Читать книгу The Grassleyes Mystery - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

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Carlotta waited until it was quite obvious that Johnson was on his way up to the Manoir and well out of hearing before she laid her hand once more on her companion's arm.

"Mr. Granet," she confided, "I was frightened before I came. I am more frightened than ever now. What is the mystery up at the Manoir? What are the police doing there and why did the doctor refuse to sign the certificate?"

"My dear young lady," Granet assured her, "I cannot tell you. It really isn't any business of ours, is it?"

"I think that it is our business," Carlotta persisted. "You are such a clever man! You could find out, if you wished. She was such a dear old lady and there is something so mysterious about it all."

"You flatter me," he smiled. "I think that the doctor who refused to sign the certificate was a little meticulous. His refusal was probably because he could not nominate the actual cause of death. I suppose I was one of the first to see her afterwards. To me she seemed quite peaceful and as though she had passed away without any struggle at all. There was probably some cardiac trouble that no one, not even herself, knew of."

Carlotta sighed, and her large, appealing eyes sought for his sympathy. Granet, however, was not a man with an overwhelming amount of that quality.

"Look here," he proposed. "I personally don't see what we can do to-night or what any one can do to us, but if you like I will ring up the Manoir and see if the agent is really there. If he is not, then I think the best thing you can do is to go to bed and forget this affair until to-morrow."

"But I cannot sleep," the girl protested, clasping her fingers together. "I am sure you would find Mr. Spenser at the Manoir. That is his car over there."

"I have an idea," Granet said, "that Mr. Spenser would like to get rid of us all for some reason or other. Are you willing to go if they want us to?"

"I am not sure," was the aimless reply. "I do not think so."

"Will your sister want to go?"

"I am sure that she will not. She had a peculiar sort of affection for Lady Grassleyes and she will be terribly upset."

"Do you mean she has not heard yet?"

Carlotta shook her head.

"She knows nothing of what has happened here. I dare not wake her. She has been in her room all day and although I have knocked on her door I knew it was useless. She has taken a strong sleeping draught."

"Well, that fellow Johnson is not likely to come back here again so would you like me to go up to the Manoir and find out if there is any news?" he proposed.

Her beseeching look brought a smile to his lips. She clutched at his hand and gripped it tightly.

"Please do not send me away."

"You can stay here, if you like, until I come back."

"I should like to do that," she assented. "But do not be very long."

He rose to his feet.

"If you will excuse me, then. Sorry I have nothing suitable to offer you in the way of refreshment. I only moved in this evening, you know, and I have nothing but whisky."

"I should like some whisky."

He fetched a glass, the bottle of whisky and some Perrier. She watched him pour out a small quantity of the former into the tumbler, for which she held out her hand.

"But you must not drink it neat!" he warned her.

"How does one drink it, then?"

"Why, with sodawater or this Perrier."

"Then give me some of the Perrier, please. This is the first time I have ever tasted whisky. I hope that it will warm me."

"If you had drunk it as it was," he told her, "it would have warmed you all right."

He filled the tumbler with Perrier Water and placed it in her hand. She looked at it doubtfully.

"You can go now," she said. "Hurry back."

Granet made his way through the gate and began his short walk across the park to the Manoir. He glanced back once. Carlotta was still sitting there motionless. She was holding the tumbler awkwardly in her hand as though she scarcely knew what to do with it. He turned away impatiently.

"The girl is like the rest of them—crazy," he muttered. "I wish I'd never seen the damned place!"

There was nothing inhospitable about the appearance of the Manoir although it was now getting late. One side of the very attractive front door was open, giving a little vista of the cool stone hall. Granet entered and looked round him. There were several heavily shaded lights but no visible person, no sound about the place. He hesitated for some time, then he made his way down the corridor towards the room where Lady Grassleyes had been seated on the occasion of his first visit. He tried the handle of the door and found, not altogether to his surprise, that it was locked. He stooped down to peer through the large keyhole but saw nothing. The key was in the other side. The door had obviously been locked by some one now in the room. Granet stood upright again. Well under control though his nerves were, he almost shouted out, for without the slightest warning a voice whispered literally in his ear. He swung round. Pooralli was standing there, pasty-faced, black-eyed, self-contained. He held up his finger and beckoned. Granet advanced a few yards towards him.

"Where the devil did you come from?" he demanded.

"The passage," was the quietly spoken answer, accompanied with a little wave of the hand. "I hear well. I heard that there was some one in the hall and my feet are quiet feet. What does the gentleman need?"

"First of all," Granet said, unconsciously dropping his voice to attune with the man's stealthy tone, "I was wondering who was in that room with the door locked."

"A gentleman from Nice," Pooralli whispered.

"Why is he locked in?"

Pooralli raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

"He told nothing. He has been here for more than an hour. He has talked with the doctor; he has talked with Mr. Reynard, the local lawyer; he has talked with the police; he has talked with Miss Grassleyes, he has talked with the tenant of 'The Olive Tree' bungalow. All gone away now. Only him left."

"Who is 'him'?"

"The agent for the whole estate," Pooralli explained with a wave of the hand. "Mr. Spenser."

"I should like to speak to him."

Pooralli received the suggestion unfavourably.

"Him very busy man," he said. "He have much private business."

"I only want to ask him an ordinary question," Granet persisted. "Knock at the door and say that I have come. Tell him that I am the tenant who moved in this evening—or—stop! What about the young lady?"

"Miss Grassleyes not anywhere. Hiding."

"Why?"

The butler shook his head.

"She is afraid of Mr. Spenser," he confided. "She watched his car mounting the hill, round and round and round. Then she ran away. Mr. Spenser he ask for her and it took me a long while to find her. Then they talked in large room—locked now—where ladyship used to sit. Miss Grassleyes gone now."

"It seems to me," Granet observed a little irritably, "that every one spends their time avoiding some one else up here. Anyhow, just knock at the door and tell the agent that the new tenant wants to speak to him."

Pooralli made no further protest. He knocked at the door. For a moment there was silence. He knocked again. They heard the turning of the key and the door was flung open.

"What do you want?" Spenser demanded.

The butler pointed to Granet.

"Gentleman wished to see agent," he explained. "Tenant 'The Lamps of Fire.' Young lady let it this afternoon."

Spenser waved Pooralli away, motioned Granet into the room and closed the door. Granet, in one swift glance round, obtained a vision of open cupboards and drawers, a table strewn with papers. He saw also a very disturbed and angry man.