Sandra Compline laid down her pen. She enclosed the paper in an envelope and wrote a single word of direction. Outside on the landing, the grandfather clock struck two. She wrapped her dressing-gown more closely round her. The fire was almost dead and she was bitterly cold. The moment had come for her to get into bed. The bed-clothes were disordered. She straightened them carefully and then glanced round the room, which was quite impersonal and, but for the garments she had worn during the day, very neat. She folded them and put them away, shivering a little as she did so. She caught sight of her face in the glass and paused before it to touch her hair. On an impulse she leant forward and stared at the reflection. Next, she moved to the bedside table and for some minutes her hands were busy there. At last she got into bed, disposed the sheet carefully, and drew up the counterpane. Then she stretched out her hand to the bedside table.
It was an isolated storm that visited Cloudyfold that night. Over the greater part of Dorset the snow lay undisturbed, but here in the uplands it was drilled with rain and all through the night hills and trees suffered a series of changes. In the depths of Jonathan’s woods, branches, released from their burden of snow, jerked sharply upwards. From beneath battlements of snow, streams of water began to move and there were secret downward shiftings of white masses. With the diminution of snow the natural contours of the earth slowly returned. Towards dawn, in places where there had been smooth depressions, sharp furrows began to take form, and these were sunken lanes. In Deep Bottom beneath the sound of rain was the sound of running water.
The guests, when at last they slept, were sometimes troubled in their dreams by strange noises on the roofs and eaves of the house where masses of snow became dislodged and slid into gutters and hollows. The drive, and the road from Highfold down into Cloudyfold Village and up into the hills, began to find themselves. So heavy was the downpouring of rain that by dawn the countryside was dappled with streaks of heavy greys and patches of green. When Mandrake woke at eight o’clock his windows were blinded with rain and, through the rain, he saw the tops of evergreen trees, no longer burdened with snow.
He breakfasted alone with Jonathan who told him that already he had seen some of the outdoor staff. His bailiff had ridden up from his own cottage on horseback and had gone out again on a round of inspection. Jonathan had told him of the tragedy. He had offered to ride over Cloudyfold. It meant twelve miles at a walking pace, supposing he did get through.
“If I stick,” said Mandrake, “he can try. If I’m not back in three hours, Jonathan, he had better try. What sort of mess is the drive, did he say?” The Bewlings, it seemed, had been down to the front gates and reported that the drive was “a masterpiece of muck” but not, they thought, impassable. You could get over Cloudyfold on a horse, no doubt, but a car would never do it.
“How about the road down to the village?” asked Mandrake.
“That’s in better case, I understand.”
“Then if I got through Deep Bottom I could drive down to Cloudyfold Village and telephone from there to the rectory at Winton St. Giles?”
“The lines may be down between the village and Winton. They go over the hills. I think it most probable that they are down. As far as the Bewlings went they found nothing the matter with my own line.”
“Can’t I get to Winton St. Giles by way of the village?”
“A venture that is comparable to Chesterton’s journey to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head, my dear Aubrey. Let me see. You would have to take the main road east, turn to your right at Pen Gidding, skirt Cloudyfold hills and — but Heaven knows what state those roads would be in. From Pen Gidding there are only the merest country lanes.”
“I can but try.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Jonathan,” said Mandrake, “do you like the idea of leaving William Compline’s body in your smoking-room for very much longer?”
“Oh, my dear fellow, no! No, of course not. This is horrible, a nightmare. I shall never recover from this week-end, never.”
“Do you think one of the Bewling brothers could come with me? If I did come to a standstill it would be helpful to have someone, and if I don’t, he could direct me.”
“Of course, of course. If you must go.” Jonathan brightened a little and began to make plans. “You must take a flask of brandy, my dear boy. James Bewling shall go with you. Chains, now. You will need chains on your wheels, won’t you?”
“There’s not by any chance a police station at Cloudyfold Village?”
“Good gracious, no. The merest hamlet. No, the nearest constable, I fancy, is at Chipping, and that’s beyond Winton St. Giles.”
“At any rate,” said Mandrake, “I think I’d better see Alleyn first. I only hope he’ll consent to run the whole show and come back with me but I suppose I shall run into an entanglement of red tape if I suggest such a thing.”
“Dear me, I suppose so. I scarcely know which prospect is more distasteful — the Chipping constabulary or your terrifying acquaintance.”
“He’s a pleasant fellow.”
“Very possibly. Perhaps I had better send for old James Bewling before he plunges out-of-doors again.”
Jonathan rang the bell, which was answered by Thomas— who was unable to conceal entirely an air of covert excitement. He said that the Bewlings were still in the house, and in a minute or two James appeared, very conscious of his boots.
“Now, James,” said Jonathan, “Mr. Mandrake and I want your advice and assistance. Dry your legs at the fire and never mind about your boots. Listen.”
He unfolded Mandrake’s project. James listened with his mouth not quite shut, his eyes fixed upon some object at the far end of the room, and his brows drawn together in a formidable scowl.
“Now, do you think it is possible?” Jonathan demanded.
“Ah,” said James. “Matter of twenty mile it be, that road. Going widdershins like, you see, sir. She’ll be fair enough so furr as village and a good piece below. It’s when she do turn in and up, if you take my meaning, sir, as us’ll run into muck and as like as not, slips, and as like as not if there bean’t no slips there’ll be drifts.”
“Then you don’t think it possible, James?”
“With corpses stiffening on the premises, sir, all things be possible to a man with a desperate powerful idea egging him on.”
“My opinion exactly, Bewling,” said Mandrake. “Will you come with me?”
“That I will, sir,” said James. “When shall us start?”
“Now, if you will. As soon as possible,” And as he spoke these words Mandrake was moved by a great desire for this venture. Soon he would meet Chloris again, and to that meeting he looked forward steadily and ardently, but in the meantime he must be free of Highfold for a space. He must set out in driving rain on a difficult task. It would be with bad roads and ill weather that he must reckon for the next hour or so, not with the complexities of human conduct. His eagerness for these encounters was so foreign to his normal way of thinking that he felt a sort of astonishment at himself. “But I don’t like leaving her here. Shall I wait until she appears and suggest that she comes with us? Perhaps she would not care to come. Perhaps I have embarrassed her with my dreary confidences. She might be afraid I’d go all Footling at her on the drive.” He began to horrify himself with the notion that Chloris thought of him as underbred and overvehement, a man whom she would have to shake off before he became a nuisance. He went upstairs determined that he would not succumb to the temptation of asking her to go with him, met her on the top landing, and immediately asked her.