by Q. Patrick
“Her! You’ve pretty sharp eyes if you can tell a woman from a man in the fifth of a second.”
With ill-concealed pride, Lucas produced his last and most masterly observation. “It wasn’t when I saw her, McFee. It was afterwards, in the dark. A board creaked, then I heard her skirt rustle.”
McFee turned to Sophonisba. “Will you, please, walk towards me, Miss Dodd?”
In bewildered but blind obedience, Sophonisba started to move across the room. She was wearing a fairly short summer frock which made the faintest swishing sound as she walked.
“You mean to tell me you could hear as soft a sound as that?”
Lucas scratched his head. “No, sir, McFee, I think it was louder.”
“More like this.” McFee whipped off his apron and draped it around the lower part of his legs. He strode across the room, and this time there was an unmistakable rustling.
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Lucas, to whom McFee had now become second only to the great Nick Carter. “That’s it.”
“In other words, this woman was wearing a long dress.” McFee twisted the apron round his waist again. “Do you remember which of the women were in evening dress last night, Miss Dodd?”
Sophonisba thought a moment. “Mrs. Bernard-Moss, Mlle. Santais, Mother and me. I’m afraid we all were. You see, it was rather a special occasion.”
“A pretty piece of deduction goes down the sink, eh?” McFee turned to Lucas. “Now, my man, you’ve heard a lot of things today and you’re going to forget all about them.” He wagged a large, strong finger. “Miss Dodd and I have got you just where we want you. Whenever we feel like it, we can report you to the headmaster for eavesdropping, lying, getting out of bed after lights out and holding back material evidence from the police.”
Lucas’s gaze was fixed in fascination upon the one-time porter. “Of course I’d never tell. But”—he steeled himself for a momentous request—“but, McFee, please, do you think I could help? I’ve done this sort of thing before—honest, I have. It was me that found out about Roger’s playbox when they thought Pemberly had stolen his tuck.”
He waited breathlessly for McFee’s answer, and, to his surprise, was treated to a grave nod.
“Sure you can help. You can solve the whole thing for us. You just keep your eyes open and report to me immediately you find anything out. But remember this. Never tell anyone anything, and never act as though you knew I wasn’t a porter. If you have anything to tell, be careful you’re not being watched. That’s all.” With one hand he lifted the boy from the piano-stool and held him suspended in mid-air. “You run along now.” He set him down and gave him a playful slap. “Music-lesson’s over for today.”
Lucas made a swift but ecstatic exit, waving the Robin’s Lullaby and swearing that his time and energy would always be at the detective’s command.
“Well,” said McFee after the boy had gone, “I seem to be making quite a few partnerships today, don’t I?”
“But I still don’t think you should let that kid into it.”
“That kid!” McFee was almost crushing her fingers in his strong grip. “I may have sounded as though I was fooling with him just now, but we mustn’t underestimate the importance of young Lucas. I don’t think he realizes it, but—in my opinion, he saw the actual murder committed last night.”
VIII
AMO, AMAS …
With his departure, Stephen McFee left Sophonisba in a state of thrilled excitement. At last life at Craiglea had some point. She was no longer merely a music mistress with a salary that barely covered her lingerie and insurance stamps. She was the partner—however unimportant—of a six-foot-four thoroughbred detective. She could still feel the hard pressure of his fingers as they had shaken hands. His cryptic words about the staff still rang in her ears. Now even the mundane spectacle of Mr. Heath marching the junior boys in from drill had a certain glamour. Who knew what mysteries lurked behind the conscientiously bronzed face of the mathematics master?
Sophonisba made a careful scrutiny of that part of the elm copse which was visible from her window. Half hidden among the trees, she detected the elegant form of Mrs. Bernard-Moss. The American lady seemed very composed—not at all the popular conception of a bereaved mother, or even stepmother. She was strolling leisurely down a little path, pausing every now and then to pick a flower. This sylvan scene absorbed Sophonisba’s attention and she started at the sound of a knock on the door behind her.
That must be her next pupil. Oh, no. … A slight shiver descended upon her as she realized that this was the period for Eric Bernard-Moss.
“Come in,” she said, a trifle shakily.
The door opened to reveal the familiar form of Harvey Nettleton. As Sophonisba turned from the window, her expression hardened.
“Hello,” she said coolly. “I thought you were in class.”
Despite a certain haggard appearance, Mr. Nettleton was as immaculate as ever. His blond hair was plastered sleekly on his head and his features were as much under control as the impeccable tie and the perfectly creased trousers. In face and physique the English master much resembled a personable middle-weight boxer, but the Oxford manner and the affected drawl made one overlook this fact and suspect him of having a violet shirt or batik tie tucked away somewhere in a drawer.
The young man took out a silver cigarette-case and proffered it to her. When she refused, he lit one himself and crossed to the window.
“I’ve got a free period,” he remarked in the voice which always sounded a shade too “well-bred.” “It’s poor old Santais’s day for taking Three and Four at the same time.”
“Oh!” said Sophonisba, and turned again to the window.
In the elm copse Mrs. Bernard-Moss was still to be seen. She had picked several large sprays of Solomon Seal.
“There’s something I’ve got to tell you,” he said.
Sophonisba was rather startled by an unusually determined ring in his voice. For the first time she found herself more conscious of the man than of the clothes. The thought flashed through her mind that this day with its unusual happenings was bringing a great many new lights on familiar people—first McFee and now Harvey Nettleton. Drawing herself away, she crossed to the piano and picked up the bust of Beethoven.
“W-what is it?” she faltered.
“God knows why it’s so difficult. I’ve been funking it for weeks. It’s just a simple sentence that even Pemberly could parse or turn into Latin. Sophonisba—I love you.” He smiled a little shyly. “I know it’s awful to talk about such things at a time like this, but your nose has been haunting me day and night. Whenever I write on the blackboard, I have an insane desire to draw it. And then, there ought to be a law against your particular shade of hair. It’s like honey or marmalade, I don’t know what. As for your lips—oh, God, Sophonisba, have you ever read Herrick?”
Sophonisba opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.
“Well,” he said at length, “I seem to have laid bare my soul. What are you going to do about it?”
“Do about it?”
Sophonisba stood Beethoven on his head and spun him round like a top. Her bewildered irritation at the English master had turned into genuine anger. What right had he to be talking like this to her when he had just lied about the woman who had been in his room the night before?”
“What do you expect me to do about it?” she repeated almost fiercely.
“Oh, I don’t know. The fact that I keep on being in love with you in spite, of innumerable staff meetings and the Children’s Hymn, and nature rambles with the brats, is something to be taken into consideration, isn’t it?” Harvey Nettleton smoothed his blond hair which had become slightly disarranged. “I’ve even grown to love your name, though when I first heard it I though it must be some sort of patent medicine.”
He made a move towards her, but Sophonisba turned away.
“And who are you to talk about names?” she said acidly. “Nettleton—it sounds like a rash.”
The English master smiled. “That’s too bad,” he said quietly, “because I was going to ask you to share it and marry me.”
“Marry!” Beethoven toppled over on his side. “B-but I never thought of getting married!”
“That I refuse to believe. What you mean is you never thought of marrying me. I wonder if you’d mind telling me what’s wrong—besides the name.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Yes. Tell me some of my major vices.”
Sophonisba was on the verge of blurting out all she knew about his midnight visitors, but she checked herself just in time.
“I could tell you a few things that—that would stop me ever getting really excited about you.”
The English master flicked open his cigarette-case and lit an Abdullah. “Wait a moment,” he said with a little grimace, “while I steel myself.” A match spurted into light and a trail of heavy smoke twined to the ceiling. “Now, shoot.”
“In the first place,” began Sophonisba, regarding him with candid gray eyes, “you’re too tidy—too respectable. I could never get thrilled by that tie or those trousers. And, I’m afraid to say, I could never get thrilled by the Oxford manner. I know I’m talking like one of the skivs, but if ever I got married, it would be to someone more—out of the ordinary. Someone who did something more romantic for a living then teaching infants to paraphrase Kipling. I suppose it’s that I want something different from Craiglea and its stuffy correctness—something foreign.” She broke off abruptly, realizing with some concern that she had painted a very creditable portrait of Stephen McFee.
Nettleton had been listening solemnly, but when she finished he broke into the most unaccountable laughter.
“I’m too English—too respectable, am I? Is that all you have against me?”
Sophonisba was annoyed with him for treating her remarks so lightly.
After he had gone Sophonisba was torn by conflicting emotions. Harvey Nettleton was obviously not just the handsome, rather priggish young man she had supposed. Should she have trusted him more?
In a few moments music-lessons started again, and the dull ritual of daily life more or less distracted her mind.
IX
CONFLICT
Mr. Dodd’s fears as to the effect of the tragedy upon the school proved to be groundless. For a few days, frightened mothers did arrive at the school, but Mrs. Dodd’s dignified assurance, coupled with the fact that Mrs. Bernard-Moss was not removing her second son, reconciled them all to leaving their boys at Craiglea. Nor did the inquest itself arouse undue alarm in parental hearts. Sir Wilfrid had been as good as his word. The legal formalities were conducted with the minimum of publicity. The Heller story was not called in evidence, and no mention was made of the official status of McFee. Both the Chief Constable and the coroner agreed in camera that it was wiser not to publish these facts, and thus lay unnecessary restrictions upon investigation. Mrs. Blouser’s testimony and the findings of Dr. Woodhouse with necessary corroboration were given at some length, and finally the jury returned a verdict of death by misadventure.
The funeral ceremony was conducted quietly and attended only by Mrs. Bernard-Moss and members of the school staff. The next day Craiglea settled down, ostensibly, into its old, charming rut. The boys knew little of what had happened, and for them the changing of Moss minor’s name to plain Moss was almost the only palpable effect of the tragedy. Irving Moss himself did not seem particularly moved by the death of his brother. Naturally, the whole story of the Hellers had been kept from him, and in a few days he could be seen strolling calmly over the countryside in search of specimens to add to the collection which was now augmented by that of the deceased Eric.
If in these walks he did encounter his stepmother or Stephen McFee rather frequently, he never imagined the reason for their close vigilance. It was only natural to him that he should have more attention than any of the other less wealthy boys.
Meanwhile Mrs. Bernard-Moss had adopted England. After much moving of steamer trunks, she finally established herself in the local inn, and there, at the Goat and Compasses, she became the nucleus of a very pleasant social group. The habit grew among the members of the Craiglea staff to go round in the evening and “cheer up the American lady.” Often during the long summer twilights, Harvey Nettleton or Mr. Heath could have been seen carrying foaming tankards of beer from the bar to her small sitting-room on the ground floor. The sound of her deep, sympathetic voice would filter through the open window and mingle with the more brassy one of masculine laughter in the taproom. Even Mr. and Mrs. Dodd accepted Mrs. Bernard-Moss’s overflowing hospitality, and would sip an occasional cup of tea with her on their free afternoons.
On the first morning of her stay at the Goat and Compasses, Stephen McFee had appeared. He reminded her of the cricket-ball episode, and warned her that she was as much in danger as her stepson. He urged her to come back to the school where he could keep her under close vigilance. But Mrs. Bernard-Moss shook her head at his fears. She crossed to a drawer and showed him a minute mother-of-pearl revolver.
“You see,” she said with a downward droop of her lovely mouth. “I’ll be able to look after myself all right.”
Mrs. Bernard-Moss’s personality was not expended upon the school staff alone. In a very few days she had ingratiated herself with the entire rustic population of Craiglea, and her rambles in the country soon took upon themselves the nature of a regal progress. In rather too new and too well cut tweeds, she could be soon regularly every morning before breakfast, strolling down the village street, throwing a greeting here, receiving a touch of the cap there, inquiring after the health of babies and being offered rides in ancient, rickety hay-carts. There was not a single person in the neighborhood who had remained adamant before the persuasion of the “foreign lady’s” charm.
Even Irving himself had been impressed by his stepmother’s popularity and her purchase of several expensive books on the natural sciences. In time he grew accustomed to her constant presence, and together they made frequent excursions through the summer meadows, where Mrs. Bernard-Moss would ask well-meaning but vague questions as to the names and habits of wild flowers, butterflies, pond insects and birds. She had even persuaded Mr. Dodd to waive the school rules in favor of Irving, and to allow him to get up and walk with her before breakfast.
“Our time together is so limited,” she argued, “that I do feel we ought to see as much of each other as possible. After all, a stepmother’s position is so difficult, and I want to get to know the boy and understand his interests.”
Persuasive as she was, it is a slight exaggeration of the truth to say that no one at Craiglea had reserved their judgment upon Mrs. Bernard-Moss. St. John Lucas, in his role of detective’s aid, had her name inscribed high upon the list of suspects which he had seen fit to compile in a grubby black notebook. But this was not particularly significant, for there was hardly a person at Craiglea who did not figure upon that ever-increasing roll of dishonor.
Nor could Sophonisba’s distrust of the lady be taken very seriously. She herself realized that it was grounded more upon Harvey Nettleton’s frequent visits to the Goat and Compasses than upon anything more criminally suspicious.
Three weeks after the crime, she was hastily patting the “marmalade” hair at the mirror in preparation for McFee’s knock. Old Kettering, the original school porter, had returned in the capacity of assistant, but, the detective still carried on most of his school duties. In particular, he continued the practice of bringing Sophonisba her midday milk.
“Come in.”
The door opened and McFee entered, still wearing the familiar apron and khaki shirt. He put the tray down on the piano and grinned at her friendlily.
“Well, Miss Dodd, here we are again. I think I’ve got a job for you.”
Sophonisba’s cheeks flushed with pleasure. “A job? Oh, how thrilling!”
“You remember how I told you once we’d be hearing more about Mlle. Santais’s mai
l? Well, we have. At last I’ve tracked it down.” McFee’s eyes had a certain grim amusement in them. “And I tracked it to the most obvious place. Sir Wilfrid’s men are supposed to be scouring the country for information. They didn’t, however, go to the post office in their own home town of Saltmarsh.”
“So that’s—!”
“Yes. I’ve noticed that our French friend walks into Saltmarsh pretty regularly. Yesterday I had time to follow her. She went to the post office and came out reading a letter. Of course I could have stopped her, but I didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Hardly the porter’s job to beard a member of the staff. I thought if you were to go back to the post office, you could ask for her mail and see what happens. You know, I-just-happened-to be-passing line. Will you do that?”
When it came to the point, Sophonisba felt an unreasonable and English reluctance at prying into the affairs of others, but finally she let herself be persuaded. After all, it was McFee’s first request, and, as he pointed out rather acidly, if Mlle. Santais had nothing discreditable to hide, no harm could possibly be done.
“I’m free this afternoon,” she said at length. “I’ll be able to get there and back in time for tea.”
“Swell.”
X
THE INNOCENT VOYAGE
At half-past two that afternoon, Sophonisba extracted her bicycle from the shed and started off on her five-mile trip to Saltmarsh. It was one of those perfect summer days when nature seems to make a conscious effort to appear at its best. Scarlet poppies studded the wheat-fields like rubies on a golden gown, red admirals skimmed majestically up and down the hedgerows, while in every bush the yellowhammers proclaimed to the world their passionate desire for “a-little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese.”
The ride to Saltmarsh was accomplished in record time. The larks sang lustily, the strip of sea glistened in the afternoon sun, the scabious flaunted their purple blossoms under the hedges, but Sophonisba heard or saw none of them. It was not until she reached the outskirts of the small cathedral city with its carts and occasional motors that she began to pay attention to her surroundings. It was a Wednesday and Saltmarsh had given itself up to a sleepy, mid-week siesta. There was barely a shopper on the main street, and Sophonisba had the little bicycle-rack outside the post office entirely to herself.
