Without Lawful Authority

by Manning Coles

  “What did they say?”

  “They—it was our Constable Leggatt at Marybourne I went to, of course—he said he would have enquiries made. I must try and not worry; no doubt the captain would turn up in a day or two; the police would do all they could, and things would be sure to turn out all right—all that sort of thing. He was very nice about it, but I could see he thought I was making a silly fuss about nothing.”

  “Probably thought Roger’d gone off on a binge,” said Warnford.

  “Yes—as though he would, leaving all his work about and the lights on! Silly. If he wanted to go away he’d have had his things packed and gone in the car. Why not? Besides, he’d never go off without a word and leave me worrying; it would be so rude as well as unkind.”

  “Of course. It’s out of the question. Did he take much money with him, d’you know?”

  “I don’t. The bank would tell me if he’d cashed an extra-big cheque lately, I suppose. We never kept an awful lot of money in the house; it wasn’t necessary. I paid the bills by cheque, you know, and all that sort of thing; I don’t know what Roger had.”

  “No. What do you think about it, yourself?”

  “Jim, I don’t know what to think,” she said, her eyes shining with tears. “Friday, and now it’s Monday, and not a word. It’s not like him; he’s always so considerate. One hears of people losing their memory; do they really? I thought they generally just pretended to, and I can’t imagine Roger doing it, anyway. Of course he has been working very hard lately; I suppose it’s possible. What do you think?”

  “Oh, it’s possible, all right. There are genuine cases, plenty of ’em; it’s not always a music-hall joke.”

  “I hope it is, because they always remember themselves again suddenly, don’t they? Or at least they are about somewhere and can be found,” she said nervously.

  “Jenny. What are you thinking about?”

  “I’m almost afraid to say it to myself; it sounds so silly, like people in a thriller, and I would have said things didn’t happen like that in real life, not to ordinary people like us,” she said, pouring her words like a torrent, “but it happened to you, didn’t it? I mean somebody stole your papers and the model; they didn’t just melt away; somebody thought our tanks worth scheming and plotting to find out all about what we were doing. And Roger’s work was definitely very important; his major told me that. I said to him how keen Roger was on his experiments, and he said if they were successful it looked as though all the other nations would have to rebuild their tanks, and he wasn’t joking. Well, if somebody got wind of that they wouldn’t stick at anything to find out what he was doing, would they? Jim, I don’t know what to believe, but I’m frightened. Jim, where is he and what are they doing to him? Here are we just letting the days go by and not doing anything; I don’t believe the police are worrying a bit, and all the time what is happening? Oh, Jim——”

  “Steady, steady,” he said. “It’s frightfully worrying for you, but try not to get too upset over it. The loss-of-memory idea may be the right one, you know.”

  “Yes,” she said with a violent effort at self-control. “That’s why I’ve come up to Town, to see if I can find anyone among our friends who’s seen him anywhere this week end. Because they don’t want it advertised, for some reason.”

  “Who is ‘they’?”

  “The Army people. I’ve been ringing up his major—you remember, Major Distin—and he’s all hush-hush about it. And nobody’s doing anything! Oh, Jim, d’you remember saying once that if I were in any sort of trouble you’d help me?”

  “Of course. I mean it; I’ll do anything.”

  “Yes. Please do something at once—but what?”

  “Let me think,” said Warnford, and put his head in his hands. “Tell me,” he went on after a minute, “have you noticed anything out of the ordinary just lately? Strangers about, that sort of thing?”

  “No. Summer visitors driving about the country—most of them come from Winsbury—but not more than usual. Roger did tell me he’d engaged a couple more keepers, and I asked him why, as the shooting is all spoiled with his explosions in the park. The pheasants have gone for miles, you know. He said they were to help patrol the place and keep people off; he didn’t want people nosing about; besides, it wasn’t safe when he’s firing his guns; there might be an accident. I’ve wondered since whether they were brought in more as guards.”

  Warnford nodded. “Where do they live?”

  “In the cottage where old Meek used to live. He died—oh, more than a year ago—and his daughter’s gone away into service.”

  “That’s on the edge of the park, not far from the pavilion, isn’t it? They ought to have heard if there was any sort of a schemozzle in the night.”

  “Yes. I asked them, but they hadn’t heard anything. I expect they sleep soundly; men like that generally do.”

  “I think,” said Warnford, getting up to bring cigarettes from the mantelpiece, “that I’d better run down to Marybourne and have a look round. I’ve no idea what to look for, but it seems the obvious place to start. I’ll stay at the Seven Stars, I think, not at the house.”

  “Will you go alone?”

  “I’ve got a friend who’ll go with me, man named Marden. You’ll stay in town, will you, and see if you can run across anything? Where are you staying?”

  “At my club,” she said, and gave him the address and telephone number. “I thought I’d be freer there than staying with Aunt Pamela.”

  “From what I remember of your aunt Pamela you certainly would be. What’s the time? Nearly twelve. I’ll go down to Marybourne this afternoon, I think. I’d ask you to lunch with me somewhere, but I think you’d rather I got going. I’ll get hold of Marden and talk to him; he’s out at the moment, but he won’t be long. Keep your heart up and try not to worry more than you can help. I’m awfully glad you came; sensible thing to do. I’ll let you know how I get on, of course.”

  She rose to go. “I’m much happier since I’ve seen you,” she said frankly. “At least we can try to do something now, and, besides—I don’t think you realize how much we both missed you. Don’t vanish again, will you?”

  “I shouldn’t be such a fool again.”

  “No. Good-bye, Jim. I’ll keep my fingers crossed till I hear from you again.”

  When he had seen her off he returned upstairs and met Marden coming out of his own room.

  “Oh, hullo, old chap,” said Warnford. “Didn’t hear you come in. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Had some letters to write,” said Marden, who, in point of fact, had been kindly but firmly headed off the sitting room by Ashling. “What’s happened?”

  Warnford told him the story, adding, “I know the place pretty well, stayed there several week ends in the old days. Roger Kendal and I were always good friends. It’s about eight miles from Winsbury, all among the Hampshire downs. Open rolling country for the most part, chalk hills with clumps of beeches; you know the sort of thing. Marybourne itself is in a valley and fairly wooded, but part of the park is like moorland with heather and bracken and pine trees. The house is on the far side of the park from the village; I should think it’s two miles or more, so it’s pretty lonely, apart from gardeners’ and keepers’ cottages and the home farm beyond the gardens. I remember this pavilion place she talks about quite well; I think their grandfather built it. It’s something between a large summerhouse and a small ballroom, with Corinthian pillars up the walls and lots of windows. When the old people were alive they used to use it for teas and things when they gave big garden parties, but a more useless place normally you couldn’t imagine, too far from the house to be convenient and not far enough for picnics. I should think it would make an ideal laboratory for a shy experimenter.”

  “How far from the house?” asked Marden. “Would you hear a yell from there, for example?”

  “About a quarter of a mile, and you can hear a yell a long way on a quiet night if you’re awake to hear it. But
there are walled gardens between and then the tennis courts and a screen of trees, sort of shrubbery business, rhododendrons and that sort of thing. I shouldn’t think a yell from there would wake anybody at the house. The keepers’ cottage she spoke of is much nearer, just round the end of the shrubbery; they don’t seem to have heard anything.”

  “I suppose one must start by going down there,” said Marden, “though frankly I don’t know what you expect to find. If Kendal was kidnapped, the kidnappers would be extremely careful not to leave any traces, you’d think.”

  “I agree. I’m only going there because I can’t think of any better place to start. There is this about it: if the trick was worked with the help of anyone employed on the estate or a local visitor, they would be very careful to stay on for a time so as to avoid suspicion.”

  “I’ll pack a bag and get the Bentley out.”

  “No, don’t,” said Warnford thoughtfully. “The Bentley is rather too well known in some circles. I think we’ll go by train.”

  “Surely,” said his friend, “you don’t think Blackbeard is in this business too, do you? The damn fellow’s getting on your nerves. He can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “I’m not thinking one way or the other,” said Warnford. “I’m just taking precautions. Pass the Bradshaw over, there’s a good chap. Ashling! Ashling!”

  “Sir?”

  “Pack my small bag for a couple of nights, please. Toothbrush, pyjamas, shirt, socks, shaving tackle. Only for country pub.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And Mr. Marden’s the same. Now then. Waterloo to Marybourne Halt. They don’t seem to have heard of Marybourne Halt. Yes, they have. Page 168a. No, it’s not here. Yes, among the notes——”

  “Oh, let’s get to Waterloo and ask there,” said Marden. “They’re more used to Bradshaw than we are.”

  They snatched a couple of sandwiches and a glass of beer at Waterloo and caught the two-ten. It was a long and circuitous journey, involving a change at Guildford, with twenty-five minutes to wait; another at Alton, where they waited half an hour, and a third at Winsbury, where the local to Marybourne Halt was held up for twenty minutes, waiting for some trucks containing prize cattle from a West Country show.

  “I’ve never come by train before,” said Warnford when they found an empty compartment. “We always came by road from wherever we were stationed. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever come here from London before.” The train started at last, crawled through the Winsbury Cutting deep in the chalk, and came out among wide rolling fields and patches of woodland glowing in the yellow light of an autumn sunset. The fields came up close to the train on both sides, and Marden, looking out of the windows, said, “Why, it’s a single line. This is real country.”

  “Yes,” said Warnford, staring out of the window, “it’s real country all right. It used to be very pleasant coming here in the old days. We used to ride on the downs or go out shooting or just go out. There are trout a bit lower down the Marybourne River, not on Kendal’s place, but the old squire used to rent a stretch of the river the other side of Stoke Bourne. I’m beginning to recognize landmarks; that hill over there with the clump of trees on the top is Gallows Hill; there’s the upright of the gallows still there. The last people hung there were a man and a woman who murdered a sailor in 1795; he lost his way on the downs at night and knocked at their door to ask the road. They took him in, found out somehow that he had a good bit of money on him, and cut his throat. I don’t know how it was discovered, but they were hung all right.”

  “Hanged in chains, I suppose,” said Marden, “as a warning to others.”

  “Oh yes. Roger told me that when he was a boy an old woman showed him one of the man’s finger bones. She kept it as a cure for rheumatism or toothache or something. Roger said he earnestly wished to own it himself, but the old woman wouldn’t part, so he went up to the gallows and scratched round in the turf to find another one. He did and kept it for years till somebody told him it was a sheep’s foot bone, then he threw it away. He was about eight at the time. Ghoulish little beasts boys are.”

  “He was born here, I suppose,” said Marden.

  “Oh yes, and always lived here except when he was away at school and afterwards in the Army. He’s wrapped up in the place. Marden, I don’t believe for a moment that he went away of his own accord, all of a sudden like that; it wasn’t like him. He never did stupid, inconsiderate things to leave people wondering. I never knew anyone so reliable; if he said he’d do a thing he’d do it; if he believed in anything—after adequate proof—you couldn’t shake him. At my court-martial he came up and volunteered to give evidence of character. He said he didn’t know anything about the event itself because unfortunately he was away at the time, but he said that the stuff must have been very expertly stolen and not through my carelessness because I wasn’t careless and that was that. I can see him now standing up addressing the court. ‘Men act according to their characters,’ he said. ‘You don’t find habitual liars becoming suddenly trustworthy, or born misers throwing money about. Warnford was conscientious to the point of absurdity; to suggest he left the keys about for anybody to find is simply damned nonsense, sir.’ Of course his evidence didn’t cut any ice for me; it only showed what a good chap he was. Obstinate, yes, but not impulsive and silly. I don’t believe he just walked out, Marden.”

  “Unless he had some sort of brain storm,” said Marden. “Overwork.”

  “It takes an awful lot of overwork to turn a fit man’s brain when he’s interested in what he’s doing. Jenny hadn’t noticed anything wrong. I haven’t seen him since the court-martial,” said Warnford, harking back again. “He wrote to me care of my bank and said he wanted to see me, but I refused. I wish I hadn’t, now; if he’d had any suspicions of any dirty work about he’d have told me. The last I saw of him was walking out of that room after he’d given his evidence; he turned in the doorway and looked at me. But Rawson’s evidence had done it for me. Funny, he turned round, too, when he’d got—— Marden!”

  “What on earth’s the matter?” said Marden, for Warnford was staring at him like one who sees a ghost.

  “I’ve just remembered,” said Warnford slowly.

  “Remembered what?”

  “When we were in the Hotel Malplaquet, you know, while you were talking to the girl at the desk. Blackbeard walked through with the manager and I said he reminded me of someone, but I didn’t know who.”

  “Well?”

  “Blackbeard is Rawson. I can see him now, walking down the room after he’d said his little piece. Rather a stiff-legged walk he had, very ultra-military. Blackbeard had too; d’you remember? And the shape of the back of his head. What a fool I’ve been.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I knew him from the start, only that beard of his misled me. Rawson, eh? Very funny. You said I’d come across him somewhere, didn’t you? Now Kendal’s disappeared. Well, we’ve made a long step forward, Marden; we know what we’re looking for.”

  “But you’re jumping to conclusions,” objected Marden. “There isn’t a shred of evidence that Rawson had anything to do with Kendal’s affair.”

  “No. But will you bet on it?”

  “No, I certainly won’t,” said John Marden.

  17. The Old Barn

  Dusk was falling by the time the train reached Marybourne Halt, which consisted of one platform, one shed, one garden seat, and one porter, who looked at the two strangers with interest. The only other passenger to get out there was a young girl who wheeled a cycle out of the shed to the road outside and pedalled quickly away. Warnford looked about him, but the station was shut in by a hazel copse on one side and a rising fold of ground on the other. The porter took their tickets, and they stood in the road outside and heard him rattling keys and locking the shed behind them. The noise of the train died away in the distance; somewhere among the hazels a rabbiting dog barked excitedly; farther down the lane to the left a cock
pheasant cried, and against the amber glow in the west one large star hung like a lamp. The air smelled of damp moss and the Michaelmas daisies in the Halt’s one flower bed, and there was nobody to be seen anywhere about, nor sound of any traffic.

  “What a gorgeous evening,” said Marden, inhaling long breaths of the cool air.

  “Yes, isn’t it? Here,” said Warnford suddenly, “this won’t do; I don’t know the way. Where’s that porter gone?”

  “I bain’t gone, sir, yet,” said the porter, and emerged from the shadows wheeling a cycle. He shut the platform gate and locked it behind him. “Where did you genelmen want to go?”

  “To Marybourne Village.”

  “Well, there’s two ways to Marybourne; there’s the road an’ there’s the footpath.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Matter o’ three mile by road, sir; ’tis shorter by footpath, naturally.”

  “Path, I think,” said Warnford; “it’s getting dusk already.”

  “ ’Tis that, sir; evenin’s be closin’ in on us now. Still, there’ll be moon up presently; it won’t be dark not yet awhiles. You goes down this road,” he said, pointing to the left, “till you comes to the river. There’s a bridge over, but you doan’ cross it; you goes over stile just this side of it on your left ’and. You keeps on alongside the river through three fields, what we calls the water meadows, till you comes to a wood. Path runs alongside wood—you can’t miss un—till you comes to a farm. Bear left there down a sort o’ lane, like, till you comes to them ’igh-tension cables an’ the lane turns left, but you keeps straight on over another stile you’ll see there till you comes to a wall. That’s the park wall, like, an’ there’s a gate in it an’ a short cut across corner o’ park to the village.”