Died in the Wool ra-13 Page 22

  “It’s bleeding.”

  “So it is. Can you give me a bit of cotton wool or something?”

  She hesitated. “Wait here a moment,” she said and slipped through the door, shutting it behind her.

  Alleyn tapped and entered. She was beside her dressing-table but in a flash had moved to the bed and shut the book. “I asked you to wait,” she said.

  “I’m extremely sorry. Would you lend your hot-water bottle? Take it along to his room, would you? Ah, there’s the cotton wool. Thanks so much.”

  He took it from her and turned to her glass. As he dabbled the wool on his jaw he watched her reflection. Her back was towards him. She stooped over the bed. When she moved aside, the bedclothes had been pulled up and the book was no longer on the table.

  “Here’s the bottle,” she said, holding it out.

  “Will you be an angel and take it yourself? I’m just fixing this blasted cut.”

  “Mr. Alleyn,” she said loudly, and he turned to face her. “I’d rather you staunched your wounds in your own room,” said Miss Lynne.

  “Please forgive me, I was trying to save my collar. Of course.”

  He went to the door. “Terry!” Ursula called quietly down the passage.

  “I’m off,” said Alleyn. He crossed the landing to his own room. “Terry!” Ursula called again. “Yes, coming,” said Miss Lynne, and carrying the candle and her hot-water bottle she moved swiftly down the passage, observed by Alleyn through the crack of his own door.

  “Every blasted move in the game goes wrong,” he thought and darted back to her room.

  The book, a stoutly bound squat affair, had been thrust well down between the sheets. It fell open in his hands and he read a single long sentence.

  February 1st, 1942. Since I am now assured of her affection towards me I must confess that the constant unrest of this house and (if I am to be honest in these pages, of Florence herself) under which I have for so long been complaisant, is now quite intolerable to me.

  Alleyn hesitated for a moment. A card folder slipped from between the pages. He opened it and saw the photograph of a man with veiled eyes, painfully compressed lips, and deep grooves running from his nostrils to beyond the corners of his mouth. The initials “A.R.” were written at the bottom in the same fine strokes that characterized the script in the book.

  “So that was Arthur Rubrick,” Alleyn thought and returned the photograph and the diary to their hiding place.

  Before he left Miss Lynne’s room, Alleyn took an extremely rapid look at her shoes. All except one pair were perfectly neat and clean. Her gardening brogues, brushed, but unpolished, were dry. He closed the door behind him as the voices of the two girls sounded in the passage. He found them at the head of the stairs in conference with Mrs. Aceworthy, a formidable figure in mottled flannel, which she drew unhappily about her when she saw Alleyn. He persuaded her, with some difficulty, to return to her room.

  “I am going to Fabian,” said Ursula. “How are we going to carry him upstairs?”

  “I think he will be able to walk up,” Alleyn said. “Take him gently. I’ll get Grace to help put him to bed. Is he awake, do you know?”

  “Not Douglas,” said Terence Lynne. “He sleeps like a log.”

  Ursula said: “Has Fabian had another blackout, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “I think so. Wait for me before you bring him.”

  “Damn!” said Ursula. “Now, of course, he’ll think he can’t marry me. Come on, Terry.”

  Terence went; not, Alleyn thought, over-willingly.

  He knocked on Douglas Grace’s door and, receiving no answer, walked in and flashed his torch on a tousled head.

  “Grace!”

  “Wha-aa?” The clothes were flung back with a convulsive jerk and Douglas stared at him. “What d’you want to make me jump like that for?” he asked angrily and then blinked. “Sorry, sir. I was back at an advanced gun post. What’s up now?”

  “Losse had had another blackout.”

  Douglas gazed at Alleyn with his familiar air of affronted incredulity. “He will now,” Alleyn thought crossly, “repeat the last word I have uttered whenever I pause to draw breath.”

  “Blackout,” said Douglas faithfully. “Oh, hell! How? When? Where?”

  “Up near the annex. Half an hour ago. He went up there to collect my cigarette case.”

  “I remember that,” cried Douglas triumphantly. “Is he still all out? Poor old Fab.”

  “He’s conscious again, but he’s had a nasty crack on the head. Come and help me get him upstairs, will you?”

  “Get him upstairs?” Douglas repeated, looking very startled. He reached for his dressing-gown. “I say,” he said. “This is pretty tough luck, isn’t it? I mean, what he said about Ursy and him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Half an hour ago,” said Douglas, thrusting his feet into his slippers. “That must have been just after we came up. I went out to the side lawn to have a look at the weather. He must have been up there then, good Lord.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  Douglas gaped at him with his mouth open. “I heard the river,” he said. “That means there’s a southerly hanging round. Sure sign. You wouldn’t know.”

  “No. Did you hear anything else?”

  “Hear anything? What sort of thing?”

  “Voices or footsteps.”

  “Voices? Was he talking? Footsteps?”

  “Let it pass,” said Alleyn. “Come on.”

  They went down to the drawing-room.

  Fabian was lying on the sofa with Ursula on a low stool beside him. Tommy Johns and Cliff stood awkwardly by the French windows looking at their boots. Markins, with precisely the correct shade of deferential concern, was setting out a tea tray with drinks. Terence Lynne stood composedly before the fire, which had been mended, and flickered its light richly in the folds of her crimson gown.

  “Here, I say,” said Douglas. “This is no good, Fab. Damn bad luck.”

  “Extremely tiresome,” Fabian murmured, looking at Ursula. He was still covered by grey blankets and Ursula had slid her hand beneath them. “Give the stretcher-bearers a drink, Douglas. They must need it.”

  “You mustn’t,” said Ursula.

  “See section four. Alcohol after cerebral injuries, abstain from.”

  Markins moved away with decorum. “You must have a drink, Markins,” said Fabian weakly. Douglas looked scandalized.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” said Markins primly.

  “You’ll have whisky, won’t you, Tommy? Cliff?”

  “I don’t mind,” said Tommy Johns. “The boy won’t take it, thank you.”

  “He looks as if he wants it,” said Fabian, and indeed Cliff was very white.

  “He doesn’t take whisky, thank you,” said his father, with uncomfortable emphasis.

  “I think you ought to get to bed, Fab,” fussed Douglas. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “We’ll drink to your recovery when we’ve finished the job,” Alleyn said.

  “I’m not going to be carried upstairs and don’t you think it.”

  “Well then, you shall walk and Grace and I will see you up.”

  “O.K.,” said Douglas amiably.

  “One’s enough,” Fabian said peevishly. “I tell you, I’m all right. You give these poor swine a drink, Douglas. Mr. Alleyn started the rescue squad, didn’t he? He might like to finish the job.”

  He sat up and grimaced. He was very white and his hands trembled.

  “Please Fab, go slow,” said Ursula. “I’ll come and see you.”

  “Come on,” Fabian said to Alleyn. He grinned at Ursula. “Thank you, darling,” he said. “I’d like you to come but not just yet, please.”

  When they were outside in the hall, Fabian took Alleyn’s arm. “Sorry to appear churlish,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you. God, I do feel sick.”

  Alleyn got him to bed. He was very docile. Remembering Markins’ story of the medicine cupboa
rd in the bathroom, Alleyn raided it and found dressings. He clipped away the thick hair. The wound, a depression, swollen at the margin and broken only at the top, was seen to be clearly defined. He cleaned it and was about to put on a dressing when Fabian, who was lying face downwards on his pillow, said: “I didn’t get that by falling, did I? Some expert’s had a crack at me, hasn’t he?”

  “What makes you think so?” said Alleyn, pausing with the lint in his fingers.

  “After a fashion I can remember. I was on my feet when I got it. Where the main track branches off to the wool-shed. It felt just like the bump I got at Dunkirk only, thank the Lord, it’s not on the same spot. I think I called out. You needn’t bother to deny it. Somebody cracked me.”

  “Any more ideas?”

  “It was where that bank with a bit of scrub on it overhangs the track. I was coming back from the annex. There’s always water or ice lying about on the far side so I walked close in to the bank. Whoever it was must have been lying up there, waiting. But why? Why me?”

  Alleyn dropped the lint over the wound and took up a length of strapping. “You were wearing my coat,” he said.

  “Stay me with flagons!” Fabian whispered. “So I was.” And he was silent while Alleyn finished his dressing. He was comfortable enough lying on his side with a thick pad of cotton wool under his head. Alleyn tidied his room and when he turned back to the bed Fabian was already dozing. He slipped out.

  Before going downstairs he visited the other bedrooms. There were no damp shoes in any of them. Douglas’ and Fabian’s working boots were evidently kept downstairs. “But it was something quieter than working boots,” Alleyn muttered and returned to the drawing-room.

  He found the two Johnses on the point of departure and Markins about to remove the tray. Douglas, lying back in an armchair with his feet in the hearth and a pipe in his mouth, glanced up with evident relief. Terence Lynne had unearthed her inevitable knitting and, erect on the sofa, her feet to the fire, flashed her needles composedly. Ursula, who was speaking to Tommy Johns, went quickly to Alleyn.

  “Is he all right? May I go up?”

  “He’s comfortably asleep. I think it will be best to leave him. You may listen at his door presently.”

  “We’ll be going,” said Tommy Johns. “Good night all.”

  “Just a moment,” said Alleyn.

  “Hullo!” Douglas looked up quickly. “What’s up now?” And before Alleyn could answer, he added sharply: “He is all right, isn’t he? I mean, shall I go down-country for a doctor? I could get back inside four hours if I stepped on it. We don’t want to take any risks with an injury to the head.”

  “No,” Alleyn agreed, “we don’t. If you feel you want to do something of the sort, of course you may, but I fancy he’ll do very well. I’m sure his skull is not injured. It seems to have been a glancing blow.”

  “A blow?” Terence Lynne’s voice struck harshly. Her mouth was open. The muscle of the upper lip was contracted, showing her teeth in the parody of a smile.

  “But didn’t he fall on his head?” Douglas shouted.

  “He fell on his face because he’d been struck on the back of the skull.”

  “D’you mean someone attacked him?”

  “I do.”

  “Good God,” Douglas whispered.

  Ursula stood before Alleyn, her hands jammed down in the pockets of her dressing-gown. Her voice shook but she held her chin up and looked squarely at him. “Does that mean somebody wanted to kill Fabian?” she said.

  “It was a dangerous assault,” Alleyn said.

  “But—” She moved quickly to the door. “I’m going to him,” she said. “He mustn’t be left alone.”

  “Please stay here, Miss Harme. The house is locked up and I have the key of his door in my pocket. You see,” Alleyn said, “we are all in here, so he is quite safe.”

  It was at this point that Terence Lynne, winding her hands in her scarlet knitting, broke into a fit of screaming hysteria.

  Police officers are not unfamiliar with hysterics. Alleyn dealt crisply with Miss Lynne. While Tommy Johns and Douglas turned their backs, Cliff looked sick and Markins interested; Ursula, with considerable aplomb, offered to fetch a jug of cold water and pour it over the patient. This suggestion, combined with Alleyn’s less drastic treatment, had its effect. Miss Lynne grew quieter, rose, and walking to the far end of the room seemed to fight down savagely her own incontinence.

  “Really, Terry,” Ursula said, “you of all people!”

  “Shut up, Ursy,” said Douglas.

  “Well, after all, Douglas darling, he’s my young man.”

  Douglas glared at her and, after a moment’s hesitation, went to Terence Lynne and spoke to her in a low voice. Alleyn heard her say: “No! Please leave me alone. I’m all right. Please go away.” He returned, looking discomfited and portentous.

  “I think Terence should be let off,” he said to Alleyn.

  “I’m extremely sorry,” Alleyn returned, “but I’m afraid that’s impossible.” He moved to the fire-place and stood with his back to it, collecting their attention. It was an unpleasantly familiar moment and he was struck by the resemblance of all frightened people to each other. There was always a kind of blankness in their faces. They always watched him carefully, yet turned aside their gaze when he looked directly at them. There was always a tendency to draw together, to make a wary little mob of themselves, leaving him isolated.

  He was isolated now, a tall figure, authoritative and watchful, unaware of himself, closely attentive to their self-consciousness.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “that I can’t let anybody off. I should tell you that at the moment it seems unlikely that this attack was made by one of the outside men. Each of you, therefore, will be well advised, in your own interest, to give an account of your movements since I left this room to go up to the annex for my cigarette case.”

  “I can’t believe this is true,” said Ursula. “You sound exactly like a detective. For the first time.”

  “I’m afraid I must behave like one. Will you all sit down? Suppose we start with you, Captain Grace.”

  “Me? I say, look here, sir…”

  “What did you do when I left the room?”

  “Yes, well, what did I do? I was sitting here reading the paper when you came in, wasn’t I? Yes, well, you went out and I said: ‘D’you think I ought to go up with him—’ meaning you—‘and help him look for his blasted case?’ and nobody answered and I said: ‘Oh, well, how about a bit of shut-eye?’ and I wound up my watch and everybody pushed off. I went out on the side lawn here and had a squint at the sky. I always do that, last thing. Freshens you up. I think I heard you bang the back door.” Douglas paused and looked baffled. “At least I suppose it was really Fabian, wasn’t it, because you say he went. Well, I mean he must have gone if you found him up there, mustn’t he? Someone was moving up the track beyond the side fence. I thought it was probably one of the men. I called out ‘Good night’ but they didn’t answer. Well, I just came in and the others had gone, so I put the screen in front of the fire, got my candle and went upstairs. I tapped on Terry’s door and said good-night. I had a bath and went to my room, and then I heard you snooping about the passage and I wondered what was up because I’ve been a bit jumpy about people in the passage ever since…” Here Douglas paused and glanced at Markins. “However!” he said. “I called out: ‘Is that you, Fab?’ and you answered, you’ll remember, and I went to bed.”

  “Any witnesses?” asked Alleyn. “Terence. I told you I tapped on her door.”

  “Did you hear him?” Alleyn asked Ursula. “Yes. I heard,” she said. “I heard other people come upstairs, too, and move about after I went to bed, but I didn’t take any particular notice. I heard the pipes gurgle. I went to sleep almost at once. I was awakened by the sound of voices and boots downstairs, and I sort of knew something was wrong and came out on the landing where I met you.”

  “Did you all go up together? You and
Miss Lynne and Mrs. Aceworthy?”

  “No, we straggled. The Ace-pot went first and I know she had a bath because she was in it when I wanted to brush my teeth. I remember hearing the telephone give our ring just before I came out of this room and I was going to answer it when I heard Fabian speaking. At least, I thought it was Fabian. You see I saw — I thought I saw you whisk out of doors.”

  “You saw my overcoat whisk out.”

  “Well,” said Ursula, “it’s very dark in the hall.”

  She looked fixedly at Alleyn. “You swear he’s all right?”

  “He was perfectly comfortable and sound asleep when I left him and he’s safe from any further assault. You can ring up a doctor when the Bureau opens in the morning, indeed I should like to get a medical opinion myself, or — is there anyone near the Pass on your party line?”

  “Four miles,” said Douglas.

  “If you’re anxious, couldn’t you get these people to drive over the Pass and ring up a doctor? I don’t think it’s necessary but isn’t it possible?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” said Ursula. “If I could just see him,” she added.

  “Very well. When I’ve finished, you may go in with me, wake him up and ask him if he’s all right.”

  “You can be rather a pig,” said Ursula, “can’t you?”

  “This is a serious matter,” said Alleyn without emphasis.

  She flushed delicately and he thought she was startled and bewildered by his disregard of her small attempt at lightness. “I know it is,” she said.

  “You heard me answer the telephone, didn’t you, and thought I was Losse? You caught sight of him going out and mistook him for me. What did you do then?”

  “I called out ‘Good- night’ to Terry, lit my candle and went upstairs. I undressed and when the Ace-pot came out of the bathroom I washed and brushed my teeth and went to bed.”

  “Seeing nobody?”

  “Only her — Mrs. Aceworthy.”

  “And you, Miss Lynne? You were after Miss Harme?”

  She had moved forward and stood behind Ursula. Douglas was close beside her but she seemed to be unaware of him. When he slipped his hand under her arm she freed herself, but with a slight movement as if she loosed a sleeve that had caught on a piece of furniture. She answered Alleyn rapidly, looking straight before her: “It was cold. Douglas had left the French window open. He was on the lawn. I said good-night to him and asked him to put the screen in front of the fire. He called out that he would. I went into the hall and lit my candle. I heard a voice in the study and was not sure if it was yours or Fabian’s. I went up to my room. Douglas came upstairs and tapped on my door. He said good-night. I put away some things I had been mending and then undressed. I heard someone come out of the bathroom, it was Mrs. Aceworthy’s step. Ursula said something to her. I–I read for a minute or two and then I went to the bathroom and returned and got into bed.”