The Skeleton in the Clock

'Susan knows about it' Ricky explained, with one eye on the road and one eye on his companions, 'but Mother doesn't At one o'clock I’ll be strolling with Mother. The place will be near, but not too near, a lemonade-stall or an ice-cream stall or something like that'

'Ricky,' Ruth cried, 'what are you planning?'

'Will you be quiet, old girl, and listen to me?'

'Honestly, Ricky…'

'Ill introduce 'em,' Ricky ignored the protest 'and then I'll out with it I'll say this is the girl I'm- going to marry, and wouldn't they like to get acquainted? Mother can't make a scene in public. Then I'll say, 'Just get you an ice; excuse me a moment''

'Ricky,' cried Ruth, 'you coward!'

Former Wing-Commander Richard Fleet D.S.O. with bar, did not in this instance deny it

'I've told Laurier,' he confided; 'but he's an ass. They'll stroll away, Susan and Mother, and I'll follow. If you see me beckon, crowd in. If you see me motion to keep away, keep away. Anyway, I can't lose 'em when I follow.'

'We're with you,' said Martin. 'But why not simply elope with the girl? That's what I'm going to do, this afternoon or tonight'

'You're… — what?' exclaimed Ruth.

'Never mind. We were talking about Ricky.'

'I can't do it' said Ricky, referring to elopement He was desperately in earnest so much so that his eyes brimmed as they had brimmed a while ago, though perhaps for different reasons, when H.M. was telling stories. He scarcely noticed the road; the car had gathered speed; yet his instinctive timing never put them in danger. 'This is the only way. Mother'll understand it'

'All good luck, my boy!' smiled Stannard. 'But, my dear Drake. You were saying—? 'Martin doesn't mean it,' observed Ruth. - (Oh, don't I?)

For now, beyond tall trees at a bend in the road, there rose above a crowd murmur the predominating brass-band strains of Waltzing Matilda. In contrast to the stuff which passes for music nowadays, this noble tune must set a stuffed mummy to whistling and tapping its foot Martin Drake began whistling too. He was going away with Jenny.

Round the curve they swept into the straight The fifteen-foot-high brick wall of Brayle Manor, which they had seen stretching westwards, now ran past the road on the right All the noises of the fair were sweeping out at them now.

On the left-hand side of the road, an immense enclosed field had as the sign over its road gate, PARKING, is 6d. Though petrol was supposed to be scarce, you would not have learned this by the glow of sun winking on the backs of so many cars. On the other side of the road seethed mild pandemonium.

The broad iron-grilled gates stood wide open. The head of a perspiring ticket-seller stretched out over the half-door of the gate-keeper's lodge. From the opposite side, hoarsely, rose the chant of a man with vari-coloured balloons and white hats bearing such mottoes as Kiss Me Quick,

As Martin crossed the road from the parking-lot with Ricky, Stannard, and Ruth, a police-car containing Masters and H.M. drew up not far from the gates. Then Martin noticed, stuck on each side of the wall at the gates, a huge poster showing an equally huge photograph of the Dowager Countess, wearing a tiara and a smile. Underneath, signed and in red letters, ran what was clearly a quotation from a letter.

'If the civic authorities of Brayle attempt to prevent this fair, or so much as set foot inside the park, I shall sue them for five thousand pounds.' Several newcomers were reading it with stunned admiration. 'Now listen, sir!' Martin heard the Chief Inspector's voice hiss. 'You're going to behave yourself?'

An empurpled visage appeared above the shoulder of Ruth Callice.

'What d'ye mean, behave myself?' the face demanded.

This was the last Martin could catch, since they were pressing through the swirl of the crowd. To his surprise be saw Dr. Laurier up ahead. After procuring their tickets, feeling the gravel of the broad drive crunch under their feet they seemed to be in clearer space while voices and music rolled over them.

'Kick the football! Kick the football, burst a balloon, and win a fine prize!'

''Ow's yer strength, gen'lemen? 'Ow's yer strength? 'Ere we—'

The churning, tinkling melody of the merry-go-round, blowing hard with steam-pressure, swept across the voices like mist. Another (alleged) melody, made even more ghoulish by a loud-speaker and a deep voice singing, intruded.

'With 'er 'ead TOOKED oon-der-neath 'er arm, She wa-a-a-lks the bluidy TOW-ER —''

'This, ladies and gentlemen, Is the Mirror Maze.' A loudspeaker again, with a semi-cultured voice. 'Biggest and finest attraction of MacDougall's Mammoth. The Mirror Maze. If you are unable—'

'Stan!' cried Ruth. 'Where are your…’

'Here, my dear! Take my hand!''

Laughter and giggles broke-above them like rockets. Everybody seemed to be eating potato-crisps and then throwing the empty bags in your face. Then they emerged into a comparatively wide open space: where, Martin gathered, two lines of attractions crossed.

‘If you are unable to get out of the Mirror Maze,' the loudspeaker gave a rasping chuckle, like a loud parody of Stannard, 'directions will be given by—'

'Sir Henry! Wait! Come back here!' Martin, getting his breath to plunge towards the house and Jenny, turned round. But nothing appeared to be seriously wrong.

Just to the right was a booth set out as a miniature racetrack with its counter a little higher than waist level. Metal horses, each about five inches long and with its jockey's colours brilliantly painted, stood at the starting-gate of an oval course. Grandstand, spectators, greensward, all were realistically done. Along the front of the counter ran a line of squares, each inscribed with the name of a horse and its colours. Projecting underneath each space was a crank-handle by which you made the horses run.

'It's all right, son!' H.M. assured Masters testily. 'Burn it, I'm just havin' a look.'

Behind the counter sat a dispirited-looking man, chewing a broomstraw, who had started to get up. Now he sank back again hopelessly.

H.M. inspected the track. He sniffed. He ran his eye critically over the horses, like one inspecting a parade at Epsom. Then something seemed to take hold of him as though with hands, and he swung round.

'I’ll give you five to one the field,' he burst out.'And eight to one,' he glanced behind him, 'Blue Boy.' His eyes gleamed. 'I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I'll give you ten to one on Blue Boy!'

Ricky sprang forward.

'Here's ten bob on Blue Boy,' said Ricky, slapping the money down on the corresponding counter-space. 'And, just for luck, I’ll have another ten bob on Squaw's Feather'

'For myself,' said Stannard, instantly whipping out his note-case, 'I fancy Bright-Eyes. With the dark brown colour; eh, Ruth? One pound on Bright-Eyes!'

'Uh-huh. One pound on Bright-Eyes,' repeated H.M., who had scrabbled out with a notebook and the stub of a pencil, and was hastily recording. Then he lifted his voice to the whole fair-ground.

'I’ll give you five to one the field,' he bellowed. 'Anybody want to make a little bet?'

'Goddelmighty!' whispered Chief Inspector Masters.

Now there are many words which will instantly rivet or turn the attention of an English crowd. You may say them over to yourself. But perhaps none is quite so potent as the word 'bet.' Materializing and mingling, the crowd pressed in ten-deep towards the counter, with cries and queries.

The man behind the counter, who had swallowed his broomstraw as he leaped up, now appeared to be racked by the convulsions of cyanide poisoning. He was writhing forward across the race-track, his hands outstretched.

'Oi! Gov' nor! The gent with the bald 'ead! For gossake! Oi!'

'What d'ye mean, oi?'

'It's against the LOR.'

'What d'ye mean, it's against the law?'