He put aside this grim picture for the moment, and turned back to his earlier visit to the Bale Stones. Suppose Roca had summoned Francia to a settlement of their account, was it likely that he would meet him on the public road? Hardly, since they would be liable to interruption from any passing car. And if one went off the road, what easily described place was there in the neighbourhood except the stone circle itself? That was the obvious spot for two strangers to meet, an unmistakable rendezvous. Sir Clinton paused for a moment before answering Ledbury. He reflected that Ledbury prided himself on thoroughness; and that sooner or later the sergeant would examine the stone circle in the course of his general policy. It would be just as well to direct his attention to it now, and see what he made of it.
“Let’s try this field first of all, then,” Sir Clinton suggested, leading the way to the gap in the hedge which gave access to the Bale Stones.
Ledbury followed him without demur; and in a few moments they had reached the circle of monoliths. As the sergeant came into the ring, he uttered a suppressed exclamation and pointed to the altar stone, on the upper surface of which a brownish mark stood out. Ledbury ran forward and bent over the slab.
“Here you are, sir!” he ejaculated, beckoning to Sir Clinton. “See! there’s been a patch of blood on this stone and somebody’s wiped it away. You can see the trace of the scrubbing he gave it. But he didn’t do the job thoroughly; and some of the blood’s trickled into these little grooves—these spirals in the slab, sir—so he didn’t go deep enough to swab the liquid away.”
Again the look of suspicion came into his face.
“It’s wonderful how you manage to suggest things that turn out to be right, sir,” he added, with something in his tone that hinted at more than irony.
“Meaning that ‘He who hides knows where to seek,’ sergeant?” Sir Clinton replied, rather to Ledbury’s discomfort.
“You’re putting words into my mouth, sir,” he answered rather grumpily. “I didn’t say anything like that.”
“No? Language is a queer thing.”
Sir Clinton waved the matter aside. He had not quite made up his mind what line to follow.
“The way I look at it,” Ledbury said, in a reflective tone, “is this way. This is where Roca was shot, clear enough. Then he was carried down to his car—I expect we’ll be able to find some blood on the trail when we get to work on it. Then he was bundled into the car, petrol was spilled over everything, a match sent the whole thing up in a blaze, and that was that. Then the murderer came back here and cleaned up things as well as he could. It wasn’t a bright moonlight night, last night, so he most likely couldn’t see very well what he was doing, and so he left these traces behind him. Then he hopped into his own car and cleared off. Or most likely he didn’t set fire to the car until he was ready to leave himself. Or something like that, anyhow.”
“He had a car, then?” Sir Clinton asked.
“Oh, yes, he had a car. I’ve found bits of its track here and there down the road,” Ledbury explained. “That’s why I put the pickets on—to keep other wheels off the road till I’d time to photograph this track.”
He shouted to one of his constables to bring a sheet; and, when the man arrived, Ledbury rigged up a rough protection over the blood patches on the altar stone.
“I think that’s all we need do here,” he suggested, as he finished his task. “Is there anything else you’d like to see, sir?”
“Nothing in particular,” Sir Clinton replied, rather absent-mindedly. “What do you propose to do next?”
“I’ve telephoned round the country already, asking for information from all the hotels and garages about a car of this make that Roca was driving. It must have been garaged somewhere for the last week. One bit of paint had escaped bad damage, so I was able to give its colour; and the make’s recognisable even after the fire. Perhaps we’ll get some news soon. And I’m going to ask the doctor who does the P.M.—I wish him joy of his job, I do—to look out for any smashed bones. There’s no real proof yet that he was shot, you know.”
Sir Clinton recognised Ledbury’s acuteness in this last proposal. The sergeant was by no means a negligible factor in the affair.
“Well, I think I’ll get off now,” he intimated, getting up from the altar stone on which he had seated himself. “I’ve given you all the help I can.”
“Very suggestive your visit’s been, sir,” Ledbury assured him, with the plainest intimation of a double meaning in his tone, “It’s wonderful how much you’ve given me to think about.”
He accompanied Sir Clinton towards his motor.
“These are the tracks the murderer left, sir,” he pointed out. “Very faint, they are; but quite unmistakable, you see. They’ll be a useful clue, perhaps.”
Sir Clinton, glancing at the tracks on the road, suppressed a start only with difficulty. He recognised the markings well enough.
“Good luck, sergeant!” he said carelessly, as he opened the door of his car and settled himself in the driving-seat. “Mind standing back a bit while I turn? Thanks.”
When he had gone some twenty yards on his way, he turned round. The sergeant was stooping over the road, evidently comparing the traces on it with one another.
“H’m! So he’s spotted that? And now he knows it was my car that was here last night. This is getting a bit complicated,” Sir Clinton commented inwardly. “I wonder what his next move will be.”
Feeling more than a little disquieted, he drove to the post office in Raynham Parva, entered the telephone box, and called up a reliable friend who lived in the next county.
“Will you send me a wire immediately,” he requested, giving his address. “Word it this way: ‘Meet me in main street Micheldean Abbas about four o’clock this afternoon.’ Sign it with your own name. . . . You’ll get it off at once? Thanks.”
He rang off, and immediately called up Estelle.
“That you, Estelle?”
“Yes, Uncle Clinton.”
“I want you to do me a favour and to keep quiet about it, please.”
“Right! No words of mine shall betray your guilty secret, etc., etc. What is it you want?”
Despite her flippant tone, Sir Clinton knew that he could trust her to carry out his orders.
“Nothing much. Will you ring up at once and invite the whole lot of us, even Johnnie, over to your house for the afternoon. The whole lot, remember, myself included. And don’t take any excuses. We’ve simply got to come. You understand? You’ll easily be able to fake up some sort of excuse. I leave that to you.”
Estelle’s voice betrayed severely suppressed curiosity as she replied; but she asked no direct question, and agreed at once to do as he wished. Sir Clinton gave her no time to press for explanations, but, urging her to ring up Fern Lodge immediately, he put down his receiver and left the box.
His next call was at the druggist’s shop out of which he had seen Francia come on the previous afternoon.
“A friend of mine asked me to get him a second dose of something he got from you yesterday,” he explained to the proprietor. “He’s staying with us at Fern Lodge—I’m Sir Clinton Driffield.”
The guess that his title would prove helpful was not unwarranted.
“I know you by sight, Sir Clinton,” the druggist hastened to explain. “What was it your friend got, can you tell me?”
“A mild emetic, I think it was,” Sir Clinton suggested. “You’ll be able to look it up? The name’s Francia, if he handed in a prescription.”
“Ah, yes. Now I remember,” the druggist said. “Didn’t it act? That’s curious.”
He bustled away to fill the order. When he brought back the bottle and was preparing to wrap it up, Sir Clinton leaned over the counter and lifted it.
“I seem to recognise the smell,” he remarked, as he casually uncorked it and put it to his nostrils. “Funny how one can’t put a name to a thing that one knows quite well, really.”
“It’s a preparation of ipecacuan
ha,” the druggist explained helpfully.
“Of course!” Sir Clinton exclaimed. “I knew I’d smelt it some time; but I couldn’t have named it, all the same. Thanks.”
He returned the bottle; and when the druggist had wrapped it up, Sir Clinton bought a phial of chlorate of potash tabloids before wishing him good day.
A few minutes later, when Sir Clinton stopped his car at Fern Lodge, a glance at the trip-dial of the speedometer showed seventeen miles as the reading. Quite obviously, it was Sir Clinton’s car which, on the previous night, had gone out to the Bale Stones and played its part in the events leading up to Roca’s death.
Chapter Twelve
FRANCIA’S ATTACHÉ-CASE
When Sir Clinton made his appearance at the lunch-table, he found that his confederate had not failed him.
“Where have you been?” Elsie demanded. “I’ve been hunting for you all round the place.”
“Oh, just out and about,” Sir Clinton answered vaguely.
He had no desire to give a more definite account of his morning’s doings. Murders, and especially murders of a gruesome type, were subjects which he preferred to deal with in their proper environment. Certainly the lunch-table was the last place for the discussion of such matters. He glanced casually at Francia, who was seated on the other side of the table; but, except for a certain heavy-eyed look, the Argentiner showed no sign of anything abnormal.
“Feeling all right again, Elsie?” Sir Clinton demanded in order to change the subject completely.
“Quite all right, thanks. It was just a sick turn, and I can’t make out how I got it.”
“Good! And what’s this stop-press news you’re burning to distribute?”
“Cross my hand with silver, kind sir, and I’ll tell you who’ll pour out your tea for you this afternoon.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” was Sir Clinton’s unspoken comment. Aloud, he asked: “Well, who is it?”
“It’s Estelle. She rang up a few minutes ago and invited the whole lot of us over there this afternoon. Johnnie’s to go too; he can flog the stream at the end of their garden.”
“I’m going to catch something there,” Johnnie broke in excitedly. “I’ve seen trout in it—great big ones. Mr. Scotswood told me he once saw a two-pounder in one of the pools.”
Elsie ignored her brother completely.
“I told Estelle it was a futile notion to drag seven people across the country to visit one girl—especially as I’m sure Mr. Scotswood would far rather go off and play golf—and I advised her to come here instead. But you know she’s always been pig-headed. She said her tennis-courts were better than ours . . .”
“So they are,” Johnnie interjected, only to be suppressed at once.
“Then at last she broke down and admitted that she’d ordered dozens and dozens of cream cakes for tea. Of course, unless they’re eaten, the cream will go wrong. So that finished it. She got her own way. But I’ll see those cream cakes even if I can’t eat them. I believe they were just an excuse she thought of at the last moment.”
Sir Clinton gave Estelle a good mark for her fertility in expedients. She had certainly managed to carry out orders well.
“So we’re all going off there in the afternoon?” he inquired, secure in the knowledge that his spurious telegram would arrive in time to let him escape the expedition. “We’re going to play tennis, you said?”
“There’ll be eight of us, counting mother and Mr. Scotswood. You’ll play, of course, mother?”
Before his sister could reply, Sir Clinton bethought himself of the effect his abstention would have.
“A bit short on the male side, aren’t you?” he suggested. “Johnnie doesn’t count; and that leaves old Scotswood and two of us from here. Why not ring up Rex and take him along. Estelle will be quite pleased, if she hasn’t thought of it already herself.”
“I’m not particularly keen to play,” Mrs. Thornaby admitted, “and that arrangement would give each of you girls a man for a partner.”
She was evidently resigned to following her brother’s lead in the matter, though he could see that she was not entirely whole-hearted in her proposal. Clearly, she had doubts about dragging Rex Brandon into too intimate contact with Francia and Elsie.
“Very well, then,” Elsie said, taking the arrangement as settled. “I’ll ring up Rex as soon as lunch is over. He’ll put off his miserable fishing if I ask him, even if he’s planned anything for the afternoon.”
Sir Clinton wondered whether that attitude of hers had not been the root of the whole trouble. Rex had always been ready to fall in with her wishes; and perhaps he had made himself cheap while hoping to become indispensable. If he had stood up to her more, she might have taken a different kind of interest in him.
Just as they were finishing lunch, Staffin came in with the familiar brown envelope for Sir Clinton. He opened it, made a pretence of reading the message, and then frowned.
“You’ll have to give Estelle my excuses,” he explained, handing the telegram form to Elsie. “I must get across to Micheldean Abbas and see this man. It’s important, or he wouldn’t have wired me at the last moment like this.”
“Not very polite, breaking your engagement like that, uncle. Estelle will be disappointed.”
“Theoretically, that’s so. Practically, she couldn’t be sure I was coming, since you didn’t get hold of me when she telephoned her invitation,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Use your tact, and simply say I’m sorry I can’t join you.”
“Why not say it yourself?” Elsie demanded. “You’ll have to drive over. It’s too big a party to cram into one car, so we’ll need yours to take half of us.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Sir Clinton confessed. “It’s all right, though. I don’t need to be in Micheldean Abbas until four o’clock. I’ll take you over to Estelle’s before that.”
He paused for a moment; then a fresh thought seemed to strike him.
“You’d better scurry off and get hold of Rex at once,” he suggested to his niece. “You’ll need him now, since I’m dropping out, because even with him you’ll be a man short.”
Elsie nodded; and, as they rose from the table, she went into the smoke-room to telephone to the Black Bull. Sir Clinton detained his sister by a sign while the remainder of the party quitted the dining-room.
“By the way, Anne, I shan’t be back here until I come to pick up you people on my way home. It’s a pity to keep the maids hanging about on a fine day like this. Suppose you let them all off for the afternoon?”
“So long as they get back in time to look after our dinner, I don’t mind,” his sister acquiesced.
She shot an inquiring glance at him.
“You’re getting very soft-hearted, these days, Clinton.”
“I’ve always believed in treating subordinates well,” he defended himself; but he examined his sister’s face closely to see if there was anything behind her remark.
Apparently, however, Mrs. Thornaby had merely thrown out her suggestion at random, for she failed to follow up the subject. Before any more was said, Elsie passed along the hall.
“It’s all right,” she said, catching sight of her uncle. “I persuaded him—after he’d made a bit of a fuss, for some reason or other. He’s got very punctilious, all of a sudden—Rex. One would have thought, to hear him, that I’d asked him to force himself on a stranger. He objected because Estelle herself hadn’t invited him—as if that mattered.”
“Did you arrange about picking him up as we pass?”
“Of course. It’s all settled.”
Sir Clinton’s gesture of approval was purposely patronising.
“Very nice,” he said in the tone of one commending a stupid but well-meaning subordinate. “And now that I’ve made all the arrangements, Elsie, I think I can take a rest for a while, till it’s time for us to start.”
He turned away before his enraged niece could find words to express her thoughts about this last remark, and walked out of the f
ront door. He had no desire to encounter Francia at that juncture, so he took the path down to the lake, meaning to keep away from the others until it was time to drive them over to Estelle’s house. His morning’s experiences had given him enough to think over; but he put them resolutely out of his mind and concentrated his thoughts on an earlier problem.
On the night when he arrived at Fern Lodge, his plans for the future had been cut and dried; but more recent happenings had thrown a fresh light on things, and Sir Clinton was not the man to pursue a course doggedly for the mere reason that he had chosen it and had too much pride to allow himself to deviate from a prearranged plan. The things which had come to his notice within the last few days had their bearing on Elsie’s welfare; and, when that came into question, it would have needed a very strong inducement to keep Sir Clinton even neutral in the matter.
One thing seemed certain. To let Elsie and her companions go off to the Argentine unaccompanied by anyone except Francia was to run a very grave risk indeed. True, Sir Clinton had no definite proof of anything against the Argentiner; but this was a case in which it might be criminal to wait for proof before taking action. One way out of the difficulty might be to send out Mrs. Thornaby with the party; but, although he had perfect trust in his sister’s capacity, Sir Clinton felt that this precaution was hardly enough. It would be so easy to contrive that Mrs. Thornaby should miss a train or be detached in some other way from the rest of the party; and, in a difficulty, a woman cannot act in the same way as a man might do. No, if Francia needed watching, then only a man would be of any service. He would have to go himself, even though it disarranged his own cut-and-dried plans. Without flattering himself, he felt that he would be a match for Francia even in a foreign country.
Once he had made his decision, he felt in a more comfortable frame of mind. He still deliberately put aside the possible connection between Francia and the death of Roca, since he expected to pick up fuller details of that affair before very long, and it seemed hardly worth wasting time on the subject until he had all the facts in his hands. Instead of considering the question, he set himself to re-plan his own business to fit his fresh decision about the South American trip; and in this task the time soon passed until it was necessary for him to go back and take the car out of the garage.
Nemesis at Raynham Parva (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 16