Wildfire at Midnight (16 page)

When eventually I got back to my room I found that a bright fire had been kindled on the hearth, and that a kettle was already singing on the bars. All the apparatus for making hot drinks was there, and a half bottle of brandy gleamed on the bedside table.

The Inspector had gone, but Mrs. Persimmon was still busy over something by the hearth, and Neill rose from the chair by the fire and grinned shyly at me. He was a tall, overgrown lad of perhaps twenty, with graceful coltish movements, and the black hair and blue eyes of the true Celt. He said: "The doctor will be here soon, Mistress Brooke.

Inspector Mackenzie told me to tell you. He says will you stay here with me till then?"

"Of course. Do we do anything for her meanwhile?"

Mrs. Persimmon rose to her feet. "We've packed her in hot-water bottles," she said. "She's as warm as we can get her, so all we can do now is wait for the doctor." She bent in a harassed way over Roberta's bed, twitching the blankets unnecessarily into place. She was a small woman, with a round face that normally was good-humored, and wispy, untidy brown hair. Her eyes were of the true glass-grey that you so seldom see, clear and lovely, but just now they were puckered and clouded with worry. "If she comes round enough to swallow, you could give her a little sweet tea—and I'll go down now and make some really good clear broth. But that's all we can do for the moment."

"Except," said Neill softly, "to watch her."

We both looked at him. I said uncertainly: "It all sounds very—very frightening, Neill. Does he really expect the murderer to try and get her in here?"

He spread out calloused, beautifully shaped hands. "If she talks, we can hang him," he said simply.

I went over to the bed and looked at her. She was lying very quietly now, and though I fancied that her skin had lost some of its icy glaze, it still had a tight-stretched pallor that was frightening. Her face was pinched and small; her body, too, was still and small in its packed blankets. Not dangerous; not "potential dynamite"; not worth the ghastly risk of silencing her. ... It seemed impossible that those dry lips should ever speak again.

But even as I turned from the bedside she stirred and moaned and her eyelids fluttered. The dark head shifted restlessly on the pillow.

"Here," said Mrs. Persimmon from the hearth. "Here's the tea."

With anxious concentration we fed a few drops of the weak sweet stuff between her lips, and saw with delight the faint ripple of the throat muscles as she swallowed. I began, spoonful by spoonful, to pour the life-giving glucose into her, watching anxiously for any sign of change in that effigy of a face.

"I'll go and see about the broth," said Mrs. Persimmon at length, and went out.

The telephone rang. I jumped violently, spilling tea on the bedclothes. Neill lifted the receiver, listened and then said to me: "The Inspector's on his way up, ma'am. The doctor's here."

"Thank heaven for that!" I said fervently.

"Yes indeed."

A minute later we admitted Inspector Mackenzie and the doctor, and thankfully watched the competent way in which the latter examined Roberta. At length he pulled the bedclothes back over her, and looked across the bed at the Inspector.

"I can't find anything wrong except the leg," he said brusquely. "Bruises and lacerations, yes; they'll heal, given time.

But we'll have to deal with the leg now. I'll need Mary Persimmon to help me, and someone else."

He glanced at me from under inquiring brows, but the Inspector intervened. "No, Miss Brooke's done enough for today, and besides, she has to be night nurse. Tell Mrs. Persimmon to bring one of the maids up with her, and I'll stay here myself. There's a telephone, doctor, if you want to give your orders."

"What? Oh, ah, yes." The doctor lifted the receiver, and began to dictate a list of his requirements.

Inspector Mackenzie turned to me. "I've asked the cook to give you something to eat as soon as possible," he said.

"It'll be ready in the kitchen in ten minutes or so. You go on down, lassie. I'll call you when we want you back."

I gave another look at the small figure in the bed, and then made my way downstairs to the lounge.

RODERICK WAS IN THE HALL. He must have been waiting for me, because, as soon as I appeared, he strode towards the foot of the stairs, looking anxious.

"Is she all right? What does the doctor say?"

"He didn't say very much," I replied. "He's found no actual damage beyond the broken leg, but I imagine it's the two nights in the cave that will kill her if anything does."

"What does he think of her chances?"

"He didn't say. 1 suppose she has as good a chance as anyone could have after what she's been through. She's young and very strong, and she did find herself a dry corner out of the wind and rain."

"She's still unconscious, of course?"

"Oh yes."

"She'll pull through it," he said confidently. "Once they get the leg set—I suppose they're doing that now?"

"Yes. Mrs. Persimmon's helping. They sent me down, I'm glad to say."

"And I'm glad they did. You look washed out, Janet."

I smiled. "Thank you for nothing."

"Sorry, but it's true." He was still looking worried. "You won't have to go back and sit with her, will you?"

"I think the Inspector wants me to stay in the room tonight."

"But that's absurd!" he said angrily. "You've done more than enough for one day! Why can't Mrs. Corrigan stay with her?"

"She's done quite as much as I have."

"Well, Mrs. Cowdray-Simpson, then?"

I said, carefully: "Inspector Mackenzie has allowed me to understand that he doesn't include me in his list of suspects."

"He doesn't—?" He broke off, and his blue eyes narrowed. "Surely he doesn't suspect any of the women?"

"I rather think he suspects everybody," I said, uncomfortably. "At any rate, I'm not married to a suspect either, you see."

He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then shut it again in a hard line. His eyes slid away from mine and he studied the pattern of the carpet.

1 swallowed, and said hastily: "I'll be all right, Roderick. All I have to do is give her a drink every now and again, and 1 can get some sleep between times. In fact it's terribly snug in here, with a lire, and a kettle to make tea, and all the works!"

"Does the Inspector—" He paused, and shot a quick glance round the hall, then lowered his voice. "Does the inspector think there's still any danger to Roberta from— him?"

The last syllable fell queerly, whispered in the empty hall. I found myself lowering my voice in reply.

"I think so. But he's taking precautions. Roberta'll be safe enough, and, by the same token, so will I." I smiled at him again. "So don't worry!"

"Very well, then, I won't. As a matter of fact"—his voice was suddenly grave, and a little abstracted—"as a matter of fact, I think you're probably the only person in the hotel who isn't—"

"Suspected of murder?"

"No. Who isn't in danger from the murderer."

He looked at me then, with a strange hesitant look that seemed to be mingled of both pity and dread, and something else that I found it hard to read. I felt my heart jump and twist painfully inside my ribs, and I could not meet his look. I turned sharply away towards the lounge door, saying in a tight, flat little voice: "I'll go and ring for a drink."

There seemed to be a crowd of people in the lounge, all gathered into small groups near the blazing fire. The air was a hiss of whispered conversations, which ceased abruptly as I came in. Heads swiveled, eyes stared, and then a fusillade of questions met me.

"How is she?" came simultaneously from Mrs. Cowdray-Simpson, her husband, Hubert Hay, and Alastair. Alma Corrigan's quick "Has she said anything yet?" cut across it like a knife.

I crossed to the fire and held my hands to the blaze. "The doctor's with her now, setting her leg. Apart from that, the damage appears to be superficial, and the doctor said nothing to me about her chances of recovery from the exposure." I looked at Alma Corrigan, who was twisting an empty whisky glass round and round in her fingers.

She looked, I thought, frightened. I said: "I don't think she's said anything yet."

As 1 turned to ring for a drink, I saw that Hartley Corrigan had moved up near his wife, and had sat down on. the arm of her chair. It made a nice change, anyway, 1 thought, and wondered, a trifle sardonically, where Marcia was at this moment. One thing was certain, she was well out of whatever was going on here, though just now 1 would have welcomed the company of one other person in the same equivocal position as myself. There was nothing overt in the manner of anyone in the room to suggest that they knew or resented the fact that I alone was free from police suspicion, but still 1 felt isolated among them, uncomfortably a sheep in the middle of the goats. And there had been something oddly protective about that gesture of Hartley Corrigan's.

Mrs. Cowdray-Simpson looked up again from the inevitable knitting. "I presume—I hope—the police will take adequate precautions to protect that girl from this beast that's loose among us?"

The phrase sounded curiously shocking, and the speaker seemed to realize this, for the pale eyes behind her spectacles moved round the group, and she said, almost defensively: "There's a murderer in the room. You can't get away from that fact."

"Not necessarily," said Alastair, rather drily. "We're not all here. Grant, Drury, Persimmon, not to mention Jamesy Farlane .. . they lengthen the odds a little, Mrs. Crowdray-Simpson." He gave a hard little laugh that held no trace of amusement.

"What odds do I lengthen a little?" This was from Roderick, pushing through the swinging doors with a glass in either hand.

"We're just beginning to take seriously the fact that someone in this hotel is a murderer," said Alastair.

Roderick gave me a glass, and his eyes met mine in a quick look. He said, a little coldly: "Is anything to be gained by discussing it here? I imagine the police have it pretty well in hand. They can usually be trusted to do their own job."

"If they only look after that girl Roberta, and pull her round," said Mrs. Cowdray-Simpson, "she'll do the job for them."

"There'll be a constable watching her all night," I said.

"Young Neill Graham? Is that quite—adequate?"

I hesitated, and then said: "I'm staying with her too." I added, lamely: "She's in my room."

"Oh. . . ." Once again I felt the imperceptible withdrawal of the group, leaving me, as it were, marooned alone on the hearthrug, isolated by my innocence.

"Won't you be frightened?" This from Alma Corrigan. Was there, or was I imagining it, a trace of malice in her tone?

"I don't think so." I took a drink, and gave the group a quick look over the rim of my glass. "Where's Mr. Drury?"

"I think he went out to the garage." It was Hubert Hay who answered. "He's lost a book, and he thinks he left it in his car."

"Why?" asked Alma Corrigan, and this time I certainly heard the venom in her voice. "Has the Inspector asked for a report on our movements?"

I felt myself go scarlet, but I held onto my temper, and said, very evenly: "I am not, as you imply, Mrs. Corrigan, appointed by the police to spy on you all. I happen to be in the lucky position of not being a suspect, simply because I wasn't here when the first murder was committed, and since the odds are that we only have one murderer and not two, I can't be guilty. So the Inspector can leave me with Roberta until the nurse comes."

"It's monstrous to suggest—" began Roderick, hotly, to Alma Corrigan, but I cut across him.

"It's all right, Roderick. And the suggestion isn't so very monstrous after all. I'm certainly co-operating with the police—I hope we all are. And if that includes giving the Inspector an account of anyone's movements at any time, I'll do my utmost to describe them for him."

"Well!" said Alma Corrigan. "I must say—" Her husband dropped a hand on her arm, and she broke off. I said to her, coldly: "I should hardly need to point out that this isn't a case of the police versus a bunch of suspects. It's a case of the murderer versus every single other person here."

"Good for you!" said Hubert Hay unexpectedly.

Colonel Cowdray-Simpson cleared his throat. His face looked all at once remote and austere, with a curious withdrawn intelligence that his gentleness had hidden before. It was a look both forbidding and compassionate, the look of a judge rather than of a soldier. I found myself wondering if he were a magistrate. "It is more than that, my dear young lady." he said to me. "Each case of murder is a case of the murderer versus every civilized human being. Once a man has put his hand to murder he is automatically outcast. I would go further than that. I would assert that once the very idea of extreme physical violence has occurred to a man as an acceptable solution to any problem, then he is*in danger of forfeiting his claim to consideration as a civilized being."

"That's a strong statement, sir," said Roderick.

"I happen to feel strongly about, it," retorted the Colonel.

"Do you apply the same principle to nations as to individuals? You, a military man?" "I do."

"To acts of war?"

"To acts of aggression. It seems to me a denial of the intellectual progress of centuries, for a nation to consider violence as a tool of policy."

"All the same," said Alma Corrigan mulishly, "it's absurd that we should all be treated as suspects. The police must have some idea who did it."

"If they haven't now," said Hubert Hay, "they certainly will have as soon as Roberta Symes opens her mouth."

There was a nasty little silence.

I set down my glass with a click on the glass-topped table. "Well," I said, "for the sake of everybody here who isn't a murderer, I promise you that Roberta will be kept safe until she does open her mouth."

Then I walked out of the room.

It didn't take much, I thought, to skin the veneer of politeness and sophistication off people who were in some kind of danger. There had been some strong undercurrents there in the lounge tonight, and I had a feeling that, if one had been able to trace them out, one would be a fair way to solving the mystery. On the face of it, I thought (as I crossed the hall and started down the dark passage towards the kitchen and back premises), I would be inclined to absolve the Colonel. He had delivered himself so convincingly of his principles; but then (I added a despairing rider), that, surely, might be just what a murderer would do? And, heaven knew, our murderer was clever. He was an actor who could hide the instincts of a werewolf under an impeccably civilized exterior. Nobody in the lounge tonight, hearing his own condemnation, the statement of his utter isolation from the rest of us, had so much as batted an eyelid. But then, of course, the murderer might not have been in the lounge. . . . There were other possibilities, as Alastair had pointed out.