“Now what in wonder have you to do with the Lunt case?”
Nurse Dauntsey blushed. “I’m engaged, Mr. Fortune,” she said.
“Well, he’s a very lucky man. And I hope you’re a lucky girl.”
“Oh, I am,” said Nurse Dauntsey, with conviction. “He has been arrested. They say he murdered Sir Albert Lunt. Mr. Fortune, you will help us?”
“Who in creation is the lucky man?”
“His name is Vernon Cranford. He’s a mining engineer. Oh, he’s been everywhere. He’s a born explorer, you know. He discovered a copper mine in Portuguese East Africa, one of the richest mines in the world. He came home last year and told Sir Albert Lunt about it, and Sir Albert sent him out to show the place. There was a sort of expedition, you know. And then, somehow, on the way up country Vernon was left behind. The other men tricked him. And when he got back to Mozambique he found that the other men had claimed the place was theirs. They had—what do you call it?—secured the concession, the rights in it. Wasn’t it a shame? Vernon was just furious. I don’t know quite how it happened. He only came back on Monday. I know he thought it was Sir Albert Lunt’s fault. He said he was going to see him and have it out with him. He was going to see him yesterday. And then, last night, I had this note from him.” She held it out, then couldn’t bear to let it out of her hands, and so read it to him.
“Dear Jo—You mustn’t worry. Lunt’s been found shot, and the police have pinched me. Take it easy and go slow, and we’ll comb it all out.—Yours, V.”
Nurse Dauntsey gazed at Reggie with very big eyes.
“Sounds as if he knew his own mind,” Reggie murmured. “And all this bein’ thus, you want me to take up the case. Why?”
Nurse Dauntsey was startled. “But to get him off, of course—to defend him.”
“Yes. But don’t let’s be previous. Speakin’ frankly, did he do it?”
Nurse Dauntsey stood up. “I am engaged to him, Mr. Fortune,” she said with dignity.
“Quite. That’s the best thing I know about him. But I don’t know much else.”
“And I am sure he’s not guilty.”
“That kind of man, is he?”
“Just that kind of man,” said Nurse Dauntsey, and her eyes glowed. “He couldn’t do anything that wasn’t fair and clean.”
“Then he’d better have a solicitor. Do you suppose he’s got one?”
“He’d never think of such a thing.”
“Make him have Moss and Gordon. Ask for Donald Gordon, and say I sent you.”
“But I want you, Mr. Fortune. You know there’s no one like you.”
“I blush. We both blush.” Reggie smiled at her. “Well, nurse, two other people have called me into the Lunt case.” Nurse Dauntsey cried out, and her nice face was piteous. “Take it easy and go slow, as V. Cranford says. I’m going down to Prior’s Colney now to find out who I’m acting for. Oh, my dear girl, don’t cry. I’m guessing it may be you. Now you be a good girl, and take Donald Gordon to him.”
Nurse Dauntsey held out her hands. “Oh, Mr. Fortune, don’t go against him,” she cried.
Safe in his car, Reggie communed with himself. “She’s a lamb. But disturbing to the intellects. Well, well. I’ll have to make Brer Lomas sit up and take notice.”
It was a clear cold morning of early spring, and Reggie shrank under his rugs. He had no love for east winds. He thought that there should be a close time for murders. He was elaborating a scheme by which the murder and the cricket seasons should be conterminous, when, at about twenty-five miles from London, they passed a horrible building. It was some distance from the high road, perched on the top of a small hill. It was of very red brick and very white stone, so arranged as to suggest the streaky bacon which might be made of a pig who had died in convulsions. It was ornate with the most improbable decorations, colonnades, battlements, a spire or so, oriel windows, a dome, Tudor chimneys, and some wedding-cake furbelows.
Reggie writhed and called to his factotum, who was sitting beside the chauffeur. “Sam, who had that nightmare?”
“That must be Colney Towers, sir. Mr. Victor Lunt’s place.”
Reggie groaned. “And Victor yet lives!”
A mile or two farther on they ran into a village which, before ruthless fellows stuck garden-city cottages on to it, must have been placid and pretty. The car drew up at an honest Georgian lump of red brick which bore the plate of Dr. Gerald Barnes.
Gerald Barnes was a ruddy young man who looked and dressed like a farmer. “I say, this is very decent of you. Jolly day, isn’t it?” he bustled.
“Have you a fire, Barnes—a large fire? Put me on it,” said Reggie. “And don’t be so cheerful. It unnerves me.” Still in his fur coat, Reggie planted himself in front of the consulting-room hearth. “Now, what do you want me for?”
“Well, it’s not so much me, though I’d like your opinion. It’s more Lady Lunt. Medically speaking, it’s a pretty straight case. Lunt was shot in the chest and the bullet lodged in the spine, .38 revolver bullet. So there’s not much doubt about the cause of death, what? But there are one or two odd things. The right thumb seems to be sprained. There’s a nasty wound over the left eye—seems to have been made by a blow.”
“Sounds messy. Where do I come in?”
“Why, I don’t quite see my way through it. If a fellow had a pistol ready to use, why bash the beggar? It’s a futile sort of wound too, nasty mess, but not dangerous. But you’d better see the body. Fortune.”
“Oh, let me thaw. So Lady Lunt’s not satisfied with the police?”
“No, by Jove, she isn’t. I say, Fortune, how did you know
