21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  Some of the lightness vanished from Philippa’s face.

  “That was before the war,” she sighed.

  “I still think Henry is a dear, though I don’t altogether understand him,” Helen said thoughtfully.

  “No doubt,” Philippa assented, “but you’d find the not understanding him a little more galling, if you were his wife. You see, I didn’t know that I was marrying a sort of sporting Mr. Skimpole.”

  “I wonder,” Helen reflected, “how Henry and Mr. Lessingham will get on when they see more of one another.”

  “I really don’t care,” Philippa observed indifferently.

  “I used to notice sometimes—that was soon after you were married,” Helen continued, “that Henry was just a little inclined to be jealous.”

  Philippa withdrew her eyes from the sea. There was a queer little smile upon her lips.

  “Well, if he still is,” she said, “I’ll give him something to be jealous about.”

  “Poor Mr. Lessingham!” Helen murmured.

  Philippa’s eyebrows were raised.

  “Poor Mr. Lessingham?” she repeated. “I don’t think you’ll find that he’ll be in the least sorry for himself.”

  “He may be in earnest,” Helen reminded her friend. “You can be horribly attractive when you like, you know, Philippa.”

  Philippa smiled sweetly.

  “It is just possible,” she said, “that I may be in earnest myself. I’ve quarrelled pretty desperately with Henry, you know, and I’m a helpless creature without a little admiration.”

  Helen rose suddenly to her feet. Her eyes were fixed upon a figure approaching through the wood.

  “You really aren’t respectable, Philippa,” she declared. “Throw away your cigarette, for heaven’s sake, and sit up. Some one is coming.”

  Philippa only moved her head lazily. The sunlight, which came down in a thousand little zigzags through the wind-tossed trees, fell straight upon her rather pale, defiant little face, with its unexpressed evasive charm, and seemed to find a new depth of colour in the red-gold of her disordered hair. Her slim, perfect body was stretched almost at full length, one leg drawn a little up, her hands carelessly drooping towards the grass. The cigarette was still burning in the corner of her lips.

  “I decline,” she said, “to throw away my cigarette for any one.”

  “Least of all, I trust,” a familiar voice interposed, “for me.”

  Philippa sat upright at once, smoothed her hair and looked a little resentfully at Lessingham. He was wearing a brown tweed knickerbocker suit, and he carried a gun under his arm.

  “Whatever are you doing up here,” she demanded, “and do you know anything about our game laws? You can’t come out into the woods here and shoot things just because you feel like it.”

  He disposed of his gun and seated himself between them.

  “That is quite all right,” he assured her. “Your neighbour, Mr. Windover, to whom these woods apparently belong, asked me to bring my gun out this morning and try and get a woodcock.”

  “Gracious! You don’t mean that Mr. Windover is here, too?” Philippa demanded, looking around. Lessingham shook his head.

  “His car came for him at the other side of the wood,” he explained. “He was wanted to go on the Bench. I elected to walk home.”

  “And the woodcock?” she asked. “I adore woodcock.”

  He produced one from his pocket, took up her felt hat, which was lying amongst the bracken, and busied himself insinuating the pin feathers under the silk band.

  “There,” he said, handing it to her, “the first woodcock of the season. We got four, and I really only accepted one in the hope that you would like it. I shall leave it with the estimable Mills, on my return.”

  “You must come and share it,” Philippa insisted. “Those boys of Nora’s are coming in to dinner. Your gift shall be the piece de resistance.”

  “Then may I dine another night?” he begged. “This place encourages in me the grossest of appetites.”

  “Have no fear,” she replied. “You will never see that woodcock again. I shall have it for my luncheon to-morrow. I ordered dinner before I came out, and though it may be a simple feast, I promise that you shall not go away hungry.”

  “Will you promise that you will never send me away hungry?” he asked, dropping his voice for a moment.

  She turned and studied him. Helen, who had strolled a few yards away, was knee-deep in the golden brown bracken, picking some gorgeously coloured leaves from a solitary bramble bush. Lessingham had thrown his cap onto the ground, and his wind-tossed hair and the unusual colour in his cheeks were both, in their way, becoming. His loose but well-fitting country clothes, his tie and soft collar, were all well-chosen and suitable. She admired his high forehead and his firm, rather proud mouth. His eyes as well as his tone were full of seriousness.

  “You know that you ought to be saying that to some Gretchen away across that terrible North Sea,” she laughed.

  “There is no Gretchen who has ever made my heart shake as you do,” he whispered.

  She picked up her hat and sighed.

  “Really,” she said, “I think things are quite complicated enough as they are. I am in a flutter all day long, as it is, about your mission here and your real identity. I simply could not include a flirtation amongst my excitements.”

  “I have never flirted,” he assured her gravely.

  “Wise man,” she pronounced, rising to her feet. “Come, let us go and help Helen pick leaves. She is scratching her fingers terribly, and I’m sure you have a knife. A dear, economical creature, Helen,” she added, as they strolled along. “I am perfectly certain that those are destined to adorn my dining-table, and, with chrysanthemums at sixpence each, you can’t imagine how welcome they are. Come, produce the knife, Mr. Lessingham.”

  The knife was forthcoming, and presently they all turned their faces homeward. Philippa arrested both her companions on the outskirts of the wood, and pointed to the red-tiled little town, to the sombre, storm-beaten grey church on the edge of the cliff, to the peaceful fields, the stretch of gorse-sprinkled common, and the rolling stretch of green turf on the crown of the cliffs. Beyond was the foam-flecked blue sea, dotted all over with cargo steamers.

  “Would one believe,” she asked satirically, “that there should be scope here in this forgotten little spot for the brains of a—Mr. Lessingham!”

  “Remember that I was sent,” he protested. “The error, if error there be, is not mine.”

  “And after all,” Helen reminded them both, “think how easily one may be misled by appearances. You couldn’t imagine anything more honest than the faces of the villagers and the fishermen one sees about, yet do you know, Mr. Lessingham, that we were visited by burglars last night?”

  “Seriously?” he asked.

  “Without a doubt. Of course, Mainsail Haul is an invitation to thieves. They could get in anywhere. Last night they chose the French windows and seem to have made themselves at home in the library.”

  “I trust,” Lessingham said, “that they did not take anything of value?”

  “They took nothing at all,” Philippa sighed. “That is the humiliating part of it. They evidently didn’t like our things.”

  “How do you know that you had burglars, if they took nothing away?” Lessingham enquired.

  “So practical!” Philippa murmured. “As a matter of fact, I heard some one moving about, and I rang the alarm bell. Mills was downstairs almost directly and we heard some one running down the drive. The French windows were open, a chair was overturned in the library, and a drawer in my husband’s desk was wide open.”

  “The proof,” Lessingham admitted, “is overwhelming. You were visited by a burglar. Does your husband keep anything of value in his desk?”

  “Henry hasn’t anything of value in the world,” Philippa replied drily, “except his securities, and they are at the bank.”

  “Without going so far as to contradict you
,” Lessingham observed, with a smile, “I still venture to disagree!”

  CHAPTER XI

  Table of Contents

  Sir Henry stepped back from the scales and eyed the fish which they had been weighing, admiringly.

  “You see that, Mills? You see that, Jimmy?” he pointed out. “Six and three-quarter pounds! I was right almost to an ounce. He’s a fine fellow!”

  “A very extraordinary fish, sir,” the butler observed. “Will you allow me to take your oilskins? Dinner was served nearly an hour ago.”

  Sir Henry slipped off his dripping overalls and handed them over.

  “That’s all right,” he replied. “Listen. Don’t say a word about my arrival to your mistress at present. I have some writing to do. Bring me a glass of sherry at once, or mix a cocktail if you can do so without being missed, and take Jimmy away and give him some whisky and soda.”

  “But what about your own dinner, sir?”

  “I’ll have a tray in the gun room,” his master decided, “say in twenty minutes’ time. And, Mills, who did you say were dining?”

  “Two of the young officers from the Depot, sir—Mr. Harrison and Mr. Sinclair—and Mr. Hamar Lessingham.”

  “Lessingham, eh?” Sir Henry repeated, as he seated himself before his writing-table. “Mills,” he added, in a confidential whisper, “what port did you serve?”

  The butler’s expression was one of conscious rectitude.

  “Not the vintage, sir,” he announced with emphasis. “Some very excellent wood port, which we procured for shooting luncheons. The young gentlemen like it.”

  “You’re a jewel, Mills,” his master declared. “Now you understand—an aperitif for me now, some whisky for Jimmy in your room, and not a word about my being here. Good night, Jimmy. Sorry we were too late for the mackerel, but we had some grand sport, all the same. You’ll have a day or two’s rest ashore now.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” Dumble replied. “We got in just in time. There’s something more than a squall coming up nor’ards.”

  Sir Henry listened for a moment. The French windows shook, the rain beat against the panes, and a dull booming of wind was clearly audible from outside.

  “We timed that excellently,” he agreed. “Come up and have a chat to-morrow, Jimmy, if your wife will spare you.”

  “I’ll be round before eleven, sir,” the fisherman promised, with a grin.

  Sir Henry waited for the closing of the door. Then he leaned forward for several moments. He had scarcely the appearance of a man returned from a week or two of open-air life and indulgence in the sport he loved best. The healthy tan of his complexion was lessened rather than increased. There were black lines under his eyes which seemed to speak of sleepless nights, and a beard of several days’ growth was upon his chin. He drank the cocktail which Mills presently brought him, at a gulp, and watched with satisfaction while the mixer was vigorously shaken and a second one poured out.

  “We’ve had a rough time, Mills,” he observed, as he set down the glass. “Until this morning it scarcely left off blowing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, sir,” was the respectful reply. “If I may be allowed to say so, sir, you’re looking tired.”

  “I am tired,” Sir Henry admitted. “I think, if I tried, I could go to sleep now for twenty-four hours.”

  “You will pardon my reminding you, so far as regards your letters, that there is no post out tonight, sir,” Mills proceeded. “I have prepared a warm bath and laid out your clothes for a change.”

  “Capital!” Sir Henry exclaimed. “It isn’t a letter that’s bothering me, though, Mills. There are just a few geographical notes I want to make. You know, I’m trying to improve the fishermen’s chart of the coast round here. That fellow Groocock—Jimmy Dumble’s uncle—very nearly lost his motor boat last week through trusting to the old one.”

  “Just so, sir,” Mills replied deferentially, placing the empty glass upon his tray. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I must get back to the dining room.”

  “Quite right,” his master assented. “They won’t be out just yet, will they?”

  “Her ladyship will probably be rising in about ten minutes, sir—not before that.”

  Sir Henry nodded a little impatiently. Directly the door was closed he rose to his feet, stood for a moment listening by the side of his fishing cabinet, then opened the glass front and touched the spring. With the aid of a little electric torch which he took from his pocket, he studied particularly a certain portion of the giant chart, made some measurements with a pencil, some notes in the margin, and closed it up again with an air of satisfaction. Then he resumed his seat, drew a folded slip of paper from his breast pocket, a chart from another, turned up the lamp and began to write. His face, as he stooped low, escaped the soft shade and was for a moment almost ghastly. Every now and then he turned and made some calculations on the blotting-paper by his side. At last he leaned back with a little sigh of relief. He had barely done so before the door behind him was opened.

  “Are we going to stay in here, Mummy, or are we going into the drawing-room?” Nora asked.

  “In here, I think,” he heard Philippa reply.

  Then they both came in, followed by Helen. Nora was the first to see him and rushed forward with a little cry of surprise.

  “Why, here’s Dad!” she exclaimed, flinging her arms around his neck. “Daddy, how dare you be sitting here all by yourself whilst we are having dinner! When did you get back? What a fish!”

  Sir Henry closed down his desk, embraced his daughter, and came forward to meet his wife.

  “Fine fellow, isn’t he, Nora!” he agreed. “Well, Philippa, how are you? Pleased to see me, I hope? Another new frock, I believe, and in war time!”

  “Fancy your remembering that it was war time!” she answered, standing very still while he leaned over and kissed her.

  “Nasty one for me,” Sir Henry observed good-humouredly. “How well you’re looking, Helen! Any news of Dick yet?”

  Helen attempted an expression of extreme gravity with more or less success.

  “Nothing fresh,” she answered.

  “Well, well, no news may be good news,” Sir Henry remarked consolingly. “Jove, it’s good to feel a roof over one’s head again! This morning has been the only patch of decent weather we’ve had.”

  “This morning was lovely,” Helen assented. “Philippa and I went and sat up in the woods.”

  Philippa, who was standing by the fire, turned and looked at her husband critically.

  “We have some men dining,” she said. “They will be out in a few minutes. Don’t you think you had better go and make yourself presentable? You smell of fish, and you look as though you hadn’t shaved for a week.”

  “Guilty, my dear,” Sir Henry admitted. “Mills is just getting me something to eat in the gun room, and then I am going to have a bath and change my clothes.”

  “And shave, Dad,” Nora reminded him.

  “And shave, you young pest,” her father agreed, patting her on the shoulder. “Run away and play billiards with Helen. I want to talk to your mother until my dinner’s ready.”

  Nora acquiesced promptly.

  “Come along, Helen, I’ll give you twenty-five up. Or perhaps you’d like to play shell out?” she proposed. “Arthur Sinclair says I have improved in my potting more than any one he ever knew.”

  Sir Henry opened the door and closed it after them. Then he returned and seated himself on the lounge by Philippa’s side. She glanced up at him as though in surprise, and, stretching out her hand towards her work-basket, took up some knitting.

  “I really think I should change at once, if I were you,” she suggested.

  “Presently. I had a sort of foolish idea that I’d like to have a word or two with you first. I’ve been away for nearly a fortnight, haven’t I?”

  “You have,” Philippa assented. “Perhaps that is the reason why I feel that I haven’t very much to say to you.”

  “That sound
s just a trifle hard,” he said slowly.

  “I am hard sometimes,” Philippa confessed. “You know that quite well. There are times when I just feel as though I had no heart at all, nor any sympathy; when every sensation I might have had seems shrivelled up inside me.”

  “Is that how you are feeling at the present time towards me, Philippa?” he asked.

  Her needles flashed through the wool for a moment in silence.

  “You had every warning,” she told him. “I tried to make you understand exactly how your behaviour disgusted me before you went away.”

  “Yes, I remember,” he admitted. “I’m afraid, dear, you think I am a worthless sort of a fellow.”

  Philippa had apparently dropped a stitch. She bent lower still over her knitting. There was a distinct frown upon her forehead, her mouth was unrecognisable.

  “Your friend Lessingham is here still, I understand?” her husband remarked presently.

  “Yes,” Philippa assented, “he is dining to-night. You will probably see him in a few minutes.”

  Sir Henry looked thoughtful, and studied for a moment the toe of a remarkably unprepossessing looking shoe.

  “You’re so keen about that sort of thing,” he said, “what about Lessingham? He is not soldiering or anything, is he?”

  “I have no idea,” Philippa replied. “He walks with a slight limp and admits that he is here as a convalescent, but he hasn’t told us very much about himself.”

  “I wonder you haven’t tackled him,” Sir Henry continued. “You’re such an ardent recruiter, you ought to make sure that he is doing his bit of butchery.”

  Philippa looked up at her husband for a moment and back at her work.

  “Mr. Lessingham,” she said, “is a very delightful friend, whose stay here every one is enjoying very much, but he is a comparative stranger. I feel no responsibility as to his actions.”

  “And you do as to mine?”

  “Naturally.”

  Sir Henry’s head was resting on his hand, his elbow on the back of the lounge. He seemed to be listening to the voices in the dining room beyond.