“Just the same as before?” Sir Clinton demanded from Michael.
“Just the same.”
Through the wood they went behind the police squad. At the brow of the hill, where the trees began to thin, Armadale called a halt. They could hear him giving orders for the formation of his cordon. When his men began to move off under his directions the Inspector came over to Sir Clinton.
“He’ll not slip through our hands this time, sir. I’ll beat every bit of cover in that spinney. He can’t get away on either side without being spotted. We’ll get our hands on him in a few minutes now. I suppose he’s armed?”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“I should doubt that.”
The Inspector failed to conceal his surprise.
“Not armed? He’s sure to be.”
“We’ll see in a minute or two,” the Chief Constable answered. “You’d better get your beaters to work, hadn’t you? . . . Ah!”
In the silence they heard the sound of a faint splash from the direction of the quarry.
“History’s repeating itself pretty accurately, isn’t it?” said Sir Clinton, turning to Michael. “That’s the kind of thing you heard the other night?”
“Just the same,” Michael admitted.
But as the line of constables moved forward he could not help contrasting their methodical work with the rather haphazard doings of the pursuers on the earlier occasion. Armadale had evidently issued stringent orders, for not a tuft of undergrowth was left unexamined as the line slowly closed in upon the hunted man. Every possible piece of cover was scrutinized and beaten before the cordon passed beyond it.
“Very pretty,” Sir Clinton commented, as they moved up in the rear of the line. “The Inspector must surely have been training these fellows. They really do the business excellently.”
Michael suddenly left the path they were following and stepped across under the trees.
“I’m going to have a look at that Fairy House myself,” he declared. “That’s where I found Maurice after the last show. I want to be perfectly certain that it’s empty.”
He opened the door, leaned inside the building, and then came back to his companions. Something like disappointment was visible in his expression. He was taken aback to see glances of sardonic amusement exchanged between Cecil and the Chief Constable.
“Drawn blank, have you?” Cecil inquired.
“There’s no one there at present,” Michael admitted.
“I don’t think the constables would have missed a plain thing like that,” Sir Clinton remarked mildly, though with a faint undertone of correction in his voice.
Before Michael had time to reply they heard Armadale’s voice. The cordon had passed completely through the spinney and was now on the edge of the marble terrace.
“Come along,” Sir Clinton urged. “We mustn’t miss the final scene.”
They hurriedly joined the line just as Armadale ordered a last advance.
“He’s somewhere on this terrace,” he told his men. “See that he doesn’t break away from you at the last moment.”
Sir Clinton turned to Michael.
“Just the same as before?”
Michael made a gesture of assent.
“I’ll admit that this is more businesslike.”
The Constabulary line crept forward almost foot by foot, subjecting every one of the marble seats to the most rigid scrutiny. Inspector Armadale’s anxiety was more and more apparent as the cordon advanced without securing the man for whom they were searching. At last the whole of the possible cover had been beaten, and the constables emerged on the open terrace. The fugitive had vanished, apparently, into thin air.
Michael Clifton turned to the Chief Constable with an ironical smile.
“Just the same as last time, it seems. How history repeats itself!”
The Inspector hurried across the terrace to where they were standing. It was obvious that he was completely staggered by the turn of events.
“He’s got away, sir,” he reported in a mortified voice. “I can’t think how he’s managed it.”
“I think we’ll repeat that last stage again, Inspector, if you don’t mind. Withdraw your men till they’re just in front of that last line of seats.”
While the Inspector was giving his orders Sir Clinton pulled his case from his pocket, opened it, and thoughtfully tapped a cigarette on the lid. Before lighting it he threw a glance up and down the empty spaces of the terrace from which the fugitive had so mysteriously vanished.
“All plain and above board, isn’t it?” he said, turning to his two companions. “I’ve got nothing in my hands except a cigarette, and you can search my sleeves if you like. It is required, as Euclid would say, to produce a full-sized burglar for the satisfaction of the audience. It’s a stiff job.”
He glanced again over the wide white pavement of the terrace.
“A conjurer’s usually allowed a little patter, isn’t he? The quickness of the tongue distracts the eye, and all that. Just a question, then. Do you happen o remember what Medusa was able to do? Turned things into stone when she looked at them, didn’t she? That somehow brings the late Pygmalion to my mind—a kind of association of opposites, in a way, I suppose. But I’ve often wondered what Pygmalion felt like when the statue came to life.”
He turned sharply on his heel.
“You can come down off that pedestal, my friend. The game’s up!”
To the amazement of the group around him, the white marble statue above him started suddenly into life. It leapt down from its base on to the pavement of the terrace, staggered as it alighted, and then, as Cecil and Michael grasped at its smooth sides, it shook itself clear and sprang upon the broad marble balustrade.
“Come back, you fool!” Sir Clinton snapped, as the figure faced outward to the gulf below.
But instead of halting, the white form gathered itself together for an instant and then dived headlong into the abyss. There was the sound of a splash; and an appalling cry came up through the night.
Sir Clinton dashed to the rail.
“Below, there! Get out on that raft at once and pick him up. He’s badly hurt. He’ll drown if you don’t hurry.”
The Inspector hurried forward.
“Why didn’t you warn us, sir. We’d have had Marden as easy as anything. If you’d only told us what to expect.”
Sir Clinton looked round.
“Marden? That’s not Marden. I tell you, Inspector, if that jump of his meant anything, it suggests that there’s no Marden at all.”
The Inspector’s amazement overbore his chagrin.
“I don’t understand . . .” he began.
“Never mind. I’ll explain later. Get away down to the water-side at once. See if he’s badly damaged. Quick, now.”
As the Inspector hurried off, the Chief Constable turned to Michael Clifton.
“History doesn’t always repeat itself exactly, you see.”
He pulled out a match-box and lit his cigarette in a leisurely fashion. Then, throwing away the vesta, he inquired:
“You see now how he got away from you last time?”
Michael made no reply. He was examining the pedestal from which the living statue had taken its flight; and he could see the scores and cuts left by the chisel which had smoothed the standing-place of the original marble figure. Quite obviously, on the night of the masked ball, the same trick had been played; and while the pursuers were searching all around, the fugitive had stood rigid above them, unsuspected by anyone.
Cecil turned to the Chief Constable.
“Aren’t you going down to see if something can’t be done for the poor devil? He must have come a fearful smash on the rocks.”
“Poor devil?” Sir Clinton retorted. “That’s not a poor devil. That’s a wild beast, if you’re anxious for information. But if you’re a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I suppose we’d better see that things are done decently and in order. We’ll go down, if yo
u’re perturbed about him.”
It took them some little time to descend to the level of the lakelet. They could see, as they went down, the process of rescue; and when they reached the water-side, they found two constables stooping over a limp white figure, beside which the Inspector knelt solicitously. As the newcomers approached, Armadale rose and stepped over to them.
“He’s done for, sir,” he reported in a low voice to Sir Clinton. “His pelvis is smashed and I think his spine must have gone as well. He’s paralysed below the waist. I doubt if he’ll last long. It was a fearful smash.”
Cecil crossed over and peered down at the face of the dying man. For a moment he failed to recognize him; for the white grease-paint disguised the natural appearance of the features: but a closer scrutiny revealed the identity of the living statue.
“Why, it’s the chauffeur!”
“Of course,” was all that Sir Clinton thought it worth while to say.
Armadale brought something up from the water-side.
“Here’s the waterproof he was wearing, sir. It’s Marden’s, just as I told you when I saw him in the museum to-night. When he flung it over the edge of the cliff as we were coming up, it landed on a broad bit of rock instead of sinking like the Pierrot costume, the other night.”
Sir Clinton was silent for a moment. His glance wandered to the broken, white-clad figure on the ground, but no pity showed on his face. Then he turned back to Armadale.
“See if you can get a confession out of him, Inspector. He won’t live long at the best; and he might as well tell what he can. We can’t hang him now, unfortunately; and he may as well save us some trouble in piecing things together. For one thing, he’s got a bag or a suit-case lying around somewhere in the neighbourhood with a suit of clothes in it. You’d better find out where that is, and save us the bother of hunting for it. If you manage to get anything out of him, take it down and get it witnessed. Bring it down to Ravensthorpe at once.”
He passed, then added as if by an after-thought:
“You’d better search these tights that he’s wearing. There ought to be five of the medallions concealed about him somewhere. Get them for me.”
He turned to Cecil and Michael.
“We’ll go back now to Ravensthorpe. Unless I’m far astray in my deductions, there’s been another murder there; and we must keep the girls from hearing about it, if we can.”
As they walked through the pine-wood, Sir Clinton maintained a complete taciturnity, and neither of the others cared to break in on his silence. His last words had shown that ahead of them might lie yet another of the Ravensthorpe tragedies, and the shadow of it lay across their minds. It was not until they were approaching the house that the Chief Constable spoke again.
“You’ve spun that yarn I gave you to the girls?”
“They know there was some stunt afoot,” said Cecil, “but they were to keep out of the way, in their rooms, until we were clear of the house.”
“One had to tell them something,” Sir Clinton answered. “If one hadn’t, they’d have been pretty uncomfortable when all that racket started. You managed to scare him out very neatly with the row you raised when I blew my whistle.”
“The girls are sitting up, waiting for us,” Cecil explained. “They said they’d have coffee ready when we came back.”
“The deuce they did!”
Sir Clinton was obviously put out.
“I’d been counting on their going back to bed again. Then we could have got Marden’s body away quietly—if he’s been murdered, as I think he has. There’s no use upsetting people if you can avoid it. Ravensthorpe’s had its fill of sensations lately and there’s no need to add another to-night.”
He reflected as he walked on, and at last he seemed to hit on an expedient to suit the circumstances.
“The bottom’s out of this case now,” he said, at last. “There’ll be no trial; so there’s no need for any more secrecy, so far as I can see. I’ll be giving nothing away that I shouldn’t, at this stage of the game.”
He threw away the end of his cigarette and looked up at the bulk of Ravensthorpe before them. Here and there on the dark front the yellow oblong of a window shone out in the night.
“Suppose I spin them a yarn,” Sir Clinton went on. “I can keep them up until dawn with it. After that, they’ll sleep sound enough; and while they’re asleep, we’ll get Marden’s body away in peace and comfort. It’ll spare them the shock of finding another corpse on the premises; and that’s always something gained.”
When they reached Ravensthorpe, Sir Clinton turned to Cecil.
“You’d better go and close the safe in the museum. No use leaving things like that open any longer than’s necessary. I must go up to Marden’s room now. I’ll be back again in a minute or two.”
Ascending the servants’ staircase, Sir Clinton made his way to the valet’s room. The door was locked; but when Sir Clinton tapped gently, a constable opened it and looked out. At the sight of the Chief Constable, he stood aside.
“He’s been murdered, sir,” the man explained in a whisper.
“I guessed it might be that,” Sir Clinton returned.
“Whoever did it must have chloroformed him first,” the constable went on. “There was a pad of cotton-wool over his face; and his throat’s cut.”
The Chief Constable nodded in comprehension.
“That would prevent any sounds,” he said. “Brackley was a first-class planner, there’s no doubt.”
The constable continued his explanation.
“We came up here as you told us, sir; and when we heard your whistle we slipped into the room, expecting to arrest him according to your orders. But he was dead by that time. It was quite clear that he’d been murdered only a short time before. Your orders didn’t cover the case, so we thought the best thing to do was to lock the door and wait till you came back. You’d said we were to keep him here till your return, anyhow; so that seemed to be the best course.”
“Quite correct,” Sir Clinton commended them. “You couldn’t have done better. Now you’ll need to wait here till morning. Keep the door locked, and don’t let any word of this affair get abroad. I’ll see about removing the body in due course. Until then, I don’t want any alarm on the subject.”
He stepped across the room, examined the body on the bed, and then, with a nod to the constables, he went downstairs once more.
Chapter Fifteen
SIR CLINTON’S SOLUTION
“IT’S a pleasure to meet Sir Clinton again,” Joan observed when they had finished their coffee. “For the last ten days or so, I’ve been dealing with a man they call the Chief Constable. I don’t much care for him. These beetle-browed officials are not my sort. Too stiff and overbearing for me, altogether.”
Sir Clinton laughed at the hit.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve invited one of your aversions to join us. In fact, I think I hear him at the door now.”
“Inspector Armadale?” Joan demanded. “Well, I’ve nothing against him. You never let him get a word in edgeways at our interviews. Grasping, I call it.”
The door opened and the Inspector was ushered in. As he entered, a glance passed between him and Sir Clinton. In reply, Armadale made a furtive gesture which escaped the rest of the company.
“Passed in his checks,” Sir Clinton interpreted it to himself. “That clears the road.”
Joan poured out coffee for the Inspector and then turned to the Chief Constable.
“Cecil promised that you’d tell us all about everything. Don’t linger over it. We’re all in quite good listening form and we look to you not to be boring. Proceed.”
Sir Clinton refused to be disconcerted.
“Inspector Armadale’s the last authority on the subject,” he remarked. “He’s got the confession of the master mind in his pocket. I haven’t seen it yet. Suppose I give you my account of things, and the Inspector will check it for us where necessary? That seems a fair division of labour.”
/> “Very fair,” Una Rainhill put in. “Now, Joan, be quiet and let’s get on with the tale.”
“Before the curtain goes up,” Sir Clinton suggested, “you’d better read your programmes. First of all you find the name of Thomas Pailton, alias Cocoa Tom, alias J. B. Foss, alias The Wizard of Woz: a retired conjuror, gaolbird, confidence-trick sharp, etc. As I read his psychology, he was rather a weak character and not over straight even in dealing with his equals. In the present play, he was acting under the orders of a gentleman of much tougher fibre.
“The next name on the programme is Thomas Marden. The police have no records of his early doings, but I suspect that Mr Marden had cause to bless his luck in this respect, rather than his honesty. I’m sure he wasn’t a prentice hand. As to his character, I believe he was rather a violent person when roused, and he had a deplorable lack of control over a rather bad temper.
“The third name is . . . ?”
“Stephen Racks,” the Inspector supplied in answer to Sir Clinton’s glance of inquiry.
“Alias Joe Brackley,” Sir Clinton continued. “I think we’ll call him Brackley, since that was the name you knew him by, if you knew him at all. He was nominally Foss’s chauffeur. Actually, I think, he was the brain of the gang and did the planning for them.”
“That’s correct,” the Inspector interpolated.
“Mr Brackley, I think, was the most deliberately unscrupulous of them all,” Sir Clinton continued. “A really dangerous person who would stick at nothing to get what he wanted or to cover his tracks.
“Then, last of all, there’s a Mr Blank, whose name I do not know, but who at present is under arrest in America for forging the name of Mr Kessock the millionaire. He was employed by Mr Kessock in some capacity or other which gave him access to Mr Kessock’s correspondence. I’ve no details on that point as yet.”
“This is the kind of stuff I always skip when I’m reading a detective story,” complained Joan. “Can’t you get along to something interesting soon?”
“You’re like the Bellman in the Hunting of the Snark, Joan. ‘Oh, skip your dear uncle!’ Well, I skip, as you desire it. I’ll merely mention in passing that an American tourist came here a while ago and asked to see the Leonardo medallions, because he was writing a book on Leonardo. He, I believe, was Mr Blank from America; and his job was to see the safe in the museum and note its pattern.
Tragedy at Ravensthorpe (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 20
