The House Of The Bears (5 page)

Hardy fingered his chin. ‘I
see,
sir.’

Blackshaw was still looking at Palfrey, but now there was a different expression in his eyes – a shocked one. The footman was standing, aghast, in the doorway. Hardy continued to finger his chin and look at Blackshaw, who turned to face him after a long while.

He said clearly: ‘Sir Claude gave me my instructions, sir.’

‘And is that usual?’ asked Hardy.

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t it more usual for Sir Rufus to issue instructions?’

‘The master seldom does, sir.’

‘When were the instructions given?’

‘A little after ten o’clock last night, sir.’ Blackshaw turned and looked at Palfrey again, and there was now no hint of insolence; only that startled expression in his eyes.
‘Was
Miss Loretta
murdered?’
he asked, and repeated: ‘Murdered?’

‘She isn’t dead,’ Palfrey told him, and the man’s eyes lit up, ‘but she may never walk again.’

Hardy said: ‘You all understand, of course, that there is no proof that there was foul play. Dr. Palfrey was right to advise Sir Rufus and to tell me, but we cannot take anything as proved. Don’t you agree, Dr. Palfrey?’

‘It’s unlikely that we shall prove anything now,’ Palfrey growled, ‘unless - Blackshaw, where is the old wood?’

‘It went on – on the kitchen fire.’ Blackshaw’s fingers were running up and down the seams of his corduroy trousers. ‘That was my responsibility, sir. I saw no point in keeping it.’

‘Did you notice the softness?’

Blackshaw hesitated. ‘It
was
soft in parts, yes.’

‘What would make it soft?’

‘I didn’t think about it,’ said Blackshaw.

‘Well, think about it now,’ said Hardy. ‘What would make old wood like that go soft, Blackshaw?’

‘Water – might.’

‘That would take a long time, wouldn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes, years,’ said Blackshaw. ‘Some spirits would. And some acids. Acids more likely. They would eat it away, sir. The rail was strong enough ten days ago. Once every month I look at it, never failing. There was nothing the matter ten days ago. It’s old; it’s treated with great care. If the wood went soft in those ten days –’

‘It was no accident,’ said Hardy softly. ‘Is that what you mean?’

Blackshaw hesitated, and then said: That
is
what I mean.’

A movement at the door – and they turned, amazed. Morne had come in.

Hardy told Morne quietly what had happened. Morne listened without a word, but once he put his hand to his pocket, as if feeling for something. He drew it away, empty. When the story was over, he looked at Palfrey steadily and said with great deliberation: ‘You saw me put the key into my pocket, did you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘It is not there now. Blackshaw, where did you get the key?’

‘From its usual place, sir.’

‘Is it there now?’

‘I put it back,’ said Blackshaw.

The key was on the hook from which Morne had taken it the previous night. Hardy took it with a polite murmur, and wrapped it in a handkerchief.’

Morne looked at the footman. ‘Ask Sir Claude to come here at once.’

‘Markham is out, looking for you,’ said Palfrey.

He thought that would bring about an explosion, but Morne kept his composure. He sent Blackshaw and the footman away. Palfrey told the story of the hunt again, more briefly than to Drusilla. Morne did not change his expression, even when he learned of the finding of Halsted’s body. His silence, the steady gaze from his bloodshot eyes, created an atmosphere of great tension. He looked fit to drop, but stood there firmly until Palfrey had finished. Then he went to the doorway and called to the footman in the hall: ‘Close this door, and allow no one in until I give you permission.’ He turned back to the others and began to talk in harsh, clipped sentences, unfolding a story which gripped them from the first words . . .

Three months before, Morne’s daughter had been driving her small car down Wenlock Hill – a hill so steep that many drivers preferred the alternative route – when her brakes had given way and she had crashed, escaping a fall over the cliff and certain death only by chance. A month afterwards, as she was riding along the edge of the same cliff, a gun had been fired close by, making her horse bolt. Loretta had been thrown, and the horse had fallen over the cliff; again sheer chance had saved the girl.

No one knew who had fired the shot.

After the first accident she had been her normal self; after the second, she had become subdued, and had been reluctant to go out alone, although normally she was happy in her own company. Morne had questioned her; she had replied that she felt nervous, but assured him there was no reason for it. Absorbed in private matters, Morne had not given her attitude much thought.

Three weeks after the second accident she had gone away for three days. She had returned with a man of forty, fifteen years older than herself. She had brought him to Morne and told him that they were engaged. She brooked no argument; she seemed unhappy. She wanted her fiancé to stay at the house, but did not say why. Morne, believing that it was infatuation and would soon pass, had agreed. The man had been taken ill soon afterwards. Halsted had been called in, diagnosed pulmonary tuberculosis, and advised the man to go into a sanatorium immediately. The man, who called himself – Morne used those words – Frederick Garth, had refused. Halsted had urged him to change his mind; the sanatorium in the Wenlock Hills was renowned for its curative treatment. Garth had been obdurate, however. He rarely left his room, and he became so seriously ill that Halsted told Morne that he must have a second opinion. Morne had authorized him to consult whomever he liked. Two days before, Halsted had informed him that Palfrey was coming.

All this, Morne told them without a change of tone, looking alternately at Palfrey and Hardy, never at Drusilla. At that point he paused for the first time. He helped himself to another drink and stood back, holding it in front of him.

‘You will perhaps blame me for accepting this situation. I blame myself. I am deeply involved, however, in work which I consider of great importance. I gave my home and my daughter less attention than I should have done. Yesterday morning I went into Corbin – the first time for six weeks that I have left the house. When I returned, I was told that Garth had left. My daughter seemed happier than I had known her for a long time. I was relieved. I assumed they had quarrelled and that he had gone because of that. I was fully satisfied with the development and asked no questions, even when my brother-in-law told me that an ambulance had called for Garth.

‘At my request, my nephew, Gerald Markham, telephoned Dr. Halsted. As far as I knew at the time, Halsted cancelled his appointment with you, Dr. Palfrey. Later, Halsted telephoned a message which was taken by a servant; he had been delayed, but would arrive before six o’clock. It proved that Gerald had left a message, not spoken to Halsted himself. I assumed, however, that the message had been passed on to you, and was not greatly concerned. I was in my study at half past five last evening when Mrs. Bardie came to tell me of Loretta’s fall. I was beside myself. I thought immediately that Halsted might arrive in time to help. I refused to see anyone else who might call; you doubtless heard me giving instructions. While you were helping with Loretta, I was thinking of the other accidents; I saw them as something more, something sinister. For the first time I considered the possibility of foul play. I did not discuss this, but when you told me your conclusions, Dr. Palfrey, I was in no further doubt. You know what followed.’

After a pause, Palfrey said: ‘Yes.’

Morne raised his haggard face towards the ceiling.

‘At three o’clock this morning I received a telephone message telling me that Loretta was dead. Everything –
everything
that has been good and happy in my life sprang from Loretta. I attempted to kill myself. My brother-in-law and an old servant restrained me. They left me in my room. I knew that one of them was outside my door. I could not stay there; I wanted nothing but death. I climbed out of the window and walked on to the moor. I went out intending to die. But morning came, and with it the sun, and I seemed to see Loretta shaking her head.’ He broke off.

Palfrey said: ‘Who gave you the message that your daughter was dead, Sir Rufus?’

‘The sanatorium officials.’

‘They did not. I inquired this morning,’ Palfrey continued. ‘She is comfortable. There is no great danger now.’

‘She is –
alive!’
cried Morne. ‘Loretta-’ His eyes were blazing and his voice rang out; life seemed to pour back into him. ‘Palfrey, this is true?’

‘I spoke to the resident doctor,’ Palfrey assured him. ‘Your message was false.’

Morne walked slowly to a chair, sat down and covered his face with his hands. Hardy glanced at Palfrey and said: ‘Is there somewhere we can talk, Doctor?’ ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘In my room,’ and they went upstairs.

Hardy said; ‘
Someone
believed that if Morne thought his daughter dead, he would kill himself.’

‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘That was fiendishly clever. The Devil is in this business. Who was this Garth? Where is he now? Why was Halsted killed-?’

‘We don’t know that he was murdered yet,’ objected Hardy. ‘We must wait for the result of the
post mortem.
But there is one thing, Dr. Palfrey, that will greatly interest you – an unfinished letter to you, found in Halsted’s pocket. Or, more correctly, in the lining. There was a hole in the lining and it had slipped through. It was the only thing left in the pockets – the wallet, watch, keys and everything were gone.’

Hardy held out a single sheet of paper which was wrinkled where it had been dried out. The ink had run badly, but the words were decipherable.

‘. . . I particularly want you, Sap, because this is a most unholy business. “Unholy” isn’t an exaggeration. Garth undoubtedly started with the usual symptoms. I think now that he might also be suffering from gradual poisoning. If so, I cannot tell what poison, myself.

‘I am more worried than I can say about Loretta Morne. The girl is terribly frightened, but tries to cover it. It has to do with Garth. I feel sure of that.

‘You will probably say that I should go to the police. If that is your opinion when you arrive, I shall do so at once. I would not ask you but for the work you have done abroad – I have read about that, of course. You seem—’

The letter stopped there.

Palfrey took another out of his wallet; the handwriting was the same, and he compared the dates; they were identical. The second letter, which he had actually received, was much less informative.

Hardy said: ‘He probably decided that in the first he had said too much, Dr. Palfrey, and put the unfinished sheet into his pocket, wrote the second and forgot the first.’

‘That’s reasonable,’ said Palfrey.

‘Before you sent for me to talk to Blackshaw,’ Hardy told him with an apologetic smile, ‘I telephoned my headquarters and asked them what they could tell me about you! Halsted obviously thought you, had particular qualifications for this business, and I wondered what they were. Now I know Halsted was quite right!’

‘Good lord, no!’ disclaimed Palfrey. ‘There’s all the difference in the world between spying and detecting, you know! But I must admit this business has got under my skin. What’s your police surgeon like? Will he object if I’m present at the
post mortem?’

‘Not a bit,’ said Hardy. ‘He’ll be glad to have you. I think I’ll leave my man – he’s a good chap – and come back with you.’

Instruments flashed in the electric light. Clements, the police surgeon, worked neatly and well, and did not talk. His face was grim. Palfrey thought that he was greatly affected by the fact that he was working on Halsted’s body.

He himself certainly was. His thoughts went back to their early days – to Guy’s, to Halsted’s puckish good humour.

Clements bent closer to his work; Palfrey sat on a high stool watching and thinking. At last Clements looked up. ‘Well?’

‘A narcotic,’ Palfrey said.

‘You wouldn’t care to say what narcotic, would you?’

Palfrey went to the bench near the sink, tested, analysed. At last he looked up with a vacant smile.

‘I’m no expert, of course. Some kind of morphine poisoning. Not laudanum and not opium as such,’ Palfrey said. ‘A mixture, and a new one. Halsted was worried by the symptoms of his patient Garth – or don’t you know about that?’

‘Hardy told me.’

‘Well, we can tell him that Halsted either poisoned himself or was poisoned,’ said Palfrey, ‘and the thing he’ll want to do first is to find out where Halsted had tea yesterday.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Finish my holiday,’ said Palfrey, absently. ‘This isn’t my show at all, you know.’

But he felt that it was, and knew that he would not be able to forget it.

‘I gathered that Hardy hopes you’ll be here for a few days,’ Clements told him as they parted, and Palfrey’s heart leapt.

During the next three days, Hardy came several times to Palfrey’s hotel and was eager to talk. He had not been able to trace Halsted’s movements after he had left Corbin a few hours before his death, but his car had been found at the foot of a rock in the Wenlock Hills. There were no fingerprints except Halsted’s. The night had been so dark and misty that there was little chance of finding anyone who had seen the car after it had left the pool on the moor. Hardy was able to say that the car had been driven to and from the pool, but the traces were lost on the road surface. It seemed likely that after Halsted had been left in the pool, his car had been driven close to Morne House, past the squat inn and to the Wenlocks, among the rocky valleys of which the driver had doubtless hoped that it would remain hidden for a long time.

Hardy admitted being disappointed in the results of his other inquiries.

‘Who benefits if Morne dies?’

‘His daughter.’