Nemesis at Raynham Parva (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 3

  Mrs. Thornaby’s gesture showed that she had little definite to tell.

  “I don’t really know. I’m not inclined to cross-question Elsie too much, you see, Clinton. I’m doing my best to conceal my feelings from her. I don’t want to stir up trouble in these last few weeks that are all I’ll have of her for long enough. I don’t want to seem too curious, because, if I talk too much about him, I’m afraid she’ll see clearly enough what I feel.”

  Sir Clinton nodded understandingly.

  “But you’ve got some notion, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “Nothing much,” Mrs. Thornaby answered doubtfully. “I think he does something with horses.”

  “That’s not unlikely in the Argentine. Anything else?”

  “He seems to have something to do with theatres—or else some friend of his is interested in them and he has influence in that line. That reminds me, Clinton. They’ve got a couple of girls here—Elsie asked them down. It’s something to do with this theatre business. You’ll see them to-morrow.”

  Sir Clinton nodded rather absent-mindedly at this information. He was evidently still trying to bring himself to new bearings in the matter of his niece.

  “She was always such a pretty, trustful kiddie,” he said reminiscently. “Never been hurt, and thought everybody was as straight as herself. The worst of the marriage system is that, if the husband comes a smash, he drags his wife down with him. It’s hardly fair, when one comes to think of it.”

  He glanced at his sister’s face, saw that he had let something slip out which had done no good, and changed the subject abruptly.

  “What about the other half of the family? At the age of eleven, Johnnie’s hardly likely to have got involved in troubles of that sort, anyhow.”

  “Johnnie’s all right,” Mrs. Thornaby confirmed. “He was looking forward so much to seeing you to-night; and when he found you wouldn’t be here till late, and I wouldn’t let him sit up for you, he nearly rebelled. I expect he’ll be hammering at your door to-morrow long before you’re awake. He’s got a lot of things he wants to show you. He’s got a regular menagerie round by the garage, and he’s frightfully keen over some hutches he’s made. Don’t omit to be enthusiastic.”

  “Is he still worrying round with Meccano and that sort of thing?”

  “He’s still quite keen on it. Some of the things he makes are really quite good—most complicated working models. He seems to have a turn for that sort of thing.”

  “It’s always a sound thing if a cub can use his hands. I’ve brought him a lot of supplementary stuff—it’s in the car and he’ll get it to-morrow. That’ll infuse some fresh interest into the business for him.”

  Mrs. Thornaby nodded.

  “You spoil the boy,” she said, with a faint smile. “But I don’t think he likes you merely for what he can get out of you. The latest is that he’s ‘going into the police, like Uncle Clinton,’ when he grows up. By the way, Clinton, are you really dropping the Chief Constableship?”

  Sir Clinton glanced up whimsically.

  “No. Shouldn’t dream of it now,” he said, with a purposely solemn face.

  “You aren’t sending in your resignation, then?”

  “No. Once is quite enough. I resigned the other day. You see, Anne, when old James left me his money, I knew there was a string tied to it. He didn’t put it in black and white because he knew he could trust me. But he wants the old place decently kept up; tenants looked after and so forth. James had very conscientious views about the duties of the country landlord towards his dependents. So I’ll have to step into his shoes and run the thing properly; and that’s a whole-time job if one takes it seriously. I haven’t time for that and the Chief Constableship, obviously, unless I let one or other of them down—or both. So I cleared out. No more police for me. I’ve earned a change of occupation, at any rate.”

  Mrs. Thornaby’s face showed her satisfaction at the news.

  “Well, we shall see more of you in future, Clinton. You won’t be tied down so much as you used to be.”

  “It’ll be a change, certainly. And this affair of Elsie has altered things a good bit. You’d better come and help me to look after things at the old place. I’m short of a Lady Bountiful at present; and there’s nothing to keep you here when Elsie’s gone.”

  He rose slowly to his feet, glancing at his watch as he did so.

  “It’s getting well on into the morning. I’d no notion time had gone so fast. Suppose we turn in? I’ve got a suitcase in the hall, if you’ll show me where my room is. The geography of this place is new to me.”

  Chapter Three

  SERGEANT LEDBURY

  Mrs. Thornaby’s overnight prophecy was fulfilled to the letter. Long before the normal breakfast hour, Sir Clinton was awakened by a peremptory rapping at his door and the incursion of a small boy into the room.

  “Good morning, uncle. I say, here’s your shaving-water; and I’ve told them downstairs to have breakfast ready for you in half an hour.”

  He put down the steaming can and flew to the windows to throw back the curtains, through which the sunlight was already making its way. Sir Clinton, wide awake on the instant, inspected his watch.

  “Easy with those curtains, young man,” he directed. “You’ll wake the whole neighbourhood if you slam the runners about like that. This is an ungodly hour to rouse a travel-worn relative.”

  Johnnie turned back from the window and perched himself on the edge of the bed.

  “They wouldn’t let me sit up to see you, last night,” he complained, “and I’ve got heaps of things I want to talk to you about.”

  “That last one’s a commoner complaint than you seem to think, Johnnie. Quite a lot of people suffer from a mania for talking about their own affairs,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Like this place in the country, after having been a town-bird all your life?”

  Johnnie nodded vigorously.

  “It’s A1. I never thought I’d live in a place like this, just stuffed full of interesting things. Do you know, uncle, I saw a badger yesterday, wandering along under a hedge. I didn’t know what it was when I saw it, but somebody told me afterwards. I’d no notion badgers were as big as that, had you?”

  “Not knowing how big it was, I can’t say.”

  “Well, it was ever so much bigger than I expected. And there’s a rabbit-warren in the wood behind the house. You can see them come out into the fields just about dusk. And I’ve seen two weasels in the wood. I don’t like weasels. And there’s a dovecote on the top of a pole in the yard; and there’s any amount of fowls and pigs and ducks and turkeys. And two collie dogs. And, do you know, uncle, I’ve got a pony all to myself.”

  His uncle made a pretence of being galvanised by this last item of news.

  “All the modern conveniences, evidently. Hop off the bed, young fellow, and let me get up. We must look into all this.”

  Sir Clinton slipped out of bed and put on his dressing-gown.

  “Now you can show me where the bathroom is. This house is new to me, and I forgot to inquire my way about last night. If I happen to fall asleep while I’m dressing, please wait for half an hour and then waken me again—gently, this time. Meanwhile, kindly lead the way, and don’t talk at the top of your voice when you pass the door of anyone’s bedroom. Show some fellow-feeling and let ’em sleep, even if I mayn’t.”

  Johnnie grinned at his uncle’s suggestions. He had carried his point and managed matters so that he would have Sir Clinton to himself during breakfast; and he hoped to carry him off immediately afterwards to inspect the grounds, before any of the rest of the family put in an appearance. He led the way to the bathroom, chattering eagerly as he went; and it was with obvious reluctance that he turned away when Sir Clinton cut him short by closing the door in his face.

  “I forgot one thing, uncle,” he communicated via the keyhole. “There’s a lake runs up into the grounds. It’s got fish in it and a lot of water-fowl live there. And I’ve learned to row a boat on it
. I’ll row you, by and by.”

  “I don’t mind if you do. I can swim. Now clear out!”

  Twenty minutes later, Sir Clinton descended the stairs to find Johnnie restlessly wandering about the hall, in evident impatience at what had seemed to him an interminable delay.

  “Come on, uncle. Along this way. Staffin’s just taking in the grub. I told her you took coffee. Do you know, there’s a couple of owls about the place—huge ones. I’ve never seen a live owl before, except at the Zoo. But you’ll need to wait for dusk to-night. In here, this is the breakfast-room.”

  He stood aside to let his uncle enter; but at the door they almost collided with the table-maid, who was hurrying out of the room. Her eyes met those of Sir Clinton for a moment, and he recognised the girl he had left by the wayside with her suitcase on the previous night. She looked anxiously at him as they met; but Sir Clinton, mindful of his promise, let no sign of recognition escape him.

  As he helped himself to breakfast, he reflected that his inferences had been correct. The point where he had encountered the girl was obviously quite close to Fern Lodge; and she had deliberately misdirected him over a roundabout route in order to give herself time to regain the house before he arrived himself. Obviously it might have been difficult for the girl to re-enter the house and slip off to her room undetected, if she had come back at the moment when the place was astir at his arrival. She could hardly guess that only Mrs. Thornaby would be sitting up to welcome him. And, naturally, when she met him on the road, she guessed his identity as soon as she heard that he was bound for Fern Lodge, since he was the only visitor expected.

  “There’s a pine spinney running down to the road near here, isn’t there?” he asked Johnnie, merely to clinch the point to his own satisfaction.

  “Oh, yes. There’s a short cut through it, down to the road. It’s in our grounds. I found a toad there, the other day.”

  Johnnie was so eager to exhibit the resources of the neighbourhood that Sir Clinton found breakfast anything but a quiet meal. Good-naturedly, he made as little delay as possible; and they rose from the table before any other members of the family appeared.

  “Now where’s this pony of yours, Johnnie?”

  The pony occupied some time; and, after it had been fully admired, Sir Clinton was conducted round the chief sights of the farmyard and out-buildings. At last, when Johnnie had exhausted the sights in the immediate environs of Fern Lodge, his uncle turned resolutely towards the house.

  “Elsie will be downstairs by this time, Johnnie. I haven’t seen her yet, you know. By the way, which is the shortest way to the garage? There’s something we’ve got to pick up there.”

  Johnnie, feeling that his uncle was passing into the hands of unappreciative grown-ups, led the way reluctantly to the garage door. Sir Clinton’s luggage had been removed from the grid of his car and taken up to the house; but a large wooden box had been left in the back of the tonneau. Sir Clinton went to take it out, whilst Johnnie glanced round the roomy garage in manifest surprise.

  “Why, where’s Vincent’s car?” he demanded.

  “Who’s Vincent?” Sir Clinton inquired, as he lifted out the box.

  “Elsie’s husband, of course,” Johnnie replied. “She calls him Vincent. His real name’s Vicente, though. I know that because he told me himself. Vicente’s the Spanish for Vincent.”

  “Well, what about his car?” Sir Clinton asked.

  “It isn’t here,” Johnnie explained. “It’s a two-seater and he keeps it in our garage. This is our own car,” he added, pointing to a four-seater saloon which was standing beside Sir Clinton’s touring car.

  “Never mind about it just now. Here’s something for you,” his uncle answered, indicating the wooden box. “It’s a new set of Meccano parts, and a few other things I picked up for you a while ago and didn’t send on at the time. There’s a couple of electric motors to make the wheels go round; and a battery or two for the motors.”

  Brushing aside Johnnie’s thanks, his uncle picked up the box.

  “A bit too heavy for you to carry. I’ll take it up to the house and you can unpack it for yourself.”

  When they reached Fern Lodge, Sir Clinton was surprised to find Staffin, the table-maid, in the hall. The girl was making a pretence of setting something to rights; but it was obvious at the first glance that she was doing this merely as an excuse for her presence. Sir Clinton was about to pass her, when over the head of Johnnie she made it clear that she was anxious to speak to him in private.

  “Hardly like Anne to have a table-maid who vamps casual visitors at second sight,” Sir Clinton reflected amusedly.

  A glance at the girl’s face convinced him, however, that she was in real trouble.

  “Cut along and get your box opened, Johnnie. Put it down somewhere where the packing won’t make too much of a mess,” he directed.

  Then, as Johnnie disappeared towards the back of the house, Sir Clinton turned to Staffin.

  “Well?”

  The girl threw an apprehensive glance towards the stairs and the breakfast-room door, as though afraid that she might be overheard.

  “Oh, sir,” she said breathlessly, “I’ve just heard that Mr. Quevedo’s dead and they’ve arrested Teddy . . .”

  “Mr. Quevedo being the man in the motor-car, and Teddy your other friend?” Sir Clinton interjected.

  “Yes, sir. Teddy’s hot-tempered; but he’d never go that length, or anywhere near it. It’s all a mistake . . .”

  She had some difficulty in restraining herself as she broke off. Sir Clinton offered her no assistance. It seemed better, since she had a story to tell, to let her tell it in her own way without leading questions. In a moment or two she regained control over herself and was able to continue.

  “It was like this, sir. Teddy’s the son of a small farmer close by; and when I came down here with Mrs. Thornaby, he took a fancy to me. We’d talked in a sort of way about getting married; and I suppose he thought it was all settled up. Then Mr. Quevedo came to the village; and he seemed to take a fancy to me too. He made Teddy jealous; and Teddy and I had a row over the head of it; and I sent him about his business.”

  Sir Clinton refrained from showing by his expression that he had inferred most of this from what he had seen with his own eyes.

  “Then,” the girl went on, “Mr. Quevedo got a bit more friendly; and he was always telling me that a girl like me was wasted in service. I could do better for myself than that, if I’d go to London. He was going to find a good post for me. He seemed so kind about it, and he never seemed to expect anything for himself. All he wanted, he said, was to see a girl making the best of herself and getting a good screw.”

  She threw another apprehensive glance at the door of the breakfast-room, from which came the sound of voices.

  “They’ll be finishing breakfast any minute,” she went on. “When things got this length, Mr. Quevedo found he had to go back to London himself; and he offered to give me a lift in his car. He was very careful, and said that he wouldn’t like to drive up to the house and take me away. People would get all sorts of bad ideas in their heads if he did that. And, of course, so they would.”

  Sir Clinton nodded without speaking, but the glance which he threw in his turn towards the breakfast-room had the effect of keeping the girl to the point.

  “Mr. Quevedo arranged to pick me up on the road last night. I was to slip down through the spinney and meet him where you saw us. He said he could find a place for me to stay in London, if I had no friends there. Very particular people, he said they were. They’d probably take me to church on Sundays, he said; and he asked if I thought I could stand that, just so as not to give them a bad impression.”

  “And you believed all that?” Sir Clinton demanded, almost incredulously.

  “I don’t now, of course,” the girl admitted frankly, “but then it sounded quite all right, sir. He seemed so anxious to give me a chance; and he never made any suggestions or took any liberties with me. I t
hought he was just being kind. And he had a way of talking that made it all seem just as simple as anything. Looking back I see—oh, what a fool I’ve been!”

  She showed signs of breaking down, but again she managed to recover her surface composure.

  “Then I met Teddy, sir, and he was so anxious to make it up and begin again. But he’d hurt my feelings badly with some things he’d said in his quick temper before; and I just wanted to even up with him. So I told him I’d better things to think about than him. And somehow, with our getting a bit angry with each other, I let slip something that showed him how the land lay—about Mr. Quevedo meeting me that very night.”

  She glanced rather piteously at Sir Clinton, as though expecting some comment on her tale; but none came.

  “You saw what happened, sir. Teddy’s got a terrible temper. But he’d never—he’d never have killed Mr. Quevedo. It’s all some dreadful mistake. Teddy’s not that sort of man, sir. He’s as kind as kind, really. I can’t think what made me behave like a fool and not know when I’d got what I really cared for. It was just Teddy making me lose my temper, and his losing his, that did it.”

  “And why do you tell me all this?” Sir Clinton asked in a colourless voice.

  “Why, sir, we know all about you, being Mrs. Thornaby’s brother. They all say you’re so clever at finding things out, Sir Clinton. Can’t you do something to help poor Teddy? It nearly drives me out of my mind when I think of him in gaol, and knowing no more about Mr. Quevedo’s death than I do, I’m sure. That’s why I came to you, sir. Please help us, and get Teddy off. Please, please, do! You’re in the police yourself, and they’d listen to you.”

  “I’m not in the police now,” Sir Clinton corrected. “And that makes no difference in this kind of case. I’ll give you one bit of sound advice, Staffin. When you’re dragged into this, as you may be, then stick to the plain truth. Don’t try to make up a story in the hope of helping Teddy—what’s his other name, by the way?”

  “Barford, sir. You will help him, Sir Clinton, won’t you?