“Mmmm...” hummed Mr Hoole, and went his ways.
Mrs Patmore noticed that Grail’s air of glum abstraction did not lift. The rest of the London party also appeared thoughtful and depressed. Perhaps they were worried about this ridiculous duel, or whatever it was. She smiled grimly to herself, having thought up a little anatomical joke about shooting low.
At about eleven o’clock, Grail left the house after telling the housekeeper not to include him in her arrangements for lunch, as he proposed to go for a long walk on his own in order to combat a headache which had persisted since the night before. It had been suggested to him, he said, that Gosby Vale was a pleasant spot and that good scenery was to be enjoyed between there and a place called Mudlum or something.
“Moldham,” Mrs Patmore corrected. “Moldham Meres is nice.”
“Yes, I’m sure Moldham Meres is very nice. Or should I say are?”
And those, Mrs Patmore was to inform Inspector Purbright later, were the very last words the poor gentlemen said. By then, they had been invested with solemnity, if not significance, by subsequent events. When actually uttered, though, they struck her as just another instance of London sarcasm, and as soon as Grail had turned and taken the first step of his walk she stuck out her tongue at his back and slammed the door.
The others hung about as they generally did, reading papers and having drinks from time to time, and writing things and then screwing them up, and wandering from room to room, and scratching themselves, and making telephone calls, and opening packets of biscuits, and then forgetting where they had put them, and reading more papers, and using vases and cups and sherry glasses as ashtrays.
Mrs Patmore wore her disapproval of these shiftless habits like an enveloping black cloak. It had no effect. None of the unwanted guests seemed to be aware of her. She marched upstairs, fumed in solitude in her bedroom for half an hour, then quit the house in time to catch the noon bus into town. It wouldn’t hurt that lot to get their own dinner for once. And if Bert Stamper didn’t like it, he knew what he could do.
“Thank God for that: the old crow’s pissed off at last.”
Mrs Patmore had been in error. Her presence had not been ignored, and Becket’s announcement from his vantage point at one of the front windows produced immediate response from his two colleagues.
Lanching went to the staircase. “I’ll make sure that that room’s got enough stuff in it.”
“Bedclothes,” Birdie called to him. “Don’t forget them. And check the lock and the key. Oh, and you’d better take a look round and see if there’s a pot anywhere.”
“A what?” Lanching was leaning over the banisters, puzzled.
“A pot, for God’s sake. Chamber. They do exist, you know. And try thinking in terms of siege tactics. OK?”
Lanching shrugged and went up the rest of the stairs.
Birdie turned to Becket. “Bob, you keep an eye open for Louring Lil coming back. It shouldn’t be for an hour or two, with any luck.”
“How long are you going to be?” Becket asked. His bearing seemed more lively than Lanching’s. The sulkiness that had characterized most of his behaviour since the group’s arrival in Flaxborough was no longer in evidence. The big head was set at a pert angle, challenging—almost derisory. You’re enjoying yourself, my lad, Birdie thought to herself.
Aloud she said: “Twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour. Unless he’s cocked things up.”
Becket grimaced. “That wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I’ll bring the car round the back. Make sure the kitchen door isn’t locked. And if dear Lily does turn up again, you’d better stand outside to give me plenty of warning.”
Birdie left at once. At the end of the lane, she was about to turn in the direction of Pennick and Gosby when she noticed Mrs Patmore standing at the bus stop on the other side of the road. After brief consideration, she drove over and drew to a halt beside her.
“I’m just going into town; can I give you a lift?”
It was not an offer which even Mrs Patmore, still rigid with resentment of Goings On, could refuse.
“A bit of shopping,” Birdie explained as they glided silently through the Flaxborough approaches. It was as well to be remembered as having made an excursion in a direction opposite to that taken by Clive.
She set Mrs Patmore down near the Corn Exchange, crossed the further side of the Market Place and doubled back over the bridge, leaving the town by Burton Place and Heston Lane. There would be a back road in a couple of miles or so, if she remembered that morning’s map-reading correctly, that would take her through a place called something-Willows and on to North Gosby.
There was, and it did.
At North Gosby, Birdie stopped and examined the map for the last time. The references were clear enough, and quite simple. She drove on.
The derelict railway station that once had served the little village of Hambourne was reached by a short paved incline leading from the main road. Grass already was growing through the cracked concrete surface and several small bushes had established themselves around the entrance to what had been the booking office.
Up the incline Birdie backed the Rolls, after ensuring that no other traffic was in sight. Once off the road, the car was effectively screened from view by an overgrown hedge and a grove of elders. A concourse of small birds that had been stripping the trees of their dark loads of berries burst upward in a noisy cloud. A face peered cautiously past a corner of one of the glass-less windows. Birdie raised a hand. She took the car as close to the doorway as she could.
Grail, looking pale, untidy and rather tired, emerged with almost melodramatic furtiveness and made a grab for the rear door.
Birdie resisted an impulse to laugh. “It’s all right,” she said, “we’re in the middle of bloody nowhere here. Take your time.” She twisted round in her seat and pulled aside a heavy travelling rug as Grail got in the car and tried awkwardly to squat out of sight. “All right, take your time,” she said again. “There’s tons of room and the floor’s moderately clean. Lie flat and pull this over you.” She let the rug fall across his knee.
“There were snakes in that dreadful place.”
Birdie let in the clutch. “How fascinating. It must be quite a little nature reserve.”
“You’ve been the hell of a time.”
“Oh, ballsikins. You’re lucky to have got away so quickly. It was solely out of consideration for you that we decided to pick you up in daylight. It’s bloody risky.”
At the junction, she held the car back in the shelter of the greenery until the road was empty in both directions. Then she put it swiftly on the way back to Flaxborough.
The plaintive voice rose once more from beneath the rug. “There’ll be hell to pay if this crazy scheme goes adrift.”