He made a little bow.
“Very nice of you to say so,” said Drummond. “I should like to play.”
“The trouble is,” continued Andrews, “that I have no idea whatever as to what the game is likely to be.”
“It’s just possible,” put in Algy, “that the letter is a hoax.”
“Possibly, but not likely, Mr. Longworth. And even if it were, it doesn’t alter the fact that somebody, inadvertently or otherwise, has spilled the beans. Because it’s preposterous to think that any of the other seven people in the know could have sent me that note. No: I don’t think that letter is a hoax. It is, I believe, a definite warning, sent by someone who has found out about this week-end, who knows that an attempt may be made on the Frenchman’s life, and whose conscience has pricked him. You see, there’s no secret about the fact that there is a large section of people in France, and in other countries too, who would rejoice if the Comte was out of the way.”
“Has he been told about it?” asked Drummond.
“He has. And pooh-poohs the whole thing. Takes up the line that if people in his position paid any attention to threats of that sort they might as well chuck up the sponge straight away. Which is quite true. But the last thing I, or Lord Surrey want, is that the chucking up should occur here.”
“Naturally,” agreed Drummond. “You’ve got some men down, I suppose?”
“Four,” said Andrews. “They’re in the grounds now; they’ll be in the house tonight.”
“ ‘Guns are useless.’ I wonder what that means. Poison?”
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders.
“Possibly. But unless he eats or drinks something different to everybody else the whole house party is in for it.”
“Thanks,” said Drummond with a grin. “What about the servants?”
“Been with his Lordship for years. Besides it is inconceivable that one of them should have sent the note, or given the show away. It would mean that Lord Surrey himself had been indiscreet, otherwise they could never have known.”
“Still somebody has given it away,” remarked Drummond. “And assuming what you’ve said to be correct it must be one of you eight.”
“My own belief is that it’s the Comte himself,” said Andrews. “Quite unintentionally, of course. He’s one of those men who is reckless to the point of foolhardiness where his own safety is concerned. For all that, he’s got to submit to some safety measures tonight, whether he likes it or not.”
“Are they hush-hush?” asked Drummond.
“Not from you,” said the Inspector, “though I don’t want you to pass them on at present. But he is not going to sleep in the room he occupies now. He will dress for dinner there, and then just before he goes to bed a strange defect will be discovered in a fuse. Or else Lord Surrey will tell him the truth point blank. He will sleep in another room, with one of my men outside his door, and I shall spend the night in his present one. Which may lead to us finding out something.”
“You evidently take this as serious,” said Drummond.
“I do. But in any case it’s just as well to be on the safe side. And I think my arrangements, simple though they are, give the maximum of security with the minimum of inconvenience. If trouble comes from the outside it finds me; if it comes from the inside it has to pass one of my men.”
“And what do you want us to do?”
“Keep your eyes open during the evening for anything that strikes you as being suspicious. I shall be on hand in one of the sitting rooms, if you want to get hold of me. And if the phrase ‘Guns are useless’ means anything in the nature of a rough house, you won’t want any prompting,” he added with a grin as he rose. “No, I won’t have another, thanks. I must go and inspect my myrmidons. Probably see you later.”
“So that’s why we were honored, Algy,” said Drummond as the door closed behind the Inspector. “I had hoped that my advice was going to be asked on high matters of state, but life is full of disappointments. However, if we’ve got to do the Sherlock Holmes stunt more beer is indicated. And then we’d better toddle back. But one wonders,” he continued as another tankard was put before him, “why the letter writer was so cryptic. Having gone to the trouble of saying what he did, why the dickens didn’t he say more? Didn’t he know himself, or what stung him?”
“It’s that that made me suspect a hoax,” said Algy.
“You frightful liar,” remarked Drummond dispassionately. “You never thought of the point till I mentioned it. Now mop up your ale, and wipe your chin, and then you must go back and change your dickey. And for heaven’s sake don’t tell old Dinard that French story of yours or all Andrews’ precautions will be wasted. Though I admit,” he added brutally, “that death could only be regarded as a merciful release from listening to it.”
Any setting less suggestive of violence or murder than Oxshott Castle that night it would have been hard to imagine. They had dined in state in the large banqueting hall, a dinner which reflected credit on even Lord Surrey’s far-famed chef — and the conversation at times had been amazingly indiscreet. It had taken the three diplomats a certain amount of time to understand the reason for Drummond’s and Algy’s presence, since by tacit consent no mention was made of the threatening note. The Comte especially appeared to think that Algy was mental — a skeleton in the family cupboard and Drummond his keeper — but the fact did not prevent him making one or two remarks that Fleet Street would have paid thousands for. And Meteren was not far behind in frankness.
It was a dinner to remember.
No women were present, and no other guests had been asked in. And as the meal progressed, Drummond found himself so absorbed in the glimpses — the human, scandalous glimpses — that lie at times behind the wheels of state that he almost forgot the real reason for his presence. And then, the drawn curtains — drawn ostensibly to keep out the mosquitoes — with the motionless bulges behind them on each side of the open window would bring him back to reality. For the bulges were two of Andrews’ men, and two more were outside the door.
He was sitting between the Belgian minister and Mark Stedman, who seemed to have recovered from his temporary irritation of the afternoon.
“I had no idea, Captain Drummond,” he said over the port, “that you were such a friend of Lord Surrey’s.”
“Hardly the way to put it,” smiled Drummond. “His eldest son, who married my first cousin, and I were at Sandhurst together, and the old boy has asked me to shoot several times. Hence grandson Billy calls me uncle.”
“Quite. I thought you were a sort of unofficial bravo brought in to help to protect our guest.”
“You’re perfectly right: I am. I should not be here but for that anonymous threat.”
“What is your opinion of it?” asked Stedman.
“I haven’t one,” said Drummond frankly.
“I saw Inspector Andrews before dinner, and he seems equally at sea. However he is neglecting no precautions. Would it be indiscreet to ask what is your role?”