The Second Shot (27 page)

‘You mean – you don’t mean that Armorel is
fond
of me?’ I could only gasp.

‘God help the girl, I do. And at this very moment she’s waiting in the drawing room for you to come down and tell her what a dam’ fine girl she is, and what you’re going to do about it.’

‘This – this is most remarkable.’

‘It is. And you’re an uncommonly lucky fellow. It’s never too late to be mended, and that girl will make a man of you if anyone can. So down you go, and good luck to her.’

‘You advise me – Sheringham, you advise me to – to ask her to marry me?’

‘I do. And at once, before the police clap one of you into jail. Tomorrow. You can slip off in the car with her directly after breakfast, and get an extra-special licence. One of the same-day excursions. It’ll cost you a lot of money, but I’ll lend you that. And I’ll give you an introduction to the bishop, to make sure of it.’

‘You know – the bishop?’ I stammered. The whole world seemed to be becoming unreal.

‘Like a brother,’ Sheringham replied confidently. ‘He eats out of my hand. I’ll ask you both to dinner one day, and show you. Well, run along down.’

‘I suppose I’d better,’ I said. A strange diffidence was rapidly coming over me. It seemed quite impossible that Armorel could… ‘I – I think I see how to approach the point. I shall inform her that we have been discussing the matter, and have arrived at the conclusions that in our joint interests – hers and mine – the marriage she herself suggested has become – er – advisable, and if she will therefore do me such a great honour I – ouch!’

The last word is an expression of pain. I had been walking slowly towards the door as I spoke, and Sheringham had actually taken advantage of the unwitting target I offered to kick me sharply. I hurriedly turned around, to see him contemplating me with a face of disgust. I was never so taken aback in my life.

‘You miserable tapeworm!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ll make one stride towards that girl, grab her with both hands, and say:“Armorel, you’re the most wonderful girl in the world. For the pity of Mike, marry me. Tomorrow! I can’t live another day without you.”That’s what you’ll say.’

‘You really advise something like that?’ I asked anxiously, oblivious even of the kick I had just received. ‘But supposing she says no? Supposing she laughs?’

I am sorry to say that Sheringham replied with an expression that was merely coarse.

Somehow I found myself propelled out of the room, and down the stairs.

On the way, my mouth became entirely denuded of saliva, my knees began to shake, and the pit of my abdomen seemed to become entirely hollow. Presumably I noted these phenomena for future consideration, for I remember them clearly, but at the moment I was quite incapable of considering anything.

Armorel was lying on the sofa, but she was not reading; instead she was staring up at the ceiling, and she did not turn her head even as I entered. I remember shutting the door behind me with extreme care.

In the middle of the room I halted. ‘Er – Armorel!’ I managed to say, though speech was difficult by reason of the strange state of my mouth.

‘Hullo, Pinkie?’ she replied, in rather a sad, tired, dispirited sort of voice.

What was it that Sheringham had said? Don’t on my life do this, but do that. But which? Something about grabbing her. Grabbing her!
Grabbing
Armorel!

I took an uncertain step towards her. She turned her head slowly, and looked at me.

And upon my life I simply do not know what happened after that. Armorel says… But no; I shall not write down what Armorel says.

It is enough to say here that we decided to obtain Sheringham’s introductory letter to the bishop first thing in the morning, even if it meant waking him up at seven o’clock.

I retired to bed at three o’clock in the morning in a state of unparalleled exhilaration.

The reader will forgive the way in which I seem to have obtruded my private affairs on his notice, for really they became inextricably enmeshed in the story which I set out to write. I shall endeavour not to refer to them henceforth more than is quite necessary.

In spite of the very late hour, then, at which I had gone to bed, I was up again soon after seven. Nor did I hesitate to rouse Sheringham and tell him my joyful news. And I must say that when at last I had succeeded in waking him (by the application in the end of a cold wet sponge to his face), he was profuse in his congratulations, though he did seem to allocate rather too large a share of the responsibility for the happy event to himself; to hear him preening himself, one would have thought that he had actually forced me to propose to Armorel against my own worse judgment. I informed him that he had better write his letter to the bishop before breakfast, and made my way downstairs.

It was a lovely morning, and the sun was inviting. I went out of the house and paused in the garden, glancing up at Armorel’s window. To my delight I perceived the dear girl herself leaning out of it, and on seeing me she called down that she would be with me in two minutes for a swim in the bathing pool. I hurried back to the house and donned my bathing costume.

We had a most pleasant bathe, and Armorel instructed me in the rudiments of the art of diving. I found it not nearly so difficult as I had supposed.

We were laughing gaily over a mishap of mine in which I had struck the water primarily with my abdomen instead of my outstretched hands (at least, Armorel was laughing), when there was a rush of footsteps along the springboard and a body shot in a curve right over my head as I was still floundering in the water. It was Sheringham, who I was surprised to see was evidently a most accomplished diver. He proceeded to amuse Armorel by giving a life-saving exhibition in which I found myself enacting the rôle of the dummy. If Sheringham has a fault, it certainly is a tendency to play to the gallery; but in the circumstances I could not take his exuberance amiss.

After our bathe we sat on the hillside in the sun, while Sheringham told us his plans for the day. They consisted chiefly, I think, in his proposed interview with Elsa Verity, an interview with the De Ravels, separately if possible, and a further search for traces of the unknown with whom Sheringham was now convinced Scott-Davies had had his appointment.

‘You see,’ he told us, ‘that appointment does clear up one of the very first questions I asked myself: why Scott-Davies went into that small clearing at all. You remember, Tapers? I mentioned that as an interesting point when we were down there yesterday morning.’

I did remember, and said so.

‘And have you reached any other conclusions, Roger?’ Armorel asked, wriggling her pretty bare toes in a tuft of grass. I was surprised to hear her use of Sheringham’s Christian name, but did not comment on it. I believe it is the modern tendency.

Sheringham pulled a piece of sorrel and began nibbling at it. ‘Yes, one. The person I’m looking for has a very limited imagination. Not that that helps us much, because most people have; but this one is quite remarkably limited. The whole idea of the crime is copied exactly, you see, from the mock murder in your play; the stage is set for the same accident, with hardly a detail different. Anyone with imagination would realize at once that of all the ways at that time to stage an apparent accident, that would be the most suspicious. But our unknown simply hadn’t the imagination either to see that or to invent a fresh method – or even a fresh detail or two.’

‘Yes,’ Arnorel agreed. ‘But as you say, that doesn’t help much. You can hardly go about testing people’s imaginations, and picking on the poorest as the criminal, can you?’

‘Hist!’ said Sheringham. ‘We’re observed.’

One of the farmhands was walking across our front, just above the fringe of woodland that bordered the stream. He had a gun under his arm, and was looking up in the treetops.

‘It’s only poor old Morton,’ Armorel said carelessly. ‘And we aren’t observed. He’s after “they rooks”. I had a long talk with him yesterday after tea, and he seemed very bitter about “they rooks”. By the way, Roger, you might like to have a word with him too. He was working in the field beyond Bluebell Wood that afternoon.’

‘Was he?’ Sheringham said interestedly. ‘Then I certainly shall. He’s just the sort of witness I want. Oh, I say – good shot!’ A young rook had flown suddenly out from the trees and circled sharply; before it could complete its turning movement, Morton’s gun had flashed up and fired, and it had dropped. ‘I must say I shoot my rooks sitting. But that’s with a rifle of course, not a shotgun.’

‘That’s a rifle too,’ said Amorel confidently.

‘Oh, no, surely not. It would be a simply marvellous shot with a rifle.’

‘And so it was, because it certainly is a rifle. Can’t you tell the difference? A shotgun goes “plop!” and a rifle goes “pip!”That went “pip!” distinctly. Go and ask him if you don’t believe me.’

‘I will,’ said Sheringham, and promptly bounded down the hillside.

He exchanged a few words with the man, and then came back to us.

‘You’re perfectly right, Armorel; it was a rifle. Well, I wouldn’t have believed it. The fellow ought to be doing turns in a circus – you know, throwing up glass balls and shooting them in the air. By the way, why did you call him “poor” old Morton?’

‘Oh, there was some trouble about his daughter. She was a housemaid here, and Ethel had to get rid of her because she was going to have a baby or something; sets a bad example for the other maids, you see. I remember her quite well. Pretty girl, very shy and mousy. She went up to London and was supposed to have gone off the deep end; but I saw her in the village the other day (at least, I thought it was her, though she did look rather different; much smarter), so I suppose she only went off the shallow end after all. There’s a plot for you, Roger. I make you a present of it.’

‘Thanks,’ Sheringham grinned. ‘ “Deep End or Shallow? or, The Maid’s Dilemma.” ’

‘I believe I must be getting cold,’ I said suddenly, and not without interest, for I had not noticed the fact at all. ‘My teeth are beginning to chatter.’

‘Then back you go at once,’ commanded Armorel prettily, scrambling up. ‘Come on: I’ll race you to the house.’

‘And I’ll follow behind and trip you up into a furze bush,’ Sheringham added. ‘I owe you something for that cold sponge, you frivolous young Tapers.’

‘Did he use a cold sponge on you?’ cried Armorel, laughing. ‘Oh, there’s hope for him yet. You watch, Roger. He’s going to get younger every day from now on.’

Certainly I felt extremely young as I ran up the hillside in the wake of Armorel’s slim, flying figure – though considerably older by the time I reached the house, if no longer cold.

Before we went indoors, Sheringham called to Armorel to stop. ‘By the way,’ he panted, as he caught her up, ‘how do you know – Morton working – in end field – that afternoon?’

‘I saw him. You can see that field quite plainly from the Moorland F – Oh!’

‘Exactly,’ Sheringham grinned.

‘Roger,’ said Armorel, ‘I will no longer deceive you. I
did
go up to the Moorland Field – ’

‘Ah!’

‘But I didn’t stay there. I went down again immediately.’

‘Why?’

‘Just as I said; I wanted to see what was happening – to watch the detection.’

‘And the conversation with Tapers?’

‘A myth. Yes, he’s quite right; I invented it. I didn’t speak to him at all, and he never knew I was there; but I did see him.’

‘Armorel!’ I ejaculated.

‘Oh, yes, I did; that’s true enough.’

‘And he did pick a wild rose?’ asked Sheringham.

‘He did,’ Armorel replied calmly.

‘I’m quite certain I didn’t,’ I put in.

‘How else could it have got there?’ Armorel added, quite disregarding me.

‘How indeed?’ said Sheringham. ‘And that really is the truth, young woman, is it?’

‘Near enough, old detective,’ Armorel laughed. ‘Any more questions?’

‘Yes, two. Have you stayed here often?’

‘Yes, quite.’

‘Always with your cousin?’

‘Not always. Usually.’

‘Thank you. That’s all.’

‘Thank you, Mr Sheringham.’

Armorel swept him an ironical curtsey with her bathing wrap and ran into the house.

I lingered a moment. ‘I’m quite sure,’ I assured Sheringham earnestly, ‘that she was
not
speaking the truth. She was never near the place.’

‘Run along, run along,’ Sheringham told me indulgently, ‘or your teeth will begin to chatter again.’

I do not intend to waste the reader’s time with Armorel’s and my own activities during the rest of that day. I will say merely that we set off immediately after breakfast in the car, the others having not the smallest inkling of our purpose or even of our engagement, saw the bishop (who was
most
kind), and were married. I made a particular note of Armorel’s first words alone to me after she became Mrs Pinkerton. They were: ‘The Whirlwind Wooer, or Cyclone Cyril. Kiss your hapless victim, Cyclone, darling.’

On the spur of the moment we decided to stay in Exeter for the night, and Armorel insisted on sending a telegram to Ethel:

Decoyed away by Cyril, drugged and married. Returning tomorrow.
A
RMOREL
.

It seemed to afford her and the young woman in the post office considerable amusement, but made me feel somewhat foolish. So did the fact that we had no luggage with us, so that Armorel took me shopping. I had never been inside a feminine shop before and protested vehemently, but Armorel insisted that it was quite time my education began. Then at the hotel she…

But all this is quite irrelevant.

We got back to Minton Deeps in time for dinner the next evening. Naturally a tremendous fuss had to be made; Elsa opened her blue eyes to their widest, Ethel wept, and John brought out champagne. The De Ravels, I was most relieved to discover, had gone, on the previous day. De Ravel had seen the chief constable and obtained permission to leave with his wife, on the condition that they attend the adjourned inquest. It seemed strange, during the very gay dinner which followed our arrival, to reflect that one of our number had less than a week ago suffered a violent death. Truly Eric Scott-Davies had left little mourning behind him.