The Dreadful Hollow

by Nicholas Blake

  She got up, looking bewildered at this abrupt termination of the interview, yet relieved as well.

  “An unsatisfactory witness,” remarked Blount austerely. “I’m seeing Miss Celandine in the drawing room. You’d better come along.”

  They went straight away. Celandine was sitting in a high-backed chair, a rug over her knees, looking out into the garden. She received the two Scotland Yard men graciously, and gave Nigel a special smile.

  “I’m all ready, you see, Superintendent. Even facing the light for you.”

  “Oh well now, oh well now!” Blount briskly patted his bald head. “Then I’ll take the window seat, eh? Must do these things properly, ma’am, as you say. And if Sergeant Reid may have that wee table over there? Splendid! Now I’m afraid I’m going to ask you a lot of questions you’ve been asked before. Policeman’s lot, ma’am, asking questions.”

  “I’m sure you love it really.” Celandine’s mouth curved humorously: her eyes danced at him. The Superintendent rubbed his hands in glee. Blount being gallant is like an elephant dancing a polka, thought Nigel sourly. Old Twinkletoes. Blount’s opening surprised Nigel considerably, however.

  “Would this be yours, ma’am?” he asked, drawing a fine linen handkerchief from his pocket.

  Celandine leaned forward. “A clue, is it? How exciting. But what made you think it’s mine. It’s a man’s, surely?”

  “It has a monogram on it. C.”

  “But that must be Ch—”

  “Charles Blick’s?”

  “Hadn’t you better ask him?” There was a touch of frost in her voice, but Blount entirely disregarded it.

  “Of course. I will, soon. We’ve only just found it, you see.”

  There was quite a long pause. Celandine looked mystified.

  “It must have been lying on the ground a night or two. Damp, you see, and a bit greenish,” the Superintendent pursued, shaking out the handkerchief for her to look at. With equal deliberation, he put it back in his pocket.

  What’s all this? thought Nigel. Has he tumbled to the possibility of Charles as Celandine’s accomplice? Was he trying to fray her nerve by dangling this evidence in front of her nose? If so, he’s having singularly little success. She looks merely interested and baffled.

  “Can’t think how Randall’s men missed it. T’ck, t’ck, t’ck.”

  “You’re being very mysterious,” she said. “I suppose you found it when you were searching the wood just now.”

  “Yes. Just so.” Blount seemed oddly piano, as if he had been somehow outmaneuvered. Well, it was disconcerting that, if Charles had been her accomplice, she should take so calmly the finding of his handkerchief near the scene of the crime.

  The Superintendent took her painstakingly through the preliminaries to her interview with Archibald Blick. He had rung up that afternoon, demanding to see her, but she had refused. Why? Because she disliked him personally, and had no desire to fight his battle against Charles and Rosebay. Did she suspect he might come to see her, in spite of this refusal? Yes: he was capable de tout. Had she discussed the situation with Charles Blick? No: he seemed to have been avoiding her since her birthday party. With her sister? A little, but Rosebay was very secretive. So Sir Archibald arrived just before ten o’clock: who let him in? He just walked in; the front door is only locked last thing at night. Was he in the habit of just walking in like that? Oh no; indeed, she had not seen him for at least a year, and had never exchanged more than the barest civilities with him since her father’s death; but no doubt he considered he owned the house, since—as he was shortly to divulge—the Chantmerles were supported by his money.

  Blount read through the statement she had made to Randall about her conversation with Sir Archibald.

  “Have you anything to add to this, ma’am? Can you remember anything more that was said, which might help us? He was here for an hour and twenty minutes. A long time.”

  Celandine’s eyes were closed: there was an expression of distaste on her lovely face.

  “I simply couldn’t get rid of him. He went on and on. Raving about Rosebay, threatening what he’d do if I didn’t help him prevent the marriage. He was quite bloody-minded. But you know all this. I thought if I gave him a drink he might take the hint and go, or at least become a little more civilized. But he just went on helping himself and battering away at me.”

  “That was about half an hour after he came, you rang the bell?”

  “Was it? I thought it was later than that. But I’d lost all sense of time.”

  “How soon after you rang did your sister come in?”

  “I really don’t know. A minute? Two?”

  “Think hard. This may be important.”

  Celandine opened her eyes wide at him, a puzzled frown on her brow. “I’m sorry. I can’t be more precise.”

  “Where do you keep your sleeping powder?”

  “In my bedroom. I sleep in what used to be the morning room. On this floor.”

  “You keep it locked up?”

  “Oh no, we never lock anything up.”

  “Did you notice if any was missing that night? I dare say you’d feel the need of a sedative after your ordeal?”

  “My ordeal? Oh yes, Sir Archibald had been rather over-stimulating. I did take some. But I didn’t notice if any was missing.”

  “Your sister’s fingerprints were found on the bottle, as well as yours.”

  “Naturally. She often mixes it for me.”

  “Did you actually watch your sister pour out the drinks?”

  “Yes, I think I did,” said Celandine slowly. She smiled, and turned her wrist in an exquisite gesture which made one think of fans and lace ruffles. “But this is absurd, you know. The glasses are amber-colored. If Bay wanted to administer a drug, she could have slipped it in outside the room. One wouldn’t have noticed the powder in the glass. But she’d never do such a silly thing.”

  “One thing you didn’t mention in your first statement, Miss Chantmerle. From evidence received, I understand that Sir Archibald, soon after his arrival, made a reference to the anonymous letters. Something about his son marrying into a family of poison-pen writers. Can you tell me any more about that?”

  Celandine’s blue eyes went dark. “Goodness gracious, was Bay listening at the keyhole after all?”

  “You’re not answering my question, ma’am.”

  She smiled sadly. “No more I am. I didn’t mention it to Inspector Randall because it’s a very sore spot with me. Yes, Sir Archibald did say that. I couldn’t make out what he was talking about. Then he told me that Daniel Durdle was my—is my brother. It was a terrible shock.” Celandine’s face looked for a moment like a death mask—rigid, withdrawn, empty. “Apparently Durdle wrote the letters. Is that true? Sir Archibald said so.”

  Blount looked at her gravely, making no comment. “After Sir Archibald left, you went straight to bed?”

  “No. I stayed up a little. Quarter of an hour or so. Trying to pull myself together. It had been a most disagreeable experience.”

  “You have—e-eh—assistance in getting to bed?”

  “Yes, of course I do. I’m a cripple. There’s no need to be tactful about it. I called up to Bay: she usually helps me. But she didn’t answer. Fast asleep. So I rang for Charity and she came down instead. I told all this to Inspector Randall.”

  “Just so. You use the wee wheeled chair indoors, and your electric carriage when you go out. The shed where you keep the carriage was not locked that night. The battery was down at the garage, being recharged. You’d done a lot of traveling in it that afternoon.” Blount seemed to be talking to himself. “The mileage needed to use up a battery is thirty-five. Ye-es. Or it can be discharged in—e-eh—forty-five hours by leaving the lights turned on, or else by screwing a resistance across the terminals.”

  “I see you’ve studied the subject, Mr. Blount,” said Celandine gaily.

  “Och, we policemen collect a deal of useless information in the course of our misspent l
ives. Do you never recharge the battery at home here? You could do it overnight by plugging it to the A.C. mains through a rectifier, you know.”

  Celandine, glancing at Nigel, gave a delicious giggle which resurrected the schoolgirl of thirty years ago.

  “I’m sure I could. But Herbert—our gardener—he’s terrified of what he calls ‘the electric,’ in any shape or form. It appears that a distant relative of his was once stricken down by it in London. Old Arthur, he goes to turn on his wireless—at Christmas it was, his missus and the nippers around him: there’s a blinding flash, old Arthur drops down dead, and every single light goes out in the Commercial Road.”

  The Superintendent chuckled genially, massaging his scalp. It had all turned into a jolly party, with Celandine as ever the centerpiece. Blount seemed quite captivated by her charm and intelligence. But Nigel, knowing his Superintendent of old, suspected this relaxation of the atmosphere had been contrived by Blount for his own purposes.

  “By the bye, ma’am, you know of course that your sister had arranged to meet Mr. Charles Blick after eleven o’clock on the night his father was murdered?”

  “I—meet Charles?—no, indeed I did not. Where?” Celandine’s voice was faint, except upon the last word, which came out with involuntary violence. Nigel had never seen her look so discomposed since the episode of the field glasses. The pure, vivacious face suddenly turned haggard, as if a mask had been torn from it.

  “In the upper meadow between here and the Hall,” replied Blount, studying her intently.

  “But—but she couldn’t have—she was asleep when Sir Archibald left. I don’t understand—”

  “You mean, you called up to her and got no reply.”

  “You’re not suggesting—?”

  “I’m only saying, Miss Chantmerle, that your sister had made an appointment which she says she didn’t keep, and that there’s a strong reason for believing Mr. Charles Blick did keep it—on the path which Sir Archibald would take when he left you. If—here! hold up, ma’am!”

  Celandine had drooped forward in her chair, like a daffodil with a broken stem, fainting.

  14 A Wounded Thing with a Rancorous Cry

  ROSEBAY HAD BEEN sent for, to attend to Celandine. Nigel, pacing the garden, was consumed by curiosity. What were the two sisters saying to each other now in that delightful, dated, shabby drawing room, with its Shannon-and-Ricketts aura eloquent of Edric Chantmerle’s prosperous days? No doubt Detective Sergeant Reid was straining his ears outside the door: and no doubt, if Rosebay or Celandine had anything to conceal, she would not be blurting it out now. Nigel saw the two heads through the window, golden and dark, as Rosebay knelt beside her sister, who was still in the high-backed chair. It was like a tableau designed by some Edwardian painter. The two were talking, but Nigel could not see their expressions. It would be strange if Celandine were not asking Rosebay about the assignation with Charles; for, if anything stood out clear in this murky case, it was that Celandine had been ignorant of the assignation and woefully shocked to hear of it. But why?

  There seemed two possible explanations. Either Charles had been Celandine’s accomplice, and she was startled out of her senses to learn that, at the very time he should be carrying out his part of the plan, he’d arranged also to meet Rosebay; if Rosebay did keep the appointment, she might well have seen everything. Or else Celandine had fainted because she realized what grave suspicion the episode threw upon Rosebay herself.

  No, there was a third possibility. Suppose Celandine had had some accomplice—Mark Raynham, Stanford even. The knowledge that Charles and perhaps Rosebay had been so near the scene of action would be enough to turn her faint. But one came back always to the two crucial questions: who was the figure the Hall cook had seen? how was the sleeping powder administered? And the latter, Nigel now realized, raised a still more important question—when was it administered.

  If the figure the cook had seen was Sir Archibald himself, then he had probably been drugged after his return to the Hall. But the time factor alone, apart from other considerations, made this highly unlikely. Well then, it must have been either Celandine or Rosebay who doped his whisky. And here there was the curious discrepancy of evidence. Rosebay said she took in the drinks at about 11:10: Charity Cooper said the bell rang at 10:30: Celandine said she thought it was later than 10:30, but wasn’t sure. Charity had actually looked at her clock, and the police had presumably made sure it was in order. Could it have been tampered with that night? Surely, if the murderer wanted to confuse the time issue the clock would have been put on by forty minutes, not back? For, whether it was Celandine or Rosebay, she would want to give the impression that Blick had left the Little Manor in possession of his faculties, and walked home.

  Nigel, aware that he was becoming snarled up in suppositions and complexities, took another line. The analyst’s report of the amount of drug found in the stomach showed that, depending upon his resistance, it would take effect in ten to fifteen minutes. Rosebay had had only one chance to dope the drink. If it was 10:30 when she brought in the tray, Blick should have been asleep by 10:45; if it was 11:10, he might just have been able to get home. Celandine could have doped any of the numerous glasses of whisky he’d had, from 10:30 onward: she would presumably have timed it so that her accomplice would be in position when Blick left the house. In her first statement, to Randall, she’d said that Blick got up to go, “looking tired and rather sleepy” soon after 11:15, talked for a few more minutes, then left. The “sleepy” touch was bold, but not out of character.

  The position, then, seemed to be this. If Charity Cooper was right about the time, it could not have been Rosebay who drugged the whisky: which made it all the odder that Rosebay should have persisted in contradicting Charity’s evidence. But there was a still odder contradiction, Nigel perceived, in the idea of Celandine’s having administered the drug. She must have realized that the autopsy would bring it to light, and that the police would find out it could only have been administered at the Hall or the Little Manor, thus directing suspicion against herself and/or Charles Blick. Therefore, thought Nigel, Charles cannot have been her accomplice. The only pattern the facts would fall into, then, was this: Celandine had drugged the whisky; her accomplice had carried out the murder, then gone to the Hall impersonating the murdered man, so that suspicion would be thrown upon Charles and Stanford. But who was this accomplice?

  Nigel walked round the house, up toward the quarry. Somewhere, in this little wood, Blount’s men had found the monogrammed handkerchief. Celandine had said, quite calmly, “I suppose you found it when you were searching the wood.” Had she expected it to be found then? a bogus clue laid by her accomplice to incriminate Charles?

  Nigel made his way along the narrow ride, toward the quarry. Blount had drawn off the main body of his searchers to go over the ground between the Little Manor and the Hall, particularly the spot where Charles Blick had arranged to meet Rosebay. But there was one uniformed man left, assiduously poking through the undergrowth with a stick. He recognized Nigel, and straightened up, groaning. It was Police Constable Clotworthy.

  “Any luck?” asked Nigel.

  “We found a handkerchief yurrabouts, earlier on, sir.”

  Nigel got him to demonstrate the exact spot. It had been discovered, just inside the wood, some thirty paces from the quarry and a couple of feet to the left of the ride, rolled up in a ball, at the roots of a clump of bracken. Nigel suspected that, in the first, rather hurried search, it had been trodden underfoot by the large boot of one of Randall’s men. Looking up from the spot, he could see the ride ascending through a tangle of trees to the little ridge which hid the Chantmerles’ house from sight.

  As he looked, he became aware that one of the trees in the coppice was not a tree, but the tall, motionless figure of Daniel Durdle.

  “Got some amateur searchers out too, I see,” said Nigel, indicating the man.

  Clotworthy executed what is known in theatrical circles as a slow burn.
“Amateur searchers? Oh no, sir. What? Hey you! Oh, it’s Mr. Durdle! You’re not allowed here. Don’t you know you’re trespassing?”

  A sleek, resonant voice came through the shades of the tousled branches. “It’s mine as much as theirs. I have a right to be here. ‘Lo, we heard of it at Ephratah, and found it in the wood.’”

  “What’s that, Mr. Durdle? You found something?”

  Clotworthy’s question elicited no answer. Durdle picked his way through the undergrowth toward them.

  “Now you’ve no business here rightly, Mr. Durdle, look so,” Clotworthy began. Nigel had time to notice a deprecating tone, almost a deference, in Clotworthy’s voice; he realized that Durdle had not spoken wildly when he said he was a man not without authority in the village. Ignoring the Constable, Daniel addressed Nigel.

  “I wish to speak to you.”

  “What about? If it’s anything to do with the murder, you must speak to Superintendent Blount.”

  “Then I will go unto him.”

  “I’ve no doubt he’s extremely busy just now.”

  “Then I will await him in my habitation.”

  Daniel Durdle departed toward the quarry track, his long stride and weird figure reminding Nigel disagreeably of the Scissors Man.

  Nigel went to look for Blount. The Superintendent was still directing the search around the spot where Charles Blick had awaited Rosebay. Nothing had been found so far except a couple of cigarette stubs under the hedge on the far side of the road. No sign of a struggle. As Blount said, “They’re proof he came here, if they’re his, but no proof he stayed here all the time. He could drop two old butts, just to give the impression he’d never shifted from this spot.”

  Nigel told him of Durdle’s request, and presently they set off for the village, with Reid, leaving one of Randall’s men to superintend the search; every foot of ground was to be examined along the route which Sir Archibald could be presumed to have taken on leaving the Little Manor.

  “What did you make of the Chantmerles?” said Nigel.