The Crooked Hinge Page 13

  “Yes, of course. But what has that to do with it?”

  “Look at this book, ma’am. Can you tell us positively whether it comes from the collection?”

  Molly approached the table. They had all risen, but she made a gesture of impatience at the formality.

  “I think so. Yes, I’m almost sure of it. All of them had that book-plate, and none of the other books have: it’s a kind of badge. Where on earth did you get the book?”

  Dr. Fell told her.

  “But that’s impossible!”

  “Why?”

  “Because there was such a terrible fuss and bother and to-do about those books. My husband caused it; I never knew why. We had only been married a little over a year, you know.” Her quiet brown eyes looked at the past. She took the chair Burrows set out for her. “When I came here as a—as a bride, he gave me all the household keys except the key to that room. Of course I handed them straight over to Mrs. Apps, the housekeeper; but you know the principle of the thing. It interested me, rather.”

  “Like Bluebeard?” suggested Gore.

  “No controversy, please,” said Dr. Fell sharply, as she turned to the claimant in a cold fury.

  “Very well,” said Molly. “Anyhow, I heard about it. My husband wanted to burn it—the collection, I mean. It seems that when they were valuing the property just before he came into it, they had a man down from London to look at the books. He said that little collection in the attic was worth thousands and thousands of pounds and almost danced with delight, the silly ass. He said there were all kinds of rarities in it, including something unique. I do remember what that was. It was a manuscript book which was supposed to have been lost since the beginning of the nineteenth century. Nobody knew where it had gone, and there it was right in our attic. They called it the Red Book of Appin. He said it was supposed to be the big harum-scarum hocus-pocus of magic, and it was so magical that anybody who read it had to wear a hoop of iron round his head. I jolly well do remember that, because you were all arguing about it last night, and this man”—she looked at Gore—“didn’t even know what it was.”

  “As Dr. Fell suggests, no controversy,” said Gore pleasantly. But he addressed Murray. “Fair play, magister. I never knew the sacred volume under that name, you know. But I can tell you what it is, and I can even identify it if it is still upstairs. I’ll give you one of its qualities. Anyone who possessed it was said to know what any inquiry would be before the inquirer opened his lips.”

  “That must have been very useful to you,” Molly said sweetly, “last night.”

  “As proving that I had read the book, yes. It was also said to confer the power of giving life to inanimate objects, which almost suggests that Lady Farnleigh must have read it herself.”

  Dr. Fell hammered the ferrule of his stick on the floor to call for attention. When the threatened storm had been hammered away, he looked at Molly benevolently.

  “Heh,” said Dr. Fell. “Heh-heh-heh. I gather, ma’am, that you don’t believe in the magical properties of the Red Book of Appin or anything else?”

  “Oh, so-and-so!” said Molly, using a short Anglo-Saxon word which made Madeline color.

  “H’mf, yes. Exactly. But you were telling us?”

  “Well, anyway, my husband was frightfully upset and concerned about those books. He wanted to burn them. I said not to be absolutely silly: if he had to get rid of them, why not sell them, and in any case what harm were they doing? He said they were full of eroticism and wickedness.” Molly hesitated, but she went on in her candid way. “That did interest me a bit, if you must know. I peeped into one or two of them—when he showed me the room—but it certainly wasn’t anything like that. You never read such horribly dull stuff in your life. There was nothing low about it. It was a lot of long-winded rubbish about the twin life-lines or something, and all done with those funny ‘f’s’ for ‘s’s’ that make it look as though the writer lisped. I couldn’t get up any interest in it. So, when my husband insisted on keeping the place locked, I never bothered any more about it and I’m sure it hasn’t been opened since.”

  “But this book,” Dr. Fell tapped it, “came from there?”

  “Ye-es, I’m sure of it.”

  “And your husband always kept the key to that locked room. Yet somehow it got out of there and into Miss Daly’s possession. H’m.” Dr. Fell was smoking in short puffs; now he took the pipe out of his mouth and sniffed massively. “Consequently, we have a connection—on a thread like this—through Miss Daly’s death to your husband’s death. Eh?”

  “But what connection?”

  “For instance, ma’am, could he have given Miss Daly the book himself?”

  “But I’ve already told you what he thought about those books!”

  “That, you know, ma’am,” said Dr. Fell apologetically, “was not the question. Could he? After all, we’ve heard then when he was a boy—if he was the real John Farnleigh, as you claim—he thought very highly of those books.”

  Molly faced it out.

  “You’ve got me in a cleft stick. If I say he hated such things out of all reason, you can answer that it’s too much of a change and proves he wasn’t John Farnleigh. If I say he could have given the book to Victoria—well, I don’t know what you’ll say.”

  “All we want is an honest answer, ma’am,” said Dr. Fell. “Or, rather, an honest impression. Heaven pity the person who tries to tell all the truth. But look here: did you know Victoria Daly well?”

  “Pretty well. Poor Victoria was the sort who exulted in Good Works.”

  “Should you have said,” Dr. Fell made a vague gesture with his pipe, “should you have said she was the sort to be deeply interested in the subject of witchcraft?”

  Molly clenched her hands.

  “But will you tell me, please, how on earth this witchcraft talk comes into it? Granting that’s what this book is about—if it comes from the attic it must be—does it prove anything just because she was reading it?”

  “There is other evidence, believe me,” said Dr. Fell gently. “Your own native intelligence, ma’am, will show you that the important thing is the connection of Miss Daly + a locked library + that book. For instance: did your husband know her well?”

  “H’m. I don’t know. Not very well, I should have thought.”

  Dr. Fell’s forehead was wrinkled. “And yet consider his behavior last night, as it has been described to me. Confirm this. A claimant to his estate appears. The possession of this estate, rightfully or wrongfully, is the most important driving force in his life. And now the citadel is attacked. Mr. Gore, Mr. Welkyn, with their convincing stories and their deadly proof of fingerprints, are closing in on him. It is true that he paces the floor; yet, at the very moment the attack is launched, he seems more concerned over the fact that there is a detective in the village investigating the death of Victoria Daly. Is that true?”

  It was true. Page remembered it only too well. And Molly was forced to admit it.

  “So, we perceive, the thread spins out. Let’s try to follow that thread wherever it leads. I am more and more interested in that locked attic room. Is there anything else up there besides books?”

  Molly reflected.

  “Only that mechanical robot thing. I saw it once when I was a little girl, and I rather loved it. I asked my husband why we couldn’t have it down and see whether we couldn’t find a way to make it work: I love things that work: but it stayed there too.”

  “Ah, the mechanical robot thing,” repeated Dr. Fell, hauling himself up with a wheeze and flash of interest. “What can you tell us about that?”

  It was Kennet Murray who answered, when Molly shook her head.

  “Now there is a matter, doctor,” Murray said comfortably, settling himself in the chair, “you would do well to investigate. I tried to investigate it years ago, and so did young Johnny.”

  “Well?”

  “Here are all the facts I could unearth.” Murray spoke with emphasis. “Sir Dudley neve
r allowed me to look at the figure, and I had to work from outside. It was constructed by M. Raisin, the organist of Troyes, who made the self-playing harpsichord for Louis XIV; and it was exhibited with great success at the court of Charles II in 1676–77. It was a nearly life-sized figure, sitting on a kind of small couch, and it was said to represent one of the king’s ladies: there is argument about which one. Its actions delighted the people of that time. It played two or three tunes on a cittern (what we nowadays call a zither); it thumbed its nose at the spectators, and went through a variety of gestures, some undoubtedly indecorous.”

  There was no doubt that he had caught the immediate interest of his audience.

  “It was bought by Sir Thomas Farnleigh, whose book-plate you have there,” said Murray. “Whether it was the immodesty of the automaton that later caused a blight to fall on it, or some other cause, I have never been able to find out. But something happened—dead silence of all records as to what. That seems no reason for the horror it inspired in the eighteenth century, though such a contraption wouldn’t have recommended itself to Sir Dudley or his father or grandfather. Presumably old Thomas learned the secret of how to make it work; but that secret has never been passed on. Eh, young Jo . . . I beg your pardon. Sir John?”

  At the thick and exaggerated courtesy of his tone, Gore showed some contempt. But he was interested in other matters.

  “No, it was not passed on,” Gore admitted. “And it will never be learned. I know, gentlemen. In my younger days I racked my brains over the secret of the Golden Hag. I could easily show you why none of the obvious explanations would work. If we—” He looked startled. “By all the gods, why shouldn’t we go up and have a look at her? I only just thought of it. I’m inhibited. I was thinking of all sorts of excuses and crooked ways by which I could sneak up there as I used to do. But why not? Why not, in the open light of day?”

  He thumped his fist down on the arm of the chair, blinking a little as though he himself had just come into light. Inspector Elliot interposed rather sharply.

  “Just one moment, sir,” Elliot said. “This is all very interesting; and we can go into it another time; but I don’t see that it has any bearing on—”

  “Are you sure?” asked Dr. Fell.

  “Sir?”

  “Are you sure?” repeated the doctor with great intensity. “I say, somebody! What does this automaton look like?”

  “It’s a good deal decayed, of course; at least, it was twenty-five years ago—”

  “It was,” agreed Madeline Dane, and shuddered. “Don’t go up there. Please say you won’t!”

  “But why on earth not?” cried Molly.

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid.”

  Gore regarded her with indulgence.

  “Yes, I hazily remember that it had a powerful effect on you. But you were asking what it looked like, doctor. It must have been uncannily life-like when it was new. The framework is of jointed iron, of course; but the ‘flesh’ is wax, with glass eyes—one missing—and real hair. The decay has not improved it; it is rather fat, and used to look somewhat unpleasant when you imagined things. It wears, or used to wear, a brocaded gown. The hands and fingers are of painted iron. In order to play the zither and make gestures, the fingers are long and jointed and sharp, almost like . . . It used to smile, but the smile had rotted away when I saw it last.”

  “And Betty Harbottle,” said Dr. Fell abruptly, “Betty Harbottle, like Eve, has a strong fondness for apples.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She has, you know,” urged Dr. Fell. “Betty Harbottle, the frightened maid, is fond of apples. That was the first thing which was pointed out to us when we questioned the servants. I suspect our good housekeeper, Mrs. Apps, of conveying a hint. By the darkness of Eleusis, that’s exactly what it was! And you”—the doctor’s red face shone with concentration as he blinked at Gore—“you told me a minute ago that you used to have a pretext when you wanted to visit the den of the books and the Golden Hag. You went to the apple room, next door to it in the attic. Will somebody offer me odds as to where Betty Harbottle was when she was frightened, and where the Thumbograph was hidden last night?”

  Harold Welkyn got up and began to walk round the table; but he was the only one who moved. Afterwards Page was to remember that circle of faces in the gloom of the library, and the brief expression he surprised on one of them.

  It was Murray who spoke, smoothing his moustache.

  “Ah. Yes. Yes, it is undoubtedly interesting. If I still have my geography straight, the stairs to the attic are at the back of the passage beside the Green Room. You suggest that the girl was carried downstairs and put in the Green Room?”

  Dr. Fell wagged his head. “I only suggest that we have got to follow our dim intelligences or go home to bed. Every thread leads back to that little den. It’s the core of the labyrinth and the heart of every disturbance, like the little bowl of fluid in The House and the Brain: which is an apter title than we may think. We had better pay a visit there.”

  Inspector Elliot spoke slowly.

  “I think we had. Now. Do you mind, Lady Farnleigh?”

  “No, not at all, except that I don’t know where the key is. Oh, bother that! Break the lock. It’s a new padlock my husband had put on; and if you think it will help you can tear—you can t-tear—” Molly brushed her hand across her eyes, held tight to her feelings, and regained control again. “Shall I lead the way?”

  “Thank you.” Elliot was brisk. “How many of the rest of you have ever been in that room? Only Miss Dane and Mr. Gore? Will you two come with Dr. Fell and me, please? And Mr. Page. The others please remain here.”

  Elliot and the doctor went ahead, talking in low tones. Molly then put herself in front of them, as though discreetly deaf, placing them between herself and the claimant. Page followed with Madeline.

  “If you’d rather not go up—?” he said to Madeline.

  She pressed his arm. “No, please. I want to go up. I do, really, to see if I can understand what is going on. You know, I’m afraid something I said has upset Molly terribly, but I had to tell her: there was no other way out. Brian. You don’t think I’m a cat, do you?”

  He was startled. Though her half-smiling mouth made fun of this suggestion, the long eyes had a look of great intensity.

  “Good Lord, no! What put that idea into your head?”

  “Oh, nothing. But she didn’t love him, really. She’s only doing all this because she thinks she ought to. In spite of all appearances, I tell you they weren’t suited to each other. He was idealistic and she is practical. Wait: I know he was an impostor, but you don’t know all the circumstances or you’d understand—”

  “Then give me the practical,” Page snapped.

  “Brian!”

  “I mean it. Idealistic my eye! If he did what they say he did, and what you yourself admit he did, our late dead friend was a hundred-carat swine and you know it. Were you by any chance in love with him yourself?”

  “Brian! You have no right to say that!”

  “I know I haven’t; but were you?”

  “I was not,” said Madeline quietly, and looked at the floor. “If you had better eyes, or understood things better, you would know enough not to ask that.” She hesitated; it was clear that she wanted to change the subject. “What do Dr. Fell and the inspector think of—all this?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, and realized that he had no idea.

  He had no idea. Their group had gone up the broad, shallow oak staircase to the floor above, along the gallery, and round the turning of a passage to the left. On the left was the Green Room, its open door showing heavy study-furniture of the last century and walls biliously patterned. On the right were two bedroom doors. The passage ran straight down to a window at the end, overlooking the garden. The stairs up to the attic—Page vaguely remembered—were in the outer thickness of the wall at the end of the passage, the door to them being in the left-hand wall.

  But he was
not thinking of this. Despite Dr. Fell’s thunderous geniality, and the easy-talking frankness of Inspector Elliot, he realized that he knew nothing whatever. Both of them would talk until Doomsday, of course. But what about routine police-work: a fingerprint here, a footprint there, a searching of the garden by Elliot or a clue sealed into an envelope? The finding of the knife, yes; he knew of that because under the circumstances it could hardly have been avoided. What else, even as regarded theories? Certain statements had been taken from certain persons; what were we to think of those statements?

  After all, it was their business. Yet it disquieted him. New discoveries were being turned up out of what he had thought was old ground, like skulls at Blenheim, and you had no warning of the skull until it rolled across the table. No, better change the simile. Up ahead towered Dr. Fell’s huge back, seeming to fill the passage.

  “Which room is she in?” Elliot asked in a low voice.

  Molly indicated the farther bedroom door, across the passage from the door to the attic. Elliot knocked very lightly at the door; but from inside came a faint muttered cry.

  “Betty,” whispered Madeline.

  “In there?”

  “Yes. They put her in the nearest bedroom. She’s not,” said Madeline, “she’s not in very good shape.”

  The full implications of this were beginning to creep into Page’s mind. Dr. King opened the bedroom door, glanced behind him, and eased it softly shut as he slipped out into the passage.

  “No,” he said. “You can’t see her yet. Tonight, maybe; tomorrow or next day more likely. I wish the sedatives would take hold. They won’t, properly.”

  Elliot looked puzzled and worried. “Yes, but, doctor, surely it’s not—not—?”

  “Serious, were you going to say?” asked King, lowering his grizzled head as though he were about to butt with it. “My God! Excuse me.”

  He opened the door again.

  “Has she said anything?”

  “Nothing for your notebook, inspector. Delirium, more than half of it. I wish I could find out what she saw.”