by John Creasey
‘I suppose so,’ said Palfrey.
‘I am afraid I cannot think clearly about anything except my daughter’s accident,’ Morne went on.
‘I didn’t know she was your daughter,’ said Palfrey.
‘Oh, yes.’ Morne stepped into the smaller room, where Drusilla and one of the well-dressed women and the thick-set man were sitting in front of the fire, which was now blazing. Huge logs were crackling, and brandy glasses were warming in front of the flames. ‘So much has happened so quickly, I had no time to introduce you.’ Morne was very formal as he spoke to the woman, who looked remarkably like him but was of smaller build. ‘Dinah, this is Dr. Palfrey – Dr. Palfrey, my sister, Lady Markham. My brother-in-law, Sir Claude Markham.’ He paused. ‘You must be famished, Dr. Palfrey.’
Palfrey gave a quick, diffident smile.
‘I am, rather.’
‘My sister tells me that I must try to eat,’ said Morne.
‘She is quite right.’
Morne stood for a moment with his back to the fire and studied Palfrey, who did not look an imposing figure. He was rather thin, his shoulders sloped and he had a slight stoop. His fair, silky hair was curly, and shone in the light from the chandelier. His nose was a trifle prominent and, with his full lips, created the impression of a weak chin. His large eyes looked dull.
Palfrey glanced at Drusilla.
Obviously she was puzzled by this household, probably by something which happened while he had been away with Loretta Morne. Palfrey could tell that from her manner, from the slight lift of her eyebrows. She looked warm and comfortable, however, and smiled assent when Markham suggested talking with Morne and Palfrey in the dining-room.
Little was said. Morne toyed with his food, occasionally roused himself to look after his guest, but for the most part sat brooding.
Palfrey studied him closely. The man had a magnificent forehead; his good looks were remarkable, although he was a little too fat and had a heavy jowl. His red hair waved, unruly, full of vitality. His amber eyes were shot with red. Everything about him suggested strength and perhaps an ungovernable temper.
In a different way, Markham, too, was impressive; he looked fit, and his hair was raven black; his heavy chin was shaded blue by incipient stubble. A broad nose and full lips, fine grey eyes and a broad forehead, all contrasted with Morne. He was nearly as silent as his brother-in-law. Now and again Palfrey caught Markham looking at him intently; almost, he thought, suspiciously.
‘Shall we go into the other room?’ asked Morne at last.
‘Yes,’ said Markham, getting up at once. ‘You and your wife will stay the night, Dr. Palfrey, wont you? You know what it’s like out. You probably won’t reach Corbin in the fog.’
‘Yes, it is bad,’ said Palfrey. ‘Thank you.’
Morne said: ‘I can’t think clearly. Thanks, Claude.’ He looked at Palfrey with a faint smile. ‘You will accept my apologies for my absent-mindedness, I’m sure.’
‘Of course,’ said Palfrey.
Was there something else the matter besides the girl’s fall? Was the brooding silence of the red-haired man wholly caused by that? Were those quick, penetrating glances from Markham just an expression of curiosity, or was the subject of Dr. Halsted, who had sent for him and, apparently, had forgotten to cancel the appointment, deliberately neglected? Or could they think only of the girl as she had lain moaning, with her head turning from side to side?
Lady Markham was talking to Drusilla in a soft voice.
‘Yes, since she was a child she has always gone up there and looked down; she preferred to hear the piano in the gallery. She always stood in the same spot, resting-’
‘Dinah!’ exclaimed Morne.
‘Oh, Rufus, I’m so sorry.’ She looked at him rather blankly. ‘I was just telling Mrs. Palfrey.’
‘Choose a time when I’m not here, please.’
‘Of course, Rufus!’ The woman looked a little frightened, and drew her skirts closer about her legs. Morne offered cigars, pierced one, lit it and then, without speaking, turned on his heel and went out.
‘I’m so sorry,’ murmured Lady Markham, in distress.
‘We quite understand,’ Drusilla said.
‘Such a terrible shock.’ Lady Markham looked at Palfrey. ‘My sister has collapsed, Dr. Palfrey. She has gone to her room. And poor Gerry, he is distracted, quite distracted. Ever since he was a child he had played to her and she has laughed down at him. How often I have gone into the music gallery and heard her laughing; so lovely, so happy. I’m sure she would have been perfectly happy with Gerry. I feel so sorry for him. For it to happen in such a way.’
‘It’s been a greater shock than you realize, Dinah,’ said Markham. Palfrey saw the look he gave his wife; eyebrows drawn together, a cold glint in his eyes – an angry, exasperated glance. ‘I think you’ll be wise to follow Rachel’s example and go to bed. Don’t you think so, Dr. Palfrey?’
‘It might be wise,’ said Palfrey.
‘But, Claude, our guests-’
‘Please don’t worry about us,’ said Drusilla, quickly.
‘I will come upstairs with you,’ said Markham.
He took her arm. She said good night effusively, and then meekly went away with him, leaving the Palfreys alone in the room.
The firelight danced on Drusilla’s dark hair; she looked superb in her severely-tailored suit of wine red. Palfrey watched her as she stared at the fire, following the line of her profile and the gentle fall of her throat, the line of her shoulders.
‘It’s an odd business,’ he said.
‘I hated this place before we got here,’ said Drusilla, ‘and I hate it ten times more now!’ She was quite serious. ‘I don’t know why, Sap, but there’s something-’
‘Uncanny.’
‘Have you noticed it?’
‘Yes. It isn’t imagination. Halsted not turning up gives it a really odd touch. They expected him, you know. The woman’ who opened the door thought I was Halsted, and told Morne that I was not. Now they pretend that he wasn’t due. It’s odd. And there are other things. There were no menservants about when we first arrived. The woman, presumably the housekeeper- she is. Mrs. Bardie - opened the door, but would not have done so had a footman been available. Before we got here, those men ran out. It looks as if the menservants were set on some other task. That man we saw, in front of the car, might have been a fugitive, perhaps. He was certainly a badly frightened man. In the headlights, I thought our imagination was playing us tricks and giving him the pale face, the desperate look in his eyes. I’m not so sure now. If he were running away –’.
Drusilla interrupted. ‘Aren’t you going rather fast?’
Palfrey said restlessly: ‘I don’t know. Where’s this patient Halsted wanted me to see? A man ill enough to be kept to his room, ill enough for Halsted to want another opinion, didn’t just get up and walk out. Morne says that he left this morning, and also says that he was a friend of the girl’s.’
Drusilla did not speak. Palfrey lit a cigarette and threw the match into the fire.
‘And this atmosphere – it’s fantastic! Neither Morne nor Markham spoke more than a dozen words during dinner. The only one who’s shown any inclination to talk is Lady Markham. Morne shut her up and Markham took her away.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘She said one thing which I can’t get out of my mind. “For it to happen in such a way.” Morne barked at her; Markham looked at her as if he could have murdered her. I’m not exaggerating. “For it to happen in such a way” – as if she had expected it to happen some way or other.’
‘The accident would naturally upset them,’ Drusilla said.
‘Markham isn’t upset. Markham is calm and calculating, and looks at me as if he’s trying to read my mind.’ Palfrey laughed mirthlessly. ‘Coming for a walk?’
He took her hands and pulled her up. ‘I want to look at the minstrel gallery,’ he said.
They went into the music room and found a doorway which led to a
flight of steps. The doorway was covered with thick curtains. Only a faint light shone on the stairway, and Palfrey, taking one look, said quietly: ‘That’s the way up. Will you wait here and warn me, if anyone comes?’
‘Ought you to go?’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. He smiled, and pushed aside the curtain. The steps beyond were of stone, well worn in the centre. The walls, too, were of stone and hung with tapestries, although the staircase was narrow. There were two bends, both awkward to ascend in the poor light, but at last he reached the top and stepped into the gallery itself. There were four levels, where the musician could play, each platform two yards wide, making the gallery larger than it had seemed from below.
He went to the front cautiously. He stood a few feet from the gap, looking down at Drusilla, who was near the door.
He studied the wooden balustrade. The bear carvings were beautifully done and the wood dark from oiling; it had been oiled recently. He gave it closer attention, and could see signs of wear but nothing to suggest that the wood was rotten. He went closer to the gap and there saw that the wood had powdered away, as if worm-eaten. He wished the light were better, and switched on his torch. He studied the wood closely. It was not worm-eaten, it had just rotted. He prodded, and found that it had gone soft. He walked the whole width of the gallery, running his fingers along the balustrade, but at no other point was it soft, only at the one vital spot where Loretta Morne had always leaned and laughed down at Gerry.
Drusilla turned and beckoned him.
He hurried to the staircase and down the stairs, and Palfrey pushed aside the curtain in time to see Markham striding into the room. The man stood quite still, his lips set tightly, and Palfrey did not move.
Markham said: ‘Have you been upstairs?’
‘Yes,’ murmured Palfrey. He looked abashed, but met Markham’s gaze steadily. ‘Left alone, one gets restless.’ He smiled. ‘It’s remarkably odd, isn’t it?’
‘Dr. Palfrey-’ Markham began, and then stopped himself and turned away abruptly. ‘I am sorry. We are all on edge tonight, Dr. Palfrey. Please come and sit down.’
The smaller room was warm; soon they were sitting down and smoking, and Markham was exerting himself to be friendly. He told them that Loretta, as Lady Markham had said, had made a habit of going up to the minstrel gallery whenever the piano was played. He emphasized the fact that there was nothing unusual about it.
Palfrey murmured something unintelligible.
‘I just cannot understand why Halsted failed to tell you that his patient had gone away,’ said Markham, abruptly. ‘He’s usually a most reliable fellow.’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘I’ve known him all my life.’
Markham looked at him intently. ‘Have you?’
‘School, Balliol, Guys,’ said Palfrey, nursing his knee. ‘For no one else would I have come out here. After getting his letter, my wife and I decided to take a week’s holiday and fit the visit in. Corshire isn’t our favourite holiday haunt.’
‘It’s all right on the other side of Wenlock,’ said Markham, ‘where there’s an entirely different climate. The temperature is often ten degrees higher. Remarkable, isn’t it?’ He talked freely, almost volubly, drawing a picture of the bleak, fog-ridden moor and the bogs which lay about further to the north, contrasting the scene with the sunny valleys on the south side of Wenlock Hills, which ran down to the sea and faced the broad Atlantic.
A clock struck eleven.
‘It’s getting late,’ said Drusilla.
‘I’ll show you to your room,’ said Markham. ‘Mrs. Bardie will have prepared it by now. You’re in no great hurry in the morning, I understand.’
‘None,’ said Palfrey.
‘Then take it easy,’ said Markham.
The main staircase lay to the right of the front hall. It swept round, giving an impression of the vastness of the place. The floor here was of wood, with bearskin rugs; the heads of bears appeared on the walls and on the furniture, even in the lofty room with a four-poster bed into which Markham led them. A fire was burning; comfortable easy-chairs were drawn up to it, whisky and brandy were on a fireside table, and books lay ready to hand.
Markham said good night and left them.
‘It’s a cheerful room,’ Palfrey said.
‘It’s all right now that we can shut off the rest of the house,’ said Drusilla. ‘Did you see how Markham looked at you when you came down from the gallery?’
‘He was very angry indeed.’
‘What did you see up there?’
‘Enough to make me curious,’ said Palfrey. ‘I wish I were an expert on wood. How could one tiny patch be soft enough to break while the rest was hard and firm?’
‘It could have been worm-eaten,’ said Drusilla.
‘No worm-holes.’
She sat on the side of the bed, staring at him.
She said: ‘Are you seriously suggesting that – that the balustrade was tampered with?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must be wrong! ‘
Palfrey said savagely: ‘I believe it was an attempt at murder.’
‘You can’t-’
‘I can’t prove it. I shall have a damned good try.’ He stood staring at her, frowning. ‘I don’t yet know how.’
‘I don’t see what you can do about it,’ protested Drusilla.
That’s simple. I shall tell the police.’
Drusilla could find nothing to say.
‘I’m not sure that I ought to wait until morning,’ said Palfrey. ‘But I don’t think anything can be altered. The soft wood certainly can’t be hardened. I’d better wait. And we’d better get to bed,’ he added, with a lighter note in his voice. ‘As you say, my sweet, I may be entirely wrong, and I hope I am.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Drusilla.
She stopped at the sound of a tap on the door. Palfrey looked round and the tap came again. ‘Come in,’ he called, and stood waiting expectantly.
Morne appeared, still fully dressed. His forehead was furrowed; the hand by his side was clenched, as if he were exerting himself to retain his composure. He looked at Palfrey without speaking, and closed the door behind him. He walked to the fireplace slowly, steadily, then turned and stood with his back to it. He was trying to speak, but the words would not come. Something in his manner was frightening. Drusilla looked sharply at Palfrey, who stood grave-faced by the door.
At last Morne said: ‘I am sorry to behave like this, Dr. Palfrey; my sister has reminded me that a Dr. Palfrey won some renown in Europe during the war.’ He paused. ‘He was engaged on Secret Service work. Are you that Palfrey?’
Palfrey waved his hand. ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’
‘Why did you come here?’
Palfrey said: ‘Halsted asked me to come for a consultation.’
‘Will you give me your word that there is no other reason for your visit?’ demanded Morne. ‘I am serious, Dr. Palfrey. It is a matter of great importance. Have you told me the truth?’
2: THE BAYING OF DOGS
Palfrey eyed the man levelly as he replied: ‘Risking considerable dislocation of my work, I agreed to come here to see Dr. Halsted’s patient. The patient has disappeared. I had no other purpose in coming, and I am sorry that the weather prevents me from leaving tonight.’
Morne said: ‘No other purpose?’
‘None at all. The possibility wouldn’t occur to you if you weren’t overwrought,’ said Palfrey. ‘You ought to get to bed,’
After a pause, Morne said: ‘Why do you say that the patient has disappeared?’
‘Hasn’t he? And hasn’t Halsted?’
Drusilla raised a hand, as if to remonstrate with him. Palfrey deliberately avoided catching her eye. Morne raised both clenched hands in front of him.
‘I did not know the patient was going to leave. I was out this morning when he left. My daughter told me that he had gone. I know nothing more about it than that, Dr. Palfrey.’
‘I am concerned about a
great deal that has happened here.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
Palfrey said deliberately: ‘If your daughter dies, in my opinion it will be a matter for police investigation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I think the wood of the gallery was tampered with,’ said Palfrey.
‘What grounds have you for saying that?’
‘An inspection of the wood of the balustrade,’ said Palfrey. ‘Have you inspected it?’
‘No.’
‘Will you do so with me?’
‘I will,’ said Morne. He moved at once towards the door.
In the gallery, Palfrey indicated the soft wood. Morne examined it closely, giving it his whole attention.
Palfrey said: ‘No other part of the rail is soft like that. The rest has been properly oiled. The first thought that sprang to my mind was that the wood was worm-eaten. That would be unusual – if this part were touched, other parts would be also – but it was possible. But there are no worm-holes; nothing suggests that the wood just rotted.’
‘How could it be softened?’ demanded Morne.
‘I don’t know. I only know that it was. The police will consult experts.’
‘I see.’ Abruptly, Morne went down. At the foot of the steps he turned, stretched up just inside the staircase, and took something from a ledge in the wall. Then, to Palfrey’s surprise, he pulled a door to; the door had been flush with the wall behind the curtains, and Palfrey had not seen it before.
The ‘something’ was a key. Morne locked the door and put the key into his pocket.
‘I shall telephone the police at once,’ he said.
Morne went into the next room and telephoned to Corbin Police Headquarters.
‘I’m glad you’ve done it,’ said Palfrey, as he rang off.
‘I’ am glad you prompted me,’ said Morne. He hesitated, and then went on in a voice filled with pain: ‘This was the third accident to befall my daughter in as many months. I did not wish to believe the obvious – that someone was attempting to murder her. I am glad you forced the issue.’