“Tonks went all through these with Mother, and there was nothing. Mother never left Moira her own medicines for she was utterly casual about what dose she took and when. She adored patent medicines, and used to keep any bottle any one left behind. She used to boast that she knew every bottle in the house, and once she drank up some most expensive cleansing cream of Judith’s to cure a cough. How she’s hated knowing nothing of what’s been going on all these months!”
“Funny she didn’t take her Bible! She was very pious in the old days, wasn’t she?”
“I expect she took one with a gold and purple binding which Father gave her. This is a very old one—‘To Moira on her confirmation.’ The surname is in pencil and I can’t read it! Oh bother, the light is going very fast.”
Dick picked up the book and stared closely at the pencilled name. “Almost illegible. It looks longer than Kelly but it was given to Mack as Moira Kelly, I know.”
“I seem to remember she told Mother she had shortened her name long ago for convenience, under the old Bishop,” said Sue vaguely, leading the way to the old wing. “We’ll start first with the boxrooms—there’s only old furniture in the Bridge attics.” And though Dick felt the Bridge attics above the pantry were the more likely hiding-holes, still Soames was out of the way, so they could wait. He didn’t mind which he looked at first, or how long he took, while he was with Sue.
The electric light was very dim and jerky now, and the candle which Sue carried flickered in the gust of wind up the twisted passage and narrow stairs which led to the attics. To grope their way was almost as much of an effort as it would have been to decipher the boxes of yellowing letters and papers which strewed the uneven floors. Cobwebs hung from great oak rafters; mice scuttled at their approach; plaster crumbled to the floor and bits of old wall-paper flapped in the fierce wind. Card-indexes of bygone years, banished roll-top desks, frowning cupboards invaded the dusty boards. This was what came of hoarding the past, thought Dick!
“We can’t hunt all these drawers, I’m afraid,” he said despairingly.
“We’re nearly at the Bridge attics—look, just beyond this cistern room. Here are all the trunks and bags, you see. Dick, the gale seems worse all of a sudden.”
That was obvious to her companion already. He went back and shut the door behind them, where the sound of dripping water echoed persistently in the mournful decay, but still a violent and bitter draught blew round them.
“Something’s open ahead—some skylight,” said Dick. “I’ll be blowed—and we certainly are, Sue—if the light’s not really going. Got that candle?”
“It’ll never stay alight. Oh, Dick, I’ve got that feeling again more than ever that someone is here!”
That was not surprising. They were in a room dedicated to old luggage now, and, as she gazed at the extraordinary cliffs of old basket trunks, Gladstones, hat-boxes, dressing-cases and carpet-bags, Sue might well see a ghostly procession of men in peg-top trousers, fur-collared coats, stocks and top-hats, or women in poke bonnets and crinolines or bustled gowns and pork-pie hats vanishing into the dark corners!
“No use trying to hunt through all these with one candle!” said Dick, protecting the exiguous flame. “I shouldn’t have let you come, Sue. Hullo! That draught’s worse than ever! Something odd is happening! Stand back, Sue, stand back!” There was little need for the advice. As the wind volleyed round them there was a violent crash; and the door at the other end of the room, half ajar before, was flung violently open as an avalanche of old boxes and broken glass crashed down in their path.
“The window’s blown in! And upset everything!” gasped Sue. “Oh, Dick, if you’d been standing below those boxes!”
“Or you, my sweet! But we weren’t!” Dick grew calm. “But I don’t see how it happened. Over the Bridge stair is it? I must go and have a look-see!”
“Oh no, Dick!” Sue was trembling so violently that it would have been sheer cruelty to investigate now, or to let her go back through the dark attics and stairways alone. “Let’s go and look from the pantry end. Those are the stairs leading up from Moira’s room—and—and Ulder’s!”
“Well, let’s be quick then!” No use to tell Sue that some thing very odd was up, and that gales seldom blew windows in at that particular angle. But there was little hope, with that one flickering candle, to retrace their steps very speedily. By the time they had bumped into boxes, groped for doors, lost their way down narrow passages to dead ends and got round to the pantry, they had lost quite ten minutes. The pantry was empty and dark but candles were laid out, and while Sue lit them Dick scanned the floor for wet foot prints. For that Soames had been here, that Soames had been following them and was somehow responsible for that broken window, Dick was certain. The storm had never brought it down: even Mack could not imagine that the Bishop, Canon or Chancellor had been prowling about the attics. And to what purpose? And what purpose indeed had Soames? And then he paused, more puzzled than ever, for above the normal pantry odours of coffee, methylated spirits and polish, he detected the scent of lilies. But Soames had surely gone off with his flowers two hours ago!
“Were you wanting anything, sir?” Soames stood before them, his snuff-coloured suit, cheap overcoat and shoes dripping, the dye from his shabby trilby hat pouring down his sallow face as he entered from the passage.
“Hullo, Soames! Wet through? Did you get to Eastlake?”
“No, sir, the snow was so bad I gave up and came back. Just got in this moment. Pitch dark it is! I steered my way to my door by your candle.”
“Disappointing about those lilies of yours. They must be ruined!”
“Yes, sir, just had to bring them back with me!”
“Did you hear a crash just now?” Dick looked the butler very straight in the face.
“No, sir. I told you I just came in as you entered the pantry. Saw my way by your candle, sir, for I see that blinking electric light has failed again.”
“How did those lilies fly back into your room then? I can smell them,” sniffed Dick.
“Oh sir, I was only just back in a manner of speaking. I’d had time to put my things down in my room. What about this accident, sir?”
What were you to make of these clumsy lies? What importance could a bunch of flowers possess one way or the other? Beads of sweat were mingling now with the dye from his cheap hat on Soames’ forehead; he knew his lie was detected, but what was its point?
“A window has crashed in in the attic. Just at the top of the second flight of stairs above, between the old and Bridge wings. You’ll have to do something about it or the house will be flooded.”
“Oh yes, sir!” Soames was all eagerness. “Let me see now! Yes, I’ve got some good strong boards in the cellar, about the size, and I’ll nail one over the frame securely just to hold for the night. Leaves of an old table Mrs. Broome let me keep, for I’m very fond of carpentry, sir.”
“All right. I’ll help you up with a step-ladder. You’ll need one for the windows are high up. But better go and sweep up some of the mess first. Hullo, Bobs! Anything up?”
“I came to see what some almighty crash was. What’s happened?”
“I couldn’t be more glad to see anyone!” Dick had not relished the idea of investigations on a step-ladder with Soames in his rear. “Don’t ask questions yet, but give me a hand up with this step-ladder. There’s a window broken in up there.”
“I don’t see the point of a ladder,” said Bobs helping Dick with the high old-fashioned steps. “And are you intending to stuff it up with old shoe-leather? If not, why go armed with one of Soames’ shoes?”
“I’ll tell you later. Damn these narrow stairs! That’ll do, Soames!” The butler was sweeping vigorously as rain and wind roared down the broken window, and Bobs demanded a sou’wester at least.
“You go off and get those boards, Soames. I’m going up, Bobs.” As he spoke Dick put the steps to the window, his head bent with the force of the gale. “And if Soames comes round that cor
ner send him off to fetch an umbrella for you, or a mitre or an elephant or a Family Bible or anything you like, but don’t let him see me up here! I won’t be a minute!”
He was indeed little more. In spite of the scurrying clouds and moon, dripping chimneys, rushing gutters and melting snows he scrambled out on to the roof and found his quest. There were two footprints in the snow and Soames’ shoe fitted them exactly. There was a big smudge where he knelt on the roof; clearly he had scrambled out in a panic and accidentally or intentionally, crashed in the glass of the window or overturned the boxes as he heard Dick and Sue approach. Any fool could see what had happened, but why it had happened was as obscure as the stormy night. It was obvious by now that Soames felt Dick on his track and had something he would go to all lengths to conceal. It would be simple if he could assume that Soames was desperate enough to knock Dick out, at the very grave risk of murder. But there was an insuperable objection. When Soames climbed to the window he must have heard Sue speaking to her fellow-searcher; when once he had forced up the window and waited to crash it in with whatever instrument he had picked up haphazard, he must still have heard their voices in the distance. When Soames brought off his coup he must have known that Dick was at a safe distance. What in the name of Heaven and Hell was he after?
It was Bobs who suggested an explanation, but not, unfortunately, till he had dragged Dick off to his room, and they were sitting with whisky and soda on a fender stool, steaming their wet shoulders dry by a blazing fire. And because it was the first time Bobs had got Dick to himself all day he was naturally more anxious to learn of Mack’s doings and attitude to the case than to make suggestions. It was a heartening conversation, for Bobs simply dismissed any question of the Bishop’s guilt as fantastic: he refused to hear Judith’s name in connection with Ulder. To save their reputations he was quite willing to believe that Canon Wye had seen himself as the Vengeance of God, or that the Chancellor might have doped Ulder while he got hold of his papers, and unluckily—or rather perhaps luckily—overdone it. Of Staples he said simply that any Irishman would commit any murder at any given moment, but he flung himself most whole-heartedly of course into the question of Soames’ suspicious behaviour.
“Of course Soames bagged the Chancellor’s dope and finished Ulder off. Why? Oh well—”
“Yes, why, why, why?” said Dick. “Don’t say he was trying to save the Church or risking his life for Judith—come to that, Mack might suspect you! No, I’m sure Soames is not mixed up with murder, but I’m equally sure he stole that bag and has hidden it somewhere.”
“But surely he’d destroy it!”
“What chance has he had to-day with police and guests all over the house? I’d think he threw it out of that window and retrieved it in the night, but how could he when for all he knew Ulder would wake up next morning? Sometimes I’m afraid it’s the papers he was after, and the papers that he’s got, and that he’s meaning to set up in the blackmail business himself. But why bang windows down for that?”
“Suppose he stowed away the bag somewhere in the Bridge attics,” suggested Bobs slowly. “He chose a pretty drastic way of keeping you out of that part, I admit—but effective!”
“Well, he can’t get in himself now! That door’s blocked up with glass and rubbish.”
“But there’s another door at the other end!” said Bobs unwillingly. “Hang on, Dick, this isn’t a steeple-chase! I’ll come with you. But I’m afraid it’s too late.”
If the bag had ever been in these attics it was certainly too late. The most thorough search revealed nothing in the grim, dusty skeletons of furniture and ghostly old bedsteads. And as if he feared questioning, Soames himself was invisible, and if the Palace staff were untrained, it had at least grasped one Draconian law of Good Service, that no information should be given on the doings of any servant who is, technically speaking, out.
“And I can’t see that the whole thing is really so important,” said Bobs reasonably. “I mean whether Soames stole this bag or not doesn’t affect the—the main problem. Come on, Dick, there’s the bell for Evensong! About time you joined us!”
“You’re right.” Dick tried to speak lightly. “So far I seem only to have been qualifying for a prison chaplain.”
There are a few rare men—and far fewer women—who can shut up their thoughts and emotions into water-tight compartments. Such was Dick’s usual practice, and he entered Chapel with the firm intention of attending only to his own spiritual affairs. But it was impossible. For here and now he recognized with a shock of horror how little thought he had given to the main protagonists of this ghastly duel with the Law. Yes, he admitted to himself frankly, he had been concentrating so fiercely on Soames’ strange antics, just because he dared not consider other possibilities. He had refused to face the dilemma that no one in this Chapel could conceivably have committed murder and that nevertheless one of them must have done so. Every instinct told him it was impossible: he and Bobs had agreed on that with eager certainty. But what, after all, thought Dick despairingly, does one man know of the twisted convolutions of another’s mind? Even his religious faith could not assure him that every man who sought and received grace from God all his life might not in time of temptation fall away. History can show only too many records of men who, never suspecting their inherent weakness or prejudices, have done wrong, terrible wrong, that good, or what they fancied good, might come of it. Let him be honest and face such possibilities in those around him, to see the real man as he was behind the Bishop’s hollow face, sagging with lines of endurance, behind Canon Wye’s mask of contemptuous indifference, and the Chancellor’s trembling efforts to maintain his usual air of genial solemnity on these occasions.
It seemed to Dick, using the X-rays of his intelligence, as if he could watch the Bishop’s influence on Dick’s life, as on so many others at school and in the ministry, as an infinitely kind, sympathetic, other-worldly-minded, holy servant of God, yet dogged always by one phantom, that of Fear. Yes, he was a coward, as St. Blaze had known, and the diocese whispered. He might or might not be one physically—few had any data—but he would go to great lengths to avoid the sight of pain or suffering in others, of incurring enmity or even unfriendliness, of standing up face to face with a foe. Cowardice, so often unsuspected in the victims of inferiority complexes, is often enough the instigator of crime. Hadn’t the former Emperor overturned Europe because he feared the might of England and her friendship with France? Fear of new doctrines or of devilish craft had made holy men torture heretics and witches. Fear of criticism, fear of consequences, stained the pages of the dealings of Church with dissent and free thinking through the ages, just as fear of change had led the servants of Christ to tolerate the evils of a capitalist system. Gazing at the face of the man whom he had loved all his life Dick saw, as if for the first time, those odd tiny indications of cowardice habitually concealed by the kind, dignified, welcoming, controlled mien; he noted now the drooping lip, receding chin, the hidden weariness and in-dwelling gaze of those whose imagination and self-protective instincts outrun their courage. As the Bishop knelt in his stall, his fine head propped on his long delicate hands, its outline dim by the candlelight, Dick realized despairingly that he himself, with the extrovert’s lucky habit of never suspecting or meeting trouble even a quarter of the way, had not the faintest idea of the workings of the prelate’s mind. As a bishop and a father he had seen Ulder as the spirit of terror and evil personified. “But the Bishop couldn’t have done it,” Dick’s normal self reiterated, coming to life, even while his inner self reiterated: “How do you know?”
It was easier to imagine a case against Canon Wye! Dick knew him only slightly and he had seen him roused to passion more than once. Never would he forget a sermon long ago in which the Canon had thundered forth a picture of the pains of Hell (“So old-world,” a curate had complained, “just like Dante in an Underground railway!”) and threatened with this probable destination not only Jews, Turks, heretics and infidels
, but any who omitted to keep every ordinance of the Church from fasting in Lent to frequent confessions. “Yea, I hate them right sore, even as though they were my enemies,” was his view of all outside the Anglo-Catholic world, so to what lengths would he not go against such an enemy of God and man as Ulder? His life of service to Heaven had made him admit his personal ambition as a fault, but not the spirit of hatred. There he knelt upright, disdaining hassock or pew-rest; his eyes staring bleakly before him, black and white, a dimmed torch, but still vibrant with passion. Might not such hatred, no less than the Bishop’s fear, have driven him to take on himself the judgment of Heaven when his foe lay last night at their mercy? Might not he and the Bishop in their interviews have reasoned that Ulder was a stricken man, probably a dying man, and that to shorten his life mercifully by those few hours which would save them from exposure and ruin was expediently not far removed from justice?
“That’s all very well, but where did they get the morphia?” Dick silenced the voice which cried a thousand negatives to that question. He must view this thing, like Mack, from neutral, if less hostile, ground. It was not for him to point out to Mack that the murderer would presumably have destroyed any tube of morphia before the police searched the rooms, and indeed, from a vague memory of volumes on state trials, the only reading in the hotel at Loch Echinore, Dick seemed to remember that bottles almost always did turn up, empty or half-full alike, as if their owners clung irresponsibly to such relics of their great exploits. He turned his gaze to the Chancellor, for there at least was the owner of dangerous drugs, though how dangerous only the report next day could show. It was strange and rather terrible that, though the old gentleman looked anxious, wretched, and ill at ease, yet it was far harder to attribute a crime to his legal caution and habit of mind than to priests driven by fear and hatred respectively to juggle with their own consciences. Over Dick swept that wave of depression no honest Christian can occasionally combat. “One could see Christ if it weren’t for the Church and the clergy!” In his schooldays Dick had coined the phrase of kicking the Devil in his pants, and he took the advice metaphorically, and vigorously, now. “Working through common man Christ perforce chose for His disciples not heroes but cowards, liars and snobs,” he told himself in the words of Chesterton, and joined vigorously in the not very successful hymn on which the Bishop insisted:
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