There was little Nigel could say. He put his hands on the girl’s thin shoulders, which shook convulsively as if some engine too powerful for her body was at work within it. She gave him a forlorn, appealing look, her eyes brilliant with tears, which made him suddenly angry with everyone—Celandine, Charles, Sir Archibald, even himself.
“I’ll have a talk with Charles,” he said. “Don’t cry any more.”
“You don’t really trust me, do you?” she asked presently.
“How can I? You haven’t told me everything.”
“No. But I can’t. Not yet . . .”
The next twenty-four hours dragged slowly. Nigel felt the case was out of his hands. He would make his report to Sir Archibald, and go. Inspector Randall could look about for more definite evidence against Daniel Durdle. The affair of the field glasses would probably remain an unsolved mystery. Nigel was by now pretty certain that he knew who had been behind it, and why. But he saw little hope of proving his theory, unless one of his suspects broke down, or had been careless enough to leave evidence which the scientific laboratories at Scotland Yard could interpret. He said something of this to the vicar, at dinner that night.
“You seem to take it all very calmly,” said Mark Raynham. “Or have you thrown up the sponge?”
“Randall will look after it. He’s an efficient chap. You must give the police time.”
“Time! But, my dear fellow, I’m desperately worried about Celandine. Suppose another attempt is made on her life?”
“It won’t be,” said Nigel dogmatically.
“Well, let’s hope you’re right. I’d never forgive myself if—”
“You needn’t worry about Celandine. It’s her sister who wants help.”
“I don’t happen to be in love with her sister,” replied the vicar flatly. “She’s Charles’s job.”
But Charles Blick, when Nigel had a brief interview with him the next morning, showed at his least satisfactory. His father was coming straight to the factory off the London train, in a couple of hours time, and Charles was evidently preoccupied with the visit.
“I’m afraid he’ll give me a rocket for letting Randall into the experimental room,” he said, glancing rather shamefacedly at Nigel.
“That’s not my affair. And I suppose Rosebay Chantmerle isn’t my business either. But you’ve no right to keep her on a string like this.”
Charles’s manner became very cold. “As you say, it isn’t your business. You just don’t know enough about it to tell me what I ought and oughtn’t to do.”
“I know enough about it to tell you that the girl is heading for another breakdown. If you’re interested.”
“That’s damned offensive! Who the hell are you to—”
“I’m an outsider. And I never asked to be dragged into all your family affairs. But I don’t like seeing human beings suffering unnecessarily. Celandine won’t die if you marry Rosebay: in fact, she says she knows about you and her sister.”
“Knows? I dare say. But does she accept it?”
“So all you’ve got to do is stand up to your father. Or, if you still can’t choose between the past and the present, make a clean break with them both.”
“That sort of advice is easy enough to give,” said Charles wearily. “I’ve been giving it to myself for some time. But I don’t seem able to take it. . . . Look here, who did send Celandine those binoculars?”
Nigel regarded him steadily for a few moments. “That ought to make no difference to you,” he said at last. “I must be going. Will you tell your father I’d like to see him sometime today?”
The summons from Sir Archibald arrived at 3:30 that afternoon. Nigel walked up to the Hall and was shown into the room where he had his first long conversation with Stanford Blick. Sir Archibald’s dapper, city-clad figure looked like just one more oddity added to the anomalous collection of objects there. He had, however, created a small oasis for himself in the middle of the room—a long table with chairs at either end, to one of which he directed Nigel.
“I was expecting a report from you,” he rapped out.
“I heard you were coming down shortly, so I deferred it till we met.”
“Well?”
Nigel gave him a full account of his investigation of the anonymous letters, and the conclusions he and Inspector Randall had reached. He was aware, throughout, of Sir Archibald’s eyes, like beads of jet, fixed unwinking upon him. There was something disconcerting in Sir Archibald’s attitude, too; he sat there, motionless as a lizard on a sunny wall, basking in some secret satisfaction which would soon enough be revealed to Nigel.
“So there’s no doubt that Daniel Durdle was responsible. Randall may find it difficult to get enough evidence for prosecution. But the letters have stopped, anyway, and there won’t be any more. Durdle has had a good fright.”
Sir Archibald licked his lips, upon which a disagreeable smile had formed during Nigel’s concluding remarks.
“There won’t be any more letters? I’m afraid I must undeceive you. I’ve just had one by this afternoon’s post.”
“That’s extremely odd,” said Nigel, taking the envelope which Sir Archibald threw down on the table in front of him. “So Daniel Durdle has started up again?”
“The letter has a Moreford postmark. I have just contacted Inspector Randall, who tells me the police have been keeping this man Durdle under observation the last few days. Durdle was neither in Moreford yesterday, nor did he go anywhere near the other post box in Prior’s Umborne,” Sir Archibald said grimly. “What are your comments on that?”
“Obviously somebody else has started writing poison-pen letters.”
The financier pursed his mouth. “That is not obvious to me at all. You are not prepared to admit the possibility that your pet theory is totally wrong?”
“Not until I have evidence to disprove it.”
“I suggest you start looking for such evidence, then. You might read that letter, for instance.”
Sir Archibald Blick was one of those men who seem to have been formed by the Creator for the sole and specialized purpose of riling their fellow creatures, thought Nigel, as he opened the letter. It was in capitals, on the same cheap stationery.
Charles Blick goes with Rosebay Chantmerle
it winningly announced.
“You’ve got off lightly,” Nigel said, with a smile.
“I fail to understand you.” Sir Archibald’s voice was freezing.
“The other recipients were all told horrible home truths about themselves. But, of course, a man of your well-known integrity doesn’t give a poison pen any purchase. Though I must say it’s a bit strange that—”
“I would advise you not to adopt that tone with me.” The financier was glaring at Nigel, who went on imperturbably: “A bit strange that the writer did not bring up the old story about your having ruined Edric Chantmerle.”
Sir Archibald’s eyes flickered: his mouth went thinner than ever. “I am not interested in whatever nonsense this creature might have written. Is it true about my son?”
“He’s seen quite a lot of her lately.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. Has this young woman entangled him?”
“That’s a question you had better ask him.”
“I certainly shall. But I have the right to expect some co-operation from you, Strangeways.”
Nigel’s pale-blue eyes regarded Sir Archibald with an impassive, clinical gaze. He said: “I was employed to investigate anonymous letters, not to act as an engagement broker, or breaker.”
“So he does want to marry her, eh?” said the financier, with the air of counsel trapping a witness into a damning admission.
“Well, he does and he doesn’t.”
“He most certainly won’t. I shall see to that.”
“Why are you so opposed to it?”
“There’s bad blood in that family. It’s an effete stock. The father was insane.” The dapper little old man was positively trembling, Nigel
noticed, with some irrepressible fury. “D’you know, her sister refuses to see me. I rang her up as soon as I got this letter. Refuses to see me! I shall go there this evening and demand an interview.”
“I don’t see how you can stop your son marrying Rosebay Chantmerle, if he really wants to.”
“I can cut the purse strings. That’ll bring them to their senses.”
There was a pause, while Nigel digested this unpalatable remark. Then he said: “Are you sure you’re right about the Chantmerles? After all, your elder son is on the eccentric side. But nobody would say the Blicks have bad blood, and refuse to let their daughter marry into your family for that reason.”
Sir Archibald was excessively displeased. “If I understand what you are saying, it is both preposterous and impertinent.”
“Not so very preposterous. I can even imagine people thinking you were a bit touched—the way you pour your money into these expensive hobbies of Stanford’s.”
“Is that what they’re saying?” Sir Archibald came out with it involuntarily. His discomposure would have been comic in anyone but a financier, whose delicate balancings must rest upon an unshakable reputation for sanity. “Nonsense! Poppycock! I have financed certain experiments by my elder son. If the present one fails, or he exceeds his allocation, he’ll very soon be hauled up short. I am not in the habit of throwing good money after bad.”
“Oh, but it won’t fail, Pop,” said a voice from the doorway, and at once burst into song: “S-s-s-Susie’s my favorite floosie, She’s the g-g-g-g-girl that I adore.”
Sir Archibald’s face was a study of conflicting emotions, as he listened to Stanford. Outrage vied with grim amusement, parental partiality with a quite obvious alarm that Nigel’s recent remarks should be so colorfully illustrated. However, his feelings soon canceled one another out, leaving his usual glacier expression in command.
“Now you’ve finished your work on the engine, you must sack this fellow Durdle. I intend to get him and his mother out of the post office, too, if the police don’t do it. In fact, they’d better be run right out of the district. The fellow’s a bad influence, all round. No better than a damned agitator, with all this religious tommyrot he talks.”
“Pop talks just like a Tammany Hall boss, doesn’t he?” said Stanford admiringly. “Big shot cleans up small-town corruption.”
“The first thing I’m going to clean up is this house. Never seen such a pigsty.”
“You’ve never seen it because you never come down here. Just an absentee landlord, that’s you. And who else are you going to discipline, after you’ve liquidated old Durdlepots and pepped up brother Charles and fumigated the Hall? Let’s see now. The vicar is jolly unsound—I suspect him of Arminianism. Better make him toe the line.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Stanford, my boy. Not that I entirely approve of Raynham. I shall certainly have a word with him about this pacifist drivel of his that gets printed in the local press.”
“Goody! Off with his head!” Stanford did an idiotic little war dance on the carpet. “Now who else shall we purge?”
“I don’t think Mr. Strangeways need be brought into these private affairs of ours. The matter of the anonymous letters will be exercising all his powers for some little time yet, I rather fancy, judging by the results to date. . . .”
Sir Archibald was to be proved conspicuously wrong on both counts. Nor would his plans for the regeneration of Prior’s Umborne be carried far. At nine o’clock the next morning, when Joe Summers brought in Nigel’s breakfast, he announced: “Terrible doings up the hill, sir. Just heard. Sir Archibald’s dead. Miss Rosebay found his corpse in the quarry.”
Part Two
10 There in the Ghastly Pit
NIGEL SWALLOWED A cup of tea, and walked quickly up the hill toward the quarry. It was a fine morning again, a haze over the distances, and scatters of bird song coming from hedge and copse. Ahead of him on the track Nigel could see villagers, mostly children, hurrying along as if already late for some gala event, among them the gangling, black-clad figure of Daniel Durdle.
This was going to kick up an almighty dust, thought Nigel. Men of Sir Archibald Blick’s eminence, or notoriety, cannot fall into quarries without setting up a gigantic ripple. Did he fall, or was he pushed? Sir Archibald was not the sort of man to trip up on the edge of a quarry; or, for the matter of that, to take nature rambles at night. One must assume it had happened late, otherwise his disappearance would have been reported before now. And only yesterday afternoon he had obligingly pointed out a group of potential murderers. How many of them had he interviewed? If all, there were at least five people with assorted motives for killing him. It was almost too pat. The anonymous letters and the affair of the binoculars would somehow fit in neatly too—if this was fiction; but real life is less tidy.
P. C. Clotworthy was shooing children away from the roped-off south face of the quarry, where men were rigging up a pulley. The children, pursued by raucous cries from their mothers, wandered round the quarry’s edge, eating bread and jam or fighting one another or feinting to climb down into the pit below. Nigel could see a group of police busying themselves down there round a splayed-out figure, taking photographs and measurements, splashing through the shallow water in the center, looking for clues. It must have been very like this twenty years ago: the same drama, with a different cast.
As he made for the roped enclosure, Nigel passed Daniel Durdle, standing above the pit, his head blindly weaving as if to snuff the smell of blood. The man was muttering to himself: “This is the Lord’s doing, and it is glorious in our eyes.” That was going a bit far, thought Nigel, though one could not pretend that Sir Archibald had been a shining example of godliness or the human virtues.
Within the roped enclosure, to which Clotworthy admitted him only after a long, theatrically suspicious scrutiny, the daffodil clumps stood impassive. There was no wind today to shiver them, and they shone in triumphant glory, all but a few which lay drooping, broken-backed, the minor casualties, no doubt, of the morning’s alarum. Perhaps Rosebay Chantmerle had trodden them down as she ran back to the Little Manor after seeing the body down there. The turf was pretty hard, but here and there Nigel noticed faint indentations—the wheel tracks of Celandine’s electric carriage, he assumed. She would often come up here on a pilgrimage: there were vestiges of several sets of tracks, some fainter than others, none deeply grooved. Nigel now observed that some of the stricken daffodils lay in a straight line, as though a wheel had passed over one clump after another. A fantastic picture formed in his head—of Celandine transporting her old enemy’s body to the quarry’s edge, then tipping it over in a transport of poetic justice. No, not possible—their combined weights would have made one set of much deeper wheel tracks, he laboriously argued; then ridiculed himself for ever having entertained such a wild fantasy. Probably the fellow just committed suicide. That’s even sillier—can you imagine Sir Archibald killing himself, under any circumstances? But, as far as Nigel could tell from examining the edge of the quarry below which the body lay, there were no signs of a struggle.
Nigel’s thoughts seemed as unreal as the whole scene before him—the broken doll sprawled in the quarry; the children yelling to late arrivals: “Come on, do! It’s a deader!” The figure of Daniel Durdle standing alone above the pit, like some high-executive fiend overseeing the ritual commotion of flashlights, measuring tapes and inquisition which was in process there. The village women and a few men, who were watching operations with all the placid absorption of Londoners staring at a road excavation, might have been the ranks of the Blessed, looking down in a primitive painting upon the antics of the damned.
Presently a car was heard approaching up the track, and a spruce figure strode upon the scene, whom P. C. Clotworthy saluted. Nigel introduced himself to Major Beale, the Chief Constable.
“Ah, yes. Heard you were down here. Sorry I’ve not looked you up before. This is a nasty business. What did he want to do it for, eh? Going to kick
up a stink. Look at all those damned ghouls sitting around! What a picnic!”
Vigorously wiping his mustache, which showed traces of breakfast egg, the Chief Constable strode to the quarry’s edge and bellowed: “Randall! I’m coming down.”
He turned to Nigel again, said: “See you later. Tell Miss Chantmerle I’ll be coming along.” Then, with a brisk wave of the hand, he lowered himself, neat gray suit and all, over the lip of the quarry, climbing down with a boy’s agility.
There was nothing Nigel could do here. He walked off down the narrow ride which led through the wood to the Little Manor. He was shown into the drawing room, where the two Chantmerle sisters sat, with Stanford Blick and Mark Raynham, in the becalmed, fatalistic attitudes which Nigel had so often seen among those nearly affected by a violent death.
He expressed his sympathy to Stanford. The man’s mouth, turned down at one corner, quivered a little as he thanked Nigel.
“Funny thing,” he added: “I’m beginning to realize I was fond of Pop. He wasn’t such a bad stick, in spite of what people said. Just needed the right handling.”
There was an awkward silence. None of the others was a person addicted to the conventional half truth. They had disliked the dead man, and could not bring themselves to pretend otherwise. Celandine Chantmerle turned away her beautiful head. Rosebay was picking feverishly at the braid of the sofa. The vicar, coughing dryly, broke the silence.
“Have the police discovered anything yet? How it happened, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” answered Nigel.
Their voices were muted, as if the body were in the room and the blinds drawn. It made it the more shocking when Rosebay harshly exclaimed: “Why are we all pretending? What are we waiting for?”
“The police, darling,” said Celandine. “They have to interview each of us. You mustn’t be so upset.”
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