“Truly?”
“Well, I didn’t get the information direct, as you might say, but from bits of back-seat conversation while I was bringing the ladies and the young gentleman home, something of the sort must have occurred.”
“But this is terrible! We shall be surrounded by assassins!”
“I shouldn’t worry, Cissie,” said George. “Detective Chief-Inspector Gavin is joining the party this evening. Besides, if you keep on moaning, you’ll make Henry spoil the dinner. What did you whistle me down for?” he added, turning to the husband.
“I ordered him to whistle for you, Georges,” said Celestine. “I wish you to arm yourself. You and he must patrol the house this night. You must be on guard. You must on no account sleep. Neither of you should sleep.”
“Oh, I sleep on a hair-trigger since the war,” said George easily. “And if you make Henry lose his eight hours he’ll lose all his good looks as well.”
“Over you I have no authority, Georges, but Henri will do as he is told,” said Celestine severely.
“Very well, chérie,” agreed Henri, favouring George with an enormous wink. There were a number of spare rooms in the Stone House, and Celestine always kept the beds in them well aired.
* * *
* By Sir Barkeley Piggott.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Escapade
They searched the country wide and braid,
The forests far and near,
And they found him into Elmond’s wood,
Tearing his yellow hair.
Old Ballad—(Anon)
Gavin, the young men, and Laura enjoyed the sweetbreads. Dame Beatrice, whose interest in food was apt to lessen with every passing year, dutifully ate curried eggs and Melba toast. Hamish, sumptuously fed in the kitchen, went to bed without being ordered to do so, at eight o’clock, just as it was beginning to get dark, for, on this particular evening, Hamish had secret plans. From the age of seven he had dispensed with Laura’s attempts to visit him to say good night and she had also promised not to peep in on him when she herself was ready to go to bed. He had no fear, therefore, that his plans would be frustrated because of maternal anxiety and care. Once he was upstairs he would see no more of his parents until the morning.
Hamish possessed the glory and the weakness (in the opinion of most of his adult relatives) of having a single-track mind. Once his heart was set on any project, however ill-advised and even dangerous it might seem to others, he felt bound to carry it through. He had once addressed his father in these terms:
“I don’t mind letting you down, but I’m never going to let myself down. By this I mean that if I commit myself to something I shall feel bound to go on with it.”
“Well, all right. I hope you’ll stick to that,” his father had replied, for Robert Gavin viewed with equanimity those vagaries and resources in his son which occasionally made Laura wonder how soon she would be subjected to a nervous breakdown.
Having supper in the kitchen with Henri and Celestine was always interesting, and the boy was already fluent in idiomatic French. Fortunately, Dame Beatrice’s servants were Parisians and their accent was untainted by patois. Hamish had listened, fascinated and excited—although he did not betray his emotions—to Celestine’s outspoken fears for the safety of the house and its occupants, a monologue punctuated only very occasionally by Henri’s soothing comments.
Hamish placed no reliance on these, for had not Henri presented him with the carving knife—unsharpened, it was true—with which to defend himself (and possibly his mother and Dame Beatrice) when the fun began? He went into the dining-room to greet and bid good night to his father as soon as supper was over in the kitchen, and found the five adults, empty coffee cups before them—for Celestine had orders not to clear these until she and Henri had concluded their own meal and the company had repaired to the drawing-room—arguing the case against Campden-Towne. They ceased talking as soon as he arrived to say good night. Laura gave him an apple, as it was always a major battle to get him to clean his teeth, and expressed surprise and pleasure when he informed her that he was going straight to bed.
“I’ve been listening to a lot more French than usual,” he explained, “and it’s made my brain rather tired.”
“He’s up to something,” said Laura, as soon as he had gone. “I’m going up to his room to make sure he goes to bed.”
“I thought you had a gentlemen’s agreement with him not to do that,” said Gavin. Laura snorted, but when the others went into the drawing-room she accompanied them, although she cast a speculative look at the staircase on the way.
Hamish, having gained his room, switched on the light and picked up the carving knife. With some difficulty, and having to employ a slightly saw-like movement, he managed to cut the ball of his thumb and draw a spot or two of blood. Satisfied, he put down the knife on his bedside table, undressed, sat on the bed to eat his apple and then lay down, leaving the light on. For a year or more he had trained himself to wake at a given time, mostly in order to go swimming or riding at dawn, a practice which had always received encouragement from his mother.
On this occasion he proposed to allow himself to sleep until eleven, by which time he supposed, in his ignorance of their habits, his parents and Dame Beatrice would be in bed. Having banged his head eleven times on the pillow and muttered fiercely to his subconscious mind, “And I mean tonight, not tomorrow morning,” he fell asleep. True to his own self-discipline, he woke at eleven, dressed, turned out the light and, shoes in hand, crept down the staircase.
From outside the drawing-room door he could hear his father’s voice. So they were still up! What was more, they might emerge at any moment and discover him. He debated, but only for a few seconds, whether to go on, and chance having them hear the front door being opened and shut, or whether to retreat to his room and wait there until they had gone to bed. Unfortunately he had no idea when this was likely to be. They might stay up and talk for hours. The first of his preconceived ideas was obviously wrong. He had better carry on, all the same.
His mind made up, he turned the knob of the front door. He would chance matters. This was not easy. The devoted servants had locked and bolted the door and put the chain on. Bolts have to be noisily withdrawn, and chains are apt to rattle. There was one bright spot, however. If the house had been made secure, it was probable that the servants had gone to bed. This would mean that the side door and the kitchen door, both well away from the drawing-room, would be available to a person who wanted to leave the house unobserved and unheard.
Hamish turned from the front door and tiptoed down the hall. His assumption that the servants, at least, had been helpful and sensible enough to go to bed proved to be correct. He listened intently at the kitchen door, but there was no sound of any kind except for the loud ticking of the kitchen clock. He wasted no more time, but padded in his stockinged feet to the back door. It was not until he had pulled the door to and had put on his shoes, that he remembered the carving knife. He was bitterly regretful to have left it behind, but felt it would be madness to go back for it and risk being caught.
Then he remembered that there were bound to be knives in the kitchen. He had not latched the door; he had merely pulled it to; he did not stop to take off his shoes again, trusting, this time, that the kitchen, shut off, as it was, by a green-baize door, would prove sufficiently remote from the drawing-room for his footsteps to go unheard.
The kitchen, of course (he thought angrily), was in complete and utter darkness. He would have to switch on a light. He groped for it, and found it. Then he opened the table drawer. It did not contain a knife of any description, for Henri was much too jealous of his implements to leave them lying around in table drawers. Each was put lovingly away in its own velvet-covered, satin-lined, padded and quilted case. The only useful object (from the boy’s point of view) which the drawer contained was a butcher’s steel. Hamish, intent on his adventure, seized this and crept away again.
H
alf an hour later Celestine, who had changed her mind about Henri’s guard-duty, preferring to have him guard her person rather than the house, with difficulty woke him. He was a very sound sleeper and preferred to have his eight hours undisturbed. He had to pay attention at last, however, for Celestine abandoned her attempts to shake him into wakefulness and, instead, bit him sharply on the lobe of the ear. Henri yelled and sat up.
“Be silent, idiot!” hissed his spouse. “Those assassins are here!”
“Nonsense, my cabbage! You have been dreaming,” riposted Henri, tenderly caressing his ear.
“Keep your voice low! Tell me, did you or did you not turn off the light in the kitchen before you came to bed?”
“But certainly I turned it off.”
“Well, it is on again now. It is shining on the wall of the kitchen garden. Turn your head and look for yourself. Better still, go and look out of the window and assure yourself that what I say is true.”
Henri groaned, but, well aware that he would get no peace—and certainly no more sleep—until he had obeyed her, he climbed out of bed and went to the window. (The blinds in their bedroom were never drawn except when Celestine decided that the summer sunshine was too strong for the very pretty carpet which Dame Beatrice had given them.)
“It is very true,” said Henri. The light is on. But there is a simple explanation which you might have thought of for yourself instead of making a meal of my ear.”
“The explanation is obvious! Those assassins, I tell you, they are here!”
“The explanation is obvious, certainly. It is Madame Gavin. She is often hungry and she sleeps little. She knows that there is always something in my larder which she will like. No doubt she is refreshing herself at this moment. There is a cold raised pie and some bottles of beer. Now compose yourself and let me sleep.”
“You do not come back to this bed! Put on your trousers—those barbarous garments!—and take with you your axe and confront these criminals.”
Henri groaned again, but did as he was told. At least, he carried out instructions so far as pulling on his trousers and picking up his axe were concerned. What he did not do was to repair forthwith to the kitchen. He preferred to take the more prudent course of seeking reinforcements just in case his wife was right—although he did not think she was. He went to the door of the Gavins’ room on the floor below, and knocked.
They had been upstairs for less than ten minutes and Laura was creaming her face.
“See who that is,” she said. Gavin went to the door and through the opening Henri could see Laura seated at the dressing-table. He gestured violently to Gavin and exclaimed,
“So my wife is right! I did well to come and see!”
“What on earth are you doing with that bloody great axe?” asked Gavin, eyeing the keen-edged weapon with amusement. “Gone berserk or something?”
“Someone has turned on the light in the kitchen. I thought it was Madame Gavin, but I see not so.”
“Well, I was thinking of going down,” said Laura, applying a tissue to her well-creamed countenance, “but I haven’t so far. I expect you left the light on when you went to bed. It’s easy enough. My brothers are always doing it.”
“I did not leave the light on, madame.”
“Oh, well, I’ll pop down and have a look round,” said Gavin, pulling the belt of his dressing-grown a little closer. “Could be burglars, I suppose. They’re probably mopping up the bottled beer.”
“Arm yourself, monsieur! They may be desperate!”
“Then you’d better come along with that axe.”
“Willingly, monsieur.” With Gavin in the lead, they tiptoed down the stairs. The kitchen was empty.
“Then you must have left the light on,” said Gavin, reasonably enough. But Henri was obstinately certain that this was not so.
“Let us rouse the household, monsieur,” he urged. “Of a certainty, someone has entered.”
“Oh, rot!” said Gavin easily. “No need at all to panic. But we can have a look at the downstairs doors and windows, if that will help.”
It took them less than two minutes to find out that the back door was not only unlocked and unbolted, but that it was not even latched.
“And now, monsieur,” said Henri, with dignity, “you are not prepared to say, I hope, that, in addition to leaving the light on—an extravagance and a carelessness of which I have never been guilty during all my years in the service of madame—I neglected to lock and bolt this door? Monsieur, my honour is at stake. I must convince you. Allow me to arouse Georges. He knows that always—but always!—I lock and bolt this door as soon as he goes at night to his apartment above the garage.”
“I think a better idea would be to have a look round first. All the same, if you did lock and bolt the door, I don’t see how anybody from outside could get in. Locks, I grant you, can be picked, but a couple of hefty bolts, top and bottom, are a different matter. You can see for yourself that the door is quite undamaged and the hinges are still functioning. Still, we’ll take a look round, first securing the door and then giving the once-over to the windows and the side entrance. If you’re right, it seems to me more than likely that somebody must have got in through a window and then left by the back door. Wonder what they were after?”
“If burglars, the silver, and madame’s antique clocks, most likely, monsieur.”
“She’s got some pretty good china, too. All right. Let’s go and check up. I suppose you’d know if anything was missing.”
“Of the silver and the clocks, undoubtedly, monsieur. Of the china, I am less sure.”
“Oh, well, I can remember that, I think.”
They made a methodical search, but nothing appeared to be missing and the house was its usual serene, untroubled self. As they came out of the dining-room they met Laura at the foot of the stairs.
“What is all the hoo-ha?” she enquired.
“Don’t know yet,” her husband replied. “Back door open, kitchen light on, nothing missing, nobody about.”
“Except Hamish,” said Laura immediately. “I knew he was up to something. I said so. I’m going up to his room, whether you like it or not.”
“Hold on a minute,” urged Gavin. “I’m not going to snoop around outside. It’s hardly likely to be Hamish. He always scrambles down that porch over the front door. It’s bang outside his bedroom window.”
“He wouldn’t climb down in the dark.”
“Probably got eyes like a cat. Anyway, he must know the way blindfold. Besides, it wasn’t really dark when he went to bed. You go on up and turn in.”
“Nonsense! I’m going to Hamish’s room.”
Gavin followed her up the stairs and Henri, with his axe and with an uneasy recollection of the blunt-edged carving-knife he had supplied to the boy, brought up the rear. At her son’s bedroom door, Laura paused to listen. There was nothing to be heard, so she turned the handle and switched on the light. Hamish’s pyjamas were on the floor and there were neither other clothes nor his shoes to be seen. She swung round on her husband, but Gavin gripped her and put a hand over her mouth.
“The light, Henri!” he said. Henri switched it off and Gavin released his wife. All three listened intently. Somebody was approaching by car. Then there was silence. “May be all right,” said Gavin. “Probably is. But I don’t like the youngster being out on his own at this time of night. I suppose he’s in the garden somewhere. He’d hardly wander away. I’ll go and call him in, curse his little nylon socks.”
“That car’s in the drive,” murmured Laura. “It can’t be callers! It could be the Superintendent, but I should have thought he’d phone.” Suddenly she gripped her husband’s arm. There was a slight scrabbling sound on the porch below the window, and Hamish tumbled into the room. Gavin called for a light. As it was switched on, the bedroom door opened and Dame Beatrice appeared. She had her small revolver at the ready.
“Oh, golly!” exclaimed Hamish. “How good! But no time for that now. The house is su
rrounded. Two of them. Came by car. Did you hear it?”
“Get into bed at once!” said his father. Hamish glanced at him and obeyed, dropping his things on the floor and hastily pulling on his pyjamas. “Now get to sleep and we’ll settle things in the morning.” He put out the light.
“They’re coming here, you know,” said Hamish, softly. “I wasn’t making it up. I wasn’t, really!”
That he was right was soon proved. There was another scrabbling sound on the roof of the porch and the window was pushed further open. A voice said, “Ladder! I’m not a blasted monkey on a stick!”
Gavin put out his hand to touch and reassure his son, but Hamish needed no such comfort. He was having the thrill of a lifetime. Gavin moved like a cat to the door. From the window came a grunt and the sound of a light ladder being rested against the sill. Then the window was filled with a monstrous, bulky shadow. The torchlight was blotted out as the man turned to aid his companion. Gavin waited, his hand on the switch, until they were both in the room. Then he gave an Indian war-whoop and turned on the light. Then he sprang. Henri, who had remained on the landing, came in again, waving his axe and chanting a Gallic battle-cry. He was followed by Laura, a tigress coming to the rescue of her young. Dame Beatrice followed, nursing her gun.
There was nothing to it. The intruders were taken by surprise and what with that and having to face Gavin with his police training, Henri with his fearsome weapon and Dame Beatrice with her small revolver, they offered no resistance. Laura, to her chagrin, was left with nothing to do. The men were taken downstairs to the dining-room and while Laura telephoned the Superintendent, Gavin questioned the intruders after informing them that he was a Detective Chief-Inspector from Scotland Yard.
They told him at once that they had been sent to kidnap the child by a man who had assured them that he was the boy’s father. Gavin demanded the man’s name. At first they protested that they did not know it; that they knew him only as “the governor.”
Adders on the Heath (Mrs. Bradley) Page 22
