Nemesis at Raynham Parva (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) by J. J. Connington

Author:J. J. Connington [Connington, J. J.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781471906008
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2012-11-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

AN OLD LINE IN MURDERS

When Sir Clinton came downstairs next morning, he found his sister at breakfast.

“How’s Elsie feeling now?” he inquired, as he helped himself from the side-table.

“She seems to be all right again,” Mrs. Thornaby replied, “I’ve persuaded her to stay in bed till after breakfast; but there was really no need even for that. She’s been sick, though; and there’s no use in her getting up and running about until she’s had a rest.”

Sir Clinton was obviously relieved.

“Queer turn she took,” he commented briefly. “Must have swallowed something that disagreed with her.”

He had hardly finished breakfast when the telephone bell rang in the smoke-room and Staffin brought word that someone wanted to speak to him. Sir Clinton put down his unlighted cigarette and went to the instrument.

“Is that you, Sir Clinton?” inquired a voice which he recognised as Sergeant Ledbury’s. “I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’d take it as a favour if you’d spare me a short time. I’ve got another motor case on my hands this morning—a suicide, it might be, this time.”

Sir Clinton considered for some seconds before answering. It was hardly his business now to spend his time in assisting the police in affairs which did not directly concern himself; and he felt more than a little inclined to refuse point-blank to give his help.

Ledbury, at the other end of the wire, evidently noted the hesitation and feared a refusal.

“I know it’s a good deal to ask, sir,” he went on. “I’ve no claim on your time; but I’d take it as a personal favour if you’d spare an hour. We found the car at the Bale Stones. It’s no distance away; you’d get there and back in your car under an hour, sir. I wish you’d come.”

At the other end of the line, Sir Clinton started slightly.

“The Bale Stones, you say?” he demanded.

Ledbury seemed to take this inquiry as a sign of awakening interest; and his voice betrayed a tinge of relief.

“Yes, sir. Anyone’ll direct you to them—a lot of old standing stones on the road to Stant-in-the-Vale.”

Sir Clinton’s mind had gone back to the peculiar interest which Roca had shown in the Bale Stones; and this association was sufficient to overcome his scruples.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll come over at once.”

Ledbury was effusive in his thanks, but Sir Clinton cut him short by laying down the receiver. He sought out Mrs. Thornaby, explained to her that he might be late for lunch perhaps, and then took his way to the garage. As he leaned forward to press the knob of the self-starter, his glance fell on the face of his speedometer; and his eyebrows lifted slightly as he read on the trip-dial of the milometer the figures 17. He recalled that when he brought the car home the night before, Linda Anstruther had called his attention to the dial, and he remembered quite clearly that he had re-set the trip-meter to zero. And now it read 17. Someone else had been using his car during the night, clearly enough.

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