The House Of The Bears (6 page)

‘And if she predecease him?’

‘His sisters, equally.’

‘So Markham would stand to gain a great deal,’ said Palfrey.

‘Yes, but there’s a serious snag in that line of country,’ Hardy told him. ‘Men don’t commit murder for money when they’ve already got plenty. Morne and Markham haven’t a great deal in common except wealth. Both are extremely wealthy. I can tell you this,’ went on Hardy. ‘The Markhams have always hoped that Gerald and Loretta would marry. The family has intermarried a great deal; there would be nothing unusual about it. Rumour – sorry that there’s so much rumour in this! – has it that Loretta won’t look at her cousin. She certainly shouldn’t! A more vital creature than she it would be hard to find, and Gerald Markham is a weakling. No mind of his own, no desire to work; he wastes his time writing indifferent verse, composing bad music and playing the piano – he
can
play. I’ll say that for him.’

Palfrey looked at him owlishly.

‘You know a great deal about the Mornes, don’t you?’

‘Don’t forget the Morne family is
the
family in Corshire,’ Hardy objected. ‘There isn’t another that ranks with it – not even Dalby, who’s Lord Lieutenant of the county.’

‘Do they own much of the land?’

‘Most of the land. Morne won’t have anything done on it without his express consent. During the war, lead and tin mines were opened after being closed down for years.’

‘Odd. Why did he close them?’

‘He had no objection to them being worked by small private companies, but refused to let them be worked by public companies before the war. The mines weren’t particularly important, wages were low, and Morne wouldn’t have it. There was plenty of other work; not more than a couple of hundred men were employed altogether in the mines on his estate. He made sure there was no hardship. Between ourselves, I’ve always liked him. He’s been lonely since his wife died twenty years ago.’

‘Curious business altogether. I told you about the pale face in my headlights, and the men who ran past the car, didn’t I? Did you ever find out anything about it,’ Palfrey asked.

‘Not about the pale face,’ said Hardy. ‘Both Morne and Markham told me the same thing, and I’ve checked it with several of the servants. You did see lines of running men taking the hounds out for an airing. From where you were sitting, you couldn’t see the hounds. It happens every night – Why, what’s the matter?’ he demanded, as Palfrey sat up sharply.

‘That might explain the scared face,’ Palfrey said. ‘Imagine a marauder in the grounds, suddenly aware that a pack of hounds was let loose. He would be scared and he would certainly run!’ He settled back again. ‘The trouble is that none of this helps at all to find who killed Halsted.
I’m
satisfied that he was murdered.’

‘So am I, and I think the Coroner’s jury will return a verdict of murder against some person unknown,’ Hardy said. ‘The inquest is in the morning. Will you be there?’

‘Yes,’ said Palfrey.

‘You aren’t exactly a free talker, are you?’ said Hardy, with a reproachful stare. ‘I have a feeling that there are deep thoughts in your mind.’

‘You’re the policeman; I’m here by chance.’

‘You certainly aren’t here by chance,’ said Hardy. ‘Halsted wanted your help. And
I
want your help, Palfrey.’

Palfrey signed. ‘I don’t like this affair. I am not a detective. But if you ask me what I think is the most significant thing so far, I can only say one thing. Those bloodhounds followed
Morne’s
trail to the pool where Halsted’s body was found, didn’t they? People are prone to error, but bloodhounds know their master’s scent. Morne went to that pool. I think, for what it’s worth, Morne saw us when we found the body. Trees and rocks could have hid him from us; he might even have been up a tree.’ He paused, and frowned at Hardy’s astonished face. ‘Are you glad that I opened up?’

Hardy went off, shaken out of his calmness. Palfrey found Drusilla downstairs, sat down by her, and stretched out his long legs. ‘I have told my piece to the persistent Hardy,’ he said, ‘and he gives me the impression that Corshire is shaken to its foundations.’

A page-boy came up. ‘Telephone for you, Dr. Palfrey.’

‘Thanks. No peace for the lazy!’ He got up, and went to the telephone booth off the hall, expecting to hear Hardy’s voice.

‘Good afternoon, Dr. Palfrey. This is Ross, of the Wenlock Sanatorium. Miss Morne is asking for you.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.’

‘She is asking for you,’ repeated Ross. ‘She came round for the first time this morning, stayed awake just long enough to say that she wanted to see you, and then went off again. She’s now been awake for an hour, and all she says is that she wants Dr. Palfrey.’

‘But she’s never seen me in her life.’

‘Well, she says the same thing over and over again: “I want Dr. Palfrey.” She hasn’t asked for her father or for anyone else; only for you.’

Then I must try and come,’ Palfrey said. ‘How long will it take me to drive over?’

‘An hour and a quarter by the moor, nearly two hours by the cliff road.’

‘Cliff road for me,’ said Palfrey. ‘I don’t want any more of that moor, if you understand me. Thanks. Er – what is Wenlock like for hotels? I don’t know that I shall fancy driving back tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I shan’t be there much before seven, shall I?’

‘No, even if you start right away. I’ll find you and your wife somewhere to stay; don’t worry about that. Look for the “Dangerous Hill” sign about thirty miles out of Corbin. It’ll be illuminated, but don’t miss it.’

The first hour was a pleasant ride. Then darkness fell, and they came up a steep hill after passing a sign at a left-hand turning – not an illuminated sign. The engine of the Talbot laboured. The headlights suddenly seemed to strike a wall, a wall that looked like the road. Palfrey put on the brakes and the car stopped. All he could see on one side was rocks, on the other a void; in front of him was the road at that astonishingly steep incline, and so narrow that there looked hardly room for two cars to pass.

‘What’s on that side?’ asked Drusilla, nervously.

‘I don’t know,’ said Palfrey; but he did know. The edge of the road was also the edge of the cliffs, with a sheer drop into the sea. ‘I doubt if we can try to get up it in the dark,’ he said. ‘I’ll back down. There was a turning to the left, wasn’t there?’

After travelling ten yards or so, he put the brakes on full. ‘You’d better get out with the torch,’ he said. ‘Don’t go near the right-hand side; just keep your torch-light on it. Sorry, sweet.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Drusilla. She shone the torch, then came back, her face pale in the dim roof-light. ‘You’ve about a yard and a half on the cliff side,’ she said, ‘and plenty of room on this side. If you can get nearer this side –’

The headlights shone on the jagged rocks of the cliff on their left. He drove close to them, and the wing scraped a rock. He straightened the wheels and eased off the brakes again. The car moved at a snail’s pace. Drusilla was walking backwards all the time, shining her torch on to the rocks.

A car came along the road beneath them. It seemed far below, giving them some idea of the height they had climbed. It swung to the left of the road and disappeared.

‘I’ve a quarter of a mile to go,’ Palfrey muttered. He leaned out of the window and called: ‘Are you all right, darling?’

‘Ye’-es!’
called Drusilla.

He could see her legs and feet in the beam of light from the torch. The loud hum of the overworked engine drowned all other sound. Progress was painfully slow. Another car swung round the bend. It was still a long way beneath them. Palfrey continued for a dozen yards, on edge with the strain, scowling whenever he scraped a rock on the near side. Then Drusilla’s light vanished.

He had no warning; the steady swing, showing her legs and feet, continued until the moment when the light went out. Palfrey jammed on the brakes, and kept looking over his shoulder, waiting for it to go on again. It did not.

He put on the hand-brake and opened the door.

‘Silla!’ There was no answer. In the deep hush which followed, he could hear the lapping of the waves on the rocks below.’ ‘
Silla!’
He broke into a cold sweat and got out of the car.

‘Silla!’
The echo came back to him. It rolled round, deep, mocking.
‘Silla! Silla Sil-la – la-la!’
It faded.

There was a movement behind him.

He swung round, but saw and heard nothing. Fancy was playing him tricks.

There
was
a sound! It came from behind him, and he turned again. He stood quite still, staring towards the rocks, able to see only the stones and boulders of the cliff-side.

‘Do you want to find your wife, Dr. Palfrey?’
It was a hoarse, whispering voice, coming out of the darkness. There was no sound after the voice stopped.

Palfrey found his voice. ‘Yes.’

‘Go back to Corbin and she will return by midnight,’ the man said. ‘I warn you not to be foolish Palfrey. If you have a gun, don’t use it. I shall not –
Ah!’

His voice ended on a high note of surprise, of pain. Palfrey saw nothing, but now he heard movement – a scrambling, struggling sound; rocks were moving down the cliffside,
men were struggling
! He moved forward, trying to see more clearly. He could hear heavy breathing, a gasp, a sharp sound and then a deafening roar, accompanied by a flash of flame. There was a gasp, a thud – and then only heavy breathing.

Palfrey climbed over the rock wall, and stood still. Every moment he expected that hoarse voice to come again, but it did not. The breathing grew easier. He took another step forward, but started when a man said: ‘Hang around a minute, will you?’ The new voice was startling enough in itself; the fact that it was American registered vaguely on Palfrey’s mind.

‘I’ll shine a light,’ the man said. ‘Keep your distance a minute, Palfrey.’ A light flashed out towards him. It shone into his face, lingered for a moment, then moved off. Palfrey, dazzled by the glare, heard the man say: ‘Sorry. I don’t recognize you. Is your name Palfrey?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fyson didn’t seem to like you,’ the man said. There was a hint of laughter in his voice. Palfrey warmed to him. ‘Do you know Fyson?’

‘No.’

‘Take a look,’ said the American. He shone the torch on the figure of a man who was lying unconscious with his head against a rock. ‘Have you lost your wife?’ asked the American.

‘Yes, she vanished.’

‘Right here, you mean?’

‘Yes. Not long ago – not twenty minutes ago.’

‘Then I should quit worrying,’ said the American. ‘She’ll be around here some place. Are you really a doctor?’

‘Look here, I want to find my wife,’ said Palfrey. ‘Shall we go into other things afterwards?’ The American did not reply, and Palfrey moved forward. ‘Yes, I am a doctor, and I was going to see a patient. The police in Corbin will verify that later.’

‘I don’t know that I want to see the police in Corbin or any place,’ said the American, ‘but I guess I’ll take you at your word, Palfrey. Your wife just disappeared off the road, did she, somewhere around here?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll see. Wait a minute, Fyson might do some good for once in his life – if he’s alive – and produce a flashlight.’ He bent down, and Palfrey could see his hands and face; the rest of his body was in shadow. The hands went through Fyson’s pockets, and he gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Here’s one,’ he said, and switched on a second torch. ‘You go right, I’ll go left.’ He moved off.

The encounter had prevented Palfrey from giving all his thoughts to Drusilla; now his fears flooded back. He began to sweat, and now and again he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

‘Palfrey,’ called the American. ‘She’s here. There couldn’t be two women on this damned hillside on the same night, could there? She’s okay,’ he added, as Palfrey began to stumble forward. He shone his torch, and Palfrey saw Drusilla sitting against a rock, her head lolling forward.

Drusilla’s pulse was slow but steady; there was a smell of chloroform.

Palfrey looked up at the American. The two torches were resting on a ledge, and he could see his face. It was a berry brown, merry face, with impudent blue eyes.

‘Have a look at Fyson, will you? If he’s dead, he’s dead, and that’s all about it, but if he’s alive, I shall want you to do me a favour. Your wife will be all right here, I guess.’

Palfrey took off his coat and wrapped it round Drusilla’s legs, then picked up his torch and looked about for the unconscious man, The American came with him. Palfrey knelt down, felt the man’s pulse, and was surprised by the American’s sharp voice: ‘Is he dead?’

‘No. It’s probably concussion.’

‘Sure. You bleed a lot from concussion.’

‘The blood’s from his torn scalp,’ said Palfrey.

‘That’s grand,’ the other went on. ‘Now I guess I want you to help me carry him to your car and take him in that to my car – and then wish me good night.’

‘Oh, do you?’ said Palfrey.

‘I know the police are your friends, but don’t forget that you might not have found your wife without me, Palfrey. That’s a turn that deserves another,’ He repeated the words in a hoarse voice, startlingly like Fyson’s. ‘Don’t worry,’ he went on, in a normal voice. ‘I’ve been practising that for six months. The day might come when I’ll fool someone. What about it?’

Palfrey said: ‘Where is your car?’

‘At the foot of the hill.’

‘Let’s get him there,’ said Palfrey. ‘And get my wife to the car, too.’

At the American’s insistence, they first took Fyson to his car. The man did not stir, but once he was sitting in a corner, with a large handkerchief round his head to keep the blood off the upholstery, the American insisted that he be given a shot of morphia.

‘I don’t want him to get away while we’re collecting your wife,’ he explained.

There was no harm in it, and Palfrey humoured him before they went back for Drusilla. She was beginning to come round, and talking wildly.