Three Blind Mice, Page 3

  War activities had suited her down to the ground. She had bossed people and bullied people and worried heads of departments and, to give her her due, had at no time spared herself. Subservient women had run to and fro, terrified of her slightest frown. And now all that exciting hustling life was over. She was back in private life, and her former private life had vanished.

  Her house, which had been requisitioned by the army, needed thorough repairing and redecorating before she could return to it, and the difficulties of domestic help made a return to it impracticable in any case. Her friends were largely scattered and dispersed.

  Presently, no doubt, she would find her niche, but at the moment it was a case of marking time. A hotel or a boarding-house seemed the answer. And she had chosen to come to Monkswell Manor.

  She looked round her disparagingly.

  Most dishonest, she said to herself, not to have told me they were only just starting.

  She pushed her plate farther away from her. The fact that her breakfast had been excellently cooked and served, with good coffee and homemade marmalade, in a curious way annoyed her still more. It had deprived her of a legitimate cause of complaint. Her bed, too, had been comfortable, with embroidered sheets and a soft pillow. Mrs Boyle liked comfort, but she also liked to find fault. The latter was, perhaps, the stronger passion of the two.

  Rising majestically, Mrs Boyle left the dining-room, passing in the doorway that very extraordinary young man with the red hair. He was wearing this morning a checked tie of virulent green - a woollen tie.

  Preposterous, said Mrs Boyle to herself. Quite preposterous.

  The way he looked at her, too, sideways out of those pale eyes of his - she didn't like it. There was something upsetting - unusual - about that faintly mocking glance.

  Unbalanced mentally, I shouldn't wonder, said Mrs Boyle to herself.

  She acknowledged his flamboyant bow with a slight inclination of her head and marched into the big drawing-room. Comfortable chairs here, particularly the large rose-colored one. She had better make it clear that that was to be her chair. She deposited her knitting on it as a precaution and walked over and laid a hand on the radiators. As she had suspected, they were only warm, not hot. Mrs Boyle's eye gleamed militantly. She could have something to say about that.

  She glanced out of the window. Dreadful weather - quite dreadful. Well, she wouldn't stay here long - not unless more people came and made the place amusing.

  Some snow slid off the roof with a soft whooshing sound. Mrs Boyle jumped. "No," she said out loud. "I shan't stay here long."

  Somebody laughed - a faint, high chuckle. She turned her head sharply. Young Wren was standing in the doorway looking at her with that curious expression of his.

  No," he said. "I don't suppose you will."

  Major Metcalf was helping Giles to shovel away snow from the back door. He was a good worker, and Giles was quite vociferous in his expressions of gratitude.

  "Good exercise," said Major Metcalf. "Must get exercise every day. Got to keep fit, you know."

  So the major was an exercise fiend. Giles had feared as much. It went with his demand for breakfast at half past seven.

  As though reading Giles's thoughts, the major said, "Very good of your missus to cook me an early breakfast. Nice to get a new-laid egg, too."

  Giles had risen himself before seven, owing to the exigencies of hotel-keeping. He and Molly had had boiled eggs and tea and had set to on the sitting-rooms. Everything was spick-and-span. Giles could not help thinking that if he had been a guest in his own establishment, nothing would have dragged him out of bed on a morning such as this until the last possible moment.

  The major, however, had been up and breakfasted, and roamed about the house, apparently full of energy seeking an outlet.

  Well, thought Giles, there's plenty of snow to shovel.

  He threw a sideways glance at his companion. Not an easy man to place, really. Hardbitten, well over middle age, something queerly watchful about the eyes. A man who was giving nothing away. Giles wondered why he had come to Monkswell Manor.

  Demobilized, probably, and no job to go to.

  Mr Paravicini came down late. He had coffee and a piece of toast - a frugal Continental breakfast.

  He somewhat disconcerted Molly when she brought it to him by rising to his feet, bowing in an exaggerated manner, and exclaiming, "My charming hostess? I am right, am I not?"

  Molly admitted rather shortly that he was right. She was in no mood for compliments at this hour.

  "And why," she said, as she piled crockery recklessly in the sink, "everybody has to have their breakfast at a different time - It's a bit hard."

  She slung the plates into the rack and hurried upstairs to deal with the beds. She could expect no assistance from Giles this morning. He had to clear a way to the boiler house and to the henhouse.

  Molly did the beds at top speed and admittedly in the most slovenly manner, smoothing sheets and pulling them up as fast as she could.

  She was at work on the baths when the telephone rang.

  Molly first cursed at being interrupted, then felt a slight feeling of relief that the telephone at least was still in action, as she ran down to answer it. She arrived in the library a little breathless and lifted the receiver.

  "Yes?"

  A hearty voice with a slight but pleasant country burr asked, "Is that Monkswell Manor?"

  "Monkswell Manor Guest House."

  "Can I speak to Commander David, please?"

  "I'm afraid he can't come to the telephone just now," said Molly. "This is Mrs Davis. Who is speaking, please?"

  "Superintendent Hogben, Berkshire Police."

  Molly gave a slight gasp. She said, "Oh, yes - er - yes?"

  "Mrs Davis, rather an urgent matter has arisen. I don't wish to say very much over the telephone, but I have sent Detective Sergeant Trotter out to you, and he should be there any minute now."

  "But he won't get here. We're snowed up - completely snowed up. The roads are impassable."

  There was no break in the confidence of the voice at the other end.

  "Trotter will get to you, all right," it said. "And please impress upon your husband, Mrs Davis, to listen very carefully to what Trotter has to tell you, and to follow his instructions implicitly. That's all."

  "But, Superintendent Hogben, what -"

  But there was a decisive click. Hogben had clearly said all he had to say and rung off. Molly waggled the telephone rest once or twice, then gave up. She turned as the door opened.

  "Oh, Giles darling, there you are."

  Giles had snow on his hair and a good deal of coal grime on his face. He looked hot.

  "What is it, sweetheart? I've filled the coal scuttles and brought in the wood. I'll do the hens next and then have a look at the boiler. Is that right? What's the matter, Molly? You looked scared."

  "Giles, it was the police."

  "The police?" Giles sounded incredulous.

  "Yes, they're sending out an inspector or a sergeant or something."

  "But why? What have we done?"

  "I don't know. Do you think it could be that two pounds of butter we had from Ireland?"

  Giles was frowning. "I did remember to get the wireless license, didn't I?"

  "Yes, it's in the desk. Giles, old Mrs Bidlock gave me five of her coupons for that old tweed coat of mine. I suppose that's wrong - but I think it's perfectly fair. I'm a coat less so why shouldn't I have the coupons? Oh, dear, what else is there we've done?"

  "I had a near shave with the car the other day. But it was definitely the other fellow's fault. Definitely."

  "We must have done something," wailed Molly.

  "The trouble is that practically everything one does nowadays is illegal," said Giles gloomily. "That's why one has a permanent feeling of guilt. Actually I expect it's something to do with running this place. Running a guest house is probably chock-full of snags we've never heard of."

  "I thought drink
was the only thing that mattered. We haven't given anyone anything to drink. Otherwise, why shouldn't we run our own house any way we please?"

  "I know. It sounds all right. But as I say, everything's more or less forbidden nowadays."

  "Oh, dear," sighed Molly. "I wish we'd never started. We're going to be snowed up for days, and everybody will be cross and they'll eat all our reserves of tins -"

  "Cheer up, sweetheart," said Giles. "We're having a bad break at the moment, but it will pan out all right."

  He kissed the top of her head rather absentmindedly and, releasing her, said in a different voice, "You know, Molly, come to think of it, it must be something pretty serious to send a police sergeant trekking out here in all this." He waved a hand toward the snow outside. He said, "It must be something really urgent -"

  As they stared at each other, the door opened, and Mrs Boyle came in.

  "Ah, here you are, Mr Davis," said Mrs Boyle. "Do you know the central heating in the drawing-room is practically stone-cold?"

  "I'm sorry, Mrs Boyle. We're rather short of coke and -"

  Mrs Boyle cut in ruthlessly. "I am paying seven guineas a week here - seven guineas. And I do not expect to freeze."

  Giles flushed. He said shortly, "I'll go and stoke it up." He went out of the room, and Mrs Boyle turned to Molly.

  "If you don't mind my saying so, Mrs Davis, that is a very extraordinary young man you have staying here. His manners - and his ties - And does he never brush his hair?"

  "He's an extremely brilliant young architect," said Molly.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Christopher Wren is an architect and -"

  "My dear young woman," snapped Mrs Boyle, "I have naturally heard of Sir Christopher Wren. Of course he was an architect. He built St. Paul's. You young people seem to think that education came in with the Education Act."

  "I meant this Wren. His name is Christopher. His parents called him that because they hoped he'd be an architect. And he is - or nearly - one, so it turned out all right."

  "Humph," Mrs Boyle snorted. "It sounds a very fishy story to me. I should make some inquiries about him if I were you. What do you know about him?"

  "Just as much as I know about you, Mrs Boyle - which is that both you and he are paying us seven guineas a week. That's really all that I need to know, isn't it? And all that concerns me. It doesn't matter to me whether I like my guests, or whether -" Molly looked very steadily at Mrs Boyle - "or whether I don't."

  Mrs Boyle flushed angrily. "You are young and inexperienced and should welcome advice from someone more knowledgeable than yourself. And what about this queer foreigner? When did he arrive?"

  "In the middle of the night."

  "Indeed. Most peculiar. Not a very conventional hour."

  "To turn away bona fide travellers would be against the law, Mrs Boyle." Molly added sweetly. "You may not be aware of that."

  "All I can say is that this Paravicini, or whatever he calls himself, seems to me -" "Beware, beware, dear lady. You talk of the devil and then -"

  Mrs Boyle jumped as though it had been indeed the devil who addressed her. Mr Paravicini, who had minced quietly in without either of the two women noticing him, laughed and rubbed his hands together with a kind of elderly satanic glee.

  "You startled me," said Mrs Boyle. "I did not hear you come in."

  "I come in on tiptoe, so," said Mr Paravicini, "nobody ever hears me come and go. That I find very amusing. Sometimes I overhear things. That, too, amuses me." He added softly, "But I do not forget what I hear."

  Mrs Boyle said rather feebly, "Indeed? I must get my knitting -1 left it in the drawing-room."

  She went out hurriedly. Molly stood looking at Mr Paravicini with a puzzled expression. He approached her with a kind of hop and skip.

  "My charming hostess looks upset." Before she could prevent it, he picked up her hand and kissed it. "What is it, dear lady?"

  Molly drew back a step. She was not sure that she liked Mr Paravicini much. He was leering at her like an elderly satyr.

  "Everything is rather difficult this morning," she said lightly. "Because of the snow."

  "Yes." Mr Paravicini turned his head round to look out of the window. "Snow makes everything very difficult, does it not? Or else it makes things very easy."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "No," he said thoughtfully. "There is quite a lot that you do not know. I think, for one thing, that you do not know very much about running a guest house."

  Molly's chin went up belligerently. "I daresay we don't. But we mean to make a go of it."

  "Bravo, bravo."

  "After all," Molly's voice betrayed slight anxiety, "I'm not such a very bad cook -"

  "You are, without doubt, an enchanting cook," said Mr Paravicini.

  What a nuisance foreigners were, thought Molly.

  Perhaps Mr Paravicini read her thoughts. At all events his manner changed. He spoke quietly and quite seriously.

  "May I give you a little word of warning, Mrs Davis? You and your husband must not be too trusting, you know. Have you references with these guests of yours?"

  "Is that usual?" Molly looked troubled. "I thought people just -just came."

  "It is advisable always to know a little about the people who sleep under your roof." He leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder in a minatory kind of way. "Take myself, for example. I turn up in the middle of the night. My car, I say, is overturned in a snowdrift. What do you know of me? Nothing at all. Perhaps you know nothing, either, of your other guests."

  "Mrs Boyle -" began Molly, but stopped as that lady herself re-entered the room, knitting in hand.

  "The drawing-room is too cold. I shall sit in here." She marched toward the fireplace. Mr Paravicini pirouetted swiftly ahead of her. "Allow me to poke the fire for you."

  Molly was struck, as she had been the night before, by the youthful jauntiness of his step. She noticed that he always seemed careful to keep his back to the light, and now, as he knelt, poking the fire, she thought she saw the reason for it. Mr Paravicini's face was cleverly but decidedly "made up."

  So the old idiot tried to make himself look younger than he was, did he? Well, he didn't succeed. He looked all his age and more. Only the youthful walk was incongruous.

  Perhaps that, too, had been carefully counterfeited.

  She was brought back from speculation to the disagreeable realities by the brisk entrance of Major Metcalf.

  "Mrs Davis. I'm afraid the pipes of the - er -" he lowered his voice modestly, "downstairs cloakroom are frozen."

  "Oh, dear," groaned Molly. "What an awful day. First the police and then the pipes."

  Mr Paravicini dropped the poker into the grate with a clatter. Mrs Boyle stopped knitting.

  Molly, looking at Major Metcalf, was puzzled by his sudden stiff immobility and by the indescribable expression on his face. It was an expression she could not place. It was as though all emotion had been drained out of it, leaving something carved out of wood behind.

  He said in a short, staccato voice, "Police, did you say?"

  She was conscious that behind the stiff immobility of his demeanour, some violent emotion was at work. It might have been fear or alertness or excitement - but there was something. This man, she said to herself, could be dangerous.

  He said again, and this time his voice was just mildly curious, "What's that about the police?"

  "They rang up," said Molly. "Just now. To say they're sending a sergeant out here." She looked toward the window. "But I shouldn't think he'll ever get here," she said hopefully.

  "Why are they sending the police here?" He took a step nearer to her, but before she could reply the door opened, and Giles came in.

  "This ruddy coke's more than half stones," he said angrily. Then he added sharply, "Is anything the matter?"

  Major Metcalf turned to him. "I hear the police are coming out here," he said. "Why?"

  "Oh, that's all right," said Giles. "No one ca
n ever get through in this. Why, the drifts are five feet deep. The road's all banked up. Nobody will get here today."

  And at that moment there came distinctly three loud taps on the window.

  It startled them all. For a moment or two they did not locate the sound. It came with the emphasis and menace of a ghostly warning. And then, with a cry, Molly pointed to the French window. A man was standing there tapping on the pane, and the mystery of his arrival was explained by the fact that he wore skis.

  With an exclamation, Giles crossed the room, fumbled with the catch, and threw open the French window.

  "Thank you, sir," said the new arrival. He had a slightly common, cheerful voice and a well-bronzed face.

  "Detective Sergeant Trotter," he announced himself.

  Mrs Boyle peered at him over her knitting with disfavour.

  "You can't be a sergeant," she said disapprovingly. "You're too young."

  The young man, who was indeed very young, looked affronted at this criticism and said in a slightly annoyed tone, "I'm not quite as young as I look, madam."

  His eye roved over the group and picked out Giles.

  "Are you Mr Davis? Can I get these skis off and stow them somewhere?"

  "Of course, come with me."

  Mrs Boyle said acidly as the door to the hall closed behind them, "I suppose that's what we pay our police force for, nowadays, to go round enjoying themselves at winter sports."

  Paravicini had come close to Molly. There was quite a hiss in his voice as he said in a quick, low voice, "Why did you send for the police, Mrs Davis?"

  She recoiled a little before the steady malignity of his glance. This was a new Mr Paravicini. For a moment she felt afraid. She said helplessly, "But I didn't. I didn't."

  And then Christopher Wren came excitedly through the door, saying in a high penetrating whisper, "Who's that man in the hall? Where did he come from? So terribly hearty and all over snow."

  Mrs Boyle's voice boomed out over the click of her knitting-needles. "You may believe it or not, but that man is a policeman. A policeman - skiing!"

  The final disruption of the lower classes had come, so her manner seemed to say.