“Nonsense, Ena. Of course David would mind. Besides, you know you wouldn’t like me to do anything of the sort. Would you? It would spoil— h’m —everything.”
Ena paused for a moment. Then she nodded solemnly.
“Yes, Phil. You’re quite right. I shouldn’t like it at all. Oh dear, how I wish all men were like you.”
“You mustn’t say that.” said Dr. Chalmers, much encouraged. “I don’t expect they’re so bad really, you know. Anyhow, Ena, I want you to do me a favour. Will you?”
“What, Phil?”
Dr. Chalmers laid his pipe on the table beside him, and spoke with deliberation.
“I want you to give up this idea of writing to the King’s Proctor about Ronald, and I want you to put quite out of your head this idea about David and Elsie Griffiths, and not say a word to him about it. You’ll only upset him very much, you know, without any cause at all.”
Ena shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, Phil. I can’t do that. I feel it’s really my duty to write to the King’s Proctor. After all, what are laws for unless we all help to enforce them?”
“Well, well, we can talk about that again tomorrow. There’s no hurry, and you mustn’t do anything without thinking it over very carefully first. And as for David …”
Ena’s thin lips set in an ugly line. “As for David,” she said sharply, “you must leave that to me. No, I’m sorry, Phil. It was decent of you to try to shield him, but I must have that out with him myself.”
“Not tonight, at any rate,” Dr. Chalmers pleaded.
“Yes, tonight. There’s no point in losing time. I only heard about it this evening.”
Dr. Chalmers wondered savagely which of the local busybodies had laid up this trouble for David.
“But listen, Ena. You—”
“It’s stifling in here,” Ena said abruptly. “I want some air.” She jumped up, and almost ran up on to the roof.
Dr. Chalmers followed gloomily. He had thought she was landed, and she had wriggled away once more. He knew it was no good appealing to her again. For months now, possibly for years, she would be throwing Elsie Griffiths up at David, till she had succeeded in driving him almost as insane as herself.
“Oh, curse the woman!” muttered Dr. Chalmers, who never swore.
He followed her to where she was leaning over the railing.
“You’ll catch cold, Ena,” he said mechanically.
“I don’t care if I do. I wish I could catch pneumonia, and die. Could I catch pneumonia, if I stayed up here long enough, Phil? David would be glad. He could have Elsie all right then.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense, Ena.”
“It isn’t nonsense. You know it isn’t. David would be glad. Oh, Phil, aren’t men brutes? I’ve given David everything. Everything a woman can! And now he’s got it all, he doesn’t want it any longer. Oh, what’s the good of going on living, Phil?”
“Now Ena, you know you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do. I often think how wonderful it would be to end it all, if only one could find an easy way out. Nobody’s really fond of me—no, Phil, not even you, really. I’m sick of life. I’ve a good mind to jump over this railing here and now. Shall I?” She looked round at Dr. Chalmers wildly.
“That wouldn’t be a very easy way out,” said Dr. Chalmers with bluff common sense.
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind a little pain. It would be worth it. It’s terribly appropriate, isn’t it,” said Mrs. Stratton, with a hollow laugh, “to be standing under a gallows, while we talk about life and death?”
“A gallows from which, I perceive, one of the felons has fallen, if you can draw a moral from that,” said Dr. Chalmers, and aimed a vicious kick at the felon’s severed head. It soared up in the air and out of sight. Somewhat relieved, Dr. Chalmers dealt in a similar manner with the trunk.
“Yes, there ought to be a moral in that, oughtn’t there?” said Mrs. Stratton, with mournful relish. “Do you think it’s an invitation, Phil? An invitation from fate for me to take its place?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” returned Dr. Chalmers. “Well, are you ready to go downstairs, Ena? It’s a bit too cold out here. Besides, David will be wondering what’s happened to you.”
“Let him wonder. He doesn’t care. Phil, don’t you really think it’s an invitation from fate? I think that’s such a nice idea. Look—it would be so easy.”
Mrs. Stratton pulled a chair up underneath the swinging rope, mounted on it, and put the stiff noose round her neck,
“Where do they have the knot, Phil? Let’s get the details right, at any rate. I know they have a special place for the knot.”
“Under the left ear, I believe,” said Dr. Chalmers, bored with this play-acting, and kicked moodily at one of the uprights of the gallows.
Mrs. Stratton adjusted the knot under her left ear, and tightened the noose a little round her throat.
“Look, Phil. It would be terribly easy, wouldn’t it? I’ve only got to jump off the seat of this chair. Shall I? Nobody would mind. David and Ronald wouldn’t. I don’t believe even you’d mind much. Shall I?”
Dr. Chalmers leant with his sound hand on the back of the chair. “Come on, Ena. I’m cold.”
“No, but shall I jump off this chair, Phil? Shall I? Tell me. I will if you say so. Shall I?”
“Yes!” said Dr. Chalmers suddenly, and walked away: with the chair. For the only time in his life Dr. Chalmers had acted on impulse.
II
Dr. Chalmers did not hear the faint thud and the gurgle behind him. He did not even look round, and so was able to pretend to himself, in some curious way, that nothing had happened. Without pausing, he dumped the chair down on the roof somewhere near the door, where it promptly fell over, and with his hands in his pockets continued on his way, whistling under his breath a little out of tune.
He could hardly believe that, technically, he had committed a murder; yet presumably he had.
Inside the door to the house he remembered that he must take precautions. He was perfectly safe, of course, so long as no one saw him coming in from the roof. Suicide would be taken for granted, and there was nothing to disprove it. Everyone knew that one of Ena’s favourite topics of conversation was suicide.
Still whistling softly under his breath, Dr. Chalmers closed the door very quietly behind him and stood stock-still, listening. There was no sound of voices. He ventured a peep round the concealing angle of the ceiling into the bar-room. It was empty. The sound of music still came from the ballroom.
On quiet feet Dr. Chalmers ran down two flights of stairs. There he turned and, whistling loudly now, mounted once more, slowly and trampingly. He glanced at the watch on his wrist. To his surprise it was only a quarter of an hour since he had come in. All that had happened in fifteen minutes. And that made exactly Lucy’s hour.
Dr. Chalmers’s luck held. Just as he arrived at the top landing the door of the ballroom opened and Margot Stratton came out, passing him on the landing on her way upstairs.
“Hullo, Phil,” she called out. “I’m looking for Mike. Have you seen him anywhere?”
“No,” said Dr. Chalmers, “I’ve only just got back.”
CHAPTER V
SEARCH PARTY
I
It was a minute or so before half-past two when Dr. Chalmers presented himself again in the ballroom.
“Oh, hang!” observed Mrs. Chalmers, with even less tact than she knew. “I’m going to finish this dance, anyhow,” she called across the room.
Dr. Chalmers nodded pleasantly as he shut the ballroom door behind him.
Roger, alone at the moment, strolled across the room and joined him.
“Had a drink, Chalmers? You look as if you could do with one.”
“I could,” admitted Dr. Chalmers with a smile. “It was quite cold driving. But I think I’ll wait till my wife’s gone to put her things on. Otherwise we’ll never get off. You know how women are.”
They waited till the dance was over.
“Now, Lucy,” said Dr. Chalmers, with good-humoured firmness.
“Oh no, Phil,” pleaded Mrs. Chalmers.
“Now come along, my dear,” said Dr. Chalmers.
“But Margot isn’t here. I must say good night to her.”
“Off with you, woman! Margot will be back by the time you’ve got your things on.”
Mrs. Chalmers, who had known it was hopeless all the time, consented to go.
“Now, Sheringham, what about that drink?” said Dr. Chalmers.
They strolled into the other room, to the bar.
Dr. and Mrs. Mitchell decided that it was high time for them to go too, and husband and wife divided in the same directions as the Chalmers.
The other dancers, realising that the party was breaking up, drifted automatically towards the bar.
“Oh, there you are, Mike,” said Margot Stratton. “I was looking for you. We’d better go, too, I suppose?”
“Had a good party, Margot?” asked her late husband.
“A marvellous party, Ronald, thank you.”
“It’s been a grand party,” Colin Nicolson chimed in. “Have another drink before you go, Margot.”
“Well, it is getting cold out now,” Margot agreed.
Mike Armstrong said nothing.
“Wonderful, our Margot, isn’t she?” Dr. Chalmers appealed to Roger. “Getting on for three in the morning, and not a hair out of place. I believe if Margot was in a liner that sunk, she’d be found sitting on a life-belt, perfectly powdered and waved, and looking as if she’d stepped straight out of a band-box.”
“Thank you, Phil,” said Margot affably.
“Ha, ha!” said Mike Armstrong suddenly, and blushed.
“What was that you said just now, Colin?” asked Mr. Williamson thoughtfully. “Another drink, eh? Was that it? Well, that’s not a bad idea. Eh? That isn’t a bad idea at all, is it?”
“It’s a magnificent idea, Osbert.”
“It is,” affirmed Mr. Williamson, much struck. “It is a munificent idea, Colin. Mine’s whisky.”
“Oh, Osbert,” said Mrs. Williamson tentatively, “do you really think you’d better?”
“I said, mine’s a whisky,” repeated Mr. Williamson firmly. “Yes, and make it a double one. Thanks, Colin. Well, cheerio Margot!”
“Cheerio, Osbert.”
“Osbert, you are awful,” said Mr. Williamson’s wife, and removed herself, somewhat huffily.
The women took their usual time to get their things on, delayed in this case longer than usual by the arrival of Margot Stratton in the bedroom just as they were ready to leave. At last, however, they presented themselves, cloaked and be-furred, and the chorus of farewells arose.
“Well, good night, Ronald. … It’s been a lovely party. … Good night, Mr. Sheringham. … Good night, I’ll ring you up tomorrow. … Perhaps you and Ronald would dine with us one night, Mrs. Lefroy? … Say good night to Mrs. Williamson for me. … Don’t forget that book you promised me, Mr. Nicolson. … Well, good night, Sheringham. … Good night. … It’s been a marvellous party, Ronald, darling. … Well, good night. …”
At last and at last only the house-party remained.
“We are seven,” said Ronald, looking round the circle of faces. “Or should be, I think. Do we go to bed, or not? I think not. Then help yourselves to more drinks, everyone, and be merry. Seven has always struck me as absolutely the ideal number for a party.”
The party complied.
“I don’t want to dance any more,” announced Mr. Williamson, suddenly and weightily.
“No,” agreed Mrs. Lefroy. “Let’s turn out the lights and sit round the fire, while Mr. Sheringham tells us about his murders.”
“Oh yes, Roger!” said Celia with enthusiasm.
“That’s a good idea,” Ronald backed them up. “In the strictest confidence, Roger, of course.”
“I really ought not,” said Roger happily.
“Oh do, Mr. Sheringham!” begged Mrs. Lefroy.
“Come along, Roger, be a man,” added Colin Nicolson. “It won’t go any farther.”
“Oh, very well,” said Roger.
Mr. Williamson went to the landing and roared like a bull.
“Lilian!”
“Hullo?” came a faint and distant voice.
“You’re wanted!”
“What for?”
“Murder!” howled Mr. Williamson, and left it at that. Certainly it brought him his Lilian, hot foot; but then he had all the bother of explaining.
In the meantime chairs were being pulled into a semicircle round the fire which still glowed on the big open Jacobean hearth, and the party settled down to enjoy itself.
“Sheringham!” said Mr. Williamson, in a confidential tone.
“Hullo?”
“Before you begin, will you promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“That if I murder Lilian, you won’t give me away. You won’t, will you? Eh?”
“That,” said Roger, “depends entirely on the amount of provocation you’ve had.”
“Oh, I’ve had plenty. You see,” said Mr. Williamson, still more confidentially, “I can’t bear her wearing my trousers.” And having delivered himself of this complaint, Mr. Williamson leaned back in his chair and instantly went to sleep.
“Carry on, Sheringham,” Ronald Stratton ordered comfortably.
Roger was clearing his throat while he wondered on which case to begin, when a voice from the doorway checked him.
It was David Stratton, changed and in a lounge suit.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but can I speak to you a minute, Ronald?”
II
Ronald was only out of the room for a couple of minutes, before he returned with his brother.
“David says Ena doesn’t seem to have gone home. He thinks she may still be here. We’re just going to have a look round.”
“Magnificent!” said Nicolson, jumping up. “We’ll help you.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” David demurred. “Don’t you bother. Ronald and I can manage.”
“Not a bit of it; of course we’ll give you a hand. Come along, Osbert, you lazy devil.”
“Eh? What? What’s up?”
“Hide-and-seek,” said Nicolson. “You’re seeking. Get up and do it.”
Under his rousing energy the whole party was stirred into action.
Roger noticed that, after a first few moments of uncertainty, everyone seemed to be taking the search as a huge joke. Even David’s deprecatory air did not check the growing hilarity. No doubt it was the best way to treat the situation, and really, for David’s own sake, the most tactful. It was no good going about with long faces, silently sympathising with the unfortunate Stratton in his possession of an almost insane wife. Ena was after all a joke, if rather a bad one. Come out in the open and laugh with David, instead of weeping with him.
In twos and threes the search-party worked through the various rooms.
Ronald Stratton’s house was Jacobean and spacious. It had belonged to the Stratton family for nearly three hundred years, almost ever since its erection as the dower-house of a mansion nearly six miles away. Ronald had inherited it, but not the land and the farms which had once belonged to it, or the money to keep it up properly. He had made the latter, and bought back the former.
Since it had come into his hands Ronald had spent a great deal on it. In a thoroughly dilapidated condition, it had been actually in danger of collapsing altogether. Ronald had reroofed it, replanned it, and almost rebuilt it. The top of the three stories, where the party had been held, had been completely reorganised by him. Originally this had consisted of almost a dozen small bedrooms; Ronald had ruthlessly knocked more than half of these into one huge room, running from front to back of the house, and one other almost as big; the former, with a parquet door added, had become the ballroom; the other, with one of its walls knocked completely out to open on to the lovely well-staircase, was anything from a s
tudio to a music-room. To-night it had done duty as a bar-parlour. The rest of the top floor, served by another staircase, constituted the servants’ quarters.
Ronald had been as ruthless with the roof as with the top story. He had kept only the main gables in the front of the house. The rest he had levelled and put in a concrete roof with an asphalt surface, which was just large enough for a badminton court. The game was a little windy at such a height, but Ronald played it with zest. This evening the net and posts had been stowed away, and the rather gruesome triple gallows erected in their place. Over a subsidiary roof, a few feet lower than the main roof and reached from it by a short flight of steps, had been erected a fair-sized hot-house, where Stratton amused himself with growing certain exotic plants, or it might be more accurate to say, trying to grow them. It was called the sun-parlour and furnished with wicker chairs and tables, and was usually in considerable use at dances.
As for the rest of the house, the main bedrooms and bathrooms occupied the first floor, while the library and a small morning-room opened off one side of the big hall on the ground floor, the drawing-room off the other. The kitchens were stowed away somewhere at the back, with access to the hall and through a service-door to the dining-room.
To search such a house thoroughly was no small task. At first the party confined itself to the top floor and the roof, in spite of the extreme unlikelihood of the lady being stowed away in either. Roger himself felt a little perfunctory in his seeking. He had no expectation that Mrs. Stratton really was on the premises. Most probably she had gone off to knock up some unfortunate friend and explain, with sobs and heroic gestures, and complete untruth, that her husband had practically barred her own door against her.
Nevertheless, slightly annoyed as he was at having been cut short so abruptly in his story-telling, his sense of the picturesque appreciated the appropriateness of its setting for such a search. The heavy oak beams which formed the fire-place opening and studded the unevenly-plastered walls, gleamed with age and generations of elbow-grease as they threw back the red glow of the log fire; and the carefully-placed electric lights left the quaint angles of the ceiling, which Ronald had thrown up from its original seven feet to a dozen or more to show off the roof-timbers, dim and mysterious. On the outside walls long casement windows, with the original tiny diamond panes of greenish, much-scratched glass, heavily leaded, looked out over the blackness which covered that part of the grounds lying between the house and the main road a hundred yards away. Roger opened one and leaned out. Everything was still and remote and obscure. It was odd to remember that London was within eighteen miles.
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