“No. Hackle brings people as far as the door when he’s finished showing the dungeons and so forth—you need a man there because of the oubliette—and then they find their own way out in their own time.”
“I see.”
Purvis pointed to an arquebus hanging on the wall. “Not everyone’s subject.”
“No.”
“But Mr. Ames catalogued this collection years ago, and he always comes in if special parties come.”
“Special parties?”
Purvis nodded. “As well as the ordinary visitors we have what you might call specialist groups. People who are interested in just one facet of Ornum House. Parties come to see the armour and I tell Mr. Ames. It’s the same with the pictures and books and manuscript records. Take next week, for instance. I’ve got a party who call themselves The Young Masters coming down to see the pictures on Monday. Arranged it with Mr. Meredith so that he could…” Purvis came to a stop when he saw where his sentence was getting him. “Oh, dear, I’d forgotten all about that.”
Sloan looked at the suit of armour that contained the late Mr. Meredith and said, “What other… er… speciality of the House do you have?”
“The Ornum Collection of china,” replied the Steward, not without pride, “is thought to be one of the finest still in private hands.”
“I see.” Sloan scratched his chin. “Before I see his Lordship, do you think you could just give me some idea of the set-up here?”
“Set-up?” said Purvis distantly.
“Who all live here, then…”
“Well, there’s the family, of course…”
Constable Crosby got out his notebook and started writing.
“There’s his Lordship,” said Purvis, “and the Countess and their children.”
“Lady Eleanor?” said Sloan.
“Lady Eleanor is their only daughter,” said Charles Purvis, a curious strangled note creeping into his voice.
“And who else?”
“Lord Cremond, his Lordship’s son.”
“And heir?” enquired Sloan.
Purvis nodded. “His only son.”
“I see. That all?”
The Steward smiled faintly. “By no means.”
“Oh?”
“Then there’s his Lordship’s cousin, Miss Gertrude Cremond.”
“Quite a family.”
“And,” went on Purvis, “his Lordship’s aunts, Lady Alice and Lady Maude. They are, of course, rather… er… elderly now.”
Sloan sighed. That, being translated, meant eccentric.
Purvis hadn’t finished. “His Lordship’s nephew, Mr. Miles Cremond, is staying in the house just now, with his wife, Mrs. Laura Cremond, and then, of course,, there are the indoor staff… Dillow, the butler, and so on.”
Sloan sighed again
“Do you want me to go on?” asked Purvis.
“Oh yes,” said Sloan grimly, pointing to the suit of armour. “No man could have got into this contraption on his own. I can work that much out from here.”
“I know,” said Purvis flatly. “That’s why we sent for you.”
Mrs. Pearl Fisher was sitting in the biggest kitchen Sloan had ever seen in his life.
She was by no means the only person in the room, but she contrived—by a subtle alchemy that would have done credit to some first lady of the stage—to give the impression that she was.
She was sitting at a vast deal table and she was drinking tea. Teas (2/-per head) were available to visitors in the Old Stables, but this pot was obviously on the house. It was being administered by the Housekeeper, Mrs. Morley, a lady who looked as if she had only just stopped wearing bombasine. A personage whom Sloan took to be Mr. Dillow, the butler, hovered at an appropriate distance.
“I don’t know that I’ll ever get over the shock,” Mrs. Fisher was announcing as Inspector Sloan and Crosby went in.
“The tea will help,” Mrs. Morley said drily.
Mrs. Fisher ignored this. “Sent me heart all pitter patter, it did.”
“Dear, dear,” said Mrs. Morley.
Histrionically, Mrs. Fisher laid her hand on her left chest. “It’s still galloping away.”
“Another cup of tea?” suggested Mrs. Morley.
Both ladies knew that there would be brandy and to spare in a house like this, but one of them, at least, was not prepared for it to be dispensed.
“It can bring on a nasty turn, can a sight like that,” offered Mrs. Fisher.
Mrs. Morley advised a quiet sit.
Mrs. Fisher said she thought it would be quite a while before her heart steadied down again.
Mrs. Morley said she wasn’t to think of hurrying. She was very welcome. Besides, the Police Inspector would want to hear all about it, wouldn’t he, sir?
Sloan nodded. Crosby got out his notebook.
“I shall never sleep again,” declared Mrs. Fisher. “That face; I tell you, it’ll come between me and my sleep for the rest of my born days.”
“Tell me, madam—”
“Them eyes,” she moaned. “Staring like that.”
“Quite so. Now—”
“He didn’t die today, did he?” she said. “I know that much—”
“How do you know that?”—sharply.
“He was the same colour as poor old Mr. Wilkins in our street, that’s why—”
“Mr. Wilkins?”
“Putty, that’s what he looked like when they found him.”
“Indeed?”
“Three days’ milk there was outside his house before they broke the door down,” said Mrs. Fisher reminiscently. “And he looked just like him.”
“I see.”
“In fact,” said Mrs. Fisher, seeing an advantage and taking it all in the same breath, “if it hadn’t been for my Michael there’s no knowing when you might have found the poor gentleman, is there?” She looked round her audience in a challenging manner. “It’s not as if there was any milk bottles.”
Sloan nodded. It was a good point. There had been no milk bottles outside the armoury door. Nothing that he knew of to lead to that particular suit of armour. There was indeed no knowing…
Where was Michael now?
Michael Fisher, it presently transpired, was somewhere else being sick.
“I don’t know what he’ll be like in the coach going home, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Fisher with satisfaction. “I shouldn’t wonder if we don’t have to stop.”
Maureen was despatched to retrieve Michael.
Finding the dead face had had its effect on the boy. His complexion was chalky white still, and there was a thin line of perspiration along the edge of his hair line. He looked Sloan up and down warily.
“I didn’t touch him, mister. I just lifted that front piece thing, that’s all.”
“Why?” asked Sloan mildly.
“I wanted to see inside.”
“But why that particular one? There are eight there.”
“Tell the Inspector,” intruded Mrs. Fisher unnecessarily.
“I dunno why that one.”
“Had you touched any of the others?”
Michael licked his lips. “I sort of touched them all.”
“Sort of?”
“I’m learning to box at school.”
“I see.”
“I tried to get under their guards.”
“Not too difficult surely?”
“More difficult than you’d think.” Michael Fisher’s spirit was coming back. “Those arms got in the way.”
“But you got round them in the end?”
“That’s right.”
“And this particular one—the one with the man inside…”
“It sounded different when I hit it,” admitted Michael. “Less hollow.”
“That’s why you looked?”
“Yes.”
“No other reason?”
Michael shook his head.
It was the first time in Sloan’s police career that he had ever been conducted anywhere by a butler.
“Mr. Purvis said I was to take you straight to his Lordship,” said Dillow, “as soon as his Lordship got back from the village.”