The Terror - Martin Edwards

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      ‘I can satisfy your curiosity,’ he said. ‘The fourth man on the left from the commissioner who is seated in the centre is Inspector Bradley.’

      Mr Goodman adjusted his glasses and looked. He saw a large, florid-looking man of fifty, heavy-featured, heavily built. The last person in the group he would have picked out.

      ‘That’s Bradley; he isn’t much to look at, is he?’ smiled Hallick.

      ‘He is the livest wire in this department.’ Goodman stared at the photograph rather nervously, and then he smiled.

      ‘That’s very good of you, Mr Hallick,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t look like a detective, but then no detective ever does. That is the peculiar thing about them. They look rather—er—’

      ‘A commonplace lot, eh?’ said Hallick, his eyes twinkling. ‘So they are.’

      He hung up the portrait on the wall.

      ‘Don’t bother about Miss Redmayne,’ he said, ‘and for heaven’s sake don’t think that the employment of a detective, private or public, on her behalf will be of the slightest use to her or her father. Innocent people have nothing to fear. Guilty people have a great deal. You have known Colonel Redmayne for a long time, I think?’

      ‘All my life.’

      ‘You know about his past?’

      The old tea merchant hesitated.

      ‘Yes, I think I know,’ he said quietly. ‘There were one or two incidents which were a little discreditable, were there not? He told me himself. He drinks a great deal too much, which is unfortunate. I think he was drinking more heavily at the time these unfortunate incidents occurred.’

      He picked up his hat and umbrella, took out his pipe with a mechanical gesture, looked at it, rubbed the bowl, and replaced it hastily.

      ‘You can smoke, Mr Goodman, we shan’t hang you for it,’ chuckled Hallick.

      He himself walked through the long corridor and down the stairs to the entrance hall with his visitor, and saw him off the premises. He hoped and believed that he had sent Goodman away feeling a little happier, and his hope was not without reason.

       CHAPTER XI

      IT was four o’clock when Goodman reached the little station which is some four miles distant from Monkshall, and, declining the offer of the solitary fly, started to walk across to the village. He had gone a mile when he heard the whir of a motor behind him. He did not attempt to turn his head, and was surprised when he heard the car slacken speed and a voice hailing him. It was Ferdie Fane who sat at the wheel.

      ‘Hop in, brother. Why waste your own shoe leather when somebody else’s rubber tyres are available?’

      The face was flushed and the eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles glistened. Mr Goodman feared the worst.

      ‘No, no, thank you. I’d rather walk,’ he said.

      ‘Stuff! Get in,’ scoffed Ferdie. ‘I am a better driver when I am tight than when I am sober, but I am not tight.’

      Very reluctantly the tea merchant climbed into the seat beside the driver.

      ‘I’ll go very slowly,’ the new inmate of Monkshall went on. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

      ‘You think I am afraid?’ said Mr Goodman with a certain asperity.

      ‘I’m certain,’ said the other cheerfully. ‘Where have you been this fine day?’

      ‘I went up to London,’ said Mr Goodman.

      ‘An interesting place to go to,’ said Fane; ‘but a deuced uncomfortable place to live in.’

      He was keeping his word and driving with remarkable care, Mr Goodman discovered to his relief.

      He was puzzled as to where Ferdie had obtained the car and ventured upon an inquiry.

      ‘I hired it from a brigand in the village,’ said Ferdie. ‘Do you drive a car?’

      Mr Goodman shook his head.

      ‘It is an easy road for a car, but a pretty poisonous one for a lorry, especially a lorry with a lot of weight in it. You know Lark Hill?’

      Mr Goodman nodded.

      ‘A lorry was stuck there. I guess it will be there still even though the road is as dry as a bone. What it must be like to run up that hill with a heavy load on a wet and slippery night heaven knows. I bet that hill has broken more hearts than any other in the county.’

      He rumbled on aimlessly about nothing until they reached the foot of the redoubtable hill where the heavy lorry was still standing disconsolate by the side of the road.

      ‘There she is,’ said Ferdie with the satisfaction of one who is responsible. ‘And it will take a bit of haulage to get her to the top, eh? Only a super-driver could have got her there. Only a man with a brain and imagination could have nursed her.’

      Goodman smiled.

      ‘I didn’t know there were such things as super-brains amongst lorry drivers,’ he said. ‘But I suppose every trade, however humble, has its Napoleon.’

      ‘You bet,’ said Ferdie.

      He brought the car up the long drive to Monkshall, paid the garage hand who was waiting to take it from him, and disappeared into the house.

      Goodman looked round. In spite of his age his eyesight was remarkably good, and he noticed the slim figure walking on the far side of the ruins. Handing his umbrella to Cotton he walked across to Mary. She recognised and turned to meet him. Her father was in his study and she was going back for tea. He thought that she looked a little peaked and paler than usual.

      ‘Nothing has happened today?’ he asked quickly.

      She shook her head.

      ‘Nothing. Mr Goodman, I am dreading the night.’

      He patted her gently on the shoulder. ‘My dear, you ought to get away out of this. I will speak to the colonel.’

      ‘Please don’t,’ she said quickly. ‘Father does not want me to go. My nerves are a little on edge.’

      ‘Has that young man been—?’ he began.

      ‘No, no. You mean Mr Fane? He has been quite nice. I have only seen him for a few minutes today. He is out driving a motor car. He asked me—’

      She stopped.

      ‘To go with him? That young man is certainly not troubled with nerves!’

      ‘He was quite nice,’ she said quickly; ‘only I didn’t feel like motoring. I thought it was he who had just come back, but I suppose it was you who came in the car.’ He explained the circumstances of his meeting with Ferdie Fane. She smiled for the first time that day.

      ‘He is—rather queer,’ she said. ‘Sometimes he is quite sensible and nice. Cotton hates him for some reason or other. He told me today that unless Mr Fane left he would.’

      Mr Goodman smiled.

      ‘You seem to have a very troublesome household,’ he said; ‘except myself—oh, I beg his pardon, the new guest. What is his name? Mr Partridge? I hope he is behaving himself.’

      She smiled faintly.

      ‘Yes, he’s quite charming. I don’t think I have seen him today,’ she added inconsequently.

      ‘You can see him now.’ Mr Goodman nodded towards the lawn.

      The slim, black figure of Mr Partridge was not easily discernible against the dark background of the foliage. He was strolling slowly up and down, reading a book

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