Tilly (17 page)

Slower and slower went the swing until it hung gently over the pool. Now all Tilly had to do was swing gently over to the ladder, climb off, and climb down.

“
Tilly!
”

The marquess stood on the far side of the pool.

Weak with relief, her trembling arms lost their strength and she let go of the rope and plunged down into the dark waters of the pool.

The weight of her clothes dragged her down, down, down until her feet touched the mud at the bottom and, with what seemed like the last of her senses, she marshaled her forces, bent her knees, and thrust herself up through the black water roaring in her ears, until her head broke the surface. A pair of strong arms grabbed hold of her and she gasped and struggled and fought until she heard her husband’s voice saying, “It’s me, Tilly. Philip. Relax and don’t fight me and I’ll have you out of this in a trice.” Two swift strokes brought her to the bank, and the marquess pulled his shivering, trembling wife to safety.

At first he could not grasp what she was saying as the frightened words tumbled out of her in an incoherent jumble. At last the story emerged and he wrapped her tenderly in his dry jacket, which he had left on a bush when he had plunged in to rescue her.

“Cyril!” he exclaimed between his teeth. “It
must
have been Cyril. Come on! Back to the house. Let’s catch him.”

Tilly tried to pull him back. It couldn’t possibly be Cyril, that frightening figure in the tree. She wanted to stay secure in the circle of her husband’s arms and never leave them.

But he gently urged her back through the wood, forcing her to quicken her steps.

When they reached Chennington, Tilly was bundled upstairs to be bathed and dried with the assistance of a housemaid, since Francine had not reappeared.

The marquess changed rapidly out of his sopping evening clothes into an old jumper and flannels and, striding through the long rooms of his mansion and crying for blood, he demanded the presence of Cyril Nettleford. The aunts were roused from their gossip in the drawing room to startled dismay and exclamations. Even Mrs. Plumb flitted down the stairs like a pale ghost of one of the Heppleford ancestors, and a sober and strangely elated Toby Bassett joined in the hunt.

Cyril was nowhere to be found.

The clanging of the bell at the main door drew all the servants and searchers there. Cyril Nettleford was carried in on a makeshift stretcher. His unlovely face was bruised, cut, and scratched, and his eyes were closed.

“What the hell happened to him?” demanded the marquess of the two farm laborers who were carrying him in. “Fell out of a tree?”

“No, my lord,” vouchsafed one of the men,
shuffling his feet and tugging his forelock. “Mr. Nettleford was lying in the ditch. That there dogcart was overturned with ’er side all stove in. Reckon he hit his head on a rock.”

Cyril opened his eyes and grinned faintly. “Sorry to be a bore,” he whispered. “Something startled the horse and it reared up and overturned the dogcart. I’m just shaken. No bones broken.”

“Where were you?” demanded the marquess.

“I was at the corner of the road, just outside the main gates,” said Cyril in hurt surprise. “I don’t see why you must go on at a fellow like this. I’m sorry about your carriage, but it wasn’t my fault. I was on my road back from Sir Charles Ponte’s place. Don’t look at me like that. If you don’t believe me, telephone the old boy.”

“I shall do just that,” said the marquess. He gave a sovereign to the gratified farm laborers, who assisted Cyril to a chair beside the hall fireplace and took their leave.

The marquess strode toward the telephone and picked up the heavy earpiece and told the exchange to connect him with Sir Charles.

To his surprise, Sir Charles immediately confirmed that Cyril had only left the place a
bare half hour ago. “Yes, yes, yes,” bawled Sir Charles jovially, “was with me all the time, what. That what you want to know?”

The marquess thanked him and slowly put the earpiece back on the stand. It
must
have been Cyril. And yet, now it seemed as if there was no possible way Cyril could have been attempting to kill Tilly, for, at the crucial time, he was evidently at Sir Charles Ponte’s.

Complaining sulkily over his harsh treatment and saying that Philip should at least have the grace to apologize, Cyril was assisted off to bed, casting many a languished glance at James, the footman, as that young man helped him up the stairs.

Tilly shrank back against the banister as he was helped past. She then listened in growing fright to the marquess’s tale of Cyril’s innocence. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he added anxiously, seeing the large tears running down Tilly’s face, “we shall telephone the police in the morning and they will get to the bottom of this. Never fear.”

“It’s not that,” wailed Tilly, handing him a note. “This was on my dressing table. Francine has left me and she doesn’t even say why.”

The marquess silently read the note. It was very brief. Francine presented her regrets to
Lady Tilly, but wished to terminate her employment on the spot. Milady was not to worry about her. She was well and happy.

“And that’s not all,” cried Tilly. “That note I told you about. The typewritten one. It’s gone! Even the flowers have gone. Oh, my poor head. Do you think I imagined the whole thing?”

He shook his fair head slowly, still staring down at the note. “There was nothing up with old Crump either,” he remarked bitterly. “So my telephone call was a hoax as well. Someone wanted me out of the way while he tried to murder you.”

There was a long silence. One of the servants had lit the fire in the hall and it crackled merrily. All the clocks in the great house began to chime the midnight hour, from the deep bong-bong-bong of the grandfather clocks downstairs to the silvery tinkle of the French clocks in the salons on the first floor.

“Well, I must say,” twittered Lady Bertha, “nothing like this would have ever happened at dear Chennington before.”

“So
sad
,” sighed Lady Mary. “I feel as if the peace of one of England’s greatest homes has been broken forever….”

The elegant Lady Tilly disappeared in a
flash and the old tomboy emerged as Lady Tilly rounded on the aunts in a fury.

“Oh, go to bed, you troublemaking old frumps!” she yelled.

“That’s the stuff, Tilly!” said Toby Bassett, grinning.

“And don’t say you’ve never been so insulted,” pursued Tilly, her face flushed and her bosom heaving, “cos with your rotten, spiteful manners I’m sure you have,
many times!
”

“Well!” was all the bridling and snorting aunts could muster, their feather headdresses shaking with rage.

“Quite right, my dear,” came the faint voice of Mrs. Plumb from a dark corner, startling them all. “Mary and Bertha were always a nuisance, even as gels. I remember when you, Bertha, wanted to run off with that waiter from Brown’s Hotel and you, Mary—”

But that was as far as she got. With a frantic rustling of silk skirts, the aunts fled to the safety of their rooms.

The marquess put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and led her into the drawing room. Toby followed silently behind.

They sat in silence for a few moments and then the marquess spread out Francine’s letter, which he had crushed in his hand. “You
don’t think,” he said slowly, “that it could have been a woman up that tree? I mean, someone could have been paying Francine…”

Tilly angrily shook her head. “Francine’s the best friend I ever had. She would never do anything to hurt me. That note may be a forgery.”

Masters was sent to bring down Francine’s book, which itemized the contents of Tilly’s jewel box and lace safe, and the handwriting in the book exactly matched that of the note.

Masters coughed discreetly. “The dogcart has been taken round to the stables, my lord. The horse has sustained no hurt. I cannot understand it, my lord. The horse was Dapple, a very mild-mannered gelding.”

“Thank you, Masters,” said the marquess. “That will be all. No, wait a bit. Bring us something to drink.”

“May I suggest champagne, my lord?” said Masters. “A couple of bottles of Dom Pérignon would have a soothing, yet enlivening effect.”

“Just so,” replied the marquess with a ghost of a smile. “By all means let us be soothed and enlivened.”

Tilly stared miserably at her husband. Everything had been so perfect and now it was
all spoiled by this brooding fear. Her husband looked heartbreakingly handsome as he lay back in his chair, with the soft glow from the lamp beside him gilding his hair, the faded blue of his jumper bringing out the startling blue of his eyes.

The arrival of the champagne caused a little bustle. Toby looked at it thoughtfully, but to everyone’s surprise, declined.

“Something happened to me at the vicarage,” he said. “I suddenly thought I might settle down and get married myself, and no nice girl would want a fellow around who was always drunk.”

Despite her misery, Tilly could not refrain from flashing a triumphant look at the marquess. So Toby had fallen for the pretty Emily after all!

“I may leave for London tomorrow,” went on Toby. “I’ll pop into the vicarage before I go. There’s something I want to see the old man about. You know, I don’t suppose any of us feel sleepy with all this mystery. I, for one, would love to take a stroll down the drive to take a look at that place where Cyril was supposed to have overturned.”

“Waste of time,” said the marquess gloomily. “Sir Charles isn’t the sort to lie. As a matter of fact, it’s a miracle the old martinet
could even bear Cyril’s company for two seconds, let alone a whole evening!”

“Oh, let’s go!” said Tilly suddenly, finding the effects of the champagne were all that Masters had promised. “I can’t sleep. I feel I want to do
something
.”

“Very well,” said her husband, getting to his feet. “It’s a fine night and a walk will probably do us all good. I’m amazed at your stamina, Tilly.”

Tilly suddenly wondered if he would have preferred her to be more feminine, more weak and ailing.
But, goodness knows,
thought poor Tilly,
I couldn’t be more frightened!

Stars burned and blazed above in a deep, dark sky as the threesome made their way down the long drive. The air was cool and sweet and heavy with the scent of grass and flowers. But somewhere in this garden of English Eden lurked a serpent, and that thought seemed to make the very peace of the night sinister.

They walked out into the road, chalky white in the moonlight; moonlight so bright that every small pebble cast a small, sharpedged black shadow.

Toby held up the lantern as they moved slowly along. “This’ll be it,” he said at last. “Look at those bits of broken wood in the ditch. Funny the dogcart should have been so smashed up. There are only those two rocks and they’re pretty smooth.”

The three stood and studied the scene of the accident in silence.

There was nothing to see except a few pieces of polished wood, lying in thin splinters on the shaggy, dew-laden grass at the edge of the road.

“Let’s go back…” the marquess was beginning, when Tilly screamed in pure terror. “There’s something watching us from behind that tree,” she cried. “I saw its eyes in the moonlight. It’s
horrible
.”

The marquess shoved her into Toby’s arms and plunged into the woods in the direction she had pointed. There was the sound of a scuffle, then a sharp protest, and then the marquess appeared, dragging behind him what appeared to be a furious bundle of rags.

Revealed by the moonlight, an old tramp stood wriggling in the marquess’s grasp.

“Leggo, guv,” he protested. “You’re abreaking of me arm.”

“I’ll break a lot more than your arm, fellow,” said the marquess, giving him a shake. “What the bloody hell do you mean by spying on us?”

“I didn’t mean nothin’, guv,” whined the tramp. “I was asleep and I ’eard your gentry voices, like, so I says to meself, I says, they’re
still maybe playin’ games, like, and maybe if I’m smartish, they’ll give me sumpin’ as well.”

“We are not playing games. We are—What do you mean, give you something as well?”

“Like the other cove did. Leggo, you’re a-hurtin’ me.”

The marquess relaxed his grip. “Look, my man, a gentleman claims he had an accident at this corner. Did you see it?”

“’Appen I did,” said the tramp with a slow grin.

“Well, tell us! Out with it!”

“’Ow much?”

“Oh, you conniving rascal. Here!” The marquess dug in the pocket of his venerable flannels and pulled out two sovereigns. “No, you don’t,” he said as the tramp made a grab at the gold. “Story first.”

“Well, it be like this,” said the tramp. Tilly, shivering in Toby’s arms, wondered vaguely why he smelled of her own perfume and then forgot it as the tramp began to speak.

“This ’ere gentry cove,” went on the tramp, “I seen ’im right ’ere and ’e ’ad this carriage on its side, like, and ’e was a-stovin’ the side in with a rock. ’E sees me and ’e says like ’ow it’s a bit of a joke and ’ow ’e’ll give me a guinea for to keep me peepers closed,
so to speak. Right, guv, says I, thinking as ’ow there’s no ’arm in a fellow breaking up ’is own carriage cos, savin’ your presence, guv, the swells do get up to some nifty goings-on. I ’member the time young Lord—”

“Enough!” The marquess handed him the money. “Now, take yourself off. You’re quite right. It was only a joke after all.”

“I say, Philip,” protested Toby, “hadn’t you better keep tabs on him? He’ll be needed as a witness.”

“’Ere, not me!” cried the tramp, alarmed. “I ain’t ’aving the rozzers after me.” And with that, he plunged back into the trees with amazing agility.

“Let him go,” said the marquess as Toby tried to follow. “We shall telephone Sir Charles… no, no… we’ll
call
on him and get to the bottom of this. I shall deal with Cyril myself. My name has been bandied about the press enough as it is. Cyril must have faked the accident to account for the cuts and bruises he received when Tilly kicked him out the tree.”

It took another three quarters of an hour before the marquess’s brougham, driven by a sleepy coachman, deposited them in front of Sir Charles’s mansion. It was a big, brooding,
ugly barracks of a place, the windows shuttered and eyeless against the still night.