by Derek Smith
Oddly enough, his own spirits had lightened somewhat. That blow on the head had been painful but at least it proved his adversary was no ghost. The prowler had been both human and scared.
He should also prove easy to deal with….
That was before the nightmare closed round them all.
Algy Lawrence glanced at his wrist watch: thin black hands in a gold face right-angled at nine o'clock..
The young man sighed, swept long fingers over his smooth blond hair, and sat up gloomily.
A couple of aspirins and a brief sleep had done much to relieve the persistent throbbing in his temples, and his physical weakness had entirely disappeared; but mentally he was far from his best.
Not that it mattered. His arrangements were complete, and should work with precision. Besides, he had a least one reliable ally.
John Hardinge. Lawrence swung his feet to the floor. The Sergeant had probably arrived by now. He had better go downstairs and have a chat with him: there was still that wretched business in the garden to report.
That bump on the head had deprived Algy of his dinner, though sandwiches had once more been brought to his bedroom, this time by a pertly attractive young housemaid wearing her black dress stretched tight across shapely hips.
He had thanked her politely, and she had rewarded him with a bouncing exit which displayed her pretty legs to the best advantage.
Another twinge of pain stabbed through his temples: he groaned and stopped thinking about frivolous matters…He was conscious once more of a vague unrest.
Downstairs in the drawing-room, Sergeant Hardinge was also ill at ease. Audrey Craig had for the moment taken refuge with her uncle in the library, and left alone with the Querrins, the Sergeant was finding it hard to make conversation. Roger's air of faintly patronizing condescension did not help him at all.
They were practically strangers and in view of the peculiar circumstances of this, their first informal meeting, it was not surprising they were both reacting to the strain of the situation.
Roger, of course, considered Hardinge's presence, like the guard itself, completely unnecessary. He hardly bothered to hide his opinion.
Querrin, a forceful man, would have been surprised to learn that in the Sergeant's mind he figured only as a cipher. As human personalities, Hardinge was much more aware of Algy Lawrence and Peter Querrin: the one with an unmistakable intelligence behind a lazy facade, and the other with his air of patent unrest.
Peter was prowling uneasily round the room, contributing nothing to the small talk. Hardinge glanced at him and wondered. The young man seemed nervous in the extreme: would he lose his nerve?
(Lawrence in another part of the house was thinking much the same thing. And he reflected, if Peter goes to pieces, I shall have to cope with his hysteria. Oh, hell!)
Hardinge decided Peter's exact reactions would be unpredictable, and hoped for the best while preparing fatalistically for the worst. It would mostly depend upon Lawrence, anyway… He began to think about that young man's scuffle in the shrubbery.
The Sergeant had so far heard only the vaguest details of the affair, and was entirely unable to account for it. It fitted nowhere in the pattern… Who was the man, and (this was more important) would he return?
Hardinge's jaw set grimly. He was a capable man and a determined one. No prowler could hope to get near the house while he stood guard outside.
He was rather relieved when Lawrence strolled into the drawing-room. He had taken a liking to this tall young amateur and had a healthy respect for his capabilities, which he knew well by reputation.
"Hallo, Sergeant."
They shook hands.
Hardinge glanced at the strip of plaster on Algy's forehead.
He said with a faint grin:
"I hear you've been having adventures."
Algy laughed. "None that I've enjoyed."
"Suppose you give me the details."
Lawrence did his best, but his description of the prowler was sketchy and confused.
Hardinge said, with a frown:
“It's all too vague. Of course, it might be—." He broke off "You'd know this man again?"
"I think so. Yes. If I see him again, I'll recognize him."
“Good." The Sergeant pondered.
Algy prompted him gently. "You said—it might be—.?"
Hardinge smiled and shook his head. "That description could fit a hundred men. I have only the vaguest of suspicions." He smiled again grimly. "I can promise! you this, sir. If it's the man I think, there's no more danger from him to-night."
Lawrence nodded. He shared the policeman's dislike of a hasty and possibly ill-founded accusation.
He said:
"All right. I think I can rely on you."
"You can, sir," agreed the Sergeant. He lowered his voice. "Can you rely upon Mr. Peter?"
Algy glanced across the room. The two brothers were; talking quietly. There was still a definite trace of impatience on the elder man's face: Lawrence wondered if Peter had again attempted to change Roger's mind.
Algy said softly:
"I think so. He won't crack."
"I hope not," responded Hardinge, grimly and sincerely. He added: "You've had enough, already."
Another long roll of thunder all but blotted out his words. Lawrence remarked:
"You'll get your feet wet."
The Sergeant replied indifferently:
"I've brought my rubbers."
The exchange was largely automatic. Neither man's thoughts were concerned with trivialities.
The door opened, and Audrey came in. The men rose: Algy prepared to be studiously formal.
The girl's pretty face was slightly worried. She said:
"I can't find Uncle Russ."
Roger smothered an exclamation. He said rather testily:
"I thought he was with you, in the library."
"No. He left me some time ago."
At that moment, a snatch of what was probably a highly improper song drifted to them through the panels. Then the door opened once more to disclose Russell Craig Wavering uncertainly on the threshold.
His gaze fell on Audrey. He inclined his head graciously.
"Hallo, m'dear." And he hiccoughed.
Lawrence realized, with an inward grin, that the old rogue was stewed to the gills.
Audrey said with horror:
"Uncle Russ! You've been drinking."
Craig blinked at her owlishly.
"My dear," he conceded, "you're right. I have," he admitted handsomely, "been drinking."
He turned to Roger and elaborated further. "I have been drinking," he said, "with your butler."
Querrin's face set hard. He said:
"With my butler?"
"With," agreed Craig, "your butler." He steadied himself, then added belligerently: "Whass wrong with that? A fine man, your butler… He buttles—hic!— most efficiently."
He dropped in an armchair and beamed round stupidly.
"Oh, Uncle," said Audrey despairingly.
Roger seemed angry. He said:
"You're too familiar with the servants. I've told you before."
Craig's only reply was a giggle.
Roger's face darkened. He strode forward and dropped his hands on the older man's shoulders.
His voice was sombre.
"You'd better go up to your room."
"Shan't," said Craig peevishly. Once more on his feet, he pulled free of Querrin's grasp and lurched over to Lawrence.
"My boy," he said courteously, "you look pale. Possibly the blow on your head has dis—dis—upset you. Have no fear. I shall myself"—Uncle Russ thumped his shirt front—"mount guard to-night."
Behind him, someone gasped.
Till then, Algy had felt only amusement. Now he began to worry about the effects of Craig's antics on Peter's already overstrung nerves.
The colour had wavered on the younger Querrin's cheeks. His voice seemed choked.
"You'll—what?"
Peter at that moment was incapable of logical thought. He was obsessed with the vision of Audrey's uncle crashing drunkenly through the careful construction of Roger's defence, which they had been at such pains to contrive.
Algy Lawrence, however, had no more intention than Peter of allowing Russell Craig to intrude that night.
He said soothingly:
"There's no need for that. I'd rather you went to bed."
Uncle Russ frowned.
"Is it possible," he inquired, with dignity, "that you are rejecting my offer of—of ..."
He tailed off muzzily.
"Yes," replied Lawrence simply.
"Then," said Russell Craig, "I shall withdraw. I shall withdraw," he continued, "immediately."
He hiccoughed gravely, and went out.
Audrey gestured helplessly with the same curious mixture of embarrassment and affection that Algy had noticed before.
"I'd better go after him," she said. An unwilling hint of laughter had struggled up behind her eyes.
Roger watched her exit with a frown, muttered something, then followed her out. Peter said softly:
"That damned old fool."
"Easy, there," said Algy. He clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder.
Querrin gave him a shamefaced smile.
"Sorry, Lawrence. I panicked unnecessarily. It's just," and his voice shook slightly, "I'm so concerned about Roger, and—and—."
"I understand."
Hardinge moved up to Peter suddenly. He said, quietly:
"Look, sir. You don't have to go through with this. You can go up to bed now, and leave it all to us."
The two men stared at each other.
Then Peter smiled. He said softly:
"Thank you, Sergeant. But it's all right now. I can do everything I have to."
"Of course you can," said Lawrence cheerfully.
His eyes and the Sergeant's met.
Peter had turned away; and Algy nodded quickly.
Hardinge was satisfied. He said:
"That's settled, then."
Roger Querrin hurried back to join them. He announced to nobody in particular:
"Craig's in his room at last. I've had more than enough... Oh, well." He broke off, then glanced at his watch. "Half-past nine," he murmured. "And my appointment is at twelve."
He gazed into three unsmiling faces. "We've plenty of time—to kill."
At eleven o'clock the four men stood up and made their way out of the drawing-room and along to the main hall of the house.
They did not talk among themselves.
Lawrence glanced up the broad staircase that led to the bedrooms and thought that the girl and her uncle would be asleep by now. Craig had been taken to his room an hour and a half before, and though Audrey had wished to remain with them, they had persuaded her gently she would be better off the scene.
The servants had also retired, on Roger Querrin's strict instructions. Testy already at the thought of his private affairs being common knowledge in the village, he intended no further details to reach the gossips.
In the hall, Hardinge picked up his cape and slung it round his shoulders. Outside in the gardens, the rain lashed down unceasingly.
Querrin lighted candles in a triple branched stand.
He asked quietly:
"Are we ready?"
They nodded soberly.
Roger turned to the doors that gave access to the passage. Peter stepped forward and held aside the curtains from the flame of the candlestick in his brother's hand.
The light flickered and danced in the gloom of the corridor.
Lawrence shifted uneasily. He was oppressed, once more, by the brooding silence.
Hardinge was the last to leave the brightly lit hall, and the curtains fell to behind him. The suddenly changing focus robbed his eyes momentarily of sight.
He murmured:
"Just a moment, sir. I've a better light than that."
He fumbled at his belt. A beam from his lamp cut through the darkness.
Roger nodded approvingly and made a motion to blow out the candles, before Lawrence dropped a restraining hand on his wrist.
He said quietly:
"I'll need those myself. I have no torch."
Querrin nodded again.
They set off down the corridor, passed its solitary window (shrouded now by musty curtains) and came to a stop outside the door of the old room.
A curious constraint had gripped them all. Lawrence fancied Querrin's hand was trembling as he twisted round the handle.
Inside the room, a dying fire glowed ruddily. Roger put down the candlestick carefully on the mantel above.
The tiny flames licked cautious light round the shape of the hanging dagger.
Querrin stepped across to the table, struck a match, and began to fumble with the old-fashioned oil lamp. As it flared into lambent life, the shadows retreated and lay in stealthy wait.
Roger said more cheerfully:
"That's better."
Then they were silent again. Hardinge put out his flashlight and stood by the door, relaxed yet attentive. Peter squeezed his hands, uneasily, into his pockets; and glanced towards Lawrence expectantly.
This is it, thought Algy. Here's where I take charge. And wondered at the hard knot of fear tied tight inside his stomach.
Roger said restively:
"I don't want to hurry you, but—."
"All right, Querrin." Lawrence scanned the room carefully. "This won't take along."
There was no place an intruder could hide. Assured of this, he beckoned the Sergeant forward.
Then, pulling back the drapes from the french windows, he glanced out at the darkness and murmured:
"You won't find it very pleasant."
"No matter, sir."
"That prowler might come back."
Hardinge said grimly:
"I can deal with him." He patted his truncheon meaningly.
Lawrence smiled. "Right, then. I leave it to you."
He tugged at the bolts securing the windows. They were stiff as well as sturdy. He had to exert his strength.
As the glass panelled doors pushed open, a thin spray of rain splashed over him. The moon was almost entirely obscured by thick clouds, and the night was forbidding enough. The Sergeant looked out without enthusiasm.
Lawrence murmured apologetically:
"Ready, Sergeant?"
Hardinge gave him a nod. Then he adjusted his cape; switched on his flashlight, and set off down the two steps that led from the room to the gardens.
Algy watched him as the uniformed man made his way across the unplanted flowerbeds towards the comparative shelter of the trees beyond the flagged path.
Hardinge turned and signalled.
Lawrence waved a hand in reply. Noticing absently that the heavy rain was already washing out the track of the Sergeant's footprints, he stepped back, closed the windows, and fastened them securely.
Roger said irritably:
"This is all very silly. He'll be soaked to the skin, by midnight."
Lawrence shrugged. "He'll make sure no intruder gets anywhere near the house."
His fingers strayed unconsciously up to the bruise on his forehead.
"Oh, very well." Roger poured himself a drink. He added dryly: "I don't anticipate a siege."
Lawrence drew the curtains across the windows.
He said quietly:
"You're safe here. You've only to cry out."
Peter put in, eagerly:
"We should hear you."
Roger looked at his brother with both exasperation and affection. However, he made no direct reply.
Lawrence let his gaze go round the room once more. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he stooped and peered under the table.
Ignoring Roger's scoffing laugh, he said amiably:
"You're entirely alone." Then, to Peter:
"We'll go now."
Peter's mouth trembled. He turned to his brother, as if to make a last ap
peal, then let his hand drop to his side helplessly.
Roger smiled at him.
He said jovially:
"Don't be an ass. Here, I'll give you a toast."
Snatching up his glass, he lifted it in salute.
"To the shade of old Tom Querrin! The devil take and keep him."
Peter drew in his breath sharply.
Lawrence spoke soberly. "Good luck to you."
He thought there was more than a tinge of fear beneath the other man's bravado.
Roger drained the glass and laughed again, though breathlessly.
Algy Lawrence asked:
"You still have the key?"
"Naturally." Roger pulled the chain from his pocket and showed them the bright new metal. Lawrence nodded.
"Good." He signed to Peter, who went quietly through the doorway.
Lawrence went across to the mantel and picked up the candlestick. His eyes rested for a moment on the dagger hanging above. Then he followed Peter out.
Roger closed the door behind them, and they heard the faint rattle of the key as it twisted in the lock.
Repressing his own uneasiness, the blond-haired young man smiled at his companion reassuringly.
"Come on, Peter," he said cheerily, and they set off down the passage.
They paused by the curtained window.
Handing the triple branched stand to Querrin, Lawrence held aside the drapes and inspected the catch. It was in position and the window was securely locked.
Algy let the curtains drop back, and the two men continued along the deserted corridor.
They regained the brightly-lit hall with something like relief.
Lawrence murmured:
"We may as well make ourselves comfortable."
Easy chairs had been provided for them, and Algy pushed one over near the entrance to the passage. Peter, however, seemed more concerned with his duty as a guard. He set open one of the double doors, and pulled aside the heavy curtain. Then shoving another chair by the dark oblong of the entrance, he seated himself at once.
Lawrence said with a chuckle:
"You won't see much from there. It's as black as a hat in the corridor." Peter said tremulously:
"I can hear, at least—if anything goes wrong."
Lawrence said with a smile:
"Nothing will, I promise you."
And they settled down to wait.
