you, Papa. He has stopped on his way back from Cambridge to show us his-'
'The cfo-honorable Mr. Milbank,' Lord Marsden thundered. He raised his riding crop in a threatening gesture. 'Sir, I'll thank you to get your bloody contraption out of my stable yard. It's scared the horses and fouled the air. And there's not been tuppence of work out of anybody since you got here.' He glared at the motorcar. 'Not only wicked, but vulgar,' he muttered.
'But Papa,' Eleanor objected hurriedly, 'we've asked Mr. Milbank to stay to tea.'
'Didn't ask me,' Lord Marsden snapped, and stalked off.
Bradford looked chagrined. 'Fearfully sorry, old chap,' he muttered. ' 'The guv has no love for motorcars. But I didn't think he would be insulting.'
'Not to worry,' Mr. Milbank said comfortably. 'I'm continually being insulted. The motorcar has a way of stirring men up.' He buttoned up his dustcoat. 'Should be off, anyway. Dining in Colchester tonight. Friend of mine- actress- has removed there from London. D'you know her? Mrs. Farnsworth. Florence Faber, she was, when she was on the stage.'
'Oh, yes,' Miss Ardleigh said unexpectedly. 'My aunt introduced me to her last Saturday. Quite an interesting lady.'
Eleanor stared, her sensibilities obviously shocked. 'An… actress? And you found such a person… interesting?'
Miss Ardleigh smiled. 'I did indeed,' she answered. 'It was at her house that I met Conan Doyle, the author of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries-and Oscar Wilde, as well.'
'Dear Kathryn,' Eleanor said with a nervous turn of her head. 'Murder mysteries and Oscar Wilde. You constantly amaze me.' She paused, seeming to reflect. 'But then, you are an American. I suppose that is the explanation.'
'Doyle and Wilde, eh?' Milbank remarked with a laugh. 'That's Florence Farnsworth, to be sure. She dares to be both wicked and wonderful at once, and everyone flocks to her. What a creature.'
What a creature indeed, Charles was thinking. The object of his attention, however, was not Tommy Milbank's Farnsworth, but Miss Ardleigh, absorbed just now in her conversation with Eleanor. The woman at once intrigued and exasperated him. Stumbling onto the dig as if by accident, pretending that she had chanced into the railway station in search of a timetable, intruding upon his investigation of Prodger, finding that fragment of feather-blast it, the woman was ubiquitous! The more he thought about her, the more outrageous her behavior seemed to him. It was a wonder he had been able to get to Queen Street and back today without her turning up.
While the women talked, Bradford pulled Milbank aside. 'I wonder, Milbank,' he said, lowering his voice, 'if I might drive into Colchester with you. I have some questions about motorcars. In particular, about Mr. Harry Landers. He has
acquired a number of patent licenses and is planning to float a new company, which he calls the British Motor Car Syndicate. Are you acquainted with him?''
Charles turned his attention from Miss Ardleigh to Bradford. Harry Landers? If his friend was involved with that charlatan, no wonder he had been worried of late. Anything Landers turned his hand to be likely to prove a confidence game.
Milbank jerked on his helmet. 'To be sure, I know Landers,' he said. 'Wish I didn't, either,' he added.
'I think we had better talk,' Bradford said quietly. 'I'll get my coat.'
A few minutes later, Charles watched Bradford and Tommy Milbank drive off, accompanied by the vulgar belch-ings of the motor, the exultant shouts of small children, and the excited yapping of the manor dogs. Eleanor picked up the skirt of her green dress. 'I suppose we might as well go in to tea,' she said with evident regret. 'Although how Papa could be so rude-'
'Yes, he was rude, wasn't he?' Patsy said, frowning. 'I can't think why.' She shook her golden curls, clearly nettled. 'Mr. Milbank is such a handsome gentleman.' A veiled glance at Charles suggested that her remark was intended to inspire jealousy.
Charles responded with a quick smile. 'Handsome and rich,' he said agreeably. 'The Milbanks, of course, hold quite a prominent role in society.' Patsy lapsed into a thoughtful silence.
As they turned toward the manor house, Miss Ardleigh adroitly allowed the sisters to move ahead and fell in step with Charles. Although he was perfectly disposed to be irritated with this forward behavior, which so nearly resembled her brash intrusions of the past few days, he could not help noticing that the pale gold of her wool costume, reminiscent of champagne, was striking against her mahogany hair. And if he had not been distracted by the odd compound of irritation and admiration that swirled like an alchemist's brew inside him, he might have been prepared for the observation that followed her greeting. Instead, it startled him.
'I wonder,' she remarked, 'whether the portfolio under your arm contains the photographs of which we have spoken.'
Charles clutched his portfolio tighter. If he had looked into his feelings at this moment, he might have remarked that he was holding on to it exactly as a drowning man holds on to a life preserver. But he did not. 'As a matter of fact, it does,' he said stiffly. 'But I do not think it is especially prudent to-'
'You promised to show them to me,' Miss Ardleigh reminded him. Her sidewise glance seemed oddly merry, as if she were making fun of him. 'You think my interest… wicked? Or vulgar?'
'Neither.' He frowned. Actually, he found her interest both disconcerting and stimulating, but he could hardly tell her that. He settled for a caution that, even to his ears, sounded remarkably like something Sir Archibald or Lady Henrietta might say. 'They are, after all, the photographs of a dead man.'
'To be sure,' she said. She turned her head. 'Please do not think me callous if I say that the man's condition, while piteous, will not distress me, Sir Charles. And I hardly think that at this point it can distress him.'
In spite of himself, Charles almost smiled.
'Of course,' she added gravely, 'if showing the photo to me would offend your sensibilities…'
Charles opened his portfolio and pulled out a photograph of the dead man, stretched out on his back, hands resting on his midriff, and another of the wheel tracks.
Miss Ardleigh paused on the path and held the photograph in one gloved hand. A flicker of guarded recognition crossed her face. The corners of her lips tightened imperceptibly. She glanced up.
' 'Have the police progressed in their inquiries?''
'Frankly, no,' Charles confessed. 'You know as much as do the police. The only physical clues are those we discovered in Prodger's chaise-a peacock feather and a fingerprint. I doubt that even Doyle's ingenious Holmes could make much of either.'
'Indeed,' she said in an easy tone, brushing back a lock of rich auburn hair that escaped across her cheek. But she was still studying the photograph, as if memorizing it.
'The local police,' he said, watching her closely, 'appear to have reached the limit of their resources. Unfortunately, Inspector Wainwright refuses to call in the Yard. I gather that he had some former difficulty with them.'
There was a moment of silence. 'Have you enjoyed any success in your pursuit of the feather?'' she asked.
'None,' Charles said, 'although I have seen similar feathers in the lapels of two men. I plan to continue my search.'
'I see,' Miss Ardleigh said, handing back the photograph. 'And the ring the dead man is wearing-does it seem to you to be significant?'
The scarab ring? Charles realized that he had not considered the import of the ring's motif in any detailed way, interested as he had been in the problem of deciphering its inscription. 'If it does,' he said honestly, 'I did not think to inquire into it.' He turned toward her, hoping to flush out her interest with a direct question. 'Do you have a particular reason for your inquiries, Miss Ardleigh?'
She half turned away from him, and there was another silence. When she finally spoke, it was not in answer to his question. 'I have a thought, Sir Charles. I suggest that you show the photograph to Mrs. Florence Farnsworth, in Keenan Street, Colchester. She may perhaps be of assistance to you.'
'Mrs. Farnsworth,' Charles said. 'Is that not the lady of whom Mr. Milbank spoke a moment ago?''
'It is,' Miss Ardleigh replied, and began to walk in the direction Eleanor and Patsy had taken, leaving Charles standing in the path.
