The Terror. Martin EdwardsЧитать онлайн книгу.
mad? They will think you and I are in collusion.’
He beamed at her.
‘C’lusion’s a good word. I can say that quite distinctly, but it’s a good word.’
She went to the door and looked out. Hallick and his assistant were in earnest consultation on the lawn, and her heart sank.
Fane was helping himself to a whisky when she returned to him.
‘They’ll come back soon, and then what questions will they ask me? Oh, I wish you were somebody I could talk to, somebody I could ask to help! It’s so horrible to see a man like you—a drunken weakling.’
‘Don’t call me names,’ he said severely. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Tell me anything you like.’
If only she could!
It was Cotton who interrupted her confidence. He came in that sly, furtive way of his.
‘The new boarder’s arrived, miss—the parson gentleman,’ he said, and stood aside to allow the newcomer to enter the lounge.
It was a slim and aged clergyman, white-haired, bespectacled. His tone was gentle, a little unctuous perhaps; his manner that of a man who lavished friendliness.
‘Have I the pleasure of speaking to dear Miss Redmayne? I am the Reverend Ernest Partridge. I’ve had to walk up. I thought I was to be met at the station.’
He gave her a limp hand to shake.
The last thing in the world she craved at that moment was the distraction of a new boarder. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Partridge—we are all rather upset this morning. Cotton, take the bag to number three.’
Mr Partridge was mildly shocked.
‘Upset? I hope that no untoward incident has marred the perfect beauty of this wonderful spot?’
‘My father will tell you all about it. This is Mr Fane.’
She had to force herself to this act of common politeness.
At this moment Hallick came in hurriedly.
‘Have you any actors in the grounds, Miss Redmayne?’ he asked quickly.
‘Actors?’ She stared at him.
‘Anybody dressed up.’ He was impatient. ‘Film actors—they come to these old places. My man tells me he’s just seen a man in a black habit come out of the monk’s tomb—he had a rifle in his hand. By God, there he is!’
He pointed through the lawn window, and at that moment Mary felt a pair of strong arms clasped about her, and she was swung round. It was Fane who held her, and she struggled, speechless with indignation. And then—
‘Ping!’
The staccato crack of a rifle, and a bullet zipped past her and smashed the mirror above the fireplace. So close it came that she thought at first it had struck her, and in that fractional space of time realised that only Ferdinand Fane’s embrace had saved her life.
HALLICK, after an extensive search of the grounds which produced no other clue than an expended cartridge case, went up to town, leaving Sergeant Dobie in charge.
Mary never distinctly remembered how that dreadful day dragged to its end. The presence of the Scotland Yard man in the house gave her a little confidence, though it seemed to irritate her father. Happily, the detective kept himself unobtrusively in the background.
The two people who seemed unaffected by the drama of the morning were Mr Fane and the new clerical boarder. He was a loquacious man, primed with all kinds of uninteresting anecdotes; but Mrs Elvery found him a fascinating relief.
Ferdie Fane puzzled Mary. There was so much about him that she liked, and, but for this horrid tippling practice of his she might have liked him more—how much more she did not dare admit to herself. He alone remained completely unperturbed by that shot which had nearly ended her life and his.
In the afternoon she had a little talk with him and found him singularly coherent.
‘Shooting at me? Good Lord, no!’ He scoffed. ‘It must have been a Nonconformist—we High Church parsons have all sorts of enemies.’
‘Have you?’ she asked quietly, and there was an odd look in his eyes when he answered:
‘Maybe. There are quite a number of people who want to get even with me for my past misdeeds.’
‘Mrs Elvery said they were going to send Bradley down.’
‘Bradley!’ he said contemptuously. ‘That back number at Scotland Yard!’ And then, as though he could read her thoughts, he asked quickly: ‘Did that interesting old lady say anything else?’
They were walking through the long avenue of elms that stretched down to the main gates of the park. Two days ago she would have fled from him, but now she found a strange comfort in his society. She could not understand herself; found it equally difficult to recover a sense of her old aversion.
‘Mrs Elvery’s a criminologist.’ She smiled whimsically, though she never felt less like smiling in her life. ‘She keeps press cuttings of all the horrors of the past years, and she says she’s sure that that poor man Connor was connected with a big gold robbery during the war. She said there was a man named O’Shea in it—’
‘O’Shea?’ said Fane quickly, and she saw his face change. ‘What the devil is she talking about O’Shea for? She had better be careful—I beg your pardon.’ He was all smiles again.
‘Have you heard of him?’
‘The merest rumour,’ he said almost gaily. ‘Tell me what Mrs Elvery said.’
‘She said that a lot of gold disappeared and was buried somewhere, and she’s got a theory that it was buried in Monkshall or in the grounds; that Connor was looking for it, and that he got Cotton, the butler, to let him in—that’s how he came to be in the house. I heard her telling Mr Partridge the story. She doesn’t like me well enough to tell me.’ They paced in silence for a while.
‘Do you like him—Partridge, I mean?’ asked Ferdie.
She thought he was very nice.
‘That means he bores you.’ He chuckled softly to himself. And then: ‘Why don’t you go up to town?’
She stopped dead and stared at him.
‘Leave Monkshall? Why?’
He looked at her steadily.
‘I don’t think Monkshall is very healthy; in fact, it’s a little dangerous.’
‘To me?’ she said incredulously, and he nodded.
‘To you, in spite of the fact that there are people living at Monkshall who adore you, who would probably give their own lives to save you from hurt.’
‘You mean my father?’ She tried to pass off what might easily develop into an embarrassing conversation.
‘I mean two people—for example, Mr Goodman.’
At first she was inclined to be angry and then she laughed.
‘How absurd! Mr Goodman is old enough to be my father.’
‘And young enough to love you,’ said Fane quietly. ‘That middle-aged gentleman is genuinely fond of you, Miss Redmayne. There is one who is not so middle-aged who is equally fond of you—’
‘In sober moments?’ she challenged.
And then Mary thought it expedient to remember an engagement she had in the house. He did not attempt to stop her. They walked back towards Monkshall a little