The Skeleton in the Clock

Puckston shut his eyes.

'You saw the field gallop round the side of Black Hanger. Through the telescope they all seemed to be waving and smiling at you. You wondered who it could be for just like Frew. You turned round and raked your telescope along till you saw your enemy, George Fleet, a few seconds before be fell. Is that true?'

'Yes,' said Puckston without opening his eyes.

'But you were looking at him sideways — a good distance sideways — instead of face on. That's how you came to see…'

'See what?'

'The pink flash. Just like open and shut, wasn't it?'

Were they coming at last, Martin wondered, to the explanation of that tantalizing obscurity which (Masters seemed to think) was connected with a wooden beach-chair? He, Martin Drake, had been pushed by a pair of hands. Or could he swear he had? The soft, gentle growl of H.M.'s voice went on.

'To clinch it,' said H.M., 'here's a final bit of your story. You tell in this record (Oh, lord love a duck!) about how Dr. Laurier ran out on the terrace, and the constable came up. Now you're speakin', son.'

And they saw, through Puckston's eyes, the scene played against the white facade.

Dr. Laurier said something, and Bert picked up Sir George's binoculars and walked into the house. Dr. Laurier said something else, and Lady Brayle came out with some kind of cloth. I said aloud, 'The bastard is dead.'

Puckston stared at a salt-cellar on the frayed white-and-yellow cloth.

'I never made no bones about what I thought of him. Maybe I oughtn't to have said that, with the hymns tonight and all. But that's how I felt. And still do.'

H.M. held up a hand for silence.

Dr. Laurier put the cloth over his head. Lady Fleet came out and started to faint, but they talked to her a while and she went in. The governess and the boy came round the house then, but Dr. Laurier yelled so loud you could hear to go back. Dr. Laurier made as if he was examining all over Sir George. I did not see anybody at the windows. Bert came out and seemed to argue with Dr. Laurier about who carried Sir George. Bert took his head in the cloth and Dr. Laurier took his legs. They carried him in the house. Lady Fleet came out again once and looked up. That was all I saw before I slid down.

Puckston smote the table.

'And there's not a word of a lie in that,' he insisted. 'Simon could—'

'Sure, son. I know. It agrees with what Simon Frew said, and the other fellers who were farther down on the roof. But, considering what I've read, can you tell me more about the pink flash now?'

Puckston looked vacant

'I was sure what it was.' Again his hand mechanically brushed the table-cloth. 'Anyway, I was pretty sure. But…'

'But you were glad Fleet was dead. And anyway you didn't want trouble, because you were scared of the nobs.'

'Nice lot, aren't they? Lady Brayle..'

'Sure, Sophie's one of the bad examples. That's because she's so goddam cloth-headed. She ought to be either ousted or made popular. But when you sent that anonymous card with the fancy words 'pink flash'…'

Any reference to those cards, no matter with how gentle probing, seemed to send Puckston frantic

'Enid didn't know nothing about it' he pleaded. 'It was only a lark, don't you see? She loved larks. That's how they got her up to Pentecost, because it was a lark. Because all the gossip was round they were looking for ghosts. Because…'

Puckston got up. He stumbled across to a kitchen dresser with an oil-cloth top, fumbled in a drawer, and brought out a table-cloth to dab at his eyes. Then he turned round.

'It was Enid,' he said, 'who thought of saying ‘pink flash.' I–I hemm'd and hawed.' Puckston's freckled bald head stood out against the white-brick wall. His thin shoulders, square like a scarecrow's in the old blue-and-white shirt were humped up.

'I hemm'd and hawed, not wanting to say much. And Enid, she said, 'Well, Daddy, what did it look like?’ And I told her. And she thought for a minute and said, 'I know, Daddy! We'll call it a pink flash.' And she put it down,'

'Ah!' said HM 'Now we got it!'

'Got what?'

Statement and question were flung across that warm kitchen. Martin knew that a scale-pan hung in the balance, that a gambler prepared to play.

'You've been torturin' yourself,' said H.M., 'because you thought you were responsible for that kid's death. You thought some swine believed she knew too much, and killed her.'

Puckston put the table-cloth in front of his face.

'I don't hold many things sacred,' said H.M., 'but I swear you on what I do hold sacred that you're wrong. Wrong! That wasn't the reason! It wasnt even a reason you or I could understand.'

The table-cloth fell to the floor. ‘’Ere! Are you trying to.?'

'No. I can prove it, son. And if I do prove it,' said H.M., with such a radiance of conviction that the other did not move, 'will you help me with something else?'

Ten seconds ticked past. Puckston walked across to the table and extended his hand. H.M. gripped it After this be slid back in his chair with a Gargantuan thump, and breathed noisily. Slowly his head turned round.

'You,' he glared at Martin with incredible malevolence, ‘What are you doin’ here, son?'

'But you asked me to—''

'You go out in that passage,' H.M. ordered sternly, 'and you wait there till I talk to you. You've served the purpose. Now the garden's lovely. Sling your hook.'

Martin felt no surprise now when he remembered having heard that Chief Inspectors sometimes came within an ace of murdering Sir Henry Merrivale. He knew why. Deeply he could sympathize. In fact as his eye caught a bowl of Jell-o on the sideboard, he wondered how its contents would look if they were tastefully pressed down on H.M.'s skull.

But he went out into the passage and closed the door.

'You've served the purpose.' What purpose? Why had he been brought to see the Puckstons? He was beginning to suspect H.M. of a purpose in everything, but what purpose in this?

The long passage, with its single dim lamp, lay shadowy and deeply cool. At the other end of it lounged Masters himself, with the hotel-entrance door wide open to the fragrant night. Masters's face was a mask of inquiry as Martin joined him.

'Don't ask me what happened,' the latter begged. 'He's verified what he wants to verify. Do you understand?'

'Do I!' Masters growled with fervour.

Yet the Chief Inspector, or what could be seen of him in dimness, appeared serene, breathing the fragrant air, almost humming a tune and smiling. Martin pointed southwards.

'By the way, what's that whitish glow, away over there? In the direction of Brayle Manor?'

'Can't say, I'm sure.'

'Probably doesn't mean anything. -Still,' Martin was uneasy, 'it did strike me he hurried me in here when I tried to look at it Er — you've heard about his feud with the Dowager Countess of Brayle?'

'Have I?’ snorted Masters,

'He won the first round by a thrust with a guisarme. She, definitely took the second by making a skeleton gibber at him-and insulting him behind locked gates. I've wondered before this if he might — well…'

' 'You know, Mr. Drake,' said Masters, shaking his head and folding his arms portentously, ‘I’ve tried to stop if, but I can’t It’s a sin and a shame how that old bounder carries on!' 'At his age, you mean?'

'Oh, ah! Just sol It'd be a great pity if he (hurrum!) made it worse.'

'It would, Chief Inspector! It would! What worries me is mat it always upsets Jenny, and I won’t have Jenny upset!'

'Of course,' Masters observed musingly, after a long pause, 'the lady is a bit of a