“Quite a survival,” he remarked.
“My bell? Yes. No newfangled electric bells for me. Half the time they’re out of order and you go on pressing away! This thing never fails. It rings in Barrett’s room upstairs—the bell hangs over her bed. So there’s never any delay in answering it. If there is I pull it again pretty quickly.”
As Mr. Treves went out of the room he heard the bell pulled a second time and heard the tinkle of it somewhere above his head. He looked up and noticed the wires that ran along the ceiling. Barrett came hurriedly down a flight of stairs and passed him, going to her mistress.
Mr. Treves went slowly downstairs, not troubling with the little lift on the downward journey. His face was drawn into a frown of uncertainty.
He found the whole party assembled in the drawing room, and Mary Aldin at once suggested bridge, but Mr. Treves refused politely on the plea that he must very shortly be starting home.
“My hotel,” he said, “is old-fashioned. They do not expect anyone to be out after midnight.”
“It’s a long time from that—only half past ten,” said Nevile. “They don’t lock you out, I hope?”
“Oh no. In fact I doubt if the door is locked at all at night. It is shut at nine o’clock but one has only to turn the handle and walk in. People seem very haphazard down here, but I suppose they are justified in trusting to the honesty of the local people.”
“Certainly no one locks their door in the daytime here,” said Mary. “Ours stands wide open all day long—but we do lock it up at night.”
“What’s the Balmoral Court like?” asked Ted Latimer. It looks a queer high Victorian atrocity of a building.”
“It lives up to its name,” said Mr. Treves. “And has good solid Victorian comfort. Good beds, good cooking—roomy, Victorian wardrobes. Immense baths with mahogany surrounds.”
“Weren’t you saying you were annoyed about something at first?” asked Mary.
“Ah yes. I had carefully reserved by letter two rooms on the ground floor. I have a weak heart, you know, and stairs are forbidden me. When I arrived I was vexed to find the rooms were not available. Instead I was allotted two rooms (very pleasant rooms, I must admit) on the top floor. I protested, but it seems that an old resident who had been going to Scotland this month was ill and had been unable to vacate the rooms.”
“Mr. Lucan, I expect?” said Mary.
“I believe that is the name. Under the circumstances, I had to make the best of things. Fortunately there is a good automatic lift—so that I have really suffered no inconvenience.”
Kay said, “Ted, why don’t you come and stay at the Balmoral Court? You’d be much more accessible.”
“Oh, I don’t think it looks my kind of place.”
“Quite right, Mr. Latimer,” said Mr. Treves. “It would not be at all in your line of country.”
For some reason or other Ted Latimer flushed.
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” he said.
Mary Aldin, sensing constraint, hurriedly made a remark about a newspaper sensation of the moment.
“I see they’ve detained a man in the Kentish Town trunk case—” she said.
“It’s the second man they’ve detained,” said Nevile. “I hope they’ve got the right one this time.”
“They may not be able to hold him even if he is,” said Mr. Treves.
“Insufficient evidence?” asked Royde.
“Yes.”
“Still,” said Kay, “I suppose they always get the evidence in the end.”
“Not always, Mrs. Strange. You’d be surprised if you knew how many of the people who have committed crimes are walking about the country free and unmolested.”
“Because they’ve never been found out, you mean?”
“Not only that. There is a man”—he mentioned a celebrated case of two years back—“the police know who committed those child murders—know it without a shadow of doubt—but they are powerless. That man has been given an alibi by two people, and though that alibi is false there is no proving it to be so. Therefore the murderer goes free.”
“How dreadful,” said Mary.
Thomas Royde knocked out his pipe and said in his quiet reflective voice:
“That confirms what I have always thought—that there are times when one is justified in taking the law into one’s own hands.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Royde?”
Thomas began to refill his pipe. He looked thoughtfully down at his hands as he spoke in jerky disconnected sentences.
“Suppose you knew—of a dirty piece of work—knew that the man who did it isn’t accountable to existing laws—that he’s immune from punishment. Then I hold—that one is justified in executing sentence oneself.”
Mr. Treves said warmly: “A most pernicious doctrine, Mr. Royde! Such an action would be quite unjustifiable!”
“Don’t see it. I’m assuming, you know, that the facts are proved—it’s just the law is powerless!”
“Private action is still not to be excused.”
Thomas smiled—a very gentle smile:
“I don’t agree,” he said. “If a man ought to have his neck wrung, I wouldn’t mind taking the responsibility of wringing it for him!”
“And in turn would render yourself liable to the law’s penalties!”
Still smiling, Thomas said: “I’d have to be careful, of course…In fact one would have to go in for a certain amount of low cunning….”
Audrey said in her clear voice:
“You’d be found out, Thomas.”
“Matter of fact,” said Thomas, “I don’t think I should.”
“I knew a case once,” began Mr. Treves, and stopped. He said apologetically: “Criminology is rather a hobby of mine, you know.”
“Please go on,” said Kay.
“I have had a fairly wide experience of criminal cases,” said Mr. Treves. “Only a few of them have held any real interest. Most murderers have been lamentably uninteresting and very shortsighted. However! I could tell you of one interesting example.”
“Oh do,” said Kay. “I like murders.”
Mr. Treves spoke slowly, apparently choosing his words with great deliberation and care.
“The case concerned a child. I will not mention the child’s age or sex. The facts were as follows: two children were playing with bows and arrows. One child sent an arrow through the other child in a vital spot and death resulted. There was an inquest, the surviving child was completely distraught and the accident was commiserated and sympathy expressed for the unhappy author of the deed.” He paused.
“Was that all?” asked Ted Latimer.
“That was all. A regrettable accident. But there is, you see, another side to the story. A farmer, some time previously, happened to have passed up a certain path in a wood nearby. There, in a little clearing, he had noticed a child practising with a bow and arrow.”
He paused—to let his meaning sink in.
“You mean,” said Mary Aldin incredulously, “that it was not an accident—that it was intentional?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Treves. “I have never known. But it was stated at the inquest that the children were unused to bows and arrows and in consequence shot wildly and ignorantly.”
“And that was not so?”
“That, in the case of one of the children, was certainly not so!”
“What did the farmer do?” said Audrey breathlessly.
“He did nothing. Whether he acted rightly or not, I have never been sure. It was the future of a child that was at stake. A child, he felt, ought to be given the benefit of a doubt.”
Audrey said:
“But you yourself have no doubt about what really happened?”
Mr. Treves said gravely:
“Personally, I am of the opinion that it was a particularly ingenious murder—a murder committed by a child and planned down to every detail beforehand.”
Ted Latimer asked:
“Was there a rea
son?”
“Oh yes, there was a motive. Childish teasings, unkind words—enough to foment hatred. Children hate easily—”
Mary exclaimed: “But the deliberation of it.”
Mr. Treves nodded.
“Yes, the deliberation of it was bad. A child, keeping that murderous intention in its heart, quietly practising day after day and then the final piece of acting—the awkward shooting—the catastrophe, the pretence of grief and despair. It was all incredible—so incredible that probably it would not have been believed in court.”
“What happened to—to the child?” asked Kay curiously.
“Its name was changed, I believe,” said Mr. Treves. “After the publicity of the inquest that was deemed advisable. That child is a grown-up person today—somewhere in the world. The question is, has it still got a murderer’s heart?”
He added thoughtfully:
“It was a long time ago, but I would recognize my little murderer anywhere.”
“Surely not,” objected Royde.
“Oh, yes, there was a certain physical peculiarity—well, I will not dwell on the subject. It is not a very pleasant one. I must really be on my way home.”
He rose.
Mary said, “You will have a drink first?”
The drinks were on a table at the other end of the room. Thomas Royde, who was near them, stepped forward and took the stopper out of the whisky decanter.
“A whisky and soda, Mr. Treves? Latimer, what about you?”
Nevile said to Audrey in a low voice:
“It’s a lovely evening. Come out for a little.”
She had been standing by the window looking out at the moonlit terrace. He stepped past her and stood outside, waiting. She turned back into the room, shaking her head quickly.
“No, I’m tired. I—I think I’ll go to bed.”
She crossed the room and went out. Kay gave a wide yawn.
“I’m sleepy too. What about you, Mary?”
“Yes, I think so. Goodnight, Mr. Treves. Look after Mr. Treves, Thomas.”
“Goodnight, Miss Aldin. Goodnight, Mrs. Strange.”
“We’ll be over for lunch tomorrow, Ted,” said Kay. “We could bathe if it’s still like this.”
“Right. I’ll be looking for you. Goodnight, Miss Aldin.”
The two women left the room.
Ted Latimer said agreeably to Mr. Treves:
“I’m coming your way, sir. Down to the ferry, so I pass the Hotel.”
“Thank you, Mr. Latimer. I shall be glad of your escort.”
Mr. Treves, although he had declared his intention of departing, seemed in no hurry. He sipped his drink with pleasant deliberation and devoted himself to the task of extracting information from Thomas Royde as to the condition of life in Malaya.
Royde was monosyllabic in his answers. The everyday details of existence might have been secrets of National importance from the difficulty with which they were dragged from him. He seemed to be lost in some abstraction of his own, out of which he roused himself with difficulty to reply to his questioner.
Ted Latimer fidgeted. He looked bored, impatient, anxious to be gone.
Suddenly interrupting, he exclaimed:
“I nearly forgot! I brought Kay over some gramophone records she wanted. They’re in the hall. I’ll get them. Will you tell her about them tomorrow, Royde?”
The other man nodded. Ted left the room.
“That young man has a restless nature,” murmured Mr. Treves.
Royde grunted without replying.
“A friend, I think, of Mrs. Strange’s?” pursued the old lawyer.
“Of Kay Strange’s,” said Thomas.
Mr. Treves smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “I meant that. He would hardly be a friend of the first Mrs. Strange.”
Royde said emphatically:
“No, he wouldn’t.”
Then, catching the other’s quizzical eye, he said, flushing a little:
“What I mean is—”
“Oh, I quite understood what you meant, Mr. Royde. You yourself are a friend of Mrs. Audrey Strange, are you not?”
Thomas Royde slowly filled his pipe from his tobacco pouch. His eyes bent to his task, he said or rather mumbled:
“M—yes. More or less brought up together.”
“She must have been a very charming young girl?”
Thomas Royde said something that sounded like “Um—yum.”
“A little awkward having two Mrs. Stranges in the house?”
“Oh yes—yes, rather.”
“A difficult position for the original Mrs. Strange.”
Thomas Royde’s face flushed.
“Extremely difficult.”
Mr. Treves leaned forward. His question popped out sharply:
“Why did she come, Mr. Royde?”
“Well—I suppose—” The other’s voice was indistinct. “She—didn’t like to refuse.”
“To refuse whom?”
Royde shifted awkwardly.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I believe she always comes this time of year—beginning of September.”
“And Lady Tressilian asked Nevile Strange and his new wife at the same time?” The old gentleman’s voice held a nice note of polite incredulity.
“As to that, I believe Nevile asked himself.”
“He was anxious, then, for this—reunion?”
Royde shifted uneasily. He replied, avoiding the other’s eye:
“I suppose so.”
“Curious,” said Mr. Treves.
“Stupid sort of thing to do,” said Thomas Royde, goaded into longer speech.
“Somewhat embarrassing one would have thought,” said Mr. Treves.
“Oh well—people do that sort of thing nowadays,” said Thomas Royde vaguely.
“I wondered,” said Mr. Treves, “if it had been anybody else’s idea?”
Royde stared.
“Whose else’s could it have been?”
Mr. Treves sighed.
“There are so many kind friends about in the world—always anxious to arrange other people’s lives for them—to suggest courses of action that are not in harmony—” He broke off as Nevile Strange strolled back through the french windows. At the same moment Ted Latimer entered by the door from the hall.
“Hullo, Ted, what have you got there?” asked Nevile.
“Gramophone records for Kay. She asked me to bring them over.”
“Oh did she? She didn’t tell me.” There was just a moment of constraint between the two, then Nevile strolled over to the drink tray and helped himself to a whisky and soda. His face looked excited and unhappy and he was breathing deeply.
Someone in Mr. Treves’ hearing had referred to Nevile as “that lucky beggar Strange—got everything in the world anyone could wish for.” Yet he did not look, at this moment, at all a happy man.
Thomas Royde, with Nevile’s re-entry, seemed to feel that his duties as host were over. He left the room without attempting to say goodnight, and his walk was slightly more hurried than usual. It was almost an escape.
“A delightful evening,” said Mr. Treves politely as he set down his glass. “Most—er—instructive.”
“Instructive?” Nevile raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Information re the Malay States,” suggested Ted, smiling broadly. “Hard work dragging answers out of Taciturn Thomas.”
“Extraordinary fellow, Royde,” said Nevile. “I believe he’s always been the same. Just smokes that awful old pipe of his and listens and says Um and Ah occasionally and looks wise like an owl.”
“Perhaps he thinks the more,” said Mr. Treves. “And now I really must take my leave.”
“Come and see Lady Tressilian again soon,” said Nevile as he accompanied the two men to the hall. “You cheer her up enormously. She has so few contacts now with the outside world. She’s wonderful, isn’t she?”
“Yes, indeed. A most stimulating conversationalist.”
Mr. Trev
es dressed himself carefully with overcoat and muffler, and after renewed goodnights he and Ted Latimer set out together.
The Balmoral Court was actually only about a hundred yards away, around one curve of the road. It loomed up prim and forbidding, the first outpost of the straggling country street.
The ferry, where Ted Latimer was bound, was two or three hundred yards farther down, at a point where the river was at its narrowest.
Mr. Treves stopped at the door of the Balmoral Court and held out his hand.
“Goodnight, Mr. Latimer. You are staying down here much longer?”
Ted smiled with a flash of white teeth. “That depends, Mr. Treves. I haven’t had time to be bored—yet.”
“No—no, so I should imagine. I suppose like most young people nowadays, boredom is what you dread most in the world, and yet, I can assure you, there are worse things.”
“Such as?”
Ted Latimer’s voice was soft and pleasant, but it held an undercurrent of something else—something not quite so easy to define.
“Oh, I leave it to your imagination, Mr. Latimer. I would not presume to give you advice, you know. The advice of such elderly fogeys as myself is invariably treated with scorn. Rightly so, perhaps, who knows? But we old buffers like to think that experience has taught us something. We have noticed a good deal, you know, in the course of a lifetime.”
A cloud had come over the face of the moon. The street was very dark. Out of the darkness a man’s figure came towards them walking up the hill.
It was Thomas Royde.
“Just been down to the ferry for a bit of a walk,” he said indistinctly because of the pipe clenched between his teeth.
“This your pub?” he asked Mr. Treves. “Looks as though you were locked out.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Mr. Treves.
He turned the big brass door knob and the door swung back.
“We’ll see you safely in,” said Royde.
The three of them entered the hall. It was dimly lit with only one electric light. There was no one to be seen, and an odour of bygone dinner, rather dusty velvet, and good furniture polish met their nostrils.
Suddenly Mr. Treves gave an exclamation of annoyance.
On the lift in front of them hung a notice:
LIFT OUT OF ORDER
“Dear me,” said Mr. Treves. “How extremely vexing. I shall have to walk up all those stairs.”