by Cyril Hare
Hilda put her plan into execution without delay; but she met with a check at once. Sebald-Smith, she had ascertained, was staying at his country cottage, and she put a telephone call through that day. But she did not speak to Sebald-Smith. The voice that answered the call was the voice of Sally Parsons, and Hilda put down the receiver at once without disclosing who she was. Not for anything would she speak to, or risk a meeting with, that woman. The memory of certain social snubs which she had had occasion to administer to her came clearly to her mind— and she could be perfectly certain that Sally Parsons had not forgotten them either. The thought made her shiver slightly. If the attitude of Sebald-Smith, as reflected in his solicitor’s letters, was a vindictive one, was her influence the cause? But all was not lost. If she could but get at him alone, she might displace that influence long enough to snatch a victory. His cottage was close to Rampleford, the next town on the circuit, and Sally Parsons could never bear the country for more than a day or two at a time. She would surely be able to find an opportunity to slip over there—that is, if it were safe to leave the Judge unprotected….
The recollection of the other dark and more mysterious danger that threatened them returned with added force for having been temporarily forgotten. She threw it off with an effort, and went back to the telephone. This time she spoke to her brother’s office and made an appointment to see him on Monday morning.
*
Michael was younger than his sister, though he looked several years older. Like her, he was short and dark, but unlike her, he had allowed himself to run to fat. He had a subtle, intelligent mind and was capable of great charm and tact, which he knew how to vary from time to time with brutal frankness. On this occasion, he chose to be frank.
“Your worthy husband is on a spot, Hilda,” he said. “They’ve got us by the short hairs and they know it.”
“You needn’t show quite so much relish about it,” his sister complained. “Even if you don’t like William.”
Michael let the remark pass without comment.
“Something has got to be done, you know,” he said. “People are beginning to gossip already.”
“I know.”
“Well, what does he propose to do about it?”
“I propose to go and have a talk to Sebald-Smith,” Hilda replied, with a slight emphasis on the pronoun.
“The direct approach, eh? I expect that shocks him a bit, but I’m not sure it’s not the best thing to do. When will that be?”
“In the next few days. I hope.”
“There’s not much time to lose. Meanwhile, this last letter of theirs has to be answered. Otherwise they are quite capable of issuing a writ straight away.”
“I’ve thought of that,” said Hilda. “I think the best thing to do will be simply to tell them that the Judge is on circuit and that you will communicate with them as soon as you can get instructions.”
“Well, let’s hope that will keep them quiet for a bit. Luckily they’re a fairly sleepy firm and may not tumble to the fact that he’s had some days off in which he could have given all the instructions he liked. In fact, it’s damned lucky for us that they aren’t really wide awake. If I’d been handling this case for the other side, I’d have dropped a few hints into the ear of the Markhampton Police.”
“Why?”
“Why? I’d have only had to suggest that they were suppressing proceedings for an undoubted breach of the law and they’d have been compelled to prosecute. That would have turned the screw with a vengeance. Mind you, they may do it yet. There’s always a risk.”
“Let me see,” said Hilda. “Under the Act, proceedings for dangerous driving have to be begun within fourteen days, unless there is a warning at the time that they are being contemplated—and in this case there wasn’t. So we’re safe so far as that goes, anyway. It is still open to them to prosecute for driving an uninsured car, though. They have six months for that, and more in some circumstances.”
Michael grinned.
“Good old Hilda,” he said. “You always were the best lawyer of any of us. I’d quite forgotten that, and I should have had to look it up to make sure, anyway. But I’ll accept it from you.”
“I think you can,” said Hilda primly. “limitation of actions was always a subject that interested me and I made particular study of it.”
“You would. What an inhuman brute you always were, Hilda.”
“I don’t see that there is anything inhuman about being a lawyer.”
“There is—for a woman, at all events. Tell me, was that what you married William for—so as to become a successful lawyer by proxy?”
“Are you always as rude as that to your clients, Michael?”
“Good Lord! Of course not!”
“Well, I am consulting you as a solicitor at this moment, and that’s not a question I should expect my solicitor to ask unless I was wanting a divorce, which I am not.”
“You win,” said Michael good humouredly. “Well, I’ll do my best for you, and for William. I’ll send a letter on the lines you suggest, and meanwhile you will let me know if you have any luck with Sebald-Smith. God bless you.”
*
Hilda caught Derek’s eye as he advanced along the platform and waved to him with a smile. Her black eye was by now completely cured, or at all events masked under an efficient make-up. She was looking as carefree and sure of herself as a woman of good looks and assured position has a right to be. A moment later, Derek climbed into the carriage and was greeted with a handshake that was the least trifle more warm than politeness demanded—sufficiently so to remind him of the friendly conspiracy that had been sealed between them, and no more. Five minutes later, the plain clothes man on the platform turned upon his heel as the train steamed out, bearing the strangely assorted group of human beings who composed the Judge’s party, and with them a yet stranger medley of hopes and fears, ambitions and anxieties.
Chapter 13
CAT AND MOUSE
It is unnecessary to describe Rampleford. The place is in all the guide-books. A thriving city in the seventeenth century, a decaying and corrupt corporation in the eighteenth, it began to acquire merit as a quaint survival in the nineteenth, until the dawn of the great tourist industry set it on a new career of prosperity. The fortunate discovery that one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence was born in the city and the still more fortunate, if not quite fortuitous, identification of his birthplace with the most picturesque house in the High Street, put Rampleford in the very first class in this important branch of commerce. There were some who declared that in a good season Rampleford’s turnover of picture postcards exceeded Stratford’s. This, no doubt, was an exaggeration, but the very fact that the claim could be seriously made was sufficient indication of the city’s standing in the trade.
Rampleford in wartime, on the other hand, was a depressed and depressing place. Its only overseas visitors now were bored Canadian soldiers, quartered, to the city’s disgust, in the best hotels, who knew not Jonathan Pennycuick, founder of the Constitution, and were openly critical of the olde worlde tea-shops which lined the High Street. A heartless government having chosen to build a vast munitions works two miles away, the district could not even replace its vanished tourists with evacuees from target areas. Grimly facing the worst, the shopkeepers of the stricken city put away their stocks of souvenirs and memorial china and prepared to face the siege until better times came.
No economic distress, however, could affect the real beauty of Rampleford Cathedral or the charm of the Close in which it stood. By ancient custom, the Judge was lodged in the house of one of the minor Canons. Derek was enchanted with his surroundings. For a young man in love, it would be difficult to find a place more congenial. In the morning he would be awakened by the clatter of jackdaws in the Cathedral spire from a sleep which the chimes of the belfry never seemed to disturb. At night, when the gates of the Close had been shut, and the great bulk of the Cathedral loomed black against the stars over t
he darkened town, he could imagine himself back in the Middle Ages. Such conditions are apt to be productive of bad poetry, and at Rampleford Derek contrived to write a good deal.
Hilda was quick to notice that the situation of the lodgings had other advantages besides their romantic appeal. The Close gates were shut and barred at sunset, and anybody seeking entry after that time had to pass the scrutiny of the doorkeeper who had for the duration of the assizes been reinforced by a plain clothes policeman. In addition, a constable in uniform was continually on duty at the door of the lodgings. At night, Derek could hear his measured footfall on the gravel outside. Obviously, no risks were being taken with the Judge’s safety. Nevertheless, Hilda did not allow herself to be content with official precautions. On the evening of their arrival at Rampleford, she outlined to Derek a system which she had prepared by which one of them should be continuously on guard over the Judge by day and night—particularly by night. A year later, when fire-watching had become commonplace, Derek could recall with amusement the hardship which this proposal seemed to him at the time. He hinted that this was a duty which should be shared by Beamish or Savage, but Hilda rejected the suggestion with contempt. They were not to be trusted. Nobody could be trusted. The work devolved on them alone.
In the result, on alternate nights thereafter Derek kept watch over his lordship’s slumbers from eleven till three, and from three till seven. Contrary to his expectations, it did not turn out so irksome after all; but for this some credit is due to his state of mind at the time. To sit up for a few hours, writing yet another interminable letter to Sheila, or trying to coax into rhyme sentiments which if not exactly original were at least sincere, was no very heavy task, even though it had to be varied every half hour or so by creeping stealthily down the corridor and listening to the reassuring vigour of the Judge’s snores.
By day, the matter was simple enough. The weather was cold and the Judge showed no disposition to take any form of exercise. It was simply a question of accompanying him to the Courts and back again. Whether from new-found motives of economy or not, he invited no guests to the lodgings, and apart from the Sheriff or his Chaplain (who did not look as though they were disposed to perpetrate a criminal assault on the Judge) no outsider penetrated into the lodgings. Within the Court itself, one glance at the ranks of policemen at every conceivable point of vantage made it clear that any amateur bodyguard was quite unnecessary.
In short, Rampleford assizes proved to be not only quite uneventful but intolerably dull. Indeed, if it had not been for the distraction afforded by Sheila’s letters—and these, though fairly frequent, were somewhat disappointingly short and uncommunicative—Derek would have been more thoroughly bored than at any time on the circuit. Even Hilda’s vivacity, he noticed, had flagged a little. She was often listless and silent for long periods at a time. Inaction rather than the sleepless nights which she had imposed on herself, obviously preyed on her. As for the Judge, the realization of the peril in which his professional career stood had produced a curious reaction. As though determined in any event to go down with his colours flying, he assumed a manner that was an exaggeration—almost a caricature—of his every-day self. Never had he been so dignified, so pompous, so loftily condescending to the junior Bar, so icily critical of the leaders. His allocutions to convicted prisoners were longer than ever and, as the prisoners found to their cost, were followed by sentences proportionately long. The whole system of English justice depends upon the immunity and security of those who administer it. A psychologist would have observed with interest the effects of threatening one of these with loss of his position. Perhaps the only person with knowledge of the facts who could thoroughly have appreciated the position was Pettigrew, and he, to Derek’s regret, did not attend the assize.
*
After the first week Hilda considered the position at Rampleford to be sufficiently secure to justify her in leaving her husband for the day. She did not say where she was going; she simply hired a car and had herself driven from the lodgings. Barber displayed an almost ostentatious lack of interest in her movements, but it might have been observed that his manner on the bench that morning was even more pontifical than usual. It was as though he strove to project the sense of his power and importance beyond the narrow confines of his court, to influence in some fashion the drama that was being played out ten miles away, on which his fate depended.
Hilda had chosen her time well. She had seen advertised for that day a concert at the National Gallery which she knew Sally Parsons would be bound to attend, and an examination of the railway guide had assured her that she would be well on her way to London by the time of her arrival. She left her car at the gate of Sebald-Smith’s house (which was in effect a huge music room with a minute cottage attached) and walked boldly in. The maid who opened the door to her had obviously had instructions to admit no visitors, but took one frightened glance at Hilda’s determined face and surrendered at discretion. Hurriedly she flung open the door of the music room, mumbled, “Lady Parker, sir!” and fled back to the kitchen.
Sebastian Sebald-Smith was lying on a sofa in the centre of the great, bare room. His left arm was in a sling and with his free hand he was turning the pages of a music score. He raised his head as Hilda entered and looked up at her with his disturbing, yellow-brown eyes.
“Hello, Hilda!” he said with no trace of surprise or embarrassment in his voice. “I’m just looking at this new suite of Katzenburg’s. Have you heard about it?”
“No,” said Hilda. She remembered how absentminded Sebastian could be when he was absorbed in anything that interested him, and realized that he was for the moment quite unaware of anything unusual or unexpected in her presence. “No,” she repeated. “Do you like it?”
“M-m, I’m not sure yet. I’m pretty sure the Great British Public won’t. I’ve been asked to conduct it at Bristol in January, if I’m fit enough.”
“Mitigation of damages!” was Hilda’s instant mental reaction. Aloud she said, “That sounds splendid, Sebastian! It’s quite a new departure for you, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ll be a tremendous success as a conductor.”
“I’m sure I should be, if I knew the first thing about the orchestra, which I don’t. I can only imagine the B.B.C. thought of me because I played in Katzenburg’s piano quintet the first time they did it over here. But one must do something.”
“Of course, of course,” Hilda cooed. Then in an anguished tone she went on, “Sebastian, you can’t think how miserable this dreadful accident has made me!”
“It’s bloody, bloody, bloody!” exclaimed Sebald-Smith with sudden violence, banging his fist upon the open pages beside him. “God! when I think what this swine has done to me—— I say, Hilda! I’m sorry, I clean forgot! You——I——”
“Go on!” said Hilda in tragic tones. “You needn’t mince your words so far as I am concerned. We deserve it. If saying anything would help——”
She went through the motions popularly known as wringing one’s hands. Her hands were long and beautifully shaped, and the effect was very attractive.
There was a moment’s silence. Sebald-Smith, sitting up on the sofa, was looking at her with close attention.
“It’s awfully good of you to come and see me, considering everything,” he said at last, in a somewhat embarrassed tone.
“It was the least I could do.”
The pale eyes narrowed.
“But I don’t quite see what you have come for,” he went on, with a perceptible hardening of his voice.
“Come for? But Sebastian, I had to come. Ever since I heard about this awful affair, I’ve been thinking of you, lying here, eating your heart out——”
“It won’t do, Hilda! We’d much better not beat about the bush. You’ve come here for a purpose. Hadn’t you better tell me what it is?”
Hilda dropped her hands to her sides and raised her head.
“You are perfectly right,” she said steadily. “It was silly of me to try and pre
tend to you. I have come for a purpose. Can’t you guess what it is?”
“If it is to ask me to let your husband off, you had better think again.”
Hilda’s manner underwent yet another change. This time she became the business woman, brisk and sensible.
“Sebastian,” she said. “We are grown-up people. Can’t we discuss this reasonably, without indulging in schoolboy talk about ‘letting people off’? I simply want to see what can best be done in everybody’s interests.”
“‘Everybody’s interests’ is good. Your interests aren’t mine. In fact they are the exact opposite. Your husband has sent you here, to see how cheaply he can get out of this mess.”
“That isn’t true, Sebastian. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even tell him I was coming to-day. I wanted to put the position squarely before you as it affects William.”
“Why should I be interested in how this affects him? It’s myself I’m thinking about.”
“I’ll show you why in a moment. If you insist on the demands your lawyers have been making, William will be ruined.”
“I am sorry, Hilda,” said Sebald-Smith coldly, “but much as I like you—very much as I used to like you—nothing would give me greater pleasure than to ruin your husband.”
“And ruin me?”
“Aha! Now we are getting to the point!”
“No, we are not. It’s a side issue, really. I only asked out of curiosity.”
“Very well, then. Personally, I should be sorry to see you deprived of the flesh-pots you always longed after.” Hilda thought she could detect a significant emphasis on the “personally”. She knew only too well that there was another member of the household who would wish to see nothing better; and it was against her unseen influence that she was striving. “But one can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, and you, my pretty egg, will have to go the same way as that precious bad egg, your husband. So the answer is—Yes, and ruin you!”