Why Shoot a Butler (15 page)

He lay down again cautiously. Mr. Amberley was keeping very quiet downstairs. Cool as a cucumber, he wouldn't wonder. Perhaps he wouldn't be quite so cool if he was lying up here waiting for someone to come and try to murder him.

A mouse gnawing at the wainscoting gave the sergeant a moment's uneasiness. He hissed at it, and it stopped.

Then a different sound broke the silence; the sergeant could have sworn he heard the garden gate open. The hinge was rusty and it gave a faint squeak. He took a firm hold of the coverlet and listened.

In the kitchen Mr. Amberley had risen silently from his chair and moved behind the door. The cottage was in pitch darkness. The clock's ticking seemed to reverberate through it.

There was the sound of a tiny chink coming from the living-room window. The frame creaked as though something had been forced between the two sashes. Then there was a snap as the bolt securing the upper and lower half together was forced back. It was followed by a few moments' silence.

Mr. Amberley waited, standing close to the crack of the door.

The living-room window was being pushed gently up from the outside; it stuck a little, and Amberley heard a hand slip on the glass. The betraying sound was again followed by absolute stillness, but after a moment the window was thrust up farther and the curtains were parted, letting in the pale moonlight.

Mr. Amberley, watching through the crack, saw for a moment a gloved hand holding back the curtain; then it moved and grasped the window sill. Soundlessly the nocturnal visitor climbed into the room; for an instant as he stood in the shaft of moonlight Amberley was able to study him. He seemed to be wearing a long coat, and as he turned, Amberley saw that there was something over his head, probably a sack with eyeholes cut in it. It gave him an oddly sinister look; Amberley wondered what the sergeant would think of it.

An electric torch flashed over to the kitchen door; the unknown man moved softly into the small passageway that separated the two rooms, and the torch-beam swept round to light the stairs.

The man stood still, darkly silhouetted against the moonlight beyond. Amberley watched him take something out of his pocket and make a movement with his hand as though shaking scent onto a handkerchief.

Then he stiffened suddenly, listening. The gate had squeaked.

Amberley drew back noiselessly, feeling his way, and came to the larder door and groped for the handle. He began to turn it. Whoever the newcomer might be, he was not expected by the man at the foot of the stairs.

Someone else was getting in at the window; a boot scraped on the wall, and the whole window shook as a head came into sharp contact with the frame. A voice said involuntarily: "Blast!"

The man at the foot of the stairs turned and was gone like a flash into the kitchen. Under cover of the noise made by the second man Amberley had opened the larder door. When the hooded man's torch swept the kitchen it was empty. The man was wearing rubber soles, and his feet made no sound on the stone floor. He reached the back door, twisted the key round in the lock and a moment later was gone.

Mr. Amberley came out of the larder and strode to meet the second man, who had scrambled in at the window and was making for the kitchen. "You blithering idiot!" he said in a voice of rage. "You fat-headed, blundering ass!"

"Good Lord!" gasped Anthony Corkran, blinking in the glare of Mr. Amberley's torch. "You don't mean to say it was you? What the devil are you doing here?"

Amberley turned to call up the stairs. "You can come down, Sergeant. The game's up."

Corkran jumped. "What? Sergeant Gubbins up there? Where's Miss Brown? I say, you know! Tut-tut!"

"Anthony," said Mr. Amberley with dangerous calm, "you are very near death. Don't provoke me too far!"

The sergeant came clumping down the stairs. "What's happened, sir?" he demanded.

"Nothing," said Amberley bitterly. "My friend Mr. Corkran has seen to that."

The sergeant's torch discovered Anthony; he looked at him with a kindly eye. "Well, I don't know that I'm altogether sorry," he said.

"But, I say, look here!" began Anthony, and broke off. "What on earth's the stink?"

"chloroform," said Amberley, moving into the living room and striking a match.

The sergeant began to feel real affection for Mr. Corkran.

"But dash it all, it can't have been you I followed all the way from the manor!" protested Anthony.

"It wasn't." Amberley lit the lamp and turned. "It may interest you to know that the sergeant and I were lying in wait for the man you followed. If you hadn't come barging your way into the house with enough row to wake the dead we'd have had him by now."

"Well, damn it, if you were here, why didn't you nab him?" said Anthony.

"Because I wanted to get him in the act, you fool."

"Act of what?"

Amberley gave a sudden laugh. "chloroforming the sergeant. Well, it can't be helped. You'd better tell us your side." He moved across to the window and shut it and pushed the bolt back into place.

It seemed that Corkran had been doing a little detective work on his own account. He had gone to bed upon his return from Greythorne to Norton Manor earlier in the evening, but not to sleep. He had read for some time; he did not think he could have turned his light out until past midnight, and for some time after that he had lain awake. He was just getting drowsy when he heard a faint sound outside. His room looked out on the front of the house, and he had often noticed that the noise of anyone's approach was considerably magnified by the loose gravel which covered the drive.

He had thought it an odd hour for anyone to be out and had had the curiosity to get up and look out of the window. At first the drive had appeared to be deserted, but all at once he had caught a glimpse of a man's back view as he emerged from the shadow of a big rhododendron bush. He must have been about thirty yards from the house and he was going towards the gate, so that Corkran only saw his back, and that very imperfectly. He was walking on the narrow grass border and pushing a bicycle. It must have been the bicycle wheels on the gravel that Corkrann had heard. He wore a long coat and a tweed cap pulled down over his head. Corkran could not recognise him at that distance, but his stealthy mode of progression, coupled with the lateness of the hour, aroused all his suspicions. He had very little doubt himself that it was Collins, and he made up his mind there and then to follow him in the hopes of discovering some valuable clue.

He had hastily pulled on a pair of trousers over his pyjamas, thrust his feet into a pair of shoes and socks, grabbed a coat, and tiptoed downstairs to the front door. He did not want to run any risk of waking Joan and alarming her, and he wasn't particularly keen on waking Brother Basil either. He happened to know that there was an old bicycle Joan sometimes used in a shed near the house. He had got hold of this and set off in pursuit.

By the time he had reached the gates there was no sign of the mysterious cyclist. Corkran had chosen the Upper Nettlefold Road, thinking it the likeliest way for the man to have gone. The seat of the bicycle was too low for him, and one of the tyres badly needed pumping. Altogether it was a fairly uncomfortable journey, but he had kept on and been rewarded, about a mile from the manor, by catching sight of his quarry. After that the chase had been very good fun. He had taken care to keep well behind, for even though there was no lamp on his machine the moonlight would have betrayed him had the man he was following chanced to look round.

He had very nearly been discovered at the end of the journey. The unknown man had passed the end of the lane to Ivy Cottage, and he, Corkran, had pedalled staunchly after him. But some yards on the first man had dismounted and pushed his bicycle into the ditch. Corkran was luckily in the shadow of a clump of trees at the time. He too had sought shelter in the ditch and waited to see what his quarry would do. The man had turned and come back on foot. Corkran did not mind admitting that he had got a bit of a shock then. The fellow was no longer wearing his cap, but had got a sack pulled over his head with eyeholes cut in it. In the moonlight, and before he had had time to see just what it was, it had looked perfectly beastly. Of course, this had made him certain that whoever was wearing the sack was not up to any good. He wished he had got a weapon at that moment, but since Brother Basil kept the gun room locked, and he wasn't himself in the habit of travelling with a revolver, he hadn't. However, it seemed pretty feeble to give up the stalk at this moment, so he had followed the man, and from behind the hedge surrounding the cottage had watched him force open the window and climb in. After that, of course, weapon or no weapon, he had had to go on. The rest they both knew.

The sergeant, who had listened admiringly to this tale, said handsomely that it did him credit. Mr. Amberley said that his friend's intentions might be good, but the result disastrous. He supposed he would have to run Corkran back to the manor.

"You suppose right," said Anthony cheerfully. "Nothing would induce me to mount the velocipede again, I can tell you."

"I'll go and lock the back door again," Amberley said. "We can go out by the front." He went through into the kitchen, carrying his torch. The door still stood open as the fugitive had left it. Amberley was about to shut it when a slight sound caught his ears. He switched his torch on and swept its beam round. Something moved by the door of the woodshed; for a moment he saw Baker's face; then it vanished, and a twig cracked under a retreating footstep. Amberley stepped quickly out into the little kitchen garden; at the same moment Corkran came up behind him and asked what he was up to now. Had he seen anyone? Amberley did not answer for a moment. Then he switched off his torch and said slowly: "No. I don't think so. I'm just going to shut the back gate. You might open the kitchen shutters again, will you?"

He waited till Corkran had gone back into the cottage and then went softly towards the woodshed. There was no one there, nor did there seem to be anyone lurking in the garden. Mr. Amberley stood still listening intently. No sound betrayed the butler's presence. Mr. Amberley's brows rose a little; he turned and went back into the house.

The sergeant and Anthony Corkran were getting on very well together. They were agreed on two points: that the man was undoubtedly Albert Collins; that Mr. Amberley ought not to have let him get away. This much Amberley heard as he re-entered the kitchen. He locked and bolted the door and said over his shoulder: "When we make an arrest, my well-meaning but misguided friends, it will be on a charge of murder - and other things. Not of housebreaking. Further, I would like to draw your attention to one small but significant point. The man who broke into this place tonight did not know of the existence of Bill."

The sergeant cast an eloquent glance at Corkran. "And who," he inquired, "might Bill be, sir?"

"Bill," said Mr. Amberley, "is Miss Brown's bull-terrier. Think it over."

Chapter Eleven

Anthony Corkran's account of his share in the night's happenings was carefully expurgated next morning when he told it over the breakfast table. He had been coached by Amberley during the drive back to the manor, and he quite realised that to disclose the other two men's presence in the cottage would be a very false step.

His own idea was to keep the whole adventure dark, but he admitted that he might be wrong when Amberley pointed out that complete silence on his part must inevitably warn the unknown housebreaker that he was suspected. The man had come from the manor; further, he must know who had followed him, since Anthony had sworn aloud at hitting his head against the window frame. If Anthony preserved a rigid silence it would only put the man on his guard.

Accordingly, Anthony told Fountain next morning when Joan had left the table that he had been up all night chasing masked men. Fountain looked at him as though he were a mild lunatic and went on with his breakfast. He was never in his best mood at this hour, and the only response he gave was a grunt.

Anthony buttered another slice of toast. "To be strictly accurate," he said, "not men, but man. One. Complete with sack."

Fountain looked up from the paper and said, with a hint of exasperation in his voice: "What the devil are you about?"

"If you don't believe me, take a look at the bicycle," said Anthony. "It wasn't good when I first mounted it. It's definitely on the sick-list now."

Fountain put the paper down. "What bicycle?" he said. "I do wish you wouldn't talk such rubbish!"

Joan's. I rode it seven miles. And back."

Fountain gave a short laugh. "Yes, I can see you riding a bicycle seven miles. Do you mind explaining the joke?"

Anthony explained it. It was some time before he could make his host believe that he was not pulling his leg. When he had succeeded in convincing him of his seriousness Fountain at once demanded to know who the man was. Anthony said that he didn't know, though he had a strong suspicion.

"Collins?" Fountain said, lowering his voice. "Good Lord!"

"Mind you, I'm not sure," Corkran warned him. "I never saw his face."

Fountain took no trouble to disguise the fact that he was thoroughly annoyed. He said that it looked as though he would have to sack the man. Anthony heartily agreed, but was himself annoyed to discover that Fountain was still somewhat dubious about his story. He remarked that it seemed fantastic; he wished Anthony had caught the man and unmasked him. As far as he could see, it would be most unwise for him to accuse Collins without any sort of proof to go on. He must think the whole thing over and keep a strict watch. It was all most unfortunate, not to say infuriating. If the police came to question the servants again the housekeeper for one would leave. She had been thoroughly affronted and upset already by the inspector's tactless method of interrogation. "In fact," said Fountain crossly, "I wish to God you hadn't looked out of your window. At least I shouldn't have known anything about it then."

At that moment Joan came into the room, and the discussion at once ended. She and Corkran were going to play golf. A polite suggestion that Basil should come and make it a three-ball match was refused. He was not going to play gooseberry, he said; besides which that old footler, Matthews, had rung up to say that he was coming round to see him on a matter of business.

"Of course I know what that means," Fountain said. "He dropped a hint at dinner last night, but I wasn't having any. I've got quite enough to worry me without the delinquencies of my head-keeper being added to the list."

"Poachers?" Joan inquired. "I know; Felicity was talking about it. I suppose Hitchcock is fairly slack."

"Well, I'm not going to get rid of him to please old Matthews," said Fountain.

Sir Humphrey was driven over at twelve o'clock by his daughter in her runabout, Ludlow being smitten with influenza. Baker ushered them both into the library and left them there while he went to find his master.

Sir Humphrey, after the manner of book-lovers, began to wander round studying the closely packed shelves. He said severely that he wondered Fountain had not had the library catalogued and arranged in decent order.

From her seat in the window Felicity remarked that she didn't suppose he cared. "Not bookish, darling," she smiled.

"That is self-evident," said her father, putting on his glasses and studying the backs of a row of calf-bound classics.

"They all look fairly dull anyway," said Felicity airily.

Sir Humphrey, who had discovered a treasure, did not reply. She transferred her attention to the activities of a gardener who was sweeping up the fallen leaves on the lawn and left her parent to browse in peace. When Fountain came in apologising for keeping his visitor waiting, he was turning over the pages of a dusty volume culled from the obscurity of a top shelf and said absently: "Not at all, not at all. I have been looking over your books. My dear sir, are you aware that they are all arranged according to size?"

Fountain looked a trifle bewildered and said that he was afraid he was not much of a reader. He was told that he should employ someone to put the library in order. It appeared that many rare editions were in his possession, and that De Quincey was rubbing shoulders with somebody's Recollections of the Russian Court. He gathered from Sir Humphrey's tone that this was a crime and said that he was very ignorant in these matters.

"I believe your grandfather was a great collector," said Sir Humphrey. He held up the book in his hand. "Here is an old friend whom I have not met, alas, for many years. I cannot think why it is missing from my own shelves. I wonder if I may borrow it? A pernicious habit, I am aware."

"Do by all means," said Fountain, hoping to get away from the subject of books. "Very glad if you'd borrow anything you want to."

"Thank you. I just have a fancy to dip into these pages again. I will take the first volume, if I may."

Fountain gave his noisy laugh. "First volume, eh? I don't mind admitting I shy at anything in more than one volume."

Sir Humphrey looked at him with much the same wonder as he would have displayed upon being confronted by a dinosaur.

"Dear me!" he said. "Yet this work - it is Disraeli's Curiosities of Literature -you would find well worth the — ah - labour of reading. But I did not come to talk about books. I must not waste your time."

Fountain murmured a polite disclaimer but made no attempt to dissuade Sir Humphrey from coming to his business. At the end of twenty minutes' earnest conversation he promised that he would speak to his keeper. It was pointed out to him that some suspicious-looking men had been seen on his estate; Sir Humphrey felt that it was the duty of every landowner to stamp out this poaching menace and was sure that Fountain would agree with him.

Fountain was ready to agree with anything. Certainly poachers must be got rid of; he would have a word with Hitchcock.

Felicity, perceiving his scarce-veiled impatience, got up and said that if they did not go they would not have time to visit Upper Nettlefold before lunch. Sir Humphrey said, to be sure they were encroaching upon Fountain's time; he would rely on him to see that something was done.

He shook hands and was about to go when the door opened softly and Collins came in.

The valet stopped and said at once: "I beg pardon, sir. I thought you were alone."

"That's all right; since you're here you can show Sir Humphrey and Miss Matthews out," said Fountain. "Goodbye, sir; I'll see about it at once. Sure you won't take the other volumes? Well, don't hesitate to borrow any book you happen to want. Only too glad!"

The valet's eyes rested for a moment on the volume Sir Humphrey carried. Then he looked quickly towards the bookshelves. Some quiver of emotion flickered in his face. He said: "Should I wrap the book up for you, sir?"

"No, thank you, I prefer it as it is," replied Sir Humphrey, going towards the door.

"I fear it may be very dusty, sir. Shall I wipe it for you?"

"Wipe it? No, no, it is perfectly all right!" said Sir Humphrey testily. "Well, goodbye, Fountain. Come along, Felicity, or we shall be late."

As Felicity started the car she said: "Did you notice that man? The valet, I mean."

"Notice him, my dear? I naturally saw him. Why should I notice him particularly?"

"I thought he gave you — such an ugly look."

You imagine things, my dear," said Sir Humphrey. "Why should he give me an ugly look?"

"I don't know. But he did."

She drove the car into Upper Nettlefold, being commissioned by Lady Matthews to call at the Boar's Head to find out if Shirley Brown was comfortable there and to offer to accompany her to the inquest next morning. The porter thought Miss Brown was in her room, and went up to find her while Felicity and Sir Humphrey waited in the lounge.

Shirley came downstairs in a few minutes; she seemed pleased to see Felicity, but rather shy. She wore a black armband over her tweed coat, but no other sign of mourning, and although she looked worried she had certainly not been crying. She said that she was quite comfortable at the Boar's Head and declined Lady Matthews' offer of escort to the inquest. It was very kind of Lady Matthews but quite unnecessary; she would not like to drag her to anything so unpleasant.

"My wife," said Sir Humphrey, eyeing her askance, "thought that perhaps you would be glad of - ah support - under such painful circumstances."

Shirley gave him back one of her surprising clear looks. "I shan't break down," she said. "It has been a shock to me, and I'm upset. But I don't want to pose as being heartbroken. You see, I'm not. I'm sorry if this shocks you."

It evidently did shock Sir Humphrey. He said that perhaps she had scarcely had time to realise what had happened. Her smile was a little scornful, but she did not argue the point. On the question of her return to London she was inclined to be vague; purposely, Felicity guessed. There appeared to be business connected with Ivy Cottage which she would be obliged to settle.

She made no effort to detain her visitors when Felicity rose to go. Felicity thought, privately, that whatever she might choose to say, she was suffering from considerable strain. Her eyes betrayed her.

Sir Humphrey, on the way home, took no pains to disguise the fact that he did not like Shirley. His sense of propriety was offended by her lack of hypocrisy; he could not forgive such plain speaking, however unsatisfactory Mark Brown might have been. Decency had to be preserved. He thought that the absence of mourning clothes showed lack of respect towards the dead. Whatever a man's character had been in life, death, in Sir Humphrey's eyes, made him instantly respectable.

In the middle of these reflections he broke off to hunt on the seat beside him for something. Felicity slowed down. "What is it, Daddy?"

"I seem," said Sir Humphrey with annoyance, "to have left that book I borrowed at the Boar's Head. I can't think how I could have done such a thing. We shall have to go back."

Leaving things behind was a habit he had so often condemned in his wife and daughter that Felicity could not forbear a little crow of laughter as she turned the car.