The Rasp

by Philip MacDonald

  ‘No. Shook hands with him once at some feed, that’s all.’

  ‘You’d have liked him, Gethryn, He—we’d best not talk about it. God! What an outcry there’ll be—is already, in fact.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anthony. ‘A blow to England and a boon to Fleet Street. Look here, don’t let me keep you. I hope Mrs—Mrs Lemesurier appreciates the beauty of her house.’

  ‘Charming, isn’t it? Gleason built it, you know.’ He paused, and Anthony feared his bait unswallowed.

  They had arrived at the gate to the garden. Over the hedge showed lawns, flowers, and the house. Anthony had not been merely diplomatic when he had praised its beauty. It was a building in the best modern manner and in its way as good to look upon as Abbotshall.

  Anthony made as if to leave.

  But Sir Arthur had swallowed the bait. ‘Look here, Gethryn,’ he said; ‘why not come in with me? The inside’s more worth seeing than the out. And I’d like you to meet Lucia and her sister. They’d be glad to see you too. They were expecting another to lunch besides me—young Deacon, John’s secretary. He wouldn’t come. He’s very busy, and being young, I suppose he feels it’d be a sin to enjoy himself in any way today. Silly, but I like him for it. He don’t know the necessity yet for doing anything to keep sane.’ He laid a hand on Anthony’s arm. ‘Do come along.’

  Anthony allowed himself to be persuaded. They walked through the garden and then round the house to the front door. They were shown by a cool, delightful maid to a cool, delightful drawing-room.

  Through the French-window, which opened on to the garden they had approached by, there burst a girl. Anthony noticed slim ankles, a slight figure, and a pretty enough face. But he was disappointed. The hair was of a deep reddish-gold.

  Sir Arthur presented Mr Anthony Gethryn—he knew of Anthony’s dislike of the ‘Colonel’—to Miss Dora Masterson.

  The girl turned to the man she knew. ‘But—but where’s Archie? Isn’t he coming, too?’

  Sir Arthur’s face lost its conventional smile. ‘No, my dear. I’m afraid he’s not. He—he’s very busy.’ He hesitated. ‘You will have heard—about Mr Hoode?’

  The girl caught her breath. ‘Yes. But only just now. You must think it awful of me not to have asked you at once; but—but I hardly believed it. It wasn’t in any of the papers we had this morning. And I’ve only just got up; I was so tired yesterday. Travers, the parlour-maid, told me. Loo doesn’t know yet. I think she’s got up—or only just; she stayed in bed this morning too.’ The girl grew agitated. ‘Why are you looking like that? Has—is Archie in—in trouble?’

  Sir Arthur laughed, and then grew grave again. ‘Lord, no, child! It’s only that he’s busy. You see, there are detectives and—and things to see to. I’m rather a deserter, I suppose, but I thought I’d better come along and bring Mr Gethryn with me. He arrived this morning, very fortunately. He’s helping the police, being—well, a most useful person to have about.’ He paused. Anthony, to conceal his annoyance at this innocent betrayal, became engrossed in examination of a watercolour of some merit.

  Sir Arthur continued: ‘It is a terrible tragedy, my dear—’

  ‘What! What is it?’ came a cry from the doorway behind them.

  The voice would have been soft, golden, save for that harsh note of terror or hysteria.

  Sir Arthur and the girl Dora whipped round. Anthony turned more slowly. What he saw he will never forget.

  ‘A woman tall and most superbly dark,’ he said to himself later. Tall she was, though not so tall as her carriage made her seem. And dark she was, but with the splendour of a flame: dark with something of a Latin darkness. Night-black hair dressed simply, almost severely, but with art; great eyes that seemed, though they were not, even darker than the hair; a scarlet, passionate mouth in which, for all its present grimness, Anthony could discern humour and a gracious sensuality; and a body which fulfilled the promise of the face. Anthony looked his fill.

  Dora was beside her. ‘Loo darling! Lucia!’ she was saying. ‘It—it’s terrible, but—but it’s nothing to do with us. What’s upset you so? What’s the matter, darling?’

  Sir Arthur came forward. Simply, straightforwardly, he told of Hoode’s death. ‘It’s an awful blow for me,’ he concluded, ‘but I wouldn’t have frightened you for worlds, Lucia.’

  From where he stood discreetly in the background, Anthony saw a pale half-smile flit across her face. She was seated now, the young sister hovering solicitous about her, but he noted the tension of all the muscles that preceded that smile.

  ‘I—I don’t know what made me so—so foolish,’ she said. And this time her voice, that golden voice, was under control. Anthony was strangely moved.

  She became suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger. Anthony was presented. The touch of her hand sent a thrill up his arm and thence through his body, a thrill which first sent the blood madly to his head and then left him pale. He kept his face from the light. He reproached himself for possessing, in his thirties, the sudden emotions of sixteen.

  The two sisters withdrew. Lunch, they said, would be ready in five minutes.

  Sir Arthur dropped into a chair and looked across at Anthony with raised eyebrows.

  ‘A little overwrought,’ said Anthony.

  ‘Yes. She can’t be well. Most unusual for Lucia to be anything but mistress of herself. Expect she was feeling cheap and then got scared by my sepulchral voice.’ He fell silent for a moment; then a smile broke across the tired sadness of his face. ‘Well, what impression has she made on you, Gethryn?’

  ‘My feelings,’ Anthony said, ‘are concerned with Mr Lemesurier. I wonder is he worthy of his luck?’

  Sir Arthur smiled again. ‘You’ll have a job to find out, my boy. Jack Lemesurier’s been dead for four years.’

  A gong announced lunch. At the foot of the stairs Mrs Lemesurier encountered her sister.

  Dora was still solicitous. ‘Feeling better, Loo darling?’ she asked.

  Lucia grasped her sister’s arm. ‘Dot, who—who was that man with Sir Arthur?’ Her voice rose. ‘Who is he? Dot, tell me!’

  Dora looked up in amazement. ‘What is the matter, dear? I’ve never known you behave like this before.’

  Lucia leant against the balusters. ‘I—I don’t know exactly. I—I’m not feeling well. And then this—this murder—’ Again she clutched at her sister’s arm.

  ‘Dot, you must tell me! They say Mr Hoode was killed last night. But how? Who—who shot him?’

  The door of the drawing-room opened behind her. Anthony emerged. His poker-playing is still famous; not a sign did he give of having heard the last remark of his hostess.

  But he admired her courage, the way she took command of herself, almost as much as her beauty.

  III

  If that lunch was a success it was due to Anthony Gethryn. Until he came to the rescue there was an alternation of small-talk and silence so uncomfortable as to destroy the savour of good food and better wine. Sir Arthur was sinking deep into the toils of sorrow—one could see it—Miss Masterton was anxious about her sister and her absent lover, and the hostess was plainly discomposed.

  So Anthony took command. The situation suited him well enough. He talked without stint. Against their desire he interested them. It must be believed that he had what is known as ‘a way with him’. Soon he extorted questions—questions which he turned to discussion. From discussion to smiles was an easy step. Sir Arthur’s face lost some of its gloom. Dora frankly beamed.

  Only the woman at the head of the table remained aloof. Anthony took covert glances at her. He could not help it. Her pallor made him uncomfortable. He blamed himself. He saw that she was keeping herself under an iron control, and fell to wondering, as he talked to the others, how much more beautiful she would be were this fear or anxiety lifted from her shoulders.

  But she was beautiful? He stole another look, purely analytical. No, she was not: not, at least, if beauty were merely perfection of feature. The eyes w
ere too far apart. The mouth was too big. No, she was better than beautiful. She was herself, and therefore—

  Anthony reproved himself for the recurrence of these adolescent emotions. His thoughts took a grimmer turn. He thought of that sponge-like mess that had been a man’s head. It was time he got to work.

  He slid into another story. The silence which fell was flattering. It was a good story. Whether it was true is no matter.

  It was a tale of Constantinople, which Anthony knew as his listeners knew London. He had, it seemed, been there, almost penniless, in nineteen hundred and twelve. It was a tale of A Prosperous Merchant, A Secret Service Man, A Flower of the Harem, and A Globe-Trotter. Its ramifications were amusing, thrilling, pathetic, and it was at all times enthralling. Its conclusion was sad, for the Flower of the Harem was drowned. She could not swim the distance she had set herself. And the Secret Service Man went back to his Secret Service Duties.

  Sir Arthur cleared his throat. Dora Masterson’s eyes held tears. At the head of the table her sister sat rigid, her white hands gripping the arms of her chair. Anthony noted her attitude with quickened pulse: she had shown no interest until the end of the story.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘she was a little fool to try it. Think of the distance. And the tide was strong. It’d be impossible even for an athletic Englishwoman.’ He is to be congratulated upon making so ridiculous a statement in so natural a tone.

  ‘Oh! Mr Gethryn, surely not,’ cried Dora excitedly. ‘Why Loo—’

  A spurt of flame and a crash of breaking china interrupted her sentence. Mrs Lemesurier had overturned spirit-lamp and coffee-pot. Much damage had resulted to cups and saucers. The tablecloth was burning.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ thought Anthony, as he rose to help. ‘But you won’t get off quite so easily.’

  Order was restored; fresh coffee made and drunk. The party moved to drawing-room and thence to garden.

  Anthony lingered in the pleasant room before joining the others on the lawn.

  At last he took a seat beside his hostess. The deckchairs were in the shade of one of the three great cedars.

  ‘A delightful room, your drawing-room, if I may say so.’ His tone was harmlessly affable.

  The reply was icy. ‘I am glad it pleases you, Mr—Mr Gethryn.’

  Anthony beamed. ‘Yes, charming, charming. It has an air, a grace only too rare nowadays. I admired that sideboard thing immensely; Chippendale, I think. And how the silver of those cups shows up the polish of the wood!’

  With this speech he did not get the effect for which he had wished. Beyond a pulse in the white throat that leapt into startled throbbing, there was no sign of alarm. She remained silent.

  Half his mind applauded her and reviled himself. But the other half, ruthless, urged him on. ‘Have another try; you must,’ it whispered. ‘Get to the bottom of this business. Don’t behave like a schoolboy!’

  ‘I’m afraid I was so interested that I had to examine those cups and their inscriptions,’ he murmured. ‘Very rude of me. But to have won all those! You must be a wonderful swimmer, Mrs Lemesurier.’

  The little pulse in her throat beat heavily. ‘I have given it up—long ago,’ she said simply. Her eyes—those eyes—looked at him steadily.

  Anthony spurred himself. ‘Of course,’ he said, smiling, ‘there’s no opportunity for pleasure swimming about here, is there? Except the Marle. And one would hardly tackle that for pleasure, what? The motive would have to be sterner than that.’

  The blood surged to the pale face, and then as suddenly left it. Anthony was seized with remorse. His mind hunted wildly for words to ease the strain, but he could find none. The sandal in his pocket seemed to be scorching his flesh.

  She rose slowly to her feet, crossed to where her sister sat with Sir Arthur some yards away, said something in a low voice, and walked slowly across the grass towards the house. Though Anthony could see that she only attained movement by a great effort of will, the grace of her carriage gave him a swift sensation—half pleasure, half pain—which was like a clutch at his throat. The clinging yellow gown she wore seemed a golden mist about her.

  He turned to join the other two, deep in conversation. A little cry came to their ears. They swung round to see a limp body sink huddled to the gravel of the path before the windows of the drawing-room.

  Anthony reached her side before the girl or the elder man had moved. As they came up, ‘Dead faint,’ he said. ‘Nothing to be frightened about, Miss Masterson. Shall I carry her in?’ He waved a hand towards the open French-windows.

  ‘Oh, please do.’ Dora picked nervously at her dress. ‘It—is only a faint, isn’t it?’

  She was reassured. Anthony gathered the still body in his arms and bore it into the room.

  He withdrew to the background while Sir Arthur and the girl ministered. Had he wished he could not have helped them. He had held Her in his arms. His heart hammered at his ribs. He felt—though he would not have acknowledged it—actually giddy. Only by an effort did he manage to mask his face with its usual impassivity. His one desire for the moment was to get away and think; to leave this house before he did more harm. Reason; thought; his sense of justice: all deserted him.

  Sir Arthur stepped back from the couch. Colour had come back to the cheeks of the woman. The lids of the eyes had flickered. Sir Arthur turned.

  Anthony touched him on the arm. ‘I think we’re superfluous, you know,’ he said.

  The other nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ve told Dora I’d send for a doctor, but she doesn’t seem to think it’s necessary. Come on.’

  They slipped from the room, and in two minutes were walking back along the river-bank towards the bridge.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE SECRETARY AND THE SISTER

  I

  THEY had walked for perhaps two hundred yards before the elder man broke the silence.

  ‘I hope Lucia will be all right,’ he said. ‘Probably it was the heat. It’s a scorcher today.’

  Anthony nodded. He was in no mood for talk.

  ‘Dora was telling me,’ continued Sir Arthur, ‘that Lucia had been feeling queer since last night. They hardly saw her after dinner. She vanished to her room and locked herself in. But apparently she’d been all right this morning until lunch-time.’

  Anthony began to take notice. Here was more confirmation—though it was hardly needed.

  They were drawing near the bridge now. Another silence fell. Again it was Sir Arthur who broke it.

  ‘You’re very silent, my boy,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’ve got something to think about, though. Something definite, I mean.’ His tone changed. ‘God! What I would give to get my hands on the—the animal that killed John! I shan’t sleep till he’s caught. It’s torture he needs! Torture!’ The kindly face was distorted.

  Anthony looked at him curiously. ‘The great difficulty so far,’ he said, ‘is failure to find any indication of motive. I mean, you can’t do anything in a complicated case unless you can do some work for that end. A motiveless murder’s like a child without a father—damn’ hard to bring home to anyone. Suppose I suddenly felt that life wouldn’t be worth living any longer unless I stabbed a fat man in the stomach; and I accordingly went to Wanstead and assuaged that craving on the darkest part of the Flats, and after that took the first train home and went to bed. They’d never find me out. The fat man and I would have no connection in the minds of the police. No, motive’s the key, and so far it’s hidden. Whether the lock can be picked remains to be discovered.’

  Sir Arthur smiled. ‘You’re a curious feller, Gethryn. You amuse me while you expound.’ He grew grave again. ‘I quite see what you mean: it’s difficult, very difficult. And I can’t imagine anyone having a grudge against John.’

  Anthony went on: ‘Another thing; the messiness of the business indicates madness on the part of the murderer. With homicidal mania there might be no motive other than to kill. Myself, I don’t think the murderer was as mad as all that. Look at the
care he took, for all his untidness. No, the murderer was no more mad that the rest of the affair. It’s all mad if you look at it—in a way. Mad as a Hatter on the first of April. And so am I, by God!’ His voice trailed off into silence.

  They had crossed the bridge now. Sir Arthur, instead of turning directly to his right to return to Abbotshall by the riverside path, chose the way which led to the village. Anthony drifted along beside him in unheeding silence. He was thinking.

  Yes, ‘mad’ had been the right word to use. There didn’t seem to be any common sense about the thing. Even She was mad! Why swim to Abbotshall? The saving in time, he calculated, could only have been a matter of ten minutes or so. And she couldn’t—well, she must have been in hell’s own hurry. But the sandals indicated a bathing-dress, and surely the time taken to change into that might have been spent in covering the distance on dry land. And what had she been there for, outside that window of the study? She—surely She had nothing to do with that messy crime—must be interrogated. Oh, yes! His heart beat faster at the thought of seeing Her again.

  He rebuked himself for thus early and immorally losing interest in his task, and returned to consciousness of his surroundings. He found himself in Marling High Street.

  Sir Arthur disappeared suddenly into a low-browed little shop, whose owner seemed, from his wares, to be an incongruous combination of grocer, tobacconist, draper and news-agent. Anthony stood looking about him. The narrow street, which should have been drowsing away that blazing August afternoon, carried an air of tension. Clumps of people stood about on its cobbles. Women leaned from the windows of its quaint houses. The shop outside which he waited, and two others across the road, flaunted shrieking news placards.

  ‘’Orrible Murder of a Cabinet Minister!’ Anthony quoted with a wry face. ‘Poor devil, poor devil. He’s made more stir by dying than he ever did in his life.’

  Sir Arthur emerged, a packet of tobacco in one hand, a sheaf of newspapers in the other. With fleeting amusement Anthony noticed the red and black cover of an Owl ‘special’. They walked on.