Fear by Night (32 page)

“I suppose you wouldn't shake hands, Mr. Anstruther?” Jimmy's tone was modest and deprecating.

Charles shook hands.

CHAPTER XXXVI

The Procurator Fiscal leaned back in his chair, set his finger-tips together, gazed from under his thick bushy eyebrows at Charles and Ann, and said,

“Imphm—”

This is a very ancient Scottish word. It means exactly what you want it to mean. It may express doubt, dissimulation, dubiety. It can agree, or disagree. It can convey any shade of surprise, pleasure, or annoyance. It can interrogate, deprecate, or assent. It is strange that other nations manage to get along without it.

Charles, not being a Scot, was not quite certain of his ground. The sound was strange to him. It did not encourage him to make any further remarks.

“Imphm—” said the Procurator Fiscal again.

Then, still leaning back, he inquired, “May I ask if you are a writer, Mr. Anstruther?”

Charles coloured under the scrutiny of a pair of very shrewd eyes, was furious with himself for colouring, and said,

“No.”

“Imphm—” said the Procurator Fiscal. There was a further pause before he resumed ordinary speech, which he did as if there had been no pause at all. “Because what you've been telling me would make a grand tale, I've no doubt.”

Ann put her chin in the air and looked at him indignantly.

“Imphm—” said the Procurator Fiscal. He sustained a flashing glance with calm. “Now, Mr. Anstruther—as I've been saying, that's a very interesting tale you've just been telling me, and you told it very well. Now mind you, I'm not saying I don't believe you, so there's no need for you to get angry. In my private capacity I can believe as much as any man and perhaps a bit more, for I've Highland blood in me. But as Procurator Fiscal “—he paused and waved a hand—“let me tell you this. If it is your purpose to engage in writing one of those works of fiction commonly known as thrillers, you may put into it as many warlocks, bogles and sea-serpents as you will, but I must freely tell you that I do not propose to extend the hospitality of my office files to any such creatures.”

Charles had got over his annoyance. The shrewd eyes had a twinkle in them.

“All right, sir,” he said. “But those two men are dead, you know.”

“Imphm,” said the Procurator Fiscal in full agreement. “And by all accounts they'll be no great loss. There's no difficulty about that that I can see. You have deponed that they were drowned. Let us leave out your sea-serpent, Mr. Anstruther, and we have a plain tale. They'll not be the first, nor the last, to be drowned in Loch Dhu. The place has an ill name—imphm. As to the man Halliday, he'll be gone before the police can get there. You'll be right about the drug-running, I've no doubt, and it's a pity he'll have had time to get away. I doubt there'd be no evidence. Now you'll just leave me your address and Miss Vernon's—”

Half an hour later Charles came into the lounge of the King's Arms hotel and sat down by Ann. She looked up at him dreamily. Sitting here by herself, she had come very near going to sleep. She had not really slept the night before. They had stayed at a little country inn where a kind landlady had fussed over her, and brought her hot milk to drink in bed, and told her that if she wanted anything in the night she had only to knock on the wall and she would be with her. She had been coward enough to keep her light burning, but the early dawn had found her still awake. It was easier somehow to go to sleep in clear, safe daylight.

Charles sat down on the couch beside her and patted her on the shoulder.

“Wake up and listen—I've got things to tell you.”

“Charles—what?”

“Well, to begin with, Elias Paulett died yesterday. I got on the telephone to his house, and they told me.”

Ann said, “Oh!” She looked at him with startled eyes. Presently an expression of distress came into them. She fingered his sleeve and said, “It's horrid not to be sorry when someone's dead—but I didn't ever see him.”

“No,” said Charles. What he had heard of Elias Paulett convinced him that she had not missed much, but it didn't seem quite the moment to say so. He put her hand against his cheek and said, “I wouldn't worry, darling.”

“I hope someone is sorry about him.… Perhaps Hilda is—”

Charles felt profoundly sceptical. He said nothing however.

Ann sighed.

“You didn't speak to Hilda?”

“No. I'll have to write to her. I suppose she was fond of that fellow Anderson, but she seemed awfully afraid of him. I expect she'll get over it.”

“Charles, we shall have to do something for her.”

Charles made a face.

“I suppose so. But for heaven's sake don't ask me to have her to stay—I draw the line at that.”

“Charles—be good!”

“I am being good. You do realize you're an heiress then? If I was all stuck up with pride like you were, it would be my turn to say I couldn't possibly marry you.”

Ann snuggled up to him.

“But you're not proud—you told me you weren't. Charles, you
will
be able to keep Bewley?”

“I expect so. Now listen! We're going to catch the next train south, because Scotch marriage law is too complicated for me, and I know we can get married in three days in London.”

Ann wasn't dreamy any more. She was pale, and her eyes were bright. She sat back in her corner.

“Charles, we can't!”

“Oh yes, we can. It's all in train. I've sent my solicitor a wire and told him to get busy. And I got on to my sister—the one that's married to the bishop—and she's meeting us, so Mrs. Grundy can't so much as lift an eyebrow.”

Ann gazed at Charles. Had he told his sister that she was Elias Paulett's heiress? Would she be meeting them if he hadn't? She opened her lips and closed them again. Some questions are better not asked.

“Well?” said Charles.

They were side by side on a big couch at the far end of the lounge. The lounge was empty. A stag at bay gazed at them from the left-hand wall. Another stag in the act of challenging a foe to mortal combat looked over their heads from the right-hand wall. Heads of other stags partially obscured the wall-paper, which was also of the Landseer period. The couch was covered with horse-hair and had three neat antimacassars laid along its back. Charles slid along the horse-hair, deranged the middle antimacassar, and put both arms round Ann.

“We'll be married in three days,” he said.

Ann's cheeks were as bright as her eyes.

“I didn't say I would.”

“But you will,” said Charles.

“Perhaps,” said Ann.

POSTSCRIPT

I do not apologize for my sea-serpent; I justify him—taking evidence on the one side from folk-lore, and on the other from fact.

In Mr. J. J. Bell's delightful book
The Glory of Scotland
he refers to the monster of Loch Morar, whose appearance is believed to presage disaster. So much for folk-lore.

In Lieut.-Commander R. T. Gould's enthralling work
The Case for the Sea-serpent
, to which I herewith make grateful acknowledgment, he prints as frontispiece a map upon which round black spots mark the various appearances of some unusual sea-monster. Three of these spots lie touching one another upon the west coast of Scotland, and a fourth sits on the top of John o' Groats like a cap. These appearances are well authenticated, and occurred in the years 1808, 1872, 1893, and 1920 respectively. So much for fact.

I am informed—most passionately and even threateningly informed—that it is impossible that a sea-serpent should have luminous eyes. To this I reply that Charles Anstruther
says
he saw luminous eyes staring up at him out of the dark.

P
ATRICIA
W
ENTWORTH

P.P.S.—This book was written in the autumn of 1932, before I had heard so much as a whisper about the Loch Ness Monster.

About the Author

Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1934 by Patricia Wentworth

Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3350-3

This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

www.openroadmedia.com

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