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When he appeared she could make no impression on him. He seemed to think that she alone would sympathize with his change of heart and plans and would support him. He couldn’t understand her disappointment or, as he continued in his attitude, her mounting anger. He grew dogmatic and stubborn. The woman of forty-seven and the boy of sixteen quarrelled bitterly and strangely. It was a cruel thing for him to do, Ursula said, cruel and stupid. Aunt Florence was the most patriotic soul alive. Look at her war work. It wasn’t as though he were old enough or fit for the army. The least he could do was to complete the education she had so generously pla
After their quarrel they no longer met. Cliff went out with the high-country musterers and continued in their company when they came in from the mountains behind droning mobs of sheep. He became very friendly with Albie Black, the roustabout. There was a rickety old piano in the bunk-house a
“Listen to him, now,” said Arthur Rubrick. “Remarkable chap, that boy. You wouldn’t believe that old hurdy-gurdy over there had as much music in it. Extraordinary. Sounds like a professional.”
“Yes,” Fabian agreed after a pause. “It’s remarkable.” Ursula wished they wouldn’t talk about Cliff. It would have been better to have told Uncle Arthur about the episode of the previous night, she thought, and let him deal with Cliff. Aunt Florence shouldn’t have to cope with everything and this had hurt her so deeply.
For the previous night, Markins the man-servant, hearing furtive noises in the old dairy that now served as a cellar, and imagining them to be made by a rat, had crept up and flashed his torch in at the window. Its beam darted moth-like about dusty surfaces of bottles. There was a brief sound of movement. Markins sought it out with his light. Cliff Johns’s face sprang out of the dark. His eyes were screwed up blindly and his mouth was open. Markins had described this very vividly. He had dipped the torch-beam until it discovered Cliff’s hands. They were long and flexible hands and they grasped a bottle of Arthur’s twenty-year-old whisky. As the light found them they opened and the bottle crashed on the stone floor. Markins, a taciturn man, darted into the dairy, grasped Cliff by his wrist and, without a word, lugged him unresisting into the kitchen. Mrs. Duck, outraged beyond measure, had instantly bustled off and fetched Mrs. Rubrick. The interview took place in the kitchen. It nearly broke Florence’s heart, Ursula said. Cliff, who of course reeked of priceless whisky, said repeatedly that he had not been stealing, but would give no further explanation. In the meantime Markins had discovered four more bottles in a sugar bag, dumped round the corner of the dairy. Florence, naturally, did not believe Cliff, and in a mounting scene called him a sneak-thief and accused him of depravity and ingratitude. He broke into a white rage and stammered out an extraordinary arraignment of Florence, saying that she had tried to buy him and that he would never rest until he had returned every pe
Next morning — the day of her disappearance — Florence went to the manager’s cottage only to be told that Cliff’s bed had not been slept in and his town clothes were missing. His father had gone off in their car down the road to the Pass. At midday he returned with Cliff, whom he had overtaken at the cross-roads, dead-beat, having covered sixteen miles on the first stage down-country to the nearest army depot. Florence would tell Ursula nothing of her subsequent interview with Tommy Johns.
“So Uncle Arthur’s suggestion on that same evening that Cliff should play at the dance came at rather a grim moment,” said Ursula.
“The boy’s a damned conceited pup if he’s nothing worse,” said Douglas Grace.
“And he’s still here?” said Alleyn. Fabian looked round at him.
“Oh, yes. They won’t have him in the army. He has something wrong with his eyes and anyway is ranked as doing an essential job on the place. The police got the whole story out of Markins, of course,” said Fabian, “and, for want of a better suspect, concentrated on the boy. I expect he looms large in the files, doesn’t he?”
“He peters out about half-way through.”
“That’s because he’s the only member of the household who’s got a sort of alibi. We all heard him playing the piano until just before the diamond clip was found, which was at five to nine. When he’d just started, at eight o’clock it was, Markins saw him in the a
“You may think that was a bit thick,” said Fabian. “I mean a bit too much in character with the sensitive young plant, but it’s what he did. The previous night, you must remember, he’d had a snorting row with Flossie, and followed it up with a sixteen-mile hike and no sleep. He was physically and emotionally exhausted and dropped off to sleep in his chair. His mother got him to bed, and she and his father sat up until after midnight, talking about him. Before she turned in, Mrs. Johns looked at young Cliff and found him fathoms deep. Even the Detective-Sergeant saw that Flossie would have returned by midnight if she’d been alive. Sorry, Ursy dear, I interrupt continually. We are back on the lawn. Cliff’s playing Bach on a piano that misses on six notes and Flossie’s talking about the party in the shearing shed. Carry on.”
Ursula and Florence had steered Arthur Rubrick away from Cliff, though the piano in the a
It was then that he discovered the loss of the diamond clip.
It had been a silver wedding present from Arthur, one of a pair. Its mate still twinkled on the left lapel of the coat. Flossie a