The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks (26 page)

'Yes, yes, he has.'

'It's just a very weird, unfortunate coincidence. Come on, let me get you a glass of sherry.' She moved with Penny to the far side of the room.

Stella came forward to join the Countess. 'Do you have any idea what that was about?' she asked.

'Absolutely none, my dear. But one gets used to that, living with Geraldine.'

'I think I'm beginning to get an inkling,' Stella said.

'I don't intend even to try and understand.' She frowned suddenly.

'Something wrong?'

'Not really. I just didn't know Frank felt like that about Timothy. I thought they got on rather well.'

Chapter Thirty-Four

When Gerry went up to change for dinner, she was feeling very pleased with herself. She had proved one thing beyond doubt: however strained things had been between Penny and Timothy, in reality she idolised him. If looks could have killed, Gerry thought, she would be dead by now, simply for appearing to say something derogatory about him. If she had represented actual danger, would those looks have been converted into action? She was beginning to think it was very possible. The trouble was that her experiment hadn't really got her any further forward. No matter how sure she was that Penny would kill to protect her father, she still couldn't say that she actually had.

Nor had she yet remembered what it was that had struck her as somehow wrong. She'd heard that hidden memories were sometimes recalled in dreams. Before she went to sleep tonight, she must will herself to remember.

She had spoken now to practically everybody - well, with one exception. She hadn't had any really long conversation with Tommy since the murder. She couldn't think it would do any good, and didn't even know what she would ask him. But she supposed that for the sake of completeness she ought at least to go through the motions. There was still about forty-five minutes before dinner. He might be in his room.

She left her own room, went to the east corridor and tapped on his door. There was a cheerful call of 'Come in.'

He was lying on the bed, smoking and reading a new P.G. Wodehouse novel. He could almost be a character in it himself, she thought. There was definitely a touch of the Wooster about him.

He sat up when he saw her and swung long legs onto the floor. 'Hello, Gerry. This is an unexpected pleasure. Take a pew.' He indicated the room's only chair.

'Thanks.' She dropped into it.

'Gasper?'

'Oh yes, please.'

He gave her one and lit it. 'Nothing else to report, by the way.'

'Oh, good. But I didn't want to talk about that now. Tommy, do me a big favour.'

'What's that?'

'Confess to the murder of Clara.'

He grinned. 'Like to oblige, and all that, but just wouldn't be true, and well, second George Washington, me.'

'You think it was Gregory, don't you?'

'Ah, you heard about our little fracas?'

'Saw it through the window. Heard quite a lot. You stood up to him well.'

'Eventually. In a bit of a funk, actually. Bad show all round, of course. Should have kept my mouth shut.'

'Did you have any particular reason for accusing him?'

Tommy wriggled awkwardly. 'Not really, I suppose. Just seems more the type than anyone else.'

'Tommy, do you know anything at all that you didn't tell the police? Anything you could tell me, in confidence.'

There was just a split-second pause before he answered. 'No, not a thing.'

It was enough for Gerry. She sat up and looked at him sharply. 'You do, don't you?'

'No, no, honour bright.'

'Tommy, second George Washington, remember?'

He had gone a little pink. 'Nothing at all about the murder, truly.'

'But something else?'

'Well, perhaps. It's just that, well, I'm pretty sure, no, I know, actually, that someone here's been telling whoppers. But please don't ask me who.'

'I wouldn't tell anybody.'

'It would put you in an impossible position.'

'I could go to the person and ask them straight out.'

'And how would you tell them you knew about it?'

'I wouldn't tell them.'

'They'd know it came from me.'

'Would that matter?'

'It would to me.'

'But we're dealing with murder here.'

'It's got nothing to do with the murder. I'm sure of it. When that's cleared up I'm going to tackle this person myself. But to do it now would only muddy the waters.'

'And suppose the murder isn't cleared up?'

'Then I might have to tackle them anyway. But it will be. Gosh, it's not twenty-four hours yet. Give the rozzers a chance.' He was silent for a moment. 'I'll tell you what. Let me sleep on it. Then in the morning, if I feel up to it, I'll ask the person about it. And if they can't give me a satisfactory explanation, I'll tell you and you can tell Wilkins, if you like.'

'Oh, that would be marvellous. But couldn't you do it tonight?'

'Rather not. It's going to be dashed embarrassing and I want time to work out what I'm going to say. And, er, afterwards, if I am satisfied everything's OK, then that'll be OK with you, OK?'

'OK,' said Gerry.

* * *

On their way down to dinner, Timothy and Tommy met at the top of the stairs. Tommy gave a brief nod and started to hurry on down, but paused, with a slight tinge of alarm, when Timothy said: 'Oh, a word.'

'Er, yes?'

'Penelope's been telling me about what happened outside earlier. How you accused Gregory to his face of being the murderer and stood up to him and refused to withdraw when he wanted to resort to fisticuffs.'

'Well . . .' Tommy began, but got no further.

'I just wanted to say, congratulations. Showed a lot of courage, moral and physical.'

'Oh.' Tommy was taken aback. Penny had obviously been shamelessly exaggerating. Perhaps he ought to put Timothy right as to what had really happened. But, no. One shouldn't contradict a lady. Not the act of a gentleman. So he just smiled self-deprecatingly. 'It was nothing, really,' he said.

* * *

Gerry woke with a start. For a moment she thought there was somebody in the room. But no. What—

Then it came to her. She remembered what it was that had been wrong. It had worked. She had concentrated on the problem before going to sleep, and it had worked. She sat up and turned on the light. What did it mean? It couldn't really be significant, after all. Could it? She thought hard.

The next moment she knew. She knew who had killed Clara. It had to be. It was the only answer. For seconds she couldn't take it in. There was still no way of getting proof. Except - except that one other person had to know. Somebody had been covering up. Could she somehow persuade that person to tell the truth? Obviously it wouldn't be easy. But she had to try. She looked at the bedside clock. Ten past four. She couldn't go back to sleep, not tonight, with this new knowledge. No, she had to act now and use all her powers to force an admission. She got out of bed, put on her slippers and dressing-gown and left the room.

Chapter Thirty-Five

'Wonder what time Wilkins'll be here?' Lord Burford said moodily.

He was picking at his bacon and eggs and for once
The Times
lay unopened beside him. It was 8 a.m.

'Extremely soon, I hope,' said the Countess.

' 'Course, he may just tell us he's drawn a blank.'

'Well, at least he'll have to let them all leave and we can get back to something like normal.'

'I sometimes think nothin' is ever going to be normal again.'

At that moment the door of the breakfast-room was thrown violently open and they both turned towards it. A dark, pretty girl rushed across the room towards them. It was Gerry's maid.

'Marie, what on earth—' Lady Burford began.

'Oh, milord, milady, it is the Lady Geraldine. I cannot wake her! She is so still and white! Please, you must come.'

They leapt to their feet. Lady Burford gasped: 'Oh no!' and then followed the Earl, as he ran out of the room.

The Earl charged into Gerry's bedroom and ran across to the bed. Gerry was lying perfectly still on her back, only her head showing above the bedclothes. He put his hand on her forehead, then pulled back the sheets and grabbed at her wrist.

'Is she - is she . . .' The Countess, behind him, could not finish.

'I can't feel a pulse. Looking-glass, quickly!'

Marie ran to the dressing-table, grabbed a mirror and handed it to him. He sat on the edge of the bed and held it close to Gerry's mouth for a few seconds, then peered at it. 'She's breathing.'

'Oh, thank God.'

The Earl swung round to Marie. 'Find Mr Merryweather, tell him what's happened and to send Hawkins for Dr. Ingleby at once. Hurry.'

Marie rushed from the room. 'And just pray he's not out,' Lord Burford muttered.

'George, can you tell what's wrong?' The Countess was wringing her hands.

He shook his head. 'Sorry, my dear.'

'Is there anything we can do?'

'I can't think of anything. If we tried to force some brandy down her, or something, it might be absolutely the wrong thing.'

'She's - she's still breathing?'

He again put the mirror to Gerry's lips. 'Yes. But it's so shallow. Her chest's not moving at all.'

The Countess fell on her knees beside the bed and took Geraldine's hand in hers. She closed her eyes and her lips started to move silently. With a restless, jerky movement, Lord Burford stood up.

A voice spoke from the doorway. 'Can we help at all?'

It was Stella. She and Penny were standing close together, their faces horror-struck.

The Earl answered. 'Oh. No, don't think so, my dear, thank you. You can tell the others what's happened.'

'Yes, of course. Come on, Penny.'

They went but a moment later there was the sound of hurrying footsteps and Merryweather appeared. 'Hawkins is on his way, my lord. I instructed Marie to wait outside and bring the doctor straight up.'

'Good, good.'

The butler gazed past him at the wax-like figure on the bed. 'Oh, my lord, this is terrible. But she must be all right, she must.'

'It's out of our hands, Merryweather.'

'May I remain, my lord?'

'Of course.'

Merryweather sat down on an upright chair and fell silent. The Earl took out some cigarettes and lit one with fingers that trembled only slightly.

It was only a little over twenty minutes, though seeming to those in the room like twenty hours, before they again heard hasty footsteps along the corridor and Marie's voice saying: 'In there, Doctor.'

Ingleby appeared in the doorway and strode across to the bed. The Countess and Merryweather got to their feet. Lord Burford said: 'We just found her like this, Ingleby, she was fine last night.'

'Yes, her maid told me.'

He opened his bag and began his examination. He looked in her eyes with a small torch, took her pulse and blood pressure and then pulled back the bedclothes, put his hand under the crook of her leg, raised it and struck it sharply just below the knee with the side of his hand. To her parents' inexperienced eyes, there seemed a momentary delay before the lower part of her leg kicked up. Next, Ingleby gently turned her onto her face and closely scrutinised the back of her head.

At last he looked up. 'Well, I can tell you what's wrong with her.'

The Earl and Countess stared at him apprehensively.

'She's been knocked unconscious.'

'What?'

'There's a big lump on the back of her head.'

'You - mean somebody just crept into the room and hit her?'

'I can't say whether they crept into the room, but she's certainly been hit with some heavy object.' He turned her over again onto her back.

'The murderer,' Lord Burford whispered. 'She's been going round questionin' everyone, hoping to solve the case before Wilkins. Oh, why couldn't she have left well alone!'

'Will she be all right?' Lady Burford asked fearfully.

Ominously, it seemed to them, Ingleby avoided a direct answer. 'I would ideally like to get her head x-rayed, but I think it's probably safer not to move her, at least for the time being.'

'But she will regain consciousness?' Lord Burford said.

'Prognosis is notoriously difficult in the case of head injuries. She will either recover spontaneously, or—' He stopped.

'Or what, doctor?'

'Sink deeper into a coma.'

'And - and if that happens?'

'It could be days, or weeks.'

'Or longer?'

'It's possible.'

'You're saying she could be in a coma, for months, or years.'

'Let's not think that far ahead. Twenty-four hours will tell. If she has not come round by then, I will have her removed to hospital and get some x-rays taken. We should then learn more about the extent of the damage and be able to make a more accurate forecast.'

'Is there nothing you can do now?'

'I'm afraid not. It's just a question of waiting and keeping her under observation.'

The Countess sank down slowly on the bed. 'Oh, dear Lord.'

'I'm very sorry I can't be more helpful. But I can say that in the majority of head injury cases the patients do recover spontaneously.' He glanced at his watch. 'I wish I could stay longer. But unfortunately I have another emergency awaiting me. I will look in again later. If Hawkins could take me home to collect my car . . .'

The Earl shook his head. 'Have Hawkins take you wherever you need to go for the rest of the morning. We won't be needing him.'

'Oh, that's extremely kind. Thank you. Just keep her comfortable and warm.' He hurried out. Merryweather unobtrusively followed him.

The Earl and Countess looked at one another. Her lips trembled. 'Oh, George.'

He put his arm around her shoulder. 'Bear up, my dear. She'll be all right. Gerry's a Saunders. She'll pull through.'

* * *

'She put the wind up somebody,' Stella said. 'She must have been getting close to cracking it, and the murderer realised that and decided to silence her before it was too late. No doubt thought he'd killed her.'