Into the Valley of Death (8 page)

“I suppose not.”

“No, by God, it ain’t. I tell you, if I knew which the wench was, I’d take a whip to her.”

Miss Unwin, half hidden behind a bust of the Duke of Wellington standing on a sturdy pedestal of purple porphyry, began furiously to wonder.

Was this savage response to her presence that piece of out-of-place behaviour she was looking for? It was not absolutely certain. But she must get a look at someone who was so much put out by the thought of a female detective watching him.

Cautiously, she put her head round the stern bust of the victor of Waterloo. The two talkers had their backs to the door, sitting side by side on a cushioned bench flanked by two stuffed foxhounds. Cigar smoke was wreathing up from between them.

“Yes, by God, a whip.”

The man who uttered the threat was an officer in uniform. Miss Unwin even recognised the regiment. It was a truly famous one, illustrated in the Rev. C. P. Wilkinson’s book. The 13th Hussars, heroes of the Charge of the Light Brigade
itself, though the man who so objected to her presence was a captain too young to have taken part in that glorious affair.

“My dear Brackham,” she heard his companion remonstrate, “let old Pastell act as he thinks fit. He is a hero, after all.”

“A hero, I dare say. But that’s a deuced odd thing to do.”

She dared wait no longer. Either of the two smokers might turn his head at any moment. Or in the morning-room an impatient lady might be waiting for attention.

But she had learnt perhaps enough. Captain Brackham. Of the 13th Hussars. A possible suspect. Yes, surely a possible suspect.

And, mercifully, the morning-room, when she got back to it, was deserted. No long skirt had had a clumsy foot tear it in the dance. No elegant coiffure had succumbed to the energy of a waltz.

She sank down on her little chair behind the long table and breathed more easily.

She would give a good deal to know more about Captain Brackham. But, if he was no more than a bully unduly concerned with his dignity, was there perhaps some other officer or other gentleman visitor who would want to use more violent methods on the secret interloper?

Barely had the thought entered her mind when from somewhere in the room behind her she heard a noise. In the room she had thought to be deserted.

She darted a glance at the door. She had left it only just ajar, and she herself on her chair in the far corner must be out of sight of any passer-by. Between her and that means of escape lay the room’s whole width, as well as the obstacle of the long table in front of her.

Where had that sound come from? It had been too distinct to be caused by a puff of breeze through the curtained window or even the scurry of a mouse in the wainscot.

She sat, glued to her chair, and tried to identify the direction
of the sound. The room now, certainly, was utterly quiet. Deathly quiet.

And, yes, she thought after a little, the sound had come from behind the heavy dull red curtains across the window.

She slowly turned her head and peered towards them. There seemed to be no sign of anybody lurking behind them waiting to strike. But, she remembered from when she had drawn the curtains herself, the window protruded a foot or so from the wall outside, leaving a space where anyone could stand unobserved.

What should she do?

Should she try getting to her feet, darting round the table and making for the door? But to do so would be certain to alert whoever was behind the curtains. He would leap out and could easily get between herself and the door. And then? Perhaps, if it was indeed Alfie Goode’s murderer lurking there, would he hesitate over killing again?

She almost felt strong, unyielding hands round her throat.

Then, on the point of making up her mind on a dash for safety after all, there came from behind the thick curtains another sound.

A sneeze.

And somehow it seemed to her at once that whoever was hidden there could not be any real danger. Someone who could sneeze? And, having sneezed, stay still?

In half a dozen rapid strides, she was at the window. She seized the two halves of the curtains with both hands and flung them wide.

Standing, back pressed against the darkened panes of the big window, hands spread to either side as if sheer wishing could cause the glass behind mysteriously to melt, was a girl of about twelve or thirteen. Miss Unwin saw at once that, though the Scotch plaid day-dress she wore was buttoned askew and though she was without stockings, she was a young lady.

Then she remembered a remark Mrs. Perker had made
while she had been desperately attempting to gain employment. She had complained that besides her other responsibilities she had a child to consider, General Pastell’s granddaughter.

This must be she. The knowledge at once put Miss Unwin back into her state of governess-ship.

“What on earth are you doing hiding here?” she said. “You ought to be in bed, you naughty child.”

The girl gradually relaxed her stance against the dark window. She stepped forward beyond the curtain and gave Miss Unwin a steady, half-insolent look.

“I’m meant to be in bed,” she said, “but I came creeping down to watch you.”

“To watch me?”

At the thought, Miss Unwin recollected her disguise as the lady’s-maid who had been taken on for this one night.

She gave herself a mental shake, dropping the upright attitude of the indignant governess and assuming the pose of a servant.

“But why should you want to come and watch me, sitting here taking the ladies’ cloaks and wraps and maybe doing a bit o’ mending?” she asked.

The girl gave a loud laugh. “You can’t fool me,” she said cheerfully. “You look awfully like a lady’s-maid, I grant. But I know better.”

She knows I am a governess, Miss Unwin thought, feeling a wave of shame at being caught, as it were, out of the station she had taken such pains to attain.

“And that’s why I came creeping down, of course,” her captive went on with a touch of scorn. “I’m never going to get the chance of seeing a real female detective at work again, however long I live. So I wasn’t going to miss this.”

Miss Unwin had had time to think now, time to adjust herself again.

“Well,” she said, “you’re a clever one and no mistake.

You’re the General’s granddaughter, ain’t you? What’s your name?”

To Miss Unwin’s surprise, General Pastell’s granddaughter blushed.

“It’s beastly Euphemia,” she said. “How any parent could be so cruel as to land a girl with Euphemia beats me. And then to go off to India half the time.”

“So are you called Euphemia? Or something else?”

“Well, it’s Phemy usually. But I’d be plain Jane, if I ever had my way.”

“Well,” Miss Unwin said with a smile, “I think I had better be content with Phemy if, as I hope, we’re to become better acquainted.”

“You mean you’ll let a fellow stay? And can I watch you trap the murderer? Do you have a weapon hidden somewhere about you? Is it a life-preserver? And what is a life-preserver? I’ve always wanted to know.”

“Well, that’s no more than a little club, and I’m sorry to tell you that I carry nothing of the sort.”

Miss Unwin, the memory of Captain Brackham’s threat returning to her, and the thought of an even more menacing threat that might await if the Captain was not the man she had alerted to the presence of a female detective, so-called, rather wished then that she did have somewhere about her person just such a weapon. But it was an idle regret.

“No, Phemy,” she said, “you won’t be able to watch me strike anyone down with a life-preserver. But there is, perhaps, something you can do for me. I suspect you’re a girl who keeps her wits about her.”

“I jolly well hope I do. You have to if you’re stuck with a name like Euphemia.”

“Good, then. So what I want you to do is to tell me about some of the guests here tonight.”

“So you can find out which is the wicked murderer?”

“Yes,” Miss Unwin admitted wryly. “For that reason, more or less.”

“Right-ho then, Fire away.”

For a moment Miss Unwin was tempted to resume her role of governess and to point out to General Pastell’s granddaughter that there was a ladylike way of speaking. But she had more urgent matters on her mind.

“Well, now,” she began, “what about Captain Brackham? Do you know him? Do you know anything about him?”

“I should jolly well say I do. He’s the most terrible fellow for being fast, even though he’s got no more brains than I have in my boot. He gambles most fearfully, and you should see the way he takes his fences out hunting. I wish I had a horse like his Caspar. Only I’m not allowed to hunt till I’m fourteen.”

“He’s fast, you say?” Miss Unwin asked, wondering how right it was to ask a child like this for further details.

But a man’s life was at stake, and she did not regret having put her question.

The answer she got showed her quickly enough that her fears had been groundless.

“Fast? You should see him with that beastly Mrs. De Lyall.”

“Mrs. De Lyall? I don’t think I’ve heard of her. Is she at the ball tonight?”

“Ain’t she just. You couldn’t keep her away. Not that poor Grandpapa much wants to, if you ask me.”

Miss Unwin decided to pass over this too intimate detail of family life.

“Describe Mrs. De Lyall to me then,” she said.

“Oh, you can’t have missed her. They say she’s half Spanish, and no one seems to know whether there’s a Mr. De Lyall or not. He don’t come down to Oxfordshire, that’s for sure.”

“Yes, but what does Mrs. De Lyall look like? What sort of a dress is she wearing?”

“The red-and-black, of course. The one that makes her look like a Spanish dancer. Why, I bet she does her
cachucha
dance before the night’s out. She always will, if she’s let. She
knows it draws the gentlemen’s eyes, and all’s fish that comes to that one’s net.”

Again Miss Unwin, the governess, wanted to issue a rebuke. But again Miss Unwin, the female detective, kept her thoughts to herself.

“I know that lady now,” she said. “I remarked on that dress when she left her cloak. She has those very dark ringlets, has she not? And a high complexion?”

“And a high reputation,” Phemy chimed in. “Why, she does things and says things that no other lady in the county would dare.”

“Come, how do you know that?”

“Oh, I’ve heard Grandpapa say it many a time. And his great friend and rival, General Bickerstaffe, too. It’s about as much of a case of smite with him, if you ask me.”

“But you say that no other lady in the county behaves like Mrs. De Lyall?” Miss Unwin asked eagerly, an idea blossoming in her head.

“No, not a whit.”

“Then you have already been more than a little helpful to me,” she said to Phemy.

It was true, she thought. If it so happened that there was only one lady in the whole neighbourhood who was such a cause of scandal, then it was likely, surely, that her own task had been immensely lessened. If Alfie Goode had been killed because he was extorting money from somebody, was it not more than likely that that somebody was a lover of Mrs. De Lyall’s?

No doubt, of lovers or would-be lovers she would have a fair number, but at least the circle of possibilities seemed to have been made sharply smaller.

Only, how was Jack Steadman involved? What could he know, and not know that he knew, which had made it imperative for Alfie Goode’s killer to get rid of him, too, by the slow process of the law?

However, that was something she would have to think
about when she had time. At present she had more urgent matters in front of her.

“How can I get to see Mrs. De Lyall?” she asked rapidly. “To watch her and the men who speak to her and flirt with her?”

But before her young helper could answer, from just outside there came the sound of hasty steps.

The door of the morning-room was tentatively rattled.

“Quick,” Miss Unwin whispered to Phemy, “back behind the curtains.”

Hardly had Phemy whisked the curtains across her hiding place than the door was opened and a lady of a certain age wearing a gown in apple-green brocade came in.

“Oh, I have got the headache so badly,” she said. “Can you find me a composing draught, my girl?”

“Yes, madam,” Miss Unwin answered at once, every bit the well-trained servant. “It won’t take me a minute. Will you lie on the sofa here? And I have some eau-de-Cologne just by me.

She handed the lady a handkerchief soaked in the eau-de-Cologne and hurried away.

She was not quite happy to do so. What if Phemy sneezed again? But there was nothing else to be done, and she suspected now that the first sneeze Phemy had let out had in any case been designed to draw attention rather than the other way about.

It did not take her long to get to the still-room, where she knew a quantity of a laudanum preparation had been left in readiness. Carrying a small glass of it on a tray, she quickly made her way back.

The lady seemed not to have been disturbed. She was lying where Miss Unwin had left her with her eyes shut and the soaked handkerchief spread over her pale forehead.

“This should help you feel better, madam,” Miss Unwin said.

The lady sat up and drank down her draught. But then, to Miss Unwin’s intense irritation, she closed her eyes again and lay back.

Would it be right to creep from the room and leave her where she was? And would it be safe to beckon Phemy from behind the curtains to follow? She must get to know as soon as possible if there was anywhere from which she could observe the notorious Mrs. De Lyall and the men who hung about her.

She decided to give the ailing lady just five minutes by the ormolu clock on the room’s mantelpiece before risking signalling to Phemy. And her decision proved justified. The clock’s gilt minute-hand had moved forward for only four of the five minutes when the lady abruptly sat up, declared she felt a little better, and said she would go and look for her husband.

Hardly was she out of the room when Phemy burst through the curtains.

“Hey, miss,” she said, “you know who that was, don’t you?”

“No. No, who was it?”