Late and Cold (Timothy Herring) Page 10

  He saw nobody up there, so he entered the house and began a diligent search, having first ascertained that the staircase door to the attic was still secure. His object was to find out, if he could, (and if the marauder had not already stolen it), what the object of the night prowler could have been. That it was simple burglary he did not for one moment believe. The noise which the intruder had made, not on one night only, indicated a clumsy, amateur hand.

  That Marion seemed to have been mixed up in the affair pointed to a connection with the Nanradoc estate and, to add to this impression, there was her contention that she had seen the intruder and that it was Father Ignatius. Whoever it was, his or her objective had been the committee room, and Timothy subjected this to the most exhaustive search, taking out and opening books and folders, exploring the members’ cupboards, his own and the president’s archives, Coningsby’s table drawers, and so on and so forth, without coming upon anything which could serve to explain anything except the members’ own interests and the work of the Society as a whole.

  He did the same for the salon, and then searched the rooms which had been given over to Marion and the children. He was baffled largely by the fact that, unless it was something to do with Nanradoc, he had not the remotest idea of what he sought. By half-past twelve he was heartily sick of his task. He washed his hands in Coningsby’s little cubby-hole next-door to the office in the basement and decided that he had been wasting his time. His head still ached from the blow he had received and he felt thoroughly disgruntled and dissatisfied. There was a mystery, but its solution seemed as far off as ever.

  He lunched at his club, fobbed off an invitation to play golf and another to accompany an acquaintance to Lord’s, and was back at Phisbe’s headquarters by a quarter-past two. Then he remembered that, before Mrs. Dewes and the children had gone off to the Zoo, she had mentioned that the post had come and that she had put the letters on Mr. Coningsby’s desk, as usual, “being as I suppose you may like to look at ’em, sir.” He decided that, as he had promised Coningsby to do his job while the dogsbody was in North Wales, he had better deal with the correspondence before he went on with his search of the house.

  He was about half-way through the small pile of letters which he found on the desk when the telephone rang.

  “Mr. Herring?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Police here, sir. We were called up to bring down a party from a roof four doors away from yours. We’re holding him, as he can give no satisfactory explanation as to why he was up there, but he says you can identify him, and that he got trapped on your roof by accident, and made his way across the other roofs, hoping to find a way down, but could not.”

  “Oh, yes? What’s he like?”

  “Well, I’ll admit he seems to be a respectable party, sir. He is dressed as belonging to a religious Order, and seems quiet and well-spoken enough and hasn’t given any trouble. Acts a bit dazed-like and says he didn’t mean any harm. Could we suggest you come round, sir? Carlyle Street police station.”

  “All right. I’ll be along as soon as I can.” He did not intend to go until he had made up his mind what attitude he was going to take. A complaint that the monk had broken into Phisbe with intent to steal and, to avoid capture, had struck Timothy on the head and laid him out, might or might not be a wise move. True, he had the lump on his head with which to substantiate his story, but to prove that the blow had been delivered by a quiet, well-spoken person in monkish dress might be impossible. There were no witnesses to the assault, but only to the result of it.

  There remained the inevitability of abasing himself before Marion. He had not believed a word of her story, particularly when he had found the iron poker on her bed, yet here, apparently, was the confirmation of what she had said. She had claimed that she had seen Father Ignatius in the house, and here he was, having been trapped on a roof which could be reached very easily from the attics.

  “If only she hadn’t lied about Miranda’s parentage and about having a letter from Jones,” he thought, “I’d believe her out of hand, but did she know, anyway, that Ignatius was in the house? Did she, in fact, let him in? Anyway, I’d better apologise.”

  He opened another of the letters which lay on Coningsby’s desk. It was from that omniscient but modest young man himself. The weather, it indicated, had been perfect, so far, and he expected the pictures of Nanradoc to be excellent. He had called at the house to ask permission to photograph the ruins, but had found nobody at home, so had left a note. He hoped that all this was in order. He expected to be back in London by the end of the week, if not before.

  There seemed no point in filing the letter, so Timothy tossed it into the waste-paper basket and took the next from the pile. It was as he slit open the envelope that a thought struck him. Coningsby’s files were in the office, not in the committee room. Either the intruder was not aware of this, or else, having discovered that the Dewes couple slept in the basement, he had not had sufficient nerve to tackle the office, which was also on the basement floor. Timothy took Coningsby’s keys out of the drawer in the desk and went over to the filing cabinet.

  Coningsby was a most methodical person. One of the drawers was labelled, in Coningsby’s beautiful script: For consideration by Mr. Herring. One’s own name in print or in someone else’s writing exercises a certain fascination. Timothy unlocked the drawer and pulled it out. Inside it, tied neatly with the repellent pink ligature known officially as red tape, was a small bundle of letters and papers. Timothy carried it over to the desk, untied the tape, and spread out its contents. Most of these he had seen before and they had been provided by Coningsby with neatly-gummed slips on which he had recorded Timothy’s comments, but there was one marked Personal which had arrived on the morning of Coningsby’s departure for Nanradoc and which he had concluded, no doubt, that Timothy would study while he was in temporary charge of the office. It was from Pembroke Pritchard Jones. It read:

  My dear Herring,

  Will try to persuade my sister to agree to sale of Nanradoc Castle, Nanradoc House and the estate, for the nominal sum of four thousand five hundred pounds. An early acceptance advised if you want to buy the freehold, as, if not, shall put it on the market to be sold at auction. My lawyers are Simms, Simms, Copperstones and Simms of Bowery Court, Long Acre, W.C.2, whom you should contact. They will prove my title (together with my sister’s, of course) and meet your lawyers if you decide to purchase. Should like to help poor little Marion, and you seem interested in her.

  Timothy marked the letter: To be referred to Committee, with a mental note that if Pembroke Pritchard Jones thought that he was so sentimentally interested in Marion that he was going to bend over backwards to obtain an option on Nanradoc for her, he would be well advised to think again. He snorted and put the letter back with the rest of the file and turned to such other items of the morning’s post as he had not had time, so far, to read.

  There was nothing more of any particular interest, so he shovelled the lot into the top drawer of the desk, took up his hat, and drove himself to the police station. The station sergeant was large and spoke in a mournful voice.

  “I formed the impression that the gentleman is a respectable person, sir,” he said, “but in view of him being on a roof and us having to get him down with the help of a fireman’s ladder, the occupants naturally being unwilling to let him down through the house, we thought it as well to find out what he thought he was up to, his account of his movements being unconvincing. This way, sir.”

  Father Ignatius was seated on a wooden chair at a deal table and was telling his beads. He seemed lost to the world, but when the sergeant touched his shoulder he started, dropped the necklace, sprang up, and, having first made his Eastern bow, he embraced Timothy before this could be side-stepped or in any way prevented, then took his arm and beamed at him.

  “Oh, Mr. Herring!” he said. “How simply splendid of you to have come!”

  Timothy put his hat on the table and tenderly caressed his
skull.

  “Yes, on the whole, I agree,” he said. “What, exactly, did you think you were up to?”

  “Oh, but nothing! Nothing at all! Perhaps it was rather naughty of me to come to London by myself. Dear Olwen was very much against it, but I’m afraid I overruled her. She wanted to see the deeds, you know. She thought her interests ought to be protected, and so, of course, I felt that there was nothing else for it but to come and get them for her.”

  “The deeds?”

  “Of Nanradoc. She took it into her head that her brother would have deposited them with you.”

  “Well, he most certainly did nothing of the kind. Why should he? The deeds of Nanradoc are nothing to do with us.”

  “Oh, but Miss Marion Jones is your client, isn’t she?”

  “I should hardly call her that. We are not lawyers.”

  “You recognise this gentleman, then, sir?” asked the station sergeant. “You don’t want to proceed? He admits to having been on your premises, presumably without your leave.”

  “I don’t see anything to proceed about, sergeant, unless anybody else has complained.”

  “No complaints, sir. Somebody spotted him on the roof waving his arms about and behaving, they thought, eccentric, and were afraid he might be in danger, so they phoned us.”

  “That was awfully kind of them,” said the monk, in sincere tones. “Don’t you think that was a very kind thought, Mr. Herring?”

  “Yes, if you care to be taken for a lunatic,” said Timothy, shortly. “But we’re wasting the sergeant’s time.” When they were out on the pavement he added, “Why did you hit me on the head last night?”

  “I hit you on the head? My dear sir, whatever do you mean?”

  As there was no doubt that he was going to deny having launched the assault, and as Timothy had no way of proving it against him—indeed, there was still some reason to suppose that it might have been Marion who had made the attack—Timothy said,

  “Somebody hit me on the head while we were hunting you. The inference is that the somebody was yourself.”

  “Oh, my dear Mr. Herring, you cannot really believe that! My cloth alone . . .” he demonstrated his black draperies.

  “All right,” said Timothy. “Anyway, tell me how you managed to get into the house.”

  “I had an arrangement with Marion Jones.”

  “Oh, come now!”

  “I assure you. I came in with her. She also has an interest in the Nanradoc deeds, as you know.”

  “You mean to tell me that you came in with Miss Jones?” Timothy found this statement incredible. “Oh, you can’t get away with that!”

  “We have been in correspondence with her ever since you brought her to Nanradoc.”

  “But how could you? I mean, you didn’t know her address.”

  “Oh, she wrote first,” said the monk. “About living in Nanradoc House, you know. She is very anxious to make her home with us. The children are the stumbling-block, of course. We could not undertake to have three children in the house. I came here, for one thing, to tell her so, and discuss what was best to be done—about that, and about having a look at the deeds, you know.”

  “I imagine you saw her leaving the house this morning,” said Timothy, after a silence during which they had halted in front of Phisbe’s headquarters. “Where did you suppose she was going?”

  “My dear sir, I did not suppose anything. Why should I? I knew she was here, of course. She wrote to us saying that she had changed her address and had come to live with you.” He contrived to give these words a connubial ring. Timothy took him up sharply.

  “Nonsense!” he said. “My Society has given her temporary occupation of the only floor of this house which happens not to be otherwise in use. I don’t live here. We have resident caretakers, a man and his wife, as I’m quite sure you know. You must have heard the man helping me to search the rooms last night. Now, about the title-deeds of Nanradoc. I have had a letter from Pembroke Prichard Jones. He seems to have been thinking things over, and has offered the house and estate to my Society for the sum of four thousand five hundred pounds. I have no doubt that he will communicate this offer to his sister. I cannot say, until I have placed it before my committee, of course, whether the Society will accept it.”

  “Oh, dear, dear, dear! Oh, no, no, no. We could not agree to sell, particularly at such a fantastically low figure. Mr. Jones must be out of his mind to think of such a thing!” protested the monk.

  “I think Miss Jones—your Miss Jones—is the person to decide upon that,” said Timothy. “How do you come into the affair?”

  “Oh, not at all, not at all, except that dear Olwen is in the habit of taking my advice, and I could not—no, I really could not, for my conscience sake—suggest she should accept such an offer. In any case, one thing would have to be clearly understood and agreed on.”

  “Oh, really? What would that be?”

  “That we must be allowed to remain at Nanradoc—with Miss Jones—Miss Marion Jones—of course.”

  “My Society would never agree to such a proviso.”

  “Then I am afraid the deal is off.”

  “That is hardly for you to say. The matter concerns Mr. Pembroke Pritchard Jones . . .”

  “And his sister. Nothing can be arranged without her consent.”

  “I am well aware of that. You appear to think that my Society is anxious to acquire this property. It may save time and avoid disappointment if I tell you that it is most unlikely that Phisbe will show any interest in the matter at all. If all sorts of strings are to be attached to the sale, I am quite sure we shall not.”

  “Well, Mr. Herring, we must wait and see, but, in any case, the price suggested by Mr. Pembroke Jones is quite unrealistic, so that will probably be the end of the matter. And now, since you have so kindly released me from the hands of the police, I shall be glad to make my way home.”

  “Right, but, before you go, as I seem to have got you out of a pretty tight place, Mr. Ignatius, perhaps you won’t mind answering a few questions. By asking how you came into the affair, possibly I was putting the cart before the horse. What I would like to get clear in my mind is in what way you come to be associated with Nanradoc and Miss Olwen Jones at all.”

  “My little group of serious thinkers was invited a year or two ago by Miss Jones to spend a summer at Nanradoc, where we could conduct our devotions in seclusion.”

  “I see. Was she one of your group?”

  “Yes, indeed she was. She heard me speak at a meeting in Chester, where she had gone to look at an exhibition of her brother’s paintings.”

  “Really? I thought she and her brother were not on speaking terms. Why should she want to go and look at his pictures?”

  “Sisterly love continued, even though they had parted in anger on her side and with remorse on his.”

  “You know, then, why he dislikes Nanradoc so much, and has said that he will never live there again?”

  “Oh, yes, he has a very good reason for this attitude. His sister met with a very serious accident after the two of them inherited the estate, an accident which was wholly Mr. Pembroke’s fault. He never forgave himself, but, out of the charity of her soul, his sister brought herself, in the fullness of time, to forgive him and to see the lameness which resulted from her accident as a tiny cog in the Everlasting Wheel of the Cosmos.”

  “What was the cause of the accident?”

  “I never learned, and I have never pressed Olwen to tell me. Suffice it that she has come to terms with herself and has expunged all bitterness and hatred from her heart.”

  “She doesn’t seem to be lame now, though.”

  “Ah, you noticed that, did you? Who, my dear Herring, can begin to grasp the reasons for the mysterious turning of the Everlasting Wheel?”

  “Do you read Kim?”

  “No, no, I read the stars; I read the infinitesimal wonders of the natural universe; I read the lore of bird and beast, the flowers, the grass, the trees.”
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  “Well, that all sounds very charming. Good-bye, Mr. Ignatius. Just one word in your ear: I wouldn’t come here again, if I were you. I might be tempted to give you in charge another time. Next time we meet, it will be at Nanradoc. I am sure that, if matters are as you have stated, Miss Olwen Jones will be delighted to welcome back her erring brother. I shall take pleasure in informing him that all is forgiven, if not, as they say, forgotten.”

  “Pembroke Jones will never come to Nanradoc!” cried the monk.

  “You think not? I wouldn’t like to bet on it, and I advise you not to do so,” said Timothy, interested in the momentary look of complete consternation in the monk’s dark eyes before they resumed their usual expression of withdrawn, unfocussed serenity. “Anyway, I shall be seeing you again, I have little doubt.”

  “I look forward to our next meeting,” said the monk. A much less sensitive ear than Timothy possessed could have detected the menace in his voice.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Doubting Timothy

  Although he sometimes acted on impulse, as in the case of his rehousing Marion and the children, Timothy was not a fool. He had a quixotic streak which occasionally over-rode his commonsense, but he had realised, from the beginning, that the Nanradoc affair had an all-pervading odour of the rodent about it and, with every succeeding event, this odour became stronger and less subtle.

  When he returned to the Phisbe headquarters he went down to the basement, made certain that the back door was bolted and the downstair windows closed, then returned to the kitchen and made himself a pot of strong tea. With this as stimulus, he went over in his mind all that had happened since he had first heard of Nanradoc and had met Marion Jones.