“Nothing’s impossible with a family like these Mallowoods,” said Vernon. “Look here, Jock. If Paul is anywhere around at Wulfstane these days, and gets to know that his brother Martin is taking strolls in Long Wood in the gloaming, something may happen.”
“Something may, so I advise you not to try that little game on, Peter. If I want you to play the decoy, I’ll tell you so, but until you’re given instructions, keep away. Got that?”
“Ha, ha! Got a rise at last!” chuckled Vernon. “Then you do believe that something else may happen at Wulfstane?”
“Something’s bound to happen,” said Macdonald, “but it’s not for you to precipitate it. Stay away for the time being, Peter. I’m going down there again myself – and if I want you to lend a hand I’ll tell you so.”
“In other words, don’t butt in,” grinned Vernon. “All right. I’m always willing to take orders, but. tell me this. What’s the object of keeping men on duty in the park at Wulfstane, where they’re too far away from the house to keep an eye on it, and where they’re concentrating on watching a ruined bit of monastic building that almost certainly isn’t connected with the Wulfstane cellars?”
“Well, if you can’t see the notion underlying their presence at that improbable spot, far be it from me to enlighten you,” said Macdonald.
“Meaning that your men are posted at a distance to give Veronica – and-or Martin, Paul and company – confidence that the house itself is unwatched? They’re to feel they know what to avoid and so be unprepared when the house itself is searched?” asked Vernon.
And Macdonald did not contradict him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT was the night after Macdonald had met Peter Vernon at Scotland Yard: a still, cold night, in which stars blazed in a clear sky and the earth was crisp and hard in the grip of the first heavy frost of the year. The intense cold had laid hold of Wulfstane Manor, creeping through its vast rooms, its stone-flagged kitchens and shadowy corridors. The old house was deadly cold, all save the inglenook in the great hall, where logs smouldered day in, day out, and a glow could be coaxed from the pile of wood ashes at any hour of the day or night.
It was close on midnight when Veronica Mallowood came downstairs. In all the chequered history of the ancient manor house, no stranger sight than Veronica could have been seen as she came silently downstairs. She was wrapped in an ancient sable cloak, its rich folds hanging magnificently from her broad shoulders to the ground. The fur was so old and rotten that it tore at a touch, but it was warm, and even in its old age, still beautiful. With a lighted candle in her hand she came silently down the state staircase, the candle light flickering in the cold air, throwing strange long shadows and stranger beams on the dusty woodwork of stairs and panelling.
There was no other light in the hall. The curtains were drawn over the windows and the fire smouldered under a pile of white wood ashes. Veronica, with her heroic build, wrapped in her dark cloak, was a more dramatic figure than any Lady Macbeth ever seen on a stage, the setting of shadowy panelled hall richer in mystery and sombre suggestiveness than any stage set ever designed. There was about her the shadow of tragedy, a something sinister and terrible as she moved softly across the hall.
It was as she approached the fireplace that a low voice spoke from the shadows.
“Ronnie, I’ve come in. It’s so damned cold down there.”
There was no jerk in the hand which held the candle, no nervousness in Veronica Mallowood’s voice when she answered, though her heart had given one wild leap as though it would choke her when she heard that unexpected voice. She answered naturally and quietly:
“I should think it was cold. It’s freezing hard outside, the ground’s stone hard. Why didn’t you make the fire up, there’s plenty of wood.”
She set her candlestick down on a table and knelt in front of the fire, stirring the ashes and then using the bellows to fan the dull glow on the under side of half-consumed logs. Piling fresh wood on the blaze she said:
“That’s better. This fire never fails one. It’s always alive – like the house. I never come into the place without being aware that it greets me. Don’t you want something to eat, Martin – or else a hot drink? I can easily get you something.”
“No. I don’t want anything. Don’t go away, Ronnie. I want to talk to you. What’s happened? That Inspector chap was here again, wasn’t he? I heard his voice.”
“Yes. He came… Don’t bother about it, Martin. There’s no need to worry.”
“Aren’t you a proper brick?” he said, and Veronica turned and looked at him. His face was half-shadowed, and she took a spill and lighted two more candles which stood in brass sconces on the chimney piece.
“Now I can see you properly,” she said, her voice still calm and level. “You look better, Martin.”
He laughed, a little rueful laugh, and spread out his thin hands to the blaze.
“Yes. I’m better. I’ve had a sort of cloud over my mind. I told you – I forgot everything. I’ve been imagining things. Sorry to be such a fool, Ronnie, but I dreamt I’d done something ghastly. I couldn’t bear to come near any one, or be asked questions. You know, if you’d started asking me questions I think I should have gone raving… stark raving.”
“Well, I haven’t asked you any questions, have I? and I’m not going to”
“No, but I’m going to ask you some, and then perhaps I can get things straightened out. What did happen, Ronnie? I’ve forgotten… ever since I saw Paul… dead… I’d so often wanted to kill him, and I thought I’d done it at last. I told you, didn’t I, that morning”
“You didn’t see Paul… dead,” she replied, her voice still very quiet and controlled. “Paul went away from here that Wednesday morning, ten days ago. Basil shot himself, upstairs in the playroom. There was a warrant out for his arrest, and he shot himself up there. The door was locked and Richard had to break it in. It’s about that that the police have been coming. But you couldn’t have seen Basil, Martin. The door was locked on the inside.”
“Oh, no. It wasn’t Basil I saw. It was Paul. I wish I could remember. Something gave my mind a jolt and I got muddled, like I’ve done before. I can remember that evening all right, when Paul and Basil were here. Paul was pretty foul. He said I was certifiable… you know”
“Oh, never mind,” she exclaimed. “He’ll never come here again. Soon the police will get tired of all these questions they’re asking and go away and leave us in peace again – just you and me.”
“Richard hasn’t come back then?”
“No. I don’t suppose he’ll ever come back”
Martin broke in with an exclamation, almost like a cry of fear.
“Ronnie, don’t say that… Do you remember me saying that to Paul… ‘you won’t come back,’ and then I saw him, lying there. God, I wish I could remember what I did.”
“Martin, Martin, don’t torture yourself! You couldn’t have seen Paul. He went away. He went to Tunis, as he planned. I don’t want to worry you about things, but I’m going to tell you this. Paul is dead. He was killed in Tunis. The inspector told me so this morning.”
“Good Lord! And I’ve been imagining all that… Ronnie, I must be quite mad. I thought… don’t interrupt… I’m beginning to remember. You say he went away, that Wednesday morning?”
“Yes. In his car – that opulent Rolls Royce. Richard saw him off from the front door, and Higgins put his suitcases in the back. I glanced out of my window and saw him drive away, in those loathsome russet tweeds and check overcoat.”
“Lord, yes!” Martin’s voice was excited now, and his face animated. “I remember. I saw him, too. Why, I waved to him. Richard was standing on the steps – but something was wrong. What was it? That’s where I begin to get muddled. I can remember seeing the car – and then I went along the corridor towards Paul’s room. I can’t think what I wanted but I went to find out something.”
Veronica was crouching by the fire, her cloak lying in supple f
olds on the Persian rug, her chin cupped in her hands.
“Why worry about it so much, Martin? You’re imagining things again. Everything was just ordinary. I went to see if Cynthia Lorne had had her breakfast. Richard came upstairs again to his room, Basil was still asleep, and Paul was driving through the village. The villagers saw him, quite a lot of them.”
Martin leant forward towards the blaze of the fire, his thin pale face flushed, his brows knit.
“I went into Paul’s bedroom,” he said slowly. “I remember now. It was all right, wasn’t it – all quite ordinary… The bedclothes were tossed back, the room empty. I know it was empty, because I looked. I opened the chests, and that great press… What was I looking for, Ronnie? I know I had an idea about something, but I can’t remember.”
“Why bother about it?” she asked, and reached out her right hand and laid it on his. “I know you do forget things sometimes, Martin, and it has always frightened you. Haven’t I always told you not to worry?”
He jerked his hand away and gave a nervous laugh, his thin shoulders shaking.
“I know you have, but I can’t help worrying. Where am I in those lost hours, Ronnie? What do I do? It’s as though I lose bits out of my life. I cease to exist as myself – and I can’t remember what I’ve done. This time I know something ghastly happened. It’s all in a muddle at the back of my mind. I remember… looking in Paul’s bedroom – but he wasn’t there. He’d gone away. Why should I have bothered about his going? I wanted him to go. He frightens me. I always remember that time he locked me in, between the doors of the west room and the oriel room. I heard him laugh as the door clicked shut and left me in the dark.”
Veronica remembered what Martin was talking about – remembered it all too well. Martin had been eight years old, and Paul eighteen. It had been six hours before Martin was found, because Paul had gone out and forgotten – so he said – all about the trick he had played on his small brother. For six hours Martin had been shut into the narrow dark space between the two doors, and it had been Veronica who had found her twin at last. She had opened one of the doors between the disused bedrooms at the west end of the house, and Martin’s unconscious form had tumbled out at her feet. She was but a small child herself, and she had screamed, “He’s dead, and Paul’s killed him. Paul’s killed him.”
Even at this length of time Veronica had to stop herself shuddering when she remembered opening the door and seeing Martin topple forward on her feet. She could still hear her own screams… “Paul’s killed him, and I’m going to kill Paul.”
She turned to Martin, controlling her voice to quietness.
“I know. I’ve never forgotten. It was beastly – but it’s all long long ago, Martin. You were all right again next day, and Paul went away.”
“Those doors. It was something to do with those doors.”
Martin’s voice was almost a whisper now, and the fear in his mind spoke in his voice, so that it shook and quavered. Veronica spoke again, quickly, urgently:
“Martin, that was all over and finished, years and years ago. Don’t go on thinking about it. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Those doors,” he persisted. “I went into the west room, where Paul slept. It was all right in there – but the door was locked. The door leading into the oriel room. I remember now. We didn’t lock it, Ronnie, did we?”
“It was locked when the room was made ready for Paul, Martin.”
“No, it couldn’t have been, or if it was, Paul had the key. I know. I heard him moving about in the room next to his, the evening before. He was always like that when he came back here – spying round. Those doors…”
He sat hunched up, his chin sunk on to his chest, his sunken eyes staring painfully across the shadowy hall.
“I was in Paul’s room… and that door was locked,” he said, the words coming slowly. “I went along the west corridor to the door of the room next to Paul’s. That was locked, too. I remember now. Why did you lock the doors, Ronnie?”
“I didn’t. You’re imagining things, my dear. Leave off worrying, Martin.” Her voice was urgent and she caught his hand again. “Martin, shall we go away for a bit, you and me? You remember when we went to Scotland that time? It was fun, wasn’t it; you liked the fishing – those speckled trout, and the salmon jumps. Do you remember how we tried poaching, and how exciting it was, lying in the heather?”
“I can’t go away. You know. They’re watching for me. I’ve seen them, those men in the park. They’re going to hang me, because I killed Paul. If I could only remember I shouldn’t mind so much. It was something to do with those doors. I came downstairs again. I remember that. I knew all the keys were in the cupboard in the morning room. It’s queer, Ronnie. I’m getting bits coming back now – quite clearly. I can remember going to the cupboard where the extra keys were kept. It was locked, but the key was in the drawer in your desk. I got it out.”
“Oh, no, you didn’t. You’re still dreaming, Martin. You went out into the garden not long after Paul had left. You say that you remember seeing him go. You saw him drive away. After that you’ve got in a muddle. Perhaps you had a fall – like you did once before. You must have hurt yourself and not realised it. It’s quite a simple thing to happen. If you fall and hit your head you can get concussion without realising it, and then you forget things and get them muddled up – especially if you’re not kept quiet and looked after.”
Martin disregarded her speech as though he had not heard it.
“I got the key I wanted – the one you had made to control all those locks at the west end of the first floor – and I went upstairs again. I heard someone call out – that would have been Basil, wouldn’t it? He was shouting to Richard, something about wanting his letters, and Richard answered, you know that cheerful airy way he has of speaking – ‘all right, old chap, all right, I’ll see about it…’ I want to get it quite right, Ronnie, so that I’m not muddled any more. Richard and Basil were in their own rooms, at the east end of the corridor. Mrs. Lorne was still there, in the blue room, wasn’t she? and you?”
“I was in my room until eight o’clock, when I went along to see Cynthia. That’s all plain enough, Martin. Paul had left, driving himself in his own car, Richard and Basil were in their own rooms, I was in mine – and you had gone out.”
“No. There’s something wrong there,” said Martin very seriously. “I didn’t go out then – not until later – and, if Paul went away he must have come back. I… I saw him. It wasn’t Basil, and it wasn’t Richard. It must have been Paul. It was Paul. Oh, my God.”
He bent his head in his hands and groaned, “Between those doors, Ronnie, where he put me… I said I’d do the same to him, one day.”
“Oh, my dear, why won’t you believe me?” cried Veronica. “Paul left this house before eight o’clock, and he drove direct to Croydon. He got aboard the plane, and he flew to Lisbon. If only the police hadn’t been such fools, they could have stopped him there. The Superintendent and the man who came to arrest Basil wasted hours and hours, pretending to prove things – as though any proof was needed. It was all just too horribly obvious. Now try to think it out. We know Basil and Richard were in this house after Paul left. You know that, too, because you heard Basil speaking and Richard replying. We know Paul boarded the plane at Croydon – so it’s just utter nonsense for you to say you saw Paul again after he’d driven away. It’s impossible!”
“Then why do I remember it?” he asked miserably. “I can see two sets of pictures – one when Paul drove away… and another when I opened that door. Then – everything went blank. I can’t remember or get it straight. There’s a sort of gap. When I next remember anything I was down in the priest’s vault, and I kept saying to myself, ‘I meant to kill him. I wanted to kill him, and now I’ve done it.’ I’ve been trying to remember how I did it.”
Veronica pressed her hands together to prevent them shaking. From Martin’s confused narrative one point emerged clearly enough: he had suffe
red some shock which had all but unhinged his mind. The recollection of the crucial point still evaded him, but some terror had driven him to hide in the dark vaults of his home: something he had done – or seen done – something which clouded his mind and which brought him to the borderland of madness.
She leant forwards towards him, speaking very quietly:
“Listen, Martin. Paul went to Tunis. He was killed there, and the police”
“God! What’s that?”
Martin’s voice was raised in a shrill cry of fear, and Veronica could not control a jerk of her shoulders. At the back of the hall the telephone bell suddenly shrilled out, and the note of the bell sounded intolerably loud in the silent house.
“It’s only the telephone, Martin. Oh, to hell with it… I can’t go on talking through that infernal row. I’ll go and answer it, Martin. I expect it’s Cynthia. She always rings up at the most insane hours. I won’t be a minute.”
Catching her cloak around her, Veronica ran to the back of the hall, and a moment later there was silence when she lifted the receiver. Martin leant towards the fire again, and then suddenly sat up, stiff with fear. A low voice spoke from the stairs.
“Martin! Can you hear me, Martin?”
It was a very deep voice, pitched just above a whisper. While Martin sat rigid by the fire, the voice went on:
“It’s Paul. You remember, don’t you? You saw me… between the doors. Come upstairs, Martin. I’m waiting for you… you know where. Come and look. You’ll remember everything then. Come and find me.”
Martin’s thin screech of fear was no louder than that of a rabbit caught in a trap. He stood up, his tall thin body swaying, as the voice went on:
“Come up here, Martin. You know you’ve got to come. You’ve got to come.”
As though fascinated by the very thing he dreaded, Martin crept forward to the stairs, swaying as he moved, going forward slowly, step by step. As he reached the stairs and put out his hand on the rail to steady himself, another form moved across the hall. A man had come forward from behind the heavy damask curtains which hung across the windows. He moved silently, keeping to the shadows by the walls, and crept towards the stairway. Here the candle light hardly penetrated the shadows of the vast house, and the man’s dark figure was but a blur against the darkness of the sombre woodwork.
Rope's End, Rogue's End Page 18
