Death in the Dentist’s Chair: A Golden Age Mystery
Page 24
“Marlowe’s of age, you know,” the Duke reminded her mildly.
“Marlowe will get over this foolish infatuation if only he’s given time,” she retorted with magnificent finality.
The Duke rose to his feet.
“Constantine,” he said, “have you ever met a more obstinate beggar than my son?”
Constantine’s laughter was so unexpected and infectious that the veiled amusement in the Duke’s eyes deepened and the Duchess stared at him in pained surprise.
“I’m sorry,” he said, as soon as he could speak, “but your father asked me that very question in practically the same words not so many years ago. The answer is in the affirmative.”
For the first time since the beginning of their interview, the Duchess permitted herself a somewhat wry smile.
“Marlowe takes after his father,” she said, “and I couldn’t tell you, Doctor Constantine, what they can both be like when they deliberately set out to be annoying. If I hadn’t thought Bertie was lunching at his stupid club I should never have asked you to come to-day.”
The Duke, who realized that, truly earnest herself, she had never really succeeded in understanding flippancy, looked genuinely apologetic.
“Spiked your guns, my dear,” he said. “I’m sorry. But Constantine’s got to hear my side of the argument some time, and it may as well be now as later. Coming, Constantine?”
And, evading his wife’s wrathful eye, he snatched her guest from under her very nose and bore him off to the library.
Once there, he proceeded to deal with the whole business with his customary clearness and brevity.
“Marlowe’s old enough to know his own mind. He wants to marry the girl and, though I cannot make my wife see it, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t marry her. She’s been brought up as carefully, in fact more so, than some of the girls my wife looks upon as suitable. According to Marlowe, there’s an old martinet of a grandfather in the background who has looked after her since she was a baby, and whose hair would stand on end at the sight of some of the diversions of our bright young people. She’s a charming girl and perfectly presentable. I believe her to be genuinely fond of the boy and I like her, and I’m not going to stand in their way.”
He bent over the fire and kicked a log into position with the toe of his shoe, then, with a glance, half whimsical, half shy, over his shoulder at Constantine:
“The truth is, I want to see my grandchildren before I die, and it was beginning to look as if there was deuced little chance of my wish ever being gratified. If you can talk my wife round, Constantine, I shall be grateful”.
Constantine nodded. He understood.
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “It would be easier if I knew the lady’s name. Neither of you have seen fit to enlighten me so far!”
The Duke laughed.
“Ridiculous situation, really,” he agreed. “Betty Anthony is the name, and her grandfather plays the fiddle or something in the Parthenon orchestra. Now you know the worst, and it is the worst, I assure you.”
Before he left Steynes House Constantine had definitely made up his mind that this time, at least, he would not be coerced by the Duchess into any line of conduct but his own, and, by token of his independence, had arranged to meet the young couple at dinner at the Trastevere on the following night.
The Duchess rang him up twice next morning, but drew a blank each time. The respectful Manners who shared with the staff at Steynes House a comprehensive grasp of the whole situation, could only assure her that his master was out and that he could not say when he would be back. She gave instructions which be dutifully imparted to Constantine on his return soon after lunch.
“Her Grace requested that you would ring her up immediately on your return, sir,” he said, as he helped his master off with his coat.
“In that case I think we will assume, for the time being, that I have not yet come back,” replied Constantine firmly.
Half an hour later Manners entered the study, discreetly closing the door behind him
“I understood you to say that you were not at home, sir,” he began, in a somewhat hushed voice.
Constantine’s mind flew to the Duchess of Steynes. She must indeed be hard pressed if she had gone so far as to come to the flat.
“Who wishes to see me?” he asked.
“Lord Marlowe is in the drawing-room. I said that I would ascertain whether you had returned, sir.”
Constantine threw the book he had been reading on the table.
“Of course I’m in!” he exclaimed.
There was a conspiratorial flavour about Manners’s stately withdrawal which suggested that, Duchess or no Duchess, interruptions would not mar the coming interview.
“This is a pleasant surprise . . .” began Constantine as his visitor entered the room, then broke off at the sight of his face. “My dear boy, is anything the matter?”
Lord Marlowe, a more sturdy, loose-knit, bronzed edition of his father, obviously had no time for preliminaries.
“Doctor Constantine,” he said, “is it true that you’ve got a pull with the fellows at Scotland Yard?”
“I know one or two fairly influential people there,” admitted Constantine.
A smile flickered for an instant on Marlowe’s lips.
“You’ve heard my news from my mother, I know,” he went on, “and I’m afraid her description of Betty may have been a bit biased. It’s on her account that I’m here. She’s worrying herself sick, and we can’t get the local police to move. They seem to think the matter isn’t serious. Personally, I’m inclined to believe that it is. You see, I know old Anthony.”
“Is that Miss Anthony’s grandfather? Surely he hasn’t got on the wrong side of the law?”
“Good heavens, no! But he went out last night to play quartettes with some friends as usual, and he hasn’t been seen since.”
“You mean that he’s actually disappeared?”
Marlowe nodded.
“Utterly and entirely. He’s simply vanished,” he said.
Published by Dean Street Press 2016
Copyright © 1932 Molly Thynne
Introduction Copyright © 2016 Curtis Evans
All Rights Reserved
This ebook is published by licence, issued under the UK Orphan Works Licensing Scheme.
First published in 1932 by Hutchinson as Murder in the Dentist’s Chair
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 911413 60 8
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk