The Skeleton in the Clock shm-18 Read online

  The effect of this remark was curious.

  Instead of showing surprise or even sarcasm, H.M.'s big face smoothed itself out to utter expressionlessness. His small, sharp eyes fastened on Jenny in a way that evidently disconcerted her. He did not even seem to breathe. The thin voice of the auctioneer sounded far away.

  "A skeleton in a clock, hey? That's a bit rummy. Do you happen to know any more about it, my wench?"

  "Only — only that they say it used to belong to a doctor in our neighborhood. Years ago he sold it, or gave it away, or something. Then he died."

  "Uh-huh. Don't stop there. Go on."

  "Well! Aunt Cicely, that's Lady Fleet, saw it in Willaby's catalogue. She thought it would be nice as a present for Dr. Laurier; he's the son of the old doctor, you see. Aunt Cicely is kind. But she's so vague, though she's still very pretty, that she asked grandmother to bid."

  "Oh, my eye!" breathed H.M. "Oh, lord love a duck! I want a look at that clock. Excuse me."

  "But—"

  "Sure, sure. I can't take it away. But a little largess, I think, ought to get me just a look at it. You two stay where you are!"

  Martin made no objection. His blood was beating with the nearness of Jenny, his wits whirling, his entire universe concentrated on Jenny; and, he knew, she felt in much the same way.

  "Now listen," he said. "Before the wires can get crossed again: what's your full name, and where do you live?"

  "My name is Jennifer West, Grandmother — grandmother's made me hate titles so much we won't bother with the rest of it My mother is dead. My father's lived abroad since the beginning of the wan in Sweden. I live at a place called Brayle Manor."

  "Is that anywhere near Fleet House?"

  "About half a mile south of it Why?"

  "Look here." Martin hesitated. "This engagement was— arranged. Wasn't it?"

  Jenny hesitated too, and would not meet his eyes.

  "Yes, I suppose you could call it that. We're practically broke; haven't a bean. The Fleets are very wealthy. Aunt Cicely…"

  "Go on!"

  "Well, Aunt Cicely's only weakness is that she is a bit of a snob about titles. Her husband gave I don't know how much to party-funds so he could get his knighthood. But that's not all! Richard is really.. fond of me. Richard—"

  "Or 'dear Ricky, as we call him.'"

  "Darling, you mustn't talk like that!"

  "Sorry. Do you know what black bile is? It's jealousy. Sorry."

  "He really is nice. He's a great athlete, and very intelligent too: a double-first at Cambridge."

  Fierce, tense, lowered whispers! Their voices were so soft, as they stood against the brown wall between the gilt chairs and the lacquered wardrobe, that no bidder could have complained of disturbance. Over a grimy skylight the sun alternately strengthened and darkened.

  "If you don't mind," said Martin, "we'll omit the list of Richard's accomplishments. Jenny, I'm going to smash this marriage to blazes. Is that all right with you?"

  "I think I should hate you if you didn't But grandmother ‘?

  …

  "There is a technique with grandmother. You saw it used today by a master hand. How long are you staying in town?"

  "We've got to leave this evening. I'm — I'm to spend Saturday and Sunday at Fleet House."

  "Richard?"

  "No! Not particularly!" The blue eyes grew puzzled. "It's something rather mysterious." "How so?"

  "Well, there's a friend of Aunt Cicely's, and mine too, named Ruth Callice. This morning, very early it seems, Ruth rang up Aunt Cicely. She asked if she could come down for the week-end, and bring two guests. I don't know who the two men are; but Ruth said Aunt Cicely would like them. Ruth said she had some tremendous project, about the old prison. She said it might not work, but she'd know for certain today whether some Ministry would say yes."

  Then, very quietly, Jenny added: "Why did you jump when I said 'Ruth Callice.’"

  Martin had not jumped. But, as they stood together negligently against the wall, their hands were locked together. Each tremor, each blood-beat, almost each thought, seemed to flow from one into the other. And women, at times like these, have an emotional power which is almost like mind-reading.

  "Yes?" murmured Jenny.

  "Because I'm one of the two men. I was in Ruth's flat last night"

  "Oh," murmured Jenny, and her gaze moved away. He felt, in the literal sense of touch, something wrong. "Do you know Ruth well?"

  "I've known her for years! She's one of the finest persons I ever met!"

  "Oh. Did you ever tell her anything about — us?'

  "Yes, several times. I'm afraid I got rather emotional about it last night She cheered me up."

  "How nice," said Jenny, and suddenly tried to wrench her hands away. He held tightly. "Then didn't she ever tell you who I was? Who 'Jenny' was? Why didn't she?"

  "Probably because she had no more clue than I had."

  "Oh, yes, she had. She knew who I was. She knew all I knew about you, because I told her. Three years! And in the meantime, I suppose…"

  It occurred to Martin Drake, quite accurately, that Jenny must feel about Ruth Callice much as he felt about Richard Fleet He must stop this nonsense. But such talk is contagious.

  "If it comes to that why didn't you get in touch with me and tell me yourself?"

  Jenny's pale complexion was flushed, and she was trembling.

  "Because you thought it was just a casual adventure. Oh, yes, you did! Or else you'd have found me — somehow. You had to come to me, don't you see? Won't anybody leave me a little pride? Please let me go."

  "Jenny, listen to reason! You know how I feel, don't you?"

  "Yes. I think so."

  Jenny's resistance fell away. It was trivial, a brushing of the wing in those fierce whispers. The hands of the clock on the far wall stood at a quarter past twelve; the morning's auction would soon be over. And yet in the state of mind of these two, all unintentionally they were precipitating tragedy and disaster which moved closer as steadily as the ticking of the clock. "And now," she said, "you've been invited to Fleet House," "Ruth and Stannard can go there. I can't' "Why not?"

  "Damn it you can't accept a man's hospitality and then tell him you're going to break up his marriage. Isn't there a hotel or a pub somewhere near?"

  "Yes. There's one almost opposite Fleet House. That's where—" Jenny paused. Into her eyes came the same fear he had seen once before. She threw the thought away. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to put up at the pub. Tomorrow I'll see Mr. Richard Fleet and Aunt Cicely, and as for grandmother: this afternoon, I think."

  "No! You mustn't! Not this afternoon!"

  He gripped her shoulders. "If I could only tell you, Jenny, how much—"

  "Oi!" said the voice of Sir Henry Merrivale.

  H.M. was standing very close to them. How long he had been there Martin could not tell, but it might have been a long time. H.M.'s hat was in his hand, and his expression was malevolent Martin bumped back to reality.

  "Well? Did you see the dock?"

  "Uh-huh. I saw it. And it seems my first wild and wool-gatherin' notion," here H.M. massaged his big bald head, "is no more use than a busted kite on a calm day. But there's got to be some explanation! Or else—" With no change he added: "So you're putting up at the pub, son?"

  "You listened?"

  "I'm the old man," said H.M., austerely tapping himself on the chest as though this constituted all necessary explanation. "And I'm a bit glad you are stayin’ there, if there's room for you. Masters and I will be there too."

  Somewhere, noiselessly, an alarm-bell rang.

  "Chief Inspector Masters?"

  "Yes. Y'see, son, this business is not all bath-salts and lilies on the pond. It's messy. It's got claws. Pretty certainly in the past and maybe in the future, we're dealin' with murder."

  Chapter 4

  Martin Drake did not see the skeleton in the clock until late on the following afternoon, wh
en he saw it in the bar-parlour of the Dragon's Rest near Rundown.

  The Dragon's Rest, to be exact, boasted two bar-parlours in its long frontage. The inn, in that remote corner of Berkshire, faced westwards over a road running north and south. From the windows of either bar-parlour you could see, almost opposite — set well back from the road behind trees and clipped lawns — the white Georgian facade of Fleet House. By craning to the left, you could just make out in the distance the two square towers of Brayle Manor. By craning to the right, you could more distantly discern the round greyness of Pentecost Prison: six stone wings like spokes inside a stone wheel.

  Both Pentecost and Fleet House, Martin felt, would hold bitter dreariness at night Also, he was on a wire of nerves.

  For he could not forget yesterday's events. Jenny had permitted him to go with her only as far as the foyer at Claridge's, where she was to meet grandmother. She had made him promise, solemnly crossing his heart, that he would see Richard Fleet first, Aunt Cicely second, and grandmother third.

  Martin returned to his rooms at the Albany. After putting through a complicated and exasperating series of 'phone-calls, he managed to book a room at the Dragon's Rest Then, under the huge arched window which had served a Regency artist, he tried to make new sketches of Jenny from memory. They displeased him. Presently the telephone rang.

  "Stannard here," announced the hoarse, hearty, half-chuckling voice.

  He could picture Stannard leaning back in a swivel-chair, the black hair plastered with nicety on his round head, the black eyes twinkling. Martin could almost hear the pleased creak of the swivel-chair as Stannard shifted his stocky bulk.

  "I hope, Mr. Drake, you haven't forgotten our little talk last night?"

  No, he hadn't forgotten it But he could think only of Jenny.

  Why, and in what crazy moment, had he insisted on this vigil in the execution shed?

  "Because I'm glad to say," Stannard pursued, "that I have been successful. For a night or two at least we are masters of Pentecost Prison."

  "Good! Good! Good!"

  "Our good friend Ruth has helped us. A friend of hers has been kind enough to invite us all to spend the week-end—" "Yes. I know." "You know?"

  This time an edge did get into Martin's voice.

  "Mr. Stannard, it's a vitally personal matter; I’ll explain when I see you. I can't stay at Fleet House. But you'll find me at the pub just across the way."

  There was a slight pause.

  "You'll travel down with us, of course?" inquired Stannard. "Noon train from Paddington to Reading, change for Newbury, then bus for the rest Devilish awkward, being without petrol." "Sony. I'm afraid I've got to take an earlier train."

  Now there was a definite pause. He knew Stannard had detected something odd in his tone, and that Stannard was examining the 'phone curiously.

  "Shall I — ah — make excuses to our hostess and young host?"

  "No. They'll have learned about it when you arrive."

  "Shall I make excuses to Ruth?" This was said very casually.

  "No." Martin clipped off the monosyllable.

  "Ah. It should be very interesting to visit Fleet House," mused Stannard, "especially as I once had some slight acquaintance with its late owner. Just as you like, my dear fellow. Good-bye."

  Martin replaced the telephone. He looked round his sitting room, on whose walls much of his own work hung framed amid his collection of rapiers. It had occurred to him that afternoon to ring Ruth Caliice and ask her what the devil Ruth had meant by her secrecy about Jenny. But Ruth was a good fellow; Ruth must have had some real reason; he put the thought aside.

  That was how, next morning, a grey bus with dropsical wheels rattled him up in Rundown crossroads at half-past eleven. Not far ahead he could see the Dragon's Rest with its three tail and broad gables in a straight line, set up on a little rise on the east side of the road.

  The Dragon's Rest was a beamed house of great age. Behind it lay rolling fields, the glitter of a stream, and the largish oak wood he later idenfified as Black Hanger. Not a blade of grass stirred, nothing stirred, in that hollow of silence and heat

  Mr. Puckston, the landlord, took him up to a first-floor bedroom facing west Then Martin's first move was to clatter downstairs again to the telephone at the back of the saloon bar, and get in touch with Fleet House. He was answered by an informal and chatty maid,

  "Mr. Richard? Oh, he's driven over to the races at Newbury."

  Martin's heart sank. He put obvious questions.

  "No, not back to lunch. But hell be back in the afternoon, because there's people corning. Would you like to speak to his mother? She's in the garden."

  "No, thanks. You say he drove over. Can you describe the car?"

  "Oh, it's just an ole black car. Makes a lot of noise."

  "Do you happen to know the number?"

  "Are you kidding?" asked the maid, who had evidently been out with American troops.

  "As soon as he conies back, will you ask him to ring Martin Drake at the Dragon's Rest? It's very important. Will you give him that message?"

  "You have a nice voice," said the maid. "I sure will!"

  Martin went back to his room fuming. To follow Richard Fleet in the crowds at Newbury races would be certainly to miss him, even if there were a photograph for identification. The minutes ticked on. He had lunch in the scrubbed oak dining-room, the food being incredibly good. But always he prowled back to the bedroom, also clean and surprisingly comfortable despite the humps of age in the floor.

  Pulling back the thin white curtains at one window, he kept glancing across the road to where — some three hundred feet away — Fleet House raised its square, uncompromising face of white-painted stone. Being on higher ground, he could look across almost to the topmost row of windows. Over trees and clipped lawns, he could see a flagstone terrace before the front door.

  Flagstones. That was probably where Sir George Fleet had…

  Martin saw no sign of an ole black car. But someone was moving on the terrace, woman in a long filmy dress with a red sash and a broad straw sun-hat

  And Martin yielded to temptation.

  On a table beside his bed, with its spotlessly mended white counterpane, lay an old-fashioned brass telescope of the short and folding sort. He pulled out its few bands and focussed the end one. The image sprang up close and clear, just as the woman turned her head round and up. Aunt Cicely.

  He remembered Jenny's soft voice: "Aunt Cicely if kind. But she's so vague, though still very pretty." The westering sun was in Martin's eyes, though the telescope shielded it. Aunt Cicely must be into her fifties. Yet she had an Edwardian air, Martin thought: the sort Sargent had painted so well. With her pale blonde hair under the broad sun-hat, face turned up, she seemed (through the telescope, at least) almost young and rather fragile.

  Furthermore, she had recently been crying.

  Martin shut up the telescope. What was the air of sheer coldness which seemed to breathe out of Fleet House? Probably his professional imagination. But…

  This situation was getting to be damned awkward. He had not seen Ruth or John Stannard. But then he had not seen H.M. or Masters either, though the landlord told him they had booked rooms. Half-past two and a quarter to three.

  It was past four, the cigarette-tray full of stubs, before he made a guess which he should have made before. He hurried down, fumbled with the small, 'phone-directory, and rang Brayle Manor.

  If grandma came to the ‘phone? All right! But it was a male voice which answered, evidently a butler.

  "Is Mr. Richard Fleet there?"

  "Yes, sir. Whom shall I say is calling?"

  Martin spoke deliberately. "This," he said, "is an enemy. Tell Mr. Fleet that an enemy is waiting for him at the Dragon's Rest to give him a message of great importance."

  If young Fleet had an ounce of sporting blood in his body, Martin thought, that ought to fetch him. He expected further questions. But the unruffled voice merely said, "One moment, p
lease." And then, after a long minute, "Mr. Fleet will be with you immediately."

  Got it!

  At this hour of the day, the whole inn was so quiet that you could hear the wainscot creak. Mr. and Mrs. Puckston must be enjoying their afternoon nap. The Dragon's Rest had three front doors, one in each gable. As Martin unlocked the first one, which was in the saloon bar, the snap of the key sounded like an act of guilt

  Moving on to the first bar-parlour, on his right, Martin unlocked the front door there. This was a cosy room, its walls thickly hung with sporting prints and with quite genuine antique hunting horns of the early nineteenth century. Somewhat decaying leather chairs stood at the tables, and at either side of the black marble mantelpiece.

  Then Martin turned round, and saw the skeleton in the clock.

  The clock stood in the angle of the wall, south-east, beyond the mantelpiece. It was about six feet high, including its platform-base, and of dark polished wood elaborately wrought at the top. Through a round glass dial, with gilt numerals and hands, the skull-face looked out

  And the clock was ticking.

  No! Wait a minute! It couldn’t be ticking. The clock-case had another glass panel, oblong, so that you could see the skeleton behind a brass pendulum: which was motionless.

  The illusion had been produced by a large square metal-cased clock, with a small pendulum, on the mantelpiece. Its slow tick-tick animated the hush of an atmosphere flavoured with the smell of beer and old stone. But the tall clock said nothing.

  Yet it gave the watcher a slight start, the skull face a smug look in its dusky recess. Martin was conscious of golden shine lying through the windows behind him, of Fleet House across the road in its aloofness. He went over to examine the clock. As he had expected, the oblong lower panel opened on little hinges. He peered inside, he peered up.

  With finewires, and a heavier wire drilled into the head, the skeleton had been fastened to the back of the case; its feet and ankles partly concealed by a wooden fitting evidently designed to help the upright position. The clock-hands, like the pendulum, were dummies held by screw and spindle. You could adjust them to any position you liked. The hands now stood at ten minutes past twelve.