Georgette Heyer

by Why Shoot a Butler?

  ‘You are an ass,’ said Felicity. ‘I’m sorry it’s upset Joan, though. Perhaps Basil’s lost a lot of money on the stock exchange.’

  ‘No. Wrong. That I do know.’

  Amberley was looking at him. ‘What else do you know, Corks? Mind divulging it?’

  Anthony looked doubtful. ‘Well – not strictly the clean potato, is it? What I mean is – guest in the man’s house, you know. The Public-School Spirit, and Playing for the Side, and all that wash. That’s how Brother Basil talks, by the way. He does really.’

  ‘How do you know it was bad news at all?’ asked Felicity.

  ‘Well, when a chap opens a letter, reads it and turns a sort of pea-green, and sits staring at the fatal document like one struck with the palsy, the astute spectator at once divines the cause. Besides, I asked him.’

  ‘Did he say it was?’

  Anthony thought for a moment. ‘Yes, and no. When he got green about the gills, I said I hoped he hadn’t had bad news. I don’t mind telling you that he looked pretty tucked up. Well, he gave a sort of start and folded up the letter, and said in a forced kind of way that it wasn’t exactly bad, but rather disturbing. It certainly disturbed him all right. And the funny thing, is…’ He stopped, and a frown descended upon his cherubic countenance. He looked at Amberley, evidently considering something, and said abruptly: ‘Look here, I will tell you. I really don’t much mind about the esprit de corps muck. He may be my blinking host, but the way he treats Joan gets me bang in the gizzard. The letter that shocked him so came from a private detective agency. I happen to know, because he sat with it in his hand, staring at it, and when I looked up, the heading across the top of the sheet caught my eye.’

  ‘I see,’ said Amberley slowly. ‘And it upset him. H’m!’

  ‘Don’t tell us what you’ve thought of, will you?’ said Felicity scathingly.

  ‘No, my sweet, I won’t.’

  ‘Well, you may think it helps towards solving the mystery,’ said Anthony, ‘but as far as I can see it merely adds to it. The thing is getting like pea-soup. If you’re trying to implicate Brother Basil I admit it’s a kindly thought, but it won’t work. I should simply have to come forward and say he was in my company at the time the murder was committed.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Amberley, ‘I wasn’t thinking of the murder.’

  Next morning he learned that Basil Fountain seemed to have more or less recovered from the shock of the news he had received, but that there had been some sort of row with Collins. For this piece of information Amberley was indebted to Joan Fountain, who walked over to Greythorne with Corkran partly to exercise a couple of terriers and partly to bring Felicity a book she had promised to lend her. Joan looked pale after the previous day’s indisposition, and it seemed to Amberley that her smile was a little mechanical. Usually reserved, she had lowered her barriers slightly and made only a small attempt to check Felicity’s freely expressed opinion of her stepbrother.

  It was plain that she clung rather pathetically to Corkran’s reassuring presence. For her, the root of all evil lay in the manor, nor did she disguise the fact that from the first she had had an uncontrollable aversion from it. It spelled discomfort, prying eyes, mystery, and her brother’s worst moods. She did not try to explain what she felt, or to apologise for her unreason. She thought every house had an atmosphere peculiar, each one, to itself. At Greythorne, for instance, was only happiness and warm kindliness. But the manor brooded over past sins and past tragedies. It was secret, and so still that depression met one at its very door.

  Into these psychic realms neither Corkran nor Amberley could follow her, yet each of them had felt the tension that preyed so much on her spirits. In Corkran’s opinion it was not the house which was at fault, but its inmates, by which he meant the master and the valet. Joan shook her head; perhaps she and Basil had never had much in common, but until they came to the manor there had never been such friction as now existed. The manor had had its effect on him as well as on her. As for the valet… She gave a shiver and was silent.

  Upon hearing the row in full swing in Fountain’s study that morning Anthony had cherished hopes of the valet’s departure. What had passed between them was not known, but Joan thought Collins was objecting to his extra duties. They had heard Fountain’s voice raised angrily, and later they had seen Collins come out of the study with his mouth shut in a hard, thin line, but although Fountain had said that the valet was becoming insufferable, and by God, he had a good mind to sack him, nothing had been done. Instead, Fountain had gone up to town to interview a prospective butler.

  It was proving as difficult as he had feared to fill Dawson’s place. The only candidates who had so far applied for the post were quite ineligible, while the few suitable men whose names had been sent to Fountain by Finch’s Registry Office did not care to come to a house which was situated seven miles from the nearest town and nearly two from the main road. However, the registry office had rung up at teatime the previous day to inform Fountain that a fresh applicant had appeared, who did not seem to mind the manor’s out-of-the-way position. He had gone up to interview the man, and if he, like the rest, was no good, he was going to insert an advertisement in the Morning Post.

  It seemed a good moment, to Joan, since Fountain would not be at home, to invite Felicity and Amberley to tea at the manor. Felicity accepted, but Mr Amberley had a previous engagement. Pressed, he was irritatingly evasive. Felicity excused him to her friend on the score that he was probably going to hunt for clues.

  Joan had not known that he was taking anything more than an ordinary interest in the murder case. She seemed pleased and asked shyly whether he thought he would be able to solve the problem.

  ‘I think so,’ he answered with unusual gentleness.

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said simply. ‘I know it is worrying Basil. It’s upset him very much. It almost seems to haunt him.’

  When Amberley set out shortly before four in the afternoon to keep his ‘previous engagement’, he took the road into Upper Nettlefold and bore straight through the town in the direction of Ivy Cottage.

  The road was a continuation of the High Street, which ran southwards out of the town past a row of new cottages. The houses soon came to an end. The road bent to the west and ran along for a few hundred yards beside the river Nettle. Then the river took a curve to the left and the lane leading to Ivy Cottage came into sight, cutting up beside some undulating pasture-land.

  Mr Amberley had just reached the foot of the lane and had slowed down for the turn when he heard himself hailed. He stopped, and saw the burly form of Sergeant Gubbins mounted on a bicycle and pedalling strenuously towards him.

  Amberley drew into the side of the road and switched off his engine. ‘Well, Sergeant?’ he said.

  The sergeant got off his bicycle, puffing, and remarked that it was a warm day. Mr Amberley agreed.

  The sergeant shook his head a little sadly. ‘I hoped you might run into the station this morning, sir. I saw the chief constable yesterday.’

  ‘Coincidence,’ said Mr Amberley. ‘So did I.’

  The sergeant fixed him with a reproachful eye. ‘When he told me what had been said up at Greythorne – well, what I feel is, it ain’t like you, Mr Amberley.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘The way you’re treating this case. Not like you at all, it isn’t. Because me knowing you as I do I’ve got a feeling you’re keeping things up your sleeve. Now that’s a thing I wouldn’t have believed of you, sir. Then there’s what you said to me the other day, after the inquest. Not that I set any store by that at the time, me knowing that you’re apt to get humorous in your way of talking. But when the colonel happened to mention your saying to him how you didn’t know that you wanted to work for the police that made me very surprised. Because putting two and two together, and calling to mind that very same remark which you passed to me, it does seem to look as though you meant it, which is a thing I wouldn’t have believed.’

/>   ‘Sorry,’ said Mr Amberley.

  The sergeant said severely: ‘Of course I know you go against the law a lot in the way of business…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Getting off them as ought to be at Dartmoor,’ said the sergeant. ‘Often and often you’ve done that, but as I say, that’s in the way of business and fair enough. But it’s putting ideas into your head, sir, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Look here!’ said Mr Amberley. ‘Just what are you driving at?’

  ‘You’re not acting straight by us, begging your pardon, sir,’ said the sergeant doggedly. ‘Keeping things back. You haven’t given us anything to go on, and it’s as plain as a pikestaff you’ve got your suspicions.’

  ‘Is it? I’m sorry to hear it. Don’t hustle me, Sergeant.’

  The sergeant eyed him speculatively and perceived suddenly that Mr Amberley’s attention had wandered. He was looking past the sergeant to the gate of Ivy Cottage, which was just visible up the lane. The sergeant was about to turn round to see what was interesting him so much when he was stopped.

  ‘Don’t turn round, Sergeant,’ Amberley said quietly.

  The sergeant was immediately possessed by an almost uncontrollable desire just to glance over his shoulder, but he managed to check it. ‘What have you seen, sir?’

  Amberley was no longer looking up the lane. A minute ago the wicket-gate had opened, a man had slipped out, and cast rather a furtive look to left and right. When he saw the car at the bottom of the lane, with its owner apparently deep in conversation with Sergeant Gubbins, he had turned abruptly and walked away, up the lane.

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Mr Amberley slowly. ‘And what, Sergeant, do we make of that?’

  The sergeant swelled with indignation. ‘A fat lot of chance I have of making anything of it, haven’t I, sir? “Don’t turn round,” you say, and then ask me what I make of it!’

  Mr Amberley was stroking his chin meditatively. ‘It looks as though I’m not so far out,’ he said.

  ‘Does it, sir?’ said the sergeant in considerable dudgeon. ‘Well, isn’t that nice? P’raps if I’m patient you’ll see fit to tell me what you’ve seen.’

  ‘A man, Sergeant. Just a man.’

  ‘You do sometimes,’ agreed the sergeant, heavily sarcastic. ‘I can see a couple now. Young Thomas and Mr Fairleigh they are. You wait, sir, and you’ll see them too.’

  ‘An ordinary, respectable personage,’ mused Mr Amberley. ‘Yet he wasn’t pleased to see us here. Where does that lane lead to, Gubbins?’

  ‘Fawcett’s farm,’ said the sergeant shortly.

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘It stops there.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Amberley. ‘Do you think our friend Collins can really have business at Fawcett’s farm?’

  The sergeant was interested. ‘Collins? Was it him, sir?’

  ‘It was, Sergeant. He’s been calling at Ivy Cottage.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ said the sergeant. ‘What would he want there? Gone off to Fawcett’s, has he? Then he’ll cut across the fields. There’s a right-of-way. Now I come to think of it, we don’t know much about these Browns. The young fellow’s in the Blue Dragon most nights. Drinks himself silly, that’s what he does. But what does he want with a valet?’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Mr Amberley.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ve no doubt you do, and if I was sure you didn’t do more than wonder… What might you have been meaning when you said what you did just now, about it looking as though you weren’t so far out?’

  ‘I see it’s no use trying to conceal anything from you, Sergeant,’ said Mr Amberley, shaking his head.

  ‘Well, I hope I’ve got my share of brains, sir,’ replied the sergeant, slightly mollified. ‘I don’t say I set out to be one of these people who think they know everything and, consequent, talk so clever there’s no understanding what they’re driving at half the time – if anything, which some people might doubt.’

  Mr Amberley grinned. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Just someone I happened to have in my mind,’ said the sergeant carelessly.

  ‘Oh, I see. I thought you were talking about me for a moment.’

  The sergeant strove with himself. ‘Now look here, sir!’ he said. ‘I can’t stand in the road bandying words with you all day while you have your little bit of fun with me. I’ve got my work to do. I was going to mention to you that I don’t like the look of that Collins, and never have, but what’s the good? It wouldn’t interest you.’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Mr Amberley frankly, ‘but it would interest me very much to know why he goes calling at Ivy Cottage.’

  ‘Well, that’s something we can find out,’ said the sergeant, his spirits rising. ‘I don’t say that I see what it’s got to do with the crime, but if you want to know there’d be more sense in me investigating it than joining a lot of goggling fools in turning over dead leaves for a cartridge-case. Which is what the inspector set some of the men on to do. And they haven’t found it yet, nor they aren’t likely to, though Constable Parkins found a kettle with a hole in it and the half of an old boot in the ditch.’

  ‘Did they find any trace of a bicycle having been pushed into the field behind the hedge?’ Anthony inquired.

  ‘No, sir, not so far as I know.’

  ‘Did they look in the field?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, they looked all right, but I wouldn’t say but what they were a bit distracted like, on account of a lot of young bullocks Mr Fawcett’s got in that field. They were a bit playful, I understand.’

  ‘Splendid! Did they play with Inspector Fraser?’

  The sergeant put up a large hand to cover his mouth. ‘Well, sir, I did hear as how the inspector didn’t stop long enough to give them the chance, so to speak.’

  Mr Amberley laughed and switched on his engine again. ‘Not fond of animals, perhaps. Now, Sergeant, you mustn’t keep me gossiping with you. I’ve got something better to do, you know.’

  ‘Me? Me keep you – ? Well, I’m…’

  ‘And I’d rather you didn’t investigate Collins’ visit to Ivy Cottage, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll do that myself.’

  The car began to move forward; the sergeant walked beside it for a few steps. ‘That’s all very well, sir, but when do we get something to go on?’

  ‘All in good time,’ promised Mr Amberley; ‘I haven’t got much myself yet. I’ll tell you this, though; unless I’m much mistaken you’ll find that the murder of Dawson is the least interesting part of the whole problem. So long.’

  The sergeant fell back and stood watching the car go up the lane to Ivy Cottage. He shook his head darkly, turned his bicycle round, and resumed his interrupted progress into Upper Nettlefold.

  Amberley left his car outside the little white gate and went up the path to the front door. The window of the living room was open, and through it he heard Mark Brown’s voice say petulantly: ‘You made a bloody mess of the whole thing. You ought to have let me do it. I bet I wouldn’t have let anyone steal a march on me. You let him get the thing and then you send for him to come up here. The hell of a lot of use that is! Supposing anyone had seen him?’

  Amberley knocked loudly on the door, and the voice ceased abruptly. After a moment the door was opened by Mark Brown, and the bull-terrier bounded out apparently delighted to welcome the guest.

  Amberley said easily: ‘Good afternoon. I came to return a piece of lost property to your sister.’

  Mark recognised him and flushed. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it? Come in, won’t you? I say – I’m afraid I was a bit screwed the other day. Awfully decent of you to have brought me home.’

  Amberley brushed that aside. When he liked he could be very pleasant, and apparently he liked now. He had Mark at his ease in two minutes, and Mark, losing some of his suspicion, invited him to come in to see his sister.

  He came in, escorted by the bull-terrier, and preceded Mark into the little sitting room, where Shirley Brown was standing behind the table. She
gave no sign of being pleased to see him, but watched him intently under her frowning brows.

  Mr Amberley was not in the least dismayed. ‘How do you do?’ he said. ‘Did you get home all right the other evening?’

  ‘If I hadn’t I should hardly be here now,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, shut up, Shirley!’ interposed her brother, pulling a chair forward. ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr – Amberley, isn’t it? Didn’t you say you had something belonging to my sister?’

  A startled look leaped into her eyes. She said quickly: ‘Something of mine?’

  ‘Something you left behind you at the manor,’ said Amberley.

  There was a moment’s tense silence; the brother’s and sister’s eyes met for an instant.

  ‘Oh?’ said Mark with forced carelessness. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Just something Miss Brown dropped,’ said Amberley and brought out a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Here it is.’

  The tenseness passed. Shirley took the handkerchief. ‘How very kind of you to go to so much trouble,’ she said ironically.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Amberley courteously.

  She stared at him in mingled surprise and hostility. Her brother, more hospitable than she, filled an awkward gap by asking Amberley if he would not stay to tea.

  Amberley accepted, and meeting Shirley’s indignant gaze smiled blandly at her. She swallowed something in her throat and stalked out of the room into the kitchen.

  Mark began to apologise for the sparse surroundings. They had taken the cottage for a month, he said. They both worked in town – here his eyes shifted from Amberley’s for a moment – and were on holiday. Shirley was Anne March’s secretary. He expected that Amberley knew the name. She was a novelist and wrote pretty good tripe. Asked where he himself worked he answered uncommunicatively that it was in a bank. From his somewhat shamefaced manner and from the knowledge that bank clerks were not in the habit of enjoying a whole month’s holiday, Amberley guessed that this job had come to an abrupt end. He was not surprised, but with rare tact led the talk away from such uncomfortable topics.