She shook her head.
‘I don’t know. He has been telephoning all the morning – I went to his room just now and it was locked, but I heard his voice. And, Mr Reeder, you didn’t tell me the terrible thing that happened the night I left London. I saw it in the newspaper this morning.’
‘Terrible thing?’ J. G. Reeder was puzzled. Almost he had forgotten the adventure of the spring gun. ‘Oh, you mean the little joke?’
‘Joke!’ she said, shocked.
‘Criminals have a perverted sense of humour,’ said Mr Reeder airily. ‘The whole thing was – um – an elaborate jest designed to frighten me. One expects such things. They are the examination papers which are set to test one’s intelligence from time to time.’
‘But who did it?’ she asked.
Mr Reeder’s gaze wandered absently over the placid countryside. She had a feeling that it bored him even to recall so trivial an incident in a busy life.
‘Our young friend,’ he said suddenly, and, following the direction of his eyes, she saw Olga Crewe.
She was wearing a dark grey knitted suit and a big black hat that shaded her face, and there was nothing of embarrassment in the half smile with which she greeted her fellow guest.
‘Good morning, Mr Reeder. I think we have met before this morning.’ She rubbed her arm good-humouredly.
Mr Reeder was all apologies.
‘I don’t even know what happened,’ she said; and Margaret Belman learnt for the first time what had occurred before she had made her appearance.
‘I never thought you were so strong – look!’ Olga pulled back her sleeve and showed a big blue-black patch on her forearm, cutting short his expression of remorse with a little laugh.
‘Have you shown Mr Reeder all the attractions of the estate?’ she asked, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. ‘I almost expected to find you at the bathing-pool this morning.’
‘I didn’t even know there was a bathing-pool,’ said Mr Reeder. ‘In fact, after my terrible scare last night, this – um – beautiful house has assumed so sinister an aspect that I expect to bathe in nothing less dramatic than blood!’
She was not amused. He saw her eyes close quickly, and she shivered a little.
‘How gruesome you are! Come along, Miss Belman.’
Inwardly, Margaret resented the tone, which was almost a command, but she walked by their side. Clear of the house, Olga stopped and pointed.
‘You must see the well. Are you interested in old things?’ asked Olga as she led the way to the shrubbery.
‘I am more interested in new things, especially new experiences,’ said Mr Reeder, quite gaily. ‘And new people fascinate me!’
Again that quick, frightened smile of hers. ‘Then you should be having the time of your life, Mr Reeder,’ she said, ‘for you’re meeting people here whom you’ve never met before.’
He screwed up his forehead in a frown. ‘Yes, there are two people in this house I have never met before,’ he said, and she looked round at him quickly.
‘Only two? You’ve never met me before?’
‘I’ve seen you,’ said Mr Reeder, ‘but I have never met you.’
By this time they had arrived at the well, and he read the inscription slowly, before he tested with his foot the board that covered the top of the well.
‘It has been closed for years,’ said the girl. ‘I shouldn’t touch it,’ she added hastily, as Reeder stooped and, catching the edge of a board, swung it back trap fashion, leaving an oblong cavity.
The trap did not squeak or creak as he turned it back; the hinges were oiled; there was no accumulation of dust between the two doors. Going on to his hands and knees, he looked down into the darkness.
‘How many loads of rubble and rock were used to stop up this well?’ he asked.
Margaret read from the little notice-board.
‘Hum!’ said Mr Reeder, searched in his pockets, brought out a two-shilling piece, poised the silver coin carefully and let it drop.
For a long, long time he listened, and then a faint metallic tinkle came up to him.
‘Nine seconds!’ He looked up into Olga’s face. ‘Deduct from the velocity of a falling object the speed at which sound travels, and tell me how deep this hole is?’
He got up to his feet, dusted the knees of his trousers, and carefully dropped the trap into position.
‘Rock there may be,’ he said, ‘but there is no water. I must work out the number of loads requisite to fill this well entirely – it will be an interesting morning’s occupation for one who in his youth was something of a mathematical genius.’
Olga Crewe led the way back to the shrubbery in silence. When they came to the open: ‘I think you had better show Mr Reeder the rest of the establishment,’ she said. ‘I’m rather tired.’
And with a nod she turned away and walked towards the house, and Mr Reeder gazed after her with something like admiration in his eyes.
‘The rouge would, of course, make a tremendous difference,’ he said, half speaking to himself, ‘but it is very difficult to disguise voices – even the best of actors fail in this respect.’
Margaret stared at him.
‘Are you talking to me?’
‘To me,’ said Mr Reeder humbly. ‘It is a bad habit of mine, peculiar to my age, I fear.’
‘But Miss Crewe never uses rouge.’
‘Who does – in the country?’ asked Mr Reeder, and pointed with his walking-stick to the wall along the cliff. ‘Where does that lead? What is on the other side?’
‘Sudden death,’ said Margaret, and laughed.
For a quarter of an hour they stood leaning on the parapet of the low wall, looking down at the strip of beach below. The small channel that led to the cave interested him. He asked her how deep it was. She thought that it was quite shallow, a conclusion with which he did not agree. ‘Underground caves sound romantic, and that channel is deeper than most. I think I must explore the cave. How does one get down?’
He looked left and right. The beach was enclosed in a deep little bay, circled on one side by sheer cliff, on the other by a high reef of rock that ran far out to sea. Mr Reeder pointed to the horizon.
‘Sixty miles from here is France.’
He had a disconcerting habit of going off at a tangent.
‘I think I will do a little exploring this afternoon. The walk should freshen me.’
They were returning to the house when he remembered the bathing-pool and asked to see it.
‘I wonder Mr Daver doesn’t let it run dry,’ she said. ‘It is an awful expense. I was going through the municipality’s account yesterday, and they charge a fabulous sum for pumping up fresh water.’
‘How long has it been built?’
‘That is the surprising thing,’ she said. ‘It was made twelve years ago, when private swimming-pools were things unheard of in this country.’
The pool was oblong in shape; one end of it was tiled and obviously artificially created. The further end, however, had for its sides and bottom natural rock. A great dome-shaped mass served as a diving platform. Mr Reeder walked all round, gazing into the limpid water. It was deepest at the rocky end, and here he stayed longest, and his inspection was most thorough. There seemed a space – how deep he could not tell – at the bottom of the bath, where the rock overhung.
‘Very interesting,’ said Mr Reeder at last. ‘I think I will go back to the house and get my bathing suit. Happily, I brought one.’
‘I didn’t know you were a swimmer,’ smiled the girl.
‘I am the merest tyro in most things,’ said Mr Reeder modestly.
He went up to his room, undressed and slipped into a bathing suit, over which he put his overcoat. Olga Crewe and Mr Daver had gone down to Siltbury. To his satisfaction he saw the hotel car descen
ding the hill road cautiously in a cloud of dust.
When Mr Reeder threw off his coat to make the plunge there was something comically ferocious in his appearance, for about his waist he had fastened a belt to which was attached in a sheath a long-bladed hunting knife, and in addition there dangled a waterproof bag in which he had placed one of the many little hand-lamps that he invariably carried about with him. He made the most human preparations: put his toes into the cold water and shivered ecstatically before he made his plunge. Losing no time in preliminaries, he swam along the bottom to the slit in the rock which he had seen.
It was about two feet high and eight feet in length, and into this he pulled his way, gripping the roof to aid his progress. The roof ended abruptly; he found nothing but water above him, and he allowed himself to come to the surface, catching hold of a projecting ledge to keep himself afloat whilst he detached the waterproof bag from his belt, and, planting it upon the shelf, took out his flash-lamp.
He was in a natural stone chamber, with a broad, vaulted roof. He was in fact inside the dome-shaped rock that formed one end of the pool. At the farthermost corner of the chamber was an opening about four feet in height and two feet in width. A rock passage that led downward, he saw. He followed this for about fifty yards, and noted that although nature had hewn or worn this queer corridor at some remote age – possibly it had been an underground waterway before some gigantic upheaval of nature had raised the land above water-level – the passage owed something of its practicability to human agency. At one place there were marks of a chisel; at another, unmistakable signs of blasting. Mr Reeder retraced his steps and came back to the water. He fastened and re-sealed his lamp, and, drawing a long breath, dived to the bottom and wormed his way through the aperture to the bath and to open air. He came to the surface to gaze into the horror-stricken face of Margaret Belman.
‘Oh, Mr Reeder!’ she gasped. ‘You – you frightened me! I heard you jump in, but when I came here and found the bath empty I thought I must have been mistaken . . . Where have you been? You couldn’t stay under water all that time . . .’
‘Will you hand me my overcoat?’ said Mr Reeder modestly, and when he had hastily buttoned this about his person: ‘I have been to see that the County Council’s requirements are fully satisfied,’ he said solemnly.
She listened, dazed.
‘In all theatres, as you probably know, my dear Miss – um – Margaret, it is essential that there should be certain exits in case of necessity – I have already inspected two this morning, but I rather imagine that the most important of all has so far escaped my observation. What a man! Surely madness is akin to genius!’
He lunched alone, and apparently no man was less interested in his fellow guests than Mr J. G. Reeder. The two golfers had returned and were eating at the same table. Miss Crewe, who came in late and favoured him with a smile, sat at a little table facing him.
‘She is uneasy,’ said Mr Reeder to himself. ‘That is the second time she has dropped her fork. Presently she will get up, sit with her back to me . . . I wonder on what excuse?’
Apparently no excuse was necessary. The girl called a waitress towards her and had her glass and plate shifted to the other side. Mr Reeder was rather pleased with himself.
Daver minced into the dining-room as Mr Reeder was peeling an apple.
‘Good morning, Mr Reeder. Have you got over your nightmare? I see that you have! A man of iron nerve. I admire that tremendously. Personally, I am the most dreadful coward, and the very hint of a burglar makes me shiver. You wouldn’t believe it, but I had a quarrel with a servant this morning, and she left me shaking! You are not affected that way? I see that you are not! Miss Belman tells me that you tried our swimming-pool this morning. You enjoyed it? I am sure you did!’
‘Won’t you sit down and have coffee?’ asked Mr Reeder politely, but Daver declined the invitation with a flourish and a bow.
‘No, no, I have my work – I cannot tell you how grateful I am to Miss Belman for putting me on the track of the most fascinating character of modern times. What a man!’ said Mr Daver, unconsciously repeating J. G. Reeder’s tribute. ‘I’ve been trying to trace his early career – no, no, I’ll stand: I must run away in a minute or two. Is anything known about his early life? Was he married?’
Mr Reeder nodded. He had not the slightest idea that John Flack was married, but it seemed a moment to assert the universality of his knowledge. He was quite unprepared for the effect upon Daver. The jaw of the yellow-faced man dropped.
‘Married?’ he squeaked. ‘Who told you he was married? Where was he married?’
‘That is a matter,’ said Mr Reeder gravely, ‘which I cannot discuss.’
‘Married!’ Daver rubbed his little round head irritably, but did not pursue the subject. He made some inane reference to the weather and bustled out of the room.
Mr Reeder settled himself in what he called the banqueting-hall with an illustrated paper, awaiting an opportunity which he knew must present itself sooner or later. The servants he had passed under review. Girls were employed to wait at table, and these lived in a small cottage on the Siltbury side of the estate. The men servants, including the hall porter, seemed above suspicion. The porter was an old army man with a row of medals across his uniform jacket; his assistant was a chinless youth recruited from Siltbury. He apparently was the only member of the staff that did not live in one of the cottages. In the main the women servants were an unpromising lot – the infuriated waitress was his only hope, although as likely as not she would talk of nothing but her grievances.
From where he sat he had a view of the lawn. At three o’clock the Colonel and the Rev. Mr Dean and Olga Crewe passed out of the main gate, evidently bound for Siltbury, He rang the bell, and to his satisfaction the aggrieved waitress came and took his order for tea.
‘This is a nice place,’ said Mr Reeder conversationally.
The girl’s ‘Yes, sir’ was snappy.
‘I suppose,’ mused Mr Reeder, looking out of the window, ‘that this is the sort of situation that a lot of girls would give their heads to get and break their hearts to lose?’
Evidently she did not agree.
‘The upstairs work isn’t so bad,’ she said, ‘and there’s not much to do in the dining-room. But it’s too slow for me. I was at a big hotel before I came here. I’m going to a better job – and the sooner the better.’
She admitted that the money was good, but she had a longing for that imponderable quantity which she described as ‘life’. She also expressed a preference for men guests.
‘Miss Crewe – so called – gives more trouble than all the rest of the people put together,’ she said. ‘I can’t make her out. First she wants one room, then she wants another. Why she can’t stay with her husband I don’t know.’
‘With her – ?’ Mr Reeder looked at her in pained surprise. ‘Perhaps they don’t get on well together?’
‘They used to get on all right. If they weren’t married I could understand all the mystery they’re making – pretending they’re not, him in his room and she in hers, and meeting like strangers. When all that kind of deceit is going on, things are bound to get lost,’ she added inconsequently.
‘How long has this been – er – going on?’ asked Mr Reeder.
‘Only the last week or so,’ said the girl viciously. ‘I know they’re married, because I’ve seen her marriage certificate – they’ve been married six years. She keeps it in her dressing-case.’
She looked at him with sudden suspicion.
‘I oughtn’t to have told you that. I don’t want to make trouble for anybody, and I bear them no malice, though they’ve treated me worse’n a dog,’ she said. ‘Nobody else in the house but me knows. I was her maid for two years. But if people don’t treat me right I don’t treat them right.’
‘Marri
ed six years? Dear me!’ said Mr Reeder.
And then he suddenly turned his head and faced her.
‘Would you like fifty pounds?’ he asked. ‘That is the immense sum I will give you for just one little peep at that marriage certificate.’
The girl went red.
‘You’re trying to catch me,’ she said, hesitated, and then: ‘I don’t want to get her into trouble.’
‘I am a detective,’ said Mr Reeder, ‘but I am working on behalf of the Chief Registrar, and we have a doubt as to whether that marriage was legal. I could, of course, search the young lady’s room and find the certificate for myself, but if you would care to help me, and fifty pounds has any attraction for you –’
She paused irresolutely and said she would see. Half an hour later she came into the hall with the news that she had been unsuccessful in her search. She had found the envelope in which the certificate had been kept, but the document itself was gone.
Mr Reeder did not ask the name of the bridegroom, nor was he mentioned, for he was pretty certain that he knew that fort-unate man. He put a question, and the girl answered as he had expected.
‘There is one thing I would like to ask you: do you remember the name of the girl’s father?’
‘John Crewe, merchant,’ she said promptly. ‘The mother’s name was Hannah. He made me swear on the Bible I’d never tell a soul that I knew they were married.’
‘Does anybody else know? You said “nobody”, I think?’
The girl hesitated.
‘Yes, Mrs Burton knows. She knows everything.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Reeder, and, opening his pocket-book, took out two five-pound notes. ‘What was the husband’s profession: do you remember that?’
The woman’s lips curled.
‘Secretary – why call himself secretary, I don’t know, and him an independent gentleman!’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Reeder again.
He telephoned to Siltbury for a taxicab.
‘Are you going out?’ asked Margaret, finding him waiting under the portico.
‘I am buying a few presents for friends in London,’ said Mr Reeder glibly; ‘a butter-dish or two, suitably inscribed, would, I feel sure, be very acceptable.’
The Casefiles of Mr J. G. Reeder Page 44