Why Shoot a Butler (17 page)

She walked forward cautiously, peering through the gathering darkness for a cottage. A little way from the gate the ride forked; she saw a light at the end of the shorter fork and bore onwards, leaving it on her right.

She smelled pines again, and a few steps brought her to clearer ground. The earth grew more sandy under her feet; a carpet of pine needles deadened the sound of her footsteps. Fallen cones were scattered over the ride; the undergrowth had come to an end; slim tree-trunks, gleaming with wet, surrounded her, stretching away, line upon line of them, into the mist and the enveloping gloom.

The silence was almost eerie; the rain which was falling soundlessly and fast, seemed like a blanket, cutting off all small, ordinary noises of the wood. Shirley gritted her together and felt, in the big pocket of her coat, the reassuring butt of her automatic.

The ride took a turn, and immediately lights became visible in the distance. Shirley had come to the lake, an artificial sheet of water set at the end of a broad avenue that had been cut to the south of the manor. There were little glowing lights in the distance; she could just discern the outline of the manor against the sky and see the sweep of a lawn running to meet the edge of the wood.

On the opposite side of the lake from the manor, forming part of the view to be had from the south windows, was a white pavilion built in the classical style so much in favour during the eighteenth century. It stood like a ghost in the darkness, its windows blank and uncurtained.

Shirley was aware of a pulse that throbbed in her throat. The pavilion, waiting for her amongst the trees, looked deserted and strangely forbidding. She had an instinct to tiptoe away from it, and for several moments she stood in the shadow of the trees staring at the quiet building with a queer sense of foreboding hammering at her brain.

She stood so still that her very heartbeats seemed to thud in the silence. Somewhere not far distant the unmistakable cry of a pheasant broke the dead calm, and she heard the whirr of wings. She jumped uncontrollably and waited, listening. No other sound succeeded the startled bird's flight; she decided, but uneasily, that some prowling fox had disturbed the pheasant.

She drew the gun out of her pocket and cocked it. The snap of the breech sounded comfortingly in her ears; she thumbed the safety-catch up and walked quietly toward the pavilion.

The door was not locked; the handle squeaked nastily as she turned it. She pushed the door inwards, standing backed against the wall. After a moment, since not the tiniest sound came to betray the presence of any living creature, she pulled her torch out of her pocket and switched it on.

The pavilion was empty. Some garden furniture was placed in it, wicker chairs and a table, several gaily coloured boating cushions. Shirley's torch travelled slowly round it, lighting every corner. She went in, closing the door behind her, and forced herself to sit down in one of the chairs and to switch off the torch.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light she was able to distinguish, vaguely, the various objects in the room. The warning instinct that had urged her not to approach the pavilion prompted her to draw her chair back to the wall. The windows, grey oblongs in the darkness, seemed to be all round her. She had to assure herself that no one could see her from outside without the aid of a lamp.

She could hear her watch ticking and pulled down her glove to look at it. The luminous hands stood at twenty minutes past six; Collins was late. A fear that he might be going to play her false dispelled for a moment her growing sense of foreboding, Her lips tightened; she began to listen for the sound of an approach-footstep.

She heard nothing, not so much as the snap of a twig, until the scrape of the door-handle made her heart give a frightened jump. She got up, pressing down the safetycatch of her gun.

A man stood in the doorway; she could not distinguish his features. She waited, hardly breathing.

"Are you there, miss?" The words were spoken so softly that she barely heard them. The voice was the valet's.

"Yes. You're very late," she said, and switched on her torch.

He seemed to leap towards her. "Put it out! Don't show a light!" he whispered urgently.

She obeyed him but said as coolly as she was able: "Take care. You're likely to get shot if you dash at me like that. What's the matter?" The torch-light had given her a brief glimpse of his face, unnaturally pallid, sweat glistening on his forehead. He sounded out of breath and seemed to be listening intently, his head a little bent.

He moved to her side and grasped her left wrist. "For God's sake, get away from here!" he whispered. "I shouldn't have let you come. I warned you it wasn't safe. Someone followed me. Get out quickly!"

Almost without meaning to she lowered her voice, trying to keep it steady. "You're trying to put me off. I'm not having any. We're here to talk business."

He spoke with a kind of suppressed venom. "You know what happened to your brother. Do you want to go the same road? I tell you I'm being watched. Come away from here quickly!"

He pulled her towards the door. Realising that his agitation was not feigned she went with him and allowed him to hurry her back into the shelter of the trees. He stopped to listen again. She could hear nothing, but he drew her still farther into the shade.

He let her go. "I daren't stop. I swear I'm on the level. I'll meet you, but not here. It's getting too hot for me. You ought never to have rung me up." He broke off to listen again. "He's on to me," he whispered. "I'll have to go. For God's sake, miss, go back to London! You're in much worse danger than you know. I'll meet you - on my word, I will!"

"You'd better," she said. "You know what I'm holding."

He gave a soundless chuckle. "Half a loaf, miss. That's not enough."

"Enough to make things unpleasant for you," she said harshly.

"Do that and you'll never get your other half," he said. His tone held a menace. "You were mad to come here. You're not safe. I can't be on the watch all the time. You're not safe a moment."

She said steadily: "I shall stay at Upper Nettlefold till I get what I came for."

His hand closed on her wrist again compellingly. With his lips almost touching her ear he breathed the one word: "Listen!"

The wood seemed all at once, to her overwrought nerves, to be alive with tiny, nameless sounds. The fallen leaves rustled, perhaps a rabbit stirred amongst them; a twig cracked; the shadow of a tree seemed to move.

The man's fear communicated itself to Shirley. She felt that hidden eyes watched her and suddenly wanted only to get away from this haunted spot. Her hand shook in the valet's hold. He let it go and gave her a little push. "Go! You mustn't be seen with me. For God's sake, go!"

He moved away softly as a ghost. The night seemed to close in on Shirley, full of unknown perils. For a moment she knew a feeling of sheer panic that held her as though by force where she stood, her knees shaking. She threw it off and managed to take a step forward on to the ride. It had grown so dark that nothing was clearly distinguishable any longer. Not daring to switch on her torch she began to walk quickly away from the pavilion, restraining an impulse to break into a run.

She was brought up short by a circle of light that suddenly appeared a little way to the left of the ride, moving uncannily over the ground. There was someone else in the wood, searching.

She turned and made for the cover of the trees, hardly caring what direction she took. A great beech tripped her with its long roots; she fell, and looking back, saw the light moving towards her. She scrambled up, thankful in the midst of her fright that the safety-catch on her Colt was up. She broke into a run, heading for the thickest part of the wood.

Brambles caught at her coat and slashed her ankles; she tore free and reached a clump of blackberry bushes growing between the slender stems of some silver birch trees. She crouched down behind them, watching the light waver through the undergrowth.

She could hear footsteps now, deliberate steps, coming closer. A slight sound behind her brought her head round with a jerk, but she could see nothing.

The footsteps passed the bush; she could just perceive the darker shadow of a man's form. He stopped and stood still, listening, she guessed. The light he carried began to describe a circle; she wondered how dense the bushes were, whether dense enough to conceal her.

The man moved; he was coming round the bush. Her thumb felt for the safety-catch; she stayed still, waiting.

Then the boding silence was broken by a sound so incongruous that it came as a shock to her. Someone not far away was whistling "The Blue Danube."

The light disappeared; a faint rustle, the brush of a body passing through high bracken came to Shirley's cars, followed by complete silence. The whistle died away, the shadow had gone.

It was minutes before she dared to move. She crept forward in the direction where she judged the ride to be, stopping every few paces to stand still and listen. The light was no longer visible; it had vanished altogether, scared away by the sound of a waltz tune whistled in the distance.

She walked on, thrusting her way through the undergrowth, still not daring to use the torch.

No light warned her that she was still being followed. Several times she thought that she could hear the sound of a panting breath not far behind; once a twig cracked ominously, but when she stood still, peering behind her, she could see nothing and hear nothing.

She moved forward again; again she heard the heavy breathing, closer at hand now.

She fled on and stumbled out onto the ride. With the close turf under her feet and the dim outlines of the trees on either side to guide her she broke into a run.

A light flashed full into her face; a tiny scream, instantly checked, broke from her. She stood still and levelled the gun.

A cool, faintly mocking voice spoke: "Whither away, Miss Brown?" it said.

Her pistol-hand fell to her side; she drew a long, sobbing breath. "You!" she gasped, dizzy with relief. "It's only - you!"

"That," said Mr. Amberley strolling towards her, "is not particularly complimentary. You seem to be in a hurry."

She put her hand out, clasping the sleeve of his coat; there was something comforting about its very roughness. "Someone following me," she said. "Someone following me."

He took her hand in a strong clasp; she was aware, through her jumbled emotions, that she was no longer afraid. She held Mr. Amberley's hand gratefully and followed the beam of his torch as it swung round.

Then a sharp exclamation rose to her lips. The torch had lit up a face for one moment, a face that shone pale in the bright light and disappeared instantly behind a bush.

"Who is that man?" she gasped. "Over there - didn't you see? He was watching us. Oh, let's get away!"

"By all means," agreed Amberley. "It's not really much of a night for a country walk."

"Did you see?" she insisted. "A man by that bush. Who was he? He was following me. I heard him."

"Yes, I saw," replied Amberley. "It was Fountain's new butler."

She drew closer to him instinctively. "I didn't know. He was following me. I - I don't quite - please let us go!"

Mr. Amberley drew her hand through his arm and began to walk with her down the ride towards the gate. Once she glanced back, saying nervously: "You're sure he's not still following?"

"No, I'm not sure, but I'm not letting it worry me," said Amberley. "Probably he is seeing us off the premises. This happens to be private property, you know."

"You don't think that!" she said sharply. "He wasn't following for that reason."

"No?" said Amberley. "Well, suppose you tell me what the reason is?"

She was silent. After a few moments she pulled her hand away and said: "What are you doing here?"

"Getting back to your normal self, aren't you?" remarked Mr. Amberley. "I thought it was too good to last. What I should like to know is, what are you doing here?"

"I can't tell you," she said curtly.

"Won't tell me," he corrected.

"Perhaps. I notice you haven't answered me."

"Oh, there's no mystery about me," said Amberley cheerfully. "I was following you."

She stopped dead in her tracks. "You? You followed me? But how? How did you know where I was going."

"Intuition," grinned Mr. Amberley. "Aren't I clever?"

"You can't have known. Where were you?"

"Outside the Boar's Head," he replied. "I came on in my car. I should have liked to offer you a lift, but I was afraid you might not take it."

She said hotly: "It's intolerable to be spied on like this!"

He laughed. "You didn't think it quite so intolerable a few minutes ago, did you?"

There was a pause. Shirley began to walk on, her hands in her pockets. Mr. Amberley kept pace beside her. After a moment a gruff voice said with difficulty: "I didn't mean to be ungrateful."

"You sound just like a little girl who has been well scolded," said Mr. Amberley. "All right, I forgive you."

The ghost of a chuckle escaped her. "Well, I was glad to see you," she admitted. "But all the same, it isn't fair of you to - to follow me. Was it you who whistled?"

"A habit of mine," said Mr. Amberley.

She looked up, trying to see his face. "You complain that I'm mysterious, but are you being quite open with me?"

"Not in the least," he said.

She was slightly indignant. "Well, then -'

"You can't have something for nothing, my girl," said Mr. Amberley. "When you decide to trust me I'll be as open as you please."

She said: "I do trust you. I didn't at first, but that's all done with. It isn't that I don't want to confide in you, but I daren't. Please believe me!"

"That a sample of your trust, is it? I don't think much of it."

She was strangely anxious to explain herself "No, it isn't what you think. I'm not afraid that you'd give me away, or anything, but I daren't tell a soul, because if I do - oh, I can't make you understand!"

"You're mistaken; I understand perfectly. You're afraid I might put my foot in it and queer your pitch. I said I didn't think much of your trust."