The news of Duval's death had spread round the neighbourhood as such news does spread, and when it was known that the people to discover the corpse were Charles Malcolm and Peter Fortescue, not only Roote and Colonel Ackerley, but Mr. Titmarsh as well, all found excuses to call at the Priory on the chance of picking up some fresh news. The Colonel, who knew the family best, was entirely frank. "Sheer curiosity, Mrs. Malcolm," he twinkled. "That's what's brought me up to see you." But even he could extract nothing more from Charles and Peter than was already known.
Mr. Titmarsh said that he had come to inquire how Margaret was after her experience on Thursday; Dr Roote thought that he had left his scarf at the Priory on Saturday evening. And both gentlemen tried their hardest to pump Charles, and went away dissatisfied. On Monday morning Celia met Mrs. Pennythorne, the Vicar's wife, in the village shop. Mrs. Pennythorne was far too adroit to ask questions, but she greeted Celia most effusively, and said that she had been meaning for some days to ask the whole Priory party over to dinner. As Celia was perfectly well aware of the fact that Mrs. Pennythorne did not like her, she was not taken in by this, and she declined the invitation to dine at the Vicarage on the following evening on the score of the inquest, which might last till late. Not to be baulked, Mrs. Pennythorne begged her to choose her own day, and she was so persistent that Celia was forced to accept an invitation for Wednesday.
When she broke the news to the family there was an outcry from all but Mrs. Bosanquet, who said reprovingly that the Vicar was a most interesting man, and she should be glad of an opportunity of consulting him as to the best method of exorcising unquiet spirits.
"All right," Charles said. "You go, and say the rest of us have developed smallpox."
"You and I have simply got to go," Celia said. "I'd have got out of it if I could, but she just wouldn't take no for an answer. But I really didn't see that it was fair to let you all in for it, so I said I couldn't speak for the rest of you. If Aunt Lilian wants to go surely three of us'll be enough. You don't want to, do you, Margaret?"
"Not much!" Margaret said. "You're a true friend and sister, Celia. Peter and I will spend a tete-a-tete evening."
"She may be a true sister, but as a wife she's a stumer," Charles announced. "Anyone with a grain of resource would have said that I was so unnerved by finding Duval's body that only complete quiet could restore me."
"I hardly think she'd have been convinced," Celia replied. "By the way, Margaret and I can come to the inquest, can't we?"
"If you like," Charles answered. "But it won't be at all interesting."
Mrs. Bosanquet assumed her most disapproving cxpression. "If you take my advice, my dears, you will stay quietly at home with me. You do not want people to think you are some of these sensation-hunters we hear so much about nowadays. In my opinion, inquests and murder trials are not things that can interest women of breeding."
"But this is different, because Chas and Peter are mixed tip in it," Celia objected. "Besides, everyone's going, even Mr. Titmarsh. Colonel Ackerley said that though he didn't want to seem heartless, Framley hasn't had anything so thrilling happen since he came to live here."
"That may be, my dear, but the Colonel is not a Icmale. Quite the reverse, in fact, for being a soldier I've no doubt he holds human life very cheaply."
Later in the day Constable Flinders paid them a visit, and shook his head broodingly. "You ought to have sent for me, sir," he said reproachfully. "It would have been a nice case for me to handle, and there's no denying there's precious little scope in Framley for a man who has ambition."
"Sorry," Charles said. "But I thought you were watching him."
"I can't be everywhere at once, sir, can I? I go and take my eye off him for half a moment, just to make sure that Mr. Titmarsh wasn't getting up to mischief, and I'm blessed if he don't go and hang himself. I suppose the next thing'll be I'll find while I been about my ordinary duties that tiresome old bug-hunter - Mr. Titmarsh, I should say - has gone and done himself in with his own killing-bottle."
"Well, that'll give you a case anyhow," Charles consoled him.
The constable said austerely: "You mustn't get it into your head, sir, that the police want people to go about killing themselves. All I said was, it's a bit hard that when a Framley man commits sooicide them chaps from Manfield get called in before I hear anything about it. Not that I'm blaming you, sir," he added handsomely. "No doubt you done as you see fit, and it isn't everyone who keeps his head on his shoulders when he goes and finds a thing like a corpse."
The inquest, as Charles had predicted, was not particularly interesting to Celia and Margaret, but those outside the family who had not imagined that any other verdict than suicide would be forthcoming, were in a positive buzz of speculation and wonderment.
Charles and Peter recounted all that they had done, both citing as their reason for visiting Duval's cottage his suspicious presence in their grounds on the night before. The inspector was called, and also Dr Puttock, and the inspector then asked for an adjournment, pending further police inquiries. This was granted, and for the time being the case was over.
"And I vote," said Peter, "that we ask old Ackerley in for some tennis this afternoon, and try to get the taste of all this out of our mouths."
They waited for the Colonel outside the court-room, and when he appeared he readily accepted the invitation. "I won't ask questions now," he said, "but I warn you, I'm all agog to hear a bit more. If you don't want to fall into Mrs. Pennythorne's clutches, you'd better get away before she catches you. I saw her making for the door fairly bursting with curiosity."
"Then let's clear out at once," Peter said. "Half-past three suit you, Colonel? We ought to tell you that the court's a terror, and full of docks."
"Be able to blame it then for my bad shots," the Colonel said.
They escaped just as the Vicar's wife emerged from the court-room, and drove back to the Priory in time for a late lunch. The Colonel arrived punctually at half-past three, and proved to be a player of considerable standing.
"What a pity we couldn't have got another man!" Celia said when they repaired to the terrace for tea. "But Dr Roote doesn't look as though he'd be any good, and I can't see Mr. Titmarsh standing up to you, Colonel."
"Give me a mixed double every time," the Colonel said. "Much better fun! But I'm out of practice. When I was in India I used to play a lot. I've rather given up of late years."
"What part of India were you stationed in?" Peter asked. "I've got a cousin who's just had the luck to be sent to Wellington."
"Oh, I've been all over the place," the Colonel answered. "But I didn't come here to talk about India, young man. Out with it! Did you know the police thought it was murder?"
"Now then, sir, you ought to know better than to try and drag information out of us," Charles said. "Of course I need hardly say that the police perceiving at once that we had missed our vocations, entrusted us with all their secrets. In fact, we're considering entering the force on the strength of it."
"Yes, yes, but you needn't be so close," the Colonel said. "What I can't understand is, who in the world should want to murder that French fellow? Seemed harmless enough, I always thought."
"I've got a theory about it," said Charles, helping himself to a cucumber sandwich. "Who knows but what he may have possessed an oleander hawk-moth? We are all aware that Mr. Titmarsh is expending untold energy in his pursuit of this elusive specimen. Very well, then. He found that Duval had one, and so…'
"Really, Chas, I don't think you ought to joke about it," Celia said. "It's not exactly decent."
"Well, why was he in your grounds?" the Colonel asked, not to be put off. "Was that what he came up to see you about Saturday evening? You know, you're being quite maddening, and it's my belief you know a lot more than you pretend."
"Of course I do," said Charles. "Didn't I say so?"
"Oh, I give you up!" the Colonel said hopelessly. "All I can say is, I hope it hasn't given you a distaste for the Priory."
"Not at all," Charles said, demolishing another sandwich. "Why should it?"
"I don't know, but after all the business about the ghost which you spoke of some time ago, I was afraid finding a corpse - must have been a bit of a shock, eh? Glad I didn't stumble on it - might rather put the lid on it."
"A new theory," Peter remarked. "The Priory ghost killed Duval. You'll be making my sister nervous, if you're not careful, sir."
"Well, I wouldn't do that for the world," said the Colonel gallantly, and began at once to talk of something else.
But it seemed as though no conversation could for long steer clear of the problems besetting the owners of ihc Priory. The Colonel's talk led to a description of a round of golf he had played the day before, and since his partner had been Michael Strange it was not surprising that he began to talk about him. "Seems a nice chap," he said. "How do you get on with him?"
"We hardly know him," Celia replied.
"He's played golf with me once or twice," the Colonel said. "Retiring sort of fellow, but I always feel sorry for people taking a holiday by themselves. Dull work, what? What's his job by the way? Haven't liked to ask him outright since he seemed so uncommunicative. Wondered whether, like so many poor fellows since the war, he's had to take up some rotten thing like selling from house to house. Distressing, the number of sahibs who are doing jobs they wouldn't have touched in 1914."
"I'm afraid we can't tell you anything about him," Celia said. "We've really only met him to talk to once, and that was at your party." She looked round. "Will anyone have any more tea? No? Then what about another set?"
The next day passed quietly enough, and was only marred, Charles said, by the prospect of having to go to dinner with the Pennythornes. He spoke bitterly on the subject of people who shirked their clear duty, but his words made not the slightest impression on either Peter or Margaret.
"We shall be with you in spirit," Peter told him, but so far from consoling Charles this assurance provoked him to embark on a denunciation of his brother-in-law's character, which was only stopped by Celia hustling him upstairs to change into his dress clothes.
Peter and Margaret enjoyed a tete-a-tete meal, and sat down afterwards in the library to play piquet together. After three hard-fought rubbers they gave it up, and to Margaret's dismay Peter, instead of retiring as he usually did, into a book, showed a disposition to talk. She had a shrewd idea whither his conversation would lead, and she was not mistaken. In a very short time Peter, busy with the filling of a pipe, tackled her bluntly. "I say, Sis, mind if I ask you a question?"
She minded very much indeed, but she had to say No.
"We've always been pretty frank with each other," Peter said, "or I wouldn't ask. But aren't you a bit more interested in that fellow Strange than you pretend to be?"
Margaret reflected gloomily on the manifold failings of the male sex, and decided that the worst of these was the appallingly blunt questions men asked. "I don't think so," she replied. "I must say I do rather like him. I'm sorry you've got such a down on him. Does he wear the wrong kind of tie?"
Peter refused to be put off by such flippancy. "I don't want to be officious," he explained painstakingly, "and I don't say for a moment that you aren't quite capable of looking after yourself, but I have got a distinct impression that Strange has got on your soft side. Am I right?"
"Very seldom," Margaret retorted. "But I've already said I like the man. Perhaps that's partly your fault, because you and Chas run him down so much."
"Rot!" Peter said sweepingly. "All Charles and I have said is that Strange behaves in a way that can't be described as anything but fishy. You must admit that he does."
Margaret was silent. Peter struck a match and said between puffs: "I've a suspicion you've seen rather more of the fellow than I have. Has he ever told you anything ahout himself?"
She could answer that quite truthfully. "No."
"Well, has he ever said anything to make you think that we're on the wrong track about him?"
She thought for a moment, wondering how much she could divulge without breaking her word to Strange. Peter had always been her confidant, more so than Celia, who was older, and who no longer lived with them, and never till now had she kept anything from him. It was uncomfortable to be so torn between two feelings, uncomfortable and unaccustomed. Yet something deeper than her friendship with her brother now had her in its hold, and even while one part of her longed to tell him everything, the other prompted her to keep silence. She looked up to find that Peter was regarding her steadily. She coloured, and said: "It's very hard to say. But from - things he has said to me I do feel perfectly sure that whatever he may be doing he doesn't want to hurt or alarm us in any way."
Peter's brows rose. "Really? Then he admits he's at the bottom of our mystery?"
"No. He never said that. But he did say that he wished we would leave the Priory. I think I can safely tell you that."
"Did he, indeed? Any reason?"
She hesitated. "N-no. Only that — he didn't want us to be in any danger."
"Think he was responsible for that skeleton?"
"I don't know, Peter," she said honestly.
He smoked in silence for a while. At last he said:
"Don't you see, Sis, that what you've told me practically proves that my suspicions aren't by any means groundless?"
"In a way I do, but… Look here, Peter, you know I'm not the sort of silly fool who gasses about intuition and all that sort of rot, don't you?"
He grinned. "Yes, thank God!"
"Well, I'm not, but I don't mind admitting that about Strange I have got an absolute conviction that he isn't out to harm any of us. I agree he's being mysterious, and I agree that for some reason or other he may want to get us out of this place. But I don't believe the reason is a bit what you think."
"My dear girl, I don't know what to think!"
"No, but you've got an idea that he's a wrong 'un. And that's where I think you're mistaken. If he wants to get possession of this house it's for some purpose we've none of us guessed."
He hunched his shoulders lower in his chair. "Quite sure you aren't being a bit led away by a personable exterior?"
"Ever known me fall for a handsome face?"
"I haven't, but I shouldn't like to swear that you never would. And I grant you Strange is a nice-looking chap, and a powerful-looking one too, which as far as I can make out is what most women like in a man."
"Well, if that's the line you mean to stick to it's not much good my arguing," Margaret said with some asperity.
Conversation showed a tendency to flag after that. Presently Peter said: "One thing that seems to me to stand out a mile is that you're keeping something up your sleeve. Not cricket, Sis."
"Oh, shut up!" Margaret said crossly. "Even supposing I were I don't see that it makes much odds now that you've told the police the whole story."
"If you know anything about Strange that we don't, it might help the police considerably."
"I haven't the smallest desire to help the police," Margaret replied. "I hate policemen: they come nosing round after wireless licences, and tell you you don't know how to drive your car just because you misunderstand their silly signals. Anyway, I don't want to talk about Michael Strange any more." She gave a little shiver. "I say, don't you think it's beastly cold?"
"It is chilly," he agreed. "Wind's in the north. Like me to shut the window?"
"You might push it to just a bit. It'll get airless if we have it completely shut. I've half a mind to put a match to the fire. Look and see if there's any coal in the scuttle."
He lifted the lid. "Empty. We can soon get some though, if you really want a fire. Seems ridiculous in July, I must say."
"Nothing's ridiculous with the English climate. Honestly, wouldn't you rather like a fire?"
"I don't mind one way or the other. If you're cold, have one." He reached out a hand to the bell-pull, and tugged it.
"It's broken," Margaret informed him. "Celia didn't think it was worth while having it mended. If you take the scuttle out to the kitchen Bowers'll fill it, and bring it back."
"All right," he said obligingly. "Though you're a pest, you know." He dragged himself out of his chair and picked up the scuttle. "This is where an electric heater would come in handy."
"Oh no, think how cheery it'll be to see a blaze!" Margaret encouraged him.
He went out, and she picked up the matches and knelt down before the wide grate. A fire had already been laid, and enough coal to start it had been arranged on top of the wood. Margaret lit the edges of the newspaper, and had the satisfaction of hearing, in a few seconds, a promising crackle. The wood was dry, and caught easily, and Margaret, seeing that no frenzied fanning was going to be necessary, got up from her knees. She put out her hand to help herself up by one of the projecting bits of the moulding that ran round the fireplace, and to her surprise the carved wooden apple that her fingers had grasped twisted right round. She stared at it, and then quickly looked round the room, remembering the rosette that had moved to slide back the panel of the priest's hole.
Beside the fireplace a dark cavity yawned in the panelling.
She scrambled up, and forgetting that Peter had gone through the door that led to the servants' quarters, called to him. "Peter, come here quickly!"
Then she remembered that he could not hear her, and she stood for a minute, looking at the gap in the panels. Not for worlds, she thought, would she venture inside until Peter came back, but sheer curiosity impelled her to tiptoe towards it, and try to peep in.
It was so dark that she could only see that it seemed to be a narrow stone stairway, leading up in the thickness of the wall. The central lamp threw its light so that it only illumined the step immediately in a line with the opening, and the stone wall beyond. Margaret could not see more than the dim outline of another step leading downwards. She was half afraid that some horrible skeleton might be inside, but she could not perceive anything of that nature. Holding with one hand to the edge of the panel, she ventured to step just inside, in the hope of being able to see where the stairs led. Leaning her other hand against the wall she craned forward trying to pierce the darkness below her. She moved her right hand from the wall to feel ahead of her, wondering whether she was really standing on a staircase, or whether it was only another priest's hole. Her hand did not, as she had half expected, encounter another wall, but to her annoyance a gold bangle that she wore and whose clasp she had been meaning to have strengthened, came undone, and fell with a tinkle on to the second step, which she could just perceive. Involuntarily she stooped to pick it up, but to reach it she had to let go of the panel she still held, and take one step down on to the second stair. Her fingers had closed on the bangle and she was about to step back on to the level of the library floor when she was startled to see the shaft of light cast by the lamp in the room disappearing. She turned like a flash, and saw to her horror that the panel was sliding noiselessly back into place.
She flung herself forward, but she was too late. The panel had closed, and she was in utter darkness.
In the terror of finding herself a prisoner she lost her head, and shrieked for her brother, beating wildly on the back of the panel, trying to tear it open. She only succeeded in breaking a finger-nail, and her panic grew.
She screamed, "Help! help! Peter, Peter, Peter!"
Somewhere below her she heard a soft, padding step, and the hush of a robe brushing against the wall. Like a mad woman she clawed at the panel. "Quick! oh quick! Peter, help!"
Then in the darkness a gloved hand stole across her mouth, and an arm in a wide sleeve was round her, holding her in a vice.
She tried to break free, to jerk her head away, but her arms were clamped to her sides and that horrible, gloved hand was like a gag over her mouth.
She felt herself slipping into unconsciousness, and through the sudden roaring in her ears she heard as though from a great distance Peter's voice calling: "Margaret, what is it? Where are you?"
A low, inhuman chuckle sounded immediately above her head, and there was something so gloating and fiendish in that soft sound that terror such as she had never known seized her. Then the waves met over her head and she fainted.