“Well, there is that point of view, of course.”
Laura regarded her employer with deep distrust, and snorted indignantly.
“You might let me in on your secrets,” she said “Why are we going to the chalet?”
“In the words of the late Mr. Asquith…”
Laura bit back some rude words, and said, in place of them:
“Do we go armed? It will be two against two, you know, if you turn out to be wrong about an attempt being made tonight, and I don’t see Henrietta and that sister of hers—Cyril’s housekeeper-wife—sticking at much. After all, with two murders to their credit (if you can call it that) already…”
“I do not think we shall be running into danger tonight. If I thought we should, I would not have agreed so readily to your accompanying me to the chalet.”
“You mean that, when Mrs. Cyril realises that Cyril hasn’t come home, she’ll suspect there are wheels within wheels and won’t chance her arm? Well, you’re the psychologist, so I daresay you’re right. Nevertheless, much as I dislike firearms, I’d be a lot happier for once if you toted your tiny rod along with you.”
“Very well, and you will arm yourself with…?”
“A stout ashplant. When do we start?”
“I think we will give Mrs. Cyril Dysey a little time to realise that her husband is a long while gone from the farm. I imagine he may be telling the truth when he said that she was there. Perhaps you would go and tell George that we shall need the car in an hour from now.”
“You know, there’s one thing I don’t understand about these murderers, whoever they are,” said Laura, when she had returned from this errand. “If their idea was to secure the inheritance for Henry—and it’s the only motive which makes sense—why haven’t they killed Cyril before this? They obviously thought the memorial in the church meant that Bonamy was dead, but with Cyril only in his fifties he may live another twenty or thirty years and, in the end, double-cross Henry by leaving the property elsewhere.”
“I think such a course is the last one which Mr. Cyril would contemplate taking, but one never knows. The thing which puzzles me about the murders is the lapse of time between the deaths of Mr. Thomas and Mr. Eustace.”
“I suppose they wanted the hunt to die down, and any possible clues to disappear, before they tried again.”
“Possibly. Another possibility is simply that the opportunity to kill Mr. Eustace was a long time in presenting itself. It may even be that there was some reluctance to kill Mr. Eustace. However, all these things may be made clear later on.”
“I can’t wait to find out how one gets into the house from that flanking tower,” said Laura. “Gavin suspected it, you know.”
“It was most intelligent of you to deduce that there was an entrance there.”
“Oh, no, it wasn’t, either! We’ve often wondered why Tom’s body was left there.”
“There seems only one rational explanation. The original intention, I fancy, was to leave it in the priest’s hole.”
“Well, why wasn’t it left in it?”
“A moment’s thought will give you the answer to that.”
“Oh, yes, of course. They realised that Eustace also knew how to get into the priest’s hole, and that, if they put the body there, he’d guess at once who dunnit. But that implicates either Cyril or Mrs. Tom Dysey up to the hilt, doesn’t it?”
“Or the two of them in collusion, unless, of course, it was Eustace who murdered Tom and then got killed in his turn, but to me it seems unlikely that that is what happened.”
“I still think a strong case can be made out against those two sisters, Henrietta Slepe and Mrs. Cyril, you know. If they are the guilty ones, I bet Cyril was only snooping around in the hope of finding the Ravens’ Hoard. I say, he must have had a facer when you gave him in charge! Will you really let him stand trial and all that?”
“Oh, yes. Why not? After all, he did break in, did he not?”
“Well, he wasn’t here to do any harm, was he? And the vicar was about right to be somewhat astounded by your action, although, of course, what the poor man couldn’t know is that in this particular case the end justifies the means. Couldn’t you have pointed that out to him? I hate to have people cast a slur on your good name.”
“It was better that the vicar should be kept in ignorance of my aims just at present. Rehearse for me your reasons for suspecting Henrietta and Mrs. Cyril of the murders.”
“Well, they’re obvious enough. Henrietta is Henry’s mother, and so would naturally go out of her way to advance his interests, and Mrs. Cyril seems to have acted as his foster-mother for a goodly number of years and, as well as that, I suppose, as Henry is her nephew by marriage and Cyril is her husband, she thought she saw her way, with Henrietta’s help, to doing them both a bit of good.”
“Yes. Of course, we have no proof that either woman was actually fond of Henry, have we? The only person who has given evidence of doting upon him is Mr. Cyril.”
“Oh, women always dote on their sons. It goes without saying.”
“You astound me, but I do not venture to contradict you. You had better go into the kitchen and get something to eat. Our visit to the chalet may be a long one, since I think we may have a vigil to keep before we enter the building.”
“There’s a romantic Childe Roland flavour about this expedition which appeals to my childish nature. Right, I’ll go kitchenwards and stoke up, then.”
Half an hour or so later they went out to the waiting car. It was a pitch-black night—a night, as Laura observed, for treasons, stratagems, and spoils—and George, at his employer’s behest, drove slowly. The car crawled out through the gatehouse archway and covered the four miles to the main road at what seemed to Laura a timeless pace, but which took about twelve minutes. It then swung to the left and picked up a decorous thirty m.p.h., but not for long. It swung to the left again down a narrow lane scarcely wide enough to avoid brushing the hedgerows on either side, came out upon a common, dropped to sea-level and, just before it reached a bridge across the river, it turned to the left for the last time and came upon the chalet from the rear, on the side which faced away from the stream.
There were no lights to be seen anywhere in the small building except one single, almost indistinguishable glow in what Laura knew must be a small window in the bedroom which formed part of the loft. The car drew up on a grass verge off the road and Dame Beatrice and Laura got out. George locked the car after he had picked a heavy spanner out of his tool-kit and, unasked but faithful, followed them up to the back door and then round the side of the building to the front. Here, almost in the doorway, they halted.
There was the unearthly stillness of the black night around them. The river, deep and slow-flowing, made no sound, and all the customary tiny, spine-chilling noises of the night seemed absent. There was a distinct nip, heralding the beginning of autumn, in the air.
“Queer, no lights,” muttered Laura.
“Not at all. I expect the household is in bed. The glimmer from the top window will come from a nightlight in the child’s bedroom,” Dame Beatrice murmured in reply.
“Well, I hope we don’t have to wait long. It’s perishing cold.”
“Go back and wait in the car, then.”
“Not me! If there’s going to be any fun, I’m not going to be done out of it. How soon do you think something will happen?”
“I do not venture to prophesy. How long do you think it takes to walk here from the home farm?”
“So you do expect those two beauties!”
“I expect Mrs. Cyril Dysey, not her sister. Let us go to the bank of the river and listen for the sound of the boat. Mr. Cyril will have left it tied up on the other side.”
“But she’s got to come from the home farm, if he was speaking the truth.”
“She will still need a boat to cross the river to get to the chalet, unless she comes by road.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
They were silent unt
il Dame Beatrice said to the chauffeur,
“I assure you, George, that Mrs. Gavin and I are in no danger whatsoever tonight. Return to the car and smoke a cigarette. I have my small whistle and will blow three blasts if we need you.”
“Very good, madam.”
“You seem very certain about this ‘no danger’ business,” said Laura, when the chauffeur had gone. “Anyway, you’ve got your little gat, so I suppose it’s all right.”
“So much so that there is really no need for you to remain with me.”
“Well, I shall.”
They fell silent again, and, to Laura, an interminable time seemed to pass before they saw the light of a torch on the opposite bank and, shortly afterwards, heard the sound of oars. Dame Beatrice waited until a dark shape on the dully gleaming river indicated the approach of the boat, and then shone her own torch.
“Who’s that?” asked a high, nervous voice.
“Dame Beatrice Bradley and Mrs. Gavin,” Dame Beatrice replied. “Who are you?”
“Carrie Dysey. Have you seen my husband? He was going to call at the castle, so he said, to ask you to make the police let Henry go. I hope as he wasn’t a nuisance to you?”
“I hope you will not mind very much, but I have given him in charge.”
Dame Beatrice and Laura were standing beside the little staithe which led to the boathouse. Dame Beatrice kept her torch trained on the boat, and Mrs. Cyril, with the use of long practice, apparently, stepped ashore with the painter in her hand and tied up to a post.
“What have you come here for?” she asked.
“For the same reason as that which brings you here, I imagine,” Dame Beatrice replied.
“I wanted to make sure the little boy was all right.”
“Let us go up to the chalet together, then, and enquire after him.”
“I didn’t like it when Cyril didn’t come back.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“And you’ve really given him in charge? That’s a good one, that is! But you haven’t proved anything against him, have you?”
“I sent for the police because he had broken into my house.”
“Oh, I see! You’re a deep one, you are, and no mistake! I hope as things are all right here. Don’t seem to be no lights.”
“I expect they have all gone to bed. I hope they will not be alarmed when we knock them up.”
“I’ve come to warn ’em. I couldn’t do it when they first come, because Cyril and Henry would have heard me. Will we knock, or will I use my latch-key?”
“I think we had better knock. In any case, I expect the door is bolted.” Dame Beatrice followed this expression of opinion by beating a loud tattoo upon the door. There was a pause, then she knocked again. A light shone out from behind the curtains of a room on the right of the front door and a man’s voice asked,
“Who’s that?”
“It’s me, Mrs. Cyril,” the housekeeper replied, “and I’ve got the ladies with me what’s rented the castle from your ma. Let us in. We’ve got something to tell you.”
“I’m not letting anybody in at this time of night. Go away and come back in the morning.”
As he said this, another light appeared, this time in the entrance hall, and a woman’s voice said, in a foreign accent,
“What is the trouble, Bonamy dear?”
“I don’t know, love. It’s Uncle Cyril’s wife. She says she’s got something to tell me, and she has the ladies from the castle with her, but I don’t see the fun of letting people in at this time of night, with what happened to my father and Uncle Eustace.”
“Very well, Mr. Bonamy,” said Dame Beatrice. “We are relieved to know that you are so cautious about opening the door. Can you hear me quite clearly?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“I have some questions to ask you. They may be directly concerned with the deaths of your father and your uncle.”
“Fire away, then, although I’m damned if I know who you are, or what your game is.”
“Are you really Mr. Thomas Dysey’s son?”
“To the best of my belief, I am.”
“Is Henry Dysey your full brother?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think he’s Uncle Cyril’s son by my mother, after she was married.”
“As I suspected. Do you remember, as a little boy, being taken to the doctor?”
“All small kids are taken to the doctor.”
“With multiple injuries?”
“Oh, I see. Yes, my mother used to turn nasty. Henry got the blame from my father, I believe, but it was my mother who used to clock me. She hated me.”
“Why?”
“She hated my father. She didn’t want to have me. I think he forced her to.”
“Why did she not marry Mr. Cyril?”
“How on earth should I know? I suppose she wanted the property. Uncle Eustace and my father had nothing much but their pensions from the R.A.F. and the Army. Not that the estate is worth much, either, come to that.”
“Why did you go to live abroad?”
“Got into trouble in England.”
“Has your mother ever been to visit you during this or last summer?”
“Are you crazy? I tell you she hated my guts.”
“I can tell you where she visited,” said Mrs. Cyril. “She visited this chalet-bungalow, this very one. I was turned out, if you please! Not as it ever bothered me. I used to go and stay with Henrietta—my sister, you know.”
“I knew it was Mrs. Dysey I spotted, the first time I ever walked along the river,” said Laura. “But you came back after that. You were here when we had lunch with Cyril and Henry.”
“That’s right. They got wind-up when they knew you must have met Etta and were living at the castle, so I were sent for, all in a hurry, and Etta went to a little cheap place as my sister knew of in France. My sister Henrietta, well, she’s educated, you see, and have travelled, and knows where to go and stay abroad.”
“So that explains the postcards to the Wick girls,” muttered Laura.
“Anything else? I want to get back to bed!” called Bonamy.
“Why have you only just returned to this country?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“Liked it where I was, but fell down on my luck. Besides, although I didn’t want the castle and the damn-fool estates, I didn’t see why my nipper should be done out of what was rightfully his, so we packed our bags and here we are.”
“When did you hear of your father’s death?”
“Not until somebody sent me the English papers reporting on Uncle Eustace. Now, is that all?”
“Just one more thing, if you will be so good. What do you know about the Ravens’ Hoard?”
She heard Bonamy laugh.
“Would it help if I told you I’m a reformed character and have become a Catholic?” he asked. Dame Beatrice cackled in reply, and addressed herself to Mrs. Cyril.
“We will give you a lift back to the home farm,” she said.
“Yes, well, p’raps you’d better. I’ve got an idea there’s somebody on the other side of the water been listening to what we been saying. Sound travels acrorst a river. I reckon not much ’as been missed by the murdering cat!”
Dame Beatrice, too, had been aware of an unseen listener.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Dysey!” she called across the stream.
“Well!” said Laura, as they headed towards the car. “Do you mean to tell me that Cyril and Etta are the murderers after all? But can you prove it? I mean, they seem to have covered their tracks pretty well.”
“Not from me they haven’t,” said the housekeeper. “I shan’t give evidence in court against Cyril, but I’m willing to tell you all I know, and then you can do what you like about it, though I doubt whether you’ll be able to prove much, as your friend says.”
“I can prove enough to make certain of a prosecution so that there is no need for you to incriminate your husband. There is only one question I would like to put to you. Can you
tell me whether the Ravens’ Hoard has ever come to light?” Dame Beatrice asked.
“The Ravens’ Hoard? I’ve never heard of it. What would it be—money?”
“More probably jewels, I think. Oh, there is one other point. It concerns Mr. Henry Dysey. You remember the night on which Mr. Thomas was killed? Mr. Cyril was invited to dine at the castle, and accepted the invitation. Mr. Henry may or may not have been invited, but, at any rate, he did not go. Have you any idea what he did do? I presume you were at the chalet at the time?”
“No, I wasn’t. I met Henrietta and we went to the pictures in Warwick and I stayed the night at her place. Her landlady can prove it, if you want proof. I got back on the seven o’clock bus next morning in time to get their nine o’clock breakfast. Henry was in the house then, but, of course, Cyril wasn’t, because of Thomas’s death. He was still at the castle.”
“And you do not know what Mr. Henry was doing that night?”
“He won’t thank me for telling you. He went poaching.”
“Poaching?”
“That’s right. You ask Percy Bellairs. Henry won’t say nothing to give his pals away, but Percy promised me faithful that if it comes to the Assizes for Henry, him and the lads would speak up.”
* * *
* breast-bone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Retreat from Castle Perilous
“They’ve castin’ black bullets twice six and forty,
And ae the black bullet fell on bonnie Annie.
O I’d bury my love on the high banks o’ Yarrow,
But the wood it is dear, and the planks they are narrow.”
Bonnie Annie
“So Henry emerges without a stain on his character! A likely story, as Mrs. Peachum would say,” observed Laura, after they had dropped the housekeeper at the home farm and had returned to the castle.
“I agree with you. Henry has suppressed guilty knowledge of the facts, if nothing more. Of course, to be fair, one must admit that a case could have been made out against Henrietta and her sister, for the reason which you yourself gave. The only things against it were, first, that I could not find out whether either of them was fond enough of Mr. Henry to take the risk of committing two murders for his sake, and, second, I could not see how they would have known enough about the priest’s hole to think of putting one of the bodies there.”
The Croaking Raven Page 22