On their way out Nigel saw Georgia in the lounge. He lingered for a moment to ask her how she had got on with Inspector Blount. But, before he had time to open his mouth, she said, in tones that were doubly heart-rending because they held no trace of reproach or self-pity:
‘I didn’t think you would have to tell them about the poison.’
It was said in a small, matter-of-fact voice, with just the faintest accentuation of the ‘you’ to twist the blade round in the wound. Nigel had often rehearsed in fantasy a situation such as this. How often had his patience not been galled by books, plays and films in which hero and heroine protract an idiotic misunderstanding into chapters or acts or reels of wooden standoffishness, just for lack of the few words of obvious explanation at the beginning. If, he had said to himself dozens of times, I should ever find myself in such a theatrical situation, which God forbid, I should of course clear up the misunderstanding at once, like any other normal sensible person. It was therefore doubly aggravating to find now that his tongue simply couldn’t form the correct words. ‘Go on, go on,’ whispered his enlightened self, ‘tell her you didn’t give her away over the poison. There’s no point being high horse and chivalrous, anyway—she’ll find out the truth soon enough.’ But some unpredictable force had arisen in him, arguing with dull obstinacy. ‘I refuse to be the person to tell her that she was betrayed by her brother. It’s no good. I refuse.’ Furious with this obstinate saboteur, Nigel yet found himself outside the room again without having said a word. Another triumph of savagery over civilised reason, he exclaimed to himself bitterly.
It was dark by the time he and Bleakley stood outside the front door of Chatcombe Towers. The butler let them in, nicely grading his reception to their respective social stations, Nigel being accorded the tepid affability due to a gentleman, while Bleakley, who was only a person, received a welcome without the chill off. They were then ushered into the drawing room, where Lord and Lady Marlinworth were sitting. This room was a veritable jungle of heirlooms, and an admirable setting for Lady Marlinworth, who, in spite of her age, had lost none of her agility in climbing up and down family trees. Here every development of aristocratic taste could be seen as clearly as strata on a geological section. Eighteenth-century pieces swooned elegantly, confronted by the brassy, assured stare of Victorian lumber. Layers of relatives, supercilious in gold frames or self-righteous in plush, made a commendable attempt to conceal totally the Edwardian wallpaper, whose scarlet and purple and orange writhings would have surprised even a veteran of delirium tremens. The visitor who, unnerved by the inhuman and popeyed glare of a platoon of bemedalled ancestors, sought to escape to another part of the room, would find himself hemmed in by archipelagoes of small tables crowded with the miscellaneous loot that these same military gentlemen had brought back from their foreign service. Lady Marlinworth was very proud of her room. Her husband by long practice had learnt to thread his way through its mazes. It was haunted by the faintest sandalwood and lavender perfume: also, perhaps, by the ghosts of generations of domestics, whose lives had been appreciably shortened by the dusting of it.
Lady Marlinworth received Nigel with composed pleasure. Superintendent Bleakley, whom she had instantly summed up as one of the lower orders but quite respectable, she addressed with cooing condescension. Her husband surveyed Bleakley, his well-bred but faded look giving him a marked resemblance to his great-grandfather’s Derby winner, that hung on the wall behind him surrounded by a painted coat of arms, a heavily framed picture in oils which had originally represented the Relief of Lucknow, but now suggested a square of homemade toffee, a Whistler, and a photograph of some young women playing croquet—apparently at midnight in a churchyard.
‘I understand,’ said Lord Marlinworth, tapping a rickety table that shuddered ecstatically under his fingers, ‘I understand there has been another fatality at the Dower House.’
‘We must have this sort of thing stopped, Mr. Bleakley,’ said Lady Marlinworth. ‘It is becoming quite a scandal in the county. I can’t remember anything creating such a stir since that unfortunate De Lenthay gairl eloped with a chemist’s assistant.’
‘Not quite a chemist’s assistant, my dear. The young man was engaged in scientific research, if my memory serves me. Quite reputable. An undergraduate of Cambridge. I am profoundly distressed, though, by Knott-Sloman’s sad end. A rough diamond, perhaps; but to one who has served his country so well in the field of battle much may be forgiven.’
‘Nonsense, Herbert,’ said the old lady with spirit. ‘I have no patience with such sentiments. He was a most disagreeable man. A good military record is no excuse for a man becoming the proprietor of a brothel.’
Bleakley started convulsively, and Lord Marlinworth blew his nose in a deprecating manner.
‘Oh, come, come, Elizabeth. Not a—ah, hum. It was a roadhouse, I believe the term is. No doubt the young people of today indulge themselves in pleasures which may seem a trifle bizarre to our generation. Petrol has wrought great changes. But we must not judge them too harshly. We, after all, were young once. Et ego, superintendent, in Arcadia vixi—what?’
‘That is as may be, my lord,’ said Bleakley cautiously. ‘But what I came to—that is, I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes to talk over one or two points of the case, my lordship—er—your lordship?’
‘By all means, my dear fellow, by all means,’ fluted Lord Marlinworth. ‘My wife will excuse us if we adjourn to my little sanctum—a poor thing but mine own, as the bard has it.’
He piloted the bemused superintendent through the intricacies of the drawing room, and the door closed behind them.
‘Now, Aunt Elizabeth,’ said Nigel, ‘you have some news for me.’
‘You asked me to try to remember when I had seen Mr O’Brien before—’
‘Great Scott! Have you got it?’ interrupted Nigel.
‘Now, don’t rush me, my dear Nigel,’ reproved Lady Marlinworth, clasping her slender fingers over a photograph album in front of her. ‘Remember, I am an old woman, and I will not be rushed. I happened to be going over some old photographs this morning, taken when I was much younger than I am now. I came to this volume, relics of a tour in Ireland, just before the war. Such a charming country. Such a pity it has got into the hands of a gang of desperadoes. Well, now, a cousin of my mother’s, Viscount Ferns, had a place in the County Wexford. Burnt down now, I fear, like all those beautiful old houses. The year I am speaking of, your uncle and I stayed there for a week. The hospitality was quite embarrassing. I recollect your uncle saying that if our English politicians were invited for a fortnight to one of those country houses, the Irish Question would cease to exist. One day it was decided that we should pay a visit to our nearest neighbours—people called Fear—at Meynart House, seven miles away. We drove over there. Such a charming couple. And their daughter—what was her name now?—ah, yes, Judith. A delightful gairl—a tomboy, you know, but quite a ravishing little beauty. There was a son, too, I believe, but he was away from home just then. They said that we must have a picnic on the Blackstairs Mountains, just behind the house. So we all set out. The ladies were accommodated on donkeys—asses, they call them out there—so old-world, I always thought. Now there’s no use looking impatient, Nigel. I shall tell this story in my own way. Where was I? Oh, yes, on the donkey. Well, Mr Fear, who was the soul of kindness, saw that I was not used to such an animal. One had always connected donkeys with low people on Margate sands; but of course in Ireland it was quite different. At any rate he told one of his men to look after me. I have an idea he was an under-gardener. But, really, a most respectable young man, and so well spoken. Quite a wit, too. He and I got on famously together. I remember, after the expedition Herbert rallied me on the subject, and said I had lost my heart to the young man. Mr Fear took a photograph of us together. I dare say you would be interested to see it.’
The old lady passed across the album. Nigel looked at the photograph she indicated. His aunt, swathed in furlongs of mil
linery, billowed over a long-suffering donkey. Holding the donkey by a short head-rope was a man in breeches, Norfolk jacket and a hat turned down all round. The man had no beard and no scar on his face; but the mobile, homely features, the impish expression that seemed about to break out any moment into some outrageous jest, the deep eyes—they were Fergus O’Brien.
‘Well, I’m—’ exclaimed Nigel. ‘This is brilliant of you, Aunt Elizabeth. You must have a marvellous memory for faces.’
‘Herbert always says that it is second only to that of our dear Royal Family. I didn’t connect Mr O’Brien with the young man at Meynart House, though, until I came on this photograph. I’m sure his name wasn’t O’Brien in those days.’
‘What happened to the family, do you know? I should like to go over there and have a talk with someone, if they’re still living in the district.’
Lady Marlinworth sighed. ‘It is a very tragic story. My cousin, Viscount Ferns, told me something of it when he came to England in 1918. The son was killed in the war. That was the final blow. It broke his parents’ hearts. They both died soon after. A most promising boy, I was told.’
‘The final blow?’
‘Oh, yes. The daughter had been drowned. It must have been only a year after I met her. Her poor father found her one morning in the lake on the estate. So tragic. Such a lively girl, and really, sweetly pretty.’
‘I suppose you haven’t photographs of any others of the party?’
‘I’m afraid not. Herbert was going to take one of Judith Fear—he was quite captivated by her. But she was a shy, wilful thing. She just ran away laughing, on those long legs of hers.’
The phrase called up an almost intolerably clear image of the girl in Nigel’s mind. He felt as if he had known her, and her death was a personal loss.
‘Well, thanks no end. I must be off to Ireland now. May I take this photograph?’
Nigel hurried back to the Dower House and consulted a Bradshaw. If he drove to Bristol, he would be able to catch the eight fifty-five, and connect at Newport with the Irish Mail to Fishguard. He ran upstairs and flung a few things into a suitcase. Now what else would he want? Photographs. He found Inspector Blount.
‘Look here, Blount, I’ve got through to O’Brien’s prewar existence at last. I’m going across to Ireland tonight—to the place where he was last heard of. I believe I’m on to something big. Can you hold your hand till I get back? And I want photographs of everyone in this house, alive or dead.’
The inspector measured him in silence for a moment. Then he said, ‘They’ve got sets of photos at Taviston. You could call in for them on your way. But I’d like something more to go on if I am to postpone an arrest.’
‘Georgia Cavendish?’
Blount nodded. ‘Everything points to her. It’s your own doing, Mr Strangeways, you know. You made out the case against her.’
Nigel groaned inwardly. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘what about Mrs Grant? How does she explain herself?’
‘I hauled her over the coals about the will, but she just pinched up her lips and said that Bleakley had asked her if she knew anything about Mr O’Brien’s will, and she had said no, because she didn’t. She was ignorant of its contents, that is to say. He had not asked her if she had witnessed it, and therefore she had not given him the information. She was not going to be mixed up with all this sinful bloodshed more than she could help. A very difficult woman. Uh-huh.’
‘Hmm. Pretty outrageous sophistry on her part. She may find herself mixed up with it more than she likes, however. Now, look here. I must be off. I can just catch the train at Bristol if I take O’Brien’s Lagonda. Keep your hands off Georgia till I come back. I believe I’ll be able to give you a case then. Here’s something to be going on with. The morning we found O’Brien’s body there was a single track of footprints straight from the veranda to the hut. Now, neither Cavendish nor I, presumably, had the faintest idea he had been murdered. There was therefore no reason for us to take anything but the direct route to the hut, which would have been over the footprints. But Cavendish, who was just ahead of me, deliberately kept off them, and I followed suit unthinking. Now, why should Cavendish have so carefully avoided treading on those footprints unless he wanted them preserved? And why should he want them preserved if it wasn’t he who originally made them, in O’Brien’s shoes, to conceal the fact that O’Brien had been murdered? Laugh that one off! Well, cheerio! See you the day after tomorrow.’
Nigel rushed out of the house, leaving Inspector Blount scratching his chin and thinking long thoughts.
XIII
THE OLD NURSE’S TALE
AT SEVEN THIRTY-NINE the next morning Nigel stepped out of the train at Enniscorthy. He went into the station yard, where two ancient Fords were standing, buttressed up by two ragged and rather wild-looking young men. Nigel felt ridiculously a foreigner. He approached the driver of the less decrepit of the two cars and asked did he ply for hire.
‘Where d’ye want to go, misther?’
‘Well, I’m looking for a place called Meynart House. It’s somewhere up by the Blackstairs Mountains. I don’t know if there’s a village there.’
‘That’s a hell of a long way away. Why don’t ye go up Vinegar Hill, now?’ The young man jerked his head at a small hill above the town, crowned by what looked to Nigel—who had not seen round towers before—like a large inverted flowerpot. ‘Ye get a grand view up there, ye do, shure’.’ I’ll drive you that way for half a crown.’ The young man produced a sudden and brilliant smile, and Nigel had the utmost difficulty in withstanding its hypnotic power. He cleared his throat and said with what firmness he could muster:
‘No, I’m afraid I must go to Meynart. I’ve important business there.’
The young man looked startled and incredulous. Then he said, ‘Well, I don’t mind takin’ ye there. How much will ye give me? Is five pounds too much for ye?’
The other driver, who had been an interested spectator of this colloquy, broke in huskily: ‘Don’t you go in Flanagan’s car, misther. Ye’d never get there at ahl. Now I’ll take ye for four pound fifteen.’ He, too, released upon Nigel a smile of hypnotic brilliance.
‘You keep outa this, Willie Noakes, or I’ll give ye a crack. Don’t listen to him, misther. He’d jaw the hide off an ass. Make it four pound ten.’
Nigel hastily clinched the deal with him, fearing bloodshed. Then he asked if he could get some breakfast before they started. His driver spat and turned to the other competitor.
‘Did ye hear that, Willie? The gentleman does be asking for breakfast, at half seven. Why, misther, everyone’s asleep still, I declare to God Almighty.’
‘Ye might go and knock up Casey.’
‘Ah, he’d have the skin off me back, he would so. I’d be afeared to do ut.’
Nigel insisted that he must have something to eat. Flanagan looked contemplative, then gave vent to a piercing screech:
‘Jimmie! Jimmie Nolan! Come on outa that!’
A red-faced, fat man emerged yawning from the station. He wore a stationmaster’s cap, but no other signs of officialdom.
‘Come on till I tell ye what this gentleman does be wanting,’ yelled Flanagan at the top of his voice. ‘He’s afther coming ahl the way from England without bite nor sup, and he perishing with starvation. Will ye give um some breakfast now or he’ll be dying on us.’
‘Is ut breakfast?’ wheezed the stationmaster amiably. ‘C’mon in, sir. Did y’ever eat soda bread? I’ll bet ye they don’t have that in England.’
He led Nigel away, too dazed by all this unorthodoxy to make much protest. As he entered the station, Nigel turned and shouted to the driver—shouting seemed infectious hereabouts—‘I’ll be back in half an hour.’
‘Time enough, misther, time enough,’ yelled Flanagan. ‘You take yer bellyful, misther.’ He then lay down in the back of his car, threw his legs over the front seat and resumed his siesta.
A good hour later Nigel staggered out of the stationmaster�
�s house. He had been plied so continuously with food and questions about ‘the big city’ that his brain and stomach felt equally congested. He got into the car and they set off up the most precipitous streets, the Ford boiling and shuddering like a patient in high fever. Men and women came out of the doors of their houses and yelled encouragement. The children playing in the gutters were the most beautiful, the dirtiest and the healthiest that Nigel had ever seen. Now they were in open country, undulating, rich, vividly green, with the mountains blue in the distance. Nigel felt impatient and breathless and a little sick, as though he were going to meet a lover. At intervals of three miles the Ford stopped abruptly. Flanagan would get out, scratch his head, open the bonnet, and gingerly prod the interior. Every time, the car started up again. The process was, like the Roman Catholic Church, a triumphant blend of faith and ritual.
By half-past ten they had reached the little village of Meynart. Flanagan had without great difficulty wormed out of Nigel the nature of his business. Stronger men than Nigel have found it impossible to resist the impudence, the raffish charm, and the faintly sinister atmosphere of potential intimidation which Flanagan’s sort turn upon the stranger. The young man entered into the situation with a wealth of suggestions and conspiratorial pantomime. Arrived at Meynart, he made straight for a whitewashed house in the window of which were set out clay pipes, jars of virulent-looking sweets and picture postcards. He could only have been in there a couple of minutes; but when he emerged he became the centre of a crowd which seemed to have materialised out of thin air rather than collected. A short meeting was then held, with Flanagan in the chair, in the course of which Nigel learnt (a) that Meynart House had been burnt down in the Troubles, (b) that the gentleman in the car was a decent quiet man and his overcoat must have cost a power of money, (c) that Patrick Creevy had seen one of his cows leppin’ over a stile yesterday and consequently knew that a stranger would be arriving in the village before long, (d) that he, Nigel Strangeways, was a lawyer come from the big city to find out if any of the Fear family were living, because an uncle of theirs was just after dying in America, and he a millionaire—this was Flanagan’s contribution to the debate, Flanagan having assured Nigel that it would go hard with him if he was discovered to have any connection with the police and (e) that if he wanted to know about the Fears he’d better ask Widow O’Brien.
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