Roger Sheringham and the Vane Mystery (12 page)

The talk, which had shifted for a few minutes to trifles, showed a tendency to revert, so far as Dr Vane was concerned, to his former topic. Somewhat to Roger’s surprise, Miss Williamson joined in as the doctor warmed again to his theme, even going so far as to put him right once or twice upon small points of detail.

“You’re an enthusiast too, then?” Roger could not help asking her.

“Now, yes,” she replied. “When I first came I knew nothing about it at all, but George showed me the way and now I’m as much under the spell even as he is.”

“And know a good deal more about it, Mary, don’t you?” commented the doctor, with the first signs of a smile he had yet displayed. “Another case of the pupil and the master, I’m afraid, Mr Sheringham,” he added to Roger, with an air of mock disgust.

“Oh, nonsense, George!” Miss Williamson laughed. “I only wish I did. You’ve got a great deal to teach me yet, I fear.”

Fortunately it was clear that Dr Vane had no idea of the identity of his visitor, as also had not Miss Williamson (indeed, neither of them looked the sort of person who might be expected to read the
Courier
), so that no suspicion as to the reason of his call could occur to either of them. Roger, content enough with the success of his tactics, continued to play the safe card of china; while Margaret and Anthony, to neither of whom china contained the least interest, were reduced for the most part to sitting and looking at each other in silence. They seemed perfectly content with this state of affairs.

When, half an hour later instead of ten minutes, Miss Williamson issued her third ultimatum which had the effect of bringing the doctor to his feet at last, Roger felt he had had enough of china to last him for several years. Dr Vane, however, could not have felt the same, for he shook his visitor warmly by the hand and, having ascertained that he and Anthony expected to be staying several days in Ludmouth, invited both of them to supper on the following Sunday, brushing aside Roger’s half-hearted attempts at a refusal with a firmness that was almost genial.

Roger sank back in his chair as the door closed behind them and fanned himself with a limp hand. “Did I happen to hear anyone mention the word china just now?” he asked feebly.

“Well?” Margaret demanded. “What did you think of them?”

“What did I think?” Roger repeated, speaking for the moment from the fullness of his heart. “I think that in a year or so the wedding bells will be heard once more in Ludmouth.”

“
What
?” cried Anthony and Margaret together.

Roger realised he had spoken unguardedly, but it was too late to withdraw his words. “I think,” he said more carefully, “that George and that lady will make a match of it.”

“She’s head over heels in love with him,” Margaret nodded. “I’ve known that for years, But I didn’t expect you to notice it.”

“That’s my business, fair lady,” Roger returned sweetly.

“You
saw
she was keen on him?” Anthony asked in astonishment. “How on earth did you do that?”

“For the answer to this question, refer to my last remark,” Roger murmured. “Alternative answer – china!”

“Yes, that rather gave it away,” Margaret agreed. “Especially after what I said before. Do you remember?”

“It was that I was thinking of,” Roger laughed.

Anthony looked from one to the other. “What
are
you two talking about?” he appealed.

“Nothing that you’d understand, little boy,” said Roger kindly. “Run away and play with the blind-tassel. I like your doctor-man, Margaret.”

“George? Yes, he’s a dear, isn’t he? Though it took me ever so much longer to know him than it seems to have taken you. And he liked you too. I’ve never known him to ask anyone for supper on such a short aquaintance.”

“I
am
rather likeable,” Roger admitted.

The conversation then became purely frivolous.

Having achieved the object with which he had set out, Roger was anxious to talk over its results with Anthony – a thing that could hardly be done in this case in the presence of Margaret. It was not long before he began to show signs of readiness to embark on the process of leave-taking. He ostentatiously arranged a meeting with Margaret the next morning “just in case”, he rose to his feet, hovered near the door, sat down and rose again, and he said that they must be going about half a dozen times over, each time more as if he meant it than before. At this point he realised that nothing short of heroic measures would be likely to shift Anthony from that drawing-room.

Roger was not the person to shirk heroic measures when nothing short of heroic measures was required. “Anthony,” he said with decision, “I don’t think you realise that we’re outstaying our welcome. I’ve been trying to hint gently for the last quarter of an hour that it’s time we were going. Margaret’s sure to have lots to do, you know.”

“But I haven’t, Roger,” Margaret objected. “Nothing.”

“Yes, you have,” Roger said firmly. “Lots. Come on, Anthony.”

“No, really I haven’t. Nothing at all.”

“Well, I have. Come
on
, Anthony!”

This time Anthony came.

Margaret said goodbye to them in the drawing-room, and from the hall Anthony had to go back to tell her something he’d forgotten. Roger waited five minutes; then he followed and dug Anthony out again. Margaret came out into the hall with them and said goodbye there, and from halfway down the drive Anthony had to go back for his stick. Roger waited ten minutes, then he followed once more, running the culprit to earth again in the drawing-room.

“Anthony, I think we ought to be going now,” he said. “Job speaking. Anthony, I think we ought to be going now. Have you remembered to say all you’d forgotten to remember to say? Have you your stick, your hat, your shoes, your tiepin, your spectacles and your lace cap? Anthony, I think we ought to be going. Margaret, if you were to go and immure yourself in your bedroom or the bathroom or the linen cupboard or any other suitable place of immurement, I think Anthony might be induced in despair to –”

“Roger, I
hate
you!” Margaret gasped in a stifled voice, hurrying with burning cheeks out of the room.

“Portrait of a lady on her way to immurement,” murmured Roger thoughtfully, gazing after her flying figure.

“Damn you, Roger!” spluttered the indignant Anthony, no less puce. “What the deuce do you want to go and –”

“Anthony, I think it’s time we were going,” Roger pointed out gently.

This time Anthony really did go, not only out of the house but right down the drive, over the road and on to the cliffs.

Roger gave him ten minutes to work off steam and simmer down again; then he got on with the business in hand.

“Now, look here, Anthony, drop all that and tell me this – what deductions did you draw at our little tea party?”

“What deductions?” Anthony said a little reluctantly. “I don’t know that I drew any. Did you?”

“One or two. That the lady we had the pleasure of meeting wouldn’t be at all averse to becoming Mrs Vane now that the post is vacant, for one thing.”

“How on earth could you tell that, Roger?”

“It was sticking out in lumps all over her for anybody who had the eyes to see. In fact it seemed to me that she wasn’t even troubling to hide it. But was the doctor-man equally minded? Now that I’m not nearly so sure about.”

“You think he isn’t?”

“No, I don’t say that for a minute. What I do say is that he is very much better at hiding his feelings. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking at all, except that he’s fond of Margaret and anxious to show it. The only really significant thing about him was the fact of his asking us to supper like that.”

“You mean only four or five days after his wife’s death?”

“Exactly. Now what does that show?”

“That he’s not any too cut up about it.”

“Precisely. In other words, I should say, he knew his wife’s true character. And not being sorry she’s dead, he’s not going to pretend that he is; that’s how the man strikes me.”

“Yes,” Anthony said slowly. “I think I agree with you.”

“Nor is the woman. That was obvious enough. He may even be taking his cue from her. She’s without doubt the stronger character of the two.”

“Is she?”

“Oh, yes. Then there’s another thing. Does the woman know Mrs Vane’s real character too? On the whole I should be inclined to say yes. She’s pretty sharp.”

“That might even have started her being keen on him,” Anthony pointed out; “if she really is. I mean, it must have been a pretty ghastly sight to see a decent chap like that tied up to a little rotter of a woman, mustn’t it?”

“That’s a very shrewd idea,” Roger agreed. “Yes, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that isn’t how things did happen. Gradually, of course; these things always do. I’m not hinting that there was an intrigue between them or anything like that; I don’t for a moment think there was. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if the doctor hasn’t got the least idea about her feelings even now. But he’ll find himself marrying her one day for all that. She’s a woman of unusually strong mind and she’s made it up on that particular point all right, I wouldn’t mind betting.”

“She had large feet,” said Anthony quite irrelevantly.

“So have a number of people. You, for instance. Did it strike you whether she liked Margaret?”

“She’d be a fool if she didn’t,” said Anthony with complete conviction.

“Do refrain from being maudlin, Anthony. Personally, I thought she didn’t. She was inclined to be peremptory and not a little bossy, did you notice? But jealousy would quite well account for that. After all, Margaret is young and pretty and she’s neither. Did anything else strike you about Dr Vane? About his character, or anything like that?”

Anthony considered. “I should think he’s probably got the very devil of a temper,” he decided.

“You take the words out of my mouth. That’s precisely what struck me. I don’t suppose it has any significance at all, but it’s a point that we might well keep before us. Dr Vane has the very devil of a temper. Now, about that invitation, I don’t... Hullo! Isn’t that the inspector on the road? Yes, it is; I’d know that bulky form anywhere. Let’s cut across and see if he’s got any news. By the way, congratulations, Anthony.”

“What on?”

“Not saying anything to Margaret about friend Colin’s letter. A most admirable piece of self-restraint.”

A lusty hail from Roger brought the inspector to a standstill. He halted and waited for them to catch up with him.

“It’s a hot day for running about, gentlemen,” he greeted them mopping his large red face. “Uncommonly hot.”

“You’re right, Inspector. And has virtue brought its own reward, or have you got any news?”

“I have got some news, sir, I’m glad to say. I’ve suceeded in locating the gentleman who wrote that letter. Been a bit of a job, but I’m pretty sure I’ve found him this time.”

“You have, have you? I say, that’s good! Who is he?”

“Gentleman by the name of Colin Woodthorpe; son of a Sir Henry Woodthorpe who’s got a big place between here and Sandsea. I thought of going round to call on him this evening.”

“Good,” said Roger promptly. “May I come?”

“It’s a bit irregular, sir.”

“I know it is. Frightfully irregular. But you do owe me something over the letter, don’t you?”

“Very well, sir,” the inspector grinned. “I can see you’re determined to come, so I suppose I shall have to take you with me. But it’ll have to be as that personal friend of mine, mind, not as a newspaperman.”

“On my oath!” said Roger piously. “In any case I wouldn’t... Oh, Heavens, talk hard and don’t let me be buttonholed. This is the most persistent talker in the south of England coming along the road towards us.”

“When you’re in the north, Roger,” Anthony amended humorously.

“His name is the Rev. Samuel Meadows,” Roger went on to the inspector. “He caught me on the cliffs this morning and held me for half an hour by the clock. The Ancient Mariner couldn’t make a match of it with him.”

In some curiosity the other two watched the little clerical figure approach. He smiled benignly as he recognised Roger and touched the wide brim of his hat in a somewhat expansive gesture, but made no attempt to speak.

“Saved!” Roger murmured dramatically as they passed him. “Friends, I thank you!”

But the inspector did not smile. His brow was corrugated and he was tugging at his long-suffering moustache.

“Now, where the dickens,” he remarked very thoughtfully to his boots, “have I seen
that
face before?”

Couston Hall, the home of Sir Henry and Lady Woodthorpe, was a stolidly built Georgian house, with the usual aspect of square solidity so happily typical of its period. It stood in its own grounds of nine or ten acres, and as Roger and the inspector made their way up the trim drive the setting sun was burnishing the mellow brick of its front to a deeper red and slanting over the velvety expanse of lawn, unprofaned by tennis nets or chalk lines, which faced it across the broad carriage-sweep.

“By Jove!” Roger exclaimed softly. “It’s a fine picture, isn’t it? There’s something about these big Georgian country houses, you know, Inspector, that does stir the imagination. Can’t you just see that carriage-sweep stiff with huntsmen in red coats and jolly red faces, all engulfing a couple of gallons of home-brew before going off to give Reynard the run of his life?”

“It’s a tidy bit of property,” the inspector agreed. “But they’re child’s play for burglars, these old houses are.” To every man his own point of view.

“I wonder what it is that always make one associate Georgian houses with hunting scenes,” Roger mused. “Must be the red, I suppose. Red brick, red coats, red faces. Yes, red seems to be the key colour of the times. What would Rowlandson have done if there’d been no red on his palette? He’d have had to draw people without any noses at all.”

They reached the white porch, and the inspector placed a large thumb over the un-Georgian electric bell push. “You’ll remember, Mr Sheringham, won’t you?” he said half apologetically. “We’re here on official business, and it’s me who’s got to do all the talking.”