Читать книгу Death's Mannikins - Max Afford - Страница 5

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"Rochester House," Morgan began, "is situated in a lonely valley on the borders of Exmoor, where all the fogs in the world seem to roll up from the Bristol Channel.

"The greatest drawback to Rochester House—from the younger people's viewpoint—is its isolated state. The house itself is placed half-way down the valley. It runs to three storeys and is topped by a square tower, battlemented and giving the house a rather medieval appearance. On the flat roof of this tower, which serves as a landmark, there's a telescope, a windmill, a rain gauge that not only measures the fall but indicates when it starts and stops, and a glass arrangement for focusing the heat of the sun."

"Sounds rather like a miniature observatory," observed Jeffery.

"And looks like one," Rollo agreed. "It seems that the former owner was cranky on reading the stars, and it was he who fixed these instruments on the roof. The Rochesters have been in possession about ten years now, I believe. Cornelius took it because of the isolated position.

"Now for the family.

"The head of the house is old Cornelius. He moves from his library to his study, venturing out of doors only when his daughter drags him there by the coat-tails. The Prof. used to leave everything to his sister, Beatrice. She was a woman about fifty, a spinster. Nil nisi bonum and all that," muttered Rollo; "but I must admit that Aunt Beatrice had a bitter tongue, and an almost uncanny faculty of prying into other people's business. She was crippled with rheumatism and could walk only with a crutch. Yet she was amazingly agile and could get around the house as fast as any of us. She managed the business affairs, handled all finances, paid the bills, and acted as parent, housekeeper, and general adviser to the household.

"There are three children. The eldest is Roger, close on forty. Remember the White Knight in 'Alice?' There's Roger! Shaggy hair turning grey, gentle face, and large mild eyes. Always vague and living in a world of his own.

"Then," he continued, "comes the youngest son, Owen Rochester, in his early thirties. Owen is at the opposite end of the pole to Roger, an athletic, husky young man who considers his father's studies as just so much morbid nonsense. Owen spent five years on his uncle's ranch in Montana, where he learned to spin a rope and toss the knife and all that kind of thing. He stays at 'Rochester' only because he can use the slopes for a gallop every morning. His sister, Jan, is the youngest child. Twenty-three years old, pretty as they come, and with an amazingly good headpiece from the intelligence point of view also.

"There are, however, three guests staying at 'Rochester' at the moment. One is a journalist chappie, Phillip Barrett. Then, about three weeks ago, Jan invited two friends down to stay. A young doctor, Brian Austin, and his fiancée, Camilla Ward. They're a bright couple and it does Jan good to get some people of her own age about her.

"Of course there are servants. Five of them. There's Michael Prater, the butler-cum-manservant-cum-valet, an old relic who's been in the family for years. He must be almost as old as the Prof. Prater is assisted by Bianca Considine, who acts as housemaid and general girl. A regular gypsy beauty, is Bianca. Smooth black hair, dark eyes in an olive skin, and a mouth that looks as though it is freshly painted every hour, only it isn't! Her mother, old Hannah, who supervises the kitchen, sees to that. Old Hannah is a real type. I believe that Corney picked her up in Transylvania during one of his trips abroad and brought her back with her daughter, Bianca. She's heavy-featured and has a nasty habit of peering at you from dark corners and muttering to herself in some foreign lingo. Then there is a hired couple who come from the village. They attend to the furnaces and the electric light plant and the garden."

Rollo Morgan paused and stretched for his pipe. He began to thumb it with tobacco. When it was lit and drawing to his satisfaction, he took up the story again.

"Now, about twelve months ago, a German professor friend of Cornelius presented him with a rather unusual gift. He was a man whose hobby was wood-carving and he had been staying at Rochester House. During that time he amused himself by fashioning a number of dolls from soft pine-wood, each being a replica in miniature of a member of the house. There were six of these mannikins in the set—models of the Professor, Beatrice, Roger, Owen, Jan, and Prater. At the end of his stay the guest presented the dolls to Rochester, who placed them in a box in his study and forgot all about the business. About three months ago, when Jan opened the drawer, the box had disappeared. A search followed and the servants were questioned. Each denied touching or even seeing the mannikins.

"Last Tuesday week Prater came in just before the luncheon bell sounded. We were all gathered in the living-room, the Prof., Roger, Beatrice, Owen, Jan, and myself. Miss Ward and Austin were coming in later, I remember. Anyhow, there we were waiting when the butler came in. There were letters for everyone except Roger—who has very few acquaintances and no close friends, as far as I know—and a parcel for Beatrice. They were passed round, and we were deep in our correspondence when we heard Beatrice give a little snort of indignation. Then she snapped, 'What fool's trick is this?' and we looked up to see the lady peering into a small box.

"She tilted it up for us to see inside. And there, lying among some white tissue paper, was Beatrice's doll! I can tell you that there was something mighty unpleasant about that little figure, so much like its original, lying stiff and white in its bed of paper. Then Jan looked round at us. 'What's the idea? Who's the practical joker?' But if any of the household had sent that doll to Beatrice, they certainly weren't going to admit it. So Jan accused Owen, but he vowed he'd nothing to do with it.

"It was an ordinary wooden box about the size of those used for cigars. It was wrapped in coarse brown paper with the address printed upon it. The postmark showed it had been lodged in Rockwall. Whereupon Jan accused Owen again, for he had just returned from the village. But Owen got rather annoyed, and the whole thing was bordering on a family row when Roger intervened and calmed them down. We went in to luncheon, and by mutual and unspoken agreement the matter was dropped...

"Until last Friday night," Morgan said impressively, and his tone was weighted. "Until last Friday night, when Beatrice, coming down to dinner with Roger, slipped and fell at the bend of the stairs. When we picked her up she was dead!"

"Ah!" It was not an ejaculation so much as a long-drawn breath of a word. Jeffery opened his eyes and sat upright. He looked at his companion. "Coincidence...?"

Rollo spread his hands.

"What do you think? I know nothing save the fact that I was working in the library. I heard a crash and rushed out. Beatrice was lying in a heap at the foot of the stairs. Roger was standing over her, bleating like a panic-stricken sheep, while Owen, Jan, and Dr. Austin were raising the dead woman. Roger said that Beatrice had moved down the stairs ahead of him, and that on the bend she stumbled and fell."

"What caused her death?" Jeffery inquired as the other paused. "Her heart?"

Morgan shook his head. "Her neck was broken," he said quietly, and was silent.

"And that's the end of the story?"

Rollo roused himself.

"Not quite." He seemed to be speaking with an effort. "I'll skip the gloomy details and make the remainder as brief as possible. The days following the burial of poor Beatrice were anything but pleasant. The guests were in a particularly awkward position. They were for leaving right away, but Jan persuaded them to stay—begged them almost, on the plea that friends in the house made the circumstances more bearable."

"The business of the doll was not considered?" Blackburn asked.

"No one, by so much as a suggestion, referred to it," Rollo answered. "Partly because the situation was unhappy enough already, but mainly, I think, because none of us had the courage to suggest that Beatrice's accident might be anything else but a mishap. And so, as the days passed, each morning brought a lessening of the tension among the household. Until last Tuesday, four days ago, when things were almost normal again. That is, until that Tuesday lunch-time, when Prater brought in the collection of mail from the village."

Jeffery made a sudden exclamation, but a gesture from Morgan stayed him.

"Yes," said that young man grimly. "I know exactly what you're going to say. Well, you're right! Among those letters was another parcel—addressed to Roger this time. When he opened it he found the doll of himself, packed in tissue paper. And through the back of the mannikin a thin sharp spike had been driven!"