Tragedy at Beechcroft (Musaicum Murder Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

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      CHAPTER II.

       AN OLD FRIEND IS ASKED DOWN FOR A REST

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      SANTLEY could not get the amazing interview with Mrs. Phillimore out of his mind. It sounded incredible, but how much did he really know of her son-in-law, Major Moncrieff? How much does any one really know of any one else? After the French buyer had left him, he decided to go and have a talk with his Aunt Julia. When the world grew too complex to Santley, he talked to his aunt and the paths seemed to straighten. He would not tell her of what he had just learnt, but he usually found that, no matter of what they spoke, he came away with clearer eyes, and a simpler outlook.

      After Lavinia had refused him, for instance, Santley had had some wild thoughts of—well, wild thoughts. But Aunt Julia had changed them. Subtly she had made him feel that, apart from its spiritual side, life was a fair. You entered booth after booth that caught your fancy, and were amused awhile, or bored awhile, or you yourself took part in the show awhile, but you passed on. That was life—passing on.

      When he got to her flat in Battersea, he was told that she was out. Mary—all his aunt's maids were promptly called Mary on entering her service—told him that Miss Santley was in the Park. He went there on the chance of encountering her. It was very gay and bright. Flowers were the despair of Santley. How did they do it? Whence came those shadows, and half-tints and under-tones? All they had was the dull old earth, and out of it they produced colours which he, with all his palette set, could not even copy. Then he caught sight of his aunt. Santley was always amused when he read of ladies of seventy wrapped in shawls and tottering around on sticks. Aunt Julia was seventy-two but he would not care to bet on her not catching him up should he ever try to run away from her, and he was exactly half her age.

      Neither handsome nor ugly, she looked what she was, a wise woman. For the rest, she was neatly dressed in some extremely comfortable, time-saving sort of garment which had the effect of a uniform.

      She never fussed over him. And with a smile as their only greeting, they now walked on together, talking about a book she had in her hand. She was making, she told him, for a certain seat which she especially liked, because it was so secluded. At one spot she made a sign to him to stand still, and saying that she could see from a place in the hedge whether it was free or not, reconnoitred. There was quite a steep curve to the bench which was some distance off, and Aunt Julia did not care for needless labour.

      Santley saw her make a gesture of annoyance. "That's the second time that's happened! And the same man again. Why, it's the same two men! How odd!" And Aunt Julia peered through her hole, while her nephew hunted for a match. He was about to ask her for one, when she held up a peremptory hand for silence. Naturally he joined her at that, and pushing her gently but firmly to one side, looked in his turn through the branches to where the park bench stood. On it were two men. Even as he looked they rose, and separated without a glance at each other. One going to the right, the other to the left as a keeper approached down a centre path.

      "What happened?" his aunt asked under her breath, as he stepped back on to the gravel again. "They're gone? Did he hand him some money as he did last time? Exactly a week ago that was."

      "My dear aunt, are you Miss Marple by any chance?"

      Aunt Julia smiled tolerantly. "Nihil humani—" she began. He made a gesture as though to flee.

      "But listen!" she went on. "About a month ago that same man was sitting on that seat when I came here. It, too, was on a Tuesday. And the same man joined him. I waited about, because I like that corner. To my surprise the well-dressed one gave the other, the one who looks like a tramp, five one-pound notes. He counted them into the other's hand, and then left without a glance at the other, for all the world as two strangers would part. But the other jumped up and rushed after him. He had to be fairly shaken off. And very firmly shaken off he was too, nephew. I think he was threatening the other..." she stopped. The very man of whom she was speaking was passing.

      The man's teeth were clenched, and through them he seemed to be swearing to himself. He had a wind-blackened, thin face with deep-set eyes just now fastened on his clenched right hand which held some pound notes. Then, still muttering in a tone of half-suppressed fury, he turned down another path. From first to last he had not glanced at either of them.

      "I could imagine bloodcurdling oaths which would sound less unpleasant than those low mumbles," Aunt Julia said, after a little pause, as they walked on. Oliver began to talk of the flowers about them.

      "What's the matter?" she asked on the instant. "Do you know that man?"

      That was just like Aunt Julia.

      "No," he replied. And again got a look of inquiry.

      "I'll tell you, in strict confidence," he said to that.

      "I should get it out of you any way," she murmured, quite correctly.

      "It was the other man whom I know by sight. He's Major Moncrieff."

      She knew the name well enough, and what it had once stood for in her nephew's life. But she did not refer to Lavinia now.

      "I'm thinking of painting him," Oliver added.

      "How interesting," said his aunt, "you always like to put some sort of a symbol into your pictures. I thought that dim coronet just indicated in one corner of Lord Liverpool's portrait was entrancing. He who had sacrificed everything worth having to get a peerage. And Mr. Ardente's with the porthole and the glimpse of the sea...well, how about a park bench in the corner of Major Moncrieff's picture?"

      Both laughed.

      "Or a hand rampant with banknotes gule—" he suggested. "Luckily it was he who was giving the notes, not cadging for them. And a charitable action," he said ruminatingly.

      "Stuff!" came from Aunt Julia. "You don't call that charity, any more than I do. That was hush-money. The man who passed us was a blackmailer, and not satisfied with what he got."

      "Then he wasn't a blackmailer," Oliver pointed out. "They can call the tune, and their wretched victims have to pay up without any chance of bargaining." And again he talked of the trees. They sat down on the next bench they came to, and Aunt Julia gave her reasons for considering French literature vastly overrated. A pause followed. Oliver drew pictures in the gravel and finally said, looking up for the first time since they had sat down:

      "If you were asked to spy on someone, would it make any difference if his wife ran the house, and you were in point of absolute fact her guest, not her husband's?"

      "Only one thing would influence me," said Aunt Julia firmly, "The reason for my spying. Say you thought the Major was about to cut his wife's throat—then you needn't mind whose house it is."

      Santley gazed at her with a dropped jaw.

      "Oh, СКАЧАТЬ