HEIR TO LUCIFER

MAVIS, Desmond Merrion's wife, had been responsible for the selection of the Victorian Hotel, Croylehaven. She had been unwell, suffering from a tiresome complaint which her doctor had diagnosed rather vaguely as Summer Influenza. “You'll throw off the after-effects much more quickly if you go away for a week or two,” he had said. “Complete change of air, that's what you want. And take it easy of course. You'll soon be as right as a trivet.”

“It'll have to be a hotel,” Mavis had said, commenting on this verdict to her husband. “I'm not going to inflict a convalescent woman on any of my friends. You'll come too? I should be bored stiff by myself.”

“Of course I'll come too,” Merrion had replied. “My devotion to you will survive even the discomforts of a hotel. But, I beg you, not a Resort. I simply couldn't bear it. Somewhere peaceful and sleepy, with lots of sun and sand.”

“I promise not to land you in a Resort,” Mavis had said. “I've thought of Croylehaven. I remember Yvonne telling me once she had stayed at the hotel there and been quite comfortable. After all, if we don't like it, we needn't stay,”

So Wednesday, September 4th, found the pair of them installed at the Victoria Hotel. After a preliminary reconnaissance, Merrion was reasonably satisfied. The hotel was built on high ground, near the edge of the cliffs, and they had a big, airy room looking out to sea. The town was small, built on both sides of a steep valley, through which ran a stream. At the mouth of this was a little fishing harbour, with a curving breakwater. Croylehaven could certainly not be described as a resort, for on both sides of the tiny harbour the cliffs rose sharply, leaving practically no foreshore even at low water. In consequence, there were no bathing facilities, no sands, and no pier. All very satisfactory,

The Victoria Hotel, built of brick in the neo-gothic style, dominated the landscape on the eastern side of the valley. The western side was crowned with trees, through which glimpses could be caught of a big rambling building. This, Merrion was told, was the Castle. During the war it had been occupied by the military, but was now derequisitioned. A walk through the town revealed no antiquities. The oldest buildings were a cluster of fishermen's cottages round the harbour. The rest of the town seemed to have grown up in rather a haphazard way during the past hundred years. There was no railway station nearer than Ernehead, five miles away. A somewhat infrequent bus service ran between the two places. It should be said that the Merrions had come by road, in their own car.

On the seaward side of the hotel was a wide verandah, and here Merrion was sitting before dinner of the day of their arrival. He was alone, for Mavis was lying down, recovering from the fatigue of the journey. He very soon noticed that the verandah was a port of call favoured by the local worthies. They drifted in, men and women, singly or in small parties, settling themselves at small tables, where they were attended by an elderly waiter. The scene reminded Merrion rather of a continental cafe. It had been a hot day, but now a cool air was beginning to come in from the sea.

Merrion, sipping his drink and languidly watching the arrivals and departures, suddenly found his attention caught by the entry of a solitary man. He was tall and thin, with a scholarly, aristocratic face and a pronounced stoop. That they had met before, Merrion was certain, but under what circumstances he could not for the moment remember. The newcomer exchanged a word of two with several of the groups in passing, but made his way to a disengaged table in a comer and sat down alone. Rather with an air of wishing to avoid being drawn into conversation, Merrion thought. He was evidently a regular habitué, for the waiter, instead of asking for an order, brought him a drink as soon as he sat down.

After a while, he looked in Merrion's direction, and stared at him short-sightedly for a second or two. It might be merely natural curiosity as to who this stranger might be, but Merrion fancied that he detected a faint glearn of recognition in the other's expression. Where the devil had they met before? Then, in a flash, it all came back.

During the war, Merrion had served, not without distinction, in the Naval Intelligence. He and members of his staff at the Admiralty had been in constant touch with their opposite numbers at the War Office. That was it. This chap had been one of the fellows there. They had met several times, but on purely Service matters, and had never become intimate. He searched his memory for the name. Major Croyle, that was it, surely Croyle? Croylehaven? Rather queer, that. Still, he was quite sure he was right. He got up and walked to the corner. “Excuse me,” he said. “You are Major Croyle, aren't you? I can't venture to hope that you remember me.'

“I was Major Croyle,” the other replied, with a pleasant smile. “Now I am plain Cecil Croyle, very much at your service. As to remembering you, had I not been too shy I should have approached you and asked-if you were not Captain Merrion.”

Merrion laughed. “I've dropped my rank too. My presence is explained by the fact that my wife and I came here this afternoon. We're staying in the hotel for a few days, by way of change of air.”

“I hope that you and Mrs. Merrion will enjoy your visit,” Croyle replied. “For my part, I live here, as my family have for some generations. Do bring your drink over here, and let's talk. I'm usually considered unsociable, for I can't whip up any interest in local gossip. But a conversation with you will be as a breath of fresh air to me.”

Merrion joined Croyle at the latter's table, and they indulged in reminiscence. Croyle hardly maintained his alleged reputation for being unsociable, for he turned out to have plenty to say for himself. “It's a blessed relief to have someone from outside to talk to,” he remarked. “You can have no idea of the conversational limits of a place like this, and I'm too lazy by nature to make the necessary effort to get away. I tell you, I miss the old days when I was working for M.I.5. I was surrounded then by interesting people. Besides, I was of some importance then, doing a useful job of work. Here and now my only claim to distinction is that I'm the nephew of old Lucifer.”

This diabolic relationship seemed strange to Merrion. “Do I infer that you are the grandson of the morning?” he asked.

Croyle made a gesture towards the opposite side of the valley. “Of course, you wouldn't know,” he replied. “I was referring to Lucian, third Baron Croyle of Croylehaven. Everyone calls him Lucifer, I don't know why, for he's a very decent old stick. He's gone back to live in that barrack yonder now that it's been derequisitioned.”

“The Castle?” Merrion suggested. “I caught a glimpse or two of it while I was walking round this afternoon.”

Croyle nodded. “That's the place. Built by his grandfather, the first Lord Croyle, in the early part of last century. My great-grandfather, of course. He was a nobody. His father was a farmer in a small way, they say. Nobody knows for certain, for his descendants have never cared to delve into his murky origins. Made a pot of money, anyway and built the Castle. He and his architect must both have been tortured by nightmares. And not only the Castle, but the beginnings of the town as well. There was nothing here before his time except perhaps a few fishermen's hovels round the harbour. I've seen an old map on which there's a name Erne Mouth. The stream that runs through the valley is called the Erne, you know. But that wasn't good enough for our parvenu Baron. He called the place Croylehaven-can you imagine the arrogance of it?-and so it has remained ever since.”

Merrion was mildly amused. Croyle was like a man who had kept an enforced silence for so long that when his speech was released it poured out uncontrolled. He took a cigarette which Merrion offered him, lighted it, and went on. “Queer, isn't it? Here am I, so comfortably off that I am able to indulge to the full, because my great-grandfather made a pot of money. How did he make it? That's a question his family have never dared ask out loud. Not by any reputable means, I assure you. He wasn't above turning his hand to anything, from slave-trading to blackmailing Indian rajahs. He ought to have been hanged by rights, I don't doubt. But he wasn't. He bought himself a peerage, married Romayne Perdrix, an aristocrat and the reigning toast of the day, and, as a crowning monument to his ill-gotten wealth, built that appalling and ostentatious Castle.

“Don't get it into your head that I'm Lucifer's heir, or that I have any expectations from him. I'm not. I inherited my share of the Croyle swag from my father, John. That's why I can watch the gambollings at the Castle with an impartial eye. And I hasten to assure you I don't live there. I've got a house of my own in the town. You must come and see me while I'm here. Any one will tell you where it is. I won't ask you to a meal, for my housekeeper is the worst cook, without exception, that I have ever come across. I'm a bachelor, you know.”

“That's very kind of you,” Merrion replied politely. “I'll be sure to accept the invitation.”

“I hope you mean that. Would you care to hear the rest of the Croyle saga? You would? Well, the founder of the dynasty left an only child, a boy, who was a horse of a very different colour. His father bought him a commission in the Army, and he became in his own way, quite a distinguished soldier. Luke was his name, and he was inspired with the gift of tongues. In the Castle library are books on military subjects in every known language, which Luke collected. Nobody ever looks at them. This gift brought him a succession of posts as military attaché, all over the place. He's supposed to have been present at all the important battles of his time. Gettysburg, Sadowa, Sedan, and so forth. No doubt the second Lord Croyle brought the title an air of distinction it lacked before.

“Luke left two sons, Lucian, the present baron, and my father, John. My father was a quiet, easy-going man, who built himself a house under the shadow of the castle, so to speak, and lived there for the rest of his life. The only excitement in his life was when he stood for Parliament in the Liberal interest before I was born. He was, very properly, defeated.

“Lucian combined the qualities of an excellent landlord and a good sportsman. In his younger days he was a well-known figure on the turf, and it was there, I believe, that he acquired the nickname of Lucifer. He secured the distinction of forming the subject of a cartoon by Spy, in Vanity Fair. Well, that was long ago. The old boy, who will be eighty next month, has become slightly eccentric, not quite an invalid, but plenty of hypochondriac. And his family are gathering round his impending death-bed.”

“His family live with him at the Castle?” Merrion suggested.

“Where the carcass is, there shall the eagles be gathered together,” Croyle replied. “Most of them are circling the sky already, like so many Stukas ready to dive. The people his sons and daughters married, and their children, that is. Lucian had one daughter and two sons, but they are all dead. Eleanor, the eldest, left a widower, Edward Coolham, and a daughter, Romayne. Harry, who would have been the heir, had he lived, was not content to sit at home doing nothing. He qualified as a doctor of medicine, joined the R.A.M.C. in the first World War, and was killed when his hospital in France was bombed in 1918.

“Harry, in the opinion of the family, at least, married far beneath him, a war-widow of the name of Monica. He had only been married a short time when he was killed, and his widow bore him a son posthumously, Roderick. Her relations in law treated Monica abominably, made her see clearly enough that she was an unwelcome intrusion into the Croyle circle. She stuck it as long as she could, then cleared out, leaving the boy Roderick to the care of his grandfather and Aunt Charlotte. I'll tell you about her in a moment. Roderick, of course, had to be treated with respect, being the heir apparent.

“That being so, the limelight was bound to be centred on Roderick. He's not thirty yet, but he's already had his share of adventure. His first was to fall in love with his cousin Romayne, Eleanor's daughter, who is a year or two older than he is. I've wondered whether Romayne's father, Edward Coolham, for whom, between ourselves, I haven't very much use, encouraged the affair from the background. They were both far too young to know their own minds, but looking before a leap is not in the Croyle blood. Anyhow, they got married, a few days after Munich. Perhaps it was a violent reaction on their part against appeasement. The marriage certainly didn't appease old Lucifer, who had been against it from the first. I'm sure he secretly applauded the sequel, in spite of the scandal involved.

“For there was a sequel, and a very rapid one. They had barely been married a year when they got divorced. It was the only alternative to murder of one partner by the other. Once married, they fell out of love even more quickly than they had fallen into it. The trouble was, I suppose, that they were both Croyles, self-willed and dominating. Neither could make allowances for the other, the most important thing in married life, I imagine. You'll know more about that than I do. The divorce was a put-up job, there was no genuine misconduct on either side. Roderick so arranged matters as to provide Romayne with the necessary evidence for her to obtain a decree.”

Cecil Croyle paused, and finished his sherry. The waiter unobtrusively replaced the empty glass by a full one.

“Yes, they were divorced,” Croyle went on. “But not before a son had been born, christened Luke after his great-great-grandfather. Romayne took the boy, and went to live with her father. I haven't seen her for years, and the folk at the Castle don't talk about her. For some reason or other they blame her for the shipwreck of Roderick's first marriage. I don't know where she and the boy are now. With her father, I believe.
“The next thing was that war broke out, and Roderick joined up. He's still serving, by the way, but I heard at the Castle the other day that he expects to be demobilised very shortly. In due course he gravitated to an O.C.T.U. somewhere in the north of England, where, undeterred by the failure of his first matrimonial venture, he immediately became engaged and once more married. None of the family even saw the girl-Faith, her name is-till he brought her as a bride to the Castle and dumped her there. After a decent interval she gave birth to twin boys, James and George, and she's been there ever since.

“Oh, Faith's a very worthy woman, I don't doubt and a most suitable wife for Roderick. The family have accepted her with open arms, mainly, I think, because she displays a proper humility. Well, perhaps not that exactly. A sense of the honour conferred on her by admission within the Croyle circle. I confess I find her far less stimulating than Romayne. But there's a canker gnawing at her heart. You see, although Roderick is the heir, the twins. Faith's children, won't succeed him in their turn. The next in succession is the boy Luke, rising seven, now.

“I've told you that Lucifer had three children. The younger son, Oliver, was like his brother Harry, killed in the first World War, but earlier. He was a regular soldier, and was mortally wounded at the first battle of Ypres. He left a widow. Charlotte, and a boy Geoffrey. But ill-luck seems to dog the footsteps of that branch. Geoffrey was slightly deformed, and one of his arms was practically paralysed. He was rejected for service in this last war, but got a job with a mobile canteen in London. He was blown to pieces during a blitz in 1940. But he had married a charming girl. Felicity, and they had a son, Jonathan, born a few months before his father's death.

“When Charlotte's husband, Oliver, was killed in 1914, she was living at the Castle. And it seemed only natural that she should stay there and look after her father-in-law, whose wife had died soon after Oliver's birth. She took on the job, and has pursued it assiduously ever since. I think I mentioned that old Lucifer, in his declining years, has become something of a hypochondriac. He wants somebody at his elbow nearly all the time. Charlotte, now a sprightly young grandmother of fifty-something, fits the bill to perfection. She's always fussing round the old man, and to tell the truth, I fancy she's a trifle jealous of any one else coming near him. Even her daughter-in-law Felicity, who has taken up residence at the Castle with the boy Jonathan. Charlotte's duties didn't end there, mark you. She brought up Roderick, with what success must be a matter of opinion.

“So the Castle is at this moment inhabited by a number of people of very diverse characters. And, with the exception of Lucifer, they are all, the adults at least, manoeuvring for position. It's taken for granted that the old boy can't last much longer. Why, I hardly know. There's nothing really the matter with him, and eighty isn't an exceptional age these days. My own opinion is that he's as tough as leather, and quite likely to live for years yet. I hope he will. But then, you see, his death won't affect my own prospects, either way.

“I don't know whether you've been able to follow the ramifications of the family. It may make it easier if I repeat who is at the Castle now. Lucifer himself is of course the central figure, round which the others revolve. Charlotte, Oliver's widow, with her daughter-in-law Felicity and her grandson Jonathan. Faith, Roderick's second wife, with her twins, James and George.

“Seven of the clan then are there at the moment. Of the remaining survivors, Roderick is expected home at any time. Romayne, Roderick's first wife and, don't forget, at the same time Lucifer's granddaughter, is somewhere in the offing, probably with her father, Edward Coolham, but at present she is hull down. No doubt her son Luke, in the direct line of succession, is with her. Whether Monica, Roderick's mother, is still alive, I don't know. Nothing has been heard of her since she left the place, or was driven from it, years ago.

“Of course it all boils down to a matter of finance, a point of which these folk are keenly aware. The estate and the bulk of its revenues are entailed, and must pass to Roderick and after him to Luke. There is also a trust established by Luke, Lucifer's father. By it, on Lucifer's death, Lucifer's children or their widows or widowers, will be provided with very comfortable annuities. As things are, the annuitants will be Charlotte, Edward Coolham and, if she's alive, Monica, Roderick's mother.

“But the provisions I have mentioned do not by any means exhaust the resources, which have increased since the trust was made. This surplus can be disposed of as Lucifer pleases. He has undoubtedly made a will, but who is favoured by it none of the family know. And, so long as he has any breath in his body, he is capable of altering it. Hence my use of the phrase manoeuvring for position. Charlotte thinks she has first claim to anything that may be going, as her reward for looking after Lucifer for so many years. But the others also think they should be considered. Faith, for instance, as some compensation for seeing the estate pass to Luke, should she survive her husband. And Felicity. Her mother's annuity will cease at her death, and the income will revert to the estate.”

Cecil Croyle chuckled. He evidently enjoyed the situation enormously. He emptied his glass and stood up, refusing Merrion's offer of another. “I won't, if you don't mind. Two glasses of sherry before dinner, and no more, is my prescription. I must get back home, and eat whatever meal has been prepared for me. You won't forget to look me up?” he started from the table, then came back, struck with an idea. “I tell you what!” he exclaimed. “You must meet these folk at the Castle. I'll take you there to-morrow, tea-time will be best. And Mrs. Merrion too, of course.”

Merrion hesitated. He was not at all sure whether he hankered after the acquaintance of Lord Croyle and his family. Then he thought of Mavis. It might be more cheerful for her to know people during her enforced stay at Croylehaven. “That's extremely kind of you,” he replied politely. “We shall be delighted. That is, of course, if you're quite sure that your-relations won't resent the intrusion of a couple of complete strangers?”

“They'll love it,” Croyle assured him. “They are all more or less gregarious by nature. That's settled, then. I'll call for you here about four o'clock to-morrow afternoon, and take you along.”

CHAPTER TWO

CECIL arrived punctually next day, and was introduced to Mavis. “We've got our car here,” said Merrion. “If you don't mind, we'll drive to the Castle. I'm not sure that Mavis is up to walking both ways.”

Cecil raised no objection, and they set out, Merrion driving and Cecil directing him. They descended into the valley, crossed the bridge over the Erne in the centre of the town, and began to ascend the opposite slope. It was not until they had passed through an elaborate archway, with gates standing open, that they left behind the encircling trees and saw the Castle in its full magnificence. It was a vast, rambling pile, built to no apparent plan, with strange architectural ornaments and battlements in unexpected places. Rising from the centre was a sort of tower, surmounting which was a green copper canopy enclosing a bell.

They drove up to the front entrance, under a heavy-looking porte-cochere. Cecil rang the bell, and after an interval the door was opened by an elderly man, whose dress proclaimed him to be the butler. His dress, but certainly not his manner, was Merrion's private thought. There was nothing of dignity or solemnity about him. He was of the true Cockney type, with a jovial expression in which was more than a trace of cunning. He greeted Cecil with easy familiarity. “Good-aftemoon, Mr. Cecil,” he said, in the tone of one pal greeting another.

“Good-afternoon, Collins,” Cecil replied, with a touch of severity. “I have brought Mr. and Mrs. Merrion to tea.”

The butler eyed the visitors impudently, as though wondering where Cecil could have picked them up. Then he led them through what seemed an interminable succession of vestibules to the central hall. This was clearly the base of the tower-like structure. It was surrounded by galleries, one above the other, suggesting nothing so much as an old-fashioned three-decker inn, and reached by a wide staircase on either side. At one end, on the first-floor level, was affixed a gigantic painted coat-of-arms, with a crest exactly like an executioner's axe. The roof of the hall was in the form of a false dome, from the centre of which depended, at a vast height from the floor, a assive chandelier. Being almost devoid of furniture, the hall, with its mosaic pavement, gave the impression of being even larger than it was. Must be darn cold in winter, was Merrion's unspoken thought.

They crossed the hall to a panelled door on the farther side. Collins flung this open, as though about to burst in upon a den of thieves. “Mr. Cecil Croyle!” he announced in a stentorian tone. And then, as an afterthought, “And Mr. and Mrs. Merriman,” he added inaccurately.

Merrion found himself in a vast apartment, furnished exactly in the style of the Victorian drawing-rooms of his childhood, even to the antimacassars on the chairs and the marble-topped consoles against the walls. Five people were seated there. In a chair by a window overlooking the sea, with his legs stretched out upon a tall footstool, was an old man. He was enveloped in a shawl, drawn up above his head, and from under it peered hawk-like features, eyes sunken but shrewd and humorous, and a tuft of snow-white hair. This of course must be Lord Croyle, the redoubtable Lucifer. His expression gave Merrion the idea that, secretly, he might be enjoying the situation as much as his nephew.

Two chairs were drawn up, one on either side of him, and in these sat, like guardian angels, on his right a woman and on his left a man. Or perhaps not so much like guardian angels as the supporters of the coat of arms hanging in the hall. The woman was middle-aged, with greying hair drawn tightly back, and a certain severity of demeanour. She had an unmistakable air of being mistress of the household. The man was younger, dark, alert, and with a professional appearance. He seemed to be telling Lord Croyle something which he considered important.

So impressive was this central group that a moment or two elapsed before Merrion realised the presence of the remaining two. When he did, it struck him that they were maintaining a proper and respectful distance. As small craft escorting a majestic battleship. They were both women. One of them, whom he judged to be the elder, was sitting at a second window, a work-basket beside her, crocheting viciously. Apart from her deep frown and glaring eyes, the way in which she plied her needle was indicative of her mood. She jabbed it into her work as though stabbing an enemy to the heart. A single glance was sufficient to assure Merrion that something must have happened to arouse her wrath.

The younger woman, rather plain, but with an intelligent face, was sitting at the farther extremity of the room, as though she had withdrawn herself as far as possible from her companions. And she was doing nothing, just sitting upright in her chair with a curiously enigmatic smile, whether of amusement or anticipation it was impossible to tell. Instantaneously it dawned upon Merrion that there was an air of tension in the room. The man on Lord Croyle's left was trying to divert his mind with his monologue. The three women were not sharing the event, whatever it might be, in common, far from it. Each was contemplating it from her own point of view.

Cecil's perception was perhaps not so keen as Merrion's, for he seemed to find nothing amiss, and proceeded volubly with introductions. Mr. Merrion, an old friend of his whom he'd run into by chance the previous evening. And Mrs. Merrion. Staying at the Victoria. Mrs. Merrion hadn't been very well, and they were here for a change of air. Lord Croyle. The woman on his right, Mrs. Charlotte Croyle. The man talking to him. Dr. Balcombe. The crocheting woman, Mrs. Croyle. The omission of a distinguishing Christian name implied that this was Faith, Roderick's wife. The remaining woman left her chair and came forward to be introduced. Mrs. Felicity Croyle.

It seemed to Merrion that their entrance relieved the tension. Dr. Balcombe rose, and with a courteous gesture Lord Croyle invited Merrion to take his place. Charlotte also rose. She caught Cecil by the arm and drew him aside. Out of the corner of his eye Merrion could see that she was telling him something. Her news appeared to be urgent, not altogether welcome, and requiring a lot of gesticulation. She glanced at the door frequently, as she spoke hurriedly, in a low tone which Merrion could not overhear. Mavis drifted to a chair beside Faith, whose air of angry preoccupation relaxed slightly as she made polite conversation. Dr. Balcombe and Felicity walked to the huge marble fireplace where, although the day was warm, a fire was burning. Merrion heard the doctor say something about the necessity of excitement being avoided as far as possible. On account of Lord Croyle's health apparently.

Lord Croyle seemed glad to have someone fresh to talk to. He had a deep, booming voice, slightly enfeebled by age, but still resonant enough. He was profuse in his enquiries. Hoped his visitor and Mrs. Merrion were quite comfortable at the Victoria. It was a pleasant situation, but dangerously exposed. They must be very careful. People were apt to catch cold, even in the height of summer, from sitting in the wind blowing along the cliffs. And they must be careful what they ate. Hotel food, in Lord Croyle's opinion, was never entirely to be trusted.

They were thus grouped when the door swung open violently. It seemed to be accepted at the Castle as a matter of course that doors should be flung open in that fashion. A manifestation of Croyle energy and determination. A woman swept in, and paused long enough on the threshold for Merrion to appraise her. She was, he judged, no more than thirty, fair and strikingly handsome in her own petulant way. She stood there defiantly, as though challenging any one to question her right to be present. Then Cecil went up to her impulsively. “Romayne!” he exclaimed. “I am glad to see you again. How are you? And how are your father and Luke?”

She laughed, a trifle derisively, Merrion thought. “Glad to see me, are you, Cecil? Well, it's nice to hear that. Oh, we're all right. I've only just come down, bringing Luke with me. I've parked him in the nursery.”

Her voice was clear, with a sharp ring in it, as of steel hammered upon an anvil. At her entrance the tension returned. A silence fell upon the room, and everyone but Cecil seemed to avoid looking at her. She was undoubtedly a perfectly self-possessed petrel, heralding the storm. Rather unexpectedly. Lord Croyle's booming voice was the first to be heard. “Come over here and talk to me, my dear. I want to hear all your news. It's a long time since we've seen you, you know. There, that's right.”

Romayne took the chair which Charlotte had vacated. “You're a darling. Grandpa,” she said simply, then shot an enquiring glance at Merrion, to whom she was promptly introduced. “A friend of Cecil's?” she said, rather maliciously. “I didn't know Cecil had any friends. He always seems to find it too much trouble to make any.”

Merrion made some remark about having met Cecil during the war, profoundly wishing that he had never accepted his invitation. Of course, it wasn't really Cecil's fault that he and Mavis had been landed in this uncomfortable position. He would never have asked them to the Castle if he had known of Romayne's arrival, apparently so unexpected. As it was, they were manifest trespassers upon the affairs of an entirely strange family.

Once again the door was flung open, and Collins staggered in, under the load of a folding table. He was followed by a sulky-looking maid, encumbered with a spirit kettle on a tall stand. Collins erected the table in the centre of the room and the maid stood the kettle beside it. They went out, to return in procession, Collins carrying an enormous silver tray, with teapot, caddy, and so forth to match, and the maid with a second tray bearing plates of cake and bread and butter. These were set on the table, and the domestics trooped out.

The ritual was obviously established. Charlotte took her place before the silver tray, and proceeded to make tea. So many spoons from the caddy into the warmed silver teapot. Then the addition of water from the kettle, which steamed and spluttered encouragingly. Sporadic bursts of conversation as the tea brewed. Then the pouring out. Did Mrs. Merrion take sugar? Charlotte herself carried her father-in-law's cup and special plate of whole meal bread and butter, and laid them on a table beside his chair. She cast an apprehensive and not very friendly glance at Romayne as she did so.

It seemed that Romayne, sitting with her grandfather, was in a sense isolated from the rest of the company. Merrion had moved, unobtrusively, leaving them alone, and was now seated by Cecil. There was no general conversation, which would have been difficult in so vast a room. Charlotte remained in state at the tea-table. The rest were scattered in pairs. Mavis and Faith, Felicity and Dr. Balcombe, Merrion and Cecil.

Cecil seemed pointedly to avoid the present, and his conversation consisted entirely of reminiscence concerning past days at the War Office. To Merrion it seemed an age before Charlotte rose and rang the bell. He was wondering how soon he and Mavis could decently get up and go away. Collins made his usual clumsy entry, followed by the maid. Between them, with a good deal of rattling, they collected the teacups. Eventually they marched out, trays, table and all. The door slammed heavily behind them.

Surely now, Merrion thought, somebody would suggest escape from the stuffy, overheated room to the terrace outside. But it was not to be. Only a few minutes after the door had closed behind Collins and his assistant it burst open again. A flock of children surged in, led by the eldest, a girl loud-voiced and boisterous. Following her were two boys of six or seven. One of these had an assured air, suggesting that he was a long-established member of the household. The other was shy and overawed, looking about him with wondering eyes. The rear was brought up by two younger boys, very much alike and rather subdued in manner.

Evidently this irruption was part of the ritual, for nobody evinced any surprise. The girl went straight to a window and looked out. “I say, isn't it lousy!” she exclaimed loudly and at large. “Jonathan says they've put up a lot of barbed wire again across the cliff path, and we can't go down that way any more.”

Charlotte said something about a mine. Meanwhile Faith was calling to the twins. “Come here, James, and you too, George. What have you been doing? Your hair's all rumpled. And look at your hands! These are my two young rascals, Mrs. Merrion. Did you ever see such a state as they're in! If they can get into mischief—”

The boy with an assured air looked round, then made a bee-line for Cecil. “Oh, Uncle Cecil, I didn't know you were here! I'm so glad, I've something to tell you. And it's ever so secret.” Cecil allowed himself to be dragged by the hand across the room to an unoccupied corner, where the boy engaged him in earnest and whispered conversation.

The shy boy, thus abandoned by his companions, seemed rather at a loss. He sidled up to Romayne and stood irresolutely beside her. She was so absorbed in what she was telling Lord Croyle that she took no notice of him till she touched his hand. “Hallo, Luke!” she exclaimed. “You must run along now. You've got to make yourself at home here, you know. Look, there's Jonathan with Uncle Cecil. You go and find out what they're talking about.”

Merrion was trying to catch Mavis' eye when, to his great relief. Dr. Balcombe gave the signal for the break up of the party. “Come along, Harriet,” he called to the girl. “It's high time you and I were getting home. It'll be my surgery hour before very long.” He collected the reluctant Harriet, and after a round of farewells, they took their departure.

Merrion gave them a few minutes grace, then approached Cecil. “We must be going too,” he said. “Are you staying here, or can we give you a lift? Perhaps you'll come and have a glass of sherry with us at the Victoria?”

“That's very good of you,” Cecil replied. “Gives me an excuse for slipping away, you know. ' Further farewells followed. Lord Croyle was most cordial, and begged the Merrions to regard the Castle as their own. “Come here as often as you can,” he said. “This side of the valley is much healthier than the other. I am sure it will do Mrs. Merrion more good to be here than sitting in those draughty rooms at the Victoria.”

The others took their cue from the head of the family, particularly Faith, who seemed to have found in Mavis a sympathetic listener. “It has been such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Merrion,” she said eagerly. “You must come and see us again as soon as you can. My husband will be here in a day or two, and I do so want you to meet him.”

Cecil chuckled as he and the Merrions drove away from the Castle. “My word!” he exclaimed. “There'll be a fluttering among the dovecots now. Fancy Romayne turning up like that! You saw Charlotte buttonhole me as soon as we got in. She was bubbling over with it. Most inconsiderate, she said. Romayne had given them no warning whatever. Just turned up at the Castle with boy and baggage, not an hour before we got there. Well, it's just like her.”

No more was said on the subject until the three of them were sitting on the verandah at the Victoria. Then Cecil returned to it. “I feel I owe you both an apology,” he said. “I wouldn't have plunged you into a maelstrom like that, had I known. This has put all their noses out of joint, except old Lucifer's. He doesn't care.”

“It seemed to me that Lord Croyle was very glad to see Romayne,” Merrion remarked. “You must forgive me for calling members of your family by their Christian names on such short acquaintance, but as they are all Mrs. Croyles, it seems the simplest way of distinguishing between them.”

“Of course,' Cecil replied. “They wouldn't mind. But just think of it! Roderick is due back any time now. The return of the heir! He'll blow in to find two wives installed in the bosom of his family, the one who divorced him and the one he's married to. And the cream of the jest is that Romayne, as old Lucifer's granddaughter, has every right to be at the Castle. He won't hear of her being turned out. She was always a favourite of his.”

“What will Mr. Roderick Croyle have to say about it?” Mavis asked.

Cecil stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That's what I'm wondering. Left to himself, Roderick would probably accept the situation fairly philosophically. But he won't be left to himself. Faith will make his life a burden to him as long as Romayne is about. And there's the eventual heir. Faith won't enjoy him playing round her skirts.”

“There seems to me a fairly simple way out,” Merrion suggested. “When this man Roderick comes home, let him take himself, his second wife and the twins away somewhere, thus removing all possible source of friction.”

Cecil shook his head. “It's not quite so simple as that,” he replied. “To begin with, Lucifer wouldn't like that at all. He's very much looking forward to having Roderick at home. And Faith is the last person to risk incurring his displeasure. She's bent on wangling something for the twins, you know. And again, I fancy Roderick would take a poor view of leaving the Castle because Romayne was there. He's very fond of his cousin. The mistake he made was to marry her.”

Mavis laughed. “Is it a mistake to marry the person one's very fond of?” she asked.

“It was in this case,” Cecil replied. “Roderick and Romayne got on excellently while they were just cousins. It was when they became husband and wife that they couldn't hit it off. In chemical language, two substances with so close an affinity that when brought into intimate contact they explode. I'm not blaming either of them.”

Cecil paused, then went on reflectively. “Of course, Faith won't understand that. When she sees a display of cousinly affection, she'll jump to the conclusion that her husband is falling in love with Romayne all over again. And I dare say Romayne will encourage the idea, out of pure devilment. She and Faith have never met until this afternoon, and I fancy they'll turn out utterly antagonistic. Well, perhaps Edwin will provide a satisfactory solution.”

“Who is this deus ex machina?” Merrion asked. “We don't seem to have heard of him before.”

“Edwin Nailhead?” Cecil replied. “Oh, he's a solicitor. Nailhead and Nailhead, Bedford Row. Since his father Matthew died a few years ago, he has been Lucifer's man of affairs. Lucifer likes him, and he comes to stay at the Castle fairly regularly. He's due next week, I believe. There's always some ostensible reason for his being invited. At this time of year it'll be the partridges, no doubt. But when he comes, he and Lucifer spend hours talking together. You can picture the air of expectancy among the family, imagining that something is being arranged for the benefit of one or other of them.”

“It hardly seems the sort of situation to which a lawyer is qualified to find the solution,” Mavis remarked.

“Oh, no,” Cecil agreed. “I was thinking of Edwin as a young and eligible bachelor, not as a lawyer. He's always been enthralled by Romayne. It was, I'm sure, a bitter disappointment to him when she married Roderick. Now she's free again, he's got another chance. Well, we shall see.”

CHAPTER THREE

NEXT MORNING brought Mavis a note from Charlotte, who explained that she had written it at Lord Croyle's request. Her father-in-law had misgivings about the Merrions' comfort at the Victoria. He hoped they would come to the Castle as often as they could, and make themselves quite at home there. Charlotte added that she herself, and the rest of them she was quite sure, enthusiastically endorsed the invitation. She hoped to see them that very day.

Mavis passed the note to her husband. “These people seem very forthcoming,” she remarked.

Merrion glanced through the note. “They do,” he agreed. “And it's not very difficult to understand why. The situation, which so intrigues our friend Cecil, can't be such fun for the performers. I dare say they look upon us, as total strangers, to supply the necessary relief. We give them something to think about beyond their own affairs.”

“So we pose as altruists?” saidMavis. “What are we going to do about it?”

“Whatever you like, my dear,” Merrion replied. “Look at it this way. In spite of Lord Croyle's misgivings, we're comfortable enough here. We're not likely to find anything that would suit us better, and we may as well stay. While we do, shall we, can we, ignore the Croyles? Personally, I find them rather interesting. Not individually, for with the possible exception of Romayne, they strike me as rather a dull crowd. But I like old Lucifer, and I credit him with a sense of humour of which his family are not aware. Will you be bored if we make a practice of going to the Castle?”

Mavis smiled. “You won't be, evidently. And if I can keep out of the clutches of Faith and her interminable stories of the twins, I shan't be either. Besides, I'm rather anxious to make the acquaintance of Roderick.”

So, during the next few days, the Merrions spent a good deal of time at the Castle, where everyone made them feel welcome. On the surface, the family were on their best behaviour, but Merrion's observant eye soon detected the underlying antagonisms among them. The bitterest feud was being developed by Faith against her predecessor. Romayne was alarmingly outspoken, and obviously was faintly aroused at her cousin's choice of a second wife. She hoped she would make a better job of him than she had herself. Perhaps she was more submissive. When Roderick began to ride the high horse, she could always find consolation in her crochet and the twins. Good old Roderick had struck lucky.

Of her own reasons for coming to the Castle, Romayne made no secret. She hadn't known that Roderick was expected home so soon, but it wouldn't have made any difference if she had. She wasn't afraid of meeting him. She was bored, she was broke, she was fed to the teeth with pigging it with her father in that beastly little house in Cheltenham. He was broke too, for that matter. Besides, the Castle would be Luke's some day. It was only right that he should be brought up there.

Thus Romayne, to all and sundry. The others made little attempt to conceal their disapproval of her presence. Not only was she an obvious favourite with her grandfather, but Lord Croyle repeatedly expressed his pleasure at seeing the eventual heir about the place. He was quite sure that Roderick, when he came home, would be overjoyed to find him there. Luke very soon recovered from his first shyness, and showed himself to be a true Croyle, charming enough when allowed his own way, but self-willed and arrogant. He became close friends with Jonathan, but was inclined to bully the twins, a further infuriation for Faith, who suspected darkly that his mother had put him up to it.

Cecil frequently put in an appearance at the Castle, usually in the afternoons. He was rather like a spectator who had somehow wandered from the auditorium on to the stage, playing no part, but exchanging a word with whichever of the actors happened to cross his path. Merrion, who had wondered how he employed his time, learnt that he was, in rather a dilettante fashion, a student of the classics. He was at present engaged in translating Lucretius into English Spencerian verse, rather an unlikely medium, Merrion thought. As he proceeded, he was adding notes, showing how the philosophy of his author conformed to modem theories of atomic energy. He was careful to explain that his labours were entirely for his own satisfaction. If the fruit of them were ever to be published, this would be for private circulation only.

Curiously enough, he had a way with the children, who unanimously called him Uncle Cecil, though of course he wasn't. Even the twins, rather inclined to seek shelter behind their mother's protecting petticoats, ran to him on his appearance. He was often to be found in a secluded comer, sharing confidences with the little boys. Even Romayne, between whom and Cecil some mysterious antipathy appeared to exist, encouraged Luke to play with him.

Dr. Balcombe turned out to be a constant visitor. He came to the Castle regularly at eleven o'clock each morning to make a routine enquiry after Lord Croyle's health. Merrion got the impression that he was rather too much inclined to encourage his patient's hypochondria. It was true that Lord Croyle was approaching his eightieth birthday, but he hardly seemed to be suffering from any very definite complaint. If he was, it was certainly not senility. Merrion soon discovered that he was very much all there, and that little of what passed before him escaped him.

In addition to his morning visit. Dr. Balcombe frequently came again in the afternoon, bringing with him his daughter Harriet to play with the Croyle children. Harriet was a difficult child, unmanageable, and with a habit of uttering strange oaths and breathtaking expressions. Mavis heard something of her history from Felicity. Dr. Balcombe was a widower, his wife having died during the earlier years of the war, leaving him with an only child, Harriet. He had packed the girl off to some relations of his, who had already had some not very desirable evacuees thrust upon them. Harriet had taken to the speech and manners of the evacuees as a duck to water, and it seemed impossible to wean her from them. Since her return home. Dr. Balcombe had employed a governess, but she had abandoned the task in despair. He was now looking for a successor, who would display more resolution. “Anyhow, Harriet's not a bad kid really,” said Felicity tolerantly. “She's sure to grow out of it.”

It was pretty obvious that Felicity and Dr. Balcombe were interested in one another. If he was not actually in attendance upon his patient, he was usually to be found somewhere in her vicinity. “Well, why not?” Mavis demanded, when her husband remarked to her on this. “I like Felicity. There's a lot more in her than appears on the surface. And after all, she's only a Croyle by marriage, and doesn't really belong. She's only the widow of Lord Croyle's grandson, and I don't suppose either she or her boy Jonathan have any great expectations to look forward to. She'd far better marry Dr. Balcombe and clear out. I have a suspicion that her mother-in-law wouldn't miss her much. The doctor's a widower, and seems quite a nice man, from what I've seen of him. And perhaps Felicity could do something with that appalling child.”

The Merrions were at the Castle when the long expected telegram from Roderick arrived. It was on Saturday afternoon, a fine warm day, and Lord Croyle had invited Merrion to accompany him to the cliff summer-house. This was an elaborate affair, with glass doors which could be opened or shut according to the direction of the wind, and built on a terrace in the face of the cliff. Not until he had asked Dr. Balcombe's advice did Lord Croyle ever venture there.

On this occasion the doctor had given the necessary sanction. An hour before tea, perhaps, not longer. If the thermometer, conspicuously installed in the summer-house, fell below seventy degrees. Lord Croyle must be sure to come indoors at once. It was a short walk from the door opening upon the terrace, along a gravel path to the edge of the cliff, and then down a few shallow and easy steps. Lord Croyle accepted Merrion's offer to carry his rug and shawl, and they set out, Lord Croyle muffled up in a heavy overcoat and supporting himself with a stick. He got along briskly enough, Merrion noticed.

Installed in the summer-house, with rug and shawl about him. Lord Croyle began to discourse. He talked of the time when the Castle had been requisitioned. “Of course, I was glad to do anything I could to help the war effort, but it was most inconvenient. I was quite at a loss where to go, when my nephew Cecil came to the rescue. He was living in London then, employed at the War Office, where I understand you made his acquaintance, and his house here was vacant. He very kindly lent it to us. Charlotte and me, and we lived there quite comfortably. I found to my surprise that the atmosphere of the town did not disagree with me, as I had feared it would. Balcombe was very gratified.”

“You must have missed the Castle, and this glorious view over the sea,” Merrion suggested.

“I did indeed,” Lord Croyle agreed. “And I always had at the back of my mind the possible damage the military might do. They used the place as a mortar-training school, and the incessant noise was terrific. Several windows were broken by the concussions. I was always afraid that one of their infernal machines would go off in the building, and cause irreparable damage to the structure. It was a period of considerable anxiety to me.”

“It must have been,” Merrion said. “But no doubt adequate precautions were taken.”

“I'm not so sure,” Lord Croyle replied doubtfully. “It is true that the actual damage to the property was less than might have been expected. But considerable carelessness was displayed in leaving explosives lying about. Why, as recently as this week I was notified that a dangerous object had been found in the cliff-face. The area was at once wired off, and the object removed next day. But, all the same, with children about—”

Lord Croyle chuckled, as at some private joke. “The object, whatever it was, was found over to the right there,” he went on. “Close to a track which runs down the face of the cliff to its foot. This track is in places almost precipitous, and is, in my opinion, highly dangerous. But the children will scramble up and down it, and I'm always afraid there will be an accident. So I had a word aside with the disposals officer. I suggested that nothing should be said about the removal of the object, and that the wire should be allowed to remain in position, blocking the track. Eh?”

Before Merrion could reply, the sound of hurrying footsteps was heard, and Charlotte, bustling and breathless, appeared in the doorway of the summer-house. Lord Croyle, who hated any symptom of commotion about him, looked up frowning. “You will strain your heart if you hurry like that, my dear,” he said reprovingly. “Well, what is it?”
She brandished a yellow envelope at him. “It's from Roderick, Father!” she exclaimed excitedly.” he sent it to Faith, and she asked me to bring it you, as she knew you'd want to hear at once. He's in London. He's staying there over the week-end, and coming home here on Monday.”

“Well, well, that is very good news,” Lord Croyle replied. “How glad he will be to see Romayne and the little boy here. Dear me, we shall be quite a house-party next week, with Edwin Nailhead coming on Wednesday.”

The Merrions made some excuse for not staying to tea at the Castle that afternoon. Both of them felt that the family had better be left alone to discuss the news of Roderick's imminent arrival among themselves. But when they were sitting on the verandah at the Victoria before dinner, Cecil came in, and made straight for their table. “You don't mind?” he said. “I'm by way of being an ambassador on behalf of old Lucifer.”

“It sounds quite Miltonian,” Mavis replied. “Of course we don't mind. Sit down and tell us about it.”

“Oughtn't we to ask him to present his credentials, in proper diplomatic form?” Merrion asked.

Cecil laughed. “They're verbal, I'm afraid. Old Lucifer asked me to see you, for he thought a written invitation would be too formal. He wants all the friends of the family to be at the Castle on Monday afternoon to welcome Roderick, and of course you are both included. The return of the heir, as I think I've mentioned before.”

“It's very kind of Lord Croyle to include us,” said Mavis doubtfully. “But surely—”

She left the sentence unfinished. Cecil understood, however. “You think it's an affair for the family rather than their friends? Well, perhaps under normal circumstances it would be. But I fancy Lucifer realises that Romayne's presence is going to complicate matters. A dilution of the family atmosphere may get over the awkwardness of the first hour or two.”

He took the glass of sherry the waiter brought him, then went on. “You see, there's no way of warning Roderick what to expect. There's no address in the telegram. He doesn't say where he's staying in London, or what train he means to come down by. He'll hire a taxi at Ernehead and drive out, of course. Faith has already worked up a high steam pressure. She's furious at not being able to get in touch with Roderick, I believe if she could she would tell him to keep away and she'd join him, with or without progeny. Something like that, I gather.”

“Are we to believe that Faith is jealous of Romayne?” Merrion asked. As he spoke he remembered Lord Croyle's comment on hearing the news. How glad Roderick would be to see Romayne and the little boy. Nothing about his delight at rejoining his reigning wife and the twins.

Cecil shrugged his shoulders. “Jealous of his first-born, perhaps. I dare say that's really the snag. You know, she can't find the situation any too comfortable. It's true that her position as Roderick's lawful wedded wife is firmly established. But, after all, Romayne is one of the family, and she isn't. And then, there's Luke.”

He broke off to drink his sherry, then continued, “I suppose things will sort themselves out. They usually do. I'm glad I don't live at the Castle. It's amusing enough to watch, but I couldn't exist perpetually surrounded by that atmosphere of suspicion. Well, I have your promise that you will both put in an appearance on Monday afternoon?”

The promise was given and fulfilled. When they reached the Castle they found the big drawing-room packed with people, most of whom they had never met before. Although the weather was fine enough now, there had been a shower earlier in the day, and this was sufficient for Lord Croyle to issue an edict that nobody was to risk their health by venturing out of doors. There was therefore no escape from the stuffy and congested room. Roderick had already arrived. He was so obviously a Croyle that he could be identified without introduction. He had his grandfather's commanding features and his slightly truculent expression was relieved by the hint of humour in his eyes. He moved easily enough among the guests, making polite conversation, but it seemed to Merrion that the proceedings bored him intensely.

Lord Croyle was seated as the Merrions had first seen him, in his chair with Charlotte on one side and Dr. Balcombe on the other. His eyes were bright enough, and he looked faintly amused. Merrion could not help wondering whether he had staged the scene for his own diversion. Faith, looking rather flustered and not quite at her ease, was accepting congratulations upon her husband's return. Felicity and Cecil were standing together at the side of the room, silent and watchful. In contrast to Faith, Romayne was very much at her ease.
She was the centre of a group with whom she was talking and laughing vivaciously. She seemed to be the only member of the family who was doing much towards the entertainment of the guests. And there was no doubt that she was thoroughly enjoying herself.

In the course of his progress Roderick approached that part of the room where the Merrions were standing. Romayne detached herself, and laid a hand on his arm. “I want to introduce you, Roddy,” she said. “Mr. and Mrs. Merrion. They're staying at the Victoria, and they are friends of Cecil, who brought them along.”

“Staying at the Victoria?” Roderick replied, acknowledging the introduction. There was something in his voice which seemed to convey a sense of envy that they, as visitors, had the privilege of escape when they so desired. “Any friends of Cecil's are friends of mine. And let me assure you how much I appreciate your kindness in joining the welcoming throng.”

After some exchange of platitude suitable to the occasion, Roderick drifted on, and not long afterwards the Merrions slipped away inconspicuously. “Whew, what a party!” Merrion exclaimed as they drove back to the hotel. “A breath of fresh air on the verandah won't do us any harm. Well, and what did you think of Roderick?”

Mavis shrugged her shoulders. “We haven't met him yet,” she replied. “The man we saw just now was an actor playing his part, fairly adequately on the whole. I'll tell you what I think of him when I've met the real Roderick. All I'm prepared to say about him now is that he's a true Croyle. You noticed that, of course.”

She was to make the acquaintance of the real Roderick sooner than might have been expected. As they were sitting on the verandah towards seven o'clock that evening, Cecil and Roderick appeared, looked about them, and seeing the Merrions, came over to them. They had the air of small boys playing truant.

“May we join you?” Cecil asked shyly.

Mavis unhesitatingly gave the required permission. Roderick laughed as he sat down. “We've done a bunk,” he said. “I told them I had urgent business with Cecil which simply wouldn't wait. The crowd will have dispersed by the time I get back to dinner. Yes, thanks, Cecil, I will. Something strong and invigorating. A double whisky, I think. You don't suppose I was expected to make a speech, do you? What do you say, Mrs. Merrion?”

“Of course you were,” Mavis replied. “We were all greatly disappointed. The returned warrior is always expected to address his admirers. Stirring words of noble deeds, and all that, you know.”

“Noble deeds!” Roderick exclaimed. “I've spent the last few months doing my best to administer a patch of jungle in Burma. Precious little scope for noble deeds there, I assure you. I felt a perfect fool when I got to the Castle and found all those people there. I wasn't expecting any one but three or four of the family.”

“You carried it off pretty well,” Cecil remarked. “You've hardly had time for a word with Faith yet.”

“That's true,” Roderick agreed. But the lack of enthusiasm in his tone suggested that it was not Faith he was thinking of at the moment. “Plenty of time, though. I'm likely to be at the Castle for some little while. And what are we going to do to keep ourselves amused, Cecil? I hear Edwin Nailhead is due the day after to-morrow.”

Cecil nodded. “So I understand. You'll be after the partridges with him, I dare say.”

“That's an idea!” Roderick exclaimed. “We'll make up a party and start this week, Thursday perhaps. You'll join us, won't you, Mr. Merrion? There are plenty of guns at the Castle, and we're sure to be able to find one to suit you.”

Merrion accepted the invitation gratefully enough, but Cecil shook his head. “You can leave me out,” he said. “I don't shoot. I've never seen the point of taking a lot of unnecessary exercise when I can buy as many partridges as I want at the game dealer's in the town. Three of you ought to be able to do all the execution necessary.”

“You always were a lazy devil,” Roderick replied. “All right then, Mr. Merrion, I'll fix things up for Thursday, if that will suit you. We shall meet again often enough before then, I hope. Well, it's high time I was getting back. It would never do for me to be late for dinner on my first evening at home.”

The Merrions went into the dining-room a few minutes later. “I'm inclined to think that Roderick will improve on acquaintance,” Mavis remarked as they began their meal. “Did you notice that he didn't mention Romayne?”

“Natural diffidence, no doubt,” Merrion replied “He must find it disconcerting to be thrown so unexpectedly into the company of the wife who divorced him. Especially with his present wife also in that company. He seems to have an urge to get away from the Castle as much as possible. Perhaps he means to ignore Romayne's presence there.”

“She won't ignore him,” said Mavis with decision.” she'll pay him every possible attention, you see if she doesn't. If only to infuriate Faith, to whom, I'm pretty certain, she has taken a violent dislike.”

Merrion laughed. “Well, it's not our affair, thank goodness. I shall enjoy a day's shooting, if Roderick can fix me up with a decent fowling-piece. I wish now I had brought one of my own guns with me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

EDWIN NAILHEAD duly arrived on Wednesday. He was a man in the thirties, good-looking and with a pleasant if rather serious manner. He spent the greater part of his first afternoon and evening in conversation with Lord Croyle, the rest of the family seeming to hover round at a discreet distance.

Meanwhile, Roderick had made all arrangements for the shoot next day. The three men were to set out after breakfast, taking their lunch with them, while Mavis, deprived of her husband, was to spend the day at the Castle. Lord Croyle insisted upon that, regarding her as still an invalid. He would be most disturbed at the idea of her being left alone at the Victoria, where she might not get proper attention. And she and Mr. Merrion must stay to dinner in the evening. As they had a closed car, it was unlikely that she would run any risk of catching cold on the way back.

Everything turned out according to plan. The day was fine, and the shoot a great success, birds being plentiful. The bag was fairly evenly shared, Merrion, although he was using a borrowed gun, leading by a brace. The three of them got back to the Castle at tea-time, and recounted their exploits.

Cecil was there, he too had been asked to stay to dinner, and all the occupants of the Castle with the exception of Felicity. Dr. Balcombe was giving a children's party in honour of Harriet's birthday, and she had volunteered to take Luke, Jonathan and the twins. After tea the party dispersed. Charlotte, apparently preoccupied with domestic matters, went off on her own affairs. Roderick took Mavis off to inspect a site where he proposed to persuade his grandfather to make a swimming pool. Romayne and Edwin Nailhead wandered off together into the garden. Faith, looking sullen and ill-tempered, took her crochet-work out on to the terrace. Merrion and Cecil found themselves with Lord Croyle, sitting in the chairs ranged on either side of his.

This suited Merrion well enough. He had grown to appreciate the old man, and preferred his company to that of any of the others. But Cecil was not so content. Lucifer's conversation, which centred largely round the subject of his own health, was apt to get on his nerves. He fidgeted restlessly for a few minutes, then muttering something about going to see what had become of the rest, got up and strolled out.

Lord Croyle seemed quite at his ease being left alone with Merrion. He hoped his guest had enjoyed the shooting, and had not fatigued himself unduly. He must be allowed to say what a charming companion he had found Mrs. Merrion to be. She and he had ventured to the cliff summer-house for half an hour during the best part of the afternoon. Mr. Merrion might set his mind at ease about that. They had so arranged the doors that there had been no possibility of a draught. And he had seen to it that Mrs. Merrion had taken a wrap with her.

They were still talking when there was a sudden irruption, Felicity returning with the four children. They had picked up Cecil on their way in, and Luke and Jonathan were clinging to him, one on either side, talking volubly about their adventures at the party. The twins, rather more subdued, faded out to look for their mother. Cecil carried off the importunate other two. Luke ran off somewhere by himself, leaving Jonathan, who after all was his Uncle Cecil's oldest crony, in eager and confidential conversation with him.

After a while the rest of the company began to drift back, singly or in pairs. Faith came in, with the twins in tow. Time for the children to have their supper and go to bed. Jonathan and Luke were collected, and after a round of good-nights, beginning with their great-grandfather, the four were led away by Faith and Felicity. Romayne, upon whom maternal cares appeared to sit very lightly, did not accompany them. The procession wound its way interminably up the broad stairway to the topmost gallery of the hall, where it disappeared from sight.

Roderick shepherded Cecil, Nailhead and Merrion into the library. “Lucifer doesn't approve of cocktails,” he explained. “He says they are bad for the digestion. But I've fixed things up with that chap Collins.” He went up to a heavy oak press and opened it. Inside were a row of bottles and some glasses. “We'll help ourselves,” he went on. “By the way, talking of Collins, where on earth did Lucifer pick him up? He strikes me as being the last man to be a butler. He's far more like a Cockney knock-about comedian. And he's too damn familiar, in my opinion.”

Cecil, to whom the question had been addressed, frowned slightly. “I can tell you that,” he replied. “He presented himself at the time Lucifer was moving back here from my house. Lucifer, who doesn't believe that Charlotte, or any other woman for that matter, can be trusted with the engagement of a male servant, referred him to me. I confess I wasn't greatly taken by his manner or appearance. But I asked him what experience he had, and he told me straight out that although he had never been a butler, he had been a club steward, and he supposed the duties were not very different.”

“It must have been a queer sort of club,” Roderick remarked, sipping his cocktail.

“It wasn't in the West End, certainly,” Cecil replied. “Somewhere in Bermondsey, as far as I remember. Collins told me he was a widower, with no children or other ties. He was fed up with London, and wanted a job by the sea. He had come to Croylehaven quite by chance, and hearing that the Castle was to be reoccupied by its owner, guessed that staff would be wanted. He was quite ready to come on a month's trial, to see how he got on. I wrote to this club he told me about, and the secretary replied that he had always found Collins honest and sober. That at least seemed to be in his favour, and I knew well enough that experienced butlers weren't easy to come by. So I told Lucifer he might just as well take him on. He could always get rid of him if he found he didn't like him.”

Cecil put down his sherry glass. “There my responsibility ended. Now you're at home, that sort of thing is up to you. But I'd recommend you to think twice before you start making any changes. Collins may be rough and ready, but he has his virtues. He's willing enough, and never grouses. I've heard no complaints of his honesty, or his sobriety either, for that matter. And you know what Lucifer is. He hates any disturbance of the existing state of things. A domestic upset, however mild, would fidget him terribly.”

Roderick laughed. “Oh, you needn't be afraid. It's not my business to interfere in the domestic arrangements here until I'm asked. I shouldn't be popular with either Lucifer or my aunt Charlotte if I did that. But I think I shall drop Collins a hint that it wouldn't do any harm if he learnt to be a trifle more respectful.”

A gong boomed loudly as he was speaking. “Plenty of time,” he went on. “That gives us half an hour. We're not dressing this evening. We'll have another round before we go and wash our hands.”

They talked for a while, and then dispersed. By the time the second gong sounded, very evidently under Collins' muscular hand, all the company was assembled in the big drawing-room. From there a slightly formal procession proceeded across the hall to the dining-room. Roderick and Mavis, Merrion and Romayne, Nailhead and Felicity, Cecil and Faith, finally Lord Croyle with Charlotte, who had assisted him from his chair.

Lord Croyle said grace, and they sat down round the big table. Soup was served by Collins and the maid. Miraculously, as it seemed to Merrion, they contrived to spill none of it. And then, as conversation was beginning, there was a distant but sharp scream. As they all started and fell silent, this was followed in a second or so by a horrible crash in the hall.

They rushed out in panic, all but Lord Croyle, who remained seated in his chair at the head of the table. Merrion, who happened to be nearest the door, and was habitually rapid in his movements, was the first to reach the heap lying on the hall floor. It was the little boy Jonathan, in his pyjamas, desperately injured if not already dead. About him lay the remains of a china saucer, shattered to pieces.

Shocked into silence by the tragedy, they stood round in a horrified circle. From the dining-room came Lord Croyle's voice, booming and querulous. “What is it? What has happened?” Collins and the maid appeared, to gape unhelpfully. Romayne was the first to regain her presence of mind. She ran to the telephone, where she could be heard calling urgently for Dr. Balcombe. With a strangled cry Felicity flung herself down beside the child. Faith uttered a scream, “The twins!” and dashed stumbling up the stairs towards the upper gallery.

Roderick recovered himself sufficiently to take charge of the situation. He beckoned to Cecil. “Break it to Lucifer,” he whispered. “Better take Charlotte with you.” Then to Nailhead. “Get the women into the drawing-room.” Then he bent down and without protest from Felicity lifted the inert Jonathan. With a glance to Merrion, bidding him follow, he carried the boy into the morning-room and laid him on a sofa there. “Well?” he asked when he had done so.

Merrion bent over the sofa. “Killed instantly, I think,” he replied. “What a tragic thing to happen.”

“He must have fallen from the top gallery,” said Roderick. “Whatever made him climb over the banisters, poor little chap? I hope Balcombe will hurry himself. Not that there's anything he can do, I'm afraid.”

“Or that any stranger can do,” Merrion replied gently. “The fewer people you have in your way the better. I'll find Mavis and take her away. If either of us can be of the slightest use, you'll know where to find us.”

As the Merrions were leaving the Castle, Dr. Balcombe drove up. They did not wait, but went straight back to the Victoria, where Merrion insisted that he and Mavis must try to eat something. After a barely tasted meal they went into the lounge for a drink, which was what they wanted most. “Oh yes, of course I'm upset,” Mavis replied to her husband's inquiry. “It's one of the most horrible experiences I've ever had. But you mustn't worry. I shall get over it.”

“I'm sure you will,” said Merrion. “But it won't altogether improve your rest cure, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, that!” Mavis exclaimed impatiently. “I'm a lot better already. I can't get over that poor child falling over the banisters like that. He must have been walking in his sleep, not knowing what he was doing. I knew all along that something was bound to happen. The tension simply had to break. I've been with those people all day, you must remember.”

“Flirting with old Lucifer, I'm told,” Merrion said lightly.

“Lord Croyle is a dear!” Mavis replied. “I found it the greatest relief to sit with him for a bit. It's the others that make my flesh creep. They're like so many harpies, each trying to snatch something for themselves. You should have seen them after I'd been alone with Lord Croyle. They can't surely have supposed that he would have poured out confidences to a total stranger. But one after another they drew me aside and asked me how I thought Lord Croyle was. Meaning, of course, how much longer I expected he might live. It was disgusting.”

“I'd give the old boy a good many years” Merrion remarked. “He's in much better health than he likes to make out he is.”

“That's what I think,” Mavis agreed. “It would serve them right if he outlived them all. And then of course Mr. Nailhead coming to the Castle has put them all on their toes. They tried to pump me about that, as though I knew anything about it. Did I think your shooting party was really genuine? Or was it merely an excuse for Roderick and Mr. Nailhead to talk business together?”

Merrion laughed. “It's incredible. So far as I am aware, they never exchanged a word about business all day. Nailhead strikes me as quite discreet, and a good fellow. He'd much better get on with the job and marry Romayne.”

“That's just it,” Mavis replied. “That's what they are all expecting him to do. And they've got it into their heads, or at all events Faith has, that it's a put up job. Romayne's arrival wasn't so unpremeditated as she makes out. She knew Mr. Nailhead was coming to the Castle, perhaps he told her himself, and she meant to be on the spot.”

“I don't altogether follow this feminine line of thought,” Merrion remarked.

“Then you're denser than usual. Don't you see? Lord Croyle has always been very fond of Romayne. I have an idea that she is his favourite grandchild. I'm told he was bitterly disappointed when her marriage with Roderick turned out a failure, and has always hoped to see her happily married to someone else. If she and Mr. Nailhead brought it off under Lord Croyle's eyes, so to speak, he'd be so delighted that he would easily be persuaded to do something for him. And anything he did in that direction would be to the detriment of the others. Which, from Faith's point of view, means herself and the twins. Now, do you get it?”

Merrion nodded. “It sounds a trifle far-fetched to me. Do you think there's anything in the idea of a conspiracy?”

“Not for a moment. Romayne strikes me as being far too frank and outspoken for a conspirator. If she makes up her mind to marry Mr. Nailhead, she will, whether Lord Croyle does anything about it or not. But Faith's convinced of it. She's worked herself up to the stage when she can hardly bring herself to stay in the same room with Romayne.”

“Her state of mind doesn't worry Romayne unduly, I imagine,” Merrion suggested.

“Not in the least. It seems to amuse her. She said to me, in that devastating way she has, that she couldn't imagine why Roderick had married a woman as stupid as all that. Faith certainly doesn't shine when Romayne's about, but I can't help feeling rather sorry for her. And Roderick doesn't help much. He's obviously far more interested in Luke than he is in the twins. He's rather thoughtless, I'm afraid.”

Merrion smiled. “My opinion is that he finds the Castle atmosphere a bit oppressive.”

“He practically told me so this afternoon. You remember, he took me to see the place where he wants to make a bathing-pool. That, I'm sure was only a pretext for talking to someone outside the family. In the course of our conversation he said that he wasn't finding his return to civil life all that he expected. If he was a free agent, he would start looking for a job anywhere but at Croylehaven. Did he mean, if he wasn't married?”

“Not quite, I fancy,” Merrion replied. “I think he meant something deeper than that. It's true that he's the heir, and nothing can prevent him inheriting when Lucifer dies. But until then he's in the same fix as the rest of them. As far as I can make out, none of these people have very much, or anything, beyond what Lucifer chooses to allow them. I except Cecil, of course, who has his own income, and has nothing further to gain or lose. Consequently, in order to keep in Lucifer's good books, they've got to observe his wishes.

“Now Lucifer is rather like a hen with her chickens, he likes to keep them under his wing. It may not be due entirely to family affection. The old boy is shrewd enough, and probably sees that it's more economical to keep them all under one roof than to maintain a lot of separate establishments. His reply to Roderick's going off after a job might be to suspend his allowance. Don't you think I'm right?”

“You probably are. Charlotte told me that Lord Croyle was very much annoyed when Roderick's father Harry, the eldest son and heir, insisted on studying medicine. Charlotte told me all about Harry, whom of course she knew well. It seems that he and his father could never hit it off and were always at loggerheads. Her own husband, Oliver, was the favourite.”

“I know nothing of Harry, beyond the very little that Cecil told me,” said Merrion. He was deliberately encouraging Mavis to talk, hoping that it would keep her mind away from recalling the accident.

“According to Charlotte, he was brilliant but erratic. Erratic in the sense that he was apt to take sudden and violent fancies to things and people. He studied medicine, and passed his examinations with the greatest ease. In the early part of the first World War he was a house-surgeon in a London hospital. It was there that he met his future wife, Monica. She was a patient, and a childless war-widow.

“I'm bound to confess that I can't picture Monica very dearly. Charlotte says that she was sullen, and never spoke about her past. The truth is, I dare say, that she was completely overwhelmed at finding herself at the Castle. You see, it was this way. Harry was infatuated with her, and married her secretly in 1917. Secretly, in the sense that he told his family nothing about it. Perhaps he realised that the woman he had chosen was hardly of a type to appeal to Lord Croyle as the wife of his heir. At all events, the first his people knew of Harry's marriage was when he descended on the Castle in R.A.M.C. uniform and with a wife to be parked there.

“That was in the spring of 1918. Charlotte's husband Oliver had been killed early in the war, and she was established at the Castle with her boy Geoffrey, then aged six. Incidentally, she has never left Lord Croyle since. Having deposited Monica, Harry went off to France where he was killed a few weeks later, when the clearing station to which he was attached was bombed.

“Charlotte makes no secret of the fact that neither she nor Lord Croyle took to Monica. She says that she never seemed able to settle down to the Castle and the life there. The truth is, I daresay, that she was made to feel like an undesired intruder. She wasn't up to Croyle standards. It's typical of Lord Croyle's attitude towards her that Matthew Nailhead, Edwin's father, was given the job of finding out whether Harry and Monica had really been married. Perhaps Lord Croyle hoped they hadn't, for in that case Monica could have been packed off. But his hopes were dashed. Nailhead found that Harry had, in 1917, duly married Monica Dark, widow, at a Bloomsbury register office. And Monica had not been very long at the Castle when Roderick was born, a month or so after his father's death. There could be no doubt of his paternity, for he was just like Harry, and had all the Croyle features. Had he taken after his mother in appearance, it would have been a bitter blow.

“Mind you, I'm only repeating what Charlotte told me. Monica's version might be very different. Charlotte says she was impossible, and perhaps she was. At all events, she seems to have found her position at the Castle impossible, for before Roderick was a year old she walked out, and has never been heard of since. She must have had a little money of her own, Harry's pension, one assumes.

“I don't gather that the Croyles made any desperate efforts to trace her. She had left the heir in their hands, and that was all they cared about. Lord Croyle and Charlotte devoted themselves to bringing him up as a true Croyle should be. Judging by results, they don't seem to have made too bad a job of it.”

“Did Charlotte go on to speak of Roderick's matrimonial adventures?” Merrion asked.

Mavis shook her head. “She shied off that subject. She merely said that Roderick was headstrong, like all the Croyles. My own impression is that she and Lord Croyle had settled, very early on, that Roderick was to marry his cousin Romayne. Perhaps if Charlotte had had a girl instead of a boy, they would have settled that he was to marry her. The divorce must have been a severe shock. And I'm pretty sure that Charlotte at least, is privately of the opinion that Roderick repeated his father's mistake in marrying a woman like Faith.”

“Who, to use your own expression, is not quite up to Croyle standards?” Merrion suggested.

“You can see for yourself that she's not exactly a family favourite,” Mavis replied. “The trouble is that her outlook is too terribly suburban. And she makes a perfect fool of herself over those twin brats of hers. Oh, I do wish we had never agreed to dine at the Castle this evening! I shan't ever be able to forget it.”

CHAPTER FIVE

NEXT MORNING, as they were having breakfast, Merrion was summoned to the telephone. The caller was Cecil Croyle, and he spoke in a voice of unwonted gravity. “Good morning, Merrion,” he said. “May I ask you to do me a personal favour? I do not want to discuss the matter on the telephone, but could you possibly come here, to my house, at half-past ten? I am most anxious to consult you.”

Merrion, wondering what it was all about, gave the required promise, and presented himself at the appointed time. He was shown into Cecil's study, a large and comfortably furnished room. The books and writing-table were fitting surroundings for a dilettante scholar. Cecil, with a curiously solemn air, was awaiting him. “It's very good of you to put yourself to this trouble,” he said. “It's about that shocking affair last night. Balcombe is very much disturbed about it, and is coming here to consult with Nailhead and myself.”

Cecil paused, and then went on heavily. “He has told me enough to convince me that the matter will require the most careful consideration. You are a man with very wide experience in handling difficult situations. Further, having no connection with the family, you will be able to view the matter disinterestedly. You will, I hope, agree to attend our conference. I will say no more until the others arrive.”

With this Merrion had for the moment to be content. He agreed to stop and hear what was to be said. A few minutes later Nailhead arrived, closely followed by Balcombe. The four men arranged themselves in a circle, and Cecil explained Men-ton's presence, to which the other two heartily agreed. Balcombe turned to Cecil. “Will you begin by explaining the structural details, for the benefit of our friends here?”

“We have to consider the top floor of the Castle,” Cecil replied. “Or rather that part of it which opens upon the central hall. As you are aware, there are three storeys above the ground floor, each storey being surrounded by a gallery. The outer edge of each gallery is guarded, not by a rail and banister, but by a solid and continuous panelled balustrade, three and a half feet high.

“The doors of several rooms open on to each gallery. Those on the top floor were originally the servants' quarters, but they are no longer used for that purpose. The servants are now quartered in a different part of the house, the first floor in the north wing. The top floor in the centre is now being used to accommodate the children. There are two big rooms, used as nursery and schoolroom, and other smaller ones used as bedrooms. One of these is Luke's, another Jonathan's, and a third is shared by the twins.

“No resident children's nurse is employed at the Castle. A woman, who lives in the town and acts as a nursery governess goes there every morning before breakfast, and leaves after tea, when the children come down to the drawing-room. Their mothers undertake to give them their supper and put them to bed, where they are supposed to be by seven o'clock. I occasionally attend this ceremony myself, though I did not do so yesterday. Once the children have been put to bed, no one else remains on that floor. Their mothers, no doubt, from time to time go up and look into the children's rooms.

“You will have noticed that enormous chandelier that hangs from the centre of the dome above the hall. It has never been converted to electricity, and remains just as it was when candles were burnt in it. It has never been in use during my lifetime. It would be possible to light the candles in it from the upper gallery by means of a taper at the end of a long stick, and no doubt that is what used to be done. But it would not be possible for any one to reach over the balustrade far enough to remove burnt down candle-ends and replace them.

“For that purpose provision was made. A section of the balustrade was hinged, and made to open outwards, like a gate. This section fits very closely to those on either side of it, and the hinges and fastenings are inconspicuous. At a casual glance one might very easily fail to notice that the gate existed. Just inside it, let into the floor of the gallery, was a wide sliding platform which, when the gate was opened, could be run out, so that by walking along it the chandelier could be reached. At some time, I don't know when, this platform was secured, and now forms an integral part of the floor of the gallery, being hidden by the carpet.”

He looked enquiringly at his audience, who nodded their comprehension. “The gate has no knob or handle,” he continued. “It is secured by an ordinary mortise lock. When I used to play about the Castle as a boy, the device intrigued me. I would have slid the platform out, if I could. But I couldn't, and for two reasons. The platform had already been screwed into the drawn back position. The gate was locked, and so far as I was able to discover, no key existed. I imagined it had been lost long before, when the device went out of use. I think that's all.”

Dr. Balcombe took up the story. “I was summoned by telephone to the Castle yesterday evening. I ascertained at once that poor little Jonathan was beyond all human aid. The injuries he had sustained must have been immediately fatal. When I had assured myself that Lord Croyle, though greatly upset, exhibited no alarming symptoms. I suggested to Cecil that we should endeavour to find out how the accident had happened. We went up to the top gallery, and the first thing we saw was that the gate of which he has told you was swung wide open. Not knowing of the existence of the gate, I was amazed. We saw that the lock had been turned, but we found no key.

“A moment later, Faith came out of one of the rooms, which we learnt was the twins'. We did not draw her attention to the gate, and she went downstairs. Immediately opposite the gate, across the gallery, was the door of another room, and this was open. I asked Cecil whose it was, and he said that it was Luke's. We went in, and found the room empty, though the bed had clearly been slept in, I then asked Cecil which Jonathan's room was. He took me to the one next to Luke's. The door was shut, and when we opened it we found Luke asleep in bed there, with a nightlight burning at his side.”

“To make the story coherent, I had better put in a word,” said Cecil. “We didn't wake Luke then. But this morning I went to the Castle early and talked to him. The children are usually eager to tell me things. I asked him what he was doing in Jonathan's room last night. He told me it was a game they had arranged between them. After they had been put to bed, and their mothers had gone downstairs, they changed rooms. They thought their mother's surprise when they came up and found the wrong boy in the wrong room would be great fun.

“How the gate came to be unlocked remains unexplained. But as it was, I think the accident can be explained. The boys were clearly up to mischief yesterday evening, as their changing rooms shows. I had noticed that they were excited when they came home. Your party, Balcombe, was no doubt responsible.
The fragments found on the hall floor were those of the saucer holding the night-light in the room Jonathan was occupying. I have no doubt that it entered Jonathan's head to create a diversion by dropping the saucer from the top gallery. He ran out of the room with it in his hand. As soon as he reached the balustrade exactly opposite his door and touched it, it swung open, and, unable to check himself, he fell through the gap.”

“I fully agree with. that theory,” said Balcombe. “But how did the gate come to be unlocked? It is, I suppose, dimly possible that during the occupation of the Castle by the military a key was found or made, and that the gate has remained unlocked ever since. The fact that the lock was turned would not be perceptible, and the gate would not swing open unless any one happened to lean against it.”

He cleared his throat hesitantly, then went on. “I am about to reveal something which, until this moment, I have kept strictly to myself. And I must ask you all, for the present, at least, to treat it as a rigid confidence. You will remember, Cecil, that after you had left me and gone downstairs yesterday evening, I remained on the top gallery for a few minutes longer. I wished to find out if the lock could have somehow shot back of itself, and I examined it closely. As I did so I became aware of a characteristic smell, which I recognised as that of modelling wax. I was aware that there was a box of this wax in the nursery, or the schoolroom, for my daughter Harriet had told me that she had played with it one afternoon when she was at the Castle.”

The silence which followed this was broken by Nailhead. “This is a very grave matter,” he said. “If the smell was still perceptible, the wax must have been used very recently. Are you suggesting that it was employed to take an impression of the wards of the lock, from which a key was subsequently filed?”

“I am suggesting nothing,” Balcombe replied. “I merely offer the fact for your consideration.”

Cecil glanced at Merrion, as though soliciting his opinion. “Well, if I may butt in, I'd like to make this remark,” Merrion said quietly. “To take a successful impression in wax of the wards of a lock, and to fashion from it a key which will open that lock, is a job for a skilled craftsman. No amateur could hope to accomplish it.”

“That may be,” Balcombe replied a trifle impatiently. “But the gate was unlocked, all the same, and it cannot have been unlocked accidentally.”

“This is an extremely serious matter,” said Nailhead gravely. “Between the four of us, we need not mince matters. Balcombe tells us that there is evidence that the gate was unlocked deliberately. Was this done with felonious intent? Of that there appears to be no evidence. That Jonathan, in a spirit of mischief, leant against it, appears to me purely fortuitous.”

Balcombe's impatience was visibly increasing. “Fortuitous!” he exclaimed. “Of course poor little Jonathan's death was fortuitous. But don't you see? That gate is exactly opposite the door of one of the bedrooms. A child running out of that room to look over the balustrade would inevitably lean against the gate. The room in question is the one allotted to Luke. It was purely by chance that the children decided to change rooms yesterday evening.” He paused significantly, and then went on with calculated deliberation. “And Luke is the eventual heir.”

Cecil was the first to speak after this. “We've got to face up to what the doctor says. It seems practically certain that the gate was unlocked with intention. It may be this intention was that Luke should fall through the gap and so be killed. But the motive seems obscure. Don't you agree, Edwin?”

Nailhead shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I think we're indulging in speculation,” he replied. “I would most earnestly recommend that no word of this conversation be repeated outside this room. The death of Jonathan will not affect the succession. Failing Luke, the twins, James and George, would jointly become their father's heirs.”

“Exactly,” Balcombe remarked. And the tone of his voice explained to Merrion why Roderick was not present at this conference. This had puzzled him, for failing Lord Croyle, Roderick was the head of the family. But the conference had been convened by Balcombe, who would have found Roderick's presence more than awkward. For it was now obvious that Balcombe believed that an attempt had been made to murder Luke, in order to make way for the twins. And who would have conceived such a crime but the twins' mother, Faith?

This might be, and probably was, pure moonshine. But the situation was complicated by Balcombe's personal affections. He was believed to be in love with Felicity, whose boy it was who had been killed. Would he demand his pound of flesh from Faith? Surely not. To do so would involve a scandal of the first magnitude.

Merrion became aware that Balcombe was speaking again. “I have already informed the coroner, who will no doubt hold an inquest. The question is, and that is why I requested this consultation, what evidence is to be given? I am not suggesting perjury, but whether it would be advisable to maintain silence upon certain details. The fact that wax had been applied to the lock, for instance. What is your opinion, Mr. Nailhead?”

The lawyer rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It is a question to be considered in all its aspects,” he replied. “In return, I will ask you for your professional opinion. What do you anticipate would be the effect upon my client. Lord Croyle, of a verdict that Jonathan's death had been caused not by accident, but by foul play?”

“The effect in all probability would be most serious,” said Balcombe. “Lord Croyle's age and constitution could hardly be expected to withstand the shock of suspicion that a member of the family had been involved. As it is, he is prostrated with grief at his great-grandson's death. I have seen him this morning and recommended him to stay in bed for the present. Any further unpleasantness might well have fatal results.”

“Thank you. Doctor,” Nailhead replied, apparently vastly relieved. “I cannot believe that we should be justified in imperilling Lord Croyle's life by raising suspicions which cannot be confirmed. I would therefore recommend that the witnesses should exercise discretion in giving their evidence.”

“I quite agree,” said Cecil. “You're outside all this, Merrion, and can give us an impartial opinion. What do you say?”

“I share Nailhead's views,” Merrion replied. “It does not appear that there is sufficient evidence of anything but criminal carelessness on somebody's part. It cannot be proved that the unlocking of the door was in fact an attempt upon the life of any one.”

Balcombe seemed satisfied with the verdict of the majority. “Very well,” he said. “My evidence shall be discreet. But I am of the opinion that Romayne would be well advised to remove Luke from the Castle with the least possible delay.”

It seemed to Merrion that Nailhead's eyes flickered at this. Romayne's departure would be only a matter of time, he thought. The party broke up, and Merrion started to walk slowly back to the Victoria. There were many points in what he had heard that aroused his curiosity. One had to accept Balcombe's statement that he had detected the smell of modelling wax in the lock. But it seemed inconceivable that any one at the Castle possessed the skill to reproduce a key in that fashion. The probability was, Merrion thought, that one of the children had discovered the keyhole, and stuffed some wax into it by way of a lark.

Still, wax or no wax, the gate had been opened. Unlocked, not forced, according to both Balcombe and Cecil. Who had unlocked it, how, and why? It seemed unlikely that one of the children had found a key that would fit, and having used it, put it back where he had found it. At the same time, Cecil had described it as an ordinary mortise lock, of which there must be dozens in the various doors of the Castle. It was quite likely that the key of one of these would fit the lock of the gate in the balustrade. But this fact could only have been ascertained by experiment.

The motive for the unlocking was of course the crucial point. Merrion, viewing the matter dispassionately, found it hard to believe that it could have been homicidal. At the time of the accident everyone at the Castle, family and guests, had been in the dining-room. Since dinner was being served, it might be assumed that all the members of the staff had been at their respective stations. Collins and the maid were accounted for, anyhow. And what could any of the servants have had to gain by the murder of one of the children?

Then came the curious chance of Jonathan and Luke having changed rooms. Luke's explanation of this could be accepted. It had been for the purpose of springing a surprise upon their parents, and surprise involved keeping the intention a close secret. It was as certain as anything could be that nobody in the dining-room at the time of the accident could have known of the transposition.

Cecil's guess that Jonathan's intention had been to fling the saucer down into the hall was probably correct. It was just the sort of mischief an excited child would devise. He would thoroughly enjoy the consternation caused by the crash. But again, he wouldn't have confided his intention to any one else, except possibly the other children. Nobody could have foretold that he would run out from his room to the unlocked gate.

Homicide seeks a definite victim. It was not to be supposed that whoever unlocked the gate was indifferent which of the children should fall through the gap. Yet the mere unlocking involved complete uncertainty. Any one of the children, or of their visitors, Harriet Balcombe, for instance, might at any time have leant against the gate and fallen through. Unless the unlocking had been merely preliminary to a further villainy, which Jonathan had anticipated by his impulse of mischief.

For, whether murder had been planned or not, Jonathan could not have been the intended victim. No motive of vengeance or hatred could be entertained in the case of a boy of six. The hope of material advantage was all that remained. But nobody had anything to gain by Jonathan's death. As Nailhead had said, it did not affect the succession in any way. It might be supposed that Lord Croyle would do something for Felicity, especially if she married Balcombe. But he would presumably do so, whether her son was alive or not. As for the murder of Jonathan as a means of paying off a grudge against Felicity, the idea was fantastic. Felicity was generally liked, and it was not apparent that any one at the Castle wished her any harm.

But suppose the intended victim had been Luke, and it was the unforeseen change of rooms that had wrecked the plan. That opened wide the flood-gates to Balcombe's suspicions, which Merrion privately thought ridiculous. He had not mentioned Faith's name, but it was perfectly obvious that he believed she had attempted to murder Luke, in order that her own children might become the eventual heirs.

It was true enough that Faith was bitterly jealous of Luke, and that everything since his arrival at the Castle with his mother had tended to increase her jealousy. She would no doubt be delighted if Luke were to die, but would she go so far as to contrive his death? Merrion thought not. He did not ascribe to her the attributes of a murderess. Besides, had she succeeded, and any breath of suspicion lighted upon her, she would have completely alienated the affections of her husband, who was far more interested in Luke than he was in the twins.

And there was this in her favour. She had been the first to run up to the top floor after the accident. If she had been responsible for it by unlocking the gate, would she not have destroyed all evidence of her crime by locking it again? It would then have been supposed that Jonathan had, in his attempt to fling the saucer, climbed on to the balustrade and lost his balance.

In Merrion's considered opinion. Faith might be exonerated. Failing her, nobody else had any imaginable motive for desiring the death of any of the children. The affair had been an accident, due to criminal carelessness on somebody's part. That was the only mysterious factor involved. How did the gate come to be unlocked, and for how long before the accident had it been in that highly dangerous condition?

CHAPTER SIX

THE INQUEST was held at the Castle on Saturday morning. On the ground floor of the north wing was a big bare room which had once provided ample room for two full-sized billiard-tables. These had long ago disappeared, and the room was now left empty. During the occupation by the military it had been used as a canteen, and a faint aroma of stale beer still clung about it.

Under the direction of Collins and the policeman acting as coroner's officer, this room had been equipped with a table a chairs to make an extempore court. The coroner sat with a jury, and very few members of the general public attended. The family and their guests were present, and at Cecil's urgent request Merrion was included. Before the proceedings opened, the coroner inspected the scene of the accident, especially the upper gallery and the gate in the balustrade. His nose was not sufficiently acute to detect the smell of modelling wax, and his attention was not directed to it.

The proceedings did not take long. Felicity, beneath whose calm could be perceived the symptoms of acute distress, gave evidence of identification. Dr. Balcombe confined himself almost entirely to the medical aspect. Cecil described how shortly after the accident, he had found the gate open. Neither he nor any other member of the family could explain how it came to be unlocked. Very few people were aware the existence of the gate. It might have been unlocked by some considerable time, for it would have remained closed until actually pushed open.

The coroner, who obviously had no suspicion of foul play, was ready enough to accept this suggestion. There was evidence to show how the gate had become unlocked. He thought it possible that this had occurred during the period during which the Castle had been requisitioned. He was very glad to see that the gate had now been secured with an iron strap. It only remained for him to return a verdict of accidental death, due to multiple injuries sustained in falling from a height, and to express his profound sympathy with the bereaved mother and all the family.

Not wishing to intrude upon the family grief, Merrion did his best to escape quietly from the improvised Court. But Romayne intercepted him and drew him aside. “May I come and call on you and Mrs. Merrion this afternoon?” she whispered hurriedly.

“Why of course,” Merrion replied, concealing his surprise at this unexpected request. “Come and have tea with us.”

“Thanks awfully. I'll be there.” And with a nod of comprehension, she was gone.

Merrion had said nothing to Mavis of the conversation which had taken place at Cecil's house on Friday morning. The less said about a conspiracy of silence the better, he thought. While they were having lunch after his return from the inquest, he described to her the proceedings and the verdict.

“It was purely a matter of form to hold an inquiry at all,” he remarked. By the way, as I was coming away, Romayne stopped me. She asked if she could come and see us this afternoon, so I asked her to tea. That's all right with you, I suppose?”

“Of course,” Mavis replied. “But I can't help being a little astonished. I shouldn't have thought that any of them would have cared to be seen about just now. Until after the funeral, at all events.”

“I don't imagine that Romayne is a slave to convention,” said Merrion. ' I dare say she finds the atmosphere at the Castle a bit oppressive just now. Well, we'll do our best to divert her mind when she comes.”

Romayne arrived at four o'clock, looking more thoughtful than they had yet seen her. They had tea on the verandah, and during the meal the Merrions did their utmost to find indifferent subjects of conversation. But Romayne was fidgety and unable to keep her attention fixed. “Let's go somewhere where we can talk!” she exclaimed urgently at last. The three of them strolled out to a secluded corner of the hotel garden, where stood a bench overlooking the sea. Romayne sat down, and for a minute or two stared frowningly over the glittering water. Then abruptly she spoke. “I'm awfully sorry. I've got no right to make myself a nuisance to you two like this. But I've got to the stage where, if I can't talk to somebody outside the family, I shall burst.”

“You're not being a nuisance,” Mavis said comfortingly. “We quite can understand what you've been through. And I think you know that you can say anything you like to Desmond and me. We shan't repeat it.”

Romayne nodded. “I know. But you can't begin to understand what I've been through. Anyhow, I've made it quite clear to Roddy that I won't stay under the same roof with her. Jonathan is to be buried on Monday, and after that one of us has got to go. It's up to him to decide which. But I've warned him that if it's to be me, I shall tell Grandfather just exactly why I'm going.”

To Merrion her meaning was perfectly clear. He wondered whether Balcombe had dropped her a hint, or whether she had arrived at her conclusions on her own account. Mavis looked puzzled but sympathetic. “You aren't happy at the Castle?” she suggested.

“How can I be happy with that woman there?” Romayne replied violently. “Listen. When I was a little girl, my people used to bring me to stay at the Castle. Roddy and Geoffrey were there then, and of course the three of us were playmates. We used to sleep up on that top floor, as the kids do now. Luke's room, the one Jonathan changed into on Thursday evening, wasn't used then. It had a lot of old lumber stowed away in it. Of course, we children loved to rummage round in there, though we weren't supposed to. And one day we found, behind a lot of junk, the end of a speaking tube, with a whistle stuck in it. I'd forgotten all about it, and I bet Roddy had too.

“We weren't satisfied until we had found the other end of the tube, which we did eventually in one of those dark lobbies opening off the hall on the ground floor. My mother told me what it was for. At one time the room upstairs had been where the footmen slept. There was then a night-watchman employed at the Castle. I suppose he walked about the house seeing that burglars didn't break in. And at a certain hour in the early morning he blew through the tube, and the whistle woke the footmen. Or that was the idea.

“As I say, I'd long forgotten all about it. But yesterday morning I suddenly remembered, and went to look. I found the end of the tube in the lobby, but only by looking for it. The mouthpiece is broken off, and a couple of old coats of Grandfather's, which he never wears now, are hanging in front of it. Then I went up to Luke's room. The other end of the tube is still there, with the whistle in it, but it's hidden behind the wardrobe. And, don't you see? If those two kids hadn't changed rooms that night, it would have been Luke.”

She paused, then went on impulsively. “Luke has told me all about that. It was to give a jolt to Auntie Faith, as he calls her. As soon as dinner is over she always rushes upstairs and fusses round the kids' rooms. She's very strong on the maternal instinct. And of course, Luke and Jonathan agreed to tell nobody what they meant to do. Not even the twins, for they knew they would go bleating to their mother. She knew nothing about it, I'll bet.”

“Have you spoken of this to any one else?” Merrion asked quietly.

Romayne shook her head. “I haven't said a word. Not even to Edwin. He's got enough on his mind already, without that, poor lamb. All I said to Roddy was that his wife got on my nerves, which is true enough. Her smug face and that perpetual crocheting make me want to scream. Of course he thought it was because I was in one of my tempers, as he calls them. But I meant it. Both of us can't stay at the Castle. And if I have to go, I shall tell Grandfather exactly why.”

She kicked savagely at the turf beneath her feet for a few moments, and then went on. “Oh, it's all so damned difficult! Could I really tell Grandfather when it came to it? He's had one pretty bad shock already, poor darling. Dr. Balcombe says his constitution is bearing up wonderfully, but of course that sort of thing is awfully bad for him. I couldn't possibly give him another one on top of it. I shouldn't dare. It will completely put the lid on everything if he doesn't live for another couple of years or so.”

“I shouldn't say anything to Lord Croyle about your suspicions, if I were you,” Mavis remarked.

“And let her get away with it?” Romayne exclaimed. “Just walk out, taking Luke with me, without a word of explanation? Grandfather would be terribly upset, yes, and hurt too. Only the other day he told me how glad he was to have us both at the Castle, and hoped we should stay for a long while. And as things are I can't afford to offend him, not only for my own sake, but for Edwin's as well. Oh, I wish that woman would jump into the sea, or something!”

Neither of the Merrions made any comment. She was best left to talk herself out. And after a while she began again. “I don't know what you must think of me, unloading my troubles on you like this. But I've been through a lot in these last two days. Yesterday evening, Edwin asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, I'm so glad I “Mavis exclaimed. “You agreed, of course. When is it coming off?”

“Yes, I agreed,” Romayne replied a trifle wearily. “Edwin's a dear, and he's always been devoted to me. I suppose in time I shall learn to be equally devoted to him. But at one time I thought I was devoted to Roddy, and I was, too. It didn't work, for we couldn't live together, we were like the Kilkenny cats. It might have been all right if we'd lived apart, and only met occasionally. But it will be different with Edwin. At least I hope so.”

“Of course it will,” Mavis said firmly. “I'm perfectly sure you'll be happy with Mr. Nailhead.”

“I'll do my best to make him happy,” Romayne replied. “He deserves to be, in the end, if anybody does. Edwin and I had a long talk yesterday evening. He started off by saying that he was going to ask me to marry him, but could not do so until he had told me something that nobody else in the world knew but himself.

“Well, he told me, and a horrifying secret it was, going back before either of us were born. But it was nothing that need stand in the way of my marrying him. Rather the other way round, for if we were married it might help to make things easier. I've got Luke to think of, you know. I believe Roddy would like to take charge of him, but I would never consent to that. So I told Edwin I'd marry him. We're not going to tell the family yet, it hardly seems decent, so soon after Jonathan's death. But I don't think when Grandfather hears of it, it will be a shock to him.”

“He'll be delighted!” Merrion said heartily. “I'm quite sure that Lord Croyle is very fond of you both. His only regret will be that it will take you away from the Castle. And if I may be so impertinent as to offer you a word of advice, Mrs. Croyle, it is this. Don't leave him until you are married, if you can possibly avoid it.”

Romayne smiled faintly. “Mrs. Croyle! It'll be odd to change my name again. But I don't mind. I believe there's a curse on the name of Croyle.” She got up and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, we shall see. I shan't go away unless I'm driven to it, you may be sure. I must be getting back now. I can't tell you how grateful I am to you both for allowing me to let off steam like that. It's done me a lot of good.”

The Merrions walked to the hotel entrance with her, then came back to the verandah. “She's a queer girl,” Mavis said, when they had settled themselves. “What's that extraordinary bee she's got in her bonnet? That Faith somehow tried to murder Luke, and that Jonathan became her victim by mistake? I never heard anything so ridiculous?”

“Yes, it's ridiculous,” Merrion replied sombrely. “But, entirely between ourselves, that particular bee has been buzzing in other peoples' bonnets as well. No, not mine, I assure you. Only, I wish I could be quite so certain that it was a sheer accident as the coroner seemed to be this morning.”

“You're as bad as Romayne!” Mavis exclaimed. “Your trouble is that you've had so much experience of crooked ways that you try to find them everywhere. I'm not greatly attracted to Faith, in fact I'll go so far as to say I don't like her. But I shall never believe that she tried to kill Luke, in spite of her jealousy of him and her devotion to the twins.”

“No, not Faith,” Merrion replied. “I agree with you there. But that confounded Castle is as brimful of mystery as the Castle of Otranto. How did that gate come to be unlocked? Do you expect me to believe that it's been like that ever since the troops left the place? I won't say anything about the speaking-tube. I don't doubt its existence, but Romayne seems to think that it was somehow used to summon Jonathan to hurl the saucer into the hall, which is absurd. She doesn't seem to see that rules out Faith, who was safely in the dining-room at the time.”

“Romayne is bewildered by all that's happened.” Mavis remarked.

“She most certainly is, and perhaps one mustn't take what she said too seriously. She's in a whirl of excitement, with Nailhead's proposal coming on top of her concern for Luke. But even making allowance for that, some of her remarks are curious. What did she mean when she said that it would put the lid on things if her grandfather didn't live for the next year or two? What horrifying secret did Nailhead impart to her?” And what is the curse that dogs the name of Croyle?”

“She was exaggerating, of course,” Mavis replied. “I've noticed she's rather inclined to dramatise things. One can make a fairly good guess at what's in her mind. The secret no doubt was a financial one. Perhaps Mr. Nailhead broke it to her that Lord Croyle has left all the available money outside the entail to Charlotte, or something like that. If so, her wish that her grandfather should live a bit longer is easy to understand. If she and Mr. Nailhead had a child. Lord Croyle might alter things in his favour. Don't you think that's a reasonable explanation?”

Merrion smiled. “I do. I think you've sized her up very well. And the curse, I suppose, was suggested to her by Jonathan's death. Well, one can only hope that she'll do nothing rash before she's safely married to Nailhead.”

Feeling that it was purely a family affair, the Merrions did not attend the funeral on Monday, but contented themselves with sending flowers. They saw no more of the Croyles until that afternoon, when Cecil made his appearance on the verandah, soon after six. “I'm very glad to find you both, he said. “I'm acting once more as Lucifer's ambassador. He asked me to see you, and tell you that he hoped profoundly that you will not think it necessary to keep away from the Castle on account of what has happened.”

“It's extremely kind of Lord Croyle to think of us,” Mavis replied. “I hope he is recovering from the shock?”

“Marvellously!” Cecil exclaimed. “He's really wonderful. Almost his old self again. Of course he's terribly distressed, chiefly on Felicity's account, but he isn't brooding over it, as we were all rather afraid he would.”

“I'm very glad to hear it,” said Merrion. “And he would, quite honestly, like us to go and see him?”

“Quite honestly,” Cecil replied. “And I hope you will, for I'm sure it would do him good. He's been talking a lot about you. Wants to be assured that Mrs. Merrion didn't catch cold from sitting in the summer-house that afternoon. I suggest, if you've nothing better to do, that you drop in at the Castle to-morrow.”

Mavis glanced at her husband, who nodded. “I think we shall be able to manage that,” she said.

“I'm so glad,” said Cecil. “I may as well tell you that you'll find a change there. Faith left rather suddenly this afternoon on her way to stay with her people in York. Taking the twins with her, of course.”

Merrion smiled. “So that's the way of it! I can't say that I'm altogether surprised. I'll tell you in return that Romayne was here on Saturday, and talked to us perhaps rather more freely than she should.”

Cecil looked puzzled. “Romayne? She's apt to talk more freely than she should, but she had nothing to do with it. The fact is, that there was a bust up between Felicity and Faith. Felicity, as you may well imagine, is pretty well distraught, and can hardly be held responsible for what she says. Anyhow, she accused Faith to her face of having been responsible in some way for Jonathan's death. There's no harm in my telling you that, for you are bound to hear something about it if you go to the Castle to-morrow.”

Merrion correctly interpreted Cecil's quick glance in Mavis' direction. “You can talk quite freely,” he said. “I have not told Mavis of our conversation the other morning, but she has had the opportunity of guessing a good deal.”

“Then I'll go on to say that I'm not sure whether Felicity's accusation was due to her own inspiration,” Cecil replied “She and Balcombe are pretty thick, as no doubt you've noticed for yourselves. He may have said something to her, I don't know. Anyhow, Faith was up in arms at once, and you can hardly blame her. She went to Roderick and demanded that he should take her and the twins away from the Castle forthwith, as she wasn't going to stay to be insulted. All this happened yesterday, I should tell you.

But, Roderick, very wisely, wouldn't play that game. He told Faith that Lucifer's feelings must be considered. I have this side of it from Roderick himself. Lucifer had already suffered from a pretty severe shock, and nothing further must be allowed to happen to distress him. If Roderick were to leave suddenly with his wife and their children, Lucifer would have to be given the true reason, and that must be avoided at all costs.”

Merrion nodded, wondering whether Romayne had had a hand in all this. “That's perfectly reasonable,” he said.

“Oh, Roderick's got his head screwed on straight enough,” Cecil replied “He told Faith that if she was going, she'd have to leave him behind. In the end, they arranged between them that she should go and stay with her people for a bit. I agreed with Roderick that it would never do to let Lucifer hear anything of Felicity's outburst. I need hardly say that no suspicion has entered his head. He's perfectly satisfied with the Coroner's verdict.”

Cecil's tone suggested that he hardly shared in his uncle's acquiescence. “Roderick doesn't take it very seriously,” he went on. “He said to me that when a woman's as upset as Felicity is just now, she'll say anything. He doesn't believe for a moment that Faith had anything to do with the accident. And he seems to take her departure very philosophically.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Croyle!” Mavis protested. “Only just a week after his return home?”

Cecil shrugged his shoulders. “I warned you that I was no more than an impartial observer of the Castle and its inmates. It's my nature to prefer watching events to participating in them. And I've been interested to see the reunion of Roderick and Faith. Impulsiveness is a characteristic displayed by all the Croyles, at all events when they're young.”

“Now, what in the world do you mean by that?” Mavis demanded.

“Isn't it clear?” Cecil replied. “Well, perhaps, it isn't. Roderick and Romayne married one another impulsively. I don't mean that they fixed it up on the spur of the moment, but that they did not reflect upon what they were letting themselves in for. They grew up together, and were, and are, very fond of one another. But that didn't prevent either of them flying out at the other on the slightest provocation. Perhaps they didn't realise this, or they may have thought that marriage would cure them of the habit. It didn't, it only made them worse.”

“I've told you that Roderick met Faith while he was at a training-camp somewhere near York. You've seen for yourselves that she is in every way a complete contrast to Romayne. Is this what attracted him? An impulse or rebound, so to speak? The point I'm coming to is this. He married her under war-time conditions. He looked upon himself as the dashing young subaltern, and not at all as the future Lord Croyle. Merrion will understand what I mean.”

Merrion nodded. “Perfectly. A second impulse on Roderick's part?”

“I think so,” Cecil replied. “I don't suppose that when he married Faith he gave a thought to the fact that, if he survived the war, they would one day settle at the Castle as master and mistress. Faith may have been vividly aware of it, but that's beside the point. And you must remember that they never lived together long enough really to get to know one another. Roderick was sent overseas very soon after the marriage and, until last week, only saw his wife during occasional periods of leave.

“And then in a very different setting. Faith didn't transfer herself here until Lucifer re-established himself at the Castle, early this year, and she and Roderick did not set up a ménage of their own. Her father is in business of some kind, and her war-work consisted in acting as his secretary. Until last week, Roderick had only been with her as a guest in her parents' house. He had never seen his jewel set in the massive splendour of the Castle. And he must have noticed that she hardly scintillated there, in the way that Romayne does, for instance.

“Are you trying to make out that he is beginning to regret his divorce from Romayne?” Mavis asked.

Cecil shook his head. “Hardly that. I'm pretty sure he learnt his lesson during the hectic period of their married life. But I dare say he's beginning to wonder what sort of an appearance Faith will make as Lady Croyle. He may even have got so far as to wish that he'd chosen somebody more spectacular, if that's the right word. He's not good at disguising his feelings, and it's quite clear that Faith's departure is in a way a relief to him.”

Mavis frowned reprovingly. “You're much too cynical, Mr. Croyle. It's a fault I've found in nearly every bachelor of your age. You ought to get married. Any one can see that you're devoted to children, and they are to you.”

Cecil laughed. “You think marriage would cure me of my cynicism? But I shall never venture. Dare I say that I have come across too many awful warnings in the course of my life? Besides, I'm much too fond of my own company to risk sharing it with any one else. As for children, I can get as much satisfaction as I want from other peoples'. All the fun and none of the responsibility. I should be bored to tears if I had my own clamouring round me all day. I'm better as Uncle Cecil than I ever should be as Daddy, I assure you.”

“You know your own affairs best, I suppose,” said Mavis. “How does Lord Croyle regard Faith's departure?”

Oh, he thoroughly approves,” Cecil replied. “You see, it's been put to him that her people are missing her terribly after so long an absence. Lucifer's great on family ties, as you may have noticed. And Faith has never managed to become a favourite with him. Well, I must get along home. You will make an effort to go to the Castle to-morrow?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

IN SPITE of the message Cecil had brought them from Lord Croyle, the Merrions felt slightly diffident when they presented themselves at the Castle on the following afternoon. But outwardly at least they found little change, but for the absence of Faith and her crochet-work. Collins was perhaps rather more subdued as he admitted them and showed them into the drawing-room. But there the scene was much as it had been on their first visit.

Lord Croyle was sitting in his chair, with Charlotte on one side of him and Balcombe on the other. It transpired that the doctor had come to bring Harriet to play with Luke, who as the only child now in residence, might be expected to be lonely. The only other occupant of the room was Felicity, sitting by herself, and looking, Merrion thought, angry and resentful, though she seemed glad enough to see them.

Lord Croyle was courtesy itself. It was more than kind of them to come all this way to see them. He hoped that they, and Mrs. Merrion especially, had been careful to keep out of the wind. It was veering to the east, always a most dangerous quarter. When the wind was in the east, 'twas good for neither man nor beast, he repeated. He had not been able to spend his accustomed hour in the summer-house in consequence.

Balcombe and Charlotte got up and offered the Merrions their chairs. The doctor crossed the room and sat down by Felicity, while Charlotte disappeared upon some business of her own. Lord Croyle seemed visibly brightened by the arrival of his visitors, and determined to keep the conversation away from distressing topics. He was, as usual, solicitous about Mavis' health. The bracing air of the seaside was apt to produce uncomfortable effects, and he sincerely hoped it had not done so in her case. If it had, he could cordially recommend a timely dose of Aeolian Salts. He had always found them most efficacious. And of course they mustn't think of going until after tea.

As tea-time approached, the others came in. First Roderick alone, who announced that he had been looking round the place. He seemed to be assuming an air of joint ownership, which had been lacking during the first few days following his return, as though he was realising that on his grandfather's death the responsibility for the family would be his. He greeted the Merrions warmly, drew up a chair, and sat down beside them and Lord Croyle.

A few minutes later Romayne and Nailhead appeared together, looking and acting remarkably like conspirators. After a brief word to the visitors, they retired to a comer of the room, where they sat self-consciously, exchanging no more than an occasional smile or nod. Nailhead's expression was extraordinarily solemn. It might be supposed it was the one he adopted professionally when he was listening to a client recounting his troubles. Romayne had said that he had enough on his mind already, without being bothered with her suspicions. He certainly looked like it at the moment.

The last arrival was Cecil, who said he had walked up to the Castle to enquire after his uncle. His glance at the Merrions, expressed his thanks for their compliance with his request. He, too, joined the circle about Lord Croyle, and the conversation became general. Immediately after Charlotte's return came the usual commotion of bringing in the tea trays and setting the table. The domestic routine at least had been no way interfered with.

During the progress of the meal it became obvious that the Croyles had, tacitly at least, agreed to ignore the immediate past. No mention was made of the accident, or even of Faith. Even Lord Croyle, so solicitous of the comfort and safety of others, did not speculate upon whether or not she had enjoyed a pleasant journey. It was as though she had never existed. Roderick certainly showed no sign of missing her. He seemed less restrained than usual, less overwhelmed by the family circle. Much more carefree than Merrion had ever seen him before.

Tea was over, and Charlotte was removing Lord Croyle's empty plate and cup, when Romayne, who had been unwontedly silent throughout, suddenly spoke in a loud clear voice. “Grandfather, I've something to tell you!”

Lord Croyle smiled indulgently. “Have you, my dear? Come over here then and whisper it to me.”

“No, I won't do that,” Romayne replied, almost defiantly. “I want everybody else to hear it as well. I'm going to marry Edwin.”

Lord Croyle's reaction was interesting. It might have been supposed that in his delicate state of health this abrupt announcement would have upset him considerably. Far from it. He chuckled complacently, as though on receipt of welcome and anticipated news. “I claim the privilege of being the first to congratulate you, my dear,” he boomed. “I feel quite sure that your father will be as pleased to hear about it as I am.”

The rest of the company seemed to share Lord Croyle's lack of surprise. All but Roderick, who stared at his cousin with his mouth open, as amazed as though she had remarked that she could hear in the distance the opening notes of the last trump. Evidently the growing intimacy between her and Nailhead had escaped his notice. He was quite unable to add his congratulations to Lord Croyle's, and it was left to Cecil to speak. “My dear girl!” he exclaimed. “What a time to choose to tell us that. Do you expect us to drink your health in the dregs of our own teacups?”

“I don't expect you to drink my health,” Romayne replied defiantly, with a marked emphasis on the first pronoun. “And we don't want any fuss made about it. We've made our decision, and there's no more to be said.”

No doubt she had chosen a moment which would allow of no discussion. Almost as she spoke, the door burst open to admit Collins and the maid. The turmoil of their clearing away effectually prevented conversation. And no sooner had they departed than there came a second irruption, this time that of Luke and Harriet Balcombe. Luke had entirely discarded the first shyness of his arrival at the Castle. It seemed that some instinct had told him that one day he would be master of all he surveyed. Instinct, for it was most unlikely that Romayne had put such ideas in his head. He said a polite good afternoon to his great-grandfather and the visitors, then made a bee-line for Cecil.

The party dispersed in various directions, until Mavis found herself sitting alone with Lord Croyle, who was clearly in very good spirits. “Well, well!” he exclaimed. “So Romayne thought she could spring a surprise upon me! I am afraid, Mrs. Merrion, that my family never give me credit for observing what goes on before my eyes. I could see perfectly well that she and Edwin meant to make a match of it. And I feel sure she will make a success of it this time.”

“I hope so,” Mavis replied. “From the little I've seen of Mr. Nailhead, I should think he would make her an excellent husband.”

Lord Croyle chuckled. “But you're not so sure, from her past history, that she'll make him an excellent wife? Ah, but that was a mistake, for which I may have been partly responsible. Croyle should never marry Croyle, I see that now. I wasn't sorry when she refused Cecil, who is far too much engrossed in his own affairs to have suited her. But I welcomed her acceptance of Roderick. I didn't realise then that their tempers were so similar as to render them incompatible.”

Mavis made some vague reply. But her thoughts were captured by the remark let drop by Lord Croyle so casually. Romayne had at some time or other, presumably before she married Roderick, refused Cecil. That explained the latent antagonism between them. It might also explain Cecil's cynical attitude towards marriage. But she became aware that her companion was still speaking, talking as much to himself as to her, it seemed.

“A steady, capable young fellow, and he'll take good care of her. He has been my man of affairs ever since his father died and has always shown himself most competent. He displays more attention to business than Matthew ever did. Matthew was a very good friend of mine, and his death was a great blow to me. I am sure if he had taken proper care of himself he might have lived many years longer. But it always seemed to me that he spent rather too much of his time shooting or fishing, leaving his business in the hands of his clerks. Edwin, I am pleased to find, is very different.”

Mavis was quite content to let Lord Croyle ramble on, putting in a word of her own at intervals. He seemed to share the family predilection for imparting confidences to strangers. “It will give Romayne what I am sure she has always needed,” he went on. “During the short and troubled period of her married life with Roderick, they lived in a flat in London, and nobody can call a flat a home. Edwin has inherited his father's house in Hampstead. A very good house in its way, and quite a healthy situation. Romayne has never cared for the place her father has taken at Cheltenham.”

Mavis felt it was up to her to make some remark. “She will enjoy having a house in London, I'm sure.”

“Yes, I think she will,” Lord Croyle replied. “It was very sad for her that her mother, my daughter Eleanor, to whom she was devoted, died when Romayne, her only child was no more than ten. Her father, Edward Coolham, hardly knew how to bring up a daughter of that age, and, in addition, his affairs have not prospered. When Eleanor married him, before the first World War, he was a man of considerable wealth and property. The war caused him considerable financial loss, which he endeavoured to repair by speculation. Unfortunately, his ventures appear to have been uniformly unsuccessful. Romayne tells me that he has now taken a poky little house, and that his income is barely sufficient to maintain even that.”

Charlotte glided in quietly, and on her appearance, Lord Croyle's flow of confidence dried up. The three sat chatting for a while, until Merrion came in to collect Mavis and take her back to the Victoria. “I've promised Cecil to give him a lift,” he said, when they had taken their leave. “We'd better ask him to come back with us and have a drink.”

Cecil readily accepted the invitation, and a few minutes later the three of them were seated on the hotel verandah. Cecil laughed, a trifle harshly. “What did I tell you?” he said. “Edwin has provided the final solution. And even Lucifer seemed to expect it, in spite of the dramatic way in which Romayne chose to announce the event. But I'm not so sure that he was right about her father being as pleased to hear about it as he was.”

“Why not?” Merrion asked. “He'll be glad to have his daughter's future settled, surely.”

“Well, I don't know,” Cecil replied. “I gather that he's pretty well broke, not only from the remarks Romayne has let drop. He wrote to me a little time ago. Did I tell you that Edwin and I are the trustees of the settlement made by old Luke, Lucifer's father? He wanted to know if there was any way of realising something immediately on his expectations of the annuity he will get on Lucifer's death. I wrote back and told him pretty flatly that, so far as I was concerned, there wasn't. And Romayne's second marriage won't improve his finances.”

Cecil took a sip of sherry and continued. “You see, when Romayne divorced Roderick, it was arranged that he should allow her sufficient for her maintenance and Luke's. Actually of course it was Lucifer who's been finding the money. One supposes that while Romayne was living with her father, this helped to pay their joint expenses. When she's married, it obviously won't. And Lucifer won't be inclined to do very much, if anything, for his son-in-law. He has never really approved of him, on the score of what he calls his recklessness and improvidence. Lucifer doesn't mind spending money in a good cause, but he has a rooted aversion to pouring it down the drain.”

“Romayne will probably do something for her father,” Merrion suggested.

“Perhaps,” Cecil replied doubtfully. “But she'll have Edwin to reckon with, and he's as cautious as Coolham is reckless. But I'm not worrying myself about Coolham's troubles. I've never liked what I've seen of him, and that's very little. He's never been here much, possibly he was aware of Lucifer's disapproval. The situation amuses me, for it's exactly like the last chapter of a romantic novel. I don't doubt that Romayne's engagement will encourage Felicity to follow her example, and everybody will live happily ever after.”

“Well, let's hope they will,” said Mavis.

“Of course,” Cecil agreed. “But what about Roderick? Do you know, he's positively stupefied. I was talking to him just now, after tea, and he was like a man who'd been knocked out. He told me he had noticed that Romayne and Edwin were very good friends, but it never dawned upon his imagination that they could be in love with one another. He seemed in some mysterious way to resent it. Perhaps he thinks that because once Romayne was in love with him, she has no right to fall in love with anybody else. The instinct of possession, even of a discarded object. I don't know.”

“Perhaps he thinks that, as the prospective head of the family, he ought to have been consulted,” Merrion suggested.

“Maybe,” Cecil replied. “But I don't fancy that particular prospect appeals to him greatly. The trouble with Roderick is that he's finding himself at a loose end. For the moment it amuses him to wander round the place and make plans for the future, but that will pall before long. What with his matrimonial adventures and his war service, he's never had time to cultivate a hobby. He's got no permanent interest in life, and he's likely to become a sufferer from chronic boredom.”

“He's got a wife and two nice boys,” Mavis remarked. “To say nothing of Luke.”

“Oh, Luke is Romayne's property, and she won't part with him,” Cecil replied. “As for Faith and the twins, you remember what I told you yesterday, and now you've seen for yourselves. Does Roderick show any signs of regret at their departure? Doesn't he, on the contrary, seem vastly relieved? The truth is, he's not a family man, but a born polygamist.”

Mavis shook her head reprovingly. “I'm afraid you're quite incorrigible, Mr. Croyle. What on earth do you mean by that?”

“Just this. His affectionate impulse leads him to fall in love with a girl and marry her. That's delightfully romantic. But he doesn't find it any fun to be tied to her and have to live with her. Like all the Croyles, he's much too fond of going his own way for that. He ought to maintain, not so much a seraglio as a hostel, where he could deposit these girls once he had married and done with them. He never need go near the place himself, of course.”

Merrion laughed. “The Castle would be very suitable premises for the purpose. But, speaking seriously, he'll have to settle down to family life when he inherits the title and the property.”

“I wonder,” Cecil replied. “Can you see Roderick and Faith, as Lord and Lady Croyle, presiding over that great barrack? Quite frankly, I can't. They are neither of them cut out for that part. Faith particularly. Her ideal, I expect, is a nice villa, where she could decorate all the furnishings with crochet edgings. Yes, and watch Roderick through the meshes as she crocheted. She must have discovered by now that she doesn't fill the whole of his horizon.”

He paused to finish his glass. “Well, why not?” he went on. “Of course Roderick can't sell the property. At all events, not until Luke comes of age and can give his consent. But he might let it, if he could find a tenant. It would do for a school, or something of that kind. Faith could have her villa, and Roderick could buy himself a job of some kind. Nothing too strenuous, but just enough to give him pleasant occupation. Well, my time's up. You will go and see old Lucifer again before very long, won't you? It does him the world of good.”

“They are an odd family,” Mavis remarked when Cecil had left them. “When I'm at the Castle, I always have the feeling that I'm assisting at a death-bed. Though, for my own part, I don't see any reason why Lord Croyle shouldn't live to be as old as Methuselah. There's nothing really the matter with him, and he's much less of a valetudinarian when his family aren't fussing round him.”

“He's a decent old stick, and I hope he will,” Merrion replied. “But I expect there are others who don't share those sentiments. It seems to me that he's the one link that holds the family together. It will break up when he dies. Roderick will never take his place in that respect. There's a lot in what Cecil was saying just now.”

“I'm sorry for Roderick,” said Mavis. “I believe he'd have been happier, ultimately, if he'd been born the son of a prosperous grocer, and apprenticed to his father's trade. As things are, he was brought up at the Castle, in the full knowledge that some day he would be a wealthy man, with therefore no incentive to apply himself to anything.”

“He told me the other day that he'd never been so happy as when he was in the army,” Merrion remarked. “I shouldn't wonder if he made a very good officer, of the not over-intellectual type.”

“Perhaps he did. It's a great pity that he didn't stay in the army and carry on the traditions of his great-grandfather. Cecil's quite right. He's either tired of Faith, or he's disappointed in her. He finds her too colourless, as he found Romayne too vivid. But then, I don't suppose a man of his temperament would ever have found the happy medium.”

“Romayne!” Merrion exclaimed. “She's the human bombshell that disturbs all these people's lives. Roderick is still fascinated by her, any one can see that. She would have had a showdown with Faith, if Felicity hadn't forestalled her. I still can't help wondering whether Romayne didn't in some way put her up to that.”

“Romayne has disturbed more lives than you're aware of,” Mavis replied. “Lord Croyle told me this afternoon that she had refused Cecil. That, I imagine, was before she married Roderick.”

“Did she, by jove!” Merrion exclaimed. “I had a higher opinion than that of Cecil's sense. He's had a lucky escape. I like Romayne, but in carefully graduated doses. I should hate to contemplate being married to her. Nailhead's taking a big risk, but perhaps he'll understand how to compete with her. Keep her from shying, but without too tight a hand upon the rein. And I can't help thinking the sooner they're married, the better for everyone's peace of mind.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

ON THE next day, Wednesday, the Merrions did not go to the Castle. They felt that, pleased though Lord Croyle might be to see them, they would hardly be welcome there every day of the week. They spent the greater part of the day exploring the surrounding country in the car, and did not return to the Victoria until just before dinner-time.

Thursday dawned warm and cloudless, with a thin sea-mist presaging a fine day. By the time of Dr. Balcombe's daily morning visit to the Castle, the mist had cleared and the sun was shining brightly. He gave it as his opinion that, providing conditions did not change, it would do Lord Croyle no harm to sit in the summer-house for a little while before tea.

Conditions rather improved than otherwise, into a really perfect day. After lunch, the party at the Castle went their several ways. Roderick went off with a gun, announcing that he hoped to bring home a brace or two of partridges. Nailhead and Romayne vanished for a stroll together. They seemed, these last few days, to have a good deal to say to one another in private. Felicity had a headache, and retired to her room to lie down. Lord Croyle and Charlotte were thus left alone.

Lord Croyle seemed in good spirits, though a trifle fretful at the lack of company. “I shall certainly follow Balcombe's advice, and spend an hour or so in the summer-house,” he said to Charlotte. “No, I don't want you to come with me, my dear. You have plenty of other things to do, I dare say, and very likely I shall doze in the sun. But I should enjoy a little cheerful conversation later on. I wonder if we shall see Mr. and Mrs. Merrion this afternoon? How would it be for you to telephone to Mrs. Merrion now, and say how glad we should be if she and her husband would come to tea?”

As the Merrions had in any case intended to put in an appearance at the Castle that day. Mavis accepted the invitation without hesitation. They set out in the car shortly before four, and as they passed through the town, overtook Cecil on foot and pulled up. He, too, was on his way to the Castle, so they offered him a lift, which he accepted. The three of them thus arrived at the Castle together, and were shown by Collins into the drawing-room, where they found Charlotte alone. She apologised for everybody else being out. Lord Croyle was in the summer-house, but he would be coming in any minute now. And the others would be sure to turn up for tea. Poor Felicity—

She was interrupted by a sharp explosion, which rattled the windows alarmingly. Inside the room it was impossible to tell from which direction the sound came. But, as they stared in amazement out to sea, a thin wisp of smoke rose lazily over the edge of the cliff. Charlotte clutched Cecil's arm. “Father!” she exclaimed. “The summer-house—”

Cecil and Merrion wasted no time. They dashed out of the house and along the path to the steps leading downwards. As soon as they reached the head of them, the scene of the explosion was only too obvious. The summer-house was a wreck, with the tiles blown off and the glass doors shattered to fragments. And, lying on the ground just outside was the huddled figure of Lord Croyle, his rug and shawl in disorder about him.

Merrion was the first to reach the spot. He bent down and made a rapid examination. Lord Croyle was bleeding freely, apparently where his face had been cut by flying splinters of glass. But he was alive, and though unconscious, showed no sign, to Merrion's eye at least, of fatal injury.

“He's alive,” Merrion replied curtly to Cecil's awestruck question. “We can carry him to the house between us.” He looked up, to see Charlotte and Mavis standing in horror at the head of the steps. “It's all right,” he called. “Run in and telephone for Dr. Balcombe to come at once. And get a sofa ready for us to put him on.”

It was left to Merrion to take charge of the situation, for the others were too bewildered to do more than obey his instructions passively. Under his direction, Cecil assisted him to lift Lord Croyle and carry him to the house. Charlotte had hastily thrown a rug over the sofa in the morning-room, and on this they laid him. Mavis appeared from the lobby in which the telephone was installed. “Dr. Balcombe will be here in a few minutes,” she said quietly.

Merrion nodded. “Good! You three had better stay with Lord Croyle till he comes.” He went out once more, and walked swiftly back to the summer-house. Here he could find no clue whatever to the cause of the explosion, but his experienced eye told him that it must have taken place either in the summer-house or a short way outside it.

He remembered what Lord Croyle had told him about dangerous objects having been left behind after the Castle had been vacated by the military. Possibly the explanation was to be found in one of these. It might have been buried in the ground and never noticed. But then the explosion would have left some sort of crater, and of that there was no sign. The summer-house was built on a ledge carved out of the face of the cliff, the seaward edge of the ledge being fenced with an iron railing. He leant over this and looked downward, to find that the cliff dropped almost sheer to the sea below. Not even an expert climber could have scaled it without assistance. In the offing, perhaps half a mile from shore, a few scattered fishing-boats were floating placidly on the undisturbed sea.

Then Merrion remembered something else. Lord Croyle had spoken of a path, over to the right, by which one could descend the cliff. He set out, and found the upper end of it about fifty yards from the summer-house. Nowhere between these two points did he come under observation from the Castle. The path, though steep in places, did not appear quite so formidable as Lord Croyle's fears had represented. Merrion started to descend it, and about a third of the way down came to a barrier, formed of pickets and barbed wire enclosing an irregular square. This no doubt was where the dangerous object had been located some days before. But in spite of Lord Croyle's request that the barrier should remain, it had ceased to be particularly effective. Two of the pickets had been uprooted, and Merrion found no difficulty in stepping over the wire beside them.

He followed the path to the foot of the cliff, where it terminated in a patch of sand no larger than a tennis court. His shoes sank into the sand, which was soft and yielding. But there were no footprints on it other than his own. It was now low water, and a pool in the rocks above the level of the sand showed that this would be entirely submerged at high tide. As he reascended the path, it struck him that he was all the time in full view of the fishing-boats.

His expedition took him little more than ten minutes, and as he approached the Castle, Mavis came out to meet him. “Dr. Balcombe has just arrived,” she said.” he's with Lord Croyle now. Where have you been?”

“Just looking round,” Merrion replied lightly. “Have any of the others come back yet?”

Mavis shook her head. “I haven't seen any of them except Felicity. She was dozing and the noise of the explosion woke her up.”

They went in, where they were met by Cecil in the hall. “Balcombe wants poor old Lucifer carried up to bed,” he said. “Collins is fetching one of the leaves of the dining-room table to act as a stretcher. We can manage between us.”

Merrion offered his help, and within a few minutes Lord Croyle had been conveyed to his room on the first floor. Balcombe, Charlotte and Felicity remained with him, the rest returning to the drawing-room. “One of those infernal machines left behind by the army, I suppose,” Cecil remarked. “But what made it go off after all this time?”

Any conjecture on this point was interrupted by the entrance of Romayne and Nailhead. “Hallo, where is everybody?” Romayne asked, glancing at Lord Croyle's unoccupied chair. “We saw Dr. Balcombe's car outside. Has he brought Harriet with him?”

It fell to Cecil to describe what had happened. Romayne and Nailhead listened in consternation. Then the latter, pale and trembling, drew Merrion aside. “How serious is it?” he whispered huskily.

“I don't know,” Merrion replied. “I can only tell you that Lord Croyle is alive. We must wait for Dr. Balcombe's report.”

They waited, in oppressed silence. As the tension was becoming unendurable, the door was flung open. But this was only Collins with the tea-table. Even a possibly fatal accident to the head of the house must not be allowed to interfere with domestic routine. Collins was wearing a mask of unwonted gravity, but there was a sparkle of excitement in his eyes which he could not hide. Merrion wondered whether he welcomed the event as a spice to an otherwise insipid routine. After a noisy interlude Collins and the maid left the room. But none of the company assembled made any move towards making the tea. Still they waited, watching the door.

Dr. Balcombe appeared at last, looking grave and preoccupied. He glanced intently at the eager faces before him.

I am happy to say that Lord Croyle's injuries, though extensive, are not necessarily of a fatal character,” he said.

“He'll be all right. Doctor?” Romayne asked impetuously above the general chorus of relief.

“Prognosis is impossible,” Balcombe replied. “I can only say that Lord Croyle is unlikely to succumb from his injuries. But he's unconscious, and suffering severely from shock. What effect that shock may have upon his constitution is more than I can say at present. We must await developments.”

He paused, and went on more briskly. “I can assure you that everything possible will be done. I shall communicate at once with a specialist in London, asking him to come down as soon as possible. I shall also arrange for a professional nurse to undertake night duty. Mrs. Croyle and Felicity are, they say, quite capable of the rest. I must impress upon you that rest and quiet are essential. Lord Croyle must be allowed to see nobody, and must not be disturbed in any way. We cannot tell what his mental condition may be when he recovers consciousness.”

The Merrions refused Romayne's offer of tea, and left the Castle. As they crossed the bridge in the centre of the town, Merrion saw that the fishing boats were returning to harbour. He drove Mavis to the Victoria, then returned on foot to the harbour mouth. As he did so, the boats were being drawn up one by one. He watched the catch being transferred to baskets and carried away. Then, seeing one of the fishermen sit down on the gunwale of his boat and light a pipe, he approached him. ' Good fishing?” he asked pleasantly.

The fisherman looked him up and down suspiciously. But the result of his inspection seemed favourable, for he blew out a cloud of smoke and replied, “Not so bad, mister. I've known better and I've known worse.”

“Can't grumble then,” said Merrion. “Did you see anything queer happen on shore, round about four o'clock?”

“Aye, that we did,” the man replied. “Jim and me wasn't looking, for we was busy with our lines. But we sort of heard a kind of bang, and when we looked up there was a puff of smoke. Just about where that glass-house stands below the Castle. It was the soldiers blowing up something they'd left behind, Jim and me reckoned. They've done that afore now.”

“It wasn't the soldiers,” said Merrion. “I'm sorry to say that Lord Croyle was close by at the time, and was rather badly hurt. You didn't see a boat put in at that little strip of sand just there?”
The fisherman shook his head. “That's bad about his lordship. It won't do a man of his age any good to be shook up like that. No, there was no boat put in at the Pit, as they call it. Jim and me would have seen it if there had been. It's this way. You can't land there, only round about low water, and we was out there all that time. But I tell you what, mister. A few minutes after we heard that bang, we did see a chap come down the path to the Pit and then go up again.”

“Yes, that was me,” said Merrion. “I was trying to find out what had happened.” He stayed talking to the fisherman a little while longer. He learnt that nobody ever landed at the Pit, for there was no point in doing so. The only path from it led into the Castle grounds. When the soldiers were there they used to bathe in the Pit sometimes. But this was strictly against regulations, for the place was too dangerous. “It's this way, mister. There's a nasty tide-rip runs just off the Pit. And if you was to get swept away, there isn't nowhere else you could get ashore, not for a long way.”

As Merrion walked back to the Victoria, he tried to evolve some theory to account for this second accident. It was an established fact that dangerous objects had been left about the Castle grounds. It might even be that the cliff had been mined against invasion, and that one of the mines had been overlooked. It was difficult to visualise an invading force choosing the Pit as a point d'appui. Perhaps some military historian had recalled Wolfe's exploit at Quebec. But, whatever the explosive object might have been, what was it doing on the ledge on which the summer-house was built?

Merrion looked at it this way. The absence of any sort of crater showed that the mine, or whatever it was, had not been buried. It must have been lying on the surface. But surely it could not have been so inconspicuous, or so adroitly camouflaged, as to have lain there unobserved ever since the military had vacated the Castle. He would surely have seen it himself, that afternoon that he was sitting in the summer-house with Lord Croyle.

The alternative was that the explosive had made its appearance quite recently. It was just possible, Merrion supposed, that it had fallen on the ledge from the edge of the cliff above, where it had lain hidden for some indefinite time. But it seemed far more likely that it had been deposited deliberately. The summer-house could be approached from the land or from the sea. The land approach involved passing within view of the Castle windows. The only means of approach from the sea was by way of the Pit and the cliff path leading from it. One could only land at the Pit for, say, a couple of hours on either side of low water.

Merrion returned to the hotel, where he told Mavis of the enquiries he had made. As he had half expected, Cecil joined them on the verandah about seven o'clock. “There's nothing I can do at the Castle,” he said. “So I thought I might as well come and see you. I came away with Balcombe. He says that Lucifer is doing as well as can be expected, but he hasn't recovered consciousness yet. Balcombe is very cautious, but I'm pretty sure he thinks he'll get over it. Roderick came back soon after you left. He's all of a dither, as you might suppose. He's been having some sort of an argument with Edwin. The atmosphere is pretty highly charged, as you may imagine. I was glad to get away before the storm broke. But how did it happen? That's what we all want to know.”

“It's not the first time, I understand, that dangerous objects have been found lying about,” Merrion suggested.

“No, but it's the first time one of the things has gone off,” Cecil replied. “And the Bomb Disposal people have been there quite recently. Before they left, they assured Lucifer that they had been over every square inch of the place and that there was no further danger. I can't understand it at all.”

“Who, besides Lord Croyle, uses the summer-house?” Merrion asked.

“Practically nobody, unless he asks someone to go and sit there with him,” Cecil replied. “I suppose one of the gardeners sweeps the ledge occasionally. I dare say the kids play there now and then, when they think there's no chance of being chased away. It's regarded as Lucifer's private preserve. He likes it to be understood as a retreat, to which he can retire without being disturbed, if he wants to. I can see what's in your mind, of course. If a bomb went off there, it would be far more likely to get Lucifer than any one else. You went to have a look, didn't you?”

Merrion was not inclined to discuss his investigations, for the present at all events. “Yes, but I found nothing significant,” he said. “The explosive charge does not seem to have been a very heavy one. There's a lot of glass broken and tiles off, but the summer-house hasn't sustained any structural damage. It can easily be repaired.”

“I doubt whether Lucifer, if he recovers, will be so fond of sitting there as he was,” Cecil remarked. “He won't think it healthy in future. Poor old boy! It will have given him a nasty shock, I'm afraid, especially coming so soon after that other affair. I shall be going up to the Castle again after dinner. If there's any change I'll ring you up and let you know.”

“I'm coming round to Romayne's point of view,” said Merrion, when Cecil had left them. “I believe she was right when she said there was a curse on the name of Croyle. And a curse laid by human agency at that!”

“You don't believe that it was an accident?” Mavis asked quietly.

“Accident isn't altogether ruled out yet,” Merrion replied. “But it looks to me uncommonly like a deliberate attempt on somebody's part to hurry Lord Croyle into the next world. And I fancy I'm not the only one who harbours that suspicion. Cecil was obviously trying to draw me just now, but I'm not to be drawn by any member of the family.”

“It's a pretty grim thought,” Mavis remarked. “Which of them was it, do you suppose?”

Merrion shrugged his shoulders. “You pays your penny and you takes your choice. About the first thing Cecil told me of the family was that they were hovering round the Castle, waiting for the old man's death. One or other of them may have got tired of waiting. On the other hand, for most of them it would be a bit of a gamble to accelerate matters. Unless they had inside knowledge of the way the money had been apportioned.”

“And I suppose the only person besides Lord Croyle himself who has that knowledge is Edwin Nailhead,” Mavis remarked.

“Yes,” Merrion replied. “Unless he has told Romayne, which isn't impossible. And both these accidents have happened since his arrival at the Castle. Yet, according to Romayne, it is for some reason or other essential to them both that Lord Croyle should live a few years longer. And certainly Nailhead seemed desperately anxious when he spoke to me this afternoon.

“Apart from anything else, I believe Romayne is too fond of her grandfather to countenance any trick like that,” said Mavis.

“I dare say you're right,” Merrion agreed. “I'm not inclined to hold Romayne responsible. I said, a minute ago, that it would be a gamble to most of them. But there's one to whom that doesn't apply. Whatever the old man may or may not have done for the rest, Roderick is the heir, and the bulk of the estate is entailed upon him.”

“Does it strike you that Roderick is all that eager to come into his inheritance?” Mavis asked.

“Not exactly to enter into his inheritance, perhaps,” Merrion replied. “But Cecil's remark that Roderick was at a loose end is an understatement. I get the impression that he finds conditions at the Castle almost more than he can bear. You've seen for yourself how he flies from the family circle as often as he can. He is quite obviously relieved at the improvement consequent on Faith's departure. At the same time, he's chained to his past like a galley slave to his oar. It might, and probably would, injure his immediate prospects if he were to pack up and clear out. I know it wouldn't affect his ultimate position, but he seems to realise, more clearly than the others, that Lord Croyle might live for many years yet.”

“And you think he found it impossible to contemplate that possibility any longer?” Mavis asked.

“I'm not accusing Roderick,” Merrion replied. “There isn't enough evidence yet on which to accuse anybody. But, if Lord Croyle were to die, what would be Roderick's position? He would become King of the Castle, as the children no doubt say. And in that capacity he would be able to issue the others with tickets for any remote destination they cared to name. And single, not return tickets, at that. Don't you see?”

Mavis smiled. “Thereby enabling Faith to return in a triumphal chariot with the twins draped about her?”

“I'm not so sure,” Merrion replied with a speculative frown. “I mean, I'm not sure how far Faith, or the twins either, for that matter, enter into Roderick's calculations. Not very much, I fancy. I won't say that he's got to the stage of definite regret that he married her. But her absence causes him no acute heart-ache.”

“It can hardly be his ambition to live at the Castle in solitary splendour,” Mavis remarked.
“I doubt he has any concrete ambition,” Merrion replied. “Beyond that of divesting himself of unwanted relatives. He strikes me as one of those people who can't make up their minds what they want out of life. It's time we went into dinner. Cecil will be ringing us up later on, I dare say.”

CHAPTER NINE

CECIL did ring up, with the intelligence that Lucifer seemed quite comfortable, and that Balcombe was reasonably satisfied with his condition. The Merrions heard no more news from the Castle until next day, when in the course of the morning Dr. Balcombe drove up to the hotel and asked to see them.

The doctor's manner had lost nothing of its habitual importance. “I am happy to be able to inform you that Lord Croyle has recovered consciousness,” he said.” he is, of course, severely shaken, but I can find no symptom of vital injury. The specialist will be here this afternoon, and I have every hope that he will be able to confirm my belief in the patient's recovery. Meanwhile, Lord Croyle has expressed an urgent desire to see you, Mr. Merrion.”

“To see me?” Merrion replied in some surprise. “Will it be good for him to see people so soon?”

“In my opinion, it will do no harm to humour him,” Balcombe said. “I need not ask you to be careful to say nothing that could excite him in any way. I therefore promised Lord Croyle that I would call here in the course of my rounds, and ask you personally if you would be good enough to go to the Castle.”

“I'll go right away,” Merrion replied. He got out the car and was at the Castle within a few minutes. There he found Felicity on the look out for him. She took him up to Lord Croyle's room, where Charlotte was in attendance.

Lord Croyle was lying in bed. “Here is Mr. Merrion to see you, Father,” she said. “You are sure you are up to talking?”

“Perfectly sure,” Lord Croyle replied, and Merrion was glad to hear that his voice had lost little of its booming tone. “It is very kind of Mr. Merrion to put himself to so much trouble. I shall greatly enjoy talking to him.” He paused for a moment, and then added with a curious emphasis of command. “Alone, if you please, my dear.”

Charlotte looked startled, and Merrion thought, a trifle resentful. “Very well. Father,” she said. “But you mustn't tire yourself, you know.” She turned to Merrion and added, “I shall be in the next room if I am wanted.” And with that she tiptoed out in the approved sick-room manner.

“Sit down in this chair by the bedside, Mr. Merrion,” said Lord Croyle, when she had gone. “I can only repeat my gratitude for your coming to see me. I trust Mrs. Merrion is as well as can be expected?”

“She's perfectly fit, thanks,” Merrion replied. “And she's delighted to know that you're getting on so well.”

“It is more than kind of Mrs. Merrion to take an interest in my welfare,” said Lord Croyle. And then, these courtesies at an end, his voice hardened. “I want to speak to you in confidence, Mr. Merrion. You will understand why when you have heard what I have to say. I am going to tell you what I can of what happened to me yesterday.”

“I shall be very glad to hear that,” Merrion replied gravely. “I was here in the drawing-room at the time.”

“I am very glad to know that,” said Lord Croyle. “You I can regard as an impartial observer. Very well, then. Soon after three o'clock I went alone to the summer-house. I found myself very comfortable there when I had settled down. I then noticed something lying on the ledge, beyond the summer-house door and a little way inside the railing. I supposed it was a stone or a clod of earth rolled down from the bank above. I did not trouble to put on my glasses to inspect it more closely. And after a few minutes I dozed off in the sun. I use the word doze intentionally. I did not go fast asleep, and any footsteps or movement would have roused me.

“As you know, I was expecting you and Mrs. Merrion to tea. When I thought it was getting towards that hour, I looked at my watch and found that the time was a minute or two past four. I got up, and walked out of the summer-house supporting myself on my stick, as I always do. Again the object lying on the ledge caught my attention, and this time my curiosity was sufficiently aroused for me to approach it. From its appearance I took it to be a pint beer bottle, and I wondered how it could have got there. My impulse was to roll it over the edge out of the way. For that purpose I prodded it with my stick. And that is about all I remember.”

“A most unpleasant experience,” Merrion said sympathetically. “We must be thankful it was no worse.”

“We must,” Lord Croyle agreed dryly. “Now, Mr. Merrion, I am bound to face the facts. That harmless-looking beer bottle was, quite obviously, a booby-trap. And it must have been put where I found it of deliberate purpose. I cannot avoid the uncomfortable reflection that a member of my own household may have put it there with the intention of causing my death. Now you will understand why I have disclosed the facts to nobody but yourself.”

Lord Croyle paused before he continued. “I fear that you will regard it as an unpardonable liberty on my part to involve you in what may be a purely family affair. But to whom else can I turn? I cannot report the matter to the police, for that would be to cast suspicion upon all those nearest to me, innocent as well as guilty. I have heard from Cecil of your distinguished career in the Naval Intelligence Service, in the course of which you have no doubt unravelled many more obscure mysteries than this. May I beg you, as a very great favour, to give me the benefit of your advice?”

Merrion's reply was prompt and unreserved. “My services, for what they are worth, are entirely at your disposal. As soon as possible after the explosion I made investigations on my own account.” And these he proceeded to explain in detail.

Lord Croyle listened with close attention. “I am indeed lucky to have found so valuable a friend,” he said gratefully. “Can you form any opinion as to the identity of my ill-wisher?”

“Not yet,” Merrion replied. “But, if you feel equal to a few minutes further conversation, I should like to ask a question or two. To begin with, when had you last been to the summer-house?”

Lord Croyle considered this. “Let me see. Yesterday was Thursday. Balcombe had told me in the morning that he thought it would do me no harm to spend a little time there in the afternoon. On Wednesday, I felt a slight autumnal chill in the air and did not venture out. On Tuesday, you will remember, the wind was in the east. During the days before that I was suffering from the shock of poor little Jonathan's terrible accident, and did not leave my room. In fact, until yesterday I had not been to the summer-house for exactly a week. The last occasion was when Mrs. Merrion was good enough to sit there with me.”

After a little further conversation. Merrion took his leave of Lord Croyle and left the room. He found Charlotte hovering about in the passage outside, and she went in as soon as he came out. He went downstairs alone, and as he reached the hall, Roderick appeared. “Hallo, Mr. Merrion!” he exclaimed. “You've been with Lucifer, they tell me. How did you find him?”

“Better than I had any right to expect,” Merrion replied. “But it won't do to risk a repetition of this sort of thing. If I were you, I'd set everybody on the job of making quite sure there aren't any more explosives lying about the place.”

Roderick nodded. “I'll see to that. It strikes me that those fellows who were here must have been infernally careless.”

It was no part of Merrion's policy to cast any doubt upon the theory that the accident had been due to some warlike object left behind by the military. “It looks like it,” he agreed. “One of their confounded bombs or something must have been lying there all this time. I wonder it wasn't noticed before now. It's somebody's job to sweep out the summer-house and the ledge round it, isn't it? Perhaps he may have seen something, without knowing what it was.”

“I suppose it's somebody's job,” Roderick replied. “But I don't know whose. I don't interfere with the running of the establishment. Aunt Charlotte doesn't like it. But we can easily find out, if you like.”

They went out to the kitchen garden, where they found one of the men picking from a long row of runner beans. As luck would have it, his answer to Roderick's question was direct. “Sweep round the summer-house, sir? Yes, I always does that myself, two or three times a week. In the mornings, when his lordship isn't never there.”

“When did you last sweep it?” Merrion asked.

“Why, sir, the day afore yesterday,” the gardener replied. “Wednesday, that would have been. First thing after breakfast.”

“I don't suppose the job took you very long,” Merrion remarked. “There can't have been much to sweep away.”

“You'd be surprised, sir,” the man replied. “The leaves seem to lodge down there something chronic. And there's always bits of dirt and that from the bank above. It takes longer than you might think to make a proper job of sweeping it.”

“You never find anything but leaves and dirt?” Merrion suggested. “No bits of metal or glass or anything like that?”

The gardener shook his head. “Never, that I can mind, sir. It isn't likely anything like that would get there.”

This was all that Merrion wanted to know. He took his leave of Roderick and drove back to the hotel. Having found Mavis, he strolled with her to the secluded bench where they had sat with Romayne. There he repeated to her what Lord Croyle had told him, and his conversation with the gardener.

“First of all, this thing that looked like a beer bottle, which appears to have exploded when Lord Croyle poked it with the end of his stick. As he says himself, it was obviously a booby-trap. It contained a charge of explosive, and was fitted with a fuse which operated when the contraption was turned over. I don't think there's any room for doubt about that. But how did it get on to the ledge? I'm satisfied it wasn't there on Wednesday morning.”

Mavis smiled. “You've got your own ideas about that, I expect. Go on, tell me.”

“Wait a minute,” Merrion replied. “Let's explore the possibilities. It's not at all improbable that when the Castle was being used as a training school, the curriculum included the manufacture of booby-traps. This particular example may have been overlooked, and remained hidden in the bank above the ledge. Something dislodged it and it rolled down to the position in which Lord Croyle found it.

“But there seems to be an objection to that theory. It's true that I've known fuses, especially when improvised, behave in the most unaccountable way. Fail to function when they were meant to, or go off most unexpectedly when they weren't. But all the same, this thing did explode when it was rolled over, comparatively gently, one imagines. One would have expected it to have done so when it rolled, much more violently down the bank. The fuse may have jammed, and subsequently become unstuck. There is about one chance in a thousand of such a thing happening. It is also said that the Bomb Disposals people assured Lord Croyle that every square inch of the grounds had been searched. Although accident cannot entirely be ruled out, the likelihood that this thing was on the ledge by accident yesterday afternoon seems to me very remote.

“The alternative is that it was put there, which raises the question when and how? I don't suppose it was laid in position in broad daylight. During Wednesday night or early Thursday morning seems a more likely time. There are two facts which may be significant. The first is that, in the course of my exploration, I found that two of the pickets supporting the wire across the cliff path had been uprooted. The second is that, as you will remember, there was a mist over the sea early yesterday morning.

“Now, link those two facts up with something else. I have been told on good authority that it is only round about low water that it is possible to land at this spot they called the Pit. My own inspection of the place convinces me that this is so. It was low water yesterday morning between three and four o'clock. At that time it would have been possible for anyone to land from a boat at the Pit, walk up the path, remove two of the pickets, step over the wire, deposit the infernal machine on the ledge, and return to the boat. And all this without running the slightest risk of being observed, either from the land or from the sea.”

“I knew you had an idea,” Mavis remarked. “But that rather puts the Castle party out of the picture, doesn't it? Nobody living there need have gone to all that trouble. He or she could just have slipped out in the middle of the night.”

Merrion laughed. “Good for you. But we haven't got to that stage yet. Let's get back to the booby-trap for a moment. Lord Croyle didn't examine it very closely, so we have no details of it. Fortunately for him, for if he had picked it up it would almost certainly have killed him. He took it to be a beer bottle, and left it at that. No doubt it was fitted with a safety device of some kind. A pin, perhaps, which, until it was pulled out, prevented the fuse from acting. My point being that while the safety device was in place, the thing could be carried about without any danger.

“Where did it come from? Was it left behind at the Castle by the military and found by somebody who put it aside for future use? Or was it put together by some ingenious amateur? It's rather a terrifying thought that during the war a lot of people were taught about explosives and how to manipulate them. And not only people in the Services. I knew a Home Guard Company Commander who delighted in such things. He used to chalk up in a prominent place as a salutary warning, the words ' Explosives Are Meant To Explode!'

“You see what I'm getting at. Alive at this moment, there must be as many people capable of putting together a booby-trap as there are, say, of decarbonizing the engine of a car. So now we come to what you were hinting at just now, who did it? Misfortunes never come singly, they say. Is this tendency to unpleasant duplication responsible for the fact that Lord Croyle was blown up within a week of Jonathan falling from the top gallery?”

“That's just what I've been wondering,” Mavis replied. “But I can't see any connection.”

“From the point of view of motive, neither can I,” said Merrion. “Unless one adopts the rather extravagant theory of someone operating Romayne's curse, with the ultimate intention of polishing off every individual bearing the name of Croyle, indifferent to the sequence of his victims. On the other hand, it usually turns out that when a series of apparent accidents takes place, the same person has been responsible for all of them.”

“You've never believed that Faith had anything to do with Jonathan's death,” Mavis remarked.

“I haven't, even on the assumption that the intended victim was Luke,” Merrion replied. “And Faith is now presumably in the bosom of her family in the ancient city of York. You suggested just now that it wasn't anybody living in the Castle. Very well, have a shot at it.”

Mavis frowned. “You'll laugh at me, I know. But what about our friend Cecil?”

“I'm not laughing,” said Merrion quietly. “I've thought of him myself. But does it make sense? What in the world had he to gain by Jonathan's death, or Luke's either for that matter? Is he sufficiently devoted to Roderick to attempt to murder the present holder of the title so that Roderick should inherit it? We might adopt the theory of a wholesale mopper-up of the Croyles. Cecil means to make away with them all, until he becomes the heir. But he's got a dickens of a long way to go before he gets that far. Roderick, Luke, the twins! It's more than any one man could manage. No, my dear, you'll have to try again. I'll grant Cecil the opportunity, if you like, but not the motive.”

“Well, perhaps you're right,” Mavis agreed. “The only other person in the circle, but outside the Castle, is Dr. Balcombe.”

“It was Balcombe who started the hare about Faith being responsible for Jonathan's death,” Merrion replied. “Just the sort of thing one would expect a guilty person to do. It's quite plain that he means to marry Felicity. He is prepared to take upon his shoulders the burden of a new wife, but not of a step-son. He therefore disposes of Jonathan as a necessary preliminary to marriage. Logical enough so far, but what about the attempt on Lord Croyle? His death would be clean contrary to all Balcombe's interests. He'd lose his best patient. It's not to be supposed that when Roderick is installed he'll want Balcombe to come to the Castle every morning on a professional visit.”

Mavis laughed. “I've no more skittles to put up for you to knock over,” she said.

“It's quite a profitable game, though,” Merrion replied seriously. “In a case like this it's a very good plan to knock over the skittles one after another until you come upon one that doesn't tumble over so easily. It's quite true that appearances suggest that the booby-trap was placed by someone not living in the Castle. But what if that was exactly what they were intended to suggest? You see what I mean?”

Mavis nodded. “Yes, I see. It's your turn to put the skittles up.”

“Very well. I think we can knock down quite a few with one shy. All the members of the staff at the Castle, inside and out. That chap Collins is a queer sort of butler, I admit, but his gaucherie doesn't necessarily mark him down as a criminal. Besides, where's his motive? As soon as Roderick takes the helm, he'll get the sack, I'm sure of that. I don't know anything about the rest of them, but they all seem to lack motive. And I don't think it is at all likely that the chap I spoke to just now planted the booby-trap on the ledge when he was sweeping it on Wednesday.”

“That leaves the family, and Nailhead. Let's have a shy at him first. What about his mysterious and horrifying secret, and Romayne's hint of disaster if Lord Croyle should not live a few years longer? Isn't it possible that all that is no more than elaborate camouflage on his part? That in fact he would derive material advantage from Lord Croyle's death?”

“I don't see how,” Mavis remarked. “A minute ago you objected that Dr. Balcombe would lose his best patient. It seems to me equally true that Mr. Nailhead would lose his best client.”

“That may be so,” Merrion replied. “But I can imagine compensating advantages. It is quite likely, indeed highly probable, that Nailhead will get a pretty fat legacy. It may be, and here of course I am merely guessing, that Lord Croyle's will makes provision for Romayne, on condition that she does not marry again during the testator's lifetime. I don't find it difficult to visualise several possible reasons why Nailhead might be glad to attend his client's funeral. But my imagination won't rise to any reason for his wanting to get rid of Jonathan.”

“It was Luke he meant to get rid of,” Mavis suggested. “He didn't want to be bothered with a step-son either.”

“We seem to have no compunction in attributing the ferocity of Herod to these people,” said Merrion. “Well, they are all strangers to us, so we are not biased. But Luke, as the eventual heir, is rather a different proposition from the other children. One would imagine that Nailhead would be glad to have the heir under his wing, as he will have when he marries Romayne. His position as family solicitor might not be so secure if the twins were to replace Luke. For the twins mean Faith, and her policy is unpredictable.”

“What about Faith herself? Mavis asked. “Suppose Romayne and Felicity are right, and that she meant to clear Luke out of her way? Her motive there is at least understandable. And no doubt when Lord Croyle dies she'd be delighted to find herself Lady Croyle and mistress of the Castle. She'd clear out the rest of them quickly enough.”

Merrion nodded. “And it would have been cute of her to make herself scarce some days before Lord Croyle's accident. But would she have done that without having one more shot at Luke first? And if it can be established that she has been in York since Wednesday morning, she has a perfect alibi, as far as Lord Croyle is concerned.”

“Unless she and Roderick have been playing a game of their own together,” Mavis suggested.

“Yes,” said Merrion doubtfully. “But I'm not sure that Roderick would have agreed to her going after Luke. He's obviously far more interested in Luke than he is in the twins. They might have conspired together against Lord Croyle, I suppose. But it never struck me that they were on sufficiently intimate terms to conspire against anybody. What about Charlotte, with or without the connivance of Felicity?”

“I'll grant you their opportunity,” Mavis replied. “But what possible motive could she have had?”

“Let's see if we can answer that question. Charlotte can't have intended to kill Jonathan, that's quite certain. But if she was after Luke, things seem easier. It might have been her intention that, later on, the twins should come to a sticky end. In which case Jonathan, her own grandson, would have become the heir. And we have been given to understand that Charlotte comes into an annuity on Lord Croyle's death. He has probably left her something else as well, in recognition of the many years she has been looking after him.”

Mavis shook her head. “Your argument about Luke and the twins won't do. There is nothing to prevent Roderick and Faith having another child. If it were to be a son, and Luke and the twins were dead, he would become the heir. Jonathan, if he had survived, would have been as much out of it as ever.”

“You're quite right,” Merrion agreed. “And anyhow I somehow don't see Charlotte in the role of principal murderess. That leaves us Romayne, fully charged with all the Croyle impulsiveness. But I don't see what she stands to gain by all that has happened at the Castle since her arrival. Well, we don't seem to have left any of our skittles standing very firmly. Let's go in and see what there is for lunch.”

CHAPTER TEN

THAT AFTERNOON, at his usual time, Cecil sought the Merrions out on the verandah. “The specialist came this afternoon,” he replied to their enquiries. “He was, I am glad to say, most optimistic. He gave us all to understand that Lucifer had suffered no permanent injury, and that there was no cause for anxiety. The patient must, of course, have complete rest. And no worries, which isn't any too easy to ensure where the Croyle family are concerned.”

“That's very good news,” Merrion replied. “I saw Lord Croyle myself this morning, and formed a pretty good opinion of him.”

Cecil nodded. “I heard he'd asked to see you. I expect you did him good. Charlotte and Felicity can't be very cheerful companions, and he won't see any of the rest. Not even the latest arrival.”

“The latest arrival?” Merrion asked. “Who do you mean?”

Cecil chuckled. “You've seen enough of the Castle by now to have discovered that it's always the unexpected that happens there. I'd gone up to hear what the specialist had to say, and found that he and Balcombe were with Lucifer. We were all sitting in the drawing-room waiting for the verdict, when Collins flung the door open and announced Mr. Coolham.”

“Romayne's father?” Mavis exclaimed. “He had heard what had happened to Lord Croyle?”

“Not a word,” Cecil replied. “Of course, it was broken to him within the first few minutes. Then Balcombe and the specialist came down and were given tea, which interrupted explanations. It wasn't until they'd gone that we heard the reason for Coolham's arrival. It seems that Romayne had written to him, announcing her engagement to Edwin, and that he had come as soon as he could to congratulate them both on the spot. Plausible enough.”

Cecil sipped meditatively at his glass of sherry. “Coolham in the part of the benevolent father rather amuses me,” he went on. “I'm bound to say he plays it to perfection. Bless you, my children, and all that sort of thing. But I can't believe that was his only reason for his entry upon the stage. It's far more likely that he has come to find out how his daughter's re-marriage will affect him and his prospects. Of course, now he's here, he's had to be asked to stay.”

“You don't like Mr. Coolham,” Mavis remarked quietly.

“I don't,” Cecil replied, with emphasis. “I never have. I've always done my best to keep out of his way. I'm as certain as I can be of anything that he came to the Castle first to find out how he stood, and second to try to touch Lucifer for what he would euphemistically call a loan. Romayne has made no secret of the fact that he is pretty well broke. It must have been a bit of a blow to him when he heard what the specialist had to say.”

Merrion smiled. “You paint him in very black colours, don't you? The impression you give of him rather reminds me of one of those silhouettes we used to have taken when we were young.”

Cecil shrugged his shoulders. “Go to the Castle and make his acquaintance for yourself,” he replied. “You'll find him charming enough. But don't let his charm wangle a loan out of you. You'll never see your money again if you do. And don't forget that if Lucifer had been killed yesterday afternoon, as well he might have been, Coolham would have been better off by the best part of a thousand a year.”

“You say that Lord Croyle refused to see him?” Merrion remarked.

“I don't know that he has actually refused yet,” Cecil replied. “I suggested quietly to Charlotte that Coolham's arrival might be kept from Lucifer as long as possible. He's to be shielded from worry, you know, and I think it would worry him. He would guess at once that financial urgency was Coolham's motive. Failing Lucifer, he'll probably approach me, or even Edwin. For the present he's content to exude benevolence towards all and sundry. When I left, he was clucking over Edwin and Romayne like an old hen rejoicing in the happiness of her chickens.”

“Did he seem disappointed at not being able to see Lord Croyle?” Merrion asked.

“Not he!” Cecil exclaimed.” he was terribly shocked to hear of the accident. He quite understood that under the circumstances Lucifer could not be expected to see any one, even his son-in-law. He talked a lot about his respect and veneration for so fine an old man. Coolham's a thorough hypocrite, I may tell you.”

“And Romayne?” Mavis asked. “Is she overjoyed at this unexpected reunion with her father?”

Cecil shook his head. “If she is, she conceals the fact adequately enough. And Romayne isn't usually very good at concealing her feelings. She seems to accept his presence as just one more of those tiresome things one has to put up with. I don't fancy he'll find her ready to play his game. whatever it may be.”

“Lord Croyle is bound to find out that Coolham is at the Castle before very long.” Merrion remarked.

“It can be broken to him gently,” Cecil replied. “But I very much doubt whether he will want to see him. The only person he has expressed any desire to see so far is you.”

Merrion felt bound to offer some sort of explanation. He knew that all the family must be wondering at Lord Croyle's partiality. “Dr. Balcombe assured me that it would do no harm to humour his patient,” he said. “Lord Croyle had invited Mavis and me to tea, and he seemed to feel that some apology was needed for his failure to entertain us. I was very glad to find that the shock had not affected him more seriously.”

Cecil seemed satisfied. “We're all very grateful to have somebody at hand that he likes to talk to. I can't make out how it can have happened. We've asked the police to get in touch with the Bomb Disposal people again. Meanwhile Roderick has organised the staff into search parties, and they've spent the afternoon combing the place for explosives without result, I gather. You'll call there to-morrow, I hope? I know Lucifer will be pleased if you will. And I shall be very interested to hear what impression Coolham makes on you.”

“Oh, yes, we'll go,” Merrion remarked when Cecil had left them. “I'd like to see for myself what sort of a chap Romayne's father is. Queer habit these folk have of blowing into the Castle without the slightest warning.”

“I wonder if it's true that Mr. Coolham hadn't heard of Lord Croyle's accident?” Mavis asked.

“The very thought that occurred to me,” Merrion replied. “Did Romayne ring him up or send him a wire? Nobody else is likely to have done such a thing. If so, Coolham may have thought it would be in his interests to be on the spot should his father-in-law die of his injuries. As Cecil suggests, he'll be disappointed.”

The Merrions drove to the Castle on the following afternoon. They were admitted, not by Collins, but by a maid, who showed them into the drawing-room. Romayne was there alone, and seemed very pleased to see them. “I am glad you've come,” she said. “I've been left to hold the fort alone. Charlotte and Felicity are with grandfather, and the men are out climbing about the cliff. I only hope they won't break their necks.”

“Climbing about the cliff?” Merrion asked. “Looking for sea-birds' eggs? Or just by way of healthy exercise on a fine afternoon?”

Romayne laughed. “It's far more earnest than that. My father is here, you know, or perhaps you don't. He came to congratulate Edwin and me. He seems quite pleased about that, but he's terribly concerned about grandfather's accident. He says it's like living on a volcano, for there may be all kinds of bombs and things still lying about. Roddy told him that he had made a thorough search, but that didn't satisfy him. He said that the face of the cliff was the place to look.”

“In case anything was lodged there,” Merrion remarked. “It sounds a reasonable enough idea to me.”

“Reasonable or not, Father insisted upon it,” Romayne replied “He was keen on climbing at one time, and offered to take charge. He set Collins to collecting all the ropes he could find, and then made up a party with Edwin, Roddy and Collins. It's lucky you didn't turn up earlier, Mr. Merrion, or you'd have found yourself literally roped in, too.”

“I've had a lucky escape, it seems,” said Merrion. They sat talking for some time longer, before voices were heard. A minute later a man entered the room. Merrion judged him to be nearing sixty, middle sized, and with a round and benevolent face. His expression was one of superhuman innocence, and he was breathing heavily from his exertions.

“Come here. Father,” said Romayne. “I want to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Merrion, whom you've heard us talking about.”

Coolham's manner became effusive. He was delighted to meet such kind friends of his daughter. To Merrion's enquiry he replied regretfully that so far they had drawn blank. “But, of course, we have only explored a very small part of the cliff yet,” he went on. “A thorough job will have to be made of it. I shall go on to-morrow, by myself if the others don't care to come. It's some years since I did any rock-climbing, but I don't seem to have forgotten my way about.”

Looking at Coolham's rather puffy figure, Merrion thought the exercise wouldn't do him any harm. But he was spared the need for comment, for Coolham, who seemed to have no lack of polite conversation, went on. “It is so charming to see the Castle looking just as I remember it long ago, when dear Eleanor was alive. Such happy times we spent here, with Romayne as a little girl playing with her cousins. I have always regretted that my many occupations have kept me away since then. It must be nearly twenty years since I was here last.”

“Oh, come now. Father!” Romayne exclaimed. “It's not so long ago as that. Don't you remember? You came here on a course, when you were in the Home Guard. You told me about it at the time. In 1942, it must have been.”

A sudden flash in Coolham's eyes gave Merrion the impression, that he was by no means pleased with this reminder. “Why yes, of course, my dear,” he replied, readily enough. “But that was hardly coming to the Castle, but to Croylehaven Training Camp. The place was sadly altered then, sadly altered. I hardly recognised it, with huts and tents scattered everywhere. Why, I did not even sleep here, for I was billeted in the town.”

“You came here on a course, Mr. Coolham?” Merrion asked. “You must have found it most interesting.”

“Oh, yes, at the time, I daresay,” Coolham replied. “It was only for a few days, the inside of a week, I remember. Courses of instruction in modern weapons for Home Guards were held here, and my Battalion Commander selected me to attend one. It was by way of a compliment, for there were not many vacancies. But those days are all forgotten I am happy to say. You have met my future son-in-law of course, Mr. Merrion?”

“I spent a day last week shooting with Mr. Nailhead,” Merrion replied. “You and Mrs. Croyle are to be congratulated.”

“It is most kind of you to say so,” said Coolham. “I was so delighted when I got Romayne's letter telling me the good news that I could not resist coming here as soon as I could get away. I have known Edwin since he was quite a lad, yes, and his father Matthew before him. Such a charming, sincere family. If there is room for the slightest tinge of regret, it is that Matthew did not live to witness his son's happiness.”

He was still talking in this strain when Nailhead and Roderick came in together, and conversation became more general. They were shortly followed by Charlotte, who gave the latest bulletin of the patient. He had had a very comfortable afternoon, and was now dozing. She had left Felicity in charge of the sick-room. When tea was brought in, Merrion noticed that Collins looked distinctly flushed from his exertions. “I'm beginning to change my mind about that chap,” Roderick remarked to him when Collins had left the room. “He's a damn bad butler, but he's willing enough to do any job you ask him. He was more energetic than any of us, scrambling about that confounded cliff this afternoon. Pity Cecil wasn't with us. It would have done him a lot of good.”

Merrion smiled. “I don't think he'd have volunteered. He would have adopted the Lucretian attitude of security while others struggled below him. You hadn't any luck, Mr. Coolham tells me?”

“I think we were infernally lucky to survive,” Roderick replied feelingly. “I don't appreciate hanging on by my eyelids with a hundred feet drop beneath me. We didn't find any explosives, it's true. Just as well we didn't, for we shouldn't have known what to do about it. I'm all for leaving it to the Bomb Disposal people. It's their job, after all.”

Cecil didn't show up while the Merrions were at the Castle. But he made his appearance on the verandah after their return to the hotel. He nodded when he heard of their afternoon visit. “I hoped you'd go,” he said. “I'm keeping out of the way while Coolham's there. He won't stop long after the week-end, I suppose. How did you get on with him?”

“Oh, well enough,” Merrion replied “He doesn't seem to be a very difficult person to get on with.”

Cecil smiled. “Only too fatally easy. The sort of chap who lets you in for something before you know where you are. It's no use, I don't like him. And I don't suppose Roderick enjoys his late father-in-law hanging round the place, either.”

“I gather, from what Coolham told me, that of recent years his visits to the Castle have been infrequent,” Merrion remarked.

“That's true enough,” Cecil replied. “I dare say this is the first time he's been there since Eleanor died. There was some coolness about that. Lucifer, who never liked him, accused him of not seeing that she had proper attention during her last illness. With how much justification, I really don't know. Anyhow, though Romayne came to the Castle often enough, her father didn't accompany her. And nobody regretted his absence.”

“He professes to be delighted with Romayne's engagement,” said Mavis.

“Yes, I know,” Cecil replied. “But I wonder how far that's genuine. His father left Edwin pretty well off, certainly. But Coolham must know pretty well that Edwin will be proof against any attempt to extract money from him. Coolham was, I believe, furious at the time of the divorce. I fancy he had always envisaged Roderick and Romayne as Lord and Lady Croyle at the Castle, with himself comfortably installed there as parental counsellor.”

“Meanwhile, he is busying himself climbing about the cliff looking for explosives,” said Merrion. “By the way, how long ago was that summer-house built? Comparatively recently, by the look of it.”

“Not very long before war broke out,” Cecil replied. “In 1938 or 1939, it must have been. There was always a sort of rough ledge there. Lucifer had it levelled and paved, and the summer-house built to suit his own ideas. Of course, when war did break out, rumours went round that it had been built for some sinister purpose. As a post from which to signal to enemy submarines, or something equally ridiculous.”

“So it was there when the Castle was requisitioned,” said Merrion. “Did the military use it for any purpose?”

Cecil shrugged his shoulders. “I really don't know. I was never at the Castle when the troops were there. All I can tell you is that after they were gone I found a lot of the panes in the summer-house broken, and they had to be replaced.”

After dinner, when the Merrions were alone, they returned to the subject of Coolham. “I don't trust the fellow,” said Merrion. “I'm not influenced by what Cecil says. He doesn't like him, and he's prejudiced. But he wears such an elaborate air of guilelessness. And he certainly tripped up, this afternoon.”

“I'm not attracted to him myself,” Mavis replied. “But what do you mean by saying he tripped up?”

“Over his last visit to the Castle,” said Merrion.” he went out of his way to tell us that it must have been nearly twenty years since he was there last. Romayne butted in to remind him that he'd been there during the war. He didn't enjoy that, did his best to cover it up, and changed the subject as soon as he could.”
“Yes, I remember that,” said Mavis. “Not a very serious stumble surely?”

Merrion smiled. “You don't share my suspicious nature. You heard what I asked Cecil about the summer-house, and what his answer was. Now, though any one who had not been to the Castle for twenty years might have heard of the summer-house and of Lord Croyle's habit of sitting there, usually alone, he would not know its exact position. On the other hand, if he had been there during the war, he would have had an opportunity of learning that it could be reached by the cliff path from that little landing-place known as the Pit.”

“Yes, I see that,” Mavis replied. “Are you going on to suggest that Mr. Coolham planted the booby-trap?”

“Not quite so rapidly as all that. But I'd like to know whether he was comfortably tucked up in his Cheltenham house during Wednesday night. Assuming for the moment that he may not have been, let's see how the cap fits him.

“First of all, what about his motive? That's almost too easy. He is reputed to be broke. In spite of his expressed delight with his daughter's engagement, it doesn't seem likely that her marriage will improve his financial position. He has never been on very affectionate terms with Lord Croyle, and would not greatly regret his death. And, in that event, he would become an annuitant to the extent, according to Cecil, of some thousand a year or so.

“Then as to opportunity. There are several points about that which seem rather significant. He had attended a course of instruction in modem weapons. It is not at all unlikely that this course included a demonstration of the construction and use of booby-traps. I think we may assume that Coolham is one of the many people sufficiently familiar with the subject to be able to improvise a more or less efficient specimen for themselves.

“You may ask where he got his explosive from. I can offer you at least two suggestions about that. When he was serving in the Home Guard, I dare say he had several opportunities of acquiring a supply surreptitiously. Alternatively, he wouldn't want one of the higher explosives, which might be difficult for the ordinary person to come by. Any of the sporting powders with which shot-gun cartridges are loaded would do the trick, in sufficient quantity.

“Now Coolham seems to enjoy clambering about the cliff. He says himself that at one time he was a rock climber. I have always thought it a curious hobby for once you've climbed up your rock there's nothing to be gained but the pleasure of climbing down again. However, that's by the way. My point is that Coolham would think nothing of ascending the cliff path, however dark and misty the night might be.”

“On the whole, the cap seems to fit Mr. Coolham pretty well,” Mavis remarked.

“So far, perhaps,” Merrion agreed. “But what about our game of skittles? We've got to have another shy at him. Can you supply any motive for his desiring the death of Jonathan or Luke, or explain what opportunity he had of contriving the tragedy of last week? That's a poser for you, I fancy.”

Mavis shook her head. “I can't. But I dare say your imagination might rise to the effort.”

“It is striving hard, but so far without success. I can't see what possible difference it could make to Coolham whether Jonathan died or lived to a ripe old age. One would imagine that it would be in his interest that Luke, his own grandson, should live as the prospective heir. And any opportunity seems out of the question. If the child was murdered, the essential act of the murderer was the unlocking of that gate. It is not to be supposed that Coolham was prowling about the Castle recently, even in the guise of the family ghost. And it is stretching credibility too far to suggest that he unlocked the gate while attending the course, four or five years ago.”

“I'm inclined to write off Jonathan's death as accidental.” Mavis remarked doubtfully.

“Because it can't be made to fit in with the theory of Coolham's guilt?” Merrion replied. “Well, perhaps you're right. In which case the skittle representing him still stands. Now, what's he doing at the Castle? Leading hazardous parties in search of overlooked explosives. But is that merely a blind? Isn't it possible that all this activity on his part is to cover the planting of a second infernal machine where it is likely to be more effective than the first?”

“That's a very disturbing thought,” said Mavis.

“It is,” Merrion agreed. “But what the dickens can we do about it? I can't go to the police, for that's the one thing Lord Croyle does not want. Besides, if I told them that Coolham was a prospective murderer, they would want to know what grounds I had for making such a statement. I have none beyond vague suspicion. Meanwhile, Lord Croyle is safe enough as long as he stays in bed. Coolham can't destroy him there without blowing up half the Castle, and he'll hardly stage an attempt on such a grand scale as that.”

“I don't care about the idea of Mr. Coolham being at large in the Castle, just the same,” said Mavis.

“No, more do I,” Merrion replied. “But we can't very well kidnap him. The best thing will be for us to pay a call at the Castle to-morrow afternoon. I'll try to manage a word alone with Lord Croyle. And if I succeed, I'll say just enough to him to put him on his guard.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MERRION'S plan came off with the utmost smoothness. Almost as soon as they reached the Castle on Sunday afternoon Felicity approached him and drew him aside. “Grandfather has been asking after you, Mr. Merrion,” she said. “He hoped that the next time you came here you would go up and see him. Will you come now, before tea?”

“I shall be very pleased to,” Merrion replied. “Does Lord Croyle know that Mr. Coolham is staying here?”

“Oh, yes, we told him,” Felicity replied. “But he said he'd rather not see him till he was feeling a little stronger.” She led Merrion up to Lord Croyle's room, where Charlotte was sitting on duty. After a few words of introduction, she and Felicity went out, leaving Merrion alone with the patient.

Lord Croyle was dearly doing well. His bandages were less voluminous, leaving his face visible, and his voice was stronger. It was more than kind of Mr. Merrion to visit an invalid. He trusted Mrs. Merrion was continuing well, in spite of the approach of autumn? And then his tone hardened. “Have you any advice to give me, Mr. Merrion?”

Merrion did not answer this directly. “You are aware, I understand, that your son-in-law arrived here on Friday?”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” Lord Croyle replied. “To congratulate Romayne and Edwin I am told. In my present state I do not feel equal to a conversation with him. I find his presence rather wearying, at any time.”

“I can quite understand that,” said Merrion. “You have asked for my advice. Lord Croyle. It is that you should secure the departure of Coolham from the Castle with the least possible delay.”

Their eyes met, and Merrion could tell from Lord Croyle's expression that he understood. “Edward!” he muttered after a silence. “Well, I have no reason to feel surprised. I have always held him responsible for my daughter's death. It is a fitting sequel that he should seek to be responsible for my own. Are you sure of this?”

“By no means,” Merrion replied. “I have no evidence whatever. But, for many reasons it seems to me possible that the explosion was contrived by Coolham. In the interests of your own safety, he would be better at a distance.”

“I expect you are right,” said Lord Croyle. “Indeed, I hope you are. If there is a homicide numbered among my relatives, I should prefer to think of him as being Edward, rather than any of the others. Has Romayne any suspicions?”

“I don't think so,” Merrion replied. “The only person but yourself to whom I have mentioned my own is my wife.”

“I cannot thank you both sufficiently for troubling yourselves with my affairs,” said Lord Croyle. “I shall certainly follow your advice, and shall take the necessary steps when I have seen Balcombe, who promised to, visit me this afternoon.”

After some further conversation, Merrion's place in the sick-room was taken by Felicity, and he went downstairs. He found all the company assembled in the drawing-room, with the exception of Coolham. Cecil had turned up, and was in earnest talk with Edwin Nailhead, while the rest were in a group by the window. It was not long before tea was brought in, the procession being as usual headed by Collins, who handled things more clumsily than ever.

“Has any one seen Father this afternoon?” Romayne asked carelessly as Charlotte took her place at the tea-table.

“Oh, he's on the cliff somewhere,” Roderick replied “He went off soon after lunch. He wanted Edwin and me to go with him, but we struck. And I told him it would be hardly fair to Collins to drag him out on Sunday afternoon.”

“You were heartless enough to let Edward go off exploring by himself?” Cecil remarked.

“You know very well you wouldn't have gone with him if you'd been here,” Roderick replied. “I don't think he minded much. Perhaps he thought we should be rather a hindrance than otherwise. He'll be in any moment.”

Mavis and her husband exchanged significant glances. It occurred to both of them simultaneously that Coolham night have been glad of the opportunity of going off by himself. The meal progressed, but in spite of Roderick's confident assertion, Coolham did not make his appearance. No further reference was made to him, and a few minutes after the tea-tray had been removed. Dr. Balcombe arrived to visit Lord Croyle.

Merrion took advantage of this to slip out quietly. He felt a profound curiosity as to what Coolham might be up to. Choosing a route which was not under observation from the drawing-room, he made his way to the head of the cliff path, and began to descend it. He saw nothing of Coolham, but he knew that from the Pit he would be able to get a fairly extensive view of the cliff face.

When he reached the bottom, he found that the tide had ebbed just sufficiently to expose a narrow strip of sand in the Pit. Standing on this, he surveyed the din face rising almost sheer above him. The only signs of life were a few herring-gulls flying in circles and crying mournfully. Not far offshore was a solitary fishing-boat with sail set, moving slowly in the faint breeze.

Not until Merrion was about to reascend the path did he catch sight of what he was looking for. Then, on a jutting shelf of rock, not many feet above sea-level, he saw the prostrate figure of a man, whom by his clothes he recognised as Coolham. He was motionless, and his unnatural attitude suggested an involuntary one.

As he surveyed the intervening cliff, Merrion saw that it was going to be an awkward job to get to him. But he made up his mind that with care and agility he could manage it. He set off, scrambling as best he could with such hand-and foot-holds as he could find. The distance was not more than a hundred yards, but it took him some minutes to cover it. At last he reached the shelf, which was fairly level, and with room enough for a couple of men to stand. And a single glance at Coolham was sufficient to show him that the unfortunate man was dead.

His position, and the battering his body had received, showed that he had fallen from a considerable height. A rope was coiled round his waist and secured. But if, as Merrion had half expected, he had been carrying a booby-trap of any kind, there was no trace of this. Perhaps he had already deposited it.

The immediate problem was, how to get him off the shelf. It would be an impossible task to carry him across the face of the cliff to the Pit. Even if it could be done, the problem of getting him up the path would remain. Merrion looked over the edge of the shelf, to find that below it the cliff fell perpendicular, like a wall, into the sea, fifteen feet below. It was so calm that a boat could come alongside there, when the body could be lowered into it by a rope. And both boat and rope were providentially at hand.

As Merrion looked up, the fishing-boat went about and after a momentary flapping of sails, retraced its course. He watched it, and as it came nearer saw that it contained two men, who seemed to be line-fishing. He waited until it came within hailing distance, then waved his arms and shouted. “Ahoy, there! Ahoy!”

It was a minute or two before he succeeded in attracting the attention of the man at the tiller. Then a faint gruff hail reached him across the water. The sail was lowered, and one of the men took to the oars. The boat's head was turned towards the shelf on which Merrion was standing. Before very long he was able to recognise the helmsman as the fisherman he had spoken to at the harbour on the previous Thursday.

When the boat was a few yards away, the man rowing rested on his oars. “What's up with you, then?” the helmsman shouted. “You got down and can't get up again? That's what it is, by the look of it.”

“There's been an accident,” Merrion shouted back. “There's a man here who can't move, and the only way to get him away is by the boat. Pull in to the Pit, and one of you come ashore to help me. Then the other can bring the boat alongside here.”

The two men talked this over, then the helmsman, whose name Merrion discovered subsequently to be Enoch Stibbard, hailed again. “So be, mister, I'll come ashore to you, and Jim here can mind the boat.” They rowed in to the Pit, Enoch clambered out and made his way cautiously to where Merrion stood. Not until then did he recognise him. “Why, bless my soul, it's the gent what I was talking to the other afternoon!” he exclaimed. Then, as he turned his attention to the prostrate figure, he recoiled. “Why, the bloke's dead!” he added in a horrified tone. “Why couldn't you say so at first, mister?”

“I wasn't sure,” Merrion replied mendaciously. His true reason for concealing the fact was the notorious reluctance of fishermen to take a dead body into their boats. “If you say he's dead, you're right, I dare say.”

Enoch bent down for a closer inspection. “Aye, he's dead,” he growled. “Any one could tell that, just by looking at him. It's a proper bad business, that it is. And I've seen him afore, not so long ago, either.”

“You've seen him before?” Merrion asked quickly. “When was that?”

Enoch took another long look at the dead man. “Yes, that's him, all right,” he replied “he's the gent that hired my boat the other evening. Not the one you see now, but the little dinghy Jim and me lets out to visitors.”

This promised to be interesting, Merrion thought. “Which evening was this?” he asked.

“Last Wednesday, it must have been,” Enoch replied. “Yes, that's right. Gent came along just as it was getting dusk, like, and said he wanted to hire a boat for a night's fishing. He'd been told I had one to suit. Well, Jim and me we do go out fishing at night, now and again, but only when the tide's right, and it wasn't then. Wouldn't be, not afore two or three in the morning. But I didn't tell him that. Not likely.”

A hail from the water interrupted this conversation. They looked over the edge of the shelf, to find that Jim had brought the boat alongside and was fending off with boat-hook. Between them, to the accompaniment of many growls of “Steady, now!” from Enoch, they lowered the body, which Jim received with evident distaste. “Pull back to the Pit,” Enoch directed. “I'll get aboard there. And what about you, mister?”

“I'll get back to the Castle and telephone the police,” Merrion replied. “They'll send an ambulance to meet you at the quay. And I'll be along to see you, later on.” He and Enoch made their toilsome way back over the rocks. Merrion watched Enoch go aboard and set the sail. Then he reascended the cliff path, wondering to whom first to break the news.

This problem was settled for him, for as soon as he reached the top he saw Cecil and Edwin Nailhead strolling towards him. They were talking earnestly together, but Cecil looked up and saw him. “Hallo, Merrion!” he called. “We were all wondering what had become of you. Where have you been? Why, is anything wrong?”

The sternness of Merrion's expression must have revealed that something was very wrong indeed. He did not reply until they had met. “I have just found Coolham's dead body,” he said curtly.

They stared at him incredulously. Cecil was the first to speak. “Coolham dead! How ever did it happen?”

“He appears to have fallen down the cliff,” Merrion replied. “Listen, and I will tell you what steps I have taken.” He described the events of the last half hour, and then went on. “You will decide whether Lord Croyle is to be told of this. My advice is that he should not be informed immediately. Meanwhile, will one of you ring up the police, and arrange for an ambulance to meet the boat at the quay? I suggest the body had better be taken to the mortuary.”

Cecil nodded. “I'll do that,” he said quietly. “They know me. The rest is up to you, Edwin, I'm afraid. What about you, Merrion?”

“I shall pick up Mavis, and get along,” Merrion replied. “The police will want to hear how I found the body.” He went into the house and found Mavis. Saying nothing of his news to any one, he led her to the car, and they drove off. On the way he told her briefly what had happened, but without comment. Having taken her to the Victoria, he returned to the quayside. The boat was in, and the body had already been removed from it. A sergeant of police, note-book in hand, was questioning Enoch and Jim.

Enoch pointed a finger at Merrion as he approached. “That's the gent, sergeant!” he exclaimed.” he can tell you a lot more than we can, I warrant.”

Merrion introduced himself, and gave the usual particulars about himself. This done he told the story in his own words. The dead man was Edward Coolham, Lord Croyle's son-in-law. Merrion and his wife were staying at the Victoria, and had been to the Castle for tea. Hearing that Coolham was climbing on the cliff alone, he had gone out to find him. Life was extinct by the time he reached the body. He was of the opinion that Coolham had lost his foothold and fallen from a considerable height on to the shelf where his body lay.

The sergeant made a note of all this, then asked the inevitable question. “What was the gentleman doing, sir? Climbing about the cliff like that. And on a Sunday afternoon, too.”

“I think I can explain that,” Merrion replied, as lightly as he could. “You know, there was an explosion there last week. Something left behind by the military went off. It was reported to you, I understand. Well, Mr. Coolham was very much disturbed. He thought there might be more of the things, and insisted on looking for them.”

The sergeant shook his head. “He shouldn't have done that. Them things are best left to those that know what to do with them. You'll be at the Victoria for a bit, sir? You are bound to be wanted at the inquest.”

Merrion gave this assurance, and after some further questions, the sergeant walked away. “Nosey Parkers, all of 'em,” Enoch remarked disdainfully. “Wanted to know what Jim and me was doing of out fishing on Sunday, as if that was any business of his. So I told him. It isn't often we go out on a Sunday, that's true enough. But to-day there was a nice run of mackerel, and the tide just suited. So we thought there wouldn't be no harm in us going out for a bit of spinning. And we was just getting into the middle of them when you came along and hailed us.”

Merrion perceived the hint of grievance in Enoch's voice “I'll soon put that right,” he said, producing a couple of notes and handing them to him. “I'm sorry I spoiled your fishing, but there was nothing else to be done. Now. I'm rather interested in Mr. Coolham hiring the little dinghy from you last Wednesday night. Tell me about that.”

“There's not a lot to say,” Enoch replied “he came along to my place in the evening, but who had directed him I can't tell. He said he was a visitor staying here, but he didn't mention that he was his Lordship's son-in-law. He said he'd been told I had a boat he could hire, and that he wanted it for a night's fishing. I showed him the little dinghy, and he paid me what I asked him, and then he got in and rowed off.”

“Did he take anything with him?” Merrion asked.

“He'd got a proper armful of fishing gear, lines and that,” Enoch replied. “And he'd got a rod too, though what he thought he was going to catch with that is more than I can tell. And he'd got a big sort of haversack, hung across his shoulders stuffed full of something. Grub, I reckon.”

“Most likely,” Merrion agreed. “Did you see him when he came back?”

“Yes, I saw him,” Enoch replied. “I'd told him where to tie up the dinghy, in case he should get fed up after an boat or two. But when I went out to look round about six on Thursday it wasn't there. It had come over thick, like, and I was a bit bothered. I thought perhaps he wouldn't be able to find his way back. But it wasn't so very long before he came in, with no more to show than half a dozen small pout. Not worth spending a night out for, I should have reckoned, but he seemed pleased enough. He didn't go up to the Castle, but along to the Square. The last I saw of him he was hanging about there. Waiting for the bus, maybe.”

Merrion went back to the Victoria. He and Mavis had not long been sitting in the verandah when Cecil joined them.

“I seem to have plunged you both in a slough of trouble with my relatives,” he said apologetically. “You can't be feeling particularly grateful to me for having introduced you to the Castle. All the same, I thought you'd want to hear the news. When I had rung up the police, I found Balcombe, and told him what had happened. I thought he'd be wanted at the mortuary. It was obviously Edwin's job to break the news to Romayne. She was violently disturbed, in the true Croyle fashion. First they tried to kill her son, and now they've killed her father. But she'll soon get over that. Nobody else exhibits symptoms of profound grief.”

“And Lord Croyle?” Merrion asked. “Has he been told?”

“Not yet,” Cecil replied. “We all agreed that it was best not. It's rather a curious thing that soon after you told us what had happened, Lucifer spoke to Charlotte about Edward. He told her that Balcombe agreed with him that, in his present state of health, visitors staying at the Castle were undesirable. For one thing, with Lucifer in bed and two of the family in constant attention upon him, they couldn't be properly entertained. Representations were to be made to Edward on these lines, and he was to be invited to take himself back to Cheltenham to-morrow morning.”

Merrion nodded. “I think Lord Croyle was entirely justified,” he said.

“It's very unlike him,” Cecil replied “He's the soul of hospitality, and enjoys having people at the Castle. He wouldn't have made the suggestion about any one else, in fact he impressed on Charlotte that the ban on visitors applied to Edward alone. The truth is, he never liked Edward, as I've told you. And he seems to dislike him more than ever now, though he hasn't seen him, or, for that matter, been troubled much about him.”

“Lord Croyle has every right to be master in his own house,” Mavis remarked.

“And he intends to be,” Cecil replied. “Now, here's something else that will interest you. I was quite right when I guessed that Edward's real reason for coming here was to raise money somehow. He cornered Edwin and tackled him this morning, with what was practically an ultimatum. If the trustees could not see their way to advancing something on account of the annuity, he would have no option but to file a petition in bankruptcy.”

“His affairs must have been in a pretty desperate state,” said Merrion.

“From what he told Edwin, they were,” Cecil agreed. “Edwin, who was talking to me about it this afternoon, said that something would have to be done. Lucifer would be terribly scandalised and upset by the very idea of a petition. On the other hand, in his present state of health, he couldn't be approached on the subject of a subsidy. Well, Providence has solved that particular problem for us, for which I at least am duly thankful.”

“And what will become now of Coolham's share of the annuity fund?” Merrion asked.

“It will revert to the estate,” Cecil replied. “Roderick will benefit earlier than he could have expected. He'll be better off by that amount at Lucifer's death. Now there's just one more thing. The police are busy already taking notes for the inquest. My friend Sergeant Henfield turned up at the Castle just now, all agog. I gathered that he had seen you, and I left him to Edwin, who, as a lawyer, is best qualified to deal with these matters. But it means that Lucifer can't be kept in the dark for long. Perhaps, as you found Edward, you'd like to tell him about it?”

“It might be as well,” said Merrion. “I'll go along to the Castle to-morrow morning, and ask if he'll see me.”

Shortly afterwards, Cecil left and, later on Merrion discussed the matter with Mavis. “It's quite a good idea that I should be the first to tell Lord Croyle,” he said. “And I don't think I need keep any detail from him. I haven't the slightest doubt, after what I've heard this afternoon, that it was Coolham who planted that booby-trap, with a pretty obvious motive.”

“You don't think it will upset Lord Croyle if you tell him what you know?” Mavis asked.

“I think it will relieve his mind rather than upset him,” Merrion replied. “It will convince him that the attempt on his life was not made by any other member of his family. That Coolham should do such a thing he seems to accept as quite in the normal course of events. Again, with Coolham dead, the menace of a repetition of the attempt is removed.

“As I say, there can't be a shadow of doubt about it. Coolham was here or hereabouts on Wednesday. Remember, he had only once been here in the last twenty years, and on that occasion he was disguised as a Home Guard. He therefore ran very little risk of casual recognition. But it wouldn't do for him to stay in the town here, in case he should run into one of the family. Enoch's remark that when he last saw him he might have been waiting for a bus suggests that he put up at Ernehead, for example.

“I dare say he had been considering the attempt for a long time. His affairs seem to have been in the devil of a mess, and Lord Croyle's death was obviously the simplest way of disentangling them. Romayne's letter, telling him of her engagement, showed him that the time to act had come. He had the booby-trap packed away in his haversack when he hired Enoch's little dinghy for a night's fishing.

“He must have been disappointed at not getting a wire from Romayne announcing Lord Croyle's death. His impatience to learn whether or not he had been successful drove him to the Castle on Friday. Disappointed though he may have been, it was up to him to encourage everybody in the belief that the explosion had been due to something left behind by the military. Hence the expeditions he organized about the cliff.”

“Which ended fatally for him,” Mavis remarked. “His death was purely accidental, of course?”

Merrion stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The second accidental death at the Castle within ten days. You know the old police formula, accident, suicide, or murder? Look at the possibilities in that order. Coolham was, or professed to be, an experienced rock-climber. We are told that, having failed to persuade any one to go with him, he went out alone. At the time he was killed, he was not using the rope, for it was coiled round his waist and secured. In spite of his experience, he may have lost his hold while negotiating a difficult place, and fallen.

“Suicide isn't altogether out of the question. His affairs, we are told, were in a desperate state. His attempt to kill Lord Croyle had failed, and he may have been haunted by the fear that his responsibility for that affair would be discovered. He could not be confident that his ultimatum to the trustee would not be turned down. It does not seem to me likely that in a fit of despair he chucked himself from the top of the cliff.

“Finally, we come to the gloomy alternative of murder. Opportunity, first. We may suppose that most of the people at the Castle this afternoon knew that Coolham was out on the cliff by himself. It would not have been too difficult for any of these to have stolen up behind him and pushed him over. Motive next. Apparently Coolham's death benefits nobody but the estate, personified by Roderick. I dare say it comes as a relief to Nailhead, for Coolham would certainly have proved an importunate father-in-law. Cecil has never made any secret of his dislike for him, but dislike by itself seems an inadequate motive for murder. Well, you can take your choice.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

MERRION went by himself to the Castle next morning, and had no difficulty in securing an interview alone, with Lord Croyle, who made the usual polite enquiries. When Merrion reciprocated by asking after his own health. Lord Croyle was most optimistic. “I feel very much better,” he said. “In fact, Balcombe is sure that it will do me no harm to get up for an hour or two this afternoon. I shall do so in complete tranquillity of mind, for I have taken your advice, Mr. Merrion. Inhospitable though it must seem, I have taken steps to ensure Edward's immediate departure. In fact, I expect that he has already left.”

“Mr. Coolham has indeed left the Castle,” Merrion replied gravely. “And you may rest assured that it is beyond his power to make any further criminal attempt.”

The gravity of Merrion's tone was not lost upon Lord Croyle. “What exactly do you mean, Mr. Merrion?” he asked. “I have been aware since yesterday evening that Charlotte and Felicity were hiding something from me. I am capable I assure you, of facing the truth, however unwelcome it may be. Has Edward been arrested?”

“You will, I think, find the truth rather less unpleasant than that,” Merrion replied. “Mr. Coolham is dead.”

“Ah!” Lord Croyle exclaimed, and it seemed to Merrion that his tone expressed relief. He remained silent for a while, an inscrutable expression in his eyes. Then he spoke abruptly. “I am selfish. Romayne! How does she take it?”

“I have not seen Mrs. Croyle since the event,” Merrion replied diplomatically. “Her father's death must of course be a severe blow to her. But she is young, and the edge of her grief will be blunted before long.”

“Edwin will make up to her for her loss, I feel sure of that,” said Lord Croyle. “Poor child, she deserves to be happy in the end, after all that she has been through. Tell me how it happened, Mr. Merrion.”

Merrion told his story of the finding of the body, and went on to repeat his conversation with Enoch. “There can be very little doubt that it was Mr. Coolham who planted the booby-trap in the course of Wednesday night,” he said. “Unfortunate though his death may be, it seems to me, if I may say so, a fitting sequel to such a dastardly attempt.”

“I cannot but agree with you,” Lord Croyle replied. “Regarding the matter from my own egotistical point of view, I can contemplate Edward's death with greater equanimity than I could his arrest and trial. Now, Mr. Merrion, we have very few secrets from one another by this time. You have no suspicion that Edward's death was other than accidental?”

“I have considered the possibilities,” said Merrion. “There seems to be absolutely no reason whatever to suppose that he was the victim of foul play. There is, I think, just a possibility that, driven to desperation, he committed suicide. But, taking all the circumstances into consideration, I have little doubt that the coroner's verdict will be one of accidental death.”

“I sincerely hope so,” Lord Croyle replied. “I should not like to feel that I had been even remotely responsible for driving Edward to take his own life. You may not be aware that for some time his financial position has been deplorable, entirely owing to his own recklessness. More than once I have debated with Edwin whether I should increase the allowance I have made to Edward since Eleanor's death. But Edwin is a far more watchful guardian of my affairs than his father Matthew ever was. He always finds some argument to oppose my spending a penny more than is absolutely necessary. In this case he maintained that to increase the allowance would be merely to throw good money after bad, for Edward would only fritter it away. And I fear that he was right.”

Lord Croyle smiled, then continued. “Edwin carries his vicarious parsimony to the most altruistic lengths. When I knew of his engagement to Romayne, I told him that it was my intention to make additional provision for her upon their marriage. But he absolutely and almost violently refused to hear of any such thing. He told me that he was perfectly capable of maintaining Romayne suitably, and that, far from their marriage being an additional burden upon me, he proposed that it should relieve me from all expense on her behalf. Well, I suppose Roderick will have him to thank, some day, for not allowing me to squander my resources.”

“I hope that day may be far distant,” said Merrion cheerfully. “I'm very glad to see you looking so much better. And I trust you will not allow your mind to brood unduly upon this unfortunate affair.”
“I certainly shall not,” Lord Croyle replied. “I shall adhere to my decision to get up and have tea in the drawing-room, in accordance with my usual custom. And if I may venture to require yet another favour from you, it is that you will bring Mrs. Merrion to see me. If she feels well enough for the exertion, of course.”

Merrion went back to the hotel, where he told Mavis of the unruffled manner in which Lord Croyle had received his news. “The old boy didn't turn a hair,” he said.” he's a lot tougher than any of his family, or for that matter he himself, has any idea of. Under the circumstances, perhaps it's natural that he shouldn't be very greatly distressed. Nobody could be expected to mourn the death of his unsuccessful murderer. Anyhow, he's going to get up to tea, and I'm to take you there to see him, if you're agreeable.”

“I shall be delighted to see him,” Mavis replied. “If only to congratulate him on his escape and recovery. But I do hope there won't be any more sudden deaths or near deaths while I'm at the Castle. Apart from being monotonous, I find it wearing to the nerves. You know, Desmond, I wish I was certain Mr. Coolham wasn't murdered.”

Merrion shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose nobody can be absolutely certain of that. Any more than they can be that the accident by which Jonathan was killed was somehow contrived. But suppose we take the darkest possible view, and assume that both Jonathan and Coolham were murdered; presumably by the same hand. But why? Of what possible advantage could those two particular deaths be to anybody?”

“I've no idea,” Mavis replied. “But fatal incidents seem rather too frequent at the Castle.”

“The curse on the name of Croyle, perhaps,” said Merrion. “Striking blindly in the case of Coolham, who wasn't a Croyle. The only possible theory seems to be that Jonathan was killed by mistake for Luke. If so, you have a link between the two murders, in the person of Romayne. The victims, or intended victims, were her son and her father. Can you make any sense out of that? I'm bound to say I can't.”

“Well, I don't know,” Mavis replied hesitatingly. “Suppose it wasn't a motive of material advantage at all, but of revenge? A desire to punish Romayne for something or other she had done.”

“She had refused Cecil, and divorced Roderick,” said Merrion. “Do either of them cherish sufficient resentment to impel them to double murder? I doubt it. Roderick might have put an end to Coolham, regarding him as an unnecessary nuisance, but he wouldn't have attempted to kill Luke, his own son. Cecil might have tried to kill Luke, to spite Romayne, but he wouldn't have polished off Coolham from the same motive. He knows very well that Coolham's continued existence would have been likely to prove a far greater source of grief and worry to his daughter than his death could ever be. No, my dear, I'm afraid it won't do. The only logical conclusion is that the deaths of Jonathan and Coolham were both accidental. With the possible, though to my mind rather improbable, alternative that Coolham committed suicide.”

They drove to the Castle that afternoon, and were shown by Collins into the drawing-room, where they found every one assembled. Lord Croyle was sitting in his chair, with, as usual, Charlotte on one side of him and Balcombe on the other. Cecil had turned up, and was talking rather languidly to Felicity and Roderick. Romayne and Edward Nailhead were together, in what seemed a rather strained silence.

Balcombe was laboriously doing his best to divert Lord Croyle from any distressing thoughts, and was telling him about a new governess he had just secured for Harriet. “The child has been a little difficult since her mother's death,” he was saying. “She needs kindly, but at the same time determined, handling. Other governesses whom she has had have been unfortunate in their treatment of her. They did not seem to understand her extremely sensitive nature. But this new lady is a model, not only of firmness, but of tact as well.”

“What is her name, Dr. Balcombe?” Charlotte asked conversationally.

“Miss Green,” Balcombe replied. “I should put her age at about fifty. She told me she had been a governess all her life, and I am bound to say she has rather that appearance. She answered my advertisement in The Times, and I asked her to come for an interview last week. I was so struck by the sensible way she answered my questions, and the attitude she adopted towards Harriet, that I engaged her on the spot. She is coming to take up the job to-morrow, and I feel quite sure she will make a success of it.”

The entrance of the Merrions put an end to this conversation, for Lord Croyle's attention was immediately diverted to them. Charlotte and Balcombe gave up their chairs, and Lord Croyle devoted himself to his visitors. He was extremely complimented that Mrs. Merrion had taken the trouble to come and see him. She must take the greatest care of her health now that the autumn was drawing on. Already he had been able to detect a dangerous chill in the air. And was she sure that she still found the Victoria quite comfortable?

Not a word about Coolham, or, for that matter, about his own unpleasant experience. Lord Croyle quite obviously did not consider either a fit subject for discussion in present company. The Merrions played up, and talked to him about the various excursions they had made in the neighbourhood in the car.

But though Lord Croyle was able thus easily to ignore the immediate past, the rest of them found it not so easy to follow his example. There was an air of suspicion in the room, emanating, as Merrion perceived, from Romayne. She was angry and unapproachable, glaring at everybody, even Nailhead, as though she suspected them all of conspiracy against her. The others seemed infected by this, and either talked with obvious restraint or lapsed into long silences.

The time for tea drew on, and at last the door burst open. Collins appeared, but he was not carrying the table. Instead, he stood in the doorway and bellowed. “Sergeant Henfield is here! And he wants to speak to Mr. Croyle and Mr. Nailhead for a moment.”

The two glanced at one another and went out. In a couple of minutes they returned, and Nailhead came up to Merrion. “I told the sergeant you were here,” he said. “He'd like a word with you, too. Will you go and speak to him? He's waiting in the hall.”

The sergeant's errand was what Merrion had anticipated. “The inquest on Mr. Coolham is to be held to-morrow, sir,” he said. “You will be required to attend as a witness. Eleven o'clock at the Court House.”

Merrion nodded. “I shall be there,” he replied. He returned to his chair beside Lord Croyle, who made no reference to the sergeant's visit beyond casting a significant glance at Merrion. As much as to say, you and I share a secret, which I can trust you not to divulge.

Tea was brought in, and the performance of the familiar routine seemed to relieve the air of constraint. Even Romayne, though her eyes continued to smoulder dangerously, came up to Mavis and talked to her with forced naturalness. Her manner suggested not so much grief, as indignation, directed against no particular individual, but against life in general. She accepted Mavis' condolences without comment.

Soon after tea was over, the door was flung open once more, and Harriet Balcombe and Luke burst in. Some vague conception of the tragedy of his grandfather's death seemed to have rendered Luke more docile than usual. He went up to Romayne and shyly slipped his hand into hers. After a while, finding her not particularly responsive, for she continued talking to Mavis, he drifted across the room towards Cecil, who immediately gave him all his attention.

But no perception of tragedy quelled Harriet's spirits. She bounced across to the window, and stood there fidgeting. Then she turned and addressed the company at large. “I say it's beastly dull here with only Luke to play with!” she exclaimed petulantly. “When are James and George coming back? That's what I want to know.”

An abrupt and awkward silence followed this thunder-clap. This mention of the twins turned everyone's thoughts to Faith, whose name, since her departure from the Castle a week earlier, had hardly been mentioned. It had seemed as though by common consent, had been applied to her the proverb, “Out of sight, out of mind.” And now her presence stalked into the room, bringing with it the chill of unwelcome memories.

It was Charlotte who stepped into the breach. “When their mother decides to bring them home, dear,” she replied briskly. “Now you run across and talk to your father and Felicity.” But this was the last thing Harriet wanted to do. She looked round the room appraisingly, then made a bee-line for Cecil to whom, above Luke's head she developed her grievance. She didn't want to come to the Castle when only Luke was there. He wouldn't play at murders, he only wanted to mess about with his lousy Meccano. Her shrill voice pervaded the room until Cecil escorted her and Luke out on to the terrace.

The sooner that new governess Balcombe was talking about takes the brat in hand the better, Merrion thought, as he continued his conversation with Lord Croyle, who remained entirely unperturbed by the incident. They were talking about the approaching winter, and Lord Croyle's concern for the central heating apparatus. He was not satisfied that the military authorities had left it in perfect order. However, Collins, whom he had told to examine it, had said that it seemed to be all right. On the first cold day he would give orders that it should be lighted up, and then they would see. Collins said he understood such things, which was a blessing. Although he was rather uncouth, he was in many ways a valuable servant.

After a while the Merrions took their leave. “Well, what do you think of the old boy?” Merrion asked as they drove back to the Victoria. “Didn't I tell you he was tough? So tough, I believe, as to be almost indestructible.”

“He's marvellous!” Mavis exclaimed. “No one would believe that less than a week ago he was nearly blown into eternity. I've often noticed that people become less susceptible as they grow old. Their nerves aren't so sensitive, I suppose. He was by far the most composed of any one in that room, just now.”

“Even when that appalling child dropped her brick about the twins,” Merrion replied. “I don't think he'd care a tinker's damn if he never saw Faith and her crochet work again. And the rest of them seem to share his sentiments. Even Roderick doesn't mope at her absence. I wonder what his ideas for the future are?”

“So do I, sometimes,” said Mavis. “Any one can see that he's restless and, well, uncommunicative.”

“Yes, he's restless,” Merrion agreed. “And I don't quite know whom he could confide in, even if he wanted to. Charlotte, who brought him up? I rather get the impression that something, perhaps the mess he made of things with Romayne, has alienated Charlotte's sympathy. Besides, she seems now to have no concern beyond her duties to her father-in-law and his castlehold. Romayne, who divorced him? It's true there's a strong affinity between them, but he can't very well discuss his second wife with his first. It would hardly be delicate.”

“I wonder what exactly you're driving at?” Mavis remarked.

“What I believe to be at the root of Roderick's trouble,” Merrion replied. “Tough though his grandfather may be, he can't live for ever. Sooner or later, Faith will become Lady Croyle, with all that the position entails. And Roderick, now that his first impulse of affection has worn off, sees clearly enough that she's not fitted for it. That he made the second serious mistake of his life when he married her.”

“The first having been when he married Romayne, I suppose?” Mavis asked.

“Or when he let her divorce him, I'm not sure which. You must admit that Romayne would have made a far more spectacular Lady Croyle than Faith ever will. And Faith's a limpet. Roderick will never shake her off, much as he might like to. I'm sorry for the chap, despite all his golden prospects.”

They were sitting on the verandah an hour or so later when Cecil joined them. “I'm feeling in need of a stimulant,” he said. “The atmosphere at the Castle this afternoon was hardly exhilarating. It will improve we'll hope, when the inquest and the funeral are over. Thank goodness, everything is in Edwin's most capable hands. I can remain in my favourite ro1e of spectator. I can only repeat my regret for having dragged you into all this.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Merrion replied. “You'll attend the inquest, I expect?”

Cecil nodded. “Yes, I shall be there. Among the general public, for I haven't been called as a witness. By the way, I was talking to Balcombe before you turned up. He told me that Coolham must have been dead quite a while before you found him.”

“Quite a while?” Merrion replied. “That's a bit on the vague side, isn't it?”

“Oh, I dare say he'll be more precise to-morrow,” said Cecil. “The point is that it wasn't the noise of his fall that started you out to look for him. I've wondered what impulse sent you strolling down the cliff path just then.”

“Just natural curiosity,” Merrion replied lightly. “Coolham, who was alleged to be climbing about the cliff by himself, didn't put in an appearance at tea-time. It occurred to me that he might have got into a tight place, and wanted help to get out of it. That does happen to climbers sometimes. Didn't you think of that?”

“Well, no, I didn't,” said Cecil. “I thought he might be keeping out of the way on purpose. To give Edwin and me a chance of talking over the ultimatum he had launched. That he might be in any danger I never for a moment imagined, after all his pose of being an expert at that sort of thing.”

“Even experts make a false move now and again,” Merrion remarked. “Nailhead will take charge of his affairs now, I suppose?”

“That's so,” Cecil replied “He and Romayne are going to Cheltenham after the funeral, which, by the way, is fixed for Thursday. They'll go through his papers together, and see what can be done. I expect it will end by Lucifer making up whatever deficit there may be, for Romayne's sake. The trustees are not empowered to do anything to help out of the annuity funds. I think I've made it clear to you that the annuity to which Coolham would have been entitled on Lucifer's death does not revert to Romayne, but to the estate.”

“Yes, I understand that,” said Merrion. “But she'll be well enough off without it, as Mrs. Nailhead.”

Cecil laughed. “Oh, Edwin's pockets are well filled, I dare say. They must be, for he is as tight-fisted as old Matthew, his father, was lavish. I don't doubt that Romayne will find ways and means of coaxing him to spend more than he has hitherto. Well, I must be getting along. See you to-morrow.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“No, I SHAN'T come to the inquest with you,” said Mavis at breakfast next morning. “It's hardly the type of entertainment that appeals to me. You can tell me all about it when you come back, in your own picturesque verbiage.”

So Merrion walked to the Court House alone. He found that the coroner had not called a jury, and that in consequence the enquiry was not to be held in the court itself, but in one of the smaller rooms in the building. An attendant policeman ushered him into this, where he found the Castle party, Romayne, Roderick, Edwin Nailhead and Collins seated round a long table, with Sergeant Henfield, another constable, Dr. Balcombe and Enoch. Cecil came in, and a reporter of the local paper, the sole representatives of the general public.

Merrion took his place, and they all waited in expectant silence. Rather as though lunch was to be served at any moment. The reporter and the constable whispered together, the former scribbling shorthand in his note-book. Punctually at eleven o'clock the door opened and the coroner came in.

He was an elderly man, with grey hair and a shrewd, whimsical expression. He took his seat at the head of the table, where was a blotter, an ink-well, and a doubtful-looking pen. Beside these he laid the attaché case he had brought with him, and took from it a testament, in a rather grimy binding, and a bundle of papers. He put on his spectacles, glanced through the papers, and turned to Henfield. “The witnesses are all here?” he asked. “Which of them identifies?”

Henfield indicated Romayne. “Mrs. Croyle, sir,” he replied. “Daughter of the deceased.”

“Oh, yes,” said the coroner. “Would you be good enough to come and sit beside me?”

Romayne got up and moved to a chair which Henfield set at the coroner's elbow. “You are Romayne Edith Croyle?” he asked, referring to his papers. “Married? Ah, yes, I see. At present residing at the Castle Croylehaven?”

“Yes,” she replied simply. She took the testament which the coroner handed her, and clutched it savagely as she repeated after him the words of the oath. “Have you seen the body, Mrs. Croyle?” the coroner asked gently.

Romayne shook her head. “No, not . . . not since it happened,” she replied unsteadily.

The coroner glanced at Balcombe, who nodded reassuringly. “I think you had better,” he said. “It will take only a minute. Perhaps you will be good enough to come with us?”

Romayne followed the coroner and Balcombe from the room. During the five minutes of their absence, Merrion imagined the scene in the mortuary. The uncovering of the dead man's features, Romayne's shuddering recognition. The others, perhaps less imaginative, sat immobile as so many dummies, striving to avoid catching one another's eye.

The three returned, and at the coroner's invitation Romayne resumed her place beside him. “Now, Mrs. Croyle,” he said gently. “You have seen the deceased. Will you be good enough to tell us who he was?”

“Yes!” Romayne replied in an unexpectedly firm tone. “My father, Edward William Coolham.”

“His age and residence?” the coroner suggested.

“He was fifty-eight last June,” Romayne replied. “And he lived at 17 Stoney Gardens, Cheltenham. He came to the Castle here last Friday on a short visit.”

“When you last saw your father, was he in good health, physically and mentally?”

“Perfectly. I have never known him ill, except for an occasional slight cold.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Croyle,” said the coroner. “I need not trouble you any further just now. As we do not want to detain Dr. Balcombe longer than is necessary, I will take his evidence next.”

Romayne returned to her place beside Nailhead, further down the table, and Balcombe took the chair she had vacated. “You have determined the cause of death, I believe, Doctor?” the coroner asked.

Balcombe replied with a highly technical description of Coolham's injuries, the gist of which was that he had broken his neck. “You did not see the body immediately after death, I understand?” the coroner asked.

“I did not see it until it had been conveyed to the mortuary,” Balcombe replied. “This was about six o'clock on Sunday, the 22nd. I formed the opinion then that deceased had died approximately three hours earlier. In my opinion, the injuries he received must have been immediately fatal.”

“We may take it then that deceased was killed about three o'clock,” said the coroner. “Would any one like to ask Dr. Balcombe any further questions?”

“If I may, sir,” Henfield replied. “Can you tell us. Doctor, how the injuries you have described were caused?”

“I can give no direct evidence on that point,” Balcombe replied. “But I may say that the injuries sustained by the deceased are compatible with his having fallen from a considerable height.”

“Exactly,” the coroner remarked. “Does any one wish to ask this witness any further question? No? Thank you, Doctor, we need not detain you any longer.” As Dr. Balcombe rose and left the room, the coroner perused his notes. “We will now hear the evidence of the witness who found the body, Mr. Merrion.”

Merrion took the chair by the coroner's side, and gave formal particulars. Desmond John Merrion, late Captain R.N.V.R., of High Eldersham Hall, now residing at the Victoria Hotel, Croylehaven. “I will read the statement you have already made, Mr. Merrion,” the coroner said. He proceeded to do so, and when he had come to the end, added, “Do you wish to amend or to add to that statement?

“No, sir,” Merrion replied. “I think that comprises all the evidence I am able to give.”

“You were acquainted with deceased, Mr. Merrion?” the coroner asked.

“Only very slightly, sir,” Merrion replied. “I met him for the first time on Saturday last, when I was paying a visit to the Castle.”

“You will allow me to congratulate you on the efficiency with which you dealt with an extremely difficult situation,” said the coroner. “Are there any further questions to be asked this witness?”

Once again Henfield replied to the invitation. “I should like to ask one thing, sir. You have told us, Mr. Merrion, that you found deceased lying on a shelf of rock, about fifteen feet above sea level. Is the cliff steep above that shelf?”

“Almost sheer,” Merrion replied. “If he had fallen from above, there was nothing to stop him till he reached the shelf.”

Enoch followed Merrion. His statement was read aloud, and he had nothing to add to it. To Merrion's vast relief, no questions were put to him. He had been on tenterhooks lest something should come out about Coolham having hired the little dinghy on Wednesday night. The incident had no bearing on the present enquiry, and the coroner would have disregarded it. But its significance might have been apparent to the members of the Castle party. Apart from Lord Croyle's desire for secrecy, the wretched man was dead, and there was no point now in branding his memory with an unsuccessful attempt to murder.

The coroner called next on Collins, who repeated the oath in sonorous cockney tones. “The trewth, the 'ole trewth, and nothink but the trewth.” A statement he had made was read by the coroner. On the 22nd, he thought it must have been between a quarter and half-past two, he had been in his pantry at the Castle, putting away the silver that had been used at lunch. Deceased had come in and told him that he was going to climb the cliff, continuing the search of the previous day. Deceased had said that he would not ask witness to come with him, as it was Sunday, but had asked him for the rope which had been used the day before. Witness had fetched the rope from the cupboard in which he had put it, and given it to deceased, who then went out. That had been the last occasion on which witness had seen him.

“Did deceased tell you that he was going to climb the cliff alone?” the coroner asked.

“No, sir, he didn't,” Collins replied. “As he asked for the rope, I thought some of the other gentlemen might be going with him. There'd been four of us altogether looking for them things on Saturday afternoon.”

Henfield put a fairly obvious question. Where had the witness been at three o'clock?

“When I'd finished putting away the silver, I sat down in my chair and took a nap,” Collins replied. “I always do on Sundays if I get the chance. I didn't get out of it till the front door bell rang a few minutes before four. And when I went to open the door I found that it was Mr. Merrion and his lady.”

The next occupant of the chair was Roderick. His statement began with an explanation of the search of the cliff. An explosion, presumably caused by some object overlooked by the military, had occurred on the 19th, injuring Lord Croyle. Deceased, on his arrival at the Castle next day, had volunteered to lead a search-party on the cliff face, stating that he was an experienced rock-climber. A party of four had carried out a search on the 21st, without finding anything.

After lunch on the 22nd, deceased had expressed his intention of renewing the search. Witness had declined to go with him. Deceased had then said that if he could get nobody to go with him, he would go by himself. It was about two o'clock when witness had last spoken to deceased. His manner and behaviour had appeared to him perfectly normal.

Roderick had nothing to add to this, and the coroner asked him no questions. To Henfield's enquiry where he had been at three o'clock, he replied that soon after deceased had gone, he and Mr. Nailhead had gone into the library, where they had remained together until Mr. Cecil Croyle's arrival at the Castle, about half-past three.

Edwin Nailhead's statement merely confirmed Roderick's. He had been present when deceased had announced his intention of renewing the search, and he, too, had declined to accompany him. He and the previous witness had gone to the library a few minutes after two, where they had remained until Mr. Cecil Croyle joined them. He had had some conversation with deceased in the morning, and had noticed nothing abnormal in his manner.

The last witness was Henfield, who, as he declaimed the oath, held the testament high above his head as though it were a banner. His evidence was purely formal, to the effect that he had taken the statements of the witnesses.

The coroner collected his papers. “I shall give a verdict of accident,” he said. “We have been told of the injuries which caused the death of the deceased, and these, taken in conjunction with the evidence of the witness who found the body, establish that deceased fell from a considerable height. It was a most unfortunate occurrence, and I take this opportunity of expressing my sympathy with his daughter and the remaining members of the family.”

“I should like to add my own sympathy, and that of the police, to that, sir,” said Henfield.

“There is one more formality,” said the coroner, extracting a blank form from among his papers. “You are representing the family, Mr. Nailhead? I will make out the burial certificate, and give it to you. It only remains for me to pay each of the witnesses a sum of two shillings, for which I shall require their signatures on a form of receipt.”

Merrion contrived to avoid the others. He walked straight back to the Victoria, where he gave Mavis a full and detailed account of the proceedings. “I never expected any other verdict,” he said. “I told Lord Croyle as much yesterday, I don't for a moment dispute it, for I don't see what other conclusion the coroner could have arrived at. But most inquests are like a Gruyere cheese, full of holes. This one certainly was.”

Mavis smiled. “Your imagination at work again? Tell me about them.”

“The holes? You can see them clearly enough for yourself, I dare say. To begin with, the possible alternative of suicide. This was never raised, for no motive for such an act on Coolham's part was hinted at. I was responsible for a gaping hole there, for I did not reveal that, three days previously, Coolham had, almost certainly, failed in an attempt on the life of his father-in-law. Then Nailhead introduced another. He said that he had had a conversation with deceased that morning. But he did not reveal that, in the course of that conversation, Coolham had told him that his finances were in a desperate state.

“Then again, the evidence as to the time of death, always a vexed question. Balcombe was rather more precise than medical witnesses usually are, and didn't hedge. He said that he saw deceased about six o'clock and formed the opinion that he had died approximately three hours earlier. Upon which the coroner remarked that it might be assumed that deceased had been killed about three o'clock.

“All this was fair enough, if taken in an elastic sense. But everyone in court, the police included, interpreted it rigidly. Henfield's question to the witness, which I am sure he regarded as a mere matter of form, was, where were you at three o'clock? As though it had been established that Coolham was killed as the clock was striking the hour, which of course is ridiculous. Had Balcombe been asked to expand his statement, he would no doubt have claimed a margin of at least half an hour either way.”

“You're splitting hairs, aren't you?” Mavis asked. “What does it matter when exactly the man was killed?”

“As things were, it doesn't matter,” Merrion replied. “And that no doubt is why the coroner let the assumption pass. But it would have mattered a lot if there had been any suggestion of foul play, which there wasn't. Don't you see? Roderick and Nailhead bore one another out in saying that they were in the library from soon after lunch until half-past three, when Cecil joined them. I am quite prepared to accept that as a fact.

“But, since that period included the exact moment of three o'clock, everybody was quite satisfied, and asked no further question. However, allowing for a reasonable margin in the time of death, there is a further question. What happened immediately after half-past three? Did the three men stop in the library together, or did one of them go out? Roderick and Nailhead, at least, knew that Coolham was clambering about the cliff somewhere by himself. Or, where had Cecil been during the few minutes before his appearance?”

“Are you seriously suggesting that one of the three pushed Mr. Coolham over the cliff?” Mavis asked.

Merrion laughed. “Not for a moment. I'm only pointing out to you what I consider to be holes in the enquiry.”

“Then I'll point out one you don't seem to have noticed,” said Mavis. “Collins says that after he had given Mr. Coolham the rope, he took a nap in his chair till we rang the front door bell. There seems to be no confirmation of that. And another thing. When we got to the Castle we found Cecil already there.”

“You're quite right,” Merrion replied. “But I shouldn't ask for confirmation of Collins' statement that he took a nap on Sunday afternoon. It's a traditional observance with men of his origins. And Cecil wouldn't have rung the front door bell. Being one of the family, it's an unnecessary formality when he's alone. I expect he let himself in by the garden door. In any case, I can think of no reason why Collins should have so violent a dislike to Coolham, whom he had never seen before Friday, as to push him over the cliff.”

“I wonder what you really think?” Mavis remarked speculatively.

“To be perfectly frank, I don't know,” Merrion replied. “There seems to have been absolutely no motive for Coolham's murder. His death was of no immediate advantage to anybody. That Roderick would ultimately benefit by the reversion of the annuity seems too remote to be plausible. The fellow may have committed suicide, or he may just have lost his foothold and fallen. You can take your choice.”

“All these things happening in such quick succession!” Mavis exclaimed. “Do you know, I'm haunted by that remark of Romayne's the other day. A curse upon the name of Croyle! Can there possibly be anything in it?”

“Failing to find a logical explanation, one is driven to seek an illogical one,” Merrion replied. “But this curse of yours operates very clumsily. We can exonerate the curse from all responsibility for Lord Croyle's experience. We know well enough who worked that. The other two deaths do not in any way effect the Croyle succession, which is usually the object of a family curse. The removal from the scene of Jonathan and Coolham leaves matters exactly as they were before. Roderick remains the heir, and Luke will follow him. Neither of them have suffered any ill effects from the curse, so far at least. You may say that the intended victim in the first case was Luke, not Jonathan. To which I can only reply that no really intelligent curse would make a mistake like that.”

Mavis laughed. “I don't feel competent to discuss the intelligence of curses. But, seriously, Desmond, can you accept two fatalities, both purely accidental, in the same family within ten days?”

“Logic compels me to,” Merrion replied. “Can there be some hidden condition, so deeply buried that nobody has stumbled upon it?”

“There is Mr. Nailhead's secret, now shared with Romayne,” Mavis suggested.

“Yes,” Merrion agreed doubtfully. “Romayne is inclined to look at things through a magnifying glass, or, if you prefer it, to see them reflected in a distorting mirror. I don't suppose that secret is half so awe-inspiring as she led us to believe. And I can't very well see how it can have been responsible for the two accidents. If there is a hidden condition, it must be rather more tangible. If it exists, I'll stake my life that Lord Croyle is not aware of it.”

“I don't quite know what you mean by a hidden condition,” Mavis remarked.

“I hardly know myself, that's why I choose such a vague expression. I'll try to explain my thoughts, to myself as much as to you. Within the past fortnight there have been three incidents at the Castle, the death of Jonathan, the attempt on Lord Croyle's life, and the death of Coolham. In the case of the second incident, both motive and opportunity are plain enough. We can say with practical certainty that the late and not very deeply lamented Coolham was the perpetrator.

“But the other two incidents are by no means to be so simply explained. In the case of the first, the motive is obscure. It remains so, even if we suppose that Luke was the intended victim, for I don't think either of us believe that Faith had anything to do with it. The opportunity, which amounts to the unlocking of the gate, was open to a good many people, Coolham, it must be noted, being one of the exceptions. In the case of the third incident, the motive is equally obscure. Even Roderick gained only remotely by the fellow's death. On the other hand, the opportunity, Coolham scrambling alone about the cliff, was perfect for any one who might happen along.”

Mavis nodded as her husband paused. “I know. We seem to have been over all this before.”

“Without solving the problem, if one exists. Hence my search for a hidden condition. A state of affairs, at present unrevealed, by which some person unknown would benefit by the deaths, first of Jonathan, then of Coolham.”

“But who could that unknown person be?” Mavis demanded.

“There you've got me,” Merrion replied. “The condition being hidden, the field of speculation is unlimited. For that matter, our own tent is pitched upon it. I wonder if it has occurred to anyone that it is since our introduction to the Castle that these three incidents have taken place?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE MERRIONS refrained from visiting the Castle for the next couple of days, feeling that strangers would hardly be welcome until after the funeral. Nor did Cecil put in an appearance at the Victoria until Thursday afternoon. “Well, here I am at last,” he said then, as he joined them on the verandah. “Under the circumstances, I didn't come to see you before Coolham was buried here this morning, very quietly, as I expect you know.”

Mavis nodded. “We thought it better not to attend. How is Lord Croyle?”

“Going ahead marvellously,” Cecil replied. “I've just come from the Castle, and he seems to be quite his old self again. He has so completely got over the shock that he has told Roderick to see about getting the summer-house repaired. And, far from taking Coolham's death to heart, it almost seems to have been a relief to him.”

“I'm very glad to hear he's doing so well,” said Merrion. “And Romayne?”

“Oh, she's getting over it,” Cecil replied “She's down one minute and up the next, you know. She and Edwin are going to Cheltenham to-morrow, to see what they can make of her father's affairs. She is taking Luke with her, and means to stay there for a bit. Until things are settled up, I believe. Edwin doesn't mean to tell Lucifer anything about Coolham's affairs until he knows exactly how matters stand.”

“What view does Lord Croyle take of Romayne going to Cheltenham?” Mavis asked.

“A perfectly reasonable one,” Cecil replied “He understands that she doesn't care to stay in the place where her father was killed. Besides, he thinks it will take her mind off the tragedy if she has something to do. That reminds me, I haven't seen you since the inquest. We are all very glad that the coroner complimented you as he did.”

“I did no more than any one else would have done,” said Merrion. “And I couldn't have done what I did, but that by sheer luck Enoch had been out fishing that afternoon. He seems a good chap. You know him?”

Cecil nodded. “I know most of the Croylehaven folk, at least by sight. I can't claim to be familiar with Enoch, for fishing is not one of my hobbies. But, so far as I know, he's a decent, respectable chap.”

Cecil's indifference was sufficient to show Merrion that, if Enoch had been talking about Coolham having hired his little dinghy, the rumour had not reached Cecil's ears. That was all to the good, for the incident had far better be buried in oblivion. And Cecil went on to another subject. “The Bomb Disposal people were at the Castle yesterday and the day before. They swear blind that they overlooked nothing the last time they were there. On the other hand, they can't suggest what else it can have been that so nearly blew up Lucifer. They've been all over the ground again, and are positive that there is nothing dangerous there.”

“We'll hope that will be the last of these alarms,” said Merrion. “So Romayne and Nailhead are leaving to-morrow? And Luke too? The Castle is becoming quite deserted.”

“It will be still more deserted before long, unless I'm very much mistaken,” Cecil replied. “Roderick is getting more restless than ever. He hasn't said anything to me, at least, but I don't think he'll stick it much longer. I fancy he's only looking for a pretext to make himself scarce, at least for a while.”

“He's got a perfectly good pretext already!” Mavis exclaimed. “Can't he go and stay with Faith and her people?”

Cecil smiled. “I don't know that he'd find that any more exhilarating than he does the company at the Castle. After all, he's young. He's not quite thirty yet, although he's crammed a good many varying experiences into the past few years. While he was in the Army he got used to the companionship of men of his own age. I think part of his trouble is that he's missing that now.”

“I dare say he is,” said Merrion. “It's quite likely that he does feel a bit isolated at the Castle.”

“And, to some extent in a false position,” Cecil agreed. “As the heir of an old man of eighty, who, after all, can't live indefinitely, he might expect to take over the reins gradually. But as things are, that's out of the question. Lucifer hates the slightest hint of change of any kind. He's so used to Charlotte running the establishment-she took on that job before Roderick was born, you must remember-that he couldn't bear the thought of any one else taking over.
It would make him more of a hypochondriac than ever. And Charlotte will never let go of her own accord.”

Cecil raised his glass and squinted thoughtfully at its contents. “What's going to happen?” he went on. “In the comparatively near future, I mean. Romayne will marry Edwin, and they will live in the Hampstead house, with Luke, of course. It's pretty obvious that Felicity means to marry Balcombe, and settle down in his house in the town here. Presumably Faith will return to her husband's side, clucking like a hen, with the twins under her wing. So that there'll be four singularly ill-assorted grown-ups at the Castle. Lucifer, Roderick, Charlotte and Faith.”

“I don't see why they shouldn't manage to get on together perfectly well,” Mavis remarked.

“There is no reason why they shouldn't,” Cecil replied. “But somehow I don't fancy they will. Lucifer gets fretful if his family aren't dancing attendance upon him. He certainly prefers both Romayne and Felicity to Faith, and he'll miss having them about the place. Charlotte still regards Roderick as the little boy she brought up, and he's in disgrace. He's blotted his copy-book for ever in her eyes by getting divorced from the mate she choose for him, and taking another of whom she disapproves. Faith will sulk over the thought that though some day she will be Lady Croyle, her own children have no part in the succession. And Roderick will be frankly bored.”

“Well, I don't see what anyone can do about it,” said Mavis. “You don't suggest that Romayne and Felicity ought to put off getting married until after Lord Croyle's death, do you?”

Cecil shook his head. “No, I don't suggest that. But I do hope that they'll both spend as much time at the Castle as they can. Nothing would please Lucifer better than for them to have their babies there. He takes a vicarious delight in any form of invalidism. And that reminds me. When I left him just now I told him I was coming here. He gave me strict instructions to enquire after your health, Mrs. Merrion, and to beg you not to stay out of doors too late, for the evenings are becoming distinctly chilly.”

“It is very kind of Lord Croyle to think of me,” said Mavis.

“He thinks a lot of both of you, I assure you,” Cecil replied. “And if you are really good Samaritans, you'll go and see him to-morrow afternoon. He'll be feeling the departure of Romayne and Edwin, and you'll cheer him up no end.”

Cecil finished his drink and went out. “Yes, I think we'd better go to the Castle to-morrow,” said Merrion, when he had gone. “Cecil's quite right. Lord Croyle likes to have people to talk to. It seems a great pity that Roderick doesn't lay himself out to be more companionable to his grandfather.”

“I can't understand Roderick,” Mavis replied. “His prospects, from the material point of view, are all that a young man could dream of. He'll have the estate, the title, and, one gathers, plenty of money to keep them up.”

“From the material point of view, yes,” Merrion agreed. “But he's a Croyle, with all the Croyle fastidiousness. He realises he made a mistake in marrying Faith, who, as he sees well enough, won't shape very well as Lady Croyle. I think he's still fond enough of her, and that she would make him a very good wife in a less exalted position. In a way, it's a pity that he's the heir. I believe both he and Faith would be far happier if he had some employment. If he had to take a job and stick to it for their bread and butter, in fact.”

Mavis nodded. “I think you're right. I never really took a liking to Faith, but I don't doubt she'd make an admirable wife for a daily-breader. Waiting at home in the suburbs for her hubby's return from the office. But that's hardly a qualification for the future Lady Croyle of Croylehaven Castle.”

“Yes, we always come back to that,” Merrion agreed. “All the same, I expect Faith is champing at the bit, waiting for that day to come. And when it does, she'll let the rest of them know who's mistress. She won't forgive the scandal of being practically driven from the Castle like that. Well, we'll go there to-morrow afternoon, if only to reassure the old boy as to your health.”

Next day they set out accordingly in the car. As they descended the hill leading towards the town, Mavis exclaimed suddenly, “Look! There's that terrible Balcombe child! And the woman with her must be the new governess Dr. Balcombe was talking about. I wonder if they're going up to the Castle too?”

Merrion glanced at the pavement, where Harriet and a woman were walking. “They're heading the wrong way,” he replied tranquilly. “Besides, it isn't likely that Harriet would be sent up to the Castle now. There are no children left there now for her to play with. Well, I don't envy that unfortunate woman her job.”

But, from the passing glance they caught of her. Miss Green looked quite capable of coping even with Harriet. She was a middle-aged woman, stiff, upright, and positively radiating discipline. The large tinted sun-glasses she wore gave her a particularly formidable expression. She seemed already to have exerted her influence on Harriet, who was walking quite demurely by her side. Balcombe's selection of a governess had clearly been most judicious.

“All the same, I wonder how it will work out?” said Mavis, following up her thought. “A governess' job is comparatively simple when there is no other woman in authority. Dr. Balcombe is a busy man, and I expect he's quite content to leave the charge of Harriet to this Miss Green. But if he ends by marrying Felicity, what then?”

“Harriet will find herself equipped with a brand-new stepmother, that's all,” Merrion replied.

“It isn't by any means all,” said Mavis. “Will Felicity be content to leave Harriet entirely to Miss Green? I very much doubt it. She'll want to make some sort of a show of taking an interest in the child's upbringing. Stepmothers always do. That will lead to dual control, and unless I'm very much mistaken Harriet has quite enough low cunning in her make-up to know how to play one off against the other.”

Merrion laughed. “I'm not greatly concerned with the internal politics of the future Balcombe household. In any case, I shouldn't care to predict what line Felicity might take. I don't feel I know her well enough for that.”

“No,” said Mavis thoughtfully.” she is the one of all of them that we have got to know least. Of course, it is only natural that she should have kept herself very much to herself since her boy's death. But I don't think that's the whole of the story. Even before that happened, she struck me as being a good deal more reserved than the rest.”

“She's not a Croyle,” Merrion replied. “Because she bears the name, and because we found her installed at the Castle, we have regarded her as one of the family. But when you come to think of it, she isn't really. She is the widow of Lord Croyle's grandson, to whom she had not been married very long before he was killed. She is Charlotte's daughter-in-law, certainly, but that tie will be weakened, if not broken, if and when she becomes Mrs. Balcombe. She hasn't a drop of Croyle blood in her. Put it this way. She has secured no more than a temporary commission in the Croyle regiment. You can't expect her to have completely absorbed the regimental traditions.”

“She fits in very well at the Castle, all the same,” said Mavis. “It's a pity Roderick didn't marry her instead of Faith. Lord Croyle will miss her when she's married again. She won't be very far off, though, which may console him.”

They reached the Castle, to find a very depleted party. Only Lord Croyle, Charlotte, Felicity and Dr. Balcombe. But as soon as they entered the drawing-room they perceived an atmosphere not of dejection, but of unusual freedom from restraint. The very furniture seemed to reflect this. Lord Croyle's chair had been moved from its rather detached position in the window to a homelier spot nearer the fire. And instead of being flanked protectively by two others, it formed one of a sociable semi-circle. The alteration was perhaps slight, but Merrion found it significant.

Lord Croyle was in the best of spirits, and there was no doubt of the genuineness of his pleasure in seeing his visitors. He was full of the repairs which were to be carried out to the summer-house. “I actually got out myself for a few minutes yesterday afternoon,” he said to Merrion, who had sat down beside him. “Roderick gave me his arm as far as the summer-house, and we inspected it together. I was glad to find that the damage was not so extensive as I had feared.”

“I have seen it myself,” Merrion replied. “It oughtn't to be a very big job to put it right.”

“Quite simple,” Lord Croyle agreed. “But I have had the idea of improving on the design. Only very rarely have the glass doors to the east and south-east been opened. The draughts from that direction are always too treacherous. They might very well be replaced by a solid brick wall, giving greater warmth. What do you think, Mr. Merrion?”

“I think it would be a capital idea!” Merrion replied with sympathetic enthusiasm.

“I am so glad you approve,” said Lord Croyle. “I have the greatest respect for your opinion. I should like both you and Mrs. Merrion to consider the matter before work is commenced. And that will, I hope, be very shortly. The summer-house was built by a London firm, and I should naturally prefer that they should carry out the alterations. Roderick has very kindly offered to go and discuss the matter with them.”

Merrion remembered Cecil's remark about Roderick's search for a pretext. “Has he gone already?” he asked.

“Yes, he went this morning,” Lord Croyle replied. “In the car which took Romayne, Edwin and Luke to Ernehead. There they will have parted, Roderick taking the train to London, and the others a different one, which has a connection to Cheltenham. Roderick will be in London for a few days, as he has business of his own to transact.”

Merrion wondered just how urgent that business might be. Obviously he had seized upon the alteration to the summer-house as an excuse to get away for a bit. Well, nobody seemed to miss him, least of all his grandfather. Indeed, this comparatively empty Castle seemed a happier place than Merrion had known it before.

After tea, he found himself talking to Balcombe, while Mavis entertained Lord Croyle. “What do you think of my patient, Mr. Merrion?” Balcombe asked proudly. “His progress, barely a week from his accident, is wonderful.”

“It is indeed,” Merrion agreed. “You're to be congratulated. I never expected so rapid a recovery.”

“To tell the truth, neither did I,” said Balcombe. “His power of resistance is greater than I believed. I made a point of coming here this afternoon, for I feared a set-back. I was afraid that the departure of so many of the party at once might depress him. But I am very glad to see that it has not done so.”

It certainly did not look like it, for Lord Croyle was chuckling happily at something Mavis was telling him. “He seems in excellent form,” Merrion agreed. “By the way, as we were coming here we passed your little girl, and a lady with her. The new governess you were speaking about. I suppose?”

“Yes, Miss Green,” Balcombe replied. “Taking Harriet for a brisk walk before tea. That's one of her rules. She's really a wonderful woman. She's only been here a few days, but already she's got everything worked out to the last detail. She's not exactly strict, that's hardly the word. But she's painstaking and determined. Harriet has to do what Miss Green tells her, there's no question about that. And the miracle is that the child seems to like doing it.”

“Miss Green appears to be one of those people with a gift for managing children,” Merrion remarked.

“Is it a gift?” Balcombe replied. “Or is it skill acquired by long experience? Miss Green tells me that she has been a governess all her adult life and, curiously enough, that she enjoys her vocation. She's certainly most devoted. She never leaves Harriet for a moment until she has put her to bed, and then she likes to go out for a brisk walk by herself. To work off the surplus energy with which she simply bristles. I only hope she'll stay with us. I think she will, for she seems quite happy, and she told me yesterday that she'd quite fallen in love with Croylehaven, though she'd never been here before.”

Felicity joined them where they were standing, and Merrion took the opportunity of drifting away towards Lord Croyle. The catalogue of Miss Green's virtues hardly interested him. It was a blessing that Balcombe had found a woman who could keep his brat in order. He sat down beside Lord Croyle and immediately became engaged in animated conversation with him. This lasted until Mavis reminded him that it was time for them to leave.

As they were having dinner. Mavis remarked upon their visit. “It was quite different,” she said. “It was the first time we've been there that I didn't feel just a wee bit uncomfortable. As though things were going on round me that I couldn't understand. They were all more natural, if you know what I mean.”

Merrion nodded. “I know perfectly well. A relaxation of tension. They weren't so keyed up as they have been since we've known them. The removal of disturbing factors, I suppose. And even more than that, perhaps, the abandonment of the vulture attitude.”

“And what exactly do you expect me to understand by that?” Mavis asked.

“Why, you remember how Cecil defined the position to us, or to me, at least, before ever we set foot in the Castle. He said that all the family were hanging round, waiting for Lord Croyle's final pecuniary blessings before his death. I don't think he was very far from the mark. They were certainly justified in assuming from the old man's manner and his constant preoccupation with his health, that he hadn't much longer to live. They didn't see that this was all. hypochondria. Even Balcombe perhaps was taken in. And now look what's happened.”

“I've never seen Lord Croyle so bright and cheerful as he was this afternoon,” Mavis remarked.

“Exactly. Yet only a week ago he sustained a shock which might have been expected to finish off any one who was already at death's door. The family must realise that, far from being fragile as they imagined. Lord Croyle is remarkably resilient. That being so, he may, and probably will, live for many years yet. They can safely postpone the gathering round his death-bed, and the mutual jealousy involved. Some of them have departed already.”

“That sounds most uncharitable, but there may be something in it,” Mavis agreed.

“There's a lot in it. Those people can't have been very comfortable together. Each on the watch lest one of the others should snatch an unfair advantage. And I'm pretty sure that Lord Croyle has been perfectly well aware what was going on in their minds. He perceives a lot more than he's given credit for. And he has his own private reasons for a sense of profound relief. It's not likely now that there will be any more unexplained accidents.”

“You mean, now that odious Coolham man is dead,” said Mavis. “Well, yes. Lord Croyle must find that a comforting thought.”

“Of course he does,” Merrion replied. “You see, he's the only one who knows all the facts. All the same, I can't help wondering whether the rest are really as satisfied as they profess to be that the accident was due to something left behind by the military.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ON THE following afternoon, Saturday, the Merrions went again to the Castle, to find that the atmosphere remained calm and unruffled. Cecil was there and seemed favourably affected, for his attitude was less detached and remote than usual. He was sitting quite amicably with Lord Croyle, listening patiently to his pessimistic forebodings of the effect the coming winter might have upon his own health and everybody else's.

Though not exactly a farewell visit, the Merrions let it be known that their stay at Croylehaven was coming to an end the following week. They had decided upon this, for though the change of air had visibly done Mavis good, they were both anxious to get home. “Time to be gone,” Merrion had said. “You needn't regret losing sight of the Castle. It has been an eventful chapter, but it's come to an end now. The next won't be written for what I hope may be a very long while. Not until Roderick ceases to be the heir and becomes Lord Croyle.”

Everyone expressed polite grief at their impending departure. Lord Croyle's was undoubtedly genuine. “I owe Cecil an eternal debt of gratitude for making us acquainted,” he said. “I shall miss you both extremely, but I refuse to regard the parting as more than temporary. You must come back when the winter is over, and the weather begins to get warmer in the spring. And you must be my guests here at the Castle. I should not like you to be subject once more to the discomforts of a hotel.”

They discussed their plans that evening after dinner. “We'd better pull out on Wednesday,” Merrion suggested. “We shall have been here exactly four weeks then. We can make home in a day, if you feel up to so long a drive.”

“I shall manage it all right,” Mavis replied. “I'm a lot better than I was when we came here. I wonder if we shall ever see the place again? I somehow don't see us staying at the Castle, do you?”

Merrion shook his head. “Not exactly. And the old boy would be very hurt if we came to Croylehaven without staying there. On the other hand, I should hate the idea of never seeing him again. Well, we shall see.”

On Sunday morning they were sitting on the hotel verandah when Cecil appeared. It was a most unusual hour for him, and he looked worried or annoyed, it was hard to tell which. “I'm awfully sorry to break in on your Sabbath peace like this,” he said. “But there's some trouble up at the Castle. Charlotte has just rung me up.”

“There is nothing the matter with Lord Croyle?” Mavis exclaimed.

“Oh, no,” Cecil replied reassuringly. “Lucifer is all right. He hasn't been told of this latest development, I gather. The fact is that butler chap Collins has walked out, according to Charlotte, without leaving any trace behind him.”

“That sounds curious,” Merrion remarked. “Has he taken anything of value with him?”

“Charlotte doesn't think so,” Cecil replied. “But with Roderick in London and Edwin gone, there's no man in the place to take the matter in hand, so she's fallen back on me. She wants me to go to the Castle as soon as possible. I have taken the unpardonable liberty of coming here first, to ask you if you would go with me.”

“Of course I will,” said Merrion readily. “I'll get the car out and we'll be there in a brace of shakes.”

A few minutes later he and Cecil were on their way. “The truth is that I feel to some extent responsible for Collins,” Cecil said. “You know it was I who interviewed him originally and recommended Lucifer to take him on. If he's bolted with the family heirlooms, the reproach will be mine. The obvious thing of course would be to inform the police, but I don't want to do that till I've heard the whole story. Lucifer would hate having them about the place asking questions.”

“I quite agree,” Merrion replied. “It would be far better to find out what really has happened before calling in the police. It may be that Collins has merely thrown up his job on a sudden impulse.”

They found Charlotte waiting for them when they reached the Castle. She was obviously glad that Cecil had brought Merrion with him, believing no doubt that two masculine heads were better than one. She was inclined to be flustered, and her story was long-winded. Boiled down to essential facts, it amounted to this. Seeing that Collins was not in the dining-room at breakfast time, she had asked the parlourmaid where he was, only to learn that he had not been seen that morning. She had sent the maid to his room, and the girl had come back saying that there was nobody there and the room had not been slept in. This Charlotte had confirmed for herself. On making enquiries, it seemed the cook had been the last person to see him. This had been a little after nine the previous evening. She had seen him going out of the house, wearing a cap and raincoat.

“Was there anything unusual about that?” Cecil asked.

“Oh, no,” Charlotte replied. “It has always been understood that Collins was free when he had finished his work after dinner. Cook says he often goes out then, but she has never known him stay out very late.”

Not much point in staying out after the pubs closed at ten o'clock, was Merrion's unspoken thought as Charlotte continued her story. She had had a good look round everywhere. She couldn't find anything missing from the butler's pantry, or for that matter from anywhere else. Neither she nor Felicity had lost any personal effects. Such portable valuables as were kept at the Castle were locked up in the strong-room, and this had not been opened. There was no large sum of money in the house, and the Croyle jewels were safely in the bank.

Having heard all that Charlotte could tell them, Cecil and Merrion set out to explore for themselves, starting with Collins' room in the north wing. They found it not exactly tidy, for Collins was not a man of tidy habits, but in no conspicuous disorder. A few articles of clothing were lying about, but Merrion noticed that among these were not the black coat and trousers worn by the butler when on duty. A chest of drawers contained a quantity of garments, and in the bottom drawer a leather attaché case, securely locked.

“He doesn't seem to have gone very far,” Merrion remarked. “When he went out, he seems to have been wearing the suit he served dinner in, and he doesn't appear to have taken any of his belongings. Just as though he meant to come back after half an hour or so. Let's have a look in his pantry.”

Cecil led the way to this rather gloomy sanctum, where again there was no evident disorder. A quantity of plate was lying about, washed up after dinner the previous evening, but not yet put away. The plate chest was locked, but Cecil found the key hanging among others on a rack. With this they opened the chest, to find its baize-lined trays packed lull of silver. “If the chap has taken anything, it can't be more than half a dozen teaspoons,” Cecil remarked. “What the devil can have made him clear out like that, I wonder?”

It seemed to Merrion that Cecil was unduly concerned at the butler's disappearance. The calm which had supported him at the time of the previous tragedies seemed to have deserted him. “It's very queer,” he muttered, as though to himself.” he can't have gone chasing up to London, surely?”

“It's where he came from,” Merrion replied. “But not in his butler's kit, taking nothing with him.”

Cecil's only reply was an irritable frown. “When you come to think of it, it would be a queer time of day to start for London,” Merrion went on. “I happen to know that the last up train leaves Ernehead at 9.20. He could never have made it, and there's no other transport, except by car.”

Cecil's brow cleared slightly. “That's true enough,” he said. “But if he didn't go to London, where is he?”

“I can't tell you that,” Merrion replied. “One can only ask, what was his immediate destination when he went out yesterday evening. Some place in the town, such as his favourite pub perhaps. We might hear of someone who met him on the road.”

“I'm not so sure about any one meeting him,” said Cecil. “He wouldn't go into the town by the main road, the one you use in the car. He'd cut across the park, and over the stile into Farthing Lane. It's much shorter.”

“My local knowledge doesn't extend to that,” Merrion replied. “It might be worth our while to explore.”

They left the Castle by the back door, crossed a yard, and skirted the kitchen garden to a gate, beyond which was the park. A well-defined path led across the grass, and this they took. About a couple of hundred yards from the Castle, stood a roughly circular coppice, along the edge of which the path ran. As they passed this, Merrion noticed, a little way back among the trees, a windowless single-storeyed building. “What's that place?” he asked.

“It's the old ice-house,” Cecil replied. “There used to be a pit in the middle of it, which in the old days was filled up with ice in the winter, but the pit was filled in long ago. I believe the troops used the place as a store when they were here. But as far as I know, nobody has used it since then.”

Merrion walked up to the ice-house and tried the heavy wooden door, only to find it locked. He was about to turn away, when something about the keyhole attracted his attention. He inserted the tip of his finger, withdrew it, and found upon it a film of discoloured oil.

This he showed to Cecil, who had joined him. “Someone has unlocked, or at all events tried to unlock, this door quite recently,” he said. “Have you any idea where the key is, or should be?”

“On the rack in the butler's pantry, I expect,” Cecil replied. “That's the most likely place.”

“Then it's quite possible that Collins has been poking about here,” said Merrion. “I think it's worth while going back to look for the key. We might be able to spot it among tile rest by it being oily.”

They retraced their steps to the butler's pantry. The key-rack consisted of a couple of rows of hooks screwed into a board fixed to the wall. Keys hung on most of the hooks, but these were all labelled, and none of them were oily. Looking closely, however, Merrion found a distinct oil-stain on the board below one of the vacant hooks.

“That's where the key of the ice-house used to hang, and not so long ago,” he said. “Why isn't it there now? Can Collins have taken it with him? I'd very much like to know what's inside that ice-house. Didn't you say the military had used it as a store? I wonder if they can have forgotten to clear it out when they left?”

Merrion's meaning dawned slowly upon Cecil. “Explosives?” he exclaimed. “And Collins found them? My word, that would explain a lot! You're right, we must see what's in there. We ought to be able to break the door down between us. There's a crowbar in the potting-shed, I know. Shall we have a shot at it?”

Merrion expressed himself perfectly ready. They found the crowbar, and took it back with them to the ice-house. Merrion thrust the bar into the jamb, and after a couple of heaves the fastening gave way and the door flew open. Daylight poured into the clammy interior, but revealed no forgotten explosives. Only the body of Collins, lying outstretched on the floor in a pool of half-congealed blood.

For a moment they stood staring, stricken with horror, then Cecil surged forward. But Merrion laid his hand on his shoulder. “Don't go in!” he said sharply. “We can't keep this from the police, and they won't like it if any one has been before them. The fellow's dead, that's plain enough, but Dr. Balcombe will have to see him.”

Cecil passed his hand across his forehead. “Dead!” he exclaimed. “My word, that's pretty awful. This is going to finish poor old Lucifer, I'm afraid. I wish we could bury him quietly and say nothing about it.”

It was by no means clear to Merrion why the death of his butler should finish Lord Croyle, who had so triumphantly survived the deaths of Jonathan and Coolham. “We can't do that,” he replied. “Will you go back to the Castle and telephone the police and Balcombe? I'll stay here and keep guard.”

Cecil nodded absently, like a man in a dream. “I suppose we must,” he said. “All right, I'll go. Balcombe ought to be at the Castle now. It's about the time for his daily visit to Lucifer. I'll tell him, and ring up Henfield.”

It was with some misgiving that Merrion watched him go. He seemed so shaken by the discovery that it was doubtful whether he could be trusted to carry out even so simple a task. But it wouldn't have done to have left him alone at the ice-house. He might have meddled, with or without intent. And Merrion was acutely conscious that any meddling might effectively obscure the answers to the riddle.

For riddle there was. In this case, accident was unthinkable. Collins had either killed himself, or he had been murdered. It was pretty certain that he had not entered the ice-house for the first time the previous evening. The key had hung on the rack after the oil had been applied to the lock. Collins must have opened up the place at some earlier date. For what purpose? Merrion could see from the doorway that but for the body the ice-house was completely empty. He could also see that he was wearing a cap and raincoat over his butler's kit. It seemed as though he had left the Castle to go to the ice-house. To hold a secret rendezvous there with somebody?

Merrion was still pacing backwards and forwards outside the ice-house when he heard voices, and a procession of three appeared. Cecil, Dr. Balcombe and Sergeant Henfield. There was no need for explanation. Cecil had already told his story, and the door was wide open. Balcombe went in, and Henfield eyed Merrion with an air of unconcealed suspicion. “Good-morning, Mr. Merrion,” he said stiffly. “What do you know about this?”

Merrion made a brief statement, which Henfield entered in his note-book. “Thank you,” said the sergeant. “That will do for the present. You need not remain here any longer. You are still stopping at the Victoria Hotel?”

Having assured him that this was the case, Merrion accepted his curt dismissal. He walked back to the car and drove to the Victoria, where he found Mavis in the lounge, writing letters. “Well, we found Collins,” he said. “In a most unexpected place, and, I'm sorry to say, as dead as mutton. Listen and I'll tell you about it.”

“My friend Henfield suspects me of having had a finger in the pie,” he went on when he had finished the story. “I don't blame him in the least. He must think it a bit queer that, whenever there's a body to be found, I'm the one to find it. But it is the most extraordinary thing. Why the butler, of all people?”

Mavis shook her head. “I can't imagine. But I shall be very glad when we've got away from here safely.”

“You can go when you like,” Merrion replied. “But I can't. I shall have to stay till this business is cleared up. I honestly believe that if I made any attempt to leave, Henfield would arrest me. You want to get home, I know. How about leaving me here, and taking a train to-morrow?”

“Do you think I would desert you in your hour of need?” Mavis asked. “If the sergeant pops you in the local clink, you'll want someone to bring you food and cigarettes. Seriously, though, I'm not going home without you. We'll stay here and see it through together. It seems you were wrong when you said the chapter was closed.”

“It seems I was,” Merrion agreed thoughtfully. “But I repeat, why the butler? How on earth can he have come into the hidden picture? That there is a hidden picture I'm more than ever convinced. And what's more, I'm pretty sure that Cecil is not only aware of its existence, but is familiar with the details of it.”

“Some skeleton in the Croyle family cupboard, which Collins came upon while he was dusting round?” Mavis suggested. “But why bring Cecil into it? You don't suppose he murdered the wretched butler, do you?”

“No, I don't suppose that,” Merrion replied. “We don't know yet that the man was murdered. But I'm not imagining things when I say that Cecil's behaviour this morning struck me as a trifle odd. The news that Collins was missing seemed to upset him unduly. He said that was because he had recommended Lord Croyle to engage the man, but I feel sure there was more behind it than that. Then he had got it into his head that Collins had gone to London, which he seemed to find most disquieting. He wasn't in the least relieved when he found nothing had been stolen, rather the contrary. So much so, that I got the impression he would rather Collins had bolted with the plate chest than without it.”

“Now, what do you mean by that?” Mavis asked.

“It's hard to explain. But this is what is running through my mind. If Collins hadn't run off with the silver, he had gone to London for some other purpose. Cecil knew what this purpose might be, and hated to contemplate it. Then, when we found the chap dead, I'm pretty sure that his immediate reaction was one of relief. But that was only momentary. It was followed by the extraordinary remark that this would finish off Lord Croyle.”

“Lord Croyle will naturally be very much upset when he hears that his butler has met with a violent death,” said Mavis. “But we know from experience that these shocks have very little lasting effect upon him.”

“Exactly. Cecil knows that as well as we do. I can only suppose that it was not the death of Collins which he expected to be fatal to Lord Croyle, but the sequel to which it would give rise. To put it bluntly, I believe that Cecil has not only an idea that Collins was murdered; but an even clearer idea who murdered him and why.”

The Merrions heard nothing more of the affair until the evening, when they were sitting in the lounge after dinner. Then a familiar figure appeared in the doorway, looked round, and came towards them. Merrion rose to greet Inspector Arnold of the C.I.D., a very old friend of his. “Here I am,” he said banteringly. “You won't want the bracelets, I'll come quietly. Care for a drink first?”

Arnold shook his head. “Later, perhaps. I'm delighted to see you again, Mrs. Merrion. It's a long time since we've met. You won't mind if your husband and I have a quiet chat somewhere?”

“We'll go into the garden,” said Merrion. “We shall be alone there.” They went out and Merrion led the way to the bench overlooking the sea. “It's warm enough here, and there's no cover for eavesdroppers,” he went on. “You don't have to tell me what you're doing here.”

“I was sent down at the request of the local police, and got here this afternoon,” Arnold replied. “I've been hearing some queer things about you. What do you know about this affair, beyond the statement you've made?”

“Nothing,” Merrion replied. “I know what you mean by queer things. Henfield can't make out how it is that I'm always at hand where there's a body. But I assure you that all the people concerned, with the exception of Cecil Croyle, were complete strangers to me until a month ago.”

“You seem to have got to know them pretty well in a short time,” Arnold remarked. “Now, look here. Of course I know well enough that you didn't murder this butler chap. Can you give me any idea who did?”

“There's no doubt that he was murdered?” Merrion asked.

“None, unless you queered the pitch while you were left alone at the ice-house this morning,” Arnold replied. “I've heard what the doctor and Henfield have to say. This man Collins was killed by a stab in the neck with some very sharp instrument, and died between nine o'clock and midnight last night. You and Mr. Croyle have both made statements to the effect that you found the door of the ice-house locked. Henfield searched the body and the ice-house this morning, and I went over both with him later. Neither of us found any weapon, or the key of the ice-house. You can put those facts together for yourself.”

Merrion nodded. “I touched nothing, I assure you. Well, your facts seem to eliminate all possibility of accident or suicide. We are told that Collins was seen going out soon after nine. Presumably he went to the ice-house, taking the key with him. He let himself in, and while he was there someone came along with this sharp instrument and stuck him with it. Having done this, the murderer went out, locking the door, and taking the key and the weapon away with him. Is that the Scotland Yard theory?”

“Of course it is,” Arnold replied. “No other will fit in with the facts. Now, who did the job?”

“I don't know,” Merrion said thoughtfully. “There have been some queer happenings up at the Castle recently. Henfield has told you about them, I dare say?”

“He has,” Arnold replied. “And, what's more, he said that you could tell me more about them than he could.”

Merrion smiled. “He's quite right. He told you about Coolham, who fell down the cliff a week ago to-day? Well, what he doesn't know about Coolham is the practical certainty that three days earlier he had tried to murder Lord Croyle.”

“Eh!” Arnold exclaimed. “What are you talking about? Henfield said nothing of that.”

“Because he doesn't know it,” said Merrion tranquilly. “But Lord Croyle does, and so do I. I think I'd better begin at the beginning, and unfold the recent history of the Castle and its inmates, as I've seen it.”

Arnold listened in amazement to Merrion's queer but simply told story. “I can't make it out!” he exclaimed at the end. “It looks as if these people had been spending their time murdering one another. This is the third death at the Castle within about three weeks.”

“It's only by the mercy of Providence that it isn't the fourth. Lord Croyle had a very narrow escape, I may tell you. You say you can't make it out. I'm quite willing to confess that I can't either.”

Arnold laughed. “What! Is even your imagination stumped this time? I should have expected you to have worked out a marvellous theory, accounting for every detail. So far as I can see, what you've been telling me doesn't make much sense anyway. It certainly doesn't explain the murder of the butler.”

“I don't agree with you there,” Merrion replied. “I have a feeling that all these strange happenings at the Castle recently would explain the murder of Collins, if only we understood them properly. We've got to ask ourselves the old familiar question. Who had anything to gain by the butler's death? Financially, one supposes, nobody. But what if he knew too much? If, for example, he was aware of the true explanation of the little boy Jonathan's death?”

“There might be something in that,” Arnold conceded. “You've just told me, which of course Henfield doesn't know, that some of the family suspected the woman you call Faith of that. And she's away up in York, isn't she?”

“I didn't tell you that I suspected Faith,” said Merrion. “In fact, I think it's most unlikely that she had anything to do with it. You've been into the butler's pantry, I expect? Then you've seen all those keys hanging on the hooks there. It wouldn't be a bad idea to see if any of them will fit the lock of the gate on the upper gallery.”

Arnold nodded. “I see what you're driving at. Collins knew who took that particular key, and what they did with it?”

“It's at least a possibility,” Merrion replied. “And here's another point for your consideration. Collins was murdered when only what we may call the irreducible minimum of the family were at home. Lord Croyle, his daughter-in-law Charlotte, and her daughter-in-law Felicity.”

“What are the chances that any of them did it?” Arnold asked.

“So small as to be negligible, I should imagine,” Merrion replied. “Have you interviewed Cecil Croyle?”

Arnold shook his head. “Not yet. I thought I'd see you first. I've seen his statement, of course. Henfield got it this morning, after he'd got yours. You don't think he's the chap, do you?”

“No, I don't,” Merrion said deliberately. “His behaviour this morning was not at all that of a murderer. Besides, if Collins was in possession of a dangerous secret, I don't see how it could concern Cecil. He's only Lord Croyle's nephew, you must understand, and could not benefit in any way from the death of Lord Croyle, Jonathan or Coolham. But he describes himself as a looker-on.”

“What in the world does he mean by that?” Arnold asked. “What does he look-on at?”

Merrion smiled. “The antics of his relatives. And very entertaining he must find them. Now, between ourselves, I believe that in the course of his looking on he picked up the clue. In other words, I have the impression that if Collins had a secret, Cecil knows, or at all event guesses, what it was.”

“Then why the dickens doesn't he say so?” Arnold demanded.

“For fairly obvious reasons,” Merrion replied. “If he has reasons for supposing that one of his relatives had a motive for murdering Collins, he'll naturally keep them to himself. His argument would be that it was far better that the murderer should remain undetected than there should be a family scandal. Anything of that kind would certainly be a fatal blow to Lord Croyle.”

Arnold grunted. “One of his relatives, eh? Which one, do you suppose?”

But Merrion was not to be drawn. “I haven't the remotest idea. I've told you all I know, and you can indulge in guess-work as well as I can. You'll talk to Cecil yourself, I take it.”
“You bet I shall,” Arnold replied. “And if he knows anything, I'll get it out of him, never fear. Now, I'll tell you something. As soon as I saw that chap in the mortuary this afternoon, it struck me that we'd met before.”

“That's interesting,” said Merrion. “Do you remember when and where? He is said to have been a club steward in Bermondsey before he took on the job of butler at the Castle.”

Arnold shook his head. “He may have been, but that's not where I met him. I have an idea that he must have passed through our hands at the Yard, some time ago, during the war. I don't remember the name, or what, if anything, he was charged with, but the face seems somehow familiar. Anyhow, I've taken his fingerprints and sent them up for identification. If I'm right, we shall know all about him before very long.”

Arnold got up from the bench and stretched himself. “I'll try to persuade Henfield that you're not guilty,” he went on. “He's fixed me up with a lodging in the town for to-night. I'll keep you in touch with how things go. See you in the morning, probably. My respects to Mrs. Merrion. Goodnight.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MERRION rejoined Mavis in the lounge, but it was not until they had gone upstairs that he spoke of his conversation with Arnold. “I thought the local people would call in the Yard,” he said. “And I'm very glad they sent Arnold down. He can at least be trusted to carry on as discreetly as possible, and not harrow Lord Croyle's feelings unduly. But I have a presentiment that there's a very severe shock coming to the poor old boy.”

“Oh, I hope not!” Mavis exclaimed. “He's been through enough already. What makes you say that?”

“It's merely a foreboding,” Merrion replied. “I felt I ought to tell Arnold that I believed Cecil knew something. But I didn't tell him my guess at who Cecil believed to be Collins' murderer.”

“You needn't be so obscure with me as you thought fit to be with Mr. Arnold,” Mavis remarked.

“Very well, then. Remember what I told you about Cecil's reactions. His first concern that Collins had gone to London. His relief when he found that he hadn't, then his curious remark about the probable effect of the affair on Lord Croyle. Now, this is my guess at his train of thought. He was afraid that Collins had gone to London to meet Roderick, who is there this week-end. He was for the moment glad to find he hadn't. But it swiftly occurred to him that he might have met Roderick in the ice-house, with fatal results to himself.”

“Rather far-fetched, surely,” Mavis objected. “While Roderick was at the Castle they could have met any time.”

“Of course. But suppose it was desirable that this meeting should be absolutely secret? Roderick snatches at the first pretext for going to London, thereby establishing an alibi. He comes back, unknown to anybody but Collins yesterday evening. They meet by appointment in the ice-house which, by the way, can be reached from the town by way of Farthing Lane, avoiding the Castle. The interview is terminated by Roderick, who stabs Collins with the sharp instrument. The deed accomplished, he locks up the ice-house and takes the key back with him to London.”

“It's a horrible thought,” said Mavis. “But before you make me believe it, you'll have to trot out some sort of motive.”

“I didn't say I believed it myself. But it's what I guess Cecil believes. As for motive, you hinted at that yourself, not so very long ago. A skeleton in the Croyle family cupboard. It may be nothing but a collection of dry and mouldering bones, or it may be of quite recent origin. For example Collins may have watched Roderick push Coolham over the cliff the other day. There's no knowing. Isn't it about time we went to bed?”

Next morning, Merrion received a telephone call from Henfield. The sergeant's voice sounded much less abrupt than when Merrion had last heard it. Mr. Arnold's compliments, and would it be convenient for Mr. Merrion to come to the police station and speak to him?

Merrion, who had been expecting something of the kind, replied that it would be quite convenient. He walked to the police station, where he found Arnold installed. “Sorry to drag you here, but it seemed the best place for a chat,” said Arnold. “Now, I want you to cast your mind back a few years. In 1941, when you were serving in Naval Intelligence. Do you remember having any trouble with a man who at that time called himself Sydney Carver?”

Merrion thought for a few moments, then shook his head. “I don't recall the name. But then we had trouble with so many folk that I can't be expected to remember them all. If I did, there'll be a dossier at the Admiralty.”

“It doesn't matter,” said Arnold. “Only the War Office were on his track, and I thought your people might have been too. I told you last night that I'd sent the butler's fingerprints to the Yard. We had them filed all right, as I was pretty sure we should. And they were those of this man Sydney Carver. They've sent down all the information they had about him, to refresh my memory.”

Arnold pointed to a file on the table before him. “So far as I'm concerned, the story began in 1941,” he went on. “The Yard had a request from the War Office for information about a certain Sydney Carver, whom they suspected of Fifth Column activities in the Dockland area. Although this man was alleged to be unemployed, he seemed to have plenty of money to spend, and took a suspicious interest in the loading and unloading of ships. We had no knowledge of him, and I was put in charge of the enquiries.

“You'll understand that it was purely a routine job, and that I didn't do the sleuthing myself. I merely pieced together the information that other men picked up. I only saw the chap once, in a pub in Canning Town, and that's why I couldn't place him at once. But in the end we got to know quite a bit about him. He seems to have been pretty well known among the East End crooks, and we persuaded a few of his pals to talk.

“The earliest trace we got of him was during the first World War, when he called himself Sydney Clark, and was generally known as Sid the Toff. He was one of those slippery customers who managed to dodge every form of National Service, and made a pretty good living by petty crime. Nothing violent, card-sharping, black market, fleecing seamen ashore after being paid off, all that sort of thing. His main field of operations was the East End, but he seems to have made fairly frequent excursions to other parts of London. On these occasions he gave himself out to be an Army officer, retired on account of wounds received during the retreat from Mons.

“It was in this capacity that he met a girl and married her. We didn't find out much about her, beyond that she was said to be of good birth, and was believed to have a trifle of money. But there was the record of the marriage, at a Putney registry office in 1916. Sydney Clark to Marion Edburton, spinster. There seems never to have been any suggestion that the girl was her husband's accomplice. He probably married her for whatever she may have had, and she only found out he was a crook after she had married him.

“That incident in his life is of no particular importance. The next we hear of the chap is in 1917, by which time he had become the leader of a hold-up gang. As usually happens, his gang got foul of another, and Sydney's life was threatened. He thought it wise to stage a disappearance. You remember when that T.N.T. factory at Silvertown went up? Well, the body of one of the victims was identified by two of his gang as that of Sydney Clark.”

By two of his gang?” Merrion asked. “Not his wife?”

“There's no mention of her,” Arnold replied “she may have left him by then. Very probably she had, for she doesn't come into the picture again. It was a false identification, to put the gang thirsting for Sydney's blood off the scent. He must have lain low for some time after this, for there's no trace of him for two or three years, when he crops up again as a bookie's tout, this time under the name of Sydney Carver.”

“Is all this crooks' gossip?” Merrion asked. “Are you quite sure that Carver was the reincarnation of Clark?”

“There's no doubt about it,” Arnold replied. “I should have said that, before his marriage, Clark fell into the hands of the police. He wasn't charged, apparently, probably for lack of sufficient evidence, but his fingerprints were taken and filed. When we were making enquiries about Carver, we got his prints. As a matter of routine, the files were searched and the two sets, Clark's and Carver's, were found to be identical.”

“Good enough,” said Merrion. “And what did you find out about Carver?”

“Nothing that we could fix on him,” Arnold replied “he was living, apparently quite respectably, and by himself, in lodgings in Millwall. I don't think there's much doubt that he was practising as a crook in a small way. Acting as a fence for petty pilferers, very likely. But we found no reason to suppose that he was an enemy agent. Anyway, we passed on the whole dossier with his life history to the War Office. I don't know what action they took, if any. But I expect their security people kept an eye on him for a bit.”

“And you're quite satisfied that Lord Croyle's butler was this man Clark or Carver?” Merrion asked.

“Haven't I told you the fingerprints prove it?” Arnold replied. “And there's another thing. You told me yesterday evening that Collins had been a club steward. I didn't know anything about that, but I see from the file here that our people must have kept an eye on Carver after they had been asked for information about him There's a note to say that in 1945 he was engaged as a steward at a Club in Bermondsey, and that he was using the name of Collins. Does that satisfy you?”

“Perfectly,” said Merrion. “I always suspected that Collins might have bad a lurid past. But it strikes me that all this doesn't throw much light on who murdered him, or why.”

Arnold laughed. “I'm not so sure about that. We know that Collins, as we'll call him, was a life-long crook. I don't for a moment believe that he had decided to turn over a new leaf and become a respectable butler. He took the job at the Castle here as a speculation, to see what could be made out of it. Or it's even possible that some of his fellow-crooks were after his blood again, and he found it expedient to stage another disappearance.

“That's about where the clue lies, I fancy. Collins' plan may have been burglary, his part being to be on the spot to let in his pals from outside. He may have fixed it up with them for Saturday night, when you tell me there were fewer people than usual at the Castle. The rendezvous was the ice-house, but before they got to work there was a quarrel, in the course of which Collins got knifed. Or, if you like, he was knifed by one of his enemies, who had tracked him down here. But that doesn't seem to me so likely.”

Merrion said nothing, Arnold might well be on the right track. There was nothing whatever to confirm what he believed to be Cecil's suspicions. And Arnold went on, “That's the line I'm taking. If Collins' pals were here on Saturday night, they'll have come by car. I've put Henfield on the job of tracing any strange car that may have been seen. And I'm going back to town myself by the midday train. I want to find out who Collins was associated with before he came here, and where they were on Saturday evening. It oughtn't to be a very difficult job, but it'll take a little time, of course.”

“Well, it's your show,” said Merrion. “Have you spoken to Cecil Croyle?”

“He can wait,” Arnold replied. “I don't see that he can tell me very much. I've not forgotten what you said yesterday evening. But since I've been through that dossier it doesn't seem to me very likely that one of the Croyles murdered the butler. London's the place to pick up the thread, there's no doubt about that. Anyhow, I shall be back here again before long. I'll see this friend of yours then, perhaps.”

Merrion left the police-station more than half convinced. It certainly seemed from Collins' record, that this had been a case of crook eat crook. Anyhow, Arnold's instinct to seek the thread in London was correct; on any theory. Nobody could imagine that Collins had been wantonly murdered by any one living in Croylehaven.

But he could not prevent his imagination wandering. It could be accepted as an established fact that Collins had been a professional crook. How, if at all, did that fact throw any light on recent happenings at the Castle?

To begin at the beginning, when he had applied for the job as butler. Arnold was probably right there. He hadn't wanted to come to Croylehaven merely for change of air. He must have had some ulterior motive. Getting a situation in a big house, with a view to clearing out with the valuables, was an old crook's trick. Cecil could hardly be blamed for taking him at his face value, backed by references.

Unless-and here a fantastic idea flashed through Merrion's mind. Could Cecil's rather odd behaviour on learning of Collins' disappearance be explained by the fact that he was aware of his past history? It had been the War Office authorities who had instituted enquiries, the result of which had been reported to them by the Yard. Cecil had been employed at the War Office at the time, in the section most clearly concerned with security. It was not impossible that Collins' record had come before him. But, if he had known the fellow to be a crook, what object could he have had in recommending Lord Croyle to engage him as butler? An agreement with Collins that he should share in the swag? The idea was preposterous.

It could be assumed that Cecil had acted in all innocence. And certainly Collins, uncouth though he might have been seemed to have given reasonable satisfaction. Could he have been-responsible for the death of Jonathan? He might have found means of unlocking the gate. Arnold had been too intent upon his own line to follow up the hint about trying the keys on the rack in the butler's pantry. But of what possible advantage could the death of Jonathan, or of Luke, for that matter, be to Collins? By no effort of his imagination could Merrion discover for the fellow a remotely plausible motive for such a crime.

Then, the booby-trap. However satisfied Merrion might be that Coolham had planted that, his guilt had never been definitely proved. It was not entirely beyond the bounds of possibility that Merrion's deductions had been at fault, and that Collins, not Coolham, had made the attempt. But, in the name of sanity, why? Far from Collins having anything to gain by Lord Croyle's death, it seemed he had everything to lose. He had hardly been long enough in service at the Castle to receive a legacy. He would have lost his opportunity of loot, for almost the first act of Roderick's succession would have been to sack him.

Finally, the third act, Coolham's not altogether untimely death. It was true that Collins had been the last person to see Coolham alive, when he had asked him for the rope. Collins knew that he was going climbing on the cliff, and that he was going by himself. He might have followed him out, and choosing an opportune moment, pushed him over. But again, and with even greater emphasis, why. Nobody, except very remotely Roderick, had anything to gain by Coolham's death. Certainly not Collins, to whom he could have been no more than a casual visitor to the Castle.

Mavis had suggested a skeleton in the cupboard. Well, there had undoubtedly been a crook in the pantry. But, try as he would, Merrion could not wrest from this fact an explanation of the fatalities at the Castle. Collins had undoubtedly been murdered, of that there could be no question. But that provided no logical grounds for the assumption that Jonathan and Coolham had been. Could any one, apart from a homicidal maniac, have had any motive for murdering that curiously assorted trio? That was the bewildering part of it. Nobody, whether connected with the Croyles or not, could possibly have gained appreciably by the death of any one, or all, of the three victims.

Merrion got back to the Victoria, where he repeated to Mavis what Arnold had told him of Collins' past. “The theory is that he was killed in a brawl,” he explained. “Which probably arose over the division of the spoil of a projected burglary. Collins' pals, having killed the guardian of the golden eggs, cleared off without making the attempt.”

Mavis smiled. “That sounds a lot more likely than what you believe to be Cecil's suspicions,” she remarked.

“Well, yes, I suppose it does,” Merrion agreed. “My interpretation of Cecil's behaviour may have been wrong. All the same, it was odd. I'm pretty sure that he knows, or at all events suspects something. I can't for the life of me make out what, but the indications are that Roderick is in some way mixed up with it.”

That afternoon Henfield appeared, to warn Merrion that he would be required to attend the inquest, which was to be held at eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning. And before dinner, Cecil, looking unduly grave, appeared on the verandah. “I've just come from the Castle,” he said, as he sat down by the Merrions. “I'm glad to say that the police have behaved very thoughtfully, and have created as little disturbance as possible. Scotland Yard have been called in.”

Merrion nodded. “Yes, I know. Inspector Arnold is an old friend of mine.”

“Well, that may be helpful,” Cecil replied moodily. “I haven't made his acquaintance yet. Henfield, who caught me just now to warn me about the inquest, said he'd gone back to London. Is that so?”

There was no mistaking the note of anxiety in Cecil's voice. But Merrion felt that his conversation with Arnold had been confidential, and that he was not at liberty to reveal what he had been told. “It's very likely,” he replied casually.” he's probably got plenty of other cases on hand to attend to. Yard men usually have.”

“It seems to me very odd that he should have left here so soon,” said Cecil uneasily. Then abruptly he changed the subject. “Lucifer's been told. It was a bit of a shock to him, of course. Not that he had any particular affection for Collins, but he'd got used to seeing him about. He hates change, you know. However, he asked me if I'd set about finding a man to take Collins' place. He has an idea that the Castle can't be run properly without a butler.”

“You'll take the necessary steps, I suppose?” Merrion asked.

“Not I!” Cecil exclaimed emphatically. “It's not my job this time, thank goodness. Now that Roderick is back from the wars, he must take on that sort of thing. I told Lucifer as much. I said that as soon as Roderick came back from London, he could talk it over with him. Lucifer saw the point, I'm glad to say.”

“You've communicated with Roderick, telling him what has happened?” Merrion suggested.

Cecil frowned. “I've tried to, naturally. The trouble is, nobody seems to know where he's staying. I put a call through to his club yesterday, but he's not there. But I'll tell you what I have done. I talked it over with Charlotte, and we agreed that somebody ought to represent the family at this confounded inquest, and that Edwin was the obvious person. So I got in touch with him. He'll be at the Castle later on this evening. I shall have to meet him there, I suppose.”

“You'll be able to tell him the whole story,” Merrion remarked.

“Eh?” Cecil exclaimed nervously. “The whole story? I wish I knew it. Oh, what you and I found, you mean. Yes, I shall be able to tell him that. Well, I must be off. See you at the inquest to-morrow.”

He hurried away, leaving his glass of sherry half emptied.

“You've seen for yourself,” said Merrion as he disappeared. “He's as nervous as a kitten. No pose of being a detached observer this time. What do you make of it?”

“I don't know what to make of it,” Mavis replied. “I've never seen him all jumpy like that before.”

“For some reason or other, he doesn't like the idea of Arnold having gone back to London,” said Merrion. “Any more than he liked the idea of Collins having gone there. Unless I'm very much mistaken, he thinks that Arnold is on Roderick's track. I could have told him that he wasn't, but I thought I had better not.”

“I wonder if it's true that nobody at the Castle knows where Roderick is?” Mavis remarked.

“If Cecil does, he's a jolly good actor,” Merrion replied. “I'm pretty sure he doesn't. He's obviously got something on his chest, and I'm still convinced that it is a very strong suspicion that Roderick murdered Collins. If that's the case, Cecil must know the reason for the crime. I wonder if he'll tell Nailhead.”

“Isn't it just possible that Mr. Nailhead knows already?” Mavis asked. “Mightn't that explain the horrifying secret Romayne told us he imparted to her? Something awful that Roderick had done?”

“It's possible,” Merrion replied. “I'm beginning to think that anything is possible where the Croyles are concerned. Roderick has committed some crime, of which Nailhead and Cecil independently have knowledge. Cecil believes that Collins discovered the dark deed, threatened to blackmail Roderick, and got murdered by him for his pains. Is that what's in your mind?”

“More or less,” said Mavis. “And if it all comes out, it will be pretty ghastly for poor Lord Croyle.”

“Bringing us back to Cecil's remark when we found the body,” Merrion replied. “Well, for his sake we must hope it won't come out. Perhaps, after all, we're wrong and Arnold's on the right track.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE INQUEST this time was a more spectacular affair, for it was held in the Court itself, where the coroner sat with a jury of seven respectable citizens of Croylehaven. The fact that Scotland Yard had been called in had got about, and this accounted for the seats allotted to the public being fairly well packed.

The proceedings, however, were not very sensational. In the absence of any relative of the deceased, Cecil, as representative of his employer, identified the body. Dr. Balcombe gave evidence of the cause of death, a stab with a sharp instrument severing an artery. In his opinion deceased had died between nine and twelve on Saturday night. The cook from the Castle testified to having seen Mr. Collins leave the house. He was alone when she saw him. She had spoken to him shortly before this, when he had seemed perfectly normal. It had been his habit to go out in the evening, perhaps three or four times a week. She knew of the ice-house, for she had often seen it from the path on her way to the town by Farthing Lane, but she had never heard deceased mention it.

Cecil confirmed the statement he had made to Henfield. In reply to questions by the coroner, he said that in January 1946 he had, on Lord Croyle's behalf, taken over the Castle from the military authorities. On that occasion he had been told that various out-buildings, the ice-house among them had been used as stores. He had inspected these, and found them in good order. He was not aware that the ice-house had been used for any purpose since then.

The coroner regarded Merrion quizzically. It must have seemed to him that this particular witness was becoming a familiar figure at his inquests. Merrion repeated his statement. To the coroner's questions he replied that until Sunday morning he had been unaware of the existence of the ice-house. During the time, which he estimated as twenty minutes, that he had been left alone there, he had not entered the place and nobody had approached it.

Henfield gave his evidence, pompously and clearly. He had examined the interior of the ice-house, before the removal of the body and subsequently, and had found nothing whatever, neither weapon nor key. He had also searched deceased's clothing. The pockets had contained three one-pound notes, some small change and a key. He had tried this key in the lock of the ice-house door, and found that it would not fit. He had later found that it fitted the lock of the outer door of the Castle leading into the kitchen premises. This was the door by which he had been seen to leave the house.

No more evidence was called, and the coroner addressed the jury. Enough had been heard to enable him to issue a burial certificate. He understood however, that certain investigations undertaken by the police were not yet complete. He had decided therefore to adjourn the inquest for a week, when he hoped that such additional evidence as might be laid before the jury would enable them to arrive at a verdict.

Edwin Nailhead had been present at the inquest, and as Merrion left the court, he followed him but. “Excuse me, Mr. Merrion,” he said hurriedly. “I should very much like a few words with you in private.”

“Certainly,” Merrion replied. “Perhaps the Castle is hardly a suitable place. Would you care to walk back with roe to the Victoria? We can talk in perfect security in the garden there.”

Nailhead agreed to this, and they made their way together to the secluded bench overlooking the sea. “I have no right to take up your time like this, Mr. Merrion,” Nailhead began. “My excuse must be that I find myself in a very difficult position, and that I believe it possible you may be able to help me.”

“If I can, I am only too ready to do so,” Merrion replied. “Tell me your difficulties. My time is at your disposal.”

“That's very good of you,' said Nailhead gratefully. “My first difficulty is Cecil. I had a long conversation with him last night, and I could not help noticing that his manner was most extraordinary. Hesitant, and unless my perception played me false, definitely secretive. Do you think he can have anything on his conscience?”

Merrion smiled. “I have noticed Cecil's curious manner for myself. But I do not think he has Collins on his conscience. To put it bluntly, I don't for a moment believe that he murdered him. My own opinion is that he has a strong suspicion who did, and that it is this suspicion that is worrying him.”
“Ah!” Nailhead exclaimed thoughtfully. “That may explain a remark he let drop last night. He said that Collins' death had presented him with a difficult problem. When I asked him what this problem was, he passed it off by saying that it must obviously be a problem to everybody till the murderer was detected. But, if he suspects anybody, who can that person be? No member of the household, surely?”

Merrion evaded this. To indulge in guesswork would do more harm than good. “I don't think we need worry about Cecil's suspicions, for the present, at all events. In the strictest confidence, Mr. Nailhead, I can tell you something. The police have established, beyond any possibility of doubt, that Collins was a professional crook. Their theory is that he was murdered by one of his associates.”

“A crook!” Nailhead exclaimed. “And he's been living in the Castle all these months!” He paused, frowning thoughtfully. “Is that the explanation of the extraordinary things that have happened there lately? Lord Croyle's very strange accident, for instance?”

Merrion hesitated. As the family lawyer, Nailhead might be entitled to know the truth. But, if Lord Croyle hadn't seen fit to tell him, Merrion felt it was hardly his job. Besides, could he reveal to Romayne's prospective husband that her father had been guilty of attempted murder? His guilt, he reminded himself once more had never definitely been proved. On the whole, he decided to remain silent. “It is not easy to understand what Collins stood to gain by Lord Croyle's death,” he replied.

“True, very true,” said Nailhead absently. It was quite obvious to Merrion that he had more on his mind than he had yet divulged. And suddenly it came out. “Mr. Merrion! Do you think Lord Croyle's life is in danger?”

“The Castle would appear to be a dangerous place, in the light of recent events,” Merrion replied guardedly. “But in my opinion, a repetition of the conditions which led to Lord Croyle's accident is most improbable.”

“Since every precaution has been taken?” Nailhead asked. “But-was the presence of a dangerous object by the summer-house accidental?”

“Have you any reason to suppose that it was not?” Merrion replied.

Nailhead looked acutely uncomfortable. “I will be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Merrion. I must ask you to treat what I am about to say in the strictest confidence. I have a ghastly suspicion, which until now I have not divulged to a soul, that the explosion from which Lord Croyle so narrowly escaped with his life was not accidental.”

“Indeed?” said Merrion quietly. “Has Lord Croyle discussed the incident with you?”

“He has never so much as mentioned it to me,” Nailhead replied. “I think you are aware that last week Romayne and I went to Cheltenham to begin the settling of her father's affairs. They appear to be as hopeless as he had described them to me. In the course of conversation with his housekeeper, she told me that Mr. Coolham had left home on Wednesday morning, telling her that he was going to see his daughter at Croylehaven Castle.”

He paused, and then went on, “He did not arrive there until Friday afternoon. In the meanwhile. Lord Croyle had been injured. Had he been killed, Coolham's financial embarrassment would have been at an end.”

So Nailhead had arrived pretty near the truth, but by a different channel. That being so, it would be kinder in the long run to relieve him of the torture of doubt. “I too will be perfectly frank,” Merrion said gravely. “Under the same seal of confidence that you have impressed upon me. Mr. Coolham was here on Wednesday evening, and spent the following night in a boat, fishing. I will repeat the story as Enoch told it to me.”

Nailhead listened with an expression of horror. “Thank you, Mr. Merrion,” he said at last. “I assure you that nobody, least of all Romayne, shall ever hear a word of this. It is terrible that her father should have attempted such a crime. But he is dead, and his guilt dies with him. I understand now why you do not anticipate a repetition of the incident. For that, at least, I am profoundly thankful. Lord Croyle's death in the near future would be for me a personal disaster of the first magnitude. Romayne and I—'

He checked himself and rather clumsily changed the subject. “But we were talking about Cecil, and his strange manner during our conversation last night. Your opinion, you tell me, is that he suspects who may have murdered Collins. Do you think it possible that he shares the theory of the police?”

“No, I don't think it's that,” Merrion replied. “I think we can understand Cecil's nerves being a bit shaken. It isn't every day that one breaks open the door of a disused ice-house, only to find a dead butler inside.”

His levity was intentional, and seemed to have a stimulating effect on Nailhead. “I can't tell you how grateful I am to you, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “My nerves were a bit shaken too, by my suspicions of Coolham which I believed could never be removed or confirmed. It is better to know the truth and face it. No doubt I imagined a significance in Cecil's manner which did not in fact exist. I can only thank you again for what you have told me.”

He went off, and Merrion sought Mavis, to whom he described the proceedings at the inquest. “I expected an adjournment,” he said. “The coroner will naturally want to hear the results of Arnold's investigations. Well, that means we're stranded here for another week. Do you think you can endure it?”

“I think so,” Mavis replied. “Anyhow, I know very well that nothing will shift you until you have got to the bottom of all this. I saw you come back with Mr. Nailhead. What does he think about his clients' affairs?”

“I was able to set his mind at rest upon one point, anyhow,” Merrion said. He lighted a cigarette and then went on irritably. “These people talk in riddles. Cecil told Nailhead that Collins' death had presented him, Cecil, with a difficult problem. Nailhead told me that Lord Croyle's death in the near future would be for him a-personal disaster of the first magnitude. What mystery can there be behind these cryptic remarks? It seems to me that in the Croyle family cupboard there must be not one skeleton, but a whole graveyard of them.”

“If there are, do you suppose that Lord Croyle is aware of their existence?” Mavis asked.

Merrion shook his head. “I'm pretty sure he isn't. He told me the other day that he had no secrets from me, and he wouldn't have said that if he didn't mean it. In my view the skeletons aren't those of the victims of his own crimes, but of his family's. Nailhead never mentioned Roderick's name just now.”

“Had you any reason for expecting him to?” Mavis asked.

“He had noted Cecil's unwonted preoccupation with Collins' death, I thought he might have guessed the same as I did, that Cecil suspected Roderick of a hand in it. Apparently he hadn't, and I was careful not to prompt him. But you may be sure that explains Cecil's remark about his problem. Is he to impart his suspicions to the police, or is he to keep them to himself?”

“It rather depends what ground he has for them,” said Mavis. “If they are founded on nothing more substantial than the ridiculous suspicions of Dr. Balcombe that Faith killed Jonathan by mistake for Luke, then he would be well advised to keep them to himself, in my opinion.”

“The whole situation is lost in a cloud of conjecture,” said Merrion. “Nothing about it is capable of proof, not even that Coolham tried to bump off his father-in-law. But I'm becoming increasingly sure that Cecil's suspicions have some sort of foundation. And I'm almost equally sure that Roderick is somehow the focus of the whole trouble, from Jonathan to Collins. Don't ask me to be any more explicit, for I can't. And I shan't talk to Arnold in this vague sort of style, I promise you.”

He had an opportunity of talking to Arnold that very evening. After dinner the Inspector rang up and asked him if he would care to come down to the police-station for a chat, an invitation which he accepted. He found that Arnold had just come back from London, where apparently his enquiries had not been very fruitful.

“I can't quite make it out,” he said, when he and Merrion were alone. “I had two or three of Collins' old gang rounded up, and put them through it. As soon as they made out it was Collins I wanted to hear about, and not them, they were ready enough to talk. They seemed to have a bit of a grievance against him. He'd left London rather suddenly and gone off on some stunt of his own, and they had heard nothing of him since.”

“That sounds interesting,” Merrion remarked. “They knew, I suppose, where he had gone to, and why?”

“They all, separately and independently, swore that they didn't,” Arnold replied. “And I may as well tell you at once that I had a thorough check-up made. It's certain that none of the crooks Collins had been in touch with were out of London on Saturday evening. That club in Bermondsey turns out to be a regular crooks' meeting place. And I was given a pretty broad hint that when Collins was there he had other sources of income besides his salary as steward. Black market, receiving stolen goods and all that.”

“Not a very suitable apprenticeship for a family butler,” said Merrion. “Go ahead.”

“I asked why he gave up the job, if it was so profitable. And the answer I got was rather curious. He'd got an even better one in prospect. He gave out that he was on to something which if properly worked would make his fortune. Naturally his pals wanted to be let in on this, but he wasn't giving anything away. He said that it was a one man job, and he could manage it on his own. Soon after that he cleared out. without telling any of them where he was going. They haven't seen or heard of him since. Now, what do you make of that?”

“I don't know what Lord Croyle paid him,” Merrion replied. “But I don't suppose that his butler's wages were more than he pocketed at the club, with his various side-lines. They would hardly have made his fortune. And a stunt which had to be properly worked as a one-man job hardly suggests a prospective burglary. He'd want help of some kind from outside, if he was to get away with that. What's your idea?”

“Much the same as yours. It doesn't look as if Collins came to the Castle after the valuables. It seems to me far more likely that his game was blackmail. Now, what have you got to say about that?”

Merrion lighted a cigarette with extreme deliberation. “I've nothing very helpful to say,” he replied as he threw away the match. “This is what I have been told. Early this year, when the Castle had been derequisitioned, and Lord Croyle was moving back into it, Collins presented himself in person. He told Cecil Croyle, to whom he was referred, that being in Croylehaven quite by chance, and hearing that the Castle was being reoccupied, he thought the butler's job might be open. From what his pals told you, it looks as though he had come here for that very purpose. But I don't understand how he could have foreseen that his job would provide opportunity for blackmail.”

“He must have found out something about these people,” said Arnold. “Now look here. You must know them pretty well, for you seem to have spent a good deal of your time with them. What was it Collins knew?”

“I haven't the remotest idea,” Merrion replied. “As you know, there have been some queer happenings at the Castle in the past few weeks. But until then, though some of the Croyles may have been a trifle erratic, they never, so far as I know, made any grave slip on the score of which they could be blackmailed. And if you suppose some dark family secret, what could it be? And how could a man like Collins, an East End crook, have stumbled upon it? It's most unlikely that crooks and Croyles have ever fraternised.”

“Well, perhaps you're right,” said Arnold. “All the same, I'll bet there's been something up we don't know about yet.”

“We don't know yet who killed the butler,” Merrion remarked. “I'm not throwing cold water on your theory that Collins' object in coming here was blackmail. But why should the victim have been one of the Croyles? Collins may merely have wanted a job in or near the town, as an ostensible reason for being here. His victim, so far as I can see, might be any one in Croylehaven or the neighbourhood.”

Arnold shook his head. “He doesn't seem to have been in contact with any one outside the Castle. Henfield has been making enquiries, and very few people knew him, even by sight. From what I hear, he never left the Castle for longer than an hour or two, in the evening. And then he didn't go very far. He walked down Farthing Lane to the Three Peacocks, at the corner. The landlord there knows him, and says he used to drink a pint or two in the bar, and talk to any one who came in. It isn't likely he was out to blackmail any of the customers.”

“The point seems to be, who did he meet at the ice-house on Saturday night?” said Merrion. “By appointment, obviously, for he had taken the trouble to oil the lock beforehand. And where did the other person come from? You seem to be satisfied that he wasn't one of Collins' old London cronies.”

“That's what I'm going to find out,” Arnold replied “he was the chap Collins was blackmailing, I don't doubt. He had agreed to an appointment with Collins to hand over the cash, but handed out the knife instead.”

“Is there any talk of Collins, under one of his other names, having indulged in blackmail before?” Merrion asked.

“I haven't heard any,” Arnold replied. “But that's not to say he didn't. Most crooks try it on sooner or later, if they get the chance. Oh, by the way, you remember my telling you that Collins, when he was going under the name of Clark, married a girl called Marian Edburton. I asked his pals if they knew what had become of her. I thought if I could get hold of her I might find out what Collins' game was here. But nothing's been heard of her for a long time. She may be dead, for all I know.”
“Murdered by her husband perhaps?” Merrion suggested. “After he'd got hold of whatever she had?”

“I don't think it was that,” Arnold replied. “Though, as one of the chaps I've been talking to said, he treated her pretty rough. So much so, that she ran away from him, not long before that explosion in which he was supposed to have been killed. She must have heard about this and thought she was free, for this chap told me that not long afterwards he heard a rumour that she'd married again. He didn't know the man's name, or what had become of her since. But it doesn't matter. The point is that she has had no contact whatever with Collins since he came to life again.”

“So she's out of the picture,” said Merrion. “And well out of it, from her point of view. But we're rather drifting away from what we were talking about. You say you have reason to believe that Collins wasn't murdered by any of his London cronies. Henfield doesn't think that he was on sufficiently familiar terms with any citizen of Croylehaven to have got murdered by him. What's the alternative?”

“The Castle,” Arnold replied grimly. “One of the Croyle family, I mean. It's the only possible answer. And I shall expect you to help me all you can with your knowledge of them.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MERRION left the police station with a feeling of distinct apprehension. He was well aware of Arnold's intimate knowledge of the London underworld. If he was satisfied that Collins had not been murdered by any of his former associates, this might be accepted as a fact. So back the pendulum swung to Cecil's suspicions.

By the time he reached the Victoria, Mavis had gone to bed, and was already half asleep. He did not discuss with her his interview with Arnold, thinking that the morning would be time enough for that. But the problem remained with him, and he could not get off to sleep. That Collins had been murdered by someone he was attempting to blackmail seemed the only possible solution. Unless Merrion was very much mistaken, Cecil suspected Roderick. But what could Roderick have done to put himself in the power of a blackmailer?

Merrion tossed and turned, rejecting each conjecture as more improbable than the last. Until suddenly the most fantastic of all fixed his imagination. It was absurd, of course. A single question in the morning would suffice to destroy it. And with this assurance at last he fell asleep.

Viewed in the clear light of morning his idea seemed more grotesque than ever. Even to hint of it to Mavis would be to bring down upon himself her ridicule. But he knew that it would haunt him till it was finally disproved. So after breakfast, having got in touch with Arnold, he drove to the police-station to see him. “I'm not going to take up your time,” he said. “Just one question. You've heard of Nailhead. He's the Croyle family lawyer, you know, and he's at the Castle now. Have you any objection to my telling him Collins' past history?”

Arnold considered this. “What's your game?” he asked doubtfully.

“I'm trying to be helpful,” Merrion replied. “If I have your permission, I may learn something.”

“Well, I suppose it won't do any harm,” said Arnold reluctantly. “I don't care about laying all my cards on the table. But Collins' record is bound to come out when the inquest is resumed next week. All right, go ahead. But whatever information you pass on to this chap Nailhead, tell him to keep it under his hat.”

Merrion undertook to do this, and from the police-station drove to the Castle. He knew that Lord Croyle would not be up so early, and counted on an opportunity of a private talk with Nailhead. He was not disappointed, for the maid who opened the door told him that Mr. Nailhead was in the library, and showed him in there.

Nailhead looked up from some papers on which he was engaged. “Why I'm delighted to see you, Mr. Merrion!” he exclaimed. “You see me trying to disentangle the involved threads of Coolham's affairs. But they can wait. Sit down, and tell me what you have come to see me about.”

“I have Inspector Arnold's permission to give you certain information,” Merrion replied. “But before I do so, I should like to ask you a question or two. Don't think I'm being merely inquisitive. It is just dimly possible that between us we may be able to solve the problem of Collins' death.”

Nailhead was evidently struck by the gravity of Merrion's tone. “I shall not think you inquisitive, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “I am quite ready to answer your questions as fully as I am able.”

“Thank you,” Merrion replied. “Their purport will become clear to you in a moment. I understand that you and Cecil are the trustees of a settlement by which certain persons are to receive annuities on Lord Croyle's death. Coolham was one of these. Will you tell me who the others are?”

“Coolham's annuity does not pass to his daughter, but reverts to the estate,” said Nailhead. “There are two others, Charlotte, Oliver Croyle's widow, and, if she is still alive, Monica, Harry Croyle's widow.”

“You say, if Mrs. Monica Croyle is still alive. Does no member of the family know definitely whether she is or not?”

“Not so far as I am aware,” Nailhead replied. “The trustees certainly have no knowledge of her. She has not, I believe, communicated with her son or any other member of the family since she left here. That was in the latter part of 1918, nearly thirty years ago.”

“Is she, or rather was she after she married Harry Croyle, aware that she was entitled to this annuity?” Merrion asked.

Nailhead smiled. “You must remember that at that time I was a child, far too young to participate in my firm's affairs. I have no first-hand knowledge of the matter. There is a note in my father's handwriting among the papers relating to Harry's marriage. The wording of this note suggests that my father had had a conversation with Monica Croyle in the presence of John Croyle, Cecil's father and Lord Croyle's brother, who was then the other trustee. I think we may assume that they told her of the provisions of the trust. Even if they didn't, one imagines that her husband did. He must have known about it.”

“If she is still alive, she will probably take steps, on Lord Croyle's death, to make her existence known,” said Merrion. “You say that your father left a note with some particulars about her. When she married Harry Croyle, she was described as a widow, Monica Clark. Have you any idea what her maiden name was?”

Nailhead frowned in an effort of memory. “Yes, it's in the note. I remember the two Christian names, Marian Monica. The first seems to have been dropped. Now, what was the surname? Let me think, now. I remember being struck by the fact that it was the name of a village in Sussex, where one of our clients used to live. Wait a minute, it's coming back to me. Eddington? No, Edburton, that was it!”

So Merrion's grotesque idea had been right after all. The cupboard door had been flung open, revealing the skeleton in all its grisliness. And, having gone so far, Merrion could not very well draw back. He must at least take Nailhead into his confidence. “You have answered my questions,” he said gravely. “It is now my turn to give you the information I promised you. Yesterday, when we were talking after the inquest, I told you that the police had ascertained that Collins was a professional crook. I am now at liberty to give you fuller details.”

He repeated what Arnold had told him about Collins' past, omitting any reference to his marriage. Nailhead listened in astonishment. “Well, that is most extraordinary!” he exclaimed, as Merrion paused. “I may be allowed to say it is a mercy that he was killed before he had time to perpetrate any crime here.”

“I do not know that we can afford to regard his death with complacency,” Merrion replied. “I have not told you the most significant event in Collins' career. In 1916, when he was known by the name of Clark, he married. And the name of the woman who became his wife was Marian Edburton.”

“What!” Nailhead exclaimed. And then he relapsed into a horrified silence as the full significance of this revealed itself to him. “Monica Clark was not a widow?” he whispered hoarsely after a while. “Her marriage to Harry Croyle was bigamous? But there may have been a divorce. There must have been, or else—”

Merrion shook his head. “It is no use entertaining false hopes, for the likelihood of a divorce is most remote. I do not think that Monica is to blame. I have told you that in 1917 Collins, or Clark, staged a most effective disappearance. He contrived that it should be believed that he was killed in the Silvertown explosion. I have no doubt that Monica shared this belief, and that at the time of her marriage to Harry Croyle she was honestly convinced that her first husband was dead. And it is, in my opinion, highly probable that she never became aware that he had come to life again.”

Nailhead stared at him haggardly. “But this is ghastly, Mr. Merrion. You tell me Monica's second marriage was bigamous. Do you realise what that leads to? Her son by that marriage, Roderick, is of illegitimate birth, and is thereby debarred from the inheritance, as are his own children!”

“I have realised that fact,” Merrion replied with increasing gravity. “We must face the situation, Mr. Nailhead. Even though it leads us irrevocably to the explanation of Collins' murder.”

“His murder!” Nailhead repeated. “He died too late. His death at this stage does not cancel the terrible fact.”

“Just so,” Merrion replied. “But it may be that the fact led directly to his death. There can be very little doubt that Collins learnt that his wife had married again, and who her second husband was. He also learnt that there was a son by this marriage, who on his father's death became, to all appearances, the present Lord Croyle's heir. When he learnt these facts, we do not know, but he decided to bide his time. We may take it as certain that he was aware of the situation when he applied for the post of butler here.”

“Yes, I see,” said Nailhead dully. “Lord Croyle is an old man. Collins wished to be on the spot when he died.”

“That is how I see it,” Merrion agreed. “Collins was in possession of a secret, which he had reason to believe was shared by no one else. He alone knew that at the time Monica married Harry Croyle, her first husband was still alive. It was a secret the truth of which could be demonstrated. The records of the two marriages exist. All that remained was to identify the Monica Clark of the second, with the Marian Edburton of the first.”

Nailhead passed his hand across his forehead in a gazed gesture. “Blackmail?” he whispered, as though afraid that the ugly word would spread through the Castle until it reached the ears of Lord Croyle.

“Exactly,” Merrion replied. “What Collins' plan was exactly we shall never know now. It may be that he originally intended to keep silent until Lord Croyle's death. But the return of Roderick placed his destined victim within his orbit. He may have found himself unable to resist the temptation to begin his exploitation.”

Nailhead made no comment, and after a pause Merrion continued. “Usually the victim of a blackmailer has a means, unpleasant though it may be, of evading the toils. If he has the moral courage, he can own up to his crime or his indiscretion, and take the consequences. But in this case there was no crime, and the indiscretion, if any, was not Roderick's, but his father's. Roderick could not expose Collins without depriving himself of the inheritance. For, however much sympathy might exist for him, the law of entail would have to take its course.”

“That is so,” Nailhead replied gloomily. “It will be my duty now to verify the facts personally. And when I have done so, I do not see how I can avoid informing Lord Croyle of the circumstances. It will be a terrible shock to him. But he must be given the opportunity of providing for Roderick in his will. Otherwise, Roderick has no prospects whatever. Even if his mother is still alive, she is not entitled to the annuity, since she was never Harry Croyle's wife.”

“You must do as you think best. Another person who must be informed is Inspector Arnold. Will you communicate with him, or would you prefer me to take the first step?”

“Inspector Arnold!” Nailhead exclaimed. “Why, how can a purely family affair be any concern of his?”

He was so obviously appalled by the legal issues involved that the most terrible aspect of the facts had not yet dawned upon him. “You must face this in your professional capacity, rather than as a friend of the family,” Merrion replied. “Inspector Arnold is investigating the murder of Collins. He already suspects that he was a blackmailer, though he is not aware of the knowledge he possessed. We must agree with Arnold that the most probable murderer of a blackmailer is his victim. You understand?”

Nailhead clutched his head frantically. “But this is too ghastly!” he exclaimed. “You can't mean-Roderick?”

“I know no more than you do,” Merrion replied. “But you will realise that we are not justified in withholding our knowledge from the police. We are bound to tell them, at least, that Roderick's mother was Collins' wife.”

“But it's ridiculous!” Nailhead exclaimed, as a drowning man clutching for straws. “Roderick wasn't here on Saturday night, they tell me. He was in London, where he still is. He can't have done it.”

“That must be for the police to decide,” Merrion replied. “You and I are bound to consider the possibilities at their worst. This, in brief, is what may have happened. Collins had already imparted the facts to Roderick, and demanded some payment as the price of his silence concerning them. Roderick had agreed, but stipulated that he must have time and opportunity to collect the money. He told Collins that he would have to go to London for that purpose.

“Since the essence of the contract was absolute secrecy, Collins could not object to Roderick's proposal. This was that he should return from London on Saturday evening, without the knowledge of any one else, and that they should meet in the ice-house, where they would be secure from observation. At this meeting Collins would produce his proofs, and Roderick, having convinced himself of their genuineness, would hand over the money.”

Nailhead groaned. “That is the view the police will take. But you don't understand the awful position I am in. Lord Croyle might recover from the shock of learning of Roderick's illegitimacy. But, if his grandson is convicted of murder, it will certainly kill him. And then—”

He let his head fall until his face was buried in his arms, and remained thus for several moments. Then he raised his head and continued brokenly. “You don't understand. Nobody understands but Romayne. It wouldn't have been fair not to tell her. She was wonderful. And if Lord Croyle dies now, the disgrace will become a matter of public knowledge. A few more years! If only I could be sure of a few more years!”

Merrion made no remark. Nailhead was obviously distraught, and hardly responsible for what he was saying. He stared wildly at Merrion, and then continued in a torrent of almost incoherent words,” As it is bound to come out, why shouldn't I tell you now? Oh, no, you can't do anything about it. Only one person can put it right, myself. But I must have time, more time!”

With a great effort he pulled himself together. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Merrion,” he said more calmly. “I will restrain myself. But I have said so much that I should prefer you to know the whole truth.”

Merrion felt that it was up to him to say something. “In that case, I shall be very pleased to hear it,” he replied.

“It will be a relief to me to speak at last,” said Nailhead. “You must understand that the originators of my firm were my father and my uncle, who went into partnership as Nailhead and Nailhead. My uncle died comparatively young, when I was still at school, and for several years my father carried on alone. The business was a prosperous one, and among the clients was Lord Croyle, who became very friendly with my father, to whom he entrusted his affairs.

“My father was a man who enjoyed life to the full, indulging in every form of sport and entertainment. This did not mean that he neglected his business. He was one of those people who are able to get through an enormous amount of work in a very short time, thereby securing long intervals of leisure. He was extravagant, in the sense that he spent money freely, but by no means only on his own pleasures. He gave me, for instance, the best education that money could buy, and as soon as I was duly qualified, admitted me to partnership.

“I have said that Lord Croyle, besides being his client, was a close personal friend of my father. Lord Croyle, who had always disliked troubling himself with financial affairs, left the whole direction of these matters to him. My father always gave them his personal attention, and never delegated them to his clerks or even to myself, when I became his partner. He died, rather suddenly, after a brief illness.

“I was thus left as my father's heir, and the sole surviving partner of the firm. On my father's death. Lord Croyle wrote me a very charming letter, in which he said that he hoped I would continue to manage his affairs, in exactly the same way that his old friend Matthew had always done. I replied that I should be happy to do so, and immediately applied myself to a study of the papers in my father's deed-box. I had not long been employed on this task when I found myself faced with a discovery so appalling as almost to cost me my sanity.”

He shuddered at the recollecting of this first insight into his father's speculations, and Merrion fully sympathised with the horror that must have gripped him. Then, after a long pause, he went on, “It took me some time to inform myself fully of what had been happening over a period of many years. It had begun by my father, presumably at a time when he found himself temporarily short of funds, selling securities in his custody belonging to Lord Croyle, and applying the proceeds to his own use. On this first occasion it was not long before he purchased, on Lord Croyle's account, securities of equivalent value. I do not suppose therefore that he regarded his proceedings as reprehensible.

“But, in the years which followed, my father had repeated his action comparatively frequently, and the securities he realised were not by any means always replaced. He was careful always to pay the dividends due upon them into Lord Croyle's account, so that his income should show no diminution. Indeed, many of the later sales were to raise money for the payment of these dividends. To cut a long story short, I found that inroads had been made into Lord Croyle's estate amounting to very many thousands of pounds.

“What was I to do? My first impulse was to go to Lord Croyle, lay all the facts before him, and accept his judgement upon them. But, upon mature consideration, I decided against this course. I wished at all costs to avoid casting a slur upon my father's memory. I knew that Lord Croyle would be profoundly grieved and shocked, not perhaps so much by the loss of the money, but by the revelation of the unfaithfulness, of the friend he had trusted so implicitly. And I believed that, given time, I could by my own efforts repair the damage.

“Since the moment of my terrible discovery I have striven desperately, and in some measure I have succeeded. The deficit is now considerably less than half what it was on my father's death. I have scraped together every penny I could save, and applied them to that purpose. Fearing that Lord Croyle should ask that some of the non-existent securities should be realised, I have done my best to restrain him from undertaking any fresh expenditure. But I calculate that it will take me at least four years more to replace the whole amount. If Lord Croyle dies before that period expires, the deficit will of course become apparent to his executors. You understand now that any threat to Lord Croyle's life is an equal threat to my own happiness, and Romayne's.”

“I do understand,” said Merrion. “And I assure you of my deepest sympathy. You will, I hope, forgive me if I ask if your father had tampered with any other account? The trust fund from which the annuities are to be paid, for instance?”

Nailhead shook his head. “I found no flaw in any of the other accounts for which my father had been responsible. He could not have realised any part of the trust funds without the knowledge of his fellow trustee. Originally John Croyle, Cecil's father, and since his death Cecil himself. I fear that my father selected Lord Croyle's account on which to draw, counting upon his forbearance. He knew, I think, that should his actions come to light. Lord Croyle would never bring himself to institute proceedings against his friend.”

“Your father was almost certainly right,” Merrion agreed. “Would it be impertinent to ask what view your future wife takes?”

“I could not ask Romayne to marry me until I had told her the whole truth,” Nailhead replied. “It was of course a shock to her, but she was marvellous. She said that she could help me to save, and that together she was sure we could put matters right before her grandfather's death. She agreed that since I had been so far successful, there could be no point in confessing the truth to Lord Croyle now.”

“Quite,” said Merrion. “To what extent will she be affected by the discovery of the facts relating to Roderick's birth?”

“Materially, not at all,” Nailhead replied. “Of course, his illegitimacy debars him from transmitting the succession to his children. Romayne will, I am afraid, be very disappointed when she learns that Luke can never under any circumstances inherit the title and estates.” He paused and looked intently at Merrion. “Would it be possible, Mr. Merrion, for us to agree to keep this knowledge to ourselves?”

Merrion shook his head. “Quite impossible,” he replied with determination. “We do not know that the secret is as close as Collins believed it to be. Others may, unknown to him, have been aware of it. Already the police know that Mrs. Clark married again, and should they follow up that clue they are bound to learn the truth. Apart from those considerations, it is clearly our duty to give Inspector Arnold every assistance in our power.”

“You are right, of course,” said Nailhead gloomily. “However terrible the consequences may be. I must have an opportunity of thinking out the steps which must be taken. Will you see the Inspector and tell him as much as you think fit?”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MERRION left the Castle and drove back to the police station, where he found Arnold in consultation with Henfield. At his appearance the sergeant rose discreetly and went out. “Hallo!” Arnold exclaimed cheerfully. “Back again?”

“Yes, back again,” Merrion replied. He sat down and lighted a cigarette. “This time with a piece of information which you may find of interest. You heard in London that Marian Clark, Collins' wife, had married again. The man she married was Harry Croyle, Lord Croyle's eldest son.”

Arnold stared at him for some seconds, as the possibilities involved in this statement dawned upon him. “Trust you to ferret out a thing like that!” he exclaimed at last. “And where are the happy couple now?”

“Harry was killed in 1918,” Merrion replied. “Where the woman he believed he had married is, or even whether she is still alive, nobody seems to know. But their son Roderick, hitherto believed to have been the heir, was at the Castle until recently. He left last week to spend a few days in London.”

“Wait a minute,” said Arnold. “You'll have to help me to get this straight. You mean that if Roderick's mother wasn't legally married to his father, he wasn't really the heir. Did he, or any of his family, know that?”

“Apparently the family did not,” Merrion replied. “And if Roderick knew, the most likely person to have told him is Collins.”

“So that was it,” said Arnold thoughtfully. “Didn't I tell you the fellow's game was blackmail? He tracked his wife's son here, told him the facts, and promised to hold his tongue, on conditions. On to something which if properly worked would make his fortune, he said. My word, I should think so I Now, just you tell me all the details as you know them.”

Merrion complied with this as far as he was able. “I don't suppose this woman Marian, or Monica as she called herself after she left dark or Collins, ever knew that her second marriage was not legal,” he concluded. “I gather that she was made so unwelcome at the Castle, that she cleared out, leaving her infant son to the care of his grandfather and aunt. She knew they would take very good care of the precious heir. What became of her is not known.”

“I'm not interested in her,” said Arnold. “It's her son Roderick that I want a word with. In London, is he, and nobody knows where he's staying? Well, I'll make it my business to go and look for him.”

Merrion shrugged his shoulders. “You know your own job best. But I suggest that he'll come back here, if you don't do anything to scare him away. Well, I've told you all I can, and now I'm going to get my lunch.”

Events proved Merrion right. That afternoon Henfield, passing through the market place, saw Roderick, suitcase in hand, get off the bus from Ernehead which connected with the train from London. He approached him and asked him to accompany him to the police station. Roderick, though surprised, made no objection, and was shown into the presence of Arnold.

Arnold introduced himself, and asked Roderick for his full name and the usual particulars. “You've been away from here for a few days, I understand, Mr. Croyle,” he said when he had noted these. “Have you heard any news from the Castle while you have been away?”

“Not a word!” Roderick exclaimed apprehensively. “What's the matter? Has anything happened to my grandfather?”

“Nothing has happened to Lord Croyle,” Arnold replied. “But his butler has been killed. And before I discuss the matter with you, it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence.”

“Do your duty by all means. Inspector. But what do you expect me to tell you? When I last saw Collins he was perfectly fit and well. And since then I have been in London.”

“Under what circumstances did you last see Collins?” Arnold asked.

“Why, in the hall, as we were leaving the Castle,” Roderick replied. “That was last Friday. We'd hired a car to take us to Ernehead. My cousin Romayne, her little boy Luke, Edwin Nailhead and myself. Collins saw us off.”

“You went to London last Friday,” said Arnold. “Where did you stay while you were there?”

“In a flat in Knightsbridge, belonging to some friends of mine. I went straight there when I got to London, and they insisted that I should stay with them, which I did until to-day.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “You spent last Saturday evening with your friends, no doubt?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I didn't. They had to leave London for the week-end, from Saturday to Monday. It was a long-standing engagement, and they couldn't get out of it. But they said that need make no difference to me. I could stay in the flat for the two nights they would be away, if, I didn't mind being left alone. So I did.”

Arnold nodded, then abruptly changed the subject. “About Lord Croyle's butler, Collins. Between your arrival home from abroad and your departure for London on Friday, you had some conversation with him on a very confidential matter?”

“I had talked to him often enough,” Roderick replied. “But I don't know that our conversation was particularly confidential.”

“Listen to me, Mr. Croyle,” said Arnold firmly. “In the course of one of your conversations with Collins he informed you of certain facts of which until then you had been in ignorance. Facts concerning your parentage and birth.”

Roderick shook his head. “I don't know what you're talking about. Inspector. How could a man like Collins tell me anything of that kind I didn't already know? He'd only been employed at the Castle a few months.”

Arnold did not answer this question. “You are Lord Croyle's heir, are you not?” he asked.

“I am the only child of his eldest son, who died before I was born,” Roderick replied. “That answers your question.”

Again Arnold swiftly changed the subject. “How did you spend last Saturday evening, when your friends had left you alone?”

“I took myself out to dinner, then went on to a show. After that I went back to the flat. I was in bed before midnight.”

“Can you give me the name of any person who saw you in London between, say, eight o'clock on Saturday evening and the following morning?” Arnold asked.

“Well, no, I can't. My friends left directly after lunch on Saturday. I went to see a football match in the afternoon. I've told you how I spent the evening. I didn't see or speak to any one I knew till Sunday morning, about noon, when I rang up a man I knew and we went out to lunch together. I spent that afternoon with him.”

“That's hardly good enough for me,” said Arnold. “I suggest that on Saturday evening you came back here, to Croylehaven, and met Collins at the ice-house in the Castle grounds some time after nine o'clock.”

Roderick frowned. “I suppose I can't prove that I didn't. But it seems to me that it's up to you to prove I did.”

“That I shall endeavour to do,” said Arnold. “Meanwhile, Mr. Croyle, I have no option but to detain you in custody. You will be formally charged, and brought before the magistrates to-morrow.”

Roderick was too benumbed by this experience to voice any coherent protest. Henfield led him away, and Arnold rang up Merrion at the Victoria, asking him to come to the police station with as little delay as possible.

Merrion appeared very shortly, and Arnold told him of his interrogation of Roderick. “He didn't even attempt an alibi, you see,” he went on. “I'm so sure that he's the man that I've detained him. For one thing, I don't want him running loose about the Castle, for there's no knowing what else he might be up to. And for another, a night in jug may bring him to his senses enough to cough up the truth.”

“So it's come to that,” Merrion replied. “Well, I'm desperately sorry for everybody concerned.”

“It's not my fault,” said Arnold. “I'm sorry, too, and that's why I asked you to come along. This business will be all over the town before very long. Dozens of folk must have seen the chap brought along here, and they won't see him leave again. I don't want his family, especially Lord Croyle, to hear of it by chance. How would it be if you went along to the Castle and broke it to them? It would come better from a friend of the family.”

“I always seem to get landed with the unpleasant jobs,” Merrion replied. “But you're quite right. I'll go now.”

“Good!” said Arnold. “And one more thing. I'd like you to come back here later on, when you've had your dinner. You'll be able to supply some of the particulars I shall want, and tell me who to ask for the rest.”

Merrion drove to the Castle. By the time he arrived there it was half-past five, and the ritual of tea was over. He asked for Nailhead, and waited in the hall till he appeared. They went together into the library, where Merrion explained what had happened. “It can't of course be kept secret,” he concluded. “If it isn't public property now, it will be when Roderick appears before the bench. You must use your own discretion.”

Nailhead was obviously less concerned with the fate of Roderick than with the probable consequences to himself.

“But Lord Croyle!” he exclaimed. “The shock of all this will kill him!” He paced distractedly up and down the room.

“Look here!” he continued. “Dr. Balcombe is here. Is there any objection to telling him that Roderick has been detained? He'll know all about it to-morrow, in any case. I'll go and fetch him.”

He went out, to reappear with Balcombe, to whom Merrion repeated the bare fact that Roderick had been detained by the police on suspicion of having murdered Collins. Since Balcombe had no knowledge of any motive for Roderick committing such a crime, his reaction was such as might have been expected. “Roderick!” he exclaimed. “Preposterous! The police have made a ridiculous mistake, of course. I never heard of such a thing.”

He paused, and then went on impressively, “As Lord Croyle's medical adviser, I must insist that no word of this reaches his ears. That his grandson and heir should be in the hands of the police, even in error, would be a greater blow to him than he could be expected to bear. No doubt this absurd misunderstanding will be cleared up, and Roderick set at liberty with little delay. Lord Croyle need never know of the incident.”

Nailhead promised that for the present at least no word should reach Lord Croyle's ears. Having accomplished his errand, Merrion went back to the Victoria, wondering if the news had reached Cecil, and whether he would appear. But his usual hour passed without any sign of him, and after dinner Merrion went to the police station once more.
“I'm glad you've come along,” said Arnold. “I've made out a list of points on which I shall want information. I don't expect you to give me all of it. But you can tell me who is the proper person to get it from.”

“I'd try Nailhead first, then Cecil Croyle,” Merrion replied. “I don't recommend you to interview Lord Croyle, for it is pretty generally anticipated that the poor old chap won't survive the shock of his grandson's crime.”

Arnold's answer was interrupted by a knock on the door, and on his call “Come in!” Henfield appeared. “I beg pardon for interrupting, sir,” the sergeant said. “But there's a lady here who says she has something very important to tell you. She's Miss Green, Dr. Balcombe's governess.”

Arnold nodded. “All right, Henfield, I'll see her in a few minutes. Ask her to wait, will you?” Henfield went out and Arnold turned to Merrion. “Do you know anything about this Miss Green?” he asked.

“Precious little,” Merrion replied “She's a new-comer, hasn't been in Croylehaven more than a fortnight or so. I caught a glimpse of her the other day, taking Balcombe's daughter for a walk. I've heard Balcombe say he was very pleased with her. He regards her as a paragon, as governesses go.”

“She's a new-comer, you say?” Arnold asked. “What the devil do you suppose she's come here to tell me?”

Merrion shrugged his shoulders. “I've no idea. You'd better have her in and ask her. There's just this. Balcombe was at the Castle when I went there this afternoon to break the news, and he was told about Roderick.”

“Well, we'll see,” said Arnold. “You'd better stop and hear what the woman's got to say. You may be able to check up on it. I'll call Henfield and tell him to trot her along.”

A minute later Miss Green was ushered into the room. She had discarded her tinted glasses and Merrion, seeing her face for the first time, appreciated that she had once been beautiful. She was pale, and her expression was distressed, but her demeanour was perfectly calm and possessed. Arnold placed a chair for her. “Sit down. Miss Green,” he said encouragingly. “That's right. Now, to begin with, would you mind telling me your full name?”

She sat down without hurry and answered him with extreme deliberation. “Marian Monica Clark, widow, aged fifty-two. I wish to make a statement regarding the death of my late husband, Sydney Clark or Collins.”

They stared at her in amazement. To Merrion it was as though the skeleton had emerged from the cupboard, clothed in austere but living flesh. There was an appreciable pause before Arnold spoke, automatically reciting the formal warning. “You are aware, Mrs. Clark, that any statement you may make may subsequently be used in evidence.”

“I am perfectly well aware of it,” she replied unemotionally. “That is why I wish to make it.”

Arnold drew pen and paper towards him. “In that case, Mrs. Clark, I am ready to hear what you have to tell me.”

“I'm afraid my statement will be a long one,” she replied. “I'll try to keep it as short as I can, but you won't understand properly unless I tell you everything. I must begin with my girlhood. My parents, whose name was Edburton, died when I was little more than a child, leaving me with a small sum of money. I had received a good education and was always fond of children. While still quite young, I secured a post as governess with a family living in Kensington. I was thus employed when, in 1916, I met a man who called himself Captain Clark, giving out that he had been retired from the Army on account of wounds received in action. I need make no excuse now for the folly of an inexperienced girl. It is enough to say that I left my job and married him at a registry office.

“Even now I can't describe what followed. I will only say that before long I was completely disillusioned. I found that the so-called Captain Clark was in reality a petty criminal, who had only married me for the sake of the little money I had. His treatment of me varied between utter neglect and physical violence. The limit was reached when he insisted that I should act as a decoy for him. I refused, and to escape his ill-treatment ran away from him. This was early in 1917. I was completely destitute, and for some months earned my living as a charwoman in the East End scrubbing floors.

“My husband made no attempt to get me back. He had my money, which was all he had ever wanted. I heard of him from time to time, for I was employed by the wife of one of his associates. Then came that awful Silvertown explosion. The husband of my employer told me that a mangled body had been found among the wreckage, which he and others had identified as that of my husband, Sydney Clark.

“I cannot say how relieved I felt. It was as if a hideous leaf had been torn out of my book, and I could turn over and start afresh. I meant to go on working where I was until I had scraped together a few pounds, and then look for a post as governess again. But, only a few weeks after I had heard of my husband's death, I met with a serious accident. A rickety staircase on which I was working gave way, and I fell through on to a concrete floor below.

“I was taken to hospital, and there I met Harry, who was then one of the doctors there. He fell in love with me, and I, though after my last experience I tried not to, fell in love with him. There were no secrets between us. I told him all about Sydney, and he understood. But we thought it best that that period of my life should be forgotten, and that I should be described simply as a war widow, which in a sense I was, or should have been if Sydney had really been killed in the explosion. And as my first name Marian seemed to be associated with that period, we agreed that I should use the second, Monica, in future.

“As soon as I was discharged from hospital. Harry got rooms for me. He wouldn't hear of my working again, and very soon we were married. It was the only really happy time I have ever known, but it didn't last very long. Harry was called up, and just before he went to France he took me to the Castle, where he arranged that I should live until the war was over. He knew, of course, that I was expecting a baby.

She paused, struggling successfully to repress any sign of emotion. “I wasn't happy there. Lord Croyle and Charlotte were never definitely unkind to me, but they made me feel that my presence was more than unwelcome. I wasn't a Croyle, and in their eyes I didn't come up to Croyle standards. I was merely a former governess, whom Harry had most unfortunately picked up. I longed for the time when Harry would come back and take me away,

“But he never did come back. He was killed before he had been in France many weeks. I think, when they got over their grief. Lord Croyle and Charlotte were almost glad, for it meant that I should never become Lady Croyle. And then Roderick was born, the son of the eldest son, and therefore the heir. I had played my part, and the sooner I left the stage the better for all concerned. I wasn't told that in so many words, but it was what I was made to feel.

“I couldn't stand it, and I simply ran away. It was a bitter wrench parting from my baby boy, but I knew it was for his good. He would be brought up with every possible care as the heir of the Croyles. I had Harry's pension, and the family lawyer had told me that I should have an annuity on Lord Croyle's death. But I knew that I must do something to keep me occupied. So I took my mother's name, and once more became a governess, calling myself Miss Green.

“That was nearly thirty years ago, and during that period I had no communication, direct or indirect, with any of the Croyles. I don't suppose they made any very serious attempt to find me, being only too glad to have me out of the way. Until last year I worked as a governess, leaving each place as my charges grew up and taking another. Then I retired, and was living quietly by myself in London, when I saw Dr. Balcombe's advertisement.

“I decided to answer it. I knew that the only people in Croylehaven who could possibly recognise me were Lord Croyle and Charlotte, and it ought to be easy enough for me to keep out of their way. Lord Croyle was now an old man, and I wanted to see my son take his place. When he had, and not till then, I meant to make myself known to Roderick, quite privately. If it suited him to acknowledge his mother, he could. If he was too much of a Croyle to want to do that, it wouldn't matter. I should be very well provided for.

“I came to see Dr. Balcombe, and he engaged me. From the first I encouraged my new charge, his daughter Harriet, to talk about the Castle and the people there. I learnt from her that Roderick was married and had children, and that he had just come home from abroad. I also learnt that Lord Croyle never left the Castle, and that Charlotte was always with him, so I felt perfectly safe. I remembered my way about, and in the evening when I had put Harriet to bed I used to walk up Farthing Lane and into the park, wondering if perhaps I might catch a glimpse of Roderick in the distance.

“That never happened. But last Thursday, when I was taking my usual walk, I saw a man coming down Farthing Lane. It was growing dark, and at first I did not recognise him. Then we met, face to face, and in spite of the years which had gone by, I knew that he was Sydney, not dead as I had believed, but here alive in Croylehaven.”

Her hands clasped and unclasped nervously as she recalled that moment. “Sydney recognised me as soon as I did him,” she went on. “But it wasn't the shock to him that it was to me. He laughed, and said something about it being a long time since we'd met. He supposed I was up to the same game as he was himself. We should have to talk it over, for it wouldn't do for us to get in one another's way. He'd got himself a job as butler at the Castle. I was to meet him in the park soon after nine on Saturday. He knew of a place where we could talk without any fear of being seen or interrupted. And then he left me.

“I was so stunned that it took me some time to realise all that this meant, but slowly I understood. Sydney had been alive all the time, and so I had never been properly married to Harry. I wasn't his widow, and Roderick wasn't his heir. It was easy enough to see what Sydney's game was. To tell Roderick how matters stood, and then to demand money from him as the price of keeping his mouth shut.

“What was I to do? I couldn't expose Sydney without revealing the truth. For Roderick's sake, the secret must be kept at all costs. From his birth he had been brought up as the heir to the Croyle title and property. To be disappointed now would be too terrible for him. It was hopeless to suppose that any persuasion of mine would have the least effect upon Sydney. And then at last I saw the chance that I might be able to buy his silence.

“I had already made up my mind that I would keep his appointment for Saturday. I had to find out exactly what his plans were. But I wasn't going to risk meeting him alone without some means of protection. I had had experience of what his temper was like. I knew that if we quarrelled he would attack me, and I wanted to be able to defend myself. So on Saturday afternoon when Dr. Balcombe was out I took one of his sharp instruments from the surgery.

“I had this with me when I went to meet Sydney. He was in the park, and took me to the ice-house, which he unlocked, and we went in. He locked the door and said that nobody could disturb us. It was quite dark in there, but he took an electric hand-lamp from his pocket and hung it on the wall. Then he asked me why I had come to Croylehaven. I told him that I wanted to be on hand when Lord Croyle died, so that I could make myself known and claim an annuity that would be due to me then. And I asked him what he was doing here.

“He made no secret about that. He had known at the time about my marrying Harry, and had seen then that it would give him an opportunity for blackmail. But he did not dare to appear for a long while, for his life was threatened by a gang he had somehow double-crossed. He had arranged with his own pals for them to identify the body of one of the victims of the explosion as his, and had gone on a merchant ship as a steward, with false papers. He spent a year or two at sea, and had then come back and begun to make enquiries about Dr. and Mrs. Croyle.

“When he found out how matters stood, he saw that the opportunity for blackmail was far greater than he believed. It was no longer a matter of confronting a doctor with the threat of revealing the fact that his marriage was not valid. This particular doctor had been Lord Croyle's heir, and though he was dead he had left a son, whom everyone believed to have become the heir in his turn. This son could thus be blackmailed to almost any extent. But Sydney saw that he must wait until Roderick had actually inherited the property. Until then he would not have the means of meeting his demands. So Sydney had waited, watching the papers for the announcement of Lord Croyle's death. At last, as this did not appear, he came to Croylehaven to see for himself how matters stood. Hearing that there might be a vacancy for a butler at the Castle, he had applied for the job and had been taken on.”

“One moment,” Arnold interposed. “You say that-er-your husband did not mean to start his blackmail until after Lord Croyle's death. Did he give you to understand that he had in fact not yet said anything to your son?”

“I asked him that particularly,” she replied “he told me that of course he hadn't. He wanted to see Roderick a rich man first, and he knew too much to show his hand until the right moment. Then I thought it was time to try my chance. I told him that I would buy Roderick off. As I was supposed to be Harry's widow, I was entitled to an annuity on Lord Croyle's death. As long as Sydney kept the secret to himself, I would pay that over to him. Of course, if he should ever let the truth be known, my annuity would cease.

“He merely laughed at me. He said he was after bigger game than a paltry annuity. Roderick would have to share with him, fifty-fifty, whatever he got. He didn't mind telling me that he had already put one of the other annuitants out of the way, for I couldn't say anything about that. If I did, he would proclaim the secret. He had gone put after Mr. Coolham and pushed him over the cliff when he wasn't looking. Just so that his annuity wouldn't have to be paid, and Roderick would have that much more to share out with him.

“My chance had failed and I played my last card. I told Sydney that I should see Roderick and tell him the truth myself. And then, as I had expected, he sprang at me. I think he would have strangled me. He nearly did, long ago, when I had refused to do what he wanted. But all the time we were talking I had that knife, or whatever it was, hidden up my sleeve. And before his hands could reach my throat, I snatched it out and stabbed him with it, and be fell down bleeding at my feet.

“I wasn't in the least horrified with what I had done. If I had killed him Roderick was safe. I took the lamp from the wall, unlocked the door and went out. I locked the door on the outside, and carried the lamp and the key down to the harbour, where I threw them into the sea. I thought that if I did that, Sydney would never be found, for he had told me that the ice-house was never used. Then I went home and cleaned the knife. On Sunday morning when Dr. Balcombe had gone to the Castle I put it back where I had found it.”

Her voice dropped wearily, as though she had come to the end of what she had to say. There was a moment of silence, while Arnold wrote rapidly. Then, “Have you anything to add to that statement?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Only this. When Dr. Balcombe came back from the Castle this afternoon he told me that Roderick had been detained on a charge of murdering Sydney. He thought it was ridiculous, but I understood at once that the secret must somehow have leaked out to you. So I came here to tell you what had really happened. I couldn't let my boy suffer for what his mother had done. That's all.”

“I must ask you to come with me, Mrs. Clark,” said Arnold quietly. She rose without hesitation, and they went out together, leaving Merrion staring intently at the wall before him. After a while Arnold came back alone. “I was bound to detain her,” he began. “I suppose she was telling the truth. As for Roderick—”

But Merrion had got up and snatched at his hat. “I'm going home!” he exclaimed. “Back to High Eldersham, I mean. I'll come back for the inquest next week, but not to stop. See you then, I dare say. Good-night.”

And before the astonished Arnold could stop him, he strode out of the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY

HE HURRIED back to the Victoria, where once again he found that Mavis had gone upstairs. He went to their room, to find that she had just got into bed. “You're not asleep yet?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she replied. “But I don't care about sitting in the lounge in the evening without you, so I came up. You've been a long time with Mr. Arnold, you know.”

“Yes, a long time,” said Merrion. “But that's all over now. We'll pack up first thing in the morning and get off home as soon as we can after breakfast. We'll drive straight through, if you feel up to it.”

Mavis sat up in bed and eyed him wonderingly. “Whatever are you thinking of, Desmond!” she exclaimed. “You know perfectly well that we can't run away like that without saying good-bye to Lord Croyle and your friend Cecil. Why this sudden hurry? Has something fresh happened?”

“Listen and I'll tell you,” Merrion replied. He described the dramatic appearance of Dr. Balcombe's governess at the police station, and repeated the astonishing statement she had made. “So now you see,” he ended.

“I don't, quite,” said Mavis. “It's all most extraordinary, but I don't see why it should make you want to leave in such a hurry.”

“Because I want to avoid meeting any of these people again,” Merrion replied. “Look here. Several people have learnt by now that Roderick, and therefore Luke, are out of the succession. But it hasn't occurred to any of them yet to ask who will be the fourth Lord Croyle.”

“I still don't see what bee is buzzing in your bonnet,” said Mavis. “Failing Roderick, who will be?”
“Jonathan would have been,” Merrion replied grimly. “But he died as the result of an inexplicable accident. That being so, the heir now is Lord Croyle's nephew, Cecil. And I have no intention of saying good-bye to him.”

At last Mavis understood. “But that's too dreadful!” she exclaimed. “You can't mean that Cecil killed that poor little boy?”

“The very first evening we were here Cecil made a remark which stuck in my memory,” Merrion replied quietly.” He said that while he was at the War Office he was doing a job of some importance, but that now his only claim to distinction was that he was Lucifer's nephew. There was a bitter feeling in the way he said that which did not tally with his pose of quiet contentment with his own condition, with his passive role of looker-on at the doings at the Castle. I don't suppose he coveted the money, but I'm pretty sure that he longed for the importance. He wanted to be known as Lord Croyle, the king of the Castle, the Lord High Panjandrum of Croylehaven. There are people like that, you know.”

“But if you think Cecil killed Jonathan, you ought—” Mavis began, but her husband chimed in and finished the sentence for her.

“To tell Arnold? What could I tell him? That Jonathan's death turns out to have been of advantage to Cecil? If he doesn't see that for himself, there are plenty of other people to point it out to him. Nailhead, or any of the family, for example. Why should I interfere? I'm tired of being involved in the tragedies of the Croyle family.”

He paused, and then went on gravely, “You know very well that if I had the flimsiest proof with which to back my suspicions I would pass it on to Arnold. But I haven't. I can perceive only Cecil's motive. His opportunity remains a matter of sheer conjecture. I can tell Arnold nothing that others cannot, if they care to do so.”

“They haven't all got your powers of imagination,” Mavis remarked quietly.

“There!” Merrion exclaimed in triumph. “You've hit the nail on the head, as usual. We'll agree between us that Cecil is a murderer only in my imagination. That being so, we are as free to speculate as any one else. I am perfectly certain that he could never be charged with the crime, for it would be impossible to unearth the slightest evidence against him. But, if it interests you, I'll let my imagination play with how he might have done it.”

Mavis nodded, and her husband continued, “The first assumption is that Cecil knew that Roderick's father had never been legally married. If he did not, his motive is nonexistent, for if he believed Roderick's birth to be legitimate, he could see no advantage to himself in the death of either Jonathan or Luke. Is the assumption justified?

“In my opinion, it is. The police were asked to make enquiries about Collins, or Carver, as he called himself at the time, by the War Office. They did so, and the dossier was submitted presumably to M.I.5; in which Cecil was employed. It is quite likely that it came under his personal notice, and that he acquainted himself with what it contained.

“Now, Cecil had succeeded his father as one of the trustees of the settlement made by Luke, the second Baron Croyle. At the time of her alleged marriage to Harry Croyle, the trustees had ascertained that Monica's maiden name had been Marian Monica Edburton. In the dossier was the record of an earlier marriage between Sydney Clark and Marian Edburton. When Monica had married Harry she had described herself as Monica Clark, widow.

“The chances that more than one woman was involved were so small as to be negligible. If Cecil saw that dossier, and I repeat it is only my assumption that he did, it must have dawned on him that Harry's marriage had not been legal, with all the consequences that entailed. Perhaps he made further enquiries, his position in M.I.5 enabling him to do so discreetly, and so put the matter beyond any possibility of doubt.

“What Cecil made of all this at the time it's impossible to guess. Although Roderick and his children were ruled out of the succession, there remained Jonathan, who had been born in 1940. Cecil may have decided then that Jonathan was an obstacle to his own ambitions, and would have to be removed sooner or later. We don't know.

“Now, here's another point. Cecil very probably saw Carver, the man of whom the War Office authorities were suspicious, under conditions in which Carver did not see him. For instance, the police, while they were making their enquiries, may have posted Cecil at a window on the other side of which Carver was being questioned. When Collins applied for the job at the Castle, did Cecil recognise him as Carver, alias dark, Monica's legal husband?

“I'm pretty sure he did. Arnold, though he couldn't place him exactly, recognised him correctly as a man who had once passed through the hands of the Yard. It seems highly probable that Cecil, to whom this particular person was of far greater importance than he had ever been to Arnold, recognised him at once.

“Which brings us to rather a pretty piece of reasoning. If Cecil had recognised him merely as Carver, the doubtful character who had come under his official notice while he was at the War Office, he would certainly not have recommended Lord Croyle to engage him. Cecil could have had no object in installing a common crook at the Castle. But if he recognised the applicant as Monica's husband, it was an entirely different matter.

“He must have guessed that Collins had applied for the job for the purpose of ultimate blackmail, the only victim of which could be Roderick. And this presented Cecil with something of a problem. It was to be in his interest that Collins should eventually blow the gaff, but not until Jonathan had been eliminated. While the secret was still a secret, nobody had the slightest apparent motive for killing the boy. His death might well pass as accidental. But if Cecil delayed killing him until the secret was public property, he was bound to fall under immediate suspicion. He probably came to the conclusion that Collins was safer at the Castle, where he could keep an eye on him.

“We can now jump to last Sunday morning, when Cecil was told of the disappearance of Collins. If he knew the secret, his peculiar behaviour is explained. He thought at first that Collins must have gone to London to blackmail Roderick, in surroundings of his own choosing. When we found the body, Cecil jumped to the conclusion that I admit we all did when he knew the truth. He supposed that Roderick had murdered Collins, to prevent the secret becoming known. Hence his strange remark to me, that the consequences of Collins' death would be fatal to Lord Croyle.

“You must realise that the death of Collins did not at all suit Cecil's book. Hence again that curious and unguarded remark he made to Nailhead. Collins' death had presented him with a difficult problem. It had indeed, for who was now to reveal the secret at the proper time? If Cecil himself did so, he would be subject to several very awkward questions. Why had he not made Lord Croyle aware of the truth when he had first discovered it, as was his manifest duty? Why, if he was aware of Collins' record, had he recommended Lord Croyle to engage him? Why, if he was afraid of upsetting Lord Croyle, had he not confided in Nailhead, the family lawyer?

“Cecil was on the horns of a dilemma, for he could not possibly guess that Monica would appear in the role of dea ex machina. His game had been, I don't doubt, to let matters take their course. To appear somehow to discover Collins' blackmail of Roderick, and to profess profound amazement at the revelation of the truth. But what now? It was not likely that the police unaided would stumble on the fact that Collins' wife had subsequently married Harry Croyle. Certainly, but for my intervention, they would not have done so. If Cecil told what he knew, people might remember Jonathan's accident. If he held his tongue, who was to speak? And if nobody spoke, it would be Roderick, not Cecil, who became the next Lord Croyle.

“As things are they have turned out in Cecil's favour. The secret has come to light without any intervention on his part. He is free to express as much astonishment as he pleases at finding himself the rightful heir. Whatever suspicions we and possibly others may have, nobody can prove that he knew all along what the situation was. Not even Monica, who knows nothing whatever of her husband's activities under the name of Carver.”

“It's dreadful to think of him getting away with the murder of that poor little boy!” Mavis exclaimed.

Merrion shook his head. “We don't know that he did murder him. The most we can say is that if Cecil knew the secret, he was aware that Jonathan's death would be of advantage to him. And that's as far as any one will ever get. It may be that Arnold or Henfield may arrive at that idea; by their own inspiration or at somebody's suggestion. It is not likely that, in view of the coroner's verdict of accident, they will undertake any investigation. If they do, what can they find? No clue to Cecil's responsibility for the so-called accident, that I'm quite sure.”

“You believe that he did it, just the same,” said Mavis accusingly.

“I believe it possible that he may have done it,” Merrion replied. “And since we've made so many assumptions already, we may as well proceed a little further. You remember how things were that evening? The gate in the upper gallery was unlocked, and would swing open if leant against. The boys, Jonathan and Luke, had secretly changed rooms by way of a prank. In the room occupied by Jonathan the change, was a speaking-tube, the lower end of which was in one of the vestibules in the ground floor.

“Now, here is a purely imaginary sketch of what may have happened. First, the changing of the rooms. Luke told his mother that he and Jonathan had agreed to tell nobody what they meant to do. Luke kept to the bargain, but did Jonathan? We saw for ourselves that he was on very confidential terms with his Uncle Cecil, as he called him. When the children had come back from Harriet Balcombe's party, the two of them were alone together for a while. It is by no means impossible that Jonathan imparted the secret to Cecil, knowing he would appreciate the joke.

“If so, Cecil may have seen his opportunity. He entered into the spirit of the thing and said it would be huge fun. What was more, he could improve upon the plan. He told Jonathan that after he had changed rooms he would hear a whistle. He was to jump out of bed, go to the whistle, take it from the tube in which he would find it, and listen. He would hear a voice which would tell him what to do.

“My theory of the unlocking of the gate is pure guesswork. Of one thing I am perfectly certain. Nobody in any way connected with the Castle made a key from a wax impression of the lock. Even Collins, professional crook though he may have been, was hardly capable of that. I don't doubt the original key was mislaid years ago, when the gate ceased to be used. It may be that when the military occupation of the Castle they had a key made, wishing to use the gate for some purpose of their own. What seems to me more likely is that, before the Castle was handed back to its rightful owner, some conscientious quartermaster found that there was no key to the gate. Fearing that he might be blamed for the loss of a key which should have his charge, he had one made. It's just the sort of thing a quartermaster would do.

“Now, Cecil took over the Castle from the military on Lord Croyle's behalf. He must have examined every detail pretty thoroughly when he did so. His investigations extended even as far as the ice-house, as he told me himself. It is quite possible that as he was looking through the rooms opening on to the upper gallery he noticed a key in the lock of the gate. Realising that its presence there might lead to an accident, he took out the key and put it away somewhere, perhaps in the butler's pantry, where the other keys hung.

“When Jonathan was talking to him he remembered that key. Being familiar with every detail of the Castle, he was aware of the existence of the speaking-tube. At some time before the children were put to bed, when there would be nobody on the top floor, he secured the key, went up and unlocked the ate. Then, just by way of laying a false clue, he took the modelling wax from the nursery and smeared some of it on to the lock. I suppose, if Balcombe's keen sense of smell had not detected its presence, he would have repaired the omission himself.

“Just before dinner he left the library to wash his hands. He may have gone to the lower end of the speaking-tube and blown through it. Jonathan, hearing the whistle he expected, carried out his instructions. He took out the whistle, listened, and hear the voice. It said something like this: “Now wait for a lark. Very soon you will hear the dinner gong. Wait for five or ten minutes after that. Then take the saucer your night light stands in. Run with it straight out of the door of your room and across the gallery. Lean over the balustrade and drop the saucer on to the floor of the hall. You'll startle everyone in the dining-room out of their wits.” You can imagine how an idea like that would appeal to a small boy already bent on mischief. Well, we know what happened.

Mavis shuddered. “We do. It's perfectly ghastly, the way you put it, in cold blood like that. I can't believe that any one could be so utterly ruthless. But what's going to happen now?”

“If nobody could have been so utterly ruthless, then Jonathan's death was accidental after all,” Merrion replied. “Let's hope you're right. As to what will happen now, you mean in the Croyle family, I suppose. I don't imagine there will be any further very sensational developments. The facts are known and Roderick cannot now inherit. Somehow I don't feel that when this is broken to Lord Croyle the shock will shorten his life. I don't think he'll mind all that much his nephew supplanting his grandson as his heir. He'll be spared the distress of Roderick being detained on suspicion of murder, for he'll be quietly released, and the old man will never hear of the incident. As far as the succession is concerned, I expect he will feel that one Croyle is as good as another.

“After all, he has survived a good many shocks, physical as well as mental, within the last few weeks. Notably the attempt upon his life, which one might well have expected to be fatal. In spite of what we know now about Collins, I still don't think he had any hand in that. Everything points to Coolham having worked the booby-trap. And Collins took it upon himself to play the part of the avenging furies. He boasted to Monica that he had pushed the fellow over the cliff, so that his annuity should revert to the estate. He intended that whatever benefited the estate should benefit him equally.”

“How did he come to know about the annuity?” Mavis asked. “Through Cecil?”

Merrion smiled and shook his head. “Whatever Cecil's crimes may have been, I'm pretty sure that guilty conspiracy with Collins was not among them. Collins appears to have been expert in procuring information profitable to himself. A butler has constant opportunity of overhearing remarks which he can piece together. As we know from experience, the Croyles are remarkably unguarded in their talk. I dare say by the time Collins had been at the Castle for a few weeks he was as conversant with the family business as Nailhead himself. But we were talking about Lord Croyle. I don't think this latest development is going to upset him overmuch. It may even reassure him to know that, after all, his son was not married to the woman of whom he could not approve. It will, I hope, be some years before Cecil is able to claim his inheritance. And in the meanwhile you need not feel any anxiety on Lord Croyle's behalf. Now that Cecil's position as heir is established, he is not in the least likely to accelerate events.”

“It's a bit rough on Roderick,” Mavis remarked. “And on Faith, too, for that matter. It's not their fault.”

“No, it's not their fault,” Merrion agreed. “But, when you come to think of it, is it so desperately rough on them? Somehow I've never been able to imagine the pair of them ruling the Castle as Lord and Lady Croyle. They'll be much happier as plain Mr. and Mrs. Croyle. Cecil will make no objection to some settlement being made for their benefit. In fact, he'll probably be the first to suggest it. His means will be increased, with Coolham dead, Monica disqualified, and only Charlotte's annuity remaining to be paid. Faith will derive some satisfaction from the knowledge that, though her twins can never inherit, Romayne's Luke can't either. They'll be all right. They'll find themselves a desirable town residence, which Faith can decorate with crochet doilies to her heart's content. And they'll probably have Monical to live with them. Her experience as a governess will be most helpful in the early education of the twins. A most exellent arrangement, in every way.”

“Monica!” Mavis exclaimed. “But she's a self-confessed murderess. She won't be given the opportunity of living with them.”

“Monica's life is in no danger,” Merrion replied. “Justice is always ready to extend what mercy it can to the exterminator of a blackmailer. Her counsel will plead that she killed her husband in self-defence, which isn't so far from the truth. That she deliberately provoked his attack, and in any case didn't intend that he should leave the ice-house alive, hardly matters. The fact that she made a voluntary confession, imperilling her own neck in order to save her only son from the clutches of the police, will have a tremendous sentimental value. The worst that can happen to her is a relatively short term of imprisonment. She'll survive to bring up the twins in the way they should go.”

He paused, and then then went on meditatively, “Really, in the broad view, things haven't turned out too badly. It will be a vexation to Lord Croyle to have to find a new butler, and to Balcombe, to lose so capable a governess. But those difficulties can be got over. Cecil will be delegated to find a suitable candidate for the vacant post at the Castle. Balcombe will console himself by marrying Felicity. Charlotte will remain in sole charge until such time as her father-in-law breathes his last, and then depart into honourable retirement.”

“I wonder how Romayne and her Edwin will hit it off,” Mavis remarked.

“Remarkably well, I expect,” Merrion replied. “In spite of his superficial prosiness, Nailhead is at heart a thoroughly nice chap. Romayne, after some initial turbulence, will settle down with him all right. She won't like it when it's broken to her that Luke isn't in the succession, but she'll get over it. They've got a hard job before them for the next few years, but I hope and believe they'll get through with it.”

“And Cecil?” Mavis asked. “I don't envy him his conscience.”

“The death of one small boy is not likely to disturb the philosophic calm of a student of Lucretius,” Merrion replied. “Cecil will be happy enough. He's got what he wanted in life. No longer merely Lucifer's nephew, but the future Lord Croyle. When his uncle dies, he will step into the Castle and there live respected and revered. No doubt he will pick some eligible woman, marry her, and continue the Croyle line. He'd have married Romayne, if she would have had him, you know.”

“Of course Romayne wouldn't have him!” Mavis exclaimed. “She's got too much sense for that. No two Croyles could get on together for long. She'll be much happier with Mr. Nailhead.”

Merrion got up and stretched himself. “Let's get some sleep,” he said. “My word, we've had some unexpected adventures while we've been here. It'll be jolly good to get home again, won't it?”

THE END