The Markenmore Mystery - J. S. Fletcher

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now be about Harborough’s own age. “Done a lot of shooting since those days, no doubt?” he continued, glancing at the brother. “Used to be famous, your lands, for game of all sorts.”

      Harry Markenmore smiled again, and again said nothing; his sister replied for him.

      “Harry’s not much of a sportsman,” she said. “He’s all for books and for business. He’s making an effort to—to pull things round. Somehow or other, the estate’s got into a poor way. There may be hares and rabbits and pheasants and partridges in plenty—perhaps—but there’s precious little money!”

      “We had a bad steward,” remarked Harry Markenmore, finding his tongue, and giving Harborough a significant glance. “He let things slide. I’ve taken it over myself, during the last two years. But—all our land’s let too reasonably: the rents ought to be raised.”

      “Stiff proposition, that,” said Harborough.

      “Most of ’em want their rents reducing, instead of raising. I expect I shall have to go into matters of that sort myself—perhaps we can put our heads together.”

      “Ah, but you aren’t dependent on your farm rents!” said Valencia with a knowing look. “You’ve got town property. You see what a knowing young woman I am! All we’ve got is rent from our farms—and we landed folk are doomed: we aren’t as well off as the people we let our land to. If Harry and I could do what we’d like, we’d sell, and be done with it.”

      “A good way—sometimes,” said Harborough. “Why not?”

      The brother and sister looked at each other.

      “It’s entailed,” said Valencia.

      She glanced at Harborough with meaning in her eyes, and Harborough nodded.

      “Just so,” he remarked. “But—that could be got over if—if your elder brother was agreeable.”

      Once more the other two exchanged glances.

      “We don’t know where Guy is,” said Harry. “Nobody does—at least, nobody that we know. He’s never been heard of for—I think it’s nearly seven years.”

      “It is seven years,” remarked Valencia. “I remember.” She looked again at Harborough. “He went away, suddenly, just before you did,” she added. “And that’s seven years ago.”

      Harborough moved a little uneasily in his chair. He had no wish to be drawn into discussion of the Markenmore family secrets. But he felt a certain curiosity.

      “Do you mean that—literally?” he asked.

      “Absolutely!” replied Valencia. “None of us—and no one connected with us—have heard a word of him since then.”

      “But—money matters?” suggested Harborough. “He’d want money. Has he never applied for any?—some allowance, for instance?”

      “He’d money of his own,” said Harry. “His mother’s money all came to him at her death. No—it’s as Val says, we’ve never heard anything of him since he left Markenmore, and we don’t know where he is. I wish we did!—my father can’t last long.”

      Harborough rose from his chair.

      “Well, I must go,” he said. “You’ll be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do? But you say Sir Anthony’s not in immediate danger?”

      “Not immediate,” replied Harry. “But—any time. And, as he’s fidgety about not being left, you’ll excuse me if I go back to him? If he seems a bit stronger tomorrow, I’ll tell him you’re home again, and no doubt you can see him when you look in. You’ll come again soon?”

      “Surely!” said Harborough. He walked into the hall with Valencia when Harry had gone, and once more gave her an admonitory look. “You’ll not forget to send for me if I can ever give any help?” he continued. “I’m not to be treated as a mere neighbour, you know—now that I’m back!”

      “I’ll not forget,” she answered. She glanced round: at the far end of the shadow-laden hall Braxfield was just appearing, key in hand; she motioned Harborough aside. “There’s something I want to ask you,” she whispered. “Have you any idea why my brother Guy left home, and why he’s never returned? You!—yourself?”

      Her eyes, big and dark, were fixed upon him with a peculiar earnestness, and she saw him start a little and compress his lips.

      “Tell—me!” she said. “Me!”

      Harborough, too, glanced at Braxfield: the old butler, unconscious of this intimate question—and—answer, was drawing nearer.

      “I may know—something,” murmured Harborough. “If—if I think—on reflection—I ought to tell you—I will. Later.”

      She gave him an understanding nod, a whispered word of thanks, and went away up the dark staircase behind them. And Braxfield, after a word or two with Harborough, let the visitor out, and locked the big door, and drew across it a weighty chair which had done duty in that respect for many a generation of Markenmores. The house was secured for the night.

      Braxfield went back to his pantry—a snug and comfortable sitting-room at the end of the big main corridor. There was a bright fire there, and his easy, well-cushioned arm-chair placed by it. Now was his time of rest and recreation. All done, all quiet, he would smoke his pipe, read the newspaper, and enjoy his glass of whisky. His pipe lay ready to hand: the newspaper flanked it; he went to the cupboard to get out his decanter and his glass. And just as he laid hands on these things, Braxfield heard a sound. His fingers relinquished their hold, dropped to his side, began to tremble. For Braxfield knew that sound—it was familiar enough to him, though it was seven years since he had heard it last. He stood, listening—it came again; a tap, light but firm, three times repeated on the pantry window. And at that he left the room, turned down a side-passage, and opened a door that admitted to the rose garden. A man stepped in, and in the dim light of a neighbouring lamp the butler saw his face.

      “Good Lord ha’ mercy!” he exclaimed, shrinking back against the wall. “Mr. Guy?”

      CHAPTER II

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      The man whom Braxfield thus addressed, and who, in spite of the well-remembered signal on the pantry window was the last person in the world he had thought of seeing, turned a sharp, inquisitive, suspicious glance down the narrow passage, which opened on the main corridor of the house. It shifted just as sharply to the old butler’s amazed and troubled face—and the question that followed on it was equally sharp.

      “The rest of ’em—in bed?”

      Braxfield was beginning to tremble. In the old days, he had often let Guy Markenmore in, late at night, at that very door; the thrice-repeated tap was an arranged signal between them. And in those days he had had that very question put to him more times than he could remember. It had not troubled him then, but now, hearing it again, after the questioner’s unexplained absence of seven years, it frightened him. Why did the heir to the Markenmore baronetcy and estates come sneaking to his father’s house, late at night, seeking secret entrance, obviously nervous about something? Braxfield looked at him doubtfully.

      “Gone to their rooms, Mr. Guy,” he answered. “Or—they may be in your father’s. Sir Anthony’s about—at his end, sir.”

      Again Guy Markenmore looked along the passage. While he looked, Braxfield looked at him. He had altered little, thought Braxfield. He had always been noted since boyhood, for his good looks: he was still good-looking at thirty-five; tall, slim, dark, intense of gaze; the sort of man to attract and interest women. But he looked like a man who had lived hard; a man who had seen

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