Fen Country (5 page)

Fen considered the prospect and found it not much to his liking. At the same time, the situation had possibilities which Sir Gerald either had not realized or else had not thought fit to specify; and in the latter event it was Fen’s positive
duty
to go…

The court proceedings—the charge, the evidence, the expected fine—passed without incident. Emerging from the courtroom, Ainsworth found the little group of three awaiting him in the corridor outside; and, incongruous in his dinner jacket, listened in silence while Sir Gerald brusquely outlined the situation and made his proposal. Then he turned to Jane.

“Do
you
want me to submit to this?” he asked.

Jane McComas’s auburn hair gleamed in the weak sunlight as she raised her head to look steadily at him. “No,” she breathed. “No darling,
no
. Call his bluff. Let him tell the police. You haven’t got anything to be afraid of.”

“No?” Ainsworth raised his eyebrows. “Not even the scandal? I’m sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid that if I’m going to go on being a barrister, I simply
must
choose the discreeter alternative of the two…”

And with that he moved off abruptly. “Let’s get it over with,” he said, “shall we?”

As things turned out, it was Fen who actually found the drawing. The tacks holding down the insole of Ainsworth’s left shoe had been rooted up, and the folded paper inserted beneath; the insole had then been pressed back into place.

“So that,” said Sir Gerald heavily, “is that.” And he went into the adjoining room to fetch Jane. Fen, however, remained with Ainsworth; and after a little reflection said:

“Ainsworth, just
when
did you hide this drawing in the shoe?”

The young man looked up briefly, and Fen was interested to note that he hesitated perceptibly before replying. “If you must know,” he said, “I had it under my shirt to start with, and then put it into the shoe in my cell during the night. Any more questions?”

Fen considered. “Yes, two, I think. And here’s the first of them. Is Jane McComas fond of her father, would you say?’

Ainsworth seemed momentarily bewildered by this. “Not really very fond, no,’ he said. “But—”

‘Thanks. And the other thing I want to know is whether, from start to finish, there was any occasion apart from your… your pernoctation in the cell when the drawing could have been transferred to the shoe.” Fen waited. ‘Well? Was there?”

After a bursting pause: “No,” said Ainsworth expressionlessly. “No. As a matter of fact there wasn’t.”

“You realize I can check that statement?”

And suddenly, Ainsworth smiled, and in an altered tone said:

“All right then, go ahead.” It was as though a great weight had been lifted from him. “Go ahead and check it. Only… only don’t do anything too drastic about the result, will you? I mean, if we could just talk it over…”

“We will,” Fen assured him; end with that left the building and took a cab to New Scotland Yard, where, through the good offices of his friend Detective Inspector Humbleby, he was able in due course to confirm what he had suspected; that in fact there had been no other occasion when Ainsworth could possibly have put the portrait into the shoe…

“You’re an ass, though,” he told Ainsworth that evening in the bar where they had arranged to meet. “A chivalrous ass, of course, but still an ass.”

“Chivalrous?” Ainsworth shook his head. “Hardly that. The point was that although I never much liked the old boy, I had to give him credit for being fond of his daughter; and it would have pretty well shattered him to find out what she’s done…
You
haven’t told him, have you?”

“Not my business,” said Fen, “but am I to take it that you’re proposing to let Sir Gerald go on imagining you’re guilty? I don’t myself see the slightest reason why you should.”

“There is a reason, though.” Ainsworth spoke very soberly. “I was carrying on with another girl, you see, while I was still engaged to Jane. Not nice—I owe them something for that. Of course, I was
intending
to break off the engagement; but when Jane did eventually find out about the other girl, the fat really was in the fire.

“In those circumstances, merely breaking with me must have seemed to her to be a most inadequate punishment; so she worked out a clever little plan to try to ruin me professionally as well, by making me out to be a thief…”

“But how did you know it was the girl who was trying to frame you, rather than the father?”

“Ah, well, you see, it was her, not him, that I saw coming out of my bedroom yesterday afternoon with one of those little tools you use for prising up tacks. She didn’t know I’d seen her-and naturally I myself thought nothing of it, gt the time. It was only when the drawing turned up in my shoe that I put two and two together and decided on my self-sacrificing act.”

Ainsworth grinned. “Thank the Lord you were around to puncture it… Incidentally, why
do
they take one’s shoes away when they lock one up?”

“It’s really only the laces,” Fen explained, “that they’re
supposed
to take; the idea is that if the laces are left with you you may upset the routine by deciding to hang yourself during the night. Your lie in answer to my question was an unavoidable one, of course, in view of the fact that there wasn’t any other time when you could have put the drawing in the shoe; though I supposed that you’d simply refuse to say anything at all.”

“No, I didn’t dare try that. You obviously had something on your mind, and I was afraid that obstinate silence, on an apparently trivial point, would make you even more suspicious than you already were.”

Ainsworth sighed. “Well, well, I’ve been several sorts of a fool, but it’s all over now. Jane’s plan
could
have succeeded, you know, if I hadn’t taken it into my head to try to swipe that policeman…”

And Fen chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “You may thank your lucky stars that Sir Gerald McComas wasn’t the only person, in Lowndes Square that evening, who lost his head.”

“My dear boy”—his aunt had written—”(certainly you may use the cottage while I am in France. The only condition I make is that you bring your own china: my Spode really is irreplaceable… My house-keeper, Mrs. Blench, has agreed to stay on and look after you, and, apart from her deafness (you have to write everything down for her, I am afraid), you will find her an excellent servant.

“I should warn you, however, that she has a disreputable sister, called Bessie, who is always pestering her for money, and who is not to be encouraged on any account. Unfortunately, Mrs. Blench insists on keeping large sums in the house (she is the stupid sort of woman that distrusts banks), so please see to it that the doors and windows are properly fastened at nights.

“You will find it rather a lonely spot, but no doubt that will be an advantage to you in your convalescence, since I understand that in these cases peace and quiet are essential. You should turn left off the Southampton road at…”

There followed directions, with a map.

And “lonely” was right, Percy Wyndham reflected as his car ground to a halt on the short gravel drive; it was three miles since he had passed the last dwelling-place.

He did not repine, however. This trim little cottage, surrounded on all sides by the great oaks and beeches of the New Forest, was just the thing for a man recovering from a nervous breakdown. Unloading the crate which held his utility china he trudged with it up to the front door.

This was ajar; and just inside it, on the polished floor, lay a small, light-weight, wholly lethal Persian mat. Wyndham noted the first fact but not, unfortunately for him, the second. His entrance consequently took the form of a long, graceless skid—during which he just had time to take in the fact that the housekeeper, with her back to him, was impassively dusting the hall-stand.

She was small, graying, middle-aged, neat, and, above all, respectable; her only noticeable characteristic was her voice, which had a flat, uninflected quality—the result, undoubtedly, of long years of deafness.

But it was plain that Mrs. Blench was going to be a very satisfactory servant. Having to write things down for her was a nuisance, of course: but she had already suggested that a single word would do.

Above all, she was tranquil. The only sign of anxiety that she had manifested had been when Wyndham presented her with a labored narrative explaining that he was suffering from insomnia, that even with the aid of drugs he was seldom able to sleep more than three hours or so after going to bed, and that therefore she must not alarm herself and think of burglars if she heard him moving about—going out for a stroll in the garden, perhaps—during the night.

Noting her uneasiness, he added a codicil to the effect that he would not on any account leave the cottage unlocked, or if unlocked, unwatched during the dark hours, and this seemed to reassure her.

Probably her chief worry in this connection was sister Bessie. When Wyndham looked into the kitchen later that evening, his eye was caught by a woman’s handkerchief, lipstick stained, which lay on the dresser, and which Mrs. Blench, following his glance, thrust into her pocket with a murmured apology. Mrs. Blench wore no make-up of any kind; it was to be presumed, therefore, that Bessie had taken advantage of the gap between his aunt’s departure and his own arrival to pay a visit.

In accordance as much with his own inclination as with his aunt’s instructions, Wyndham locked up carefully that night; then, having undressed, swallowed a sleeping-pill and presently contrived to drop off. This time, however, his slumber lasted little more than an hour and he knew from experience that it was useless to try to recapture it once it had gone. Cursing, he sat up in bed and groped for a cigarette. Outside, it was a still night; and—

But was it so still? Just what was that rustling and trampling in the garden?

Thoroughly disquieted, Wyndham got out of bed and went to the window; and what he saw caused him to fling it open, calling out.

At the bottom of the garden, where there was a gap giving access to the forest proper, lit by a gibbous moon but barred with shadow, two indistinct figures struggled and swayed. Even as Wyndham watched, one of them seemed to break away and the other to fall… Bedroom slippers; staircase; and so out through the unbolted back door.

Thus it was that he came to Mrs. Blench, where she lay fully dressed, panting and exhausted, beside the rubbish-heap. But her assailant was gone; and when he moved to follow, Mrs. Blench caught at him and held him, fiercely.

“I told her I knew about this Bessie creature,” said Wyndham after lunch next day, remembering the serio-comic “dialogue” which had followed the previous night’s events, “and she didn’t attempt to deny that that was who it had been. Police, I said—wrote, rather. But no, she wasn’t bringing the police into it, not to set them on to her own flesh and blood.
I
don’t know what to do. It’s obvious the sister’s lurking about somewhere in this neighborhood. And although it’s possible I’ve scared her off for good, I shouldn’t like to bank on it.”

Gervase Fen, who had dropped in on his way back from Southampton to London, and who had been told the whole story in detail, said thoughtfully: “No, I don’t suppose you’ve seen the end of it yet… Have you been out today at all?”

“Not so far.”

“Good. I shouldn’t, if I were you. Stay in the house—or the garden—and keep an eye on things. Look here, could you put me up for the night? I know you’re not in the mood for visitors, but—”

“I’d be glad to,” said Wyndham, sincerely. “You think something more is going to happen tonight, do you?”

“Yes. We’re not going to face it alone, either. If you’ll excuse me for an hour or so, I’ll drive into Lyndhurst and have a word with the inspector there.”

With the result that that night, a decent interval after having apparently retired to bed, two male figures might have been seen descending shakily from their bedroom windows. “We’ll lay our ambush well away from the house,” Fen had said; and in fact they were some distance into the forest before they came to their rendezvous with the police. For more than an hour the party waited vainly, then at long last came footsteps—but moving
away
from the direction of the cottage, Wyndham noticed, not toward it. For a moment this perplexed him—until he realized that this must be Mrs. Blench, not Bessie; that Mrs. Blench was boldly (or foolhardily) seeking her sister out in order to—

That was when the figure actually came into view. In the leaf-filtered moonlight it had a curiously humped look, and it was moving slowly, apparently with effort… It came closer. It was there. And suddenly the powerful beam of the inspector’s torch was shining on Mrs. Blench’s face, and on the thing that she carried…

He said: “Bessie Moulford, I arrest you for the murder of your sister Charlotte Blench, and I have to warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence at your trial.”

“Yes,” said Fen later, over the coffee which Wyndham had brewed, “Bessie must have strangled her sister almost immediately before your arrival—presumably somewhere in the house and presumably for the sake of the money Mrs. Blench kept there.

“Your appearance cut off her retreat. So as an emergency measure she impersonated Mrs. Blench; and during the night attempted to remove the body. The ‘grappling’ you saw in the garden was simply a small, middle-aged woman trying to cope with a heavy corpse—and of course the handkerchief with lipstick on it had precisely the opposite significance to what you imagined.”

Wyndham nodded. “I see. When she realized I was awake, she iust had time to shove the body out of the way, somewhere near by, before I actually left the house. No wonder she didn’t want me to start looking around—and, incidentally, no wonder she was so upset when she heard I suffered from insomnia!”

“And of course
after
you’d interrupted her first attempt,” Fen added-, “there was no chance for her to do anything further about the body, with any safety, before tonight. I located it, as you’ll have guessed, before I went to the police; but it was essential, they thought, to catch her in the act of moving it again.”