The Rasp

by Philip MacDonald

  Anthony drew nearer. ‘D’you happen to remember,’ he said slowly, ‘whether you—er—sneezed like that at all on the evening your master was killed?’

  Poole exhibited agitation. ‘Whether I—the master—’ the thin hands twisted about each other. ‘Forgive, me, sir—I—I can’t remember, sir. I’m a foolish old fellow—and any mention of—of that terrible night sort of seems to—to upset me, sir.’ He passed a hand across his forehead. ‘No, sir, I really can’t remember. I’m an old man, sir. My memory’s not what it was. Not what it was—’

  But Anthony was listening no longer. He was, in fact, no longer there to listen. He had suddenly turned about and sprung into the hall. As Mr Poole said later in the servant’s hall: ‘I’d never of believed such a lazy-looking gentleman could of moved so quick. Like the leap of a cat, it was!’

  Had he followed into the hall, he would have had more matter for gossip. For by the door of the verandah Anthony stood clutching, none too gently, the skinny shoulder of Robert Belford—the man-servant he had christened ‘Ferret-face’.

  ‘A word in your pointed ear, my friend,’ he said, and tightened his grip. ‘Now where shall we chat? The garden?’ He pulled his trembling captive, whose face was a dirty grey with fear, out through the verandah and on to the terrace.

  ‘Suppose,’ Anthony said, dropping his hand, ‘suppose you tell me why in hell you listen to my conversations with other people.’

  ‘I wasn’t listening.’ The man’s voice was sullen, yet at the same time shrill with fear.

  ‘Why take the trouble?’ Anthony asked plaintively. ‘Besides, it’s wicked to tell stories, Belford. Wicked! Unhappy is the burden of a fib. We will, I think, get farther from our fellows and you shall tell me all about everything. I’ve been watching you, you know.’

  With these last words, true but intentionally misleading, a black shadow of hopelessness seemed to fall upon the prisoner.

  ‘All right,’ he mumbled wearily, and followed meekly, but with dragging feet, while his captor led the way down the steps and across the lawn and into the little copse which faced the eastern end of the house.

  As he walked, Anthony thought hard. He was something more than mystified. What in heaven, earth or hell was this little person going to tell him? Another old boot turning into a salmon, what? Father Gethryn, confessor! Well, every little helps.

  When the house was hidden from them by the trees, he stopped. He sat on a log and waved Belford to another. Then he lit his pipe and waited. To his surprise, the little servant, after clearing his throat, began at once. Much of his nervousness seemed to drop from him, though he still looked like a man in fear.

  ‘I’m rather glad this has happened, sir,’ he said, ‘because I was going to come to you anyway.’

  ‘You were, were you?’ thought Anthony. ‘Now why?’ But he went on smoking.

  ‘I couldn’t of stood it much longer, sir, reely I couldn’t! And ever since you stopped that great brute of a sergeant from popping it across me, sir, I’ve been tryin’ to make up me mind to tell you.’ He paused as if expecting an answer; but getting none, plunged on.

  ‘I wasn’t upstairs all the time that night, like I said I was at the inquest!’ Again he paused.

  Anthony went on smoking. Here, if he wanted the story quickly, silence was best.

  Belford swallowed hard. His face, as he went on speaking, turned from muddy grey to dead white.

  ‘I—I come downstairs, sir, after I’d finished in the master’s room. And when I got to the ’all I heard old Poole starting on one of them sneezing’ fits. And—and, sir, I went into the study and I saw the master lyin’ there on the rug—just like they found ’im! And—and I shut that door behind me quick—old Pooley was still coughin’ and chokin’ his ’ead off—and I nipped back up the stairs, sir. It’s God’s truth, sir! It is—’

  This time the pause was so long that Anthony knew speech was necessary.

  ‘Are you trying to explain,’ he said, ‘that though you did go into the study that night you didn’t have anything to do with the murder?’

  ‘Yes, sir, yes.’ The man’s eagerness was pathetic. ‘That’s just it, sir! I didn’t have nothink to do with it, sir, nothink! So ’elp me God!’

  ‘What did you go into the room for?’ Anthony shot out the question. ‘Must’ve been for something you didn’t want found out or Poole’s hay-fever wouldn’t have been so important to you?’ The logic, he knew, was faulty. But the thrust told.

  Belford hung his head. ‘Yes, sir, it was what you say. I thought—one of the girls told me—the master was in the billiard-room. And I knew as ’e always kept money somewheres in the study. I was goin’ to pin—steal it if I could. I was desprit, sir. Desprit!’

  Anthony was puzzled. ‘But if you came out without stealing anything, why didn’t you rouse the house when you saw Mr Hoode was dead?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Except that it all come as such a shock like—my sneaking in there while old Poole was sneezin’—and then finding—that, sir. You see, when I nipped out, the old man was still sneezin’ with ’is ’ead on his knees. And I knew as he hadn’t spotted me. And I bolted away to think. An’ the more I thought, the more I feels as if I couldn’t—hadn’t better like—tell anybody.

  ‘I can see, now, sir, ’ow blasted silly it were—me having done nothink wrong. But there it was, sir; I meant to tell, but as I’d gone in there to steal and ’ad sneaked in in the way I did—well, it made me feel as if they’d all jump on me immediate as the murderer. Specially as I never goes into the study in the ordinary way. You do see ’ow it was, don’t you, sir?’

  ‘I do,’ Anthony said. ‘But I also see that you’re a fool. A fool for not rousing everyone at once; a fool for not keeping quiet after you’d decided to say nothing about it.’

  Belford’s little eyes opened wide. ‘But you—you were on to me, sir! You suspected me like—thought I was the murd’rer!’

  Anthony shook his head. ‘Not really, Belford. You know, you looked too guilty to be true. I nabbed you just now because I don’t like eavesdroppers. Also because anything fishy in this house interests me at present.’

  ‘I may be a fool,’ cried Belford in heavy tones not without humour, ‘but I feel better now I’ve got it off my chest like. Reely I do, sir! I kept sayin’ to meself as how I wasn’t guilty of anythink, and yet I ’ad the conscience awful! I’ve bin trying to tell you for twenty-four hours, sir, but when I ’eard you askin’ Poole if ’e’d ’ad a ’tack of that hay-fever on the night the master was killed, I got frightened again and was goin’ to bolt. Only you copped me.’ He was silent a moment, then burst out: ‘Mr Deacon didn’t do it, sir. He couldn’t of! You know that, sir?’

  Anthony did. But he wanted to turn this tragi-comic confession of nothing into evidence of importance, though he had but little hope of success.

  ‘What time,’ he asked with affected carelessness, ‘did you go into the study?’

  ‘I was only just in and out like a flash, sir. But when I got back to the stairs, the clock there said five past eleven, sir—I remember it perfect. I wasn’t lookin’ for the time reely, only some’ow I saw it and couldn’t forget it like.’

  Anthony repressed elation. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and got to his feet.

  Belford jumped up. ‘Are you—going, sir?’

  Anthony nodded.

  ‘But what—what are you goin’ to—to do about me? About what I told you, sir?’

  Anthony looked down benignly. ‘Nothing.’

  Belford’s mouth fell open. ‘Nothing! Nothing? But—’

  ‘What I mean, Belford, is this. I’ll keep you out of trouble. You’ve told me one thing that makes all your confession of nothing worth while. You may, later on, have to give evidence; but that’s the worst you’ll have to do as far as I’m concerned. And don’t worry. And for the Lord’s sake don’t walk about as you’ve been doing lately, looking like Charles Peace with a belly-ache.’

  The little man smiled
all over his wizened face. Anthony looked at him curiously. Somehow, when talking to him as a man and not a servant, one found something so far from being sly as to be almost lovable.

  Anthony gave the narrow shoulders a reassuring pat and strolled away, making for the house. He had covered perhaps twenty yards when he stopped, turned on his heel, and walked back.

  Belford was seated again on his log. His face was buried in his hands. Anthony stood looking down at him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  The other dropped his hands with a cry, bounding to his feet.

  ‘I—beg your pardon, sir. You—I—’

  Anthony soothed him. ‘Steady, man, steady. Take your time. Lots of it.’

  Belford looked up at him, tried to speak, failed, and hung his head again.

  ‘Just now,’ Anthony said, ‘you told me something about being desperate. What is it? Money?’

  Belford nodded. ‘You’re right, sir,’ he muttered. ‘It’s—it’s my wife, sir. Been very ill, she has. And is still. I was goin’ to ask the master to ’elp me; but when it come to the point, I couldn’t. That’s why I was after pinchin’, sir. I would ’ave asked ’im, I would reely, sir; but I knew he’d ask Miss Hoode about it, and that’d ’ave made it ’opeless. You see, sir, the missus was in service here before we was married—and, well, sir, she ’ad—’ad to leave in a nurry. And through me! You understand, sir—our nipper—’ He broke off, looking up appealingly. ‘We’re very fond of each other, sir,’ he finished. ‘And it’s ’ard to see ’er so ill like!’

  ‘How much d’you want?’ Anthony felt for his note-case. ‘Here, you’d better have twenty now. And I’ll fix you up properly tomorrow. Now, for God’s sake, man, pull yourself together!’ he added sharply.

  For Belford’s shrivelled, sharp-featured little face was working in a way which was not good to see. Gratitude is sometimes more terrible to watch than baser emotions.

  Anthony thrust the notes into one limp hand and beat a hurried retreat.

  Belford stood where he was left. His lips moved soundlessly. The banknotes in his hand crackled as the stubby fingers clenched upon them. Presently he raised his head and looked with blurred vision along the path through the trees.

  ‘Gawd!’ he said, the refinement of the servants’ hall now completely gone. ‘Gawd! What a bloke! What a bloody good bloke!’

  Anthony took the terrace steps three at a time. He was elated. The elation was short-lived; before he had reached the house, despair had taken its place. After all, this playing at detectives was foolery. Why, such a day as this, with its hot, clean peace, its drowsiness, its little scented breeze—was it not a day for a lover to lie at the feet of his mistress? Was it not a day for hot, sun-warmed kisses?

  He shook himself, laughing bitterly. ‘Affectioned ass!’ he said to himself.

  Sir Arthur came out of the house. ‘Lovely day, Gethryn. Early, aren’t you?’

  ‘It is and I am. I am also a detective of the greatest. Do I look it?’

  Sir Arthur grew eager. ‘What d’you mean? Have you got anything? Found out anything important?’

  Anthony nodded. ‘Yes, twice.’

  ‘But what, man? What?’

  ‘One, the butler suffers from hay-fever. Two, the murder was committed at as near eleven o’clock as I am to you.’

  ‘Damn it all, Gethryn,’ said the elder man, ‘I don’t think it’s quite fair to pull my leg like that. Not about this. I don’t really!’

  ‘You’re right, it isn’t. I’m sorry,’ Anthony was contrite. ‘But you know, I’m not as silly as I sound. You must think I’m telling you things you knew before; but I’m not really. What I think these things mean I’m not going to say just yet. Not to anyone.’

  ‘I see. That’s all right, Gethryn. You must forgive me if I seem touchy.’ Sir Arthur smiled forgivingly.

  ‘Seen Deacon lately?’ Anthony asked.

  ‘This morning. In fact, I’ve just come back. He’s wonderful, that boy!’

  ‘He is,’ agreed Anthony. ‘I’m just going to see him now. Walk to the gate with me, will you? I want you to help me.’

  ‘My dear chap, with pleasure!’ He put his arm through Anthony’s as they walked.

  ‘I want to know,’ said Anthony, as they reached the end of the house, ‘whether anyone in any way connected with the household does any playing about with carpenter’s tools. Amateurs, professionals, or both.’

  ‘Funny you should ask that, Gethryn? I’ve been thinking about that. But it’s no help. You see, the place is full of ’em—carpenters, I mean. There’s Diggle, the gardener, he’s really an excellent rough-job man. Then there’s the chauffeur, he made that shed over there—and a splendid bit of work it is. And John, well, it was his one hobby as it is mine. You know that set of three small tables in the drawing-room?’

  ‘I did notice them. They puzzled me rather. Couldn’t place ’em.’

  ‘John made those,’ said Sir Arthur, with a touch of pride, ‘nearly twenty years ago. I remember I was very jealous at the time. I couldn’t ever have done anything so good, you see. I was a bit better than he at the finer sorts of work, though.’ He broke off, seeming to fall into a reverie. After a while he added: ‘No, Gethryn, I’m afraid this line’s no good to us. That wood-rasp doesn’t belong to Abbotshall.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Anthony asked.

  ‘Well, it isn’t mine, it didn’t belong to John, it isn’t Diggle’s—he was questioned by the police, you know—and it certainly isn’t the chauffeur’s.’

  ‘Humph!’ Anthony seemed annoyed.

  They walked on to the gate in silence. Anthony nodded an adieu and set off down the white, dusty road with his long horseman’s stride.

  CHAPTER XV

  ANTHONY’S BUSY DAY

  I

  HE covered the distance to the village in a time creditable for so hot a day. As he passed the Bear and Key, a knot of men stopped their conversation to eye him with thirsty interest. He smelt reporter and passed by, giving silent thanks to the efficiency of Boyd. Now that the case seemed, to the public at least, as good as over, there was no real danger; but had the news-hungry hordes been let loose at first to overrun Abbotshall, Heaven alone knew how impossible things would have been.

  For the case of the murdered minister had seized violently on public imagination. It was so like, so very like, the books the public had read yesterday, were reading today, and would read tomorrow and tomorrow. Great Britain (and Ireland) was divided now into two camps—pro and anti-Deacon. The antis had a vast majority. Many of them held that to waste time on a trial which would be purely formal was disgraceful. The wretch, they said, should be hanged at once. Not a few were convinced that hanging was too merciful. It was all very funny, really, thought Anthony, and wished he could laugh. But whenever he tried to realise how funny it was, he thought of Deacon, and then found that it wasn’t funny at all, but rather terrible.

  On this morning, though, he was at least on the road to high spirits, and walked on down the twisting, cobbled street towards the police-station, whistling beneath his breath. The whistle bewailed the cruel death of Cock Robin.

  Still whistling, he ran up the steps of the police-station. As he passed through the doorway the whistling stopped, cut off in the middle of a bar. He stepped to one side, away from the door. Coming towards it were Lucia Lemesurier and her sister.

  Neither at once saw Anthony. Then, with a gracious smile to officialdom, Lucia turned and looked full at him. He raised his hat and looked grim. He didn’t mean to look grim; he was merely trying to behave well in a police-station to a lady he loved and had offended. Lucia flushed and bowed coldly and walked down the steps. She hadn’t meant to do any of these things; but the man did look so forbidding. ‘Conceited idiot!’ she said to herself, referring to Anthony and not meaning it in the least.

  ‘Hell!’ said Anthony under his breath, and went rather white.

  Dora Masterson held out her hand. ‘Good-morning,�
�� she said, and looked curiously at him.

  From somewhere he dragged out a smile.

  ‘’Morning. Feeling better?’

  She beamed at him, ‘Oh, ever so much! Archie seems so—so exactly as if everything was the same as usual. He’s wonderful! And I haven’t forgotten what you said about miracles. You will do one, won’t you?’ With another smile she ran down the steps and after her sister. She had scented an intriguing mystery in the behaviour of these two.

  Anthony emerged from thought to find the inspector looking at him with barely veiled curiosity. He essayed a cheerful manner. Perhaps the inspector would be so good as to let him see Mr Deacon. If the inspector remembered, Superintendent Boyd—

  In less than two minutes he was alone with the prisoner.

  Deacon put down the book he was reading. ‘Hallo-allo! More visitors for the condemned man. Good job you’re early. I believe they’re moving me to the county clink about eleven.’

  Anthony sat down upon the bed. ‘How are you?’ he said. He said it to gain time. His thoughts, once so carefully ordered, had been thrown into much confusion. That bow had been so extremely distant.

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ Deacon said slowly and heavily, ‘I feel absolutely rotten! It’s beginning to get on my nerves—all this!’ He made a sweeping gesture. ‘It—I feel—’ He broke off and laughed. ‘Fan-tods won’t do any good, will they? And it’s only what I might have expected. Nurse always told me my middle name was Crippen.’

  Admiration and sympathy cleared Anthony’s head. ‘When’s the magistrate’s court?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘The balloon, I believe, goes up at ten a.m. the day after tomorrow.’

  Anthony muttered: ‘Day after tomorrow, eh? Well, it may,’ and relapsed into silence.

  Deacon half rose, then sat down again. ‘After you left me last night,’ he said, after a pause, ‘I had a visit from Crabbe—the solicitor Digby-Coates got. We had a long talk, and he’s going to prime Marshall, who’s going to come and see me tomorrow himself. So all the legal business is fixed up.’