Late and Cold (Timothy Herring) Page 9

  “Yes, she’s awake. She’s on the lower bunk.”

  “What about Miranda?”

  “She’s asleep in her cot.”

  “I suppose Aunt Marion isn’t with you?”

  “No, she never is . . . not at night.”

  “Right. What about the key?”

  “Yes, I can see it. It’s on the floor by the door. Do you want it?”

  “No, it’s all right. We just thought it was lost. Leave it just where it is, and put out the light and go to sleep again. Good night, old chap.”

  “Good night. Why did you want the key?”

  “We didn’t. We just wanted to make sure it wasn’t lost. Night-night.” He walked to the foot of the attic stair and jerked his head towards Dewes, wincing with the sudden sharp pain which cut like a whip-lash across the duller throbbing of his injured scalp, and said,

  “So now we know.” He spoke grimly. He mounted the narrow flight. “What on earth does she think she’s playing at?” When he reached the top landing, with Dewes behind him, he said loudly, “Come on out, Marion. You’re frightening the children with this nonsense!”

  There was a sound below them. Both men swung round. At the foot of the stair stood Marion.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Stay where you are,” said Timothy. He leapt down the stairs and grasped her wrist. “Look here, what the devil are you up to?”

  “I’m not up to anything. Oh, Tim, I know who it is! I saw him!”

  “When? Bar this door, Dewes.”

  “Very good, sir. This is all of a rum go, this is.”

  “You’re right. Come on, Marion. You’ve got some explaining to do.” He retained his grip. “I hope you won’t get cold.”

  “No,” she said. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Down to the basement. I’ve no doubt Dewes will allow us the use of his sitting-room for half an hour or so.”

  “A pleasure, sir. If that feller’s in the attic, he’s treed. But I can’t see how Miss Jones—”

  “Yes. I should think you could go to bed now.” He took Marion into the basement sitting-room, put her into a chair, removed his jacket, and spread it over her knees.

  “I tell you,” she said, pushing it on to the floor, “I know who it is.”

  “So do I,” said Timothy, grimly. “Now what’s the game? Why do you roam the house at night, and why did you hit me on the head and knock me out?”

  “Honestly, Tim, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Hit you on the head and knock you out? I haven’t done anything of the sort!”

  Timothy drew up a chair and seated himself so that he was between her and the door. “Look, Marion, don’t be silly,” he said. “Let’s have the story—and you’d better make it as convincing as you can.”

  “If you’ve made up your mind, nothing I say is going to sound convincing. It’s you who’s being silly, not me. I’ll tell you all I know. It will be the truth.”

  “I’ll try very hard to believe you.”

  “All right, then. But is your head very bad?”

  “I’ll survive. What made you do it?”

  “Do you mind telling me exactly what I’m supposed to have done?”

  “As though you don’t know! You know even better than I do!”

  “Please, Tim! After all, the prisoner at the bar is allowed to make his defence.”

  “Go right ahead. I’m all attention.”

  “I can’t go ahead until I know what the charges are.”

  “I was standing on the top landing outside the doorway to the attic. Somebody—naming no names at the moment—came up behind me and sloshed me over the head with a so-called blunt instrument. I don’t know how long I was out, but I imagine it was long enough for my assailant to make a getaway. I thought he, she, or it had stepped over me and gone past into the attic, but my ideas have changed.” His face changed, too. He grinned at her. “All I ask is the reason for this unnecessary assault upon my person.”

  “I suppose the man you won’t let me name wanted to get into the attic. I don’t know why. I only know it wasn’t I who hit you. I didn’t even see it happen.”

  “Prove that you didn’t hit me! Go on. I’m listening, as they say in the gangster films.”

  “I’m not sure that I’ve got any proof. Oh, wait a minute! Whereabouts on the head were you struck?”

  “On the back of the cranium, and, if it’s of any interest to you, it hurts.”

  “How near the attic door were you?—Or how near the top of the stairs?”

  Timothy stared at her.

  “I was right at the top of the stairs,” he said. “I didn’t go near the attic door because it was open, and I thought our poltergeist might be lurking, so I decided to wait for Dewes, so that if I was coshed he’d still be on his feet and would be armed.”

  “That means, then, that whoever hit you must have been standing on the second stair from the top. Well—may I stand up, and will you stand up, too?”

  “No need,” said Timothy. “I’m six foot one. You’re . . . ?”

  “Five feet six and three-quarters.”

  Timothy was thoughtful.

  “I see what you mean, of course,” he said, “and I may have been jumping to conclusions. Anyway, tell me the rest. I take it you disobeyed my orders to stay with the children.”

  “I don’t take those sort of orders. Besides, if they’d been awake, they’d have wondered what on earth I was doing in their room. I slipped out again quickly, locked the door on the outside, and pushed the key underneath so that they could get out if there was an alarm—fire, or gas or something—and I went into my own room and left the door open a crack so that I could see what went on. I heard you tell Dewes to go down for a weapon and then he came out of that cupboard place where Mrs. Dewes keeps her cleaning things, and I recognised him. It was that awful Father from Nanradoc. He went creeping up the attic stairs, and I got right away from my door and hid behind the foot of the bed.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you yell out? Then he wouldn’t have coshed me, because I would have swung round and seen him coming up behind me, and I could have nabbed him, once and for all.”

  “I’m sorry. I was too petrified to do anything.”

  “Even to scream?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, well, if your story is correct, we’ve got him anyway. I’ll see you to your room and then I’m going to call the police. No doubt they’ll soon settle his hash.”

  “Don’t call the police, Tim! We don’t want to make a lot of fuss.”

  “Don’t be silly! This is no time to turn sentimental. I don’t know what he was up to in this house, but I do know that I’m not going to be soft-hearted about blighters who hit me over the head. Come on. Up we go.”

  “But, Tim . . .”

  “No arguments.” He crossed over and took her by the sleeve. “Upstairs!”

  “I can’t! I’d be terrified, knowing that he was somewhere in the house.”

  “Nonsense! Lock yourself in.”

  “All right, then. But you needn’t come up. You say he can’t come down?”

  “Not further than the door to the attic stairs. But of course I’m coming up with you. You’ll need somebody to look under the bed and in the wardrobe to make certain there’s nobody lurking.”

  “Oh, Tim, I won’t! Really, do believe me, I’ll be perfectly all right. Please don’t come upstairs!”

  Timothy retained his grip on her dressing-gown sleeve.

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” he said lightly. “You’re behaving very oddly, you know, my dear girl. Let’s find what it’s all about.” He let her go so suddenly that, because she was struggling with him, she lost her balance and staggered almost the width of the room. Before she could recover, he had leapt to the door and was half-way up the first flight of stairs. She darted after him, but had no hope of catching him. He had a start of her, and his long legs took the stairs in a series of bounds
which she could not match. When she flung herself, gasping and out of breath, in at her bedroom door, Timothy already had the light on and was gazing with great interest at a long, heavy poker which was lying across the coverlet of the bed.

  She stood rigid. Timothy looked at her and then down again at the poker.

  “This is the thing, and a very pretty thing,” he said sardonically. “And who is the owner of this very pretty thing?”

  She stepped forward to pick it up, but Timothy spread his arms wide to prevent her.

  “Tim!” she said, “I’ve never seen it before. I just wished I’d had one when I first heard the noises, but I didn’t hit you, really, really I didn’t!”

  “No? Well, I don’t think we’ll let you touch it, anyway. The police are always interested in fingerprints, I believe.”

  “I’ve said I’ve never handled it! You do think I hit you, though, don’t you?”

  “It’s not very easy to think anything else, is it? Look here, I’m going to take this poker away with me and you’re going to bed (I hope), and in the morning you’re going to tell me all about it. You’ll have . . .” he glanced at his wrist-watch . . . “three or four hours to cook up a convincing story. It’s not fair to expect you to be clever at this time of night.”

  “You’re cruel, aren’t you?” she said. Timothy cocked an eye at her.

  “I don’t know that I call it exactly kind to crack people over the head with heavy iron pokers,” he replied. “Good night.” Dewes, who had not accepted the suggestion that he was no longer required, met him at the door of the committee room.

  “’Allo, ’allo!” he said, seeing the poker, held by the tip, in Timothy’s fingers. “The lethal weapon, eh, sir?”

  “Looks like it,” said Timothy. “He must have chucked it down after he’d hit me with it.”

  “Funny I never saw it when I found you a-lyin’ welterin’ there, ’alf-way acorst the attic landing, sir. ’E must of took it with ’im, but, if so . . .”

  “Oh, he’d tossed it into one of the rooms. Miss Jones’s room, as a matter of fact,” said Timothy shortly.

  “ ’Ad ’e now? Well, fancy that! Makes you think, sir!”

  “All right, all right!” said Timothy, irritated. “I’m just as much in the dark about it as you are. He must have had time, between knocking me out and your coming up with your hatchet and finding me lying there, to get rid of the thing on to Miss Jones before he made off for the attic.”

  “Could be, I suppose, sir.” He eyed the poker as dubiously as though he suspected that it might be Moses’s rod and, as such, liable to turn into a serpent at any minute. “Seems a bit funny, though, don’t it?”

  “It’s not important at the moment,” said Timothy, aware that Dewes was anything but stupid. “The main thing is that Miss Jones claims she saw a man come out of that brooms-and-brushes cupboard you mentioned. She did not stay put in the children’s room. Quite natural, of course. There was nowhere there where she could sleep.”

  “Folks, especially ladies, don’t usually worry about sleep when there’s desperate men in the ’ouse, sir.”

  “That’s as may be. Anyway, I’m hanging on to this poker. It may or may not have been the blunt instrument with which I was coshed. I’m saving it up for the police.”

  “You’ve phoned ’em, then?”

  “No. I’ll do it in the morning. They may upset and disturb the children if I send for them now.”

  “Just as you say, sir.” Dewes’s tone conveyed a rebuke, just as his attitude conveyed an utter disbelief in Timothy’s explanation.

  “Good night,” said Timothy brusquely. “I shouldn’t think we’d be disturbed again.” He returned to bed, but did not sleep for a time. He lay awake trying to puzzle out what Marion had been trying to do. Failing to reach a conclusion, he did fall asleep at last, and was wakened at nine by Mrs. Dewes, who had brought him a cup of tea. She also brought news.

  “Miss Jones and the children is leaving, sir.”

  Timothy sat up.

  “Leaving? When?”

  “Now, sir. She’s just telephoned the school to say she won’t be in, and she’s packin’ all their things, sir.”

  “Did she give any reason?”

  “She said she’s caused enough trouble. P’raps, as you got ’er in, sir, you might care to ’ave a word afore she leaves.”

  “I most certainly would!” He drank his tea, put on his shoes and jacket, ran a hand over his hair, and mounted the stairs. The doors on the third floor were open. The twins were squabbling, little Miranda was howling, and, in the midst of the tumult, Marion was feverishly packing clothes into suitcases. “And what the devil,” said Timothy, going in and standing beside her, “do you think you’re up to now?”

  She gave him a glance, and went on with what she was doing. After what had gone on in the early hours, Timothy was in no mood for being ignored. He pulled her round so that she faced him. “I asked you a question,” he said.

  “We’re leaving, that’s all.”

  “Yes, I see that. Where are you going?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, it matters to the kids, I should think.”

  “That’s no concern of yours. They’ll be all right.”

  “Just as you say. Look here, if it’s the police you’re afraid of, I don’t intend to do anything about that poker. I’ll wipe it clean and put it back where it belongs, so, if that’s what’s worrying you, forget it.”

  “But you won’t forget it, will you? You still believe I hit you with it.”

  “Well, so you did, didn’t you? Go on. Admit it. Call it panic, call it what you like, but admit you did it.”

  “All right,” she said. “Have it your own way. And now please let me get on. I’m in a hurry.”

  “At least tell me where you’re going.”

  “I suppose I owe you that much. I’m going to my cousin’s.”

  “What, to Pembroke Pritchard Jones? Does he know?”

  “Of course not. I’m not a fool.”

  “That’s just exactly what you are—and a prize-winning, super-blind, fat-headed little fool at that. He’ll sling you out, double quick, and, if he doesn’t, his wife will. Don’t be such a juggins. That couple would see you and the kids dead in a ditch before they’d have you messing up their domestic arrangements. They’re artists—and, like all artists, ruthless.”

  “Well, after what’s happened, and knowing what you think of me, I couldn’t possibly stay here.”

  This sign of her weakening encouraged Timothy. He said,

  “Look here, then, I’ll tell you what. You leave the children here today and buzz off to Pembroke Jones and find out what he’s prepared to do. I’ll see that the youngsters are properly looked after and fed. You’ll manage much better on your own, and may be able to get some useful dope about Nanradoc if you’re not cluttered up with the kids. Get along to Mold and talk turkey to your cousin, and get the Nanradoc situation straightened out, if you can. How would that be, eh?”

  She turned away her head and did not answer. He knew she was crying. He went down to the basement and asked Mrs. Dewes for some breakfast. Then he said,

  “If I put in today and another night here, Mrs. Dewes, could you help me look after the children? They won’t be going to school today, and I’ve advised Miss Jones to go off on her own, without them. She wants to find out whether a cousin of hers will be good enough to give them a home. I think last night’s little party has scared her, and, really, I suppose it’s just as well that she and the children should go.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Mrs. Dewes. “Without,” she added, not looking directly at him, “you’d care to think of taking ’em off to the Zoo for the day. The Zoo is very nice, the Zoo is. I often wish I ’ad more time to go there myself. I ’ad an uncle used to be in the elephant ’ouse. Many and many’s the time us children used to go and see ’im in the old days, and get a free ride on an elephant.”

  “Would you take the ch
ildren, then?” Timothy pulled out his notecase. “Here, treat yourselves to anything you’d like, and don’t bother about buses and things. I’ll ring up right away for a taxi, and mind you come home in one, too.”

  “Well, really, sir, I don’t know, with Dewes bein’ out all day, whether I’d ought to leave the ’ouse. Not as I wouldn’t like to go. I loves to take kiddies to the Zoo.”

  “That’s all right, then. I shall be here, except just to pop out for lunch. Enjoy yourselves, and stay as long as you like.”

  With everyone out of the house, he reflected happily, he could have the rest of the day to make a thorough search. There would be nobody to get in his way, engage him in conversation, or seek to interpret his actions. Somebody had most certainly been in search of something, although what the house held of sufficient importance to warrant anyone creeping about in it at night, overturning furniture and, crowning irrelevance (he grinned to himself at the unintentional pun), hitting him over the head with a heavy poker, he could not imagine. Marion must have wanted something very badly, and must have been pretty certain that it was on Phisbe’s premises, to have been prepared to ransack the place in the dead of night, he thought. Somehow, it hardly fitted in with what he felt he knew of her, and of course, her story about the poker might be true. What he could not swallow was her assertion that she had seen the Nanradoc monk. That was either the result of fevered imaginings or else it was a downright lie. He wondered that she had not added Pembroke Jones and the trousered woman for good measure.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Blackbird on a Roof

  Timothy drove Marion to the station, bought her a return ticket to Chester, and told her that she might have to hire a car from there to take her to Pembroke’s studio. He offered her five pounds, which, with an awkward expression of thanks, she accepted. It was almost the only conversation which passed between their leaving Phisbe’s headquarters and the train leaving the London station.

  Full of doubts and suspicions, including an impression that he might have seen the last of Marion and was left holding, so to speak, three babies, he returned to Phisbe and, before he re-entered the house, he parked the car and then walked along on the side of the street opposite the house, closely scanning the roofs, but these were flat, with four-foot-high parapets, after the fashion of the time in which they had been built, so, what with this, and the prevalence of chimney-tops, he had little hope of spotting whether his marauder (if it had not been Marion) had attempted to escape from the attic that way.