HEIR TO MURDER

At half-past nine in the evening of Saturday, November 14th, that part of the quay was deserted. This was understandable, for at that time the narrow cobbled stretch did not offer an inviting promenade. It was an unpleasant evening, misty and drizzling, and the quay was only feebly lighted by two lamp-posts, one at either end. The surface of the water in the harbour, and the boats floating on it, were barely visible.

But, if he did not see, old Micah Poynter heard it all. Normally at this time on a Saturday, Micah would have been at the Three Pilchards. On this particular evening, however, the missus was feeling poorly, and didn't want to be left alone. Earlier in the evening, he had gone to the Three Pilchards, and bought half a crown's worth of gin for the missus and a couple of bottles of brown ale for himself.

Micah and Mrs. Poynter were sitting in the kitchen of their little house at the narrower end of the quay. Mrs. Poynter had put the kettle on the fire, and was sipping hot gin and water, with a little peppermint in it. Micah was pouring out the last of his second bottle of beer when he heard the sound of a car on the quay outside. “That'll be the doctor coming back,” he remarked. “I heard him go out some time back.”

The sound continued for a minute or two. Dr. Murford had recently bought a new car, a big three-litre Saturn saloon, and he found some difficulty in manoeuvring it in and out of his garage. The door of this opened on to the quay, not squarely, but like everything else in the little fishing-port of Carmouth, slightly askew. The quay being too narrow to allow of the requisite sweep for so large a car, the doctor could not drive straight in or out. He had to reverse once or twice before he got the car at the proper angle.

And then it happened. At the sound of a stifled cry, and a tremendous splash, Micah leapt up. “He's done it, Missus!” he exclaimed. “Same as I always said he would. He's gone over the edge, into the harbour!”

He hurried out of the kitchen door on to the quay. The chilly drizzle struck him as he stood there for a moment, listening and accustoming his eyes to the gloom. He could hear nothing but the lapping of the water against the quay wall. Rapidly his eyes adjusted them-selves to the feeble light which came from the lamp-post near at hand. On a rail beside it hung a life-buoy, and he snatched this from its hook. Then, approaching the edge of the quay, he stared into the harbour.

It was just after high tide, and the level of the water was barely three feet below the level of his feet. Of the car, or its occupant, nothing was to be seen. Moored a few fathoms from the quay was a small fishing boat. Micah knew it well, for it was always moored just there. It belonged to the Car Bay Fish Canning Company, known locally as “The Cannery.” The boat was rocking gently, though not a ripple disturbed the surface of the water. This must be due to the after-effects of the splash made by the car.

Micah's mind worked slowly but methodically. No good diving in. If the car was at the bottom there, with the doctor in it, he'd never be able to get him out, shut in as he'd be. Anyhow, he'd probably be drowned by this time. He turned and looked towards the row of buildings facing the quay. The door of the doctor's garage was wide open, and there was no car in it. Micah decided that this was a job for the police.

He laid down the life-buoy and started off. The only access to the quay was by a fairly steep slope, leading down from a street running parallel to the quay, at a higher level. The slope was at the wider end of the quay, farther from Micah's house, where the other lamp-post stood. The buildings between the street and the quay were mainly store-houses, untenanted at this time of night. The doctor's house was an exception. Its frontage and door were on the street, and its lower rooms were on the level. Only the garage, below these, opened on to the quay.

Micah walked up the slope to the street, which was deserted. Glancing at the front of the doctor's house, he could see no light in any of the windows. Well, anyhow, he wasn't going to be the one to break the news to Mrs. Murford. And his way led in the opposite direction. Along the street a little way, then to the right, into the Market Place. The police station was beyond this, in High Street. But Micah was saved the necessity of walking so far. The centre of the little town was fairly well lighted, and passing through the Market Place he saw the tall figure of a policeman. Micah went up to him. “Good-evening, Mr. Raymond.”

“Good-evening, Mr. Poynter,” the policeman replied. “What brings you out this way on an evening like this?”

“I was looking for one of you chaps,” said Micah gravely. “Something bad's happened to the doctor.”

“Dr. Murford?” Raymond asked. “What's up with him? I saw him drive past, going home, not ten minutes ago.”

Micah nodded. “That's right. But he never got there. He drove his car into the harbour.”

“What!” Raymond exclaimed incredulously. “Into the harbour? Did you see him?”

“No, I didn't see him,” Micah replied. “I was indoors with the missus. But I heard him. You'd best come with me.”

Together they returned to the quay, Micah puffing with the exertion of keeping up with the policeman. “That's where he went in!” Micah ejaculated breathlessly, when they reached the spot on the quay opposite the open garage door.

Raymond flashed his torch on to the water. The fishing boat had ceased rocking by now, and lay motionless at her moorings. But between her and the quay a thin iridescent film of oil was spreading slowly over the water, and a faint smell of petrol was perceptible. “That's where he went in,” Micah repeated. “And what's to be done about it, I don't know, Mr. Raymond. There's fifteen feet of water where he lies.”

“However did he come to do it?” Raymond said, more to himself than his companion.

“That I can't say,” Micah replied. “I don't know much about them motor-cars. But he hadn't much sea-room to back and fill, if you understand me. And I don't see them gadgets they use when he goes out at night.”

“What gadgets?” Raymond asked.

Micah shook his head. “I don't know what they're called. Them shining things you see at the side of the road sometimes. The doctor had half-a-dozen of them, fixed in a row on a lath. They used to lay them out on the edge of the quay, so that the doctor would know how much room he had. I've seen them there, more than once.”

“Cats'-eyes, you mean, I suppose,” said Raymond. He swung his torch along the edge of the quay, but no reflection came from it. “They're not there now. Maybe the car shoved them into the water when it went over. We'd best hear what the harbour-master has to say about this. Will you slip along and see if you can find him, Mr. Poynter?”

Micah shambled off. He knew well enough where the harbour-master was to be found at that time. The inner harbour of Carmouth was rectangular in shape, the narrow quay over which the car had been driven being opposite to the entrance. The quays flanking it on either side were wider, and on one of these stood the Three Pilchards.

Entering the inn by the door marked “Saloon Bar,” Micah, as he had expected, found the harbour-master, sitting at a table yarning to two or three of his cronies. Micah went up to him. “You're wanted, Mr. Tremayne. The doctor's driven his car into the harbour.”

Tremayne sprang to his feet. “What's that you say?” he exclaimed. “You don't mean the doctor was in it?”

“Tisn't likely the car went in by itself,” Micah replied cautiously. “You'd best come and see for yourself.”

The harbour-master hurried out, followed by Micah. But Tremayne didn't wait to be shewn the way. There was only one spot where the accident could have happened. With Micah straggling in the rear, he reached the spot where Raymond was standing. The policeman directed his torch on to the water. “That's where it is. What's to be done about it, Mr. Tremayne?”

Tremayne hesitated before he replied. The film of oil was distinct enough, and the smell of petrol was unmistakable. “Blest if I know,” he said. Then, seeing that Micah had caught up with him, “Slip along to my shed. There's a boat-hook hanging up on the wall outside, left of the door. Bring it along here, sharp as you can.”

Micah went off obediently, curiously proud of finding himself in the foreground of the picture. Tremayne voiced his thoughts aloud. “Blest if I know,” he repeated. “We can't get the harbour crane along here, for it only runs on the northern quay. And the breakdown lorry from the garage wouldn't lift a big car bodily. Besides, it would want a diver to pass a sling round, and we haven't got one, and the gear neither. Seems to me we'll have to wait for low water.”

“And when will that be?” Raymond asked.

“It was high water at nine-twenty,” Tremayne replied. “So it will be low water round about half-past three in the morning. But the car, if it's there, should begin to show soon after midnight.”

Micah returned, carrying a long boat-hook. Tremayne took it from him, and, kneeling at the edge of the quay, felt with it beneath the surface of the water. “There's something there, all right,” he proclaimed. “Micah's right, it must be the car. And there's nine foot of water over it, or thereabouts. Has anyone told Mrs. Murford?”

“Not yet,” said Raymond ruefully. “I'll have to break the news to her, I suppose. I'll go along now.” He left the quayside, walked round to the door of the doctor's house, and rang the bell.

The door was opened by Mrs. Quintrel, the Murfords' cook-housekeeper. She was a native of Carmouth, elderly and rather deaf. If she answered the telephone in the absence of the doctor and Mrs. Murford, it was difficult to make her understand what was wanted. Her concern at seeing a policeman in uniform was obvious. In her experience, such visits boded no good. “Good-evening, Mr. Raymond,” she said anxiously. “What is it you're wanting? The doctor's been called out. And Mrs. Murford's gone out too.”

“Do you know where Mrs. Murford has gone?” Raymond asked.

“Why, to the vicarage, to be sure,” Mrs. Quintrel replied. “She went there when the doctor had gone. The Vicar hasn't been any too well this last day or two, and Mrs. Murford has been a bit anxious about him. And that's natural enough, as she's his only daughter.”

Raymond nodded. “I'll go and see if I can find Mrs. Murford.” He left the door and started off along the street. The vicarage was less than half a mile away, up the hill leading out of the town. He wasn't surprised to hear that Mr. Manifold, the Vicar, was none too well. He was an old man, who seemed to be becoming frailer every day. Most of his duties were falling on the shoulders of his curate, the Reverend Colin Carew.

Raymond did not relish the task that lay before him. He wished now that he had told Mrs. Quintrel what had happened, and left the breaking of the news to her. But be couldn't very well turn back now. He'd have to get Mrs. Murford alone somehow. It would never do to blurt it out before the Vicar. A sudden shock like that might polish off the old man.

As he was thus meditating, a figure appeared under one of the street lamps ahead of him, a female figure, protected against the drizzle by a shining silken wrap with a hood. Mrs. Murford, on her way home. She was walking rapidly, and Raymond stopped. “Good-evening, Mrs. Murford,” he said gravely as she reached him. “I was looking for you.”

“Looking for me, Mr. Raymond?” she replied. “I've been at the vicarage. What is it?”

“Bad news, I'm afraid, Mrs. Murford,” said Raymond awkwardly. “The doctor has met with an accident.”

She stiffened and looked him squarely in the face. “What has happened to him? Tell me the worst. I shan't make a scene.”

“Micah Poynter heard the doctor's car drive over the edge of the quay into the harbour,” Raymond replied starkly.

She gasped, but instantly recovered herself. Sally Murford was not the sort of woman to give way to her emotions. “And Mike was in it,” she muttered. “You—you've found him?”

“Not yet,” Raymond replied. “The tide's hgh, and we can't get down to the car.”

She started walking again rapidly, Raymond at her side. “You must show me. I knew it would happen some day. That hateful car is so big. And I've always been so careful to put out the cats'-eyes. I oughtn't to have gone out, but I was sure I should be home again before he got back.”

Raymond made no comment, and after a moment or two she went on. It seemed as though she felt that only by talking could she keep herself under control. “Mike and I were sitting in the lounge after dinner, when the telephone rang and he answered it. He came back and told me that he'd have to go out at once. The message had been that Mrs. Ladock had cut her hand very badly on a piece of glass. He didn't know the name, and had to ask, and he was given an address at Carfield. I think he said the name of the house was Glendon.”

“That would be a matter of some three miles,” Raymond remarked, feeling that something was expected of him.

Sally Murford hardly seemed to listen, and went on mechanically: “Mike said it might be a long job, and that he wasn't likely to be back for an hour or more. I went down to the garage with him and got out the cats'-eyes. Then, when I'd seen him off safely, I ran along to see how my father was. I didn't stay with him more than half an hour. I can't imagine how Mike managed to get back so soon.”

They reached the quayside. At the sight of the dark water, with the ominous film of oil floating on it. Sally uttered a stifled cry. “I can't stay here, doing nothing!” she exclaimed brokenly. “I must go indoors. You'll find me there, when—”

Raymond escorted her to the door of the house, and returned. “She's best left with Mrs. Quintrel,” he said to the harbour-master. “But she's a plucky one, I'll say that.”

By this time a small crowd had collected, for Micah's announcement to Tremayne at the bar of the Three Pilchards had spread like wild-fire. Fishermen, mostly, in oil-skins and sou'westers against the drizzle, staring silently down into the water. In the dim light of the quay it was impossible to distinguish faces. But now and then Raymond caught the tones of a voice he recognised—low tones for the most part, shocked and sympathetic; then gratingly, in a harsh and derisive accent: “Well, we all knew he'd do it before long. No good hanging about here in the cold, Phil. Let's go back to my place, and—”

The voice was that of Hardy Norfolk, who on his father's death had succeeded to the ownership of the Car Bay Fish Canning Company. It was common knowledge that he and the doctor had not been on the best of terms, but Raymond, at least, was unaware of the cause of the antagonism. And his companion, whom he had addressed as Phil, could be none other than Philip Sampson, the semi-invalid who lived at Greystone House. In fact, as the pair turned away, Philip's asthmatic cough was plainly audible.

The minutes dragged on into hours. The level of the water in the harbour seemed hardly to fall at all, so slowly did the tide ebb. But there was nothing to be done as yet. Tremayne had a few words with some of the fishermen, hinting that they wouldn't lose anything by stopping where they were for a bit. The rest of the crowd, muttering sagely among themselves, slowly dispersed.

Midnight came and passed. “Pretty well half-tide now,” Tremayne remarked, after a long silence. He picked up the boat-hook and thrust it downwards. “Ought to see something pretty soon now.”

Unexpectedly soon, after the long-drawn tension, something appeared on the surface of the water. No more than a dark spot in the light of Raymond's torch. Then, at regular intervals, three more. The tide was now falling rapidly. As they watched, those four spots resolved themselves into crowns of curved arches. A few minutes, and they became apparent as submerged tyres.

What had happened was clear enough. The car, in reversing over the edge of the quay, had turned completely over, and was now lying on its roof on the bottom of the harbour. Tremayne shook his head despondently. “Never had a chance to get out, poor chap. Turning over like that and all. We'll have to wait a bit still before we try to get down to him.”

He waited till the chassis of the car became visible. Then, when he judged that there was no more than three feet of water, he climbed down an iron ladder on the face of the quay. Raymond, taking Micah with him, went to the police station and returned with a stretcher. By the time they got back, Tremayne and half-a-dozen fishermen standing thigh-deep in water, had managed to open the door of the car. On seeing the light of Raymond's torch, Tremayne looked up. “That you, Mr. Raymond? The doctor's in here, and there's no one else with him, for a mercy. Pass down that stretcher, and we'll get him out and on to it.”

Raymond did so. By the light of his torch he watched the party below drag out a limp and inanimate form and lay it on the stretcher. They waded through the water, carrying the stretcher and its burden to a slip-way on one of the bordering quays. Up this they carried it, and at its head Raymond joined them. A procession formed itself, Raymond leading, with the stretcher-bearers trudging behind. So they reached the doctor's house. Raymond mounted the steps and rang the bell. Sally Murford opened the door, and immediately her eyes went to the stretcher. “Bring him in, please,” she said, with a queer catch in her voice. “Into the house. I'll show you the way.”

CHAPTER II

RAYMOND RETURNED to the quay. It would be his duty to draw up a report on the affair, and he would be expected to fill in the details. Before long he was joined by Tremayne and his attendant fishermen. “I'm thinking about the car, Mr. Raymond,” said the harbourmaster. “If we were to get that out, it'll have to be round about low water, before the tide starts to rise again. It'll dry out, before long.” Again they waited, until the water had receded, leaving only a few muddy pools at the bottom of the harbour. The car was lying between the quay and the fishing boat, which now rested stranded on its side. By the united efforts of the party the car was first lowered on to its side, then, not without difficulty, righted, until it stood on its wheels. Raymond looked inside. He saw the doctor's bag, and noted the fact that the gear-lever was in reverse. He put it in neutral, and stood beside the car with his hand on the steering-wheel. As the men pushed, he guided the car to the foot of the slip-way. While a tackle, with which to haul it up the slope on to the quay, was being fetched, he went back. He had seen something else, which ought to be mentioned in his report.

He reached the spot where the car had been lying. Between this and the fishing boat, lying on the mud in the harbour, was a wooden lath, with half-a-dozen cats'-eyes fixed to it at intervals. With his metal measuring tape he made a few measurements, entering them in his note-book. The lath lay eighteen feet from the foot of the quay, the bow of the fishing boat twenty-one feet. Mrs. Murford had laid the lath on the edge of the quay. The doctor, overrunning it, must have pushed it smartly into the water. Raymond picked up the lath, and with it joined the party now hauling the car up the slip-way. This feat accomplished, the car was left outside the Three Pilchards. Raymond carried the lath to the doctor's garage. It was three o'clock on Sunday morning when he left it there.

After a few hours' sleep he reported to his Superintendent, who had already heard of the tragedy from other sources. The Superintendent, whose name was Perrin, shook his head with more than a shade of doubt. “I knew the doctor better than you did, I daresay, Raymond. One of the best chaps on the world, and we shall miss him pretty badly. But we've all got our faults, and he's no exception.”

Raymond felt that no comment was expected from him. Perrin lighted his pipe, and after a puff or two went on:

“I've never seen him the worse for liquor, and I don't suppose anyone else has either. But he liked a glass of whisky in the evening, after his work was done. That bit of quay outside his garage is awkward, especially with a big car in the dark. Just a drop of drink might cause an error of judgement.”

“The doctor passed me in the Market Place on his way home, sir,” Raymond ventured. “He didn't seem to me to be driving under the influence of liquor.”

“Don't be a fool, man!”Perrin snapped. “Nobody's suggesting that he was under the influence. I'm only wondering whether they gave him a drink at the house he went to. Just enough to make him miscalculate distance. What did you say the name was?”

Raymond consulted his note-book. “Mrs. Murford told me that the doctor had a call to go and see Mrs. Ladock, at Glendon, Carfield, sir.”

“Don't know the name,” said Perrin. “Just for my own satisfaction, I'd like to know if he had anything there. Slip over to Carfield and have a word with this woman. Ask her about the doctor's visit, and what he said and did. There, I leave it to you.”

Raymond set off on his bicycle, through the town, and along the road which led through the beautiful Car Valley. After pedalling for three miles, he reached the village of Carfield. At that time on Sunday morning there was nobody about, and for a minute or two he was at a loss. Then, from a farm-yard appeared a herd of cows, and behind them a man driving them to pasture. Raymond accosted the man. “Which is the way to a house called Glendon? Name of Ladock?”

The man jerked his thumb in vague direction. “You want to keep along till you come to the post office. Then take the first to the left till you come to the house. It's got the name on the gate. You can't miss it.”

Raymond thanked him and followed his instructions. For once, he found that he couldn't miss the house; the name painted on the gate stared him in the face. He opened the gate, and walked up the path to a small but pleasant-looking bungalow. The curtains were drawn across the windows, and he wondered if the occupants could still be in bed. He reached the door, to find a brass knocker, and with this he rapped sharply.

No reply came to this, or to a second attempt. He went round to the back and tried again. But, for all his efforts, he could elicit no sign of life. Having satisfied himself that both doors were locked and all the windows securely fastened, he rode thoughtfully back towards the post office.

That of course was closed, but a knock on the side door evoked the presence of the postmistress. She and Raymond knew one another by sight and she nodded to him. “Good-morning,” he said. “I'm sorry to disturb you like this. I'm looking for the folk at Glendon, and there don't seem to be anyone at home.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ladock, you mean?” the postmistress replied. “No, they're gone away for the week-end. Mrs. Ladock told me they wouldn't be back till Tuesday.”

“That accounts for it, then,” said Raymond. “When did they go away?”

“Friday it was,” she replied. “I don't know where they've gone to, but they went in their car. Mrs. Ladock, she got out as they were going past here. She told me they'd be away till Tuesday, and would I keep anything that came for them till then.”

This seemed remarkable to Raymond. If the Ladocks had been away since Friday, they could not have been at Glendon on Saturday evening. “Are they on the telephone?” he asked.

The postmistress shook her head. “They aren't, though they wanted to be. They asked about it when they first came here, early this year. But they were told that if they wanted a phone they'd have to pay for a line all the way up the lane. They wouldn't do that, so now, when they want to phone, they use the public box outside here.”

Raymond thanked her, mounted his bicycle, and rode on a little farther. He knew from experience that the best way to learn the hapPerrings in any village was to enquire at the local inn. He dismounted at the Red Bull, and knocked at the door. It was opened by the landlord, who greeted him heartily. “Why, what brings you here? Come in.”

“Just to ask you a question,” Raymond replied. “You know Mr. Ladock, that lives at Glendon?”

“He's a customer of mine,” the landlord replied. “Very nice gentleman, and his lady too. And you're not the first to ask me that. Dr. Murford asked me the very same question, only last night.”

“Tell me about that,” said Raymond.

“Why, the doctor drove up outside and came in,” the landlord replied. “Round about nine o'clock, or a little after. I know him well enough, for he attended to my little girl when she was ill last year. He said he'd been called to Mrs. Ladock, and did I know the way to the house. I told him, but I thought it was a bit queer.”

“What made you think it queer?” Raymond asked.

The landlord laughed. “It wasn't any business of mine. I don't repeat what my customers tell me. But, you see, it was this way, Mr. Raymond. Mr. Ladock was in here on Thursday evening, and told me I shouldn't see him again for a bit as he was going away. So when the doctor mentioned Mrs. Ladock I was a bit surprised. But, as I say, it was no business of mine, and I didn't say anything to the doctor. I thought that maybe Mr. Ladock hadn't gone away after all, or if he had, he hadn't taken her with him.”

“Did the doctor stop and have a drink here?” Raymond asked.

“He was in too great a hurry for that,” the landlord replied. “He went off as soon as I'd told him the way.”

Raymond rode back to Carmouth, where he reported to Perrin the result of his enquiries. “You mean that there can have been nobody at home when the doctor got to Glendon?” the Superintendent asked.

“That seems to be it, sir,” Raymond replied. “It looks as if the doctor misunderstood the name and address he was given over the phone. Or that someone sent him out on a wild-goose chase. Just by way of a leg-pull, like. Though I don't know who'd be likely to do a thing like that.”

Perrin shrugged his shoulders. “You never know what some idiots will get up to. Anyhow, it doesn't seem to matter much. The fact that he found nobody at home at Glendon accounts for the doctor getting back earlier than he expected to. And from what you tell me, it doesn't seem very likely that he had a drink while he was out. All right, Raymond. That's all for now.”

The news of the tragedy spread rapidly. It was brought to Dragonscourt about noon on Sunday, by the man on a motor-cycle who distributed the Sunday papers. No earlier, for Dragonscourt, hidden in the woods at the head of the Car Valley, was too remote to be in telephonic communication with the outside world. Even had it been, it is more than doubtful whether Philip Sampson would ring up his aunt. He had never done such a thing. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that this aunt and nephew had never met.

It could not be denied that Lady Violet Vernham was a woman of character. In her middle-seventies, active and in full possession of her mental powers, she was in every respect a survival from the past. Possessing adequate means, inflated by local gossip to millions, she seemed able to ignore the dearths and discomforts of the Welfare State, and to maintain at least the shadow of her former existence. It had been necessary to cut down the domestic staff, to part with the chauffeur and personal maid, but Lady Violet, always resourceful, had combined their functions in the person of a lady companion. Or, more accurately, in a series of lady companions, for the earlier experiments had not quite conformed to Lady Violet's rather exacting requirements. However, the present occupier of the post, Miss Olivia Jones, seemed to be turning out most satisfactorily.

The heyday of Lady Violet's splendour had been during the reign of King Edward VII, when her father, Lord Vernham, a widower, had been Lord Lieutenant of the County. As his eldest daughter, the duties of hostess had fallen on her shoulders, and she had been renowned for her beauty and often cruel wit. It was said that she could have whom she would, but somehow marriage had escaped her. Perhaps men shunned her mordant tongue, perhaps the very man she could have cared for had been killed in the Boer War. Nobody knew or cared now, and she was almost as forgotten in the County as her two equally lovely sisters, the Ladies Lily and Rose.

Of these two. Rose, the youngest, had married well. Peter Bunbury, a brilliant young politician, had attained the rank of a junior minister at an almost absurdly early age. It seemed to be an ideal marriage, and for a time all went well, though there were no children. But, after a while, the clouds began to gather. Perhaps Peter Bunbury's official duties left him insufficient time for his young and sprightly wife. Whispers of Lady Rose's waywardness began to spread.

The outbreak of the First World War was to her, as to so many women of her age, the call to new and un-matrimonial adventure. Lady Rose sought escape in nursing. It was, of course, the thing to do, and the V.A.D. uniform was most becoming. Whether her husband ever learnt the full story of her exploits during the war years is doubtful. The climax came in 1918 when, working at a base hospital in France, she fell genuinely in love with a young and thoroughly honourable American officer. She never returned to England, and, after a decent interval, Peter Bunbury divorced her.

As though to set off her sister's brilliant though catastrophic marriage, Lady Lily made a deplorable misalliance. She eloped, in true romantic fashion, with a Carmouth fisherman, Fred Sampson. It was to her father's credit that he accepted the fact philosophically. His view, unexpressed, for he never mentioned the subject, was that his daughters must please themselves in their choice of husbands. And, from the point of view of her happiness. Lady Lily had chosen well. For the brief period of her married life, she and her husband were a devoted and utterly contented couple. But tragedy was not far distant. Fred, one of the crew of the Carmouth lifeboat, was drowned during a desperate attempt to rescue the crew of a freighter which had been driven ashore on the Devil's Ledge during a gale. For two or three years his widow had a struggle to maintain herself and her infant son, Philip.

Then Lord Vernham died. And with his death came a surprise which thrilled the romantics of Carmouth to the core. Lady Lily had chosen her own path, and for this she was not to be penalised. Divorce was a different matter, and Lord Vernham's will contained no mention of Lady Rose. The greater part of the family fortune fell to Lady Violet. People agreed that she deserved it, as the reward for her unselfish devotion to her father. But Lady Lily received a generous portion, more than sufficient to put an end for ever to her financial anxieties.

She bought a pleasant, though unassuming Georgian house, overlooking Carmouth harbour, and there Philip grew up, a delicate boy, suffering from acute asthma. He had little regular schooling, his delicate health making it necessary for him to remain in his mother's care. But she saw to it that his education was not neglected. A governess was first employed, to be followed by a tutor. Philip, though not brilliant, and at times sulky, absorbed at least something of their teaching.

Philip, an only child, was not of a type to make friends readily. Perhaps, from very early years, he became conscious of his equivocal position. His mother, the daughter of the late Earl of Vernham, not cast-off, but recognised in his will. His father, a member of a humble family of fishermen. Philip's uncle, Alf Sampson, of intemperate habits, was still alive. Alf had given up the pursuit of fishing. Putting out to sea took him too far from the hospitable portals of the Three Pilchards. In his more sober moments he was to be seen pushing a fish-barrow through the streets of Carmouth, calling his wares in a husky voice.

It might be said, in his boyhood and the years following, that Philip had only one friend. That friend was Hardy Norfolk, and the two were of much the same age. As for that matter of origin, at least on the paternal side, Naham Norfolk, Hardy's father, had been a fisherman like Fred Sampson. But he was a man of initiative, and possessed of the power to persuade his richer neighbours to back his views. He had started a fish cannery on a very modest scale. But under his energetic management this had expanded into quite a considerable establishment, now the Car Bay Fish Canning Co.

Naham Norfolk's wife, Fanny, had died soon after Hardy, their only child, was born. A couple of years later came the tragedy of Fred Sampson's drowning. Naham, essentially practical, had stroked his chin thoughtfully. What could be more fitting than that the widower should marry the widow? But there was more in it than that, as there usually was in Naham's calculations. Though one might choose to be known as plain Mrs. Sampson, there was no getting away from the fact that the widow was the daughter of the biggest man in the county. To marry her would indeed be a leg-up for a man who already considered himself to have risen a step above his contemporaries. Besides, Lord Venham had a reputation for kind-heartedness. He might—, well, we should see.

But Naham's plan had met with an obstacle which he had not foreseen, and which completely passed his comprehension. Mrs. Sampson, or Lady Lily, as he insisted upon calling her, firmly and finally refused to co-operate. Since, at that time, she was at the height of her struggle to keep a roof over the heads of herself and Philip, Naham found this incomprehensible. Supposing that he had to deal merely with a manifestation of feminine coyness, he renewed his advances again and again, varying each time his line of approach. But Mrs. Sampson remained courteously firm, and at last he had to give it up. Women never seemed to know what was best for them. To his credit it may be said that he took no offence. The widower and the widow remained on perfectly friendly terms.

Under these terms, it was natural that their sons should be drawn together. And, in spite of their totally different natures, they seemed to find a certain pleasure in one another's company. Philip, always a delicate child, was shy, silent and reserved, with an acute intelligence, and inheriting something of his mother's refinement. Hardy was boisterous and loud-spoken, completely lacking in intelligence except where his own interests were concerned, and exhibiting no other intelligence whatever.

As they grew up, the divergence of their natures became more apparent. Following her father's death and the acquisition of what Carmouth called a gentleman's house, Philip's mother, perhaps consciously, dropped her role of Mrs. Sampson and resumed that of Lady Lily. Not in any snobbish or ungrateful sense. She never forgot those humble folk who had befriended her in adversity, and, to the end of her life, was always seeking means to help them. Philip was naturally drawn upwards in her wake. But he seemed to have no desire to take advantage of her improved circumstances, or to seek further companions, male or female. So he grew up, quiet and sufficient unto himself. Nobody, even his mother, ever gained any insight into his mind.

And if Philip had risen, so had Hardy. By the time he was in his teens, the Cannery had become a very flourishing concern, and his father, by Carmouth standards, was a rich man. Naham too had bought a house, considerably more pretentious than Lady Lily's, where he dispensed lavish entertainment. In this environment Hardy, good-looking in a rough sort of way, was naturally expansive, and developed a remarkable self-assurance. It was perfectly obvious that one day he would step into his father's shoes, would become the owner of the Cannery, and a man to be reckoned with. His manner grew arrogant and overbearing.

Yet he maintained his friendship for Philip, whom he secretly despised as a weakling. His reasons for this would be difficult to analyse, particularly as he never thought about them himself. Partly, no doubt, he felt the affection of the leader for the led. Philip, to him, was a spineless individual who was ready to fall in with his moods, and rarely or never contradicted him. It may not have occurred to Hardy that to an indolent mind compliance is easier than resistance.

But there was another factor, of which Hardy was dimly conscious. He was aware that Philip inherited from his mother qualities which he did not himself possess. There was something about the chap, something which Hardy would have found it difficult to describe. The way he ate, the way he spoke, that indefinable demeanour he had heard called good manners, of no material importance whatever, of course. In his more impatient moments Hardy alluded to all this as swank. But still he realised vaguely that such things might have their uses in the future. Fred Sampson had married an earl's daughter, and his son was now a toff. Why shouldn't he, Hardy Norfolk, go one better? Marry a millionaire's daughter, and buy up Dragonscourt when the old girl there died? Yes, perhaps he still had something to learn, even from that poor boob, Philip.

As it turned out, Hardy's first venture towards matrimony took an entirely different direction. His father was still alive when, at the age of twenty-one he fell violently in love with Sally Manigold, the vicar's daughter. Old Naham, shrewdly observing the symptoms, nodded his head. Hardy was inclined to be a bit wild, and marriage would steady him. He might have taken up with one of those saucy lasses with which Carmouth abounded. Now the vicar was a gentleman, and his daughter was a lady. Not so well-born as Lady Lily, but still descended from the landed aristocracy. Yes, it was certainly a match to be encouraged.

So, choosing a favourable opportunity, Naham had called at the vicarage. Closeted with the vicar, he unfolded to him a scheme which he had had in mind for a long time. It was notorious that the roof of the parish church was in urgent need of repair. The ravages of the death-watch beetle had reached such a pitch that it had become positively unsafe. How would it be to open a subscription list locally? He, Naham, would be quite prepared to head the list with a cheque for a thousand quid.

It was not until he rose to take his leave that Naham fired his shot across the vicar's bows. “That lad of mine seems greatly struck with your daughter, Vicar,” he remarked with elaborate unconcern. “Well, you and I have been young ourselves. It's up to us old 'uns not to put a spoke in their wheel. Eh?”

Perhaps Mr. Manifold was not so observant as Naham. He had certainly not noticed symptoms of love-sickness in his daughter. Naham's remark took him entirely by surprise. He derived considerable amusement from the barefaced attempt to bribe him into acquiescence; a perfectly unnecessary attempt, for he would be the last to stand in the way of Sally's wishes. But it seemed to him unlikely that her choice would fall upon Hardy Norfolk. He was right.

Two years later, Sally became engaged to Michael, the only son of Dr. William Murford. It was understood that, Michael having recently qualified, the bridegroom's father's wedding present would be his practice. The wedding duly took place, and Michael stepped into his father's shoes.

And this was the cause of the resentment felt by Hardy Norfolk towards Dr. Michael Murford.

CHAPTER III

AT THE TIME of Dr. Michael Murford's death, most of the older generation had passed away. Lady Lily, Naham Sampson, Old Doctor Bill, as Carmouth had affectionately styled him. Remained only Lady Violet, brooding in her remote fastness of Dragonscourt, and Mr. Manifold, still vicar of Carmouth, but leaving the greater part of his duties to his curate, Colin Carew, a serious young man who, rather unexpectedly, had been a pilot in the R.A.F. during the war.

Lady Violet was a woman of determined views and rigid principles. She had lived at Dragonscourt ever since her father's death, rarely leaving the place except for brief visits to London. At one time some of her older friends had been invited to stay with her, for longer or shorter periods. But in the course of years these friends had died, and Lady Violet was disinclined to replace them by younger ones.

Her attitude towards her sisters had always been realistic. Rose had made a good marriage, which she had ruined by her own folly. She had mercifully disappeared into the unknown, thus relieving her relations of the necessity of further thought for her. But the case of Lily was entirely different. She had dragged the family name through the mud of Carmouth harbour. Her father, admiring her plucky stand in the face of adversity, might have forgiven her. On paper, at least, for she had not been summoned to his death-bed. But Lady Violet could not forgive, and was too honest to make any pretence of doing so.

It was not that she despised the circumstances in which Mrs. Sampson had been compelled to live. Her attitude did not change when her sister, having received her legacy, bought her house and began once more to live, in the local phraseology, as a lady should. Her father's generosity did not wipe out the stain of her mesalliance. It was embarrassing that Lily should live within a dozen miles of Dragonscourt. But Lady Violet had found a simple way of avoiding possible awkwardness. She never visited Carmouth, doing her necessary shopping either in the nearby village of Highmoor, or in the county town of Shopton, at the head of the Car Valley.

So it was that the two sisters never met after Lady Lily's elopement. Lady Violet had never seen her husband or her child, Philip. Her sister's death left Lady Violet unperturbed. Perhaps, if Philip had been left destitute, she would have made some provision for him, impersonally and through a third party. But since he had inherited his mother's house, and sufficient income to maintain himself there, the necessity did not arise. It was true that, unless Rose was still alive, Philip was her nearest surviving relative. But never for a moment did it occur to Lady Violet to make him her heir.

She discouraged people from mentioning the name of Sampson in her presence. It was said, probably without the slightest foundation, that she refrained from going to church on Sundays when the first lesson was from the Book of Judges. But she could not avoid hearing of Philip from time to time. It was some consolation that no Delilah had yet appeared above the horizon. It was to be hoped that the branch of the Sampson family would become extinct. Philip lived alone in his Georgian house, looked after by his late mother's housekeeper, Mrs. Oswald, slightly deaf and rheumatic, but wholly devoted.

At the time of Dr. Michael Murford's death, Philip had just turned forty, though he might well been mistaken for a much older man. His ill-health had exempted him from war service, and, like many another lazy man, he was inclined to trade upon it. It was such an admirable pretext for avoiding anything which did not appeal to him. Indolent by nature, he pottered through life without any apparent ambition. He collected bric-a-brac in a dilettante fashion, never spending much, but picking up cheap trifles here and there. He had built himself a greenhouse, in which he cultivated flowers, now and again being awarded a third prize at the Carmouth and District Flower Show. His Siamese cat Fleur was his supercilious companion. In the opinion of most people, Philip Sampson was a nonentity.

That Sunday morning, when the news of Dr. Murford's fatal accident was brought to her. Lady Violet exhibited no more than a polite regret. She was not in the habit of allowing her emotions to appear on the surface. But she told her companion, whom she always addressed as Miss Jones, that she should leave her alone until lunch-time. Lady Violet was of an age when no tragedy makes any deep impression, but, none the less, she felt a pang of grief. Old Dr. Bill had been her family doctor ever since she could remember. His son had won her approval, and she had welcomed his marriage to the daughter of her old friend, Mr. Manifold. Lady Violet's iron constitution rarely needed medical attention but, on the rare occasions when it did, she summoned Dr. Murford in preference to his partner. Dr. Somerby.

For Dr. Murford had found the growing practice too much like hard work to tackle single-handed. It covered not only Carmouth, but the greater part of the Car Valley. When he took it over from his father, his nearest colleague was at Shopton, nearly fifteen miles distant. So the practice had developed into a more or less permanent trinity. Dr. Murford had not only the house, but a separate surgery just off the Market Place, in Carmouth, from which he dealt with the town and its vicinity. Dr. Nigel Somerby, young and unmarried, lodged in Highmoor, and had his surgery there. He covered the Car Valley, and, Dragonscourt being thus within his orbit, he was summoned there when any member of the household, with the exception of Lady Violet herself, needed medical attention.

Dr. Somerby was not only ambitious, but intensely energetic. Many years younger than his partner, he regarded him as apt to be slothful and far too easygoing. He had never had to strive to establish his position, to live through the long period of probation faced by most budding medical practitioners. His father had, so to speak, handed him the practice on a plate, and all he had had to do was to sit back and watch it grow. Michael Murford was one of the lucky ones and at times his partner was driven to feel that he did not deserve his luck.

From Nigel Somerby's point of view, his partner's relative inertia had its advantages. His heart was so obviously not in his work. He much preferred an afternoon's golf or an evening's bridge. It was not unreasonable to expect his comparatively early retirement. And, when that happened, Nigel was prepared to strain every nerve to raise the necessary funds to purchase his partner's interest.

The third member of the partnership was Nurse Penruddock, an active, busy little woman of middle age. She lived on the outskirts of Carmouth, and managed to find time to cover the whole practice, acting under the instructions of the two doctors. One was always meeting her, driving her fussy little car along the highways and byways. And, if one were wise, one gave her the right of passage. Nurse Penruddock always drove under the conviction that her errand of mercy gave her precedence over all other traffic. She was devoted to Dr. Murford. About Dr. Somerby she had not yet made up her mind. She acknowledged his ability, and could see that his modem methods made his partner appear hopelessly old-fashioned. And her acute eye perceived that Dr. Somerby was at least mildly interested in Miss Olivia Jones.

Lady Violet meditated, her fingers employed upon a piece of embroidery of which the progress was imperceptible. Her practical mind was dwelling upon the probable consequences of Dr. Murford's death. It disarranged certain plans which she had made, but that annoyance did not concern her overmuch. Alternative plans could be made in due course. Nor was she greatly concerned about Sally. Her husband had surely left enough to enable her to provide for herself and the three young children. She might have to give up the big house on the quay and find a smaller one, that was all. Besides, the vicar had private means, and Sally was his only child. In view of his daily increasing feebleness, Mr. Manifold could not be expected to live much longer.

Lady Violet's preoccupation was with what would happen to the practice. She had met Dr. Somerby, earlier that year, when he had been attending Miss Jones for some minor complaint, and had committed him to her mental pigeon-hole reserved for tolerable young men. Of his ambition she had no conception. She would have considered it the height of presumption for a man of his age to contemplate the control of so large a practice. She supposed that Dr. Murford's interest would be sold to some stranger of similar age. She could only hope that he would turn out adequate to his responsibilities.

The inquest on Dr. Murford was held at Carmouth on Monday afternoon. The police having no reason to suspect foul play, the coroner sat without a jury. It was almost a family party, for the coroner had been a personal friend of the deceased, and the medical evidence was given by his partner. Only a handful of the general public attended. Among these was a visitor to Carmouth, though visitors were rare birds in November; a middle-aged man of rather distinguished appearance, clean-shaven and with penetrating grey eyes. The curious might have consulted the entry he had made in the visitors' book of the Car Bay Hotel. Mr. and Mrs. Merrion, High Eldersham Hall, East Anglia.

The reasons which had brought Desmond Merrion and his wife Mavis to Carmouth were two-fold. To begin with, Mavis had been none too well that autumn. Nothing really serious, her doctor had said, but the quickest way to throw it off would be to spend a few weeks in a climate milder than that of East Anglia. Somewhere on the south-west, for example. Did Mrs. Merrion know a place called Carmouth? The doctor had spent a golfing holiday there a couple of years before, and had found the climate almost ideal. Warm, without being too relaxing.

As it happened. Mavis did know Carmouth and the Car Valley, not from experience, but from hearing them talked about in her childhood. Her mother Ellen Hancourt had been a Shoptonshire girl, and her family had known Lord Vernham very well. Mrs. Hancourt had become an intimate friend of Lady Violet, who had attended her wedding. The friendship had ended only with her death, on which occasion Lady Violet had written to Mavis a charming and sympathetic letter. She hoped that, one day, she would have the pleasure of meeting her dear friend's daughter. They never had met, and Mavis had always resolved that, should occasion offer, she would pay her respects to her mother's old friend.

Desmond raised no objection to the choice of Carmouth for his wife's rest-cure. Anywhere by the sea would suit him well enough. There might be the chance of a spot of sea-fishing in a place like Carmouth. Anyway, he was capable of finding something to amuse himself wherever they went. So, on the previous Friday, they had set out by car, leaving High Eldersham Hall in the care of their faithful servant and friend, Newport. They stopped for a night en route, and reached Carmouth on Saturday morning, having reserved a room at the Car Bay Hotel.

During two wars, Merrion had served with distinction in the Intelligence branch of the Admiralty, achieving the exalted rank of Captain, R.N.V.R. He was a man of highly developed powers of observation, to which was added a fertile and deductive imagination. Always avid of incident, he heard the story of Dr. Murford's accident soon after breakfast on Sunday. He told Mavis that he had already found something locally to amuse him. He would attend an inquest next day. Mavis shrugged her shoulders. She knew her husband pretty well by this time. She merely replied that his ideas of entertainment were not hers.

The setting was that of a conversation piece. The coroner sat at a table, with his clerk and Superintendent Perrin beside him. At a smaller table nearby sat a couple of, reporters, and beside this a row of chairs for the accommodation of the witnesses. At a respectful distance were ranged a few forms, upon which sat that sprinkling of the general public whose curiosity had led them to attend.

When the coroner had opened the proceedings, briefly, and in due form, the hearing of the witnesses began. As the coroner's clerk called each name, he or she rose and walked to a chair beside the coroner, who ran through the statement each had already made and asked a few questions. Sally Murford was the first to be called. She had viewed the body, and identified it as that of her husband, George Michael Murford, aged forty-six.

Prompted by the coroner, she described what she knew of the previous evening. She had accompanied her husband to the garage, which could be reached from the house by an interior staircase. While he was starting the car, she had opened the outer doors of the garage, leading on to the quay. She had then taken the lath on which the cats'-eyes had been fixed, and laid it on the edge of the quay. About a foot from the extreme edge, she should think. Her husband backed the car out of the garage, and after going forward and backing once or twice, drove away from the quay.

In order to establish the facts as fully as possible, the coroner asked a few more questions, which Sally answered with her customary intelligence. Until recently, her husband had owned a ten horse-power Austin, which had sufficient turning lock to be driven in or out of the garage in one sweep. Rather more than a couple of months ago, he had sold this and taken delivery of a much larger car, which required a much larger circle in which to turn.

Although her husband had been a careful driver, Sally admitted that this had worried her. It involved the car being driven dangerously near the edge of the quay, either in leaving or entering the garage. It had not been so bad in daylight, but in the dark there was nothing to show where the quay ended. At first, when her husband went out at night in the new car, she had stood at the edge of the quay with a hurricane lantern. Then the idea of the cats'-eyes occurred to her. The car was fitted with a reversing light and an outside mirror, so that the cats'-eyes were clearly visible to the driver when reversing towards them. The reversing light had been in perfect order when her husband had left the garage. He had driven in and out with the aid of the cats'-eyes at least a dozen times, probably more.

Sally, complimented by the coroner on the way she had given her evidence, left the chair and Nigel Somerby took her place. He lived at Highmoor, and had been in partnership with the deceased for the past three years. In the early hours of Sunday morning he had been summoned to Carmouth by the police. He had examined the body, and found upon it certain minor contusions and abrasions. In his opinion, these were caused by the overturning of the car. He had no doubt that the cause of death had been asphyxiation due to drowning. He estimated the time of death as approximately half-past nine on Saturday evening.

Micah Poynter, dressed in his Sunday best, and abashed by his surroundings, followed. He described what he had done after hearing the splash. Mr. Tremayne gave an account of the recovery of the body and the salvage of the car. There had been about fifteen feet of water in the harbour when deceased had driven into it.

The coroner questioned Raymond upon certain points in his carefully prepared report. He had found the cats'-eyes on the bed of the harbour, eighteen feet from the quay wall. The night had been exceptionally dark, with a persistent drizzle falling. The doctor's car had passed through the Market Place, on its way homewards, shortly before half-past nine. There must have been some misunderstanding of the telephone message the doctor had received. Witness had verified the fact that neither Mr. or Mrs. Ladock had been at home on Saturday evening.

The coroner summed up, in a conversational tone. There could be no doubt as to what had happened. The deceased, on attempting to enter his garage, had inadvertently driven over the edge of the quay, the car overturning as he did so. No blame attached to anyone. He would suggest, as a possible explanation, that the deceased, while reversing towards the cats'-eyes, had by mistake put his foot on the accelerator instead of the brake. However that might have been, he had no hesitation whatever in returning a verdict of accidental death. He was glad to be able to take this opportunity of expressing the sincerest sympathy with Mrs. Murford and her family. With this sentiment the Superintendent, on behalf of the police, heartily agreed.

The verdict was accepted in Carmouth without the slightest question. Nobody had for a moment entertained the idea that the doctor's death had been other than accidental. And the coroner's suggestion met with universal approval. The doctor might have been a careful driver, but he had certainly been an impetuous one. People remembered the dented wings of his old car. He was apt to be short-tempered and impulsive when annoyed. It would have been just like him, on returning from what had proved to be a fruitless errand, to have jammed his foot on the wrong pedal.

Merrion left the inquest in a thoughtful mood, and walked away towards the quay. Most of the evidence which he had heard had been perfectly straightforward. No one could question the veracity of the witnesses. But Raymond's statement, which the coroner had read aloud, puzzled him. No explanation of the misunderstanding was forthcoming. Anyone might have misheard a name on the telephone. But the mistake could hardly have extended to a name and address which actually existed. Both had been unfamiliar to the doctor. He had had to call at the Red Bull to ask his way.

It might be said that the misunderstanding, even the doctor's fruitless journey to Carfield, had been irrelevant. He had been seen by Raymond returning to his home, and only a few minutes before the accident, presumably in good health if not in good temper. Still, the fact remained that but for the unexplained call, he would not have taken his car out that night. It had been on his return that the accident had occurred.

Merrion reached the quayside outside the doctor's garage, and measured with his eye the distance between it and the edge of the quay. It was certainly a narrow and awkward place in which to manoeuvre a big car. As he stood there, lighting a cigarette, he noticed the moored fishing-boat. It was then low water, and she lay on her side on the mud, her bows towards him.

Plenty of room between the edge of the quay and the fishing-boat for the car to fall in and turn over as it did so. The overturning of the car was just what Merrion would have expected. But, as he stood there, staring at the mud, he recalled Raymond's solemn expression as his report was read. Nobody studying him would have dared suppose that he had made a mistake in his measurements. He had testified to finding the lath with the cats'-eyes fixed to it in the harbour, eighteen feet from the quay wall.

This Merrion found rather curious. At the inquest, Mrs. Murford had said that she had laid the lath on the ground, about a foot inside the edge of the quay, and parallel to it. Everyone had supposed, if they had thought about the-matter at all, that the car, in its fall, had somehow flung the lath into the harbour. Well, perhaps that might have been so.

Merrion was by no means prepared to repeat the experiment, using his own car for the purpose. But he tried to imagine what was likely to have happened when the doctor's car, in reversing, had over-run the lath. The rear wheels would have reached it. The lath being thin, they would probably have ridden over it. The front wheels would probably not have touched it at all. As they approached the edge of the quay they would have been raised from the ground by the weight of the car, the car acting as a lever, with the edge of the quay as a pivot. Had the lath been displaced at all, it could only have received a relatively feeble impulse. It might, though to Merrion even that seemed doubtful, have been pushed over the edge of the quay. In that case, at low water, it would have been found within a foot or two of the edge of the wall. It could not possibly have been impelled a distance of eighteen feet.

Merrion's enquiring mind sought some explanation of this baffling fact, for fact it must be assumed to be. It could not be that the lath had been pushed into the water and had then gently floated outwards until the falling tide had left it stranded. In the first place, a thin lath with a half-a-dozen cats'-eyes fixed to it would not be likely to float. And in the second place, if for some reason unexplained it had floated, one of the many watchers on the quayside must have seen it.

This, to Merrion, was a matter of pure speculation. It was no business of his to challenge the general opinion held locally. He flung the end of his cigarette into the harbour, and strolled away. The Car Bay Hotel was half a mile away, on a slope overlooking the harbour and the bay. He found that Mavis had just ordered tea, and sat down beside her. “Well, I found my inquest quite enthralling,” he remarked.

“I'm glad of that,” Mavis replied brightly. “I like to think that you are amusing yourself. I'll spare you the trouble of telling me the details. Listen to me. I've been thinking of the steps I ought to take to get in touch with Lady Violet. I've been making enquiries, and I find Dragonscourt isn't on the telephone. I suppose I'd better write to her. Don't you think so?”

“I'm not sure,” Merrion replied. “Lady Violet must be a very old lady, and I don't suppose that her memory is as good as it was. An unexpected letter, signed in a name she doesn't remember, might upset her. It might be better for us to call at Dragonscourt out of the blue, so to speak, and send in our names. If she remembers that her old friend's daughter's married name was Merrion, well and good. Honestly, since she hasn't heard of you for so many years, I hardly think it's likely. On the other hand, if she has forgotten all about you, she has only to say that at her age she does not care to receive a stranger, and we can come away. For all you know. Lady Violet may be bed-ridden.”

“Well, perhaps you're right,” Mavis agreed. “When and how do we gate-crash?”

“When, to-morrow; and how, by car,” her husband replied. “The deceased doctor, I hear, is to be buried on Wednesday. Not that I suppose Lady Violet is deeply affected by his death or funeral. We'll take out the car and drive to Dragonscourt after lunch. Trust me to find the way.”

Merrion devoted Tuesday morning to learning more about Carmouth and its inhabitants. His insatiable curiosity would not allow him to stay in any place without finding out all he could about it. He strolled about the town, stopping for a few words with anyone he met who seemed inclined for conversation, and those were many. He gathered that the principal industry was the Cannery owned by Mr. Hardy Norfolk, whose father had started the enterprise. For the rest, the prosperity of the little town depended upon a regular influx of summer visitors. The gentleman ought to come to Carmouth in August. Then he would see how busy it could be.

In this pursuit of knowledge, Merrion called on a tobacconist's on the Market Place, ostensibly to purchase a packet of cigarettes. He didn't want it, for wherever he went he always carried with him a sufficient supply of his own particular brand. But he hoped this visit might give him an opportunity for an informative chat.

He could not have made a better choice. Mr. Fowey, the owner of the shop, was a middle-aged native of Carmouth, with apparently unlimited leisure on his hands. He dearly loved a conversation with a stranger, and Providence had sent him one who seemed glad to listen to him. It immediately became apparent that Dr. Murford's death formed the principal topic locally. It was terribly sad, especially for the widow and the three children. He would be missed in the town, for everyone, or nearly everyone, had liked him. True, there were some who said he was a bit careless and old-fashioned. All the same, if anyone was really bad, no matter who it was, rich or poor, he would never spare any pains to do what he could to help.

Mr. Fowey paused in his discourse as a figure passed the window of the shop, the figure of a well set up young man, with the face of an ascetic, dressed in clerical garb. “That's another good one,” he said, pointing with the stem of his pipe. “That's the curate, Mr. Carew. I don't hold with them folks myself, for I'm Chapel. But I don't know that the old vicar could have found a better man for the job. And a man, I say, not a tea-party parson. Kind-hearted as they make 'em, and doesn't shove his nose in where he isn't wanted. But if he thinks anything's wrong, he'll put his foot down, no matter whose corns he treads on. Why, he stood up to Mr. Norfolk not so long ago. Aye, and beat him, too.”

“I've heard the name Norfolk,” Merrion remarked. “The local captain of industry, isn't he?”

“Well, you might call him that,” Mr. Fowey agreed. “Seeing that he owns the Cannery and employs quite a few of the folk here. And, between ourselves, he's a bit of a tough customer, none too easy to get on with. Masterful, domineering sort of chap, who wouldn't stick at anything to get his own way. I'd like to have been there when the curate tackled him. Mr. Carew was a pilot in the war, and for all his quiet way, he isn't afraid of any man.”

“What was the row between them about?” Merrion asked idly.

Mr. Fowey shrugged his shoulders. “A girl was at the bottom of it. A local girl, and a good one too, Mary Salcombe. She's an orphan, without a penny to bless herself with, poor soul. Her father had a draper's shop here, but he never did well, and died bankrupt. Mary got along as best she could until Mr. Norfolk offered her a job as his secretary at the Cannery.”

Mr. Fowey paused to relight his pipe, which he had neglected during the conversation. “I had my doubts as soon as I heard about that,” he went on. “Mary's a good-looking girl, with a way about her that would make you think she'd been born a lady if you hadn't known her father. And she'd never been trained to be a secretary, though she's quick enough at picking things up. I wondered if it wasn't her face rather than her abilities that made Mr. Norfolk offer her the job.”

Merrion smiled. “And was it? One has heard of that sort of thing before.”

“Likely it was,” Mr. Fowey replied. “Mind you, I don't know any more than what's been said around since she left here. I daresay Mr. Norfolk was always pestering her, asking her to go away for the week-end with him, and that. I don't know how Mr. Carew came to hear about it. Mary isn't the sort to go whining to anyone about her troubles. But hear about it he did. He went to Mr. Norfolk's office and gave him a proper dressing-down, so they say. The clerk in the office next door heard something of what was to do, and he's not a chap who keeps his tongue quiet!”

“I understand, from what you said a moment ago, that the girl has left here?” Merrion remarked.

Mr. Fowey nodded. “That's right. You see, Mary couldn't chuck up her job just because Mr. Norfolk annoyed her. I said she had nothing to fall back on. She had to have another job to go to, and jobs aren't any too easy to find in these parts. It's not likely that Mr. Norfolk would have given her any too good a reference. But Mr. Carew saw to that. I don't know how he did it, but he got her quite a good job with Ford, Bridge and Wade, the big solicitors in Shopton. Mr. Norfolk has been saying that he only did it because he was after the girl himself.”

“A perfectly unfounded suggestion, I imagine,” said Merrion.

“I doubt whether Mr. Carew has been to Shopton since Mary went there,” Mr. Fowey replied. “Or Mr. Norfolk either. He's got another secretary now, a bright young thing from London. Tongues are already beginning to wag about them. But Philip Sampson, that's friendly with Mr. Norfolk, sees Mary now and again, so they say. But there's no harm meant there. Philip Sampson isn't one to run after women. He hasn't any time to spare for anyone but himself. And he doesn't forget that he's the grandson of the last Earl of Vernham.” At the mention of this name Merrion pricked up his ears. Neither he nor Mavis knew anything of the adventures of Lady Violet's two sisters. “The Earl of Vernham?” he remarked. “Wasn't he Lord Lieutenant of the County at one time?”

Mr. Fowey nodded. “That's right. But it was a long time ago. He's been dead these many years, and his eldest daughter. Lady Violet, still lives in the family place. Dragonscourt, it's called, a great house buried in the woods at the end of the Valley, a thousand miles from nowhere. She lives there with what they call a companion and three or four old servants. Pots of money, I believe, but most of it must go in keeping the place up. She never comes to Carmouth, and we've none of us seen her for longer years than we care to remember. Philip Sampson is her nephew, her sister's son. But there doesn't seem to be much love lost between them. I've never heard of her coming here to see him, or of him going to Dragonscourt to see her.”

“Perhaps they don't manage to hit it off,” Merrion suggested. “What does Philip Sampson do?”

“Nothing!” Mr. Fowey replied emphatically. “He's one of those chaps who don't seem to want to do anything. To see him wandering about you might think he was half-witted, but you'd find he was about all there when you got to know him. His mother left him enough to keep him in comfort, and he lives in a house out towards the Point, with an old housekeeper to look after him. It was his mother who left that to him too. He's got a smart little dinghy, and now and then when the weather's fine you'll see him sailing or rowing about. He'll spend what he likes on himself, but he's mean enough about little things. Why, every summer he hires out the dinghy to some visitor or other, and he charges pretty stiffly for it, so I've heard. And he's no customer of mine, for he doesn't smoke.”

Another customer entered the shop. Merrion went out. He strolled back to the Car Bay Hotel, where he found Mavis getting ready for lunch. “Well, and how have you been amusing yourself?” she asked.

“Oh, merely by listening,” her husband replied lightly. “I bet you didn't know that your Lady Violet has a nephew living in the town here?”

“Nephew?” Mavis exclaimed. “You know very well that I didn't. I had never heard that she had one. But, if that's true, it gives me an idea. We could use him as an avenue of approach. You can scrape acquaintance with him, and find out tactfully how his aunt would react to me calling on her. What do you say to that?”

But Merrion shook his head. “I hardly think the nephew would be a helpful intermediary. It seems from what I have heard that aunt and nephew are not even on nodding terms. In fact, if we call on Lady Violet, we'd better not mention that we're aware of her nephew's existence. No, we'll stick to our original plan. We'll have lunch as soon as you're ready, then we'll get out the car and drive to Dragonscourt.”

They started as soon as they had finished lunch, to allow for possible errors in Merrion's map-reading. The first stage of the journey was easy enough, along the main road which, from its terminus at Carmouth, ran up the Car Valley towards Shopton. They passed through Carfield, Merrion noticing the post office and the Red Bull, mentioned in Raymond's statement. The map showed a turning to the left, five miles beyond the village, which seemed to lead more or less directly to Dragonscourt. But this turning was difficult to identify among many turnings, all unsignposted. After a couple of exploratory adventures, one ending in a farmyard, the other barred by a row of hurdles beyond which grazed a flock of uninterested sheep, the third attempt was successful. Unexpectedly a turn of the lane, for it was little more than that, revealed a pair of wrought-iron gates, guarded by a grey stone-built lodge.

“This must be Dragonscourt,” said Merrion as he pulled up. “Now, what do we do? Blow the horn and summon the seneschal? Or,' more prosaically, do you get out and open the gates while I drive through?”

“There's somebody coming,” Mavis replied. As she spoke, an elderly woman appeared from the little garden behind the lodge. Seeing the car, she swung open the gates with practised deliberation. As he drove through, Merrion leaned out of the window and thanked her. She replied with a smile and a curtsy.

“Deaf as a post, I daresay,” Merrion remarked. “And she must be a chicken compared to your Lady Violet. However, we've passed the first portal without meeting with any opposition. Well, we shall see.”

The drive led through a wood, thick with undergrowth, so that it was not until they were almost upon it that they saw the house. At first sight it seemed uncompromising, a vast square block without any ornament to relieve its primness. But at a second glance they appreciated the air of dignity and comfort expressed by its perfect Georgian proportions. Like the lodge, the house was built of grey stone, with a roof of red tiles, mellowed to a soft and pleasing tint.

Merrion stopped the car in the circle with which the drive terminated, and they both got out. The front door was approached by a short flight of wide and shallow stone steps rising to a portico. They ascended these, rang the bell, and waited in apprehensive silence.

The door was opened by an elderly woman, so exactly like the lodge-keeper that Mavis gasped. It seemed as though by some magic she had been wafted from the lodge to the house. Mavis announced themselves rather haltingly. “Mr. and Mrs. Merrion. We called in the hope that Lady Violet might consent to see us. I had better explain that my mother was an old friend of Lady Violet's.”

The woman smiled a welcome. “Will you come in, please, Madam. I will tell her ladyship.”

She led them into a big drawing-room which had seen few changes since the days of the late Lord Vernham. Merrion's artistic sense appreciated the beauty of the period furniture. He cast his eyes swiftly round the room: a magnificent grand piano in dark polished rosewood, mercifully not covered with silver photograph frames; a Venetian glass chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling; four consoles, two against the wall, on either side of the room; a table carrying a recess with a glass top, in which were exhibited silver trinkets of every description.

The catalogue was not completed when the door opened and a woman appeared: young, tall and simply dressed, with an alert and penetrating expression. “Mr. and Mrs. Merrion?” she said, with a soft and pleasant transatlantic intonation. “Lady Violet will be here in a minute. I am Olivia Jones, Lady Violet's companion.”

Mavis replied with something polite. But Miss Jones seemed disinclined for conversation and slightly ill at ease. She replied only in monosyllables, and kept turning her head towards the door, as though she expected some awkwardness when her employer appeared, Merrion thought.

Then Lady Violet came in, and he could scarcely conceal his amazement. Instead of the bed-ridden old hag he had pictured to himself, he saw before him a very beautiful old lady, stately and erect. Lady Violet had snowy white hair, and dressed in an old-fashioned style which suited her perfectly. A single glance was sufficient to show that her mental and physical powers were unimpaired. She walked, with the light step of a girl, right up to Mavis and took both of her hands in hers. For a full half minute she looked at her intently. “If you had not given your name, my dear, I should have known that you were Ellen's daughter,” she said in a clear and resonant voice. “Now, sit down and tell me all about yourself and your husband.”

As she released Mavis's hands she nodded with a faint smile to Olivia Jones, who left the room with obvious relief. Mavis introduced her husband and the three entered into conversation, made easy by Lady Violet's eager enquiries. She seemed genuinely pleased to see them, to such an extent that Merrion suspected that this alert minded old lady, living in the seclusion she did, was delighted to meet these visitors from the outside world.

He noticed that Lady Violet did not, as do so many old people, speak of herself or her own affairs. There was, for instance, no mention of her father, or of that rather peculiar nephew at Carmouth. Her interest seemed to be concentrated on her visitors and all that concerned them. Mavis told her of her mother's death and her own marriage; something, but not much, of the romantic circumstances in which she had met Desmond, and of how after her father's death, they had settled down at High Eldersham Hall.

Then Lady Violet turned her battery of friendly questions upon Merrion, who replied with stories of his experiences and adventures. All this led up, of course, to the inevitable question. What had brought them from High Eldersham Hall to Carmouth, of all places? Merrion explained that Mavis's doctor had recommended a mild climate and that they had chosen Carmouth. And where were they staying?

At Merrion's reply Lady Violet fairly exploded. “The Car Bay Hotel? I never heard of such a thing! I have never been there, for I never go to Carmouth now. But I know it must be a dreadful place. All seaside hotels are. I remember it being built, for the land was bought, from my father. He didn't really want to sell it, but Mr. Ford, his solicitor, persuaded him. And how long do you propose to stay there?”

“We hardly know,” Mavis replied. “But we thought of staying there for a few weeks.”

“You will do nothing of the kind!” Lady Violet exclaimed firmly. “I could not bear to think of Ellen's daughter living in such surroundings. Just think of the sort of people you might meet there! You have made some sort of weekly arrangement with the management, I expect. Very well, you will tell them that you will be leaving on Saturday. Then you will both come here and stay with me for as long as it pleases you. My servants are eating their heads off with only Miss Jones and myself to look after. No, I will not hear another word. I consider that as settled.”

CHAPTER IV

EVEN AFTER such short acquaintance, it was clear to Mavis and her husband that Lady Violet's fiat was not to be denied. They stayed to tea at Dragonscourt, after which stately function Miss Jones was bidden to show Mavis the bedroom they would occupy. Lady Violet assured Merrion that she would be grateful to have the advice of so experienced a man at her disposal. He and Mavis were not to think that they were giving the slightest trouble. There was plenty of room in the garage for the car.

Lady Violet went so far as to see her visitors into their car. As they drove away, her husband turned rather a rueful face towards Mavis. “Well, we've let ourselves in for it this time,” he said. “You know how I hate staying in other people's houses. But I don't see how we could possibly have got out of it.”

“I know,” Mavis agreed. “It wasn't my fault. Perhaps we may find something to interest us at Dragonscourt.”

“I've found that already,” said Merrion unexpectedly. “That very charming old lady, and, to a lesser degree, her companion. The relationship between those two strikes me as odd. Lady Violet calls her companion Miss Jones, but when she smiles at her it is with much less formality. And, somehow, the girl doesn't seem to reciprocate.”

“Are you scenting mystery already?” Mavis asked. “Perhaps Miss Jones is reserved by nature.”

Merrion laughed. “Not mystery, but the way people behave to one another. That always interests me, as you know. If I were seeking mystery, I should look for it in a remark she made to me when we were left alone together. Glad of the advice of an experienced man. It wasn't just a polite flower of conversation. She isn't that sort. Besides, she looked at me so straight that I'm sure she meant it. One supposes that she has her legal, spiritual and medical adviser. What does she want my advice about?”

“You must have struck her as a modem Solomon,” Mavis replied drily. “Perhaps you'll find out what she wants. There now! You've taken a wrong turning again.”

Obviously he had, for the car was heading rapidly for a large pond on which ducks were floating. Not without difficulty Merrion reversed the car on its borders. “An easier job than that unfortunate doctor's,” he remarked. “Lady Violet didn't say anything about that, did she?”

“Not a word,” Mavis replied. “When one comes to think of it, the doctor's death can't have touched her very closely. He was a Carmouth man, and she made rather a point of saying that she never went to Carmouth now.”

“Because her nephew lives there?” Merrion suggested. “I wonder. Ah, here's the turning. I suppose we ought to have switched off to the right instead of going straight on. We'll try.”

The lane he took led them to the main road, and they reached Carmouth without further misadventure.

The next three days passed quietly enough, Mavis resting as much as possible, while her husband amused himself as best he could. Boredom was a disease which never afflicted him. He strolled round the harbour, chatting to the fishermen, with many of whom, including Micah Poynter, he struck up acquaintance. Micah, delighted with a fresh listener, repeated the story now so familiar in the bar of the Three Pilchards. How he had been sitting indoors with the missus when he had heard that terrible splash. And how—

Merrion was talking to Micah on Wednesday morning, the day after his first introduction to Lady Violet. It was a fine bright morning, warm for the time of year, with a light breeze blowing from the land. They were standing, not on the quay of the inner harbour, but on the breakwater of the outer harbour, in which most of the fishing-boats tied up. Only one or two were there now, the rest being visible under sail in the offing. Hoping for a few early herring, Micah explained. If they made any sort of a catch the Cannery would take them.

The breakwater was no more than a narrow curved stone pier. At the end of it was a stumpy tower, from which a feeble red light shone at night, and at intervals there were iron ladders descending into the harbour. It was about high water, and half-a-dozen rowing boats and other small craft danced gently on the rippled water. As Merrion and Micah were talking, a man came towards them—a slight, bent figure, with rather vacant, expressionless features, and a persistent cough. He was wearing rope-soled shoes, grey flannel trousers, a sweater and a scarf. As he approached them Micah greeted him. “Morning, Mr. Sampson.” Philip replied to Micah's greeting with a nod and a curt word. He did not seem to notice the stranger standing beside him.

Merrion made no remark. He had no wish to appear inquisitive, and he knew that in his own good time Micah would unburden himself. He contented himself with watching Philip Sampson in silence. When he was a few yards past them, Philip bent down and unhitched an endless rope from a ring-bolt on the edge of the breakwater. He hauled on it, and one of the dinghies swung round and approached. Philip guided it to one of the iron ladders, made fast the endless rope, and climbed down. He stepped into the boat, cast off, and, as it drifted out again, hoisted the sail. In a minute or two he was at the helm, steering a course across the harbour. “Seems to know how to handle a boat,” Merrion remarked, as a likely opening.

“Ought to be able to,” Micah replied. “Seeing that his father was a fisherman, same as me. But he's a toff now. 'Twas his mother, you see. She wasn't one of us.”

“Is that so?” Merrion remarked idly. “Where did she come from?”

For reply Micah jerked his thumb vaguely in the direction of the Car Valley. “You've heard of Dragonscourt, maybe, where the old Earl lived when he was alive. His eldest daughter lives there yet, and a fine lady, too, she is. It was her younger sister that took it into her head to run away from home and marry Fred Sampson that was drowned out of the life-boat, years back. I don't say she did better nor worse. When her father died, he left her a tidy bit of money, and she bought a house up yonder, I mind when Fred was drowned—”

As Micah rambled on, Merrion gathered something of the history of Lady Lily and her son. Of the latter Micah seemed to have no high opinion. Might be able to sail a boat in fine weather, but that was about all. Soft, namby-pamby. Hadn't the guts of his father. No guts at all, very like. He concluded with the remark that the Three Pilchards would be open by now. Merrion took the hint, and they turned .away, leaving Philip sailing aimlessly to and fro across the harbour. They walked to the Three Pilchards, where Merrion stood his new friend a pint.

Dr. Murford's funeral took place that afternoon, but Merrion's curiosity was not sufficient to induce him to attend. Mr. Manifold, frail and quivering, officiated, assisted by Colin Carew, and most of Carmouth seemed to be present. Among the wealth of flowers, a wreath sent by Lady Violet from the leading florist in Shopton was conspicuous. Of all the leading men in the town, only Mr. Norfolk was absent. With this exception, and that of Philip Sampson, who was too shy to appear in public, the expression of universal sympathy was unanimous.

On Friday afternoon, Mavis had an unexpected visitor, Olivia Jones. She arrived at the Car Bay Hotel in a car driven by herself. She explained, with some diffidence, that Lady Violet had sent her out to do some shopping, and had asked her to call and assure Mr. and Mrs. Merrion that their arrival at Dragonscourt was eagerly expected. Mavis thanked her, but still Olivia lingered. It was quite clear that she was, if not anxious, at least fidgety about something. Lady Violet was so pleased at last to have met the daughter of her old friend. Had she and Mrs. Merrion corresponded before they met?

Mavis, secretly amused by this curiosity, replied that the only letter she had ever received from Lady Violet had been on the occasion of her mother's death, some years before her marriage. Olivia, for some obscure reason of her own, seemed to be relieved to hear this. Mavis could only suppose that it had had something to do with Lady Violet's nephew, whose name apparently was not to be mentioned. Olivia unbent sufficiently to speak of herself.

Sympathetic listening was one of Mavis's gifts. With an encouraging word here and there, she allowed her visitor full rein. It was quite clear that Olivia felt a desire to explain herself. Mavis wondered why. It seemed, according to Olivia's account, that she was of Canadian birth, and that on her parents' death she had come to England, where she had friends. Somehow, through the agency of these friends, she had obtained the post of companion to Lady Violet.

This, summed up in brief, seemed reasonable enough. But Mavis, watching Olivia's expression as she spoke, and aware of certain hesitations in her choice of words, found her statements not altogether convincing. It was not that she suspected the girl of deliberate lying. There was no obvious reason why she should tell lies about herself to a total stranger. What she left unsaid, rather than what she said, gave Mavis the impression of some vague insincerity. For instance, her only mention of her family was that her parents were both dead. And how her English friends had brought influence upon Lady Violet remained completely obscure.

Merrion came in soon after Olivia had gone. Mavis told him of their conversation, and he nodded. “I wondered about that girl the other day when we were at Dragonscourt. Did she talk about Lady Violet?”

“She hardly mentioned her name,” Mavis replied. “And she didn't talk about the nephew either. She only seemed oddly anxious to tell me who she was.”

“I can understand her reticence about Philip Sampson,” said Merrion. “His name seems taboo at Dragonscourt, and I think now that I know why. But one would have expected her to talk about her employer. Lady Violet is not the sort of character to be ignored. Do you know, I got the impression that though she was very much the mistress, she was in her own way fond of her companion. But I'm not at all sure that the affection was reciprocated. What do you make of it all?”

Mavis smiled. “I'm not of your enquiring mind. The girl struck me as having a past, I don't mean a discreditable one, over which she throws a veil. We shall see how she and Lady Violet get on before we've been at Dragonscourt very long. For my own part, I don't see that it concerns us much.”

“Probably not at all,” Merrion replied. “But you know my incurable passion for matters that don't concern me. Well, I've had a conversation, too. With the curate. You remember my telling you what the tobacconist chap said about him. We found ourselves standing together on the quayside, watching the fishing-boats, and we spoke to one another.”

“Quite natural,” said Mavis solemnly. “But I'm willing to bet you were the first to speak.”

“Perhaps I was,” Merrion agreed. “He seems a decent young chap, not particularly forthcoming, but very much all there. I told him who I was, and his interest was immediately aroused. He said he had heard my name, and incidentally yours, as friends of Lady Violet. He understood that we were going to stay at Dragonscourt to-morrow.”

“Who told him that?” Mavis asked. “Olivia Jones? Your imagination might sow the seeds of romance there.”

Merrion shook his head. “Not our Miss Jones. At least, not directly. He didn't mention her name. No, his informant was Dr. Nigel Somerby.”

“And who might he be?” Mavis asked.

“I saw him at the inquest,” Merrion replied. “I gathered from what I heard there and from what the curate told me just now, that Somerby is, or was, the deceased doctor's partner. He lives not very far from Dragonscourt, and is a fairly frequent visitor there.”

“So your restless imagination may end in a triangle,” said Mavis mockingly. “Olivia Jones, the curate, and Dr. Somerby. You won't be bored at Dragonscourt, I can see that already. And it's time I got ready for dinner.”

The Merrions left the Car Bay Hotel on Saturday afternoon, timing themselves to arrive at Dragonscourt for tea. This time Merrion made no mistake in his route. The gates were opened for them by the lodge-keeper, who curtsied more deeply than ever. They were admitted to the house by the parlourmaid, whom they subsequently discovered to be the lodge-keeper's twin sister. Lady Violet, waiting for them in the drawing-room, offered them the warmest of welcomes. Miss Jones showed Merrion the way to the garage, where the Dragonscourt car, a venerable but scrupulously kept Rolls-Royce, already stood.

Dinner was a ceremony, carried out with old-fashioned formality. The meal was simple and unostentatious, but perfectly cooked, and served by the parlour-maid and an old butler. Later on, the visitors came to regard the domestic staff at Dragonscourt as feudal retainers rather than as servants. Lady Violet sat at the head of the table, Merrion facing her, Mavis on her right and Miss Jones on her left.

The conversation, unobtrusively led by Lady Violet, was mainly concerned with the Merrions' impressions of Carmouth. After dessert, the butler laid a decanter of port, and Lady Violet rose. “I like to follow the customs of my father's day. When it suits your convenience, Mr. Merrion, you will find us in the drawing-room.”

Merrion, left to himself in the great dining-room, sipped his port contentedly. It was of a vintage such as he had rarely enjoyed. No doubt it had been laid down by the late Earl of Vernham, or very possibly by his father. Merrion marvelled at the way Lady Violet contrived to keep up the style to which she had been accustomed in her youth. He felt that he had been transported back to the early years of the century, when gracious living had not yet come to be regarded as a social crime.

Although his attention had been concentrated almost entirely upon Lady Violet, he had spared a glance or two for Olivia Jones. His original impression had been strengthened. Lady Violet, without unbending to any familiarity and addressing her unfailingly as Miss Jones, had displayed an unaffected kindliness towards her companion, who, on her part, had responded with a deferential coldness. Merrion could not help wondering how they got on when they were alone. Had they anything in common? Anything they could talk about beyond purely domestic matters? In other words, was Miss Jones Lady Violet's companion in any mental sense? Lady Violet was certainly a woman of considerable intellectual attainments.

Merrion finished his port, resisting the strong temptation to refill his glass. He rose and went to the drawing-room, where he found Lady Violet and Mavis. Three empty coffee-cups stood on a silver tray, but Miss Jones was not now present. Merrion smiled to himself at the thought that Lady Violet did not expect gentlemen to indulge in the vice of drinking coffee after dinner.

Lady Violet looked up at his entrance. “Come and sit by me,” she said. “And do smoke if you feel so inclined. I am sufficiently modernised not to object to smoking in my drawing-room. I expect you to behave at Dragonscourt exactly as you would at High Eldersham Hall.”

Merrion complied, and lighted a cigarette. He noticed that an ashtray had already been provided for his use. It looked curiously out of place in that nineteenth-century drawing-room. And, after a pause, Lady Violet went on. “It is only natural that I should call your wife Mavis. And I think you will agree that I, being old enough to be your mother, can with equal propriety call you Desmond. May I?”

“I am greatly complimented that you should care to do so, Lady Violet,” Merrion replied gravely.

“Then that matter is settled between us,” said Lady Violet. “Now, Desmond, tell me this. What opinion have you formed regarding the death of Michael Murford?”

The question was so unexpected that for the moment even Merrion's quick mind could find no reply. By what mysterious intuition had this old lady felt so sure that he had any interest in the matter. And not only that. Her tone had implied that he had not accepted the verdict as a matter of course. That Mavis had not revealed his interest he felt quite certain.

He had seen enough of Lady Violet to have become aware that any subterfuge in her presence would be dangerous. “I heard of Dr. Murford's remarkable accident the day after we arrived at Carmouth,” he replied. “And I was sufficiently interested to attend the inquest on Monday.”

“There you have the advantage of me,” Lady Violet replied. “But I will not trouble you to repeat the evidence. What is said on oath on such occasions is usually irrelevant. It is what is not said that has any significance. The coroner returned a verdict of accidental death. Was that correct, Desmond?”

“I hardly know,” said Merrion. “Two of the points mentioned in court seemed to me rather strange. Had I been the coroner, I might have felt a desire for further enlightenment.”

Lady Violet nodded her head sagely. “I too, have felt a desire for enlightenment. I believe, without being able to produce any foundation for that belief, that Michael Murford was murdered.”

CHAPTER V

THE REMARK was made so naturally that Merrion accepted it without surprise. “The same idea has passed through my mind. After the inquest I walked to the harbour. And, on thinking things over, I was able to reconstruct a possible series of events.”

“Would you care to tell me what the sequence was, Desmond?” Lady Violet asked.

“Certainly, if you have the patience to listen, Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. “And you must remember that I, as a stranger, can build up my reconstruction only from what I have heard. There are many gaps in the edifice which only a thorough local knowledge could fill.

“I begin with the doctor's exchange of his old car for a new one. The old car, being the smaller, had a sharp enough turning lock to be easily manoeuvrable on the narrow quay outside the garage. The new car, however, with a larger wheelbase and a narrower lock, was not so easy to manage. On entering or leaving the garage it had to be reversed at least once, and probably twice.

“Both the doctor and his wife were well aware of this, and of the risk of reversing at night. The new car was fitted with a reversing light, and a set of cats'-eyes fixed to a wooden lath had been provided. Further, the difficulty of getting the new car in and out of the garage was common knowledge in Carmouth. Shall I say that the possibility of the accident, exactly as it happened, was foreseen? And that, in my opinion, is a most important point. Everyone in Carmouth has the comfortable feeling that he had known all along what was bound to happen some day. The verdict was inevitable.

“Now, let us trace the sequence of events as accurately as we can. Beginning with the axiom that there was little risk of accident in daylight, and that the real danger existed only at night. On Saturday evening, after dark, the doctor received a telephone call. Exactly what was said by the caller we do not know. The doctor told his wife that he had been summoned to a Mrs. Ladock, who had cut her hand badly, and whose address was Glendon, Carfield.

“Both name and address were unfamiliar to the doctor. But, the case being apparently urgent, he at once got out his car. While he was doing so, Mrs. Murford laid the cats'-eyes parallel with the edge of the quay, and about a foot from it. Aided by this, the doctor got his car out safely and drove off. After his departure, Mrs. Murford went to the vicarage to see her father, leaving the cats'-eyes as they were.

“On reaching Carfield, the doctor stopped at the Red Bull and made enquiries. He was directed to Glendon, but, when he reached the house, found nobody at home. The police subsequently learnt that Mr. and Mrs. Ladock had left on Friday, intending to return on the following Tuesday. The doctor can have wasted little time in chasing wild geese. From the time that the policeman saw the car in the Market Place on its way homewards, he must have returned from Carfield almost at once. He was absent from home about half an hour. He had warned Mrs. Murford that he might be detained for a considerable time. In attempting to enter his garage, the doctor reversed into the harbour. At low water, the lath with the cats'-eyes fixed to it was found on the bottom, eighteen feet from the quay.”

“That is the first really connected account I have heard of the matter,” Lady Violet remarked. “You are evidently a person of exceptional powers of description, Desmond.”

Merrion smiled. “I have had to make it my business to arrange facts in appropriate order. And, having done so, to consider their relative significance. Here, the focus of enquiry seems to be on the cats'-eyes. Mrs. Murford left them where she had put them, in readiness for her husband's return. If they were still there when he did come back, he should have been able to drive the car into the garage without overmuch difficulty. The coroner made the sensible suggestion that he might have put his foot on the wrong pedal. But it seems to me that had he done so the car would have ridden over the lath, possibly pushing it over the edge of the quay, but certainly not flinging it a distance of eighteen feet.

“We must therefore consider another possibility. When the doctor came back, the lath was no longer where Mrs. Murford had left it, some mischievous or malicious person having picked it up and hurled it into the harbour. But what then? Not seeing the cats'-eyes, the doctor might have supposed that Mrs. Murford had put them back in the garage. He might have got out of the car to look for them. In any case, not having them to guide him, he would have manoeuvred with the utmost circumspection. He would have been more than usually careful. I find it difficult to imagine him being so reckless as to run the slightest risk of approaching the edge of the quay too closely.”

Merrion paused to light a fresh cigarette. As he did so, Lady Violet eyed him narrowly. “I have an idea that you have another possibility in mind, Desmond.”

“I have,” Merrion confessed. “But I must impress upon you that what I am going to say is little more than guesswork. It is, in fact, a theory incapable of proof.

“Moored in the inner-harbour, with her bows rather more than twenty feet from the quay, and almost facing the door of the doctor's garage, is a dismantled fishing-boat, belonging to the establishment familiarly referred to in Carmouth as the Cannery. I am told that this craft is rarely or never moved from her moorings, being used for the storage of old nets and other gear belonging to her owners. It was between this boat and the quay that the car fell into the harbour. The lath was found within a few feet of this boat, also between it and the quay. At the time of the accident, it was about high water. The deck of the craft, or at all events the lower part of her mast and standing rigging, would have been on the level of the quay.

“So much for the facts. Now the guesswork begins. I assume, as a postulate, some person with designs upon the doctor's life. This person had access to a small boat. I have seen with my own eyes several such moored in the outer harbour. By night, anyone could borrow one of these without being observed.

“Suppose, then, that my unknown person did borrow a boat. He, or if you like, she, rowed it into the inner harbour. Remember the state of the tide at the time. Arrived alongside the quay, he reached up and took the lath with the cats'-eyes fixed to it. This he carried to the fishing-boat, and balanced it, not securing it in any way, across her deck, so that it would be as nearly as possible on a level with the surface of the quay. This done, he took his boat back to where he had fetched it from.

“Now, what happens when the doctor drives on to the quay? He expects to see the cats'-eyes, and he does see them. From the car, in the deceptive light of his head-lamps, he would not perceive that they were twenty feet from their original position. He turns in the direction of the garage entrance, then when he could go no further, reverses on the opposite lock. The cats'-eyes, seen in his driving mirror illuminated by the reversing light, show him that he has plenty of room. Before he is aware of the slightest danger, the rear wheels of the car are over the edge of the quay. From that moment nothing he can do will avert disaster.”

“I congratulate you, Desmond,” said Lady Violet, very quietly. “I feel sure that you have found the explanation of Michael Murford's death. I have never believed that it could have been accidental.”

“Yet it was so skilfully contrived as to have every appearance of accident,” Merrion replied. “It was the place where the lath was found that first made me doubtful. And that linked up with something that Micah Poynter told me. When he ran out of his house he noticed that the fishing-boat was still rocking violently. One would expect the disturbance of the water when the car plunged into it to make the boat rock. The unknown person counted upon this. He balanced the lath on the boat in such a way that any violent rocking would cast it overboard. Had the lath been found on the boat, the theory of accident would have received a rude shock.”

Lady Violet gazed reflectively into the fire. “Michael Murford's death has been a blow to me, in more than one sense,” she said quietly. “His father was the Vernham family doctor, and, as far as I am concerned, his son took his place. People were apt to say that Michael was careless, and considered his own life and amusements before his profession. That is not true. He was a man always ready to help others, and I know something of the good he did in secret. It may be some little time before the people of Carmouth fully realise the loss they have sustained. And yet, there are some who envied him.”

She paused, her fine old face stern in the firelight. Then abruptly, “You have told us, Desmond, of how he was murdered. As a stranger to the neighbourhood, you cannot be expected to go further.”

“I cannot speculate as to the murderer,” Merrion replied. “But this I can say. He or she must have been someone with an intimate knowledge of local conditions. It may be interesting to glance at a few of the things that the murderer must have known.

“The Ladocks, it appears, are comparatively newcomers to Carfield. Dr. Murford was not likely to know them personally. Apparently he did not even know them by name. He would not be aware that they had left Glendon for the week-end. A call, ostensibly from them, would not arouse the doctor's suspicions. He would assume it to be genuine. But the murderer must have known that they were away.

“Then, an accurate knowledge of conditions on the quayside was required. That the fishing-boat belonging to the Cannery was permanently moored. That the time of high water would coincide approximately with the doctor's return. That the lath with the cats'-eyes was laid out when the doctor took his new car out by night. That a boat could be borrowed without attracting attention. I think we can agree that no stranger to Carmouth could have possessed all these various items of information.”

“No stranger to Carmouth,” Lady Violet repeated. “Tell me, Desmond. You have said he or she. Why do you include the feminine pronoun?”

“Not because I have reason to suspect any particular woman,” Merrion replied hastily. “But because the possibility of a female murderer cannot be excluded. We do not know whether the voice that Dr. Murford heard on the telephone was that of a man or a woman. Further, the actions of the murderer, as I have imagined them, might have been performed by an individual of either sex.”

“Sally Murford would not have done such a thing,” said Lady Violet. “She was too fond of her husband. And now. Mavis dear, if you and Desmond will excuse me, I will retire to bed. It is past my usual hour.”

Mavis expressed herself ready to follow her hostess' example. But Merrion lingered on for a while. He felt that, though he had started a hare, it was no business of his to pursue it. He was not inclined to assume the role of a private detective, and to convey his suspicions to the local police was unthinkable. They were fully satisfied that Dr. Murford's death had been accidental. They would certainly not take action at the instigation of an outsider, whom they would probably regard as a meddlesome busybody. He might, of course, discuss the matter with his friend Inspector Arnold, of the Metropolitan Police. But Arnold was not likely to be very sympathetic, and, in any case, Scotland Yard could do nothing without the invitation of the local police.

Lady Violet, confidential up to a point, was, beyond that point, inscrutable. She had apparently believed from the first that the doctor's death had not been accidental. Her reason for that belief she had not revealed. She had accepted the theory of murder, as outlined by her guest, without question. Had she some reason, unknown to anyone but herself, for suspecting the murderer?

To Merrion, viewing the matter dispassionately, it seemed that, assuming murder, the only helpful clue was that of motive. The usual object, that of material gain, seemed to Merrion, as far as he could tell, to be ruled out. One must assume that whatever the doctor had possessed would pass to his wife and family. Revenge? Merrion, with his limited knowledge, could say nothing as to that. He had heard no rumour of the doctor having wronged anyone. There seemed very little doubt that he had been universally popular. Could it be that someone hated him with sufficient intensity to murder him?

Merrion gave it up. The data in his possession was not sufficient for the solution of the problem. He went up to bed, reflecting as he did so that he had not seen Miss Jones since she had left the dinner table.

Breakfast on Sunday morning was a far more informal affair than dinner had been. One was expected to come down when one pleased and to help oneself. When the Merrions entered the dining-room they found Olivia Jones already there, breakfasting alone. But it was not very long before Lady Violet made her appearance. Having greeted her guests, she sat down and spoke to Olivia. “Good-morning, Miss Jones. You enjoyed yourself yesterday evening, I hope?”

“Thoroughly, thank you, Lady Violet,” Olivia replied primly. Merrion wondered where she could have enjoyed herself. This information was supplied by Lady Violet, who turned to Mavis. “Miss Jones is very fond of the cinema, and goes to one of the two in Carmouth every Saturday evening.”

Merrion, overhearing this, found his wonderment increasing. “I noticed that there were two cinemas in Carmouth, Miss Jones,” he said conversationally. “Which of them did you go to yesterday?”

“The Grand,” she replied. “That's the one close to the church. I saw quite a good American picture.”

“Did you go to the Grand the week before?” Merrion asked. “It seems to be the bigger of the two.”

“No, I went to the other one,” Miss Jones replied unconcernedly. “They were showing a picture I wanted to see. Otherwise I should have gone to the Grand, for I like it the best.”

She struck Merrion as being an odd girl. Answering questions readily enough, but disinclined to start a conversation. Of course, it might be that the presence of her employer was responsible for her reserve. There appeared a tacit understanding between her and Lady Violet, expressed only by an exchange of glances. It might have been Merrion's imagination, but it seemed to him that these glances were apt to convey a warning. As though each were afraid that the other should be betrayed into saying too much. Was this girl always so reserved? Did she go to the pictures alone? If not, did she maintain her strange reserve towards her companion, whoever he or she might be? It was curious that she should have been in Carmouth at the time of Dr. Murford's death.

Merrion's disconnected train of thought was interrupted by Lady Violet's voice, speaking to Mavis. “We shall, I hope, have a guest at luncheon. You will not have met Nurse Penruddock. She is a very worthy person, who does a great deal of good in the district. I have a great admiration for her, and have given her to understand that she is always welcome here to lunch on Sundays, whenever her work permits. I wrote her a note asking her to do her best to come here to-day.”

Shortly before eleven o'clock Olivia Jones brought the ancient Rolls-Royce to the front door. Lady Violet and her guests entered it, and were driven through the woods to Highmoor church. The service was conducted by a middle-aged parson, and the congregation consisted almost entirely of village folk. It seemed to Merrion a rather spiritless and unimpressive ceremony. He and Mavis had been to Carmouth church on the previous Sunday, when Mr. Manifold and Colin Carew, assisted by a first-rate organist and choir, had officiated. Merrion had noticed, too, that the church had contained more than one memorial to members of the Vernham family. It seemed strange that Lady Violet should not have attended service there. Once the car had been got out, it would have taken little longer to drive to Carmouth than to Highmoor.

It was not long after the return of the party to Dragonscourt that Nurse Penruddock arrived. She was a rather dumpy little person, whose age Merrion placed in the early thirties, entirely unglamorous, but with attractive grey eyes and a jerky manner. Lady Violet greeted her warmly and introduced her to the Merrions. She must be very busy just now, and it was extremely good of her to make time to come to lunch.

The meal was served, and Nurse Penruddock proved herself a ready conversationalist. She told stories, none of them malicious, about several people in Carmouth and round about. She was evidently a gossip, though not a malevolent one. From the attention she paid to her chatter, it seemed probable to Merrion that Lady Violet found her valuable as a source of information.

When the meal came to an end, Lady Violet excused herself to Mavis. “I have certain matters to discuss with Nurse Penruddock. I know that you and Desmond will not mind if I do not join you in the drawing-room for a few minutes. I am sure that Miss Jones will entertain you.”

So the party was neatly parcelled out. Miss Jones and the Merrions went into the drawing-room, while Lady Violet led Nurse Penruddock away to her boudoir. But Olivia Jones failed conspicuously as an entertainer. Something had made her more silent than ever, and she seemed to be enthralled by a tense curiosity. Anyone could have told that her thoughts were not in the drawing-room but in the boudoir. She had not anticipated this private conference. And her every glance and every gesture demonstrated that she was dying to know what it was all about.

For Merrion the matter had no interest whatever. It was natural enough that Lady Violet should wish to have some private conversation with Nurse Penruddock. Upon local matters and possibly the concerns of some of the nurse's poorer patients. Even, perhaps, upon the changes that must ensue as a result of Dr. Murford's death. How such affairs could excite the violent curiosity of Lady Violet's companion was not easy to understand. But, Merrion asked himself, what was the exact definition in this case of the word companion?

A full half hour elapsed before Lady Violet entered the drawing-room, accompanied by Nurse Penruddock. It was immediately obvious that something unexpected, at least by the latter, had transpired. Lady Violet was her usual calm, stately self. But Nurse Penruddock seemed to have become transformed into a different woman. Speech had left her, her hands were quivering excitedly, and the twinkle in her eyes had changed to a rapt fixedness. But she had come into the drawing-room only to say good-bye. She did so absent-mindedly, stammering something about having to rush off to a patient.

Lady Violet and Merrion escorted her to the front door. Merrion opened it. Before she made her exit, Nurse Penruddock impulsively clutched Lady Violet's hand in both hers. “I have no words. Lady Violet. But I think you know.” Merrion saw her into her shabby little car. As she drove away down the drive, he saw that she steered so carelessly that the near wheels mounted the grass verge.

CHAPTER VI

AT DRAGONSCOURT, the next few days passed quietly enough, with an excursion by car to Shopton and two or three visits to Highmoor. The uneventful country-house life seemed to agree with Mavis, and her husband was gratified to see that she was recovering her usual radiant health. For himself, he had no difficulty in finding sufficient occupation. The old gardener, who turned out to be the husband of the lodge-keeper, was deeply concerned about the falling autumn leaves. They fell faster than he could keep them swept up, and the lad who used to help him had been called up. So Merrion spent a good part of his time sweeping leaves and carrying them to the bonfire.

On the Thursday following his arrival at Dragonscourt, he had gone out after breakfast to resume this occupation. He was alone on the lawn in front of the house, broom in hand, thinking idly of the days he had spent at Dragonscourt. Since the evening of their arrival, Lady Violet had not mentioned Dr. Murford to either Mavis or her husband. But it seemed unlikely that she would rest content with matters as they stood. Merrion had strengthened her belief that the doctor's death had not been accidental. He had an instinctive feeling that she was merely biding her time.

Had she said anything about it to her companion? It was impossible to say. When Merrion came to think about it, it seemed, at least since he and Mavis had been staying in the house, that Lady Violet and Miss Jones had very rarely been alone together. The relations between the two were a puzzle. One would have thought that, if Lady Violet required a companion at all, it would have been one with whom she could converse upon something like equal terms. But Miss Jones hardly seemed to fulfil this requirement. Her duties seemed to be confined to driving the Rolls-Royce and transmitting Lady Violet's orders to the servants.

At first, Merrion had been inclined to consider Olivia Jones as a rather colourless personality. But it had gradually dawned on him that her attitude of reserve was the cloak of deep emotions. What form these took he could not say, but now and then he had caught a flash in her eyes which betrayed her. A flash of mistrust, perhaps, or even of defiance. As though at times she found the presence of her employer almost insupportable. Why then did she remain at Dragonscourt?

As his thoughts wandered in this desultory fashion, Merrion had swept together quite a considerable pile of leaves. He laid down his broom, and strolled away to the shed behind the house, where the wheel-barrow was kept. He found the gardener there, sharpening a pair of shears, and talked to him for a minute or two. Then he fitted the wooden extension to the sides of the barrow, and trundled it back to the lawn.

By the time he returned there, a car was standing at the front entrance. At his first idle glance, he thought it must be Nurse Penruddock's. But a second inspection showed him that though of the same size and colour, it was newer and not so battered about. In any case, it was no concern of his. Visitors did come to Dragonscourt, though infrequently. With the two boards he had brought with him, he picked up the leaves and dumped them into the barrow. When it was full, he wheeled it away to the bonfire.

When he came back, he found a man and a woman standing on the lawn. The woman was Olivia Jones, but the man he did not at first recognise. Not until he turned round, at a word from his companion, did Merrion see that he was the medical witness at the inquest. It was evident, from their manner and expression, that they were considerably agitated about something.

Merrion stopped, barrow and all, having no wish to intrude. But the two hurried towards him. “This is Dr. Somerby, Mr. Merrion,” Olivia announced breathlessly. “We both want you to help us.”

“I shall be delighted,” Merrion replied. “How can I help you?”

They glanced at one another, and Somerby spoke. “' A most unfortunate thing has happened, Mr. Merrion. Nurse Penruddock, whom I am told you saw here last Sunday, has met with a fatal accident.”

Another fatal accident, was Merrion's inward reaction. But why their eagerness to inform him of the fact. It could be no concern of his, and if the accident had been fatal, he couldn't give much help. “I am very sorry to hear it,” he said calmly. “I am afraid that Lady Violet must be greatly distressed.”

“That's just it!” Olivia exclaimed. “She hasn't heard about it yet.”

This seemed rather odd. “Oughtn't you to tell Lady Violet?” he asked.

“I'm not going to tell her!”Olivia declared emphatically. “I don't know how she'll take it. And if she has a heart attack or something, I shall be blamed for breaking the news clumsily.”

“Then the unpleasant duty appears to devolve upon you, Doctor,” said Merrion.

“I cannot agree,” Somerby replied sharply. “I am under the impression that Lady Violet holds no very favourable impression of me. I have never been her medical attendant, and we are in fact almost complete strangers. I do not care to accept the responsibility.”

Merrion found this attitude outrageous. “Lady Violet will have to be told,” he said drily.

“That's where we want you to help us, Mr. Merrion,” Olivia replied coaxingly. “We're both afraid of telling her. So we hoped that you would.”

Merrion smiled faintly. “You will forgive me for pointing out that my acquaintance with Lady Violet is barely a week old.”

“That doesn't matter!” Olivia exclaimed impatiently. “She trusts you and Mrs. Merrion, anyone can see that. And there aren't many people she does trust. Do help us out of our difficulty, Mr. Merrion.”

“Very well,” said Merrion gravely. “What am I to tell Lady Violet?”

Somerby replied to this. “That Nurse Penruddock was found early this morning dead at the foot of a cliff.”

Merrion turned away and walked across the lawn into the house, which seemed silent and deserted. His first instinct was to find Mavis, but she was not to be seen. Both drawing-room and morning-room were deserted. He knew from experience that Lady Violet spent part of the forenoon in her boudoir, into which he had not yet been invited. He made his way there, and paused for a moment irresolutely at the door. Then summoning his courage, he knocked upon it softly.

Lady Violet's voice bade him come in. He opened the door, to find her seated at her desk. She had laid aside the pen with which she had been writing a letter, and was lying back in her chair, talking to Mavis, who was sitting beside her. “Oh, do come in, Desmond,” she said warmly. “You're not interrupting me. Mavis and I were just having a quiet chat. I do hope that sweeping up those tiresome leaves hasn't tired you.”

“Not in the least,” Merrion replied. “I enjoy the gentle exercise involved.” He sat down in the chair nearest to Mavis. “I should not have burst in on you like this. Lady Violet, unless I had something to tell you. It is no very good news, I am afraid.”

“I am getting used to hearing bad news,” Lady Violet replied equably. “I am an old woman, and such things do not excite me as they once used to. What is it, Desmond?”

“Nurse Penruddock,” said Merrion distinctly. He paused to see what effect this name would produce. But Lady Violet's expression did not change, and he went on. “I have been told that she was found dead this morning at the foot of a cliff.”

“Oh, poor thing!” Lady Violet exclaimed. Her tone left no doubt of the sincerity of her grief. But it was not the grief of one who had lost a beloved friend, or even a treasured acquaintance. This was very far from the heart attack which Olivia had anticipated. “Poor thing!”Lady Violet repeated. “I don't know what the poor people will do without her. Who told you this, Desmond?”

Merrion's instinct warned him that it would be better not to mention Olivia's name. “Dr. Somerby,” he replied. “I met him on the lawn a few minutes ago.”

“Ah!” Lady Violet exclaimed sharply. “He preferred not to tell me himself, I suppose. He and Nurse Penruddock did not always agree.” She leant forward and picked up the letter she had been writing, and with it a folded document which lay beside it. Deliberately she tore these across, once and again, then rose and threw the fragments on to the fire.

She stood for a moment, watching them burn, then turned to Merrion. “Once again I am frustrated,” she said calmly. “I had no affection for Nurse Penruddock personally, merely a sincere admiration for the way in which she performed her duties, and far more than her duties. I have no wish to hear garbled accounts of her death. I would like you to find out what actually happened, and to tell me. Have I known you long enough to ask you to do that for me, Desmond?”

Merrion eagerly accepted this most congenial commission. He wasted no time, but immediately took his car from the garage and drove towards the lodge. By the time he came out of the house, Dr. Somerby's car had disappeared, and there was no sign of Olivia Jones. Merrion felt relieved at that, for it saved the necessity of explanation. Nobody witnessed his departure but the lodge-keeper.

He drove to Carmouth, and left his car in the public parking place. The time was getting on for half-past eleven, and the Three Pilchards would be open. He walked there expectantly, to find Micah Poynter in deep discussion with the landlord. They turned at his entrance, and Micah greeted him as an old friend. “I'm right glad to see you again, sir. You and your good lady have gone along to Dragonscourt, so I hear. It's likely then that you haven't heard about what's happened.”

Merrion's expression remained perfectly blank. If Micah knew of the removal to Dragonscourt, it was a safe guess that all Carmouth shared that knowledge. Still, for the moment at least that hardly mattered. “Yes, that's right,” he replied easily. “What's this that's happened?”

Micah and the landlord glanced at one another, but it was left to Micah to tell the tale. “It's Nurse Penruddock, that's helped the doctor all these years,” he began. “Dr. Murford, I mean. She was along with him before ever the other came to these parts. And he's gone, and now she's gone too.”

“Gone?” Merrion asked innocently. “Where to?”

The landlord answered this question. “It's gone from this world, Micah means,” he explained.

“Aye, gone to a better one,” said Micah fervently. “She was a good one, and we'll never see her like again. It was two of the chaps that work at the Cannery that found her as they were coming to work this morning. On the rocks below the path that leads to Little Carmouth. You'd likely not know it.”

However, Merrion did know it, having discovered it while rambling round the town. Little Carmouth was a cluster of small houses detached from the town, and barely half a mile from it in a direct line. But, since a sharp rise, barren and rocky, intervened, the road made a wide circuit of two miles. There was however a path skirting the seaward side of the rise. Here the ground fell abruptly to sea-level, not sheer, but at a steep slope. On the face of the slope was a natural ledge, not quite level, but gently undulating, and varying in width. Along this ran the path.

Merrion could recollect his walk along it in detail. He had started from the town end, climbing gently to a height of about a hundred feet above sea-level. The path had a fairly good surface, and was unfenced. On his left had been a steep slope down to the rocks, on his right, a slightly less steep rise to the summit of the hill. The path varied in width, narrowing in places as the ledge narrowed. In these places it would hardly have admitted the passage of a cart. But cyclists used the path. Two or three of them had passed Merrion in the course of his progress.

The landlord drew the beer that Merrion ordered for the three of them, and Micah went on. “One of the two chaps stopped and spoke to me, and that's how I know. He was late getting to work, what with telling the police and that. And Mr. Raymond, him what I told about the doctor, got them both to lend a hand in carrying the stretcher. She's in the mortuary now, poor soul.”

Merrion lighted a cigarette and waited patiently. Questions would only put Micah out of his stride. He must be allowed to tell his story in his own fashion. Micah took a long pull at his beer, and shook his head solemnly. “How she came to fall over there's none can tell. It wasn't as if she was riding her bike, for the chap told me it wasn't there. Must have stumbled, not looking where she was going, and rolled down before she could stop herself. And she was carrying the bag she carried her medicines and all that in, too.

“That's what the chap told me. It was this way, you follow me. He and his mate both live in Little Carmouth. This morning they started off on their bikes as usual, round about half-past seven. That gives them plenty of time to get to the Cannery and start work at eight. It was about sunrise, and there was plenty of light for them to see by. Well, as I was saying, they came riding along the path, and they saw something on the rocks below. Both of them saw it at once, the chap told me.

“They both got off their bikes and climbed down. There's plenty of places where it's easy enough to do that, but they had to go a little way. Then they went back over the rocks till they came to what they'd seen. And there they found Nurse Penruddock and her bag. She was all bashed about and stone-dead, poor soul. And there was blood all about her. Something shocking, the chap told me.”

Micah paused, relishing the gruesomeness of his story, then after a further pull at his beer, went on again:

“She was lying well above high-water mark. The rocks up above that had broken her fall. The chaps didn't like to touch anything. The one that spoke to me stayed where he was, while the other climbed to where he had left his bike and rode along to the police station. Mr. Raymond and another cop were sent along with a stretcher, and he took them to the place. And between the four of them got the poor soul up to the path and so along to the mortuary.”

“A doctor examined the body, I suppose?” Merrion asked.

Micah shook his head. “That I couldn't say. There's no doctor in Carmouth now Dr. Murford's gone. Dr. Somerby lives at Highmoor, but these last few days he's been taking Dr. Murford's surgery in the town here. Likely enough they waited till he came there at nine o'clock and took him along.”

Evidently Micah had told all he knew. The talk drifted into a conversation between him and the landlord on the subject of Nurse Penruddock and how well she and Dr. Murford had got on together. She hadn't seemed to take to Dr. Somerby as well. Perhaps it was because he was a younger man and didn't understand her ways. She was a great loss to the town. They'd never get another one like her.

Merrion slipped out of the Three Pilchards, and walked through the town towards the cliff path. As he went, he reflected upon what he had heard. It was too early yet for conjecture upon the cause of the accident, but one point had already impressed him. If Micah's surmise had been correct, the police must have summoned Dr. Somerby about nine o'clock. He must have driven out to Dragonscourt almost immediately after he had examined the body. Why?

Leaving this question unanswered for the present, Merrion went on his way. The news had clearly spread, for a few idle loiterers were gaping down from the path. They took no particular notice of him as he wandered along. At last, below one of the narrowed sections of the path, he found what he had hoped for. A rough outline in chalk upon the rocks below. The police had marked the place where the body had been found.

Micah's story, confused though it had been, showed a certain accuracy. Merrion, sauntering along the path until the chalk mark was directly below him, arrived at a spot where it was barely four feet wide. The surface was fair, except that here and there stones protruded. A careless walker might trip over them, but they were easy enough to avoid so long as one looked where one was going.

Apart from that, the path presented no particular dangers. Certainly, it was unfenced on the seaward side. But the drop from it was not sheer, only a steep face of rough rock, irregular in outline. Merrion imagined the possibility of tripping over a stone and, as a result, falling over the edge of the path. The fall would continue not as a drop, but a rolling over the face of the rock. The irregularities would afford plenty of foot and hand-holds. To anyone with experience of climbing, the ascent or descent of the slope would be child's play. Any faller could surely arrest his or her descent, or at all events retard it sufficiently to avoid being dashed to pieces on the rocks at its foot.

On the landward side the slope rose at about the same angle for a few feet, then this angle decreased towards the summit. The curve was in fact convex. The upper slopes were grass-grown between smooth boulders, which from a distance looked like a flock of sheep. The path never ran straight for more than a few yards at a time, following as it did the indentations of the coast. From it were fine views of Car Bay and of the headlands which bounded it.

The fact that Nurse Penruddock had been carrying her bag explained why she had been using the path. Her errand was to visit a patient in Little Carmouth, and she had been on her way to or from there. Merrion had no evidence as to the time the accident had occurred. It seemed hardly likely that she could have tripped and fallen in daylight. If she had been called out after dark, she would surely not have taken this short cut but would have driven to Little Carmouth by road. In her car, this would have taken her little longer.

The previous day the sun had set about four o'clock, and it would have been fairly dark by half-past. Then Merrion remembered that the evening had been clear, with a touch of frost in the air, and that the moon was nearing its full. It would have risen before sunset, and for several hours afterwards given an illumination almost as clear as daylight. Since that part of the Bay faced roughly eastward, during the evening the moon would have shone full upon the path.

Not caring to attract attention by lingering too long, Merrion strolled on. He reached Little Carmouth and looked about him. The hill, or rather ridge, which separated the hamlet of scattered houses from its larger neighbour, was steep and barren. On one side of it the road, following the lower contours, ran tortuously. On the other, by a more direct and much shorter route, ran the path by which he had come. But to an active man there was an alternative, not to be taken by anyone in a hurry. Surveying the sharply rising ground before him, Merrion fancied that it should be possible to climb straight over it, between the road and the path, and avoiding either of them.

He decided to make the attempt. If anyone saw him clambering about, they would shrug their shoulders at such behaviour on the part of a visitor. To the inhabitants of Little Carmouth all visitors must seem more or less crazy. He chose for his line of approach a point just outside the hamlet, where a narrow gully ran down the side of the ridge to the road. The surface here was of loose stones but, taking his time, he found his ascent not unduly difficult. By the time he reached the head of the gully, the angle of the convex slope had diminished. Sufficient for him to be able to clamber to the summit.

From here the view was magnificent, for the day was clear as crystal. Owing to the slope of the ridge, both Carmouth and Little Carmouth were hidden from him. But on one side the sea extended to the distant horizon, and on the other the prospect included the whole of the Car Valley. He imagined that he could discern, far away, the woods in which Dragonscourt lay.

He proceeded along the crest of the ridge, finding the going easy enough in the grass between the boulders. These he found to vary infinitely in size, from some weighing at least a ton to others of no more than a few pounds. Picking his way, he was careful to dislodge none of them. As he went on, he noticed another thing. Owing to the shape of the sides of the ridge, serrated by deep valleys, he caught occasional glimpses of both the road and the path.

The ridge terminated above Carmouth, and from it he found the descent, though fairly steep, by no means difficult. He scrambled down cautiously, to find himself in the back yard of a small house. A woman came out and regarded him suspiciously. He explained that he had lost his way, and she led him out by the front gate, which opened upon one of the straggling back streets of Carmouth.

CHAPTER VII

THE LUNCH HOUR at Dragonscourt was already past. Merrion took himself to a cafe in the town, where he was given sufficient refreshment. When he had finished this, he strolled to the tobacconist's shop, where Mr. Fowey welcomed him as an old and valued customer. “You're back again in the town, then? We'd heard that you'd left the Car Bay Hotel and gone to stay with her Ladyship at Dragonscourt.”

“I wanted some things in the town,” Merrion replied. “Cigarettes among them. The same kind as you let me have before. There's been another accident, I hear?”

Mr. Fowey shook his head despondently. “So you have heard about Nurse Penruddock, then? It's a sad thing and we'll miss her the same as we do Dr. Murford. But there, misfortunes never come singly. When there's a death, there's always two more to follow. I've known that to be so, time and again. And I shouldn't be surprised if the third was old Mr. Manifold. He's been very poorly all this week, and Mrs. Murford, that's his daughter, has been staying at the vicarage to look after him.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Merrion. “Does anyone knew how Nurse Penruddock met with the accident?”

“Nobody does, as far as I know,” Mr. Fowey replied, “or when it happened, for that matter. From what I hear she came to the surgery here at six o'clock yesterday evening, like she always did. She lived out at Carfield, and drove in. But she never drove out again, for her car was found in the parking place early this morning.”

“She was found dead somewhere on the rocks, I believe?” Merrion suggested artlessly.

Mr. Fowey nodded. “That's right. And her bag beside her. My belief is that she must have had a call when she was at the surgery, and that she walked over to Little Carmouth when she'd finished.”

“She'd be alone at the surgery, now Dr. Murford is dead, I suppose?” Merrion asked.

“I couldn't say,” Mr. Fowey replied. “It's likely that Dr. Somerby was there. He's been coming to the surgery of an evening this last week. I don't know how he'll get on by himself now. It's a big practice for one man alone to look after. But he won't miss Nurse Penruddock as Dr. Murford would have done.”

“How's that?” Merrion asked. “He'll miss her help, I imagine.”

“Her help, maybe,” Mr. Fowey agreed. “But not herself. I don't know how it was, but they never seemed able to hit it off from the first day he came here. You know what they say about new brooms.”

For a moment Merrion wondered whether the implication was that this particular new broom had swept away his partner and his assistant. But Mr. Fowey went on. “Dr. Somerby is a new broom fresh from the factory and he's no use for old ways. Everything's got to be spic and span and up to date. There are several here who don't like what he's said to them about taking stuff they've been used to all their lives. And it was the same with Nurse Penruddock. He thought she was old-fashioned, and from what I've heard, he had no bones about letting her know it.”

“Hardly the way to win her friendship,” Merrion remarked.

“Friendship?” Mr. Fowey exclaimed scornfully. “There was little enough of that wasted between them. He didn't like her any more than she liked him. And it wasn't only what he thought were her old-fashioned ways that was the trouble. She wasn't only a nurse, but a woman too, and she liked men to take notice of her. And Dr. Somerby isn't one to do that, at least not of her. His idea is that a nurse should have no mind for anything but looking after her patients. And that's very different from the way Dr. Murford treated her. He and Mrs. Murford always made her one of the family.”

In the course of further conversation, Mr. Fowey elaborated his private opinions of Nurse Penruddock. He believed that she had always wanted to get married. Maybe she wouldn't have been against setting her cap at Mr. Norfolk. Or maybe Mr. Philip Sampson. She was always fussing round him about his asthma. And she was about the only woman Philip ever seemed to care to talk to. But it was Mr. Norfolk she looked to most of all. Not so much for his money, maybe, but because he was a man and not a milksop.

Here Mr. Fowey interposed a knowing wink. Women were queer folk. They knew a lot of things without seeming to. It was quite on the cards that Nurse Penruddock had heard about the way Mr. Norfolk was making up to Mary Salcombe. And that she'd tipped the wink to Mr. Carew, and helped her to find that job at Shopton, so as to get the girl out of her way.

Merrion ventured the opinion that it might have been the young curate that Nurse Penruddock had been after. But Mr. Fowey didn't think so. He asked Merrion if he hadn't seen anything of Mr. Carew since he had been at Dragonscourt, and seemed surprised at receiving an answer in the negative. Was that so? Well, perhaps not. Mr. Fowey had seen the young lady in the town, often enough.

They were interrupted by the entrance of a customer, and, with a word of farewell to Mr. Fowey, Merrion left the shop. He walked to the parking-place, and started back to Dragonscourt in his car. As he drove, he considered Mr. Fowey's last innuendo. It deepened the mystery which seemed to surround Lady Violet's companion.

For the situation seemed wholly mysterious. From the hints he had gathered, Merrion had considered that Olivia Jones and Dr. Somerby were on excellent terms. And when they had spoken to him that morning, there had certainly seemed to be some sort of understanding between them. And now he had learnt that Dr. Somerby had lost no time in going to Dragonscourt. To convey the news of Nurse Penruddock's death, not to Lady Violet, but to Olivia. Yet that competent observer of local tittle-tattle, Mr. Fowey, obviously believed that the curate was the object of her affections.

Merrion reached Dragonscourt in time for tea. Olivia Jones was present, her usual unruffled and reserved self. The meal ended, and Lady Violet turned to her companion. “Will you entertain Mrs. Merrion for a few minutes. Miss Jones? I am going to ask Mr. Merrion if he will do me a favour.”

She rose, and Merrion followed her to her boudoir. It was remarkably cosy there, the room softly lighted and a bright fire burning. “Sit down and tell me, Desmond,” Lady Violet said simply. “And do please light a cigarette. I am beginning thoroughly to enjoy the smell.”

Merrion realised that this was a tremendous concession. Probably never before had the aroma of tobacco perfumed the air of Lady Violet's boudoir. He complied with her request, and proceeded to give her a succinct account of his conversation with Micah Poynter and of his own explanations. Of the gossip he had received from Mr. Fowey he said no word.

Lady Violet listened with close attention. “It was an accident, Desmond?” she asked.

“To all appearances, it was an accident,” he replied carefully. “The probabilities seem to be these. Nurse Penruddock attended the surgery in Carmouth yesterday evening, about six o'clock. While there she received a summons to Little Carmouth. It may be, of course, that she intended to go there in any case. She could have driven, for her car was in the park. But she preferred to walk by the cliff path.

“We do not know yet when she started. Probably when she had finished her work in the surgery, say about seven o'clock. At that time, though it was two and a half hours after sunset, it was not dark. The moon, nearly full, was high in the heavens, and shining directly on the path. Assuming that Nurse Penruddock reached Little Carmouth, and after a short stay there returned by the same route, the conditions of lighting would have been much the same.”

“Do you say the moon, Desmond?” Lady Violet interposed. “That may explain why Nurse Penruddock preferred to walk rather than drive. She must have had a curiously romantic streak in her nature, for she told me once that she loved walking in the moonlight.”

Romantic streak! How much of that did Lady Violet know, Merrion wondered, remembering Mr. Fowey's gossip. Was it possible that she had envisaged marriage between her as yet unmentioned nephew and Nurse Penruddock! But he went on, calmly. “That may have been the reason. At all events, she had plenty of light to see her way by. One might have supposed that instead of keeping her eyes on the path, she was looking at the moon, and so stumbled.”

“Do you suppose that, Desmond?” Lady Violet asked sharply.

“It seems the simplest explanation,” Merrion replied guardedly. “She stumbled off the path, and, apparently unable to save herself, rolled down the slope on to the rocks below. She was, I believe, not a very careful driver. She may have been an equally careless walker.”

Lady Violet smiled. “Are you trying to anticipate the verdict, Desmond?”

“Well, perhaps I am,” Merrion replied. “You see, there is no evidence of anything else having happened. I told you that I came back from Little Carmouth along the crest of the ridge, a considerable height above the level of the path. And there I noticed several loose boulders of various sizes, some of them resting on the upper slopes. I thought at the time that if any of them were dislodged they might be dangerous.”

Lady Violet eyed him penetratingly. “Tell me exactly, Desmond.”

“I can hardly do that,” Merrion replied. “I can only speculate. A boulder, bounding down on to the path from above, would obviously imperil anyone walking along it. Let us suppose such a thing to have happened last night. The boulder may not have struck Nurse Penruddock with sufficient force to kill her. It may not have struck her at all. In dodging it, she may have stepped over the edge of the path. Alternatively, it may have struck her a glancing blow, upsetting her balance.”

“Are those boulders likely to fall by themselves?” Lady Violet asked.

“I have described them as loose,” Merrion replied. “By that I mean they are separated from the bed-rock of the ridge. They are more or less embedded in the shallow soil covering the rock. But some of them rest on slopes where there is no soil. I can imagine one of them becoming accidentally dislodged. There was, I believe, a slight frost last night. Some freak of contraction might have disturbed the equilibrium of such a boulder.”

“You are trying your best to make out that it was an accident,” said Lady Violet severely.

Merrion smiled. “Because, as I have said, there is no evidence to the contrary. Even if a falling boulder was responsible for Nurse Penruddock's death, the fact is never likely to be proved. A boulder would not come to rest on the rocks above high-water mark. Its impetus would have caused it to bounce on into the sea, where it would be indistinguishable from others like it.”

Lady Violet frowned. “I admire your caution, Desmond, but I find it difficult to tolerate. You have offered every explanation except the one you must know is in my mind.”

“That human agency caused the fall of a boulder?” Merrion asked. “I have preferred not to speculate upon that until I have heard the evidence to be given at the inquest. At present, I find it hard to imagine anyone happening to be on the unfrequented higher slopes of the ridge when Nurse Penruddock passed beneath. Shall we defer discussion of that point till later?”

Next morning, Merrion again drove into Carmouth. This time there was no need for him to make enquiries.
The car-park attendant, who had come to know him by sight, got into conversation with him. The exclusive topic of conversation in the town was Nurse Penruddock's fatal accident. The inquest was to be held at half-past two that afternoon, r

So once again Merrion attended the gloomy court. The proceedings were exactly the same as before, the coroner sitting without a jury. Evidence of identification was given by a brother living in Shopton. The medical evidence was supplied by Dr. Somerby. He had examined the body at 9 a.m. on the previous day, and then formed the opinion that deceased had been dead for at least twelve hours. The cause of death had been multiple fractures, such as would have been caused by a fall from a height.

Continuing his evidence. Dr. Somerby testified that he had last seen deceased at about 6.50 p.m. on the previous day, when he left her in the surgery at Carmouth. He had reached the surgery at a few minutes past six, and had found deceased already there. While they were there together, attending to patients, a boy had brought a message, asking Nurse Penruddock to see Mr. Taunton, whose leg was very painful. Mr. Taunton, who lived at Little Carmouth, was suffering from a suppurating leg, and deceased had been attending him for some days. Deceased had told the boy to go back and say that she would come to Little Carmouth when she had finished at the surgery.

Mrs. Taunton, elderly and much flustered, was then escorted to the witnesses' chair. Her husband had been poorly this last week or more, and Nurse had been very good with his bandages. He had complained of pain all Wednesday afternoon. At last, at six o'clock, knowing that Nurse would be at the Carmouth surgery then, she had asked young Sid, her neighbour's boy, to slip over on his bike and give her a message. Sid had come back and said she'd be round before long.

Replying to the coroner, Mrs. Taunton said that Nurse had come to her house about half-past seven. Her husband had showed her his leg, and she had put something on it and tied it up for him. Nurse had said that she had come by the cliff path as it was such a beautiful night. She was going back the same way, as she enjoyed seeing the moon shining over the sea. It must have been about eight o'clock when she left.

The two men who had seen the body gave their evidence. Raymond and the other constable described the position in which the body had lain and its removal to the mortuary. The coroner, remarking that there was no evidence that the death of the deceased had been other than accidental, found a verdict to that effect. With the usual formalities and expressions of sympathy, the proceedings ended.

Merrion, when he returned to Dragonscourt, was still undecided. As a result of what he had heard at the inquest, he had formed his own opinions. But whether it would be wise to divulge these in full to Lady Violet, he was not sure. Her reactions could not be foreseen.

He was allowed little time for deliberation. Immediately after tea, as on the previous day. Lady Violet carried him off to her boudoir. “Do light your cigarette and make yourself comfortable, Desmond,” she said. “The inquest has been held? I do so want to hear what the verdict was.”

“The coroner brought in a verdict of accidental death,” Merrion replied gravely.

“Ah!” Lady Violet exclaimed significantly. “As you expected. And you?”

Under the scrutiny of Lady Violet's keen grey eyes evasion was impossible. “You may judge for yourself, Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. “I may sum up the evidence in this way. Nurse Penruddock was at the surgery in Carmouth at six o'clock on Wednesday evening. Dr. Somerby found her there. During their session, a boy brought a message asking her to go to Little Carmouth. She undertook to do so when the surgery hour was over, and actually reached Little Carmouth about half-past seven. She left there half an hour later, saying that she would return by the cliff path, the way she had come.”

Lady Violet nodded sagely. “Did she tell anyone that she would walk to Little Carmouth, instead of driving there?”

“If she did, the fact did not come out in evidence,” Merrion replied. “In fact, no witnesses were called to give evidence of having seen her between the time of Dr. Somerby leaving her in the surgery shortly before seven, and the time of her arrival at Little Carmouth half an hour later.”

“She might have told anyone where she was going,” Lady Violet remarked.

“She might,” Merrion agreed. “On the other hand, she might not have done so. It was a fine bright evening, and I daresay several people were about?”

“Several people?” Lady Violet asked severely. “Whom have you in mind, Desmond? You will not bandy words with me.”

“I have no particular individual in mind, Lady Violet,” Merrion prevaricated. “This is what I meant. Anyone who saw her setting out along the cliff path, bag in hand, could safely infer that she was bound for Little Carmouth, since there are no houses on the way. An equally safe inference would be that she would return the same way, rather than by the road. That person would have had plenty of time to climb to the summit of the ridge, there to await her return.”

Lady Violet made a gesture of impatience. “You are too fond of theorising, Desmond. You conjure up some unknown person who, quite by chance, saw Nurse Penruddock set out along the path. All of which seems to me an unnecessary complication. I gather from what you tell me that Dr. Somerby was present when the boy gave the Nurse the message. She probably told him that she would walk to Little Carmouth. What have you to say to that, Desmond?”

Lady Violet's directness was devastating. But at all events Merrion felt no further need for concealment. “The point had not escaped me,” he replied lightly. “What have I to say? Merely that I know of no reason why Dr. Somerby should have murdered Nurse Penruddock.”

“You could hardly be expected to,” Lady Violet remarked tartly. “You are not sufficiently informed. Now do let us drop all pretence, and consider the matter like reasonable people. Two accidents, which you and I know not to have been accidents at all, have taken place within a few days of one another. It must be quite obvious that the same person was responsible for both of them.”

Merrion smiled. “I can't quite agree with you to that extent. Lady Violet. We don't know for certain, we only suspect, that the accidents weren't really accidents.”

“Nonsense!” Lady Violet exclaimed. “You know as well as I do that both Michael Murford and Nurse Penruddock were murdered. And if Dr. Somerby murdered one he murdered the other. I'm not surprised. I have never liked the man, and I very much doubt whether Olivia has either.”

CHAPTER VIII

MERRION MADE no immediate reply. He was wondering how Lady Violet's vehemence was to be restrained. If she declared to all and sundry, without a vestige of proof, that Dr. Somerby was a double murderer, she would find herself in serious trouble. And in her excitement, she had made a curious slip. She had referred to her companion for the first time not as the formal Miss Jones, but as the familiar Olivia. “We had better keep our suspicions to ourselves, Lady Violet,” Merrion countered, after an interval.

“Why, of course!” she replied, with a complete return to her habitual tranquillity. “You are really aggravating at times, Desmond. I should not dream of discussing the matter with anyone but yourself. And I hope I can rely on your discretion not to discuss it either. But these accidents, as we will agree to call them, have affected me personally. And now I hardly know what course to take.”

Merrion waited. He guessed that Lady Violet was anxious for his advice, but did not know how to ask for it without revealing matters she did not care to be known. And when she spoke again, he knew that his guess had been correct. “May I, with perfect safety, take you into my confidence, Desmond?”

“Certainly, if you wish to do so, Lady Violet,” Merrion replied gravely. “I give you my word that anything you tell me will go no further, without your permission.”

“Thank you,” said Lady Violet. “I know I can trust your word. Though my health is as good as anyone of my age could expect, I am an old woman, and cannot live many years longer. My father left me the greater part of his money, and while I live I consider it my duty to spend my income in maintaining Dragonscourt to the best of my ability. But, when I die, there will be no one left to carry on the family tradition. Dragonscourt must die with me.”

She paused, leaving Merrion wondering. No one left? What about the unmentioned nephew? But of her sincerity there could be no doubt. Her whole existence was bound up in Dragonscourt, the outward and visible sign of the family tradition. While she lived, that must be maintained at whatever sacrifice to herself. Et après moi le deluge.

Lady Violet went on, her eyes fixed upon Merrion, as though to impress upon him her inmost thoughts. “My father had always the welfare of the County, and of those who lived in it, at heart. I will not tell you how much he did. It would be more fitting for you to hear that from other and disinterested sources. In these days of restricted incomes I have not been able to follow his example. But I have felt very strongly that on my death the money he left me should be enjoyed by those who would spend it as he would have wished, that is, by doing good to their neighbours.”

Again she paused, seeming to expect some comment. “The sentiment does you every credit. Lady Violet,” Merrion replied, aware how sententious the remark must sound.

“I claim no credit,” said Lady Violet, a trifle acidly. “I have merely tried to carry out what I feel sure would have been my father's wishes. I have acted deliberately, and without any undue haste, watching the most likely people as closely as I could. Soon after Michael Murford succeeded to the practice, I saw that in addition to being an excellent doctor, he took a personal interest in his deserving patients. I therefore made a will, some years ago, leaving the greater part of my capital to him.”

“May I put in a word, Lady Violet?” Merrion asked. “Was anyone including the doctor himself, aware that you had done this?”

Lady Violet shook her head. “No one should have known. I did not tell Michael Murford, for I did not wish him to feel that he was in any sense under any obligation to me. The only person I consulted in the matter was Mr. Wade, who drew up the will for me. He is the only surviving partner of Ford, Bridge and Wade, the Shopton firm who have been solicitors to my family for ever so long.

“Then came Michael Murford's death. You will understand now how that affected me personally. The person whom I had designated as my principal heir had died, and my dispositions for the future were thwarted. But my eyes had already lighted upon a possible substitute. Nurse Penruddock had attracted me by the unstinted kindness she invariably displayed. I determined that she should be left the means of benefiting those of her neighbours who were in distress.

“The Friday following Michael Murford's death, the day before you and Mavis came to stay with me, Mr. Wade came here. I had made the appointment with him in a letter which I posted myself. I asked him to destroy my previous will, and to draft me another, in exactly the same terms, except for the substitution of Nurse Penruddock's name for Michael Murford's. I received the draft on Thursday morning, and was writing a letter to Mr. Wade approving it when you brought me the news of Nurse Penruddock's death. You saw me destroy both the letter and the draft.”

Merrion smiled. “I did not know what you were burning. Is it impertinent of me to remind you of your private interview with Nurse Penruddock on Sunday?”

“Not at all, for I know very well what lies behind that reminder. Yes, I did tell her of the will I intended to execute in her favour. My reason being this. Michael Murford was deeply rooted in Carmouth, and there was every likelihood of his remaining there until his death. But Nurse Penruddock's circumstances were entirely different, for she had no local ties. She might have been offered a better post elsewhere, and have left the neighbourhood. Indeed, there was a probability of her doing so, for, as I happen to know, she and Dr. Somerby were antagonistic. I believed, however, that if she knew she would be suitably provided for, she would be content to remain where she could do most good. In the course of the interview you speak of, she promised to do so.”

Merrion wondered. Had Nurse Penruddock kept the news of her good fortune to herself? He had gathered already that she had been something of a chatterbox. But there was another possible source of leakage. A companion had opportunities for probing the private affairs of her mistress. But Merrion had no intention of putting the matter so crudely. “Nobody here at Dragonscourt had any inkling of your intentions, Lady Violet?” he remarked with apparent unconcern.

“You mean of course Miss Jones,” she replied, once more with disconcerting directness. “I can assure you that she knows nothing. I have taken every precaution in that respect. She does not even know of my interview with Mr. Wade last week. That afternoon I sent her out on various errands. Among them I wanted her to call at the Car Bay Hotel. Mavis tells me that she did so. I am quite satisfied that she at least has had no knowledge of my intentions. But let us get back to the point upon which I want your advice, Desmond. Where am I to find a fitting person to whom to entrust my dispositions?”

Merrion hesitated. “You must remember that I am a stranger to the neighbourhood and as such am hardly competent to offer advice upon that subject. You will forgive me for countering your question with another. Have you no relations with a prior right to your consideration?”

Lady Violet eyed him speculatively. “Your subtlety is sometimes transparent, Desmond. You are, as you say, a stranger to the neighbourhood. But, even so, during the few days you spent in Carmouth, you must have learnt that I have a nephew living there. Rest assured that he has no claim upon my consideration. His mother left him more than sufficient for his needs.”

After a pause, she seemed to relent from her asperity. “Perhaps you think I speak bitterly, Desmond. I had two sisters, both dead now, and each of them in their own way, not only wrecked their lives, but dragged the name of Vernham in the dust. I would rather not talk about them, even to you, Desmond. I can neither forget nor forgive. One of them left a son, the other a daughter. I feel no antagonism towards either. But I have no confidence in them. The strain of their fathers' blood is not that of the Vernhams, and they cannot inherit the traditions of that family. To neither my nephew nor my niece would I entrust either the maintenance of Dragonscourt or the carrying out of my wishes.”

This was obviously intended to be final, and Merrion endeavoured to change the subject. “Do I gather. Lady Violet, that at the moment you are intestate?”

“That is so,” she replied tranquilly. “But I do not intend to remain in that condition. Hence my anxiety to find someone to replace Michael Murford and Nurse Penruddock. Have you no ideas upon the subject, .Desmond? Although you may be a stranger, you are an observant person.”

Merrion laughed. “Surely you do not expect me to suggest Mavis or myself? But seriously, Lady Violet, how about that young Carmouth curate as a candidate? I have heard people speak very favourably of him.”

Lady Violet nodded. “Colin Carew? I regard him as being still on probation. Mr. Manifold, whom I hasten to say is not in my confidence regarding the matter of which we are speaking, brought him here some little time ago. I was favourably impressed at the time, and since then by what I have heard of him. You are aware, perhaps, that I am the patron of the living of Carmouth?”

To Merrion, the implication of this last remark was perfectly clear. If young Carew met with Lady Violet's approval, she would present him to the living on the present vicar's death, which could not long be delayed. And, as vicar of Carmouth, he would be the very man to execute her benevolent desires. Yet somehow Lady Violet's manner seemed to indicate some impediment to her approval. Merrion was still wondering what this could be when she continued:

“I have not seen very much of young Mr. Carew since his first visit. No doubt he is very busy with his parochial duties, and Dragonscourt is not easy of access without a car. He has been here occasionally, and he seems to be quite a worthy young man. Perhaps Miss Jones is better able to judge of that than I am. She is inclined to be reticent, but I have reason to believe that she has met Mr. Carew more often than I have.”

Clearly, there was no hiding anything from Lady Violet. Merrion's mind reverted to his conversation with Mr. Fowey. That acute tobacconist had ferreted out a friendship between the curate and the young lady at Dragonscourt. But how in the world had Lady Violet become aware of it? Her tone suggested that she disapproved. Possibly because of what she described as Miss Jones' reticence upon the subject. But why should that concern her? But young Carew had better watch his step. If he offended Lady Violet, he would forfeit what slight prospect he might have of becoming vicar of Carmouth.

Lady Violet spoke again, deliberately now, Merrion thought, a trifle frigidly. “Thank you, Desmond. Your suggestion is worthy of consideration. I will do so, and shall hope to come to a decision in due course. I need not remind you of your promise to keep our conversation to yourself. And now I must ask you to excuse me, for it is time for me to dress for dinner.”

The rest of the evening passed as evenings usually did at Dragonscourt. During dinner, no reference was made to Nurse Penruddock. It seemed that Lady Violet wished to avoid the subject and that Miss Jones had lost whatever interest she might have had in the matter. At the end of the meal the ladies retired to the drawing-room, leaving Merrion with the decanter of port before him. He poured himself out a glass, and sipped it thoughtfully. He felt himself surrounded by a mystery, or rather series of mysteries, which he could not define. The whole situation was puzzling in the extreme. The accident to Nurse Penruddock, following so closely upon that of Dr. Murford. His own imagination had shown him how these so-called accidents might have been contrived. But his mind was sufficiently well balanced to realise that this was imagination, and no more. There was no vestige whatever of proof of foul play. Accidents did happen, and sometimes in remarkable succession. There was some force in Mr. Fowey's remark that misfortunes never came singly.

But Lady Violet's mind had worked more impetuously. Merrion had demonstrated to her how the accidents might have been contrived. His reasoning had been from possibility to certainty. She had convinced herself that both Dr. Murford and Nurse Penruddock had been murdered, and that the murderer in both cases had been Dr. Somerby.

Well, she might be right, though Dr. Somerby's motive seemed at present far from convincing. He might have wished to acquire his partner's practice for himself. He had apparently not been on the best of terms with Nurse Penruddock. But it seemed hardly likely that these considerations would have impelled him to a double murder. On the other hand was his strange behaviour in coming straight to Dragonscourt, to impart the news of the Nurse's death, not to Lady Violet, but to Olivia Jones.

Once more Merrion had come back to that inscrutable young woman. From the first, the association between employer and companion had puzzled him. The stiffness on Lady Violet's part, with her uncompromising reference to Miss Jones, tempered by a certain guarded kindliness. The smouldering resentment on her companion's part, and her almost sullen reticence. And yet, in a moment of excitement Lady Violet had forgotten the formal Miss Jones, and spoken of her as Olivia.

Merrion, raising his glass to his lips, paused and set it down again. It had seemed to him that the ruby light reflected in it had winked at him, as though conveying a hidden secret. He set the glass down, and as he stared at it, ideas raced through his mind incoherently. Lady Violet had spoken of two sisters, each of whom had disgraced themselves, in her eyes at least. One had had a son, the other a daughter. The son, as she had admitted, had been the nephew living in Carmouth, Philip Sampson. And the daughter, Lady Violet's niece, whose existence she had allowed, but whose name she had not mentioned, Olivia?

If that were so, it would explain the curious situation at Dragonscourt. Lady Violet, willing to befriend her niece, but unwilling to acknowledge her, would treat her with studied formality. No watcher must guess the relationship between them. Yet some compact must have been made. Her aunt might consent to support Olivia, even perhaps to leave her a pittance. But in view of her mother's lapse, whatever that might have been, she must not expect to succeed Lady Violet as the representative of the Vernhams.

So Merrion argued, ignorant of the history of Lady Rose. And his imagination carried him further. Olivia, dependent upon her aunt's charity, might yet resent the position in which she found herself. Not the acknowledged granddaughter of the last Earl of Vernham, but the humble companion of an imperious old lady. And rebellion could only lead to disaster.

Bridling his imagination, Merrion shrugged his shoulders. Again guess-work and no more. Olivia might or might not be Lady Violet's niece. If she was, the situation was interesting. Olivia could scarcely be unaware of Philip Sampson's existence, and of the fact that he was her cousin. It seemed not impossible that he in his turn knew who Olivia was. Olivia's Saturday evening excursions might not be for the purpose of going to the pictures, or even, as Mr. Fowey had darkly hinted, of meeting the curate. She and Philip Sampson might, unbeknown to her aunt, have come to some agreement.

To Merrion, there was something sinister in this suggestion. He did his best to persuade himself that his imagination was playing tricks with his common sense. But the fact remained that, as the consequence of the deaths of Dr. Murford and Nurse Penruddock, Lady Violet was temporarily intestate. If she were to die suddenly, perhaps as the result of an unfortunate accident, her estate would pass to her next of kin. And these, as matters stood, were her nephew and her niece.

CHAPTER IX

MERRION FOUND the ladies in the drawing-room. All three were present, and a somewhat desultory conversation ensued. After a while. Lady Violet announced her intention of retiring, and was closely followed by Olivia Jones and Mavis. It was not long afterwards that Merrion himself went upstairs.

When he reached their room, Mavis looked at him searchingly. “You look fagged out this evening,” she said. “I know you've had a pretty strenuous day of it. Is anything else the matter?”

Merrion shook his head. “Nothing worth talking about. I'm inclined to think I'm suffering from inflammation of the imagination. Distressing, but not painful. By the way, it might be as well for you to keep an eye on Lady Violet while we're here.”

“Keep an eye on her!” Mavis exclaimed. “What for? What on earth do you mean, Desmond?”

“I hardly know myself,” Merrion replied wearily. “It's just this. Accidents seem to be alarmingly frequent in this neighbourhood, and I shouldn't like anything to happen to our hostess. These polished floors are dangerous, and she might slip on one of the rugs. Don't let's talk about it now. I shall feel better after a good night's rest.”

Merrion spent the greater part of Saturday pottering about the garden. After breakfast, Lady Violet discovered that she had some urgent purchases to make in Shopton. Olivia Jones drove her there in the aged Rolls-Royce, and Mavis accompanied them. Merrion was conscious of an odd sense of relief when all three returned safely in time for lunch.

The afternoon passed without incident. Lady Violet spending most of her time in her boudoir, appearing only for tea, at which Olivia Jones was present. Shortly after she excused herself, saying that it was her evening off. On the excuse of wanting something from his own car, Merrion went with her to the garage and saw her drive off in the Rolls-Royce. Going to the pictures, as usual, she informed him. She wasn't sure which house she was going to until she had seen what was on at both.

The formality of dinner proceeded in Olivia's absence. Lady Violet seemed in excellent spirits, remarking how nice it was to have company. She disliked dining alone, though of course she realised that a girl of Miss Jones' age must be allowed a certain amount of freedom. In due course she and Mavis retired to the drawing-room, leaving Merrion with the decanter of port before him.

He had been alone barely five minutes when the dining-room door was flung open, and Olivia appeared, wearing her hat and coat, and obviously deeply agitated. “Oh, Mr. Merrion, I'm so glad I've found you alone!” she exclaimed. “Something dreadful has happened to Mr. Philip Sampson. And I don't just know what to do.”

Merrion rose and drew up a chair beside his own. “Sit down. Miss Jones,” he said quietly. “If you care to tell me what has happened, perhaps I can advise you what you had better do.”

She sat down and stared at him wildly. “It's Lady Violet. I simply daren't tell her. Although he's her nephew, she won't have his name mentioned. Oh. I oughtn't to have told you that!”

“I knew it already,” Merrion replied. “Perhaps we can find a way out of your difficulty, as we did before, you remember. But, in that case, you'd have to tell me what has happened to Mr. Sampson.”

She shook her head. “I don't know. I had just left the Regal and was walking through the Market Place when I ran into Mr. Carew. He said it was most fortunate that he had met me. He was just going to hire a car to come out here and see Lady Violet. But it would be far better if I went back and told her.”

“Mr. Carew was right,” said Merrion. “But what is Lady Violet to be told?”

“That Mr. Sampson was seriously ill,” she replied. “I don't know what's the matter with him. All that Mr. Carew said was that he was very delicate and that he'd had a severe shock. Mr. Carew said that as Lady Violet was his nearest relative, she ought to be told at once. If he gets worse, a message will be sent here.”

Merrion nodded. “And you don't fancy breaking this news to Lady Violet? Very well, I will take the responsibility on my own shoulders. There will be no need for you to appear.”

Leaving her sitting there, he went to the drawing-room, where he found a very peaceful scene. Lady Violet and Mavis were chatting together in chairs drawn up' before the fire. “You have found us very soon, Desmond,” said Lady Violet as he entered. “I hope nothing was wrong with the port? Do sit down.”

Merrion remained standing. “I have something rather distressing to tell you, Lady Violet. Mr. Philip Sampson has been taken suddenly ill. The attack seems to have been caused by a shock of some kind.”

Lady Violet took this with her accustomed calmness. “My nephew? He has never been very strong, I am given to understand. I am sorry to hear of his indisposition. Who told you this, Desmond?”

“Miss Jones,” Merrion replied. “She seemed so upset that I thought that I had better tell you the news myself. She was unable to tell me more than I have already said.”

Lady Violet stared reflectively into the fire. “It all seems rather mysterious,” she said, after a long pause. “A shock, you said? What sort of a shock can my nephew have experienced? I feel that something is being hidden from me. Not, of course, by you, Desmond, but possibly by Miss Jones.”

Again she paused, then went on hesitatingly: “I'm continually asking favours of you, Desmond, but I always like to know the truth. Would it be too much to ask you to drive into Carmouth and find out what this is all about?”

“I shall be only too pleased, Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. Without further words he went out. In the hall he put on a coat over his dinner jacket, and opened the front door. The Rolls-Royce was standing in the drive. Evidently Miss Jones had hurried into the house without waiting to put the car away. He went to the garage, took out his own car, and drove away.

Micah Poynter had shown him the house where Philip Sampson lived. On entering Carmouth, he was therefore able to drive straight to it. Although it was by now nine o'clock, and the evening was cold, he could see that groups of people were standing outside, their faces dim in the light of a street lamp. In the doorway was a uniformed figure which Merrion, having attended the two inquests, recognised as that of Constable Raymond.

Merrion went up to him and introduced himself. “My name is Merrion. I have come from Dragonscourt, where I am staying with Lady Violet Vernham. She has asked me to come here on her behalf, to enquire about her nephew, Mr. Philip Sampson.”

There could be no harm in that, for everyone in Carmouth must be aware of the relationship. Whether it was Lady Violet's name, or Merrion's appearance, Raymond seemed impressed. “Will you wait here a moment, sir?” He opened the door, entered the house and shut the door behind him.

Merrion waited, conscious that the curious eyes of the onlookers were upon him. Why were these people hanging about, and why was the house guarded by the police, he wondered. There must surely be something sinister about the shock sustained by Philip Sampson. He was still wondering when the door opened, and Raymond reappeared, silhouetted against the light in the hall. “Will you come this way, sir?”

Entering the house, Merrion was shown into a room in which two men were sitting. The room was furnished as a dining-room, but seemed to be little used, for the sideboard was bare and the oak table covered with a thin film of dust. Merrion recognised one of the men as Hardy Norfolk, who had been pointed out to him. The other was in the uniform of a Superintendent of Police. “Mr. Merrion, sir,” Raymond announced.

The Superintendent rose. “Good-evening, Mr. Merrion. You come from Dragonscourt? Lady Violet must naturally be anxious about her nephew. I can tell you nothing about his condition yet, for Dr. Somerby came only a short while ago, and is with him now. Will you sit down and wait to hear what he says? My name, by the way, is Perrin.”

As Merrion sat down, Hardy Norfolk glanced at him superciliously. He was a big, heavily built man, with coarse and arrogant features and insolent expression. The overcoat which he had thrown open revealed a rough tweed suit, with a massive watch-chain across the front of the waistcoat. Not a very prepossessing individual, Merrion thought. He was smoking a cigar, and looked thoroughly bored with the position in which he found himself.

A few minutes passed in silence, before the dining-room door opened and Dr. Somerby entered. He glanced at Merrion, and greeted him with a curt good-evening. Then he turned to Perrin. “Well, Superintendent, I've had a look over him. I can't find any injuries, but he's suffering from shock, and his constitution isn't any too robust. I think he'll be all right, but it may take him some time to get over it.”

“Is he in a fit state for me to get a statement from him?” Perrin asked.

“Well, I don't know,” Somerby replied doubtfully. “He's been babbling away to me, but it was difficult to understand what he was talking about. Mrs. Oswald is with him, and I've given him something to take if he can't sleep. If I were you I shouldn't worry him just yet. He may calm down, or he may not, after a while. I'll be round to see him again in the morning.”

Dr. Somerby went out, and Perrin turned to Merrion. “It's good to hear that the doctor thinks Mr. Sampson will be all right,” he said. “But you'll want to be able to tell Lady Violet more than that. Perhaps you'd like to wait till Mrs. Oswald tells us how he's getting on. Meanwhile, Mr. Norfolk, I'll ask you to be good enough to let me have a full statement. We'll go into the other room. You too, if you care to, Mr. Merrion.”

All three rose. Perrin opened the dining-room door and crossed the hall to another door. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked this, and passed through, followed by Norfolk and Merrin.

They found themselves in a lounge, fussily furnished, and adorned with a collection of curios of all kinds. The curtains were drawn carelessly across the big bow windows, and the room was lighted only by a powerful reading-lamp standing on a table. On this were also a coffee-pot and milk jug, both of silver, a cup, half full of coffee, and a book, lying open. Beside the table, facing the door, was an overturned chair.

So much Merrion was able to take in before Norfolk spoke. “I've told that policeman chap all I know already,” he said truculently. “But if I must, I'll tell it all over again to you. Get it into your head that I haven't the remotest idea what happened to Phil. He was grovelling on the floor there when I found him.”

“I should like to know how you came to find him, Mr. Norfolk,” said Perrin.

“That was natural enough,” Norfolk replied. “I came round here to take him out for a drink. We usually forgather on Saturday evenings, unless I've anything better to do. I got here a little before eight, it may be it was a quarter to. I rang the bell and knocked on the door, but I couldn't get any answer. That seemed to me rather queer, for I could see the light in this room through the gaps between the curtains, and that showed me that Phil must be in.”

“What did you do then?” Perrin asked as Norfolk paused to inspect the end of his cigar.

“I went round to the back door, to see if I could attract Mrs. Oswald's attention,” Norfolk replied. “Phil is a dreamy sort of chap, and I thought he mightn't have noticed the bell or the knock. When I got to the back door it was wide open, with the light on inside. I walked in and shouted, but there seemed to be nobody about, and when I got into the hall, I heard a queer sort of gurgling noise.

“The door of this room was ajar, and I walked in. That lamp there was burning, but for the moment I couldn't see anybody. I noticed a queer smell of burning in the room, but for the moment I couldn't tell what it was. I realised later that it was smokeless powder.

“The gurgling came from the other side of the table, and I went round to have a look. There was poor Phil, squirming on the floor, with his chair upset on top of him. He was foaming at the mouth, and apparently half unconscious, for I couldn't get anything out of him. I guessed that he'd had a fit, though I'd never known him to have one before. I could only suppose that he'd had a shock of some kind that had brought one on. Anyhow, what he obviously needed was medical attention.

“There's no phone in the house, so I ran out by the front door to the box round the comer. I rang up the Carmouth surgery first, on the chance there might be somebody there, but there wasn't. Then I looked up Somerby's Highmoor number, but when I got through I was told he was out. As I was leaving the box, I ran into that confounded meddlesome parson. I told him that Phil was pretty bad with what to me looked like shock, and that I couldn't get hold of a doctor. I said, too, that if he wanted to be of any use he'd better root round and find one.”

Perrin nodded. “Mr. Carew rang up Dr. Somerby's number, and gave a message asking him to come here as soon as he came home. By the way, Mr. Norfolk, when you went out by the front door, did you leave it open?”

“I never thought of leaving a message,” Norfolk replied. “I was too shaken at finding Phil like that, I suppose. Yes, I left the front door open, for I wanted to get in again without going round to the back. But I can't have been more than ten minutes.”

“You came back here?” Perrin suggested.

“That's right,” Norfolk replied. “Phil hadn't moved, and was still lying where I had found him. But he seemed quieter, and I fancy he recognised me when I spoke to him. I asked him what was the matter, and he muttered something about having been shot. I thought he must be raving, for whatever was wrong with him, I couldn't see a trace of blood anywhere. Then I looked round and saw that.”

He raised his arm and pointed to the wall at the left of the bow window. This was so closely hung with pictures and ornamental china plates that they almost touched one another. The shade of the reading-lamp cast a shadow on this wall, and until now Merrion had not noticed a gap in the array. But, as Norfolk pointed, he saw a space of bare wall-paper, and in the centre of this a small round mark.

Perrin stepped up to the table and tilted the shade of the lamp so that the light fell on the wall. The details became visible. At the top of the blank space was a nail, from which depended a circular wire frame, with three hooks set at equal intervals on its circumference. The mark in the centre of the space revealed itself as a round hole. And, on the floor immediately below, lay the shattered fragments of a china plate.

“And what did you do next, Mr. Norfolk?” Perrin asked.

“It was then I realised that the smell I had noticed was burnt powder,” Norfolk replied. “That broken plate and the hole in the wall made it easy to put two and two together. If Phil hadn't been shot, at least he'd been shot at. It seemed to me a matter for the police, if so —

“One moment,” Perrin interposed. “You found no firearm of any kind in this room?”

Norfolk shrugged his shoulders. “I didn't. But then I didn't look very far. As I was going to say, I left things as they were and ran out again. This time I was lucky, for I met a policeman before I got to the end of the road. He came back with me, and just as we reached this house we met Mrs. Oswald coming from the opposite direction. The three of us came in together, and Mrs. Oswald nearly collapsed when she saw Phil lying there. However, she pulled herself together, and after the policeman had made a lot of notes, we got Phil upstairs and put him to bed. And that's about all.”

He threw the end of his cigar into the fireplace. “And that's that, Superintendent. I've told you all I know, and I'll be glad of your permission to depart. If you've any more questions to ask, you know very well where I'm to be found.”

Perrin raised no objections to his leaving, and he went out. The Superintendent set about examining the room, leaving Merrion standing where he had been since they entered, just inside the doorway. From that position he tried to reconstruct what must have happened. The hole in the wall was a few inches below the level of his shoulder. He judged that the head of a man sitting at the table would have been more or less in the direct line between the hole and the doorway. Clearly, Philip Sampson had had a providential escape.

Perrin completed his examination of the room, and took a knife from his pocket. With this he proceeded to dig away the plaster round the hole in the wall. Within a minute or two he extracted an object which he laid on the table. “Have you any experience of fire-arms, Mr. Merrion?” he asked.

Merrion smiled. His experience of fire-arms was extensive and peculiar. “Some,” he replied. “But I won't claim to be an expert.”

“Then have a look at that,” said Perrin. Merrion approached the table and bent down over the object. It was a leaden bullet, rather less than half an inch in diameter, which had once been spherical, but was now distorted by its impact with the wall. “Rather curious,” said Merrion, after a close inspection. “That bullet wasn't fired from any modern weapon. It looks to me very like a bullet fired from an old-fashioned smooth-bore muzzle-loading pistol.”

Perrin nodded. “That's what it looks like to me. I've had a good look round, and there's no pistol lying about here. Whoever fired the shot took his weapon along with him.”

“Sure enough,” Merrion agreed. “And it's not going to be easy to identify it. When a bullet has been fired from a rifled pistol, it's usually possible to spot the one from which it was fired. But in this case the pistol was not rifled. You can see that from the bullet.”

“Not very helpful,” Perrin remarked. “But there can't be many of those old-fashioned pistols about now-a-days. Outside museums, that is. You'll have quite a lot to tell Lady Violet, Mr. Merrion.”

At that moment came a hesitating rap on the door. “Come in!” Perrin exclaimed sharply. The door opened, revealing Mrs. Oswald, her face expressing her deep distress. “Mr. Philip Sampson seems rather more himself, sir,” she said, addressing the Superintendent. “I've told him you're here, and he says he'd like to see you.”

CHAPTER X

PERRIN GLANCED at Merrion. “You had better come too,” he said. They followed Mrs. Oswald upstairs and into a bedroom which, like the lounge below was full of bric-a-brac of every conceivable kind. Philip Sampson was lying in bed, pale and haggard, and wheezing distressingly. Merrion remained by the door as Perrin approached the bed. “Well, how do you feel now, Mr. Sampson?” the Superintendent asked cheerfully.

Philip looked up at him with lack-lustre eyes. “Pretty rotten, and I'm badly shaken up. But I want to try to tell you what happened to me. I never heard of such an outrage in my life!”

The energy he put into this last sentence brought on a severe attack of coughing. After this had subsided, he went on: “Mustn't excite myself, but I find it difficult not to. Michael Murford was always telling me that I must take things quietly. And it wasn't my fault that I didn't this evening.”

“You were sitting in the lounge downstairs, Mr. Sampson,” Perrin prompted him.

“That's right,” Philip replied. “I'd had my supper there, as I always do. Mrs. Oswald had cleared that away and brought me my coffee. She told me she was going out, as she nearly always does on Saturday evenings.”

“I just popped round to see my sister,” Mrs. Oswald interposed. “In Forge Street, she lives. I hadn't been there long when Mr. Carew—”

Perrin held up a silencing hand. “One moment, Mrs. Oswald. I'll hear what you have to tell me in a few minutes. Yes, Mr. Sampson?”

“I was sitting reading while I drank my coffee,” Philip replied. “It wasn't very long after Mrs. Oswald had left the room, perhaps a quarter of an hour or so, I couldn't say, when I heard a knock on the door of the lounge. I thought it might be Mrs. Oswald come back for something; she always knocks if she does that. Or it might be Hardy. I was more or less expecting him to come in, though he usually bursts in without knocking. Anyhow, I said ' Come in.'”

Another fit of coughing, less severe than the first, interrupted him. He reached for the bottle of smelling-salts standing on his bedside table, and inhaled from it deeply. “It's my confounded asthma,” he wheezed. “I always get like this when anything upsets me. As I was saying, I said ' Come in,' and the door began to open very slowly. It wasn't open more than a few inches when a hand came round it. And in the hand was something that glinted in the light.”

He shuddered violently at the recollection of that terrifying moment. Then, after another sniff at the bottle, he went on. “It threw me into the very devil of a funk. Just that hand and a glimpse of a veil above it. Fortunately for myself, I had the presence of mind to fling myself on the floor, chair and all. As I went over, I heard a terrific bang. And I don't remember any more until I heard Hardy's voice asking me what was the matter.”

Philip closed his eyes and sighed weakly. Perrin spoke quietly to him. “It must have been a most alarming experience, Mr. Sampson. I won't pester you much longer, but there is one thing I must ask. You speak of a hand and a veil, like a woman's. Can you give me any description of these?”

“Hardly,” Philip replied. “I only saw them for an instant. But I think the hand was gloved, and small, like a woman's. And I'm sure of the veil, though I couldn't see the face behind it.”

Perrin found this surprising. Mr. Sampson was the last person he would have suspected to arouse the antagonism of any woman. “Have you any suspicions as to who the intruder may have been?”

“No, I haven't!” Philip exclaimed in a sudden access of energy. “I've never had anything to do with any woman. I've no use for them. Except of course Mrs. Oswald.” This outburst brought on a renewed fit of coughing.

Perrin drew Mrs. Oswald out of the room and Merrion followed them. “Now I'd like to have a few words with you, Mrs. Oswald,” said the Superintendent. “What time was it when you left this house?”

“It must have been about a quarter-past seven, sir,” she replied. “Mr. Philip lets me get his supper early on Saturdays, so that I can go out. I went straight to my sister's, it's about ten minutes walk from here, and it was just half-past when I got there. And I hadn't been there very long, not more than half an hour, when Mr. Carew came. He said that Mr. Norfolk had told him that Mr. Philip had been taken ill, and that I'd better come back here. I hurried round, and just as I was getting here I met Mr. Norfolk and Mr. Raymond.”

“Did you leave the back door open when you went out?” Perrin asked.

“No, that I'm sure I didn't,” Mrs. Oswald replied indignantly. “I shut it behind me, as I always do. But I didn't lock it, naturally, since Mr. Philip was at home.”

Perrin nodded. “And the front door? That was locked, I suppose?”

“It's always locked,” she replied. “It locks itself when you shut it. Mr. Philip and I have both got latchkeys to open it from outside. Not that I often use mine. I use the back door.”

“Has anyone else got a latch-key?” Perrin asked.

Mrs. Oswald shook her head. “Not that I know of. It isn't very likely Mr. Philip would give anybody one.”

“No, it's not very likely,” Perrin agreed. He knew that Mr. Sampson's only intimate friend was Mr. Norfolk. And by his own account, even he had been unable to let himself in by the front door. “What time would you have come back here if Mr. Carew had not called at your sister's house?”

“I might have stayed a couple of hours or so,” she replied. “That's what I usually do. You see, there's no need for me to hurry back here, for Mr. Philip goes out with Mr. Norfolk on Saturday evenings as a rule.”

“So I understand,” said Perrin. “That'll do for the present, Mrs. Oswald. You'd better go in and keep an eye on Mr. Sampson.” He and Merrion went back to the lounge. “This seems the most extraordinary affair,” said Perrin. “Mr. Sampson seems very much shaken up. He's always been a semi-invalid, and the fright has affected him more powerfully than it would a stronger man. Still, his description of what happened was pretty clear.”

“As clear as could be expected in the circumstances,” Merrion agreed.

“Enough to tell us what happened, anyhow,” said Perrin. He seemed to accept Merrion's presence without the slightest resentment. He may have been glad to have an intelligent companion with whom to discuss the matter. “The assailant must have been watching the house. When she saw Mrs. Oswald leave, she knew that Mr. Sampson must be alone in it. The back door being unlocked, she was able to get in that way. She may or may not have known that Mr. Norfolk was likely to call later on.”

“You say she,” Merrion remarked. “Mr. Sampson saw only a veil and a small gloved hand.”

“Well, he or she, if you like,” Perrin replied. “But I'm pretty sure it was a woman. I don't see a man walking the streets of Carmouth, in a veil, even after dark. This person, having got in, came to the door of this room and opened it far enough to fire the shot. I'll get you to help me for a moment, Mr. Merrion.”

He picked up the fallen chair and set it against the table, asking Merrion to sit in it. Then he went to the doorway and raised his hand as though holding a pistol. “Yes, that's right. The line from my eye to the hole in the wall passes just below the level of your chin. You're a taller man than Mr. Sampson, so the aim must have been taken at the middle of his head. It's a perfectly clear case of attempted murder. What I can't understand is why, when she saw she had missed, the assailant didn't fire again and make sure.”

“I can offer you two explanations of that,” Merrion replied. “The first is that if the assailant was a woman, she was probably a bit flustered. A woman would find an attempt at murder rather an exciting affair, I should imagine. When she saw her victim fall to the ground, she may have thought it was because she had hit him.”

Perrin smiled. “So you've come round to my idea that it was a woman? And the second explanation?”

“A more probable one, perhaps,” Merrion replied. “If we're right about the style of pistol, and I should think we must be, it would only fire one shot at a time. The assailant may not have cared to risk the time necessary for reloading, a comparatively lengthy process in the case of a muzzle-loader. Mr. Sampson might have got up and attempted reprisals, though in the state he was in it doesn't seem likely. The assailant wouldn't have realised that. But any delay increased the chance of recognition.”

“So she cleared out by the way she had come,” said Perrin. “And in her urge to get away, she left the back door wide open. Who was this woman? Someone who knew her way about, that's clear enough. How else would she have known which room Mr. Sampson was sitting in?”

“Mr. Norfolk saw the light in here from outside,” Merrion remarked.

“Well, that's true enough,” Perrin admitted. “All the same, there aren't many strangers about at this time of year. What beats me is the motive. You're a friend of Lady Violet's, Mr. Merrion, but I'll trust you not to repeat to her what I'm going to say about her nephew. Mr. Sampson is not only a weakling, but a harmless ass. I won't say he's generally popular, but I have never heard of anybody having a violent grudge against him. And, as you heard him say, he's no use for a woman. It's notorious that he always keeps out of their way.”

“Are you absolutely certain that it was a woman?” Merrion asked. “Some men have small hands. And a man might put a veil over his face after he was inside the house.”

Perrin laughed. “Who was the man, then? Not Mr. Sampson's friend Hardy Norfolk. He's got hands like soup-plates, as you may have noticed. No, I'm pretty sure it must have been a woman. There's Mrs. Oswald, of course. But I don't see what she had to gain by killing her employer, whom she's been with all her life. Anyhow, it'll be easy to check up her alibi. I know her sister and her brother-in-law, and I'll go and see them.”

He paused, then went on reflectively. “I wonder who'd have come in for what he left, if Mr. Sampson had been killed. He must have a good bit of money, or he wouldn't be able to afford to live in a house like this. And, by the look of it, he can afford to buy all the rubbish he wants to. He may have made a will, but if not, everything would go to his next of kin. So far as I know, the nearest relation he's got is Lady Violet. His uncles and aunts on his father's side are all dead. And somehow I don't see Lady Violet coming here to take a pot-shot at her nephew.”

“Lady Violet did not leave Dragonscourt this evening,” said Merrion gravely.

“Of course,” Perrin replied. “I'm talking nonsense. Well, Mr. Merrion, you'll be wanting to get back to Dragonscourt, I expect. I leave it to your discretion how much of all this you tell to Lady Violet. If I know anything of Mr. Norfolk, the whole story will be all over Carmouth by to-morrow morning.”

Merrion said good-night to the Superintendent and left the house. Raymond was still standing guard at the entrance, but the small crowd, disappointed of further developments, had dispersed. Merrion, who had left his car in the street outside, got into it and drove off. The question uppermost in his mind was, had he been guilty of withholding vital information from the police?

Resolutely he put the question aside and concentrated upon the facts. He found very little to add to the Superintendent's summing up of the matter. Someone, who had either been watching the house, or who was well aware of the habits of its occupants, had seized the opportunity of entering it while Philip Sampson was alone. The entry had presented no difficulty for, though Mrs. Oswald had shut the back door behind her, she had not locked it. The unknown person had gone to the door of the lounge, had presumably listened at the keyhole for a few moments to ascertain if there was any conversation within, then knocked. The reply assured him or her—in his own mind Merrion was careful to employ both pronouns—that Philip was in the room.

Of the murderous intent there could be no doubt. Robbery had not been the object of the intrusion. As soon as the door was sufficiently far open, the assailant had taken aim and fired. And the aim had been deliberate enough, as the direction taken by the bullet showed. It was only Philip's presence of mind that had removed him from the direct path. He must have flung himself to the floor a split second before his assailant had pulled the trigger.

And it was by this last point that Merrion sought to appease his conscience. Perrin, basing himself on Philip's statement, was convinced that the assailant had been a woman. But how far was that statement to be relied upon? There was no reason to doubt Philip's veracity. He had faithfully described what he imagined he had seen. But how accurately would a man, suddenly confronted by the muzzle of a pistol, register the surrounding details? For an instant, and an instant only, Philip had envisaged a veil and a gloved hand. But might not the appearance of the veil have been a trick of light and shadow. And what reliance could be placed upon his estimate of the size of the hand?

So, struggling in the toils, Merrion reasoned with himself. It was not that the matter was any direct concern of his. But he felt it his duty to give a frank and impartial account of the affair to Lady Violet, without colouring that account by any suspicion he might himself entertain.

There was another point which troubled him. The nature of the bullet, soft lead with no trace of rifling upon it, established the fact that the weapon employed had been an obsolete smooth-bore, muzzle-loading pistol. Perrin had said that there could be very few of such pistols about now-a-days. But this was not strictly accurate. Certainly, there were probably none of them in actual use. But several of them were preserved as antiques, and were to be found in museums and private collections. It would not be impossible for almost anyone to lay hands upon such a weapon.

This led Merrion to a curious speculation. The contents of the house showed Philip to be an ardent collector of curios. Might he not at some time have come across a pistol of this type in some second-hand shop and bought it as a bargain? It was a pity it hadn't occurred to the Superintendent to ask him that question. If such a pistol had been in his possession, the assailant might have become aware of the fact. And have appropriated it between the entry by the back door and the tapping on the door of the lounge. But, on further reflection, this would hardly do. The pistol might have been present as a curio, but certainly not as a potential weapon. The bullet and the powder would hardly be available to the intruder. It seemed far more likely that the pistol had been brought to the house ready loaded.

And this once more swung probability in the direction Merrion was so anxious to avoid. Why had such a weapon, antiquated and uncertain in its action, been chosen for a premeditated crime? The only possible answer was, because no other was available. A man, exercising due care, could acquire a modem pistol, far more adequate to his purpose, without arousing suspicion. But not so a woman. A woman trying to get hold of a modern pistol would certainly attract undesired attention. She would have to make do with what she could lay her hands upon.

Merrion, though this requirement went against the grain, thought it worth while to pursue it a little further. These old pistols were usually to be found in pairs, in a fitted wooden case containing the necessary accessories. There was indeed such a case, which had been in the possession of Mavis' family for generations, preserved at High Eldersham Hall. It contained a pair of duelling-pistols, so-called, a few leaden bullets, a ram-rod, and a powder-flask. This last was empty. Even if any of the original powder had remained in it, it would long ago have become useless.

Such cases weren't particularly rare, and Philip's assailant might have had access to a similar one. The weapon and the bullet would thus have been available. Percussion caps could be come by easily enough, but what about the propellant? A word employed by Norfolk occurred to Merrion's memory. He had recognised the smell in Philip's lounge as that of burnt smokeless powder. He was probably correct, for had old-fashioned gunpowder been used, the air would probably still be tainted with smoke, and this he must have noticed. Such a propellant could be extracted from any ordinary shot-gun cartridge, and they were common enough. Gardeners were often supplied with guns and cartridges for the destruction of vermin. There were, for instance, an old twelve-bore shot-gun, and a half empty box of cartridges in the potting-shed at Dragonscourt.

This was unpleasantly near the mark. As he turned from the main road into the lane leading to Dragonscourt, Merrion put the matter squarely to himself. The successive deaths of Dr. Murford and Nurse Penruddock had, temporarily at least, rendered Lady Violet intestate. While that situation lasted, her nephew and her niece were her joint heirs. The elimination of the nephew would obviously be of advantage to her niece. The motive of the attempt on Philip's life, so obscure to the Superintendent, might thus be explained. But the identity of the niece was purely a guess on Merrion's part. He would not be justified in pointing a finger until that guess had been confirmed. But he was not disposed to put the question directly to Lady Violet.

Arriving at Dragonscourt, he found the Rolls-Royce no longer outside the front door. Driving on to the garage, he found it in its usual place there, and parked his own car beside it. By the time he entered the house, it was long past Lady Violet's usual hour for retirement. But, going into the drawing-room he found her and Mavis as he had left them, talking unconcernedly before the fire. Lady Violet looked up as he came in. “Ah, here you are, Desmond. It was good of you to go to so much trouble. And what news have you of my nephew? He is in no immediate danger, I trust?”

“You need have no apprehensions, Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. “I have seen him myself, and though he is in bed, he seems pretty comfortable. He is suffering from the effects of a very severe shock. Dr. Somerby, who is to see him again to-morrow, has expressed the opinion that he will be all right.”

“I see,” said Lady Violet. “And were you told what caused this shock?”

Merrion, with a glance at Lady Violet to ask her permission, lighted a cigarette before he replied. “I did. Some person unknown entered his house when he was alone and fired a shot at him. I'd better tell you the whole story.”

He did so, without reserve, except that he refrained from any suggestion that the assailant might have been a woman. Lady Violet's interest appeared to be quite impersonal, as one might expect from one unconcerned with the events hearing a strange story. Merrion was careful to stress the part played by Colin Carew, who had certainly shown himself a good neighbour. The doctor's attendance had been due to him, and he had taken the trouble to seek Mrs. Oswald out at her sister's house.

“I am relieved to hear that my nephew escaped injury,” said Lady Violet, when Merrion had come to the end of his account. “No doubt the police will get to the bottom of this extraordinary incident. I fear that their enquiries will disclose that my nephew has been in the habit of keeping bad company. And I am glad to hear that Mr. Carew acted so sensibly. Well, Mavis my dear, it is high time that you and I went to bed. Desmond will no doubt follow at his leisure.”

CHAPTER XI

HAVING BIDDEN Lady Violet good-night, Merrion remained for a while in the drawing-room, lost in admiration of her poise. Most old women would have been flustered by the news of the attempted murder of a near relative. But not Lady Violet. She had remained serene, and had betrayed no sign of sharing his own suspicions. Did she share them? She was far too inscrutable for Merrion to be able to answer that question. Perhaps, after all, he was barking up the wrong tree.

He allowed half an hour to elapse before he left the drawing-room. It was by then past midnight, and everybody but himself might be expected to be, if not asleep, at least in bed in rooms distant from the ground floor. Very soon after their arrival Lady Violet had personally shown her guests over the big house, many of the rooms in which were now disused. Among these was a small apartment which had been Lord Vernham's gun-room, and which, since his death, had been left undisturbed beyond infrequent sweeping and dusting.

To this Merrion made his way. The gun-room was situated at the end of a passage, secure from the probability of interruption. He opened the door and put his hand on the switch. The lamp hanging from the centre of the ceiling sprang into light obediently. It was a fad of Lady Violet's that even the rooms now disused should be maintained in every detail.

Merrion stood in the centre of the room, looking about him. A pair of long curtains, hanging to the floor, attracted his attention. He drew these to find that they concealed a french window, opening upon a courtyard at the back of the house. One could imagine a shooting-party returning that way, to shed their muddy boots before treading the valuable carpets in which Dragonscourt abounded. The window was locked, but the key turned easily and the window opened without creaking. Just as though it had been in use quite frequently.

He shut the window, relocked it and drew the curtains again. Then he resumed his inspection. The room was of a fair size, furnished austerely with a few chairs and a table or two. The walls were hung with sporting prints and faded photographs of groups of men in breeches and Norfolk jackets, carrying guns with their bags displayed before them. Along one wall stood a tall glass-fronted cabinet, in which stood upright a collection of rifles and shot-guns, single and double barrelled.

The cabinet was locked, with the key in position, but after glancing in Merrion did not unlock it. The lower part of the cabinet was fitted with two long drawers. These he found to be locked, but experiment proved that the key in the door of the cabinet fitted the drawers also. He opened the upper drawer, which contained boxes which, as their labels indicated, had once held cartridges of various brands. These were all now empty. Their contents, being deemed potentially dangerous, had doubtless been removed long ago. Lady Violet would not have liked such things lying about the house.

As Merrion opened the second drawer, he experienced the thrill of discovery. In it lay half a dozen pistols of various kinds, including a Webley revolver of Boer War days, and two or three foreign weapons, probably trophies. But, besides these, was a polished walnut case, flat and rectangular. He recognised it at once as similar to the case of pistols which had lain for so long at High Eldersham Hall.

He paused and listened. The house was absolutely quiet, and not a sound came to him. However, he took the precaution of locking the door before he proceeded further. Then he pushed back the hooks which were its only fastening and opened the case. It was fitted in the familiar fashion with recesses to hold two pistols and usual accessories. But of the pistol recesses only one was occupied.

Merrion took out the pistol which remained, and examined it. It could safely be assumed that the missing pistol was its exact replica. He judged it to be of rather more recent date than the pistol in his possession. It was in perfect repair, smooth-bore, muzzle-loading, with a nipple at the breech on which to fit a percussion cap. Exactly the type of weapon which Philip's assailant must have used.

He closed the case, shut and locked the drawer, and replaced the key where he had found it. Then he sat down in what promised to be the most comfortable chair. He had no desire for sleep. Mavis would be wondering what on earth he was up to, but that couldn't be helped. Explanation, or if necessary subterfuge, could follow later. For the moment he wanted leisure to digest his discovery. The instinct which had led him to the gunroom had been correct. A pistol of the required type was missing from Dragonscourt. There was no means of telling when it had been removed from its case. It might have been missing for years, or it might have been taken quite recently.

Since that brief interview in the dining-room, which intervening events had made seem so long ago, Merrion had seen or heard nothing of Miss Jones. Neither Lady Violet nor Mavis had mentioned her. Had she, after her hasty return from Carmouth, retired to bed to avoid questioning? Not immediately, for while he was absent, she had driven the Rolls-Royce to the garage. Where was she now?

A sudden thought struck Merrion. He got up, unlocked the door, switched off the light, and groped his way back to the chair. In the utter darkness his imagination ranged without restraint. Miss Jones might take advantage of the sleeping household to return the pistol by dead of night. If she made the attempt, she would find him waiting for her. Meanwhile, he would wile away the time wrestling with the problem that confronted him.

The trouble was that he had nothing firm on which to build. Any argument must be founded on the assumption that Miss Jones was Lady Violet's niece. And in support of that assumption there was no evidence whatever. Rather the other way in fact, for Philip Sampson clearly had no idea of any such relationship. Although he was convinced that his assailant had been a woman, he had denied any knowledge of who this woman could be. Whatever his physical and mental condition might be, he was not entirely devoid of intelligence. Had he known that his female cousin was in the neighbourhood, he would hardly have concealed the fact. There could be no question now of any collusion between them.

But this, to Merrion's well-ordered mind, seemed to be begging the question. After all, Olivia “Jones'“ guilt was not yet established. It would be more profitable to seek the connection between this latest attempt and the two previous fatal accidents, if such indeed they had been.

Merrion put aside his idea as to a common motive for the three, and for the moment concentrated upon opportunity. Lady Violet had convinced herself of Dr. Somerby's guilt in the first two cases, though the motives she assigned to him were not those which Merrion favoured. She had also expressed the opinion that Miss Jones didn't like him, though they had seemed on fairly familiar terms when they had accosted Merrion on the lawn. Her assumption of dislike might be part of that young woman's tactics.

In spite of the verdicts, there was, to Merrion at least, a strong probability that both Dr. Murford and Nurse Penruddock had been murdered. Dr. Murford had been drowned at a time when Olivia Jones had admittedly been in Carmouth. There was no evidence as to where Dr. Somerby had been. He might have been at home in Highmoor, or he might have been out in his car, on the pretext of visiting a patient. Who had spoken to Dr. Murford on the telephone, sending him out on that wild-goose-chase to Carfield? Not Dr. Somerby, surely. The risk of his colleague recognising his voice would have been too great. It was not so likely that he would recognise Olivia Jones' voice. And who had shifted the cats'-eyes? Here, at least, there seemed a possibility of collusion.

However, in the case of Nurse Penruddock, there could have been no collusion. She had been killed on an evening during which Miss Jones had not left Dragonscourt. But what about Dr. Somerby? The message, a perfectly genuine one, summoning Nurse Penruddock to Little Carmouth had been given her in his presence. Incidentally, he had not been able to deny that, for the boy who brought the message, if questioned, would have replied that both the doctor and the nurse were at the surgery at the time of his visit. Somerby had left the surgery before Nurse Penruddock. He would have ample time to reach the summit of the ridge before her return from Little Carmouth. If he had done so, he had acted upon the immediate opportunity. Olivia Jones seemed to be absolved from complicity.

But not so in the case of this last attempt. Merrion had already appreciated a difference of technique in this case. The first two had apparently been the victims of fatal accident. But not Philip Sampson. If the bullet had found its mark, and he had been shot through the head, the fatal weapon might have been left on the floor beside him. This would perhaps have suggested suicide. But, under the circumstances, it would have been impossible to persuade any coroner's jury to return a verdict of accidental death.

However, to return to the possible perpetrator of the outrage. There was that disturbing conviction of Philip's, shared by the police, that a woman had fired the shot. Olivia Jones had been in Carmouth at the time. Colin Carew had seen her there shortly after the event. But there was another curious feature which had not escaped Merrion. The delay which had elapsed before Somerby appeared on the scene. Norfolk, ringing him up, had been told that he was out. The curate, ringing up in his turn, had been told the same thing, but had had the sense to leave a message. Where had Somerby been before this message reached him?

The question was at present unanswerable, and Merrion turned to what seemed to him the gist of the matter. The attempt upon Philip Sampson's life having failed, it seemed unlikely that it would be immediately repeated. The average person, having once bungled a murder, was not likely to run the risk involved again, at least not for some considerable time. By then Lady Violet might be expected to have taken steps to end her intestacy. But if she died before she had done so, what then? Her estate would presumably be divided between her nephew and her niece in equal shares. Divided, yes. But half a loaf was proverbially better than no bread.

Faintly, in the distance, Merrion heard the grandfather clock in the hall chime two o'clock. He became conscious of an intense weariness, and felt no inclination to prolong his vigil for the rest of the night. He got up, groped his way to the switch, and flicked it on. Having glanced round the room to assure himself that he had left no sign of his occupation of it, he switched off the light again and went out, locking the door behind him and putting the key in his pocket. When he reached their bedroom, he was vastly relieved to find that Mavis was fast asleep.

Breakfast on Sunday morning was as unexciting as ever. Olivia Jones was present, but her usual sullen reticence was apparently unruffled. When Lady Violet made some reference to going to church, Merrion excused himself. He had better go to Carmouth and learn the latest news of Mr. Sampson. Abrupt as was this mention of Philip's name, Olivia displayed no embarrassment whatever.

After breakfast, Merrion slipped out of the house. He knew that even on Sundays the old gardener could not keep away from his beloved garden. Although, being dressed for going to church, he did no actual work, he always made a morning tour of inspection. Merrion found him in the greenhouse, surveying the chrysanthemums, of which he was very proud. “Good-morning,” said Merrion cheerfully. “They look fine, don't they?”

The old man shook his head, with the occupational pessimism of all those who work in gardens. “I've known them better in other years, sir. Didn't seem to come on as they should, early on. But her Ladyship seems pleased enough with them. She told me so, only yesterday.”

“Lady Violet may well be pleased,” said Merrion. “By the way, is that gun in the potting-shed yours?”

“Well, sir, I can't rightly say that it's mine,” the old man replied. “It belonged to the old master, and her. Ladyship said I might have the use of it to keep down the rabbits with. But I haven't taken it out this long time. My sight isn't what it used to be, not by a long way. You're welcome to use it at any time, sir, should you care to. You'll find a few cartridges left in the box on the shelf.”

“That's kind of you,” said Merrion. “I daresay I'll accept your offer.” After a few more words he strolled away to the garage. As he approached it, he saw that the Rolls-Royce was standing in the yard. Coming nearer, he saw that the bonnet was open and the engine running. Olivia, her head cocked on one side, was listening to it attentively. As Merrion reached her she glanced at him. “Doesn't it sound to you as though one of the tappets wanted adjusting?”

He listened for a moment or two. “It does, rather. But it doesn't seem very serious. Did you notice it first when you were driving home yesterday evening?”

“I had something else to think of then,” she replied drily. “I was wondering what on earth I was going to tell Lady Violet. No, I noticed it first when I was driving home from Shopton yesterday morning. I shall have to run the car over to the garage there and get them to see to it, as soon as I have the chance.”

She shut the bonnet and switched off the engine. Then apparently entirely oblivious of Merrion's presence, she took a duster from the locker and began to polish the upholstery. He watched her for a minute or two before he spoke. “I wonder if you'd care to tell me something, Miss Jones?”

Without desisting from her work she replied: “That depends what it is you want to know.”

“Was your mother Lady Violet's sister?” Merrion asked quietly.

In spite of her self-restraint she flushed angrily. “You choose to be impertinent, Mr. Merrion. However, I suppose my menial condition as a paid companion entitles you to take liberties. Hadn't you better put your question to Lady Violet herself? You and Mrs. Merrion seem to have insinuated yourselves into her confidence sufficiently for that.”

Merrion had expected a rebuff, but hardly this insolent bitterness. “You do not wish to tell me, then?” he replied. “Believe me, I have no wish to probe into family secrets. You know what happened to Mr. Sampson?”

“How should I?” she asked. “I haven't been to Carmouth since I saw you in the dining-room yesterday evening, and I have not spoken to anyone from there. Do you know?”

“I do,” Merrion replied. “Lady Violet asked me last night to go and find out.”

“Ah, that accounts for it!” she exclaimed. “I wondered where you had gone to when I saw your car was out as I put this one in here. Well, what did happen to Mr. Sampson? Not that I'm in the least interested on my own account. And Lady Violet doesn't seem much perturbed, as I was afraid she would be.”

“Mr. Sampson had a very narrow escape,” said Merrion gravely. “He was shot at while he was sitting in his lounge. And there is no doubt that a woman fired the shot.”

For the first time her features relaxed into a smile, scornful and derisive. “Oh, now I know what's bitten you, Mr. Merrion. Because I was in Carmouth yesterday evening, you think I was the woman. And I know very well what you are going to add next. Can I prove I wasn't? No, I can't. I don't think anyone who knows me saw me until I met Mr. Carew. So in your eyes I am obviously guilty. May I suggest that it would be more convenient for everybody if you wait until we come home from church before you send for the police?”

Merrion waited a moment or two for this angry outburst to subside. “It won't be necessary for me to send for the police. If they find reason to do so, they will come here and question you themselves. But my curiosity prompts me to ask you this. How well do you know Mr. Sampson?”

She blazed at him afresh. “Your curiosity is insufferable, Mr. Merrion. What concern is all this of yours? Has Lady Violet engaged you as her spy? All the same, I'll tell you. All I know about Mr. Sampson is that he's her nephew. Everybody knows that, it's only Lady Violet herself who likes to ignore it. I know him by sight, for he has been pointed out to me. Whether or not he knows me by sight I have no idea. I have never spoken to him, or to his coarse-looking friend Mr. Norfolk, and I certainly have never been to his house. And now it's my turn to ask a question. Have you told Lady Violet what you suspect?”

Merrion shook his head. “I prefer to verify my suspicions before I mention them.”

“Even to the suspect?” she flashed back, “Well, if you haven't told Lady Violet, I shall tell her myself. As my employer, it is her duty to protect me from insult while I am under her roof. I've no more time to waste now. I must take the car round to the house, or I shall be keeping Lady Violet waiting.”

Merrion watched her drive away, and stayed where he was until the car had left, with Lady Violet and Mavis as passengers. Miss Jones had proved a surprisingly tough nut to crack, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that he had met his match. She was not the sort of girl to give anything away, and she was perfectly capable of carrying the war into the enemy's country. It was quite likely that she would repeat her version of the conversation to Lady Violet, who might take offence. That would mean the end of the Merrions' visit to Dragonscourt. For that, he didn't care very much, though Mavis would justly reproach him as a bungler. But he would hate to leave Lady Violet unprotected. And even his fertile imagination could find no remedy.

He started up his own car, and drove to Carmouth, where he left it in the car park. The streets of the little town were wrapped in the quiet of Sunday morning as he walked through them on his way to Philip Sampson's house. He reached his destination, and was about to ring the bell, when the door opened. A familiar figure appeared on the threshold, stared at him for a moment, then burst into an exclamation of amazement. “Well, I'm damned! What in the world brings you here?”

CHAPTER XII

MERRION REGARDED Inspector Arnold with a quiet smile. “You shouldn't swear, especially on Sunday. And your question is simply answered. I am staying in this neighbourhood, and my reason for being here is to enquire after the welfare of the invalid within. And I can guess easily enough what brings you here.”

Arnold shut the door behind him, and in unspoken consent they walked away together. “I suppose, as usual, you know, or think you know, all about it,” Arnold remarked, when they had gone a few steps. “I'd like to have a few minutes' private conversation with you. Where can we go?”

“I don't know all about it by any means,” Merrion replied. “Still, perhaps I can give you a pointer or two. There are some benches on the sea-front round the corner. They'll be chilly, but they'll be safe from prying ears. The locals won't be about at this time of year till the pubs open at twelve o'clock. Come along.”

They reached a bench which seemed more sheltered than its neighbours, and sat down. Merrion's prediction proved correct, for not a soul was in sight upon the wind-swept front. “Not exactly the height of comfort,” he said. “But it will serve our purpose. Tell me first where you come in.”

Arnold shivered. “I thought this was supposed to be a warm climate. Where do I come in? Through the usual gate, of course. Application by the local police for the assistance of the Yard. The Chief sent me off right away, and I caught the midnight train and travelled down here with the newspapers. And you?”

“I was on the spot within a little more than an hour after the event,” Merrion replied. “How and why I'll tell you in a moment, You've met Superintendent Perrin?”

Arnold nodded. “As soon as I arrived. He told me all about yesterday evening's affair. He strikes me as being a little rattled. It's not only this shooting business, which seems a bit mysterious. But it seems that two worthy citizens of this health resort have recently met with sudden deaths. Verdicts of accident in both cases, but the Superintendent is beginning to wonder. That's really why he asked the Yard to send someone down.”

“Beginning to wonder, is he?” said Merrion grimly. “He's not the first. What's his theory?”

“He hasn't got one,” Arnold replied. “That is, beyond a vague idea that the woman who fired the shot might have had something to do with the other two deaths.”

“Penetrating of him,” Merrion remarked. And has he come to any conclusion as to the identity of this woman?”

“Apparently not,” Arnold replied. “You spoke about pointers. Any in that direction?”

Merrion evaded the question. “You've seen Mr. Sampson and had a chat with him?”

Arnold nodded. “I was just coming away from talking to him when I ran into you. He's a poor sort of boob, and he's desperately sorry for himself, but his mind seems clear enough. He described to me exactly what happened to him. And he's quite sure that the hand that pointed the gun at him was a woman's. I couldn't shake him on that point.”

“Naturally you asked him if he had any suspicions?” Merrion suggested.

“I did,” Arnold replied. “And he was most indignant. I could almost see his blood-pressure rising. He wanted to know if I took him to be the sort of person who had affairs with girls. Since the Superintendent had already told me that he wasn't, I assured him that I didn't. He went on to say that he couldn't imagine why any woman should have a grudge against him. He never spoke to any of that sex if he could help it.”

“Perhaps that's where the grudge lies,” Merrion remarked. “A woman scorned, you know. You've seen the bullet?”

“Yes, and I agree with the Superintendent as to the pistol from which it was fired,” Arnold replied. “As a matter of form, I shall show it to the firearms expert at the Yard, and get his opinion. But there can't be any doubt that it was an old-fashioned weapon of some sort. Mrs. Oswald showed me the lounge before she took me upstairs. And when I'd had a look round that, an idea came to me.”

Merrion smiled. “I shouldn't wonder if it was a case of great minds thinking alike.”

“The Superintendent didn't put the idea into my mind, if that's what you mean. The lounge, and as I found later, Mr. Sampson's bedroom, are littered with the sort of stuff you see in the windows of junk shops. I remarked on this to him, and he told me that he liked poking about second-hand shops and attending auctions, and buying any trifle that took his fancy. I asked him if he had ever picked up any old pistols, and he literally shuddered. He admitted that he was terrified of firearms. He said that he wouldn't have one inside the house, even if he knew for a positive fact that it wasn't loaded.”

“That disposes of one possibility,” said Merrion. “To return to the woman?”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “She seems to have left no clue. So far as we know, there's only one woman with whom Mr. Sampson has any dealings. His housekeeper, Mrs. Oswald. The Superintendent has checked up on her. She was at her sister's house at the time when the attempt was made. Now then, my friend. I've been doing most of the talking so far. It's about time you told me where you come in on this.”

Merrion replied by explaining the reason for his visit to Carmouth, and the invitation he and Mavis had received to stay at Dragonscourt. “We're there now,” he went on. “Our hostess is Lady Violet Vernham, who happens, most reluctantly, to be Mr. Sampson's aunt. It was at her request that I called at his house yesterday evening to find out what had happened to her nephew. On that occasion I met Superintendent Perrin.”

“You seem to be at the heart of things,” Arnold said acidly. “Knowing you as I do, I might have expected that you would worm your way in somehow. The Superintendent told me about Lady Violet. But he didn't mention your name.”

“Why should he?” Merrion asked. “To him, I was no more than Lady Violet's emissary. I didn't tell him that I had the honour of the acquaintance of a distinguished officer of the Criminal Investigation Department.”

Arnold grunted. “Or, I daresay, that you couldn't keep your nose out of his investigations. Tell me about this Lady Violet. Is she mixed up in this?”

“Not in any way,” Merrion replied fervently. “I don't believe that she and her nephew have ever met. That may be an exaggeration, but at all events they haven't met recently. Lady Violet is an old lady, but she's very much all there. So much so, that I'm occasionally taken aback by the quickness of her perception. If when you ask if she is mixed up in this, you're hinting that she might have fired the shot, you can rid yourself of that idea. If it comes to that, I'll go into the witness-box and testify on oath that she didn't.”

“Perhaps she has some idea who did,” Arnold suggested darkly.

“Perhaps she has,” Merrion replied. “I wouldn't put it past her. Now look here. It's confoundedly chilly sitting here, and I expect you've plenty to occupy your valuable time. In any case, I must get back to Dragonscourt to lunch. This is what I suggest. It might be worth your while to call on me there this afternoon; about five o'clock would be a suitable time. Not in your official capacity, but as plain Mr. Arnold, and old friend of mine. The Superintendent will lend you a car, I'm sure, and the driver will know his way.”

Arnold agreed to this, and they parted. It occurred to Merrion, as he drove back to Dragonscourt, that his unexpected meeting with his friend had driven his original purpose out of his mind. He had clean forgotten to make any enquiry as to the state of Philip Sampson's health. Well, perhaps that hardly mattered. Lady Violet's interest in the matter was not overwhelming.

Lady Violet! If Miss Jones had carried out her threat of repeating to her the conversation in the garage, what would she have to say to him? It was a disturbing thought, if only on account of the appointment he had made with Arnold. It might even be that when Arnold arrived, he would be told that the person he was asking for had left suddenly. He would immediately jump to the conclusion that his friend had secrets which he did not wish to confide in him. And that might lead to considerable awkwardness. Oh well, we should see.

He reached his destination only a few minutes before lunch was served. During the meal Lady Violet made no enquiries concerning her nephew. She did not even mention Merrion's visit to Carmouth. Her conversation dealt entirely with her attendance at Highmoor church, and the people she had seen there. The sermon, Merrion was informed, had been unimpressive and far too long. Mavis and Miss Jones, appealed to, agreed with this. It was the only word spoken by Miss Jones during the whole time they sat at table.

Then, as they rose and left the dining-room. Lady Violet beckoned to Merrion. “Can you spare me a few minutes, Desmond? There is something I should like to talk to you about.”

Merrion followed her to the boudoir, with feelings not unlike those of a small boy summoned to the headmaster's study. Lady Violet's manner, without having lost its affability, seemed rather sterner than usual. She invited him to be seated, and to light his cigarette. Her own seat was her favourite chair before the fire, and she rested in this for several seconds before she spoke again. Seeking suitable words in which to frame the accusation, Merrion thought. But when she spoke her tone was by no means accusing, rather confidential. “Olivia tells me that you have found out that she is my niece. Who told you that, Desmond?”

Merrion was completely taken aback by this line of approach. “Nobody told me. Lady Violet,” he replied fervently. “I can assure you of that. It was no more than an unpardonably impertinent guess on my part.”

“I am glad that nobody told you,” said Lady Violet quietly. “I have hoped that our secret was known to us two alone. I should, of course, have imparted it to you. It was foolish of me not to foresee that your acute mind would penetrate it. You will forgive my reticence, I hope.”

“There is nothing for me to forgive, Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. “It is for you to forgive my presumption. I can promise you that the secret shall go no further, without your express permission.”

Lady Violet smiled. “You must bear with the whims of an old woman, Desmond. The secret is of no intrinsic importance whatever. It originates merely in my stubborn family pride. I have always shrunk from the idea of the names of my sister and her daughter being bandied about by the gossips of Carmouth.”

She paused, frowning into the brightly burning fire. It was perfectly obvious that the subject was painful to her, and Merrion had no wish to enlarge upon it. But, after a while, she continued. “Since you now share the secret, you had better learn the outlines of my sister's story. Rose delighted her father by making a brilliant marriage. We all thought at the time that she was destined to become the respected wife of a man who must eventually become the leader of his party. But our hopes were disappointed. Rose made an utter fool of herself, and in the process degraded her family name. You will spare me the pain of recalling the sordid details. Let it suffice that Rose was divorced, and married again. That is, if the second union of a divorced woman can be entitled to the appellation of marriage.”

Merrion, though he might not share it, respected the intensity of feeling which Lady Violet showed. To her, the passage of a Vernham through the Divorce Court was a greater tragedy than death. “I did not see Rose at that time,” she continued. “She followed her foolish path without consulting any of us. And I never saw her afterwards. But, years later, I had a letter from her. Rose's second husband, if such we may call him, was an American, and apparently an unsuccessful one. Her letter told me that the pair of them and their infant daughter were living in obscurity and indigence in one of the Southern States of the Union. There was a suggestion that the husband had got into trouble owing to some fraudulent dealings in which he had been engaged.

“I could not sympathise with my sister's troubles, for which no one was to blame but herself. But I allowed myself to be concerned by the existence of an innocent child, who, whatever her mother's degradation, at least held a strain of Vernham blood in her veins. On that one count, I assisted Rose financially from time to time, not directly, but through my solicitors. Her husband either died or disappeared, I have never been clear which. And, three years ago, I received a letter from Olivia, telling me that her mother was dead, and that she was left alone with hardly a cent that she could call her own.

“I instructed my solicitors to send her a small sum, and to ascertain the fact of my sister's death, which they were able to do. I then wrote to Olivia, telling her that if she cared to come here and live as my companion, she was at liberty to do so. But I imposed one inviolable condition. She must appear as my paid companion, not as my niece. Should she divulge our relationship to any person whatsoever, she would forfeit any further claims to my consideration. Olivia accepted these terms, and in due course became established here as my companion, under the name of Miss Jones.”

“You have never regretted that arrangement. Lady Violet?” Merrion ventured.

For a moment she hesitated. “I have never definitely regretted it. But I will admit, to you alone, that I have been disappointed in Olivia. I was ready to extend to her the affection of an aunt, and I have always done my best to ensure her happiness. But Olivia has never reciprocated my advances. She seems almost resentful of what I have done for her. It may be that she considered her position a false one, and that she should be openly recognised as my niece. But with that recognition I find myself unable to comply. It is far better that her mother's shameful past should remain buried in oblivion.”

“To do her justice, she referred my question concerning her identity to you,” Merrion remarked.

“I fully appreciate that,” Lady Violet replied. “And the matter does not end there, Desmond. Olivia spoke to me of other things than the question you asked her. According to her, you entertain certain remarkable suspicions, and I think I have the right to ask you to explain them to me. Pray do not endeavour to spare my feelings. I have always found that when, on that pretext, people have told me half-truths, they have ended by inflicting on me more pain than would have been the case had they spoken perfectly plainly.”

Once more Merrion found himself amazed at the directness of Lady Violet's methods. “I will be perfectly frank with you,” he replied. “If my argument seems crude, I must crave your forgiveness. A day or two ago, you told me that you were intestate. Your nephew and your niece are therefore your prospective heirs. The death of one would leave the other the sole heir. I reserved one fact when I was talking to you last night, but I will reveal it now. There seems to be little doubt that your nephew's assailant was a woman. Your niece was in Carmouth at the time when the shot was fired.”

To Merrion's intense relief, Lady Violet smiled. “A most plausible argument, Desmond. But I can demolish it by another, equally plausible. One can hardly suppose that Olivia would have attempted Philip's life unless she was certain that she would gain by his death. You have made that point yourself. I am perfectly satisfied that nobody but myself and my solicitors has any knowledge of my testatory situation. She could not possibly guess that, if I died to-night, my nephew and niece would be my heirs. Nor, on the other hand, knowing as she does my attitude towards my nephew, is she likely to suppose that I have made a will in his favour. Or, in that case, if he predeceased me, I should alter that will in her favour.”

Merrion was bound to admit that Lady Violet's lucidity was convincing. She had grasped the argument with bare hands, so to speak, scorning to assume the glove of euphemism. But her refutation rested upon one point alone. “You are absolutely satisfied as to the secrecy of your affairs?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Lady Violet replied with quiet confidence. “I am assured of my own reticence, and of that of my solicitors. As I told you, I spoke of the matter to Nurse Penruddock, enjoining her not to mention it to anyone else. I do not for a moment believe that she was indiscreet, or that, if she was, her indiscretion could have reached Olivia's ears. And, to continue, even supposing that it had, what conclusions could Olivia have reached? Merely that Nurse Penruddock's death would result in my intestacy.”

The wisdom of this was incontestable. While Merrion was meditating an answer. Lady Violet went on. “Followed to its logical issue, your argument is ridiculous. You must see that for yourself, Desmond. Let us see what it leads to, without any beating about the bush. I cannot believe that Carmouth is infested by persons of murderous intent, each working independently of the others. We are agreed that the deaths of Michael Murford and Nurse Penruddock were not accidental. The person responsible for their deaths was also responsible for the attempt upon my nephew.”

“One would imagine so,” Merrion replied diplomatically.

“Of course one would!” Lady Violet exclaimed. “Really, Desmond, your caution is exasperating. You know very well that only one person can be involved. You suspect that Olivia tried to murder her cousin. In that case, she must have murdered the other two. And to achieve her final object, she will have to murder me before I have made another will. Now, you cannot pretend that all that makes sense.”

“As you have put it, it doesn't,” Merrion admitted. “But may I say this? I fully share your doubts about a number of people acting independently. But I can imagine two people acting in collusion.”

“Who was the other?” Lady Violet demanded. “Dr. Somerby? I'm quite prepared to believe that he is a murderer; I've told you that already. But I can't imagine any collusion between him and Olivia. No, Desmond, it's no use. For all I know, Olivia's father may have had criminal tendencies, but I refuse to believe that she has inherited them. Let us talk of something else. I presume that the police are investigating the attempt upon my nephew's life?”

“They are,” Merrion replied. “Superintendent Perrin appears to be so mystified that Scotland Yard has been called in. This morning I met the officer who has been sent down. He turns out to be a very old friend of mine. Inspector Arnold.”

Lady Violet eyed him narrowly. “And you have imparted your suspicions to your old friend?”

Merrion had learnt at last that any attempt at subterfuge where Lady Violet was concerned was doomed to failure. “No, I have not,” he replied. “But I have asked him to call on me here, in his private capacity, at five o'clock this afternoon. I hope you won't consider that a liberty on my part, Lady Violet.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “I hope you will introduce me to Inspector Arnold. You have my permission to tell him that Olivia is my niece. What else you may see fit to tell him I must leave to your judgment. Dear me, we have talked so long that it's very nearly tea-time.”

CHAPTER XIII

TEA IN THE drawing-room came to an end, and Olivia excused herself. The aged parlourmaid always spent Sunday afternoon at the lodge with her sister, and Olivia took her place. A few minutes later the butler appeared. “Mr. Arnold has called to see Mr. Merrion, your Ladyship. I have shown him into the study.”

Merrion rose, and receiving an approving nod from Lady Violet, followed the butler out. The study had been Lord Vernham's favourite room, but was now little used. However, a fire was always ready laid in the grate, and to this the butler had applied a match. Merrion found Arnold standing in front of it, warming his hands and looking about him with an awed expression. “My word, Merrion!” he exclaimed. “You seem to be living in the lap of luxury here. I've never seen anything like it. It beats even High Eldersham Hall, if you'll forgive my saying so. Well, what have you got to tell me?”

“I'm going to introduce you to my hostess, later on,” Merrion replied. “You'll find her a most remarkable old lady. Sit down and light your pipe. The Superintendent has told you all about the two fatal accidents that have happened in Carmouth lately?”

Arnold nodded as he sat down and filled his pipe. When he had got it going satisfactorily he replied: “I have seen the notes made by the police at the time, and I have heard the evidence given at the inquests. I can't see any reason to suspect foul play in either case.”

“Can't you?” Merrion asked. “Then listen to me.” He proceeded to describe in full detail his theories of how both accidents might have been contrived, dealing with each separately. Arnold listened with a faint smirk of amusement. “Your imagination doesn't grow any less lively,” he remarked when Merrion had finished. “But you must admit that what you've just told me is nothing but pure imagination. Suppose that some person, presumably the same, murdered these two folk. Why?”

“Never mind about the motive,” Merrion replied. “At least, not just yet. You'll allow the possibility?”

“It seems to me a pretty dim one,” said Arnold. “However, I'll humour you. And it was this same person, a woman apparently, who took a pot at Mr. Sampson?” I

“I shouldn't be surprised,” Merrion replied. “You're quite sure it was a woman?”

“Mr. Sampson is, anyhow,” said Arnold. “Look here. When I told the Superintendent that you had invited me here he said that he had met you last night, and that you had heard the statement made by Mr. Sampson.”

Merrion nodded. “I did. And I also heard Mr. Norfolk's statement. Have you any clue to this woman?”

“That's surely up to the local police,” Arnold replied. “They know all about Mr. Sampson's habits, and I know nothing. But I've had a talk with his housekeeper, Mrs. Oswald. She is positive that Mr. Sampson has never had any girl friends whatever. To the best of her belief, no woman but herself, and now and again her sister, has entered his house since his mother's death.”

“Then yesterday evening was the exception that proves the rule,” Merrion remarked. “How did this woman know her way about?”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “I can't say. Any more than I can say what her motive may have been. Now, look here, my friend. You're living here under the roof of Mr. Sampson's aunt. What does she think about it all?”

“Lady Violet had better tell you that herself,” Merrion replied gravely. “Knock out your pipe. She tolerates cigarettes, but a pipe might be more than she could bear. That's right. Now, come along.”

They left the study, and Arnold followed Merrion into the drawing-room. Lady Violet and Mavis were chatting by the fire, but Olivia was still absent, engaged upon her domestic duties. “I have brought Mr. Arnold to see you, Lady Violet,” said Merrion.

The introduction completed in due form, Arnold turned to Mavis with polite enquiries about her health. After a brief conversation with him, she rose to leave the room. But Lady Violet detained her. “Don't go, my dear. You must be glad to meet Mr. Arnold again. And I am sure we can have nothing to talk about that we should not wish you to hear. Desmond tells me, Mr. Arnold, that you are visiting Carmouth on account of what happened to my nephew yesterday evening?”

Merrion took upon himself to answer this. “Mr. Arnold has just asked me what you think of it. LadyViolet.”

“I am not in a position to form any opinion,” she replied firmly. “You must understand, Mr. Arnold, that though Philip Sampson is my nephew, I have never concerned myself about him. His mother debased the name of Vernham by marrying a man immeasurably beneath her. Before his death, my father forgave her, and made provision for her in his will. But I have never felt called upon to countenance her only child.”

Arnold felt overwhelmed by Lady Violet's manner. “I quite understand, Lady Violet,” he said untruthfully. “You cannot suggest any motive for the attempt upon your nephew's life?”

Lady Violet smiled, a trifle maliciously. “I am wholly unable to do so. Has not Desmond told you what he suspects?”

“No, I haven't,” Merrion interposed hastily. “After our conversation this afternoon, I thought it better not to.”

“Nonsense, Desmond!” Lady Violet exclaimed. “We have no right to keep such things to ourselves. It will be far better for us to discuss the matter openly with Mr. Arnold. Since you have not mentioned it to him, I will tell him myself. Desmond believes that it was my niece who fired the shot.”

“Your niece, Lady Violet?” Arnold asked in obvious bewilderment. “She lives in Carmouth, perhaps?”

“She does not,” Lady Violet replied equably. “She lives here as my companion, under the name of Miss Jones.”

Mavis could not repress a gasp of amazement. Her husband had not dropped her a hint, and she had not guessed the relationship. But she perceived the tenseness of the situation, and listened intently as Lady Violet went on. “On certain grounds, which I hope I have succeeded in demonstrating as false, Desmond has imagined a motive on Olivia's part. It is certainly true that she was in Carmouth yesterday evening. Whether he can produce any other tangible evidence connecting her with the attempt, I cannot say.”

Arnold turned to Merrion. “I must ask you that question,” he said quietly.

Merrion felt that he had been led into a very awkward position. He was conscious of Mavis's accusing eyes fixed upon him, and still more acutely so of the gun-room key reposing in his pocket. “And I will answer it,” he replied steadily. “You are aware that the shot must have been fired from an old-fashioned smooth-bore pistol. Unknown to Lady Violet, or to anyone else, I explored the gun-room here. I found there a case fitted to hold two such pistols. One of them was in its place, but the other was missing.”

“And you think, er-Miss Jones may have taken the missing pistol?” Arnold asked.

“One moment!” Lady Violet exclaimed, before Merrion could reply. “If my memory does not play me false, I may be able to throw some light upon that. Will you excuse me for a few minutes? No, Mavis dear, I must go myself, for nobody else knows where to find what I want.”

She rose and swept with dignity from the room, leaving her guests in embarrassed silence, avoiding one another's eyes. In a short time she returned, carrying a bulky volume, consisting of many sheets of paper covered with neat writing and bound together. “This has lain in my bureau for many years,” she explained, as she resumed her seat. “It is the inventory of the contents of this house, made for purposes of probate at the time of my father's death. It is fortunate that I had not destroyed it long ago. Will you be good enough, Desmond, to turn to the page enumerating the contents of the gun-room, and tell us what you find there?”

Merrion took the volume from her, to find that the pages were devoted to the various rooms in the house. Turning these over, he came to one headed ” gun-room.” The ink was faded with age, but the writing was still clearly legible. On the page was a sub-heading, “Glass-fronted walnut cabinet,” then, “Contents of cabinet.” There followed a tabulated list of the guns and pistols Merrion had seen.

“I will read the last item aloud,” he said. “It runs as follows, ' Case for two antique duelling pistols.' Then, in brackets, ' Only one pistol in case '.”

Arnold would have laughed at his friend's discomfiture, but was restrained by the formidable presence of Lady Violet. “I was not mistaken, then,” she said. “If you will show the entry to Mr. Arnold, Desmond, I think he will agree that there can be no question of the words in brackets having been added at a later date. When you mentioned the case of pistols a moment ago, I recollected dimly that one was missing. The question was raised at the time as to what had become of it, but no answer was ever found.”

Merrion handed the inventory to Arnold, who glanced at it. “That's right enough. Miss Jones didn't take the pistol. Perhaps you will explain what motive she could have had for attempting to shoot her cousin?”

But Lady Violet seemed determined to dominate the situation. “I will reply to that!” she exclaimed firmly. “Since if is my niece who is accused, it is for me to offer such explanations as are necessary. Desmond's argument, though based upon false premises, was perfectly rational. I will repeat, as accurately as I can, the conversation between him and myself this afternoon. If, inadvertently, I am in error upon any point, he will no doubt correct me.”

She proceeded to repeat the conversation, displaying an amazing memory for the smallest detail. “So you see now, Mr. Arnold,” she concluded, “Desmond's suspicions were based upon something which Olivia cannot possibly have known. I hope I have made it sufficiently clear that she had not, and could not possibly have anything to gain by my nephew's death. I will ask your patience for a moment.”

Leaning forward, she pressed the bell-push beside her chair. In a few minutes the butler appeared. “Yes, your Ladyship?”

“Will you give my compliments to Miss Jones, and ask her if she will be good enough to come here,” Lady Violet replied.

“Very good, your Ladyship.” The butler retired. Merrion found the pause before Olivia appeared very awkward, but not so Lady Violet, who seemed completely mistress of herself.

The door opened, and Olivia came in. On seeing the stranger, she paused for an instant, then advanced, her head held high and her expression defiant. “Come in, my dear,” said Lady Violet. “This is Inspector Arnold, from Scotland Yard, whom I want you to meet. Mr. Arnold, this is my niece, Olivia Endicott.”

Olivia shot a disdainful glance in Merrion's direction, then inclined her head towards Arnold. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Arnold,” she said simply, before taking her seat in a vacant chair.

A strained silence ensued. Having set the stage. Lady Violet seemed content to let the play proceed without interference on her part. Leaning forward, she picked up the tongs and rearranged the log on the fire so that it sent up a fountain of sparks. Arnold's eyes were fixed on Olivia, who returned his gaze unflinchingly. Never before had he interrogated a suspect in such surroundings, or before such an audience. He would vastly have preferred to have the girl to himself, but he saw no way in which that could be contrived. He couldn't very well pack her into the waiting car and carry her off to Carmouth police station. At length he spoke. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Endicott.” He hoped he had caught the name correctly, but he was not quite sure. “It gives me the opportunity of asking you if you can tell me anything about what happened in your cousin's house yesterday evening?”

Olivia's reply was prompt and unhesitating. “I can tell you nothing whatever, Mr. Arnold. I was in Carmouth, at the pictures. After I left the cinema, I met Mr. Carew. He told me that my cousin had been taken ill, as the result of a shock. No more than that. I came back here, and told Mr. Merrion.”

“Why did you tell Mr. Merrion, rather than your aunt?” Arnold asked.

“Because I was afraid to tell her,” Olivia replied. “It was very silly of me, as I see now. But Lady Violet has always disliked any mention of Philip Sampson's name.”

Lady Violet acknowledged the truth of this with a slight nod. “You told Mr. Merrion,” Arnold went on. “He, I understand, conveyed the news to Lady Violet. Have you ever fired a pistol, Miss Endicott?”

If Olivia's expression changed at all at this question, it was only to become more disdainful. “I certainly have,” she replied. “I'm an American by birth and was brought up in Texas. My father taught me to use an automatic as soon as I was old enough to hold one. I used to be a pretty good shot, but I haven't had any practice for a good many years now.”

This candour was disarming. Yet Olivia hardly looked like what her compatriots would call a gun-moll. “You are an expert with an automatic, Miss Endicott?” Arnold asked. “Have you any experience of other types of pistol? Old-fashioned muzzle loading duelling pistols, for instance?”

Olivia shook her head. “I know the old things you mean. I've seen them, but I've never fired one. I shouldn't care to try. I don't know that I should even understand how to load it properly. Let me make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Arnold. I have not fired a pistol of any kind since I left America, and for a long time before then. I never went near my cousin's house yesterday evening. When I left the car in the park I went straight to the pictures, and stayed there. It was after I came out that I met Mr. Carew.”

Arnold glanced at Lady Violet, but her head was turned away from him. The drawing-room with its old world splendour seemed to become overwhelming. He rose from his chair. “Thank you, Miss Endicott, I must take my leave of you now. I must not keep the car that brought me waiting too long.” 128

He made his adieux, and Merrion accompanied him to the front door. “My word!”Arnold exclaimed when he found himself safely outside the house. “I'm glad to get out of that. You were quite right when you told me that Lady Violet was a remarkable old lady. Fancy her trotting her niece forward like that without a word of warning to anybody! All the same, I don't believe the girl did it.”

“If she didn't, it'll be up to you to find some other lady,” Merrion replied. “I've done my best.”

Arnold laughed sarcastically. “Not a very brilliant best, was it? It strikes me that the old lady capsized your argument very neatly. And you made a pretty bad blunder over that pistol missing from the gun-room. However, I'll talk it over with the Superintendent. I daresay he'll ask Miss Endicott to come and see him. I don't know. You and I will meet again, I daresay Good-bye for the present.”

He got into the car. As it drove away, Merrion re-entered the house. He went first to the gun-room, where he took the key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and put the key on the inner side of the lock where he had found it. In spite of her expert knowledge of pistols, Olivia, under existing circumstances, was not likely to take one of those in the cabinet for the purpose of murdering her aunt.

This done, he returned to the drawing-room. Lady Violet and Mavis were still there, but not Olivia, who had presumably returned to her interrupted duties. Lady Violet greeted him with a smile. “Your friend has gone, Desmond? A very pleasant and intelligent man, he seemed to me. Now, don't you think that you have been rather too precipitate?”

Mavis, unable to restrain herself, eyed him severely. “In my opinion, Desmond, for the first time since I've known you, you've made a perfect fool of yourself.”

“I'm desperately sorry,” Merrion replied. “I owe profound apologies both to you and your niece, Lady Violet. I can only put forward in my own defence that I was trying to solve a mystery.”

You might have come to me first with your suspicions,” said Lady Violet. “However, I fully appreciate your motives. I have already forgiven you, if any forgiveness is needed, and I do not think you will find that Olivia will bear any lasting malice.”

“I will most humbly ask for pardon,” Merrion replied. “But, in my muddle-headed way, it seemed to me that Miss Endicott ought at least to be asked the question. It is very difficult to imagine any strange woman having made the attempt. Don't you agree, Lady Violet?”

“My dear man, how can I agree or disagree?” Lady Violet exclaimed. “As I have repeatedly told you, I know nothing whatever of my nephew's habits or mode of life. If it is true that a woman tried to murder him, I can only suspect some sordid intrigue. Philip may have inherited low tastes from his father. On the other hand, it seems to me quite possible that this unknown woman is a figment of my nephew's imagination.”

“That is certainly possible,” Merrion agreed. “He only saw, and that for an instant, a small gloved hand and a veil. But is it likely?”

Lady Violet made a protesting gesture. “Why will you persist in asking me questions like that? How can I tell! I can only use my own common-sense. It might be to the advantage of a man intending to commit a murder to assume the disguise of a woman. Or again, what Philip said in your presence may be entirely false, He may know who his assailant was, but, for reasons of his own he may not wish the police to discover his identity. But this is sheer waste of time, Desmond. We are merely discussing possibilities of which neither of us has any knowledge. You and I, Mavis dear, ought to be getting ready for dinner.”

Merrion rose as the two women left the room, but he did not follow them. He remained standing on the hearthrug, marvelling afresh at Lady Violet. This time her imagination had surpassed his own. The possibility of a man in female guise had already occurred to him. But not that of some strange compact between Philip Sampson and his assailant.

After all, this startling suggestion of Lady Violet's was not impossible. Superintendent Perrin claimed that he knew all about Philip Sampson. But that did not prove that there was nothing hidden behind the indolent life of this semi-invalid. Philip Sampson might have a guilty secret of his own, shared by some other person. This person, actuated by some unknown motive, had attempted Philip's life. But Philip dare not expose him, lest in return he should expose his own secret.

Merrion was tempted by this new theory to venture a step further. So far as anyone seemed to know, the only person with whom Philip was on intimate terms was Hardy Norfolk. He had been in the house that evening. By his own account, after the event. But suppose his statement was false, and he had fired the shot?

After a few minutes' consideration, Merrion shook his head irritably. From all accounts, Norfolk was a ruthless and determined sort of person. Having missed his mark, he would not have fled incontinently, leaving his crime unaccomplished. Even if he had not the means of reloading his pistol, he would have battered in his victim's head with the butt of it, or throttled him, as he lay grovelling on the floor.

In any case, Merrion was not inclined to start a fresh hare. His pursuit of the first one had hardly been fortunate. He resolved to keep the theory and any conjecture concerning it to himself at least for the present. A glance at the clock showed him that it was time for him to change, if he was not to be late for dinner.

He found Mavis in their room, sitting at the dressing-table putting the final touches to her toilet. As he came in, she turned her head and surveyed him coldly. “Well, you're a nice one! I've half a mind to sue for a divorce on the grounds not of your cruelty, but of your crass stupidity. You come here, accepting Lady Violet's hospitality, and the first thing you do is to accuse her niece of trying to murder her cousin. I can only hope you're properly ashamed of yourself. How you're going to make amends to the poor girl I simply can't imagine. However, that's your affair, not mine, I'm thankful to say.”

“I'll do my best,” Merrion replied. “And I won't attempt to justify myself, at least not now. The dinner gong will sound in a few minutes.”

CHAPTER XIV

MERRION HAD no opportunity of making his peace with Olivia that evening. By the time he reached the drawing-room after dinner she had disappeared. Perhaps she was deliberately avoiding him, Merrion thought. He sat down and joined in conversation with Lady Violet and Mavis.

Lady Violet made no reference either to Olivia or to her nephew. She seemed to have dismissed the subject from her mind, and to wish her guests to follow her example. For a while she spoke of impersonal matters, as though wishing to divert their thoughts and her own. Olivia had told her that the Rolls-Royce would have to be taken into Shopton to have something seen to. She didn't know what it was, for she didn't understand such things, but apparently it was nothing serious. “And that reminds me, Desmond. Never once since you've been here have you offered to take me out in your car. It looks such a nice one, and I should love to be taken for a drive in it.”

“I'm most awfully sorry, Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. “It never struck that you'd like to be taken out in the car. I should be only too delighted. When would it suit you to come?”

“Let me see, now,” Lady Violet said thoughtfully.

“To-morrow will be the last Monday in the month, and the window cleaner comes that day. Whichever room I go into, I always find him peering at me through the window. Although he is perfectly respectful, I shall be glad to escape his attention. Shall we say half-past ten to-morrow morning?”

“Half-past ten it shall be,” Merrion replied. “And we'll go wherever you like.”

“Oh, just a drive round,” said Lady Violet vaguely. “I only want to see how comfortable your car is. Olivia won't be able to come, for she is always busy sorting out the laundry on Monday mornings. And we needn't trouble you either. Mavis dear. Desmond and I can look after one another.” She said no more on the subject, and she and Mavis went to bed at their accustomed hour. Merrion was left alone to wonder. It was quite obvious to him that Lady Violet's sudden interest was merely a subterfuge. For some reason or other she wanted to get him to herself. What the reason might be there was no knowing. Perhaps to chide him for his indiscretion. Well, he deserved it.

Next morning, after breakfast, he contrived to waylay Olivia in the hall. “I really am most desperately sorry, Miss Endicott,” he said contritely. “I don't know what you must think of me.”

“Whatever I may think of your conduct, I must forgive you for Lady Violet's sake,” she replied coldly. “Perhaps in future you won't try to play the private detective, at least where I'm concerned. I don't want to hear your excuses, and I would much rather nothing more was said about it.”

Without further words she went about her business, leaving him standing there. Well, that was that. As he left the house and walked to the garage he reflected that he would very soon hear what Lady Violet had to say. No mention of the outing had been made during breakfast, but Lady Violet was not the sort of person to change her mind without warning.

He busied himself in dusting the car down and making it look as presentable as possible, then, as the arranged hour approached, drove to the front entrance. Punctually at half-past ten Lady Violet appeared, looking very handsome in her fur coat and black hat. “Your car does look nice, Desmond!” she exclaimed. “I am looking forward to my drive in it. May I sit beside you?”

Merrion assisted her into the seat beside the driver's. Not that she required much assistance for, in spite of her years, she was almost as agile in body as in mind. Then, having settled himself in, he started the engine. “Which way would you like me to go, Lady Violet?” he asked.

“Towards the main road, if you don't mind, Desmond,” she replied. “You know your way by this time, I'm sure.”

Oh, yes, he knew his way well enough. Was their destination to be Carmouth? Did Lady Violet intend to visit her nephew, without the knowledge of anyone but Merrion? It would be just like her.

They had not long passed the lodge when Lady Violet spoke. “I have been thinking over the matters we have discussed together, Desmond. The dangers you have pointed out in my remaining intestate are, of course, wholly imaginary. Still, everyone should have made a will. It was a point my father always insisted upon. I need make no provision for my nephew, for the reason I have already explained. As regards my niece, I propose to leave her sufficient for her needs. A girl of her age and appearance will no doubt find herself a husband capable of supporting her. Don't you think so, Desmond?”

“It seems to me not unlikely,” Merrion replied cautiously.

“So much, then, for my relations,” said Lady Violet. “I have no others besides those two. My principal preoccupation, as it always has been, is to select the person who will administer the balance in the way I should wish. That is, to afford assistance to those most in need of it. I have already spoken of Mr. Carew. From what you tell me of his behaviour on Saturday evening, he appears to be a man of resource and commonsense. I have decided therefore that he should assume the place left vacant by the deaths of Michael Murford and Nurse Penruddock.”

She paused as Merrion negotiated a sharp bend in the lane. “I am glad to see that you are a careful driver, Desmond,” she went on. “That is a nasty corner. Nurse Penruddock collided with the baker's van there.' Both she and the van driver were bruised, and both cars were damaged. I told her at the time she ought to be more careful. As I was saying, I have decided to make a will in favour of Mr. Carew.”

“I don't know that you could do any better, Lady Violet,” Merrion said, seeing that something was expected of him.

“I'm glad that my decision meets with your approval,” Lady Violet replied. “Now this is what I particularly want to say to you. You have doubted the absolute secrecy of my intentions on previous occasions. This time you shall satisfy yourself that there can be no possibility of leakage. I shall say nothing to Mr. Carew, or to anyone else, including Olivia. The knowledge that I have made a fresh will will be shared only by you, my solicitors, and myself.”

They had reached the Halt sign where the lane reached the main road, and Merrion pulled up. “Not to the right, please, Desmond,” said Lady Violet. “That way leads to Carmouth, and I have no desire to go in that direction. We will go to the left, if you have no objection.”

“Not the slightest,” Merrion replied, feeling once again he had guessed wrong. He swung the car left into the main road which, leaving the Car Valley behind, climbed the bleak moorland at the head of it. “This road leads to Shopton,” said Lady Violet tranquilly. “We will call on my solicitors together. I have made no appointment, in order to satisfy your scruples as to secrecy. But that formality is unnecessary. I feel sure that Mr. Wade will make it convenient to see so old a client as I am.”

Merrion was beyond being surprised at Lady Violet's methods. He drove into Shopton, and under her direction pulled up at a fine old stone-built house in the centre of the town. They walked in through a doorway, beside which was a brass plate, “Ford, Bride and Wade,” and to a room marked “Enquiries.” Lady Violet was obviously well known in the office, for at their entrance the young man at the desk rose immediately and came forward. “Good-morning, Lady Violet,” he said deferentially. “You wish to see Mr. Wade? If you will be good enough to wait a moment, I will tell him you are here.”

He reappeared within the space of a minute. “Will you and your friend please come this way. Lady Violet?” He led them into a large and rather gloomy inner room, stacked with legal volumes and deed-boxes. Mr. Wade, a middle-aged man with scholarly features, was sitting at a desk, a girl in a chair drawn up beside him taking dictation. Merrion noticed that she was young and good-looking, with a frank and pleasant expression. “That will do for the present, Miss Salcombe,” said Mr. Wade as he sprang to his feet. “You can go on with what I've given you. Please come in and sit down, Lady Violet. This is indeed an unexpected pleasure.”

The girl left the room, note-book and pencil in hand. “I hope we are not interrupting you, Mr. Wade,” said Lady Violet.

“Not at all,” the solicitor replied. “Whatever I might be doing, I would lay it aside for the pleasure of seeing you.”

“It's nice of you to say that,” said Lady Violet. “Let me introduce you to my friend Mr. Desmond Merrion, whom I wish to be present at our interview. He married the daughter of one of my oldest friends. No, you wouldn't remember her, that was before your time. Who is that girl you have just sent out? I don't remember seeing her before.”

“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Merrion,” said Mr. Wade, as they shook hands. “Miss Salcombe, Lady Violet? She's a Carmouth girl, and she hasn't been with us very long. She has no knowledge of the law, and I wouldn't give her full marks for initiative. But when she's told what to do, she does it most efficiently. Just the sort of girl I like to have in the office. Young Carew, the curate at Carmouth, introduced her to me, and I'm very grateful to him for doing so.”

“It is curious that you should mention Mr. Carew's name,” Lady Violet replied. “So you know him, then? And what interest has he in this girl, may I ask?”

“No personal interest, I assure you, Lady Violet. His object in introducing her to me was purely benevolent. Yes, I know Mr. Carew. When he first came into this diocese he sought some legal advice, which I was happy to be able to give him. In the course of our meetings, I formed a most favourable opinion of him. He is just the type of young man I like.”

“I am glad to hear you say that,” said Lady Violet. “And his interest in this girl is purely benevolent?”

Mr. Wade nodded. “Absolutely, Lady Violet. I will tell you, between ourselves, of course, how it came about. Miss Salcombe was unhappy in her situation in Carmouth, as secretary to Mr. Norfolk of the Cannery. Mr. Carew approached me, and asked if I could help him to find her an alternative situation. I was glad to do that, not only for Mr. Carew's sake, but on account of Mr. Norfolk, whom I heartily detest. I hated to think of any girl being under an obligation to him. As it happened, we had a vacancy in the office here, and I offered to give Miss Salcombe a trial. I have never regretted it.”

Lady Violet turned to Merrion. “Another point in Mr. Carew's favour, Desmond. Now, Mr. Wade, it is about Mr. Carew that I have come to talk to you. You are already aware of my intentions. The draft you sent me last week became nugatory on the death of Nurse Penruddock, and I have destroyed it. I wish you now to prepare for me another draft to take its place. I will give you my instructions now.”

Merrion listened while she told the solicitor clearly and concisely what she wanted. Dragonscourt and its contents were to be sold on her death. The sum of ten thousand pounds was to be expended in the purchase of an annuity for Olivia, should she have remained single. The servants were to receive certain specified legacies. The residuary legatee was to be the Reverend Colin Carew.

“Thank you, Lady Violet,” said Mr. Wade, when she had come to an end. “I fully understand your wishes, and I will prepare a draft for your approval. Whom do you wish to appoint as your executors?”

“You, for one,” Lady Violet replied. “And Mr. Merrion for another, if he will consent to act in that capacity.”

“Certainly, Lady Violet,” Merrion replied, flattered by this sign of the confidence she reposed in him.

“Thank you, Desmond,” said Lady Violet. “I felt sure you would not refuse me. Now, Mr. Wade, for reasons of my own, I wish to preserve the utmost secrecy regarding this matter, and I expect you to do the same.”

“I am not in the habit of discussing my clients' affairs with anyone whatever,” Mr. Wade replied, a trifle stiffly.

“I am sure of it,” said Lady Violet. “When will the draft be ready? I should like to see it as soon as possible.”

“I will proceed with it at once,” Mr. Wade replied. “To-day is Monday. I can undertake to post it on Wednesday afternoon, so that you will receive it on Thursday morning. Unless you prefer that I should bring it to you personally?”

Lady Violet shook her head. “I need not put you to that trouble, Mr. Wade. And I would rather that the draft should not reach me through the post. I am sure you would not mind coming here and fetching it, Desmond?”

“Not at all,” Merrion replied. “I will come here at any time on Wednesday that suits Mr. Wade's convenience.”

“Shall we say five o'clock?” the solicitor suggested. “I can undertake that the draft will be ready by then.”

“Very well,” said Lady Violet. “Mr. Merrion shall bring me the draft, and we will peruse it together, in private. I must stress my desire for absolute secrecy, Mr. Wade. When the will has been executed, I shall inform my niece of the fact. I shall tell her that the allowance I give her now will continue after my death, but that she need expect no more than that. Beyond that, I shall not tell her, or anyone else, anything whatever. I wish even Mr. Carew to remain in ignorance of what I have done. That is fully understood, Mr. Wade?”

“Certainly, Lady Violet,” Mr. Wade replied. “Your wishes shall be respected exactly.”

After some conversation, Mr. Wade escorted his visitors to the car. They drove back to Dragonscourt, arriving there shortly before lunch. Lady Violet seemed to be in the best of spirits. “I have thoroughly enjoyed my morning!” she exclaimed, as the four of them took their places in the dining-room. “Desmond took me for a lovely drive. Really, Mavis dear, I envy you that car. So comfortable, and so smart. Mine looks terribly old-fashioned compared with it. That reminds me, Miss Jones, you had better have that trouble seen to before it gets any worse. It would be as well for you to take the car into Shopton to-morrow and have the work done.”

Merrion realised that the formal appellation of Miss Jones was to be retained, at least in the presence of the domestic staff. When lunch was over, he strolled out of the house, on the pretext of finding himself something to do in the garden. He wanted the opportunity of thinking over the events of the morning in solitude. The gardener was in the kitchen garden, digging with the slow and steady method of the professional. Merrion went into the greenhouse, where he was screened from view by the chrysanthemums.

He smiled as he lighted a cigarette. Lady Violet's strategy was admirable. Nobody but she and himself knew of the visit to the solicitor. Mr. Wade was not to visit the house, and no communication from him was to be exposed to inquisitive eyes. It would be impossible for anyone to guess the purpose of Merrion's errand on Wednesday afternoon. The secret that Lady Violet was in the process of making a fresh will would be kept until she chose to reveal it herself. And then it would be revealed to her niece alone.

Her decision was masterly. She had rejected with scorn the suggestion that Olivia might take offensive action while her aunt was intestate. As matters had turned out, it seemed to Merrion himself highly unlikely. But Lady Violet had determined to take precautions against this remote possibility. The will was to be prepared and executed with the utmost speed. Then Olivia was to be given to understand that she had nothing to gain, and, for that matter, nothing to lose, by her aunt's death. She would be deprived of any motive for endeavouring to hasten that event.

And, for that matter, of taking any steps to contrive another intestacy. Nobody, including the principal beneficiary himself, was to know the provisions of the will. An unfortunate accident such as had resulted in the deaths of Dr. Murford and Nurse Penruddock, was to be guarded against, as far as possible. If nobody knew whom Lady Violet had made her heir, he might be considered as relatively safe.

Merrion began to wonder. He had become convinced that his suspicions were unfounded, and that Philip Sampson's assailant had not been Olivia. But the possibility remained that he, or she, had been acting on her behalf. Lady Violet had suggested a man disguised as a woman. Dr. Somerby? Where had he been when the attempt was made? Not at home, as two telephone calls had proved.

And yet such behaviour on Dr. Somerby's part seemed inexplicable. If he had, as Lady Violet believed, contrived the accidents that had proved fatal to his partner and Nurse Penruddock, he had done so with extraordinary dexterity. In comparison with these, the attempt on Philip Sampson's life had been clumsy in the extreme. And, to Dr. Somerby, who had other resources up his sleeve, entirely unnecessary. Since Dr. Murford's death, Philip had become his patient, a patient whose asthma required constant medical attention. And surely any doctor could find ways and means of terminating a delicate patient's life without the slightest fuss or bother. Such a method could have been not only neater but effectual.

Lady Violet was convinced that nobody could have learnt of her intentions towards the two victims of apparent accident. Merrion did not share that conviction, and it seemed to him that the most likely source of leakage had been the victims themselves. She had not told Dr. Murford of what he might expect, but something she had said to him might have enabled him to guess. She had told Nurse Penruddock, enjoining her to secrecy. But either of them might have betrayed her confidence.

Anyhow, someone must have found out. How else was the death of these two, who had successively been named by Lady Violet as her heirs, to be explained? By mere coincidence? Lady Violet had attributed entirely different motives to Dr. Somerby, and her opinion was by no means to be despised. Or it might be even that the accidents had been genuine. But, against this must be set the attempt upon Philip Sampson. That could not be construed as an accident, however one might choose to look upon it. Thus Merrion's thoughts went round in an unprofitable circle. He comforted himself in the reflection that there was no likelihood of further unpleasantness. Thanks to Lady Violet's precautions, her latest choice of heir was safe enough. Young Carew would perform his parochial duties in ignorance and safety.

Merrion was in the act of extinguishing his cigarette in the nearest flower-pot, when he suddenly stiffened. A dreadful thought had struck him. Young Carew! Could he possibly be at the bottom of all this? He had certainly, from all accounts, been very much on the spot last Saturday evening. Merrion remembered, from that one glance he had had of him, that he had noticed his delicate hands, almost like a woman's. His object? A perfectly simple one. To make Olivia her aunt's sole heiress, and then to marry her.

After a few moments thought. Merrion laughed aloud. It was, quite obviously, preposterous.

Even the chrysanthemums seemed to be bending mocking faces towards him. This was getting serious. Once again his imagination was getting the better of his judgment. Perhaps a spell of physical exercise would help him to cure it. He spent the time that remained before tea in sweeping up the apparently inexhaustible leaves.

CHAPTER XV

THE EVENING passed without incident. Olivia, though distant in her manner, did not appear either to avoid Merrion's company or to seek it. When he came downstairs next morning, he found on the hall table a letter addressed to himself in a familiar hand, with the Carmouth postmark. He tore it open, to find a note from Arnold. “Why do you hide yourself away in a place where you can't be got at on the telephone? The Super and I want a chat with you. We should be glad if you would come and see us at the police station here, as soon as possible after this reaches you.”

Nothing so very urgent, Merrion reflected. If it had been, the Superintendent would have sent a car out to fetch him. At breakfast, he remarked to Lady Violet that he might as well run into Carmouth, and see how Philip Sampson was getting on. Olivia asked her aunt's permission to take the Rolls-Royce to the garage before lunch, a request that was readily granted.

Merrion set out as soon as possible after breakfast. When he reached Carmouth police station, he found both Arnold and Perrin there. “Well, you haven't wasted much time in getting here, I'll say that for you,” the former greeted him. “Sit down. The Superintendent won't mind you lighting a cigarette, I'm sure. He wants to hear more about that young woman Miss Endicott.”

“I know very little more about Miss Endicott than you do,” Merrion replied. “I take it, Mr. Perrin, that what you really want to know is how I came to suspect her. Well, I'll tell you, as best I can.”

Perrin listened with an indulgent expression to what, Merrion had to say. “I understand from Mr. Arnold that you are by no means an amateur in criminal investigation,” he said when the story had come to an end. “But, if you will allow me to say so, there can be little doubt that in this case you have been misled. Lady Violet's argument, and the fact that the pistol had been missing from the case for years, are sufficient evidence of that. You will agree, I think?”

Merrion smiled. “I do. I am willing to confess that I have made an ass of myself.”

“I should not like to go as far as that,” Perrin replied. “You were perfectly right in asking Mr. Arnold to call on you at Dragonscourt. It will interest you to know that we have been making enquiries locally. One of our constables, who was on duty in the town on Saturday evening, knows Miss Endicott by sight. No by name, but merely as the lady who lives with Lady Violet at Dragonscourt. He saw her come from the car park and enter the Regal cinema soon after six o'clock He saw her come out again about a quarter past eight. He was patrolling the Market Place and the adjoining streets, and does not believe that she could have come out and gone in again between those times without him seeing her.”

“That seems to clinch the matter,” Merrion remarked.

“I think it does,” Perrin replied. “In any case, it seems to me most improbable that Lady Violet's niece should attempt to take her cousin's life. The Vernhams are about the most distinguished family in the county. Now, since you have become concerned in this matter, I see no reason why you should not be told of the new direction our investigations have taken. Perhaps you would like to tell your friend, Mr. Arnold?”

“I will,” Arnold replied. “When I got back from Dragonscourt on Sunday evening I told the Superintendent what I had heard there. It seemed to us both that, in spite of your suspicions. Miss Endicott wasn't the woman we wanted. Mr. Sampson hadn't been shot at because he was Lady Violet's nephew. It was up to us to try to think what other motive there might have been.”

Perrin nodded. “We agreed that, in our experience, murders are usually committed for motives of gain. When you and I first met, Mr. Merrion, we touched upon that subject. I think I remarked that if Mr. Sampson had not made a will. Lady Violet as his next of kin, would become his heir. But what if he had? A clue might be found in that direction. Go on, Mr. Arnold.”

“The simplest thing was to ask Mr. Sampson himself,” said Arnold. “We called at his house on Monday morning, and were told by Mrs. Oswald that he had recovered sufficiently from his shock to be out and about. He was out at the time we called, but we left a message with her, to ask him to make it convenient to call here in the afternoon. He came, and we talked to him, or rather the Superintendent did.”

“I began by running over the statement he had made on Saturday evening,” said Perrin. “He stuck to every word of it. He was more than ever convinced that the hand he had seen must have been a woman's. He could offer no suggestion as to who the woman could have been. Then, after further discussion, I veered round to the point. Had he made a will?

“Both Mr. Arnold and I noticed that he seemed rather reluctant to answer that question. He said it had nothing to do with what had happened. No woman had anything to gain by his death. Not even Mrs. Oswald, who had been amply provided for by his mother. I said in order to be assured of that, I must repeat the question. Had he made a will, and if so, in whose favour?

“He came out with it then. He said some little time ago he had made a will, but that there was no mention of any woman in it. He didn't suppose that a chap as delicate as he was could expect to outlive his contemporaries. So he had left all he possessed to his friend Hardy Norfolk, the only person who, since his mother's death, had shown him the slightest kindness. He went on to say that if I wasn't satisfied, he would tell his solicitor, here in Carmouth, that he might show me the will.”

Arnold laughed. “And there we came to a dead end. I've seen Mr. Norfolk, and had a good look at his hands. Nobody could possibly mistake them for a woman's.”

Perrin nodded. “Yes, I took Mr. Arnold to see him, at his office in the Cannery. The pretext, of course, was for Mr. Arnold to hear his statement at first hand. He repeated what you heard him tell me, Mr. Merrion. And he went on to say that he had seen Mr. Sampson that morning. I gather that Mr. Sampson had called on him at the office. And that Mr. Sampson had told him that he had been shot at by a woman.

“I told him that, as Mr. Sampson's friend, he probably knew more about the company he kept than anyone else. Could he make any suggestion as to who this woman might have been? He replied that he was quite unable to make any suggestion whatever. Mr. Sampson had always been afraid of women. More than once he had tried to introduce him to a nice girl, but he had simply run away. Frankly, Mr. Merrion, I don't blame him. Mr. Norfolk's idea of a nice girl is hardly yours or mine.”

“The Superintendent turned him over to me,” said Arnold, as Perrin paused. “I had taken an instant dislike to him the first moment I saw him. A rough, overbearing sort of chap, and insolent in his manner. It struck me he might very easily dominate his rather flabby friend. I asked him straight out if he was aware that Mr. Sampson had made a will in his favour.

“This seemed to get his goat, and he asked me what the hell that had to do with me. I told him that as a police officer, it was my duty to ask any question tending to throw light upon Mr. Sampson and his affairs. He blustered a bit, then admitted he was perfectly well aware of it, for Mr. Sampson had told him at the time. He had laughed at him, telling him that he took such jolly good care of himself that he'd probably live for ever. He had hardly given the matter a thought from that day to this. He added that in any case no one was likely to grow very fat on what Mr. Sampson left behind him when he died.”

“I was surprised at that remark,” said Perrin. “I had always supposed that Mr. Sampson was well-off. I daresay you got the same impression when you saw his house, Mr. Merrion. I asked Mr. Norfolk what he meant, and he replied, exactly what he had said. To anyone who didn't know him well, Mr. Sampson might appear to be economical to the point of cheeseparing. But as a matter of fact he did himself very well, and frittered away a lot of money buying pictures and rubbish like that. Mr. Norfolk assured me that he knew, from his friend's own words, that he had habitually overspent his income, and that the capital left him by his mother was rapidly diminishing. We have, so far, only Mr. Norfolk's word for that.”

“I tackled him again,” said Arnold. “I asked him if he could tell us exactly what time he had reached Mr. Sampson's house on Saturday evening. He replied that he could not say exactly, but it couldn't have been much after a quarter to eight. You'll remember, Merrion, that Mrs. Oswald says she left the house about a quarter past seven. That fixes the time at which the attempt was made within half an hour. I asked Mr. Norfolk what time he had left home that evening, and he said sometime between half-past six and seven.”

“Perhaps I had better explain,” Perrin put in. “Mr. Norfolk lives in the house his father built on the edge of the town, with a married couple who run it for him. That house is about ten minutes' walk from Mr. Sampson's.”

“Naturally, I asked Mr. Norfolk what he had been doing between the time he left home and the time he got to Mr. Sampson's house,” Arnold went on. “He said that he had been to the Car Bay Hotel, where he had had a drink and a snack in the bar. He said he always did that on Saturday evenings, for it was about his only chance of meeting people. He went on from there to look up Mr. Sampson.

“Now, I have been staying at the Car Bay for the last couple of nights. There aren't many people staying in the hotel, but quite a few people drift into the bar in an evening. Yesterday evening I had a chat with the barmaid. She told me that on Saturday the bar was crowded, as it always is that particular evening. It seems to be the occasion when the locals foregather there. She remembers Mr. Norfolk being there as usual. Fairly early in the evening, she thinks. But what time he came in or when he left, she can't say.”

“So you see, Mr. Merrion,” said Perrin, “we can sum it up this way. Mr. Norfolk has no alibi covering the time the shot was fired. He had a motive, the will made in his favour. His remark about Mr. Sampson having nothing to leave may have been an attempt to nullify that motive. On the other hand, there is a lot in his favour. I can't see Mr. Norfolk using so antiquated and uncertain a weapon as a duelling pistol. Nor can I see him leaving the job unfinished, though I remember your suggestion that on seeing his victim drop he may have supposed that he had shot him. But the strongest point of all is one upon which Mr. Arnold and I are agreed. Mr. Sampson can't have thought that Mr. Norfolk's hand was a woman's. And that's a point upon which we haven't been able to shake him. He insists that he saw a small hand and a veil.”

To gain a few minutes for reflection, Merrion lighted a second cigarette. “I fully appreciate that last point,” he said. “I have noticed Mr. Norfolk's hands myself. But it has been suggested to me that Mr. Sampson knows who his assailant was, but is doing his utmost to conceal his identity.”

“The devil it has!” Arnold exclaimed. “And who made such a suggestion, may I ask?”

“Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. “You will have appreciated for yourself that she has a first-class brain.”

“But what for?” Arnold demanded. “Why should anyone try to shield the man who tried to murder him?'

Merrion smiled. “Lady Violet did not go as far as that. Not, I imagine, from respect of the inviolate ties of former friendship. Possibly because an accusation would inevitably bring reprisals. You tell me that Mr. Sampson called on Mr. Norfolk in his office yesterday morning. May not the object of his visit have been to tell his friend what line he was taking with the police? And there is another possibility. By a threat to reveal his knowledge, he would be in a position to blackmail Mr. Norfolk.”

Perrin and Arnold stared at one another incredulously. “Come now, Mr. Merrion!” the former exclaimed. “You will pardon my reminding you that you have already made one suggestion which has turned out to be unfounded. By reprisals, you mean, I suppose, that Mr. Norfolk could reveal something to Mr. Sampson's discredit. Have you any evidence to support this?”

“None whatever,” Merrion replied. “I merely offer the suggestion for what it is worth. Arnold remarked just now that Mr. Norfolk might dominate his weaker friend, and I agree that it's highly likely. I would even go further than that, and say that he had the power to influence his mind.”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” Arnold asked.

“I'll explain my reason this way,” Merrion replied. “Suppose that at some time Mr. Sampson had strayed from the path of rectitude. Not very far, but sufficient for him to have committed some venial offence. You can connect it with a woman, if you like. That might account for his indignant denial of ever having anything to do with women. Mr. Norfolk knew of this, and used it as a tool to work upon his friend's mind. He enlarged upon it until in Mr. Sampson's mind it became a crime of the first magnitude. As the sole sharer of this secret Mr. Norfolk would be in a position to bring a powerful influence to bear upon his friend. Even perhaps to the extent of inducing him to make a will in his favour.”

“I find this most interesting, Mr. Merrion,” said Perrin. “Please go on.”

“It's only my imagination,” Merrion replied modestly. “And, as you point out, my imagination is apt to lead me astray. But it does seem to explain things. Sampson makes a will in Norfolk's favour. Norfolk takes steps to secure his inheritance. He bungles the job, and that, I admit, is the weak point in the chain. Sampson recognises his assailant, but dare not give him away. He knows that if he does, Norfolk will reveal what he has come to believe to be his own heinous crime. Alternatively, he believes that he can persuade Norfolk to buy his silence. So, to lead the investigation away from the truth, he invents a fictitious story of a woman's hand and veil.”

“Well, I don't know,” said Perrin doubtfully. “I'll admit that I have no high opinion of Norfolk. What do you say, Mr. Arnold?”

“It sounds a bit fanciful to me,” Arnold replied. “But then I've known Merrion's fancies turn up trumps before now. This is what sticks in my gizzard. You have given me the impression that you believe the attempt on Mr. Sampson to be connected in some way with those two unfortunate accidents.”

“Don't you?” Perrin replied. “Whether we do or not, we're bound to consider the possibility.”

“Of course we are,” Arnold agreed. “I've given you Merrion's explanation of how those accidents might have been contrived. If he's right, we're faced with three crimes, two successful and one unsuccessful. It is only natural to suppose that the criminal was the same in all three cases. It comes to this, then, did Mr. Norfolk murder Dr. Murford and Nurse Penruddock? And, if so, why?”

Perrin played with the pencil on his desk for a few moments before he replied. “It doesn't do to believe all the gossip that comes to one's ears in a place like this. But I have heard it said that at one time Mr. Norfolk wanted to marry Miss Manifold, as she was then. When Dr. Murford cut him out, he made no secret of his hatred for his rival. I know personally that they were always at daggers drawn. And I know that on one occasion at least Mr. Norfolk had words with Nurse Penruddock. She told him that he didn't look after his people at the Cannery properly.”

Merrion rose from his chair. “Since I have met Mr. Norfolk only once in my life, I can be of no help in this discussion. If indeed I have been of any help at all. Have I your permission to depart, Mr. Perrin? I give you my assurance that nothing you and Arnold have said in my presence will be repeated, at Dragonscourt or elsewhere.”

Perrin thanked him for his visit, and readily gave him the required permission. He left the police station, and started back towards Dragonscourt, rather doubtful of his wisdom in saying so much as he had. In spite of his good resolutions, he seemed to have started another hare. Well, it was up to the police to run this one down. It might be that Arnold and the Superintendent would unravel the mystery between them.

He returned to Dragonscourt in good time for lunch. As he put his car in the garage, he saw that the Rolls-Royce was not there. Olivia did not appear at the meal, but Lady Violet showed no concern at her absence. “I expect that whatever wanted doing took longer than Miss Jones thought,” she said. “She will be able to get lunch in Shopton, if she is detained. Well, Desmond, what news have you brought from Carmouth?”

“Excellent news. Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. “Mr. Sampson seems to have recovered completely from his shock. I have not seen him, but I am told he's up and about. Able to leave the house, in fact.”

“I am glad to hear of it,” said Lady Violet. “I hope he will take better care of himself in future. I find such incidents most distracting. Let us hope we shall hear no more about it.”

Merrion spent the afternoon in the garden. It seemed to him unlikely that Lady Violet had heard the last of the incident, as she chose to call it. Even if Norfolk was able to clear himself, it seemed hardly likely that the police would let the matter drop. The possibility remained that Philip Sampson's statement was correct, and that a woman had fired the shot. Where then was the clue by which to trace her?

When he re-entered the house, Olivia had not yet returned. But she came into the drawing-room while they were having tea. “I'm so sorry. Lady Violet,” she apologised. “You must have wondered where I've been to, all this time. When I got to the garage this morning, the man there looked the car over and said that it would take him some time to tune up the engine properly, and that I had best come back for it in the afternoon. So I went to the Castle Cafe, and had lunch there. But when I got back to the garage the car still wasn't ready, and I had to wait. But they've done the job very well, and the car's running beautifully now.”

“Then your day hasn't been wasted,” said Lady Violet. Merrion wondered whether Olivia might not have spun the time out to keep out of his way. When she had finished her tea, she made her excuses, on the score of having things to see to in the house. After a while, Merrion followed her example, leaving Lady Violet and Mavis in the drawing-room. As he came out into the hall, Olivia appeared and beckoned to him. “Come in here, please, Mr. Merrion. I have something to tell you.”

She took him into the dining-room and shut the door. “I didn't want to say anything before my aunt. You know how she hates the subject. But I saw Philip in Shopton to-day.”

“Did you. Miss Endicott?” Merrion replied politely. “You asked him how he was?” |

“I did not speak to him,” she said angrily. “I never have. It was at the Castle Cafe, where I went to lunch. He was sitting there at a table when I went in. I didn't want him to come and speak to me, even if he knows me by sight, which I very much doubt. But I sat down at a table as far away as I could get, with my back to him. Even though he saw me, he took no notice of me. And he wasn't alone.”

Merrion was struck by the dramatic tone of her voice. “Who was with him?” he asked.

“A girl,” she exclaimed triumphantly. “It's no good asking me who she was, for I don't know. And as I only took one glance at her, I can't describe her. Now I've told you. Perhaps it will give you and your friend Mr. Arnold someone to think about, other than me.”

CHAPTER XVI

SHE HAD GONE before Merrion could recover from his surprise. He stood for a moment or two, his eyes fixed on the door, half expecting her to come back. But no, she wouldn't do that. She had discharged her Parthian arrow, and retired in good order. No more was to be expected of her. At least, not now.

Feeling the need of solitary meditation, Merrion went out and strolled round the garden in the dusk. The first question must be had Olivia told him the truth, or had she invented her tale to divert attention from herself? On the whole, Merrion was inclined to the former view. She would hardly have gone out of her way to make a false statement which could so easily be disproved.

Well, if she had told the truth, she had certainly provided food for thought. She had convicted her cousin of deliberate and repeated falsehood. He had insisted, over and over again, that he never associated with women. In this, he had been supported by Mrs. Oswald and his friend Norfolk. The explanation might be that it was only in his native town that he so carefully avoided the company of the opposite sex. In Shopton he might regard himself as safe from observation.

Examining the matter from every point of view, Merrion sought a way out. Olivia admitted that she had only cast a hasty glance at the table at which Philip and his companion were sitting. It might be that they had not been companions at all. That the girl was a stranger to Philip, and, on entering the Castle Cafe, had sat down by chance at his table. But surely that wouldn't do. An inveterate misogynist, as Philip made himself out to be, would have found some means of escape from this hateful proximity.

The fact then, incredible though it might seem, must be faced. Philip had met a girl in Shopton and lunched with her there, presumably by appointment. There was no telling where the girl had come from. Possibly Carmouth, as Philip had himself, though it was most unlikely that they had travelled together. Olivia professed herself unable to give any description of the girl. Was Philip aware that they had been seen together by anyone who knew him? Possibly not, for it was unlikely that he had recognised Olivia as his aunt's companion. Certainly not as her niece, for that information could hardly have reached him.

The next and most obvious step was to link up the girl in the Castle Cafe with the girl who had fired the shot. But Merrion was even less satisfied than before that the shot had been fired by a woman. The fact that Philip's veracity had been disproved on one point laid his other statements open to suspicion. Besides, would anyone lunch amicably with his intending murderer, three days after the event?

It seemed impossible that this unknown girl should have been the author of the attempt on Philip's life. On the other hand, she might be involved in the guilty secret which Merrion had imagined. But that was beside the point, at least until the case against Norfolk had taken shape. After mature consideration, Merrion decided to keep the information which Olivia had given him to himself, at least for the present.

That evening passed without any deviation from the usual routine at Dragonscourt, as did Wednesday morning. At lunch that day Lady Violet gave Olivia her instructions. “I shall want you to go into Carmouth for me this afternoon. Miss Jones. I have made out a list of several things for you to get there. And you really must call at the Vicarage and make enquiries on my behalf. I am rather anxious at not having heard anything lately about how Mr. Manifold is. The last news I had of his health was not very satisfactory. If Mrs. Murford is there, as I expect she will be, she will give you a report to give me.”

Merrion smiled inwardly at this concern on Lady Violet's part for the state of the vicar's health. It was quite obvious to him that her object was to get her niece out of the way while he himself went to Shopton. The very fact that he had gone out was to be concealed from Olivia. Later, his suspicions were confirmed, for it was nearly tea-time before Lady Violet gave Olivia the list and despatched her.

Not long after her departure, Merrion set out himself. He reached Shopton at five o'clock precisely and found Mr. Wade ready for him. “Ah, here you are, Mr. Merrion!” said the solicitor. “I trust Lady Violet is quite well? Her health and spirits are really remarkable for one of her age. I have prepared the draft, as I promised her I would, and I have it here. I trust Lady Violet will approve of it. If she does, Mr. Carew will discover some day that he is a wealthy man. But we must hope that that day will be long deferred.”

Merrion took the envelope which Mr. Wade gave him and put it in his pocket. Then, bidding him good-evening, he left the office. He paused for a moment outside, wondering if he should call at the Castle Cafe. But he decided not to. It was not very likely that anyone there would remember Philip lunching there the previous day, or that, if they did, they would be able to give him any very useful information. Besides, Lady Violet would be anxiously awaiting his return. She would want him to get back before Olivia did.

He got into his car, and started back on the return journey. The sun had set an hour earlier, and, though it was not raining, the sky was overcast with a bank of heavy cloud. The town was well lighted, but beyond it the moorland over which the road ran was shrouded in complete darkness. However, his powerful headlights enabled Merrion to drive at speed until he reached the turning which led to Dragonscourt. In the narrow lane he was forced to proceed more slowly. There was that nasty corner, where at least one accident had happened already.

It certainly was an awkward spot. The lane, for a hundred yards or so, ran deceptively straight between high hedges on either side, down a fairly steep slope. Then, without the slightest warning, it turned almost back upon itself. At the turn, it crossed a narrow bridge over a stream, then wound its way up the further bank. It was the sort of place where a reckless driver might be expected to come to grief.

But Merrion was by no means a reckless driver. As he reached the head of the slope he slowed down to a safe and steady speed. His headlights showed the straight road in front of him clearly enough, but not which way it turned. Then, as he neared the corner, his headlights showed him something on the road, just short of it.

It was not until he had gone a few yards further that he was able to make out what it was, a bicycle lying flat on its side. That seemed curious, for he could see no sign of its rider. The bicycle was right in the middle of the road, with no room on either side for the car to pass. He would either have to drive over it, or move it out of the way.

The second alternative seemed the more sensible. He stopped the car, got out, and walked up to the obstacle. It was a man's bicycle, by no means new, but well-cared for. The front wheel was bent, but otherwise it seemed to be undamaged. As he bent down to pick it up, he saw the rider.

He hadn't been able to see him till now, for his body was lying in the shallow ditch beside the road, concealed by tall weeds. Only his head was protruding, and rested on the edge of the road, in a spreading pool of blood. He was wearing no hat, but a clerical collar encircled his neck.

Although as he lay the man's features were hidden from him, Merrion never doubted for an instant who he was. The incredible had happened. He knelt down beside him, to hear a faint moaning. Hastily he felt his pulse, to find that it was beating feebly. He was not dead, but unconscious. A closer inspection revealed that the blood was flowing from an ugly gash on his head.

As he bound this up as best he could, Merrion considered rapidly what was to be done. The nearest house was fully a mile away, and he did not like the idea of leaving him lying there while he went to get help. It was unlikely that Olivia had yet returned from Carmouth. If she hadn't, she would probably pass the spot on her way back to Dragonscourt, for though there was an alternative route, it was rather longer. What then? Get him into the car and take him to the county hospital at Shopton? It was a long way. Impulsively, Merrion decided on what seemed to him a better course. He would take him to Dragonscourt. He would be safe there. He lost no time in putting his decision into action. Lifting the bicycle, he deposited it in the ditch. Then he drove the car up as near as he could to the man, and opened the rear door. Summoning all his strength, he lifted him and laid him on the back seat. Then, jumping into the car, he drove as fast as he dared to Dragonscourt.

At the front entrance he leapt out, ringing a long peal, on the bell before he entered the hall. He waited there a moment or two, until as he hoped and expected, the butler appeared. “Yes, sir?” he asked respectfully.

“I've got Mr. Carew in the car outside,” Merrion replied in a hushed voice. “He's taken a toss off his bicycle, and we shall have to get him up to one of the spare rooms. Get one of the spare leaves from the dining-room table. And be as quick as you can.”

The butler's training had taught him not to ask unnecessary questions. With a curt “Very good, sir,” he went off, to return with the leaf. Between them he and Merrion got the still unconscious Colin Carew on to this, carried him up to a spare room and laid him on the bed there. “Where is Lady Violet?” Merrion asked.

“Her ladyship and Mrs. Merrion are in the drawing-room, sir,” the butler replied.

“I must be off and get hold of the doctor,” said Merrion. “Tell Lady Violet what we have done.” He ran downstairs and jumped into his car again. Lady, Violet had pointed out to him Dr. Somerby's house on the Sunday he had gone to church with her at Highmoor. He drove straight there and rang the bell. The doctor's housekeeper opened the door to him. “The doctor went out only a few minutes ago,” she replied to his question. “He's on his way to the Carmouth surgery.”

Merrion glanced at his watch. The time was a few minutes before six. The doctor would hardly have reached the surgery yet, but there might be somebody there. The housekeeper gave him permission to use the telephone. He rang up and a female voice answered him. “This is the Carmouth surgery.”

“I understand that you are expecting Dr. Somerby,” Merrion said. “As soon as he arrives will you ask him to come at once to Dragonscourt to attend to a serious head injury? The patient is unconscious.”

“I will,” the voice replied. “I do hope that it is not Lady Violet who has been injured?”

“No, I am happy to say that it is not Lady Violet,” said Merrion. “I am speaking on her behalf, and my name is Merrion.” He rang off before any further questions could be asked. He had no idea whose the voice might be, and there was no point in letting the news spread all over Carmouth. At least till Carew had been able to give some account of what had happened to him. That is to say, when he recovered consciousness, if he ever did. Merrion fancied that he would, for he did not think his skull was fractured.

Merrion thanked the housekeeper, and drove back to Dragonscourt. As he put his car away he saw the Rolls-Royce standing in the garage. Olivia was back then. Not until he was entering the front door did he remember the envelope he was carrying in his pocket. He went into the drawing-room, where he found Lady Violet sitting alone. “Ah, there you are, Desmond,” she said tranquilly. To all appearances, this unceremonious dumping of an injured man at Dragonscourt had not perturbed her in the least. “I have been told what you have done, and I fully approve. What does it all mean?”

“That I cannot tell you. Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. “It's the parable of the Good Samaritan over again. I found Mr. Carew lying by the roadside, and carried him not to the inn, but to where I knew he would be well looked after. I'm very much relieved to hear that you approve. I have left a message for Dr. Somerby to come here at once. Mr. Wade gave me this for you.”

Lady Violet took the envelope which Merrion handed to her. “Thank you, Desmond. I am greatly obliged to you. We will talk about the other matter later. Mavis is sitting with Mr. Carew. Will you wait for the doctor, and take him up when he comes? If I am wanted, I shall be in my boudoir.”

She rose and went out, leaving Merrion a prey to a dozen questions. What had young Carew been doing, so far outside his own parish? That particular lane led only to Dragonscourt and the few farms surrounding it. Then there had been no mention or sight of Olivia. Had she been told? Surely, for, always with the exception of Lady Violet, the household must be buzzing with excitement. It was Mavis, not Olivia, who was standing by.

That was all to the good. The patient's life might be in her hands.

Merrion went to the front door. He had not long to wait before the lights of a car appeared in the drive. The car drew up, and Dr. Somerby alighted from it, bag in hand. “Good-evening, Mr. Merrion,” he said, recognising him as he came forward. “I got your message, and here I am. Who has been injured?”

“Mr. Carew,” Merrion replied, watching him closely.

“Mr. Carew!” Somerby exclaimed. Merrion thought he detected a tone of resentment in his voice. “The curate from Carmouth, you mean? What's he doing here?”

“I brought him here,” Merrion replied. “I'll take you up to him.” They ascended the wide shallow stairs, and Merrion led the way to the room. Mavis was in a chair by the bed, on which Colin Carew lay. “My wife,” said Merrion. “I don't think you've met her. Well, there's your patient.”

Once at the bedside, Somerby's manner became strictly and expertly professional. He removed the rough and ready bandage Merrion had applied and examined the gash. “I shall have to put a few stitches in that,” he said. “Now, Mr. Merrion, I shouldn't like to take the responsibility for his being moved, for the present. Do you think Lady Violet would allow him to remain where he is?”

“I'm sure she would,” Merrion replied. “So sure, that I'm pretty certain I needn't ask her.”

“Very well,” said Somerby. “Now I must go over him properly. Do you think you could help me to undress him, Mrs. Merrion?”

“I'll go and get a pair of my pyjamas to put on him when you've finished,” said Merrion.

“And some hot water, if you don't mind,” Somerby replied. Dragonscourt was not modernised to the extent of having running water in the bedrooms. But there was a bathroom close by, and in two or three minutes Merrion returned, to find Somerby completing his examination. “He's got a few bruises, besides that gash on the head,” he said at length. “But I can't find any bones broken. He's suffering from concussion, and how long he'll remain unconscious I can't say. How did this happen?”

“He appears to have fallen off his bicycle,” Merrion replied. “I found him lying by the roadside.”

Somerby looked at him searchingly. “Did you? Well, it's lucky somebody found him. Have you got that water? Good, I'll wash out this gash before I sew it up.”

He set to work. Mavis helping him. As he put the finishing touches, he spoke again. “He'll want pretty careful looking after for a bit. I'll try to get hold of a nurse, but they're hard to come by, these days.”

“I know a little about nursing,” Mavis replied. “I was a V.A.D. in the first war, and I don't think I've altogether forgotten what I learnt then.”

Somerby smiled pityingly. “Methods have changed a good deal since those days, Mrs. Merrion. However, I feel sure that I can safely leave the patient in your hands for the present. The chief thing to remember is that he must be kept absolutely quiet, and see nobody. And I had better tell you this. When people recover consciousness after a crack on the head like that, they often have no recollection of what happened immediately before it.”

“You mean that he may not be able to account for his falling off the bicycle?” Merrion asked.

“That's exactly what I do mean,” Somerby replied, packing up his bag preparatory to departure. “I think he'll be all right for the present, and I'll look in again early to-morrow morning. I must hurry back to the Carmouth surgery now. It's a nuisance Dragonscourt isn't on the telephone.”

“If any alarming symptoms develop during the night, I can run over to Highmoor in my car and fetch you,” Merrion remarked. He accompanied Somerby downstairs, and as they reached the hall Olivia came towards them. It was marvellous to Merrion how that girl appeared and disappeared. “Good-evening, Dr. Somerby!” she exclaimed anxiously. “Do tell me how Mr. Carew is? He's not dangerously hurt, is he?”

Somerby seemed by no means pleased at her solicitude. “A blow on the head is always dangerous. Miss Jones,” he replied coldly. “I cannot tell you how serious Mr. Carew's condition is until I see him again.” As he moved towards the front door, Olivia followed him. Merrion went in the opposite direction, towards the door of the boudoir, and opened it softly. “May I come in, Lady Violet?”

“Of course, Desmond,” Lady Violet replied. She was sitting at her bureau writing. “Come in and smoke your cigarette. I have been studying the draft you so kindly brought me. Mr. Wade has carried out my instructions exactly. I am writing a note to thank him, and to draw up the will accordingly, and with the least possible delay. Perhaps you will be good enough to take it to him to-morrow. And how is Mr. Carew? Has the doctor been to see him yet?”

“Dr. Somerby has just been,” Merrion replied. “He has expressed no definite opinion, but Mr. Carew appears to be in no immediate danger. Mavis has undertaken to nurse him.”

“That is very sweet of her,” said Lady Violet. “And of course Olivia will be able to help her. She nursed her mother through her last illness, she tells me.”

Merrion hesitated. “I'm not sure that would be altogether wise, Lady Violet. We ought, I think, to ask Dr. Somerby first. He told Mavis that Mr. Carew must be kept absolutely quiet, and see nobody.”

Lady Violet looked at him searchingly. “Again, Desmond? I'm surprised at you. We will certainly consult Dr. Somerby when he comes again. Now, tell me exactly what happened.”

Merrion described how he had found Colin Carew. “It's quite obvious that he had a violent fall from his bicycle. But how or why there was nothing to show. Somebody or something coming round that nasty corner may have run into him, and gone on and left him there. But, if it was a simple accident, it was the most extraordinary coincidence I've ever come across.”

Lady Violet tapped the draft lying on her bureau with the end of her pen. “You are alluding to that, of course, Desmond. But it cannot be. You are a witness of the extreme precautions I have taken.”

“I know,” Merrion replied. “I am as incredulous as you are yourself. I cannot understand how your intentions can possibly have become known. But we have to face the extraordinary fact that the accident to Mr. Carew follows those to Dr. Murford and Nurse Penruddock.”

“A strange fate seems to dog those whom I wish to benefit,” said Lady Violet. “Do you believe that Mr. Carew will recover from his injuries?”

“I do,” Merrion replied. “And I think that Dr. Somerby does too, though he doesn't want to express a definite opinion just yet. The whole affair is most mysterious to me. What was Mr. Carew doing on his bicycle at that particular spot, and that particular time?”

“Your manner betrays you, Desmond,” said Lady Violet severely. “You have already answered those questions to your own satisfaction. He might expect to meet Olivia, on her way home from Carmouth, at that place and time. From that you jump to the conclusion that she was responsible for yet another outrage. Tell me, is that not so?”

“That's putting it rather strongly. Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. “But I should like to know where Miss Endicott was at the time the accident happened.”

“At what time did it happen?” Lady Violet asked sharply.

Merrion shook his head. “That I cannot say. I looked at the clock on my dashboard after I picked up Mr. Carew, and was starting for here. It was then just half-past five. I do not know how long he had been lying there before I found him. Not more than a few minutes, I should say.”

“I see,” said Lady Violet. “It was just six o'clock when Olivia came in. She told me she had been to the vicarage, where Mrs. Murford had given her rather better news of her father, the vicar. We will ask her what she did after she left there, and you shall hear her answer.”

“Miss Endicott was in the hall a minute or two ago,” Merrion replied. “I'll see if she's still there.”

As he left the room Lady Violet closed her bureau and locked it. He reached the hall just as Olivia was entering by the front door, and he heard the scrunch of gravel as Dr. Somerby's car moved off. Olivia's eyes were smouldering, and she looked angry. She and Dr. Somerby had had a disagreement over something, Merrion supposed. “Will you come into the boudoir?” he asked. “Lady Violet wishes to speak to you.”

Without replying, she followed him to the door, which he opened, and they both went in. Lady Violet had left the bureau, and was sitting in a chair by the fire. “Here you are, dear,” said Lady Violet, with an air of protection, Merrion thought. “You were telling me about your talk with Sally Murford at the vicarage. What time did you leave her there?”

“I didn't leave her there,” Olivia replied. “When I said I must go, she asked me if I would give her a lift as far as the surgery. She told me that since Nurse Penruddock's death, she always goes there in the evening to help Dr. Somerby with the patients. She went to say good-bye to Mr. Manifold, and we left together. That must have been about half-past five. I dropped her at the surgery, then came on here.”

“You came back by the shortest way, I expect,” Lady Violet remarked tranquilly.

“I came straight back, but not exactly by the shortest way,” Olivia replied. “I didn't come by the corner where Nurse Penruddock got mixed up with the baker's van. I never do, if I can help it. I came round by the old mill. And just before I got to it I overtook Mrs. Prage from the lodge, and picked her up. She had been into Carmouth, and was walking back from the bus stop.”

She paused, and looked Merrion full in the face. “Mr. Merrion was driving his car when he found Mr. Carew, I hear. I daresay if he wanted to, he could tell you how the accident happened.”

CHAPTER XVII

DR. SOMERBY called at Dragonscourt next morning, before the breakfast hour. “I thought I'd look in now” he said to Mavis, when the butler had shown him up to the sick room. “Before I went along to Carmouth for the morning surgery. How's your patient, Mrs. Merrion? I'd better have a look at him.”

He was nothing if not thorough. “I haven't much doubt about his complete recovery now,” he said when he had completed his examination. “He's already showing signs of regaining consciousness. When he does, it will be no good telling him he mustn't talk. If he's got anything on his mind he feels he must say, it'll only worry him if he isn't allowed to say it. All the same, he must be kept as quiet as possible, and I'd rather that nobody nursed him but you. Can you manage that?”

“Oh, yes, easily,” Mavis replied. “He was perfectly quiet last night, and I got several snatches of sleep. And as soon as he becomes conscious, it won't be necessary for me to be in the room all the time.”

“That'll be all right, then,” said Somerby. “You won't let people come in and chatter to him, will you? Lady Violet has told you that she was expecting him yesterday evening?”

Mavis stared at him in astonishment. “Expecting him? No, she has told me nothing of the kind.”

Somerby smiled. “It is Lady Violet's way to be secretive. Well, I'll tell you, Mrs. Merrion, but don't let Lady Violet know that I've said anything. I had it from Mrs. Murford, who has been good enough to help me in surgery this last week or so. When I got there yesterday evening after I had been here, she asked me at once who it was at Dragonscourt who had been hurt. I told her it was her father's curate, and that I wondered what he had been doing in that direction. Then she said it was because Lady Violet had sent for him.”

“I can't understand that,” Mavis replied. “Are you quite sure?”

“Mrs. Murford is,” said Somerby. “And I don't think there can be any doubt about it. It seems that Mr. Carew has no telephone at his lodgings, and has arranged with Mr. Manifold that any calls for him are made to the vicarage. Mrs. Murford spends a good deal of her time there in attendance on her father. Mr. Manifold has a new maid, quite an intelligent girl, but a stranger to this county.

“When Mrs. Murford came back to the vicarage yesterday afternoon, about two o'clock, after lunching at home, this maid showed her a telephone message which had come through a few minutes before, and which she had taken down. It was to the effect that Lady Violet Vemham would like to see Mr. Carew at Dragonscourt between five and six, if that would be convenient to him. Mrs. Murford, knowing that Mr. Carew always called at the vicarage during the afternoon, told the girl to give him the message when he came. She was upstairs with her father when Mr. Carew did call shortly afterwards, and she didn't see him. Later, however, the maid told her that she had given him the paper on which she had written the message. Now, please don't say anything to Lady Violet about this. She may have her own reasons for keeping the matter to herself. Now I must be off. I'll look in again this evening, before I go to Carmouth.”

A couple of minutes after Somerby had left the room, Merrion came in. “I saw the doctor go out,” he said. “But as he seemed in a tearing hurry, I didn't stop him. What's the verdict? Lady Violet is bound to ask as soon as she comes down.”

“Dr. Somerby seemed quite happy about the patient,” Mavis replied. “But he has just told me the most extraordinary thing. Listen, and I'll tell you.”

“I don't believe it!” Merrion exclaimed when Mavis had repeated what Somerby had said. “Lady Violet would never have sent for young Carew without letting me know. I have my own reasons for being quite sure of that. Who gave that message over the telephone, and from where? There's something very fishy about this.”

“Well, don't go and put your foot in it again,” said Mavis. “And I'll tell you something else that Dr. Somerby said to me. He didn't want anybody else but me to nurse Mr. Carew. And that, I suppose, includes Olivia.”

Merrion laughed softly. “I expect it applies exclusively to Olivia. Somerby, unless I am much mistaken, is suffering from the pangs of jealousy. It must be very galling to him to find his rival installed under the same roof as the object of their common affections. He'll do his best to keep them apart, you may be sure. Well, I must run down and tell Lady Violet the good news. But I won't say anything about that message, just yet.”

He found Lady Violet and Olivia at the breakfast table, and told them the doctor's opinion. “I am delighted to hear that Mr. Carew may be expected to recover from his injuries,” Lady Violet replied. “He will of course remain here until he is fit to return to his duties. I can only hope that Mr. Manifold will be able to find a substitute until then.”

Whatever Olivia's feelings might have been, she maintained her usual reserve. When breakfast was over, Merrion announced his intention of taking a stroll round the garden. If Lady Violet wanted him to take her note to Mr. Wade she would know where to find him.

As he went out by the front door, he saw a car coming up the drive, and waited. As it reached him he saw that it was driven by a policeman in uniform, with Arnold as a passenger. He opened the door and put his head inside. “Hallo, what brings you here? Looking for someone?”

“Yes, you,” Arnold replied shortly. “Jump in. I want to talk to you.”

Merrion obeyed, and seated himself beside Arnold. “What the dickens have you been up to now?” the latter demanded irritably. “It has been reported to the Superintendent that a serious accident happened last night. The Carmouth curate knocked off his bicycle and badly damaged. And that it was you who found him. The Superintendent wants to know what you have to say for yourself. He said to me, pretty pointedly, that it's only since you've been in these parts that accidents have become so frequent.”

“Yes, I know,” Merrion replied quietly. “And I can venture a shrewd guess as to who reported the matter. Dr. Somerby looked at me rather queerly when I told him I had found Mr. Carew. And he's not the only one. The best thing will be for us to go to the spot. If your man will turn the car round, I'll show him the way.”

Arnold nodded, and they drove to the comer, where he and Merrion got out. “It's a nasty place,” Merrion remarked. “Accidents have happened here before, I'm told. Mr. Carew's bicycle ought still to be where I left it yesterday evening. Yes, here it is. You'll understand that I couldn't very well leave it in the middle of the road. Now I'll tell you all I know. I was coming not from Carmouth, but from Shopton.”

Arnold listened to Merrion's description. “Yes, that's all very well. But are you sure you didn't run him down yourself?”

“Quite sure,” Merrion replied. “And I think I can prove it to you that I didn't. As I tell you, I was travelling from Shopton towards Dragonscourt. Mr. Carew was also riding towards Dragonscourt. I'll tell you in a moment how I know that. Now look at the bicycle. The front wheel is buckled, but the rear mudguard is not bent or even scratched. We were both travelling in the same direction; had I run him down, it must have been from behind, hitting the back and not the front of the bicycle. Isn't that so?”

“Well, I suppose it is,” Arnold agreed, not without slight doubt. “How do you know Mr. Carew was going towards Dragonscourt?”

“Because he received a message asking him to be there between five and six,” Merrion replied. “He didn't tell me that himself, for he's incapable as yet of telling anybody anything. But you can check up on it for yourself. Mavis had it from Dr. Somerby, who had it from Mrs. Murford. Carew hadn't been to Dragonscourt when I found him, so he must have been going there. That at least is simple enough.”

“Who sent that message?” Arnold asked.

“That's a question for you to answer,” Merrion replied gravely. “The message purported to come from Lady Violet. I haven't as yet asked her if she sent it, but I know as certainly as one can know anything that she didn't. That message was a hoax, designed to bring Carew to this particular spot, after dark. And, since I've heard of the message, it's been clear enough to me that he wasn't knocked off his bicycle by accident.”

“You must realise well enough that this is a serious matter,” said Arnold. “Will you give me your word that you had nothing to do with it?”

“I will,” Merrion replied. “I have told you the exact truth about my finding him. You see where that bicycle's lying. Within a foot or two, it's where I found young Carew. And you see that gate, just beyond it, leading into the field? Except where the lane crosses the stream, it's the only gap in the high hedges for a hundred yards or more.”

“Yes, I see all that,” said Arnold. “What about it?”

“It's just the place for an ambuscade,” Merrion replied. “This is about how I see it. There's a fairly frequent bus service between Carmouth and Shopton, along the main road. Carew might have taken a bus to the stopping place at the end of this lane and walked the rest of the way. Or he might, as we must suppose he did, set out to ride the whole distance. In either case, he would almost certainly pass the spot where we are standing now.

“Now we must imagine another person, whom for simplicity's sake we'll call X, who reached the spot before Carew is due. We needn't waste time guessing how X got here. By car or bus to some convenient point, then across the fields. X is provided with a stout stick, or something similar, and settles down just outside the gate, half in the ditch and half out of it, among those tall weeds. Carew couldn't have seen X as he was coming along, if indeed he ever saw anybody. X, on the other hand, could see the approaching lamp of a bicycle, or torch of a man on foot. Anyone walking would have needed a torch, for it was infernally dark.

“Very well. X waits until he sees the lamp on Carew's bicycle coming down the hill, then prepares for action. At the moment the bicycle comes abreast, X thrusts his stick through the spokes of the front wheel. That brings Carew tumbling off headlong. It may be that is when he got the gash on his head, but I rather think not. It seems to me more likely that X clouted him with the stick as he lay on the ground, just to make quite sure.”

“The object being murder, then?” Arnold asked.

“What else?” Merrion replied. “Not highway robbery. Curates don't as a rule carry valuables round with them. And, mark this. If someone hadn't found him pretty soon it would have been a case of murder. Not many people use this lane after dark. He might have lain here all night, in which case he would certainly have died before morning of loss of blood and exposure.”

“But who can have wanted to murder Mr. Carew?” Arnold asked incredulously.

Merrion smiled. “No, you're not catching me out again. Who can have wanted to murder Philip Sampson? I'm not doing any more guessing. In this case both my guesses have, or appear to have, perfect alibis. But I've given you the clue, if you care to follow it up. Find out who telephoned the message to the vicarage, and you've solved the unknown quantity X. It's a simple algebraical equation.”

“The Super will want to see you about this,” said Arnold. “But not to-day. He's gone to the magistrates' court at Shopton, and doesn't expect to be back until late. And speaking of the Super, there's something else I have to tell you. In spite of what he said to me about you, he's got something to your credit in his ledger.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Merrion replied. “The account may balance in the end. What is it?”

“Your suggestion that Mr. Sampson might be guilty of something which his friend Norfolk knew about,” said Arnold. “He's a persevering sort of bloke, and he hasn't abandoned all hope that Mr. Sampson's assailant may have left some clue behind. Yesterday he and I went round to the house. Mr. Sampson was not at home, but Mrs. Oswald let us in and we poked about. There was one room that had never been properly examined, the dining-room. Mrs. Oswald told us that Mr. Sampson hadn't used it since his mother's death, and he preferred to have his meals in the lounge.

“However, we set to work and had a look round. There's a big oak sideboard there, with cupboards in the the bottom of it. There was nothing standing on the sideboard, but the cupboards were locked, and that aroused our curiosity. No key was in either of the locks, which were of the ordinary lever type, and the Superintendent opened one of them with a key of his own. Inside was a pair of old-fashioned goblets, which hadn't been cleaned for so long that they were nearly black.

“The Super took them out and looked at them, and the first thing he said was ' Mr. Merrion was right!' Then he went on to tell me what he meant. Some years ago there was a burglary at a big house not far outside Carmouth. From the butler's pantry a chest had been taken, in which was a quantity of plate, all of which had the family crest, the head of a knight in armour. The police had been given a list of these at the time, and one of the items was a pair of silver goblets. And, sure enough, these goblets we'd found were engraved with the head of a bloke wearing a helmet, plain enough.”

“Does the Superintendent believe that Mr. Sampson was the burglar?” Merrion asked.

“No, he doesn't,” Arnold replied. “This is the way he looks at it. The burglar, or burglars, for it must have taken at least two of them to carry away that chest, must have been a bit disappointed when they examined their swag. No ordinary fence would look at the stuff, for the crest on it gave it away completely. They might melt it down, or they might dispose of it bit by bit to collectors who would be so glad to get it cheap that they wouldn't ask questions.”

“I see the idea,” said Merrion. “Someone who knew Mr. Sampson's passion for collecting curios offered him the goblets, and he bought them.”

“Knowing them to have been stolen,” Arnold replied. “He must have known, for everybody in Carmouth had known of the burglary, and a photograph of the crest was published in all the local papers. The Super is going to send for Mr. Sampson, and tell him that he knows the stolen goblets are in his possession. The idea is that when he knows his guilty secret is out, he'll have no further reason for shielding Mr. Norfolk.”

“Not a bad argument, on the whole,” Merrion remarked. “I shall be interested to hear what happens.”

“That's just it,” Arnold replied. “The Super thinks that as the original hint was yours, it might be as well if you were handy when he interviews Mr. Sampson. That will be to-morrow morning. And, as I said just now, he'll want to see you about this affair of Mr. Carew. You'd better be at the police station at ten o'clock.”

“I shall be there,” said Merrion. “Meanwhile, hadn't you better collect this bicycle as evidence?”

“We'll pick it up later,” Arnold replied. “We'll take you back to Dragonscourt, and collect the bicycle on our way back to Carmouth. Give my respects to that remarkable old lady. And don't forget, ten o'clock tomorrow morning.”

It was past noon when Merrion, having been dropped at the lodge, walked up the drive towards Dragonscourt. As he entered the house by the front door, Lady Violet met him in the hall. “I saw you coming as I looked out of the drawing-room window, Desmond. Will you come with me into the boudoir for a few minutes?”She led him to the room, so very much her own, and waited until, at her invitation, almost at her command, he had sat down and lighted a cigarette. “I have had a strange and rather disturbing interview with Olivia,” she continued.

“I'm sorry to hear that. Lady Violet,” Merrion replied. “Was it on my account?”

“In a way, it was,” said Lady Violet. “After you had gone out this morning, I took her to task for being so rude to you yesterday evening. She replied, not without some show of reason, that since you had accused her of shooting at Philip, she had every right to accuse you of running down Mr. Carew.”

“I bear no malice,” Merrion replied. “She and I may agree to call it quits.”

“Perhaps you will,” said Lady Violet guardedly. “But that was by no means all. I went on to tell her that the time had come when I must ask her for an explanation of her behaviour. Her reserve was so marked that it suggested she was nursing some secret resentment. Was that the case?”

Lady Violet frowned. “It was really most ridiculous. Olivia seemed completely to lose control of herself. It was as if my question had released a flood which had been pent up since she first came here. She poured out a stream of complaints, in words so incoherent that my memory does not retain them. I did not treat her as my niece, but merely as my paid companion. I never told her anything, but I had taken two strangers, meaning you and Mavis, completely into my confidence. She had been accused of trying to murder her cousin, to whose existence she was entirely indifferent. She wasn't trusted. Dr. Somerby had told her, no doubt at your instigation, that she mustn't help in nursing Mr. Carew.

“Finally, and this was what hurt me most, she told me from what she had heard of Philip Sampson, it was obvious to her that he had means of his own. Why hadn't she? His income could only be derived from a sum of money left to his mother by my father. Why had her mother never received a similar sum? She couldn't believe that my father had provided for two of his daughters, and completely ignored the third. She practically accused me of suppressing a clause in my father's will in favour of my sister Rose.”

“This seems to be a house of accusation,” said Merrion quietly. “You told your niece not to talk nonsense?”

“I did not,” Lady Violet replied. “I told her that I had heard enough for the present, and that we would return to the subject on another occasion. I wish to convince Olivia that her suspicions are baseless, but I have not a copy of my father's will in my possession. Mr. Wade has one, of course. I have written to him, enclosing the draft will he drew up for me, and expressing my full approval of it.

“Now, this is what I want you to do for me, Desmond. To my note, I have added a request to Mr. Wade that he will give you the copy of my father's will to bring back to me. Will you take him this note and bring back what he gives you? The sooner you do that for me, the more grateful I shall be.”

“I will drive over to Shopton immediately after lunch, Lady Violet,” Merrion replied.

CHAPTER XVIII

HE WAS as good as his word and set off immediately the meal was over. As he entered the outskirts of Shopton, he saw that it was barely two o'clock. Very probably Mr. Wade would not yet be back from lunch. Merrion felt he would rather take a stroll round the town than sit kicking his heels in the office.

He found a place in which to park the car, then walked away, with no particular object in view. Shopton was not a large place, and it took him only a few minutes to traverse the centre of the town. A signboard caught his eye, The Castle Cafe, and for a moment he hesitated. No, it wouldn't be any good. Besides, trade was too brisk for anyone to have much time for him. People were constantly coming out of the door, and hurrying away to their places of business. Among them a girl, whom he was sure he had seen before, though for the moment he could not place her. He glanced at his watch. Mr. Wade ought to be back in his office by now.

In this expectation, Merrion strolled on in that direction. He observed idly that the girl he had seen was in front of him, going the same way as he was. He made no attempt to overtake her. She reached the doorway beside which was the plate bearing the names of Ford, Bridge and Wade, and walked straight in. Then he remembered who she was. The girl whom young Carew had rescued from the clutches of Hardy Norfolk. What was her name, now? Miss Salcombe. That was it.

Merrion followed her through the doorway, then entered the enquiry office. The young man there informed him that Mr. Wade had returned from lunch some minutes ago. With very little delay, he was shown into the inner room, where Mr. Wade rose to greet him. “Good-afternoon, Mr. Merrion. I can guess what brings you here. I hope Lady Violet approves of the draft I made for her?”

“I believe she does,” Merrion replied. “She has, asked me to bring you this letter.”

Mr. Wade read the letter. “I am very glad to learn of Lady Violet's approval. Will you be good enough to assure her that I will draw up the document at once? Lady Violet writes that when I have done so, she will come here to execute it. I would suggest next Monday, at any time that suits her convenience. Ah, yes, and she wishes to see a copy of the late Lord Vernham's will. Will you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Merrion, while I get it from the strong-room?”

The solicitor went out, to return in a few minutes with a bulky document tied up in red tape. “This is it,” he said. “Will you be good enough to deliver it to Lady Violet, with my compliments? And to ask her to return it to me when she has finished with it, as it is the only copy I have?”

Merrion left the office and returned to Dragonscourt. Lady Violet was sitting alone in the drawing-room, and he gave her the document and Mr. Wade's message. “Thank you, Desmond. It is very good of you to run errands for me like this. I will look through this document to refresh my memory, then Olivia shall read it for herself. Yes, Monday morning will suit me very well. Perhaps you will drive me to Shopton again then.”

Merrion assured her that he would be delighted. They were still talking when Mavis came in. “I don't want to disturb you. Lady Violet,” she said. “I just ran down for a moment to say that Mr. Carew is conscious and talking quite rationally. He wants me to thank you for letting him stay here. He doesn't remember what happened to him. I told him that Desmond picked him up, and he's very anxious to see him.”

“I am very glad to hear such good news of Mr. Carew,” Lady Violet replied. “Please tell him that I will not hear of his leaving Dragonscourt until he has fully recovered. You had better go and see him at once, Desmond.”

Merrion went upstairs with Mavis to Carew's room. He was lying in bed, propped up on pillows, looking very pale, but with his wits about him. “This is my husband, Mr. Carew,” said Mavis.

He held out a hand, which Merrion grasped for a moment. “I am happy to meet my rescuer,” he said. “I am perfectly well aware that but for you, and Mrs. Merrion's nursing, I shouldn't be alive now.”

“I don't know about that,” Merrion replied. “Anyhow, we're all glad that you're so much better. But you'll have to lie up for a bit, and take it easy.”

“Not for very long, I hope,” said Carew. “I don't want to make a nuisance of myself a minute longer than I can help. And I don't want to put Mr. Manifold to the trouble of getting somebody to take my place. I had one or two crashes when I was flying during the war, and managed to get over them fairly quickly.”

Merrion shook his head. “You'll have to do what the doctor tells you. You don't remember what happened to you?”

“I'll tell you all that I remember. I got Lady Violet's message. Yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Merrion tells me it was, but I feel that I've been knocked out for a century. I thought it would take me about an hour to ride to Dragonscourt, so I started on my bicycle from Carmouth about half-past four. I come along the main road, and turned into the lane which leads here. I wasn't quite sure of my way after that, and meant to ask, but it was a particularly dark evening, and there didn't seem to be a soul about, so I kept straight on. I remember freewheeling down a hill, and being suddenly blinded by a light shining full in my eyes. After that I remember nothing till I woke up and found myself here.”

“Well, don't worry any more about it,” said Merrion. “Your bicycle is in safe hands, you'll be glad to know.”

“The only thing I'm worrying about is Lady Violet's message,” Carew replied. “I've disappointed her.”

“Not very seriously,” said Merrion. “Lady Violet says you're to stay here till you're all right again. Now I'm going to leave you, for the doctor's orders are that you are not to talk too much.”

He went downstairs and out into the garden. That last recollection of Carew's had shaken him pretty badly, for it seemed to upset completely the theory he had expounded to Arnold. His confounded imagination had played tricks with him again. Was it possible that it was becoming undermined by senile decay? The light flashing suddenly into Carew's eyes could only have been the headlights of a car coming swiftly round the bend. The driver had crashed into the bicycle, and gone on his way without stopping to see what he had done. Or perhaps he hadn't actually crashed into it at all, but merely grazed it, sufficient to throw the rider off his balance. If so, the driver might have been unaware of the impact.

As he paced the garden paths, Merrion began to perceive the objections to this. Owing to the hedges bordering the lane, Carew might not have actually seen the headlights of a car coming down the slope on the other side of the stream. But, on such a dark night, the glare of them would have been visible miles away. He would have had ample warning of the approaching car. He would not have described the light as shining in his eyes suddenly. There could be no question of the driver switching his lights on suddenly after he had passed the bend. He couldn't possibly have negotiated it without them. Besides, young Carew would have heard a car before it was on top of him.

However, assuming that a car had been involved, who could the driver have been? Not Olivia, if the time at which she claimed to have left Carmouth could be verified. Not Somerby, because according to his housekeeper, he had been at home at Highmoor. Either of them might be suspected of a motive for running down Carew and leaving him to die by the roadside. But who else? In any case, it was comparatively rarely that any motor vehicle passed along that road after dark.

But how else to explain the sudden flash of light? Carew, parson though he might be, did not claim a similar experience to that which had befallen Saul of Tarsus. There was no reason whatever to doubt his veracity. He had undoubtedly described his sensations with perfect truth. But there was just this. A blow sometimes produced an illusion of light, as in the popular expression, seeing stars. Was it possible that it was not before, but as he was struck that he had imagined this blinding light?

Merrion pondered this for some time before inspiration came to him. He chuckled aloud as he realised that his original theory still held. It was perfectly simple and perfectly obvious. His theory demanded that sudden flashing of a light in Carew's eyes. The night had been pitch dark. The watcher, the unknown X, lying in wait by the roadside, could see the light of an approaching bicycle. But he could not possibly have seen who was riding it. It might have been a farm hand, returning home after his day's work.

Some means of recognition had been necessary to X. And the obvious means was a torch. Not to be used until the moment arrived, lest it should give warning to the intended victim. X had waited till the bicycle was no more than a few feet distant, then flashed it in the face of the rider. A moment had sufficed to identify Carew. Immediately with his other hand X had thrust the stick through the spokes of the front wheel, bringing Carew heavily to the ground. His victim had no inkling of the presence of an assailant.

And that, as Merrion saw, was going to be the difficulty. Carew did not suspect an attempt upon his life. Why should he, since he knew of no reason why that life should be sought? Or, for that matter, that the message summoning him to Dragonscourt had been a snare deliberately set for him. He could give no help. The only clue was the bogus telephone call.

At the farther end of the garden was a rustic arbour, remote from the house. When she walked round the garden, as she frequently did, Lady Violet was in the habit of resting there for a few minutes. The afternoon was very still, one of those afternoons in late autumn when something of the warmth of summer seems to have returned. The arbour invited meditation. Merrion entered it, sat down, and lighted a cigarette.

He was by now fully convinced that Colin Carew's accident had not been accidental. It had been the latest link in the chain of curious happenings. The deaths of Dr. Murford and Nurse Penruddock, the narrow escapes from death of Philip Sampson and Colin Carew. Surely every link in the chain had been forged by the same hand. No reasonable person could imagine, in a circle of so small a population, and within so short a period, the existence of four different murderers, seeking four different victims for four different motives.

One murderer then must be sought. The unknown quantity X was the same in all four cases. The fact that the two latest attempts had failed did not enter into the equation. Even the most expert craftsman cannot always bring his work to perfection. How then to evaluate X? A homicidal maniac, slaying indiscriminately at every tempting opportunity? Surely, in such a place as Carmouth, his tendencies would have been observed. Besides, the methods of X had been too subtle and well designed to suggest lunacy.

A ruthless and unforgiving individual who knew no scruples in his desire for revenge or gain? Such an individual existed in the person of Hardy Norfolk. He had hated Dr. Murford, because he had supplanted him in the affections of Sally Manifold. Nurse Penruddock had roused his savage ire by taking him to task on the subject of his treatment of his employees. He would at least have gained something as sole beneficiary of Philip Sampson's will. Finally, he bore a bitter grudge against Colin Carew for having extricated Miss Salcombe from his clutches.

Merrion shook his head. Plausible enough, but, in the light of Lady Violet's confidence, utterly unconvincing. The four victims, or intended victims, had an interest in common. Under varying circumstances, each in turn had had a prospect of gaining by the death of Lady Violet. Was it not logical to argue that this common interest afforded a common motive to a murderer?

But this logic once more brought Merrion up against a brick wall. Only one person could have had that motive, and she only during what might be described as the interregnum between beneficiaries. Olivia's belief that her aunt had by some means suppressed a clause in the late Lord Vernham's will was suggestive. That belief would serve to allay any scruples she might feel in forging the last and most necessary link in the chain. Merrion looked about him in sudden alarm. The remoteness of the arbour made it an ideal site for murder. A favourable opportunity, when Lady Violet was resting, and the gardener was occupied out of sight and hearing? An alibi, carefully concocted with a reliable confederate? A sudden blow, with the traditional blunt instrument?

This was ridiculous. Merrion had burnt his fingers in suspecting Olivia of the attempt upon Philip Sampson. Her statements, if confirmed, made it impossible that she should have lain in wait for Colin Carew. But there was the possible existence of a reliable confederate to be considered. Dr. Somerby, whom Lady Violet had already suspected, though for very different reasons?

But here again a difficulty arose. Setting aside any consideration of opportunity, Somerby could have learnt the hidden motive, and its changes from individual to individual, from Olivia. Granted that both Dr. Murford and Nurse Penruddock might have been indiscreet, and that their indiscretion had reached Olivia's ears. But this could not be allowed in the case of Colin Carew. He was himself completely unaware of Lady Violet's intentions. And she had taken infinite precautions that Olivia should not become aware of them.

Petulantly Merrion flung away the end of his cigarette and rose from his seat. The problem presented by X was insoluble. He hated being baffled, and stood for a minute or two, frowning as he searched his memory for some innocent remark, however trifling, which might furnish a clue.

Then, as he stood there in that quiet afternoon, now gradually growing dark, the full truth burst upon him. Its impact was exactly as Carew had described his experience, a sudden light flashing in his eyes and blinding him. Mentally dazed, he sat down again as the whole series of events swept tumultuously through his mind. Then once more he rose, left the arbour, and strode rapidly towards the house. Time was getting on, and at Dragonscourt time was the lawgiver. Whatever revelation might have been granted him, he must not be late for tea.

He found the three ladies already assembled in the drawing-room. “Ah, here you are, Desmond!” Lady Violet exclaimed. “We were beginning to wonder what had become of you. You look remarkably pleased with yourself. Have you had unexpected good news?”

“Mr. Carew is the good news,” Merrion replied. “I'm very much relieved about him. How's he getting on. Mavis?”

“You see me here,” she replied. “I feel quite happy in leaving him. Dr. Somerby will be here shortly before six.”

After tea. Lady Violet retired to her boudoir. Olivia made some excuse about having various things to see to. She seemed so subdued and penitent that Merrion felt sure that Lady Violet had convinced her on the subject of Lord Vernham's will. Mavis waited until she and her husband were alone, and then burst out. “Whatever is the matter with you, Desmond? You're bubbling over with something. Lady Violet noticed it as soon as you came in. Won't you tell me what it is?”

“They that walked in darkness have seen a great light,” Merrion replied. “No, I won't tell even you, just yet. There are too many slips between the cup and the lip, and this time I want to be quite sure, before I say anything. So do your best to possess your soul in patience for a little longer.”

“Well, don't make another bloomer, that's all,” said Mavis doubtfully. “I must run up now and see if Mr. Carew has finished his tea.”

Dr. Somerby arrived at the time expected. When he had seen his patient, he drew Mavis out of the room. “He's doing far better than I anticipated, Mrs. Merrion. I'll go so far as to say that he's completely out of danger, and there is no reason why he shouldn't be moved in a day or two. He won't want to trespass on Lady Violet's hospitality like this. I'll arrange to get a bed for him at the County Hospital.”

“There's no question of trespass, Doctor,” Mavis replied. “Lady Violet wants him to stay here till he is fully recovered.”

Dr. Somerby frowned. “I'm afraid I must overrule Lady Violet's wishes in the matter. Mr. Carew has received a very severe shock, and while he is getting over it he will require the constant attention that can only be given in a hospital. That is, of course, no reflection on your nursing, Mrs. Merrion. Perhaps you will be good enough to repeat to Lady Violet what I have said? Good-evening.”

Mavis took the opportunity when she and Lady Violet were alone in the drawing-room after dinner. But Lady Violet merely smiled and shook her head. “If Dr. Somerby has anything to say to me on that subject, he must say it in person. I fancy he has his own reason for wishing to take Mr. Carew away from Dragonscourt. Olivia and I understand one another very much better since we had a long chat this afternoon.”

Merrion slipped out of the house after breakfast next morning, having told no one else, even Mavis, where he was going. He took his car from the garage, and drove to Carmouth police station, where he found Arnold and Perrin. “You're punctual,” said the former. “The Superintendent wants to hear this latest theory of yours.”

“I'd better begin by saying that Mr. Carew has recovered consciousness,” Merrion replied. “The doctor says he's out of danger. But he can give no account of what happened. He remembers being suddenly blinded by a light flashed in his eyes, but after that his memory is a blank.”

“The light of a car, I suppose?” Perrin remarked suspiciously.

“If it was the light of a car, that car was not mine,” Merrion replied. “I have given Arnold my word upon that. And I think I can offer another explanation, if you have the patience to listen.” He repeated in detail the theory he had formed. “I think Arnold will agree that nothing he has seen contradicts that,” he concluded.

“Merrion may be right,” said Arnold. “But who can this chap he calk X have been?”

“That's the snag,” Perrin replied. “Mr. Merrion assures us that Lady Violet did not send for Mr. Carew. I've seen the maid at the vicarage who took the call. She's a newcomer here, and couldn't be expected to recognise the voices of local people. But she remembers this one distinctly. It was a man's voice, deep and husky. Rough, she called it. I thought of Mr. Norfolk. But I've satisfied myself that on Wednesday evening he didn't leave the Cannery until half-past five. And if the call was bogus, the voice was probably disguised. If your theory's right, Mr. Merrion, it was another attempted murder. And what I can't make out is why anyone should have tried to murder a perfectly harmless curate like Mr. Carew.”

“There is a reason,” Merrion replied gravely. “But you will forgive me if I do not yet tell you what that reason is. It involves a secret which I am not at present at liberty to divulge.”

Perrin and Arnold exchanged doubtful glances. But at that moment came a knock on the door. The Superintendent called “Come in!” and the sergeant on duty appeared. “Mr. Sampson is here, sir.”

“Ask him to wait a couple of minutes,” Perrin replied. As the sergeant retired, he turned to Merrion. “Mr. Arnold has told you why I have sent for him, I understand. I should like you to be present at the interview. But one question before he comes in. You have formed the theory that Mr. Carew was deliberately attacked. Do you believe that it was your unknown individual X who fired the shot in Mr. Sampson's house?”

“I have no doubt whatever about that,” Merrion replied with an air of complete conviction.

CHAPTER XIX

PERRIN WENT OUT, and returned with Philip Sampson. “Sit down, please, Mr. Sampson,” he said curtly. “In that chair.” The superintendent's room was neither large nor inspiring. His desk was at one end, and the chair he indicated to Philip faced his own. At the other end of the room was a table at which Arnold and Merrion sat, the former facing the desk, the latter with his back to it. Neither moved as Philip took his seat.

“Now, Mr. Sampson, I have something to say to you,” Perrin began severely. “But, before I do so, it is my duty to caution you that anything you say may be used in evidence. You have in your possession a pair of silver goblets, bearing a crest, the head of a knight in armour. How did you acquire them?”

Philip went crimson in the face, and coughed alarmingly. “Excuse me!” he gasped. “One of my attacks. I'm hopelessly asthmatic, you know. How did I acquire them? I just bought them, in the usual way.”

“Hardly in the usual way,” said Perrin. “You must have bought them surreptitiously. It's no use pretending that you didn't know they had been stolen. We will return to that matter later. What I want to know is this. Does Mr. Norfolk know that you acquired those goblets, and that they are in your possession?”

“Oh, yes, I think Hardy knows,” Philip replied hesitatingly. “I expect he does. I tell him most things.”

“Then Mr. Norfolk is aware that you are a receiver of stolen goods,” said Perrin accusingly. “Since I know that too, his divulging his knowledge could do you no further harm. You fully understand me? Now, do you still persist in maintaining that the hand you saw holding the pistol at your head was a woman's?”

Philip experienced another fit of coughing. Genuine enough, for it was notorious that his asthma distressed him when he was in any way upset. “I can only tell you the impression I got,” he replied weakly. “I didn't see the woman.”

“And yet you are utterly unable to give us any clue as to who that woman may have been?” Perrin asked.

“How do you expect me to?” Philip exclaimed. “As I've repeatedly told you, I don't know any woman.”

Merrion turned in his chair. “Excuse me, Superintendent. May I ask Mr. Sampson a question?”

Though Perrin looked a trifle surprised at this request, he nodded. “I have no objection.”

“Is it strictly correct that you know no woman, Mr. Sampson?” Merrion asked. “Surely you must know Miss Olivia Jones, who lives at Dragonscourt as your aunt Lady Violet's companion?”

This time there was no hesitation or embarrassment in Philip's reply. “My aunt and I see nothing of one another. She has, I believe, had several companions, one after another. I have been told that the name of the present one is Jones. But I don't know her, even by sight.”

His manner convinced Merrion that on this point at least he was telling the truth. If he was, he wouldn't even recognise Olivia, much less be aware that she was his cousin. “Well, then, we'll leave Miss Jones out of it,” said Merrion pleasantly. “But there are others. You know Miss Salcombe, don't you?”

Philip blinked at him. “Wasn't she the girl who used to be in Hardy's office?” he replied evasively. “I believe he introduced us. But I don't know what's become of her. I haven't seen her since she left here.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Sampson!” said Merrion indulgently. “Surely your memory is playing you false. You lunched with Miss Salcombe at the Castle Cafe in Shopton as recently as last Tuesday, didn't you?”

It was a bow drawn at a venture, but Philip's expression told Merrion that the arrow had gone home. He gaped at his questioner, but Merrion's assertion had been so confident that denial was clearly useless. “Well, what if I did?” he demanded. “I can sit down at the same table with a girl I happen to have met before, can't I?”

“So you lunched with Miss Salcombe,” Perrin remarked acidly. “As you said yourself a moment ago, you have told us repeatedly that you knew no woman. Why have you told us that? Do you suspect Miss Salcombe of having fired the shot at you?”

“Why, I hardly know her,” Philip faltered. “Just happened to run into her the other day, you know. No, I don't suspect her. Why should she shoot at a man who was a comparative stranger?”

“It might be worth while to ask Mr. Sampson what became of the pistol from which the shot was fired,” Merrion suggested quietly.

“How the devil should I know that?” Philip replied. “Whoever fired it took it away, I suppose.”

“That, no doubt, is the truth, or something like it. That person bought the pistol for the purpose of firing that particular shot. Such pistols are regarded as antiques, not as lethal weapons, and the purchase of one of them would not arouse the slightest suspicion. Particularly if the purchaser was known to the vendor as a collector of curios. Once the pistol had served its purpose, it could be discarded. Thrown into the harbour, perhaps. From that moment its existence would be forgotten by all parties concerned.”

“I do not understand what this is leading to, Mr. Merrion,” said Perrin impatiently.

“To the hand that held the pistol,” Merrion replied equably. “Mr. Sampson has been emphatic on the point that he has never had a firearm in his house, and that he would not do so on any account. This I believe to be another case of lapse of memory on his part. I think that, at some time or other, he bought a duelling pistol, or a pair of duelling pistols, to add to his collection of curios. And that it was from one of these that the shot was fired.”

“What have you to say to that, Mr. Sampson?” Perrin asked.

But any reply that Philip might have made was drowned in a fit of coughing, and Merrion went on relentlessly. “Let us consider what may have happened that evening. Mrs. Oswald went out, leaving Mr. Sampson alone in the house. It was almost certain that Mr. Norfolk would call later on, but not until an interval had elapsed. Mr. Sampson utilised that interval. He loaded the pistol. The source of the ammunition is not a matter of great importance. He probably bought the bullet with the pistol, and he would have no difficulty in securing a shot-gun cartridge from which to extract the propellant.

“Then, standing in the doorway of the lounge, he discharged his weapon in the direction where his head would have been had he been sitting in his chair. Most convincingly, the bullet shattered a plate hanging on the wall beyond. Mr. Sampson then hid the pistol temporarily until such time as he could dispose of it for good and all. Having opened the back door, which Mrs. Oswald had closed behind her, he sat down in his chair and waited.

“At length he heard the sound he had been waiting for, the ringing of the bell and the knocking on the front door by Mr. Norfolk. Mr. Sampson knew his friend well enough to be certain that he would not be satisfied with his failure to get any reply, but would go round to the back. He flung himself on the floor, and lay grovelling there till he was discovered. Mr. Norfolk described him as foaming at the mouth. If this was not an exaggeration, a small piece of soap would have produced the effect required.”

“One moment, Mr. Merrion,” Perrin interposed. “Why should Mr. Sampson have behaved in this extraordinary way?”

“He had the best of reasons for his behaviour,” Merrion replied. “Should Lady Violet die intestate, he believed that he would automatically become her sole heir. He can have had no knowledge of the existence of his cousin. Still less that she was living at Dragonscourt as Lady Violet's companion. Now, Superintendent, may I recall to your mind the question you asked me just before Mr. Sampson came in, and the reply I made?” A light of understanding flashed in Perrin's eyes.

“Where were you between five and half-past on Wednesday evening, Mr. Sampson?” he asked sharply.

Philip, free for the moment from his attacks of coughing, had gone deadly pale. He sat rigidly, grasping the arms of his chair in a desperate clutch, and staring at Merrion with an expression of utter terror. No one, seeing him, could have doubted his guilt. But, at the Superintendent's question, he made one last tremendous effort to save himself. “I—I was in Shopton,” he stammered. “I went there by bus that afternoon.”

“You went by bus, no doubt,” said Perrin. “But you did not go all the way to Shopton. You got off at the end of the lane that leads to Dragonscourt. From there you walked to the spot where you lay in wait for Mr. Carew, whom you had lured there by a bogus telephone message. Why did you do that?”

But Philip, bereft of speech by this latest accusation, could only shake his head feebly. Even this slight motion brought on a paroxysm which seemed to tear him apart. Merrion waited until this had subsided into hollow gasping. “What did Miss Salcombe tell you when you met her on Tuesday?” he asked.

“What could she have had to tell me?” Philip replied, barely above a whisper. “We're only the merest acquaintances.”

“That may be,” said Merrion. “But you have made it your business to meet her fairly frequently. You have told us, truthfully enough, that you and your aunt hold no communication with one another. But you gave Miss Salcombe a totally different impression. You told her that, as Lady Violet's nephew, you were completely in her confidence, and that therefore there could be no harm in Miss Salcombe and you discussing her affairs, in the strictest confidence, of course. You were both in the habit of doing so. On Tuesday, Miss Salcombe remarked to you that she was overjoyed that Lady Violet had interested herself in Mr. Carew, who had been so kind in finding her her job.”

“I don't understand this, Mr. Merrion,” said Perrin. “What is Miss Salcombe's present job?”

“She is employed by Messrs Ford, Bridge and Wade, of Shopton,” Merrion replied. “They are Lady Violet's solicitors. And I think, if you were to ask her, Miss Salcombe would tell you that before meeting Mr. Sampson on Tuesday she had, on Mr. Wade's instructions, typed out a draft concerning Mr. Carew.”

Merrion turned away, as though to indicate that his intervention was at an end. But the Superintendent was not yet satisfied. “Go on, please, Mr. Merrion,” he said.

“What more can I say?” Merrion replied. “The matter depends very largely upon what conversations have taken place between Mr. Sampson and Miss Salcombe. That can be very easily ascertained. It may be that it was from Miss Salcombe that Mr. Sampson learnt that Dr. Murford and Nurse Penruddock were successively the objects of Lady Violet's benevolent intentions.”

“I will take the necessary steps,” said Perrin. He turned to Philip, sitting crushed and overwhelmed in his chair. “Listen to me, Mr. Sampson,” he went on. “I shall charge you formally with receiving certain property, knowing it to have been stolen. You will be detained in custody on that charge. And you must understand that other and far graver charges may be brought against you later.”

For a moment or two Philip gave no sign of having heard. Then, as though moved by some impulse outside himself, he sprang to his feet with a stifled groan. His hand flew to his throat, and the deadly pallor of his cheeks became suffused with crimson. Then he collapsed in a heap, rolling under the Superintendent's desk, and lay there, gasping horribly.

Perrin rose hastily, went to the door, and shouted for the sergeant, who appeared, eyebrows raised at this unceremonious summons. “Find Dr. Somerby,” the Superintendent ordered. “He'll have left the surgery by now, but he's probably on his rounds in the town somewhere. Mrs. Murford may know what patients he has to visit. Anyway, find him and bring him back here.”

“Very good, sir,” the sergeant replied and hurried away. “Perhaps you'll give me a hand, Mr. Arnold,” said Perrin. “We'll carry Sampson into one of the cells, and he can stop there till the doctor comes.”

Between them, not without some difficulty, they dragged Philip, still fighting for his breath, from under the desk, and carried him away. Merrion, left alone, lighted a cigarette and awaited their return, which was not long delayed. “This may be another of his playacting stunts,” said Perrin. “If it is, he's staging it pretty well. Anyway, we've set him up in a cell with a constable to keep him company. If it's a stunt, he'll be safe enough there, and if it's genuine, we can't do anything about it till the doctor comes. Now, Mr. Merrion, I hope you'll be good enough to tell us how you hit on this?”

“I claim no credit,” Merrion replied modestly. “It was merely that I knew something which you did not. As recently as last Monday, Lady Violet, in my presence, instructed Mr. Wade to prepare the draft of a will making Mr. Carew her heir. On Wednesday morning I fetched this draft, which was typewritten, from Mr. Wade's office. It was when I was on my way back to Dragonscourt that I found Mr. Carew by the wayside.

“That, not unnaturally, made me think. This was the third accident that had befallen, and in each case the victim was the person designated as Lady Violet's heir. You know the blunder I had already made in following up that line. And, in this last case, Miss Endicott was absolved. She had an alibi so convincing that it required no following up.

“However, I could not bring myself to believe that what had happened to Mr. Carew had been accidental. Nor that, if he had been attacked, it had been for some reason entirely unconnected with Lady Violet's intentions. But there was one apparently insuperable difficulty. Lady Violet had taken every possible precaution to ensure that no one, particularly Miss Endicott, should learn of these intentions, or even that she harboured any. How then had they been divulged?

“Meanwhile, I had heard something else. On Tuesday, Miss Endicott had occasion to spend the day in Shopton. After she had come back, she told me that she had lunched at the Castle Cafe, where she had seen her cousin lunching with a girl unknown to her. This struck me as remarkable, in the light of Mr. Sampson's assertion as to his aversion to women. If it were false, it was an attempt on Miss Endicott's part to avert suspicion from herself. If it were true, it might afford a clue to Mr. Sampson's mysterious female assailant.

“That was as far I got then. You see, like everyone else, I had swallowed the attempt on Mr. Sampson's life, hook line and sinker. That attempt proved him to be one of the intended victims of the unknown assassin. Then, yesterday, Lady Violet asked me to return the draft to Mr. Wade. I got to Shopton earlier than I had expected, and, to while away the time, strolled through the town. As I was doing so, I happened to see Miss Salcombe coming out of the Castle Cafe.

“At the time the significance of this did not strike me. It was not until later that an astounding possibility occurred to me. On Monday I had seen Miss Salcombe in Mr. Wade's office, where she is employed as a stenographer. On that occasion Mr. Wade told Lady Violet and myself that Miss Salcombe was a Carmouth girl, and that it was through Mr. Carew's good offices that she had secured her present job with him. Being a Carmouth girl, she and Mr. Sampson might know one another. As Mr. Wade's stenographer, she had probably typed the draft, and so become aware of its contents. Might she not have been the girl with whom Sampson had lunched on Tuesday?

“But, even if she had been, the attempt on his life remained unexplained. It did not seem to me very likely that she had fired the shot. Mr. Sampson might have obtained confidential information from her. But the attempt still branded him as a victim, not a perpetrator. Then, at last, the truth burst upon me like a flash. There had been no attempt. Sampson had fired the shot himself, and faked the rest.”

“It was a pretty wild guess on your part,” Arnold remarked. “But I'm bound to admit that it came off. What do you say, Superintendent?”

“That I must congratulate Mr. Merrion,” Perrin replied. “If ever I saw guilt in any man's face, it was Mr. Sampson's. I shall send for that girl and interrogate her, of course.”

“Need you be too hard on her?” Merrion asked. “Whatever she may have repeated was no doubt in perfect innocence. I don't for a moment suppose that she babbled indiscriminately. Mr. Sampson, as Lady Violet's nephew, was different. She was probably lonely, and a trifle homesick, and therefore delighted to see anyone from Carmouth. We don't, of course, know how much Mr. Sampson made up to her.”

“You think she told him about Lady Violet's previous wills?” Perrin asked.

“I don't doubt she did,” Merrion replied. “And that he took what he considered to be necessary action upon the information she gave him. I daresay Arnold has told you how I regard those first two accidents.' Dr. Murford was drowned on a Saturday evening when Mrs. Oswald was out as usual that day, and Mr. Sampson's actions were unobserved. He could have gone to the nearest public telephone, and made the bogus call. He had a dinghy of his own, with the help of which he could have shifted the cats'-eyes from the quay to the fishing-boat.

“In the case of Nurse Penruddock, there cannot have been so much premeditation. He certainly did not contrive the message to the surgery from Mr. Taunton, for that was genuine enough. He was probably watching Nurse Penruddock's movements for a suitable opportunity. He saw her set off on foot, bag in hand, along the cliff path. It was a thousand to one she would come back the same way. He had plenty of time to climb to the summit of the ridge. And to get home before Mrs. Oswald became alarmed by his unusually prolonged absence.”

Before Perrin had time to respond to an imperative knock, the door burst open and Dr. Somerby strode in. “What's all this, Superintendent?” he demanded. “One of your chaps stopped me in the street and brought me here. He took me to see Mr. Sampson. Well, he's dead.”

“Dead!” Perrin exclaimed. “He wasn't shamming, then?”

“He certainly was not,” Somerby replied drily. “He appears to have died of asphyxia, choked to death, if you like that better, as a result of the asthma from which he suffered. I'm not asking how it comes about that I find him in a cell here. Did you say anything to him which caused him any undue excitement?”

“Well, maybe I did,” Perrin admitted. “He collapsed in here while I was questioning him, and we carried him into one of the cells, as the only available place. This isn't a nursing home, you know, Doctor.”

“It doesn't look like it,” Somerby replied acidly. “You did your best, I suppose. His asthma would have terminated fatally sooner or later, though it might have been many years later, but for this fit of violent excitement, whatever caused it. You'll arrange for him to be taken home, I suppose. There is no need to trouble the coroner, I'll issue the necessary certificate when I've been over him again.”

CHAPTER XX

MERRION DECIDED to hold nothing back from Lady Violet. He knew that she would instantly perceive any attempt at reticence on his part, and demand an explanation. So, that afternoon, alone with her in her boudoir, he recounted every detail of the scene in the police station.

Lady Violet listened with an unmoved countenance, asking no questions. “You will not expect me to play the hypocrite, Desmond,” she said, when Merrion had come to an end, “I cannot pretend that my nephew's death causes me any great distress. I have always regarded him as a Sampson rather than as a Vernham, and we remained complete strangers. My only grief is that, with Vernham blood in his veins, he should have turned out to be a criminal. You have no doubts?”

“There can be little room for doubt,” Merrion replied. “He made no confession before he died, but his expression of guilt was amply sufficient. Under the circumstances, there can be no reason why the fact that he was a criminal should become generally known.”

“I am greatly relieved to hear that,” said Lady Violet. “How much of this am I at liberty to tell Olivia?”

“As much as you think fit,” Merrion replied. “If I were in your place, I should tell her no more than that it is practically certain that nobody attempted her cousin's life, but that he fired the shot himself.”

“I think you are right, Desmond,” said Lady Violet. “I will tell her no more than that. And you shall be present when I do so.”

Philip's body was taken to his house in an ambulance, and Dr. Somerby issued a certificate of his death having been due to natural causes. The funeral took place on the following Monday. Lady Violet sent a wreath and Olivia attended as her representative. She was unable to attend herself owing to a prior engagement in Shopton. Her will in favour of Colin Carew was duly executed in Mr. Wade's office.

The next day Merrion received a note from Perrin, inviting him to come and see him at his convenience. He went at once and, Arnold having returned to London, the Superintendent received him alone. “I'm in your debt, Mr. Merrion,” said Perrin. “And I owe it to you to tell you what I've learnt. First of all, I've had that girl here and talked to her. You'll be glad to know that your guess was perfectly correct.”

Merrion smiled. “I hope Miss Salcombe didn't give you the impression that she was a malicious tale-bearer?”

“Well, no, she didn't,” Perrin replied. “She's innocent enough, but she was infernally indiscreet where Mr. Sampson was concerned. Perhaps one can't altogether blame her. He had told her that he and Lady Violet were on the most confidential terms, and that she never actually told Mr. Sampson that she had typed the draft of a will in Mr. Carew's favour. She merely said that she was so glad that he had persuaded Lady Violet to interest herself in Mr. Carew, to whom she owed so much.”

“That would be quite enough for Mr. Sampson,” said Merrion. “Were they in the habit of meeting by appointment?”

“She says not,” Perrin replied. “She lunched at the Castle Cafe every working day and Mr. Sampson dropped in now and then and lunched with her. He used on these occasions to tell her that the reason for his being in the town was that Lady Violet had commissioned him to do something for her. When she was with Mr. Norfolk, Mr. Sampson used to come into the office, and that was how she first met him.

“So much for Miss Salcombe. I set one of my chaps making enquiries among the junk-shops of Shopton. They all knew Mr. Sampson well enough. He would come in, turn things over, and try and beat prices down. But in the end he usually bought something that had taken his fancy. In one of these shops about a month ago, he bought an odd duelling pistol. It was in a plain cardboard box with half a dozen bullets belonging to it. The shopkeeper let him have it for a few shillings. He told my man that it had been knocking about the shop for as long as he remembered, and very likely in the time of his father before him.”

“I wonder if it was the one missing from the case at Dragonscourt?” Merrion remarked.

“You let yourself be caught over that, Mr. Merrion. I've one more thing to tell you. Mr. Sampson went to and from Shopton by bus so often that most of the conductors got to know him. One of them remembers that he boarded the bus for Shopton that left here at four o'clock last Wednesday. He didn't go all the way, but got off at the stop at the end of the lane leading to Dragonscourt. Another conductor of a bus coming this way, remembers picking him up at another stop, about a mile from the first, a couple of hours later. The first man recalls that he was carrying a heavy ebony walking-stick, with a silver knob on the top.”

“Picked up at some curiosity shop, and put to a use for which it was never intended,” said Merrion.

Later Merrion heard, again from the Superintendent, that Norfolk's misgivings as to his friend's financial position had been justified. It transpired that Philip had run through practically all of the capital left him by his mother and that, when everything had been wound up, there would be very little left. It was to Hardy Norfolk's credit that he announced his intention of making over his meagre inheritance to Mrs. Oswald.

This sufficiently explained the motive behind the crimes. “It's not difficult to understand,” Merrion remarked to Perrin. “A chap like that simply couldn't contemplate a return to the poverty of his boyhood. Life without a sufficiency of money would have been impossible to him. And I daresay his ill-health made him a bit unbalanced. That's why—Oh, well, he's dead now. Let it rest.”

Colin Carew made a rapid recovery. His and Olivia's interest in one another was so obvious that Dr. Somerby resigned himself to the inevitable. It was in his favour that he took his defeat in good part. And, on the morning when Colin was due to leave Dragonscourt, he and Olivia appeared in Lady Violet's boudoir.

“Colin and I have made up our minds to get married,” said Olivia. “But, before we say anything about it, we want your approval. Aunt Violet. And it won't be for some time yet. Colin says we can't be married until he is earning something better than a curate's stipend.”

Lady Violet smiled. “You have my whole-hearted approval, my dears. I think you will be wise to wait for a while. Meanwhile, I should like you both to understand that Colin will be welcome here whenever and as often as he can find time to come.”

That evening Lady Violet confided to Merrion. “I do not think the young people will have long to wait. I fear that Mr. Manifold's days are drawing to an end. I had a letter from Sally Murford this morning, in which she tells me that her father is sinking, slowly but steadily. When the vacancy occurs, I shall certainly exert my rights of patronage to present the Reverend Colin Carew to the living of Carmouth.”