Aunt Agatha is Upset
Patricia Holm landed safely on her feet in the road outside the wall
and set off steadily for home. She ran easily and smoothly, as a
healthy girl can who has spent most of her life away from tubes and
’buses and taxis, although she was somewhat out of breath from keeping
up with the Saint’s deadly speed.
She had heard the Saint’s cheery “Tally-ho!” and felt that there was a
message for her in it, besides the surface bravado which was meant for
the men in the garden—it was at the same time a spur to her pace, to
remind her that it was up to her not to waste the advantage which his
own actions were winning for her, and an encouragement, to tell her
that he was as fit as a fiddle and ready for any amount of rough stuff
and that there was no need for anyone to start fretting about him. So
Patricia ran, obediently; and it was not until the echoes of the
commotion had died away behind her and lost themselves in the other
indistinguishable noises of the night, and she had slackened off into
a brisk walk, that she grasped the full significance of the situation.
Up to that point, the whole proceeding had been so fantastical and
nightmarish, and the rush of astonishing events had come with such a
staggering velocity, that she had been temporarily bereft of the power
of coherent thought. Now, in the anti-climax of easing up her headlong
flight, she was able for the first time to see the general outline of
the mystery and the danger.
She looked at her wrist watch, and saw from the luminous dial that it
was five minutes to eleven. Say the Saint had given his orders five
minutes ago: that meant that if anything went wrong she was still
forbidden to summon the help of Carn until ten to twelve. And by that
time. . . . She shuddered, remembering the dogs. . . .
There was something sinister about Bittle and the big house behind
that ominous wall. Of that she could be certain, for the mere
intrusion of the Saint upon a private conversation—however
compromising—could hardly have led even that impetuous young man to go
to such lengths, any more than it could have made Bittle resort to
such violent means to prevent their departure. She recalled the
rumours which the Saint’s eccentric habits had given rise to in the
village, but her recollection of her brief association with him took
away all the plausibility of current gossip even while it increased
his mysteriousness. Patricia racked her brain for a theory that would
hold water, and found none. She assembled the outstanding facts.
Templar had some reason for being in the garden that night, and some
reason for butting in on the millionaire, and she could not believe
that the millionaire’s proposal of marriage would have given the Saint
sufficient provocation for what he had done, considering the
casualness of their acquaintance. Bittle, for his part, seemed to fear
and hate the Saint. Templar disliked Bittle enough to seize a
convenient opportunity of dotting the millionaire one with a hefty bit
of bronze. That was after Bittle had produced an automatic. And the
general trend of things suggested that Bittle’s house was staffed with
a tough bunch of bad hats who were quite ready to deal with unwelcome
visitors in a most unusual fashion—almost as though they expected
unwanted interference. And normal houses and normal millionaires did
not have secret bell-pushes in cigar boxes and peepholes from which
their libraries could be watched. . . .
The girl had to give it up. At least, her faith in the Saint remained
unshaken. It was impossible to believe that there was anything evil
about the man. At that rate, Bittle was equally above suspicion—but
Bittle’s apparent harmlessness was of the bluff kind that might cover
a multitude of sins, whereas the Saint’s chief charm was his
unreserved boyishness and his air of exaggerated masquerading. She
felt that no sane wolf in sheep’s clothing would have taken such
elaborate pains to look like a pantomime wolf.
Whoever and whatever the Saint was, he had done her no injury. He had
been her friend—and she had left him behind to face whatever music
Bittle’s myrmidons had the desire and brains to provide. . . . And the
tuning-up of the orchestra which she had heard gave her a vivid
impression that it was no amateur affair. . . . It was some
consolation to reflect that the Saint’s little solo, which had opened
the concert, itself showed a truly professional touch; nevertheless,
she was cursing herself right back to the Manor for deserting him,
although she knew that if she had stayed she would only have hampered
him.
She had hoped to be able to steal into the house unnoticed, but as she
approached she saw a dark figure leaning on the front gate, and in a
moment the figure hailed her with the voice of Miss Girton.
“Yes, it’s me,” said Patricia, and followed the woman to the door.
“I heard a lot of noise, and wondered what it was all about,” Miss
Girton explained. “Do you know?”
“There’s been some excitement. . . .”
It was all Patricia could think of on the spur of the moment.
She had forgotten the damage inflicted on her clothes and her person
by the game of hide-and-seek in the shrubbery, and was at first
surprised at the way Miss Girton stared at her in the light of the
hall. Then she looked down at her torn skirt and the scratches on her
arms.
“You don’t seem to have missed much,” remarked the older woman grimly.
“I can’t explain just now,” said a weary Patricia. “I’ve got to
think.”
She went into the drawing-room and sank into a chair. Her guardian
took up a position before her, legs astraddle, manlike, hands deep in
the pockets of her coat, waiting for the account that she was
determined to have.
“If Bittle’s been getting fresh——”
“It wasn’t exactly that,” said the girl. “I’m quite all right. Please
leave me alone for a minute.”
The darkening alarm which had showed on Miss Girton’s face gave way to
a look of perplexity when she heard that her instinctive suspicion was
ungrounded. She could be reasonably patient—it was one of her
unfeminine characteristics. With a shrug of her heavy shoulders she
took a gasper from a glaring yellow packet and lighted it. She smoked
like a man, inhaling deeply, and her fingers were stained orange with
nicotine.
Patricia puzzled over what excuse she was going to invent. She knew
that Miss Girton could be as acute and ruthless in cross-examination
as a lawyer. But the Saint’s orders had been to say nothing before the
hour had expired, and Patricia thought only of carrying out his
orders. Doubtless the reason for them would be given later, together
with some sort of elucidation of the mystery, but at present the sole
considerations that weighed with her were those of keeping faith with
the man whom she had left in such a tight corner and of finding some
way to help him out of it if necessary.
“It was like this,” Patricia began at last. “This afternoon I had a
note from Bittle asking me to call after dinner without saying
anything to anybody. It was most important. I went. After a lot of
beating about the bush he told me that he’d had a mortgage on the
Manor for years, and that you owed him a lot of money and were asking
for more, and that he’d have to foreclose and demand payment of your
debts. Was that true?”
“It was,” replied Agatha Girton stonily.
“But why did you have to—— Oh, surely, there can’t have been any need
to borrow money? I always understood that Dad left a small fortune.”
Miss Girton shrugged.
“My dear child, I had to draw on that.”
Patricia stared incredulously. Miss Girton, with a face of wood and in
a coldly dispassionate voice, added, like an afterthought:
“I’ve been blackmailed for six years.”
“Who by?”
“Does that matter to you? Go on with your story.”
Patricia jumped up.
“I think, in the circumstances, I’ll please myself what I tell you,”
she said with a dangerous quietness. “It might be more to the point if
you told me what you’ve done with the money entrusted to you. Six
years, Aunt Agatha? That was three years after I came here. . . . You
were always making trips abroad, and kept me on at school as long as
you could. . . . Weren’t you in Africa six years ago? You were away a
long time, I remember——”
“That will do,” said Miss Girton harshly.
“Will it?” asked the girl.
If her aunt had been tearful and frightened, Patricia would have been
ready to comfort her, but weakness was not one of Miss Girton’s
failings, and her aggressively impenitent manner could provoke nothing
but resentment. A storm was perilously near when an interruption came
in the shape of a ring at the front door. Miss Girton went to answer
it, and Patricia heard in the hall the spluttering of an agitated
Algy. In a moment the immaculate Mr. Lomas-Coper himself came into the
drawing-room.
“Why, there you are!” he gasped fatuously, as if he could scarcely
believe his eyes. “And, I say!—what? Been bird’s-nestin’ in your party
frock!”
And Algy stood goggling through his monocle at the girl’s disarray.
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” she smiled, though inwardly she was
cursing the arrival of another person to whom explanations would have
to be made. “Aunt Agatha simply sagged when she saw me.”
“I should think so!” said Algy. “What happened to the eggs? Tell me
all about it.”
“But what have you come here in such a flurry for?” she countered.
Mr. Lomas-Coper gaped, groping feebly in the air.
“But haven’t you heard? Of course not—I forgot to tell you. You know
we’re next door to old Bittle? Well, there’s been no end of a shindy.
Lots of energetic souls whooflin’ round the garden, yellin’ blue
murder, an’ all Bittle’s pack of maneatin’ hounds howlin’ their heads
off. So old Algy goes canterin’ round for news, thinks of you, and
comes rampin’ along to see if you’ve heard anything about it an’ find
out if you’d like to totter along to the Château Bittle an’ join the
game. And here you are, lookin’ as if you’d been in the thick of it
yourself. Doocid priceless! Eh? What? What?”
He beamed, full of an impartial good humour, and not at all abashed by
the unenthusiastic reception of his brilliance. Miss Girton stood over
by the settee, lighting a fresh gasper from the wilting stump of the
last, a rugged and gaunt and inscrutable woman. Patricia was suddenly
glad of the arrival of Algy. Although a fool, he was a friend: as a
fool, he would be easily put off with any facile explanation of her
dishevelment, and as a friend he was an unlooked-for straw to be
caught at in the turmoil that had flooded the girl’s life that night.
“Sit down, Algy,” she pleaded tolerantly. “And for Heaven’s sake don’t
stare at me like that. There’s nothing wrong.”
Algernon sat down and stopped staring, as commanded, but it was more
difficult to control his excited loquacity.
“I’m all of a dither,” he confessed superfluously. “I don’t know
whether I’m hoofin’ it on the old Gibus or the old Dripeds, sort of
style, y’know.”
Patricia looked at her watch. It was twenty past eleven. That meant
half an hour to go before she could appeal to Carn. Why Carn?—she
wondered. But Algy was still babbling on.
“Abso-jolly-old-lutely, all of a doodah. It’s shockin’. I always
thought the Merchant Prince was too good to be true, an’ here he is
comin’ out into the comic limelight as a sort of what not. I could
have told you so.”
“Aren’t you rather jumping to conclusions?” asked Patricia gently, and
Algy’s mouth dropped open.
“But haven’t you been lookin’ up the grocery trade?”
She shook her head.
“I haven’t been near the place. I went out for a walk and missed the
edge of the cliff in the dark. Luckily I didn’t fall far—there was a
ledge—but I had a stiff climb getting back.”
He collapsed like a marionette with the strings cut. “And you haven’t
been fightin’ off the advances of a madman? No leerin’ lunatic tryin’
to rob you of life and or honour?”
“Of course not.”
“Oo-er!” The revelation was too much for Mr. Lomas-Coper—one might
almost have thought that he was disappointed at the swift shattering
of his lurid hypothesis. “Put the old tootsy into it, haven’t I?
What? . . . I’d better be wobblin’ home. Stammerin’ out his apologies,
the wretched young man took his hat, his leave, and his life.”
She caught his sleeve and pulled him back.
“Do be sensible,” she begged. “Was your uncle worried?”
“Nothing ever moves the old boy,” said Algy. “He just takes a swig at
the barleywater and says it reminds him of Blitzensfontein or
something. Unsympathetic, I call it.”
The girl’s mind could give only a superficial attention to Algy’s
prattle. She had not known that the noise had been great enough to
rouse the neighbourhood, and she wondered how that would affect the
Saint’s obscure plans. On the other hand, Bittle would hardly dare go
to extremes while she was at large and could testify to some of the
events of the evening, and while other people’s curiosity had been
aroused by the resultant hullabaloo. Then she remembered that Bittle’s
house and Bloem’s stood some distance apart from the others, and it
was doubtful whether enough of the din could have been heard outside
to attract the notice of Sir Michael Lapping or the two retired Civil
Servants—whose bungalows were the next nearest. But Bloem and Algy
knew, and their knowledge might save the Saint.
Miss Girton, who had been holding aloof for some time, suddenly said:
“What’s the fuss about, anyhow?”
“Oh, a noise. . . .” Algy, abashed, was unwontedly reticent, and
seemed to want nothing more than the early termination of the
discussion. He fidgeted, polishing his monocle industriously. “Sir
John Bittle kind of giving a rough party, don’t you know.”
“I think we’ve had quite enough nonsense for one evening,” remarked
Agatha Girton. “Everyone’s a bundle of nerves. Is there any need for
all this excitement?”
She herself had lost her usual sangfroid. Under the mask of grim
disapproval she was badly shaken—Patricia saw the slight trembling of
the big rough hand that held the limp cigarette.
“Right as per,” agreed Algy weakly. “Sorry, Aunt Agatha.”
Miss Girton was absurdly pettish.
“I decline to adopt you as a nephew, Mr. Lomas-Coper.”
“Sorry, Aunt—Miss Girton. I’ll tool along.”
Patricia smiled and patted his hand as she said good-bye, but the
ordinarily super-effervescent Algy had gone off the boil. He contrived
a sickly smile, but he was clearly glad of an excuse to leave the
scene of his _faux pas_.
“Come and see us to-morrow,” invited Patricia, and he nodded.
“Most frightfully sorry, and all that rot,” he said. “I never did have
much of a brain, anyway. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, or
anything, y’know. What? Cheer-tiddly-ho!”
He offered a hand to Miss Girton, but she looked down her nose at it
and turned away.
“Honk-honk!” said Algy feebly, and departed.
They heard the front door close with a click, and were impressed with
Mr. Lomas-Coper’s humility. Among his more normal habits was that of
slamming doors with a mighty bang.
“You were very hard on Algy,” said Patricia resentfully.
“I can’t be bothered with the fool,” responded Miss Girton brusquely.
“Thank Heavens he swallowed that wild yarn of yours about falling off
a cliff. If he’d had any brains, the whole village would have been
talking about you to-morrow. Now, what’s the truth?”
Patricia looked at her watch again. The time was crawling.
Eleven-thirty. She looked up and responded:
“That yarn’s as good as another.”
“Not for me.” Agatha Girton came and stood over the girl. She looked
very forbidding and masculine at that moment, and Patricia had a
fleeting qualm of fear. “What happened at Bittle’s?”
“Oh, nothing. . . . He told me that the only way to save you was for
me to marry him.”
“Did he?” said Miss Girton harshly. “The swine!”
“Aunt Agatha!”
“You make me sick! He is a swine—why shouldn’t I say so? And with an
adjective, if I choose. Why didn’t you tell him so yourself? What did
you say?”
“I——” Patricia pulled herself up. The Saint’s volcanic arrival had
ended the discussion somewhat abruptly. “I didn’t know what to say,”
answered Patricia truthfully.
Miss Girton glowered down at the girl.
“And then he got fresh?”
“Not—not exactly. You see——”
“Then who did?”
Patricia covered her eyes.
“Oh, leave me alone! Tell me how you got into his debt.”
“There’s nothing much to tell,” replied Agatha Girton coldly. “When
Bittle first came, and was trying to get into Baycombe society, nobody
returned his calls. Then he called on me and insisted on seeing me—I
suppose because he thought the Manor had the most influence. He knew I
was hard up—I don’t know how—and if I helped him he’d help me. It was
my only way out. I agreed. You know he’s been here several times, but
even then I couldn’t make anyone else take him up, although he didn’t
seem at all uneducated and behaved perfectly. They’re all snobs
here. . . . I had to go on borrowing from him, and he didn’t seem to
mind, though he wasn’t getting much return for it. That’s all there is
to it.”
Patricia bit her lip.
“I see. And even though you were using my money you didn’t condescend
to tell me anything about it.”
“What good would that have done?”
“Wasn’t there anything——”
“Nothing whatever,” said Miss Girton flatly.
Patricia looked at her.
“Then might I ask what you propose to do now you’ve come to the end of
your resources?”
Agatha Girton started another cigarette, and her hands were a little
more unsteady. For a moment she failed to meet the girl’s eye, and
stared fixedly out of the window. Then she looked at Patricia again.
“You must leave that to me,” said Miss Girton, in a low inhuman voice
that sent an involuntary tingle of dread crawling up Patricia’s spine.
The girl rose and walked to another part of the room, to get away from
the dull frightening eyes of Agatha Girton. At any other time she
would have known better how to deal with the revelation that had been
made to her, but now all her thoughts were with the Saint, and she
could not concentrate on this new problem—and, if she had been able
to, she would not have dared to tackle it, for fear of creating a
situation which might prevent her carrying out his instructions if he
failed to put in an appearance at the appointed time. Miss Girton was
as strong as an ordinary man, and her temper that night was not to be
trusted.
Fifteen minutes still to go—three quarters of an hour since she left
the Saint in the garden.
“What’s the matter with you, child?” Agatha Girton’s rasping voice
demanded sharply. “Why do you keep looking at your watch?”
“To see the time.”
She felt an absurd desire to smile. The retort would have tickled the
Saint to death—she could visualise his impish delight—but Agatha
Girton was less easily satisfied.
“Why should you bother about the time?”
“I’m not going to be badgered like this!” flamed Patricia
unexpectedly.
Her patience had worn very thin during the last quarter of an hour,
and she knew that her anxiety was desperately near to driving her into
indiscreet anger or a flood of tears for relief. She faced Miss Girton
mutinously.
“I’ll see you to-morrow,” she said, and left the room without another
word.
She went up to her bedroom and paced up and down restlessly. Leaning
out of the wide open window, she could hear nothing from the direction
of Bittle’s house. Looking the other way, she could see the black
shape of Carn’s cottage. There was a light in one downstairs window:
apparently the doctor had not yet retired. She thought of going round
and chatting to him until the time had run out, for if all was well
and the Saint arrived and found her out he would be sure to try Carn
first for news of her. For a little while she hesitated: her
acquaintance with Carn was very slight. But in a moment the sound of
the windows downstairs being closed and secured filled her with an
unreasoning panic.
She opened her door and flew down the stairs. She could hear Miss
Girton pacing heavily across the lounge; but she sped past the door as
silently as she could, crossed the hall, and let herself out.
The cool breath of the night air restored her to reason, but she did
not turn back. She closed the door without a sound and walked
resolutely round to Carn’s house. Her ring was answered at once by the
man himself, and she remembered that he kept no servant on the
premises.
The doctor’s genial red face was one florid expression of surprise.
“My dear Miss Holm!”
“Am I disturbing you?” she smiled. “I began to feel terribly dull and
depressed, and I thought a little course of you would be a tonic. That
is, if you can bear it?”
He became aware of the fact that he was preventing her from entering,
and stood aside.
“You honour me,” he said. “But I’m quite alone. . . .”
“Doctors are above suspicion, aren’t they?” she laughed. “And I
promise to behave.”
He still seemed a little self-conscious, but led the way into his
study. She was a little puzzled at his awkwardness, and wondered why
even such an uncouth man as he had not been smoothed down by his
professional training. Nevertheless, his manner, if ungraceful, was
plainly irreproachable. He brought up an armchair for her and swept a
mass of papers off the table into a drawer. She noticed that there
were some sections of large-scale surveys among them, and he
explained:
“I’m interested in geology as well as bugs, you know. I’m afraid you’d
find it rather a dull subject, but it amuses me. And I’m very
interested in my fellow-men.”
Before she realised what she was doing, she had asked his opinion of
Simon Templar.
“Templar? A very interesting specimen. I don’t think I can make a
pronouncement yet—I met him for the first time to-day. A
very—er—unusual young man, but quite charming to talk to.” Carn did
not seem to wish to continue the analysis, and she was left with the
idea that he would prefer to be sure of her estimate of the Saint
before committing himself. “Would you like some tea? Or some
ginger-beer? It’s all I’ve got in the house.”
“No, thanks, if you don’t mind.” She thought. “It’s rather
difficult. . . . You see—— Is Mr. Templar in any danger?”
Carn looked at her with a keenness that was unforeseen in a man of his
type.
“What makes you ask that, Miss Holm?”
“Well, he talks a lot about it, doesn’t he?”
Carn pursed his lips.
“Yes, he does,” he admitted guardedly. “I shouldn’t venture to give a
definite opinion at this stage. Might one enquire, first, what Mr.
Templar is to you? Is he a particular friend of yours, for instance?”
“I’ve known him such a short time,” she replied, as cautiously. “But I
must say I like him very much.”
“Would it be impertinent to ask if you were in love with him?” pursued
Carn; and, seeing her blush, he averted his eyes and babbled on in an
embarrassed attempt at a fatherly tone: “I see that it would. But
perhaps Mr. Templar is more susceptible. As a friend, you would do him
a great service by using whatever influence you have to persuade him
of his foolhardiness.”
“Then he is in danger?”
Carn sighed.
“Purely of his own making,” he said. “Mr. Templar has elected to play
a very dangerous game. I can’t say any more. Perhaps he’ll tell you
himself.”
Patricia looked at her watch for the twentieth time. There were still
six minutes to pass.