The auctioneer's voice was small, thin, and at this distance all but inaudible.
"Lot 55… A fine Queen Anne table, grained mahogany, drawers richly gilt, date circa 1721, originally… "
The figure Martin had seen was a large, stout, barrel-shaped gentleman in a white linen suit His spectacles, usually pulled down on his broad nose, were now in place because he held his head up. On his head was a Panama hat, its brim curiously bent, and in his mouth he clamped an unlighted cigar.
As he advanced, his corporation majestically preceding him, there was on his face such a lordly sneer as even the Dowager Countess could never have imitated. Indeed, a close friend of Sir Henry Merrivale would have noticed something a little odd in his behaviour. The brim of the Panama hat, to an imaginative observer, might have been arranged so as to carry sweeping plumes. As he rolled the cigar round in his mouth to get a better grip, his left hand rested negligently in the air as though on the pommel of an imaginary sword. Aloof, disdainful, he sauntered towards the armour-room.
"Or this, for instance!" cried Lady Brayle.
Martin drew his gaze back. Into the room, unobserved, had slipped another figure: the tiny old man, with the white moustache, whom he had seen hunched over a catalogue in the outer room.
From the table Lady Brayle had fished up a heavy iron shield — round, convex, its outer side scored with dull embossments — and balanced it on the edge of the table.
"Really, Jennifer, I might defy you to find a better present than this shield of our lives and homes! This monument of antiquity, this holy…"
The apologetic little man cleared his throat
"I trust you will forgive the intrusion, madam," he whispered in a soft and creaky voice. "But the shield is not genuine." "Not genuine!"
"No, madam. I could give you reasons at length. But if you will look in the catalogue you will find it described only as 'Scottish type,' which of course means.. "
"Scotland," said Lady Brayle. "I believe the Fleets were originally Scottish. That will serve well enough. Look at it, Jennifer! Observe its beauty and strength of purpose!"
Lady Brayle was really thrilled. Also, she must have been a powerful woman. She caught up the shield with one hand on each side of the rim. Inspired, she took two sweeping steps backwards and swung up the shield with both arms — full and true into the face of Sir Henry Merrivale just as he entered the room.
The resulting bong, as H.M.'s visage encountered the concave side of the shield, was not so mellifluous as a temple-gong. But it was loud enough to make several persons in the auction-room look round. The Dowager Countess, for a moment really taken aback, held the shield motionless before H.M.'s face as though about to unveil some priceless head of statuary.
Then she lowered it
"Why, Henry!" she said.
The great man's Panama hat had been knocked off, revealing a large bald head. Through his large shell-rimmed spectacles, undamaged because the concavity of the shield had caught him mainly forehead and chin, there peered out eyes of such horrible malignancy that Jenny shied back. His cigar, spreading and flattened, bloomed under his nose like a tobacco-plant.
He did not say anything.
"I suppose I must apologize," Lady Brayle acknowledged coolly. "Though it was really not my fault You should look where you are going."
H.M.'s face slowly turned purple.
"And now," continued Lady Brayle, putting down the shield, "we must not be late. Come, Jennifer!" Firmly she took Jenny's arm. "I see Lord Ambleside and it would be most discourteous not to speak to Lord Ambleside. Good day, Captain Drake."
All might still have been well, perhaps, if she had not turned for a last look at Sir Henry Merrivale. Mention has been made of Lady Brayle's sense of humour. She looked at H.M., and her face began to twitch.
"I am sorry, Henry," she said, "but really—!" Suddenly she threw back her head. The once-pure contralto laughter, refined but hearty, rang and carrolled under the roof.
"Haw, haw, bawl" warbled the Dowager Countess. "Haw, haw, haw, HAW!"
"Easy, sir!" begged Martin Drake.
He seized H.M's quivering shoulders. Taking the squashed cigar out of H.M.'s mouth, in case the great men should swallow it, he threw the cigar away.
"Easy!" he insisted. "Are you all right?"
With a superhuman effort, no one knows bow great, H.M. controlled himself or seemed to control himself. His voice, which at first appeared to issue in a hoarse rumble from deep in the cellar, steadied a little.
"Me?" he rumbled hoarsely. "Sure, son. I'm fine. Don’t you worry about my feelin's."
"You — er — don't hold any malice?"
"Me?" exclaimed H.M., with such elaborate surprise that Chief Inspector Masters would instantly have been suspicious. "Oh, my son! I'm a forgivin’ man. I'm so goddam chivalrous that if I was ever reincarnated in mediaeval times, which I probably was, some old witch must 'a' copped me in the mush with a shield practically every day. You lemme alone, son. I just want to stand here and cogitate."
Martin, so intent on Jenny that he could think of little else, for the moment forgot him. Jenny and her grandmother were standing on the outer fringe of the crowd, their backs to the arms-room: though Jenny, peering round over her shoulder, tried some lip-message which he could not read.
H.M., cogitating deeply with elbow on one thick arm and fingers massaging his reddened chin, let his gaze wander round. Presently it found the halberds and guisarmes, their long shafts propped upright against the wall. Slowly his gaze moved up to their points. Then, musingly, the gaze travelled out into auction-room and found the ample, flowered posterior of the Dowager Countess.
"Ahem!" said the great man.
Elaborately unconcerned, he adjusted his spectacles and took down one of the weapons. Holding it horizontally on both hands, he ran his eye along the shaft with the critical air of a connoisseur. But it was obvious, from his blinkings, that he needed more tight. That was why he strolled out into the auction-room.
"One hundred and fifty.: Sixty?… Seventy?… Eighty?…"
The auctioneer, a sallow dark man with a pince-nez and a cropped moustache, had an eye that could follow lightning. He never missed; he never misinterpreted. A nod, a mutter, a pencil or catalogue briefly raised: the bidding flickered round that horseshoe table, or out into the crowd, more quickly than the senses could determine. Nobody spoke; all bent forward in absorption.
"Two hundred? Two hundred? Do I hear…"
"Oh, my God!" breathed Martin Drake.
That was where he saw what was approaching, on stealthy and evilly large feet, the unconscious back of Lady Brayle.
The only other person who noticed was the timid little man with the white moustache, who had observed all these proceedings in silence. But the little man did not cover, ground like Martin. Silently, in loping strides, he reached the side of the avenger; firmly he gripped the other side of the shaft, and looked at H.M. across it
H.M.'s almost invisible eyebrows went up.
"I dunno what you're talkin' about" he said in a hollow voice — though Martin, in fact had not uttered a word. He uttered one now.
"No," he said.
"Hey?"
“No."
H.M. altered his tactics.
"Looky here, son," he pleaded. "It's not as though I'm goin' to hurt her, is it? I'm not goin' to_hurt the old sea-lion. Just one little nip and bob's-your uncle."
"H.M., don't think I disapprove of this. I'd give a year's income to do it! But one little nip and I may lose the girl."
"What girl?"
"Two hundred poundst Do I hear more than two hundred pounds?"
"The girl I told you about! There! She's Lady Brayle's granddaughter!"
"Oh, my son! You stick Sophie in the tail and this gal's goin' to adore you."
"No!"
Faintly the hammer tapped. "Lord Ambleside, for two hundred pounds."
"Sold!" cried Lady Brayle, in the midst of that shuffling and mist of murmurs which greet the tap of the hammer. "Did you hear that, Jennifer? And to our good friend Lord Ambleside too! Here's three che-ah-s!"
Playfully Lady Brayle threw up her arm like an opera star. She took two swinging steps backwards. And she landed full and true against the point of the shaft gripped by Martin and Sir Henry Merrivale.
The sound which issued from the lips of Lady Brayle at that moment would be difficult phonetically to describe. If we imagine the scream of bagpipes, rising on a long skirling note of shock to burst high in a squeal and squeak of outrage, this somewhat approximates it For about ten seconds it petrified the whole room.
Jenny, after one horrified look, put her hands over her eyes.
The auctioneer, in the act of saying, "Lot 71," stopped with Jus mouth open. Two blue-smocked attendants, who carried each exhibit into the open space inside the table so that it could be exhibited during the bidding, dropped a Sheraton writing desk bang on the floor.
"Mr. Auctioneer!"
Shaken but indomitable, Lady Brayle made her voice ring out
"Mr. Auctioneer!"
Up from a hidden cubicle, to the auctioneer's right, popped that bald-headed gnome who at Willaby's takes your cheque or bobs up at intervals to see whether you are one whose cheque may be taken. He and the auctioneer seemed to hold a flashing pince-nez conference.
"Mr. Auctioneer," screamed Lady Brayle, and pointed dramatically, "I demand that these two men be ejected from the room!"
The auctioneer's voice was very soft and clear. "Have the gentlemen been guilty of unbecoming conduct my lady7" "Yes, they have!"
"May I ask the nature of the conduct?"
Truth, stern truth, will not be denied.
"This old trout" bellowed Sir Henry Merrivale, snatching the weapon from Martin's hands, "thinks we stuck her in the behind with a halberd."
The meek little man with the white moustache, appearing at H.M.'s elbow, tapped him softly on the shoulder.
"No, no, no!" he protested. "No, no, no, no!"
H.M. turned round an empurpled visage.
"What d'ye mean, no?" he thundered. "Didn't you hear Beowulf’s Mother yellin’ for the chuckers-out?" "Not a halberd, my good sir! Not a halberdl" "Ain't it?'
"No, I assure you! A fine seventeenth-century guisarme."
H.M., his feet wide apart, the shaft of the weapon planted on the floor like a noble Carolean soldier, now made the situation perfectly clear.
"This old trout," he bellowed, "thinks we stuck her in the behind with a seventeenth-century guisarme."
Through the audience ran a sort of suppressed shiver. Martin Drake noted, with amazement and pleasure, that it was not a shiver of horror. It was the spasmodic tension of those who try, by keeping face-muscles rigid, to avoid exploding with mirth. One elderly man, with an eyeglass and withered jowls, had stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Another lay face downwards across the table, his shoulders heaving. Even with the auctioneer it was a near thing.
"I feel sure, my lady, that there has been an unfortunate accident." He made a slight gesture to the blue-smocked attendants. His voice grew thinly colourless. "Lot 71. Here we have …" And H.M. and Lady Brayle were left alone in a sort of closed ring, surreptitiously watched.
"Henry," the old lady said calmly.
"Uh-huh?"
"I am compelled to tell you something. For nine generations," declared Lady Brayle in a shaky voice, "your family have held the baronetcy in a direct line. Yet speak I must — Henry, you are not a gentleman."
"So I'm not a gentleman, hey?" inquired H.M., getting a firmer grip on the guisarme.
"No, you are not."
"Listen, Sophie," said H.M… tapping her on the shoulder. "I'm going to show you just how goddam gentlemanly I really am. I've had a reincarnation. Got it?"
Lady Brayle, whose confused mind evidently connected this with some sort of surgical operation, stared at him. Swiftly, silently, the bidding rippled round the table, followed by the tap of the hammer. It was the Words, "Lot 72," followed by a sudden loud murmur to drown out the next part, which galvanized Lady Brayle. The spectators, though interested, seemed reluctant to bid.
"Shall we start it at five pounds?… Five? … Will anyone say five?"
"I really," cried Lady Brayle, "cannot continue this childish discussion any longer." In haste and anxiety, which often happens at such moments, her contralto rang loudly. "Five pounds!"
"I was a Cavalier poet," said H.M. "TEN POUNDS!"
A horrible suspicion seemed to strike Lady Brayle as she whirled round.
"Henry, you are not bidding? — Twenty!"
"Lord love a duck, what d'ye think I'm here for? — Thirty!" "Henry, this is too much. —Forty!"
"It's no good gettin' mad, Sophie. — Fifty!"
Lady Brayle, instead of directing her bids at the auctioneer, advanced her face towards H.M.
"Sixty!" she hissed.
H.M. also advanced his own unmentionable visage. "Seventy!" he hissed back.
The buzz of voices, never before heard in such volume at Willaby's, rose like a locust-storm. Twisting and swaying, the crowd pressed forward to get a look at what was being' exhibited. It is recorded that one lady, maddened, climbed up on a stranger's back so that she could see. Martin, his own sight obscured, tugged at the great man's coat-tail.
"Listen, sir! Take it easy! You don't even know what it is!"
"I don't care what it is," yelled H.M. "Whatever it is, this old trout's not goin' to get it"
"This, is malice," said Lady Brayle. "This is insufferable. This is pure childishness. I will end it." Her voice rose in calm triumph. "One — hundred — pounds."
"Oh, Sophie!" grunted H.M. in a distressed tone. "You're playin' for monkey-nuts. Let's make it really interesting. — Two hundred pounds!"
"Gentlemen," observed a voice in the crowd, "here we go again."
"Two hundred and ten? Two hundred and ten?"
But Lady Brayle, a very shrewd woman, clamped her jaws. Undoubtedly she knew that the old sinner in front of her, whose cussedness was without depth or measure, would cheerfully have gone to a thousand. Catching the auctioneer's eye, she shook her head. Then she adjusted the rakish fashionable hat on her grey-white hair.
"Jennifer!" she called.
But Jenny did not reply, nor was she in sight
"You will meet me," her grandmother spoke carefully to the air, "at Claridge's for lunch. One o'clock." Then she turned for a final remark to H.M.
"I must tell you something else," she continued. Martin
Drake saw, for the first time, the very real ruthlessness of her mouth, and of the wrinkles round, mouth and eyes. "You, and in particular your friend Captain Drake, are going to regret. this for the rest of your lives."
And, drawing a pair of white gloves from her handbag, she marched slowly towards the outer room and the stairs.
There no longer appeared to be any comedy in this. Open war. All right!
Searching round for Jenny, Martin saw her signal. Along the long right-hand wall where stood exhibits overflowing from those at the back, Jenny looked out from between a high lacquered wardrobe and a row of gilt-and-satin chairs. He went to her, and they regarded each other in silence.
"I ought to be furious with you," Jenny said. "I ought to say I'd never speak to you again. Only…"
Again he saw the contrast between the placidness of her appearance and the extraordinary violence of her emotions. Ancient Willaby's was treated to the spectacle of a girl throwing her arms round a young man's neck, and the young man kissing her with such return violence as to endanger the equilibrium of the wardrobe.
But the spectators had returned intently to their bidding. Nobody saw them except an attendant of thirty-five years' service, who shook his head despondently.
"I do love you," said Jenny, detaching herself reluctantly. "But — however did you have the nerve to take that halberd or what-do-you-call-it, and…"
"I didn't," he admitted. "When your grandmother let out that yelp—"
"Darling, you shouldn't have done it." (This was perfunctory.)
"— when she yelped, and everybody looked round, I felt about two inches high with embarrassment Then I took one look at H.M., and I felt about nine feet high. There's something about the old ba… the old boy's personality. It's like an electric current."
The gentleman in question, having detached himself from the spectators, was now lumbering towards them in the aisle between bidders and wall From the arms-room he had retrieved his, Panama hat He carried the guisarme like a mighty man of war, thumping down its shaft at every step. But, when an attendant took it from him, it was with such a deferential, "If you please, sir," that H.M. only scowled. Then he surveyed Martin and Jenny.
"Not for the world," he said querulously, "would I show any curiosity. Oh, no. But burn me, I'd like to have some idea of what it is I paid two hundred quid for. They say it's back mere somewhere," he nodded towards the rear of the room, "and I can't get it till the end of the sale."
"Please," urged Jenny. "Lower your voice. I can tell you what it is."
"So?"
"It's a dock. A grandfather clock."
"Well… now!" muttered the great man, and scratched his chin. A vast load seemed lifted from him. "That's not bad. That’s not bad at all. I was sort of picturing myself goin' home with a fine big bit of needlework labelled, 'Jesus give you sleep.'"
"The clock," Jenny explained, "hasn't got any works inside it. There's only a skeleton, fastened upright to the back, with its skull looking out through the glass clock-dial"
The effect of this remark was curious.
Instead of showing surprise or even sarcasm, H.M.'s big face smoothed itself out to utter expressionlessness. His small, sharp eyes fastened on Jenny in a way that evidently disconcerted her. He did not even seem to breathe. The thin voice of the auctioneer sounded far away.
"A skeleton in a clock, hey? That's a bit rummy. Do you happen to know any more about it, my wench?"
"Only — only that they say it used to belong to a doctor in our neighborhood. Years ago he sold it, or gave it away, or something. Then he died."
"Uh-huh. Don't stop there. Go on."
"Well! Aunt Cicely, that's Lady Fleet, saw it in Willaby's catalogue. She thought it would be nice as a present for Dr. Laurier; he's the son of the old doctor, you see. Aunt Cicely is kind. But she's so vague, though she's still very pretty, that she asked grandmother to bid."
"Oh, my eye!" breathed H.M. "Oh, lord love a duck! I want a look at that clock. Excuse me."
"But—"
"Sure, sure. I can't take it away. But a little largess, I think, ought to get me just a look at it. You two stay where you are!"
Martin made no objection. His blood was beating with the nearness of Jenny, his wits whirling, his entire universe concentrated on Jenny; and, he knew, she felt in much the same way.
"Now listen," he said. "Before the wires can get crossed again: what's your full name, and where do you live?"
"My name is Jennifer West, Grandmother — grandmother's made me hate titles so much we won't bother with the rest of it My mother is dead. My father's lived abroad since the beginning of the wan in Sweden. I live at a place called Brayle Manor."
"Is that anywhere near Fleet House?"
"About half a mile south of it Why?"
"Look here." Martin hesitated. "This engagement was— arranged. Wasn't it?"
Jenny hesitated too, and would not meet his eyes.
"Yes, I suppose you could call it that. We're practically broke; haven't a bean. The Fleets are very wealthy. Aunt Cicely…"
"Go on!"
"Well, Aunt Cicely's only weakness is that she is a bit of a snob about titles. Her husband gave I don't know how much to party-funds so he could get his knighthood. But that's not all! Richard is really.. fond of me. Richard—"
"Or 'dear Ricky, as we call him.'"
"Darling, you mustn't talk like that!"
"Sorry. Do you know what black bile is? It's jealousy. Sorry."
"He really is nice. He's a great athlete, and very intelligent too: a double-first at Cambridge."
Fierce, tense, lowered whispers! Their voices were so soft, as they stood against the brown wall between the gilt chairs and the lacquered wardrobe, that no bidder could have complained of disturbance. Over a grimy skylight the sun alternately strengthened and darkened.
"If you don't mind," said Martin, "we'll omit the list of Richard's accomplishments. Jenny, I'm going to smash this marriage to blazes. Is that all right with you?"
"I think I should hate you if you didn't But grandmother ‘?
…
"There is a technique with grandmother. You saw it used today by a master hand. How long are you staying in town?"
"We've got to leave this evening. I'm — I'm to spend Saturday and Sunday at Fleet House."
"Richard?"
"No! Not particularly!" The blue eyes grew puzzled. "It's something rather mysterious." "How so?"
"Well, there's a friend of Aunt Cicely's, and mine too, named Ruth Callice. This morning, very early it seems, Ruth rang up Aunt Cicely. She asked if she could come down for the week-end, and bring two guests. I don't know who the two men are; but Ruth said Aunt Cicely would like them. Ruth said she had some tremendous project, about the old prison. She said it might not work, but she'd know for certain today whether some Ministry would say yes."
Then, very quietly, Jenny added: "Why did you jump when I said 'Ruth Callice.’"
Martin had not jumped. But, as they stood together negligently against the wall, their hands were locked together. Each tremor, each blood-beat, almost each thought, seemed to flow from one into the other. And women, at times like these, have an emotional power which is almost like mind-reading.
"Yes?" murmured Jenny.
"Because I'm one of the two men. I was in Ruth's flat last night"
"Oh," murmured Jenny, and her gaze moved away. He felt, in the literal sense of touch, something wrong. "Do you know Ruth well?"
"I've known her for years! She's one of the finest persons I ever met!"
"Oh. Did you ever tell her anything about — us?'
"Yes, several times. I'm afraid I got rather emotional about it last night She cheered me up."
"How nice," said Jenny, and suddenly tried to wrench her hands away. He held tightly. "Then didn't she ever tell you who I was? Who 'Jenny' was? Why didn't she?"
"Probably because she had no more clue than I had."
"Oh, yes, she had. She knew who I was. She knew all I knew about you, because I told her. Three years! And in the meantime, I suppose…"
It occurred to Martin Drake, quite accurately, that Jenny must feel about Ruth Callice much as he felt about Richard Fleet He must stop this nonsense. But such talk is contagious.
"If it comes to that why didn't you get in touch with me and tell me yourself?"
Jenny's pale complexion was flushed, and she was trembling.
"Because you thought it was just a casual adventure. Oh, yes, you did! Or else you'd have found me — somehow. You had to come to me, don't you see? Won't anybody leave me a little pride? Please let me go."
"Jenny, listen to reason! You know how I feel, don't you?"
"Yes. I think so."
Jenny's resistance fell away. It was trivial, a brushing of the wing in those fierce whispers. The hands of the clock on the far wall stood at a quarter past twelve; the morning's auction would soon be over. And yet in the state of mind of these two, all unintentionally they were precipitating tragedy and disaster which moved closer as steadily as the ticking of the clock. "And now," she said, "you've been invited to Fleet House," "Ruth and Stannard can go there. I can't' "Why not?"
"Damn it you can't accept a man's hospitality and then tell him you're going to break up his marriage. Isn't there a hotel or a pub somewhere near?"
"Yes. There's one almost opposite Fleet House. That's where—" Jenny paused. Into her eyes came the same fear he had seen once before. She threw the thought away. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to put up at the pub. Tomorrow I'll see Mr. Richard Fleet and Aunt Cicely, and as for grandmother: this afternoon, I think."
"No! You mustn't! Not this afternoon!"
He gripped her shoulders. "If I could only tell you, Jenny, how much—"
"Oi!" said the voice of Sir Henry Merrivale.
H.M. was standing very close to them. How long he had been there Martin could not tell, but it might have been a long time. H.M.'s hat was in his hand, and his expression was malevolent Martin bumped back to reality.
"Well? Did you see the dock?"
"Uh-huh. I saw it. And it seems my first wild and wool-gatherin' notion," here H.M. massaged his big bald head, "is no more use than a busted kite on a calm day. But there's got to be some explanation! Or else—" With no change he added: "So you're putting up at the pub, son?"
"You listened?"
"I'm the old man," said H.M., austerely tapping himself on the chest as though this constituted all necessary explanation. "And I'm a bit glad you are stayin’ there, if there's room for you. Masters and I will be there too."
Somewhere, noiselessly, an alarm-bell rang.
"Chief Inspector Masters?"
"Yes. Y'see, son, this business is not all bath-salts and lilies on the pond. It's messy. It's got claws. Pretty certainly in the past and maybe in the future, we're dealin' with murder."