Thirteen Guests (11 page)

“If you were as clever as you thought you were, you'd be a gargantuan,” said Bultin.

“If you were as clever as you thought you were, you'd be the size of a pea-nut. My picture of you will be called ‘The Splendid Spoof,' and it will be of a drugged Inferiority Complex inside enormous bulges of inflated skin. We never really change, you know, but some of us are devils at make-up. Well, what else have you discovered?”

Bultin turned his eyes towards the workers.

“They've got him up,” he said. “We'd better be moving.”

“The knife, for instance?”

“What knife?”

“The knife that killed the dog?”

“Is that all the knife was intended to kill?” asked Bultin. “Come along.”

But Pratt suddenly laid a detaining hand on Bultin's sleeve.

“Tell me something, Lionel,” he said. “A different sort of a question this time.”

“Well?”

“Are you interested in justice?”

“What's that?”

“Perhaps, after all, only a word of seven letters. I'm not asking the question ethically. I'm just curious. If a man commits a murder, are you glad when he is hanged? If a man hasn't committed a murder, do you rejoice when he's acquitted? Or, provided you get a good story, don't you care a damn?”

Bultin thought for a moment.

“Provided the public get a good story,” he replied, “do
they
care a damn?”

“That's a devilish good answer,” said Pratt. “Put it in your biography. By the way, have you heard about Chater's horse? It's come home without him.”

Chapter XVI

The Second Victim

The yellow teacups were tinkling when Lord Aveling looked through the doorway of the pink-and-cream drawing-room. Six people were there, and the absence of the anticipated seventh caused him to withdraw quickly before he had been noticed. Retracing his way to the hall, he ascended the stairs and walked along a passage past his bedroom to another two doors beyond. Here he paused, hesitating.

He started almost guiltily as the door suddenly opened, but he regained his composure as the maid Bessie came out.

“Is Miss Wilding having her tea in her room?” he asked.

“Yes, my Lord,” answered the maid. “I've just taken it in.”

“Ask her if she could see me at the door for a moment,” he said. “Tell her it is important.” As the maid turned to obey, he added, to set himself right with her, “There's been an unfortunate accident. You'll hear about it presently.”

The maid returned into the room, and was back almost at once.

“Miss Wilding will come immediately, my Lord,” she said. Then, after a moment's hesitation, plucked up courage to ask, “Is—is he badly hurt, sir?”

Lord Aveling looked at her sharply.

“Do you know who he is?” he demanded.

Bessie turned red with confusion.

“I beg your pardon, my Lord, for asking—only I heard that his horse—”

“That was Mr. Chater's horse,” he interrupted. He wanted to get rid of her. “This is not Mr. Chater.”

The bedroom door opened again. The maid vanished. Zena Wilding, in a blue silk dressing-gown, stood before him. No longer fortified by her complete rejuvenating make-up, she looked pale and fragile, and a wave of intense sympathy swept over him.

“I am sorry to disturb you like this,” he began gently.

“That's all right,” she answered. “I've just got a slight headache, so I thought I wouldn't come down till dinner.”

“The day has tired you.”

“Isn't it stupid? But I haven't ridden for some time, so I expect—” She broke off abruptly. “I hope nothing has—happened?” As he hesitated, an expression of deep anxiety shot into her face. “Nothing about last night?” she whispered.

Her anxiety made him forget his own. His sympathy increased, and with it his desire to protect her, if protection were needed. Last night he had felt as though he were her contemporary; now, although she looked quite five years older than she had then, he felt almost paternal. It relieved as well as surprised him.

“No, nothing about last night,” he reassured her quickly. “I would like to apologise to you about last night.”

“Oh, please, don't!” she murmured, and glanced along the empty passage. “I—don't mind.” He tried to be sorry she had said that. It made the paternal feeling harder to maintain. “What do you want to speak to me about?”

“Something not very happy, I am afraid,” he answered. “But remember while I tell you that if this means any trouble for you—it probably will not, but if it does—you may count on all the assistance I can give you.”

She stared at him.

“Please go on. You're very good to me.”

“Well, Miss Wilding, there has been an accident. A man has fallen down a quarry in a wood near here. We've brought him up, and he is now lying in the studio.”

“Do you mean—?”

He nodded. “Yes. He was dead when we found him. Unfortunately we do not know who he is, but Mr. Bultin—” Damn Bultin! Of course, that account of his was just stupid, journalistic exaggeration! “Mr. Bultin has some idea that two or three of my guests know him. He mentioned Mr. and Mrs. Chater and you. I shall not be surprised to find that Mr. Bultin is wrong. The man was at the station when you arrived yesterday evening, and apparently he—”

He caught her as she swayed. “My God!” he thought. “Bultin wasn't wrong!”

He held her for a few seconds that seemed like minutes; but the passage remained blessedly empty. During those seconds he struggled against many emotions, among which were concern for her, contempt for the hateful pleasure he was deriving from her dependence on him, and confusion as to the next step. He had no idea what to do. If she had fainted, of course he would have to carry her back to her room.…

She gave a sudden shudder that was like a little breeze abruptly stirring stillness, and he loosened his grip as he felt her regaining control of herself.

“Don't hurry,” he said.

“I really think—I'm not very well,” she stammered weakly.

“I am quite sure you are not very well,” he replied. “You had better lie down.”

“Yes, I will—in a moment. Imagine—feeling faint like that, just hearing about an accident!”

He waited. In a second or two she went on, a little more steadily:

“You remember, I came over the same way at the hunt, didn't I? If I'd known this poor man it would have been different. No, I don't know him. I remember seeing some one at the station—he looked rather odd, I thought he was going to snatch my bag or something—but I didn't know him. Mr. Bultin was wrong. I'd never seen him before in my life.” All at once a look of stark terror entered her eyes. She gasped, “Dead? My God! You believe me, don't you? You do believe me?”

He patted her arm.

“Of course I believe you,” he answered. “Why shouldn't I? Mr. Bultin has identified him as the man at the station, but it will not now be necessary for you to come to the studio and identify him also, since you do not know him.” He was speaking to her and thinking aloud. “There will be nothing for you to worry about. Go back and lie down. And if I were you, Miss Wilding, I should not trouble to come down to dinner, unless you feel very much stronger. Your meal can be sent up to you, and you have had a very tiring day. Every one will understand.”

He had never seen such gratitude in any other woman's eyes. Nor, for many years, had his rather tired soul experienced such direct and moving emotion.

He waited till she had returned to her room and closed the door, and then descended to the hall.

On the bottom stair he paused. He was walking straight into a scene. Mrs. Chater was the centre of it, and she appeared to be having hysterics. It was as though the silent scream with which she lived had suddenly burst from the confines of her soul, to discover it had a voice.

Near her stood Bultin, his calmness contrasting impertinently with her shrill fury, and Sir James Earnshaw, watching with a heavy frown. Earnshaw had just returned alone, and the dust of riding was upon him. Between them and the half-open drawing-room door was Lady Aveling. She had tactfully requested the Rowes and Edyth Fermoy-Jones to continue with their tea, but their cups were motionless while their ears strained to hear what was going on in the hall.

“Where's my husband?” Mrs. Chater was shouting. “I knew there'd be trouble if we came here! Where is he?” Her eyes were accusingly on Earnshaw. “And why is everybody looking at me like this? I don't know anything! Nothing's to do with me!” Her voice rose almost to a shriek. “I tell you I don't know the man, and nor does my husband! Where is he? What's in offering a light? Do you think I came here to go and look at dead faces.…?”

Her voice became incoherent. She started sobbing, while Lady Aveling advanced and took her arm firmly.

“Where's the doctor, Bultin?” asked Lord Aveling.

“He came in with me,” replied Bultin. “He went up to see Mrs. Morris while I spoke to Mrs. Chater. Pratt's waiting in the studio.”

“Bultin again!” thought Aveling. “Why can't he let things alone?”

Yet he was grateful for the concise information, and the calming monotone in which it was delivered.

Mrs. Chater wrenched her arm from Lady Aveling's grip.

“Don't touch me!” she cried, with physical repulsion. Then, abruptly—the change was startling—she stopped crying and became as calm as Bultin himself. “I'll go to my room,” she said.

No one moved as she walked to the stairs saving Lord Aveling, who stepped aside to let her pass.

“And don't you send any doctor to
me
,” she added. “I'm not seeing anybody till my husband returns. Not anybody.”

Aveling glanced towards Earnshaw. Earnshaw shook his head.

“He'll return soon, Mrs. Chater,” said Aveling.

She stopped for an instant, and also glanced at Earnshaw.

“Try not to worry.”

“
Worry!
”

It seemed as though the suppressed scream were about to escape again, but a laugh came instead. More than one who heard it woke up that night with its recollection bursting their ears. Then she continued up the stairs. Lady Aveling followed her.

“How did it happen?” inquired Lord Aveling, after a short silence.

Bultin shrugged. “That's how she took it.”

“I seem to have started the trouble,” added Earnshaw. “She was in the hall when I returned, and she apparently held me responsible for not bringing her husband home with me. Is it true his horse came back without him?”

“Unfortunately, it is,” answered Aveling. “When did you last see him? You and he joined Anne and Taverley soon after we started. They are not back yet, either.”

“Aren't they?” The news appeared to displease the Liberal member. “Yes, we were all four together for awhile. Anne said something about a short cut through a place called Holm. But Chater and I soon lost them, and though we went through Holm we never saw them again. Then I lost Chater, and then I lost myself, and that briefly is my story. Rather disturbing about Chater's horse. I hope he's not had an accident. And I understand there has been another?”

“Yes. Some one fell into a quarry near here, and we had an idea that Mrs. Chater might be able to identify him.”

“I had just asked her when you came down,” said Bultin to Aveling. “You heard the result. Were you more successful with Miss Wilding?”

“No—though Miss Wilding took the situation more reasonably,” replied Aveling. “And, being tired, she had just as much excuse for a nervestorm. You were mistaken, Bultin. She recalls the man, but doesn't know him. His appearance rather frightened her, that's all. She thought he was a bagsnatcher.” Pleased with himself, he turned to Earnshaw. “You'll want to go up and change. But don't take longer than you must. We need your parliamentary manner down here to steady the boat.”

“And I need a good tea to steady my own,” smiled Earnshaw. “I've had no lunch!”

As he moved, Lady Aveling came down the stairs.

“Well?” asked Aveling.

“She has locked herself in her room,” answered Lady Aveling. The sudden recollection that the Chaters had been invited at Earnshaw's suggestion prevented her from adding, “Thank God!”

“Just as well, perhaps,” murmured Aveling, putting her thought more tactfully. “It will all straighten out. We will join you, my dear, in a few moments.”

His wife accepted the hint, and returned to the drawing-room. Aveling lingered, while Earnshaw went up the stairs.

“So, in common parlance, Bultin,” he said suddenly, “that is that.”

“Not much progress,” answered Bultin.

“My own view is that it will be better to try and forget these things, if we can, and allow matters to take their natural course.”

“What is the natural course, my Lord?”

“Eh?”

“Of three people who might have identified the man, two say they don't know him, and the third hasn't returned yet.”

“Which reminds me of my next job!” exclaimed Lord Aveling.

“A search for the third?”

“Yes, of course!” He looked despairing. “Really, there has been so much to think about. I'll go up and see Earnshaw again—I must find out the exact spot where he and Chater separated.”

“May I have the use of a car meanwhile?”

“What for?”

“Well, if Chater doesn't return, and if your search fails, I may find out something at the railway station. That's where we first saw the man whose identity we need.”

Lord Aveling regarded Bultin thoughtfully.

“It is an excellent idea,” he answered, “but you are taking a lot of trouble, Bultin.”

“For copy.”

“May I check the copy?”

“The facts will be correct.”

“But the interpretation of facts?”

“That is for the public. If I don't make inquiries at the station, the police may later.”

“The police?”

“Am I wrong?”

Lord Aveling knew that Bultin was not wrong. Dr. Pudrow had not yet pronounced the cause of the man's death, but whatever it was an inquest seemed inevitable, and identity would have to be established. Aveling's soul groaned at the thought of the publicity, and of the questions that would have to be asked and answered. The man had died, apparently, at 1.19 a.m. He and Zena had been up that night till nearly one. He had not noted the time exactly. He wished now that he had. And particularly the time when he believed he had heard Zena leaving her room again shortly after they had said good-night.

Out of nowhere came a sudden vision of Mrs. Chater giving evidence. What would the evidence of such a bitter, jealous woman be like? He recalled a trivial incident that had occurred in the ballroom. Sir James Earnshaw, inspired by a latent sense of duty, had relinquished Anne, and moved towards Mrs. Chater. A vague smile had flitted across the gloomy woman's features, but Zena had passed, and Earnshaw had turned abruptly to her instead. As the two had danced away, a spasm of hatred had shot into Mrs. Chater's eyes, though a moment afterwards the face had become once more expressionless.…

“Well?” asked Bultin.

Lord Aveling wrenched his mind back to the present, and wondered whether he preferred Bultin to a policeman. Then the telephone rang.

He hastened to the receiver and picked it up. A moment later he exclaimed, “Anne!” Then, for a full minute, he listened in silence. “Yes, yes, of course, you've done quite right,” he said at last. “Don't delay.”