Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick.
Richard Fleet would be here at any moment
Martin drew back his head and closed the glass panel. How this reminder of mortality had got there he did not know. And it didn't matter.
He went through another door into the second bar-parlour. Dominated by a large iron stove rather than the usual fireplace, full of wicker chairs, this room was distinctly a comedown from the first Nevertheless, Martin unlocked its front door. He had just turned the key when distantly, from the saloon-bar two rooms away, that particular door opened.
A voice called, "Martin!” He heard light, quick, running footsteps in tennis-shoes. And in the doorway of the second parlour, breathing hard, stood Jenny.
She wore a white tennis-blouse and white shorts, with a light pullover thrown over her shoulders. With her yellow hair somewhat tumbled, the colour of exertion tinted her face to more than mere prettiness. He stared at her.
"How did you get here?"
"On my bike." Choking a little to get her breath, she made a gesture towards the outside of the inn. "Darling, why did you send that message about being an enemy?" " 'I had to get him here somehow."
"Grandmother was in the room when you rang up."
‘Yes. I thought she might be."
"You hadn't said three words to Dawson before grandmother said: That is Captain Drake, I suppose.’ Ricky said, 'Who's Captain Drake?' Grandmother said nothing at all. She just picked up her knitting and walked out of the room. Then I had to tell Ricky it was only a joke, but it war terribly serious. Afterwards I got old Riddle to insist the front tire of Ricky's car needed air — which it did — so I could get here before him."
"But you don't want to be present while we have it out, do you?"
Jenny's breathing was still quick. But the blue eyes regarded him steadily.
"If you want me. to," she answered, "I'll stay here. I promise that. But I don't want to. I don't want… oh, God, no!" She shuddered. "The trouble is, you see, that I've got to know what happens. Just as soon as it happens." Jenny spread out her hands. "I'm sorry. That's how I feel."
That's how a lot of us feel Jenny! Do you still—?"
This was when they heard the loud cranking of a motor-car, emphasized by a loose mud-guard, approaching and drawing up outside the south wing. Once more the door of the saloon-bar, after a tentative rattle at its knob, was opened. Martin motioned Jenny (confound this sense of guilt!) to go.out by the second-parlour door to the road.
"Hoy there!" called a male voice. "Hullo!"
Footsteps scuffled, hesitated, tramped through one room and then through two. In the doorway, inquiringly, appeared a tallish young man in sports coat flannels, and with a blue tie skewered under one wing of his soft collar.
His mop of dark-blond hair was uncombed and unruly. He was on the lean and muscular side, carrying himself well. But first of all you noticed the quality of good-humour, which was
so genome that it flowed from him and made friends immediately. His grey eyes, his bump of a chin, made it a strong face as well as a good-humoured face.
"Well," he said, "are you the enemy?"
"Yes." Martin could not help srniling back. "But not a personal enemy, if you follow me."
"Ah. That's good. Well, what's up?"
Selecting a wicker chair by the door into the first-parlour, the newcomer dropped into it and threw one leg over its arm. He began to fill a pipe from an oilskin pouch.
There was a long silence.
"Look here, old boy," expostulated Richard Fleet, who was fishing after a pocket-lighter. "Yes?"
"Stop pacing up and down like a Norman baron. Get it off your chest Spit it out You're making me nervous."
"All right" agreed Martin. "It's about Jenny. I've been in love with Jenny for more than three years, though I've only seen her twice. I have reason to think she feels the same way about me. I haven't formally asked her to marry me, but we intend to get married. I hate to tell you this, but there it is."
Again silence. Richard sat partly sideways, motionless, his leg over the chair-arm, pipe and lighter also held motionless, looking up at his companion. His grey eyes were without any shade of expression. Tick-tick, tick-tick went the clock in the other room, noticeable now as well as audible.
"I'm sorry to tell you this!" Martin shouted. "But…"
Then he saw that there was a shade of expression, slowly moving in like a new blood in Richard's face, though for a second he could not interpret it. It was tinged with incredulity, but this did not predominate. Then Martin realized. The feeling was relief. Slowly young Fleet sat upright and expelled his breath.
"Thank God!" he said.
Chapter 5
The words were so startling that Martin backed away until he bumped into the iron stove in the middle of the room. Richard Fleet hastened to correct any wrong impression he might have made.
"Mind!" he said, jumping to his feet and pointing with the pipe. "Jenny's the world's best. I'd do anything for her. I'm so fond of her that sometimes I've almost' thought this plan would work. “But—"
"But?'
"I grew-up with her," the other retorted with extraordinary intensity: "Jenny was always there, from five to seventeen and onwards. Let's face it: I'm not physically attracted by Jenny. Whereas you, it's plain, have gone completely overboard physically; and that's the main thing. Yes, I know!"
He held up a hand, forestalling objection. He dropped pipe and lighter into his pockets. The grey intelligent eyes regarded Martin as though they knew, or thought they knew, the whole universe.
"They tell us a lot of things about companionship and community of interests and so on. Well, old boy," he grinned, "let's wait until we're old enough to have to bother with such things. The glorious part of all this is that I've gone overboard too. I want to get married."
Martin's sense of relief, he thought, completely overshadowed that of his companion.
"Congratulations! And very hearty congratulations! Who is she?”
Richard went over and carefully closed the second-parlour door.
"Susan Harwood. She lives on the other side of Brayle: the town, not the Manor." A shadow, of worry crossed Richard's face, but his animation burst through it "By God," he breathed, "this is the most magnificent… shake hands!"
They shook hands, fervently.
"Look here," said Richard, "what would you like?"
"Like?”
"Well," said the other, whose first impulse on feeling pleased was to give something to somebody, "what about my car with fifty gallons of best Black Market petrol? Or your choice from the gun-racks? Or I've got the finest book of telephone-num…no, you won't want telephone-numbers if you're going to get married. Neither will I." He pondered. "You know — by the way — what's your first name?"
"Martin."
"Right! Ricky here.' Again he pondered, "You know, if we plan this carefully, I'm damn sure we can wangle it". " 'Plan carefully? What have we got to plan?" "You don't know what you're up against," Ricky said quietly. "No, wait! You think you do; but you don’t "Family opposition?"
"You say that fairly contemptuously. Maybe Jenny hasn't told you everything." Ricky brushed the palms of his hands together; then gripped them in sinewy fingers. "I don't suppose you've ever played chess with Grandmother Brayle? I have. She ought to have been a man. She wants money, and she means to get it"
Though the sun was sinking, the many little panes of the second-parlour window were still tinged with gold. With both doors and windows closed, the room was hot and stuffy. Ricky went over to the window and stared out unseeingly.
"My mother," he continued, "is wonderful. But Grandmother Brayle has got mother" — he put his thumb in the palm of his left hand, and twisted it—"like that And Dr. Laurier has more influence than anybody knows. As for Jenny…" He broke off. "Great Scott, there is Jenny!"
Martin hurried to his side.
In front of the Dragon's Rest, a slope of sun-glowing grass stretched d
own to the road. Across the road, beyond a short strip of grass, ran the low stone boundary-wall of Fleet House's park. Near the wall stood Jenny and Ruth Callice, apparently in casual conversation.
They made a contrast, against the trees and, somewhat towards the left, the white, square solidity of the house. Ruth wore a silk frock as though she were in London; her light-brown hair was done in some new upsweep style, with earrings. Jenny, in her white blouse and white shorts, lifted one shoulder as she spoke.
Ricky Fleet leaned his weight on the window-sill with both hands.
"You know," he said, "there's a row going on over there." "A what?"
"A row. Don't ask me how I know; can't you feel it? Besides, I've been expecting one." "Why?"
"I suppose," Ricky grunted, "I ought have been at home to greet the guests. But I start gassing, and time gets mixed up. Then Ruth rang up the Manor just before you rang me. Jenny talked to her." He hesitated. "Jenny wasn't any less gentle than she always is. But she sounded too — sugary. Like a woman waiting for a time and place to blow up. You know what I mean?"
Even as he spoke Jenny said a last few words, lifting her shoulder, and moved away. She glanced towards the window where Ricky and Martin were standing. Her gait faltered and grew slow, but she continued; and automatically swung the thin blue pullover at her side. When Martin saw his companion's shoulders grow rigid, he realized something else.
"What the hell," Ricky blurted, "am I going to tell her?"
The door opened, framing Jenny against sunlight Pouring embarrassment flooded into that room, holding all three motionless. Martin saw Ricky brace himself for an actor's role in some heroic speech of renunciation; he even saw Ricky glance at himself in a flyblown mirror to make sure the posture was right But it was Jenny who spoke.
"It's all right" she said, looking at the floor. "I knew it was all right as soon as I saw you two shake hands."
The embarrassment remained, but the tension had gone.
"It wouldn't have worked, you know," growled Ricky.
"Ricky here," Martin said, "has been so decent about the whole thing that I don't know how to thank him."
"Nonsense, old boy! Nonsense!"
Jenny's eyes brimmed over as she regarded her (they hoped) ex-fiancé.
"You are a dear, Ricky."
"Not a bit of it old girl! Not a bit of it!"
In another minute, Martin thought he'll convince himself he really has made a heroic sacrifice.
"Martin," said Jenny, and hesitated. "Will you take me out somewhere tonight?"
At this change of subject, Ricky became natural again.
"That's not a bad idea! You can take my car. But where would you go for a beano in unexplored wilds like these?"
"That's not it" Jenny shook her head vehemently, still looking at Martin. "Will you just take me somewhere, and drive and drive and drive? I don't care where. Will you?"
"You know I will, my dear."
Jenny advanced into the room. Sinking into one of the wicker chairs beside a round table, she threw her pullover on the table. At this change of subject abruptly introduced but well received, more emotion should have been drained away. And yet, in Jenny's case at least it was not
"Ruth Callice," she bit at her underlip, "Ruth Callice says you and she and this barrister had some horrible idea of spending a night in the execution shed at Pentecost to see whether there were any ghosts of hanged people. Ruth says you suggested it" "Well… in a way I did yes."
"She says you promised. But yon wont go now, will you?’’ Martin laughed.
"Under the circumstances, Jenny, I think they'll make no difficulty about releasing me from the promise." He turned to Ricky. "Would you like to substitute for me?"
"Would I?" exploded Ricky. The words 'prison' and 'ghosts’ had powerful effect Again taking out pipe and lighter, his dark-blond hair falling over his forehead, he snapped on the lighter and kindled the tobacco with deep inhalations.
"Listen," he went on, with a waving gesture of pipe and smoke. "I’ve been trying to get a look inside that place for nearly ten years, ever since they hoicked the convicts out But you can't get in, any more than the poor devils could get out How are you going to do it?"
"Rickyl"
Jenny's small voice stopped him. He looked at her curiously. She was half lying back in the chair, the yellow hair thrown back, her face with a little more of its customary pallor.
"All the p-pleasant things," she stammered, gripping the arms of the chair, "have got mixed up with the dreadful ones. It was awfully kind of you to… to…"
"Rubbish. Let's get back to the subject of ghosts."
"All right" Jenny answered unexpectedly, "I will. Ricky, your mother's been very upset all afternoon."
Into Martin's head came an image of Aunt Cicely, with her tear-reddened eyelids, seen through a brass telescope from a bedroom window. But mention of Aunt Cicely seemed to act on Ricky as mention of Grandmother Brayle acted on Jenny, though in a different way.
"I know! I ought to have been at home in the afternoon!"
"No, Ricky. It wasn't that Have you ever heard of a man named Stannard?"
"I don't think so. Why?"
"He's one of the guests. He and Ruth came down by an earlier train than they'd expected to. Ruth said she ought to keep an eye on Martin—"
(Here Ricky turned a surprised face, but Martin was looking at Jenny.)
"— and they got here about lunch-time. During lunch, Mr. Stannard started talking about the day your father… died." Ricky took the pipe out of his mouth. "Blast his impudence!" Ricky shouted. "I honestly don’t think it was impudence." "No? It always upsets mother, though." "You see," Jenny frowned, "Mr. Stannard said to Aunt Cicely something like, I’m afraid we've met before, Lady Fleet' Aunt Cicely laughed and said, That's not very complimentary.' Then Mr. Stannard said, 'Forgive me: I only meant I was at Fleet House on the day your unfortunate husband met his death.'" "What did mother say?"
"Well, Ruth Callice tells me it wasn't a very merry lunch." "Damn him!"
"Ricky, do you remember or did you ever hear of any 'Stannard' being there at the time?" "No. Never."
"Nor I. In anything I've ever heard, or — read."
"But what is all this?" demanded Ricky. His pipe had gone out, and he put it down on the table. "You're as fretted as though you'd seen a whole crowd of ghosts. My governor's been dead for twenty years. It's a pity about mother; I'd like to wring Stannard's neck; but a little tact and well smooth it over."
"We can't smooth over the police," Jenny said.
She rose to her feet and appealed to Martin.
"I–I haven't said anything about what Sir Henry told us yesterday. I mean, at Willaby's. Partly because I was afraid of the rumpus, and partly because I never can tell whether he's serious or not"
Jenny turned to Ricky, and nodded towards the closed door of the other parlour.
"The police are here," she added. "They're in that room now. I saw them go in when I came here. There's a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard, and the other man — well, they call him the Old Maestro. They're here to investigate. Sir Henry thinks your father was murdered."
The word, on Jenny's lips, sounded incongruous.
"Nonsense!" said Ricky. "He got vertigo and pitched over the parapet"
"Yes; but suppose someone did kill him?"
"Look here! Wait a minute!"
"I want to know who was at the house that day," Jenny went on, "and where everybody was when it happened. I was only five years old then. Ricky, how well do you remember?"
The other tousled up his hair, digging the fingers in.
"Some parts of it very plainly, and others not at all. Because they get mixed up with different years. I was barely twelve myself. Besides, I didn't see it happen. I was in the back garden with Miss Upton. She had a head-lock on me."
"Ricky, please do be serious!"
“I am serious! Can't you remember Miss Upton the governess, with a build like Sandow and yet th
at refined la-di-da accent coming out of her mouth?"
"Yes. I remember. She was with your family four years."
"Well, I mean quite literally she had a wrestling-hold on me. Because I wanted to watch the hunt go past" Ricky paused. "You know, Jenny-angel, this subject…"
"Yes! It's been taboo in our families for all these years. Let's tear it apart!"
"But why?"
"Have you thought," asked Jenny, and looked at Martin, "what the upset of a police-investigation would be in your house? And my house?"
Clearly Ricky hadn't Up to this moment, it was clear, he had regarded the matter as nothing very important The governor's been dead for twenty years; we've forgotten it; why bother?’ Such might have been his philosophy. Now he sat down heavily in what had been Jenny's chair by the table, and picked up his dead pipe. The sun's glow was dimming to a pale, clear after-light through the open door to the road.
"Tell it," Jenny almost whispered. "Tell it!"
"It was October or November. I'm sure of that, because the trees were mostly bare and there were leaves on the ground. Also because they'd given me a new cricket-bat; and the governor asked what I wanted with a new one when the season was over; but cricket has no season for you at that age. There was some kind of special treat promised for tea, because a number of people were to be there.
"As I say, Miss Upton and I were in the back garden. Near the house, I think. There was a red sky to the west, with the bare branches of trees up against it. It wasn't very cold, and there was a clean autumny-tanging kind of wind. Then we heard the Ascombe Hunt
"We'd heard faint noises before. But nothing to the uproar like this. We couldn't see anything, because the house was between us and the road. But the hounds were ding-dong and hell-for-leather on a breast-high scent I knew they'd broken out of Black Hanger and across Guideman's Field just back of this pub here, and I guessed they were running to view.
"I started to make a bee-line for the front of the house. Miss Upton grabbed my arm. She was afraid I would run across and get among the field in front of somebody's horse, which had happened once or twice before. I kicked up a devil of a row until she got a head-lock on me. Then she said: "Richard, you may go to the front if I keep hold of your hand."
The Skeleton in the Clock shm-18 Page 5