The Affair of the Mutilated Mink (7 page)

'Then in 1849 came the California gold rush. Aylwin was actually in Sacramento when the first strikes were made and was among the first at the gold diggings. What's more, he made a strike. Not a fabulously rich one, but it made him money enough to live on for at least a couple of years. So, still accompanied by his servant John, he made his way to San Francisco for a holiday.

'Meanwhile, back here, his father had been in failing health for some time, and had been told by his doctor that he couldn't expect to live for more than another year. He wanted to see his son and patch up their quarrel before it was too late. Now, Aylwin had been writing tolerably frequently to his mother - care of her sister, so that the old man wouldn't hear of it - and consequently she at least knew that he was in San Francisco. So an employee of the family solicitor was sent to try and trace him. After several weeks he at last tracked Aylwin down.

Aylwin, I imagine, had by then had about enough of the life he'd been leading. He knew his cash wouldn't last indefinitely and then it would be back to the old ways. However, he still had enough left to return home in some style, so his pride wouldn't suffer if he did go back. The short of it was that he arrived home early in 1852 and was quickly reconciled with his father. The old man died six mouths later, and Aylwin succeeded to the title as tenth Earl. That's just about the whole story.'

There was silence for a few seconds before Paul said, 'But what happened to him? What did he do for the rest of his life?'

'Nothing much. Ran the estate, became a pillar of the Tory party, took his seat in the House of Lords.'

'Whom did he marry?' Cecily asked.

'One guess.'

'Not Lady Mary?'

'The same. She'd waited for him and she was only twenty-eight or -nine when he came home. I think they were very happy. Had four children, my father being the eldest. Sorry if the end's a bit of an anticlimax.'

At that moment Merryweather entered. He approached the Earl. 'My lord, the window of the Grey bedroom has been boarded up.'

'Oh, fine.'

'No bird's body was discovered outside, but there were some more feathers.'

'I see.'

'And a thought has just occurred to me, my lord. The burglar alarm: I fear it will be impossible to turn it on. The contact will have been broken when the window was smashed. If the current is now switched on, the alarm bell will be automatically activated.'

'Lor', I suppose you're right. Oh, well, can't be helped.'

Merryweather departed and Lord Burford hastened to explain to his guests. 'Few years ago we had a very complex alarm system installed - too complex, really. Supposed to be foolproof, but it means that after it's switched on you can't open an outside door, or any window more than two inches, without setting it off. In fact, your bedroom windows have got stops fixed, though they can be forced easily enough in an emergency. However, as it would be pretty inconvenient if nobody could go outside during the evening without setting off the alarm, we don't usually switch the system on till the very last moment. Tonight, though, seems we won't be switching on at all.'

'Well, at least the burglars don't know,' said Gerry. 'That's the main thing.'

* * *

It was when the party was breaking up two hours later that Rex drew Lord Burford aside. 'In view of what's happened, I wonder: could you lock some money in your safe for me?'

'Of course — delighted. Go and get it now. I'll wait for you in my study.'

Three minutes later Rex entered the study to find Lord Burford ready with the safe open. He took a bulging billfold from his pocket and handed it to the Earl, who raised his eyebrows. 'Quite a bundle here, by the feel of it.'

'Something over two thousand pounds.'

'Great Scott! D'you always carry that much cash around with you?'

'Mostly. Psychological thing, I suppose. Makes me feel secure. Didn't always have a lot of dough. And I'm a country boy, raised not to trust banks. Don't mention it to Cyrus, will you? He thinks I'm crazy enough already.'

'Oh, shan't tell a soul.' Lord Burford put the billfold in the safe, closed the door and spun the combination knob. Together they left the room.

Chapter Seven

Cyrus Haggermeir looked at his watch, wound up his tape measure, left the room on the top floor of Alderley and made his way down to his bedroom. He went in - and stopped. Sitting in the room's only chair was Laura. In her hands was the script of
The King's Man
. She looked up with a smile.

'Do forgeev me, Meesta Haggermeir. I thought I would like to see the screenplay of the movie. I was going to ask to borrow it, but as you weren't here I deed not like to take it away.'

'Oh, that's OK.' He took his camera from around his neck and put it down.

'Will you be wanting this tonight, or may I take it to my room to feenish it?'

'You understand that's only the old silent version?'

'Of course, but the plot of the sound version will not be much deefferent, will it? Though naturally I understand that it will have to be, er - what you say - adapted to feet me.'

'Ah. Yeah.' Then he said a little awkwardly: 'Signorina, I, er - well, I'm not sure I can use you on this movie.'

She drew in her breath. 'What is it you say?
You
cannot use
me
?

'Well, not-that is—'

She jumped to her feet, again breaking into a torrent of Italian.

Haggermeir held up both hands. 'Please, no, signorina. No understand Italiano.'

Eventually she ran out of breath and stood staring at him, her eyes flashing. 'Signore, you eensult me. Do you not know the big Hollywood men, they all — Goldwyn, De Mille, Warner, and Korda in England - they all want to sign up Laura Lorenzo. They go on their knees. They grovel in the dirt. But always I say no. Until now. I offer you my services. And you?
You
turn me down. I not forget this!'

Haggermeir ran his hands through his hair. 'Don't get me wrong, signorina. I'd be tickled pink to sign you up. It'd be a terrific feather in my cap. But for another movie, not for
The King's Man
. It's not your sort of picture. It's a crummy old story—'

'
Sciocchezze
! Nonsense! It is a fine story.'

'It is? You think so?'

'Of course.'

'Well, maybe for Rex. But there's no part in it that would suit you.'

'No part? You are mad. The part of Anne-Marie might have been written for me. It just needs to be - what you say - written up, made bigger. True, she is French, but she can be Italiano just as well. Call her Anna Maria. Where is the problem?'

'I'm not sure Arlington Gilbert would go along with that.'

'Geelbert? You let your writers deectate to you?'

'Not normally, but he's a touchy guy. Now, look, what I'd like to do is commission a screenplay from a really first-rate writer - S.N. Behrman, say, or Lillian Hellman - just for you.'

'Fine words, Meesta Producer, but disguising the seemple fact that you do not weesh to have me in your movie. Well, do not fear that you will have to. Do not imagine that you will ever get the opportunity.'

And she flung the script at his feet and swept from the room.

* * *

Gerry stood in her room, surveying herself in a full-length mirror. She gave a satisfied nod at what she saw. She was wearing a plain white sleeveless nightdress. She had combed out her hair, so that it fell straight to below her shoulders. She had applied a very pale, almost white, face powder and a bright scarlet lipstick, very thick. The effect was dramatic.

She opened her dressing table drawer and took from it a long- bladed carving knife, which she'd sneaked from the kitchen earlier, and practiced holding it in various positions, rubbing her thumb lightly along the blade. She rehearsed several different kinds of smiles. At last she felt ready.

She'd realised earlier that it was nearly time to abandon her hoax on Arlington Gilbert. However, she couldn't just let it fizzle out. It had to end with a bang. This last personality was going to be her
piece de résistance
. Afterwards she'd tell him the truth.

She opened the door and went outside. Brr, but it was cold. She must get this over as quickly as possible.

She turned right and hurried past the intervening bathroom to Gilbert's room. She paused outside, then gently turned the knob and pushed the door open an inch. No light showed, nor was there any verbal challenge. Gerry slipped in, silently closed the door behind her, and stood quite still, her heart beating fast.

She took a deep breath and stepped forward. The knife was held behind her back, ready to be brought forward at the crucial moment. What she was going to do after he saw it she didn't know. It would depend on his reactions.

When Gerry judged she was in the middle of the room she stopped. Then she spoke, softly and wheedlingly in the voice of a little girl.

'Oh, Mr Gilbert.'

There was no reply. Gerry raised her voice. 'Mr Gilbert, would you like to play with me? I'm so lonely. Do wake up and play. I have a lovely toy here.'

But still there came no response.

Suddenly Gerry grasped the truth. She stumbled back to the door and switched on the light. The bed was empty.

She gave an exasperated exclamation. All for nothing. What a waste!

Then abruptly she realised how very relieved she was. She'd been behaving extremely childishly - not at all like a mature young woman with two prospective fiancés under her roof. So, back to her room quickly, before he returned.

But, she wondered, returned from where?

He hadn't just gone to the bathroom. It had a fanlight over the door and the light was out.

She looked round the room again and took in the fact that the bed had not been disturbed and that a pair of pyjamas were folded on the counterpane. It must be nearly forty minutes now since she'd seen him come in here, and it seemed he must have left again almost immediately. Perhaps he'd gone to talk to somebody. Haggermeir - about the script for the film, say?

Then Gerry saw something else. On the bedside table was a glass. And in it was a set of false teeth.

She pondered. Surely no one would go to talk to somebody and leave his false teeth behind. He might have gone to the library to get a book. But he'd never have stayed all this time. So - where was he?

Gerry thought hard. She didn't trust Arlington Gilbert, and she found herself consumed by an intense urge to know just what he was doing. For Alderley contained many valuable things. The burglar alarm was out of action. And if Gilbert was light-fingered, tonight would present a fine opportunity for him to do some thieving, fake a forced entry and put the robbery down to some mythical burglar.

Gerry knew she had to try and find out what he was up to.

Hastily she returned to her room, donned a woollen dressing-gown, wiped her face free of make-up, put a flashlight in her pocket, and left again. She was still carrying the knife, which she intended to return to the kitchen. This time she turned left, went to the main stairs and started down. It was quite dark, but she didn't turn the lights on, just flicked her torch on and off occasionally. She knew the house intimately. Gilbert didn't. So the darkness would give her a big advantage. Besides, she didn't want to risk being seen herself, apparently spying on a guest.

It was just as she reached the bottom of the stairs that she heard the sound.

She couldn't be sure exactly what it was, for it was muffled. But she knew where it came from.

Her father's study.

Gerry stared towards the study door, which led directly off the hall. She felt a prickling up and down her spine, which had nothing to do with the cold.

What on earth could he want in there? Her father kept no valuables in the study. Only a few pounds in a cash box, family and estate papers, account books, correspondence. Of course, Gilbert might not know that.

Well, there could be no innocent reason for him - or anyone else — being in there. So there was no cause now for concealment.

Gerry marched to the study, paused for a moment, threw open the door and reached for the light switch just inside. She pressed.

But the room remained in darkness.

Only then did it occur to her that with the alarm out of action a real burglar could have got in. Her heart gave a lurch. But she'd shot her bolt. In a voice that quavered only slightly, she said:

Who's in here?'

At that second a thin beam of light from a flashlight pierced the darkness, hitting her full in the eyes.

Gerry groped frantically for her own flashlight. But before she could get it from her pocket she was aware that someone was coming towards her.

With a great effort she held her ground. In her right hand she was still gripping the carving knife. She raised it, holding it out in front of her like a sword, and said loudly, 'Keep back. I've got a knife.'

With her other hand she at last managed to get out her flashlight. She was fumbling desperately to switch it on, when it was wrenched from her grasp and fell to the floor.

Now very frightened indeed, Gerry slashed with the knife. She felt the blade make contact with something and heard the man give an exclamation of pain. But he drew back only momentarily, and the next instant he'd grabbed her wrist, forcing her to drop the knife. She opened her mouth to scream, but he must have anticipated this, for as she did so he released her wrist and clapped his hand over her mouth. She struggled furiously.

Then, unexpectedly, he pushed her to one side. She staggered, tripped, and sat down hard on the carpet. She drew her breath for a shout. Then she froze.

All was quiet — and there was complete darkness.

He'd turned off his flashlight. He was just standing silently, waiting to pounce as soon as he knew her exact position.

At that moment she heard another noise. But it wasn't in the room. It sounded like some sort of scuffle, maybe a fall or hurrying footsteps. It was from above, probably from the top of the stairs.

Gerry sat quite still, holding her breath.

* * *