The Death at Foxhills
Paul Fordingbridge, with a faintly reproachful glance at his sister,
interrupted his study of the financial page of _The Times_ and put the
paper down on his knee. Deliberately he removed his reading-glasses;
replaced them by his ordinary spectacles; and then turned to the
restless figure at the window of the private sitting-room.
“Well, Jay, you seem to have something on your mind. Would it be too
much to ask you to say it—whatever it is—and then let me read my paper
comfortably? One can't give one's mind to a thing when there's a
person at one's elbow obviously ready to break out into conversation
at any moment.”
Miss Fordingbridge had spent the best part of half a century in
regretting her father's admiration for Herrick. “I can't see myself as
Julia of the _Night-piece_,” she complained with a faint parade of
modesty; and it was at her own wish that the hated name had been
abbreviated to an initial in family talk.
At the sound of her brother's voice she turned away from the sea-view.
“I can't imagine why you insisted on coming to this hotel,” she said,
rather fretfully. “I can't stand the place. Of course, as it's just
been opened, it's useless to expect everything to go like clockwork;
but there seems a lot of mismanagement about it. I almost burned my
hand with the hot water in my bedroom this morning—ridiculous, having
tap-water as hot as that! And my letters got into the wrong
pigeon-hole or something; I had to wait ever so long for them. Of
course the clerk said he was sorry—but what good does that do? I don't
want his sorrow. I want my letters when I ask for them.”
“No doubt.”
“And there was a wasp in my room when I went up there a few minutes
ago. If I'd wanted a double-bedded room with a wasp as a room-mate, I
would have asked for it when we booked, wouldn't I? And when I rang
the bell and told them to put the thing out, the chambermaid—so it
seems—was afraid of wasps. So she had to go and get hold of someone
else to tackle it. And meanwhile, of course, I had to wait about until
my room was made habitable. That's a nice kind of hotel!”
“Oh, it has its points,” Paul Fordingbridge advanced soothingly. “One
can get quite decent wine; and this chair's not uncomfortable.”
“I don't sit in a chair and drink wine all day,” his sister retorted,
querulously. “And that jazz band downstairs is simply appalling—I can
feel my ear-drums quiver whenever it starts playing.”
“It amuses the children, at least. I haven't heard Stanley or Cressida
complaining about it yet; and they seem to dance most of the time in
the evenings.”
“So like the younger generation! They get married—and they dance. And
that's almost all you can say about them.”
“Oh, no. Let's be fair,” her brother corrected her mildly. “They both
play bridge a good deal; and Cressida's not bad at golf. I can't say,
taking her over all, that I'm ashamed of her as a niece. And Stanley's
a great improvement on her first husband—that fellow Staveley.”
Miss Fordingbridge made a gesture of irritation.
“Oh, of course, everything's simply splendid, by your way of it. A
fascinating niece, a nice-looking nephew-in-law, and a wonderful hotel
to live in for a month or so; what more could one want? The only thing
I can't understand is what this family party is doing in an hotel just
now, when we've got Foxhills standing empty almost within a
stone's-throw. You know how I hate hotels; and yet you won't reopen
Foxhills and let us live there. What's the use in coming to Lynden
Sands at all, if we don't stay at our own house and get privacy at
least?”
Her brother's brows contracted slightly.
“Foxhills isn't going to be reopened. You know quite well the size of
staff you'd need to run it properly; and I don't propose to pay on
that scale merely in order to stay at Foxhills for a month or so and
then shut it up again. Besides, Jay, this new golf-course has changed
things a bit. I'm trying to let Foxhills; and if I got a tenant, we
might have to clear out of the place before we'd got well settled down
in it. This hotel and the new course between them are going to make
Lynden Sands more popular before long. There's a fair chance of
getting Foxhills leased.”
Miss Fordingbridge was manifestly taken aback by this information.
“You're trying to let Foxhills—our old house? Why, it isn't yours to
let! It belongs to Derek.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed to be flicked on the raw. There was a
certain asperity in his tone as he replied.
“Whether it _belongs_ to Derek or merely _belonged_ to Derek is an
open question. He hasn't turned up to let us decide the point one way
or the other.”
He glanced at his sister's face and apparently read something in her
expression, for he continued with a faint rasp in his tone.
“I thought I'd made the position clear enough to you already, but, as
you don't seem to grasp it even yet, I'll go over it once more. But
this must be the last time, Jay. I'm really tired of making the thing
clear to you when you evidently won't take the trouble to understand
how I'm placed.”
He paused for a moment, as though to put his facts in order before
stating his case.
“Since this is the last time I'm going to discuss the thing with you,
I'll go right back to the beginning; and you'll be good enough to give
me your attention, Jay. I'm tired of the subject; and specially tired
of explaining it to you, as you never listen.
“Under our father's will, the major part of the family
property—including the Foxhills estate—went to his eldest son, brother
John, on a life-tenancy. After John died, it was all to go without
restrictions to the next eldest—brother Rufus, out in Australia—or
to his son, Derek. Failing Derek, it was to go to the next
eldest—Cressida's father; or, if he died first, then to Cressida. If
she didn't live to come into it, then it fell to my share; and,
finally, if we all died off, then you were to get it. Of course, he'd
left each of us enough to keep us going comfortably in any case.
Foxhills and the investments that went along with it were extras, over
and above that. You see that part clearly enough, I suppose?”
Miss Fordingbridge nodded; but it seemed doubtful if she had given the
narrative much attention. She appeared to be treasuring up some
thought which made her brother's statement of little real interest to
her. Paul glanced again at her face and seemed to hesitate slightly.
He decided to continue.
“None of us had seen Derek until just before the war. Then he came to
Foxhills for a while with us. You took to him more than I did. He
seemed to me a very ordinary young fellow. Meanwhile, John came into
his life-rent of the estate and the rest of the property, after our
father died.
“Then came the war. Derek had a commission in some Australian
regiment. We saw little of him, naturally. I wish we'd seen less. He
brought home that friend of his, Nick Staveley, on leave; and he got
round Cressida and married her—the worst day's work our family's done
for a good while. Lucky for her that he got wiped out, that day when
Derek was captured.”
Miss Fordingbridge winced at the name of her niece's first husband.
Even after all these years, the very thought of Staveley had its sting
for the family. Apart from this, however, she showed no interest in
her brother's narrative, which was obviously an old tale to her, and
important only as it concerned her brother's motives of action.
“Meanwhile, Rufus had a paralytic stroke out in Australia and died.
Then, a little later, John got killed in that motor accident. Under
the will, that left Derek in possession of the estate. I can't claim
that I foresaw that exact state of affairs; but I'd been afraid of
something of the sort happening. During the war, things needed a
careful eye on them; and I didn't care to see Foxhills in the hands of
lawyers. So before Derek went off to the Front, I got him to give me a
power of attorney to deal with all his affairs. Are you listening,
Jay?”
Miss Fordingbridge nodded absently. She still had the air of reserving
a surprise for her brother.
“You know what happened next,” Paul Fordingbridge went on. “Derek was
captured and sent to Clausthal. Almost immediately, he got away from
there, and nearly scraped over the Dutch frontier. The Germans caught
him there; and as a result he was sent on to Fort 9, at Ingolstadt. We
know he got away from there—it must have been almost immediately, as
we got no letters from him—and after that all trace of him was lost.
Whether he got shot in trying to get over the frontier, or whether he
lost his memory, or what happened to him, no one can tell. He's
vanished, so far as we're concerned.”
Miss Fordingbridge repressed a faint smile, evidently with some
difficulty; but her brother failed to notice the fleeting expression
on her face.
“Now I want you to see the position that I'm left in, with all this
muddle,” he went on. “Derek may be alive, or he may be dead, for all
we know. If he's alive, then Foxhills belongs to him; and, until we
have evidence of his death, that's the state of affairs. Meanwhile,
with his power of attorney, I have to manage things, fix up the
investments, get the best return I can on his money, and look after
the up-keep of Foxhills. I daresay we could go to the Courts and ask
leave to presume his death; but I think it's fairer to wait a while
yet, before doing anything in that direction. He might turn up, in
spite of everything.”
It was evident from his tone that he thought this contingency a most
unlikely one, though not altogether impossible.
“In any case, I've got to do the best I can for his interests. That's
why I propose to let Foxhills if I can find someone to take it on a
short lease. We can't afford to let Derek's property stand idle—if it
is his property. Besides, a place of that size is far better occupied.
It's more or less all right just now, with old Peter Hay looking after
it and living in the cottage; but it would be far better if we had
someone living there permanently and keeping it heated. I'm afraid of
dry-rot setting in sometime or other. Now, do you understand the state
of affairs, Jay? Can't you see that's the best course to take?”
Miss Fordingbridge paid no attention to either query.
“I've listened to you,” she said, perhaps with a slight lapse from
strict accuracy, “and now it's your turn to listen to me, Paul. It's
no use your trying to persuade me that there's any doubt about Derek
at all. I know perfectly well he's alive.”
Paul Fordingbridge made no effort to restrain his involuntary gesture
of annoyance. Quite evidently he saw what was coming.
“Now, Julia, it's no use bringing up this stuff of yours again. I've
told you fifty times already that I don't believe it in the slightest.
Since you went in for this table-turning, and spirit-rapping, and
planchette, and all the rest of the wretched business, you've hardly
been sane on the subject. I daresay you adored Derek when he was here.
No doubt you think you're justified in all this _séance_ business,
trying to get in touch with him, and the rest of it. But frankly, it
leaves me as it leaves every other sensible person—completely
sceptical.”
Miss Fordingbridge was evidently well-accustomed to this kind of
reception when she broached the topic. She ignored her brother's
protest and continued as though he had not interrupted her.
“I remember quite well how you laughed at me when I came back from
that wonderful _séance_ and told you how I had been assured that Derek
was still alive. That was five years ago, but I can recall it
perfectly. And I know it was true. And if you had been there yourself,
and had heard it with your own ears, you'd have believed it too. You
couldn't have disbelieved. It was far too convincing. After the medium
went into a trance, the control spoke to me. And it told me all about
Derek—what regiment he'd been in; when he was captured; how he'd
disappeared; how anxious I'd been about him; and how we'd lost all
trace of him. You'd have been quite convinced yourself, if you'd been
there and heard it all.”
“I _am_ quite convinced,” her brother replied drily. “That's to say
I'm quite convinced that they'd looked up Derek's name in the casualty
lists and got together all the data they could gather beforehand. I
expect you gave away a good deal yourself by your questions, too.
You're about the easiest person to pump, if one goes about it in the
right way.”
Miss Fordingbridge smiled in a superior fashion, as though she knew
that she held a trump card still.
“Would it convince you if I said that I'd seen Derek?”
“Some more of their confounded mummery? No, it wouldn't convince me. A
child could deceive you, Jay. You _want_ to be deceived. You can't
bear the idea that Derek's dead—that's what vitiates this stuff that
you dignify by the name of evidence.”
“Vulgar abuse never hurts a spiritualist. We're used to it,” Miss
Fordingbridge replied with simple dignity. “But you're wrong as usual,
Paul. It wasn't at a _séance_ that I saw Derek. It was here, at Lynden
Sands. And it was last night.”
From the expression on her brother's face it was clear that he hardly
knew how to take this news.
“You saw him here, last night? In a dream, I suppose?”
“No, not in a dream. I met him by appointment down at that rock on the
beach—the one we used to call Neptune's Seat. And I saw him close
enough to make no mistake—as close as I am to you this moment. And I
talked to him, too. It's Derek; there's no doubt about it.”
Paul Fordingbridge was evidently taken aback. This latest tale of his
sister's seemed to have something more solid behind it than her
earlier ventures.
“You said nothing to me about this. Why was that?”
Miss Fordingbridge recognised that she had scored a point and had
startled her brother out of his usual scepticism. She had her answer
ready.
“Naturally you'd hardly expect me to discuss a thing like that over
the breakfast-table, with half-a-hundred total strangers sitting round
and craning their necks so as to hear better? If you will insist on
staying at hotels, you must put up with the results. This is the first
time I've been alone with you since I met him.”
Paul Fordingbridge acknowledged the justice of her view with a nod.
“Quite so,” he admitted. “And you had a talk with this fellow, had
you?”
Miss Fordingbridge's temper showed unmistakably in her tone as she
replied.
“Kindly don't call Derek ‘this fellow,’ if you please. It's Derek
himself. He talked to me for quite a long time—all about things that
had happened at Foxhills when he was here before the War, and other
things that happened at the times he was home on leave. And part of
the time he told me about Clausthal and Fort 9, too.”
Her brother's scepticism again made itself evident.
“Plenty of people were in Fort 9 and at Clausthal besides Derek. That
proves nothing.”
“Well, then, he mentioned a whole lot of little things as well. He
reminded me of how Cressida dropped her bouquet when she was signing
the register after her wedding. And he remembered which wedding march
they played then.”
“Almost anyone in Lynden Sands could have told him that.”
Miss Fordingbridge reflected for a moment or two, evidently searching
her memory for some crucial piece of evidence.
“He remembered that we used to bring up some of the old port from Bin
73 every time he went off to the Front. He said often he wished he
could have had some of it just before zero hour.”
Paul Fordingbridge shook his head.
“One of the servants might have mentioned that in the village and he
could have got hold of it. If you've nothing better than this sort of
tittle-tattle to prove it's Derek, it won't go far.”
He reflected for a moment, then he asked:
“You recognised his face, of course?”
A flicker of repulsion crossed his sister's features.
“I saw his face,” she said. “Paul, he's horribly disfigured, poor boy.
A shell-burst, or something. It's dreadful. If I hadn't known it was
Derek, I'd hardly have recognised him. And he was so good-looking, in
the old days. But I know it's Derek. I'm quite sure of it. That
medium's control never makes a mistake. If Derek had passed over,
she'd have found him and made him speak to me at that _séance_. But
she couldn't. And now he's come back in the flesh, it shows there _is_
something in spiritualism, in spite of all your sneers. You'll have to
admit it, Paul.”
Her words had evidently started a fresh train of thought in her
brother's mind.
“Did you recognise his voice?” he demanded.
Miss Fordingbridge seemed to make an effort to recall the tones she
had heard:
“It was Derek's voice, of course,” she said, with a faint hesitation
in her manner. “Of course, it wasn't quite the voice I'd been
expecting. His mouth was hurt in those awful wounds he got. And his
tongue was damaged, too; so his voice isn't the same as it used to be.
It's husky instead of clear; and he has difficulty in saying some
words, I noticed. But at times I could quite well imagine it was Derek
speaking just as he used to do, with that Australian twang of his that
we used to tease him about.”
“Ah, he has the twang, has he?”
“Of course he has. Derek couldn't help having it, could he, when he
was brought up in Australia until he was quite grown-up? Last night he
laughed over the way we used to chaff him about his accent.”
“Anything more about him that you can remember?”
“He's been dreadfully hurt. Two of his fingers were blown off his
right hand. It gave me such a start when he shook hands with me.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed to reflect for a moment or two on the
information he had acquired.
“H'm!” he said at last, “It'll be difficult to establish his identity;
that's clear. Face unrecognisable owing to wounds; voice altered,
ditto; two fingers gone on right hand, so his writing won't be
identifiable. If only we had taken Derek's fingerprints, we'd have had
some sort of proof. As it is, there's very little to go on.”
Miss Fordingbridge listened scornfully to this catalogue.
“So that's all the thanks you give Derek for suffering so horribly for
us all in the war?”
“Always assuming that this friend of yours is Derek. Don't you
understand that I can't take a thing of this sort on trust? I'm in
charge of Derek's property—assuming that he's still alive, I can't
hand it over to the first claimant who comes along, and then, if Derek
himself turns up, excuse myself by saying that the first fellow had a
plausible yarn to tell. I must have real proof. That's simply plain
honesty, in my position. And real proof's going to be mighty hard to
get, if you ask me, Jay. You must see that, surely.”
“It _is_ Derek,” Miss Fordingbridge repeated, obstinately. “Do you
think I can't recognise my own nephew, when he's able to tell me all
sorts of things that only we in the family could know?”
Her brother regarded her rather ruefully.
“I believe you'd go into the witness-box and take your oath that it's
Derek,” he said, gloomily. “You'd made up your mind that Derek was
coming back sooner or later; and now you're prepared to recognise
anything down to a chimpanzee as your long-lost nephew, rather than
admit you're wrong. Damn this spiritualism of yours! It's at the root
of all the trouble. It's led you to expect Derek; and you mean to have
a Derek of some sort.”
He paused for a moment, as though following out a train of thought;
then he added:
“And it's quite on the cards that if it ever came before a jury, some
chuckleheads would take your word for it. ‘Sure to know her nephew,’
and all that sort of stuff. They don't know your little fads.”
Miss Fordingbridge glanced up at the note of trouble in her brother's
voice.
“I can't see why you're trying to throw doubt on the thing, Paul. You
haven't seen Derek; I have. And yet you don't wait to see him
yourself. You come straight out with a denial that it is Derek. And
you say I've got a preconceived idea about the affair. It seems to me
that you're the one with a preconceived notion. One would think you'd
made up your mind already on the subject.”
Paul Fordingbridge acknowledged the counter-thrust.
“There's something in what you say, perhaps, Jay. But you must admit
the whole business is a trifle unexpected. It's hardly taking the line
one might expect, if everything were square and above-board. Let's
assume that it _is_ Derek, and then you'll see what a lot's left
unexplained so far. First of all, it's years since the war. Why hasn't
he turned up before now? That's a strange affair, surely. Then, when
he does reappear, why doesn't he come to me first of all? I'm the
person he left in charge of his affairs, and I should think his first
step would be to communicate with me. But no, he comes down here
unannounced; and he fixes up some sort of clandestine meeting with
you. That's a rum go, to my mind. And there's more than that in it. He
meets you last night and has a talk with you; but he doesn't suggest
coming to see me. Or did he give you any message for me?”
“He didn't, as it happens. But you seem to think we were talking as if
it was all a matter of business, Paul. It was a shock to me to have
him back again. And I daresay I did most of the talking, and he hadn't
time to give me any message for you. I was very shaken up by it all,
and he was so kind to me.”
Her brother seemed to find little pleasure in the picture which she
drew.
“Yes, I expect you did most of the talking, Jay. He wouldn't interrupt
you much. But, aside from all that, it's getting near lunch-time now.
He's had the whole morning to break into the family circle; and yet he
hasn't come near. From what I remember of him, shyness wasn't one of
his defects. Whatever you may think about it, that seems to me a bit
fishy. Damned strange in fact. I'm not taking up any definite stand in
the matter; but there are things that need a bit of explaining.”
Miss Fordingbridge seemed for a moment to be staggered by her
brother's analysis; but she recovered herself almost at once and
fastened upon his last point.
“Didn't I tell you that he was horribly disfigured? Even in the
moonlight he was a dreadful sight. Do you expect him to come marching
into this hotel in broad daylight this morning, so that everyone can
stare at him? You really have very little common sense, Paul. I think
it shows that he wants to spare us all the tittle-tattle he can. You
know what hotels are, and how the people in them are simply on the
look-out for something to chatter about. And when they got a chance
like this—missing heir returns, and so forth—you can guess for
yourself what it would be like. We'd have no life of it, with people
staring at us and whispering behind our backs as we passed. And I
think Derek has shown a great deal of tact and common sense in
behaving as he has done. Naturally he asked to see me first. He knows
how fond of him I was.”
Her brother seemed to consider this fresh view of the affair for a
longer time than he had devoted to any of her other statements. At
last he shook his head doubtfully.
“It might be as you say, of course,” he conceded grudgingly. “We must
wait and see what turns up. But you can take it from me, Jay, that I
shan't be satisfied unless I get something a good deal better in the
way of evidence. It looks very like a parcel from a shop in Queer
Street, so far as it's gone.”
Miss Fordingbridge seemed content to drop that side of the matter, at
least for the time. But she had something further to say.
“Of course you'll drop this absurd idea of letting Foxhills now,
Paul?”
Her brother seemed irritated by this fresh turn given to their
conversation.
“Why should I? I've told you often enough that it's my business to do
the best I can for Derek; and the rent of Foxhills would be worth
having, even if Derek did come back. You're not suggesting that he
should stay there, are you? It's far too big a place for a single man,
even if he wanted to live down here at Lynden Sands.”
Miss Fordingbridge was plainly put out by this suggestion.
“Of course he would stay there. When he went away, didn't I keep his
rooms in order, just as he left them? He could go back to-morrow and
find his study exactly as it was when he left us. Everything's there
just as it used to be: his books, his pipes, his old diary, his
ash-trays—everything. When we shut up Foxhills, I wanted to have
everything ready so that when he came back from the war he'd find
everything in its usual place. He could walk straight in and feel that
things were just the same and that we hadn't forgotten him. And now
you want to let Foxhills just at the moment when he comes back
again—rob the poor boy of the only place on this side of the world
that he can call a home. I won't have it, Paul!”
“Whether you have it or haven't it, Jay, is a matter of total
indifference. Until the power of attorney is revoked, I shall do
exactly as seems best to me; and letting Foxhills is one of the things
I shall certainly do.”
“But I know Derek doesn't want it,” cried Miss Fordingbridge. “Last
night I told him all about how I'd kept his things for him so
carefully; and if you'd seen how touched the poor boy was! He said it
was the thing that had touched him most. And he was ever so grateful
to me. And now you propose to spoil it all, after those years!”
She switched off on to another subject.
“And what do you propose to do about poor old Peter Hay? If you let
Foxhills, it won't need a caretaker; and I suppose you'll turn poor
Peter adrift? And, if you remember, Peter was one of the people that
Derek liked best when he was here before. He was always going about
with Peter, and he said he found him companionable. And he's learned a
lot from Peter about beasts and so on—all new to him—since he came
from Australia. But I suppose Peter's to go at a week's notice? That's
a nice way to serve people.”
Her brother seemed to consider things before replying.
“I'll try to find something for Peter. You're quite right, Jay. I
didn't mean to turn Peter adrift, though. If I have to sack him from
the caretaker business, I'll pay him out of my own pocket till
something else turns up. Peter's too decent a man to let down,
especially after he's been at Foxhills all his life. If it had been
that last valet we had—that fellow Aird—I'd never have thought twice
about throwing him out at a day's notice. But you can trust me to look
after Peter.”
Miss Fordingbridge seemed slightly mollified by this concession on her
brother's part; but she stuck to her main point.
“Well, you can't let Foxhills in any case. I won't have it!”
But apparently her brother had wearied of argument, for he made no
reply.
“I shall be going up to Foxhills some time to-day. I always go up to
dust Derek's rooms, you know,” she continued.
“What on earth do you do that for?” her brother demanded in an
exasperated tone. “Are you training for a housemaid's place? I hear
there's a shortage in that line, but you hardly seem to be a useful
kind of recruit, Jay.”
“I've always looked after Derek's rooms. When he was here at Foxhills
in the old days, I never allowed anyone to lay a finger on his study.
I knew just how he liked his things kept, and I wouldn't have maids
fussing round, displacing everything.”
“Oh, of course you doted on the boy,” her brother retorted. “But it
seems a bit unnecessary at this time of day.”
“Unnecessary? Just when Derek has come back?”
Paul Fordingbridge made no attempt to conceal his gesture of
annoyance; but he refrained from reopening the sore subject.
“Well, if you come across Peter, you can send him down to me. I
haven't seen him since we came here, and I may as well have a talk
about things. Probably there are one or two repairs that need
considering. Perhaps you could go round by his cottage and make sure
of getting hold of him.”
Miss Fordingbridge nodded her assent.
“I'll be quite glad to have a talk with Peter. He'll be so delighted
to know that Derek's back at last. It was only the other day that we
were talking about Derek together. Peter thinks there's no one like
him.”
“All the more reason for saying nothing, then. If it turns out that it
isn't Derek, it would disappoint Peter badly if you'd raised his
hopes.”
Then, seeing that his scepticism had again roused his sister's temper,
he added hastily:
“By the way, how's Peter keeping? Has he had any more of these turns
of his—apoplexy, wasn't it?”
“He seemed to be quite well when I saw him the other day. Of course,
he's got to be careful and not excite himself; but he seemed to me as
if he'd quite got over the slight attack he'd had in the spring.”
“Still got his old squirrel?”
“It's still there. And the rest of the menagerie too. He insisted on
showing me them all, and of course I had to pretend to be frightfully
interested. Poor old man, they're all he has now, since his wife died.
It would be very lonely for him up there, with no one within a mile of
him. His birds and things are great company for him, he says.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed relieved that the conversation was edging
away from the dangerous subject. He led it still further out of the
zone.
“Have you see Cressida and Stanley this morning? They'd finished
breakfast and gone out before I came on the scene.”
“I think they were going to play golf. They ought to be back
presently.”
She went to the window and gazed out for a moment or two without
speaking. Her brother took up _The Times_ and resumed his study of the
share market, with evident relief.
“This hotel spoils Lynden Sands,” Miss Fordingbridge broke out after a
short silence. “It comes right into the view from the front of
Foxhills—great staring building! And, wherever you go along the bay,
you see this monstrosity glaring in the middle of the view. It'll ruin
the place. And it'll give the villagers all sorts of notions, too.
Visitors always spoil a small village.”
Her brother made no reply, and when she halted in her complaints he
rustled his newspaper clumsily in an obvious effort to discourage
further conversation. Just then a knock at the door was heard.
“Come in!” Miss Fordingbridge ordered.
A page-boy appeared.
“Message on the telephone for you, sir.”
Paul Fordingbridge rose reluctantly and left the room. He was absent
for a very short time; and when he came back his sister could see that
he was disturbed.
“That was a message from the doctor. It seems poor old Peter's gone.”
“Gone? Do you mean anything's happened to him?”
“He's had another attack—some time in the night or earlier. They
didn't find out about it until the morning. The doctor's just been up
at the cottage, so there's no doubt about it.”
“Poor Peter! He looked so well when I saw him the other day. One would
have thought he'd live to see eighty. This will be a dreadful
disappointment for Derek. He was so fond of the old man.”
She paused for a moment, as though she could hardly believe the news.
“Are you sure there's no mistake, Paul?”
“None whatever. It was the doctor himself who rang up. Peter had no
relations, you know, so naturally we'll need to look after things. He
served us well, Jay.”
“I remember when he came to Foxhills, and that's years and years ago.
The place won't seem quite the same without him. Did the doctor tell
you anything about it, Paul?”
“No details. He just rung up to let us know, he said, as we seemed to
be the only people who had any real connection with the old boy. Now I
come to think of it, that sawbones seemed a bit stuffy over something.
A bit abrupt in his manner over the 'phone. He's a new man,
apparently. I didn't know his name. Perhaps that was what put him
out.”