Hay-fever
1
After that one moment of introspection, Anthony headed his car for
Fleet Street. At twenty-five minutes past eleven he burst into the
room of _The Owl’s_ editor.
The editor and his secretary were rather close together. The shining
golden hair of the secretary was noticeably disordered.
“Er—hallo!” said Hastings.
Anthony said: “Get hold of private ’tec called Pellet; 4, Grogan’s
Court. Find out what he knows about the ownership of _The
Searchlight_, _The St. Stephen’s Gazette_, and _Vox Populi_. He was
commissioned for same thing some time ago by J. Masterson. Never mind
how much he costs. I’ll pay. If Pellet doesn’t know anything, find out
yourself. In any case give me the answer as soon as is damn’ well
possible. Got that? Right. ’Night. ’Night, Miss Warren.” The door
banged behind him.
Margaret Warren snatched some papers from her table and followed. She
caught him in the entrance hall.
“Mr. Gethryn!” she said, breathless. “Here’s the
report—asked—for—inquest.—Just finished—typed. You may—want it.”
Anthony raised his hat. “Miss Warren, you’re wonderful.” He took the
papers from her hand. “Many thanks. Hope I don’t seem rude. Very busy.
Good-night—and good luck.” He shook her hand and was gone.
Slowly, Margaret went back to her editor. He was found pacing the
room, scratching his head in bewilderment.
“Yes, darling, he was a bit strange, wasn’t he?” Margaret said.
“He was.” Hastings spoke with conviction. “I’ve known that man for
fifteen years and I’ve never seen him all hot and bothered like that
before. He’s usually calmest when he’s got most to do.”
Margaret patted his cheek. “But, you silly baby, he wasn’t like that
because of the work he was doing. It was something much, much more
important than that—or I’m a Dutchman!”
Hastings was alarmed. “Not that! Anything but that! What was it,
then?”
“A woman, of course. _The_ woman! Heaven, am I tied to an idiot?”
“Just you wait, wench, until I’ve seen Mr. Pellet!” said Hastings.
2
From Fleet Street, Anthony drove straight to the Regency, over whose
great frontage flaring placards and violently winking electric signs
announced that the great, the incomparable Vanda was gracing with her
art this mecca of vaudeville. As he reached it the audience were
streaming out from its great glass doors.
He anticipated difficulty, and approached the stage-door keeper with a
five-pound note and broken English. He was, it seemed, Prince Nicolas
Something-or-the-other-vitch. He was oh! so great a friend of the
great, the incomparable Vanda—even a relation. He _must_, it was of an
imperativeness, see her. Further, the good keeper of the door really
must accept this so little piece of paper.
The good keeper did; then proceeded laboriously to explain that the
Vanda was not in the theatre. Hadn’t been there at all that day. _And_
there ’adn’t been half a row about it, neither! She had wired to say
she couldn’t appear. Why? Gawd perhaps knew; certainly nobody else
did. When would she reappear? The keeper of the door reely couldn’t
say. P’r’aps to-morrer. P’r’aps never. Good-night to _you_, sir.
Anthony went to his flat, surprised his man, and ordered a drink, a
bath, fresh clothing, a drink, and supper.
At the meal, his hunger surprised him. Then he remembered that since
the lightest of lunches he had eaten nothing. Having made up the
deficiency, he lit a cigar, sat in a chair by the open window and read
through, not once but many times, the typed report of the inquest.
Somewhere a clock struck two. Anthony put down the report, clasped his
head with his hands, and plunged into thought. Presently he found his
mind to be wandering, strictly against orders—wandering in a direction
forbidden. He swore, got to his feet, and crossed to the
writing-table. At this he employed himself with pen and paper for more
than an hour.
At last he put down his pen and read through what he had written. The
clock struck four. He finished his reading, said: “H’mm! Those blasted
gaps!” and went to bed.
3
He had barely two hours’ sleep, for by a quarter past six he was
breaking his fast. At twenty minutes past seven he was driving his car
slowly through London.
This morning he took the journey to Marling slowly: the pointer of his
speedometer touched eighteen as he left the outskirts of town, and
remained there. For Anthony was thinking.
For the first third of the journey his thoughts were incoherently
redundant. They were of a certain scene in which A. R. Gethryn had
lost his temper; had behaved, in short, abominably, and this to the
one person in the world for whose opinion he cared.
It cost him an effort greater than might be supposed to wrench his
thoughts out of this gloomy train, but at last he succeeded.
This puzzle of his—some of it fitted now, only there were several
idiotic pieces which, unfitted, made nonsense of the rest. He flogged
his unwilling brain for the rest of the journey.
He backed the Mercedes into the garage of the Bear and Key at
twenty-five minutes to ten. By five minutes to the hour he was walking
with his long, lazy stride up the winding drive of Abbotshall.
Drawing near the house he saw that the great oaken door stood open,
letting a shaft of hot, clean, morning sunlight paint a golden track
across the polished floor of the wide hall. He entered, flung his hat
on to a chair, and turned in the direction of the stairs.
He had set foot upon the third step when from behind and below him
came a noise—a rasping roar of a noise. To his overtired brain and
overheated imagination it seemed a noise evil and inhuman. He swung
round. The hall was as he had left it, empty of all save furniture. He
descended the three steps; stood looking about him; then walked
towards the front door. Before he could reach it, the noise came
again, louder this time. The same roaring, rasping sound. But this
time it had for a tail a snuffling choke which came, obviously, from
the throat of a man.
Anthony laughed at himself. Noiselessly, he retraced his steps, passed
the foot of the stairs, and halted outside the door opposite that of
the study. It stood ajar, giving him a glimpse of the little room
which he remembered as being the lair of the butler.
Anthony waited. In a moment came the roar again, now recognisable as
half-cough, half-sneeze. Anthony pushed the door wide. Facing it,
huddled in a chair, was the butler. His gray head was on a level with
his knees. In one claw of a hand he clutched a bandanna handkerchief
with which he dabbed every now and then at his streaming eyes.
Anthony stood unmoving in the doorway. Presently, another spasm shook
the old man.
“Bad cold, that,” Anthony said loudly.
There was no answer. The coughing gasps went on; gradually grew less
frequent. The thin shoulders ceased to shake.
“Bad cold, that,” said Anthony again.
This time he got an effect. Poole leapt to his feet, fumbling
hurriedly to hide in a tail pocket the capacious handkerchief.
“Your pardon, sir!” he gasped. “Did you want me, sir?”
“I only remarked that yours was a bad cold.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. Not that it’s a cold, sir, exactly. It’s
this hay-fever. And very troublesome it is, sir, for an old fellow
like me!”
“Must be.” Anthony was sympathetic. “D’you have these attacks many
times a day?”
“I used to, sir. But this summer it does seem to be improving, sir.
Only takes me every now and then, as you might say.” The old man’s
voice showed gratitude for this concern about his ailment.
But Anthony’s interest in hay-fever was not yet abated. “This the
first bad fit you’ve had for some time?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Quite a while since I was so bad, sir. It didn’t trouble me
at all yesterday, sir.”
Anthony drew nearer. “D’you happen to remember,” he said slowly,
“whether you—er—sneezed like that at all on the evening your master
was killed?”
Poole exhibited agitation. “Whether I—the master——” the thin hands
twisted about each other. “Forgive me, sir—I—I can’t remember, sir.
I’m a foolish old fellow—and any mention of—of that terrible night
sort of seems to—to upset me, sir.” He passed a hand across his
forehead. “No, sir, I really can’t remember. I’m an old man, sir. My
memory’s not what it was. Not what it was——”
But Anthony was listening no longer. He was, in fact, no longer there
to listen. He had suddenly turned about and sprung into the hall. As
Mr. Poole said later in the servants’ hall: “I’d never of believed
such a lazy-looking gentleman could of moved so quick. Like the leap
of a cat, it was!”
Had he followed into the hall, he would have had more matter for
gossip. For by the door of the verandah Anthony stood clutching, none
too gently, the skinny shoulder of Robert Belford—the man-servant he
had christened “Ferret-face.”
“A word in your pointed ear, my friend,” he said, and tightened his
grip. “Now where shall we chat? The garden?” He pulled his trembling
captive, whose face was a dirty gray with fear, out through the
verandah, and on to the terrace.
“Suppose,” Anthony said, dropping his hand, “suppose you tell me why
in hell you listen to my conversations with other people.”
“I wasn’t listening.” The man’s voice was sullen, yet at the same time
shrill with fear.
“Why take the trouble?” Anthony asked plaintively. “Besides, it’s
wicked to tell stories, Belford. Wicked! Unhappy is the burden of a
fib. We will, I think, get farther from our fellows and you shall tell
me all about everything. I’ve been watching you, you know.”
With these last words, true but intentionally misleading, a black
shadow of hopelessness seemed to fall upon the prisoner.
“All right,” he mumbled wearily, and followed meekly, but with
dragging feet, while his captor led the way down the steps and across
the lawn and into the little copse which faced the eastern end of the
house.
As he walked, Anthony thought hard. He was something more than
mystified. What in heaven, earth or hell was this little person going
to tell him? Another old boot turning into a salmon, what? Father
Gethryn, confessor! Well, every little helps.
When the house was hidden from them by the trees, he stopped. He sat
on a log and waved Belford to another. Then he lit his pipe and
waited. To his surprise, the little servant, after clearing his
throat, began at once. Much of his nervousness seemed to drop from
him, though he still looked like a man in fear.
“I’m rather glad this has happened, sir,” he said, “because I was
going to come to you anyway.”
“You were, were you?” thought Anthony. “Now why?” But he went on
smoking.
“I couldn’t of stood it much longer, sir, reely I couldn’t! And ever
since you stopped that great brute of a sergeant from popping it
across me, sir, I’ve been tryin’ to make up me mind to tell you.” He
paused as if expecting an answer; but getting none, plunged on. “I
wasn’t upstairs _all_ the time that night, like I said I was at the
inquest!” Again he paused.
Anthony went on smoking. Here, if he wanted the story quickly, silence
was best.
Belford swallowed hard. His face, as he went on speaking, turned from
muddy gray to dead white.
“I—I come downstairs, sir, after I’d finished in the master’s room.
And when I got to the ’all I heard old Poole starting on one of them
sneezin’ fits. And—and, sir, I went into the study and I saw the
master lyin’ there on the rug—just like they found ’im! And—and I shut
that door behind me quick—old Pooley was still coughin’ and chokin’
his head off—and I nipped back up the stairs, sir. It’s God’s truth,
sir! It is——”
This time the pause was so long that Anthony knew speech necessary.
“Are you trying to explain,” he said, “that though you did go into the
study that night you didn’t have anything to do with the murder?”
“Yes, sir, yes.” The man’s eagerness was pathetic. “That’s just it,
sir! I didn’t have nothink to do with it, sir, _nothink!_ So ’elp me
God!”
“What did you go into the room for?” Anthony shot out the question.
“Must’ve been for something you didn’t want found out or Poole’s
hay-fever wouldn’t have been so important to you?” The logic, he knew,
was faulty. But the thrust told.
Belford hung his head. “Yes, sir, it was what you say. I thought—one
of the girls told me—the master was in the billiard-room. And I knew
as ’e always kept money somewhere in the study. I was goin’ to
pin—steal it if I could. I was desprit, sir. Desprit!”
Anthony was puzzled. “But if you came out without stealing anything,
why didn’t you rouse the house when you saw Mr. Hoode was dead?”
“I don’t know, sir. Except that it all come as such a shock like—my
sneaking in there while old Poole was sneezin’—and then finding—that,
sir. You see, when I nipped out, the old man was still sneezin’ with
’is ’ead on his knees. And I _knew_ as he hadn’t spotted me. And I
bolted away to think. An’ the more I thought, the more I feels as if I
couldn’t—hadn’t better like—tell anybody.
“I can see, now, sir, ’ow blasted silly it were—me having done nothink
wrong. But there it was, sir, I meant to tell, but as I’d gone in
there to steal and ’ad sneaked in in the way I did—well, it made me
feel as if they’d all jump on me immediate as the murderer. Specially
as I never goes into the study in the ordinary way. You _do_ see ’ow
it was, don’t you, sir?”
“It do,” Anthony said. “But I also see that you’re a fool. A fool for
not rousing every one at once; a fool for not keeping quiet after
you’d decided to say nothing about it.”
Belford’s little eyes opened wide. “But you—you were on me, sir! You
suspected me like—thought I was the murd’rer!”
Anthony shook his head. “Not really, Belford. You know, you looked too
guilty to be true. I nabbed you just now because I don’t like
eavesdroppers. Also because anything fishy in this house interests me
at present.”
“I may be a fool,” cried Belford in heavy tones not without humour,
“but I feel better now I’ve got it off my chest like. Reely I do, sir!
I kept sayin’ to meself as how I wasn’t guilty of anythink, and yet I
’ad the conscience awful! I’ve bin trying to tell you for twenty-four
hours, sir, but when I ’eard you askin’ Poole if ’e’d ’ad a ’tack of
that hay-fever on the night the master was killed, I got frightened
again and was goin’ to bolt. Only you copped me.” He was silent a
moment, then burst out: “Mr. Deacon didn’t do it, sir. He couldn’t of!
You know that, sir?”
Anthony did. But he wanted to turn this tragi-comic confession of
nothing into evidence of importance, though he had but little hope of
success.
“What time,” he asked with affected carelessness, “did you go into the
study?”
“I was only just in and out like a flash, sir. But when I got back to
the stairs, the clock there said five past eleven, sir—I remember it
perfect. I wasn’t lookin’ for the time reely, only some’ow I saw it
and couldn’t forget it like.”
Anthony repressed elation. “Thanks,” he said, and got to his feet.
Belford jumped up. “Are you—going, sir?”
Anthony nodded.
“But what—what are you goin’ to—to do about me? About what I told you,
sir?”
Anthony looked down benignly. “Nothing.”
Belford’s mouth fell open. “Nothing! _Nothing?_ But——”
“What I mean, Belford, is this. I’ll keep you out of trouble. You’ve
told me one thing that makes all your confession of nothing worth
while. You may, later on, have to give evidence; but that’s the worst
you’ll have to do as far as I’m concerned. And don’t worry. And for
the Lord’s sake don’t walk about as you’ve been doing lately, looking
like Charles Peace with a bellyache.”
The little man smiled all over his wizened face. Anthony looked at him
curiously. Somehow, when talking to him as a man and not a servant,
one found something so far from being sly as to be almost lovable.
Anthony gave the narrow shoulders a reassuring pat and strolled away,
making for the house. He had covered perhaps twenty yards when he
stopped, turned on his heel, and walked back.
Belford was seated again on his log. His face was buried in his hands.
Anthony stood looking down at him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
The other dropped his hands with a cry, bounding to his feet.
“I—beg your pardon, sir. You—I——”
Anthony soothed him. “Steady, man, steady. Take your time. Lots of
it.”
Belford looked up at him, tried to speak, failed, and hung his head
again.
“Just now,” Anthony said, “you told me something about being
desperate. What is it? Money?”
Belford nodded. “You’re right, sir,” he muttered. “It’s—it’s my wife,
sir. Been very ill, she has. And is still. I was goin’ to ask the
master to ’elp me; but when it come to the point, I couldn’t. That’s
why I was after pinchin’, sir. I would ’ave asked ’im, I would reely,
sir; but I knew he’d ask Miss Hoode about it, and that’d ’ave made it
’opeless. You see, sir, the missus was in service here before we was
married—and, well, sir, she ’ad—’ad to leave in a nurry. And through
me! You understand, sir—our nipper——” He broke off, looking up
appealingly. “We’re very fond of each other, sir,” he finished. “And
it’s ’ard to see ’er so ill like!”
“How much d’you want?” Anthony felt for his note-case. “Here, you’d
better have twenty now. And I’ll fix you up properly to-morrow. Now,
for God’s sake, man, pull yourself together!” he added sharply.
For Belford’s shrivelled, sharp-featured little face was working in a
way which was not good to see. Gratitude is sometimes more terrible to
watch than baser emotions.
Anthony thrust the notes into one limp hand and beat hurried retreat.
Belford stood where he was left. His lips moved soundlessly. The
banknotes in his hand crackled as the stubby fingers clenched upon
them. Presently he raised his head and looked with blurred vision
along the path through the trees.
“Gawd!” he said, the refinement of the servants’ hall now completely
gone. “Gawd! What a bloke! What a _bloody_ good bloke!”
Anthony took the terrace steps three at a time. He was elated. The
elation was short-lived; before he had reached the house, despair had
taken its place. After all, this playing at detectives was foolery.
Why, such a day as this, with its hot, clean peace, its drowsiness,
its little scented breeze—was it not a day for a lover to lie at the
feet of his mistress? Was it not a day for hot, sun-warmed kisses?
He shook himself, laughing bitterly. “Affectioned ass!” he said to
himself.
Sir Arthur came out of the house. “Lovely day, Gethryn. Early, aren’t
you?”
“It is and I am. I am also a detective of the greatest. Do I look it?”
Sir Arthur grew eager. “What d’you mean? Have you got anything? Found
out anything important?”
Anthony nodded. “Yes, twice.”
“But what, man? What?”
“One, the butler suffers from hay-fever. Two, the murder was committed
at as near eleven o’clock as I am to you.”
“Damn it all, Gethryn,” said the elder man, “I don’t think it’s quite
fair to pull my leg like that. Not about this. I don’t really!”
“You’re right, it isn’t. I’m sorry.” Anthony was contrite. “But you
know, I’m not as silly as I sound. You must think I’m telling you
things you knew before; but I’m not really. What I think these things
mean, I’m not going to say just yet. Not to any one.”
“I see. That’s all right, Gethryn. You must forgive me if I seem
touchy.” Sir Arthur smiled forgivingly.
“Seen Deacon lately?” Anthony asked.
“This morning. In fact, I’ve just come back. He’s wonderful, that
boy!”
“He is,” agreed Anthony. “I’m just going to see him now. Walk to the
gate with me, will you? I want you to help me.”
“My dear chap, with pleasure!” He put his arm through Anthony’s as
they walked.
“I want to know,” said Anthony, as they reached the end of the house,
“whether any one in any way connected with the household does any
playing about with carpenter’s tools. Amateurs, professionals, or
both.”
“Funny you should ask that, Gethryn? I’ve been thinking about that.
But it’s no help. You see, the place is full of ’em—carpenters, I
mean. There’s Diggle, the gardener, he’s really an excellent rough-job
man. Then there’s the chauffeur, he made that shed over there—and a
splendid bit of work it is. And John, well, it was his one hobby as it
is mine. You know that set of three small tables in the drawing-room?”
“I did notice them. They puzzled me rather. Couldn’t place ’em.”
“John made those,” said Sir Arthur, with a touch of pride, “nearly
twenty years ago. I remember I was very jealous at the time. I
couldn’t ever have done anything so good, you see. I was a bit better
than he at the finer sorts of work, though.” He broke off, seeming to
fall into a reverie. After a while he added: “No, Gethryn, I’m afraid
this line’s no good to us. That wood-rasp doesn’t belong to
Abbotshall.”
“You’re sure?” Anthony asked.
“Well, it isn’t mine, it didn’t belong to John, it isn’t Diggle’s—he
was questioned by the police, you know—and it certainly isn’t the
chauffeur’s.”
“Humph!” Anthony seemed annoyed.
They walked on to the gate in silence. Anthony nodded an adieu and set
off down the white, dusty road with his long horseman’s stride.