Miss Lebetwood and a Campstool
October 9. Noon.
“No,” said Miss Lebetwood, “I certainly didn’t do what he wanted me
to. What good would that have been?”
Salt’s brow was very grave, but his eyes were narrowly upon her. “You
watched him, you say?”
“Yes, as long as he was in sight from the edge of the strawberry
trees.”
“What happened?”
She bit her lip. “Nothing that will really help you.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” said Salt gently. “What did you see?”
“By the time I reached the strawberry trees and looked back, the lawn
was empty. It was still empty when—”
“Excuse me, Miss; what about the gate-house?”
“I couldn’t see the towers from that spot; I was on the wrong side of
the knoll that overlooks the court.”
“Quite. Thank you, Miss.”
“So I watched the lawn and the House. I could almost see it growing
darker while I waited, the light changes so rapidly in the Vale. And I
hate the twilight—all the really terrible things here happen then.”
She broke off, and we knew that she must be thinking of that one
terrible thing in the gloaming of a week ago. Alberta made a movement
as if to check her from continuing. “No, it’s all right. I was just
realizing what a fool I am. The time of day can’t possibly make any
difference.”
“I don’t believe it does,” acquiesced Salt. “But go on, if you
please.”
“It was darkening so suddenly that I thought I shouldn’t be able to
recognize anyone who might appear. But when Mr. Bannerlee came out of
the park, I saw him quite plainly. He seemed to hesitate when he came
past the Hall, but then he went on faster and disappeared in the
direction of the front entrance.”
“Heatheringham beckoned me to hurry,” I put in.
“There was nobody in sight then, but I believe I heard the winch
working under the towers. A minute or two later Mr. Heatheringham
appeared from down below, looking this side and that, and occasionally
glancing upward.”
“Are you sure?” asked Salt.
“Yes, because he caught sight of Mr. Bannerlee, who had come out his
window and was standing on the roof. Mr. Bannerlee waved his hand, and
I could just hear the sound of his voice when he hailed Mr.
Heatheringham, the wind was rushing on so just then. After that I
heard nothing of their voices, but soon afterward Mr. Bannerlee went
in and Mr. Heatheringham commenced to walk quickly up toward the
cypresses. He was looking this side and that again; I thought he was
more intent than before. He broke into a run, but while he was running
he turned—”
“Turned!”
“Yes, and ran all the way back to the south end of the House. At the
library corner he slowed to a walk and went out of sight. Then Lib
came along from down the lawn, and she had almost disappeared beyond
the library tower—going toward the main entrance, you know—when I
heard the crack of the revolver. Lib rather tightened up then, and I
saw her look every way at once, but she apparently decided to
disbelieve her ears, for she went on out of sight.”
“And met Soames and me,” I said.
“Well, everybody seemed to have heard the shot, though nobody knew
where it had come from. Mr. Pendleton, Lord Ludlow, and the rest began
crossing the lawn this way and that, shouting directions at one
another that nobody heeded. I came on from the trees, but nobody
seemed to see me. After that—well, you know.”
Salt nodded. “Mr. Pendleton’s told me how they found the body. Just
one question more, Miss, and thank you very much. You couldn’t have
seen anything in the air that Heatheringham might have some reason to
take a shot at? No large bird of any description?”
“No, sir.”
“You didn’t hear something like a bird call—something that might have
attracted his attention?”
“I could hear nothing but the wind. Anyhow, Mr. Heatheringham was
inside the House.”
“Of course he was,” said Salt.
But he is no longer. The detective’s body was taken to New Aidenn in
the dead of night.
Salt’s laborious questions to each one of us went on until eleven, but
the problem of Harry Heatheringham’s taking off remains to-day more
cryptic than Cosgrove’s. The Superintendent acknowledged defeat, and
had the Chief Constable on the ’phone shortly after eleven. Scotland
Yard will be with us presently, although the lack of decent train
connections out of Worcester will prevent the Inspector from reaching
New Aidenn before late dinner time to-night.
Six burly constables, in pairs, were patrolling the grounds from nine
o’clock until morning, but I think most persons within the House kept
anxious vigil as well. For my own part, I flung myself on my ancient
four-poster and found sleep—sleep, but not rest, for I was visited by
tormenting dreams. The world was mist seethed, and through the long
black lanes between the billows swept a procession of the souls of
murdered ones. Down from the invisible above the swirl sounded a
terrible voice: “Let traitors beware,” and from time to time a blaze
of light burst through, throwing on the curtain of fog the gigantic
shadow of an arm.
I awoke, and lay awake in a world of real mist until I could endure
inactivity no longer. I dressed and went downstairs, earlier than ever
before, save on that morning when I tried to discover “lost content”
on the hills. It did not surprise me to find Salt already hard at
work; he was examining with almost microscopic care the gouted trail
of blood. But a surprise awaited me.
It was much too early for breakfast; yet Miss Lebetwood was standing
at the window of the dining-room. Attired in a navy blue sweater and
serge skirt and high laced boots, she appeared very alert and full of
business.
Seeing that I “took her in,” she smiled and said, “I’m going to follow
in your steps this morning. As soon as I’ve had some breakfast, I’m
off for the hills.”
“On account of—?”
“Yes.”
I simulated a groan. “I should never have let you have it if I thought
it would make you reckless.”
Now, the fact is that she struck me in a heap last evening by coming
straight up to me and asking to read this diary. How _she_ ever came
to hear of it I can’t imagine, and she was obdurate to my demands for
enlightenment. Only she told me very seriously that since no one else
seemed certain to grapple successfully with the many problems in the
Vale, she was going a step beyond “thinking” and would take an active
course.
“Somehow I’m sure I’ll be the best detective of the lot,” she said. “I
have kept my mind unprejudiced, you see. And really, Mr. Bannerlee,
I’m positive you have several facts locked away in your book that I
never knew.”
The end was that she marched away with the book, I may say entirely
against my sense of discretion, while I shuddered at the thought of
her perusing some of the personal comments I had included.
And now she was bound for the hills!
I looked through the window, and saw the landscape grey. A bank of fog
stood motionless about the base of Whimble.
“This is scarcely the day for it, is it? It’s easy to be lost up there
in the mist.”
She turned from the drear panorama and looked at me kindly. “I can
tell from your voice that you’re very much concerned about me, but
really you shouldn’t be. I’ve had harder climbs than this heaps of
times, and you can depend on me to be back early this afternoon. You
may begin to worry about two o’clock if I don’t appear then”—her chin
tilted with determination—“with what I want.”
I returned her kind look. “Really, Miss Lebetwood, I hope my, er,
jottings haven’t set you on some false lead.”
“There’s a lot more in your journal than jottings,” she said, with
serious lines of thought about the eyes. She gave me a glancing look.
“I see you are sceptical.”
“It’s hardly fair,” I laughed, “that because you’ve turned detective
in earnest, you should try to mystify me like the other sleuths.”
“What’s this? what’s this?” asked Salt, presenting himself.
She beckoned him in. “Mr. Salt, have you finished with that horrible
gore for now? Because I want you to ’phone a telegram for me when the
Post Office opens. Will you, please?”
“With pleasure, Miss. But why honour me with Mr. Bannerlee so handy?”
“I believe you’re fishing! But didn’t you appoint yourself censor and
want to know all the messages that go out of the Vale?”
“Not any more, Miss,” responded Salt, running his eye over a slip of
paper she had brought from a skirt pocket. He raised his brows. “To
the Welsh National Library, eh? Aberystwyth, of course.” Again, more
slowly, he perused the message. “H’m, very interestin’, Miss. I’ll
send it without delay, and you’ll know by the time you get back if the
bookworms have the information.”
“Show it to Mr. Bannerlee, please,” she said. “I don’t want him to
think I’m rude.”
“No, not for the world,” I smiled, with negative hand raised to
decline the proffered paper. “Since I’m to be denied the pleasure of
accompanying you this morning, I wash my hands of the whole affair.
You shall not have my invaluable advice.”
“If you went with me this morning,” said Miss Lebetwood, making a
small grimace, “I could promise you one thing: you’d be unutterly
bored. Well, thank goodness, at last here comes my breakfast.”
Now, a quarter of an hour later, when my own special breakfast had
arrived on a tray, hers had disappeared. We had been talking of tramps
and journeys, comparing experiences, but I noticed that for the last
few minutes her remarks had been very general and not wholly relevant.
It was obvious that she was preoccupied. At last, having built up a
little tower of sugar cubes and toppled it with her finger, she said:
“I was the man in the library.”
Naturally, this was too much for me to comprehend and adjust myself to
in a split-second, and I was still groping like a man stunned when she
continued:
“Yes, the cap was my own, and I had borrowed Bob’s tuxedo and come
down to get that book; it had a fascination for me, and I must say I
was surprised”—with a careful inclination of the head toward the
corridor—“that _he_ hadn’t kept it under lock and key.”
“Quite so.”
“So you see why I didn’t come out even when Millicent was wandering
again. I had gone back to my room the way I’d come—that was by the
outer stairs and through one of the french windows I’d undone the
catch of after Blenkinson had gone the rounds—and I was gobbling up
the book, still in borrowed plumage, when the commotion began. I
couldn’t have appeared without starting more fuss than ever; I suppose
I shouldn’t have much more than a rag of reputation left. They
wouldn’t be so surprised in America at a girl’s dressing like a
man—the movies have helped a lot there.”
“Well, you needn’t take the appalling risk again,” I promised her. “If
you should wish to gorge yourself clandestinely on the pages of Sylvan
Armitage, you may have my copy in perfect secrecy.”
“Oh, your copy came? Don’t get up, please, and please excuse me if I
don’t wait. Your breakfast will all get cold if I keep you talking.”
“Not at all. Yes, my copy came through.”
She had arisen and walked to the door. I had noticed a small campstool
folded and leaning against the wall, and now was surprised to see her
pick it up and tuck it beneath her arm.
“Are you taking that?”
She held it so that it opened, showing its green canvas seat. “Yes,
aren’t you in favour of it?”
“It’s æsthetic, if that’s what you mean. But how odd! If you want
something to sit on, why not take a blanket or an old coat?”
“Perhaps this isn’t to sit down on.”
I gaped. “What—what do you mean?”
She folded the stool and tucked it away again. Her smile was very
sweet and provoking, and it held that little token of wistfulness
which had never left it since Cosgrove’s death.
The skirt swung briskly out, and the sound of the little boots receded
and died away. On what wild search was she bound?
Then I stopped eating, while the idea that grew in my mind spread its
ugly branches. What might a stranger think? Not I, of course, who
would stake my life she is better than gold, but some newcomer from
the outside world, such as the Scotland Yard official due here this
evening? Might it not seem a pose? This resolve to play the rôle of
detective, this secret roaming through the House in man’s attire, this
interest in my diary, and this secretive hunting on the hills—would
they not appear parts of an assumed character? Ridiculous, of
course—unthinkable, in actuality—but might it not be thought? And what
trouble, even disaster, might not follow such a false impression?
Somehow I was not at all amused toward noon by an argument that
sprouted up in the library between Crofts and Aire in connection with
some phase of the Parson Lolly legend. Aire was devil’s advocate in
this discussion, and Crofts persisted in pooh-poohing the tale as all
nonsense, tommyrot, and rubbish.
“I thought you were a scientist,” bullied our host, but Aire contented
himself with a chuckle, and moved toward the Hall, whence the voice of
Lord Ludlow came in a kind of shrill moan:
“. . . fundamental decencies . . . civilized life.”
And I judged that Belvoir had just uttered some devastating platitude
about the geisha girls or the way women choose their husbands in
British Guiana. It occurred to me then a bit strongly that Belvoir
plays the fool, and that if he really thinks our British morality
unsuitable for a civilized temperament (_i. e._ his) he had better
emigrate to the bush or to Terra del Fuego, where he may be uncramped
among the broader and merrier folkways.
I have mentioned more than once, I believe, the sub-irritant effect
Mrs. Belvoir has upon me; her hazy personality, taken with the odd
remarks she lets fall, hint at something I can’t quite define, but
would like to very much.
When Aire went through the armoury door, only four of us were left in
the library: Mrs. Belvoir, Alberta, Crofts, and I (in the seclusion of
the tower). Mrs. Belvoir watched the Doctor’s departure, then turned
to Crofts with the promptitude of one who has at last the opportunity
she has been waiting for.
“I do hope you won’t mind to-night,” she said.
It would not have been surprising if Crofts had failed to extract a
meaning from this wish, but he seemed to grasp it. His cheek remained
at the same full flush it had reached during the Aire controversy,
while he turned his eyes slowly toward Mrs. Belvoir, and I thought
that the lady had not chosen the likeliest time for wooing his good
graces.
“You don’t mean to say—” he rumbled.
“But dear Alberta doesn’t mind—do you?” she asked in sudden appeal
that was answered with ardour rather less than half its own.
“I didn’t think it could do any harm,” said Alberta, divided between a
reassuring smile at her guest and a warning frown at her husband.
“Probably the Scotland Yard man—”
“But it’s for him I especially want to give a demonstration,” declared
Mrs. Belvoir with emphatic faintness. “I can help him so much. I think
that perhaps the real difficulty we have had all along is that we have
not looked beyond the visible. I do so wish Sir Brooke were here; he
was so sympathetic. There were always such things of _real value_
learned when he was present.”
“I have it!” I exclaimed from my obscurity, striking my thigh. “Mrs.
Belvoir, you are a spiritualistic medium!”
They all regarded me with amazement bold on their faces, and I turned
my blatancy into apologetic curiosity. “Sorry, but I didn’t know
before, you see. How frightfully interesting. I hope you do give us a
séance to-night, Mrs. Belvoir.”
“Oh, all right,” muttered Crofts. “But it’s the police you’ll have to
convince, really.”
“I’ll deal with the police,” said Mrs. Belvoir.
“As for Sir Brooke’s absence,” I remarked, “why may he not be present?
Perhaps we shall have a message from him, Mrs. Belvoir.”
I think she discerned levity in me. “Really, Mr. Bannerlee, you may be
surprised by having that very thing happen.” She glided from the room.
Crofts looked at me bitterly, as if he held me responsible for the
whole business, but instead of pouring out vials of wrath he said,
“How about a drink, Bannerlee? I need one.”
“Oh, Crofts,” reproached Alberta, “you know it’s still morning.”
“Well, I haven’t had one so far, have I?” he retorted, ringing, and
stared in oafish surprise when she departed promptly from the room.
“What have I done now, I’d like to know?”
“You _are_ getting peppered from all directions,” I laughed. “But
cheer up, old man,” I added, hearing a measured tread in the corridor.
“This staff of servants of yours certainly outdoes the crew of any
sinking ship I’ve ever heard of in devotion to duty. After last
night’s catastrophe—well, they deserve medals, platinum ones.”
Soames slid in and Crofts said, “Whiskey,” cocking an eye at me to see
if I approved.
“Yes, and by the way, Soames,” I called, while the servant turned on
his heel, “just tell us the truth, will you? Why aren’t you and Morgan
and the rest fifty miles away from here and running for your lives?”
His face was a flat mask, with expression ironed out of every feature.
“I—I beg your pardon, sir? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, yes, you do. Come on, man,” I rallied him. “What’s this hold
Blenkinson’s got over you?”
His countenance remained under rigid muscular control, but his legs
gave a little shiver. He looked at me, and his face was empty of
thought, but then his gaze met his master’s. He paled, for Crofts’
glare demanded rather than invited confession.
“It’s—it’s Mr. Blenkinson’s, er, theory, sir.”
“My God, has Blenkinson a theory too!” Crofts shouted. “A speculative
butler! What next? I don’t pay him to have theories.”
“No, sir,” agreed Soames. “We all ’ave the greatest confidence in Mr.
Blenkinson.”
“No doubt,” I said. “And Soames, ah, what is the nature of Mr.
Blenkinson’s theory?”
The servant had the look of a man ground between millstones. His neck
undulated in a series of gulps.
“Out with it,” I urged. “Confession is good for the soul.”
Soames turned an imploring look at me, his eyes like those of a wretch
_in extremis_.
“Oh, Blenkinson’s theory be damned,” growled Crofts impatiently; “but
don’t tell him I said so. Fetch the whiskey.”
The servant dashed for the door, and it was Toby who brought in the
decanter and glasses.
It is now 2.30 P.M.
An hour ago it was clear and mild; then the mist redoubled and a chill
came into the air, something we have not experienced before by day.
She has not returned. I shall try to organize a searching party at
once, and if no one else regards the situation seriously, I’ll go
alone to find her.