She did not expect Mrs Mason before seven o’clock, so that she had almost an hour to while away. Under the disapproving glare of one of the more elderly members of the club she ordered a cocktail, and curled herself up in a large arm-chair with an illustrated journal, a cigarette, and her Bronx.
The journal was, as usual, full of pictures of sunburnt people snapped on the Lido, but the odd thing about it was that though the legend under the snapshots might read: ‘Lord So-and-so and Miss Something-else in a happy mood,’ Lord So-and-so’s face became unaccountably the face of Michael Strange. Information concerning the doings of all these leisured people changed to such irrelevant scraps as: ‘But what was he doing in the garden at that hour?’ and: ‘Could he really have been in our cellars that day we tried to locate the groan and saw him by the drawing-room windows?’
Margaret told herself severely that she was thinking a great deal too much about Michael Strange, and applied herself to the Tatler with a firm resolve to think about him no more.
But excellent though the resolve might be it was impossible to keep to it. Margaret gave up all pretence of doing so after five minutes, and permitted her refractory mind to do as it pleased.
Except for a brief infatuation for her drawing-master which attacked her at the age of sixteen she had never been in love. Her mother had died when she was still at school, her father three years later, and since that time she and Peter had kept house together. They were a very devoted couple, and so far Margaret had not felt in the least tempted to leave him for any one of the several suitors who had wished her to marry them. In the nicest possible way she had refused all offers, and it said much for her that these rejections never interfered with her friendship with the young man in question, nor, which was more important, with his friendship with her brother. One or two continued to cherish hopes, but when the most importunate of her suitors consoled himself eventually elsewhere, Margaret, no dog-in-the-manger, was unaffectedly glad and promptly made a friend of his bride, the very lady who was to dine with her this evening.
Until she met Michael Strange she was almost sure that she was not the sort of girl who fell in love. She wasn’t at all cast down by this conviction; she didn’t want to fall in love. People in love became sloppy, she thought, and they were a nuisance to all their friends, which was a pity. A girl had once told her raptly that she had known as soon as she had set eyes on the young man of her affections, that she would either marry him or no one. Margaret had considered this not only absurd, but sickly.
But during the past week she had somewhat modified her judgment. Not that she would ever be such a ninny as to fall flat in front of a man in that nauseating fashion, she told herself. Still, without going to such extremes she was bound to acknowledge that Mr Michael Strange had done something very queer indeed to her.
As to falling in love, that was rot, of course. One didn’t fall in love with complete strangers, and certainly not with strangers who behaved as oddly as he was behaving. But the fact remained that from that very first meeting, when he had changed one of the wheels of the car for her she had, in her own words, ‘taken to him,’ as she could not remember ever having ‘taken to’ anyone before. There was something about his smile, which lost nothing by being rather rarely seen, that attracted her. He was good-looking too, but she didn’t think that had much to do with it, for she knew men far better-looking, and she hadn’t ‘taken to’ them in the least. No, it wasn’t anything she could explain, but she just liked him very much.
She was in the habit of being as honest with herself as she could, and at this point she paused. There was rather more to it than just liking him very much. She had a suspicion that the same romantically-minded girl who had rhapsodised over her own emotions, would have described the effect of Mr Michael Strange on her friend as ‘thrilling.’ Margaret was not in the habit of being thrilled by young men, however personable, and she felt slightly affronted to think that such an idea had even crossed her mind. Then a really shocking thought reared up its head: she wouldn’t mind if Mr Michael Strange tried to kiss her. Quite disgusted with herself, she realised that so far from minding she would rather like it. For one who had the greatest objection to stray embraces, this was unheard of. Margaret put the thought hurriedly aside: in every other way she prided herself on her modernity, but when it came to letting men maul you about – no!
But leaving that out of the question, there was no denying that Michael Strange had made her feel that she would like to see more of him.
Then had come the surprise of finding him in the Priory garden. When she had seen who he was she had instantly acquitted him, in her mind, of having had anything to do with the groan they had heard. But Charles and Peter, both likely, she realised, to be more impartial than herself, had thought his presence suspicious. They had not been reassured either by his explanation or the manner in which he gave it. Thinking it over she was bound to admit that he had sounded mysterious. At Colonel Ackerley’s dinner-party, moreover, she had tried to find out more about him, and he had evaded her questions. Then there was the occasion when she had discovered him apparently studying half-obliterated inscriptions on the tombs in the ruined chapel. She had taxed him openly that time with having been in the Priory garden one night. She had known, with an unaccountable feeling of disillusionment, that he was going to deny it, and unreasonably, just because somehow she could not bear that he should lie to her, she had said quickly that she had recognised him. It would have been useless for him to deny it after that, and he had not done so. But neither had he given her any explanation of his conduct.
Margaret was no fool, and her reason told her that had there been an innocent explanation he must have given it. Since he had not done so she was forced to face the probability of his being engaged upon some discreditable business. What it could be she had no idea, but she had the impression that her presence at the Priory discomposed him. He did not want her there; he had tried to persuade her to go away. Just as though he did not want her to find out what he was doing; as though her presence made him regret what he meant to do.
He had asked her to trust him, saying frankly that there was no reason why she should. And against her reason she had trusted him, even to the extent of never mentioning his presence by night in the garden to her brother or to Charles.
Was he a crook? one of those master-crooks of fiction, who had such address and charm that no one ever suspected them? Was it possible that he was some sort of a cat-burglar who had used the empty and reputedly haunted Priory as a cache for his hauls? Had he hidden jewels or bank-notes in some secret hiding-place at the Priory, pending their disposal? Or was he the head of some large criminal organisation who had made a haunted house their headquarters? That might account for the attempts it seemed fairly certain he had made to frighten the new tenants away, but she could not help feeling that a less risky proceeding would have been to have changed his headquarters.
An idea flashed into her mind. She glanced at her wristwatch: ten minutes to seven. It was too late to catch Mr Milbank at his office, but he would not mind if she rang him up at his home. She got up, hesitating. It might be better if she went round to see him after dinner; he lived in town, and she knew that both he and his wife would be delighted to see her, for both had known her almost from the cradle.
She picked up her gloves and her handbag and left the lounge. She found a telephone-box disengaged, and after painstakingly reading all the alarming information about pressing buttons A and B, dropped two pennies into the slot, and gave the number she wanted. She was soon connected, remembered to press the right button, and asked whether she might speak to Mr Milbank.
‘Speaking,’ Mr Milbank’s voice replied.
‘Oh, is that you?’ Margaret said. ‘This is Margaret Fortescue… Yes, I’ve been up for the day. I’m speaking from the club… I say, I’m awfully sorry to be a pest, and I know I ought to have thought of it earlier, but would it be a ghastly nuisance if I came round to see you after dinne
r just for a few moments?… What?… It’s frightfully sweet of you both, but I can’t. You see, I’ve got a friend dining with me here. Could I blow in about half-past eight or nine?… Well, I shall try and make it as early as I can, because I don’t want to be late getting home, but you know what it is when you have anyone to dinner… Righto, then, I’ll come along as soon after dinner as I can. Thanks awfully! Au revoir! ’ She hung up the receiver, and went back to the lounge, where she found Peggy Mason awaiting her, and a diminutive page loudly chanting her name.
Margaret kissed her friend. ‘Hullo! I say, wait a minute till I stop that youth howling for me. Do you ever recognise your own name when you hear it shouted like that?’ She darted off to intercept the page, who having failed to obtain response to his call, was on the point of passing on to the dining-room. When she came back Peggy greeted her with a great many questions, and items of news, and these proved so absorbing that Michael Strange was forgotten for a while.
It was nearly ten minutes to nine when Margaret remembered to look at the time. ‘Peggy, you brute, you’ve kept me talking twenty minutes longer than I meant to. Look here, I’ve got to go.’
‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Mason, ‘throw your guest out. Where were you brought up?’ She pulled on her gloves. ‘You are a mutt not to come and spend the night with me as I suggested. Sure you won’t change your mind? You can ring the Priory up, can’t you?’
‘Not on the telephone. No, really I can’t, Peggy. I’ve got to go and see our solicitor too: that’s why I’m pushing you off.’
‘Solicitor be blowed,’ said Mrs Mason inelegantly. ‘Who ever goes to see solicitors at this hour? All right, my girl, I’m going. I shall tell Bill when he gets back from France that you had an assignation with some man you kept very dark.’ Her sharp eyes detected a rising blush in Margaret’s cheeks. ‘Hul-lo!’ she said, surprised. ‘Don’t say I’ve hit the nail on the head? Is there someone?’
‘No, of course not, you idiot. I’m going to see my solicitor and his wife at their house in Chelsea. Can I drop you?’
‘As I live in the wilds of Hampstead, which fact you are well aware of, I regard that offer as a clear proof that you are dithering. And the only explanation for that…’
‘Will you shut up?’ said Margaret, and dragged her forth.
A quarter of an hour later her car drew up outside the Milbanks’ house on the Embankment. She was ushered at once into the drawing-room on the first floor, and found both Mr and Mrs Milbank there. They both gave her a warm welcome, and for a little while they were all engaged in the usual conversation of old friends. But when Margaret had set down her coffee-cup, Mr Milbank said: ‘Well, what is it you want to see me about, Margaret? Have you been run in for furious driving?’
‘Certainly not!’ said Margaret indignantly. ‘I may not be one of the world’s best drivers, but at least I’ve never been had up. It really isn’t anything frightfully important, but I thought that since I happened to be in town I might as well drop in and ask you about it.’
Mrs Milbank began to fold up the work she had started to embroider. ‘Is it private, Margaret? Would you like me to vanish, with a plausible excuse?’
‘No, not a bit! Please don’t go! I wanted to ask you, Mr Milbank, whether you can remember the name of the man who wanted to know if the Priory was for sale.’
The solicitor wrinkled his brow. ‘I’m not sure that I can. The file is at the office, of course, and I can let you know to-morrow. Rather an ordinary name, as far as I remember. I think it was Robinson.’ He gazed up at the ceiling. ‘Yes, I’m nearly certain it was. George Robinson. But I won’t swear to it.’
‘I see. You didn’t actually meet him, did you?’
‘No, he wrote, and I distinctly remember that I sent your answer to a poste-restante address, as he explained that he was on a motor tour. Why? Have you reconsidered your decision?’
‘No, but we – we rather wanted to know who it was. We don’t mean to sell the Priory yet.’
‘I’m rather relieved to hear you say that,’ smiled the lawyer, ‘for I had another man in making inquiries, and turned him down.’
Margaret looked quickly towards him. ‘Another man? Wanting to buy the place?’
‘I imagine he must have had some such idea, though he didn’t actually say so. I told him that you had no intention of selling.’
‘Who was he?’ Margaret asked. ‘Anyone we know?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. He never told me his name, because, as I say, things never got as far as that. He was a youngish man – between thirty and thirty-five, I should say. Nice looking, very dark, fairly…’
‘Dark?’ Margaret faltered.
‘Yes, very dark. Black hair and eyebrows, rather a tanned complexion, fairly tall. My dear, what is all this about? Why are you so anxious to know what he looked like?’
‘Well! – well, we – we met someone at a party who – who seemed rather interested in the Priory, and we suspected he wanted to buy it,’ Margaret explained. ‘Did he seem keen to when you saw him?’
‘Not to the extent of badgering me to forward an offer. He didn’t even make one.’
‘I wish you’d tell me just what he did say,’ Margaret begged.
‘I’ll try, since you make such a point of it,’ Mr Milbank said, still rather surprised. ‘He said he had been asked to make some inquiries about a house which he understood had been standing empty for several years. I assumed he was acting for someone else, but of course he may have merely put it that way. Lots of people do, if they don’t want you to think they’re set on buying a thing. He said he hoped he was not too late in coming to see me, as he had heard that someone else had been after the house.’
Margaret’s eyes were fixed intently on the solicitor’s face. ‘Oh! He’d heard that, had he? Did he say how?’
‘No, and I’m afraid I didn’t ask him. I told him that you had no thought of selling. Let me see: what did he say next? Yes, I think he said: “Then there’s no truth in what I heard – that the present owners are considering an offer they have received?” I assured him that you were entertaining no such idea, that you had, in fact, definitely refused to sell. After that I think he chatted for a few minutes about the place. Something he said about having seen the house from his car made me suspect that he might be this man, Robinson, or whatever his name is, trying a new way of getting the Priory. I asked him whether I was not right in supposing he had written to me before concerning this matter. Whether it was he, or someone behind him who wrote I really don’t know, but I distinctly remember that he did not answer for a moment. Which made me all the more certain, as you can imagine. However, I wasn’t particularly interested, so I didn’t go into it. He said it was quite possible that his friend had written to me, but no doubt I’d had a great many such letters, or something of the sort. I’m a busy man, as you know, and I thought I’d wasted enough time on the matter. So when he said that in the event of your wishing to sell after all, he hoped I’d let him know before you accepted any other offer, I fear I rather cut him short, and told him that I did not think he need worry himself, as for one thing you had no wish to sell the Priory, and for another the only other offer I had received on your behalf was entirely tentative. He still didn’t seem satisfied, and even went so far as to request me not to advise my other client of any change in your decision before letting him know. So I told him that in any case it would be quite out of my power to do so since I had only an old posterestante address to write to. That did seem to settle him, and he went off – quite forgetting, by the way, to leave me his address!’
‘I see,’ Margaret said slowly. ‘Yes – I think that sounds like the man we thought was after the place. Thanks awfully for telling me.’
‘I may be very inquisitive,’ Mr Milbank said, ‘but I do wish you’d tell me why you’re so anxious to hear all this.’
She smiled. ‘Sheer curiosity, Mr Milbank. I – I wondered whether he’d have the cheek to come and interview you ab
out it. Apparently he had.’ She glanced at the clock, and started up. ‘Oh, Lord, I shall be hideously late if I don’t start.’
She took her leave of them both and went down to her car. Mr Milbank accompanied her to the front door, wondering what lay behind her visit, and waved farewell to her from the top of his steps. She let in the clutch, and the car slid forward.
Her suspicion had been a true one, but this afforded her very little satisfaction. It seemed to be just one more link in the chain of evidence against Strange.
‘And I ought to tell Peter,’ she said to herself, slipping past a tram. ‘It’s absolutely wrong of me not to. Michael Strange is nothing to me, nor ever likely to be, and for all I know he may be planning something perfectly dreadful. And it’s no good getting sloppy and sentimental, and thinking how a Good Woman’s Love might reclaim him, because that’s the sort of rot that makes me sick. Besides, I’m not in love with him.’
‘Aren’t you?’ Conscience inquired. ‘Then are you going to tell Peter all you know?’
‘I promised I’d say nothing,’ Margaret argued. ‘I may have been wrong to do so, but I did, and that’s that.’
‘You didn’t promise not to say anything about this visit to Milbank,’ Conscience pointed out.
‘If I see any reason to of course I shall tell Peter,’ Margaret decided. ‘But for the present I mean to tackle Strange myself. And it’s no good thinking he’s the Monk because I don’t believe it, and what’s more I won’t believe it.’