“I rather guessed that.”
“Thought you might.” A minute later, when the narrow tree-lined track through which they were threading their way divided, she pointed with her riding-crop to the right fork. “See that sign? It says ‘To Holm.’ So we take the left.”
“Wasn’t your uncle a general?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You inherit his strategy!”
“Let’s pray that it works!”
By the time Earnshaw and Chater reached the spot, they had vanished. Chater swore.
“This is the last bloody hunt I’ll ever attend!” he announced prophetically.
Chapter XIV
The Finding of Z
Shortly before tea-time, two cars drew up before Bragley Court. One contained the Rowes and Edyth Fermoy-Jones, the other, Lord and Lady Aveling, Zena Wilding and Mrs. Chater. The second car had been telephoned for from Churleigh, where the eight had met and lunched, and grooms were bringing back the four vacated horses.
It had, Lord Aveling considered, been a very disappointing affair. He had been vaguely conscious of the many little shadows that brooded inside Bragley Court, and he had hoped that the crisp autumn air and the atmosphere of what he designated as clean English sport would dissipate them. But the shadows had increased, and he felt them all around him now as he stepped into the hall, its brooding silence abruptly broken by the voices of the returned wanderers.
First there had been Anne. Why had she chosen this particular week-end to be so trying? Nothing definite, you know—just little things—and going off like that with Taverley hanging on to her heels! She should have stuck to the party. For a little longer, at any rate.
And then, Zena Wilding. It hadn’t been her fault, naturally, that she had tired so soon and turned faint. As a matter of fact, he had been really concerned about her. But he had had to restrain his complete sympathy in public, with his wife watching him—how suspicious women were!—and when he had suggested giving her lunch and seeing her home, too many others had accepted the excuse to desert the hunt also and return. Mrs. Chater was a blight on any company!
As for the hunt itself, none of them had had even a glimpse of the stag.
But Mr. Rowe was enthusiastic as he entered the spacious hall and reacted to its pleasant warmth. Now it was all over, he could praise the memory; at the time he had struggled not to let his toes freeze. “Unlike you, Mrs. Jones,” he had said, “I’ve a poor circulation!” Miss Fermoy-Jones had not enjoyed the joke, since he had deleted the hyphen and was now giving her a husband.
“Well, a thoroughly enjoyable day!” he exclaimed, racing for the fire and rubbing his hands. “After all, who wants to see the animal? You can see all you care to at the Zoo! But the ride—well, there you are! Don’t you agree, my dear?”
“Very,” replied his wife absently.
“Is Mr. Chater back yet?” Mrs. Chater asked a butler. Her flat, harsh voice grated.
“Not yet, madam,” replied the butler.
“Any of the others?” inquired Lord Aveling.
“No, my Lord, you are the first.”
Lord Aveling paused for an instant, then turned to Zena. He was in the position of many men of his age. He had never been unfaithful, and he was beginning to wonder why; and the wonder sometimes made conversation with pretty women difficult. He found it particularly difficult with Zena Wilding, because, by the lightest change in the balance of his mind, he knew it could become so dangerously simple.
“I hope you are feeling better, Miss Wilding?” he said.
“Oh, yes, much better!” she exclaimed.
“We shall all feel better when we’ve changed,” remarked Lady Aveling. “I’m sure we’re all longing to.”
There was a movement towards the stairs. Lord Aveling did not join in it.
“Aren’t you coming?” asked his wife.
“Yes, in a minute—I’ll go and have a look at Foss. Oh, by the way,” he added, turning again to the butler, “are Mr. Pratt and Mr. Bultin in?”
“They are both out, my Lord,” answered the butler.
He moved towards the ante-room, and nearing the door he suddenly stopped short. Zena had not yet begun to ascend the stairs, and she was standing only a few feet away from him. With his eyes on the door, he was recalling that on the previous night she had stood in exactly the same spot when he had suggested taking her into the ante-room to see the Chinese vase. For the first time he wondered whether Foss had been asleep.
John looked up as Lord Aveling entered, gladly laying down his book. He had passed too quiet a day.
“Well, we have returned, Mr. Foss,” announced Lord Aveling. “I hope you have not been very bored?”
“Not in the least bored, sir,” answered John. “Much too comfortable! But Masefield would have saved me, in any case.”
“Ah, Masefield,” said Lord Aveling, glancing at the book. “A fine writer. But you’ve had some other company as well?”
“Mr. Bultin looked in to see me this morning.”
“And Mr. Pratt?”
“No, only Mr. Bultin.”
“Not Pratt? Well, I dare say we must blame the artistic temperament. He said he would be working on his pictures, and he has probably spent the day in the studio. I suppose Bultin interviewed you on the subject of your accident?”
John detected no real interest behind the question. His host’s mind seemed to be elsewhere, and his eyes were roaming.
“Yes, he did mention the accident,” answered John, “but perhaps I didn’t encourage him.” As Lord Aveling looked vaguely inquiring, he added in explanation: “He was only here a couple of minutes just after you left. Did you have a good day, sir?”
“A good day? Ah, the hunt. Yes, very enjoyable, though none of my own party saw much of it. I dare say some of the others saw more—they’ll tell us later.”
“You’re not all back yet, then?”
“No.”
“Is—?”
John stopped abruptly. He had been on the point of asking whether Mrs. Leveridge had returned, and he just saved himself in time from the foolishness. It occurred to him that possibly Lord Aveling would not have heard the question even if he had got a little further with it, for the roaming eyes had now come to rest at a cabinet and were regarding it contemplatively. On top of the cabinet was an oriental vase.
“That is one of my show pieces, Mr. Foss,” said Lord Aveling, casually. “Are you a connoisseur, by any chance?”
“Completely ignorant,” answered John.
“Then you can’t guess where that vase comes from?”
The tone was still casual, but John was conscious that the question was deliberately put.
“The subtle devil!” he thought. “If I guess right, after having admitted ignorance, he’ll guess that my knowledge came last night through a door!” Aloud he guessed, obligingly, “India?”
Lord Aveling was not subtle enough to hide his relief. He laughed, for the last time that day.
“No, China,” he exclaimed. “Han Dynasty. Two thousand years old. Well, I must go and change.”
He turned, then started slightly. The sight of Leicester Pratt in a doorway would not ordinarily have upset one, but as the artist stood there now, with mud on his trousers, a tear in his right sleeve, and untidy hair, he sent a chill through both men. It was the expression in his eye, however, rather than the condition of his clothes that caused the chill.
“Is anything the matter?” demanded Lord Aveling sharply.
“More than a dead dog,” answered Pratt. “A dead man.”
“Good God!” gasped Lord Aveling.
“Quite dead,” said Pratt. “Still, I suppose one sends for a doctor to confirm the obvious. Shall I phone Dr. Pudrow?”
“Yes! No, I will! But wait a moment! Where is he? Who found him—?”
&nb
sp; “He’s in the little wood at the bottom of the quarry.”
“Did you find him?” asked Lord Aveling, glancing at the artist’s clothes.
“With Bultin’s assistance.”
“Fallen down there, eh?” Pratt did not reply. John looked at him suddenly. “Do you know who the man is?”
“He is not one of your guests,” replied Pratt. “But—”
He paused, hesitating.
“Please go on, Pratt,” insisted Lord Aveling.
“Bultin has an idea that three of your guests could identify him.”
“Really? Who?”
“May I leave that to Bultin?”
“Where is Bultin?”
“In the quarry. He said he would wait there, while I returned to report.”
Lord Aveling nodded and left the room. For a few moments Pratt and John remained silent. Then John said bluntly:
“Unpleasant business.”
“Very,” agreed Pratt.
“It seems to me I started a pack of trouble when I came here.”
“You’re not guilty. The pack of trouble was due.”
“What’s that mean?”
Pratt shrugged his shoulders. Vaguely, across the hall, Lord Aveling could be heard telephoning.
“If it means anything, which it may not, it means there will be more trouble,” remarked Pratt, taking out his cigarette-case. “Have one?”
“Thanks.”
As they lit up Pratt went on: “I am an artist, Mr. Foss, and the reason sensitive people do not like my work is because I see what is behind the skin—and what I see, I paint.”
“We’re more than just skeletons,” said John.
“You have expressed an unfortunate truth,” answered Pratt dryly. “Skeletons, left all alone with their bones, would be quite harmless. I did not cause the death of our friend in the quarry—I never saw him in a live state, to my knowledge—yet, because I am more than my skeleton, a turn of the wheel might hang me for it.” John stared at him. “I should object, of course—but, do you know, I think I should also get some amusement out of it. As Bernard Shaw has pointed out, we are all born under the death sentence, so the time and the form may be mere details.”
“Will you tell me something?” asked John.
“Probably not,” smiled Pratt. “Still, there’s no harm trying.”
“How did you and Bultin come to find this man?”
“We did not wander in the wood to gather buttercups and daisies. We found him by looking for him.”
“Good Lord!”
“So waste no more time, young man, but ring up the police.”
John frowned.
“Do you think I’m pumping you?” he demanded.
“I’m sure you’re not,” replied Pratt. “That’s not how I’d paint you. You’ve a special reason for asking questions.”
“Have I?”
“Your window here looks across the lawn. And, if blinds are drawn, one still has ears.”
Pratt did not underrate himself. He saw many things. But this was a chance shot, and he gathered from John’s expression that he had scored a bull.
“I believe I may presently be pumping you,” he said. “But finish your questions, if you have any more.”
“The next one is fairly obvious.”
“So obvious that I can guess it. Why were we looking for the corpse?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, strictly speaking, we did not know it would be a corpse, but we had a special reason for being interested in this alleged poacher who killed Haig last night—”
“What’s that?” cried John.
Pratt raised his eyebrows.
“Didn’t you know that the dog had been killed?”
“No one told me!”
With Pratt’s eyes upon him, John tried to readjust his mind to this fresh knowledge. He guessed the time Haig had been killed as he recalled his dream of broken glass and barking, and as he remembered that the barking had suddenly ceased. Round about one a.m. But other things had occurred round about one a.m., and he could not decide, since they involved many people, whether this was the moment to reveal those other things, or, even if it was, whether Pratt was the person to whom they should be revealed.
“It may help you to make up your mind,” said Pratt with uncanny intuition, “if I tell you a little more. You know I am painting a picture of Lord Aveling’s daughter?” John nodded. “Yesterday evening, at a quarter to seven, I went to the studio and found the picture ruined. This morning, at a quarter past seven, I went to the studio again and found a window broken. Without knowing it, I had locked somebody in on the night before, and he had escaped, and, apparently, killed a dog. Well, that broadly explains my interest.”
“You mean, the person who was in the studio, and who killed Haig, spoilt your picture?”
“Not quite. I mean, that person may have spoilt my picture. There’s no proof yet. But if the proof turns up, and if the dead man in the quarry is the same man, shall I have to stand my trial for a crime of revenge? Quite between ourselves, Mr. Foss,” added Pratt, “I haven’t killed anybody, and never saw our corpse in a live state. It would be bad luck to be hanged for a justifiable murder without having had the actual fun of committing it!”
The door was pushed open, and Aveling returned.
“I got on to Dr. Pudrow’s house, after the usual delay,” he said, “and found he was already on his way here to see Mrs. Morris. But we won’t wait for him. Come along, Pratt. I must have a look at this fellow.” He did not move immediately, however. Something was still on his mind. “I wonder whether we ought to get in touch with the police?”
“That perhaps could wait for Dr. Pudrow,” suggested Pratt. “It will depend on the doctor’s opinion, I should say, and also on whether the man remains unidentified.”
“Yes, you’re right,” agreed Aveling, “especially as Bultin is going to give me the names of three of my guests who know him—”
“Who may know him,” corrected Pratt. “I think I’ll change my mind and anticipate Bultin. The guests are Mr. and Mrs. Chater and Miss Wilding.”
Lord Aveling looked disturbed.
“Are they all back?” asked Pratt.
“All but Mr. Chater,” answered Lord Aveling, “and the ladies are changing. We won’t worry them just yet.”
Something ran by the window. They turned their heads and stared in surprise. It was a riderless horse, making for its stable.
Chapter XV
In the Quarry
The horse galloped across the lawn. Its homing instinct had been diverted a few moments previously by a man who, in an attempt to catch it, had sprung at it ineffectively from the roadside, causing it to jump a hedge into a flower-bed; but it was not to be kept from home, hay, and comfort, and it was finding its way back to the stables by an unaccustomed route.
A gardener caught it finally near the stable door, and was soothing it when Lord Aveling and Pratt arrived.
“Chater’s!” exclaimed Aveling, recognising it immediately.
“Then I suppose Chater will follow on Shanks’s pony,” remarked Pratt.
“If he hasn’t had a bad fall,” answered Aveling.
He gave an instruction to the gardener—the grooms were all on duty, and had not yet returned—and then made for the path leading to the wood in the rear of the grounds.
“This seems to be a day of misfortunes,” he commented to Pratt, striding at his side.
“Yes, but I’m afraid the misfortunes began yesterday,” replied Pratt. “This is the time to tell you of another.”
As Lord Aveling heard for the first time of the ruined picture, his expression grew more and more unhappy. He had always prided himself on his expression. It signified that he kept on top of circumstances, no matter what those circumstances were,
and recently they had been particularly trying. Ambitious enterprises had received a check. Money was tight, owing to unfortunate investments, but a baron with ambitions must not show any signs of poverty; he must go on spending. A few months previously Anne had refused to marry a man who would have brought new wealth and position, if no brain, to the family. Now she was threatening to adopt the same attitude towards another eligible candidate. True, Sir James Earnshaw was double her age, but he would become a force by joining the Conservative Party, while Aveling’s own force would be augmented through his assistance towards the happy political event.
Tact, dignity, patience, courage, and the well-known expression of courteous solidarity had been used to fight these troubles, and Lord Aveling had even established a necessary but unpleasant association with a retired sausage merchant without, so far, too much embarrassment. It was mainly due to the Rowes that Edyth Fermoy-Jones owed her invitation this week-end. He had thought the Rowes would like to meet a well-known authoress (who had been promised an invitation to Bragley Court in an incautious moment), and that the well-known authoress would occupy most of her time impressing the Rowes.
But now, to his consternation and humiliation, Lord Aveling was oppressed with a hideous sensation that circumstances were getting the upper hand, and that this was the week-end selected by Fate to prove the point. Each new trouble attacked a nervous system that had previously refused to yield to the demands made upon it; each new trial became invested with exaggerated significance. He found he was battling against a nameless panic from which Zena Wilding seemed the only escape. Why Zena Wilding? He had asked himself that question. Would any pretty woman, not too young and not too old, have sufficed his mood, or had he really detected that she, like himself, was fighting difficulties behind a mask? He had also asked himself what he wanted of Zena Wilding. The usual thing—or just to be a little boy again, and lay his tired head in her lap?
He did not know. All he knew was that Zena Wilding, whose companionship he craved, was not dissipating his panic, but adding to it.
And now this dead fellow…and this ruined picture…
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