Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (33 page)

I point out that Guthrie's boots will make the most frightful noise on the uncarpeted stairs, and that by the time he has reached the bottom the burglars will have gone. After arguing obstinately for a few moments we compromise on tennis shoes. He dons a cardigan, and an overcoat – I never knew a man who could start to do anything without dressing for the part – and, opening the drawer of his dressing table, produces a small revolver, examines the chamber carefully, and slips it into his pocket. I begin to feel quite sorry for the burglars. A pocket torch completes our outfit. This is given into my charge with instructions to ‘flash it into their eyes'. Guthrie will then wing them, tie them up with rope, and gag them with old socks – here the socks are produced and tucked into my dressing-gown pocket.

‘By the way, Hester,' he says anxiously, ‘I suppose there is some washing rope or something in the house – if not we shall have to make do with window-shade cord.'

It all sounds quite easy.

Guthrie continues that, after having bound them securely, we shall lock them up in the coal cellar, and rouse Dobbie, and send him off to Inverquill for the police. It's most important to have all your plans cut and dried beforehand, Guthrie says, and then you know exactly where you are. If Jellicoe had been able to do this at Jutland we should have bagged the whole German fleet. I am suitably impressed by this statement, and follow Guthrie downstairs. It is very cold, and the rain is still coming down hard. I hear it swishing on the cupola with an eerie sound. My teeth show an impulse to chatter – I rather wish I had put on some warm stockings, and a jumper, but it is too late now.

We look in the pantry first, Guthrie explaining, in a hoarse whisper, that of course the burglars know where the silver is kept. They never undertake a job of this kind without obtaining a plan of the house. He thinks the garden boy may have given it to them – he's a shifty-looking individual – or that man who came to look at the kitchen range.

There are no signs of burglars in the pantry – everything is in apple-pie order, and as quiet as the grave – the dining room is also innocent of their presence. We look carefully under the table and into various cupboards. Guthrie says they might have heard us coming and hidden themselves.

I point out to Guthrie that it was on the veranda outside the drawing-room window I heard them, so the inference is that they are in the drawing room, making a clean sweep of Mrs. Loudon's cherished snuff boxes and silver photograph frames. Guthrie replies that it is better to look elsewhere first, but can give no good reason for his statement, and I begin to wonder whether he is really very keen to meet them now that the time has come. I do not like to question the courage of an officer in His Majesty's Navy, but this is my impression.

We have now looked everywhere except in the drawing room, and there is no further excuse for delay. We listen outside the door and hear the sound of whispering – or else it may be the rain.

Suddenly Guthrie throws open the door and enters, revolver in hand. I flash the torch in their faces, and the tableau is revealed.

The burglars consist of a tall man in a check overcoat, and a girl in a burberry, with a green tammy on the back of her head. They have lighted one candle, but its fitful flame throws scarcely any light upon the scene.

‘Hello, Loudon!' the man says. ‘Cleared for action, I see.'

‘Good God!' Guthrie exclaims. ‘What on earth are you doing here, Bones?'

I realise at once that this tall, thin, lanky individual must be a friend of Guthrie's – or perhaps it would be exaggerating to say a
friend
, for Guthrie does not seem enchanted to see him.

‘What on earth brought you here at this time of night?' he asks again, in the irritable tone of one who has been thoroughly frightened and finds his bogy innocuous.

‘An Austin Seven brought us here,' replies the man addressed as Bones, with a nonchalant air. ‘Found you'd all cleared off to bed, so we thought we'd warm ourselves a bit – damned cold outside, and wet too.'

‘See here, I guess you'd better introduce us, Bones,' says the girl suddenly, ‘and then we can get what we want and hook it. Your pal doesn't seem overjoyed to see us – I guess we must have woke him out of his beauty sleep. Say,' she adds, turning to me, ‘you don't happen to have a baby's bottle, do you?'

I reply in a dazed manner that I have not. It flashes through my mind that they must have escaped from a lunatic asylum; perhaps the ropes may still be required.

Bones now perceives me in the gloom. ‘Good Lord!' he exclaims. ‘Didn't know you were married, Loudon. Won't you introduce me to your wife? Wouldn't have come, I assure you, if I'd known about it. When did it happen, old man? Congratulations and all that hope we didn't pop in at an inopportune moment?'

‘I'm
not
married,' Guthrie says indignantly.

‘Even sorrier, then,' says Bones, eyeing me with increased interest.

‘Look here, I wish you'd say what you want and go,' Guthrie says inhospitably. ‘This is Mrs. Christie she's staying here with my mother '

Bones takes this as a formal introduction, and bows gracefully.

‘I don't know what on earth you want,' Guthrie continues. ‘But I want to get back to bed.'

‘Don't wonder,' murmurs Bones. ‘Don't wonder at all, old chap. I'd feel the same myself. By the way, you couldn't produce a spot, I suppose. Dry work, this treasure hunting.'

‘You've had quite enough,' says the girl firmly. ‘You've got to drive that car back to Inverquill tonight.'

‘Lord! I've not begun,' replies Bones. ‘You should see what I can take without rocking I can still say Irish Constabulary without a hitch.'

‘Did you come here for a drink?' enquires Guthrie.

‘Well, not exactly – still a spot never comes amiss– ' suggests Bones hopefully.

‘I guess you'd better explain or let me,' says the girl. ‘See here, Mr. er Bones didn't say what your name was. This is the way of it – Bones and I are in a treasure hunt – we've staying over at Inverquill, with the MacKenzies. Well, Bones and I are in the last lap, and we're just mad to win, so '

‘Had a gin and bitters at Avielochan Hotel,' says the lanky man, taking up the tale. ‘Suddenly remembered you were here wonderful how a gin and bitters stimulates a fellow took us hours to – find you but here we are.'

‘So I see,' says Guthrie unpleasantly.

‘You'll help us, won't you!' says the girl, producing a printed list, somewhat damp and crumpled, from her waterproof pocket. ‘I guess we've got nearly everything now, except a baby's bottle, and a warming pan, and a poker – '

‘Here's a poker,' Bones says, seizing the one out of the grate. ‘You're not going to take that poker,' says Guthrie suddenly. ‘Bring it back tomorrow, old man,' Bones replies, trying to stuff it into his pocket.

The girl continues to consult the list anxiously, holding it near the solitary candle. I perceive that it is she who is the moving spirit in the treasure hunt. Bones is but lukewarm.

‘Look here, Bones,' says Guthrie, with a sudden access of rage. ‘You put that poker back in its place, and clear out of here – I'm just about fed up with this nonsense.'

‘Make it a deoch-an-doris and I'm your man,' replies Bones quickly. ‘One small one, and out we go. You couldn't turn a dog out without a drink on a night like this.'

Perhaps Guthrie thinks that this is the quickest way to get rid of the man. At any rate he relents.

‘All right,' he says ungraciously. ‘You'll get a small one and you'll clear out. Hester, you had better go back to bed, you'll get your death of cold. I'll see these lunatics off the premises.'

I realise that I am almost frozen, and am quite glad to take Guthrie's advice – besides, the fun is over. I grope my way upstairs, and creep into bed with my dressing gown on – thank goodness there is still a little warmth in my hot-water bottle. My room is turning a soft grey colour, dawn is not far off. I reflect what strange ways people have of enjoying themselves, rushing round the country on a wet dark night collecting baby's bottles and warming pans.

It is some little while before I hear our burglars departing. Guthrie seems to have some trouble with the lock of the door on to the veranda, then I hear his tennis shoes come padding up the stairs and along the passage. He stops at my door and knocks gently.

‘What happened?' I enquire.

The door half opens, and Guthrie's head appears. ‘Are you all right, Hester?' he asks softly. ‘They've gone at last – I had to give them the poker, and a warming pan which was hanging in the hall – they wouldn't go away without them.'

‘You looked as if you wanted to throw them out,' I giggled feebly.

‘Oh, I'd have thrown Bones out – but I couldn't throw out a girl. Wait till we get back to the
Polyphon
,
'
he adds ferociously. ‘I'll set the whole wardroom on to him. They hate him as it is, and they'll be too pleased to make his life a burden – he'll wish he'd never been born when I've done with him – the blinkety, blankety fool!'

In his excitement Guthrie has come into my room, and stands beside my bed, a huge dark, looming figure in the half light.

‘I can't help laughing when I think of us and our “cut and dried” plans,' I tell him.

Guthrie says he doesn't see anything funny about it – naturally we thought it was burglars and prepared accordingly.

‘Yes, but it wasn't burglars.'

‘No, it was lunatics.'

I can see that Guthrie feels he has been made to look a fool, and does not like it – few men do.

‘Look here,' he continues, ‘let's keep the whole thing dark – it's no use worrying Mother by telling
her
about it – she might be nervous if she knew it was so easy to get into the house. Those two just walked in by the veranda door. There's something funny about the lock. Sometimes it locks all right, and sometimes it doesn't.'

‘Anyone might get in!' I exclaim, sitting up in bed.

‘There's just where you're wrong. Nobody would except an ass like Bones. No burglar would ever think of trying the handle of a door. Besides I know now, and I'll make it my business to lock it every night, so you see there's no need to tell Mother.'

‘She'll miss the poker and the warming pan.'

‘Oh, well, we must trust to luck,' he says. ‘You'd better go to sleep; it's nearly dawn.'

‘I can't go to sleep with you standing there looking like a giant,' I announce pettishly.

‘Oh no, of course not,' he says. ‘Well, good night, Hester. You won't say anything to Mother, will you?'

I make no reply, except to snuggle down in bed, and he goes away, shutting the door carefully. As a matter of fact I have made up my mind to tell Mrs. Loudon the whole story at the earliest opportunity – she is the last woman to be alarmed at the idea of burglars, and she would thoroughly enjoy the joke.

Eighth June

Guthrie is late in appearing for breakfast, and admits that he did not sleep well. Mrs. Loudon commiserates him on his insomnia, and says the rain was awful, but she supposes the country needed it, and anyway it was better to rain at night if it had to rain at all.

I wait until I see Guthrie going off with his gun to shoot rabbits, and then track my hostess to her desk.

‘Well!' she says, looking up at me. ‘What happened last night?'

‘How did you know that anything happened?' I ask in amazement.

‘Circumstantial evidence,' she replies, smiling rather strangely. ‘The warming pan has vanished from the hall, Guthrie owns to a sleepless night, and a pair of his socks have been discovered in the pocket of your dressing gown.'

I can do nothing but laugh.

‘You may laugh,' she says. ‘The whole thing's a mystery to me. I've been trying to unravel it for the last hour.'

‘You never will.'

‘No, I dare say not, but there's no need for me to worry my head any more about it since you followed me in here to tell me the whole thing. I could see you were like a cat on hot bricks till you got Guthrie out of the house.'

‘He said I wasn't to tell you,' I reply. ‘But I made up my mind I would – you will enjoy the joke.'

‘I'm glad of that,' she says, with her twinkle.

Without further ado I embark upon my tale.

Mrs. Loudon follows with interest, and laughs at the right moment; she is an admirable listener. ‘Well,' she says, ‘I never heard the like of that the idea of a girl racketing about all night with a man in a car collecting baby's bottles. Mercy me! You're quite right, Hester. I never would have guessed
that,
if I'd spent the rest of my life at it.

‘Wait and see what I'll say to Guthrie,' she adds, chuckling to herself. ‘I'll get on to him about this.'

‘You are not to say a word about it to Guthrie,' I tell her firmly. ‘If you do I'll have nothing more to do with that ridiculous plan of yours and Tony's.'