Chapter 8

The Plot Thickens

When Ginger left him to try to solve the puzzle of the staircase, Bertie waited a moment or two before going back to the drawing room. He wanted to think through his next move, but found that the more he thought about it, the more confused he felt. Biggles would have sorted something out in no time, he told himself. Muttering that he never was any good at brain work, he got up and made his way along the corridor to the drawing room.

Most of the guests were still there, he noticed when he entered. Celia and her mother had retired but the Worsleys were talking to Colonel Hitchcott while Peter Fosdyke and Julian Simpson were sitting a little apart deep in earnest conversation. Joseph Levy-Strauss and his wife were not present, he noted.

Bertie went over to join the Colonel. As he passed the animated couple in the corner he saw Julian pat Peter sympathetically on the hand. Whatever they were talking about, mused Bertie, Peter clearly needed consoling.

The Colonel stood up as Bertie approached. "When are we going to be allowed to leave, Lord Lissie?" he asked. "We can't keep presuming on Lady Celia and her mother's hospitality for ever, y'know."

"I'm afraid it's not up to me, Colonel," replied Bertie apologetically. "You'll have to ask Constable Pearson. He's in charge of the investigation."

"Hrmph," grunted the Colonel irritably. "We'll still be here at Christmas if that pompous buffoon has his way. D'ye know," he asked Bertie, "the idiot asked me if I shot him!" He shook his head in disbelief. "As if I'd tell the fella if I had! Not," he added conspiratorially, "that I didn't feel like it this afternoon." The Colonel looked round the drawing room. "I'd say practically everybody here had reason to hate Cliffe and wouldn't shed any tears over his passing."

Bertie thought it was a sad epitaph, but pressed the Colonel for evidence to back up his statement.

"Well," said the Colonel as he settled back on the sofa and warmed to his task, "take the Worsleys here," he indicated Peregrine and Lady Maria. "I don't think they'll mind my telling you that Cliffe nearly ruined Lady Maria's family in some fancy deal in Colombia. Pulled out and left them to pick up the tab."

Lady Maria blushed but acknowledged the truth of the story. "I might have wanted him dead," she admitted, "but I did not kill him, that I can assure you."

The Colonel inclined his head towards Peter and Julian who had risen and were making their way to the door. "Young Fosdyke is due to inherit a packet from his aunt, Lady Lavinia Bedlington, but I doubt she'd let him get the money if she knew just how close his 'friendship' with Simpson is. Cliffe was making some pretty pointed remarks this morning. I wouldn't have put it past him to try to turn his knowledge, or at least suspicion, to some financial advantage."

"Blackmail, you mean?" queried Bertie as the couple in question paused at the door and made their goodnights.

The Colonel nodded when they had left. "Fosdyke doesn't have two ha'pennies to rub together on his own account," he continued. "He only has his job in the City courtesy of his aunt's influence. One whiff of scandal and he'd be ruined. There may be a push to relax attitudes to that sort of thing going on in some quarters at the moment, but he works for a very old-fashioned and straight-laced firm. His friend hasn't got any money either, so it's no use his looking in that direction for help."

"And you, Colonel?" prompted Bertie. "What is your motive for murder?"

The Colonel laughed shortly. "I could have cheerfully killed him this afternoon when he took my bird! But I didn't, y'know." He paused before remarking, "even your young red-headed friend has a motive of sorts by all accounts. I hear he had a brush with Cliffe over his dog."

"You are remarkably well informed, Colonel," Bertie complimented the older man, wondering where he got his information. As far as he knew, Ginger had not mentioned it to anyone other than himself and Celia.

"Ha! I make it my business to know," replied the Colonel. "I was in Intelligence during the war and old habits die hard."

Bertie regarded him thoughtfully. "Who told you about that incident?" he asked gently.

The Colonel hesitated and for a moment Bertie thought he was going to claim he never revealed his sources, but the older man admitted, "Cliffe was not very complimentary about your young friend; thought he was impertinent and was shouting his mouth off about the poor state of today's youth over tea after you'd gone off to write those letters. Cliffe was no judge of character; I thought he was quite a decent lad. Where is he, by the way?" he asked, looking at Bertie curiously. "Gone to bed?" he added with a wink.

Bertie ignored the questioning and the innuendo. "What about the others?" he asked, keen to discover just how much the Colonel did know.

"Levy-Strauss got his fingers burned over some deal in the City, I believe," commented the Colonel. "Cliffe put out a rumour he was involved in something nasty involving drugs. Levy-Strauss was innocent I'm sure, but mud, once thrown, is hard to get rid of. My friends in the Square Mile tell me that his position is not as secure as it was."

"Well, that only leaves Lady Celia, her mother and myself," smiled Bertie. "Don't tell me we all have a reason for bumping Cliffe off!"

"I think you're about the only one in the clear," surmised the Colonel, to Bertie's surprise. "Lady Celia would move heaven and earth to keep this house. Cliffe bought up the mortgage as part of some property deal. Rumour has it he was about to foreclose. Lady Conway would not be averse to helping her daughter - 'aiding and abetting', I think you call it. Besides which," the Colonel added, "there are the servants. I don't know anything specific about them yet, but Cliffe was such a bounder he could well have provoked them, too. He had no idea how to treat servants."

Bertie felt his heart sink. He recalled Ginger's earlier remark about Julius Caesar and thought how right he was. He glanced at his watch and wondered vaguely why Ginger had not put in an appearance. Perhaps he had gone straight up to his room and gone to bed, thought Bertie, but he was surprised that his colleague had not bothered to share his findings first. He decided that as it was time to turn in, he would call in at Ginger's room on the way and swap notes.

Accordingly, Bertie said his goodnights to the remaining guests and made his way up the main staircase. Outside Ginger's door he stopped and listened a moment. There was no sound from within. Gently, Bertie tapped on the oak. There was no response. On an impulse he tried the door handle. To his surprise it turned easily and the door started to swing open. Feeling sure Ginger would have locked it if he had been in, Bertie entered the room and switched on the light. The curtains were drawn. The bed had been turned down and Ginger's pyjamas laid out on the pillow, but of the young man there was no sign. Bertie began to experience a pang of alarm. He checked the dressing room. It was empty.

Coming back into the bedroom proper, Bertie thought back over what Ginger had said he was going to do. He looked at his watch again. Making up his mind he left the room and made his way down the stairs, heading for the servants' quarters, intending to reach Cliffe's room from there. Perhaps he would bump into Ginger on the way, reasoned Bertie, trying to stifle his apprehension that the young man was unaccounted for in a house with a murderer on the loose.

At the foot of the stairs he paused. The house was silent, brooding. Bertie shivered involuntarily and told himself firmly to get a grip on his nerves. He skirted the main staircase and pushed open the green baize door in the wall to the right that marked off the servants' quarters from the main part of the house. The corridor was dimly lit and his feet sounded loud on the thin floor covering.

There was no one about. The servants had obviously retired for the night. Bertie stopped outside the kitchen and listened. Hearing nothing he pushed open the door and glanced in. Everything was neat and tidy, ready for preparing the following day's breakfast. Bertie closed the door behind him and turned back into the corridor, looking for the stairs that led up to the guest bedrooms. He found the door a little farther along and pushed it open. It gave and then stuck as though there was something wedged up against it.

Bertie leaned his weight against the door and felt it move a little. To his surprise, a groan came from the other side of the pine panels. Bertie pushed again and this time he managed to get the door open enough to see what was blocking it.

His jaw dropped when he saw it was Ginger's semi-conscious body. The young man had a purple bruise on his temple and had clearly just started to come round.

"I say, old boy!" exclaimed Bertie in a concerned voice when he had managed to get through the narrow gap and kneel beside Ginger, tenderly examining his head in the light that spilt through the half open door. "What happened? Did you fall down the stairs?"

Ginger looked at him confused. He winced as Bertie's gentle fingers probed the area around the bruise.

"I don't remember," he murmured, trying to sit up. "It's all a bit hazy."

Bertie helped him into a sitting position and supported him with an arm around his shoulders. Ginger put his head in his hands and tried to think. His head was pounding and his thoughts were chaotic and disorganised.

"I think we'd better get you back to your room, old boy," suggested Bertie after a minute had passed with no improvement in Ginger's condition. "You need to lie down."

"I'll be okay," insisted Ginger, but he staggered when he tried to get to his feet. Bertie tightened his grip to hold him steady.

"Of course you will, old boy," he murmured reassuringly. "It will just take a minute or two. No sense in rushing these things. It's like taking a bad tumble out hunting."

Ginger leaned against him, grateful for the support. He looked white and shaken.

"If you feel up to it, we'll be getting along, old boy," suggested Bertie. "The sooner you're in bed the better." He looked for the light switch and pressed it, intending to take Ginger up the servants' staircase. Nothing happened.

"Dash it! The bulb must have gone," he remarked. "What a bally nuisance."

"Wait a minute," said Ginger, frowning with the effort of recall. "The light. I'm not sure … I think - it was out."

"So you fell down the stairs in the dark," concluded Bertie. "Bad luck, old boy."

Ginger struggled to remember. "I must have ... No - at least, I don't think so. There's something..." He ran his hand through his hair distractedly, wincing as he touched the bruise. "It's just at the back of my memory but I can't quite recall it. Something important, I think."

"Perhaps you'll remember it tomorrow," Bertie consoled him. "When you've had a rest."

"Perhaps," acknowledged Ginger. He swallowed hard. "I feel sick," he admitted. "I'll have to sit down for a minute before I tackle the stairs."

Bertie looked at him in dismay. It was rare for Ginger to admit to weakness. Usually he was annoyed with himself for falling out. Bertie concluded Ginger must have been really shaken by the fall.

Ginger sat on the bottom step and tried to pull himself together while Bertie sat beside him as anxious as a mother hen with her chick.

After what seemed like an age to Bertie's concerned senses, Ginger got to his feet again. "I don't feel up to managing this flight in the dark," he confessed. "It's too steep. We'll have to take the main staircase."

"Righto, old boy," acknowledged Bertie, holding his arm. "Take your time."

As they made their way along the corridor Bertie had traversed in his earlier search, Ginger's condition improved noticeably. By the time they had reached the hall, he felt he was able to walk unaided but at the top of the main staircase he had to pause again, clinging dizzily to the handrail.

Bertie hovered beside him at a loss how best to help. The spasm passed and Ginger reached his room without further problems.

Bertie stood by anxiously as Ginger undressed and got into bed. "Are you sure you'll be alright, old boy?" he asked in a concerned voice as he twitched the bedclothes over the young man. "I could easily call a doctor."

Ginger managed a weak smile. "Don't fuss, Bertie," he said reassuringly. "I'll be fine after a good night's sleep."

Unconvinced, Bertie turned to go, but then turned back. "Would you like ...?" he began to ask, but his voice died away when he saw Ginger was already asleep.

Quietly Bertie went out and closed the door behind him, switching the light off as he left.