Miss Silver coughed and smiled.
“A long time ago, Chief Inspector.”
“Oh well, we don’t any of us get any younger. He’s done pretty well for himself, hasn’t he? Does you credit. Well, as I was saying, March has had his eye on this place for some time. It’s got an old smuggling history. Then it changed hands. Recently it’s changed again-come back to the family that used to own it. But the manager has stayed on. Nothing in that, you may say-nothing against the man, except that he’s half Irish, half Portuguese.”
Frank Abbott gazed down into the fire. Lamb’s dislike of foreigners never failed to amuse.
The Chief Inspector allowed a bulging gaze to rest for a moment upon his profile, and continued in a louder voice and with a quite portentous frown.
“That’s not his fault, of course, and nothing against him so long as he behaves himself. He’s a British subject, and he’s got an English wife. Nothing against either of them. That’s the trouble. There’s nothing March can get his hands on to anywhere, but there’s a kind of feeling about the place-it may be just the old smuggling history, or it may be something new. Well, that’s as far as the drug business goes, but now there’s something more. All these jewel robberies-you’ll have seen about them in the papers-it’s not so easy for them to get the stuff out of the country, because everything’s being watched. We got just one small shred of a clue after the Cohen affair the other day. You remember old Cohen woke up and fired at the men. He hit one of them, and the others carried him off. We were pretty hot on their trail, and they left him for dead by the side of a country road. We picked him up, and he wasn’t dead-not then-but he died before we could get him to the hospital. He was muttering to himself. One of the constables had his wits about him and listened. He couldn’t make head or tail of most of it, but he did get two words, and he had the sense to report them. They were ‘old Catherine.’ Well, the inn on the Ledlington road is called the old Catherine-Wheel.”
There was a silence. Miss Silver looked thoughtful.
Frank Abbott had not sat down. He stood against the mantelpiece, tall, slim, and elegant; his dark suit faultlessly cut, his handkerchief, his tie, his socks, discreet and beautiful; his fair hair mirror-smooth. No one could have looked less like a police officer, or the hardworking efficient police officer that he was. He had a cult for Miss Silver, at whose feet he was content to sit, and a sincere and affectionate respect for his Chief, but neither of these feelings prevented him from considering that their encounters had a high entertainment value.
Miss Silver coughed and said,
“In what way do you think that I can assist you?”
Lamb said bluntly, “You could go and stay at the inn.”
“On what pretext? It does not sound quite the kind of hotel for a lady travelling alone.”
Lamb gave his jovial laugh.
“Oh, we’ll make that all right. Now look here, there’s something very odd going on. The man who owns this inn is Mr. Jacob Taverner, and he’s the grandson of old Jeremiah Taverner who owned it in its smuggling days. About three weeks ago there was an advertisement in all the papers asking the descendants of Jeremiah Taverner to apply to a box number. We followed it up because we were taking an interest in the Catherine-Wheel. The advertisement was put in by Jacob Taverner, and out of the replies he received he has picked out eight people, and he has asked them down to the Catherine-Wheel for this next week-end. What we would like to know is, ‘Why?’ ”
Frank Abbott turned his cool, pale eyes upon the Chief Inspector.
“He may be just throwing a party,” he said.
“March says none of the Taverner family have been on speaking terms with each other since anyone can remember. The only exceptions are Luke Taverner’s descendants. Luke was old Jeremiah’s fourth son and an out-and-out bad lot. He left quite a lot of scallywag disreputable children and grandchildren, most of them with no right to his name. March says they turn up in every shady business in the county. The only legitimate and fairly reputable one is a young fellow called Al Miller who is a porter at Ledlington station, and he’s none too steady-likely to lose his job, March says. Well, one of the other lot is barman at the Catherine-Wheel. Nothing against him, but he comes of bad stock. If you could get into the inn whilst this family reunion is going on you might tumble to something. What I’d like is your opinion on the Taverner family circle. If I may say so, that’s where you come out strong-you get the feeling of people.”
Miss Silver gazed at him with mild attention.
“Who are they?” she enquired.
Lamb opened a drawer and rummaged.
“Where’s that paper, Frank? Oh, you’ve got it. There you are, Miss Silver. Geoffrey Taverner-travels for a firm called Hobbs and Curtin-all sorts of jims for making housework easy- perfectly respectable people. His sister, Mildred Taverner-old maid running a fancy work shop. Mrs. Florence Duke-a snack bar on the Portsmouth road. Lady Marian Thorpe-Ennington, sister of the last Earl of Rathlea-first husband Morgenstern the financier-he left all his money to somebody else-second husband Farandol, the French racing motorist who smashed himself up about two years ago-now married to young Thorpe-Ennington just going into bankruptcy. That’s four of them. Then we have the one I was telling you about, Al Miller, railway porter-they took him back after he was demobbed, but they’re not over anxious to keep him. Next, John Higgins, carpenter on Sir John Layburn’s estate not more than a mile and a half from the old inn-very high character locally, steady religious kind of chap. And for the last two, Captain Jeremy Taverner, regular soldier, and Miss Jane Heron, mannequin. Nice mixed bag.”
Miss Silver gazed mildly at the sheet of paper with all these names on it and said, “Dear me-”
The Chief Inspector laughed.
“You’re wondering how they’ll mix over a week-end. Well, there’s one that won’t. John Higgins won’t go near the place, though he’s said to be sweet on a girl who works there and an aunt of his is married to the manager, Castell. The girl is Castell’s niece or something. Regular family affair, you see.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“I was wondering why Mr. Jacob Taverner should have asked all these people for the week-end.”
Lamb sat back easily.
“Well, you know, there mightn’t be anything in it at all. He’s a rich man, and he hasn’t anyone to leave his money to. So far as the police are concerned, he’s got a clean sheet. I don’t suppose he’s sailed any nearer the wind than a lot of other people who have got away with it and made their pile. He may be wanting nothing more than to have a look at his relations and make up his mind which of them he’ll put into his will. That’s one possibility. There are others of course. Maybe he’s got a finger in the smuggling pie. Maybe he thinks a family party wouldn’t be a bad cover-up for anything that might be going to happen down that way. Maybe he’s just got interested in the family history. I don’t know, but I’d like to. I want these people sized up, and when it comes to that kind of job-well, we all know you’re a wonder at it.”
Miss Silver smiled graciously, but with restraint. A truly excellent man, the Chief Inspector, but sometimes just a little inclined to be patronising. At such moments she was apt to, as it were, recede and become the governess again. Lamb may or may not have felt a slight touch of frost upon the air.
Miss Silver coughed, glanced at the paper in her hand, and addressed him.
“Is Miss Jane Heron young?”
He nodded.
“Yes, bit of a girl-mannequin. Not the sort of job I’d like one of my girls to take on, but there’s nothing against her. She and Captain Taverner are said to be sweethearting.”
“I believe that I have met her. Some months ago at a friend’s house. An attractive girl, and quite young.” She spoke in a meditative tone.
Frank Abbott allowed himself to smile.
“There!” he said. “What more do you need? We can’t offer you a murder, but a love affair with a nice girl in an invidious position
should really do almost as well.”
Her glance reproved him.
“Murder is much too serious a thing to make jokes about.”
Lamb said, a thought impatiently,
“Well, well, that’s true enough. But there’s no question of murder. Will you do it? Frank here suggests driving you down. He’s got a cousin with a place close by-one of his fancy relations with a handle to his name. He fetches them up like rabbits out of a hat. Beats me where they all come from.”
Frank’s fair eyebrows rose.
“Too easy, sir. My great-grandfather had nineteen children. They all married and had large families.”
Lamb grunted.
“Well, this particular cousin’s name is Challoner-Sir John Challoner, if you please-and he lives not a mile and a half down the road from the Catherine-Wheel. Frank’s idea is-well, he’d better explain it himself.”
Frank Abbott passed a hand over his immaculate hair.
“Well, I drop you at the inn and go on and stay with Jack Challoner. I’m there on the spot quite nice and handy. If you want me you ring up Ledstow 23, and they pass it on, upon which Jack and I drop in for a drink. As far as you’re concerned, I lurk until I’m really sure that you’ve got in. They’ll be pretty full up, and they probably won’t want strangers. On the other hand, if there’s anything illegal going on, they won’t want to draw attention to themselves by repelling the bona fide traveller. Now just how bona fide can we contrive for you to be?”
Miss Silver coughed.
“My dear Frank, there should be no difficulty about that. The truth is always best.”
“The truth?”
Miss Silver smiled benignantly.
“I shall ring the bell and say that a gentleman very kindly gave me a lift and recommended their hotel.”
The Chief Inspector’s eyes bulged a little. Frank permitted himself to laugh.
“And what exactly are you doing getting lifts and arriving after dark at strange hotels? It’s going to look funny, isn’t it?”
Miss Silver beamed.
“I tell the simple truth-I have a professional engagement in the neighbourhood.”
CHAPTER 7
The week between being interviewed by Jacob Taverner and travelling down to Cliff was of a very variable emotional temperature as far as Jeremy and Jane were concerned. It was, in fact, like some of our more versatile weather forecasts, including gales, bright intervals, frost in places, and fog locally. There were some sharp clashes, a major quarrel, a reconciliation which was not without its softer passages. But in the end there was not very much real change in their relations, since Jeremy continued to disapprove of the whole Taverner connection and proposed marriage as an alternative to acquiring what he described as a lot of riffraff cousins and Jane continued to observe with varying degrees of firmness that it wasn’t any good his putting his foot down, that she meant to have her hundred pounds, and that everyone said cousins oughtn’t to marry.
When the Saturday afternoon arrived there was what might be described as a fine interval. Since Jeremy possessed a car known to his friends as The Scarecrow, they were going to drive down to the Catherine-Wheel, and it did seem a pity to waste a fine afternoon quarrelling. As Jane pointed out, Jeremy would probably make himself frightfully disagreeable over the week-end, and there was no point in taking the fine edge off his temper before they got there.
“It would be a pity if you ran out of frowns and things half way through Sunday just through being extravagant with them now.”
Jeremy said briefly that he wasn’t in the least likely to run out, after which he suddenly burst out laughing, kissed her before she had time to stop him, and informed her that he would probably be the life and soul of the party.
“Wait till you see me putting down cocktails in the bar with dear Geoffrey and our attractive cousin Al! When I’m well and truly lit I shall make love to Call-me-Floss. When just on the edge of passing out I may even get as far as whispering rude nothings in dear Mildred’s maiden ear. I say, what do you think she’d do if I really did?”
“Drop her bag and blush a deep pure puce.”
“Well, you watch me!”
Jane giggled.
“You’d better watch yourself. Either Mildred or Floss might feel that they’d like to get about and see places with the Army.”
They were driving down the Great West Road. A pale winter sun shone overhead. The sky was turquoise blue, the air fresh without being cold. Jeremy took his left hand from the wheel and flicked Jane lightly on the cheek.
“I shall be protected by our engagement.”
“We’re not engaged.”
“Darling, you can’t refuse to protect me. There shall be no misunderstanding. We shall advance hand-in-hand into the bar and announce that we are affianced. The clan will then drink our health in bumpers of synthetic port, after which we shall all expire, the family ghost appearing when we are at the last gasp to mutter, ‘You had been warned.’ ”
Jane put her chin in the air, but the corners of her mouth quivered.
“We are not affianced. And if it’s going to be fatal as quickly as that-”
“Darling, I have a plan. We will pour the lethal draught on to the aspidistra, then everyone else will expire, and we will run the family pub. What shall we do with it? It’s had a shady past, so I think we might give it a decorated future. What shall it be-a gambling hell, or a dope den?”
Jane said primly, “I was very nicely brought up. I once got a good conduct prize. It was a bowdlerized edition of The Vicar of Wakefield with all the bits about lovely woman stooping to folly cut out. I think we’d better make it a tea-garden.”
“Jane, you can’t have tea in a garden in England-at least hardly ever.”
“You don’t. You have a sort of leaky verandah-only it sounds better if you call it a loggia. The rain drips down your neck and the earwigs get into your tea, but it gives you a nice out-for-the-day sort of feeling, and if the cakes are really good, you just can’t keep people away. I make frightfully good cakes. Gramp said I had a natural aptitude. He said I’d inherited it from his mother who was the world’s best cook. He made me have really good lessons.”
Jeremy took his hand off the wheel again. It caught hers and held it in an ecstatic clasp.
“When can we be married? I can’t wait. I knew that you were lovely and talented, but what’s that to the solid worth of a really good cook?”
They went on talking nonsense very comfortably.
The daylight was fading when they passed through Ledlington and took the long flat road out of it which runs through Ledstow to the coast. It is a seven mile stretch, but the old coast road takes off just short of Ledstow and bears away to the right. It is quite easy to overshoot it, because it isn’t much used and the trees have grown in and made it narrow. After a mile the ground rises. There are no more trees, and the hedges are low and bent by the wind off the sea. Cliff is quite a small village, and very few trains stop there. That the railway passes it at all is due to the fact that the land was Challoner property, and at the time the railway was built Sir Humphrey Challoner was someone to be reckoned with. He had married an heiress. And he represented Ledlington in Parliament.
As they ran through Cliff and out at the other side, Jeremy slowed down and looked about him.
“What is it?”
He said, “Nothing. I just wondered-there’s a place my grandfather used to talk about here. As a matter of fact I know the man it belongs to now-Jack Challoner-a very good chap. It’s a frightful white elephant of a place. It ought to be somewhere along here. Well, I’d better be lighting-up.”
A moment later the headlights picked out two figures walking in the road-a girl with a handkerchief over her head, and a big man, bare-headed with a shock of fair hair. Their arms were linked.
Jane exclaimed, “It’s John Higgins! Jeremy, I’m sure it is! Do stop! Perhaps he’s coming after all-they might like a lift.”
Jeremy said, “I should
n’t think so.”
But he ran slowly past them, drew up, and got out.
“John Higgins, isn’t it? I’m Jeremy Taverner. Jane Heron and I are on our way to the inn. Can we give you a lift?”
Jane arrived in a hurry.
“I do hope you are coming.”
“That’s nice of you, Miss Heron, but-why, no.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t call me Miss Heron, when we are cousins.”
She could just see that he was smiling and shaking his head. The girl holding his arm spoke up. She had a very pretty voice with something like the ghost of a brogue.
“Miss Jane Heron?”
Jane saw her pull at John Higgins’ sleeve. He said, “Yes,” and turned to Jane.
“This is Eily Fogarty. You’ll be seeing her at the inn. She’s related to Mr. Castell. My Aunt Annie brought her up.”
“We’re terribly short-handed,” said the pretty lilting voice.
Jane could see no more of her than the oval of the face, with the handkerchief hiding what seemed to be dark hair and tied under the chin. There was an effect of charm, but perhaps that was just because she had such a pretty voice.
If John Higgins had not seen his Aunt Annie in ten years, he seemed to manage to see his Aunt Annie’s protégée. The little bare hand never let go of his arm. Jane thought it would be a nice strong arm to hold on to. She said,
“We’d love to give you a lift if you’d like one.”
John Higgins said, “Would you, Eily?”
The hand plucked at his sleeve. Jane saw him smile.
“Thank you, Miss Heron, but I think we’ll have our walk.”
Just as they reached the car Jeremy went back.
“What was that for?” said Jane when he returned.
The Catherine Wheel Page 5
