MAX CARRADOS MYSTERIES - Complete Series in One Volume. Bramah Ernest

to have so little furniture there and to live so solitarily,” she explained, “that we have even wondered whether he might not be there merely as a sort of caretaker.”

      “And you have never heard where he came from or who he is?”

      “Only what the milkman told my servant—our chief source of local information, Mr Carrados. He declares that the man used to be the butler at a large house that stood here formerly, Fountain Court, and that his name is neither Johns nor Jones. But very likely it is all a mistake.”

      “If not, he is certainly attached to the soil,” was her visitor’s rejoinder. “And, apropos of that, will you show me over your garden before I go, Mrs Bellmark?”

      “With pleasure,” she assented, rising also. “I will ring now and then I can offer you tea when we have been round. That is, if you——?”

      “Thank you, I do,” he replied. “And would you allow my man to go through into the garden—in case I require him?”

      “Oh, certainly. You must tell me just what you want without thinking it necessary to ask permission, Mr Carrados,” she said, with a pretty air of protection. “Shall Amy take a message?”

      He acquiesced and turned to the servant who had appeared in response to the bell.

      “Will you go to the car and tell my man—Parkinson—that I require him here. Say that he can bring his book; he will understand.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      They stepped out through the French window and sauntered across the lawn. Before they had reached the other side Parkinson reported himself.

      “You had better stay here,” said his master, indicating the sward generally. “Mrs Bellmark will allow you to bring out a chair from the drawing-room.”

      “Thank you, sir; there is a rustic seat already provided,” replied Parkinson.

      He sat down with his back to the houses and opened the book that he had brought. Let in among its pages was an ingeniously contrived mirror.

      When their promenade again brought them near the rustic seat Carrados dropped a few steps behind.

      “He is watching you from one of the upper rooms, sir,” fell from Parkinson’s lips as he sat there without raising his eyes from the page before him.

      The blind man caught up to his hostess again.

      “You intended this lawn for croquet?” he asked.

      “No; not specially. It is too small, isn’t it?”

      “Not necessarily. I think it is in about the proportion of four by five all right. Given that, size does not really matter for an unsophisticated game.”

      To settle the point he began to pace the plot of ground, across and then lengthways. Next, apparently dissatisfied with this rough measurement, he applied himself to marking it off more exactly by means of his walking-stick. Elsie Bellmark was by no means dull but the action sprang so naturally from the conversation that it did not occur to her to look for any deeper motive.

      “He has got a pair of field-glasses and is now at the window,” communicated Parkinson.

      “I am going out of sight,” was the equally quiet response. “If he becomes more anxious tell me afterwards.”

      “It is quite all right,” he reported, returning to Mrs Bellmark with the satisfaction of bringing agreeable news. “It should make a splendid little ground, but you may have to level up a few dips after the earth has set.”

      A chance reference to the kitchen garden by the visitor took them to a more distant corner of the enclosure where the rear of Fountain Cottage cut off the view from the next house windows.

      “We decided on this part for vegetables because it does not really belong to the garden proper,” she explained. “When they build farther on this side we shall have to give it up very soon. And it would be a pity if it was all in flowers.”

      With the admirable spirit of the ordinary Englishwoman, she spoke of the future as if there was no cloud to obscure its prosperous course. She had frankly declared their position to her uncle’s best friend because in the circumstances it had seemed to be the simplest and most straightforward thing to do; beyond that, there was no need to whine about it.

      “It is a large garden,” remarked Carrados. “And you really do all the work of it yourselves?”

      “Yes; I think that is half the fun of a garden. Roy is out here early and late and he does all the hard work. But how did you know? Did uncle tell you?”

      “No; you told me yourself.”

      “I? Really?”

      “Indirectly. You were scorning the proffered services of a horticultural mercenary at the moment of my arrival.”

      “Oh, I remember,” she laughed. “It was Irons, of course. He is a great nuisance, he is so stupidly persistent. For some weeks now he has been coming time after time, trying to persuade me to engage him. Once when we were all out he had actually got into the garden and was on the point of beginning work when I returned. He said he saw the milkmen and the grocers leaving samples at the door so he thought that he would too!”

      “A practical jester evidently. Is Mr Irons a local character?”

      “He said that he knew the ground and the conditions round about here better than anyone else in Groat’s Heath,” she replied. “Modesty is not among Mr Irons’s handicaps. He said that he——How curious!”

      “What is, Mrs Bellmark?”

      “I never connected the two men before, but he said that he had been gardener at Fountain Court for seven years.”

      “Another family retainer who is evidently attached to the soil.”

      “At all events they have not prospered equally, for while Mr Johns seems able to take a nice house, poor Irons is willing to work for half-a-crown a day, and I am told that all the other men charge four shillings.”

      They had paced the boundaries of the kitchen garden, and as there was nothing more to be shown Elsie Bellmark led the way back to the drawing-room. Parkinson was still engrossed in his book, the only change being that his back was now turned towards the high paling of clinker-built oak that separated the two gardens.

      “I will speak to my man,” said Carrados, turning aside.

      “He hurried down and is looking through the fence, sir,” reported the watcher.

      “That will do then. You can return to the car.”

      “I wonder if you would allow me to send you a small hawthorn-tree?” inquired Carrados among his felicitations over the teacups five minutes later. “I think it ought to be in every garden.”

      “Thank you—but is it worth while?” replied Mrs Bellmark, with a touch of restraint. As far as mere words went she had been willing to ignore the menace of the future, but in the circumstances the offer seemed singularly inept and she began to suspect that outside his peculiar gifts the wonderful Mr Carrados might be a little bit obtuse after all.

      “Yes; I think it is,” he replied, with quiet assurance.

      “In spite of——?”

      “I am not forgetting that unless your husband is prepared on Monday next to invest one thousand pounds you contemplate leaving here.”

      “Then I do not understand it, Mr Carrados.”

      “And I am unable to explain as yet. But I brought you a note from Louis Carlyle, Mrs Bellmark. You only glanced at it. Will you do me the favour of reading me the last paragraph?”

      She picked up the letter from the table where it lay and complied with cheerful good-humour.