I crumpled up completely. ‘I’ve got an attack of nerves. Before you came I was thinking of tulips in bowls, so as to distract myself. I feel as if I’ve been here six weeks. I want to go away. I never knew time could pass so slowly. Every minute I’m downstairs I seem to be fighting in a battle – as you would say, resisting a mental toothache. I’m really dreading the time when I shall have to leave this room and meet the others.’
I had let myself become so carried away that I hardly cared whether he laughed at me or scolded me. Instead he surprised me by doing neither, and saying very calmly, ‘Malcolm, I’m sorry. It’s the shock of your tumble, and on the top of that, the shock of the sad discovery you made yesterday morning. Well, as I told you, during the day I have to go about other people’s business. But to-night I’ll order you to bed early and prick these psychological blisters of yours. Oh yes, I’m just as good a psychiatrist as I am a bone-setter. And I cure just as quickly.’
‘But,’ I said weakly, ‘what are you going to the West End for? The shops aren’t open to-day.’
‘Of that I am well aware. None the less I shall be able to transact my business. Now get up and go out in the fresh air, and be nice, polite, clean and good till dinner’s over.’
He made an absurd little face at me and went out.
*
I felt better for my outburst, and relieved to think that in a few hours I should be able to pour out my worries – vague though they were – into an intelligent and sympathetic ear. I rang the bell and Edwins, who presumably had been told by my kind hostess that my calls on him had precedence over all ordinary duties, insisted on ministering to my toilet, though now there were few things which I could not have done without help. We talked, of course, while I was dressing, but beyond saying that Mr Clarence had eaten no breakfast, he had no news for me. This mention of Clarence reminded me that I possessed his poem – or the poem in his writing – and I resolved to give it to him as soon as I could find him. The poem for Clarence, a walk on the Heath, and, if the coast should be clear, a little visit to Amabel’s ‘shed behind the garage’, formed my programme for the morning.
*
After a short greeting to Sheila, who was playing the piano, I went into the garden and found Clarence walking up and down near the rock-garden. He gave me a black look when I said ‘Good morning,’ and showed no wish at all to talk to me. However, whether it was my talk with Dr Green, or the sight of someone more wretched than myself that emboldened me, I came quickly to the point.
‘I’m afraid, James,’ I said – we called one another by our surnames – ‘I’ve got something that belongs to you. This.’
I handed him the poem, which he took with an air of angry bewilderment.
‘I’m sorry to say I had to read it,’ I went on. ‘If I hadn’t, Amabel would have passed it on to Dixon, and I thought you would rather trust me than him with your private affairs.’
‘Oh, that,’ he said, with a show of indifference. ‘So Amabel got hold of it.’
‘You left it in a book, she said.’
‘Yes. As the people in this house can’t read, I thought a book was a safe place to leave it in.’
‘Are you the author?’ I asked unpardonably.
‘As a matter of fact I am. Do you like it?’
‘Yes – in its way—’
‘Well, I don’t,’ he said, and tore the paper into small scraps and flung them in the pond.
I gasped.
‘Are you protesting,’ he asked, ‘against the destruction of so valuable a poem, or my choice of a wastepaper basket?’
‘Both.’
‘Well, I don’t think you need trouble.’
Evidently he hoped to drive me away, but I refused to accept dismissal.
‘I wasn’t,’ I said, ‘prying into your affairs.’
‘Of course not.’
‘How about going for a walk?’ I asked, irrelevantly.
‘I don’t feel like one, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, I think I ought to take one. Do you recommend your yesterday’s route?’
‘Yesterday? Oh – I don’t know. It was very muddy.’
He looked contemptuously at the new pair of shoes I was wearing.
‘Then,’ I said, ‘I must find my own road.’
He said nothing till I was about to turn away, when his expression altered for the better.
‘I really am frightfully sorry, Warren, that we’re all socially so hopeless. I have, as a matter of fact, a reason for not wanting to go too far from the house this morning. But the others might do something. No wonder you’re bored to death with your visit.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘Please, don’t be polite to me. I’m very much an outsider in this ménage, as no doubt you have gathered, and it isn’t my place to entertain you.’
‘I was trying to entertain you.’
‘That’s not so easy, I’m afraid. I’m perfectly sincere in what I’m saying. I do apologise for this household. If I were you, I should get out of it as soon as you can. For your own sake, I mean. Speaking personally, I’d far rather have you than many people here.’
This, I felt, was the limit of his graciousness.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I shall go for a walk somewhere or other. I wish it weren’t quite such a Protestant Sunday kind of day. However—’
In despair of finding a cliché with which to close the wretched conversation, I simply turned my back on him and walked down the path, and read once more the labels in the beds: Primula Denticulata Superba, Primula Florindae. Then, further on, Phlox Le Mahdi, Delphinium Mrs Townley Parker, Paeonia Albert Crousse. Yes, when the days lengthened I would go to the river, take my own cottage and grow my own phloxes, delphiniums and peonies. I should have to learn to row a little better, of course, and my swimming was not all that it might be, and river water, in England, was usually far from warm. Still, my own cottage, my own lawn, my own herbaceous border. When the days lengthened, how pleasant life could be. Till then, I must content myself with tulips in bowls. Meanwhile, where were the tulips at Beresford Lodge?
I had reached the end of the walk on the south-west side of the garden. Of course, the tulips were all at the foot of the terrace, where a strip of bare but immaculate earth, about ten feet broad, showed a fine crop of labels. But instead of turning to the left and examining the names, I found myself walking up some rough stone steps on my right, which led, through a thick shrubbery, to the incinerator and potting-sheds. It was a part of the garden to which visitors were not conducted, unless they wished to see the greenhouses, and even these could be reached by a more impressive route. One would only pass the potting-sheds if one were going to the greenhouses straight from the garage. Immediately behind the garage stood a little shed – and as I saw it, the memory of Amabel’s talk with Dixon on the steps of the porch came back to me – if really it had ever been very far away – quite ousting all thoughts of tulips whether in bowls or beds.
‘They’re in the shed behind the garage!’ Amabel had said. There was the shed. What was inside it?
*
Then, stupidly, I hesitated. The very fact that I very much wanted to look inside the shed made me feel guilty. What should I say if someone saw me? ‘I was only exploring. It looked such an interesting shed!’ On the contrary, it was a most ordinary shed. I might as well say that the housemaid’s closet looked interesting. Still, nothing very terrible could happen to me if I were discovered taking a peep. There would be no headline in the papers, ‘Stockbroker expelled from Hampstead mansion. Guest goes in disgrace.’ Perhaps, in retrospect, I am exaggerating my timidity, but I know that I hung about shiftily for a quarter of an hour, walking past the potting-sheds towards the greenhouses and back again, before making up my mind. Then, when I had made up my mind and was advancing towards the door, this time with the definite intention of opening it, a man, whom I took to be a gardener, suddenly appeared, carrying something in a basket, and went into one of the potting-sheds, where I could
see him through the window. He could also see me, but, strange to say, this fact, which made it impossible for me to loiter any more, gave me the courage I needed. Never again, perhaps, would such a chance come my way. As if I carried on my person the written authority of the shed’s owner, I went boldly to the door and opened it.
The shed contained a carpenter’s bench, two or three spades, a few thin wooden planks, some pea-sticks, some green dahlia stakes, sheets of corrugated iron, bales of netting, a barrel full of vegetable roots, and three broken basket-chairs. On the bench was a large brown-paper parcel, half unwrapped, containing fireworks. The first and only one which I examined had round its conical top a pink label bearing the words ‘The Jubilee Flash. Novelty. Price 2s. 6d.,’ and instructions for use. Almost mechanically I put my hand into my overcoat pocket and pulled out the empty firework-case which I had found, about twenty-four hours before, in the pond of the rock-garden. There was no question but that the two fireworks were twins.
Two other objects in the parcel interested me. The first was a detonating pistol, which had clearly been used. The second was an invoice, dated December 23rd, which informed me that Miss Amabel Thurston had spent some five pounds on fireworks. The account included six Jubilee Flashes and one detonating pistol. So much, then, for the mystery of the shed. Amabel and Dixon had let off one ‘flash’ on the night of Christmas Eve. When they came home on the night of Christmas Day, Dixon would have liked to let off another. That was all. I could, indeed, hardly credit him with so innocent a caprice.
X. Invasion
Boxing Day – 12.15 p.m.
It was now a quarter past twelve. I had forgotten all about my proposed walk and went indoors to the terrace room, where I heard voices. There I found Amabel, Sheila and Dixon. But a new blow was in store. Mrs Quisberg was in bed, and had been told by Dr McKenzie to stay there all day.
‘He says it’s ’flu,’ said Amabel not unpleasantly. ‘I didn’t know there was any about, but doctors always have it ready, don’t they? Mother’s sure it’s only a chill and is terribly fretty about you, Malcolm. I’m sure she’d like you to look in on her afterwards, even though she says you must keep away in case she’s infectious. Daddy’s in bed, too. Why, I can’t think. Harley has gone to a married cousin’s for the day. Dr Green is out to lunch. So you’ll have to make do with Leonard, Sheila and me – and Clarence, if he’s about. A cocktail may help you to bear it. Help yourself – and give me one.’
I did so. Indeed, I repeated my excesses of Christmas Day, and when luncheon came, after nearly an hour’s uninstructive and unamusing conversation, I was almost tottering as I walked into the dining-room. ‘Mrs Quisberg ill,’ I kept thinking. ‘Really, I can’t stay here if that is so. All the cocktails in the world won’t keep me buoyed up.’
Amabel sat at the end of the table facing the garden and Sheila at the other end. I was on Amabel’s right and Dixon on her left. A place was laid for Clarence between me and Sheila. Nobody had thought of waiting for him, or seemed in any way surprised when he came in gloomily after the first course and sat down without a word. Dixon and Amabel tried to rally him for a while, but soon desisted, and conversation became duller and more spasmodic than ever. Only one interesting thing happened during the meal, and that came at the end while we were drinking our coffee and nibbling at marrons déguisés. Dixon, who had got up to help himself to a cigar, suddenly paused by the French window looking on to the terrace, and said:
‘Well, I’m damned! What infernal sauce! Look here, Amabel. What do you make of that?’
With the exception of Clarence we all joined him by the window.
‘Look there,’ he said, and pointed to the far wall that separated the garden of Beresford Lodge from the garden of Paragon House. About a dozen youths were sitting perkily on the top and gesticulating in the direction of our windows.
‘What can they be doing?’ asked Sheila, a little slow, as usual, to put two and two together.
‘It’s got round the neighbourhood, evidently,’ her sister answered. ‘I suppose we shall have bands of louts swarming up from West Hampstead all the afternoon to see the scene of the accident.’
Her voice drawled a little over the journalese.
‘I suppose you want it stopped?’ Dixon asked.
‘I should think we do!’
‘Let’s turn the hose on ’em!’
‘It won’t reach anything like so far.’
‘How do you fill the rock-garden pond then?’
‘With water from the bodge – the water-carrier,’ Sheila explained informatively.
Dixon was not impressed by the horticultural term. ‘Do you want me to ring up the police?’ he asked Amabel.
‘We certainly can’t stand it all day,’ she said. ‘Suppose Harley came back and saw them all gloating—’
At that moment, whether it was the outcome of high spirits or because the intruders had caught sight of us at the window, some horseplay seemed to begin, and two of the lads fell on our side of the wall, where the shrubs hid them from view. This was too much for Dixon.
‘That’s plain trespassing,’ he said. ‘Lord knows what damage they won’t do to Mr Quisberg’s choice plants. I’ll show them. Just let me get that stick of mine!’
In one moment he had worked himself up into a brutal frenzy and rushed from the room before any of us could speak. Amabel made no attempt to interfere. Perhaps she enjoyed the prospect of her hero pitting himself against superior numbers. In another minute we saw Dixon on the terrace, which he had reached by one of the terrace room windows, carrying a thick weighted stick which I remembered noticing in the stand in the lobby. Then he ran down the Louis Quinze staircase and straight across the lawn.
‘I hope he doesn’t hit any of them too hard,’ I said. ‘It looks rather a dangerous weapon.’
Then Clarence, with an expression of disgust on his face, got up from the table and went to the door.
‘I’m afraid I don’t get any satisfaction,’ he said as he passed me, ‘in watching our bull-like friend attacking a few half-starved youths.’
‘At any rate,’ Amabel began angrily, ‘he’s more use than you are . . .’
But Clarence was out of the room before she had time to finish.
Perhaps because he was out of breath, Dixon moderated his pace as he reached the end of the lawn, and completed the last part of his journey through the rock-garden and the shrubbery behind, in a dignified walk. Then the shrubs hid him from view, but great excitement was evidently produced among the little figures on the wall. One or two of them jumped down into the Paragon House garden, while others clung aggressively to their positions. I saw one of them take a catapult out of his pocket and aim with it. I thought, too, that I heard a faint sound of shouting, but this may have been imagination, as the window was shut and the scene of the fight a long distance away. Amabel looked at me questioningly, as if she thought that I should go as a reinforcement. I had, of course, no intention of doing so and was about to draw a shamefaced attention to my wrist, when George, the butler, came in to say that Dr Green wished to speak to Mr Dixon on the telephone.
‘Dr Green!’ Amabel exclaimed. ‘What can he want with Leonard? All right, George, I’ll go and have a word with Dr Green myself.’
She went out. Now was my opportunity to slip away.
‘I think,’ I said to Sheila, ‘I shall go upstairs and pay my respects to your mother before she has her rest. I shouldn’t be any use helping Dixon, though I expect he’ll be all right. Will you excuse me?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she answered. ‘I shall stay here and see the fun, if there’s any more to be seen.’
I reached the shelter of my bedroom before Amabel came out of the telephone-room. I had now had a good innings with the younger members of the party and felt entitled to an hour’s privacy. But before settling down it was only right that I should see if Mrs Quisberg would receive me. Besides, on Mrs Quisberg’s floor, I might again meet the nurse – that interesting character wh
om I had forgotten all the morning. Accordingly I took my miserable Christmas gift, which I had not been able to bestow the evening before, and went up another flight of stairs to Mrs Quisberg’s bedroom. I did not meet the nurse, but as I was about to knock at the door I heard a laugh, faint, silvery and provocative, coming from the top landing, followed incongruously by the angry slamming of a door.
‘Come in!’
‘It’s Malcolm. May I?’
‘Oh, Malcolm. I’m so glad to see you – but mind you don’t come near me. No, I won’t even shake hands with you. Sit down right over there, by the window.’
‘I am most sorry to hear you aren’t well. You look as delightful as ever. Don’t you think it’s just a chill?’
‘Yes, I think so really. I felt seedy and shivery before breakfast, and took my temperature. It was just over a hundred. I had Dr McKenzie in when he came to see Cyril, and he insisted on my staying in bed.’
‘Have you a headache?’
‘Yes, a little. It’s rather better now. No, don’t be in any hurry to go. It’s so nice and refreshing to talk to you.’
‘I was only going to give you this, with my love. But what can one give – except one’s love – to those who have everything?’
I approached the bed with my little parcel.
‘No, no. Keep away. Put it on that table, and I’ll get Flora to give it to me later. Now, Malcolm, it is most naughty and kind of you. I warned you specially we weren’t a Christmas-present-giving family. As a matter of fact, you’ll find a tiny memento from me when you get back to your flat – that picture we saw together at the French Painters’ Exhibition.’
I was thrilled.
‘Oh, that is really too generous. I don’t know what to say. Do you really mean you are giving me that exquisite Paul Dubois? But it’s worthy of an art collector. You must keep it yourself. It would look lovely here in that panel over the mantelpiece.’
‘No, it would be wasted on me. I don’t understand these modern things. I like simple paintings, like that flower-piece there. This is a pretty room, isn’t it?’
Crime at Christmas Page 9