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Page 86
Pratt knew nothing of this as he slowly made his way to Normandale that
morning. Having plenty of time he went by devious and lonely roads and
by-lanes. Eventually he came to the boundary of Normandale Park at a
point far away from the Grange. There he dismounted, hid his bicycle in
a coppice wherein he had often left it before, and went on towards the
house through the woods and plantations. He knew every yard of the
ground he traversed, and was skilled in taking cover if he saw any sign
of woodman or gamekeeper. And in the end, just as one o'clock chimed
from the clock over the stables, he came to a quiet spot in the
shrubberies behind the Grange, and found Esther Mawson waiting for him
in an old summer-house in which they had met on previous and similar
occasions.
Esther Mawson immediately realized that something unusual was in the
air. Clever as Pratt was at concealing his feelings, she was cleverer in
seeing small signs, and she saw that this was no ordinary visit.
"Anything wrong?" she asked at once.
"Bit of bother--nothing much--it'll blow over," answered Pratt, who knew
that a certain amount of candour was necessary in dealing with this
woman. "But--I shall have to be away for a bit--week or two, perhaps."
"You want to see her?" inquired Esther.
"Of course! I've some papers for her to sign," replied Pratt. "How do
things stand? Coast clear?"
"Miss Mallathorpe's going into Barford after lunch," answered Esther.
"She'll be driving in about half-past two. I can manage it then. How
long shall you want to be with her?"
"Oh, a quarter of an hour'll do," said Pratt. "Ten minutes, if it comes
to that."
"And after that?" asked Esther.
"Then I want to get a train at Scaleby," replied Pratt, mentioning a
railway junction which lay ten miles across country in another
direction. "So make it as soon after two-thirty as you can."
"You can see her as soon as Miss Mallathorpe's gone," said Esther.
"You'd better come into the house--I've got the key of the turret door,
and all's clear--the servants are all at dinner."
"I could do with something myself," observed Pratt, who, in his anxiety,
had only made a light breakfast that morning. "Can it be managed?"
"I'll manage it," she answered. "Come on--now."
Behind the summer-house in which they had met a narrow path led through
the shrubberies to an old part of the Grange which was never used, and
was, in fact, partly ruinous. Esther Mawson led the way along this until
she and Pratt came to a turret in the grey walls, in the lower story of
which a massive oaken door, heavily clamped with iron, gave entrance to
a winding stair, locked it from inside when she and Pratt had entered,
and preceded her companion up the stair, and across one or two empty and
dust-covered chambers to a small room in which a few pieces of ancient
furniture were slowly dropping to decay. Pratt had taken refuge in this
room before, and he sat down in one of the old chairs and mopped his
forehead.
"I want something to drink, above everything," he remarked. "What can
you get?"
"Nothing but wine," answered Esther Mawson. "As much as you like of
that, because I've a stock that's kept up in Mrs. Mallathorpe's room. I
couldn't get any ale without going to the butler. I can get wine and
sandwiches without anybody knowing."
"That'll do," said Pratt. "What sort of wine?"
"Port, sherry, claret," she replied. "Whichever you like."
"Sherry, then," answered Pratt. "Bring a bottle if you can get it--I
want a good drink."
The woman went away--through the disused part of the old house into the
modern portion. She went straight to a certain store closet and took
from it a bottle of old dry sherry which had been brought there from a
bin in the cellars--it was part of a quantity of fine wine laid down by
John Mallathorpe, years before, and its original owner would have been
disgusted to think that it should ever be used for the mere purpose of
quenching thirst. But Esther Mawson had another purpose in view, with
respect to that bottle. Carrying it to her own sitting-room, she
carefully cut off the thick mass of sealing-wax at its neck, drew the
cork, and poured a little of the wine away. And that done, she unlocked
a small box which stood on a corner of her dressing table, and took from
it a glass phial, half full of a colourless liquid. With steady hands
and sure fingers, she dropped some of that liquid into the wine,
carefully counting the drops. Then she restored the phial to its
hiding-place and re-locked the box--after which, taking up a spoon which
lay on her table, she poured out a little of the sherry and smelled and
tasted it. No smell--other than that which ought to be there; no
taste--other than was proper. Pratt would suspect nothing even if he
drunk the whole bottle.
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