I was busy drawing the car up on the grass beneath the trees, but I mumbled that it undoubtedly would. There was a stile just where we were and she told me it was a short cut back to the Manor.
“In a minute I must fly,” she said, “but I must give you the rest of the news. Sivley’s out! It’s all over the; village.”
“He’s coming to Brazenoak?”
“But, of course! It’s his home. They say he’s going to stay at the cottage with his mother. She’s an old hag if ever there was one.”
“And you still think that threat of his was all hot air?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and suddenly looked worried. “I did until now. Perhaps I thought he never would come out, though that was silly of me.” She gave a little shiver. “Now I’m the least bit frightened.”
“That’s foolish of you,” I said, and then suddenly she was clutching my arm. “That man. I don’t want him to see me.”
I peered along the shadowed lane and there was a man just coming into sight.
“Who is he?” I asked as she pushed out her legs and shuffled well down in the seat.
“An American,” she said. “Says his grandfather came from Brazenoak. He’s writing a book about manor-houses, but, my dear, his camera! A simply marvellous one. Tell me when he’s gone.”
I picked up a touring guide and pretended to be absorbed in it. It was not till the stranger was abreast of the car that I spotted him for Frank, though I should have guessed. Our eyes met for a moment, and half a minute later I was giving Charlotte the all-clear.
“A typical American,” was my fatuous comment “A nice-looking young fellow, though.”
“Joe loved him,” she said, and took a look back to see if he’d really gone. “He’s promised to take the most elaborate pictures of the Manor.” She suddenly gave a look of dismay. “My dear, I must fly and head him off. He mustn’t take the pictures till the morning. Joe’ll be simply desolated if he isn’t allowed to pose in every one of them.”
Nothing happened till the Wednesday, and then, at about half-past nine in the morning, Charlotte rang me up. She said she had driven her car to a village three miles from Brazenoak as she daren’t use the Manor telephone.
“I’m desperately worried about Rupert,” she said. “I’ve heard from him again, and what do you think that beast Joe has done? Told him that if he doesn’t give me immediate grounds for divorce he’ll virtually kick me out. Isn’t it caddish? I feel I could strangle him.”
“There’s a certain amount of sense in what Joe’s doing,” I told her with the courage of distance. “If you did break with Rupert it’d be better for both of you. It might straighten him up.”
“Don’t be pious, darling.” Her voice was frigid. “Are you on my side or Joe’s?”
“On yours, of course.”
“Then you’ve got to stand by to help. I’m sure Rupert’s going to do something desperate. Where will you be this week-end?”
“Knocking around here,” I said. “The sooner I can finish the job I’m on, the sooner I get a holiday.”
“I’m relying on you,” she said earnestly. “You don’t know how much. Rupert frightens me. Everything frightens me. And that man of yours. Why doesn’t he do something?”
“You can’t hurry such people,” I told her testily. “You’ve got to be reasonable, Lotta. He’s got little or nothing to go on. All the same I will urge him to do the best he can. It’ll cost you more. You realise that.”
“My dear, what do I care about the money,” she told me with a fierce impatience. “I tell you we simply must do something.” The voice softened. “Not that you haven’t been perfectly sweet.”
“That’s all right,” I said lamely. “I’m just doing my best.”
Nothing happened during the rest of that day, and I was in the same fog and the same impatience. Had I known that before another week had gone there would be two dead men to account for, perhaps I’d have been less anxious for action. Then the following morning there was the first report from Frank. He said he didn’t want to use my valuable time over three reports, for there was always a precis to send to the firm, so would I send to Queenie—as he called Charlotte—any extracts I thought suitable. If I typed it she wouldn’t know any different, and he sent two specimens of his pseudo-signature for me to forge. This is what he wrote.
DEAR MR. TRAVERS
I didn’t speak on Monday because I didn’t know who might be about, and I gathered you didn’t want to speak to me.
Things are going better than I expected at this early stage. I got those Press files dug out and a fine set of photographs, and I reckon I’ve practically every detail off by heart. With regard to P’s evidence in court against S., I must say it looks genuine to me, and makes the case against himself flimsier than ever. He needn’t have given that evidence unless he wanted to, so why get himself in bad with his own gang? It doesn’t add up right.
I arrived here on Sunday night as Edward Franks, Jr., and am staying at the Oak (Tel. Br. 215). At Chelmsford one of the newspaper men lent me a History of Suffolk, late eighteenth century, giving a list of the principal characters—landowners, farmers, tradesmen and such—in each town and village. Under BRAZENOAK I found a farmer named Franks. As soon as I got to the Oak—a grand little pub—I wanted to know if there were any Frankses in those parts, and I was told there weren’t now but had been once. The village sexton said if I called on the vicar he’d show me the parish register so that I could read all about the births, deaths and marriages of the Frankses. The village had its biggest sensation since a certain famous trial when I announced that my grandfather was the last of the Frankses to live there, and he’d emigrated to the States, and now I, his grandson, had come all the way from Hollywood to see the old home. It was reckoned that my grandad had lived at Pennygate Farm.
In the morning I called at the Manor, spinning the same yarn. My first reactions to P. were most favourable, even if he does spread himself good and proper, though I must say that he’s got plenty to spread himself about. He took me all over the place, but unfortunately I had only two films left—so I said—in my last roll so I could take only a couple of pictures. I wanted plenty of excuse for some more visits.
A funny thing happened. I took the first picture which was from the rose garden with the old boy posing against a sundial and the house as background. He was pleased as Punch and wanted to know how many pictures I’d finally be taking. I said about a hundred or so for my book—I’m supposed to be writing a book on English manor-houses as a reference work for Hollywood—and at least a dozen would be of his place. He said would I be staying in B. for any length of time. I said that B. was what I’d crossed the Atlantic to see, and I’d be in B. off and on for a goodish time.
He’s a lascivious old goat and yet the more I see of him the more I like him. What a character!
Queenie and I have been getting on fine this week. I’m supposed to be pretty well-off, and that didn’t make a bad introduction. Everything about me is class. I’m buying a new wardrobe in Bond Street—imaginary, so don’t think it’s going on the bill—and I’ve a valet I hired in town who’s now at the Oak with me. One of our best men, by the way. And don’t think I’m acting the goat myself or posing as the louder type of American tourist. At the Oak I’m being treated with enormous respect. Elsewhere Queenie said to me this morning when I happened to meet her in the village: “What lovely manners you have, Mr. Franks!” I blushed, for I honestly think she was serious. On Saturday afternoon I’m supposed to accompany P. to Trimport so that I can watch some English cricket. A bit of a trial for a lad who played for the eleven!
Now to something more definite in the way of value for your money. On Monday evening I strolled along to Pennygate Farm, home of my ancestors. The farmer, Donald Widger, was still hay-making with his men, but his wife was at home. Who do you think she is? May Bullen, who used to be maid to Queenie. And listen to this. Sivley put her in the family way and there was a girl. Widge
r married her nevertheless, but I learned later, in the Oak, that Widger had said that if S. had the nerve to come back to B. when he came out of jail, he’d run him out of the village. Hot air, because S. is back. He’s living in a cottage just behind the church with his mother, but he hasn’t appeared in public yet.
But about May Bullen. I think you’ll agree there’s no point in hurrying matters. If she were suspicious she might report something to Q, and then the fat’d be in the fire. What I do know is this.
a. M. hasn’t much use for Q., but she’s a strong supporter of R. C.
b. She left Q’s service because of that trip abroad that Q. was taking, and, I deduced from the little girl’s age, because she knew herself pregnant. Q. was not going to the French or Italian Riviera. She was going to the Austrian Tyrol with some people whose name M. will have remembered by the end of the week—I hope. It was something like Kravnik, and she’s trying to think back because I once met some people in the Austrian Tyrol with a name like that.
c. M. is very bitter against Sivley.
The best news is that M. says Q. was back at B. within three months of going away. I hope to trace all that down and to find out just what happened abroad as soon as I get the name of the people and the spot where she stayed. I hope Q. herself will fill in some of the gaps. I’m hoping to spend the early winter in Austria, I shall disclose, so she may give me some tips.
That’s about all. The firm’s not supposed to predict success or failure, but you’re different, and I don’t mind telling you that I think you’ll cease to be a parent in a fortnight’s time. All the same, I don’t think I’d stiffen my attitude towards Q. till the right moment comes, or till you and I have had a chance of a talk.
I hope you didn’t find this brief report too free and easy. Believe me it contains everything of importance that’s happened so far. If you want to telephone me, one o’clock and four-thirty are the best times.
Watch your step with Q. I don’t know much about her yet but I know enough to think you considerably understated her possibilities. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw a battleship.
Yours.
F. T.
P.S.—Two stop press pieces of news while I was waiting to put this in the post. S. hired the Oak car this evening to take him to the cross-roads four miles away, where be caught the Ipswich bus. He was travelling light, with only a handbag.
The other news is that Rogerley is coming down here to-morrow and has booked a room by phone at the Oak. Can’t say it looks like the eagles gathering round the carcass, but since H. is now employed by P., two of the four will be in B. to-morrow. Three if S. returns. Wonder why he should depart before R.’s arrival?
That report cheered me enormously, especially as I remembered something that Charlotte had once let fall. The de Karnoviks were the people with whom she had stayed in Austria on a previous occasion, and Marie de Karnovik was an Englishwoman who had been at school with both Charlotte and my sister. The de Karnoviks had a place in Munich as well as a chalet in the Tyrol, and I distinctly recalled that Charlotte had mentioned travelling via Ostend, Brussels, and Stuttgart.
To make sure, I rang up my sister, pretending I thought I’d heard someone say Marie de Karnovik was in England. I was marvellously lucky, for I learned the name of the village where the chalet was―Hasserbruch. Then at one o’clock I rang Frank at Brazenoak.
“Great work!” he said. “I’ll have a man on his way there to-night. Anything else new at your end?”
“Nothing,” I said, “except that Queenie expects some sort of balloon to go up this week-end, so keep your eyes open. As usual it’s her yarn and not mine. A pity, by the way, that you didn’t have a man on Sivley’s tail.”
“I did,” he said. “I had my own man but only as far as the Ipswich bus. I can always find out where he went from there. But why are you worried about him?”
“I’m not,” I said. “I just wondered, like you. A man like Sivley ought to stay put and not go gadding about. That’s how it struck me. And, as you said, it was curious he should leave just when Rogerley was turning up. Was Sivley bolting so as to avoid him?”
Well, Friday came and nothing else happened. That evening I wrote to Bernice and told her about the mirror. I said I’d had occasion to go to Brazenoak in order to help Charlotte as Bernice had asked. There was nothing in it except that Charlotte was worried about Rupert, and since the only help I could give was financial, and I certainly wasn’t going to offer that, it looked as if I shouldn’t be wanted after all. Which was all to the good, I said, as far as I was concerned, for I didn’t trust Charlotte very far; besides, my flirtatious days were long since over.
Those last seven words were the operative ones, as they say, and I thought them highly ingenious. Bernice would write back and say that surely Charlotte wasn’t trying to flirt with me, and why should she? My answering letter could reveal just a bit more, and by the time Bernice arrived home, most of the murky past would have been revealed.
And so to that Saturday morning. I was up early for me—at half-past seven, in fact—and at a quarter past eight I was just finishing breakfast. That was when the telephone bell went, and with eyes still on The Times, which was propped against the coffee-pot, I reached as usually for the receiver.
CHAPTER V
BIG DRUM AND SUNFLOWER
“Ludo! Is that you, Ludo?”
“Morning. Lotta,” I said with an assured heartiness, and then before I could say another word she was cutting in, and her voice had a fierce intensity.
“Can you hear me?”
“Just,” I said.
“Listen, my dear. I daren’t speak above a whisper. I’m telephoning from the Manor and Joe might be down at any moment. You must come at once. Do you hear me? You must come at once.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t argue, darling, please! How soon can you be here?”
I thought it over quickly. “Ten-thirty, but it’ll be quick going.”
“Make it earlier. My dear, you must. And wait for me where we stopped the other day. Against the stile.” A moment’s hesitation and her tone miraculously changed. “Darling, I think I’m going to cry. Just relief, that’s all. Bless you, darling.”
There was a little sob in her voice as she hung up. I began polishing my glasses, which is a trick of mine when I’m confronted by an unusual situation or am momentarily taken aback. Then I remembered to holler to Palmer to rush the car round from the garage.
By half-past eight I was on the move.
It was a gorgeous morning and I suddenly remembered we were in July. The scent of new hay was everywhere, and the countryside incredibly green, and soon I was actually enjoying that drive, especially when I recalled Frank’s assurances that soon I’d be out of Charlotte’s clutches. As I came near a roadhouse I looked at the dashboard clock and found I was ahead of time, so I halted for a coffee, and while I drank it I took the precaution of jotting down every word of the morning telephone conversation. That was to be of tremendous consequence, but I take no credit for it since my nature is to be careful over things like that. When I moved on again I was just a little behind time, but when I drew the car in on that grass verge by the stile, it was exactly ten minutes past ten.
But Charlotte was not there. I waited for a quarter of an hour, and then was so furious with her that the least further flicker of annoyance would have made me go straight back to town. Then all at once she was at the stile, breathless but full of apologies.
“My dear, I’m sorry I was late but I just couldn’t get rid of Joe.” She was beckoning, so I locked the car and mounted the stile.
“Just along here,” she said, “and then we shan’t be overheard.”
We went along the path for a hundred yards, then she cut through a gap into the wood and along a scarcely visible path to behind a holly tree.
“Darling, we haven’t a moment,” she said as soon as she’d halted. “It’s Rupert. He’s doing something desperate and he�
�s got to be stopped.”
I nodded and waited.
“The letter came this morning,” she said, and then as I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, it’s perfectly safe about letters. Joe’s never up till long after they’ve come. Besides, Matthews would do anything in the world for me.”
Her fingers went to the low neck of the frock and the letter was produced.
DARLING,
“This may be the last letter you get from me, I don’t know yet. I’ve decided to accept that swine’s offer, but by God everybody shall know about it. I’m told he’s been at Trimport all this week, his fat belly in a deck-chair, watching the cricket and throwing his weight about. Well, I’m going to Trimport to-morrow morning and I’m going to collect a crowd and tell them a few things. If he turns up there in the afternoon, he’ll find the place too hot to hold him. And I’m not afraid of scaring him off his bargain. He’ll cough up all right, but by God I’ll have something in return.
“God bless, and keep your pecker up whatever happens.
“R.
“P.S.—I don’t think I can wait for your unexpected surprise.”
I grunted as I returned it, and as she took it her eyes were anxiously on me.
“He’s madder than ever,” I said. “If he’s decided to accept Joe’s offer, why the devil can’t he do it gracefully?”
“Is that all you can say?” she asked helplessly, and then with a sudden anger: “Don’t you see he’s trying to screw his courage to—to—” She broke off with a shake of the head, “I can’t bear to think of it.”
“If you think he’s going to take Joe’s money and then do himself in, then I don’t think you need worry,” I told her. “I honestly don’t think Rupert’s heroic enough for that.”
The Case of the Magic Mirror: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 6