The Skeleton in the Clock

His head swam dizzily. His heart beat hard, though it was slowing down. There was sweat on his forehead, and his shirt stuck to his back. He hadn't quite realized the heat and oppressiveness in there. The others had been the same as himself, dust-grimed figures — except for Ruth, who in some inexplicable fashion preserved her freshness, the trim up-swept hair-do — but at the time he hadn't noticed it

You couldn't call this place exactly soothing; yet it was soothing by contrast to that force which had put the black dog on his back in the condemned cell. Soothing! The lamp shed a thin beam at his feet across the floor. With Stevenson, and tobacco, he could easily pass less than four hours until dawn.

Smoking here? Yes; the paper bales were a good distance away. He lit a cigarette, drawing in smoke deeply and again relaxation; and out of the smoke swam Jenny, and Jenny's look, and Jenny's present address'.

Well, Martin thought grimly, he had got that address.

Vividly he remembered how, at the telephone in the hall of Fleet House at well past seven that evening, he had got in touch with Dawson the butler at Brayle Manor. Dawson couldn't be overheard. The Old Dragon was upstairs at Fleet House with Aunt Cicely.

'I am sorry, sir, the voice told him. ‘Tm not at liberty to say where Lady Jennifer is.'

'Yes, I appreciate that,' Martin had answered. 'But I'll pay you five hundred pounds if you do.'

The telephone, so to speak, shook at its moorings.

If you want to bribe anybody, Martin thought, don't mess in small craftiness with ten-bob notes, or there'll only be haggling and you'll lose. Hit your man in the eye with a sum so staggering that he'll fall all over himself to get it

'Go on!' jeered the telephone, in a startlingly different tone, but much lower-voiced. 'How do I know you can pay that?'

The banks are closed. But did you ever hear of Mr. Joseph Anthony? He's the biggest art-dealer in London.'

'Yes, sir,' the voice muttered respectfully. 'We've had to— ' the word 'sell' seemed to tremble on his lips.

'His private 'phone-number is Grosvenor 0011. Confirm it with Information if you doubt me. I'm going to 'phone him now. You ring him in about fifteen minutes. Ask him then if he's ready, on my say-so, to send you his own personal cheque for that amount The cheque will reach you tomorrow, and won't be stopped unless you've given me a fake address.'

'The… the address is not on the 'phone, sir.'

'Never mind. Get it!'

Then he had 'phoned Joe Anthony; and waited in agony, twisting his knuckles, for Dawson's return-call. Curious, too: once or twice he imagined he had heard somebody whispering in the background while he spoke to Dawson. Then the telephone pealed its double-ring.

That's all right, sir,' Dawson muttered. The address is not exactly in London.'

'I didn't suppose it was, or the old — she wouldn't have told me so.'

'Care of Mr. and Mrs. Ives, Ranham Old Park, Ranham, Hertfordshire.'

Serene satisfaction animated Martin when he wrote it down, and put it in his pocket. He was still sitting by the telephone in the hall when Lady Brayle herself came downstairs past the dying light from the tall arched window.

Martin, startled, did not get up. She did not look at him; was not conscious of him. On her face was an expression he failed to read. She marched on her flat heels, shoulders swinging a little, to the front door; and departed without a word to anybody.

Then there had been dinner in the high square room at the back of Fleet House, candle-flames on polished wood making a shimmer against daylight through garden trees. H.M. and Masters had somewhat hastily departed after the interview on the roof, saying they were going to see the local police at Brayle. Ricky insisted on Martin's bringing his bag across from the inn. Then the long sitting in the back garden — Dr. Laurier arriving in his own car from just outside Brayle, Ricky rushing into the house to see how his mother was — until the position of the quarter-moon above rustling darkness told them it was time to…

Yes; he had got that address!

Sitting back relaxed, the cigarette-end glowing red against the darkness of Pentecost, Martin felt cool in temperature as well as mind; and he smiled. Tomorrow morning, very early, he would see what train-connections he could make for Ranham in Hertfordshire.

'With luck,' he said aloud, 'I might get there at breakfast-time.''

The sound of his own voice startled him. By the Lord, he was jumpier than he'd thought! Not a whisper of noise had come from beyond the iron door. Stannard must be sitting in the rocking chair, perhaps wheezing a little as he read Chekhov, near the closed gallows-trap. Martin reached down for the Stevenson; and then flung his head round.

Something was moving and rustling among the paper bales.

Steady, now!

He dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his foot. Reaching down for the lamp, he directed it towards the aisle between bales and wall. Whoever it was, the person carried a light Out into the open emerged Ruth Callice: her face anxious, her finger at her lip.

'What the devil are you…?'

'Sh!' Ruth tiptoed over. 'I know I'm breaking my promise. But I had to talk to you alone.'

This was the Ruth he had known on Thursday night, and for so long: the dark-brown eyes softened and upturned, the hps half parted, that sense of 'niceness' which so many persons found impossible to describe. Her sweater-and-slacks costume, Martin observed for the first time, became her very well. She looked at the iron door.

'Can Stan hear us?'

'I don't think so, unless you shout. The door of the — that place is thick oak, and he's got it closed. Where are the others?'

'They went home. I knew / was perfectly at home, if I had a lamp and that thread guide-line.' Ruth's smooth forehead slightly wrinkled; a smile curved up the corner of her lip. 'Sit down,' she invited, 'and move over. Have you a cigarette?'

Martin put down the light in its old position with Ruth's lamp beside it, and lit cigarettes for both of them. With his eyes becoming accustomed to near-darkness, he could see that the paper-mountains had been built up on the side of windows. He was acutely conscious of something else: Ruth's physical nearness.

'I suppose,'' Ruth said softly, when the cigarette had several times pulsed and darkened, 'you thought I behaved very badly today?'

He had forgotten all about it 'No, not in the least' 'Well, I did.'

'Never mind your behaviour. Why didn’t you ever tell me you knew Jenny? You knew I'd been searching for three years

'Pardon me,' Ruth corrected. 'I learned it just under a year ago. You got horribly drunk and told me all about it'

'Yes. That's true. I remember. Even so!—'

'Oh, I wish I could make you understand!' The cigarette glowed and darkened nervously. Ruth half turned; In near-darknss he could see the sincerity, the deep earnestness, in the gleam of her eyes. 'I had to know whether it was right for both of you, and that wasn't easy. I had to decide what was best'

'You had to decide what was best for us?'

'Yes.'

'Forgive me, Ruth. But can you, or I, or anybody else in this bloody Socialist world, say what's best for his neighbour?'

'I knew you wouldn't understand. You see, I'm very fond of Jenny, and I—am rather fond of you. Jenny's had a queer upbringing. Her father and mother, the Earl and Countess, never got on well. Her mother's dead. Her father lives abroad: in Sweden, I think.'

'Yes. So Jenny told me.'

'She's been brought up by this stately grandmother…' 'And you think the old she-dog can stop Jenny from