The Skeleton in the Clock shm-18

by John Dickson Carr

  "A gap in his life?" exclaimed Aunt Cicely. "What tragic fate was it?"

  "Well," said H.M., "they stuck him in the coop."

  "I… I beg your pardon?"

  "Into the foul, heyhouse' jail of Newgate they stuck him," roared H.M., beginning to fire up. "Three times they did. It was a put-up job, of course. The Cecils did it"

  "You mean they persecuted him?"

  "Oh, my wench!" said H.M., momentarily forgetting the heroic atmosphere and shaking his head dismally. "It was the scummiest piece of work in history, and I'm goin' to write a monograph to prove it

  "Looky here!" he went on with inspiration. "You just imagine him (or, as it might be, me) standing up at the Old Bailey to face his accusers the first time. You imagine him (or, as it might be, me) in a big lace collar, with his Cavalier hair down to his shoulders, lookin' up at the bench like this."

  Here H.M, with his arms hooked out at his sides, squared off and directed a glare of martyrdom about half way up the opposite wait.

  "The place," he added, suddenly turning round to explain in a normal voice, "was as full of Cecils as the Café Royal is of drunks on Saturday night Got that?"

  "Yes, I follow you! But.."

  "But Curtius Merrivale (or, as it might be, me) folded his arms, like this. And he looked up at the judge. And: 'Me lord,’ he says, this is a frame-up.' Have no fear, Sir Curtius,' says the judge, who was an honest man; for well I know,' he says, that there is hokey-pokey goin' on in this court.'"

  "Stop it!" cried Aunt Cicely.

  "Hey?"

  "You're joking. You're teasing met I don't like it."

  H.M. was completely taken aback with amazement

  "Honest to God!" he said in purple-faced earnest and lifted his right hand to take the oath.

  "But they didn't say it in those words, surely?"

  "Well… now! I was only giving you the gist of it sort of. The original's in a manuscript I got at home."

  "But you make it sound so terribly unromantic!"

  H.M. considered this. "H'm, yes. Maybe I did make it a bit on the dry and legal side, at that"

  Aunt Cicely leaned her head sideways against a wing of the chair. The dim lamp-light, in that corner dark red, made her blonde good-looks seem those of thirty instead of over fifty. One frail-looking hand trailed down over the arm of the chair.

  "I've always half-believed in reincarnation," Aunt Cicely murmured. " 'His tragic marriage to Lucy Baimbridge, and the duel that followed,' she quoted softly, from H.M.'s slip of paper. "Was she beautiful?"

  "Uh-hun. Absolute stunner. I got her portrait at Cranleigh Court"

  "My own marriage," continued Aunt Cicely in the same faraway tone, "was very happy. The world didn't understand George. He was dominant; I love dominance. Of course, with George, there was always the terrible responsibility of…"

  "Aunt Cicely, seeming to wake up, paused. Only now did you notice that she wore rather heavy make-up, because of the pallor underneath. A bright arch animation swept round her an aura of charm; and she almost bounced in the chair, hands clasped, to pour eager questions at H.M.

  "You were saying, ma'am?" asked H.M., in a sharply different tone of voice.

  It was here that Aunt Cicely caught sight of Martin in the doorway. She sprang up in consternation and solicitude; and, as he advanced in what seemed to him a steady manner, she extended both hands with their flowing sleeves.

  "Mr. Drake!" she exclaimed. "You shouldn't have got up!"

  Martin touched the cool fingertips.

  "There's nothing wrong with me, Lady Fleet," he told her. "It was very kind of you to take such trouble." Then he turned to H.M., the rush of gratitude showing in his face. "Sir," he said, "I don't know how I'm going to thank…"

  H.M., to conceal an exploding embarrassment which he would have denied under torture, raved and bellowed and shouted at him (for getting up) to such an extent that nobody could understand what the great man was saying. But Martin cut it short

  "H.M., how did you know someone might try to — to—" he hesitated.

  To push you off the roof?" ELM. supplied. "

  To… what?" cried Aunt Cicely in horror.

  H.M., his expression wooden, replied only by extending his own hands and making a lunging motion.

  "But it was an accident" pleaded Aunt Cicely, retreating. Her eyes and mouth begged them to reassure her. "Sophia said so. Dr. Laurier said so. I've always thought something might happen when the young people used that roof for parties, with drinks and everything. But they get older, you know, and you simply can't do anything with them."

  Her voice ran on, telling them Sophia said it only went to show, but Martin was not listening.

  "H.M.," he insisted, "how did you know?"

  H.M. looked uncomfortable.

  "Oh, my son! I didn't know! It was only one of about eight possibilities, where I had to block the approach-shot somehow. Though, mind you, I thought it was the most probable." '

  Where I had to block the approach-shot somehow…

  "Very early this morning," said Martin, clearing his throat "Jenny and I met Masters in a field near here. I asked him if he'd been at the prison during the night. Was he by any chance keeping an eye on my—welfare?"

  That's right son. All night"

  "Are you trying to tell me—" the words sounded wild, but Martin could not help using them—"that I've been a kind of focus for murder?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "But that's impossible!"

  "Son," returned H.M., without any swelling of dignity, Tm the old man. I've got to believe," scowling ferociously, he rapped his knuckles against his bald head, "what this cokernut tells me is true. Even when Masters thought I was loopy and you won't believe it even now. I couldn't tell you, because— well, never mind the because. You were in a sweet whistlin' ring of danger. And you still are." H.M.'s tone changed. "Did you see who shoved you off that roof?"

  "No."

  "Got any idea who it was?"

  "No. What's more, I’ll swear my side of the roof was empty!" Then Martin flung this aside.

  "Never mind the roof," he said. "What about the alarm-bell? I heard it ring as I went over. What happened?"

  "Lord love a duck, didn't old Sophie tell you?"

  "No! Either she was cantankerous, or she thought it wouldn't be a good thing to tell me. Is Stannard all right? I'll never forgive myself if anything happened to Stannard. Where's Stannard?"

  "Stannard?" echoed H.M., in a huge puff of astonishment "Oh, my son! Stannard's as right as right as rain. Though," H.M. added in a curious tone, "he did get a bit of a shock. Something like you, only in a different way."

  "Then if he.. what did happen?"

  HM. looked at the wine-coloured carpet; teetered bulkily back and forth on his heels; hesitated, as though he could not quite place what he meant to say in the scheme of things; and looked up again.

  "Murder," he answered.

  And, at the same moment the front door knocker began to rap sharply.

  Chapter 14

  To the sleek room, in tone dull-red and white and dark gold, these dim lamps lent at once an intimacy and a kind of religious hush. In a far corner stood a grand piano, with Sir George Fleet's framed photograph on its dull-gleaming top.

  The questions which rushed from Martin—"Who was murdered? Where in the prison? When?" — were shushed by a particularly meaning look from H.M. Martin sank down into a deep sofa, feeling the pain-throbs above his eyes. All of them beard the nonchalant maid, Phyllis, saunter through the hall to open the front door.

  "It's the cops again, m’lady," rose the bored voice of Phyllis from outside.

  The cops, on this occasion, were represented only by Chief Inspector Masters. Masters, holding a brown cardboard file in his left hand as well as the brief-case in his right, coughed with discomfort at the door of the drawing-room. His bowler hat was held under his arm.

  Aunt Cicely responded automatically. Though clearly still frightened and shocked, it wa
s apparent she had resigned herself to the belief that somebody, somehow, would take care of this matter. In white, with flowing sleeves, vivid against a Burgundy carpet, she turned to the newcomer.

  "Mr. Masters! It was so kind of you to come’

  "Well, all—" said Masters, completely off balance by this reception of a police officer, "I'm not here, on official business, as you might say. I just wanted to pick up Sir Henry."

  "Do please make yourselves at home!" urged Aunt Cicely, with such sincerity that even Masters believed it "I shall have to run along to bed now, but do make yourselves comfortable. Have you got the Ovaltine, Phyllis? That's a good girl! And I must have someone to talk to before I. Phyllis! Where is Lady Brayle?"

  "Gone home, mlady. Long ago."

  Aunt Cicely fretted. "Then I wonder… Mr. Masters! Is Ricky over at the Dragon?"

  "Not there now, Lady Fleet It's been closed for half an hour."

  "Then I suppose," Aunt Cicely said, "he must be with Susan Harwood." And she gave a bright, inquiring smile at Martin Drake.

  (Careful, now! But you don't know anything about Susan except that Ricky wants to marry her and Ruth says he's deeply enamoured, so you're safe in admitting ignorance. Besides, the maddening questions…)

  "Susan is a dear girl," said Aunt Cicely. "But of course — I" She laughed deprecatingly. "I mean; her father being a farmer. Not serious; and what matter? No woman can resist Ricky. I’ve always told him so. And I must confess," her attractive laughter rang again, "I've always been rather proud of it. It seems to reflect credit on me, somehow. What was I thinking of? Oh, yes! Retiring. Of course. Will you say good-night for me to everyone?"

  Radiating charm with her smile, giving a whisk of the loose sleeve, Aunt Cicely left them.

  It was just as well, Martin thought, that a harmless if somewhat feather-headed siren had gone. The tension which invaded that room, when H.M. and Masters faced each other, set his nerves tingling again.

  "Got the stuff?" demanded H.M.

  "All of it," Masters growled. "I'm fair sick of interviews, and that's a fact" He dropped hat, brief-case, and cardboard file into a chair.

  Murder.

  Thanking Grandmother's Providence first of all, Martin's thoughts raced on, the person killed couldn't have been Jenny. Jenny had been here today, hovering over him, her behaviour being 'unladylike and disgusting.' Lady Brayle and Aunt Cicely were both very much alive. So was Dr. Laurier, whom he had met here in this house early in the morning.

  (In front of him, like mumbled voices heard in a crowded room, he was conscious of H.M. and the Chief Inspector talking away. Masters was pointing at Martin, and asking questions about the fall off the roof. H.M. was growling that the victim seemed to have no evidence; and up went Master's blood-pressure again. But little of this penetrated to Martin.)

  The person killed, he was thinking, couldn't have been Stannard either. Stannard was as right as rain. Now he knew it couldn't have been Ricky, because Ricky's mother had just asked whether her son was at the pub. That left only…

  "Look here!" Martin exclaimed, and jumped up. "Was it Ruth Callice?"

  Both the others — Masters with his face red instead of ruddy, H.M. taking out a cigar — swung round.

  "Burn it all, son, don't start shoutin' like that," complained the latter, making fussed gestures. "Was she what?"

  Martin felt a hollow of dread, with a pulse to it inside his chest

  "Was she the victim? Did somebody kill Ruth?"

  Yes, his voice had been loud. In the north wall of the room towards the west door opened. It opened to show a glimpse of a billiard-room, corresponding with the library on the other side of the house.

  Ruth Callice came out of the billard-room, and' John Stannard after her. They were noticed neither by H.M. nor by Masters. But Martin saw them, and slowly sat down again.

  "Listen," said H.M., standing in front of Martin. "The victim hasn't got anything to do with you; and I'm trying to drive it through Masters's head that the victim hasn't got anything directly to do with the case either."

  "Ho," said Masters, and snorted like a bull. "A murder slap-bang in our laps, and it hasn't got anything to do with the case."

  "Regardin' motive," H.M. insisted over his shoulder, "no."

  He turned back to Martin. "You put up at the pub, didn’t yon? Didn't you meet the Puckstons?"

  "Puckstons? That's the—?"

  "Yes. Father, mother, and daughter."

  "I met Puckston, yes, and I think I saw his wife. I don't remember any daughter."

  "Enid Puckston," said ELM. His expression was not pleasant "Only a kid.."

  "Oh, ah," muttered the Chief Inspector. "Only a kid. Like the one twenty-two years ago."

  "She was the pride and joy," said H.M., slowly and heavily, "of those people's hearts. Goin' to a fancy school, she was. Not harming anybody."

  "Last night at Pentecost," Masters interrupted, "she was stabbed through the heart and (hurrum!) pretty badly mutilated. What's more, for a fair-to middling certainty, she was killed with that dagger your crowd found in the condemned cell."

  For some time nobody spoke.

  To Martin, Enid Puckston was only a name, not even a person to be visualized. Yet the ugliness and brutality struck through. At this ppint, too, he became aware that Masters was speaking not for information, but for effect; that the corner of Masters's eye had caught Ruth and Stannard over there by the billiard-room. Martin shook his head to clear it

  "Stabbed and mutilated," he repeated. Then he looked up. "Was she—r?’

  Masters now spoke almost blandly.

  "No, sir. She wasn't violated, if that's what you mean. Or any attempt like it Might have been anybody's crime. Might have been—" here Martin could have sworn the Chief Inspector was about to say 'man or woman,' but checked himself—"might have been anybody who'd got what they call a strong sadistic nature. With their flummy talk nowadays," he added.

  "Where was she found?"

  "Ah! As to that, now!"

  Straightening up, with an air of surprise and grave welcome, Masters turned round in the direction of Ruth and Stannard.

  "Evening, miss! Evening, sir!" he intoned, as though he had just seen them. "Didn't notice you in the dark. I'd be glad to have a bit of a chat with both of you, if it's convenient"

  "Yes, of course," answered Ruth, whose eyes were fixed on Martin. Abruptly, as though breaking loose, she ran across the room and took Martin's hands.

  "So you're up and about!" Ruth added, scanning his face and forehead. She added, as though in reproach: "Martin, you look horrible."

  He grinned at her. "No worse than a hangover. Honestly!"

  Stannard approached more slowly. H.M. had spoken of him as having had a shock, and you could well believe it. Some of his strong vitality — not too much, but some — seemed to have ebbed from him. The black eyes had no glitter, he smiled, though with visible effort As he moved towards them he put one hand on the back of a dark-red wing chair as though his ankle hurt him.

  What had he seen in that execution shed last night?

  But, for that matter, Ruth herself looked far from well. She was as trim as ever, the small light-brown curls gleaming above the rounded face, her dress a close-clinging green. Yet she looked physically ill. And Martin began to understand the strain which had been growing on everybody all day.

  The strain grew and grew. They seldom spoke of it And yet..

  "Martin," Ruth began, and braced herself. "Some people are saying what happened to you was an accident It wasn't, was it?"

  "No. It wasn't"

  Very much, now, he was conscious of H.M. and Masters in the background.

  "What did happen?" asked Ruth. Then, without waiting for a reply, as though afraid of a reply she went on:

  "All I know is that I was waked up about a quarter to five by that alarm-bell going. Then I heard a crash—"

  "Great Scott, Ruth, did I fall as hard as that?"

  "It was the tea-tray!" sai
d Ruth, and snatched her fingertips away from him in a reproachful way as though he had somehow insulted her.

  "What tea-tray?"

  "Jenny," Ruth explained, "was carrying a loaded tea-tray through the dining-room to those little back stairs. She heard you — she heard that thud on the awning, and the awning ripping wide open, and something hitting the flagstones. And would you believe it?"

  Here Ruth turned to Stannard, who, though he must have heard the story half a dozen times, only nodded.

  "Would you believe it?" Ruth said to Martin. "Jenny says the front door was partway open, with mist in the hall. Jenny simply threw the whole tea-tray to one side and rushed out. She found you lying on the terrace in the mist, with blood coming out of your forehead. Then Jenny began screaming. By mat time I was there, and Ricky came flying downstairs in his pyjamas. Poor Cicely was tired out and slept through it Fortunately Dr. Laurier was on the spot"

  Stannard, smiling, had been examining the trim of his fingernails and polishing them on the sleeve of his dark-grey suit He grew grave now. He approached Martin, limping a little, and formally extended his hand.

  "My dear fellow," he said in his husky hearty voice, "real congratulations on a lucky escape."

  Everybody I meet, Martin thought seems to want to shake hands.

  "It was you ringing that alarm-bell?"

  Stannard's look was wry. "Yes. For my sins."

  Well, then, here was one hand free from attempted murder and one face without hypocrisy. Martin already liked Stannard; he liked the man better now.

  "But" Ruth prompted. "Up on the roof?" She made a tentative gesture.

  Martin thought he had better get it over. He told them everything, from the time he and Jenny walked through the mist to the time somebody's hands lunged out He could see Master's black notebook, the shorthand travelling steadily. H.M. had sat down near the tall white marble mantelpiece, with its dull-gold clock and its dull-gold candelabra against dark-red walls.

  When the recital was finished, neither Ruth nor Stannard commented. They did not even speak. Too much repression! Dangerous! The person who did speak, after studying Martin, was Chief Inspector Masters.