by Q. Patrick
While this tale of mystery, vengeance and death unfolded itself in the headmaster’s study, the common task of Craiglea went on, ostensibly, as before. Yet, despite the peaceful setting—the droning of bluebottles on the window-panes, the familiar squeak of chalk on blackboard—there were indications of suppressed excitement in the sunlit class-rooms. The boys were unusually restive and whispered furtively to one another. Mlle. Santais had difficulty in keeping order and had continually to be warning her form to do something which her pupils interpreted as “Rest your trunks still.” Mr. Heath’s witticisms to the Lower Third were more than usually feeble, while Mr. Nettleton, who looked tired and listless, abandoned the scheduled lesson in parsing and read the last thrilling chapters of Moby Dick to his English classes.
Sophonisba was in the music-room, instructing recalcitrant boys in the art of piano playing. She knew nothing of the more sinister aspects of Moss major’s death, but she had heard of the actual tragedy from her mother and, consequently, felt as little interest in Herr Czerny’s exercises as did her pupils. No one could have called Sophonisba heartless, yet if the truth were told, she had been more excited than upset by the death of Moss major.
Many months ago she had decided that nothing ever happened at Craiglea. At the advanced age of twenty-two she felt life was slipping through her fingers and that it would never bring her anything more enthralling than an occasional shopping trip to Bristol or an outing with the boys to Weston-super-Mare. There was something so depressingly middle-aged about teaching music in a preparatory school, and a chance glimpse in the glass at her brown-gold hair and young healthy complexion, told Sophonisba that she was designed for more romantic things than a daily round of: “One, two, three, and … one, two, three, and … Don’t forget the accidental.”
If only Mr. Nettleton were not so commonplace, she mused, a trifle impatiently; if only he were not so Oxford and so damn English!
“That’s very nice, Rogers. Next lesson we’ll take the right hand of the Jolly Farmer. … No, Rogers, I know nothing about Moss major. … No, it’s not mumps.”
Sophonisba gave a sigh of relief as the music-room door closed behind the captain of cricket. Thank heavens it was “break” at last—half an hour of peace! She started to powder her delightfully tip-tilted nose, letting her mind stray for the hundredth time to the curious happenings of the day.
There was a knock at the door, but it meant nothing more startling than the school porter with her mid-morning meal of milk and biscuits.
“Oh, good morning, McFee,” Sophonisba glanced absently at the tall porter. “Put it down on the piano, will you please? Yes, right there by the bust of Beethoven.”
McFee set the tray down, but, contrary to his usual habit, made no move to leave the room. Sophonisba turned from the mirror to find him gazing at her intently.
“Can you spare me a few minutes, Miss Dodd?”
“Why, certainly,” she said in some surprise. “What’s up?”
The porter sat down on the piano-stool, which seemed to her rather an uncalled for liberty. From his pocket he produced a round, shiny disk similar in appearance to a half-crown. He began to toss it up into the air and catch it again. Suddenly he leant forward and pushed it into her hand.
“Know what that is, Miss Dodd?”
Sophonisba fingered it gingerly. Her gray eyes widened as she read the inscription: “Drummond Private Detective Bureau, Number 87.”
“Why, what on earth…?” She broke off helplessly. “Is—is this yours?”
McFee gave a smile that revealed his strong white teeth. “Good guess, Miss Dodd.”
“My sainted aunt!” Sophonisba was completely bowled over by the suddenness with which her dreams of excitement had been realized. “So—so you’re not a porter!”
“No, I’m not a porter.” McFee took the detective’s badge from her and stuffed it into the pocket of his grubby apron. “This is very much between you and me, understand, but I’m not even an Englishman. I’m an American. An American detective.”
“An American detective!”
To Sophonisba, in her present mood, there could have been nothing more romantic than an American, and certainly nothing more thrilling than a detective. To think that one had been bringing her milk for the past six weeks and she had not had the penetration to notice it!
“A detective!” she repeated, as though the very framing of the magic word gave her pleasure. “An American! Oh, it isn’t about Eric Moss’s death, is it? You don’t mean there was something mysterious in that!”
“That would be telling.” McFee’s eyes were bantering, then suddenly they took on a deadly seriousness. “Now listen to me, Miss Dodd. I’m in a tough position. I’m working here in strict secrecy. Your father knows, naturally, and Sir Wilfrid has given his okay. It’s absolutely necessary for me to go on pretending to be a porter, and as a porter my hands are more or less tied. I can’t ask questions. I can’t be seen any place that would look suspicious.” His face clouded over. “Things have got to the stage where I need help—someone who’s willing to do the things it would be impossible for me to do. Of course, I could get one of Sir Wilfrid’s men in as assistant. But they’re all anxious to keep the police out of the building. They don’t want the parents—or anyone else—scared. I need someone who can come and go without being suspected. I’ve been watching you, Miss Dodd, ever since I arrived, and I’ve decided you’re the only person I can trust. Would you be ready to help me?”
Sophonisba’s young eyes sparkled. This sudden turn of the wheel from boredom to excitement seemed almost more than she could believe.
“You really mean it?”
The porter nodded.
“Well, of course,” she said. “If you think I’d be any good, I’d be only too glad to. Please, please tell me what’s happened.”
“That’s swell.’ McFee seemed slightly amused at her enthusiasm. “Sit down and listen.”
Obediently Sophonisba seated herself and listened intently while McFee gave her a guarded account of his own activities and of the events which had come to light that morning. When he had finished, she leant forward eagerly.
“How thrill—I mean, how awful! And you really think one of these Hellers is somewhere in Craiglea?”
McFee’s face was grim. “They seem to have proved that point pretty conclusively this morning. Now, Miss Dodd,” he added, his tone very brisk and official, “I want to explain your duties. In the first place, I want you to keep a close watch on the staff. Don’t make it obvious, of course. But just have your eyes open and tell me immediately if you notice anything unusual.”
“The staff!” echoed Sophonisba. “You don’t mean—you don’t think they’re involved in this. Why, they haven’t the gumption!”
McFee had produced his badge again and was tossing it up and down. “I haven’t told the police yet, Miss Dodd, but you have a very peculiar staff at Craiglea. The agency has been working on their antecedents and in certain cases—they’ve come up against a blank wall. When a murder’s been committed, it’s always wisest to look for your murderer on the spot, especially when the people on the spot are so interesting. This isn’t one of those trick cases. Everyone’s involved.”
Sophonisba concealed her surprise. “Of course, I’ll do my best to help.”
“Excellent!” McFee caught the badge and glanced at her approvingly. “By the way, before we begin, it might be a good plan for you to tell me some of your impressions. You see a lot of the staff—maybe you have some ideas.”
“Well, there’s Sergeant Crawley who comes to take gym, and Miss Elliot, the drawing mistress, who comes in from Saltmarsh Tuesdays and Fridays…”
“Don’t bother about them. I’m only interested in the resident staff.”
“All right.” Sophonisba wrinkled her tip-tilted nose musingly. “There’s Mr. Heath. He’s never done anything in his life, so far as I know, except serve in the war and make bad jokes. Of course, he did have some sort of a breakdown
last year, and took six months off traveling round the world on a tramp steamer or something, but he only came back more facetious than ever. I think he was in America for a time. Yes, I’m sure he was, because when he feels reminiscent, he always wants to pour out his experiences on the Great White Way.” She patted her soft wavy hair. “But I don’t see how he could be mixed up in this. He’s been with us for donkey’s years; besides, he’s the son of an English major or colonel or some such big bug.”
McFee smiled. “That’s interesting. I’m afraid our friend the mathematics master has been boasting. He happens to be the adopted son of a widow who runs a successful grocery store in Wimbledon.”
“Good Lord! I can’t believe … How on earth do you know that?”
“Our London branch found it out for me. Detective bureaus are the most thorough things in the world, Miss Dodd. Heaven help you if they get on your tracks. Now, how about Mlle. Santais?”
“Oh, no one knows anything about her except that she’s very high-necked and respectable. She never speaks a word and uses a perfectly loathsome perfume. Come to think of it, she is a bit fishy.”
“Fishy? What do you mean by that?”
“Well, in the first place, she’s only been here a short while. And then—she never gets a letter. Every day I make a dash for the postman. It’s the most exciting thing that happens here. But there’s never even been a postcard for Mlle. Santais. That always seemed rather strange to me. You’d imagine she’d have a relative of some sort, wouldn’t you? She looks just the person to have a fond maiden aunt in Dieppe.”
“A pretty bit of detection, Miss Dodd!” Stephen McFee’s dark eyes were twinkling. “That’s been worrying me for some time, too. But I think we’re going to hear something more about those letters soon.”
Sophonisba was completely bewildered at the storybook omniscience of this porter whom, until a few moments ago, she had never seen doing anything more extraordinary than trundling wheelbarrows and polishing shoes.
“Now for the last but not necessarily the least, Miss Dodd. How about Harvey Nettleton?”
At this reference to the young English master, Sophonisba withdrew into herself. She had no compunction in discussing the other members of the staff, but with Harvey Nettleton it seemed a little different. She thought of his sleek, yet rather engaging good looks, his yellow-blond hair. Of course she hadn’t a crush on him or anything soppy like that, but somehow she shrank from involving him in this mysterious tangle of suspicion and death.
“Well, what about him?” echoed McFee. “Have you noticed anything funny in his accent?”
“No.” Sophonisba sprang to the defense of the English master with an impulsiveness that surprised even herself. “He doesn’t talk like the rest of us, but there’s nothing strange in that. I expect you haven’t been in England long enough to realize that young men from Oxford, when they take themselves as seriously as he does, don’t talk like the rest of us. They acquire an Oxford manner, an Oxford accent.”
“I see. That’s how you explain away the accent, is it?”
“Yes,” said Sophonisba, who, now she had done her best to exculpate him from any suspicion, felt an exasperation that amounted almost to spitefulness against her colleague. “There’s nothing criminal about Mr. Nettleton. If he ever did anything more daring than cutting a lecture at All Saints, he’s got more go to him than I suspected.”
As soon as these words left her lips, Sophonisba regretted them. She could tell from the slight change in McFee’s expression that he was supposing her to be more than usually interested in the fate of the English master.
But if he felt this way, McFee made no reference to it. He had moved to the window and was gazing with apparent nonchalance across the sunlit flower-beds of the headmaster’s garden.
“How about the servants?” he asked suddenly. “I suppose you know nothing of them?”
“No, nothing. All I know is they grumble about the stairs all the time, and go to the pictures in Saltmarsh with young men with red faces and check caps. But surely you don’t think this—Heller woman is masquerading as a housemaid?”
“We’re looking into their antecedents, but you never know.” McFee swung round, his face losing for an instant its rugged assurance. “I thought I had the whole business under control, but Eric Moss was killed a few hours ago. If I don’t keep my eyes and ears skinned, they’ll get Irving the same way. Maybe you find this idea of revenge difficult to understand. But America’s younger and more hot-heated than England. People take their ideas and their politics more seriously over there. They’d kill for a cause, and they’d die before they left this sort of debt unpaid.” His firm mouth broke into a smile. “But I don’t think these people are going to get—very far.”
As he spoke, Sophonisba felt a little afraid of him. His strength, his self-confidence, the very set of his head on his shoulders made her glad that she was not the criminal he was tracking down.
It was a long time since she had been afraid of anyone. Curiously enough, it was a rather pleasant sensation.
“I’m so glad,” she said softly, “so glad you’ve asked me to help. Oh, bother—” She broke off at the sound of a knock on the door. “Break must be over. That’s Lucas.”
VII
ENTER THIRD CONSPIRATOR
And Lucas it was. He entered, looking studiedly apologetic. Under his arm he held a tattered piece of music. At first he did not notice McFee. He threw Sophonisba a glance which was intended to be conciliatory.
“Miss Dodd—”
Sophonisba did her best to look stern. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you haven’t practiced again, Lucas.”
“Well, you see, Miss Dodd, it’s like this, Miss Dodd—” Lucas broke off as he caught sight of McFee.
Sophonisba, too, glanced in the direction of the detective. Somehow it embarrassed her to have to play the schoolmistress in front of him.
“You’d better get back to class,” she murmured without looking at the boy. “It’s no good taking your lesson if you haven’t practiced. And mind, no scrimshanking next time.”
Lucas was a trifle injured at being treated in this way. In the light of his secret knowledge, he felt extremely important.
As he moved reluctantly towards the door, he slid McFee a sidelong, meaning look which subtly conveyed the notion that he had more momentous things to occupy his time than practicing the Robin’s Lullaby.
The detective paid no attention to him until he was on the point of opening the door. Then he moved swiftly forward and lifted him off the ground by his collar. This completely shattered the boy’s dignity, and he started to complain volubly as McFee carried him across the room to Sophonisba.
“Here, Miss Dodd,” said the detective, dropping Lucas on to the piano-stool, “you see an eavesdropper. This little devil hid behind a screen in the headmaster’s study this morning and heard every word.”
St. John Lucas flicked him a disapproving glance. “Wasn’t eavesdropping, Miss Dodd. I just stayed on in case they wanted to question me.”
Stephen McFee passed one of his large hands through the boy’s hair and ruffled it. “Not only is he an eavesdropper, he is a liar!” He took hold of Lucas’s shoulders and gazed at him with mock ferocity. “Maybe you can fool the rest of them, but you can’t fool me. You were holding out on the headmaster in prayers this morning. I could tell that from the way you acted. What really happened last night?”
Both Sophonisba and Lucas were not a little startled by the swiftness of the detective’s attack. The small boy shifted uneasily.
“L-last night?” he faltered.
“Yes. What happened in that dormitory after I’d taken the shoes away?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Lucas stammered. “Even if I did get out of bed, and even if it is breaking the rules, I don’t see that there’s anything so—”
McFee hitched up his corduroy trousers. “Not so fast, my boy. Begin at the beginning.”
With many ple
as to Sophonisba not to “split” on him, Lucas narrated all that had happened from the time he listened at Mr. Nettleton’s door till the moment when he woke up. Finally, St. John Lucas finished, flushed with pride and self-importance.
“So you see,” he said with an injured air, “I didn’t listen at that door just because I was curious. Miss Dodd. It was because I thought something was going on that ought to be looked into.”
Sophonisba turned away and ran through a pile of music as though she were searching for something very important.
“So you’re a dyed in the wool detective, Lucas!” McFee’s eyes were on the boy as he fumbled in the apron pocket for his tobacco pouch. It was difficult to judge from his expression how much of the boy’s tale was new to him. “Who was the woman in Nettleton’s room?”
Lucas seemed a trifle overawed by the detective and addressed him with a new deference. “Don’t know, McFee, sir. Wasn’t Miss Dodd, sir. Thought it might be Mrs. Moss, sir.”
“Hm! Wonder what she was doing there.”
“There’s no reason to suppose she went anywhere near the room,” broke in Sophonisba rather tartly. “And if she did, I expect she was inquiring about the twins. Nothing very extraordinary in that, is there? It will all come out when Sir Wilfrid interviews Mr. Nettleton, anyway.”
McFee glanced at her. “Lucas, how did you know it was Mlle. Santais who passed you when you were in the closet? It would have been pitch dark inside.”
“Smelt her, sir,” answered Lucas promptly. “She always st—smells the same way, sir.”
“How did you know she didn’t go into the room?”
Once again Lucas had a deft reply. “Mr. Nettleton’s door squeaks, sir. I’d have heard it if she’d gone in, sir.”
“Don’t keep calling me sir. It makes me nervous. Now about this dream of yours. It was a dream, wasn’t it? You never really saw anyone when you woke up?”
“Sorry, sir—I mean, sorry, McFee. But I’m certain I saw her. There was a flash of lightning and I could see her against the window.”