“I saw his face,” she said. “Paul, he’s horribly disfigured, poor boy. A shell-burst, or something. It’s dreadful. If I hadn’t known it was Derek, I’d hardly have recognised him. And he was so good-looking in the old days. But I know it’s Derek. I’m quite sure of it. That medium’s control never makes a mistake. If Derek had passed over, she’d have found him and made him speak to me at that séance. But she couldn’t. And now he’s come back in the flesh, it shows there is something in spiritualism, in spite of all your sneers. You’ll have to admit it, Paul.”
Her words had evidently started a fresh train of thought in her brother’s mind.
“Did you recognise his voice?” he demanded.
Miss Fordingbridge seemed to make an effort to recall the tones she had heard:
“It was Derek’s voice, of course,” she said, with a faint hesitation in her manner. “Of course, it wasn’t quite the voice I’d been expecting. His mouth was hurt in those awful wounds he got. And his tongue was damaged, too; so his voice isn’t the same as it used to be. It’s husky instead of clear; and he has difficulty in saying some words, I noticed. But at times I could quite well imagine it was Derek speaking just as he used to do, with that Australian twang of his that we used to tease him about.”
“Ah, he has the twang, has he?”
“Of course he has. Derek couldn’t help having it, could he, when he was brought up in Australia until he was quite grown-up? Last night he laughed over the way we used to chaff him about his accent.”
“Anything more about him that you can remember?”
“He’s been dreadfully hurt. Two of his fingers were blown off his right hand. It gave me such a start when he shook hands with me.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed to reflect for a moment or two on the information he had acquired.
“H’m!” he said at last. “It’ll be difficult to establish his identity; that’s clear. Face unrecognisable owing to wounds; voice altered, ditto; two fingers gone on right hand, so his writing won’t be identifiable. If only we had taken Derek’s finger prints, we’d have had some sort of proof. As it is, there’s very little to go on.”
Miss Fordingbridge listened scornfully to this catalogue.
“So that’s all the thanks you give Derek for suffering so horribly for us all in the war?”
“Always assuming that this friend of yours is Derek. Don’t you understand that I can’t take a thing of this sort on trust? I’m in charge of Derek’s property—assuming that he’s still alive, I can’t hand it over to the first claimant who comes along, and then, if Derek himself turns up, excuse myself by saying that the first fellow had a plausible yarn to tell. I must have real proof. That’s simply plain honesty, in my position. And real proof’s going to be mighty hard to get, if you ask me, Jay. You must see that, surely.”
“It is Derek,” Miss Fordingbridge repeated obstinately. “Do you think I can’t recognise my own nephew, when he’s able to tell me all sorts of things that only we in the family could know?”
Her brother regarded her rather ruefully.
“I believe you’d go into the witness-box and take your oath that it’s Derek,” he said gloomily. “You’d made up your mind that Derek was coming back sooner or later; and now you’re prepared to recognise anything down to a chimpanzee as your long-lost nephew, rather than admit you’re wrong. Damn this spiritualism of yours! It’s at the root of all the trouble. It’s led you to expect Derek; and you mean to have a Derek of some sort.”
He paused for a moment, as though following out a train of thought; then he added:
“And it’s quite on the cards that if it ever came before a jury, some chuckleheads would take your word for it. ‘Sure to know her nephew,’ and all that sort of stuff. They don’t know your little fads.”
Miss Fordingbridge glanced up at the note of trouble in her brother’s voice.
“I can’t see why you’re trying to throw doubt on the thing, Paul. You haven’t seen Derek; I have. And yet you don’t wait to see him yourself. You come straight out with a denial that it is Derek. And you say I’ve got a preconceived idea about the affair. It seems to me that you’re the one with a preconceived notion. One would think you’d made up your mind already on the subject.”
Paul Fordingbridge acknowledged the counter-thrust.
“There’s something in what you say, perhaps, Jay. But you must admit the whole business is a trifle unexpected. It’s hardly taking the line one might expect, if everything were square and above-board. Let’s assume that it is Derek, and then you’ll see what a lot’s left unexplained so far. First of all, it’s years since the war. Why hasn’t he turned up before now? That’s a strange affair, surely. Then, when he does reappear, why doesn’t he come to me first of all? I’m the person he left in charge of his affairs, and I should think his first step would be to communicate with me. But no, he comes down here unannounced; and he fixes up some sort of clandestine meeting with you. That’s a rum go, to my mind. And there’s more than that in it. He meets you last night and has a talk with you; but he doesn’t suggest coming to see me. Or did he give you any message for me?”
“He didn’t, as it happens. But you seem to think we were talking as if it was all a matter of business, Paul. It was a shock to me to have him back again. And I daresay I did most of the talking, and he hadn’t time to give me any message for you. I was very shaken up by it all, and he was so kind to me.”
Her brother seemed to find little pleasure in the picture which she drew.
“Yes, I expect you did most of the talking, Jay. He wouldn’t interrupt you much. But, aside from all that, it’s getting near lunch-time now. He’s had the whole morning to break into the family circle; and yet he hasn’t come near. From what I remember of him, shyness wasn’t one of his defects. Whatever you may think about it, that seems to me a bit fishy. Damned strange, in fact. I’m not taking up any definite stand in the matter; but these are things that need a bit of explaining.”
Miss Fordingbridge seemed for a moment to be staggered by her brother’s analysis; but she recovered herself almost at once and fastened upon his last point.
“Didn’t I tell you that he was horribly disfigured? Even in the moonlight he was a dreadful sight. Do you expect him to come marching into this hotel in broad daylight this morning, so that everyone can stare at him? You really have very little common sense, Paul. I think it shows that he wants to spare us all the tittle-tattle he can. You know what hotels are, and how the people in them are simply on the look-out for something to chatter about. And when they got a chance like this—missing heir returns, and so forth—you can guess for yourself what it would be like. We’d have no life of it, with people staring at us and whispering behind our backs as we passed. And I think Derek has shown a great deal of tact and common sense in behaving as he has done. Naturally he asked to see me first. He knows how fond of him I was.”
Her brother seemed to consider this fresh view of the affair for a longer time than he had devoted to any of her other statements. At last he shook his head doubtfully.
“It might be as you say, of course,” he conceded grudgingly. “We must wait and see what turns up. But you can take it from me, Jay, that I shan’t be satisfied unless I get something a good deal better in the way of evidence. It looks very like a parcel from a shop in Queer Street, so far as it’s gone.”
Miss Fordingbridge seemed content to drop that side of the matter, at least for the time. But she had something further to say.
“Of course you’ll drop this absurd idea of letting Foxhills now, Paul?”
Her brother seemed irritated by this fresh turn given to their conversation.
“Why should I? I’ve told you often enough that it’s my business to do the best I can for Derek; and the rent of Foxhills would be worth having, even if Derek did come back. You’re not suggesting that he should stay there, are you? It’s far too big a place for a single man, even if he wanted to live down here at Lynden Sands.”
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Miss Fordingbridge was plainly put out by this suggestion.
“Of course he would stay there. When he went away, didn’t I keep his rooms in order, just as he left them? He could go back to-morrow and find his study exactly as it was when he left us. Everything’s there just as it used to be: his books, his pipes, his old diary, his ashtrays—everything. When we shut up Foxhills, I wanted to have everything ready so that when he came back from the war he’d find everything in its usual place. He could walk straight in and feel that things were just the same and that we hadn’t forgotten him. And now you want to let Foxhills just at the moment when he comes back again—rob the poor boy of the only place on this side of the world that he can call a home. I won’t have it, Paul!”
“Whether you have it or haven’t it, Jay, is a matter of total indifference. Until the power of attorney is revoked, I shall do exactly as seems best to me; and letting Foxhills is one of the things I shall certainly do.”
“But I know Derek doesn’t want it,” cried Miss Fordingbridge. “Last night I told him all about how I’d kept his things for him so carefully; and if you’d seen how touched the poor boy was! He said it was the thing that had touched him most. And he was ever so grateful to me. And now you propose to spoil it all, after those years!”
She switched off on to another subject.
“And what do you propose to do about poor old Peter Hay? If you let Foxhills, it won’t need a caretaker; and I suppose you’ll turn poor Peter adrift? And, if you remember, Peter was one of the people that Derek liked best when he was here before. He was always going about with Peter, and he said he found him companionable. And he’s learned a lot from Peter about beasts and so on—all new to him—since he came from Australia. But I suppose Peter’s to go at a week’s notice? That’s a nice way to serve people.”
Her brother seemed to consider things before replying.
“I’ll try to find something for Peter. You’re quite right, Jay. I didn’t mean to turn Peter adrift, though. If I have to sack him from the caretaker business, I’ll pay him out of my own pocket till something else turns up. Peter’s too decent a man to let down, especially after he’s been at Foxhills all his life. If it had been that last valet we had—that fellow Aird—I’d never have thought twice about throwing him out at a day’s notice. But you can trust me to look after Peter.”
Miss Fordingbridge seemed slightly mollified by this concession on her brother’s part; but she stuck to her main point.
“Well, you can’t let Foxhills in any case. I won’t have it!”
But apparently her brother had wearied of argument, for he made no reply.
“I shall be going up to Foxhills some time to-day. I always go up to dust Derek’s rooms, you know,” she continued.
“What on earth do you do that for?” her brother demanded in an exasperated tone. “Are you training for a housemaid’s place? I hear there’s a shortage in that line, but you hardly seem to be a useful kind of recruit, Jay.”
“I’ve always looked after Derek’s rooms. When he was here at Foxhills in the old days, I never allowed anyone to lay a finger on his study. I knew just how he liked his things kept, and I wouldn’t have maids fussing round, displacing everything.”
“Oh, of course you doted on the boy,” her brother retorted. “But it seems a bit unnecessary at this time of day.”
“Unnecessary? Just when Derek has come back?”
Paul Fordingbridge made no attempt to conceal his gesture of annoyance; but he refrained from reopening the sore subject.
“Well, if you come across Peter, you can send him down to me. I haven’t seen him since we came here, and I may as well have a talk about things. Probably there are one or two repairs that need considering. Perhaps you could go round by his cottage and make sure of getting hold of him.”
Miss Fordingbridge nodded her assent.
“I’ll be quite glad to have a talk with Peter. He’ll be so delighted to know that Derek’s back at last. It was only the other day that we were talking about Derek together. Peter thinks there’s no one like him.”
“All the more reason for saying nothing, then. If it turns out that it isn’t Derek, it would disappoint Peter badly if you’d raised his hopes.”
Then, seeing that his scepticism had again roused his sister’s temper, he added hastily:
“By the way, how’s Peter keeping? Has he had any more of these turns of his—apoplexy, wasn’t it?”
“He seemed to be quite well when I saw him the other day. Of course, he’s got to be careful and not excite himself; but he seemed to me as if he’d quite got over the slight attack he’d had in the spring.”
“Still got his old squirrel?”
“It’s still there. And the rest of the menagerie too. He insisted on showing me them all, and of course I had to pretend to be frightfully interested. Poor old man, they’re all he has now, since his wife died. It would be very lonely for him up there, with no one within a mile of him. His birds and things are great company for him, he says.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed relieved that the conversation was edging away from the dangerous subject. He led it still further out of the zone.
“Have you seen Cressida and Stanley this morning? They’d finished breakfast and gone out before I came on the scene.”
“I think they were going to play golf. They ought to be back presently.”
She went to the window and gazed out for a moment or two without speaking. Her brother took up The Times and resumed his study of the share market, with evident relief.
“This hotel spoils Lynden Sands,” Miss Fordingbridge broke out after a short silence. “It comes right into the view from the front of Foxhills—great staring building! And, wherever you go along the bay, you see this monstrosity glaring in the middle of the view. It’ll ruin the place. And it’ll give the villagers all sorts of notions, too. Visitors always spoil a small village.”
Her brother made no reply, and when she halted in her complaints he rustled his newspaper clumsily in an obvious effort to discourage further conversation. Just then a knock at the door was heard.
“Come in!” Miss Fordingbridge ordered.
A page-boy appeared.
“Message on the telephone for you, sir.”
Paul Fordingbridge rose reluctantly and left the room. He was absent for a very short time; and when he came back his sister could see that he was disturbed.
“That was a message from the doctor. It seems poor old Peter’s gone.”
“Gone? Do you mean anything’s happened to him?”
“He’s had another attack—some time in the night or earlier. They didn’t find out about it until the morning. The doctor’s just been up at the cottage, so there’s no doubt about it.”
“Poor Peter! He looked so well when I saw him the other day. One would have thought he’d live to see eighty. This will be a dreadful disappointment for Derek. He was so fond of the old man.”
She paused for a moment, as though she could hardly believe the news.
“Are you sure there’s no mistake, Paul?”
“None whatever. It was the doctor himself who rang up. Peter had no relations, you know, so naturally we’ll need to look after things. He served us well, Jay.”
“I remember when he came to Foxhills, and that’s years and years ago. The place won’t seem quite the same without him. Did the doctor tell you anything about it, Paul?”
“No details. He’d just rung up to let us know, he said, as we seemed to be the only people who had any real connection with the old boy. Now I come to think of it, that sawbones seemed a bit stuffy over something. A bit abrupt in his manner over the ’phone. He’s a new man, apparently. I didn’t know his name. Perhaps that was what put him out.”
Chapter Two
A Bus-Driver’s Holiday
Sir Clinton Driffield, after a careful examination of the lie, deliberately put down a long putt on the last green of the Lynden Sands course. His opponent, Stanl
ey Fleetwood, stooped and picked up his own ball.
“Your hole and match,” he said, handing his putter back to his caddie.
Sir Clinton nodded.
“Thanks for the game,” he said. “We seem to be fairly even. Much more fun when the thing’s in doubt up to the last green. Yes, you might clean ’em,” he added in reply to his caddie’s inquiry. “I shan’t want them until to-morrow.”
A girl had been sitting on one of the seats overlooking the green; and, as the caddie replaced the pin in the hole, she rose to her feet and came down towards the players. Stanley Fleetwood waved to her, and then, in response to her mute question, he made a gesture of defeat.
“This is Sir Clinton Driffield, Cressida,” he explained, as they met.
Sir Clinton had trained himself to observe minutely without betraying that he was doing so; and he had a habit of mentally docketing the results of his scrutiny. Mannerisms were the points which he studied with most attention. As Cressida Fleetwood came slowly towards them, his apparently casual glance took in mechanically the picture of a dark-haired girl still in her twenties, slim and graceful; but his attention fastened mainly on a faint touch of shyness which added to her charm; and in the expression of her eyes he believed he read something more uncommon. It seemed as though a natural frankness had been overlaid by a tinge of mistrust in the world.
“I hope I didn’t rob you of a game this morning by taking your husband away, Mrs. Fleetwood,” he said, as they turned up the path leading to the hotel.
Cressida reassured him at once.
“As it happened,” she explained, “I didn’t feel inclined to play to-day, so he was left at a loose end; and when you took pity on him, I was very glad to have my conscience cleared.”
“Well, it was lucky for me,” Sir Clinton answered. “The friend who’s staying with me just now wouldn’t come out this morning. He strained his foot slightly yesterday. So I was left in the lurch, and I was very fortunate in finding Mr. Fleetwood free to take me on.”
They entered the grounds of the hotel, and, at a turn in the path, Cressida Fleetwood bowed to a girl who passed their group. The new-comer was handsome rather than pretty; and there was a hint of hardness in her face which detracted a little from her charm. She was dressed with a finish rather unusual at that time of day in a golfing hotel; and her walk lacked the free swing characteristic of the athletic English girl. Written fairly plainly on her were the signs of a woman who has had to look after her own interests and who has not always come out a winner in the game.
Mystery at Lynden Sands (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 2