"All right," he muttered, looking away from her. "Honestly, it wasn't my fault today. I didn't mean even to go into the pub, but…'
"I know," she said. "You met a chap who wouldn't let you off. I've heard it before."
Chapter Two
Quite a short drive brought Frank Amberley into Upper Nettlefold, a small country town some ten miles from Carchester. His original annoyance received a spur from the knowledge that if he had not previously ignored the turning to the left off the Pittingly Road he would not only have arrived at Greythorne in time for a belated dinner, but he would also have escaped running into a nasty and probably troublesome murder case.
"And why the devil did I let her go?" he demanded aloud.
No answer was forthcoming. He scowled. "Dam' fool!" he said.
He really did not know what had prompted him to leave the woman standing there in the road. He was not susceptible, and although her brusque self-possession had amused him he had not been attracted by her. A sulky-looking wench! The sort that would stick at nothing. But she hadn't done that murder, all the same. He ought to have taken her into the police station of course. If she didn't actually shoot the man she knew something about it. No disguising that fact from one who had abundant opportunity of observing crime every working day in the year. At the same time if He had given her up to the police what chance would she have had? The thing looked pretty black. Given a little more data (and he had no doubt there was plenty to be found) he could make a nice damning case for the Grown Himself.
But that wasn't his business; his duty had been quite clear. Not that that aspect of the case was likely to worry him. But if he wasn't careful he would find himselfin the unenviable position of accessory after the fact. And all because of what? He was damned if he knew.
He ran into Upper Nettlefold and drove to the police station, an old red-brick building in the Market Square. A young constable was there, the telephone receiver held to his ear, and an expression of weary boredom on his face. He glanced at Mr. Amberley without interest and said into the mouthpiece that nothing had been heard yet, but he was doing all he could about it. After which he listened for a moment, repeated the gist of his former remarks and hung up the receiver.
"Yes, sir?" he said, entering something on the sheet before him.
Mr. Amberley was busy filling a pipe. "Sergeant Gubbins about?" he inquired.
The young constable admitted that Sergeant Gubbins was about.
"I'll see him," said Mr. Amberley, striking a match.
The constable looked at him with disfavour. The hard eyes glanced up over the bowl of the pipe. "Rather quickly," said Mr. Amberley.
"I don't know about that, sir," said the constable stiffly. "I'll speak to the sergeant."
He withdrew, and Mr. Amberley strolled over to the wall to inspect a poster describing the delights in store for all those willing to purchase a ticket for the annual police concert.
The door at the end of the room which had the word PRIVATE painted forbiddingly on the frosted glass opened to admit the egress of a burly individual with very fierce moustache and a red face. "Well, sir, what can I do for you?" said this personage in a voice calculated to strike awe into the hearts of malefactors.
Mr. Amberley turned. "Evening, Sergeant," he said.
The sergeant abandoned his severity. "Well, Mr. Amberley, sir!" he said. "I haven't seen you down in these parts, not for six months. I hope I see you well, sir? Anything I can do for you?"
"Oh, no!" said Mr. Amberley. "But I thought you'd like to know there's a dead man on the Pittingly Road."
The constable, who had gone back to his place by the desk, gasped at this, but the sergeant took it in good part.
"You will have your joke, sir," he said indulgently.
"Yes," said Mr. Amberley. "But this isn't my joke. You'd better send someone along. I'm at Greythorne when you want me."
The smile faded. "You're not serious, sir?" said the sergeant.
"Perfectly. Sober, too. A man in an Austin Seven, shot through the chest. Very messy."
"Murder!" said the sergeant. "Good Lord! Here, sir, just a moment! Where did you say you found him?"
Mr. Amberley returned to the desk and demanded a sheet of paper. Supplied with this he drew a rough diagram. "Where that accursed place Pittingly is I don't know, but the car is approximately at this point, about a mile from the turning into this town. I stopped to ask the way to Greythorne and found the fellow was dead. Probably murdered. I'd come with you, but I'm an hour late for dinner already."
"That's all right, sir. You'll be at Greythorne for a day or two, I take it? There'll be an inquest - but I don't have to tell you that. Get on to Carchester, Wilkins. You didn't happen to notice anything particular, did you, sir? Didn't pass anyone on the road?"
"No. It's pretty foggy, though. The man wasn't cold when I touched him, if that's any use to you. Good night."
"Good night, sir, and thank you."
The constable held out the telephone receiver, and while the sergeant reported to headquarters he stood rubbing his chin and staring at the door which had swung to behind Mr. Amberley. As the sergeant hung up the receiver he said blankly: "Well, he's a cool customer and no mistake."
"That's Mr. Frank Amberley, Sir Humphrey's nephew," said the sergeant. "He's a very clever young man, that's what he is."
"Walks in here as bold as brass talking about dead men on the road like as if they was as common as dandelions," said the disapproving constable.
"So they are to him," replied the sergeant severely. "If you ever read the papers, my lad, you'd know all about him. He's a barrister. Going a long way, he is, by all accounts."
"Well, he can't go too far for me," said the constable. "I don't like him, Sergeant, and that's a fact."
"You send Harper in to me and stop mooning around the place," commanded the sergeant. "There's plenty don't like Mr. Amberley, but that isn't going to bother him."
Meanwhile Frank Amberley's car had shot off in the direction of the High Street. From Upper Nettlefold he had no doubt of his way and he reached Greythorne, a substantial stone house standing in grounds that ran down to the river Nettle, in little more than ten minutes.
He was met in the hall by his cousin, a mischievous damsel of eighteen, who demanded to know what had happened to him.
He pulled off his coat and cast Miss Matthews a withering glance. "Your short way," he said scathingly.
Felicity giggled. "You are an ass, Frank. Did you get lost?"
"Very." He turned as his aunt came out into the hall. "Sorry, Aunt Marion. Not my fault. Am I too late for dinner?"
Lady Matthews embraced him and said vaguely: "Dear Frank! Dreadfully late, and a cheese souffle! Darling, tell somebody about Frank. Oh, here is Jenkins! Jenkins, Mr. Amberley has arrived."
She smiled charmingly upon her nephew and drifted away again towards the drawing room. Amberley grinned and called after her: "Aunt Marion, need I change?"
"Change, dear boy? No, of course not. You haven't lost your luggage, have you?"
"No, but it's past nine."
"Dreadful, my dear. We were afraid of an accident."
Felicity tugged at her cousin's sleeve. "Frank, you couldn't have got lost for a whole hour! Own up! You started late!"
"You're a little beast, Felicity. Let me go, I must have a wash."
He came downstairs again five minutes later and was escorted by Felicity to the dining room. While he ate she sat with her elbows on the table, propping her chin in her hands.
"The ball," she announced, "is on Wednesday." Frank groaned. "Did you bring a fancy dress?" Felicity said anxiously.
"I did."
"What is it?" demanded Felicity, agog with female interest.
"Mephistopheles. Suits my style of beauty."
She was doubtful. "I don't really mind about that," she informed him. "You see, I'm going as a Powder-Puff, and you won't suit my style at all."
"God forbid. A Powder-Puff! Look here
, what is this ball about, and why, and where?"
Her brown eyes opened to their widest extent. "Good Lord, didn't Mummy tell you in her letter?"
He laughed. "Aunt Marion's letters are exactly like her conversation - the important bits left out."
"Well, it's at Norton Manor. Joan's engaged."
"Joan?"
"You know! Joan Fountain. You must have met her here."
"Fair girl with eyes? Who's the man?"
"Oh, rather an angel. His name's Corkran. He's got pots of money, I believe. Anyway they're engaged, and the ball is sort of in honour of it."
"Half a minute. What's this chap's Christian name?"
"Corkran? Tony. Why?"
Frank raised his brows. "Old Corks! I thought it must be. He was at school with me."
"How delightful for him!" said Miss Matthews politely.
At that moment the door opened and a tall, thin man with white hair came in. Frank got up. "Evening, Uncle."
Sir Humphrey shook hands. "Well, Frank? I've only just heard that you'd arrived. What kept you?"
"Felicity, sir. She told me a short way from town. It wasn't."
"So the great Mr. Amberley got lost! The mighty are fallen, Frank."
"Fraid so, sir."
"The whole truth is, he didn't start in time," said Felicity indignantly. "And it's no use saying you were busy, Frank, because I know quite well you're - what is it barristers get into in the summer, Daddy? Recess, or something. I say, Daddy, he says he knows Joan's young man."
Sir Humphrey, observing that his nephew had come to the end of his repast, pushed the port decanter towards him. "Indeed? A singularly brainless young man, one would be led to infer, but I believe of excellent family. These fancy-dress festivities, I understood, are to celebrate the engagement. Felicity is very friendly with Miss Fountain."
It was apparent to Mr. Amberley that the friendship did not meet with Sir Humphrey's whole-hearted approval. He searched his brain for data concerning the Fountains and found it void.
Felicity was called away to the telephone. Frank cracked and peeled a nut. "That wasn't entirely true."
"What was not entirely true?" inquired Sir Humphrey, refilling his glass.
"Oh - my losing my way. I did, but not for an hour. I stumbled on a murder."
"God bless my soul!" ejaculated Sir Humphrey, feeling for his pince-nez. He fixed them on his bony nose and regarded his nephew in great astonishment. "Who's been murdered?"
"I've no idea. Middle-aged man respectably dressed. Couldn't place him. Might have been a tradesman. Something like that. He was in an Austin Seven on the Pittingly Road."
"Tut, tut, tut!" said Sir Humphrey, much perturbed. "Shocking! Shocking! No doubt a case of these road bandits."
"It might have been," replied his nephew noncommittally.
"Better say nothing to your aunt and cousin," recommended Sir Humphrey. "Dear me, how very unpleasant! Murders at our very gates! I do not know what the world is coming to."
He was still tut-tutting when they presently joined Lady Matthews in the drawing room, and when his wife inquired mildly what had happened to disturb him his disclaimers were so earnest that she at once turned to Frank and told him that he had better make a clean breast of it.
Having a more correct opinion of his aunt's nerves than Sir Humphrey had, Frank made no bones about it.
"Horrid happenings, Aunt. I've been finding dc;id bodies. One, to be precise."
Lady Matthews displayed no particular alarm. "Good gracious, Frank; not here, I trust?"
"No, on the Pittingly Road. Someone's been murdered. Uncle thinks probably by bandits."
"Dear me!" said his aunt. "So mediaeval. On the Pittingly Road too. Such an improbable place to choose. My dear, did they give you anything to eat?"
"Yes, thanks; excellent dinner."
Sir Humphrey, always a Perfect Husband, patted his wife's hand soothingly. "You must not allow this to worry you, Marion."
"No, my dear, why should I? Very disagreeable for poor Frank though. I hope we haven't got a gang of desperate criminals near us. Terrible if one's own chauffeur turned out to be the leader of a sinister organisation."
"Ludlow?" said Sir Humphrey, taken aback. "My love, we have had Ludlow in our employment for over ten years! What in the world makes you suppose that he can have anything to do with this shocking affair?"
"I'm sure he hasn't," replied his wife. "I find that nothing of that nature ever really happens to one. But in this book' - she dived her hand among the sofa-cushions and produced a novel in a lurid jacket - "it was the chauffeur. So unnerving."
Sir Humphrey put on his pince-nez again and took the book. "The Stalking Death," he read. "My dear, surely this doesn't entertain you?"
"Not very much," she admitted. "The nice man turned out to be a villain after all. I think that's so unfair when one had become quite fond of him. Frank, did I tell you to bring a fancy dress?"
"You did, Aunt. Who are these Fountains? New?"
"Oh no, not new. Surely you remember old Mr. Fountain? Though why you should I can't imagine, for he went nowhere. He's dead."
"Is that why he went nowhere?" inquired Frank.
"Not at all, dear. How should I know his movements now? How long has jasper Fountain been dead, Humphrey?"
Two years, or rather longer if my memory serves me."
"I expect it does. I never liked the man but at least one never saw very much of him, and Felicity did not insist on becoming intimate with that girl - not that I have anything against her. Far from it; I am sure she is charming, but I always disliked Basil and I daresay I always shall. How is your mother, dear boy?"
"All right, and sent her love. Don't side-track, Aunt. Who is Basil and why don't you like him?"
Lady Matthews looked up at him with her gentle smile. "Don't you find, Frank, that one never knows why one dislikes a person?"
Mr. Amberley considered this gravely. "I think I usually do know," he pronounced at length.
"Ah, so masculine," murmured his aunt helplessly. "I can't explain."
Sir Humphrey, who had retired into the evening paper, emerged to say: "My dear Marion, don't make a mystery out of Fountain. There's nothing wrong with the fellow at all. I can't say I care very much for him, but I am possibly old-fashioned - dear me, Felicity, pray shut that door! There's a direct draught."
Felicity obeyed. "Sorry. That was Joan. She's had a ghoulish day. Whatever do you think, Mummy? Her fancy dress had come, and there was a bill with it, and Basil saw it and kicked up a frightful row, and said he wouldn't pay. Anyone'd think he was going bankrupt. Jean says he's always groaning about money, which is too absurd when he must be rolling."
Sir Humphrey looked over the top of his glasses. "You should not encourage your friend to talk disloyally about her brother, Felicity," he said.
"He's only a "step"," Felicity said impenitently. "And pretty moth-eaten at that. However, Joan's managed to smooth him down over the frock. I expect he's comforting himself with the thought that he won't have to support her at all much longer."
"Do you mean to tell me that you've been all this time telephoning to one person?" interrupted Frank. "Yes, of course. Why not? I say, by the way, Joan says she tried to make Basil be Mephistopheles, because of her and Tony being Marguerite and Faust, only he wouldn't. Rather fortunate. I told her I was bringing one who really looks the part. She was thrilled."
"Do you mind elucidating this mystery?" said Frank. "It's beginning to get on my nerves. Who is Basil?"
Joan's step-brother, idiot."
"I had gathered that. Is he the present owner of the manor?"
"Yes, of course. He inherited everything when old Mr. Fountain popped off."
Sir Humphrey again looked up, mildly pained. "Died, my dear."
"All right, Daddy. Died. He was Mr. Fountain's nephew, and as Mr. Fountain hadn't got any children of his own, he was the heir. Quite simple."
"Oh yes, jasper Fountain had children of his o
wn," interposed her mother. "That is to say, one. He died about three years ago. I remember seeing the notice in The Times."
Felicity was faintly surprised. "I never heard of any son. Are you sure, Mummy?"
"Perfectly, darling. He was an extremely unsatisfactory young man and went to South America."
"Africa, my dear," corrected Sir Humphrey from behind the paper.
"Was it, Humphrey? Very much the same thing, I feel. There was a very unpleasant scandal. Something to do with cards. But the young man drank, which probably accounted for his erratic habits. His father would never have anything more to do with him. I don't know what became of him, except that he died."
"That finishes him off, then," said Frank. "Does the objectionable Basil have - er - erratic habits?"
"Not that I am aware of, my dear."
Sir Humphrey laid down the paper. "Nowadays the papers contain nothing but sensational descriptions of most unpleasant crimes," he said severely. "Do you young people feel like bridge?"
Upon the following day Felicity, having shopping to do for her mother in Upper Nettlefold, decreed that Frank should accompany her. His suggestion that the expedition might be conducted by car was sternly contradicted. Wolf, said Felicity, must be taken for a walk.
Wolf was Felicity's Alsatian. When fetched from the stables he evinced his satisfaction by bounding round his mistress and barking madly for the first hundred yards of their walk. Exercising him was not, as Frank knew from experience, all joy, as he was not in the least amenable to discipline, had to be caught and held at the approach of any motor vehicle, and had a habit of plunging unadvisedly into quarrels with others of the canine race.
The narrow main street of the town was, as usual upon a weekday, crowded with cars whose owners had parked them there while they shopped. Wolf exchanged objurgations with an Airedale seated in a large touringcar and Felicity, her attention attracted towards the car, announced that it belonged to Tony Corkran. At that moment a slim, fair-haired girl in tweeds came out of the confectioner's with a young man at her heels.
Why Shoot a Butler Page 2