Читать книгу The Frightened Lady - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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MR. KELVER, the butler at Marks Priory, used to stand by the sanctuary door for an hour on a fine evening, looking across the lovely weald of Sussex, wondering, and never exactly reaching any decision on the matter, whether it was consonant with his dignity and his grandeur to be segregated from his employer at nine o'clock every evening. For at that hour her ladyship with her own hands turned the key in the lock of that big oaken door which thereafter shut off the north-east wing of Marks Priory from the rest of the house.

The servants' quarters were comfortable. Within reason, and with Mr. Kelver's permission, servants might go in and out of the Priory as they wished, following the path that skirted the woods to the village. But was it not something of an affront to one who had been in the service of a Serene Highness that he, too, must be classified with the excluded?

The sanctuary door was in the north-east wing, and was in a sense Mr. Kelver's private entrance and exit, the staff using the little hall entrance which also was the tradesmen's.

A queer household, he thought. He half confided his view to Studd, though he never gave that polite and experienced man his fullest confidence. For Mr. Kelver belonged to an age which knew nothing of chauffeurs, and he had never placed these alert and skilful mechanics in the order of domestic precedence. They had been a puzzle to him since they first "came in." A butler of Mr. Kelver's experience knew to a nicety the subtle distinctions in importance between a first footman and a lady's maid; unerringly be could balance the weight of cook against valet; but chauffeurs were not so easy.

Studd had been accepted, became "Mister Studd," and was as near to being in the butler's confidence as any servant could possibly hope. And lately Mr. Kelver had felt the need of a confidant.

He was thinking about Studd when that man appeared round one of the towers of the Priory. Mr. Kelver greeted him with a gracious nod, and Studd, on his way to the garage, stopped. He was a little flushed. At first Mr. Kelver, who thought the worst of servants, had the impression that he had been drinking.

"I've just had a few words with Amersham." Studd jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "What a gentleman, eh! And what a doctor! If her ladyship knew what I know he wouldn't last five minutes in this place. Indian Army, eh? I could tell you something about the Indian Army!"

"Really?" said Mr. Kelver politely.

He never encouraged gossip, but was generally anxious to hear it.

"It's a funny thing," Studd went on. "I met a fellow down in the village, a queer-looking customer, who said he had been to India. I had a drink with him in the private bar of the 'White Hart.' I didn't say much; I just listened to him. But he's been there all right."'

Kelver, thin, aristocratic, lifted his silvered head and looked down his aquiline nose at the little chauffeur.

"Has Dr. Amersham been—er—complaining?" he asked.

Studd came back to his grievance savagely.

"Something gone wrong with his bus," he said. "He wanted me to put it right in five minutes, and it's a two days' job. You'd think he was the boss here, wouldn't you—honestly, wouldn't you, Mr. Kelver?"

Kelver smiled mysteriously and made his conventional reply to such embarrassing questions.

"It takes all sorts of people to make a world, Mr. Studd," he said.

Studd shook his head.

"I don't know," he said vaguely. "What's this place—Marks Priory, isn't it? Who's the owner—Lord Lebanon, isn't it?"

He extended the fingers of his hand, and ticked off the household.

"Here they are—as they count. Number one. Dr. Blooming Amersham, Lord High Controller. Number two, her ladyship. Number three"—he was at a loss for number three—"I suppose you'd say Miss Crane, though I've got nothing against her. Also ran, Lord Lebanon!"

"His lordship is young," said Mr. Kelver gently.

It was no answer, and he knew it was no answer. He completely agreed with Studd, but he knew his place. The man who had served the Duke of Mecklstein und Zwieberg, who had been in the household of the Duke of Colbrooke, whose family for generations had served great people greatly, could not with dignity and propriety criticise his employers.

There was a quick step on the gravelled path and Dr. Amersham came into view.

"Well, Studd, have you finished the work on my car?" He had a sharp, rather ugly voice. His manner was normally provocative.

"No, I haven't finished the work on your car," said Studd aggressively; "and what's more, I'm not going to finish the work on your car to-night. I'm going down to the ball."

The doctor's face went white with rage. "Who gave you permission?"

"The only person in this house who can give me permission," said Studd loudly. "His lordship."

The little beard of the doctor was quivering with anger, "You can find another job."

"Find another job, can I?" snarled Studd. "What sort of a job, doctor—signing other people's names on cheques?"

The doctor's face went from white to crimson, and then the colour faded till it was grey.

"If I get another job it will be an honest job. It won't be robbing a brother officer—take that from me! And whatever job I take I shan't be pinched for it, or go up for trial for it, or be kicked out of the Army for it!"

His tone was significant, accusatory. Amersham wilted under the glare of his eyes, opened his mouth to speak, but could only find a few tremulous words. "You know too much for your good, my friend," he said, and, turning on his heels, walked away.

Mr. Kelver had listened uncomprehendingly, a little aghast at the impropriety of Studd's words, uneasy as to whether he should have intervened, or whether, even without intervention, he was tacitly compromised. If he had been sure of Studd's position in the hierarchy of service...

He had the impression—and here he was right—that Dr. Amersham had been unaware of his presence.

"That's got him!" said Studd triumphantly. "Did you see him change colour? He's going to fire me, is he?"

"I don't think you should have spoken to the doctor in that tone, Studd," Kelver was mildly reproachful.

The chauffeur was in the exalted state of one who had spoken his mind, and was superior to disapproval. "Now he knows his place, and there are one or two other things I could say," he said.

There was a fancy dress ball at the village hall that night, in aid of the bowling club. In the dusk of the evening came a fly from the hall, carrying a pierrot, a pierrette, a gipsy woman and an Indian, to the festivities.

Mr. Kelver did not approve of servants wearing theatrical costumes—even though they were home-made. It removed them from his jurisdiction. He had a word or two to say about the hour they should return. He was concerned about the impropriety of the pierrette's legs. It was the first time he was aware that the under-housemaid had legs. But mostly he had a word of fatherly advice for the gorgeous Indian, who was Studd.

"If I were you, Mr. Studd, I think I should see the doctor in the morning, and apologise. After all, if you're in the right you can afford to apologise, and if you're in the wrong you can't afford not to." Consciously or unconsciously, he was paraphrasing Mr. Horace Lorimer's sagest advice.

After the fly had gone he strolled into the hall, making his final tour before he retired to the servants' wing, putting a cushion in place, removing an empty glass—obviously the doctor's—that had been left on her ladyship's desk.

Later he saw the doctor. He was standing in one of the window recesses in the main corridor, with the two footmen: Brooks, stout and spectacled, and the gaunt Gilder. They were talking together in low tones, head to head. Somebody else saw them. Lord Lebanon, in the doorway of his room, watched the conference, a little amused. He said good night to Kelver as he passed, then called him back. "Isn't that the doctor?" He was a little short-sighted.

"Yes, my lord; it's the doctor and Gilder, and, I think, Brooks."

"What the devil are they talking about? Kelver, don't you think this is a queer house?"

Kelver was too polite a man, too perfect a servant, to agree. He thought the house was very queer, and the two footmen the most outrageous phenomena that Marks Priory offered. But they were not under his jurisdiction: that fact had been made very plain to him by her ladyship on the day he had arrived. Moreover, they were not excluded from the living-rooms after nine o'clock, but had the free run of the house.

"I have always felt, my lord," he said, "that it takes all sorts of people to make a world."

Willie Lebanon smiled. "I think you've said that before, Mr. Kelver," he said gently, and, surprisingly and a little embarrassingly, patted the aged man on the shoulder.