Читать книгу The Riddle of the Rail - Fred M. White - Страница 9

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Norcliff did not propose to waste much time in elaborating any particular scheme for seeing over the house by the siding in such a way as to prevent the neighbors talking.

"That won't matter in the least," he said. "All we have to do is to take care that nobody sees us entering the house, which will be my business. My suggestion is that we potter about the grounds for the moment, and if anybody sees us and asks questions, then I think we had better say that we are friends from a distance who have dropped in to call upon—by the way, what is the old gentleman's name? I quite forget to find that out."

"Well, I have," Tremble said. "As a matter of fact, he is the Reverend Walter Temperley."

"So that is that. We are in the neighborhood with the intention of doing a few days' fishing, and we happened to find out, to our great surprise, that our old Friend Temperley has a house in the neighborhood. This will enable us to go all over the garden and, after dark, enter the house. That, of course, will entail a little quiet burglary. Do you get the idea?"

"Oh, the idea is well enough, as far as it goes," Trumble said. "But it has certain drawbacks. Suppose this man Farr told the police he was going away and that they were to keep an eye upon the house? Just the sort of job that some zealous young constable would like, and if he happened to butt in—"

"Yes, I quite see your point. Perhaps, it would be as well if I went down to the police station here and revealed my identity to the head constable. Then he can drop a hint to his subordinates to be a little blind as to what is going on at the house by the side of the rails for the next night or so. I will just run down and see the chief, and then we will cross the line and see what we can find outside the house."

Half an hour later the two turned into the garden gate and walked boldly up a flagged path which was planted with roses on either side, and thence came to the porch. The garden appeared to be wonderfully well kept, and evidently the Reverend Walter Temperley was not disposed to allow his flower garden to fall into disorderly untidiness, though he was away from home for something like eight months in the year. Trumble pointed this out to his companion as they neared the porch.

"So I noticed," Norcliff said. "But then, you see, as the old gentleman is here all the summer, he would quite naturally make it a point that his temporary tenant had the garden properly cultivated, and, upon my word, it is a very nice garden. A beautifully trim lawn, with well-arranged flower-beds and a big glass porch that forms a sort of conservatory-entrance to the house."

It was exactly as Norcliff said. Outside the heavy front door a large glass porch had been erected, shut in by an outer glazed door, so that the enclosure formed something that represented an outdoor conservatory. Peeping in, the intruders could see a double row of hot-water pipes running the whole length of the place, which contained a perfect wealth of hothouse flowers. Moreover, the arched roof was covered with a magnificent rose tree, which just then was in the full flower of its beauty. The outer door was not locked, so that the intruders could walk in and inspect the little conservatory for themselves. Trumble looked up at the hanging blossoms, then turned to his companion.

"You notice anything particular here?" he asked.

"I can't say that I do," Norcliff admitted.

"Well, cast your mind back a day or two. Don't you remember noticing anything particular when you examined the dead body of the man in Westport? Something he was wearing?"

"By Jove, you are right!" Norcliff cried. "A faded rose in his button-hole. A hothouse flower."

"Yes, and a Gloire de Dijon bloom at that," Trumble said. "And so is this. Now, it is too early in the year for these roses to bloom out of doors, so, obviously, the flower in the dead man's buttonhole must have come out of a greenhouse. I don't say that this is the particular greenhouse, but it is certainly a most interesting coincidence. Let us assume for a moment that the particular blossom came off this tree."

"Upon my word, I shouldn't be surprised if you are right," Norcliff said. "Everything points in that direction. I feel practically certain that we are on the spot where the crime was committed, and what you have just discovered helps to prove my conclusion. Would you mind trying the front door?"

"No entrance that way," Trumble said, as he tamed the handle. "We shall have to go round to the back, where the kitchen garden is, and try our lack on that side."

They had hardly closed the glazed door behind them and stepped into the open when the sound of footsteps fell upon their ears. Almost at the same instant a man came round the corner from the back of the house. walking slowly and feeling his way with a stick as if his eyesight was defective, or as if he were totally blind. He was a very pleasant looking individual, young and well turned out, with a disarming smile upon his lips.

"Is there somebody here?" he asked. "Unfortunately, I cannot see who it is, but I thought I heard voices, and I am perfectly certain that I heard somebody's footsteps."

Norcliff looked swiftly at his companion, and made a sign to him to be silent. It was rather an unexpected interlude, and, just for the moment, Norcliff was disturbed by it.

"Yes, we're two strangers," he said; "friends of the Rev. Walter Temperley. We happened to be staying in the neighborhood, and we thought we would look him up. But apparently the house appears to be closed. Is our friend away?"

Before there was time for a reply, a sudden exclamation burst from Trumble, and he stepped forward eagerly.

"Good gracious," he cried. "Why, it's George Marchmont. What on earth are you doing here, George?"

"I don't quite place you," the young man said. "And yet the voice is familiar enough. Let me think for a moment. I've got it. You're my old friend, Trevor Trumble."

"You've guessed it all right," Trumble said. "Norcliff, this is a very old pal of mine. We were out in France together when I was serving with one of the big hospitals there, and Marchmont was in the artillery. You know I was out in France looking after the men who were suffering from temporary and other sorts of blindness, and Marchmont here came under my care. You know, blindness is caused by all sorts of things, even by shell shock, and that was Marchmont's trouble. But, my dear fellow, the last time I saw you, you were well on the way to recovery."

"So I was," The man called Marchmont smiled. "In fact, at the time of the Armistice I could see as well as you can. You told me to be particularly careful, and not run any sort of risk, and you warned me that even so much as a fly in my eye might affect me for years to come. I was so much better when I left the Army that I began to look about for something to do, and I forgot all about your warning. And now, you see, I am suffering for it."

"I must go into this presently," Trumble said. For the moment, at any rate, he had forgotten all about the Westport mystery. "I must see into your trouble, George, because I know the history of it from the first and it is just possible that I may be able to put you right again. Mind you, I am not saying definitely that I can do anything of the sort, but I might. If you are living here, and I can see you more or less professionally—"

"Oh, I am living here," Marchmont said. "About a mile down the road. I have a house there—"

"And your sister?" Trumble asked a little hastily.

"Sylvia, you mean. Oh, Sylvia is all right. She is keeping house for me. I didn't want her to bother, because I have learnt to look after myself, but she would insist upon giving up her hospital work, which she continued for a year or two after the war, and devote herself to her unfortunate brother. She is here."

The speaker raised his voice, and, in response, a girl came round the corner, a girl whose eyes lightened up and whose face showed every sign of pleasure and, perhaps something more when they lighted upon Trumble's shabby exterior.

"Why, it's Trevor Trumble," she cried. "Fancy meeting you again like this, after all these years. And just as untidy and careless of your personal appearance as ever."

"Just the same," Trumble agreed. "I suppose that is because I want some one to look after me. By the way, let me introduce my friend to you, in—er—Mr. Norcliff."

Trumble pulled himself up just in time. These people were very old friends of his, and, indeed, he had hoped at one time that Sylvia Marchmont might be something more, but that was no reason why he should forget his professional caution, the more especially that the last thing Norcliff would want just now would be to have himself identified by these strangers as Scotland Yard. Norcliff was quick to appreciate Trumble's motives.

"Yes," he said hastily. "You see, I happen to know the reverend gentleman who owns this house, and that is why I am here with my friend Trumble to call upon him. By chance we are in the neighborhood, and I didn't wish to lose the opportunity."

"A most delightful old man," Sylvia Marchmont said. "We have been on terms of great intimacy with him during the two years we have been living in the neighborhood, and our only regret is that he should be absent abroad so much. However, he will be back in two or three weeks, and if you are staying that length of time—"

"I shouldn't be surprised if we were," Norcliff said dryly. "But isn't the house let furnished?"

"That is so," the girl explained. "Let, for the present, to a Mr. Farr, who is quite a friend of ours, too; in fact, we were more or less responsible for bringing him and Mr. Temperley together. But Mr. Farr does not care much for the garden, and that is why my brother and myself undertook to see that it was kept in order."