“Right oh, Aunt Caroline.”
The obedient nephew disappeared.
“Sit down,” said Miss Percehouse.
Emily sat on the chair indicated. Strange to say she had immediately felt conscious of a distinct liking and sympathy for this rather sharp-tongued middle-aged invalid. She felt indeed a kind of kinship with her.
“Here is someone,” thought Emily, “who goes straight to the point and means to have her own way and bosses everybody she can. Just like me, only I happen to be rather good-looking, and she has to do it all by force of character.”
“I understand you are the girl who is engaged to Trevelyan’s nephew,” said Miss Percehouse. “I’ve heard all about you and now I have seen you I understand exactly what you are up to. And I wish you good luck.”
“Thank you,” said Emily.
“I hate a slobbering female,” said Miss Percehouse. “I like one who gets up and does things.”
She looked at Emily sharply.
“I suppose you pity me—lying here never able to get up and walk about?”
“No,” said Emily thoughtfully. “I don’t know that I do. I suppose that one can, if one has the determination, always get something out of life. If you can’t get it in one way you get it in another.”
“Quite right,” said Miss Percehouse. “You’ve got to take life from a different angle, that’s all.”
“Angle of attack,” murmured Emily.
“What’s that you say?”
As clearly as she was able, Emily outlined the theory that she had evolved that morning and the application of it she had made to the matter in hand.
“Not bad,” said Miss Percehouse nodding her head. “Now, my dear—we will get down to business. Not being a born fool, I suppose you’ve come up to this village to find out what you can about the people here, and to see if what you find out has any bearing on the murder. Well, if there’s anything you want to know about the people here, I can tell it to you.”
Emily wasted no time. Concise and businesslike she came to the point.
“Major Burnaby?” she asked.
“Typical retired army officer, narrow-minded and limited in outlook, jealous disposition. Credulous in money matters. Kind of man who invests in a South Sea Bubble because he can’t see a yard in front of his own nose. Likes to pay his debts promptly and dislikes people who don’t wipe their feet on the mat.”
“Mr. Rycroft?” said Emily.
“Queer little man, enormous egotist. Cranky. Likes to think himself a wonderful fellow. I suppose he has offered to help you solve the case aright owing to his wonderful knowledge of criminology.”
Emily admitted that that was the case.
“Mr. Duke?” she asked.
“Don’t know a thing about the man—and yet I ought to. Most ordinary type. I ought to know—and yet I don’t. It’s queer. It’s like a name on the tip of your tongue and yet for the life of you, you can’t remember it.”
“The Willetts?” asked Emily.
“Ah! the Willetts!” Miss Percehouse hoisted herself up on an elbow again in some excitement. “What about the Willetts indeed? Now, I’ll tell you something about them, my dear. It may be useful to you, or it may not. Go over to my writing table there and pull out the little top drawer—the one to the left—that’s right. Bring me the blank envelope that’s there.”
Emily brought the envelope as directed.
“I don’t say it’s important—it probably isn’t,” said Miss Percehouse. “Everybody tells lies one way or another, and Mrs. Willett is perfectly entitled to do the same as everybody else.”
She took the envelope and slipped her hand inside.
“I will tell you all about it. When the Willetts arrived here, with their smart clothes and their maids and their innovation trunks, she and Violet came up in Forder’s car and the maids and the innovation trunks came by the station bus. And naturally, the whole thing being an event as you might say, I was looking out as they passed, and I saw a coloured label blow off from one of the trunks and dive down onto one of my borders. Now, if there is one thing I hate more than another it is a litter of paper or mess of any kind, so I sent Ronnie out to pick it up, and I was going to throw it away when it struck me it was a bright, pretty thing, and I might as well keep it for the scrapbooks I make for the children’s hospital. Well, I wouldn’t have thought about it again except for Mrs. Willett deliberately mentioning on two or three occasions that Violet had never been out of South Africa and that she herself had only been to South Africa, England, and the Riviera.”
“Yes?” said Emily.
“Exactly. Now—look at this.”
Miss Percehouse thrust a luggage label into Emily’s hand. It bore the inscription, Mendle’s Hotel, Melbourne.
“Australia,” said Miss Percehouse, “isn’t South Africa—or it wasn’t in my young days. I daresay it isn’t important, but there it is for what it is worth. And I’ll tell you another thing. I have heard Mrs. Willett calling to her daughter, and she called Cooee, and that again is more typical of Australia than South Africa. And what I say is, it is queer. Why shouldn’t you wish to admit that you come from Australia if you do?”
“It’s certainly curious,” said Emily. “And it’s curious that they should come to live here in winter time as they have.”
“That leaps to the eye,” said Miss Percehouse. “Have you met them yet?”
“No. I thought of going there this morning. Only I didn’t know quite what to say.”
“I’ll provide you with an excuse,” said Miss Percehouse briskly. “Fetch me my fountain pen and some notepaper and an envelope. That’s right. Now, let me see.” She paused deliberately, then without the least warning raised her voice in a hideous scream.
“Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie! Is the boy deaf? Why can’t he come when he’s called? Ronnie! Ronnie!”
Ronnie arrived at a brisk trot, paint brush in hand.
“Is there anything the matter, Aunt Caroline?”
“What should be the matter? I was calling you, that was all. Did you have any particular cake for tea when you were at the Willetts’ yesterday?”
“Cake?”
“Cake, sandwiches—anything. How slow you are, boy. What did you have to eat for tea?”
“There was coffee cake,” said Ronnie very much puzzled, “and some pâté sandwiches—”
“Coffee cake,” said Miss Percehouse. “That’ll do.” She began to write briskly. “You can go back to your painting, Ronnie. Don’t hang about, and don’t stand there with your mouth open. You had your adenoids out when you were eight years old, so there is no excuse for it.”
She continued to write:
Dear Mrs. Willett,—I hear you had the most delicious coffee cake for tea yesterday afternoon. Will you be so very kind as to give me the recipe for it? I know you’ll not mind my asking you this—an invalid has so little variety except in her diet. Miss Trefusis has kindly promised to take this note for me as Ronnie is busy this morning. Is not this news about the convict too dreadful?
Yours very sincerely,
Caroline Percehouse.
She put it in an envelope, sealed it down and addressed it.
“There you are, young woman. You will probably find the doorstep littered with reporters. A lot of them passed along the lane in Forder’s charabanc. I saw them. But you ask for Mrs. Willett and say you have brought a note from me and you’ll sail in. I needn’t tell you to keep your eyes open and make the most you can of your visit. You will do that anyway.”
“You are kind,” said Emily. “You really are.”
“I help those who can help themselves,” said Miss Percehouse. “By the way, you haven’t asked me what I think of Ronnie yet. I presume he is on your list of the village. He is a good lad in his way, but pitifully weak. I am sorry to say he would do almost anything for money. Look at what he stands from me! And he hasn’t got the brains to see that I would like him just ten times better if he stood up to me now and aga
in, and told me to go to the devil.
“The only other person in the village is Captain Wyatt. He smokes opium, I believe. And he’s easily the worst-tempered man in England. Anything more you want to know?”
“I don’t think so,” said Emily. “What you have told me seems pretty comprehensive.”
Eighteen
EMILY VISITS SITTAFORD HOUSE
As Emily walked briskly along the lane she noticed once more how the character of the morning was changing. The mist was closing up and round.
“What an awful place to live in England is,” thought Emily. “If it isn’t snowing or raining or blowing it’s misty. And if the sun does shine it’s so cold that you can’t feel your fingers or toes.”
She was interrupted in these reflections by a rather hoarse voice speaking rather close to her right ear.
“Excuse me,” it said, “but do you happen to have seen a bull terrier?”
Emily started and turned. Leaning over a gate was a tall thin man with a very brown complexion, bloodshot eyes and grey hair. He was propped up with a crutch one side, and was eyeing Emily with enormous interest. She had no difficulty in identifying him as Captain Wyatt, the invalid owner of No. 2 The Cottages.
“No, I haven’t,” said Emily.
“She’s got out,” said Captain Wyatt. “An affectionate creature, but an absolute fool. With all these cars and things—”
“I shouldn’t think many motors come up this lane,” said Emily.
“Charabancs do in the summer time,” said Captain Wyatt grimly. “It’s the three and sixpenny morning run from Exhampton. Ascent of Sittaford Beacon with a halt halfway up from Exhampton for light refreshments.”
“Yes, but this isn’t summer time,” said Emily.
“All the same a charabanc came along just now. Reporters, I suppose, going to have a look at Sittaford House.”
“Did you know Captain Trevelyan well?” asked Emily.
She was of the opinion that the incident of the bull terrier had been a mere subterfuge on Captain Wyatt’s part dictated by a very natural curiosity. She was, she was well aware, the principal object of attention in Sittaford at present, and it was only natural that Captain Wyatt should wish to have a look at her as well as everyone else.
“I don’t know about well,” said Captain Wyatt. “He sold me this cottage.”
“Yes,” said Emily encouragingly.
“A skinflint, that’s what he was,” said Captain Wyatt. “The arrangement was that he was to do the place up to suit the purchaser’s taste, and just because I had the window sashes in chocolate picked out in lemon, he wanted me to pay half. Said the arrangement was for uniform colour.”
“You didn’t like him,” said Emily.
“I was always having rows with him,” said Captain Wyatt. “But I always have rows with everyone,” he added as an afterthought. “In a place like this you have to teach people to leave a man alone. Always knocking at the door and dropping in and chattering. I don’t mind seeing people when I am in the mood—but it has got to be my mood, not theirs. No good Trevelyan giving me his Lord of the Manor airs and dropping in whenever he felt like it. There’s not a soul in the place comes near me now,” he added with satisfaction.
“Oh!” said Emily.
“That’s the best of having a native servant,” said Captain Wyatt. “They understand orders. Abdul!” he roared.
A tall Indian in a turban came out of the cottage and waited attentively.
“Come in and have something,” said Captain Wyatt. “And see my little cottage.”
“I’m sorry,” said Emily, “but I have to hurry on.”
“Oh, no, you haven’t,” said Captain Wyatt.
“Yes, I have,” said Emily. “I’ve got an appointment.”
“Nobody understands the art of living nowadays,” said Captain Wyatt. “Catching trains, making appointments, fixing times for everything—all nonsense. Get up with the sun, I say, have your meals when you feel like it, and never tie yourself to a time or a date. I could teach people how to live if they would listen to me.”
The results of this exalted way of living were not too hopeful, Emily reflected. Anything more like a battered wreck of a man than Captain Wyatt she had never seen. However, feeling that his curiosity had been sufficiently satisfied for the time being, she insisted once more on her appointment and went on her way.
Sittaford House had a solid oak front door, a neat bellpull, an immense wire mat, and a brilliantly polished brass letter box. It represented, as Emily could not fail to see, comfort and decorum. A neat and conventional parlourmaid answered the bell.
Emily deduced the journalist evil had been before her as the parlourmaid said at once in a distant tone, “Mrs. Willett is not seeing anyone this morning.”
“I have brought a note from Miss Percehouse,” said Emily.
This clearly altered matters. The parlourmaid’s face expressed indecision, then she shifted her ground.
“Will you come inside, please.”
Emily was ushered into what house agents describe as “a well-appointed hall,” and from there into a large drawing room. A fire was burning brightly and there were traces of feminine occupation in the room. Some glass tulips, an elaborate workbag, a girl’s hat, and a Pierrot doll with very long legs, were lying about. There were, she noticed, no photographs.
Having taken in all there was to see, Emily was warming her hands in front of the fire when the door opened and a girl about her own age came in. She was a very pretty girl, Emily noticed, smartly and expensively dressed, and she also thought that she had never seen a girl in a greater state of nervous apprehension. Not that this was apparent on the surface, however. Miss Willett was making a gallant appearance of being entirely at her ease.
“Good morning,” she said advancing and shaking hands. “I’m so sorry Mother isn’t down, but she’s spending the morning in bed.”
“Oh, I am sorry, I’m afraid I have come at an unfortunate time.”
“No, of course not. The cook is writing out the recipe for that cake now. We are only too delighted for Miss Percehouse to have it. Are you staying with her?”
Emily reflected with an inward smile that this was perhaps the only house in Sittaford whose members were not exactly aware of who she was and why she was there. Sittaford House had a definite regime of employers and employed. The employed might know about her—the employers clearly did not.
“I am not exactly staying with her,” said Emily. “In fact, I’m at Mrs. Curtis’s.”
“Of course the cottage is terribly small, and she has her nephew, Ronnie, with her, hasn’t she? I suppose there wouldn’t be room for you too. She’s a wonderful person, isn’t she? So much character, I always think, but I am rather afraid of her really.”
“She’s a bully, isn’t she?” agreed Emily cheerfully. “But it’s an awful temptation to be a bully, especially if people won’t stand up to you.”
Miss Willett sighed.
“I wish I could stand up to people,” she said. “We’ve had the most awful morning absolutely pestered by reporters.”
“Oh, of course,” said Emily. “This is Captain Trevelyan’s house really, isn’t it?—the man who was murdered at Exhampton.”
She was trying to determine the exact cause of Violet Willett’s nervousness. The girl was clearly on the jump. Something was frightening her—and frightening her badly. She mentioned Captain Trevelyan’s name bluntly on purpose. The girl didn’t noticeably react to it in any way, but then she was probably expecting some such reference.
“Yes, wasn’t it dreadful?”
“Do tell me—that’s if you don’t mind talking about it?”
“No—no—of course not—why should I?”
“There’s something very wrong with this girl,” thought Emily. “She hardly knows what she’s saying. What has made her get the wind up this morning particularly?”
“About that table-turning,” went on Emily. “I heard about it in a c
asual sort of way and it seemed to me so frightfully interesting—I mean so absolutely gruesome.”
“Girlish thrills,” she thought to herself, “that’s my line.”
“Oh, it was horrid,” said Violet. “That evening—I shall never forget it! We thought, of course, that it was somebody just fooling—only it seemed a very nasty kind of joke.”
“Yes?”
“I shall never forget when we turned the lights on—everybody looked so queer. Not Mr. Duke and Major Burnaby—they are the stolid kind, they would never like to admit that they were impressed by anything of that kind. But you could see that Major Burnaby was really awfully rattled by it. I think that actually he believed in it more than anybody else. But I thought poor little Mr. Rycroft was going to have a heart attack or something, yet he must be used to that kind of thing because he does a lot of psychic research, and as for Ronnie, Ronnie Garfield you know—he looked as though he had seen a ghost—actually seen one. Even Mother was awfully upset—more than I have ever seen her before.”
“It must have been most spooky,” said Emily. “I wish I had been there to see.”
“It was rather horrid really. We all pretended that it was—just fun, you know, but it didn’t seem like that. And then Major Burnaby suddenly made up his mind to go over to Exhampton and we all tried to stop him, and said he would be buried in a snowdrift, but he would go. And there we sat, after he had gone, all feeling dreadful and worried. And then, last night—no, yesterday morning, we got the news.”
“You think it was Captain Trevelyan’s spirit?” said Emily in an awed voice. “Or do you think it was clairvoyance or telepathy?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But I shall never, never laugh at these things again.”
The parlourmaid entered with a folded piece of paper on a salver which she handed to Violet.
The Sittaford Mystery Page 12