In his haste he had not remembered that this interloper of a staircase did not really belong in the house, and at the foot of it he found himself confronted by the blind passage of a cul-de-sac, and by the time he had turned himself about he heard the sound of a car. Reaching the front door, he was only in time to see some tail-lights before the thick mist which now covered the marshes swallowed them up.
He found himself extremely reluctant to return to the house, and in no mood to investigate the eerie and uncomforting business of the cry he thought he had heard. However, a complete disbelief in psychic manifestations soon came to his aid. He switched off his torch, crept into the hall, gazed up towards the musicians’ gallery, and said, in a voice much louder than he had intended: “It’s quite all right. You can come out now, whoever you are. They’ve gone.” He waited and listened, but the silence was uncanny and absolute. He switched on his torch again and received, momentarily, a shock. As he played the powerful beam over the table and floor, he saw that there were dark, wet stains on both. The three men had not been drinking. He picked up one of the candles from the floor and felt the stickiness on his fingers. Hastily he dropped the candle on to the table.
“Good lord!” he said aloud. “It must be blood!” Then the obvious explanation came to his aid. In the darkness, when the two men had collided, one of them must have sustained a blow on the nose. Timothy retired to what seemed to have been his great-uncle’s quarters, washed the blood off his hand, and wondered what he had better do next. He felt no inclination to return to the musicians’ gallery, although he told himself that the cry he thought he had heard must have been either a figment of his imagination borne of the excitement of the evening or have come from one of the men.
He felt no great urge, either, to remain in the house for the night, although he did not suppose, after their panic flight, that the three men would return straightaway. The thin one had spoken of “my place” in a way which appeared to indicate that it was somewhere in the neighbourhood. If it was, the chances seemed to be that they would make it their headquarters, at any rate for the night. What they would do with whatever was to come in on the tide he did not attempt to guess. Their simplest plan would be to leave it on board the incoming ship until it could be disposed of. They would be far too wary to bring it to the Hall that night. In any case, some sort of action on his own part seemed to be called for. If the men did return—especially if the cargo they were expecting was human, alien, and illegal—it would be madness to allow them to find him in possession of the house with the clear indication that he, and not the police, had overheard their conversation. On the other hand, he felt that he could not bear to make a tame departure without finding out a little more about what was going on.
After a pause for thought, he let himself out of the house and went back to the ruined jetty. If something clandestine was afoot, and an illegal cargo was to be landed, the deserted quay was the obvious place at which to land it. He knew that the men had fled in another direction, but he concluded that as soon as they found they were not being pursued they would try to keep whatever appointment they had with the ship which was to come in on the tide.
Timothy settled himself in his car to watch and to listen. The night itself was warm, but the high ground-mist which blotted out the marshes and lay like static smoke over the river made him wrap himself in one of the rugs which he kept on the back seat. There were times when he had to will himself to keep awake, but the hours passed, somehow or other, and by three o’clock in the morning—he looked at his luminous watch—there had been no sound of a boat.
At dawn he drove back to the mansion, crept in, listened intently, and then stole upstairs to the state bedroom. Here he again stretched himself on the four-poster bed, and slept until ten in the morning. He got up, sluiced himself at his great-uncle’s living room sink, heated some water on the calor gas stove for shaving, and made himself some breakfast. After that, he made another thorough survey of the house. The coagulated blood on the floor and table of the great hall, the overturned chairs, and the candle-grease were the only witnesses to the presence of the intruders.
“Good morning, sir,” said Mrs. Gee, meeting him on his way out. “Why ever didn’t you let me know you was a-coming back? I would have gorn in and made you a bit of supper and your breakfast. Couldn’t you get your car to go?”
“No, I had to spend the night in her,” said Timothy. “I came back to get a wash and brush-up and something to eat. I’m going to have another shot at tinkering with the car now. It was too dark last night. A bit creepy, too, I thought. I’m glad you had your son with you. It must be lonely when you’re left on your own.”
“Jabez, sir? Oh, but Jabez wasn’t with me last night. He was over to Ipswich on business.” She sounded frightened, Timothy thought, and no wonder, since she was telling at least one lie.
“Oh, really?” he said carelessly. “I thought I saw him walk past my car last night. It must have been his ghost I saw and heard, and two other ghosts were with him.”
“As to that sir,” said Mrs. Gee, turning an obstinate but terrified countenance towards him, “I did give you fair warning, sir, as Warlock Hall was ’aunted.”
“So you did,” said Timothy, perceiving that he was going to get no more out of her. “So you did, Mrs. Gee. What I have to find out now is who or what it is which seems to haunt it.”
“Ah, that we shall never know, sir.”
“You think not? Ah, well, time will show,” said Timothy.
“Was you thinking of coming down again, sir?”
“Oh, yes, of course, but I have no particular plans. It might possibly be tomorrow, or it might be next week or the week after. Anyway, we shan’t need to bother you while we’re here, except that we’d like you to carry on with the cleaning. My wife will see to the food and so forth, and I shall be bringing along my gardeners to clear up the courtyard and the garden. Can’t hope to sell the place in its present state, and I want to get rid of it quickly.”
“I see, sir. So you’ll be stayin’ ’ere off and on, and your men, sir. Very good, sir. I trust the ghosties won’t cause you no more trouble, sir.” Her frightened tone had changed to a slightly spiteful one.
“Oh, there is always a rational explanation of hauntings, and I am a firm non-believer in ghosts,” said Timothy pleasantly, “so I don’t think they will be troublesome.” Brave words, he said to himself, but what of the poltergeist matches and the mysterious cry he had heard? Whatever Jabez Gee was responsible for, it seemed hardly likely that he had sponsored, at any rate, the latter. To avoid giving Mrs. Gee the impression that he had been spending the night opposite the broken jetty, he took his former direction towards the village, hung about for half an hour, and then returned to his car.
When Timothy reached home there was a message from Alison pencilled on the telephone pad. It was to the effect that a halt was to be called to rehearsals to give the cast a break. There would be a rehearsal on Friday afternoon but not another one until the following Tuesday.
Timothy rang up the school and got Alison on the telephone. She would be able to come home for a long weekend, she said, if Timothy would pick her up at some time on Friday evening.
“But couldn’t I come to the rehearsal?” asked Timothy. “I’d love to see how you are shaping.”
“You can come and act as prompter, if you like. Half a minute. Here’s P.-B.”
Miss Pomfret-Brown ordered him to come to lunch on Friday, stay to tea, and take Alison home in the evening, unless he would prefer to stay the night at the school.
“Been havin’ fun, you dreadful feller?” she asked.
“Lots and lots of fun,” Timothy replied, “but not of the kind you mean. Tell you all about it when I see you.”
“Been to that moated grange of yours again?”
“And how! All the news on Friday. Thank you ever so much for inviting me.”
“Alison’s lookin’ peaky, that’s my reason.”
“Macb
eth not treating her to enough of the fat?”
“Don’t talk to me about Macbeth!” exclaimed Miss Pomfret-Brown. “Tell you about him anon. Don’t forget to come to lunch on Friday, half-past twelve sharp. Mind you behave yourself until then . . . Yes, of course Alison’s all right. Pinin’ for you, of course, but otherwise perfectly well. I was only pullin’ your leg. Knows her part, too, which, so far, the rest of ’em don’t.”
“But where on earth did you get all those magnificent men?” asked Timothy, when Friday’s lunch and rehearsal were over and tea was being served on the terrace outside Miss Pomfret-Brown’s magnificent drawing-room windows. “Don’t tell me they’re all related to your pupils. And, if they are, and if it’s not an improper question, why aren’t they taking tea with us after their exertions?”
“Didn’t want to be lumbered with ’em, and anyway the gals like to entertain ’em in the sixth form common room. They’re all relatives of sorts, or relatives’ friends, and Fiona MacLeod’s in charge, so nothing will get out of hand. What did you think of em’?”
“As actors?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they were anything but word perfect, as you indicated and, of course, I didn’t see your Macbeth. That disappointed me very much.”
“The slacker cried off. Pleaded a previous engagement, but will turn up next week without fail. One thing, he knows his words backwards, I’ll say that in his favour.”
“Michael would train on, and I’d far rather play opposite him,” said Alison. “I dislike Kilbride intensely.”
“Michael? Kilbride?” Timothy raised his eyebrows. “Has it come to first names already, then?”
“Oh, we all call one another by our first names,” said Alison. “I was asked whether I minded, and I do, rather, on such very short acquaintance, but I was afraid of sounding unfriendly and stuffy, so, of course, I said I would be delighted. It doesn’t include the schoolgirls who are taking part, thank goodness.”
“And which was the lad who fielded you so brilliantly the other day?”
“Michael, of course. Didn’t you notice he had red hair?”
“I guessed he was the one. He’s got doves’ eyes where you’re concerned. I wouldn’t mind betting I can guess his surname, too.”
“Yes, he’s Sandra Davidson’s brother.”
“I’m more than ever sorry I’ve missed Colquhoun,” said Timothy to Miss Pomfret-Brown. “What did you mean the other day, my adored Sabrina, when you referred to his shady friends?”
“Didn’t mean anything. Just hate the man, that’s all. He’s the kind of sneakin’ smarmy feller who would have shady friends. Wouldn’t have had him in the play if I could have got anyone better, but felt I had to have a professional for Macbeth and he’s the only one who happens to have a brat on the school books. Should have had to pay anybody else, and I expect he would have insisted on a fee, but fortunately he owes me money, as I told you.”
“What would you like to do this week-end?” asked Timothy, as he and Alison drove northwards and westwards towards their home that evening.
“Let’s go and take another look at Herrings, shall we?”
“No,” said Timothy flatly. So far he had told her nothing about his experiences at Warlock Hall. “For one thing, I’m not going to waste time this week-end in driving over there, and, for another, it’s going to rain.”
It did rain, so they spent a quiet Saturday, Sunday, and Monday indoors and on the Tuesday afternoon, directly after lunch, Timothy took Alison back to Monkshood Mill.
“Had a ’phone call from blisterin’ Macbeth,” said Miss Pomfret-Brown. “Is sendin’ the school fees and optin’ out of the play.”
“Oh, really?” said Alison. “Did he give any reason?”
“Oh, did he not! Felt that he couldn’t work with amateurs, especially an amateur who wouldn’t take direction. That’s you, my dear gal. What have you done to upset him? Not that I care if you have!”
“One: refused to allow him to chuck me under the chin; two: refused to make the ‘Give me the daggers’ speech his way, and said I preferred my own; three: pointed out—quite tactfully, I thought, but I simply had to do it—that he was putting the wrong emphasis on his words in one or two places and making nonsense of Shakespeare’s meaning, besides murdering the rhythm of the lines.”
“Golly!” said Timothy. “I’m not surprised the poor devil opted out! I wonder he didn’t offer you violence, but it’s just as well he didn’t. It’s saved me from having to murder him.”
“It’s just as well he’s gone, in any case,” said Miss Pomfret-Brown. “I’ve come to the conclusion that to employ one professional in a cast of amateurs is to put a pike among the goldfish. Anyway, as it’s all Alison’s fault we’ve lost the pukin’ feller—not that I blame her!—she can amuse herself coachin’ up young Davidson and I’ll have to find a gal to play Lennox. That’s all there is to it, thank heaven.”
“Couldn’t I play Lennox?” asked Timothy. “The only day I couldn’t be here is the twenty-third, and that isn’t the day of the play. If young Davidson is to play Macbeth, I want to be able to keep an eye on him. I don’t approve of red-haired youths who snatch my wife out of mid-air and then have the nerve to quote chunks of the play at her.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Creek
“When that day comes whose evening sayes I’m gone
Unto that watrie Desolation;
Devoutly to thy Closet—gods then pray,
That my wing’d Ship may meet no Remora.*
Those Deities which circum-walk the Seas,
And look upon our dreadfull passages,
Will from all dangers, re-deliver me,
For one drink-offering poured out by thee.”
His Sailing from Julia
“My dear fellow,” said the president of the Society for the Preservation of Buildings of Historic Interest, “what on earth induced you to begin mucking about with boats?”
“Messing about in,” said Timothy. “Oh, Alison seems keen, so I thought I’d better buy one.”
“I hope this doesn’t mean that you’ll be taking her on the river instead of turning up at the next committee meeting?”
“Oh, no, I shall be there. Besides, Alison is all tied up at present with amateur theatricals.”
“Is she? Well, but, if a boat at all, why a powered cruiser? What’s the matter with sailing?”
“Oh, winds and tides, just winds and tides.”
“You lazy devil! Oh, well, as you’ve got me down here, I suppose I may as well look your white elephant over. But I warn you that boat-owning is a chronic disease and quite incurable. It’s like leprosy used to be in the Middle Ages. The boat-owner is fit for no other society than that of others similarly afflicted. I ought to know. I’m one of the plague-stricken myself, except that I do have the decency to own a yacht and not one of these noisy, racketeering monstrosities such as yours.”
“Oh, come now,” protested Timothy. “The engine merely purrs like a well-fed cat. She roars as gently as any sucking dove. Come aboard, and you’ll soon see.”
“It makes no difference. You are a Philistine, Timmie.”
“I had another reason for buying a boat, apart from Alison’s wishes,” said Timothy, pouring drinks in the cabin before they cast off. “I’m informed that a jetty, (which I will point out when we leave this mooring and go downstream) derelict and rotting though it be, belongs to Warlock Hall, and it seems a pity not to make some use of it. I don’t tie up there at present because I want to get it repaired. Besides, I have a suspicion that, since my great-uncle’s death more than a year ago, it has been used by a gang of smugglers, and I’m rather anxious to catch them at their tricks without their catching me catching them.”
“Smugglers? What are they bringing in? Dope, do you think?”
“Illegal immigrants, I fancy.”
“Poor devils! They’re relatively harmless, most of them.”
“I know, bu
t I don’t want them here. I have more than another suspicion, too. I believe they’re bedded down and hidden away in Warlock Hall until work-permits can be forged for them, and I don’t think that’s good enough. I’m not prepared to be landed in the jug, and that’s what it might mean if I harboured them. I imagine it’s like being a receiver of stolen goods.”
Timothy, although he had been more or less in the neighbourhood, had not slept at Warlock Hall since his last visit. He stayed two nights a week at the school to take part in rehearsals and brought Alison home for week-ends. What with that, and buying and trying out the boat, he had found himself short of any leisure in which to try conclusions with the smugglers, but he had imported gardeners and maintenance men of one sort and another, and had been down several times to see them at work.
The two men finished their drinks and cast off.
“Downstream first, I think,” said Timothy. “I’m rather keen to find out how this boat behaves in the tideway, but I thought I’d like to have an expert on board before I tried her out.”
“I shall be happy to be drowned in your company. Is the river tidal as far up as this?”
“Oh, no. There’s very little tide on this river at all. There are sand-bars all across the estuary, and they seem to control the flow—not that I know much about it. Ah, there’s the old jetty I mentioned. You can see what a poor state it’s in. All the same, I think my gentlemen use it. It’s so handy for the house.” He pointed. “That’s Warlock Hall, and an ugly devil of a house it is!”
The house stood up, a landmark over the marshes, gaunt, squat, and menacing. Its elongated, writhing chimneys were a caricature of the beautiful stacks and pots of their Elizabethan period. The president trained field-glasses on the building and looked at it from varying aspects as the cruiser followed the bends of the winding creek.
Bismarck Herrings (Timothy Herring) Page 5
