' said Cliff unevenly. ‘You'll be all right, Mr Losse.'

‘Oh Lord,' Fabian whispered, ‘have I been at it again?'

‘You've taken a bit of a toss,' said Alleyn. ‘We'll get you into bed in a minute.'

‘My head.'

‘I know. Nasty crack you got. Ready?'

‘I can walk,' Fabian protested. ‘What's all this nonsense? I've always walked before.'

‘You're riding this time, damn your eyes,' said Alleyn cheerfully. ‘Up we go, chaps. Keep on the grass if you can.'

‘Easier going on the track,' Tommy Johns protested.

‘Nevertheless, we'll try the grass. On the left. Keep to the left.'

And as they crept along, flashing their torches, he thought, ‘If only I could have been sure he'd be all right for a bit in the wool-shed. A nice set of prints there'll be with this frost and here we go, all over Tom Tiddler's ground tramping out gold and silver.'

It was less slippery on the verge than it had been on the steep hillside, and when they reached the main track the going was still easier. The french windows into the drawing-room were unlocked and they took Fabian in that way, letting the stretcher down on the floor while Markins lit the lamps. Fabian was so quiet that Alleyn waited anxiously to see him, wondering if he had fainted. But when the lamplight shone on his face his eyes were open and he was frowning.

‘All right?' Alleyn asked gently. Fabian turned his head aside and muttered, ‘Oh, yes. Yes.'

‘I'll go upstairs and tell Grace what you've been up to. Markins, you might get a kettle to boil. You others wait, will you?'

He ran upstairs to be confronted on the landing by Ursula in her dressing-gown, holding a candle above her head and peering into the well.

‘What's happened?' she said.

‘A bit of an accident. Your young man's given himself a crack on the head, but he's doing nicely.'

‘Fabian?' Her eyes widened. ‘Where is he?'

‘Now, don't go haring off, there's a good child. He's in the drawing-room and we're putting him to bed. Before you go down to him, put a couple of hot-water bottles in his bed and repeat to yourself some appropriate tune from your first-aid manual. He'll do, I fancy.'

They were standing outside Terence Lynne's door and now it opened. She too came out with a candle. She looked very sleek and pale in her ruby silk dressing-gown.

‘Fabian's hurt,' said Ursula, and darted back into her own room.

Miss Lynne had left her door open. Alleyn could see where a second candle burnt on her bedside-table above an open book, a fat notebook it seemed to be, its pages covered in a fine script. She followed the direction of his gaze, and with a swift movement shut her door. Ursula returned with a hot-water bag and hurried down the passage to Fabian's room.

Miss Lynne examined Alleyn by the light of her own candle. ‘You've been fighting,' she said.

He touched his jaw. ‘I ran into something in the shed.'

‘It's bleeding.'

‘So it is. Can you give me a bit of cotton-wool or something?' She hesitated. ‘Wait here a moment,' she said and slipped through the door, shutting it behind her.

Alleyn tapped and entered. She was beside her dressing-table, but in a flash had moved to the bed and shut the book. ‘I asked you to wait,' she said.

‘I'm extremely sorry. Would you lend your hot bottle? Take it along to his room, would you? Ah, there's the cotton-wool. Thanks so much.'

He took it from her and turned to her glass. As he dabbed the wool on his jaw he watched her reflection. Her back was towards him. She stooped over the bed. When she moved aside, the bedclothes had been pulled up and the book was no longer on the table.

‘Here's the bottle,' she said, holding it out.

‘Will you be an angel and take it yourself? I'm just fixing this blasted cut.'

‘Mr Alleyn,' she said loudly, and he turned to face her. ‘I'd rather you staunched your wounds in your own room,' said Miss Lynne.

‘Please forgive me, I was trying to save my collar. Of course.'

He went to the door. ‘Terry!' Ursula called quietly down the passage.

‘I'm off,' said Alleyn. He crossed the landing to his own room. ‘Terry!' Ursula called again. ‘Yes, coming,' said Miss Lynne, and carrying the candle and her hot-water bottle she moved swiftly down the passage, observed by Alleyn through the crack of his own door.

‘Every blasted move in the game goes wrong,' he thought and darted back to her room.

The book, a stoutly-bound squat affair, had been thrust well down between the sheets. It fell open in his hands and he read a single long sentence.

‘February 1st, 1942.

‘Since I am now assured of her affection towards me I must confess that the constant unrest of this house and (if I am to be honest in these pages, of Florence herself) under which I have for so long been complaisant, is now quite intolerable to me.'

Alleyn hesitated for a moment. A card folder slipped from between the pages. He opened it and saw the photograph of a man with veiled eyes, painfully compressed lips, and deep grooves running from his nostrils to beyond the corners of his mouth. The initials AR were written at the bottom in the same fine strokes that characterized the script in the book.

‘So that was Arthur Rubrick,' Alleyn thought, and returned the photograph and the diary to their hiding-place.

Before he left Miss Lynne's room, Alleyn took an extremely rapid look at her shoes. All except one pair were perfectly neat and clean. Her gardening brogues, brushed, but unpolished, were dry. He closed the door behind him as the voices of the two girls sounded in the passage. He found them at the head of the stairs in conference with Mrs Aceworthy, a formidable figure in mottled flannel, which she drew unhappily about her when she saw Alleyn. He persuaded her, with some difficulty, to return to her room.

‘I am going to Fabian,' said Ursula. ‘How are we going to carry him upstairs?'

‘I think he will be able to walk up,' Alleyn said. ‘Take him gently. I'll get Grace to help put him to bed. Is he awake, do you know?'

‘Not Douglas,' said Terence Lynne. ‘He sleeps like a log.'

Ursula said, ‘Has Fabian had another black-out, Mr Alleyn?'

‘I think so. Wait for me before you bring him.'

‘Damn!' said Ursula, ‘now, of course, he'll think he can't marry me. Come on, Terry.'

Terence went; not, Alleyn thought, over willingly.

He knocked on Douglas Grace's door and receiving no answer walked in and flashed his torch on a tousled head.

‘Grace!'

‘Wha-aa?' The clothes were flung back with a convulsive jerk and Douglas stared at him. ‘What d'you want to make me jump like that for?' he asked angrily, and then blinked. ‘Sorry, sir. I was back at an advanced gun-post. What's up now?'

‘Losse has had another black-out.'

Douglas gazed at Alleyn with his familiar air of affronted incredulity. ‘He will now,' Alleyn thought crossly, ‘repeat the last word I have uttered whenever I pause to draw breath.'

‘Black-out,' said Douglas faithfully. ‘Oh, hell! How? When? Where?'

‘Oh, near the annexe. Half an hour ago. He went up there to collect my cigarette case.'

‘I remember that,' cried Douglas triumphantly. ‘Is he still all out? Poor old Fab.'

‘He's conscious again but he's had a nasty crack on the head. Come and help me get him upstairs, will you?'

‘Get him upstairs?' Douglas repeated, looking very startled. He reached for his dressing-gown. ‘I say,' he said. ‘This is pretty tough luck, isn't it? I mean, what he said about Ursy and him?'

‘Yes.'

‘Half an hour ago,' said Douglas, thrusting his feet into his slippers. ‘That must have been just after we came up. I went out to the side lawn to have a look at the weather. He must have been up there then, good Lord.'

‘Did you hear anything?'

Douglas gaped at him with his mouth open. ‘I heard the river,' he said. ‘That means there's a southerly hanging round. Sure sign. You wouldn't know.'

‘No. Did you hear anything else?'

‘Hear anything? What sort of thing?'

‘Voices or footsteps.'

‘Voices? Was he talking? Footsteps?'

‘Let it pass,' said Alleyn. ‘Come on.'

They went down to the drawing-room.

Fabian was lying on the sofa with Ursula on a low stool beside him. Tommy Johns and Cliff stood awkwardly by the french windows looking at their boots. Markins, with precisely the correct shade of deferential concern, was setting out a tea-tray with drinks. Terence Lynne stood composedly before the fire, which had been mended and flickered its light richly in the folds of her crimson gown.

‘Here, I say,' said Douglas. ‘This is no good, Fab. Damn bad luck.'

‘Extremely tiresome,' Fabian murmured, looking at Ursula. He was still covered by grey blankets and Ursula had slid her hand beneath them. ‘Give the stretcher-bearers a drink, Douglas. They must need it.'

‘You mustn't,' said Ursula.

‘See section four. Alcohol after cerebral injuries, abstain from.'

Markins moved away with decorum. ‘You must have a drink, Markins,' said Fabian weakly. Douglas looked scandalized.

‘Thank you very much, sir,' said Markins primly.

‘You'll have whisky, won't you, Tommy? Cliff?'

‘I don't mind,' said Tommy Johns. ‘The boy won't take it, thank you.'

‘He looks as if he wants it,' said Fabian, and indeed Cliff was very white.