‘The butler. Didn’t I say so? His club, all the afternoon.’
Amberley seemed to consider, his eyes on the clock. ‘I see. I think, on the whole, I won’t wait for tea.’
‘No, dear boy,’ agreed his aunt. ‘Much wiser not. Something interesting to tell you. So stupid of Humphrey! That book. You’ve been at sea over it.’
‘Entirely at sea. Well?’
‘Humphrey left it at the Boar’s Head by mistake. He and Felicity, you know. Calling on Shirley. Forgot it.’
Amberley swung round to face his uncle. ‘You left it there?’ he snapped. ‘Did she have it?’
‘Now I come to think of it, I did leave it behind,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘We went back for it immediately, however. Miss Brown gave it to me at once.’
‘Why the devil couldn’t you say so before?’ demanded Amberley. ‘When did this come out? Who knows about it?’
‘Felicity, my dear. Told Basil Fountain. Lots of people know. Joan and that nice young man and me and the butler.’
Felicity quailed before the look on her cousin’s face. ‘I’m awfully sorry if I’ve put my foot into it, but how was I to know I wasn’t to mention it?’
‘You’re a damned little fool!’ said Mr Amberley with distressing outspokenness, and was gone before she could think of a suitable retort.
A moment later they heard the whirr of the Bentley’s self-starter. The car shot off under the window with something of a roar.
Sir Humphrey recovered from the shock of his nephew’s rough usage of him. ‘God bless my soul!’ he ejaculated. ‘Really, I had no notion it was so important. I began to be quite alarmed.’
Lady Matthews looked round at the cake-stand. ‘Why has no one given me anything to eat?’ she said plaintively. ‘I’m exceedingly hungry.’
‘You refused everything,’ Felicity reminded her.
‘Nonsense, my dear. Give me a scone, please,’ said Lady Matthews, placid as ever.
Sixteen
When Lady Matthews had left her that morning, Shirley found herself torn by conflicting feelings. She was at once anxious to shift her burden of worry onto shoulders that seemed to her eminently capable of bearing it, and nervous of the result. She could never quite forget that painful grasp on her wrist beside the dead man’s car on the Pittingly Road. It had left a bruise, and it had given her an impression that Mr Amberley (however kind he might be to animals) would have little mercy on persons whom he detected in breaking the law. His association with the police had made her doubly wary. It was true that he did not seem to have mentioned her presence on the scene of the murder that night; equally true that he had not given her away at the fancy-dress ball. But this forbearance had always seemed to her to be due not so much to chivalry as to a desire to give her enough rope with which to hang herself. He had been watching her from the start and not, she felt, with a kindly eye. Certain words of his still rankled. He had said that he did not like her at all, and she thought that he spoke the truth. She could never discover in him any signs of liking. On the contrary, when he was not mocking her he was very rude and never lost an opportunity of telling her that she was callow and foolish. She set very little store by his unwonted gentleness on the night of Mark’s death. After all he was not a cad, and only a cad would have been anything but kind on such an occasion. Moreover, she would not put it above him to have changed his tactics with the hope of inducing her to confide in him. He seemed to her a singularly ruthless individual.
Lady Matthews had guessed a part of her secret and had appeared to think that he also knew it. Shirley was not much surprised at Lady Matthews’ perception, but failed to see how Amberley could know. At the same time, she had more than once had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew more about her than he pretended.
A sensation of lassitude had succeeded her first dismay on hearing of Collins’ death. Success had, for the first time, been within her reach. Now the valet had been shot, and with him died her hopes. There did not seem to be anything left that she could do; if Mr Amberley could help her, let him try; if he had her put into prison, what matter?
Her own words to Collins jigged in her brain. Half a loaf ! Half a loaf ! Better than no bread, was it? She thought bitterly that if the other half had gone it would be better by far had she never set eyes on that tantalising half-loaf.
She realised with a start that she had wasted an hour in vain speculations, so that there was not time before lunch to visit Ivy Cottage. She went out instead to buy a packet of luggage labels and saw, with a wry smile, that her faithful attendant was following at a discreet distance. Had she not been so depressed she did not think that she could have resisted the temptation to lead him on a long cross-country walk over ploughed fields and through hedges. He did not look like a walker.
She meant to set out for the cottage immediately after lunch, but when she had buckled on Bill’s collar in preparation for the walk she paused and glanced uncertainly towards her dressing case. Bill reproached her for the delay, but she shook her head. ‘Wait a bit, Bill. I think we’ll be on the safe side,’ she said slowly.
Bill lay down with a sigh, his nose on his paws, whining softly. His mistress took a small key out of her handbag and unlocked the case and drew a torn piece of foolscap out of one of its pockets. She stood for a moment in uncertainty and then went across to the writing-table by the window and sat down. The letter she wrote was quite short, but took her some time to compose. She read it through, hesitated, and then with a shrug folded it. She carefully placed the torn foolscap into an envelope and sealed it, and inserted both it and her own note into another larger envelope. She addressed this and said to Bill, whose whines had become despairing: ‘All right, you shall go. I’ve a feeling I’ve done the right thing. What do think, old boy?’
Bill thought that it was time they started for their walk and said so quite unmistakably.
Together they descended the stairs. To Bill’s disgust their first objective was the post office, where Shirley registered and posted her letter. Then she set off towards Ivy Cottage, and Bill, released from his lead, bounded ahead of her joyfully. In the rear Constable Tucker plodded dutifully after them.
It was three o’clock by the time Shirley reached the cottage, and she found the charwoman whom she had appointed to meet her there at half-past two standing on the doorstep and looking aggrieved.
The cottage felt cold and smelled musty, of dry rot. Shirley flung open the windows and told the charwoman to put a kettle on for hot water. The kitchen floor had to be scrubbed, she said. The charwoman remarked that it wasn’t everyone who was so particular how they left a place.
‘Possibly not,’ said Shirley. ‘And while you’re waiting for the water to boil please put those plates away in the cupboard and fold up that rug for me to pack.’
There was a good deal to be done in the cottage. Shirley finished packing her own trunk and tied a label on it; and then, with rather a heavy heart, she began to sort out Mark’s possessions. She did not want to be obliged to go through them again, and she had made up her mind to send most of his clothes to an East End mission. She went down to hunt for brown paper and string and did up four large parcels.
The charwoman acted for the first time on her own initiative at four o’clock. Having found a tin of condensed milk in the larder she made some tea and brought it upstairs to Shirley. Shirley declined the tinned milk but was glad of the tea. Remembering Lady Matthews’ parting words that morning, she told the charwoman to offer some to the man outside in the lane. Apparently it was accepted, for presently, looking out of the window, she saw Constable Tucker coming up the path behind the charwoman. He looked sheepish but grateful. When he had retired again to his post Shirley told the charwoman that she could go as soon as she had washed up the tea-things. She herself saw the end of her labours in view and hurried to get everything finished before the light went.
The charwoman came upstairs for her money, and while Shirley searched in her purse, volunteered the remark t
hat she wasn’t surprised miss had left the cottage. ‘Lonely, I call it,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind that,’ said Shirley.
‘Well, everyone to ’er taste, miss. It’d give me the creeps after dark, this place would. Rats too, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Mice,’ said Shirley.
‘I don’t know but what I ’ate them worse, miss. I ’ad an aunt once sat on a mouse what had run up under her skirts. It give her a regular turn.’
‘I should think it gave the mouse a turn too,’ said Shirley. ‘Here you are, and thank you. Go out by the front, will you? And shut the door, please.’
The charwoman went off downstairs. Bill, lying at the foot of them in a bored attitude, left the house with her and went round to the back on a quest of his own. He shared her belief in the presence of rats.
Constable Tucker, who had left the lane for a rustic seat in the garden, sighed and lit a cigarette. A dull job, shadowing Miss Brown. He hoped she wasn’t going to be much longer. Constable Westrupp was due to relieve him at six o’clock, but he’d be waiting outside the Boar’s Head. He wondered whether the young lady was going to keep him hanging about here much longer, and sent out thoughts towards Mr Frank Amberley that were by no means loving.
The autumn afternoons soon got chilly and damp, he found. He drew up his coat collar and sat for a while contemplating a solitary star. Bill came round the house and growled at him.
Shirley looked out of the window. ‘Who’s that?’ she said sharply.
Feeling a little foolish, Tucker said with a slight cough: ‘It’s me, miss.’
‘Oh!’ She sounded amused. ‘Shan’t keep you many minutes. Shut up, Bill. You ought to know him by now.’
Bill was sniffing suspiciously at Tucker’s ankles. Tucker made propitiating noises and wondered why the young lady couldn’t have had a nice little Pekinese. He advanced a nervous hand towards Bill, assuring him that he was a good dog. Bill was more interested in trying to ascertain whether he was a good man. He came to the conclusion that no steps need at the moment be taken to evict the constable and went off again to continue operations in the back garden.
Inside the cottage Shirley had lit a lamp and was burning a collection of old letters and bills in the kitchen grate. The trunks were all packed and labelled ready for the carrier to take away; she had counted the laundry and left it in the basket in the scullery. Having watched the last piece of paper burn away, she picked up the lamp and went to make a final tour of inspection and to shut and bolt the windows again. She was annoyed to find that she had forgotten to look inside the cupboard on the landing, where Mark had kept some odds and ends. Disposing of these took her some little time, and she was startled to see, on looking out of the window, that it had grown quite dark.
In the garden the tiny glow of a cigarette-end advertised the presence of Constable Tucker. For the first time since he had started to shadow her she was rather glad to feel him close at hand. The charwoman was right: it was lonely in the cottage. She went down to assure herself that the back door was properly secured and took the opportunity of calling Bill in again.
An occasional car could be heard passing down the main road at the bottom of the lane. As she put on her hat she distinctly heard the change of gear as one turned into the lane and came up the slight hill towards the cottage. Hoping that the car might be Mr Amberley’s she went to open the front door. When the car went on past the cottage and she realised that it must be going up to the farm, she was slightly annoyed at her feeling of disappointment and shut the door with a cross little bang.
The thought of Mark’s tragic end came into her mind. She found herself listening rather intently and glancing over her shoulder. The uncurtained windows, framing darkness, made her nervous. She could not help expecting to see a face suddenly pressed up against the glass staring at her. The idea was absurd, of course, but once admitted would not be banished. To hearten herself she pulled the Colt automatic out of the pocket of her long coat before she put it on and laid it on the table beside her.
She buttoned the coat closer up to her neck and pulled on her gauntlets. Bill’s leash was not to be found; it never was, she thought savagely. A short search brought it to light hanging on a peg on the back of the kitchen door. She unhooked it and went to the table to pick up her gun and to turn out the lamp.
Then she remembered that she had left the window open in the living room.
‘Pull yourself together, you ass!’ she said severely, and went to shut it.
In the small passageway between the two rooms a dark figure loomed up suddenly to meet her. Her breath caught on a startled gasp. She fell back a pace, peering. ‘Mr Amberley?’ she said, her voice trembling uncontrollably.
The figure was upon her before she could move. A vice-like arm encircled her; she tried to scream, and something soft, sickly with the fumes of chloroform, was pressed over her nose and mouth, stifling her.
She fought desperately and heard through the roaring in her ears Bill’s snarl, coming as though from an immense distance away. Then the anaesthetic overpowered her; she felt her head growing lighter and lighter, and a numbness paralysing her limbs, and slid into unconsciousness. The man who held her had kicked the kitchen door to just in time to stop Bill’s murderous rush. On the other side of it the dog was clawing frantically at the wooden panels, barking in a frenzy of rage.
The unknown man laid Shirley down roughly and forced a gag between her slack jaws and secured it with a scarf bound over her mouth. He drew a coil of thin rope from his pocket and quickly lashed her wrists and her ankles together. Then pulling her up, he flung her across his shoulder and went out with her, through the shadowed garden to the lane and up it, keeping close under the lee of the hedge until a closed car was reached. He thrust his burden into the back of it, on the floor, and threw a rug over the girl, completely concealing her. A moment later he was in the driving-seat and had switched on the lights. The car crept forward, gathering speed, reached the main road and swung round on to it.
In the cottage Bill turned from the unyielding door to the window and gathered his haunches under him for the spring. There was a smash, the tinkle of broken glass, and a big bull-terrier, his white coat flecked with blood, put his nose once to the ground, sniffing, and was off, following the scent of a man he meant to pull down.
Seventeen
The Bentley swept into Upper Nettlefold and drew up at the Boar’s Head. Miss Brown, the porter informed Amberley, had not yet come in. He was about to leave the place when he paused and said briefly that he wished to telephone. The porter led him to the box and left him there. Mr Amberley opened the telephone book and swiftly found the number he sought. In three minutes he was speaking to the hall-porter of a certain London club.
Yes, Mr Fountain had been in the club that afternoon, but he had left shortly before tea-time. No, the hall-porter could not say where he was going, but he would no doubt be found later at the Gaiety Theatre. He had reserved a seat there for Mr Fountain over the telephone.
Amberley thanked the man and rang off. He strode out again to his car, beside which he found an indignant constable who proposed to take his name and address for dangerous driving in the town.
Amberley got into the car and started the engine. ‘Get out of the way,’ he said. ‘No doubt I shall see you later. I can’t stop to chat with you now.’
The constable jumped back just in time as the car shot forward. He was left standing speechless on the curbstone and had only just enough presence of mind to jot down the Bentley’s number.
Amberley drove straight to Ivy Cottage and drew up outside the gate with less than his usual care. He saw that a light was burning in the house and drew a sharp sigh of relief. He was just getting out of the car when the bull-terrier came into sight in the lane, questing about to pick up the scent he had lost. Amberley stopped short and called to the dog. Bill came at once, recognising the voice. He was whining with suppressed eagerness and dashed off again immediately. Bu
t Amberley had had time to notice the gashes on his muzzle and flanks. He made no attempt ho catch Bill but strode into the garden, calling to Constable Tucker. There was no answer.
His foot scrunched on something brittle; he looked down and saw the gleam of broken glass. There was a hole in the kitchen window, and no need to speculate on what had caused it.
The front door was shut, but Amberley thrust in his arm through the broken window and unbolted it and flung up the lower sash. He climbed in and took in at a glance the lamp, still burning, Shirley’s handbag lying on the table, and beside it the Colt automatic. Even at such a moment as this Mr Amberley’s thin lips twitched into a smile that was amused and rather scornful. He pocketed the gun, got out his torch and made a tour of the house.
A strong smell of chloroform assailed his nostrils as he opened the kitchen door; a scrap of cotton-wool, torn by Shirley from the pad in her struggle, lay at the foot of the stairs. Amberley picked it up and held it to his nose. The anaesthetic was still clinging to it; he judged that it could not have been lying there for more than a few minutes. The living-room window was open, and there was a cake of mud on the floor with the imprint of a rubber heel on it. Amberley gathered it up, taking care that it should not crumble, and laid it down on the table. There was no one in the house and no sign of Constable Tucker.
He went out into the garden again, and using his torch, made a tour of it. A groan led him to a lilac bush beside a rustic seat; Tucker was on the ground, as though he had fallen from the seat, trying to raise himself on his elbow.
Amberley’s torch flashed full into his face; he blinked stupidly at the light, still groaning. Amberley dropped onto his knee beside him. ‘Come on, man, come on,’ he said impatiently. ‘What happened? Pull yourself together!’
Tucker’s hand went up to his head. ‘My head!’ he muttered. ‘Oh, Gawd, my head!’
‘Yes, I’ve no doubt something hit you. Luckily your head’s a hard one. Drink this!’ He snapped back the lid of his brandy flask and put it to Tucker’s mouth. The raw spirit revived the man; he managed to sit up, still clasping his head. ‘What happened?’ he said dazedly. ‘Who hit me?’
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