They Found Him Dead (23 page)

"Well, are you sure you didn't graze her on something?"

"God give me strength!" gasped Jim. "Talk about adding insult to injury! Are you two beauties trying to make out
I
sank the boat?"

"No, but are you sure?"

"I am!" said Jim emphatically.

"Then if Timothy didn't run her on the rocks, and there was nothing wrong with her this morning, why did she sink?" demanded Patricia.

"She didn't. What I mean is, she wouldn't have if——" He stepped and glanced quickly from Patricia's face to Timothy's "Good Lord! You don't think someone tampered with her, do you?" he exclaimed.

"Yes," replied Patricia. "I do."

For a moment Jim stared at Patricia, then he put his arm round her and drew her close to him. "Of all the lurid ideas! Darling, I'm sorry to have to say it, but you're definitely batty."

"No, she isn't," said Timothy. "Everyone knows you've entered for the race next week, and I should think a whole lot of people knew you were going to try the
Seamew
out tomorrow."

"Do try and pull yourself together," begged Jim. "I was out in her this morning! Who on earth could have had a chance to monkey about with her between the time I came in and the time you went out?"

"Anybody!" replied Timothy promptly. "It was a safe bet you wouldn't go out again today. You brought her in just after Mum arrived, which must have been just after eleven, and I didn't go down to the landing stage till three o'clock. There was loads of time."

"But, my good lad, nobody would dare tamper with my boat in broad daylight!"

Patricia sat down beside him on the edge of the bed. "I don't see why not. Nobody ever comes along this side of the bay. There's no sand to attract the Portlaw gang. Besides, you know what those mud flats are like between us and Portlaw if you walk round the bay at low tide. Supposing someone did something or other to the
Seamew
between one o'clock and two o'clock? None of us would have been on the shore, because we were having lunch. I call it a pretty good time."

"Well, I don't," said Jim. "If I were going to put someone else's boat out of action, I should choose a nice dark night for the job."

"No, you wouldn't, because you couldn't see to do it," said Timothy instantly. "You'd have to have a lantern, and that might attract attention. Golly, I bet Pat's right, and someone is trying to do you in!"

"You needn't sound so darned pleased about it, viper!"

"I'm not, but I do think it's jolly exciting."

Jim grinned his appreciation of this point of view but said: "I suppose I should be unpopular if I suggested that the bottom might have been ripped off the
Seamew
by a floating spar or something of that nature?"

Patricia gave a little shiver. "I've got a feeling——" she began, and then stopped and laughed.

Jim looked at her with deep foreboding. "Are you also—whatever else you may be—honest with yourself, darling?"

"Shut up!" said Patricia. "This isn't a joke."

"My error," murmured Jim.

"Jim, Mr. Roberts warned you only yesterday you might be the next victim."

Timothy, who had relaxed upon his pillows, bounced up at this, his blue eyes sparkling with pleasurable anticipation. "Did he? I say, do you think there's a Hidden Killer in the house!"

"Timothy!" gasped Miss Allison, instinctively clasping Mr. Kane's arm.

"Well, if you come to think about it, this is just the sort of house where you might have a Hidden Killer lurking, 'cept that it isn't really old enough, and I shouldn't think there's a secret passage or anything. But it's got two wings, and three staircases, and lots of attics leading out of one another and——"

"Stop!" commanded Miss Allison, pale with fright. "I know it's nonsense; but if you go on like that I shan't be able to sleep a wink all night."

"Calm yourself, my love," said Mr. Kane. "If the Hidden Killer tried to do me in by tampering with the
Seamew
, there doesn't seem to be much point in him lurking in the house."

"No, of course not," said Patricia. "Let's get back to the point. You're the only one of us who knows anything about boats, Jim. Would it be possible for anyone to do something to the speedboat that wouldn't show at first—I mean, if you simply knocked a hole in it it would fill with water at once, and the
Seamew
didn't."

"I suppose you could plug your hole," replied Jim.

"How?"

Jim reached out a hand for the pencil and Timothy's notebook. "Well, imagine this is one of your bottom strakes. If you cut a wedge-shaped hole, and plugged it so that the broad end of your plug stuck out a bit, presumably it would stay put until you got some way on the boat. It would work loose, and of course as soon as you were going full-speed it would be bound to come out, and the force of the water would be enough to rip the strake right off."

"I see. Do you think that's what was done?"

"No," said Jim cheerfully.

"Why not?" demanded Mr. Harte.

"Probably because I haven't got that kind of mind. Moreover, to do that job you'd have to have the boat out of the water, come armed with a bit and a brace, a pad saw, and a bit of putty to fill up the gaps—it's too darned silly!"

"When was low tide today?" asked Patricia. "Lunchtime, wasn't it?"

"Twelve forty-five," said Jim.

"That means that the
Seamew
must have been lying on the slipway then, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he agreed reluctantly.

"Jim, don't you see how it all fits in? You tied her up just after eleven, she was high and dry an hour later, and floating again by the time Timothy got to her. It was all thought out, and the time calculated!"

"Rot!" said Jim.

"It isn't rot! It's jolly sensible!" retorted Mr. Harte. "Only, who's the Killer? I rather thought Mr. Dermott was the person who did Cousin Clement in, but I don't see why he wants to do you in too."

"Nor anyone else. I do wish you'd get this silly idea out of your heads."

"Jim, I shouldn't have thought anything of it if it weren't for what Mr. Roberts said to you. But in face of that——"

"My dear girl, Roberts was talking through his hat. In any case, he saw the whole thing happen, and if there were anything in your theory, he'd presumably be the first to suspect there'd been some dirty work done on the
Seamew
. But he didn't even suggest it."

"It looks to me," said Mr. Harte, pursuing his own line of thought, "as though it must be one of the Mansells. The only other person I can think of who might want to get rid of you is the next heir—Cousin Maud, I mean."

"Who is living in Sydney," said Jim. "Try again."

"Perhaps she isn't!" said Timothy, loath to abandon this original idea. "Perhaps she's been here all the time, in disguise!"

"Very likely, I should think. Now explain how she managed to post a letter to Aunt Emily from Australia when she was in England at the time, and we shall be all set."

"Say, wise guy!" said Mr. Harte, suddenly becoming transatlantic. "You ever heard of a Blind?"

"Often," replied Jim. "I've even been on one."

"Not that kind, you ass! The other! Get a load of this, now. What if she wrote the letter before she came to England and left it with someone to post on a certain date?"

Jim sighed. "Now I'll tell one!"

"No, but——"

"'The Idiot Boy,' by William Wordsworth!" said Jim. "I suppose she knew by instinct that Cousin Silas always went for a walk after dinner, and which night there'd be a fog, and a few other little details like that? Had the whole thing mapped out to the minute two months before she did the deed. You make me tired!"

"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Mr. Harte.

"Well, while you are thinking of it you might also ask yourself whether cutting holes in speedboats is really a womanly trick," said Jim, getting up.

Timothy relinquished his theory, though reluctantly. "Oh, all right! It was only an idea. Actually, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it turned out to be someone we've never even suspected. Pritchard, or someone like that. I say, I wonder if Cousin Silas possessed some frightfully valuable thing which someone else wants? You needn't look like that! I know I've heard of it happening. Something you don't know about. A priceless manuscript or—or—good Lord, if that's it, there probably is a Hidden Killer in the house!"

"I don't quite see why killing Jim should help him to get hold of the Stolen Treasure," objected Miss Allison.

"I expect there's some frightfully complicated reason," said Mr. Harte wisely.

"Well, we'll leave you to think it out," said Jim. "Come on, Pat!"

"You go down. I'll join you in a minute," she replied. "I'm just going along to my room."

She did not go to her room immediately, however.

As soon as Jim had gone downstairs she returned to Mr. Harte and said: "Timothy, I wish you'd tell Superintendent Hannasyde what happened today. I know Jim thinks it's all nonsense; but I can't rid myself of the feeling that he is in danger."

"All right, I will," promised Timothy. "Not," he added gloomily, "that they'll believe a word I say, because I know jolly well they won't. No one ever does."

Telling him to comfort himself with the reflection that she at least had believed his story, Miss Allison withdrew, leaving him to occupy himself until sleep overtook him in evolving a highly elaborate theory to account for the presence in their midst of an Unknown Killer. She went along the passage towards the west wing, where, next to Mrs. Kane's, her room was situated. For the first time she thought the passage very inadequately lit, and when she encountered Ogle not two steps from Timothy's door, she gave an uncontrollable start of sheer nerves.

Ogle, though Miss Allison had not questioned her presence in the passage, immediately began to justify it, so that Miss Allison, knowing her to be extremely inquisitive, guessed that she had been listening outside Timothy's room. She could hardly blame her, for it was one of Emily Kane's least agreeable traits to cull all the information she could from Ogle's expert spying upon the rest of the household. Not unnaturally there had been a good deal of incentive during the past fortnight for Ogle to listen at doors. Miss Allison, accustomed to this unamiable habit, merely smiled and said: "All right, Ogle, don't apologise!"

The maid's sallow cheeks flushed; she said somewhat naively: "The less the police come nosing round here the better it will be, miss. What's done can't be undone. You will pardon me, but if Master Timothy sank Mr. James' boat, it was only what anyone would have expected, and there's no call to drag the police into it."

Miss Allison raised her brows. "Why not?" she asked.

"They're not wanted here," Ogle said sullenly. "They won't find out anything, any more than they did over Mr. Clement. They only worrit the mistress."

"The case of Mr. Clement isn't finished," said Miss Allison "I told you before, the inquest was merely adjourned."

"They won't find out anything," Ogle repeated. "No more they're not wanted to. The impudence of them asking the mistress questions! Well, they didn't get anything out of me, that's one thing."

Miss Allison did not think this worthy of being replied to. She passed on to her bedroom and presently rejoined the party in the drawing room.

As usual, she took Emily up to bed at ten o'clock, but when she had delivered her into Ogle's care, she went downstairs again and permitted Mr. James Kane to take her for a moonlight stroll through the gardens.

The night was fine and very warm, but a rustle heard in a cluster of flowering shrubs quite destroyed Miss Allison's pleasure in being alone with her betrothed.

She was reasonable enough to admit that the noise had probably been caused by a cat or a night bird, but it put her in mind of the dangers threatening Jim, and she very soon made an excuse to go back into the house.

Norma and Rosemary were the sole occupants of the drawing room, Sir Adrian having drifted away to the library. When Jim and Patricia came in through the French windows Norma was seated bolt upright at a card table, energetically playing a complicated Patience and telling Rosemary at the same time how much happier she would be if she found an Object in life.

Rosemary was quite in agreement with this but explained that her Russian blood made it impossible for her to remain constant to any one Object for longer than a few months at a stretch.

"My dear girl, don't talk nonsense to me!" said Norma bracingly. "You're lazy, that's all that's wrong with you. Why don't you take up social work?"

"I don't think my health would stand it," replied Rosemary. "I'm one of those unfortunate people whose nerves simply go to pieces as soon as they're bored."

"Thank God I don't know what it is to have nerves!" said Norma.

"Yes, you're lucky. I don't suppose you even feel the atmosphere in this awful house," said Rosemary shuddering.

"All imagination!" declared Norma, briskly shuffling the cards.

"Of course, I knew you would say that. All the same, there is a dreadful atmosphere here. I expect you have to be rather sensitive to it."