Nemesis at Rayham Parva E-Book

J. J. Connington

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Sir Clinton Driffield est impliqué dans une affaire proche de chez lui: sa nièce semble également être victime d'une opération "d'esclaves blancs", qui impliquait des showgirls européennes obtenant des contrats lucratifs pour des spectacles en Argentine, mais qui en fait ne sont pour rien de tel. , mais quelque chose de beaucoup plus sombre.

Leseprobe

NEMESIS AT

RAYHAM PARVA

J. J. Connington

First Edition, 1929

© 2021 Librorium Editions

ISBN 9782383830009  

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13 | Chapter 14

Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

Chapter 19 | Chapter 20

______________

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 1

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:

“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.

Sir Clinton’s eye was trained to catch minor details; and he had noticed that the girl’s ring-finger was bare. But that in itself meant very little. A married woman leaving her husband might very well take off her wedding-ring, even if the removal of it was a mere emotional gesture.

The foreign-looking fellow in the car seemed an obvious interloper. If he had been posing as a lover of the girl, the pretence had been stripped bare by his actions at the last moment; for all the emotion which he had shown was easily to be accounted for on other grounds, and his manner to the girl had been anything but lover-like. He had behaved like a bad loser confronted by an unexpected disaster.

The second man’s doings presented an even greater puzzle. If he was the girl’s husband, why had he left her by the roadside? Village manners would suggest quite another line of action for him. If he were either a lover or a brother, why had he not waited until the other man drove away and then settled matters to his own satisfaction, if possible? There must have been some fairly strong motive in his mind if it impelled him to leave the girl stranded on the road with a suitcase at that hour of the night, especially when he had a car in waiting round the corner.

The girl’s behaviour furnished yet another problem. Her voice, Sir Clinton recalled, had not suggested any local accent, though she obviously did not belong to his own class. She spoke nicely— with an intonation quite different from that of the second man. But in country places it is not uncommon to find a girl with a cleaner accent than that of the men in her circle.

One thing was fairly apparent. She had arranged to meet the foreigner at an hour when the coast was clear; and she had brought a suitcase. The whole affair was obviously clandestine; and on this basis it was clear enough that she could not be picked up by the car at the very door of her own house. On the other hand, if the car was available, there would be no point in letting her carry her suitcase for any considerable distance from her home. The conclusion seemed to be that she must live somewhere close to the point where Sir Clinton had left her by the roadside; and this, in addition to other possible reasons, would account for her refusal of a lift in his car.

Finally, there was the question of her recognition of himself, which at first sight seemed the most puzzling point of all. Very brief consideration gave Sir Clinton a possible explanation of that side of the problem; and, as he thought it over, he found that it fitted neatly into the rest of the affair.

While he was thinking, the car had run for the best part of a mile, and yet there had been no sign of the bridge which was one of his landmarks; and he had almost come to the conclusion that the girl had misdirected him when he saw the stone parapets lining the road. And when he had crossed the stream, there was no sign of any road leading off to the right. He held to his instructions, however, though he knew that by this time he had left Raynham Parva far behind; and at last he came to a hairpin corner formed by the expected tributary road.

Sir Clinton had a good head for locality; and after he had gone a mile or so along this fresh route, it became obvious to him that he was now returning on a line which would bring him back to the vicinity of the village. When he realised this, a faint smile crossed his face; for it was just what he might have expected, if his guess at the situation had been correct.

“Very smart, on the spur of the moment,” he confessed to himself. “She’s evidently got her wits about her even when she’s shaken up a bit.”

His suspicion that he had been entirely misdirected died away; and his faith in his interpretation of the affair by the roadside was strengthened when the gates of Fern Lodge appeared in the beam of his lights, unmistakable with the carved lions surmounting the pillars.

The way was clear, and he turned his car into the entrance. Before him, a short drive opened up; and at the end of this Fern Lodge itself appeared, a substantial house decked with creepers, which gave it an old-established air. Light streamed from the hall door across the gravel sweep; and the windows of one room glowed in the night. Except for this, the building was dark against the sky.

A glance at the clock on the dashboard showed Sir Clinton that the détour he had made since leaving Raynham Parva had been longer than he had supposed. Evidently the Fern Lodge household had gone to bed, with the exception of someone who was sitting up to await him on his arrival. He sounded his horn gently as he drew near the door; then, pulling up his car, he got out and entered the house without ceremony.

Chapter 2

The Man From the Argentine

AS SIR CLINTON entered the hall, he heard a light step; a door opened, and Mrs. Thornaby came forward to welcome him. Though she was slightly older than her brother, few people would have realised this at first acquaintance. Her looks did not betray it; and she had a personality which seemed to take her out of the normal limitations of age and to let her mix with young people as easily as with those of her own generation. A marked capacity for making allowances for the prejudices of others was one of her most salient characteristics; and it made people turn to her for sympathy in their difficulties with a certainty that they would go away again with fresh courage.

“I heard your horn,” she said, after they had exchanged greetings. “Just as well you telephoned. I’d have been worried about you if you hadn’t turned up at dinner-time.”

She turned to the door.

“You’d better put the car into the garage now. It’ll save going out again later on. Drive down that path there, and you’ll find the place.”

She watched him start the engine, and then turned back into the house. Sir Clinton put his car into the garage, locked the front door of the house as he returned, and took off his overcoat.

“Come in here, Clinton,” he heard his sister directing from the room out of which she had appeared on his first arrival.

As he crossed the threshold, he threw a quick glance of inquiry round the room; but if he was surprised to find his sister alone, he did not let it appear in his expression.

“You must be cold after that long drive. There’s whiskey and soda over yonder. If you’d rather have coffee, I can make it in a minute or two; I’ve got the machine here. When you telephoned that you’d be late, I didn’t keep the maids up; and I expect they’re off to bed long ago.”

Sir Clinton nodded, declined the coffee, and helped himself to some whiskey and soda. With a gesture, Mrs. Thornaby invited him to take a comfortable chair near her own. Part of her charm lay in the fact that she always seemed more interested in other people than in herself; and it was characteristic that now, although she had news which concerned her deeply, she put it aside for the moment and questioned her brother about his own doings.

“Had a good holiday, Clinton?”

“Not bad.”

Sir Clinton also had the habit of suppressing his own affairs and showing a greater interest in other people’s.

His sister laughed gently.

“Really, Clinton, this police work of yours seems to be converting you into a sort of human oyster, so far as your own doings are concerned. One would think you were losing the gift of expression. I suppose it’s all this official secrecy business; but surely, after a couple of months on the Continent, you might come back with something more detailed than ‘Not bad’ as a report. It sounds a trifle bald, somehow.”

Sir Clinton laughed in his turn at this thrust.

“What do you expect? Detailed descriptions of Dutch windmills? You’ve seen ’em yourself. The Eiffel Tower’s still standing, and I don’t see much change in the view from the Lucendro Pass. I just wandered about and met a lot of interesting human specimens, here and there.”

“And left no address behind you.”

“How could I? I didn’t know, one day, where I’d go on the next. I wanted a real holiday, not a Cook’s tour with a time-schedule. When I got tired of a place, I just moved on to a fresh one that took my fancy.”

He drew a case from his pocket, chose and lighted a cigarette. In some indefinable way he made the gesture put a closure on the discussion of his own affairs.

“Now what about yourself?” he demanded, as he laid down the spent match. “Johnnie’s in bed long ago, I suppose; but where’s Elsie? I thought she’d have stayed up to see me.”

His quick eye detected a faint tinge of trouble in Mrs. Thornaby’s face at the mention of her daughter’s name; but when she spoke, it was evident that she was trying to treat the matter lightly.

“If you insist on cutting yourself off from your family for weeks, Clinton, you can’t complain of surprises when you turn up again. I’ve got one for you. Elsie’s married.”

Sir Clinton seemed less astonished than she had expected.

“Married, is she? Well, Rex Brandon’s a sound young cub as cubs go; and he certainly deserved to win. I’ve seldom seen any youngster so keen on a girl.”

Mrs. Thornaby shook her head.

“It isn’t Rex Brandon. It’s someone you’ve never heard of, Clinton.”

The tone of distrust in his sister’s voice was faint but unmistakable. Sir Clinton’s careless manner fell from him at the sound of it; and the face which he turned to Mrs. Thornaby was that of the official Sir Clinton.

“That’s rum,” he said slowly. “Tell me about it, Anne. You’ve managed to spring a surprise on me all right.”

Those who knew Sir Clinton only as an efficient and somewhat cynical Chief Constable would have been surprised if they had seen him with his nephew and niece. They would have discovered an entirely fresh side of his character; for since the death of his brother-in-law, ten years before, he had taken the two children under his wing and made an effort to fill the gap left in their lives by their father’s death.

Mrs. Thornaby made a gesture which seemed to suggest that she herself knew very little about the matter.

“I was never very keen on Elsie’s going to London, you know,” she explained. “I’d much rather have kept her beside me, though perhaps I’m a bit old-fashioned in that. But one can’t deny that she’s good with her violin. She’s quite worth the best training I could afford for her. And when she wanted to go to the R.A.M., I hadn’t the heart to refuse, once I found she was really eager about it. You know how one feels, Clinton. If she had her chance, then there was no grievance; but if I had objected to her going, she’d always have felt she’d missed something that might have made a big difference to her playing. She wouldn’t have groused about it; but I’d have felt all the time that I’d stood in her way. Let her have the experience, I thought, and then she won’t feel she’s missed an opportunity, even if nothing comes of it in the end. Besides, I felt that in a case of that sort, one’s better to weight the scales against oneself— just to make sure. I wanted to keep her; and I had a sort of notion that I was being selfish and disguising it by telling myself I was prudent. You see what I mean?”

Sir Clinton nodded, but said nothing. He and his sister understood each other; and this problem was one which Mrs. Thornaby had settled for herself. Comment was needless.

“Well, I’m afraid it didn’t turn out quite as I’d hoped,” Mrs. Thornaby went on. “Elsie didn’t neglect her work— trust her for that. She’s too keen on her fiddling. But she seems to have got among a rather weird lot of people in London. Some of the musical set introduced her to people outside, and they introduced her to others, and so on.”

Again Sir Clinton nodded without speaking.

“What I didn’t like about it was that she seemed to pick up a lot of futile ideas from these people; and if one didn’t agree at once that these notions were the last touch in up-to-dateness, then one was classed as mid-Victorian. I don’t mind being called Edwardian, but really mid-Victorian is a bit unkind, at my age.”

Sir Clinton’s face relaxed in a smile.

“They seem to have stirred you out of your senile torpor, anyhow. What sort of notions were they?”

“Oh, all about freedom, and living your own life without bothering about other people’s feelings, and so forth. Getting away from all the petty restrictions that hampered the older generation.”

Sir Clinton’s smile deepened.

“That comes well from people who can’t buy a cigarette or a box of chocolates in a shop after 8 p.m. without running the risk of being run in. We weren’t quite so hampered as all that in King Edward’s days.”

“Most of their notions seem mixed up with the sex question,” Mrs. Thornaby continued, disregarding the interjection. “Some of them seem to me simply silly. For one thing, they don’t believe in a girl getting engaged to a man; it seems that’s a case of a petty restriction. A man and a girl go about together for a while; and then, one day, they decide to get married— if they take even that trouble— and they drop into a registry office and fix it up without telling anyone. And that’s that. It may be a new way of doing things, but I don’t think much of it.”

Sir Clinton made no effort to conceal his amusement.

“It’s none so new, you know, Anne. When I was a boy, it was the ordinary method of getting married which servant-maids used. ‘Walking out’ they called it. I don’t see much novelty in that. Mid-Victorian’s no name for it. They must be a very unsophisticated bunch if it’s fresh to them.”

“It’s no laughing matter to me, Clinton. That’s just what Elsie did.”

The “official” expression returned to Sir Clinton’s face.

“Let’s hear about this, Anne.”

Mrs. Thornaby seemed to find relief in putting the matter into words. She was not the type which discusses its private affairs with friends; and the return of her brother had given her an outlet which hitherto she had lacked.

“Well, it seems that a man Francia was one of the circle she drifted amongst.”

“Francia? What is he? Spanish?”

“South American, I believe. He comes from the Argentine, Elsie told me. It seems that he fell in love with Elsie— violently in love.”

She paused for a moment, as though the subject grated on her indefinably.

“You’ll see him to-morrow,” she continued, as Sir Clinton made no comment. “Perhaps it’s jealousy on my part— quite likely. You know how much Elsie is to me, Clinton, and naturally I don’t like the idea of her going away to South America. It’s selfish, perhaps, but there you are. I can’t help it.”

She halted again, as though expecting some remark from her brother. Sir Clinton threw away the stub of his cigarette and chose another from his case, as though to fill the pause. He was evidently following his sister’s story closely, but had no intention of interrupting the narrative.

“Elsie attracted this man’s attention,” Mrs. Thornaby continued with some hesitation, as though she were picking her words in dealing with a disagreeable subject. “They seem to have gone about together a good deal. He managed to make her care for him— she’s quite keen on him, I can see. And the result was that they put these modern notions into practice: arranged everything and went off one day to a registrar’s and got married without a word to anyone beforehand. She’s of age of course, and it’s all in order; but they didn’t even tell me about it till it was all over. That cuts one a bit, you know, Clinton.”

Sir Clinton nodded gravely. He had had a different picture of his niece’s wedding in his mind. Elsie’s excitement over an announced engagement; her surprises over her wedding-presents; all the fun of choosing a trousseau; a pretty wedding, with her friends as bridesmaids and herself as the star; and, instead of all that, a visit to a dingy registrar’s office, a business with as much romance in it as taking out a dog-licence.

“H’m! She’s missed a lot of harmless pleasure,” he commented, as though to cover his sister’s emotion. “The new method doesn’t seem to offer the same opportunities as the old one, to my mind. However, if she’s fond of him, that’s always something.”

He seemed to ponder for a moment.

“A bit rum to come home and find the kiddie married. It seems not so long ago since she was climbing on to my knee clamouring for fairy tales. And now she’s the wife of a fellow I’d never even heard of. I can appreciate your feelings, Anne.”

Mrs. Thornaby had recovered herself.

“Elsie wired me after it was all over,” she went on. “They went off for a week-end together. Then Elsie brought him down here, and they’re staying till they go out to Buenos Ayres. I’ve done my best, Clinton. I was quite prepared to take second place, now. But he’s foreign— not our sort. His manners are all right, you know, only too much so, if you see what I mean. Somehow, I feel as if I’d never get to know the man.”

For his sister’s sake, Sir Clinton tried to put the best face on things.

“Spanish?” he said thoughtfully. “After all, Spaniards aren’t necessarily dagoes, you know, Anne. Some of them are sound stuff. One mustn’t get too prejudiced merely because a man doesn’t come from our own part of the country. Though I admit I’d have been better pleased if Elsie had kept to her own people and left foreigners alone. Rex Brandon was the man I was betting on. He may be a bit sharp-tempered at times, but he’s a likeable cub. Pity!”

“Well, perhaps I’m prejudiced,” Mrs. Thornaby admitted, with a tired smile. “I expect this wrench of Elsie going off to the other side of the world may have a good deal to do with my feelings. One can’t help that. It’s only natural.”

Sir Clinton seemed to be following a fresh train of thought.

“He can’t have married Elsie for money,” he said at last. “She hasn’t a penny of her own, and she knows that quite well.”

“Oh, that had nothing to do with it,” Mrs. Thornaby admitted frankly. “He seems to have plenty of money, so far as one can see. Elsie’s dropped one or two things which point that way. I gathered that he’s got quite big interests in the Argentine.”

“What’s his line?” Sir Clinton inquired.

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 3

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.