Lewis, white with anger, threatened to sack every one of them, until Superintendent Clough and Bill Rackham, who were, for once, of the same mind, pointed out that tonight of all nights, Lewis needed the help of the servants. It took some heavy tact from Molly and the promise of a substantial rise in wages before things simmered down but, unsurprisingly, the dinner was sparse and badly served and it was a relief when it was over.
One suspicion that Jack had nurtured he was able to lay to rest. Molly Lewis had not written the note. After a few minutes with her alone, he was convinced it really had come from Carrington but that, in the face of the servants’ denials, which he also believed, meant only one thing. Gerard Carrington had, somehow, got into the house. Rackham, together with Clough and his men, hunted through the house and grounds without success.
As Jack took up his position in the garden at half eight that evening, he looked back at the house. It wouldn’t be difficult to enter. The garage stood clear of the house, separated by a narrow passageway from the laundry, carpenter’s shop and gardeners’ room which were attached to the main building and formed a single-storey block with a gently sloping roof.
The passageway was a tradesman’s entrance, closed by a solid wooden door locked with a key, but it wouldn’t take much for an agile man to heave himself up on the door and climb up on the roof. Then, by means of the ornamental balcony that ran beneath the bedrooms, he could easily gain entrance through an open window. There was an open sash window at the end of the upstairs corridor that would do nicely but really, once a man was on the roof, he had plenty of choice. As for the ground floor – well, there were three sets of French windows at the back of the house and both they and the doors had been open, in this hot weather, all day. All it needed was nerve.
He had prepared himself for a long wait but the time seemed endless. Half past nine came and went, dusk ripened into darkness, and only the firefly glow of Molly Lewis’s cigarette a hundred yards away showed any sign of life in the summer house.
And then he heard it. Molly’s voice rang clear through the summer night. ‘You’re here!’
Instantly, lights flared out. Jack hurled himself towards them as police lanterns bobbed and swung across the grass as Clough’s men ran forward. He had a brief sight of Carrington’s face, caught in the glare, then Lewis ran across the grass from the other side, wildly firing shot after shot from his automatic. Rackham shouted, Clough yelled, but by the time they got to the summer house, Carrington had gone.
‘He’s there!’ screamed Molly, pointing to the house. ‘Steve’s after him!’
Jack, with Bill close behind, thudded across the lawn to the open French windows and into the house. There was plenty of noise in the garden but here, in the morning room, was silence. They went through to the hall and stood, listening. From outside came the shouts of the police, but surely there were sounds from up above? There was the creak of a floorboard, a series of thumps and then a yell of savage triumph.
They ran up the stairs to see Lewis and Carrington grappling furiously on the landing. Lewis still had his gun but Carrington had tight hold of his arm, forcing it upwards. At the end of the landing was the open sash window. Carrington wrenched a hand free, slammed it against Lewis’s throat and made a sudden dash for the window. Lewis fell back, choking, his hand to his throat, cannoning into Bill. Jack pushed past him in time to see Carrington drop down to the sloping roofs of the outbuildings. He followed Carrington out of the window, his feet slipping on the slate of the roof. Behind him he could hear Rackham call. ‘Watch it, Jack, he’s got a gun!’
Carrington, poised on the roof, turned to face him, gun in hand. ‘Come and get me.’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Jack levelly. He started forward, balancing on the sloping roof. Carrington screwed up his eyes and fired. Jack threw himself to one side as the bullet zinged off the slates.
Carrington, caught off-balance by the recoil of the gun, flailed at the air wildly and fell, clattering down the roof. Jack missed his footing and sprawled full length on the slates, scrabbling frantically with his hands. He half fell, half rolled down the roof, as three more shots, this time from the window, cracked out. He grabbed wildly for the gutter, his body lurching over the edge. He knew Bill was shouting but couldn’t make out the words. The wood of the gutter was slippery with moss and mud. He felt it crumble under his fingers, then it gave way and he fell.
The drop must have been about twelve feet but the gutter had saved him from a headlong plunge. He staggered against the wall of the garage, the breath knocked out of his body. He was in the tradesman’s entrance, a well of darkness. Because of the angle of the roof, he couldn’t see the open window above but he could hear the furious argument between Rackham and Lewis. From the garden on the other side of the house came the shouts of Clough’s men, but here, in the passage, there was only the sound of breathing.
Winded, Jack tried to speak, but could only manage a croak. He heard a shout and the crunch of a blow from above, then a huge noise as someone slid down the roof. A shape hung from the gutter for a moment, then the weakened gutter gave way altogether in a cracking of wood and a rain of splinters and mud. There was an agonized cry, followed by the whimper of a groan.
Jack, his chest like fire as his breath returned, struck a match. Carrington was standing against the garage wall, gun in hand. Lewis was lying at the end of the passage, crumpled against the wooden door. Jack, from behind Carrington, saw the terrified gleam in Lewis’s eyes as Carrington raised his gun.
Jack started forward, grabbing Carrington’s arm as he fired. The bullet ricocheted from the walls in a terrifying whine of sound. Carrington twisted in his grasp and broke free. Jack propelled forward, fell in front of Lewis, covering him with his body. Getting to his knees and gasping for breath, he struck another match.
‘Haldean!’ It was Carrington. ‘Get out of my way. I don’t want to hurt you.’
Jack got to his feet and shook his head dumbly.
Carrington’s gun was levelled at his chest. ‘If you don’t move, I’m going to shoot you.’
Jack’s eyes met his in the last of the match’s light. Carrington’s head went back as if he’d been struck. Jack tried hard and managed to speak. He wished he could see Carrington’s face, but he was only a black shape against the gloom of the passage. ‘I’m walking towards you. Give me the gun.’
‘I’ll kill you!’ The words were hardly audible.
‘Then kill me.’
There was a sound like a sob. Jack reached forward and took the gun from Carrington’s unresisting hand. A noise behind him made him whirl and, kicking out, he sent Lewis’s automatic flying.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ said Lewis wearily. ‘It’d be better if I shot him. He’s going to
hang
.’
Jack delivered the unresisting Carrington into the care of Superintendent Clough. He talked to Carrington, a soothing flow of words, but the man was sunk in complete apathy. He didn’t think Carrington had heard anything of what he’d said.
‘Good work, Major Haldean!’ boomed Superintendent Clough enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together. ‘My word, I’ll be glad to have this chap under lock and key and no mistake!’
‘Make sure he’s treated properly,’ warned Jack. ‘Inspector Rackham and I will be along to see him later. Can you get hold of a doctor? Mr Lewis fell off the roof. I think he’s crocked his ankle. He’s in the passage by the garage. See someone attends to him, will you? I wouldn’t be surprised if Inspector Rackham needed some attention as well. I’m not sure, but I think he’s a bit worse for wear. He’s on the upstairs landing.’
He went into the house where he found Bill coming groggily down the stairs, clutching the banister with one hand and holding his jaw with the other. ‘That bloody idiot, Lewis, laid me out,’ he said. ‘He fetched me the dickens of a wallop and I hit my head against the wall. I was trying to stop him loosing off with that damn gun of his.’ He blinked at Jack. ‘Did we get Carrington?’
‘Safe and sound. Come and sit down, Bill. You look all in. Superintendent Clough can see to anything that needs doing.’
Bill sank into a chair in the hall with a groan. ‘So it’s over,’ he said distantly.
‘For the time being, yes,’ answered Jack.
‘For the time being?’ asked Rackham with a groan, propping his forehead on his hand. ‘What happens next?’
‘I need to have a talk with Hector Ferguson,’ said Jack. ‘But that can wait till tomorrow.’
SIXTEEN
‘
I
n my opinion, Lewis,’ said Hector Ferguson earnestly, ‘it would be a crying shame not to carry on with Carrington’s work.’
It was three days after Gerard Carrington’s arrest. Stephen Lewis and Hector Ferguson were sitting in the bar of Goodyers, Lewis’s club in St James. Hector Ferguson, his whisky completely ignored, was enthusiastically leafing through diagrams. ‘I was in Scotland yesterday,’ he said. ‘My chief engineer’s absolutely aching to complete this improved version of the machine. These diagrams are copies, you understand? He’s got the originals and, based on what Carrington’s already done, he’s confident he can have a working machine ready within the fortnight.’ He hunched forward in excitement. ‘Just think of it, Lewis. In two weeks’ time –
two weeks!
– we can change the future of recorded sound. However, I don’t want to proceed without your agreement. Carrington’s your cousin, after all, and I suppose, not to put too fine a point on it, you are his next of kin.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that unless Carrington’s made other arrangements, you’ll inherit his property.’
Lewis drew back as if stung. ‘For heaven’s sake, Ferguson, that’s pretty cold-blooded. He’s not dead.’
Ferguson sucked his cheeks in. ‘Can you not treat the situation with a degree of what I might call . . .’ He coughed and suddenly looked very uncomfortable. He was obviously choosing his words carefully. ‘With intelligent anticipation, Lewis? There’s no point avoiding facts. Carrington’s been arrested.’ He drew his finger across his throat. ‘Is there really a chance of any other outcome?’
Lewis looked at him with an appalled expression. ‘But even so, man, I can’t just wade in and help myself to his property. God knows, Carrington’s put me through the mill. If it wasn’t for Haldean he would have shot me the other night.’
‘So I understand,’ agreed Ferguson.
‘But even so, it seems wrong. I don’t dispute what you’re saying, but wouldn’t it be more . . . more seemly, I suppose, to wait?’
‘And if we do wait,’ said Ferguson, hunching forward, ‘there’s every chance we’ll be pipped at the post.’ He tapped the table firmly. ‘Electrical recording is the next move forward. We’re not the only people who are developing this sort of system. The Americans are nearly there and so are the Germans and the Danes. And you know as well as I do that there aren’t many prizes for coming second. The winner will scoop the pool and there’s a lot of money to be made.’
Lewis took a deep breath and lit a cigarette. ‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s say, for argument’s sake, I agree. I want to be involved.’ He raised his eyebrows sardonically. ‘As Carrington’s next of kin, I should be.’
‘And will. Don’t worry about that.’
‘All right. Who will own the new machine?’ asked Lewis cautiously. ‘The legal tangle about ownership is a nightmare.’
Ferguson waved the legal tangle to one side, nearly knocking the ashtray off the table. ‘That doesn’t matter! Well,’ he added, seeing Lewis’s face, ‘of course it does, but it’s a secondary consideration. Oddly enough, Haldean asked me the same thing. He wanted to know who owned the rights and how close the machine was to production.’
Lewis drew back. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said who owned what was a very moot point, but in any case it would be some time before the machine could be sold commercially.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Lewis. ‘It’ll take some time to set up a production line. This question of ownership really does need to be thrashed out, though. Let me get this straight. You’ve still got Professor Carrington’s original machine, yes?’
‘No,’ said Ferguson unexpectedly. ‘As I said, I was in Falkirk yesterday. I had the Professor’s original machine, complete with all the ribbons and various bits and pieces boxed up and sent to you at Stoke Horam. It should arrive today.’
Lewis choked on his whisky. ‘Why?’
‘Why not? As a matter of fact, you have Haldean to thank for it. It was his idea.’
Lewis’s eyebrows shot up. ‘
Haldean’s
idea? What, that you should send me Professor Carrington’s machine?’
‘And all the bits and pieces, yes.’
Lewis blinked in bewilderment. ‘But why? Don’t misunderstand me, Ferguson, I’m grateful. I really am grateful, but what the dickens has Haldean got to do with it?’
‘Nothing, as such. As I say, he came to see me, principally, as far as I could make out, to see if Dunbar’s owed Carrington any money. He thought it could go towards Carrington’s defence. At least,’ he added in a dissatisfied voice, ‘that’s what he said.’
‘What else could he want?’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Ferguson with a shrug. ‘He asked me a dickens of a lot of questions about my stepfather, that’s for sure.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I didn’t really care for his manner. I know Carrington’s your cousin, Lewis, but I won’t be sorry when it’s all over.’ He caught Lewis’s expression and looked away. ‘Anyway, I told Haldean that Dunbar’s didn’t owe Carrington anything but he knew about the machine, of course. I mentioned the Professor and his connection with Dunbar’s. I showed him the Professor’s original machine and said I didn’t really know what to do with it. He wasn’t really interested, I could tell, but I asked him for his advice and he suggested sending it to you. I don’t know if he meant it – he was quite offhand – but I thought, why not? I’ll be frank, Lewis. I wanted to convince you that I was a trustworthy person to work with and I thought, however offhand Haldean had been, it wasn’t a bad idea.’