Hue and Cry (15 page)

Mr. Craddock went sharply to work with the young man; a large tip, some rapid questions, and he had elicited what he had come to find out.

1. The young man had stepped out to have a breath of air and to look at the weather.

2. It might have been half-past ten, or it might have been elevenish.

3. A gentleman who had left his car there about seven o'clock had come back for it somewhere about midnight.

4. It was a Wolseley four-seater. (Floods of technical details firmly checked.)

5. Yes, he knew the gentleman—recognized him at once—portrait in the
Mail.

6. It was Mr. Lawrence Marrington, the explorer.

7. No other car had gone out whilst he was on duty.

8. No, he hadn't seen any young lady.

Having turned the young man inside out, Paul Craddock had a few more caustic words for Alfred.

“See the man who came on when this fellow went off. Get particulars of every car that went out. If we don't get on to Miss Lee to-day, we shall take the matter out of the hands of your firm.”

Mr. Lawrence Marrington's whereabouts being public property, it will be seen that Mr. Craddock's arrival at Peddling Corner requires no further explanation.

To Mally, looking from the window, it was the sort of thing that doesn't happen unless you are having a bad dream. She pinched Ethan Messenger as hard as she could, and pulled him away from the window.

“Don't, don't let him! Oh, don't!”

Ethan looked at her gravely.

“Who do you mean? Paul Craddock?”

Mally flung out her hands.

“You know him? Oh!” It was a cry of angry despair.

“He's a sort of cousin. As a matter of fact, I loathe him. Look here, it's all right—if you don't want to see him, you shan't. I'm not talking.”

Mally breathed an “Oh!” of pure relief. Then she said “S'sh!” ran up the three steps that led to the loft, turned, kissed her hand, and was gone.

The door shut without a sound. On the other side of it she stood and made a plan. She would stay by the door just like this. If any one came up the ladder to the loft, she would slip through into the workshop. If they came through from the workshop, she must dive into the hay. But somehow,
somehow,
she didn't think Ethan would let them come through. He was nice. He was a dear. He was frightfully,
frightfully
strong, and most reassuringly ugly.

She thought of Roger Mooring's handsome features, and rejoiced in the ugliness of Ethan Messenger. Once and for all, Roger had spoiled her for beautiful young men.

Ethan was hammering again, when Sir Charles Lennox flung open the door.

“There's a step, Paul. Ethan, here's Paul Craddock. Quite a surprise visit.”

“Er—morning, Craddock. I've nearly done the hutch, sir. What d'you think of it?”

Sir Charles was a kindly man. The kindliness was at this moment obscured by a tendency to fuss. Most extraordinary yarn this of Craddock's—disturbing—annoying—unpleasant. Never had cared much for Craddock—a damned sight too pink and white, too fond of the sound of his own voice, too clever, too full of theories.

He glanced at the hutch, and felt annoyed all over again. Why hadn't Maud been firm about that damn rabbit? Why give way to a child because it cries? Firmness,
firmness
was what was needed. He looked crossly at Ethan, disparagingly at the hutch, and began an aggrieved explanation.

“Paul says he's reason to believe Marrington brought a girl down with him last night. Most unpleasant insinuation—hey, what? Marrington's my guest and a very distinguished man.”

“There's no suggestion that Marrington had any idea——”

“Idea? How d'you mean idea? A man doesn't drive a girl down from town—and, hang it all, if he does, he don't give her away. Dashed unpleasant for me, going in and waking the man up, and asking him that sort of personal question in my own house. What can the man do but say he don't know a damn thing about it—hey, what? I suppose he's a gentleman?”

Paul Craddock raised his eyebrows.

“There's really no suggestion that Mr. Marrington suspected that Miss Lee was in his car. It would certainly have been without his knowledge. She might have slipped out and hidden herself.”

“Marrington says he locked the garage and came away. If she was in the car, she'd have been locked in too, and Lane 'ud have found her when he went to wash the car this morning. Talk about cock and bull stories—hey, what?”

Ethan Messenger balanced the hutch on one corner. The kitten had scrambled down from his shoulder and was in retreat under a tilted plank; its eyes were green in the shadow, its tiny tail twitched.

“But who is Miss Lee?” said Ethan.

Behind the door Mally held her breath and listened. The blood rushed into her face at the tone of Paul Craddock's answer:

“Miss Lee is a light-fingered young person who, unfortunately, deceived Sir George Peterson into taking her into his house as a governess for Barbara. She lifted a valuable diamond pendant and some papers which we are anxious to recover. She was traced to the garage where Mr. Marrington left his car last night. It occurred to me that she might have stolen a ride.”

Ethan Messenger burst into hearty laughter.

“The sleuth upon the trail! From Garage to Gaol! You're wasted as a secretary—fiction's your line, Paul.
The Clue of the Explorer's Car,
by Paul Pry, Private Investigator!”

This light badinage had the same effect on Mr. Craddock as a certain historic anecdote on Queen Victoria—he was not amused. Sir Charles, on the other hand, cheered up visibly. Ethan was an ally. He became more than ever convinced that the whole affair was outrageous nonsense.

“If Marrington didn't see anything, and the men didn't see anything, I don't know what you expect to see,” he grumbled.

“One never knows,” said Paul Craddock slowly. He was looking at the three steps that led up to the hay-loft, and at a banana skin lying neatly folded over on itself on the floor beside the bottom step.

“Who put that there?” he said, and pointed.

Ethan roared with laughter.

“The super-Sherlock! Height, weight, age, and sex of criminal all deduced from a banana skin.”

“Who put it there?” said Paul sharply.

He had lunched a dozen times with Miss Mally Lee and seen her lay a banana skin down like that after eating the fruit. She had a little quick way of doing it, a flick of the fingers.

“Who—” he began; and Ethan interrupted.

He had lounged across the room and picked up the skin. He dangled it between thumb and finger now, and said, “Tut, tut! You mustn't ask the wretched Watson a leading question like that, my dear Holmes. It simply isn't done. It is you who tell us who put it there, with the fullest and most circumstantial details. Remember your little monograph on bananas. There are, I believe, some thirty or more different sorts, and the skin of each kind takes a different length of time to dry. You have, therefore, only to examine this interesting relic in order to give us the past history of the person who ate it, with all particulars.”

Craddock turned his back on him.

“Sir Charles, she's been here—I'm ready to swear to it. What exactly did you say to Marrington? Did you tell him it was a matter of my chief's private papers?”

“No, I didn't—hey, what? Why should I?—what's it got to do with him?”

“Nothing, of course. May I ask what you did say?”

Sir Charles did not like being cross-examined; his manner showed it in an extra touch of vexation.

“Say? What should I say? I asked him if he'd noticed anything unusual when he got the car home—any one hanging about, and so forth. And he said no, he hadn't. And there was an end of it. If you want to cross-examine him, you'd better do it yourself.”

“I think I will. But I think”—he walked towards the steps—“I think I'll have a look inside that door first.”

Mally's heart went bang against her side. Little fool! She ought to have hidden in the hay long ago. Now it was too late. But he would look in the hay—he would look in the hay—he would look everywhere. She had the horrible, horrible trapped feeling that stops thought, and will, and action.

The steps creaked under a heavy foot; a hand fell on the handle. It was mere instinct that sent her cowering into the corner, her face to the wall, her hands, breast-high, pressed flat against the rough boards.

The door swung in towards the workshop. They were coming. There was just a chance that they might not see her. The corner was a yard from the door; they might not look so near at hand. The corner was dark; her coat was dark; the light of the open hatch would be in their eyes.

Mally's hands pressed hard on the wall. It was rough and splintery. They were coming. She mustn't,
mustn't
scream.

When Paul Craddock moved towards the door, Ethan put a large foot on the bottom step. He had heard a faint, faint rustling sound behind him.

“Aren't you going to tell us——” he began.

“I'm going through that door.”

“Sleuths shouldn't show temper. It plays the very dickens with the deductive faculties,” said Ethan equably.

“Sir Charles!”

“Hey, what? What's all this fooling? Let's get on with it. Let's get done with it.”

Ethan stopped laughing.

“All right, sir,” he said, and with that took the two steps at a stride and opened the door.

The loft was empty except for hay. Ethan fell back into the corner behind the door and let Paul Craddock and Sir Charles go past. He had his right hand on the jamb of the door. His left went back and fell on Mally's shoulder.

He had been aware of her—strangely, curiously aware. But to touch her like that was rather horrible. The long shudder, and then the stillness—it was what he had felt a hundred times when he had handled some wild thing terrified out of all reason.

His hand pressed her shoulder gently for a moment, felt how tense the muscles were, and drew away. As he stood there, he screened her well enough. Paul was poking in the hay and raising no end of a dust. Sir Charles had begun to sneeze.

“Damn nonsense!” he said and blew his nose. “The girl's not a mouse, I suppose.” He sneezed and blew again. “Damn nonsense, I say. Here, better get down this way—it leads into the yard, and if you want to see Lane, he'll be there. You coming, Ethan?”

“The faithful Watson comes.”

Ethan reached behind him and gave Mally's shoulder the sort of reassuring pat that he would have given to the kitten. She heard the clatter of feet on the ladder; she heard Ethan cross the floor and follow Sir Charles and Paul; she heard them all talking in the yard outside.

They were gone.

CHAPTER XIX

“Ouf!” said Mally with a great breath of relief. “What a frightfully, frightfully,
frightfully
near thing! If it hadn't been for that angel lamb!”

She flung a grateful kiss in the direction of the open hatch and executed a pirouette. Then she picked up her hat, which had fallen in the corner, dusted it, and went back into the workshop. She did not feel as if she would ever really love a hay-loft again.

It was in the workshop, when she was picking a straw or two off her hat, that the little basket brooch attracted her attention. She unpinned it thoughtfully and fastened it on her jumper out of sight. It was pretty, but just the sort of thing that people might notice and remember. Mally had a conviction that the modest, shrinking violet half—or, better still, wholly-hidden from the eye was her rôle. It was not, it may be said, a congenial one.

She looked all round the workshop for a mirror, and looked in vain.

“I must be looking like
absolutely
nothing on earth.” Even shrinking violets should be tidy.

She smoothed her hair, took off her coat, shook it, dusted it, and put it on again. Then she powdered her nose and pulled on the black felt hat. She found a bit of oily rag, and got the mud off her shoes. After that she sat down and began to wonder what would happen next.

She must have dozed a little, because the footsteps were on the stair before she heard them, and she had no more than time to jump up before the outer door swung open. With a clatter and a clang there tumbled into the room a large metal cage and a little girl of about six years old. The metal cage contained a half-grown black rabbit, apparently paralyzed with terror.

The little girl was most indubitably the angel child of mid-Victorian fiction—golden curls, blue eyes and apple-blossom complexion complete. She dumped the cage, gazed at Mally without surprise, and said:

“I want Ethan. Where's Ethan? I want him.”

“I'm afraid he isn't here.”

The angel child frowned. Great masters have painted frowning angels. One in Venice holds a lute; this one held a parrot's cage.

“I want him. He was making a hutch for Dinks. This is Dinks. I got him yesterday in a bazaar, an' Mummy said I couldn't have him because of nowhere to put him, an' I cried right in the middle of the bazaar, with every one saying ‘Hush,' until she said I could, an' Ethan said he'd make me a hutch, an' where is he?”

“I don't know. Here's the hutch.”

Bunty Lennox flung herself down by it with a shriek. The rabbit twitched one ear; its whiskers trembled slightly.

“It's finished! It's done! Put Dinks into it—put him in quickly!”

“Hadn't we better wait? I think he's frightened.”

“Not!”

“He is—really.”

Bunty shook her head with great vigor.

“He's a very fierce rabbit. I 'spect he's the fiercest rabbit in the world. He bited my finger, an' he bited cook's finger, an' he'd have bited Mummy, only she wouldn't touch him, an' he bited Daddy, an' Daddy said he was a dam rabbit, an' Mummy said, ‘Hush, Charles!' like she does.” She paused, and added thoughtfully, “He didn't bite Ethan.”