A LETTER
“Inconsiderate, that’s what I call it,” said Lord Caterham.
He spoke in a gentle, plaintive voice and seemed pleased with the adjective he had found.
“Yes, distinctly inconsiderate. I often find these self-made men are inconsiderate. Very possibly that is why they amass such large fortunes.”
He looked mournfully out over his ancestral acres, of which he had today regained possession.
His daughter, Lady Eileen Brent, known to her friends and society in general as “Bundle,” laughed.
“You’ll certainly never amass a large fortune,” she observed dryly, “though you didn’t do so badly out of old Coote, sticking him for this place. What was he like? Presentable?”
“One of those large men,” said Lord Caterham, shuddering slightly, “with a red square face and iron-grey hair. Powerful, you know. What they call a forceful personality. The kind of man you’d get if a steamroller were turned into a human being.”
“Rather tiring?” suggested Bundle sympathetically.
“Frightfully tiring, full of all the most depressing virtues like sobriety and punctuality. I don’t know which are the worst, powerful personalities or earnest politicians. I do so prefer the cheerful inefficient.”
“A cheerful inefficient wouldn’t have been able to pay you the price you asked for this old mausoleum,” Bundle reminded him.
Lord Caterham winced.
“I wish you wouldn’t use that word, Bundle. We were just getting away from the subject.”
“I don’t see why you’re so frightfully sensitive about it,” said Bundle. “After all, people must die somewhere.”
“They needn’t die in my house,” said Lord Caterham.
“I don’t see why not. Lots of people have. Masses of stuffy old great-grandfathers and grandmothers.”
“That’s different,” said Lord Caterham. “Naturally I expect Brents to die here—they don’t count. But I do object to strangers. And I especially object to inquests. The thing will become a habit soon. This is the second. You remember all that fuss we had four years ago? For which, by the way, I hold George Lomax entirely to blame.”
“And now you’re blaming poor old steamroller Coote. I’m sure he was quite as annoyed about it as anyone.”
“Very inconsiderate,” said Lord Caterham obstinately. “People who are likely to do that sort of thing oughtn’t to be asked to stay. And you may say what you like, Bundle, I don’t like inquests. I never have and I never shall.”
“Well, this wasn’t the same sort of thing as the last one,” said Bundle soothingly. “I mean, it wasn’t a murder.”
“It might have been—from the fuss that thickhead of an inspector made. He’s never got over that business four years ago. He thinks every death that takes place here must necessarily be a case of foul play fraught with grave political significance. You’ve no idea the fuss he made. I’ve been hearing about it from Tredwell. Tested everything imaginable for fingerprints. And of course they only found the dead man’s own. The clearest case imaginable—though whether it was suicide or accident is another matter.”
“I met Gerry Wade once,” said Bundle. “He was a friend of Bill’s. You’d have liked him, Father. I never saw anyone more cheerfully inefficient than he was.”
“I don’t like anyone who comes and dies in my house on purpose to annoy me,” said Lord Caterham obstinately.
“But I certainly can’t imagine anyone murdering him,” continued Bundle. “The idea’s absurd.”
“Of course it is,” said Lord Caterham. “Or would be to anyone but an ass like Inspector Raglan.”
“I daresay looking for fingerprints made him feel important,” said Bundle soothingly. “Anyway, they brought it in ‘Death by misadventure,’ didn’t they?”
Lord Caterham acquiesced.
“They had to show some consideration for the sister’s feelings?”
“Was there a sister. I didn’t know.”
“Half sister, I believe. She was much younger. Old Wade ran away with her mother—he was always doing that sort of thing. No woman appealed to him unless she belonged to another man.”
“I’m glad there’s one bad habit you haven’t got,” said Bundle.
“I’ve always led a very respectable God-fearing life,” said Lord Caterham. “It seems extraordinary, considering how little harm I do to anybody, that I can’t be let alone. If only—”
He stopped as Bundle made a sudden excursion through the window.
“MacDonald,” called Bundle in a clear, autocratic voice.
The emperor approached. Something that might possibly have been taken for a smile of welcome tried to express itself on his countenance, but the natural gloom of gardeners dispelled it.
“Your ladyship?” said MacDonald.
“How are you?” said Bundle.
“I’m no verra grand,” said MacDonald.
“I wanted to speak to you about the bowling green. It’s shockingly overgrown. Put someone on to it, will you?”
MacDonald shook his head dubiously.
“It would mean taking William from the lower border, m’lady.”
“Damn the lower border,” said Bundle. “Let him start at once. And MacDonald—”
“Yes, m’lady?”
“Let’s have some of those grapes in from the far house. I know it’s the wrong time to cut them because it always is, but I want them all the same. See?”
Bundle reentered the library.
“Sorry, Father,” she said. “I wanted to catch MacDonald. Were you speaking?”
“As a matter of fact I was,” said Lord Caterham. “But it doesn’t matter. What were you saying to MacDonald?”
“Trying to cure him of thinking he’s God Almighty. But that’s an impossible task. I expect the Cootes have been bad for him. MacDonald wouldn’t care one hoot, or even two hoots, for the largest steamroller that ever was. What’s Lady Coote like?”
Lord Caterham considered the question.
“Very like my idea of Mrs. Siddons,” he said at last. “I should think she went in a lot for amateur theatricals. I gather she was very upset about the clock business.”
“What clock business?”
“Tredwell has just been telling me. It seems the house party had some joke on. They bought a lot of alarum clocks and hid them about this young Wade’s room. And then, of course, the poor chap was dead. Which made the whole thing rather beastly.
Bundle nodded.
“Tredwell told me something else rather odd about the clocks,” continued Lord Caterham, who was now quite enjoying himself. “It seems that somebody collected them all and put them in a row on the mantelpiece after the poor fellow was dead.”
“Well, why not?” said Bundle.
“I don’t see why not myself,” said Lord Caterham. “But apparently there was some fuss about it. No one would own up to having done it, you see. All the servants were questioned and swore they hadn’t touched the beastly things. In fact, it was rather a mystery. And then the coroner asked questions at the inquest, and you know how difficult it is to explain things to people of that class.”
“Perfectly foul,” agreed Bundle.
“Of course,” said Lord Caterham, “it’s very difficult to get the hang of things afterwards. I didn’t quite see the point of half the things Tredwell told me. By the way, Bundle, the fellow died in your room.”
Bundle made a grimace.
“Why need people die in my room?” she asked with some indignation.
“That’s just what I’ve been saying,” said Lord Caterham, in triumph. “Inconsiderate. Everybody’s damned inconsiderate nowadays.”
“Not that I mind,” said Bundle valiantly. “Why should I?”
“I should,” said her father. “I should mind very much. I should dream things, you know—spectral hands and clanking chains.”
“Well,” said Bundle. “Great Aunt Louisa died in your bed. I wonder you don’t see her spook hoverin
g over you.”
“I do sometimes,” said Lord Caterham, shuddering. “Especially after lobster.”
“Well, thank heaven I’m not superstitious,” declared Bundle.
Yet that evening, as she sat in front of her bedroom fire, a slim, pyjamaed figure, she found her thoughts reverting to that cheery, vacuous young man, Gerry Wade. Impossible to believe that anyone so full of the joy of living could deliberately have committed suicide. No, the other solution must be the right one. He had taken a sleeping draught and by a pure mistake had swallowed an overdose. That was possible. She did not fancy that Gerry Wade had been overburdened in an intellectual capacity.
Her gaze shifted to the mantelpiece and she began thinking about the story of the clocks. Her maid had been full of that, having just been primed by the second housemaid. She had added a detail which apparently Tredwell had not thought worthwhile retailing to Lord Caterham, but which had piqued Bundle’s curiosity.
Seven clocks had been neatly ranged on the mantelpiece; the last and remaining one had been found on the lawn outside, where it had obviously been thrown from the window.
Bundle puzzled over that point now. It seemed such an extraordinary purposeless thing to do. She could imagine that one of the maids might have tidied the clocks and then, frightened by the inquisition into the matter, have denied doing so. But surely no maid would have thrown a clock into the garden.
Had Gerry Wade done so when its first sharp summons woke him? But no; that again was impossible. Bundle remembered hearing that his death must have taken place in the early hours of the morning, and he would have been in a comatose condition for some time before that.
Bundle frowned. This business of the clocks was curious. She must get hold of Bill Eversleigh. He had been there, she knew.
To think was to act with Bundle. She got up and went over to the writing desk. It was an inlaid affair with a lid that rolled back. Bundle sat down at it, pulled a sheet of notepaper towards her and wrote.
Dear Bill,—
She paused to pull out the lower part of the desk. It had stuck halfway, as she remembered it often did. Bundle tugged at it impatiently but it did not move. She recalled that on a former occasion an envelope had been pushed back with it and had jammed it for the time being. She took a thin paper knife and slipped it into the narrow crack. She was so far successful that a corner of white paper showed. Bundle caught hold of it and drew it out. It was the first sheet of a letter, somewhat crumpled.
It was the date that first caught Bundle’s eye. A big flourishing date that leaped out from the paper. Sept. 21st.
“September 21st,” said Bundle slowly. “Why, surely that was—”
She broke off. Yes, she was sure of it. The 22nd was the day Gerry Wade was found dead. This, then, was a letter he must have been writing on the very evening of the tragedy.
Bundle smoothed it out and read it. It was unfinished.
“My Darling Loraine,—I will be down on Wednesday. Am feeling awfully fit and rather pleased with myself all round. It will be heavenly to see you. Look here, do forget what I said about that Seven Dials business. I thought it was going to be more or less a joke—but it isn’t—anything but. I’m sorry I ever said anything about it—it’s not the kind of business kids like you ought to be mixed up in. So forget about it, see?
“Something else I wanted to tell you—but I’m so sleepy I can’t keep my eyes open.
“Oh, about Lurcher; I think—”
Here the letter broke off.
Bundle sat frowning. Seven Dials. Where was that? Some rather slummy district of London, she fancied. The words Seven Dials reminded her of something else, but for the moment she couldn’t think of what. Instead her attention fastened on two phrases. “Am feeling awfully fit . . .” and “I’m so sleepy I can’t keep my eyes open.”
That didn’t fit in. That didn’t fit in at all. For it was that very night that Gerry Wade had taken such a heavy dose of chloral that he never woke again. And if what he had written in that letter were true, why should he have taken it?
Bundle shook her head. She looked round the room and gave a slight shiver. Supposing Gerry Wade were watching her now. In this room he had died . . .
She sat very still. The silence was unbroken save for the ticking of her little gold clock. That sounded unnaturally loud and important.
Bundle glanced towards the mantelpiece. A vivid picture rose before her mind’s eyes. The dead man lying on the bed, and seven clocks ticking on the mantelpiece—ticking loudly, ominously . . . ticking . . . ticking . . .
Five
THE MAN IN THE ROAD
“Father,” said Bundle, opening the door of Lord Caterham’s special sanctum and putting her head in, “I’m going up to town in the Hispano. I can’t stand the monotony down here any longer.”
“We only got home yesterday,” complained Lord Caterham.
“I know. It seems like a hundred years. I’d forgotten how dull the country could be.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Lord Caterham. “It’s peaceful, that’s what it is—peaceful. And extremely comfortable. I appreciate getting back to Tredwell more than I can tell you. That man studies my comfort in the most marvellous manner. Somebody came round only this morning to know if they could hold a tally for girl guides here—”
“A rally,” interrupted Bundle.
“Rally or tally—it’s all the same. Some silly word meaning nothing whatever. But it would have put me in a very awkward position—having to refuse—in fact, I probably shouldn’t have refused. But Tredwell got me out of it. I’ve forgotten what he said—something damned ingenious which couldn’t hurt anybody’s feelings and which knocked the idea on the head absolutely.”
“Being comfortable isn’t enough for me,” said Bundle. “I want excitement.”
Lord Caterham shuddered.
“Didn’t we have enough excitement four years ago?” he demanded plaintively.
“I’m about ready for some more,” said Bundle. “Not that I expect I shall find any in town. But at any rate I shan’t dislocate my jaw with yawning.”
“In my experience,” said Lord Caterham, “people who go about looking for trouble usually find it.” He yawned. “All the same,” he added, “I wouldn’t mind running up to town myself.”
“Well, come on,” said Bundle. “But be quick, because ’m in a hurry.”
Lord Caterham, who had begun to rise from his chair, paused.
“Did you say you were in a hurry?” he asked suspiciously.
“In the devil of a hurry,” said Bundle.
“That settles it,” said Lord Caterham. “I’m not coming. To be driven by you in the Hispano when you’re in a hurry—no, it’s not fair on any elderly man. I shall stay here.”
“Please yourself,” said Bundle, and withdrew.
Tredwell took her place.
“The vicar, my lord, is most anxious to see you, some unfortunate controversy having arisen about the status of the Boys’ Brigade.”
Lord Caterham groaned.
“I rather fancied, my lord, that I had heard you mention at breakfast that you were strolling down to the village this morning to converse with the vicar on the subject.”
“Did you tell him so?” asked Lord Caterham eagerly.
“I did, my lord. He departed, if I may say so, hot foot. I hope I did right, my lord?”
“Of course you did, Tredwell. You are always right. You couldn’t go wrong if you tried.”
Tredwell smiled benignly and withdrew.
Bundle meanwhile was sounding the Klaxon impatiently before the lodge gates, while a small child came hastening out with all speed from the lodge, admonishment from her mother following her.
“Make haste, Katie. That be her ladyship in a mortal hurry as always.”
It was indeed characteristic of Bundle to be in a hurry, especially when driving a car. She had skill and nerve and was a good driver; had it been otherwise her reckless pace would have ended i
n disaster more than once.
It was a crisp October day, with a blue sky and a dazzling sun. The sharp tang of the air brought the blood to Bundle’s cheeks and filled her with the zest of living.
She had that morning sent Gerald Wade’s unfinished letter to Loraine Wade at Deane Priory, enclosing a few explanatory lines. The curious impression it had made upon her was somewhat dimmed in the daylight, yet it still struck her as needing explanation. She intended to get hold of Bill Eversleigh sometime and extract from him fuller details of the house party which had ended so tragically. In the meantime, it was a lovely morning and she felt particularly well and the Hispano was running like a dream.
Bundle pressed her foot down on the accelerator and the Hispano responded at once. Mile after mile vanished, traffic was few and far between and Bundle had a clear stretch of road in front of her.
And then, without any warning whatever, a man reeled out of the hedge and on to the road right in front of the car. To stop in time was out of the question. With all her might Bundle wrenched at the steering wheel and swerved out to the right. The car was nearly in the ditch—nearly, but not quite. It was a dangerous manoeuvre; but it succeeded. Bundle was almost certain that she had missed the man.
She looked back and felt a sickening sensation in the middle of her anatomy. The car had not passed over the man, but nevertheless it must have struck him in passing. He was lying face downwards on the road, and he lay ominously still.
Bundle jumped out and ran back. She had never yet run over anything more important than a stray hen. The fact that the accident was hardly her fault did not weigh with her at the minute. The man had seemed drunk, but drunk or not, she had killed him. She was quite sure she had killed him. Her heart beat sickeningly in great pounding thumps, sounding right up in her ears.
She knelt down by the prone figure and turned him very gingerly over. He neither groaned nor moaned. He was young, she saw, rather a pleasant-faced young man, well-dressed and wearing a small toothbrush moustache.
There was no external mark of injury that she could see, but she was quite positive that he was either dead or dying. His eyelids flickered and the eyes half-opened. Piteous eyes, brown and suffering, like a dog’s. He seemed to be struggling to speak. Bundle bent right over.