The Longer Bodies (16 page)

Miss Caddick, grateful for any sort of permission to retire, bade her employer a hasty good night, glared nervously both ways on gaining the landing, and then fled like a hare into her own room.

The noise below continued. Someone knocked on Miss Caddick's door, and the voice of the cook uplifted itself, proclaiming that there was racket below enough to waken the dead, and that, for her part, she would see herself drowned before she would consent to remain any longer under a roof which sheltered murderers and thieves, or in a house where at no hour of the night could a poor body get sleep sufficient to recompense her for the vicissitudes of the day that had gone and to give her strength and energy enough to cope with the trials of the day that was to come.

Miss Caddick replied, through an opening two inches wide, that the cook should return to bed and then all would be well. It was only Mr Timon, she explained. He was locked out, and Mrs Puddequet would not allow him to be admitted to the house.

The cook, with a dark mutter, withdrew, and Miss Caddick had taken off her outermost garment and was removing the second hairpin from her coiffure when a louder and more peremptory knock came at the door. By this time the ‘noises off' had ceased.

‘Who's there? You can't come in!' squeaked Miss Caddick in one breath, quite oblivious of the fact that the door was fast locked. ‘What do you want?'

‘I say, Caddie! Who's kicking up that infernal din?'

‘Why, Miss Cowes, we think it is Mr Timon,' fluttered Miss Caddick, tripping lightly to the door and speaking with her lips to the keyhole, from which she had that instant removed the key.

‘I'm going down to see what they want,' said Amaris, and Miss Caddick could hear her retreating footsteps.

‘It
is
Celia Brown-Jenkins,' was Miss Caddick's final brilliant conclusion, ‘and dear Amaris will let her in.'

Feeling her own responsibility removed in the matter of readmitting Celia to the ancestral hall, Miss Caddick hastily completed her preparations for bed, and scrambled between the sheets.

Great-aunt Puddequet lay awake for a short while, during which time she noted that the noise, whatever its cause, had ceased. The handsome old grandfather clock in the corner struck twelve, and the old lady in bed raised herself on one elbow and remarked in a cracked but friendly voice:

‘Good night, Mr Golightly.'

Then she slept the untroubled sleep of the aged until the confused noise made by a household which has been awakened suddenly from slumber aroused her. Great-aunt Puddequet raised herself on one elbow and listened. A cry of ‘Fire! Fire!' came to her ears. She reached for the bellrope which hung behind the head of the bed and pulled it vigorously.

‘It's queer,' said Amaris Cowes slowly. She contemplated Hilary Yeomond in silence for a moment. ‘But what a mercy you were not inside the hut,' she added.

Hilary laughed.

‘Oh, Moggridge would have wakened me in time,' he said, patting the dog whose muzzle was on his knee. Moggridge wagged his tail at the mention of his own name, and, against all regulations, Richard Cowes rose and gave him a kidney out of the dish on the sideboard.

‘And what a mercy you hadn't left
him
in the hut, either,' said Priscilla, caressing Moggridge's left ear.

‘The thing that puzzles me,' said Richard Cowes, ‘is how the hut could have caught fire, because I know you put the lamp out before you came up to the house here with me, Yeomond. It was a lucky thing for you that our great-aunt has the sunk garden gate locked so early, or you might have tried getting back to your hut when we had finished our game.'

‘Game, Grandnephew?' said old Mrs Puddequet, whose bathchair was at that moment wheeled into the breakfast room by Miss Caddick.

‘Yes, Great-aunt. I invited Yeomond into the dining room last night to play chess. As we did not finish until after one, I persuaded him to camp on the chesterfield instead of breaking out of the house. I myself slept in an armchair, and very comfortably too.'

Before anyone else could make a remark, Malpas Yeomond dropped a bomb by observing casually:

‘Inspector Bloxham is coming up the steps to investigate a case of attempted murder.'

‘What?' exclaimed his sister.

‘Rubbish, Grandnephew,' squealed old Mrs Puddequet. ‘Refrain from wilful exaggeration.'

‘I sent for Constable Copple at just after six this morning,' said Richard Cowes coolly, ‘and invited him to look at the burnt-out hut. It has one most suggestive feature. Constable Copple is not a man of great imaginative powers, but even he was roused to quite a show of animation by what I had to show him. Malpas has seen it too.'

The announcement that the inspector was in the hall and would be glad of a word with the owner of the house cut short Richard's remarks. Great-aunt Puddequet's bathchair, again propelled by Miss Caddick, went out to give audience to a grave-eyed Bloxham.

‘I'd like you to come and take a look at this hut, Mrs Puddequet,' he said shortly. ‘I don't know whether your house is harbouring a maniac, or what.'

He addressed a question to Miss Caddick in a low tone as the bathchair crunched over the cinder track three minutes later.

‘Oh, yes,' replied Miss Caddick, so softly that the inspector was obliged to strain his ears to catch the words, ‘she
can
get about without it, but only with the help of two sticks and, of course,
always
someone with her. But even then it is very slow work for her, poor thing.'

The inspector nodded as though he were satisfied and dropped behind to speak to Joseph Herring, who was wheeling a barrow towards the sunk garden. Immediately he was out of earshot, old Mrs Puddequet turned round venomously and hissed at her escort, ‘You're a fool, Companion Caddick! How dare you show your contempt for your employer by calling her a poor thing?'

Miss Caddick gasped in anguish, and exclaimed shrilly:

‘Oh, but, Mrs Puddequet! Oh, but, Mrs Puddequet, I mean—well, I mean, nothing would be farther from my thoughts, dear Mrs Puddequet. You must surely know that. I only meant—well, I mean, we all have our little cross to bear, and I'm quite,
quite
sure, dear Mrs Puddequet—'

The protestations were cut short by the return of the inspector. The three went through the gate of the sports field and were soon at a point of vantage from which they could view the melancholy remains of Hilary Yeomond's hut.

Here the inspector was joined by the sergeant and by the village policeman, Constable Copple, who had evidently been left on guard at the ruins. Apart from the blackened desolation and the greyish ashes, the attention of the onlooker was chiefly attracted by two tall iron rods which were standing upright in the ground at a distance of eight inches from one another. They were all still warm to the touch.

‘Inspector!' squealed Great-aunt Puddequet excitedly. Unable to attract his immediate attention, she prodded him vigorously in the small of the back with her umbrella. The sergeant slid an apologetic hand across a grin and requested her to be patient. Great-aunt Puddequet had no intention of being anything of the kind. She rocked the bathchair dangerously by swaying from side to side in it, raised her cracked old voice still higher, and prodded the unfortunate Bloxham with greater determination than before.

‘What the—oh, it's you, Mrs Puddequet,' said the inspector, swinging round. ‘What is it, ma'am?'

‘What are those iron poles, inspector?'

‘Witnesses to an attempt at murder, ma'am.'

‘Don't you be facetious at my expense, young man!' screamed old Mrs Puddequet.

‘Well,' retorted the inspector, ‘from the plan of these grounds, which Mr Cowes was kind enough to find in the library and hand to me, and from what I myself remember, I see that where those bars stand should be the doorway of the hut. The doors of all these huts, ma'am, open outwards. Do I begin to make myself clear?'

‘Attendant, take me in!' cried Great-aunt Puddequet to Joseph Herring, who had abandoned the wheelbarrow and was now an interested spectator of the unusual scene.

‘Very good, mam.'

‘And, attendant!'

‘Yes, mam?'

‘Return and assist the police in the execution of their duty.'

‘Very good, mam.'

‘You understand me, attendant?'

‘In a manner of speaking, yes, mam.'

‘And otherwise?'

‘No, mam.'

‘Tell the police,' said Great-aunt Puddequet with great distinctness, ‘that any article of value they may recover from the effects of the fire is my property.'

THE INSPECTOR DREW
the sergeant out of earshot of the spectators and spoke quietly.

‘Can't see that there's anything more to be gained here. I reckon the whole thing's a plant.'

‘Plant, sir?'

‘Yes. In spite of those two iron bars. They've never been in a fire! Somebody sneaked out early and put 'em in position. Silly practical joke, I consider. Done to put the wind up young Yeomond, that's all. Go and have another look at 'em for yourself. Fingerprints on them, I expect, and so we shall soon know who's the Bright Young Thing of the establishment. I know who I've fixed on.'

The sergeant grinned.

‘Mr Brown-Jenkins, sir?'

The inspector made no attempt to confirm or to deny this, and the rest of the party, much intrigued by the official conclave, gravitated towards the two policemen, who, after cautioning them to touch nothing and to return immediately to their several occupations so that footprints might not be confused, set off towards the house, where they asked for an interview with Mrs Puddequet and her adopted grandson. While they were waiting for the old lady to appear, Bloxham leaned out of the drawing-room window and called to the policeman below:

‘Go and get Copple, and the two of you peg a rope round that burnt-out hut. That'll remind people not to go poking round there.'

He drew in his head and grinned.

‘Nothing like looking thorough in your methods,' he said. ‘But, seriously—'

He was interrupted by the entrance of Great-aunt Puddequet in her bathchair. She was propelled this time by Malpas Yeomond. The inspector regarded them gravely, and then said:

‘Mrs Puddequet, you were right. But the person who played such a foolish and expensive practical joke must be discovered and brought to book. I've my hands full already here. I can't waste my time looking for mare's nests. I am not going to ask whether you know the name of the joker. I am merely going to ask permission to go into your kitchen and interview the cook.'

Great-aunt Puddequet shrugged her frail shoulders.

‘Anybody who interviews my cook does so at his own risk, inspector,' she said. ‘If this is clearly understood, you have my permission to try.'

‘Wait here, sergeant,' said Bloxham.

To the surprise of the other three, he opened the window, stepped out on to the terrace, closed the window softly behind him, and ran lightly down the stone steps. On the cinder track he encountered Priscilla Yeomond.

‘Oh, inspector,' she said, ‘I can't imagine that it's important to you, but such a funny thing has happened.'

‘Yes?' said Bloxham. ‘What's that, Miss Yeomond?'

She directed his attention to the top of the stone balustrade of the terrace.

‘You see the stone balls that decorate the terrace? How many on each side can you count from here?'

The inspector counted.

‘Six,' he said.

Priscilla lowered her voice.

‘Yesterday there were only five on each side,' she said. ‘What do you make of that?'

Bloxham laughed.

‘We know there's a practical joker in the house,' he said. ‘Which are the new stone balls?'

‘The two at the head of the steps. There used to be two little cupids standing one on either side. They were there yesterday. Surely you remember them?'

The inspector shuddered.

‘I do,' he said, hurrying off in the direction of the kitchen garden.

Priscilla frowned thoughtfully after him, and turned and looked again at the new stone balls. Suddenly a javelin whizzed by her and stuck, quivering, into the soft turf which bordered the track.

‘Sorry,' shouted her brother Hilary. ‘Hope I didn't startle you. Didn't think it would go quite as far as that. I wanted a change from the high jump.'

He pulled on his sweater and fell into step beside her.

‘Anything the matter?' he asked.

‘No,' said Priscilla abruptly. ‘At least only this beastly house and that stupid murder, and—Timon Anthony—'

‘Anthony?'

‘Yes. He asked me to marry him yesterday morning.'

‘Whatever for?'

Priscilla raised her eyebrows. It was not the first time that she had been confronted by the phenomenal lack of tact shown by brothers, who cannot imagine why on earth anyone should wish to marry their sisters and do not hesitate to say so.

‘I imagine that in some curious way I attract him favourably,' she observed, with suitable
hauteur
.

‘Oh, yes, of course, rather,' agreed Hilary, hastily recovering ground. ‘No idea of being rude. I only wondered what the idea might be. I suppose—' He hesitated.

‘Well?' Priscilla was mollified, but not by any means appeased.

‘I suppose—I mean—well, dash it!—er—Great-aunt hasn't decided that the female line inherits or anything, has she? You know—the Salic law notwithstanding, and so forth.'

Priscilla regarded him with a rich mixture of doubt, suspicion, and amusement.

‘What exactly are you trying to say, sweetest?' she enquired.

‘Oh, I just wondered—you see, it's like this, Priscilla. Or, at least, this is how I work it out. By coming down here and kowtowing to the old dame and so forth, we others queer the pitch of the man Anthony to no small extent. See what I mean?'