“A nice night for poachers, I suppose,” Una suggested, dropping into an intimate undertone so as not to disturb the conversation across the room. “Or is it ‘a shiny night’ they prefer? I never can remember. I expect a dark night’s best if you’re setting snares for rabbits.”
“I suppose so,” Jim agreed, not seeing much point in her remark.
Una glanced sidelong at him, with a faint trace of mockery at the corners of her lips.
“You’re a very literal-minded person, aren’t you, Mr. Brandon?” she queried, rather irrelevantly as it seemed to him.
“I suppose I am,” he admitted indifferently.
Una Menteith made the faintest gesture of vexation, as though giving him up as hopeless. She leaned back in the chesterfield with her arms behind her head and for some moments she seemed engrossed in studying the lines of her evening shoes. Apparently they suggested a fresh topic.
“I take four and a half in shoes,” she said, glancing down at her neatly-shod feet with a serio-comic disapproval. “That’s one of the things I envy in Mrs. Laxford. She can wear threes. And, naturally, she always chooses extra smart ones. Did you notice the shoes she’s wearing to-night?”
Jim Brandon had seen them, but they had not struck him as anything out of the common—smart, undoubtedly, and small, of course, but ‘nothing special,’ he reflected. But Una’s remark stimulated a natural curiosity to examine them more carefully, and on looking across to the couch he found it easy to verify his original impression. In one of her restless movements Mrs. Laxford had crossed her knees, rucking up her skirt; and, apparently unconsciously, she was stroking her ankle with a nervous action. Johnnie, as though fascinated, was intent on the little hand as it moved, slowly and caressingly, to and fro over the gossamer silk only a few inches from his knee. Suddenly Mrs. Laxford became aware that Jim was watching her. She took her hand away to smooth down her skirt.
“Caught me at one of my bad habits, I’m afraid,” she admitted with a smile. “I like to have my ankle stroked. There’s something . . . what’s the word? . . . titillating about it, with a silk stocking. It gives me a funny feeling all over, like . . .”
“Like a kitten having its fur stroked?” Una suggested, filling the gap.
“Thanks for ‘kitten,’” Mrs. Laxford retorted with her attractive laugh. “You always manage to avoid the worst by a hair’s breadth, Una. Some people would have said ‘cat’ outright.”
Una Menteith, with a gesture, disclaimed any wounding intention.
“I was just praising your shoes to Mr. Brandon,” she explained.
Mrs. Laxford seemed not unwilling that they should be fully admired.
“They’re rather pretty, aren’t they?” she said, pulling up her skirt and moving her feet gracefully to show off the special beauties of the shoes. “You like them, Johnnie?”
She shook down her skirt with a lithe movement and threw away the end of her cigarette. It failed to go through the french window and Johnnie’s dash to remove it from the carpet effectually broke up the conversation into its original pairs.
At this stage, Una Menteith seemed to exert herself more than before. Her talk lost its earlier inconsecutiveness and she drew Jim into a discussion of plays then running at the theatres in town. Here he was able to keep pace with her, though he did not think it necessary to mention that he himself had seen them from the gods and not from the stalls. There was just enough difference in their tastes to make the talk enlivening, and Jim soon forgot the rate at which time was passing. He was surprised when Mrs. Laxford suddenly rose to her feet.
“I must say good night,” she explained as she passed towards the door. “I’ve got a dreadful headache. There’s nothing for it but aspirin and a soft pillow.”
When she had gone, Johnnie showed no inclination to join the other two. He glanced at his wrist-watch as he sat down on the couch again. Then, switching on the reading-lamp beside him, he picked up the novel Mrs. Laxford had left behind and began to read it in the middle, without paying any attention to Una and his brother. Knowing Johnnie to be a nonreader, Jim was not surprised to see him grow fidgety. He turned over three or four pages en bloc, skipped another page, and finally switched off the lamp again. Almost at once he got up from his seat, wandered over to the french window, and stood on the threshold, gazing up at the darkened sky. When Jim looked again, he had vanished into the garden.
Jim caught Una consulting her watch with a furtive glance, and it struck him that everyone seemed very anxious about the time that evening. Hay had been busy with his watch at dinner-time. Mrs. Laxford had glanced at hers just as she said good night. Johnnie had twitched up his sleeve and looked at his watch twice, once when Mrs. Laxford went away and again, within five minutes, when he rose to go to the french window. And now Una Menteith had looked at hers. One would think all these people had trains to catch, he reflected rather crossly. Or else that there was to be a murder on the premises that night, and that they were all taking precautions about alibis. And then, moved by a common human peculiarity, he glanced at his own watch and found that it was half-past ten o’clock.
As he did so, the drawing-room door opened, and a visitor was ushered in. Jim Brandon’s first impression was of a man about middle height with a genial manner, kindly blue eyes, a sensitive humorous mouth under a grey moustache, and with something in his bearing which spoke plainly of unemphasised authority.
Una Menteith rose to her feet with a smile which proved that she was genuinely pleased to see the new-comer.
“It’s very nice of you to come across, Mr. Wendover,” she greeted him. Then, introducing Jim, she added, “This is Mr. Brandon—Johnnie’s brother.”
As Wendover acknowledged the introduction, Jim Brandon looked at him in some surprise. So this was the local criminologist that Una Menteith had mentioned when she drove him from the station. Somehow, he had pictured him differently: a trifle pompous as became a local magnate, and perhaps rather sillily interested in crimes which he read about in the newspapers. Wendover’s shrewd, cataloguing glance dispelled several illusions.
“I’ve only dropped in for a minute or two,” Wendover explained to Una. “I tried to ring you up, but my line’s out of order, it seems. So I came across instead.”
“Mrs. Laxford’s gone to bed, with a headache,” Una explained. “Mr. Laxford’s playing billiards, I think. Shall I get him?”
Wendover brushed the suggestion aside.
“I’m sorry to hear Mrs. Laxford’s out of sorts. No, don’t bother about Mr. Laxford, please. I merely came over to ask if you’d care to play a hole or two to-morrow morning over at my place. All you need now is plenty of practice—and more follow-through,” he added honestly.
Rather to Jim’s surprise, Una hesitated before replying and finally declined.
“I’m afraid I can’t manage it to-morrow morning,” she said with obvious regret. “Nor any time during the week-end. And, of course, after that you’ll be busy with the partridges. Like David—slaying your tens of thousands.”
“We shan’t reach even Saul’s modest total, I’m afraid,” Wendover retorted with a smile. “Our birds aren’t quite so thick on the ground as the Philistines seem to have been at Ephes Dammin.”
“Is Sir Clinton coming for the First?”
“No. I asked him, of course, but he’s up to the eyes in work just now, it seems, and he can’t possibly get away. He may come for a day or two, later on; but the shooting will be over long before that, I’m afraid.”
“I’d like to see him again,” Una said, though without any special eagerness in her tone.
Wendover had a weakness for a pretty girl, and Una Menteith’s personality amused him; but he had no middle-aged illusions about his capacity to compete with younger men. Still less did he imagine that Una would find a threesome as interesting as the tête-à-tête which his arrival had interrupted. These two young people had been getting on very well together when he came in, he judged, and he had no wish to play th
e elderly spoil-sport.
“Well, I must be getting back to the Grange,” he said. “I only came across because I couldn’t telephone; and, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a lot of things to clear up to-night.”
“Thanks for asking me to play,” Una answered. “I’m very sorry I can’t manage it.”
She glanced at her watch, seemed to make a mental calculation, and then continued:
“It’s rather stuffy, to-night, isn’t it? I’d like a breath of fresh air. You’ve got your car, Mr. Wendover? Would you mind taking me as far as the lodge-gate and dropping me there? The walk back would freshen me up a bit. You’ll come too, won’t you?” she asked, turning to Jim.
“I’d like to,” he responded.
“That’s settled then. Come along.”
“But aren’t you going to put on something stouter than these things?” Wendover asked with a downward glance at the delicate high-heeled slippers Una was wearing.
She hesitated for a moment over this obviously sensible suggestion, then refused as though she were anxious to get away at once.
“Oh, they’ll do well enough,” she said with a touch of impatience. “I don’t think it’s going to rain, just yet.”
In the car, Wendover spoke over his shoulder to Jim, who had taken the back seat.
“I’ve got some young people coming at the weekend. They’ll be having a dance of sorts on Monday night. Miss Menteith and your brother are coming. Would you care to join them?”
“Thanks, but I’m afraid I can’t,” Jim declined. “I’d like to, but I shall be leaving before then.”
“I’m sorry.”
Wendover seemed genuinely disappointed. After a moment or two he added inconsequently:
“I like that young brother of yours, Mr. Brandon. Some of his ideas are a bit too advanced for a prehistoric survival like myself, I must admit; but I expect he’ll grow out of them, just as most of us have done in our day.”
“It’s to be hoped so,” Jim growled.
So that young fool had been jabbering his nonsense to Wendover. Nice notions to thrust on a man who owned a good estate and was obviously proud of it. Johnnie was evidently quite hopeless.
Wendover drew up the car just inside the lodge-gates.
“Well, Miss Menteith, we must try to fix up some other time for your practice. If you’ll ring me up later on, when we’ve got our visitors off our hands . . .? Good, then that’s settled. And now I must be getting along. Good night!”
“Good night!” Una called after him as the car passed on through the gates and swung into the high road with all its lights aglare.
Chapter Four
The Rabbit
AS the lights of the car vanished down the road, Una turned away from the lodge-gates and, with Jim at her side, paced up the avenue towards the house. When she spoke again, it was merely to break the awkwardness of a silence.
“Over yonder, on the left—you can’t see it in the dark, of course—is what they call the Cottage. It’s really quite a decent-sized two-storey affair. I expect it was built as a sort of dower-house for Edgehill, somewhere to stow a dowager in, if they had one on hand.”
“Empty at present, then?” Jim asked indifferently.
“Yes. I believe they sometimes let it in the summer, to bring in a few pounds. It’s fully furnished, I know. But no one lives there at present.”
Jim made no comment, and they walked on again in silence. But it seemed that Una had not exhausted her talent for apparently inconsecutive conversation. When she spoke again, it was on an entirely fresh topic.
“Suppose you went to the telephone, Mr. Brandon, and found the wires crossed, so that you overheard a conversation you weren’t meant to hear. Say you heard a man give a friend some inside information that might be worth something on the Stock Exchange. What would you do about it?”
“Ring up a broker at once and put a deal through,” Jim answered with a hard laugh. “That is, if I was sure the information was O.K. But tips of that sort don’t come my way, unfortunately.”
“You’d have no scruples in the matter, then? Your finer feelings wouldn’t revolt, or anything of that sort?”
If there was irony here, Jim ignored it.
“No. Why should I have scruples? If they wanted the thing kept quiet, they should not let themselves be overheard. I’m entitled to profit by anything I hear. I wouldn’t be breaking any confidence.”
Una neither approved nor disapproved, so far as words went.
“I’m in a curious position,” she went on. “I happen to have extra-sharp ears, though I don’t brag about them. And sometimes I catch things I’m not meant to hear. To-night I heard something that might be profitable—like the Stock Exchange tip on the telephone. Or again, there may be nothing in it. It’s really your affair more than mine. Should one use information got in that way?”
“Why not?” Jim demanded, in a tone that showed he himself would have no hesitation in the matter.
“All’s fair in love and war, you think? Especially if the other side begins it. Very well.”
She seemed to consider carefully for a moment or two, while Jim waited on tenterhooks.
“I’ll do it,” she said at length, “but only on one condition. You’ll leave yourself entirely in my hands in the matter. I’ve got my own interests to look after,” she added drily.
Jim’s shrug was apparent, even in the dark.
“As you like,” he agreed.
“Then, unless it goes too much against the grain with you”—her sneer was obvious even to Jim—“you’d better do a bit of deliberate eavesdropping. I shan’t join you in it. I’m losing enough self-respect for my taste in going this length to help you. Now listen carefully.”
She gave him some brief directions in a low voice, winding up with a final caution.
“I’ll wait for you here. Go as quietly as you can. And remember, no matter what you hear, you’re not to say a word or interfere in any way.”
“Very well,” Jim agreed, not too cordially.
This girl seemed to think she could order him about as she chose, he reflected crossly as he left her. However, he was in her hands to some extent and must perforce agree to her conditions. He left the path, crossed a dew-laden lawn, reached the barrier of a hedge and turned along it, according to her directions, moving with the utmost caution to avoid a noise. At length, glancing upward, he saw beyond the hedge the roof of an arbour dimly outlined against the gloomy sky; and as he came to a halt, he heard the sound of people talking in subdued tones. Jim strained his ears to catch the words.
“Don’t let’s stay here, Di. Let’s go to the Cottage. It’s a better place than this.”
It was Johnnie’s voice, low and urgent.
“No.” Jim knew it was Mrs. Laxford speaking. “I’m not going there. We can talk quite well here, Johnnie.”
“I can get the key in half a jiffy,” Johnnie persisted. “It’s in the drawer of the hall table. No one would see me take it. Come on, Di. We’ll be all alone there, with no one to disturb us.”
“Nobody ever comes here at night, you silly boy.”
“Please do come,” Johnnie urged. “Please, Di.”
“No. Don’t worry me so,” Mrs. Laxford said pettishly. “You’re as bad as a husband.”
The words and tone together seemed to suggest something to Johnnie. It was a moment or two before he spoke again.
“What d’you mean?” he asked hesitatingly, as though the words went against the grain even as he said them. “He isn’t beastly to you, Di?”
Mrs. Laxford gave a faint laugh which seemed to have a touch of bitterness in it.
“No, he isn’t. He doesn’t beat me, if that’s what you mean. But we’ve nothing in common now, he and I—not even a bedroom. We never quarrel. He’s easy-tempered and all that, but . . .”
She paused, evidently to let Johnnie fill in the gap for himself. When she spoke again, the words came faster and a more emotional tone crept into her voice.
“Oh, I suppose it’s partly my fault, Johnnie; but marriage isn’t what I expected, somehow. He’s got used to me, I suppose. He’s long past the stage where there’s any attraction in my looks or anything else about me. He takes it all for granted. He never looks at what I put on, now. These shoes and stockings I have on to-night, I saw you admiring them. It’s the first time I’ve had them on. But he never even noticed, he didn’t give them a glance. I’m nothing to him nowadays, except that I run the house and play hostess for him. That’s all my marriage has come to, Johnnie.”
She paused again with a little catch in her breath. Then, without giving Johnnie a chance to break in, she continued haltingly.
“I looked for something quite different when I married him. You know what I mean . . . passion . . . desire . . . a thrill every time we kissed . . . something that would make the world into a sort of dream. And I’ve missed it all. So far as I’m concerned, he’s like ice. I don’t stir him now. I can’t stir him. I’ve tried . . . It’s no good . . . And yet, if he knew I was letting you kiss me, he might . . . I don’t know what he might do.”
“If he’s like that, he wouldn’t mind, no matter what you did,” said Johnnie with blundering reassurance, failing to see the double-edge in his remark. “He’s broad-minded. He looks at things from a different angle from the ordinary hide-bound lot. He’s often told me that.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Laxford scornfully, “because he feels sure of me. I’m not so sure of myself, when I think what I’m missing. I want to live differently. I’d like to feel that someone really wants me, longs for me, can’t do without me. If I had that . . . Oh, I do wish I could start afresh, all over again with someone who wasn’t all ice. I want something . . . Oh, I don’t know what I want, but I feel so lonely and so wretched. I want someone to be kind to me, to pet me—yes, I mean it, to pet me physically just as if I were an animal that he was soothing. That’s what I’m missing so much. It makes me miserable. . . .”
The Ha-Ha Case Page 8
