The Catherine Wheel (4 page)

She gave him the same straight, bold look as she had done before.

“Yes. I’ll come. I’d like to see the old place. I’ve a friend that comes in to give me a hand when I’m pressed, and I don’t open Sundays. She’ll manage.”

“And you, Al Miller? Let me see, you’re a railway employee, aren’t you—Ledlington Station—porter?”

“That’s right. I could get off Saturday evening.”

Jacob nodded.

“The inn is only three and a half miles out of Ledlington. You’ve got a bike, I take it. You can come along when you come off duty. That suit you?”

Al Miller thought, “What’s he getting at? A hundred pounds would suit anyone, wouldn’t it?” He jerked his head and said it suited him all right.

Jacob said, “Well, we’re getting along. Marian has already told us that she and Freddy can come. Now what about you, John?”

John Higgins said in his pleasant country voice,

“No, thank you, Cousin Jacob.”

The monkey face screwed itself into a vexed grimace.

“My dear chap, why not?”

“I’ve my reasons, thanking you all the same.”

“Come, come—there’s a hundred pounds just waiting to be picked up.”

The blue eyes rested calmly upon him.

“If I’d a good reason for coming, I’d come. Since I’ve my reasons for staying away, I’ll stay.”

“And the hundred pounds?”

“You’re welcome to it, Cousin Jacob.”

Jane found her hands clapping themselves together softly in her lap. She looked sideways at Jeremy and saw that he was extremely angry. It was all very nicely controlled, but she didn’t trust him a yard. If she didn’t take things into her own hands, he was going to put his foot down, or something stupid like that.

She reflected that men were quite dreadfully Early Victorian. In point of fact she didn’t suppose there had ever been a century in which they didn’t throw right back to the cave man and announce that their will was law. Not really civilized, that was the trouble. She gave him a look and said without waiting to be asked,

“I’d love to come, Cousin Jacob. It’s frightfully nice of you to ask us. I get Saturday afternoon and Sunday off, but I shall have to be back at half past nine on Monday.”

Jeremy had a rush of blood to the head. He experienced some primitive reactions. Bounce him, would she? Well, he would show her. And if she thought—if she thought for one minute that he was going to let her off with this gang and without him to that God-forsaken inn with its shady past and Lord knows what kind of a present, well—

Jacob Taverner was addressing him.

“And you, Jeremy?”

He answered with controlled politeness.

“Thank you, sir. I am on leave—I shall be able to come.”

When they had walked half the length of the street Jane smiled sweetly at an unresponsive profile and said,

“Thank you, darling.”

In a distant voice Captain Jeremy Taverner enquired what she was thanking him for.

“Coming down to the Catherine-Wheel as my chaperon, darling. Having always been accustomed to being wrapped up in cotton wool and sheltered, I do appreciate it. You know that, don’t you?”

There was a fair imitation of a flash of lightning accompanied by a smart clap of thunder.

“Just stop talking nonsense, Jane, and listen to me! You can’t possibly go!”

“Why can’t I possibly go? I am going.”

“You can’t—with that gang.”

“No, darling. With you.”

She distinctly heard Jeremy grit his teeth.

“Jane, you can’t possibly want to get mixed up with that appalling crowd.”

“They’re all the relations we’ve got.”

“Thank the Lord for that! What a crew!”

Jane’s tone warmed a little.

“Jeremy, they’re not! You’re being snob. I love John Higgins— he’s a lamb.”

“And he isn’t going to be there—he’s got too much sense. Do you love Al Miller?”

“Not frightfully.”

“Or Geoffrey—or Mildred?”

“Geoffrey might have possibilities. I wouldn’t mind exploring them.”

The teeth-gritting was repeated. Jane said hastily,

“On the chilly side though, don’t you think? But I rather like Floss-to-my-friends. And Marian—now don’t tell me you don’t think she’s beautiful, because I simply shan’t believe you.”

He made an angry sound.

“I should think she has probably less brain than anything outside a home for the mentally deficient.”

Jane wrinkled her nose.

“Well, I don’t know. I think she’s got a pretty good idea of which side her bread is buttered.”

“That isn’t brains—it’s primitive instinct. I grant you she’s probably got plenty of that.” His voice changed. “Jane, stop playing the fool and tell me why you want to go to this damned place.”

She looked up at him with wide, clear eyes.

“Darling, it’s too easy. I want that hundred pounds.”

“Jane!”

She mimicked him sweetly.

“Jeremy!” Then she laughed, but when she spoke again her voice was serious enough. “Don’t you realize I’ve never had a whole hundred pounds in my life before? It’s the most marvellous thing that’s ever happened.”

“You can’t take it!”

“Watch me!”

“Jane—”

“Don’t be silly, darling! You don’t know what it means. I was ill for six weeks last winter, and I hadn’t a penny saved. The insurance money doesn’t go on for ever—I began to have nightmares. I didn’t know I’d got a relation in the world then. Quite apart from the money, that’s why I’m not prepared to go all snob about them like you when they do turn up. I’m going to make friends with them. And I’m going to have my hundred pounds and put it into the Post Office Savings Bank for a nest-egg. So there!”

He put a hand on her arm.

“Jane—why were you ill?”

She said with a touch of defiance,

“Because I hadn’t proper shoes, or a warm coat, or enough to eat.”

“Why hadn’t you?”

“Because I wasn’t in a regular job—just odd dress shows and things. And I had to keep up my insurance, or I’d have been sunk. I just couldn’t afford another time like that, and I’m not going to have one. I’m going to have all my kind relations—and my Cousin Jacob’s hundred pounds.”

Jeremy said nothing at all. She could feel him withdrawing silently behind his frontiers. That she had heard the last of Jacob Taverner, his invitation, and his hundred pounds was so unlikely that she gave it no consideration at all. That he had retired in order to marshal his forces and would presently march upon her with horse and foot, bombs and flame-throwers, was reasonably certain. He might be intending to wait until he had her alone, or he might just pounce with annihilating effect on the top of a bus. She decided on going home by tube, where the facilities for pouncing would be fewer as long as you kept up with the crowd and avoided being marooned with your adversary in an underground passage.

After one or two light-hearted remarks which were received in complete silence she resigned herself and occupied the train journey in sorting out and polishing her own armoury of weapons. Because two things were quite certain. Whatever Jeremy said or Jeremy did, two things were quite certain. She was going to go down to the Catherine-Wheel, and she was going to have that hundred pounds.

All the way home and all the way upstairs he never said a word. She drew the curtains, she put on the kettle, she laid the table, and got buns out of a tin. Jeremy propped the mantelpiece in abstracted gloom until his right trouser leg began to singe at the gas fire, when he came across to her, took a knife out of her hand, laid it down on the table, and said,

“Will you marry me?”

Jane felt as if someone had lifted her up and dropped her again, all very suddenly. Her voice came odd and breathless.

“No—of course not—”

He appeared to be undeflected.

“What’s the good of saying ‘No—of course not,’ when you haven’t given it the least thought? You just blobbed that out without thinking. It’s a business proposition, and you’ve got to think it all out before you say no. And before you can think it out at all you’ve got to listen to me properly.”

Jane said, “Oh—”And then, “How do I listen to you properly?”

“You sit down on that sofa.”

“And have you somewhere up in the ceiling talking down on the top of my head? No, thank you!”

“I sit down too. I’m going to turn off the gas under the kettle first, because we don’t want to have it boiling over whilst I am proposing to you.”

Jane gave a sort of gasp and sat down. Not so much because Jeremy told her to as because her knees were wobbling, and he might think—

She sat down. When he had turned out the gas he came and sat down beside her. He was frowning deeply, and began at once in a businesslike voice.

“I haven’t got a great deal to offer you, but they don’t kick you out of the Army unless you’re pretty bad, and there’s a pension. I get a pension when I retire, and you get one if anything happens to me, and if we have any children, they get something till they’re eighteen—or twenty-one—I’m not sure which, but I can find out.”

“Jeremy, how frightful! Do stop!”

“It’s not frightful at all—it’s a provision. And you ought to be listening instead of making frivolous objections which put me out. Then I’ve got three hundred a year private means.”

Jane gazed at him with respect.

“How on earth did you get it?”

“My mother had two hundred, and my grandfather had a life insurance which brings in the rest. It’s not a lot, but it’s safe, and it makes a lot of difference to have something besides your pay.”

“Jeremy—please—”

He frowned her down.

“I do wish you would listen. I think you’d like the life. There’s rather a lot of moving about, but you see places, and everyone’s very friendly. Anyhow you’d have proper shoes and enough to eat. And you wouldn’t have to try on other people’s clothes for a lot of desiccated vultures to gloat over.”

Jane looked sideways from between her lashes.

“They’re not all desiccated, darling. Some of them bulge.”

He said quite violently,

“It revolts me! It ought to revolt you. I want you to chuck it up and let me look after you.”

Jane gazed down at her hands. There seemed to be something odd about them—they were a long way off. She said in a small obstinate voice,

“I can look after myself.”

“You think you can—girls always do. But they can’t. Anyhow you’re not going to.”

Jane lifted her eyes.

“Who says so?”

“I do, and you do. How much notice do you have to give your Mrs. Harlowe?”

“I’m not giving her notice.”

“I don’t see any sense in a long engagement.”

“We are not engaged.”

He turned a rather daunting look on her.

“You’re just being deliberately obstructive.”

She shook her head, and then wished she hadn’t, because it made the room go round.

“I’m not. You’ve been asking me to marry you. I’m saying no.”

“Why?”

“You don’t love me—I don’t love you—cousins oughtn’t to marry.”

He looked away for a minute, and then back again.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

He gave rather a curious laugh.

“That I don’t love you? Jane, you’re not really a fool—you know perfectly well.”

“I don’t. Why should I? You’ve never said so.”

Jeremy said in quite an expressionless voice,

“I love you like blazes, and you know it.”

Jane said, “Oh!”

He put his hands on her shoulders. They felt hard and heavy.

“Do you love me? Come along—be honest!”

Jane said, “No—” She said it three times in a voice that dwindled until it made no sound at all, because every time she said it Jeremy kissed her. The last kiss went on for quite a long time.

When he lifted his head he said,

“Liar!”

Jane said nothing at all.

Chief Detective Inspector Lamb rose from behind his office table and shook hands with Miss Maud Silver. As always when they met, there was a ritual of polite enquiry.

“I need not ask if you are well, Chief Inspector.”

He had his jovial laugh for that, a sign, if one had been needed, that the proceedings were to be of a not too formal nature.

“My health doesn’t trouble me, I’m glad to say.”

“And Mrs. Lamb? I trust she has not felt the inclement weather.”

“She’s too busy being a grandmother.”

Miss Silver beamed.

“Ah—Lily’s boy—little Ernest. Called after you, is he not?”

“Fancy your remembering that! Well, what do you say to a granddaughter as well? A month old yesterday—little Lily Rose. Pretty, isn’t it?” Miss Silver thought it very pretty indeed.

Detective Inspector Abbott, who had ushered her in and now stood waiting to offer a chair, regarded this interchange with affectionate sarcasm. Lamb’s three daughters were the pride of his heart and the surest way to it. But Miss Silver had no ulterior motive, her interest was genuine and perennial. She was now enquiring after Violet, who had a good job at the Admiralty.

Lamb shook his head.

“Just engaged again. My wife says it won’t last. She’s a pretty girl and a good girl, but she doesn’t know when she’s well off, and that’s a fact. When she’s got a young man she thinks she’d like to have a job, and when she’s got a job she thinks she’d like to get married. Wants to eat her cake and have it.”

“And Myrtle? Is she still training for a nurse?”

Lamb looked gloomy.

“Yes, she’s training, and kept pretty hard at it. My wife says it’s too much for her. The fact is, she’s our youngest and we miss her in the home. Well, take a chair, Miss Silver. I know you’re always ready to help, and there was something I thought perhaps you’d be willing to do for us—privately and without any formality, if you know what I mean. So I thought if we could just have an informal talk—”

Miss Silver seated herself. Her pale, neat features displayed a polite degree of interest. Everything about her was neat, old-fashioned, and rather shabby. A breadth of olive-green cashmere showed beneath the black coat. A bunch of brown and yellow pansies, the gift at Christmas of her niece Ethel Burkett, had replaced the purple ones with which her black felt hat had started its career. She wore black knitted gloves, and a tippet of yellowish fur, friend of many years’ standing, encircled her neck—so warm, so cosy. She settled herself without hurry, arranged an elderly handbag on her lap, and gazed at the Chief Inspector with just the right degree of deference.

“Well,” he said, “let’s get down to it. We’ve generally met over a murder case, haven’t we? This isn’t anything so violent, but I think perhaps you might be able to help us. It isn’t as if your name had ever got into the papers. Of course you’re known to the police, if I may put it that way, but I don’t know that outside of two or three people there’s been anything that would make you, so to speak, a suspected character so far as the criminal classes are concerned. In other words, speaking generally, I don’t think they’d be on to you.”

He was watching her all the time he spoke, wondering if she would take the job or not. Behind a massive façade his mind worked shrewdly. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded at his considerable waistline—heavy, square hands with capable fingers. The overhead light picked out the thinning patch in the strong black hair, and showed up the florid colour in the broad face. The brown eyes bulged a little. Frank Abbott in his irreverence allowed himself to be reminded of peppermint bulls-eyes.

Miss Silver said, “Yes?” on an enquiring note.

Lamb brought himself forward with a jerk, leaned across the table, and said,

“Smuggling.”

Miss Silver looked reproof. During her youth she had been engaged in what she herself called the scholastic profession. It had often stood her in good stead that she looked and talked like an old-fashioned governess. She said,

“Indeed?”

“There’s a lot of it going on, you know—bound to be with the customs so high—and in the ordinary way it wouldn’t come to us. No, there’s more in it than that. First of all there’s drugs. Of course we’re always up against that, because as long as people will pay a fancy price for their stuff the drug-runner will stick at nothing to get it to them. Now there’s a place we’ve had our eye on for some time—an old inn on the coast road beyond Ledlington. March—let me see, you know March, don’t you? He’s the Chief Constable down there now. Used to be a pupil of yours, didn’t he?”

Miss Silver coughed and smiled.

“A long time ago, Chief Inspector.”

“Oh well, we don’t any of us get any younger. He’s done pretty well for himself, hasn’t he? Does you credit. Well, as I was saying, March has had his eye on this place for some time. It’s got an old smuggling history. Then it changed hands. Recently it’s changed again—come back to the family that used to own it. But the manager has stayed on. Nothing in that, you may say—nothing against the man, except that he’s half Irish, half Portuguese.”

Frank Abbott gazed down into the fire. Lamb’s dislike of foreigners never failed to amuse.

The Chief Inspector allowed a bulging gaze to rest for a moment upon his profile, and continued in a louder voice and with a quite portentous frown.

“That’s not his fault, of course, and nothing against him so long as he behaves himself. He’s a British subject, and he’s got an English wife. Nothing against either of them. That’s the trouble. There’s nothing March can get his hands on to anywhere, but there’s a kind of feeling about the place—it may be just the old smuggling history, or it may be something new. Well, that’s as far as the drug business goes, but now there’s something more. All these jewel robberies—you’ll have seen about them in the papers—it’s not so easy for them to get the stuff out of the country, because everything’s being watched. We got just one small shred of a clue after the Cohen affair the other day. You remember old Cohen woke up and fired at the men. He hit one of them, and the others carried him off. We were pretty hot on their trail, and they left him for dead by the side of a country road. We picked him up, and he wasn’t dead—not then—but he died before we could get him to the hospital. He was muttering to himself. One of the constables had his wits about him and listened. He couldn’t make head or tail of most of it, but he did get two words, and he had the sense to report them. They were ‘old Catherine.’ Well, the inn on the Ledlington road is called the old Catherine-Wheel.”

There was a silence. Miss Silver looked thoughtful.

Frank Abbott had not sat down. He stood against the mantelpiece, tall, slim, and elegant; his dark suit faultlessly cut, his handkerchief, his tie, his socks, discreet and beautiful; his fair hair mirror-smooth. No one could have looked less like a police officer, or the hardworking efficient police officer that he was. He had a cult for Miss Silver, at whose feet he was content to sit, and a sincere and affectionate respect for his Chief, but neither of these feelings prevented him from considering that their encounters had a high entertainment value.

Miss Silver coughed and said,

“In what way do you think that I can assist you?”

Lamb said bluntly, “You could go and stay at the inn.”

“On what pretext? It does not sound quite the kind of hotel for a lady travelling alone.”

Lamb gave his jovial laugh.

“Oh, we’ll make that all right. Now look here, there’s something very odd going on. The man who owns this inn is Mr. Jacob Taverner, and he’s the grandson of old Jeremiah Taverner who owned it in its smuggling days. About three weeks ago there was an advertisement in all the papers asking the descendants of Jeremiah Taverner to apply to a box number. We followed it up because we were taking an interest in the Catherine-Wheel. The advertisement was put in by Jacob Taverner, and out of the replies he received he has picked out eight people, and he has asked them down to the Catherine-Wheel for this next week-end. What we would like to know is, ‘Why?’ ”

Frank Abbott turned his cool, pale eyes upon the Chief Inspector.

“He may be just throwing a party,” he said.

“March says none of the Taverner family have been on speaking terms with each other since anyone can remember. The only exceptions are Luke Taverner’s descendants. Luke was old Jeremiah’s fourth son and an out-and-out bad lot. He left quite a lot of scallywag disreputable children and grandchildren, most of them with no right to his name. March says they turn up in every shady business in the county. The only legitimate and fairly reputable one is a young fellow called Al Miller who is a porter at Ledlington station, and he’s none too steady—likely to lose his job, March says. Well, one of the other lot is barman at the Catherine-Wheel. Nothing against him, but he comes of bad stock. If you could get into the inn whilst this family reunion is going on you might tumble to something. What I’d like is your opinion on the Taverner family circle. If I may say so, that’s where you come out strong—you get the feeling of people.”

Miss Silver gazed at him with mild attention.

“Who are they?” she enquired.

Lamb opened a drawer and rummaged.

“Where’s that paper, Frank? Oh, you’ve got it. There you are, Miss Silver. Geoffrey Taverner—travels for a firm called Hobbs and Curtin—all sorts of jims for making housework easy— perfectly respectable people. His sister, Mildred Taverner—old maid running a fancy work shop. Mrs. Florence Duke—a snack bar on the Portsmouth road. Lady Marian Thorpe-Ennington, sister of the last Earl of Rathlea—first husband Morgenstern the financier—he left all his money to somebody else—second husband Farandol, the French racing motorist who smashed himself up about two years ago—now married to young Thorpe-Ennington just going into bankruptcy. That’s four of them. Then we have the one I was telling you about, Al Miller, railway porter—they took him back after he was demobbed, but they’re not over anxious to keep him. Next, John Higgins, carpenter on Sir John Layburn’s estate not more than a mile and a half from the old inn—very high character locally, steady religious kind of chap. And for the last two, Captain Jeremy Taverner, regular soldier, and Miss Jane Heron, mannequin. Nice mixed bag.”

Miss Silver gazed mildly at the sheet of paper with all these names on it and said, “Dear me—”

The Chief Inspector laughed.

“You’re wondering how they’ll mix over a week-end. Well, there’s one that won’t. John Higgins won’t go near the place, though he’s said to be sweet on a girl who works there and an aunt of his is married to the manager, Castell. The girl is Castell’s niece or something. Regular family affair, you see.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I was wondering why Mr. Jacob Taverner should have asked all these people for the week-end.”

Lamb sat back easily.

“Well, you know, there mightn’t be anything in it at all. He’s a rich man, and he hasn’t anyone to leave his money to. So far as the police are concerned, he’s got a clean sheet. I don’t suppose he’s sailed any nearer the wind than a lot of other people who have got away with it and made their pile. He may be wanting nothing more than to have a look at his relations and make up his mind which of them he’ll put into his will. That’s one possibility. There are others of course. Maybe he’s got a finger in the smuggling pie. Maybe he thinks a family party wouldn’t be a bad cover-up for anything that might be going to happen down that way. Maybe he’s just got interested in the family history. I don’t know, but I’d like to. I want these people sized up, and when it comes to that kind of job—well, we all know you’re a wonder at it.”

Miss Silver smiled graciously, but with restraint. A truly excellent man, the Chief Inspector, but sometimes just a little inclined to be patronising. At such moments she was apt to, as it were, recede and become the governess again. Lamb may or may not have felt a slight touch of frost upon the air.

Miss Silver coughed, glanced at the paper in her hand, and addressed him.

“Is Miss Jane Heron young?”

He nodded.

“Yes, bit of a girl—mannequin. Not the sort of job I’d like one of my girls to take on, but there’s nothing against her. She and Captain Taverner are said to be sweethearting.”

“I believe that I have met her. Some months ago at a friend’s house. An attractive girl, and quite young.” She spoke in a meditative tone.

Frank Abbott allowed himself to smile.

“There!” he said. “What more do you need? We can’t offer you a murder, but a love affair with a nice girl in an invidious position should really do almost as well.”

Her glance reproved him.

“Murder is much too serious a thing to make jokes about.”

Lamb said, a thought impatiently,

“Well, well, that’s true enough. But there’s no question of murder. Will you do it? Frank here suggests driving you down. He’s got a cousin with a place close by—one of his fancy relations with a handle to his name. He fetches them up like rabbits out of a hat. Beats me where they all come from.”

Frank’s fair eyebrows rose.

“Too easy, sir. My great-grandfather had nineteen children. They all married and had large families.”

Lamb grunted.

“Well, this particular cousin’s name is Challoner—Sir John Challoner, if you please—and he lives not a mile and a half down the road from the Catherine-Wheel. Frank’s idea is—well, he’d better explain it himself.”

Frank Abbott passed a hand over his immaculate hair.

“Well, I drop you at the inn and go on and stay with Jack Challoner. I’m there on the spot quite nice and handy. If you want me you ring up Ledstow 23, and they pass it on, upon which Jack and I drop in for a drink. As far as you’re concerned, I lurk until I’m really sure that you’ve got in. They’ll be pretty full up, and they probably won’t want strangers. On the other hand, if there’s anything illegal going on, they won’t want to draw attention to themselves by repelling the bona fide traveller. Now just how bona fide can we contrive for you to be?”

Miss Silver coughed.

“My dear Frank, there should be no difficulty about that. The truth is always best.”