“What’s the joke?” asked Felix, amiably enough, but with a faint undertone of resentment. Since John’s appeal, he had not given way to gloom. But cheerfulness was beyond his powers. His was the tense and high-strung temper that can meet cruel circumstance with courage but not with confidence.
Nora shot a glance at him half-pitiful, half-amused. Well she knew her Felix and his capacity for suffering. She could imagine him vowing, like King Henry, never to smile again: and keeping his vow for an appreciable fraction of eternity. John, noting that tender, critical glance, apostrophized her silently: Nora, my dear Nora, must you love this intense, preoccupied young man? And they both asked with a liveliness intended to disguise their inward thoughts:
“Yes, Sydenham, what is the joke?”
“Nothing much,” replied Rampson with a grin. “I was just thinking of young Lion yesterday and his excitement when we put that darning-needle under the microscope and found traces of blood on it. He’d make a marvellous detective’s assistant. I left him quite convinced that somebody had been stabbed to the heart with a darning-needle and that the police should be told of this amazing discovery forthwith. It wasn’t the slightest use pointing out that people have blood in their fingers as well as in their hearts.”
Nora smiled.
“I know. He thinks he’s found the one important clue. I told him that if he started darning his own socks he’d soon discover the reason for the blood on that needle. But he wouldn’t have it. It’s too tame an explanation.”
“Was there blood on the needle? It was probably mine. I pricked my finger on it yesterday.”
“Don’t think so. The blood wasn’t fresh enough to be yours. And this looked like the trace of quite a deep puncture, not a little prick.”
“Oh, well! It isn’t important. But I’ll pigeon-hole it along with the egg-shell and the other small matters.” Felix turned an austere and thoughtful eye on his friend.
“If you’re going to remember things like Charles pricking his finger when he darns his socks, won’t your pigeon-hole, as you call it, get rather in a muddle?”
“Not a bit of it. One should try to remember everything one hears, however trifling, about a man who’s been murdered. It’s always possible that something may turn up which will make all the clues we think important become insignificant, and all the stray facts we’ve collected become important. You never know. By the way, I’m going to have a good look at that map of young Lion’s and see if it suggests anything to me, before I pursue the elusive Mrs. Field to London.”
“Are you going to?”
“Certainly. We must get at the truth of this five-pound-note business somehow.”
“Sweet innocent Sherlock,” remarked Rampson pitifully, “do you imagine that you will be able to induce her to present you with the truth?”
“Not for a moment. But the lies people tell are so enlightening. Clear that rug off the table, Sydenham, will you? I want to spread the map out.”
Rampson did as he was requested and a book which had been lying among the folds of the rug fell to the floor. He picked it up and gazed at it with mingled amusement and aversion.
“‘The Murder in the Attic!’ Is this yours, John?” John, unrolling Lion’s parchment, glanced at the dust-cover, which showed a hideous green and yellow face peering from a purple attic window. He grinned.
“No. But give it to me. I’ll restore it to its rightful owner. You know, Nora, your young brother is really quite an accomplished draughtsman. Anybody got a pin or two?”
He speared the map at each corner to the wooden table. “Now then. You met Charles at Worcester. Lifelike portrait of Charles by the celebrated miniaturist, Mr. Lion Browning. You had lunch at the Crown, and then started along the road towards Leigh. You took various field-paths—these are the cows, of course, and—did your father really run over a pig, Nora?”
Nora laughed.
“Not really over. He just grazed it.”
“It came on to rain, and you all took shelter in a barn —and what’s this? Told Travellers’ Tales?”
“Yes. I suppose those balloons coming out of everybody’s mouths represent talking.”
“Charles has an extra large one.”
“Yes. He was telling us about Canada, and about how it felt to be back in England. And then he and Felix started talking about their extreme youth, when Sir Almeric was at Rhyllan Hall and they both came to stay here in their holidays.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh, I dunno. The usual sort of things. About how they used to dress and go out after they’d been sent to bed. And about what a rotten shot at a rabbit Felix used to be, and is still, aren’t you, Felix? And about fishing and bathing in the river, and so on.”
“Well. The rain soon left off, and you went on, and had no more adventures until you arrived at Highbury Down, where you spent the night. The next day it was very hot. This is the sun, jeering at you. You had hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. Charles found he had a puncture, and Lion kindly mended it for him. You started out at ten o’clock along a narrow lane full of chickens and other farmyard animals, and soon came out on a better road. When you’d gone about four miles you found that Charles was missing. You all sat and waited for him, and after a time he turned up. What on earth are these stripy things intended to represent?”
“Bulls’ eyes. Charles had seen a sign-post saying half a mile to some village or other, and had gone down a side-road to buy some sweets—we were all awfully thirsty and pining for something to suck. It was really rather kind of him, because he didn’t like sweets himself. But of course we all rather wondered where he’d got to.”
“Yes. You went on without any excitements except some formidable-looking hills to Fairway, where you had lunch at the Merry Month of May. After lunch it was hotter than ever—I see the sun has grown a good deal larger. You went on about five miles until you came to a small river, where you bathed.”
“Yes. It was lovely. So cool and clear. And there were water-lilies and dragon-flies—millions of them.”
“Does this unpleasant object represent a dragon-fly?”
“No, that’s a leech. Father said he’d seen a leech, and got out. The rest of us laughed and said it must have been a water-beetle or something, but we didn’t feel quite happy about it. And then Lion said he could feel something biting his leg, and that settled it. We all leapt out. But it was a lovely stream, and we had a lovely bathe.”
“Who’s this standing on the bank?”
“That’s Charles. He didn’t bathe, because bathing when he was hot always gave him a headache, he said.”
“After the bathe you lay about in the sun and slept. Except your father and Lion, who went to look at the mill. Then you went slowly on to Galton, and had tea there, late, and stayed the night. There was a fair there, and you collected several coco-nuts.”
“Charles did. He was really good at it. And then we went on the roundabouts and swings.”
“The next day was Sunday. You went on towards Hereford. It was another hot day, and there were lots more hills. You bathed again in a river. Who are these on the bank this time?”
“Father and Charles. Father had leeches on the brain, and Charles said it was too hot for him, so they got lunch ready on the bank instead. We’d brought sandwiches from the inn, and they made a fire and stewed some awful tea in Lion’s billy-can.”
“That seems to have been rather an energetic day. You got to Hereford about seven o’clock and stayed there the night, and started early the next day towards Penlow. I see from the size of the sun that it was a fine day, but not so hot. Isabel fell off her bicycle in Hereford, and was picked up by at least eight good Samaritans.”
“Yes, it was really quite funny the way all the people in the street rushed to pick her up. She wasn’t a bit hurt; she was laughing so much she couldn’t move.” Felix moved restlessly, got up and walked to the opening of the summer-house and stood looking out at the brilliant lawns. Nora became aware of
him and broke off suddenly. The animation faded from her face.
“And nothing much happened after that,” went on John, “until you got to the Tram Inn and had hard-boiled eggs for tea.”
He slowly re-rolled the map and slipped an elastic band round it.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t suggest anything much,” said Nora.
“I don’t know. Why did Charles go off and buy those bulls’ eyes without telling anybody?”
Nora looked mildly surprised.
“I suppose he wanted to give us a nice surprise. Isabel had been wishing she had some bulls’ eyes or acid drops to suck, and I suppose when he saw there was a village near he thought he’d slip off and get some.”
“Wouldn’t he have told Felix or your father where he was going?”
“Well—he didn’t.”
“Perhaps because he was afraid somebody would offer to go with him.”
“Why should he have minded that?”
“Perhaps he had other business in the village, besides buying bulls’ eyes. Some private business.”
Felix turned and stood facing them in the entrance, dark against the brilliant sunny grass and flowers.
“You didn’t know Charles,” he observed dispassionately. “If you had known him, you wouldn’t have seen anything remarkable about his going off down a side-road without telling anyone. I don’t imagine for a minute he had any private business there. He just thought he’d go and get some sweets and so he went, without considering the rest of us at all. He was like that.”
There was a pause.
“How do you know?” asked John slowly. “You only knew him for three days. Did he do other things of the same sort?”
Felix kicked moodily against the table-leg and frowned. “I don’t know. He seemed to be a pretty complete egoist. Don’t you think so, Nora?”
“Perhaps.”
Felix resumed his seat on the bench at Nora’s side.
“For instance,” he said slowly, “that first night, when we slept at Highbury Down. I don’t know whether your father told you this, Nora—probably not, he took it beautifully at the time and pretended not to notice anything. You remember, you and Lion and Isabel found rooms at the cottage by the bridge, and your father and Charles and I went to the pub?”
“Yes.”
“It was a small pub and they only had one double room and one single one. Of course we took the rooms, because one’s bound to get pushed in with another person sometimes, when there’s a party of six looking for beds in a small village, and I took it for granted Charles wouldn’t mind sharing with me. Well, he didn’t say anything, but he just took it for granted he was to have the single room. He just went there, saying good night in the friendliest way in the world, and left your father to push in with me. I thought perhaps he didn’t realize there weren’t three rooms, so I went after him and said hadn’t we better give the single room to Dr. Browning? Not that the doctor minded where he slept, really, but naturally one must give the ancients first choice. But I couldn’t get Charles to budge. He said he hated sleeping with other people, and Dr. Browning and I were used to one another, so we’d better do the sharing.” Felix broke off. “That was all,” he added. “He just wouldn’t budge. I got rather annoyed, but he was perfectly good-humoured, didn’t ruffle a feather.”
“That’s interesting,” said John slowly. “And it was typical of him, was it?”
“Absolutely. A chap who’d behave like that wouldn’t have much difficulty about going out of his way on the road without warning anyone, would he?”
“I suppose not. And of course if he was that kind of thick-skinned egoist, my theory that he had some special motive in not telling you where he was going is rather discounted. But all the same ”
Nora Browning interrupted gently:
“But, Felix—” She paused, wrinkling her broad forehead.
“M’m?”
“Was that typical of Charles, that bedroom episode? It rather surprises me. I shouldn’t have expected him to behave like that.”
“Wouldn’t you? Didn’t you think Charles was the complete egoist?”
“Y—es.” Nora spoke hesitatingly, picking her words with care. Evidently, in her view, there were egoists and egoists. “He was. But—he always seemed to want to make a good impression. His manners—they were too flowery, rather than otherwise. As if he’d learnt his book on etiquette by heart, poor man! I could imagine him taking the best room for himself, without thinking. But I can’t imagine him sticking to it, after he’d been told that it wasn’t expected of him. See? All the things like that—opening doors for me and Isabel, fetching and carrying and so on—he made one feel quite uncomfortable, he was so punctilious. No! You surprise me, Felix. I think he was an egoist, surely. But he was very anxious not to be thought a boor.”
Felix pondered this in silence for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.
“I dare say you’re right, Nora. You’re more observant than I am. But still! There it is. He did behave on that occasion in just the way I’ve described.”
“Well, thank you both,” said John cheerfully. “You’ve both been very enlightening. And we must remember that if a person’s behaviour is based on a book of etiquette and not on habit, he may conduct himself beautifully most of the time and then behave very badly in circumstances which the book hasn’t provided for. I think I shall take an opportunity soon of satisfying myself that he had no motive except bulls’ eyes when he turned off to Moseley, all the same. What is it, Rampson?”
“I said,” replied his friend, who seemed to have become suddenly afflicted with alarming facial convulsions, “that the shadows are lengthening.”
Nora and Felix turned and gazed at him in surprise.
“My poor, dear chap,” said John sympathetically. “Is it the heat?”
His friend made a fierce grimace evidently intended to convey some information, and frowned out on to the lawn.
“I know,” he replied, “that it is still early in the afternoon. But already, you will, notice, the shadows are lengthening out.”
John followed the direction of his glance.
“Oh! Dear me, yes, I see they are. Well, it’s September, you know. We can’t expect the long summer days to go on for ever.”
Nora and Felix turned their astonished looks on John, and saw what he saw—the shadows of a man’s head and shoulders falling on the grass at the side of the summerhouse. It remained very still. John wondered how long it had been there. Somebody had been listening to their conversation—was still listening. They were all simultaneously afflicted with a complete inability to think of anything to say. The shadow moved.
“Hullo!” said John. “It’s Mr. Clino! . . .Come inside! We saw your shadow. I’m glad it’s you, and not one of the big five from Scotland Yard. Though I don’t think we said anything very incriminating, did we, Nora?”
“I’m sorry if I alarmed you,” said the old man amiably. “I was watching a remarkably beautiful butterfly on the creeper.” He looked vaguely about the sparsely furnished summer-house. “I was just coming for—yes, my rug.”
He carefully gathered up the rug, felt about on it and looked in a worried fashion about the floor.
“My rug,” he repeated. “Yes. Even on these warm afternoons I feel the need of some kind of covering while taking the air. I shall go and sit in the rose-garden for a while, I think. Now I wonder where I can have left— Oh, no, don’t trouble, please! I just came for my rug.”
He cast a worried glance around the summer-house and departed, the empty rug trailing dejectedly from his arm.
“Mr. Clino,” remarked Rampson, when the old man had crossed the lawn and disappeared behind the rose-pergola, “seems a little distrait.”
“I think he’s lost something,” said Nora carelessly; and then, with a laugh:“Oh, John! Don’t tell me the ‘Murder in the Purple Attic’ belongs to him!”
“Hush!” said John solemnly. “It does. But it’s one of the darker secrets of
his life. That’s why I didn’t hand it over just now. He’s sensitive on the subject of his literary taste, and doesn’t want Blodwen and Felix to know how low he’s sunk.”
Felix half smiled, rather impatiently.
“Heavens! I don’t mind what he reads, the old silly. Nor does Blodwen, I’m sure. We’ve got something else to think about.”
“Of course you don’t. But you’ll oblige the old thing, won’t you, by keeping his awful secret locked in your bosom? And now I must leave you. No, I’m not taking the car, Syd. Just walking into the house.”
As he passed around the summer-house John casually examined the creeper growing on it for signs of insect life. He found none. But butterflies are notoriously averse from staying long in one place.
He went into the small panelled parlour, and finding it empty rang the bell. Waters, the footman, appeared. “Will you ask Mrs. Maur to come here, please?”
“Certainly, sir.”
There was the slightest pause.
“Well?”
Turning quickly from his feigned interest in a Kang s’Hi vase, John surprised a queer expression on the footman’s narrow face—a look, he could have sworn, of amusement.
“Certainly, sir,” repeated Waters, and withdrew.
“Well, I’m dashed,” murmured John to himself. No doubt Waters had discovered that the fair Ellie had been questioned. And no doubt, being a man of intelligence, he had seen where the questions trended. His look of amusement could only mean that the story he had told the girl had been true. Mrs. Maur had been out, as he had said, and he had left Rhyllan late; and now he was enjoying the thought of his approaching vindication through the severe lips of Mrs. Maur.
“You wished to see me, sir?”
The housekeeper par excellence, in her tight, black bodice and full cloth skirt, entered the room and stood looking at John with cold, placid eyes.
“Please. Shut the door. It’s just this, Mrs. Maur: can you remember anything that happened last Monday evening? When Sir Charles was killed, you know?”
He framed his question thus vaguely to avoid startling or offending her; but she did not, it appeared, appreciate his thoughtfulness.
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