Mr. J. G. Reeder Returns (8 page)

“May I ask,” said Mr Reeder, “exactly why you went to Sevenways?”

“She asked me to see her last night – asked me in French; and she asked me in French because she didn’t want the chauffeur to hear her. That’s when she told me she wanted to see you. Her room is on the park side of the house – it’s called a castle, but it’s a Tudor house really – three windows on the right from the portico. As I say, the window was barred, so my plan came unstuck.”

“What on earth were you going to do?” asked J G.

“I was running away with her,” said Larry calmly. “It was her idea.”

Mr Reeder was a picture of amazement.

“You were running away with her?” he said incredulously.

“That was the idea. She asked me to take her away. It sounds mad, but there it is. She must have trusted me, or she was desperate. I think a little of each.”

Mr Reeder went out to telephone, Larry protesting.

“Really, I don’t want a doctor. A whack on the head is nothing.”

“A whack on the head that cuts four inches of skin and exposes the scalp is a very important matter,” said Mr Reeder, “and I am one of the few remaining people who believe in doctors.”

A surgeon came in half an hour and did a little fancy stitching. Mr Reeder insisted that Larry should stay in the house; a very unusual request, for he never encouraged visitors, and this was the first guest he had had within the memory of his housekeeper.

It was early in the afternoon when Mr Reeder reached Sevenways Castle. It stood in an extensive park and, as Larry had said, there was very little about it that had the appearance of a castle. Its architecture was Tudor, except that on one end there stuck out a rather ugly, modern addition which was built, it seemed, of dressed stone and visible from the drive. This must be the treasure house, he thought.

He had telephoned the hour he expected to arrive, and Major Olbude was waiting for him under the porch. He led him into the panelled library, where a red fire glowed on an open hearth.

“I’ve been trying to make up my mind whether I should wait for you to arrive or whether I should send for the local police. Some ruffian attacked a gamekeeper of mine with a sword last night. I’ve had to send him away to London to be medically treated. Really, Mr Reeder, the events of the past few days have made me so nervous that I felt it prudent to send my niece to Paris. With one of my guards killed and my gamekeeper attacked, it almost looks as though there is some attempt being organised against the treasure house, and if I were not bound by the terms of the will I should send the whole contents of the place to the strongroom of a London bank. It is very disconcerting. By the way, you will be relieved to learn that I made a very careful inspection of the vault today, and none of the containers has been touched; all the seals are intact, as of course I expected they would be. I need hardly tell you that I am a little relieved, though there was no real cause for worrying. The strongroom is impregnable and, unless Buckingham was the most expert of thieves, he could not have forced the door without it being instantly detected. The key never leaves me day or night. I carry it, as a matter of fact, on a silver chain around my neck.”

“And none of the containers has been touched?” asked Mr Reeder.

“None. Would you like to see the vault?”

Mr Reeder followed him along the broad corridor of the castle into a little room which apparently was the major’s study, and through a steel door, which he unlocked, into a small lobby, illuminated by a skylight heavily criss-crossed with steel bars. There was another steel door, and beyond this they came to a narrow stone passage which led to the treasure house proper.

It was a huge concrete and steel safe, placed within four walls. The only adjunct to the building was a small kitchenette, where the guards sat, and this was immediately opposite the steel door of the vault.

“I think we’re entitled to call it a vault,” said the major, “because it is sunk some five feet below the level on which we are at present – one goes down steps to the interior–”

Mr Reeder was looking round.

“Where is the guard?” he asked.

The major spread out his hands, despair in his good-looking face.

“I’m afraid I lost my head, after what you told me. I dismissed them with a month’s wages and packed them off the moment I came back. It was stupid of me, because I’m sure they are trustworthy, but once you’ve become suspicious of men in whom you’ve placed the greatest confidence, I think it is best to make a clean sweep.”

Mr Reeder examined the steel door carefully.

He saw, however, at a glance that only the most expert of bank-smashers could have forced his way into the treasure chamber, and then only with the aid of modern scientific instruments. It was certainly not a one-man job, and decidedly no task for an amateur.

He came back to the house, his hands thrust into his pockets, the inevitable umbrella hooked on his arm, his high-crowned hat on the back of his head. He stopped to admire one of the pieces of statuary which lined the broad hall.

“A very old house,” he said. “I am interested in the manor houses of England. Is there any possibility of looking over the place?”

Major Olbude hesitated.

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t,” he said. “Some of the rooms, of course, are locked up; in fact, we only use one wing.”

They went from room to room. The drawing room was empty. He saw on a low table a book. It was open in the middle, and lying face down on the table; a book that had been put aside by somebody who was so interested in the story that they were anxious to continue at the place they left off. Near by was a pair of reading glasses and a case. He made no comment, and went on to the dining room, with its Elizabethan panels and deep mullioned windows; stopped to admire the carved crest of the original owner of the building, and listened intently while Major Olbude told him the history of Sevenways.

“You don’t wish to see upstairs?”

“I should rather like to. The old sleeping apartments in these manor houses have a singular interest for me. I am – um – something of a student of architecture,” said Mr Reeder untruthfully.

At the head of the grand stairway stretched a passage from which opened the principal bedrooms.

“This is my niece’s room.”

He threw open a door and showed a rather gloomy-looking apartment with a four-poster bed.

“As I say, she went to Paris this morning–”

“And left everything very tidy,” murmured Mr Reeder. “It’s such a pleasure to find that trait in a young lady.”

There was no sign that the room had been lived in and there was a slight mustiness about it.

“There’s little or nothing in this other wing, except my bedroom,” said the major, leading the way past the staircase.

He was walking more quickly, but Mr Reeder stopped opposite a doorway.

“There’s one remark that was made by a Frenchman about an English manor house in the reign of Charles,” he said sententiously. “Do you speak – er – French, Major?”

Now, the remarkable thing about Major Olbude was that he did not speak French. He had a knowledge of Greek and of Latin, but modern languages had never appealed to him, he said.

“His remark was this,” said Mr Reeder, and said something in French. He said it very loudly.
“If you are in the room, move your blind when you hear me talking outside the house.”

“I’m afraid that is unintelligible to me,” said the major shortly.

“It means,” said Mr Reeder glibly, “that the Englishman’s idea of a good house is a comfortable bed inside a fortress. Now,” he said, as they went down the stairs together, “I would like to see the house from the outside.”

They walked along the gravelled pathway running parallel with the front of the house. The major was growing obviously impatient; moreover, he was displaying a certain amount of anxiety, glancing round as though he were expecting an unwelcome visitor. Mr Reeder noticed these things.

When he came opposite the third window from the right of the porch, he said loudly, pointing to a distant clump of trees: “Was it there your gamekeeper was attacked?”

As he spoke, he glanced quickly backwards. The white blind that covered the third window to the right of the porch moved slightly.

“No, it was in the opposite direction, on the other side of the house,” said the major shortly. “Now would you like to see the sleeping quarters of Buckingham? The police have been here this morning – the Kentish police – and have made a thorough search, so I don’t think it is worth while your examining the place. As far as I can gather, they found nothing.”

Mr Reeder looked at him thoughtfully.

“No, I don’t think I want to see Buckingham’s quarters, but there are one or two questions I would like to ask you. May I see the inside of the vault?”

“No, you may not.”

Olbude’s voice was sharp, frankly unfriendly. He seemed to realise this, for he added almost apologetically: “You see, Mr Reeder, I have a very heavy responsibility. This infernal trust is getting so much on my mind that I’m thinking of asking the courts to relieve me of my guardianship.”

They were back in the library now. Mr Reeder was no longer the languid, charming and rather timid gentleman. He was the hectoring, domineering Mr Reeder, whom quite a number of people knew and disliked intensely.

“I want to see your niece,” he said.

“She’s gone to Paris.”

“When did she go?”

“She went by car this morning.”

“Let me ask you one question; is your niece short-sighted? Does she wear glasses?”

Olbude was taken off his guard.

“Yes; the doctor ordered her to wear glasses for reading.”

“How many pairs of glasses has she?”

The major shrugged.

“What is the idea of these ridiculous questions?” he asked testily. “So far as I know, she has one pair, a sort of blue-shaded tortoise-shell–”

“Then will you explain why she took a long journey and left behind her the book in which she was so interested, and her reading glasses? You will find them in the drawing room. I want to see her room.”

“I have shown you her room,” said Olbude, raising his voice.

“I want to see the third room from the left of the grand staircase.”

Olbude looked at him for a second, and laughed. “My dear Mr Reeder, surely this is not the method of the Public Prosecutor’s Department?”

“It is my method,” said Mr Reeder curtly.

There was a pause.

“I will go upstairs and get her,” said the major.

“If you don’t mind, I will come with you.” Outside the door of the girl’s room the major paused, key in hand.

“I will tell you the truth, though I don’t see that this matter has anything to do with you,” he said. “My niece has been very indiscreet. As far as I can gather, she made arrangements to run away with an unknown man, who, I have since ascertained, has a criminal record – you will be able to confirm this, for I understand you were in the case. Naturally, as her guardian, I have my duty to do, and as to my little fiction about her going to Paris–”

“Perhaps she will tell me all this herself,” said Reeder.

The major snapped back the key and threw open the door.

“Come out, Pamela, please. Mr Reeder wishes to see you.”

She came out into the light, her eyes upon her guardian.

“I think it is true, is it not, that you had made arrangements to leave this house, Pamela, and that because of this I locked you in your room?”

She nodded. The girl was terrified, was in such fear that she could hardly stand. Yet, as Reeder sensed, it was not the major who inspired the fear.

“This is Mr Reeder; I think you met him yesterday. Mr Reeder seems to think there is something sinister in this act of discipline. Have I in any way ill-treated you?”

She shook her head, so slightly that the gesture was almost imperceptible.

“Is there anything you would like to say to Mr Reeder – any complaint you wish to make? Mr Reeder is a very important official in the Public Prosecutor’s office.” There was a note of pomposity in his tone. “You may be sure that if I have behaved in any way illegally, he will see that you are–”

“Quite unnecessary, isn’t it, Major Olbude?” said Mr Reeder’s quiet voice. “I mean, all this – um – prompting and terrifying. Perhaps if I had a few minutes with the young lady in your library she might give me some information.”

“About what? You would like to ask her a few questions about me, would you?” asked Olbude.

“Curiously enough, I have come down here to investigate the murder of a man called Buckingham. If you are concerned in the murder of that man, I shall certainly ask her questions about you.”

Reeder’s eyes did not leave the man’s face.

“If, on the other hand, that is a matter which does not concern you, the result of our conversation will be in no way embarrassing to you, Major Olbude. Did you know Buckingham, Miss Leonard?”

“Yes,” she said. Her voice was low and sweet. “But not very well. I have seen him once or twice.”

“We had better go back to the library,” Olbude broke in; his voice was unsteady. “I don’t suppose this young lady can tell you very much that you want to know, but since you’re intent on cross-examining her, there’s no reason in the world why I should put obstacles in your way. Naturally, I haven’t any desire that a young girl should discuss a beastly business like murder, but if that is the method of the Public Prosecutor’s office, by all means go ahead with it.”

He took them back to the library, but made no attempt to leave them alone. Rather did he plant himself in the most comfortable chair in the room, within earshot.

She knew little about Buckingham. Mr Reeder could not escape the conviction that she was not terribly interested in that unfortunate man. She had seen the picture in the newspaper and had drawn her uncle’s attention to the tragedy. She knew nothing of the treasure house, had only seen it from the outside, and had met none of the guards.

She was not overawed by Olbude’s presence, but with every answer she gave to the detective’s inquiries she cast a frightened glance towards the door as though she expected somebody would come in. Mr Reeder guessed who that somebody was.