Ngaio Marsh - Died in the Wool

The thrumming in his head cleared. He shivered violently. “I’ll catch the thick end of a cold before the night’s out,” he muttered and the next second had shrunk back into the shadow of the doorway.

The night was so quiet that the voice of the Moon River, boiling out of its gorge beyond a shoulder of the mountain, and sweeping south to a lake out on the plateau, moved like a vague rumour behind the silence and was felt in the eardrums rather than heard. Alleyn had been aware of it once or twice that night, and he heard it now as he listened for the nearer sound that had caught his attention. Down the main track, it had been, a tiny rustle, a slipping noise, followed by a faint thud. He remembered how he and Markins had skidded and fallen on the icy ground. He waited and heard a faint metallic clang. “That’s the fence,” he thought, “a moment, and whoever it is will come up the track. Now what?”

At that moment, above the men’s quarters, there was a rattle of chains. The Mount Moon dogs, plunging by their kennels, broke into clamorous barking. A man’s voice cursed them: “Lie down, Jock! By God, I’ll warm your hide!” The chains rattled and, a faint metallic echo, the wire fence down the track twanged again. A light came bobbing round the annex.

“Hell and damnation!” said Alleyn violently. “Am I never to get a clear run!”

Tommy Johns and his son Cliff followed Markins through the sacking door and stood blinking in the lamplight. Tommy nodded morosely at Alleyn. “What’s the trouble?” he said.

“There it is.”

He moved forward. Cliff said loudly: “It’s Fabian.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn.

“What’s happened to him?” He turned to Markins. “Why didn’t you say it was Fabian? What’s wrong with you?”

“Orders,” said Markins and Tommy Johns looked sharply at Alleyn.

“Whose orders?” Cliff demanded. “Has he had another of his queer turns?” His voice rose shrilly. “Is he dead?”

“No,” said Alleyn. Cliff strode forward and knelt by Fabian.

“You keep clear of this,” said his father.

“I want to know what’s happened to him. I want to know if he’s been hurt.”

“He’s been hit over the head,” said Alleyn, “with the branding iron.”

Cliff cried out incoherently and his father put his hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t want you to say so when he’s conscious again,” Alleyn went on. “Remember that please, it’s important. He’s had a nasty shock and for the moment he’s to be left to put his own interpretation on it. Tell nobody.”

“The branding iron,” said Tommy Johns. “Is that so?” He looked across to the corner where the iron was usually kept. Cliff said quickly: “It wasn’t there. It was left over by the press.”

“Where is it now?” Johns demanded.

“Safely stowed,” said Alleyn.

“Who done it?”

In reply to this classic, Alleyn merely shook his head.

“I checked up on the men, sir,” said Markins. “They’re all in their bunks. Ben Wilson was awake and says nobody’s gone or come in for over an hour. Albie’s dead to the world. Soaked.”

“Right. Have you got a stretcher?”

“Yes, sir,” said Markins. “It’s the one Mrs. R. had for her first-aid classes.”

“Have you been down to the house?” Alleyn asked sharply.

“No. It was stowed away up above. Come on, Tommy.”

They had dumped a pile of grey blankets inside the door. Markins brought in the stretcher. The three men covered it, moved Fabian on to it, and laid the remaining blankets over him. Cliff, working the palms of his hands together, looked on unhappily.

“What about this damned icy track?” Alleyn muttered. “You’ve got nails in your boots, Johns. So’s the boy. Markins and I are smooth-soled.”

“It’s not so bad on the track, sir,” said Markins.

“Did you come up the kitchen path?” Tommy Johns demanded.

“Ready?” asked Alleyn before Markins could reply.

They took their places at the corners of the stretcher. Fabian opened his eyes and looked at Cliff.

“Hullo,” he said clearly. “The Infant Phenomenon.”

“That’s me,” said Cliff unevenly. “You’ll be all right, Mr. Losse.”

“Oh Lord,” Fabian whispered, “have I been at it again?”

“You’ve taken a bit of a toss,” said Alleyn. “We’ll get you into bed in a minute.”

“My head.”

“I know. Nasty crack, you got. Ready?”

“I can walk,” Fabian protested. “What’s all this nonsense! I’ve always walked before.”

“You’re riding this time, damn your eyes,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Up we go, chaps. Keep on the grass if you can.”

“Easier going on the track,” Tommy Johns protested.

“Nevertheless, we’ll try the grass. On the left. Keep to the left.”

And as they crept along, flashing their torches, he thought: “If only I could have been sure he’d be all right for a bit in the wool-shed. A nice set of prints there’ll be with this frost and here we go, all over Tom Tiddler’s ground tramping out gold and silver.”

It was less slippery on the verge than it had been on the steep hillside, and when they reached the main track the going was still easier. The French windows into the drawing-room were unlocked and they took Fabian in that way, letting the stretcher down on the floor while Markins lit the lamps. Fabian was so quiet that Alleyn waited anxiously to see him, wondering he he had fainted. But when the lamplight shone on his face his eyes were open and he was frowning.

“All right?” Alleyn asked gently. Fabian turned his head aside and muttered: “Oh yes. Yes.”

“I’ll go upstairs and tell Grace what you’ve been up to. Markins, you might get a kettle to boil. You others wait, will you?”

He ran upstairs to be confronted on the landing by Ursula in her dressing-gown, holding a candle above her head and peering into the well.

“What’s happened?” she said.

“A bit of an accident. Your young man’s given himself a crack on the head but he’s doing nicely.”

“Fabian?” Her eyes widened. “Where is he?”

“Now, don’t go haring off, there’s a good child. He’s in the drawing-room and we’re putting him to bed. Before you go down to him, put a couple of hot-water bottles in his bed and repeat to yourself some appropriate rune from your first-aid manual. He’ll do, I fancy.”

They were standing outside Terence Lynne’s door and now it opened. She too came out with a candle. She looked very sleek and pale in her ruby silk dressing-gown.

“Fabian’s hurt,” said Ursula, and darted back into her own room.

Miss Lynne had left her door open. Alleyn could see where a second candle burnt on her bedside table above an open book, a fat notebook it seemed to be, its pages covered in a fine script. She followed the direction of his gaze and, with a swift movement, shut her door. Ursula returned with a hot-water bag and hurried down the passage to Fabian’s room.

Miss Lynne examined Alleyn by the light of her own candle.

“You’ve been fighting,” she said.

He touched his jaw. “I ran into something in the shed.”

“It’s bleeding.”

“So it is. Can you give me a bit of cotton wool or something?”

She hesitated. “Wait here a moment,” she said and slipped through the door, shutting it behind her.

Alleyn tapped and entered. She was beside her dressing-table but in a flash had moved to the bed and shut the book. “I asked you to wait,” she said.

“I’m extremely sorry. Would you lend your hot-water bottle? Take it along to his room, would you? Ah, there’s the cotton wool. Thanks so much.”