wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. They saw him swallow before he spoke again.
‘Can I use your car?’
‘Of course! But -?’
‘I’ve got to get Doctor Preston,’ Lambert cut in, ‘and I’ll bring back the police myself. There’s been some more monkey business – some of the servants are carrying him inside -’
Elizabeth said sharply, ‘Who?’
‘ Rutland! They found him unconscious in the grounds near the garage, bleeding from a nasty wound.’ The novelist took a step forward into the room.
‘You see, Blackburn, somebody round here coshed him over the head with the proverbial blunt instrument. Don’t ask me who – because Rutland just isn’t talking!’
3
Eleven-thirty p.m. at Kettering Old House.
Benson eased the traymobile, with its silver and snowy napery through the entrance to the reception room and brought it to rest opposite Mr and Mrs Blackburn.
He spoke apologetically. ‘I trust tea and toast is sufficient, madam?’ He whisked the lid from a salver. ‘With the exception of William Darby, the servants are all in bed.’
‘So they should be,’ replied Jeffery. ‘Er – this William Darby – he was the man who struggled with Mr Rutland’s attacker?’
The butler nodded. From beneath the traymobile, he brought up a black leather bag. ‘This, sir, was found on the ground near Mr Rutland. It’s the property of Mr Wilkins, sir.’
As Jeffery took the bag and turned it over in his hands, Benson added, ‘The master, sir – is he all right?’
‘He will be,’ Jeffery assured him. ‘Miss Rountree is with him now. There’s nothing much we can do except wait for Mr Lambert to return with the doctor.’
Sensing dismissal, Benson started for the door. But Jeffery’s voice halted him. ‘Oh, Benson -’
‘Yes sir?’
‘What’s this story you told about a servant who was supposed to have disappeared from that room downstairs when the last people owned this place?’
On features less wooden, the expression that crossed Benson’s face might have been termed pained surprise. His pale eyes blinked.
‘Some mistake, sir, surely? Nothing like that happened while I was in service with the Lattimer family.’ He inclined his head as Jeffery dismissed him.
Blackburn turned to his wife. ‘Just as I said – a pack of naughty fibs on Sally’s part. And stop wolfing that toast. You’ll put on pounds overnight!’
Mrs Blackburn’s glance was withering. She reached for another buttered finger. ‘What actually happened out there in the garden?’
‘As far as we can make out, Rutland was walking toward the garage,’ Jeffery explained. ‘The Dark Invader leapt out of the shadows. William Darby, in the garage, came out just in time to see his employer tapped smartly on the head and the unknown disappearing into the darkness, leaving behind that bag.’
Elizabeth picked it up, and weighed it in her hand. ‘It’s locked,’ she announced.
‘Brilliant,’ observed Mr Blackburn. ‘For that you may have the last piece of toast.’
‘It’s burnt.’
‘Don’t cavil. Now, how the devil does one open a locked bag?’
‘I can lend you a bobby-pin -’
‘Darling,’ said Mr Blackburn with restraint, ‘outside of a B-class quickie, have you ever seen a man open a lock with a bobby-pin? No – hand me that butterknife!’
‘Jeff – now be careful!’
‘Leave it to me.’ He inserted the thin blade between the metal clasps and strained. Two things happened almost simultaneously. The blade broke and Mrs Blackburn gave a cry of alarm.
‘Clumsy ass!’
‘The hell with it,’ snarled Mr Blackburn, sucking an outraged finger. ‘I’m wounded, and it’s hurting like mad!’
‘Oh, don’t be a great boob,’ snapped Elizabeth. ‘Anyhow, according to Miss Rountree, there’s just no such thing as physical pain!’
‘Quite right, Mrs Blackburn!’
They wheeled. Florence Rountree stood in the entrance. That unruly wisp of grey hair snaked across a face correspondingly pale. Her thin fingers plucked and worried the artificial bouquet at her waist. She came forward, surveying the traymobile. Jeffery said hospitably.
‘Have the last piece of toast, Miss Rountree?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘How wise,’ murmured Jeffery. ‘It’s frightfully burnt underneath.’
Miss Rountree said coldly, ‘I may be rather old-fashioned in such matters. But you both appear singularly unperturbed about the happenings here.’
Jeffery shrugged. ‘Even a detective must keep body and soul together! Thank you, Beth. I’ll have another cup of tea.’
‘As a detective, Mr Blackburn, you seem to have made surprisingly little progress.’ Acidity edged her words. ‘Mr Wilkins – vanished! My poor nephew – brutally attacked! And Sally – where is she?’
Mr Blackburn smiled. ‘Suppose
‘I?’
Jeffery sipped his tea. ‘She was to have taken the short cut to the summer house and then come up to your room. That was why you pretended to go upstairs after dinner for that book. But you went to your room, to wait for Sally and join in the grand laugh against my wife. But Sally didn’t turn up. How worried you must have been! And how frantic you are right now!’
Miss Rountree sat down very suddenly. Her face seemed to shrivel and contract. She took off her glasses and dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. But no tears came; only short, dry sobs so embarrassing to hear that Elizabeth turned her face away.
‘I didn’t want to do it.’ Miss Rountree whispered. ‘Sally said it would be all right. That it was only a party game – a joke.’ The husky mutter ended abruptly in a quick, choked-off gasp. Elizabeth, looking up, saw she was staring at the french windows – windows which framed the figure of John Wilkins. A different Wilkins, no longer pink, immaculate and imperturbable, but flushed, and with the appearance of a man who had dressed in a great hurry.
‘Hello,’ he said and they noticed that he was breathless. ‘I suppose you’ve wondered what on earth happened to me?’
‘Mr Wilkins,’ gasped Florence Rountree. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I can tell you that,’ replied Jeffery and he held up the black bag. ‘Mr Wilkins has come back for this.’
Then things happened very quickly. Wilkins gave a little snort of anger and strode forward, snatching at the bag with greedy hands. At the same moment, Jeffery’s fingers tightened like iron on the handle. For some seconds, this frenzied tug-of-war continued, both men swaying and straining. There came the sudden sound of ripping material and the antagonists staggered back each holding part of the dismembered bag – a bag that vomited forth packets of crisp new banknotes. Some of these packets burst the rubber bands which held them and notes fluttered wildly to the floor so that Elizabeth stood soles-deep in a fortune. Then, like a quick-motion film suddenly jammed in the projector, the tableau froze. The two men stared down at the littered floor and while Wilkin’s face was angry and dismayed, Mr Blackburn’s countenance was deeply reproachful.
He looked up at Wilkins and shook his head. ‘Your shareholders are going to be very, very annoyed about this,’
