Terror Tower Page 7

  ‘I feel fine!’ answered Jim truthfully. ‘Well, I don’t know what can be the matter with you, Ian, unless it’s liver.’

  ‘It must have come on very suddenly, if that’s what it is,’ grunted his friend, emptying his glass in one gulp and filling it again. ‘I’ve never felt like this before, except after a thick night.’

  ‘It isn’t that this time,’ said Jim, and then he stopped suddenly and a queer expression came into his eyes.

  ‘What’s up?’ demanded his friend, setting down his half-empty glass. ‘Why the dopy expression?’

  ‘I was just wondering,’ said Jim slowly, ‘if it was that whisky you had.’

  McWraith stared at him.

  ‘Don’t be feeble,’ he said scornfully. ‘It’d take more than one small whisky to upset me.’

  ‘Yes, if it was pure whisky,’ retorted Jim. ‘But supposing it wasn’t pure? Supposing something had been put in it —?’

  ‘What the dickens are you getting at?’ said McWraith seriously. ‘Do you mean that it may have been drugged?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I do mean,’ replied Jim, and then as the other snorted: ‘No, I’m not fooling. Something very queer was happening here last night.’

  He told McWraith what he had seen from the window of his room and also what he had discovered that morning.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed McWraith when he had finished. ‘We seem to have dropped down right in the middle of a shilling shocker. You think that North drugged that whisky so that we shouldn’t know what was happening during the night?’

  Jim nodded.

  ‘North or somebody,’ he said. ‘I’ve no doubt he thought that we should both have a night-cap and be quite safe until the morning.’

  ‘And he probably still thinks so,’ said McWraith. ‘You had some soda, didn’t you? They would have found two dirty glasses.’

  He glanced at his reflection in the mirror over the dressing-table.

  ‘I think you’d better keep quiet for the moment regarding what you saw, Jim. If you’re right about this doping — and from the way I’m feeling at the moment I should think you were — North and the people with him — if any — are still under the impression that neither of us was in a fit condition to see anything —’

  ‘North doesn’t think that about me,’ interrupted Jim. ‘He seemed surprised that I was up so early, and I told him that I hadn’t slept very well.’

  ‘That’s rather a pity,’ growled McWraith, ‘but still, you didn’t tell him that you’d seen anything, did you?’

  Jim shook his head.

  ‘Well, that’s all right, we’ll let him remain under the impression that you didn’t.’ He grabbed a sponge-bag and a towel. ‘I’m going to see if a bath will make me feel more like a human being, and then we’ll discuss the matter still further. I feel that life is going to be very interesting round here.’

  McWraith made his way to the bathroom and Jim went downstairs again. In the hall he found North hovering about with a can of hot water.

  ‘Have you called Mr. McWraith, sir?’ said the butler. ‘I was just going to take him up his shaving water.’

  ‘He’s in the bathroom at the moment,’ said Jim. ‘Take the water up to him there, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The butler turned towards the staircase, paused and looked back. ‘By the way, sir, which will you have for breakfast, sir — tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, I think,’ answered Jim, and the butler nodded and went up the big staircase.

  McWraith, when he came down shaved and dressed, announced that he was feeling better; and when they had breakfasted suggested a walk.

  ‘I’d like to see this village of yours,’ he said. ‘We didn’t get much chance of seeing it last night, and, besides, it will be a new experience to walk through a village with the man who owns it.’

  Jim was rather anxious to have a look at his property himself, and after arranging with North for luncheon at one he and McWraith left Greytower and set off to survey the land.

  The morning was warm and bright and the air was full of the indescribable smell of earth after rain, which made McWraith sniff appreciatively.

  ‘Don’t know why anyone wants to live in crowded cities when they can get this sort of thing and pay less for it,’ he remarked as they turned out of the drive and began to walk along the road that would bring them to the beginning of the village. ‘This air is like a draught of wine, and much more healthy.’

  ‘I always did like the country,’ said Jim, ‘and I think most people do. You’ve got to remember, though, Ian, that it’s not easy for people who’ve got jobs in offices to live far away from them.’

  ‘No, but I was thinking about the people who don’t have to go regularly to work,’ said his friend; ‘and there are more of those than you’d think who prefer to be cooped up in a town. I suppose really it’s a question of temperament.’

  He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into a hedge.

  ‘Now then, let’s talk about last night,’ he said. ‘We’re pretty safe here in not being overheard. Tell me again exactly what you saw.’

  Jim told him.

  ‘And this fellow on the ambulance,’ questioned McWraith, ‘would you know him again if you saw him?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Jim. ‘The moon was shining pretty clearly and I got a good sight of his face. Yes, I’m sure I should know him again.’

  ‘Do you think he was dead?’ asked McWraith, and Jim hesitated before he replied.

  ‘If he wasn’t he was very ill,’ he answered at length.

  ‘He wasn’t bound or anything?’ said McWraith thoughtfully.

  ‘That I couldn’t say,’ replied Jim. ‘I didn’t see closely enough.’

  ‘H’m!’ grunted the huge Scotsman. ‘Well, the whole thing’s most mysterious and interesting. I’ll bet that butler of yours is at the bottom of it. A more unpleasant fellow I’ve never seen, and have you noticed that we haven’t seen a sign of the dog he told us about last night?’

  They had reached the end of a secondary road and were turning towards the village, when Jim, in the act of replying to McWraith’s last remark, caught sight of a slim figure coming towards them and broke off.

  Jill Heyford greeted them with a smile, and they both stopped.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Are you just looking round your property?’

  ‘That’s what we were going to do,’ said Jim.

  ‘You’ll find it a very beautiful place,’ said the girl. ‘It’s rather a pity, though, that this dreadful thing should have happened, isn’t it?’

  ‘What dreadful thing?’ asked McWraith quickly.

  She looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ she said. ‘A man was shot last night at the cross-roads just outside the village. Everybody says that it was — murder.’

  She dropped her voice as she spoke the ominous word, and Jim and McWraith glanced sharply at each other.

  ‘We’ve heard nothing about it,’ said Jim. ‘Who was it that was killed?’

  ‘He was a stranger, I think,’ said Jill. ‘At least, nobody seems to know who he was in the village. The police may know.’

  ‘And the murderer hasn’t been caught?’ said McWraith.

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, the whole thing appears to be a mystery,’ she replied. ‘The village is full of it this morning. Nobody can talk about anything else.’

  ‘Well, a murder is an event anywhere,’ remarked McWraith. ‘And in a sleepy place like this, where I don’t suppose anything much ever happens, I’m not surprised that it’s caused an uproar.’

  Except for the fact that he was watching her closely Jim might not have noticed the sudden change in the girl’s expression. It was only momentary, but he noticed it, and made a mental note of what he had seen. It had coincided with McWraith’s words — ‘where I don’t suppose anything much ever happens’ — that sudden catching of the breath, the slight parting of the full red lip
s, as though she had been about to speak.

  ‘We’re not quite as sleepy here as you imagine,’ she said, and the smile that accompanied her words was — or so Jim thought — rather forced. ‘Quite a lot of things happen here, as you’ll probably realise if you stay.’

  There might have been nothing in her words. They were, after all, quite ordinary, but Jim thought that there was a hidden meaning behind them. That what she had meant was not quite what she had said.

  She caught his eyes looking at her steadily, and suddenly became embarrassed.

  ‘I — I must go,’ she said quickly. ‘I really ought not to have stopped gossiping. Good-bye!’

  She gave a brief smile that embraced them both and hurried away up the road.

  McWraith looked sideways at Jim as they continued on their way to the village.

  ‘So there was a murder committed here last night,’ he said softly. ‘What do you think of that?’

  ‘What should I think of it?’ retorted Jim. ‘The man was killed at the cross-roads —’

  ‘Was he?’ murmured McWraith, and his eyes narrowed. ‘He was found at the cross-roads, but was he killed there?’

  ‘Are you suggesting —’ began Jim; and McWraith stopped him with a nod.

  ‘I’m suggesting,’ he said seriously, ‘that the man was killed at Greytower and that it was his dead body you saw being wheeled away on that ambulance during the night!’

  Chapter Eight – Lowe Gathers Information

  Superintendent Hartley set down his half-empty tankard, wiped his lips carefully with a large and spotless handkerchief, crossed his massive legs, and cleared his throat.

  ‘Now, Mr. Lowe,’ he said slowly, ‘I should like you to give me a more detailed account of how you came to find the dead man if you will.’

  Trevor Lowe considered for a moment before speaking. He had not as yet told the superintendent the reason that had brought him to the cross-roads on the previous night, but there was no object in keeping him in the dark. What he had seen of Hartley he liked. The man was by no means devoid of intelligence, and had none of the bumptious characteristics that are so often to be met with in a country police official.

  He was the sort of man who would probably be of great help in the task that lay before the dramatist. He knew the surrounding country like a book and the people who lived there. All things considered, therefore, Lowe felt that it would be a good move to take him into his confidence.

  ‘I’ll tell you everything I know,’ he said, and, removing his pipe from his lips, proceeded to do so.

  He spoke in a low voice so that it would not carry beyond the confines of the bar-parlour in which they sat, and Hartley listened with great attention and without interruption until he had finished.

  ‘Well, Mr. Lowe,’ he commented when the dramatist had concluded, ‘what you say throws an entirely new light on the matter. You think the dead man was the same person who rang you up?’

  ‘I think it’s more than probable,’ said Lowe. ‘Don’t you?’

  Hartley nodded.

  ‘I think it’s pretty certain,’ he replied, ‘and I also think it’s pretty certain that he was killed to prevent him passing on the information he had to you.’

  ‘That’s my opinion,’ agreed the dramatist. ‘The question is, what was it he knew?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the question, sir,’ said Hartley. ‘What did he know? And what did these other fellows find out that led to their disappearance?’ He shook his head gently. ‘It’s a funny business, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a very grim business, Hartley,’ said Lowe gravely. ‘There’s something very sinister about it, and the solution lies close at hand. That attempt on me last night was local.’

  The superintendent finished the remainder of his beer and pursed his lips.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I think you’re right.’

  Something in his voice made Lowe give more attention to his words than their surface meaning.

  ‘You know something?’ he said quickly.

  Hartley reddened, and looked a trifle embarrassed.

  ‘No, sir,’ he answered hesitantly. ‘I don’t rightly know anything, but — Well there’s something that has struck me for a long time as being — peculiar, if you understand what I mean.’ He stopped and wriggled on his chair uncomfortably.

  ‘What is that?’ prompted the dramatist gently.

  ‘It may have nothing to do with what we were talking about, sir.’ He was very red now, and one of his hands straightened his coat and the fingers started picking nervously at a button.

  ‘I expect you’ll think it’s all nonsense, but — well, there is something queer about Stonehurst, sir.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Lowe as he stopped again.

  ‘Nothing that you would call tangible,’ replied the superintendent; ‘but I’ve lived in these parts, man and boy, for forty-five years, and I’ve noticed things. It’s as if there were a kind of blight on the place, Mr. Lowe.’

  Trevor Lowe leaned forward. Hartley had put into different words exactly the sensation he himself had experienced during the short time he had been in Stonehurst.

  ‘Do you mean this particular village, or the whole of the surrounding country?’ he said.

  ‘Only Stonehurst, sir,’ answered Hartley hastily. ‘Hythe and Dymchurch and places like those are just the same as they used to be.’

  ‘But Stonehurst, isn’t, eh?’ said Lowe. ‘How has it changed?’

  ‘Well, the people are different for one thing, sir,’ said the superintendent. He was more at his ease now that he saw Lowe’s obvious interest.

  ‘All the old families have gone — they’ve been what you might call frozen out, sir.’

  ‘Do you mean forced to leave?’ asked the dramatist, and Hartley nodded.

  ‘Yes, sir, in a way,’ he answered. ‘I’ll give you an example. There was Mr. Drilland, who used to live at Hartshorn Farm. His family had owned it for ages, and he had the finest herd of Jerseys in the district, and used to send his milk into Hythe. Well, about three years ago there was an epidemic in the town, and it was traced to a germ in this milk. Mr. Drilland went broke and had to sell the farm.’

  ‘That’s hard luck,’ said Lowe, ‘but I don’t see —’

  ‘That’s only one example, sir,’ said Hartley earnestly. ‘There was old Dr. Westfield. He’d been in Stonehurst for nearly forty years and had a good practice among the residents. About two years ago there were several deaths among the children, and it was proved that he’d made a mistake in mixing his medicines. Of course, he had to leave, and Dr. Grendon who’s here now bought his practice. Then there was Formby, who had this place before Japper. His case was a bit more serious; he was found one morning with his head in the gas oven in the kitchen. There was no reason why he should have killed himself, but he did it.

  ‘Some sort of disaster overtook all the old people who used to live here, sir, and I’ve thought for a long time that it was queer.’

  ‘It certainly is queer,’ agreed Lowe, frowning. ‘Did all this happen within a given time?’

  Hartley nodded.

  ‘Yes, sir; within the last two or three years,’ he said. ‘The last bit of hard luck the village had was the death of old Mr. Winslow a few weeks ago. He owned the whole place.’

  ‘Owned the whole place?’ repeated the dramatist. ‘Do you mean land and everything?’

  Again Hartley nodded.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He proceeded to tell Lowe the story.

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ said Lowe, when he had finished. ‘So Stonehurst is one of those privately-owned villages, is it? I’ve heard there are still a few left in England. Who owns it now?’

  ‘Mr. Winslow’s nephew, sir,’ replied Hartley. ‘He arrived yesterday, I believe.’

  ‘You appear to know quite a lot about the place, although you live at Hythe?’ said Lowe, and the superintendent smiled.

  ‘Hythe’s not so very far away, sir,’ he answered,
‘and I’ve got an old aunt who lives just at the bottom of the High Street. I come over to see her once a week, and she’s a rare one to gossip.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lowe. ‘Now tell me something about the people who have taken the places of those who were frozen out, as you put it.’

  ‘There’s Lady Thurley of Wood Dene, what used to belong to the Taplows,’ said the superintendent, ticking each name off on his large fingers. ‘Her niece lives with her. And there’s Mr. and Mrs. Gordon-Watts of the White House, and Mr. Lucia, who’s just moved into the Martins’ old cottage. He’s a Frenchman, and I don’t know anything about him. There’s Dr. Grendon, who I told you about, and Mr. Toogood, who’s got Hartshorn. Mr. Linney, who lives at the Lodge, and Mr. Netherton at the Bungalow. That’s about all, I think, sir.’

  ‘And none of these are local people?’ asked Lowe. ‘I mean they are all new inhabitants?’

  ‘Yes, sir, all of them,’ answered Hartley. ‘There are a few of the old residents left, but they are mostly small farmers and farm labourers.’

  ‘H’m!’ Lowe rubbed his chin gently. ‘I saw a lot of people in the village this morning that you’d hardly call villagers. Who are they?’

  ‘I expect they’re the servants of the persons I have mentioned,’ answered the superintendent. ‘They brought most of them with them.’

  ‘And these extraordinary changes took place three years ago, you say?’ murmured the dramatist.

  ‘Roughly, sir,’ answered Hartley. ‘It started three years ago and it’s been going on ever since.’

  ‘It’s queer’ — Lowe pinched his lower lip — ‘very queer. In three years Stonehurst seems to have suffered an invasion of strangers. I wonder why?’

  The superintendent shrugged his broad shoulders.

  ‘There may be nothing in it, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you to be influenced by anything I may think —’

  ‘What do you think?’ broke in Trevor Lowe quickly.

  ‘Well, Mr. Lowe, I don’t rightly know,’ confessed Hartley, scratching his head, ‘but it’s always seemed funny to me. And somehow when you told me about these disappearances I sort of coupled the two things in my mind. I couldn’t say why, though, if you asked me.’