They watched David walk up to the low iron gate that opened on the drive. For some seconds he stood with his hands on the top bar, gazing at the house. He turned away, retreated, paused, and went back. He climbed the gate. And then in full moonlight he walked directly towards the house.
‘Come along.’ Appleby spoke softly, and vanished into shadow. They followed him for a few yards down a dry ditch. He scrambled through a fence and into the plantation which ran along the road. ‘We keep among the trees,’ he said, ‘and make as little noise as we can, particularly when we get near the tower. Don’t, any of you, do anything rash if our friends put on a turn. It will be for David’s benefit, not ours.’
They continued through the fringe of the trees. David was clearly visible, walking doggedly down the straight drive that led to the house. Once he stopped in his tracks and raised his head, as if glancing up at the solitary light. There was no sign of Farquharson, who had last been glimpsed among the trees dead opposite. The owls had fallen silent and the night was quite still, except for the sound of their own cautious progress towards the tower, and the faint drone of an aeroplane engine very far away. Then suddenly they heard a voice crying out – once, twice – from what seemed a distance almost equally remote or high. It was a woman’s voice – and unmistakably calling for help. David had frozen at the first sound. And now he was running headlong towards the tower.
‘This is where we hurry too – but still under cover.’ Appleby had broken into a run, dodging between tree and tree.
Pettifor, who was displaying surprising agility, was the next after him. ‘You haven’t been rash?’ he asked urgently. ‘The boy’s all right?’
‘Provided he obeys orders he’ll be all right.’ Appleby murmured this over his shoulder. ‘Or as right as we are. From this point I’d say we share and share alike.’ For some moments he hurried on, and then stopped and pointed. ‘There’s a doorway. It’s open. When we break cover we dash for the wall, hug it close, and then dodge in. David’s in already. Come along.’
Within seconds they had made their run for the tower and plunged through the doorway into darkness. Then they stood quite still, intent on controlling their breathing. A beam of light shot out. Appleby had produced a torch. They were in a square vaulted chamber with a flagged floor. It was quite bare. And David stood in the centre of it.
Appleby stepped forward, handed him the torch, and without a word pointed to a corner. It held the entrance to a spiral staircase. Appleby moved into the light, beckoned Timothy, and then from his pockets produced two small revolvers. The action was so matter-of-fact that they might have been a pipe and a tobacco pouch. He handed one to Timothy. ‘Not Service,’ he whispered. ‘But there’s the safety-catch. Simple as ABC.’ Then he turned to David. ‘Your show.’
They crossed to the staircase. David and the torch vanished. In the rapidly fading light Appleby’s lips could be seen moving. He might have been counting ten. He nodded and vanished too. Timothy followed, and then Pettifor. They were all climbing. Ian set his teeth and felt for the shaft of the staircase. Some sort of rail or rope would have been a good idea. But he could manage it as it was. He didn’t mean to be left down below.
The climb seemed quite as interminable as Ian had expected. At first it was in almost complete darkness, for only the faintest gleam of reflected light from David’s torch was visible. Then they came to an ascending series of lancet windows in the wall. They were obscured by the ivy, but dim moonlight filtered through. They passed two dark doorways: they must be to the first and second storeys of the ancient place. Although they were all moving slowly, Ian found that he was dropping behind. If he had tried to cram on speed he would have yelped. And presumably that wouldn’t do. Still, he would be in at the death – or whatever fate was going to provide for their being in at. And then with dramatic suddenness, the show was on. Voices sounded sharply from above. Ian took two steps at a time. And instead of yelping he managed simply to curse. A little extra row didn’t matter now.
But when he got to the top there was silence again. He tumbled straight into it. Silence and immobility. It was like a still outside a cinema. And it was gangster stuff that was showing.
This room at the top of the tower was as square and bare as the one at the bottom. It had small windows set in deep embrasures, and in one of these an oil lamp was burning. Part of the roof had vanished, and the greater part, too, of one of the walls. It was this missing wall that gave the final touch, Ian thought, to the theatrical character of the scene: when one turned that way one was facing a dim emptiness faintly powdered with stars, like a vast auditorium during some gala performance with tier upon tier of jewellery reflecting back the light pouring from the stage.
And the full cast – the full cast of those whom the action had not already seen despatched – was assembled in a sort of tableau. They might have been holding desperately to a pose during some hitch in the ringing down of the curtain. Only there was no curtain. And this wasn’t a play. It was an actual if bizarre crisis in quite a number of lives.
Dr Faircloth and Colonel Farquharson faced each other across the empty room. They had the appearance of having been standing thus, poised and wary, before the irruption led by David had taken place. Midway between them, but back by the window where the lamp burned, stood a girl. No doubt this was Alice, whose appearance and character had for a time occupied the exuberant fancies of Pettifor’s lot. She didn’t, somehow, look much like Faircloth’s daughter. She looked less like anybody’s daughter than like the orthodox bad woman of the show. But no doubt – Ian rapidly reflected – even the daughters of affluent retired clergymen can stray. And if David had at all fallen for her that morning he must have been in a disturbed state of mind. As for Timothy, he was putting up a very tolerably professional show with his revolver. So was Appleby. But then Appleby, Ian supposed, attended functions of this sort quite in the regular way.
It was Appleby who first spoke. ‘It seems that this particular devil’s broth won’t brew,’ he said. ‘Too many cooks.’
‘Perhaps you mean crooks?’ It was Farquharson who asked this. He didn’t speak with much cordiality. ‘You seem to be rather fond of thinking them up.’
‘Criminality in various degree is involved, I think.’ Appleby looked gravely from Farquharson to Faircloth, and then to the girl. ‘And now, as we are all present – or all, with one insignificant exception – it will be reasonable to begin.’
Faircloth, who had been standing quite still with the air of a man who is thinking hard, vigorously nodded his head. ‘I quite agree. And it must plainly be your first business, Sir John, to arrest the man Farquharson.’
Appleby appeared to consider. ‘You would advise that?’ he asked mildly.
‘But most certainly!’ Faircloth looked astonished. ‘Isn’t he the blackmailer at the bottom of all this, and have I not just tracked him now to this tower, where I have found him detaining this lady against her will?’
‘This lady?’ Appleby glanced at the girl again. ‘Your daughter, I understand?’
‘Certainly – my daughter.’ Faircloth produced this after what might have been a flicker of hesitation. ‘You know how I was rather anxious at Alice’s not having turned up. Then I had a reassuring telegram. Henchman saw it. Judge of my consternation when, later in the evening, I noticed that it had not been despatched from the place where Alice was staying, but from the village of Farthing Bishop! When I recalled all the violent events of the day, my alarm grew. I drove over to investigate, and was attracted by the light of this tower. I climbed up, and discovered my daughter locked in this very room. Then Farquharson arrived, and I had scarcely confronted him when you yourself made your timely appearance. My daughter will tell you how he had carried her off, being aware that, while driving over the moor this morning–’
‘Must we really listen to this?’ Taking a step forward, Farquharson interrupted angrily. ‘Don’t you perfectly well know–’
‘I could do with knowing a good deal more.’ Appleby’s mildness of manner continued. ‘We’ve heard Faircloth’s explanation of his being here – or at least we’ve heard him beginning to embark on it. Presently, it seems, this rather silent lady is going to take up the tale. But first, Colonel, we might perhaps have a word from you? Perhaps you would care to give your own explanation of your presence?’
‘Very well. I got a telephone call from Faircloth less than an hour ago, saying that he had found his daughter here in this tower, and in distressing circumstances. He begged me to treat his appeal as entirely confidential, and to come over at once. As you can see, I did so.’
‘Without telling anybody?’
‘Certainly. You yourself, Sir John, were not available. But I came – as I think you can guess – in a somewhat more wary manner than Faircloth reckoned on. That is obvious, I imagine, from the fact that I am alive now.’
‘I see.’ And Appleby turned to the girl. ‘Perhaps, madam, you have something to contribute?’
For a moment the girl neither spoke nor moved. David Henchman was staring at her round-eyed. Perhaps he was remembering his persuasion that she was an ordinary sort of girl – the kind one usually met. Then he flushed and looked quickly away. Silently the girl had shrugged her shoulders. It was a small, utterly revealing gesture. The girl wasn’t that sort of girl after all.
Appleby had paused for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if there is no further spontaneous testimony being offered, I suppose I must say one or two things myself. And I’ll begin with the documents in the case. They are three in number. One is no doubt in Dr Faircloth’s pocket: it’s his telegram. The second is in my pocket, and is best described as a significant fragment. The third is in Mr Pettifor’s pocket. It’s a letter, I think, from his late brother. And it represents the start of the whole series.’
‘Series?’ Pettifor took up the word dully.
‘The whole series of murders and attempted murders that have occupied a number of us since round about noon today.’