Shirley had not gone to bed when Mr. Amberley arrived at Ivy Cottage. She was waiting for her brother to come home, and when she flung open the front door Amberley saw from her pale, anxious face that she was worried by Mark's lateness.
She recoiled when she saw who it was. Her instinct was to slam the door in his face, but she curbed it and remarked that she supposed he had once more brought Mark home.
"No," Amberley said gravely. "I'm afraid I haven't. Will you let me come in for a moment?"
His unusual gentleness warned her that something was amiss. Her eyes questioned him dumbly.
"I haven't come to make myself a nuisance to you," he said with a slight smile. "I've got a piece of bad news to deliver."
Her hand shook on the door. "Something has happened to Mark!" she whispered.
"Yes," he replied briefly.
She stood back, allowing him to enter. "Please tell me. Is he dead?"
He drew her into the living room and stood looking rather sternly down at her. "Yes, he's dead. Will you tell me why you so instantly leaped to that conclusion?"
She put her hands up to her face, pressing the palms against her temples. "You said you had not come - to worry me - with questions. When he's late like this - I always imagine things. How did it happen?"
"He was on his way home, drunk, of course - and he apparently stumbled over the edge of the bank into the river.
Her hands fell to her sides. He saw her draw a quick breath. Her eyes, fixed on his face, held a look of terror. He realised suddenly that he had never before seen her afraid. For the first time she struck him as being pathetic, with her gallant pretence of calm and those great, searching eyes trying to read what he was thinking.
"I'm sorry to have to break it to you like this," he said.
"It doesn't matter," she jerked out, holding her head up. "Thank you for coming. Do you - happen to know - anything more?"
"Very little. The fool whom I put on to keep an eye on him let him out of his sight. I owe you an apology."
One of her hands went out gropingly towards the table and grasped the edge of it. "You put that man there - to watch him — because you thought - he might fall into the river?"
"Not quite that. I thought that after his exceedingly rash visit to the manor an attempt on his life might possibly be made."
"You're clever," she said in a low voice. "I misjudged you." She paused. "Was he - pushed into the river?"
"I can only give you the facts and leave you to draw your own conclusions," he replied. "There is one witness only. Collins."
She started. "Ah!"
"Precisely. When Constable Tucker came up to the scene of the - accident - he found Collins dragging your brother's body up the bank. Between them they applied artificial respiration until the sergeant and I came."
She repeated, as though imperfectly understanding: "Collins tried to save him?"
"Apparently. That surprises you?"
She seemed a little dazed. "I can't quite… Collins was… Oh, my God, I ought never to have let him come here!"
"Collins?" said Mr. Amberley smoothly.
She did not pay much attention. "My brother. Only I never dreamed…' She broke off and pulled a chair out from the table and sat down a little limply. Mr. Amberley leaned his broad shoulders against the wall and stood watching her. She made no pretence of being heartbroken; he had seen enough of Mark to be sure she could not be. But the news had shocked her badly. It had frightened her too. She did not know which way to turn. He saw her give a little shiver and grip her fingers together nervously in her lap.
He said presently: "When Collins visited you here the other day, what did he come for?"
Her wandering thoughts were brought back with a jerk. "Did he say - he had visited this place?" she fenced.
"I saw him," replied Amberley.
"You must have been mistaken."
"But I was not. Now Collins has given me his version of why he came, and I should very much like yours."
He watched her knuckles gleam white. "I am not going to answer you," she said. "If he came — it was quite an innocent visit - and has nothing to do with you."
"I see. And when the sergeant comes to ask you whether your brother had any reason for wishing to shoot Collins, what are you going to say?"
"None," she answered with an effort. "None whatsoever."
Amberley ceased to lounge against the wall and came across the room to her and sat down on the edge of the table. She looked up at him half-defiant, half-afraid. He laid his hand over both her tightly clasped ones and held them. "Don't you think it's time you told me all about it?" he said. "Come! I'm not such a bad person to confide in, you know."
To his surprise one of her hands twisted under his and clasped it for a moment. "I know," she said unexpectedly. "But I can't. It's no use asking me. I daren't tell you anything. Mark's dead, but I'm not finished yet. I - I don't give in easily.".
"You daren't tell me," he repeated. He sat looking down at her somewhat enigmatically. "I'm going to make you," he said. "No, not now, but soon. My — er - amour propre is wounded. You shall confide in me. Of your own free will, too." He got up and glanced at his watch. "Now I am going to suggest to you that you come back with me to Greythorne. My aunt will be charmed to have you, and you cannot possibly remain here alone."
She flushed and said gratefully: "Thank you. You're being kinder than perhaps I deserve. But I can't come and stay at Greythorne. I — I shall leave this place and go to the Trust House in Upper Nettlefold. Please don't press me. I'm quite safe with my dog and my gun. I - I don't get drunk, you see."
"The Trust House? You mean the Boar's Head, in the Market Square? I'd much rather have you under my eye at Greythorne."
She smiled faintly. "I don't want to be under your eye, thanks."
"I know you don't. Will you come to Greythorne for tonight and move to the Boar's Head tomorrow?"
"No, thank you. I shall stay here tonight. Really, I shall be all right." She rose and held out her hand. "I — I'm sorry I've been rude to you. Thanks for all you've done for me. Will you - would you mind going now?"
He arrived back at Greythorne just as his aunt and cousin were going upstairs to bed. Felicity asked him casually whether anything had happened and was considerably startled by his answer. He said briefly that Mark Brown had been killed.
Lady Matthews, who hadd reached the half-landing, remarked that it sounded very exciting, but who was Mark Brown? She had never heard of him.
Felicity explained hurriedly and demanded to know who had done it.
"He fell into the river and was drowned. No one did it," replied Amberley.
Felicity was immediately concerned for Shirley, left alone at Ivy Cottage, and Lady Matthews, having by this time grasped the fact that Shirley was the nice girl who had picked up her parcel for her at Hodgson's yesterday, announced that the poor child must not be allowed to stay at that horrid little cottage.
Amberley admitted that he had already issued an invitation to her which she had refused. Lady Matthews said: "Ah yes, dear. No doubt. I must have a coat. Such a shame to drag you out again, but impossible to have Ludlow out so late. The small spare room, Felicity darling. Better tell your father. So unfortunate, for he is put out already."
It appeared that Lady Matthews had formed the intention of rescuing Shirley Brown herself.
When the Bentley once more stood outside the little white gate Lady Matthews got out and gently refused her nephew's escort. Amberley warned her that Shirley Brown was a somewhat obstinate young woman.
"Poor child!" murmured his aunt charitably.
She was not very long in the cottage, but when she came out again she was accompanied, somewhat to Amberley's astonishment, by Shirley, who carried a small suitcase and was closely followed by the faithful Bill. Shirley seemed curiously meek and she did not look at Amberley. The two ladies got into the back of the car; Bill and the suitcase shared the seat next the driver's. Bill, grateful for the ride, alternately put his head over the side to enjoy the wind in his face, and licked Mr. Amberley's lean check.
"It is to be hoped," remarked Mr. Amberley, removing a large paw from his wrist, "that Wolf is shut up."
Bill flattened his ears politely, but he did not share in the hope. A cheerful little fight would, in his opinion, round off the day nicely.
He got it. The chauffeur was bringing Wolf in from his last run as the car drew up at the door, and Wolf bounded up to greet these late homecomers. Bill did not wait to have the car door opened. Before Amberley could stop him he leaped over it. He was aware that he stood upon Wolf's own stamping-ground; if he had not previously encountered the Alsatian, etiquette would have compelled him to forbear battle. But he was one who hated to leave a job unfinished.
The commotion brought Sir Humphrey out upon the scene. He arrived in time to witness the removal of Wolf, raging impotently in the grip of the chauffeur. He ordained that that damned dog was to be shut up and demanded of his wife where she proposed to put the other brute.
Shirley, holding tightly to Bill's collar, said stiffly that she was sorry, and Sir Humphrey, recalled to his duties as host, put the whole blame onto Wolf.
Shirley, still more stiffly, said that she would like to keep Bill with her.
Sir Humphrey's views on the subject of large dogs in houses were widely known. He was about to make his guest privy to them when his wife said: "Of course, my dear. So much safer. Well go up. Someone must find him a rug. Frank, you are so clever at finding things. Do find a rug. Probably in the oak chest."
She bore Shirley upstairs, leaving her husband silenced but indignant. When she presently came down again he professed himself much displeased with the whole affair. Everyone was in the wrong, principally Frank, who persisted in meddling in what did not concern him. This was what came of it. Dogs in bedrooms. No one had seen fit to consult him before this young woman was brought to the house. Had anyone done so he would have deprecated the plan most strongly. They knew nothing about the girl, and although he was naturally sorry for her, he could not see why his wife should consider it incumbent upon her to interfere.
Lady Matthews, quite unruffled by this severe vote of censure, patted his hand and said: "Dreadful, my dear. But impossible to let her stay alone in that cottage all night."
"I fail to see that it is in any way our affair," said Sir Humphrey, slightly mollified.
"Not in the least, darling. But no friends of her own, you see. So awkward. And quite a nice girl, I feel sure. She reminds me of someone, though I don't know whom."
"I have yet to meet anyone who did not remind you of someone, Marion," said Sir Humphrey. "I shall go to bed, and I trust you told her not to allow that dog to get on the furniture."
In the morning he had recovered his urbanity and had thawed enough to invite Shirley to remain at Greythorne until after the inquest, when he supposed she would be returning to London. He even said that the bull-terrier seemed to be a very well-behaved dpg and bestowed a piece of kidney on him, which Bill accepted without hesitation.
Shirley refused the invitation. There were dark shadows under her eyes telling of a sleepless night, and she was very quiet. Lady Matthews did not urge her to stay and prevented Sir Humphrey from pressing the matter. "So much better to let people do what they want to," she said. "Somebody shall ring up and engage a room for you at the Boar's Head, my dear."
They had only just left the breakfast table when Jerkins came in to say that Mr. Fountain was in the library and would like to speak to Mr. Amberley.
This intelligence slightly impaired Sir Humphrey's good humour. He spoke severely of persons who called at uncouth hours and suddenly remembered a dire thing that was to happen today. There was going to be a dinner party. "And considering that both the Fountains and that foolish young man who is staying with them are coming here tonight, I fail entirely to see why a call at ten in the morning can be necessary," he said.
His disillusioned gaze dwelt accusingly on his nephew. Frank said with a grin: "I know, Uncle, I know. All my fault. Even the dinner party."
Without giving his uncle time to retort he went off to receive Fountain.
Fountain was standing by the window in the library, looking out. He turned as Amberley came in and walked towards him, holding out his hand. There was an expression of deep concern on his face. He said without any preamble: "I came round to see you about this tragic business of last night. I only heard when I got back from town."
"Yes?" said Amberley. "You mean Mark Brown falling into the river? Apparently half the village expected something of the sort to happen."
"But you were having him followed, weren't you?"
"I was. Not quite closely enough, as it turned out."
Fountain looked curiously at him. "Well, now that the poor chap's dead I do wish you'd tell me why you wanted him watched. I never could understand that. Did you think he had anything to do with Dawson's murder?"
"When a man - even a drunken man - forces his way into a strange house and lets off a gun I always think it wise to keep an eye on him," said Amberley.
"I see." Fountain laughed a little. "I wondered whether you'd hit on some dark plot!" He became grave again and said: "Look here, what I really came round for was to ask you about Collins' share in the business. The fellow is naturally a bit worried, because he's got it into his head the police suspect him of having pushed Brown in."
"Oh, I don't think so!" Amberley replied.
"Well, I'm glad of that, for the idea's absurd. Why should he push the boy in? He tells me that he went in after him to get him out. I suppose that's true?"
"I wasn't there," said Amberley. "It looked true enough - at face value."
Fountain knit his brows. "I wish you'd be open with me," he said, a touch of annoyance in his voice. "Collins is in my employment, and I think I've a right to know. Hang it all, first my butler's shot, and then my valet is suspected of having pushed a complete stranger into the river. Isn't it true that he tried to rescue him? Of course, I know you never can believe all servants say, but he'd hardly make up such a tale, would he?"
"Hardly," said Amberley. "No one denies that he brought the body to land and applied artificial respiration."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Fountain with relief. "I've had quite enough mysterious crimes to do with my household, I can tell you. It's damned unpleasant. The next thing I shall know is that the whole staff will leave in a body. What gave Collins the idea that the police suspected him? It seems to me so silly. He can't possibly have had any motive for killing Brown, can he?"
"Not to my knowledge," Amberley replied. "Possibly the police felt that his presence on the scene was insufficiently explained."
This aspect of the case did not seem to have occurred to Fountain. He said: "Yes, now I come to think of it, why was he there? I forgot to ask him that."
Amberley recounted, without comment, Collins' story. Fountain listened to it with a frown in his eyes and remarked at the end that it sounded so futile that it was probably true. He was not surprised the police thought it fishy. "Personally," he said, "I shouldn't be surprised if there was more to it. You know what servants are. Always keeping something back. Not that I think there was anything between him and Brown. What I do think is that he probably fell foul of Brown at the Blue Dragon one night and doesn't like to say so. And when Brown came up to the manor to do him in, he got the wind up and set about making his peace with the fellow."
"Yes," said Amberley thoughtfully. "Not a bad solution."
Fountain looked pleased. "Well, it seems more likely to me," he said. "But why the police should think he pushed Brown in, when they found him pulling him out, is more than I can fathom."
Amberley regarded his fingernails. "Well," he said slowly, "a man might do both, you know. If he was clever enough to think of it."
"Good Lord!" said Fountain in a blank voice. "What a singularly ghastly idea! No, really, Amberley, that's too much! Upon my soul, you're enough to make one's blood run cold!"
Amberley raised his brows. "Sorry to offend your susceptibilities. But that's undoubtedly how I should have planned the affair."
"Perfectly horrible!" said Fountain. He glanced at the clock. "I'd better be off. What's happening to the sister, by the way? Joan says there is one. Pretty awful for the poor girl."
"Yes," said Amberley. "At the moment she's staying here. My aunt fetched her last night."
"What a good soul Lady Matthews is!" said Fountain. "I call that being a real Samaritan. I suppose she'll have to stay till after the inquest, will she?"
"She can't go back to London till then. My aunt would like to keep her here, but unfortunately she won't stay. An independent female. We shall see you all at dinner tonight, shan't we?"
"Yes, rather. Looking forward to it very much," said Fountain, and took his leave.