The Skeleton in the Clock

A grey soft hat was pulled down on the back of the man's head, concealing even the neck. In the dim light, in the secret silvery cavern, no details could be seen. And, though the man wore heavy boots and walked heavily, he made not a sound. All this went through Martin's head while the man took three steps.

'Hoy! There! Wait a minute!'

Martin ran forward. The air itself took form against him. His outstretched hands thumped into an invisible barrier which jarred him to the shoulder-bones and stopped him in his tracks.

It was a polished sheet of thick plate-glass: invisible, stretching across the whole corridor and cutting it in two. No wonder the man's steps had made no sound!

Martin, his hands against the glass, stood there for a moment and tried to think straight This wasn't a predicament: it was merely damned ludicrous. He was not in the Cretan labyrinth, or even in Pentecost Prison. He was in a trumpery two-by-four pavilion at a country fair, and yet as excited as though…

Whereupon, although the corridor was empty except for, Martin, a voice spoke. The voice had a note of slyness; It was not loud; it even whispered. The voice said:

'You had better leave, Mr. Drake. If you can.'

Chapter 19

About a quarter of an hour before that voice spoke to Martin, there was at Brayle Manor a scene far more — wrenched with emotion, far deeper in the springs of human life.

Sophia, Dowager Countess of Brayle, almost staggered as she moved up the broad oak staircase in the dim house. Her fashionable hat was disarranged on the grey-white hair. The fashionable dress, also a little disarranged, did not now conceal her stoutness. From the limp fingers of one hand dangled a riding-crop. Nevertheless, most noticeable of all was the look of utter stupefaction in her eyes.

Lady Brayle stumbled a little on the top step. She went over to the octagonal room, whose oriel window faced the drive, and opened the door.

In the window-seat, his back to the leaded panes. Sir Henry Merrivale sat smoking a cigar. Chief Inspector Masters stood beside him. Jenny, at the other side of the window, looked at the floor.

Lady Brayle groped for and found a chair. She sat down heavily. She drew her breath heavily through her heavy body. For a few seconds she stared at the carpet, and then looked up.

They cheered me,' she said.

Her tone was one of incredulity, though perhaps she had not meant it as such. It was that of one half-waking from hypnosis. They cheered me!' she repeated. Nobody else spoke.

Lady Brayle seemed vaguely to notice the riding-crop in her hand. As though nobody else in the room knew what happened, she went on.

'I — that is, Mr. Barnham was kind enough to send me over in a car. An open car. With a driver. I gripped this in my hand. From some distance away one of the wr-wretches saw the car coming, and ran to tell his fellow — other people. As we swung in at the gates I stood up and gripped this. For I could hear them roaring. But…

'They were lined up on each side of the drive and beyond. Heaven knows how many of them. Some waved balloons, and some waved Union Jacks. They were shouting and cheering for me. Then, I believe, some wr- wretched band struck up. They began to sing.'

It was unnecessary to tell her listeners, even if they did not know. For at that moment, beyond the oriel window, the band struck up with the same tune and the voices-joined again,

'For she's a jolly good fel-low, For she's a jolly good fellow, For she's…'

Out it rolled, one repetition after another, over the ancient oak-trees of Brayle Manor. Lady Brayle put her hands over her face.

'Sophie,' growled H.M., taking the cigar out of his mouth, 'you come to this window and wave your hand at 'em. Don't say anything, or I'll wring your neck. Just wave.'

'Henry, you fiend!' said Lady Brayle.

'Uh-huh. But you do what I tell you.'

Lady Brayle got up, shaking and adjusting her shoulders, and moved over to the window. Beyond the sky showed dull, almost lead-coloured, with the red geraniums in their flowerpots against it Lady Brayle lifted her arm in the manner of one unaccustomed to do so.

When she returned to her chair, after the tumult subsided, she was still half-dazed.

'As — as the car went up the drive,' she said, 'I confess I was stunned. I… I could only make some response, as a matter of courtesy, by waving this.

'At the terrace mere were calls for 'speech.' This, naturally, was a duty I could fulfil admirably. I was about to do so, when my attention was attracted by a revolting noise from that window there. I looked up, and saw projecting from the window a quite horrible face, which I discerned to be Henry's. He was holding a flower- pot.

'He informed me (pray forgive me for repeating such words) that, if I were to speak one word of what I had intended to speak, he would drop the goddam flower-pot on what he described as my onion.

'The fiend told me to do only what he called my routine, which I have always considered somewhat graceful. It consists in calling for three cheers, and taking two steps backwards while raising my hand. I… I confess that the volume of the cheering: I never heard it before.'

Lady Brayle thought for a while. Then her mood changed.

This is pure sentimentality,'‘ she said abruptly, and whacked down the riding-crop on the table, where she left it 'How very amusing! The cheers of a vulgar mob!'

'Sure,' agreed H.M. 'We know you're above all that' He contemplated the glowing tip of the cigar, he frowned down at his big shoes, and looked up again. 'But don't you find it just a bit comfortin’, Sophie, now that you and I are old?'

There was a pause. Then Lady Brayle heaved herself to her feet

She went over to the little writing-desk, with her back to them. While the others pretended not to notice, she removed a hat disarranged from (mere) feelings, straightened her dress, repaired her face while peering into the mirror of a compact and shut up her handbag with a decisive snap. ' When she returned to the chair, and sat down with dignity and grimness, she was herself again.

'And now, Henry,' she suggested briskly, 'shall we have this matter out between us to a finish?'

'Grandmother!' cried Jenny.

But again two strong personalities, with a sort of silent blare, faced each other.

'Sophie,' H.M. said mildly, 'don't tangle with me again. I'm just warning you.'

' Tangle with' is an expression I have heard before. It is a vulgarism, probably transatlantic. But I will make you pay for your childishness, believe me.'

'Uh-huh?' said H.M.

'First of all I will admit that an error of judgment on my part admitted this revolting display,' she nodded towards the booths and stalls outside, 'under the impression that it was a simple rustic fair, and…'

'Oh, Sophie,' groaned H.M., taking the cigar out of his mouth. 'You knew smacking well what kind of show it was, or you wouldn't have had correspondence and signed a contract on MacDougall's Mammoth letter-paper. You wanted money; who's blamin' you? But you're spinnin' this little piece of hoo-ha, for your friends, about how you've been taken in.'

Jenny, really shocked, uttered an exclamation and sat up straight Her grandmother regarded her with mild surprise.

'You find this strange, Jennifer?''

'I don't care,' Jenny told her with a sort of loathing, 'whether you go out in the street with a tin cup and a dancing bear. But why must you be hypocritical about it?'

'One has one's responsibilities, Jennifer. I fear you would not understand that'

'For years,' cried Jenny, 'you've been saying you would do this, and you would do that, but you wouldn't stoop to tell lies.’'