Till Death Do Us Part dgf-15 Page 2

  Dick grunted.

  'Or I should say,' amended the major, 'that you're now one of our two local celebrities. Has anybody told you about the fortune-teller?'

  'No. Who is the fortune-teller? I mean, it can't be anyone from hereabouts, or everybody would know him and know the whole thing was a fake. But they all seem to think he's outstandingly good. Who is the fortune-teller?'

  There was an open box of cartridges on the counter. Major Price picked up a handful idly, letting them run through his fingers back into the box. He hesitated, as though amused at a memory.

  'Remind me,' he said, 'to tell you of a devilish good joke I played on Earnshaw this afternon. Earnshaw-'

  'Hang it, major, don't evade! Who is the fortuneteller?'

  Major Price glanced round cautiously. 'I'll tell you,' he confided, 'if you don't let it get any farther for the moment, because he wants it kept quiet.

  He's probably one of the greatest living authorities on crime.'

  CHAPTER 2

  'AUTHORITY on crime?' repeated Dick.

  'Yes. Sir Harvey Gilman.'

  'You don't mean the Home Office Pathologist?'

  'That's the chap,' agreed Major Price complacently.

  As startled as he was impressed, Dick swung round to stare at the red-and-white striped tent, beside whose door the ghostly cardboard hand writhed and beckoned in the wind.

  And he saw a weird shadow-play.

  It was now so tumultuously dark that he could barely make out the sign which read,

  'THE GREAT SWAMI,

  PALMIST AND CRYSTAL-GAZER:

  SEES ALL, KNOWS ALL',

  adorning this gaudy structure. But there was a light inside, an overhead light. Against the darkness it threw on the tent-wall discernible shadows of the two persons inside.

  They were smudgy shadows, wavering as the tent belled uneasily. Nevertheless Dick could make out the silhouette of a woman at one side; and on the other side, with some sort of table between, a squat shadow with a curiously bulbous head, which seemed to be waving its hands.

  ' Sir Harvey Gilman!' Dick muttered.

  'Sitting in there,' explained the major, 'with a turban round his head, telling people all about themselves. He's been the hit of the show all day.'

  'Does he know anything about palmistry or crystal-gazing?'

  Major Price spoke dryly.

  'No, my lad. But he knows a lot about human nature. That's the whole secret of fortune-telling, anyway.'

  'But what's Sir Harvey Gilman doing here?'

  'He's taken Pope's cottage for the summer. You know - in Gallows Lane, not very far from your place.' Again

  the major chuckled. 'The Chief Constable introduced him to me, and I got an inspiration.' 'Inspiration?'

  ' That's right. I thought it'd be an excellent idea if we asked him to play fortune-teller, and not reveal his identity until later. What's more, I think the old boy's enjoying himself.'

  'What’s he like, actually ?’

  'Little dry old chap, with a glittering eye. But, as I say, I think he's enjoying himself no end. The Ashes know ' about it - he nearly made Lady Ashe faint, last night - and Dr Middlesworth and one or two others.' .

  Here Major Price broke off, with another parade-ground hail past Dick's ear. For one of the persons he had just mentioned was hurrying up through the clutter of tents towards Ashe Hall.

  Dr Hugh Middlesworth, bare-headed and with a bag of golf-clubs slung over his shoulder, moved at long strides to get ahead of the rain. He had been in charge of the golf hazard at the garden-party: that is, you tried various short shots from an improvised tee, and received nominal prizes in relation to the fewest strokes it took to reach the cup. He shook his head violently at Major Price's hail; but the major became so insistent that he reluctantly came over to the shooting-gallery.

  Hugh Middlesworth was both a good doctor and a very popular man.

  The reasons for his popularity might be difficult to determine. He was not a talkative person. He was also the mildest-mannered of men, -having a devoted if sharp-tongued wife and a rather large family.

  Lean and fortyish, his thin-spun brown hair going thin on top, Dr Middlesworth wore as a rule a vaguely harassed look. There were lines round his eyes and his mouth, with its narrow brown line of moustache. There were hollows in his cheek-bones and temples. But he had, in place of conversation, an understanding smile which suddenly lighted up his whole face. It was unconscious; it was his only bed-side mannerism; yet it worked wonders.

  Tramping over towards them now, slinging the golf-bag from one shoulder to the other, he surveyed Major Price in astonishment.

  'Aren't you at the cricket match ?' he demanded.

  'No,' said the major, both question and answer being a little superfluous.' I thought I'd hang on here, and - well! keep an eye on the fortune-teller. I've just been telling Dick about Sir Harvey Gilman.'

  ' Oh,' said Dr Middlesworth.

  He opened his mouth as though to add something, but changed his mind and closed it again.

  'As a matter of fact,' pursued the major, 'Lesley Grant is in there having her fortune told now. If he tells her she's met a fair man and will go on a journey, that's absolutely right' He pointed to Dick. 'Those two are going to make a match of it, you know.'

  Dr Middlesworth did not comment He merely smiled and extended his hand, with a grip of strong capable fingers. But Dick knew it was sincere.

  'I'd heard something about it,' he confessed. 'From my wife.' His vaguely harassed look returned, and he hesitated. 'As for Sir Harvey...'

  'In this lad's profession,' continued the major, tapping Dick impressively on the shoulder, 'he ought to be invaluable. Eh?'

  'Invaluable,' Dick said with some fervour, 'isn't the word for it. That man has given expert evidence in every murder case, celebrated or obscure, for the past thirty years. A friend of mine used to live near him in Bayswater; and said he'd come home, as often as not, with somebody's insides in an open glass jar. Ralph says the old boy's a walking encyclopedia about murders, if you can only persuade him to talk. And...'

  This was the point at which all three of them jumped.

  It was partly the brief glare of lightning, illuminating the whole grounds with a deathly pallor, and followed by a shock of thunder striking close. Lightning picked out every detail as though in the flash of a photograph.

  It caught, in the background, the dull red-brick shape of Ashe Hall, with thin chimneys and mullioned windows now moonlit: venerable and yet shabby, like their owner. It caught the writhe of seething trees. It caught the thin careworn face of Dr Middlesworth, and the fat comfortable countenance of Major Price, now turned towards the fortune-teller's tent. When darkness came again, with the crash of thunder dying to a rattle, it directed their attention towards another thing.

  There was something wrong inside the fortune-teller's tent.

  The shadow of Lesley Grant had jumped to its feet. The shadow of the man was also standing, pointing a finger at her across the table. And the weirdness of that shadow-play, wavering on a lighted wall, could not disguise its urgency.

  'Here!' cried Dick Markham, hardly knowing what he protested at.

  Yet the agitation of those figures he could feel as clearly as though they were there. The shadow of Lesley Grant turned round, and Lesley herself bolted out of the tent.

  Aimlessly, still carrying the rifle under his arm, Dick ran towards her. He saw her stop short - a white figure in the gloom - and she seemed to be bracing herself.

  ' Lesley! What's wrong ?'

  'Wrong?' echoed Lesley. Her voice was cool and gentle, hardly raised above its usual key. ' What was he saying to you ?'

  Dick felt rather than saw the brown eyes, with their ' strongly luminous whites and very thin eyebrows, searching his face.

  'He wasn't saying anything to me!' Lesley protested. 'I didn't think he was very good, really. Just the usual thing about a happy life; and a little illness, but nothing serious; and a letter arrivi
ng with some pleasant news.'

  ' Then why were you so frightened ?'

  ' I wasn't frightened!'

  'I'm sorry, darling. But I saw your shadow on the wall of the tent.' More and more oppressively disturbed, Dick came to a decision. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he thrust the rifle into Lesley's hands. 'Here, hold this for a minute 1'

  ' Dick! Where are you going?'

  ' I want to see this bloke myself.'

  ' But you mustn't !'

  'Why not?'

  The rain answered for her. Two or three large drops spattered down, and then ran across the lawn as though the hissing of all these trees were gathering together to let the skies open like a tank.

  Glancing round, Dick could see that the hitherto almost deserted lawn was now being invaded by people hurrying back from the cricket match at the other side of the grounds. Major Price was hastily gathering up an armful of rifles. Beckoning to him, and pointing at Lesley, Dick touched her arm.

  ' Go on up to the house,' he said.' I'll not be long.' Then he pushed open the tent-flap and ducked inside.

  A voice, pitched in a sing-song deliberately guttural and assumed, struck at him sharply from the close, stuffy confines of the tent.

  'I regret!' it said. 'You find me fatigued. That was the last sitting. I can oblige no more ladies or gentlemen to-day.'

  'That's all right, Sir Harvey,' said Dick. 'I didn't come to get my fortune told.'

  Then they looked at each other. Dick Markham could not understand why his own voice stuck in his throat.

  In an enclosure barely six feet square, a shaded electric light hung from the roof. It shone down across a gleaming crystal ball, against the plum-coloured velvet cover of the little table, and added a hypnosis to this stuffy place.

  Behind the table sat the fortune-teller, a lean dry shortish man of fifty-odd, in a white linen suit and with a coloured turban wound round his head. Out of the turban peered an intellectual face, a sharp-nosed face, with a straight mouth, a bump of a chin, and an ugly worried forehead. His rather arresting eyes were pitted with wrinkles at the outer corners.

  'So you know me,' he said in his normal voice - a dry voice, like a schoolmaster's. He cleared his throat, and coughed several times to find the right level.

  ‘That’s right, sir.'

  ' Then what do you want, young man ?' Rain-drops struck the roof of the tent with a drum-like noise.

  'I want to know,' returned Dick, 'what you were saying to Miss Grant' 'Miss who?'

  'Miss Grant The young lady who was just in here. Myfiancée’

  ' Fiancée, eh?'

  The wrinkled eyelids moved briefly. Major Price had said that Sir Harvey Gilman was enjoying himself at his job. It would require a sardonic humour, Dick reflected, to sit here all day in the airless heat, speaking with a fake accent and enjoying the dissection of those who sat opposite him. But there was no hint of any enjoyment now.

  ·Tell me, Mr...?'

  ' My name is Markham. Richard Markham.'

  'Markham.' The Great Swami's eyes seemed to turn inwards. 'Markham. Don't I periodically see, in London, plays written by a certain Richard Markham? Plays of a sort that are called, I believe,' he hesitated,' psychological thrillers?'

  'That's right, sir.'

  'Analysing, if I recall correctly, the minds and motives of those who commit crimes. You write them ?'

  'I do the best I can with the material,' said Dick, suddenly feeling on the defensive before that eye.

  Yes, he thought, the old boy was pleased. Sir Harvey uttered a sound which might have been laughter if he had opened his mouth a little more. Yet the ugly forehead remained.

  'No doubt, Mr Markham. This lady's name, you said, was...?'

  'Grant. Lesley Grant.' He uttered the words just as the storm broke and the rain tore down. It struck the roof of the tent with such a hollow, heavy drumming that Dick had to raise his voice above it. 'What's all this mystery ?'

  'Tell me, Mr Markham. Has she lived here in Six Ashes for very long ?'

  ' Np. Only about six months. Why ?'

  'How long have you been engaged to her? Believe me, I have a reason for asking that.'

  ' We only got engaged last night. But -'

  'Only last night,' repeated the other without inflexion.

  The hanging lamp in the tent swung a little, sending smooth bright reflexions slipping across that crystal ball. The drumming drive of rain deepened to a roar, making canvas walk vibrate. Behind the crystal ball, regarding his visitor with those curious eyes, Sir Harvey Gilman upturned the palm of his hand and knocked with the finger-joints, lightly and leisurely, on the velvet-covered table.

  'One other thing, young man,' he remarked in an interested way. 'Where do you get the material for your plays?'

  At any other time Dick would have been only too glad to tell him. He would have been flattered, even tongue-tied. He realized that he was probably offending the sharp-nosed old pathologist, even making an enemy of him. But he had reached a point of desperation.

  ' For God's sake, man, what is it ?'

  'I have been wondering how to break it to you,' said Sir Harvey, showing for the first time a gleam of humanity. He looked up. 'Do you know who this so-called "Lesley Grant" really is?'

  ' Who she really is ?'

  ' I suppose,' said Sir Harvey,' I had better tell you.'

  Drawing a deep breath, he got up from his chair behind the table. And it was at this point that Dick heard the crack of the rifle-shot

  After that, the world dissolved in nightmare.

  Though the noise was not loud, Dick's thoughts were so entwined already with rifles and shooting-ranges that he had almost a pre-vision of it.

  He saw the small bullet-hole jump up black in the side wall of the tent, now growing greyish where the wet crawled down. He saw Sir Harvey flung forward as by the blow of a fist - striking just beside and under the left shoulder-blade. He saw, in one momentary flash, the inscrutability of the pathologist's face cracked open by a look of sheer terror.

  Table and man pitched forward almost into Dick's arms. But there was not even time to stretch out a hand before the whole clutter landed round him. Sir Harvey's own hand was twitching convulsively; he dragged the table-cover with him; and the crystal ball dropped with a thud on flat-trodden grass. Then, as Dick saw the ghost of a blood-stain take form and deepen on the side of the white linen suit, he heard a clear voice raised outside.

  ' Major Price, I couldn't help it!'

  It was Lesley's voice.

  'I'm terribly sorry, but I couldn't help it! Dick shouldn't have given me this rifle to hold! Somebody touched my arm, and my hand was on the trigger, and the rifle seemed to fire itself by accident!' The voice came from a little distance away, of anguished sweetness and sincerity against the tumult of rain.' I -I do hope I haven't hit anything!'

  CHAPTER 3

  AT half-past nine that night, when June twilight was deepening outside the windows, Dick Markham paced endlessly up and down the study of his cottage just outside Sue Ashes.

  'If I could stop thinking,' he told himself, 'I should be all right But I can't stop thinking. 'The fact remains that Sir Harvey Gilman's shadow was clearly outlined against the wall of that tent, a perfect target if anybody had wanted to shoot at it

  ' But what you're thinking is impossible!

  'This whole affair,' he further told himself, 'will prove to have a perfectly simple explanation if you don't get into a fever about it. The main thing is to get rid of these cobwebs of suspicion, these ugly clinging strands that wind into the brain and nerves until you feel the spider stir at the end of every one of them. You're in love with Lesley. Anything else is of no consideration whatever.

  'Liar!

  'Major Price believes this shooting was an accident. So does Dr Middlesworth. So does Earnshaw, the bank manager, who turned up so unexpectedly after Sir Harvey Gilman tumbled over with a bullet in him. You alone...'

  Dick stopped his pacing to look slo
wly round the study where he had done so much work, good and bad.

  There were the fat-bowled lamps on the table, throwing golden light across its comfortable untidiness, and reflected back from the little line of diamond-paned windows. There was the dark brick fireplace with its white overmantel. The walls were hung with framed theatrical photographs, and garish playbills - from the Comedy Theatre, the Apollo Theatre, the St Martin's Theatre -announcing plays by Richard Markham.

  Poisoner's Mistake was proclaimed from one wall, Panic in the Family from another. Each an attempt to get inside the criminal's mind: to see life through his eyes, to feel with his feelings. They occupied such wall-space as was not taken up by stuffed shelves of books dealing with morbid and criminal psychology.

  There was the desk with its typewriter, cover now on. There was the revolving bookcase of reference-works. There were the overstuffed chairs, and the standing ashtrays. There were the bright chintz curtains, and the bright rag rugs underfoot It was Dick Markham's ivory tower, as remote from the great world as this village of Six Ashes itself.

  Even the name of the lane in which he lived...

  He lit another cigarette, inhaling very deeply in a curious perverse effort to make his own head swim. He was taking still another deep draw when the telephone rang.

  Dick snatched up the receiver with such haste that he almost knocked the phone off the desk.

  ' Hello,' said the guarded voice of Dr Middlesworth.

  Clearing his throat, Dick put the cigarette down on the edge of the desk so as to grip the phone with both hands.

  ' How's Sir Harvey ? Is he alive ?'

  There was a slight pause.

  ' Oh, yes. He's alive.'

  ' Is he going to - be all right?'

  ‘Oh, yes. He'll live.'

  A dizzy wave of relief, as though loosening something in his chest, brought the sweat to Dick's forehead. He picked up the cigarette, mechanically took two puffs at it, and then flung it at the fireplace.

  'The fact is,' pursued Dr Middlesworth, 'he wants to see you. Could you come over here to his cottage now? It's only a few hundred yards away, and I thought perhaps...?'