It was nearly eleven before Martin finished his breakfast on Monday morning. When he turned in the night before, he had been too tired to bother with the sleeping-pill Dr. Laurier had left for him. He woke to a morning of soft breeze and gentle sun, so stimulated and refreshed that he felt ravenous for food. Certain instructions, which H.M. had made him promise to carry out overnight, now seemed nonsensical.
Martin sang in his bath. A harassed but punctilious Dr. Laurier, who arrived while he was shaving, changed the bandage on his forehead and told him that with luck the stitches would be out in no time.
Somebody had tried to kill him? But he had only to think of Jenny, and other matters for the moment seemed of no consequence. When he went downstairs, he met nobody in the cool house. In the dining-room he was served breakfast by a maid other than Phyllis; and, since Fleet House was supplied with great quantities of food from an unspecified source, he ate with appetite.
But it was the telephone he wanted. Emerging through a series of passages which brought him out opposite the staircase' at the back of the main hall, Martin at last heard sounds of life. Voices — apparently those of Aunt Cicely, Ricky, and H.M. himself — drifted down from the direction of the drawing-room.
Then the 'phone rang; and it was Jenny.
The first part of their conversation need not be recorded here. Doubtless Sir Henry Merrivale would have described it as mush, adding that Jenny and Martin seemed to have achieved the seemingly impossible feat of getting into an intimate embrace over a telephone. But there seemed to be a faintly odd note in Jenny's voice.
"You haven't forgotten," he asked, "that this is the day you and I are going to London?"
"We — we can't. Not yet, anyway. Tonight we might."
A sense of impending disaster crept into him. "Why not?"
"Martin," breathed Jenny, "why does your H.M. insist on persecuting my poor grandmother?"
(I knew it! By all cussedness and the ten finger-bones of Satan, I knew it!)
"But what's he doing to her now, Jenny? He's here! In the drawing-room!"
Martin, do you know where I am?" asked Jenny.
"What's that?"
"I'm under the main staircase, with a thick oak door closed so I can speak to you. Hold on a second, and I'll push the door open. Listen!"
Martin jumped. The sound which poured out at him, even over a telephone, made him yank the receiver away from his ear before putting it back to his ear again.
It sounded rather like Blackpool on August Bank Holiday. But-the crowd-noises were over-ridden by musk, in which Martin (too imaginatively, perhaps) thought he could detect one brass band, a panotrope with a bad needle, and the steam organ of a merry-go-round. High rose the strains of Waltzing Matilda, closely contested by Cherry-Ripe and The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze.
The strains were blotted away as Jenny closed the door.
"Did Grandmother," she asked, "tell you anything about a fair?"
"Well," Martin searched his memory, "she did say something about it, yes. I thought she meant some sort of rustic fair with a Maypole."
"So did she," Jenny answered in a weary voice. "But it's the biggest travelling fair in the British Isles. They took half the night to set it up. You see, they — they sent Grandmother some sort of paper, six months ago. She said solicitors cost too much money, when she knew all the law anyway. And she signed it"
For a moment hope began to stir in Martin. After all, six months ago! It had been Grandmother's own fault H.M. couldn't have had anything to do with this! He said as much.
"Yes," said Jenny. "But have you met a Mr. Solomon MacDougall?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"He's the owner or the man who manages it or something. Anyway, H.M. met him when he was looking over the ground yesterday…"
"Oh, my God!"
"And H.M. pointed out something in the contract they didn't know themselves. They intended to use Rupert's Five-Acre, which would have been bad enough. But H.M. said wouldn't it be a wonderful attraction if they had lines of booths and stalls and freak-shows up the main drive to the front door? And that's not the worst, either. Have you ever ridden in a Ghost-Train?"
Martin had. But he wanted to let Jenny pour her heart out.
"It's a big place like a house, dark inside. You ride in a little railway through terrific screams and howls and screeches. Do you know where H.M. persuaded them to put the Ghost-Train?"
"No, my sweet"
"Under Grandmother's bedroom windows," said Jenny.
“Er — yes. What I mean is: I see "
"On the roof of the Ghost-Train house," said Jenny, "there's a papier-mache skull on a pole. It's painted green. It turns round, and round. And, every time it turns round, it looks in the bedroom window and chatters two sets of teeth."
"Jenny," said Martin, "wait just one minute. Hold the line and wait The culprit's here. I'll…"
With a shaking hand he put down the 'phone beside its cradle. To say that he did not know whether to laugh or swear is to understate a real conflict of mind: it boiled inside him, tearing him both ways. Grandmother Brayle was not due home until this afternoon. To watch her behaviour then would be worth much. On the other hand, H.M.'s craftiness seemed always to separate him from Jenny; and he was resolved to get Jenny away today.
At this point of both murderousness and mirth, he became conscious of the great man's voice from the direction of the drawing-room. It was now raised to a serious and oratorical pitch, holding his listeners.
H.M. said: "What we got to remember, y'see, is the noble dignity of Curtius Merrivale. I wish I could paint you the picture of Charles the First sittin' in that noble Banqueting Hall, designed by Inigo Jones, with all his family gathered round just as you see it in the portraits. (Mind, I don't say these are the exact words; it's the idea.) And Charles the First would say, 'Sir Curtius, will you not favour us with some amusing conceit?'
"And Curtius Merrivale would get up, sweepin' off his plumed hat like this, and he'd say:
" There was a young girl from Bel Air, Who used to—'"
"H.M.!" thundered Martin, with full power of lungs. It was enough to bring even H.M. to an abrupt stop. And Martin, torn between two feelings, could only sputter mentally.
"Did you," he shouted down the hall, "put a damn great Ghost-Train under Lady Brayle's bedroom?"
This question, whatever else may be said about it was at least arresting. It roused attention and curiosity. After short silence, there was movement.
Ricky Fleet in white flannels and white shirt with tears of emotion in his eyes after what had been a long narration by H.M. raced and skidded along the hardwood floor. He was
followed by Aunt Cicely, now seriously angry with H-M. for his romantic anecdotes. Last of all, with a lofty air, marched H.M. himself.
"Didn't you," Martin demanded, "put the biggest travelling fair in England slap on the main drive of Brayle Manor?’
"Well… now," said the culprit in question.
"But what's this," asked Ricky insistently, "about a train running through Grandmother's bedroom?"
At the same moment, in a hall touched by sunshine through the open door to the terrace, Ruth Callice and Stannard appeared at that door, followed by Chief Inspector Masters. Martin, like the skeleton, almost gibbered as he explained while the others gathered round.
"Jenny?" He turned back to the "phone.
"Yes, dear?"
"How long has this uproar been going on? Why didn't you ring me?"
"But I only discovered it myself," Jenny protested, "about twenty minutes ago. Before I left you last night, you see, H.M. gave me two nembutal sleeping-pills; he got them from Dr. Laurier; and he made me promise to take them as soon as I got home. And I was so worried about you—"
Martin kept the receiver a little way back from his ear. Jenny's small, soft voice was distinctly audible to everyone who had gathered round.
"So," repeated Martin, "H.M. gave you some sleeping-pills, so you wouldn't know. Yes, I remember he said he did."
Sir Henry Merrivale, wearing an incredible air of righteousness, had folded his arms and stood like a statue in a park.
"Dawson and some of the others," pursued Jenny, "tried to wake me in the night, but they couldn't. While we had the lights and the noise, I mean. The first I knew was when I heard someone yelling, 'Get your fresh cockles and winkles.'"
"Did they — er — ring up your grandmother at wherever she's staying?"
"Priory Hill? No. They were afraid to."
"When is your grandmother due to come back?"
"At one o'clock, for lunch. I think she's bringing that clergyman back, the one who's so terribly dead-set against horseracing."
"Holy cats, they haven't got a race-track there, have they?"
"No, no, no! Of course not. And I'm not crying, Martin; I'm only laughing and I can't stop. If you could see this place. Can you please come here soon?"
‘I can be there," Martin told her, "immediately. Wait for me!"
"And so can I be there," Ricky declared in ecstasy. ‘To run you over, old boy. I’d heard about this fair, but I never thought it was going to be anything like this."
Martin looked at H.M.
"Y’know," said the latter, taking a reflective survey of the faces round him and then leaning one elbow against the wall, "I think I must be the most reviled, misunderstood poor doer-of-good in this whole floatin' earth! I try to do Sophie some good, I honest-Injun do! And…"
"How are you going to do her good by sticking winkle-stalls and coconut-shies all over the lawn?"
"Never you mind," H.M. told him darkly. "They don’t understand the old man, that's all. They see the result, when it's all over. Then they say, 'How curious! The silly old dummy did it by accident'"
His peroration — in which he inquired, rhetorically, whether he was indignant when a skeleton stuck its head but of an electric car to blow raspberries at him; and replied by saying he was the most forgiving soul on earth — his peroration was cut short by the husky chuckle of Stannard.
Stannard looked in fine form this morning, hearty and clear of eye, with hardly a trace of limp.
"Ruth," he said, "something tells me this would be a sight worth seeing. Would you care to go?"
"I'd love to!"
"I'm going too," announced Aunt Cicely, tripping up several steps and running down to look at them, in unconscious pose against the tall window. "Only not until this afternoon, when I'm properly dressed."
Ruth looked worried.
"Cicely, do you think you ought? You heard what Dr. Laurier said only this morning. Shock, or excitement…"
"Ruth, I'm not an invalid!" laughed Aunt Cicely. "I’m the only person who keeps on talking about my heart Besides," she nodded at them decidedly, "there's an unanswerable reason. Ricky wants me to "
"Ricky, don't you think you're being a bit inconsiderate?"
"Look here!" said Ricky. "The reason is—"
He hesitated, looked at them, saw in a wall looking-glass that he wore no coat or tie, and took the stairs three at a bound. 'Tell you later!" he said.
"You for a sun-hat, my dear," Stannard touched Ruth's arm, "and I for a suitable cloth cap. I have an instinct that this will be a memorable day."
"Oh, ah," Chief-Inspector Masters muttered under his breath, "it will be for somebody."
Masters said this when he and H.M. and Martin stood in an otherwise empty hall; And Martin felt again an unexpected coldness round the heart when he saw him look at him: Masters with the unmirthful smile of one who knows all the facts, H.M. with his fists on his hips.
"So!" the latter growled softly. "You think I'm not attending to business, hey?"
"You don't mean this travelling-fair business is a part of another scheme to…"
"It's the same scheme, son."
'To catch the mur—?"
"Quiet, sir!" muttered Masters; and his tone was deadly serious. It was as though the blare of fair-music dwindled in Martin's ears; then grew louder with an implication of what it was to conceal.
"But, H.M.," he protested, "Jenny tells me you saw this man, What's-his-name, who manages the fair, yesterday morning or afternoon. If I've got the facts right, you didn't tumble to the whole solution until late yesterday night Then how could the fair have—?".
"Son," said H.M., "when I talked to that fine feller Solomon MacDougall I was having — hem! — maybe evil thoughts as well as holy thoughts. About skulls that chattered: you see what I mean? But I also saw last night how the cards were bein' dealt straight into our hands. See what I mean?"
"No."
"Anyhow, it's so. If you hear Masters or me say, 'Pip,’ you jump to it and ask no questions. Got that?" "Right."
Their looks were still in Martin's mind ten minutes later when the old car, with Ruth and Stannard in the rear seat Martin in front with Ricky, moved along the main road southwards under a canopy of mellow sunlight It moved so slowly that Dr. Lauder's car passed them, the doctor giving a pince-nez flicker of greeting and touching the brim of his hat At sight of the other car, Ricky blurted out what he had to say.
"I want to explain," he said, "why I seemed to be such a hound towards Mother."
From their previous conversation, it bad been clear that Ricky no longer felt any distrust of Stannard. Sheer admiration of Stannard's conduct in the execution shed would have done that Stannard’'s friendliness was apparent too, though he treated Ricky as an indulgent uncle would treat a nephew of sixteen.
"My dear boy!" The husky chuckle remonstrated. "You 'can't be called a hound for inviting your mother to a fair."
"No, that's just it!" Ricky appealed to Stannard as much as, to Martin. "But — it's about Susan Harwood."
Stannard whistled. "You don't mean they're going to meet?"
"They've met already, in a way. At charity do's. But this is different Martin, you'll stand by? You're in the same boat"
‘I’ll do anything I can, of course."
Ruth, tapping her fingers on her handbag, said nothing.
"Susan knows about it" Ricky explained, with one eye on the road and one eye on his companions, "but Mother doesn't At one o'clock I’ll be strolling with Mother. The place will be near, but not too near, a lemonade-stall or an ice-cream stall or something like that"
"Ricky," Ruth cried, "what are you planning?"
"Will you be quiet, old girl, and listen to me?"
"Honestly, Ricky…"
"Ill introduce 'em," Ricky ignored the protest "and then I'll out with it I'll say this is the girl I'm- going to marry, and wouldn't they like to get acquainted? Mother can't make a scene in public. Then I'll say, 'Just get you an ice; excuse me a moment'"
"Ricky," cried Ruth, "you coward!"
Former Wing-Commander Richard Fleet D.S.O. with bar, did not in this instance deny it
"I've told Laurier," he confided; "but he's an ass. They'll stroll away, Susan and Mother, and I'll follow. If you see me beckon, crowd in. If you see me motion to keep away, keep away. Anyway, I can't lose 'em when I follow."
"We're with you," said Martin. "But why not simply elope with the girl? That's what I'm going to do, this afternoon or tonight"
"You're… — what?" exclaimed Ruth.
"Never mind. We were talking about Ricky."
"I can't do it" said Ricky, referring to elopement He was desperately in earnest so much so that his eyes brimmed as they had brimmed a while ago, though perhaps for different reasons, when H.M. was telling stories. He scarcely noticed the road; the car had gathered speed; yet his instinctive timing never put them in danger. "This is the only way. Mother'll understand it"
"All good luck, my boy!" smiled Stannard. "But, my dear Drake. You were saying—? "Martin doesn't mean it," observed Ruth. - (Oh, don't I?)
For now, beyond tall trees at a bend in the road, there rose above a crowd murmur the predominating brass-band strains of Waltzing Matilda. In contrast to the stuff which passes for music nowadays, this noble tune must set a stuffed mummy to whistling and tapping its foot Martin Drake began whistling too. He was going away with Jenny.
Round the curve they swept into the straight The fifteen-foot-high brick wall of Brayle Manor, which they had seen stretching westwards, now ran past the road on the right All the noises of the fair were sweeping out at them now.
On the left-hand side of the road, an immense enclosed field had as the sign over its road gate, PARKING, is 6d. Though petrol was supposed to be scarce, you would not have learned this by the glow of sun winking on the backs of so many cars. On the other side of the road seethed mild pandemonium.
The broad iron-grilled gates stood wide open. The head of a perspiring ticket-seller stretched out over the half-door of the gate-keeper's lodge. From the opposite side, hoarsely, rose the chant of a man with vari-coloured balloons and white hats bearing such mottoes as Kiss Me Quick,
As Martin crossed the road from the parking-lot with Ricky, Stannard, and Ruth, a police-car containing Masters and H.M. drew up not far from the gates. Then Martin noticed, stuck on each side of the wall at the gates, a huge poster showing an equally huge photograph of the Dowager Countess, wearing a tiara and a smile. Underneath, signed and in red letters, ran what was clearly a quotation from a letter.
"If the civic authorities of Brayle attempt to prevent this fair, or so much as set foot inside the park, I shall sue them for five thousand pounds." Several newcomers were reading it with stunned admiration. "Now listen, sir!" Martin heard the Chief Inspector's voice hiss. "You're going to behave yourself?"
An empurpled visage appeared above the shoulder of Ruth Callice.
"What d'ye mean, behave myself?" the face demanded.
This was the last Martin could catch, since they were pressing through the swirl of the crowd. To his surprise be saw Dr. Laurier up ahead. After procuring their tickets, feeling the gravel of the broad drive crunch under their feet they seemed to be in clearer space while voices and music rolled over them.
"Kick the football! Kick the football, burst a balloon, and win a fine prize!"
"'Ow's yer strength, gen'lemen? 'Ow's yer strength? 'Ere we—"
The churning, tinkling melody of the merry-go-round, blowing hard with steam-pressure, swept across the voices like mist. Another (alleged) melody, made even more ghoulish by a loud-speaker and a deep voice singing, intruded.
'With 'er 'ead TOOKED oon-der-neath 'er arm, She wa-a-a-lks the bluidy TOW-ER—''
"This, ladies and gentlemen, Is the Mirror Maze." A loudspeaker again, with a semi-cultured voice. "Biggest and finest attraction of MacDougall's Mammoth. The Mirror Maze. If you are unable—"
"Stan!" cried Ruth. "Where are your…’
"Here, my dear! Take my hand!''
Laughter and giggles broke-above them like rockets. Everybody seemed to be eating potato-crisps and then throwing the empty bags in your face. Then they emerged into a comparatively wide open space: where, Martin gathered, two lines of attractions crossed.
‘If you are unable to get out of the Mirror Maze," the loudspeaker gave a rasping chuckle, like a loud parody of Stannard, "directions will be given by—"
"Sir Henry! Wait! Come back here!" Martin, getting his breath to plunge towards the house and Jenny, turned round. But nothing appeared to be seriously wrong.
Just to the right was a booth set out as a miniature racetrack with its counter a little higher than waist level. Metal horses, each about five inches long and with its jockey's colours brilliantly painted, stood at the starting-gate of an oval course. Grandstand, spectators, greensward, all were realistically done. Along the front of the counter ran a line of squares, each inscribed with the name of a horse and its colours. Projecting underneath each space was a crank-handle by which you made the horses run.
"It's all right, son!" H.M. assured Masters testily. "Burn it, I'm just havin' a look."
Behind the counter sat a dispirited-looking man, chewing a broomstraw, who had started to get up. Now he sank back again hopelessly.
H.M. inspected the track. He sniffed. He ran his eye critically over the horses, like one inspecting a parade at Epsom. Then something seemed to take hold of him as though with hands, and he swung round.
"I’ll give you five to one the field," he burst out."And eight to one," he glanced behind him, "Blue Boy." His eyes gleamed. "I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I'll give you ten to one on Blue Boy!"
Ricky sprang forward.
"Here's ten bob on Blue Boy," said Ricky, slapping the money down on the corresponding counter-space. "And, just for luck, I’ll have another ten bob on Squaw's Feather"
"For myself," said Stannard, instantly whipping out his note-case, "I fancy Bright-Eyes. With the dark brown colour; eh, Ruth? One pound on Bright-Eyes!"
"Uh-huh. One pound on Bright-Eyes," repeated H.M., who had scrabbled out with a notebook and the stub of a pencil, and was hastily recording. Then he lifted his voice to the whole fair-ground.
'I’ll give you five to one the field," he bellowed. "Anybody want to make a little bet?"
"Goddelmighty!" whispered Chief Inspector Masters.
Now there are many words which will instantly rivet or turn the attention of an English crowd. You may say them over to yourself. But perhaps none is quite so potent as the word 'bet.' Materializing and mingling, the crowd pressed in ten-deep towards the counter, with cries and queries.
The man behind the counter, who had swallowed his broomstraw as he leaped up, now appeared to be racked by the convulsions of cyanide poisoning. He was writhing forward across the race-track, his hands outstretched.
"Oi! Gov" nor! The gent with the bald 'ead! For gossake! Oi!"
"What d'ye mean, oi?"
"It's against the LOR."
"What d'ye mean, it's against the law?"
"It's gambling," whispered and blurted the other, his eyes now rolling horribly in articulo mortis. "I wouldn't mind, see, but it's against the LOR. You'll 'ave the coppers on us!"
"Oh, my son! Don't you know no coppers can get in here today?"
"Whassat-forgossake?"
"This here. Lady Brayle—" H.M. was in good voice; it carried far—"thinks people's liberties are bein' interfered with. Couldn't you have guessed that from what she wrote on the posters out there?"
A hum of approval, growing to a roar, spread out over the crowd. Dust and gravel flew. At his last extremity the dying man's eye seemed to catch some flicker beyond, a signal from an arm in a grey-and-black checked sleeve, which said, 'Yes.' The pangs of agony dropped from him.
Whang went the cymbals from an invisible brass-band; and, by one of those inspired coincidences which really do happen, the band crashed into Camptown Races. Martin, his head down and pulling Ruth after him, was fighting his way through a pressing crowd with silver in its hands. His damaged forehead took some dizzying knocks, but he got through.
Ruth Callice, her straw sun-hat squashed down, removed the — hat and regarded him helplessly.
"Martin," she said, "is H.M. married?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever met his wife?" "No."
Ruth shut her eyes, puffed out her cheeks, and seemed lost in questions of fancy in her own mind.
"This stout gen'leman will give you five to one the field; ten to one Blue Boy! Don't crowd, now! Keep back so's the 'andles can be turned. Lady Brayle wants you all to 'ave a fling!"
"Ruth," Martin said, "I've got to hurry. Excuse me if I go ahead."
He had still fifty or sixty yards of the drive to cover. But the stalls and booths were fewer; he could almost run. A yellow balloon, lost from someone's hand, sailed past on a rising breeze. He could see that the oak trees, set back twenty feet from the drive, allowed room for the stalls inside. But the bigger exhibits; like the Mirror Maze, the merry-go-round, and something which called itself Mermaids' Paradise, raised their garish colours well back on the lawn behind the trees.
Well, the bandage was still on. And he reached the terrace.
Except to glance along the front, Martin hardly looked at Brayle Manor. Between two square grey-black towers, one at each end and of great age, had been built a Tudor or Jacobean frontage, with latticed windows, which seemed almost of yesterday by comparison.
Martin banged the heavy knocker on the front door. There was no reply. He banged and banged until the noise, in his head, grew louder than the band and the loud-speakers and the merry-go-round. He thought he heard some sound from an oriel window, projecting out over the front door, and he stepped back. But a voice spoke from behind the front door.
"Is that Mr. Martin Drake?"
"Yes!"
With a rattle of bolts and the click of a key, the heavy door opened under its low-pointed stone arch. Inside stood an elderly man in butler's canonicals, very shabby and clearly Dawson, with whom he had held that conversation about the five hundred pound.
He was in a dim, polished Tudor hall, low of ceiling and so much in twilight because all windows had been closed, all curtains drawn, against the noise.
"Martin!" said Jenny's voice.
A broad, low staircase, with carved balustrades, ascended along the left-hand wall. A heavy hinged panel at the side of the stairs stood more than part way open, and Jenny's face peered out at him.
"Martin," she said without preamble, "Grandmother's on the telephone."