Martin Drake — shut out, almost forgotten, feeling a sharp-twinge of jealousy at the absorption of these two in each other and their long familiarity — Martin jerked up his head at that rapping. The other two started as though they had been burnt.
In the doorway stood a wiry, middle-sized man whose-pince-nez, except for its gold nose-clamp, seemed to fit into his eyes rather than advance outside them. His hair, cut en brosse, was iron-grey. In an ascetic face, with somewhat hollow cheeks, showed a narrow fastidious mouth. His whole air was one of fastidiousness and extreme precision; and he carried a medicine-case in his right hand.
Despite the bloodless mouth, his voice was vigorous if soft. He smiled at Jenny and Ricky, making the countenance pleasant and human, and then looked towards Martin.
"Captain Drake, I imagine?" he inquired. "I am Dr. Laurier."
(So he's been talking to grandma, eh? Why did Lady Brayle persist with that 'captain' when they'd finished another war two years ago? Gossip, flying and twisting! How much was known?)
"Just Mr. Drake," Martin said, "if you don't mind."
Dr. Laurier bowed slightly. Next he turned to Ricky. You could imagine him, at a desk, pushing a group of small articles carefully into line.
"In my opinion, Richard, it would be very wise if you returned home at once. Your mother is not well."
Ricky twitched up his head. "You've been over there?"
"Yes." Dr. Laurier, not moving from the doorway, fired softly from a distance. He inclined his head. "I don't know how many times I have told you that your mother has a definitely serious heart-condition. An unpleasant shock of any sort—" very slightly emphasizing the words 'of any sort,' Dr. Laurier's almost invisible pince-nez moved towards Jenny, and then Martin—"would be… most undesirable."
"Then if she heard—" Ricky checked himself. He also looked at Jenny and Martin. Wretchedness laid hold of him and shook him as though with hands.
"I’ll go straightaway," he said, and got up.
"I hope," interposed Jenny politely, "my grandmother is well?’
And this was a different girl from the timorous one of yesterday. Martin saw that with a shock of hope. Though she seemed outwardly placid, her breast rose and fell under the white blouse.
"Your grandmother, Lady Jennifer," Dr. Laurie r returned her smile, "is in excellent health. She was a bit disappointed, however…"
Jenny's tone expressed immense surprise. "Were you at the Manor too?"
"For a cup of tea; no more. As I say, she was a bit disappointed you were not there for tea. She wondered where you were."
"Oh, I've got to be out much later tonight I shall have to go home and change, of course. But I've got to be out much later tonight"
Deliberately Jenny rose from her chair. Deliberately she dipped over to where Martin was standing, and took his arm. He put his hand over hers. Dr. Laurier made no comment and no sign: a grey-headed statue in the doorway, his pince-nez opaque, the medicine-case in his hand.
"And — Ricky!" the ex-fiancée called.
"Eh?"
"You will lend us your car for tonight, won't you?"
"Of course. And…" Despite his perturbation, the old smile kindled Ricky's face. "Look here, old boy. This man-of-honour business is all very well. But is there any real reason why you shouldn't stay with us instead of putting up at the pub? Can't you at least come over for dinner tonight?"
"I've been a fool," Martin blurted: "I'm always being a fool. -But I had some wild sort of notion that everyone here was an enemy.. "
"Who can tell?" murmured Dr. Laurier.
The words fell with soft chilling weight. It was as though a dagger had thudded into a door; not too melodramatic a comparison, because Dr. Laurier bad a certain hobby. Martin felt Jenny's soft'arm grew rigid against his coat-sleeve. And then: "I beg your pardon!" added the doctor, and stepped aside.
Ruth Callice, brushing past him with apology, stepped into the room.
In her unobtrusive way Ruth was urban charm, urban fashion, invading a country pub. Her grey dress, the dull-twinkling ear-rings, set off-her dark-brown eyes and the full roundness of her neck. Ruth regarded everyone with smiling apology.
"Martin, dear," she said. "I've come to remind you about your promise for tonight"
Chapter 6
Some half an hour before Ruth's appearance, in the other bar-parlour with the clock containing its skeleton, Sir Henry Merrivale sat in a leather chair near the fireplace. Chief Inspector Masters stood opposite, behind a table on which lay a brief-case stuffed with documents.
And these two were carrying on in a way which would have sounded familiar to any friend of theirs.
"Now, now, Masters, keep your shirt on!"
Masters, large and burly, usually bland as a card-sharper, his grizzled hair brushed to hide an increasing bald-spot was buttoned up in a blue serge and had assumed his witness-box manner. This indicated that his words would have weight and dignity.
"It might interest you to know, sir, that I've got my shirt on."
"That's right Masters. Be like Me."
These impossible situations," said Masters. "What do I care for 'em?" He reached out and snapped his fingers. "Not that! Oh, ah! And why? Because I'm resigned."
"I got a spiritual nature too."
Masters's blood-pressure soared, as was evident in his countenance. "But what I DO object to—" "Easy, son!"
"But what I do object to," continued the Chief Inspector, swallowing bard, "is the Assistant Commissioner wanting to dig up a twenty-year old case, because: first, he was an old friend of Sir George Fleet; and, second, he recently gets three anonymous postcards straight out of Colney Hatch, Now I ask you I is that fair or reasonable?"
Delving into the neatly packed brief-case, Masters drew out three cards and pushed them across the table towards H.M., who did not even glance at them. H.M., with a malignant scowl, had folded his hands across his corporation and was twiddling his thumbs.
These cards, the ordinary twopenny-halfpenny sort you buy at any post office, had both address and message printed in small block capitals, with a pencil. They were postmarked in the town of Brayle, about two miles southwards, on July 5th, July 6th, and July 7th, and addressed, 'Chief of the C.LD., Scotland Yard, London W.I.’ The first card read:
Re Sir George Fleet: examine the skeleton in the clock.
The second card read:
Re Sir George Fleet: what was the pink flash on the roof?
The third card read:
Re Sir George Fleet: evidence of murder is still there.
"Lummy!" breathed Masters. "I've seen some scatty messages in my time, but this beats the lot." He squared himself, "Now I’ll just take each point, sir; This clock, to begin with."
Both of them, in the old room hung with hunting prints, surveyed the tall clock. Standing eater-cornered in its southeast angle, its gilt hands and numerals faintly shining, the glass dial conveyed an impression that the skull had its chin tilted up so that the skull could see better. Like Martin Drake, Masters experienced the illusion that the tick-tick of the mantelpiece clock issued out of that dead case. It made Masters uncomfortable, which in his staid soul he resented.
"Sir," he demanded, "what's wrong with that clock?"
"Nothin'," H.M. answered simply.,
"What's wrong with the skeleton?"
"Nothin'."
"Then why in lum's name do you want to bring it down here and stick it up in a bar-parlour?"
"Because, son, I can't do everything at once. I want to take that blighter out of his case—" H.M. pointed to the skeleton— "and put him on a table, and examine him thoroughly. I dunno who he is, son. But I can tell you who he's not. He's not Sir George Fleet"