Died in the Wool

CHAPTER X NIGHT PIECE

Tommy Johns and his son Cliff followed Markins through the sacking door and stood blinking in the lamplight. Tommy nodded morosely at Alleyn. “What’s the trouble?” he said.

“There it is.”

He moved forward. Cliff said loudly: “It’s Fabian.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn.

“What’s happened to him?” He turned to Markins. “Why didn’t you say it was Fabian? What’s wrong with you?”

“Orders,” said Markins and Tommy Johns looked sharply at Alleyn.

“Whose orders?” Cliff demanded. “Has he had another of his queer turns?” His voice rose shrilly. “Is he dead?”

“No,” said Alleyn. Cliff strode forward and knelt by Fabian.

“You keep clear of this,” said his father.

“I want to know what’s happened to him. I want to know if he’s been hurt.”

“He’s been hit over the head,” said Alleyn, “with the branding iron.”

Cliff cried out incoherently and his father put his hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t want you to say so when he’s conscious again,” Alleyn went on. “Remember that please, it’s important. He’s had a nasty shock and for the moment he’s to be left to put his own interpretation on it. Tell nobody.”

“The branding iron,” said Tommy Johns. “Is that so?” He looked across to the corner where the iron was usually kept. Cliff said quickly: “It wasn’t there. It was left over by the press.”

“Where is it now?” Johns demanded.

“Safely stowed,” said Alleyn.

“Who done it?”

In reply to this classic, Alleyn merely shook his head.

“I checked up on the men, sir,” said Markins. “They’re all in their bunks. Ben Wilson was awake and says nobody’s gone or come in for over an hour. Albie’s dead to the world. Soaked.”

“Right. Have you got a stretcher?”

“Yes, sir,” said Markins. “It’s the one Mrs. R. had for her first-aid classes.”

“Have you been down to the house?” Alleyn asked sharply.

“No. It was stowed away up above. Come on, Tommy.”

They had dumped a pile of grey blankets inside the door. Markins brought in the stretcher. The three men covered it, moved Fabian on to it, and laid the remaining blankets over him. Cliff, working the palms of his hands together, looked on unhappily.

“What about this damned icy track?” Alleyn muttered. “You’ve got nails in your boots, Johns. So’s the boy. Markins and I are smooth-soled.”

“It’s not so bad on the track, sir,” said Markins.

“Did you come up the kitchen path?” Tommy Johns demanded.

“Ready?” asked Alleyn before Markins could reply.

They took their places at the corners of the stretcher. Fabian opened his eyes and looked at Cliff.

“Hullo,” he said clearly. “The Infant Phenomenon.”

“That’s me,” said Cliff unevenly. “You’ll be all right, Mr. Losse.”

“Oh Lord,” Fabian whispered, “have I been at it again?”

“You’ve taken a bit of a toss,” said Alleyn. “We’ll get you into bed in a minute.”

“My head.”

“I know. Nasty crack, you got. Ready?”

“I can walk,” Fabian protested. “What’s all this nonsense! I’ve always walked before.”

“You’re riding this time, damn your eyes,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Up we go, chaps. Keep on the grass if you can.”

“Easier going on the track,” Tommy Johns protested.

“Nevertheless, we’ll try the grass. On the left. Keep to the left.”

And as they crept along, flashing their torches, he thought: “If only I could have been sure he’d be all right for a bit in the wool-shed. A nice set of prints there’ll be with this frost and here we go, all over Tom Tiddler’s ground tramping out gold and silver.”

It was less slippery on the verge than it had been on the steep hillside, and when they reached the main track the going was still easier. The French windows into the drawing-room were unlocked and they took Fabian in that way, letting the stretcher down on the floor while Markins lit the lamps. Fabian was so quiet that Alleyn waited anxiously to see him, wondering he he had fainted. But when the lamplight shone on his face his eyes were open and he was frowning.

“All right?” Alleyn asked gently. Fabian turned his head aside and muttered: “Oh yes. Yes.”

“I’ll go upstairs and tell Grace what you’ve been up to. Markins, you might get a kettle to boil. You others wait, will you?”

He ran upstairs to be confronted on the landing by Ursula in her dressing-gown, holding a candle above her head and peering into the well.

“What’s happened?” she said.

“A bit of an accident. Your young man’s given himself a crack on the head but he’s doing nicely.”

“Fabian?” Her eyes widened. “Where is he?”

“Now, don’t go haring off, there’s a good child. He’s in the drawing-room and we’re putting him to bed. Before you go down to him, put a couple of hot-water bottles in his bed and repeat to yourself some appropriate rune from your first-aid manual. He’ll do, I fancy.”

They were standing outside Terence Lynne’s door and now it opened. She too came out with a candle. She looked very sleek and pale in her ruby silk dressing-gown.

“Fabian’s hurt,” said Ursula, and darted back into her own room.

Miss Lynne had left her door open. Alleyn could see where a second candle burnt on her bedside table above an open book, a fat notebook it seemed to be, its pages covered in a fine script. She followed the direction of his gaze and, with a swift movement, shut her door. Ursula returned with a hot-water bag and hurried down the passage to Fabian’s room.

Miss Lynne examined Alleyn by the light of her own candle.

“You’ve been fighting,” she said.

He touched his jaw. “I ran into something in the shed.”

“It’s bleeding.”

“So it is. Can you give me a bit of cotton wool or something?”

She hesitated. “Wait here a moment,” she said and slipped through the door, shutting it behind her.

Alleyn tapped and entered. She was beside her dressing-table but in a flash had moved to the bed and shut the book. “I asked you to wait,” she said.

“I’m extremely sorry. Would you lend your hot-water bottle? Take it along to his room, would you? Ah, there’s the cotton wool. Thanks so much.”

He took it from her and turned to her glass. As he dabbled the wool on his jaw he watched her reflection. Her back was towards him. She stooped over the bed. When she moved aside, the bedclothes had been pulled up and the book was no longer on the table.

“Here’s the bottle,” she said, holding it out.

“Will you be an angel and take it yourself? I’m just fixing this blasted cut.”

“Mr. Alleyn,” she said loudly, and he turned to face her. “I’d rather you staunched your wounds in your own room,” said Miss Lynne.

“Please forgive me, I was trying to save my collar. Of course.”

He went to the door. “Terry!” Ursula called quietly down the passage.

“I’m off,” said Alleyn. He crossed the landing to his own room. “Terry!” Ursula called again. “Yes, coming,” said Miss Lynne, and carrying the candle and her hot-water bottle she moved swiftly down the passage, observed by Alleyn through the crack of his own door.

“Every blasted move in the game goes wrong,” he thought and darted back to her room.

The book, a stoutly bound squat affair, had been thrust well down between the sheets. It fell open in his hands and he read a single long sentence.

Alleyn hesitated for a moment. A card folder slipped from between the pages. He opened it and saw the photograph of a man with veiled eyes, painfully compressed lips, and deep grooves running from his nostrils to beyond the corners of his mouth. The initials “A.R.” were written at the bottom in the same fine strokes that characterized the script in the book.

“So that was Arthur Rubrick,” Alleyn thought and returned the photograph and the diary to their hiding place.

Before he left Miss Lynne’s room, Alleyn took an extremely rapid look at her shoes. All except one pair were perfectly neat and clean. Her gardening brogues, brushed, but unpolished, were dry. He closed the door behind him as the voices of the two girls sounded in the passage. He found them at the head of the stairs in conference with Mrs. Aceworthy, a formidable figure in mottled flannel, which she drew unhappily about her when she saw Alleyn. He persuaded her, with some difficulty, to return to her room.

“I am going to Fabian,” said Ursula. “How are we going to carry him upstairs?”

“I think he will be able to walk up,” Alleyn said. “Take him gently. I’ll get Grace to help put him to bed. Is he awake, do you know?”

“Not Douglas,” said Terence Lynne. “He sleeps like a log.”

Ursula said: “Has Fabian had another blackout, Mr. Alleyn?”

“I think so. Wait for me before you bring him.”

“Damn!” said Ursula. “Now, of course, he’ll think he can’t marry me. Come on, Terry.”

Terence went; not, Alleyn thought, over-willingly.

He knocked on Douglas Grace’s door and, receiving no answer, walked in and flashed his torch on a tousled head.

“Grace!”

“Wha-aa?” The clothes were flung back with a convulsive jerk and Douglas stared at him. “What d’you want to make me jump like that for?” he asked angrily and then blinked. “Sorry, sir. I was back at an advanced gun post. What’s up now?”

“Losse had had another blackout.”

Douglas gazed at Alleyn with his familiar air of affronted incredulity. “He will now,” Alleyn thought crossly, “repeat the last word I have uttered whenever I pause to draw breath.”

“Blackout,” said Douglas faithfully. “Oh, hell! How? When? Where?”

“Up near the annex. Half an hour ago. He went up there to collect my cigarette case.”

“I remember that,” cried Douglas triumphantly. “Is he still all out? Poor old Fab.”

“He’s conscious again, but he’s had a nasty crack on the head. Come and help me get him upstairs, will you?”

“Get him upstairs?” Douglas repeated, looking very startled. He reached for his dressing-gown. “I say,” he said. “This is pretty tough luck, isn’t it? I mean, what he said about Ursy and him?”

“Yes.”

“Half an hour ago,” said Douglas, thrusting his feet into his slippers. “That must have been just after we came up. I went out to the side lawn to have a look at the weather. He must have been up there then, good Lord.”

“Did you hear anything?”

Douglas gaped at him with his mouth open. “I heard the river,” he said. “That means there’s a southerly hanging round. Sure sign. You wouldn’t know.”

“No. Did you hear anything else?”

“Hear anything? What sort of thing?”

“Voices or footsteps.”

“Voices? Was he talking? Footsteps?”

“Let it pass,” said Alleyn. “Come on.”

They went down to the drawing-room.

Fabian was lying on the sofa with Ursula on a low stool beside him. Tommy Johns and Cliff stood awkwardly by the French windows looking at their boots. Markins, with precisely the correct shade of deferential concern, was setting out a tea tray with drinks. Terence Lynne stood composedly before the fire, which had been mended, and flickered its light richly in the folds of her crimson gown.

“Here, I say,” said Douglas. “This is no good, Fab. Damn bad luck.”

“Extremely tiresome,” Fabian murmured, looking at Ursula. He was still covered by grey blankets and Ursula had slid her hand beneath them. “Give the stretcher-bearers a drink, Douglas. They must need it.”

“You mustn’t,” said Ursula.

“See section four. Alcohol after cerebral injuries, abstain from.”

Markins moved away with decorum. “You must have a drink, Markins,” said Fabian weakly. Douglas looked scandalized.

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Markins primly.

“You’ll have whisky, won’t you, Tommy? Cliff?”

“I don’t mind,” said Tommy Johns. “The boy won’t take it, thank you.”

“He looks as if he wants it,” said Fabian, and indeed Cliff was very white.

“He doesn’t take whisky, thank you,” said his father, with uncomfortable emphasis.

“I think you ought to get to bed, Fab,” fussed Douglas. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Alleyn?”

“We’ll drink to your recovery when we’ve finished the job,” Alleyn said.

“I’m not going to be carried upstairs and don’t you think it.”

“Well then, you shall walk and Grace and I will see you up.”

“O.K.,” said Douglas amiably.

“One’s enough,” Fabian said peevishly. “I tell you, I’m all right. You give these poor swine a drink, Douglas. Mr. Alleyn started the rescue squad, didn’t he? He might like to finish the job.”

He sat up and grimaced. He was very white and his hands trembled.

“Please Fab, go slow,” said Ursula. “I’ll come and see you.”

“Come on,” Fabian said to Alleyn. He grinned at Ursula. “Thank you, darling,” he said. “I’d like you to come but not just yet, please.”

When they were outside in the hall, Fabian took Alleyn’s arm. “Sorry to appear churlish,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you. God, I do feel sick.”

Alleyn got him to bed. He was very docile. Remembering Markins’ story of the medicine cupboard in the bathroom, Alleyn raided it and found dressings. He clipped away the thick hair. The wound, a depression, swollen at the margin and broken only at the top, was seen to be clearly defined. He cleaned it and was about to put on a dressing when Fabian, who was lying face downwards on his pillow, said: “I didn’t get that by falling, did I? Some expert’s had a crack at me, hasn’t he?”

“What makes you think so?” said Alleyn, pausing with the lint in his fingers.

“After a fashion I can remember. I was on my feet when I got it. Where the main track branches off to the wool-shed. It felt just like the bump I got at Dunkirk only, thank the Lord, it’s not on the same spot. I think I called out. You needn’t bother to deny it. Somebody cracked me.”

“Any more ideas?”

“It was where that bank with a bit of scrub on it overhangs the track. I was coming back from the annex. There’s always water or ice lying about on the far side so I walked close in to the bank. Whoever it was must have been lying up there, waiting. But why? Why me?”

Alleyn dropped the lint over the wound and took up a length of strapping. “You were wearing my coat,” he said.

“Stay me with flagons!” Fabian whispered. “So I was.” And he was silent while Alleyn finished his dressing. He was comfortable enough lying on his side with a thick pad of cotton wool under his head. Alleyn tidied his room and when he turned back to the bed Fabian was already dozing. He slipped out.

Before going downstairs he visited the other bedrooms. There were no damp shoes in any of them. Douglas’ and Fabian’s working boots were evidently kept downstairs. “But it was something quieter than working boots,” Alleyn muttered and returned to the drawing-room.

He found the two Johnses on the point of departure and Markins about to remove the tray. Douglas, lying back in an armchair with his feet in the hearth and a pipe in his mouth, glanced up with evident relief. Terence Lynne had unearthed her inevitable knitting and, erect on the sofa, her feet to the fire, flashed her needles composedly. Ursula, who was speaking to Tommy Johns, went quickly to Alleyn.

“Is he all right? May I go up?”

“He’s comfortably asleep. I think it will be best to leave him. You may listen at his door presently.”

“We’ll be going,” said Tommy Johns. “Good night all.”

“Just a moment,” said Alleyn.

“Hullo!” Douglas looked up quickly. “What’s up now?” And before Alleyn could answer, he added sharply: “He is all right, isn’t he? I mean, shall I go down-country for a doctor? I could get back inside four hours if I stepped on it. We don’t want to take any risks with an injury to the head.”

“No,” Alleyn agreed, “we don’t. If you feel you want to do something of the sort, of course you may, but I fancy he’ll do very well. I’m sure his skull is not injured. It seems to have been a glancing blow.”

“A blow?” Terence Lynne’s voice struck harshly. Her mouth was open. The muscle of the upper lip was contracted, showing her teeth in the parody of a smile.

“But didn’t he fall on his head?” Douglas shouted.

“He fell on his face because he’d been struck on the back of the skull.”

“D’you mean someone attacked him?”

“I do.”

“Good God,” Douglas whispered.

Ursula stood before Alleyn, her hands jammed down in the pockets of her dressing-gown. Her voice shook but she held her chin up and looked squarely at him. “Does that mean somebody wanted to kill Fabian?” she said.

“It was a dangerous assault,” Alleyn said.

“But—” She moved quickly to the door. “I’m going to him,” she said. “He mustn’t be left alone.”

“Please stay here, Miss Harme. The house is locked up and I have the key of his door in my pocket. You see,” Alleyn said, “we are all in here, so he is quite safe.”

It was at this point that Terence Lynne, winding her hands in her scarlet knitting, broke into a fit of screaming hysteria.

Police officers are not unfamiliar with hysterics. Alleyn dealt crisply with Miss Lynne. While Tommy Johns and Douglas turned their backs, Cliff looked sick and Markins interested; Ursula, with considerable aplomb, offered to fetch a jug of cold water and pour it over the patient. This suggestion, combined with Alleyn’s less drastic treatment, had its effect. Miss Lynne grew quieter, rose, and walking to the far end of the room seemed to fight down savagely her own incontinence.

“Really, Terry,” Ursula said, “you of all people!”

“Shut up, Ursy,” said Douglas.

“Well, after all, Douglas darling, he’s my young man.”

Douglas glared at her and, after a moment’s hesitation, went to Terence Lynne and spoke to her in a low voice. Alleyn heard her say: “No! Please leave me alone. I’m all right. Please go away.” He returned, looking discomfited and portentous.

“I think Terence should be let off,” he said to Alleyn.

“I’m extremely sorry,” Alleyn returned, “but I’m afraid that’s impossible.” He moved to the fire-place and stood with his back to it, collecting their attention. It was an unpleasantly familiar moment and he was struck by the resemblance of all frightened people to each other. There was always a kind of blankness in their faces. They always watched him carefully, yet turned aside their gaze when he looked directly at them. There was always a tendency to draw together, to make a wary little mob of themselves, leaving him isolated.

He was isolated now, a tall figure, authoritative and watchful, unaware of himself, closely attentive to their self-consciousness.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I can’t let anybody off. I should tell you that at the moment it seems unlikely that this attack was made by one of the outside men. Each of you, therefore, will be well advised, in your own interest, to give an account of your movements since I left this room to go up to the annex for my cigarette case.”

“I can’t believe this is true,” said Ursula. “You sound exactly like a detective. For the first time.”

“I’m afraid I must behave like one. Will you all sit down? Suppose we start with you, Captain Grace.”

“Me? I say, look here, sir…”

“What did you do when I left the room?”

“Yes, well, what did I do? I was sitting here reading the paper when you came in, wasn’t I? Yes, well, you went out and I said: ‘D’you think I ought to go up with him—’ meaning you—‘and help him look for his blasted case?’ and nobody answered and I said: ‘Oh, well, how about a bit of shut-eye?’ and I wound up my watch and everybody pushed off. I went out on the side lawn here and had a squint at the sky. I always do that, last thing. Freshens you up. I think I heard you bang the back door.” Douglas paused and looked baffled. “At least I suppose it was really Fabian, wasn’t it, because you say he went. Well, I mean he must have gone if you found him up there, mustn’t he? Someone was moving up the track beyond the side fence. I thought it was probably one of the men. I called out ‘Good night’ but they didn’t answer. Well, I just came in and the others had gone, so I put the screen in front of the fire, got my candle and went upstairs. I tapped on Terry’s door and said good-night. I had a bath and went to my room, and then I heard you snooping about the passage and I wondered what was up because I’ve been a bit jumpy about people in the passage ever since…” Here Douglas paused and glanced at Markins. “However!” he said. “I called out: ‘Is that you, Fab?’ and you answered, you’ll remember, and I went to bed.”

“Any witnesses?” asked Alleyn. “Terence. I told you I tapped on her door.”

“Did you hear him?” Alleyn asked Ursula. “Yes. I heard,” she said. “I heard other people come upstairs, too, and move about after I went to bed, but I didn’t take any particular notice. I heard the pipes gurgle. I went to sleep almost at once. I was awakened by the sound of voices and boots downstairs, and I sort of knew something was wrong and came out on the landing where I met you.”

“Did you all go up together? You and Miss Lynne and Mrs. Aceworthy?”

“No, we straggled. The Ace-pot went first and I know she had a bath because she was in it when I wanted to brush my teeth. I remember hearing the telephone give our ring just before I came out of this room and I was going to answer it when I heard Fabian speaking. At least, I thought it was Fabian. You see I saw — I thought I saw you whisk out of doors.”

“You saw my overcoat whisk out.”

“Well,” said Ursula, “it’s very dark in the hall.”

She looked fixedly at Alleyn. “You swear he’s all right?”

“He was perfectly comfortable and sound asleep when I left him and he’s safe from any further assault. You can ring up a doctor when the Bureau opens in the morning, indeed I should like to get a medical opinion myself, or — is there anyone near the Pass on your party line?”

“Four miles,” said Douglas.

“If you’re anxious, couldn’t you get these people to drive over the Pass and ring up a doctor? I don’t think it’s necessary but isn’t it possible?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Ursula. “If I could just see him,” she added.

“Very well. When I’ve finished, you may go in with me, wake him up and ask him if he’s all right.”

“You can be rather a pig,” said Ursula, “can’t you?”

“This is a serious matter,” said Alleyn without emphasis.

She flushed delicately and he thought she was startled and bewildered by his disregard of her small attempt at lightness. “I know it is,” she said.

“You heard me answer the telephone, didn’t you, and thought I was Losse? You caught sight of him going out and mistook him for me. What did you do then?”

“I called out ‘Good- night’ to Terry, lit my candle and went upstairs. I undressed and when the Ace-pot came out of the bathroom I washed and brushed my teeth and went to bed.”

“Seeing nobody?”

“Only her — Mrs. Aceworthy.”

“And you, Miss Lynne? You were after Miss Harme?”

She had moved forward and stood behind Ursula. Douglas was close beside her but she seemed to be unaware of him. When he slipped his hand under her arm she freed herself, but with a slight movement as if she loosed a sleeve that had caught on a piece of furniture. She answered Alleyn rapidly, looking straight before her: “It was cold. Douglas had left the French window open. He was on the lawn. I said good-night to him and asked him to put the screen in front of the fire. He called out that he would. I went into the hall and lit my candle. I heard a voice in the study and was not sure if it was yours or Fabian’s. I went up to my room. Douglas came upstairs and tapped on my door. He said good-night. I put away some things I had been mending and then undressed. I heard someone come out of the bathroom, it was Mrs. Aceworthy’s step. Ursula said something to her. I–I read for a minute or two and then I went to the bathroom and returned and got into bed.”

“Did you go to sleep?”

“Not at once.”

“You read, perhaps?”

“Yes. For a — yes, I read.”

“What was your book?”

“Really,” said Ursula impatiently, “can it possibly matter?”

“It was some novel,” said Terence. “I’ve forgotten the title. Some spy story, I think it is.”

“And you were still awake when I came upstairs and spoke to Miss Harme?”

“I was still awake.”

“Yes, your candles were alight. Were you still reading?”

“Yes,” she said, after a pause.

“The spy story must have had some merit,” Alleyn said with a smile. She ran her tongue over her lips.

“Did you hear anyone other than Mrs. Aceworthy and Miss Harme come upstairs?”

“Yes. More than one person. I thought I heard you speaking to Fabian or Douglas. Or it might have been Fabian speaking to Douglas. Your voices are alike.”

“Anyone on the backstairs?”

“I couldn’t hear from my room.”

“Did you use the backstairs at all, during this period, Markins?”

“No, sir,” said Markins woodenly.

“I’d like to hear what Markins was doing,” said Douglas suddenly.

“He has already given me an account of his movements,” Alleyn rejoined. “He was on his way up the back path to the track when he thought he saw me. Later he heard a voice which he mistook for mine. He continued on his way and met nobody. He visited the manager’s cottage and returned. I met him. Together we explored the track and discovered Losse, lying unconscious on the branch track near the wool-shed.”

“So,” said Douglas, raising an extremely obvious eyebrow at Alleyn, “Markins was almost on the spot at the critical time.” Alleyn heard Markins sigh windily. Tommy Johns said quickly: “He was up at our place, Captain, and I talked to him. There’s nothing funny about that.”

“Supposing we take you next, Mr. Johns,” said Alleyn. “Were you at home all the evening?”

“I went down to the ram paddock after tea — about half-past six, it was, and I looked in at the men’s quarters on my way back. That lovely cook of theirs has made a job of it this time, Captain. Him and Albert are both packed up. Singing hymns and heading for the willies.”

“Tcha!” said Douglas.

“And then?” Alleyn asked.

“I went home. The half-past seven program started up on the radio just after I got in. I didn’t go out again.”

“And Markins arrived — when?”

“Round about a quarter to eight. The eight o’clock program came on just as he left.”

“It was a quarter to eight by radio when I left here, sir,” said Markins, “and five past when I got back and wound the kitchen clock.”

“You seem to have taken an interest in the time,” said Douglas, staring at him.

“I always do, sir. Yes.”

“Mr. Johns,” said Alleyn, “have you witnesses that you stayed at home from half-past seven onwards?”

Tommy Johns drew down his brows and stuck out his upper lip. “He is like a monkey,” Alleyn thought.

“The wife was about,” said Tommy. “Her and Mrs. Duck. Mrs. Duck dropped in after she’d finished here.”

“Ah, yes,” Alleyn thought. “The wife!” And aloud he said: “They were in the room with you?”

“They were in the front room. Some of the time. I was in the kitchen.”

“With Cliff?”

“That’s right,” said Tommy Johns quickly.

“Except for the time when you sent Cliff down here with the paper?”

Cliff made a brusque movement with his hands.

“Oh that!” said Tommy loudly, too easily. “Yes, that’s right, he ran down with it, didn’t he? That’s right. Only away a minute or two. I’d forgotten.”

“You came here,” Alleyn said to Cliff, “while I was in the room. You went away as I was saying I’d left my cigarette case in the annex and would go and fetch it.”

“I never heard that,” said Cliff. He cleared his throat and added hurriedly, as if the words were irrelevant: “I went straight back. I went out by the kitchen door. Mr. Markins saw me. I was home when he came up a few minutes later. I never heard anything about anybody going out from here.”

“Did you hear or see Mr. Losse, or anyone at all, as you went back?”

“How could I? He left after me. I mean,” said Cliff, turning very white, “he must have left after me because he was here when I went away.”

“No. He was upstairs.”

“I mean upstairs. He was going upstairs when I came out.”

“I see. Which way did you take going home?”

“The kitchen path. Then I cut across the hill and through the fence. That brings you out on the main track, just below the fork off to the wool-shed.”

“And you heard nothing of anyone else?”

“When I got above the annex I heard a door slam down below. That would be Mr. Markins coming out. He turned up at our place a couple of minutes after I got in. He followed me up.”

“Was it to you that Captain Grace called ‘Good night’ from the lawn?” Cliff looked at Douglas and away again.

“Not to me,” he said. “Anyway I didn’t think so.”

“But you heard him?”

“I did just hear.”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“I didn’t reckon it was me he called out to. I was away up on the kitchen path.”

“Did you hear anyone on the track?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Someone was there,” said Douglas positively and stared at Markins.

“Well, I didn’t hear them,” Cliff insisted.

His father scowled anxiously. “You want to be sure of that,” he said. “Look, could you swear you didn’t hear somebody on the track? Put it that way. Could you swear?”

“You’d make a good barrister, Mr. Johns,” said Alleyn with a smile.

“I don’t know anything about that,” said Johns angrily, “but I reckon Cliff needs a lawyer to stand by before he says anything else. You close down, and don’t talk, son.”

“I haven’t done anything, Dad.”

“Never mind that. Keep quiet. They’ll trip you into making a fool of yourself.”

“I’ve only one more question in any case, Cliff,” said Alleyn. “Once at home, did you go out again?”

“No. I sat in the kitchen with Dad and Mr. Markins. I was still there when Markins came back the second time to say there’d been an accident.”

“All right.” Alleyn moved away from the fire-place and sat on the arm of the sofa. His audience also shifted a little, like sheep, he thought, keeping an eye on the dog.

“Well,” he said. “That about covers the collective questions. I’d like to see some of you individually. I think, Grace, that you and I had better have a consultation, hadn’t we?”

“By all means,” said Douglas, looking a little as if he had been summoned to preside over a court-martial. “I quite agree, sir.”

“Perhaps we could move into the study for a moment. I’d like you all to stay here, if you don’t mind. We shan’t be long.”

The study was piercingly cold. Douglas lit a lamp and the fire, and they sat together on the wooden fender while, above them, Florence Rubrick’s portrait stared at nothing.

“I don’t think Losse ought to be bothered with a plan of action, just yet,” Alleyn said. “Do you?”

“Oh, no. Good Lord, no.”

“I wanted to consult you about our next move. I’ll have to report this business to the police, you know.”

“Oh, God!”

“Well, I’ll have to.”

“They’re such hopeless chaps, sir. And to have them mucking about again with notebooks! However! I quite see. It’s not altogether your affair, is it?”

“Only in so far as I was the intended victim,” said Alleyn dryly.

“You know,” Douglas muttered with owlish concern, “I’d come to that conclusion myself. Disgraceful, you know.”

Alleyn disregarded this quaint reflection on the ethics of attempted murder.

“They may,” he said, “ask me to carry on for a bit, or they may come fuming up here themselves, but the decision rests with them.”

“Quite. Well, I jolly well hope they do leave it to you. I’m sure we all feel like that about it.”

“Including the assailant, do you suppose?”

Douglas pulled his moustache. “Hardly,” he said. “That joker would be quite a lot happier without you, I imagine.” He laughed heartily.

“Evidently. But of course he may choose to have another whack at me.”

“Don’t you worry, sir,” said Douglas kindly. “We’ll look after that.”

His complacency irritated Alleyn. “Who’s we?” he asked.

“I’ll make it my personal responsibility—”

“You,” said Alleyn warmly. “My dear man, you’re a suspect. How do I know you won’t come after me with a bludgeon?”

Douglas turned scarlet. “I don’t know if you’re serious, Mr. Alleyn,” he began, but Alleyn interrupted him.

“Of course I’m serious.”

“In that case,” said Douglas grandly, “there’s no more to be said.”

“There’s this much to be said. If you’ll prove to me that you couldn’t have dodged up that blasted track and had a whack at poor Losse, I’ll be profoundly grateful to you. There are too many suspects in this case. The house is littered with them.”

“I’ve told you,” said Douglas, who seemed to hover between alarm and disapproval. “I’ve told you what I did. I went out on the lawn and I came upstairs and knocked at Terry’s door. I said good-night.”

“Most unnecessary. You’d already said good-night to her. You might have been establishing an alibi.”

“Good God, you saw me yourself when you came upstairs!”

“Fully ten minutes later. Longer.”

“I was in my pyjamas,” Douglas shouted.

“I saw you. Your pyjamas prove nothing. I’m completely unmoved by your pyjamas.”

“Look here, this is too much. Why would I want to go for Fabian? I’m fond of him. We’re partners. Good Lord,” Douglas fumed, “you can’t mean what you’re saying! Haven’t I urged him to be careful over the work? Why should I go for old Fab?”

“For me.”

“Damn! For you, then. You’re supposed to be the blasted expert.”

“And as an expert, God save the mark, I’m keeping my eye on the whole boiling of you, and that’s flat.”

“Well I don’t think you put it very nicely,” said Douglas, staring at him, and he added angrily, “What’s the matter with your face?”

“Somebody hit it. It’s very stiff and has probably turned purple.”

Douglas gaped at him. “Hit you!” he repeated.

“Yes, but it’s of the smallest consequence, now you’ve appointed yourself my guardian.”

“Who hit you?”

“It’s a secret at the moment.”

“Here!” said Douglas loudly. “Are you pulling my leg?” He looked anxiously at Alleyn. “It’s a funny sort of way to behave,” he said dubiously. “Oh, well,” he added, “I’m sorry if I got my rag out, sir.”

“Not a bit,” said Alleyn. “It’s always irritating to be a suspect.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep on like that,” said Douglas fretfully. “It’s damned unpleasant. I hoped I might be allowed to help. I’d like to help.”

“We’re talking in circles. Beat me up a respectable alibi, with witnesses, for the murder of your aunt and the attack on Losse and I’ll take you to my professional bosom with alacrity.”

“By God,” said Douglas with feeling, “I wish I could.”

“In the meantime, will you, without prejudice, undertake to do three things for me?”

“Of course!” he said stiffly. “Anything at all. Naturally.”

“The first is to see I get a fair field and no interference in the wool-shed, from daybreak to-morrow until I let you know I’ve finished. I can’t do any good there at night, by the light of a farthing dip.”

“Right-o, sir. Can do.”

“The second is to tell the others in confidence that I propose to spend the night in the wool-shed. That’ll prevent any unlawful espials up there, and give me a chance to get the tag end of a night’s sleep in my room. Actually, I can’t start work until daybreak, but they’re not to know that. After daybreak we’ll keep the shed, the track and the precincts generally clear of intruders, but you need say nothing about that. Let them suppose I’m going up there now and that you oughtn’t to tell them. Let them suppose that I want them to believe I’m going to my room.”

“They won’t think that kind of thing very like me,” said Douglas solemnly. “I’m not the sort to cackle, you know.”

“You’ll have to do a bit of acting. Make them understand that you’re not supposed to tell them. That’s most important.”

“O.K. What’s the third duty?”

“Oh,” said Alleyn wearily, “to lend me an alarm clock or knock me up before the household’s astir. Unless somebody shakes me up I’ll miss the bus. I wish to heaven you’d carried your electricity over to the shed. There’s important evidence lying there for the taking, but I must have light. Are you sure you follow me? Actually I’m going to my room. They are to suppose I’m going to the wool-shed, but want to be thought in bed.”

“Yes,” said Douglas. “I’ve got that. Jolly subtle.”

“Will you give me an alarm clock, or call me?”

“I’ll call you,” said Douglas, who had begun to look portentous and tolerably happy again.

“Good. And now ask Miss Lynne to come in here, will you?”

“Terry? I say, couldn’t you… I mean… well she’s had a pretty rough spin to-night. Couldn’t you…”

“No,” said Alleyn very firmly. “With homicide waiting to be served up cold on a plate, I’m afraid I couldn’t. Get her, like a good chap, and deliver your illicit information. Don’t forget Markins.”

Douglas moved unhappily to the door. Here he paused and a faint glint of complacency appeared on his face.

“Markins, what?” he said. His eyes travelled to Alleyn’s jaw. “I’m not one to ask questions out of my turn,” he said, “but I bet it was Markins.”

Terence was some time coming. Alleyn built up the fire and thawed himself out. He was caught on a wave of nostalgia: for Troy, his wife; for London; for Inspector Fox with whom he was accustomed to work; for his own country and his own people. If this had been a routine case from the Yard he and Fox would, at its present stage, have gone into one of their huddles, staring at each other meditatively over their pipes. He could see old Fox, now; his large unspeaking face, his grave attentiveness, his huge passive fists. And when it was over, there would be Troy, hugging her knees on the hearthrug and bringing him a sense of peace and communion. “She is nice,” he thought. “I do like my wife,” and he felt a kind of panic that he was so far away from her. With a sigh, he dismissed his mood and returned to the house on the slopes of Mount Moon and felt again the silence of the plateau beyond the windows and the austerity of the night.

A door banged and someone crossed the hall. It was Terence Lynne.

She made a sedate entrance, holding herself very erect, and looking straight before her. He noticed that she had powdered her face and done her lips. Evidently she had visited her room. He wondered if the book was still tucked down between the sheets.

“All right now?” he asked and pushed a chair up to the fire.

“Quite, thank you.”

“Sit down, won’t you? We’ll get it over quickly.”

She did as he suggested, at once, stiffly, as if she obeyed an order.

“Miss Lynne,” Alleyn said, “I’m afraid I must ask you to let me read that diary.”

He felt her hatred, as if it were something physical that she secreted and used against him. “I wasn’t mistaken after all,” she said. “I was right to think you would go back to my room. That’s what you’re like. That’s the sort of thing you do.”

“Yes, that’s the sort of thing I do. I could have taken it away with me, you know.”

“I can’t imagine why you didn’t.”

“Will you please wait here, now, while I get it?”

“I refuse to let you see it.”

“In that case I must lock your room and report to the police in the morning. They will come up with a search warrant and take the whole thing over themselves.”

Her hands trembled. She looked at them irritably and pressed them together in the folds of her gown. “Wait a minute,” she said. “There’s something I must say to you. Wait.”

“Of course,” he said and turned away.

After perhaps a minute she began to speak slowly and carefully. “What I am going to tell you is the exact truth. Until an hour ago I would have been afraid to let you see it. There is something written there that you would have misinterpreted. Now you would not misinterpret it. There is nothing in it that could help you. It is because the thought of your reading it is distasteful to me that I want to keep it from you. I swear that is all. I solemnly swear it.”

“You must know,” he said, “that I can’t act on an assurance of that sort. Surely you must know.” She leant forward, resting her forehead on her hand and pushing her hair back from it. “If it is as you say,” Alleyn continued, “you must try to think of me as something quite impersonal, as indeed I am. I have read many scores of such documents, written for one reader only, and have laid them aside and put them from my mind. But I must see it or, if I don’t, the police must do so. Which is it to be?”

“Does it matter?” she said harshly. “You then. You know where it is. Go and get it, but don’t let me see it in your hands.”

“Before I go, there is one question. Why, when we discussed the search for the brooch, did you tell us you didn’t meet Arthur Rubrick in the long walk below the tennis-court?”

“I still say so.”

“No, no. You’re an intelligent person. You heard what Losse and Grace said about the search. It was obvious you must have met him.” He paused, and the memory returned to him of Fabian muttering: “Terry! Oh Lord, I do wish I hadn’t got up here. Silly old man!” He sat on the wooden fender, facing Terence Lynne. “Come,” he said, “there was an encounter, wasn’t there? A significant encounter? Something happened that would speak for itself to an observer at some distance.”

“Who was it? Was it Douglas? Ursula?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“If you know as much as this,” she said, “you know, unless you’re trying to trap me, that he — he put his arms about me and kissed me. There’s nothing left. Everything has been coarsened now, and made common.”

“Isn’t there something unsound in a happiness that fades in the light? I know this particular light is harsh and painful for you but it is a passing thing. When it’s gone you will still have your remembrances—” He broke off for a moment and then added deliberately, “Whatever happens.”

She said impatiently: “Within the last hour everything has altered. I told you. You don’t understand.”

“I’ve got an inkling,” he said. “Within the last hour there has been an attempt at a second murder. You think, don’t you, that I’m saying to myself: ‘This attempt follows, in character, the attack on Mrs. Rubrick. Therefore it has been made by Mrs. Rubrick’s assailant!’ ”

Terence looked attentively at him, a wary sidelong glance. She seemed to take alarm and rose quickly, facing him. “What do you mean…”

“You think,” said Alleyn, “that because Arthur Rubrick is dead, I cannot suspect him of the murder of his wife.”