by John Creasey
He broke off again but this time it was not at an interruption from Mark. It was at a sharp cry from nearby, a cry which made Mark turn his head abruptly. It came from the thicket about them, in a woman’s voice.
‘Get away,’ she cried. ‘Get away!’
The Reappearance of a Tramp
There followed a scuffling sound, although whether it was made by the girl running, or by a struggle, neither Mark nor Roger could guess. Roger rose to his feet more swiftly than Mark, who could not put his right hand down as a lever, and forced a way through the bushes. Mark followed seconds later. Roger was the first to see the girl and the tramp.
The girl was standing by a stunted oak tree, staring at the tramp; to Roger it looked as if she had tried to get farther away, but had been stopped by the thick undergrowth. The tramp was sideways towards him, holding up a hand in a protesting, even an appealing, fashion, and whining: ‘Quiet, Miss, quiet. You ain’t got no reason to be scared, I promise you. Just you keep quiet.’
The girl looked beyond the tramp and caught sight of Roger. Her expression of relief was so obvious that the tramp looked round, startled. Roger saw the man’s expression change, saw the cunning which crossed his countenance, allied, he judged, to alarm. In a flash the tramp, overdressed and looking very fat, moved towards a gap in the undergrowth. He cast a sidelong look at Roger as he did so.
Mark came up.
Roger’s one interest was to catch the tramp before he took advantage of the trees and shrubs to disappear, but the undergrowth baulked him, and he was not fit enough to jump into the clearing. The girl straightened up, and the tramp shuffled towards safety with surprising speed.
Then Mark exclaimed: ‘Parker!’
Parker ignored the shout, and went on. Roger caught his foot in a bramble, winced as the thorns scratched his leg and staggered. He blocked Mark’s path, and in any case Mark was in no better shape than Roger for following the man. Muttering under his breath, Roger freed himself from the thorns as Crummy Parker disappeared. Before Roger and Mark joined the girl the sounds of the tramp’s movement had faded.
The girl watched her rescuers.
She was tall, she wore a linen frock, and her hair was very fair; those facts registered on Roger’s mind as well as on Mark’s. She looked pale and a little embarrassed, and the reason for that was quickly explained.
‘It’s all right,’ she said hastily. ‘He didn’t do any harm. I was startled when I saw him, and thought he was going to attack me. It was silly.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Roger, peering along the path. ‘I wish we weren’t half-crippled, or we’d have a word with the gentleman.’
The girl smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Oughtn’t your arm to be in the sling?’
Mark glanced down, raised one eyebrow above the other, and readjusted the sling awkwardly. The trio stood in momentary silence.
‘We can’t stand here all day,’ said Mark. ‘Can we see you out of the woods, Miss—’
‘Byrne,’ said the girl when he paused.
‘Byrne!’ exclaimed Mark. ‘Not—’
‘Look here,’ said Roger hastily, ‘I can’t help it, Mark, but I must have a word with Sloan. My mind’s gone rusty. I’ve only just realised what Parker might do. I’ll be seeing you. Er – goodbye, Miss Byrne.’
He strode off in the wake of Crummy Parker, leaving Mark regarding the girl with an ironic little smile.
‘He’s like that,’ he said. ‘Ever unpredictable. Now I’ll have to escort you myself.’
They fell into step. ‘As a matter of fact we ought really to know each other. But for the visitors to the Manor you would have had lunch with me yesterday.’
‘Lunch with—’ she began, and then her expression cleared. ‘Oh, of course. You’re staying with Paula Dean?’
‘That’s right.’
She said: ‘You’re not Inspector West?’
‘Oh no,’ said Mark. ‘I’m neither so famous nor so clever. I’m Inspector West’s Watson on favoured occasions, and just a useless encumbrance at others. I stay behind to pick up the pieces – figuratively speaking! And I look after the courtesies, too.’
‘You’re all that Paula said you were.’
‘I don’t much like the sound of that. Paula isn’t always charitable. So I don’t have to introduce myself?’
‘Not if you’re Mark Lessing.’
‘I’m Mark Lessing,’ said Mark. A few yards farther along the path they reached the end of the thicket, where the going was much easier.
Farther away, beyond another thicket, it was possible for them to see the outlines of the top of the Manor.
‘You weren’t by any chance going to Paula’s for lunch?’ said Mark.
‘I was.’
‘Well, well,’ said Mark. ‘That shows you the advantages of taking a short cut.’
They laughed together. Then they caught sight of Roger, walking towards them quickly. He smiled as he drew near, turned and fell into step with them, walking on Marion’s other side.
They reached the drive of the Manor before walking to the byroad, and then through Hinton Magna towards the cottage. There were a few people in the village streets. Marion said suddenly: ‘I ought to get some darning wool here. I won’t be a jiffy.’
She disappeared into a shop and the front door bell clanged as she closed it. Mark merged a frown with a smile as he said: ‘It’s almost as if she knew we’d like a few minutes on our own.’
‘Yes,’ said Roger. ‘Mark, do you see what it means?’
‘I’m not dazzled by her as much as all that,’ said Mark reproachfully. ‘Parker was listening in.’
‘He probably heard much more than we wanted,’ said Roger. ‘I met Sloan, and told him to get a call put out for the beggar, but it may be too late. What I want to know is how you came to recognise Parker. I’ve seen him several times, but he didn’t spring to my mind as quickly as he did yours.’
‘You haven’t been told how I was put in clink,’ said Mark. ‘He was amongst those who watched you being thrown into the river.’ Mark paused, concentration wrinkled his forehead. ‘I’m beginning to wonder more and more about Crummy Parker and his remarkable prescience. I will explain that later,’ he added, for the clanging of the door bell at the shop heralded Marion Byrne. ‘Is there anything we can do now?’
‘Sloan will do all he can, and you and I have to take it easily anyhow,’ Roger said. ‘The more seriously I take this rest period the quicker I can get busy.’
‘Chatsworth will be told, I suppose?’
Roger nodded. Mark, he thought, was not quite himself, although his smile when he greeted Marion was characteristic. Roger walked quietly while the others talked cheerfully; he was contemplating the unpleasant implications of Parker’s appearance in the grounds of the Manor.
How much had the man heard? If he now knew all that Roger had told Mark, it meant that there was a known bad character in possession of facts which might do considerable harm if put abroad, even as a rumour. Uneasily, Roger imagined Chatsworth’s reaction to this misfortune.
Metaphorically shrugging his shoulders, because there was little he could do about it, he paid more attention to the banter between Mark and Marion Byrne. Then another question arose in his mind.
How was it that Marion Byrne had drawn so near without disturbing him or Mark? They had heard nothing until her cry, yet she had been so near that ordinary progress should have been audible.
Had she been listening, too?
Conclusions
‘Oughtn’t you to try to have a nap, darling?’ Janet suggested after lunch. ‘You’re looking more tired than you were before lunch.’
‘If he will go about chasing tramps what do you expect?’ demanded Paula. ‘I have some calls to make, and there’s a jam-making session at the Women’s I
nstitute this afternoon. Are you coming, Jan? Don’t if you’d rather stay here with Roger.’
‘I think I’ll go up to my room,’ Roger said. ‘Mark and Marion can look after themselves, and you two can make as much jam as you like. Don’t expect me to eat it, that’s all I ask!’
He grinned as he rose from his chair, and Janet accompanied him to their room at the top of the cottage.
‘If you do go out you won’t start anything, will you?’ demanded Janet.
‘Such as?’ asked Roger lazily.
‘More chases after tramps!’
‘Only in my dreams,’ he assured her lightly. ‘My sweet, Sloan and the men outside will look after anything that comes along. I’m on a rest cure.’
‘I can’t understand why you take it so lightly,’ said Janet, running a comb through her dark hair. ‘I half-expected you to be on edge to get back to town as soon as you felt that you could stand up on your own. Roger, nothing’s going to happen here, is it?’
She paused in the combing and stared at his reflection in the mirror, believing that he did not realise that the reflection was so clear.
‘I can’t be sure what’s going to happen, and Chatsworth is worried or he wouldn’t have sent Sloan down here. But I know of nothing impending, sweet.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Cross my throat,’ said Roger, leaning forward and kissing the nape of her neck.
‘Jan-et!’ cried Paula from across the narrow landing. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Just a moment! I’m nearly ready.’
Janet finished combing, patted her hair into position and tucked some tiny pins in place, ran a powder puff lightly over her face, and stood up. She looked at Roger and was obviously waiting for comment.
‘All right?’ she said, when it did not come.
‘Even better than usual,’ Roger assured her earnestly. ‘You’ve too much powder on the side of your nose.’ He rubbed it with his finger, kissed the tip of her nose, then stepped to the landing with her. Paula was nearly five minutes in her bedroom before coming out: she wore slacks which were not quite large enough for her spreading figure, and had on more lipstick and powder than she needed.
‘So sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘I decided at the last minute that pants would be cooler than a skirt today. Aren’t you going to wear yours?’
‘I haven’t time to change.’ Janet wore a flowered linen dress with a green background, and sandals but no stockings.
Roger returned to the bedroom when they had gone, hearing Paula talking energetically, and the slamming of the front gate. He felt tired, although nothing like so weary as he had grown used to being. Nevertheless the prospect of a laze and a doze was pleasant.
He did not want to concentrate too much, although there was much to preoccupy him, even apart from Crummy Parker. Marion’s presence near the clearing still looked odd, to say the least of it, and Mark’s attitude towards Marion somewhat unexpected; it might prove embarrassing.
He went to sleep within five minutes of laying down, and was still asleep when Marion and Mark returned.
When eventually he did wake, he could hear them talking on the lawn at the back of the cottage. There was nothing deep in it, only banter and good-humoured repartee: yet Roger found it disconcerting. Despite his assurances to Paula, Mark rarely lowered his defences quite so completely to any woman.
Marion was unusually attractive; Roger admitted that in a detached frame of mind, for he was more than happy with Janet and unconsciously compared everyone else with her, always in her favour. Still, he thought, it was not surprising that Mark was impressed; what mattered was whether Marion was reliable, or whether by some freak of chance she was embroiled in Riordon’s affairs.
‘Damn it, no!’ he muttered with some irritation. ‘There isn’t the slightest reason for thinking she might be. She could have been wearing rubber shoes anyhow – I’ll have to check that. The turf was pretty springy, and we probably wouldn’t have heard her walk past if Parker hadn’t been there.’
He did not find it wholly satisfying, but had an uncomfortable feeling that he was about to be plunged into an even fiercer maelstrom of events than had preceded his immersion in the Thames, and the fact that he was not wholly fit worried him. There were other disturbing factors. He had no idea what was happening in London, and it was even possible that someone else had been given charge of the case in his absence: it could become more than temporary charge. Possibly Chatsworth would decide that he, West, had had enough of Count Riordon, and that it was time someone else took over. He would have been more reassured had messages from Chatsworth come with greater frequency, but except for the letter about Mark he heard nothing that day.
Nor did anything reach him for the next three days.
By the third day he was seriously contemplating returning to town, although he did not say so to Janet: that would not be wise until within an hour or two of him leaving. The possibility of important events brewing, even of Riordon making further moves against the authorities, grew more than worrying – almost into an obsession.
He hid his feelings from all except Janet, whom he judged likely to be half-expecting him to say that he could stand the false peace of Hinton Magna no longer. Mark had lost himself completely in Marion; at any other time Roger would have been amused and secretly delighted; now the doubts about Marion that would not altogether disperse, tinged his amusement with a touch of wariness, and eschewed any feeling of delight.
Mark’s hand was dressed each morning by a little District Nurse, a north-country woman who had lived in Dorset long enough to have overcome suspicions and prejudices. She declared each morning that the improvement was noticeable, and by the end of the third day Mark could move his fingers with much more freedom, although they were still tender. The whole of his fingers and knuckles, as well as part of the back of his hand, had turned a greenish purple with black patches. When he thought about it he wondered just what Riordon had been wearing about his stomach.
Riordon seemed a long way removed from Hinton Magna.
Roger went to bed on the third night, the Wednesday, more inwardly troubled than before. The silence from the Yard was no longer tolerable, and he decided that, if no news arrived next morning, he would go to the Yard.
All of them retired early that night, and as there was a moon, it was not really dark at half-past ten. Janet went to sleep quickly, and he could hear her steady breathing. His right hand was held in her left, and from time to time he could feel her breath stirring his hair.
In the distance he heard the hum of an engine.
Very few cars entered Hinton Magna by night, but there were enough not to make it remarkable. He was surprised, however, when the car slowed down and he heard a squeal of brakes outside the cottage.
He stiffened, and Janet stirred in her sleep.
A car door opened and slammed. After a pause, he heard a murmur of voices. Gently disengaging his hand, he pushed back the clothes and stepped to the carpet-covered floor. Janet stirred again and said something sleepily.
‘It’s all right,’ said Roger soothingly.
He reached the window and looked out. The caution of years made him keep to one side so that he could not be seen.
Moonlight swept the countryside in a pale grey light which created great, shapeless shadows: and it shone upon the top of a saloon car standing by the gate. In front of the bonnet two men were just visible, talking in undertones; Roger could not see them clearly, although a picture of Riordon sprang to his mind.
Then the men moved nearer, coming out of the shadows of the hedge, and he uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise.
‘What is it, darling?’ called Janet, now much wider awake.
Roger half-turned. ‘Er – it’s all right,’ he said. ‘I think – oh, damn it! I’m sure Chatsworth’s outside.’
&
nbsp; ‘Chatsworth!’ exclaimed Janet, sitting up abruptly. ‘Roger, what on earth is he doing here?’
‘Perhaps he wants a holiday too,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll hop down and have a word with him.’
After a long pause, while he put on his dressing gown and pushed his feet into leather slippers, Janet said explosively: ‘If he’s going to start this nightly business again I’m going to have something to say about it!’
‘Hush,’ urged Roger. ‘They’ll hear you.’
The light of the moon through the landing windows made it easy enough for him to negotiate the twisting stairs, and he was walking along the parquet flooring of the hall when footsteps sounded on the porch. He quickened his step, anxious to open the door before Chatsworth knocked or rang the bell and thus disturbed the rest of the household. He only half-succeeded, for Chatsworth was in the act of knocking when Roger opened the door. Consequently the Assistant Commissioner nearly fell against him, and exclaimed in surprise.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Roger drily.
Chatsworth recovered his balance, grunted, peered at Roger, and smoothed the back of his head: he was hatless but held a Homburg in his left hand. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’
‘I hoped to prevent you from waking the others up,’ said Roger. ‘Won’t you come in, sir?’
‘Why’d you think I came down here?’ demanded Chatsworth, and stepped inside.
As he led the way to the lounge and drew the curtains, which had not been drawn because they had left the room before needing a light, Roger felt that Chatsworth was in a difficult mood and was likely to be irascible. As far as Roger was concerned there was nothing to be said against that: Chatsworth was more dangerous when he pretended that everything in the garden was lovely.
‘Can’t we have a light?’ growled Chatsworth, and, when Roger pressed the switch, narrowed his eyes against the glare and muttered: ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
Roger ignored him and stepped to a Queen Anne cabinet. He took out a decanter of whisky and a syphon of soda. He poured a stiff peg, added soda, and handed it to his Chief.