“Thanks—and you can get a bus from Ingleton to Lancaster?”
“On week days you can.”
“Right. Now let me use your phone—and after that I’ll tell you my own ideas of this case according to the evidence, strictly in camera—and if I’m wrong you’ll have one good story to laugh over for the rest of your days.”
“Story? Well, it’s plain enough, isn’t it?” said Layng indignantly. “Even a blockhead like me would have cleared it up if I’d been given the chance—though I’ll admit you’ve been pretty snappy.”
“Keep the bouquets until they’re duly earned,” said Macdonald, lifting the receiver. “Garthmere, 92,” he demanded.
Layng sat and listened to Macdonald phoning. “Decent chap,” he thought. “More considerate than I am by a long chalk.”
Macdonald was saying, “Is that Miss Garth? This is Macdonald speaking. I’m a bit worried over that boy, Malcolm.” There was a slight pause while Marion answered and then Macdonald went on: “I’m glad he’s better, but all the same I think he’s over excitable and capable of doing himself an injury. Will you undertake to stay with him to-night? If you feel you’d rather not, I can send a nurse.”
There was another interval, during which Layng could just hear the murmur of Marion Garth’s voice in the receiver. Layng murmured, “All very nice—and where the deuce do you think you’re going to get a nurse? I haven’t got one up my sleeve.”
“As you will,” said Macdonald at the phone. “I don’t want to worry you, but I do think it’s important that the boy shouldn’t be left. I wouldn’t stress it if I didn’t think it was essential. If you’ll undertake to do it, I’m perfectly satisfied.”
“Doing the bed-side manner?” inquired Layng with a grin as Macdonald hung up the receiver. “We don’t handle ’em quite so gently up here as a rule.”
“I don’t like making more trouble in the world than I can help,” replied Macdonald, “and that boy went off slap into a fainting fit when I was questioning him. He’s a neurotic type. However, you want to hear what I’ve been doing—and thinking, so here goes.”
* * *
After Macdonald had rung off, Marion Garth went back into the kitchen where Elizabeth was just making a pot of tea; Marion stood and watched the girl as she set the teapot and milk and sugar on the table, and poured out the tea.
“It’s a good brew,” said Elizabeth. “Why not have a spot of rum in yours? It’d do you good.”
“The rum’s finished—or else it’s evaporated,” replied Marion. “That was the Chief Inspector, Elizabeth. He rang up to say that he was worried about Malcolm. He wants me to sit with him to-night.”
Elizabeth put the teapot down and then looked up at Marion. Their eyes met and they stood in silence, each troubled but perfectly self-controlled. At last Elizabeth said:
“If you do that Malcolm will get frantic. He’s all right now—but if you insist on stopping with him, he’ll…imagine things.”
“I know—but what can I do? Macdonald said that he would send a nurse, and I promised that I would sit with Malcolm myself. I couldn’t bear the idea of a nurse. Anyway, I’ve promised, so I’ve got to do it.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. I see. I do hate it, though. I tell you what we might do. I’ve got some Thalmane tablets upstairs. I’ll take him up a weak cup of tea and two of the tablets. They’ll make him sleep, because he’s not used to taking them. Then you can go in quietly when he’s asleep.”
Marion sat in silence, without replying, her face brooding, and at last Elizabeth could bear her silence no longer.
“Oh, Marion, do say something!” she cried. “You know I wouldn’t hurt Malcolm. I’d do anything for him.”
“I know you would—but I’m all at sea, Elizabeth. I just don’t understand. Am I to sit with Malcolm as a gaoler—in case he runs away—or is it because he may try to kill himself, or because somebody might try to hurt him? It must be one of those things; it’s not because he’s ill.”
“I don’t know.” Elizabeth’s voice was quivering. “If you’ve promised, you’ll have to do it. I’ll go and get that packet of Thalmane. It’s a new packet, unopened—so you needn’t be afraid. Heaps of people take it. An aunt sent it to me when I had that go of toothache, but I never opened it.”
She hurried out of the room, and still Marion stood by the table, staring down at her cup of tea. Elizabeth came back and gave Marion the packet of tablets, saying:
“I’ll pour out some tea for him. Will you take it up, or shall I?”
“You can. Malcolm trusts you.”
Elizabeth’s usually steady hands were shaking, so that the teacups rattled against the saucer.
“Marion, this is just the most ghastly thing that ever happened… What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. Pull yourself together, Liz. If I told Malcolm to take those tablets he wouldn’t do it. He will if you give them to him. I’ll come up after you quietly and wait outside the door. Leave it open and I’ll slip in later. It’s the kindest thing we can do.”
* * *
Elizabeth Meldon came downstairs again and sat in the kitchen. She couldn’t bear the thought of going to bed. To keep her hands occupied she found a jumper which she had meant to reknit and she sat unravelling it, glad of the mechanical occupation. It was nearly midnight when she heard footsteps on the flags and her heart jumped with a sickening apprehension. When the door opened and Charles Garth appeared, she nearly laughed aloud in a hysterical sense of relief.
“Good lord! What on earth are you doing at this hour?” he demanded. “Do you mean to make a new jumper before morning?”
“Yes,” replied Elizabeth. “I sometimes get a fit of industry, you know.” She was surprised that her voice was so normal. “As a matter of fact, Malcolm’s rather poorly and Marion’s sitting with him for a bit, so do be quiet as you go upstairs.”
“Is that it?” said Charles. “Poor devil…he was always a nervy kid. I’ll go up and tell Marion I’ll take over for her. She’s had enough to put up with lately, without sitting up all night.”
“Don’t do that, you’ll only wake him up,” replied Elizabeth. “I offered to do it, but Marion said she would. If you interfere she’ll be furious. Malcolm needs a good long sleep, and he won’t get that if you start arguing.”
“ ‘A good long sleep,’” Charles quoted her quietly. “Well—one needn’t grudge him that, poor kid. It’s a bad show, Lisa. I met the Chief Inspector this evening.”
She looked at him steadily. “Did you. I don’t want to hear about it, Charles Garth. Things are quite bad enough without talking about them. Go to bed and leave me in peace.”
“Well, well! Whose kitchen is this, my dear?”
Elizabeth got up and took a step backwards, still with her eyes fixed on him. “It’s Richard Garth’s kitchen,” she said, “and when he tells me to clear out of it, I shall. Do you think he’s likely to?—because I don’t.”
“I can’t tell,” replied Charles. “Has he a soft spot in his heart for you too?”
“Listen to me,” said Elizabeth quietly. “I give you half a minute to get out of this room. I don’t like you, and I don’t like the smell of whisky. If you stay here any longer you’re going to get exactly one gallon of cold water thrown right over you. I’m very strong, you know, and the pail’s just handy.”
Charles studied her thoughtfully. “God save us! Farming does coarsen a woman, doesn’t it? Good-night, Lisa. We don’t want any more rough stuff here. We’ve had too much already.”
He went out of the room quite quietly, and Elizabeth sat down to her unravelling again, conscious that her eyes were smarting with tears.
Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth had just finished her share of milking on the following morning—Sunday—when she heard the telephone ring, and she ran indoors to answer it, but Marion reached the
phone first. A moment later she called to Elizabeth to join her in the parlour, and Charles Garth went to the phone in her place.
Marion’s face looked less troubled. “That was Macdonald. He asked after Malcolm—quite gently and pleasantly—and I told him I thought he’d slept all night, and that he’s still drowsy this morning and in no hurry to get up. Macdonald says he’s sending a doctor over to see him. I said, ‘Do you really mean a doctor?’ and he said, ‘Yes. Quite honestly, I think the lad’s in a poor way, and I feel a bit responsible.’ He sounds so decent, Lisa. Oh, and he wanted to talk to Charles—something about driving to Liverpool to identify a photograph of Richard, and to look through some things he’d left on board. Apparently he didn’t rejoin his ship before she sailed.”
A moment later Charles Garth came in. “Seems I’ve got to go to Liverpool with some police-wallah,” he said. “Buck up and get some tea made, Elizabeth. They’re bringing a car round for me. The Chief Inspector said they’d bring me back here before dusk. Quite a change to have a drive again.”
Elizabeth went out to expedite the tea making, and Charles added: “It’s a matter of looking at some of Richard’s things. They’ve found his ship, so I suppose it’s only a matter of time until they get him. It’s a formality, really. I don’t think Macdonald himself believes now that Richard was responsible.”
“Then why didn’t he rejoin his ship?”
“G.O.K. More reasons than one for leaving a ship.”
Half an hour later Charles Garth was driven away in a very smart police car, and Elizabeth turned impulsively to Marion.
“It’s a gorgeous day, Marion, and we’ve got nothing important to do. Let’s pick apples and play around in the orchard, and forget everything for a bit. Malcolm’s all right. He’s got piles of books if he wants to read, and he loves the idea of a day in bed. How long is it since any one had a day in bed in this place?”
“Not since Malcolm had pneumonia… Oh, all right, let’s laze over breakfast and then go into the orchard.”
“Good—and if you’ve any common sense, you’ll take some cushions out and go to sleep in the sun to make up for last night. Things always look better in the morning.”
Marion slipped her hand under Elizabeth’s arm—a rare gesture from one of her reticence. “You are a brick, Lisa. Things would have been much worse if you hadn’t been here.”
Elizabeth smiled back—she had no intention of discussing “things” just now. “We’ll make some coffee and put lashings of cream in it,” she said. “There’s still something to be said for living on a farm.”
* * *
It was nearly dusk when Charles Garth returned. It had been a peaceful day at Garthmere. A doctor had come to see Malcolm—much to his surprise—and had told him to stay in bed for another twenty-four hours. Marion had asked if there were any cause for anxiety about the boy and Dr. Boyce had replied:
“No. Not anxiety—but he needs to go slow for a bit. He’s too thin, his temperature’s sub-normal and his heart is tired. Encourage him to laze and eat all that he can. What’s the use of producing milk if you don’t see that some of it goes down that fellow’s throat? He could do with it.”
Marion had felt comforted—prescribing milk for a lanky lad (who incidentally loathed milk) seemed a reassuring proceeding after the dark fears of last night’s vigil.
Charles had only been in the house a few minutes when Chief Inspector Macdonald followed him. His face was grave, and he said to Marion.
“Can I talk to you and your brother for a minute? I have bad news for you, I am afraid.”
Marion’s heart gave another sickening thump; she said nothing, but led Macdonald to the parlour, where Charles was starting on his supper. Macdonald stated his news without further preamble.
“The body of your brother, Richard Garth, has been found to-day in one of the Pot Holes on Ingleborough. It was found by one of the associations which explore the Pot Holes.”
There was dead silence for a few seconds when Macdonald had finished his sentence. Then Marion said: “What does this mean, Chief Inspector? Do you suppose now that Richard shot Father—and then killed himself?”
“I don’t know, Miss Garth. The matter will have to be investigated closely. I can’t tell you anything more until after the inquest. I am sorry to distress you with this further burden.”
“If only I knew,” she said slowly. “I don’t pretend that Richard’s death means anything to me—he has been away so long. It’s the horror of the whole thing, and not knowing what happened…or who did it.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” said Macdonald.
Charles said slowly, “I think your guess is probably right, Moll. If Richard did do the shooting, I think the rest is comprehensible.”
He got up and followed Macdonald to the door, and accompanied him to his car. Charles then asked in a low voice:
“Was Richard killed by the fall down one of those infernal holes?”
“I can’t tell you. The postmortem has not yet been performed.”
“Does this let Malcolm out?”
“Again—I can’t say. That last piece of evidence you told me about the rag used for cleaning a gun will take some explaining.” Macdonald stopped, as though he had suddenly remembered something and then said: “I meant to have spoken to your sister about that. We always like to have evidence corroborated. Do you mind staying outside for a while and I’ll go back and speak to her.”
“If you must, you must—but don’t you think she’s had enough to put up with for one evening? Let her forget Malcolm for to-night.”
“I wish I could.” Macdonald spoke very gravely. “Unfortunately I can’t fall in with such comfortable counsel. There can be no forgetting until this case is settled.”
“All right. I can’t stop you.” Charles spoke wearily. “I’ll stay out here until I see you come back.”
Macdonald went back by the now familiar fold yard gate; as he passed the smaller shippon two small calves mooed to him in thin little voices, and he wished again that he could turn farmer.
It was about ten minutes later that he returned to his car and found Charles sitting dejectedly on the running-board.
“Did she admit she’d seen that rag?” asked Charles.
Macdonald nodded. “Yes. She said that she had seen it, as you said, and destroyed it—because no one but Malcolm ever used that loft.”
“Poor old Moll!” said Charles.
Chapter Sixteen
By common consent, every one in Garthmere Hall went to bed early that night. Marion was heavy-eyed and silent, Charles moved about restlessly as though he were unable to keep still, and Elizabeth Meldon knitted with grim determination. She hated knitting, but anything was better than sitting with her hands in her lap. At nine o’clock Marion got up and said: “I’m going to bed. Charles, will you go up quietly. I think Malcolm’s settled down, and I don’t want him to be woken up.”
“All right. I’ll go up now. I’m sleepy after all that driving. Good-night, Moll.”
He went yawning out of the room, and Marion and Elizabeth went their usual round of seeing that the doors were shut and bolted. Just before they went upstairs Marion said in a low voice, “If you hear anything outside, don’t worry. There are police out there now. I saw one of them when I went to shut the ducks up.”
Elizabeth squeezed Marion’s arm. She did not know what to say.
Silence settled on the vast house: a stillness only broken by the occasional crack of an old board or the scurry of mice in the wainscot. Once or twice one of the cattle lowed, as though they were aware of strange human beings abroad. One of the constables who was on duty outside observed the faint beams of light which shone through chinks in the shutters. “Black-out not too good,” he observed. The last light to be extinguished was in a window in the west wing—Malcolm Garth’s room. He did not put his light out un
til nearly two hours after the other lights were extinguished. The lamplight in Malcolm’s room shone out beneath his bedroom door and made a sharp line of yellow light which shone startlingly bright down the long passage outside. A watcher had been observing that light for more than an hour before darkness settled down on the passage—absolute darkness, which baffled the senses. The watcher in the passage kept very still. A listener might have heard the sound of breathing, but apart from that not a sound indicated the presence of the patient being who waited there. Downstairs, very far away, a grandfather clock chimed midnight and the watcher stirred at last. Boards creaked—that was all—but the boards creaked from different directions as the watcher advanced step by cautious step towards the bedroom door. There was silence again: the door handle was being turned, but the handle did not creak and complain as did most of the latches in Garthmere Hall. It was well oiled, as were the hinges of the old door: it opened with only the tiniest sound as it was moved inch by inch, and then silence fell again. The watcher at the door held his breath for a few seconds; the sound of Malcolm’s breathing was audible now the door was open. The boy was sleeping soundly, breathing rather heavily in the darkness.
The watcher stirred again, and the blackness was relieved by the tiniest blur of light. An electric torch, muffled until it showed but the faintest of faint beams, was throwing that tiny uncanny glow on the floor. To one whose eyes were conditioned by the previous blackness the light was enough to show any obstacles and to prevent a collision with chair or chest which would have resounded throughout the silent house with an effect like a thunder clap. Step by step the watcher advanced towards the bed, and it was just as he reached within a yard of it that another beam of light slashed the darkness from the door and a low voice whispered, “Stop! Stop…don’t make a sound…there’s another way.”
As though paralysed the man near the bed stood rigid. The pencil of light from the door gleamed on the pistol he held in his hand, and his first movement was to put the ugly weapon in his pocket.
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