The Seven Dials mystery
"I say, Ronny," said Jimmy.
"Well?"
Jimmy found a difficulty in going on.
"You don't mean--you aren't thinking--I mean, you haven't got it into
your head that--that, well, I mean he wasn't biffed on the head or
anything? Tredwell's locking the door and all that."
It seemed to Jimmy that his words deserved an answer, but Ronny
continued to stare straight out in front of him.
Jimmy shook his head and relapsed into silence. He didn't see that
there was anything to do except just wait. So he waited.
It was Tredwell who disturbed them.
"The doctor would like to see you two gentlemen in the library, if you
please, sir."
Ronny sprang up. Jimmy followed him.
Dr. Cartwright was a thin, energetic young man with a clever face.
He greeted them with a brief nod. Pongo, looking more serious and
spectacled than ever, performed introductions.
"I understand you were a great friend of Mr. Wade's," the doctor said
to Ronny.
"His greatest friend."
"H'm. Well, this business seems straightforward enough. Sad, though.
He looked a healthy young chap. Do you know if he was in the habit of
taking stuff to make him sleep?"
"Make him _sleep_?" Ronny stared. "He always slept like a top."
"You never heard him complain of sleeplessness?"
"Never."
"Well, the facts are simple enough. There'll have to be an inquest, I'm
afraid, nevertheless."
"How did he die?"
"There's not much doubt; I should say an overdose of chloral. The stuff
was by his bed. And a bottle and glass. Very sad, these things are."
It was Jimmy who asked the question which he felt was trembling on his
friend's lips, and yet which the other could somehow or other not get
out.
"There's no question of--foul play?"
The doctor looked at him sharply.
"Why do you say that? Any cause to suspect it, eh?"
Jimmy looked at Ronny. If Ronny knew anything, now was the time to
speak. But to his astonishment Ronny shook his head.
"No cause whatever," he said clearly.
"And suicide--eh?"
"Certainly not."
Ronny was emphatic. The doctor was not so clearly convinced.
"No troubles that you know of? Money troubles? A woman?"
Again Ronny shook his head.
"Now about his relations. They must be notified."
"He's got a sister--a half-sister rather. Lives at Deane Priory. About
twenty miles from here. When he wasn't in town Gerry lived with her."
"H'm," said the doctor. "Well, she must be told."
"I'll go," said Ronny. "It's a rotten job, but somebody's got to do
it." He looked at Jimmy. "You know her, don't you?"
"Slightly. I've danced with her once or twice."
"Then we'll go in your car. You don't mind, do you? I can't face it
alone."
"That's all right," said Jimmy reassuringly. "I was going to suggest it
myself. I'll go and get the old bus cranked up."
He was glad to have something to do. Ronny's manner puzzled him. What
did he know or suspect? And why had he not voiced his suspicions, if he
had them, to the doctor.
Presently the two friends were skimming along in Jimmy's car with a
cheerful disregard for such things as speed limits.
"Jimmy," said Ronny at last, "I suppose you're about the best pal I
have--now."
"Well," said Jimmy, "what about it?"
He spoke gruffly.
"There's something I'd like to tell you. Something you ought to know."
"About Gerry Wade?"
"Yes, about Gerry Wade."
Jimmy waited.
"Well?" he inquired at last.
"I don't know that I ought to," said Ronny.
"Why?"
"I'm bound by a kind of promise."
"Oh! Well then, perhaps you'd better not."
There was a silence.
"And yet, I'd like--You see, Jimmy, your brains are better than mine."
"They could easily be that," said Jimmy unkindly.
"No, I can't," said Ronny suddenly.
"All right," said Jimmy. "Just as you like."
After a long silence, Ronny said:
"What's she like?"
"Who?"
"This girl. Gerry's sister."
Jimmy was silent for some minutes, then he said in a voice that had
somehow or other altered:
"She's all right. In fact--well, she's a corker."
"Gerry was very devoted to her, I know. He often spoke of her."
"She was very devoted to Gerry. It--it's going to hit her hard."
"Yes, a nasty job."
They were silent till they reached Deane Priory.
Miss Loraine, the maid told them, was in the garden. Unless they wanted
to see Mrs. Coker--
Jimmy was eloquent that they did not want to see Mrs. Coker.
"Who's Mrs. Coker?" asked Ronny as they went round into the somewhat
neglected garden.
"The old trout who lives with Loraine."
They had stepped out into a paved walk. At the end of it was a girl
with two black spaniels. A small girl, very fair, dressed in shabby old
tweeds. Not at all the girl that Ronny had expected to see. Not, in
fact, Jimmy's usual type.
Holding one dog by the collar, she came down the pathway to meet them.
"How do you do," she said. "You mustn't mind Elizabeth. She's just had
some puppies and she's very suspicious."
She had a supremely natural manner and, as she looked up smiling, the
faint wild rose flush deepened in her cheeks. Her eyes were a very dark
blue--like cornflowers.
Suddenly they widened--was it with alarm? As though, already, she
guessed.
Jimmy hastened to speak.
"This is Ronny Devereux, Miss Wade. You must often have heard Gerry
speak of him."
"Oh! yes." She turned a lovely, warm, welcoming smile on him. "You've
both been staying at Chimneys, haven't you? Why didn't you bring Gerry
over with you?"
"We--er--couldn't," said Ronny, and then stopped.
Again Jimmy saw the look of fear flash into her eyes.
"Miss Wade," he said, "I'm afraid--I mean, we've got bad news for you."
She was on the alert in a moment.
"Gerry?"
"Yes--Gerry. He's--"
She stamped her foot with sudden passion.
"Oh! tell me--tell me--" She turned suddenly on Ronny. "_You'll_ tell
me."
Jimmy felt a pang of jealousy, and in that moment he knew what up to
now he had hesitated to admit to himself.
He knew why Helen and Nancy and Socks were just "girls" to him and
nothing more.
He only _half_ heard Ronny's voice saying gravely:
"Yes, Miss Wade, I'll tell you. Gerry is dead."
She had plenty of pluck. She gasped and drew back, but in a minute or
two she was asking eager, searching questions. How? When?
Ronny answered her as gently as he could.
"_Sleeping_ draught? Gerry?"
The incredulity in her voice was plain. Jimmy gave her a glance. It was
almost a glance of warning. He had a sudden feeling that Loraine in her
innocence might say too much.
In his turn he explained as gently as possible the need for an
inquest. She shuddered. She declined their offer of taking her back to
Chimneys with them, but explained she would come over later. She had a
two-seater of her own.
"But I want to be--be alone a little first," she said piteously.
"I know," said Ronny.
"That's all right," said Jimmy.
They looked at her, feeling awkward and helpless.
"Thank you both ever so much for coming."
They drove back in silence and there was something like constraint
between them.
"My God! that girl's plucky," said Ronny once.
Jimmy agreed.
"Gerry was my friend," said Ronny. "It's up to me to keep an eye on
her."
"Oh! rather. Of course."
They said no more.
On returning to Chimneys Jimmy was waylaid by a tearful Lady Coote.
"That poor boy," she kept repeating. "That poor boy."
Jimmy made all the suitable remarks he could think of.
Lady Coote told him at great length various details about the decease
of various dear friends of hers. Jimmy listened with a show of sympathy
and at last managed to detach himself without actual rudeness.
He ran lightly up the stairs. Ronny was just emerging from Gerald
Wade's room. He seemed taken aback at the sight of Jimmy.
"I've been in to see him," he said. "Are you going in?"
"I don't think so," said Jimmy, who was a healthy young man with a
natural dislike to being reminded of death.
"I think all his friends ought to."
"Oh! do you?" said Jimmy, and registered to himself an impression that
Ronny Devereux was damned odd about it all.
"Yes. It's a sign of respect."
Jimmy sighed, but gave in.
"Oh! very well," he said, and passed in, setting his teeth a little.
There were white flowers arranged on the coverlet, and the room had
been tidied and set to rights.
Jimmy gave one quick, nervous glance at the still, white face. Could
that be cherubic, pink Gerry Wade? That still peaceful figure. He
shivered.
As he turned to leave the room, his glance swept the mantelshelf and
he stopped in astonishment. The alarum clocks had been ranged along it
neatly in a row.
He went out sharply. Ronny was waiting for him.
"Looks very peaceful and all that. Rotten luck on him," mumbled Jimmy.
Then he said:
"I say, Ronny, who arranged all those clocks like that in a row?"
"How should I know? One of the servants, I suppose."
"The funny thing is," said Jimmy, "that there are seven of them, not
eight. One of them's missing. Did you notice that?"
Ronny made an inaudible sound.
"Seven instead of eight," said Jimmy, frowning. "I wonder why."
CHAPTER IV
A LETTER
"Inconsiderate, that's what I call it," said Lord Caterham.
He spoke in a gentle, plaintive voice and seemed pleased with the
adjective he had found.
"Yes, distinctly inconsiderate. I often find these self-made men
_are_ inconsiderate. Very possibly that is why they amass such large
fortunes."
He looked mournfully out over his ancestral acres, of which he had
to-day regained possession.
His daughter, Lady Eileen Brent, known to her friends and society in
general as "Bundle," laughed.
"You'll certainly never amass a large fortune," she observed dryly,
"though you didn't do so badly out of old Coote, sticking him for this
place. What was he like? Presentable?"
"One of those large men," said Lord Caterham, shuddering slightly,
"with a red square face and iron-grey hair. Powerful, you know. What
they call a forceful personality. The kind of a man you'd get if a
steam-roller were turned into a human being."
"Rather tiring?" suggested Bundle sympathetically.
"Frightfully tiring, full of all the most depressing virtues like
sobriety and punctuality. I don't know which are the worst, powerful
personalities or earnest politicians. I do so prefer the cheerful
inefficient."
"A cheerful inefficient wouldn't have been able to pay you the price
you asked for this old mausoleum," Bundle reminded him.
Lord Caterham winced.
"I wish you wouldn't use that word, Bundle. We were just getting away
from the subject."
"I don't see why you're so frightfully sensitive about it," said
Bundle. "After all, people must die somewhere."
"They needn't die in my house," said Lord Caterham.
"I don't see why not. Lots of people have. Masses of stuffy old great
grandfathers and grandmothers."
"That's different," said Lord Caterham. "Naturally I expect Brents
to die here--they don't count. But I do object to strangers. And I
especially object to inquests. The thing will become a habit soon. This
is the second. You remember all that fuss we had four years ago? For
which, by the way, I hold George Lomax entirely to blame."
"And now you're blaming poor old steam-roller Coote. I'm sure he was
quite as annoyed about it as anyone."
"Very inconsiderate," said Lord Caterham obstinately. "People who are
likely to do that sort of thing oughtn't to be asked to stay. And you
may say what you like, Bundle, I don't like inquests. I never have and
I never shall."
"Well, this wasn't the same sort of thing as the last one," said Bundle
soothingly. "I mean, it wasn't a murder."
"It might have been--from the fuss that thick-head of an inspector