CHAPTER V
AT LADYBIRD FOLD
"COME in," he continued, assisting his companion over the threshold."I won't switch a light on in the hall until I close the door. Jollyqueer about it being open. There'll be a court of enquiry in themorning."
A violent scratching upon the study door attracted his attention.
"That's Ponto and Nan--my sheep-dogs," he explained. "Wonder whythey are locked in? They ought to be in the kennels. They're quietenough: they won't bite."
Entwistle smiled grimly. Peter's idea of quiet seemed ratherpeculiar, for the animals were barking furiously and redoublingtheir attacks upon the door.
"The paintwork?" echoed Barcroft in answer to his companion'senquiry, as he proceeded to hang up his cap and coat. "Oh, thatwon't matter. You see, there's a curtain on the inside and thathides the marks."
He opened the door of the study, to be greeted with a blaze ofdazzling light and a couple of shaggy-haired dogs, who hurledthemselves upon him in an ecstasy of delight.
"Down, down, both of you! Kennel up," ordered their master.
The dogs obeyed, Ponto retiring to the limited space between thepedestals of the roll-top desk while Nan bounded into the largearm-chair by the fire.
"That's better," said Barcroft composedly, glancing at the desk tosee if any letter had arrived. "Now take it easy for a bit. There'sthe telephone. I'll scout round and see what's going. Whisky? Good!Excuse me a minute while I look for some stuff for your foot."
Philip Entwistle settled himself in the only vacant arm-chair andtook stock of his immediate surroundings. The study was a fairlylarge room, measuring, roughly, thirty feet by twenty. On the sidefacing south were three broad casement windows, now heavilycurtained with a light-proof fabric. The door was on the easternside, opening into a spacious hall. The remaining walls were blankexcept for the old-fashioned fireplace. Oak panelling and massivebeams of the same material--wood that had been in position for closeon three hundred years--gave an old-time appearance to the room. Thefurniture was hardly in keeping with the place. Presumably it wasfor utility. The large pedestal, roll-top desk occupied aproportionate position against the west wall. Almost every availablebit of wall-space was taken up with book-cases groaning under theweight of volumes of all sizes and ages, from the leatherbound tomesof the late Stuart period to the modern "sevenpenny." Not a picturewas in evidence. Instead, above the book-shelves the walls wereadorned with pieces of medieval armour and weapons ranging from theElizabethan musketoon and pike to the latest type of magazine rifle.Above the fireplace was a seven-feet-scale model of a super-Dreadnoughtthat, in its sombre garb of battleship grey, contrastedstrongly with the black and yellow striped hull and dun-colouredcanvas of an eighteenth century frigate that adorned another partof the room.
The study, like the rest of the house, was lighted by electricity--adiscovery that Peter Barcroft had made with huge satisfaction. Itwas, indeed, a rare chance to hit upon an isolated dwelling, in acommanding, lofty situation, well-built and supplied with water, gasand electricity. The secret lay in the fact that at one time it hadbeen the residence of the manager of the nearest bleaching works.Had it been daylight one would have noticed a line of hefty postssupporting a cable-system that ran up hill and down dale almost asfar as the eye could reach. At certain intervals the supports bore alarge board on which was painted in bold letters: "Dangerous--10,000volts"--a warning to the youth of the district who might feeltempted to fly kites over the wires or even to climb the poles outof sheer exuberance of juvenile spirits.
It was from this cable by means of a "transformer" that LadybirdFold derived its supply of electric current, and, as it happened,the works had not received any warning that night of the raid--acircumstance that contributed greatly to the comfort of PeterBarcroft's den.
From his chair Entwistle glanced at his host's desk and shuddered.The cover had been left rolled back, disclosing a veritable chaos ofpapers, reference books, writing materials, pipes and two largetobacco-jars. The pigeon-holes were crammed to bursting-point with amedley of papers, particularly the one labelled "Letters to beanswered." From another gaped the crumpled ends of what wereevidently a number of cheques that awaited a favourable opportunityon the part of the busy author (he put in an occasional two hours aday, be it remembered) to be paid into the Barborough Bank. A thicklayer of dust covered the desk, although everything else in the roomwas fairly clear if the patches of tobacco ash on the carpet squarewere not taken into account. It was part of Peter's creed to knockout his pipes on the heel of his boot and deposit their remains onthe floor, convenient ash-trays notwithstanding. For one thing itkept the moth away.
The dust, too, upon the desk was the result of studied design. The"help" from the village--a temporary importation pending Mrs.Barcroft's return and provided she was successful in her distractingquest--had been strictly enjoined, browbeaten and threatened withdivers pains and penalties, not to disturb Peter's papers. With luckhe could find what he wanted in five minutes; without, in an hour.That is, if the desk had been left severely alone. Otherwise, shouldthe timorous female dare to "side-up"--a Lancashire expression thatpuzzled Barcroft tremendously at first--the quest would be almosthopeless.
Had Philip Entwistle been more inquisitive and observant he mighthave noticed that on the top of the pile of literary debris were twoobjects that showed no signs of a coating of dust. One was a boundvolume entitled _The Theories of Modern Naval Warfare_--a work ofPeter's that had been responsible for a price being set upon thehead of that as yet unconscious-of-the-fact worthy. The other was abatch of manuscript comprising his nearly completed book _The GreatReckoning--and After._
The reappearance of his host with a tray bearing a tantalus, syphonand a couple of glasses, cut short Entwistle's casual survey.
"How goes it now?" asked Barcroft. "Telephoned?"
"You certainly said, 'There's the telephone,'" replied his guest,"but failed to explain to my satisfaction where 'there' is.Consequently that solemn and protracted rite has not yet beenperformed."
"Sorry," said Peter with a laugh. "My mistake entirely. I ought tohave mentioned that that convenient but much maligned instrument isin the hall. There's a great-coat hanging over it: my device todeaden the nerve-racking sound of the bell."
Entwistle shuffled across the room. In spite of the fact that he wasnow wearing a pair of his host's capacious slippers the injured footoccasioned him more pain than while he was on his way to the house.
He left the door ajar. Barcroft could hear him thumping the as yetunresponsive machine. Quite five minutes passed before his guestcould "get on."
"Number four four five, Barborough ... what--engaged ... no reply?Well, try again."
More violent manipulation of the telephone accompanied by a flow offorcible language resulted in the desired object being attained.
"That you, Vi?... Yes,.. yes,.. no, I wasn't injured ... what'sthat? Church Street knocked out of existence.... Not nervous? That'sgood. I'm speaking from Ladybird Fold, Tarleigh. Tell Jarvis to runthe car over for me in the morning. Yes, about ten. Good-night."
Returning to his study he found Peter at his desk.
"Needn't have worried so much about my wife," he announced. "She'squite plucky over it. She even chipped me at having missed theexcitement."
Barcroft did not reply. He was regarding his desk with a distinctlypreoccupied air.
"Dash the L.L.P." he exclaimed, addressing the room in generalrather than his guest. "I'll swear she's been meddling with mypapers. And she left that door open. I'll let her know who rulesthis show."
"Who's L.L.P.?" enquired Entwistle.
His host laughed.
"Merely the help," he replied. "Carter's her name. I call her LittleLiver Pill--she reminds me of one. L.L.P, for short, you know."
"Might be your friend Andrew Norton," suggested the other.
"By Jove, yes! I hadn't thought of that," was the reply. "All thesame, I don't think he would touch my desk. It's just likely that ina pr
eoccupied moment (although as a rule he isn't given that way) hemay have gone home and left the lights switched on and the dooropen. Hulloa, this looks queer! I wonder if Norton got into a funkover the Zep.?"
Barcroft pointed to a pipe lying on the mantelpiece. It was freshlyfilled and the tobacco was slightly charred, indicating that theowner had been interrupted in the act of lighting up.
"His pipe," he continued. "And he seems a fairly methodical fellow,not likely to leave anything behind. Hope he's all right. If itwasn't for the fact that I've had a long tramp and it's close on onethirty I'd run across to his place."
"What sort of a man is he?" enquired Entwistle.
"Decent--quite. Nothing of the bore about him, or I would havechoked him off very quickly," replied Barcroft grimly. "Quiteinformal, and different from the ordinary type of caller when afellow comes into a fresh district. You know the sort--stiff-neckedblighters of both sexes who pay formal calls for the sole purpose offinding out who you are, what you are and what you've got. In mycase, I suppose, they expect to find a sort of untamed curiosity:that's how they regard literary men, I believe. But my time is tooprecious to waste in that way, so I let them know it pretty quickly.Ah, there are the trains running again," he added as a dull rumblewas borne to their ears. "Zep. show's over for to-night. Keen onbed?"
"Not very," replied Entwistle. "Are you?"
"I'm going to wait up for Billy," said the fond parent. "Wonder whatthe young bounder is doing now?"
As he spoke came the sounds of quick, firm footsteps up the cobbledpath. Before Peter could get across the room the door was thrownopen and Flight-Sub-lieutenant Barcroft, his face blackened withsmoke and dust and his great-coat bearing signs of rough usage,burst into the room.
"Cheer-o, pater!" he exclaimed. "Sorry I'm late. Some night, eh,what?"
Billy Barcroft, R.N.A.S.: A Story of the Great War Page 5
