The Skeleton in the Clock

ill.

'Oh, I suppose they've thought of it,' Martin Drake answered. 'But they wouldn't be allowed to. The Prison Commission would have a fit'

'Right,' chuckled Stannard.

(He missed no glance Ruth Callice turned towards Drake. There were currents in this room, not quite like a usual social evening.)

'But I wish we could do it,' the young man said unexpectedly, and struck his clenched fist on his knee. 'Lord, how I wish we could do it!'

Ruth's voice went up. 'Spend a night in a…!'

'Oh, not you!' Drake smiled at her; it lightened the illness of his look to kindliness and affection. 'I suppose, actually, I meant myself.'

'But whatever for?'

Stannard, who had returned to the chair with his cigar, spoke gravely.

'You mean, Mr. Drake, that since the war you have found life in England dull and intolerably frustrating?'

'If — you want to put it like that, yes.'

'Will you forgive me, Mr. Drake, for saying you are very young?’

'Will you forgive me, Mr. Stannard, for saying that you are a little pompous?'

Again Stannard chuckled. Perhaps he was doing this too much. His lips were drawn back from the teeth in a fixed, pleasant smile; his small black eyes glittered.

'Of course I forgive you,' Stannard said heartily. 'I have achieved—' he glanced at Ruth, evidently himself feeling young and callow at forty-five, and hating it—'I have achieved some small success In this world. That breeds pomposity sometimes. God knows I try to avoid it' His tone changed. 'Are you serious about wanting to meet earthbound spirits?'

'Quite serious.'

'Ah? Suppose I arranged it?'

Ruth Callice was now sitting bolt upright on the sofa. Her lips opened as though in expostulation, but she did not speak.

'It couldn't be done!' Martin Drake said. 'Not at the prisons I mentioned, no. But what about Pentecost?' 'Pentecost?'

'You've never heard of Pentecost Prison, Mr. Drake?' 'Never.'

Stannard crossed his knees comfortably and addressed Ruth.

'Fifty years ago Pentecost was one of our model local prisons.' He paused. 'I use the word 'local' prison to distinguish it from 'convict' prison. At local prisons, offenders serve sentences only up to two years; executions are always performed there.

'In '38,' Stannard pursued, 'Pentecost was closed. It was to be enlarged and modernized. Then came the war. The Government took it over with the usual rubber-stamp excuse of 'storage purposes'. Ever since then it's remained the same. It's not under the control of the Prison Commission; it's controlled by the Ministry of Works. I — ah — have some slight influence at the Ministry. I might get the keys for a night or two. Now do you begin to understand?'

'By George!' the young man said softly. His long, lean figure grew tense; his upper lip was partly lifted as though at the scent of danger. 'I'd be eternally grateful, Mr. Stannard, if you could.'

Stannard, too, seemed to have been struck by a startling new thought. Seeing that his cigar had gone out, he dropped it into a standing ashtray beside the chair.

'Extraordinary!' he said, and his face grew more red. 'I've just remembered something else.'

'Remembered what?' Ruth asked quickly.

'Pentecost is in Berkshire. It's under a mile or so from a place called Fleet House, a big Georgian house with a flat roof.' His little black eyes stared at the past. 'Eighteen years ago — or was it twenty? yes, twenty! — a man named Fleet, Sir George Fleet, pitched off that roof within sight of a lot of witnesses. It was accident, of course. Or else…'

'Or else?'

‘It was a supernatural murder.' He spoke without smiling. Martin Drake brushed aside this reference to Fleet House. 'Do you honestly think you can get the keys to the prison?'; 'Oh, I think so. At least I can try. Where can I reach you tomorrow?'

'I'm afraid I've got to be at Willaby's Auction Rooms all morning. With a friend of mine named Merrivale.' Unexpectedly, a reminiscent grin lit up Drake's dulled eyes. Then he became sober again. 'But I can make a point of being at my rooms in the afternoon, if that's convenient? I'm in the 'phonebook.'

'You'll hear from me,' Stannard assured him.

Loud in night-stillness, the clock at St Jude's rang the quarter-hour after three. Stannard got up, brushing a trace of cigar-ash from his waist-coat He drew a deep breath.

'And now, my dear,' he said to Ruth, 'you must excuse me. Middle-aged barristers can't keep late hours like you young people, I’ll ring you tomorrow, if I may.'

Throughout this conversation Ruth had kept her eyes fixed on Martin Drake. Doubt, uncertainly, showed in them and troubled her breathing under the oyster-coloured gown. Stannard noticed that Drake, though he got up politely, made no move to leave. It was a dead hour, dull on the wits and opium to the emotions. Yet something wrenched in Stannard's heart as his hostess followed him to the door.

In the little hall of the flat, every inch of wall-space was occupied by shelves of bright-jacketed books. Ruth Callice was the owner of a fashionable bookshop in Piccadilly, which she managed herself; that was how she and Stannard had met A dim little ceiling-lantern burned in the hall. Stannard picked up hat and rolled umbrella from an oak chest

'It was awfully nice of you to come,' Ruth said.

'Not at all. The pleasure was mine. May I see you again?'

'Of course. As often as you can.'

She extended her hands. Stannard, the suave, had considerable difficulty in managing his hat and umbrella.

'Thanks.' He spoke gruffly. 'I'll remember that. No; I can manage the front door. Thanks again. Good- night'

The door, closing heavily after him, made a hollow vibration. For a moment Ruth stood staring at the door. Then she returned to the sitting-room. Though both windows were wide open to the warm July night, she made a feint of attempting to push them higher to let the smoke out. Martin Drake, his back partly turned, was standing by the fireplace lighting a cigarette. Ruth went softly over to the grand piano and sat down.

She hesitated. Common-sense, practicality, shone In the dark-brown eyes as she lifted her head; a perplexity verging on impatience.. But this expression faded, with a wry twist of the mouth, as she began to play.

The tune was Someday I’ll Find You. It s saccharine notes riffled and rippled, softly, through the room and faintly out into the square.

'Ruth!'

'Yes, Martin?’

'You're one of the finest persons I ever met,' said the young man, and threw his cigarette into the fireplace. 'But would you mind not playing that?'

Ruth closed her eyes, the lids shiny and dark-fringed, and opened them again, 'I'm sorry, Martin.' Her fingers rested motionless. Without looking round Ruth added, 'Still searching for her?'

'Yes.'

'Martin, dear. Isn't that rather foolish?' 'Of course it's foolish. I know that But I can't help it — There it is.'

'You met her,' Ruth pointed out dispassionately, 'for just one evening.'

'Long enough, thanks.'

'And you haven't seen her for… how long?'

The other's reply was immediate, almost mechanical. 'Three years. One month. And four — no, five days. I'll tick off the calendar this morning.'

'Oh, Martini' The piano-keys jangled.