enjoyed their visit but for two distressing and extraordinarily harassing thoughts. One was the thought of the spade he had hidden in his bed. It had been propped up against his wardrobe door and covered decently with his evening clothes until three o’clock that afternoon. He had planned to carry it down to dinner and rag Jim about it. But at three o’clock the police had arrived. They began asking for news of Rupert. There was bruited abroad the theory that Rupert had disappeared. It was rumoured that Jim Redsey had lied; that Rupert had never intended nor spoken of going to America. It was even darkly hinted that Jim Redsey could say a great deal about Rupert’s whereabouts if he chose, but – with a significant pause – that he did not choose.
And there was an almost unrecognizable corpse down in Bossbury – fattish – aged about forty –
And Jim had dug a hole – rather like a grave – in the Manor Woods on the previous night. That was the second harassing thought.
And there was no doubt that Jim had got wind up – shocking wind up – especially when he saw the police coming up the drive!
Aubrey stood up. When in doubt, the old and experienced call canny. Youth is impetuous. Youth is inclined to be rash. Aubrey’s rule, when he was seriously afraid of anything, was to make a wild dash at it. He had learnt to dive that way. He seized the spade and crept downstairs with it. He entered the drawing-room, whence came a narrow shaft of light beneath the door, and ‘stood easy’ with the edge of the spade on the carpet.
‘Oh, Jim, old bird,’ he said in an airy tone.
Jim Redsey, who was standing on the drawing-room hearthrug gazing earnestly at his reflection in an oval mirror which hung over the mantelpiece, turned with a start. His eye fell immediately upon the spade which Aubrey was holding.
‘What the devil is that?’ he cried. His eyes were almost starting out of his head with terror, and, as he pointed to the cumbersome implement, his hand shook so badly that he lowered it in haste.
‘I hate to ask you, old lad,’ said Aubrey pleasantly, ‘but, as man to man, and without prejudice on either side – where
II
‘Those flannel bags,’ said Cleaver Wright, laughing as well as he could with a badly swollen lip, ‘are. my flannel bags. Go and find your own moth-eaten and corruptible garments, and leave a gentleman’s clothes alone.’
George William Savile smiled. His perfect teeth were his great pride. He smoothed down his already sleek and shining hair and held the garments in question up to the light.
‘Lulu,’ he said, ‘I appeal to you. Are not those my trousers?’
‘Gawd only knows,’ responded the lady, indolently raising herself from the bed on one perfect arm and eyeing the whole tableau, men and trousers alike, with great distaste. ‘And ’E won’t tell,’ she added, with the proverbial fatalism of the true Cockney. She slid down again and closed eyes that would have conquered Galahad. ‘And now get out, you –, – swine,’ she said. ‘Both of you!’
III
Felicity Broome was in a quandary.
‘I suppose I ought to tell father,’ she thought, ‘but really he’s such a priceless old ass, he’d only go and tell the wrong people and get somebody into trouble.’
She looked at the clock. It was eleven p.m. ‘And it’s at least ten minutes slow,’ she reflected. ‘I wonder whether Aubrey is in bed? He’s young, but he’s awfully sensible. I’ll talk it over with him, and see what he can suggest.’
She reconnoitred. All was well. She climbed out of her bedroom window, slid down the porch, and was soon at the gate.
After her experiences of the previous night, she felt nervous at the idea of traversing the Manor Woods. However, the way round by the lodge was so very much longer, and the thought of finding the gate closed when she eventually arrived there so disheartened her that she decided to summon all the resolution she possessed and dare the woodland path. She entered the little wicket gate, found the main path through the woods, and ran.
The drawing-room, like the library, looked out on to the lawn. Felicity saw a light shining through the curtains as she emerged from the darkness of the trees, and made directly for it. As she approached, she heard a heavy crash. Her heart leapt. Her pulses raced. Her head swam, and her knees knocked together. At the same instant the light went out, and Aubrey’s boyish accents, raised in something between fear and horror, cried:
‘Cheese it, you stiff! You’ll do me in, you fool!’
The mother, that sleeping lioness which inhabits all of us, however weak and timorous we be, awoke to frenzied life in Felicity’s breast. She dashed towards the French windows and banged frantically on the glass. Jim Redsey’s voice exclaimed:
‘Hullo! Who’s that?’
Felicity banged again, and somebody inside the room switched on the light. A voice behind the curtains said:
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me!’ said Felicity, with an ungrammatical terseness born of nervousness. ‘Let me come in! Quick, quick!’
A fumbling at the catch, and Aubrey opened the French windows. Except for himself, the room was deserted.
‘Where’s Jimsey?’ asked Felicity, surprised. Aubrey carefully closed the French windows before giving her any answer.
‘Gone to bed,’ he replied laconically.
‘Who were you shouting at just now?’
‘Me?’
‘Don’t be silly! Who was being unkind to you?’
‘No one, dear child. I am the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley. Nobody is ever unkind to me.’
Felicity stamped impatiently.
‘Naughty,’ said Aubrey, unperturbed. He bent and picked up the spade, which was lying across the splintered top of a small occasional table.
‘I suppose you’ve heard the glad tidings that are round the village?’ he asked.
‘You mean the murder? Aubrey, that’s what I’ve come to see you about. You know our dust-heap?’
‘Survivals of mediaeval England,’ said Aubrey, grinning. ‘In other words, past pluperfect of the verb stinkay – to give forth an obtrusive odour with malice aforethought. I know it, yes.’
‘I agree it’s time something was done about it,’ said Felicity with a grimace of disgust. ‘Well, this time it’s excelled itself.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I always have to go and inspect it, because Mary Kate Maloney will throw food away if I relax my vigilance, and, between friends, we can’t afford to be wasteful. Besides, it’s wicked. Well, on the dust-heap I found a suitcase. It has Rupert Sethleigh’s initials on it. In fact, I’m practically certain that it’s the same suitcase he lent Father when we went away for a holiday last month.’
‘And that’s Mary Kate’s neighbourly way of returning it,’ grinned Aubrey.
‘I don’t know about that. I thought Father had returned it – properly. What terrifies me is –’ she paused, and a slight frown settled between her eyes – ‘the inside of the case is horribly stained with blood.’
With no thought of waking his mother, with no thought for anything except Felicity’s news, Aubrey whistled.
‘My – hat!’ he said, aghast. Added to his own surmises, theories, and fears, these seemed dreadful tidings.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ agreed Felicity, subscribing to the thought and not to the inadequate expression which clothed it. ‘You see – it’s so awkward, with poor old Jimsey digging that ghastly grave and everything!’
‘Eh?’ said Aubrey, startled.
‘I was in the woods last night – out for a walk,’ Felicity explained. ‘I saw him chasing you.’
‘Oh, I see. We’re in this together then? Good! You know the Roberts have been here all the afternoon, don’t
