Thirteen Guests (13 page)

He nodded. To have his knowledge shared would be a relief. As clearly as he could, he recounted the various disturbances of the night. When he had finished, she stared at the carpet for a long while without speaking.

“Well?” he asked.

“Personally, I shouldn't mention Anne,” replied Nadine. “Anne's O.K.”

The next instant she raised her head.

“Hear anything?” she inquired. “I don't believe the hall's empty now!”

She jumped up from the pouffe, ran to the door, and opened it.

“
Prenez garde!
” she whispered over her shoulder. “
Les gendarmes sont arrivés!
”

Chapter XVIII

Enter the Police

Detective-Inspector Kendall made no secret of the fact that he never did things by halves. He left nothing to chance—or so he boasted—and his methods, with which he permitted no interference from anybody, were almost blatantly complete. “If I'd been born with a kink in my brain,” he said, “I'd have been one of the big criminals, but fortunately for law and order my brain is not pathological, so I catch 'em instead.” That was why he was moved from place to place when a district needed gingering up, and how he happened to be in Churleigh when an agitated country doctor phoned to the station one grey October evening. He had been doing some gingering up just before the bell had tinkled.

He stretched out a large hand and picked up the receiver. He listened intently for a few seconds without any change of expression, then said, “Wait a moment,” pulled a pencil and note-book towards him, and called, “Now begin all over again.” The agitated doctor at the other end stifled his indignation and obeyed. Kendall could send his compelling personality even along a wire. As the doctor spoke, the detective wrote, interrupting occasionally to ask a question, but never an unnecessary one, and when the conversation was over, with every detail recorded in shorthand, Kendall had given his first practical demonstration of the completeness that was his official religion.

“Half a dozen men, yourself, and a car to take the lot of us to Flensham,” he barked to a sergeant.

“Are we going to raid the Black Stag?” inquired the sergeant.

“No, we're going to call on Lord Aveling at Bragley Court,” replied Kendall. “Look lively. Particulars on the way. And a bad mark to you for letting your police surgeon get ill when he's wanted.”

Sergeant Price looked lively. He was already reacting to the gingering-up process. But when he had learned the particulars, while obeying instructions to “keep her at sixty,” he could not quite understand the tearing hurry, and decided in his own mind that this new hustler was rather overdoing it.

“I thought it was a fire or civil war or something,” he permitted himself to comment.

“No, only a couple of murders,” replied Kendall.

“Alleged.” Kendall nodded. “The last alleged murder I looked into turned out to be an accident,” said the sergeant.

“After a month of pottering,” answered Kendall scathingly. “Well, now we're reversing the process. The accidents are turning into murders. And we'll see whether we can do the clearing up in thirty hours instead of thirty days.”

“Why not make it minutes?” murmured the sergeant.

Kendall smiled.

“Might even do that—you never know,” he remarked. “But we're up against one handicap from the start, and mind we all see eye to eye about it. This is for you boys behind there, too,” he called over his shoulder.

“What's the handicap?” asked the sergeant.

“Journalist.”

“Ah.”

“And Bultin, of all journalists! He's dropped in on the ground floor, and he's probably planted there now with both feet.”

“Is that why you've brought along the army?”

“What's
your
opinion of journalists, Price?” inquired Kendall.

“There's journalists and journalists, sir,” came the non-committal response. “Some help.”

“Well, this one'll help when we want him to. Get that, everybody. And the same applies all round. We're going to a house choked with guests and each one probably thinks he's the world's amateur detective. Yes, and one or two may have to come back with us on the return journey in less attractive rôles! No amateurs this trip, understand. Don't encourage 'em or let 'em pump you. No ‘too many cooks.' I'm the only cook, and I'll serve up the dish. And no leaving the premises, either, till I say so. Anybody who attempts to leave will be under increased suspicion.”

“Begin by suspecting the lot, eh?”

“That's the idea. From Lord Aveling himself downwards. Now you know why I've brought along the army, Price.”

The sergeant looked rather gloomy.

“There was a chap told me once—detective-inspector like yourself, sir—let's see, how did it go?” said Price. He stared ahead at the long beam of brilliant light sweeping up the gloaming. “I've got it. ‘Never declare war,' he said, ‘just wage it. Leave the declaration to the lawyers.' ”

“Did you catch Threepenny Tim last July, or was it somebody else?” inquired Kendall with a snort. “I'm ready to learn, Sergeant, the same as anybody else—”

“Is he?” wondered the sergeant to himself.

“—and this time last year I was a mild-eyed deacon tripping up a bogus parson. I waged war then without declaring it—till the bracelets went on. But sometimes you've got to be a bull in a china shop, and it's no good wearing a beard and pretending you're a goat. A picture's been mutilated—probably served it right—a dog's been stabbed, a man's been strangled, and another's been poisoned, so we can hardly call at Bragley Court and say, ‘How do you do, isn't it lovely weather?' ”

“The four items are alleged,” the sergeant reminded him softly.

“So is your brain,” answered Kendall, “but unofficially I'm taking it for granted. What's Pudrow like? Reliable man?”

“His work for us has always been satisfactory, though there hasn't been much of it.”

“Been in the district long?”

“Five or six years.”

“Which?”

“Which what?”

“Five or six?”

“Why?”

“To see if you know.”

“Five years, eight months, three weeks and five-sixths.”

Kendall gave a short laugh.

“I think we'll get on together, Price,” he said. “In fact, I'm sure we shall. But don't pull out too much of that stuff at Bragley Court. Keep it for the nuts and wine.”

They fell into a silence as the car raced through the darkening lanes. They passed near a spot where, a few hours earlier, a stag had died unmourned; then stopped at another where a less noble creature had met his death, to cause greater trouble. Kendall jumped out here, and the sergeant followed him with a torch-light. They vanished into the shadows, and returned in a few minutes, their return heralded by a dim, shapeless glow that gradually contracted and became smaller and more distinct. “Probably come back to-morrow,” said Kendall, as the sergeant switched out the torch.

Then they resumed their way, and did not stop again till their headlights picked out the gate of Bragley Court.

A figure was standing by the gate, smoking. He had stood there for fifteen minutes, watching the dark road. He had a key in his hand.

“I am Lord Aveling,” he said, as they drew up. “You have been quick.”

“Not too bad, my Lord,” replied Kendall, and introduced himself and the sergeant. “This is a very unfortunate business.”

“Most of your business is, Inspector,” answered Lord Aveling, his eyes on the constables as they tumbled out of the car. “I thought I would meet you here so we could have a few words before going to the house. Some of my guests are very upset.”

“That's quite natural, sir.”

“I hope I may count on your co-operation?”

“Co-operation?”

“In this sense, Inspector. Any consideration you show, should you question any of my guests, will be greatly appreciated by me. I cannot help feeling terribly responsible for having brought them into this.”

“I understand exactly, sir. I'll do my best. But I'm sure you want to get to the bottom of the trouble just as much as we do, and the sooner we do that, the sooner you'll be rid of us. Have I your permission to take possession, so to speak, for a little while? We don't want any more—accidents.”

His tone, courteous but firm, implied that the request would have to be granted.

“By all means,” responded Aveling, hoping a momentary hesitation had not been noticed. “As far as I am concerned, you are free to act as you decide.”

“Thank you, my Lord. That will save a lot of bother.” He turned to Price. “Take the men to the house, Sergeant, post them, and then join us at the studio. No, wait a moment. You had better leave one man here, by the gate.”

“What is that for?” inquired Aveling, with a frown.

“I am taking you at your word, sir. My first order is that nobody leaves the house without my permission.”

“Your permission?”

“If you don't mind.”

“I gather it will make no difference if I do mind. Well, after all, I don't think any one is likely to leave the house.”

“It would be very unwise if they did.” Kendall's voice hardened for a moment, and Lord Aveling noted it, as he was intended to. “Oh, and the telephone, Price. Cover that, too.”

Price nodded.

“Your methods are thorough,” commented Aveling.

“They need to be with a peer watching them,” the inspector answered. “I don't want any questions asked about me in the House of Lords!”

“This man is clever!” reflected Aveling, uncomfortably conscious of the shrewdness of Kendall's little thrust. “I wonder if he is going to be too clever?”

“Are all the guests at the house?” inquired Kendall.

“All, I think, but one.”

“Oh! Which one?”

“Mr. Lionel Bultin, the journalist.”

“It would be!” muttered Kendall. “Do you know where he is?”

“He went out some while ago, and has not come back yet. At least I haven't seen him.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“To the station.”

“Do you know why?”

“He was following some clue or other concerning the identity of the first man we found—the man in the quarry.”

“What was the clue?”

Suddenly Aveling realised how close these questions were to Zena Wilding's name. He became cautious, while the inspector watched him quietly.

“Journalists prefer to speak for themselves,” he smiled, “and I certainly don't intend to speak for them! You will probably find, Kendall, that Mr. Bultin is full of clues—and that your own are the best to follow. I understand that Dr. Pudrow has given you an account of what has occurred here?”

“Yes, but I should appreciate your own account as well,” replied Kendall. “Perhaps you'll let me have it as we go along?”

“Certainly.”

“The doctor is still here?”

“At the house, waiting. He was on his way here when I originally phoned him up. He comes daily to attend my wife's mother, Mrs. Morris. She is very ill.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, sir.”

“That is really another reason why I am hoping we can manage this quietly. We have, of course, not told her anything.”

“Does she keep to her room?”

“She has not left it for two years.”

“Price,” called Kendall, as the sergeant was about to lead his five men on their grim march to the house. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Price.

“Find out which is Mrs. Morris's room, and see that we do not disturb her. Also get a complete list of the guests and every one in the house. And let Dr. Pudrow know that Lord Aveling and I are at the studio. I suppose Lady Aveling will let the sergeant have the list?” he added to Lord Aveling.

“Of course,” nodded Aveling. “You can tell her I have said so, Sergeant.”

On their way to the studio Lord Aveling repeated the facts which Kendall had already learned from the doctor. Kendall listened silently, reserving questions till later. They found Dr. Pudrow already at the studio door when they reached it, and while Aveling inserted the key the doctor explained his promptness.

“I was in the hall when the sergeant arrived,” he said, “so came along immediately. Mr. Pratt wished to accompany me, but the sergeant would not let him.”

“My orders,” replied the inspector.

“Yes, so I gathered,” answered the doctor. “Mr. Pratt did not seem to appreciate them, but personally I thought them excellent.”

Lord Aveling pushed the door open and switched on the light. “When all this is over,” he reflected, managing to repress a shudder, “I'll have this wretched place pulled down!”

It was certainly a gloomy room into which they walked, exuding an atmosphere that would not be easy to eradicate. The picture with its sinister smear of crimson paint formed in itself a sufficient scar, to which the broken window added its contribution; but it was the two bodies lying on the ground that supplied the definite evidence of gruesome tragedy. They did not lie side by side. They had been placed some distance from each other, as though through a sense of delicacy. Twenty-four hours previously, one had offered the other a light.

The inspector walked to the unidentified body first. He regarded it fixedly, while the doctor behind him murmured, “A pity it had to be moved.”

“A great pity,” agreed Kendall.

“But with the darkness coming on,” added the doctor self-defensively, “and the belief that we could identify him if we brought him up—well, there was no alternative.”

“There was an alternative,” replied Kendall.

“What?”

“
Not
moving him.”

He turned to the second body. For a moment his eyes regarded it vaguely, as if he were still thinking of the first. Then suddenly they narrowed. He moved swiftly to the body and stooped over it.

“Not a nice colour,” said the doctor.

But Detective-Inspector Kendall was not thinking of the colour.

“Did you know Mr. Chater well, my Lord?” he inquired, still scanning the dead man's features.

“I never met him before yesterday,” replied Aveling.

“Then he wasn't a personal friend of yours?”

“No.”

“Of some other member of your family?”

“None of us knew him.”

“But he was your guest?”