It was the landlord’s wife herself who attended him. She was a cheerful, talkative woman, and Alan took the opportunity of mentioning Holmdean House.
‘That’s Sir Richard Templeton’s place, sir,’ she nodded, indicating its position. ‘You’ll have heard of Sir Richard Templeton? A big lawyer in London he is.’
‘I know the name,’ said Alan.
‘Wonderful old house he has. Not a big place, but a lovely garden. Not so big as The Dean, sir—not nearly so big. You don’t know The Dean, by any chance?’
Alan shook his head. ‘I don’t know this district at all.’
‘The Dean’s an old place, too,’ she went on garrulously. ‘It’s been rented to a London lady for a month or two. Friend of Sir Richard Templeton’s she is. Mrs. Prideaux’s her name.’
Mrs. Prideaux! Alan stemmed an exclamation of surprise. What the devil was she doing in these parts? And then he remembered. Inspector Tripp had of course told him of the friendship that existed between her and Templeton, and he’d mentioned that she had taken a house not far from the barrister’s little country retreat.
‘A very fashionable lady in London she is,’ went on the landlord’s wife, ‘and very rich, I hear. You’ll have seen her photograph in the papers, perhaps? Wonderful gay she seems to be—gives swell parties, mostly to her friends from London, the old families here being more quiet like. Giving a party to-night she is—a fancy-dress dance, so I hear. Sir Richard will be there, likely enough; not that it’s much in his line. . . . He’s a queer, quiet gentleman—you never see him about the place at all. . . .’
Alan finished his tea and lit his pipe. Mrs. Prideaux and her fashionable parties did not interest him, though her friendship with Sir Richard Templeton did. It was a strange business. When Tripp had spoken of it he had obviously been puzzled. Alan, amiable by nature, took dislikes to people only on the most definite grounds, but he had not forgotten the aversion he had felt that Tuesday morning when he had watched Mrs. Prideaux step out of her car and walk across:the pavement to her house in Carbery Square. She obviously lived in the limelight, basking in its pallid rays in company with the other members of her set. Where was the link between her and a man of Templeton’s type—a man sedate, severe, emotionless, solitary, a mystery even to his own friends? . . . But their relationship was all the more puzzling in view of the suspicion—which now amounted almost to a certainty—that this woman had some connexion with the Lord John organization. It might be impossible for the police to prove this—and even if they could, Alan realized that Tripp would probably not make any move until the hour when he could cast his net round Lord John himself. . . .
Alan jerked his straying thoughts back to Elizabeth Marlowe. Was there any use trying to get in touch with her by telephone and pleading with her to come and see him here at the inn? It would certainly be better than going to the house, for there was every chance that Templeton himself might learn of his presence. Yes, he decided, it might be a good idea to try to get her on the phone. . . .
He had noticed a telephone instrument in the corner of the hall as he had entered, and he looked up the number of Holmdean House.
‘I’m sorry, sir, Miss Marlowe has just gone out,’ was the reply that came over the wire. . . . ‘No, I don’t think she’ll be long—I believe she’s gone down to the village. Would you like to leave a message?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Alan.
‘What name shall I say, sir?’
‘It’s quite all right,’ replied Alan hastily. ‘I’ll ring up later.’
Elizabeth had gone down to the village! Here was a piece of luck. There was every chance that he might meet her. Leaving word at the inn that he would return later, Alan set out in the gathering darkness.
He recalled what the landlord’s wife had said about the position of Holmdean House. It was three-quarters of a mile from the village, and Alan made further inquiries of a passing labourer, who told him to take a footpath which he would find a little farther on, as this was the usual shortcut and it reduced the distance by half. The night sky was clear, the moon was rising over the tree-tops, and presently he came to the wooden stile which the labourer had indicated. A small notice-board attracted his attention. By peering closely, he was able to read it: ‘Private footpath to Holmdean House.’ This was almost certainly the way Elizabeth would come, and Alan set out briskly along the footpath.
It led him across a wide meadow, and entered a deep belt of trees. Here the way was very dark, but he was able to follow the track without much difficulty, and after rising to higher ground the footpath dropped suddenly to the edge of the wood. There was a wicket-gate with a narrow meadow beyond. On the farther side of the meadow Alan could make out the straight line of a trimmed hedge, and above it were gables and chimneys faint and grey in the moonlight. This was obviously Holmdean House.
Had Elizabeth taken the longer way round by the road? There could be no other explanation. Alan reproached himself for not waiting patiently at the stile. He had thought that his luck was in, but now it had deserted him. The best thing was to return as quickly as he could to the main road, where he might be able to intercept her on her way back from the village. He turned in his tracks; but he had not gone half a dozen paces when he halted.
He imagined he had heard voices. After listening for several minutes, however, he came to the conclusion that he had been mistaken. It must have been the sound of the wind in the trees, and the dead leaves made a rustling noise which it was easy to believe were human voices. Twice Alan was on the point of setting out again, but something held him to the spot. The pathway was wider here, and between the branches overhead a shaft of moonlight slanted down, silvering the smooth grey bark of the ancient beeches, but on either side of him was a cavern of darkness. And then Alan heard the sharp snapping of a twig, and he knew that his first impression had been correct. The next moment he heard the voices again.
They seemed to be closer now, and there was the sound of footsteps. Two people were approaching the pathway. It was an awkward moment. Alan had no desire to be seen hanging about in the vicinity of Holmdean House. The first bend in the path was some distance away; and even if he took to his heels it was improbable that he could get out of sight in time. There was only one thing to be done: he stepped quietly into the undergrowth to wait there until the way was clear. Presently he thanked his stars that he had moved into shelter, for he could hear one of the voices quite plainly, and he was almost certain that the man was Sir Richard Templeton himself.
And yet, as he listened, he began to doubt this. It was a low voice, and certainly not unlike Templeton’s, but the speech was more hurried, more indistinct, than that of the barrister. It was oddly familiar too. Alan glanced out from the hazel coppice where he stood, and saw two people move into the centre of the path, then make for the wicket-gate. Their figures showed in dark outline against the moonlit meadow beyond—a man and a young woman. The latter was talking now, though Alan could not catch her words, but the sound of her voice left no doubts about her identity. She was Elizabeth Marlowe.
She was saying good-bye. Alan heard the click of the wicket-gate closing behind her, and the man stood looking after her as she crossed the meadow towards Holmdean House; then he turned and hurried along the footpath.