“Cooperate in a visibility experiment? I think so. I’m not asking you to give evidence against yourself. I’m not trying to trap you. I simply want to know if it’s possible to recognize you as you go into the cave shortly before midnight, and you to tell me what you notice while you are inside. Any member of the public would do for the part. It only happens that you are particularly suitable on account of your height and coloring.” Macdonald paused and then asked quite casually, “By the way, have you ever slept in the Hermit’s Cave?”
Lockersley flushed. “No. Not slept there. Sat in there and watched the dawn, and I tell you it was worth seeing.”
“I can well believe it. Well, will you do what I have asked you?”
“Yes. I will leave the house at eleven-thirty and walk to the cave, go inside and lie down and wait fifteen minutes.”
“Good. Now, in addition, will you tax your memory and try to write down verbatim all that was said when Mr. Rhodian first asked to see the cave, and the conversation between you, him and Mr. Keston when you actually visited the place.”
Again Lockersley smiled. “I like that part better. I have a good memory. Incidentally, do you ask the others for their version, too?”
“Obviously.”
“And if the accounts don’t tally?”
“I observe, as I have often observed before, that very few people have accurate verbal memories, though many claim to have.”
“You know, I think the detective method is more interesting than I had imagined,” said Lockersley. “I feel a poor mutt. I have been kicking myself for days trying to think of something I could do in the investigating line, and I never thought of any of the things you suggest, though they’re quite simple.”
“A good thing you didn’t. You might have got into a considerable mess, but I think you’ve had an idea or two, all the same. Thanks very much for being so willing to help.”
This time Lockersley laughed outright.
“If ever you do arrest me, I shall be intrigued to observe the courtesy with which the handcuffs are applied. I’m late for dinner, which will annoy Mrs. Stamford, so I’d better foot it. Eleven-thirty is zero hour.”
“Right. I’ll run you back if you like.”
“Don’t bother. You’d have to reverse for half a mile. Besides, I like annoying Mrs. Stamford.”
With a nod, Lockersley squeezed past the car and went on his way toward Valehead, and Macdonald drove peacefully on through the radiant evening light.
* * *
“Eve, I’m sure it was because of those diamonds, and Keston knows something about it.”
Emmeline Stamford leaned toward her sister as they sat in the drawing room before dinner, and Eve Merrion sighed.
“How long, oh Lord, how long . . .” she asked herself wearily. Eve was tired. Tired of the strain of question and answer, tired of keeping up a level of calm imperturbability when she felt herself getting near to screaming point, and most tired of all of her sister’s nervous voice and persistent harping on the one unhappy theme.
“Emma dear, it’s no use saying things like that, and no use guessing. The diamonds are probably put away quite safely somewhere, and Keston has never known anything about them. In any case, I won’t have you making suggestions about him. I know him much better than you do, and Father knew him even better, and said that he would trust him anywhere, with anything. For heaven’s sake let us leave the subject alone. The whole inquiry is right out of our hands, and we can’t do anything. Let us try to talk and think about something else. I know it’s all ghastly, but dwelling on it only makes it ghastlier.”
Emmeline Stamford got up and moved restlessly about the room. “Eve, can’t we get away? Go back to London or something. This place gives me the horrors.”
“I can’t go. You know that. I suppose you could. Ask the chief inspector. He’s a most considerate person.”
“That man? He terrifies me. Besides, how could I go away and leave you to be—oh, what’s that?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Stamford. Did I startle you?” Bruce Rhodian had just opened the door, and he continued, “I was going to ask Mrs. Merrion to come for a stroll and see her hydrangeas in the evening light. They look next door to a miracle.”
“I should love to come,” said Eve. “The house seems oppressive these light evenings. I always hate coming in.”
“Eve, don’t go out—not near that awful lake.”
Emmeline’s nervous voice nearly exasperated her sister.
“Emma, don’t be so silly! The lake’s perfectly lovely. You’d better go to bed early, my dear. You’re tired out. Bed and a couple of aspirins is what you want. Go up quite early, and I’ll bring you a hot drink to settle you after you’ve had your bath.”
She turned to Rhodian, saying, “Come and let me see the hydrangeas. I know they look lovely in the evening, bluer than blue can be.”
They went out of the entrance hall onto the terrace, and Rhodian said:
“I’m sorry your sister’s reacting badly to all this.”
“It is pretty awful, you know,” replied Eve, “and Emma won’t leave it alone. She keeps on harping away, and her nerves are all jangled, like fiddle strings. Funnily enough I feel better since the chief inspector came. He’s such a sensible, kindly creature, and he has the knack of seeing one’s point of view. I always thought a Scotland Yard man would be rather harsh and peremptory, not exactly bullying, but a bit like a glorified edition of a traffic cop lecturing one after one’s had a collision. Sorry to sound childish, but it’s rather a relief to talk foolishly after trying to be sensible and helpful all day.”
“Sure. I sympathize with you more than I can say, Mrs. Merrion. You’re having a real rough deal. I know it’s right that there should be an expert investigation, but the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that the cops are wrong in suspecting foul play. I believe that they’ll come to the conclusion that the professor’s death was an accident.”
“I believe that, too, but I’m afraid it may be wishful thinking,” said Eve. “The crux of the problem is so simple when all is said and done. If it could only be shown how the charcoal was lighted in the brazier, everything might be cleared up. Father might so easily have lighted a fire to warm the place, without ever telling us that he was in the habit of doing so. The point is, how did he get the charcoal to burn, without bellows, and without making a wood fire to give it a start? Methylated spirit is ruled out because there was no bottle and no container.”
“Did he ever have any Meta fuel? That would serve the same purpose as Methy, and rules out the container difficulty.”
“Why, that is an idea!” said Eve. “I know he had a Meta stove, because I gave him one. He often made tea or coffee when he was working at night, and after he’d fused two electric kettles because he’d forgotten all about them, I gave him the Meta outfit. If he forgot that, the fuel just burned out and there was no harm done. It’s worth suggesting it, anyway. Oh, look, isn’t it lovely?”
As they talked they had reached the lake at the head of the valley. The hydrangeas were in full flower now, and their color was amazing against the clear water. The intense cobalt blue, cool mauve and occasional verdigris-green of the massed flowers was an unforgettable sight. Behind them the gray-green of eucalyptus trees and the strange waving white petals of the Chinese “ghost trees” made a background perfect as a foil to the blue blossoms.
“I could cry about it all!” burst out Eve despondently. “This is about the loveliest place in the world, and I wanted so much to see the hydrangeas in flower, and now I shall always think of them in connection with this turmoil of distress and fear and suspicion.”
Rhodian caught her arm in his firm grasp.
“Don’t think that, Mrs. Merrion. There’s hardly a place in the world where death hasn’t happened. Many people must have died in Valehead House, but that doesn’t spoil it for you. I expect the original hermit died in his cave down yonder, but life goes on.”
He was stan
ding close beside Eve as he spoke, and she stood still, rather glad of the comforting clasp of his hand. Suddenly another voice broke the silence.
“Mrs. Merrion, Mrs. Merrion. Be careful. You might slip.”
Eve turned in astonishment as Keston came hurrying down the wooded slope behind her.
“What do you mean?” Eve’s voice sounded indignant for once. “I’m just trying to enjoy the hydrangeas. I’ve been here a hundred times before, and you talk about slipping as though I were in the habit of tumbling into the lake and behaving Ophelia-wise.”
“I’m sorry. I beg your pardon. I thought. . . . No matter.” Keston sounded unhappy as he mumbled his apologies and then broke off abruptly.
“I beg your pardon,” he repeated. “I was foolish to be apprehensive.” He turned away and regained the path behind them, and Rhodian said softly:
“The poor chap’s completely crackers. Things have been too much for him, and he’s all in a fiddle of nerves.”
He was still standing with his hand on Eve’s arm, and she moved a little away from him as she said:
“Everyone is in a fiddle of nerves here. It’s quite refreshing to have you to talk to, because you are unaffected by it all. Emma will be making up her mind I’m drowned in the lake if I don’t go back. Oh, dear, how wearisome it all is.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Rhodian quietly. “I’d do anything I could to help.”
“I know you would. Now for a few minutes let’s talk about something quite different. What about your own plans? Is anything settled yet?”
“Yes. I’m going to the States. I can get into the Flying Corps there, and I shall be perfectly fit in a month’s time. I’m an American citizen, you know, and it’s more logical to be with my own folk. One day, when all this pother is over and Hitler’s got what’s coming to him, I’ll fly the Atlantic and come and see you here.”
“Yes, do. How lovely to think there may be an afterwards, when flying will be used as a blessing and not as a curse to mankind. Perhaps you’ll even invite me to fly back with you. I should adore a long flight, chasing the days and nights.”
He laughed. “That’s a date, then; I’ll fly over and fetch you—afterwards—and we’ll chase the sunset. Why, you’re shivering. Not cold, surely?”
“No. Not cold. Ghosts. I’m terrified of planning ‘afterwards.’ One never knows.”
“No,” he agreed soberly. “One never knows. One plans and plays one’s hand, and takes the consequences. But I shall never forget those hydrangeas this evening.”
“I don’t think I shall, either,” she replied.
8
At eleven o’clock that same evening Macdonald was sitting with his back to the Valehead boundary wall, about fifty yards from the entrance to the cave. He was concealed from view by some low-growing rhododendron bushes, but he had a clear view of the drive and the arched entrance to the cave. The radiance of the late sunset had passed, and color was gradually leaving the world. The heavy-foliaged beech trees cast their dimness over the drive; the vivid green seemed to fade from the branches, leaving them dark and shadowy and colorless. The air was very still, and gradually cooling, and all the pent-up sweetness of the day seemed to be saturating the air, the scent of innumerable flowers heavy and fragrant, as though it moved in wafts on the cooling air. Slowly, imperceptibly, all color faded out. It was still curiously light, even under the trees, but the light had a quality quite different from that of day. Flowers and leaves faded to a monotone of grayness; only the white flowers, such as the stellaria with its star-like shape, and the moon daisies, shone as though with some inward light.
Macdonald leaned back against the wall and waited as the world grew grayer and the distance faded. Was it thus, he wondered, that a murderer had waited a week ago? Had someone crouched in the bushes, not far from where he himself sat, and waited until the kindly old man came to his strange sleeping place? It was possible, on the other hand, that the professor’s murderer had not waited for him, but had followed him from the house, and seen him enter the cave. Macdonald pondered over the two possibilities. He believed that he had guessed how the charcoal was ignited, and only a minimum of preparation would have been necessary, but even so, the murderer would have had to spend some few minutes over the mechanics of the job, and Macdonald was disposed to believe that this part of the work would not have been carried out in full daylight, or at some hour of the evening when the estate men might pass along the drive. Though the mist had been thick on the moor, it had been almost clear in the valley, so no cover could have been gained therefrom.
From half past eleven onward Macdonald listened intently. He had very good ears, and he heard many sounds unconnected with his present job. Once a green grass snake, half a yard long, writhed past him, moving with incredible swiftness and grace. A baby rabbit sat a few feet away and watched the C.I.D. man with bright, unfrightened eyes. An owl hooted close by, and the rabbit ran to earth.
For all that he listened intently, Macdonald did not hear Lockersley’s footsteps until the latter was within twenty yards of him; the young man’s rubber-soled shoes made no sound, and he walked quietly and evenly. The twilight had almost faded, but even in the dusk of the drive Lockersley’s fair head and pale face were quite visible to Macdonald; he was wearing a white collar, and a triangle of white shirt showed between his dark jacket and his chin. There was no moon yet, as there had been on the night the professor was killed, yet Macdonald was sure that, sitting where he was, he could have recognized the professor in that dim light. There was a portrait of the old man in Mrs. Merrion’s dining room, and the painter had emphasized the mane of white hair brushed back from the wide brow. That white head would have been unmistakable even in the filtered twilight of the shaded drive.
Lockersley did exactly what he had been asked to do: without hesitation he walked quietly into the black gloom of the cave’s entrance and disappeared. Macdonald stayed where he was. He had put Reeves in charge of further proceedings, and he himself was not listening to what went on in the cave. He had become aware of another sound which interested him a great deal—the sound of other halting footsteps farther back along the drive. The newcomer did not walk as Lockersley had walked, easily and smoothly. The former was a more clumsy walker, who might have been confused by the semi-darkness; he stubbed his toe once or twice on the uneven surface, and paused after each slight sound.
The darkness was triumphing over the twilight with every moment that passed. By the time the newcomer had reached the spot where Macdonald had recognized Lockersley, the detective was only able to see the pale blur of a face above a coat fastened up to the chin. Then a chance turn of the head caught a reflection from the lake, and a pair of glasses gleamed for a second in telltale fashion. Keston was the only person who wore glasses in the Valehead household.
A thrush, startled by the newcomer, flew across the drive, shrilling its alarm call, and Macdonald heard the quick gasp of alarm from the yet more startled pedestrian.
Balancing himself on his toes, ready to spring forward to intervene should it be necessary, Macdonald wondered what Lockersley was thinking there in the cave. If his hearing were normally acute, he must have heard the other man’s approach. By the time Keston—if it were he—had reached the mouth of the cave, Macdonald thought it was time to leave his own hiding place. Quietly he separated the branches and stepped out onto the open drive, just as Keston entered the cave. The C.I.D. man crept up behind him, but still Lockersley gave no sign of life. A second later even Macdonald felt his skin prickle as something like a stifled scream shrilled in the darkness.
Macdonald’s flashlight cut a white swathe across the darkness of the cave. Lockersley was lying on the hermit’s bed, and Keston, who had cried out, was standing just beside him, swaying as he stood.
Lockersley’s voice, indignant but quite unafraid, broke out:
“What the ruddy hell do you imagine you’re all doing, and have I finished my ‘performance by request,’ or haven’t I?
I’ve never felt such a—”
Keston’s voice broke in, shrill with nervous tension.
“It is Lockersley! I knew! I knew all the time.”
He turned around and recognized Macdonald in the reflected beam of light.
“He’s there! I’ve found him! Arrest him, I tell you. Search him!”
“Shut up, you ruddy fool. There’s something indecent about the way you bleat,” said Lockersley indignantly.
“Search him! Search him!” persisted Keston, his nervous falsetto quivering.
Macdonald’s quiet voice made itself heard.
“Pull yourself together, Mr. Keston. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but Mr. Lockersley came here at my specific request. He came into the cave because I asked him to come.”
“He came here before. I tell you I know it!” insisted Keston. “It is he who is guilty, infamous scoundrel that he is.”
“Oh, dry up. You make me sick,” interpolated Lockersley.
“I suggest that you go back to the house, Mr. Keston,” said Macdonald, “unless you would like to volunteer a statement as to what you were doing here.”
“I followed him,” said Keston, pointing to Lockersley. “I knew that he would give himself away at last.”
“Let’s get out of this place, anyway,” said Lockersley. “It’s too stuffy with all of us in it, and I, for one, don’t like wrangling over the old man’s deathbed.”
He stood up and pushed his way past Keston to the cave’s entrance. The latter, his voice shaking with a curious nervous tremor, retorted:
“You may well feel guilty here, at the scene of your crime—”
“What the devil is all the to-do about, Keston? I saw a light flickering across that arch, and it gave me the jitters. I thought it was spooks.”
The last voice which spoke came from outside the cave, and Macdonald recognized it as Rhodian’s. The C.I.D. man came out into the shadowy drive and spoke clearly:
Death Came Softly Page 11
