Bodies from the Library 3

‘Most certainly.’ He drew a pad towards him, and the pen was poised. ‘Name, sir?’ he inquired.

‘Lutley Prentisse.’

Holt smiled. ‘Not your name, sir,’ he said. ‘The name of the person it will be our task to watch.’

Prentisse smiled too, but not at that mistake he had made. An idea had come to him, and wrapped up in it were all the elements of the ludicrous.

‘Ah, yes, of course. The name is Peter Claire.’

‘Address?’

‘Three, Oudenarde Mansions, Kensington.’

‘And what exactly do you want, sir—and when?’

‘Just a report in confidence, by Monday, of what he does from now until then. You can manage that?’

‘Most decidedly. Where do you wish the report delivered?’

‘Five B, Porter Street, Mornington Crescent. About noon, if you can manage it.’

That was virtually all. As he walked down the stairs Prentisse was both gratified and mildly amused. He had been in the office of a detective agency and what he had seen and heard would involve only minor alterations in the carefully written chapter.

As to the amusement, it would certainly be uproariously funny if Peter, during his stay in Cambridge, discovered that a private detective was on his heels. And then suddenly he halted, and frowned. Annoying, too. The least thing he could do was to get hold of Peter and warn him. A knowledge of what was going to happen would make the joke the property of Peter as well as of himself.

From his flat he rang Oudenarde Mansions. Claire’s man, Daniels, answered the telephone. Mr Prentisse was just a few minutes too late. Mr Claire had just left by taxi. Yes, Daniels was certain he had gone to Cambridge. He’d definitely taken his golf bag and a weekend suitcase.

‘You know the hotel he’ll be staying at?’ Prentisse asked.

‘I don’t, sir,’ Daniels said. ‘All I know is that he’ll be back early on Monday.’

So that was that—though Prentisse was still glad he’d hit on Claire as a stalking-horse for Holt’s detective. A less intimate friend of the family would be highly indignant when he learned what had been going on. And Claire would learn, though now he must wait until Monday. So Prentisse sat down at the typewriter and wrote for Claire’s exclusive enlightenment an account of the whole thing.

… And that’s how it happened. It will be extremely amusing if you chance to spot the sleuth. In any case I’ll send you the report, innocuous though it will be. Until Monday then.

Yours as ever,

Lutley.

P.S. Why not have dinner with us on Monday? I’m expecting Dorothy back from Carnford. Her sister’s much better.

He went out at once and mailed the letter and as he walked back to the apartment he wondered if Peter’s reactions would be altogether what he himself had expected. Not that Peter hadn’t a sense of humour in a rather hearty way.

That evening he worked hard at the detective agency chapter and rewrote where the afternoon’s call on Holt seemed to require it. By Saturday he had the chapter well in hand and that afternoon he treated himself to a matinee.

In the evening he dined at his club and then went back to his apartment and outlined the final chapter of his novel. On the Sunday morning he went to the Hampstead house. Dorothy had everything arranged. Lunt, butler and general man, was there, as were the cook and the maid. It was from the house that he rang Carnford Hall.

Phipps, the butler, answered. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs Prentisse isn’t back yet from church. She should be in at any moment. Yes, sir, the mistress is practically herself again. The doctor’s very pleased. Just a moment, sir. I think I hear Mrs Prentisse now.’

A minute later Dorothy Prentisse was on the line.

‘That you, darling? How sweet of you to ring! Yes, I’ll be back early in the morning. I’m glad you found everything as it should be. But you shouldn’t have asked Peter to dinner. Well, I’d been looking forward to us having our evening together alone … A special reason? Well, we might find some special excuse and put him off. He won’t mind … Till tomorrow then, darling. ’Bye.’

Bright and early on Monday Holt himself arrived at the Porter Street apartment. He was like a man who had been given a job to do, and knew that he had done it well. From an unsealed envelope he produced several closely typed sheets.

Prentisse gave them a glance, tried to look impressed, and asked how much. Holt’s account was for just over eighteen pounds and Prentisse wrote him a cheque.

It was a lot of money, Prentisse thought ruefully, for the view of an office and a few minutes with Holt. It rather looked, in fact, as if Peter would have the laugh. Which reminded him. Peter would be at Oudenarde Mansions and he’d better be rung up at once. And then Prentisse couldn’t help wondering just how that sleuth of Holt’s had got to work and he took the typed sheets from the envelope and began casually to read.

The party was picked up almost on arrival and followed to Liverpool Street Station where he took the train for Wenton Junction. He was met by a small black sedan driven by a lady and the car was followed to Justin Friars, six miles away, where it entered the grounds of a smallish country house known as Friars House. Phillipson followed me and he and I shared the supervision from then on.

Prentisse stopped reading. He had wondered why Peter had not gone to Cambridge and he smiled to himself as he knew why. After all, Friars House was Peter’s, and Justin Friars was only some twenty miles from Cambridge. He knew it well enough. He had been there once or twice when he and Dorothy had been staying at Carnford Hall. It wasn’t more than a ten-minute run in a car. As for the woman, she was probably Peter’s married sister. Or wasn’t she still in India? Maybe she and her husband were home on leave. Curiosity made him read on.

There seemed to be no servants whatever in the house but observation was difficult. The couple did not appear until about eight-thirty that evening when they walked round the lawns and the borders and back through the long walk to the house. The woman was tallish, fair and about thirty by all appearances. Once or twice the couple were seen to embrace during their tour of the garden.

Prentisse was horrified. The woman was definitely not Peter’s sister and who she might be he had no idea. What he did know was that in beginning a joke he had committed an enormity. He had intruded unwarrantably into another man’s private life and the fact that it had been done under a lamentable misapprehension would not make it appear the less reprehensible. His face was flushed as he realised what he must at once do.

He rang Oudenarde Mansions and it was Daniels who answered.

‘Sorry, sir, but the master’s just gone away.’

‘Away? What do you mean?’

‘What I said, sir. He got back at about eleven o’clock and almost at once he ordered me to pack his bags for the South of France. He didn’t know how long he’d be away.’

‘Good Heavens! Any idea why he went off like that?’

‘No idea at all, sir,’ Daniels replied.

‘Very extraordinary!’ Prentisse said. ‘There should have been a letter for him from me asking him to dinner tonight. Did he read it? It was on pale blue paper.’

‘Yes, sir, I remember it. He read it as soon as he came in.’

‘Very extraordinary!’ Prentisse said again. ‘Let me know as soon as you hear anything from him.’

‘I will, sir,’ Daniels promised.

Prentisse hung up. He was angry and he was worried. What on earth could have possessed Claire to have made him go off like that? If it was that letter, then he surely should have had sense enough to know that his secrets were implicitly safe.