“Avril never walks a step unless she has to. And Renton rides around on a horse all the time.”
“Proud walker,” mused Cobb. “A guy on a walking horse. Isn’t that a kind of proud walker? Couldn’t it be twisted around that way?”
“Well, there’s no connection between Avril and the seven stars in the sky. My God!” A thought came: “‘I’ll sing you eight-O.’”
“What’s that?” asked Cobb dubiously.
“‘Eight for the April rainers,’” I said. “Avril’s French for April. Rainers—Raynor.”
We stared at each other. Then Cobb gave a shrug.
“Westlake, we’re both going nuts. Let’s get out of here before our brains fry.”
We left the house, spent some fruitless minutes searching around the two buildings and the sawdust pile, and went back to Cobb’s car.
I felt almost as frustrated as Cobb. We had found a most unrevealing cigarette butt and that was all. We had neither proved nor disproved Cobb’s theory. But the more I thought of it, the more convinced I was that the inspector had almost hit upon the truth. The fact that the people already killed had been the people who had followed the twins to the sawmill was too remarkable, surely, to be a coincidence. And a sane motive, however cryptic, was far more satisfactory to me than a theory which rested on an apparently non-existent homicidal maniac obsessed with an old song.
We got into the car.
“Well,” I said. “What next?”
“The Bray house,” said Cobb. “To find out whether Lorie smoked that cigarette.”
“And if she didn’t?”
“If she didn’t, maybe it was smoked by the murderer.”
CHAPTER XVII
At the Bray house we found Phoebe sitting small and alone on the terrace. In the broad August sunshine, with the green-and-white view of Skipton shimmering in the heat below, that luxurious terrace reminded me painfully of the old easy days when Ernesta had been in social command and nothing more lethal than a squabble over dahlias had disturbed the village tranquillity.
But our days were far from easy now, and the casual simplicity was gone from our relations. I felt awkward as Phoebe rose to receive us, and she too seemed withdrawn from me behind a barricade of caution, as if the inspector and I symbolized impending danger. Disaster had broken us up into little groups, each defending his own.
Phoebe turned her dark, watchful gaze on Cobb. “I suppose Dr. Westlake has told you about my mother?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Cobb quietly.
Phoebe turned to me, her face breaking into a sudden warm smile. “Caleb took your advice, Hugh. He told me what’s been worrying him. He’s telling Lorie now.” She laid her hand, rough from gardening, on my arm. “You can’t think what it’s done for me, hearing the truth. I suspected something—so much worse.”
“It’s not bad, Phoebe. It’ll go in time.”
“You’re sure? You’re really sure?”
“As sure as one can be. Especially now he’s not keeping it bottled up inside him.”
She hesitated. “I told him about Mother too. I thought it was best to get everything over with at once. But he knew already.”
“He knew?”
“Lorie had told him. I’d had no idea. A mother seems to know so little about her children.” She glanced at Cobb. “The inspector knows about that too—about why Caleb left his place on the patrol?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Cobb again.
She moved to face him, standing squarely on her short, firm legs. “You’ll be suspecting all of us—Lorie, Caleb, myself. I realize that. You have to, of course. It’ll be up to us, Inspector, to convince you that we aren’t any of us the sort of people to have done these terrible, mad things.”
“Matter of fact, ma’am, I wouldn’t worry your head too much about madness, things like that.” Cobb’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. “Fact is, we’re working on a different line now.”
“A different line?”
Caleb and Lorie appeared at the french windows then. I was amazed at the change in them. It was particularly noticeable in Caleb. He was no longer the lost boy I had left in his room early that morning. His eyes had a steady self-confidence and also a faint wonder, as if something almost too good to be believed had happened to him. Lorie seemed buoyed up too with the same inner excitement.
When they saw us, Caleb’s mouth tightened, but none of the assurance left him. He crossed to us, putting his atabrine-gold hand on his mother’s shoulder. He stared straight at the inspector.
“I guess Dr. Westlake’s made my confession for me—about the patrol.”
Cobb nodded.
“I realize my responsibility. It’s my fault Dr. Jessup is dead. What are you going to do about it?”
Mildly reproving, in the tone he might use to one of his own kids who had not changed wet shoes, the inspector said: “You shouldn’t have gone on the patrol, you being sick. You should have excused yourself.”
Caleb flushed. “I realize that too.”
“But what’s done’s done. No use crying over spilt milk.”
Caleb’s face was a study in astonishment. “You mean you’re not going to arrest me?”
“Arrest you? After all those medals and things you won in the Pacific?”
Caleb’s face was crimson now. Lorie, smiling radiantly, said: “I told you, Caleb.”
“But I … I don’t get it. Why the hell’s everyone so nice to me all of a sudden?”
Cobb’s eyes went stern. “It’s the murderer we’re after, and if you turn out to be the murderer we’ll stop being nice to you, plenty quick.” His gaze shifted to Lorie. “Matter of fact, Miss Bray, I’ve come because I want a couple of words with you.”
All three of them stiffened.
“With me?” faltered Lorie.
“Yes. Looks like you might help us out.”
The new happiness had fled from Lorie’s face. A fear that seemed extraordinarily disproportionate to the situation took its place.
“You smoke, don’t you, Miss Bray?”
“Why, yes, yes. Of course.”
“And you use lipstick. I can see that for myself. All girls do nowadays it seems.” Cobb paused. His earlier gentleness made this new gravity doubly ominous. “And you often smoke those Russian cigarettes your mother keeps in the house?”
“Yes, I do. I—”
“Know the cottage by the old sawmill up the mountain—near where you had the picnic Saturday?”
“Of course I do.”
Cobb looked down at his hand and then up quickly. “Been there recently?”
“No.” The word came explosively from her. “No. I haven’t been there for months.”
“You’re sure?” Cobb felt in his pocket and produced the lipstick-stained butt, holding it out in his cupped hand. “We found this upstairs in the cottage. Thought maybe it could be important. Then we figured we’d have to check with you first because, seeing your mother owns the place and everything, there wasn’t any reason why maybe you hadn’t just dropped in there recently to see what sort of shape the place is in.”
Lorie had never been good at concealing her emotions. But she was particularly unsuccessful then. The creeping dread which had come into her eyes that morning when I had walked with her up from the Stone house was back again. She looked at the butt as if it were something awful and unclean. Then, suddenly, she blurted:
“Yes, yes, of course. How stupid of me. I completely forgot. When was it? Saturday. Yes. That’s it. Saturday morning. I went for a walk up in that direction. I passed the house. I just thought I’d take a look inside. Of course. Yes.”
“And you went upstairs?”
“Yes. Yes. That’s right.”
Phoebe and Caleb were staring blankly.
His voice very even, Cobb asked: “And you didn’t see anything—out of the ordinary?”
Lorie was a little steadier now. “No. What sort of thing?”
“I don’t know. Just something out of th
e ordinary.”
“There wasn’t anything at all. Just the way it always was.”
“I see.” Cobb shrugged. “Well, I guess that explains the butt.” He put it back in his pocket. “Wasn’t nothing to it, after all.”
To me Lorie’s story sounded as unconvincing as her moment of terror had been inexplicable. But Cobb was at least pretending to be satisfied. Turning from Lorie to Phoebe, he said:
“I guess you’ve heard the news from the village.”
“The news?” Phoebe’s voice was sharp. “Caleb and I were home all morning. Then we came up here. We … what news?”
Lorie gasped: “You don’t mean there’s been another—”
“Miss Drummond,” said Cobb. “Westlake and I found her. Symbols scribbled in red chalk all over her door.”
Instinctively, as if for comfort, the three of them moved close together.
“Love,” breathed Phoebe.
“‘The symbols at your door.’” Lorie gave a little wrenching sob and buried her face against Caleb’s chest.
The horror was back with them. I could feel it almost as if it were something gray and clammy that had fallen on them from the sky. For a moment things had seemed better. Caleb had won his little moral victory over himself. Perhaps even the hopeless impasse that blighted him and Lorie had seemed for them miraculously to have dissolved. And now this had come and the hand of the murderer was upon them again like the hand of death.
At this singularly inopportune moment a silvery voice tinkled behind us:
“Is anyone home? Is … oh, there you all are.”
I turned to see Avril Lane stepping daintily onto the terrace. Her costume was, as usual, different and carefully planned. She wore an off-black dress and a white, faintly Quakerish cap that hid the auburn hair. Whatever her mood was, it was something very demure, small, and helpless. At the sight of Caleb her lips pursed into a smile of incipient archness. Then she saw that his arm was around Lorie and her face froze into blank unrecognition.
“I see the inspector is here. It occurred to me that I might find him.” She fluttered to Cobb’s side as if she were being propelled, not by legs, but by a faint breeze. “Inspector, I come to you as a suppliant.” She paused and then, her voice faltering, added: “I must plead for protection.”
“Protection, ma’am?” Cobb was looking rather uncomfortable.
“Naturally I have heard the news about poor Miss Drummond.” Her little hand nuzzled onto the inspector’s sleeve. “It is terrible, more terrible than I can say, and it leaves no doubt in my mind that there is some poor warped creature—we must not call him a maniac, that cruel, unfeeling word—but some poor twisted creature who is—er—rhyming in blood that ancient ballad, ‘Green Grow the Rushes-O.’”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve kind of figured that out ourselves.”
Avril looked a little pained. “But have you studied the ballad, Inspector? I, naturally, have studied it closely. And I cannot but be convinced that the whole holocaust is spiraling toward me. Eight, Inspector. ‘Eight for the April rainers.’ Of course, there is another version. ‘Eight for the eight bold reigners.’ But I do not think we need concern ourselves with that. April rainers, Inspector. As you may know, the name I am known by in literary circles is Avril Lane. ‘Avril’ is the French for ‘April.’ And ‘Raynor’—”
“Yes, ma’am,” broke in Cobb. “We’ve already figured on that too.”
Deprived of her dramatic climax, Avril was momentarily deflated. But only for a moment. The hand grabbed onto Cobb’s sleeve again. “Then you realize there is danger for me, Inspector. Real, imminent danger. I am a woman—and alone. I have come to plead with you that you will be able to house one of your men in my home at night.” She paused and added, a trifle too hurriedly: ‘There is a young man I have noticed in your entourage. He seems a clean-cut, dependable boy. I believe his name is Leaf. I approached him on the subject yesterday and he expressed his willingness, provided of course that the move had your sanction.”
It was not the right moment for comic relief, but, inappropriate though it was, I found it rather refreshing. In spite of the death of her own husband and the deaths of four of her neighbors, Avril was still being incredibly Avril. Dan Leaf was a good-looking boy. She was shamelessly exploiting the situation for an opportunity to get him under her roof after nightfall.
She was staring at Cobb, the picture of forlorn, trusting girlishness. “Protection, Inspector. All I ask is adequate protection.”
Cobb; his face solemn, murmured: “Well, ma’am, I think we should be able to fix you up. Now I don’t know that Leaf’s quite the man. Too much work to do. But I’ll see you get someone. I agree it isn’t right having you there in that house alone. Maybe Bob Crawley. He’s dependable as they come.”
A very slight wink to me told me that the inspector was onto her little game. And he had foiled her splendidly, for Bob Crawley weighed two hundred and eighty pounds and had an equally plump wife and four kids in Grovestown.
Avril’s lashes flickered, but before she could speak again Cobb said:
“Matter of fact, ma’am, it’s lucky you came. We were going to find you. Westlake here has a couple of questions to ask you.”
“Me?” Avril swirled around to me, the ears of her Quakerish cap wabbling.
I said: “Maybe Lorie would let us use the library for a few minutes.”
“Of course,” said Lorie.
I led Avril into the house. I knew my job, and I was resigned to it. But it was not going to be easy to question Avril about the details of her amorous rendezvous at the sawmill with Renton. In the first place, I wasn’t meant to know that a liaison between them existed, and it would be unfair to Renton to let her know just how frankly he had spoken to me. By the time I had her settled in the library, I had my plan of campaign worked out.
She was excited at the prospect of being questioned. Anything went with Avril so long as it kept her in the limelight.
“I thought the authorities might come to me,” she offered. “A writer, you know. Sometimes they see more keenly into the heart of things.”
She was obviously expecting to receive some fascinating inside dope. I disappointed her. But I was very careful to accept her at her own valuation. I told her that we had obliged Renton to admit that he had occasionally met her in private to discuss aspects of male psychology connected with her work, and that these meetings had sometimes taken place at the old sawmill. There was enough delicacy in this approach to keep her femininity unaffronted. In fact, she admitted to the meetings almost with gusto. Yes, Renton had great penetration; he was an interesting type psychologically; indeed, she was modeling one of the principal male characters of Where the Bee Sucks after him. That was why these little chats had been so helpful. With a rueful grimace she added that I knew how jealous poor George had been. That was why these purely innocent meetings had to be held apart from telltale eyes at the sawmill.
I asked her if she had met Renton on Friday. She admitted that she had. But any hopes I may have entertained of a dramatic revelation were dashed. She was perfectly ready to be frank, except, of course, concerning anything of an amorous nature that might have passed between her and Renton. But she had seen nothing different about the sawmill. Nor had she heard anything, although once there had been a faint scuffling outside and Renton had gone to investigate what had turned out to be a rat.
“A great big brute of a fellow.” Her little giggle tittered up. “Such a scare for poor me because I’m goosy about rats just like a silly child.”
The pedantic Avril was giving way to the flirtatious one, and I decided the time had come to end the interview. Reminding myself to check with Renton about the rat, I guided her back to the terrace.
In my absence a trooper had come up from the village with a message for the inspector from the D.A., and Cobb had left. Lorie, claiming a headache, had gone upstairs to lie down for a while before her mother’s return. Phoebe and Caleb walked down the hill with Av
ril and me.
Caleb maneuvered things so that his mother and Avril went ahead. He dawdled behind with me, and when the others were out of earshot he said in a gruff, boyish voice:
“I’ve got a lot to thank you for, Doctor.”
“I don’t see why.”
“I’d never have told Lorie about … you know, the dark and everything if it hadn’t been for you.”
“And you told her and she didn’t mind?”
He grinned at me. It was a broad, sunny grin. “I guess I won’t ever understand women. I thought she’d despise me, think I was a coward. But she seemed to be pleased. Seemed to think it made me need her more or something.” He paused, staring down at his feet like any other ordinary young man having difficulty saying the most ordinary thing. “You know, Doctor, I’ve been crazy about Lorie for years. Out in the Pacific—sentimental, of course—I used to think about her all the time. But then this thing hit me and, well, I kind of closed up, I guess. Got a complex, you know. Thought I wasn’t enough of a man for any girl to marry and—”
“Sure,” I said. “I know.”
“Guess I was pretty much of a dope. Done a lot of crazy things. Made Lorie pretty miserable.” He kicked a stone, but he kicked it happily. “Anyway, all that’s over now. Westlake, this is a ghastly day for Skipton, but it’s a day of miracles for me. Don’t tell Mother or anyone yet, but I asked Lorie to marry me just now. She said okay.”
We both stopped. He stood, tall and tanned, grinning at me.
Rather uncertainly I said: “In spite of her mother?”
“That’s the miracle. When Aunt Ernesta told Lorie about Grandmother’s being in an institution, she made Lorie swear she’d never marry me. Aunt Ernesta’s hipped on the subject we’d drive each other crazy or something. And Lorie’s never gone against Aunt Ernesta—never before in her life. But this time …”
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