The Skeleton in the Clock

'But Curtius Merrivale (or, as it might be, me) folded his arms, like this. And he looked up at the judge. And: 'Me lord,’ he says, this is a frame-up.' Have no fear, Sir Curtius,' says the judge, who was an honest man; for well I know,' he says, that there is hokey-pokey goin' on in this court.''

'Stop it!' cried Aunt Cicely.

'Hey?'

'You're joking. You're teasing met I don't like it.'

H.M. was completely taken aback with amazement

'Honest to God!' he said in purple-faced earnest and lifted his right hand to take the oath.

'But they didn't say it in those words, surely?'

'Well… now! I was only giving you the gist of it sort of. The original's in a manuscript I got at home.'

'But you make it sound so terribly unromantic!'

H.M. considered this. 'H'm, yes. Maybe I did make it a bit on the dry and legal side, at that'

Aunt Cicely leaned her head sideways against a wing of the chair. The dim lamp-light, in that corner dark red, made her blonde good-looks seem those of thirty instead of over fifty. One frail-looking hand trailed down over the arm of the chair.

'I've always half-believed in reincarnation,' Aunt Cicely murmured. ' 'His tragic marriage to Lucy Baimbridge, and the duel that followed,' she quoted softly, from H.M.'s slip of paper. 'Was she beautiful?'

'Uh-hun. Absolute stunner. I got her portrait at Cranleigh Court'

'My own marriage,' continued Aunt Cicely in the same faraway tone, 'was very happy. The world didn't understand George. He was dominant; I love dominance. Of course, with George, there was always the terrible responsibility of…'

'Aunt Cicely, seeming to wake up, paused. Only now did you notice that she wore rather heavy make-up, because of the pallor underneath. A bright arch animation swept round her an aura of charm; and she almost bounced in the chair, hands clasped, to pour eager questions at H.M.

'You were saying, ma'am?' asked H.M., in a sharply different tone of voice.

It was here that Aunt Cicely caught sight of Martin in the doorway. She sprang up in consternation and solicitude; and, as he advanced in what seemed to him a steady manner, she extended both hands with their flowing sleeves.

'Mr. Drake!' she exclaimed. 'You shouldn't have got up!'

Martin touched the cool fingertips.

'There's nothing wrong with me, Lady Fleet,' he told her. 'It was very kind of you to take such trouble.' Then he turned to H.M., the rush of gratitude showing in his face. 'Sir,' he said, 'I don't know how I'm going to thank…'

H.M., to conceal an exploding embarrassment which he would have denied under torture, raved and bellowed and shouted at him (for getting up) to such an extent that nobody could understand what the great man was saying. But Martin cut it short

'H.M., how did you know someone might try to — to—' he hesitated.

To push you off the roof?' ELM. supplied. '

To… what?' cried Aunt Cicely in horror.

H.M., his expression wooden, replied only by extending his own hands and making a lunging motion.

'But it was an accident' pleaded Aunt Cicely, retreating. Her eyes and mouth begged them to reassure her. 'Sophia said so. Dr. Laurier said so. I've always thought something might happen when the young people used that roof for parties, with drinks and everything. But they get older, you know, and you simply can't do anything with them.'

Her voice ran on, telling them Sophia said it only went to show, but Martin was not listening.

'H.M.,' he insisted, 'how did you know?'

H.M. looked uncomfortable.

'Oh, my son! I didn't know! It was only one of about eight possibilities, where I had to block the approach- shot somehow. Though, mind you, I thought it was the most probable.' '

Where I had to block the approach-shot somehow…

'Very early this morning,' said Martin, clearing his throat 'Jenny and I met Masters in a field near here. I asked him if he'd been at the prison during the night. Was he by any chance keeping an eye on my—welfare?'

That's right son. All night'

'Are you trying to tell me—' the words sounded wild, but Martin could not help using them—'that I've been a kind of focus for murder?'

'Uh-huh.'

'But that's impossible!'

'Son,' returned H.M., without any swelling of dignity, Tm the old man. I've got to believe,' scowling ferociously, he rapped his knuckles against his bald head, 'what this cokernut tells me is true. Even when Masters thought I was loopy and you won't believe it even now. I couldn't tell you, because— well, never mind the because. You were in a sweet whistlin' ring of danger. And you still are.' H.M.'s tone changed. 'Did you see who shoved you off that roof?'

'No.'

'Got any idea who it was?'

'No. What's more, I’ll swear my side of the roof was empty!' Then Martin flung this aside.

'Never mind the roof,' he said. 'What about the alarm-bell? I heard it ring as I went over. What happened?'

'Lord love a duck, didn't old Sophie tell you?'

'No! Either she was cantankerous, or she thought it wouldn't be a good thing to tell me. Is Stannard all right? I'll never forgive myself if anything happened to Stannard. Where's Stannard?'

'Stannard?' echoed H.M., in a huge puff of astonishment 'Oh, my son! Stannard's as right as right as rain. Though,' H.M. added in a curious tone, 'he did get a bit of a shock. Something like you, only in a different way.'

'Then if he.. what did happen?'

HM. looked at the wine-coloured carpet; teetered bulkily back and forth on his heels; hesitated, as though he could not quite place what he meant to say in the scheme of things; and looked up again.

'Murder,' he answered.

And, at the same moment the front door knocker began to rap sharply.

Chapter 14

To the sleek room, in tone dull-red and white and dark gold, these dim lamps lent at once an intimacy and a kind of religious hush. In a far corner stood a grand piano, with Sir George Fleet's framed photograph on its dull- gleaming top.

The questions which rushed from Martin—'Who was murdered? Where in the prison? When?' — were shushed by a particularly meaning look from H.M. Martin sank down into a deep sofa, feeling the pain-throbs above his eyes. All of them beard the nonchalant maid, Phyllis, saunter through the hall to open the front door.

'It's the cops again, m’lady,' rose the bored voice of Phyllis from outside.

The cops, on this occasion, were represented only by Chief Inspector Masters. Masters, holding a brown cardboard file in his left hand as well as the brief-case in his right, coughed with discomfort at the door of the drawing-room. His bowler hat was held under his arm.

Aunt Cicely responded automatically. Though clearly still frightened and shocked, it was apparent she had resigned herself to the belief that somebody, somehow, would take care of this matter. In white, with flowing sleeves, vivid against a Burgundy carpet, she turned to the newcomer.

'Mr. Masters! It was so kind of you to come’

'Well, all—' said Masters, completely off balance by this reception of a police officer, 'I'm not here, on official business, as you might say. I just wanted to pick up Sir Henry.'