Nemesis at Raynham Parva (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “So long as you don’t come near the house itself, I can see no harm in it,” Sir Clinton interjected, cutting short Yarrow’s explanations. “If anyone offers to hinder you, give them my name. It’ll be all right.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “It’s later than I thought. By the way, Peel, there’s one other thing I want to know . . .”

  His gesture politely excluded Yarrow from the conversation, and the amateur naturalist reluctantly separated himself from the group.

  “I’ve nothing to say,” Sir Clinton admitted, as he watched Yarrow retreating along the pavement. “But I thought perhaps you’d like a rest, Peel.”

  The constable glared malevolently after the figure of the naturalist.

  “That’s him, sir. Talk, talk, talk, and dashed little in it all when you come to put it through a sieve. He’s fair got on my nerves. Thanks for shaking him off.”

  “Anything further that Sergeant Ledbury’s unearthed?”

  “Ledbury?” Constable Peel brought his mind back to the original theme of conversation. “Oh, Ledbury’s had another bad drop. You’ll remember how he went off and interviewed Roca over the Quevedo business, sir? And how he found Roca had been in bed when Quevedo got his dose. Well, when they overhauled Roca’s luggage, what d’you think they found amongst it?”

  “A rope or a rope-ladder, I expect,” Sir Clinton suggested.

  Constable Peel stared at his companion with something as near admiration as was possible to his nature.

  “The very thing, sir!” he admitted. “Wonderful guess, that. Yes, he had a rope-ladder in his suitcase. That was how he got out of the window and none of the inn-people suspected he’d been out. Simple, wasn’t it?”

  “Pretty nearly obvious,” Sir Clinton assured him. “And that’s all up to date?”

  “That’s all, sir,” Peel concurred, after consulting his memory. “But that was a nice drop for the sergeant, after all his fuss. There’s fussers and fussers, in this world,” he continued peevishly. “That man Yarrow . . .”

  “Sorry I must go, Peel,” Sir Clinton interrupted hastily as he retreated to his car. He had obtained all the useful information which the constable seemed to have; and the charm of Peel’s company hardly attracted him in itself.

  At Estelle’s he found the major section of the party ready to return to Fern Lodge; but Johnnie was still engrossed in his fishing and had to be dragged away from the stream almost by main force. He had actually secured five fish in the afternoon; and was exceedingly bitter at being interrupted, since he had just had a rise when he was summoned away.

  “I’d have caught it with the next cast, I’m sure,” he protested, with the eternal optimism of the true angler.

  Despite his almost tearful pleadings for “just one more cast,” he was bundled into the car, clutching his rod in one hand and his rather dishevelled catch in the other.

  When they reached Fern Lodge, a telegraph boy was just leaving the door, and Sir Clinton found that the message was for him. Tearing open the envelope, he scanned the form and saw that the message opened with: “Altazimuth, declination, meteorite, focus . . .” He put it in his pocket, glanced at his watch, and found he had just time to decipher it before dressing for dinner, since the message was very short. Rather bored by the prospect, he went slowly up to his room and set about his task.

  When decoded, the communication proved to be an order—or at least a demand so urgent that it was practically an order. His services were again required on the Continent, and he was to be at a certain spot without fail on a given date. With a certain foreboding, Sir Clinton refreshed his memory from his pocket-book, and found that his misgivings were accurate. He would have to be in Central Europe on the very day when the S.S. Malta left Havre; and his business would detain him until it was too late to overtake her in the course of her voyage down the Spanish coast. The Government wire had cut clean across his plans.

  “H’m!” he reflected. “That shortens the time available for Roca’s confederate to take a hand in the game, if he wants to. I wish I could run across him and give him a polite hint.”

  He smiled grimly at this idea as he began to slip the links into the cuffs of a dress shirt. While he was thus engaged, his quick ear caught the sound of Johnnie’s easily recognisable step coming up the stair; and he went to the door of his room to summon his nephew.

  “Here, Johnnie! Cut along and get me some stout thread. Your mother will give you some. Say it’s the thick stuff for sewing on buttons that I want. She’ll know what I mean.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE LETTER WITH THE PARIS POSTMARK

  Sir Clinton, coming down early for breakfast, arrived in the hall just as Staffin took the letters from the postman. He held out his hand for the bundle of correspondence, and began in a leisurely fashion to pick out his own share, when his eye was caught by an envelope addressed to Francia. A glance at the stamps revealed the Paris postmark, and Sir Clinton moodily speculated on the nature of the contents. Probably some more of Francia’s “business correspondence,” he concluded, with a faint twitch of his brows.

  He put the letter down and was proceeding to sort out the remaining envelopes when Johnnie came downstairs at a run, clearing the last four steps at a bound.

  “Here’s a letter for you, Johnnie,” Sir Clinton observed, flicking over to his nephew an envelope addressed in a sprawling and immature hand.

  “It’s from Spink Faraday,” Johnnie announced, after studying the calligraphy of his schoolmate. “He promised to write to me about some rabbits.”

  He tore open the letter, read it in a hurry, and seemed relieved by what he learned from the contents.

  “I was afraid something had gone wrong about these rabbits,” he explained, as he caught his uncle studying his face. “It’s all right, though.”

  His eye wandered to the spot where Sir Clinton had laid down Francia’s letter.

  “Foreign stamps! They must have changed the colour of the French forty centimes. This one’s different from the ones I’ve got already. I wonder if he’d give me these if I asked for them? Do you think he would, uncle?”

  Johnnie’s stamp-collection contained nothing of interest to an expert philatelist. Despairing of ever acquiring rarities like the two-penny post office Mauritius or an early Moldavian issue, he had taken a line of his own and become seized with the ambition to have the biggest collection in his school. Quantity, not quality, was what he concentrated upon; and all was fish that came to his net. He hesitated longingly over the Paris letter before he could tear himself away and join his uncle in the breakfast room.

  During the meal, Sir Clinton seemed busy with his thoughts; and he answered only abstractedly when his nephew addressed him. Just as they were about to rise from the table, the door opened and Francia came in, with the letter in his hand.

  “I say, Vincent”—Johnnie attacked him in a tone blending courtesy with determination—“would you let me have these foreign stamps, please? I’d like them. I haven’t got a specimen of that French forty centime yet for my collection.”

  Francia agreed without hesitation, opened the letter at once, and handed the envelope to Johnnie. The letter itself he slipped into one of the side-pockets of his jacket before sitting down at the table. Sir Clinton, not feeling eager to talk to his niece’s husband at that particular juncture, rose from his chair, paused for a moment to light a cigarette, and moved out of the room. It seemed needless to put an unnecessary strain upon himself to conceal his real feelings towards Francia, as he would have to do if he fell into conversation. Much better to avoid the fellow as far as possible.

  On the previous evening, he had dealt with the reply to the code telegram which he had received. There was no getting out of the mission: it was too important a piece of business to be set aside; and he was well aware that he had been selected for special reasons, so that no one else would do as well. So, with the feeling that he was burning his boats, he had drafted a cypher reply a
greeing to do as he was asked.

  It was a still morning, with a heat-haze which promised a scorching afternoon. Johnnie had gone off on some affair of his own, so his uncle was free from his attentions. Sir Clinton decided to get his telegram sent off at once. He had some matters in his mind which he wished to consider carefully, and a stroll into the village would give him an opportunity of dealing with them uninterrupted.

  When he returned to Fern Lodge, the day was already growing hot under the brilliant sunshine. Linda Anstruther was sitting out on the lawn under a tree, and he crossed the grass to a chair beside her. She had been busy with some papers, but at the sight of him she put them down on her knee and looked up with a rather worried expression on her face.

  “I’m afraid these sketches we’ve been writing aren’t really much good, Sir Clinton,” she said, in a disappointed tone. “When we were writing them, they seemed all right; but now, somehow, they sound as dull as ditch-water. Isn’t it annoying?”

  Sir Clinton endeavoured to be reassuring.

  “That’s quite a common trouble with some authors,” he encouraged her. “When they write a thing, they think it’s all right so long as the pen’s in their hands. Then, when the hot fit passes off, they under-estimate at once. It’s only after they’ve forgotten it a little and can come back to it with a fresh eye that they can give it fair judgment. I expect you’re in the cold-fit stage just now. Are these the sketches?”

  “Yes, I’ve just been re-reading them, and they do seem simply rubbish—not a bit of good. I’m almost ashamed to show them to Mr. Francia now; and we’ve promised to let him have them to-day.”

  With a glance which asked permission, Sir Clinton leaned over and took up the papers.

  “You’ve certainly been industrious,” he observed, as he picked up the heavy bundle and made a pretence of weighing it in his hand. “Look here, Miss Anstruther, I’d like to read these, if you’ll let me. I’m not an expert; but I go to a show now and again, and I’ve a fair notion of what catches a foreign public. Do you mind if I see them? I’ll hand them on to Mr. Francia this afternoon, without fail.”

  His desire to help seemed so genuine that Linda Anstruther made no futile protestations.

  “Well, if you would take the trouble,” she said in a tone of mingled gratitude and shyness. “I’m honestly depressed about the stuff, now I come to read it over; and I’d really like a candid opinion about it. Only, you will be candid, won’t you? It’s no good telling us the things are first-rate when you really think they’re hopeless.”

  “When you ask for my opinion, you’ll get it quite frankly,” Sir Clinton assured her in a voice which satisfied her completely.

  He patted the loose sheets into a neat pile and kept them in his hand.

  “By the way,” he asked, “are there any special arrangements for this afternoon? I haven’t come across any responsible members of the family yet to-day.”

  “Mrs. Francia said she’s going to ask some people over to play tennis. There’ll be enough to fill the two courts—if you play.” She counted the party on her fingers. “There’s Miss Scotswood, Mr. Scotswood, and Mr. Brandon from the village; then there’s yourself and Mr. Francia, that makes five; Mrs. Francia, six; and my sister and myself, eight. Mrs. Thornaby doesn’t want to play. You see, we’re depending on you, Sir Clinton. You’ll play, won’t you?”

  Sir Clinton seemed almost in doubt for a moment. He glanced at the horizon, from which the heat-haze had cleared almost completely.

  “It’ll be frightfully hot,” he pointed out, with no great enthusiasm in his tone. “My impression is that we’ll all have had enough of it pretty soon. Of course I’ll play as long as I’m wanted—delighted to get a game.”

  Quite obviously the prospect of tennis on a blazing afternoon had few charms for him. He considered for a moment or two.

  “Suppose we work it in this way,” he suggested. “We can play for the best part of an hour. By that time, most of us will want a rest—certainly Mr. Scotswood will, if I know him. You and your sister have never been out on the lake yet. I’ll take you in a boat for a short time, if you like—until tea appears. Meanwhile, if Mr. Francia has nothing better to do, he can look at your sketches; and that leaves four to go on playing if they want to. Would you care for that?”

  “If you don’t think Mrs. Francia would mind . . .” Linda consented doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem quite right to be making arrangements behind her back, does it?”

  “I’ll make it all right with her,” Sir Clinton assured her. “In fact, if the day develops as it seems to be going to do, I shouldn’t wonder but the rest of the party will take the second boat out themselves. The lake will be the only decently cool place this afternoon.”

  Before Linda could raise any further objections, Johnnie flew out of the house with a long paper parcel in his hand.

  “It’s come, uncle!” he called, as he rushed up to them, waving his prize.

  “Your new air-gun?” Sir Clinton inquired. “Here, pass it over and I’ll cut the string for you.”

  He drew out his penknife as he spoke; and Johnnie set to work to unwrap the little weapon.

  “Oh! A new box of darts, and a big box of slugs as well!” he exclaimed, as the paper tore apart under his eager fingers. “Thanks ever so much, uncle! I forgot to say anything about slugs and darts when you said you’d get me a new gun. It’s awfully good of you to have thought about them.”

  He disengaged the air-gun from its last wrappings and examined it with the eye of a connoisseur.

  “Did you ever shoot with an air-gun, Miss Anstruther?” he demanded, loading the toy as he spoke.

  “No, but I should like to.”

  “You would? Well, come on now with me and I’ll show you how,” Johnnie invited her cordially. “I’ve got a target stuck up at the back of the garage, and we can shoot with darts. Are you coming too, Uncle Clinton?”

  His uncle shook his head.

  “No, Johnnie. I’ve some reading to do just now.”

  “Then come on, Miss Anstruther,” Johnnie directed. “We can get through the shrubbery this way; it’s the shortest.”

  When Miss Anstruther and her companion had vanished among the bushes, Sir Clinton reseated himself and took up the manuscript which she had left with him. As he read, his face showed a smile which was not entirely a proof of amusement.

  “Smart enough,” he commented as he turned the final page of the first sketch. “Just the sort of thing one would expect a rather nice girl to turn out if she had a sense of humour—quite funny. But, good Lord! Fancy her imagining that this is what Francia expects them to put into the show in an Argentine cabaret-hell!”

  He continued his reading, an occasional smile crossing his features at some turn of peculiar humour in the sketches. But when he laid down the last sheet, he sat for a time thinking of the contrast between the hopes of the two girls and the reality which Francia had planned for them. He was more anxious than ever that Roca’s accomplice should prove a deus ex machina in the whole complicated tangle of events.

  The afternoon proved to be all that Sir Clinton had prophesied: a cloudless sky, a blazing sun, and not a breath of wind to bring coolness.

  “We proceed according to plan, I think,” Sir Clinton observed to Linda Anstruther as they stood at the door watching the visitors’ car drive up. “No one will want much tennis on a day like this. I’ll take you on the lake at four o’clock.”

  Linda glanced up at the unflecked sky.

  “It is frightfully hot,” she admitted. “Poor Mr. Scotswood looks as if he felt it already, even though he’s in flannels.”

  Rex Brandon was in the car with the Scotswoods; and the party moved at once to the tennis-courts. They played several sets; but even the most energetic soon admitted that the heat was unpleasant. By tacit consent, play was abandoned and they retreated to the shade of some trees. Mr. Scotswood, with a crimson face, thankfully dropped into a chair beside Mrs. Thornaby. Rex, Estelle, and Elsi
e formed a group by themselves a few yards away; whilst Francia moved over and joined the Anstruther girls.

  “It’s really far too hot for you people to be running about in the sun,” Mrs. Thornaby commented, glancing round at the unmistakably heated party. “Suppose you stop playing until tea comes out? Later on, when the sun’s down a bit, you can begin again and play till dinner-time. You’ll all stay to dinner—flannels don’t matter, Mr. Scotswood—and after that we can make up a couple of bridge-tables until there’s some dance-music on the wireless.”

  Mr. Scotswood, who had looked at first as though he might refuse the invitation, stifled his protest when he heard the last sentence. The chance of a game of bridge was a godsend to him in Raynham Parva, where he found the evenings very long on his hands. Rex Brandon also seemed to be inclined to object at first; but apparently it struck him that his withdrawal would unbalance the party, and he gave way gracefully without any verbal demur.

  “Then that’s settled,” Mrs. Thornaby announced. “Aren’t you going to sit down, Clinton?”

  Sir Clinton shook his head. He took out his cigarette-case, selected a Turkish cigarette, and, after asking permission, lit it. He had been watching with outward impassivity the conversation between Francia and the two girls; but apparently he thought it time to break up the party, for he moved over to the little group.

  “Where’s my cigarette-case?” Elsie demanded. “Oh, I left it in my room. Nuisance, that.”

  Rex offered his own case, but she shook her head.

  “I can’t smoke any brand but my own favourite,” she said, after a glance at his cigarettes. “And if I don’t smoke, these mosquitoes are sure to begin to bite. They come up in hundreds from the lake.”

  She hurried off up the path towards the house.

  “That’s a good notion about a smoke-screen,” said Estelle, warding off an enterprising mosquito with a gesture. “Give me a cigarette, please, Rex. I’m not so refined as some people, and I expect I’ll survive your tobacco, no matter what it may be.”