Footsteps in the Dark (14 page)

That view was not shared either by Charles, or by any of his relatives. When he exhibited the painting at the Priory an astonished silence greeted it.

"Yes," he said blandly, "I thought you'd be hard put to it to find words to express your emotions."

Peter breathed audibly through his nose. "You were right," he said.

"Nice piece of work, isn't it? I particularly like the woman's splay feet. Where shall we hang it?"

"I suggest the coal-cellar," said Peter.

Mrs. Bosanquet was regarding the picture through her lorgnette. "What an exceedingly ill-favoured young person!" she remarked. "Really, almost disgusting. And what is she waving in her hand, pray?"

"Since I am informed that the title of this masterpiece is "Reapers" I should hazard a guess that it must be a sickle," Charles replied.

Celia found her tongue. "Charles, how could you?" she demanded. "Have you gone mad, or something?"

"Not at all. I'm supporting modern art."

"You don't know anything about art, ancient or modern. I can't get over you going out and wasting your money on an awful thing like this! You don't suppose that I could live with it on my walls, do you?"

"Shove it up on the stairs," suggested Peter. "Then the next time the Monk goes glissant up and down, though we do not see, it'll give him something to think about. After all we owe him one for that skull."

"My dear," said Mrs. Bosanquet gravely, "you should not make a jest of these things. When Margaret returns from London with my planchette board I shall hope to convince you as I myself have been convinced."

"Aunt, you promised you wouldn't talk about the Monk!" Celia said uneasily. "Just when I was beginning to forget about it too!"

"It was not I who started it, dear child," Mrs. Bosanquet pointed out. "But by all means let us talk of something else. I do trust, Peter, that you are not serious in wishing to hang that very unpleasant picture on the stairs."

"Well, we shall have to hang it somewhere," Peter said. "Old Ackerley will want to see it. When he asked me where you were, Chas, and I told him you'd gone to buy one of Duval's pictures, I thought he'd throw a fit."

"You can jolly well tell him then that you didn't buy a picture after all," Celia said. "I won't have you making yourself a laughing-stock. It'll be all over Framley that you've been had."

Charles listened to this with a suspicious air of interest. "Do I understand you all to mean that you feel these walls are unworthy to bear the masterpiece?" he inquired.

"You can put it like that, if you choose," Celia said.

"Very well," he replied, and began carefully to roll it up again. "I've always wanted to see my name in the papers as one who has presented a work of art to the nation. I wonder where they'll hang it? It would go rather well amongst the Turners."

"And the worst of it is," Celia said later to her brother, "he's quite capable of sending it to the National Gallery, if only to tease me."

Peter was more interested in the result of Charles' visit than in the fate of the picture, but it was not until he was dressing for dinner that he had an opportunity of speaking to him alone. Charles came in while he was wrestling with a refractory stud, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Good. I hoped you'd come in," Peter said. "God damn this blasted laundry! They starch the thing so that… Ah, that's got it! Well, did you discover anything, or is he merely potty?"

"A bit of both," Charles said. He selected a cigarette fromm his case, and lit it. "From a welter of drivel just one or two facts emerge. The most important of these is that unless Duval is completely out of his mind, which I doubt, the Monk is a very real personage. Further, it would appear that he has some hold over Duval, who, with or without reason, fears him like the devil. It seems fairly obvious that the Monk - and very likely Duval too - is engaged in some nefarious pursuit, and I rather gathered from what our friend said that he - I'm talking now of Duval - is only waiting for the chance to blackmail him."

"What about?" Peter asked, busy with his tie.

"God knows. I couldn't arrive at it. It sounds absurd, but everything seemed to hinge on the Monk's face."

"Talk sense," said Peter shortly.

"Quite impossible," Charles replied, flicking the ash off his cigarette. "I'm giving you the gist of Duval's conversation. Put plainly, the Monk is strictly incognito. According to Duval the only man who ever saw his face immediately died. Manner not specified, but all very sinister."

"Doesn't say much for the Monk's face," Peter commented. His eyes met Charles' in the mirror, and he saw that Charles was frowning slightly. He turned. "Look here, how much faith do you place in this rigmarole?"

Charles shrugged. "Can't say. After all we had ourselves decided that the Monk was no ghost."

Peter picked up his waistcoat and put it on. "Neither you nor I have so far set eyes on this precious Monk," he reminded Charles. "We know there's a legend about a monk haunting this place; we've had a skull drop at our feet, and we suspect - suspect, mind you —- human agency. Not necessarily the Monk. The only person to see it is Aunt Lilian. I admit she's not the sort of person likely to imagine things, but you've got to bear in mind that it was late at night, and she, in common with the rest of us, had probably got the Monk slightly on the brain. She got the wind up - admits that herself. Started to "feel" things. Works herself into a state in which she's ripe for seeing anything. She has a candle only, and by its light she sees, or thinks she sees, a cowled figure."

"Which according to her account, moved towards her," Charles interpolated.

"True, and as I say, she's not nervous or given to imaginative flights. I don't say she didn't see all that. But I do say that some trick of the shadows cast by a feeble light held in her probably not very steady hand, coupled with her own quite natural fears, may have deceived her. The only other thing we've got to go on is the ravings of this artist-bloke, in whom you can't place much reliance."

"Not quite," Charles said. "We know that there is something queer about this house. I don't want to lay undue stress on all that has happened, but on the other hand I don't want to run to the other extreme of poohpoohing undoubtedly odd proceedings. There was the episode of the groaning stone; there was the exceedingly fishy conversation we overheard between Strange and Fripp. Without that proof that someone is taking an extraordinary interest in the Priory I might easily discount everything Duval said. But we know that someone broke into the place by a secret entrance; we know that Strange had something to do with it. What he's after I don't pretend to say, but it's fairly obvious that he is after something. Given those facts I don't feel justified in brushing Duval aside as irrelevant. In fact, I'll go so far as to say that I have a strong conviction that he is perhaps the most relevant thing we've struck yet."

Peter tucked a clean handkerchief into the breastpocket of his dinner jacket. "But the whole thing seems so utterly fantastic," he complained. "I daresay Duval is in someone's power: I always said he looked a wrong 'un. But what the hell has it got to do with the Priory?"

"That;' said Charles, "is what we've got to find out."

"Thanks very much. And just where do we start? The most likely explanation advanced so far is hidden treasure. Well, if you want to spend the rest of our stay prising up solid stone slabs in the cellar, you've more energy than I've ever yet seen you display."

Charles threw the end of his cigarette out of the open window. "If it's buried treasure the field isn't as narrow as that. Fripp, to my mind, wanted a chance to explore the rest of the house:'

"Well, that settles it. You can't take up the floorboards in every room, and go twisting every bit of moulding in the panelling in the hope of discovering another priest's hole. If we'd a history of the place no doubt we should find out all about it. But we haven't."

"No," said Charles. "We haven't. And, do you know, I find that rather surprising."

Peter stared. "Do you mean someone may have pinched it?"

"Hasn't that occurred to you? This place obviously has a history - must have had. You'd expect to find some record in the library."

"Well, yes, you might, but on the other hand the house. has changed hands a lot since the place was a monastery. It may have got lost, or bought by a collector or something like that."

"Quite so. But there's something more to it than that. When the point was first raised it struck me as being curious. I thought it worth while to drop a line to Tim Baker, and ask him to see whether a history of this place existed in the British Museum library. To-night I had his answer." He drew a letter from his pocket, and opened it. "There is a history, and a copy of it is in the Museum.

And two pages have been torn out. What do you make of that?"

"Good Lord!" Peter said blankly. "I say, things do begin to look a bit sinister, don't they? What do you propose we do about it? Call in Scotland Yard?"

"I've been playing with that idea for some days, but I'm not in love with it. I don't quite see myself spinning this yarn to some disillusioned official. If we'd any real data to give the Yard, well and good. But I ask you, what does our tale sound like, in cold blood? A hotch-potch without one solid fact to go on. We hear noises, we discover a skeleton, we listen to what a drunken Frenchman has to say, and see various people wandering about the grounds. The only fact we've got is that someone broke into the cellars, and that's a matter for the local police to deal with. It's not good enough."

Peter nodded. "That's what I feel myself, I must say. At the same time we're not getting anywhere - principally because we don't know where to start. If this inquiry agent of yours throws any discreditable light on Fripp's past, what do you say to running over to Manfield, and having a chat with the District Inspector?"

A gong chimed in the hall below them. Charles got up. "We can do that, of course. Personally, I'm rather pinning my faith to Duval. I rather think he'll let something out sooner or later which may give us a line on it."

They went slowly down to the library, where Celia and Mrs. Bosanquet were awaiting them.

"Margaret not back yet?" Charles said.

Celia prepared to go in to dinner. "No, but I was hardly expecting her. She said if Peggy Mason was free she might have an early dinner with her in town, and get back here about nine-thirty, before it's quite dark."

"I hope," said Mrs. Bosanquet, "that she will not have forgotten to call at my flat for the planchette."

Chapter Nine

Margaret spent a successful day in London. The dentist did not keep her waiting more than a quarter of an hour, and his excavations were not too painful. In the afternoon she visited the flat Peter and she owned in Knightsbridge, and unearthed his service revolver from a trunk in the box-room. Next she drove to Celia's house in Kensington, and after prolonged search located Charles' revolver. There remained only Mrs. Bosanquet's planchette, and this the maid she had left in charge of her flat was easily able to find. By the time all these commissions had been executed Margaret was feeling ready for tea, and after that she had some shopping of her own to do. This occupied her till six o'clock, and then, somewhat weary, but with the consciousness of having left nothing undone, she drove to her club, and sat down to await the arrival of her friend, Peggy Mason.

She did not expect Mrs. Mason before seven o'clock, so that she had almost an hour to while away. Under the disapproving glare of one of the more elderly members of the club she ordered a cocktail, and curled herself up in a large arm-chair with an illustrated journal, a cigarette, and her Bronx.

The journal was, as usual, full of pictures of sunburnt people snapped on the Lido, but the odd thing about it was that though the legend under the snapshots might read: "Lord So-and-so and Miss Something-else in a happy mood," Lord So-and-so's face became unaccountably the face of Michael Strange. Information concerning the doings of all these leisured people changed to such irrelevant scraps as: "But what was he doing in the garden at that hour?" and: "Could he really have been in our cellars that day we tried to locate the groan and saw him by the drawing-room windows?"

Margaret told herself severely that she was thinking a great deal too much about Michael Strange, and applied herself to the Tatler with a firm resolve to think about him no more.

But excellent though the resolve might be it was impossible to keep to it. Margaret gave up all pretence of doing so after five minutes, and permitted her refractory mind to do as it pleased.

Except for a brief infatuation for her drawing-master which attacked her at the age of sixteen she had never been in love. Her mother had died when she was still at school, her father three years later, and since that time she and Peter had kept house together. They were a very devoted couple, and so far Margaret had not felt in the least tempted to leave him for any one of the several suitors who had wished her to marry them. In the nicest possible way she had refused all offers, and it said much for her that these rejections never interfered with her friendship with the young man in question, nor, which was more important, with his friendship with her brother. One or two continued to cherish hopes, but when the most importunate of her suitors consoled himself eventually elsewhere, Margaret, no dog-in-the manger, was unaffectedly glad and promptly made a friend of his bride, the very lady who was to dine with her this evening.

Until she met Michael Strange she was almost sure that she was not the sort of girl who fell in love. She wasn't at all cast down by this conviction; she didn't want to fall in love. People in love became sloppy, she thought, and they were a nuisance to all their friends, which was a pity. A girl had once told her raptly that she had known as soon as she had set eyes on the young man of her affections, that she would either marry him or no one. Margaret had considered this not only absurd, but sickly.

But during the past week she had somewhat modified her judgment. Not that she would ever be such a ninny as to fall flat in front of a man in that nauseating fashion, she told herself. Still, without going to such extremes she was bound to acknowledge that Mr. Michael Strange had done something very queer indeed to her.

As to falling in love, that was rot, of course. One didn't fall in love with complete strangers, and certainly not with strangers who behaved as oddly as he was behaving. But the fact remained that from that very first meeting, when he had changed one of the wheels of the car for her she had, in her own words, "taken to him," as she could not remember ever having "taken to' anyone before. There was something about his smile, which lost nothing by being rather rarely seen, that attracted her. He was good-looking too, but she didn't think that had much to do with it, for she knew men far better-looking, and she hadn't "taken to' them in the least. No, it wasn't anything she could explain, but she just liked him very much.

She was in the habit of being as honest with herself as she could, and at this point she paused. There was rather more to it than just liking him very much. She had a suspicion that the same romantically-minded girl who had rhapsodised over her own emotions, would have described the effect of Mr. Michael Strange on her friend as "thrilling." Margaret was not in the habit of being thrilled by young men, however personable, and she felt slightly affronted to think that such an idea had even crossed her mind. Then a really shocking thought reared up its head: she wouldn't mind if Mr. Michael Strange tried to kiss her. Quite disgusted with herself, she realised that so far from minding she would rather like it. For one who had the greatest objection to stray embraces, this was unheard of. Margaret put the thought hurriedly aside: in every other way she prided herself on her modernity, but when it came to letting men maul you about- no!

But leaving that out of the question, there was no denying that Michael Strange had made her feel that she would like to see more of him.

Then had come the surprise of finding him in the Priory garden. When she had seen who he was she had instantly acquitted him, in her mind, of having had anything to do with the groan they had heard. But Charles and Peter, both likely, she realised, to be more impartial than herself, had thought his presence suspicious. They had not been reassured either by his explanation or the manner in which he gave it. Thinking it over she was bound to admit that he had sounded mysterious. At Colonel Ackerley's dinner-party, moreover, she had tried to find out more about him, and he had evaded her questions. Then there was the occasion when she had discovered him apparently studying halfobliterated inscriptions on the tombs in the ruined chapel. She had taxed him openly that time with having been in the Priory garden one night. She had known, with an unaccountable feeling of disillusionment, that he was going to deny it, and unreasonably, just because somehow she could not bear that he should lie to her, she had said quickly that she had recognised him. It would have been useless for him to deny it after that, and he had not done so. But neither had he given her any explanation of his conduct.

Margaret was no fool, and her reason told her that had there been an innocent explanation he must have given it. Since he had not done so she was forced to face the probability of his being engaged upon some discreditable business. What it could be she had no idea, but she had the impression that her presence at the Priory discomposed him. He did not want her there; he had tried to persuade her to go away. Just as though he did not want her to find out what he was doing; as though her presence made him regret what he meant to do.

He had asked her to trust him, saying frankly that there was no reason why she should. And against her reason she had trusted him, even to the extent of never mentioning his presence by night in the garden to her brother or to Charles.

Was he a crook? one of those master-crooks of fiction, who had such address and charm that no one ever suspected them? Was it possible that he was some sort of a cat-burglar who had used the empty and reputedly haunted. Priory as a cache for his hauls? Had he hidden jewels or bank-notes in some secret hiding-place at the Priory, pending their disposal? Or was he the head of some large criminal organisation who had made a haunted house their headquarters? That might account for the attempts it seemed fairly certain he had made to frighten the new tenants away, but she could not help feeling that a less risky proceeding would have been to have changed his headquarters.

An idea flashed into her mind. She glanced at her wristwatch: ten minutes to seven. It was too late to catch Mr. Milbank at his office, but he would not mind if she rang him up at his home. She got up, hesitating. It might be better if she went round to see him after dinner; he lived in town, and she knew that both he and his wife would be delighted to see her, for both had known her almost from the cradle.

She picked up her gloves and her handbag and left the lounge. She found a telephone-box disengaged, and after painstakingly reading all the alarming information about pressing buttons A and B, dropped two pennies into the slot, and gave the number she wanted. She was soon connected, remembered to press the right button, and asked whether she might speak to Mr. Milbank.

"Speaking," Mr. Milbank's voice replied.

"Oh, is that you?" Margaret said. "This is Margaret Fortescue… Yes, I've been up for the day. I'm speaking from the club… I say, I'm awfully sorry to be a pest, and I know I ought to have thought of it earlier, but would it be a ghastly nuisance if I came round to see you after dinner just for a few moments? What? It's frightfully sweet of you both, but I can't. You see, I've got a friend dining with me here. Could I blow in about halfpast eight or nine?… Well, I shall try and make it as early as I can, because I don't want to be late getting home, but you know what it is when you have anyone to dinner… Righto, then, I'll come along as soon after dinner as I can. Thanks awfully! Au revoir!" She hung up the receiver, and went back to the lounge, where she found Peggy Mason awaiting her, and a diminutive page loudly chanting her name.

Margaret kissed her friend. "Hullo! I say, wait a minute till I stop that youth howling for me. Do you ever recognise your own name when you hear it shouted like that?" She darted off to intercept the page, who having failed to obtain response to his call, was on the point of passing on to the dining-room. When she came back Peggy greeted her with a great many questions, and items of news, and these proved so absorbing that Michael Strange was forgotten for a while.

It was nearly ten minutes to nine when Margaret remembered to look at the time. "Peggy, you brute, you've kept me talking twenty minutes longer than I meant to. Look here, I've got to go."

"That's right," said Mrs. Mason, "throw your guest out. Where were-you brought up?" She pulled on her gloves. "You are a mutt not to come and spend the night with me as I suggested. Sure you won't change your mind? You can ring the Priory up, can't you?"

"Not on the telephone. No, really I can't, Peggy. I've got to go and see our solicitor too: that's why I'm pushing you off."

"Solicitor be blowed," said Mrs. Mason inelegantly.

"Who ever goes to see solicitors at this hour? All right, my girl, I'm going. I shall tell Bill when he gets back from France that you had an assignation with some man you kept very dark." Her sharp eyes detected a rising blush in Margaret's cheeks. "Hul-lo!" she said, surprised. "Don't say I've hit the nail on the head? Is there someone?"

"No, of course not, you idiot. I'm going to see my solicitor and his wife at their house in Chelsea. Can I drop you?"