‘Yes, that seems to dispose of Dr. Ware satisfactorily enough,’ said Cromwell dryly. ‘In the same way, we can rule out Brother Gerry, who did all he could to stop the affair. There was another young man—Bayne, or Bates…’
‘You mean young Philip Bayle,’ said General Lister—and then he started. ‘Oh, but really…’
‘You were saying?’ murmured Cromwell, as the general paused.
‘Bayle is a member of young Charton’s own set, and I’ve just remembered that he was once engaged to a girl named Audrey Woods,’ said the general. ‘Quite a nice girl, I believe, and a member of the Gaiety chorus. Anyhow, the engagement was broken, and after that Audrey was seen about a great deal with Ronnie Charton.’
‘Cherchez la femme,’ murmured Johnny. ‘Spurned lover finds rival in same house-party and rubs out same. Simple!’
‘Too simple, I’m afraid, Johnny,’ said his father, with a faint smile. ‘You have no doubt noticed that Bayle is a most innocuous young man. For weeks, in fact, he has been telling his friends that he has had a very lucky escape.’
‘But we’ve got to admit him as a possible,’ said Ironsides. ‘You can’t always trust these innocuous looking fellows. Take your own son, for example. Anybody, to look at Johnny, would say that he had no wits at all—and they would be just about half right. It’s quite possible that Philip Bayle has nursed a bitter resentment against young Charton for stealing his girl. As for the other men in the library…’ He rubbed his chin reflectively. Let me see, there was Lord Springton, elderly and affable; Colonel Scrumthorpe, and the Hon. Gerald Morley. All of them, I believe, are strangers to Ronnie. H’m! We don’t seem to get far, do we?’
He took another look at the coffin, as though he liked it.
‘We still don’t know who this poor blighter is, or how he got into the castle,’ he continued. ‘His clothes don’t give us a clue, because his own clothes were removed before he was killed—probably while he was unconscious. And don’t forget this, sir—it was never intended by the killer that the body or the clothes should ever be examined. Even now the killer has no suspicion that his devilish plan has half failed—and that should help us a lot. Well, we’d better get out of here as quietly as possible. I’ll make a thorough examination of the body later.’
He carefully replaced the coffin lid, and they all went back to the Death Room, and the heavy door was closed and locked. Cromwell kept the key.
‘Christmas Day and my house full of guests—and this dreadful thing has to happen,’ said General Lister distractedly. ‘I beg of you, Cromwell, to keep this shocking business as quiet as possible.’
‘You don’t expect me to go and shout it from the housetop, do you?’ retorted Ironsides gruffly. ‘My plain duty, of course, is to inform the coroner and the local police.’ He paused, and his eyes twinkled. ‘But I can’t do either, because we’re snowed up. It’ll be a refreshing change to conduct an inquiry without a lot of incompetent busybodies cluttering up the place and getting in my way. I’d like you to go along to the billiard room, sir, and generally mix with your guests. Don’t let ’em see that anything is wrong. The younger ones are all out of doors, fooling about in the snow—so it’s a good opportunity for me to do a bit of prowling.’
The general promised to do his best, and he went off at once. Cromwell and Johnny followed, and they had only gone a few steps down the south corridor when Ironsides paused and peered into a dark, gloomy opening.
‘Thought so. A back staircase—leading straight up to the rear of the main landing. Easy enough for the killer to have slipped upstairs after hiding the body, and to have mingled with the other guests—as though he had just been aroused out of his sleep. We’ll go this way. I’m going to pop into some of the bedrooms and have a quick look round.’
The staircase proved to be short and direct, and it communicated with the main landing just as Cromwell had guessed. Johnny was instructed to stroll up and down the big main corridor, and if any of the guests should happen along, he was to start whistling. Ironsides, meanwhile, was to enter the bedrooms and give them a keen once-over.
Before putting this plan into effect, however, they both went along to see how Ronnie Charton was. His brother was sitting by his bedside, and Gerry looked tired and haggard.
‘He’s no different,’ he said worriedly. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ he added, suddenly getting to his feet, and staring strangely at the newcomers. ‘Dr. Ware thinks he’s fooling me, but he’s not. He keeps telling me that Ronnie will be all right—but I know damned well that he privately believes that Ronnie’s mind will always be—you know. Has he said anything to either of you to that effect?’
‘No, nothing—not a word,’ replied Johnny quickly.
But he could not help remembering how the specialist had tapped his head behind Gerry’s back, and he wondered if Gerry had seen anything of that significant motion.
‘I don’t believe in these high-toned experts,’ went on the young man, almost fiercely. ‘Do you think Ware cares a hoot whether Ronnie recovers or not? He’s just a new subject—an experiment—an interesting case. I’m almost ready to believe that Ware wants Ronnie to wake up half loony, if only to prove that his theories are right.’
Cromwell did not get into an argument. He tried to say a few comforting words, but he was not particularly good at that sort of thing, and was glad enough to escape.
As he and Johnny passed the balcony that overlooked the great hall, they heard the booming voice of Dr. Ware from below; and Ironsides, seizing his advantage, had a look into Dr. Ware’s bedroom as a beginning. He was soon out, and then he went into other bedrooms—Johnny, meanwhile, strolling aimlessly about, ready to whistle at a moment’s notice.
Five or six times Ironsides dodged out of one room and into another, and he was just repeating the manoeuvre when Johnny caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure at the dark end of a branch corridor. The figure stood motionless, staring at the disappearing form of Cromwell as the latter slipped into the bedroom—which was exactly opposite the passage. Johnny, strolling leisurely past, saw the figure for a moment only, for it turned abruptly and vanished. Like a hare the immaculate sergeant sped down the passage, and at the end of it he found a staircase leading down steeply.
‘The bally place is full of dashed staircases,’ he murmured, realizing that it would be a waste of time to descend.
Whistling, he retraced his steps, and met Ironsides in the main corridor. He quickly related what he had seen.
‘Might have been one of the servants,’ said Cromwell, frowning. ‘Too late to do anything now, of course. It’s a pity you didn’t keep a sharper watch…’
‘Well, I like that!’ protested Johnny. ‘Do you think I’ve got X-ray eyes? I only saw the bloke for a jiffy, and as soon as he twigged that I was looking at him he took a powder.’ He eyed Cromwell narrowly. ‘And what’s the result of your perambulations? You don’t look particularly triumphant.’
Ironsides made noises indicative of disgust.
‘I found—smells!’ he grunted. ‘Perfume in Gerry Charton’s room; perfume which reminded me of that saucy-eyed girl with the fluffy hair (the young ass ought to be more careful when he invites girls into his room); the whiff of stinking stale Turkish cigarettes in Drydon’s; and a particularly ghastly brilliantine niff in young Bayle’s. On the whole, not a bad fifteen minutes’ work.’
‘You think smells are going to help us?’
‘You’d be surprised!’ said Cromwell.
‘What the devil…’
But Ironsides refused to amplify his remark, and they both went downstairs. They were silent as they descended, and as they turned an angle they came within sight of the great fireplace. They saw Philip Bayle talking earnestly to Howard Drydon, the stockbroker.
The two men looked strangely startled as they glanced up and recognized the pair on the staircase; then, without another word, th
ey walked quickly out of the hall.
VI. The Killer Strikes
It seemed to Johnny that Bill Cromwell lost interest in the mystery; for, during the rest of the morning, he pottered about in an aimless sort of way, wandering in and out of the Death Room, and up and down stairs.
This, at least, appeared to be the sum total of Ironsides’ activities. Even Johnny, accustomed as he was to the Chief Inspector’s wiles, did not see through the scheme. Cromwell was actually making a careful examination of the dead body in the crypt; but he performed this task piecemeal, so that he should show himself sauntering idly about, as though bored. Furthermore, he was keeping an eye on Ronnie Charton, and those in Ronnie’s room never quite knew when Ironsides would butt in.
It was very cleverly done—so cleverly that Johnny had no suspicion of what was going on. At lunch-time the house-party was as jolly and merry as ever. Even Gerry, relieved from duty in the sick-room, bucked up a lot. Cromwell sat moodily silent during most of the meal, and those on either side of him came to the conclusion that he was nothing but a boor. Not that Ironsides cared a toss what they thought.
After lunch he was more gloomy than ever, and Johnny became suspicious.
‘Come across, you old humbug,’ he said accusingly. ‘You’re looking so dashed fed up that you must have got somewhere. Give, old boy—and give freely.’
‘I shall have got somewhere in about three minutes,’ admitted Cromwell. ‘Come along, and I’ll show you.’
He walked to the library, selected the biggest chair, and sank luxuriously into its depths.
‘Well?’ demanded Johnny.
‘What’s the matter? Are you blind?’ said Cromwell, with a yawn. ‘Can’t you see I’ve got somewhere? In this chair, my lad, and I’m going to stay in it for the rest of the afternoon. What’s the good of being on vacation if you can’t sleep most of the time?’
Johnny gave it up. His father happened to come in just then, and he could not help noticing the surprised look on the general’s face. A few minutes later they left the library together, and General Lister wanted to know why Cromwell was taking things so easily.
‘You’re asking me!’ said Johnny, with a shrug. ‘I’ve been with him for two or three years, but I’m damned if I know what to make of him. If this inactivity means anything at all, it means that Ironsides has hit the trail, and is marking time. He knows that the killer can’t get away, and it’s good policy to let the blighter think that he’s sitting soft.’
‘Well, it all seems very strange,’ frowned the general. ‘At the same time, I’m relieved. If we can keep the tragedy a secret until after Christmas, so much the better. But when I think of that body lying in Lady Julia’s coffin I go cold all over!’
‘That’s an easy one, dad,’ said Johnny. ‘Don’t think of it.’
Since there was nothing for him to do—for Ironsides had given him no instructions—he went out snow-larking with a laughing, cheery crowd of the younger people. There was a good deal of activity round and about the castle, every available able-bodied man of the staff working hard at clearing the snow.
There were fine slopes in the park, where tobogganing was indulged in freely, and Johnny had a thoroughly good time. He went back to the castle towards dusk, but most of the others remained out, tea having no attractions for them.
‘So you haven’t broken your neck?’ was Cromwell’s greeting, as he met Johnny in the hall. ‘No, don’t take your overcoat off. We’re going out. It’s practically dark, and everything’s quiet. The elderly ladies are in the drawing-room swilling tea, the elderly gents are in the billiard room playing billiards, and the youngsters are somewhere in the park.’
When they got outside, Cromwell explained why he had waited until now. First, what he had to do had better be done in the dark; and, secondly, squads of men had been busy all the afternoon clearing the drive.
‘Why, you cunning old fraud,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll bet it was you who asked the old man to have the drive cleared of snow. I thought it was a potty idea when I saw the men at work—because I knew it was impossible for them to progress far.’
‘Yes, we’re still snowed up and cut off from the world,’ said Ironsides complacently, as they crunched over the frozen snow. ‘But, at least, we can get to the spot in the drive where we saw the “apparition.” I wonder if you noticed, when we were on the spot last night, a particularly hefty tree close by?’
‘Can’t say that I did.’
‘I’ve half an idea that that tree will help us,’ said Cromwell. ‘Anyway, we shall soon see.’
The snow had been cleared for about twenty yards beyond this spot, and it was piled in great heaps on one side of the drive. The other side—where there were many trees—was comparatively free of snow. Cromwell pointed to one particular tree, and he proceeded to climb it with remarkable agility for one who was always complaining about his bodily ills.
‘Huh! Thought so!’ came a satisfied grunt from Cromwell. ‘The tree’s as hollow as your head, Johnny. Come up and have a look. While we were looking for our “ghost” last night, he was hiding in this tree.’
‘Here, steady, Old Iron; that’s only a guess.’
Johnny was wrong; it was no guess. After he had climbed up, he looked down into a surprisingly large hollow space. Ironsides was holding his electric torch well down, so that the interior of the tree was lighted. At the same time, none of the rays escaped. As Cromwell remarked, he did not want people to come along and ask footling questions.
But even the astute Ironsides did not allow for people—one person, at least—with powerful night glasses at an upper window of the castle. A dim, shadowy figure stood there, watching Bill Cromwell’s activities with intense interest. The watcher was even more interested when he saw Johnny climb the tree, and stare into the hollow interior.
‘Funny!’ said Johnny, in surprise.
The space into which he looked was littered at the bottom with ancient and rotted leaves, twigs, and little patches of powdery snow, which had drifted in during the night. Also, Johnny saw a pair of very old boots, and there was something peculiarly different about these boots.
‘What the dickens are those spikes, Ironsides?’
‘We’ll soon find out,’ said Cromwell.
He had brought a crooked stick with him, and, leaning far over, he fished up one of the boots. Projecting from the sole were three two-inch spikes, and one from the heel.
‘Crude, but effective,’ commented Cromwell. ‘The boots were evidently prepared in a hurry—our unknown friend having decided to take advantage of the light snow that was falling. You see what he did? He drove two and a half-inch nails clean through the boots, uppers and all. Once driven home, it was easy enough to tear the uppers free, and the holes didn’t matter. The nails were in position, spikes downwards. All the gentleman had to do was to walk carefully, picking his feet up clean, and he left no footprint in the snow.’
‘Damned ingenious,’ said Johnny, half admiringly. ‘The wheeze could not have been worked so easily in frozen snow, for the nails would have made some marks. But with the snow all powdery, the nails hardly disturbed it. No wonder we were puzzled. This killer bloke is a bit of an opportunist, old boy. He no sooner sees that it’s snowing than he thinks up this brain wave.’
Cromwell fished up the other boot, switched off the light, and they both dropped to the ground.
‘But why?’ demanded Johnny, appealing to the night air.
‘Why what?’
‘Why should anyone try to scare us?’
Ironsides gave a snort like a peeved hippo, and refused to make any comment. He trudged along towards the castle in silence for some time. When he did speak, it was to ask a question.
‘During lunch,’ he said, ‘I heard you talking to Gerry Charton about cars, and that murdering projectile of yours in particular. Did Charton happen to mention what make
of car his brother Ronnie drives?’
‘Yes. Alvis—like mine.’
‘Well, then, there’s your answer.’
‘Answer? What answer? Oh! You mean… Ironsides, you deep blighter, I get it. The killer aimed to scare Ronnie Charton. He heard the sweet purr of my Alvis…’
‘You mean, the machine-gun-like roar—but go on.’
‘He heard this glorious sound,’ said Johnny firmly, ‘and naturally assumed that it was young Charton breezing in. So on with the ghost act. By the time he had extricated himself from the hollow tree—before he could do it, in fact—he heard another Alvis, and then it was too late. You remember that Ronnie Charton arrived immediately after us?’
‘Of course I remember it—I’ve remembered it all the time,’ retorted Cromwell. ‘Your brains, apparently, are only just beginning to thaw out. It’s perfectly clear that the killer decided, on seeing the snow falling, to give Ronnie a preliminary dose of the jitters before administering the full dose. He would have done so if your Alvis hadn’t fooled him.’
‘Well, that’s one point cleared up; although I can’t see that it gets us any forrarder,’ said Johnny. ‘We still don’t know who used to belong to the dead body; we still don’t know who the killer is; we still don’t know…’ He suddenly stopped and looked at Ironsides searchingly. ‘Or do we?’ he added, with a start.
‘We—don’t,’ replied Ironsides tartly.
And he refused to say another word as they continued their way towards the castle.
Within the ancient pile all was peace and quiet. It was the slack period before the dressing-gong was due to boom. Scarcely a soul was upstairs, and the mysterious figure who slipped like a shadow into Cromwell’s bedroom did so without being observed by any eye. Once in the room, he closed the door and locked it, but did not switch on the light. A fire was burning cheerfully in the grate, and by its ruddy glow the intruder could see all that he wanted to see.
Crimson Snow Page 13
