AT LADYBIRD FOLD
"COME in," he continued, assisting his companion over the threshold.
"I won't switch a light on in the hall until I close the door. Jolly
queer about it being open. There'll be a court of enquiry in the
morning."
A violent scratching upon the study door attracted his attention.
"That's Ponto and Nan--my sheep-dogs," he explained. "Wonder why
they are locked in? They ought to be in the kennels. They're quiet
enough: they won't bite."
Entwistle smiled grimly. Peter's idea of quiet seemed rather
peculiar, for the animals were barking furiously and redoubling
their attacks upon the door.
"The paintwork?" echoed Barcroft in answer to his companion's
enquiry, as he proceeded to hang up his cap and coat. "Oh, that
won't matter. You see, there's a curtain on the inside and that
hides the marks."
He opened the door of the study, to be greeted with a blaze of
dazzling light and a couple of shaggy-haired dogs, who hurled
themselves upon him in an ecstasy of delight.
"Down, down, both of you! Kennel up," ordered their master.
The dogs obeyed, Ponto retiring to the limited space between the
pedestals of the roll-top desk while Nan bounded into the large
arm-chair by the fire.
"That's better," said Barcroft composedly, glancing at the desk to
see if any letter had arrived. "Now take it easy for a bit. There's
the telephone. I'll scout round and see what's going. Whisky? Good!
Excuse me a minute while I look for some stuff for your foot."
Philip Entwistle settled himself in the only vacant arm-chair and
took stock of his immediate surroundings. The study was a fairly
large room, measuring, roughly, thirty feet by twenty. On the side
facing south were three broad casement windows, now heavily
curtained with a light-proof fabric. The door was on the eastern
side, opening into a spacious hall. The remaining walls were blank
except for the old-fashioned fireplace. Oak panelling and massive
beams of the same material--wood that had been in position for close
on three hundred years--gave an old-time appearance to the room. The
furniture was hardly in keeping with the place. Presumably it was
for utility. The large pedestal, roll-top desk occupied a
proportionate position against the west wall. Almost every available
bit of wall-space was taken up with book-cases groaning under the
weight of volumes of all sizes and ages, from the leatherbound tomes
of the late Stuart period to the modern "sevenpenny." Not a picture
was in evidence. Instead, above the book-shelves the walls were
adorned with pieces of medieval armour and weapons ranging from the
Elizabethan musketoon and pike to the latest type of magazine rifle.
Above the fireplace was a seven-feet-scale model of a super-Dreadnought
that, in its sombre garb of battleship grey, contrasted
strongly with the black and yellow striped hull and dun-coloured
canvas of an eighteenth century frigate that adorned another part
of the room.
The study, like the rest of the house, was lighted by electricity--a
discovery that Peter Barcroft had made with huge satisfaction. It
was, indeed, a rare chance to hit upon an isolated dwelling, in a
commanding, lofty situation, well-built and supplied with water, gas
and electricity. The secret lay in the fact that at one time it had
been the residence of the manager of the nearest bleaching works.
Had it been daylight one would have noticed a line of hefty posts
supporting a cable-system that ran up hill and down dale almost as
far as the eye could reach. At certain intervals the supports bore a
large board on which was painted in bold letters: "Dangerous--10,000
volts"--a warning to the youth of the district who might feel
tempted to fly kites over the wires or even to climb the poles out
of sheer exuberance of juvenile spirits.
It was from this cable by means of a "transformer" that Ladybird
Fold derived its supply of electric current, and, as it happened,
the works had not received any warning that night of the raid--a
circumstance that contributed greatly to the comfort of Peter
Barcroft's den.
From his chair Entwistle glanced at his host's desk and shuddered.
The cover had been left rolled back, disclosing a veritable chaos of
papers, reference books, writing materials, pipes and two large
tobacco-jars. The pigeon-holes were crammed to bursting-point with a
medley of papers, particularly the one labelled "Letters to be
answered." From another gaped the crumpled ends of what were
evidently a number of cheques that awaited a favourable opportunity
on the part of the busy author (he put in an occasional two hours a
day, be it remembered) to be paid into the Barborough Bank. A thick
layer of dust covered the desk, although everything else in the room
was fairly clear if the patches of tobacco ash on the carpet square
were not taken into account. It was part of Peter's creed to knock
out his pipes on the heel of his boot and deposit their remains on
the floor, convenient ash-trays notwithstanding. For one thing it
kept the moth away.
The dust, too, upon the desk was the result of studied design. The
"help" from the village--a temporary importation pending Mrs.
Barcroft's return and provided she was successful in her distracting
quest--had been strictly enjoined, browbeaten and threatened with
divers pains and penalties, not to disturb Peter's papers. With luck
he could find what he wanted in five minutes; without, in an hour.
That is, if the desk had been left severely alone. Otherwise, should
the timorous female dare to "side-up"--a Lancashire expression that
puzzled Barcroft tremendously at first--the quest would be almost
hopeless.
Had Philip Entwistle been more inquisitive and observant he might
have noticed that on the top of the pile of literary debris were two
objects that showed no signs of a coating of dust. One was a bound
volume entitled _The Theories of Modern Naval Warfare_--a work of
Peter's that had been responsible for a price being set upon the
head of that as yet unconscious-of-the-fact worthy. The other was a
batch of manuscript comprising his nearly completed book _The Great
Reckoning--and After._
The reappearance of his host with a tray bearing a tantalus, syphon
and a couple of glasses, cut short Entwistle's casual survey.
"How goes it now?" asked Barcroft. "Telephoned?"
"You certainly said, 'There's the telephone,'" replied his guest,
"but failed to explain to my satisfaction where 'there' is.
Consequently that solemn and protracted rite has not yet been
performed."
"Sorry," said Peter with a laugh. "My mistake entirely. I ought to
have mentioned that that convenient but much maligned instrument is
in the hall. There's a great-coat hanging over it: my device to
deaden the nerve-racking sound of the bell."
Entwistle shuffled across the room. In spite of the fact that he was
now wearing a pair of his host's capacious slippers the injured foot
occasioned him more pain than while he was on his way to the house.
He left the door ajar. Barcroft could hear him thumping the as yet
unresponsive machine. Quite five minutes passed before his guest
could "get on."
"Number four four five, Barborough ... what--engaged ... no reply?
Well, try again."
More violent manipulation of the telephone accompanied by a flow of
forcible language resulted in the desired object being attained.
"That you, Vi?... Yes,.. yes,.. no, I wasn't injured ... what's
that? Church Street knocked out of existence.... Not nervous? That's
good. I'm speaking from Ladybird Fold, Tarleigh. Tell Jarvis to run
the car over for me in the morning. Yes, about ten. Good-night."
Returning to his study he found Peter at his desk.
"Needn't have worried so much about my wife," he announced. "She's
quite plucky over it. She even chipped me at having missed the
excitement."
Barcroft did not reply. He was regarding his desk with a distinctly
preoccupied air.
"Dash the L.L.P." he exclaimed, addressing the room in general
rather than his guest. "I'll swear she's been meddling with my
papers. And she left that door open. I'll let her know who rules
this show."
"Who's L.L.P.?" enquired Entwistle.
His host laughed.
"Merely the help," he replied. "Carter's her name. I call her Little
Liver Pill--she reminds me of one. L.L.P, for short, you know."
"Might be your friend Andrew Norton," suggested the other.
"By Jove, yes! I hadn't thought of that," was the reply. "All the
same, I don't think he would touch my desk. It's just likely that in
a preoccupied moment (although as a rule he isn't given that way) he
may have gone home and left the lights switched on and the door
open. Hulloa, this looks queer! I wonder if Norton got into a funk
over the Zep.?"
Barcroft pointed to a pipe lying on the mantelpiece. It was freshly
filled and the tobacco was slightly charred, indicating that the
owner had been interrupted in the act of lighting up.
"His pipe," he continued. "And he seems a fairly methodical fellow,
not likely to leave anything behind. Hope he's all right. If it
wasn't for the fact that I've had a long tramp and it's close on one
thirty I'd run across to his place."
"What sort of a man is he?" enquired Entwistle.
"Decent--quite. Nothing of the bore about him, or I would have
choked him off very quickly," replied Barcroft grimly. "Quite
informal, and different from the ordinary type of caller when a
fellow comes into a fresh district. You know the sort--stiff-necked
blighters of both sexes who pay formal calls for the sole purpose of
finding out who you are, what you are and what you've got. In my
case, I suppose, they expect to find a sort of untamed curiosity:
that's how they regard literary men, I believe. But my time is too
precious to waste in that way, so I let them know it pretty quickly.
Ah, there are the trains running again," he added as a dull rumble
was borne to their ears. "Zep. show's over for to-night. Keen on
bed?"
"Not very," replied Entwistle. "Are you?"
"I'm going to wait up for Billy," said the fond parent. "Wonder what
the young bounder is doing now?"
As he spoke came the sounds of quick, firm footsteps up the cobbled
path. Before Peter could get across the room the door was thrown
open and Flight-Sub-lieutenant Barcroft, his face blackened with
smoke and dust and his great-coat bearing signs of rough usage,
burst into the room.
"Cheer-o, pater!" he exclaimed. "Sorry I'm late. Some night, eh,
what?"