The Skeleton in the Clock

there a hotel or a pub somewhere near?'

'Yes. There's one almost opposite Fleet House. That's where—' Jenny paused. Into her eyes came the same fear he had seen once before. She threw the thought away. 'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to put up at the pub. Tomorrow I'll see Mr. Richard Fleet and Aunt Cicely, and as for grandmother: this afternoon, I think.'

'No! You mustn't! Not this afternoon!'

He gripped her shoulders. 'If I could only tell you, Jenny, how much—'

'Oi!' said the voice of Sir Henry Merrivale.

H.M. was standing very close to them. How long he had been there Martin could not tell, but it might have been a long time. H.M.'s hat was in his hand, and his expression was malevolent Martin bumped back to reality.

'Well? Did you see the dock?'

'Uh-huh. I saw it. And it seems my first wild and wool-gatherin' notion,' here H.M. massaged his big bald head, 'is no more use than a busted kite on a calm day. But there's got to be some explanation! Or else—' With no change he added: 'So you're putting up at the pub, son?'

'You listened?'

'I'm the old man,' said H.M., austerely tapping himself on the chest as though this constituted all necessary explanation. 'And I'm a bit glad you are stayin’ there, if there's room for you. Masters and I will be there too.'

Somewhere, noiselessly, an alarm-bell rang.

'Chief Inspector Masters?'

'Yes. Y'see, son, this business is not all bath-salts and lilies on the pond. It's messy. It's got claws. Pretty certainly in the past and maybe in the future, we're dealin' with murder.'

Chapter 4

Martin Drake did not see the skeleton in the clock until late on the following afternoon, when he saw it in the bar-parlour of the Dragon's Rest near Rundown.

The Dragon's Rest, to be exact, boasted two bar-parlours in its long frontage. The inn, in that remote corner of Berkshire, faced westwards over a road running north and south. From the windows of either bar-parlour you could see, almost opposite — set well back from the road behind trees and clipped lawns — the white Georgian facade of Fleet House. By craning to the left, you could just make out in the distance the two square towers of Brayle Manor. By craning to the right, you could more distantly discern the round greyness of Pentecost Prison: six stone wings like spokes inside a stone wheel.

Both Pentecost and Fleet House, Martin felt, would hold bitter dreariness at night Also, he was on a wire of nerves.

For he could not forget yesterday's events. Jenny had permitted him to go with her only as far as the foyer at Claridge's, where she was to meet grandmother. She had made him promise, solemnly crossing his heart, that he would see Richard Fleet first, Aunt Cicely second, and grandmother third.

Martin returned to his rooms at the Albany. After putting through a complicated and exasperating series of 'phone-calls, he managed to book a room at the Dragon's Rest Then, under the huge arched window which had served a Regency artist, he tried to make new sketches of Jenny from memory. They displeased him. Presently the telephone rang.

'Stannard here,' announced the hoarse, hearty, half-chuckling voice.

He could picture Stannard leaning back in a swivel-chair, the black hair plastered with nicety on his round head, the black eyes twinkling. Martin could almost hear the pleased creak of the swivel-chair as Stannard shifted his stocky bulk.

'I hope, Mr. Drake, you haven't forgotten our little talk last night?'

No, he hadn't forgotten it But he could think only of Jenny.

Why, and in what crazy moment, had he insisted on this vigil in the execution shed?

'Because I'm glad to say,' Stannard pursued, 'that I have been successful. For a night or two at least we are masters of Pentecost Prison.'

'Good! Good! Good!'

'Our good friend Ruth has helped us. A friend of hers has been kind enough to invite us all to spend the week-end—' 'Yes. I know.' 'You know?'

This time an edge did get into Martin's voice.

'Mr. Stannard, it's a vitally personal matter; I’ll explain when I see you. I can't stay at Fleet House. But you'll find me at the pub just across the way.'

There was a slight pause.

'You'll travel down with us, of course?' inquired Stannard. 'Noon train from Paddington to Reading, change for Newbury, then bus for the rest Devilish awkward, being without petrol.' 'Sony. I'm afraid I've got to take an earlier train.'

Now there was a definite pause. He knew Stannard had detected something odd in his tone, and that Stannard was examining the 'phone curiously.

'Shall I — ah — make excuses to our hostess and young host?'

'No. They'll have learned about it when you arrive.'

'Shall I make excuses to Ruth?' This was said very casually.

'No.' Martin clipped off the monosyllable.

'Ah. It should be very interesting to visit Fleet House,' mused Stannard, 'especially as I once had some slight acquaintance with its late owner. Just as you like, my dear fellow. Good-bye.'

Martin replaced the telephone. He looked round his sitting room, on whose walls much of his own work hung framed amid his collection of rapiers. It had occurred to him that afternoon to ring Ruth Caliice and ask her what the devil Ruth had meant by her secrecy about Jenny. But Ruth was a good fellow; Ruth must have had some real reason; he put the thought aside.

That was how, next morning, a grey bus with dropsical wheels rattled him up in Rundown crossroads at half-past eleven. Not far ahead he could see the Dragon's Rest with its three tail and broad gables in a straight line, set up on a little rise on the east side of the road.

The Dragon's Rest was a beamed house of great age. Behind it lay rolling fields, the glitter of a stream, and the largish oak wood he later idenfified as Black Hanger. Not a blade of grass stirred, nothing stirred, in that hollow of silence and heat

Mr. Puckston, the landlord, took him up to a first-floor bedroom facing west Then Martin's first move was to clatter downstairs again to the telephone at the back of the saloon bar, and get in touch with Fleet House. He was answered by an informal and chatty maid,

'Mr. Richard? Oh, he's driven over to the races at Newbury.'

Martin's heart sank. He put obvious questions.

'No, not back to lunch. But hell be back in the afternoon, because there's people corning. Would you like to speak to his mother? She's in the garden.'

'No, thanks. You say he drove over. Can you describe the car?'

'Oh, it's just an ole black car. Makes a lot of noise.'

'Do you happen to know the number?'

'Are you kidding?' asked the maid, who had evidently been out with American troops.

'As soon as he conies back, will you ask him to ring Martin Drake at the Dragon's Rest? It's very important. Will you give him that message?'

'You have a nice voice,' said the maid. 'I sure will!'

Martin went back to his room fuming. To follow Richard Fleet in the crowds at Newbury races would be certainly to miss him, even if there were a photograph for identification. The minutes ticked on. He had lunch in the scrubbed oak dining-room, the food being incredibly good. But always he prowled back to the bedroom, also clean