Hue and Cry

by Patricia Wentworth

  Mally slept till ten o’clock next day. She awoke with a start to the unfamiliar room, with its old bow-fronted chest of drawers, heavy mahogany wardrobe, and dark-blue curtains. For a moment she wondered where she was. And then she remembered. It was like remembering a dream. She had slept very deeply, and everything that had happened to her on the farther side of that deep sleep felt strange and unreal. She had wandered in the snow. She had been most dreadfully frightened. She had come to a fairy-tale house in the dark. Ethan Messenger had kissed her.

  Mally sat up and tossed the hair out of her eyes. She was awake; she was quite awake. She ought to be boiling with rage. Why wasn’t she? When Paul Craddock kissed her—or tried to kiss her—she had boiled furiously. Why wasn’t she boiling now? “How dared he? I will be angry—I am angry—I—I’m furious,” said Mally. “I am.”

  She began to think of what she ought to have said. “Only there wasn’t time to say anything. And anyhow, I was too sleepy. That’s why it was so awfully mean of him—the wretch!”

  At this moment the door was opened very softly and slowly. Miss Angela peeped round it.

  “Oh, my dear—you’re awake!”

  Mally nodded.

  “I’ve had such a lovely, lovely sleep.”

  Miss Angela ran away.

  “Grace! Grace! Miss Lee’s ready for her breakfast!”

  Then she came running back.

  “You slept so peacefully that I couldn’t wake you. Do you like eggs? Grace is boiling you an egg. And I thought tea, not coffee—and some toast and marmalade, and a banana.”

  Mally blew her three kisses very quickly and lightly.

  “Scrumptious!” she said.

  “And when you’ve had your breakfast”—Miss Angela was a little flustered by the kisses—“Ethan wants to see you—I mean when you’re dressed. And Grace is lighting the drawing-room fire, and—in fact—I told him I’d give you his message and say he wanted to see you most particularly.”

  Mally reminded herself that she was very angry indeed with Ethan Messenger.

  Miss Angela went on talking.

  “This is my sister Serena’s room, and I just wanted to say how pleased I should be if you could stay until to-morrow. Of course I don’t know what your plans are; but Serena has just telephoned to say she won’t be back to-day. She missed her train last night, and as she had to stay the night in town, she thought she would make it two nights and go to a lecture on—let me see—is there such a word as incidence, my dear?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Well, then, that was it—the incidence of taxation in—in—well, my dear, I’m not quite sure where. One of those new countries. Yugo-Slovakia? No, that doesn’t sound quite right. I got a geography prize when I was at school, but none of it seems to be any good to one now. So restless! I mean one had hardly got accustomed to saying Petrograd instead of St. Petersburg, when they started calling it something else. None of the names seem to be the same as they were when I was a girl.”

  Mally had her breakfast to the accompaniment of a pleasantly continuous ripple of conversation. By the time she had reached the banana, Miss Angela was earnestly asking her advice as to shingling. She had brushed out the gray curls—“I don’t know if you noticed them last night, my dear. No, of course not”—and wore her hair in its accustomed tight but straggly braid.

  “Oh, I did notice them—of course I did—I loved them. You must have darling little corkscrews. I adore them.”

  Miss Angela looked swiftly at her nose, and found it pale. She decided that Mally was a very engaging girl—very, very engaging—and that of course the dear boy was in love with her.

  Mally came into the drawing-room and found Mr. Ethan Messenger picking out the tune of “Sing Me to Sleep” with one finger. He was frowning horribly at the old yellow piano-keys, and the whole effect was mournful in the extreme.

  “So he ought to be mournful,” said Mally to herself. “I’m frightfully angry with him.”

  She advanced with cold dignity, and Ethan sprang up.

  “Oh, I say, are you all right? Did you sleep all right?”

  She inclined her head very slightly.

  “Yes, thank you.” The ice in her voice very sensibly reduced the temperature of the room.

  Ethan gazed at her in dismay. She was angry, she was horribly angry. He had put his foot into it like anything. She would probably never forgive him. Oh, Lord! How funny she looked when she stuck her chin in the air and wrinkled her little nose like that—how funny, and how dear! A curious warm feeling blotted out his dismay. And, quite suddenly, an odd thing happened.

  We go through the world with an impalpable something which separates us one from the other. Once in a while this unseen wall of separation melts and is not; thought, feeling, consciousness, can pass unhindered, can pass and blend.

  Ethan looked at Mally playing at icy dignity—and this strange thing happened to him. The barrier went down, and nothing would ever put it up again. She wasn’t some one whom he had offended, some one on whom he would like to make a good impression; she was just his funny little dear—his little Mally—his. The most extraordinary part of the whole thing was that it all felt quite natural. There was no shock, no disturbance; it was as easy and natural as breathing.

  With commendable self-control Ethan kept his new and astonishing feelings to himself. He said, “Er,” and then stuck, whereupon Mally felt a most dreadful desire to laugh. He saw her eyelashes flicker, and pulled himself together with what was really a very creditable effort. He pushed forward a chair and said in quite a natural voice:

  “Let’s sit down and talk. Do you mind? I think we ought to get things straightened out a bit.”

  CHAPTER XXXII

  Mally looked at the chair and shook her head.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “You,” said Ethan.

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I think it’s about time some one did talk about you. I think it’s about time something was done. You can’t go on running away, and not having anything to eat, and losing yourself in the snow.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “Well, you can if you like. But do you really want to? Do you?”

  Mally looked at Ethan, and her lashes flickered again. There was something different about him, something high-handed and impenitent. Quite suddenly her mood changed, melted. He was friendly. She wanted some one to be friendly—she did. She gave a little nod and said, in tones of modest pride.

  “There’s a warrant out for my arrest.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “There is. That horrible Paul Craddock told Candida Long.”

  “What on earth for? Look here, Mally, you must tell me all about it. That is, you must tell some one, and—and——”

  “I don’t mind telling you.” She sat on the arm of the chair and swung her legs. “I don’t mind telling any one.”

  She darted a repressive glance, and then, for no reason at all, changed color a little.

  “Begin at the beginning.”

  Mally began. It wasn’t really very easy to know where to begin. She skipped Roger Mooring, and landed in the middle of the Peterson household.

  “I thought they were nice—all except that loathsome Paul. I thought they were just nice, ordinary people. I danced with Sir George, and he was ever so nice to me. And then all of a sudden he began to behave like a nightmare—they all did—and—and—drug my coffee—and hide diamond brooches in the hem of my skirt—and swear I’d taken frightfully valuable papers—and please would I give them back, and then they wouldn’t say any more about the diamonds.”

  Ethan came and sat on the arm of the other chair.

  “Look here, Mally,” he said in a new voice, “I can’t get the hang of it this way. You must be serious and tell me about it properly.”

  Mally jerked her head up.

  “What’s the good? I think they’re mad—I think they must be mad. But you’ll only think I’m mad, or el
se you’ll think I took the diamonds.”

  “Shall I?”

  Mally looked at him defiantly. Then she looked away.

  “I’ll tell you. Only I don’t see why any one should believe me.” She began to speak quickly and quite seriously: “Mrs. Craddock lost her brooch, and we all looked for it. And next day, when Barbara was hiding in the study, I went in to get her; and Mr. Craddock was there telephoning. He saw me come in, and I went and got Barbara; but he didn’t see us come out, because he’d turned round a bit. And I don’t think he knew Barbara was there at all. I think now—I do think—that Barbara took the paper that they missed. She was always wanting to draw, and they wouldn’t let her. I didn’t think of it at the time, because I was so taken by surprise. But now I’m sure that Barbara took a paper off Mr. Craddock’s table. It—it’s queer—a sort of cross-word puzzle thing. I don’t know why they should make such a fuss about it.”

  “What sort of fuss did they make?”

  “They drugged my coffee. Oh, yes, they did. And whilst I was asleep they put the diamond pendant—it wasn’t a brooch really—into the hem of my skirt.” Mally clasped her hands very tightly and turned rather pale. “It’s horrible. That’s what they did—I’ve had lots of time to think it out. Then they brought in Mrs. Craddock and her maid.” Mally’s breath caught; she stopped and dashed away an angry tear. “I don’t want to talk about it—I don’t!” she cried in a breaking voice.

  Ethan caught her hands in his.

  “My poor little dear! It’s only me—it’s only Ethan. Tell me.”

  Mally pinched him very hard indeed.

  “The maid found the diamond,” she said in a thread of a voice. “And they said they wouldn’t send me to prison if I would give them back the paper. They really thought I’d taken it—I can see that now, but at the time, I hadn’t the least, faintest scrap of an idea of what they were driving at.”

  “Go on.”

  Mally went on talking. She also went on pinching him.

  “They shut me up in a room, and I climbed out of the window and got in on the next floor, and got my hat and things, and got away. And Barbara gave me all her drawings because she thought they’d tear them up. And I found the cross-word puzzle thing in the middle of the drawings. Only I don’t believe it’s a real cross-word puzzle at all. Look at it.”

  She pulled away her right hand, dived into a jumper pocket, and thrust a folded paper at Ethan. He unfolded it, and saw what Mally had seen in the empty house.

  The paper was a half-sheet of foolscap. Right across the top of it ran an odd statement:

  “Heliogabalus was never emperor in Constantinople.”

  Below this, on the left, was the square of a cross-word puzzle, and all the rest of the paper was taken up with the clues. There appeared to be twenty-eight of them. Thus:

  ACROSS.

  1. Lady Bird.

  4. A Swift Curler Of Old Times.

  6. New Child s Holiday Invention.

  9. Old Hats for New.

  15. Hard Amber.

  16. A House of Archaic Outline In Highgate.

  17. Imperial Tokay Bought New.

  19. Army Architecture turned Awry on the Nevsky.

  21. Half Shoes of Antique Type Non-inflammable.

  23. New Solid Light Tractor.

  25. Seven Old Indians.

  28. A New Army Invention.

  DOWN.

  4. An Elephant’s Height In Nowgong.

  5. A Nest of Owls New Caught.

  7. Name Old Light Balloon About Sixteenth Century.

  8. Olive Oil.

  10. The Next High Tree (South Africa or Nigeria).

  12. Old Obvious Things Invented New.

  13. Obsidian Never Twisted.

  14. London News Circulation Carefully Improved On A Liberal Hypothesis.

  18. Try Our Oatmeal And Then Buy.

  20. Corners Of An Oval Octagonal Oolite.

  22. Amber Satin Hose of Innate Novelty.

  24. High Arbors Of Orange Leafery.

  Ethan looked at the paper, and Mally looked at Ethan.

  “It’s odd, isn’t it? When I first looked at it, I thought it was odd. But I was much, much too hungry and too cold to care. I looked at it again this morning, just for a moment, and it seemed odder than ever. Do you think it’s really a cross-word puzzle? If it is, why should they make such a fuss about it? Do you think it is? Do you?” Mally’s voice thrilled and her eyes sparkled.

  Ethan said, “’M.”

  He was reading number fourteen:

  “London News Circulation Carefully Improved On A Liberal Hypothesis.”

  He glided to number twenty:

  “Corners Of An Oval Octagonal Oolite.”

  Then he emitted a long whistle.

  “It’s either made up by a lunatic with a passion for O’s, or it’s a cipher. I think it’s a cipher.”

  “Yes—yes!” said Mally. “A cipher? How clever of you!”

  Ethan felt a good deal uplifted.

  “If it’s a cipher——”

  “I’m sure it’s a cipher.”

  “If it’s a cipher, the O’s ought to be E’s, as there are such a lot of them. That’s the way you start unravelling a cipher—with the E’s. Now supposing these O’s—No, where’s a bit of paper? Never mind, I’ll double this over.”

  He doubled it over, and said, “Oh!” very sharply and in a different voice.

  “What is it?”

  He dragged his chair nearer, put the paper on Mally’s lap, and leaned over, pointing.

  “We shan’t have to bother. It’s decoded on this side. It’s a cipher all right, and whoever got it had been decoding it——”

  “It’s Paul Craddock’s writing. It is!”

  “It’s practically all decoded. How on earth did you miss it?”

  “I don’t know. I never looked on that side. It was frightfully cold, and I hadn’t anything to eat for years and years and years. Oh, it does look funny! What does it mean?”

  Right across the paper ran the words:

  H.E.L.I.O.G.A.B.A.L.U.S.

  a. b. c. d. e. f. g. h. i. j. k. 1.

  C.O.N.S.T.A.N.T.I.N.O.P.L.E.

  m.n. o. p.q. r. s. t.u. v. w.x. y.z.

  “That’s the key. Look!” said Ethan. He put a large thumb on the C of Constantinople. “Twenty-six letters in the two words—look! And the alphabet running along underneath. No wonder there are such a lot of O’s. E is O all right. But so are N and W. And I and R are both A. I say, look here! It’s rather like Hawaiian—isn’t it?”

  There was a line drawn under the alphabet, and below that came a string of letters:

  LBASCOOTN/CHIO/HN/HAAHOAOI/HITBNAATAON/HSOAT/NINSOLT/SOIAN/AIAE/HINANO/ON/CNAO/LBASCOOTN/HT/SAONOOT/IN/ONT/LNCCIOALHTO/OATB/CO/AO/OOASHOI/NHAOOL/

  “What is it? What does it mean?” asked Mally breathlessly.

  Ethan turned back to the other side of the paper.

  “‘Lady Bird,’” he read, “‘A Swift Curler Of Old Times.’” Then he turned back again: “‘L-B-A-S-C-O-O-T.’ Yes, that’s it; the cipher is in the capital letters of the clues, and Heliogabalus Constantinople is the key. I expect the square is just a blind.”

  “What does it mean?” said Mally.

  “This is the bit that he’s decoded.” He slipped his finger down the page and read: “‘Shipments made as arranged. Authorities alert. Suspect Pedro Ruiz. Advise no more shipments at present. Do not communicate with me.…’ Then there are two blanks and ‘Varney.’”

  “What does it mean?”

  Ethan whistled.

  “Something pretty fishy, I should say.”

  Mally was rather pale.

  “Oh,” she said, “I don’t like it.” She pushed the paper away and jumped down off the arm of the chair. “There’s a perfectly horrible feeling about it.” She paused for a moment, and then said in a whisper, “Is that all?”

  “’M.” Ethan had a pencil in his hand. He frowned at the paper, and his pencil dabbed to and
fro between the cipher and its key.

  “’M—hold on a minute—I’m filling in the blanks. ‘I—N—E—N—G—L—A—N—D.’ Yes, that’s it—‘Do not communicate with me in England. Varney.’ Now I wonder who Varney is.”

  “Is that all?” said Mally again.

  She had backed against the piano, and she did not look at Ethan as she spoke. She looked instead out of the window and saw, without seeing, the flagged path with the frost-bitten standard roses on either side of it, and the high, stiff gate that her frozen hands had fumbled at in the dark.

  “Is that all?” she repeated, and felt a loathing for the paper and all that it contained. She hated to feel that she had carried it in her pocket.

  Ethan looked at her stern little profile with surprise.

  “There’s a drawing of a man’s head under the word Varney,” he began; and the next instant everything changed, broke up.

  Mally gave a sharp cry, jumped back a yard, and ran to him, catching at his arm with hard, shaking fingers.

  “A policeman!” she gasped. “A f-fat policeman! He’s just come in at the gate!”

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  When Mally said, “A f-fat policeman,” Ethan put his arm round her waist. With his other hand he shoved the cross-word puzzle into his pocket. Then he must have opened the door, because before Mally had finished saying “in at the gate,” she was being whisked down the passage that ran right through the house.

  They passed the stairs and heard Miss Angela talking to Grace in one of the bedrooms. They checked for an instant by the row of pegs which lurked in the shadow beyond, whilst Ethan gathered an armful of coats. Then they had burst into the kitchen and shut the door behind them. The kitchen was empty.

  Ethan dropped his bundle on the floor, picked out a thick fleece-lined coat, crammed it on Mally, pushed a tweed cap into her hand, and struggled into a Burberry. They heard the thud of the front door knocker, and in an instant, Ethan had Mally by the elbow and was running her through the scullery, out at the back door, and down the flagged path, where the frozen snow slipped beneath their running feet.

  The path cut the garden in two and ended at a door in the boundary wall. They were through the door and had it slammed behind them just as Miss Angela felt obliged to interrupt Grace’s voluble account of a niece’s wedding with a reluctant, “Grace, surely—I think—yes, there is some one at the front door!”