And Death Came Too Read online

  Martin got out of the car first.

  “There doesn’t seem to be anybody about,” he said, unexpectedly lowering his voice, perhaps as a tribute to the silence of the night and perhaps lest it should be heard inside, “so I suppose we can leave the car immediately outside the front door.”

  “Which is open,” Lansley said. “Do we ring—or just go in?”

  “It will probably be simplest if we do just walk in. The maids’ rooms are right away at the back behind the dining-room, which, judging by the fact that the curtains are drawn and the light’s falling on the drive is, I suppose, where we should make our way to.” Barbara seemed a little doubtful about it.

  “I suppose so,” Gerald chimed in. “I say, this place does give me the creeps.”

  “And me, too.” With very little encouragement Martin would have revived his objections and suggested an immediate flight.

  But Patricia was made of sterner stuff.

  “We can’t do that now,” she said briskly. “They probably heard the car drive up, even though we did come in on the opposite side of the drive to the dining-room.”

  Without giving her brother any chance to sway their opinions again, she stepped quickly over the threshold and pushed open the inner front door, and then moved with determined steps to the dining-room.

  “Good evening, Mr Yeldham! We’ve come. Oh! I should have said that my name’s Patricia Hands and that I’ve brought the other three along.”

  “Good evening. Delighted to meet you all, but I am afraid you are under a misapprehension. I’m not Yeldham. My name is Salter. Let me introduce—” He muttered a name so that Patricia completely failed to catch it and indicated a short, fair, rather faded but still quite young woman who was sitting at the end of the table.

  Patricia found herself staring from the one to the other in a manner which she was well aware was definitely rude. She also knew that the fact that her three companions were doing so, too, made her conduct no better; but Mr Salter was so very tall and so very bony and so very unexpected, both in that he was not the person whom she had expected to meet, and that his evening clothes fitted so badly, and that his white waistcoat was so very dirty, and that his shirt was so very stained. The last was a fact which she could not help noticing as the middle of his shirt was just about the level of her eyes. Moreover, Mr Salter appeared to have cleared the glasses and sandwiches and so forth away from a small part of the dining-room table and to be using it for, of all unexpected things, playing patience.

  In a desperate effort to break a silence that was becoming uncomfortable, Patricia turned to the woman, and managed to murmur “Good evening,” with her lips, although she felt that her whole expression was saying: “Why aren’t you wearing evening clothes?” Rather queer clothes they were, too. The kind, Patricia thought, that a French tailor might imagine English women wear.

  Their wearer, too, seemed ill at ease and completely failed to make any sound at all. Instead, she bowed and resumed her seat and fixed her eyes on a bowl of roses in the middle of the table.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Mr Salter began to show signs of remembering that he was in the position of host.

  “Oh!—yes—yes, thank you.” Patricia, somehow or other, got herself into a chair and was relieved to see that the others had done the same. “Mr Yeldham very specially asked us all to come round,” she began. “Martin—my brother—has got his letter on him.”

  “Of course. I hope I didn’t imply that I thought you were—what is the modern phrase—gate-crashing, is it?”

  “It’s not very modern,” Barbara answered and then, realising too late that the rejoinder was in the nature of a snub, she added: “I think we were surprised at not seeing Mr Yeldham. I don’t know what it is. We all seem a little on edge. I expect that it’s being tired. This is the third night running, you know.”

  “Quite.” Salter’s monosyllable was not helpful, and the fair woman’s gaze did not shift. Desperately, Patricia looked from her brother to her fiancé, and then to Barbara. Why couldn’t one of them say something? Catching her eye both the men with an obvious effort started to speak at the same moment. Both, unfortunately, uttered the same word—“Yeldham,” and then both looked at the other and stopped.

  This time Salter came to their rescue.

  “Yeldham told me that there were four more people whom he hoped to see tonight. You said, Miss Hands, if I remember rightly, that you had ‘brought the other three along’, and then you referred to your brother. So I presume that this is Miss Carmichael and this Lansley. Am I right?”

  “Quite.” Patricia wished that he had been as definite as to the name of the silent woman at the end of the table. “You” was such an awkward form of address. Out of the side of her eyes she looked again. Those clothes were certainly a little odd at any time of day, and the make-up on the faded, rather purple cheeks and round the tired-looking eyes was somehow reminiscent of Paris. Perhaps she was French and did not trust her English? It was a charitable explanation of an otherwise unfriendly silence, and an insane idea ran through Patricia’s mind that she ought to try to talk French. It did not, however, last long, for she was well aware of the poverty of her own linguistic efforts.

  Suddenly Salter jumped up.

  “But what appalling manners I have!” he exclaimed. “Here are you sitting round a table, and I have quite failed to offer you anything whatever. Having been told by Yeldham, too, to do just that if and when you came.” With brisk energy and a totally different manner to that which he had recently borne, he hurried to the sideboard, opened a bottle of champagne, and after one glance at the fair-haired woman who replied with a shake of her head, poured out five glasses and offered them round, at the same time pushing towards them at random any plate which came handy.

  “Not for me, thank you.” Martin’s refusal was polite but perfectly definite.

  “Really? Yeldham won’t forgive me if I don’t—”

  “No, thank you, really,” Martin echoed. “You see,” he added, catching his sister looking at him rather closely, “I’ve got to drive the car.”

  “Just as you please.”

  Through Patricia’s mind (and probably she thought, through that of the other three), ran an insistent idea: “If he won’t voluntarily tell us what has happened to Mr Yeldham, ought one to ask him? I don’t know. Perhaps with luck Yeldham will be back in a few moments. But why do I feel this is all so queer?” Aloud, she said: “What is the patience you were playing, Mr Salter? Do show me.”

  “Not really a patience, I’m afraid.” His long, bony fingers gathered up the cards and suddenly shuffled them quickly with a trick shuffle in mid-air. “I was just asking fate a question,” he went on, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. “If my right hand had the better hand, the answer was to be ‘Yes’. If my left hand, ‘No’. The best of ninety-nine—‘Yes’ was slightly ahead. It was rather exciting.”

  To the surprise of four of the five people present, he began rapidly and ceaselessly to deal out two packets of five cards, look at each quickly and give an exclamation of pleasure or, more often, of disgust. Four of the five members of his audience watched him in startled silence. The fifth looked steadily and uninterestedly at the bowl of roses.

  With abruptness equal to that with which he had started, Salter stopped.

  “One more hand to go and the dice of fate is level. Won’t you change your mind, Hands, and drink to my success?”

  “Not if you don’t mind. All the same, I wish you success, though I’ve no idea what it is all about.”

  “Lansley? You were before my time at Finchingfield, but take another glass and fill up Miss Carmichael’s and Miss Hands’. At least I drink to your happiness.”

  Lansley, who alone had finished his glass as Salter apparently had noticed, stopped half-way to the sideboard in surprise.

  “Finchingfield?” he said. “And our happiness? You seem to know a lot.”

  “You forget. Yeldham told me that y
ou were coming. Come, Hands! Surely your sister’s happiness is a toast that you cannot refuse? If there are objections to your driving, I can explain the reason to the police; or are they so very difficult round here? Perhaps they will object to my gambling.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” A deepish confident voice broke in behind them. “Not in a private house and with personal guests who have, I think you said, all been specially invited.”

  “Why, yes, we were.” Patricia, finding that the remark was addressed to her, answered quite involuntarily. After that the four people for whom she had first intended to speak sat in undisguised amazement looking at a tall, good-looking, dark young man, carrying a helmet in his hand, and in all other respects dressed as an ordinary police constable in the Treve police force.

  “If you knew that,” Lansley broke the silence at last, “I gather that you must have been listening at the door for some time.”

  “Yes.” The constable seemed in no way abashed. “The front doors have been open all night, you know, and I arrived outside the door of this room just as you decided, madam,” (he turned to Patricia) “to emphasise the point that you had all been invited. I think you said that your brother had the letter on him. Have you, sir?” He asked the question of the right person.

  “As a matter of fact, I have. May I ask what business it is of yours?”

  “Certainly you may, sir. I gathered also, sir, that you did not wish to take a drink in this house?”

  “You probably heard the reason, too.”

  “Quite, sir. And yet—I wonder—would this much make anybody drunk?” To the amazement of, at any rate, most of those present, the constable picked up the glass which had been poured out for Martin, and rapidly drank the contents.

  Patricia found herself suddenly filled with a strong, almost hysterical, desire to laugh, especially as she looked at Barbara and Martin’s amazed expressions and Gerald’s angry, almost frightened bewilderment. She saw now the truth of Barbara’s assertion that they were all four so tired that they were on edge. For Salter was neither angry, nor bewildered, nor alarmed; he was merely slightly amused and apparently not very surprised and since, clearly, he was unlikely to be accustomed to police constables walking into his dining-room and helping themselves to whatever was handy, he must for some reason, Patricia thought, have expected this particular man. Was his complacency shared by the woman with the purple hat and the yellow dress, she wondered? Once more she stole a glance towards the end of the table, only to find that the new development apparently interested her no more than anything which had occurred previously.

  “No, not drunk,” the constable suddenly announced. “Though it might give you hiccoughs. And, of course, I have had nothing before.” He put the glass down meditatively and returned to Salter again with a charming smile. “Well, sir, as this is not, apparently, a gambling hell, I shall leave you now. That is, unless any of you want to say anything to me? No? You are quite sure?” He looked round from one to the other deliberately, and finally turned back to Salter. “There wouldn’t be any objection to my using the telephone, would there, sir? I ought to telephone to the station sergeant, I suppose; although it’s very interesting as it is.”

  “Oh, no. Make yourself quite at home and use the house as you like. You’ll find the telephone in the outer hall—it’s not a very convenient place generally, and Mr Yeldham was talking of having it moved, but perhaps for your purpose—?”

  “It will do admirably.” With a polite bow, but without saying “Goodnight,” he went to the door. For a fraction of time he stood there as if mutely repeating the invitation to them to “say something” to him. Then, very carefully, he shut the door behind him.

  Lansley was apparently the first to recover from his surprise.

  “Now, what on earth—” he began.

  “And why all those peculiar questions to me?” Martin asked. “To us all,” he corrected.

  Barbara suddenly giggled.

  “He seems to be extending Mr Yeldham’s idea of keeping open house rather freely. Have you any idea of who he is, Mr Salter?”

  “Yeldham said something to me about seeing the policeman who’s been keeping an eye on the cars outside here the last two nights. But, of course, tonight there was nothing for him to do. And I don’t know if that is the man or not.”

  “You mean he meant to give him half a crown, or something of that sort?”

  “Possibly.” Salter seemed uninterested in Lansley’s question, but then, with a laugh, he added: “Or perhaps he told him to come in and have a drink and the man took it quite literally. Even so, he seemed a cool sort of person, didn’t he? So very certain, too, that he was welcome.”

  “But why those questions to me?” Hands asked again. “He wouldn’t tell me what business it was of his, and I was too surprised to insist on an answer. I suppose I ought to have done. Anyhow, I shall have it out with Flaxman. He’s the Chief Constable,” he added for Salter’s benefit.

  “And why—” Barbara began and then stopped abruptly. The fair-haired woman at the table, with the gesture of one who has at last made up her mind, got up. For a moment Patricia had time to take in her clothes fully. Yes, the skirt was too tight for serious walking, the colours were too bright to be really English—there was a great deal too much mixing of yellow and purple for British taste, the thin silk stockings and very high-heeled shoes made it quite certain that she could have walked no great distance. Moreover—oddest of all—she was putting on yellow crochet gloves.

  But it was only for a moment that Patricia had the chance to notice the last detail. With a slight bow, but still without a word, the woman walked past a screen and out of a different door to that through which the police constable had just gone. She, too, shut the door carefully, but also very quietly.

  Salter put his head on one side so that his Adam’s apple became unduly prominent.

  “Now what she hopes to do there, I cannot imagine.”

  “Where does it lead to?” Lansley asked.

  “A passage. With the kitchen on one side, the back door at the end, and the pantry on the other. I can’t think what she wants there. Yeldham, I know, sent all the servants to bed long ago. And surely there is enough food here. Have some?” He picked up a dish containing finger rolls and bearing the legend “Caviar”, and offered it to Barbara.

  “Thank you.” Barbara took it absent-mindedly, and then looked at it as if she had no idea what to do with it.

  “I think, though,” Salter said suddenly, “that I ought to tell our self-appointed guardian that one of his birds has flown. I agree that he seemed to take an undue interest in all of us.”

  “What are you going to tell him?” Lansley asked. “That somebody staying in the house—or so I gather—has gone into the kitchen? As Martin said just now, what business is it of his? What is all this about? Has anyone the faintest notion?” He looked round from one to the other, and finally at the now upright figure of Salter, and ended with the question Patricia had been longing to ask. “And anyhow, who is she?” He pointed to the door through which the fair woman had gone.

  “I have no idea,” Salter unexpectedly answered. “I don’t even know her name. That’s why I introduced her so badly. I’m afraid it’s worried you.” His glance turned apologetically to Patricia and, with an indistinct murmur to the effect that he hoped that they would wait until he returned, he went out into the hall.

  3

  Control

  Martin Hands looked round at the half-full glasses and the profusion of unwanted food.

  “And what,” he asked, “do you suggest that one does now? Do we wait for our missing host or follow our temporary host and intrude upon the mysterious telephone calls of the police? Or do we imitate our fellow guest—if that is what she is—and retire into the kitchen?”

  “If you ask me, it wasn’t the kitchen, it was the back door.”

  Lansley considered Barbara’s suggestion carefully.

  “But why? Whom do you sugges
t that she was running away from? And why?”

  “Perhaps she just had the creeps like the rest of us. Just as Martin said when we got here. Give me a cigarette, somebody, please.”

  “We may as well take what is provided, I suppose.” Patricia started to push a silver box across the table towards Barbara, but Martin had his case out before she could do so.

  “Here’s one,” he said. “Yes, I did have the creeps a little bit when I came but it was that woman who made them really bad. That absolute stony silence and the frozen glance at the middle of the table all the time, on top of Salter’s odd manner. It’s absurd, I know, but I—I don’t know how to put it—I feel as if I might trip over the corpse at any moment.”

  “Whose do you suggest?” Lansley asked. “Yeldham himself seems the obvious person, and a nice mess a full-blooded man like him would make.”

  Barbara gave a little scream.

  “Don’t,” she said. “It isn’t funny. Personally, I feel that the only thing to do is to get out of here as quickly as possible. I can’t stand it. I don’t know what it is but the place feels dangerous, somehow.”

  “Dangerous? To us?” Patricia looked round at her brother’s fresh, pleasantly ordinary face with the firm, determined chin below a steady pair of grey eyes and then at Gerald Lansley’s dark, very slightly sallow face. He was much shorter than her brother, little more than five feet nine, as against Martin’s six feet, but he was a strong, well-proportioned man, and definitely good-looking. Above all, he was perfectly self-possessed and calm. Neither he nor Martin looked the sort of person whom danger was at the moment threatening, despite a puzzled look in their eyes. Only Barbara Carmichael, with tinges of grey in her hair and her general expression of one to whom the world had been hard, seemed to be the type on whom fate might play tricks. “Danger? Why? We’ve been together all the evening and we must stick together. Then nothing can happen to us.” Patricia’s confidence was infectious; “but I do agree that we ought to go, with or without seeing Mr Yeldham.”