by W E Johns
“Julia something.”
“Not Julia something. Julia Warren. Today we have learned that the name of the man who runs the pub is Warren, which could be an anglicised version of the French name De Warine, who came from Normandy with the Conqueror.”
Bertie stared. “I must say that’s a bit odd.”
“More than a bit, I’d say. But there’s more to come, and this is where my belief in coincidence cracks. You will recall that Diana suspected Julia Warren might have her eye on Leo; and, by thunder, she may be nearer the mark than she imagines, although not for the reason she thought. When Julia went riding it was usually in the direction of the Hall.”
“That’s right.”
“We can believe that because the only time we’ve seen her that’s where she was. You may remember the occasion. It was rather a special one.”
Bertie clicked his tongue. “When we heard the raven croak.”
“Exactly. Does all this add up to something or doesn’t it? As I said at the beginning, have we run into a chain of fantastic coincidences or is there more to it than that?”
“How are you going to find out?”
Biggles threw away his cigarette. “For a start, having given myself a thirst with all this talking I’m going up to the pub to have a drink. Let’s waffle along.”
CHAPTER IX
AT THE SIGN OF THE SPURS
As the car proceeded slowly up the village street towards The Spurs public house Biggles resumed. “If we are on the right track, and until I can find an alternative solution to what’s been going on here I shall assume we are because there’s a limit as to how far I’m prepared to trust coincidence, the source of Leo’s trouble springs from this pub.”
“Are you going to tell Leo what you think?” asked Bertie.
“No. Not yet, anyway. If what I suspect is correct we shall be dealing with a fly bird. At present he must think he’s sitting pretty, but one crack of a twig and our job of catching him will be more difficult. The picture as I see it looks something like this. Leo told us that after the Battle of Bosworth Field, Simon De Warine, who then owned the Hall, fled the country. Being a Norman it’s practically certain he’d go to France. In those days people on the run usually made for France, where they could relax until the fuss had blown over or their own Party had got back into power. The Yorkists, the side De Warine was on, never did recover the throne.”
“So he had to stay in France.”
“Yes. Henry VII was a Tudor, and it’s likely the De Warines remained in France while the Tudors ruled England. That would fit with what the vicar told us. He said he thought the pub changed its name sometime in the seventeenth century. That’s probably right, because the Tudor dynasty had ended and with the Stuarts wearing the crown it would be safe for the De Warines to return to this country. The tradition of how they had lost their property had been handed down so what more likely than they would come here to see what was happening to it, and carry on with The Curse from close quarters. Maybe they had to make a living so they took the pub under the name of Warren, changed its name to The Spurs, and they’ve lived there ever since. I may be wrong, but that’s how I see it. To prove it won’t be easy, but unless we can it’s going to be too bad for Leo. He’s the last of the Landavilles, and it might well be that the people who own the pub are the last of the De Warines. That being so they’d do their best to bump off Leo in case he got married and had descendants. That’s what I’m afraid of, and as far as I can see at present there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Couldn’t we bring Charles’ murder home to the Warrens?”
“Not a hope. It’s too late. The jury returned a verdict of accidental death and it would be hard to alter that. Even if we got a hearing it would mean exhuming Charles’ body, and other complications. Another possibility occurs to me. With Leo out of the way, if the Government didn’t want the Hall it would be thrown on the market. The Warrens may have enough money to buy it. It wouldn’t need much. No doubt they’d get some satisfaction out of having it back.”
“Why would they want to live in such a place when they must be snug enough where they are?”
“For the same reason Leo hangs on to it. Call it family pride.”
Biggles brought the car to a stop in front of the tavern.
“What are you going to do here?” asked Bertie.
“Have a look at Mr. William Warren, to get an impression of the sort of chap we have to deal with. There’s his name over the door.”
“You won’t ask questions?”
“Not likely. Nothing that any casual traveller wouldn’t ask. He mustn’t know we’re staying with Leo at the Hall, so watch what you’re saying. I notice the horse has gone.”
While he had been speaking Biggles had opened his cigarette case, and taking out all the cigarettes it contained put them in the pocket of the instrument panel. The only explanation he offered, seeing Bertie watching this unusual operation with surprise, was: “That’s to remind me of something.”
They went in and walked up to the bar behind which a dark, good-looking man of about forty, with a black beard trimmed to a point, was polishing glasses. There was no one else there.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted courteously.
“Two nice light ales, please,” ordered Biggles, looking around admiringly, for the interior of the inn was as fascinating and as well kept as the exterior. There was no doubt about it being the real thing. Old oak beams crossed the low ceiling and high backed benches black with age lined the walls. Everywhere polished brass and pewter gleamed. Some fine old coaching prints hung at intervals. Conspicuous behind the bar, suspended from a hook, was the namesake of the tavern; a pair of ancient swan-necked spurs with ferocious rowels.
“Lovely place you have here, landlord,” complimented Biggles. “Will you take a drink?”
“I’ll have a small whisky, sir, thank you.”
Biggles picked up his glass, and after the customary “Good health” drank some of his beer.
“Good health, sir.” The landlord raised his glass, sipped his drink and stood the glass on the counter.
“How old do you reckon this place is?” inquired Biggles carelessly.
“Nobody seems to know exactly but it’s been here a long time,” was the answer.
“There’s no doubt about that,” agreed Biggles.
Leaning against the bar he took out his cigarette case, opened it as if to take a cigarette, but seeing it empty closed it again.
“Here, try one of mine,” offered the innkeeper, taking a fifty box from under the bar.
“Thanks.” Biggles lit the cigarette, drew on it appreciatively, and then, taking it from his mouth, looked at it. “These are very nice,” he remarked. “What are they?”
“They’re a brand my doctor recommended when I told him I was smoking about fifty a day and found it hard to cut down. They’re a light tobacco and extra mild. Since using them I’ve coughed less than I did.”
“Nestorian,” said Biggles, reading the name on the cigarette. “I must try them some time.”
The conversation continued on general lines for a few minutes when the clip-clop of horses hooves clattered on the hard ground outside. They did not stop in front but went round to the rear of the premises.
“Excuse me,” said the landlord, retiring through a door.
In a flash Biggles had picked up the whisky glass he had left on the bar and emptied the contents into a clean one which he stood on the same spot. The dirty one he wrapped in his handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket. Picking up his beer he stepped away from the bar. All this had taken only a few seconds. A minute later his eyes met Bertie’s when from outside came a curious rasping croak which ended suddenly as if it had been muffled. Then the landlord came back.
“Have you got an aviary outside?” asked Biggles casually.
The landlord smiled. “No. My young sister has a pet jackdaw, that’s all.” He finished his drink.
Biggle
s, too, finished his beer and paid for the drinks. “Well, we must be getting along. Good day to you.”
“Good day, gentlemen.”
Biggles went out to the car and Bertie got in beside him.
As the car moved off Bertie said: “Did that sound to you like a jackdaw?”
“It wasn’t a jackdaw,” returned Biggles shortly. “It sounded to me more like a raven.”
“Well, blow me down. That’s what I thought. Could it be they’re using a real bird?”
“I don’t see why not. If they have a raven there that’s about all I want to know. That must have been the landlord’s sister who came in on the horse.”
“What was the idea of snatching the glass?”
“What do you think! It struck me it might be a good thing to have a record of Mr. William Warren’s fingerprints.”
“Did you go in with that intention?”
“No such idea crossed my mind, but the opportunity offered and I took it. If the burglar returns to the Hall we may have some finger-prints for comparison. Presently I’ll get you to take this glass along to the Yard and get copies made of the prints on it. He took a clean glass for his whisky so any finger-prints on it other than mine must be his. One thing I did plan before I went in was to find out if he smoked cigarettes, and if so what brand. As you may have noticed, that worked all right. It was helpful that he smokes a sort not in common use, and, moreover, cork tipped. I was prepared for that.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t read the name on the cigarette end I picked up in the spinney where Charles was murdered but that also happened to have a cork tip. Some of it had peeled off but it had started life with one. That, of course, doesn’t prove anything. It could be another coincidence. But it’s worth bearing in mind. There’s another minor point that adds up. On his own admission he’s a heavy smoker, as one would expect of a man who had to smoke while he was waiting to shoot someone.”
“Nice work, old boy. As you say, it all fits.”
“By the way. You noticed the spurs hanging behind the bar?”
“Of course.”
“The name of the pub being The Spurs there might be nothing in that. I was more interested in that big gold signet ring Warren was wearing. That was fine gold, none of this modern alloy stuff. Hand-worked, too, which must mean it’s old. There was a crest, or a seal of some sort on the face of it, but I never had a chance to see what it was; and I daren’t ask him; that would have been risky.”
“What do you think it might have been?”
“The De Warine coat of arms; or at any rate, three mullets. I’d wager there’s a twenty-two rifle somewhere in that pub but we’d need a search warrant to look for it and then we might not find it. I didn’t expect to see it when we were in there. No man in his right mind leaves a murder weapon where all the world can see it.”
The car went on to the Hall. Leo was sitting in one of the chairs outside. “Just in nice time for lunch,” he said, getting up. “Had an interesting morning?”
“Instructive as well as interesting. How about you? Anything happen here?”
Leo hesitated for an instant. “Nothing much.”
“Which means that something did happen. Let me see if I can guess what it was. Did you by any chance hear a raven croak?”
Leo stared. “What on earth made you say that?”
Biggles smiled. “I thought one might have come this way.”
“You must be clairvoyant. As a matter of fact I did hear a raven.”
“What did you do?”
“I went in and got the rifle hoping it would show itself.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No.”
“Did you go out to look for it?”
“Just a little way.”
“Good thing for you perhaps. I told you to stay indoors when that damn bird was about.”
Leo frowned. “Isn’t that carrying precaution rather far?”
“It wouldn’t be if the bird was also carrying a twenty-two and saw you first,” answered Biggles grimly.
“Well, apparently it didn’t see me and I didn’t see it, so no harm came to either of us. By the way, I’ve found the key of the chapel. I had a job to turn the lock. No one has been in the place for years. When we’ve had something to eat I’ll show it to you.”
“Good. I shall be interested to see it. In these old places one never knows what one is going to find.”
Leo laughed. “You won’t find a raven’s nest. But here’s Falkner to say lunch is on. Let’s go in.”
“I’ll just slip up to my room first; I’ll be with you in a moment,” said Biggles, taking the opportunity to remove from his pocket the glass he had collected at the inn. Wrapping it carefully in a clean handkerchief he put it in his bag. This done he rejoined the others in the dining-room.
During lunch he said to Leo: “I’m sorry to refer to a subject which may be painful to you but there is a question I should have asked you before this. When the post-mortem examination was made on Charles was the bullet that killed him removed from his body?”
“No. If it was I was told nothing about it.”
“Why wasn’t it removed?”
“I suppose that was thought unnecessary. An X-ray photograph revealed where it was. It was assumed to be a bullet fired by accident from his own rifle.”
“In view of what we know now that was an oversight on the part of somebody. Had the bullet been removed, and compared with one fired from Charles’ rifle, a ballistic expert would have been able to say the two bullets had not been fired through the same barrel.”
“Proving that Charles had been murdered.”
“Of course.”
Leo made a little grimace. “It’s a bit too late to raise that question now.”
Biggles agreed. “I asked the question in case something else happened and we were hard pushed to find evidence. Forget it.”
With that the subject was dropped.
Lunch finished Leo said: “Let’s go and have a look at the chapel. I must say it’s very decent of you to go to all this trouble. I only hope I’m not wasting your time.”
“And I hope we’re not wasting yours,” returned Biggles, as they rose from the table. “Later, Bertie is going to Scotland Yard for me, but there’s no immediate hurry,” he added.
After leading the way through a succession of gloomy corridors, decorated here and there with antiquated weapons and odd pieces of armour, Leo pulled up before a small but massive door set in a pointed Gothic arch. He produced the big old-fashioned key, turned it with some difficulty and putting a shoulder against the door pushed it open wide enough for them to enter. “Here you are,” he said lightly. “I don’t think you’ll find much here.”
The deep gloom of the little vaulted chamber into which they all walked had the quality of a sepulchre. The stone walls struck chill and dank. It was difficult to see anything; and in fact there was little enough to see after their eyes had become adjusted to the darkness. One or two benches comprised the only furniture, apart from what was obviously a small wooden altar since it was surmounted by a cross. This was under the only window, a small square of stained glass so encrusted with dust and cobwebs that daylight could hardly penetrate it. For this reason it was impossible to see what it represented, if anything.
“Shades of Rufus! What a fug,” breathed Biggles. “Why don’t you open up these places and let in some fresh air?”
“With only one old man about the place? If they were opened up, as you call it, they’d have to be done out once in a while. When Falkner dies I shall be here on my own. What servant, unless he had been born here, would stay five minutes in an old barrack like this? I believe in letting sleeping dust lie. This is all right with me. This place is never used, and probably never will be used.”
“Well, you were right when you said there wasn’t much to see,” went on Biggles. “We should be able to see better if that window wasn’t clogged up with dirt. What’s the subject, anyway?”
“I seem to recall a knight in armour with a halo on his head. Anyway, that’s what I made it out to be. As you can see for yourself, that window hasn’t been cleaned for years, perhaps hundreds of years. It wasn’t quite as bad as that the last time I saw it.”
“I wonder why it was allowed to get into such a state?”
“The reason may have been because to get at it one would have to climb up on the altar, and some people might hesitate to do that.”
“That may be the answer. Suppose we have a look at it. Gould you find a long-handled broom, a mop, or something of that sort, so that we could brush off the worst of the muck. That should give us enough light to see what we’re doing.”
“Is it worthwhile going to all that trouble?”
“It might be. One never knows. On a job of this sort one can’t afford to skip anything.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” said Leo, without enthusiasm. He went off.
A few minutes later he returned carrying a soft household broom that had lost more than a few of its bristles.
“That’ll do,” said Biggles, taking it.
Pulling up one of the benches as close as he could get it he stood on it and started scrubbing the window with up and down strokes. Much of the accumulation that made the glass practically opaque was loose and fell away, with the result that the picture formed by the coloured pieces of glass was revealed—enough for their purpose, anyway. It showed a knight in armour with his shield at rest. On the shield was his coat of arms.
“Why,” burst out Leo, “that’s the same device we saw on that piece of vellum in the chest.”
“Does that surprise you?” asked Biggles evenly.