by Sapper
“What on earth do you mean?” I cried.
“Knowing and proving; Sir Kenneth was right. When I saw those entries in the book I knew. The coincidence of a joyrider taking Denne’s car to Grantham on that particular night was simply too fantastic to contemplate. George Denne was the murderer.”
“But what do you mean about Jacobson playing up?”
“How often do you look in the pockets of the doors of your car, Bob?” he asked.
“Very rarely. Why?”
“Nor does anyone, and that’s why I chanced it. You see, that international driving licence never fell out in the garage at all. I stole it from Denne’s car three days ago.”
10: The Tenth Earl
Lady Ranelagh was an extremely lovely woman. Almost one might say girl, for she was only twenty-five. And as it so happened that I had seen a good deal of Kitty Barberton, as she then was, before her marriage to the Earl, it was with real pleasure that I ran into her at the Savoy one morning just before lunch.
“How goes it?” I cried. “It must be a year at least since we last met. And now that I look at you, Kitty, you seem a bit fine drawn. Anything the matter?”
“Order a cocktail, Bob,” she said. “My party won’t be here for ten minutes yet.”
We sat down and I beckoned to a waiter.
“I believe it’s Providence that I butted into you,” she went on. “Is that nice friend of yours, Ronald Standish, still in London?”
“He was last night,” I said. “Why?”
She hesitated for a moment, and I noticed her hand was trembling a little.
“Does he still go in for detective work?”
“If a case interests him, and he’s asked to take it up, he does,” I told her.
She waited while the man put the drinks on the table: then she leant forward.
“Bob,” she said in a low voice, “I’m terribly uneasy. Things are going on down at the Towers that I don’t understand.”
“What sort of things?” I asked.
“There’s no time to tell you now,” she answered. “I see that awful cow of a Melshot woman arriving already. Are you lunching here?”
“In the grill-room,” I said.
“Do you think it would be possible for us to go round and see Mr Standish this afternoon?”
“Perfectly. He’s lunching at his club, I know. I’ll get through to him on the telephone.”
“Send a note in to me by a waiter to say if it’s all right,” she said. “Any time after three will do me. And it’s rather urgent, Bob.”
“I’m sure I can fix it, my dear,” I told her. “I’ll ring him up now.”
I got on to Ronald at once and fixed three-thirty: then having sent her a message to that effect I ordered another cocktail and sat down to wait for the man I was lunching with. What, I wondered, could be the trouble at, the Towers?
Henry, tenth Earl of Ranelagh, had been married to Kitty Barberton for eighteen months. About twelve years older than her it had seemed and, so far as I know, had proved an ideal marriage in every way. He was a charming man, good looking, cultivated and a fine sportsman. In addition to all that, unlike many less fortunate members of the aristocracy, he had no worries over finance and was able to keep up the Towers in the semi-regal magnificence of his ancestors. It was a huge house, and only an extremely wealthy man could possibly have maintained it. The gardens were famed all over England: the avenue of copper beeches was historic. In fact the house was historic. Charles the First had made it his headquarters for a considerable time during the Civil War: all down the centuries royalty had honoured it with periodical visits. In short it was one of England’s show places, and the last spot where one would anticipate trouble of any sort.
The present Earl had succeeded to the title three years before he married Kitty. He had two younger brothers one of whom was in the Navy, the other out in Canada. His sister Muriel, who was older than him, was strangely enough unmarried. She had all the family good looks, and the reason, one gathered, of her still being single was a war-time tragedy. Before his marriage she had lived with the Earl: now she occupied the dower house some two miles away.
Such, then, was the ménage into which Kitty Barberton had married, and all the way through lunch my mind kept reverting to what she had said. What could it be that was making her uneasy? What could be going on that she did not understand? But since every possibility that occurred to me was more absurd than the one before, I gave it up and possessed my soul in patience till we arrived at Ronald’s rooms at half-past three.
“Would you like me to leave you two alone?” I said when they had shaken hands.
“Not a bit, Bob,” she cried. “I don’t in the least mind you knowing all about it. Not that there’s really very much to know, and I think that because of that, because it is so indeterminate that it’s got on my nerves. You’ve met my husband, Mr Standish, haven’t you?”
“I have,” said Ronald. “I can’t say that I know him at all well: Bob knows him much better than I do. But we’ve shot together once or twice.”
“It’s about him that I’m worried,” she began. “However, I’d better go right away back to when the thing first started. And it’s only comparatively recently that little episodes which occurred at the beginning have fitted into their proper place: at the time I thought nothing of them.
“About a fortnight after we came back from our honeymoon I was in the library one morning looking for a book. And it so happened that I was standing in an alcove out of sight of the door, which suddenly opened and Henry came in with someone else.
“‘Come in here, Doctor,’ I heard him say, and then the door shut.
“‘It’s out of the question, Henry,’ said the other man, and I recognised the voice of Doctor Frobisher. He is the local doctor, who has attended the family for years and who is regarded as an old friend rather than as a doctor.
“‘But, my God! how much longer is it going on?’ cried my husband, and then I stepped out into the room.
“They both swung round, and for a moment or two Henry looked annoyed.
“‘Hallo! dear,’ he said, ‘where have you sprung from?’
“‘I was looking for a book,’ I answered, wondering whether I should say anything about the remark I had just heard.
“‘I hope you had a pleasant time in France, Lady Ranelagh,’ said Doctor Frobisher, at the same time opening the door for me.
“I made some perfunctory reply, and left them. And since it so happened that Henry had to go up to London that afternoon for a few, days, I had no opportunity of asking him about it at once. Then when he came back I put it off, until finally it was too late, and the whole episode faded from my memory.”
“That would be about fifteen months ago, Lady Ranelagh,” said Ronald.
“That’s right,” she answered. “Well, as time passed by, it began to strike me that Doctor Frobisher came to the house rather more frequently than one would expect. He was continually coming either to dinner or lunch, and on two or three occasions I saw his car in the drive in the middle of the morning. So one day I mentioned it casually to Henry, who turned it off with a laugh.
“‘My dear girl,’ he said, ‘the old chap loves my port. And seeing that he brought the whole lot of us into the world he can have as much of it as he wants, bless his heart.’
“But it seemed to me, Mr Standish, that he looked at me a little queerly, and I wondered if his answer was quite the truth. Certainly there was no one ill in the house, and so there was no reason for a professional visit: at the same time I had an intuitive feeling that there was something that was being kept back from me. And though I can truthfully say that I’m not a particularly curious person, it piqued me a little. With the result that I kept my eyes open more than I should have done normally. But I found out nothing until one day about a fortnight ago.
“Happening to look through the window I saw the doctor’s car outside. Now it was eleven o’clock in the morning, and the old man had
dined with us the night before. And it struck me that, port or no port, this was a little excessive. So I went out into the hall just in time to see Henry and him disappearing into the library. And as they closed the door I heard my sister-in-law’s voice.
“‘Well, Doctor Frobisher, what do you think?’
“For a moment or two I hesitated: then I’m ashamed to say that I deliberately tiptoed across the hall and listened outside the door. But they were talking in low voices, and I could hear nothing until I suddenly caught one sentence of my husband’s.
“‘She must know nothing; under no circumstances must she ever find out.’
“And at that moment I looked round to find Weston, the butler watching me from the door that leads to the servants’ quarters. There was nothing to be done about it, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more embarrassed. To be caught red-handed eavesdropping by a servant is not funny, especially when that servant was Weston who has been with the family since the dawn of history. So I did the only possible thing: I opened the door and went in.
“The conversation ceased abruptly.
“‘Hallo! Kitty dear,’ said Muriel. ‘I was just coming to see you. I’m stopping to lunch if I may.’
“‘Delighted,’ I replied. ‘Am I interrupting a family pow-wow?’
“‘Of course not, darling,’ cried Henry. ‘This old rascal has come for a hair of the dog that bit him last night.’
“‘Playing the deuce with my gout, too,’ laughed Doctor Frobisher. ‘But if your husband insists on keeping such an infernally good cellar, Lady Ranelagh, what on earth is a poor country practitioner to do?’
“I laughed too, and left them. But now, of course; all my suspicions were confirmed. Who could the ‘she’ be who must never find out except myself? Something was being kept back from me, and I determined to tackle Henry direct. The opportunity came that very night.
“‘Just before I came into the library this morning, Henry,’ I said, ‘I overheard a remark you made. You said, “She must know nothing: under no circumstances must she ever find out.” You were alluding to me?’
“‘My dear Kitty,’ he answered, ‘that shows how dangerous it is to listen to a conversation and only hear one remark.’
“‘I wasn’t listening,’ I said, putting down the indignation pedal.
“‘Weren’t you?’ he answered quietly, and in a flash I knew that Weston had told him. ‘Anyway the “she” I referred to was not you, but somebody quite different. If you must know, Charles’ – that’s his youngest brother – ‘has been making a fool of himself over a woman, and we’re trying to get him out of it.’”
She paused and lit a cigarette thoughtfully.
“Mr Standish, that was a lie. I knew it, and Henry knew that I knew it. I didn’t say anything, of course, but it hurt – hurt considerably. As his wife surely I had as much right to be taken into his confidence as Muriel or Doctor Frobisher. And Weston, too. How dared he go to Henry and tell him he’d seen me listening outside the door unless he was in it, too. It would be as much as any butler’s place is worth to say such a thing under normal circumstances.
“As I said, that was about a fortnight ago, and since then Henry has been most odd. I can tell he’s worried to death about something, and he seems to get worse and worse every day. And then two mornings ago it came to a head. I don’t think you know the house, Mr Standish, but Bob does. It is an enormous barrack of a place: there are old boxrooms and lumber-rooms that even I haven’t been into. And it so happened that on the day in question I was walking along a passage in the east wing which I’d never been along before. As a matter of fact parts of that wing are never used; they are supposed to be damp or something.
“Suddenly walking towards me I saw Henry, and as he came up I made some commonplace remark about the passage wanting dusting. Then I looked at his face and gasped. It was quite white, and his voice when he spoke was shaking – shaking with rage.
“‘What are you doing here?’ he said.
“‘I really don’t know,’ I answered. ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be here?’
“As you can imagine, I was a bit fed up: there didn’t seem to me to be anything peculiar in the mistress of a house going round it. And I suppose the same idea occurred to Henry, for he pulled himself together and gave a sort of sickly smile.
“‘Sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘No reason at all, of course. I’m a bit nervy today; didn’t sleep very well last night.’
“‘What is this mystery, Henry?’ I burst out. ‘There’s no good pretending there isn’t one, because it sticks out a yard. Muriel knows about it, and Doctor Frobisher and Weston. Why can’t I be told?’
“He took me by the arm, and led me back to the main part of the house.
“‘You’re imagining things, my dear,’ he said. ‘There’s no mystery at all. I was a little surprised at finding you in this unused part of the house – that’s all.’
“‘Then what were you doing there?’ I demanded.
“‘Just having a look round,’ he answered. ‘There’s a bit of dry rot starting, and I don’t want it to go too far.’
“‘The dry rot is what you’re talking,’ I said angrily. ‘Do you imagine I’m a fool, Henry, or a baby? Once and for all, will you tell me what this mystery is?’
“‘Once and for all I tell you there is no mystery,’ was his reply. ‘You’re imagining the whole thing.’
“And that’s how it stands at the moment, Mr Standish, and it is upsetting me terribly. I’m frightfully fond of him, but this beastly barrier between us is ruining everything. And I wondered if you could help me.”
Ronald raised his eyebrows.
“It’s rather a tough proposition, Lady Ranelagh,” he said. “To help you I should have to come to the Towers, and if I did so it would be the most unwarrantable impertinence on my part if I started prying into your husband’s private affairs. Besides, what possible excuse have I got for going there at all? To be quite frank I haven’t the pleasure of knowing either of you at all well…”
“I’ve thought of that, Mr Standish,” she interrupted. “And that’s where Bob comes in, for he knows Henry very well and me too. This morning two guns failed us. What about you and Bob coming in their place?”
“I can assure you,” said Ronald with a smile, “that an invitation to shoot your coverts would not be thrown in the paper basket. But what will your husband say? He’s almost certain to have already invited two other guns to fill the vacancies.”
“He hasn’t. He asked me to get hold of Tony Ditchling at lunch today, but I didn’t. Anyway he’s a foul shot. I’m going to tell him that I asked Bob, and that he suggested you.”
She rose.
“So that’s settled. I’ll write you a line confirming the invitation tonight. And it is sweet of you to have listened so patiently.”
“A remarkable woman, Bob,” said Ronald, as he came back from seeing her off, “and three days’ shooting is not to be sneezed at. But if the dear thing expects me to go nosing round the house I fear she’s going to be disappointed. It would be an unpardonable thing to do.”
“I wonder what the deuce it can be,” I remarked.
“He’s always been a healthy bloke, hasn’t he?” said Ronald.
“So far as I know, perfectly.”
“Because it did occur to me to start with that he might have some illness which had to be kept from her. That would account for the doctor’s consumption of port, and the old family butler being in it.”
“But hardly for the agitation in the passage,” I remarked.
“No; not for that. Well, let’s hope at any rate that we hit ’em in the beak.”
I had not seen Henry Ranelagh since his marriage, and I confess that I was shocked at his appearance. He looked a sick man, so much so that I began to wonder whether Ronald’s idea had not been right, and that he was suffering from some disease himself. At times he was his old self, but it always seemed to me that it was forced.
As usual the shooting was wonderful, but only on one day did our host come out with us, which was a most significant thing in itself for he was a magnificent shot. And somewhat naturally his mood communicated itself to the party, so that it was with a feeling of relief that one realised it was drawing to a close.
It was on the last night but one of our visit that Ronald came into my room for a final cigarette. There was thunder about; the atmosphere was sultry and oppressive. Heavy clouds drifted sluggishly across the sky, and through them the moon made a fitful appearance. He was in his dressing-gown, and drawing up two chairs we sat down by the open window.
“I had a long talk with Lady Ranelagh after dinner,” he said. “She’s worried to death, poor soul, and I’m only sorry I can’t help her. I had to tell her that I was afraid I’d earned a shoot under false pretences.”
“His nerves are certainly all to hell,” I remarked. “I’ve been wondering if you weren’t right and that he’s ill.”
He shook his head, and looked at me curiously.
“Did you hear anything last night, Bob? Round about three o’clock.”
“No; I didn’t. I was tired, and never batted an eyelid till I was called. What was it?”
“I can’t say. But I had one of those nights when one can’t get to sleep. The house was deathly still; nothing was stirring outside, when suddenly from a long way off there came a harsh call – rather like the call of a bittern. But there are no bitterns in this neighbourhood. It was not repeated, and I was just beginning to doze off when I heard a strange sort of slithering noise going past my door. It was so peculiar that I got up and looked out. And in the faint light – the moon was just setting – I saw what looked like a shadow move. It was there one moment and gone the next. And in the distance a board creaked. For a moment or two I hesitated: should I follow? And then I heard steps – ordinary human footsteps. So I closed my door, save for a tiny crack, and waited. Two men came past, walking along the passage, and going in the direction in which the shadow had vanished. One was Ranelagh; the other was the butler Weston.”