Death and Miss Dane Page 4

  “The doctor?” There was surprise, and something more, in her tone. “What do you mean? Nobody sent for the doctor.”

  “Your uncle did. He rang up on the way here, and I understood that the doctor was out, but would come up and see him after dinner.”

  He thought that she was going to speak, but instead, she opened the door wide and lifted her face for his kiss. Holding her in his arms, he felt resistance; releasing her, he found her no longer anxious to keep him, but instead almost urging him out into the night. Before he had taken more than a few steps along the drive, he heard the door close sharply behind him.

  He walked quickly, but the night air did not clear his confusion. Time enough to sort it all out in the morning, he decided. He needed a good night’s sleep. The morning would show him things in their proper light, and these melodramatic glimpses of Mrs. Mitchell as a schemer, capturing the General and then turning her gaze on the Cottage, would disappear. The hard cold note in Philippa’s voice would fade and the hard blue glaze of her eyes melt into its former softness.

  He walked past Tor House and saw that its lights were still on. The Lodge was in darkness.

  He turned into the private road that led past Sanctuary, and in a few minutes was on the wooded path, plunged into deep, impenetrable blackness, so that at first he could scarcely feel his way. Then through the trees he saw the long, unbroken blaze that streamed from the unscreened veranda of Sanctuary.

  Solitude, and music, and books. The general had said that these things were all he needed in the world—and had asked Mrs. Mitchell to marry him. Ten minutes. A brief interval; a short bridge. And there might still be books and music, but there would not be solitude.

  He was almost level with the house, and he looked toward the open door, half expecting to see the general’s form outlined against it.

  And then he halted.

  Chill, deeper than the damp, cold air, entered into him and kept him motionless. Horror crept into him, and was dispelled for a moment by a feeling of incredulity. It could not be. He was dreaming; this was the climax to an evening of hallucinations. His imagination was over-heated. He—

  He found that he was moving; edging, foot by reluctant foot, nearer to the house. He was on the terrace. He was outside the veranda, going toward the door which on a night like this should have been closed, but which was open. He was staring at the sight which had halted him so abruptly and which he could now see with horrifying clearness.

  A figure…the General’s, lying with outstretched arms on the carpeted floor beside the open door. The general, on his back, his head…Paul closed his eyes, nausea flooding over him.

  When he opened them, they fell on a small object lying beside the body. He stared at it, standing motionless for long moments, and then bending to study it more closely.

  When he straightened, his mind was suddenly cold and clear.

  Murder.

  The General had been murdered—and he was the first to learn the terrible fact.

  Murder…there were things that he must do. He must summon the servants, send for the doctor, notify the police.

  The police…

  His glance went once more to the tiny object lying near the door. He was still looking down at it when he heard a sound, and knew that someone was approaching the veranda. Someone—one of the servants, no doubt—was coming. There would be no need for him to summon anybody. Somebody would open the inner door, someone would see… And if he stayed here, he would be involved in a murder. He had nothing to tell. He knew no more than the servants would know when they entered the room—but if he stayed, he would become entangled in the investigations. There would be interviews with the police, questions, with Philippa called in to check the time of his arrival at, his departure from Brakeways. He could say nothing that would help to find a murderer; he must go, and go at once.

  He turned toward the door—and then, before he was fully aware of what he was about to do, he had turned towards the body once more and, stooping, had picked up the small object.

  A moment later, he was back in the shelter of the wood. He waited only to see the inner door open and a servant enter with a tray—and then he was stumbling down the path that led to the road below, telling himself that the whole night had been a dream, a terrible dream from which he would wake.

  But his hand, thrust deep into his pocket, still held the object he had picked up from the veranda floor, and two thoughts were whirling round his brain.

  Death in the valley; violent death in this quiet peaceful backwater. And Miss Dane…

  Chapter 4

  On the following morning, Paul left the Cottage early. In the High Street, the tradesmen were still in the act of taking down their shutters.He waited apprehensively, half expecting them to turn excitedly to him as he passed, blurting out the news of what had taken place at Sanctuary during the night. But he heard nothing more than the usual friendly greetings; the news, he realized, had not yet come down to the town.

  He reached the office, let himself in and picked up the mail. Sitting at his desk, he slit open envelopes and read them and put them aside without having taken in their meaning. His mind was at Sanctuary, and he was standing once more at the door of the veranda, staring down…

  He pushed the letters aside and put a hand into his pocket and brought out the thing he had picked up from beside the General’s body. Putting it on the desk, he stared at it and asked himself yet once more what madness had prompted him to touch it.

  A key ring. No keys, an empty ring, a short scarlet strap, a tiny polar bear. He had picked it up and he had brought it away with him. The police would be up there now, looking for clues, and what might be the most vital clue of all was lying here on his desk. He was concealing evidence. He was impeding the course of justice.

  There was nothing to be gained by staring at the key ring, he told himself angrily. He had to decide what he was going to do with it—and he had to decide soon.

  He heard Frances come into the office, and he put the key ring back into his pocket. A moment later, she gave a scratch on the door—her usual way of showing him that she knew her place—and burst in, her eyes wide, and filled with an expression which he noted was balanced equally between horror and excitement.

  “Have you heard?” she asked breathlessly.

  He took a cigarette from the box on his desk, and lit it. “No,” he said with truth, looking up; he had not heard.

  “The General! Dead! Murdered!” brought out Frances in a rush.

  “Who told you this?”

  “Who? Everybody! The place is buzzing with it. They’re all out there in the street, trying to believe it. But it’s true! The servants found him—one of them or all of them, I can’t tell you which. Yes—it was the one who took in his hot drink at 10, when he always has it. Had it. He was on the floor, dead. Stone dead. He’d been hit on the head. Isn’t it ghastly? Can you believe it?”

  Paul said he could, and she stared at him in perplexity.

  “How can you keep so calm?”

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Go out there and join the crowd and buzz with the rest?”

  “No, but…Well, you were up there just two mornings ago, talking to him, and—”

  “—and now he is dead, and I’m sorry.” He ground out his cigarette with a gesture of helplessness and stared up at her. “What more can anybody say?”

  “Murder—here in Fern Valley!” marvelled Frances. “I can’t believe it’s happened to us.”

  Left alone, Paul took the key ring and stared at it thoughtfully. He did not think that the police would come and question him just yet—but he had a clue and he could not keep it forever in his possession. But he knew now, with certainty, that he could not take it to the police. He had picked it up on impulse, and he was beginning to understand that the impulse had been a protective one. He had seen the girl who owned the key ring, and she must have had a curious effect on him, because he was prepared to swear that she could not be
mixed up in any shady matter. He knew nothing whatsoever about her, but he had…

  He paused, looking for a noun. He had a feeling. That was it; a feeling. If anybody asked him to explain it, he couldn’t; he had had it, that was all. There was something about her; something cool and pure and untouched. They said that eyes were windows, and he believed it. Her windows were clear and unclouded and he had looked into them—briefly; too briefly, but he had liked the view. And that was all very well, but what the hell was her key ring doing a foot away from a murder victim?

  Well, there was only one person who could tell him—and he couldn’t ask her while he was sitting here staring at her key ring.

  He got to his feet, and with a word to Frances to indicate that he would be back shortly, he strode out of the office and into High Street. Groups of people stood about, all talking excitedly on one topic, but he did not pause until he reached Mrs. Edmond’s door.

  Almost as soon as he had knocked, he heard slippered feet approaching; the door opened and Mrs. Edmond, wearing an expensive negligee that looked incongruous against the shabby background, was looking at him expectantly.

  “I wonder if I could see Miss Dane?” he asked.

  She removed the cigarette from her lips.

  “Miss Dane? She’s gone, dear,” she said.

  “Gone out?”

  “No, not gone out; just gone, dear. She didn’t like the room,” explained Mrs. Edmond, with a wide, good-humoured smile. “I meant to give it a turn-out before she came, but there’s more exciting things, I always say, than mucking about with housework.”

  The door closed, and Paul went slowly back to the office, his spirits ebbing to an unprecedentedly low level. She had gone. She had left Mrs. Edmond’s; she had said that she was going to look for other lodgings, but—Paul’s hand closed over the key ring in his pocket—who knew whether she had not left the Valley? She had vanished, and the probabilities were that he would never set eyes on her again, and the thought brought so much pain that he felt it dangerous to examine it further.

  He got to the office to find Dr. Veysey going in. As the two men entered, Frances looked up and gave the doctor a searching glance.

  “You look limp,” she said.

  “I suppose you’ve been up at Sanctuary?” Paul asked him.

  “Yes. Hellish business,” brought out the doctor slowly. “Who in the world could have done a thing like that in a place like this?”

  “Well, who gets his dough?” asked Frances practically.

  “Mrs. Zimmerman seems to think that she does,” said the doctor. “The police asked me to go over and see her this morning at the Lodge. She was in bad shape. Her memory seems to have gone: she can’t remember anything that happened yesterday.”

  “Well, if she did the deed, that’d be pretty convenient,” said Frances, “but she didn’t.”

  “Oh, you’ve solved the crime?” asked the doctor.

  “Oh, I haven’t,” she said, “but you can rule out poor old Mrs. Z. I went up to see her yesterday morning, and you can take it from me, she’s harmless.”

  “I’ll mention that to the police,” said the doctor. “They’ll be very grateful for the tip.”

  “What happened,” Paul asked her, “when you went up to the Lodge?”

  “Well, I left Bob in charge of the office, as I told you I would,” she said. “I took a taxi up to the Lodge; office expense, naturally; I wasn’t going to clamber up hills, besides which it was pouring with rain. I got out of the taxi and knocked on the door, but she wouldn’t open it. She asked me who I was, and when I told her, she came to the drawing room window and spoke her piece through it.”

  “What did she say?” asked the doctor curiously.

  “She said that if the General wanted anything she’d deal with him personally and not through emissaries. Then she…” Frances paused. “Come to think of it,” she said slowly, “she was packing.”

  “Packing?” repeated Paul.

  “Yes. I could see a trunk, open and half full, and several suitcases—packed or not, I wouldn’t know; they were closed. But there was a terrible mess in the room—the sort of mess everybody makes when they’re clearing up.”

  “Or clearing out,” said the doctor. “All this,” he added hastily, “is strictly unprofessional, and said only because I’ve known you both since you were born.” He looked at Paul. “I suppose it wouldn’t be possible to have a private word with you?”

  “What’s the secrecy?” asked Frances. “I know all about your goings-on.”

  “Not all,” said the doctor, and followed Paul into his room.

  “Sit down,” said Paul, closing the door. “What’s the trouble?”

  The doctor sat down, and Paul studied him and thought for the first time that he was beginning to look dissipated. High living, low spirits, he reflected; too many fast women slowed a man up eventually. Being called up to Sanctuary to see the victim of a murder was not a pleasant experience, but the lines on the doctor’s face had not been carved in a night.

  The doctor gestured toward the street.

  “Out there,” he said, “they’re saying hard things about my tenants. And the police called at my house this morning, asking me a lot of questions about them that I couldn’t answer.”

  “I met them at the Junction. The Dutts, I mean.”

  “I know; Dutt told me when he arrived yesterday evening. So I don’t need to tell you that he brought the whole ruddy clan, or do I mean caste? Pregnant wife, screaming kid, mother-in-law, and a packet of servants. I came in to ask you what chance I had of getting rid of them.”

  “You mean before their lease is up?”

  “I mean now. At once.”

  “None at all, I’d say.”

  “Then that’s that disposed of.” He took a cigarette from the box Paul held out, and flicked open a lighter. “There’s something else,” he said, leaning back and letting a thin trail of smoke drift from his nostrils.

  “Well?”

  “It’s rather personal, and you may not care to answer. You were up at the Mitchell’s yesterday evening. Did Mrs. Mitchell say anything to you about the General?”

  Paul hesitated. Mrs. Mitchell had said nothing about keeping the news to himself— but the General’s death might have put a different complexion on the matter.

  “Why don’t you ask her?” he said.

  “Women,” said the doctor, “only tell you what they want you to know. I have a strong feeling that Mrs. Mitchell had hooked the General—and I’d like to be sure.”

  “Why is it so important?” asked Paul.

  The doctor’s eyes, with their peculiarly restless, reckless look, rested on his. “You really want to know?”

  “I asked, didn’t I?”

  “Yes…but then, you’re an odd chap. A nice chap. A chap who doesn’t—if you’ll forgive me—see all that goes on around him. You’ve got a…how shall I put it? A trusting nature.”

  “Thank you. Why is it so important?” repeated Paul.

  “Well, it isn’t important to anybody but myself,” said the doctor. “A simple matter of pride—did you know I had some pride? Not the noble sort, I’m afraid; no. Just a disinclination to play first reserve. I’ve known for a long time that the General and I were rivals, and that was fair enough; what I’d like to know now is whether he was chosen and I was left. If he was, I wouldn’t like to feel that only the fact that he’s no longer in a position to marry puts me in the running again. You see the distinction, I hope?”

  Amazement kept Paul silent. Mrs. Mitchell…and the doctor! It was impossible, he told himself. When she had had occasion to mention him, she had always used a careless, half-contemptuous tone. The doctor’s visits to the house had been frequent enough, but he had always supposed them to be made not to her but to Mr. Allenby.

  The telephone bell rang; Paul picked up the receiver and the doctor rose. The eyes of the two men met and held for a moment.

  “Oh well.” The doctor sounded resigned.
“I didn’t think you’d say anything; it was just a hope.”

  He strolled out of the room, and Paul heard Philippa’s voice.

  “Paul, have you heard?”

  “Yes.”

  “The servants just told us. They saw the police cars going to the house, and they went up to see what was going on.” She paused. “Mother’s in a terrible state. I’ve taken her to her room and made her lie down.”

  “I’ll come up this evening.”

  “Not before?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t manage it.”

  “Well, come early.”

  He put down the receiver, and innumerable unrelated impressions flocked to his mind and gathered there. Uneasiness filled him, but he could not define its cause.

  He went home, his mind confused. The General was dead, and a girl named Anabel Dane had come with a key ring, and the key ring had lain by the General’s dead body—and Anabel Dane had walked out of Mrs. Edmond’s house and he doubted whether anybody here would see her again, and he was left with a clue—a clue that now led nowhere.

  He reached the door of the Cottage and felt absently for his latch key, but before he could use it the door opened and his mother drew him inside.

  “Oh, Paul,”—her voice was weak with relief—“I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Zimmerman. She’s in the drawing- room.”

  “Mrs. Zimmerman?”

  “Yes.” She began a hurried explanation. “Rosario went out with me to do some shopping this morning. Of course, we heard the terrible news, and I…I felt I couldn’t bear to listen to any more. Do you realize that it happened in my winter garden, Paul? The room your father built for me. The sunshine room, he called it; the room we were always so happy in…”

  “Mrs. Zimmerman, mother,” he recalled her quietly.

  “Oh…yes. Well, I came home and sat quietly here, and Rosario said she would bring the shopping home. But as she was coming in at the gate, she saw Mrs. Zimmerman walking down the hill.”

  “Walking—from the Lodge?”