Nemesis at Raynham Parva (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  A man with a deep and genuine grievance might well be tempted to take the law into his own hands and run the risks involved in a private act of vengeance. But had an outsider the right to shield a murderer merely on the strength of a pathetic story which might, after all, be the merest pack of plausible lies? Sir Clinton did not think that Roca had told him a false tale; but nevertheless he recognised well enough that no proof whatever had been advanced in support of Roca’s story. All that he had to go upon was his own impression of the doctor.

  Then, again, he had really very little against Roca except the merest suspicion. Possibly if he dropped a hint to Ledbury, something might come out of it—though Ledbury seemed to have made very little of his inquiry into the doctor’s affairs already. It would probably take a smarter man than Ledbury to carry the thing through against a man of Roca’s calibre; and, if Sir Clinton intervened at all, he would be almost morally bound to see the business through by giving the sergeant his assistance. Could he decently go so far as that, on the strength of mere suspicion?

  Worst of all, he recognised that this matter was one which would admit of no delay in the decision. Roca might vanish from Raynham Parva at any moment; and, if he once got away, the chance of laying hands on him would shrink considerably.

  “This is a damned difficult business,” Sir Clinton admitted to himself as he walked by the lakeside. “I wish I’d never touched it. And the worst is that this is only the first link in a chain. I wish I could be sure where the other end of the chain’s lying. There’ll be a lot of dirty water stirred up before it all comes to the surface: that’s certain.”

  He continued his review of the case until his watch told him it was time to go up to the house for tea.

  Chapter Ten

  THE RESPONSIBILITY

  When Sir Clinton made his way back to Fern Lodge, he found Elsie, the two Anstruther girls, Estelle, and Mrs. Thornaby on the lawn.

  “Find a chair, Clinton,” his sister suggested. “These girls don’t want to go into the house, so I’ve ordered tea to be sent out here.”

  “Rex and Johnnie will be here in a moment,” Sir Clinton explained. “They were just coming in when I left the lake. Don’t let me interrupt your conversation,” he added, turning to Linda Anstruther.

  “Miss Scotswood was just telling us about an evening dress she’s been making,” Linda explained. “It sounds a lovely thing.”

  “I’ll lend you the pattern, if you like,” Estelle proposed. “But these waters are a bit too deep for that honorary uncle of mine, you know. He’s not aesthetic. In fact, there are times when I could kill him, if it weren’t for subsequent bothers. I’ve taken him out to the theatre often, put on a split-new dress in honour of the occasion, and really been a credit to him. And what do you think he says? ‘H’m! I don’t think I’ve seen you in that before.’ You don’t somehow seem to have the knack of rising to the occasion in your remarks, Uncle Clinton.”

  Before Sir Clinton had time to defend himself, Johnnie appeared at the head of the path leading to the boathouse, and Rex Brandon followed him.

  “What do you think of these?” Johnnie demanded proudly as he came up to the group. “That was the first one I caught; then that one; and the last two I got just one after another.”

  He waved four diminutive trout strung together by grass threaded through their gills.

  “They seem to have been young and inexperienced,” Sir Clinton commented, examining Johnnie’s catch. “But I can distinctly see the difference between them and minnows. First-class, Johnnie! You’ll soon be able to grapple with the old and wily ones. I’ll give you half a crown for the first one you get that’s over four ounces.”

  Johnnie turned to his mother.

  “May I have these cooked for me? Rex says it makes all the difference if you eat ’em at once, fresh out of the water.”

  Mrs. Thornaby, with a smile at her son’s eagerness, gave the required permission; and Johnnie set off immediately to interview the cook, swinging his catch as he went. Rex Brandon, having greeted the company and been introduced to the Anstruther girls, took a chair among the others; but he showed little desire to force himself into the general conversation. Sir Clinton, with the tail of his eye, could see him covertly examining Elsie’s face as though he hoped to read something in its expression.

  Staffin brought out the tea-table and set it up beside Mrs. Thornaby.

  “Tell Mr. Francia that we’re out here, Staffin,” Elsie said, as the maid was turning to go back to the house.

  Rex showed no sign of having heard, but he swung round very slightly in his chair, so as to command a view of the front door. When Francia appeared under the porch, Sir Clinton was puzzled to see something in Rex’s face which suggested recognition; but, when the two men were introduced to each other, Rex betrayed no previous knowledge of the man who had supplanted him. Sir Clinton was on the alert to read Rex’s thoughts, if possible; but Rex kept control of his features, and it was hard to say whether or not he disliked his successful rival more now that he had seen him in the flesh.

  They had hardly finished handing round the cups when Staffin appeared again.

  “There’s somebody ringing you up on the telephone, sir,” she intimated to Francia. “He didn’t give any name—just asked to speak to you.”

  Quite obviously, this took Francia by surprise. He seemed puzzled, as though he could not understand why anyone should call him up. He excused himself hastily and went off to the house.

  “Roca again,” Sir Clinton inferred; and his brow darkened slightly as his earlier perplexities thrust themselves up in his mind once more.

  When the Argentiner returned after a short interval, Sir Clinton scanned his face with interest; but Francia betrayed nothing very marked in his expression. It was clear enough that the message, whatever it was, had given him something to think over; for, although he joined in the conversation, it was always with an almost absent-minded air, as though he were trying to keep two lines of thought in his mind at one time.

  “Some more tennis?” Elsie suggested when they had finished tea. “Care to play, Rex?”

  Rex Brandon glanced down at his well-worn tweeds and shook his head.

  “Don’t feel in the dress for it, somehow, Elsie. I’ll umpire for you, if you like.”

  “I’ll come too,” Sir Clinton said lazily, getting up from his chair as he spoke. “My comments are always appreciated in the best circles.”

  “If you’d teach me that service of yours, instead of telling me all the things I shouldn’t do, you’d be more of a help, Uncle Clinton,” Estelle pointed out. “I can’t catch the knack of it, somehow; and it would be worth a good deal to me if you could put me up to it.”

  “Another time,” Sir Clinton decided. “Come along. I’ll run you home in my car afterwards, so you can exhaust yourself as much as you like on the courts.”

  Rex Brandon folded up some camp-chairs and prepared to carry them round the house; Sir Clinton collected a number of cushions; and the group moved away towards the tennis-courts. Sir Clinton sat down beside his sister, while the girls went down to play; Rex took up his position; whilst Francia, a little way off, seemed to be divided between watching the game and puzzling over the problem which had been sprung upon him. Sir Clinton could see his appraising glances following the girls’ movements almost mechanically whilst he evidently was cudgelling his brain in search of some idea which evaded him.

  “Roca’s given him something to think over, evidently,” was Sir Clinton’s silent conclusion. “But what it is one can’t make out. I wish I knew.”

  He glanced at Rex Brandon’s face and found it rather tired. Rex was endeavouring to play the part he had assigned to himself, but his eyes were following Elsie more than they should have done; and once Sir Clinton found him giving a wrong decision because his attention had obviously been elsewhere at the critical moment. It was impossible to tell from his features whether Sir Clinton’s experiment had been successful or not; but on
ce a stray glance in the direction of Francia, aloof and self-absorbed, betrayed clearly enough that Rex felt no attraction for his supplanter. It was so charged with dislike—or something even stronger—that Sir Clinton began to wonder whether, after all, he had been quite wise in forcing the two men into contact.

  The players were so evenly matched that time passed without anyone realising how quickly it had gone; and when at last Estelle came up and glanced at her wrist-watch, which she had left in Sir Clinton’s charge, she made an exclamation of dismay.

  “I’d no notion it was so late. I’ve got some letters to write which must catch to-night’s post. I’ll need to fly.”

  “I’ll have the car round for you immediately,” Sir Clinton assured her. He glanced at his own watch. “You’ve heaps of time to write letters and still catch the post, if you don’t hang about too much.”

  “Hurry, then,” Estelle urged him, beginning to put her racquet into its case.

  “I’ll give you a lift to the Black Bull, Rex,” Sir Clinton said, as he rose to his feet.

  Linda Anstruther suddenly remembered something which had slipped her memory.

  “Don’t forget you promised to lend me that dress-pattern, Miss Scotswood.”

  Estelle made a mental calculation before replying.

  “I’ve just got time for it, I think. Suppose you come over with me in the car now. Then I can show you the thing itself as well as give you the pattern. You’d better see what it looks like when it’s finished.”

  “That’s ever so nice. I’d love to see it.”

  When Sir Clinton brought the car round, he found Francia waiting with the others.

  “I’ve just remembered I want something in the village,” the Argentiner said half-apologetically. “Your car’s a five-seater, isn’t it? Would you mind giving me a lift? I’ll walk back.”

  Sir Clinton nodded, and his four passengers got on board; Estelle and Linda Anstruther eagerly discussing some point in the dress-pattern, whilst Francia remained silent, as though he were still perplexed by his mysterious problem. Rex, in the front seat with Sir Clinton, seemed disinclined to talk.

  In a few minutes the car reached the outskirts of Raynham Parva; and Francia, leaning forward, touched Sir Clinton on the shoulder and asked to be let out. Sir Clinton put on his brakes at once and allowed his guest to alight; but as he drove on again he could not help speculating on Francia’s errand.

  “He might as well have let me put him down at the door of the place he wanted,” he mused. “Funny idea, asking for a lift and then getting me to drop him a quarter of a mile from the shops. Didn’t want me to see where he was going, evidently; and banked on the fact that I’d have to go straight on with the girls.”

  He leaned back and inquired from Estelle where she was staying.

  “First on the right, once you’re past the church,” she directed him. “Then it’s the fourth house on the left. You’ll know it by the sundial on the lawn. Daddy’s not at all pleased about it. You see, I persuaded him to come here—against his better judgment, he says—because Elsie was coming to Raynham Parva this summer. And now Elsie’s going off to foreign parts and taking me with her. So poor old Daddy is left marooned in this place. ‘Not a decent golf-course within fifteen miles,’ as he says tragically.”

  “You youngsters have very little thought for your elders,” Sir Clinton observed, knowing that he would get a rise.

  “Our elders have a way of evening things up, anyway,” Estelle retorted. “They seem to spend all their time thinking about us—mostly with disapproval. If you knew what a fuss there was before I was permitted—permitted, if you please!—to take this trip to Buenos Ayres, you’d have some notion of the waste of good grey matter that goes on nowadays. However, it’s all fixed up. I said to Daddy: ‘Well, I’m going out with a proper chaperon and all that sort of thing; and you’ve known Elsie, and Mrs. Thornaby, and Uncle Clinton all your life; so you can’t start getting the squakes about respectability, and so on and so forth.’ So he gave in, at that, not having a leg to stand on.”

  Sir Clinton laughed shortly.

  “You young parasites give a lot of trouble.”

  “Parasite? Me?” Estelle demanded indignantly. “Who’s a parasite?”

  “Everyone’s a parasite who doesn’t do something for the rest of the world.”

  “Indeed?” Estelle produced a sound like a suppressed snort of indignation. “Well, if I am a parasite, at least I’m a polite one, so I won’t say what I think of that remark.”

  “Quite right.” Sir Clinton turned to Rex. “Sorry I passed the Black Bull in the heat of that argument. I’ll drop you on the way back.”

  Rex nodded his acquiescence in this suggestion, and Sir Clinton, once past the church, turned as he had been directed and pulled up in front of an old garden, beyond which could be seen an ivy-covered house. Estelle stepped out of the car and turned to Sir Clinton.

  “You can run away and play, if you like. I’m highly displeased with you, if it’s any joy to you to know it. Parasite, indeed! If you noticed the way people glare after me in the street, you’d realise the amount of aesthetic pleasure I bring into folks’ drab lives—same as any other great artist. Doesn’t that justify my existence?”

  “There may be something in it,” Sir Clinton conceded, though in a sceptical tone. “Now I’ll come back in a quarter of an hour for Miss Anstruther, so don’t waste time.”

  As the car passed down the main street of Raynham Parva on its way to the Black Bull, Rex raised himself slightly in his seat.

  “There’s Francia,” he pointed out. “Are you going to pick him up?”

  Sir Clinton saw the figure of the Argentiner emerge from the druggist’s shop and turn towards Fern Lodge. Evidently he had not caught sight of the car.

  “No, I think I’ll leave him to get home on his ten toes,” Sir Clinton decided.

  Rex seemed to hesitate for a moment before speaking again.

  “You seem to have become great pals with my ceremonious friend,” he said at last.

  “Roca?”

  “Yes. By the way, I happened to be talking to Roca outside the hotel this morning when a fellow passed up the street. I could see by Roca’s expression that he recognised the bird, so quoth I: ‘I thought you knew nobody round about here, doctor.’ To which sez ’e, very boldly and in a tone intended to convince: ‘No more I do’—or words to that effect. But he knew that bird all right, none the less and notwithstanding. So I drew in my feelers, not wishing to seem intrusive. When I got to the tea-table this afternoon, there was my bird sitting at it: Francia. What do you make of that?”

  Rex’s hostility to Francia was almost unconcealed now; and his attempt to cover it with his mask of flippancy failed completely. Quite obviously he suspected something, he knew not exactly what. Sir Clinton had not quite bargained for this development in his game.

  “Roca’s a decent sort of person, so far as I know,” he pointed out, leaving Rex to draw any conclusions he chose from this testimonial. “By the way, Rex, I wish you’d come up to Fern Lodge this evening after dinner. You’ve nothing to do down here at the hotel; and you’ll be an asset with us. There’s an odd girl in the party; and, if you come, we can always fill in some time with dancing. They’ve a portable wireless, I know.”

  “Girls are no treat to me,” said Rex grudgingly.

  “Well, say you’re doing me a favour, then.”

  “Oh, if you put it that way,” Rex consented with marked reluctance.

  Sir Clinton, having got his way, refrained from labouring the point.

  “Seen Roca to-day?” he asked casually, as though merely seeking a fresh subject for conversation.

  “He’s flitted,” Rex explained. “I saw his suitcase going down the street towards the station this afternoon. He was carrying it.”

  “You’re sure he’s gone?” Sir Clinton demanded, rather taken by surprise at the news.

  “Fresh woods, etc.” Rex replied. “As a matter o
f fact, he bade me adieu—or adios, it may have been, perhaps—at the close of our morning interview. We’ll knock up against him on the steppes of Uranus or some other likely place when the weather’s favourable. Till then . . .”

  Sir Clinton had drawn up the car before the Black Bull, and now his eye wandered to the clock on the dashboard.

  “Well, ta-ta,” he said. “I’ve got to call at the post office before I go back for that girl.”

  He drove away before Rex had time to reconsider the question of the visit to Fern Lodge later in the day. At the post office he despatched the wire which he had already written out in cypher, and then he took the car back to Estelle’s house and blew his horn at the gate. Linda Anstruther did not keep him waiting long. Almost immediately, the two girls appeared at the door and Estelle accompanied her new friend to the gate.

  “You’re forgiven,” she announced graciously. “At least, I’ll overlook it if you’ll admit I’m not a parasite and that I do some good in the world. I’ve put on my new evening dress to prove my aesthetic value. At least, I put it on to show it to Miss Anstruther, and you’re getting the benefit. Isn’t it pretty?”

  “Beautiful,” said Sir Clinton half jestingly, though in reality he admired both the dress and its wearer.

  “Oh, raving again, of course!” Estelle complained in a mock-weary voice. “It’s quite embarrassing when you let yourself go like that. Get the habit of moderation, dear, especially before third parties.”

  “Time you went off to your correspondence,” Sir Clinton reminded her.

  He opened the door of the front seat for Linda and she took her place beside him. Estelle stood at the gate and watched them as they drove down the road; and Sir Clinton, glancing back, admitted to himself that she was certainly justified in her boast about her æsthetic effect.