“Oh, well, that’s that, then,” said Leonie. “I think we’ll go tomorrow, and take these people on the hop, but, before we go, I think, Pembroke, you’d better put old Simms in the picture. We’re bound to need a lawyer sooner or later.”
“Did my cousin Olwen live alone at Nanradoc, before this awful Father Ignatius turned up?” asked Marion.
“She wasn’t married and so forth, if that’s what you mean,” replied Pembroke.
“Well, it’s all very interesting,” said Leonie, with suspicious brightness considering her recent outbursts, “and I’m glad there’s a reason for getting Pembroke to put his affairs in order. I’ve been on to him for years to get together with Olwen and sell the estate. In any case, to quarrel with an only sister is utterly ridiculous. It’s quite time they made friends again and got rid of Nanradoc, which is, and always has been, a white elephant. It’s off the map, so one’s friends aren’t too keen to pay visits; it’s much too big; the servants’ wages—ah, that reminds me, Pembroke!”
“I know,” said Jones. “I’d thought of it myself. The servant’s wages—and there aren’t any servants any more.”
“Half the wage-money is paid by Pembroke, and half by Olwen,” Leonie explained. “He insisted on that when he and Olwen parted brass rags, and we left Nanradoc for good. The row was about me, as he said,” she added, “and it wasn’t only for the reason that Pembroke gave. He paints mostly landscapes, as you know, but I can’t carve landscapes in stone. Olwen is a prudish little person, and wouldn’t have naked models in the house. Very chapel-minded, I’m afraid.”
“It was only another excuse to get at you,” said Pembroke.
“And you’re still footing half this bill for the servants’ wages, are you, Jones?” asked Timothy, changing a subject which looked like becoming explosive once more. “If I may ask, in what form is the money paid?”
“It is sent in pound notes, and not even registered,” said Leonie. “He thought it would be easier for Olwen that way, save her trouble, and so on, you know. I always said it was a foolish way of sending money, but he’s very obstinate over some things.”
“Was Miss Olwen Jones in the habit of sending you a receipt for the money, I wonder?”
“We never had a word of acknowledgment,” said Leonie. “We never heard from her at all.”
“What was the sum involved?”
“Sixty pounds a month. But if the servants have gone,” said Leonie, “I don’t know why Pembroke should go on paying it, and I can’t imagine why Olwen goes on accepting it.”
“Yes,” said Timothy. “Things begin to look very interesting, don’t they? I think you should take your wife’s advice, Jones, and get your solicitor on to this. It will save you a lot of bother if he’s in on the affair from the beginning.”
“Why, you don’t think anything has happened to my sister, do you?” asked Jones, with marked anxiety. “She’s obviously mixed up somehow with this wretched monk and his partner. It certainly looks fishy. As for Simms, I think it’s a bit soon to involve him. I can ask him whether he still holds the deeds, of course.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Birds Have Flown
Timothy’s car took the four of them to Nanradoc, but not until after Leonie had telephoned Jones’s lawyers. The knowledge she gained, after they had arranged to ring her back, was not reassuring. Simms, Simms, etc., no longer held the deeds of Nanradoc. Olwen Jones had had them sent to her so that she might lodge them in her bank in Chester, alleging that her brother had agreed to this course. Confronted with this assertion, Pembroke reluctantly agreed that he remembered a letter asking for his confirmation, and had answered it over the telephone, claiming that he hated writing letters.
“You didn’t tell me,” said Leonie. “I thought you hadn’t heard from her after you parted. Why didn’t you say?”
“Couldn’t. You were in London, I seem to remember. But you wouldn’t have had any objection to our lodging the deeds with the bank, would you? Cut a lot of red tape if we suddenly wanted to raise a mortgage on the property, I should think. And that was the only letter I had. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Any objection of mine would now be beside the point, wouldn’t it? But why Chester? We always banked in Mold.”
“Olwen, I suppose, now banks in Chester. Anyway, it all comes back to me. They weren’t keen—Sims, I mean—about acting on a telephone confirmation. They wanted it in writing because they said that, while they would be prepared to forward the deeds direct to the bank, what Olwen wanted was to have them sent to Nanradoc so that she could look them over before she deposited them. Simms pointed out the risk of fire and so forth, but she had made up her mind, so, of course, I wrote the letter to save argument. Anyway, I felt that Nanradoc was hers, because of her accident.”
“And I suppose it never occurred to you to get in touch with Olwen and ask her what she was up to?”
“Good heavens, no! I was in the middle of my Academy picture. I simply hadn’t time, and, anyway, couldn’t be bothered.”
“Didn’t you wonder why your sister wanted to see the deeds?” asked Timothy.
“I never thought another thing about it until Marion came on the scene and wrote to say that she had two kids to look after and wanted somewhere to live. That was when we fobbed off Miranda on to her (with an allowance, of course) and I offered her Nanradoc if she would get it repaired.”
“You were thinking only of the castle, of course.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you add the word ‘castle’ in your offer?”
“Can’t remember.”
“No matter,” said Leonie. “It doesn’t affect our projected enterprise. Let’s get moving, shall we? Have we a key to the bridge?”
“Yes, I’ve got mine,” said Timothy, “on my key-ring with my others.”
“I haven’t one,” said Pembroke, “but, of course, I’ve still got a key to the house. The key to the bridge doesn’t matter all that much, because, of course, there’s a road up to the house from the opposite side of the hill.”
“We’ll go by the bridge,” said Leonie. “More likely to take them by surprise.”
The party went by way of the ruined castle and the woodland path, crossed the river, and, in the meadow which formed part of the park, passed a cowherd. They called out a greeting, to which he responded.
Timothy said,
“That’s a bit odd.”
“What is?” asked Leonie. Pembroke, who had become taciturn as he approached his old home, showed no interest until Timothy, replying to Leonie, said,
“That a chap should be herding the cows.”
“Always has been a chap herding the cows,” said Pembroke, in testy tones. “Been a regular letting of that part of the estate since my grandfather’s time.”
“You mean they’re not, so to speak, your family cows?”
“No, never have been. It’s rich grass here—the river, you know—and a local farming family have rented it ever since I can remember. Their own land is all right for sheep, but not good enough for cattle, and I daresay they were glad enough to get ours. There’s nothing odd about it.”
“There is, you know,” said Timothy. “When I came here to see the place, these people said—at least, the monkish person did—that, in addition to paying the rates and looking after the house and the gardens, they milked the cows.”
“Probably his idea of a joke.” Pembroke said no more until, having thundered on the door to no effect, he used his latchkey and led the way into the mansion. “I’ll just take a quick look round if you’ll all stay here a minute,” he said. He came back with a small notebook on whose black cover lay a sheet of writing-paper inscribed in large letters with the words Rent Book. Pembroke opened the book, allowing the piece of paper to flutter to the ground. He turned over the pages. They were covered with small receipted rent-bills, duly stamped and endorsed. “So the monk is a tenant,” he remarked. “It doesn’t seem like Olwen to have let t
he place and kept the rent without letting me know anything about it.”
“You’d had a pretty frightful row, you know,” said Leonie.
“Yes, I know. But that would only have made her all the more anxious to make sure I got my share of anything she collected on the house.”
Timothy had picked up the piece of paper. The notice it bore was so entirely unnecessary that he felt some curiosity concerning it.
“Mind if I have a look at the book?” he asked.
“Help yourself,” said Pembroke, who had relinquished it. “I wonder when the tenant will be back?”
“I don’t think he will be,” said Timothy. “Just give me half a minute.” Rapidly he counted the receipts and then he turned back to the beginning of the book and studied the dates which had cancelled the two-penny stamps. “The rent appears to have been paid every six months,” he said. “Take a look at these dates and see whether you don’t think there is something rather interesting about them. And then tell me what you think about the ink in which they and the indecipherable initials, which have been used in lieu of a signature, are written.”
Pembroke did as he was asked, but shook his head. Leonie, who had been looking over his shoulder, said,
“You mean the ink is quite fresh.”
“And the stamps?”
“I don’t see anything wrong with the stamps.”
“Not in connection with the dates? The dates are written clearly enough.”
“Timmy! Stop being knowledgeable and aggravating! Tell us what you mean,” urged Leonie. She sounded a little breathless.
“Well, for what it’s worth,” said Timothy, “and there may be an acceptable explanation, of course, about half these receipts were made out before all the English stamps were given changes of colour, yet every stamp in the book is the present-day colour of the two-penny variety. What’s more—although I’m not sure about this—I don’t believe a two-penny stamp on a receipt is still necessary, even for amounts of over two pounds, yet these are all stamped, including the last one, which appears to have been dated for last week.”
“I think you are still supposed to put a stamp on,” said Marion, speaking for almost the first time since they had left the car, “but it’s really beside the point. You mean this receipt-book is false from beginning to end, don’t you? And, if it is, it’s intended to give the impression that these people had a right to be here, and had rented the place, whereas, really, no rent has been paid at all. That’s why Timothy thinks they won’t come back.”
“These people? They?” said Pembroke. “But what has happened to Olwen? She ought to have let me know she’d let the place and gone off on her own! It really is too bad of her, whatever had happened between us.”
“Oh, Olwen has always been unpredictable and a bit of a nuisance,” said Leonie. “I shouldn’t think there’s any need to worry.”
“I’m not worrying, dammit! I only hope nothing’s happened to her, that’s all. Anyway, as we’ve got the house to ourselves, I’m going to nose round. Will you come and help me?”
Left to themselves, Marion and Timothy remained silent. Timothy walked over to the window. Before him, beyond the garden, lay the park, and to the left of this he could see the bold and rocky summits of twin mountains separated only, it seemed, by a cleft. He took them to be Glyder Fawr and Glyder Fach, lying beyond Llyn Ogwen. Parsons, he knew, had climbed them, but Timothy was no mountaineer. He turned at last and, with his hands in his pockets, surveyed Marion.
“Don’t you want to look at the view?” he asked. “I wonder whether that’s where Olwen had her accident?”
Marion joined him, but refused to speculate.
“Have you a cigarette?” she asked. Timothy opened his case, lit her cigarette for her, and said,
“Cheer up. And, look here, you’ll have to sink your sinful pride and come back to Phisbe for a bit until we can get you fixed up.”
“There’s no need to bother yourself about me.” She went over to a chair and seated herself.
“Oh, I don’t. I’m only concerned about the brats.”
“Yes,” she said, dispiritedly, “so am I. What am I going to do, Tim?”
“Not live here, at any rate.”
“No, I couldn’t, even if those two awful creatures would have me.”
“They’d have you, apparently, but not the children. Pembroke and Leonie will take Miranda back, if they have to, but that still leaves the twins. A solution might be to send them to boarding-schools for a bit, while you look round for somewhere to live.
“Oh, Tim, don’t be so foolish! How on earth would I afford the fees at a boarding-school?”
“I’m not being foolish. I mean, of course, that I would find the fees. I feel I’ve got you into a mess, so let me be a sort of honorary uncle to the twins while I get you out of it. I assure you that my intentions would bear the closest scrutiny.”
“I know,” she said, with a slight but bitter smile. “It’s been perfectly obvious all along that they are entirely honourable.”
“Yes,” said Timothy, “that is so, but you must admit that I have made it perfectly obvious. When the other two have made their survey, I suggest we go out and find the lake which must lie somewhere between here and those far-off mountains. ‘He walked in glory on the hills, we dalesmen envied him afar.’”
“I don’t think they’re all that far off,” she said prosaically, but she allowed him to pull her up out of her chair and obediently accompanied him to the window. They were silent again as they stood side by side and looked out at the view. Then Marion added, “If you did fix up what you said for Bryn and Bron, you’d agree to a business arrangement, I suppose? I mean, I’d have to take some time to pay you back, but . . .”
“Of course you can pay me back, and also for the flat, house, or bungalow we’re going to find you—unless you’d prefer to live in a boat or a caravan. And now, begone, dull care, and let us immerse ourselves in the mystery which enfolds us. You could draw aside the curtain on one small aspect of it, though, if you would.”
“I could?”
“I think so. The monkish freak told me, more or less, that you let him in on to Phisbe’s premises.”
“And you want me to admit it?”
“Well, it would clear up a tiny but interesting point.”
“All right. I did let him in. He was loitering about when I came home from school one afternoon, and he said he’d come to see you. I told him you weren’t there, so he asked whether he might come in and write you a note.”
“And you let him?”
“Well, it seemed reasonable, seeing what a journey he’d made, but, of course, I had no idea he had stayed in the house and hidden himself away as he must have done.”
“Didn’t you see him off, then?”
“He knew I was busy getting the children’s tea. I asked him whether he would like some, but he said he would have to be going, and would see himself out.”
“Where was Mrs. Dewes, then? She usually guards that front door like a Cerberus.”
“I suppose she was out shopping. She generally gets something savoury in for her husband’s tea.”
“When you heard the furniture being moved about—the first time, I mean—I suppose you didn’t think of connecting it with the monk?”
“No, of course I didn’t. It never crossed my mind that he could still be in the house. I thought it was the Dewes. They hadn’t been all that considerate about making noises after the children were in bed. Besides, the noises began before he came.”
“And did the fellow leave a note for me? You say he came in to write one.”
“I’ve no idea. He didn’t give me anything to hand to you. I suppose he decided to post it.”
“Then he changed his mind again. That is my sarcastic way of pointing out to you, you young mutton-head, that he simply used a device to get himself admitted into the house. I still wish I knew what he expected or hoped to find there. I’ve ransacked the place, and I simply
haven’t a clue.”
“I thought we agreed that he was there to look for the deeds of Nanradoc. He thought you had them.”
“It’s a theory, of course, and, on the face of it, a likely one. I can’t think of any other.”
“Before they come in, Tim, tell me what you think about today’s doings. It’s very mysterious, you know, those two awful people not being here, and that rent-book left out in such a conspicuous place.”
“Yes, it looks as though we were expected, and that the ground had been prepared. It also looks like something else to me. Not only are those precious souls not here to receive us, but my bet would be that they have no intention of ever coming back. I think the rent-book is a stupid attempt at a blind. I don’t believe for an instant that any rent has been paid, and the trousered woman can’t be Jones’s sister. I can’t help wondering what has happened to Olwen.”
Leonie and Pembroke had descended the stairs, but, instead of entering the room straightway, they could be heard in murmured colloquy outside the door. This gave Timothy time to do a little swift thinking. His suspicions of Marion, which had lain dormant for the past few hours, wakened again in his mind. The story she had told to account for the fact that she had introduced the monk into the Phisbe house began to seem rather thin. He wanted to believe her, but it seemed to him highly unlikely that, feeling as she claimed she did about Father Ignatius and his companion, she should have been willing to admit him into a house where, on her own admission, she was, at the time of his entrance, the only adult.
Yet the fact still remained that she had let him in. This tallied with the monk’s own statement that he had gone into the house with her. Whether to believe her or not when she claimed that she thought he had gone away again and that she had not connected the noises of the night with him, Timothy did not know. He was relieved when the other two came back into the room. They seemed to be perturbed about something, and immediately made known the reason for this.
Late and Cold (Timothy Herring) Page 12
