*
Reggie had noticed a telephone in the billiard room where Sir Samuel had entertained his guests the previous evening. He checked his wallet for the piece of paper bearing Rachel’s number, but couldn’t find it. Irritating, when time was short. He didn’t want his absence to arouse comment. He called the operator, and asked to be put through. It took an age, and while he was waiting, Turner popped his head round the door.
“There you are, Vickers! The major is looking for you.”
Sweating, Reggie covered the mouthpiece. “What does he want?”
“No need to bite my head off.” Turner’s tone was injured. “It’s not about the cricket.”
“Sorry, old man. Still a bit fraught after muffing that catch.”
“The major picked up something of yours in the pavilion. At least he thinks it’s yours. Asked you to go over there.” Turner glanced at his watch. “If you hurry, you’ll be back before the soup is served.”
“Something of mine?”
“Evidently you dropped it,” Turner said with feeling.
Reggie swore under his breath as he put down the telephone receiver. Had the major found the piece of paper on which he’d written Rachel Savernake’s address and telephone number? His handwriting, large and childish, was recognisable to anyone familiar with it. Perhaps when he’d changed into his cricket whites, it had fallen out of his pocket. But why did the major want to see him in the pavilion?
There could only be one answer: he wanted a quiet word away from the others, somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed. The major meant to interrogate him about Rachel Savernake.
*
While Lucy was serving the fossils with their beer, Jacob made good his escape. His poky little room was at the top of the stairs. Yawning, he told himself that he hadn’t lied to the girl about how weary he felt. It was still light outside, still early, but he was suffering from the effects of his escapade in Soho.
He stripped down to his singlet and shorts, and locked the door, just in case. Lucy appealed to him, and so in theory did the prospect of a frolic with a healthy young woman. But it would take time to recover from his misadventure in Soho. He lay down on the bed and was fast asleep long before a knock came on the bedroom door.
The knocking persisted for fully half a minute, and then the door handle was rattled in vain. None of it woke him up.
*
Reggie slipped out through the French windows at the back of Tunnicliffe. It was a pleasant July evening, the sun’s glare no longer ferocious. Hastening towards the cricket ground, he wondered how he might appease the major, and wished he hadn’t drunk so much. The brief comfort of alcohol had given way to lethargy and his brain, sluggish at the best of times, was woozy.
In the distance he glimpsed the drive, winding through the trees and towards the main road. Should he make a run for it, take the coward’s way out? Wasn’t it better to live to fight another day? The snag was, he had nowhere to run to. There was nothing for it but to bluff his way out of trouble. If need be, he’d get down on bended knee and beg for forgiveness. He’d given years of loyal service. Anyone could make a mistake. To err was human.
Better get a move on. The major hated to be kept waiting. Reggie’s breath came in ragged spurts as he quickened his pace, and moved beyond the mountainous rhododendrons. The cricket scoreboard came into view, and then the pavilion, its thatched roof pretty under the dipping sun. A tall, upright figure emerged and came down the steps. He stood at the boundary edge, arms folded, and watched as Reggie put on a spurt.
“Sorry if I’m late,” he panted.
In his good hand, Major Whitlow held aloft a piece of paper. Sure enough, it was Reggie’s note about the Savernake woman’s details.
“We need to have a private talk, Vickers.”
“Absolutely, sir. I quite understand.” What could he do but fawn? “A quiet word. Far from the madding crowd.”
The major gave a curt nod. Displeased, Reggie thought, but not spitting feathers. That was something to cling on to; there was hope. He followed the other man along a grass pathway which led away from the pavilion and through a copse of yew trees before descending to a patch of rocky ground. Ahead of them was a knee-high brick wall overlooking a fold in the landscape. The major strode forward and sat down on the wall, facing Reggie. He beckoned Reggie to join him.
“I’m familiar with Miss Savernake’s name,” he said conversationally, “but I know very little about the woman. Tell me about your relations with her.”
“Not much to tell, sir.” Reggie struck a casual note; after all, they were two men of the world. “Good family, judge’s daughter. Damned attractive, if I may say so. I was given her name by a friend of my godfather’s.”
“I see.”
Reggie wasn’t an accomplished liar. It was safest to stick to the truth. The devil of it was, he had no idea how much the major knew, how much he might have guessed. Dangerous to deny having met the woman, if he’d been spotted entering Gaunt House. He was fairly certain he’d not been followed there. But better safe than sorry.
“She invited me to her house once. Rather a home bird. Not a girl for gadding about, parties and suchlike. We took tea, had a natter about this and that…”
“What did you natter about?”
Reggie stroked his jaw. “Between you and me, I found her rather hard work. Not one for small talk. It turned out we didn’t have anything in common. She’s keen on art, of all things. Her walls are festooned with the most ghastly modern stuff. As for cricket, I doubt she knows an arm ball from a leg bye.”
He ventured a man-to-man snigger, but the major’s expression didn’t flicker. The chap had no sense of humour.
“Was Gilbert Payne mentioned?”
“Payne?” Reggie breathed out. “Lord, no. She’s only lived in London a short while. His name would mean nothing to her.”
“You didn’t discuss him at all?”
“Word of honour, sir.” Reggie didn’t care to be trapped into the lie direct, but needs must. “Never mix business with pleasure, that’s my motto. Not that meeting Rachel Savernake was much fun, between you and me. I’ve no desire to malign a lady, but she’s a cold fish. I decided not to continue the acquaintance.”
Major Whitlow’s brow furrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
“I say, sir. That’s a bit strong, isn’t it?” Reggie began to get to his feet. “Word of a gentleman, and all that?”
“Sit down.” Reggie sat. “And Louis Morgans? Were you equally discreet in his company? At the Clandestine Club and elsewhere?”
Reggie felt sick in the pit of his stomach. He’d hoped against hope that the major knew nothing about that side of his life. Damn it all, what a fellow got up to in his private time was nobody else’s business. It was simply a matter of letting off steam as far as he was concerned. One of these days, he’d settle down to tedious respectability. He’d marry well, or as well as he could, raise a few nippers, give them the benefit of a proper education. All he needed was to be given a chance. He’d sown his wild oats; he could make a fresh start. It wasn’t fair to persecute a chap because he’d made a mistake or two. Anyone could slip off the straight and narrow. It was as easy as dropping a catch.
A glance at Major Whitlow’s impassive features told him what he already knew in his heart. Outrage would get him nowhere. Nor would a plea to the major’s better nature. He didn’t have one.
“I hardly knew Morgans, sir.”
“You went as white as a sheet when you heard he was dead.”
“Well, of course…”
“Don’t bluster, Vickers. It does you no credit.” The major tapped Reggie on the knee with his iron claw. A gentle movement, but the sharp fingertips stung. “What did you tell Rachel Savernake?”
He was a jelly of indecision. “I… suppose I may have mentioned Payne, sir.”
“An old friend, wasn’t he, from the Clandestine Club? When you heard he was still alive, and planning to come back to England, you we
re concerned for his safety.”
“Naturally, sir.” Reggie made a brave attempt to muster his dignity. “I hoped…”
“Your work may be mundane, but it is highly confidential.” The major’s tone hardened. “Have you broken a sacred trust?”
“Sir.” Reggie began to flounder. “I mentioned no names, gave nothing away of any substance.”
The major’s eyes bored into his. Reggie searched in vain for a hint of pity. Mystified, he watched as the other man suddenly bent to pick a pebble from the ground. He lobbed it over his shoulder, over the wall. It made a faint clatter as it fell.
A snarl of anger came from below.
Shifting his position, Reggie saw that the wall separated the grass path from a thick slab of rock overhanging a ravine. He caught a glimpse of a shaggy mane as the creature moved back into the shadows. Its sleep had been disturbed. So this was where the wild animals were allowed to roam free. Thank heaven they couldn’t escape.
“You’re lying,” the major said. “Don’t you agree, Pennington?”
Reggie jerked his head again, and saw Pennington’s bulky figure emerging from the trees. In his large right hand, he carried a monkey wrench.
“Through his teeth, I’m afraid, sir.” Pennington’s bonhomie had vanished. His grimness hit Reggie like a blow from the wrench.
In the ravine, the lion snarled again.
“I… I’ll tell you everything,” Reggie stuttered. “I was fond of Gilbert, very fond. When I found out that… that he was in danger if he came back to Britain, I was upset. Stupid of me.”
“Very,” Pennington said.
“I was desperate to save him if I could. I didn’t talk to the police, I swear. But I thought the Savernake woman… anyhow, it was a mistake. She did nothing, and Gilbert died.”
“Fell out of a train, didn’t he?” Pennington asked. “Pure accident.”
“If… if you say so.”
“Accidents do happen,” Pennington said. “And you’ve had a drop too much to drink, Reggie. You’re getting careless. That missed catch this afternoon wasn’t the half of it.”
Reggie panicked. He jumped down from the wall, and was about to make a dash for it. But the major moved more quickly, and slashed him on the back of the neck with his claw. Reggie fell to the ground, whimpering with shock and pain.
“Not to worry, sir,” Pennington said. “The marks won’t look much different from those the lions make. Come on, Vickers. Stiff upper lip. Don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.”
He lifted Reggie up as casually as if he were unloading the Bugatti.
“Help!” Reggie screamed.
He struggled to free himself from the muscular arms. But there was no one to hear him or help him. Only the major and Pennington and the animals down in the ravine.
Pennington heaved him over the jutting rock, and let him fall. Reggie screamed as he struck the steep sides of the ravine, before hitting his head on the stony, uneven ground at the bottom.
He lost consciousness as the lion emerged from the shadows.
21
“Gorgeous day,” Jacob said.
Sun streamed through the windows of the Dobell Arms, but breakfast proved a subdued affair. Siddons, the only other guest, sat by himself. He’d parked his binoculars, map, and walking stick on the chair at the opposite side of his little table, to deter anyone from joining him.
He responded to Jacob’s pleasantry with a bad-tempered mumble, and drained his coffee cup before struggling to his feet. Wincing as he put weight on his damaged ankle, he limped towards the back door, which led to the tiny outbuilding dignified with the description of an annexe.
On his way out, he passed Mrs Hepton, a dumpy woman with fair hair turning grey. Her cheerful goodbye failed to earn a reply. She presented Jacob with a plate of fat sausages, greasy eggs, and fried bread.
“Sleep well?”
“Like a log, thank you.”
He didn’t regret his decision not to encourage Lucy’s attentions. After his night in Soho, a long, uninterrupted and dreamless sleep had done him the world of good.
“Your first time in Mortmain, is it?”
In between mouthfuls, he explained that he’d wanted to get away for a few days. He didn’t say what he was getting away from. Mrs Hepton said she gathered he meant to go fossil hunting.
“Ammonites,” he said airily, crossing his fingers that Mrs Hepton knew even less about fossils than he did. “Fascinating… um… things.”
Mrs Hepton smiled vaguely, and he quizzed her about the Dobells, without learning anything new. When she asked about his plans for the day, he said he’d buy a newspaper in the village, and then stroll around the peninsula.
“Take a gander at our paper if you want,” she said obligingly. “The Witness.”
“Thanks.” He managed not to pour scorn on her taste. “It’ll make a change. I usually read the Clarion.”
He was glad he hadn’t revealed that he was a reporter. The Heptons showed little curiosity about their guests. He suspected none of them had read his story in the copy he’d left on the counter yesterday. In Mortmain, a murder in Soho probably seemed as irrelevant as a hurricane in Hawaii.
A few moments later, she returned to present him with the newspaper. Her pleasant, worn face was sombre.
“Terrible business over at Tunnicliffe. What is the world coming to? Poor man. Fancy being eaten by a lion!”
Jacob’s stomach churned as he scanned the front page. His early-morning languor had vanished. Gobbling down the fried breakfast had been a mistake. He felt queasy.
To learn that lions roamed a country estate was startling enough. The news that the animal had feasted on Reggie Vickers sickened him. The Witness’ breathless account of the man’s fate left as little to the imagination as journalistic decency required. The prurience of the report would have appalled him if he hadn’t known that the Clarion would be equally gleeful.
So the man who had told Rachel about Gilbert Payne was dead. His grieving friends had told the Witness that they’d all been drinking after a cricket match. Reggie had celebrated with more gusto than anyone, even though he’d been on the losing side. It just showed what a sportsman the fellow was. The distressed captain of his team had spoken of Reggie’s enthusiasm and loyalty.
The captain was Major Whitlow. The man Jacob had last seen giving evidence at the Old Bailey. Clive Danskin’s saviour.
And Danskin was due to arrive in Mortmain later today for a house party with Leonora Dobell and Rachel Savernake.
For all the morning’s warmth, Jacob felt a chill.
*
“Vickers died last night,” Trueman said.
Rachel and the Truemans had started out early and made excellent progress up the Great North Road even though the fine weather had brought out the traffic. It was a rare outing for them, and their mood was light. Rachel and Martha were both wearing sundresses, daringly short. When Hetty said they might be taken for sisters, Rachel replied that Martha was more than a sister to her. They’d stopped at a roadside tavern near York, and Trueman was returning to their table after going off in search of newspapers.
Rachel put down her knife and fork. “What did they do to him?”
He held up the front page to show the headline: Cricketer Found Dead in Zoo Tragedy.
“An appalling accident, if the authorities are to be believed,” he said.
“Which they never are,” Rachel said. “Go on.”
“Happened yesterday evening, after a cricket match at Tunnicliffe. He was playing for the Masqueraders. The team he mentioned to you, captained by Major Whitlow. Not so very far from Mortmain Hall, as it happens.”
“The owner of Tunnicliffe bragged about his private zoo in the Telegraph a few weeks ago. I suppose the Masqueraders were inspired to combine business with pleasure. Cricket and murder.”
Trueman mimed applause. “The police think our friend enjoyed himself too much. Went out to clear his head in the eveni
ng air and just happened to fall into a ravine where lions are free to roam.”
“Careless.”
“The demon drink has a lot to answer for. When his friends realised he was missing, they formed a search party. There wasn’t much left to identify by the time they discovered him.”
Rachel grimaced. “No doubt tributes have been paid?”
“Poignantly. Vickers was a first-rate public servant, who will be sorely missed.”
“In other words, a pawn who outlived his usefulness.”
“They have cancelled their return fixture with the Tunnicliffe team as a mark of respect.”
“Quite a sacrifice.”
“What game are they really playing?” Martha asked.
“We’ll soon find out,” Rachel said. “At Mortmain Hall.”
*
They had arranged to meet Jacob a couple of miles outside Mortmain. He was sitting on the grass verge when the Phantom pulled up. The sun was beating down and he’d just finished an impromptu picnic.
“You heard about Vickers?” Rachel asked.
Jacob nodded. “I thought I might hire a cab and go to Tunnicliffe. Write up the story for the Clarion, and…”
“You’re forgetting,” she said. “Vickers’ death was supposedly an accident. You’re a crime reporter.”
“It would give me a chance to sniff around. See what Major Whitlow and his friends have been getting up to.”
“You made enough of a nuisance of yourself in Soho. Don’t give them another excuse to use animals as assassins. You might end up being gored by a rhino, or trampled on by elephants. Possibly both.”
“Bitten by a boa,” Martha said dreamily. “Chewed by a crocodile.”
Jacob breathed out. “Perhaps I’ll stay in Mortmain.”
“Good,” Rachel said. “You’re learning. Now, have you gleaned anything new about Mortmain Hall and the Dobells?”
“Not a great deal.” He gave a brief account of what he’d been up to. “Leonora isn’t too popular, and her husband is an object of pity. All rather predictable. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open when I go fossil hunting.”
Mortmain Hall Page 21