“Thank you, Mr. Henderson. A small one. The Chief always holds a breath-smelling parade when we get back from these country-house jobs. Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck, then.”
“And to you, sir. Not that there’s much point in wishing you that now, sir.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Exhibit C, sir. I shouldn’t try to read it now. It’s rather long. It’s Carson’s—your father’s will. A very queer will. I know I shouldn’t tell you anything of this—shouldn’t have read the thing myself, perhaps—but having gone so far there’s no sense in stopping, is there?”
“Well, what’s in the damned thing?”
“The first couple of pages are most interesting… especially from a police point of view. They settle up a whole lot of things that needed settling. You see, it’s only within the last few years that Carson started to add to his collection by stealing. These first two pages are really a list of every jewel he’s stolen since three years ago… names, description of stones, date on which the things were pinched, and so on. He’s leaving them in his will to their original owners. That was like Carson. Extraordinary fellow… mad, you know, Mr. Henderson, but clever… terribly clever.”
“And after the first two pages?”
“The third page is mostly about you. You see, Mr. Henderson, even before Edwin Carson started this rather unorthodox way of adding to his collection, he already had got hold of specimens that must be worth a good many hundred thousand pounds. All collected in a strictly legal fashion… bought at sales, from other collectors, a few discovered in out-of-the-way places, and so on. A very nice little lot indeed. He leaves all that and all his other worldly goods to you.”
“Do you mind,” said Jim, “if I have another drink? Just before you tell me anything more.”
“Nothing more to tell, sir. You’ll be sent these things as soon as we’ve settled up this affair. I’ve got your address in case we want you again. But that’s all for the present, sir… I’ve tried to tell you it as briefly as I could, sir. I rather thought you wanted a word with the young lady.”
“What brains you detectives have! Damn the drink! Have one for me, Wilson, and thank you terribly for what you’ve told me.”
“A pleasure, sir, I’m sure,” said Mr. Wilson, from Scotland Yard, and produced his third roll of cigarette-paper and his third tiny pile of tobacco.
“Mary,” said Jim. “I’ve got a lot of things to talk to you about. A lot of very important things. Things that can’t be discussed here… What’s that shiny-looking thing at the front door?”
“Mr. Usher’s Rolls-Royce,” said Mary. “He’s spent the whole morning putting its entrails together again.”
“And where is he now?”
“Upstairs. Packing. He’s promised to take Lady Stone back to town.”
“Isn’t that just splendid? Freddie always took a long time to pack. Usually he forgets his shaving stuff. Jump in, Mary.”
Mary jumped in.
“What about Lady Stone and Mr. Usher?” she asked.
“I don’t care a hoot in hell for Lady Stone—and Freddie Usher and I went to the same school, which can usually be trotted out as an excuse for pinching another man’s car.”
“Splendid.”
“Splendid it is.”
He pressed the self-starter. The car’s nose swung round and the tyres made a satisfying crunch on the gravel of the drive. The two occupants did not speak until the car was through the big, open gates of Thrackley and out on to the main road. Then Jim removed one hand from the steering-wheel, placed it around the neck of the girl beside him, drew her into a closer and much more comfortable position.
“Now,” he said, “I’m going to talk all the way to London, so just lean back and prepare yourself for a good listen. There was one thing I wanted to ask you, though… what the devil was it, now?… Oh, yes, I know—will you marry me, Mary?”
“Yes,” said Mary. “I think I will.”
“That’s very satisfactory. You say the nicest answers. Kiss me, will you?—and then I’ll start the recitation.”
“For heaven’s sake mind that hen!”
“Damn the hen. Kiss me, please.”
“The hen!”
“Kiss, please.”
“Oh, very well,” said Mary.
And the Wyandotte in question caused a sensation among its family and friends by clearing the hedge at the side of the road with a good three feet to spare. A thing it had not done for years.
XXVI
Mrs. Bertram, proprietrix of that excellent boarding-house (or, rather, “establishment”) at number 34, Ardgowan Mansions, N., looked over the top of her spectacles to see that things were progressing favourably on her gas stove, and settled herself in the wicker armchair beside her kitchen fireplace for her early-morning scanning of the newspapers. Really there was far too much in the papers nowadays. Mrs. Bertram could remember the time when the people in Fleet Street were quite pleased with themselves if they dished up one murder or, at the most, two society weddings and a suicide in a single issue of their day’s paper. But look at this morning’s crop, for instance: Prime Minister Flies to Save Conference, Famous Film Star Files Divorce Proceedings, Hunger-Striker Dies in Prison After Ninety-seven Days’ Fast, Fierce Riots in Cuba, Government Defeated in Guatemala, Martial Law Declared in Barcelona, American Flyer Beats Long Distance Record, Ipswich Girl Found Dead in Hedge, Missing Jewels Recovered in Country-House Sensation, Nudist Colony Attacked by Indignant Women, Yorkshire Bowler Takes All Ten Wickets, Gateshead By-Election Result, Stage Favourite Re-marries, Bank Clerk Battered and Robbed. Now, what chance had a working woman to cope with all that lot? Especially when there was also the woman’s page, the racing column, and the serial to get through. Mrs. Bertram pushed her spectacles up her nose and sifted out the best of the day’s sensations. The country-house business would just be another of these society how-d’you-do’s, she decided, and there was no longer any interest in the hunger-striker if he was now neither hungry nor striking. Mrs. Bertram ran her eyes swiftly through the Prime Minister, the famous film star, the Ipswich girl, the Nudists, and the battered bank clerk. Really, the goings-on nowadays… The P.M. was hurrying across to Geneva to assure the successful and indefinite adjournment of the latest conference; the famous film star gave as grounds for her divorce the distressing fact that her husband picked his teeth in company; the Ipswich girl (photo on back page) had been stabbed through the heart with a joiner’s chisel; the Nudists had had to bolt for it into an adjoining wood; and the battered bank clerk… now, this was really meaty, this was. “The unfortunate victim of the outrage was carrying a leather bag containing…” At which moment one of the many bells in the corner of the kitchen clanged out suddenly in an impatient din. Mrs. Bertram took her spectacles off and her eyes away from the battered bank clerk and peered up to see who it was that was making all that row. Number Six: Mr. Henderson. Now, what on earth did Mr. Henderson want with his shaving-water at this time of the morning? Really, if a hard-working woman couldn’t get a minute to glance at the paper, it was a bit thick and no mistake. Mrs. Bertram rose and poured a quantity of boiling water from the large pan on her gas stove into one of her blue enamelled jugs. Mr. Henderson up, and it not yet gone eight o’clock… something sadly wrong here. But then Mr. Henderson had slumped rather badly in Mrs. Bertram’s estimation during the past twenty-four hours. Chiefly because of this here girl. Never so much as looked at a girl before, Mr. Henderson hadn’t. And then suddenly (“without,” as Mrs. Bertram explained to the lady over the fence, “without so much as an excuse-me or a by-your-leave”) in he walks arm-in-arm with this here girl. Nice, refined-looking girl, of course. Nothing against her as far as looks go. But Mrs. Bertram had very well-developed ideas about the running of her “establishment”. No commercials (the late Mr. Bertram had travelled for soap). And definitely no couples. She had spent the last
three years telling Mr. Henderson that it was high time he went and got himself a nice girl to look after him, but now that the idea seemed to be on the verge of fulfilment Mrs. Bertram was not nearly so enthusiastic. Particularly as it looked very much as though she was about to lose one of her lodgers. Always right on the dot at the end of the month, Mr. Henderson was. A nice, reliable young man. She gave a violent knock at the reliable young man’s door.
“Come in, Mrs. B.,” said Jim.
Mrs. B. came in and received another jolt. Mr. Henderson was up and half-dressed. Such a thing, at two minutes to eight in the morning, had always been looked on almost as sacrilege in Number six bedroom of Number 34, Ardgowan Mansions. This here girl again, thought Mrs. Bertram to herself. She poured the hot water into the basin on the dressing-table and flung one of her morning papers on to Jim’s bed.
“Good morning, Mr. Henderson. Up with the lark, aren’t you?”
“I’m turning over several new leaves, Mrs. B. Going to get up and bring you breakfast into bed every morning after this.”
“What sort of a time did you have when you were away, sir?”
“Not bad, Mrs. Bertram. Not at all bad.”
“Quiet, I’ll bet, down there in Surrey miles from anywhere. My, the goings-on you’ve missed here this weekend. Right in front of my own eyes on Saturday afternoon, Mr. Henderson, that there little brat of a message-boy of Parkinsons, the fruiterers, near as tuppence underneath a great hulking motor-lorry. And Mr. Jackson tells me—”
“Is Mary—Miss Carson up yet, Mrs. Bertram?”
“She is. Been up this last half-hour. Borrowing face cream and brushes and combs and Lord knows what else. Seems to have come away without nothing at all, she does. Did you leave in a hurry, the pair of you, Mr. Henderson?”
“In a whale of a hurry, Mrs. Bertram. What do you think of her, eh?”
“As far as looks go, sir, full marks. But I must say—”
“Well, you’d damned well better like her, Mrs. B. Because she’s going to be Mrs. James Henderson just as soon as we can get someone to ask a few necessary questions.”
“Mr. Henderson! You don’t say!”
Jim crossed to his bed and picked up the copy of the morning paper which Mrs. Bertram had brought. He turned to its centre page and searched along the headlines. Yes… all here, full details, long and exclusive interview with Lady Stone. “Read your paper this morning, Mrs. B.?” he asked.
“What I could before you started pealing your bell, sir. Some sort of a to-do in Cuba, it seems, and—”
“And that. Page eight, col. six: ‘Country-House Sensation. Famous Missing Jewels Discovered. Dangerous Crook Killed. Thrills for House-Party Guests. Exclusive Interviews.’ Go on, get your specs. on that. Full details of my quiet weekend in Surrey.”
Mrs. Bertram grabbed the paper and stared at the column with her mouth open. “But… Mr. Henderson—” she gasped. But Mr. Henderson had left her alone in the room with the exclusive interviews.
He walked along the corridor until he reached the door labelled “9” in neat black lettering. He knocked and waited for Mary’s “Come in”.
“’Morning, darling,” he said. “Sleep well?”
“Better than for months. No pine-trees to worry about.”
“Fine. It’s all in the papers, dear. Two and a half columns of Lady Stone, some heavy publicity stuff by Raoul’s manager, close-up of Raoul’s legs on the picture page, all my grimy past, and a very attractive photo of you with the title, ‘Girl Who Helped to Outwit Dangerous Criminal’. I think a long journey to somewhere where they don’t get the newspapers is indicated.”
“Looks like it.”
“Oh—and it’s out of the question to hope for breakfast here now, I’m afraid. Mrs. Bertram’s just found the Thrackley story in the Daily Observer. She’ll be beyond the pale and unable to think of anything like bacon and eggs for a good hour at least. We’ll go out and feed at a restaurant, shall we?”
“Right. I’ll be ready in a minute.”
“When do they open, anyway?”
“Restaurants?”
“No… registrars’ offices.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“We’ll go and find out, shall we?”
Which they did.
More from this Author
For other books, upcoming author events, or more information please go to:
www.poisonedpenpress.com/Alan-Melville
Contact Us
To see more Poisoned Pen Press titles:
Visit our website:
poisonedpenpress.com
Request a digital catalog:
[email protected]
Weekend at Thrackley Page 21
