Nemesis at Raynham Parva (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

  J. J. Connington and The Murder Room

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  Nemesis at Raynham Parva

  J. J. Connington

  Contents

  Cover

  The Murder Room Introduction

  Title page

  Note

  Map

  I. THE AFFAIR BY THE ROADSIDE

  II. THE MAN FROM THE ARGENTINE

  III. SERGEANT LEDBURY

  IV. ACCIDENT OR HOMICIDE?

  V. SOME FACTS IN THE CASE

  VI. A NEW LINE IN MURDERS

  VII. THE AGENT 7-DH.

  VIII. THE CENTRE AND MARCELLE BARRÈRE

  IX. THE CYPHER TELEGRAM

  X. THE RESPONSIBILITY

  XI. AN OLD LINE IN MURDERS

  XII. FRANCIA’S ATTACHÉ CASE

  XIII. THE GOVERNMENT MISSION

  XIV. THE LETTER WITH THE PARIS POST-MARK

  XV. THE BURSTING OF THE BUBBLE

  XVI. A SURPRISE FOR SIR CLINTON

  XVII. SERGEANT LEDBURY’S INVESTIGATION

  XVIII. THE MAN WITH THE TELESCOPE

  XIX. THE FRENCH METHOD

  XX. IN SAFE DEPOSIT

  Outro

  By J. J. Connington

  About the author

  Copyright page

  NOTE

  I take this opportunity of acknowledging my indebtedness to Mr. Victor Gollancz, who suggested the basal idea of the following story. For certain details in the narrative I have drawn upon the information given in the League of Nations paper C.52.M.52.1927.IV. and Mr. Albert Londres’ book The Road to Buenos Ayres.

  J. J. C.

  PLAN OF SMOKE-ROOM AT FERN LODGE

  Chapter One

  THE AFFAIR BY THE ROADSIDE

  The big car ran smoothly through the darkness, opening up vista after vista of the road with the long beams of its headlights; and Sir Clinton Driffield, alone at the wheel, reflected contentedly that he might have fallen upon a worse night for his journey. He liked to drive late in the evening when the heavy traffic of the day was over; and now for the last half-hour he had not seen the lamps of another car. A pleasant feeling of isolation from humanity, tempered by the company of the machine, fitted in well with his mood and served to make him forget the annoyance of disarranged plans.

  He was just back from a holiday, and had intended to drive down in time for dinner at the house which his sister had leased at Raynham Parva. But the breakdown of an engine had disorganised the Continental service; and when at last he reached London, it was too late to keep to his original programme. He had telephoned his news, so that there might be no anxiety at his non-arrival; and then, after dining at his club, he had started out in time to reach his destination about midnight.

  Sir Clinton diverted his gaze momentarily from the pale ribbon of the road under his headlights and glanced across at the milometer on the dashboard. He had never been over the route before; but he had a mental picture of the map to guide him; and the figures on the dial showed that he was near a point where he would have to leave the main highway for a by-road. His eyes turned to the illuminated clock beside the speedometer, and he noticed that it was rather later than he had believed.

  Half a mile farther on, he swung off into the expected side-road; and with the change came a feeling of even more complete solitude. Except for the hum of the motor, the night was silent. The air was pleasantly cool; and as he swept through a little pinewood, Sir Clinton caught a whiff of aromatic scents drifting from the trees. Then once more he was under the open sky, running between low hedges, over the tops of which he could catch faint glimpses of fields under the stars.

  A small dark object hurried laboriously across the road in the beam of his headlight, and Sir Clinton relaxed his pressure on the accelerator lest he should run over the creature ere it could get out of his way. When it had scuttled into safety at the wayside, he let the car out once more.

  “A hedgehog!” he said aloud to himself. “This is the peaceful country and no mistake. I wonder if it would have punctured a tyre if I had run over it.”

  The hedges gave way to a high stone wall enclosing some large estate; and a couple of miles farther on, Sir Clinton had to take another turn. Inspection of the milometer told him that he was nearing the outskirts of Raynham Parva, and two or three scattered lights ahead suggested the village itself. He slowed down, for the road had become crooked. Then, as he rounded a turn, his headlights broke on a scene which contrasted strangely with the peace out of which he had come.

  A car with only sidelamps lighted stood by the roadside; and in the free space of the road, Sir Clinton’s headlights glared upon the figures of two men who had come to grips with each other. Close by, but in the background, stood a woman, with something which looked like a suitcase at her feet.

  Sir Clinton had all the decent man’s dislike for getting mixed up in a brawl, especially one in which it was impossible to distinguish the right side. The presence of the girl influenced him to some extent; since she might be left at the mercy of the victor in the struggle, if no help were at hand. Apart from all other considerations, this factor weighed with him as he checked his car and cautiously drew nearer to the three figures.

  But his mere arrival momentarily disturbed the balance. As the blaze of the headlights fell upon the group, one of the combatants, dazzled by the unexpected glare, fell back a pace; and the smaller man seized the opportunity to launch a not unsuccessful kick. The heavier figure stepped back under the shock and desisted from his attack while he rapidly explored the extent of the damage.

  The advantage gained was merely momentary. Finding himself undisabled, the bigger man paused as though gathering himself together; then, with a dash, he fell upon his antagonist, shook him by the coat-collar, and swung him round.

  “So kickin’s in the game, is it?” he demanded furiously. “All right. Turn about’s fair play. It’s my turn.”

  And at once he put his suggestion into practice, administering a brutal punishment to his adversary.

  The girl made a movement as though to interfere; but the burly man, with an angry gesture, warned her back to her place. Sir Clinton pulled up his car and stepped out; but before he could reach the group, the affair was over. The bigger man, after a last kick, flung his opponent from him so violently that he stumbled and fell to the ground, where he lay groaning.

  “That’ll perhaps learn you not to come sniffin’ round after other men’s girls!” the victor commented sneeringly, as he stood over his adversary.

  Then, seeing Sir Clinton�
�s figure approaching, he turned away and beckoned to the girl.

  “You come along with me,” he ordered. “I’ll see you safe home.”

  But the girl ignored his order, still keeping her place by the roadside. For a moment the man seemed to think of using force to compel her obedience; then, with a glance at Sir Clinton’s approaching figure, he turned and walked past the tail of the standing car. Before he could be called back, he had slipped into a by-road out of sight. From round the corner came the sound of a self-starter; gears were engaged; and soon the noise of the motor had died away in the distance.

  Coming up to the standing car, Sir Clinton stooped over the figure on the road and offered his hand to assist the man to rise. Evidently the kicking had been a vicious one; but it seemed to have done no permanent damage; for when the man got to his feet again he was able to hobble painfully to the door of his car. Apparently he was in a furious rage, for he did not even pause to thank Sir Clinton for his help. Instead, he climbed painfully into the driving seat of the two-seater and worked the self-starter.

  As he lifted his head after reaching forward to the knob, his face came into the full glare of Sir Clinton’s headlights and revealed his features, contorted with passion. Sir Clinton noted that he had a sort of coarse handsomeness; and that the cast of his looks was un-English. He might have been a southern Frenchman or Spaniard, had it not been for the suggestion of some other race which Sir Clinton failed to identify. In spite of well-cut and inconspicuous clothes, there seemed to be a hint of showiness in his appearance which accentuated his divergence from the normal English type.

  Paying no attention to Sir Clinton, he leaned out of the car and addressed the girl, who was still standing where she had been throughout the scene.

  “Strap your suitcase on the grid and get in,” he said curtly.

  But the girl’s attitude showed more than a little hesitation. She glanced from the man in the car to Sir Clinton, as though weighing the position in her mind before she spoke.

  “I don’t think I’ll come,” she answered doubtfully.

  This seemed to infuriate the man in the car.

  “Get in when I tell you,” he said angrily. “Don’t stand there gaping! That fellow may change his mind and come back again, any minute. Come on, now, quick!”

  The tone of his voice seemed to stiffen the girl’s resistance.

  “I’m not going with you,” she answered in a firmer tone.

  The man examined her face in the glare of the headlights, and seemed for a moment or two as though he were calculating his chance of swaying her from her decision. But the presence of a stranger evidently hampered him. He cast a glance of annoyance at Sir Clinton; and decided to give up his attempt.

  “All right,” he snarled. “Stay where you are. It’s your loss.”

  And without wasting more words, he started his car. The girl watched him stonily as he drove away round the corner and out of sight. A glimpse of her face, brightly lit by the headlights, gave Sir Clinton the impression of a conflict between relief and disappointment on her features.

  The affair was no business of his, obviously, however out of the common run it might appear, but he could hardly leave a girl by the wayside at that time of night without offering some assistance, since her suitcase might be a heavy one. It was a case for tact; and he determined, even at the cost of absurdity, to ignore what he had seen.

  “You seem to be left stranded,” he said, as he approached her. “I’m driving into Raynham Parva; and if it’s any use to you, I’ll be glad to give you a lift in my car.”

  He pointed to the empty back seats, by way of suggesting that she need not sit beside him unless she wished to do so. For a moment or two, the girl seemed to hesitate; then, with a glance at the pine spinney which fringed the road behind her, she shook her head decidedly.

  “I’ll manage all right, thank you.”

  As she turned her head to answer him, Sir Clinton saw that she was a pretty girl. Her voice, with its slight quiver of agitation, was a pleasant one; and only the faintest accent betrayed that she did not belong to his own class. A single incurious glance had shown him that she had good taste and carried her clothes well, though they were not expensive ones.

  “If it’s any help, I’ll take your suitcase for you and drop it in Raynham Parva. There’s no need for you to drag it along, even if you don’t feel inclined to risk yourself with a stranger at this time of night.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll manage quite well.”

  Sir Clinton had no intention of forcing his company on her. After all, she knew her own business best; and it was not his affair to look after her if she preferred to be left to her own resources.

  “That’s Raynham Parva just ahead, isn’t it?” he asked, by way of taking the awkwardness out of the situation.

  The girl nodded.

  “Keep straight on,” she volunteered. “You’ll come to it in two or three minutes. It’s only half a mile or so along the road.”

  Sir Clinton thanked her and was about to turn away, when a thought struck him.

  “Perhaps you could save me some trouble. I’m going to Mrs. Thornaby’s—at Fern Lodge. I don’t know the village—never been here before; and by the time I get there, everyone will have gone to bed long ago and I’ll find no one to tell me my road. Perhaps you could direct me?”

  A new expression came into the girl’s face, something with more than a tinge of dismay in it.

  “Oh, then you’re Sir Clinton Driffield?” she exclaimed.

  She stopped abruptly, biting her lip as though she had let the question slip out in spite of herself and now regretted that she had done so.

  “You seem to know me,” Sir Clinton admitted, restraining his surprise.

  He examined the girl closely; but could not recall that he had ever seen her before. He felt a slight touch of vexation at this, for he prided himself on his memory for faces.

  She seemed uneasy under his scrutiny; and made no reply to his implied question. To relieve her, he took his eyes from her face and made a gesture towards his car.

  “Well, since you know who I am, now, perhaps you’ll change your mind and let me take you in to the village. There’s no point in your dragging that suitcase along the road.”

  But again the girl shook her head, this time so definitely that Sir Clinton saw her mind was clearly made up.

  “I can tell you how to get to Mrs. Thornaby’s,” she said. “You go right on till you come to the village. . . . Wait a moment, I must think. . . . Yes, go down the main street till you come to the Black Bull Hotel—you can’t miss it. Turn up the road on the right, just beyond it. There’s a grocer’s shop at the corner, so you can’t mistake it. Then you go on along that road till . . . let me see. . . . Oh, yes, till you cross a bridge with stone walls on each side of the road. Then you take the first road on your right again. Mrs. Thornaby’s house is in that road. It’s on your left hand side. You’ll know it at once because it’s got two beasts carved on the tops of the gate-pillars; and the name of the house is on shield-things on the pillars, too. You can’t possibly mistake it.”

  “Thanks,” said Sir Clinton. “I’d better get on my road. You’re sure you’ll be all right if I leave you here?”

  Again the girl refused the invitation which he implied.

  “I’ll manage all right,” she assured him.

  Sir Clinton had no further excuse for lingering; but he was still puzzled, and he hated to be perplexed by an unsolved problem.

  “I wish you’d tell me how you recognised me,” he said. “You don’t know me by sight, obviously, or you’d have spotted who I was when I came up at first.”

  For a second or two the girl remained silent, evidently uncertain what to say.

  “I knew you were coming to-night,” she said at last, “and I guessed who you were when you spoke to me.”

  She stopped, as though a fresh aspect of the situation had occurred to her, and it was only after a pause that she went on:
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  “Please don’t ask questions, Sir Clinton. And, please, if you see me again, don’t say anything to anyone about this affair to-night. You must have seen that it wasn’t nice. I want to forget all about it. And I don’t want anyone to hear a word about it. Don’t let anyone know that you’ve seen me before. You won’t, please?”

  Her distress was apparent; and Sir Clinton could see no valid objection to giving his promise.

  “Sounds a bit mysterious, doesn’t it?” he said lightly. “You seem to think we’re likely to come across each other again. Well, if it’ll ease your mind, I certainly won’t say anything about it to anyone; and you needn’t recognise me when we do meet. That’s all right. Now about these directions you gave me. Let’s see if I have them right. Straight on till I come to the Black Bull; then up to the right past the grocer’s shop; then on till I come to a bridge; and the first road on the right brings me to Fern Lodge. That’s correct, isn’t it? Thanks for putting me on my way.”

  He did not repeat his offer of a lift, but made his way back to his car. The girl showed no sign of leaving her post, but stood on the grass edging of the road with her suitcase at her feet as he drove slowly past her. A few yards down the road, he turned and glanced back in her direction; but by that time her figure seemed to have been swallowed up in the darkness.

  A few hundred yards farther on, he ran into Raynham Parva, and had little difficulty in finding the Black Bull Hotel. The village was asleep; and he congratulated himself on having secured directions about his route beforehand, for there was no one in the streets whom he could have questioned. Taking the turn at the grocer’s shop, he found that a couple of minutes driving took him beyond the outskirts of the village into the open country once more.

  His thoughts, however, were less on the road before him than on the scene which he had just witnessed. On the face of it, the meaning of the affair was plain enough: the quarrel of two men over a girl, ending in a rough-and-tumble struggle. The girl’s suitcase pointed clearly to some projected elopement which had apparently been interrupted by the arrival of the second man.