Why Shoot a Butler (2 page)

Instead of turning north, through the village, the girl set off down the road to the south, following it for some five hundred yards till a rough lane, hardly better than a cart-track, was reached. A board nailed to a weatherbeaten gatepost bore the legend "Ivy Cottage' in somewhat crooked letters, and a little way down the lane a white gate gleamed.

The girl opened it and trod up the roughly flagged path to the door. It was not locked and she went in, shutting it behind her. Immediately before her stairs rose sharply between two walls to the upper floor. On either side was a door, one leading into the kitchen and the other, on the right, into the living room of the cottage.

It stood ajar. The girl pushed it wide and stood on the threshold, leaning against the wall. Her dark scornful eyes rested on the one occupant of the room, a young man sprawling in a chair by the table, blinking owlishly across at her.

She gave a hard little laugh. "Sobered up yet?"

The young man sat up and tried to push his chair back. "I'm all right," he said thickly. "Where - where've you been?"

She came right into the room and pushed the door to behind her. It shut with a bang that made the man start.

"My God, you make me sick!" she said bitterly. "Where have I been? You know very well where I've been!

You're rotten, Mark! A rotten, drunken swine!"

"Oh, dry up!" he said angrily. He staggered to his feet and brushed past her to the door. She heard him presently in the scullery and guessed that he was dowsing his fuddled head in the sink. Her lip curled. She pulled off her hat and threw it on to a chair and went over to turn down the oil-lamp, which was smoking.

The man came back into the room. He looked ashamed and would not meet her eyes. "I'm sorry, Shirley," he muttered. "Don't know how it happened. I swear I didn't have more than a couple of drinks — well, three at the outside. I didn't even mean to go into the damned pub, but that farmer chap from what's the name of the place - ?"

"Oh, what does it matter?" she said impatiently. "You couldn't even keep off the drink for one night. You knew what you'd got to do, too."

"Oh, don't rag me, Shirley!" he said, a kind of weary exasperation in his voice. "All right, all right, I know I'm a swine. You needn't rub it in. Had to meet that fellow, hadn't I? I suppose you went instead."

She took the gun out of her pocket and laid it down and began to unbuckle her coat. "Yes, I went," she said briefly.

"Nothing in it, I suppose? I've always said it was a hoax. Only you would come down to this rotten hole and make me live in a filthy, draughty cottage all to go chasing red herrings…' He broke off, his eyes riveted on her coat. "Gosh, Shirley - what's that?" he asked hoarsely.

She put the coat down. "Blood I shall have to burn it."

He turned a sickly colour and grasped at the edge of the table. "What - what happened?" he said. "You didn't you didn't use the gun, did you?"

"I didn't have to. He was dead."

"Dead?" he repeated stupidly. "What do you mean - dead?"

"Shot. So you see it wasn't such a red herring after all."

He sat down, still staring. "Gosh!" he said again. He seemed to make an effort to pull himself together. "Who did it?"

"I don't know. It looks fairly obvious though. His pockets had been searched, so whoever shot him must have known about this meeting. Anyway they didn't get it."

"How do you know?"

"He hadn't got it with him. He just managed to tell me that. Had cold feet, I suppose, and didn't dare carry it on him."

He stretched out his hand across the table and clumsily patted hers. "Sorry, Sis. Loathsome for you. Poor old girl!"

She said hardly: "That's all right. Only it's a nuisance."

"Nuisance! I should say it is. Why, we're no better off than we were before! If the thing really does exist. And if this chap was shot it looks pretty certain that it does."

She threw him an impatient look. "It exists all right. I know where it is too. He told me."

"He told you?" Her brother leaned forward. "Where then?" he said eagerly.

She got up. "Do you think I'd tell you?" she said contemptuously. "And have you blurt it out the next time you're drunk?"

He flushed. "Damn it, it's my affair, isn't it?"

She said fiercely: "Yes, it's your affair, and you leave me to do the work. All right, I'll do it, but you'll keep out of it! See?"

He wilted, but said obstinately: "You're a girl. You can't do it. Gosh, I don't like the sound of this murder."

"I don't suppose you do," she said. "You'd better keep your mouth shut about it." Her face softened. "Oh, Mark, for God's sake, leave the drink alone for a bit!" she said. "We're going to need all our nerve for this job, and what use are you, fuddled six hours out of the twelve?"

"All right," he muttered, looking away from her. "Honestly, it wasn't my fault today. I didn't mean even to go into the pub, but…'

"I know," she said. "You met a chap who wouldn't let you off. I've heard it before."

Chapter Two

Quite a short drive brought Frank Amberley into Upper Nettlefold, a small country town some ten miles from Carchester. His original annoyance received a spur from the knowledge that if he had not previously ignored the turning to the left off the Pittingly Road he would not only have arrived at Greythorne in time for a belated dinner, but he would also have escaped running into a nasty and probably troublesome murder case.

"And why the devil did I let her go?" he demanded aloud.

No answer was forthcoming. He scowled. "Dam' fool!" he said.

He really did not know what had prompted him to leave the woman standing there in the road. He was not susceptible, and although her brusque self-possession had amused him he had not been attracted by her. A sulky-looking wench! The sort that would stick at nothing. But she hadn't done that murder, all the same. He ought to have taken her into the police station of course. If she didn't actually shoot the man she knew something about it. No disguising that fact from one who had abundant opportunity of observing crime every working day in the year. At the same time if He had given her up to the police what chance would she have had? The thing looked pretty black. Given a little more data (and he had no doubt there was plenty to be found) he could make a nice damning case for the Grown Himself.

But that wasn't his business; his duty had been quite clear. Not that that aspect of the case was likely to worry him. But if he wasn't careful he would find himselfin the unenviable position of accessory after the fact. And all because of what? He was damned if he knew.

He ran into Upper Nettlefold and drove to the police station, an old red-brick building in the Market Square. A young constable was there, the telephone receiver held to his ear, and an expression of weary boredom on his face. He glanced at Mr. Amberley without interest and said into the mouthpiece that nothing had been heard yet, but he was doing all he could about it. After which he listened for a moment, repeated the gist of his former remarks and hung up the receiver.

"Yes, sir?" he said, entering something on the sheet before him.

Mr. Amberley was busy filling a pipe. "Sergeant Gubbins about?" he inquired.

The young constable admitted that Sergeant Gubbins was about.

"I'll see him," said Mr. Amberley, striking a match.

The constable looked at him with disfavour. The hard eyes glanced up over the bowl of the pipe. "Rather quickly," said Mr. Amberley.

"I don't know about that, sir," said the constable stiffly. "I'll speak to the sergeant."

He withdrew, and Mr. Amberley strolled over to the wall to inspect a poster describing the delights in store for all those willing to purchase a ticket for the annual police concert.

The door at the end of the room which had the word PRIVATE painted forbiddingly on the frosted glass opened to admit the egress of a burly individual with very fierce moustache and a red face. "Well, sir, what can I do for you?" said this personage in a voice calculated to strike awe into the hearts of malefactors.

Mr. Amberley turned. "Evening, Sergeant," he said.

The sergeant abandoned his severity. "Well, Mr. Amberley, sir!" he said. "I haven't seen you down in these parts, not for six months. I hope I see you well, sir? Anything I can do for you?"

"Oh, no!" said Mr. Amberley. "But I thought you'd like to know there's a dead man on the Pittingly Road."

The constable, who had gone back to his place by the desk, gasped at this, but the sergeant took it in good part.

"You will have your joke, sir," he said indulgently.

"Yes," said Mr. Amberley. "But this isn't my joke. You'd better send someone along. I'm at Greythorne when you want me."

The smile faded. "You're not serious, sir?" said the sergeant.

"Perfectly. Sober, too. A man in an Austin Seven, shot through the chest. Very messy."

"Murder!" said the sergeant. "Good Lord! Here, sir, just a moment! Where did you say you found him?"

Mr. Amberley returned to the desk and demanded a sheet of paper. Supplied with this he drew a rough diagram. "Where that accursed place Pittingly is I don't know, but the car is approximately at this point, about a mile from the turning into this town. I stopped to ask the way to Greythorne and found the fellow was dead. Probably murdered. I'd come with you, but I'm an hour late for dinner already."

"That's all right, sir. You'll be at Greythorne for a day or two, I take it? There'll be an inquest - but I don't have to tell you that. Get on to Carchester, Wilkins. You didn't happen to notice anything particular, did you, sir? Didn't pass anyone on the road?"

"No. It's pretty foggy, though. The man wasn't cold when I touched him, if that's any use to you. Good night."

"Good night, sir, and thank you."

The constable held out the telephone receiver, and while the sergeant reported to headquarters he stood rubbing his chin and staring at the door which had swung to behind Mr. Amberley. As the sergeant hung up the receiver he said blankly: "Well, he's a cool customer and no mistake."

"That's Mr. Frank Amberley, Sir Humphrey's nephew," said the sergeant. "He's a very clever young man, that's what he is."

"Walks in here as bold as brass talking about dead men on the road like as if they was as common as dandelions," said the disapproving constable.

"So they are to him," replied the sergeant severely. "If you ever read the papers, my lad, you'd know all about him. He's a barrister. Going a long way, he is, by all accounts."

"Well, he can't go too far for me," said the constable. "I don't like him, Sergeant, and that's a fact."

"You send Harper in to me and stop mooning around the place," commanded the sergeant. "There's plenty don't like Mr. Amberley, but that isn't going to bother him."

Meanwhile Frank Amberley's car had shot off in the direction of the High Street. From Upper Nettlefold he had no doubt of his way and he reached Greythorne, a substantial stone house standing in grounds that ran down to the river Nettle, in little more than ten minutes.

He was met in the hall by his cousin, a mischievous damsel of eighteen, who demanded to know what had happened to him.

He pulled off his coat and cast Miss Matthews a withering glance. "Your short way," he said scathingly.

Felicity giggled. "You are an ass, Frank. Did you get lost?"

"Very." He turned as his aunt came out into the hall. "Sorry, Aunt Marion. Not my fault. Am I too late for dinner?"

Lady Matthews embraced him and said vaguely: "Dear Frank! Dreadfully late, and a cheese souffle! Darling, tell somebody about Frank. Oh, here is Jenkins! Jenkins, Mr. Amberley has arrived."

She smiled charmingly upon her nephew and drifted away again towards the drawing room. Amberley grinned and called after her: "Aunt Marion, need I change?"

"Change, dear boy? No, of course not. You haven't lost your luggage, have you?"

"No, but it's past nine."

"Dreadful, my dear. We were afraid of an accident."

Felicity tugged at her cousin's sleeve. "Frank, you couldn't have got lost for a whole hour! Own up! You started late!"

"You're a little beast, Felicity. Let me go, I must have a wash."

He came downstairs again five minutes later and was escorted by Felicity to the dining room. While he ate she sat with her elbows on the table, propping her chin in her hands.

"The ball," she announced, "is on Wednesday." Frank groaned. "Did you bring a fancy dress?" Felicity said anxiously.

"I did."

"What is it?" demanded Felicity, agog with female interest.

"Mephistopheles. Suits my style of beauty."

She was doubtful. "I don't really mind about that," she informed him. "You see, I'm going as a Powder-Puff, and you won't suit my style at all."

"God forbid. A Powder-Puff! Look here, what is this ball about, and why, and where?"

Her brown eyes opened to their widest extent. "Good Lord, didn't Mummy tell you in her letter?"

He laughed. "Aunt Marion's letters are exactly like her conversation - the important bits left out."

"Well, it's at Norton Manor. Joan's engaged."

"Joan?"

"You know! Joan Fountain. You must have met her here."

"Fair girl with eyes? Who's the man?"

"Oh, rather an angel. His name's Corkran. He's got pots of money, I believe. Anyway they're engaged, and the ball is sort of in honour of it."

"Half a minute. What's this chap's Christian name?"

"Corkran? Tony. Why?"

Frank raised his brows. "Old Corks! I thought it must be. He was at school with me."

"How delightful for him!" said Miss Matthews politely.

At that moment the door opened and a tall, thin man with white hair came in. Frank got up. "Evening, Uncle."

Sir Humphrey shook hands. "Well, Frank? I've only just heard that you'd arrived. What kept you?"

"Felicity, sir. She told me a short way from town. It wasn't."

"So the great Mr. Amberley got lost! The mighty are fallen, Frank."

"Fraid so, sir."

"The whole truth is, he didn't start in time," said Felicity indignantly. "And it's no use saying you were busy, Frank, because I know quite well you're - what is it barristers get into in the summer, Daddy? Recess, or something. I say, Daddy, he says he knows Joan's young man."

Sir Humphrey, observing that his nephew had come to the end of his repast, pushed the port decanter towards him. "Indeed? A singularly brainless young man, one would be led to infer, but I believe of excellent family. These fancy-dress festivities, I understood, are to celebrate the engagement. Felicity is very friendly with Miss Fountain."

It was apparent to Mr. Amberley that the friendship did not meet with Sir Humphrey's whole-hearted approval. He searched his brain for data concerning the Fountains and found it void.

Felicity was called away to the telephone. Frank cracked and peeled a nut. "That wasn't entirely true."

"What was not entirely true?" inquired Sir Humphrey, refilling his glass.

"Oh - my losing my way. I did, but not for an hour. I stumbled on a murder."

"God bless my soul!" ejaculated Sir Humphrey, feeling for his pince-nez. He fixed them on his bony nose and regarded his nephew in great astonishment. "Who's been murdered?"

"I've no idea. Middle-aged man respectably dressed. Couldn't place him. Might have been a tradesman. Something like that. He was in an Austin Seven on the Pittingly Road."

"Tut, tut, tut!" said Sir Humphrey, much perturbed. "Shocking! Shocking! No doubt a case of these road bandits."

"It might have been," replied his nephew noncommittally.

"Better say nothing to your aunt and cousin," recommended Sir Humphrey. "Dear me, how very unpleasant! Murders at our very gates! I do not know what the world is coming to."

He was still tut-tutting when they presently joined Lady Matthews in the drawing room, and when his wife inquired mildly what had happened to disturb him his disclaimers were so earnest that she at once turned to Frank and told him that he had better make a clean breast of it.

Having a more correct opinion of his aunt's nerves than Sir Humphrey had, Frank made no bones about it.

"Horrid happenings, Aunt. I've been finding dc;id bodies. One, to be precise."