He stepped to the lamp and turned it -up. Standing just outside the open French window was Constable Flinders. "How very disappointing!" said Mrs. Bosanquet. "I'm afraid that has broken the thread."
Celia, whose cheeks were still ashen with fright, began to laugh.
"Come in, Flinders," Charles said. "And what on earth are you doing, creeping round the house?"
The constable removed his helmet, and having looked round to be quite sure there was no mat on which he ought to wipe his feet, stepped into the room. "I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir, if I gave you a start, but when I went and knocked on the back door there wasn't no one there, and I see the kitchen all dark. So I come round to the front and happening to see this here window open, and a bit of a light burning, I thought as how I would take the liberty of seeing if you was in here. Because," he added, with a touch of severity, "if you wasn't I should have had to warn you not to go leaving windows open on the ground floor."
"But what do you want?" Peter demanded. "And how did you manage to come right up to the window without us hearing you?"
The constable looked gratified. "I do move quietly, sir, don't I? I've had rubbers put on my boots, that's what I've done. Just to be on the safe side, so to speak."
"They'll be asking you to join the C.I.D. soon," Charles said admiringly. "Sit down, and tell us what you came about."
"Thank you, sir." Mr. Flinders selected the straightest chair he could see, and sat down on the edge of it. "Well, sir, it's like this. After what you told me about that furrin chap - that Dooval - I give the matter a lot of thought, and I come to the conclusion the best thing I could do was to watch him as much as I could, without losing sight of Mr. Titmarsh. And I can tell you, sir, he's one man's work, he is. I lorst him again the other night, and it's my belief he gave me the slip on purpose. Well, sir, this very evening when I was trailing Mr. Titmarsh, who should I see but this Dooval?"
"Where?" Charles said.
"Right here, sir. That is, up by the ruin, me being on the right-of-way at the time, wondering where that old -where Mr. Titmarsh had got to. I don't mind telling you, sir, that it gave me quite a turn, seeing him. "My Gawd!" I says to myself. "Is that the Monk?" Then I got my lamp on to him, and I see who it was. I called out to him, but before you could say "knife" he'd done a bunk, sir. Scared out of his life, he was. So I thought the best thing I could do, seeing as I was so handy, was to come right up on to the house and tell you."
"Quite right," Charles said. He turned, as Margaret, who had slipped out of the room a minute or two before, came back with a tray. "Good idea, Margaret," he approved. "You'll have a glass of beer, after your labours, Flinders?" He got up and unscrewed the top of the bottle. It made a pleasant hissing sound. The constable watched the golden liquid froth into the glass, and his eye glistened. Charles held out the glass.
"Not supposed to take anything when we're on duty, you know, sir," the constable said, accepting it.
Charles poured out two more glasses. "You can't be on duty at this time of night," he said.
"Well, sir, since you make a point of it," said Mr. Flinders, and raised the glass. "Here's your very good health, sir."
"Same to you," said Charles.
Celia spoke. "Charles, you must tell this French person you will not have him wandering about in our grounds. Really, it's a bit too thick! Apparently the whole countryside regards this place as common land. I won't put up with it any longer!"
"What can he be doing here, anyway?" Margaret wondered.
"Looking for the Monk, like the rest of us," answered Charles. "Let's form a society, shall we?"
"No," said Celia crossly. "We shan't. I'm sick to death of the Monk!"
"Well, I'll go and have a chat with Duval to-morrow," Charles promised.
He had no particular desire to set foot inside the artist's dreary little cottage again, so on the following morning he cut short his fishing, and strolled on to the Bell Inn in the hope of meeting Duval there. He was rewarded by the sight of the artist seated alone in the taproom at a table in the corner. He had a glass of whisky before him, and he was sitting in a slack attitude, with his hands clasped between his knees, and his eyes staring moodily at the ground. He looked up as Charles came across the room, and a furtive expression crept into his face.
Charles sat down on the settle beside him, and having ascertained that the only two people within earshot were busily discussing fat stock, he said: "Good morning. I was looking for you."
"I do not know why," Duval said sullenly. "I will not tell you anything. It is better that you go away and leave me alone."
"Oh yes, I think you do know," Charles replied. "Last night you were seen in our grounds."
The artist gave a shiver, and one of his claw-like hands grasped Charles' knee under cover of the table. "Be quiet!" he muttered. "Have I not said even the walls have ears?"
"It is not a very original observation," Charles remarked. "Moreover, no one is listening to us. What I want to say is this: I can't have you pursuing your search for the Monk in my grounds. Sorry if I seem obstructive, but there are too many people already in the habit of treating the place as though it were their own."
"Speak that name again, and I leave you!" Duval said. His hands were shaking. "If it were known - if someone saw me with you, I do not know what might happen. If you must talk with me, talk of my art."
He raised his voice to an unnatural pitch, and said boisterously: "Yes, my friend, it is true I have the eye for colour, even as you say. I see colour like no one else has ever seen it."
Two people had come into the taproom together, and both looked round. They were Wilkes and Michael Strange. Strange, after one glance, turned away, but Wilkes kept his eyes on the pair in the corner for a moment or two, and made an involuntary grimace of annoyance.
Again the artist's fingers closed on Charles' knee. "Be careful!" he said, so softly that Charles only just caught the words. "Look who has entered! For the love of God, m'sieur, guard your tongue! If that one knew that I had spoken with you of- of the things we both know of… !" He broke off, passing his tongue between his lips.
Michael Strange, a tankard in his hand, was making his way towardss a seat by the window. He bestowed a curt nod on Charles, and sitting down began to scan the columns of a newspaper. The length of room separated him from the corner table, and Charles said: "I've no wish to upset you, but do you understand that I cannot permit you to haunt my grounds?"
The artist got up. "I go. I speak with you another time. Here, it is not safe. I come up to speak with you to-night perhaps, when no one can see." Once more he raised his voice, in unconvincing joviality: "Ah, you are too good, m'sieur! But it is true: I have revolutionised the art of painting."
The landlord came up to them. "Morning, sir. "Morning, moossoo. Got everything you want, sir? What, you off, moossoo? Well, this is a short visit you've paid the Bell to-day, and no mistake."
The artist clapped him on the shoulder. "My friend, this gentleman has bought from me a picture! He is not an artist, no, but he is a connoisseur!"
"That's very nice, sir, I'm sure," Wilkes said, and passed on.
Duval picked up his hat, and without another word to Charles went out of the bar. After a few moments Charles followed him, and went rather thoughtfully home.
So far Inspector Tomlinson had been as good as his word: they were not worried by any apparent supervision. As far as Charles could make out no one had come over to Framley either to watch or to make inquiries, and his suspicions that the inspector had not taken the matter very seriously began to grow stronger.
At lunch-time Celia asked whether he had seen Duval and forbidden him to come any more to the Priory. When she heard that the artist proposed to pay them a visit that night she was anything but pleased. "He can't come tonight!" she said. "You know we've got the Rootes and Colonel Ackerley dining with us."
"I can't help it," Charles replied. "I don't propose to ask him to dinner. If he does turn up I'll tell Bowers to push him into the study. I shall soon be able to get rid of him."
Margaret said, without raising her eyes from her plate: "You didn't ask Mr. Strange to dinner too?"
"I did not," said Charles with emphasis.
"I wondered," Margaret explained offhandedly, "because I thought Celia wanted him invited."
Her brother regarded her intently. "Celia? I was under the impression that it was you who seemed keenest about it." He waited to hear what she would say, but she said nothing at all. "Look here, Sis, I know you've got rather a soft corner for that fellow, but you can take it from me that there's something very fishy about him. And if you happen to meet him at any time, I'd like you to be very much on your guard. See?"
Margaret flushed scarlet. "What do you mean? Why should I meet him? And I don't know why you should think I have a soft corner for him simply because I won't leap to conclusions as you're doing."
"All right, keep your hair on," Peter recommended. "But I don't mind telling you that yesterday this precious Mr. Strange of yours somehow or other got wind of our visit to the police, and followed us. I just mention it so that you shall see there is a real need for you to be on your guard when talking to him."
Startled grey eyes flew to his face. "Followed you?" Margaret said. "To - to Manfield?"
Peter nodded. "How he got wind of it we don't know, but it seems fairly certain that he did."
She knew only too well from what source Michael Strange had obtained his information. She felt guilty and unhappy, knowing that she was doing wrong to withhold her own discoveries from her relations. She finished the meal in silence, aware of her brother's scrutiny, and took care to avoid a tete-a-tete conversation with him afterwards. This was an easy matter, as they all played tennis again during the afternoon, and there was no opportunity for him to speak to her alone in between the last set and the arrival of their guests.
She lingered over her dressing, and did not go down to the drawing-room until she had heard one of the visitors arrive. She entered the room at length to find Colonel Ackerley apparently discussing whooping-cough with the doctor.
"I'm afraid there's no doubt about it," Roote was saying. "But it oughtn't to interfere with you, Colonel."
Celia turned as Margaret came in. "Oh, Margaret, isn't it a nuisance for the Colonel? His butler's little boy has developed whooping-cough!"
"All the fault of these cinemas," grumbled the Colonel, shaking hands with Margaret. "Time and again I've said people had no business to let their children go to those germ-ridden holes. But you might as well talk to a brick wall as to that housekeeper of mine. Silly fools, both she and her husband."
Dr Roote drank his cocktail in a gulp. "Well, I don't see what you're worrying about," he said. "All kids go through it, and it isn't as though this one lives in your house."
"No, but I shall have him whooping all over the garden if I know anything about it. Never wanted a couple with a child, but like a fool I gave way and let 'em live over the garage. Ought to have stuck to my original intention, and barred children." He put down his glass, and seemed to make an effort to throw off his annoyance. "Well, well, you'll say I'm a crotchetty old bachelor, eh, Mrs. Malcolm?"
"Not a bit," Celia assured him. "I say instead that you'll take a brighter view after dinner."
It was not until shortly before ten o'clock that Bowers came in to announce the arrival of M. Duval. Charles had cut out of the bridge four, and was standing behind the Colonel, watching him play, with considerable skill, a difficult hand. Bowers came up to him, and said softly: "M. Duval, sir. I've shown him into the study."
"No spade, Colonel?" Celia asked quickly.
The Colonel, frowning over the dummy she had laid down for him, glanced at his own cards again. "Bless my soul, did I pull out that club? Thanks, partner." He picked the club up again and followed suit. The third player seemedd to be wool-gathering. The Colonel said impatiently: "Come on, Roote!"
The doctor, who had been looking at Charles, started. "Sorry, sorry! What's led?" He played, and again looked at Charles. "Didn't know you'd struck up a friendship with Duval, Malcolm."
"I shouldn't describe my dealings with him exactly as a friendship," Charles answered. "I allowed myself to be inveigled into buying one of his pictures, and since then he's been trying hard to make me buy another. All right, Bowers, I'll come."
He followed the butler out, and went across the hall to the study.
The artist was standing peering out of the window into the darkness. He started round as the door opened, and Charles saw that he was in one of his most nervous moods. No sooner was the door shut than he said hurriedly: 'M'sieur, you permit that I draw the curtains?"
"Certainly, if you like," Charles replied.
"I must not be seen here," Duval said, pulling the curtains across the window. "Once I thought I heard a step behind me, but when I looked there was no one. I do not think I am followed here, but I am not sure. Sometimes I hear noises, but perhaps they are in my head. For it is very bad, m'sieur, ah, but very bad!"
"I'm sorry," Charles said. "Now what is it you want to see me about?"
The artist drew closer to him. "There is no one outside? You are sure? No one can hear?"
"No, no one."
Duval cast a glance round the room. "I do not like this house. I do not know where the stairs are, but he goes up them like a ghost, m'sieur, and he can hear."
"The stairs," said Charles patiently, "are at the other end of the hall, and since each step has its own creaking board I defy anyone to go up like a ghost. The only people in the house are ourselves, my family, my servant and his wife, and three guests, who are playing bridge in the library."
Duval said suspiciously. "Those three? Who are they?"
"Dr and Mrs. Roote, and Colonel Ackerley."
Duval seemed satisfied, but he sank his voice even lower. "M'sieur, I will be quick. I come to say to you that you must not set your gendarme to watch me. You must tell him there is no harm in poor Duval. M'sieur, it is true! I do not do you any evil when I am in your garden, and I must go there, though I fear greatly, yes greatly! It is there I think I find the Monk. Something I have discovered. But your gendarme he challenge me, and I go away before I have discovered the great mystery. M'sieur, I implore you permit that I search here."
"My dear fellow," Charles said, "I really can't have you prowling about the grounds. My wife doesn't like it, and I warn you I've got a revolver, and I'm liable to shoot if I see anyone suspicious lurking near the house."
This threat did not have much effect. "But me you know, and you would not shoott me after all your so great kindness. No, no, I know better. And I tell you it is of importance - of importance unheard of that you do not let that gendarme follow me. If I am watched what can I do? And he, that imbecile, he goes so clumsily he can be heard, and it is not only Duval who hears him." "You mean - you think you're on the track of the Monk."
The guarded look came creeping back into the artist's wild eyes. "I do not say."
"Then in that case I fear Ido not call off my watchdog."
"But, m'sieur, I have told you I do no harm! I would not hurt you, or those others. What do I care for them? But nothing!"
"Look here," Charles said, "why all this mystery? You've already said you expect to find the Monk in these grounds."
The artist passed his hand across his brow. "Sometimes I do not know quite what I say. I do not wish to tell you that, for you understand it is no use if someone else finds him. I must be that one. M'sieur, think! For years I have waited. At first I did not care: I was content. But now I am not any longer content, and I think that it is better to have courage than to go on like this. For me, I have genius, and I will not be what you call underdog all my life. Better dead, m'sieur! Yes, I have thought that. Better dead! But I do not mean to die. Not like that other. For see, m'sieur! I am armed." He showed Charles a wickedlooking knife, and grinned fiendishly. "That would slip between the ribs, hein! Softly, oh but softly! When I hear footsteps in the dark, I take hold of him, my little knife, and courage comes to me."
"Indeed? said Charles, beginning to think that the man was really mad. "And do I understand that that is meant for the Monk?"
Duval nodded. "Yes, but I do not wish to kill him. No, that is not good. I wish only to see his face, for once I have seen it, m'sieur, he is in my power, and I hold him like that." He closed his fingers tightly.
"Well, when he's in your power," Charles said, "perhaps you'll be so good as to tell him to cease haunting this house."
"Yes, perhaps I do that for you, m'sieur, if you let me search as I please. For I have made up my mind that even if I must go down amongst the dead to do it I will find him."
"Let's hope no such journey will be necessary," Charles suggested, and was surprised to see that leering secret smile twist the artist's mouth again. "In the meantime, I don't think you need worry about Constable Flinders."
"And I may search? You will not forbid me?"
"Well, we'll see about that," Charles said, bent only on getting rid of him. "And now I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to go, because I can't leave my guests any longer."
The artist clutched his wrist. "You will not tell the gendarme to arrest poor Duval?"
"No, I won't do anything like that," Charles promised, and opened the door. He saw Duval out into the porch, and watched him dart out of the beam of light thrown through the open door. With a shrug of the shoulders he shut the door again, and went back to the library.
As he entered the room Celia looked up as though she were about to say something, but encountering a warning frown changed her mind.
"Well, Malcolm, bought another picture?" the Colonel chaffed him. "You know, you haven't yet shown us the first one you bought."
Charles shook his head. "I never show it to people after dark," he said. "It upsets them. Did you make your contract, by the way? That four spade one you were playing when I left you?"
"Yes, we made it," Ackerley replied. "Oughtn't to have, but Roote discarded a diamond. Aha, Roote, caught you napping that time, didn't I? Can't think why you held on to the heart."
Dr Roote merely grunted. He had embarked on his third whisky since dinner, and though still perfectly sensible was looking slightly hazy. In a little while his wife, seeing him look round for the decanter again, gave the signal for the party to break up. Colonel Ackerley stayed on for about twenty minutes after the Rootes had gone, and then he too took his departure.
Gathering up the scattered cards, Celia said: "I'm sorry for that little woman. I should divorce you, Charles, if you got fuddled every evening."
"I do not at any time approve of drunkenness," announced Mrs. Bosanquet, "and when a doctor falls into the habit of taking rather too much, I consider it most reprehensible. Now, if one of us was attacked by appendicitis in the middle of the night, what would be the use of sending for Dr Roote? Mrs. Bowers was telling me that they say in the village that he can't be got out of bed at night to attend to anyone, and we all know what that means."
"If you get attacked by appendicitis, Aunt, we'll send for Ponsonby, from Manfield," Peter promised.
"Yes, my dear, I hope that you would. But my appendix was removed some years ago," said Mrs. Bosanquet with mild triumph.
An hour later, as Peter was about to blow out his candle, and go to sleep, his door opened softly, and Charles came in, fully dressed.
"Hullo!" Peter said. "Anything wrong?"
"No, but I've got a fancy to do a little sleuthing myself. Do you feel like accompanying me?"
Peter raised himself on his elbow. "Who are you going to track?"
"Friend Duval. Unless he's clean cracked, he thinks he's on to the Monk's trail, and I can't help feeling it might be worth our while to follow him."
The bed creaked in the adjoining room, and in a moment Margaret appeared in the open doorway with her dressing-gown caught hastily round her. "If you don't want to be overheard you'd better see that the door's shut in future," she said. "Go on. What did Duval say tonight?"
Charles gave them a brief resume of the artist's conversation. Peter sat up when he had finished. "The knife business makes it look as though he's mad," he said, "but if we don't try and find out what he's up to we're a couple of fools. If you'd like to clear out, Sis, I propose to dress."
"You can take your clothes into my room," said his sister disobligingly. "I want to hear some more. Who did he think was following him, Charles?"
"I don't know. The Monk, presumably. I have an idea he's afraid of Strange."
Conscious of her brother's sidelong scrutiny Margaret said calmly: "Why?"
Charles told her what Duval had said that morning when Strange had entered the taproom with the landlord. She nodded. "I see." She watched Peter swing his legs out of bed, and sat down, folding her dressing-gown more tightly round her.
Peter collected his clothes, and disappeared into her room. Through the open doorway his voice reached them: "What about Celia?"
"She doesn't like it, but she says if Margaret will go and keep her company and I promise to run no risks I may go just this once."
Margaret raised her eyes. "What are you going to do, Charles?"
"It all depends," he answered. "I don't propose to run any unnecessary risks, and from Duval's account the Monk is a dangerous customer. But if by following Duval we can get a sight of the Monk it's worth doing."
"You mean, you'd follow the Monk, and see where he went to?"
"That's the general idea."
Margaret looked straight ahead of her for a moment, as though she were considering. "Yes," she said at last. "I think perhaps you ought to. But don't shoot, Charles. Either of you. You don't want to land yourselves in a mess, and you mustn't forget that you don't know what the Monk is after. He may not be doing anything criminal."
"The only shooting I'm likely to do will be in selfdefence," Charles replied.
Peter came back into the room in his shirt-sleeves. "Don't you worry, Sis. We shan't get into trouble."
"You might get excited, and do something you wouldn't do in cold blood," she insisted. "And I've got a sort of idea that the Monk doesn't want to hurt any of us."
Peter got into his coat, and buttoned it. "Where did you get that idea from, if I may ask?"
"I don't know. But I do feel that you oughtn't to leap to conclusions." She got up. "Well, I'll go along to Celia now. Good luck, you two." She went out, leaving her brother to frown after her.
"Strike you that Margaret takes an unduly sympathetic interest in the Monk?" he said. "I don't quite like it. That fellow, Strange, has been getting at her, if you ask me."
"She's too sensible," Charles said. "Are you ready?"
Together they went downstairs, and let themselves out by the front door. The night was rather overcast, but the waning moon shone fitfully through the clouds.
"Good: shan't need our torches," Charles said, slipping his into the pocket ofhis tweed coat. "The chapel is our goal, I think. That's where Flinders saw Duval."
They made their way to the ruin, and cautiously inspected it. No one was there, and a deep silence brooded over the place. They searched the ground all about it without success, and at last Peter said: "Look here, it's no use wandering aimlessly through the woods. It 'ud be more sensible if we walked down to Duval's cottage to see whether he's there or not. If he's tucked up in bed I think we can safely write him down a lunatic. If he's not there -well, he may still be a lunatic, but we can lie in wait for him on the road and see which direction he comes from. That'll narrow the field for us to-morrow night."
"All right," Charles said reluctantly. "Not that I think it helps much, but I agree we shan't do much good going on like this."
They started to walk down the right-of-way. "What's more," Peter pointed out, "it's just possible that he may not have ventured out yet. After all, he knew we had a dinner-party, and since he seems very loth to let anyone catch sight of him he'd be bound to give the party some time to break up." He flashed his torch on to his wristwatch. "It's only just on midnight. Duval might well think we should still be up."
"True," Charles agreed. "Anyway, we can but try your idea."
They walked on in silence, until they came to the place where the right-of-way joined the main road into Framley. A few yards up the road the lane that ran past Duval's cottage branched off. They turned into this, and went softly up it till they saw the broken gate that led into the cottage garden. They paused in the lee of the untrimmed hedge, and craned their necks to obtain a glimpse of the tumble-down building. No light shone from either of the upper windows, but they thought they could see a dim glow in the ground floor.
"How many rooms?" Peter whispered.
"One downstairs, besides the kitchen."
Peter stole to the gate, from where he could get a clear view of the cottage. He rejoined Charles in a minute or two. "There is a light burning downstairs," he whispered. "But I think the curtains are drawn. I move that we walk up past the place and wait under the hedge to see whether he comes out or not. If he does he's bound to come this way, and he won't see us if we're the other side of the gate."
Charles nodded, and followed him to a distance of a few yards beyond the gate. A ditch, with a bank surmounted by a hedge, flanked the lane, and they sat down on this bank in silence.
No sound came from the house on the other side ofthe ditch. After perhaps twenty minutes Charles yawned.
"We must look uncommonly silly," he remarked. "I don't believe he's in. Or else he's gone to bed, and left a light burning."
Peter stood up. "I'm going to try and have a look inside," he said.
"You can't go spying in at a man's windows," Charles objected.
"Can't I?" Peter retorted. "Well, you watch me, and see. I've no compunction about spying on Duval whatsoever. The trouble with you is that you've got a legal mind. I don't somehow see Duval & Co. displaying a like punctiliousness where we're concerned."
He carefully lifted the sagging gate out of position, and stole up the tangled path to the house. Charles saw him apparently listening at the window; then he crept round to the back, and was gone for some time.
He rejoined Charles presently. "Can't hear a sound," he said. "But there's certainly a light. Just youu come up, will you?"
Charles sacrificed his principles, and followed Peter up to the front door. He stood listening intently. It was just as Peter had said: not the smallest sound came from the room on the other side of the door.
"I believe you're right," Charles whispered. "He's either out, or asleep. If he's asleep I propose to wake him."
Before Peter could stop him he had raised his hand and knocked smartly on the door.
"You ass!" Peter hissed. "If he's there we don't want to disturb him!"
"If he's there his talk was all moonshine, and it doesn't matter whether we disturb him or not," Charles replied. He knocked again.
The answering silence was a little uncanny. They waited, then Charles knocked louder than ever.
"By Jove, I believe he is out!" Peter said. "Take care he doesn't come back suddenly and see you." He moved boldly towards the window, and set his eye to the dirty glass where the curtains inside just failed to meet. Suddenly he spoke in a sharp, uneasy voice. "Charles, just come here a moment. There's something… Here, take a look. What's that thing you can just see?"
All his scruples forgotten Charles pressed his face up against the glass. "I can't quite - it looks like an arm. Yes, it is. Then someone must be standing there! But - damn this curtain!" He pressed closer, staring between the narrow gap in the curtain. The thing that was just discernible was unmistakably an arm in an old tweed sleeve, and below the edge of the frayed cuff a hand hung slackly. Charles stood still, trying to see more, but the gap was too small. But all the time he watched the hand never moved, and no sound broke the silence.
He turned. "There's something wrong here," he said. "We've got to get in. Try the door."
Peter put his hand on the latch. "Bound to be bolted - unless he's out."
But the latch lifted, and no bolt held the door in place. He pushed it cautiously open and peered in. Then a startled exclamation brought Charles up quickly to look over his shoulder. "Oh, my God," Peter cried on a note of horror.
For there, in the centre of the squalid little room was Louis Duval, quite dead, and hanging from one of the hooks in the beam that Charles had noticed.