However, she often thought, who could afford the luxury of being a snob these days? In fact, was it a luxury at all, rather than a shortsighted and unpleasant trait? Only to herself had Lady Oppenshaw ever admitted that Peter’s parentage had come as something of a shock to her. Naturally, she had met Peter first through Barbara, and had considered him a very desirable young man. However, shock or no shock, there it was. She had insisted at their first meeting—an awkward and stilted tea party at Carnworth Manor—that Mrs. Turnberry should call her Pamela, and hoped she might return the compliment by referring to Barbara’s future mother-in-law as Nora.
“I don’t feel easy with it, Father,” Nora Turnberry had said to her husband.
To which James had replied sensibly, “Look, old girl, Peter’s doing well for himself, so don’t you go letting him down.”
Peter had proved his worth at the local grammar school, from which he had just scraped a scholarship to Oxford. There, while taking a second-class degree in law, he had contrived to become first-class himself. He had been careful to make friends at Oxford who would be socially useful later on, and had turned himself into an excellent horseman. He was about to become a lawyer. His parents considered him brilliant.
“Besides,” James continued, “what’s so special about Lady Oppenshaw? She’s only a human being, isn’t she?”
Unable to deny this, Nora Turnberry had made a big effort to call Lady Oppenshaw by her first name, and had to admit to herself that it was becoming a bit easier. To her many friends on the island, however, Nora always referred to her as Lady Oppenshaw.
Now, as the women spoke on the telephone, Nora had come out with the “Pamela” almost naturally. “Yes, a very short visit, just to collect something,” she explained.
“Collect something? What?”
“Well, to tell the truth, Pamela, I don’t know. He simply said hello to Father and me, and then went up to his room. I went to the bottom of the stairs and called up to him wouldn’t he like a cup of tea, but he came out almost at once and said, ‘No, thanks, got to be going, got an appointment at five.’”
“And you’ve no idea what he’d come to collect?”
“Well, it couldn’t have been very big, could it? Stands to reason, I mean. Something like a paper or an envelope he could put in his pocket, I’d say. He certainly didn’t have anything in his hands when he came downstairs, if you follow me.”
“So he left very soon after three?” Pamela’s voice was brisk.
“That’s right, Pamela.” Funny, it gets easier as you go on with it, she thought. “About a quarter past, I should think, wouldn’t you, Father?”
There was a mumbled assent somewhere offstage.
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Turnberry. “About a quarter past three, so he should have been back with you at about a quarter to six—unless he took the cliff path, of course, which I’ve always said is dangerous, but you know young people, don’t you? If he’d taken the cliff path and hurried, he’d have been back for this appointment at five, whatever it was.”
Pamela Oppenshaw said quite sharply, “Well, he’s not back, nor is Melly. Barbara is beginning to worry.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” said Mrs. Turnberry. “He probably decided to take the ride back slowly, and go by the North Downs. Pity he couldn’t have taken the car.”
“Nora, dear,” said Lady Oppenshaw, “we agreed not to mention that, didn’t we?”
“Oh, sorry, Pamela. Anyhow, he’ll be along in a minute, you’ll see. Give our love to Barbara, won’t you, Pamela? It seems a long time since she was over here.”
Pamela made suitable noises of farewell, and turned to her stepdaughter, who had listened in on an extension.
“Well, you heard that.”
“Why isn’t he back?”
“I have no idea. Perhaps he didn’t want to meet Mr. Tibbett at five after all.”
“That’s an idea,” said Barbara.
Lady Oppenshaw looked at her stepdaughter for a moment. Then she said, “Sometimes you baffle me, Baba. You really do. Here you are, all worked up because Peter’s a little late back from a ride, and on the other hand…”
“On the other hand, what?” said Barbara sharply.
“Darling, forgive me…I don’t mean to pry…but I’ve had a feeling lately that there’s been some sort of trouble between you and Peter. Of course, it’s perfectly natural that when two people—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, stop hedging, Mother,” said Barbara. “Peter and I are no longer engaged. I broke it off last night, and you know it very well. We’re just keeping up a pretense until this ghastly weekend is over.”
Lady Oppenshaw opened her eyes very wide. “Now, my dear, this sort of thing happens all the time. I’m sure everything will sort itself out—”
“Oh, stop,” said Barbara. “I’m going to change. I can do with a drink.” She turned and ran upstairs.
It was unfortunate that it should have been just before half past six, when the Carnworth guests had assembled for their pre-dinner drinks, that Melisande should have returned, alone and in obvious distress, with no saddle and no rider. Covered in sweat and froth, she galloped into the stables, where she found Timmond, who loved her dearly and had no intention of going off duty until some sort of news had reached him about the mare.
Tending the mare, Timmond summoned the under-gardener, who was just going off duty, to fetch somebody from the kitchen. And so, by a long series of connecting links, the story reached Mr. Sowerby, the butler.
Sowerby was well trained in his profession. He served drinks to the assembled company, his final assignment being Sir Robert’s inevitable whisky and soda. As he served this, he whispered into his employer’s ear, “If I might have a word with you, sir.”
“Of course, Sowerby. Go along to the pantry, and I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Several people in the drawing room remarked on Peter Turnberry’s absence, but both Barbara and Lady Oppenshaw smiled unconcernedly and explained it by saying that he was visiting his parents, who lived on the island, and might stay there to have dinner. Only Henry Tibbett noticed the brief exchange between Sir Robert and Sowerby, and the former’s unobtrusive exit a moment or so after the butler had withdrawn.
Ten minutes later, Sir Robert was back, looking grave. He had a quiet word with his wife, who spoke equally quietly to Barbara. Barbara and Pamela Oppenshaw then went out onto the terrace, and Sir Robert said in a loud voice, “Ladies and gentlemen. If you please.” He sounded like a toastmaster at a banquet. Conversations dwindled into silence.
Sir Robert went on, “I’m afraid I have some rather disquieting news. As you all probably know by now, Peter rode over to see his parents at St. Lawrence this afternoon and has not returned. We were not at all worried. However, his mare has just arrived home, without her saddle and in a state of great distress, according to my groom. Peter’s parents have told us over the telephone that he left them before half past three. It would seem as though he has met with an accident of some sort.”
There was a general murmur of dismay and sympathy. Sir Robert went on, “His mother is of the opinion that he may have taken the cliff path in order to make the return journey in a hurry, as I believe he had an appointment with Mr. Tibbett at five o’clock. Is that not so, Henry?”
“Yes,” said Henry. He added, “I’ve no idea what he wanted to see me about, and frankly I wasn’t alarmed when he didn’t show up.”
“Quite. Well, I very much hope that there is no cause for alarm. The most obvious explanation is that he broke a girth, lost his saddle, and was thrown. The mare obviously bolted in panic and, not being used to the cliff path, has taken a long time to get back here. Poor Peter is therefore probably trudging it on foot. However, there is always the possibility that he was injured in the fall and is unable to walk. Consequently, Barbara and I are going to ride the cliff path in search of him. Barbara will take the big bay gelding, which is quite capable of supporting both of them if Peter
should need a lift home. This is the only way we can provide a search party. The track is quite impassable by any sort of vehicle. Now, do please carry on with your dinner as usual—Peter will probably be back long before we are, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, and we should leave now to take advantage of the daylight.” He paused. “Now, please excuse me while I go and change.”
It was only a few minutes later that the company in the drawing room saw the riders setting out across the park—Barbara looking ridiculously small perched on the big bay.
Henry said to Emmy, “Back in a moment. Forgot my handkerchief.” He slipped out into the circular hall.
From there he made his way quickly through the disguised green baize door. Behind it, a flagstone-paved corridor led to the kitchen, which had doors that gave access to the butler’s pantry, the staff sitting room, and the flight of stairs leading down to the cellar. The kitchen itself was a hive of activity, with a buxom cook chiding two kitchen maids to get on with their work and stop gossiping. Sowerby, who looked more shaken than any other member of the staff or family, was morosely sipping a glass of port. From him, Henry got directions to the back door and the stables.
Timmond was still rubbing down the mare when Henry reached the stables, with their aromatic horsy smell and general air of restlessness as the other two mounts fidgeted in their stalls, obviously sensing something wrong.
Timmond was talking gently to Melisande, and he looked up resentfully as Henry came in. This was, after all, his domain. Henry, however, was suitably humble, and Timmond soon relaxed and began to talk freely as he groomed his charge, who grew steadily quieter under his familiar ministrations.
“I just don’t understand it, sir,” said Timmond, his voice distorted by the inevitable piece of straw that he was chewing.
“What don’t you understand, Mr. Timmond?” Henry asked.
“Well, several things, to tell you the truth, sir. First of all, where’s her saddle?”
“Sir Robert said the girth might have broken,” Henry suggested.
Timmond’s reply was to spit eloquently onto the ground. “I saddled up Melly for Mr. Turnberry at lunchtime,” he said. “In a great rush to be off, he was. I tell you, sir, that girth didn’t break. That were a new saddle, and the girth as sound as…well, as sound as I ever seen. That’s the first thing I don’t understand. Second is, if he left St. Lawrence before half past three, as his mother says, according to Sir Robert, how come Melly took so long to get herself home? Answer me that, eh?”
“If he came by the shortcut, and she’s not accustomed—”
“They know,” said Timmond, with a countryman’s unassailable wisdom. “They know the way home. It’s not as if Melly’s never been on the cliff path before.”
Henry said, “I’m afraid I don’t know enough about horses to—”
“Well, I do,” said Timmond flatly. “Take it from me.”
“Then the answer must be that he wasn’t riding straight back here,” said Henry. “He must have gone out of his way on some—”
“Sir Robert says he told his mother he had to hurry for an appointment at five. Here at Carnworth.”
Henry said, “People don’t always mean what they say, you know.”
Grudgingly, Timmond said, “Well, I suppose it’s possible, but it don’t account for the saddle, do it?”
Henry had to admit that it did not.
“And there’s another thing.”
“What’s that?”
“See this?” Timmond picked up a piece of old frayed rope from the stable floor, which abounded in such bits and pieces.
“What about it?”
“’Twas attached to her bridle, that’s what. I pointed it out to Sowerby, but he don’t know a horse from a pig, let alone a curb from a snaffle. I tell you, sir, that mare was tethered to something.”
“Well,” said Henry, “she’d have to be, wouldn’t she, while Mr. Turnberry was in his parents’ house?”
“Yes, but normal you’d use the reins, wouldn’t you? Why use a bit of rotten old rope? And what’s more, it weren’t untied. It broke, like it was bound to in the end, with her plunging and rearing to get away.”
“I see,” said Henry slowly. Then, “Did you tell Sir Robert about this?”
“Didn’t have the chance, sir. He comes in here, takes one look at Melly, and he’s off, saying to saddle up the chestnut and the bay, as he and Miss Barbara’s off to look for Mr. Peter.”
“But will you tell him?”
“I’ll do that, sir, unless Mr. Peter comes back safe and sound, and with a proper explanation of what happened.”
By the time Henry got back to the house—this time by the more orthodox route through the garden and up the terrace—Sowerby was announcing that dinner was served.
This was a depressing meal, punctuated by long, embarrassed silences, despite Lady Oppenshaw’s attempts to keep a conversational ball rolling.
At one point, trying to help out, Henry remarked, “Wouldn’t it have been quicker and easier for Sir Robert to have taken one of the cars to look for Peter?”
To this, Pamela Oppenshaw replied, “Of course not. The road doesn’t go anywhere near the path. Didn’t you hear him say that the only way was on horseback?” Then, in a tone that aimed at being lighthearted and missed by a mile, she turned to Fred Coe and said, “Now that we have no more identity secrets, thanks to Henry’s brilliance, won’t you tell us something about the new Miss Twinkley book?”
Fred muttered something about the plot not being worked out yet, and the gloomy silence descended once more.
The diners had finished their dessert and were helping themselves to cheese when the dining room door opened, and Sir Robert came in. One look at his face showed that the news was not good.
He said, “Dr. Cartwright?”
“Yes, Sir Robert?”
“Please come with me.”
As the two men left the room, Henry quietly pushed back his chair, got up, and followed them. After that, there was nothing that even Pamela Oppenshaw could do to restore any semblance of normality. Cheese plates were pushed away, untasted. Lady Oppenshaw gave the signal to rise and, anticipating bad news, everyone went into the drawing room for coffee and liqueurs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN THE HALLWAY, Sir Robert said to Cartwright, “Please come into the library, Bill.” Then he turned, saw Henry, and seemed far from pleased. “This is a medical matter, Mr. Tibbett. I don’t think—”
“Peter Turnberry has had an accident,” said Henry.
“Yes.”
“Is he dead?”
Sir Robert hesitated. Then he said, “I’m afraid it seems likely.”
“Then the police will have to be informed,” said Henry. “I think you’d better let me in on this, Sir Robert.”
“Oh, very well.” Grudgingly, Oppenshaw opened the library door and stood back to let the other two precede him into the room. Then he shut the door behind him and said, “I’ve sent Barbara up to bed with a strong sedative. There is nothing she can do.”
“Where is Peter?” Henry asked.
“At the foot of the cliffs, below the path,” said Oppenshaw. “We could see him quite clearly, sprawled on the rocks. It’s a long fall—several hundred feet. There seemed to be no sign of life at all. The only thing to do was to hurry back and get help.”
“How can you get to him?” Dr. Cartwright demanded.
“I’ve called the coast guard,” said Sir Robert. “The local lifeboat is turning out. However, as luck would have it, Carnworth’s only doctor is out on an emergency case, which is why I’ve called you in, Bill. I know you’re an ear specialist—”
Cartwright said dryly, “I think I can remember enough general medicine to know whether a man is alive or not, Robert.”
Henry said, “If Turnberry is lying on the rocks, how are the lifeboat men going to reach him?”
“They can beach their boat in a nearby cove, and there’s a footpath from there,” said
Oppenshaw. “Now come along, Bill, we should get going. Do you have any sort of medical kit with you?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Bill Cartwright, “but the lifeboat is sure to be equipped with the basics. Not, I fear, that anything will be needed except a stretcher and some strong men.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Henry.
“Now, Tibbett—really, that’s exceeding your authority…you are a guest here…naturally, if police advice is needed…”
Sir Robert was plainly flustered. Henry said quietly, “I think I should be on that lifeboat. I can help carry the stretcher.”
“Oh, well, I suppose I can’t stop you. Come along, then. No time to lose.”
The Carnworth lifeboat was already on its launching ramp, and the crew aboard, when the Bentley pulled up at the small quayside. In the car, it had been arranged that Sir Robert should notify the nearest hospital and have an ambulance waiting for the return of the boat and the victim.
Henry’s presence was accepted without question by the skipper, a strong, grizzled man with a weatherbeaten face. The lifeboat was a far cry from the frail-looking open vessel, manned by stalwarts with oars, that the word generally conjures up. It was a sturdy diesel-driven craft with a roomy cabin, and with such tumble home as to make it virtually unsinkable. Dr. Cartwright nodded his approval as he inspected the medical supplies. Henry noticed that it was also equipped with a breeches buoy, stretchers, inflatable dinghies, and radar, together with a powerful searchlight. A reassuring boat.
The crew, all local volunteers, were mostly in blue jeans and sweaters, since the calm sea and warm August evening seemed unsuitable for oilskins and sou’westers, but the latter were all there, supplemented by thigh-length sea boots.
At a signal from the skipper, the launching mechanism was set in operation, and the craft moved slowly down the sloping ramp to hit the water. Engines and searchlight went on, and the boat turned west, heading for that part of the coast where gently sloping meadows and sandy beaches gave way to white cliffs towering above cruel rocks, culminating in the chalky pillars of the Needles.
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