Читать книгу Nine Strings to your Bow - Maurice Walsh - Страница 3

I

THE day after Peter Falkner had talked with Con Madden in Edinburgh he stepped down off the evening train at Eglintoun, and felt as alien as on that evening six years before when he had arrived for the first time. And, yet, he wanted to feel at home. In five years he had come to recognize that this was the place he wished most to live in. He wanted to take hold of the Danesford estate and reshape its economy, to redress, as far as in him lay, the old sins of landlordism, to introduce co-operation and fellowship and security. . . . And now he felt the stranger once more, and would have to begin all over again under a burden that might not be borne.

Con Madden came out of the compartment next to Peter’s, brushed by his shoulder, and took half a dozen steps to the bookstall. Close by, a short, sturdy man, sporting a jut of spade beard, was reading a paper-covered book. Con glanced aside at him, caught his hard green eye and spoke casually.

“Well, Mr. Glover! Still here, I see?”

“I postponed my departure for a few days, sir.” Daniel Glover’s voice was uncordial.

“Any rooms available at the Spa Hotel?”

“It won’t be half-full yet, sir,” said the stallkeeper.

“I believe number 86 is available,” said Glover, “that is, if you intend patronizing the establishment.”

“I might move farther out into the country,” Con said.

“That might be advisable,” murmured Glover and moved farther along the stall to browse in The Hind Let Loose.

That is all that these two casual acquaintances said or had need to say to each other. Con turned to find out what was happening to Peter Falkner.

The porter had come hurrying along the train and impulsively thrust forth his hand.

“You’re welcome back, Mr. Falkner! Everyone is glad about you. Man, you’re lookin’ gran’.”

“Thanks, Tom,” Peter said easily. He could always control his voice. “There are some things in the van for the Home Farm. Chuck them in the waiting room, and one of the lads will run down later.”

He turned about then, his eyes bold but watchful. A good many Eglintoun people were scattered about the platform, and most of them were eyeing him with aloof interest. Peter turned towards the entrance hall, but before he might move, two people hurried on to the platform, and Peter pulled himself up stiffly.

One was a tallish young woman. A yellow silk oilproof could not hide the fine slender lines of her; she was like a strung bow. The other was a man slightly under middle height, in old well-fitting brown tweeds, and with a disreputable tweed hat far back on his fine dome of brow. His face was roundly smooth, his nose and mouth sensitively carved, and his eyes were big and dark and brilliant, and as long-lashed as any woman’s.

When the young woman saw Peter she cried out in a breathless way, “Peter! Oh, Peter!” and came running. Her eyes were alight, and there was colour high on her moulded cheekbones. Her leaping hands caught both of his and pressed them fiercely together between palms that were cold as ice. “You are all right, Peter! Aren’t you all right, my dear?”

“Don’t crowd me, you vixen!” he said. “I can still stand you on your ear.”

“Don’t let them get the better of you, Peter!” There was a husky note in her voice now. “Don’t let the damn’d Aitkens do you down! You are your father’s son, aren’t you, Peter?”

“That’s a’e solid fact, whoever he was,” said Peter.

“That’s the lad! The same old Peter!” She lifted one of her hands, and softly smoothed downwards his lean cheek.

“Oh my dear! My dear! We have been doing terrible things to you.” Her voice broke a little then.

“Take it aisy my darlint!” His voice was pure Irish. He slipped his left hand inside her arm and pivoted her round to face the man who had come slowly across the platform.

“I am only a damn cry-baby,” she said.

“Don’t let our sentimentality run away with us in the presence of the neutrals, Barbara,” said the pleasantly quiet voice of the man facing them. “Hello, Peter!”

“Hello, Hughes!” said Peter.

The two men smiled at each other, and their hands met firmly. Hughes Everitt’s smile lit up his grave face. His eyes, looking deep into Peter’s, saw that his friend had suffered but that he was not broken. Peter understood the contentment in his friend’s smile.

“Time is only relative,” Hughes said. “We are now at the beginning of a new incarnation.”

“You’ve said it, Mahatma,” agreed Peter equably.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” said Barbara. “I’ve the old bus outside. I’ve a meal for you at Danesford. It’s your place now.”

“Anyone at the big house?” Peter asked.

“Only Toby, but not this evening.”

“Look, Barbara, old girl. You don’t mind if I stick on at the Home Farm for a few days?”

“Of course not, Peter. I understand. I’ll drive you across after we feed you.”

But Peter hung back.

“You two go on and wait for me at Foster’s. I would like to stretch my legs up High Street.”

“Peter is right, Barbara,” said Hughes Everitt. “It is fitting that the populace should know his attitude from the beginning. Come, my children!”

“Bah!” said Barbara. “You men do love to go about stiff-legged. Oh, all right! I’m coming.”

The three went out together, carrying themselves easily. They were not going to shrink from public notice.

Barbara and Hughes got into the open two-seater, and Peter pointed a finger at them.

“Why are you two not married people? I ordered you to get hitched.”

“Go to blazes, Peter!” said Barbara and put her toe on the self-starter.

II

Con Madden, one hand in pocket, one arm swinging loosely, one toe a little inwards, slouched up the street after Peter Falkner who had chosen his pace carefully. He must not move so slow as to give the impression that he invited inspection, nor so fast as to seem to be running the gauntlet. Just a nice easy pace, hands out of pocket, head up—and not smoking. Confidence without bravado. And he could not help it if he felt a little stiff about the knees.

The cobbled High Street of Eglintoun is a long street for a country town, and it is historically ancient. Once long ago it had been considered wide and straight out of the common, but in a motor age it is strait and crooked. There were few people on the narrow pavements, and none of them was particularly intimate with Peter. A man here and there lifted a hand and nodded, and Peter nodded back; one or two said, “Welcome home, Mr. Falkner!” and he said, “Thank you.” He moved evenly on, and he was making a good impression though he was not aware of it. Some had expected him to come back cowed and slinking, others held that he would brazen it out. This quietly striding man was neither slinking nor brazen.

No one offered to shake his hand until half-way up the street. Then a tall, lean, black-haired man in grey, on the other pavement, saw him and without hesitation walked straight across and offered a quick and frank hand.

“I am glad to see you home, Mr. Falkner,” the tall man said.

“Thank you, Inspector,” Peter said. “I guess you’ll still have a string on me, Inspector Myles?”

“I have not, Mr. Falkner,” Inspector Myles said. “It is the duty of a policeman not to be officious. Good evening, sir.”

The two men parted, and Peter felt a little better. Twenty yards behind him Con Madden was leaning well into a bookseller’s window trying to shroud his face in cigarette smoke. Inspector Dick Myles leaned casually at his side and blew the smoke away out of the side of his mouth.

“My Gawd!” he murmured. “Whin did the bogtrottin’ Irish take to litheratchoor?”

“Get to hell out of here, you Portadown noranbe man!” murmured Con.

“God’llmighty Con! come away and have a drink somewhere.”

“No, Dick, no. I’m on a job—now—this minute. Leave me be. I’ll be in to tell you.”

“I’ll have the bracelets gilt for you. Make it soon, lad. I have three years’ talk on my chest. So long now, and good luck!”

Beyond the old market across the Town Chambers was a plaque indicating the Police Station. As Peter came abreast on the other side, a slender man in a well-fitting blue uniform came through the arch and halted on the edge of the pavement to look across at Peter. Unlike Inspector Myles he made no move to greet the released man.

Peter turned on his heels, and without changing his pace walked across to face the police officer. They looked unsmilingly at each other, and each face hid all emotion.

“Which of us was the damn fool, Superintendent Mullen?” Peter said.

The Superintendent did not answer that. He said coldly, “You may consider yourself lucky to get off, Falkner.”

Peter was nettled. This man had tried three times to hang him.

“The only luck I had, Mullen, was your pig-headed conduct of the case. It won me a decision over three rounds.”

“The decision was not conclusive, Falkner.”

“Meaning you’re up for another round? Fine! I am not running out on you. You will find me at Danesford or the Home Farm carrying on as usual, or more so. And listen! if you come to see me, come in all the panoply of the law, or do not come at all. If you come snooping, watch out!”

“Is that a threat?”

“It is a warning.”

“I shall do my duty, Mr. Falkner.” Mullen was formally respectful now.

III

Peter had not far to go. He turned the corner and saw Barbara’s two-seater close to the kerb. He found his feet moving faster and schooled them back to their old pace.

On the side he was on, the Catholic chapel stood back from the street inside tall railings. As Peter passed the open gate a clergyman came out. He was short and old, with sagging pink chops and a noble mass of white hair.

“Peter—Peter Falkner! my dear boy!” he cried out in a baritone voice that filled his whole squat torso. He dropped a biretta on the gravel, caught up his many-buttoned soutane from his feet, and came at a shuffling scramble of a run.

“Man, you’re back—you’re back! I needed you.” His voice went deep and shook. “Thank God! You are all right, boy?”

“I am not, Padre,” said Peter suddenly serious, “and I have a confession to make. Those two bits of prayers you asked me to say when all else failed—I did not say them.”

“What harm—what harm! I could not pray myself—my prayers went dry on me. Peter, I am afraid. I’m sick afraid. There is an evil man amongst us. I have no patience with that fellow Mullen, and the other dam’ fools who ought to know better. Tell me, boy, did the knowledge of your own innocence keep your courage up?”

“It did not, Padre.” Peter shook his head. “It did not help me at all. I know that for I had not one scrap of courage the whole year. I haven’t now.”

“Oh, dear—oh, dear! What have we done to you?” The old man’s chin quivered. “We don’t deserve you amongst us. Look, boy! Go away back to your own country and draw the strings of your life together.”

“With my tail between my legs? They would know over there, too. I’m staying.”

“God is good!” The priest patted Peter’s sleeve. “God is good, Peter! He will not allow evil to prevail against you forever. I can pray now.” He looked up at Peter and his eyes crinkled. “Will you come in? I have a small drop left in the bottle.”

“Not now, Padre. Barbara is waiting for me at Fosters’. But I’ll be in.”

The priest put a finger on Peter’s wrist. “Be good to Barbara, boy, and don’t ye be biting each other’s noses off. She made your trouble hers, as I know.”

“And you took the trouble of both. Could we nip each other’s ears now and then—you wouldn’t mind?”

“Ye will, whether or no.” Father Martin chuckled. “Well—well! I’ll not be keeping you now.”

A light hand was laid on Peter’s arm, and a voice like a bell with a singing note in it spoke at his shoulder.

“Praise God! It is Peter himself.”

Peter turned and looked at the young woman who was smiling warmly at him.

“Why Muriel, old girl!” he said. “You’d still knock a man’s eye out.”

That was an inadequate compliment. Muriel Gordon was a golden woman—gold, frankincense and myrrh—you could warm your hands at her. Not tall, she was built on generous flowing lines, and her pastel green frock was vibrant with the life inside it. A small white hat was perched on her hair over one eye, and the hair that it did not hide was fine gold, that Californian gold that has one touch of red in it. She smiled with her eyes and not with her teeth; and those grey eyes had a golden lustre that never goes with a mean mind.

Of all the people here in Eglintoun she knew best what it was Peter was going through at this moment. She, too, had suffered the curious stares of the townspeople, and had felt their speculations behind her back. The daughter of Denis Buckley, Mark Aitken’s farm foreman, she had lived with her father and Abigail Shaw, who had been her nurse and later their housekeeper, at the Home Farm. That was before Peter’s arrival on the scene from Canada. It was common talk in the town that Mark Aitken was much interested in his foreman’s daughter, and that it was more than a fatherly interest he felt for her. And when she had suddenly taken herself away, accompanied by the faithful Abigail, there was gossip. When Mark Aitken followed, that gossip mounted. But Mark Aitken came back alone and seemed more subdued than the people of Eglintoun had ever seen him before.

Three years later Muriel returned with a husband, whose name was Philip Gordon, and a two year old son called David. The dour, acid-tongued Abigail Shaw was in her element with a small child to care for. These four took a cottage in the village and settled down there to live. Denis Buckley, Muriel’s father, stayed on at the Home Farm with Peter, who was now estate manager, and took to drinking more than he should of a Saturday night in town.

“Blast them all!” Muriel said. “They couldn’t make you cry out, Peter. I knew.”

“You couldn’t know that, my darling,” Peter said.

“I could so. I knew you never killed Mark Aitken.”

Peter cocked an eye at her. “A pity we could not put a finger on the man that did?”

“I was only guessing and you had to go on suffering. But this old spider-priest will tell you that suffering is not a bad thing if you have the fibre to stand it. Some of us have not.” She laid her hand on the priest’s sleeve. “Well, you old curer of souls! What are you going to do with your two black sheep? Keep on trying to make Christians of us?”

“I may succeed with one of you.” The priest tapped her hand. “Don’t you be delaying Peter. Barbara is waiting for him. Peter son, off you go now!”

Peter and Muriel walked down Booth Street together. Con Madden was ahead of them pausing to look into shop windows. She put a hand inside Peter’s elbow, and moved forward, smoothly, on high-heeled shoes.

“I want to make Barbara jealous for the good of her soul,” she said. “You are now her baby who has falled down and hurt his poor little nose.”

“Boil your tow head, Muriel! Don’t you start babying me.”

“Not I, Peter! A man can take the pricks as they come. But don’t forget that Barbara is all right.”

“Are you still high-hatting each other? Why?”

“Dam’ well you know why.”

“I don’t. How are Phil and son Davy?”

“Fine. Davy missed you. By the way, you are losing a tenant. Phil has been promoted to the head office. We are going to Edinburgh in a month.”

“Good news—and bad too,” said Peter. “I wanted to make a pukka farmer of Davy—and a forester.”

“Like Toby Aitken?”

“Not on your life! Toby behaving himself?”

“Toby is no good. He is betting now you’ll cut and run with the money you inherited. That is what he would do.”

“I am staying on,” Peter said quietly. “I told Father Martin so.”

“Of course you are.” Her hand pressed. “You will be careful and watchful, Peter?”

“Someone else will have to be twice as careful. I’m half Aitken, and an Aitken was killed foully.”

“Just so! Don’t get another half-Aitken killed. Listen; you wouldn’t know that dad is leaving you? Coming up to town with us?”

“That’s bad news,” Peter said. “He taught me all I know, and I’ll miss the grumpy old bear.”

“And you his cub.” She laughed. “You liked each other?”

“Sure we did. How is he?”

“Older and grumpier. Hello, Mr. Madden! Back again? I did miss your sootherin’ Irish tongue.”

Con Madden had turned round from a window to face them. “Don’t talk to me, woman, you have broken my heart.”

“Right on a fracture off-repeated,” she said. “Do you know Mr. Peter Falkner?”

“I have heard of Mr. Falkner,” said Con. “He is too good a judge of company for me.”

“Mr. Madden is of an enquiring turn of mind, Peter. You try him. I have to be off. Phil is home and waiting for his supper—see you to-morrow, Peter.”

She went off, her white parasol swinging. Peter, head aside, looked at Con, and shut one eye at him.

“How privately did you investigate this lady, Mr. Madden?” Peter asked.

“I’ll investigate her some more,” Con said.

“You’ll have to get a move on, then. They—self, husband, son and father—are leaving here for good. Husband promoted to head office.”

“I’ll investigate that too,” Con said.

“You were right, Madden,” Peter said. “It will be no use to me living here under a cloud. If you don’t get me out from under I’ll break your bloody Irish neck.”

“I will and you couldn’t,” Con said. “No Canuck could. Look here, Falkner, I’ll absolve you from those two fears I taunted you with. You did not kill your uncle, and those two fine people across the street—You three make a team that I can use.”

“Then you have decided to stay with me?”

“I—think so. Do not leave your back door on the latch.”

“That’s my second warning to-day.”

“Your second warning?” said Con quickly.

“Yes. Muriel said I had to be watchful and careful.”

“Did she, begod! That’s interesting. But leave it for the time,” Con said. “That young lady has been frowning at you for the last five minutes. Go on now!”

And Con went off down the street in the general direction of the resort hotel where people came to drink the waters of the spring.

IV

Daniel Glover was in his bedroom, at the Spa. He sat over a glass-topped table, thoughtfully puffing pipe smoke and working out a chess problem. On the dressing table at his right hand stood a three-parts-full bottle of Scotch, a full bottle of Irish, a soda-syphon, a jug of water and two glasses. The window was wide open, and the sun, low in the west, sent an orange ray aslant into the room.

He tentatively moved an obvious white knight, contemplated the board, and restored the piece to its former place; he did likewise with a less-obvious queen, and shook his head.

A soft tap sounded and the door opened and closed softly.

“I am not sure that I should offer you a libation,” he said, but did not turn his head.

“Thanks,” said Con Madden at his shoulder. “Irish and water for me.” His hand was already on the bottle, and he poured three fingers into the empty glass. “The labourer is worthy, you know.”

“Then you did hire yourself?”

“By accident.” Con moved across to the bed, and sat down heavily. They kept their voices low as was their custom in conference.

“Been investigating on your own, master? Did you try out Hughes Everitt?” Con asked.

“An attractive character. An odd character. He considers Buddhism seriously. Says he expects to return as a swine in his next reincarnation. And he is something more than a useful chessplayer.”

“Did you find that I fell down anywhere in my earlier report to you about this place and its people?”

“Not disastrously. You underestimated Tobias Aitken’s perniciousness. He is a false-fronted weakling, and under the influence of alcohol might act on any impulse.”

“Impulse to murder?”

“Even so. It may be essential to retrace his course between certain hours on that fatal night.” Glover frowned.

“Any other reactions or discoveries?”

“You were over-emphatic about Muriel Gordon’s charms. Her intelligence is more important.”

“And combined they are the very devil. You should have seen her this evening. Quite adequate, Mr. Glover.” Con picked up his glass. “I notice you call her Muriel Gordon?”

“A convenient cognomen. Proceed, Cornelius.”

“Our Miss Cole made searches at the Registry Office?”

“She found that Muriel Buckley’s son was registered as David Buckley, and father’s name not given.”

“You astound me, Mr. Glover. Well?”

“He might have been legitimatized. That is why I asked you to search for a record of the marriage of Marcus Aitken and Muriel Buckley. No such record exists?”

“Nary a record.”

“It was necessary to make certain. Also, I conclude that no record was found of a marriage between Philip Gordon and Muriel Buckley, but it is also possible that your instructions to Miss Cole were inadequate. What period did she search?”

“Inadequate, your granny!” said Con. “She searched from the time Muriel left home until this very last week.”

“Wholly inadequate, Cornelius. Miss Buckley was at college in the town where Gordon resided.”

Con’s mouth opened. “God’llmighty! I fell down there, Daniel. They might have married then.”

“Totally unlikely, considering the registered name of the woman’s son. But a search going further back might establish that Gordon had married another woman, who may be still alive. I shall get our Miss Cole to institute a further search. Leave it at present. While we are on the Gordon household, the whole family, with Buckley the farm steward, are soon leaving permanently.”

“I learned that this evening.”

“Some folk are saying that Buckley will not work with a man whose hands are not clean.”

“Blast them! Gordon and Muriel and Buckley may be leaving because their own hands are not clean.”

“A speculation to be investigated. For that purpose, and pending verification, we shall assume that Gordon and the woman are not married.”

“Where do we go from there?” Con enquired. He saw, as yet, no connection between bloody hands and living-in-sin.

“We shall discuss it after you have considered it,” Glover said. “To return to the beginning, having achieved contact with Falkner what did you engage to perform?”

“To bring the murderer into the open. If we fail he engages to break my neck—bloody and Irish. But I forgot to bind him to a fee—or expenses.”

“Makes your sincerity all the more impressive. A fee, no doubt, will eventuate. He invited you to stay with him?”

“At the Home Farm—he is staying on there.”

“You accepted?”

“Tentatively. But it will spoil my incognito.”

“You could not have maintained it, and it leaves mine secure. I want you close to Falkner and his friends—”

“You think he’s running a risk?”

“I do not, but you had better take that automatic pistol with you. I want you to be friendly—sincerely friendly—”

“Not with Toby?”

“Do your best with Tobias. Take Everitt and Barbara Aitken into your confidence—and Falkner too of course. Only those three.”

“Fine!” Con rubbed his big hands together. “I thought you would see that. With that team we should go places.”

Glover leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.

“Your close attention, please, Cornelius. You will remember that Hughes Everitt and Barbara Aitken, in their evidence, spoke of a mysterious man in brown, that they could not or would not identify. The girl saw him disappearing into the wood shortly after four, and Everitt saw a similar man one-and-a-half hours later. You also informed me that the girl is country bred and lives an outdoor life—a Diana of the Uplands I think you said—”

“Good for you, Daniel!” cried Con. “I did not think you noticed that. When I was a boy in the open if I got a glimpse of a man a mile off in any sort of light—even moonlight—I would know him by his carriage.”

“And she did not, and the poacher fellow, Wells, is not a stranger to her. Moreover, Wells has a characteristic carriage including a limp, and Everitt recognized that the man he saw was limping.”

“You think the man Barbara saw was not Charley Wells?”

“Either that or these two young people are hiding something important about that man in brown. Find out.”

“Just like that! All right, guvnor! I can but fail. Do I gather that we are investigating Charley Wells?”

“Our investigation is already under way.”

“Gawd help Charley! Have you had a look-see at him?”

“In a business way—his business. He is a rodent of an inferior type, and that second-hand emporium of his is unique in its decay. By the way I have, more than once, heard you extol your prowess as an angler?”

“I kept you in salmon salad all last season.”

“Wells displayed some gaudy salmon flies, and I purchased a small present for you.”

Con suppressed an anguished yelp. “Good Lord! not second-hand flies out of a junk shop? You don’t buy even the finest fly for a real angler like me. You let me choose, and then you pay.”

“Doubtless you can change them for your own choice,” said Glover carelessly. “Here they are.”

He presented Con with an untidy paper twist. Con opened it, and shook half a score of resplendent salmon flies. He bent over them, and his eyes opened wide.

“Begobs! I withdraw my uncalled for recriminations.” He fingered through them. “Not a moth-eaten one among them. What did Charley soak you for these, friend Daniel?”

“They please your fastidiousness?”

“These are valuable flies, but I’ll catch you no fish on them this season. They are all of the big early-spring type—February and March, but I am not looking a gift horse in the mouth.” He fingered them again and suddenly stiffened. “Hello! Hello! what have we here?” He picked up one richly hackled and brightly tinselled fly, and then two more. He was excited. “A Popham, a Jack Scott, and a Silver Doctor, but not the standard dressing. You have got something here, Daniel.”

“Be explicit?”

“Do I need to be? These are home-dressed flies and beautifully tied, and not once in the water. The man who dressed these flies would recognize them beyond any possible shadow of doubt whatever. Is that explicit enough?”

“Moderately. If you go fishing with young Falkner he might choose you a suitable one.”

“Not to use in June, but I get you, Mr. Glover.” He restored the flies one by one to the paper twist, and put it carefully in his pocket. His hand was shaking a little. “We have started going places, Daniel, and Gawd help Charley Wells!”