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‘I was afraid that you might be—someone else.’
Temple glanced up sharply. There was an honest, straight-forward look in the young man’s eyes, so he pursued the question no further.
‘Don’t worry about the letter. I’ll see that your friend gets it all right. It’s a straight road into the village, I gather?’
‘Perfectly. You can’t possibly go wrong. The “Royal Gate” is on the left-hand side, about halfway through.’
‘Thanks,’ said Temple, lifting the latch.
‘Ye’re forgetting your postcards,’ Mrs Moffat reminded him.
‘So I am,’ he smiled, picking up the envelope. ‘Good night!’
When the door had closed, David Lindsay turned to Mrs Moffat, who had been an interested spectator.
‘Mrs Moffat, I’m sorry to trouble you, but do you think I might use your ’phone?’
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Lindsay,’ she replied with great deliberation, ‘but the telephone’s out of order. It has been ever since yon storm started.’
This was obviously a blow to Lindsay.
‘I see,’ he murmured, wrinkling his forehead in some perplexity.
‘Ye can try it if ye like, of course,’ offered Mrs Moffat.
‘It won’t be any use, though. The wires must have broken somewhere.’
‘Yes, yes, all right,’ murmured Lindsay, whose thoughts were now obviously elsewhere.
‘If there’s anything I can do, Mr Lindsay—’
‘No, no, I’m afraid you can’t do anything. Thanks all the same.’ He wished her good night and departed. She went to the window and watched him until he was almost out of sight. Then she bolted the door cautiously, crossed to the telephone and picked up the old type earpiece.
‘Hello? I want Inverdale 74…Hello, is that you?’ Her voice was almost a whisper now. ‘Yes—he’s been here. Just left…No…no, I couldn’t. He gave a letter to a man who was—’ There was an interruption which obviously irritated her. ‘For God’s sake, listen to me,’ she snapped impatiently. ‘He gave the letter to a man who happened to be in the shop at the time…Yes—it was addressed to a Mr John Richmond at the “Royal Gate”.’
Suddenly Mrs Moffat replaced the receiver and permitted herself the luxury of a grim chuckle.
4
‘That young man seemed to be in rather a hurry,’ commented Steve, when Temple returned to the car.
He recounted what had happened in the little shop as they started rather cautiously on their way towards the village.
‘He saw the car about a quarter of a mile before we stopped,’ said Temple, after they had been travelling for about ten minutes.
‘Then why didn’t he stop us?’
‘Yes, that’s what I wanted to know,’ said Temple. ‘Apparently he was afraid we might be someone else.’
There was the sound of a motor horn behind them, and Temple glanced through his driving mirror to see a large Buick Tourer approaching at a reckless speed. For the second time the horn sounded with a note of urgency.
‘By Timothy, this fellow’s in a hurry,’ commented Temple, slowing down a little and drawing into the side.
‘He wants you to stop, darling,’ said Steve, who had been looking through the back window.
‘Stop?’ cried Temple in amazement.
‘Yes, he’s making signs.’
The Buick shot past them, took the middle of the road, and slowed down at once.
Two men emerged from the Buick and approached Temple’s car, which had now pulled up. The elder of the two, a well-dressed, dapper little man, came up to Temple with a smile of apology.
‘Really, sir, I must apologise for stopping you like this,’ he began, a shade too extravagantly.
‘If you want the road to Inverdale—’ put in Steve quite pleasantly.
‘Unfortunately, madam, we are not interested in the road to Inverdale.’
‘I think perhaps we had better introduce ourselves, Laurence,’ said the second man, a suntanned, fairly elderly individual, who seemed rather like a native of the district.
‘Why yes, of course,’ agreed his companion. ‘My name is van Draper. Doctor Laurence van Draper. This gentleman is Major Lindsay, a very close friend of mine. In fact, he is the father of that very excitable young man you met in the village – about ten minutes ago.’
‘I see,’ nodded Temple, who made no attempt to reciprocate where the introductions were concerned.
‘I believe I am correct in saying my son gave you a letter,’ proceeded Major Lindsay, whose real name was Guest.
Temple looked up quickly.
‘Yes, that’s quite true,’ he admitted.
‘The letter was addressed to a certain Mr John Richmond,’ continued the Major evenly.
‘Well?’
‘I should esteem it a favour,’ said Major Lindsay impressively, ‘if you would be good enough to give the letter to Doctor van Draper.’
Temple leaned back slightly and shrewdly surveyed the Major. There was silence for a few moments.
‘I’m sorry, Major,’ decided Temple at length, ‘but your son gave me explicit instructions that the letter was to be delivered to no one except Mr Richmond.’
‘I’m afraid your task will be very difficult, sir. You see, there is no such person as John Richmond.’
‘No such person?’ repeated Temple in some surprise.
Van Draper came forward.
‘Perhaps you’d better let me explain, Major.’ He placed an arm on the car window and addressed Temple. ‘David Lindsay, the man who gave you the letter, is unfortunately the victim of a rather peculiar – what shall we say – mental condition?’
‘You mean that he isn’t quite…’ began Steve, and van Draper nodded.
‘Precisely. He isn’t quite responsible for certain of his actions. There’s no real harm in the boy; in fact his condition is rapidly responding to treatment. But there are occasions – tonight was one of them I’m afraid – when he’s a little—er— unbalanced.’
‘I understand perfectly,’ said Temple in a non-committal voice.
‘My treatment of the case is purely of a psychological nature,’ continued van Draper, ‘and for that reason I should rather like to have the letter he gave you. On the other hand, if you feel a little dubious about handing over—’
‘No, of course not, Doctor,’ replied Temple. ‘There’s no question of doubting your word. But tell me, how did you know about the letter?’
It seemed as if van Draper was about to embark upon a long explanation, but the Major cut in quickly: ‘Mrs Moffat rang us up. She knows all about David’s weakness, and understands.’
‘Oh yes—of course,’ murmured Temple. ‘Here is the letter.’
‘Thanks,’ said the Major, placing the envelope in his pocket. ‘I’ll move my car out of the way so you can get by. I seem to have taken up all the road.’
With a brief nod the two men departed and presently their car drew into the side of the road. Temple and Steve shot past them and for a time neither spoke. Then suddenly Temple began to chuckle and Steve looked up in surprise. She could not see that there was any cause for amusement.
‘Paul, what’s the matter?’
‘Have you ever heard such a ridiculous story in all your life?’ grinned Temple.
‘You mean—what the doctor said?’
‘Doctor! He’s no more a doctor than I am,’ scoffed the novelist. ‘The fellow didn’t look like a doctor and, by Timothy, he certainly didn’t talk like one.’
‘If you didn’t believe his story,’ said Steve, obviously puzzled, ‘why did you give him the letter?’
‘I didn’t, my dear,’ laughed Temple, diving in his coat pocket. ‘I gave him the postcards. Six delightful views of Inverdale. Two by moonlight!’
5
Like so many Scottish hotels, the ‘Royal Gate’ was classified as an inn. It was, in fact, the only comfortable hotel in this small village, which had lately become fashionable as a centre for salmon fishers, deerstalkers, mountaineers and artistic dilettantes.
In a noble but misguided endeavour to cater for all tastes, the proprietors had placed a stag’s antlers over the mantelpiece in the entrance hall, a huge stuffed salmon in a glass case at the foot of the stairs, and several anaemic aquatints on any stretch of wall that appeared inviting.
There was, of course, a barometer suspended somewhat precariously just inside the front door. This had been badly damaged in transit and had lost a considerable quantity of its mercury, but oddly enough no one ever commented upon its inaccuracy, though every visitor most certainly tapped it fiercely first thing in the morning.
Paul Temple and his wife had very little difficulty in finding the inn. They were welcomed by the host and hostess, Mr and Mrs Weston, who informed them that the place was full, but undertook to ‘manage something’.
Temple and Steve were surprised and pleased to hear their hosts’ broad cockney dialect. Ernie Weston had been a night porter in a London hotel, where he had met his wife, who was employed there as a chambermaid. She had apparently come to London from Yorkshire to find better paid work, and between them they soon managed to save a few hundred pounds, which constituted the ‘ingoing’ to the ‘Royal Gate’.
Buxom Mrs Weston, with the North Country roses still unfaded in her cheeks, had soon taken a fancy to Steve.
‘I think you’ll be very comfortable ’ere,’ she was saying.
‘It may not be as palatial as some of these railway hotels, but the view’s champion, anyway.’
Steve looked round the fairly small bedroom which was sparsely furnished but very clean.
‘This room will do very nicely, thanks,’ she smiled. Mrs Weston smoothed imaginary creases out of her apron and nodded pleasantly.
Her husband entered, carrying two large suitcases. He was rather out of breath and dropped them thankfully. ‘I’ll bring up the other stuff later,’ he announced. ‘Where do I put this?’
‘That’s all right – leave it to me,’ said Temple.
Ernie Weston seemed quite pleased to obey. He was an inch or two shorter than his wife, a few years older and rather wizened in appearance. While Mrs Weston bustled around, fetching towels and other requisites, Ernie stood in the doorway looking on. He made no effort to go.
‘You seem to be fairly busy,’ remarked Steve conversationally. ‘Is it always like this?’
‘Crikey, no!’ exploded Ernie. ‘This place was a proper white elephant up till a couple o’ months ago. Ain’t that right, Mother?’
‘Well, things ’ave certainly bucked up, there’s no doubt about that,’ agreed Mrs Weston cheerfully.
‘Bucked up! Blimey, I should think they ’ave. I’ve been run off me feet for weeks from early morning till last thing at night. ’Ave you come far, sir?’
‘We left Edinburgh this morning, about ten.’
‘Pretty good goin’,’ commented Ernie. ‘I expect you’re feelin’ a bit peckish?’
‘Yes, we are rather,’ admitted Steve.
‘Dinner’ll be on at any minute now – seven-thirty. You’ll hear the gong,’ said Ernie, adding whimsically, ‘the gong was Mother’s idea.’
His wife glared at him, then turned to Steve. ‘We started getting so many “posh” folk here, I thought we’d better live up to it,’ she explained. ‘Would you like a wash and brush up, ma’am?’
She took Steve to the bathroom, leaving Temple alone with Ernie.
‘I’ll pop down and get the other stuff up, sir,’ volunteered the landlord.
‘No, just a minute.’
Ernie perched himself easily on the edge of a small table. Temple suddenly shot a question.
‘Do you and your wife run this place?’
‘That’s right, sir. Weston’s the name. Bin ’ere six months now.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Well, it’s a bit quiet, sir, after London.’
‘The hotel seems pretty full at the moment.’
‘Not ’arf. Everybody seems to ’ave made their minds up to go on ’oliday just now. Between you and me, sir, you wouldn’t be ’aving this room if me and the missus weren’t pally.’ He chuckled to himself as he helped Temple to lift a case onto a small bench at the foot of the bed.
The novelist flung a pair of pale blue pyjamas onto his pillow, and asked: ‘Have you anyone staying here named Richmond—John Richmond?’
‘Why yes, sir!’ said Ernie, rather startled. ‘Is ’e a pal o’ yours?’
