The Seven Dials Mystery

By Agatha Christie

PRINTING HISTORY
Dodd, Mead edition published March 1929
Grosset & Dunlap edition published February 1930
American Mercury edition published October 1942
Bantam edition/January 1964
New Bantam edition/March 1976
The Agatha Christie Mystery Collection/September 1986

All rights reserved.
Copyright 1929 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
Copyright renewed © 1957 by Agatha Christie Mallowan.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

The Seven Dials Mystery

Chapter I

On Early Rising

That amiable youth, Jimmy Thesiger, came racing down the big staircase at Chimneys two steps at a time. So precipitate was his descent that he collided with Tredwell, the stately butler, just as the latter was crossing the hall bearing a fresh supply of hot coffee. Owing to the marvellous presence of mind and masterly agility of Tredwell, no casualty occurred.

"Sorry," apologized Jimmy. "I say, Tredwell, am I the last down?"

"No, sir, Mr. Wade has not come down yet."

"Good," said Jimmy, and entered the breakfast-room.

The room was empty save for his hostess, and her reproachful gaze gave Jimmy the same feeling of discomfort he always experienced on catching the eye of a defunct codfish exposed on a fishmonger's slab. Yet, hang it all, why should the woman look at him like that? To come down at a punctual nine-thirty when staying in a country house simply wasn't done. To be sure, it was now a quarter past eleven which was, perhaps, the outside limit, but even then—

"Afraid I'm a bit late, Lady Coote. What?"

"Oh! it doesn't matter," said Lady Coote in a melancholy voice.

As a matter of fact, people being late for breakfast worried her very much. For the first ten years of her married life, Sir Oswald Coote (then plain Mr.) had, to put it baldly, raised hell if his morning meal were even a half minute later than eight o'clock. Lady Coote had been disciplined to regard unpunctuality as a deadly sin of the most unpardonable nature. And habit dies hard. Also, she was an earnest woman, and she could not help asking herself what possible good these young people would ever do in the world without early rising. As Sir Oswald so often said, to reporters and others: "I attribute my success entirely to my habits of early rising, frugal living, and methodical habits."

Lady Coote was a big, handsome woman in a tragic sort of fashion. She had large, dark, mournful eyes and a deep voice. An artist looking for a model for "Rachel mourning for her children" would have hailed Lady Coote with delight. She would have done well, too, in melodrama, staggering through the falling snow as the deeply wronged wife of the villain.

She looked as though she had some terrible secret sorrow in her life, and yet if the truth be told, Lady Coote had had no trouble in her life whatever, except the meteoric rise to prosperity of Sir Oswald. As a young girl she had been a jolly flamboyant creature, very much in love with Oswald Coote, the aspiring young man in the bicycle shop next to her father's hardware store. They had lived very happily, first in a couple of rooms, and then in a tiny house, and then in a larger house, and then in successive houses of increasing magnitude, but always within a reasonable distance of "the Works" until now Sir Oswald had reached such an eminence that he and "the Works" were no longer interdependent, and it was his pleasure to rent the very largest and most magnificent mansions available all over England. Chimneys was a historic place, and in renting it from the Marquis of Caterham for two years, Sir Oswald felt that he had attained the top notch of his ambition.

Lady Coote was not nearly so happy about it. She was a lonely woman. The principal relaxation of her early married life had been talking to "the girl"—and even when "the girl" had been multiplied by three, conversation with her domestic staff had still been the principal distraction of Lady Coote's day. Now, with a pack of housemaids, a butler like an archbishop, several footmen of imposing proportions, a bevy of scuttling kitchen and scullery maids, a terrifying foreign chef with a "temperament" and a housekeeper of immense proportions who alternately creaked and rustled when she moved, Lady Coote was as one marooned on a desert island.

She sighed now, heavily, and drifted out through the open window, much to the relief of Jimmy Thesiger who at once helped himself to more kidneys and bacon on the strength of it.

Lady Coote stood for a few moments tragically on the terrace and then nerved herself to speak to MacDonald, the head gardener, who was surveying the domain over which he ruled with an autocratic eye. MacDonald was a very chief and prince among head gardeners. He knew his place—which was to rule. And he ruled—despotically.

Lady Coote approached him nervously.

"Good-morning, MacDonald."

"Good-morning, m'lady."

He spoke as head gardeners should speak—mournfully, but with dignity—like an emperor at a funeral.

"I was wondering—could we have some of those late grapes for dessert to-night?"

"They're no fit for picking yet," said MacDonald.

He spoke kindly but firmly.

"Oh," said Lady Coote.

She plucked up courage.

"Oh! but I was in the end house yesterday, and I tasted one and they seemed very good."

MacDonald looked at her, and she blushed. She was made to feel that she had taken an unpardonable liberty. Evidently the late Marchioness of Caterham had never committed such a solecism as to enter one of her own hothouses and help herself to grapes.

"If you had given orders, m'lady, a bunch should have been cut and sent in to you," said MacDonald severely.

"Oh, thank you," said Lady Coote. "Yes, I will do that another time."

"But they're no properly fit for picking yet."

"No," murmured Lady Coote. "No, I suppose not. We'd better leave it then."

MacDonald maintained a masterly silence. Lady Coote nerved herself once more.

"I was going to speak to you about the piece of lawn at the back of the rose garden. I wondered if it could be used as a bowling green. Sir Oswald is very fond of a game of bowls."

"And why not?" thought Lady Coote to herself. She had been instructed in her history of England. Had not Sir Francis Drake and his knightly companions been playing a game of bowls when the Armada was sighted? Surely a gentlemanly pursuit and one to which MacDonald could not reasonably object. But she had reckoned without the predominant trait of a good head gardener, which is to oppose any and every suggestion made to him.

"Nae doot it could be used for that purpose," said MacDonald noncommittally.

He threw a discouraging flavour into the remark, but its real object was to lure Lady Coote on to her destruction.

"If it was cleared up and—er—cut—and—er—all that sort of thing," she went on hopefully.

"Aye," said MacDonald slowly. "It could be done. But it would mean taking William from the lower border."

"Oh!" said Lady Coote doubtfully. The words "lower border" conveyed absolutely nothing to her mind—except a vague suggestion of a Scottish song—but it was clear that to MacDonald they constituted an insuperable objection.

"And that would be a pity," said MacDonald.

"Oh! of course," said Lady Coote. "It would."

And wondered why she agreed so fervently.

MacDonald looked at her very hard.

"Of course," he said, "if it's your orders, m'lady—"

He left it like that. But his menacing tone was too much for Lady Coote. She capitulated at once.

"Oh! no," she said. "I see what you mean, MacDonald. N-no—William had better get on with the lower border."

"That's what I thocht meself, m'lady."

"Yes," said Lady Coote. "Yes. Certainly."

"I thocht you'd gree, m'lady," said MacDonald.

"Oh! certainly," said Lady Coote again.

MacDonald touched his hat and moved away.

Lady Coote sighed unhappily and looked after him. Jimmy Thesiger, replete with kidneys and bacon, stepped out on to the terrace beside her, and sighed in quite a different manner.

"Topping morning, eh?" he remarked.

"Is it?" said Lady Coote, absently. "Oh! yes, I suppose it is. I hadn't noticed."

"Where are the others? Punting on the lake?"

"I expect so. I mean, I shouldn't wonder if they were."

Lady Coote turned and plunged abruptly into the house again. Tredwell was just examining the coffee pot.

"Oh, dear," said Lady Coote. "Isn't Mr.—Mr.—"

"Wade, m'lady?"

"Yes, Mr. Wade. Isn't he down yet?"

"No, m'lady."

"It's very late."

"Yes, m'lady."

"Oh! dear. I suppose he will come down sometime, Tredwell?"

"Oh, undoubtedly, m'lady. It was eleven thirty yesterday morning when Mr. Wade came down, m'lady."

Lady Coote glanced at the clock. It was now twenty minutes to twelve. A wave of human sympathy rushed over her.

"It's very hard luck on you, Tredwell. Having to clear and then get lunch on the table by one o'clock."

"I am accustomed to the ways of young gentlemen, m'lady."

The reproof was dignified, but unmistakable. So might a prince of the Church reprove a Turk or an infidel who had unwittingly committed a solecism in all good faith.

Lady Coote blushed for the second time that morning. But a welcome interruption occurred. The door opened and a serious, spectacled young man put his head in.

"Oh! there you are, Lady Coote. Sir Oswald was asking for you."

"Oh, I'll go to him at once, Mr. Bateman."

Lady Coote hurried out.

Rupert Bateman, who was Sir Oswald's private secretary, went out the other way, through the window where Jimmy Thesiger was still lounging amiably.

"Morning, Pongo," said Jimmy. "I suppose I shall have to go and make myself agreeable to those blasted girls. You coming?"

Bateman shook his head and hurried along the terrace and in at the library window. Jimmy grinned pleasantly at his retreating back. He and Bateman had been at school together, when Bateman had been a serious, spectacled boy, and had been nicknamed Pongo for no earthly reason whatever.

Pongo, Jimmy reflected, was very much the same sort of ass now that he had been then. The words "Life is real, life is earnest" might have been written specially for him.

Jimmy yawned and strolled slowly down to the lake. The girls were there, three of them—just the usual sort of girls, two with dark, shingled heads and one with a fair, shingled head. The one that giggled most was (he thought) called Helen—and there was another called Nancy—and the third one was, for some reason, addressed as Socks. With them were his two friends, Bill Eversleigh and Ronny Devereux, who were employed in a purely ornamental capacity at the Foreign Office.

"Hallo," said Nancy (or possibly Helen). "It's Jimmy. Where's what's his name?"

"You don't mean to say," said Bill Eversleigh, "that Gerry Wade's not up yet? Something ought to be done about it."

"If he's not careful," said Ronny Devereux, "he'll miss his breakfast altogether one day—find it's lunch or tea instead when he rolls down."

"It's a shame," said the girl called Socks. "Because it worries Lady Coote so. She gets more and more like a hen that wants to lay an egg and can't. It's too bad."

"Let's pull him out of bed," suggested Bill. "Come on, Jimmy."

"Oh! let's be more subtle than that," said the girl called Socks. Subtle was a word of which she was rather fond. She used it a great deal.

"I'm not subtle," said Jimmy. "I don't know how."

"Let's get together and do something about it to-morrow morning," suggested Ronny vaguely. "You know, get him up at seven. Stagger the household. Tredwell loses his false whiskers and drops the tea urn. Lady Coote has hysterics and faints in Bill's arms—Bill being the weight carrier. Sir Oswald says 'Ha!' and steel goes up a point and five eighths. Pongo registers emotion by throwing down his spectacles and stamping on them."

"You don't know Gerry," said Jimmy. "I daresay enough cold water might wake him—judiciously applied, that is. But he'd only turn over and go to sleep again."

"Oh! we must think of something more subtle than cold water," said Socks.

"Well, what?" asked Ronny bluntly. And nobody had any answer ready.

"We ought to be able to think of something," said Bill. "Who's got any brains?"

"Pongo," said Jimmy. "And here he is, rushing along in a hurried manner as usual. Pongo was always the one for brains. It's been his misfortune from his youth upwards. Let's turn Pongo on to it."

Mr. Bateman listened patiently to a somewhat incoherent statement. His attitude was that of one poised for flight. He delivered his solution without loss of time.

"I should suggest an alarum clock," he said briskly. "I always use one myself for fear of oversleeping. I find that early tea brought in in a noiseless manner is sometimes powerless to awaken one."

He hurried away.

"An alarum clock." Ronny shook his head. "One alarum clock. It would take about a dozen to disturb Gerry Wade."

"Well, why not?" Bill was flushed and earnest. "I've got it. Let's all go into Market Basing and buy an alarum clock each."

There was laughter and discussion. Bill and Ronny went off to get hold of cars. Jimmy was deputed to spy upon the dining-room. He returned rapidly.

"He's there right enough. Making up for lost time and wolfing down toast and marmalade. How are we going to prevent him coming along with us?"

It was decided that Lady Coote must be approached and instructed to hold him in play. Jimmy and Nancy and Helen fulfilled this duty. Lady Coote was bewildered and apprehensive.

"A rag? You will be careful, won't you, my dears? I mean, you won't smash the furniture and wreck things or use too much water. We've got to hand this house over next week, you know. I shouldn't like Lord Caterham to think—"

Bill, who had returned from the garage, broke in reassuringly.

"That's all right, Lady Coote. Bundle Brent—Lord Caterham's daughter—is a great friend of mine. And there's nothing she'd stick at—absolutely nothing! You can take it from me. And anyway there's not going to be any damage done. This is quite a quiet affair."

"Subtle," said the girl called Socks.

Lady Coote went sadly along the terrace just as Gerald Wade emerged from the breakfast-room. Jimmy Thesiger was a fair, cherubic young man, and all that could be said of Gerald Wade was that he was fairer and more cherubic, and that his vacuous expression made Jimmy's face quite intelligent by contrast.

"Morning, Lady Coote," said Gerald Wade. "Where are all the others?"

"They've all gone to Market Basing," said Lady Coote.

"What for?"

"Some joke," said Lady Coote in her deep, melancholy voice.

"Rather early in the morning for jokes," said Mr. Wade.

"It's not so very early in the morning," said Lady Coote pointedly.

"I'm afraid I was a bit late coming down," said Mr. Wade with engaging frankness. "It's an extraordinary thing, but wherever I happen to be staying, I'm always last to be down."

"Very extraordinary," said Lady Coote.

"I don't know why it is," said Mr. Wade, meditating. "I can't think, I'm sure."

"Why don't you just get up?" suggested Lady Coote.

"Oh!" said Mr. Wade. The simplicity of the solution rather took him aback.

Lady Coote went on earnestly.

"I've heard Sir Oswald say so many times that there's nothing for getting a young man on in the world like punctual habits."

"Oh! I know," said Mr. Wade. "And I have to when I'm in town. I mean, I have to be round at the jolly old Foreign Office by eleven o'clock. You mustn't think I'm always a slacker, Lady Coote. I say, what awfully jolly flowers you've got down in that lower border. I can't remember the names of them, but we've got some at home—those mauve thingummybobs. My sister's tremendously keen on gardening."

Lady Coote was immediately diverted. Her wrongs rankled within her.

"What kind of gardeners do you have?"

"Oh! just one. Rather an old fool, I believe. Doesn't know much, but he does what he's told. And that's a great thing, isn't it?"

Lady Coote agreed that it was with a depth of feeling in her voice that would have been invaluable to her as an emotional actress. They began to discourse on the iniquities of gardeners.

Meanwhile the expedition was doing well. The principal emporium of Market Basing had been invaded and the sudden demand for alarum clocks was considerably puzzling the proprietor.

"I wish we'd got Bundle here," murmured Bill. "You know her, don't you, Jimmy? Oh, you'd like her. She's a splendid girl—a real good sport—and mark you, she's got brains too. You know her, Ronny?"

Ronny shook his head.

"Don't know Bundle? Where have you been vegetating? She's simply it."

"Be a bit more subtle, Bill," said Socks. "Stop blethering about your lady friends and get on with the business."

Mr. Murgatroyd, owner of Murgatroyd's Stores, burst into eloquence.

"If you'll allow me to advise you, Miss, I should say—not the 7/11 one. It's a good clock—I'm not running it down, mark you, but I should strongly advise this kind at 10/6. Well worth the extra money. Reliability, you understand. I shouldn't like you to say afterwards—"

It was evident to everybody that Mr. Murgatroyd must be turned off like a tap.

"We don't want a reliable clock," said Nancy.

"It's got to go for one day, that's all," said Helen.

"We don't want a subtle one," said Socks. "We want one with a good loud ring."

"We want—" began Bill, but was unable to finish, because Jimmy, who was of a mechanical turn of mind, had at last grasped the mechanism. For the next five minutes the shop was hideous with the loud raucous ringing of many alarum clocks.

In the end six excellent starters were selected.

"And I'll tell you what," said Ronny handsomely, "I'll get one for Pongo. It was his idea, and it's a shame that he should be out of it. He shall be represented among those present."

"That's right," said Bill. "And I'll take an extra one for Lady Coote. The more the merrier. And she's doing some of the spade work. Probably gassing away to old Gerry now."

Indeed at this precise moment Lady Coote was detailing a long story about MacDonald and a prize peach and enjoying herself very much.

The clocks were wrapped up and paid for. Mr. Murgatroyd watched the cars drive away with a puzzled air. Very spirited the young people of the upper classes nowadays, very spirited indeed, but not at all easy to understand. He turned with relief to attend to the vicar's wife, who wanted a new kind of dripless teapot.

Chapter II

Concerning Alarum Clocks

"Now where shall we put them?"

Dinner was over. Lady Coote had been once more detailed for duty. Sir Oswald had unexpectedly come to the rescue by suggesting bridge—not that suggesting is the right word. Sir Oswald, as became one of "Our Captains of Industry" (No. 7 of Series I), merely expressed a preference and those around him hastened to accommodate themselves to the great man's wishes.

Rupert Bateman and Sir Oswald were partners against Lady Coote and Gerald Wade, which was a very happy arrangement. Sir Oswald played bridge, like he did everything else, extremely well, and liked a partner to correspond. Bateman was as efficient a bridge player as he was a secretary. Both of them confined themselves strictly to the matter in hand, merely uttering in curt short barks, "Two no trumps," "Double," "Three spades." Lady Coote and Gerald Wade were amiable and discursive and the young man never failed to say at the conclusion of each hand, "I say, partner, you played that simply splendidly," in tones of simple admiration which Lady Coote found both novel and extremely soothing. They also held very good cards.

The others were supposed to be dancing to the wireless in the big ballroom. In reality they were grouped around the door of Gerald Wade's bedroom, and the air was full of subdued giggles and the loud ticking of clocks.

"Under the bed in a row," suggested Jimmy in answer to Bill's question.

"And what shall we set them at? What time, I mean? All together so that there's one glorious what-not, or at intervals?"

The point was hotly disputed. One party argued that for a champion sleeper like Gerry Wade the combined ringing of eight alarum clocks was necessary. The other party argued in favour of steady and sustained effort.

In the end the latter won the day. The clocks were set to go off one after the other, starting at 6:30 A.M.

"And I hope," said Bill virtuously, "that this will be a lesson to him."

"Hear, hear," said Socks.

The business of hiding the clocks was just being begun when there was a sudden alarm.

"Hist," cried Jimmy. "Somebody's coming up the stairs."

There was a panic.

"It's all right," said Jimmy. "It's only Pongo."

Taking advantage of being dummy, Mr. Bateman was going to his room for a handkerchief. He paused on his way and took in the situation at a glance. He then made a comment, a simple and practical one.

"He will hear them ticking when he goes to bed."

The conspirators looked at each other.

"What did I tell you?" said Jimmy in a reverent voice. "Pongo always did have brains!"

The brainy one passed on.

"It's true," admitted Ronny Devereux, his head on one side. "Eight clocks all ticking at once do make a devil of a row. Even old Gerry, ass as he is, couldn't miss it. He'll guess something's up."

"I wonder if he is," said Jimmy Thesiger.

"Is what?"

"Such an ass as we all think."

Ronny stared at him.

"We all know old Gerald."

"Do we?" said Jimmy. "I've sometimes thought that—well, that it isn't possible for anyone to be quite the ass old Gerry makes himself out to be."

They all stared at him. There was a serious look on Ronny's face.

"Jimmy," he said, "you've got brains."

"A second Pongo," said Bill encouragingly.

"Well, it just occurred to me, that's all," said Jimmy, defending himself.

"Oh! don't let's all be subtle," cried Socks. "What are we to do about these clocks?"

"Here's Pongo coming back again. Let's ask him," suggested Jimmy.

Pongo, urged to bring his great brain to bear upon the matter, gave his decision.

"Wait till he's gone to bed and got to sleep. Then enter the room very quietly and put the clocks down on the floor."

"Little Pongo's right again," said Jimmy. "On the word one all park clocks, and then we'll go downstairs and disarm suspicion."

Bridge was still proceeding—with a slight difference. Sir Oswald was now playing with his wife and was conscientiously pointing out to her the mistakes she had made during the play of each hand. Lady Coote accepted reproof good-humouredly, and with a complete lack of any real interest. She reiterated, not once but many times:

"I see, dear. It's so kind of you to tell me."

And she continued to make exactly the same errors.

At intervals, Gerald Wade said to Pongo:

"Well played, partner, jolly well played."

Bill Eversleigh was making calculations with Ronny Devereux.

"Say he goes to bed about twelve—what do you think we ought to give him—about an hour?"

He yawned.

"Curious thing—three in the morning is my usual time for bye-bye, but to-night, just because I know we've got to sit up a bit, I'd give anything to be a mother's boy and turn in right away."

Everyone agreed that he felt the same.

"My dear Maria," rose the voice of Sir Oswald in mild irritation, "I have told you over and over again not to hesitate when you are wondering whether to finesse or not. You give the whole table information."

Lady Coote had a very good answer to this—namely that as Sir Oswald was dummy, he had no right to comment on the play of the hand. But she did not make it. Instead she smiled kindly, leaned her ample chest well forward over the table, and gazed firmly into Gerald Wade's hand where he sat on her right.

Her anxieties lulled to rest by perceiving the queen, she played the knave and took the trick and proceeded to lay down her cards.

"Four tricks and the rubber," she announced. "I think I was very lucky to get four tricks there."

"Lucky," murmured Gerald Wade, as he pushed back his chair and came over to the fireplace to join the others. "Lucky, she calls it. That woman wants watching."

Lady Coote was gathering up notes and silver.

"I know I'm not a good player," she announced in a mournful tone which nevertheless held an undercurrent of pleasure in it. "But I'm really very lucky at the game."

"You'll never be a bridge player, Maria," said Sir Oswald.

"No, dear," said Lady Coote. "I know I shan't. You're always telling me so. And I do try so hard."

"She does," said Gerald Wade sotto voce. "There's no subterfuge about it. She'd put her head right down on your shoulder if she couldn't see into your hand any other way."

"I know you try," said Sir Oswald. "It's just that you haven't any card sense."

"I know, dear," said Lady Coote. "That's what you're always telling me. And you owe me another ten shillings, Oswald."

"Do I?" Sir Oswald looked surprised.

"Yes. Seventeen hundred—eight pounds ten. You've only given me eight pounds."

"Dear me," said Sir Oswald. "My mistake."

Lady Coote smiled at him sadly and took up the extra ten-shilling note. She was very fond of her husband, but she had no intention of allowing him to cheat her out of ten shillings.

Sir Oswald moved over to a side table and became hospitable with whisky and soda. It was half-past twelve when general good-nights were said.

Ronny Devereux, who had the room next door to Gerald Wade's, was told off to report progress. At a quarter to two he crept round tapping at doors. The party, pyjamaed and dressing-gowned, assembled with various scuffles and giggles and low whispers.

"His light went out about twenty minutes ago," reported Ronny in a hoarse whisper. "I thought he'd never put it out. I opened the door just now and peeped in, and he seems sound off. What about it?"

Once more the clocks were solemnly assembled. Then another difficulty arose.

"We can't all go barging in. Make no end of a row. One person's got to do it and the others can hand him the what-nots from the door."

Hot discussion then arose as to the proper person to be selected.

The three girls were rejected on the grounds that they would giggle. Bill Eversleigh was rejected on the grounds of his height, weight and heavy tread, also for his general clumsiness, which latter clause he fiercely denied. Jimmy Thesiger and Ronny Devereux were considered possibles, but in the end an overwhelming majority decided in favour of Rupert Bateman.

"Pongo's the lad," agreed Jimmy. "Anyway, he walks like a cat—always did. And then, if Gerry should waken up, Pongo will be able to think of some rotten silly thing to say to him. You know, something plausible that'll calm him down and not rouse his suspicions."

"Something subtle," suggested the girl Socks thoughtfully.

"Exactly," said Jimmy.

Pongo performed his job neatly and efficiently. Cautiously opening the bedroom door, he disappeared into the darkness inside bearing the two largest clocks. In a minute or two he reappeared on the threshold and two more were handed to him and then again twice more. Finally he emerged. Every one held his breath and listened. The rhythmical breathing of Gerald Wade could still be heard, but drowned, smothered and buried beneath the triumphant, impassioned ticking of Mr. Murgatroyd's eight alarum clocks.

Chapter III

The Joke That Failed

"Twelve o'clock," said Socks despairingly.

The joke—as a joke—had not gone off any too well. The alarum clocks, on the other hand, had performed their part. They had gone off—with a vigour and élan that could hardly have been surpassed and which had sent Ronny Devereux leaping out of bed with a confused idea that the day of judgment had come. If such had been the effect in the room next door, what must it have been at close quarters? Ronny hurried out in the passage and applied his ear to the crack of the door.

He expected profanity—expected it confidently and with intelligent anticipation. But he heard nothing at all. That is to say, he heard nothing of what he expected. The clocks were ticking all right—ticking in a loud, arrogant, exasperating manner. And presently another went off, ringing with a crude, deafening note that would have aroused acute irritation in a deaf man.

There was no doubt about it; the clocks had performed their part faithfully. They did all and more than Mr. Murgatroyd had claimed for them. But apparently they had met their match in Gerald Wade.

The syndicate was inclined to be despondent about it.

"The lad isn't human," grumbled Jimmy Thesiger.

"Probably thought he heard the telephone in the distance and rolled over and went to sleep again," suggested Helen (or possibly Nancy).

"It seems to me very remarkable," said Rupert Bateman seriously. "I think he ought to see a doctor about it."

"Some disease of the ear-drums," suggested Bill hopefully.

"Well, if you ask me," said Socks, "I think he's just spoofing us. Of course they woke him up. But he's just going to do us down by pretending that he didn't hear anything."

Every one looked at Socks with respect and admiration.

"It's an idea," said Bill.

"He's subtle, that's what it is," said Socks. "You'll see, he'll be extra late for breakfast this morning—just to show us."

And since the clock now pointed to some minutes past twelve the general opinion was that Socks' theory was a correct one. Only Ronny Devereux demurred.

"You forget, I was outside the door when the first one went off. Whatever old Gerry decided to do later, the first one must have surprised him. He'd have let out something about it. Where did you put it, Pongo?"

"On a little table close to his ear," said Mr. Bateman.

"That was thoughtful of you, Pongo," said Ronny. "Now, tell me." He turned to Bill. "If a whacking great bell started ringing within a few inches of your ear at half-past six in the morning, what would you say about it?"

"Oh! Lord," said Bill. "I should say—" He came to a stop.

"Of course you would," said Ronny. "So should I. So would anyone. What they call the natural man would emerge. Well, it didn't. So I say that Pongo is right—as usual—and that Gerry has got an obscure disease of the ear-drums."

"It's now twenty past twelve," said one of the other girls sadly.

"I say," said Jimmy slowly, "that's a bit beyond anything, isn't it? I mean a joke's a joke. But this is carrying it a bit far. It's a shade hard on the Cootes."

Bill stared at him.

"What are you getting at?"

"Well," said Jimmy, "somehow or other—it's not like old Gerry."

He found it hard to put into words just what he meant to say. He didn't want to say too much, and yet—He saw Ronny looking at him. Ronny was suddenly alert.

It was at that moment Tredwell came into the room and looked round him hesitatingly.

"I thought Mr. Bateman was here," he explained apologetically.

"Just gone out this minute through the window," said Ronny. "Can I do anything?"

Tredwell's eyes wandered from him to Jimmy Thesiger and then back again. As though singled out, the two young men left the room with him. Tredwell closed the dining-room door carefully behind him.

"Well," said Ronny. "What's up?"

"Mr. Wade not having yet come down, sir, I took the liberty of sending Williams up to his room."

"Yes."

"Williams has just come running down in a great state of agitation, sir." Tredwell paused—a pause of preparation. "I am afraid, sir, the poor young gentleman must have died in his sleep."

Jimmy and Ronny stared at him.

"Nonsense," cried Ronny at last. "It's—it's impossible. Gerry—" His face worked suddenly. "I'll—I'll run up and see. That fool Williams may have made a mistake."

Tredwell stretched out a detaining hand. With a queer, unnatural feeling of detachment, Jimmy realized that the butler had the whole situation in hand.

"No, sir, Williams has made no mistake. I have already sent for Dr. Cartwright, and in the meantime I have taken the liberty of locking the door, preparatory to informing Sir Oswald of what has occurred. I must now find Mr. Bateman."

Tredwell hurried away. Ronny stood like a man dazed.

"Gerry," he muttered to himself.

Jimmy took his friend by the arm and steered him out through a side door on to a secluded portion of the terrace. He pushed him down on to a seat.

"Take it easy, old son," he said kindly. "You'll get your wind in a minute."

But he looked at him rather curiously. He had had no idea that Ronny was such a friend of Gerry Wade's.

"Poor old Gerry," he said thoughtfully. "If ever a man looked fit, he did."

Ronny nodded.

"All that clock business seems so rotten now," went on Jimmy. "It's odd, isn't it, why farce so often seems to get mixed up with tragedy?"

He was talking more or less at random, to give Ronny time to recover himself. The other moved restlessly.

"I wish that doctor would come. I want to know—"

"Know what?"

"What he—died of."

Jimmy pursed up his lips.

"Heart?" he hazarded.

Ronny gave a short, scornful laugh.

"I say, Ronny," said Jimmy.

"Well?"

Jimmy found a difficulty in going on.

"You don't mean—you aren't thinking—I mean, you haven't got it into your head that—that, well, I mean he wasn't biffed on the head or anything? Tredwell's locking the door and all that."

It seemed to Jimmy that his words deserved an answer, but Ronny continued to stare straight out in front of him.

Jimmy shook his head and relapsed into silence. He didn't see that there was anything to do except just wait. So he waited.

It was Tredwell who disturbed them.

"The doctor would like to see you two gentlemen in the library, if you please, sir."

Ronny sprang up. Jimmy followed him.

Dr. Cartwright was a thin, energetic young man with a clever face. He greeted them with a brief nod. Pongo, looking more serious and spectacled than ever, performed introductions.

"I understand you were a great friend of Mr. Wade's," the doctor said to Ronny.

"His greatest friend."

"H'm. Well, this business seems straightforward enough. Sad, though. He looked a healthy young chap. Do you know if he was in the habit of taking stuff to make him sleep?"

"Make him sleep?" Ronny stared. "He always slept like a top."

"You never heard him complain of sleeplessness?"

"Never."

"Well, the facts are simple enough. There'll have to be an inquest, I'm afraid, nevertheless."

"How did he die?"

"There's not much doubt; I should say an overdose of chloral. The stuff was by his bed. And a bottle and glass. Very sad, these things are."

It was Jimmy who asked the question which he felt was trembling on his friend's lips, and yet which the other could somehow or other not get out.

"There's no question of—foul play?"

The doctor looked at him sharply.

"Why do you say that? Any cause to suspect it, eh?"