E. Phillips Oppenheim - 21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

“Some of the old wall is down, I see,” Dominey remarked with a frown, as he gazed towards the enclosed kitchen garden.

Mr. Mangan was momentarily surprised.

“That wall has been down, to my knowledge, for twenty years,” he reminded his companion.

Dominey nodded. “I had forgotten,” he muttered.

“We wrote you, by the by,” the lawyer continued, “suggesting the sale of one or two of the pictures, to form a fund for repairs, but thank goodness you didn’t reply! We’ll have some workpeople here as soon as you’ve decided what you’d like done. I’m afraid,” he added, as they turned in through some iron gates and entered the last sweep in front of the house, “you won’t find many familiar faces to welcome you. There’s Loveybond, the gardener, whom you would scarcely remember, and Middleton, the head keeper, who has really been a godsend so far as the game is concerned. No one at all indoors, except—Mrs. Unthank.”

The car drew up at that moment in front of the great porch. There was nothing in the shape of a reception. They had even to ring the bell before the door was opened by a manservant sent down a few days previously from town. In the background, wearing a brown velveteen coat, with breeches and leggings of corduroy, stood an elderly man with white side whiskers and skin as brown as a piece of parchment, leaning heavily upon a long ash stick. Half a dozen maidservants, new importations, were visible in the background, and a second man was taking possession of the luggage. Mr. Mangan took charge of the proceedings.

“Middleton,” he said, resting his hand upon the old man’s shoulder, “here’s your master come back again. Sir Everard was very pleased to hear that you were still here; and you, Loveybond.”

The old man grasped the hand which Dominey stretched out with both of his.

“I’m right glad you’re back again, Squire,” he said, looking at him with curious intentness, “and yet the words of welcome stick in my throat.”

“Sorry you feel like that about it, Middleton,” Dominey said pleasantly. “What is the trouble about my coming back?”

“That’s no trouble, Squire,” the old man replied. “That’s a joy—leastways to us. It’s what it may turn out to be for you which makes one hold back like.”

Dominey drew himself more than ever erect—a commanding figure in the little group.

“You will feel better about it when we have had a day or two with the pheasants, Middleton,” he said reassuringly. “You have not changed much, Loveybond,” he added, turning to the man who had fallen a little into the background, very stiff and uncomfortable in his Sunday clothes.

“I thankee, Squire,” the latter replied a little awkwardly, with a motion of his hand towards his forehead. “I can’t say the same for you, sir. Them furrin parts has filled you out and hardened you. I’ll take the liberty of saying that I should never have recognised you, sir, and that’s sure.”

“This is Parkins,” Mr. Mangan went on, pushing his way once more into the foreground, “the butler whom I engaged in London. And—”

There was a queer and instantaneous silence. The little group of maidservants, who had been exchanging whispered confidences as to their new master’s appearance, were suddenly dumb. All eyes were turned in one direction. A woman whose advent had been unperceived, but who had evidently issued from one of the recesses of the hall, stood suddenly before them all. She was as thin as a lath, dressed in severe black, with grey hair brushed back from her head and not even a white collar at her neck. Her face was long and narrow, her features curiously large, her eyes filled with anger. She spoke very slowly, but with some trace in her intonation of a north-country dialect.

“There’s no place in this house for you, Everard Dominey,” she said, standing in front of him as though to bar his progress. “I wrote last night to stop you, but you’ve shown indecent haste in coming. There’s no place here for a murderer. Get back where you came from, back to your hiding.”

“My good woman!” Mangan gasped. “This is really too much!”

“I’ve not come to bandy words with lawyers,” the woman retorted. “I’ve come to speak to him. Can you face me, Everard Dominey, you who murdered my son and made a madwoman of your wife?”

The lawyer would have answered her, but Dominey waved him aside.

“Mrs. Unthank,” he said sternly, “return to your duties at once, and understand that this house is mine, to enter or leave when I choose.”

She was speechless for a moment, amazed at the firmness of his words.

“The house may be yours, Sir Everard Dominey,” she said threateningly, “but there’s one part of it at least in which you won’t dare to show yourself.”

“You forget yourself, woman,” he replied coldly. “Be so good as to return to your mistress at once, announce my coming, and say that I wait only for her permission before presenting myself in her apartments.”

The woman laughed, unpleasantly, horribly. Her eyes were fixed upon Dominey curiously.

“Those are brave words,” she said. “You’ve come back a harder man. Let me look at you.”

She moved a foot or two to where the light was better. Very slowly a frown developed upon her forehead. The longer she looked, the less assured she became.

“There are things in your face I miss,” she muttered.

Mr. Mangan was glad of an opportunity of asserting himself.

“The fact is scarcely important, Mrs. Unthank,” he said angrily. “If you will allow me to give you a word of advice, you will treat your master with the respect to which his position here entitles him.”

Once more the woman blazed up.

“Respect! What respect have I for the murderer of my son? Respect! Well, if he stays here against my bidding, perhaps her ladyship will show him what respect means.”

She turned around and disappeared. Every one began bustling about the luggage and talking at once. Mr. Mangan took his patron’s arm and led him across the hall.

“My dear Sir Everard,” he said anxiously, “I am most distressed that this should have occurred. I thought that the woman would probably be sullen, but I had no idea that she would dare to attempt such an outrageous proceeding.”

“She is still, I presume, the only companion whom Lady Dominey will tolerate?” Dominey enquired with a sigh.

“I fear so,” the lawyer admitted. “Nevertheless we must see Doctor Harrison in the morning. It must be understood distinctly that if she is suffered to remain, she adopts an entirely different attitude. I never heard anything so preposterous in all my life. I shall pay her a visit myself after dinner.—You will feel quite at home here in the library, Sir Everard,” Mr. Mangan went on, throwing open the door of a very fine apartment on the seaward side of the house. “Grand view from these windows, especially since we’ve had a few of the trees cut down. I see that Parkins has set out the sherry. Cocktails, I’m afraid, are an institution you will have to inaugurate down here. You’ll be grateful to me when I tell you one thing, Sir Everard. We’ve been hard pressed more than once, but we haven’t sold a single bottle of wine out of the cellars.”

Dominey accepted the glass of sherry which the lawyer had poured out but made no movement towards drinking it. He seemed during the last few minutes to have been wrapped in a brown study.

“Mangan,” he asked a little abruptly, “is it the popular belief down here that I killed Roger Unthank?”

The lawyer set down the decanter and coughed.

“A plain answer,” Dominey insisted.

Mr. Mangan adapted himself to the situation. He was beginning to understand his client.