Very reluctantly the tea merchant climbed into the seat beside the driver.
‘I’ll go very slowly,’ the new inmate of Monkshall went on. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
‘You think I am afraid?’ said Mr Goodman with a certain asperity.
‘I’m certain,’ said the other cheerfully. ‘Where have you been this fine day?’
‘I went up to London,’ said Mr Goodman.
‘An interesting place to go to,’ said Fane; ‘but a deuced uncomfortable place to live in.’
He was keeping his word and driving with remarkable care, Mr Goodman discovered to his relief.
He was puzzled as to where Ferdie had obtained the car and ventured upon an inquiry.
‘I hired it from a brigand in the village,’ said Ferdie. ‘Do you drive a car?’
Mr Goodman shook his head.
‘It is an easy road for a car, but a pretty poisonous one for a lorry, especially a lorry with a lot of weight in it. You know Lark Hill?’
Mr Goodman nodded.
‘A lorry was stuck there. I guess it will be there still even though the road is as dry as a bone. What it must be like to run up that hill with a heavy load on a wet and slippery night heaven knows. I bet that hill has broken more hearts than any other in the county.’
He rumbled on aimlessly about nothing until they reached the foot of the redoubtable hill where the heavy lorry was still standing disconsolate by the side of the road.
‘There she is,’ said Ferdie with the satisfaction of one who is responsible. ‘And it will take a bit of haulage to get her to the top, eh? Only a super-driver could have got her there. Only a man with a brain and imagination could have nursed her.’
Goodman smiled.
‘I didn’t know there were such things as super-brains amongst lorry drivers,’ he said. ‘But I suppose every trade, however humble, has its Napoleon.’
‘You bet,’ said Ferdie.
He brought the car up the long drive to Monkshall, paid the garage hand who was waiting to take it from him, and disappeared into the house.
Goodman looked round. In spite of his age his eyesight was remarkably good, and he noticed the slim figure walking on the far side of the ruins. Handing his umbrella to Cotton he walked across to Mary. She recognised and turned to meet him. Her father was in his study and she was going back for tea. He thought that she looked a little peaked and paler than usual.
‘Nothing has happened today?’ he asked quickly.
She shook her head.
‘Nothing. Mr Goodman, I am dreading the night.’
He patted her gently on the shoulder. ‘My dear, you ought to get away out of this. I will speak to the colonel.’
‘Please don’t,’ she said quickly. ‘Father does not want me to go. My nerves are a little on edge.’
‘Has that young man been—?’ he began.
‘No, no. You mean Mr Fane? He has been quite nice. I have only seen him for a few minutes today. He is out driving a motor car. He asked me—’
She stopped.
‘To go with him? That young man is certainly not troubled with nerves!’
‘He was quite nice,’ she said quickly; ‘only I didn’t feel like motoring. I thought it was he who had just come back, but I suppose it was you who came in the car.’ He explained the circumstances of his meeting with Ferdie Fane. She smiled for the first time that day.
‘He is—rather queer,’ she said. ‘Sometimes he is quite sensible and nice. Cotton hates him for some reason or other. He told me today that unless Mr Fane left he would.’
Mr Goodman smiled.
‘You seem to have a very troublesome household,’ he said; ‘except myself—oh, I beg his pardon, the new guest. What is his name? Mr Partridge? I hope he is behaving himself.’
She smiled faintly.
‘Yes, he’s quite charming. I don’t think I have seen him today,’ she added inconsequently.
‘You can see him now.’ Mr Goodman nodded towards the lawn.
The slim, black figure of Mr Partridge was not easily discernible against the dark background of the foliage. He was strolling slowly up and down, reading a book as he walked; but evidently his eyes and attention were not entirely for the literature which he studied, for he closed his book and walked towards them.
‘A delightful place, my dear Miss Redmayne,’ he said. ‘A most charming place! A little heaven upon earth, if I may use a sacred expression to describe terrestrial beauties.’
In the light of day, and without the softening effect of curtains, his face was not too pleasant, she thought. It was a hard face, angular, wasted. The dark eyes which surveyed her were not his least unpleasant feature. His voice was gentle enough—gentle to the point of unctuousness. Instinctively she had disliked him the first time they had met; her second impression of him did not help her to overcome her prejudice.
‘I saw you come up. Mr Fane was driving you.’ There was a gentle reproach in his tone. ‘A curious young man, Mr Fane—given, I fear, to the inordinate consumption of alcoholic beverage. “Oh,” as the prophet said, “that a man should put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains!”’
‘I can testify,’ interrupted Mr Goodman staunchly, ‘that Mr Fane is perfectly sober. He drove me with the greatest care and skill. I think he is a very excitable young man, and one may often do him an injustice because of his peculiar mannerisms.’
The reverend gentleman sniffed. He was obviously no lover of Fane, and sceptical of his virtues. Yet he might find no fault with Ferdie, who came into the lounge soon after tea was served, and would have sat alone if Goodman had not invited him to the little circle which included himself, Mrs Elvery and Mary. He was unusually quiet, and though many opportunities presented themselves he was neither flippant nor aggressive.
Mary watched him furtively, more than interested in the normal man. He was older than she had thought; her father had made the same discovery. There was a touch of grey in his hair, and though the face was unlined it had the setness of a man who was well past his thirties, and possibly his forties.
His voice was deep, rather brusque. She thought she detected signs of nervousness, for once or twice, when he was addressed, he started so violently as to spill from the cup of tea which he held in his hand.
She saw him after the party had dispersed. ‘You’re very subdued today, Mr Fane.’
‘Am I?’ He made an attempt at gaiety and failed. ‘It’s funny, parsons always depress me. I suppose my conscience gets to work, and there’s nothing more depressing than conscience.’
‘What have you been doing all day?’ she asked.
She told herself she was not really interested. The question was one of the commonplaces of speech that she had employed a dozen times with guests.
‘Ghost-hunting,’ he said, and when he saw her pale he was instantly penitent. ‘Sorry—terribly sorry! I was being funny.’
But he had been very much in earnest; she realised that when she was in the privacy of her own room, where she could think without distraction. Ferdie Fane had spent that day looking for the Terror. Was he himself the Terror? That she could not believe.
CHAPTER XII
NIGHT came—the dreary night with its black mysteries and its suggestive horrors.
The telephone in the deserted lounge rang shrilly. Cotton came from some mysterious recess in a hurry to answer it. He heard Hallick’s voice and winced painfully. He did not like Hallick, and wondered how soon this officer of Scotland Yard, with the resources at his disposal, would discover his own unsavoury antecedents.
‘I want to speak to Dobie,’ said Hallick’s voice.
‘Yes, sir; I’ll call him.’
There was no need to call Sergeant Dobie; he was at Cotton’s elbow.
‘Is that for me?’
Cotton passed him across the instrument.
‘Yes, sir?…’ He glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw the interested Cotton. ‘Hop it,’ he said under his breath,
and Cotton withdrew reluctantly.
‘Have you found anything further?’ asked Hallick.
‘Nothing, sir. Another spent cartridge—you saw one of them before you left.’
There was a long pause at the other end of the wire, and then Hallick spoke again.
‘I’ve got an idea something may happen tonight. You have my private telephone number?…Good! Call me if anything happens that has an unusual appearance. Don’t be afraid of bringing me down on a fool’s errand. I shall have a car waiting, and I can be with you in an hour.’
Dobie hung up the receiver as Mr Goodman came ambling into the lounge. He wore his black velvet smoking jacket; his old pipe was gripped between his teeth. Dobie was on his way to the door when the tea merchant called him back.
‘You’re staying with us tonight, aren’t you, Mr Dobie?…Thank goodness for that!’
‘You’re nervous, are you, sir?’ smiled Dobie, and Goodman’s good-natured face reflected the smile.
‘Why, yes, I am a little—raw. If anybody had told me I should get jumpy I should have laughed.’
He took out his cigar case and offered it to the detective, who chose one with considerable care.
‘There’s no new clue, I suppose?’ said Goodman, making himself comfortable at the end of the settee.
‘No, sir,’ said Dobie.
Goodman chuckled.
‘If you had any you wouldn’t tell me, eh? That isn’t one of the peculiar weaknesses of Scotland Yard officers, that they wear their—I won’t say hearts, but their brains, upon their sleeves. You didn’t find the gentleman who did the shooting yesterday? I ask you because I have been in town all day, and was a little disappointed when I came back to find that apparently nothing had happened.’
‘No, we haven’t found the shooter,’ said Dobie.
Neither of them saw the door open, nor the pale face of Mr Partridge peeping through.
‘I was at Scotland Yard today,’ said Goodman; ‘and I had a chat with Mr Hallick. A nice man.’
‘Very,’ agreed Dobie heartily.
John Hallick was one of the few men at the Yard who had no enemies amongst his subordinate staff. He was the type who placed the service first and individual kudos second, so that it was a tradition that any officer who deserved praise invariably received his full meed of recognition.
‘The whole thing is really extraordinary,’ said Goodman thoughtfully; ‘in fact, the most extraordinary thing that has ever happened. Do you know, I am developing a theory?’
Dobie paused in the act of lighting his cigar.
‘You’re like Mrs Elvery,’ he said, and Goodman groaned.
‘That’s the rudest thing that’s been said to me today! No, it is about this unfortunate man, Connor, who was found dead in this room yesterday morning. The moment I heard the name I remembered the case—the gold robbery during the war. There were three men in it—O’Shea, the gang leader; a man named Marks—Soapy Marks; and Connor. I wouldn’t like to confess as much to Mrs Elvery for fear she never left me to myself, but I was tremendously interested in war crimes, and I am pretty sure that this dead man was Connor.’
‘Do you think so, sir?’
Mr Goodman smiled.
‘No, I am perfectly sure now, from your badly simulated innocence! That was Connor, wasn’t it?’
‘Did you ask Mr Hallick?’ asked Dobie, and, when the other shook his head: ‘Well, Scotland Yard is issuing a statement tonight, so you might as well know that it was Connor.’
‘H’m!’ Goodman frowned. ‘I am trying to reckon up how long he was in prison. He must have been released very recently?’
‘A month ago,’ said Dobie. ‘He and Marks came out within a few hours of each other.’
Mr Goodman was beaming.
‘I knew that I was right! I’ve got rather a good memory for names.’
Dobie lingered. There was nothing for him to do, but he had a human weakness for human society.
‘I suppose you’re not staying on after tonight?’ he suggested. ‘All these boarding house murders clear out the tenants and generally ruin the man or woman who’s running the show.’
Goodman shook his head.
‘I don’t know. I’m an old bachelor and I hate change. I suppose I must be a little callous, but I am not as affected as some of the other people are.’
And then he went back to his original thesis.
‘Now, suppose this crime is in connection with the gold robbery—’
But here he came across the official policeman. It was not a matter which Dobie could discuss, and he said so.
‘Certainly—perfectly correct,’ said Goodman hurriedly. ‘I am sorry I was so indiscreet.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Dobie, and Goodman saw that he was aching to tell him all he knew. ‘Perhaps you’re nearer the truth than you imagine.’
Whatever revelation he might have made after that was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Elvery and her daughter. The Rev. Mr Partridge followed, carrying in his hand a skein of wool.
Mrs Elvery at any rate was not so reticent. She was trembling with excitement, had information to give to the bored tea merchant.
‘I’m going to give you a surprise, Mr Goodman,’ she said, and Goodman closed his book with an expression of resignation. ‘Do you know that Mr Partridge is an authority on spiritualism?’
‘And I am an authority on good coffee,’ said Mr Goodman. Cotton had come in with a tray full of little cups, and Goodman selected one. ‘And if this coffee is good you can thank me, for I have taught the cook, after many years, how to prepare coffee that doesn’t taste like dish-water. Spiritualism, eh? B-r-r! I don’t want to know anything about spirits!’
Mr Partridge was all apologies.
‘You rather exaggerate, I fear, my dear friend. Do you mind my saying that? I certainly have studied the science from an outsider’s point of view, but I am no authority.’
‘Then you won’t object to a few spooks?’ said Goodman, smiling.
‘Spooks?’ The reverend gentleman was puzzled. ‘Ah, you mean—thank you, Cotton.’ He took his coffee. ‘I know what you mean.’
Mary came in at this uncomfortable moment, when Mr Partridge chose to discuss the tragedy of the previous day.
‘How terrible it must have been for all you poor souls! How staggering! How—’
Mary was looking at the girl, saw her suddenly stare towards the window and turn pale. Veronica leapt to her feet and screamed.
‘I saw a face at the window!’ she gasped.
‘Draw the curtains,’ said Mr Goodman testily.
A few minutes later Fane strolled into the room, and Mary saw there were raindrops on his shoulders.
‘Have you been out?’
‘Yes, I’ve been strolling around,’ he said.
Mary thought he had been drinking; his speech was slurred and he walked none too steadily.
‘Did you see the monk?’ asked Veronica spitefully.
Ferdie smiled broadly.
‘If I had I’d have called his reverence to lay the ghost.’
Mr Partridge looked up, reproach in his eyes.
‘It is all very dreadful. I only heard by accident of the tragedy that occurred here last night.’
‘Don’t talk about it, please!’ wailed Veronica.
‘A fellow creature cut off in his prime,’ said the Reverend Partridge sonorously. ‘I confess that I had a cold shiver run through me when I heard of this awful happening. The man’s name is not known, I understand?’
He was reaching for a cup of coffee.
‘Oh, yes, it is.’ It was Fane who spoke. ‘I wonder somebody didn’t tell you.’
Their eyes met.
‘The name of the murdered man,’ said Fane deliberately, ‘was Connor—Joe Connor.’
The coffee cup slipped from the parson’s hand and was shattered on the parquet floor. The yellow face turned a dirty white.
‘Connor!’ he faltered. ‘Joe Connor!’
Fe
rdie, watching him, nodded.
‘You know the name?’
‘I—I have heard it.’
Mr Partridge was talking with difficulty; he was a little breathless.
‘Joe Connor!’ he muttered again, and soon after went out of the room.
Mary noticed this and was puzzled. She wondered if Goodman had seen, but apparently he was unobservant, and he was more interested in another inmate of Monkshall. The first moment they were together he opened his heart on the subject.
‘You may not believe me, my dear, but Mrs Elvery has been very interesting tonight. She showed me her press-cutting book—about this man Connor. There is no doubt it was he—I saw a picture in one of the cuttings. And I saw another photograph which rather interested me—had you ever met Mr Fane before he came here?’
‘Was it his?’ she asked.
He hesitated.
‘Yes, I think it was.’
And then she remembered. She had been in the village that afternoon and had seen Goodman at the post office, in the little private telephone booth, and the postmistress had volunteered the information, rather proudly, that he was speaking to Scotland Yard. She had thought no more of this than that Goodman was getting further details about the crime of last night, and she realised that his call had a deeper significance when he went on:
‘I have been making a few inquiries, and I think there is no doubt that Mr Fane is—um—well, Mr Fane is not all that he appears to be.’ And then, earnestly: ‘I beg of you not to mention this to him in any circumstances.’
She was amazed by his vehemence, and laughed.
‘Why, of course I won’t.’
‘Mary’—he glanced over his shoulder; the rest of the company were engaged in their own affairs, and he dropped his hand timidly upon hers—‘Mary, my dear, why don’t you leave this place—go to London?’
‘How curious!’ she laughed. ‘That is exactly what Mr Fane suggested.’
‘Mr Fane made the suggestion for another reason,’ he said, with a touch of grimness in his usually mild voice. ‘I suggest it because—well, because I am very fond of you. Don’t think I’m stupid or sentimental. In spite of the disparity in our ages, I love you as I have never loved any woman in my life.’
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