“Like hell he is!”
“For your advice.”
“Which will be to call up the local station. What else, for pity’s sake? What’s he like, Bill-Tasman? He sounded precious on the telephone.”
“He’s a bit like a good-looking camel. Very paintable.”
“If you say so, darling.”
“He’s intelligent, affected and extremely companionable.”
“I see. And what about this chap Moult? Does he drink, did you say?”
“According to Aunt Bed, occasionally.”
“Jim Marchbanks is at the Vale.”
“I forgot to tell you — we’ve chummed up.”
“Have you now? Nice creature, isn’t he?”
They were silent for a minute or so. Presently Alleyn said his wife’s nose was as cold as an iced cherry but not as red. After a further interval she said she thought they should move on.
When they reached the turn in the drive where Halberds was fully revealed, Alleyn said that everything had become as clear as mud: Troy had obviously got herself into a film production, on location, of The Castle of Otranto and had been written into the script as the best way of keeping her quiet.
Blore and Mervyn came out to meet them. They both seemed to Troy to be excessively glum faced but their behaviour was impeccable. Mervyn, carrying Alleyn’s suitcase, led the way upstairs to a dressing-room on the far side of Troy’s bathroom and connecting with it.
“Mr. Bill-Tasman is in the boudoir, madam,” said Mervyn with his back to Alleyn. He cast a rather wild glance at Troy and withdrew.
“Is that chap’s name Cox?” Alleyn asked.
“I’ve no idea.”
“Mervyn Cox. Booby-trap. Flat iron. Killed Warty Thompson the cat-burglar. That’s the boy.”
“Did you —?”
“No. One of Fox’s cases. I just remembered.”
“I’m certain he didn’t rig that thing up for me.”
“You may well be right. Suspect anyone else?”
“No. Unless —”
“Unless?”
“It’s so farfetched. It’s just that there does appear to have been some sort of feud between Moult and the staff.”
“And Moult fixed the things up to look like Mervyn’s job? And wrote the messages in the same spirit? Out of spite?”
“He doesn’t seem to be particularly spiteful.”
“No?”
“He obviously adores the Colonel. You know — one of those unquestioning, dogged sort of attachments.”
“I know.”
“So what?”
“Well may you ask. What’s he like to look at?”
“Oh — rather upsetting, poor chap. He’s got a scarred face. Burns, I should imagine.”
“Come here to me.”
“I think you’d better meet Hilary.”
“Blast Hilary,” said Alleyn. “All right. I suppose so.”
It was abundantly clear to Troy, when they found Hilary alone in the boudoir, that something had been added to the tale of inexplicable events. He greeted Alleyn with almost feverish enthusiasm. He gushed about the portrait (presently they would look at it), and he also gushed about Troy, who refused to catch her husband’s eye. He talked more than a little wildly about Alleyn’s welcome return from the Antipodes. He finally asked, with a strange and most unsuccessful attempt at off-handedness, if Troy had told Alleyn of their “little mystery.” On hearing that she had he exclaimed, “No, but isn’t it a bore? I do so hate mysteries, don’t you? No, I suppose you don’t, as you perpetually solve them.”
“Have there been any developments?” Troy asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Yes. I was leading up to them. I–I haven’t made it generally known as yet. I thought I would prefer —”
Cressida came in and Hilary madly welcomed her as if they had been parted for a week. She stared at him in amazement. On being introduced to Alleyn she gave herself a second or two to run over his points and from then until the end of the affair at Halberds made a dead set at him.
Cressida was not, Troy had to admit, a gross practitioner. She kept fractionally to the right of a frontal attack. Her method embraced the attentive ear, the slight smile of understanding, the very occasional glance. She made avoidance about ninety per cent more equivocal than an accidental brush of the hands, though that was not lacking either, Troy noticed, when Cressida had her cigarette lit.
Troy wondered if she always went into action when confronted with a personable man or if Alleyn had made a smash hit. Was Hilary at all affected by the manifestations? But Hilary, clearly, was fussed by other matters and his agitation increased when Mrs. Forrester came in.
She, in her way, also made a dead set at Alleyn, but her technique was widely different. She barely waited for the introduction.
“Just as well you’ve come,” she said. “High time. Now we shall be told what to do.”
“Aunt Bed — we mustn’t —”
“Nonsense, Hilary. Why else have you dragged him all this way? Not,” she added as an afterthought, “that he’s not pleased to see his wife, of course.”
“I’m delighted to see her,” said Alleyn.
“Who wouldn’t be!” Hilary exclaimed. Really, Troy thought, he was showing himself in a most peculiar light.
“Well?” Mrs. Forrester began on a rising inflexion.
Hilary intervened. He said, with a show of firmness, that perhaps a little consultation in the study might be an idea. When his aunt tried to cut in he talked her down, and as he talked he seemed to gain authority. In the upshot he took Alleyn by the elbow and, coruscating with feverish jokelets, piloted him out of the boudoir.
“Darling!” said Cressida to Troy before the door had shut. “Your husband! You know? And I mean this. The mostest.”
The study was in the east wing, next door to the boudoir. Hilary fussed about, turning on lamps and offering Alleyn tea (which he and Troy had missed), or a drink. “Such a mongrel time of day, I always think,” he said. “Are you sure you won’t?”
Alleyn said he was sure. “You want to talk about this business, don’t you?” he asked. “Troy’s told me the whole story. I think you should call your local police.”
“She said you’d say that. I did hope you wouldn’t mind if I just consulted you first.”
“Of course I don’t. But it’s getting on for twenty-four hours, isn’t it? I really don’t think you should wait any longer. It might be best to call up your provincial Detective-Superintendent. Do you know him?”
“Yes. Most uncongenial. Beastly about the staff. I really couldn’t.”
“All right. Where’s the nearest station? Downlow?”
“Yes. I believe so. Yes.”
“Isn’t the super there a chap called Wrayburn?”
“I–I did think of consulting Marchbanks. At the Vale, you know.”
“I’m sure he’d give you the same advice.”
“Oh!” Hilary cried out. “And I’m sure you’re right but I do dislike this sort of thing. I can’t expect you to understand, of course, but the staff here — they won’t like it either. They’ll hate it. Policemen all over the house. Asking questions. Upsetting them like anything.”
“I’m afraid they’ll have to lump it, you know.”
“Oh damn!” Hilary said pettishly. “All right. I’m sorry, Alleyn. I’m being disagreeable.”
“Ring Wrayburn up and get it over. After all, isn’t it just possible that Moult, for some reason that hasn’t appeared, simply walked down the drive and hitched a lift to the nearest station? Has anyone looked to see if his overcoat and hat and money are in his room?”
“Yes. Your wife thought of that. Nothing missing, as far as we could make out.”
“Well — ring up.”
Hilary stared at him, fetched a deep sigh, sat down at his desk, and opened his telephone directory.