‘Oh come, Andrew, old chap. There aren’t people like that. Not in real life. There’s so much good in the worst of us – how does it go?’
‘What about Hitler?’ Miss Ainsley inquired vapidly.
Will Dykes said, ‘Restorick is right. It’s too bookish. You don’t get ’em in real life – not characters like the valet and the governess in The Turn of The Screw.’
Andrew Restorick turned the screw a little tighter, saying:
‘Oh, but you’re wrong. I’ve knocked about the world a bit, and I tell you I’ve met such creatures. Three of ’em, to be precise. One was an American, in Constantinople; a blackmailer. The second was a sadist storm-trooper in-Breslau – he got tight one night and confided to me that he simply lived for the tortures he was allowed to inflict on prisoners.’ Andrew Restorick paused.
‘And the third?’ prompted Miss Cavendish coolly. ‘You are saving up something excessively horrid for your climax, I am assured.’
‘The third,’ said Andrew Restorick deliberately, in a voice that seemed to Nigel to be dragged up out of an abyss of pain and deep bewilderment, ‘the third, since you ask me – unless I’m very much mistaken – can be found here in this house to-night.’
‘Oh la, Andrew!’ exclaimed Clarissa Cavendish. ‘You are too odious. I protest you have turned me goose-flesh all over.’
‘Andrew, you’re very naughty!’ said Mrs Restorick, plunging in like a roguish titan to save the situation. ‘Andrew is such a dreadful leg-puller. Now he’s trying to work us up into a panic for our little séance to-night. I won’t have it, Andrew. Mr Strangeways wants us to approach it in a calm, scientific spirit.’
‘Sorry, Charlotte. My imagination running away with me,’ said Andrew Restorick, lightly seconding her effort. ‘But I still maintain there are such people. What do you say, Dr Bogan? You must have a wide experience to draw on.’
The doctor, who had been following these exchanges with an alert, whimsical eye, tugged gently at his beard. His eyes became abstracted, as though he were turning over case-histories in his own mind.
‘I’m inclined to agree with you, Restorick. Of course, in my profession, we do not have the same values. There is no good or evil for us. There is just sickness or health. We never judge. But yes, I believe there may be minds which are incurably sick, which live – as you put it – for evil. I reckon so.’
But at this point their hostess firmly put an end to the morbid discussion by collecting the ladies’ eyes. The gentlemen being left alone, Nigel had more leisure to look about him. The dining-room was large enough to be called a banqueting hall; a musicians’ gallery stood at the far end. The table was lit by electric candles in heavy iron sconces, and in the huge fireplace several trees seemed to be burning.
‘A wonderful old house this must be,’ he said politely to Hereward Restorick.
‘Like to show you over it. Bit of a rabbit warren really, y’know. Come up to-morrow morning. And your good wife. You must meet the kiddies, too.’
Nigel somehow hadn’t connected the statuesque Charlotte Restorick with the idea of children. He said he would be delighted.
‘And I say, Strangeways,’ continued his host, looking rather like a melancholy spaniel caught out in some delinquency, ‘this show of yours to-night. My wife’s deuced keen on it, otherwise I’d – what I mean is, with everyone a bit het up – this war, y’know – and we don’t want the women folk frightened, so I thought – well, what d’you think?’
Nigel gathered from these incoherent mumbles that his host wanted to have the psychical research called off, without being held responsible for calling it off himself. Nigel would have been only too ready to fall in with his host’s wishes, particularly in view of a certain penetrating, sceptical look he had noticed in Dr Bogan’s eye – a look which boded ill for impostors; but the situation at Easterham Manor was so mysterious that curiosity got the better of caution, and he compromised by telling Hereward Restorick that he thought he ought to go forward with it, since his hostess expected him to, but it would be all very mild and unsensational – just a preliminary reconnaissance of the facts.
So, an hour later, they all trooped up to the Bishop’s room. It was an unprepossessing apartment, gloomy and cold in spite of the fire burning in the grate. Bookcases lined the walls at intervals, filled with fusty volumes in calf and bound copies of dim nineteenth-century periodicals. The ceiling was so low that Nigel had to stoop to avoid being brained by some of its more massive beams. Chill draughts ran like mice along the floor and hurried up one’s ankles.
None of this, however, cramped Charlotte Restorick’s style. Rising from her seat, hands clasped on her massive bosom and an expression of anticipative ecstasy on her face, she announced to the semi-circle of chairs – as if they had been the whole embattled Four Hundred – that she was happy to be able to present Mr Strangeways, the well-known expert in psychical research, who with their help was going to solve the mystery of the Bishop’s room.
The combined effect of this announcement and the room itself was to make Nigel’s blood seem to be alternately boiling and freezing in his veins. However, he took the floor, ignoring a flagrant wink from Georgia and firmly avoiding Dr Bogan’s eye, and opened up. Mrs Restorick had exaggerated his credentials. He was a mere amateur of psychical research. But the episode of Christmas Eve had interested him strangely – and where, by the way, was Scribbles?
Charlotte Restorick, flushing, said wasn’t it tiresome of her, but in the excitement she had quite forgotten to have the cat brought up. She spoke into the house telephone. Nigel half expected the butler to arrive bearing the cat on a salver, but Scribbles entered in the arms of a housemaid who was evidently distraught with panic at the idea of being in the haunted room, and, dropping her burden on the floor – where it instantly curled up and fell asleep at Nigel’s feet – fled downstairs again.
In the meanwhile Nigel, judging that this was the simplest way to conceal his own ignorance, had begun to ask each of those present to give his or her own account of the Scribbles episode. Their testimonies varied but little. Eunice Ainsley, it is true, shuddering strongly from blonde head to dainty toe, protested that she had seen a too foully weird shadow pass along the wall where the cat had been battering itself. ‘Auto-suggestion,’ murmured Dr Bogan, taking the words out of Nigel’s mouth. Andrew Restorick gave an embellished account of Scribbles’ behaviour, an account which must have been second-hand if – as Miss Cavendish had asserted – he had been observing the effect rather than the agent of that Christmas Eve alarm. Hereward Restorick contributed a prosy synopsis of the history of the Bishop’s room. Everyone seemed a little deflated, a little ashamed of the strong reactions they had felt on the previous occasion. Nigel received the impression that something vital was missing – the presence, perhaps, of the elusive Elizabeth Restorick.
‘So much for the facts, then,’ he said. ‘Now we’ve got to consider the possibility that the whole thing was a hoax. Who suggested the experiment originally?’
‘Betty did,’ said Charlotte Restorick. She wagged a roguish finger at her brother-in-law. ‘Andrew, are you quite sure it wasn’t one of your and Betty’s practical jokes? You two children are so naughty.’
‘Innocent this time,’ replied Andrew, smiling amiably.
‘But, damn it,’ said Hereward, ‘you couldn’t make the cat behave like that. It was extraordinary. Gave you the creeps.’ A sudden little chill came over the assembly. Hereward went on hurriedly, ‘Not that there’s anything in it, I mean. Brute must have eaten something that disagreed with it.
‘Who gave Scribbles the saucer of milk?’ Nigel inquired.
After a moment’s general indecision, Will Dykes said:
‘Betty did.’
‘Oh, but that’s absurd,’ said Miss Ainsley. ‘Betty never would. She loathes animals.’
‘Can’t help that. I saw her,’ maintained Will Dykes.
‘Perhaps someone asked her to.’ Nigel looked round at the guest
s inquiringly. They all shook their heads or remained silent.
‘Well, I shall have to ask her myself then.’
‘God damn it!’ Will Dykes suddenly exploded. ‘Is this a police inquiry, or what? It’s always Betty who’s got to be blamed for everything.’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Dykes,’ said Miss Ainsley viciously. ‘Just because Betty’s got you on a string, you imagine she’s a holy angel. I could tell you –’
‘Hold your tongue, you bitch!’ shouted Will Dykes.
The scene was incredible, bursting out like a thunderclap from a clear sky. For once, Nigel felt utterly at a loss. Even the premonitory breezes over the dinner table had not prepared him for such a storm. Nerves seemed to be so raw in this house that the least touch provoked an outcry. Mrs Restorick, however, pulled herself together and rode – or rather, contrived to seem quite oblivious of – the whirlwind. The company was shepherded downstairs. Final drinks were served. Hereward’s chauffeur drove the Dower House party home. Nigel and Georgia had been invited to come up again early next morning.
Half an hour later, in their bedroom, they compared notes.
‘Darling, I rather wish we hadn’t come,’ Georgia was saying. ‘I don’t like it. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.’
This was something of an admission from Georgia, who had faced more dangers in her thirty-five years than most men meet in their whole lifetime, and Nigel took it at its face value.
‘What frightened you most?’
‘Andrew Restorick, when he said there was somebody in the house who “lived for evil”. One of his three instances. You see, he meant it. He wasn’t pulling any legs then.’
‘That’s what I thought, too,’ replied Nigel soberly.
‘Clarissa knows about it. The cat business was just an excuse for getting you down here.’
‘Who did Andrew mean, I wonder. Elizabeth, do you think? What did Clarissa say? “I wish you may save Elizabeth Restorick from damnation.” I think it’s all a bit above my weight.’
‘Did you notice, just after we arrived, when Clarissa asked if Elizabeth was going to be with us to-night – what an odd effect it made? The queer way people glanced at each other?’
‘Yes. It makes me think that each of them had his own secret about her, and was covertly trying to estimate whether the others guessed it. What I mean is, when a number of people have a secret in common, their protective reaction is very studiously to avoid each other’s eyes.’
‘Which rules out the idea that Elizabeth was being kept from us by a kind of common conspiracy. She must be a remarkable creature. You could hardly mention her name to-night without someone acting strange or blowing up.’
‘Well, there’s no use speculating about it till we know more of the background. I wonder will she be well enough for me to see her to-morrow. I should like to know what Dr Bogan is treating her for, I must say.’
Nigel was to see Elizabeth Restorick to-morrow, but under circumstances very different from what he had imagined. When they presented themselves at Easterham Manor next morning, after a floundering walk through the snow, the door was opened by the butler. His fat, white face was quivering like a blanc-mange. In a voice almost out of control, he said:
‘Mrs Restorick wishes me to bring you to her room. Oh sir, the most terrible thing has happened. Miss Elizabeth –’ His voice failed him.
‘Is she – worse?’
‘Dead, madam. Milly found her this morning. She was dead.’
‘I am sorry. We’d no idea she was so ill. I’m sure they won’t want us to – please give our deepest sympathy to –’
‘Mrs Restorick particularly asked for you to come in. You see, sir,’ the butler gulped, ‘Miss Elizabeth has – has hung herself.’
CHAPTER FIVE
A neck God made for other use
Than strangling in a string.
A. E. HOUSMAN
AS THEY WAITED in Mrs Restorick’s room, Nigel’s mind went back to an earlier case of his, a case whose solution had depended upon a young Irish girl who had killed herself years before and in another country. At the start, he had known as little about that Judith as now he knew about this Elizabeth. Judith had been a face seen in an old snapshot. Elizabeth was still almost as shadowy a figure; he knew little about her except what Miss Cavendish had told them two evenings before – that she had inherited the vice of the Restorick family, and that she was a beauty. And, last night, every time her name was mentioned there had been a curiously violent reaction.
Charlotte Restorick now appeared. Shock and sorrow had stripped from her those little artificialities of speech and gesture, and left her a quiet dignity which impressed Nigel very much. He fancied, looking at her haggard face, that she had been taking most of the strain of the tragedy in her household. Georgia tried to express their sympathy. Charlotte received it with a gentle nobility which made it seem all the more inadequate, then she turned to Nigel.
‘Mr Strangeways, I have a request to make which you must feel quite free to refuse. A request and a confession. I’m afraid I asked you here last night under false pretences. Miss Cavendish had told me you were a private investigator, and I asked her to have you stay at the Dower House. The episode in the Bishop’s room seemed the best pretext. Only Miss Cavendish and myself, to the best of my knowledge, are aware of your real profession.’
‘You were expecting – something to happen?’
‘I didn’t know. I’ve been in great distress – but we’ll talk about that later. What I want you to do is’ – her hands gripped the back of the chair so that her knuckles whitened – ‘is to go and look at Elizabeth. Just that. I know something is wrong, but I can’t figure out what it is. Then come back and talk to me. Maybe I’ve just been imagining things these last weeks – everything’s been so unsettled. I –’
She was slipping a little towards incoherence, and, as if to arrest herself, turned more briskly to Georgia, saying:
‘I wonder would you go and keep the children company for a while. It would be a great kindness. Priscilla’s governess is on vacation, and they don’t take to Miss Ainsley. I don’t want them to be wandering around the house just now.’
Georgia willingly agreed. Mrs Restorick sent a message to her husband, then took Georgia off upstairs. Presently Hereward appeared and conducted Nigel to Elizabeth’s room. On the way, he apologized – vaguely and rather ludicrously – for the trouble to which they were putting Nigel. He seemed much more distraught than his wife, as though he had nothing but his conventional good breeding to oppose to the tragedy, and it was not equal to the strain.
‘I suppose you’ve sent for the police?’ Nigel asked.
Hereward winced. An expression of distaste came over his features. ‘Yes, I’m afraid there’s going to be a dreadful scandal. Y’know what it’s like in the country. Scandal and gossip. Of course, Dixon’ll do his best to hush it up. He’s the Chief Constable. Friend of mine. Very good fellow. Mind your head through this door.’
Upstairs the house, as Restorick had said, was a rabbit warren. Dark little passages that seemed to twist and turn till you lost all sense of direction. Low doors. Steps up or down where you least expected them.
‘Sent for a doctor, too?’
‘Oh, didn’t think that necessary. Got Bogan here, y’see. He was looking after her.’
He cast a dubious glance at Nigel, which said as plainly as words – deuced embarrassing situation, this; total stranger; why Charlotte wanted to drag him into it I can’t imagine. He looked so pathetically inadequate that Nigel tried to help him out.
‘My uncle’s Assistant Commissioner at New Scotland Yard. I’ve had a certain amount of experience of this sort of thing. Perhaps I can be of some help.’
‘Quite. Quite. Very good of you. Well, here we are. Andrew said we should leave everything untouched. I’ll – er – leave you to it. Robins – that’s our constable – he’ll be along soon: was out somewhere when I rang up. Difficult to get about in this s
now,’ said Hereward Restorick, and, opening a door, retired hastily from the scene.
It was perhaps the weirdest scene Nigel had ever witnessed, for everything here – even the central figure – seemed to contradict the idea of tragedy. It was a gay room, the ceiling higher than most of those at the Manor, decorated with a pretty flowered wallpaper and bright curtains of the same pattern. The black-out curtains had been pulled back, so that the shine off the snow pervaded the room with an unearthly radiance. Bright clothes were littered on the chairs, a crimson slipper in the middle of the floor took the eye, and the mirrors on the dressing-table reflected a crystal array of scent bottles and toilet preparations. A clean, pleasing odour of some sandalwood-smelling scent hung in the air. It might have been a young girl’s room, breathing innocence and a light heart.
And Elizabeth Restorick, hanging from a beam in the centre of the room, a thin rope twined double round her neck, might have been a young girl still. She was stark naked. Her body had a vernal perfection, even in death, that took the breath away. Shining in the light from the snow, the red-lacquered toenails so close to the floor that she seemed almost to be standing on tiptoe, her body challenged the eye and humbled it. Nigel understood what havoc the living girl could have caused.
But she was a woman, not a girl. Her face showed that. Though little distorted by the manner of her death – peaceful, indeed, and remotely smiling – the features bore the mark of experience. There were fine wrinkles under the brown eyes, and the skin over the temples had a tired, brittle look. For a few moments Nigel was so fascinated by the beauty, the incurious regard of the dead woman, that the strangest thing about her failed to strike him. Her face was made up. Once he had realized this, his mind kept returning to it, even while he was going through the commonplace preliminaries of his investigation. Her face was made up, thoroughly if not quite perfectly – the lipstick did not quite follow the lines of the mouth. Well, one would not expect her hand to have been steady just then. It seemed to tell him a great deal about Elizabeth – that she should have tired her face for this assignation with death.
The Case of the Abominable Snowman Page 4
