The Skeleton in the Clock

to four o'clock in the morning, when it begins to grow daylight 'Spend the night' was I think the term you used?'

'Something like that yes’'

Stannard threw the key up and caught it

'There it was,' he concluded, with a husky sigh of regret 'What a pity you can't accept'

'Pardon me,' Martin told him. 'After you said you insisted on holding to it, I never said I wouldn't accept'

Stannard caught the key with a flat smack against his palm, and looked up.

'Meaning what?'

'That I do accept with great pleasure.'

There was a silence. If a short time before Fleet House might have laughed, now- it seemed to be listening. Ruth, her white teeth fastened in her under-lip, hesitated.

'You mean that?' Stannard demanded.

'Naturally I mean it' Martin reflected. 'We do all this, of course, in the dark?'

Stannard was slightly taken aback.

'No,' be answered, after a slight hesitation. 'Even in the best ghost-hunting tradition, that's not necessary. I have brought several portable electric lamps, with plenty of spare batteries. Each of us may have a lamp. If only,' he added, 'to read and pass the time.'

'You know, Martin,'' Ruth said dreamily, 'this means you won't see Jenny tonight'

Jenny! How to explain that he couldn't back out, literally and physically couldn't, if Stannard insisted? You touched a switch, you touched an emotion; you set forces moving, and you must go with them. Jenny would understand it Surely Jenny would understand it! He could telephone her, and then go out to Brayle Manor.

'All the same,' Ruth was saying in a troubled voice, 'I almost wish I hadn't encouraged this. Or — arranged it'

'Arranged it?' said Stannard, and looked at her with genuine astonishment 'My dear girl, Mr. Drake suggested it I arranged it' The blood came into his already reddish face. 'I wanted to show you, my dear, that these young men, with their war-records and their infantile prancings, are not the only ones to be depended on.'

Abruptly he pulled himself together, as though he had said too much.

'But — Stan.' There was an affectionate note in Ruth's voice. 'You didn't tell me these 'conditions.'' 'A little surprise.'

'You see,' Ruth braced herself, 'I'm going to the prison. And other people are wild to go too. Ricky Fleet and even Dr. Laurier. When they were having that argument at the Dragon's Rest, Dr. Laurier said he'd consider himself insulted if he didn't get an invitation.'

Stannard lifted his thick shoulders.

'I see no reason why a dozen shouldn't go,' he said. 'If they all consent to leave the prison at midnight when the test begins. You agree, my dear fellow?'

'I do.'

'This affair is between the two of us?'

'By God, it is!' said Martin. 'And, as Ruth says, you imposed the conditions. Now I impose one.'

'Ah!' murmured Stannard, casting up his eyes in sardonic melancholy. 'I fear, I very much fear, someone may be backing down again. However, what is the condition?'

'That both of you tell me,' Martin replied unexpectedly, 'what you know about the death of Sir George Fleet some twenty years ago.'

Again there was a silence. Ruth, her dark-brown eyes wide with wonder, merely seemed puzzled. Stannard, his eyes quizzical, seemed to hold behind locked teeth some chuckle which shook his stocky body. It was at this point that Ricky Fleet, his hair troubled by ruffling fingers, came into the library.

'I second that motion,' Ricky declared. He went to stand by Martin.

'Ricky, darling!' cried Ruth. He kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek, and pressed her shoulder. All this time his eyes were fixed in a puzzled, troubled way on Stannard.

'But you haven't met Mr. Stannard!' Ruth added, and performed introductions. 'How is your mother?'

'Pretty well, thanks. She's taken a sedative. But it hasn't had much effect, and she'll probably be down to dinner. You know—' Ricky tugged his necktie still further in the direction of his ear—'a lot of talk about my governor's death always upsets her. But she never minds a reference or a comment, and we cured her long ago of any dislike about going up to the roof.'

Still he was looking in that same puzzled way at Stannard.

'On my word of honour, Mr. Fleet,' the other assured him gravely, 'I made no more than a casual reference. Ruth will verify that.'

'Then it must have been something else. She was all right at breakfast; though, come to think of it, she did look a bit disturbed and disappointed at breakfast. But nothing wrong. She keeps talking about…'

'Mr. Richard!' called a weary female voice from the doorway.

Martin recognized the voice, very quickly, as that of the maid who had answered him on the telephone, and who had evidently met more than one American G.I. She was a brown-haired girl in her twenties, combining an air of boredom with conscientiousness. Though she wore cap and apron, she lounged in the doorway with her weight on one hip.

'Yes, Phyllis?'

'Your mother,' said Phyllis, 'don't like trespassers. There's been a trespasser out on the lawn for one hell of a long time.' 'Please don't bother me, Phyllis!'

'This trespasser,' continued Phyllis, jerking her thumb over her shoulder in a way which may be seen on the films, 'is a fat old guy with a big stomach and a bald head. I think he's nuts, because he gave the gardener some money. Now he's arguing with the gardener about how high you can grow tomato plants and still get the best tomatoes.'

That's H.M.,' said Martin. 'Sir Henry Merrivale.'

Stannard dropped the big key on the plan beside his discarded pencil. 'Merrivale!' he exclaimed.

'Does that mean anything?' asked Ruth. 'I think I heard the name from Jenny, but—'

'My dear Ruth.' Stannard paused. 'If I had that man against me in a criminal case, I'd think I had a walkover from the beginning and then suddenly discover I hadn't a leg to stand on. He's the craftiest old devil on earth. If he's here now, it means…'

Martin hurried to the nearer of the east windows and peered out sideways. He saw the crafty old devil almost at once. On the smooth lawn stood a tall stepladder, with a pair of pruning-shears near it. Beside it stood H.M. and a dour-faced man in overalls. H.M., glaring, was holding his band in the air to indicate a tomato-plant of improbable height. The dour-faced man shook his head with a fishy smile. H.M. levelled a finger at him in question. The dour- faced man still smiled fishily. Whereupon H.M. climbed nearly to the top of the stepladder, turned round, and indicated a tomato-plant of such height that it could have been credited only by a believer in Jack and the beanstalk.

But Martin saw something else. Towards their left was the gravel path, tree-shaded, leading to the front door. Up this path marched the Dowager Countess of Brayle.

Martin swung round and addressed Ricky. 'Do you by any chance want peace and quiet in the house?'

'God knows I do,' answered the harassed Ricky, who was still glancing at Stannard to remember where he had seen the man before. 'It's all I do want Why?'

'Lady Brayle,' Martin told him, 'is coming up the path. Sir Henry is on the lawn.'

'What about it?'

'Those two,' said Martin, 'act on each other like a lighted match in a box full of fireworks. Go out and grab 'em! Go out and bring 'em in here, where we can keep an eye on both! Quick! Hurry!'

Chapter 8

At one side of the broad leather-topped desk in the library stood H.M. At the other stood Lady Brayle.