She drew him up the alleyway a little way. ‘Please, Arthur, come here. I want to talk to you without everybody looking at us.’ Her voice broke and she flung herself forward and put her head on his chest. ‘Arthur, I’ve been so worried. It’s been dreadful.’
He put an arm round her awkwardly and lifted her chin up. ‘It’ll be fine, Isabelle, really. We’ll get him back for you, don’t you worry.’
She drew back, puzzled. ‘Who?’
‘Smith-Fennimore.’
‘Malcolm?’
‘Yes,’ he said, dropping his arm and stepping back. ‘I know you’re engaged. You must be worried about him.’
She gave a hiccup of laughter. ‘I am. Of course I am, but you’re here.’ She broke off, reached up and kissed the angle of his jaw.
Stanton drew back as if he’d been stung, his hand to his face. ‘Isabelle, don’t do that. It’s not . . .’ He searched for the right words. ‘It’s not kind.’
‘Don’t you understand?’ she said softly and kissed him again.
With the touch of her lips on his cheek and the scent of her hair so close, the last rags of his self-control went flying. Shutting his eyes, he caught her in his arms and kissed her lips hungrily. She moved and he held her tightly as the kiss lengthened. Then the realization of what he was doing hit him and he broke away. He dropped his arms to his sides in misery before putting a shaky hand to his mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in heavy despair. ‘I’m sorry, Isabelle. You needn’t worry. I won’t do it again.’
She looked at him with the faintest of smiles. ‘But I wanted you to,’ she said softly. ‘I love you.’ She gave him a quick, uncertain glance. ‘That is . . .’ She reached out to him. ‘Do you still want me?’
It was as if the sun had come out. ‘Want you?’ he repeated in a dazed voice and then, as the full meaning of what she said registered, ‘Want you?’ He took her hands and laughed. ‘I’ve never wanted anything more.’ He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them happily. ‘I’ve always wanted you. Oh, my dear,’ and kissed her again.
‘Arthur,’ she said after an appreciable pause, ‘you smell terrible.’
‘I know,’ he said, ‘awful,’ and he laughed. ‘Actually,’ he added, sobering up, ‘it’s not funny. This is hard to explain but I can’t remember anything. I’ve lost my memory. Jack told me what’s happened. Apparently the police think I’m guilty and, to be quite honest, I suppose I might be.’
‘No, you’re not,’ she said with a touch of irritation. ‘Of course you aren’t. We’ll have to sort it out, yes, but Jack can do it. Where is he, by the way?’
‘In the car, fast asleep.’
There was an embarrassed cough from the end of the alley. ‘Well, I’m not, actually, but I didn’t want to butt in. You seemed otherwise engaged.’
Isabelle glared furiously at him. ‘You shouldn’t have been watching!’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ Haldean said with an apologetic smile. ‘If you will conduct your affairs in the public highway, then it’s hard not to watch.’ He held out his hand to Isabelle. ‘I take it congratulations are in order?’
‘I’m so happy, Jack,’ she said simply.
Haldean turned to the grinning Stanton. ‘I hate to break up the party, but I really think we’d better get into the police station. Ashley’s waiting for us. You don’t know Superintendent Ashley, but he’s an excellent bloke. He’ll look after you.’
They walked up the steps to the station. Ashley was standing by the desk, talking to Sergeant Ingieton. Haldean had been dreading this moment and Ashley, despite his long experience, obviously felt ill at ease. Once the formalities were over, he laid his hand on Stanton’s arm. ‘If you will come with me, Captain Stanton, I’ll take you to the cells.’
Isabelle gave a convulsive shudder. Ashley smiled at her. ‘Don’t you worry, miss. He’ll be safe with us and you can always visit him, you know.’
Haldean reached out for Isabelle’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. ‘It’ll be all right.’ She was clearly making a tremendous effort to hold back her tears. ‘He’s safe. Remember that. He’s safe.’
Isabelle, her eyes fixed on Stanton’s back as he walked away, didn’t look at Haldean. ‘I’m trusting you, Jack,’ she said with a break in her voice. ‘We’re trusting you. I don’t understand what you’re doing, but it’s got to work.’
Haldean suddenly couldn’t speak. He had meant to talk to Ashley, to tell him everything that had happened, but he didn’t trust his voice. He’d have to catch up with Ashley later. It didn’t really matter, anyway. He’d told Ashley about the Wolseley on the telephone and with luck the police should have managed to round up the gang.
He squeezed Isabelle’s hand again and led her out of the police station and into the car. He climbed into the driver’s seat and sat for a few moments before starting the car. Then, like a man coming up from underwater, he took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I’m going to try something,’ he said briskly. ‘Now I’ve got my coat back from Arthur, I can be seen in public again.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Play along, won’t you?’
To Isabelle’s surprise, Haldean drove them not to Hesperus, but to the Wheatsheaf. She hesitated at the doorway. Although it was only early in the evening, there was a busy, noisy crowd inside. Haldean slipped his arm through hers. ‘Come on, Belle. It’s a perfectly respectable place and I want to see a man about something.’
He guided Isabelle to a table where she sat uncomfortably. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the Wheatsheaf, it was just that going to the local pub was simply Not Done. Was this part of playing along? Jack was standing at the bar, chatting to the landlord, laughing. He had the drinks, why didn’t he hurry up? Oh no, now he’d met someone else and was buying him a drink, too. She smiled artificially as Jack and the stranger came to her table.
‘Here’s someone I’d like you to meet, Belle,’ said Haldean, placing a gin and ginger in front of her. ‘This is Mr Ernest Stanhope of the Daily Messenger. He’s an old friend of mine.’ Isabelle and the reporter nodded to each other. ‘My word,’ said Haldean, undoing his coat and placing his hat on the seat, ‘it’s busy in here.’
‘It’s nearly all pressmen,’ said Stanhope, looking round the bar. ‘It’s doing wonders for the landlord’s trade.’ He broke off and stared at Haldean’s mud-stained clothes. ‘What the devil have you been doing to yourself? You look as if you’ve been rolling round in a farmyard.’
‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been rolling round in a ditch,’ said Haldean, taking a long drink of beer.
‘A ditch? Whatever for? You don’t look any too lively, either. You seem whacked out.’
‘I’ll tell you about that later,’ said Haldean, lighting a cigarette.
‘I’d like to hear it,’ said Stanhope. ‘I was cheesed off when I heard about Smith-Fennimore being abducted. We were caught napping last night when those Russians collared you all, and no mistake. It was the rottenest piece of luck I’ve ever had. We’d spent ages outside Hesperus, and when something really sensational happened, not one of us was there. I tried to get hold of you today, but there was nothing doing. Still, Haldean, as you were part of it, perhaps I could get you to say a few words?’
‘Oh, I can do better than that,’ said Haldean, sipping his beer. ‘I’ve got a scoop.’
At the sound of these lovely words, Stanhope switched from mild inebriation to complete sobriety. ‘Quietly,’ he hissed, in an agonized voice. ‘Any minute now some of the crowd’ll recognize you. My word, Haldean, you’re the goods. What is it?’
Haldean grinned. ‘Well, as you know, I was attacked last night. This is Miss Isabelle Rivers, my cousin and the fiancé of Commander Smith-Fennimore.’ He ignored Isabelle’s scandalized squeak. ‘I want to tell you that we’ve just delivered Captain Stanton to the police station here in the village. What? Yes, he did put up a bit of a fight to start with, but he came quietly enough in the end.’
This time Isabelle wouldn’t be silenced. ‘Ar
thur wouldn’t fight you, Jack.’
‘Oh yes he would,’ said Haldean. ‘And he did. He used to be a pretty handy boxer and he’s still got the skill.’
‘So how did you persuade him to come along?’ said Stanhope, his pencil poised.
‘I won,’ said Haldean succinctly. ‘That’s partly why I’m not looking my usual suave self. The other reason is that the Russians who attacked us last night turned up, and we had a devil of a job escaping from them. With any luck, the police have arrested them. You can ask Superintendent Ashley for those details.’
A muttered ‘Wow!’ escaped Stanhope and his pencil raced.
‘But look, Stanhope, I know it might spoil the story, but I’d be glad if you didn’t mention I was the person who brought Stanton in. We’ve got a lot of friends in common and it’d cause no end of a stink if they thought I’d nabbed him.’
‘If you say so,’ said Stanhope, doubtfully. ‘I can’t say I like it.’
‘Come to think of it,’ continued Haldean, ‘I’d be awfully obliged if you laid it on a bit thick about the injuries I got last night. If you could say I’m still laid up, that’d let me out, don’t you know.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Stanhope, even more doubtfully.
‘Because if you could see your way to doing that, then I can let you have the dope on Captain Stanton and his fight with the Russians. All right?’
Stanhope wavered, then came to a decision. ‘How badly injured do you want to be?’
‘I’d like a fair degree of dilapidation. Steer clear of permanent mutilation, although this wretched arm is killing me. I’ll have to make a miraculous recovery at some time, but suggest any letters should be care of death’s door. That should do it.’
‘As a matter of fact, as I said, you do look a bit washed out,’ said Stanhope with a grin. ‘Righty-ho. Consider yourself off the active service list. Now then, what’s this dope on Stanton?’
‘He’s been holed up in a cave at Upper Ranworth, in the grounds of his old childhood home, The Priory, suffering from cold and hunger.’
‘Cold and hunger,’ interjected Stanhope. ‘Great. Lovely copy in that. He’s a DSO, isn’t he? I could play for a bit of sympathy, especially if he’s been fighting Russians.’
‘But the real news is that he’s suffering from amnesia brought on by a head wound sustained while escaping from the scene of the crime and a flare-up of shell shock.’
‘I say! This is wonderful.’
‘Now for some reason we don’t know, he was hunted by the same Russian gang who attacked us at Hesperus.’ Haldean smiled. ‘You’d better say he evaded them. He thumped one with a branch and another fell down a convenient hole. Their car, a red Wolseley, got blown up too.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘It had a match in the petrol tank.’
Grinning broadly, Stanhope carried on writing. ‘Anything else?’ he said, glancing up. ‘I could do with a few more details.’
‘Ashley’ll tell you,’ said Haldean with another yawn. ‘Or you can make them up. I’m so tired I can hardly see straight. You could point out the obvious fact that as the chief suspect can’t remember a damn thing that happened, the full truth of the matter may never be known. Oh, and you’d better mention my book, Stanhope, if you don’t mind. I’ve got The Secret of the Second Shroud coming out with Rynox and West next month. You could give the magazine a boost as well. The sales for On the Town have dropped off the last couple of months. This should help them along a bit. After all,’ he said, trying to avoid Isabelle’s appalled stare, ‘business is business.’
‘It certainly is,’ agreed Stanhope. ‘I’ll get hold of Mr Ashley and phone this in as soon as I’ve talked to him. I couldn’t get the young lady to say a few words about her fiancé, could I?’
‘Certainly not,’ snapped Isabelle, directing a glare of loathing at Haldean.
‘Don’t worry, miss,’ said Stanhope, cheerily. ‘We’ll think of something. You say you’re going to keep this to yourself, Haldean? Wonderful!’ He walked quickly away, leaving Isabelle alone with her cousin.
‘Well,’ she said in a voice with icicles on it, ‘at least you’ve got some publicity for your wretched magazine. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.’
‘Reasonably so,’ he agreed, finishing his beer. ‘And, after all, business is business.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘I don’t think,’ said Haldean, as he climbed out of the car in the old stable yard at Hesperus, ‘that you should say anything about getting engaged to Arthur.’ He was so tired he was slurring his words. ‘It’ll be difficult, you know? For you, I mean. And him. Got enough to cope with.’
‘All right,’ said Isabelle. She looked at him slumped against the car, his face paper-white. ‘Come on, Jack,’ she said softly, putting her hand through his arm. ‘We’re nearly home now.’ He leaned on her as they walked round the stables to the side door. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’
Haldean stopped, swaying. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Not a word about meeting Stanhope in the pub. That’s really important. Vital. Otherwise everything could go wrong.’
‘All right,’ said Isabelle again. ‘Jack . . . did Arthur really hit you?’
Haldean nodded. ‘He’s a useful sort of boxer. Good fighter. Good bloke.’
‘Can I tell them he’s in the police station?’
‘Oh, yes. That’s the whole point. Tell them that.’
Lady Rivers came into the hall to meet them. She took one look at Haldean and packed him off to bed. ‘Now then,’ she said to Isabelle after Haldean was safely upstairs, ‘will you please tell your father and me exactly what’s going on?’
When Haldean awoke the next morning, he felt as if someone had gone over him in a steam-roller. His arm still throbbed, but as he gazed at the bedroom ceiling he felt happier than he had for days. He was on the right lines at last and Arthur was safe. That’s what he wanted and that’s what he’d got.
He picked up his watch but it had stopped. Stiffly he got out of bed and tried to dress, but his shoulder was like a block of wood. There was nothing for it, he’d have to borrow Chapman, Uncle Phil’s valet, once more. He had a vague memory of Chapman helping him last night and was mildly surprised that he hadn’t appeared this morning. His morning cup of tea hadn’t arrived, either.
He pulled his dressing gown round him. The upstairs of the house was deathly quiet, but there were clinking noises from the hall. He walked down the staircase and met Egerton, the butler, carrying a tray of sherry glasses. ‘I say, Egerton, where is everyone?’
‘They’re all at the inquest on Mr Preston, sir.’
‘The inquest?’ said Haldean, astonished. ‘What time is it, for heaven’s sake?’
Egerton glanced at the grandfather clock. ‘It’s nearly one o’clock, sir.’
‘Good God.’ Haldean sat on the stairs and grinned at the butler. ‘I suppose that means I’ve missed breakfast. Judging by those sherry glasses, they’ll all be back for a bunfight soon. Why on earth did no one wake me up? I should have gone to the inquest. I’ve missed it now.’
Egerton returned Haldean’s smile. ‘Lady Rivers left strict instructions, Master Jack, that you were not to be disturbed. She said –’ Egerton gave an apologetic little cough – ‘that if that silly boy – I am quoting her ladyship, sir – has no more sense than to go running round the countryside and getting into fights, then someone has to look after him. If I may be permitted the observation, Master Jack, you look a great deal better than you did last night.’
‘I could still do with Chapman to give me a hand getting dressed, though.’ He ran a hand round his chin. ‘I wouldn’t mind a shave, either. It’s a pity about the inquest.’
‘I’ll send Chapman to your room, sir. The Superintendent left a note for you.’ Egerton put down the tray of glasses and brought Haldean the envelope from the hall table.
Haldean ripped it open. Dear Haldean, Good work in bringing back Captain Stanton. He’s fine. Things are hotting up here. Don’t wo
rry about missing the inquest because we’re going to move for an adjournment. Yours, etc., E. Ashley. Mollified, Haldean looked at Egerton. ‘He says they’re going to tie a can to it. The inquest, I mean. Egerton, I know everyone’s busy, but there wouldn’t be any coffee, would there? To say nothing of breakfast?’
‘Her ladyship left instructions with the cook that you should have breakfast when you woke up, sir.’
‘Tell the cook she’s a wonderful woman,’ said Haldean with a smile, walking up the stairs. ‘I’m starving.’
Dressed and shaved and full of eggs, bacon, sausages, kidneys, mushrooms, fried bread and coffee, Haldean amused himself by reading the lurid account of Stanton’s arrest and his encounter with the Russian gang in the Daily Messenger when the family arrived home. He finished the article, smiling broadly Stanhope had done him proud. Although carefully admitting the possibility of Arthur’s innocence, he had given the impression that all England could breathe easily now that the deranged killer of Lord Lyvenden was safely behind bars. The Russians were being vigorously hunted down and, as for Haldean, it would be a miracle if he saw the day through. According to the Messenger, The Secret of the Second Shroud was likely to be published posthumously. He winced a bit as he read the heart-rending description of Isabelle, bravely keeping her lonely vigil, waiting for news of her fiancé. She wouldn’t thank him for that at all.
She didn’t. ‘Have you seen the paper?’ she hissed at him in an undertone when he joined the rest of the family in the hall. ‘I can’t believe what that man wrote about me and Malcolm. I’ve a good mind to tell everyone about Arthur.’
‘Don’t do that,’ said Haldean, alarmed. ‘For one thing, you could wreck everything and for another, you’d cause a fearful stink. Arthur’s hardly the blue-eyed boy at the moment.’
‘All right,’ she said mutinously. ‘But I don’t like it, Jack. By the way, Mr Ashley came back with us. He wants to see you. I think he’s in the gun room.’
Haldean went along to the gun room where Ashley was sitting with a tray of coffee.
Mad About the Boy? Page 24
