“Wouldn’t the men have felt bound to find some way of keeping her supplied, if she was really their accomplice?”
“Why should they? I’ve no doubt they concluded that, once the Hall couldn’t be of any more use to them, the best policy was to ditch the girl. You know, darling—not that I want to start any arguments—I do wish you’d agree to accept Lorrimere’s invitation. I begin to think I’d very much like to go, although I told you I’d scrub it.”
“The cocktail party? Oh, well, all right, if you really want to, we’ll go.”
“And no more worry about school?”
“I should never have given in to P.-B. in the first place. Besides, you always get into trouble when I’m not there to keep tabs on you, and it was you who started all this about the smuggling.”
“I know I did, but please stop and consider: if you’d never taken Lady Macbeth upon you—which is where it all began—we might never have connected Macbeth with this smuggling racket.”
“I’m very sorry we ever did.”
“Oh, come, now! What would life be without a spice of adventure?”
“Quieter, even if less interesting. I wish I knew why you want to go to this wretched cocktail party.”
“That’s an easy one. I want to know whether Lorrimere is our mysterious third man. Adding together all that we know, I really think he must be. He fits the round hole much too easily for it to be otherwise. The only thing is that I wonder whether he isn’t perhaps rather a square peg.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know, except that he didn’t seem a bad sort of chap.”
“Apart from spotting him through binoculars at Christchurch, you’ve only seen him by candlelight.”
“And heard him, don’t forget, and dotted him one—or tried to. He was the only one of the three who wasn’t dead scared that night when he found that there was somebody else in the house besides themselves. I’ll tell you another thing, too: I don’t believe Macbeth got his face smashed up just because they collided. I think he got a nose-bleed when that happened, but I also think this third fellow—Lorrimere, if my hunch is right—caught up with him and belted him, and that’s why he couldn’t appear in the play. That fellow in the dressing room seemed pretty sure there had been a fight.”
“But why would they fight? When rogues fall out . . .”
“I know all that, and there’s no doubt that, if there was a disagreement, it’s all patched up again. I can think of one reason why they might have fallen out, but it depends upon a rather far-fetched idea.”
“Tell me. Your ideas are never too far-fetched for me. I always think you had one of them when you proposed we should get married.”
“That wasn’t a far-fetched idea. That was sheer inspiration. I considered you ‘the loveliest and best that Time and Fate of all their vintage prest.’ ”
“Don’t quote from the Rubáiyát. It’s unlucky.”
“No, it’s quoting from Macbeth that’s unlucky, and even then, only in the dressing-room, I believe. So the cocktail party is on, is it? I’m very grateful to you.”
“As that remark doesn’t sound ironical, I know there’s something you haven’t told me.”
“Yes, there is, but I wonder whether you’ll be even sweeter than usual, and not press me to tell you what it is.”
“These snide compliments will not help your case, but women, too, can be gentlemanly at times, so I will muzzle my curiosity. To change the subject entirely, you do agree that we call the house Herrings, don’t you? Officially, I mean, not just between ourselves.”
“I must have a board put up.”
“You haven’t told me yet when this cocktail party is to be. I’ll have to look out something to wear.”
“On Tuesday, with apologies for short notice.”
“I don’t think we’re being ethical in going to it, but I said I wouldn’t badger you, and I won’t.”
“We don’t know about Lorrimere yet. All’s fair in love and war, and if Lorrimere is the fellow I think he is, then it’s war all right and, on my side, no holds barred. I’m certain there’s some connection with Lady Matilda’s Rest, and I don’t approve of the murder of old age pensioners . . .”
“Senior citizens, darling.”
“. . . because I hope to join their ranks one of these fine days if the end of the world doesn’t come before I chalk up my three score years and ten. Wouldn’t it be exasperating if it did? Fancy paying the government all that money for all those years, only to have the Recording Angel come in and scoop the pool! I should be cross!”
“He wouldn’t scoop the pool. He’d merely declare a rescission, I think.”
“Eh? Come again, please.”
“To declare a rescission is to terminate a contract by cancelling it. It’s a legal term. Didn’t you know? Fancy my being one jump ahead of you at last!”
“I have never had any need to know what rescission means. Note the supreme self-satisfaction with which I utter those imperishable words. Nevertheless, for your information, honoured madam, I don’t believe that in the case under advisement and/or consideration, rescission would be a possible solution.”
“Why not? It repudiates the original contract.”
“Granted, but (a) I’m sure that, in law, I should be held to have affirmed the contract, as I should have paid my contributions to the State pension up to the time of the Last Trump, and (b) as the Recording Angel would argue, no doubt, once the bugle had been blown I could not possibly be restored to my original position, and so no rescission would be operable, and (c) if third party rights have accrued—and this means you—rescission cannot be obtained. I submit, therefore, that I should lose my money. Members of the jury, what is your verdict?”
“Oh, damn you!” said Alison, laughing. “You win!” Timothy bowed and stopped the car.
“Spoken in the voice of the Recording Angel himself,” he said approvingly. “And now gis a kiss, gal, and let’s be friends. And I don’t care if I do hurt you!”
Herrings (Bismarck Herrings, as Timothy insisted upon calling it in deference, he said, to Grete) presented a vastly different appearance from that which it had done when he had first seen it in company with Tom Parsons. It was still an ugly building. Apart from pulling most of it down and re-building it, nothing could alter that fact. All the same, it now presented a dignified appearance in that the courtyard had been cleared of grass, weeds, and small, intrusive bushes and in places the surface had been re-laid.
At the back of the house the roses had been cut back from the doorway which opened on to the terrace, the terrace itself had received new flagstones, the lake had been cleared of weed and was now bordered by freshly-laid turves (although the lake itself was still not in a fit state to be used as an outdoor swimming-pool), the gardens had been weeded and re-planted, and the remains of the stable-buildings, previously an eyesore and probably an insanitary one, had been succeeded by a double garage to which an entrance had been made by the side of the gatehouse, so that Timothy’s larger car could have access as well as Alison’s smaller one.
Timothy unlocked the front door and they went straight up to the state bedroom to look under the pillow for the box of matches. Timothy triumphantly produced it, and the first point undoubtedly went to the German girl. Clearly inscribed where she claimed she had written them were the words: Please help me.
“So she’s genuine after all, and her story is true,” he said. Alison took the box from him and studied the writing.
“Suppose Grete were a man,” she said, “would you still take this evidence at its face value?”
“How do you mean?”
“Is there any reason why Grete shouldn’t have sneaked in here and written the words after Diana and I discovered that she was living in the house?”
“Why would she do that?”
“To lend verisimilitude, and all the rest of it, of course.”
“But she didn’t—she still doesn’t—suspect that we t
hink she might be a member of the gang.”
“All right. It’s just my nasty, suspicious mind, but, at the risk of being tedious, I must point out that I’ve had more experience of girls than you have . . .”
“You underestimate my natural charm. If all the experience I’ve had of girls . . .”
“Were placed end to end, it would reach from Peckham Rye to Manchester. I know all about that, nevertheless you haven’t . . .”
“Been in a position of authority in a boarding-school for young female delinquents? Granted, granted. So what?”
“I think we still ought to keep an open mind about Grete, that’s all, and you’d agree if she were a man. That is the point I am attempting to stress.”
“Let’s take it as read. Right. So now we had better decide what else we want done with the interior of this mausoleum and then we’ll push off to Cambridge and have us a bite of dinner. Pity we were both at Oxford, but that can’t be helped at this late stage of our development.”
“We know what we want done, so don’t let’s waste any more time here. I suggest you take me on the river and we go along and spy out the lie of the land.”
“What land?”
“Don’t be obtuse—at least, don’t pretend to be, because I know you’re not. However, if you want me to spell it out, let’s go as far as that island at the mouth of the creek and you can point out the Lorrimere boathouse or jetty or whatever it is. I’ll be most interested to see it.”
“Oh, well, all right, then. Not a bad idea. We’ve plenty of time. I’ve booked a room for the night in Cambridge, and there’s no hurry so long as we get there in time for a drink and something to eat.”
“I’ve just thought of something else,” said Alison. “About Grete, actually.”
“Telepathy. So have I. You say first.”
“Well, that night when you first saw Jabez and the others in the great hall at Herrings . . .”
“You mean it was Grete I heard cry out when I whistled. But that’s surely obvious by now?”
“Yes, but you told me that, when the men had gone—and she must have known they’d gone—you invited her to come out and show herself.”
“And she didn’t. Oh, yes, I believe you’re right. Grete isn’t the injured innocent she wants us to believe she is. She showed herself to you and Diana simply because Herrings was of no more use to her. Now, look: I’m pretty sure those fellows have also given up using Herrings as a base, but if anything peculiar happens while we’re on the water, you’ll do exactly as you’re told. Right?”
“It depends what it is.”
“I’ll make the decisions, if you don’t mind.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m older than you are, and because it’s my boat. Good childish reasons, I think you’ll agree. Children are the only logical beings in existence, therefore I prefer to use their arguments rather than to invoke metaphysics.”
“Also you’re bigger and stronger and much more ruthless than I am. Those are childish, logical reasons, too, I suppose. It doesn’t follow that they are just and right.”
“It’s clear you’ve never been to a boy’s school if you believe in justice. There ain’t any such animal.”
“And what about right and wrong? It must be wrong to believe that might is right.”
“Not when might is right.”
“Who’s being metaphysical now?”
“So we don’t take the boat out. We merely go straight to Cambridge and push it out. Will that suit you?”
“No. I want to see that island and the Lorrimere landing-stage.”
“If it is the Lorrimere landing-stage. We haven’t proved that yet. You know, I’m beginning to look forward to that cocktail party.”
“Are you changing the subject? I thought we were talking about boats.”
“Yes, we are; but I’m also talking about Lorrimere, and it’s not really a change of subject, so don’t begin another rebellious argument. Just listen.”
“Do you really mean you want to go straight to Cambridge without taking me on the river?”
“I don’t mind taking you on the river so long as you’ll do as you’re told.”
“Why should I? Have you a sensible reason?”
“All right, then, yes, I have, and here it is: except for Jabez, those other chaps don’t know me, but Colquhoun, who is one of them, does know you. If, as we both suspect, this fellow Lorrimere is the third man, that means he knows Colquhoun and Colquhoun may even be staying at his place. They will have been obliged to find another base in this neighbourhood, and as we shall be going past Lorrimere’s jetty, it is just possible we may see them both, and that means they will see us.”
“Well, if they are using Lorrimere’s house as their base, Colquhoun will be at the cocktail party and so what difference will it make?”
“I must have notice of that question.”
“You’re hiding something from me.”
“Well, yes, perhaps I am, and you’re going to be very sweet and understanding and not press me to tell you what it is, aren’t you? You did promise, I thought.”
Timothy gave no orders on the leisurely cruise down-stream. A small launch and a couple of motor-cruisers passed by, and on the return journey from the island Timothy’s craft met and gave way to a biggish yacht with some noisy people on board. The helmsman wore a yachting cap and was certainly not Jabez Gee, and there was nobody else to be seen except three women who waved to Alison and Timothy as the yacht, listing prettily as she tacked across their bows, went by in an opaque wave of dark, solid-looking water.
Lorrimere’s landing-stage (if it was his) was deserted, and as Timothy’s motor-cruiser chugged upstream again towards its moorings, there seemed nothing in all the world but sky, water, and reeds except for a family of swans, some ubiquitous coots and moorhens, and the river sucking glutinously at its banks beneath and around the half-exposed roots of the almond-leaved willows and the osier-beds.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lorrimere Court
“And by the glow-worms light well guided,
Goes to the Feast that’s now provided.”
The Temple
To reach any given point by river is usually to travel much further than to go to it by road. In the case of Lorrimere Court, if Timothy and Alison had been approaching it from Warlock Hall (as, in spite of Alison, it was still marked on the Ordnance Survey maps) the journey by road would have been twice as long as that by boat, even allowing for the windings of river and creek. This was because, from Warlock Hall, it would be necessary to drive almost due north to find a bridge, and then to proceed almost due south along the course of the river and part of the creek, make a considerable détour inland to avoid the marshes over which there was no road suitable for a car, and so reach the drive which led up to the Georgian house.
Timothy and Alison were to visit Lorrimere Court by neither route. As the cocktail party was to be on the following Tuesday it did not seem worth-while to make the journey to their Cotswold home and back, so they had decided to stay in Cambridge and go to Lorrimere Court from there by way of Long Melford, Sudbury, and Ipswich.
“I wonder,” said Alison, as they drove through this last town and left the Hadleigh road for the ring road before turning off towards Woodbridge.
“What do you wonder?” asked Timothy. “Whether the police are having any success in tracing poor old Mrs. Plumb’s murderer?”
“Yes. I suppose that means you’ve been thinking about it too.”
“Well, Ipswich does suggest that kind of thinking. There’s been nothing more in the papers, and, of course, there’s no real reason for supposing that it had anything to do with the set-up at Lady Matilda’s Rest.”
“Except that Mrs. Plumb is the second old lady from the almshouses to meet with a violent death.”
“Yes, but such a different kind of violent death—I mean, a violent death brought about by such different means and in such a different place—that the
re need not be any connection.”
“I prefer to think there is one.”
“Then Mrs. Plumb must have been killed by a different murderer, and that’s a bit much to suppose.”
“Not if we’re dealing with a syndicate. I mean it’s obvious that Mrs. Plumb was killed before she could tell something she knew about the death of Mrs. Dasti.”
“Sounds logical, I know, but it’s going to need proof, and where is the proof coming from?”
“Well, there’s no doubt Mrs. Dasti was up to something shady, and that she was more or less of a cats-paw.”
“Both those assumptions still have to be proved. But skip it for once, there’s a darling, and look out for signposts once we turn off towards Woodbridge. We’ve got to turn off again somewhere well this side of a village called Crowford, and, according to the map, after Crowford the roads aren’t much more than causeways over the marshes. Except by way of the river or, rather, the creek, Lorrimere Court is even more off the map than Herrings.”
“If what we think is true about Mr. Lorrimere, are we putting our heads into the lion’s mouth by going to his place this evening?”
“If I thought that, I wouldn’t have brought you with me. I don’t anticipate any kind of rough stuff whatever.”
“I’ve always wondered why, in violent films, when two men are diving at one another over tables and bar-counters and rolling about on the floor locked in phony wrestling-holds, some sensible woman doesn’t pick up a chair and crown the two of them. I’m sure I should, if I happened to be present.”
“Crown the villain and the hero at one fell slosh? A bit drastic, surely?”
“Well, they’d be equally in the wrong, in my opinion, and a well-handled chair would put an end to the argument.”
“Deary me, deary me! Have I yoked myself to an Amazon all unwittingly? Anyway, knock it off and keep your eyes skinned. I don’t want to land up facing the car at a thirty-foot drain on these Gytrash-haunted marshes.”
Bismarck Herrings (Timothy Herring) Page 19
