Thirteen Guests (14 page)

“That is so.”

“Then may I ask how he came to receive his invitation?”

“He was a friend of another of my guests,” explained Lord Aveling.

“I see,” replied Kendall. “Who was the other guest?”

“Sir James Earnshaw?”

“Thank you, sir.”

He stared at the late friend of Sir James Earnshaw for several more seconds. Then his eyes left Chater's face and roamed over his suit, and the hat lying by his side.

“Anything been taken out of his pockets?” he asked.

“Not as far as I know,” answered Lord Aveling.

Kendall examined them.

“Empty,” he said. “Odd? Or not?” He looked at the hip-pocket. “Something's been in that one.”

“And it's not there now,” added the sergeant.

“You amaze me,” said Kendall.

He rose and walked slowly round the studio. He paused at the broken window, at the enormous canvas of the stag, and at the ruined picture of Anne. “Yes, and we've got to find out about this, too, haven't we?” he murmured. “Crimson.” Sergeant Price, watching him, noticed that he was about to add something and changed his mind. “Well, let's go to the house,” said Kendall instead. “I'll come back here presently. I want to see Mrs. Chater.”

They left the studio. When Lord Aveling had locked it, the inspector asked for the key, and pocketed it.

“Is there another?” he inquired.

“Only the one you have,” replied Lord Aveling.

Crossing the dark lawn, the inspector regarded the windows that loomed at him like watchful yellow eyes. He stopped in the middle of the lawn and studied them.

“What room is that?” he asked, pointing to one on the ground floor.

“An ante-room,” replied Aveling.

He followed the wall to where it right-angled towards the lawn. At the end of the protrusion was a door.

“Can we go in that way?”

“Yes.”

“It isn't the tradesmen's entrance?”

“No. Just a passage we use ourselves, leading to the grounds here at the back.”

“Can anybody use it? You don't keep it locked?”

“Only at night.”

They entered the house by the back door, and walked through the narrow passage to the great hall. Kendall glanced towards the right. A policeman stood near the door of the ante-room.

“I think we ought to have some one at the back door, Price,” said Kendall.

“Is all this necessary?” wondered Price. “Or is he just showing off?”

Lord Aveling conducted him up the stairs. Two flights. He stopped at a door and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. There was still no answer.

“Mrs. Chater,” he called.

“Not there, eh?”

Lord Aveling turned the handle. The door was locked.

“Mrs. Chater!” he called, more loudly.

Kendall looked grim, and lowered his eye to the keyhole.

“No key in the lock,” he said. “Find another quickly, or we'll have to do some smashing.”

Lord Aveling glanced anxiously along the passage towards another door. Beside it was a wall-table, with the flap down.

“What's the trouble?” demanded Kendall, sharply.

“That is Mrs. Morris's room,” murmured Aveling, looking worried. “I hope we can avoid noise.”

“We must avoid it, if we can,” added the doctor. “She is very ill, inspector.”

“Then of course we'll avoid it if we can,” said Kendall quietly. “But we may find some one else—very ill—behind
this
door.”

For a minute doors were robbed unceremoniously of their keys. Four keys proved useless, but the fifth slipped in and turned. Kendall threw open the door of the Chaters' bedroom. It was empty.

Chapter XIX

Short Interlude

“I can't find the piece that goes here, Anne,” said old Mrs. Morris. “A straight edge. And brown.”

She was lying in her bed, propped up by pillows. Her thin, worn hands lay listlessly on a jig-saw board, but her eyes were patient. Anne had watched the patience in those tired eyes for over two years—had seen it summoned by an iron will, till it had slipped into a heroic habit; and it had made her despise the fretting world outside that quiet bedroom where pain and relief from pain were the only incidents. Above all, it had made her despise herself. She moved quickly to the bed now, and began searching earnestly for the piece with the straight edge. Nothing in the world mattered at this moment but a small piece of three-ply wood.

“It must be brown, dear,” said Mrs. Morris, “because it's a bit of the squirrel.”

“We'll find it,” answered Anne optimistically.

“Brown,” said Mrs. Morris.

Suddenly Anne's hand shot towards a piece. It rested momentarily against her grandmother's, the one firm and strong, the other white and fragile almost to transparency. The cruel contrast sent a dart of pain through Anne's heart, and she withdrew her hand hastily, loathing its youth and beauty and the carefully manicured nails.

“No, not that one,” said Mrs. Morris.

“I believe it is,” replied Anne, more loudly than she intended. But she was trying not to cry. “Look! Oh—so it isn't!”

“It must have a straight edge,” said Mrs. Morris, as Anne took the piece away again.

“You're always right,” answered Anne. “Well, what about this one?”

She tested several pieces unsuccessfully. Presently, conscious that she was receiving no assistance, she glanced up. Mrs. Morris's eyes were closed. But Anne continued with her task. The interest must be maintained. There was nothing else.

“I was sorry the bottle was broken,” said Mrs. Morris. Her eyes were still closed. “I liked that bottle.”

Anne was motionless.

“Didn't some one give it to me?…Last Christmas. Your Uncle Harry.”

Uncle Harry had been dead ten years.

Quiet feet moved past the bedroom door. They were very quiet indeed, and did not pause, but Anne heard them. They wove into the rhythm of her heart-beats.

“Did they get the stag?”

“Yes, Granny,” answered Anne.

“That's a good thing,” said Mrs. Morris. “It's over.”

Anne knew that she was envying the stag. Mrs. Morris did not feel the trembling lips that touched the counterpane where her drawn knee made a tiny mound.

In a few seconds the old lady opened her eyes. The pain had gone again.

“Isn't that the bit over there?” she said.

Her thin fingers stretched forward, and fitted it.

Chapter XX

Bultin's Time-Sheet

The presence of Mrs. Chater in Bragley Court had added a definite contribution to the gloom of the atmosphere, but her absence, coupled with its baffling circumstances, introduced fresh discomfort. “Don't you feel,” said Edyth Fermoy-Jones, in a dramatic whisper, “as if it had somehow brought things right
into
the house?”

“It seems to have brought Mrs. Chater out of the house,” retorted Mr. Rowe.

“I don't think we ought to joke, dear,” murmured Mrs. Rowe, glancing at Ruth as though fearing she might be influenced by this bad example. But Ruth had never made a joke in her life.

“Joke? Who's joking?” exclaimed Mr. Rowe indignantly. “I was merely making a statement! What's the matter with everybody?”

He was battling against a secret, irritating nervousness. Not that he was scared! Bless his soul, no! After all, this
was
England, wasn't it, and you couldn't go far wrong once you had a houseful of policemen! They'd probably find simple explanations for everything, and that nobody had really murdered anybody! All this jumping to conclusions—it was silly. But, well, one—two—three—four—five things had happened, starting with the damned dog, and you never knew when they were going to stop!

“What I meant,” said Edyth Fermoy-Jones, who did not intend to have her meaning spoilt by family bickering, “was that everything else has happened outside. This happened inside. While we were all sitting here—in this very drawing-room—Mrs. Chater
went
!”

“And no one saw her go,” added Mrs. Rowe.

“And no one knows where she's gone,” nodded Miss Fermoy-Jones.

She closed her eyes and thought. She always closed her eyes in company when she thought, so that the company would know she was thinking. Sometimes she cheated, and opened her eyes again without having thought at all.

But this time she did think. She wondered where, if she created a similar situation in a novel—and she fully intended to—she would have the disappearing person found? She decided on a well.

“I hear that detective's going to cross-examine us all,” said Mrs. Rowe.

“Oh, dear, how awful,” murmured Ruth.

“Why?
We've
got nothing to worry about!” answered Mr. Rowe.

“Somebody has,” declared Miss Fermoy-Jones. “I wonder who?”

All at once she rose from her chair. If she had not been so heavy she would have jumped. A brilliant idea had occurred to her.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Rowe anxiously.

“I believe—yes, I believe I've
got
it!” she replied, sepul-
chrally.

“What—you mean?—who?”

But Edyth Fermoy-Jones shook her head, and set her lips firmly.

“No! It wouldn't be right! I must tell it to the inspector! Does anybody know where he is?”

“I should have thought he'd have consulted you first,” said Mrs. Rowe. “I mean, writing mysteries yourself.”

The authoress had had the same thought. But, after all, the police are apt to think as little of mystery writers as mystery writers are apt to think of the police. If Detective-Inspector Kendall had read her last novel, he was probably getting his own back.

“No, after all, I'll wait,” she said, sitting down again.

She was not going to risk a snub. And she would have received a snub had she attempted to intrude on the inspector at that moment. A car had just stopped outside the house, and Kendall was on the doorstep, absorbed in the event.

Bultin stepped out of the car. He almost stepped into the arms of Kendall.

“Mr. Bultin?” inquired the inspector.

“I am Lionel Bultin,” replied the journalist.

“You've been doing some of our work, I understand?”

“Journalists don't wait.”

“Nor do the police, once they're called in. I'd like a chat with you.”

“I am sure you would,” said Bultin. “Here? Or in my room?”

“Your room, I think,” answered Kendall, considering. “But one question here. Did you come across any one outside—apart from policemen?”

“You mean in the grounds?” Kendall nodded, and Bultin turned to the chauffeur. “Did you see any one?”

“No, sir,” answered the chauffeur.

“Nor did I,” said Bultin.

“What about outside the grounds?” inquired Kendall. “Did you meet any of the visitors?”

“No one.”

“Ah—then Mrs. Chater was wrong. She told me a moment ago that one of the visitors had gone, and no one is supposed to leave the house.”

“I thought Mrs. Chater herself had left the house?” said Bultin.

“What made you think that?”

“Your sergeant. He stopped us near the gate and said he was looking for her. No, I haven't kidnapped her, Inspector. I never thought of it. It would have made a good story.”

Kendall was not in the least abashed.

“I'm not apologising,” he smiled. “In spite of the good story, I didn't think you had kidnapped her; but I try everything once. Well, let's be moving.”

“Before we move, I will return good for evil,” said Bultin. “Don't look only for Mrs. Chater. Look for a black bag and an old Hercules bicycle with the front mudguard bent and the bottom screw missing from the makers' name-plate at the back. An old Hercules lady's bicycle with the front mudguard bent is really enough, but it's the missing screw that will please the public and make the headline.”

“This sounds interesting,” admitted Kendall. “But what's the idea?”

“That you look for them,” replied Bultin.

Kendall frowned slightly, then beckoned to a constable.

“I wonder if you're going to be useful to me, Mr. Bultin?” he queried as the constable approached.

“Only if you're useful to me,” answered Bultin. “Not out of affection.”

Kendall gave the constable an instruction, then followed Bultin up to his room on the second floor. Leicester Pratt looked up from a book as they entered.

“If you two wish to talk, I'm not going,” he warned.

“I don't want you to go, sir,” replied Kendall. “I hope you'll talk, too. I require both your stories—for a book I'm writing myself,” he added, producing his note-book from his pocket and sitting down. “Yours first, Mr. Bultin. And while you're telling it please don't be a journalist, but a sub-editor. A sub-editor cuts, and I've a lot to get through.”

“I'm glad you're rude,” said Bultin. “Now I can be.”

Pratt smiled. His friend did not usually need a reason. But already he had noted a vague uneasiness behind Bultin's manner, and it intrigued him.

“As rude as you like, provided you make it snappy,” returned the inspector. “Now, then. About this bag and this bicycle?”

Bultin glanced towards a drawer. Pratt, watching, recalled that Bultin had glanced at the drawer once before. “What's in it?” he wondered. “Bultin's skeleton?”

“We're working together?” asked Bultin, removing his eyes from the drawer.

“I don't make bargains,” snapped Kendall. “Have you heard that two people have been killed?”

“I helped to find one of them,” murmured Bultin.

“And have you heard that the wife of the one you didn't find has been making definite accusations?”

“Against whom?”

The inspector leaned forward with a cynical grin.

“I haven't got your infinite tact, Mr. Bultin,” he said, “but I am not a fool. I see you didn't know that Mrs. Chater has been making definite accusations. Never mind to whom, or against whom, but accept the fact that I arrived here with that information—to find the lady's door locked and the room empty. Now perhaps we can get on? By the way, before I leave this room, you won't mind if I look in that drawer?”

Bultin's expression did not change. He had trained it into a dog's obedience. But a sudden memory disconcerted him. He recalled how, years ago, people used to get on top of him. He recalled the exact sensation, and it leapt close to him through the vista of time. “No, you're not the reason,” he told Kendall in his thoughts, denying him the credit. “It's that one silly slip I made. Well, I won't make another.”

“You can look in the drawer now, if you like—it's not locked,” said Bultin. “But you may like to hear about the bag and the bicycle first.”

“Go on,” nodded Kendall.

“You know that Mr. Pratt and I found Body Number One. That's not a bad title. Body Number One. Mr. Pratt went back to the house while I waited—”

“And poked around?”

“I should not have been a journalist if I had not poked around. I should not even have been human. I tried to find some clue to the man's identity. I examined his pockets.”

“Oh, you did?”

“Why not? There was no question then of foul play. A man had fallen down a quarry. Or, if there was any question, his pockets might have indicated the answer. Lord Aveling was still at the hunt—”

“I understand he had just returned?”

“As a matter of fact, he had, but I did not know that.”

“Did you find anything?”

“I found the time the man died. Nineteen minutes past one.”

“The broken wrist-watch?”

“Count up my good deeds.”

“You can reckon the broken wrist-watch with your missing screw, Mr. Bultin,” said Kendall. “It sounds well in print, but to the police it's just A B C.”

“Perhaps, but I said my alphabet before the doctor did. And I found something else, besides the time the man died. A key.”

He took it from his pocket and handed it to the inspector.

“Bultin's a devil,” reflected Pratt, “but I believe rather a tired devil.”

“It will probably fit the black bag,” commented Bultin.

“Yes? And then?” said Kendall, pocketing the key.

“Lord Aveling arrived, and later the doctor. When the question of identity arose, I told them of the little scene at the railway station. You've heard about that?” Kendall nodded. “So when both Miss Wilding and Mrs. Chater denied any knowledge of Body Number One, even refusing to go to the studio to see it, and when Miss Aveling telephoned through to her father the news about Body Number Two, I asked Lord Aveling for a car and went, with his approval, to the railway station. Mrs. Chater, of course, had not left the house at that time. The last I heard of her was that she returned to her room, refusing to see anybody.”

“But she saw somebody when she learned of her husband's death,” interposed Pratt. “She saw the doctor.”

“Yes, I understand he told her,” answered Kendall, “and there was a bad scene.”

Pratt glanced towards the wall. The Chaters' room was the next one.

“A very bad scene. I heard Mrs. Chater shouting that somebody would swing for it, but I didn't hear who was going to swing. The doctor may have given her something to quieten her—but, after all, he will have described all that to you.”

“But you heard the doctor leave?”

“Yes. I left my room at the same time. He said he was going to phone the police.”

“And then you went back to your room?”

“Not at once.”

“You did not follow the doctor to the phone?”

“He wouldn't let any one follow him to the phone.”

“He was quite right. What did you do?”

“What did I do? Let me think, Inspector. What
did
I do? Does it matter?”

“I wouldn't ask otherwise.”

“True. I keep on forgetting you are intelligent. I think it must be the influence of my friend Mr. Bultin. Ah, I know what I did. I went to a bathroom to wash my hands. They weren't dirty. I don't know why I did it. Restlessness, very likely. Then I began to come back to my room. Then I changed my mind—more restlessness—and went down to the hall.”

“Wasn't the doctor telephoning from there?”

“He had finished. I washed for a long while. Vinolia soap.” He raised a hand to his nose. “The evidence is still there. I really went down to find out if Mr. Bultin had returned, but he hadn't. Then I came back, and tried to drown reality in the imagination of Edyth Fermoy-Jones.” His hand now touched the book in his lap. “I fear it was a case of out of the frying-pan.”

Kendall turned back to Bultin.

“Well?”

“I thought you'd forgotten me,” answered Bultin.

“I don't forget anything,” said Kendall. “I haven't even forgotten that drawer. What happened at the station?”

Now Bultin drew out his own note-book and read from it.

“‘Body Number One. Arrived Flensham 12.10 p.m., Friday. Single third from London. Seemed restless. Watched other passengers depart. Stayed on platform a few minutes. Asked porter when next London train was due. Told 3.28. Left station. Next seen at Black Stag, inn adjoining station, twenty minutes later. Asked for lunch. Put bag on chair and sat by window overlooking platform. Black bag. Shiny leather, about fourteen inches. “Seemed to bulge like,” said Mrs. Blore, proprietress of inn. She also bulged like. Lunch served 12.50. Cold beef and pickles. Ate little. “Well, how can you eat when you smoke at the same time?”—Mrs. Blore. Smoked continually. Also kept looking at his wrist-watch. Note: Must have been going all right then. Left inn at 1.25, circa. Took bag with him. Seen by farm-boy at 1.40 and 2.15 passing gate to field. Same direction both times. Bob Smith, Brook Farm, quarter-mile from station. Note: Does not seem to have walked far. Round and round in a circle? Returned to inn at three. Sat in window as before. Bag on chair as before. Watching platform so intently, did not notice Mrs. Blore come in and look at him and then go out again. Was at window when 3.28 train came in. Did not move (assumedly) till train had gone out again—'''

“Half a moment!” interrupted Kendall. He turned to the cover of his own book, to the inside of which he had fastened a loose sheet. “3.28. That was the train Mrs. Leveridge and Mr. Foss arrived on.”