Scandal at High Chimneys by John Dickson Carr Read Free Book Online Page B

of Harriet Pyke?”
    “No, except that you mentioned it.”
    “ I mentioned it? When?”
    “In the train this afternoon.”
    “Ah, yes! Yes, I believe I did!” The barrister, after speaking almost at a shout, controlled himself and smiled agreeably. “But there were certain matters I could not possibly have discussed in the presence of my wife.”
    “Well, sir?”
    “Well! It will be known to you that there are certain areas of London, St. John’s Wood for instance, in which men of means and substance are accustomed to establish their kept women? Each in her own handsome villa? Or that there are thoroughfares north of Oxford Street (Berners Street, Newman Street for example?) where a pretty anonyma may be set up in her own expensive rooms? It is so now, and it was so nearly a generation ago. Harriet Pyke was such a woman.”
    Clive did not comment.
    Lifting the decanter of brandy, his host removed the stopper and poured a tumbler about a quarter full. Perhaps it indicated his state of mind that he made no offer of drink to his guest, nor did he add soda-water from the small bottle.
    There was a clock ticking somewhere in the study. Matthew Damon lifted the tumbler, drank, and then whacked down the empty glass on the desk.
    “Mr. Strickland, do you think I don’t know what they say of me?”
    “Sir?”
    “I am no stranger to the lusts of the flesh.”
    Outside in the hall, firm footsteps approached the door on that side. Knuckles rapped lightly on the door. Matthew Damon broke off, twitching his head round, as the door was opened.
    “I say, Damon—” began a man’s voice, and also stopped.
    In the doorway, altering both his tone and his bearing as he saw Clive, stood a portly gentleman with a short brown beard.
    “Dr. Rollo Thompson Bland,” said Matthew Damon in a repressed voice, “may I present Mr. Clive Strickland?”
    “Your servant, sir,” said the doctor with much formality.
    “An honour, sir,” replied Clive, rising and bowing.
    Whereupon Clive, as his nerves crawled, became aware of two things.
    Mr. Damon’s eyes glittered with rage at the interruption. And, as Celia had said, there was a storm coming outside. Thunder shocked low down on the sky: not loudly, but as though approaching. A rising breeze swept round High Chimneys.
    “Yes?” inquired Mr. Damon.
    “My dear Damon,” said Dr. Rollo Thompson Bland, “where is your wife?”
    “My wife? So far as I am aware, my esteemed wife should be in her own sitting-room upstairs. That is where she usually is, at this time.”
    “The lady is not there.”
    “Then why not ask her maid? Or ask Burbage?”
    “Tut, my dear sir! You seem to forget your own rigid rules and time-tables. The servants all have their evening meal together between six-fifteen and six-thirty. That’s not much time, I have always said, when we begin at seven and take two hours. I scarcely like to disturb the poor devils.”
    “Indeed,” said Mr. Damon, and snatched up his brandy-glass. “Let me applaud your consideration for others.”
    Thunder struck again.
    With the door wide open, swinging inwards to the right as you entered from the hall, air prowled in the hall and a draught whipped through. The lamp-flame wavered; two papers fluttered up from the desk, and Matthew Damon struck them down with the flat of his left hand as though killing a fly.
    Already Dr. Bland’s eyes had narrowed. His manner, which combined the bluff good-nature of the general practitioner with the soothing stateliness of the specialist, congealed into medical watchfulness.
    “Damon!” he said sharply.
    “Since you are so familiar with my rules, sir, I might remind you of another. Even when I am not studying a brief, it is my habit to occupy this room alone from tea-time until dinner-time.”
    “So I believe.”
    “I am on no account to be disturbed except at my own request. Is that clear?”
    “Quite clear.” Dr. Bland’s colour was high; but his eyes, a very bright blue, watched the