‘The accident would naturally upset them,’ Drusilla said.
‘Markham isn’t upset. Markham is calm and calculating, and looks at me as if he’s trying to read my mind.’ Palfrey laughed mirthlessly. ‘Coming for a walk?’
He took her hands and pulled her up. ‘I want to look at the minstrel gallery,’ he said.
They went into the music room and found a doorway which led to a flight of steps. The doorway was covered with thick curtains. Only a faint light shone on the stairway, and Palfrey, taking one look, said quietly: ‘That’s the way up. Will you wait here and warn me, if anyone comes?’
‘Ought you to go?’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. He smiled, and pushed aside the curtain. The steps beyond were of stone, well worn in the centre. The walls, too, were of stone and hung with tapestries, although the staircase was narrow. There were two bends, both awkward to ascend in the poor light, but at last he reached the top and stepped into the gallery itself. There were four levels, where the musician could play, each platform two yards wide, making the gallery larger than it had seemed from below.
He went to the front cautiously. He stood a few feet from the gap, looking down at Drusilla, who was near the door.
He studied the wooden balustrade. The bear carvings were beautifully done and the wood dark from oiling; it had been oiled recently. He gave it closer attention, and could see signs of wear but nothing to suggest that the wood was rotten. He went closer to the gap and there saw that the wood had powdered away, as if worm-eaten. He wished the light were better, and switched on his torch. He studied the wood closely. It was not worm-eaten, it had just rotted. He prodded, and found that it had gone soft. He walked the whole width of the gallery, running his fingers along the balustrade, but at no other point was it soft, only at the one vital spot where Loretta Morne had always leaned and laughed down at Gerry.
Drusilla turned and beckoned him.
He hurried to the staircase and down the stairs, and Palfrey pushed aside the curtain in time to see Markham striding into the room. The man stood quite still, his lips set tightly, and Palfrey did not move.
Markham said: ‘Have you been upstairs?’
‘Yes,’ murmured Palfrey. He looked abashed, but met Markham’s gaze steadily. ‘Left alone, one gets restless.’ He smiled. ‘It’s remarkably odd, isn’t it?’
‘Dr. Palfrey-’ Markham began, and then stopped himself and turned away abruptly. ‘I am sorry. We are all on edge tonight, Dr. Palfrey. Please come and sit down.’
The smaller room was warm; soon they were sitting down and smoking, and Markham was exerting himself to be friendly. He told them that Loretta, as Lady Markham had said, had made a habit of going up to the minstrel gallery whenever the piano was played. He emphasized the fact that there was nothing unusual about it.
Palfrey murmured something unintelligible.
‘I just cannot understand why Halsted failed to tell you that his patient had gone away,’ said Markham, abruptly. ‘He’s usually a most reliable fellow.’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘I’ve known him all my life.’
Markham looked at him intently. ‘Have you?’
‘School, Balliol, Guys,’ said Palfrey, nursing his knee. ‘For no one else would I have come out here. After getting his letter, my wife and I decided to take a week’s holiday and fit the visit in. Corshire isn’t our favourite holiday haunt.’
‘It’s all right on the other side of Wenlock,’ said Markham, ‘where there’s an entirely different climate. The temperature is often ten degrees higher. Remarkable, isn’t it?’ He talked freely, almost volubly, drawing a picture of the bleak, fog-ridden moor and the bogs which lay about further to the north, contrasting the scene with the sunny valleys on the south side of Wenlock Hills, which ran down to the sea and faced the broad Atlantic.
A clock struck eleven.
‘It’s getting late,’ said Drusilla.
‘I’ll show you to your room,’ said Markham. ‘Mrs. Bardie will have prepared it by now. You’re in no great hurry in the morning, I understand.’
‘None,’ said Palfrey.
‘Then take it easy,’ said Markham.
The main staircase lay to the right of the front hall. It swept round, giving an impression of the vastness of the place. The floor here was of wood, with bearskin rugs; the heads of bears appeared on the walls and on the furniture, even in the lofty room with a four-poster bed into which Markham led them. A fire was burning; comfortable easy-chairs were drawn up to it, whisky and brandy were on a fireside table, and books lay ready to hand.
Markham said good night and left them.
‘It’s a cheerful room,’ Palfrey said.
‘It’s all right now that we can shut off the rest of the house,’ said Drusilla. ‘Did you see how Markham looked at you when you came down from the gallery?’
‘He was very angry indeed.’
‘What did you see up there?’
‘Enough to make me curious,’ said Palfrey. ‘I wish I were an expert on wood. How could one tiny patch be soft enough to break while the rest was hard and firm?’
‘It could have been worm-eaten,’ said Drusilla.
‘No worm-holes.’
She sat on the side of the bed, staring at him.
She said: ‘Are you seriously suggesting that – that the balustrade was tampered with?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must be wrong! ‘
Palfrey said savagely: ‘I believe it was an attempt at murder.’
‘You can’t-’
‘I can’t prove it. I shall have a damned good try.’ He stood staring at her, frowning. ‘I don’t yet know how.’
‘I don’t see what you can do about it,’ protested Drusilla.
That’s simple. I shall tell the police.’
Drusilla could find nothing to say.
‘I’m not sure that I ought to wait until morning,’ said Palfrey. ‘But I don’t think anything can be altered. The soft wood certainly can’t be hardened. I’d better wait. And we’d better get to bed,’ he added, with a lighter note in his voice. ‘As you say, my sweet, I may be entirely wrong, and I hope I am.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Drusilla.
She stopped at the sound of a tap on the door. Palfrey looked round and the tap came again. ‘Come in,’ he called, and stood waiting expectantly.
Morne appeared, still fully dressed. His forehead was furrowed; the hand by his side was clenched, as if he were exerting himself to retain his composure. He looked at Palfrey without speaking, and closed the door behind him. He walked to the fireplace slowly, steadily, then turned and stood with his back to it. He was trying to speak, but the words would not come. Something in his manner was frightening. Drusilla looked sharply at Palfrey, who stood grave-faced by the door.
At last Morne said: ‘I am sorry to behave like this, Dr. Palfrey; my sister has reminded me that
a
Dr. Palfrey won some renown in Europe during the war.’ He paused. ‘He was engaged on Secret Service work. Are you that Palfrey?’
Palfrey waved his hand. ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’
‘Why did you come here?’
Palfrey said: ‘Halsted asked me to come for a consultation.’
‘Will you give me your word that there is no other reason for your visit?’ demanded Morne. ‘I am serious, Dr. Palfrey. It is a matter of great importance. Have you told me the truth?’
Palfrey eyed the man levelly as he replied: ‘Risking considerable dislocation of my work, I agreed to come here to see Dr. Halsted’s patient. The patient has disappeared. I had no other purpose in coming, and I am sorry that the weather prevents me from leaving tonight.’
Morne said:
‘No
other purpose?’
‘None at all. The possibility wouldn’t occur to you if you weren’t overwrought,’ said Palfrey. ‘You ought to get to bed,’
After a pause, Morne said: ‘Why do you say that the patient has disappeared?’
‘Hasn’t he? And hasn’t Halsted?’
Drusilla raised a hand, as if to remonstrate with him. Palfrey deliberately avoided catching her eye. Morne raised both clenched hands in front of him.
‘I did not know the patient was going to leave. I was out this morning when he left. My daughter told me that he had gone. I know nothing more about it than that, Dr. Palfrey.’
‘I am concerned about a great deal that has happened here.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
Palfrey said deliberately: ‘If your daughter dies, in my opinion it will be a matter for police investigation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I think the wood of the gallery was tampered with,’ said Palfrey.
‘What grounds have you for saying that?’
‘An inspection of the wood of the balustrade,’ said Palfrey. ‘Have you inspected it?’
‘No.’
‘Will you do so with me?’
‘I will,’ said Morne. He moved at once towards the door.
In the gallery, Palfrey indicated the soft wood. Morne examined it closely, giving it his whole attention.
Palfrey said: ‘No other part of the rail is soft like that. The rest has been properly oiled. The first thought that sprang to my mind was that the wood was worm-eaten. That would be unusual – if this part were touched, other parts would be also – but it was possible. But there are no worm-holes; nothing suggests that the wood just rotted.’
‘How could it be softened?’ demanded Morne.
‘I don’t know. I only know that it was. The police will consult experts.’
‘I see.’ Abruptly, Morne went down. At the foot of the steps he turned, stretched up just inside the staircase, and took something from a ledge in the wall. Then, to Palfrey’s surprise, he pulled a door to; the door had been flush with the wall behind the curtains, and Palfrey had not seen it before.
The ‘something’ was a key. Morne locked the door and put the key into his pocket.
‘I shall telephone the police at once,’ he said.
Morne went into the next room and telephoned to Corbin Police Headquarters.
‘I’m glad you’ve done it,’ said Palfrey, as he rang off.
‘I’ am glad you prompted me,’ said Morne. He hesitated, and then went on in a voice filled with pain: ‘This was the third accident to befall my daughter in as many months. I did not wish to believe the obvious – that someone was attempting to murder her. I am glad you forced the issue.’
After saying good night to their host, Palfrey and Drusilla went to their room.
‘Not a pleasant evening,’ said Palfrey. ‘There’s a key in our door, so we can sleep in peace.’
Drusilla turned abruptly and he saw alarm writ large in her eyes.
‘Hallo, what’s the matter?’
‘You said there was a key,’ said Drusilla.
‘There was.’ Palfrey looked at the keyhole. He remembered the key, a large one in the old-fashioned look. He was quite sure that he had seen one, but it was not there now.
‘Which piece of furniture would you like me to drag across the door?’ he asked, smiling.
‘It isn’t funny,’ said Drusilla.
‘It certainly isn’t,’ agreed Palfrey. He went to one of the easy-chairs, which rolled easily on its castors, and pushed it beneath the handle of the door. It fitted tightly, and when he tried to open the door without moving the chair he found it impossible. He tucked his arm round Drusilla’s waist and said: ‘Don’t look for hidden doors and passages, that’s going too far.’ He went across to the dying fire and picked up the whisky. ‘What you want is a night-cap,’ he declared, ‘and you’ll sleep like a top.’
Drusilla did not appear to agree with him.
A sound echoed in his ears, not near, not far away. He lay between sleeping and waking, just conscious of tension, listening for a repetition. There were vague, muffled noises, which seemed a long way off and were not loud enough to have disturbed him. Then, almost outside the window, the deep baying of a hound startled him and made him open his eyes wide.
Red light was reflected on the ceiling. Red, then yellow, darting swiftly here and there. There were shadows, too, one central one, the shadow of a huge bear. The flickering light made the thing look alive, the tongue seemed to poke out and lick at the grinning chops.
Fire!
Palfrey put his hand on Drusilla’s shoulder, squeezing gently. She stirred. ‘Wake up, ‘Silla,’ he called. ‘There’s a fire.’
Palfrey pulled a chair to the window, so that he could see beyond the recess, and saw the tongues of flame licking out and then receding. Dark smoke billowed up from the same direction.
He stood on tip-toe, staring down. Between him and the flames he could see the silhouette of a bear; below that was the fire, coming from a bowl which jutted out from the wall. Further away there was another, and he felt a deep sense of relief. He turned, to see Drusilla pulling the chair away from the door.
‘False alarm,’ he said, ‘it’s coming from flares – oil flares on the walls.’
‘What on earth for?’ asked Drusilla.
‘That’s what we have to find out,’ said Palfrey. He looked blue with cold. ‘What’s the time?’
‘A quarter past six.’
In the hall one chandelier was burning.
Palfrey hurried to the door. It was ajar, and, when he pulled it, swung heavily. The light from the flares came into the room; the whole porch was burnished red. A cold wind struck at him, as he stepped forward and went down the steps.
The scene was fantastic: half a dozen horsemen, several riderless horses, turning and stamping, lit by that lurid light – a scene that might have come from the Middle Ages, for the red glow shone on the clothes of the riders as if on metal. Markham was having trouble with a big black horse. The youngster, Gerry, was sitting erect and still, looking towards the gates. They were open, lit by flares like those on the walls of the house. A single horseman sat his horse in the gateway.
The courtyard was momentarily silent. Then suddenly there came a long-drawn-out sound – the baying of a hound some distance off. Coming out of the surrounding darkness into that scene of infernal wildness, it made Palfrey jump. A woman sitting on a grey horse exclaimed: ‘They’ve found something!’
Palfrey looked at her. It was not Lady Markham but the other woman, who, he had been told, had gone early to bed the previous night – Morne’s other sister, Rachel. She made a splendid figure, vital and eager.