by Jack Treby
Sinclair’s face was now a fetching shade of beetroot red. ‘You little...’
I laughed. ‘Now you know how it feels. Now you know what it’s like when someone discovers your sordid little secrets and threatens to expose them. Hoist on your own petard, Mr Sinclair. It’s not very pleasant, is it?’
The fellow was clenching his fists now. ‘I ought to...’
‘What? Give me a thrashing? You like hitting women, don’t you...?’ Let him try it, if he dared.
‘You’re not a...’
‘I may be a fraud, I may even be a liar. But I would never sink as low as you have sunk. And if you lay so much as a finger on Miss Jones ever again I will break your bloody neck, sir.’
Sinclair stared at me for a moment, calculation sharing space in his mind with the reddest of rage. ‘Very well,’ he said eventually, his voice now unnervingly calm. ‘There’s only one way to settle this. If you want to live your life as a man, then I’m going to treat you like a man.’ He raised his fists. ‘And give you a damned good thrashing.’
Before I had time to digest the implications of his threat, a fist had arced through the air and smashed into my jaw.
I careered backwards, nearly stumbling over an awkwardly placed occasional table.
‘I have never been unfaithful to my wife!’ Sinclair declared, as I recovered my balance and charged at him.
The two of us smacked heavily into one of the wooden pillars supporting the window frame.
More punches flew. I staggered under the ferocious onslaught. It was as I had feared. Sinclair knew how to box. I grabbed at his throat and for a few brief seconds we were locked in an unfortunate embrace. There was no delicate way to break apart. I brought up my knee and fetched him a hefty wallop between the thighs. His face contorted with pain and rage. He fell back towards the windows, but the separation was momentary. All at once, the damn fellow was at me again. Three or four more blows sent me crashing to the ground. My head smacked awkwardly on the floor and I clutched it in pain as the room reverberated around me.
There was no chance of me winning this fight. I was having difficulty now even focusing on my opponent.
Sinclair walked forward and stood over me, contemptuously. ‘You really do fight like a girl,’ he sneered, turning away. ‘Make your accusations, Sir Hilary and I shall sue you for slander. No one will believe a word of it in any case. Not after the story I’m going to print about you on Monday morning.’
It was my turn to shake with rage. I had come to rest near the wooden fireplace. I pulled myself up shakily on my hands and knees and grabbed hold of a metal poker propped up by the side of the hearth. Sinclair had moved over to the window and stood with his back to me now, between the two pillars, as he had done when I first entered the room. I got to my feet, the poker in hand, and ran at him. Sinclair must have caught the movement in the window, but he was slow to react. I smacked the poker across the side of his head and he staggered for a moment, losing his footing and falling towards one of the wooden columns. His forehead struck the pillar with an unpleasant crack and his body thumped down onto the lightly carpeted floor.
I stood for a moment with the poker still raised above my head. Sinclair lay unconscious on the carpet. At least, I hoped he was unconscious. A cold fear suddenly gripped me. There was a bloody mark on his forehead and no obvious signs of respiration. I dropped the poker and moved forward to take a closer look. Crouching down, I turned the body over and took a deep breath. There was another large mark on the side of his head where the poker had struck. Quickly, I grabbed his wrist and searched for a pulse. But I couldn’t find one.
Anthony Sinclair was dead.
Chapter Ten
A strange paralysis gripped me as I stared down at the lifeless body. I had been many things in my life – a scoundrel, a thief, a blackmailer and a whore – but never a murderer. My mind struggled to comprehend the enormity of what had just happened. I had killed a man. I had taken a life I had no right to take. Admittedly, the fellow was a villain and the world was probably a better place without him, but that was scarcely the point. I was a murderer and as soon as that fact was discovered I would be arrested, tried and hanged. In an instant, I saw it all and my hands clasped the side of my head in despair. The best I could hope for was a plea of manslaughter and even then, I would probably spend the rest of my life in jail. It may have been callous to think about my own fate when Sinclair was lying there dead but blind panic was starting to seize hold of me. Nobody would believe this was an accident. How could they? It wasn’t an accident. I had struck Sinclair deliberately, from behind, and even though I’d had no intention of killing him, his blood was on my hands.
I looked down at the body. There was mercifully little blood. A slight dent was visible on the wooden column where Sinclair had struck it and there was a smudge of red on the carpet around his head, but it was not the loss of blood that had killed him.
My mind began to race furiously. Was there anything to be done, any way to forestall the inevitable? Could I blame somebody else? Could I hide the body? I looked up at the bay windows. It was hopeless. The room was a fishbowl and a brightly illuminated one at that.
Anyone who had been looking in from the front of the house would have seen everything. A servant taking the air, having a quick cigarette. An illicit couple, having a crafty fumble in the flowerbed. Almost anybody might have heard the scuffle. And what was true for the exterior of the building was doubly true for the interior. There had to be something like forty people in the house this evening – including the orchestra, the valets and the ladies’ maids – and though the majority of these were congregated in the ballroom on the far side of the mansion, there was nothing to stop any one of them wandering about as they saw fit. Even a servant might flit in, to relight the fire or switch out the lights.
I had to get Sinclair out of the house. That much was obvious. But I wouldn’t be able to carry the body far on my own. Perhaps my valet could give me a hand. The thought of that familiar, balding head and his pathetically eager expression gave me a moment of hope. I would find Hargreaves and he would help me sort out this mess.
I couldn’t leave the body lying here in the open, though, while I went to get him. And I couldn’t exactly roll Sinclair under the nearest sofa. At the very least, I needed to drag the body out of harm’s way.
The only route out of the drawing room was back through the lounge hall. This led through a triple archway to the main entrance, but the corridor there was visible from the billiard room, not to mention the main stairs. If I dragged the body that way, I was bound to be seen. There was another option, however. Passing into the lounge, there was a large set of doors off to the right. These led through to the dining room. From there, if I remembered correctly, there was a sizeable exterior door, installed by some mad architect, which opened directly on to the front of the house. That was my best chance. If I could haul the body out onto the carriageway, I could arc left over the gravel and perhaps find a bush or something where I could dump it. That would give me a breathing space to go and find Hargreaves. Then the two of us could carry the body away and hide it somewhere more secure. In the back of the Morris Oxford perhaps; or maybe we could weigh it down and throw it into the lake.
I grasped at this dubious plan with all the enthusiasm of a drowning man reaching for a life belt.
Dragging the body through the lounge was the trickiest part. I would be out of sight of the stairs but anyone moving through the hallway would catch sight of me through the arches. The doors through to the dining room were shrouded in darkness, however, and if I was quick I was unlikely to be seen.
I stuck my head out to make sure the doors to the dining hall were open. Then I crouched down and grabbed hold of Sinclair’s body. He was a dead lump in my arms, but I managed to drag him awkwardly a little way across the carpet. I stopped at the entrance to the lounge hall, listening for any unusual noise, but there was nothing, save the distant hum of music and the clinking of glas
ses from over in the ballroom. The hallway itself was empty. In one quick burst, I hauled the body across the lounge and into the dining room. Then I closed the doors behind me.
So far, so good.
The dining room was just as I remembered it, a long white room with a northern exterior wall. Several thick mahogany columns supported the weight of the ceiling and there was an odd bay window framing the north east corner of the house. The place was in darkness, but a large dining table formed the centre-piece of the room, visible even in the dimmest of light. Beyond that were the double doors leading out onto the carriageway.
I left the body in the corner and moved across to take a closer look at the exit. The doors were thick and heavily polished, probably made from the same dense wood as the pillars. An elaborate swan motif on a brass-plated cross decorated the mid-section and there was a small keyhole on the right hand side. I pulled at one of the handles. The door was locked. I growled in frustration. What kind of blithering idiot locked an exterior door from the inside?
I stood for a moment, a hand to my face. There had to be a key somewhere. Perhaps in the servants’ quarters. Hargreaves would know. But it would take time to find him. Maybe I could force the doors, take a run at them. But the wood looked very solid. I would probably end up dislocating my shoulder. And even if I did manage to force them open, the noise was bound to attract attention, especially if I damaged the hinges and couldn’t close them up again afterwards.
What was the alternative?
I glanced at the dining table. It was long and highly polished, with a set of chairs lined up symmetrically along each side. Perhaps if I dragged the body under there, that would keep it out of sight, at least for a short while. Of all the rooms in the house, this was surely the one least likely to attract any attention in the next few hours. If I left the body out of the way here it might at least give me a few minutes grace to find Hargreaves and get his help.
It was the best idea I could think of.
Madly, I began pulling back the chairs and then with some effort I hauled Sinclair’s body alongside the table. I stuck a hand into his jacket pocket, while I had the opportunity, and fished out the little blue notebook he had been writing in earlier on. Better to be safe than sorry, I thought. There were too many biographical details in there. I slipped the book into my own jacket, then manoeuvred the corpse as best I could underneath the table. Finally, I stood up and glanced around the room, making sure nobody had crept in from the lounge hall behind me, before at last returning the dining chairs to their original positions.
I stood back for a moment. It was hardly expert camouflage, even in the dark. But unless you were crouching down beside the table to look for something, you were unlikely to see the body. With the lights out and the doors closed, it would probably be safe there for half an hour or so.
I moved back through the lounge hall and into the drawing room, closing the door behind me. Was there anything I needed to tidy up, before I went in search of Hargreaves?
The iron poker lay on the ground over by the fireplace. The bloodstain on the carpet had to be cleaned as well. Better to sort that out first. I rushed across with my handkerchief and did my best to soak up the blood from the floor. My hands were trembling and all I succeeded in doing was creating a small purple smudge. I rubbed my shoes across the carpet for good measure, but that just made things worse. In exasperation, I grabbed an occasional table and positioned it over the stain. The table didn’t look too out place, and it certainly covered up the damp patch.
What else? Fingerprints! My paws were all over that damn poker. I’d soiled my handkerchief soaking up the blood, so I couldn’t use that to wipe it clean. I pulled down the arm of my jacket instead, grabbing the end of the sleeve from the inside and sliding it up and down the poker, to give it a good polish. That would have to do. I returned the poker to its rightful position beside the fireplace.
Looking around the room one last time, I caught sight of my reflection in the window. I moved closer. Sinclair had given me a thorough beating, but apart from a bloody nose and a slightly bruised lip, I was not too badly off. I would need to find a bathroom, though, just to have a quick wash. I couldn’t stumble through the house looking like this without arousing suspicion.
There was a bathroom on the first floor but I couldn’t risk the main staircase. The water closets off the main hall were out of bounds for the same reason. In any case, I really needed somewhere with a sink and a mirror. There was likely to be a washbasin in the servants’ quarters, however. I could gain access via the servery at the far end of the dining room. That was a far better bet. The back stairs were bound to be quiet, with everyone over at the ballroom.
I flicked off the drawing room light and slipped back into the dining hall, closing the doors quietly behind me.
I would make my way around the north side of the house, clean myself up and then locate my man Hargreaves, and he could help me get the body out of the house. Then we could dump it in the lake, or set fire to it, or bury it or do whatever the hell one does with an inconvenient corpse. Harry would know, it occurred to me suddenly. The American would probably be more useful than Hargreaves in this situation. But given his penchant for blackmail, it wasn’t worth the risk involving him.
No, in the circumstances, Thomas Hargreaves was the only friend I had.
I made my way quickly through a narrow corridor running alongside the servery and from there made my way into the servants’ quarters. The bloody place was like a labyrinth but, as I had hoped, the area was quiet and dimly lit. The butler’s pantry off to the right was occupied, but the man inside was enjoying a private moment and I was able to skip past unobserved. The kitchens would definitely be occupied, even at this hour, so I skirted left and around the store cupboards. A long, narrow corridor ran the length of the storage area and through a door into the darkened servants’ hall. I passed through here, veered right and – at long last – reached the servants’ bathroom.
It was a narrow tiled space, with a water closet off to one side and a large sink. This was probably where Sinclair had been when he’d overheard my conversation with Doctor Lefranc. The bathroom was accessible from the dance hall and there was a small window facing out onto the tradesman’s entrance at the rear of the mansion. Sinclair had nipped in here to relieve himself during the treasure hunt and overheard everything. Damn the man.
I flipped on a light and moved across to the washbasin. There was a mirror on the right hand side. I gazed at my dishevelled image in the glass. All things considered, I did not look quite as bad as I had originally feared. I ran some water and cleared the blood from my nose. The cut lip had dried and having wiped away the crystallized blood the scar was barely noticeable. I grabbed a hand towel and wiped my face down. My clothes were a little dishevelled but it was the work of a moment to restore some order. Luckily, my bow-tie had not come undone. I would have had a devil of a job refastening that. Hargreaves always took care of the complicated stuff.
The blood stained handkerchief was still in my pocket, as was the notepad I had taken from Anthony Sinclair’s jacket. Better to get rid of that now, I thought. I went over to the WC and lifted the toilet seat. The notebook was still in my pocket. I pulled it out and began tearing up the pages, dropping the little bits carefully into the bowl. Then I produced a box of matches from my trouser pocket, lit one of them and set light to the end of the handkerchief. It flared quickly and when I could hold it no longer, I dropped the remnants into the bowl of the toilet and pulled the flush. Thank heavens for modern plumbing.
Taking one last look at myself in the mirror – my eyes were haggard but that could not be helped – I pulled open the bathroom door.
I was lucky to have got so far without being seen. My luck did not last, however. As I barrelled back down the corridor, past the servants’ hall, I all but collided with one of the valets. It was Townsend, the Colonel’s man. He was a bluff, ugly fellow, six feet two or three, but immaculately dressed and faultless
ly polite. The near miss had been entirely my fault but it was Townsend who offered his apologies. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t see you there, sir.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ I reassured him as breezily as my shattered nerves could manage. ‘I was looking for a lavatory. I had to use the servants’ bathroom. I hope that’s all right.’
‘Yes, of course, Sir Hilary,’ he replied, in a mild West Country lilt. He didn’t seem at all suspicious. Mind you, the man had one of those imperturbable butlerish faces that wouldn’t react even if he’d found you hanging naked from the chandeliers.
‘This house is a bit of a rabbit warren,’ I said. ‘Too complicated for me at this time of night. Had a bit too much of the old sauce, I’m afraid.’ I thought it was worth adding that, just to bolster the illusion of my own cluelessness. Actually, it wasn’t far off the truth. ‘You couldn’t show me the way back to the main hall?’
‘Certainly, sir. It’s just along here.’
He led me through a narrow back hall to an oak panelled door that led on to the main staircase.
‘Ah yes, of course. I remember now. Oh, you haven’t seen my man Hargreaves, have you?’
The valet thought for a moment. ‘I believe he is in the ballroom, sir. Helping to lay out some food.’
‘Good show. Well, I’ll see him there then. Thank you, Hargreaves. I mean, thank you Townsend.’
‘My pleasure, Sir Hilary.’ The Colonel’s valet withdrew, to complete his own errand, and I made my way through the billiard room towards the dance hall. The majority of the guests were still gathered here, jiving happily away. A waiter was just leaving as I arrived – Sinclair’s man, I noted with some alarm – and I grabbed the one remaining whisky from his tray to steady my nerves as I scanned the floor.
