Now that he was alone Dick took out the scrap of paper which he had abstracted from the jasmine bush, but it gave him as little satisfaction as he had feared. It was only a scrap torn from a bit of ordinary azure writing-paper. They had some of this in use at the Palace, for Mrs. Broome kept a wonderful assortment of different grades of paper for her various activities, but the same was probably in use in the home of any of the house-party. There was no writing on it, the only surprising thing was that it was so clean and dry, but that was doubtless because it had been embedded so deeply in the jasmine bush. It would be valuable if it matched any tear in Ulder’s papers, if and when they were discovered, but little more. And at the moment this seemed a forlorn hope indeed.
“Excuse me, sir!” Dick turned so smartly that he caught Soames unawares. The little butler’s face was only just transforming itself, it seemed, from horror and dismay into its usual awkward obsequiousness. “I’m sorry about that key, and I’ve got one here that might fit so I thought of trying it, but the place would need tidying, and a bit of an airing, before it was fit for you.”
“Oh, I don’t want to use it to-night. It’ll be dark soon and the snow’s too thick underfoot. But the thaw’s coming, I think, don’t you? and a gale if I’m not mistaken.” Dick’s gaze strayed vaguely over his companion. Why had Soames changed out of his neat formal attire into a pretty repulsive reach-me-down of snuff-colour, and why wear a bowler hat, overcoat and carry a gampish umbrella to go down the shrubbery and try a key in the turret door?
“Yes, sir, it’s unfortunate for me,” said Soames, reading Dick’s glance nervously. “It’s my afternoon off, you see. Mrs. Broome is most considerate, and knowing I’d like to enquire at the Hospital about Mrs. Kelly, gave me leave to go into Evelake as usual and take some flowers to her, if Mr. Jay, the gardener, can spare me some.”
“Mrs. Kelly?”
“Moira, that is, sir. I’d like to mark my gratitude for all the kindness and help she’s given me here. She’s one who believes in giving a man a new start and holding out a helping hand. It was she heard of me through a friend of hers, and got me the place and tipped me several winks—I mean to say—gave me every assistance in her power!”
“It’s very decent of you, Soames, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to go,” replied Dick, remembering a saying of Mrs. Broome’s long ago that Judith and men—any man—were the only people Moira got on with. “Didn’t Tonks give out the Chief Constable’s orders that no one was to leave the Palace to-day?”
“I took that to refer to those under suspicion, sir,” retorted Soames with sudden glib impertinence.
“That covers everyone in the Palace who was anywhere near the Bridge last night,” said Dick sternly. “And anyway how could you make three miles and back with snow drifts in the road?”
“I’ll manage somehow on my bike, sir. I’d give the world to get out of this place for a bit,” he added with sudden passion. “Oh, I know there are enquiries being made about me and all, and that I’m the only chap here who’s ever been ‘inside’, so why not pin murder down on me and let all the swells go free? But it ain’t British justice, and what had I to do with Mr. Ulder, I ask you that? What had I agin him?”
“Nothing as far as I know,” said Dick severely. “We should know much more about the case if that missing bag turned up. For we know that Mr. Ulder arrived with a suit case and a hand-bag, Soames!”
That was as much, or perhaps even more, than Dick felt at liberty to give as a warning. It was evidently more than enough for Soames who broke away and hurried down the zig-zag paths, shabby and jaunty, miserable and defiant, and, from that moment, clearly an almost open enemy of Dick himself. The hope that some such challenge would lead the little man to replace the missing bag seemed forlorn indeed. Mack should have let Dick tackle the problem at once, he reflected, instead of using him as a shorthand typist in those appalling interviews! By lunch-time the butler could easily have hidden it or any contents he might fancy, for Soames was not the fellow to indulge in any foolish scruples about wronging the dead, or object to making use of the deceased’s pyjamas, hair-brush or sponges. All that was immaterial; the vital question was what Soames would do with the papers. Would he understand them? Would he have the courage to use them for blackmail in his turn after a decent interval? Dick could hardly see Soames as heir to Ulder, but he must make Mack see how serious was the possibility.
VIII
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Meanwhile the stable-clock was striking half-past three and Dick had yet to interview Brian Staples, his fellow Ordination candidate. It was not a job which Dick fancied, though he would certainly be a less formidable confidant than Mack for the poor little man. And luckily any consideration of the best means of approach was unnecessary, for as Dick turned out of the gardens into the avenue he saw Staples himself hurrying towards him.
“I saw you out of the window and came to catch you, Marlin,” he said breathlessly. “May I have one word with you?”
“Of course! Shall we keep to the avenue or go to the library?”
“I have had a long walk already and just come in, but walls have ears.” Staples’ voice had a curious blur in it, but his manner was always melodramatic. “May we take refuge in your bedroom?”
“Mine is a long and sad story”—the Mock Turtle’s words echoed in Dick’s ears as Staples began on a history of his life which would obviously run to twenty thousand words, rather than one word. There was something of the fishy world, something watery at least, about this lank deacon, about his perpetually moist forehead and hands, dim grey eyes blurred through uncleaned spectacles, hair brushed back damply and skinny arms and legs which seemed to sway like strands of seaweed over the chair by Dick’s fire. “Unstable as water thou shalt not excel”—those words about Reuben pretty well covered the long story which Mr. Staples was pouring out to Dick about his youth, his repressions and traumas! It was very difficult for Dick to attend, and turn his thoughts from a procession which was beginning to haunt his imagination unceasingly, of figure by figure of those whom he loved or revered stealing along the corridor to the Bridge, a bottle in their hands. Madness lay that way, he felt desperately. Better by far try to attend to the saga of Staples’ schooldays, adolescence and his religious pilgrimage from faith to atheism and back again however tedious it was!—“My parents being Irish, you see,” were the first words which caught Dick’s attention—how this Irish motif kept recurring, and not with much credit to the nation so far!
“Your father an Ulsterman and your mother from Cork, you said, I think?” So much had reached Dick’s wandering attention.
“Just so—conflict within me from the first! As I say, the effect of their quarrels was to make me determinedly English. At the Grammar School and the University in Livchester I ignored all political discussions, I refused to join any local Irish organizations. I lived for my work, and went from one scholarship to another. Then I decided to be ordained and went five years ago to Eastlake Theological College as you know—”
“And then the war interfered?”
“Yes, I felt the Church no place for me! I was a convinced pacifist, and until conscription began I endured martyrdom for my convictions but I was firm.”
A certain dignity seemed to freeze the watery little man into solidity, and Dick forbore to suggest that his contemporaries had suffered worse martyrdoms in France and Gallipoli. “I avoided every kind of strife. I consorted with the English only, till I fell in love. That was my undoing for she—Bridget Malone, was Irish, and a reckless, whole-hearted Sinn-Feiner.”
“Don’t tell me anything that pains you!”
“I must, to explain what happened. She was suffering from diseased lungs, almost penniless, alone in Livchester. I persuaded her that my love and care would cure her if only she would go to hospital at once for treatment. Later on I discovered the reason for her refusal. She was at the centre of a desperate and criminal plot, unsuspected because of her youth and ill-hea
lth, and she would not be immured. I often said to her …”
Staples, his nerves strained, his eyes still frozen into calm, told the rest of his story with a restraint which Dick respected but for that tiresome preference for oratio recta to oratio obliqua which marks the mind that lacks a classical education. But through all the “He said” … and “I said” … Dick got a clear hold of the pitiful story easily enough. Bridget was suddenly packed off to hospital by her landlady after a haemorrhage; she sent for Staples and conveyed to him that he must take an urgent message for her by hand to her brother in London. Staples departed in all good faith, to be arrested at King’s Cross.
“She had whispered to me, ‘Eat the paper if they catch you’, but I thought her delirious, and said to her, ‘For your sake I’ll be melodramatic’, or words to that effect. But of course I never thought of doing so really, would you?”
Dick agreed one never expected to land up in a cheap thriller, though this Bridget might well have roused suspicions. But how should an innocent like Staples imagine the harmless paper to be a code message about the assassination of a Very Important Person. (It was just Walter Pater on Kingship, thought Dick, “poor average weak human nature thrust by the vortex of circumstances into events and tragedies too great for it”.) The police had, it seemed, quickly recognized Staples as a mere helpless stool-pigeon, and investigations in Livchester confirmed the impeccability of his previous career. Through his home they traced Bridget to hospital, and took what proved to be her last confession, wholly exonerating her lover. But they were no days for those involved in any Irish affairs: the cloud on the horizon was too menacing. Staples was indeed acquitted of treason with severe reprimands, only to be imprisoned almost at once as a conscientious objector.
“And there in prison, devoid of hope or love or faith, the Chaplain found me, a wonderful fellow and a real gentleman. He led me to the light, for he said: ‘Staples,’ he said—”
Dick’s attention wandered again. He must ask Mack to get in touch with this Chaplain, and hear his opinion of his convert. Personally Dick was inclined to believe Staples’ story: he was so clearly unimaginative, and he told it so ingenuously. But there was no doubt, as Dick recalled himself to attend to Staples’ monotonous voice, that the poor man had grounds enough for enmity to Ulder, if not for murder. For Staples’ most inconvenient conscience had obliged him to write this whole story to Ulder, believing him still to be Head of Eastlake College. Ulder had visited him at once, sympathized with him, given him Absolution and urged him not to tell his story to the present Head of the College or any other living soul. Then, three days ago, he had written to inform Staples that, in default of the trifling payment of £10 Ulder would tell the whole story to the Bishop. “Though it is possible that this miserable Diocesan would welcome even a gaol-bird as a priest, his lordship would certainly never overlook the fact that you had not made a clean breast to him of your very curious past before you applied for Ordination at his hands,” wrote Ulder. Dick himself would certainly have hastened to bash Ulder’s face in at such a betrayal, but would Staples, incapable of such a step, be capable of a far blacker premeditated revenge?
“Did you know Ulder would be here?” he asked as casually as he could.
“Yes, he told me this was to be our rendezvous!”
“How did you mean to tackle him?”
“I could not tell! I passed sleepless nights—”
“Did you take any remedy for that?” asked Dick still casually. “After being so long on dope in hospital, I never can understand why people put up with insomnia.”
“No, no, no!” said Staples with such energy that he had obviously realized the point of the question. “You can search every hole and corner of my room.”
“Hold on!” said Dick breezily. “I wasn’t making any suggestion! Tell me this, did you see Ulder that night?”
“No!” cried Staples and then, as Dick looked at him steadily, his passion died down. “You won’t believe me but it’s true. I tried, I confess that! After Chapel I crept to his door—there were voices inside. I sat up in my room and waited for half an hour—there were voices again. I hastened away for the butler was bringing a tray up from the pantry to the Bridge passage, and I stood at the top of the stairs above the Bridge to listen till Ulder’s guest went away. Ted Parsons looked out of his room presently, and asked what the hell I was doing—no speech for one of us at this holy time, as I told him! I heard the door shut and was going down when once more it opened. Again I waited for what seemed like hours—again Parsons shouted at me. Twelve o’clock struck at last, all sounds had ceased and the house was so quiet that I felt Ulder must be alone. I was just going down when I heard his door close again, and footsteps go away down the corridor. Now at last I saw my chance, and then suddenly Parsons was upon me. He seized me and pushed me down the passage, thrust me into my room, with insolent words about putting up with my spying upon him no longer. I rebuked him but—but I felt as it was so late I must leave the whole affair for the night.”
“Can you tell me who was the last visitor to Ulder whom you saw?”
“No, I could not see round the stairs, for, as you know, they take a turn. I had an impression it was a woman, for I seemed to hear a rustle, as of a woman’s skirt, and a slow and halting step, but I heard no voice and no one came our way.”
“Was Parsons watching you all the time you were waiting?”
“Yes, from his bed through his open door. He has some form of claustrophobia, due to shell-shock, and can only sleep with door and window wide open. That was why I forgave his violent behaviour.”
“He never knew Ulder, did he?” reflected Dick.
“Never! It was through my own carelessness that Ulder ever came back into my life!”
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to repeat this story to the police to-morrow, but I’ll talk to Mack first, and put your case before him.”
“There is the Chapel bell,” said Staples, clearly glad of the interruption.
“I’m afraid I can’t come,” said Dick. “Got to see the Chief Constable.”
“This is but a poor preparation for your priesthood, I fear,” said Staples reprovingly.
“Oh, I don’t know!” The truth was obvious and the obvious is always irritating. “Trying to get crooked paths straight, I suppose!”
“And asses out of pits,” he added to himself viciously. He had just ten minutes in which to snatch an interview with the long-suffering and wakeful Ted Parsons.
“Well, come in, Dick, we must get down to work! I must get home to-night, and I can’t do much more here. Tonks is to stay to keep watch and see that no one leaves the Palace. Now I’ve no time to ramble round and round in an argument, so I want you to sit down and discuss and tabulate our conclusions up to date. Got to see the Coroner, you know!”
“Excuse me, sir, but will you be getting help from Blacksea to-morrow?” asked Dick desperately.
“I don’t know! I’ve rung up and they may have no one to spare there. They’re mostly down with this wretched flu. Didn’t give in to it in my young days!”
“Then shouldn’t you get a man from the Yard? I’m glad to be of use to you, but it’s not my job and I have my own job here.”
“I don’t call perpetual half hours in that God-box a job,” said Mack ruthlessly.
“No? Well, call it preparing for the Ordination on Sunday.”
“I don’t know if there’ll be an Ordination!”
“What do you mean by that, sir?” asked Dick, the room whirling round him.
“Oh, not what you’re thinking—not as yet, at least. Leave that for the moment, and I’ll tell you where we stand. I’ve got a promise from the police surgeon to give me the result of his examination to-morrow, but he is quite clear already that Lee can be exonerated from any question of an overdose in one tablet—couldn’t be done. I rang up the Blacksea people about sending their finger-print men. Can’t do these roads, and I agreed with them that there would be too ma
ny prints on the bed and the furniture to prove any thing. Corn has sent off the container and whisky glass to them already, and they’ll let me know the results to-morrow too. When they come we’ll have to take prints of the party here with my small apparatus. I’ll bring it out to-morrow and you must get ’em.” (Dick gasped.) “I’ve done a lot of other routine work, got to put things right with the Magistrate about that search warrant. No reply from the Chancellor’s house this afternoon, so I’ll try for his house keeper from my home to-night—he tells me she never sleeps out, luckily. We’ve sent a wire to Ulder’s rectory and got no reply—shut up already, I suppose. Someone of his kin will see a notice in the Evelake Gazette to-morrow of Ulder’s death at Evelake Palace—we put it in the ordinary Obituary. It’s lucky no newspaper man has tracked us down anyhow. And I’ve put through some private enquiries which I needn’t bother you with!”
Dick made no comment. He did not feel it necessary to repeat Judith’s gay call to Sue, overheard as he left his room with Staples—“Darling, our Mack’s been ringing up the Pope or Archbishop or someone to find out if darling Papa is respectable! Isn’t it too sweet? I listened in at Mummy’s room, and I rather think from his voice that Mack got a raspberry!”
“Now here’s Tonks’ report on the staff,” went on Mack—“quite a good one and confirmed by Mrs. Broome who has been quite helpful, I must say. Here’s the drift of it:
(1) Moira Kelly—housekeeper, 10 years with last Bishop, 15 since. Confined to room last three months with cancer—malignant growth—went off for operation to-day. She could be no help as witness unless she had heard any of the conversation from Ulder’s room. Tonks and Corn tested the rooms carefully, and from her bed she could have heard nothing—even if she were not under the influence of drugs.
(2) Jane Harris—cook—15 years here and a Tartar. Never goes near that part of the house, and sees to it that her nieces, May and Muriel Hoylake (kitchen-maid and vegetable maid) have nothing to do with the gentlemen. All T.T., C. of E., G.F.S., and God knows what all.
Arrest the Bishop? Page 13
