‘So you must know the Baxter brothers pretty well.’
He gave a teasing glance over his shoulder. ‘Now you want to know whether they were worried recently, off their food or suffering from nervous illness, and the answer is no.’
‘As I’m sure you told Inspector Morgan,’ Paul completed with a laugh.
‘Exactly. I also told him they were sober, earnest kids who wouldn’t run off for a lark.’
St Gilbert’s was an impressive eighteenth century building. The school had been founded by Edward VI in 1552 for sons of the deserving poor and had rapidly become extremely expensive. The building in front of them marked the transition from charity to privilege; it loomed up from the moorland with a sudden, sombre majesty.
‘By the way,’ said Dr Stuart, ‘I hope you’re not expecting to see the Reverend Dudley Clarke?’
‘Why, is he away?’
‘Aye, until Saturday morning. He’s at some conference or other. I’ve never known a man spend so much of his time flitting from one place to another. You’d think he was a commercial traveller instead of the head of a public school.’
Paul smiled. ‘You sound unimpressed by Dr Clarke.’
‘He’s a gas bag. He talks too much and says too little.’
‘Never mind, we’ll visit the Elk.’
Dr Stuart resumed his whistling of Loch Lomond. Just as the tuneless monotony was grating on Paul’s nerves the doctor waved towards a dusty, overgrown road. ‘That leads to the Baxter home,’ he said. They were turning into the school grounds.
‘We’ll take a walk down there when we’ve seen the Elk.’
Dr Stuart drew up by the main entrance to let out Paul and Steve. ‘Strange fellow,’ Paul murmured as they stood on the top of the steps and watched him disappear in the direction of the sanatorium. ‘He doesn’t seem the murdering kind.’
The inside of the school was starkly institutional, with flagstone corridors, walls in green and cream, dimly lit and surgically clean. There seemed to be a great clattering of schoolboy shoes and a reverberation of treble voices.
‘Can you show me Mr Elkington’s study?’ Paul asked a fresh-faced lad called, according to a spotty friend, Ursa Major.
They found Elkington in his room on the first floor of the east wing. It looked as though he had been marking the essays which were strewn across his table, but he was standing at his door grunting welcomes.
‘I see you came with our eccentric doctor,’ he said abstractedly. ‘Good to see you again. Port?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Port and biscuits, or do you prefer tea?’
‘He’d prefer tea,’ said Steve. ‘Have you had any news of young Draper?’
‘No,’ said Elkington. He pottered about making tea from an electric kettle by the fireplace while Paul examined the oak bookcases and a framed photograph of the school first eleven, tapped the oak panelling and admired the elegant furniture. Elkington lived in the calm seclusion of an ivy-covered tower, and he was clearly out of his depth among murder and kidnapping. ‘I’ve had the boy’s parents on the telephone all day. They seem to think it was my fault.’
‘They must think you a little careless,’ said Paul unsympathetically. ‘I can’t understand why you didn’t stop the train as soon as the boy disappeared.’
Elkington poured boiling water into the teapot while he considered his reasons. ‘It took me some time before I realised what had happened,’ he admitted at last. ‘I searched the length of the train, but I didn’t really know what to do. I thought that when we reached Dulworth he might leap out of the baggage compartment. But he didn’t.’
Elkington could add nothing in the way of motive for young Draper’s disappearance. The boy had simply vanished, and the inference had to be that he was kidnapped to prevent him telling what he knew to Paul Temple. Except that he was kidnapped after the visit instead of before…Paul tried to remember precisely what the boy had said.
‘The main item was that somebody had been in the lane when the boys went back to the school.’
‘And that somebody,’ Steve said brightly, ‘was probably Dr Stuart.’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Paul said cautiously. ‘Although we mustn’t jump to conclusions.’ He wondered briefly whether Dulworth Bay could have more than one man who whistled tunelessly while he was going about his business. ‘What sort of doctor do you find him?’ Paul asked the Elk.
Elkington sat in one of the massive armchairs and pursed his lips. There was, it seemed, a story connected with Dr Stuart. Elkington stirred his tea and began to tell it.
‘Apparently about fifteen years ago Dr Stuart was quite a big noise in Harley Street. Then suddenly, for some unaccountable reason, he started drinking heavily. Which didn’t matter until one night when he was called out to do an emergency operation.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Paul, ‘let me guess. The doctor was drunk and the patient died?’
Elkington looked surprised. ‘That’s right. How did you—?’
‘I wrote that story twenty years ago,’ Paul said with a laugh. ‘And even then I didn’t sell it. Of all the corny old chestnuts!’
‘Well, that’s what happened,’ said Elkington. ‘Everybody in the village will tell you so.’
The sun was still shining when they left the school, which surprised Paul. He had forgotten in the gloomy precincts of the Elk’s study that it was a summer afternoon. He slipped his arm through Steve’s and listened to her talk of childhood as they walked along the winding lane to the Baxter house. They paused to pat a horse on the nose. The smell of grass and the dust from the lane hung lazily in the air.
‘Let’s go riding tomorrow,’ said Steve. ‘I know a farmer with several horses we could—’
‘We’re here to find those missing boys,’ Paul began.
‘We’re here on holiday, remember? Oh look, there’s a haystack. Have you ever made love in a haystack?’
‘No,’ Paul said promptly. He knew the diplomatic answer; Steve was inclined to be resentful of her husband’s life when she had been wearing pigtails.
‘There was a terribly realistic love scene in that novel you wrote two years ago, full of the damp heat of the hay and bodies perspiring with passion—’
‘Pure imagination,’ Paul said hastily.
‘I thought you went out with a farmer’s daughter when you were eighteen.’
‘Yes,’ Paul agreed. ‘I once kissed her sitting on a bale of hay. We thought that was pretty daring.’
Steve had been looking speculatively at the yellow haystack, but the sudden appearance of a farm labourer with a pitch fork in his hand dispelled any notions of romance. ‘Come on,’ she said decisively, ‘this is no place for dalliance.’
They reached a bend in the lane and came upon what Paul decided was a hamlet. About a dozen small cottages, a general stores, a pub and a tiny church. ‘World’s End,’ Steve murmured inexplicably. She paused to watch a dog climb lazily to its feet, stretch itself and amble towards them. She spun round in a dizzy imitation of joy. ‘I used to know a boy who lived in one of those cottages. My first big devastating romance. I forget which cottage. But I was going to marry him. Billy, I think his name was, or Charley, something like that. He was terribly tough and masculine, with blond hair and freckles—’
‘When was this?’ Paul demanded.
‘Oh, before I met you, darling.’ She took his arm and walked sprightly across the grass to the general stores. There was a notice board in the window with several card advertisements. ‘No need to be jealous. He was seven and I was six. He had a fight with the boy my mother paired me off with, and he won me. The other boy ran away when his nose started bleeding.’ She laughed and looked up into Paul’s face. ‘You’ve never fought for my hand, have you?’
Paul glared. ‘I often have to restrain myself from punching your friends on the nose.’ He looked intently at the advertisements. Women could be very tiresome. ‘£5 Reward. Lost. Parrot, with red and green plumage, an
swers to the name of Cheeta. Apply within.’ Oh well, the shop was closed anyway. ‘What did you say your grand passion’s name was?’
‘Charley, I think, although it might have been Jimmy.’
They walked through the hamlet and on down the lane. There were several large, pretentiously Victorian houses with many acres of overgrown garden on the road beyond. One of these was presumably the Baxter cottage. It was the kind of property a stockbroker might retire to, although the word cottage was a trifle euphemistic.
Paul led the way through a tangle of rose bushes and wild irises to the front door. He rang the bell and heard it echo hollowly inside the house. While he waited he peered inquisitively through the lattice bay windows, then he rang again. The house appeared to be empty.
‘Look,’ said Steve, ‘the door’s open.’
Paul glanced back over his shoulder to see who was coming. ‘They do things like that in the country. They believe in being neighbourly.’ There was nobody coming so he went boldly into the house.
It was one of those labyrinthine buildings where you lose all sense of the outer four walls. There were sudden rooms at the turn of a staircase, passages vanishing into unexpected corners. They twice found themselves in the study and they couldn’t find the kitchen. In the morning-room there was a half-drunk cup of warm tea, as though somebody had been in the house until recently.
‘Anybody home?’ Paul called.
‘Creek eek!’ came the answer from somewhere behind them.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Cheek!’
Paul hurried into the hall and received a momentary shock from the sight of himself and Steve hurrying towards him. It was a tall, very dark mercury looking-glass. The inhuman call, ‘Cheeka – a – cheek!’ guided them to the room beyond the wide flight of stairs.
‘Hello,’ squeaked the voice as they entered the living-room. ‘Hello, hello, hello.’ It preened its yellow and green feathers as it spoke.
‘It’s a parrot,’ Paul said with relief. ‘Good afternoon.’ The parrot stared back silently. ‘Is that your unfinished cup of tea in the other room?’
No answer.
‘Perhaps it doesn’t like men,’ said Steve. She pushed a finger through its cage and tickled its neck. ‘Hello,’ she said in that voice which she normally reserved for small children. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Cheet – a – cheet!’ it squawked.
‘That’s a funny name.’
‘Cheeta,’ it repeated angrily.
Paul laughed. ‘People do give parrots ridiculous names. There was that card in the window down the lane – answers to the name of Cheeta.’ His laughter stopped abruptly. ‘What did it say its name was?’
‘Cheeta!’ squawked the parrot.
‘Do you realise—?’
Yes,’ Steve agreed patiently, ‘that was the name of the missing parrot.’ She continued tickling the feathers on its neck. ‘But if it’s supposed to be lost, what on earth is it doing here?’
‘Your guess,’ Paul said thoughtfully, ‘is as good as mine.’
They were interrupted by a dull thud from upstairs. It sounded as though somebody was moaning, and another thud sent Paul running towards the stairs. ‘Quickly,’ he called to Steve, ‘there’s something wrong.’
‘Probably another parrot trying to escape.’
Paul halted abruptly at the foot of the stairs. There was a man above him, hauling himself to his feet by the rails on the landing. His face was dripping with blood, and he was groaning with the pain and effort. The man was clearly out on his feet.
‘Stay where you are!’ Paul shouted.
The man gaped down unseeingly, swayed slightly back and then lurched forward on to the bannisters. They broke beneath his weight. Without a murmur the man plunged fifteen feet to land beside Paul on the bottom stair.
‘Is he dead?’ Steve asked.
The man was limply heavy as Paul lifted his head and then let him roll on to his back. ‘He’s been very savagely beaten.’ Even tortured, Paul thought. He examined the man’s neck and ribs. Somebody had a pretty thorough knowledge of how to cause serious damage. Paul stood up in disgust and then went upstairs to the main bedroom.
‘Is he Mr Baxter?’ asked Steve.
‘Yes.’ Paul pointed to a photograph on the dressing-table.
It was a family group: two boys, an attractive middle-aged mother and the dead man looking plumply prosperous. ‘He was Baxter.’
The telephone began ringing beside the bed downstairs in the hall. Paul sighed. ‘Shall we answer it?’ He sat on the bed and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ He glanced at the number on the dial. ‘This is Dulworth 9862.’
‘Is that you, father?’ asked a youthful voice.
‘Mm,’ Paul mumbled as non-commitlally as possible. ‘Who’s that speaking?’
‘Michael of course! Old Tom said he saw the card in the shop window about the parrot. Father, can we come home now?’
Paul paused while he wondered what this meant. ‘When did old Tom see the card?’
‘This afternoon on his way back from work.’ The boy sounded suddenly suspicious. ‘Your voice sounds different,’ he said. ‘Is anything the matter, father?’
‘No— no, nothing,’ Paul said quickly. ‘Where are you speaking from?’
‘Why, from the box near Tom’s place.’ There was a brief silence. ‘Who are you? Is my father all right?’ His voice was rising in alarm. ‘I want to know what’s going on!’
‘Put me on to Tom,’ said Paul. ‘Is he there?’
‘Hang on.’ There was a whispered consultation at the other end of the line, and then another, older voice with a Yorkshire accent spoke a sullen, ‘Yes, who’s that?’
‘Now listen,’ Paul said with all the authority he could project, ‘don’t ring off, whatever you do! My name’s Temple. I don’t know what this is all about, but you must believe what I’m telling you. Baxter is dead. He’s been murdered.’
For a moment Paul could hear nothing but the man’s breathing. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s a trap to get the boys.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Paul. ‘You’d better bring them here and explain yourself to the police. Now will you kindly clear the line? I have several telephone calls to make.’ He replaced the receiver and looked up at Steve in some perplexity. ‘Do you understand what that was all about?’ he asked her.
‘No.’
‘Neither do I. Unless Baxter was involved in the kidnapping of his own children.’
Chapter Four
Inspector Morgan was still rigidly polite, but it was a noticeable effort for him. He snapped at the two police constables on duty by the cottage door, swore at the police photographer and grumbled bitterly because the finger print expert was late on the scene. But he said please and thank you to Paul, and made ironic small talk with Steve.
‘I suppose,’ he said while Dr Stuart was examining the body, ‘that you won’t be coming up here for your holidays very often?’
‘Good Lord no,’ said Paul, ‘I prefer a quiet life!’
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Steve murmured wryly.
The inspector wandered restlessly across to the front door.
The two uniformed constables fidgeted nervously until he returned to watch the medical examination. ‘What makes you so sure this man Tom will bring the boys back?’ he asked bleakly. ‘If I were Tom I’d get the hell out of Yorkshire before we find out who he is.’
‘You’ll see,’ said Paul. ‘He’ll be here soon.’
The inspector muttered something about psychological intuition as he went off to curse the photographer. The photographer was leaning precariously over the fractured bannisters to achieve an aerial view of the corpse.
‘The boys will have some packing to do,’ Paul said with a glance at his watch, ‘before they come and face this ordeal.’ But he was feeling apprehensive. He might be completely mistaken.
Dr Stuart looked up from the body, tuned in his deaf ai
d, and pronounced that Baxter was dead. ‘Broken neck,’ he said, ‘in layman’s terms. Poor old fellow. Been dead for about half an hour, I suppose.’ He replaced his instruments in the bag and prepared to go. ‘I’ll let you have the certificate tomorrow morning, Inspector.’
‘Aye, that’ll be soon enough.’
The doctor paused and looked sadly at Paul. ‘Why should anyone want to murder Philip Baxter, eh? Isn’t it always the decent friendly people who come to an unfortunate end? I’ve known Philip Baxter for years. A nicer man you couldn’t wish to have met.’
Paul followed him to the front door. ‘When did you first meet Baxter then?’
‘A long time ago. He was a stockbroker in London when I first knew him. But he had one or two lucky breaks and then retired early in life. I suppose he would be only fifty or fifty-one now. Quite young.’ He led the way down the front path and then stopped to watch a large estate car bumping along the lane. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘I’d been hoping to miss the arrival of the boys. I don’t like grief.’
‘You’re in the wrong job,’ Paul said tensely. It was a scene he too would have preferred to miss.
The estate car slithered to a halt and two teenage boys climbed out of the passenger seats looking rigidly impassive. Paul stood aside as they went silently into the cottage. At the wheel of the car was a middle aged man with a florid, weather beaten face.
‘Good Lord,’ said Dr Stuart, ‘it’s old Tom Doyle.’
The uniformed constables had moved unobtrusively from the cottage to positions on either side of the car. ‘I think you’d better come inside, Mr Doyle,’ said one of them. ‘The inspector will want to ask you some questions.’
Doyle nodded. ‘But we’ll give the boys a few minutes alone with him, shall we? They don’t need an audience.’ He took his pipe from his jacket pocket and filled it with slow deliberation. Then he sat puffing thoughtfully and staring into infinity while the few minutes ticked by.
A squirrel ran along the branch of a tree opposite and jumped fully seven feet before vanishing into the swaying foliage of a chestnut tree. Paul followed its path by the movement of the leaves and a few moments later he saw it flying through the air again. It sent him into a reverie about Beatrix Potter, until suddenly Dr Stuart spoke.
Paul Temple and the Curzon Case (A Paul Temple Mystery) Page 4