The Return Of Bulldog Drummond (8 page)

“And what about the housekeeper?” said Darrell.

“Housekeeper, my aunt, Peter! Who ever heard of a housekeeper with a nightdress like that? Who ever heard of a housekeeper who smoked expensive cigarettes with purple-tipped mouthpieces? It’s just possible that the woman who fooled Morris was really Hardcastle’s daughter made up for the part, but there was never any housekeeper.”

“And where was she all the time?”

“In the hall, just as we were going, I happened to look at the floor close by the wall. It was very dusty, and I saw the marks of a woman’s footsteps going up to a big piece of panelling. There were none coming away from it.”

“There undoubtedly are secret passages in the house,” said Jerningham thoughtfully. “So you think the fairy was there, and not in Plymouth?”

“Do we or do we not accept Morris’ story? That’s the answer, Ted. If we do, she was there.”

“In which case she is there now. Are we to tell the police?”

Drummond refilled his tankard thoughtfully.

“I think we must tell the police the entire story that Morris told us. I don’t think any good will be done by putting in any comment on it: we must leave them to form their own conclusions. You see, a mere statement on our part that we believe the yarn cuts no ice anyway. At the same time, I think it’s going to be a little awkward for them. There are a whole lot of points they will have to explain away which would never have cropped up but for our arrival on the scene. Jove! they must have been as wild as civet cats when we appeared.”

He rubbed his hands together and began to grin.

“Boys, we’re going to have some fun. What is that galaxy doing there at all? Why do they know so little about it that they don’t even realise the telephone is not connected up? Why do they want to murder young Marton? Why does the old man have a gun accident? And I’m just wondering how much will come out when Morris is caught. Nothing – if we hadn’t come into it. But we have, and we’re damned well not going out.”

He paused as a ring came at the front door bell.

“Is that the police already? They’ve been pretty quick. Now don’t forget, you fellows, we were ghost-hunting, believing the house to be empty. And, for the rest, we give Morris’ story without expressing any opinion.”

“It’s not the police,” said Jerningham, who had gone to the door. “It’s a woman’s voice.”

A moment or two later Jennings entered the room.

“A lady, sir, has lost her way. She is looking for Glensham House.”

“Have you directed her?” asked his master, glancing at Drummond.

The butler hesitated.

“She seems very tired, sir. I was wondering if I should offer her a glass of wine. She is, if I may say so,” he continued confidentially, “distinctly – er – worthwhile.”

“Bring her in, Ted,” said Drummond. “Tell Jennings to bring some champagne and sandwiches. Peter,” he went on, as they left the room, “the rush on Glensham House is making me giddy.”

“But it is too kind of you,” came a woman’s voice from the hall. “I really am quite exhausted. If I could rest a little before continuing it would make all the difference.”

She entered the room, and paused in momentary embarrassment on seeing the other two.

“Of course,” cried Jerningham. “I have ordered some sandwiches for you. May I introduce Captain Drummond and Mr Darrell? My own name is Jerningham.”

He pulled up a chair, and she sat down with a charming smile that embraced all three. And, as Jennings had remarked, she was distinctly worthwhile. Dark and of medium height, she had a complexion that was simply flawless. Her eyes, of which she knew how to make full use, were a deep blue: in fact, the only thing that struck an incongruous note was her frock, which was more suitable for Ascot than Dartmoor.

“I have been over in Plymouth,” she explained, “and had intended to spend the night there. And then I suddenly decided to return. If only I had realised what a fog on Dartmoor was like, nothing would have induced me to. No taxi at the station: not even a cab. So I started to walk, and when I got to your gates I thought it was Glensham House. Luckily my father thinks I’m still in Plymouth, so he won’t be worried.”

“Have we the pleasure of meeting Miss Hardcastle?” asked Drummond.

She laughed merrily.

“It is some time since I was called that,” she said. “I am Comtessa Bartelozzi.” And then she gave a puzzled little frown. “But how did you know my father’s name?”

“Your father and we have been having a lot of fun and excitement this evening,” explained Drummond genially. “I feel we’re quite old friends.”

“But I didn’t know that he had met anyone round here,” she said. “You see, we’re only newcomers. My father has rented Glensham House, and we just came down for a night or two to see what furniture was wanted.”

“Well, I’m afraid your preliminary reconnaissance has not been devoid of incident, Comtessa,” he remarked. “It’s a merciful thing for you that you were in Plymouth; otherwise I fear the shock would have been considerable. A young man has had his head battered in at Glensham House.”

She stared at him in speechless amazement.

“Head battered in! A young man! But who?”

“I gathered his name was Marton,” answered Drummond. “Ah! here is the champagne.”

“Marton! But he’s our solicitor. Captain Drummond – please explain.”

With a completely expressionless face, he told her the story, which she listened to with ever-increasing horror.

“But how dreadful!” she cried as he finished. “Poor, poor boy! What a brute that convict must be!”

“It certainly is one of the most brutal murders I have ever come across,” he agreed. “And we are expecting the police at any moment to hear what we have to tell them about it.”

“Oh! I hope they catch the brute,” she cried passionately. “What a pity you ever let him escape! I can’t understand how you could have been taken in for a moment by such a story.”

“You mean with regard to the housekeeper?”

“Of course. There’s no such person in the house. Why, if there had been you would have seen her.”

“That is true, Comtessa: perhaps we were credulous. Anyway, Morris is bound to be caught very shortly, and the whole thing will have to be thrashed out in court. Are you proposing to stay long at Glensham House?”

He poured her out another glass of champagne.

“It all depends on my father,” she answered. “Mr Hardcastle is very interested in cinema work, and he wants a place where he can work undisturbed at a new invention of his which he thinks is going to revolutionise the whole business.”

“Indeed,” murmured Drummond. “Then we can only hope there are no more diversions of the sort that occurred tonight. It will have a most upsetting effect on his studies. By the way, you know it is your room, don’t you, that is reputed to be haunted?”

“What: my bedroom!” she cried. “Is that really so?”

“My host, Mr Jerningham, is quite positive about it,” he answered. “We didn’t see anything, I must admit, but perhaps your father and Mr Slingsby have an antagonistic aura for ghosts. Fortunately we did one good deed in shutting up a box of your cigarettes, which would otherwise have got dreadfully stale.”

She stared at him thoughtfully.

“Do you think it’s possible,” she remarked at length, “that the woman this man Morris said he saw was a spirit?”

“My dear Comtessa,” said Drummond gravely, “I have reached the age when I never think anything is impossible. And there is no doubt that the amount of beer he had consumed might have rendered him prone to see things. However, those surely are the fairy footsteps of the police I hear on the drive. After we have talked to them, you must allow us to see you home.”

It turned out to be a sergeant, who stood in the door with his helmet under his arm.

“Mr Jerningham?” He looked round the group, and Jerningham nodded.

“That’s me,” he said.

“It was you that telephoned, sir, wasn’t it, about this murder at Glensham House? Well, sir, the Inspector has gone straight there, and he gave me orders to ask you to go round there at once and the other gentlemen that were with you.”

“Of course,” cried Drummond. “We’ll all go. And you too, Comtessa.”

“He didn’t say nothing about any lady, sir,” said the sergeant dubiously.

“The Comtessa is living at Glensham House,” said Drummond. “Fortunately for her, she has been in Plymouth today, and lost her way in the fog coming back.”

“Then that’s a different matter, sir,” answered the sergeant. “It’s much clearer now: we shan’t have any difficulty in getting there.”

“Good,” said Drummond. “Let’s start.”

The sergeant proved right: a few isolated stars were showing as they left the house. Pockets of mist still hung about the road, but they grew thinner and thinner each moment. And in a few minutes they could see the outline of Glensham House in front of them. There were lights showing in several of the downstair rooms, and finding the front door open, they walked straight in.

An inspector, with a constable beside him, was seated at the table: opposite him were Hardcastle and Slingsby and a third man who was smoking a cigar.

“Gee, honey,” cried Hardcastle, springing to his feet, “what under the sun are you doing here? I thought you were in Plymouth.”

“I suddenly decided to come back, Dad,” she said, “and in the fog I went to this gentleman’s house by mistake. What is this awful thing I hear?”

He patted her on the arm.

“There, there,” he cried soothingly. “It’s just one of the most terrible things that’s ever happened. An escaped convict has murdered poor young Bob Marton.”

“Are you the gentleman who telephoned?” asked the Inspector, rapping on the table for silence.

“I telephoned from Merridale Hall,” said Jerningham.

“I’ve explained that our instrument was disconnected,” said Hardcastle.

“Please allow me, sir, to do the talking,” said the Inspector firmly. “Now, sir, would you be good enough to tell me exactly what happened? But before you begin, would you, sir” – he swung round in his chair and addressed Drummond – “be good enough to stop walking about?”

“Sorry, old lad,” boomed Drummond, coming back into the centre of the room. “Carry on, Ted.”

“One moment,” interrupted Hardcastle. “I’m sure you don’t want to ask my daughter anything, Inspector, and she must be tired. Go to bed, honey: go to bed.”

“Well, if the Inspector will allow me, I think I will,” she said.

“Certainly, miss,” he said. “ If I do want to ask you anything I will do so tomorrow. Now, sir” – he turned to Jerningham as Hardcastle led the Comtessa upstairs – “will you fire ahead?”

He listened to the story, taking copious notes, whilst Drummond studied the third man covertly.

“By Gad! Peter,” he whispered after a while. “Number Three looks, if possible, a bigger tough than the other two. What’s that you say, Inspector?”

“This gentleman says that it was you who identified the man as Morris. How did you know him?”

“By the red scar on his face,” said Drummond. “Two warders this afternoon described him to me. And afterwards he admitted it.”

“And you knew the clothes were the clothes of the murdered man. How?”

“Because I saw them on Marton this afternoon, when he lost his way in the fog and came to Merridale Hall instead of here,” answered Drummond. “They were so obviously London clothes that I noticed them particularly. When you catch him you’ll see what I mean.”

“I guess the Inspector will have to take it on trust,” said the newcomer shortly. “That was the guy right enough: the scar proves it. Say, mister” – he turned to Drummond – “when he bolted was he wearing a hat?”

“He was not,” remarked Drummond.

“Then that settles it. He’s cheated the hangman all right. He went bathing in Grimstone Mire.”

“What’s that?” said Drummond slowly. “You say he fell into Grimstone Mire?”

“Yep,” answered the other. “There can’t be two birds like him loose. I was in the garage tinkering with the car when I heard someone crashing about in the bushes near by. So I went out and flashed a torch around. Suddenly I saw him: a wild-looking fellow without a hat and a great red scar on his face. He bolted like a hare towards the Mire, and I went after him to try to stop him, but I couldn’t do anything in the fog. And in he went – splosh. Let out one yell, and then it was all over.”

“An amazing development, isn’t it, Captain Drummond?” said Hardcastle, who had rejoined them.

“Most amazing,” agreed Drummond. “However, as you say, it saves the hangman a job.”

And at that moment the constable let out a yell.

“Look at the top of the stairs, sir!”

They all swung round and stared upwards. Standing motionless in the dim light was a woman dressed in black. Her hair was grey; one arm was outstretched, pointing towards them. And the only thing that seemed alive in her were her two eyes that gleamed from her dead-white face.

For a few seconds they all stood rooted to the ground; then very slowly, almost as if she was floating on air, the woman receded, and disappeared from sight.

“What the devil?” cried Hardcastle, and the next instant he dashed up the stairs, followed by the others. For a scream of terror had come from the Comtessa’s room.

It was Hardcastle who reached it first, to find that the door was locked.

“Honey,” he shouted. “Honey: open the door. Are you all right?”

There was no reply, and in a frenzy he beat on the door with his fists. But the wood was stout, and it was not until they had all charged it several times with their shoulders that it began to show signs of giving. At last the bolt tore away from its fastening and in a body they surged into the room.

The Comtessa was lying on the bed clad in pyjamas. She was motionless, and Hardcastle rushed to her and picked her up.

“It’s only a faint, boys,” he cried. “Get some brandy.”

But even as he spoke, with a shuddering sigh the Comtessa opened her eyes. For a moment she stared in bewilderment at the group of men; then suddenly they dilated with terror.

“Where is she?” she screamed. “What is she?”

“There, there, honey,” said Hardcastle, “it’s quite all right now. Tell your old Dad what frightened you.”