Dead or Alive: A Frank Garrett Mystery

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Well, as a matter of fact, Mr Coverdale—”

  “He hasn’t?” He got up. “I wonder if you would kindly let him know, Miss Cannock. I am afraid I must see him.”

  Miss Cannock got up too. Her scarf slipped from her shoulders and she made an awkward flustered movement to pick it up.

  “So very difficult, Mr Coverdale—such strict orders—I hope you realize. I’ll see what I can do, but he is, as I said before, so immersed.”

  Bill went to the door and opened it.

  “Will you tell him that I want to speak to him about his niece—about Mrs O’Hara,” he said.

  Miss Cannock clutched at her scarf.

  “Oh certainly, Mr Coverdale. You may rely on me to do my best, but these very clever men are all alike—a world of their own—no interruptions—and, I am afraid, sadly vague about family affairs. I have had to urge, positively to urge him to answer Mrs O’Hara’s letters, and very often without success, but you may rely on me to do my best—oh yes.”

  She went out, smiling her crooked smile. As if half unconsciously, she turned to shut the door, but more because of some inward antagonism than for any real reason Bill kept his hold of it and watched her, after a moment’s hesitation, cross the hall and pass out of sight down a passage of which he could see only the nearer end. He thought he would keep the door open. If there were to be any comings and goings, he might as well be aware of them. He disliked that Cannock woman a good deal, and remembered stout, placid Miss Wallace with regret.

  Time went by. A clock struck three. That would be the old wall-clock which had faced the barometer across the hall at Way’s End. It wheezed a little between the strokes, and unless it had set up new habits in the last year, the time was now half past three. The hands would be all right, but for some reason which no one had ever fathomed, the strike was always half an hour behind. It must be nearly twenty minutes since Miss Cannock had gone away. He wondered what she was doing and whether she wouldn’t just come back presently and say, with that smiling lisp, that the Professor was too “immersed” to see him.

  He walked to the left-hand window and stood looking out upon the lake. It was dark and leaden with the reflection of the low cloud overhead. A slight drizzle had begun, and already there was a suggestion of mist on the ground beyond the water’s edge. He was prepared to bet that there would be fog here five nights out of seven in the winter. He could see the bridge going over to the island—all of it, that is, except the bit nearest the house, which was hidden by what he guessed to be the drawing-room bay. The island looked like some ridiculous toy, with its high walls and two chimney-pots sticking up like ears from the sloping roof of the house inside. He remembered that the bridge had a door at either end, and he wondered whether the Professor had locked himself in on his island and was refusing to answer Miss Cannock’s not very insistent knock. He had the feeling that she would not try unduly hard to make him hear.

  He turned back to the room and went over to the hearth. There was no fire. He wondered how long it was since there had been one. Everything smelt damp—and that after the driest summer on record. What the place would be like in a wet winter beggared imagination. What a mutt Henry Postlethwaite was!

  He stood frowning at the mantelpiece, a depressing piece of work executed in a marble which looked exactly like jellied brawn. The little blue and gold enamelled clock which had belonged to Meg’s grandmother ticked softly between the blue candlesticks which she had been so fond of. These three things had been at Way’s End, but not the horrible family of wooden bears, or the olive-wood box, or the really dreadful photograph frame—silver filigree upon red plush. These bespoke Miss Cannock, and he found himself most savagely resenting them. The frame contained a photograph of the Professor, a badly taken snapshot several times enlarged. From the resulting blur he gathered that Henry Postlethwaite had taken to a beard.

  His frown deepened. What was Miss Cannock doing taking snapshots of the Professor, having them enlarged, and framing them? It seemed to him that the old man wanted looking after. True, he had managed to remain a bachelor for seventy years or so, but he was so vague that a determined woman might almost marry him before he woke up sufficiently to resist. He thought Meg had better take the matter in hand. The prospect of having the Cannock as an aunt was most unnerving.

  He had another look at the hall, and found it dark and empty. Even considering the afternoon, no house ought to be as dark as this.

  He emerged and looked about him. The door immediately opposite would lead into the drawing-room. The staircase went up on the right between him and the front door, and rose to a gallery which ran round three sides of the hall. The passage down which Miss Cannock had disappeared divided the rooms at the front of the house from those at the back. He strolled across to have a look at it, and found it even darker than the hall. It had no window of any kind, and when the doors which gave upon it were shut, as they were at present, it resembled one of those gloomy corridors in an old-fashioned country hotel. Bill wondered whether it was all one level, or whether, after the manner of such passages, it concealed an unexpected step or two in its shadows.

  He was just thinking that he had never been in any house that he liked so little, when a door at the far end of the passage opened, letting in a grey light, and against that light he saw Henry Postlethwaite.

  With the cheerful feeling that at last something was going to happen, Bill advanced along the passage. There was a sudden step down which nearly cost him his balance, and as he recovered himself he heard behind him the voice of the man-servant saying,

  “This way, sir, if you please.”

  This presumably meant the way he was going, so he held on with a “Hullo, Professor!”

  The door at the end of the passage remained open and afforded enough light for him to see that Henry Postlethwaite was coming to meet him. There was another step, up this time. He stubbed his toe, and then they were shaking hands and he was saying,

  “Very nice to see you again, Professor.”

  “Yes—yes—” said Henry Postlethwaite vaguely. He stood where he was, a stooping shadow with the leonine head and shaggy mane of hair which were so effective in a photograph. The new beard showed as a grey blur against his dark coat.

  Bill came straight to the point. You always had to if you wanted to talk to the Professor.

  “I know you’re most awfully busy, sir, so I won’t keep you, but I want to speak to you about Meg.”

  “Ah—yes—Meg—” said Henry Postlethwaite in his gentle voice. “Ah yes—Meg—how is she? It’s a long time since I’ve seen her.”

  “If there is somewhere we can talk, sir—”

  The Professor patted his shoulder.

  “Yes—yes. Are you in London—are you making any stay?”

  “I’m home for good, sir. The firm is giving me my uncle’s place on the board. But I wanted to talk to you about Meg.”

  It was exactly like the Professor to prop the wall, and to remain impervious to any attempts to shift him. Well, if he had got to talk about Meg’s affairs in a passage, he had got to, and that was all about it. He wasn’t going away without talking about them, and at least Miss Cannock had made herself scarce.

  “Yes—yes—” said Henry Postlethwaite—“in town, you say. Then I wonder if you would find it troublesome to go to Malverey’s in the Strand and ask them whether they have been able to trace that early pamphlet of Hoppenglocker’s that I have been inquiring about. If I could show over his own signature—”

  Bill repressed a groan.

  “All right,” he said. “But about Meg, Professor—I wonder if you’ve had all her letters. She’s in a very difficult position, and I think she’s more than hard up—I believe she’s starving herself. I don’t know what O’Hara had to leave, but she can’t touch any of it until his death has been proved. I’m trying to make her see her solicitor—she ought to have done it long ago, but—”

  The Professor laid a hand upon his arm.

 
“Yes, yes, my dear boy—but just now I haven’t time. Of course if Meg wants money—she’d better write to me and tell me how she stands. Did you say she had written? These country post offices are not always very efficient, which is why I should be grateful if you would look in at Malverey’s for me about that pamphlet. The early Hoppenglockers are scarce—very scarce—and before I’ve done with him Hoppenglocker will be wishing they were scarcer still, because if my memory serves me right—and I think it does—in fact I’m sure it does—he has committed himself to a statement—I believe it is on page four—which I can use with really pulverising effect. Hoppenglocker may have forgotten what he wrote in 1903, but I have not.” He finished on a triumphant note, patted Bill on the shoulder, and said, “You won’t forget—Malverey’s in the Strand,” and, turning, began to walk back along the passage.

  Bill hurried after him.

  “But, sir—one moment—” Then, in desperation, “I don’t know the name of the pamphlet you want.”

  Henry Postlethwaite checked that drifting walk of his. He half turned and spoke over his shoulder.

  “Number three in the first series—Wesensgleichheit der Wissenschaft. I have the other two. At least—” he put his hand to his head and dragged at his hair—“at least I should have—but this move—I must ask Miss Cannock—an invaluable secretary—invaluable.”

  “I don’t think I got that name, Professor. You’ll have to write it down for me. Perhaps if we could come somewhere where there’s a bit more light—”

  “Yes, yes,” said Henry Postlethwaite—“number three in the first series. And I’m pretty sure the passage I want is on the fourth page—rather near the top—a right-hand page.” He produced a note-book and tore out a leaf, which he handed to Bill. “Write it down—write it down. I’ll give you a pencil. Ah, here you are! Now write it down carefully, so that there’s no mistake—Wesensgleichheit der Wissenschaft.” He spelt the words out letter by letter.

  Bill put the paper in his pocket.

  “Professor, I really do want to have a talk with you.”

  Henry Postlethwaite began to walk away from him again.

  “Another day, my dear boy, another day.”

  “But Meg, Professor—her affairs won’t wait. I wouldn’t be worrying you like this if they weren’t urgent. She won’t take money from me, and—”

  The Professor stopped by the half open door through which he had come.

  “No, no—of course not,” he said—“naturally not—she wouldn’t care to do that. She had better come down here. Yes, yes, she had better come down here on a visit. Tell her to write to Miss Cannock. I am very busy—very busy indeed. And you won’t forget to go to Malverey’s, my dear boy, because that is important. And now if you will excuse me.” He went through the doorway and shut the door behind him.

  Bill turned with an exasperated shrug of the shoulders and made his way back to the gloomy hall. There was no one in sight, and there seemed to be nothing to wait for.

  He found his hat, let himself out, and proceeded once again to skirt the lake. Quite definitely a mist was now rising off the water. There was a smell of rotting leaves. He looked back at the house and thought of Meg going to stay there, and hoped with all his heart that she wouldn’t go.

  He walked on, and just where the drive rose he halted again for a last look at the island. He supposed that the Professor had gone back to it by now. Very bad for him shutting himself up like that. Meg ought to try and shake him out of it. The old woman who had built the house on the island and then walled it all round like a prison must have been as mad as a hatter. You could just see one window over the top of the wall, and no more. The house had a gable, and the window showed—a bare foot of it. He was just going to turn away, when this small square of glass broke suddenly. Something came through it with violence—something with an edge to it that showed for a moment and then was gone, with the effect of having been snatched away.

  Bill stared, but could see no more than a dark star-shaped splintering of the glass behind which nothing moved. No sound came from it. Only a very loud sound would have carried that distance. There was no sound at all.

  Bill walked on. Someone had broken a window. It was odd, but it wasn’t his business.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I don’t want you to go,” said Bill Coverdale.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Meg O’Hara.

  They were in Meg’s sitting-room. The time was about eleven o’clock in the morning, and Bill had been giving an account of his visit to Ledstow the day before. With a good deal of reluctance he passed on Henry Postlethwaite’s invitation. Meg might have felt reluctant too if she had either seen Ledstow Place—or not been so hungry. Everything is comparative, and the comparison between dry bread and milkless tea for breakfast, lunch, and supper in London, with three if not four meals a day in even the dreariest of country places, is all in favour of the latter. Also, the tea was running out, and by the end of the week the money would have run out too and there wouldn’t be any more bread. So Meg O’Hara said, “Beggars can’t be choosers,” and managed a smile as she said it.

  “Come out and lunch with me,” said Bill abruptly.

  Meg brightened a little.

  “It’s too early for lunch,” she said.

  Bill had another timely recollection.

  “Come and have an elevens. We can have lunch afterwards.”

  Meg hesitated for a moment. Was she going to tell him that there had been someone in the flat the night he had brought her home? She wasn’t sure. If it wasn’t Robin, she could tell him, but if it was—if it was—

  “No good bottling things up.” Bill’s voice was very quiet. “You’d better tell me what’s been happening.”

  It was no good—she must tell him. She couldn’t bear it alone. If you hadn’t anyone to talk to, you stopped seeing things as they really were. They got bigger and bigger until you felt as if something was going to burst.

  She told Bill about the lights having gone wrong, and about waking up in the night and hearing someone in the sitting-room.

  “Pity you didn’t see who it was,” said Bill when she had finished.

  A light shudder ran over Meg. Suppose she had had a match. Suppose she had struck it and seen Robin—looking at her. He had looked at her in so many ways—lightly, appraisingly, coldly, tauntingly, cruelly, and with what she had taken for love. That hurt most to remember now. The shudder threatened to become uncontrollable. Whoever had been in her sitting-room that night has passed her so near that they might with any unreckoned movement have touched. If he had touched her, she would have known whether it was Robin O’Hara.

  Bill’s voice broke in upon her thought.

  “Why wouldn’t the lights go on?”

  This at least was easily answered.

  “Because the bulbs had been taken out.”

  “The hall light was all right when you went in.”

  “Yes, I know, Bill—that was clever, because if the hall light hadn’t gone on, you would have come in to see what was the matter. But I didn’t find out there was anything wrong till you had gone, and of course I hadn’t got a candle, so I just left the hall light on and my door open. Then, after I was asleep, my door was shut and the hall bulb taken away.” The shiver went over her again.

  “Where were the bulbs?”

  “One on the sitting-room mantelpiece—that was the one I found and put in—and the others on the kitchen table.”

  “What was he looking for?” said Bill.

  “Do you think he was looking for something?”

  “Must have been, otherwise the whole show is pointless.”

  Meg shook her head. She was very white. Her eyes avoided his.

  “It might have been—to frighten me.”

  “Why should anyone want to frighten you? Who would want to frighten you?”

  Her silence said the name she would not speak. If she had had any other name in her mind she would have spoken it aloud.
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  “It’s the most preposterous nonsense!” said Bill violently.

  Meg nodded. She was thinking of other preposterous things which Robin O’Hara had done.

  “My dear girl, be practical!” said Bill. “Nobody took all that trouble and risk for nothing. Oh yes, it was a risk all right—I might have come in with you and caught him on the premises.”

  She shook her head.

  “No—he wasn’t here then.”

  “How do you know?” His voice was quick and angry.

  “I don’t know how I know, but I do know. There wasn’t anyone here when I came in.”

  “You mean he came and took out the bulbs and went away again, and then came back when you were asleep?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, that’s how it was. I’m quite sure there wasn’t anyone here when I came home.”

  Bill was frowning heavily.

  “Have you been through the drawer? Is anything missing?”

  She made a little helpless gesture.

  “I don’t know. You see, the things in that drawer weren’t mine—at least most of them weren’t. It was Robin’s drawer, and I’ve never really been through it. I suppose I ought to have, but—” Her voice died away on the word.

  “So you’ve no means of knowing whether anything was taken?”

  She shook her head in a hesitating way. Then she said rather breathlessly,

  “The card might have come from there.”

  “What card?”

  She got up, went over to the writing-table, and came back again. There was a small white card in her hand. She laid it on Bill’s outstretched palm and went and sat down again. She was glad to sit down again, because her knees were shaking.

  Bill looked at Robin O’Hara’s card and said sharply,

  “Where was this?”

  Meg pointed at the little walnut table, now heaped with books and papers.

  “That was out in the middle of the room. All the books and papers had been cleared off it. They were on the sofa. There wasn’t anything on the table except that card.”