In spite of her good night, Betty felt next morning bowed down with the weight of approaching calamity. There was the uncertainty about Charles which she shared with Agatha. Agatha was brave and did not complain, but Betty could not but realize how acutely she was suffering. Her own burden was almost heavier. Still there was no news about Roland, and to her uncertainty was added a cold and numbing fear. She would have given a year’s salary to know what had taken place in Paris on the previous Friday.
On that Monday there were two callers at the Green House. Sir Geoffrey was the first. He was shown in after lunch. Agatha’s improvement had continued and she was up when he came. She was really not in a state for visitors, but she did not like to make a pointed withdrawal and indeed enjoyed the talk.
‘Glad to see you about again, Mrs Stanton,’ he greeted Betty, then turned to Agatha. ‘You were laid up too, were you not, Mrs Barke? I hope you’re better?’
Betty thought him looking tired and worried, but it was evident from the way he chatted that he had not heard about Charles. She would have told him, but she thought the discussion would be painful to Agatha. However, Agatha herself presently broached the subject.
‘You find us in an unhappy state, Sir Geoffrey,’ she said. ‘My husband—Tell him, Betty.’
‘Yes, we’re terribly worried about Mr Barke,’ Betty exclaimed, going on to recount what had happened.
Sir Geoffrey was obviously upset. He expressed his sympathy and regret in unmeasured terms.
‘How did you come to know about it?’ he asked presently.
Betty glanced at Agatha. She wasn’t sure if her friend would like French’s call mentioned. Then she thought it could not be kept hidden. ‘The hotel people informed the French police,’ she therefore told him, ‘and they rang up Scotland Yard. A Chief Inspector came to tell Mrs Barke and to make inquiries.’
Sir Geoffrey shrugged. ‘Terrible for you both! Well, the matter is in the best hands at all events. But I suppose from what you’ve already said he hasn’t discovered anything?’
‘He can’t have, for he said he would let us know immediately he did so.’
‘I can’t say how sorry I am. I hope you will understand that if I had had the slightest idea of it, I never would have dreamt of coming bothering you with my own affairs.’
‘We’re glad to see you,’ Agatha answered, ‘not only personally, but because anything which takes our minds off our trouble is a help. You have matters to discuss with Mrs Stanton? Would you like to go into the other room where you won’t be disturbed?’
Sir Geoffrey was horrified at the idea. He had very little to say about business and none of it was private. But he had the tact to go on to it at once and cease discussing Charles’s fate.
‘Just one or two points, if I may, Mrs Stanton,’ he explained. ‘The first is about the inquiry. The insurance company are making an investigation into the cause of the fire, and I’m afraid they’ll want to ask you a few questions.’
‘I should be glad to help,’ Betty answered, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t tell them anything useful.’
‘Well, you’ll hear from them. Their man will probably call on you.’
‘Right. I’ll do what I can.’
‘Sorry you should be dragged into it. However, there it is. Then I wanted to ask you about your plans. I’m afraid that until the inquiry’s over you’ll be unable to go away, and I am prepared to settle Mrs Relf’s bill till then, if that would be a convenience to you.’
Betty considered this handsome and said so, but before she could go on Agatha interrupted her.
‘I’m sure it’s very kind of you,’ she declared firmly, ‘but she’s going to stay here. Yes, you are,’ she went on to Betty, who demurred faintly. ‘I just couldn’t do without you. If eventually you want to look for a job, you can do it as well from here as from Forde Manor.’
‘It’s awfully good of you,’ Betty was beginning, but again Agatha cut her short.
‘Good!’ she repeated. ‘What nonsense! That’s settled, and no more talk about it.’
‘Very well then. Thank you very much; I’ll stay. Now we’ve talked enough about me. What are your own plans, Sir Geoffrey, if you’ve yet made any?’
‘I have, though only tentatively. My present idea is that as soon as the inquiry and so on is over I’ll take whatever the insurance people pay and go back to America. Though, as I told you, I’m English, I find now I can get on better in the States.’
‘And Forde Manor?’
‘I won’t rebuild. I’ll try and sell the grounds as they stand. If no one wishes to rebuild, I daresay the land might be bought for farming.’
‘Oh, what a pity that would be! All that beautiful lawn and those gardens!’
He shrugged again. ‘If anyone feels that way about it, he can prevent it happening.’ He got up. ‘I must be getting along now, but tell me, before I go, what about your book?’
‘Good of you to ask,’ Betty smiled. ‘The revision is finished and I’m just waiting for the typing of the last chapters to send it away.’
‘I needn’t say I wish it the best of luck. Well, we’ll probably meet again over the inquiry.’
‘One thing I omitted to mention,’ Betty said, as she thanked him, ‘I should like a testimonial, if you think I deserve one.’ She smiled again.
‘Glad you mentioned it,’ he returned. ‘I’ll send it along. Goodbye, Mrs Barke. I do hope you’ll soon have good news. Goodbye, Mrs Stanton, and I can’t begin to thank you for all you’ve done for me.’
‘You know, he’s a curious mixture,’ Agatha remarked when the door had closed. ‘He’s polite and kindly and he doesn’t say anything that one could object to, and yet—I don’t know what it is, but there’s something. He’s not, well, attractive.’
Betty made a gesture of agreement. ‘I know, Agatha. That’s just what I’ve always felt. I can’t put my finger on anything particular, but in spite of his kindness I’ve never liked him. And that seems the general feeling towards him at Ockham. It was of course the reason why he didn’t get into the county set, not that he had been in real estate in Chicago.’
‘He seems to me to be furtive: yes, I think “furtive” is the word. However, we needn’t worry. I don’t suppose either of us will see much more of him. And the job was a help to you while it lasted.’
‘Absolutely ideal. I’m terribly sorry it has closed down.’
Not half an hour later Betty had another caller. She had gone upstairs with Agatha, who wished to lie down, when a card was brought to her: ‘Mr Thomas G. Shaw. The Thames & Tyne Insurance Company, Ltd.’ Nerving herself for what she felt would prove an ordeal, she went down.
She was slightly. surprised when her caller levered himself out of the most comfortable armchair to greet her. She had expected a neat, well-dressed man of the business type with shrewd eyes and a superficial polish covering a rather hard efficiency. Mr Thomas G. Shaw had none of these qualifications, at least outwardly. He was above medium height, thin and stooped, and stood with his knees slightly bent. His face was narrow and hatchery and he had one of those heads which overhang at the back like the counter of a ship. A pallid complexion, a long draggled moustache and a rather untidy sports coat surmounting particularly lengthy plus fours, did not tend to make him more impressive.
‘A washed-out looking nonentity,’ Betty said to herself and immediately grew more at ease. ‘You wished to see me,’ she went on aloud, glancing from the man to his card.
‘Mrs Betty Stanton?’ he asked in a drawling yet not unpleasant voice, continuing as she nodded, ‘I’ve been sent here by the Thames & Tyne to ask you one or two questions about the fire at Forde Manor. As you probably know, the house and contents were insured with my company.’
Betty took a chair by the fire, indicating another for him. ‘I was expecting you,’ she answered. ‘Sir Geoffrey Buller told me a representative of the company would call. I’ll help you in any way I can.’
He collapsed into the chair, as if a two-foot rule had been quickly folded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I should explain that it’s my job to make a full report; cause, damage done, personal injuries, salvage efforts; everything the manager can ask—and a lot that he forgets and the directors think of. But I’ll be no longer than I can help.’ He looked at her mildly over the edge of his glasses.
‘All right. I understand,’ she returned. With his drooping moustache and his overhanging head he looked so like a great bird that she felt she would scarcely be surprised if he were suddenly to flap a pair of draggled wings.
‘Now what would be the least trouble?’ he went on in a mournful sing-song tone. ‘Perhaps you’d tell me what happened in your own words? That might save the deuce of a lot of questions.’ He looked at her as if propounding some interesting but purely abstract hypothesis.
The suggestion appealed to Betty, though she thought it a curious standpoint for an investigator to take up. However, she doubted if it mattered much what she said, as she could scarcely imagine his making a valuable report. All the same, she told her story as fully as she could.
While she spoke he gazed dully into the fire, but she decided that he must have been listening, as he now asked her to excuse him while he made one or two notes. He seemed to write slowly and lazily, but she noticed that he was using shorthand, and his memoranda might therefore have been comprehensive enough.
‘Thanks,’ he said at length, ‘but we can’t avoid all questions—unhappily. Can you make any suggestions as to the cause of the fire? Don’t worry about evidence: guesses will do for me.’
She shook her head. ‘I can think of nothing,’ she answered decidedly. ‘It’s a complete mystery to me.’
He nodded. ‘You said,’ he went on, ‘that when you saw it first the centre block was alight and that the fire spread from there to the wings. Did it spread equally quickly in both directions?’
‘No, it reached the north-east or picture gallery end soonest. I understand that’s why none of those pictures were saved.’
‘But mightn’t the fire have started to the north of the centre?’
She hesitated. ‘I don’t think so. Besides, there was a reason why it should travel more quickly northwards: the wind was west or south-west.’
‘That’s rather important,’ he returned. ‘You think the fire started in the centre block. Well, you’re quite right. The smoke was noticed from another house quite soon after the place got alight, and it was coming from the centre block only.’
‘If you knew that, why did you ask me?’ Betty not unreasonably demanded.
He smiled. ‘Routine,’ he explained easily, ‘we’re slaves to it. Besides,’ his smile robbed the words of offence. ‘look at the side light it throws on your reliability as a witness. Now let’s go a step further. What was there in that central area that might have started the thing?’
‘There were the central heating and the electric mains,’ she replied readily, ‘but I don’t see that either could have caused the outbreak.’
He peered at her above his glasses. ‘You don’t, madam? Now would you just tell me why not?’
‘Simply because both have been there for many years, and if they were defective, the house would surely have gone up before this.’
He cocked his eye at her. ‘Not necessarily, you know; not necessarily. Numbers of large country houses have been mysteriously burnt within the last decade, in which neither the central heating nor the electric fittings had been altered for years previously.’
‘Then I’m afraid I don’t know what happened.’
‘No one does so far. Now will you tell me about the central heating. I understand Relf was in charge?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your opinion of Relf? A good man?’
‘First rate: good at everything, carpentry, painting, glazing, mason work, as well as looking after machinery.’
‘Reliable?’
‘Completely.’
‘That was my impression of him. He told me the boiler was in a cellar beneath that central wing and that it burned anthracite. He said that there was no woodwork or other inflammable object in the place at all. Can you confirm that?’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘When did Relf do his firing?’
‘Twice a day, morning and evening.’
‘And were those the only occasions on which he was in the house?’
‘So far as I know, yes.’
‘Very well, let’s pass on. You say the electric mains were also in that central block?’
‘Yes, the switches were on the wall beneath the back stairs, almost exactly over the boiler cellar.’
‘What did these switches control?’
‘Everything: the entire house.’
‘And can you tell me if they were on or off?’
‘Off.’
‘All of them? You’re quite sure, I suppose, Mrs Stanton?’
‘All of them and I’m quite sure.’
Shaw moved deprecatingly. ‘I’m not questioning your statement, but wouldn’t light be required in the cellar? How did Relf see to do his stoking?’
‘He used a hurricane lamp—just to enable the electricity to be cut completely off.’
‘I follow. Then I suppose he used the lamp to get from the entrance door to the cellar?’
‘Yes, he did, of course,’ Betty answered uneasily.
‘Another source of fire, wasn’t it? Hurricane lamp carried through the house—over wooden floors perhaps?’
‘Well, yes, but I don’t think the oil could have been spilled from such a lamp.’
‘I don’t say it did, but something very unusual did happen. Where was the oil kept, do you know?’
‘In a ten-gallon drum in the cellar.’
‘And cans of oil were carried in over wooden floors to fill the drum at regular intervals, I suppose?’
‘No. It was filled when the house was closed down, but was not all used. At least, I passed no requisition for more oil. Relf will know all about that, though I don’t believe it could have had anything to do with the fire.’
He smiled. ‘I don’t myself, Mrs Stanton, but it’s a possibility. Please remember, I’m only trying to collect facts.’
‘Sorry,’ she apologized.
‘Not at all. Now that gets us back to electricity. When did you yourself last see that the switches were off?’
For the first time Betty hesitated. She knew they were off all right, but she was worried as to whether Charles might not have had them turned on. She was growing more anxious also about her replies, for her opinion of Shaw had altered considerably since the interview began. In spite of his appearance, he seemed anything but a fool.
‘I saw them turned off when the house was closed,’ she presently answered, ‘and since then I have noticed twice or three times that they were off when I was in that part of the house; I can’t say exactly when.’
‘After what you have said, I need scarcely ask if you turned them on yourself since the house was closed?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Quite. Well, could anyone have turned them on? What about Relf?’
‘Relf could of course, but I’m sure he never would have.’
‘Now, Mrs Stanton, think carefully of this. Was anyone’ else in the house recently, besides yourself and Relf?’
Put in this direct way only one answer was possible. ‘Apart from Sir Geoffrey, the only person I know of was my friend, Mr Barke,’ and she went on to tell of Charles’s visit.
He did not seem impressed. ‘Well, we can get that from Mr Barke and Relf,’ he said casually and was going on with another question when she interrupted.
‘I’m afraid you can’t,’ she explained. ‘It’s not yet generally known, but Mr Barke has disappeared,’ and again she went on to give the details.
Shaw showed merely a polite interest until he heard that Chief Inspector French had the matter in hand. Then he brightened up.
‘I know him well,’ he told her with the nearest approach to enthusiasm he had yet shown. ‘A thundering good chap. A bit slow, but thorough and as decent and straight as they’re made. I’ll never forget my first introduction to him.’ He put down his notebook with an air of relief, as if welcoming a few moments’ relaxation. ‘We were on a job together, at least he was on it, a case of theft, and I was watching the affair on behalf of my Company, which had insured the stolen property. We went to get some lunch on the first day and on the way we met a man, a disreputable looking creature next door to a down and out. He looked at French as if he knew him, though he didn’t speak. But next moment French spotted him and we stopped. “Well, John” or “Tom” or whatever it was, said French, “what are you doing here?” The man started on a hard luck story, just the standard rigmarole, out of a job, sick wife, no coal in the house, all as per sample. And what did French do? He didn’t tell him to stop begging or he’d have him run in. He took a ten-shilling note out of his pocket and handed it to him and told him to call at a certain address where a man was wanted, promising he would write and recommend him for the job.’
‘I should have called that weak-minded, not charitable,’ Betty remarked, seeing that a comment was expected.
‘Exactly what I thought,’ Shaw returned, ‘but I was wrong, and so would you have been. That’s not the whole story. Over lunch French told me that the man had got out of Dartmoor only a few weeks previously, where he had been for burglary. It was French’s evidence which had convicted him. He said he knew the man’s story was true; he couldn’t get a job and his wife was ill. He didn’t know about there being no coal in the house, but he thought it not unlikely. I’ll not quickly forget what he said. “If that chap doesn’t get a bit of help he’ll go back to Dartmoor, and the fault won’t be his. It’ll be yours and mine and the next man’s.” And he added what I knew myself, that most old lags want nothing more than to go straight and that they’d make specially trustworthy employees, but people won’t have them and there’s nothing for them but to go back to crime.’
‘Did the man get the job?’
‘I don’t know. I only tell the story to illustrate the kind of man French is.’ He sighed and reluctantly picked up his book. ‘But I suppose this is wasting both your time and my own. Let’s see, where were we? Oh yes, you were saying that Mr Barke went in to see the pictures and of course might have turned on the light, though you think that unlikely. Well, I can find out from Relf if he did. And may I, just before we leave the point, express my sympathy with you and Mrs Barke in this anxious time. Now what about Sir Geoffrey? You said he also had been in the house since it was closed.’
‘Oh yes, but I couldn’t tell you just when. He naturally went in and out when he chose.’
‘When was the last occasion?’
Betty considered. Then she took her engagement book from her bag and turned the leaves. ‘About a month before the fire,’ she answered. ‘Then he went out to Italy. He was in Italy all that month, till he was wired for after the fire.’
‘Huh,’ Shaw grunted as if disappointed. ‘Nothing there.’
For a moment Betty thought he had finished, but she was speedily undeceived. In his slow, apparently inconsequent way he went on to obtain from her a description of the house and furniture as it was at the time of the fire, questioning her particularly about panelling, wooden ceilings and curtains. He asked what specially inflammable articles the house contained, oil, petrol, candles and so on, and where these were stored, made sure there was no gas on the premises, and obtained from her thumbnail sketches of Relf, Carson and Sir Geoffrey.
‘Now at last he’s done,’ she thought when these last were duly noted.
But he hadn’t. He paused, consulted his book, then started off as if with a new lease of life. ‘You’re fond of pictures, Mrs Stanton?’
Betty agreed.
‘Then no doubt you grew familiar with those at Forde Manor? A good collection, I understand?’
‘On the whole, yes,’ she responded judicially. ‘There were a number of really good and valuable pictures, but there were also several of a very ordinary type.’
‘A description of most collections, isn’t it? Did Sir Geoffrey make any changes in connection with pictures?’
Betty hesitated. ‘Don’t you think you should ask him?’ she presently essayed.
‘I see you think he did. For your peace of mind I may tell you that I’ve done so. But I want your confirmation, Routine again.’
In spite of the man’s inconsequent and rather friendly manner, Betty shivered. There seemed something sinister in this system of questioning; something as comprehensive as the universe and as relentless as Fate. Against it nothing could remain hidden. All the same there was no reason why she shouldn’t answer the question.
‘I’m not sure what you want to know,’ she said. ‘He had some pictures cleaned, if that’s what you mean.’
‘That’s what I mean. Fifteen, he told me,’ and he read out a list which Betty recognized as correct.
This at last was the end. With an apology for the time he had taken, Shaw once again levered himself out of his chair.
‘You lost nothing in the fire yourself?’ he asked as she also rose. ‘None of your own personal property? Because if it was in the building it would be covered by the policy.’
‘Nothing,’ she answered. ‘I left with the others and was staying temporarily in the Relfs’ cottage.’
He nodded. ‘Well, Mrs Stanton,’ he declared. ‘I have to thank you for helping me so pleasantly. Often people are obstructive and it makes an inquiry a loathsome job.’
She smiled. ‘I can imagine it.’
The next day was a thrilling one for Betty. By the early post the last three chapters of her book came in from the typist, and she spent a fascinating morning in getting the completed work off to the publishers. What a joy there was in checking over the chapters to make sure that all were there, in squaring them up evenly, in binding them in a cover, even in handling and looking at this complete and perfect article which she, by her thought and work, had created out of nothing whatever! Then there was the wrapping of it up in paper, the writing on it of that magic name borne by the publishers to whom she had decided to entrust it, and the carrying of the precious burden to the post office, where registration took on the nature of a sacred rite. The only pang was in the handing of it over to the attendant, while the careless way in which he dropped it under the counter shocked her profoundly. She brightened up, however, when she remembered that the carbon copy was still at the Green House, waiting to be bound and put away.
But even this delightful task could not be made to occupy longer than the next morning, and when it was done Betty felt lost; as if a whole piece had gone out of her life. She decided to wait for a day or two and then set to work in real earnest to look for a job. With her Forde Manor experience, Sir Geoffrey’s admirable testimonial and her more self-reliant manner, she felt she would produce a very different impression on the heads of employment bureaux than nine months earlier. That afternoon the Scotland Yard inspector called again.
But he had no news, merely asking more interminable questions. This time he saw Agatha also, but he seemed only to repeat to her the questions Betty had already answered.
When that evening Betty spoke about looking for a job, Agatha made an outcry. She would have none of it. ‘Here you are,’ she declared firmly, ‘and here you stay: for the present at all events.’ This to Betty was like a glimpse into paradise, and after a half-hearted protest she accepted the invitation.
Gradually the days began to drift by. Neither she nor Agatha heard from French, nor, so far as they knew, was any progress made in clearing up the mystery of Charles’s fate. Tacitly the two women assumed that he was dead, and the assumption drew them closer together.