Bats in the Belfry

CHAPTER I-2

“Good lord! The kid’s got ideas, Neil. What about that for a Grand Guignol sketch? You’re a dramatist. Can’t you see the possibilities?”

“I certainly can,” said Rockingham slowly, “but the theme’s almost too macabre for production. It has the makings of a good short story, Elizabeth. Why not try it?”

“It wouldn’t work—not in practice,” said Burroughs, helping himself to another drink. “You’d have the deuce of a time getting the screws out of the coffin, and there’d be a lead lining inside.”

“I’d thought of all that,” said Elizabeth calmly. “A drop of oil in the screws, and garden secateurs for the lead lining. Would you like to come there with me just to get the atmosphere?” She smiled impudently at the heavily-built, well-tailored stockbroker, and Bruce put in with a laugh:

“Don’t you risk it, Burroughs. She might feel disposed to put her theory into practice. Thanks for the tip, Liza. I’ll bear it in mind in case of need.”

“If you want to visit the scene of the projected crime, why not invite me?” Grenville pleaded to Elizabeth. “I’d make the perfect collaborator—and if the actual murder wasn’t necessary, we might screw a column out of the idea and share the boodle.”

“If ever you take to crime, Elizabeth, take my tip and play a lone hand,” said Sybilla severely. “All this accomplice business is childish. Meantime, if you can bear it, my child, come and read over that new script of Vine’s. I’m not sure if I like my part. The men can have a rubber of bridge to amuse themselves.”

She got up with the deliberate grace characteristic of her, and with the calm determination which Rockingham had long noted as being an essential of her apparently lazy make-up, said good-night to her guests.

“Good-night, Tom. I shall be out of town till the end of the month, remember. Half-past one at the Berkeley Grill on the 1st—All Fool’s Day. Good-night, Mr. Rockingham. Thank you for holding Bruce’s hand at the funeral. Good-night, Mr. Grenville. Leave Elizabeth to her own murders. Come along, angel face.”

She drew Elizabeth’s arm through her own and they went out of the room, leaving the four men standing by the fire. Burroughs made no bones about taking his departure once Sybilla had gone.

“I’ve got to go down to my club to see a fellow—” he began, and Bruce Attleton cut in:

“...about a dog. That’s all right, Thomas. Good-night.”

Burroughs pursed up his mouth in a manner that deepened the heavy lines running from nose to lip and replied, “That’s about the size of it. Good-night, Attleton. You don’t look too fit. Cut up about that young cousin of yours. Shocking thing. Too much wild driving about. Safety first’s my motto. ’Night, Rockingham. ’Night.”

He nodded to Grenville and Bruce strolled to the door with him and chatted casually while the stockbroker got into his coat. Returning to the drawing-room, he said:

“Come along into the library, Neil, and you, Grenville. It’s more comfortable in there.”

Rockingham shook his head.

“No. We’ll bung off. You don’t want us here, I know that. I’m sorry you were cut up about that accident to young Fell. I feel a bit unhappy about it. He did show me his damned car, and I know a sight more about them than he did. I ought to have looked at his brakes.”

“Oh, rot! That’s hair-splitting in an attempt to blame yourself, old man. Besides, I don’t believe in theories of accident. I’m a fatalist. Young Anthony had got his ticket, his time was up, and if it hadn’t been faulty brakes on Porlock Hill, it’d have been a train smash or a pneumonia bug. It’s quite true, I was cut up. I liked the beggar, what I saw of him, and considering how our whole family’s been at loggerheads for generations, it was rather refreshing to find a cousin I liked. They all quarrelled like Kilkenny cats. Old Uncle Adam began it—the Old Soldier. He quarrelled with the whole clan and later generations kept it up. We’re a nice crowd!”

He turned away from the fire, adding, “I was damn grateful to you for coming. I loathe funerals. I’ll go and wash it off, soak in a Turkish bath for an hour or two. Good-night, old boy. See you in Paris next week.” He turned to Grenville, adding, “And look here, young fella me lad, I’m always glad to see you here, but don’t go imagining I’ve changed my mind. I haven’t. Cheer ho! Weller’ll let you out.”

Weller was the butler, who presided over his duties in the Attletons’ picturesque little house in Park Village South with the air of a pontiff, and a skill which was half the secret of the perfectly run house. Every one liked Weller, and particularly the servants who worked under him, consequently Sybilla Attleton was able to keep a contented domestic staff in a house which had basement kitchens and awkward stairs and cellars.

Just as Bruce Attleton opened the drawing-room the butler appeared and glanced at his master, who said, “Well, what is it now?” in his quick irritable way.

“I didn’t get the opportunity of telling you earlier, sir. A gentleman named Debrette phoned while you were out.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” snapped Attleton. “If he rings up again, tell him I’ll bash his bloody head in. Got that? No other answer.”

Rockingham took Grenville’s arm and urged him towards the hall, and the butler followed them and busied himself with their coats, apparently quite unconcerned at his master’s outburst of ill-temper. Grenville, who had caught sight of Attleton’s face when he spoke, had been considerably taken aback. Bruce was frequently nervy and jumpy, but to answer a servant in such a manner, and in the presence of guests, betokened something more than ordinary ill-temper.

Rockingham, however, seemed quite unperturbed, and chatted cheerfully to Weller as he put on his coat and muffler.

“It’s turned into a real nasty evening, sir,” the butler was saying. “The fog’s thickened a lot. Always bad in the park, and now it’s just pouring in from over there. Chilly as Christmas.”

“It is that, and it was damn’ chilly in that graveyard this morning, Weller,” replied Rockingham. “Hope Mr. Attleton hasn’t caught a chill. Miserable business.”

“It was indeed, sir. I felt badly over it. A nice cheery young gentleman he was, too. No relatives to speak of, I understand, barring Mr. Attleton. At least that saved breaking the news.”

“You’re right. Rotten job sending condoling cables. Good-night, Weller.”

“Good-night, sir. No taxi?”

“Not for me. In a fog like this I’d rather walk. What about you, Grenville?”

“I’ll come along with you, if I may. Ugh! What a climate!”

The two men stepped out into a cold, white mist, in which all sound seemed to be muffled, as is the curious paradox of fogs. In actual fact the silence was due to the slowing down of the traffic.

“Nervy beggar, Bruce. That business of Anthony Fell’s death shook him up rather.”

Rockingham spoke absent-mindedly, but Robert Grenville replied with some heat:

“Nervy he is, I grant you, but I’m more than a bit mad with him. I don’t see why I should suffer permanently from his caprices. He’s Elizabeth’s guardian, and he’s right to take his duties seriously, but confound it, if she’s willing to marry me, and lord knows, I’m crazy to marry her, why should he exert his powers to prevent us marrying? It’s not as though she’s a big heiress. I’m not fortune-hunting. I’ve got enough income to ensure that she’ll be comfortable, over and above her own little fortune. What’s he got against me, Rockingham?”

“I don’t suppose he’s anything against you, my dear chap. In fact, I know he hasn’t. He likes you, but Elizabeth’s a very young thing. Probably Bruce thinks it’d be a mistake for her to get tied up before she’s seen enough of the world for her to know her own mind.”

The two men had at first followed the curve of the Outer Circle as they made their way from Park Village South towards Mayfair, where Rockingham had his abode, but when they reached Park Square they turned towards the Marylebone Road and crossed over to Park Crescent, thereafter walking diagonally across the network of streets between Portland Place and Baker Street. Crossing the Marylebone Road, Grenville burst out:

“Well, I call it damnable! Elizabeth does know her own mind now, and he’s just giving her the chance to get unsettled. I hate all this feminist club business, and Sybilla may be a corking fine actress in modern comedy and satire, but she’s no sort of example to an unsophisticated girl like Liza. Take the way she runs merchants like that fat blighter, Tom Burroughs—spoiling the Egyptians! I like Bruce all right, or I would if he’d only be reasonable, but Sybilla and her push make me sick. Wouldn’t it be better for Liza to be married and have a home of her own, than to go trailing round with all these over-sophisticated, man-hunting, pseudo-intellectual females who see life all awry?”

Rockingham chuckled a little. “I can see your point, of course, though it’s not up to me to criticise Sybilla. She’s Bruce’s wife, on the one hand, and as an actress she knows her stuff. Let’s leave her out of it. You say you like Bruce. The fact of the matter is, I’m worried over him. I think he’s got something on his mind, and it’s probably that that’s making him awkward over you and Elizabeth. His mind refuses to cope with more than one problem at a time.”

“What is it? Money?—or the Debrette gentleman to whom he referred so genially just now?”

“What do you know about Debrette?”

“Nothing—except that Sybilla mentioned his name one day, and Bruce went off into the devil’s own fury over it.”

“H’m. Look here, what about coming into my place for a drink, if you’ve nothing else to do? We might talk things over a bit. I’m in a bit of a quandary, and you’re no fool, Grenville. Besides, you might get a line on the fellow, with your journalistic experience. I don’t like talking in this fog. Gives me the feeling that Mr. Debrette may be prowling around like the hosts of Midian. Come in and talk for a bit.”

“Thanks. I’d be glad to. I’ve often thought of writing your house up as a unique example of history crystallised in the West End. It’s an amazing spot.”

“Good spot, but it’ll be too damned expensive for me if I don’t strike it lucky with a new play soon. Hell! I swear there is some one following us, Grenville. Listen!”

Rockingham stopped dead, holding his companion’s arm, and Grenville said:

“Yes. I heard footsteps. They’ve stopped now. Wait a jiffy.”

He plunged suddenly into the fog, leaving Rockingham standing under the blurred light of a street lamp, looking warily round him. There was something absurd about the feeling of tension that possessed him, here in the heart of the West End, with the smug-looking door-plates of fashionable specialists all around him. He lighted a cigarette and shrugged his shoulders, but breathed a sigh of relief all the same when Grenville appeared again beside him, saying:

“I lost the bloke in the fog. Funny do, what? Let’s make for your quarters. I agree with you, a fog’s no place to discuss odd doings.”

Rockingham’s little house lay in the angle between Park Lane, Culross Street and Shepherd’s Market. To reach the entrance it was necessary to walk through a narrow archway at the end of a mews; this opened on to a surprising little square of greenery where stood a tiny square house of two stories, built as a country cottage, perhaps, or an annexe to some manor house in the latter days of Queen Anne’s reign. How the comely little building had survived, built around on all sides, was one of the puzzles which delight the heart of the London antiquarian, but there it was, of pleasant rose-red brick, with a tiny forecourt of crazy paving, and a great plane tree towering behind it in the garden of some lordly house which still survived the devastating hand of the modern flat builders.