The inspector made further notes and then continued his questionnaire.

  Who had first opened the door of the Daimler? How had they prised the door open? Had Bigges been sent back to his lorry for tools? What was the condition of the interior of the Daimler when the door had first been opened.

  Langston cut in here. “The Daimler was bung full of exhaust gas. After I’d been bending over the body for a minute or two I was simply dizzy. It was the foul air in the Daimler which upset me. I was all right before.”

  Painstakingly the inspector got his statements on paper, read them to those concerned and got their signatures appended. Langston was shivering by this time. The rain had drenched through his coat and run down his collar. His light shoes were soaked, his feet cold lumps of inanimate weight. When the inspector had finished at last, Dr. Mainforth’s placid voice put in:

  “If you two would like to come back home with me, I can offer you hot baths and get your clothes dried. You can hire a car to take you back to town if you want to, but you’re asking for trouble if you go on in that state.”

  “Thank you, very much, sir. We should be more than grateful,” said Straynge promptly. “I’m awfully sorry you’ve been held up all this time on such a filthy night. It’s uncommonly good of you to offer to take us home with you.”

  “Couldn’t do less,” said Mainforth briefly.

  They walked back to the doctor’s car—a roomy Austin. The rain was still teeming down, though not descending in such floods as it had been doing before the accident, and the road seemed crowded with traffic. In addition to the police car, an ambulance and a breakdown gang were drawn up at the roadside. The two wrecked cars were tilted forlornly against their respective hedges, and the police were busy with their inevitable measuring tapes. Mainforth called to the inspector.

  “Can I get my car through? If not, it’ll mean driving for miles. The other fork’s blocked.”

  “I should think there’s room,” replied the Inspector. “You can try, anyway.”

  Straynge and Langston got into the back of the Austin, and the doctor edged the car carefully on to the road. Assisted by signals from the police, he drove forward, inch by cautious inch, and managed to get the car through the gap between the two capsized vehicles, and then went ahead when he was signalled all clear.

  “Come to think of it, Albert Bigges did the best he could in very difficult circumstances,” said Mainforth, when he had negotiated the second bend and was accelerating on the straight. “He hit hardest what was virtually a hearse, and let you two fellows off lightly. Think what a game the police would have had if you two had been killed, and the Daimler not much damaged.”

  “It might have been a godsend to someone whom we’ll call X,” said Straynge dryly. “With Langston and myself dead, that inspector would have been free to indulge the theory which obviously he holds at present—that Stephen and I had been up to some dirty work, and were copped by the lorry just as we were about to make tracks.”

  Mainforth chuckled. “Inspector White’s a great fellow for theories. He holds that advancement cometh neither from the right nor from the left, but from the exercise of a deductive faculty.” He yawned over the wheel. “I’ve been on the go since nine this morning. I’ve a ’flu epidemic, odd cases of scarlet, measles and mumps in abundance, and I’ve dealt with two confinements since dinner. In spite of all that I’m glad I happened along when I did. It looks to me as though this is going to be the most interesting death I’ve ever been in at.”

  His sentence was interrupted by an explosive sneeze from Stephen Langston. Mainforth went on——

  “I’m a great believer in hot whisky and lemon—particularly the whisky.”

  “I’m with you,” said Straynge wholeheartedly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was between half-past three and four o’clock in the morning of Friday, January 21st, that Lewis Conyers was awoken by the ringing of the telephone bell in the library below. As he came unwillingly to the surface of consciousness again, his sleep-drugged mind was aware that the telephone had been ringing for a long time, as an accompaniment to his dreams. Swearing huskily, he sat up, switched on his bedside light, saw the time by his watch, and dragged himself out of bed. The phone was still ringing. No one would put a call through at that hour unless it were a matter of urgency. He dragged his dressing-gown round him and went downstairs, heavy headed with sleep, lurching a little as he put out a hand and fumbled for the light switches.

  His curt “hallo” when he reached the telephone was answered by a man’s voice, and the purport of the message cut through the last haze of sleepiness in young Conyer’s brain.

  “Is he dead?” he asked abruptly, after the news had got home. The Inspector at the other end admitted the fact with official sympathy, and continued about the necessity of identification, the mortuary, and other details.

  Lew Conyers asked abruptly. “Do you want me to come there now?”

  The answer was in the negative . . . the weather . . . the state of the roads . . . trees down everywhere. The morning would be soon enough. There was nothing to be done at the moment.

  “Where did the smash happen?”

  “Dyke’s Corner. A shocking piece of road. Do you happen to know where Mr. Morton Conyers had been driving to?”

  “No idea. He went out after dinner . . .”

  Lewis Conyers hung up the receiver at last, and then crossed the big room to the table by the fireplace, where whisky and a siphon still stood. He poured himself out a stiff drink, and jumped as the door opened behind him. Turning, he saw his mother at the door—a tall woman in brocaded dressing-gown, her silver hair in a long plait down her back.

  “Is anything the matter, Lewis? I heard the phone.”

  He put down his glass and pulled a chair forward.

  “Sit down, Mother. It was the police ringing from Strand. There was a motor smash at Dyke’s Corner.”

  “You’d better have your drink, dear. You look shaky. Drink it first and then tell me.”

  Lewis did as he was bid, marvelling at his mother as he had done a hundred times before. Her self-control was worn like a garment, as close fitting as a glove, invariable, immutable. It was a quality in her which he admired and envied, though he did not share it. His hand shook a little as he raised his glass, and only when he set it down again did she ask:

  “Your Father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he killed?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat down on the arm of her chair, and they were silent for a minute.

  Then he said, “Go back to bed, Mother. There’s nothing to be done now—and there will be a lot to do in the morning.”

  “Yes. I suppose there will be.”

  The deep, soft, slightly husky voice was perfectly steady and quite emotionless.

  “I don’t think I’ll go back to bed just yet, Lewis. There are a few things which we have got to say—before the morning—and I think they’re better said now. He was killed in an accident—at that awful corner?”

  “Yes. A lorry ran him down, and the car was smashed to blazes.”

  “Was he alone in the car?”

  “Yes.”

  The young man saw his mother’s graceful shoulders heave in a sigh—of relief—and he put his arm round her, while his free hand smoothed back his tousled fair hair. She spoke softly as she went on.

  “At least one can say ‘Thank God’ for that—without being blasphemous. If it was just an ordinary motor smash, my dear, we may be let off without any hurtful questions—but we’ve got to be prepared.”

  She paused, leaning back against his shoulder, and then went on.

  “I know you’ve often wondered why I didn’t divorce him. You’ve been very patient, never worrying me by trying to make me talk. I’ve not got a great many principles, Lewis, but those I’ve got I abide by. For better for worse, for richer for poorer . . . One takes vows with one’s eyes open. I believe in sticking to them. A poor shred of self-respect, but one I have clung to. I’ve done my best to keep up an appearance of decency, when I knew the substance was lacking. I don’t want to give gossip a chance, if I can help it.”

  “I don’t know how you’ve stuck it,” he burst out, and she replied.

  “My dear, my dear, don’t say things like that—ever. You’ve been a brick. You’ve accepted my conventions, adopted my reticencies—and made life possible here. Carry on a little while longer. Never let it be known that things were awry. If questions are asked, we can at least describe with truth a certain family unity, a dignity, an absence of obvious breaches . . . Yes, I know . . . but it needn’t be said. One thing about decent breeding is that it saves one from letting strangers—and servants—know the seamy side. I was brought up to believe that personal dignity is worth while, and I’ve brought you up to believe it. I don’t think any of my friends say ‘Poor Mrs. Conyers’—even though they know a lot. I’ve always managed to appear happy—especially when I’ve been farthest removed from happiness.”

  “I know you have,” he said, his voice gruff and abrupt. “I’ve marvelled at you—and I’ve done my best to do what you wanted, and not plagued you by talking. I’ll do my best now. It shan’t be my fault if anything’s said . . . that you don’t want said.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Tell me, did the police ask you any questions on the phone?”

  “Only if I knew where he had been driving to. I said that I’d no idea.”

  “Lewis, there are a lot of things which you and I have left undiscussed—by tacit agreement. This is one of those rare moments when we can talk without reserve at all, and forget later—if we so wish—just what we have said. We’re alone now, you and I. I shall never repeat anything you tell me, as I know you won’t repeat anything I say to you. Did you know where Morton was going when he went out after dinner?”

  “No.” He spoke curtly.

  Mrs. Conyers did not turn her head to look at him, but she went on though his voice told her that her questions were unwelcome.

  “You went over to see Mr. Groves, at Wenderby, didn’t you?”

  “I meant to go to see him. I had a book of his I wanted to return. Then I remembered that it was the night of the Hunt Ball, and that Groves would be going, so I went into Strand and looked up Tommy Waring. He’s staying at the King’s Head. We played a hundred up at billiards, and then I drove on to Grove’s house at Malton, near Wenderby, thinking I could leave the book, but it was late when I got there, and the house was all dark, so I gave up the idea.”

  “You were late back, dear.”

  “Yes. I had a puncture, and the nuts stuck like the devil, and it took the deuce of a time to get the wheel off. I got in about half-past twelve. Were you still awake then?”

  “Yes. I was reading in bed.”

  Lewis got up from the arm of his chair and stood in front of his mother.

  “Then you’ve had precious little sleep, Mother. You’d better get back to bed.”

  “Not yet, my dear. I want to say all that I’ve got to say—and please God we needn’t talk of it again.”

  Lewis Conyers took a cigarette and lighted it. He glanced down at the big open hearth, and kicked over one of the logs which lay embedded in a heap of white ash. It was still smouldering on the under side, and he said:

  “As you will—but we might as well have a fire to look at. It’ll be more cheerful.”

  He reached for the bellows and blew a draught of air at the smouldering logs until a flame broke out, and then put some small logs above the flame, so that a cheerful crackle rewarded him.

  “That’s better,” he said.

  Dorothea Conyers stretched out her hand to the firelight.

  “Yes. One might parody the old adage, Lewis, and say ‘Let sleeping logs lie.’ So small a breath to fan an old fire into being again.”

  He still knelt beside the hearth.

  “What is it, Mother?”

  “A fortnight ago I had an anonymous letter. One of those vile things which do find their way to households like ours. I burnt it. It told me nothing new——”

  Lewis Conyers swore under his breath, and then broke out:

  “That’s over, now. That—and other things.”

  “Is anything ever quite over? any fire ever quite dead? any cause finally resolved into effect? I don’t know. I didn’t tell you this in order to complain. Only to explain how I knew that you had received an anonymous letter, too.”

  Lewis Conyers got up from his place by the fire and leant against the mantel, looking down at his mother. He was a tall fellow, square-faced, with a good jaw and a petulant mouth. He was frowning now, so that his low square forehead was marked by transverse lines, and the hand hanging by his side was clenched.

  “I don’t know if you’re forcing an issue, Mother, but—if ’twere said, ’twere well it were said quickly—and then wiped out. The police said that Father was killed in a collision, a lorry ramming his car from behind and crushing it into the bank. The smash occurred at two-thirty, when I was in bed. I don’t know anything more about it. I didn’t kill him. I know nothing about his death. No.”

  With raised hand and imperative voice he bore down her effort to speak. “You have forced me to say this, and before God, it’s true. I’m glad he’s dead. There have been hundreds of times when I’ve wished him dead, but there’s one nightmare you can put out of your head once and for all. I know nothing of his death and I had no hand in it. You’ve got to believe that, or you and I can never be on the same terms again.”

  “I do believe it. Oh, my dear, can we hope to be at peace together, you and I, without all this entanglement of wealth and place seeking, all this undercurrent of lies and intrigue? I’m afraid, Lewis. Desperately afraid.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “If there’s anything which the police aren’t satisfied about . . . you threatened him once, you know. He threatened back, Lewis. He said he would put on record what you said . . . what happened. I know, I heard what he said—though no one else did, thank God.”

  Her voice broke for once, and her son looked down at her with a troubled face.

  “You mean that time he was out shooting. He really believed I took a pot shot at him. My God! What a . . .”

  He broke off with an effort, and Dorothea Conyers hid her face in her hands for a moment. When she spoke, her head was bent, her eyes on her clenched hands.

  “Lewis, I’ve got to talk this thing out, once and for all. It’s like the fulfilment of a bad dream. How many times have I dreamt that I should wake up . . . and be told that he was dead, and that you . . . were suspected. It’s been an abiding horror to me. My dear, I know you’ve told me the truth. I believe you utterly—but I’m afraid what may be said.”

  She drew herself erect again and met his eyes.

  “I’ve got to tell you everything, Lewis—and you’ve got to tell me everything. When he went out after dinner I was in my room upstairs. I was sitting at the window, in the dark, because my head ached. You know the way you can see the road from my window—the stretch over Chert Common, and the turn by the bridge?”

  Lewis Conyers nodded. “Yes. I know.”

  “I saw the lights of his car—the Daimler wasn’t it?—down the hill and up the rise to the Common, and then along the level stretch to the bridge. I heard you start up the Hillman. I know the sound of the engine—and I saw your headlights, too, behind his, following him. He turned at the bridge, and you did, too.”

  “I told you, Mother—I drove into Strand. There was a car ahead of me for some distance, but I lost sight of it. The Hillman wasn’t travelling well—I expect the tyre was at fault, and I went slowly because the steering wasn’t functioning as it should.” He met her eyes and broke out. “My God, this is awful, Mother. Can’t you believe me—and leave off torturing yourself?”

  “I’ve told you I believe you, and it’s true. I’ve told you everything. All right, Lewis. I won’t plague you any more. Only, remember this. If things . . . are difficult . . . you can always rely on me. I want you to feel that you can trust me, and that you’re the only value I have. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. It’s just that—for the sake of our future happiness—I had to tell you why I was afraid. I knew you’d been goaded, because of me. It’s better to speak plainly, once and for all, and have done with it. It’s all behind us now.”

  She got up from her chair and smiled at him wanly.

  “Please God we shall never have to refer to this night again. I don’t generally give way to nerves. I’ve had plenty of schooling in the art of ‘gracious silence.’ Soon you and I will be able to go away, and leave this house—and forget everything but our two selves. Forgive me, my dear.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” He came and put his arm around her shoulders. “I understand, Mother. I didn’t know you were afraid—of that. You needn’t have been. I wanted you to be happy, and though I’m a fool, I’m not such a fool as to imagine happiness could be won that way.”

  She smiled at him—a smile which lighted grey eyes that were infinitely sad.

  “I’ll go back to bed, my dear. Perhaps I shall be able to sleep a little now. I’ve got into bad habits—lying awake and listening for I know not what. One’s nerves play one tricks. Good-night—for such of the night as is left.”

  “Good-night, Mother—or good-morning.”

  He went to the door with her, and put out his hand to press the switch of the hall lights, but she stopped him.

  “Don’t put the lights up. I can find my way, and I don’t want to wake any of the servants.”

  Light of foot she went on across the wide lounge, and up the stairs, the beam of light from the library gilding her tall slight figure until she ascended out of its range.

  Lewis Conyers went back to the library, closing the door behind him. The wood fire was blazing merrily now, and the suave golden light from the vellum-shaded lamps shone softly on polished rosewood, on the golden lattice work of valuable old bookcases, on the squat silver candlesticks on the writing-table, on gilded tree calf and morocco, rose and gold and green—all the rich warm hues of a richly beautiful library. Lewis Conyers saw nothing of the familiar room. He poured himself another drink, and stood with the glass in his hand looking down at the blazing logs. Into his mind came a sequence of memories. He had hated his father ever since he was a small child. He had known, with the intuitiveness of childhood, that it was because of his father that his mother’s eyes were shadowed and heavy. As he grew older he began to realise what manner of man his father was—that handsome, successful brute who rode roughshod over everybody. At one period he had been desperately afraid of him. Then, his schoolboy mind had developed a disgust which drowned fear. He would have left home before his schooldays were over had it not been for his mother. He had worshipped her gracious dignity, her unvarying courtesy, and the reticence which would allow no question or complaint from him. When he had reached undergraduate age, Lewis Conyers knew pretty well all that there was to be known about his father; his sequence of mistresses, his natural cruelty, his ability to wound his wife with cynical witticisms whose double meanings were vile in intention and subtle in phrasing, his absolute amorality over the stock market, and his devilish cleverness which kept him just on the right side of the law. Throughout it all, Dorothea Conyers remained aloof, gracious and dignified, something in her persistent reticence forbidding criticism or comment. She ran the great houses which her husband owned; it was her taste and knowledge which rendered them beautiful; her quiet control which ordered their service, her spirit which rendered them homelike. Charitable, courteous, and thoughtful, she created a home and a spirit of peace out of the very wreck which her husband had made of her own initial aspirations.

 

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