The Seven Dials Mystery (5 page)

“I've been in to see him,” he said. “Are you going in?”

“I don't think so,” said Jimmy, who was a healthy young man with a natural dislike of being reminded of death.

“I think all his friends ought to.”

“Oh! do you?” said Jimmy, and registered to himself an impression that Ronny Devereux was damned odd about it all.

“Yes. It's a sign of respect.”

Jimmy sighed, but gave in.”

“Oh! very well,” he said, and passed in, setting his teeth a little.

There were white flowers arranged on the coverlet, and the room had been tidied and set to rights.

Jimmy gave one quick, nervous glance at the still, white face. Could that be cherubic, pink Gerry Wade? That still peaceful figure. He shivered.

As he turned to leave the room, his glance swept the mantelshelf and he stopped in astonishment. The alarum clocks had been ranged along it neatly in a row.

He went out sharply. Ronny was waiting for him.

“Looks very peaceful and all that. Rotten luck on him,” mumbled Jimmy.

Then he said:

“I say, Ronny, who arranged all those clocks like that in a row?”

“How should I know? One of the servants, I suppose.”

“The funny thing is,” said Jimmy, “that there are seven of them, not eight. One of them's missing. Did you notice that?”

Ronny made an inaudible sound.

“Seven instead of eight,” said Jimmy, frowning. “I wonder why.”

Four

A L
ETTER

“I
nconsiderate, that's what I call it,” said Lord Caterham.

He spoke in a gentle, plaintive voice and seemed pleased with the adjective he had found.

“Yes, distinctly inconsiderate. I often find these self-made men
are
inconsiderate. Very possibly that is why they amass such large fortunes.”

He looked mournfully out over his ancestral acres, of which he had today regained possession.

His daughter, Lady Eileen Brent, known to her friends and society in general as “Bundle,” laughed.

“You'll certainly never amass a large fortune,” she observed dryly, “though you didn't do so badly out of old Coote, sticking him for this place. What was he like? Presentable?”

“One of those large men,” said Lord Caterham, shuddering slightly, “with a red square face and iron-grey hair. Powerful, you know. What they call a forceful personality. The kind of man you'd get if a steamroller were turned into a human being.”

“Rather tiring?” suggested Bundle sympathetically.

“Frightfully tiring, full of all the most depressing virtues like sobriety and punctuality. I don't know which are the worst, powerful personalities or earnest politicians. I do so prefer the cheerful inefficient.”

“A cheerful inefficient wouldn't have been able to pay you the price you asked for this old mausoleum,” Bundle reminded him.

Lord Caterham winced.

“I wish you wouldn't use that word, Bundle. We were just getting away from the subject.”

“I don't see why you're so frightfully sensitive about it,” said Bundle. “After all, people must die somewhere.”

“They needn't die in my house,” said Lord Caterham.

“I don't see why not. Lots of people have. Masses of stuffy old great-grandfathers and grandmothers.”

“That's different,” said Lord Caterham. “Naturally I expect Brents to die here—they don't count. But I do object to strangers. And I especially object to inquests. The thing will become a habit soon. This is the second. You remember all that fuss we had four years ago? For which, by the way, I hold George Lomax entirely to blame.”

“And now you're blaming poor old steamroller Coote. I'm sure he was quite as annoyed about it as anyone.”

“Very inconsiderate,” said Lord Caterham obstinately. “People who are likely to do that sort of thing oughtn't to be asked to stay. And you may say what you like, Bundle, I don't like inquests. I never have and I never shall.”

“Well, this wasn't the same sort of thing as the last one,” said Bundle soothingly. “I mean, it wasn't a murder.”

“It might have been—from the fuss that thickhead of an inspector made. He's never got over that business four years ago. He thinks every death that takes place here must necessarily be a case of foul play fraught with grave political significance. You've no idea the fuss he made. I've been hearing about it from Tredwell. Tested everything imaginable for fingerprints. And of course they only found the dead man's own. The clearest case imaginable—though whether it was suicide or accident is another matter.”

“I met Gerry Wade once,” said Bundle. “He was a friend of Bill's. You'd have liked him, Father. I never saw anyone more cheerfully inefficient than he was.”

“I don't like anyone who comes and dies in my house on purpose to annoy me,” said Lord Caterham obstinately.

“But I certainly can't imagine anyone murdering him,” continued Bundle. “The idea's absurd.”

“Of course it is,” said Lord Caterham. “Or would be to anyone but an ass like Inspector Raglan.”

“I daresay looking for fingerprints made him feel important,” said Bundle soothingly. “Anyway, they brought it in ‘Death by misadventure,' didn't they?”

Lord Caterham acquiesced.

“They had to show some consideration for the sister's feelings?”

“Was there a sister. I didn't know.”

“Half sister, I believe. She was much younger. Old Wade ran away with her mother—he was always doing that sort of thing. No woman appealed to him unless she belonged to another man.”

“I'm glad there's one bad habit you haven't got,” said Bundle.

“I've always led a very respectable God-fearing life,” said Lord Caterham. “It seems extraordinary, considering how little harm I do to anybody, that I can't be let alone. If only—”

He stopped as Bundle made a sudden excursion through the window.

“MacDonald,” called Bundle in a clear, autocratic voice.

The emperor approached. Something that might possibly have been taken for a smile of welcome tried to express itself on his countenance, but the natural gloom of gardeners dispelled it.

“Your ladyship?” said MacDonald.

“How are you?” said Bundle.

“I'm no verra grand,” said MacDonald.

“I wanted to speak to you about the bowling green. It's shockingly overgrown. Put someone on to it, will you?”

MacDonald shook his head dubiously.

“It would mean taking William from the lower border, m'lady.”

“Damn the lower border,” said Bundle. “Let him start at once. And MacDonald—”

“Yes, m'lady?”

“Let's have some of those grapes in from the far house. I know it's the wrong time to cut them because it always is, but I want them all the same. See?”

Bundle reentered the library.

“Sorry, Father,” she said. “I wanted to catch MacDonald. Were you speaking?”

“As a matter of fact I was,” said Lord Caterham. “But it doesn't matter. What were you saying to MacDonald?”

“Trying to cure him of thinking he's God Almighty. But that's an impossible task. I expect the Cootes have been bad for him. MacDonald wouldn't care one hoot, or even two hoots, for the largest steamroller that ever was. What's Lady Coote like?”

Lord Caterham considered the question.

“Very like my idea of Mrs. Siddons,” he said at last. “I should think she went in a lot for amateur theatricals. I gather she was very upset about the clock business.”

“What clock business?”

“Tredwell has just been telling me. It seems the house party had some joke on. They bought a lot of alarum clocks and hid them about this young Wade's room. And then, of course, the poor chap was dead. Which made the whole thing rather beastly.

Bundle nodded.

“Tredwell told me something else rather odd about the clocks,” continued Lord Caterham, who was now quite enjoying himself. “It seems that somebody collected them all and put them in a row on the mantelpiece after the poor fellow was dead.”

“Well, why not?” said Bundle.

“I don't see why not myself,” said Lord Caterham. “But apparently there was some fuss about it. No one would own up to having done it, you see. All the servants were questioned and swore they hadn't touched the beastly things. In fact, it was rather a mystery. And then the coroner asked questions at the inquest, and you know how difficult it is to explain things to people of that class.”

“Perfectly foul,” agreed Bundle.

“Of course,” said Lord Caterham, “it's very difficult to get the hang of things afterwards. I didn't quite see the point of half the things Tredwell told me. By the way, Bundle, the fellow died in your room.”

Bundle made a grimace.

“Why need people die in my room?” she asked with some indignation.

“That's just what I've been saying,” said Lord Caterham, in triumph. “Inconsiderate. Everybody's damned inconsiderate nowadays.”

“Not that I mind,” said Bundle valiantly. “Why should I?”

“I should,” said her father. “I should mind very much. I should dream things, you know—spectral hands and clanking chains.”

“Well,” said Bundle. “Great Aunt Louisa died in
your
bed. I wonder you don't see her spook hovering over you.”

“I do sometimes,” said Lord Caterham, shuddering. “Especially after lobster.”

“Well, thank heaven I'm not superstitious,” declared Bundle.

Yet that evening, as she sat in front of her bedroom fire, a slim, pyjamaed figure, she found her thoughts reverting to that cheery, vacuous young man, Gerry Wade. Impossible to believe that anyone so full of the joy of living could deliberately have committed suicide. No, the other solution must be the right one. He had taken a sleeping draught and by a pure mistake had swallowed an overdose. That
was
possible. She did not fancy that Gerry Wade had been overburdened in an intellectual capacity.

Her gaze shifted to the mantelpiece and she began thinking about the story of the clocks. Her maid had been full of that, having just been primed by the second housemaid. She had added a detail which apparently Tredwell had not thought worthwhile retailing to Lord Caterham, but which had piqued Bundle's curiosity.

Seven clocks had been neatly ranged on the mantelpiece; the last and remaining one had been found on the lawn outside, where it had obviously been thrown from the window.

Bundle puzzled over that point now. It seemed such an extraordinary purposeless thing to do. She could imagine that one of the maids might have tidied the clocks and then, frightened by the inquisition into the matter, have denied doing so. But surely no maid would have thrown a clock into the garden.

Had Gerry Wade done so when its first sharp summons woke him? But no; that again was impossible. Bundle remembered hearing that his death must have taken place in the early hours of the morning, and he would have been in a comatose condition for some time before that.

Bundle frowned. This business of the clocks
was
curious. She must get hold of Bill Eversleigh. He had been there, she knew.

To think was to act with Bundle. She got up and went over to the writing desk. It was an inlaid affair with a lid that rolled back. Bundle sat down at it, pulled a sheet of notepaper towards her and wrote.

Dear Bill,—

She paused to pull out the lower part of the desk. It had stuck halfway, as she remembered it often did. Bundle tugged at it impatiently but it did not move. She recalled that on a former occasion an envelope had been pushed back with it and had jammed it for the time being. She took a thin paper knife and slipped it into the narrow crack. She was so far successful that a corner of white paper showed. Bundle caught hold of it and drew it out. It was the first sheet of a letter, somewhat crumpled.

It was the date that first caught Bundle's eye. A big flourishing date that leaped out from the paper. Sept. 21st.

“September 21st,” said Bundle slowly. “Why, surely that was—”

She broke off. Yes, she was sure of it. The 22nd was the day Gerry Wade was found dead. This, then, was a letter he must have been writing on the very evening of the tragedy.

Bundle smoothed it out and read it. It was unfinished.

“My Darling Loraine,—I will be down on Wednesday. Am feeling awfully fit and rather pleased with myself all round. It will be heavenly to see you. Look here, do forget what I said about that Seven Dials business. I thought it was going to be more or less a joke—but it isn't—anything but. I'm sorry I ever said anything about it—it's not the kind of business kids like you ought to be mixed up in. So forget about it, see?

“Something else I wanted to tell you—but I'm so sleepy I can't keep my eyes open.

“Oh, about Lurcher; I think—”

Here the letter broke off.

Bundle sat frowning. Seven Dials. Where was that? Some rather slummy district of London, she fancied. The words Seven Dials reminded her of something else, but for the moment she couldn't think of what. Instead her attention fastened on two phrases. “Am feeling awfully fit . . .” and “I'm so sleepy I can't keep my eyes open.”

That didn't fit in. That didn't fit in at all. For it was that very night that Gerry Wade had taken such a heavy dose of chloral that he never woke again. And if what he had written in that letter were true, why should he have taken it?

Bundle shook her head. She looked round the room and gave a slight shiver. Supposing Gerry Wade were watching her now. In this room he had died . . .

She sat very still. The silence was unbroken save for the ticking of her little gold clock. That sounded unnaturally loud and important.

Bundle glanced towards the mantelpiece. A vivid picture rose before her mind's eyes. The dead man lying on the bed, and seven clocks ticking on the mantelpiece—ticking loudly, ominously . . . ticking . . . ticking . . .