Nemesis at Raynham Parva (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  Sir Clinton’s reflections were broken by Rex’s voice. From his tone, it was evident that he knew he was venturing on thin ice.

  “I mean, is he good enough for her and that sort of thing?”

  This was the very question which Sir Clinton had been asking himself for the last twenty-four hours, and it flicked him on the raw to have it put into audible words.

  “How should I know?” he demanded brusquely. “I’ve only seen him a couple of times or so.”

  Rex was sharp enough to see the reservation in the answer, but he evidently felt that he was overstepping the bounds.

  “I just wanted to know,” he said, half-apologetically. “Elsie’s a good sort and . . .”

  His voice trailed off into silence.

  “It’s done now,” Sir Clinton pointed out.

  If he meant to close the subject, he had chosen the wrong line.

  “I suppose it is,” Rex admitted. “Didn’t it come as a bit of a surprise, sir? To me, it did. I’d never dreamed of anything of the sort until I heard about it. Some shock.”

  He watched Sir Clinton’s face as he spoke, but the late Chief Constable had too much command over his muscles to betray anything on his features. Rex, by some sixth sense, seemed to read what was going on behind the mask.

  “Well, I hope she’s happy, sir,” he added, giving in all innocence the final stab to Sir Clinton’s feelings.

  “She seems to be,” Sir Clinton answered brutally.

  Rex’s questions were acting as irritants to his own misgivings about Elsie’s marriage; and in his reaction he could not help rasping the feelings of the youngster beside him.

  “That’s always something,” Rex replied in the tone of a man talking in order to conceal the fact that he has had a severe shock. “In fact, I suppose, it’s the main thing. So long as she’s happy, and he’s a decent sort. . .”

  Sir Clinton felt the probe inserted clumsily into his private feelings; but he had no grudge against Rex for doing it. He knew the boy was torturing himself as well as his listener when he put questions like that. Rex had always wanted Elsie; and he wasn’t the sort of person to forget in a hurry or console himself at once with the next best. This business would ruin his life for years. Sir Clinton thought rapidly and came to a decision. One might as well bring things to a head at once and let the boy see the state of affairs with his own eyes. Since Elsie was now out of his reach, the sooner he recognised that the better. It would be a radical cure; and it would save any further questions.

  “Johnnie’s taken to fishing nowadays, Rex,” Sir Clinton began after a pause. “It’s the first real chance he’s had, and he seems to be keen. I haven’t done anything in that line myself for years now, and I’m so hopelessly out of practice that I can’t teach him properly. Could you drop your own fishing for a morning now and again and give him a bit of tutoring? I hate to see him flogging the water as if he meant to hurt it. He hasn’t a notion of throwing a cast decently.”

  Rex looked doubtful, as Sir Clinton had expected.

  “Well,” he began grudgingly, “I daresay he wouldn’t be the worse of some help, or he’ll get into bad habits.”

  A fresh idea seemed to strike him, and his face cleared.

  “Send him down to the Black Bull and I’ll take him out with me this afternoon. I’m going to fish a stream quite near the village. It won’t be far for him to walk.”

  But this arrangement did not suit Sir Clinton’s purpose. He meant to bring Rex up to Fern Lodge.

  “I think you’d better try the lake instead. It’s not so much a matter of catching anything: I want him taught how to cast properly. When he rowed me round the lake, I spotted the very place for that: a little promontory near a stream. No trees or undergrowth, deepish water close inshore, and just enough current from a stream that comes in near by. The fly will float down as nicely as you could wish. And, if he catches nothing there, you can always give him a point or two about trawling from the boat. There are plenty of trout, though I don’t suppose you’ll find a salmon, naturally. I’ll fetch you in the car this afternoon. The sun will be just about right then.”

  For a moment or two Rex hesitated, evidently torn between conflicting desires. He wanted to keep away from Fern Lodge and its might-have-beens; and yet something was pulling him in the opposite direction. Even if Elsie was out of his reach now, still he wanted to see her again. Facts were facts, of course. His romance had gone down the drain, as he phrased it bitterly to himself. Still, it would be interesting to see what sort of man had beaten him. This thought gave him the excuse which he felt he required in order to justify his decision to himself. No harm in paying a visit to the place. He had a good pretext, and he could keep his feelings below the surface easily enough. To Sir Clinton, Rex’s face was an open book; and he carefully refrained from an interruption which might have influenced the conflict. At last the balance swayed definitely to one side.

  “All right, then,” Rex agreed. “I’ll take Johnnie on, if you think it’ll be any help to him.”

  Then, as though to avoid the risk of changing his mind if he dwelt further on the matter, Rex broke abruptly into a fresh subject.

  “You’ve been abroad lately, sir, haven’t you?”

  “Just back,” Sir Clinton confirmed.

  “Hope you had a good time?” Rex inquired perfunctorily.

  “Not bad.”

  Once again Sir Clinton’s habitual reticence about bis own affairs was of good service. Not even his sister had suspected that his so-called “holiday” had really been spent in a confidential mission for the Government. But the subject was one best avoided, and Sir Clinton bestirred himself to draw Rex off to other topics. He succeeded so well that they were nearing Raynham Parva again before Rex realised how quickly the time had passed. As the village spire came in sight round the shoulder of a hill, Sir Clinton thought it well to give his companion a reminder.

  “When we get back to the Black Bull, Rex, you might hunt up your foreign friend and introduce me.”

  Rex, apparently, had not taken the earlier suggestion on this point very seriously. He looked a little surprised.

  “You really want it, sir? H’m! I don’t guarantee the lad. He may be a cough-drop for all I can tell. Know him from Adam by the costume, of course, but otherwise not.”

  “I’ll take the risk; you do the rest,” Sir Clinton reassured him.

  At the Black Bull, Rex was fortunate enough to run up against Dr. Roca in such a way as to make the introduction of Sir Clinton seem a matter of mere chance. When they came face to face, Sir Clinton was surprised to find something familiar in the features of his new acquaintance.

  “Surely we must have met before?” he suggested. “I’m almost certain I’ve seen your face somewhere, Dr. Roca.”

  Roca smiled as though he saw some jest which was concealed from the others.

  “In bad company, perhaps?” he inquired innocently. “I understand you are in the police, Sir Clinton.”

  But his remark had given the late Chief Constable the clue for which he was searching in his memory.

  “It was in bad company,” he confirmed, in an indifferent tone. “You had a moustache then, hadn’t you? Shaving it off has made a lot of difference.”

  Roca smiled again.

  “Sometimes a white sheep gets mixed up with a flock of black ones.”

  A flash of comprehension passed over Sir Clinton’s face.

  “League of Nations, you mean, perhaps?” he demanded.

  “Exactly,” Roca admitted. “I go by the name of 7-DH at headquarters.”

  “H’m! That explains it, then.”

  Sir Clinton’s tone was non-committal.

  “Rather an unpleasant job, I should think,” he added, as though to keep the conversation going.

  Roca nodded apathetically.

  “A labour of love, in my case.”

  Then seeing Sir Clinton’s brows twitch ever so faintly, he hastened to make his meaning clearer.

&nb
sp; “I see I’ve made what you English call a pun, I think.”

  “Something of the sort,” Sir Clinton agreed coldly.

  Roca’s face cleared.

  “That was not what I meant at all. With me, the business is a sort of mission, you understand—a kind of crusade. I feel strongly . . .” He pulled himself up for a moment, then went on with an assumption of indifference. “You know the Centre, Sir Clinton. Now, I am what you would call ‘a decent sort of person’—like most people. Which side am I likely to be on: for the Centre or against it?”

  Sir Clinton shrugged his shoulders as though dismissing the subject. Rex had listened to the conversation with growing astonishment, which betrayed itself on his face. He was evidently completely out of his depth, and was about to put a question when Sir Clinton spoke again.

  “I think you and I might have a talk later on, Dr. Roca,” he suggested, in a tone which definitely excluded Rex from the matter.

  Roca acquiesced with a gesture, and, as though recognising that this particular subject was closed, he began to speak of Raynham Parva and its surroundings.

  “I suppose you’re merely a bird of passage here?” Sir Clinton inquired a short time later. “Drove past in a car and happened to like the look of the place?”

  “No,” Roca explained. “I came by train from Micheldean Abbas, some stations down the line. I am looking for someone, as it happens; and I got word that he might be in this neighbourhood.”

  Sir Clinton nodded, and glanced at his watch.

  “Well, I must be going. I’ll ring you up, Dr. Roca.”

  Then a thought seemed to strike him.

  “I think, if I were you, I’d be inclined to say nothing about the Centre in the meantime—to anyone.”

  Roca acquiesced with a gesture.

  “I mentioned it to you merely to explain my position, since you evidently knew me and might have got wrong impressions.”

  “I understand,” Sir Clinton admitted.

  Then, with a nod of farewell to Rex, he went down to his car.

  Chapter Eight

  THE CENTRE AND MARCELLE BARRÈRE

  Sir Clinton had no intention of letting the grass grow under his feet before he learned more about his latest acquaintance. The telephone put him in touch with Dr. Roca that evening; and on the following morning he drove to the Black Bull Hotel to keep the appointment they had made. While Roca was being informed of his arrival, Sir Clinton went to the desk; and, learning that Rex Brandon had gone out fishing earlier in the day, he left a note telling him that Johnnie expected his first lesson that afternoon.

  When Dr. Roca appeared, Sir Clinton admitted to himself that the doctor’s personality made a favourable impression. He succeeded in being cordial without effusiveness; and there was nothing furtive in the reserve which underlay his outward affability. It suggested, rather, the normal mental poise of the medical man accustomed to deal with grave situations as they arise.

  “Any particular part of the country you’d like to see?” Sir Clinton inquired perfunctorily as they went out to the motor.

  He had brought the car mainly because it offered the best chance of completely private conversation; and his question had been put merely out of politeness. Much to his surprise, Roca apparently had a clear preference; and the nature of his choice was rather unexpected.

  “That’s very good of you,” the doctor hastened to say. “I’ve been looking at a map of the district in the hotel smoke-room, and I noticed, marked on it, a thing I’d like to see, if it’s all the same to you. It’s called the Bale Stones.”

  “Then we’ll look it up,” Sir Clinton agreed readily.

  He opened the door-pocket and was extracting a map when Roca stopped him with a gesture.

  “It’s all right,” he explained. “I memorised the map. I had meant to make the thing an excuse for a longish promenade. If it suits you, I’ll give you directions at the turns in the road. The place is about seven miles out from the village. I suppose that’s not taking you too far?”

  “Not at all!” Sir Clinton replied as he started the engine. “What sort of thing is it? I don’t know much about this district, since I only arrived a couple of nights ago.”

  “I bought a guide-book and looked it up,” Roca answered, taking a cigar-case from his pocket. “It’s quite a landmark in this part of the country—a sort of miniature Stonehenge. When I was already so near it, I thought it might be worth the walk. But this is a much easier way, thanks to your kindness.”

  “You’re interested in archæology?” Sir Clinton inquired.

  “I find it interesting to compare your ancient monuments with those in my own country.”

  “South America?” asked Sir Clinton at a venture.

  “Yes, I was born in Las Flores, but I’ve been in the north also.”

  Sir Clinton relaxed his pressure on the accelerator and let the car slow down a trifle. He did not intend to reach the Bale Stones until he had got some information out of the doctor. Dropping archæology abruptly, he made a frontal attack.

  “You said you were known as 7-DH, doctor. I didn’t care about discussing that sort of thing before young Brandon; but I’m curious to know how a man of your type got mixed up in a business of that kind. You don’t seem to fit in, if I may pay you the compliment.”

  Roca smiled, as though his mind had been relieved by Sir Clinton’s words.

  “I think you have changed your mind about me a little, Sir Clinton. Otherwise, I cannot quite understand how you come to have, in your car with you, the . . . the pot-companion, shall we say? of Noel le Bosco, La Pioche, and Angiola la Grecque, those distinguished ornaments of the White Slave Trade.”

  Sir Clinton neither confirmed nor denied Roca’s assertion.

  “One of my hobbies is an interest in humanity in general,” he said, rather drily. “It puzzles me that a man of your stamp should turn out to be 7-DH.”

  Roca’s amusement seemed to have vanished.

  “My employers tell me that the reports of 7-DH have been very useful,” he said indifferently. “They are, at any rate, cheap. I pay my own expenses.”

  “Indeed?”

  Sir Clinton’s tone betrayed a mild surprise at this rather unlooked-for piece of information. Roca pulled at his cigar for a moment or two without speaking; but at last he seemed to make up his mind on some question.

  “You have the knack of generating confidence in a stranger, Sir Clinton,” he began, turning to the ex-Chief Constable. “In a small way, I have that gift myself; otherwise 7-DH would have secured much less information. But that is beside the point.”

  Sir Clinton nodded. He began to wonder if Roca really meant to allow himself to be drawn so easily. The doctor’s next words relieved his anxiety.

  “I speak entirely in confidence, of course, as one official to another. In a way, I can hardly help myself; for already you have penetrated so far into my affairs by a mere chance. Unless I tell you something more, you will be inclined to be suspicious; and I cannot afford to have people speculating at large round the links between 7-DH and Dr. Esteban Roca. That might destroy the usefulness of 7-DH; and it might also hamper Esteban Roca in his private affairs, which would be a much more serious state of things from my point of view. Much more serious.”

  He broke off to direct Sir Clinton into a side-road which appeared at this point.

  “We go along here for about a couple of miles,” he explained. “The next turn-off is at a cottage beside a plantation.”

  Sir Clinton glanced at the milometer dial.

  “I studied medicine at Cordoba,” Roca continued, “and for a time I was in practice. I did not need the money—I was an orphan left with more than sufficient for my needs; but I had an idea that I was doing humanity a little service by giving it good advice and a few drugs for next to nothing. Perhaps I was. Who knows?”

  Sir Clinton disregarded the rhetorical question and waited patiently for Roca to come to business. The doctor evidently guessed what was in his
companion’s mind, for he laughed shortly.

  “You think this very unimportant, Sir Clinton? But it has a bearing on the rest of the story, so I tell it to you. I had my illusions, you see. And, by and by, I had a desire to increase my knowledge. I suppose most young medical men—the ambitious ones, at any rate—have, at the back of their minds, a picture of themselves standing beside the sick-bed of some King or President and drawing a valuable life back from the grave by their supreme skill. A pretty conceit, isn’t that true? It was mine, once.”

  There was a faint undertone of irony in his voice, as though he were himself sneering at his youthful visions.

  “I determined to become a specialist—a great specialist, naturally. That comes cheap enough in dreams, of course. The price for all seats is the same, in that theatre. So I threw up my little practice and set out for Paris—slipping from one dream into the next.”

  He glanced at Sir Clinton’s face.

  “I fear I bore you,” he said apologetically. “Nothing is so tiresome as other people’s dreams. But I am coming to the point. I landed in Paris and set about a postgraduate course. I was, to be sure, much older than the ordinary carabin—the medical student—but I was not too old to enjoy myself; and I had plenty of work—work which I enjoyed. And always there was the dream, you understand.”

  He sighed almost imperceptibly, and paused for a moment, though with a complete absence of theatricality.

  “Then I met a girl—Marcelle Barrère. And by and by I found that a second dream had fused itself upon the older one. I fell in love, you understand? It happens to most of us. Marcelle fell in love with me. That happens to most of us also. Like myself, she was an orphan. It was all plain sailing, as you English say. I had enough money to make things smooth; I had the dream of a career, you understand? and now I had someone else to share my dream and make it seem more real. And I had my little Marcelle, and yet other dreams. Most auspicious. I think we turn to the left here.”