Tragedy at Ravensthorpe (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “There are one or two,” Cecil admitted. “But we don’t make a show of them. In fact, even Joan doesn’t know how to get into them. There’s some sort of Mistletoe Bough story in the family: a girl went into one of the passages, forgot how to work the spring to get out again, lost her nerve apparently, and stayed there till she died. It so happened that she was the only one of the family in the house at the time, so there was no one to help her out. Since then, we’ve kept the secret of the springs from our girls. No use running risks.”

  “And even Joan hasn’t wheedled it out of you?”

  “No, not even Joan. Maurice and I are the only ones who can get into these places.”

  Sir Clinton evidently approved of this.

  “Short of opening the passages up altogether, that seems the best thing to do. One never knows one’s luck. By the way, in an old place like this you ought to have a stock of family legends. You’ve got these Fairy Houses. Is there anything else of general interest?”

  Cecil seemed to have recovered something of his normal good humour; and his face betrayed almost a grin of amusement as he replied:

  “Oh, yes! We’ve got a family ghost—or so the country-folk say. I’ve never come across it myself; but it’s common talk that the family spectre is a White Man who walks in the woods just before the head of the family dies. All rot, you know. Nobody believes in it, really. But it’s quite an old-established tradition round about here.”

  Sir Clinton laughed.

  “You certainly don’t seem to take him very seriously. What about Family Curses? Are you well supplied?”

  “You’d better apply to Maurice if you’re keen on Family Curses. He seems to have specialized in that branch, if you ask me.”

  Chapter Two

  MR POLEGATE’S SENSE OF HUMOUR

  “How time flies!” said Joan Chacewater, in mock despondency. “To-night I’m in my prime. To-morrow I shall be twenty-one, with all my bright youth behind me. Five years after that, I shall quite possibly be married to Michael here, if I’m still alive and he hasn’t died in the meantime. Then I shall sit o’ nights darning his socks in horn-rimmed spectacles, and sadly recalling those glad days when I was young and still happy. It’s dreadful! I feel I want to cry over it. Give me something to cry into, Michael; I seem to have mislaid my bag.”

  Michael Clifton obligingly held out a handkerchief. Joan looked at it disparagingly.

  “Haven’t you anything smaller than that? It discourages me. I’m not going to cry on a manufacturing scale. It wouldn’t be becoming.”

  Una Rainhill laid her cigarette down on the ashtray beside her.

  “If you’re going to be as particular as all that, Joan, I think I’d be content with a gulp or two of emotion or perhaps a lump in the throat. Cheer up! You’ve one more night before the shadows fall.”

  “Ah, there it is!” said Joan, tragically. “You’re young, Una, and you never had any foresight, anyway. But I can see it all coming. I can see the fat ankles”—she glanced down at her own slim ones—“and the artificial silk stockings at three-and-eleven the pair; because Michael’s business will always be mismanaged, with him at the head of it. And I’ll have that red nose that comes from indigestion; because after Michael ends up in bankruptcy, we won’t be able to keep a maid, and I never could cook anything whatever. And then Michael will grow fat, and short of breath, and bald . . .”

  “That’ll be quite enough for the present,” interrupted the outraged Michael. “I’m not so sure about letting you marry me at all, after that pleasant little sketch.”

  “If you can’t drop those domineering ways of yours, Michael, I shall withdraw,” Joan warned him, coldly. “You can boss other people as much as you choose; I rather like to see you doing it. But it doesn’t go with me, remember. If you show these distressing signs of wanting your own way, I shall simply have to score you off my list of possibles. And that would no doubt be painful to both of us—to you, at any rate.”

  “Oh, to both of us, to both of us, I’m sure. I wouldn’t dream of contradicting you, Joan. Where would you be, if the only serious candidate dropped out? Anything rather than that.”

  “Well, it’s a blessing that one man seems to have some sense,” Joan admitted, turning to the others. “One can’t help liking Michael, if it’s only for the frank way he acknowledges when he’s in the wrong. Skilful handling does a lot with the most unpromising material, of course.”

  Cecil leaned over in his chair and peered athwart the greenery which surrounded the nook in the winter-garden in which they were sitting.

  “There’s Foxy wandering round.”

  He raised his voice:

  “Are you looking for us, Foxy? We’re over here.”

  Foxton Polegate’s freckled face, surmounted by a shock of reddish hair, appeared at the entrance to their recess.

  “Been hunting about for you,” he explained as he sat down. “Couldn’t make out where you’d got to.”

  He turned to Joan.

  “Dropped across this evening on important business. Fact is, I’ve lost my invitation-card and the book of words. Didn’t read it carefully when it came. So thought I’d drop over and hear what’s what. Programme, I mean, and all that sort of thing, so there’ll be no hitch.”

  Una leaned over and selected a fresh cigarette from the box.

  “You’re hopeless, Foxy,” she pronounced. “One of these memory courses is what you need badly. Why not treat the thing as a practical joke instead of in earnest? Then you’d have no difficulty. Jokes are the only things you ever seem to take seriously.”

  “Epigrams went completely out before you were born, Una,” Foxy retorted. “Don’t drag ’em from their graves at this hour of the century. And don’t interrupt Joan in her instructions to the guest of the evening. Don’t you see she’s saying ’em over nervously to herself for fear she forgets ’em?”

  “There’s a bit too much of the harassed nursemaid about you, Foxy, with all your ‘don’ts,’” Joan broke in. “Now take your stylus and tablets and jot this down carefully, for I won’t repeat it under a shilling a page. Here’s the programme. Ten p.m.: Arrival of distinguished guests. (They’re all distinguished, except you, Foxy.) Brilliant and animated conversation by those who can manage it; the rest can listen intelligently. (You may try listening, Foxy, if it isn’t too much of a strain.) The cloak-room, picture-gallery, museum, and poultry-yard will be thrown open for inspection by the public absolutely free of charge. It won’t cost you a cent. Bridge-tables will be provided for the curiosities who don’t dance. Dancing will begin straightway and will be continued up to 11.45, when the judges will take their seats. As soon as they are comfortable, the march-past will start. All guests must present themselves at this without fail, Foxy. At five minutes to twelve the identity of the prize-winners will be disclosed. When midnight strikes, all guests will remove their masks, even at the cost of shocking the company in some cases. Dancing will then be resumed and will continue into the dewy dawn. And that’s how it will take place according to plan.”

  “There’s just one point,” said Foxy, hesitatingly. “Are the prizes portable things, or shall I have to hire a van to take mine away with me?”

  “I shouldn’t worry a bit about that, Foxy,” said Una, comfortingly. “We’ve decided to keep the prizes in the family, you see. Joan gets one, because it will be her birthday. I get the other for the best female costume. Cecil, Maurice, and Michael are going to toss odd-man-out for the two men’s prizes. So you can come as a Teddy Bear without pockets if you like. It won’t be of any consequence. You’ll have nothing to carry away.”

  “Can’t say fairer than that,” Foxy admitted. “Always liked that plain, straightforward way of doing things myself.”

  A recollection of his talk with Sir Clinton passed across Cecil Chacewater’s mind, and without reflection he communicated it to the others:

  “By the way, Sir Clinton seemed a trifle worried over this affair. He pointed out to me that some
scallywag might creep in amongst the guests and play Old Harry in the museum if he got the chance.”

  Just at this moment, Maurice Chacewater passed along the alley in the winter-garden from which the nook opened.

  “Maurice!” Joan called to her brother. “Come here for a moment, please.”

  Maurice turned back and entered the recess. He seemed tired; and there was a certain hesitancy in his manner as though he were not quite sure of himself. His sister made a gesture inviting him to sit down, but he appeared disinclined to stay.

  “What’s the trouble?” he asked, with a weary air.

  “Cecil’s been suggesting that it’s hardly safe to leave the collections open to-morrow night, in case a stranger got in with a mask on. Hadn’t we better have someone to stay in the museum and look after them?”

  “Cecil needn’t worry his head,” Maurice returned, ignoring his brother. “I’m putting one of the keepers on to watch the museum.”

  He turned on his heel and went off along the corridor. Foxy gazed after him with a peculiar expression on his face.

  “Maurice looks a bit done-up, doesn’t he?” he finally said, turning back towards the group about him. “He hasn’t been quite all right for a while. Seems almost as if he expected a thunderbolt to strike him any minute, doesn’t he? A bit white about the gills and holding himself in all the time.”

  Before anyone could reply to this, Joan rose and beckoned to Michael.

  “Come along, Michael. I’ll play you a hundred up, if you like. There’ll be no one in the billiard-room.”

  Michael Clifton rose eagerly from his chair and followed her out. Foxy looked after them.

  “As an old friend of the family, merely wanting to know, are those two engaged or not? They go on as if they were and as if they weren’t. It’s most confusing to plain fellows like me.”

  “I doubt if they know themselves,” said Una, “so I’d advise you not to waste too much brain-matter over it, Foxy. What do boys of your age know about such things?”

  “Not much, not much, I admit. Cupid seems to pass me by on his rounds. Perhaps it’s the red hair. Or maybe the freckles. Or because I’m not the strong, talkative sort like Michael. Or just Fate, or something.”

  “I expect it’s just Something, as you say,” Una confirmed in a sympathetic tone. “That seems, somehow, to explain everything, doesn’t it?”

  “As it were, yes,” retorted Foxy. “But don’t let the fact that you’ve ensnared Cecil—poor chap—lead you into putting on expert airs with me. Betrays inexperience at once, that. Only the very young do it.”

  His face lighted up.

  “I’ve just thought of something. What a joke! Suppose we took the Chief Constable’s tip and engineered a sham robbery to-morrow night? Priceless, what? Carry it through in real good style. Make Maurice sit up for a day or two, eh? Do his liver good if he’d something to worry about.”

  Cecil’s face showed indecision.

  “I shouldn’t mind giving Maurice a twinge or two just to teach him manners,” he confessed. “But I don’t see much in the notion as it stands, Foxy. Maurice is posting a keeper in the museum, you know; and that complicates things a bit. The keeper would spot any of us tampering with things. He knows us all as well as his own brother.”

  “Not in fancy dress, with a mask on, dear boy. Don’t forget that part of it.

  Fancy me in fancy dress,

  Fancy me as Good Queen Bess!”

  he hummed softly. “Only I don’t think I’ll come as Good Queen Bess, after all.”

  Cecil knitted his brows slightly and seemed to be considering Foxy’s idea.

  “I wouldn’t mind giving Maurice a start,” he admitted half-reluctantly. “And your notion might be good enough if one could work it out properly. Question is, can you? Suppose you suddenly make a grab for some of the stuff. The keeper’ll be down on you like a shot. He’ll yell for help; and you’ll be pinched for a cert. before you could get away. There doesn’t seem to be anything in it, Foxy.”

  “Hold on for a minute. I’ll see my way through it.”

  Foxy took a cigarette, lighted it, and seemed to cogitate deeply over the first few puffs.

  “I’ve got it!” he announced. “It’s dead easy. Suppose one of us grabs the keeper while the other helps himself to the till? We could easily knock out the keeper between us and get off all right without an alarm being raised.”

  Cecil shook his head.

  “No, I draw the line at using a sand-bag or a knuckle-duster on our own keeper. That’s barred, Foxy. Think again.”

  “There’s aye a way,” Foxy assured him sententiously. “Give me another jiffy or two. This is how it goes. We mustn’t knock out the keeper. We mustn’t be recognized. We’ve got to get away scot-free, or the joke would be on us. These the conditions?”

  Cecil nodded.

  “This is where pure genius comes in,” Foxy announced with pride. “How does one recognize anyone? By looking at ’em. So if the keeper can’t look at us, he won’t recognize us. That’s as sound as Euclid, if not sounder.”

  “Well?” asked Una, joining in the conversation.

  “Well, he won’t recognize us if the place is dark, then,” explained Foxy, triumphantly. “All we have to do is to get the light in the room switched off, and the thing’s as good as done.”

  “That seems to hit the mark,” Cecil agreed. “But that makes it a three-handed job, you know: one to grab the keeper; one to snaffle the stuff; and one to pull out the fuse of the museum light from the fuse-box. Where’s our third man?”

  Una leaned forward eagerly.

  “I’ll do that part for you! I’d like to make Maurice sit up. He hasn’t been very nice to me lately; and I want to pay him out just a little.”

  “Nonsense, Una,” Cecil interrupted. “You can’t be mixed up in a joke of this sort. There’s almost bound to be a row after it. It doesn’t matter in my case; Maurice has his knife into me anyway, you know. But there’s no need for you to be getting your fingers nipped.”

  Una brushed the suggestion aside.

  “What can Maurice do to me even if he does find out? I’ve nothing to do with him. And, besides, how is he going to find out anything about it? I suppose you’ll just keep the things for a day or two and then return them by some way that he can’t trace. He’ll never know who did it, unless we let it out ourselves. And we mustn’t let it out, of course.”

  Foxy nodded his agreement. Cecil was longer in his consideration; but at last he seemed to fall in with the arrangement.

  “Well, so long as Una’s name isn’t mixed up in it, Foxy, I’m your man. It’s a silly caper; but I’m not above going into it for the sport of vexing my good brother.”

  “Right!” said Foxy, with relief. “Now the next article: What’s the best thing to go for? It must be portable, of course.”

  Cecil pondered for a moment; then, as a thought struck him, he laughed.

  “Here’s the game. It may be news to you, Foxy, but my good brother is taking steps to sell off our collection.”

  Foxy was quite plainly staggered by this news.

  “All the stuff your father got together? Surely not! Well, that’s the limit!”

  “Quite,” confirmed Cecil. “I’d prevent it if I could; but he’s got the whip-hand, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Foxy seemed still slightly incredulous.

  “Why, your Governor loved that stuff as if it were a child! And Maurice doesn’t need the money he’ll get for it. It’s . . . it’s shameful! My word! If I were in your shoes, Cecil, I believe I’d really steal the stuff instead of only pretending to grab it.”

  “I’m sorely tempted,” said Cecil, half-grimly. “Now here’s the point. It seems Maurice has got into touch with Kessock, the Yank millionaire. Kessock wants to buy the Medusa Medallions—the very thing my father set most store by in the whole lot. Kessock’s sent over an agent of his—this fellow Foss who’s staying here just now—to settle up the business, se
e to the genuineness of the things, and so forth. I’ve nothing against Foss. He’s only doing his job and he seems all right. I don’t like some of his American manners; but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, the deal’s just going to be closed. Now if we lift these medallions, won’t Maurice look an extra-sized ass?”

  “Absoluto!” said Foxy. “I see what you’re after. We lift ’em. Foss wants ’em at once. He can’t get ’em. P’raps the deal’s off—for the time at least. And Maurice looks a prize ape.”

  “Yes,” Cecil snapped, angrily. “That’ll perhaps teach him a lesson.”

  Una Rainhill had been thinking while this last part of the conversation had been going on.

  “There’s one thing you haven’t provided against, Foxy,” she pointed out. “Suppose you manage everything as you’ve arranged. Even if you get clear away from the museum, there’s almost certain to be someone in the passage outside who’ll see you rush out. And then the game would be up. It’s not enough to dowse the light in the museum. You’ll need to put all the house lights out as well.”

  “That’s sound,” Foxy agreed at once. “That means that you’ll need to pull out the main switch instead of just the fuse of the museum. It’s an even easier job, with no chance of a mistake in it. And what a spree it’ll be. The whole shop will be buzzing like an overturned hive! It’ll be great sport. And, of course, there’ll be such a wild confusion before they get the lights on again, that we’ll come out of it absolutely O.K. All we have to do is to saunter quietly out of the museum and help to restore order among the rabble in the dark. By the time the lights go on again, we’ll be anywhere it suits us to be. That’s a master-stroke of yours, Una. Couldn’t be bettered.”

  Cecil glanced at his wrist-watch.

  “Time’s getting on, Foxy. We’ve sketched the general idea, but we must get this thing down to dots now. Everything will depend on synchronizing things exactly. We can’t afford to leave affairs to the last moment; for we mustn’t be seen together, you know, to-morrow night.”