"Lynn, darling, what do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing, Mums."
"You and Rowley haven't quarrelled?"
"No, of course not. Don't fuss, Mums, everything's all right."
But Adela was looking at her daughter in real alarm, sensitive to the turmoil behind Lynn's frowning exterior.
"I've always felt you'd be so safe married to Rowley," she said piteously.
"Who wants to be safe?" Lynn asked scornfully. She turned sharply. "Was that the telephone?"
"No. Why? Are you expecting a call?"
Lynn shook her head. Humiliating to be waiting for the telephone to ring.
He had said he would ring her tonight. He must.
"You're mad," she told herself. "Mad."
Why did this man attract her so? The memory of his dark unhappy face rose up before her eyes. She tried to banish it, tried to replace it by Rowley's broad good-looking countenance. His slow smile, his affectionate glance. But did Rowley, she thought, really care about her? Surely if he'd really cared, he'd have understood that day when she came to him and begged for five hundred pounds. He'd have understood instead of being so maddeningly reasonable and matter-of-fact.
Marry Rowley, live on the farm, never go away again, never see foreign skies, smell exotic smells - never again be free...
Sharply the telephone rang. Lynn took a deep breath, walked across the hall and picked up the receiver.
With the shock of a blow, Aunt Kathie's voice came thinly through the wire.
"Lynn? Is that you? Oh, I'm so glad. I'm afraid, you know, I've made rather a muddle - about the meeting at the Institute -"
The thin fluttering voice went on. Lynn listened, interpolated comments, uttered reassurances, received thanks.
"Such a comfort, dear Lynn, you are always so kind and so practical. I really can't imagine how I get things so muddled up."
Lynn couldn't imagine either. Aunt Kathie's capacity for muddling the simplest issues amounted practically to genius.
"But I always do say," finished Aunt Kathie, "that everything goes wrong at once. Our telephone is out of order and I've had to go out to a call-box, and now I'm here I hadn't got twopence, only halfpennies - and I had to go and ask -"
It petered out at last. Lynn hung up and went back to the drawing-room.
Adela Marchmont, alert, asked: "Was that -" and paused.
Lynn said quickly: "Aunt Kathie."
"What did she want?"
"Oh, just one of her usual muddles."
Lynn sat down again with a book, glancing up at the clock. Yes - it had been too early. She couldn't expect her call yet.
At five minutes past eleven the telephone rang again. She went slowly out to it.
This time she wouldn't expect - it was probably Aunt Kathie again...
But no. "Warmsley Vale 34? Can Miss Lynn Marchmont take a personal call from London?"
Her heart missed a beat.
"This is Miss Lynn Marchmont speaking."
"Hold on, please."
She waited - confused noises - then silence. The telephone service was getting worse and worse. She waited. Finally she depressed the receiver angrily. Another woman's voice, indifferent, cold, spoke, was uninterested. "Hang up, please. You'll be called later."
She hung up, went back towards the drawing-room, the bell rang again as she had her hand on the door. She hurried back to the telephone.
"Hallo?"
A man's voice said: "Warmsley Vale 34? Personal call from London for Miss Lynn Marchmont."
"Speaking."
"Just a minute please." Then, faintly, "Speak up, London, you're through..."
And then, suddenly, David's voice:
"Lynn, is that you?"
"David!"
"I had to speak to you."
"Yes..."
"Look here, Lynn, I think I'd better clear out -"
"What do you mean?"
"Clear out of England altogether. Oh, it's easy enough. I've pretended it wasn't to Rosaleen - simply because I didn't want to leave Warmsley Vale. But what's the good of it all? You and I - it wouldn't work. You're a fine girl, Lynn - and as for me, I'm a bit of a crook, always have been. And don't flatter yourself that I'd go straight for your sake. I might mean to - but it wouldn't work. No, you'd better marry the plodding Rowley. He'll never give you a day's anxiety as long as you live. I should give you hell."
She stood there, holding the receiver, saying nothing.
"Lynn, are you still there?"
"Yes, I'm here."
"You didn't say anything."
"What is there to say?"
"Lynn?"
"Well...?"
Strange how clearly she could feel over all that distance, his excitement, the urgency of his mood...
He cursed softly, said explosively, "Oh, to hell with everything!" and rang off.
Mrs Marchmont coming out of the drawing-room, said, "Was that -?"
"A wrong number," said Lynn and went quickly up the stairs.
Chapter 15
It was the custom at the Stag for guests to be called at whatever hour they named by the simple process of a loud bang on the door and the shouted information that it was "Eight-thirty, sir," or "Eight o'clock" whatever the case might be. Early tea was produced if expressly stipulated for, and was deposited with a rattle of crockery on the mat outside the door.
On this particular Wednesday morning, young Gladys went through the usual formula outside No. 5, yelling out, "Eight-fifteen, sir," and crashing down the tray with a bang that slopped the milk out of the jug. She then went on her way, calling more people and proceeding to her other duties.
It was ten o'clock before she took in the fact that No. "s tea was still on the mat.
She beat a few heavy raps on the door, got no reply and thereupon walked in. No. 5 was not the kind of gentleman who overslept himself, and she had just remembered that there was a convenient flat roof outside the window. It was just possible, thought Gladys, that No. 5 had done a bunk without paying his bill.
But the man registered as Enoch Arden had not done a bunk. He was lying on his face in the middle of the room and without any knowledge of medicine, Gladys had no doubt whatever that he was dead.
Gladys threw back her head and screamed, then rushed out of the room and down the stairs, still screaming.
"Ow, Miss Lippincott - Miss Lippincott - ow -"
Beatrice Lippincott was in her private room having a cut hand bandaged by Dr Lionel Cloade - the latter dropped the bandage and turned irritably as the girl burst in.
"Ow - ow!"
The doctor snapped:
"What is it? What is it?"
"What's the matter, Gladys?" asked Beatrice.
"It's the gentleman in No. 5, Miss. He's lying there on the floor, dead."
The doctor stared at the girl and then at Miss Lippincott: the latter stared at Gladys and then at the doctor.
Finally, Dr Cloade said uncertainly: "Nonsense."
"Dead as a doornail," said Gladys, and added with a certain relish: "'Is 'ead's bashed in!"
The doctor looked towards Miss Lippincott.
"Perhaps I'd better -"
"Yes, please. Dr Cloade. But really - I hardly think - it seems so impossible."
They trooped upstairs, Gladys leading the way. Dr Cloade took one look, knelt down and bent over the recumbent figure.
He looked up at Beatrice. His manner had changed. It was abrupt, authoritative.
"You'd better telephone through to the police station," he said.
Beatrice Lippincott went out, Gladys followed her.
Gladys said in an awed whisper:
"Ow, Miss, do you think it's murder?"
Beatrice smoothed back her golden pompadour with an agitated hand.
"You hold your tongue, Gladys," she said sharply. "Saying a thing's murder before you know it's murder is libel and you might be had up in court for it. It'll do the Stag no good to have a lot of gossip going about." She added, as a gracious concession: "You can go and make yourself a nice cup of tea. I dare say you need it."
"Yes, indeed, Miss, I do. My inside's fair turning over! I'll bring you along a cup, too!"
To which Beatrice did not say no.
Chapter 16
Superintendent Spence looked thoughtfully across his table at Beatrice Lippincott, who was sitting with her lips compressed tightly together.
"Thank you, Miss Lippincott," he said. "That's all you can remember? I'll have it typed out for you to read and then if you wouldn't mind signing it -"
"Oh, dear - I shan't have to give evidence in a police court, I do hope."
Superintendent Spence smiled appeasingly.
"Oh, we hope it mayn't come to that," he said mendaciously.
"It may be suicide," Beatrice suggested hopefully.
Superintendent Spence forebore to say that a suicide does not usually cave in the back of his skull with a pair of steel fire-tongs. Instead, he replied in the same easy manner:
"Never any good jumping to conclusions. Thank you, Miss Lippincott. Very good of you to come forward with this statement so promptly."
When she had been ushered out, he ran over her statement in his mind. He knew all about Beatrice Lippincott, had a very good idea of how far her accuracy was to be depended upon. So much for a conversation genuinely overheard and remembered. A little extra embroidery for excitements sake. A little extra still because murder had been done in bedroom No. 5. But take extras away and what remained was ugly and suggestive.
Superintendent Spence looked at the table in front of him. There was a wristwatch with a smashed glass, a small gold lighter with initials on it, a lipstick in a gilt holder, and a pair of heavy steel fire-tongs, the heavy head of which was stained a rusty brown.
Sergeant Graves looked in and said that Mr Rowley Cloade was waiting. Spence nodded and the Sergeant showed Rowley in.
Just as he knew all about Beatrice Lippincott, so the Superintendent knew all about Rowley Cloade. If Rowley had come to the police station, it was because Rowley had got something to say and that something would be solid, reliable and unimaginative. It would, in fact, be worth hearing. At the same time, Rowley being a deliberate type of person, it would take some time to say. And you couldn't hurry the Rowley Cloade type. If you did, they became rattled, repeated themselves, and generally took twice as long...
"Good morning, Mr Cloade. Pleased to see you. Can you throw any light on this problem of ours? The man who was killed at the Stag."
Rather to Spence's surprise, Rowley began with a question. He asked abruptly:
"Have you identified the fellow?"
"No," said Spence slowly. "I wouldn't say we had. He signed the register Enoch Arden. There's nothing in his possession to show he was Enoch Arden."
Rowley frowned.
"Isn't that - rather odd?"
It was exceedingly odd, but Superintendent Spence did not propose to discuss with Rowley Cloade just how odd he thought it was. Instead he said pleasantly:
"Come now, Mr Cloade, I'm the one who asks the questions. You went to see the dead man last night. Why?"
"You know Beatrice Lippincott, Superintendent? At the Stag."
"Yes, of course. And," said the Superintendent, taking what he hoped would be a short cut, "I've heard her story. She came to me with it."
Rowley looked relieved.
"Good. I was afraid she mightn't want to be mixed up with a police matter. These people are funny that way sometimes."
The Superintendent nodded.
"Well, then, Beatrice told me what she'd overheard and it seemed to me - I don't know if it does to you - decidedly fishy. What I mean is - we're, well, we're interested parties."
Again the Superintendent nodded. He had taken a keen local interest in Gordon Cloade's death and in common with general local opinion he considered that Gordon's family had been badly treated. He endorsed the common opinion that Mrs Gordon Cloade "wasn't a lady," and that Mrs Gordon Cloade's brother was one of those young firebrand Commandos who, though they had had their uses in time of war, were to be looked at askance in peacetime.
"I don't suppose I need explain to you, Superintendent, that if Mrs Gordon's first husband is still alive, it will make a big difference to us as a family. This story of Beatrice's was the first intimation I had that such a state of affairs might exist. I'd never dreamed of such a thing. Thought she was definitely a widow. And I may say it shook me up a lot. Took me a bit of time to realise it, as you might say. You know, I had to let it soak in."
Spence nodded again. He could see Rowley slowly ruminating the matter, turning it over and over in his mind.
"First of all I thought I'd better get my uncle on to it - the lawyer one."
"Mr Jeremy Cloade?"
"Yes, so I went along there. Must have been some time after eight. They were still at dinner and I sat down in old Jeremy's study to wait for him, and I went on turning things over in my mind."
"Yes?"
"And finally I came to the conclusion that I'd do a bit more myself before getting my uncle on to it. Lawyers, Superintendent, are all the same, I've found. Very slow, very cautious, and have to be absolutely sure of their facts before they'll move in a matter. The information I'd got had come to me in a rather hole-and-corner manner - and I wondered if old Jeremy might hem and haw a bit about acting on it. I decided I'd go along to the Stag and see this Johnnie for myself."
"And you did so?"
"Yes. I went right back to the Stag -"
"At what time was this?"
Rowley pondered.
"Lemme see, I must have got to Jeremy's about twenty past eight or thereabouts - five minutes - well, I wouldn't like to say exactly, Spence - after half-past eight - perhaps about twenty to nine?"
"Yes, Mr Cloade?"
"I knew where the bloke was - Bee had mentioned the number of his room - so I went right up and knocked at the door and he said, 'Come in,' and I went in."
