"Take a look at the valuables, Jenkins," he requested.
Jenkins went off at once. Sir Humphrey took his wife to see the damage done to the drawing-room window, and Mr. Amberley stood in the middle of the litter in the study, frowning.
He was joined soon by his cousin, who was in high fettle but indignant that no one had seen fit to rouse her. Mr. Arnberley evinced a mild interest in the methods usually employed by her maid when calling her in the morning.
Jenkins came back to report that so far as he could tell without making an inventory of the silver, nothing was missing. The dining room had not been touched, and the Georgian saltcellars were still reposing on the sideboard.
Mr. Amberley went in search of his uncle, whom he found raging over the damage done to his window. Lady Matthews was placidly agreeing with him.
"I want you to come and see whether anything is missing from your study, Uncle," said Amberley.
"How the devil am I to tell?" said Sir Humphrey. "It will take me hours to get my papers in order again! Upon my word, it sometimes seems to me there's no law left in England!"
"Did you keep anything of value in your desk?" interrupted Amberley.
"No, I did not. It is some slight comfort to me to know that this damned thief's labour was entirely fruitless!"
"No money? You're quite sure?"
"Of course I'm sure! Do you suppose I should be likely to leave any money about?"
"You, Aunt?"
"No, my dear. Only bills and things. So dull for him. What do you suppose he wanted?"
"I don't suppose anything. I'm in the dark at the moment." He looked round the room, his eyes narrowed and speculative. "The drawing room, the study, the library, but not the dining room. Queer. It would seem as though you've got something that someone else wants rather badly, Uncle. A document?"
"Certainly not! Any important papers are lodged at my bank. Not that they could be of the slightest interest to anyone but myself."
"Why throw books on the floor?" said Lady Matthews. "So unnecessary, I feel."
Amberley looked quickly across at her. "Books! Good God!"
"Go on, Frank, what?" squeaked Felicity. "I do call this fun!"
Amberley paid no heed to her. "Where's that book you borrowed from Fountain, sir?"
"In my room. I took it up to bed with me. What has…' Amberley turned. "Get it, will you, Jenkins? Curiosities of Literature."
Lady Matthews sat down. "How delightfully mysterious," she said. "Why the book, my dear?"
"I rather think that it was the book that was wanted," replied Amberley. "I hope so anyway."
Jenkins came back, the book in his hand, and gave it to him. Amberley flicked over the leaves, shook it, peered down the back, carefully felt the thickness of the boards.
"Too thrilling!" murmured Lady Matthews.
But Amberley was looking puzzled. "I seem to be wrong," he said. "Yet somehow — I don't think I am." He glanced thoughtfully at his uncle. "I wonder."
"What do you wonder?" said Sir Humphrey. "Pray don't be obscure!"
"Whether anyone entered your room tonight," said Amberley.
Sir Humphrey, who like many others had an entirely erroneous belief that he was a light sleeper, was indignant. He was ready to swear that no one could possibly have entered his room without waking him.
His wife interposed. "Dear Frank, all most intriguing, but don't annoy your uncle."
"Sorry, Aunt. It's all rather disappointing. I'm going back to bed."
Sir Humphrey demanded to know what was to stop the burglar returning through the damaged window. Mr. Amberley professed complete unconcern. He was still holding the book, and he went out carrying it with him.
Chapter Twelve
Mr. Anthony Corkran was about to answer the telephone, which was ringing shrilly in the lobby off the hall, when he was forestalled by the polite Baker.
The butler apologised with his usual deprecating air for being late and took the receiver off the hook. He said: "Hullo!" and Mr. Corkran, still standing in the hall, could have sworn a female voice answered. The butler gave a sidelong glance towards him and said primly: "I do not know whether it is convenient just now miss."
The voice spoke again. Baker listened and said: "What name, please?"
Apparently no name was given. Corkran saw a curious expression come into the butler's face and wondered. Baker set the receiver down carefully and went away across the hall to the kitchen premises. His interest aroused, Corkran lingered in the doorway of the library to see who was being fetched. Not entirely to his surprise Collins came into the hall a few moments later and went towards the telephone lobby. Corkran drew back into the library and shut the door.
Collins went into the lobby and picked up the receiver. "Who is it? Collins speaking."
"I think you know who I am," said a woman's voice.
The valet cast a quick look over his shoulder and spoke urgently into the mouthpiece. "It's no use your ringing me up here. It's not safe. I told you before."
"Then I think you'd better meet me," said the voice coolly. "I can make trouble, you know."
The man's lips curled back in a rather mirthless smile.
"You'll get no good by it."
"If you refuse to meet me that won't deter me," said the voice. "Either you come to terms or I wreck the whole thing. I mean that. I can do it, too. "Half a loaf is better than no bread," and I have got just half a loaf. Well?"
Collins' fingers tightened on the receiver as though it had been someone's throat. "All right. But don't ring me up here again. I'll meet you. I don't know when I can get off. I'll let you know."
"Thanks, you can let me know now," said the voice.
"I tell you I can't get off at a moment's notice. You ought to know that. I'll see you on my evening off alone."
"You will see me today," said the voice, stating a fact. "Certainly, alone."
"It's not safe. I can't get away for so long."
"I don't mind coming to you," said the voice obligingly. "If you're wise you'll manage to slip out for half an hour."
The valet gave another quick look behind him. "All right. I'll do that on condition you don't ring up here again."
"If you're reasonable I shan't want to ring you up," promised the voice. "Where do we meet?"
The man thought for a moment. "It's risky, but do you know the pavilion in the wood?"
"No. I'm afraid I don't."
"There's a gate before you get to the lodge, leads to the gamekeeper's cottage. The pavilion is by the lake, just beyond. You can't miss it. I'll be there at six." He hung up the receiver abruptly and stepped out of the lobby.
Fountain came out of the library pulling the door to behind him. A heavy scowl was on his face; his eyes were fixed suspiciously on the valet. "Who rang you up?" he demanded. "Mr. Corkran has just been asking me if I am aware that my servants use the telephone for their own private affairs. Who was it?"
Collins stood still, his eyes lowered. There was an unpleasant look about his mouth, and for a moment he did not answer.
"Some woman, eh?" Fountain said, coming a step nearer. "Isn't that so?"
The eyes were raised for a brief instant; Collins said smoothly: "Yes, sir." He gave a little cough. "Merely the young lady I am keeping company with, sir. I explained that she must not ring me up again."
"Keeping company? That's something new. Now see here, Collins! I'll put up with a lot, but there are some things I won't stand. Got that?"
The valet bowed. "Perfectly, sir. It shall not occur again."
"It had better not," Fountain said grimly. "It seems to me it is about time I got rid of you. All things considered."
The shadow of a smile crossed Collins' thin lips, but he nothing. Corkran came out of the library at that moment, and Fountain turned to meet him. The valet went away soft-footed across the hall.
"You were quite right, my dear chap," Fountain said. "Ringing up his girl! Bloody cheek! Thanks for tipping me the wink."
She allowed her visitor ten minutes' grace and then came downstairs followed by Bill. Mr. Amberley had gone leaving no message. With a sigh of relief not entirely unmixed with disappointment, Shirley went out, walking in the direction of Ivy Cottage where she had Mark's packing to do.
At five o'clock in the afternoon she shut Bill into her bedroom and went out, dressed in a long tweed coat and a felt hat pulled low over her head. She went directly to the Market Square, where the omnibuses that served the surrounding villages started. No. 9 bore the legend LOWBOROUGH on its signboard, and she boarded it. After some minutes its driver, who also performed the functions of conductor, got in and started his engine. Shirley, who had chosen a seat immediately behind him, leaned forward and requested him to set her down at the turning that led to Norton.
It had been cloudy all day, and the omnibus had not gone very far when a fine rain began to fall, rather like a Scotch mist. The light was fading quickly, and the landscape seen on either side of the omnibus looked grey and dreary. Shirley gave a little shiver at the prospect of flat, wet fields and was impelled by some inward suspicion to glance round at the other occupants of the bus. She thought she must be suffering from nerves, a complaint she despised, for she had had an unaccountable feeling that she had been followed from the Boar's Head.
Her fellow-travellers seemed ordinary enough. There were two farmers discussing the weather in broad Sussex accents; a red-faced man who might have been a gamekeeper, who sat all over a seat meant for two perusing Our Dogs; and several women, who had been doing the week's shopping in the town. On the route several others were picked up and hailed by those already in the bus. Behind Shirley an Irishwoman poured into the ear of a credulous and apparently interested acquaintance every detail of some unknown person's operation for appendicitis.
At the first village of any size most of the people left the bus, and the driver got down to deliver a parcel at the inn. Shirley and the red-faced man were left alone. Still with the uncomfortable sensation of being followed she took a surreptitious look at him. He was absorbed in his paper and did not seem to be interested in her. A mile beyond the village the bus stopped to set him down outside a kennels for gun dogs. Shirley settled herself more comfortably and sneered at her own qualms.
The bus stopped several more times to pick up passengers and once to set down another parcel. Unaccustomed to the leisurely progress of country omnibuses Shirley began to get impatient and to look at her watch. There was very little daylight left, and the driver had switched on the electric lights. Raindrops glistened on the windows; an unpleasant draught swept over the floor of the omnibus.
The driver drew in to the side of the road and pulled on his brake. "Here you are, miss. Wet evening."
Shirley took out her purse. "Beastly," she agreed. "What time is the next bus back, please?"
"I shall be coming back in an hour," replied the driver, indicating that there was only one bus. "Will you have a return ticket, miss? A shilling, that'll be."
"No. I might miss it," Shirley said.
"Sixpence then, please, miss."
She handed over the money, and he leaned sideways to pull the lever that opened the door of the bus. She climbed down onto the road and stood for a moment watching the omnibus disappear round the bend.
She was provided with a torch, but there was still sufficient light for her to see her way. She was standing at a crossroads. A signpost above her head pointed the road to Norton, and pulling up the collar of her coat to keep the rain from trickling down her neck, she set off at a brisk pace down the lane.
It was apparently a second-class road but in quite good repair. It wound between straggling hedges, passing an occasional cottage or farmstead. Two or three cyclists overtook her, and one car, but the road seemed to be little used. Once she saw a pedestrian ahead and rapidly overhauled him. A bucolic voice bade her good evening in the friendly fashion of country folk. She returned the greeting and pressed on.
A mile from the main road a cluster of twinkling lights showed where a small hamlet lay in a slight hollow. Beyond that the habitations were few. There seemed to Shirley, peering through the dusk, to be nothing but fields stretching sombrely to a far horizon that still showed faintly grey in the distance. About half a mile past the hamlet some trees broke the monotonous landscape, and presently these grew more thickly. Shirley could smell pines and see in the waning light the silvergrey bark of birch trees. The leaves were sodden and dripped onto the tarred road. No life seemed to be stirring. Perhaps it was too wet, Shirley thought, for the rabbits that were usually to be seen at this hour scuttling across the road, to venture out of their burrows.
She had no means of measuring the distance she had walked, but she supposed that she must have covered nearly a couple of miles, and began to look out for a gate. Half in anger at herself, half in a kind of scornful amusement, she blamed the weather and the twilight for her nervousness. The rain fell softly, steadily; there was no wind to stir the leaves of the trees; there did not seem to be a soul abroad. Yet several times she had caught herself straining her ears to catch the sound of - she scarcely knew what. Footsteps, perhaps; perhaps the hush of tyres on the wet road. Once she thought she heard a car purring in the distance, but nothing passed her, and she concluded that she had either been mistaken or that another road ran somewhere near at hand.
A gleam of white ahead of her attracted her attention. She went on and found a gate leading into the wood to her right. It stoodd half-open on to a grassride cut through the trees. She hesitated and searched for a name on cracked posts.
With a wry little smile she reflected that she brought a suburban mind into the country. Of course there was no name; country people always knew who lived where; you never found names on any gateposts. It was little tiresome for strangers, all the same.
She went on a few yards, feeling herself rather at a loss, but after five minutes' walking she saw big iron gate ahead and the lights of a lodge. These must certainly belong to the manor; she turned and went quickly back towards the first gate.
The wood looked dark and mysterious; there was a good deal of undergrowth, bracken standing three feet high turning brown with the fall of the year, and blackberry bushes. Under Shirley's feet the ground was slippery with wet; in the wheel-ruts of the ride there were muddy puddles.
She walked forward cautiously, peering through the gathering darkness for a cottage. A little way from the gate the ride forked; she saw a light at the end of the shorter fork and bore onwards, leaving it on her right.
She smelled pines again, and a few steps brought her to clearer ground. The earth grew more sandy under her feet; a carpet of pine needles deadened the sound of her footsteps. Fallen cones were scattered over the ride; the undergrowth had come to an end; slim tree-trunks, gleaming with wet, surrounded her, stretching away, line upon line of them, into the mist and the enveloping gloom.
The silence was almost eerie; the rain which was falling soundlessly and fast, seemed like a blanket, cutting off all small, ordinary noises of the wood. Shirley gritted her together and felt, in the big pocket of her coat, the reassuring butt of her automatic.
The ride took a turn, and immediately lights became visible in the distance. Shirley had come to the lake, an artificial sheet of water set at the end of a broad avenue that had been cut to the south of the manor. There were little glowing lights in the distance; she could just discern the outline of the manor against the sky and see the sweep of a lawn running to meet the edge of the wood.
On the opposite side of the lake from the manor, forming part of the view to be
had from the south windows, was a white pavilion built in the classical style so much in favour during the eighteenth century. It stood like a ghost in the darkness, its windows blank and uncurtained.
Shirley was aware of a pulse that throbbed in her throat. The pavilion, waiting for her amongst the trees, looked deserted and strangely forbidding. She had an instinct to tiptoe away from it, and for several moments she stood in the shadow of the trees staring at the quiet building with a queer sense of foreboding hammering at her brain.
She stood so still that her very heartbeats seemed to thud in the silence. Somewhere not far distant the unmistakable cry of a pheasant broke the dead calm, and she heard the whirr of wings. She jumped uncontrollably and waited, listening. No other sound succeeded the startled bird's flight; she decided, but uneasily, that some prowling fox had disturbed the pheasant.
She drew the gun out of her pocket and cocked it. The snap of the breech sounded comfortingly in her ears; she thumbed the safety-catch up and walked quietly toward the pavilion.
The door was not locked; the handle squeaked nastily as she turned it. She pushed the door inwards, standing backed against the wall. After a moment, since not the tiniest sound came to betray the presence of any living creature, she pulled her torch out of her pocket and switched it on.
The pavilion was empty. Some garden furniture was placed in it, wicker chairs and a table, several gaily coloured boating cushions. Shirley's torch travelled slowly round it, lighting every corner. She went in, closing the door behind her, and forced herself to sit down in one of the chairs and to switch off the torch.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light she was able to distinguish, vaguely, the various objects in the room. The warning instinct that had urged her not to approach the pavilion prompted her to draw her chair back to the wall. The windows, grey oblongs in the darkness, seemed to be all round her. She had to assure herself that no one could see her from outside without the aid of a lamp.
Why Shoot a Butler Page 15