The Seven Dials Mystery

Chapter 25 JIMMY LAYS HIS PLANS

Jimmy Thesiger was feeling depressed. Avoiding George, whom he suspected of being ready to tackle him on serious subjects, he stole quietly away after lunch. Proficient as he was in details of the Santa Fй boundary dispute, he had no wish to stand an examination on it this minute.

Presently what he hoped would happen came to pass. Loraine Wade, also unaccompanied, strolled down one of the shady garden paths. In a moment Jimmy was by her side. They walked for some minutes in silence and then Jimmy said tentatively:

"Loraine?"

"Yes?"

"Look here, I'm a bad chap at putting things – but what about it? What's wrong with getting a special licence and being married and living together happy ever afterwards?"

Loraine displayed no embarrassment at this surprising proposal. Instead she threw back her head and laughed frankly.

"Don't laugh at a chap," said Jimmy reproachfully.

"I can't help it. You were so funny."

"Loraine – you are a little devil."

"I'm not. I'm what's called a thoroughly nice girl."

"Only to those who don't know you – who are taken in by your delusive appearance of meekness and decorum."

"I like your long words."

"All out of crossword puzzles."

"So educative."

"Loraine, dear, don't beat about the bush. Will you or won't you?"

Loraine's face sobered. It took on its characteristic appearance of determination. Her small mouth hardened and her little chin shot out aggressively.

"No, Jimmy. Not while things are as they are at present – all unfinished."

"I know we haven't done what we set out to do," agreed Jimmy. "But all the same – well, it's the end of a chapter. The papers are safe at the Air Ministry. Virtue triumphant. And – for the moment – nothing doing."

"So – let's get married?" said Loraine with a slight smile.

"You've said it. Precisely the idea."

But again Loraine shook her head.

"No, Jimmy. Until this thing's rounded up – until we're safe –"

"You think we're in danger?"

"Don't you?"

Jimmy's cherubic pink face clouded over.

"You're right," he said at last. "If that extraordinary rigmarole of Bundle's is true – and I suppose, incredible as it sounds, it must be true – then we're not safe till we've settled with – No. 7!"

"And the others?"

"No – the others don't count. It's No. 7 with his own ways of working that frightens me. Because I don't know who he is or where to look for him."

Loraine shivered.

"I've been frightened," she said in a low voice. "Ever since Gerry's death…"

"You needn't be frightened. There's nothing for you to be frightened about. You leave everything to me. I tell you, Loraine – I'll get No. 7 yet. Once we get him – well, I don't think there'll be much trouble with the rest of the gang, whoever they are."

"If you get him – and suppose he gets you?"

"Impossible," said Jimmy cheerfully. "I'm much too clever. Always have a good opinion of yourself – that's my motto."

"When I think of the things that might have happened last night –" Loraine shivered.

"Well, they didn't," said Jimmy. "We're both here, safe and sound – though I must admit my arm is confoundedly painful."

"Poor boy."

"Oh, one must expect to suffer in a good cause. And what with my wounds and my cheerful conversation, I've made a complete conquest of Lady Coote."

"Oh! Do you think that important?"

"I've an idea it may come in useful."

"You've got some plan in your mind, Jimmy. What is it?"

"The young hero never tells his plans," said Jimmy firmly. "They mature in the dark."

"You are an idiot, Jimmy."

"I know, I know. That's what everyone says. But I can assure you, Loraine, there's a lot of brain-work going on underneath. Now what about your plans? Got any?"

"Bundle has suggested that I should go to Chimneys with her for a bit."

"Excellent," said Jimmy approvingly. "Nothing could be better. I'd like an eye kept on Bundle anyway. You never know what mad thing she won't be up to next. She's so frightfully unexpected. And the worst of it is, she's so astonishingly successful. I tell you, keeping Bundle out of mischief is a whole-time job."

"Bill ought to look after her," suggested Loraine.

"Bill's pretty busy elsewhere."

"Don't you believe it," said Loraine.

"What? Not the Countess? But the lad's potty about her."

Loraine continued to shake her head.

"There's something there I don't quite understand. But it's not the Countess with Bill – it's Bundle. Why, this morning Bill was talking to me when Mr. Lomax came out and sat down by Bundle. He took her hand or something, and Bill was off like – like a rocket."

"What a curious taste some people have," observed Mr. Thesiger. "Fancy anyone who was talking to you wanting to do anything else. But you surprise me very much, Loraine. I thought our simple Bill was enmeshed in the toils of the beautiful foreign adventuress. Bundle thinks so, I know."

"Bundle may," said Loraine. "But I tell you, Jimmy, it isn't so."

"Then what's the big idea?"

"Don't you think it possible that Bill is doing a bit of sleuthing on his own?"

"Bill? He hasn't got the brains."

"I'm not so sure. When a simple, muscular person like Bill does set out to be subtle, no one ever gives him credit for it."

"And in consequence he can put in some good work. Yes, there's something in that. But all the same I'd never have thought it of Bill. He's doing the Countess's little woolly lamb to perfection. I think you're wrong, you know, Loraine. The Countess is an extraordinarily beautiful woman – not my type of course," put in Mr. Thesiger hastily – "and old Bill has always had a heart like an hotel."

Loraine shook her head, unconvinced.

"Well," said Jimmy, "have it your own way. We seem to have more or less settled things. You go back with Bundle to Chimneys, and for heaven's sake keep her from poking about in that Seven Dials place again. Heaven knows what will happen if she does."

Loraine nodded.

"And now," said Jimmy, "I think a few words with Lady Coote would be advisable."

Lady Coote was sitting on a garden seat doing wool-work. The subject was a disconsolate and somewhat misshapen young woman weeping over an urn.

Lady Coote made room for Jimmy by her side, and he promptly, being a tactful young man, admired her work.

"Do you like it?" said Lady Coote, pleased. "It was begun by my Aunt Selina the week before she died. Cancer of the liver, poor thing."

"How beastly," said Jimmy.

"And how is the arm?"

"Oh, it's feeling quite all right. Bit of a nuisance and all that, you know."

"You'll have to be careful," said Lady Coote in a warning voice. "I've known blood poisoning set in – and in that case you might lose your arm altogether."

"Oh! I say, I hope not."

"I'm only warning you," said Lady Coote.

"Where are you hanging out now?" inquired Mr. Thesiger. "Town – or where?"

Considering that he knew the answer to his query perfectly well, he put the question with a praiseworthy amount of ingenuousness.

Lady Coote sighed heavily.

"Sir Oswald has taken the Duke of Alton's place. Letherbury. You know it, perhaps?"

"Oh, rather. Topping place, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Lady Coote. "It's a very large place, and gloomy, you know. Rows of picture galleries with such forbidding-looking people. What they call Old Masters are very depressing, I think. You should have seen a little house we had in Yorkshire , Mr. Thesiger. When Sir Oswald was plain Mr. Coote. Such a nice lounge hall and a cheerful drawing-room with an inglenook – a white striped paper with a frieze of wistaria I chose for it, I remember. Satin stripe, you know, not moire. Much better taste, I always think. The dining-room faced north-east, so we didn't get much sun in it, but with a good bright scarlet paper and a set of those comic hunting prints – why, it was as cheerful as Christmas."

In the excitement of these reminiscences, Lady Coote dropped several little balls of wool, which Jimmy dutifully retrieved.

"Thank you, my dear," said Lady Coote. "Now, what was I saying? Oh – about houses – yes, I do like a cheerful house. And choosing things for it gives you an interest."

"I suppose Sir Oswald will be buying a place of his own one of these days," suggested Jimmy. "And then you can have it just as you like."

Lady Coote shook her head sadly.

"Sir Oswald talks of a firm doing it – and you know what that means."

"Oh! But they'd consult you!"

"It would be one of those grand places – all for the antique. They'd look down on the things I call comfortable and homey. Not but that Sir Oswald wasn't very comfortable and satisfied in his home always, and I daresay his tastes are just the same underneath. But nothing will suit him now but the best! He's got on wonderfully, and naturally he wants something to show for it, but many's the time I wonder where it will end."

Jimmy looked sympathetic.

"It's like a runaway horse," said Lady Coote. "Got the bit between its teeth and away it goes. It's the same with Sir Oswald. He's got on, and he's got on, till he can't stop getting on. He's one of the richest men in England – but does that satisfy him? No, he wants still more. He wants to be – I don't know what he wants to be! I can tell you, it frightens me sometimes!"

"Like the Persian Johnny," said Jimmy, "who went about wailing for fresh worlds to conquer."

Lady Coote nodded acquiescence without much knowing what Jimmy was talking about.

"What I wonder is – will his stomach stand it?" she went on tearfully. "To have him an invalid – with his ideas – oh, it won't bear thinking of."

"He looks very hearty," said Jimmy, consolingly.

"He's got something on his mind," said Lady Coote. "Worried, that's what he is. I know."

"What's he worried about?"

"I don't know. Perhaps something at the works. It's a great comfort for him having Mr. Bateman. Such an earnest young man – and so conscientious."

"Marvellously conscientious," agreed Jimmy.

"Oswald thinks a lot of Mr. Bateman's judgment. He says that Mr. Bateman is always right."

"That was one of his worst characteristics years ago," said Jimmy feelingly.

Lady Coote looked slightly puzzled.

"That was an awfully jolly weekend I had with you at Chimneys," said Jimmy. "I mean it would have been awfully jolly if it hadn't been for poor old Gerry kicking the bucket. Jolly nice girls."

"I find girls very perplexing," said Lady Coote. "Not romantic, you know. Why, I embroidered some handkerchiefs for Sir Oswald with my own hair when we were engaged."

"Did you?" said Jimmy. "How marvellous. But I suppose girls haven't got long enough hair to do that nowadays."

"That's true," admitted Lady Coote. "But, oh, it shows in lots of other ways. I remember when I was a girl, one of my – well, my young men – picked up a handful of gravel, and a girl who was with me said at once that he was treasuring it because my feet had trodden on it. Such a pretty idea, I thought. Though it turned out afterwards that he was taking a course of mineralogy – or do I mean geology? – at a technical school. But I liked the idea – and stealing a girl's handkerchief and treasuring it – all those sort of things."

"Awkward if the girl wanted to blow her nose," said the practical Mr. Thesiger.

Lady Coote laid down her wool-work and looked searchingly but kindly at him.

"Come now," she said. "Isn't there some nice girl that you fancy? That you'd like to work and make a little home for?"

Jimmy blushed and mumbled.

"I thought you got on very well with one of those girls at Chimneys that time – Vera Daventry."

"Socks?"

"They do call her that," admitted Lady Coote. "I can't think why. It isn't pretty."

"Oh, she's a topper," said Jimmy. "I'd like to meet her again."

"She's coming down to stay with us next weekend."

"Is she?" said Jimmy, trying to infuse a large amount of wistful longing into the two words.

"Yes. Would – would you like to come?"

"I would," said Jimmy heartily. "Thanks ever so much, Lady Coote."

And reiterating fervent thanks, he left her.

Sir Oswald presently joined his wife.

"What has that young jackanapes been boring you about?" he demanded. "I can't stand that young fellow."

"He's a dear boy," said Lady Coote. "And so brave. Look how he got wounded last night."

"Yes, messing around where he'd no business to be."

"I think you're very unfair, Oswald."

"Never done an honest day's work in his life. A real waster if there ever was one. He'd never get on if he had his way to make in the world."

"You must have got your feet damp last night," said Lady Coote. "I hope you won't get pneumonia. Freddie Richards died of it the other day. Dear me, Oswald, it makes my blood run cold to think of you wandering about with a dangerous burglar loose in the grounds. He might have shot you. I've asked Mr. Thesiger down for next weekend, by the way."

"Nonsense," said Sir Oswald. "I won't have that young man in my house, do you hear, Maria?"

"Why not?"

"That's my business."

"I'm so sorry, dear," said Lady Coote placidly. "I've asked him now, so it can't be helped. Pick up that ball of pink wool, will you, Oswald?"

Sir Oswald complied, his face black as thunder. He looked at his wife and hesitated. Lady Coote was placidly threading her wool needle.

"I particularly don't want Thesiger down next weekend," he said at last. "I've heard a good deal about him from Bateman. He was at school with him."

"What did Mr. Bateman say?"

"He'd no good to say of him. In fact, he warned me very seriously against him."

"He did, did he?" said Lady Coote thoughtfully.

"And I have the highest respect for Bateman's judgment. I've never known him wrong."

"Dear me," said Lady Coote. "What a mess I seem to have made of things. Of course, I should never have asked him if I had known. You should have told me all this before, Oswald. It's too late now."

She began to roll up her work very carefully. Sir Oswald looked at her, made as if to speak, then shrugged his shoulders. He followed her into the house. Lady Coote, walking ahead, wore a very faint smile on her face. She was fond of her husband, but she was also fond – in a quiet, unobtrusive, wholly womanly manner – of getting her own way.