Mr. Daver, looking more impish than ever, gave her a brief interview on her arrival. It was he who took her to her office and very briefly explained her duties. They were neither heavy nor complicated, and she was relieved to discover that she had practically nothing whatever to do with the management of Larmes Keep. That was in the efficient hands of Mrs. Burton.
The staff of the hotel were housed in two cottages about a quarter of a mile from the Keep, only Mrs. Burton living on the premises.
“This keeps us more select,” said Mr. Daver. “Servants are an abominable nuisance. You agree with me? I thought you would. If they are needed in the night, both cottages have telephones, and Grainger, the porter, has a passkey to the outer door. That is an excellent arrangement—of which you approve? I am sure you do.”
Conversation with Mr. Daver was a little superfluous. He supplied his own answers to all questions.
He was leaving the office when she remembered his great study.
“Mr. Daver, do you know anything about the Flacks?”
He frowned.
“Flax? Let me see, what is flax?”
She spelled the name.
“A friend of mine told me about them the other day,” she said. “I thought you would know the name. They are a gang of criminals.”
“Flack! To be sure—to be sure! Dear me, how very interesting! Are you also a criminologist? John Flack, George Flack, Augustus Flack”—he spoke rapidly, ticking them off on his long, tobacco-stained fingers. “John Flack is in a criminal lunatic asylum; his two brothers … Terrible fellows, terrible, terrible fellows! What a marvellous institution is our police force! How wonderful is Scotland Yard! You agree with me? I was sure you would. Flack!” He frowned and shook his head. “I thought of dealing with the Flacks in a short monograph, but my data is not complete. Do you know them?”
She shook her head smilingly.
“No, I haven’t that advantage.”
“Terrible creatures,” said Mr. Daver. “Amazing creatures. Who is your friend, Miss Belman? I should like to meet him. Perhaps he could tell me something more about them.”
Margaret received the suggestion with dismay.
“Oh, no, you’re not likely to meet him,” she said hurriedly, “and I don’t think he would talk even if you met him—perhaps it was indiscreet of me to mention him at all.”
The conversation must have weighed on Mr. Daver’s mind, for just as she was leaving her office that night for her room, a very tired girl, he knocked at the door, opened it at her invitation, and stood in the doorway.
“I have been going into the records of the Flacks,” he said, “and it is surprising how little information there is. I have a newspaper cutting which says that John Flack is dead. He was the man who went into Broadmoor. Is he dead?”
Margaret shook her head.
“I couldn’t tell you,” she replied untruthfully. “I only heard a casual reference to him.”
Mr. Daver scratched his round chin.
“I thought possibly somebody might have told you a few facts which you, so to speak, a laywoman”—he giggled—“might have regarded as unimportant, but which I—”
He hesitated expectantly.
“That is all I know, Mr. Daver,” said Margaret.
She slept soundly that night; the distant hush-hush of the waves as they rolled up the long beach of Siltbury Bay lulling her to dreamless slumber.
Her duties did not begin till after breakfast, which she had in her office, and the largest part was the checking of the accounts. Apparently, Mrs. Burton attended to that side of the management, and it was only at the month’s end, when checks were to be drawn, that her work was likely to be heavy. In the main, her day was taken up with correspondence. There were some one hundred and forty applicants for her post, who had to be answered; there were, in addition, a number of letters from persons who desired accommodation at Larmes Keep. All these had to be taken to Mr. Daver, and it was remarkable how fastidious he was. For example:
“The Reverend John Quinton? No, no; we have one parson in the house, that is enough. Tell him we are very sorry but we are full up. Mrs. Bagley wishes to bring her daughter? Certainly not! I cannot have children distracting me with their noise. You agree? I see you do. Who is this woman—‘coming for a rest cure’? That means she’s ill. I cannot have Larmes Keep turned into a sanitarium. You may tell them all that there will be no accommodations until after Christmas. After Christmas they can all come—I am going abroad.”
The evenings were her own. She could, if she desired, go into Siltbury, which boasted two cinemas and a pierrot party, and Mr. Daver put the hotel car at her disposal for the purpose.
She preferred, however, to wander through the grounds. The estate was much larger than she had supposed. Behind, to the south of the house, it extended for half a mile, the boundary to the east being represented by the cliffs, along which a breast-high rubble wall had been built, and with excellent reason, for here the cliff fell sheer two hundred feet to the rocks below. At one place there had been a little landslide; the wall had been carried away and the gap had been temporarily filled by a wooden fence. Some attempt had been made to create a nine-hole golf course, she saw, as she wandered round, but evidently Mr. Daver had grown tired of this enterprise, for the greens were knee-high in waving grasses.
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