Hide the Baron (3 page)

She went out, closing the door quietly. In some ways it had been a puzzling twenty minutes, but he often behaved like that, jumping from one subject to another, and apparently obsessed by his age. She wished she knew what had weighed him down so heavily.

No one was in the hall.

It had lost the eeriness that its size and the medieval style had created when she had first come. The stone steps were carpeted, too, and she made no sound going up them. She made little as she went to her room, which was above Jimmy Garfield's, and it wasn't surprising that the maid who was turning down her bed and the housekeeper who was with her had heard nothing.

The maid was saying: “And if you ask me, someone put them there on purpose. Meant to cripple him, that's what I say.”

Joanna stopped, abruptly, and stifled an exclamation. Then she waited for what seemed an age, hanging on to the housekeeper's words, as if it mattered whether the older woman agreed or not.

 

 

“Don't talk so soft,” Mrs. Baddelow Said, “ALL you girls can think of these days is something daft. Make sure there's ice in that drinking water jug, and don't let me hear any more of your nonsense.” She turned, saw Joanna, and took that in her stride. “Did you ever hear the like. Miss Woburn? A poacher puts down a few traps, just as poachers have been doing to my knowledge for the last thirty years, and this flibbertigibbet talks about it being put there on purpose. Who'd want to hurt Mr. Merrow?”

The maid said waspishly: “Well, someone wants to hurt him all right. They nearly killed him
last
night.”

As the words came out, she began to falter, and lose colour. It was obvious to both Joanna and Mrs. Baddelow that she wished she hadn't spoken. She moistened her lips, and turned, flouncing, towards the bedside table and the vacuum jug fastened by a bracket to the wall.

Mrs. Baddelow stretched an arm across Joanna's bed.

“Oh, no, you don't, young lady! Tell us just what you mean by that.”

She was tall and thin and angular, and could beat a carpet or wring a blanket with the best. Now, she seized the girl's arm, and made her turn round. It was as if she saw this as a trial of strength which she dared not lose.

“Out with it, now.”

“Don't, you're hurting.”

“You'll know what getting hurt means, if I have to give a bad report to your pa,” said Mrs. Baddelow ominously; but she let the girl's arm go. “You soft thing, I'm here to help you, not to scare the life out of you. So's Miss Woburn. Now let's know what happened, Prissy, and don't have any half-truths.”

The maid, Priscilla, stood there and rubbed her wrist.

She still looked scared, and Mrs. Baddelow's matter-of-factness threw that into sharp relief. She was a fair-haired, attractive little creature, with curves which she flattened down when on duty, but exaggerated when she was out; when out, she also made up recklessly and adopted a walk which was doubtless meant to be like Marilyn Monroe's. She had fluffy fair hair, a nice skin and eyes as blue as Jimmy Garfield's.

Mrs. Baddelow rounded the bed.

“Now what is it, Priscilla?” She didn't take the girl's wrist again, but stood very close. “What's this talk about Mr. Merrow nearly being killed? Either it's the truth or a lie. If it's true we need to know more about it, and if it's a lie—well, we'll come to that later.”

“It isn't a lie!”

“How did you come to be in possession of such remarkable truths, then?” asked Mrs. Baddelow. One had to add plainness to her angularity, and a voice which had something of the harshness of a crow's; but obviously she meant to get at the truth.

Joanna was feeling less agitated, yet somehow she knew that whatever Priscilla had to say affected her much more than it should.

“Come
on,
”
Mrs. Baddelow urged.

“Oh, all right,” Priscilla said, “someone shot at him.”

She stood a little way from the housekeeper, eyes bright with defiance, nice lips unsteady. Yet she would hardly be scared, now, of something which she believed had happened the previous night. Would she?

Mrs. Baddelow's voice and manner told of both scepticism and scorn.

“And how do
you
know, pray?”

Priscilla didn't answer, just turned a flaming red.

Suddenly, Joanna seemed to know part of the answer, and it affected her in a painful, disturbing way. She wanted to send the two women away, without hearing anything more; she felt quite sure what the girl would say next, and didn't want to hear it.

She didn't want to hear it.

She would have to.

Mrs. Baddelow seemed to have made some kind of guess, too, and it affected her manner. She looked worried, glanced at Joanna, gave the impression that she wished she hadn't forced the issue here; but she had, and she wasn't likely to evade an unpleasant matter.

“Tell me, Prissy,” she ordered.

“I—I was with him,” the maid said abruptly. Her colour had the brightness of a cock's comb in the sun. Her eyes looked like porcelain on which a bright light was shining. “I—I was out for a walk, we met in the woods and—and were just resting, and—and someone shot at him.” She gulped, and began to wring her hands. “He was ever so upset, started to run after the someone, but he lost him.” She stopped again, but was unable to stay silent. “I know it was a bullet! It was buried in the tree just above our heads; why, some of the bark fell down right on my face, I—”

She stopped, this time for good.

She had drawn the picture clearly; vividly. She had been lying on the grass beneath a tree with George Merrow, and probably no one would ever know the whole truth of that; how often or how they met. If her story was true, and almost certainly it was, someone had shot at them and the bullet had loosened bark which had fallen down on their faces. Merrow had jumped up and gone rushing after the sharpshooter, but had lost him.

Joanna felt strangely distressed, and heavy-hearted. It wasn't as if she didn't
know
what to expect from George Merrow.

Mrs. Baddelow's voice was unexpectedly mild.

“What happened after that, Prissy? It's all right, I won't tell your father, not if I don't have to.” Clearly she was worried; she had seen that picture as vividly as Joanna. “Just tell me the truth.”

“Well, nothing much
happened,
”
the maid said slowly. “He came back and said it was a pity but he thought we'd better—er—go back to the village. He escorted me to the end of the woods, then I went on alone, and he came back to the house. At least, that's what he said he was going to do. And that—that's
everything
.”
But Priscilla turned a bright red again, looking at Joanna as much as Mrs. Baddelow, and cried defiantly: “There's nothing wrong in having a cuddle, is there?”

“If there was anything wrong about it this time, I wouldn't blame you,” Mrs. Baddelow said, “and I'm sure Miss Woburn wouldn't, either.”

Joanna made herself say: “Of course not.”

“If your father knew this he'd take the strap to you, and if Mr. Garfield knew he'd dismiss you at once, and that would end up the same way,” said the housekeeper. “So you just keep this to yourself, and don't go gossiping. Understand, Prissy?”

“I—I wouldn't
dream
of telling anyone!”

“Mind you don't,” Mrs. Baddelow commanded. “All right, you go along and turn down my bed, never mind Mr. Merrow's room tonight.” She waited until the girl was outside, then called: “And shut the door behind you!”

Priscilla closed the door so quietly that they heard hardly a sound.

Mrs. Baddelow said: “Well, what do you think of that?” She sounded flat and worried as she dropped down on the side of Joanna's bed. Her grey hair, pulled, tightly back from her forehead, made her face look more angular than it was. “I was afraid there'd be trouble when that girl got the job, I can tell a roving eye when I see one. Mr. George was born a hundred years too late; squire's sons don't behave like that
these
days.” There was no conviction in her voice. “I was against bringing her, but when Mr. Garfield's made up his mind you can't do a thing about it. Mark Wilkins spoke for her, and I suppose you know that head gardeners are as temperamental as cooks.”

Joanna said: “I suppose so. Still, we don't want to make a tragedy of it, do we?”

“It's easy for you, it's not your responsibility,” Mrs. Baddelow said. “If that girl gets up to anything she shouldn't I'd be the one they'd blame, it's my job to keep them out of trouble. It's not as if I didn't guess what
he
was like, is it? Mind you, it's half Prissy's fault, the way she behaves when she's out is no one's business. I only wish—”

There was a tap at the door.

Glad of the interruption, Joanna called: “Come in.”

Gedde opened the door, stood on the threshold, and said quietly:

“It's Superintendent Aylmer, Miss Woburn. Mr. Garfield said that you would see him. May I tell him that you'll be down?”

As she moved across the small room, where she worked in a comfort which would have been envied by many a business executive, Joanna realised that she had never before come, knowingly, face-to-face with a detective. She had asked policemen for directions often enough, once been involved in a trivial accident; but the police as detectives were outside her sphere of experience. Perhaps because of the story she'd just heard, she felt almost nervous.

Did one shake hands?

This Superintendent Aylmer was big, dressed in Harris tweeds which made him bulky, and if he'd worn gaiters instead of baggy trousers, she would have pictured him in any market of any country town. A comfortable-looking elderly man, he had rather tired-looking eyes and a pleasant smile. He solved the first problem by holding out his hand.

“Good evening, Miss Woburn,” he said, “Mr. Garfield's told me a lot about you.”

“Oh, dear,” she said lamely; and after that there was only one thing to add; “Not too much to my discredit, I hope.”

“On the contrary,” Aylmer said, the smile broadening; somehow, it was easy to imagine the type of thing that Garfield would say. “Well, no need to keep you long, Miss Woburn, you'll be wanting your dinner. Very plucky thing you did, if you don't mind my saying so. Not a very nice job for—”

“It had to be done.”

“Him, yes, but you didn't have to do it,” said Aylmer. “Well, the thing I'm anxious to know is whether you saw anyone else near the spot about the time you were there, Miss Woburn. You'd seen Mr. Merrow before, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“And you went the long way round and he took the short cut.”

“Yes.”

“Why was that, Miss Woburn?”

It would be easy to say that it was none of his business, yet she sensed that would be the wrong thing. She felt herself going red, and remembered Priscilla's scarlet flush; that made it worse. The flushing didn't affect her voice or her manner.

“We'd had a disagreement, and preferred to go different ways. I didn't see anyone else nearby.”

“Sure, Miss Woburn?”

“I am positive.”

“Well, that's a pity,” said Aylmer, rubbing his chin; she heard the scratching sound as his finger ran over the stubble. “I hoped you might have seen the devil who put those traps there. It's a funny thing, but we happen to know they weren't there half an hour or so earlier, one of the gardeners chanced to have walked that way. You didn't hear anyone, I suppose?”

“No,” said Joanna.

“Well, can't be helped,” said Aylmer, “it might delay us a bit but it won't stop us from catching the beggar sooner or later. We know where the traps came from, that's a help.”

She was startled.

“But if you know whose they are, surely you know who put them there.”

“Different thing altogether,” Aylmer assured her. “Belonged to Jeff Liddicombe, at the ‘Grey Mare'. He's got an old stable turned into a saloon that's quite a museum in its way, and those old traps were on the wall to his knowledge at two o'clock today. Closing time. Jeff Liddicombe would no more put traps down than he'd use a whip to a horse, Miss Woburn, it's just one of those things that don't happen. Those traps were stolen and put down there for some purpose which isn't clear yet, but—”

“Surely to catch rabbits! Poachers—”

“Rabbits in traps that size?”Aylmer scoffed. “Can tell you're not a countrywoman. Meant for foxes, they were, and there haven't been many round here for thirty or fifty years. Mantraps, you might say. Has Mr. Merrow said anything to you to suggest he's worried about attacks on his life?”

That question came so swiftly upon the maid's story that it was like a blow in the face. Joanna didn't answer. She saw the interest quickening in Aylmer's eyes, but still didn't speak; and she realised that her silence would almost certainly be misconstrued.

“What
has
he said?”demanded the detective.

“Nothing,” Joanna answered, too quickly. “Nothing at all.” If she started to explain, it would seem such a rigmarole; and she wanted to keep out of any fending and probing, out of anything which would show George Merrow up as a Don Juan whose greatest triumphs were with little country maids. “I'm sorry, Superintendent. Even if there were anything on Mr. Merrow's mind, he wouldn't be likely to confide in me. We were not particularly close friends.”

Aylmer looked at her very straightly.

“Miss Woburn,” he said severely, “whatever your personal feelings or views, it is always wise to make a full statement to the police of any matter worrying you. Anything you say will be regarded as completely confidential.”

“I'm sorry,” she said flatly. “I can't help you.”

Aylmer didn't actually call her a liar, but looked as if he restrained himself with an effort.

“Very well.” He could be cold and aloof; he was. “If you change your mind, kindly let me know.” He turned his broad shoulder towards her, massive and almost menacing; then he turned back sharply: “Have you had any association with a man named Mannering? John Mannering?”

Joanna hesitated.

“Miss Woburn,” Aylmer said quite nastily, “it will greatly facilitate matters if you will answer my questions.”

That made her angry; less because of the question than the manner.

She was tired out; the encounter with Merrow hadn't been pleasant, and the task of freeing his and the dog's feet had exhausted her. She didn't know that she was suffering from a form of delayed shock. Her head was aching, she wanted to get away somewhere quiet; and she wanted this big, boorish man to stop asking questions.