Footsteps in the Dark Read online

  ‘Quite right,’ Charles said. He turned, as Margaret, who had slipped out of the room a minute or two before, came back with a tray. ‘Good idea, Margaret,’ he approved. ‘You’ll have a glass of beer, after your labours, Flinders?’ He got up and unscrewed the top of the bottle. It made a pleasant hissing sound. The constable watched the golden liquid froth into the glass, and his eye glistened. Charles held out the glass.

  ‘Not supposed to take anything when we’re on duty, you know, sir,’ the constable said, accepting it.

  Charles poured out two more glasses. ‘You can’t be on duty at this time of night,’ he said.

  ‘Well, sir, since you make a point of it,’ said Mr Flinders, and raised the glass. ‘Here’s your very good health, sir.’

  ‘Same to you,’ said Charles.

  Celia spoke. ‘Charles, you must tell this French person you will not have him wandering about in our grounds. Really, it’s a bit too thick! Apparently the whole countryside regards this place as common land. I won’t put up with it any longer!’

  ‘What can he be doing here, anyway?’ Margaret wondered.

  ‘Looking for the Monk, like the rest of us,’ answered Charles. ‘Let’s form a society, shall we?’

  ‘No,’ said Celia crossly. ‘We shan’t. I’m sick to death of the Monk!’

  ‘Well, I’ll go and have a chat with Duval to-morrow,’ Charles promised.

  He had no particular desire to set foot inside the artist’s dreary little cottage again, so on the following morning he cut short his fishing, and strolled on to the Bell Inn in the hope of meeting Duval there. He was rewarded by the sight of the artist seated alone in the taproom at a table in the corner. He had a glass of whisky before him, and he was sitting in a slack attitude, with his hands clasped between his knees, and his eyes staring moodily at the ground. He looked up as Charles came across the room, and a furtive expression crept into his face.

  Charles sat down on the settle beside him, and having ascertained that the only two people within earshot were busily discussing fat stock, he said: ‘Good morning. I was looking for you.’

  ‘I do not know why,’ Duval said sullenly. ‘I will not tell you anything. It is better that you go away and leave me alone.’

  ‘Oh yes, I think you do know,’ Charles replied. ‘Last night you were seen in our grounds.’

  The artist gave a shiver, and one of his claw-like hands grasped Charles’ knee under cover of the table. ‘Be quiet!’ he muttered. ‘Have I not said even the walls have ears?’

  ‘It is not a very original observation,’ Charles remarked. ‘Moreover, no one is listening to us. What I want to say is this: I can’t have you pursuing your search for the Monk in my grounds. Sorry if I seem obstructive, but there are too many people already in the habit of treating the place as though it were their own.’

  ‘Speak that name again, and I leave you!’ Duval said. His hands were shaking. ‘If it were known – if someone saw me with you, I do not know what might happen. If you must talk with me, talk of my art.’

  He raised his voice to an unnatural pitch, and said boisterously: ‘Yes, my friend, it is true I have the eye for colour, even as you say. I see colour like no one else has ever seen it.’

  Two people had come into the taproom together, and both looked round. They were Wilkes and Michael Strange. Strange, after one glance, turned away, but Wilkes kept his eyes on the pair in the corner for a moment or two, and made an involuntary grimace of annoyance.

  Again the artist’s fingers closed on Charles’ knee. ‘Be careful!’ he said, so softly that Charles only just caught the words. ‘Look who has entered! For the love of God, m’sieur, guard your tongue! If that one knew that I had spoken with you of – of the things we both know of…!’ He broke off, passing his tongue between his lips.

  Michael Strange, a tankard in his hand, was making his way towards a seat by the window. He bestowed a curt nod on Charles, and sitting down began to scan the columns of a newspaper. The length of room separated him from the corner table, and Charles said: ‘I’ve no wish to upset you, but do you understand that I cannot permit you to haunt my grounds?’

  The artist got up. ‘I go. I speak with you another time. Here, it is not safe. I come up to speak with you to-night perhaps, when no one can see.’ Once more he raised his voice, in unconvincing joviality: ‘Ah, you are too good, m’sieur! But it is true: I have revolutionised the art of painting.’

  The landlord came up to them. ‘’Morning, sir. ’Morning, moossoo. Got everything you want, sir? What, you off, moossoo? Well, this is a short visit you’ve paid the Bell to-day, and no mistake.’

  The artist clapped him on the shoulder. ‘My friend, this gentleman has bought from me a picture! He is not an artist, no, but he is a connoisseur!’

  ‘That’s very nice, sir, I’m sure,’ Wilkes said, and passed on.

  Duval picked up his hat, and without another word to Charles went out of the bar. After a few moments Charles followed him, and went rather thoughtfully home.

  So far Inspector Tomlinson had been as good as his word: they were not worried by any apparent supervision. As far as Charles could make out no one had come over to Framley either to watch or to make inquiries, and his suspicions that the inspector had not taken the matter very seriously began to grow stronger.

  At lunch-time Celia asked whether he had seen Duval and forbidden him to come any more to the Priory. When she heard that the artist proposed to pay them a visit that night she was anything but pleased. ‘He can’t come tonight!’ she said. ‘You know we’ve got the Rootes and Colonel Ackerley dining with us.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ Charles replied. ‘I don’t propose to ask him to dinner. If he does turn up I’ll tell Bowers to push him into the study. I shall soon be able to get rid of him.’

  Margaret said, without raising her eyes from her plate: ‘You didn’t ask Mr Strange to dinner too?’

  ‘I did not,’ said Charles with emphasis.

  ‘I wondered,’ Margaret explained off-handedly, ‘because I thought Celia wanted him invited.’

  Her brother regarded her intently. ‘Celia? I was under the impression that it was you who seemed keenest about it.’ He waited to hear what she would say, but she said nothing at all. ‘Look here, Sis, I know you’ve got rather a soft corner for that fellow, but you can take it from me that there’s something very fishy about him. And if you happen to meet him at any time, I’d like you to be very much on your guard. See?’

  Margaret flushed scarlet. ‘What do you mean? Why should I meet him? And I don’t know why you should think I have a soft corner for him simply because I won’t leap to conclusions as you’re doing.’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on,’ Peter recommended. ‘But I don’t mind telling you that yesterday this precious Mr Strange of yours somehow or other got wind of our visit to the police, and followed us. I just mention it so that you shall see there is a real need for you to be on your guard when talking to him.’

  Startled grey eyes flew to his face. ‘Followed you?’ Margaret said. ‘To – to Manfield?’

  Peter nodded. ‘How he got wind of it we don’t know, but it seems fairly certain that he did.’

  She knew only too well from what source Michael Strange had obtained his information. She felt guilty and unhappy, knowing that she was doing wrong to withhold her own discoveries from her relations. She finished the meal in silence, aware of her brother’s scrutiny, and took care to avoid a tête-à-tête conversation with him afterwards. This was an easy matter, as they all played tennis again during the afternoon, and there was no opportunity for him to speak to her alone in between the last set and the arrival of their guests.

  She lingered over her dressing, and did not go down to the drawing-room until she had heard one of the visitors arrive. She entered the room at length to find Colonel Ackerley apparently discussing whooping-cough with the doctor.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it,’ Roote was saying. ‘But