“Where?” asked Alan curtly.
Gale flapped a huge hand at a wasp that was buzzing round his head.
“What would you have done with her? Remember, she was potentially dangerous. She might do it again. She couldn’t be left at large.”
“A mental home,” exclaimed Alan.
“That’s right,” said Gale, rubbing his hands. “That’s right, young feller. Now, d’you see why Meriton left that money to Ferrall.”
“Ferrall!” echoed Alan. “Do you mean that he…”
“You’ve got to have the signature of two doctors to get a person admitted into a mental home,” said Gale. “Understand? I’ll bet that Peter Ferrall could tell us the whole story. He knows where Fay is...an’ that’s why he’s looking so flaming worried. If it all comes out, he’s in for serious trouble, d’you see? Accessary after the fact.”
“Would any place—even a private mental asylum—have taken her, in the circumstances?” said Alan doubtfully. “The risk...”
“You don’t suppose they told ’em the true circumstances, do you?” cried Gale, scowling ferociously at the wasp, which had returned for a further inspection. “Of course they didn’t!”
There was a silence. Alan realized that it fitted, this theory of Gale’s, it fitted except for...
“Look here,” he said suddenly. “Your theory explains the murder of the tramp and girl, but it doesn’t explain Meriton’s murder.
“Aha!” exclaimed Simon Gale. “I only said I’d got part of the pattern.”
“And even that’s only conjecture,” interrupted Alan.
“Quite right, young feller,” agreed Gale. “But it covers the facts.”
It did—up to a certain point. But who had killed Meriton, and why?
“I suppose,” Alan said, as an idea struck him, “that Fay Meriton couldn’t have escaped?”
“And killed her husband?” Gale shook his head. “No, that’s too far-fetched. Where would she have hidden herself?”
“What about her father?” suggested Alan, with a sudden inspiration.
Simon Gale stared at him. “Now that’s something I didn’t think of,” he exclaimed. “By all the gold in Guatavita, I wonder...”
“Colonel Ayling probably knew all about it,” said Alan. “I mean from the start.”
“No.” Gale was emphatic. “He genuinely thought she’d run away. That I’m sure. Besides, fond as he was of her, he would never have helped to hush up murder—whatever the cost might have been. But, if she had suddenly come back, with some cock-and-bull story, that’s a different matter.” He grabbed at his beard and pulled it through his fingers. “We’ve got to go carefully over this... I’m worried—damned worried, young feller. If Fay Meriton is somewhere round here...” He shrugged his shoulders, leaving the sentence unfinished.
But Alan knew what he meant, and his throat felt suddenly dry.
*
Nothing very much happened during the next few days. Alan spent his time reading, going for long walks with Flake, or chatting with the genial Mr. Jellyberry in the bar of the Three Witches. He saw nothing, during this period, of Simon Gale, but the talk they had had in the garden at Bryony Cottage was never very far from his mind. He was pretty sure that it had got somewhere near the truth.
He could not discuss the matter with Flake, because of his promise to Gale, but he brought up the subject of Fay Meriton, during one of their walks, and tried to learn all he could about her. They had been children together and Flake’s dislike seemed to have dated from a very early age. Fay, she said, had always been selfish. If she couldn’t have her own way, she would fly into a rage which quickly became hysterical, and, even when this had worn off, would sulk for hours. In one of her fits of temper she had hit another little girl on the head with a jagged stone, and the child had had to have the wound stitched. She could, when it suited her, be very sweet, and as she got older, she discovered that this was a greater asset in getting what she wanted than her fits of hysterical rage, and she exploited it for all she was worth.
“Poor Paul thought she was wonderful,” said Flake, staring before her with hard eyes. “She was determined to marry him, and she did. He couldn’t resist the soulful expression she could turn on like a water-tap, and, of course, she really was lovely. She had that wonderful white skin which sometimes goes with red hair...”
The dislike which had started in childhood had grown to something very near hatred, thought Alan. There was a hardness about Flake’s face when she talked of Fay Meriton that was not there at any other time.
And that story of the child who had to have stitches in her head. That should interest Simon Gale.
But when he called at Gale’s house, later that day, the door was opened by the malignant-faced Mrs. Gull, who curtly informed him that Gale was out, and refused to give any other information whatever.
On his way back, he passed Mr. Veezey’s hut, and saw its owner working in the garden. On an impulse, Alan stopped by the gate and called a cheerful ‘good afternoon’.
Mr. Veezey jumped, like a startled rabbit, and looked round.
“I always admire your garden when I pass this way,” said Alan. “I guess it must have taken you a long time to get it like this.”
Mr. Veezey blinked at him nervously.
“Oh—er—yes…thank you,” he said. He brushed a gloved hand across his forehead, leaving a streak of dirt. “Er—you—er—you are from America, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Alan, “I’m staying with the Onslow-Whites. I’m over here on business, but I’m having a short holiday first. My father has a publishing business in New York.”
Mr. Veezey’s pimple of a chin dropped as his mouth fell open. He stared at Alan with an expression of sheer terror, mumbled something that was quite unintelligible and, turning, rushed into the house and slammed the door.
It took Alan a few seconds to recover from his astonishment. Was the man crazy? Why had he suddenly rushed away like that, as if all the fiends of hell were after him? He hadn’t said anything that could possibly have offended the man. What on earth was the matter with him?
He tried to find an explanation for the extraordinary behaviour of Mr. Veezey during his walk back to Bryony Cottage, but the only one he could think of was that the little man was mad.
It was on the morning of the third day that Alan saw Simon Gale again. He had run out of the supply of cigarettes he had brought with him, and walked down to the village, after breakfast, to buy some more. As he carne out of the small shop in the High Street, a stentorian hail greeted him, and there was Gale on the opposite side of the road, waving at him frantically.
“Where have you been?” asked Alan. “I went along to see you the other afternoon, but—”
“I’ve covered a lot of ground since I saw you last, young feller,” said Gale. “I’m just going to sample some of Jellyberry’s beer. Come along with me.”
Alan glanced at his watch and found it was not yet ten. “The pub won’t be open yet,” he said, but Gale waved away the objection with a sweep of an arm.
“It’s always open to me,” he declared. “Come along, I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
Alan did not feel in the least like beer so early in the morning, but his curiosity was aroused.
They went round to the back door of the Three Witches and were admitted by Mr. Jellyberry, beaming as usual. Gale ordered beer, emptied the tankard at one draught, and said, with obvious relish:
“Ah, that’s better! Now, Jellyberry, bring me another and then make yourself scarce. I want to have a private confab with our friend here, d’you see.”
Mr. Jellyberry refilled the tankard to the accompaniment of a rumbling chuckle. “If there be anythin’ more you want, just give me a call, sir,” he said, and left them alone.
“Now, young feller,” said Simon Gale, “I’ve been doing a bit of snooping. I’ve been delving into the history of Dr. Peter Ferrall,” he rubbed his hands gleefully, “and I discovered something th
at bears out that theory of mine. Before he took over old Wycherly’s practice here, Ferrall was connected with a private mental home at a place called Shilford, in Hampshire. What d’you think of that, eh?”
“I guess it practically clinches it,” answered Alan. “What are you going to do now? Tell Hatchard?”
“No, not yet,” Gale shook his head violently. “I’ve got to see Ferrall first. If he was only trying to help Meriton, I don’t want to get him into trouble, if it can be avoided.”
“It’s going to be pretty difficult to keep him out of it, isn’t it?” said Alan doubtfully.
“Well...” Gale took a mighty swig from the tankard. “I’m concerned with finding out the truth of this business for my own satisfaction, d’you see? If it’s only going to get people into trouble by making it public, without doing any good, I shall keep it to myself.”
“I don’t see how you can do that.” Alan said dubiously. “After all, it is murder.”
“I know it’s murder!’’ retorted Gale, thumping the tankard on the counter so violently that some of the beer splashed over. “But if Fay Meriton did the killing, what good’s it going to do to get Ferrall dragged into court?”
“But you can’t leave Fay Meriton at large,” protested Alan. “She may do it again.”
“Aha, I agree with that,” said Gale. “But there’s no proof, yet, that Fay is at large. I’ve been to Shilford and had a look at this mental home. It’s quite a small place—an old house that’s been converted—kept by a Dr. Preston. There’s only about a dozen patients, and a small staff. There’s a pub in the village where they sell passable beer, and I got into conversation with one of the male nurses. I brought up the subject of people escaping—not too obviously, of course—and he told me that nobody had ever escaped from his place.”
“I guess he wouldn’t admit it, anyway,” interrupted Alan.
“Why shouldn’t he?” demanded Gale belligerently. “If Fay was a patient there, you don’t suppose they knew why she was there, do you? They wouldn’t have taken a risk like that. You can bet that Ferrall an’ Meriton cooked up a story of some sort that never mentioned murder.”
“Well, if she didn’t escape, who murdered Meriton?” demanded Alan reasonably.
“Yes…that’s the tear in the balloon,” grunted Gale. He scowled into his tankard. “Perhaps Ferrall can help us there… I’m going along to see him this afternoon. Like to come?”
Alan nodded. He said, after a slight pause:
“Did you know that when Fay Meriton was a child, she attacked another child, and it had to have stitches put in its head?” He related the story which Flake had told him.
Gale listened with great interest.
“Ah-ha!” he exclaimed, when Alan had finished, “the same method! The germ was stirring even then. You know, young feller, here’s something worth thinking about. Did the evil in Fay Meriton communicate itself to that old house, or did a more ancient evil, that was already lurking there, take possession of her half-crazy mind? Perhaps something got out of Cagliostro’s magic circle, and is still loose...”
*
Dr. Ferrall was out when they called at the house on the Green that afternoon.
Avril opened the door and seemed rather surprised to see them.
“Peter’s gone to see a patient,” she said. “I don’t think he will be long. Do come in.”
They followed her into the drawing room, bright with flowers and chintz. Large open French windows led into a neat, trim garden, that lacked the artistic beauty of Mr. Veezey’s. Avril must have been reading when they disturbed her, for a book was turned down on the arm of an easy chair drawn up to the open windows, and there was a half-empty box of chocolates on a low table nearby.
“What did you want to see Peter for?” she asked. There was a hint of nervousness in her manner and her eyes looked a little strained. Every time you saw this girl, thought Alan, you noticed something fresh about her. She wasn’t instantly disturbing, like Flake: she didn’t make you catch your breath; because you didn’t realize, until you’d met her for the third or fourth time, just how really attractive she was.
“We just dropped in for a little chat,” answered Simon Gale, perching himself on the arm of a settee which creaked ominously under his weight. Her nervousness increased, although she tried to hide it.
“Is there—is there any further news?” she asked. “The police haven’t made any fresh discoveries, have they?”
“Not a thing,” declared Gale, shaking his head. “I’ll bet Chippy’s running around like a puppy chasing its tail! If he had any hair, he’d be tearing it out in handfuls.” He chuckled delightedly. “What’s the book you’re reading?”
“Whispered in Heaven,” said Avril. She looked slightly sur-prised at this abrupt change of subject.
“Ah!” cried Gale, “Maurice Charlton’s latest, eh? Ever read any of his books, young feller?”
“No,” said Alan. “Is he good?”
“Good!” repeated Gale, with a surge of enthusiasm. “He doesn’t write. He tears off strips of life and confines them, by some flaming miracle, in the covers of a book! The whole thing glows with a passionate sincerity.... Bah! I can’t describe it! You must read him for yourself. Read all his books.”
“Read all whose books?” broke in Peter Ferrall’s voice. He had come in quietly during Gale’s outburst. “I knew you were here, Simon. I could hear you on the other side of the Green.”
“The praises of Maurice Charlton ought to be shouted from the house-tops!” said Gale.
“I thought you were doing that,” remarked Ferrall dryly. “But I agree with you, he’s excellent. Is this a social call, or. .. ?” He looked from one to the other of them with raised eyebrows.
Simon Gale hoisted himself off the settee arm. He said, without any dissembling:
“I want a word with you, Ferrall—in private.”
Alan heard the hiss of Avril’s breath as she drew it in quickly, and saw the suddenly frightened look which came into her eyes. He felt thoroughly uncomfortable. This business of playing the detective was all very well in theory, but when it came to practice...
“It sounds rather ominous.” Ferrall tried to speak lightly, but he could not quite control his voice. “You’d better come into the surgery.”
“Peter!” began Avril sharply. And then, “Never mind... I’ll get the tea ready.”
She walked quickly to the door and went out. There was a moment of awkward silence, and Alan began to wish he had let Gale handle the thing on his own.
“This way,” said Ferrall shortly. He led the way across the hall, and opened a door on the other side. They entered a small room, plainly furnished with a desk, several chairs, and a square of carpet. In one corner near the window stood a padded table on rubber casters.
Ferrall shut the door carefully.
“Now then,” he said, leaning against the desk. “What is it?”
“Look here,” said Gale, “I want you to get it into your head that I’m not out to make trouble, d’you see? But I’ve got to know the truth.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ferrall. “The truth about what?”
“The truth about Fay Meriton an’ that private mental home at Shilford. That startled you, eh?”
Ferrall had nearly dropped the cigarette case which he had taken from his pocket.
He said, recovering himself: “What exactly are you getting at?”
“The tramp—and the girl whose body was found. They were both killed by Fay. That’s why she had to be got away.”
“You’re mad, Gale!” exclaimed Ferrall angrily. “That’s drivel!”
“It’s easily proved,” interrupted Gale calmly. “If Hatchard goes to that place at Shilford with a photograph of Fay, and they’ve never heard of her, then I’m talking drivel.”
Ferrall fumbled with a cigarette. His face had suddenly become drawn and old. His voice, when he finally spoke, rasped.
“Have y
ou…said anything of this to Hatchard?”
“I’ve told you, I don’t want to make trouble,” retorted Gale. “Why d’you think Boyce an’ I are here? We could have gone direct to Hatchard. Don’t be a complete fathead, whatever else you’ve been.”
“Wait a minute,” muttered Ferrall. “Let me think...” He slid off the desk into the chair by it and stroked his brows as though he were trying to soothe an ache. “I’ve always been afraid of this,” he said, after a long pause. “I’ve cursed myself over and over again for ever having had anything to do with it. But once it was done, what could I do? If it had been anyone else but Paul...” He looked up suddenly. “You know what this’ll mean...if it comes out?”
Simon Gale dropped a hand on his shoulder.
“Perhaps it won’t have to come out,” he said, without any of his habitual bluster. “Look here, suppose you tell us the whole story? You’ve lived with it a long time. It’ll do you good to get it off your chest?”
“My God, you’re right!” said Ferrall. “Even when Paul was alive, it was a nightmare. Since his death…” He made a weary gesture and sat up. He put the cigarette he had been fumbling with in his mouth, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “You’d better make yourselves as comfortable as you can,” he said. “This is going take rather a long time.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I knew Paul Meriton,” said Ferrall, after a few moments’ silence, “before I took over Wycherly’s practice—several years before. Things weren’t too good with me then... I was working with Preston at Shilford, and the pay...” he shrugged his shoulders. “I got into a nasty jam. There might have been bad trouble if Meriton hadn’t got me out of it. I’m telling you this so that you’ll understand why I did what I did.” He drew on his cigarette and let the smoke feather slowly from his nostrils. “One day I had a letter from Meriton telling me that Dr. Wycherley was retiring, and suggesting that I should buy the practice. He offered to lend me the necessary money. He knew I hadn’t any of my own. I agreed, naturally. It was a good chance to get out of the rut, and I wasn’t very happy at my job with Preston. I bought the practice, and settled down here.
Sorcerer's House Page 12