Cecil seemed to have no interest in the suggestion.
“If you want some fishing,” he said, “we’ve got quite a decent stream that runs through another part of the grounds. This place used to be kept in good order; but since the war and all that, you know, the fine edge has been rather off things hereabouts. It’s in a bad state, right enough. Just a frog-pond.”
“Is the water deep?” Sir Clinton inquired.
“Oh, ten to fifteen feet in parts. Quite deep just in front of the cave at the bottom of the cliff below here. We used to have great times playing robbers and so forth when we were kids. There’s our old raft at the far end. It was well tarred and I see it’s still afloat. It was the only way of getting at the cave-mouth, you see.”
He dismissed the subject.
“Suppose we sit down for a while.”
Sir Clinton followed him to one of the marble benches. Before them, the view of the Ravensthorpe grounds stretched out, closed on the horizon by a line of woodland. In the foreground, beyond a fence at the end of the lake, sheep were grazing on some meadow-land.
“One of your ancestors?” inquired Sir Clinton, nodding towards the nearest statue. “Or merely Phoebus Apollo?”
Cecil turned to glance at the statue.
“I think I’d back your second choice,” he said. “If it was an ancestor, it must have been one of the ancient Britons. It’s a bit short of clothes for anything later than that; and even for an ancient Briton it seems a trifle undressed. No woad, you know.”
He took out his cigarette-case, offered it to Sir Clinton, and then began to smoke. Sir Clinton seemed to be admiring the view in front of him for a few minutes; but when he spoke again it was evident that something more than scenery had been in his mind.
“I’m not altogether easy in my mind over this masked ball of Joan’s. Speaking as a Chief Constable responsible for the good behaviour of the district, Cecil, it seems to me that you’re running some risks over it. A dance is all very well. You know all your guests by headmark and no one can get in on false pretences. But once you start masks, it’s a different state of affairs altogether.”
Cecil made no comment; and Sir Clinton smoked in silence for a time before continuing:
“It’s this craze of Joan’s for anonymity that seems to me to open the door to all sorts of things. I take it that there’ll be no announcing of individual guests, because of this incognito stunt of hers. But unfortunately that means you’ll have to admit anyone who chooses to present himself as Winnie-the-Pooh or Felix the Cat or Father Christmas. You don’t know who he is. You can’t inquire at the start. Anybody might get in. Considering the amount of good portable stuff there is in the collection at Ravensthorpe, do you think it’s quite desirable to have no check whatever on your guests?”
Cecil seemed struck by this view of the case.
“I never thought of that,” he said. “I suppose we ought to have issued uniform entrance-tickets, or something of that sort; but the thing never crossed any of our minds. Somehow, it seems a bit steep to take precautions against people when one’s inviting them to one’s house.”
“It’s not invited guests I’m thinking about,” Sir Clinton hastened to explain more definitely. “This affair must have been talked about all over the countryside. What’s to hinder some enterprising thief dressing up as a tramp and presenting himself along with the rest? He’d get in all right. And once he was inside, he might be tempted to forget the laws of hospitality and help himself. Then, if he made himself scarce before the unmasking at midnight, he’d get clean away and leave no trace. See it?”
Cecil nodded affirmatively; but to Sir Clinton’s slight surprise he did not appear to be much perturbed on the subject. The Chief Constable seemed to see an explanation of this attitude.
“Perhaps, of course, you’re shutting up the collections for the evening.”
Cecil shook his head.
“No. Joan insists on having them on view—all of them. It’s a state occasion for her, you know; and she’s determined to have all the best of Ravensthorpe for her guests. What she says goes, you know. If she can’t get her own way by one road she takes another. It’s always easier to give in to her at once and be done with it. She has such a way of making one feel a beast if one refuses her anything; and yet she never seems to get spoiled with it all.”
Sir Clinton seemed rather taken aback by the news about the collections.
“Well, it’s your funeral, not mine, if anything does happen,” he admitted.
“Maurice’s—not mine,” Cecil corrected him with a touch of bitterness which Sir Clinton failed to understand at the moment.
“I’ve nothing to do with Ravensthorpe nowadays,” Cecil went on, after a pause. “I live there, that’s all. The whole affair went to Maurice—lock, stock, and barrel—when my father died. I’ve really no more right in these grounds than you have. I might be kicked out any day.”
Sir Clinton was puzzled by Cecil’s tone. It was only natural that Ravensthorpe should go down into the hands of Maurice, since he was the elder brother. There could be no particular grievance in that. And yet Cecil’s voice had betrayed something deeper than a mere mild resentment. The asperity in his last remark had been unmistakable.
For a few minutes Cecil remained silent, staring moodily out at the landscape. Sir Clinton refrained from interrupting his thoughts. The matter certainly had excited his curiosity; but until Cecil chose to say more, there seemed to be no reason for intruding into the private affairs of the Ravensthorpe household. Even the privileges of an old friend did not seem to Sir Clinton a sufficient excuse for probing into family matters.
But the Chief Constable, without any voluntary effort, had the gift of eliciting confidences without soliciting them. Cecil’s brooding came to an end and he turned round to face his companion.
“I suppose I’ve said either too much or too little already,” he began. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you about the affair. It’s nearly common talk as it is, and you’re sure to hear something about it sooner or later. You may as well get it first-hand and be done with it.”
Sir Clinton, having solicited no confidence, contented himself with merely listening, without offering any vocal encouragement.
“You knew my father well,” Cecil went on, after a short pause in which he seemed to be arranging his ideas in some definite order. “He was one of the best, if you like. No one would say a word against him—it’s the last thing I’d think of doing myself, at any rate.”
Sir Clinton nodded approvingly.
“The bother was,” Cecil continued, “that he judged everyone by himself. He couldn’t understand that anyone might not be as straight as he always was. He never made an allowance for some kinds of human nature, if you see what I mean. And, another thing, he had a great notion of the duties of the head of the family. He took them pretty seriously and he looked after a lot of people who had no claim on him, really, except that they belonged to the clan.”
“He was always generous, I know,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “And he always trusted people. Sometimes, perhaps, he overdid it.”
Cecil made a gesture of agreement and continued:
“He overdid it when he drew up his will. Maurice, of course, was bound to be the next head of the family, once my father had gone; so my father took it for granted that things would go on just the same. The head of the family would run the show with an eye to the interests of the rest of us, and all would be right on the night. That was the theory of the business, as my father saw it; and he drafted his will on that basis.”
Cecil sat up suddenly and flung away his cigarette with a vehemence which betrayed the heat of his feelings.
“That was the theory of the business, as I said. But the practice wasn’t quite so satisfactory. My father left every penny he had to Maurice; he left him absolutely every asset; and, of course, Ravensthorpe’s entailed, so Maurice got that in the normal course. Joan, my mother, and myself, were left without a farthin
g to bless ourselves with. But there was a suggestion in the will—not a legally binding thing, but merely a sort of informal direction—that Maurice was to look after us all and give us some sort of income each. I suppose my father hardly thought it worth while to do more than that. Being the sort of man he was, he would rely implicitly on Maurice playing the game, just as he’d have played the game himself—had played it all his life, you know.”
Sir Clinton showed no desire to offer any comment; and in a moment or two Cecil went on once more:
“Last year, there was nothing to complain about. Maurice footed our bills quite decently. He never grumbled over our expenses. Everything seemed quite sound. It never crossed my mind to get things put on a business footing. In fact, you know, I’d hardly have had the nerve to suggest anything of the sort. It would have looked a bit grasping, wouldn’t it?”
Cecil glanced inquiringly at Sir Clinton, but the Chief Constable seemed averse from making any comment at this stage. Cecil took his case from his pocket and lit a fresh cigarette before continuing his story.
“You don’t remember Una Rainhill, I suppose?”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“She’s a sort of second cousin of ours,” Cecil explained. “Probably you never came across her. Besides, she’d hardly be out of the nursery when you went off to South Africa. Well, she’s grown up now—just about a year or two younger than Joan. You’ll see her for yourself. She’s staying with us just now for this coming-of-age of Joan’s.”
Sir Clinton had no great difficulty in guessing, behind Cecil’s restraint, his actual feelings about the girl. His voice gave him away if the words did not.
“No use making a long story of it, is there?” Cecil continued. “Both Maurice and I wanted Una. So did a good many others. But she didn’t want Maurice. She was quite nice about it. He’d nothing to complain of in that way. He got no encouragement from her at all. But he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He was really extra keen, and I think he overdid it instead of making the best of a bad business. And finally he realized that it was me that he was up against. Una and I aren’t officially engaged, or anything like that—you’ll see why in a moment—but it’s a case of two’s company and three’s none; and Maurice knows he’s Number Three.”
There was more than a tinge of rancour in Cecil’s voice when he came to this last sentence. Sir Clinton raised his eyebrows slightly. He did not quite admire this malevolence on the part of the successful lover against his defeated rival. Cecil apparently noticed the slight change in the Chief Constable’s expression.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “You haven’t heard it all yet. Before I go on, just bear in mind that there was plenty of money for all of us in the family. My father always took it for granted that I’d have enough to keep me. He’d never thought of my going into business. I’ve got some sort of turn for writing; and I think he hoped that I’d make some kind of name as an author. And, of course, with what I supposed was an assured income behind me, I haven’t hurried much in the way of publishing my stuff. I could afford to let it lie—or so I thought.”
A slight gesture of Sir Clinton showed his approval of this outlook on authorship. It seemed to him that Cecil at his age could hardly have much to tell the world that it didn’t know already; but he had no intention of expressing any such discouraging views.
“You see how it is,” Cecil continued. “As things stand, I haven’t the ghost of a chance of earning a decent income for years and years. And that was the weak joint that Maurice saw and went for—damn him! He took it upon himself to tell me that I was here more or less on sufferance. He’d been generous in the past—he actually reminded me of that!—but he didn’t see how he was to continue to subsidize me indefinitely. You see his game? If he couldn’t have Una himself, he’d take care that I shouldn’t have her either. Damned dog-in-the-manger! That’s a nice sort of brother for you! I wonder what his father would think about him if he knew of this trick.”
He pitched away the stub of his unfinished cigarette as though with it he could rid himself of some of his feelings.
“Of course there was friction—I’m putting it mildly—but there was no open row. My mother’s not in good health and I couldn’t afford to have her worried over my affairs. So we settled down to some sort of armed neutrality, although the thing’s more or less evident to most people. That’s what I meant when I said I might be kicked out any day. It’s only a question of time, it seems to me. He still thinks that if I were out of the way he’d have a chance with Una; and sooner or later I expect him to give me an express-ticket into the wide world. I’m trying to get some sort of job; but so far I haven’t succeeded in lighting on anything that seems to offer the slightest prospects. It’s no pleasure to stay here on sufferance, I can tell you.”
Now that Sir Clinton had received Cecil’s unsolicited confidences, he hardly knew what to do with them. After all, he reflected, he had heard only one side of the story; and it was scarcely fair to judge the case on the strength of an ex-parte statement. It was not quite the Ravensthorpe which he had expected, he admitted ruefully to himself as he bent his efforts to bringing Cecil back to normal again. Money and a girl: the two things that seemed to lie behind most troubles—and even crimes, as he knew from experience. It seemed an unkind Fate that had forced these two factors to the front in an environment where trouble of the kind was the last that might have been expected. One never knew what this sort of thing might lead to in the end.
“I’d like to have a look at your father’s collections some time or other,” he said at last, to change the subject, when he had succeeded in getting Cecil into a somewhat cooler frame of mind. “I saw a good many of the things in London from time to time, as he bought them; but there must be a lot here at Ravensthorpe that will be new to me. Anything your father bought will be worth looking at. He had wonderful taste.”
Rather to his vexation, Sir Clinton found that he had only shifted the conversation from one sore point to another.
“If you want to see anything,” Cecil snapped “you’d better pay your visit as soon as you can arrange it. Maurice is going to sell the lot.”
Sir Clinton was completely taken aback by this news.
“Sell the stuff? What on earth would he want to do that for? He’s got all the money he needs, surely.”
Cecil dissociated himself from any connection with the matter.
“No business of mine, now. Maurice can do as he likes. Of course, I hate the idea of all these things of my father’s being sold off when there seems no need for it; but it’s not my affair. The Maurice boy isn’t all we thought him; and since he’s come into Ravenshorpe, he seems to think of very little else but money and how to get more of it. Anything for the dibs, it appears.”
“But surely he isn’t selling everything. He might get rid of some minor things; but he’ll hardly break up the whole collection.”
“Every damned thing, Sir Clinton. Why at this very moment he’s got a Yankee agent—a man Foss—staying at Ravensthorpe and chaffering for the star pieces of the collection: the Medusa Medallions.”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“They must be fresh acquisitions since my day. I’ve never even heard of them.”
“Ever see the picture of Medusa in the Uffizi Gallery? It’s attributed to Leonardo da Vinci; but some people say it’s only a student’s copy of the original Leonardo which has disappeared. It seems my father came across three medallions with almost exactly the same Medusa on one side and a figure of Perseus on the reverse. And what’s more, he was able to get documentary proof that these things were really Leonardo’s own work—strange as it seems. The thing’s quite admitted by experts. So you can imagine that these Medusas are quite the star pieces in the museum. And Maurice calmly proposes to sell them to Kessock, the Yank millionaire; and Kessock has sent this man Foss over here to negotiate for them.”
“It seems rather a pity to part with them,” Sir Clinton said, regretfully.
“Maurice doesn’t feel it so,” Cecil retorted, rather bitterly. “He got a friend of mine, Foxy Polegate, to make him electrotypes of them in gold—Foxy’s rather good at that sort of thing for an amateur—and Maurice thinks that the electrotypes will look just as well as the originals.”
“H’m! Cenotaphs, I suppose,” Sir Clinton commented.
“Quite so. In Memoriam. The real things being buried in the U.S.A.”
Cecil paused for a moment and then concluded:
“You can imagine that none of us like this damned chandlering with these things that my father spent so much thought over. It’s enough to make him turn in his grave to have all his favourites scattered—and just for the sake of Maurice’s infernal miserliness and greed for cash.”
Sir Clinton rose from his seat and took a last glance at the view before him.
“What about moving on now?”
Cecil agreed; and they retraced their steps towards the pine-wood. As they entered the spinney, Sir Clinton noticed another of the Fairy Houses set back among the trees at a little distance from the path.
“Another of those things?”
Rather to his surprise, Cecil moved over to examine the little edifice, and, bending down, opened the door and glanced inside.
“The Fairy’s not at home at present,” he said, standing aside to let Sir Clinton look in.
Something in Cecil’s voice forced itself on the attention of the Chief Constable. The words seemed to be pointless; but in the tone there was an ill-suppressed tinge of what might almost have been malicious glee at some unexplained jest. Sir Clinton was too wary to follow up this track, wherever it might lead to. He did not quite like the expression on Cecil’s face when the remark was made; and he sought for some transition which would bring them on to a fresh subject.
“You must have some curiosities in Ravensthorpe itself, if parts of it are as old as they seem to be. Any priest’s holes, or secret passages, or things of that sort?”
Tragedy at Ravensthorpe (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 2