CHAPTER THREE
It was in the middle of breakfast when the telephone call came. Before then, Christmas had proceeded at the Manor with all its customary detail and ceremony.
Quite early in the morning Gently had been awakened by the sound of stirrings about the house and by distant, smothered laughter. Then he had heard the sound of bells ringing in the direction of Upfield-cum — Merely, nearly two miles off, and Gertrude, looking rather red and mischievous, had knocked on the door to ask him if he wanted to go to early morning service.
‘Are Sir Daynes and Lady Broke going?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Sir Daynes will read the lesson.’
‘Righto — run the bath. I’ll have my cuppa afterwards.’
The bath was run and Gertrude departed, after exchanging a merry Christmas with him. By the time he had dressed she was at his door again with tea and a hot mince pie.
‘I beg your pardon, sir…’
‘What is it, Gertrude?’
‘Well, sir, just come and see what’s happened outside your door!’
Gently duly went to see, and there surely never was a more demure Gertrude than the one who pointed out the little sprig of mistletoe that was pinned to the transom. Gently sent the baggage about her business in the approved fashion and appeared below stairs with a Christmas twinkle in his eye.
Then followed the drive through the dull and frosted Christmas morning, with the slated sky hanging low over the shallowly undulating fields and still, sepia groups of trees. The ploughed land looked pale under the frost; the smoke rose straight from the chimney of cottage and farmhouse. On their way they met nobody except the labouring postman, red-faced and steaming in spite of the nipping air, and for him Sir Daynes pulled up to bestow a Christmas box and the compliments of the season.
‘Wonder where Henry went this morning,’ observed the baronet as they were returning. ‘Usually comes to Upfield. Felt sure I’d see the feller.’
‘He’s probably gone to Wrentford,’ suggested Lady Broke. ‘It’s a good deal nearer to the Place, Daynes.’
‘Blasted high church!’ returned Sir Daynes irrelevantly.
In the breakfast room a notable fire was blazing, and a Christmas ham, breadcrumbed and frilled, occupied a place of honour on the well-furnished table. But first came the presents, in which Gently had not been forgotten, and then the opening of cards and letters and the cables from Singapore and Toronto. Then the plum porridge was brought in, the same with which the Man-in-the-Moon had erstwhile burnt his mouth, and finally Sir Daynes inserted a knife into that monstrous and delicate ham. At which point, with malicious timing, the telephone rang.
‘Damn!’ said Sir Daynes, and laid down the carvers.
Minutes later he returned, to stand uncertainly in the doorway.
‘What is it, Daynes?’ enquired Lady Broke anxiously. ‘Surely they’re not going to call you out today?’
Sir Daynes shook his head. He seemed at a loss to find words. Then he came into the room and stood staring curiously at Gently.
‘Of all the blasted things to happen!’ There was something like a tremor in his customarily aggressive voice. ‘That impertinent young American who was going to set the Manor alight… well, he’s dead. They found his body this morning. Seems as though he took a tumble down the stairway in the great hall… I’ve just been talking to Henry Somerhayes, and he’d like both of us to come straight over.’
‘I’d sooner have kept you out of this.’
Sir Daynes was driving viciously, and the Bentley was his car for the job.
‘The press have only got to get a smell of you, Gently, and they’ll dream up all sorts of nonsense.’
Gently nodded gloomily. ‘In addition to which he’s a United States citizen.’
‘Exactly, man. There’ll be trouble enough without adding fuel to it. In a way it’s a damn good job it’s Christmas. They won’t be able to print a line until the day after tomorrow. But you can see what they’ll make of it — “American Serviceman Found Dead in Peer’s Country Seat”. What would be the use of telling them that you were simply a guest of mine?’
Gently nodded again. He felt numbed by the whole business. In a short while he seemed really to have got to know Earle, to have acquired a personal interest in the boisterous young man. And he had been so young. Young, ardent and with all of a fascinating world just opening to him… ‘Either I go on the paper when I come out or else I don’t.’ How long would it be before a cable silenced the festivities in far-away Missouri?
‘D’you think he was drunk last night?’
‘No… not when we left.’
‘He may have got high after that. The post-mortem will tell us something.’
‘I don’t think he drank a lot. He didn’t drink on the train coming up.’
Sir Daynes snorted, as though he felt Gently might have supported such a useful proposition. They whirled through the Place gates and soared zestfully up the serpentine carriageway. The great yellow-brick front of the Place began to reveal itself through the groves of holm oak that Repton had planted there with such apparent casualness.
‘Just one thing, Gently.’ Sir Daynes flashed him a warning look. ‘We’d better get it straight — there’s been no suggestion of foul play. Personally I can’t think of anyone at the Place who’d want to do this young fellow an injury, and I don’t want you poking around as though someone had. You don’t mind me being frank?’
Gently shook his head.
‘Good,’ said Sir Daynes with satisfaction. ‘This is going to be a delicate business, and I want to handle it in my own way.’
Two cars stood parked on the terrace as the Bentley came sweeping up, both of them Wolseleys of the type favoured by the local constabulary. Under the restrained portico stood a constable, slowly rocking on his heels, looking like an icicle in spite of his buttoned-up topcoat. He marched stiffly down the steps and opened the door for Sir Daynes.
‘Woolston, is it?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s me.’
‘What the devil is the meaning of this cavalcade, Woolston?’
The constable looked bewildered. ‘It’s Inspector Dyson, sir. He’s got the surgeon and Sergeant Turner with him.’
‘What the blasted hell for? Someone pinched the Crown jewels? And get inside that door, man. You can guard it quite as well in the hall.’
Up the steps strode Sir Daynes, Gently and the squashed constable in his wake. The hall, unlit today, looked shadowed and gloomy, but just as they entered there was a hissing flash, and a lurid light reached momentarily to the distant corners. At the foot of the stairs stood a group of six men in an irregular semi-circle, one of them playing with a camera and tripod. In the centre of the semi-circle lay a still, dark, sprawling starfish, near it a navy blanket, which had apparently been used as a cover. Sir Daynes stormed up to this group like a lion pouncing on its prey.
‘Dyson!’ he barked. ‘Dyson! What in the blue blazes is all this tomfoolery?’
A tall, thin-faced man with buck teeth spun round as though he had been bitten.
‘Ah — ah — I beg your pardon, sir?’ he stammered.
‘This!’ fulminated Sir Daynes, with an inclusive sweep of his arm. ‘What is it, man? What are you playing at? Why have you got these fellows here?’
Poor Dyson gaped and swallowed and ran a tongue over his divorced upper lip. ‘I–I — we were called in, sir. Matter of routine…’
‘Routine be beggared! Do you have to turn out a homicide team to take particulars of an accidental death? Why, man, a blasted constable would have done. Wasn’t I there, living right next door? Why didn’t you get in touch with me?’
‘Well, sir… Christmas Day…’
‘Don’t talk to me of Christmas Day, Dyson!’ Sir Daynes was withering in his wrath. ‘As far as the police are
