Theresa opened her eyes very wide. ‘But why should they? I thought Mr Howe was most anxious to get home.’
‘So did I. But that man is a fanatic, and you never know what his breed is up to. He might have done it out of spite, intending to walk out of here when it suits him. Or maybe he’s not as anxious to get home as he makes out. That mountain retreat sounds like hell on earth to me. And if he has much more of his nonsense, I’m not going to write him up at all. I’m not sure it wouldn’t be better to write something about this place. There’s more human interest in it, for one thing. Winter comes to Wintry Wold. Or, Snowed in at Deathleap – a saga of the Yorkshire Dales. How would that be, Mrs Brown?’
He was obviously talking for the sake of it, smiling down at her, but she moved uneasily, and remarked:
‘You might write it, Mr Best, but would you get anyone to print it?’
‘You bet I would. Or if not, I’d print it myself, complete with photographic studies of you in that outfit. And if that didn’t fetch them …’
He was interrupted by a choking sound from behind, and turning, stared in surprise to see Mr Carpenter struggling to his feet. The face of that gentleman was a deeply mottled red, and he swayed to and fro, clutching at the mantelpiece for support. His speech was thick and uncontrolled, as he blurted out:
‘What do you know about printing anything?’
‘There’s not much I don’t know,’ Best said, still with an expression of mild astonishment.
‘What are you? What d’you call yourself?’
‘I’m a free-lance journalist. Any objection?’
Theresa whispered, tugging at Best’s arm: ‘Don’t take any notice of him. He’s not well. You can see that.’ And raising her voice: ‘Mr Carpenter! Do control yourself.’
But Mr Carpenter was beyond all control. Waving his empty glass beneath Best’s nose, he rushed on:
‘I’ve every objection. Every objection in the world. I was twenty years in the printing trade and never met a journalist who knew a damn thing about it.’
Best said, grinning, ‘Maybe you didn’t look in the right places. All journalists don’t hang around saloon bars, you know. Were you ever on the press?’
For a few seconds Mr Carpenter stood and glowered at him. Then he muttered:
‘To hell with you! What right have you to ask me questions?’
‘Mr Carpenter,’ Theresa said again, and moved to take him by the arm. ‘Please remember that you’re speaking to one of my guests.’
But he shook her off, and seizing the whisky bottle, tucked it under his arm, and made his way unsteadily to the door. He said over his shoulder:
‘Damn sight too many guests about, if you ask me. Place is like a ruddy hotel, no peace anywhere.’
He slammed the door behind him, and Theresa sank down in a chair, and looked up at Best appealingly.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘But you must try to forgive him. He’s been terribly worried lately. And then this other unpleasant business has upset us all.’
Her appeal was not made in vain. Best leaned over and patted her shoulder, which gesture seemed to afford him immense satisfaction. It also made Dylis feel slightly de trop. He said:
‘That’s all right. We journalists are a tough race. I must say the old boy’s moods are a bit sudden, but we won’t hold it against him.’
‘I must go and see about lunch,’ Theresa said, easing herself away with admirable skill. ‘I’ve sent the servants out to see what they can do with the cars.’
‘I’ll come and lend a hand as soon as I’ve had a word with Inigo,’ Dylis offered. ‘He’s in one of the garages, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. Poor boy, he’s very troubled about that car because it’s only on loan. Mr Best, will you show Dylis the way?’
Reluctantly he let her go and accompanied Dylis out through the french windows of the dining-room. Outside the air was still bleak, but the crispness had gone, leaving a moisture in the atmosphere suggestive of a slight thaw. Round by the garages they came upon a scene of great activity. In one stood a long black car built on singularly modern lines, and over this symbol of the age of speed Vauxhall and Ridley, each clad in overalls, were poring with anxious faces.
Dylis called out, ‘Good morning,’ in response to which Vauxhall raised his head for a second, grunted, ‘Is it?’ and continued with the task in hand. Ridley said something under his breath that might or might not have been a greeting. Dylis rather thought it was not. Still, one could hardly expect these Jacks-of-all-trades to be in a state of high humour. One moment tending pots and pans, laying tables and making beds, the next, grappling with the problems of locomotion.
The garage to the left of them was closed and padlocked, but the one on the right was open, and in there was the car Inigo had driven, with its bonnet up and spare parts mixed with tools all over the stone floor. The front wheels were jacked up, and from beneath the body of the vehicle sprawled Inigo’s long legs, and the sight of them lying there inanimate caused Dylis’s heart to leap. She said, stooping to get a better view of him:
‘Inigo! Are you all right? You’re not dead or anything?’
Charlie Best laughed, as Inigo came sliding out, his face smeared with oil, and in his eyes the light that comes to man in his greater moments.
‘Not yet,’ he said, scrambling to his feet. ‘But I’m beginning to find out what this is all about.’
‘That’s fine. How long do you think it will take?’
‘How long?’ He exchanged a look with Best, the look of men who know something about cars. ‘A job like this might take any time.’
‘Only the weather looks as if it’s breaking, so the roads ought to be better presently.’
‘Don’t you be too sure. It’s just as likely to freeze up again, and then look out for trouble. They’ll be like an ice rink. Charlie, come here a minute.’
Best moved in closer, and they went into a confabulation lasting many minutes, during which they inspected the longsuffering car from all angles, crawled about the floor, twisting their heads this way and that, took sections apart and put them together again. Dylis felt certain that, had they been small enough, they would have crept in amongst the works and pulled the bonnet down over their heads. She said at last, grasping Inigo as he was about to wedge himself beneath the vehicle again:
‘Did you find out about those keys?’
‘Eh? Which keys? Oh, yes, the garage keys. Theresa says hers were the only ones as far as she knows, but there may be others about somewhere. The old man never drove himself. Did you say something, Charlie?’
Best, all but standing on his head at the rear of their problem child, straightened himself and remarked:
‘As far as I can see, old man, it would be quicker to walk.’
‘I’m afraid you’re right. I was thinking the same thing myself.’
‘In that case,’ Dylis put in, ‘I’m walking right beside you.’
‘Don’t be silly, Dyl,’ Inigo said. ‘You couldn’t walk all that way in this weather.’
‘Couldn’t I? You’d be surprised how far and how fast I can walk when I feel like it. And after last night I feel very like it. So get on with the good work, boys, or you can expect to see me streaking down the drive any minute.’
Observing the enthusiasm with which they rushed back to their conference as she turned away, she wondered whether the motive behind last night’s deed of sabotage might have been to keep everyone occupied this morning. If so, it had been highly effective, for as she came round to the back of the house she saw the pantechnicon drawn up in the vicinity of the barn, and upon it Bob Snell and his mate were working with extraordinary absorption. What was there about a car, she asked herself, that caused otherwise reasonable men to turn into fidgety fanatics?
It was almost a relief to get back to the kitchen and to Theresa who, far from preparing lunch as advertised, was sitting on a corner of the table, smoking a cigarette and gazing thoughtfully into space. She looked up, s
tartled, when Dylis entered, jumped to her feet, and asked:
‘How are they getting on? The men, I mean?’
‘Oh, they’re having a lovely time. What shall we give them today? Something out of a tin, or something on toast?’
‘Anything you like, my dear. I really don’t care about food any more.’
Dylis went to the store cupboard and ran an expert eye over the vastness of its contents. Apparently she was now caterer-in-chief. She said:
‘It’s handy for you, having servants who are also expert mechanics.’
‘That’s one of the reasons I keep them. I’m absolutely helpless where cars are concerned. I can drive, but that’s about all. But I expect you yourself are an expert, aren’t you? Running about the country as you do, you must know all about cars.’
Her eyes met those of Dylis’s in an expression of undisguised insinuation. Dylis shrugged. She remarked:
‘If my knowledge were written down, it wouldn’t cover a postage stamp,’ and went in search of the tin-opener.
Chapter XII
Lunch was an even more unorthodox meal than Dylis had anticipated. Theresa took a trayload of coffee and a few sandwiches into the drawing-room, as she said she wished to be alone. Vauxhall came in later, gathered up a couple of bottles of beer and two pieces of cold pie and went out again without a word. Evidently he and Ridley were lunching al fresco. Then Charlie Best appeared, followed closely by Jackson, wearing his inevitable oilskin and driving cap pushed back off his forehead. Best said:
‘I just thought I’d snatch up something to eat. Inigo will be in presently.’
He cast a significant glance at Jackson, who had sat down at the table and was helping himself to tinned salmon and boiled potatoes. Never a talkative man, he had so far withdrawn from his fellow beings that they might have been speaking in a foreign language for all he appeared to notice.
Dylis felt depressed. Gone was the camaraderie of yesterday evening, and in its place was an atmosphere heavy with mistrust. It seemed that none of them had any intention of again leaving their respective cars unattended. But if that were the reason for lunching in relays, whom did they suspect, and why? She said, as Best took a seat at the table:
‘I may as well have something, too. The way Inigo had his head stuck into that engine, he’ll be ages. How’s it going?’
‘It’s not,’ Best said, piling odds and ends of food promiscuously on to his plate. ‘Whoever bungled up that car knew what he was doing, all right.’
Jackson, who had absorbed himself in a twopenny weekly spread out beside his plate, raised his head and stared at Best blankly for a moment, before returning attention to his lunch and his reading matter.
‘Seen anything of Howe?’ Best went on, turning obliquely to the vanman, with one elbow on the table.
‘Mr Raddle came down earlier,’ Dylis said, ‘He took up a collection of stuff looking like a vegetarian’s nightmare. Mr Howe sent down word that he’d like to pay Theresa for her hospitality, as he’d no intention of being under an obligation to anyone. She said she’d never heard of anything so revolting in her life.’
She smiled a little at the memory of Theresa’s indignation. Whatever her fault, she never failed to play the role of hostess to the best of her ability.
‘Good for her,’ Best said. ‘Trust old Howe to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I’ve met a few tactless old fools, but he’s the last word.’
‘He’s not very good at practising what he preaches, either. Remember how he said that they share the housework between them when they’re home? Yet it’s always poor old Raddle who has to take up the meals here.’
‘All right in theory,’ Best said. ‘But when it comes to it, his motto is, “You help me and I’ll help myself.”’
They fell silent after that, until Jackson pushed back his chair, lighted a cigarette, and stood looking at Dylis for a moment as if he were about to say something. Then he folded up and pocketed his paper, took his plate, knife and fork and deposited them in the sink, and went out as silently as he had entered.
‘There goes a rummy bird,’ Best said. ‘If he’s always like that I don’t wonder Snell is fed up being on the road with him.’
‘What are they carrying in that van of theirs?’ Dylis asked. ‘There’s no name or address on the outside of it.’
‘I don’t know exactly. Toys or something, I believe Snell said.’ Best yawned, and got to his feet with some reluctance. ‘I suppose I’d better get back. Thanks very much for the lunch. Cigarette?’
‘Thank you.’ She accepted one and the light he offered. ‘I feel I’m running a good pull-up for carmen.’
‘Not to mention journalists, and other irresponsible characters. Where’s Mrs Brown? Gone back to bed?’
‘She’s in the drawing-room. I shouldn’t disturb her, if I were you. I believe she’s getting a little tired of her uninvited guests.’
‘I wouldn’t wonder. Cheerio, see you at teatime, if not before.’
She drew up the most comfortable chair to the fire, when he had gone, and sat brooding upon the absurdity of everything. To be camped with a collection of strangers in an isolated spot, not knowing when she would be able to get away, was a situation that exasperated her, beside the many puzzling aspects of the place. She did not want to be puzzled and exasperated. She wanted to finish her business and return home. She was thinking wistfully of brightly-lighted London, its telephones and taxi-cabs, its buses and underground railway, when her solitude was again invaded. She looked up, hoping it might be Inigo, but it was Bob Snell who entered, hair ruffled, face ruddy from his exertions in the keen air. Evidently his ill-humour had spent itself, for he grinned at her cheerfully as he asked:
‘Got any grub for me, Miss? My matey says you got ’im a nice bit of fish. It’s a lot of trouble we’re puttin’you to …’
‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘Sit down and help yourself. It’s cold, I’m afraid, except the potatoes. There wasn’t much time for cooking.’
She was wishing she had not stayed in the kitchen, being in no mood for enforced conversation. But it would look so rude if she got up and walked out now, and Bob Snell was a pleasant sort of person, pleasant and easy to talk to. No, she was being too tolerant. She was getting into Inigo’s habit of accepting people at face value. She looked at him critically as he loosened his coat and sat down in the same place that Jackson had occupied, took a plate from the pile at hand and began to delve about in the dishes she had prepared.
His table manners, she noted, were vastly superior to those of his mate, completely at variance with the roughness of his speech. He might, she thought, have washed some of the grease from off his hands, but none of them seemed to be over fussy on that point. He helped himself to a glass of beer and drank half of it before starting on his lunch.
‘Thirsty work, Miss,’ he said, grinning again as he glanced up to find her watching his movements with interest. ‘Me and matey ’ave been on that old box of tricks since breakfast. Not that ’e’s much ’elp, Jackson ain’t. Got a ’ead like a board, and don’t know the insides of a car from ’is own. Stiffen the crows, you should ’ave seen ’is face when we found ’er all mucked up. “Now what are we goin’ to do?” ’e says. “You mean,” I says, “what am I goin’ to do while you fiddle about lookin’ like a wet Wednesday.” Proper fiddler, Jackson is, without the word of a lie.’
‘Is it going to be a long job?’ Dylis asked, feeling bound to say something.
‘Not with me on it. Leave Jackson to ’isself and ’e’d be creepin’ about out there till Christmas. But I likes to get a job done.’
‘I wonder, if you’re so good at it, you don’t do the brakes as well, instead of waiting for the garage people.’
‘Ah, that’s just what I can’t do, Miss. It’s like this, see. If you know anythin’ about cars …’
Too late she realised she had let herself in for yet another technical tirade. And once Bob Snell got into his stride, stopping him
was not easy. Feeling idiotic, she listened and nodded and smiled, and broke in at last:
‘Yes, I quite see the difficulty you’re in. How’s the lunch?’
‘Nice bit of fish, Miss, very nice. As I was sayin’ …’
‘It’s salmon,’ she said. ‘Out of a tin. I prefer it fresh, myself.’
‘Can’t tell the difference. Never could. It’s the same with meat. One meat’s as good as another to me. Any place I eat I just asks for ’ot meat and veg. It all goes down the same way.’
Deciding quickly that a discussion of meat and menus was preferable to brakes and gears and engines, she launched with enthusiasm into a discourse on the relative merits of beef, lamb and veal, the seasons in which pork should and should not be eaten, and the best methods of cooking fresh-water fish. At the end of which Bob Snell had finished his lunch, and rose from the table with scarcely concealed boredom.
‘Much obliged, Miss,’ he said, buttoning his coat. ‘I’ll get back and finish the job now, then when them mechanics get ’ere …’
‘Mr Snell,’ she interrupted, upon impulse, ‘have you any idea who messed up your car?’
He stood looking at her in silence for a while, hands thrust deep into his pockets, brows drawn together in a frown that completely obliterated his usual good humour. He said then, ‘I’ve got ideas, Miss. Plenty of ’em. But I ain’t sayin’ anythin’. There’s one thing I do know, I ain’t bein’ caught rotten again.’
With which ambiguous statement he took his departure, leaving her with the uneasy feeling that his suspicions might, in part, be directed towards herself, and the impression that he was not a man who forgave lightly. Not that it was any concern of hers, and there was no reason why she should worry about it.
Another Little Christmas Murder Page 14