The Castleford Conundrum

by J. J. Connington

  “Yes, yes, that’s just what I wanted. That’ll do very nicely, Laurie. Thanks so much for putting it all so clearly. You think it’s all right too, Kennie?”

  Kenneth nodded sagaciously.

  “Seems to me you’ve made a very sound disposition, Winnie. You’ve got a good business head on you.”

  The phrase seemed to recall something to Winifred’s mind.

  “Oh, now I come to think of it,” she exclaimed, “I got a letter from some company the other day. Something about reconstruction or a word of that sort. I’d like to show it to you. It’s upstairs. I’ll go and fetch it.”

  She left the room in search of the document, and Kenneth seized the chance which her absence gave him.

  “You’re too deep for me, Laurie. What d’you want to give Connie that extra twenty-five hundred for, hey? Seems to me she was damn well off with her five thousand. I followed your lead, of course. Stuck in my throat a bit, though. Chucks away £125 a year, bang!”

  Laurence repressed a contemptuous smile as he answered.

  “Look at it this way, Kennie. We’ve pulled the thing off easier than I expected. I knew she was a bit jealous of Hillie, but I hadn’t seen how deep it went till I began to lead her on. We’ve won this round, hands down. But if we did the trick so easily, somebody else might manage to play the same game later on. And not in our interest. And anybody who gets Connie on their side stands to score heavily. She’s always on the spot, ready to put in a word. I don’t think she’d help Castleford. There’s no love lost there. Still, it’s as well to be on the safe side. I’ll see that Connie knows we’ve looked after her. She may not be grateful—not the grateful kind, I guess—but she’s got a sound appreciation of which side her bread’s buttered on. She’ll back us, after this, if there’s any occasion for it.”

  Kenneth reflected owlishly for some seconds.

  “Something in that,” he admitted. “Connie’s worth enlisting. It was the price I was kicking at. But p’raps you’re right. If we need her, we may need her badly, eh? All right. Let it go.”

  “So long as this lasts, we’ve spiked Master Phil’s guns,” said Laurence, grimly. “And if Hillie gets £100 a year she won’t starve. That clears my conscience.”

  “She could starve for all I’d care,” Kenneth commented lightly. “She’s nothing in my young life. And that’s our money; Ronnie made every stiver of it. I’d have cut the pair of them clean out.”

  “Public opinion counts for something, even in these days,” Laurence pointed out. “When this will comes out, we don’t want any talk about undue influence. That hundred a year will gag a lot of gossip.”

  “No ‘hard case,’ you mean? Something in that,” Kenneth confessed.

  Winifred’s return put an end to further discussion. She submitted the document to Kenneth who, after a brief struggle to make her understand the course she should take, volunteered to look after the business himself and clear it up.

  By the time this had been settled, Frankie and Miss Lindfield came back from the improvised shooting-gallery.

  “I got six bull’s eyes in ten shots, once, Daddy,” he shouted as he burst into the room. “Didn’t I, Auntie Connie?”

  Miss Lindfield corroborated this, but she was tactful enough to make no mention of the range at which the bulls had been scored.

  “Auntie Connie tried, too; but she’s no good,” Frankie went on eagerly. “She shuts her eyes when she pulls the trigger.”

  “A haystack would be safe from me at twenty yards,” Miss Lindfield admitted frankly.

  Frankie suddenly remembered something which he had not mentioned to his father before.

  “Daddy! I’ve been making fireworks. Good ones, really. Squibs, starlights, golden rain, Bengal lights. Would you look at some of them before I go to bed? You mayn’t be here again at night before I have to go home.”

  “Firework-making, hey?” his father broke in, apparently not well pleased. “Blow your head off, if you don’t look out. Lose a finger or two, with carelessness.”

  “It’s really all right,” Miss Lindfield pointed out.

  “I’m helping him to make them, and we’re very careful.”

  “Oh, so long as you’re superintending, Connie,” Kenneth gave way. “Don’t mind that. You’re not likely to risk your looks in a blow-up, hey? Safe enough with you there.”

  “Look, Daddy!” Frankie interrupted, pulling something from his pocket. “Here’s some slow match we made. Put your cigar to it, Uncle Laurie, and you’ll see how well it burns.”

  “And stinks, too, no doubt,” his uncle commented. “I think we’ll take your word for it, Frankie.”

  “It’s just twine soaked in potash nitrate and dried,” Frankie explained, rather disgusted at his uncle’s lack of enthusiasm.

  “And where did you get the recipes for your starlights and all the other gauds?” Laurence inquired.

  “Auntie Connie took me over to the Free Library in the car and we hunted up some books on fireworks there. She copied out the recipes we wanted and bought the stuffs we needed at the druggist’s. Please come out, Daddy, and see me set some of them off. I’d like you to see them, Daddy.”

  “You’re not to set off any banging things in front of the house, Frankie,” Winifred ordered. “My nerves are like fiddlestrings just now, and I can’t stand noises.”

  Miss Lindfield saw the mutinous look on Frankie’s face and intervened swiftly.

  “Bangs sound just as well in the day-time as at night, you know, Frankie; but it’s only at night you can show off Bengal lights and so forth to any advantage. Your Daddy can hear the squibs some other time, if he’s over in daylight. We’ll let him see coloured fires and starlights while we’ve got a good chance, shall we?”

  Frankie suffered himself to be persuaded; and after a few minutes of firework display, he was packed off to bed, while his elders returned to the drawing-room.

  “Ring the bell, Kennie. You’re nearest to it,” Winifred said as Kenneth took up his favourite post on the hearth-rug. “You’ll want whiskey-and-soda? You too, Laurie? They’ll bring some tea for me, along with it.”

  “Regular tea-jenny, you are, Winnie,” Kenneth commented. “How many times a day do you swallow the stuff, hey?”

  “I like tea,” Winnie answered, evading the point.

  “Still the same?” Kenneth persisted. “Pour out a cup; let it go tepid; gulp it at a draught; then pour out more to cool?”

  “I don’t like scalding tea,” Winifred admitted. “My throat’s sensitive. I hate drinking anything very hot. That’s why I let it cool down first. It seems to me the sensible way of drinking tea.”

  Laurence recalled something which he had overlooked.

  “I’ve brought you a new supply of insulin, Winnie. You said the last lot’s nearly finished. I’ll get it now, in case I forget. It’s in my bag out in the hall.”

  He rose, left the room, and returned almost immediately with a neat little parcel.

  “Here you are,” he said, putting the packet on the mantelpiece. “Same dose as before. By the way, you’re keeping your hypodermic syringe sterilised, and all that?”

  “Phil looks after that,” Winnie explained. “I tried injecting the stuff myself, you know, but I simply couldn’t bear to push the needle through my skin. It’s not so bad when someone else makes the prick. I never could bear to do it myself. Knowing exactly when the jab was coming, somehow, always made it seem worse. So I made Phil do it for me. He manages it all. He cleans and sterilises the syringe and everything.”

  “I expect you can trust him to do it properly,” Laurence conceded. “It’s not likely he could go wrong. There’s no skill required.”

  Tea was brought in, along with the whiskey decanter and soda. Winifred poured out a cup for herself. Miss Lindfield preferred not to join her.

  “Kennie! Just look behind you on the mantelpiece—there, on the right—and hand me down that little bottle with the saccharin tablets in it, please,” Winifred di
rected.

  Kenneth searched obediently and turned with the phial in his hand before handing it over.

  “‘Each tablet is equal in sweetening power to one of sugar,’” he read from the label. “D’you believe that?” he added sceptically as he noted the minuteness of the tabloids.

  “It’s found to be three hundred times as sweet as sugar,” Laurence pronounced shortly.

  “Is that so?”

  Kenneth seemed unconvinced. He opened the phial, extracted a tablet, and put it on his tongue.

  “Doesn’t seem very sweet to me,” he grumbled, making a wry face. “Bitter, I’d call it.”

  “People vary,” Laurence said, crossly. “Besides, it’s meant to be used in very dilute solution, not solid. You won’t get the taste of it out of your mouth for hours, Kennie.”

  Kenneth hastily got rid of the tablet and handed the phial to Winifred.

  “I wish you hadn’t wasted that tablet, Kennie,” she complained, as she noticed how few were left in the phial.

  “It’s all right. I’ll get some more for you before they run out,” Miss Lindfield reassured her.

  Under Kenneth’s amazed eyes, Winifred counted out three tablets and dropped them into her tea-cup.

  “Three? Beats me how you can stand one, let alone three.”

  “I used to take three lumps of sugar in my tea always. I had a sweet tooth. And now I can’t use sugar at all; Laurie says I’d better not. So I take this stuff instead; one tablet for each lump of sugar, just as it says on the label. It’s not really the same, though. It clings about one’s mouth, just as Laurie says. Still, it’s all I’ve got nowadays,” Winifred explained, with a certain self-pity in her tone.

  Her tea had by this time cooled sufficiently for her taste and she put her cup to her lips and drank the major part of the liquid at a gulp. It was a habit of which she had never been able to break herself. When strangers were present, she was on her guard and sipped her tea in what she regarded as a genteel fashion; but normally she swallowed most of the cupful at a single draught, as though she were over-thirsty.

  After half-an-hour’s desultory conversation, the Glencaple brothers exchanged glances. Kenneth put down his tumbler on the mantelpiece, straightened his tie, and prepared to take his leave.

  “Must be going, Winnie. Getting late, hey? Had a very pleasant evening. Good dinner, too. Wish I had a cook like yours. Glad to see young Frankie picking up so well here. Looks a different boy. Good of you to take him, very good of you.”

  Laurence also rose and took his leave. Winifred went out of the room with Kenneth, leaving his brother with Miss Lindfield.

  “I shouldn’t mention it, Connie,” Laurence explained in a low voice which would not carry beyond the door, “but Winnie’s going to alter her will again. We advised her to do a bit more for you—say £7,500 instead of the £5,000 you were to get under the last will. I think she’ll rise to it.”

  The glance which accompanied the news said quite plainly to Miss Lindfield: “Don’t have friction of any sort with her just now. You know how things are now I’ve told you.”

  Connie Lindfield’s smile was both grateful and subtle. She needed no underlining to make her understand the situation. Then, as a thought occurred to her, she gave an almost imperceptible nod towards the study.

  “And . . . ?” she said, without voicing the question. Laurence made an expressive gesture.

  “Down and out!” he said. “He’s not likely to grow fat on his share of Ronnie’s money, now.”

  Miss Lindfield made no comment. She did not believe in unnecessary chatter about confidential matters, once she had secured the essential information. With a nod of understanding, she accompanied Laurence into the hall to rejoin the others.

  “No use knocking those two up to say goodnight, hey?” Kenneth inquired, with a gesture in the direction of the study. “No point in it. Well, then, I must be off. Long drive. G’dnight, Connie. ’Night, Winnie. See you soon again.”

  With a nod of farewell to his brother, he waddled off into the darkness; and in a second or two they saw his headlights flash up and heard the whirr of his self-starter. Laurence, after a slightly less cavalier leave-taking, went out in his turn just as Kenneth drove off. Winifred retired indoors at once, but Miss Lindfield stood watching the lights of the two cars until they disappeared round a turn in the drive.

  “I’m going to bed now, Connie,” Winifred informed her from half-way up the stair. “I’ve got a headache, I think. I don’t want to sit up. You can switch off the lights any time you like.”

  “Very well,” Miss Lindfield called after her as she busied herself in making the door fast for the night.

  Chapter Four

  A Bolt from the Blue

  In passing the hall-table, Miss Lindfield picked up a letter which had come by the late post, went back into the drawing-room, and switched off most of the lamps. Then, choosing a favourite chair, she sat down and fell to reconsidering the position in the light of the news which Laurence had given her.

  A faintly sardonic smile passed over her lips from time to time as though she found the subject amusing. Despite their success that night, it was plain that the brothers were not entirely easy in their minds. Winnie might change her will again, if the idea came into her head. And it was evidently in view of this possibility that they had arranged for the increase in Constance’s share. She recognised, quite coldly, the object of their move. She was worth conciliating, since she was always at Winnie’s elbow, well-placed to intervene unobtrusively. She would never have favoured the other side; but she might have remained neutral. If the Glencaples wanted her help in future, it was only fair that she should have some reward. The tacit suggestion did not ruffle her in the least.

  She had the less objection owing to the episode of the golf-match. As that business had sharply reminded her, Dick Stevenage was becoming a problem. It was all very well for him to play tame cat to Winnie. Miss Lindfield herself had suggested that role to him when he first attracted her; and she had taken a certain amusement in helping him to elaborate it. It gave him a sure footing in the house, and allowed him and Constance plenty of opportunities which could have been bought in no other way. If Winnie had supposed that Dick came there on Constance’s account alone, she would soon have found ways of making his visits impossible. Miss Lindfield, secure in her hold over Dick, could look on with ironical eyes when he played up to Winnie and could coach him in the best methods of making himself indispensable.

  But it was a different matter if he was beginning to hang round Hilary’s skirts. Miss Lindfield seldom took the trouble to tell herself lies; and she knew Hilary had something which she herself no longer possessed: youth, freshness, natural charm, all of them went to the making of it. Winnie was just part of the game, where Dick was concerned; but Hilary might be dangerous. Dick was weak, unreliable, erratic, and eager to snatch at what he could get. All this she saw clearly. And yet she meant to have him for herself, for all that. She could have forced him into marriage at once; but unfortunately he was hard up. He was, as Constance recognised in her cooler moments, nothing more than a physically attractive loafer with a good turn for love-making; but though she admitted this frankly to herself, it had no influence on her desires. These stolen interviews, when Winnie could be got out of the way on some pretext, had become something to which she looked forward with ever-increasing intoxication and from which she came away only to long for the next one.

  And though Dick seemed fast enough in her toils, her sober moments let her recognise that she could not trust him. At any moment he might go off in chase of some fresh light o’ love. Hilary was practically penniless. There was nothing to be feared from marriage in that direction. But the mere thought of Dickie alone with Hilary was enough to flick Constance Lindfield on the raw.

  Even at the suggestion of it, her hand clenched involuntarily; and that drew her attention back to the letter she was holding. It was addressed in a sprawling, illiterate hand, quite u
nknown to her. With her mind still dwelling on Hilary and Dickie, she tore open the envelope and extracted a dirty, ill-written note which she unfolded with more than a touch of fastidiousness.

  Dere miss Linfield,

  I write to tell you that youre Young man and missis Casselford are laffing at You behind youre back, as you coud see for youreself if you Go to the Shally when they are their and Peep in at the window, fine Goings-on, I must say, that’s what you High and mighty Carron Hill people are Like, for all youre Fine airs. What woud Connie say, says he, and they both Laffed. Dere miss Linfield, I laffed to myself. it was so Funny. Have a Peep youreself, dere miss Linfield. it Costs nothing and they say youre mean. I think Ill write a Note to Casselford as Well, the more the merrier.

  One who knows More than you Think

  Miss Lindfield was one of those people who grow pale with anger instead of flushing. She sat now, white-faced and tense, reading and re-reading the venomously-phrased scrawl in her hand.

  No need to ask if it were true. Now that she had been given the clue, her mind suddenly recalled and collocated memories which up till that moment had been isolated and unsuspicious. Winnie’s sudden resumption of her hobby of painting, after a long discontinuance; her choice of the landscape view from the Chalet as a subject; her complaints of unsuccess with it and her quite surprising pertinacity in an attempt to “get it right”; her desire to be left alone to do her work uninterrupted; Dickie’s “engagements” which often hindered his stolen meetings with Connie when Winnie’s visits to the Chalet left the coast clear; Winnie’s strange blindness on an occasion when Miss Lindfield had been less cautious than usual: these recollections and many others thronged into the field of her consciousness and settled down into a definite pattern.