For almost a week, Friocksheim had been under strain. First had come
the sultry spell, days of oppressive heat which set sensitive nerves
on edge and brought a certain lassitude to even the most active of the
guests. The storm, though it cleared the physical atmosphere, had
coincided with the creation of a fresh tension. A cloud of suspicion,
heavier than the cumulus in the sky, had settled down upon the house;
and as the days passed without any sign of its dispersion, its
influence showed more and more clearly among the house-party. Even
Douglas Fairmile’s normal high spirits were unable to resist it
entirely.
“Something will have to be done about this business, Conway,” he
complained, as they sat smoking in the Corinthian’s Room in the
afternoon. “It’s gone on for three days now, and everyone’s feeling it
more or less. We’re all getting off our feed, metaphorically of
course.”
Conway Westenhanger nodded without taking his eyes from the tapestry
on the wall. He seemed to be studying it closely; but in reality
Diana’s hunting hardly impinged on his attention. Like Douglas, he was
feeling the strain, although personally he was free from any
suspicion.
“Unrestful atmosphere, right enough,” he commented, shortly.
Douglas made a gesture of impotent irritation.
“Everything’s at sixes and sevens,” he went on. “Even old Rollo—decent
bird—is getting too much for me. If the talk drifts round towards the
root of the trouble, he just smiles that far-away smile of his—as if
he was thinking about something else entirely—and one almost expects
him to tell us again that it’s all right, that the damned thing will
turn up again in due course, and that we needn’t worry over it.
Politeness carried to that pitch is enervating, Conway. That’s a
fact.”
“I feel the same myself. But somehow, he’s almost beginning to make me
believe he really means it. A kind of hypnotic suggestion, I suppose.
It’s impressive, whether you like it or not, to see a man take a loss
like that so quietly. I couldn’t do it.”
“Nor I. But he’ll have the lot of us in the jumps if this goes on. I’m
not a suspicious oaf like Freddie, but it irks me all the same. It’s
not so much that there’s a thief among us that bothers me. We’ve mixed
with all these people before—bar Wraxall. What really puts my nerves
on edge is that I don’t know _which_ of ’em’s the thief, I want to see
the rest of us cleared.”
Westenhanger’s eye travelled incuriously over the group of Diana’s
nymphs and passed on to the stag at the other side of the tapestry;
but it was evidently merely a mechanical movement. His thoughts
absorbed the whole of his attention. Before he made any reply to
Douglas the door opened and Helga Dangerfield came into the room. She
nodded to them as she passed, and went into the library.
“Where’s Wraxall to-day?” asked Westenhanger, merely to avoid leaving
an impression on the girl that they had stopped talking on her
account.
“Digging up megatheriums or flint arrows somewhere in the
neighbourhood,” said Douglas, taking the hint. “Or else he’s
chaffering for the oldest nutmeg-grater in Frogsholme. He seems really
keen on that sort of stuff.”
Helga Dangerfield came through the library door with a book in her
hand.
“You like this room?” she asked, pausing for a moment as she passed.
“So do I. It used to be my playroom when I was getting beyond the
crawling stage.”
“Nice floor for building castles on,” Westenhanger suggested, with a
glance across the smooth marble pavement. “You must have had rather a
jolly time. Plenty of room.”
“Sometimes I wish I had it all over again.” She smiled at her own
idea, than added: “I must hurry off; Nina and Cynthia are waiting for
me.”
As soon as she had left the room Douglas returned to the point at
which the conversation had been interrupted.
“Can’t you think of anything, Conway? I admit I’m not the star
performer in the thinking orchestra. It’s up to you to play a solo
while I do the grunts of approval down in the bass.”
Westenhanger shook his head.
“Eliminate and eliminate, that’s the only way. And the only thing we
have to eliminate with is this left-handed affair. It’s none so easy,
Douglas. The real bother rises out of the fact that most left-handed
people are partly ambidextrous.”
“I get your meaning up to the word ‘fact’,” said Douglas,
apologetically, “but it seems to slip a cog after that somehow. What
about words of one syllable? I seem to remember seeing special clubs
for left-handed golfers. Not much ambidexterity about that, surely?”
“That’s just the point,” explained Westenhanger. “I’ve been thinking
about one or two left-handed people I know, and in most things you
wouldn’t spot that they were left-handed at all. If it’s a one-handed
job they’re doing, they may use their right hand oftener than their
left. It’s only in two-handed things, like golf, or cricket, or
billiards, or cutting hay with a scythe, that they give themselves
away completely. It’s the arm-motion rather than the hand that seems
to come in. This Talisman affair is a case in point. The thief was
using his whole arm to get inside the case.”
“That’s probably so,” conceded Douglas, reluctantly. “It isn’t so easy
as I thought.”
Before Westenhanger could elaborate his views, Eileen Cressage came
hurriedly into the room. Her face was flushed with excitement; her
eyes were bright; and her whole carriage showed that she had thrown
off her load of difficulties at last. Westenhanger had never seen her
looking so care-free.
“The _Kestrel’s_ back at last!” she announced breathlessly. “She’s
making for the bay. I saw her from the headland, and hurried back to
the house to tell you; that’s why I’m out of breath. I wanted you to
hear the news at once, because it’s all right now. I’m sure Mrs. Brent
will clear everything up when she comes ashore.”
“That’s the best of news. I am glad, Eileen,” said Douglas, before
Westenhanger could say anything. “You’ve stuck it out like a good ’un,
but it’s about time it stopped.”
Westenhanger added nothing to Douglas’s words. His expression spoke
for him better than anything he could have said.
“I can’t wait here,” Eileen explained rapidly. “I must get down to the
beach and get on board as soon as the yacht comes in. I began to think
she’d never come back. These three days have been like centuries for
slowness.”
“We’ll put you on board,” said Westenhanger. “Come along, Douglas.”
“Thanks. But really I’d rather go by myself, if you’ll put the boat
into the water for me.”
They walked down to the boat-house, got out one of the boats and
brought it round to the tiny jetty for her. She stepped lightly
aboard, waved her thanks, and pulled with easy strokes to the
_Kestrel_, which had just let go her anchor. The two men watched her
get safely on board the yacht and then turned back towards the house.
“I suppose we’ll hear all about it to-night or to-morrow,” hazarded
Douglas, as they left the jetty. “You seem a bit relieved, Conway; and
I feel rather that way myself. It’s been a stiffish three days for a
girl, thanks to Master Freddie.”
“I _am_ relieved,” Westenhanger acknowledged. “I’ve had her troubles
very much on my mind, and I’m only too glad to see light ahead. But
you needn’t expect to learn much about the Talisman business, Douglas;
she never had anything to do with that, you know.”
“At least one part of this infernal mix-up will be straightened out,
though, and that’s always something.”
Westenhanger made a gesture of assent.
“One never knows what may come out, once people start talking,” he
said, hopefully. “It’s quite on the cards we may hit on a new idea,
after we’ve heard Mrs. Brent. She’s the missing witness, the only
person who hasn’t had a chance to tell her story of what happened that
night.”
“Who’s that coming up in the car, I wonder,” said Douglas.
Westenhanger looked across the lawn and saw a motor with a single
passenger at the front door of the house.
“Seems to be Eric Dangerfield.”
“Something wrong with him, then,” Douglas commented. “Look at him
hobbling up the steps with a stick. Seems as if he’d lamed himself a
bit.”
Eric Dangerfield’s figure laboriously ascended the steps and
disappeared into the house.
“Sprained ankle, or something like that,” was Westenhanger’s verdict.
“Well, Douglas, we’ll just have to be patient. There’ll be no ’orrible
revelations for an hour or two at least.”
His guess was quite accurate. Eileen and Mrs. Brent came ashore from
the yacht only in time to dress, and neither of them appeared until
the remainder of the party had assembled. Eric Dangerfield limped into
the dining-room, still using his stick.
“Nothing much,” he explained in answer to a question. “I twisted my
ankle rather badly and had to rest it. That’s why I didn’t get back
here sooner.”
Mrs. Brent took very little part in the conversation at the
dinner-table, but when the servants had left the room after serving
coffee, she glanced round to secure attention and then addressed the
company in general.
“I understand,” she said, with a certain sub-acid tone in her voice,
“that during my absence, Mr. Stickney has been organising a symposium
of sorts. It seems a pity not to give my contribution to the common
stock, even if it is slightly belated. Suppose we all go into the
drawing-room after dinner for a few moments. I shan’t detain you
long.”
It was impossible to learn from Rollo Dangerfield’s face whether or
not he understood her reference. Much to his regret, he explained,
neither he nor his wife could be there. They had a meeting in the
village that evening which in courtesy they must attend.
“I quite understand, Rollo,” Mrs. Brent hastened to reassure him. “You
won’t miss much here, and in any case I can explain the whole thing to
you to-morrow. It’s of no consequence.”
She made no further reference to the matter until the whole party,
with the exception of their host and hostess, had gathered in the
drawing-room. Choosing her favourite chair, she made a sign to Eileen
to sit down beside her, and then waited until the others had grouped
themselves.
“It appears,” she began, frowning in Freddie Stickney’s direction. “It
appears that privacy has gone out of fashion since I went away. That’s
a new phase for Friocksheim, and I don’t feel I’m much to blame for
not anticipating it. Certainly, I didn’t foresee such a state of
affairs, and to that extent I’m responsible for some events which
ought never to have occurred.”
She stared at Freddie as though he were some curious animal which she
was inspecting for the first time.
“It seems,” she went on acidly, “that no one can have any private
affairs now, so I think the best thing is to have a complete
clearing-up of some misunderstandings—is that the right word, Mr.
Stickney?—which have got abroad. I don’t wish to leave any ground for
such things in future. Miss Cressage agrees with me.”
She turned to the girl.
“Tell them the whole affair from start to finish, Eileen.”
Eileen Cressage looked up, but paused for a moment or two before
saying anything. Westenhanger could see that she hated the business,
but was determined to go through with it.
“Some of you know,” she began, “that the other night I lost a lot of
money at bridge. I didn’t realise during the game how big a loss it
was. Very foolish of me, I admit.”
Mrs. Brent interrupted her sharply.
“I think the facts will be quite sufficient, Eileen. I shouldn’t make
any comments, if I were you.”
Eileen accepted the correction, understanding the underlying motive.
“I was taken aback,” she went on, “when I heard how much I owed Mrs.
Caistor Scorton. I don’t wish to keep anything back now. It was far
more than I could pay in any reasonable time. I lost my head, I’m
afraid; I wanted at any cost to avoid a public explanation. So when a
cheque was suggested, I filled one in and handed it over, intending to
explain to Mrs. Caistor Scorton how matters stood, as soon as I could
get her by herself.”
Westenhanger let his eyes wander to Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s face, but
it was absolutely expressionless.
“I felt that was the best thing to do,” Eileen continued. “It avoided
public explanations and unpleasantness for everyone, and it really
made things no worse.”
She paused, and Mrs. Brent took up the story, as though their parts
had been pre-arranged between them.
“I seldom interfere in other people’s affairs. I was brought up to
believe that one shouldn’t be a busybody. But some things seem to me
outside the rules of the game, and then an outsider can take a hand. I
noticed a thing that evening which seemed to me outside the rules.
Taking advantage of a girl in a tight corner is . . . well, I needn’t
comment on it.”
She darted a contemptuous glance at Morchard, without taking any pains
to disguise it.
“That was what happened that evening. Naturally, I stepped in.”
Morchard’s face showed that he had not known this before. He made no
comment, and Mrs. Brent continued.
“I asked Eileen to come to my room after everyone had gone to bed. I
wanted to have a good talk with her; strike while the iron was hot,
you see, and get a promise out of her that she wouldn’t gamble in that
way again. If I’d waited till next morning I wouldn’t have been able
to make such a strong impression.”
She glanced towards Freddie Stickney again.
“I asked her to come to my room without letting anyone know she was
coming, because things like that are better done without the chance of
any other party poking his nose into the affair. It seemed to me quite
a private matter, with which no one else had any concern. Curiously
enough, Mr. Stickney, my views on that point are still unchanged.”
Freddie’s beady eyes were fixed on the carpet. He refused to be drawn.
At a gesture from Mrs. Brent, Eileen continued the narrative.
“I waited until I thought everyone was out of the way. Then I took my
bedroom candle, slipped on my dressing-gown, and made my way to Mrs.
Brent’s room. That was where I was going when Mrs. Caistor Scorton saw
me.”
The girl had got over the worst of her story; she reached a point
where no blame could attach to her, and her voice showed the
difference. At last she was able to shake herself free from
suspicions. Westenhanger noticed that she did not even look in
Freddie’s direction. He had ceased to be of any importance.
“I went down the staircase and along the corridor to Mrs. Brent’s
room. She had been sitting up waiting for me. I’d like to tell you how
kind . . .”
“No comments, please, Eileen,” interjected Mrs. Brent again. “Let us
have the facts.”
The girl’s eyes met Mrs. Brent’s, resisted for a moment, and then
dropped.
“Very well,” she assented. “It’s for you to say. They’ll know how I
feel without my putting it into words. I’ll go on. Mrs. Brent told me
she would pay my debt. She gave me some advice. And she made me
promise two things. The first was that I wouldn’t play bridge again
for stakes higher than I could afford. I promised that. I’d had my
lesson. The second promise was that I wouldn’t mention to anyone
anything that had happened that night. I promised that, too. It seemed
little enough to promise, after her kindness. She laid a good deal of
stress on it. She said she hated to have anything of the kind known.”
“I do,” confirmed Mrs. Brent. “I’ve no desire to publish things of
that sort. It’s a private affair. Of course, I’d no idea then that
privacy was a back number. I’ve learned.”
Eileen took up her narrative again.
“Mrs. Brent hadn’t £200 in notes with her. She gave me a cheque and
told me to go up to London first thing in the morning and pay it into
my account, so as to meet the cheque I had given Mrs. Scorton, in case
it was paid in immediately. Meanwhile, the thunderstorm began.”
Mrs. Brent interposed once more.
“I found the storm was getting rather too much for my nerves after the
first peal or two. Having someone in the room with me helped to steady
things a little; so I asked Miss Cressage to stay with me until the
thunder passed off. She waited with me till some time in the small
hours. Then I let her go; for she had to get some sleep, and she had
to be up in order to catch the first train.”
She broke off and invited Eileen to continue.
“I left Mrs. Brent’s room and went back to my own. Just as I got out
of Mrs. Brent’s room, Helga passed me . . .”
Helga Dangerfield’s face showed complete amazement.
“You saw me?” she demanded. “You must have made a mistake. It was
someone else, surely. Why, I fell asleep at the tail-end of the storm
and didn’t wake up again till morning.”
Eileen looked puzzled.
“You were going towards the Corinthian’s Room, Helga. I thought
perhaps you were looking for a book to read, if the storm had kept you
awake. You were past before you noticed me, I thought; and I was quite
glad you hadn’t seen me, since Mrs. Brent didn’t want anyone to know
I’d been down to see her. You had your blue dressing-gown on. Don’t
you remember?”
Helga Dangerfield shook her head definitely.
“You must have been dreaming, Eileen.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Eileen, “I’ll go on with the story. I
went up to my room, blew out my candle, switched on my light, and
crept into bed. I didn’t sleep for quite a long time. I was rather
shaken up, you know, between the storm and the things that had
happened. But I dropped off at last, and just wakened in time to catch
the first train.”
She looked round the circle till her eye fell on Eric.
“You remember we went up to town together?”
Eric nodded, but said nothing. Eileen took up the thread again.
“In town, I went straight to my bank and paid in Mrs. Brent’s cheque.
After that I did some shopping. Then I suddenly remembered something.
I never wear jewellery, but I have some things. It struck me that I
might raise something on them and so be able to repay Mrs. Brent part
of her cheque at once. It would be a kind of relief to my mind. She’d
know I was taking things seriously. So I went back to my bank, where I
kept them; took them out; went to Starbecks with them. I’ve dealt with
Starbecks for years. They know me quite well, and they made no
difficulty about it. I didn’t get enough to repay Mrs. Brent entirely,
but I felt it was always something done. As I was coming out of
Starbecks’ door I met Mr. Westenhanger, and we had just time to get to
the station and catch the train.”
Mrs. Brent made a gesture to stop the girl at this point.
“I think that covers the whole question,” she said. “Now I’ve just a
word or two to say. If I had imagined what was going to happen, of
course I’d never have asked Miss Cressage to give me that promise. But
I hardly suppose that any sane person could have foreseen what was
coming. It passes all reasonable bounds. I’ve nothing to say about
Miss Cressage’s views on the matter. Apparently she believed in
keeping private affairs confidential even under very great strain.
She’d given her promise, and she kept it.”
“What I felt,” explained Eileen, “was that I’d given you two promises
together. If I broke one of them straight away, what reliance could
you have placed on my word in the second affair? I had to keep both.
And, of course, I had only to wait for you to come back. Then you’d
let me off my promise, and I could explain everything. It only meant
waiting, I thought. But I hadn’t quite counted on the construction
that would be put on things.”
Her eyes flashed indignantly as she turned to Freddie Stickney.
“I haven’t enjoyed giving these explanations. Probably most of you
haven’t enjoyed listening to them; but I’m sure you’ll understand why
you had to hear them.”
There was an almost inaudible murmur of sympathetic assent from most
of the circle. As it died down, Mrs. Brent closed the incident in a
phrase or two.
“That’s all. Miss Cressage had one serious fault, apparently. She was
over-straight. I shouldn’t have blamed her in the slightest if she’d
told the whole story when she was asked. She preferred to keep the
very letter of her promise. I don’t envy some people their feelings
just now. But perhaps they haven’t any. Toads and so forth are said to
be very insensitive creatures, and the reptiles generally feel little
discomfort. So I am told.”
She took Eileen’s arm gently, and they left the room together.
Undoubtedly, as a creator of discomfort, Mrs. Brent ran Freddie close.
Westenhanger caught Douglas’s eye, and they followed Mrs. Brent.
“Let’s try the garden?” suggested Douglas. “Air in there seems a bit
sultry for my taste. That last whang of Mrs. Brent’s wasn’t perhaps
tactful; but it was nothing to what she might have said if she’d
really let herself go. I’ve never seen her even peeved before; and
to-night she was boiling underneath the surface. Even the trained
observer, Freddie, can hardly have failed to notice the weather
signs.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll be rid of some of them by the first train
to-morrow.”
“No we shan’t! Nobody can leave Friocksheim till this Talisman
business is cleared up. Your ways are not ours, Conway. All the rest
of us are still under suspicion and we’ve got to hang on until the
‘All Clear’ signal goes. Pleasant prospect, isn’t it? Well, we needn’t
talk to ’em more than’s needful.”
Westenhanger looked gloomy.
“There’s only one way out of it, then. We’ve got to find the thief, if
we can, and as quick as we can.”
“Right you are, but easier said than done.” Douglas’s voice did not
sound very hopeful. “Another canter in the Elimination Stakes to begin
with?”
“All right. We’ll be rigid this time. To start with, we can put aside
as completely cleared: ourselves, Mr. and Mrs. Dangerfield, Mrs.
Brent, Nina, Cynthia, and Eileen Cressage. Do you O.K. that?”
Douglas acquiesced with a nod.
“No doubt in these cases. I’m going on character as much as alibis and
so forth. Let’s sit down.”
They found a garden seat which was dry and seated themselves.
“Mrs. Scorton? No motive that I can see. I think she drops out also.”
“Agreed.”
“Then there’s Morchard.” An angry tone came into Westenhanger’s voice.
“He’s out of it too. You see why? Well, naturally he was the man Mrs.
Brent was getting at. Didn’t you see he offered to give Eileen the
money if she’d come to his room? He’d be waiting there for her, not
roaming about the house picking up the Talisman. Obvious, I think.
Unless . . . Could he have taken it and meant to throw suspicion on
her? No, he wouldn’t know she had been out of her room at all that
night. No, that’s wrong. We can leave Morchard out of it.”
Douglas kicked angrily at the ground.
“The infernal thing is that one can do nothing to Morchard. The least
row would lead to the devil of a scandal, and Eileen would suffer.
It’s Freddie’s case over again, only fifty times worse. Our hands are
tied.”
“That’s so,” said Westenhanger, shortly. “Let’s go on.”
Quite evidently he disliked the whole subject.
“That leaves still in the net,” he continued, “Wraxall for one. I’m
prejudiced in favour of Wraxall; but if he’d planned that theft
beforehand, he’d have fixed up some very neat, circumstantial story to
account for all his night’s doings, you may be sure. And he
undoubtedly had the most complete tale of the lot. I’m morally sure he
didn’t do it; but there’s a loop-hole all the same. Besides, we can’t
afford to ignore possible motives, and there’s no question that he
came here for one purpose only—to get the Talisman. Leave Wraxall in,
eh? We’re trying to be inclusive, remember.”
“Wraxall’s a good sort,” was Douglas’s verdict. “I can’t think he’s
the man we’re after. But leave him in, since we can’t count him as
definitely cleared.”
“Freddie?”
“I’m all for keeping Freddie under observation. I don’t say he took
the thing, of course. Can’t go that length. But the line he’s followed
all along has been just the sort of thing he might have been expected
to do, if he were the man we want. Who would suspect him, when he
volunteered as a sleuth from Sleuth Town? Good bit of camouflage for a
criminal, I think. And he had a very poor account to give of himself
when it came to the pinch, very thin. Freddie stays in, so far as I’m
concerned.”
“My feeling too. Well, that leaves only two more, both Dangerfields:
Eric and Helga. I’m not an enthusiast for Eric. Rather a rotter, it
seems to me. But there’s nothing very definite against him; we agreed
on that before.”
“Leave him in, then,” Douglas decided. “We can’t say more than ‘not
proven’ for him, can we?”
“That brings us to Helga. I say, Douglas, did you make anything of
that affair to-night? The girl wasn’t lying. Neither was Eileen.”
“That was what I felt,” concurred Douglas. “Neither of ’em was lying,
to my mind. And yet the thing seems flatly impossible unless one of
them was giving the truth a pretty wide miss.”
“It might have been someone else in a similar dressing-gown,”
suggested Westenhanger, half-heartedly.
“No good, Conway. The only other women available are Mrs. Dangerfield
and Mrs. Scorton. They’re both rather under middle height. Helga’s a
well-built girl, taller than the average. There could be no mistake
about it.”
Westenhanger cogitated for a time.
“I’ve got it!” he said, at last. “It’s self-evident. Eileen was wide
awake, obviously. But suppose Helga walks in her sleep? She wouldn’t
know she’d been there at all, if she got back to bed eventually
without waking up. That would account for the affair, wouldn’t it?
It’s the only simple solution. It might even explain other things as
well.”
He ruminated for a few more seconds before continuing.
“I’ll ask Eileen about it to-morrow. She was excited at that time, or
she’d probably have spotted it as somnambulism at once. Perhaps she’ll
remember something if she thinks over it. This may turn out to be the
key to the whole damned thing.”