Weekend at Thrackley

by Alan Melville

  “Of course, Lady Stone. But I’m sure you’ll see the necessity of staying here until the representatives of the law arrive. They won’t be long, I can assure you. That is, if our methods of getting in touch with them don’t… fall flat on the way.”

  “Wait here?” said Lady Stone in her shrill soprano. “Not a minute longer, my good man. If we can get ourselves out of this house without the risk of being killed when we do so, then I for one intend to leave this very minute.”

  “I’m not lingering round the old place any longer than is necessary, either,” said Henry Brampton.

  “Where do you propose to go, then?” asked Jim.

  Lady Stone gave a second snort. “I have a perfectly good pair of legs, Mr. Henderson,” she said. “They are, I hope, quite capable of taking me into Adderly village. I’ve no doubt there is some way of getting to London from there—even at this hour of the morning. But if you think you can keep me in this house a minute longer, then I’m afraid you’re very sadly mistaken.”

  “Me, too,” said Marilyn Brampton. “Henry, get me some clothes out of my bedroom.”

  “And what about you, Raoul?” asked Jim.

  “I go with Lady Stone,” said Raoul in a quiet but very determined voice. “I stay here too long already—much too long.”

  “Very well, then,” said Jim. He crossed to the door, leaned against it and faced the other guests. “If you lot think you’re going to disappear and leave me here to explain this weekend’s happenings to a lot of nit-witted constables you’re very much mistaken. Our job is to stay here at Thrackley until the police have settled this business. And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  “And how do you propose to stop us clearing out if we want to?” said Henry Brampton. “Same way as Edwin Carson, eh?”

  “Exactly,” said Jim.

  Catherine Lady Stone turned a shade paler—a thing which one would not have thought possible a minute earlier.

  “What in the name of heaven do you mean, Mr. Henderson?” she said.

  “Edwin Carson’s hanging dead to the front gates of Thrackley at this minute,” said Jim. “Go and have a look at him if you like. The gates are still closed. And the current that killed Carson is still running through those gates. And the only person who knows where the switch is to turn off that current is yours truly, James Henderson. And he’s not turning off that switch yet. So that, dear friends, is that.”

  “Oh!” said Catherine Lady Stone. Only once had she felt similarly thwarted, and then by a heckler (at an annual general meeting of the Council for the Repatriation of Destitute Bulgarians) who had asked her in a loud voice from the back of the hall if she could tell the meeting where exactly Bulgaria was, anyway. “Oh!” she repeated, and flopped back into her chair with the air of an early Christian martyr who was being kept for the last, largest, and most ferocious of the Romans’ troupe of performing lions.

  Catherine Lady Stone estimated the time that the six persons in the lounge sat and stared at one another in silence as being not a single second under three hours. Actually it was ninety-five minutes. At the end of which time the noise of a high-powered car coming up the drive and stopping at the front door shattered the silence and made the Thrackley house-party dash from the lounge to see what exactly was happening now. From the high-powered car stepped, in order of precedence, one large constable, Freddie Usher, one large constable, one large constable, a short elderly man in plain clothes and a trilby hat, one large constable, and one extremely large constable. Lady Stone stared at Mr. Usher as though Hamlet’s ghost had suddenly appeared in front of her in bright mauve pyjamas.

  “Mr. Usher,” said Lady Stone, “would you mind telling us where you have been during the last few hours?”

  “Adderly,” said Freddie. “Collecting the arms of the law.”

  “And how did you manage to get in and out of the grounds of this house, pray?”

  “Through the old gates, of course. Why?”

  Lady Stone made a faint gasping sound deep down in her throat.

  “I’m sorry, Lady Stone,” said Jim, “but it seemed the only way of keeping the bunch of you inside Thrackley until the police came. The wanderlust got hold of you, I noticed. And really it’s much better to wait and see the thing through instead of dashing off at three in the morning without saying ‘Thank you for having me’ or anything like that. Good morning, inspector… come and I’ll introduce you to the house-party…”

  And for the first time in the weekend (and for that matter in her entire life) Catherine Lady Stone was completely speechless.

  XXV

  Mr. Wilson from Scotland Yard closed the lounge door deliberately behind him and surveyed the Thrackley house-party at length. A large and stolid man, this Mr. Wilson; a man who thought and moved and spoke at what seemed an annoyingly slow pace. But Mr. Wilson from Scotland Yard rather prided himself on the fact that he obtained better results than did most of his colleagues without losing either his temper, his wind or his perspiration. Of which three things, as he pointed out to these colleagues of his, they lost an unnecessarily large amount.

  “Well, we’re all here, are we?” said Mr. Wilson at last. And receiving only silence in reply to this, Mr. Wilson slowly produced a cigarette paper and a tiny pile of tobacco, rolled the cigarette with tremendous care, ran his tongue along the edge of its paper, and searched in each of his nine pockets for matches. Then he said: “All here. That’s fine. Could one of you gentlemen oblige me with a match?” (Provoking man, thought Catherine Lady Stone. The idea of the Yard sending a man like that down here… a great lumbering halfwit. She must write to the Chief Commissioner about it. Absurd. Did ever a man take so long to light a cigarette?…)

  “Well, now,” said Mr. Wilson, “just make yourselves comfortable, will you? There’s one or two things I want discussed before any of you leave this place. You’ll not be sorry to leave it, I expect? Though it’s a fine old place… yon watercolour up there must be worth a pretty penny, I should say… not that I’m a judge of these things, mind you. But—”

  “It is a very valuable Turner, inspector,” said Catherine Lady Stone. “Now would you mind telling us what you have to tell us, and let us get out of this detestable house as quickly as possible?”

  “Certainly, Lady Stone,” said Mr. Wilson. He blew a couple of neat smoke-rings, watched them until they lost their shape and became vague blots of smoke. Then he said: “Your host—Mr. Carson… he’s dead.”

  “I don’t think any of us are particularly sorry,” said Henry Brampton.

  “Maybe not. Would you like to know how he died? I’ll tell you. It’s a pretty long story, though. Just you sit back in your seats and light your cigarettes… I suppose you’ve all realized by now that Edwin Carson was a man who wouldn’t have any scruples about how he got hold of precious stones as long as he did get hold of them. I can’t understand a man being like that… a string of half-guinea pearls looks the same to me as a sixpenny string from Woolworths or a thousand-pound rope from some of these posh shops… but there it is. Some men are like that.”

  Raoul settled unhappily in her chair. Not the slightest use, she decided, to expect being in town in time for her matinée. At this rate, not the slightest.

  “That’s why he asked you all here to Thrackley. He managed to steal your necklace, Lady Stone, and your pearls, Miss Brampton, and some jewellery of yours, Miss—er—Raoul. It’s all right… they’re all here in this case. You’d better have them back now, I suppose.”

  Lady Stone put her fat fingers around the ruby which had once been the centre stone of her necklace and allowed Mr. Wilson to go very slightly up in her estimation. A good, reliable man, no doubt; but still a slow-witted idiot.

  “I’ve been speaking to that butler fellow… Jacobson, isn’t that what he’s been calling himself? He’s in a very talkative mood this morning. He’s told me just how Carson
managed to get these jewels away from you without causing the least bit of suspicion. A genius in making imitations of these things, old Carson was. It just goes to prove my theory that a half-guinea string of pearls is as good as a thousand-pound rope any day. Better, maybe. Well, anyway, Carson got away with nearly all the stuff he wanted—I think you had some bits of things that he was after, Mr. Usher, but he hadn’t time to collect them—and he planned to leave you all here last night. Made very thorough preparations for getting away, too. I suppose he’d go off to the Continent and lie low for a while… and then come back and take another house and another name and another set of easily fooled guests… no offence meant, of course, ladies and gentlemen… and repeat the performance. He made a bad mistake last night, though. He left our friend, the butler, behind… locked him in the cellar… left him in the lurch to face all these awkward questions that I’ve been asking him this morning. A pity, that… an awful pity… to spoil a perfectly thought-out plan, just through thinking of his own miserable skin first…”

  Mr. Wilson took a last puff at his cigarette and jabbed the stump out on the ashtray beside him.

  “He locked friend Jacobson in the cellar. That was really the best room in the house, you know. I suppose Carson demonstrated just how difficult it was for any of you to get out of Thrackley? I’ve been taking a look round this place this last hour or so: that burglar-alarm’s just about the neatest job of its kind that I’ve seen. And I’ve seen a good few in my time, I may tell you. And just to make matters worse, there was an electric current which could be put through all the ironwork around the walls… all those prongs on top of the wall, all through the big gates at the front of the house and the small gate at the back. Yes, it was no easy matter to leave this place in a hurry if Edwin Carson had set his mind against your leaving. But you know all this, don’t you? There’s no need for me to explain it to you.”

  “None whatever,” said Catherine Lady Stone.

  “That’s fine. Well, old Carson was ready to leave. He’d done friend Jacobson in the eye, he’d switched off the electric current and all he had to do was to drive the car through the gates and get away to wherever he pleased. It’s a terrible pity none of you thought of getting away yourselves about three o’clock this morning. You’d have had a mighty pleasant surprise when you found that the burglar-alarms didn’t work and you could open the big gates without risking your life. That was what Edwin Carson expected to do, of course. Unfortunately for him this young lady was rather too clever for him.”

  Jim looked across at Mary. Amazing how a girl could still be looking as lovely as ever after a night like the last.

  “She was down in this cellar of Carson’s, too, you see. She’d gone down to investigate a few things, and very sensibly decided that she’d be of more use down there than in her bedroom. A risky thing to do, miss, but it was worth it. And when the old butler fellow found himself locked down there, this young lady came out from where she was hiding and the pair of them talked things over for a little while. They’d been talking for—about five or ten minutes, would it be miss?—when the switch that Edwin Carson had turned to the ‘Off’ position was turned back again to the ‘Full on’ position. And a minute or so later Carson tried to open the big gates to let his car through. If ever a man deserved to have a nasty death, he did. And we can’t grumble. He got it.”

  Jim leaned forward in his chair. “Those other two servants of Carson’s,” he asked. “What about them?”

  “Both quite safe and sound, sir. We found one locked in his bedroom suffering from an overdose of chloroform, and the other lying on the floor of the garage with a jaw about three times as big as it should be.”

  “Really?” said Jim.

  “They’re under lock and key now. A pair of very ordinary crooks.”

  “Well, Inspector,” said Catherine Lady Stone, “thank you very much. A very lucid explanation. I’m glad the Yard sent a man like you down to settle things up… some of you men are so officious and bombastic. I shall certainly mention how very capable you’ve been when next I see Lord Turner. I meet him fairly often. Quite an intimate friend of mine.”

  “Thanks very much, Lady Stone,” said the large Mr. Wilson. “Very kind of you, I’m sure. Though, of course, Lord Turner’s retired from the Yard now.”

  “Oh,” said Catherine Lady Stone. And, feeling that the subject might do with a little changing, she added: “Well, are we free to go now? Nothing more you want with us, inspector?”

  “Nothing at all at the moment. If you’ll just leave your correct names and addresses with one of the men I’ve brought with me. There’s bound to be a certain amount of inquiry into all this, but it’ll be kept as quiet as we can. If you’ll do the same it’ll be a great help… Thank you, ladies and gentlemen… Oh, Mr. Henderson!…”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind just staying a few minutes after the others have gone? There’s one or two things I’d like to have a word with you about.”

  “Certainly.”

  Jim walked to the door and caught Mary’s hand before she went out of the room.

  “Wait outside for me, Mary, please,” he said. “The inspector wants me for something or other. Don’t go away, now. I’ve got a lot of things to say to you.”

  “I’ll be waiting, Jim.”

  “Fine.”

  He walked back to the table at which the inspector was sitting, lit a cigarette and wondered what the devil this peculiar, stodgy little man could want to say to him.

  “We’ll have the door shut, eh, Mr. Henderson?” said Mr. Wilson, after going through the ritual of rolling another cigarette.

  “Well, what’s the mystery, inspector?”

  “No mystery, sir. Bit of a surprise, maybe, but certainly no mystery. I want you to look through these things. They were found on Carson’s body when I searched him this morning. I oughtn’t to let you see these, sir. It’s only because they’re things that concern you and because I think you’ll keep quiet about them that I’m doing this. I’d get flaming hell from the Powers that Be if they knew I was doing this.”

  “Very good of you,” said Jim.

  “Here they are. Three things… all that was found on Carson…bar a wallet of notes and a little matter of a few million pounds’ worth of jewels. That’s the first thing we found.” He handed Jim a photograph, fairly large, unmounted. Jim looked at it and then:

  “Good God!”

  “Recognize it?”

  “Of course I recognize it. It’s me.”

  “Ungrammatical but quite correct,” said the large Mr. Wilson. “And very good of you, too. Taken some time ago, though, wasn’t it?”

  “Ages ago. At least, about fifteen years or so… I remember having it done—just a short while before my mother died. But what the blazes was Edwin Carson doing with my photograph?”

  “Exhibit B, Mr. Henderson. No need to read it all, though you’ll have a chance of doing that before long. It’s Carson’s diary. Read the entry on the page where I’ve slipped in that bit of paper.”

  He tossed the leather-backed book across the table to Jim, rose from his seat and walked across the room to the window. Jim picked up the diary and opened it at the page which the inspector had marked. He read:

  June 23rd. Arrangements complete for next weekend. All accepted except Wensley. Jim wrote me this morning to say that he was coming. Think of seeing him again after twenty years! His address, which I found by the merest chance, is in Ardgowan Mansions—a dirty little boarding-house. He must be hard up, poor lad. Determined not to let him find out who is his host next weekend, however great the temptation. It must be very seldom that a son comes to stay unknowingly at his father’s house. Jacobson is an idiot. Today, when I was testing the lathes in the workshop…

  Jim laid the diary on the table. The stolid Mr. Wilson stopped his investigation of the two flies who were sunning them
selves on the window-pane, came back to the table and said:

  “When was your father supposed to die, Mr. Henderson?”

  “When I was quite small—about three or four, I think. I never knew him. Saw him occasionally, I suppose. But he was in South Africa when I was a kid.”

  “Yes. Been in South Africa a good long time. I.D.B., from all accounts. And then a few years as a guest of His Majesty. And then back to England—back here to Thrackley…”

  “Do you honestly mean—?”

  “Ever hear anything about your father? Anything you can remember? His appearance… any peculiarities… distinguishing marks… think, now…”

  “Yes… my mother told me often about an accident they both had. He nearly lost his sight—both his eyes were cut terribly. She used to say that the scars were like frames round his eyes.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Mr. Wilson from Scotland Yard. “Come in next door, will you, Mr. Henderson?”

  Jim followed the large frame of the inspector through to the little room off the lounge. He stopped as the inspector pulled back the sheet which had been thrown over Edwin Carson’s body. He stared down at the little man’s face; they had taken off the big, thick-lensed spectacles…

  “No doubt about it, I suppose.”

  “No doubt about it, as you say, Mr. Henderson,” said the inspector. “Edward Henderson, alias Edwin Carson, alias ten or twenty other damned names.” He drew back the corner of the sheet over Carson’s face. “That’s why you were asked down here. Not to get hold of any of your knick-knacks. Sentiment. Just pure sentiment. Killed many a man before this one.”

  They walked slowly back to the lounge.

  “I wonder,” said Jim, “if he’d mind us having a drink? I don’t think so… and, my God, I could do with one at the moment.”

  “A very sensible idea. Know where it’s kept? Splendid.”

  “You’ll join me?”