Читать книгу The Tall House Mystery (Musaicum Murder Mysteries) - Dorothy Fielding - Страница 4

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"WHY do you dislike me so?" Winnie Pratt smiled up at the young man beside her. Most young men would have been overcome with joy, for Miss Pratt made a lovely picture as she stood on the lawn of The Tall House in a white muslin frock with a soft green sash and a large hat. Her flower-like little face just now wore a bewildered, hurt expression that her delicately aligned eyebrows emphasized.

Gilmour laughed awkwardly. "Have I been rude, Miss Pratt? If so, it's only because I'm not accustomed to such visions of loveliness. I'm grown into a dull old hack." Now Lawrence Gilmour did look rather dull, but he was distinctly not old, and he was quite unusually good-looking in a fresh-faced, ruddy, rather countrified way.

"Is he a dull old hack?" she asked Moy, who was passing them at the moment.

"Do you want a standing opinion?" he asked with affected seriousness.

"If it's not too expensive," Miss Pratt returned, smiling at him.

"Nothing is too expensive for you!" he retorted with mock devotion. "Then merely as an opinion for the purpose of the discussion, and subject to the—"

"Help! Let me escape!" Gilmour edged away with mock fright, but with genuine eagerness, and walked back into the house.

"There!" Winnie waved a hand after him, "tell me, Mr. Moy, why he avoids me so. It—it's—most—" She seemed at a loss for a word.

"Unusual," Moy finished, laughing. She laughed too. But there was vexation in her lovely eyes. "It's so noticeable," she persisted petulantly.

Moy refused to take her seriously. "The absence of one worshiper among the multitude? Surely not!" But he went after Gilmour.

He found him in the square hall of the house drinking lemon squash.

"Look here," Moy began at once, "why make yourself conspicuous, old man?"

"In what way?" Gilmour's tone was wary.

"By insisting so markedly on having nothing to do with Miss Pratt," Moy finished. "What's wrong with meeting a lovely young thing half way? Most men would give half their fortune to be in your shoes."

"I'll do a deal with them, instantly!" Gilmour grinned back. "I loathe the girl, Moy, and that's the truth."

Moy stared at him. Yet he looked in earnest. But of course this was just a joke.

"Because of her cadaverous and withered appearance, I suppose," Moy asked. Even Gilmour laughed at that question.

"I know it sounds mad," Gilmour was speaking a little under his breath, slowly and very gravely. "She's infernally pretty. And yet—" He hesitated. "Oh, well, put it down to my not wanting to make a fool of myself—just now. Oh, damn, there she comes again!" And catching sight of a flicker of white muslin, he once more fled, this time into a farther room.

Moy's lips twitched as he watched him. From where he stood, he could see that the white muslin belonged to Mrs. Pratt, not to the daughter. He himself went back into the garden again, but he did not make for Miss. Pratt. Winnie was not for any solicitor. He wondered with a moment's amusement how Mrs. Pratt would take it if he entered the lists too. For Mrs. Pratt considered that Haliburton was the only possible choice for her beautiful daughter. Unfortunately Winnie, like many another spoiled beauty, seemed on her arrival at The Tall House to have suddenly set her heart on what apparently she was not to have, and that was Gilmour. He was evidently anchored elsewhere, Moy reflected. No man whose heart was free could withstand those smiles. Gilmour had been about to say as much just now. What did perplex Moy was the extraordinary fact of Gilmour's dislike of the girl, his almost open hostility to her. It was all really more amusing to watch and speculate over than he had expected. And few things in life are that. He was, of course, prepared to see the Haliburton-Ingram silent, well-mannered duel continue, but he had never hoped to see Miss Pratt fairly throw herself at the head of a third man, who would try his best to throw the enchantress back again. He wondered how Haliburton and Ingram liked it.

Fortunately they were such pleasant fellows, both of them, and Miss Pratt's attack was simply an acute form of wanting what she was not going to get, which would cure itself in time. Luckily it was Gilmour and not Frederick Ingram whom she had suddenly decided to capture. Frederick Ingram professed himself one of her victims, but Winnie refused even to look at him; which was as well, for Frederick was an utter waster. It was said that even Ingram had been so stirred by the cheek of Frederick daring to lift his eyes to the Beauty, that he had told him not to come near The Tall House while she was there. Moy watched Ingram for a moment, reflecting on the oddity that the scholar should be so captivated by a featherhead. Moy was still of an age to put a value on cleverness in women which he would not do in later years. Yes, he vowed to himself, Miss Pratt would be difficult to put in a play...apart from her beauty, there seemed so little to get hold of...Then how, in a play, to make it clear why two sensible young men were ready to count a day well lost if it brought them but one smile from her?

Haliburton came out of the house again, and stood a moment watching Ingram play. As a rule he was well worth attention. Turning his head, Haliburton saw that Tark was also watching the game.

"Had your talk with him yet?" he asked pleasantly. Tark started as though he had not noticed that anyone stood beside him.

"Not yet."

"I heard you talking to someone in the house just now. It sounded like Frederick Ingram. He isn't here, surely?"

Tark did not reply.

"I didn't know you knew him," Haliburton went on.

"I met him abroad," came the casual reply. Moy thought again how his voice suggested lack of use. Yet the man did not look an anchorite. Or did he? Moy, for one, had a feeling as though Tark lived in a cell—windowless, doorless, dark and utterly lonely.

"Probably through no fault of your own," Haliburton said excusingly.

Tark gave the half-smile, half-sneer that was his nearest to showing merriment.

"I didn't realize that he was a brother of the mathematician Ingram. By the way, isn't he coming to stay here at the house too?"

"Certainly not," was the instant rejoinder. "I believe Ingram has taken him on in a sort of semi-demi-secretarial position, but neither he nor Gilmour are fond of Frederick. Like most people." And with that Haliburton seemed to lose himself in the game again.

"What's the matter with Ingram's play!" he ejaculated after another moment.

"Miss Pratt," came the reply. Haliburton's eyes, following the other's, now saw Gilmour walking stolidly along, his eyes on the grass, like a worried owner thinking of re-turfing, and beside him, her face turned up to his downbent one, which did not even glance at her, pattered the little white shoes of Miss Pratt.

Haliburton frowned and watched Ingram serve another fault.

"Women always want what they can't get," Haliburton said at length, and for once his good nature sounded a trifle forced. "Miss Pratt has all the rest of us at her feet, and just because Gilmour holds out, she means to have his scalp."

Moy came closer. He overheard the words. "She's a dreadful flirt," he threw in lightly. Moy wanted to hear what Haliburton would reply. Motives and cross currents, just now, were to Moy what rats are to a terrier. He could not pass them by.

"I wouldn't call her a flirt," Haliburton said uneasily.

Moy laughed at him.

"You wouldn't call her anything but perfection." Haliburton reddened. He had a trick of that.

"Oh, I don't know," he spoke awkwardly, "I don't mind owning that I wish she would stop trying to sweep Gilmour off his feet. There's no harm in her trying, of course, but—" He stopped, not quite sure how he intended to finish the sentence.

"She'll soon tire of her effort," Moy now said soothingly, and in silence the three watched Ingram miss a ball that he could have caught with his eyes shut had he been his usual nimble-footed self. He won in the end, it was true, but the games he had lost he had given away. He now made for Miss Pratt, and Gilmour at once stepped back, waving them towards the house for drinks. Miss Pratt would have lingered, but Gilmour fairly swept them on their path and stood smiling a little as they went.

Mrs. Pratt touched his arm. She, too, was smiling, but her eyes were not gay.

"A word with you, Mr. Gilmour. Suppose we have a look at the malmaisons?" They turned a corner of the artificially intricate little garden. It cut them off from the courts. As they stood before the flowers she went on:

"Mr. Gilmour, I think I must speak plainly to you."

"By all means." His sunburned face smiled encouragingly down into her worn one. Mrs. Pratt had been as lovely as Winnie in her day, but no one would have guessed it now.

"I want you to stop throwing my daughter at Mr. Ingram's head." She lifted her chin as she spoke and looked him straight in the eyes. For the first time, Gilmour really noticed her. He saw energy and will power in that face—qualities that he always admired. He saw more—the determination that makes things come to pass—another of his own likings.

"I don't agree with your way of putting it," he said now, quietly, "but if you mean, that because Ingram is my friend, I want him to have the girl he loves, you're right. I do. He'll make her a splendid husband. Any mother could hand her daughter to Charles Ingram with confidence. I've known him for years, and I assure you that he——"

She made an impatient snap with the fingers that hung down at her side.

"Winnie is going to marry Mr. Haliburton. That was why I got out of all our other engagements to come here for this month. But your friend, Mr. Ingram, is quite another matter. I do not think she would be happy with him."

He looked his dissent.

"Please, Mr. Gilmour," the mother said to that, "please don't try to encourage your friend. He hasn't a hope of marrying her. She really does love Mr. Haliburton. She told me as much herself."

"When?" he asked skeptically. "Months ago? But that's over, or nearly over."

"Winnie's affections have a way of circling round," the mother, too, spoke a trifle dryly. There was a short silence.

"As for your own conduct," she went on frankly, "it's splendid. But then, you're a born realist."

"What's that?" he asked.

"I mean by that, a person who goes for the substance and not for the shadow. Winnie is born to go for shadows. You have the good sense and cleverness to know that she's only making a fuss over you in order to tease poor Basil Haliburton."

Gilmour liked being thought clever. "Is that it?" he asked. He looked genuinely relieved—and was.

"It makes it damned awkward for me sometimes," he said honestly. "I wish she wouldn't!"

For a second the mother's eyes flashed. And Mrs. Pratt's eyes could shoot fire on occasions, he saw to his surprise.

"You're the first man who has ever complained about it," she said, and he grinned at once placatingly and ruefully.

"I don't suppose I would either, but for—" He hesitated. "I'm giving you confidence for confidence, Mrs. Pratt. There's a certain girl whom I hope very much will some day be my wife. I want her to come up to The Tall House for a couple of days—"

"That's just what I told Winnie!" she said almost jubilantly. "I felt sure there was something like that. I do congratulate you, Mr. Gilmour. What's her name?"

"Alfreda Longstaff. But it's not settled—unfortunately. It's only a hope," he put in hastily.

"Do have her up here," she begged. "I'll chaperone her with pleasure. But now to come back to my first, my only grievance," she smiled at him now with genuine kindliness, "please don't try to wreck your friend's life—for if he were really to fall in love with my daughter, it would be such a pity!"

"It's too late to say that," Gilmour replied gravely. "He is deeply in love with her."

"He'll have to get over it," she said bruskly.

"I still don't see why he should have to." Gilmour's face was that of a man who would not easily give up his chosen path. "I don't in the least see why he should."

There was no mistaking the change in Mrs. Pratt's look. For a second she stood pressing her lips together, then she said slowly:

"Does Mr. Haliburton strike you as a man of unlimited patience? He doesn't me."

"He's very good-natured..." he began vaguely. Gilmour hardly knew Haliburton.

"He has that reputation," Mrs. Pratt threw in, "but—well—I doubt his standing much nonsense. He's not been accustomed to it. Besides, why should he? And if he let Winnie go—" Her face seemed to grow pinched at the mere words. "No, listen!" she said imperiously, "I'll be quite frank. I'm living on my capital. I was a wealthy girl myself, and married a man who was believed to be well off. So he was—so we both were for a time. But we were both extravagant, and when he died I found that even his insurance had been mortgaged. I was left to struggle along with Winnie as best I could, for we neither of us had any relations. Bit by bit my capital has been eaten into, until—well, I can't keep the flag flying much longer. Now Basil Haliburton at the moment would settle half the world on Winnie. And she loves him. In reality." The last two words came defiantly. "Anything else is just play. I want the affair settled when we leave here. And so it will be if you head off your friend."

"But he's quite well to do," Gilmour urged.

"Not as Mr. Haliburton is!" was the unanswerable reply. "Let alone as well off as Basil will be when his grandfather dies."

"I know he has big expectations," Gilmour agreed, "but I assure you that Ingram's means—"

"Are not the kind that I want for Winnie," snapped Mrs. Pratt.

"But perhaps the kind that she wants for herself," came the reply with a smile that Mrs. Pratt called "positively fiendish" in its impudence.

"It's no good, Mrs. Pratt. I'm backing my friend to win."

There was a moment's silence.

"Do you suppose I've endured what I have to be thwarted now—when the struggle is nearly over?" Her tone startled him by its intensity. He saw that he had gone too far.

"Look here, Mrs. Pratt," he spoke in a more conciliatory tone, "give Ingram a trial. You talk as though he were a pauper. He's anything but."

Again came that snap of her fingers at her side, and suddenly Gilmour guessed—rightly—that Mrs. Pratt had borrowed money on the strength of her daughter's coming engagement to Haliburton. But she only gave him a rather fierce look and moved away. Gilmour looked after her ruefully. He very much disliked unpleasantness.

"Mrs. Pratt seemed peeved with me—just like you," he said under his breath to Moy.

"I don't wonder. You're a sort of involuntary dog-in-the-manger. And she looks a good hater."

"Well, if my corpse is found some fine day lying in the tool shed, you'll know where to look," and Gilmour broke off to watch with open pleasure Ingram capture Miss Pratt and lead her off to the house under the plea of some books having come from Hatchett's and wanting her help to choose a couple for his sister's children.

Ingram led the way into the library which had been handed over to him for his exclusive use all the more absolutely in that no one else wanted it. He was the only member of the five who had to continue his work at The Tall House itself, and it evidently was work that admitted of no putting off. During the day and early evening he might—and did—dance attendance on Winnie Pratt, but from ten onwards every night he shut himself into the library and let nothing disturb him. Sometimes it was long past midnight when he went up to his rooms. No one at the house got up early. Moy talked as though he let the milkman in on his way to his office in Lincoln's Inn, but a quarter to ten was the earliest that ever saw him running down the steps to his little car. At half-past nine Gilmour would have started for the tube. Half-past ten saw Haliburton off the premises. Moy sometimes thought that it was because Ingram could be with Winnie so many hours of the day, that he left suppers and the evenings to Haliburton. Certainly as far as the two men were concerned, the balance seemed only too even. Whichever one was with her appeared to be the favored man.

In the library she carefully selected the books whose bindings pleased her the best, and then stayed on listening to Ingram's eager words about the popular book he was planning on the arithmetical aspect of the universe. He was a charming talker and, as she listened, as she watched his rapt eyes, something of the fascination which he could exert over her came back again. No one but Ingram ever talked to Winnie as though she had a brain. He appealed to it, and Winnie's intelligence struggled forward to meet the appeal. Perhaps, too, something was due to Gilmour's flat refusal to be led on her string. At any rate, for the time being, Ingram regained something of his old ascendency over her. There had been a week or two when he had entirely eclipsed Haliburton.

That young man now strolled in and joined in the chat. He seemed genuinely interested in Ingram's talk and gave a little sigh when Winnie drifted out again in answer to Mrs. Pratt's urgent reminder that she and her daughter were due at a friend's cocktail party.

When she was gone Haliburton would have lingered, but Ingram made it clear that he wanted to write a few pages before the post left. As a rule he let no one inside his writing-room. By sheer personality he had established a sort of frozen line at the door across which no one stepped uninvited. The door had stood open just now and the room had been free to anyone who cared to step in, but, with the going of Winnie, Ingram changed, as he was wont to change, at his desk. For one thing he seemed to grow years older, for another he tolerated no time-wasters.

Moy was certain that Ingram often locked himself in. He had an idea that the scientist was working against time, or at least working on something where time counted. And apparently that something was to be kept a dead secret until publication. Ciphers, probably, he thought. Once he had heard a sound he knew well enough, the clang of the lid of a deed box and the turning of a key. That was just before Ingram had hurried out to join the others. Evidently Ingram kept his ideas well safeguarded.