‘Paper!’ shouted a newsvendor in a hoarse Cockney rasp as Duggleby threaded his way through the crowd. ‘Get cher paper here! Murder on the train latest!’
Duggleby hesitated on the kerb, stopped, turned back, felt in his pocket for a penny, and bought a copy of the Evening Standard. There wasn’t, he thought as he glanced at the headlines, much he could learn from the newspaper, but it was worth having a look, all the same. Newspaper in hand, he plunged back into the crowd towards the kerb.
There was a chorus of shouts, a blast of horns and the crashing of glass. The policeman on point duty gave a startled shout, then, seizing his whistle, gave a shill blast as he ran across the road. A horse pulling a furniture wagon reared in its traces, a taxi clipped the side of a car, crumpling its wheel, and a bus, the passengers on the open upper deck crying out in alarm, slewed across the road.
Leonard Duggleby felt the back of his jacket gripped and pulled. Gasping for breath as his collar bit into his throat, he sprawled in a heap on the pavement, the Cockney newsvendor towering above him.
‘What the blinkin’ hell were you doin’?’ demanded the news vendor. ‘You could have been killed, leapin’ orf the kerb like that!’ A sea of concerned faces gazed down at him. ‘Jumped out like a bleedin’ salmon, you did.’
Duggleby pulled his collar loose and scrambled to his knees. ‘I was pushed,’ he said faintly. A fit of coughing overcame him.
‘What’s going on?’ The policeman who’d been on point duty carved his stately way through the alarmed, if eager, spectators.
‘He woz pushed!’ said the newsvendor. ‘Someone pushed this geezer into the traffic!’
‘Pushed?’ repeated the policeman incredulously. ‘Who pushed you?’
Duggleby shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t know.’ The policeman reached down his arm and Duggleby got to his feet.
A second policeman joined them. ‘What’s happened?’ he demanded.
Various members of the crowd eagerly attempted to tell him.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said the constable, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Quiet down, everyone! First things first. Let’s get this traffic moving, for a start.’ He looked to where the car and the taxi had drawn up beside the kerb, raising his voice as the driver and the motorist climbed out onto the pavement. ‘Anyone hurt? No? That’s the main thing.’ He ushered the crowd in front of him. ‘Move along there, ladies and gentlemen, move along! Now then,’ he said, turning back to Duggleby, ‘are you all right?’
‘I think so,’ said Duggleby shakily, with an unsuccessful attempt at a smile. ‘That was scary. No bones broken, thank God. In fact,’ he added, straightening out his clothes, ‘I seem to be very lucky. No damage done.’
‘You go and have a sit-down in the pub, sir,’ said the policeman, pointing to The Crooked Staff. ‘We’ll come and have a word with you in a few minutes. And I’ll need to speak to you, sir,’ he added to the irate motorist who, with the taxi-driver close behind, had elbowed his way through to the circle surrounding Duggleby.
‘And I want to speak to the clown who jumped out in front of me,’ snapped the motorist, a large man with a red face and an aggressive moustache. ‘What the devil happened? My wheel’s a complete wreck and my lights are broken. I’ll be very surprised if I’ll be able to drive that car again in a hurry.’ He glared at Duggleby. ‘Dammit, I nearly killed you! What the devil came over you, sir!’
‘I was pushed,’ repeated Duggleby wearily.
‘’E woz pushed,’ echoed the newsvendor.
‘Pushed?’ The motorist snorted in disbelief. ‘Nonsense.’
‘’E woz pushed,’ repeated the newsvendor, doggedly. ‘’E woz pushed.’
‘Pushed,’ muttered the crowd.
The motorist stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Duggleby. ‘But dash it, man, was it an accident?’ Duggleby shook his head. ‘But who pushed you? Someone who was with you?’
Duggleby shook his head once more. ‘No one was with me.’
‘But you can’t have been pushed,’ said the motorist. ‘Why, that’d mean someone deliberately tried to kill you!’
Duggleby buried his face in his hands. ‘I rather think they did.’
It was getting on for half past four when Arthur and Jack arrived back at the flat.
The door to the kitchen at the end of the corridor opened as they came in. Lizzie poked her head out. ‘Oh, it’s you, sir. And you, Major Haldean.’ She sounded disappointed.
Arthur paused in the act of hanging up his hat on the hall-stand and looked at her questioningly. ‘Why shouldn’t it be us?’
Jack smothered a grin at this less than rapturous welcome. ‘That’s more or less what you said when I arrived this morning, Lizzie. Are you expecting someone?’
‘I wasn’t expecting anyone, sir,’ said Lizzie, flushing as she came into the hall. ‘And I didn’t mean it shouldn’t be you, of course I didn’t. It’s just that you know the mistress asked me to answer the telephone for her? Well, Miss Leigh telephoned at gone three o’clock and said the mistress should have met her at two and where was she? I was hoping you was the mistress, if you take my meaning, because me and Cook think she’s ever so brave with what happened on the train, and we were worried.’
Her face contorted into a frown of concern. ‘Cook doesn’t hold with trains. She thinks as how it wouldn’t be a wonder if the mistress was took funny, because her aunty – mind you, she is sensitive – was struck all of a heap for days when she had a nasty experience on a train.’
‘Whatever happened to Mrs Travis’ aunt?’ asked Jack inquisitively.
Lizzie pursed her lips primly. ‘Nothing I can discuss with a gentleman. But Cook and me wondered if the mistress had started to dwell on what happened yesterday and had come over all peculiar somewhere.’
‘It doesn’t sound very likely,’ said Arthur good humouredly. ‘I appreciate your concern but can’t see Mrs Stanton coming over – er – all peculiar.’
‘What’s happened to her then, sir?’
Arthur frowned. ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know. Miss Leigh rang at just gone three, you say? I wonder where Isabelle’s got to?’
His face cleared as the telephone jangled beside him. ‘That’s probably her now.’ He picked up the phone. ‘Mayfair two-five-seven.’
Jack saw Arthur’s face alter as a tinny voice sounded clearly over the telephone.
‘Excuse me,’ said the voice hesitantly, ‘but is that Captain Stanton, by any chance?’
‘Yes, this is Captain Stanton.’
There was a sigh of relief. ‘We met yesterday, Captain. This is Leonard Duggleby.’ He sounded ridiculously apologetic. ‘I hope you remember me.’
‘Mr Duggleby?’ said Arthur, unconsciously trying to put the man at his ease. ‘Of course. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, something rather disagreeable has just happened and I ... I do hope you forgive the intrusion, but ... but ...’ He swallowed and got out the words in a rush. ‘Is Mrs Stanton all right?’
Jack saw Arthur’s hand tighten on the receiver. ‘As far as I know.’ He exchanged a worried look with Jack. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘It’s ...’ The man’s hesitation was maddening. ‘Look, I don’t want to sound overly dramatic but ... but ...’
‘What?’ demanded Arthur.
‘I think someone’s tried to kill me,’ said Duggleby lamely.
Arthur was incredulous. ‘Kill you?’
‘It sounds crazy, I know, but I couldn’t have been mistaken, I really couldn’t, and there isn’t any reason why anyone should do such a thing unless it’s connected with yesterday somehow. When I picked myself up, and sorted myself out, I thought about Mrs Stanton. I hope you don’t mind me ringing, but she gave her address and telephone number to the police yesterday and I thought I’d remembered it correctly. I simply had to call and find out if she was all right.’
Jack saw the expression on Arthur’s face. He stepped forward and took the telephone from his friend’s unprot
esting hand. ‘Duggleby? This is Jack Haldean. You say someone tried to kill you?’
‘I can’t think of any other explanation. I was crossing Piccadilly Circus when there was a sharp shove in my back and I went sprawling into the traffic, right in front of a car. Fortunately, the driver had his wits about him, or I wouldn’t be here now. I’m ringing from a public telephone in Piccadilly near The Crooked Staff. The policeman on duty told me to wait here until he could speak to me. I don’t want to make a fuss, but I’m worried.’
‘I’m not surprised. I’m glad to hear you’ve come to no harm, Mr Duggleby. Stay where you are until the police have spoken to you.’
‘Yes, of course I will.’ He hesitated once more. ‘Is Mrs Stanton all right?’
Jack glanced at Arthur. ‘As far as we know. We haven’t seen her for a while.’
‘Come on, Jack,’ muttered Arthur in a dried-up voice. ‘We have to find Isabelle.’
Jack nodded and spoke to Leonard Duggleby once more. ‘I need to see you. I’ll be in touch soon.’ He hung up the receiver.
Arthur was at the door. ‘Come on, Jack! We have to find Isabelle!’
‘Wait a moment.’ Jack picked up the telephone. ‘Let me speak to Bill Rackham first. If anything has happened, he should know.’
Alive with impatience, Arthur waited for Jack’s call to be put through. It seemed to take an endless amount of time for the connection to be made. As Bill’s voice sounded over the telephone, Arthur gripped the hall table, his knuckles showing white.
‘Bill? It’s Jack. I’m with Arthur at the flat ...’
Arthur strained to hear but the words – Jack’s words – were coming from a dark place very far away. The brightly painted hall suddenly seemed full of shadows. He sensed rather than saw Lizzie beside him and knew she was holding her breath.
Jack put down the phone slowly. He swallowed before he spoke. ‘There was a woman knocked down on New Bond Street. She was taken to the Royal Free.’ He put his hand on Arthur’s arm. ‘She’s going to be all right.’
Arthur closed his eyes and swayed in relief. ‘Thank God,’ he muttered. ‘Thank God.’
Released from tension, Lizzie suddenly burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed, dabbing her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, but I was that worried.’
‘Go and make a cup of tea,’ suggested Jack. ‘I think you need one. Captain Stanton and I are going to the hospital. Come on, Arthur. Let’s go.’
Accompanied by Dr Hawley, Arthur and Jack entered Isabelle’s room. She was asleep, her chestnut hair spread over the white pillow and one arm over the bedspread. Her face was bruised and there was a bandage round her head but she was alive. Arthur walked very quietly to her side and gazed at her speechlessly.
Dr Hawley, a brisk, no-nonsense man, stayed at the back of the room. He raised his eyebrows at Jack in enquiry. ‘I take it you identify the patient?
Jack drew his breath in. ‘Yes,’ he managed to say. His voice was hushed. ‘That’s Mrs Stanton.’
Isabelle’s eyes flickered open. ‘Arthur?’ Her voice was the thinnest of whispers.
‘I’m here,’ Arthur said unsteadily.
Isabelle smiled and reached out her hand to him.
Dr Hawley tapped Jack on the arm. ‘We’ll wait outside, major.’
In the corridor, Dr Hawley looked satisfied. ‘I was very pleased to see the patient recognised her husband. I didn’t think there was any lasting damage, but head injuries can be very tricky things.’
‘She will be all right, won’t she, doctor?’ asked Jack anxiously.
Dr Hawley assumed the hearty common sense he used to reassure relatives. ‘She’ll be very stiff and sore for a while, but there’s no bones broken, thank goodness. As long as she has complete rest tonight, she should be discharged tomorrow. I realise the patient’s husband is understandably anxious, but it would be best if his visit was as short as possible. I can’t allow any other visitors.’
The fact that the doctor referred to Isabelle as ‘the patient’ suddenly irritated Jack. It wasn’t unkind but it was anonymous. Isabelle was a person who mattered, a person with a name and people who cared about her. ‘I’ll make sure I tell Mrs Stanton’s parents, Sir Philip and Lady Rivers, as much.’
At the mention of the gentry, the doctor’s manner subtly altered. He shifted back a step and put his head to one side quizzically. ‘Sir Philip and Lady Rivers, eh? Yes, yes, of course.’ He coughed. ‘Naturally, I would make an exception in their case.’
Good old snobbery, thought Jack. It never fails.
‘I’m sure Mrs Stanton will be relieved to see her mother. Incidentally,’ said the doctor, regarding Jack as an individual for the first time, ‘I’m very glad you and Captain Stanton turned up. We had no way of knowing who Mrs Stanton was. Her handbag was picked up at the scene of the accident but there was nothing in it to identify her. She regained consciousness shortly after the accident but was quite unfit to answer any questions. Since being admitted, she’s been asleep. How did you know she was here?’
‘We telephoned Scotland Yard.’
‘Scotland Yard?’ Dr Hawley’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Good heavens, whatever for? That seems a somewhat extreme reaction. After all, Mrs Stanton can’t have been missing for very long.’ He looked at Jack doubtfully. ‘Does Captain Stanton usually panic in this manner if his wife is absent for a few hours?’ His eyebrows reached further heights. ‘Is he subject to nerves?’
The doctor clearly thought, however correct his actions had proved to be, Arthur was madly over-possessive if not next door to a basket case.
‘It’s not nerves, doctor, it’s circumstances. Did you see the papers this morning? About the murder on the train?’ Jack gave the doctor a brief account of what had happened, ending with the telephone call from Leonard Duggleby.
Dr Hawley was thunderstruck. ‘God bless my soul! Do you mean to tell me you suspect Mrs Stanton’s accident to have been caused deliberately?’ He broke off as Arthur came out of the room. ‘Captain Stanton, Major Haldean tells me that you believe your wife was the victim of a calculated attack. I can hardly believe it, sir. Surely you’re placing too much emphasis on what has to be a simple accident.’
‘Hardly,’ said Arthur. His face was very grim. ‘Isabelle told me she was pushed.’
‘But ...’ Words failed the doctor. He stared at the two men. ‘What on earth are you going to do? If there is any truth in this fantastic story, that is.’
‘I think we’d better ring Scotland Yard,’ said Jack. ‘It might be as well if Mrs Stanton has a police guard.’
The doctor stared at him, once more struggling for words. From his expression, Jack guessed Dr Hawley had a shrewd suspicion he was either dealing with a couple of complete romancers or a pair of practical jokers.
Doctor Hawley suddenly brightened. ‘Scotland Yard? Yes, of course, that probably would be the best idea. Ring Scotland Yard by all means, gentlemen. You can use the telephone in my office. I’ll see you have the correct number.’
Jack smiled. The doctor thought he had called their bluff. ‘Thank you very much. It’s very helpful of you.’
And that, thought Jack with some satisfaction, as they set off for Dr Hawley’s office, had well and truly had taken the wind out of his sails.
The following afternoon Isabelle, a bandage round her head, sat beside her mother on the big sofa by the window of the flat, looking out onto the afternoon sunshine of Lydstep Mews. Sir Philip and Lady Rivers had come up to London to take Isabelle back to Hesperus with them. That, as far as Arthur was concerned, solved a real problem. He had to go to Croxton Ferriers but he hated the idea of leaving Isabelle alone.
Aunt Alice, thought Jack, looking at Isabelle’s mother affectionately, really was the goods. She didn’t, thank goodness, panic. Her good sense and calm had reassured Arthur and the fact she and Uncle Philip were staying in the flat had given Lizzie and Mrs Travis, the cook, something to think about apart from the worry, as Mrs Travis volubly expressed it, of
not being able to step over the doorstep without being murdered.
Uncle Philip, standing with one arm resting on the mantelpiece, was chatting to Bill Rackham. They were waiting for Leonard Duggleby.
It was Jack’s idea that Duggleby should call. The attempt on Isabelle and the attempt on Duggleby were so clearly connected, it made sense to both Jack and Bill that the two should compare notes.
The doorbell sounded and, moments later, Lizzie showed Leonard Duggleby into the room. He looked understandably ill at ease but his anxiety was swallowed up by concern as he saw Isabelle.
His long face lengthened as he sat down, his attention fixed on Isabelle. ‘I say, Mrs Stanton, you look as if you’ve taken a dickens of a knock.’
‘I did, rather,’ said Isabelle. ‘I’m still awfully stiff and creaky. I can’t really say much about what happened, but I understand from the people who saw it that I was lucky to escape in one piece. I gather you were lucky, too.’
‘I suppose I was.’ He smiled shyly. ‘I don’t know if you feel the same, but it’s so hard to believe that someone seriously tried to ... er ... kill us.’ He completed the sentence with an apologetic lift of his eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry to put it like that. It seems so ridiculously melodramatic.’
‘It was real enough,’ said Isabelle with a shudder.
‘You’d had the jumps earlier, didn’t you?’ said Jack. ‘When we had lunch at the Criterion, I mean. You were certain someone was watching you.’
‘You never mentioned that, dear,’ said her mother.
Isabelle nodded, then winced, touching her bandage. ‘I think that’s why I managed to get out of the way. I think I’d been on my guard all afternoon. It was the creepiest feeling, you know?’
‘Did you spot who was watching you?’ asked Bill.
‘Jack saw a man in a top hat and a woman in a maroon outfit leave the restaurant. It could have been them.’
Duggleby gave a little start. ‘A man in a topper?’
‘I only got a glimpse of their backs, worse luck,’ said Jack.
Sir Philip blew out his cheeks in discontent. ‘It’s precious little to go on, by gad.’
Blood From a Stone Page 11
