Carstairs looked benignly at the wreckage on the bed, and gingerly prodded the unrecognisable mask with a sensitive forefinger.
‘Upon consideration, I am inclined to agree with you,’ he said. ‘I think we are now looking upon one of the most ghastly attempts at murder I ever knew about. Oh—I am sorry I said that! How foolish of me!’
For Dorothy, with a little sigh, had lurched fainting towards the floor. Garde’s arm, however, prevented her from falling, and, as the eiderdown fell from about her, he lifted her slim form in his arms and held her like a child against his breast.
‘Your room, Mrs Bradley?’ he asked, and, receiving a bird-like nod of assent, he bore his light burden along the landing.
‘Which bed?’ he asked, halting in the middle of the handsomely appointed bedroom.
‘In here,’ replied Mrs Bradley, drawing the bedclothes aside from one of the twin beds.
Dorothy opened her eyes, and smiled faintly as he laid her gently down.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she said.
‘Darling!’ said Mrs Bradley warmly.
‘Think she’s all right now?’ asked Garde anxiously, as he ostensibly felt her pulse. Dorothy’s soft fingers closed round his hand.
Mrs Bradley’s left eyelid fluttered.
‘You can stay a minute or two and see,’ she said. ‘I shan’t go to bed any more tonight.’
She drew the folds of her hideous dressing-gown more closely about her, waddled over to the electric fire, switched it on, and seated herself in a roomy basket chair with a book of modern poetry upon her knees.
Garde sat down on the edge of Dorothy’s bed and lovingly held her hand. They smiled at one another.
Mrs Bradley, covertly regarding them, sighed softly and sentimentally, abandoned the volume of modern poetry and the social conventions to their separate fates, and closed her eyes.…
When she opened them again, it was morning. Garde was seated on the floor, with his head against Dorothy’s pillow. Her hand lay lightly upon his shoulder, for she had fallen asleep fondling his hair.
‘A little lower than the angels,’ quoted Mrs Bradley, under her breath. Then she tiptoed out of the room to prevent the admirable but gossiping Celestine from coming to call her, and so discovering the lovers.
This done, for she met the maid on the stairs, she repaired to the bathroom for her morning ablutions.
The bathroom door was locked. Mrs Bradley twisted the handle and pushed, but the door was fast.
‘Eleanor, of course,’ she said aloud.
‘I beg your pardon!’ said Carstairs, coming down from the landing above.
‘I wanted the bathroom, but it is occupied, so I assume Eleanor Bing is inside. That is all,’ replied Mrs Bradley. ‘How did you sleep?’ she continued. ‘After the little contretemps last night, I mean.’
‘I didn’t sleep very much, I am afraid,’ Carstairs admitted. ‘That was a very queer business.’
‘Very queer,’ Mrs Bradley echoed, with a characteristic grimace.
‘How did you come to—er—remove our young friend from the scene of the operations?’ asked Carstairs. ‘Dorothy Clark, I mean.’
‘I had a hunch,’ Mrs Bradley replied, ‘and what had been merely a suspicion developed into an absolute certainty last night while we were dancing.’
‘Did it?’ asked Carstairs, interested. ‘What gave you the idea?’
‘The idea itself I had had for some time,’ Mrs Bradley admitted. ‘But it was the clock which clinched matters.’
‘The clock?’ Carstairs knitted his brows in a perplexed frown. ‘The clock?’ he repeated slowly.
‘Yes, the clock,’ said Mrs Bradley, thoroughly enjoying herself. ‘There is an instance, but not as beautifully complete an instance, in the diary of Marie Bashkirtseff.’
She left a completely bewildered Carstairs shaking his head and returned to her bedroom chuckling ghoulishly.
At her entrance, Dorothy woke.
Mrs Bradley’s quizzical glance at the still sleeping Garde caused a lovely blush to mantle the girl’s cheek and brow.
‘Darling child,’ observed Mrs Bradley. ‘How I wish I looked like that when I felt abashed! And how sweet that boy looks, doesn’t he?’
Dorothy gave Garde’s shoulder a rough shake. He woke, stared, then stretched cramped limbs, and at last stood up.
‘Glory hallelujah!’ he observed, taking in his surroundings. ‘Did I go to sleep?’
‘You did,’ replied Mrs Bradley. ‘Go away now. And don’t let anybody see you going.’
Garde grinned at her, bent and kissed Dorothy before she could ward him off, and took his departure.
‘I’ll go too, and see if I can get into the bathroom now,’ said Mrs Bradley, marching out in his wake.
The bathroom door was still locked.
‘Bother!’ said Mrs Bradley loudly, upon her return. ‘How I hate washing in a bedroom!’
‘So do I!’ said Dorothy frankly. ‘And, as nothing on earth will persuade me to go to my own awful bedroom and wash there, I suppose I shall sit here until you have finished.’
‘Quite so,’ said Mrs Bradley, grimacing.
Upon descending to breakfast, they found the men already assembled, and during the meal the topic of conversation which naturally excluded all others was the night’s adventure.
‘I thought the end of the world was come, and that we were listening to the last shriek of the damned,’ said Bertie Philipson, spreading marmalade on toast with a sparing hand.
‘So did I. Or that the Bolshies were really in our midst at last,’ said Garde, following his example, but using about three times as much marmalade.
‘Eleanor is apparently washing off the shock,’ chuckled Mrs Bradley, nibbling dry toast and sipping hot water with apparent relish. She was more reptilian to look at than ever, in the clear light of morning.
‘We ought to time her,’ said Bertie, ‘but, as we don’t know at what time she usually comes down to breakfast, we can’t do it. Poor Eleanor. Fancy expecting to find Dorothy, and seeing that damaged atrocity instead!’
‘By the way, where were you while the fun was going on? I didn’t spot you among the gathering of the clans,’ said Garde to Bertie.
‘Well, I did begin to get up, but when I saw the mobs of people on the landing below mine, I thought I might as well go back to bed. I took it for granted that somebody would rescue me if the house were on fire, or protect my possessions if burglars had broken in!’
He simpered idiotically at Dorothy as he spoke, but she elevated her chin and said nothing.
Unabashed, Bertie passed his cup for more coffee.
‘You know what happened, though?’ said Garde.
‘You mean the damaged goods in Dorothy’s bedroom, I suppose?’ answered Bertie, in a fatuous voice which caused Dorothy to look more contemptuous still. ‘Yes, I went in there this morning at the pressing invitation of Mr Carstairs, and had a good squizz at it. I’m rather surprised, I must say, that a big girl like Dorothy should still care for dolls. But there’s no accounting for taste, of course. A cousin of my own, twice removed——’
‘Oh, do shut up, you fool,’ grinned Garde, ‘and pass the marmalade.’
‘Greedy youth,’ said Bertie. ‘Mrs Bradley, let us go and walk in the rose-garden. Dorothy can pour out his fifth cup of coffee. After all, she’ll have to get used to doing it when they are married.’
‘I don’t want any more. I’ve finished,’ observed Garde, folding a marmalade-smothered piece of bread and butter into halves, and depositing the whole amount in his mouth at once. ‘Come on, Dorothy. Let’s go and help them look at the dandelions.’
‘Nobody is to leave the house and grounds!’ said Alastair Bing, looking up from The Times and speaking in his dictatorial voice. ‘The police will be here soon, and will want to question us.’
‘The police!’ Dorothy turned pale.
‘Certainly,’ said Alastair. ‘If an attempt was made to kill you as you lay
in bed—and Carstairs is determined to persuade me that such was the case—the sooner the police come and find the madman who seems to be living in our midst, the better. That is all I can say.’
‘And very nicely said,’ remarked Mrs Bradley dreamily.
Alastair glanced at her with the swift suspicion of one who imagines that his leg is being pulled, but her expression did not vary, and she appeared to be admiring the view from the window.
Alastair snorted with distrust and returned to The Times.
The others severally rose and made their way out into the beautiful garden, now a little past the height of its summer loveliness.
‘You know,’ said Garde to Bertie, ‘it’s all very well to jape about it, but I’m jolly glad Dorothy was sleeping with the old woman last night. I knew she was going to, of course.’
‘Yes, so did I,’ said Bertie rather surprisingly.
‘Did you? Dorothy told me I was the only person who knew, apart from herself and Mrs Bradley.’
‘I overheard the first bit of your conversation, and shamelessly listened to the rest,’ Bertie confessed, grinning.
‘The devil!’ Garde grinned appreciatively. ‘So you knew where she was all the time?’
‘Yes,’ answered Bertie. Then his face grew grave. ‘But it’s a beastly business,’ he added soberly. ‘I wonder what the explanation is?’
‘You think somebody meant to do the kid in, I suppose, the same as I do?’
‘What else is there to think?’ asked Bertie. ‘But who would want to do such a dastardly thing? I mean, Dorothy’s such a topping girl. Anybody who wanted to put her out of the way would be absolutely mad!’
‘That’s it!’ cried Mrs Bradley, joining them, closely followed by Carstairs. ‘That’s just what we’ve been saying, Mr Carstairs and I. Madness. That’s just what it is!’
‘Well, it does seem the sort of irresponsible destructive action one might expect of a homicidal maniac,’ said Garde. ‘Fancy trying to put somebody out with a poker! Nasty blighter, whoever it was!’
‘I suppose that’s why people have such a horror of the insane. They are irresponsible,’ said Bertie.
‘Well, yes, they are irresponsible in a way,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘but they’ve always got an idea at the back of their irresponsibility, if you can only get at it, you know. And you’d be surprised to hear how logically some maniacs can explain their actions—actions which to us——’
At this moment they heard themselves hailed from behind. They turned, and were amazed to see Alastair Bing tearing after them across the lawn, his coat-tails flying, his hair standing straight on end, and in his face a blending of horror and fury such as none of them had before beheld, even upon his expressive countenance.
‘Eleanor! Eleanor!’ he gasped, and, with a choking cry, fell to the ground.
‘Brandy!’ said Mrs Bradley crisply. And, while the young men raced to get it, she knelt down by Alastair’s side and quickly and skilfully loosened his collar.
‘He’ll be all right in a minute,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Don’t look so scared, Dorothy.’
‘But—but he said Eleanor’s name,’ faltered Dorothy, white to the very lips. ‘You don’t think——’
‘I don’t think anything for a minute,’ returned Mrs Bradley. ‘Here come those boys with the brandy. Go and tell one of them to go for a doctor. Although I don’t think it is at all necessary. Still, one can never tell.’
‘But Eleanor——’ said Dorothy for the second time. ‘Hadn’t I better——’
‘Wait a second. He is coming to,’ interrupted Carstairs.
He supported Alastair, who showed signs of wanting to sit up, and the old man said weakly:
‘Have they got her out?’
‘Do you mean Eleanor? Where is she?’
‘In the bathroom! That horrible place! I should have locked it up and disconnected the water. I realize now that I should have locked it up.’
‘Good God!’ said Carstairs, turning pale. ‘Not another instance of foul play!’
He lowered Alastair’s head to the ground, and ran back to the house, calling as he ran to Bertie Philipson:
‘Give the brandy to Garde, and come with me.’
Bertie obeyed, and neck and neck they sprinted across the lawn.
‘What’s the row this time?’ yelled Bertie.
Carstairs, requiring all his breath for other purposes, did not reply until they reached the verandah steps.
‘The lower bathroom?’ he then gasped. ‘This is an awful business.’
They entered the breakfast-room, where the scared servants, who had come to clear away, were clustered together as though for mutual protection.
‘You may clear,’ said Carstairs shortly, indicating the littered breakfast-table as he and his companion hurriedly passed it on their way to the door opening into the hall.
The servants, however, loitered uncertainly, and whispered among themselves.
‘Please, sir,’ began the butler, stepping forward, ‘what about Miss Eleanor? She hasn’t appeared yet, and—oh, sir, I do hope there’s nothing wrong.’
‘Of course not, Mander,’ said Carstairs, with unusual abruptness, as he wrenched open the door. ‘Get on with your work and don’t think about anything else.’
He slammed the breakfast-room door behind him, and the two men mounted the stairs, their feet making no sound on the thick pile of the carpet.
The bathroom door was closed. Carstairs knocked on the panels loudly. Then he turned the handle and pushed, but with no result. He put his shoulder to the door and heaved. The door remained fast closed.
‘Here, help me, Philipson, will you? When I say “Three!” fling all your weight against it. Ready?’
‘Yes,’ replied Bertie, gritting his teeth.
‘Then, one, two, three?’
The lock yielded before their double onslaught, and the door swung open so suddenly that both men pitched forward, and were saved from falling full-length only by the opposite wall of the room, against which they both crashed.
‘Hurt?’ gasped Bertie. ‘Oh, heavens!’ he cried, without waiting for a reply from Carstairs.
Clad in her dressing-gown, and lying over the side of the bath with her feet on the floor, her head touching the bottom, and the chain of the wasteplug twisted round and round her left hand, was Eleanor Bing.
‘Good God!’ said Carstairs slowly. ‘She’s drowned! Although there’s no water remaining in the bath now.’
He placed his arm round the woman’s body and heaved it upright. Eleanor’s wet head fell heavily against his shoulder.
‘Take the feet, Philipson,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Better take her into Miss Clark’s room, I should think. That’s nearest. Face downwards on the floor. That’s it.’
Slowly they bore their burden into the pretty bedroom, and, under Carstairs’ directions, laid it down. With heavy hearts, for both imagined that their efforts were in vain, they attempted artificial respiration for the resuscitation of the apparently drowned.
For half an hour, taking turns about every few minutes, they toiled, but with no result.
Carstairs, whose turn it was, rose slowly to his feet, and shook his head. His face was grey, although great drops of perspiration testified to the genuineness of his efforts to bring poor Eleanor back to life.
‘It is of no use, I am afraid,’ he said.
The sound of a car on the gravel below caused him to look out of the window leading on to the balcony.
‘The doctor!’ he cried, and, opening the long window, he stepped out, and, making a trumpet of his hands, hailed the doctor as the latter stopped his engine and alighted.
‘Yes? Hallo! What is it?’ the medical man called out.
‘Come up here as soon as you can!’ bellowed Carstairs.
He came back into the room, and again knelt beside the inert woman.
‘One more try,’ he said, bending to the grim work.
Bertie watched his untiring efforts with t
he tremendous concentration of one who has received a great nervous shock. Carstairs glanced up at him once, and said kindly:
‘Go downstairs and get yourself a peg, old chap. You looked knocked up.’
‘I’m all right, thanks,’ said Bertie heavily, with the ghost of a grateful smile. ‘Shall I have another go at that to relieve you a bit?’
‘No, it’s all right. It’s wasted labour, really, I am afraid, but one feels as though one can’t remain still. And I can’t face Bing yet.’
‘Oh, Lord! Of course he has to be told.’ Bertie whistled apprehensively. ‘I say! How frightful it all is! First that poor chap Mountjoy—I can’t think of him as a woman, somehow!—then that dastardly attempt upon Dorothy last night—and now, this! It makes one wonder who’ll be the—well, the next victim, doesn’t it?’
‘No,’ said Carstairs soberly. ‘I’ll swear there will be no more victims. I fancy this is the last. Poor, poor woman,’ he added, with overwhelming pity, gazing down upon the apparently lifeless body.
A tap at the door heralded the doctor’s entrance. He was followed by Mrs Bradley.
‘Where’s Bing?’ demanded Carstairs, swift as a flash.
‘Downstairs. His son is with him.’
‘Oho!’ said the doctor, taking in the situation with his keen, professional glance. ‘What’s happened here?’
‘Drowned, I fear, doctor.’ And Carstairs briefly outlined the circumstances so far as he knew them.
The doctor knelt beside the body.
At last he stood up, dusted the knees of his trousers, and spoke abruptly.
‘Somebody shout for young Bing,’ he said.
Then he resumed his seemingly thankless task.
‘I’m here,’ said Garde’s voice at the door. ‘Who sent for me?’
‘I did. Understand this pumping game?’ asked the doctor, without pausing in his steady work.
‘I guess so.’
‘Take the arms, then. I’m done. Nice mess here for somebody to clear up. Now, man, put your guts into it.’
With this last implicit instruction Garde nobly complied.
‘Pretty work,’ said the doctor appreciatively. ‘I think we’ve pulled her through. Take his place somebody, and then I’ll have another turn. Ah, she’s coming. She’s coming! That’s it! I thought so.’
Speedy Death Page 11
