Читать книгу Death's Mannikins - Max Afford - Страница 11

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They shook hands.

Blackburn, his tongue busy with polite trivialities, inspected his companion. Save for the air of pompous self-assurance that surrounded the private detective like an aura, there was little to criticize.

"I hear you've lost track of your man, Mr. Pimlott."

The private detective made a deprecatory gesture.

"Can't be in two places at once," he muttered. "I've been closer to him than his shadow for the past few days. And last night—the first time I leave him—this thing happens. I don't mind admitting that I'm worried."

Jeffery nodded sympathetically.

"When did you last see him?"

"When I left for the village last night." The frown that shadowed his face gave it an expression of childish petulance. "I naturally assumed he'd be safe for a few hours—never dreaming, of course, that we'd be kept away all night."

"He'll probably turn up safe and sound," Jeffery said cheerfully. "The family seem to think so, anyhow."

Pimlott was about to make another remark when the sound of footsteps came echoing along the hall. With a muttered word the detective excused himself and slipped out of the study. A few moments later Morgan entered, accompanied by another man. "This is Mr. Blackburn, Professor," he was saying.

Cornelius Rochester came forward and extended a white hand. He was tall and thin and stoop-shouldered, dressed in sombre, untidy clothes which emphasized his leanness. There was a scholar's unhealthy pallor about his complexion and the tired red-rimmed eyes were set in a face surmounted by an aureole of grey hair. It was a gentle, saintly-face, marred only by the mouth with its thin blue lips curved in a fretful droop. Jeffery was to have proof of this pettish weakness immediately.

"You haven't touched anything in here, have you, I don't like strangers pawing over my things. Matters are bad enough as it is, with things disappearing under our noses. Don't know what's come over this house lately. Can't put a thing down without it's being stolen."

Jeffery's mouth gaped a little at this rudeness, but the weak, complaining voice flowed on. "First those dolls of Reinersmann's, then my witchball. The witchball that was on my desk yesterday morning. And now it's gone—stolen! And on top of all this they tell me that Roger is hiding away somewhere! Fit of pique, I suppose! But I'm worried about my witchball—really worried!"

"I'm sorry to hear—" began Jeffery, but the Professor cut him short with an irritable gesture.

"Nonsense! You're not in the slightest sorry. You're just saying that to be polite! I don't believe you even know what my witchball is! I'll tell you, my boy. It's a bladder of unguent, believed to have been used by the witches of the sixteenth century to anoint their bodies before flying to the Sabbath. And do you know what they say it's composed of?"

"No," said Blackburn, quickly and firmly. He had no desire to listen while this ghoulish old gentleman elaborated on the horrors of medieval witchcraft. And because his refusal sounded rather childish, he added: "I can quite imagine you prizing such a thing, sir. I should have thought curiosities like that disappeared long ago."

"They say it is four hundred years old," Rochester replied. "And I had it in here—on my desk. Now it's gone!"

"Perhaps one of your guests interested himself in it?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" snapped the old man. "What possible use could they find for the unguent? It's set hard as iron. Like a ball—hard, black, and round. Guests indeed!" He dismissed the idea with a contemptuous snort, and moving across to his desk, pulled up a chair and sat down. Blackburn, taking this as a gesture of dismissal, turned and began to walk out of the study. He was at the door when the Professor's voice halted him.

"Don't forget, young man, that I expect my guests to attend chapel with me this morning." His tone was brusque. He was sitting crouched over his desk, his thin blue-veined hands shuffling among the papers.

Jeffery nodded. "Very good, sir." But Rochester seemed to have forgotten his visitor's presence, and the young man shrugged his shoulders and walked out.

Morgan was hovering near the door.

"How did you find the Professor?" he demanded.

Jeffery was charitable. "I rather imagine that his bark is worse than his bite."

Rollo nodded. "That's right. He might brush up a little on his manners; but, after all, he isn't living in this age at all. He's back in the sixteenth century most of his time. Besides, the old boy's worried about Roger, although wild horses wouldn't drag an admission out of him."

They walked out into the hall. "Our hot seems rather upset over the loss of what he calls his witchball," Jeffery observed.

Morgan grinned. "You should have seen him last, when he first discovered its loss. He prizes that grisly relic—brought it back with him from his last trip. I've seen it dozens of times. Looks just like a ball of clay, cracked here and there from the exposure to the air."

"The Professor gathers curios like that?"

"Oh yes. He's collected quite a museum of medieval weapons and objects pertaining to the black art. There's a sixteenth-century cross-bow used in the witch-hunts, a jar of ashes reputed to be the burnt remains of some poor devil, and a shrivelled hand which the Professor swears belongs to the corpse of the infamous Cornelius Agrippa. Fortunately the place is kept securely locked, and the key is never out of the old man's possession."

Jeffery shrugged. "He's welcome to his chamber of horrors. Personally, I prefer goldfish." He stared round. "Where do we go from here?"

"To the breakfast-room," his companion replied. "I want you to meet the rest of the household. Dr. Austin, Miss Ward, and Barrett are in there, I believe. By the way," he added, "you'll probably have the dusky Camilla trailing you for your signature."

"Oh!" said Jeffery. "The lady collects autographs?"

"Among other things!" Morgan's tone was so cold that the other glanced at his grim face in surprise. But there was no time for inquiries; the secretary had pushed open a door, and he motioned Jeffery to enter.

"This is the breakfast-room," he announced.