Dennis, smiling, said, “I’m in the s-same quandary as Kipps. I can’t find an elegant turn of ph-phrase for the question, ‘Didn’t you ought to name the day?’”
But the supper was not to pass without incident. I knew Hilary better, I chose to think, than Dennis did, and there was that in her expression that warned me she had some madness in her mind. Her partner didn’t get much of my attention, I am afraid. Fortunately, her next-door neighbour and her own plate seemed to satisfy her, and I kept my eyes on Hilary. Presently I saw her deliberately tip some mayonnaise over her pyjamas. She jumped up, “I must change,” she cried. “The wretched stuff’s soaked right through.” But to my amazement Dennis stopped her. I don’t know what arguments he used, but he wouldn’t let her out of the room. A new look came over her face. From anger she changed to a kind of withering fear, and when I saw that I was convinced that somehow, even without being present among us, Ralph was exercising his influence.
5
The party was over at last. The final guest shook hands, became effusive, stifled yawns, drew a velvet cloak more securely about her conception of Boadicea in night attire, threw a final riposte to the engaged couple and went. As soon as the door shut, all light died out of Hilary’s face. It was grey, pinched and without beauty. Beauty, strictly, she never had, but there was a charm, a vivacity and ardour that illumined all her words and actions; and suddenly that was as dead as the false gaiety of a moment earlier. I’ll swear that all of us were aware of a definite change in the atmosphere, a sense of cold dejection. I looked up, indeed, thinking someone had opened a window and let in the wild and cheerless night. The room itself looked gaunt, cold and untidy; Hilary was drooping with weariness; Dennis looked stern, Jeremy watchful. Hilary said, “Has anyone any aspirins? I want to sleep.”
Dennis said something I couldn’t hear, and Lady Nunn said, “I’ll send you some, Hilary. You look tired out.”
But it was Mrs. Ross who had the courage, as Hilary turned away, to voice the question in all our minds. In Eleanor’s, as, white and troubled, she stood by her husband, in Nunn’s, who was looking stubborn and unsympathetic; in Dennis’s, pale and controlled, and Jeremy’s silent and alert, in mine, too, for that matter.
“What devilry has Ralph Feltham been up to to-night?”
Chapter VIII
1
We didn’t precisely get an answer to that in the message that came to us next morning, but we did get a reply to our question as to what could have kept Ralph away from the Abbey. A little before seven o’clock two labourers, making use of the right-of-way that runs through the extensive grounds of the property, found the body of a man in the deep pool near the western boundary. They took him out, but discovered him to be a stranger. He was shabbily dressed in very ragged clothes, was unshaven, with an untidy little mess of beard, blue cheeks and thick streaming dark hair. His nose was thickened like that of a prize-fighter, and one shoulder was slightly higher than its pair. They went up to the house, leaving the body lying in the long grass by the side of the road. Hook was the first to see them, and he demanded in some indignation what they thought they were doing, coming into the private part of the grounds, just because Sir James was good enough to concede his predecessor’s privilege of the right-of-way to the village.
The elder of the two said, with an expressive jerk of his thumb, “We’ve found a body down there. In the pond. It’s his estate, so I reckon we ought to bring the body here.”
Hook stared at them. “What are you talking about? A body…”
“That’s right. Tramp or something of the kind from his looks. My missus allus has said it was dangerous not to put a paling round that there pond. Right on the high-road it is, and as deep as hell. Any chap coming back a bit muzzy might go lolloping into it, and not know where he was till it was too late.”
“That sort of chap isn’t any great loss,” said Hook, jealous for the reputation of the estate. “Wait you here, and I’ll tell Sir James.”
I suppose the emergencies of an insurance office make a man cultivate both a philosophic and an impassive outlook. Nunn said, “A tramp? In the pond? What have they done with him?” with rather less excitement than Eleanor showed when a sapphire dragon-fly got into the greenhouse and filled the place with iridescent beauty.
“The men said they’d left him in the grass, if you please, sir; he was a biggish man, and dripping-wet. They hadn’t got a hurdle or anything of that sort, but if they could have a barn-door, say…”
They went down to collect the body, and Nunn went with them. They brought it up to the house, with Nunn’s handkerchief over the dead face, and Nunn himself walking like the chief mourner in an ancient funeral, beside the bier. The body was put in the barn, on a long trestle-table that Hook had arranged impromptu. There was no question about the fellow being dead. He was stone cold, heavy and stiff; the water streamed from his shocking clothes.
“Must ha’ missed his footing,” one of the labourers volunteered. “Hunger makes a chap a bit light-headed…”
Nunn said unsympathetically that the fellow didn’t seem to be underfed, and indicated that it was more likely he’d called at the Blue Boar. Hook stood by, saying nothing, but frowning, till Nunn asked sharply, “What is it? Do you know who he is?”
“No, sir. But I can’t help thinking he must be a stranger. I mean, otherwise what was he doing on the right-of-way at all? If he was a native, he’d know it didn’t lead him anywhere that would be any use to him. But p’raps he thought he’d find some barn or house where they’d let him sleep.”
“Much wiser if he’d gone to the casual ward,” said Nunn. “And that’s why we pay rates to keep it going. But perhaps he isn’t a stranger, and he was aiming at something special.”
The two men went off, full of a placid self-importance, and the news percolated through the house. We had all come downstairs, except Eleanor and Hilary, who were having breakfast in their rooms. Hilary reported an appalling headache; Eleanor was simply played out. Mrs. Ross wore the expression of a sensible woman whose life has never admitted such possibilities as breakfast in bed, when she heard that.
Only Dennis seemed particularly interested in the unknown man. He asked where he was.
“In the barn,” said Nunn.
“Could I see him, sir?”
“Of course you can. Why? Do you expect to find a friend of yours?”
“It occurred to me I might be some use in identifying him,” Dennis agreed, unruffled by the other’s brisk irony.
Jeremy and I went with him. The figure, when the handkerchief was removed, was not an attractive one. The head lolled and the blue patches on his cheeks seemed discoloured already. Dennis behaved very queerly. He took out a handkerchief and carefully applied it to the sodden flesh. He didn’t rub it, he patted it gently with very soft careful movements. When he removed the handkerchief, he said quietly, “I wondered, you know…” and held it out for us to see. It was stained with some bluish dye that had been on the face of the corpse.
“I don’t know if all this is highly irregular,” he went on, “but I have both of you here as my witnesses, and Keith is a lawyer, so I’ll take the chance.” And moistening the handkerchief again, he began to rub, softly but firmly, on the stubbled chin. He worked for some time, and presently we saw the stubble peel off like the mask it was, revealing a prominent chin, tanned and powerful, and strongly shaved.
“The hair’s his own,” I heard him mutter, “but what the deuce is wrong with the nose?”
I began to speak, but Jeremy’s hand touched mine, and I stopped at once. It was an odd sensation, watching this silent man at work on a corpse. But he was justified in his suspicions, though, by the time he straightened himself, we were both prepared for what he had revealed to us, the face of Ralph Feltham under the stubble and the crooked nose and the wild sweep of wet hair.
“You knew it was going to be him?�
� said Jeremy, ungrammatically.
“I thought it probable. At all events, I was convinced something very grave had happened to prevent his appearing at last night’s show. It was a magnificent chance for him. He had everyone of any importance in the neighbourhood turning up, and he’d only to breathe a whisper of his coming marriage with his cousin, to set all their dovecotes aflutter.”
“You have to remember that he was proposing to live at the Abbey afterwards,” I reminded him, “and there are some things that even the relaxed manners of these days won’t swallow. After all, Hilary is publicly engaged to you.”
“Quite right, but all the same I was expecting something final this morning. Of course, we know very little at present, not even why Hilary rushed into the garden at eleven o’clock and came back in that frantic mood; nor why she tried to get away again during supper—she threw mayonnaise over her clothes on purpose, but I’d had about enough by that time, and I made her stay. A lot of people will sympathise if she announces a broken engagement, I fancy.”
“Do you think she went to meet Ralph?”
“I don’t know, but she didn’t go out into the garden on a February evening in that ridiculous rig without some definite purpose. Mrs. Ross is right, too; she ought to be well smacked, running about with hardly any more on than those ridiculous pyjamas, even if she did wear a coat, as she swore she did. You have to remember that Nunn is a straitlaced sort of fellow, who wouldn’t countenance anything unconventional, either. I suppose, now he realises that Feltham has or had a hold over his family, he had to be superficially genial. The question now is, how to keep the most damaging truth out of the coroner’s way.”
“You keep forgetting that Tony’s a lawyer,” Jeremy reminded him.
Dennis smiled. “Ah, but he’s a connection of the family and Hilary’s friend. That more than weighs down the scale.”
“Who is the coroner?” Jeremy was asking.
I answered. “A fellow called Wellington-Andrews. A pursy presumptuous sort of devil, as difficult as his own name. He’ll get every ounce of juice out of the affair. It’ll be a God-send to the villagers and the county generally, who’ll come in their hundreds to hear how Feltham, who knows his own lands as he knows his own reputation, on an ordinarily clear night, contrived to fall into his own pond. One thing, they’ll decide he wasn’t sober, and there they might be right.”
“There’s something I want to know,” said Jeremy. “Are you by any chance associating Hilary with any of this?”
“My sole intention is to try to prevent anyone else doing so. I’m afraid she’s cooked her own goose to some extent. A lot of people noticed her manner last night, and some of them may have noticed that she disappeared. Anyway, they’ve been bracketing her name with his ever since she disappeared on the evening of the fog. Still, I doubt if they’ll try and suggest she shoved him in. One of us is more likely to get that compliment paid him.”
“Meaning…?”
“It might easily be me. I’ve been saying that come what may Hilary shan’t have anything to do with Feltham. So have you. Nunn hasn’t been as discreet, I fancy, as usual. Anyway, Lady Nunn’s been going round looking like a shell that may explode at any minute. And she’s been as nervous as ninepence in case of an open split. And everyone has commented on the geniality with which the Abbey has been thrown open to Feltham since an occasion when one might well suppose all of us would feel less inclined than usual to be amicable. There’ll be a great deal of amateur arithmetic indulged in locally during the next few days, and two and two will present more astonishing totals than ever before.”
“Are you,” I asked, “assuming there’s been foul play?”
“I’m assuming nothing, till we have the findings of the coroner’s jury. But on a commonsense argument, a man like Ralph Feltham doesn’t fall into a pond on his own territory when he has so much at stake. Yes, I’ve read as many detective books as the rest of you, and I know that some of the besotted neurasthenics you find therein do pitch themselves into ponds solely for the pleasure of getting innocent men hanged, but I never believe in the reality of those people. It’s too damned risky. You’d probably get an Open Verdict, which would completely defeat your aim, and if you didn’t, you wouldn’t get any satisfaction, whatever you might anticipate. No, I’m afraid we may as well face up to the fact that we’re all in for a very unpleasant time. And it’s no use thinking we can camouflage either this affair or the affair of the other night. Plenty of people will be only too happy to testify to the fact that Hilary was missing for several hours, and that the next morning Feltham rode up as bold as brass, and was admitted. Oh, they will stir up a lot of mud, though they’ll very likely obscure the issues in so doing. But none of us will be let down lightly.” Then he replaced the handkerchief over the changed face and asked me if I’d get hold of Nunn and break the facts to him.
“I want to get hold of Hilary,” he added, “and try and shake a little of the truth out of her.”
His tone was grim. I noticed this morning his stammer was scarcely perceptible.
2
Nunn asked me if I’d drive over to Feltham Major and bring Dr. McKenzie back with me. The local doctor had been called out on a labour case that might last all day. “And since we are in for a scandal, I should like to be associated with men I have met,” he said. “McKenzie’s line seems to be out of order; these country lines are shocking. But the sooner we get hold of him, the better.”
I took a car and drove out. McKenzie had heard that a body had been found in the pool, and didn’t seem much interested when I told him whose it was.
“Oh, aye,” he said, placidly. “Feltham’s, is it? I heard they’d found someone. Well, well, a fellow like that was bound to come to a bad end.” He collected one or two things into a little bag inseparable from the man. “Something for the County to talk about for a week or two. They might be grateful to the chap that did it.”
“That did…?”
He caught my elbow. “Don’t try and bait an old fox. Do you think I don’t know the sort of reputation the fellow had locally? Why, I helped to get a lad to Canada not many months ago, whose name isn’t Feltham, but who carries the stamp of his parentage all over the world with him. And he’ll start making trouble as his father did before him. There are a good many people who’d be glad of a chance to put a bit of lead into Ralph Feltham, male and female. A thorough bad lot. Well, it’s better than dying in prison, which is his normal end.”
He asked for details as we drove back to the house. When I told him about the tramp’s disguise, he said quickly, “Why was that? Trying to escape notice?”
“There was a Fancy Dress Party at the Abbey last night.”
“Oh, aye. Fancy Dress. Y’ know, that’s one of the things I can never understand, putting on the kind of clothes people wear who cadge for coppers in cheap watering-places, and not because you must, but because you choose. It’s like these ridiculous new sports—cockroach racing, for instance. There’s no sense in it, but other people do it. Well, go on. Instead of putting on evening dress, which is revolting but civilised, he donned rags and a faked chin, which is revolting and barbarous, and fell into a pond and was drowned. Somehow that doesn’t seem to fit very well. He might, you see, so easily wear the rags and still walk safely. Or do you think he was pushed in?”
“We know nothing about it, except that he’s dead,” I replied non-committally; because, whatever I said to McKenzie now, I should have, no doubt, to repeat at the inquest later, and then I wanted to say as little as possible.
Nunn was waiting for us when we reached the Abbey, and took McKenzie along to the improvised mortuary. They didn’t invite me to accompany them, so I went into the morning-room, where several members of the household, though not Hilary, were standing about, talking in the aimless manner people do at times of crisis.
Mrs. Ross was saying, impressively, “I knew all last n
ight something dreadful was going to happen. Who did it, do you think?”
Dennis replied smoothly, “There’s a thing known in the affairs of men and nations as an act of God.”
“Oh? Is pushing people into ponds an act of God? If he’d been hit over the head with a hatchet, would that have been an act of God, too?”
Jeremy, catching the infection of her absurd mood, said in irrepressible tones, “There was once a little girl, who came in from the garden, and said to her mother, ‘Mummy, there was a red rose in the circular bed that was going to blossom, so I blossomed it.’ Helping God along a bit, you see.”
“That’s very ingenious. Which of us do you think they’ll suspect of helping God where Ralph Feltham’s concerned?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.”
“Well, are you going to tell the coroner that?”
“I don’t suppose they’ll want my opinion. They don’t pay much attention to tramps and outcasts. If I were a householder, now…”
“Oh, of course James will be very important. But I don’t think you should say that about tramps. I wonder how much Hilary knows.”
“Why should she know anything?”
“She knew a lot about Captain Feltham none of the rest of us knew, and she certainly saw a great deal more of him than the rest of us did. And she seemed to think she was going to marry him. Oh, here’s Eleanor.”
Eleanor looked more ghastly than I had ever seen any woman look. Even Mrs. Ross seemed startled, and dropping her tone of idle frivolity, she said in earnest tones, “It’s not your fault, my dear. No one can blame you. They can’t blame James either, because I’ve seen the lease, and it says he isn’t to make any alteration in the grounds and general lay-out without permission in writing from the owner, and I’m sure Captain Feltham would never have let us fill in the pond.”
Dennis asked “Why” in an interested tone, and Mrs. Ross said vaguely, “Oh, well, a pond’s a useful thing to have in a place like this. It’s very deep, they say. And in old days people had dungeons, and they’re out of fashion now. They do need something.”
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