As they approached the circle of standing stones, Laura gasped, for in the middle of the circle stood another group of figures, one of whom was holding a lantern.
‘Keep close to the hedge,’ murmured Mrs. Bradley, in her ear, ‘but don’t fall over the Chief Constable, who should be in hiding near here.’
But it seemed that the drama of the earlier part of the night had expended itself, for when at last a sharp sound like a sibilant hiss informed them of the presence of the police, Mrs. Bradley and Laura lay under the hedge and grew gradually cold and stiff whilst the party whom they could still see on the higher ground did nothing more subversive than to produce more lanterns and light them and then hold a midnight picnic. The popping of corks, the sound of women’s voices, some laughter and conversation could be heard, and, after about an hour, the Chief Constable muttered into Mrs. Bradley’s ear that he was damned cold, felt a damned fool, and was damned well going home.
‘Those film people, that’s all that is!’ he said in a blasphemous mutter.
‘Well, at least go up and have a look at them,’ said Mrs. Bradley, at this. ‘You’ll be sorry, later on, perhaps, if you don’t.’
‘I’ve no earthly right to go and look at them!’ he retorted, this time in his ordinary voice, for conversation among the picnickers was so general and so noisy that no other voice was likely to be heard. ‘Come on, Inspector. Bring your people. Do you recognize any of those voices?’
‘Ah, I do, sir,’ the Inspector replied. ‘One of them’s Mr. Battle, the artist, I reckon, him that lost his father in the circumstances you asked us to look into. We questioned him last Monday, and I know the voice. At least, I reckon I do.’
‘Good for you, Inspector,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘But the tones seemed to me deeper than those of Mr. Battle.’
‘I say,’ said Laura suddenly. ‘I thought I recognized another of those voices.’
‘Yes, so did I,’ Mrs. Bradley agreed. ‘In fact, there was no thought about it, child. It was the voice of our acquaintance from Slepe Rock, the aptly-named Mr. Cassius.’
‘Funny, if it was,’ said Laura, ‘because Gerry and Mike laid him out with a sandbag before we left there this evening. I suppose they didn’t like to hit him hard. His real name’s Concaverty and he owns the house with the four dead trees. We found all that out since you went to London. Not bad for amateurs, eh?’
The police, moving with Boy Scout swiftness and silence along by the hedge, soon led the party to the gate. The last Laura saw of the picnickers was an unnaturally tall figure darting from side to side of the stone circle like a witch-doctor smelling out the damned. She watched for a moment, but decided that he was probably only handing round food.
‘Oh, well, that’s that,’ she said, unable to keep from her voice the note of anti-climax as she joined the others.
‘Oh, no, it isn’t! Not by a very long way,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘For one thing, there is some indication that David Battle is in league with the film people who’ve rented the house, and that might mean the turn of his fortunes! Who knows? He says he is poor. Perhaps he has been engaged as a designer.’
Laura received this suggestion in silence. They reached the farm and found the police cars parked beneath the cartshed.
‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Bradley benevolently. ‘So the curfew could scarcely be expected to ring to-night!’
‘Oh, that farmhouse is empty,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Can we give you a lift?’
‘No, I have George,’ she replied. ‘He awaits us this side of the golf links.’ She walked off into the night, taking Laura with her. It seemed a long way to the golf links. George lifted his head from the wheel, upon which he had been dozing, and, without instructions, drove into Welsea Beaches just as the dawn appeared.
‘Do you really think that first lot meant to bury something?’ Laura enquired.
‘Frankly, no, child, but the Druids might dance on more than one night in September.’
Chapter Fourteen
—«♦»—
‘… and how the devil sat upon the top of the house and cried out, “Throw the villain up here!” ’
Ibid. (The Travelling Musicians)
« ^ »
And now,’ said Mrs. Bradley, when her henchmen had slept and breakfasted, ‘I am going to the nine standing stones with a party of archaeologists. Do you know anything of archaeology?’ she added, turning towards the young men.
‘Well, I did some digging once,’ observed O’Hara, ‘when I was a kid of twelve. That was with my uncle and some friends in the south of France.’
‘Splendid. You shall certainly come and help. We shall be filmed at the same time. It will be most interesting.’
‘Filmed?’
‘Yes, child. All our party, with the exception of ourselves, my nephew and a friend of mine, an expert upon the Early Bronze Age, will be film extras hired for the occasion at union rates plus their tea. At least, I hope so!’
She gave such a horrible leer that the two young men did not know whether her remarks were to be taken seriously or not. Then she added:
‘To-morrow, then, we meet at the circle of standing stones. If you could bring a spade or two, and perhaps a pickaxe, a measuring-tape, a theodolite and a packet of sandwiches it would be as well, but no matter if you cannot get them.’
‘Have you hired the film extras?’ asked Laura.
‘Not yet. It will be a very good excuse, however, for calling at the house of the four dead trees, will it not?’
‘You know we’ve already been there?’ said Laura, a trifle uneasily. ‘That’s how we knew about Concaverty. Oh, and about that woman you called Mrs. Battle. I didn’t tell you about that.’
Mrs. Bradley heard the news with great interest and much satisfaction, and, to Laura’s relief, passed no judgment upon her secretary’s activities.
‘I’ll go and hire the film extras, if you like,’ Laura added. ‘That is, if you think I can.’
‘I have implicit faith in your abilities,’ said Mrs. Bradley solemnly. ‘When would you like to go? This afternoon? By the way, I wonder whether our Mr. Concaverty-Cassius is still at the Slepe Rock Hotel?’
The afternoon was cloudy and dull, and promised rain, and, although the rain held off, the atmosphere was depressing, and the blue-grey hills looked very far away. The sky remained threatening.
Laura set out from the hotel at Welsea at half-past two, with George to drive the car, and approached the house with trepidation. She was not at all sure what effect the previous visits had had, and she was uncertain, too, whether the woman whom Mrs. Bradley called Mrs. Battle had seen her with Gascoigne and O’Hara. If so, her present mission might be dangerous.
She went boldly up to the door, however, and rang the bell. It was answered by a scowling man whom she affected to take for Concaverty. She even addressed him by this name, and received, in response, no denial of the patronymic but merely a growling enquiry as to her business.
‘I want to hire some film extras,’ she replied. ‘I thought you might be able to tell me where to find some.’
‘You talk as though they were primroses or birds’ nests,’ he responded, giving her a bleak smile which had the effect of making his face look like a piece of carved wood.
‘I know,’ Laura meekly agreed. ‘But I’ve been told to get hold of a dozen or two for some March of Time sort of stuff by a distinguished amateur, and some people at the hotel told me they thought you had an outfit here that you might be willing to hire out.’
This clumsy expression of her requirements drew, rather to her surprise and trepidation, a morose invitation to go in, and Laura, a feeble and most unwilling Daniel, entered the lions’ den in the wake of the wooden-faced unknown. She was glad to see that he left the door wide open.