"Fortunately or unfortunately," replied Lady Brayle, taking up a handbag from the chest of drawers, "no. I am driving tonight to visit some friends at Priory Hill, and I shall not return until the afternoon. Then there will be the fair."
"The fair?"
"Has Jennifer told you nothing of the fair?"
Martin drew his hand down over his face. "She did say something…"
"Among my records," Lady Brayle informed him triumphantly, "there is a document dated 1662. By permission of the King, an annual fair may be held within the park of Brayle Manor.
The town-council," she shook her shoulders, "have opposed this project I have informed them that I will sue them for five thousand pounds if one of their representatives sets foot inside the park.
"Cromwell, by which I mean the vile Oliver, sought to suppress these fine old wholesome English customs. Doubtless there will be grinning-matches through horse-collars, and quarterstaff bouts; perhaps even a Maypole."
Lady Brayle, having reached the door, spoke as though she were addressing a public meeting. Then her face seemed to close up; to retreat
"Now," she said, "you must excuse me. My friends at Priory Hill wish to hear the details of a — of a most unpleasant affair at Pentecost Prison this morning."
"The bell!" exclaimed Martin.
Until this moment his own grace-of-God escape from death had swept away everything else.
"The alarm-bell," he said, "was ringing from Pentecost The alarm-bell from the condemned cell Stannard… What happened there?"
Lady Brayle regarded him coolly.
"You have had your orders," she informed him. "You must not excite yourself." And she went out and closed the door.
Martin stumbled over his slippers when he sprang forward. Then he stopped and put them on. Pain knifed across his forehead, the effect of opiates still lingered, and (to tell the truth) not many of his joints seemed to work well. But he had his wits with him.
Thank the Lord he had brought that suitcase across from the inn last night across the room stood a gigantic wardrobe, with a long mirror. As he reached out to open the door of the wardrobe, he saw his own face.
Wow! Though the bandage was small enough, he had not counted on the swelling and discolouration of the forehead, which made him resemble someone out of a horror-film. Never mind appearances; and somebody had given him a shave. Inside the wardrobe were clothes: clean, fresh clothes.
When Lady Brayle opened the door, it bad disclosed a modern bathroom. Martin brushed his teeth, doused and doused his face and head in water, and felt better. Physically, that is. While he dressed, automatically putting on his wrist-watch, the full implications of this business spread through his mind.
Whatever had happened to Sir George Fleet his own fall had been no accident Some person, man or woman, had lunged with a solid pair of bands and sent him over the edge to crush his skull on flagstones. Someone hated him that much. Why, for God's sake? And who?
It was nonsense. It couldn't be anybody he had met hereabouts. In imagination, their faces all smiled at him. And yet Stannard's 'spiritual evil,' his 'man-eating tiger’ of fancy, might be close. What made Martin Drake shiver was not so much the attempted murder as the consciousness of all that hatred directed against himself.
H.M. had somehow foreseen this. He must get to HM. And the old man, Lady Brayle had said, was downstairs now.
Trying to find the position of his own bedroom, Martin threw open the window-curtains on windows wide up in the breath of a perfect summer night deepening from dimness into dark. Sunday would be early closing for the Dragon; across the road he could see the last customers being turned out against a background of lighted door and small-paned lighted windows.
His bedroom was at the north-east corner front Hence—
Martin went through the bathroom, obviously an addition making two rooms smaller. The room beyond was dark. Groping across it he felt his knees begin to shake and the sensation mat someone was following, just behind, to push him over an edge.
"Steady!" Martin said. But you can't argue with feelings like that
Groping wildly, he bumped into a desk and after a moment found the chain of a desk-lamp. When the light sprang up, healing to nerves, he sat back heavily in the desk's swivel-chair.
And Martin waited to get his breath back.
He was in Sir George Fleet's study, no doubt of it That was where Stannard had sat with his host before Fleet hurried up to the roof, just as Martin had heard Stannard speak of it
Along the west wall were the gun-racks, behind folding glass doors. A ledge of silver cups, kept bright ran round the other walls. Cricket-bats, once the whitest of white ash and now brown-grey from use and age, were inscribed in red with the dates when George Fleet had made a century. Between the windows, where the desk stood sideways, hung a picture of a man who must be Fleet himself. Aunt Cicely — old ghosts, old and deep loves;—must have put it there.
Stem kind of bloke, Martin thought, thin military-looking face, ridged hair parted in the middle, cropped moustache. Then Martin glanced down at the desk-blotter, and in a few seconds began to grin.'
It was only a grey-covered book, open and face down. But its title, which was The Cavaliers, 1625–1649, made it seem an odd book for this particular room. Martin turned it over and glanced at the flyleaf. He was greeted by the following formidable and menacing announcement of ownership, done in red crayon:
ME — H.M.
The old maestro himself seemed to scowl out of that flyleaf, warning with ferocity an attempted book-pincher to keep away. Martin's grin became a laugh, and he got up. It was infernal nonsense, letting these bugbears weaken-his knees and letting him grow soft noting the position of the door, he switched off the lamp and walked slowly to the door.
The upper hall outside was luxuriously furnished and softly lighted. At the rear was the staircase, beside its tall arched window. He went downstairs without a tremor, walked to the front of the lower hall with its polished hardwood floor; and hesitated. But he did not hesitate long.
Green Room and library, which were on the right as you faced the front door from inside, showed no light But a faint glow filtered out from the left-hand door at the front
Also, Martin heard a familiar voice.
"Honest-Injun," the voice rumbled with a faint note of surprise, "you'd like to hear all about it?"
"I'd love to," said the attractive and still-young voice of Aunt Cicely.
"You want to know what Charles the First said about me?" "I do, really."
"Ahem!" said the other voice, beginning to take on a stern, stuffed air.
Martin peered round the edge of the door.
In a drawing-room rich with the luxury of twenty years ago, Aunt Cicely was sitting at one side of the tall mantelpiece just opposite. In her upraised face there was no trace of amusement; she was, Martin saw, deeply fascinated. At the other side of the mantelpiece, his back to it, Sir Henry Merrivale stood swelling with the same stuffed, heroic look.
The muffled lamps, dull red or white, struck gleams from a wine-coloured carpet. It was a setting for romance.
"This here," said H.M., whipping out a pocket-book and extracting a typewritten slip, "is a quotation from the Dictionary of National Biography, edition of 1889. It ain't there now, because a lot of people have got born since and they don't pay any attention to the arts. But here's just what it says.
" 'Merrivale, Sir Curtius, first baronet. (1583–1645?). Knighted by James I, created baronet Charles I. Poet, duellist, and lover of fair women.' "
Here H.M. gave a short cough, and glanced sideways behind his spectacles.
" 'He is best known for his lyric poetry, later collected by Anthony à Wood. Many present-day critics, including Mr. Andrew Lang, consider his best work — notably the lyric called, "Come rest in this bower, my honey-haired bride,’'—to be the equal of Herrick: How's that, hey?"