P.C. Pook!
But a P.C. Pook in mufti, with brightly polished brown boots, and a grey squash hat on his head. Luce was inwardly conscious of swift diplomatic adaptations. He discovered the easy geniality of the gentleman whom nothing could disconcert.
“Good afternoon, officer. What can I do for you?”
P.C. Pook appeared less formidable in mufti. In fact he had shed some of his official assurance in putting off the official clothes. And he had put on manners.
“I hope you’ll excuse me, sir.”
“Certainly, officer.”
“Fact is, I’ve always been interested in this old tower. My great grandmother was in service here.”
“Really?”
“With a naval officer, sir, when they used to signal.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Luce, “very interesting. And you never explored——?”
“No, sir. I’m off duty, and——”
Luce stood back, smiling.
“Come in. It’s a queer old place. I’ve got friends here for the afternoon, but I’ll show you over.”
P.C. Pook removed his hat.
“I don’t want to take up your time, sir.”
“Come right in,” said Luce.
Being convinced that the constable’s interest in the Signal Tower as a historical relic was fictitious, and that Pook had manufactured an excuse that would get him into the place without a search warrant, Luce could thank God and Hugh Pusey for the linking of these coincidences. He blessed that open door, and the tea-table, and Miss Reubens and her cigarette. Could circumstances have shaped themselves more happily? Those whom he had cursed had come to bless.
“Excuse me a moment, Hugh, will you?”
“Certainly, old man.”
Luce paused in the vestibule to fill a pipe, so that his visitor should be kept standing in a position to survey that social scene. Let him make what he pleased of Miss Lottie Reubens and Mr. Pusey. And then, having lit his pipe, Luce closed the sitting-room door, and prepared to mount the stairs.
“Ever read novels, officer?”
“Can’t say that I do, sir.”
“That lady is Miss Reubens. Quite a celebrity.”
“Is that so, sir? I’m afraid I’m taking you away from your friends. If you’ll excuse me——.”
Luce smothered any suggestion his visitor might be contemplating, and began to climb the stairs. Half-way up the first flight he was attacked by a dreadful fear. What if Rachel had not acted according to plan, and had taken refuge in the bedroom? For he had intended opening every door but the one on the top floor. He covered the remaining steps in five strides, threw the door open and went in as though there was something in the room he needed. He saw that it was empty.
“Just remembered, officer,” and he came out smiling; “a bachelor house, you know, and the lady may want—to titivate. I thought I might have left a certain article.”
P.C. Pook understood him.
“Quite so, sir.”
“Jerry’s under the bed. Nothing of interest in here.”
He left the door wide open and started the next flight. He had something to show his visitor in the third floor room, the remains of the old signalling gear cased in a central pillar. Pook followed him up the stairs and into the room, and here Luce paused to apply a second match to his pipe. Then, having got the tobacco comfortably alight he proceeded to give Mr. Pook a lecture on the system of semaphore signalling. Yes, most people imagined that arms like railway signals had waggled up and down, whereas the code had been carried by shutters being raised and lowered in an oblong frame.
“You see the crank and rods here. The signalling frame was a timber structure on the top of the tower. You’ll get a better idea if we go out on the leads.”
Still talking like the official guide Luce conducted P.C. Pook to the top landing. He spoke loudly and emphatically so that the refugee in the locked room should be wise as to the occasion. He indicated the closed door.
“Nothing in there—of interest. As a matter of fact I have mislaid the key. Shall I go up first?”
He mounted the ladder, raised the trap-door, and waited for his visitor to join him on the leads. It was a day of deep and blue distances, and Luce stood smoking his pipe, and pointing out to P.C. Pook various points of interest on the horizon.
“Yes, you can see the Chilterns to-day.”
“Wonderful view, sir. I suppose there was a chap up here to read the signals.”
“That’s it. They became very quick in sending and receiving messages. There was another chain of signal stations from London to Dover. History has it that they could send a message to Dover and get a reply back in seven minutes.”
P.C. Pook bent over the parapet, and it did occur to Luce that it would be horribly easy to give a man a push, and send him crashing. But he was prompted by a far more useful inspiration.
“O, by the way, officer, my friends want me to go caravaning. I suppose—if I locked this place up for a month, and left the key with the police——”
Had he money on him? He had. He found a pound note in his wallet.
“You’d like us to look in, sir, now and again?”
“I should be very grateful if you would. Nothing much of value here, but one would like to feel that the place was visited.”
P.C. Pook accepted the note.
“That’s all right, sir. I’ll see to it for you.”
“I’m very much obliged. And now, I ought to look after my friends.”
“Of course, sir.”
They descended, and half-way down the tower stairs, Luce suggested that his visitor might be thirsty.
“What about a glass of beer, officer?”
P.C. Pook had his glass of beer. He drank it in the open doorway of the sitting-room, and was asked by Miss Reubens to explain why the police did not deal with nit-wits who left their cars parked in Melford High Street with their tails sticking out into the road.
“Graft, Miss, if you want the truth. The shop-keepers know how and why, but that’s—unofficial. If I had my way I’d put that street in order in a week.”
Hugh Pusey offered him a cigarette.
“Of course you would.”
Miss Reubens went on to say that Melford High Street was a sanguinary scandal.
“Babies—in—prams, constable.”
But P.C. Pook, having finished his beer, became suddenly and formidably self-conscious. He saluted Luce and his guests, and resumed his squash hat and an air of arid and official aloofness.
“Much obliged, sir. I’ll be getting along, sir. On duty—to-night, sir.”
Luce showed him out.
“I’ll let your people know, officer, when I start on my caravan tour.”
“That will be quite in order, sir.”
3
Afterwards, Luce was moved to reflect upon the almost farcical quality of some of the day’s incidents. Tragedy, like its expression on the stage, may be only canvas deep, and a distracted Hamlet but first cousin to the man waiting for him with a pot of beer, but Luce did perpetrate one last and wilful cliché. Returning from showing authority from the tower he sat down with deliberate carelessness on Miss Reuben’s hat.
“Good heavens, what have I done!”
His assumed consternation delighted her.
“Lucky for your backside, sir, that there were no pins in it.”
Luce displayed the crushed article.
“Really, I’m devastated. If you will allow me—I would like to replace it.”
“My dear, why such woe? As a matter of fact, I don’t wear the damned thing when I’m driving. Do I, Slub Rep?”
“She doesn’t, John.”
But Luce was the very gallant gentleman. He put the crushed shape away in the cupboard.
“Let me conceal my shame, Miss Carlotta, I shall be in town to-morrow. Having sat upon your hat, will you deign to sit at lunch with me and accompany me afterwards to a hat shop?”
She was piqued
both by his maleness and his invitation. Had he sat on her hat designedly?
“Something doing. Cause and effect—obvious. I will.”
“Florio’s at one o’clock?”
“I’ll be there, Big Boy.”
This somewhat intimate interplay caused Pusey to pull out his watch. He was very much interested at the moment in Carlotta’s person, and Carlotta was incurably promiscuous.
“I say, Lottie, six o’clock.”
“Don’t get rucked up, Slub. What’s the crashing haste?”
Hugh giggled.
“That’s just my subtle way.”
But Miss Reubens was not feeling subtle towards him. She was scenting the perfume of yet another emotional experience. Besides, she had not explored the tower. She insisted upon Luce conducting her to the summit, and when they were mounting the ladder she made it obvious to him that she had fine legs.
“I like ’em black, my dear, uppers as well as lowers.”
Luce, who had been making careful conversation all the way up the stairs, wondered what love’s hidden ears would make of Lottie Reubens. She stood on the leads and waggled her large hips at the landscape.
“I must spill a book about this. Mind if I crash down again some day?”
“May I write and fix it up—when I get back from my caravan show?”
“Clever boy. I’ll leave Slub Rep behind.”
“Yes, do.”
It was seven o’clock before he was rid of his party, and he walked down through the woods with them to where they had left the car. It was a bright red car with cream wheels. Miss Reubens got in and stuck a cigarette in her mouth; she never drove without that attachment.
“Slub Rep keeps me primed. Got the ammunition clip full, my lad?”
“Yep,” said Hugh. “How many shall I have to light for you between here and Chelsea?”
“That’ll depend on the bloody traffic blocks, my dear. So long, Siegfried. See you to-morrow.”
And with éclat and insolence the red car rolled away down the track, with Hugh Pusey’s bald head bobbing up and down beside her black one.
Luce faced about. He might have exclaimed “My hat!” but his mood rushed back towards the mystery, the mystery of a lover’s tenderness. The green curtains of the woods seemed to slide together, shutting out vulgar comedy, and sealing him in with the soft splendours of a summer evening. He walked back to the tower, unlocked the green door, relocked it, and became conscious of a profound silence.
Was she still mewed up there? Of course. And during all that silly, perilous by-play what had she been enduring? How strange was this magnanimous, sweet madness! He went up the stairs, smiling. He stood outside the door of that upper room.
“Rachel. All’s safe now, dear.”
Had she been very frightened? When she came out to him, he put his hands upon her shoulders, and made haste to reassure her.
“All’s well that ends well. Our luck was in this afternoon. But you lost your tea. And you were in there three whole hours.”
“It did not seem so long as that.”
“Things could not have worked more kindly. The police called, my dear, right in the middle of my party. If we had needed evidence to convince the curious, it could not have been better. I took the gentleman upstairs and showed him the view.”
“How clever of you, John.”
She displayed to him calm, deep eyes. If she had been afraid, she had had faith in her lover.
“Come downstairs. I have something to show you. And I have managed to arrange a shopping expedition for to-morrow.”
They went down the stairs with arms linked. He led her to the cupboard, opened the door, and took out Miss Reubens’ hat.
“Yes. I sat on it. I suppose the thing can be straightened out. I don’t like the idea of your wearing that female’s hat. Will it do?”
She took the hat from him, pulled and caressed it into shape, and put it on.
“These hats don’t crush badly, John. She must have wanted a new hat.”
He laughed and kissed her.
“I have promised to give her a new hat.”
XVI
The window of Mr. Temperley’s room looked south. It was a large window kept very clean, and when Mr. Temperley was seated at his desk it gave him a view of a grey stone wall, and the towering tops of the elm trees about the church. Brandon’s dead lay in peace on the other side of that stone wall, and in the course of time Mr. Temperley expected to lie there too. Meanwhile, the rooks brought up their families in the tree-tops, and the sun, climbing towards the summer solstice, shone less deeply into the room, but continued to light up the legal litter on Mr. Temperley’s desk. Its exhibits were various and characteristic, a bowl of pipes and a packet of pipe-cleaners, an old knife, a big wooden inkstand with pens and pencils of various colours, a blotting-pad, two basket letter-trays, matches, scissors, a marble letter-weight in the shape of a gravestone. Each object had its appointed place like the dead in the churchyard over the way.
Mr. Temperley was seated at his desk when he heard the ringing of the office bell. He was unable to see who stood upon the doorstep, but the familiar bell had become like the voice of some confidential clerk announcing particular clients. Sometimes the summons was deprecating, sometimes emphatic, and on this occasion there had been emphasis in the clangour. Mr. Temperley laid aside his pipe, and waited. He would have said that the familiar and ancient bell had been rung by a stranger.
A junior clerk appeared.
“A Miss Ballard, sir.”
“Miss Ballard. From Beech Farm?”
“Yes, sir. She says she has no appointment, but she insists——.”
“Show her in, Saunders.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Temperley got up and stood with his back to the white marble fireplace over which hung the portrait of some Georgian worthy. Mr. Temperley liked to confront a stranger. He believed in the significance of a first and sudden scrutiny, especially so when the stranger was a woman.
Miss Ballard appeared in the doorway as a tall and very erect woman in black. Her gloved hands were also black and gripping an umbrella and a small handbag. Facially she was remarkably like her brother, narrow of eye, and with high cheekbones over which the skin was tight and red, and from the first glance Mr. Temperley disliked her. Patently, Miss Ballard was a woman who could be vindictive and dangerous.
“Miss Ballard, I believe? Please sit down. What can I do for you?”
Her sitting down was characteristic, a sharp bending of the knees, while her back remained as stiff and straight as a poker. Her stare was persistent and aggressive, and her eyes made Mr. Temperley think of the eyes of a goat, cold and stony, and secretly sensual.
“I have come about my brother.”
Mr. Temperley remained standing, his hands clasped across the small of his back. What a wooden face the woman had, and what very unpleasant eyes!
“About your brother?”
“Yes, I’m not satisfied, not at all satisfied.”
“In what way, Miss Ballard?”
“With the police.”
“Indeed.”
“It is perfectly scandalous. My poor brother has been lying dead for three days, and they haven’t yet found that woman.”
Mr. Temperley crossed the room to his chair, and sat down with nice deliberation. Why was it that people like the Ballards roused the primitive and combative creature in you?
“If I may say so, it is rather a sad case, Miss Ballard. But may I ask why you have come to me?”
She gave a jerk of the head.
“I want something done. My brother was your tenant. I want that woman——”
“Please excuse me, Miss Ballard, but may I say that this is a case which is not quite in my province. Besides, if you will permit me to be frank, I have a good deal of sympathy for your sister-in-law.”
He saw those red patches on her cheekbones deepen in colour.
“Indeed! I shouldn’t have thought a gentle
man in your position would defend murder.”
“If you will excuse me, murder has yet to be proved. After all, Miss Ballard, your brother and his wife were two very unhappy people.”
“And whose fault was that? I used to think of her as a useless little fool, but she was more than that, Mr. Temperley. I tell you I have my own suspicions. My conviction is that there was some dirty sex business behind it all. There is a man in the case.”
“From what I know of your sister-in-law, I think that is most unlikely.”
“I say that someone is shielding her.”
“Who?”
“A man.”
Mr. Temperley put his fingers together.
“You will excuse me, but I think you are talking nonsense, Miss Ballard. I can quite understand your being——”
Her thin lips retracted.
“Thank you. I don’t require sympathy. And I did not come here to be told that I am a fool.”
“Isn’t that an exaggeration?”
She was up and standing.
“I’m wasting my time here. I am going to see the Chief Constable at Melford.”
“By all means do so, madam. But before you go, may I ask you a question?”
She looked at him with contempt.
“Is bitterness of any use in a tragedy such as this? Your sister-in-law had much to bear.”
“Yes, and she has a pretty face. You men are all alike. I may as well tell you that I shan’t rest until I have seen justice done.”
Mr. Temperley rose, went to the door and opened it.
“What is justice, Miss Ballard? Yes; I don’t think there is anything more to be said. Good day to you.”
He heard her bang the outer door, and selecting a pipe from the bowl, he filled it. What an exceedingly unpleasant person! No rest until justice had been done? So like the Melford Argus! Well, the only human thing to hope for was that poor Mrs. Ballard was beyond the reach of that woman’s black claws.
2
Was it safe to leave her for a day? Would she be safe with herself? But he had so much to do, so many things to be crowded into this one day, and the hazards would have to be accepted. He had put on his one presentable lounge suit, and he had his cheque book in his pocket, and in the vestibule stood the empty suitcase he was taking with him.
The Woman at The Door Page 16
