House That Berry Built (17 page)

That evening we worked things out.

By employing Lavarini to hang the best tiles we could buy, the three best bathrooms would cost us some fifty-five pounds. Almost exactly one quarter of what Caratib had asked for inferior stuff – and, I have no doubt, for inferior workmanship. Good men do not work for masters like Caratib.

On the last Monday in October, I stood on the platform with Joseph and watched the men filing away.

“So Monsieur is going to England?”

I glanced at my wrist.

“At this time tomorrow, Joseph, I shall have been in London for nearly an hour.”

“But that is amazing, Monsieur. Monsieur is going to fly?”

“Between Paris and London. Joseph. I shall travel to Paris by train.”

Joseph drew out his watch.

“Very good. At this hour tomorrow I shall think of Monsieur in London – and Monsieur will think of me. I shall stand in this very spot, with my watch in my hand.”

“That’s a bargain, Joseph. And I shall be here again one week from today.”

Joseph inclined his head.

“I shall look for Monsieur’s return, and I hope very much that I shall have something to show.”

I threw a glance round the site.

The house was slowly rising; the five long terraces were finished; where the gully had lain, a slanting barrow of earth had begun to form. In the road below, I could see the head of the trench which was slowly nosing its way from Lally to Besse, in which were to lie the pipes conducting the water which was to serve our home.

“Will the pressure be strong enough to carry the water up to the top of the house?”

“I think so, Monsieur. The engineers say it will serve the ground floors at Besse, and they are about the same level as will be the roof of this house.”

“If not, it means a cistern below: and that means a pump.”

“An expensive nuisance, Monsieur. If we can avoid it, we must. I have a hose all ready for when the connections are made; and the moment the water is flowing, I shall be able to tell.”

“Where shall we bring the main water on to the property?”

“Ah, I knew there was something. I am glad Monsieur raises that point. For me, I suggest down there, where the garage will stand. From there the pipe can slant up to where this platform ends and the mountain begins. A small branch can serve the garage, for washing the cars, and two other branches can serve the terraces. So we economise pipe. The terraces on the west will have to be served from the house.”

“I think that’s sound. Ask Captain Mansel, though. His judgment is very good.” Here the horn of the Rolls was sounded. “And now I must be going. Miladi and Major Pleydell want to get home.”

“
Bon voyage
, Monsieur.”

“Thank you, Joseph. A week from today, then.”

As I took my seat in the car—

“If you ask me,” said Berry, “you’ve got this house on the brain.”

“So have you,” said Jill. “Who spent two hours this morning—”

“On a shrine,” said Berry. “Not a house. A temple. But I got it right in the end. A mirror over a basin is no damned good. So I’m going to have two mirrors – one upon either side. Then you can get at the swine. But a basin shoves you away. But I wish I could think of something to floor that soap-niche with.”

My suggestion that Bath brick would do was coldly received.

In Which Two is No Company,

and Jill has Cause for Alarm

There is no dame like London, and I was more than glad to see her again. I had three full days with her – and a list as long as my arm of things to be done. On Friday evening I crossed the last thing out. That was a present for Joseph – a quarto volume on building, rich in photography. The photographs showed the details of every kind of construction from footings to chimney-pots, and, though, of course, the text was in English, with such a volume before him, a man like Joseph would have no need of words. The pictures spoke for themselves – to one who had eyes to see. And Joseph had.

All the luggage had been dispatched directly to Pau: I had been to Whitehall and had suggested someone to take ‘Old Rowley’s’ place as one of White Ladies’ trustees: Jill’s wristwatch was in my pocket – a fairy trifle that I was afraid to touch, and a belt – so-called – for Daphne was hidden in one of my shirts.

And one other thing I had done – at great expense. Waterloo Bridge was gone: but I had purchased six of its balusters. These had been kept for me in a builder’s yard. I had hoped they would stand at White Ladies: but now White Ladies was gone. And so I arranged for them to travel by sea to Bordeaux: and from there by train to Nareth – that they might end their days in an English garden deep in the Pyrénées. Good and faithful servants for one hundred and twenty years, they were to be pensioned off – and given a terrace to keep; the clouds would wait upon them and wash them clean, they would sleek themselves in a sunshine that they had never known, and lizards would lie along their pedestals and mould themselves to their curves. ‘End their days.’ I should have said ‘See out Time.’ Age cannot wither the stuff of which Waterloo Bridge was built.

And then, on Saturday morning, the fog began to come down…

Had I been wise, I should have taken the train at eleven o’clock: but I loathe the train and the boat as much as I love the air, so I hoped for the best and made my way to Croydon – and met my fate.

At half-past twelve I spoke with the pilot himself.

“It’s anyone’s guess,” he said, “but, strictly between you and me, I would lay two to one that no plane will take off today.”

“What about tomorrow?” I said.

“Perhaps. I’m not at all sure. If I wanted to get to Paris, I’d take the train.”

By now I had missed my connection – Paris to Pau. But there was a day train to Pau – The Sud Express. This left Paris at eleven and got in at nine at night. I decided to sleep in Paris and take that train the next day. But I was extremely cross – I always am, when I am unhorsed, so to speak, at the starting-gate. In high dudgeon I sent some wires. Then I sent for a car and returned to Town.

My train left Victoria at two, and I should have had time for lunch – but for the fog. This was twice as thick as it had been an hour before. But my chauffeur knew how to drive and brought me up to the station with twenty-five minutes to spare. I settled myself in my seat with ten minutes to go.

Nobody seemed to be travelling. I had the compartment to myself. For this I was thankful. I am bad at luncheon-baskets and at managing legs of chicken upon my knee. Besides, I hate eating, when nobody else is eating.

And then, as the whistle was blown, came a rush of steps. The door – my door was wrenched open, a suitcase was flung on the floor and a man stumbled in. He turned and leaned out of the window to pitch a coin. Then he dropped into a seat.

“Near thing, that,” he panted. And then, “By God, it’s Pleydell.”

I felt more cross than ever.

The last thing in the world that I wanted was to share a compartment with Shapely for nearly two hours.

I shall always remember that journey.

It was a most curious experience and one which, I hope, I shall never know again. There I was, boxed up with a man whom I most firmly believed to have contrived the murder of one I had liked and respected for many years. I knew that he was in touch with the man who had committed the crime. I knew that he was being shadowed – that men would be waiting at Dover, to see if he took the boat: and that, if he did, a telegram would go to my cousin – for what it was worth. Yet Shapely had no idea –
and must have no idea
– that I knew anything. All that Falcon had told us was secret. The name of Tass had never appeared in the papers… In a word, I had to play a most delicate game; for, though I knew so much, if Shapely discussed the crime – and I was quite sure that he would – I had to pretend that I knew no more about it than what I had learned from the letter that he had read us and what had appeared in the Press. ‘Pretend’ be damned. Neither by word nor look, must I give him the faintest impression of such a thing. The devil of it was that I could not remember how much was common knowledge, for since July, when Falcon’s first letter had come, I had not troubled to note what the papers had said.

“It’s Pleydell,” said I, “because of this blasted fog. I ought to be nearing Paris.”

“And I,” said Shapely, “ought to be halfway to Dewlap. I started home this morning by car, but the Dover Road’s a nightmare; so I threw in my hand and came back. They get the boat-trains through somehow. I’ll lay we’re not ten minutes late.”

“Of course,” said I. “That’s very convenient for you. A four-mile drive, and the boat-train, whenever you please.”

“It has its points,” said Shapely. “But I prefer the road. By the way, you’ve left White Ladies.”

“That’s a fact,” said I.

“You know what people are saying. They call it a sign of the times.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“We had no choice,” I said. “We couldn’t keep the place up.”

“You’re a generous lot. Why make it over to the nation? I mean, it was yours – to sell. America would have paid you a fancy price.”

“I know. But White Ladies is part of the History of England. We always felt that we were no more than trustees. Atlas saw our point and put up the money required. And now White Ladies is safe.”

Shapely laughed.

“Like The Abbey Plate: now in the South Kensington Museum.”

“That’s only on loan; but we felt the same about that.”

“There’s no accounting,” said Shapely, “for points of view. Still, if it’s only on loan, you can always sell that. But you must feel lost without White Ladies. What’ll you do? Travel?”

“As a matter of fact we’re building. Building a villa up in the Pyrénées.”

Shapely stared.

“You’re not!”

I nodded.

“Not far from Lally. On the other side of the valley, as you come up from Nareth.”

“What, not on Evergreen?”

“That’s right,” said I. “Halfway between Lally and Besse.”

“I don’t know Besse: but I slept at Lally once and the name ‘Evergreen’ has always stuck in my mind. My God, what a site! But you don’t mean to live there, do you?”

“All main services,” said I. “I don’t see why not.”

“Main services
there
?”

I nodded.

“Well, I’m damned. Still, it is a shade distant, you know. What’s the idea? Fed up with the wicked world.”

“Let me put it like this,” said I. “We like the vicinity and we feel the need of a home.”

Shapely smothered a grin.

“You must admit it’s funny,” he said. “From White Ladies to Mountain View. I suppose that’s where you’re bound for.”

“More or less. We’re staying at Pau.”

“D’you mean to say you haven’t been back since I saw you?”

I nodded.

“We should have been, but for the building. We naturally want to watch that. We’re coming back for Christmas and the New Year.”

“After which you’ll leave England for good?”

“Not for good.” With that, I handed him a paper. “You had no time to buy one, and I had no time for lunch.”

As I opened my basket—

“Do your stuff,” said Shapely. “I’ll talk as you go. Oh, and talking of White Ladies, I understand that Old Rowley was one of the trustees.”

“Unhappily, yes.”

“Why ‘unhappily’?”

“Because he was our choice – and now he is dead.”

There was a little silence.

Then—

“You saw the verdict – ‘Person or persons unknown’?”

With my mouth full, I nodded.

Shapely turned, to look out of the window.

“Between you and me,” he said, “that verdict was false.”

I emptied my mouth and stared.

“False?” I said. “What do you mean?”

Shapely lay back in his seat and crossed his legs.

“Oh, the jury was honest enough, and the coroner, too. They couldn’t find anything else – on the evidence brought before them. But the police know who did it all right.”

“Are you sure of this?” said I.

“Of course I’m sure. They make no secret about it – between you and me.”

“Then why not—”

“–say so?” said Shapely. “Because they can’t run him to earth, and they don’t want to put him wise.”

“Well, who did do it?” said I.

“A fellow called Tass. Albert Edward Tass, a chauffeur by trade. And the funny thing is that I put them on to Tass… But what’s much funnier still is that your cousin, Mansel, gave me the line.”

“What ever d’you mean?” said I.

Shapely fingered his chin.

“D’you remember when last we met – in the
Place Royale
, Pau? And how we spoke of the murder, and I read you my sister’s letter and told you as much as I knew?”

“Yes,” said I, “I remember it very well.”

“And Mansel said that it might have been done by a servant who’d been dismissed.”

“Yes.”

“Well, the moment he said it, I had a dreadful feeling it might be Tass. You see…”

He related what he had told Falcon and Falcon had written to us – how Tass had been dismissed by Old Rowley and how he had taken him on and how he himself had dismissed him at Luz Ortigue.

“And then,” he went on, “in a flash I thought of the keys – the keys of the car and the garage. And I left you and went to look – to look in my dressing-case.
And the keys weren’t there
.

“Well, I was in two minds whether to tell the police. When I saw that the keys were gone, I, so to speak, sensed the worst. I was damned sure Tass had done it. He was the brooding sort, and he used to burst out about Old Rowley, when he was with me. Work himself up, you know, and say ‘If I’d got him here…’ All the same, he’d been my man, and I felt a natural reluctance to put the rope round his neck.

“And then, when I got back, the police started asking about him…

“And so it seemed best to come clean. In my own interest. Supposing it had come out that I’d had the keys…”

“Myself,” said I, “I can’t see that you had any choice. Murder’s never pretty, but this was a monstrous crime. All the same, the keys won’t hang him. You’ve got to have more than that.”

“They’ve got all they need – and to spare.”

He told me how Tass had been traced – from Pau to Paris, thence to Dover, and back to Paris again.

“And there they lost him. He may turn up, of course, but the scent is cold. Quite frankly, I hope he won’t.”

I felt rather sick. I set down my luncheon-basket and shut the lid.

“That’s a hope I don’t share,” I said shortly. “He damned well deserves to swing and I hope he does.”

“Put yourself in my place,” said Shapely. “Tass was my servant. For the better part of six months, he and I were alone – with the caravan. And if they get him, I’m the principal witness – I’m the fellow who’s going to send him down.”

“That wouldn’t faze me.”

Shapely leaned forward.

“Don’t forget this,” he said. “That by bumping off Old Rowley, Tass did me a very good turn. Old Rowley had my birthright. He controlled my mother’s fortune – and allowed me twelve hundred a year. Well, Tass washed out that outrage and gave me my birthright back.”

“I don’t gather that’s why he did it.”

Shapely raised his eyebrows.

“I hardly flatter myself to that extent.”

“In that case,” said I, “the fact that the crime improved your financial position is wholly beside the point – which is that Tass did murder – vile and beastly murder – to ease a grudge. Well, you know, there’s a law against that.”

Shapely leaned back.

“You’re the wrong person to talk to.”

“I think I am.”

“You liked Old Rowley. I didn’t. I make no bones about that. If he had been nothing to either of us…”

“Yes,” I said, “there’s probably something in that. All the same, one’s a sense of justice. Pretend that Old Rowley was nothing to you or to me – pretend that we never knew him, except by name. Then consider how he was murdered. D’you mean to sit there and tell me Tass oughtn’t to hang?”

“I never said that,” said Shapely. “I said that I hoped they wouldn’t get him. Damn it, man, I don’t want to be involved.”

“I daresay you won’t be,” said I. “As you observed just now, the scent is cold.”

With that, I picked up a paper…

For perhaps two minutes, Shapely said nothing at all.

Then—

“You must admit,” he said, “that Tass did his stuff well.”

I laid down my paper and stared.

“What on earth d’you mean?” I said.

Shapely laughed.

“Well, he’s got the police beat. In and out of the country before they had time to turn round.”

“It was pretty plain sailing,” said I. “He banked on the French, and the French haven’t let him down.”

“It was well worked out,” said Shapely. “You’ve got to hand him that.”

“I don’t hand him anything. He knew what he’d find and he found it. And then he got out. After that, it was a matter of luck. He might have been tapped on the shoulder at any time.”

“The fact remains that he wasn’t. He hasn’t been up to now. No. You’ve got to hand it to him, Pleydell. He never put a foot wrong. And they say that a murderer always makes one mistake.”

“That,” said I, “is tripe. They usually make half a dozen – and bad ones, too. But that’s beside the point. Tass was above mistakes. If what you tell me is true, he fairly blazed his trail. He simply banked on disappearance – and that came off.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Shapely. “Weren’t you in Treasury Chambers?”