The Skeleton in the Clock

"Oh, my eye!" breathed H.M. "Oh, lord love a duck! I want a look at that clock. Excuse me."

"But—"

"Sure, sure. I can't take it away. But a little largess, I think, ought to get me just a look at it. You two stay where you are!"

Martin made no objection. His blood was beating with the nearness of Jenny, his wits whirling, his entire universe concentrated on Jenny; and, he knew, she felt in much the same way.

"Now listen," he said. "Before the wires can get crossed again: what's your full name, and where do you live?"

"My name is Jennifer West, Grandmother — grandmother's made me hate titles so much we won't bother with the rest of it My mother is dead. My father's lived abroad since the beginning of the wan in Sweden. I live at a place called Brayle Manor."

"Is that anywhere near Fleet House?"

"About half a mile south of it Why?"

"Look here." Martin hesitated. "This engagement was— arranged. Wasn't it?"

Jenny hesitated too, and would not meet his eyes.

"Yes, I suppose you could call it that. We're practically broke; haven't a bean. The Fleets are very wealthy. Aunt Cicely…"

"Go on!"

"Well, Aunt Cicely's only weakness is that she is a bit of a snob about titles. Her husband gave I don't know how much to party-funds so he could get his knighthood. But that's not all! Richard is really.. fond of me. Richard—"

"Or 'dear Ricky, as we call him.'"

"Darling, you mustn't talk like that!"

"Sorry. Do you know what black bile is? It's jealousy. Sorry."

"He really is nice. He's a great athlete, and very intelligent too: a double-first at Cambridge."

Fierce, tense, lowered whispers! Their voices were so soft, as they stood against the brown wall between the gilt chairs and the lacquered wardrobe, that no bidder could have complained of disturbance. Over a grimy skylight the sun alternately strengthened and darkened.

"If you don't mind," said Martin, "we'll omit the list of Richard's accomplishments. Jenny, I'm going to smash this marriage to blazes. Is that all right with you?"

"I think I should hate you if you didn't But grandmother ‘?

…

"There is a technique with grandmother. You saw it used today by a master hand. How long are you staying in town?"

"We've got to leave this evening. I'm — I'm to spend Saturday and Sunday at Fleet House."

"Richard?"

"No! Not particularly!" The blue eyes grew puzzled. "It's something rather mysterious." "How so?"

"Well, there's a friend of Aunt Cicely's, and mine too, named Ruth Callice. This morning, very early it seems, Ruth rang up Aunt Cicely. She asked if she could come down for the week-end, and bring two guests. I don't know who the two men are; but Ruth said Aunt Cicely would like them. Ruth said she had some tremendous project, about the old prison. She said it might not work, but she'd know for certain today whether some Ministry would say yes."

Then, very quietly, Jenny added: "Why did you jump when I said 'Ruth Callice.’"

Martin had not jumped. But, as they stood together negligently against the wall, their hands were locked together. Each tremor, each blood-beat, almost each thought, seemed to flow from one into the other. And women, at times like these, have an emotional power which is almost like mind-reading.

"Yes?" murmured Jenny.

"Because I'm one of the two men. I was in Ruth's flat last night"

"Oh," murmured Jenny, and her gaze moved away. He felt, in the literal sense of touch, something wrong. "Do you know Ruth well?"

"I've known her for years! She's one of the finest persons I ever met!"

"Oh. Did you ever tell her anything about — us?'

"Yes, several times. I'm afraid I got rather emotional about it last night She cheered me up."

"How nice," said Jenny, and suddenly tried to wrench her hands away. He held tightly. "Then didn't she ever tell you who I was? Who 'Jenny' was? Why didn't she?"

"Probably because she had no more clue than I had."

"Oh, yes, she had. She knew who I was. She knew all I knew about you, because I told her. Three years! And in the meantime, I suppose…"

It occurred to Martin Drake, quite accurately, that Jenny must feel about Ruth Callice much as he felt about Richard Fleet He must stop this nonsense. But such talk is contagious.

"If it comes to that why didn't you get in touch with me and tell me yourself?"

Jenny's pale complexion was flushed, and she was trembling.

"Because you thought it was just a casual adventure. Oh, yes, you did! Or else you'd have found me — somehow. You had to come to me, don't you see? Won't anybody leave me a little pride? Please let me go."

"Jenny, listen to reason! You know how I feel, don't you?"

"Yes. I think so."

Jenny's resistance fell away. It was trivial, a brushing of the wing in those fierce whispers. The hands of the clock on the far wall stood at a quarter past twelve; the morning's auction would soon be over. And yet in the state of mind of these two, all unintentionally they were precipitating tragedy and disaster which moved closer as steadily as the ticking of the clock. "And now," she said, "you've been invited to Fleet House," "Ruth and Stannard can go there. I can't' "Why not?"

"Damn it you can't accept a man's hospitality and then tell him you're going to break up his marriage. Isn't there a hotel or a pub somewhere near?"

"Yes. There's one almost opposite Fleet House. That's where—" Jenny paused. Into her eyes came the same fear he had seen once before. She threw the thought away. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to put up at the pub. Tomorrow I'll see Mr. Richard Fleet and Aunt Cicely, and as for grandmother: this afternoon, I think."

"No! You mustn't! Not this afternoon!"

He gripped her shoulders. "If I could only tell you, Jenny, how much—"

"Oi!" said the voice of Sir Henry Merrivale.

H.M. was standing very close to them. How long he had been there Martin could not tell, but it might have been a long time. H.M.'s hat was in his hand, and his expression was malevolent Martin bumped back to reality.

"Well? Did you see the dock?"

"Uh-huh. I saw it. And it seems my first wild and wool-gatherin' notion," here H.M. massaged his big bald head, "is no more use than a busted kite on a calm day. But there's got to be some explanation! Or else—" With no change he added: "So you're putting up at the pub, son?"

"You listened?"

"I'm the old man," said H.M., austerely tapping himself on the chest as though this constituted all necessary explanation. "And I'm a bit glad you are stayin’ there, if there's room for you. Masters and I will be there too."

Somewhere, noiselessly, an alarm-bell rang.

"Chief Inspector Masters?"

"Yes. Y'see, son, this business is not all bath-salts and lilies on the pond. It's messy. It's got claws. Pretty certainly in the past and maybe in the future, we're dealin' with murder."

Chapter 4

Martin Drake did not see the skeleton in the clock until late on the following afternoon, when he saw it in the bar-parlour of the Dragon's Rest near Rundown.

The Dragon's Rest, to be exact, boasted two bar-parlours in its long frontage. The inn, in that remote corner of Berkshire, faced westwards over a road running north and south. From the windows of either bar-parlour you could see, almost opposite — set well back from the road behind trees and clipped lawns — the white Georgian facade of Fleet House. By craning to the left, you could just make out in the distance the two square towers of Brayle Manor. By craning to the right, you could more distantly discern the round greyness of Pentecost Prison: six stone wings like spokes inside a stone wheel.