The Dreadful Hollow

by Nicholas Blake

  Randall gazed at him with great deliberation, then said lazily: “I never mentioned Miss Chantmerle, sir, did I?”

  “No, indeed.” Stanford’s tone was affable. “But Chas told me all about it. How is Celandine? No serious aftereffects, I hope? Poor Chas started all his rivets. But women are tougher.”

  “I understand she is none the worse for her experience.”

  “But none the better, either?”

  Daniel Durdle uttered another of his infelicitous giggles.

  “What do you mean by that, sir?” Randall’s blue eyes were opened wide.

  “Oh, but surely you must see. A woman who’s spoiled all her life—brisk, fond lackeys to fetch and carry—the moral effect of discovering that somebody hated her enough to try and puncture those bright eyes of hers—I should have thought it would be most salutary.”

  Nigel was far from being a queasy person, but that word “puncture” gave him an unpleasant qualm.

  The Inspector, apparently unmoved, shooed Durdle out of the workshop, telling him to wait till sent for. His questions to Stanford Blick, however, produced no positive evidence. Durdle was quite often alone in the workshop for considerable periods; but Stanford had never seen signs of his having done other work than what he was employed for. “But you know, old sport,” Stanford commented, “anyone who was doing a job like this would clean up jolly carefully. I can’t imagine your chaps finding fragments of vulcanite or plastic.”

  When Stanford had gone to rout up the pairs of binoculars which were lying about in the Hall, Inspector Randall called Daniel Durdle in again.

  “I want a full account of your movements last night, from nine o’clock onward.”

  The man’s eyes groped round, behind those porthole spectacles.

  “Movements? I was at home, searching the Scriptures.”

  “All night, from nine o’clock?”

  “I’ve said so.”

  The Inspector gave him a long, wide-eyed stare. “So how did Mr. Strangeways see you walking down from the Little Manor, about eleven?”

  Durdle’s neck seemed to grow longer as his head turned slantwise from them, averting the sick smile which betrayed him.

  “He bears false witness.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” exclaimed Nigel. “You know perfectly well you were there. You can’t evade it by mouthing sanctimonious jargon.”

  The thick spectacles flashed at him malevolently.

  “I was about the Lord’s business.”

  “Leaving these binoculars for Miss Chantmerle’s birthday?” asked Randall.

  “No.” An arrogant, martyred expression was on the man’s face, as if he suffered these questions for a Cause quite beyond the questioner’s understanding.

  “You had an appointment with Miss Rosebay Chantmerle?” asked Nigel.

  Daniel refused to answer. Beads of sweat appeared beneath the lank red hair on his forehead.

  “How much did she give you this time?” Nigel persisted. “We know you’ve been blackmailing her.”

  “If the woman says that, she lies,” Daniel violently jerked out. “Ye shall be persecuted for righteousness’ sake.”

  Inspector Randall was imperturbable. “I just want a straight answer. Did you visit the Little Manor last night, and if so, why? . . . Oh, well, if you won’t answer, I’ll put my own construction upon it. I shall be seeing you again. Good afternoon.”

  Durdle was evidently disconcerted by this abrupt dismissal. The dazed glare of his spectacles followed them as they crossed the courtyard.

  “The plot thickens,” said the Inspector, with an ironic smile.

  A few minutes with the servants were enough to establish that none of them could positively identify the binoculars, that Mr. Stanford had been at home when they returned last night, shortly after Nigel’s departure, and that he had not gone out later—or at any rate, the dogs had not barked, except just after midnight, when Mr. Charles returned.

  Stanford Blick now appeared, dangling a collection of field glasses. “I think these are the full muster,” he said doubtfully; “but things do accumulate here: there might have been another pair. Oh lor, more bobbies.”

  A police car drew up outside the windows. Inspector Randall gave them instructions for searching the workshop, then he and Nigel went to interview Charles Blick. Charles’s flat, on the second floor, was the antithesis of the rest of the house: neat, sparely furnished, ordinary, the room where he sat writing gave no clue to his personality, except for a shelf full of scientific textbooks and a few athletic trophies—silver cups on the mantelpiece, faded football and cricket caps hung on the corners of pictures.

  Laying a piece of blotting paper over the letter he was writing, Charles rose to greet them. The afternoon sun showed up the lines of worry on his face. His expression was polite but preoccupied. Nigel remembered the note of impatience, of faint contempt in Sir Archibald’s voice when he had mentioned this son. Charles was a plodder, one might have assumed; a nonentity who only just made the grade; at any rate, a disappointment to his father. And a father like Sir Archibald would have no compunction about sacking a son who failed to maintain his standards of efficiency. That would be enough to account for his permanently worried look. But Nigel fancied there was more behind it than this—some deep-seated guilt, was it, which had made Charles run just now from the Chantmerles’ house as if pursued by Furies?

  Inspector Randall, hands planted on knees and leaning forward affably, seemed in no hurry to get to the point. He was asking about the work at the Moreford factory—to what extent it had been hampered by the loss of a foreman and of Charles’s secretary. Charles said that it had been necessary for him to work late most nights recently. In his own office? Chiefly, but he went round the works at least once every night, to keep an eye on the late shift. And last night? He had left the factory at 11:45 P.M. and got to the Hall shortly after midnight. Nigel did a lightning calculation: Charles Blick would have had time, if he had come fast from Moreford, to drive up to the Little Manor, deposit the binoculars and return to the Hall. But this would have entailed driving through the village, and up past Templeton’s farm, which would surely have been too risky at that time of night. On the other hand, if he had left his car somewhere at the southern end of the village, apart from the danger of someone noticing an empty car, Charles could never have walked to the Little Manor and back in the time available.

  “You’d never seen these binoculars before?” the Inspector was asking.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “My trouble,” continued the Inspector comfortably, “my trouble is that there only seem two places hereabouts where a tricky little job like this could be done.”

  “I quite appreciate that. But frankly, you know, I can’t see how anyone could have done it at the works. No unauthorized person is allowed in, of course; and his workmates would spot it at once if a chap was fiddling with a pair of binoculars on the bench. No, it just isn’t conceivable.”

  “Is there no special room—no sort of experimental place, apart from the main workshops?”

  “Oh yes. But it’s private. We keep it locked. Only the works manager and myself have keys. Nobody could go in there without our permission; besides, a hand would soon be missed from his bench if he had somehow got into the experimental room without authorization.”

  Charles Blick was being singularly obtuse, thought Nigel. He even divulged, without apparent misgivings, that the only access to the experimental room was through his own office.

  “I must ask your permission, sir, to let my men search it,” said Inspector Randall.

  “That puts me in rather an awkward position.” Charles at last was looking disconcerted. “You see, we’ve got a top-secret job set up there. I don’t know if my father—”

  “Oh, come now, sir. My men are entirely trustworthy.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but—”

  “If you like, I will do the search myself, and in your presence.”

  “I—but lo
ok here, what’s the point? You can’t imagine that the works manager or I have time to waste fixing up a filthy practical joke like this?”

  Inspector Randall gave him his long, meditative gaze. “Practical, yes. But do you call it a joke?”

  For the first time, the distrait look was entirely gone from Charles’s dark eyes. “I see. So you really do. Now look, Inspector, I’ve known Miss Chantmerle nearly all my life. She’s an old friend. You can’t surely suspect—”

  “Miss Chantmerle is a victim of hysterical paralysis,” Nigel broke in unexpectedly.

  “What on earth has that to do with it?”

  “It’s one of the salient features of this illness that its victims become extremely obstructive.”

  “Obstructive?” Charles Blick’s voice was like a bit of frayed thread. His dark eyes rested on Nigel with a dazed expression. He rose abruptly, went to the mantelpiece, lit a cigarette; then, turning to Randall, said: “When d’you want to search the works? Today?”

  “As soon as we’ve finished here, if possible, sir.”

  “I’ll give you a chit to Franks, the works manager. He’ll let you have every facility, the experimental room included; but don’t bring a horde of police in there, like a good chap.”

  “Much obliged to you, sir. It’ll save time, not having to get a warrant. I’ll keep in touch. You’ll be here till tomorrow morning?”

  “Probably.”

  When Inspector Randall had departed, with the chit and the field glasses, Nigel remarked: “Now you’ve got rid of him so neatly, what do you want to tell me?”

  Having made his decision to co-operate with the police, Charles Blick seemed a different man. He said firmly: “I want you to enlarge on that word ‘obstructive.’ What’s in your mind? But first, are you working for my father or the police?”

  “Both. I hope. Your father only engaged me to look into the anonymous letters, of course. But it’s still just possible they tie up with the binoculars.”

  “Well, then?”

  Nigel walked over to the window seat and looked out upon the shadows lengthening over the lawn and the pastoral country beyond, the golden evening of a day which had given him the nastiest experience of his life.

  “This isn’t at all jolly,” he said broodingly at last. “But I’d better go through with it. Let’s take a hypothetical case. Suppose you had fallen in love with Rosebay. Suppose Celandine loves you and believes her love reciprocated. You suspect that Celandine cherishes false hopes about you—there was an attachment between you many years ago, perhaps, and she has misunderstood your recent visits to the house, to see her sister, as evidence that you wish to revive this old attachment. You know that she will put every possible obstacle in the way of your marrying Rosebay, once it comes out that this is your real intention. So, possibly with Rosebay’s collusion, but probably without it, you prepare the field glasses. It may be you intend to get rid of the obstructive Celandine altogether, maybe only to give her a fright—one must remember that the screw releasing the needles was extremely stiff. How about that for a hypothesis?”

  Charles Blick was silent for a very long time. At last, with an expression curiously like relief on his face, he said: “It’s quite plausible. And some of it is true. Celandine and I were—well, very close, twenty years ago. I am fond of Bay now. And I’m afraid, yes, Celandine may have misinterpreted my visits. But I can assure you of one thing—she had no inkling of the state of affairs between Bay and me. We’d kept it absolutely dark.”

  “Because you’re afraid of her? You, personally, I mean.”

  “Afraid for her. Well, perhaps a little afraid of her too—of what she might do.”

  “That’s very honest,” said Nigel. “You consider Celandine a vindictive character, capable de tout.”

  “Oh, no, no. Rubbish,” Charles replied, much too fast. “I was merely saying—”

  “And if she had got wind of your feeling for Rosebay, she’s capable of getting someone to rig up the binoculars, and of handing them to her sister after lunch, to make sure Rosebay shouldn’t have you, or to frighten her off you?”

  “The whole thing’s ridiculous. People just don’t—it’s sheer bad melodrama,” said Charles angrily.

  “Melodramatic. But not ridiculous. Rosebay is very highly-strung. A fright like that might easily have sent her over the edge. Then you’d not have married her. Or your father would have put his foot down against it. History repeating itself.”

  Charles Blick flushed deeply. “I fail to see what—”

  “Twenty years ago, when Celandine became a cripple, your engagement, understanding, whatever it was, was broken off. Quite possibly against your will. But broken off it was. That’s what I mean.”

  “If you can seriously imagine that Celandine would do such a horrible thing to Bay, as a sort of poetic justice, you must be—”

  “I don’t. Why did you run out of the house after it happened?”

  Charles Blick flushed again. His face was tortured and desperate, but he tried to keep himself under control.

  “I don’t care to discuss that,” he said stiffly.

  “Well, I’ll tell you. You couldn’t face Celandine because you knew you’d given yourself away. When that infernal machine went off, you cried out to Rosebay: ‘Darling, you might have been blinded,’ and ‘Are you all right, love?’ No, wait a minute! Don’t you see? If that was the first inkling Celandine had of your feeling for Rosebay, it lets her out. She couldn’t have been responsible for the binoculars.”

  “Yes,” said Charles, almost inaudibly.

  “And if it wasn’t she, or you, who had them prepared, the only person left is Rosebay.”

  “But it’s fantastic. How on earth—?”

  “Rosebay has a motive—to get rid of the obstacle in the way of her marrying you. She’s been very thick with your brother lately. He’s quite capable of rigging the field glasses.”

  “Stanford? But that’s simply grotesque. Look here, we’re normal people, not fiends. I know Stanford’s a bit eccentric, but—”

  “Well then, it’s not you or Celandine or Rosebay or Stanford, singly, or in any combination. What about Daniel Durdle?”

  Charles’s relief was as pathetically obvious as his attempt to conceal it. “Durdle? He’s a nasty bit of work; but what motive could he possibly have? He just doesn’t tie up with the Chantmerles.”

  “He apparently hates Celandine, and he’s been black-mailing her sister. That’s something of a tie-up.”

  Nigel could have no doubt, from Charles’s shocked, incredulous expression, that this was news to him.

  “Blackmailing Bay? Are you making this up?”

  “It’s nothing to her discredit—that I can assure you.”

  “But why didn’t she tell me?” said Charles to himself painfully. “Why is she so secretive?”

  “Because it’s a family secret,” Nigel replied. He did not add that Rosebay had discussed it with Stanford.

  “Not a secret from you, apparently.” Charles’s inflection was that of a sulky adolescent. Nigel smiled at him.

  “She only didn’t tell you because she thought you had quite enough worries on your hands.”

  “Oh God, these protective women! Sorry, but I’m really fed up with all this. Daniel Durdle, you were saying?”

  “He’s a possibility. But I shouldn’t put your shirt on him, if I were you.”

  Charles Blick paced about the room, biting his nails. At last he stopped, and came out abruptly with “Look here, what’ll they do to the person who—?”

  “Charge of attempted murder, I presume.”

  “The whole thing’s a nightmare,” said Charles slowly. “I just can’t take it in. Dinny’s birthday party. Everyone so happy and on top of the world. Sun shining. And those field glasses waiting to go off, like a trembler fuse. Christ!”

  “Somebody at the party couldn’t have been altogether imbued with the birthday spirit.”

  Charles Blick gave a sudden, impish
little grin, which reminded Nigel of Stanford. “Perhaps it was Mark.”

  “I don’t somehow think the vicar would wish Celandine any harm.”

  Charles seemed very faintly put out. Still a trace of jealousy over Celandine, wondered Nigel.

  “Of course not. I was only joking. Mark’s a first-rate chap.” After a pause, Charles went on naïvely, the hagridden look in his eyes again, “I’ve got a beastly feeling in my stomach. Sort of premonition. Like what made me try and snatch the glasses from Bay.” He glanced at the puncture on his hand. “I must be getting psychic. Oh, damn it to hell, there couldn’t be anything worse to happen—not after today.”

  He seemed to be appealing for reassurance, but Nigel remained silent.

  “I wish to God I didn’t have to be at the works all the time. Look here, you’ve got to look after—” his voice trailed away.

  “Look after? Rosebay? Celandine?”

  “Oh, both of them, of course,” Charles jerked out with a sort of struggling, strangulating misery.

  That look was still in his eyes when Nigel said good-by a minute later. It was a look, Nigel interpreted, of apprehension and inescapable guilt.

  8 The Poison Pen’s Mistakes

  NIGEL WAS MEDITATING on the subject of Charles Blick while he walked back to the Little Manor. Stanford had intercepted him, as he was leaving the Hall, with a telephone message from Celandine Chantmerle, asking to see him at once. Charles, thought Nigel, is an average chap with an outsize conscience. Whatever might be the truth about that parting between him and Celandine twenty years ago, he had never really got free of her—perhaps never wished to. He had somehow arranged for the Chantmerles to have an income which enabled them to live on at the Little Manor. Nigel felt sure that Charles had been the moving spirit in this, even if Stanford had made the practical arrangements; and Charles had seen to it that Celandine was kept ignorant of the source of this income. He was as conscientious in private affairs as in his management of the factory. And now, when he had fallen in love with Rosebay, his conscience about her sister made a coward of him. For fear of hurting Celandine, or because the old attachment had never been quite broken, he could not bring his feeling for Rosebay out in the open. It was this moral cowardice, so dramatically illustrated by his running out of the house after he had given himself away to Celandine, which accounted for some at least of Rosebay’s unhappiness and uncertainty.