Why Shoot a Butler (13 page)

Mr. Amberley seemed to be satisfied and walked away to the fireplace and began to fill a pipe.

"I suppose you can go," said the sergeant reluctantly.

"Mind, I don't say I like the sound of this story of yours, because I don't. If you could bring witnesses to prove it all happened like you said that would be different. But all you've told me rests on your word alone, and the only person who could say different is drowned."

The valet said slowly: "I feel sure, Sergeant, that Miss Brown will bear me out that her brother had no reason to want to murder me. Apart from the occasions I have mentioned I never to my knowledge set eyes on the young gentleman."

"You may be sure we shall have a word with Miss Brown, my man," promised the sergeant.

"Yes, Sergeant. I should be very glad if you would," said Collins meekly.

"And don't forget you'll be wanted at the inquest," said the sergeant, and made a gesture of dismissal.

The valet went out escorted by Constable Tucker, and the sergeant sat back in his chair and looked at Mr. Amberley.

"Well, sir? What do you make of that?" he inquired.

"I told you you'd get a verdict of accidental death, Sergeant."

"You aren't going to tell me you believe that pack of lies, sir?"

"Oh no," said Amberley. "But how very hard they are to refute! Effusive friendliness on Brown's part to begin with. Highly probable, Sergeant. A drunken man once tried to press a fiver on to me. The visit to Ivy Cottage most reasonably explained; you know, he is remarkably quick-brained, is Mr. Albert Collins; it is a pleasure to deal with him. The reason for following Brown tonight. A little less credible, perhaps, but still quite plausible. I'm afraid you won't be able to saddle him with Brown's death, Sergeant."

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't," said the sergeant. "But if ever I see a wrong 'un Albert Collins is one."

"I think you are probably right," said Mr. Amberley, picking up his hat. "I am now going to relieve you of a distasteful job. You needn't notify Miss Brown of what has happened."

The sergeant looked pleased. "I'd take it very kindly if you'll really do that, Mr. Amberley, sir. And you might see what she has to say about this little fairy tale we've been listening to. You might do it better than what I can."

"I shouldn't wonder," said Mr. Amberley.

Chapter Nine

Shirley had not gone to bed when Mr. Amberley arrived at Ivy Cottage. She was waiting for her brother to come home, and when she flung open the front door Amberley saw from her pale, anxious face that she was worried by Mark's lateness.

She recoiled when she saw who it was. Her instinct was to slam the door in his face, but she curbed it and remarked that she supposed he had once more brought Mark home.

"No," Amberley said gravely. "I'm afraid I haven't. Will you let me come in for a moment?"

His unusual gentleness warned her that something was amiss. Her eyes questioned him dumbly.

"I haven't come to make myself a nuisance to you," he said with a slight smile. "I've got a piece of bad news to deliver."

Her hand shook on the door. "Something has happened to Mark!" she whispered.

"Yes," he replied briefly.

She stood back, allowing him to enter. "Please tell me. Is he dead?"

He drew her into the living room and stood looking rather sternly down at her. "Yes, he's dead. Will you tell me why you so instantly leaped to that conclusion?"

She put her hands up to her face, pressing the palms against her temples. "You said you had not come - to worry me - with questions. When he's late like this - I always imagine things. How did it happen?"

"He was on his way home, drunk, of course - and he apparently stumbled over the edge of the bank into the river.

Her hands fell to her sides. He saw her draw a quick breath. Her eyes, fixed on his face, held a look of terror. He realised suddenly that he had never before seen her afraid. For the first time she struck him as being pathetic, with her gallant pretence of calm and those great, searching eyes trying to read what he was thinking.

"I'm sorry to have to break it to you like this," he said.

"It doesn't matter," she jerked out, holding her head up. "Thank you for coming. Do you - happen to know - anything more?"

"Very little. The fool whom I put on to keep an eye on him let him out of his sight. I owe you an apology."

One of her hands went out gropingly towards the table and grasped the edge of it. "You put that man there - to watch him — because you thought - he might fall into the river?"

"Not quite that. I thought that after his exceedingly rash visit to the manor an attempt on his life might possibly be made."

"You're clever," she said in a low voice. "I misjudged you." She paused. "Was he - pushed into the river?"

"I can only give you the facts and leave you to draw your own conclusions," he replied. "There is one witness only. Collins."

She started. "Ah!"

"Precisely. When Constable Tucker came up to the scene of the - accident - he found Collins dragging your brother's body up the bank. Between them they applied artificial respiration until the sergeant and I came."

She repeated, as though imperfectly understanding: "Collins tried to save him?"

"Apparently. That surprises you?"

She seemed a little dazed. "I can't quite… Collins was… Oh, my God, I ought never to have let him come here!"

"Collins?" said Mr. Amberley smoothly.

She did not pay much attention. "My brother. Only I never dreamed…' She broke off and pulled a chair out from the table and sat down a little limply. Mr. Amberley leaned his broad shoulders against the wall and stood watching her. She made no pretence of being heartbroken; he had seen enough of Mark to be sure she could not be. But the news had shocked her badly. It had frightened her too. She did not know which way to turn. He saw her give a little shiver and grip her fingers together nervously in her lap.

He said presently: "When Collins visited you here the other day, what did he come for?"

Her wandering thoughts were brought back with a jerk. "Did he say - he had visited this place?" she fenced.

"I saw him," replied Amberley.

"You must have been mistaken."

"But I was not. Now Collins has given me his version of why he came, and I should very much like yours."

He watched her knuckles gleam white. "I am not going to answer you," she said. "If he came — it was quite an innocent visit - and has nothing to do with you."

"I see. And when the sergeant comes to ask you whether your brother had any reason for wishing to shoot Collins, what are you going to say?"

"None," she answered with an effort. "None whatsoever."

Amberley ceased to lounge against the wall and came across the room to her and sat down on the edge of the table. She looked up at him half-defiant, half-afraid. He laid his hand over both her tightly clasped ones and held them. "Don't you think it's time you told me all about it?" he said. "Come! I'm not such a bad person to confide in, you know."

To his surprise one of her hands twisted under his and clasped it for a moment. "I know," she said unexpectedly. "But I can't. It's no use asking me. I daren't tell you anything. Mark's dead, but I'm not finished yet. I - I don't give in easily.".

"You daren't tell me," he repeated. He sat looking down at her somewhat enigmatically. "I'm going to make you," he said. "No, not now, but soon. My — er - amour propre is wounded. You shall confide in me. Of your own free will, too." He got up and glanced at his watch. "Now I am going to suggest to you that you come back with me to Greythorne. My aunt will be charmed to have you, and you cannot possibly remain here alone."

She flushed and said gratefully: "Thank you. You're being kinder than perhaps I deserve. But I can't come and stay at Greythorne. I — I shall leave this place and go to the Trust House in Upper Nettlefold. Please don't press me. I'm quite safe with my dog and my gun. I - I don't get drunk, you see."

"The Trust House? You mean the Boar's Head, in the Market Square? I'd much rather have you under my eye at Greythorne."

She smiled faintly. "I don't want to be under your eye, thanks."

"I know you don't. Will you come to Greythorne for tonight and move to the Boar's Head tomorrow?"

"No, thank you. I shall stay here tonight. Really, I shall be all right." She rose and held out her hand. "I — I'm sorry I've been rude to you. Thanks for all you've done for me. Will you - would you mind going now?"

He arrived back at Greythorne just as his aunt and cousin were going upstairs to bed. Felicity asked him casually whether anything had happened and was considerably startled by his answer. He said briefly that Mark Brown had been killed.

Lady Matthews, who hadd reached the half-landing, remarked that it sounded very exciting, but who was Mark Brown? She had never heard of him.

Felicity explained hurriedly and demanded to know who had done it.

"He fell into the river and was drowned. No one did it," replied Amberley.

Felicity was immediately concerned for Shirley, left alone at Ivy Cottage, and Lady Matthews, having by this time grasped the fact that Shirley was the nice girl who had picked up her parcel for her at Hodgson's yesterday, announced that the poor child must not be allowed to stay at that horrid little cottage.

Amberley admitted that he had already issued an invitation to her which she had refused. Lady Matthews said: "Ah yes, dear. No doubt. I must have a coat. Such a shame to drag you out again, but impossible to have Ludlow out so late. The small spare room, Felicity darling. Better tell your father. So unfortunate, for he is put out already."

It appeared that Lady Matthews had formed the intention of rescuing Shirley Brown herself.

When the Bentley once more stood outside the little white gate Lady Matthews got out and gently refused her nephew's escort. Amberley warned her that Shirley Brown was a somewhat obstinate young woman.

"Poor child!" murmured his aunt charitably.

She was not very long in the cottage, but when she came out again she was accompanied, somewhat to Amberley's astonishment, by Shirley, who carried a small suitcase and was closely followed by the faithful Bill. Shirley seemed curiously meek and she did not look at Amberley. The two ladies got into the back of the car; Bill and the suitcase shared the seat next the driver's. Bill, grateful for the ride, alternately put his head over the side to enjoy the wind in his face, and licked Mr. Amberley's lean check.

"It is to be hoped," remarked Mr. Amberley, removing a large paw from his wrist, "that Wolf is shut up."

Bill flattened his ears politely, but he did not share in the hope. A cheerful little fight would, in his opinion, round off the day nicely.

He got it. The chauffeur was bringing Wolf in from his last run as the car drew up at the door, and Wolf bounded up to greet these late homecomers. Bill did not wait to have the car door opened. Before Amberley could stop him he leaped over it. He was aware that he stood upon Wolf's own stamping-ground; if he had not previously encountered the Alsatian, etiquette would have compelled him to forbear battle. But he was one who hated to leave a job unfinished.

The commotion brought Sir Humphrey out upon the scene. He arrived in time to witness the removal of Wolf, raging impotently in the grip of the chauffeur. He ordained that that damned dog was to be shut up and demanded of his wife where she proposed to put the other brute.

Shirley, holding tightly to Bill's collar, said stiffly that she was sorry, and Sir Humphrey, recalled to his duties as host, put the whole blame onto Wolf.

Shirley, still more stiffly, said that she would like to keep Bill with her.

Sir Humphrey's views on the subject of large dogs in houses were widely known. He was about to make his guest privy to them when his wife said: "Of course, my dear. So much safer. Well go up. Someone must find him a rug. Frank, you are so clever at finding things. Do find a rug. Probably in the oak chest."

She bore Shirley upstairs, leaving her husband silenced but indignant. When she presently came down again he professed himself much displeased with the whole affair. Everyone was in the wrong, principally Frank, who persisted in meddling in what did not concern him. This was what came of it. Dogs in bedrooms. No one had seen fit to consult him before this young woman was brought to the house. Had anyone done so he would have deprecated the plan most strongly. They knew nothing about the girl, and although he was naturally sorry for her, he could not see why his wife should consider it incumbent upon her to interfere.

Lady Matthews, quite unruffled by this severe vote of censure, patted his hand and said: "Dreadful, my dear. But impossible to let her stay alone in that cottage all night."

"I fail to see that it is in any way our affair," said Sir Humphrey, slightly mollified.

"Not in the least, darling. But no friends of her own, you see. So awkward. And quite a nice girl, I feel sure. She reminds me of someone, though I don't know whom."

"I have yet to meet anyone who did not remind you of someone, Marion," said Sir Humphrey. "I shall go to bed, and I trust you told her not to allow that dog to get on the furniture."

In the morning he had recovered his urbanity and had thawed enough to invite Shirley to remain at Greythorne until after the inquest, when he supposed she would be returning to London. He even said that the bull-terrier seemed to be a very well-behaved dpg and bestowed a piece of kidney on him, which Bill accepted without hesitation.