Wicked Uncle

Chapter XXXI

It was to take longer than that. Not because of the distance, since the Grange lay on the outskirts of the village, with no more than a quarter of a mile between its pillared gateway and the creaking sign which displayed a gold ram, rather tarnished, on a green field a good deal the worse for wear. Frank Abbott, walking briskly, passed the corner where the church with its squat Saxon tower crouched behind a row of monumental yews so black and solid that they might have been a wall, except that they were darker than any masonry could be. A hundred yards down the lane was the entrance to the Grange. He had a flashlight in the pocket of his overcoat, but he preferred not to use it. He had been country-reared, and knew how quickly the eye accommodates itself-after a few moments of blindness the skyline becomes evident, hedgerows can be discerned.

The grey pillars which marked the gateway to the Grange caught some of the diffused light from a cloud-covered moon. He passed between them, the gate being open, and heard, a long way off up the drive, the sound of running footsteps. He heard them, but no sooner had he done so than they ceased. It was as quick as that. He was left with the certainty that he had heard someone running. He shifted his suit-case to his left hand, got hold of his torch, and proceeded up the drive. It was a long drive, leafless trees overhead and dead flat fields on either side. There was a sharp double bend like an S, with a pond catching the light in one curve, and a mass of what looked like old holly-bushes in the other.

It was when he was opposite the hollies that, standing still to listen, he heard a twig snap and saw something move. In a moment his hand swung up with the torch. The beam picked out a man’s face-an arm thrown up to screen it. But not quite quickly enough. Frank Abbott called out “Oakley!” and Martin Oakley stood his ground.

“Who’s that?”

There was something in his voice-something curious, desperate.

Frank said, “Abbott,” and crossed the space between them.

“What’s up?”

Something very odd here. The man was breathing as if he had been running for his life. It was all he could do to get enough of that hard-caught breath to speak with, and then it was only a single word-a name.

“Carroll-”

“What about him?”

“Dead-”

“Do you mean that?”

Martin Oakley had him by the arm. There was a frightful tension about his grip.

“He’s dead-”

“Where?”

“Up by the house.” He had his breath now. The words came pouring out. “I didn’t do it-I swear I didn’t! I came to see him, but he was dead when I got there. He rang up. I tell you he hinted the foulest things. What sort of mind has a man got to do a thing like that? I don’t know if it was blackmail he was after.”

Abbott had been holding the torch so that the beam slanted downwards. He turned it sharply now to let the light shine upon Martin Oakley’s face. He blinked and threw up a hand. The tumbling words checked. Frank said,

“I wouldn’t talk if I were you-unless you want to make a confession.”

“I never touched him. Take that light away!” He stepped back out of its range, his hand still up to shield his face.

Abbott said dispassionately,

“Well, just bear in mind that anything you say is liable to be used in evidence against you.”

“I tell you I never touched him!”

“All right. You’d better come along and show me where he is.”

The drive wound back to skirt a peace of woodland. Frank Abbott thought the man who planned it had gone out of his way to make it as long as possible. Chesterton’s “rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road,” just slid into his mind and out again. Of course that was why he had heard Oakley when he began to run. He had been actually nearer the house then than for most of the rest of the way. Half the lanes in England were like that-you went away from the place you were going to, and then came back to it again.

They were coming back to it now. The drive came out on a gravel sweep- “That’s where I heard him run. He must have been scared crazy to run on the gravel.” He said aloud,

“Which way?” And Martin Oakley said, “Round here to the left.”

There was a belt of shrubbery, not very thick-light leafless tracery of lilac and syringa, with a dense blackness here and there of holly and yew, a path threading it to come out upon a small paved court at the side of the house. Huddled on the paving stones, Leonard Carroll lying crookedly with the back of his head smashed in.

Martin Oakley said, “He’s dead. I didn’t touch him.”

“Somebody did,” said Frank Abbott coolly.

He stepped forward, felt the dead man’s wrist, and found it warm. He stepped back again. Then he sent the beam of the torch travelling here and there. The flags lay damp and furred with moss. Where they met the wall of the house there was a withered growth of fern, the old fronds brown and broken, the new ones curled hard upon themselves like fossils, sheltering against the January frosts. There was no sign of a weapon. The beam slid up the walls and showed rows of casement windows closed and curtained. On the ground floor all the windows shut. No light anywhere to answer the wandering beam.

Abbott said sharply, “Who sleeps this side?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Then how did you come here?”

“I came to see him.”

“But why here? What brought you here?”

Oakley fetched one of those hard breaths.

“My God, Abbott-you can’t put it on me! I tell you I was coming to see him.”

“What brought you here-round to the side of the house?”

“I came up to the front door. It was only just after ten when he telephoned. I made up my mind to see him, to find out what he meant. I came up to the front door. I thought I heard voices away over here on the left. The front of the house was all dark. I stepped back to listen. I thought I heard my own name. I came this way. My feet made a noise on the gravel. I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear any more. I had a torch. I did stop to listen once. I thought I heard someone. I called out, ‘Carroll, is that you?’ There wasn’t any answer. I went on, and found him lying here the way he is now. I didn’t touch him-I swear I didn’t!”

“You didn’t think of giving the alarm?”

“I only thought about getting away. I’m afraid I lost my head a bit. I’d come over to see him, and there he was-dead. My one idea was to get away. I started to run, but when I got on to the gravel I realized what a row I was making and stopped. I tried not to make any more noise. Then I bumped into you. That’s the absolute truth.”

Frank Abbott wondered. He said,

“We’d better go up to the house.”