Thirteen Guests

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  He had never seen such gratitude in any other woman’s eyes. Nor, for many years, had his rather tired soul experienced such direct and moving emotion.

  He waited till she had returned to her room and closed the door, and then descended to the hall.

  On the bottom stair he paused. He was walking straight into a scene. Mrs. Chater was the centre of it, and she appeared to be having hysterics. It was as though the silent scream with which she lived had suddenly burst from the confines of her soul, to discover it had a voice.

  Near her stood Bultin, his calmness contrasting impertinently with her shrill fury, and Sir James Earnshaw, watching with a heavy frown. Earnshaw had just returned alone, and the dust of riding was upon him. Between them and the half-open drawing-room door was Lady Aveling. She had tactfully requested the Rowes and Edyth Fermoy-Jones to continue with their tea, but their cups were motionless while their ears strained to hear what was going on in the hall.

  “Where’s my husband?” Mrs. Chater was shouting. “I knew there’d be trouble if we came here! Where is he?” Her eyes were accusingly on Earnshaw. “And why is everybody looking at me like this? I don’t know anything! Nothing’s to do with me!” Her voice rose almost to a shriek. “I tell you I don’t know the man, and nor does my husband! Where is he? What’s in offering a light? Do you think I came here to go and look at dead faces.…?”

  Her voice became incoherent. She started sobbing, while Lady Aveling advanced and took her arm firmly.

  “Where’s the doctor, Bultin?” asked Lord Aveling.

  “He came in with me,” replied Bultin. “He went up to see Mrs. Morris while I spoke to Mrs. Chater. Pratt’s waiting in the studio.”

  “Bultin again!” thought Aveling. “Why can’t he let things alone?”

  Yet he was grateful for the concise information, and the calming monotone in which it was delivered.

  Mrs. Chater wrenched her arm from Lady Aveling’s grip.

  “Don’t touch me!” she cried, with physical repulsion. Then, abruptly—the change was startling—she stopped crying and became as calm as Bultin himself. “I’ll go to my room,” she said.

  No one moved as she walked to the stairs saving Lord Aveling, who stepped aside to let her pass.

  “And don’t you send any doctor to me,” she added. “I’m not seeing anybody till my husband returns. Not anybody.”

  Aveling glanced towards Earnshaw. Earnshaw shook his head.

  “He’ll return soon, Mrs. Chater,” said Aveling.

  She stopped for an instant, and also glanced at Earnshaw.

  “Try not to worry.”

  “Worry!”

  It seemed as though the suppressed scream were about to escape again, but a laugh came instead. More than one who heard it woke up that night with its recollection bursting their ears. Then she continued up the stairs. Lady Aveling followed her.

  “How did it happen?” inquired Lord Aveling, after a short silence.

  Bultin shrugged. “That’s how she took it.”

  “I seem to have started the trouble,” added Earnshaw. “She was in the hall when I returned, and she apparently held me responsible for not bringing her husband home with me. Is it true his horse came back without him?”

  “Unfortunately, it is,” answered Aveling. “When did you last see him? You and he joined Anne and Taverley soon after we started. They are not back yet, either.”

  “Aren’t they?” The news appeared to displease the Liberal member. “Yes, we were all four together for awhile. Anne said something about a short cut through a place called Holm. But Chater and I soon lost them, and though we went through Holm we never saw them again. Then I lost Chater, and then I lost myself, and that briefly is my story. Rather disturbing about Chater’s horse. I hope he’s not had an accident. And I understand there has been another?”

  “Yes. Some one fell into a quarry near here, and we had an idea that Mrs. Chater might be able to identify him.”

  “I had just asked her when you came down,” said Bultin to Aveling. “You heard the result. Were you more successful with Miss Wilding?”

  “No—though Miss Wilding took the situation more reasonably,” replied Aveling. “And, being tired, she had just as much excuse for a nervestorm. You were mistaken, Bultin. She recalls the man, but doesn’t know him. His appearance rather frightened her, that’s all. She thought he was a bagsnatcher.” Pleased with himself, he turned to Earnshaw. “You’ll want to go up and change. But don’t take longer than you must. We need your parliamentary manner down here to steady the boat.”

  “And I need a good tea to steady my own,” smiled Earnshaw. “I’ve had no lunch!”

  As he moved, Lady Aveling came down the stairs.

  “Well?” asked Aveling.

  “She has locked herself in her room,” answered Lady Aveling. The sudden recollection that the Chaters had been invited at Earnshaw’s suggestion prevented her from adding, “Thank God!”

  “Just as well, perhaps,” murmured Aveling, putting her thought more tactfully. “It will all straighten out. We will join you, my dear, in a few moments.”

  His wife accepted the hint, and returned to the drawing-room. Aveling lingered, while Earnshaw went up the stairs.

  “So, in common parlance, Bultin,” he said suddenly, “that is that.”

  “Not much progress,” answered Bultin.

  “My own view is that it will be better to try and forget these things, if we can, and allow matters to take their natural course.”

  “What is the natural course, my Lord?”

  “Eh?”

  “Of three people who might have identified the man, two say they don’t know him, and the third hasn’t returned yet.”

  “Which reminds me of my next job!” exclaimed Lord Aveling.

  “A search for the third?”

  “Yes, of course!” He looked despairing. “Really, there has been so much to think about. I’ll go up and see Earnshaw again—I must find out the exact spot where he and Chater separated.”

  “May I have the use of a car meanwhile?”

  “What for?”

  “Well, if Chater doesn’t return, and if your search fails, I may find out something at the railway station. That’s where we first saw the man whose identity we need.”

  Lord Aveling regarded Bultin thoughtfully.

  “It is an excellent idea,” he answered, “but you are taking a lot of trouble, Bultin.”

  “For copy.”

  “May I check the copy?”

  “The facts will be correct.”

  “But the interpretation of facts?”

  “That is for the public. If I don’t make inquiries at the station, the police may later.”

  “The police?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  Lord Aveling knew that Bultin was not wrong. Dr. Pudrow had not yet pronounced the cause of the man’s death, but whatever it was an inquest seemed inevitable, and identity would have to be established. Aveling’s soul groaned at the thought of the publicity, and of the questions that would have to be asked and answered. The man had died, apparently, at 1.19 a.m. He and Zena had been up that night till nearly one. He had not noted the time exactly. He wished now that he had. And particularly the time when he believed he had heard Zena leaving her room again shortly after they had said good-night.

  Out of nowhere came a sudden vision of Mrs. Chater giving evidence. What would the evidence of such a bitter, jealous woman be like? He recalled a trivial incident that had occurred in the ballroom. Sir James Earnshaw, inspired by a latent sense of duty, had relinquished Anne, and moved towards Mrs. Chater. A vague smile had flitted across the gloomy woman’s features, but Zena had passed, and Earnshaw had turned abruptly to her instead. As the two had danced away, a spasm of hatred had shot into Mrs. Chater’s eyes, though a moment afterwards t
he face had become once more expressionless.…

  “Well?” asked Bultin.

  Lord Aveling wrenched his mind back to the present, and wondered whether he preferred Bultin to a policeman. Then the telephone rang.

  He hastened to the receiver and picked it up. A moment later he exclaimed, “Anne!” Then, for a full minute, he listened in silence. “Yes, yes, of course, you’ve done quite right,” he said at last. “Don’t delay.”

  He glanced up the stairs as he replaced the receiver.

  “They’ve found Chater?” asked Bultin quietly, watching his host’s face.

  “At Mile Bottom,” answered Aveling. “With a broken neck.”

  Chapter XVII

  Nadine’s Story

  “Well, Mr. John Foss,” said Nadine, as she sat on the pouffe that had been waiting for her all day, “shall we pool our knowledge and see whether we can make anything out of it?”

  “I’m afraid my own knowledge is very incomplete,” answered John.

  “So is mine. So, I believe, is everybody’s. Just bits and pieces which they’re trying hard not to give up. Even Mr. Taverley.” She paused, and added suddenly, “I don’t know whether you can feel it in here—this room is a sort of backwater—most reposeful—but the atmosphere in the rest of the house is positively—what?”

  “Secretive?” he suggested.

  “Gives one the creeps. Yes, even quite apart from the fact that two dead people are lying in the studio. We’re all on guard against each other. Split up into small parties. That’s why I want to form a party with you. I wasn’t born for just my own company.”

  “I shouldn’t have thought you ever had to endure loneli-

  ness.”

  “I don’t often. Perhaps that explains why I object to it so strongly when it happens. We’re all divided into groups of fours and twos and ones, and I refuse to be one of the ones!”

  “Who are the other ones?” he asked, smiling. She considered for a moment, puckering her brow, then became conscious of his smile and responded to it.

  “You’ve got a nice smile, John,” she said. “Frank. I like it. But don’t take that as too much of a compliment—these are meagre times. And I gathered this morning that you were worried, too. Who are the other ones? Well, Sir James. Do you like him? Mrs. Chater. I won’t ask if you like her. And—all this is strictly private.”

  “Of course.”

  “At the moment I’m counting Lady Aveling. I hope it’s only at the moment, because I like the Avelings immensely and have had some wonderful times here.…Am I speaking too freely? Yes, I expect I am. But it’s not gossip, it’s—reaction. Perhaps also because I want to help. Though I’m not sure about that. I’m not usually a very helpful person.”

  “If you start pitching into yourself, we sha’n’t make a good team.”

  “All right. I won’t. We’ll say, rightly or wrong, that part of my impulse in talking to you is because I have a wonderful nature and burn to do good in the world!” She made a grimace. “Nadine Leveridge, Good Samaritan! That’s almost worthy of one of Bultin’s posters!”

  “Who are the twos?”

  “At the risk of shocking you, I’ll begin with Lord Aveling and Zena Wilding. That’s why I’ve isolated Lady Aveling. I don’t like your expression quite so much now, John.”

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  “It’s almost disapproving.”

  “It’s not meant to be.”

  “What is it meant to be? Are you going to become an oyster like the rest? I’m human, my dear man, and this is going to be a fifty-fifty business, or nothing.”

  “It’s fifty-fifty, Nadine,” he answered, after a moment’s pause. “And that means I believe you really do want to help. So do I. I’ve nothing against gossip—”

  “Liar!”

  “Right. I loathe it. But I know this isn’t gossip. My expression meant that—that I agreed with you. I’ll explain more later. Please go on.”

  She nodded.

  “Our collaboration continues. Mr. Taverley and Anne make another two. I sensed that when I rode back with them from Mile Bottom. I came upon them just after they had made their unpleasant discovery. Straight from one ‘kill’ to another! But luckily I wasn’t in at the second death!”

  “He was dead when you arrived, then?”

  “Yes. You’ve heard all about that, haven’t you?”

  “No one’s told me anything.”

  “Then how do you know anything?”

  “That wasn’t quite accurate,” he corrected himself. “Lord Aveling and Pratt were in this room shortly before tea, and I heard from them about the man in the quarry, and then the maid who brought my tea said the doctor had arrived. But beyond that all I’ve heard has come through the door.”

  She listened.

  “You’ve got good ears. I can’t hear anything.”

  “The hall’s probably empty at the moment. Still, I have got good ears. Not that one needed good ears to hear Mrs. Chater when she went off the reel. It was pretty horrible. Then I heard Lord Aveling at the telephone—that was when Anne phoned about Chater—and, later on, I heard you all return. That was an hour ago, wasn’t it?”

  “And nothing since?”

  “Nothing and nobody. It’s been as quiet out there as it is now.”

  “Yes—it’s quiet,” murmured Nadine. “We’re talking in whispers. Even Mr. Rowe’s voice is almost musically soft.” She stared at the toe of her shoe, raising it slightly from the ground. Once she had done it consciously to attract attention to her shapely foot, but now it was a habit. Last night, John recalled, the shoes had been gold. Now they were red-bronze, matching her hair. “You haven’t heard the latest, then?” she said, lowering her toe again as though to dismiss it.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Well—in a minute. I’ll go back to Mile Bottom, and lead up to it. Or down to it. When I came upon Anne and Mr. Taverley, they were staring at Mr. Chater. They were off their horses. Mr. Chater’s had already gone. It’s a wild spot. It has always rather appealed to me—I like wild places—but I shan’t think of Mile Bottom again without a shudder! He was lying on a patch of stubble a little way from some boulders. The stubble was quite soft. There was a stream close by, and the ground was wet.” She paused. “Anything strike you?”

  “I can’t say that it does,” he answered.

  “It struck me at once. I’ve seen plenty of accidents. But I didn’t say anything, and Anne and I went off to the nearest village to telephone while Mr. Taverley stayed by the body.…I always think that transformation of terms is particularly callous. Alive we are people, but the moment we die we become bodies!

  “Well, we telephoned, as you know. Did you hear the conversation?”

  “Lord Aveling’s end.”

  “Did you gather how Anne reported it?”

  “Yes. You had found Chater with a broken neck.” Nadine nodded.

  “He certainly looked, from his position, as though his neck had been broken, but when we got back after telephoning, bringing assistance, we found that it wasn’t.”

  “Do you mean he wasn’t dead?” exclaimed John.

  “Oh, yes, he was dead,” she replied. “What I said was that his neck wasn’t broken. He had just fallen off his horse into some wet earth, and died from shock.”

  “I see,” murmured John, slowly.

  “Do you?”

  “I hope not. Well?”

  “We got him in a car, and followed the car home. We didn’t talk much. Of all the depressing rides! I’d been bursting before I met them to describe the end of the hunt—it was a wonderful run and I’d stuck it to the finish and seen the kill—but I expect my appetite for blood was gone, and I never said a word about it. Instead I found myself watching Anne and Mr. Taverley, and growing more and more depressed. I’ll be frank with you,�
� she went on, “and admit I didn’t feel in the least depressed for Mr. Chater. Call that rotten, if you like, but it’s the truth.”

  “I don’t call it in the least rotten,” answered John. “What did depress you, then?”

  “I hardly knew. Something in their attitudes. Not Anne’s, perhaps. Behind her horror she seemed puzzled, but that was natural. I was puzzled. No, it was Mr. Taverley who worried me. There was something very personal in his anxiety—and I’m quite sure he didn’t love Mr. Chater any more than you and I did. Excepting, of course, in the sense that his idiotic philosophy tries to find an excuse for everybody!”

  “Let me get one point clear before we go any further,” said John. “You haven’t got any idea, have you, that Taverley has had anything to do with the accident?”

  Nadine laughed.

  “That idea is as likely as the idea that Mussolini could turn into a pacifist,” she answered. “No nothing of that sort.” Then she quickly grew serious again. “When we got back, a second shock was waiting for us. We heard about the other accident. Dr. Pudrow has had a busy day.”

  “He has. What does he say? About Mr. Chater?”

  “Do you know what he’s said about the other man?”

  “No.”

  “From something I overheard I believe there’s a suggestion of strangulation.”

  “That sounds pretty bad.”

  “It does rather. And so does the way you’re taking it. A few hours ago you’d have said, ‘My God!’ Now you’re so numb that you merely think strangulation is pretty bad. Don’t take that personally, of course. I am merely being symbolic! I’m afraid the next suggestion will give you a shock, though. It’s that Mr. Chater was poisoned.”

  John stared at her in astonishment. The only reason he did not say “My God!” this time was because she had taken the words out of his mouth.

  “Believe me, John, things are pretty grim,” said Nadine. “My nerves are supposed to be a hundred per cent., but they’ve been severely tested these last two hours. Mr. Chater poisoned! Do you realise what that means, if it’s true? Not many of us here had any reason to love him!”