Читать книгу Found Dead - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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Mortmain sat there in the sunshine, turning it all over in his mind. He wondered rather morbidly if he could have saved the situation had he seen Margaret before he left London on the most momentous day of his life. But it was no use to think about that now. After all, if the gods had taken away with one hand, they had given liberally with the other, and there was more than one Margaret in the world if he cared to seek her.

Still, what did that paragraph mean? He had not been in London for two years, he had dropped out of the old Bohemian set entirely, and knew nothing of the doings of that world in which, at one time, he had taken so keen a delight. He had been under the impression that Margaret had married that man Richard Grimshaw and had gone back to Australia with him. And yet here she was, apparently still in London, living in the same old environment and, what was more extraordinary, passing under her maiden name. Now, why was she doing that? She was not an actress nor had she ever had the slightest ambition that way. But there it was plainly in print for everyone to see, and the more John turned it over in his mind, the more puzzled he became.

But what did it all matter to him, he asked himself impatiently. Margaret had turned him down over some fancied grievance, without giving him even the chance to explain. And if for some reason, she had parted with her Australian husband, then it would be all the same, in any case. She was married now, and there was an end to it and, if Mortmain had his way he would never see her again. Still, the old memories were bitter in the mind and took away all the flavour of his cigarette.

He was still trying to forget when the old family butler, Thomas Farthing, came out of the house and approached the long basket chair in which he was seated.

"Excuse me, sir," the elderly servitor said, "but would you be pleased to come in for lunch?"

"Lord, I didn't know it was as late as that," Mortmain smiled. "Really, Farthing, it is almost a pity to go in the house on a day like this. The finest day we have had this year. The coast of Wales looks as if it was cut out of marble. To-morrow morning I think I will go out prawning. Let me see, what time is low water? I mean to-morrow morning's tide?"

"Half-past three, sir," Farthing responded. The old man had been born on the coast, and knew every trick and turn of the tide as he had done from early boyhood. "Half-past three, sir, and the tide will be dead out. And there won't be a breath of wind either. If you go down the zig-zag path and start away out from under the Castle Rock you ought to get a sackful."

"So I have been thinking," Mortmain smiled. "And not a soul to disturb me. You get my traps together, as usual, and leave the rest to me. See that everything is in my bedroom, so that I need not disturb anybody at that time of the morning, and set my alarm clock for a quarter-past three. It will be more or less daylight by then, and with any luck I shall be back for a change and a bath before my breakfast at the usual hour. And don't forget the alarm."

"Oh no, sir, of course not, sir. And if there is nothing else, sir, perhaps you will come in to luncheon."

Mortmain followed languidly enough. He had the natural appetite of the clean-living athlete, but he did not particularly feel the call to the mid-day meal just then. And though he was looking forward keenly enough to his sport on the morrow, his mind was half engaged on other things. It was ten o'clock in the evening before he threw aside some notes he was making with an air of impatience and went up to bed, although outside it was still more or less daylight. But Mortmains was an early household, and an hour later all its inhabitants were in bed and asleep. Then morning came, as morning does, and the household began to stir. First the maidservants, then Mrs. Morse, the housekeeper, and, after her, the two footmen, followed by Farthing, whose work consisted mainly at that time of the day in seeing that everything was in order in the library.

He came down leisurely enough, as befitted his age and dignity and threw open the library door. It was a majestic room in the left wing, running the whole depth of the house, with a large mullioned window at either end. At one time, it had been a sort of chapel, as shown by the arched roof with its finely carved timbers and the floor of encaustic tiles, covered, for the most part, with a magnificent Persian carpet, which, however, showed the patterns of the tiles for some six feet round the side of the room. The walls were covered with shelves bearing volumes of various ages and in divers bindings. For the Mortmains' library was a famous one, and more than one transatlantic visitor had tried to buy it from its late owner. On the whole, a wonderful room, placid and calm and dignified and filled with that ancient peace that Tennyson sang about. In one window was a great carved writing desk, and against one of the high shelves lay the light ladder which is usually found where libraries are concerned. This rested on its side against a book shelf, and Farthing scratched his head as he contemplated it.

"Um, that's a funny thing," he told himself. "What's that ladder doing down there? I could have sworn that I put it under the far window before I went to bed last night. And nobody couldn't have moved it, because I was last out of the room."

With that, he made his way to the window facing the sea and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains, so that the fine old apartment was flooded with sunlight. Then the old man did a strange thing.

He stood there as if gasping for breath. He tottered across the room and pulled back the other curtains. Then, almost mechanically he looked to see if the windows had been properly fastened the night before. With another gasp, he found that the window farthest from the sea was not only unfastened, but opened a good two feet or more. Then, carrying himself as best he might, he walked out into the corridors leading to the domestic offices and thence into the steward's room where Charles, one of the men servants in the house, was busily engaged on his domestic duties. The old man clutched him frantically by the collar.

"Charles," he said quaveringly.

"Charles. Tell me, my boy, did ye ever see a ghost?"

"Well, I can't rightly recollect, as ever I seen one myself," Charles replied gravely. "But my father he told me as he seen one once when he was coming back from the Valley of Rocks one night very late, about the time when he and my mother was keeping the lodge. But you look as if you's seen one, Mr. Farthing."

"Well, perhaps I have and perhaps I haven't. But you run up to Sir John's room and wake him up."

"Wake him up? Why he ain't in. Didn't you tell me your very self as he was going prawning this morning?"

"Yes, I know that," the old man said impatiently. "But it's half-past seven now and he must have been out at least four hours. And he couldn't go prawning all that time, because the tide would be agin him. No, he must have been back an hour or so. I know he hasn't come down yet: but it stands to reason as he's in the house somewhere. If he ain't in his bedroom, he's pretty sure to be in his bath. But go you up and bring him down and tell him to come immediate."

Charles departed on his errand, leaving Farthing leaning heavily against the table, as if in need of support. There was nobody in the bath-room, the door of which was open, so Charles proceeded to discreetly knock upon the door of his master's sleeping chamber. As there came no reply, he ventured to steal into the room and cross over to the bed. There lay John Mortmain fast asleep, and on a chair by his bedside his fishing kit complete to the rubber-soled shoes which he usually wore. One glance at these convinced the servant that this morning, at least, the outfit by the bedside had not been worn. Everything was as clean and dry as it had been when Farthing had placed it there the night before. The alarm clock was ticking on merrily, as if it had not been interfered with. It was quite plain to Charles that the alarm had failed to function and that his master was still sleeping placidly on. He bent down and laid a hand on Mortmain's shoulder and shook him gently.

Mortmain turned over uneasily and opened his eyes.

"What is it, Charles?" he asked. "Why, it's after half-past seven. What the dickens has happened? Oh, I see—that confounded clock never went off. I shall have to get a new one. But what on earth are you looking so worried about?"

"Blessed if I know, Sir John," Charles murmured. "Mr. Farthing, he's seen a ghost in the library. Pretty well frightened him to death, it has. So he sent me up here to fetch you, and said as how you was to come down to the library at once, Sir John."

Mortmain dragged himself more or less unwillingly out of bed and, donning a pair of slippers, went down the broad oak stairway in his pyjamas, just as he was. He called aloud for Farthing as he turned into the library. It was a white-faced Farthing that joined him and one, apparently bereft of speech, because he could only point to an object that lay on the brightly-hued tiles on one side of the great room.

"Good lord, man!" Mortmain cried. "What on earth is he doing here? And how did he get in?"

"Through the window, Sir John," Farthing explained. "I found the far window open this morning, though I swear I fastened it last night. Anyway, there he is."

"And badly hurt," Mortmain inquired.

"Dead," Farthing said. "Aye, I've seen too many bodies in my time to be deceived as to that, Sir John."

"Ah, I see. Some burglar, of course. Found his way into the house and met with a nasty accident."

"Murdered," Farthing corrected solemnly. "Murdered."