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HALLOWS GREEN was a backwater in the busy city of Barncaster. As the name implied, the site had no doubt been once common land on the outskirts of the city. But now the name applied to a street bordered by fair-sized, comfortable detached houses, each standing in a comparatively extensive garden, shaded by trees.
These houses, of which there were ten, were not named but numbered. The numbering was peculiar, and, to, a stranger, slightly confusing. On the north side of Hallows Green, the numbers ran from one in the east to five at the west. Then, on the south side, the numbers ran back again, from six at the west to ten at the east. So that, for instance, number 3 on the north was opposite to number 8 on the south. The houses were by no means of uniform pattern, but differed widely in size, appearance, and internal arrangement.
There was little or no through traffic in Hallows Green. Such vehicles as used it had business at one or other of the houses, or were owned by their occupants. It ran between two busy thoroughfares leading out of the city, Paulthorpe Road on the east, and Otterford Road on the west. Along both these, traffic rumbled unceasingly, with buses to and from all parts of the city at regular intervals. But, to the dwellers in Hallows Green, this rumbling became no more than a background of sound.
No more desirable residential district existed within the city boundaries. It was commonly spoken of as Blokes' Row, or even, by those queer souls to whom any standard of living higher than their own was anathema, as Prigs' Parade. It was also said that all the families who lived in Hallows Green were in some way related, and always at loggerheads. For this legend there was only the flimsiest foundation. It was quite true that two of the families were related and, for reasons of their own, kept away from one another. But of the remaining eight families, none were related, and, for the most part on excellent terms together.
As to priggishness, that insinuation was quite unfounded. Even in the case of Mr. Walter Glandford, retired professor of science, who lived at number 3. His precise and intolerant manner might be aggravating, and might suggest an attitude of conscious superiority on his part. But his friends knew that this was merely superficial. It was simply that throughout his distinguished career he had never learnt to suffer fools gladly. And nobody could level an accusation of priggishness against, for instance, the popular Dr. Jeremy Teesdale, the general practitioner living at number 8, or against Mr. Peter Raynham at number 2, whose firm, Raynham and Raynham, were the most respected solicitors in Barncaster.
Nor was there any ground for the suggestion that the dwellers in Hallows Green tended to form themselves into an exclusive community. Most of them had friends in other parts of the city, whom they visited, and who visited them. Dr. Teesdale saw private patients at number 8, but the greater part of his work was done at his surgery in Market Row. Similarly, Mr. Raynham spent most of his time at his firm's office in Upper Close. Admiral Sir Hector Sapperton, K.C.B., retired to number 7 after brilliant service, was a popular member of the Barnshire County Club. Miss Florence Wayland, of number 4, was the daughter of a prominent manufacturer in the city, who at his death had left her very well off. She was middle-aged and energetic, and busied herself with a dozen welfare societies. Mr. Charles Vawtrey, of number 9, had retired from the Colonial service. His hobby was photography, and he now and then held exhibitions of his work at the city art gallery. At number 6, lived Mr. Claude Dodworthy, the manager of the Barncaster branch of the Metropolitan Bank, whose imposing premises dominated Regency Square.
Of the remaining three houses, number 1 was somehow apart, and hardly seemed to belong to Hallows Green. Its position, at the north-east corner, was in some way responsible for this. It was more nearly hidden by trees than the rest, and though it had an entrance on Hallows Green, this seemed to be rarely used. The other entrance upon Paulthorpe Road was no more than a gateway in a high wall. But through this, for the most part during the hours of darkness, trickled a stream of mysterious visitors, male and female. It was popularly supposed that number 1 was the temple of some strange cult, of which the occupants, Mr. Hopton Egremont and his wife Rachel, were respectively Prophet and Prophetess. The Admiral, in his breezy way, always spoke of them as Deborah and Barak. The Prophet was rarely to be seen but the Prophetess, hatless but wearing flowing robes and sandals, was more familiar to the conductors of buses on the routes passing along Paulthorpe Road.
The two related families lived one at number 5 and the other at number 10. It was symbolical of their mutual antagonism that these two houses should be at opposite ends of Hallows Green. And also convenient, for it obviated all chance of inadvertent meeting. If any member of the Lawrence Flamstead household from number 5 had business in the city, he or she would catch a bus at the junction of Hallows Green and Otterford Road. On the other hand, were any of the Barry Flamsteads from number 10 bound on a similar errand, they would obviously use one of the bus routes running along Paulthorpe Road. The two Flamsteads were brothers, Lawrence being the elder by a couple of years, and neither of them had any profession. Owing to the difference between them, their families normally moved in different circles. They avoided meeting one another, but not too ostentatiously. They couldn't help running across one another sometimes, and when they did they were distantly polite.
So much by way of brief introduction to Hallows Green and the families who lived there. It was shortly after Christmas that Mr. Glandford, whose chief ambition was to lead a quiet life, had a strange and to him disturbing, experience. He was a man of sixty, small in stature, with a studious expression enhanced by the powerful glasses without which he was never seen. He had retired from active work, and his main occupation now was writing articles for the scientific journals, and attending meetings of the many learned societies of which he was a member. It may be remarked that he had a long string of letters after his name.
The householder at number 3 consisted of Mr. Walter Glandford, his sister Faith, eight years younger than himself, and Mrs. Trigg, slightly deaf, who had been with them as cook and general household-help for many years. A charwoman, whose identity varied from time to time, was also employed for a few hours daily. Incidentally, the charwomen employed at the various houses in Hallows Green amounted in all to a veritable cohort. Faith Glandford had never married. The reason being, her brother alleged, that she talked so incessantly that she had never given a possible suitor the opportunity to propose.
Mr. Walter Glandford's post was usually fairly voluminous. His normal correspondence was added to by people all over the world who wrote him on scientific subjects. But he refused to deal with his letters till after breakfast. Mrs. Trigg took them in and laid them on his study table. Conversation at breakfast almost invariably consisted of a monologue from Faith. After the meal, Mr. Walter Glandford retired to his study, where he remained in seclusion till lunch time. It was understood that he was not to be disturbed.
Following this habit, he retired to his study on the last Saturday in December. A glance at the table showed him that morning's post was not very formidable. The season accounted for that, no doubt. Christmas always interfered with regular routine, a circumstance that Mr. Glandford found annoying. The study was the largest room in the house, having been designed as the principal living-room. It was one of Faith's grievances that she had had to furnish a much smaller room for the entertainment of her friends. The study was lined with glass-fronted cases, closely packed with scientific works. On every available piece of furniture, books were stacked in apparently hopeless confusion. But Mr. Glandford had his own method, and could always lay his hand on what he wanted.
His first act on entering the room was to consult the standard barometer and set it. Then, having made up the fire, he sat down at the big table that occupied the centre of the room. On it was a narrow-bladed paper knife, and with this he set to work to slit open his correspondence. Two wrappers, containing numbers of scientific periodicals. A volume of transactions of a learned society. Three letters, the origin of which he knew from the handwriting of the addressers. And finally a cheap and flimsy envelope, addressed in sprawling block letters.
As he slit this open he regarded it with mild curiosity. It was of local origin, for the postmark showed that it had been posted in Barncaster on the previous evening. It looked suspiciously like a begging letter. Well, if it was, the writer wouldn't be lucky. Mr. Glandford was no believer in promiscuous alms-giving.
Having slit open the envelopes, he withdrew the contents in rotation. The periodicals and transactions first, to be laid aside for leisurely perusal. Then, one by one, the letters. The first was a grateful acknowledgement for some information he had supplied. The second, a series of notes from a scientist of his acquaintance, engaged upon some research in British Honduras, asking for an opinion on certain observations.
This last letter aroused Mr. Glandford's interest. Before answering it adequately, he would have to look up a few references. He got up, selected half a dozen volumes, and laid them on the table. Then he sat down again and, as he studied the references, made copious notes on a pad of writing paper. As usual, when thus engaged, he lost all sense of time. His last note pencilled, he looked up at the clock. The morning had slipped by and only half an hour remained before lunch. Punctuality was the invariable rule at number 3.
In his concentration he had completely forgotten the unread letter. But now, as he surveyed the table, it intruded itself upon his gaze. With a feeling of distaste he picked it up, and withdrew a folded paper from the envelope. On it was scrawled, in the same rudely-formed block letters as the address, half a dozen words. But those were most extraordinary. Far more so than any begging letter could have been.
Ridiculous, of course. His first impulse was to crumple paper and envelope together and throw them into the waste-paper basket. But he refrained. Ridiculous, yes, but none the less alarming. Mr. Glandford was of rather a nervous disposition. Any hint of menace caused him serious perturbation. Was this a menace or a warning? It wouldn't do to let Faith know about it. She would chatter to all her friends, and he might be made to look absurd in their eyes. More than anything he resented the prospect of being laughed at. In the end he replaced the paper in the envelope and put them both in his pocket.
No doubt, half a century or so ago, most of the dwellers in Hallows Green had boasted a carriage and pair. In the grounds of nearly all the houses was the appropriate stabling, now converted into garages and outhouses. But Mr. Glandford kept no car. For local journeys he was content with a bus, and on the comparatively rare occasions when he went farther afield he hired a car and chauffeur. The coach-house of the stabling at number 3 had been fitted out as a laboratory, equipped with sufficient apparatus to enable him to carry out such simple experiments as his inclination suggested.
During lunch, his sister Faith remarked upon his preoccupation. This he ascribed to the letter he had received from British Honduras. There was so much in it that provided food for thought. This, if uncandid, was perfectly true. One query in particular had aroused Walter Glandford's interest, for it touched upon one of his pet theories. His reply might be expanded into a paper to be read before one of the learned societies. It all depended upon one comparatively small point, which could be determined by a series of not very elaborate experiments.
It was with the intention of preparing these experiments that Glandford, after lunch, betook himself to the laboratory. This necessitated first a visit to the study, to fetch the key, which was kept on a hook inside one of the bookcases. It was a very ordinary key, not of the Yale type, and of quite uncomplicated pattern. The sort of key one would find in any of the locks of interior house doors. A short walk from the house to the old stabling. He put the key in the lock of the laboratory door, but to his astonishment it refused to turn. After one or two ineffectual attempts he tried the handle. The door opened immediately. It hadn't been locked, that was why the key wouldn't turn. He turned the key in the reverse direction. The lock worked perfectly.
He had been working in the laboratory for an hour or so on the previous evening, and he must have neglected to lock the door when he left. So Glandford told himself, without conviction. He had locked the door, he distinctly remembered doing so. Besides, he was a creature of habit. Being accustomed to locking the door, and putting the key in the study, he would in any case have done so automatically. It was unthinkable that any member of the household should have unlocked the door without telling him. In fact, it was more than doubtful that any one but himself knew where the key was to be found.
He entered the laboratory and looked round. He could not perceive that anything had been touched. At all events, nothing seemed to be missing. It was of course impossible to remember the exact position on the bench where everything had stood. Somehow Glandford had the unpleasant feeling that the place had been entered in his absence. Imagination, perhaps, since there was no obvious evidence of this. But the trained scientific mind does not usually indulge in imagination. Almost apprehensively he opened the big cupboard in which he kept his bulkier apparatus. No intruder was there concealed, and everything was where it should be. Glandford started to set up the apparatus for his experiment. But his thoughts were elsewhere, leaping from that most peculiar communication to the unlocked door. Could there be any connection between them? It was really most disturbing. So much so that he knew he would never be able to concentrate upon precise observation. Leaving the apparatus only half assembled, he left the laboratory, carefully locking the door behind him, and returned to the study.
This particular kind of worry was entirely outside his experience, and he felt a fervent desire to consult someone about it. Not Faith, but some much wiser person. Peter Raynham seemed the obvious confidant. As a lawyer, he might be expected to know the proper course to take. But Glandford recoiled from the idea of approaching Raynham. It might seem like seeking free legal advice under the guise of friendship. Besides, Raynham was apt to be scornful, and might laugh at his apprehensions. And that was the last form of reassurance he wanted.
Who, then? Claude Dodworthy, whose sympathy with any one who approached him was well known. A bank manager must have experience of many other matters other than financial. Dodworthy wouldn't laugh at him. He would understand his misgivings and give him sound advice. Dodworthy it should be. But it was no good looking for him just yet. He always played a round of golf on Saturday afternoons.
It was not until after tea that Glandford went out and walked rather hesitatingly to number 6. Mrs. Dodworthy opened the door to him. “Good evening, Mr. Glandford!” she exclaimed in some astonishment. It was unlike Mr. Glandford to call unexpectedly. “Do come in. You haven't brought Faith with you?”
“No,” Glandford replied awkwardly. “I left her at home. I came in the hope of a word with your husband.”
“Why, of course,” said Mrs. Dodworthy.” He's in the lounge; come along.” She led him to the lounge, where Dodworthy was sitting at his ease-reading an evening paper. He was middle-aged, big and broad shouldered, with a pleasant face and kindly expression. “Come in, Glandford!” he exclaimed, cordially. “I'm delighted to see you. You want a word with me, you say? I'm very glad of the opportunity for a chat. Sit down and tell me.”
Mrs. Dodworthy tactfully left the two men together. Glandford cleared his throat nervously. Now that it had come to the point he felt overcome by shyness. “I want your advice, Dodworthy,” he began at last, fumbling in his pocket. “You know far more about the ways of the world than I do. I received a communication this morning which completely baffles me. I wish you'd read it and tell me what I ought to do about it.”
Dodworthy took the envelope which Glandford handed to him. He scanned the postmark, “Barncaster, 6.30 p.in. Dec. 29,” and the ill-formed block letters of the address, “W. Glandford, Esq., F.R.S., 3 Hallows Green, Barncaster.” Then he drew from the envelope the folded paper. This in itself was odd, for it was not writing-paper, but a common telegraph form. But the words penned upon it in block letters were odder still. “Beware! Murder stalks in Hallows Green!”
Dodworthy stared at this remarkable message. “I can understand that this must have upset you,” he said. “But I don't think there's any real cause for alarm. It can't be anything but a practical joke. The absurdly melodramatic wording alone suggests that.”
Glandford nodded. “Yes, I've thought of that. But who would derive any pleasure from playing a joke like that on me?”
“Someone who didn't mean you to find out who he was,” Dodworthy replied. “It was a neat dodge to use a telegraph form, which couldn't possibly be traced. You know what the General Post Office in the Market Place is like, I dare say. There's always a crowd in there, and no given individual would be noticed. All he had to do was to behave like a dozen others. Go to one of the writing desks, take one of the forms to be found there, and write this ridiculous message. Then, instead of taking the form to the counter, he slipped it into an envelope he had brought with him, addressed it, and popped it into the letter-box.”. “Bless me! ” exclaimed Glandford, to whom this simple procedure had not occurred. “But why should he have gone to that trouble? And the letter isn't the only queer thing that's happened. I'm morally certain that someone has been into my laboratory without my knowledge.”
This it seemed to Dodworthy, might be a more serious matter than a foolish hoax. “Broken in, you mean?” he said.
Glandford shook his head. “No, unlocked the door somehow and left it unlocked. It's most extraordinary. There's only one key, and I don't believe that any one but myself knows where it's kept.”
“Is there anything valuable in the laboratory that might attract a thief?” Dodworthy asked.
“I'm not an alchemist,” Glandford replied. “I don't transmute base metals into gold. I wish I could. There's some pretty expensive apparatus there, but it would be of no value to any one but a scientist. A thief would find it very difficult to dispose of. Besides, I haven't been able to discover that anything is missing.”
To Dodworthy the simple explanation seemed to be that Glandford had left the door unlocked himself, but he said nothing of this. He glanced again at the envelope and its address. “The chap who sent this must have known you at least fairly well. He was aware that you were a Fellow of the Royal Society, anyhow. I feel pretty sure he must be some friend of yours, trying to pull your leg.”
This seemed to offend Glandford's dignity. “My friends are not in the habit of indulging in such pastimes. I prefer to believe that this extraordinary communication is intended either as a threat or a warning. And my uneasiness is increased by what I have told you about the laboratory. What ought I to do?”
“You could inform the police, of course,” Dodworthy replied. “But I don't think I should if I were you. They could take no action on what little you could tell them. And I don't think you need regard the message as a threat. Murder, it says. Murderers aren't in the habit of advertising their intentions in advance, you know.”
IF MURDER indeed stalked in Hallows Green that week-end, it left no visible trace of its presence. Even Mr. Glandford, once more absorbed in his scientific studies, was lulled into a sense of security. Dodworthy might be right, after all. Profoundly irritating though the thought might be, some impertinent jester had tried to make a fool of him. The dignified attitude was to ignore the matter completely.
The Christmas season and the days following were always a busy period for Miss Florence Wayland. All the associations in which she interested herself held functions of one kind or another, and her attendance at these was of course necessary. Besides this was the harassing business of choosing and dispatching presents, to say nothing of the still more acute problem of putting to use those she received. What, for instance, could one do with the chromium plated fire-guard presented by the Girl Guides? And, of course, there were dozens of letters to answer.
Miss Wayland—very few people called her by her Christian name—was an angular spinster in the late forties, positively bristling with efficiency. She was apt to remind people that method was among the cardinal virtues. Only by being strictly methodical could she possibly get through all the things she had to do herself. She would have been most indignant if any one had suggested that strict method was apt to curdle the milk of human kindness. Human kindness, indeed! Didn't she spend the greater part of her time and the lesser part of her income on Good Works? Nonsense!
The household at number 4 consisted of Miss Wayland and her companion, Helen Brinton, some years younger than herself. The Admiral, with his fatal trick of finding nicknames for everybody, always referred to Miss Brinton as the Poor Relation. His name for Miss Wayland, by the way, was Martha. It was quite true that the two women were distant cousins. When Helen's parents had died. Miss Wayland had offered her the post of companion. Unpaid, of course, for Helen would get her board and lodging, and she had just enough means of her own to provide her with pocket money. In fact, in Miss Wayland's opinion, it was an act of charity on her part to offer Helen so comfortable a home. At number 4 she would live on a scale far superior to anything to which she had been accustomed. Socially, too, it would be of the greatest advantage to her. Helen's father had never risen above a humble clerkship in the City of London.
No resident servants were kept at number 4. It was Miss Wayland's view that two women ought to be able to keep house for themselves, assisted in the rougher tasks by one or two members of the cohort of charwomen. In theory this was excellent, but in practice it bore hardly upon Helen. It fell upon her to do the cooking, the shopping, and most of the domestic work. Miss Wayland never devoted a moment to such mundane matters. How could she? The various meetings she had to attend, and the business they involved, took up every minute of her time. Dr. Teesdale was always telling her that she positively must find more time for absolute rest and quiet.
On Monday, New Year's Day, Miss Wayland breakfasted by herself in solitary state. There was nothing unusual in this, for it had long been the recognised custom at number 4. She liked to come down to breakfast at nine o'clock, and Helen preferred to have hers earlier, with, of course, Miss Wayland's full approval. It gave Helen more time to get on with the housework. She was already acting as housemaid upstairs.
The Christmas rush was practically over, and Miss Wayland observed with relief that the postman had brought her little correspondence. She had more than enough letters to answer already, without being bothered with any more. The only envelope which lay beside her plate was large and square. It bore a penny stamp, and the flap was not stuck, but merely tucked in. The sprawling handwriting of the address was' unfamiliar to her.
Easy enough to guess what the envelope contained without opening it. Someone to whom she had sent a Christmas card bad failed to reciprocate the compliment. He or she-he the handwriting suggested-had striven to repair the omission by sending her a New Year card. A glaring example of forgetfulness due to lack of method. She was always most careful herself to make a list of people to whom cards must be sent, and to keep the list up to date.
Miss Wayland did not feel sufficient curiosity to open the envelope immediately. It could wait until she had finished breakfast, when the card it contained would be put on the marble mantelpiece in the drawing-room, already crowded with Christmas cards of every size and shape. She had a busy morning before her. A conference at St. Oswald's Hall, at eleven, which would almost certainly last till lunch-time. Before then, she must find time to write at least a couple of letters.
Not until she had finished her second cup of coffee did she pick up the envelope; absent-mindedly, for she was frowning at the empty cup, at the bottom of which were some unsightly grounds. She really must tell Helen to strain the coffee more carefully. Then, aware of the envelope in her hand, she slipped out the flap and withdrew the card, for, as she had so rightly guessed, such it was. A good quality card, too, not one of those nasty cheap things some people thought good enough to send. Thick, stiff, deckle-edged paper, folded in two with a bow of blue silk at the fold. On the outside, printed in fanciful gold characters, “New Year Greetings.”
She opened the card, to find that the blue silk bow retained an inner sheet, also folded. This in turn she opened, then with a gasp of horror dropped the card as though it had burnt her fingers. Not for some seconds could she control herself sufficiently to pick it up again. Then with trembling fingers she opened it once more. On the left of the inner sheet was drawn, crudely but with awful realism, a grinning skull. On the right was the conventional printed inscription, “To wish you a very Happy New Year, from —” And after this last word was the name of the sender, written in bold block letters traced in vivid red ink, “Death!”
Shuddering, she folded up the card and put it back in the envelope. The shock had frightened her, there was no denying that. She was not naturally timid, but this was too ghastly. Who could have sent her anything so disgusting? None of her friends, she was quite sure of that. As for the many people she so efficiently befriended, not one of them would venture to do such a thing. It must be someone who had a grudge against her, and had taken this crude step to disturb her peace of mind. But, try as she would. Miss Wayland could think of nobody who could possibly harbour a grudge against her. Her attitude towards everybody was always purely benevolent.
Gradually her alarm subsided, to be replaced by a suspicious indignation. Who would have dared to send her such a card? The handwriting was quite unfamiliar, but then of course it was probably disguised. She picked up the envelope again and tried to decipher the postmark. The impression was blurred, and only the end of a word —“caster” was discernible. Barncaster, surely. Somebody who lived in the City. Even perhaps in Hallows Green?
She was still holding the envelope when the door opened, and Helen, wearing an apron, looked in. She was distressingly plain, but had a pair of shrewd grey eyes whose penetrating glances Miss Wayland sometimes found a trifle uncomfortable. “Have you got everything you want, Florence?” Helen asked.
Miss Wayland laid the envelope on her lap. “You really must be more careful with the coffee, Helen,” she replied irritably. “It was so full of grounds this morning that I could hardly drink it. I shall be going out in an hour's time, and I may be a few minutes late for lunch. I've finished breakfast, you can clear away now.”
She rose and stalked majestically from the room, carrying the envelope with her. On reaching the drawing-room she glanced involuntarily at the mantelpiece, bedecked with cards. This one should certainly not be added to the collection. She unlocked a drawer of her bureau, put the envelope in it and locked it up again. It was typical of Miss Wayland that she kept everything locked, and carried a fat bunch of keys about with her in her handbag. It wasn't really very likely that Helen would interfere with anything. But the charwomen couldn't be trusted. One never knew how inquisitive they might be.
She sat down at the bureau, took up her pen, and resolutely began writing a letter. But she found it impossible to keep her mind from wandering to that dreadful card. The skull seemed to grin at her from the paper on which she was writing and that scarlet word, death, danced before her eyes. She hated the idea of death, it didn't fit in with her scheme of things at all.
Although she would never have admitted it, even to herself, Miss Wayland was at heart superstitious. An omen was to be drawn from the first visitor who crossed the threshold on New Year's Day. Might not this apply also to the first thing that came by post? Was this wretched card an omen that she was to die within the year?
Nonsense! She was allowing herself to become thoroughly upset over a trifle. It could be no more than a malicious joke on the part of somebody. But on whose part? That unpleasant thought which had been interrupted by Helen's entrance. Someone in Hallows Green? Through the window she could see above the trees the chimneys of number 7 across the road. The Admiral loved a joke. But his jokes, though sometimes out of season, were never malicious. He would never have sent her such a thing. Nor, surely, would any of her neighbours.
At half-past ten she got ready and went out. At the gate she turned to the left along Hallows Green, towards Paulthorpe Road, where she could catch a bus that would take her direct to St. Oswald's Hall. She met none of her neighbours until she had nearly reached the corner. Then the gate of number 10 opened, and Barry Flamstead crossed the road towards her. He was a few years younger than herself, a cheerful-looking individual with a rather unceremonious manner. “Hallo, Miss Wayland! ” he exclaimed. “You're looking very serious this morning. On your way into the city on one of your errands of mercy, eh?”
Miss Wayland was glad to see Barry Flamstead. She liked him much better than she did his brother Lawrence, whom she always found a trifle supercilious. “I'm going to a conference at St. Oswald's Hall,” she replied as they walked on together to the bus stop. “The Vicar of All Saints particularly asked me to come, and I promised him I would. It's about raising money for the repairs to the Parish Hall.”
Barry Flamstead laughed. “Don't you dare ask me for a subscription. I'm completely broke after Christmas. In fact, I'm on my way to the bank, to try to squeeze a few pence out of Dodworthy or one of his minions. The children are home from school, and one's got to do one's best to give them a good time. But it's devilishly expensive.”
Miss Wayland was accustomed to hearing him talk like that. Barry Flamstead was always bemoaning the fact that he hadn't a penny to bless himself with. It must be a ridiculous exaggeration, of course. He and his family did themselves remarkably well, and never seemed to deny themselves anything they wanted. Of course, that unfortunate lawsuit must be a drain upon their resources, but that was largely their own fault...
They got on the bus together, and during the journey Barry Flamstead did most of the talking. All about his children, and the fun they were all having together during the holidays. Yes, in reply to Miss Wayland's polite inquiry, Joan his wife, was as fit as she could be. Younger than her brats, she seemed sometimes. Oh, well, they were growing up now, and weren't the infants they used to be. Jerry was taller than his mother.
Barry Flamstead got off the bus at Regency Square, and Miss Wayland went on alone. For a moment, when they met, she had been tempted to tell him why she was looking so serious. But she had thought better of it. He wouldn't have listened, or if he had he wouldn't have spared a thought for it. Barry Flamstead was completely absorbed by his family, and always had been.
Miss Wayland was quite unable to give her full attention to the conference. In fact, when the vicar asked her to express her opinion, she failed for a moment to collect her thoughts. However, she found herself uttering some appropriate words, which were decorously applauded. The proceedings ended inconclusively, as conferences usually do. She caught a bus back to Hallows Green. At one of the intermediate stops it was boarded by Mr. Egremont.
He did not see her, perhaps because his mind was habitually in the clouds, and she did nothing to attract his attention. She didn't feel like conversation with him just then. He was a man of uncertain age, tall, thin and stooping, with an unworldly, ascetic expression. He sat down, took a book from his pocket, and started to read it.
Miss Wayland had nothing against either of the Egremonts personally, though it was a pity that she dressed so oddly. But, as a staunch supporter of the Established Church, she had a profound mistrust of any cult which if not actually pagan, must at least be heretical. Of the nature of the cult professed by the Egremonts she had no idea, for they were wholly lacking in missionary fervour. They never even spoke about it to their neighbours. But they gave occasional tea-parties, to which Miss Wayland had been invited. On these occasions the guests were ushered into a sort of hall, which had been formed by knocking two of the ground floor rooms of number 1 into one.
About this hall there hung a vague religious atmosphere, difficult to define. Miss Wayland always thought that she could detect a faint aroma of incense. For the purposes of the tea-parties it was furnished with rugs, chairs and small tables, but these looked singularly out of place between the soberly-painted walls. At one end of the room, partially hidden behind a folding screen, was an object completely enfolded in a spotless white embroidered cloth. Its shape suggested that it might be a large table. An altar of some kind, Miss Wayland supposed. She felt slightly shocked at drinking tea in such surroundings. But after all the responsibility lay with the Egremonts.
At the bus stop at the corner of Paulthorpe Road and Hallows Green Mr. Egremont alighted, and Miss Wayland followed him. He did not look round, and their ways diverged. Miss Wayland set out briskly along Hallows Green, but not so Mr. Egremont. He walked to the door in the wall bordering Paulthorpe Road, opened it and passed through.
Miss Wayland was still preoccupied with that hateful card, and started when a voice accosted her. “Beg pardon, Ma'am. Can you tell me which is number 2? I've never been along here before.”
“Next house on the right,” Miss Wayland replied promptly “There you are. You'll see the number on the gate.”
The boy thanked her and rode on to the gate at which she pointed. He stood his bicycle against the kerb and went through the gateway to the door of number 2. Miss Wayland caught sight of the parcel he took with him. It looked like a roll of papers covered in a brown wrapping. Legal documents of some kind for Mr. Raynham, very probably.
She had nearly reached number 4 when she saw Mr. Charles Vawtrey approaching, on the opposite pavement, very correctly dressed as usual in a dark-blue overcoat and a bowler hat. Mr. Vawtrey looked older than his years, perhaps because so much of his life had been spent in tropical climates. He was a bachelor, of a very retiring disposition, and a shy, rather awkward manner. The household at number 9 consisted of himself and a married couple, rejoicing in the homely name of Brown, who looked after him. In spite of their name, the exotic appearance of the Browns showed that they were not of English birth. They were popularly supposed to be natives of some remote colony, brought home by Mr. Vawtrey on his retirement.
On seeing Miss Wayland, Mr. Vawtrey raised his bowler hat, as he did so clutching anxiously the package he was carrying, as though afraid he might drop it. Miss Wayland called to him across the road. “Good morning, Mr. Vawtrey. You've been out shopping, I see.”
Mr. Vawtrey crossed the road and blinked at her with his short-sighted eyes. “Yes, it's a bottle,” he replied, clutching the package to his breast. “I've been so afraid I might let it fall. A new developer I want to try. I'm told it's very good if one has under-exposed a negative, as one is very apt to do at this time of year. The winter light is so deceptive. It is sometimes quite impossible to judge the actinic value, correctly.”
Miss Wayland knew that he was completely wrapped up in his hobby. But she had no knowledge of photography and felt no inclination to pursue the subject. “I hope you find it a success, Mr. Vawtrey. You really must come in and have a cup of tea with us some afternoon when you can spare the time. Good morning.”
She went on her way, rather wishing that the entirely conventional invitation had not escaped her. Mr. Vawtrey had occasionally dropped in for tea at number 4, and she had found conversation with him rather difficult. He was so terribly shy that he didn't seem able to talk about anything but his tiresome photography. At least, she couldn't make him talk But, rather to her annoyance, it had seemed that he wasn't quite so shy with Helen. In fact, they seemed to get on quite well together.
Like many spinsters of her age and disposition, Miss Wayland was mistrustful of any friendship between unmarried men and women. One never knew what it might lead to. Some people were so blind that they seemed to stumble inadvertently into the pit of matrimony. Well, let them, so long as by doing so they did not interfere with Miss Wayland's comfort. But Helen most definitely could not be spared. She was far too useful about the house. Miss Wayland had no idea how she could replace her. Without, at all events, putting herself to considerable expense.
She told herself that there could be no chance of any such thing happening. Helen was—let's see—she'd be thirty-five this year. Mr. Vawtrey must be twice her age, or at all events old enough to be her father. His grey hair and short-sightedness made him seem at least sixty. But yet he couldn't be. He was far too active for a man of such years. He would tramp the countryside for miles with a heavy camera over his shoulder. By the time she reached her own front door. Miss Wayland was not so sure. Mr. Vawtrey's visits should certainly not be encouraged.
MR. PETER RAYNHAM believed in keeping up appearances, perhaps as much for the sake of the firm's prestige as his own. He maintained a car and chauffeur and, disdaining the bus, used this method of transport to convey him to and from his office in Upper Close. For five days a week the routine never varied. At half-past nine the chauffeur brought the car to the front door of number 2. Mr. Raynham got into it, and was driven to the office. The car then returned to Hallows Green, when it was available for the ladies, should they wish to go shopping. Sharp at one o'clock it returned to the office, to bring Mr. Raynham home to lunch. At half-past two another journey to the office, after which the ladies could use the car for paying calls. They had to be back by five, for at that time the car was required to bring Mr. Raynham home at the conclusion of his day's work.
The ladies, for two Mrs. Raynhams lived at number 2. The elder, Mrs. Caroline Raynham, the mother of Peter and widow of Stanford Raynham, the founder of the firm, who had taken a prominent part in the affairs of the city. Mrs. Caroline could never forget that she had once been Lady Mayoress. She was rather a formidable old lady, very much on the alert, and the possessor of a remarkably strong will of her own. Doris Raynham, Peter's wife, was a rather colourless woman, mentally and physically, completely dominated by her husband and mother-in-law. The household was completed by Lotti, a Displaced Person of uncertain age and rudimentary intelligence, employed as general servant. The elder Mrs. Raynham's opinion was that she supposed it to be better to have Lotti than nobody.
That New Year's Day, Peter Raynham came home to lunch in an unusually irritable frame of mind. As a rule, he did not allow unpleasantness, incidental to his practice, to worry him overmuch. He was fond of saying that he didn't bring his cases home, but left them behind in the office. But that morning had been unfortunate, for he had had a serious difference of opinion with one of his more important clients. It had led to his telling the fellow that if he insisted upon the line he was taking, he would have to instruct another firm of solicitors to act for him. Peter Raynham's feathers were still ruffled.
He got out of the car and entered the hall. A parcel lying on the hall table caught his eye, and he picked it up to see if it was addressed to him. It was cylindrical, and the brown wrapping was secured with adhesive paper. The address upon it was vague, scrawled apparently with a stick of charcoal. “2, Hallows Green,” no more.
Raynham carried the parcel into the lounge, where he found his mother sitting by the fire. Doris was in the kitchen, helping Lotti to get lunch. From bitter experience she knew that if the potatoes were left to Lotti's tender care they would appear on the table either as a watery paste or half raw. Raynham displayed the parcel for his mother's inspection. “What's this? ” he demanded. “I've just found it on the hall table.”
Mrs. Raynham glanced at it without interest. “I don't know, my dear boy,” she replied. “I've never seen it before. Lotti must have taken it in, I expect. You'd better ask her.”
Still holding the parcel, Raynham strode into the kitchen. Doris was standing over the electric cooker, Lotti watching her with lack-lustre eyes. “Did you take this in, Lotti? ” he asked. Who brought it?”
Lotti's command of English, especially when she was accosted, was apt to fail her. “Ein Knabe,” she replied. “A youthling. Some minutes back. Er sprecht a herr him to leave it asked.”
“A boy, you mean?” Raynham asked irritably. “What boy? Where did he come from?”
Lotti shook her head helplessly, “Ich ken nicht. He did not me where he came from tell.”
Raynham flung out of the kitchen and went back to the drawing-room. “That girl gets more of a fool every day,” he grumbled. “From what I can make out a boy brought it and said a man had asked him to leave it here. There's no name on it, only the number of the house. Who's it for, that's what I want to know?”
“In that case, wouldn't the simplest way of finding out be to open it and see what it is?” Mrs. Raynham suggested.
Her son tore at the wrapping. The charcoal came off on his fingers, and the adhesive paper felt disgustingly sticky. Muttering under his breath he cast the wrapping aside, to find layer after layer of corrugated paper. At last he came to a hard object, in an inner wrapping of tissue paper. “What the dickens is it?” he exclaimed.
The tearing away of the tissue paper answered his question. It was the blade of a sixteenth-century duelling dagger, in a very bad state of preservation, and with the handle missing. But the blade had been sharpened, recently, as the brightness of the edge showed. And as Raynham held it to the light, he perceived what seemed to be an inscription roughly scratched upon the flat of the blade. The letters were grotesquely formed, and not easy to decipher. But, letter by letter, he made out four words, “Honourable Death is Best.”
“Well, I'm damned! ” he exclaimed. “The confounded thing is infernally sharp. Lucky I didn't cut my fingers when I was unwrapping it. 'Honourable Death is Best!' What the devil does that mean?”
“It sounds to me very like an invitation to suicide.” Mrs. Raynham replied. “Something in the Japanese line.”
“Suicide!” he exclaimed. “Who's it for? Me, I suppose. It can hardly be for you or Doris. It's a damned insult, anyhow. Who sent it? By jove, I wonder! That fellow who made himself so offensive in the office this morning! I'll let him know that he can't threaten like that and get away with it!”
“Be careful that you don't do anything foolish, my dear boy,” his mother said calmly. “If I were you I should put that thing away safely somewhere and say nothing about it. That's what your father would have done, I'm sure.”
Mrs. Raynham was rather too fond of telling her son what his father would have done, and he always resented this. “Father wouldn't have taken a thing like this lying down,” he retorted. “I shall take it to the office with me this afternoon and show it to the police. It'll be up to them to find that boy and the man who gave him the parcel.”
“You must do as you think best,” said Mrs. Raynham. “But it seems to me you're going to make yourself look ridiculous. It would be a mistake to take it too seriously. I think it's more than likely that absurd knife was sent by one of your friends, trying to get a rise out of you.”
To her son such a suggestion was positively shocking. That one of his friends should have the effrontery to attempt to get a rise out of the head of the firm of Raynham and Raynham was unthinkable. “A friend, eh?” he growled. “Well. I'll make it my business to find out who this friend was, and when I have I'll give him a piece of my mind. I've no patience with silly jokes like that. Why, suppose Doris had opened the parcel! The shock it would have given her might have had the most serious consequences. We'll keep the matter to ourselves, I think, mother.”
After lunch that afternoon Raynham did not for once go directly to the office, but told his chauffeur to put him down nearby, at the headquarters of the Barncaster City Constabulary. He and the Chief Constable knew one another well, and he was immediately shown into his room. “Good afternoon, Mr. Raynham! ” said the Chief Constable. “I'm very glad to see you. Sit down and tell me what we can do for you.”
“I'm wondering if you can do me a favour,” Raynham replied. “About one o'clock to-day a boy left a parcel at my house. There was nothing on the parcel to tell where it came from, and I'm particularly anxious to find out. Do you think you could possibly trace the boy for me?”
The Chief Constable smiled. “You seem to have a touching belief in the powers of the police, Mr. Raynham. What sort of boy? Can you give me any idea what he looked like?”
“No, I can't", Raynham replied. “My fool of a foreign maid took in the parcel. A11 she can say is that it was left by a boy, who said that a man had asked him to deliver the parcel. She hadn't the remotest idea what the boy looked like, or where he came from. It's my belief the woman's half-witted.”
“Well, we'll do our best,” said the Chief Constable doubtfully. “But you haven't given us very much to work on. It isn't very likely that we shall be able to spot this particular boy among the thousands round about the city. Still, I'll pass the word round, and if we hear anything I'll let you know.”
Raynham expressed his thanks, and went on to his office. While he dealt with the work awaiting him there, that confounded piece of impertinence rankled at the back of his mind. His mother was a remarkably shrewd old lady, and it was quite likely that she had hit the nail on the head. A most offensive leg-pull on the part of one of his friends, or one of his neighbours, perhaps. Someone living in Hallows Green. Damned cheek!
Later in the afternoon he was told that the Chief Constable wished to speak to him on the telephone. He picked up his instrument and announced himself. “Hallo, Mr. Raynham!” came the Chief Constable's voice. “We've got a clue to that boy of yours. It was one chance in a thousand, but I believe it's come off. At about ten minutes to one a boy riding a tradesman's bicycle stopped and asked the constable on duty at the junction of Paulthorpe and Otterford Roads where Hallows Green was. He said he had a parcel to deliver there. The constable noticed the nameplate on the bicycle. Smith's, grocers, Bridge Street. Do you want us to follow up the matter?”
“I won't trouble you as far as that,” Raynham replied hastily. “The less publicity the better. I'll see the boy myself. I'm very much obliged to you. And you'll allow me to congratulate you on a smart bit of work.”
“I'm glad we were able to oblige,” said the Chief Constable. “Any time you want help, let us know. Good-bye.”
Raynham instructed one of his clerks, and sent him to Bridge Street. After a while the clerk returned, bringing with him an intelligent looking boy of seventeen or thereabouts. “Sit down, my lad,” said Raynham paternally. “I want you to tell me something. Did you deliver a parcel at number 2 Hallows Green about one o'clock to-day?”
“That's right,” the boy replied. “A gentleman gave it me. I didn't know just where Hallows Green was, so I had to ask.”
“' I see,” said Raynham. “Who was the gentleman who gave you the parcel?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn't say. 1 didn't know him. It was this way. I was stopped at the traffic lights at the end of Bridge Street when he came up and spoke to me. Asked me if by any chance I was going to Paulthorpe Road or Otterford Road way. I said I was going up Paulthorpe Road to the far end. He slipped a brown paper parcel into the carrier of my bike, and asked me to leave it at 2 Hallows Green, as it was on my way. He gave me half a crown for my trouble and then marched off, as if he was in a bit of a hurry.”
“Do you remember what this gentleman looked like?” Raynham asked smoothly.
“Can't say that I do,” the boy replied. “Except that he could hardly speak for the shocking cold he had. He was all muffled up, and he held a handkerchief up to his face and coughed into it something chronic. I never got a proper sight of him, and he was gone before I had time to ask him if there was any message.”
Clearly there was nothing more to be learnt from the boy. “Well, if this gentleman gave you half a crown, I can do no less,” said Raynham. The boy pocketed the coin with a grin and a word of thanks, and Raynham showed him from the room.
He returned to his chair, frowning at the impasse in which his inquiries had ended. He could not withhold his reluctant admiration from the neatness of the job. To entrust the parcel to a casual errand boy, who would never know what it contained or who had given it to him! But who could the man have been? The shocking cold he had exhibited was of course, no clue to his identity. It had been assumed as a pretext for holding a handkerchief before his face And he had departed hurriedly, before any questions could be asked. The whole affair was completely baffling. Was it merely a joke, or was there something more sinister behind it?
It was getting on for five o'clock. Raynham was preparing to leave the office, when his head clerk came in. “I'm sorry to trouble you, Mr. Raynham. But Mr. Lawrence Flamstead is here, and says he must see you.”
Raynham groaned. Not that he disliked Lawrence Flamstead, who was not only one of his clients but his neighbour at number 5 Hallows Green. But he was apt to be infernally long-winded over his affairs, and Raynham hated to be detained at the office beyond his usual hour. “I must see him, I suppose. Show him in.”
Lawrence Flamstead came in. He was some years older than his brother Barry, and considerably more irascible. He plumped into the chair Raynham offered him, and started off angrily, without preliminary. “You'll have to do something about this, Raynham. It's that confounded brother of mine again. Or rather his family, but he knows all about it, I'll be bound. I'm not going to put up with any sauce from my nephew and niece. You must write a stiff letter to Barry, warning him to keep his brats from being a public nuisance.”
“I shall have to know what they've been up to before I can do that,” Raynham remarked dryly.
“What they've been up to! ” his client exclaimed. “I'll soon tell you that. I spent the afternoon at the Club. Lunched there in fact, for Elinor and Pauline have gone out for the day. I was just leaving a few minutes ago when I found a letter for me on the board. The porter told me the afternoon postman had left it. Letter, indeed! It wasn't a letter. Here, look at it for yourself!”
He produced an envelope and flung it on the table. Raynham picked it up and scanned it closely. It bore a twopence-halfpenny stamp, cancelled with the Barncaster postmark. The address was in irregularly-spaced print characters. “Mr. L. Flamstead, Barnshire County Club, Barncaster.” The envelope had already been torn open, and he withdrew the contents, to find a folded sheet of glazed art paper.
He unfolded it, to reveal a highly-coloured but realistic illustration of a tiger. So that the creature could not mistaken, it bore the caption in large print, ' Indian Tiger.'“ Raynham was staring at this, when Flamstead broke in: “Turn it over, man!”
Raynham did so. The back of the sheet was blank, but for a crooked line of printed characters, similar to those of the address, running across it. And, surprisingly enough, these printed characters spelt out a sentence in Latin. “Media vita morte sumus.”
“I remember enough of my schooldays to be able to construe that!” “Flamstead exclaimed, violently. “In the midst of life we are in death! We're reminded of that every time we go to a funeral. Did you ever hear of such confounded insolence? You'll have to put a stop to it, Raynham.”
Raynham made no immediate reply, his thoughts being busy with the inscription on the blade of the dagger. But his client's impatience would brook no delay. “You'll know best how to put it. Draft the letter as strongly as you can. Tell him I'll take action in the courts if I don't receive an immediate apology and an undertaking that it won't happen again.”
“What makes you so sure that it was your nephew or niece who sent you this?” Raynham asked.
“Why, surely it's obvious enough, even to a lawyer!” Flamstead exploded. “Can't you see? That sheet of paper is an illustration torn out of a child's picture book of animals. And that painting on the back and on the envelope. Just shows how badly they've been brought up. I don't remember ever before being addressed as Mr. It was done with a toy printing set. I know that, for Pauline had one when she was their age. And the Latin's just the sort of thing a schoolboy would think of. That was my nephew's contribution, I'll be bound.”
“All the same, I'm not so sure,” Raynham replied thoughtfully. “It wouldn't do to take any hasty action till we know for certain. Look here. Leave this with me and let me think it over for a day or two.”
“You lawyers always find some excuse for procrastination,” Flamstead grumbled. “All right, then, but only a day or two. I'm not going to let the family at number 10 think they've got away with it.”
“I'll have a word with you about it before very long,” Raynham replied. “Now, I was on the point of going home when you came. I'll give you a lift in my car, if you like.”
Flamstead accepted the offer, and, still growling, accompanied Raynham as far as the gate of number 5, where he was set down. On reaching his own house, Raynham retired to his study to think over this surprising sequel to his own experience. It was surely a safe guess that the dagger and the coloured plate had been sent by the same hand. The two inscriptions were sufficiently alike in tenor. And though it was conceivable that Barry Flamstead had incited his children to send his brother something that would infallibly annoy him, it was inconceivable that he had been the man who had entrusted the parcel to the errand-boy. So far as Raynham knew, Barry was not given to pointless practical jokes. And if he was, why should he have selected Raynham as the victim of his misplaced humour? Barry was not a client of his, and in fact the two men rarely met.
It was quite natural that Lawrence Flamstead should suspect his brother's family, for there was no love lost between them. From their earliest years the two had been more or less antagonistic. They had always held opposite views upon every conceivable subject. For instance, some years ago Lawrence had stood as a parliamentary candidate for the city in the Liberal interest, and had attributed his defeat to the machinations of his brother, an ardent Conservative. Then had come the death of their uncle, Sir Horace Flamstead, a very wealthy man. He had never married, and had left a will in favour of his nephews. So much, at least, was agreed as to the interpretation of that amazing document. If only people would employ a solicitor, instead of drawing up involved rigmaroles which have no meaning in law; Sir Horace's will was capable of half a dozen interpretations, according to the way you read it. His estate was to be divided between his two nephews, but in what proportions was open to dispute. Characteristically, each had taken his own stand upon the matter, from which neither could be persuaded to budge.
Of course, the sensible thing would have been to agree to some compromise, but this they resolutely refused to do. Barry, the more reasonable of the two, maintained that he had no right to prejudice his children's future. Lawrence, stubborn as a mule, declared that he had no intention of parting with anything that was rightfully his. So the matter had dragged on in endless litigation, with the only result of widening the gulf between the two families. Fortunately, apart from their expectations under their uncle's will, both had enough to live on comfortably.
Barry had a boy and girl, Jerry and Peg, who had been sent to boarding-schools. Lawrence's only child, Pauline, was just out of her teens. Her father was always talking about the party he meant to throw on her twenty-first birthday. She was really a lovely girl, a pleasure to look at, and always beautifully dressed. But Raynham was not alone in his opinion that she was completely empty-headed. He had once remarked to his mother that the only career which offered her any hope of success was that of a film star. But Lawrence Flamstead had no idea of any career for his daughter beyond marriage. Sooner or later the lawyers must see sense, when she would become a considerable heiress. And then, we should see.
But this, as Raynham reminded himself, was a digression from the immediate point. Granted that both jokes, if indeed they were jokes, had been played by the same person, who could that person be? If they were not jokes, the uncomfortable thought that they might be veiled menaces presented itself. Certainly, it was unlikely that Lawrence Flamstead would be devoured by tigers on his way to or from the County Club. Nor did Raynham feel the slightest inclination to plunge the sharpened dagger in his breast. Presumably the menaces were symbolic. But why should he and Lawrence Flamstead have been threatened? Raynham was as yet unaware of the strange experiences which had befallen Mr. Glandford and Miss Wayland.
DR. JEREMY TEESDALE had for several years been in practice in Barncaster. He was in the late forties, brisk and energetic, and with a cheerful way about him that made him popular with the great majority of his patients. Only a handful of valetudinarians sometimes grumbled that the doctor did not take their complaints as seriously as they did themselves. But this was nonsense, for nobody could be more conscientious than Dr. Teesdale.
The doctor lived at number 3 with his wife Dilys, as energetic as himself, to whom he was devoted. Their only child, a son, Evan, had just left Cambridge. He had been at home for a few days at Christmas, but was now back in London, where he was studying medicine, having always wanted to follow the same profession as his father. The only other resident-member of the household was a maid, always known as Olwen. She was in fact a widow, Mrs. Griffiths, whom Dilys Teesdale's parents had befriended in their native Wales. Olwen had entered their service, and at their deaths , had been bequeathed, with the rest of their not inconsiderable possessions, to their daughter.
Like most doctors in active practice, Teesdale was a busy man. He kept a car, unlike Raynham, driving it himself, maintaining that a chauffeur was not only an expense, but a nuisance to boot. After an early breakfast, he drove to his surgery, arriving there at nine o'clock and parking the car nearby. Market Row was one of the older parts of the city, and with one exception its Queen Anne houses had long been converted into offices. The one exception was the surgery, the upper part of which was still in use as a residence. Teesdale's young assistant lived there. Assistant, not partner, for the arrangement was not intended to be permanent. It had always been understood that as soon as Evan was qualified, he would become his father's partner. Then, if he should get married, as he probably would, there would be a house all ready for him. Teesdale's habit was to spend an hour at the surgery. Not longer if he could possibly help it, for he had other calls on his time. He was on the visiting staff of the Barncaster and County Hospital, and went there every morning. On leaving the hospital he called on a few bedridden patients unable to attend at the surgery, and usually contrived to get home for lunch by half-past one. After that, he did not go out again till half-past three. His private patients knew that he was to be found at home during the early afternoon, and several of them took advantage of the fact. He then paid such calls as remained over from the morning, to return to the surgery at six. It was rarely that he got home for dinner before half-past seven.
On Tuesday morning, January 2nd, he set out for the surgery a few minutes earlier than usual. A meeting, which he would have to attend, had been summoned at the hospital for ten o'clock, and that meant that he must leave the surgery at least ten minutes earlier. He left the car in the park at Market Row, locked it and walked swiftly to the surgery. Early as it was, the queue of patients was already formed. He greeted his assistant, and the elderly Nurse Cawston, the receptionist and dispenser, and got down to work.
As so often happened when he was pressed for time, there seemed to be more people to see than usual. He found it impossible to leave until nearly five minutes to ten, and then literally ran to the car park. He always prided himself upon his punctuality, but traffic conditions would have to be exceptionally favourable if he was to get to the hospital in five minutes. He reached his car, the key in his hand ready to unlock it. As he did so, he caught sight of a piece of paper inserted beneath the arm of the windscreen wiper.
Was this a kind attention on the part of the police? He hadn't infringed any parking regulation. He snatched out the paper, to find that it was a cheap and dirty envelope, with the inscription in bold, ill-formed characters, “Dr. J. T. Urjent.” Not the police, anyhow. However urgent it might be, it would have to wait. Stuffing the envelope into his pocket, he unlocked the car, jumped in, and started off. By a miracle of driving he reached the hospital entrance as the hands of the clock above it pointed to the hour.
The meeting, which was concerned with a vital matter of hospital administration, occupied all his attention, and did not come to an end till half-past eleven. Not until he was once more seated in the car, prepared to start on his round of visits, did he remember the envelope. He drew it from his pocket, slightly crumpled, and looked at it more closely than he had before. A queer inscription, and queerer still as he examined it more closely. It was in pencil, broad and black, as though something in the nature of a carpenter's pencil had been used. And the writing, if it could be so described, was that of a child or illiterate person. His initials merely, and “urjent,” spelt with a “j.”
He tore open the envelope. Inside it was an irregularly shaped piece of paper, printed on both sides. Evidently a piece torn roughly from some journal or other. Yes, that was what it was. On one side was part of a description of some motor-racing event, partially erased with a heavily pencilled cross. The fragment had been torn from one of the motoring papers. Teesdale recognised it, for he was a subscriber to that particular periodical.
He turned the paper over. On this side was a displayed advertisement, which was familiar to him. It was in heavy type, the lines widely spaced. “Look out! Look out! It's on the way! What is?” But the following line, which Teesdale knew to be “The new Paragon Six-Ninety Mile-buster” had been heavily erased. Above it, as big as the space permitted, were the broadly pencilled letters, H C N.
Teesdale stared at this in utter stupefaction. What the dickens could it mean? H C N was the chemical symbol for prussic acid. One might well look out if such a deadly poison was on the way. But on the way whence and whither? Was this a well-intentioned warning? If so, why had it been addressed to him?..
It was really most extraordinary. The illiterate inscription on the envelope, with the faulty spelling; contrasted with this, the letters H C N. Would any illiterate person have known, or been able to learn, that prussic, or hydrocyanic, acid was scientifically indicated by those letters? Surely not. The only inference was that the illiteracy had been assumed. It had been an educated person who had sent the message. And he had disguised his handwriting, making this easier by the use of an unusually soft and spade-pointed pencil.
And then the method of delivery. The envelope could not have been put in the car, for that was locked. Slipping it under the windscreen wiper had been a good alternative. But wouldn't it have been as easy to drop it into the surgery letter-box, barely a hundred yards from the car park? Of course it would, but that would have involved the risk of the bearer being seen and recognised.
As Teesdale sat and pondered over the puzzle, yet another point occurred to him. He had taken delivery of his present car only a few days before Christmas. Previous to that he had for many years owned an old and dilapidated vehicle, conspicuous by the unusual shade of green in which it was painted. Every one had known that as the doctor's car. But this new car differed in no way from the dozens of others of similar make owned in Barncaster and the surrounding district. It had not a label “Doctor” attached to the wind-screen. How had it been identified, among the many other cars standing in the park, as his? One doesn't as a rule memorise the registration numbers of other people's cars.
The only distinguishing feature of the car was a fog-lamp which Teesdale had had fitted. Only someone who had seen him driving it frequently would have associated him with this peculiarity. Or someone who had seen it standing in Hallows Green, outside number 8, during the early afternoon. One of his neighbours? Among them only Walter Glandford might be expected to know the symbol for prussic acid. It was impossible to imagine that eminent scientist conveying a cryptic message in so roundabout a manner!
Teesdale drove away from the hospital. As he threaded his way through the traffic another idea occurred to him. Perhaps the letters were not a chemical symbol, but somebody's initials! He racked his brains for any of his patients or acquaintances who might fill the bill. The only one he could think of was old Mr. Narworth. His Christian name was certainly Henry, and for all Teesdale knew he might have a second; Charles, for instance. But, of all people, Mr. Narworth was the last to be on the way. He had been bedridden for years.
That word “urjent” on the envelope. What action was Dr. J. T. expected to take? If this was a serious though anonymous warning, and not the effusion of an irresponsible lunatic, the suggestion that prussic acid was on the way was a very grave matter, especially to a doctor. Should he hand it over to the police? It wasn't easy to see what they could do about it. Better show it to Peter Raynham, and hear what he had to say. He was a sensible chap, and his advice could always be depended upon. Drop in and see him at home this evening. That was the idea.
Teesdale finished his morning round and got back to number 8 about his usual time. He had decided to say nothing to Dilys, for the present at least. Not that she was likely to be unduly alarmed, but there was no reason to take the risk. She met him as he came in. “Lunch will be ready in a few minutes,” she said. “Have you had a very busy morning? You look rather worried.”
“That meeting at the hospital has given me a lot to think of,” Jeremy Teesdale replied. “And I only got away from the surgery just in time to make it. Any messages?”
“Only one,” said Dilys. “Lady Sapperton rang up. She'd like you to look in and see the Admiral, who's got rather a nasty chill. She's managed to persuade him to stay in bed.”
Teesdale nodded. “I'll run over after lunch. He must be feeling pretty poorly if he's consented to stay in bed. And he's not so young as he was, though he'd hate any one to tell him so.”
At half-past two Teesdale went out. A minute or two brought him to number 7, next door. He was admitted by Haskin, who had served with the Admiral before his retirement. He and Mrs. Haskin ran the house with the help of a daily charwoman. “Good afternoon, Haskin,” said Teesdale. “The Admiral's laid up, I'm sorry to hear.”
“Sir Hector is slightly indisposed, sir,” Haskin replied. “Perhaps you will speak to her Ladyship.” He showed the doctor into the lounge, a comfortable room hung with enlarged photographs of the various warships in which the Admiral had served. Lady Sapperton rose as he came in. She was a graceful, white-haired woman, with a haunting sadness beneath her welcoming smile. The submarine which her only son had commanded had been lost with all hands during the war. The Sappertons had no other children. The Admiral's grief was as lasting as hers. But in public, at least, he disguised it under a breezy manner, not too patently assumed.
“It was good of you to come. Doctor,” said Lady Sapperton. “I'd like you to see Hector. I don't think he's really ill, but he's got a sore throat and shivering fits, and I made him stay in bed. Shall I take you up to him?”
Teesdale followed her up to the Admiral's bedroom. He was sitting up in bed, wearing glasses and reading a newspaper. He looked the typical seaman, with a strong weather-beaten face and grey pointed beard. In the Navy he had always been known as Hearty Hector, and had lived up to the name. As they entered the room he flung the newspaper to the floor and put his glasses aside. “Come in. Doctor!” he bellowed huskily. “Sorry to receive you like this. Sit down and I'll pour out my troubles into your sympathetic ear.”
He waited until Lady Sapperton had left the room, then went on in a lowered voice: “Nothing the matter, really. Just a bit of a chill; can't think how I caught it. I was as fit as a fiddle yesterday. Lawrence Flamstead can tell you that, for I was talking to him at the Club in the afternoon. But you know what women are. Margaret wouldn't give me any peace till I promised to stay in bed and let her send for you. All nonsense!”
“Lady Sapperton was quite right,” Teesdale replied firmly. “It's folly to neglect a chill. Now then, let me have a look over you.” He took out his stethoscope and sounded his patient back and front. “Nothing very much wrong there,” he continued. “Throat's a bit sore, I hear. Open your mouth and let me see it.”
The Admiral obeyed, and after an inspection Teesdale grunted. “A bit painful, I dare say. Now, listen to me, Sapperton. You've got to obey orders, as I suppose you had to when you were a snotty. Just you stay where you are and keep warm. I'll make you up some stuff and send it over this evening.”
The Admiral laughed. “Very good, my lord. But I warn you I'm not going to stop in the sick-bay a moment longer than I feel like it. And you needn't trouble to send the stuff. That rascal Haskin can fetch it from your surgery.”
“You'll stay where you are till I come and see you again to-morrow,” Teesdale replied. “I'll see Lady Sapperton and tell her to lash you into your hammock if necessary.” He was about to leave the room, when the Admiral called him back. “Just a minute. Doctor. I've something here to show you. Make you laugh, I dare say.”
He fumbled under his pillow and produced a collection of letters. “Haskin brought this lot up this morning,” he said, as he reached for his glasses and put them on. “Bills and circulars, mostly. They say there's a shortage of paper, bat it doesn't look very much like it to me. But there's one among them I can't make out at all. Where's it got to now? Ah, here it is!”
He sorted out a square envelope and handed it to Teesdale. “Tell me what you make of that.”
Teesdale took the envelope. The stamp and Barncaster postmark of Monday's date were ordinary enough. But the method of address was far from ordinary. One of the Admiral's visiting cards had been stuck on the envelope. It read, “Sir Hector Sapperton, K.C.B., Royal Navy (retired),” and in the corner of the card was the address, “ 7 Hallows Green, Barncaster.”
“One way of saving oneself the trouble of writing a name and address on an envelope, eh? ” the Admiral remarked. “Now open it, and see what's inside.”
Teesdale did so. He drew from the envelope a card exactly similar to the one stuck to it. On this, above the Admiral's name, block letters had been traced in red ink. They formed the words, “Death comes for.” Beneath the name were the vivid scarlet letters, “R.I.P.”
The Admiral chuckled at the bewilderment of Teesdale's expression. “Thought that might make you open your eyes a bit. If that's somebody's idea of a joke, it's in shocking bad taste, that's all I can say.”
“This is the most extraordinary affair I've ever known!”Teesdale exclaimed. “Much the same sort of thing happened to me this morning. It's still in my pocket. Here, have a look at it.”
Through his glasses the Admiral peered at the dirty and crumpled envelope. “Dr. J. T. Urjent,” he remarked. “A bit unceremonious, eh? I've always said that most of the money squandered on education is wasted.” He took out the fragment of newsprint. “Eh, what's this? What the deuce is the sense of it? 'Look out, look out, it's on the way.' What is H C N? What does H C N stand for? One of these newfangled organisations that are always cropping up? The Honest Comity of Nations? Never heard of it.”
“You're not likely to,” Teesdale replied dryly. “I don't think the letters are initials. H C N is the chemical formula for prussic acid.”
“The deuce it is!” the Admiral exclaimed. “How did you get this? It doesn't seem to have come through the post!”
Teesdale told him. “I can't make it out. You know the park at the end of Market Row? There's room for two or three dozen cars. It's free, and there's no attendant. By the time I came out of my surgery just before ten it was full; it always is at that time. How any one can have known which of the cars was mine beats me.”
“Someone did know, apparently,” said the Admiral. “Look here, you get a warning prussic acid is on the way, to you, I suppose. I get a warning that death is coming for me. Pretty obviously the same person sent both. Who was it, and what are we going to do about it?”
“I was wondering what I should do before you showed me yours,” Teesdale replied. “And I came to the conclusion that the best thing to do would be to consult Peter Raynham. Have you any objection to my telling him about yours?”
“Take it and show it to him,” said the Admiral promptly. “He'll know whether we ought to hand the things over to the police. But tell him to keep it quiet. I haven't told Margaret about it, and I shouldn't like her to hear. She might get scared, and I don't want that.”
Teesdale nodded. “I'll tell Raynham it's confidential. You're the only person I've told about mine, so far. I'll have a word with him this evening, and tell you what he says when I see you to-morrow. You behave yourself, there's a good fellow. Do what I tell you, and you'll be all right in a day or two.”
“I'M GOING to run across the road for a minute or two,” said Teesdale, as he and Dilys finished dinner that evening. “I want to ask Peter Raynham's advice about a legal point that cropped up this morning.”
“At the meeting?” Dilys replied. “All right, I shan't be lonely. There's a Bartok concert on the Third I should like to listen to. I wouldn't have turned it on if you'd been at home, for Bartok always makes you use bad language.”
Her husband laughed. “He's no more than an unnecessary noise to me. All right, I'll get along.” He went out and walked to number 2. Perhaps because they were both professional men, he and Raynham were very good friends. He felt that he could talk to Raynham more easily than he could to any other of his neighbours. He rang the bell, and after an interval Lotti, a dishcloth in her hand, opened the door. On seeing who was there she grinned broadly. She knew the doctor and liked him. “Good night, Herr Doctor. You come in, it is so?”
“Good evening, Lotti,” Teesdale replied cheerfully. “You're keeping well, I hope? Is Mr. Raynham at home?”
“All at home,” said Lotti. “In der lounge. You come, I show you.” He followed her to the lounge, the door of which she flung open. Raynham, his wife and his mother were sitting there, and looked up at Teesdale's entrance. Mutual greetings followed, but Raynham guessed that the doctor had not looked in to pay a social visit. “Why, you're just the man I wanted to see! ” he exclaimed. “I'd have rung you up, but I was afraid you might be busy. Come along into my sanctum for a minute, will you?”
The sanctum, as he called it, was a small room to which Raynham retired when he found feminine company becoming wearisome. “You'll forgive the mild deception, I know,” he said, as he and Teesdale settled themselves down there. “I haven't anything to say to you really, but I guessed that you probably had something to say to me. Sit down and have a cigarette.”
“I want your advice,” Teesdale replied. “Something rather queer has happened. This morning I received a remarkable communication. That, by itself, was perhaps nothing very much. The extraordinary thing is that the Admiral received something very similar.”
Raynham stared at him fixedly. “A remarkable communication? Of what nature?”
Teesdale repeated his story. “There you are. Look at it for yourself. I should explain that H C N is the formula for prussic acid, and that's what is meant, I suppose. And here's the Admiral's contribution, which he said I might show you in confidence. It came by post this morning.”
Raynham studied the two, then laughed, shortly. “This is even more extraordinary than you suppose, Doctor. Two other residents of Hallows Green have received what you describe as remarkable communications: Lawrence Flamstead and myself. Since we are speaking confidentially there will be no harm in my telling you.”
So Teesdale heard about the dagger and the coloured plate. “The same person sent the lot,” he remarked. “There can't be any doubt about that. If it's a joke, it's not only elaborate, but quite meaningless.”
“I'm not sure that it is a joke,” Raynham replied gravely. “Though what the intention may be I find it difficult to imagine. The disquieting aspect of the matter is that it seems the sender must be one of ourselves, so to speak. Someone living in Hallows Green. Many things point to that. You are surprised that any one should have recognised the car you have owned for so short a while. The sender must have been aware that Lawrence Flamstead was in the habit of frequenting the Club. Even more significant is the use of the Admiral's visiting cards. They can have been obtained only by some person on whom the Admiral had called.”
“Yes, I know,” Teesdale agreed. “It's someone who knows us all pretty well. But who the dickens can it be? If one takes it seriously, it looks sinister. In every case there's an allusion to death, one way or another.”
“Concerning four entirely different people,” said Raynham. “The only thing in common between them is that they all live in Hallows Green. I can hardly believe that a wholesale massacre is contemplated.”
“It must be a joke!” Teesdale exclaimed. “But I can't imagine any of our friends playing it. What strikes me most forcibly is the precautions the chap has taken to avoid being traced. You'll never find the man who gave the errand-boy the parcel to deliver. Any one could have walked through the car park and slipped the note under the windscreen wiper of my car without being noticed. To stick one of the Admiral's cards on the envelope was a very good way of avoiding writing the address. Flamstead's address was not written either, but printed by what seems to have been a toy printing set. The chap's no fool, whoever he is.”
“He most certainly isn't,” Raynham replied. “Would any one take all that trouble with a rather pointless joke? And if it isn't a joke, what's the idea? Are we to treat these hints as a serious warning?”
Teesdale shook his head. “I don't know. A warning to whom? Not all four of us, surely. And what are we to do? Turn the whole affair over to the police?”
“Not without the consent of all of us, certainly,” Raynham replied. “You know what that would involve, sooner or later. A most undesirable publicity. And if, after all, it is a joke, we should look—well, damn' silly.”
“I know,” said Teesdale thoughtfully. “And perhaps that's just what the beggar's after. But why should any one want to make us look damn' silly? This isn't the first of April. Perhaps we'd better keep it to ourselves, then. So far as I'm concerned, I'm quite content to leave the matter in your hands.”
Raynham showed the doctor out by the front door. But, having done so, he did not return to the lounge. He would not have minded confiding the matter to his mother, for whose opinion he had the highest regard and who, in any case, already knew of the dagger. But Doris was with her, and her discretion was not to be counted upon. And the last thing he wanted was that the affair should be talked about. The possibility of ridicule lay too near the surface.
So he went back to the sanctum to try to derive some sense out of what seemed utterly meaningless. Joke or no joke, it made him feel not only resentful, but uncomfortable. An irresponsible lunatic might surely be ruled out. To the best of his knowledge and belief, all the residents in Hallows Green were at least comparatively sane, and everything pointed to the perpetrator being among them.
Raynham reached no conclusion that night. Perhaps Lawrence Flamstead was right. It was just dimly possible, though the children at number 10 were normally well behaved, and had no reputation for mischief. Not malicious mischief, at all events. And neither Barry Flamstead nor his wife were in the least likely to encourage them in such a series of impertinences. In the morning Raynham went to his office as usual. He had not been there long when his telephone rang. Mr. Dodworthy, from the Bank. Could Mr. Raynham spare him a few minutes if he called? Certainly, with pleasure.
Regency Square was only a short distance from Upper Close, and in a very few minutes Mr. Dodworthy appeared. His manner was hesitant, almost bashful, as he took the chair which Raynham drew up for him. “It's good of you to see me at such short notice,” he said. “I know you're a busy man, as I am myself. I really don't know that I have any right to take up your time. But I have just received something most unusual.”
“Have you?” Raynham replied calmly. “A communication of some kind containing a veiled threat?”
Dodworthy looked at him suspiciously. “Upon my word, Raynham! How did you know that?”
“Because you're not the only one,” Raynham replied. “What form did your communication take?”
“Not the only one!” Dodworthy exclaimed. “Why that's just it. I should probably not have said anything about it but for the fact that Mr. Glandford received something not dissimilar on Saturday. He showed it to me, and asked me what he should do. My advice then was that he should say nothing about it.”
“That makes six,” said Raynham. “Of which, you will be interested to hear, I am one. Tell me what you got.”
“I must first explain the circumstances,” Dodworthy replied. “As no doubt you are aware, we have at the Bank a night-safe. A slot in the outer wall, communicating with a strong-room. It is mainly for the use of tradesmen after banking hours. When they close in the evening, they can deposit their day's takings in safety, instead of retaining them in their premises overnight. Many of them habitually take advantage of this facility. It sometimes happens that small articles of value are deposited in the night by our customers. In the morning, as soon as I arrive at the Bank, I give the key of the strong-room to one of the clerks. He opens it, removes everything that he finds there, and takes the necessary steps for dealing with them. This procedure was carried out this morning. Among the contents of the safe was a package, wrapped in brown paper and string, and sealed with red wax. There was no indication on the outside of what the package contained, or who had deposited it. Although it seemed curiously light, the clerk supposed that it must contain some articles of value. He undid the wrappings, then, finding my name, brought this to my room.”
Dodworthy drew from his overcoat pocket a small wooden box, which he laid on the table for Raynham's inspection. It was of white wood and rectangular, about four inches square and two inches deep. One of the larger sides had been decorated in poker-work. An arabesque pattern round the edge, not very skilfully executed, and in the centre, in a fanciful script, the name C. Dodworthy. At one end of the box was a hinged lid, secured by a simple metal clasp. Through a slit in the end of the lid protruded a narrow strip of tough paper, one end of which had been bent back and glued to the outside of the box. At the opposite end a similar strip had been passed through a slit, and glued in the same way on the outside.
“You opened it, I suppose?” Raynham remarked. “What did you find inside?”
“I opened it,” Dodworthy replied. “I lifted the clip with my thumbnail and tried to raise the lid. It resisted my efforts, and I had to use some degree of force. The lid gave way suddenly, with a sharp and most unexpected crack. Open the box yourself, and you'll see why.”
Raynham did so. The lid offered no resistance, and he raised it easily enough. The nature of the strips of tough paper then became apparent. They were the two ends of the explosive device of an ordinary Christmas cracker, which had been inserted whole through the length of the box and the ends secured with glue. The opening of the lid by Dodworthy had caused the cracker to go off.
“I thought, of course, that it was a silly joke,” said Dodworthy. “Fortunately, the clerk who had brought it had left the room before I tried to open it. He'd have found his amusement at the trick I'd been played difficult to conceal. The box was empty but for the cracker. But when I looked inside I saw something that made me wonder whether the trick was as innocent as it seemed. Hold it up to the light and look for yourself.”
Raynham held the box so that the light penetrated the interior through the open lid. On the inside of the end opposite to the lid, three words had been traced in poker-work. The first two lightly, in the same fanciful script as the name on the outside, but smaller. “Next time.” The third, in bold, deeply burnt letters, “Death.”
“Next time, Death, eh?” Raynham remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. “Well, that's very much in line with what the rest of us have had. I suppose there's no clue as to who sent you this charming little box?”
Dodworthy shook his head. “None whatever. I got the clerk to recover the wrappings, but could find on them no indication of any kind. And, of course, anybody passing through Regency Square might have dropped it into the night-safe. The strong-room was locked for the night at four o'clock yesterday afternoon. It was then empty. It was opened at half-past nine this morning, when the package, among other things, was found in it.”
“You mentioned Mr. Glandford a few minutes ago,” said Raynham. “Are you at liberty to tell me what he got?”
“I don't see why I shouldn't tell you,” Dodworthy replied. “As client to solicitor, you understand.” He described the telegraph form which Glandford had shown him. “Block letters don't betray handwriting,” he remarked. “And any one could have gone into a busy post office and written a message on a telegraph form.”
“Just as any one could have dropped the package in your night-safe,” Raynham agreed. “Now, in return for what you've just told me, I'll give you the rest of the story.” He described briefly his own experience, and those of Lawrence Flamstead, Dr. Teesdale, and the Admiral. “It's the same in every case,” he went on. “The sender has taken good care to cover his tracks. Any one could have given that errand-boy the parcel for me. The lad says he wouldn't recognise the man if he saw him again. Any one could have torn a coloured plate from a picture book and posted it to Flamstead at the Club. Any one could have slipped the envelope under the windscreen wiper of the doctor's car. Any one could have used one of the Admiral's cards by way of address, and posted another to him. But, leaving the sender aside for the moment, the significant thing seems to me that the recipients are all people living in Hallows Green.”
“You're suggesting that the whole thing is a multiple hoax?” Dodworthy remarked.
“Can you suggest anything else?” Raynham replied. “That six people, who have nothing in common beyond the fact that they happen to be neighbours, should be seriously menaced seems hardly to make sense. And there's this about it. I think we may safely assume that the sender was the same in all six cases. There are indications that this practical joker, if such he is, knows a good deal about the residents in Hallows Green. For instance, he was able to recognise the doctor's new car, which he has owned only for a week or two. And he seems to have known that Lawrence Flamstead was generally to be found at the Club in the afternoon.”
Dodworthy frowned. “You surely don't suspect one of our neighbours?”
“There's not very much to found suspicion upon,” Raynham replied. “But obviously this chap knows us all fairly well. What I'm saying is in strict confidence, remember. Six out of ten families living in Hallows Green have received these mysterious communications. What of the remaining four? Lawrence Flamstead, who knows nothing of the other five, is convinced that his nephew and niece, aided and abetted by their father, sent him the coloured plate. But that's only natural, considering the state of tension between the two brothers.”
“Surely not!” Dodworthy exclaimed. “My wife has a particularly soft spot in her heart for Jerry and Peg. She asked them to tea yesterday, and they were there when I got home. I'll admit that there's a strain of childishness running through all this, but I should hesitate to put it down to them. They're lively, natural children, but they're normally quite well behaved. When they were with us yesterday evening, they could talk of nothing but a party they're giving on Twelfth Night. I don't think they had room for anything else in their minds. Certainly not a dark and complicated conspiracy. Besides, who was the man who gave the boy the parcel for you? Barry Flamstead? I don't believe it.”
“Very well, then,” said Raynham. “Consider who's left. I think you'll agree that we can leave the worthy Miss Wayland out of it. As I think we may the Egremonts. It seems hardly likely that the sending of anonymous communications forms a part of the rites of their religious cult. Remains only Charles Vawtrey, far too serious-minded to indulge in practical joking. And, for that matter, far too absorbed in his hobby.”
“It's not much good guessing,” Dodworthy replied. “What I really came to ask your advice about was this. Ought I to hand that box over to the police?”
“What could they do if you did?” Raynham asked. “I don't see how they could find out who dropped it in the night-safe. Even if they achieved such a miracle, what action could they take? I'm not at all sure that three words burnt on the inside of a box would come under the heading of a direct menace. And, as you know, you're not the only one involved. If we make too much of a song and dance about all this, we run a very grave risk of making six respectable people look supremely ridiculous.”
“I don't know that I'm altogether prepared to take it lying down,” said Dodworthy doubtfully.
“No more is Lawrence Flamstead,” Raynham replied. “When I last saw him he was breathing out threatenings and slaughter. But I'm all for keeping the matter in our own hands. And I've an idea about that. How would it be to invite all the heads of families living in Hallows Green to a meeting, to decide what, if anything, is to be done? Tell me what you think.”
“It's not at all a bad idea,” said Dodworthy thoughtfully. “But wouldn't it be letting the cat out of the bag?”
“Not necessarily,” Raynham replied. “We needn't tell any one but those directly concerned what the meeting is really about. It ought to be easy enough to find some plausible pretext to satisfy others. I've got it! The roadway in Hallows Green is getting into a shocking state. There's a great pot-hole just outside my gate. We're calling a meeting to draw up a complaint to the Highways Committee of the City Council. How will that do?”
Dodworthy smiled. “You lawyers have fertile brains. All right, if you can fix things up, I'll attend.”
“Leave it to me,” said Raynham. “I'll get in touch with everybody and try to arrange a meeting. It had better be on Saturday afternoon. That would suit those of us who have business to attend to on other days, and the Admiral ought to be up and about by then, from what Teesdale tells me.”
Raynham was as good as his word. During the next couple of days he sounded all his neighbours. He told all those he knew to be directly concerned the true object of the meeting. To the others he said merely that a meeting was to be held to consider a matter which concerned all the residents of Hallows Green. All agreed to attend.
The place of meeting presented a difficulty, but the Admiral provided the solution. The hall at number 7 was larger than that of any other houses, for at some time one of the ground floor rooms had been thrown into it. The Admiral called it his quarter-deck, and when it was too wet to go out, was fond of pacing up and down it. As soon as Raynham explained the project to him, he fell in with the scheme enthusiastically. “Jolly good idea. I've always believed in a show-down all round. We'll find out who's been up to these monkey tricks, I dare say. And I'll tell you what, Raynham. My quarter-deck is the very place for the meeting. We'll hold it there, with Haskin as sentry at the gangway, to keep eavesdroppers away. Eh?”
So shortly before three o'clock on Saturday afternoon visitors began to arrive at number 7. Haskin had interpreted his orders so literally that one almost expected him to demand a password. Although he knew all the arrivals perfectly well, he demanded their names before passing them on to the Admiral, who stood in the centre of the hall. At a hint from her husband, Lady Sapperton had invited herself to spend the afternoon with Faith Glandford. Ten chairs of various sizes and shapes had been collected, and arranged in a wide semicircle round the blazing fireplace.
As each visitor came in and was introduced to the Admiral, he waved his hand towards this semi-circle, allowing them to take which chairs they would. The result showed the feeling of mistrust which permeated at Hallows Green. No one seemed disposed to sit next to a chair already occupied. Lawrence Flamstead was one of the first to arrive. He looked about him suspiciously, then took the chair at one of the extremities of the curve. His brother Barry followed shortly afterwards, and after a glance round, seated himself at the opposite extremity. This meant that the two brothers faced one another, but each was careful to avoid the other's eye.
Mr. Egremont was early on the scene. As usual, his manner was remote, as though his mind inhabited a different world. He seemed to have no care where he sat, but walked straight to the chair nearest him, which happened to be two away from Lawrence Flamstead. Miss Wayland came in almost on his heels. But she seemed to avoid him, and went to the other side, leaving a vacant chair between herself and Barry Flamstead. To his greeting she returned a polite but hardly encouraging reply. A short pause before Mr. Vawtrey came in. He looked about him shyly, then approached Miss Wayland. He might have sat down beside her, but was apparently chilled by the fact that she took no notice of his presence. Instead, he seated himself midway between her and Mr. Egremont.
There was thus no opportunity for latecomers to leave gaps between themselves and their neighbours. They drifted in one by one, and seated themselves more or less at random. Glandford, Dodworthy, Raynham, and finally Dr. Teesdale, apologising for the fact that a call from one of his patients had delayed him. Then the Admiral settled himself into the only chair that remained vacant. He did so in complete silence, for his visitors showed a strange disinclination to talk to one another. “Well, we're all here,” he said heartily. “Will you say your piece, Raynham?”
Raynham stood up and cleared his throat importantly. He seemed about to begin, ' Ladies and gentlemen,' but checked himself in an endeavour to speak less formally. “Some of us are already aware why we have been asked to come here this afternoon. For the benefit of those who are not, I must reveal that certain residents in Hallows Green have recently received communications of an unusual nature. It is possible that others present may have had similar experiences. A common policy on the part of the recipients would appear to be called for. But before deciding what that policy is to be, it will be necessary to know exactly who the recipients were.”
He paused, but nobody spoke. A few furtive glances were exchanged, but no word was uttered. He went on, choosing his words with considerable care. “The names of six people who have been annoyed in this way are already known to us. It would be of the greatest assistance if the remaining four residents in Hallows Green would tell us whether they have been similarly annoyed. I do not ask for details, but whether any unusual communication has been received recently. As the only lady present, may I ask you first. Miss Wayland?”
Miss Wayland hesitated, but, being used to speaking in public, only momentarily. “Yes! On Monday morning I received by post a most offensive New Year Card.”
“Thank you. Miss Wayland,” said Raynham. “May I ask you next, Mr. Barry Flamstead?”
Barry shook his head. “The only communications I have had lately are bills, and they are by no means unusual, I assure you.”
“You have received nothing of any kind of a menacing nature?” Raynham insisted.
“Well, I'm not sure about that,” Barry replied. “One chap wrote to say that unless I paid up within ten days he would have to place the matter in other hands. That's a menace, I suppose.”
“But hardly the kind of menace to which I am referring,” said Raynham dryly. It was obvious that Barry had not been among the victims. Or that if he had he was not prepared to admit it. “And you, Mr. Egremont?”
Egremont pulled himself together with a start. His thoughts had been clearly far away. “Eh? I hardly understand your meaning, Mr. Raynham. I was under the impression that this meeting had been called for a very different purpose. The only communications my wife and I have received recently have been from members of our congregation. Since these contained wishes for our spiritual happiness during the year, they cannot be described as unusual. That being so, I see no need for me to partake in further discussion.”
Raynham snatched at this. It was an excellent way of getting rid of those not immediately concerned. The narrower the circle could be kept, the less chance there would be of the secret leaking out. The spectre of possible ridicule was always hovering at the back of Raynham's mind. “There is no need, Mr. Egremont,” he said. “I owe you an apology for wasting your time in this way. And you, too, Mr. Barry Flamstead.”
“Well, if I'm not wanted any longer, I'll get along home,” Barry replied. He and Egremont got up and went out together. Haskin, stationed in the outer hall, opened the front door for them. As they lived opposite to one another, they walked in company along Hallows Green. “It's my belief Raynham's got a bee in his bonnet,” Barry remarked. “What's all this about unusual communications? And of a menacing nature, too. Fancy our benevolent Miss Wayland owning up to having been sent an offensive New Year Card. What's it all about?”
“I have no idea,” Egremont replied stiffly. “I cannot help feeling that Mr. Raynham has behaved deceitfully. I was given to understand that the subject of discussion was to be the condition of the roadway. Had I known that it was in fact of a scandalous nature, I should have declined to attend. Scandal in any form is entirely contrary to my religious principles.”
“I don't care much for it myself,” Barry agreed. “But I fancy that some of our neighbours, or at all events their womenfolk, will revel in it. Nothing like a good juicy scandal to bring some folk together.”
BUT, FAR from having been brought together, the distance between those remaining in the hall of number 7 seemed to have increased. Each individual harboured his or her own suspicions, and all were careful to avoid any exchange of glances. An uneasy silence followed the departure of Barry Flamstead and Egremont, broken at length by Raynham, who had almost forgotten the retiring Charles Vawtrey. “May I ask you the same question, Mr. Vawtrey?”
Vawtrey flushed, as he very often did when suddenly addressed. “Why, yes,” he stammered. “I have received what might be described as an unusual communication. A couple of days ago, I think. Yes, on Thursday morning, by post. Amateur photographers who have been to my exhibitions sometimes send me specimens of their own work for criticism. I am always glad to help beginners in the art. And when I saw the envelope, and felt the cardboard stiffening inside, I guessed it must contain a photograph, in spite of the peculiar method of address.”
“What was peculiar about it?” Raynham asked. “My name and address were not written or typed,” Vawtrey replied. “They were printed, most irregularly, as though each letter had been separately and not very carefully impressed.”
“There you are, Raynham,” Lawrence Flamstead growled. “A child's printing set. It's just as I told you.”
Raynham ignored this remark. “And did the envelope in fact contain a photograph, Mr. Vawtrey?”
“It did,” Vawtrey replied. “From the technical point of view it was excellent. The exposure and development had been well judged. But the subject had no artistic merit whatever. It was a full-length skeleton. And under it, in looking-glass form, was the word 'Yours,' in white.”
“In looking-glass form?” Raynham asked. “You mean that the letters were reversed?”
“Exactly,” Vawtrey replied. “The explanation, I imagine, is this. It would have been difficult to print on the glossy paper of the positive. The word had therefore been traced on the negative, in block letters, using some opaque paint. On the positive therefore it appeared reversed, and in white. I am bound to admit that it gave me quite a shock at the time, but I became somewhat reassured when I reflected that it could only be a joke. I have, of course, no idea who sent it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vawtrey,” said Raynham. “All the eight of us now present have received anonymous communications referring, directly or indirectly, to death. Before coming to any decision, I think it would be as well for each of us to describe his or her experience. I will begin with my own. On Monday morning an errand-boy left at my house a parcel bearing no name, but addressed merely to number 2.”
Miss Wayland interrupted him. “I saw the boy. I had been to a meeting on Monday morning. On my way home, as I was walking along Hallows Green after getting off the bus, a boy riding a tradesman's bicycle stopped and asked me which was number 2. I told him, and I saw him go through the gateway with a parcel.”
All eyes were turned on Miss Wayland. Was it possible that she, the pillar of rectitude, had engineered this elaborate hoax? The mystery was so profound that anything was possible. She had admitted speaking to the errand-boy. What if she knew more about the origin of the parcel than she cared to say?
But Raynham went on. “I was enabled to trace the boy. He told me that the parcel had been given him, earlier that morning, at the corner of Bridge Street, by a man. All he could tell me about the man was that he appeared to be suffering from a severe cold. He could not see his face, for he held his handkerchief in front of it.”
The Admiral instantly became the centre of suspicious interest. Every one knew that although he had been about on Monday, for the next three days he had been laid up with a chill. In his jocular way, the Admiral was fond of a joke. When one came to think of it, he was a more likely perpetrator than Miss Wayland.
Raynham went on to describe what he had found inside the parcel. “The dagger itself could very well have been picked up in an antique shop,” he concluded. “But the sharpening of the blade, and the words scratched upon it, presumably with a glazier's diamond, or something similar, are quite recent.”
Raynham was followed by the remaining six, each describing what he or she had received, and how. Lawrence Flamstead allowed his suspicions to appear fairly plainly. The rest professed no idea as to the origin of the communications they had received. When the last experience had been recounted, Raynham summed up. “To each case there is one thing in common. A reference to, or a suggestion of, death. We may regard this either as a collective menace, or as a most inconsiderate hoax. Further, there can be little doubt that they are all the work of some person.
“Now, if only in order to set our minds at rest, we must all wish to discover the identity of that person. Should we or should we not put the matter in the hands of the police? I have devoted considerable thought to the question. The Chief Constable is a personal friend of mine, and I feel sure I could persuade him to employ the utmost tact in any investigation. On the other hand, we should none of us welcome police inquiries in Hallows Green. An even more weighty consideration is that the fact that such inquiries were being made could not long remain a secret, and we should find ourselves in the glare of a most unwelcome publicity. And, should it prove to be an elaborate hoax, Hallows Green would become an object of ridicule to the whole community.”
A murmur of approval greeted this. Nobody wanted the police poking round, or to run the risk of being exposed to the ribald laughter of the multitude. And after an interval the Admiral spoke. “I've got an idea. It seems to me that this is hardly a matter for the police. I've every respect for them, but, after all, crime is their job, and no crime has been committed. A private investigator might solve our problem for us, and we could keep the affair to ourselves.”
“A private detective, you mean?” Teesdale asked. “I've always understood that one has to be pretty careful of chaps like that. They aren't all as reliable as they might be. Still, if that's what is decided upon, I'm ready to subscribe.”
“I didn't mean a professional private detective,” the Admiral replied. “Nor need any expense be involved. I have a friend who has, a wonderful knack for unravelling mysteries of this kind. If the meeting approves, I will ask him to come and stay with me for a day or two and put the facts before him. If he can't tell us the answer, we might then consider putting the matter in other hands.”
“I don't see any need to trouble your friend,” Lawrence Flamstead growled. “Or the police either, for that matter. It strikes me as most remarkable that my brother, almost alone of us who live in Hallows Green, hasn't had one of these things.”
“How can you say such a thing!” Miss Wayland exclaimed. “I'm quite sure that Mr. Barry knows nothing whatever about it. Why, we went into the city on the same bus together on Wednesday morning.”
Raynham interposed hastily. “I think that conjecture at this stage would be most unwise. It might lead to consequences of an extremely unpleasant nature. I personally am in favour of adopting Sir Hector's suggestion. Has any one any objection to this course being taken, in the first instance, at least?”
Lawrence Flamstead shrugged his shoulders contemptuously but no one spoke. “Very well, then,” Raynham continued. “I am sure we are all most grateful. Perhaps you will be good enough to communicate with your friend, Sir Hector?”
“I'll ring him up this evening,” the Admiral replied. “He lives not very far away. It would be as well if you would all let me have your contributions to the problem, so that I can show them to him when he comes. You needn't be afraid that he will talk. I can guarantee his complete discretion.”
The meeting broke up, a silent and mutually suspicious procession filing out of the house. Haskin busied himself putting the quarter-deck in order, replacing the chairs where they belonged. While he was doing this, the Admiral paced up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. That had been a first class idea! He ought to have thought of it sooner. Merrion was the very chap. If he couldn't get to the bottom of this confounded puzzle, nobody could.
During the earlier part of the last war Sir Hector had served at the Admiralty, in charge of a section of Intelligence. His chief assistant had been Captain Desmond Merrion, R.N.V.R. At first there had been some friction between them. For one thing Merrion knew far more about Intelligence methods than his superior, and when their opinions diverged, as they frequently did, Merrion's generally proved to be right. And, for another, the Admiral had a rooted mistrust of civilians masquerading in naval uniform.
But Merrion's ability, combined with his placid demeanour, soon triumphed over this. Mutual respect ripened into partnership and admiration. Before long the two were working together hand and glove. It might be remarked that Merrion's was the cunning hand hidden within the Admiral's official glove. Even when the Admiral had been posted to sea, and with profound relief had shaken the dust of the Admiralty from his feet, the two had remained in close touch. And at the end of the war, when the Admiral had retired, and Captain Merrion had once more become Desmond Merrion, Esq., of High Eldersham Hall, the friendship had continued. Sir Hector and Lady Sapperton had spent a few days at the Hall, and Merrion and his wife, Mavis, had paid a return visit to number 7.
While the Admiral was still pacing his quarter-deck, Lady Sapperton came home. She liked, whenever possible, to have tea with her husband. “Mr. Glandford came back to number 3 a few minutes ago,” she said. “So I knew the meeting must be over. Faith wanted me to stay to tea, but I wouldn't. How did things go?”
“Oh, pretty well, pretty well,” Sir Hector replied. “We came to a decision of sorts, anyhow. I won't bore you with all the details. Better come along and take your things off. It's tea-time already.”
A few minutes later they were sitting in the drawing-room, the tea tray between them. “I've been thinking, my dear,” he said. “It's a long time since I've seen anything of my old friend Merrion. I've a jolly good mind to ring him up and ask him if he can spare the time to spend a day or two with us. What do you think?”
His wife smiled. Knowing her husband as well as she did, she perceived there was something in this sudden desire for Merrion's company. “Why not? ” she replied. “You'll ask Mrs. Merrion, too, of course?”
The Admiral hesitated. He had for a moment overlooked the fact that in inviting a married man to stay, his wife must, in common politeness, be included in the invitation. “Why, yes, I suppose so. Of course, I mean. It was Merrion I was thinking about, really. You know how he and I love swopping yarns about the old days we had together.”
This was a trifle too disingenuous. She sipped her cup of tea. before she spoke. “Aren't you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what, my dear? ” the Admiral replied innocently. “I've told you that I'd like to see Merrion again.”
Margaret Sapperton shook her head. “It's no good. I've known for the last few days that you've been hiding something from me. And not only that. My feminine intuition has sensed an air of mystery. People seem to be avoiding one another. And your excuse for the meeting won't work. When Mr. Glandford came home just now and Faith asked him if it had been decided to complain to the Highways Committee about the road, he quite obviously hadn't the remotest idea what she was talking about.”
“I'd rather you didn't ask questions just yet,” the Admiral replied. “I'm not at liberty to talk. It's quite true that there is a mystery, but it concerns half a dozen people besides myself. That's why I want to see Merrion. You know very well that I have the highest opinion of his ability to ferret out a secret.”
Like a sensible woman, Margaret Sapperton pursued the matter no further. After tea the Admiral put a trunk call through to High Eldersham Hall. Much to his relief, Merrion himself answered it. “Hallo, Admiral! I'm delighted to hear from you. I've been meaning to write to you for ever so long, but I'm a shocking hand at writing letters. How goes it?”
“Lights burning bright, and all's well,” the Admiral replied. “But for a small matter that's been exercising my mind for the last few days. Look here, old chap, I don't want to say too much over the phone, but a situation has risen here which I feel sure would appeal to your imagination. Could you possibly come and stay with us for a day or two and see for yourself? And the sooner the better.”
The hook had been skilfully baited, for Merrion could never resist the slightest hint of a mystery. “I expect I can manage that,” he said. “In any case I shall be delighted to see you again. The sooner the better, you say. Would it suit you and Lady Sapperton if I turned up tomorrow afternoon?”
“Nothing could suit us better! ” the Admiral exclaimed. Then, hastily recollecting himself, “You'll bring Mrs. Merrion with you, of course?”
This was so obvious an afterthought that Merrion smiled to himself. “That's very kind of you. Admiral. I know that Mavis would be delighted to come. Unfortunately, I also know that she has a lot of engagements here next week. I'll ask her when she comes in. But if she can't come, you'll understand, won't you?”
“Of course we shall,” the Admiral replied heart