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Title: The man from the river
        A Wilson Story

Author: G. D. H. Cole
        Margaret Cole


        
Release date: June 17, 2026 [eBook #78883]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Macmillan Company, 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78883

Credits: Tim Miller, Dori Allard, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN FROM THE RIVER ***




Transcriber’s Note: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores:
_italics_.




[Illustration: (Steeple Tollesbury with Loring Grange & surrounding
country)]




                        THE MAN FROM THE RIVER




  BY G. D. H. AND M. COLE


  THE BLATCHINGTON TANGLE
  THE MURDER AT CROME HOUSE
  THE DEATH OF A MILLIONAIRE









                                THE MAN
                            FROM THE RIVER

                            A WILSON STORY

                                  BY
                             G. D. H. COLE
                                  AND
                             MARGARET COLE


                               New York
                         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                                 1928
                         _All rights reserved_




                           Copyright, 1928,
                       BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY


                Printed in the United States of America




                        THE MAN FROM THE RIVER




                        THE MAN FROM THE RIVER




                              CHAPTER I


“Thank goodness! Wilson’s coming to-day,” was the first thought of
Michael Prendergast, M.D., F.R.C.S., and “rising consultant” of
Harley Street, as he woke on a glorious July morning in his bed at
the Old Malting House, Steeple Tollesbury.

Michael Prendergast was not unlike many other people in that,
while he remained in London and perforce went through a certain
round of daily toil and daily pleasure, he complained bitterly of
the continual presence of people and yearned for green fields and
solitude; but as soon as he found himself actually solitary in a
green field, he tired at once of his own company and began to pine
for the society of a friend. It was the first of these moods that had
sent him down to the sleepy little Essex town, and suggested that he
should take up his quarters rather at the pleasant old inn than six
miles away at the house of his friend, Mark Warden, who had actually
introduced him to the place; it was the second that, after only a
week of “solitude,” had urged him to the ’phone to ring up that same
Warden, and on finding that he was away in Colchester on business and
not expected back for some days, had suggested a frantic appeal to
Mr. Henry Wilson, Superintendent of the C.I.D., to put aside official
cares and join him, if only for two or three days. And now Wilson was
really coming! In the light of his impending arrival, the morning
looked twice as fine, and the little cobbled market-square reclothed
itself in the romance it had worn when Michael first set eyes on it.

Indeed, it was hardly the fault of Steeple Tollesbury that restless
London nerves would not stay contented with it. It is emphatically
a place which possesses all the charm of past greatness and present
peace. Two centuries ago it was a busy little port, with its small
but thriving fleet of colliers plying to and from the Tyne with
“sea-coals,” and its respectable trade in various kinds of produce
with the Dutch coast. But this glory has long departed. The old
harbour at Tolleshithe has silted up; any produce that is still
exported goes unromantically (though still as slowly) by train to
London, and the best Wallsend arrives by the same route, though an
occasional string of coal barges may yet be seen ambling gently
up the Toll to Market Crumbles, the little town ten miles inland.
To-day, though a few buildings such as the ridiculously large church,
the great tithe-barn, and the Guild House, where young men and women
are herded to hear the Vicar’s periodical discourses, remain as
evidence of former greatness, Steeple Tollesbury is, in fact, the
sleepiest township of that remote and sleepy district which lies
between the estuaries of the Blackwater and the Crouch.

One of the aforesaid buildings is undoubtedly the inn, which goes by
the name of the Old Malting House. It stands by the side of the Toll,
one of its sides dropping sheer down into the water, facing a little
stone wharf which is now seldom used, and a hundred yards or so above
the old and narrow bridge, where the approach of an adventurous or
bemused motor-car makes the pedestrian scuttle for safety into one
of the stone embrasures. It is fourteenth century in design; its
restorations have blended excellently with the old lines; roses and
creepers run riot over its face; and, best of all, in cooking, in
wines, and hospitality generally, it has remembered more of its old
tradition than is always the case in forgotten towns. Its landlord is
a gossip, and a pint of Guinness will always start him off; it has
pewter mugs and oak settles and great log fires; in short, it is a
peach of an inn.

So, at least, Michael Prendergast thought, when Warden took him to
dine there on a chilly autumn day, in part payment, as he put it, for
first-aid administered on the cricket-field. It seemed so much the
acme of desire then, sitting hospitably permanent in the middle of
that secret and sometimes terrifying countryside--the part of England
where real ghosts still live--that he had pigeon-holed it in his mind
as a place to revisit--even, perhaps, without his friend. For Mark
Warden was one of those cheerful and hearty souls who, in certain
moods to which Michael was as prone as most intellectuals, seem to
be always saying the same thing in a loud voice, as if it had just
occurred to them; and whose perplexities, when they have any, appear
to them so much a violation of the natural order of the universe that
they must complain loudly of them at all hours, at breakfast, dinner,
and tea, until the tiresome thing is at last settled or forgotten.
And Mark Warden, during the past winter, had been abruptly introduced
to perplexity as a result of his decision to retire from the pleasant
existence of a county cricketer, abandon the West Indian tour, and
take seriously at last the position of junior--very junior--partner
in the firm of stockbrokers which his father had founded, and had
thence retired, owing to advancing years and a stroke, for his
last act bringing in Mark as an innocent fledgling. Whether the
fledgling’s decision to take a real part in the business had been
prompted by the broken knee-cap to which Michael had attended, or by
the growth of his desire to marry a neighbouring young lady, was not
very clear; at all events the mysteries of law, finance, and love
combined had had a serious effect on him, causing him very quickly to
tear his hair and naïvely to come and lay his troubles, in season and
out of season, before his new friend, in whose superior brains he had
a complete and touching confidence. Michael knew nothing of finance
and law, and cared less; and so, when he decided he was run down and
must take a holiday, he had quite firmly decided that, though the Old
Malting House was the place for him, Mark Warden was emphatically not
the companion.

Not, indeed, that he could quite escape from his friend’s
personality. Hellier Croft, the Wardens’ country home, was only six
miles away across country, though nearer fourteen by the tortuous
Essex roads. The family was an old one, and well known in the
neighbourhood; and, if you stand a landlord a pint of stout, you must
bear with the subjects of conversation he chooses. Samuel Wason,
landlord of the Old Malting House, and fat and cheerful as such a
landlord should be, had a very high opinion of old John Warden, as a
judge both of horseflesh and of investments, and deeply regretted his
illness. His son seemed equally popular; but it was clear that he was
regarded as an ornament of society rather than a pillar; and Michael
reflected with amusement how hurt Mark would have been at Warden’s
genuine regret that he should be leaving the cricket-field--implying,
in the way he put it, a distinct reflection on the heir’s business
abilities. This was all in the correct tradition, the slightly
patronising pride in the gay but brainless youth; but Michael was
a little perturbed to notice a certain tinge of doubt in the way
in which Wason spoke of the firm. It seemed that the firm was not
what it had been in old Warden’s time; there were rumours of shaky
investments, possible speculations, and one or two old clients
transferring their business elsewhere. Mr. Hanborough, he that on old
Warden’s retirement had become senior partner, didn’t belong to these
parts, had come from London and never quite been taken to--though
old Mr. Warden, he backed him through thick and thin. Oh, no, there
wasn’t nothing against him that Wason knew of; he was different-like,
and it wasn’t the same, that was all. Michael began to feel that he
had perhaps been over-contemptuous of Mark Warden’s troubles, that
they might after all be more than the instinctive protests of the
butterfly bound to the business wheel, and in a mood of repentance
had tried vainly to get into touch with him.

Then, of course, the second partner, Mr. Meston----At this point,
Michael’s thoughts, recapitulating as he lay in bed, gave a sudden
jump of delight. “Thank God _that_ fellow’s gone, at any rate!” was
how he phrased it. For, of course, the real objection to solitude
in the countryside is that it never _is_ solitude. There are always
Mr. Mestons. One does not, naturally, mean by solitude a desert
loneliness; innkeepers, potmen, tap-room habitués, even garrulous
visitors like that old solicitor fellow--what’s his name?--Brandreth,
of course--all these are local colour, and fit in with the picture.
Besides, one need not talk to them unless one likes; one can keep out
of the bar, sit upstairs or go for a walk, and they will not pursue.
But a creature like Meston, with his lank hair, his gloomy face, his
vast Adam’s apple, and his perpetual boring presence--what can be
done with him?

Mr. Meston, middle partner of the Warden firm, who, till four or five
days ago, had shared the hospitality of the Old Malting House with
Michael, could certainly not have been called a cheerful companion.
He was by origin a clerk in that firm, who had grown, or was about
to grow, grey in its service, and who had been rewarded with a
partnership by old John Warden. Faithful he might be, but he was
neither beautiful nor entertaining. As already hinted, he was long,
lean, and scraggy, of a sallow, rather unhealthy complexion, gloomily
dressed in Sunday blacks, and showing a great tendency to protrude
bony purplish wrists from his coat-sleeves. He was also singularly
melancholy in manner--more depressed, Michael felt, even than his
physical appearance warranted--and he seemed to have nothing to do
but to moon miserably about the inn and the market-square in front
of it. All this would have mattered little, however, if the creature
had not obviously had something on its mind, something about which it
ardently and horribly desired to talk to Michael. It was hardly safe
to try to entice it into ordinary conversation; almost at once the
talk would languish, it would begin to fidget with the salt-cellar
or the fire-irons, and into its eye would come that yearning look
peculiar to people who are just about to unbosom themselves. Michael,
having fled from the possibility of Warden’s confidences, was by
no means inclined to suffer the same treatment at the hands of a
snuffling undertaker, as he unkindly termed his fellow-visitor;
more especially as it was at least possible that the undertaker’s
confidences might concern Warden, and Michael did not at all want
to discuss his friend with him. For this reason he not only gave
the widest possible berth to Meston himself, but even discouraged
the landlord in various attempts to tell him “some things about Mr.
Meston.” Whatever was to be known about Meston, Michael felt, he at
all events did not want to know it. He wanted to have as little to do
with the man as he could.

At least, thank goodness, he was not here any longer, polluting
the sunshine. He had left, more or less unexpectedly, late in the
evening of the previous Friday, or early the following morning; and
the inn was perceptibly the brighter for his departure. What with
that, and the immediate prospect of a friend who could be relied
upon not to burden him with confidences of any kind, Michael felt so
benevolent as he descended to breakfast, that he even, with a kind
of overflowing of goodwill, asked the landlord whether he had heard
anything of Mr. Meston.

“Only wish I had,” Wason replied. “It’s a nuisance to me, not knowing
when he’s coming back and whether he’ll want to stay, when he does.
Packed his baggage and all, too; looks as though he wasn’t going to
stay. But it’s not like Mr. Meston to go on paying for a room when he
needn’t.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know he is. Perhaps he’s just forgotten,” Michael
suggested.

“Forgotten? Not he. Mr. Meston, he’ve the longest memory in these
parts for small things. Take care of a penny, he would--if it meant
holding it in his mouth till Land’s End. No, that’s not like him.
It don’t matter to me, much; we’re not overfull, as you can see for
yourself. But his room’s the best in the place, and it’s a confusion
to me not knowing whether he wants to keep it or not. Your friend
might ’a’ liked it, now, supposing I’d had it free.”

“Oh, I think he’ll do very well where he is,” Michael said,
suppressing none the less a slight regret at the loss of Meston’s
room, which was indeed very attractive, being a long, low, oak-beamed
room overlooking the river, and the only bedroom which looked out
that side. As it was, Wilson must perforce be accommodated in a
pleasant, but completely modern, room overlooking the cobbled
market-place and not far from Michael’s own.

“London gentleman, isn’t he?” Wason continued. “What time will he be
arriving, now?”

“Oh, some time this afternoon. I’m not sure when. He’s coming by
car,” Michael said, wondering how often Wilson must have thanked
his stars for his inconspicuous name. It is true that since the
Brooklyn Case,[1] and still more since other problems in crime which
he had triumphantly solved, Wilson’s name had become something
of a national byword; but Henry Wilsons are still as common as
blackberries in England, and there was no particular danger that
this particular one’s incognito would be pierced during his stay at
Steeple Tollesbury. For, of course, he was coming down incognito. A
distinguished detective must of necessity eschew certain forms of
publicity which delight a distinguished film-actor, for example.
He does not want either his autograph or his likeness to figure
prominently in the picture-press; still less does he want to be
thronged by an admiring crowd wherever he goes. If the Superintendent
had been called Sherlock Holmes, now, the whole of the market-place
would already have been black with sightseers; but Henry Wilson! Even
though he had only just brought to a conclusion his most spectacular
case, it was hardly likely that a single village eye would be batted
for his arrival. Unless, indeed, a crime were to occur; but Michael
had yet to see a place which less suggested crime than Steeple
Tollesbury.

As he stood in the inn doorway, drinking in deep draughts of sun,
there was the purr of an engine, and a long racing car dashed over
the bridge and turned down into the square. A man with what Michael
felt to be an altogether unnecessarily good-looking profile and a
mass of curly hair was at the wheel.

“Who’s that--cinema gentleman?” he said; “do you know? And why does
he think he’s Jehu?”

“Why, that’s Wallace Burden,” the landlord said, turning Michael’s
scornful remark into a compliment. Wallace Burden bid fair at the
moment to climb to Valentino’s vacant pedestal. “He always drives
like that. He’ll be going up to Lorings’--to the Grange--I shouldn’t
wonder.”

“Well, I don’t like him,” Michael pronounced.

“There’s them that does, though,” the landlord said darkly.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] See _The Brooklyn Murders_, by G. D. H. Cole.




                              CHAPTER II


Well-lined with eggs and bacon and marmalade, Michael Prendergast
walked out of the inn into the market-place, and prepared to take a
constitutional. He strolled in a leisurely way, basking in the lovely
morning, along the High Street, which sloped slightly up to the
bridge over the river, to the cross-roads, where diverged the road to
Loring Grange, the home of the chief of the local gentry. He ambled
gently in and out of the chestnut trees; stopped to pat a nondescript
dog which was too contented already to make more than the most meagre
of responses; lounged into the barber’s and bought some shaving-soap
for no particular reason; and was regaled in return with selections
of the morning’s gossip. There had been a railway accident somewhere
in America--“terrible, how many them foreign railways kill.” The
wireless last night had given some advice to farmers, which the
farmers of Tollesbury neighbourhood very much resented:

      “His wife and he’s got fourteen kids,
      But a can’t keep flies off tarmits,”

the barber quoted scornfully. Mr. Wallace Burden had run over a pig
at South Meadon, and the owner was going up to the Grange to demand
compensation--“His girl wants to get on films, so she does,” etc.,
etc. Michael stayed in the shop until he felt well-soaked, and then
wandered on up one of the side-streets, where the pleasantest old
houses stood, until he came to that belonging to a Mr. Brandreth,
an old retired solicitor, whose habit of dropping in to the Old
Malting House for a pipe and a gossip had thrown him once or twice
in Michael’s way. Michael had half intended to stop and chat; he
found old Brandreth an amusing character in his way, and he had some
thoughts of making judicious inquiries about Mark Warden’s firm. But
when he got to the lawyer’s gate he saw the latter in conversation
with so unprepossessing a man that he changed his mind, and walked on
into the country, idly wondering what Brandreth could have in common
with a man who looked like the more disreputable type of city tout.
Even his bowler, Michael thought, apart from his loud check tweeds
and his roving eye, would have induced any one to give him a wide
berth. But Brandreth appeared to be having quite a chat with him.
“Still,” Michael thought, “I suppose solicitors, even ex-solicitors,
must come into contact with a good many shady customers”; and he
remembered vaguely having heard his landlord mention that Brandreth
was something of a thorn in the side of the local bench, as he had
an incurable propensity for taking up the causes of those accused of
crimes, which the said bench held most unpardonable. “I wouldn’t take
up that chap’s case, though, not if you gave me a thousand pounds,”
said Michael to himself. “However, the old boy’s tastes aren’t any
business of mine.”

His walk led him in a half-circle round the outskirts of the little
town, and eventually back to the far end of the bridge near by his
own inn. It was not yet quite time for lunch, and as, in accordance
with principle, he had duly sampled the bitters provided by the two
pubs which he had passed, he saw no reason to waste the sunshine by
going indoors. Instead, he sat down on a ledge of one of the stone
embrasures, lit a pipe, and gave himself up to meditation; and
what with the pipe, the sun, and the bitters, he became so nearly
unconscious of his surroundings that, when a shout of “Hi, mister!”
rent the air, he started up so abruptly that he almost lost his
balance and fell in the river.

But the shout was not meant for him. It appeared to be meant for a
rubicund man with a clay pipe in his mouth, who was standing almost
at his elbow, staring down at a little steam-tug which was just about
to pass under the bridge. With rather a sense of having made a fool
of himself, Michael realised that he must have been fairly sound
asleep to let the rubicund gentleman get so close to him without
noticing, for when he sat down, neither he nor the tug had been in
sight. As his senses slowly returned, he perceived that the shout had
come from a man standing on the deck of the tug, which was pulling a
couple of coal-barges down-stream.

“Eh?” said the man on the bridge, without removing his pipe from his
mouth.

“Where be doctor?” shouted the man in the tug.

“Doctor’s up along Mrs. Clellan’s,” was the reply. “What’s the
matter, Jarge? Been swallerin’ weeds?”

“Ain’t been swallerin’ nothin’,” Jarge replied, with a guffaw.
“Bill’s gone an’ fished up a carpse for doctor.”

“Carpse! Holy Moses!” said the man on the bridge, and began to move
in a lumbering fashion towards the scene of action. Michael followed
him, his professional instincts fully awakened at the word.

“Eh? What’s that you say?” said a new voice, as the landlord of the
Old Malting House strolled up to the bridge and leaned over.

“Carpse ’e’s fished up, ’e ’as,” said Jarge, obviously proud of his
own importance. “You like to have a look at her, Mr. Wason? She came
from along your place.”

“I’ll come down,” said the landlord. “Pull into the tow-path, will
you? And you, Tommy”--catching hold of an urchin in the roadway--“get
up along Mrs. Clellan’s and tell Doctor Kershaw he’s wanted here,
will you? Some one’s fallen in the river. Look sharp, my lad.” The
urchin was off at top speed almost before the words were out of his
mouth, and Wason, with Michael and the man with the pipe, made his
way rapidly down to the tow-path on the far side of the bridge, and
stood there expectant, while with much puffing and blowing the tug
put about and drew its train in to the bank.

“I’d better have a look at the body,” Michael said to Wason, “just
in case Dr. Kershaw can’t be found. The poor fellow may not be dead.
I’m a doctor,” he added for the benefit of the company. Jarge gave
another loud guffaw.

“You can look at ’un and welcome,” he said. “Ain’t our private
exhibition. But he’s dead enough, you’ll find. Been a-soaking for
days, looks like. He’s in the tail-barge, thar. Bill!” A man who was
squatting in the tail-barge looked up inquiringly. “Gent wants to
see carpse. Says he’s a doctor,” he added.

“Let ’un,” said Bill, who seemed to be of a taciturn and incurious
disposition; for he said nothing else, but sat and sucked at his
pipe while Michael and Wason with some difficulty scrambled into the
hindermost barge. The body lay on its face, covered with mud and
slime.

“Well, _he’s_ dead enough,” said the landlord. “Not much for you
there, sir.”

There was certainly no doubt that the man was dead, and had been in
the water for some time. The clothes were sodden and besmirched, and
the legs covered with mire and waterweed, though the upper part of
the body was comparatively free.

“Give me a hand with him, will you?” said Michael, going down on his
knees and beginning to turn the body over. Wason, looking as if he
did not particularly relish the job, bent down and took hold; but as
the body slowly turned over, and the swollen, discoloured face came
into view, he gave an exclamation and all but let it fall back again.

“Good God! Why, it’s Mr. Meston!”

“What’s that, Sam?” With a bound of surprising agility, considering
his bulk, the stout onlooker sprang into the barge, and gazed down at
the corpse’s face.

“Holy Moses!” he said again.

Michael looked down at the body. Whether or no he would, unprompted,
have recognised in that horrid misshapen thing his morose
fellow-visitor, there was no doubt that the landlord was right. This
was William Meston--dead. And how had he come by his death?

“Some one’ll have to tell his wife,” Wason was saying.

“Aye, that’s right,” said the rubicund gentleman. “_Somebody_ will.”
For some reason this observation appeared to strike him as extremely
humorous, for he gurgled and slapped his thigh several times.
“_Somebody’ll_ have to tell her, eh? Lard, think o’ that there Meston
a-going and getting hisself drarned! Insured for a tidy bit, too,
I’ll be bound. Eh, Sam?”

“He’s been dead some time. Three or four days at least,” said
Michael, looking up from his examination.

“Strikes me,” the landlord said reflectively, “as though he must just
’a’ walked off the tow-path into the river the minute he left the
inn, and got drowned. Hasn’t paid his bill, neither, I don’t mind
telling you.”

“Couldn’t ’a’ done that neither,” said the rubicund one, looking
along the flat line of the tow-path, “not unless he’d had _a drop
taken_. And _you’ve_ reason to know he never had, Sam.”

“That’s true. He wasn’t no good for trade, poor gentleman,” the
landlord said. “Nevertheless there he is, fallen in.”

“Fallen in!” said the other scornfully. “Where’s your knowledge of
yooman nature, Sam? Sooicide, that’s what it is. ’E done ’isself in,
along of ’is wife’s goings-on at the Grange. It’s God’s judgment on
the Scarlet Woman, that’s what it is.”

“Now, you shut up, Walter,” said the landlord. “It’s not decent,
going on that way, and his body hardly fished up yet. There’s plenty
of ways a man can fall into a river without being drunk. Lard, if
you was to live along this river same as I do, you wouldn’t need to
wonder the fool things folks can do, and they as sober as charches.
What do you say, sir? Did he fall in? Though I suppose it isn’t
hardly a medical point, so to speak?”

“It was sooicide,” Walter repeated obstinately. “Now, in the first
place, ’e was drarned. You grant me that, eh?” He waved his pipe at
the landlord to emphasise his argument.

“Oh, aye, I grant you that,” the latter replied.

“But that’s exactly what I don’t grant either of you,” Michael
interrupted. With one ear on the dialogue, he had been making a hasty
examination of the body. “He wasn’t drowned.”

Both his hearers gaped.

“Garn!” said Walter, indicating the corpse with his foot. “Tell me
_that_ ain’t drarned?”

Wason approached nearer the corpse and scratched his head. “I don’t
belong to London,” he said, “but I’ve seen drowned men, and I ain’t
often seen a drowneder.”

“Oh, he’s been in the water all right,” Michael said, “if that’s what
you mean. But----”

“What’s all this?” an educated voice interrupted in a sharp,
impatient tone; and a man on a bicycle shot down the tow-path, and
sprang on the barge, flinging the bicycle into the thistles. “What’s
all this? And what are you all doing here?”

“It’s Mr. Meston, doctor,” Wason volunteered. “He’s drowned--at
least----”

“Oh, is it?” Dr. Kershaw, if it was he, responded abruptly. “Well,
that’s as may be. But it doesn’t tell me who all these other people
are.”

“My name’s Prendergast,” said Michael. “I happened to be here when
the body was found, and I came on board to see if there was anything
to be done for him.” He produced his professional card, at which the
other barely glanced before thrusting it away into a pocket.

“Well, my name’s Kershaw,” he said, without reciprocating the
courtesy; “and this appears to be my business. I’m the police-surgeon
hereabouts; and the man’s obviously dead. So I don’t think I need
trouble you any longer, Dr. Prendergast.” He knelt down beside the
body, but immediately gave an irritated twitch of his shoulders, like
a man pestered with flies. “How the hell can I do my job, with half a
hundred of you crowding round? Keep back, will you?”

Michael stepped back obediently, but only a little way, for he was
very much interested in the result of Dr. Kershaw’s examination. The
latter felt the man over rapidly, with long, nervous fingers.

“Where’d you find him?” he asked Bill, who had never moved from his
seat.

“Up along thar,” Bill replied, taking his pipe from his mouth and
pointing vaguely up-stream. “Long of Malting House Wharf. Something
fouled t’ barges, an’ Jarge ’e said ’e seen a face looking up in
water, and I hooked ’un up wi’ boat-hook. Darn near broke my arm,
too,” said Bill in an injured tone.

“See, sir,” Jarge put in, “I was up forward, an’ first we hit summat,
and then I seen ’er in the water; and there wasn’t ’ardly any way on,
so we stopped a’most dead. And Bill could reach ’un, so I calls to
him to haul ’un in.”

“Near broke my arm, too,” Bill repeated sourly.

“Whew-w!” the landlord of the Old Malting House whistled. “Right
thar by my inn, did you? Why, it looks a’most as though he must have
fallen in clean out of his own windows. The water’s deep thar, sir,”
he said to the doctor, “and there’s nothing to climb out by.”

“It was sooicide,” said Walter firmly. “Threw ’isself out of window.
That’s my view, doctor.”

Dr. Kershaw looked round with increased irritation. “Nobody asked
your views, Hicks,” he said. “Here he is drowned. It’s the coroner’s
job to say how or why. You go and tell Linton to hurry up with that
stretcher.”

“Excuse me,” Michael, still rather sore at his summary dismissal,
interrupted, “but are you sure he was drowned?”

Kershaw swung round fiercely at him. “What! _another_ of you!” he
said. “This isn’t a public demonstration.”

“It looks to me,” Michael said, as mildly as he could manage, “as if
the cause of death was not drowning but a broken neck. You can see
his neck’s broken.”

The police doctor snorted. “Are you suggesting I don’t know my
business? Of course I can see his neck’s broken.”

“Broke it when he fell, likely,” said the landlord.

“Just so,” said the doctor.

“Do you mean he hit his head?” Michael asked. “Is there a blow? I
didn’t see----”

“I don’t know what there is or there isn’t, till I’ve had a proper
look at him,” Kershaw snapped. “And, in any case, I don’t conduct
examinations on the decks of barges. I do my work in the mortuary.
Oh, there you are at last, Linton,” he said to a police-sergeant who
had just appeared with two constables and a stretcher. “Get this body
to the mortuary at once, will you? They say it’s Mr. Meston’s. These
two men found it. I suppose you’ll make a note of where it was, and
how they found it, won’t you? And somebody ought to take a message
to Mrs. Meston up at the Grange. And you might clear this lot away.
We don’t want people hanging about. If you’ll get the body to the
mortuary quickly, I’ll have a look at it there. Oh, confound you, get
out of the road!” He had leaped ashore and picked up his bicycle as
he spoke, and the exclamation was directed to a crowd of sightseers,
who were endeavouring to push their way along the tow-path. Foremost
among them, Michael recognised the tout-like person whom he had last
seen at Mr. Brandreth’s gate.

“For God’s sake,” said Kershaw to one of the constables, “clear this
lot of gapers out!”

“Nah, then, get a move on, boys,” said the constable.

The tout-like person plucked at Kershaw’s sleeve. “Beg pardon,
doctor,” he said in a voice that admirably fitted his clothes, “but
did I understand you to say that was Mr. Meston’s body?”

“Why, do you know him?” Kershaw asked impatiently.

“No, but I’m very interested in his whereabouts,” the man replied,
“--for reasons.”

“Well, if you don’t know him you’re no use here,” Kershaw said. “It’s
none of my business to say who he was. I’m not the coroner. If you
want to know who he was you’d better attend the inquest. I expect
they’ll know his identity by then. Now, then, out of the way, all of
you. I’m in a hurry.” And with a final curse he succeeded in pushing
his bicycle through the crowd, and a moment later the bell was heard
furiously ringing as he crossed the bridge.

“It _is_ Mr. Meston, though, all right,” said Wason to the
discomfited inquirer. “You needn’t worry about that. It’s him.”

“Oh, indeed,” the man said, licking his lips. “And he’s dead, is he?
How did he come to die, might I ask?”

“Well, now, that’s a bit of a puzzler, seemingly,” Wason said,
beginning to assume a pontifical air. “You and me, seeing him come
out of the water like that, we’d say he was drowned and no mistaking.
But this gentleman,” indicating Michael, “he’s a doctor, and _he_
says he broke his neck. You’re quite sure he wasn’t drowned, aren’t
you, sir?” he added.

“Quite’s a big word,” said Michael; “and I didn’t get much of a look
at him. But I’m pretty sure it was the broken neck that killed him,
and I shall be surprised if Dr. Kershaw doesn’t say the same when
he’s finished his examination. But you needn’t spread this about,
you know,” he said rather sharply to the man in the bowler, who was
goggling at the information, “or you, Wason. I don’t want to find
myself involved in a row with Dr. Kershaw, and, judging from his
amiable manners, I should say he wouldn’t be slow in starting one.”

The landlord chuckled. “He’s a rough-tongued one, and no mistake.
There’s plenty about’ll say the same. I should think he’d a touch of
his liver this morning, though. I’ve not often seen him so sharp.”

“Sharp with me,” Michael muttered; “but not very sharp with the
corpse.”

“Oh, he’s no fool, Dr. Kershaw,” Wason assured him.




                             CHAPTER III


Pondering deeply (for he was very much annoyed) on Dr. Kershaw’s
manners or lack of manners, Michael followed the crowd towards the
inn, and was not at all soothed to find that he had apparently
attached to himself the man in the bowler, who followed at his elbow,
telling interminable stories of relations and friends of his who had
been cut off by violent deaths, interspersed with inquiries into the
habits of the late Mr. Meston.

“I know nothing at all about him, I tell you,” Michael said in
desperation. “I don’t suppose we’d exchanged a dozen words, all told.”

“But being in the same hotel, sir,” the man persisted, “you must
have formed a himpression, if I may say so. You could tell me if
the deceased seemed cheerful in his manner, you know, or restless,
perhaps. Any little thing that suggested to you what his mood was,
you know.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything,” Michael said untruthfully,
for the late Mr. Meston’s mood was of the kind which made itself
apparent without any intercourse whatever. But he disliked the
inquirer exceedingly, and was quite determined that if he nosed out a
newspaper story about the poor corpse, it should not be through him.
Fortunately, the end of his purgatory approached, for they reached
the inn door, and Michael, passing into the bar, plunged into a
hubbub of delighted conversation.

Wason, who held the floor, was retailing, for the fourth or fifth
time it would appear, his account of the finding of the body. Seeing
Michael enter, he broke off the narrative to give a brief description
of Michael’s views of Kershaw’s manners. There was a general roar of
laughter.

“Doctor, he thinks he’s Scotland Yard and God A’mighty too, these
days,” said one. “It’s all along o’ being so thick wi’ Squire.”

“Lard, he’s always as cross as two sticks,” another said. “I remember
when my missus had her last, he pretty near had us art of harse.”

“Must be gettin’ used to it, by this time, William,” was the answer,
provoking another general laugh.

“Aye, but did ye hear the trick a played on Joe Billings, Friday
night?” another reminded them. “Two hours they was settin’ up for
him, and a didn’t come----”

“Dancin’ at Squire’s, I’ll bet. They’d fine doin’s up thar, Friday
night.”--“Old Joe were hopping mad when a did come, but Karshaw, he
wouldn’t hear nothin’. Shut him up wi’ a flea in his mouth, a did.”

“Where be corpse now?” put in an ancient.

“Tommy Linton’s taken it along to mortuary. Us’ll get a look at it,
maybe. Tommy’s a kind soul.”

“Yes, I couldn’t get near ’un at the barge,” another complained.

“Ye didn’t miss much,” a newcomer said. “Doctor wouldn’t let us get
so much as a sniff of ’un.”

“Aye, he ought to be a fine niffy feller,” cackled the ancient.

“Whar’s corpse’s missus?” said a small wizened man. “She’ll ought to
be told.”

“Whar d’ye think, Matthew? Up to Grange, o’ course.”

“I’m thinkin’,” said the small man, looking round for applause,
“there’ll be one as’ll be main pleased carpse is found and the
drowneder the pleaseder, I’m thinking.”

There was a general snigger, in the midst of which Walter Hicks’s
mutter of “Scarlet Woman, I sez. And sooicide, that’s what I sez,”
went unheard.

A man dug Michael in the ribs. “He means Missis Meston,” he observed.
“It’s a known fact she couldn’t abide him.”

“There’s more’n that’d be pleased as Punch to know he’s drowned,” the
small man went on. “There’d be more than pigs run over in Meadon if
some had their way.”

“And that’s a fact,” the first speaker said truculently, as though he
expected to have it disputed.

“Pigs or no pigs,” said the little man, “I’ve them in mind as’ll be
sorry enough they wasn’t down by the riverside to-day.” He raised
his glass. “Here’s to absent friends, boys,” he said, with a wink.
There was another guffaw, after which the conversation descended
into such abysses of allusiveness that Michael gave up the attempt
to understand, and made his way out to the front of the inn, where
another crowd was discussing the calamity with as much interest but
less esoteric information. His last vision was of his bowler-hatted
acquaintance eagerly buttonholing the little man. “Pah! the stinker!”
thought Michael to himself. “He’s worse than Dr. Kershaw,” he angrily
added. At that moment a car drew up at the Old Malting House.

“Hullo, Michael!” a well-known voice called. “What’s the matter? You
look as though some one had stolen your savings.”

“Harry!” All Michael’s troubles slid from him as he turned to greet
his friend. “I thought you couldn’t be here till after lunch.”

“Nor ought I to have. What my respected colleagues will say of me I
can’t think. I’ve left half a dozen jobs for them to finish off. But
the weather tempted me, and I did come. What a populous neighbourhood
you seem to have chosen,” said Wilson, looking round. “Is it a
wedding, or an election?”

“Neither. It’s a bit more in your line,” said Michael. “It’s a
corpse.”




                              CHAPTER IV


“My dear Michael,” Wilson said, as they sat smoking in the
bar-parlour after tea, “if this is to be a busman’s holiday, I wish
you’d say so at once, and let me make off while there’s yet time.
First you inveigle me into an inn with a corpse on its doorstep, then
you repeat a lot of apparently malicious but wholly unintelligible
gossip, and, to crown it all, you seem determined to quarrel with the
local police-surgeon.”

“The man’s got the manners of a hog,” Michael said indignantly. “And
it looks to me as though his professional qualities were quite on
a par with his manners. He positively didn’t see the fellow’s neck
was broken, until I pointed it out! And then you’d have thought from
his tone I’d done him an injury instead of a service! These country
sawbones are a disgrace to the profession!”

At this point, Wilson, whose smile had been growing broader and
broader as Michael detailed his woes, chuckled outright. “This is
magnificently righteous indignation,” he said. “Or is it natural
irritation--and unsatisfied curiosity?”

“Well, nobody likes being talked to like that,” said Michael,
“especially when he’s in the right, and the man talking to him an
impudent ignoramus like Kershaw. And, of course, I wanted to have
the thing properly looked into. It’s an odd thing for a body to turn
up out of the river with a broken neck. Besides, what could he have
broken his neck on? The bottom’s all soft mud, hereabouts. And,
anyway, I’m not at all certain he broke his neck in a fall. There was
no sign of a contusion that I could see, and there must have been
if he’d hit something hard. But Kershaw was indignant at my even
suggesting he’d broken his neck.”

“Or annoyed at your indiscretion, perhaps?” his companion suggested.
“I suggest that he wanted to keep that tit-bit for the inquest. You
know--‘Is it your view that death was caused by drowning, doctor?’
‘No, sir, the man’s neck was broken!’ Sensation in Court. You
mustn’t grudge your country brother his little bit of publicity.
And seriously, I gather that Dr. Kershaw represents my profession
as well as yours; and mine, as you know, doesn’t believe in giving
the general public too much indiscriminate information. You were
indiscreet, Michael.” He smiled; but Michael was still in a blaze of
wrath.

“I wasn’t,” he said indignantly. “I didn’t call attention to anything
that any fool couldn’t have seen with half an eye. And, anyway, no
London police-surgeon would treat a colleague like that, I hope.”

“Alack! alack!” Wilson sighed. “How little you townsmen have to
know of the vanity and self-sufficiency of the provincial! Would
I could set up my plate in Baker Street, and never see a county
police-station again! All right, Michael, I was only pulling your
leg. I deeply sympathise. Let us agree that Dr. Kershaw is a cad and
a fool, and ought to be struck off the register. And now, that being
settled, will you tell me, really, why this body interests you?”

“You old hypocrite, you know perfectly well why it interests me and
why you are asking me all these questions about it. This fellow,
Meston, has got a broken neck. To the best of my belief, he didn’t
get it by falling in the river, but somehow on land. Well, _how_?
That’s what I want to know.”

“But, Michael, you can’t be sure. You may _think_ the bottom’s all
mud, but there may be a dozen snags half buried that you can’t see.
And you’re not a diver. You can’t possibly have examined the river
bottom for several hundreds of yards. For, of course, you don’t know
exactly where he fell in.”

“All the same,” Michael said obstinately, “he couldn’t have broken
his neck without hitting his head pretty hard on something. And if he
hit it there’d have been a cut or a bruise. And I couldn’t see one.”

“Even if you couldn’t, it doesn’t prove there wasn’t one. Unless
you’re certain? _Are_ you?”

“We-ell. Of course it all depends what you mean by certain. If that
Jack-in-office had let me make a proper examination I’d have been
absolutely certain. As it is, I’m pretty sure there wasn’t; but I
didn’t grasp what a puzzle it made until it was too late to get
another look at him. Damn the man!” said Michael, with a fresh access
of feeling.

“Well, well, never mind. It’s hard luck, I agree. But probably if you
go to the inquest, you’ll find it’s all clear. I expect there will
turn out to have been a contusion somewhere--probably hidden under
the hair. Water plays strange tricks with dead bodies. Anyway, I
suggest, now you’ve got it off your chest, that you put the whole
thing out of your mind for a bit. If there’s really anything wrong,
we shan’t get any forrarder without some more information. And this
evening’s really too lovely to waste. Hullo! who drives a racing
Talbot hereabouts?”

Looking out, Michael caught a glimpse of the lean scarlet car which
had crossed the bridge earlier in the day, and a flash of its owner’s
million-dollar profile.

“Wallace Burden,” he said. “He’ll be running over more pigs if he
isn’t careful. Oh!” Part of the cryptic conversation in the bar had
suddenly taken on a meaning to him.

“Who was that with him?” Wilson asked, without noticing the
exclamation.

“I didn’t see. You must have eyes like a hawk. Male or female?”

“Female. And a very good choice, I should say, as far as looks are
concerned.”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Meston, maybe--or the Scarlet Woman, which seems
to be her pet name in these parts.” Michael retailed a little more
gossip.

“I didn’t know you were such a scandal-monger, Michael,” Wilson said,
with amusement. “Can’t the poor lady, if it is she, come to look at
her husband’s remains without you goggling at her? Hullo! hullo! This
looks more like business.”

“What? I don’t see anything.”

Wilson pointed at a florid gentleman, of military appearance and
military step, who was striding towards them down the High Street.

“County Police, or I’m a Dutchman. And he appears to be coming here.”

“I hope he’s got more sense than his medical officer,” Michael
grumbled, as the military gentleman disappeared. A moment later a
maid-servant knocked at the door, with a card in an envelope, and a
message that the owner desired a few minutes’ conversation with Dr.
Prendergast. Michael held the card out to Wilson. It bore the name of
Colonel Lockwood.

“Chief of the County Police,” Wilson said. “They’re on your trail,
Michael. Will you see him here?”




                              CHAPTER V


“What about you?” Michael asked.

“To the best of my belief Colonel Lockwood doesn’t know me,” Wilson
replied, “though I’ve seen him once or twice. I think I’ll stay
and risk it. I’d rather like to see you arrested for suspicious
behaviour. But be careful you don’t give me away.”

Accordingly, a minute later the same maid ushered in the military
figure they had seen in the street. At closer quarters it looked even
more military, with a brick-red face, a bristling yellow moustache,
and a beaked nose; all belied, however, by a pair of very mild, very
worried blue eyes which surmounted it.

“Dr. Prendergast?” he inquired in his best parade growl, and looked
uneasily at Wilson.

“This is my friend, Mr. Wilson,” Michael explained. “He’s just come
down to join us. Have you any objection to his remaining?”

The Colonel looked as if he were searching Army Orders for the
correct procedure, and failing to find it. Finally, with a grunt, he
decided to let it pass.

“Provided he knows how to hold his tongue,” he said. “The business
I’ve come on is private, doctor.”

“Quite,” said Wilson. “I assure you I can keep my mouth shut.”

“That’s all right, then. Well, Dr. Prendergast, I won’t waste your
time. I understand that you were present this morning when a body was
taken out of the river?”

“Yes--Mr. Meston’s body,” Michael said. The Colonel frowned as if he
very much disliked the fact.

“And you examined it before the police-surgeon arrived?”

“I did,” said Michael; “but not thoroughly. And your man didn’t
appear to desire my assistance afterwards.”

“Oh, you mustn’t mind that,” said the Colonel. “Kershaw likes to do
his work himself. It’s only his way.”

“It’s a very unpleasant way,” said Michael.

“Well, we can’t help that. Now, what I wanted to ask you was--Did you
form any idea as to the cause of death?”

“The man had a broken neck, and I should say he died of it. The
condition is frequently fatal.”

“You don’t think he died of drowning?”

“No. As far as I could see, I’m certain he didn’t.”

“Yes. So far you’re in complete agreement with Dr. Kershaw. You agree
that he must have hit something with his head as he fell into the
river, which broke his neck?”

“That, it seems to me, would have produced the mark of a blow or cut
of some kind on his head. And I couldn’t see any.”

“Pardon me, doctor, but you’re wrong there. There’s a very distinct
mark--under his hair. I’ve just seen it. He must have hit his head a
tremendous crack.”

Michael caught Wilson’s eye, and thought it looked derisive. He
became suddenly angry and positive. “That’s impossible,” he said.

“Impossible! My dear doctor, what do you mean? I tell you I’ve seen
it. You admit you only made a perfunctory examination. You must have
overlooked it.”

“I may have overlooked a slight mark,” Michael said, “because, as I
told you, I was given no opportunity of making a proper examination.
But I couldn’t possibly have overlooked a serious one, of course!”

“Well, but as Colonel Lockwood has seen it, it’s presumably there,”
Wilson interrupted; and at the sound of his voice the other two, who
had begun to glare at each other, sank down into their chairs. “What
exactly is the point, Colonel?”

“Slight or serious, it’s there,” the Colonel repeated. “However, the
point is--how long should you say the body had been in the water?”

“Several days--three or four at least. It couldn’t have been more
than five, for the man was walking about here five days ago.”

“Precisely. Dr. Kershaw says the same. So we may take it that he
probably fell or jumped into the river. Is there anything, in your
view, to show whether it was accident or suicide?”

“That’s hardly a medical question, you know. There is obviously
nothing to show.”

“You mean the medical evidence is consistent with either?”

“Accepting the mark, and the presence of some object in the river
hard enough to break his neck--yes.”

The Colonel gave a sigh of relief. “That’s all right, then,” he said.
“I’ve had to ask these questions, doctor, because there are a lot
of local gossips here, and they will have it that you cast doubt
on Doctor Kershaw’s conclusions. I suppose I may take it that you
didn’t.”

“I would rather,” Michael answered, a trifle stiffly, “retrain from
committing myself to any conclusions at all. I prefer to stick to
facts.”

“So do we all, I hope. As to the facts, then, you agree?”

“I would rather not venture a definite opinion.”

The Colonel sighed. “At any rate you agree with Doctor Kershaw that
the man died of a broken neck?”

“I agree that that appears to have been the cause of death----”

“Then it seems to me that’s all right. There’s no disagreement on the
vital question.”

“--_but_,” persisted Michael, who was not going to be baulked of his
grievance, “I’d really rather not say anything, without having a
further look at the body.”

“Oh, surely--I hardly think that’s necessary.” The Colonel’s
determination to let sleeping dogs lie was so obvious that
Michael’s protest died away. He was well aware that he had no right
to intervene in the matter; but he was so cross that he might
easily have persisted had Wilson given him the least shadow of
encouragement. But Wilson sat perfectly silent, with a faint smile
on his face; and, after trying several more hints, all of which the
Colonel politely ignored, Michael allowed the interview to come to an
end, and scowled his visitor out of the room. This done, he turned
furiously on Wilson.

“You might have helped me out instead of sitting there grinning like
a Cheshire cat! Is this whole damned place in a conspiracy? First the
doctor, and now this Chief Constable fellow!”

Wilson’s smile broadened. “Don’t you know innocence when you see it,
Michael? There never was any one with less guile than Lockwood. It’s
quite natural he shouldn’t want you butting in and questioning his
expert medical evidence.”

“If that’s so, why wouldn’t he let me have another look at the body?”

“Because, for all practical purposes, it isn’t his body; it’s
Kershaw’s. And you’ve upset Kershaw, and he’s told the Colonel you’re
a meddlesome outsider--which you are, you know, from his point of
view.”

“_Why_,” Michael said, “are you so keen on my letting the thing
alone? It’s not like you. If there’s something wrong--and I’m certain
there is--isn’t it everybody’s concern?”

“_If_ there is,” said Wilson. “But the hardened professional is
perhaps less anxious to find crimes than the amateur. Not everything
is criminal that is a little odd, you know. And, if there has been
any foul play--which I gather is what you are suggesting--shouldn’t
we be better advised at the present moment to hold our tongues
instead of making a shout of it?”

Michael coloured and bit his lip at the rebuke, and to cover his
discomfiture went to look out of the window. What he saw there,
however, appeared to please him very little, for he turned back into
the room with an exclamation of disgust.

“What’s the matter?” Wilson asked. “Kershaw?”

“No. That little bounder,” Michael said, “hanging around still. Look!”

“What a lot of enemies you seem to have made,” Wilson commented
mildly; but he went to the window obediently, and gazed out
on Michael’s acquaintance in the bowler hat, who was having a
semi-confidential conversation with the postman.

“Not an attractive creature, certainly,” he said. “But what has he
done to you?”

“Only hung about all day, and tried to pump me--greasy little tyke!”
said Michael. “Not to mention everybody else. What is he, Harry? A
tout, or a reporter? Not a reporter, I hope.”

“I don’t think so,” Wilson said. “He looks to me, I regret to say,
rather more like an outside broker in my line. He has the air of
private inquiry agent--and not a very nice specimen of the breed. I
wonder what cause there is for private inquiries into the late Mr.
Meston? He’s buttonholed somebody else now--rather a nice-looking
young fellow.”

Michael looked over his shoulder. “Why, it’s _Warden_!” he exclaimed.
“I didn’t know he was back. I’ll bring him in, shall I?” And in a
moment he was gone.

“Oh, impetuosity!” Wilson murmured to himself. “I’m afraid you may
get another setback.”




                              CHAPTER VI


It was, in fact, only a few minutes before Michael was back again,
looking distinctly glum. Out of pity, Wilson forbore to ask the
reason; had he done so, he would have found that Michael had once
again been dismissed with something less than cordiality. Mark
Warden, though his face, which looked unusually careworn, had
brightened up at Michael’s coming, had made it quite plain, after
the first greeting, that his conversation with the supposed inquiry
agent (now introduced as Strake) did not require a third; and Michael
was in no mood to hang about while his friend conducted private
conversations with “dirty little Paul Prys.” Accordingly, he returned
to the inn, feeling that the world was in a conspiracy to humiliate
and annoy him, and was so sulky during the evening that even Wilson,
equable as his own temper was, was beginning to wish that the late
Mr. Meston had stayed at the bottom of the river, when about nine
o’clock there was a sound of hurried feet on the stairs, a bang on
the door, and Mark Warden, pale and worried, rushed into the room.

“Oh, good! you’re there,” he exclaimed. “I say, Michael, I’m
frightfully sorry about that chap, but, you see--oh!----” he broke
off on seeing Wilson. “I’m sorry.”

“My friend, Wilson,” said Michael, introducing them. “Mark Warden.”

Wilson offered to leave, as the young man had clearly some trouble
on his mind; but Michael was anxious for him to stay, and after
a little beating about the bush, it was decided that he should.
Drinks were ordered, and they settled themselves comfortably, Wilson
meanwhile observing the young man with some care.

There was nothing apparent to distinguish Mark Warden from any other
pleasant, moderately idle young fellow of twenty-six or seven. He was
good-looking, in a way, but with the comeliness of youth and health
rather than any special distinction; he was above middle height, with
movements and a carriage which suggested that his body was probably
more specifically handsome than his face; and though that face at
present looked worried and worn, it was no more so than the faces of
many young creatures Wilson had known, when first they discovered
that life does not strictly correspond to the l.b.w. rule.

“I’m _frightfully_ sorry,” he said very earnestly, “to have been
talking to that awful bounder. Really, I couldn’t help it, though.
You see, he was put on by Hanborough to look into this business. Of
course, I thought Hanborough’d know what’d be best, and I didn’t ask
any questions--and then he stopped me in the street, of all places,
and began talking about it----”

“About _what_?” Michael interrupted. “About Meston’s death?”

“Yes, though God knows what business it was of his. He began feeding
me up with a frightful lot of scandal. Come to think of it, _your_
name got in somehow, Michael--about mysteries about Mr. Meston’s
death, and quarrels with his wife--disgusting sort of rubbish! Of
course, I pretty soon told him _that_ wasn’t what Mr. Hanborough’d
asked him to look into----”

“But what _had_ he been asked to look into?” Michael tried again.

“Why, the accounts. That’s just what I’ve come to ask you about--to
know what the blazes you think I ought to do. It’s frightfully
awkward for me, you see, anyway, and now Meston turning up drowned
fairly puts the lid on it.”

“Puts the lid on _what_?” Michael said impatiently. “What in thunder
are you talking about?”

“Perhaps if Mr. Warden started from the beginning,” Wilson suggested.
“He forgets you and I are strangers to the place.”

“You may be strangers,” Warden said bitterly, “but if you haven’t had
all the gossip four times over at least, you’ve very lucky strangers.
I never knew such a hornets’ nest as this. But I’m sorry I’m making
a muddle--I don’t know what to think or what to do. I’ll start again
properly.” He helped himself to a stiff drink, and pushed the hair
back from his forehead.

“_You_ know,”--to Michael, who nodded--“Dad put me in to learn the
business five years ago; and Christmas two years, when he had his
stroke, he got me made junior partner. Dad was senior partner of
Warden, Hanborough and Meston”--he added to Wilson--“of Colchester.
He built up the firm practically himself, and he did nearly
everything, and so, of course, with two other partners, there was
precious little for me to do; and, anyway, he was just as pleased I
should play cricket and be a kind of county ornament as do anything
else. I mean, I could be a sort of decoy duck for clients, don’t you
see, even if I didn’t do any work. Well, after I properly came into
the firm, this went on for some time; Hanborough and Meston between
them knew the whole show inside out, and I didn’t see why I should
bother. Then, you remember, I had that smash at the end of last
season, when you picked me up; and our old sawbones thinks I must
have managed to strain my guts, somehow, at the same time. Anyhow,
I had a horrid pain inside me for a bit; and what with that and my
knee, I didn’t feel much like playing games. So I took to going
regularly to business, though I don’t fancy anybody particularly
wanted me there, teaching somebody else their job--however, I thought
I really ought to.

“But this is the devil of it--I hadn’t been going there regularly for
very long before I began to see that something was wrong with the
money side. It wasn’t any credit to me that I did; the greenest mug
could have seen it with half an eye if he’d happened to come across
it the way I did. I don’t mean to bother you with details--the long
and short of it was that the funds weren’t where they should be;
they were in oil-shares and that sort of stuff, and some, I believe,
weren’t there at all.

“Well, I began to sweat with fright, because if some of our big
people had called us to pay up, we should have been in the soup--and
it would have been as much my fault as any one’s. I would have asked
Dad; but he can’t talk even, much less look after business. So I
went to Hanborough at last, and consulted him. That was this spring.
Hanborough wouldn’t listen for some time. He practically told me
I was an idiot, who didn’t know the difference between one kind of
share and another, but at last I convinced him that it wasn’t only a
question of shares, but of money actually missing. With that I got
him down to the office and made him go into it thoroughly.

“Then he got into an awful stew, and declared we must go very
carefully. You see, we neither of us knew who’d been monkeying with
the business; and, as Hanborough said, if a whisper got out, somebody
would be sure to try and withdraw their money, and then it would be
all U.P. We talked a long time about what was to be done, and at last
I persuaded Hanborough to put on a private detective to investigate
and see what was going on. Meanwhile, he said, he and I would keep a
personal look-out into everything that was going on in the office,
and stop any more hanky-panky. And he particularly urged me to say
nothing about our feelings to Meston----”

“Why not to Meston?” Wilson asked. “Wasn’t he concerned?”

“Well, I suppose you can guess why not, _now_, as I can,” young
Warden said ruefully. “But it never occurred to me at the time.
Hanborough only said that in cases like this it was as well for
as few people as possible to know what was in the wind, and that
as Meston had to be in the office a lot--he was the partner who
generally saw people--it was just as well that he should be quite
innocent. Also, he said, Meston had only been a clerk in the firm,
and wouldn’t feel a thing like this as he or I should. I know it
sounds as if I ought to have seen what he was driving at; but at
the time I was so muddled that I couldn’t think of anything but that
_we_ must find out what was happening and nobody else must know.
Hanborough got hold of this fellow Strake--though, as I say, I hadn’t
a ghost of a notion what he was like--and sent me reports every now
and then to say how things were going on. Then this afternoon they
rang up from Hellier to let me know Meston had been found drowned.
I couldn’t get hold of Hanborough, so I came down myself at once to
see what had happened. And _this_ is what I find--and that little
beast of a Strake nosing round into it. He had the impudence to wave
an expense account in my face, too! How Hanborough could ever have
brought himself to employ such a fellow, I can’t think.”

“Spying isn’t a nice trade, you know,” Wilson pointed out to him.
“You can’t always expect to employ a spy whom you’d like to ask to
dinner. But what’s the position now? I gather from what you say that
you think Meston may have been the villain of the piece?”

“Well, they say here he committed suicide,” Warden said. “Why, they
say you said so, Michael.”

“I never said anything of the kind!” Michael contradicted him
indignantly. “I never even got a chance----” Nor did he then, for
Warden interrupted.

“Well, if you didn’t, _somebody_ said he did. But what the hell ought
I to do? It’ll have to come out now; and Hanborough’s away.”

“Gently!” said Wilson. “Aren’t you going a bit fast? You don’t seem
to me to have much proof that Meston embezzled your funds.”

“Well, I don’t know what Strake’s got,” Warden said. “But, if he
killed himself, it looks----”

“Yes, I know; but we can hardly assume that, at any rate, until the
inquest’s been held. What do you suppose he did with the funds, if he
did take them?”

“_I_ don’t know. Salted ’em down, perhaps. Or lost ’em.”

“Had he expensive tastes, I mean? Did he bet, or speculate? Might he
have lost the money?”

“I don’t know. Outside of the office, I hardly knew him.”

“He certainly didn’t _sound_ like a successful embezzler, when he was
here,” Michael put in. “If he did embezzle funds, I should say he’d
certainly lost them all. I never saw such a gloomy fellow.”

“Oh, that’ll be his wife, poor devil,” Warden said. “She made him
feel like that.”

“Is she the lady who’s supposed to be rejoicing at his death?”
Michael asked.

“Well, they didn’t get on at all, if that’s what you mean. In
fact, she’d just run away from him, and he’d taken leave from the
office--really, I suppose, to go and get her back, though he didn’t
say so.”

“Why did he come here, then?”

“Because she was at the Lorings’, of course,” said Warden, who seemed
to imagine that all his hearers were as familiar with the current
gossip as he was himself. “They’re her cousins, you know; and she
always goes there when she can.”

“Did he get her back?”

“Not on your life,” Warden said, with decision. “But what’s it got to
do----Oh, I see! You mean he might have killed himself for that!”

“Well, it’s a possibility.”

“Without having pinched any of our cash? I see. Well, I’m sure I hope
he did,” Warden said, with a deep disregard of any one’s feelings but
his own. “But tell me, d’you think there’s anything I can do?”

“Not much, I should say,” said Wilson, “at least, until the inquest,
when it may be known how he died, and when his papers will have been
examined.”

“But that’s just what I don’t want!” Warden cried. “Don’t you see,
Mr. Wilson, if police officials get hold of his papers, and a whole
lot of things come out, then the firm will bust. I’m absolutely
certain we couldn’t meet our commitments, if even two or three people
wanted their money. And--you see, it isn’t only looking like a fool,
it’s my family. All our money, practically, except my mother’s,
was--is--in the business; and I’ve two sisters. It would mean selling
the house and turning Dad out, and--it would be my fault, you see.”

“Well, it may not have been Meston,” said Michael, pitying his
distress but not seeing any way of dealing with it.

“But I _must_ know! Whether it is or it isn’t, I must get at what
happened! Really, I can’t stand going on like this--and everybody
at home thinking it’s all very nice, only why can’t dear Mark be
a little pleasanter? You know,” said the athlete ingenuously, “I
used to think it was all bunkum about worry making you lose your
appetite. But half a dozen times lately I’ve really felt so rotten
with bothering about this, I haven’t wanted to touch anything. Only,
of course, I had to, or they’d have wondered what on earth was
happening. Oh yes, of course you’ll laugh at me,”--and Michael had
striven so hard to restrain his smiles--“but it’s not a joke, even
if I _am_ a fool. Look here, Michael, that’s what I really came to
ask. You know that friend of yours who’s at Scotland Yard--what’s
his name? Well, couldn’t you get him to come and find out what’s
happened? I mean, I can’t stand not knowing, and I can’t stand that
fellow of Hanborough’s. Of course”--to Wilson--“I know what you mean,
that a spy isn’t a gentleman; but a policeman at Scotland Yard’s
not likely to be so bad as a little tuppenny-ha’penny chap from
Walthamstow, is he? You know what I mean.”

They did, indeed: so well that they could scarcely keep their faces
while Michael carefully explained that Scotland Yard is not for
casual use by any and every private citizen in any case of suspicion.
Warden’s face fell, but brightened again when Michael offered to put
his troubles privately before the great man and see what he thought.
“And I’ll sack that little perisher,” he said. “He’ll make me sick if
he hangs about much longer.”

“I don’t know that I should be in a hurry,” Wilson advised. “It may
be better for him to be bringing his gossip to you than scattering it
broadcast. Besides, isn’t Mr. Hanborough concerned?”

“Yes, damn it. I’d forgotten him. I wish to hell he’d come back.
Well, thanks awfully, both of you. You’ve made me feel a lot better.
Now I must be going, or they’ll wonder what’s up. I expect I’ll be
round again some time, if I’m not bothering. And you will ask Wilson,
won’t you? So long.” And he took himself off, leaving Michael in fits
of laughter on the couch.

“Unfeeling fellow,” Wilson said.

“Well, he is rather an outsize in geese,” Michael protested.

“You’ve no real appreciation of youth and innocence, Michael. If
you’d been as much in contact with their opposites as I have, you’d
regard your friend as a spring of water in a thirsty land. Oh, laugh
if you like. I’m delighted to find you brightening up a little. Only
don’t break the ornaments.” He stooped to pick up a photograph which
Michael had knocked to the floor.

“Friend of yours?” the latter asked, glancing at it.

“Not that I know of. From that scrawl in the corner, one would judge
it to be Mrs. Meston. It’s a striking face, isn’t it? Would you
commit suicide if that face had left you, Michael?”

“I shouldn’t have married it in the first place,” Michael said. He
was a bachelor.




                             CHAPTER VII


All the same, Michael was not happy. As soon as the immediate
amusement of Warden’s naïveté had worn off, his mind returned to
its troubles, to his annoyance with the corpse, the neighbours, Mr.
Strake, and Dr. Kershaw. Warden’s story might well throw light on
Meston’s end; for Michael could not deny that he had looked very much
as though he might be contemplating suicide--but, if he had, that
did not explain why he should deliver a blow on his own head and
conceal it so carefully that Michael could not see it. “Damn! Why
can’t I see him again?” grumbled Michael, turning his pillow. And if
he had embezzled trust moneys, what had he done with them? He did not
look like a man in funds, or a man with luxurious tastes. Spent them
on his wife, most likely, thought Michael spitefully, while _she_
was driving about in a scarlet car with cinema heroes. And, as he
gradually slid off into an uneasy sleep, he saw Mrs. Meston leaning
over the running-board of the Talbot to strike at the submerged face
of her husband with what appeared to be Mr. Strake’s billycock.

He woke as early and unrefreshed as one commonly does after such
slumber, and thought he would drive away his headache by taking a
walk before breakfast. It was as glorious a morning as the previous
one, and he made an endeavour to get Wilson to accompany him. But
a visit to his friend’s bedroom only produced a sleepy request to
go away and be damned; and he set out alone. He took no particular
direction, but soon found that his legs had led him down the street
of old houses where Mr. Brandreth lived. And there in the garden,
as on the previous morning, was Mr. Brandreth himself, syringing a
rosebush with soap and water.

“The very man I wanted to see,” Mr. Brandreth hailed him. “I’m an
early bird myself, but I didn’t expect to see you about so soon.
Where’s your friend?”

“My friend?” Michael gasped.

“Bless my soul,” Mr. Brandreth chuckled, “you didn’t think anything
so important as a new guest’s arrival would pass without notice
in Steeple Tollesbury, did you? Besides, as it happens, I saw him
myself, when you were taking the air together yesterday evening.
Between ourselves, doctor, is he here merely for a holiday?”

“What do you mean?” said Michael.

“Oh, only idle curiosity. You know, I’m pretty certain I’ve seen your
friend before.” Mr. Brandreth lowered the syringe, and directed a
wink straight at Michael. “And I’d almost be prepared to bet that I
know where. At the Central Criminal Court, eh? Yes, I see I’m right.”

“Well, if you are, what of it?” said Michael sourly, annoyed at
having so transparent a countenance. “My friend is here on a holiday,
incognito. He won’t be particularly grateful to any one who spreads
rumours abroad about his identity.”

“Oh, quite so, of course,” Mr. Brandreth agreed. “Don’t think I’ve
been talking, doctor. I haven’t said an indiscreet word, and won’t,
if you tell me not to. But, as I say, I happened to recognise him;
and, having my fair share of natural curiosity, it occurred to me to
wonder if he was here on--this business.”

“What, _Meston_?” Michael gave a jump in spite of himself. “Why--why
should he be?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know, of course,” Brandreth said. “People have
been saying all sorts of things--I rather gathered that some of them
came from you, by the way--and when I saw your Mr. Wilson walking
down the High Street so opportunely, I naturally wondered if he were
concerned in it. Between you and me and the gate-post, I rather hoped
he was.”

“Well, he isn’t,” said Michael shortly. “He’s on holiday.” Then, his
natural curiosity getting the better of him, he asked, “Why did you
hope he was?”

“Well--I think things aren’t always what they seem, you know. Don’t
you? It looks to me a bit fishy altogether,” said Brandreth.

“You mean--you don’t think his death was all right?” Michael asked
excitedly.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t. I look at it this way. Here’s a man
fallen in the river--yes, I know he broke his neck on the way, but
that only makes it odder. Now, I put it to you--Is there anywhere a
man would be likely to fall into the Toll, unless he was blind drunk?
And that Meston never was. I’ve never seen him take a drop more than
was good for him--and often not half as much as would have been good
for him, if you take my meaning. And I’m not to believe he fell into
that river, not if he were to tell me so himself. The tap-room, I
gather, says suicide. Well, that’s all very well; but a man doesn’t
develop suicidal tendencies in ten minutes, and I’ve known Meston a
good long time, and any one less likely to commit suicide I’ve seldom
seen. Too struck with his own virtues, by a long way. Well, how did
he get into that river?”

“Are you trying to tell me he was murdered?” Michael said. “Who would
have murdered him?”

“Softly! I didn’t say murdered. Nothing of the sort. I only said he
didn’t get there unassisted. And I’m naming no names, for obvious
reasons. What I wondered was, whether your Superintendent Wilson was
thinking of looking into the thing.”

“He’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Of course, I take your word,” Brandreth said doubtfully. “But, all
the same, why shouldn’t he--quietly, you know? I’m sure you agree
with me that the thing ought to be cleared up.”

“I don’t see quite how you come into it,” Michael said.

“Oh, well, I do, in a way. You see, I’m Mrs. Meston’s lawyer--it’s
one of the few bits of business I still keep on with. And you can
quite understand that she’ll be anxious to find out how her husband
died; and if it is anything but accident, you can also understand,
unless you’re too proud to listen to gossip, that it may be a bit
awkward for her.”

“If there’s any truth in the gossip,” said Michael spitefully, “I
should have thought she’d better lie low.”

“Well, I’m her lawyer, you see. I’m taking the line that there
isn’t. But I’m also taking the line that it ought to be cleared
up. And, as a matter of fact, though I’m speaking at the moment in
a non-professional capacity, I don’t mind telling you that Mrs.
Meston agrees with me. She came to see me yesterday evening, and was
particularly urgent that it should be cleared up. So, you see, I
thought your Mr. Wilson----”

“He’s not in it,” said Michael. “Anyway, he couldn’t come in unless
he was asked by the local people. And your Chief Constable didn’t
seem likely to ask him.”

“Oh, Lockwood! Of course, Lockwood doesn’t want a fuss of any
kind. You see, if there’s any trouble, all the people likely to be
involved--the Loring lot, Nicholas Hanborough”--Michael hoped he had
suppressed his start this time--“and so on, are personal friends of
his. And Lockwood’s a very decent chap, the last man in the world who
ought to be a policeman, if you’ll excuse me saying so. You aren’t in
that line yourself, by the way, are you? No, I thought not. So much
the better for Kershaw”--Michael gasped again. “Well, naturally, what
Lockwood wants is to get the fellow buried quickly and quietly, and
no questions asked. But, personally, I don’t feel satisfied. That’s
why I wanted to see you, in case your friend had any views. I thought
of calling on him after breakfast. It’s all the better, in a way, if
he really isn’t officially committed.”

“You couldn’t retain him, you know. He’s not a private inquiry
agent,” said Michael, a recollection of Mr. Strake adding venom to
his disclaimer. Was Brandreth, he wondered, thinking of running
Wilson and Strake in harness? “And, anyway, he’s come down for a
holiday. He needs one badly.”

“And doesn’t appreciate the busman’s kind, eh? All the same, I’d be
obliged if you’d mention what I’ve told you to him. It can’t do any
harm, and he might feel interested, you know.”

“I don’t think so,” said Michael. “But I’ll tell him, if you like.”

“Thanks, I should. And, look here, I’m on the ’phone. If you _do_
find he’s interested, I shall be at home all morning, and a call will
bring me at any time. Good luck, doctor. By the way, if there’s a
fuss, your friend’s fiancée may be involved too, you know.”

“But he’s married!”

“I beg your pardon. I meant young Warden. You knew he was engaged to
Edna Loring, the Squire’s sister, didn’t you? Oh, I thought you’d
have heard. He’s going through a thin time now, isn’t he, poor lad?
Well, I hope to hear from you.”

Michael passed the old lawyer’s request to Wilson, with an
all-but-expressed prayer that the latter should decline to consider
it. He had an uneasy feeling that Brandreth knew too much by half;
and in spite of his last night’s strictures on Warden, he was fond
enough of the young man not to wish him to be ruined by casual talk
about his affairs. And, anyway, why should Brandreth suppose that
Wilson had come down officially to investigate a case when there
wasn’t a case to be investigated? For Scotland Yard could hardly
have been called in on the question of embezzlement--unless, indeed,
Warden were lying with a skill utterly foreign to his character; and,
as to the death, Wilson must have started before even the body was
found. Mr. Brandreth, Michael thought, was altogether too much of a
gossip; and he was surprised and disappointed when Wilson, having
heard a report of the conversation, said, “I think we’ll have him
round. You’d better ’phone up.”

“But--surely you can’t take it up without Colonel Lockwood’s consent?”

“Of course I can’t,” said Wilson, a trifle impatiently. “But that
doesn’t prevent me having a look round into interesting features--in
fact, it rather eases it by setting me free. And Mr. Brandreth,
if you’ve reported him correctly, sounds a distinctly interesting
feature. I think I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

Michael accordingly telephoned Dunster House, where Brandreth lived;
and a cheerful voice, in which he thought he detected a faint ring of
triumph, assured him that its owner would be with them immediately
after breakfast.




                             CHAPTER VIII


Wilson looked up with interest as the lawyer was ushered in. He saw a
tubby, fresh-faced little man, with a short grey moustache, and grey
hair which bristled up on his head, a beaming smile, a brisk manner,
a pugnacious chin, and a pair of very alert, deep-set grey eyes.
His appearance agreed very well with his character as derived from
a gossip with Sam Wason, who had said that Mr. Brandreth was a deep
one, a holy terror when he liked, and as sharp as a needle.

“Is he only a gossiping little busybody, or has he a game of his
own?” Wilson wondered. “Probably to let him talk is the best way of
finding out.” Accordingly, he opened straight to the point.

“I understand from Dr. Prendergast that you wanted to see me, Mr.
Brandreth,” he said. “I hope you quite realise that I have no _locus
standi_ in this matter. I am simply here on a holiday, and the local
people have not consulted me in any way. As far as I can judge, they
do not think there is anything to consult about. Exactly what use I
can be to you under the circumstances I don’t quite see; but I am at
your service, if that is understood.”

“Oh, quite,” said Mr. Brandreth, with polite scepticism. “I am only
seeking advice, unprofessionally, as I told Dr. Prendergast.”

“And the advice is----?”

“I want to know what you think happened to William Meston.”

“Dr. Prendergast mentioned Mrs. Meston. Are you acting for her?”

“Not definitely. I had a talk with her yesterday, and she is anxious
to have the matter cleared up. But I’ve no definite instructions.”

“Why does she want it cleared up?”

“Well, it’s natural, isn’t it?” Brandreth said innocently. “Besides,
I thought I explained to the doctor that, if his death was anything
but an accident, there’s likely to be a good deal of unpleasant talk,
and I’d rather that was dealt with quickly, for her sake.”

“So I gathered,” Wilson said somewhat dryly. “I haven’t been here
twenty-four hours yet; but I’ve heard talk enough to fill an American
Sunday paper. Perhaps, Mr. Brandreth, you would be good enough to
sift it for me. What exactly is the truth about Mrs. Meston and her
husband?”

“Well,” Mr. Brandreth settled himself in comfortable anticipation,
and took out an old cherrywood pipe, “the first thing is, that they
didn’t get on at all. That’s common knowledge--in fact, at the time
when he died she’d actually run away from him, and was staying at the
Grange.”

“Why at the Grange?”

“Oh, it was the natural place for her to go to. She’s a sort of
cousin of the Lorings--Sylvia Liddell was her maiden name--and
she’s been in and out of there ever since she could walk. Godfrey
Loring--the Squire--regards himself almost as her guardian, I
believe.”

“And so she’d left her husband. With any particular purpose?”

“Divorce, you mean? No; Meston wouldn’t divorce her. And she couldn’t
divorce him.”

“But he could.”

“Oh, yes. I tell you, she wanted him to.”

“Any particular co-respondent?”

“None that I know of. But a suit would not have been defended.”

“Nevertheless, a co-respondent would be necessary.”

“Oh, I expect one could have been found.”

“Who?”

“Well, that’s a delicate question, Mr. Wilson. I should hardly like
to say, seeing that the happy man has not had a chance of signifying
his consent. And in any case, I couldn’t. The question, you see, had
not arisen. But I have no doubt one would have been provided.”

“Not the cinema star, by any chance?”

“Oh--Burden.” There was respect in Brandreth’s glance. “I hardly
think so. He has a wife already--if not two--and he’s an expensive
sort of fellow. I should doubt he could afford another. Though, of
course, he’s high in favour at present.”

“There were others, then?”

“Oh yes. Mackenzie, the explorer, was very smitten. And that fellow
Shane--you’ll have heard of him, he’s in your line. And half a dozen
more. Do you want a list?”

“I wonder,” Wilson mused, “why, with all that embarrassment of
riches, Mrs. Meston hit upon her late husband. It doesn’t sound a
natural choice for her.”

“That, of course,” said Brandreth, “was the most foolish thing
that anybody ever did. And I’m afraid the reason’s as plain as a
pikestaff. It was temper. I can tell you the whole story, if you
don’t mind listening a few minutes.

“Sylvia Meston, as I said, was Sylvia Liddell before her marriage.
Her parents both died when she was little; and, though nominally she
lived with an old aunt, she in fact spent most of her time at the
Grange. She was--and still is--an exceptionally pretty little devil,
very frank and oncoming; and men were crazy about her from the time
she was fifteen. Eighteen months ago, however, she suddenly married
Meston, who had been hanging about her in common with dozens of
others for the last year or so.

“Of course, everybody hereabouts knew why she’d married. It was
partly poverty and mainly pique. Sooner or later, she would have had
to marry. She had expensive tastes and no money of her own; and,
though the Lorings are as rich as sin and would never have missed it,
she’s proud enough in some ways to dislike being a pensioner. That,
of course, doesn’t explain why she chose Meston; but it also happened
at the same time that she had a violent quarrel with John Loring, the
Squire’s younger brother, and sent him packing. At least, I never
heard the rights of it; but John Loring certainly departed for China
within the week, which was pretty drastic. I’ve an idea that that was
the last thing Sylvia intended, and that she really cared for him all
the time. I base this partly on the fact that she’s never discussed
it with me, though her frankness on all other matters is occasionally
disconcerting, and partly on the further fact that she took his
departure very hard indeed, and all but sent all her other admirers
off presently in John’s wake.

“Then she suddenly married Meston. It appears to me that she had
decided, with one of the insane impulses which beset angry people,
to cut herself off as far from the Loring ménage and way of life as
possible; and that she chose Meston as the man least likely of all
possibles to remind her of John. Besides, the fellow was one of the
most curiously persistent creatures I’ve ever seen. Not only could he
not take ‘no’ for an answer; he could not really believe that any one
would meet him with a negative. If they appeared to be denying him,
he assumed that it was some temporary blindness, and simply waited.
I’ve seen that trait in philanthropists and reformers at times; and
perhaps under happier circumstances poor Meston might have become a
distinguished man. As it was, his patience brought him nothing but
Dead Sea fruit.

“For, of course, it was a crazy thing to do, however you look at it.
They hadn’t a thing in common. He disapproved of the Loring habits as
much as your friend here would,” said Brandreth, with a side-glance
at Michael, who sat upright in surprise, “and he was quite determined
that once Sylvia was out she should stay out.”

“Excuse me,” Wilson interrupted, “but if he detested the atmosphere
as much as you say, how did he ever come to meet the lady?”

“Oh, the firm did some business for the Lorings--it dated back to old
Warden’s time. And Nick Hanborough, the present senior partner, is
a fairly frequent visitor there, and took him along one day. Then
he fell in love with Sylvia at first sight, and simply hung on till
she married him. However, as I say, it was madness. They hadn’t been
married a month before they began to quarrel; and the mischief of
it was that, in one of their early rows, Sylvia let out the reason
why she had married him. That absolutely put the lid on it, as far
as she was concerned. Sylvia herself--and any of the Loring lot, for
that matter--would have raged and stormed at a confession like that,
and then forgotten all about it. But Meston was made of different
stuff. Underneath his dull exterior he was one of the vainest men
I ever knew, and this confession of his wife’s just got him on the
raw. Once he had satisfied himself that she meant what she said, he
became insane with rage. He was not the sort to say anything, but he
just set himself out to make her pay for it. As I’ve already said,
he wouldn’t hear of divorce, or even judicial separation. He simply
tried to hold her by force. He kept her, for instance, as short of
money as he possibly could. She couldn’t even dress decently without
running into debt, and he made a violent scene whenever he was asked
to pay a bill. He refused to ask her friends to the house; and if any
of them came unasked, he treated them so rudely, men or women, that
they generally didn’t come again--and this in the presence of the
servants, quite often. If he’d dared, I think he would have locked
her up; but even he stopped short of the consequences of that.

“Well, this went on for a considerable time. Sylvia complained to
me, of course; and I did what I could to make him see reason. I knew
him fairly well, one way and another, and he had his good points,
though they didn’t come out in his marriage. But you might as well
have talked to a stone wall. On this point he wasn’t a human creature
at all; he was just a walking injury, a man deeply wounded in his
self-esteem, and set on being properly revenged for it. Perhaps it’s
a fairly common condition; but I hope there aren’t many who are so
patiently vindictive about it as Meston was.

“Eventually, as I’ve told you, Sylvia ran away. She had nowhere to
run but the Grange, otherwise I think she’d have gone before. But
she was very unwilling to return with her tail between her legs, and
she didn’t go until she had tried everything else. Godfrey Loring
took her in, of course, and was ill-advised enough to write to Meston
telling him that he’d done so, and why. Of course, that was like a
red rag. Meston immediately packed his bag, came down to the Old
Malting House here, and sat down to wait for his wife to return.
Meanwhile, he wrote the most insane letters to her, to the Squire,
and to any one else who he heard was on the premises, and ended by
going up to the Grange with a whip and demanding her return. On this
occasion, he was thrown out of the house by the footmen. Then, as you
know, or, at least, as the doctor knows, he disappeared from the Old
Malting House either late on Friday night or early Saturday morning,
without giving up his room or taking away his bags, though he left
them ready packed, Wason tells me, with a label, ‘To Be Called For.’
And that’s the last of him--until he turned up in the river yesterday
morning. Wason thought he’d gone back to Colchester, and Colchester
thought he was here. Otherwise there might have been inquiries
before now. Well, Mr. Wilson, is that clear, or is there anything
else you want to know?”

“What I chiefly want to know,” said Wilson thoughtfully, “is why you
have come to me with this story. If the man committed suicide, or if
there’s any possibility that he did, I can’t help you, nor could any
man, to keep these facts concealed. But I gather from Dr. Prendergast
that you don’t think he _did_ commit suicide. Why not?”

“I knew him, you see,” said Brandreth. “He was, so emphatically, the
last man in the world to kill himself. He would have felt baulked,
for one thing, of his revenge on Sylvia; and he was quite certain,
when he came down here, that he was going to get her back again, if
not this time, then the next--or the next. He simply couldn’t believe
that the universe would let him down after all. Sylvia agrees with me
on that point, I may say.”

“I see,” said Wilson thoughtfully. “How does Mr. Hanborough come in,
then?”

“Hanborough?” Brandreth looked up sharply. “He doesn’t, that I know
of. Except that he was Meston’s partner.”

“Connected with him financially,” Wilson said, with a slight stress
on the adverb.

“Oh, I see what you mean. I don’t think there’s anything in that. Of
course, no doubt it would have worried him.”

“H’m,” Wilson said. “Had Meston any money, and who gets it?”

“A few thousands. Sylvia gets it, I believe--on condition she doesn’t
marry again. I don’t think he could have been put out of the way for
his possessions, if that’s what you mean.”

“We don’t know that he was put out of the way, yet,” Wilson said,
with something of a sigh. “How old is Mrs. Meston, by the way?”

“Twenty-six; but she looks twenty.”

“Old enough to know her own mind,” Michael commented crossly. He
disliked what he called “promiscuous” women.

“She _does_ know it,” the lawyer replied. “That’s the trouble. She’s
capable of wild impulses; but the Loring life is the life for her,
and she’s known it now for a year and a half.”

“Or Mr. Burden?”

“Or any one else you like. She must have them.”

“You don’t give her a very reliable character,” Wilson said.

“Well, their pace is a bit hot for me,” Brandreth replied. “I like
women, and I like wine--in moderation. But no Loring was ever known
to be moderate in either.”

“But you didn’t attempt to dissuade your client from going there?”

“Oh, I’m a tolerant person,” the lawyer said. “When in Rome, I do as
the Romans do. Besides, I know when the ice won’t bear me--unlike
poor Meston. I shouldn’t dream of walking into one of the Grange
parties, and asking Sylvia to come home.”

“I’ve heard about those parties,” Michael said. “There was one the
night Meston vanished, wasn’t there?”

“There was. But that wasn’t the one he attended. Anyway, Sylvia
wasn’t there, she tells me. She said she had a headache, which
I find it hard to believe. I’ve seldom met any one with Sylvia’s
physical energy. But this is a bit beside the mark, it seems to me.
What do you say, Mr. Wilson?”

Before Wilson could answer, there was the sound of a slight
disturbance outside the door, which was then opened by a flustered
and giggling chambermaid. Just behind the chambermaid appeared a
slight figure in a short tennis frock and white cap.

“Hullo, Ned!” said the apparition. “You haven’t wasted much time,
have you? And will Mr. Wilson do anything?”




                              CHAPTER IX


The three men stared at the intruder with varying expressions.
Brandreth’s face registered annoyance, changing after a second to
humorous resignation. Wilson’s retained its usual air of impassive
attention. Michael’s brow clouded with resentment and disapproval,
though he was unable to restrain a gaze of curiosity at the heroine
of the tale they had just heard.

Prejudiced as he was, Michael had to admit that neither the lawyer
nor the photograph had overstated Sylvia Meston’s attractions. True,
she was not looking her conventional “best” at the moment; for she
had pretty clearly neither slept nor troubled to make up for the
lack of sleep by adventitious aids. But that, in a sense, did her
natural good looks more credit. Life at the Grange, however hot it
was reputed to be, had not apparently damaged either her health or
her complexion, since she was able to face worry and sleeplessness
without looking either puffy or sallow. Michael noted almost with
resentment that the lines of her jaw and the bones of her face, as
well as her skin, were nearly as perfect as they could be, and that
the short, brown curls, just visible under her hat, were as springy
and as full of colour as any he had seen. Nevertheless, he did not
abate his dislike; for Sylvia Meston obviously belonged to that type
of womanhood he was wont to describe as “predatory.” He could see
her, despite her weariness, settling on the best way of “getting at”
Wilson as soon as she entered the room. “Minx!” he said to himself,
as he was introduced, and saw the grey eyes sweep over him, and
then appeal, a little too obviously, for his sympathy for beauty in
distress.

“You know my name?” Wilson asked her, a slight asperity in his voice.

“So did the maid. Is it a secret? Ned told me you were here last
night. Does it matter?” Sylvia asked indifferently. She had curled
herself into a chair like a graceful kitten; but her fingers were
rather uneasily clutching at its arm.

“I didn’t tell it you for public consumption,” Brandreth said, with
an expression like that of a cat caught stealing cream. “Nor did I
ask you to come here this morning.”

“Oh, well, I thought I’d better see what you were doing. I don’t
trust you any farther than I can see you,” Sylvia said. “_Is_ Mr.
Wilson going to help us?” She turned her eyes suddenly on the owner
of the name.

“I don’t quite see, at the moment, how I can help,” Wilson said. “Can
you tell me just why you are so sure that Mr. Meston didn’t kill
himself?”

“He wouldn’t. Not while I was alive. Didn’t Ned explain that to you?”
Sylvia said. “I told him to. He said God would give me back to him.”

“But he might have met with an accident.”

“Accidents didn’t happen to William. He wasn’t that kind of man.
Besides, he could swim like a duck. He _couldn’t_ have got into that
river, unless some one had pushed him there.”

“Who would have?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Sylvia. “If I did, I shouldn’t be
asking you to find out. _Will_ you find out?” Her tone was low, but
none the less insistent.

“Would you mind telling me exactly why you are so anxious to know?”

“Well, he was my husband, wasn’t he? Aren’t I supposed to be
interested?”

“But----” Even Wilson ventured a faint doubt, and Michael was
betrayed into an unmistakable snort of contempt. There was an
instant’s pause, during which Sylvia Meston raised her head, and
stared him full in the face, with the indignant gaze of a trapped
animal.

“Oh, I know what _you’re_ thinking!” she burst out at last; and
Michael reflected sourly that the pause had given its full value to
her change of tone. “You needn’t bother to be polite! You’re thinking
what all these swine here are saying--that I was glad William was
dead, and that it’s indecent of me to bother how he died. Well,
I’m not! I used to think I’d give anything in the world to get rid
of him, and I didn’t care how it happened. But I’m not. Lockwood
made me go and look at him”--she gave a shudder that was obviously
genuine--“and whatever he was like and whatever he did to me, I
couldn’t want him to look like that.”

“What about what you did to him?” Michael intervened.

“Oh, I was a little cat,” Sylvia said. “You needn’t think I don’t
know it. Ned told me so dozens of times, didn’t you, Ned? I said,
it’s no use, you can’t do what you can’t. And it’s no use talking
about paying your debts of honour when you haven’t any money. I
think William might have made it a bit easier, that’s all. I wouldn’t
have asked for anything, only to be let alone. It was just an idiotic
mistake, that’s all about it, and he might have seen. Everybody else
knew it wasn’t any use going on trying. But that’s no reason why he
should be killed, is it? or why you shouldn’t find out who killed
him? Ned says I shall get his money. Well, I don’t want it--I won’t
take it. I wish you’d have it and find out who killed him!”

“If he _was_ killed,” Wilson said slowly, “the police will find out
who did it, I presume.”

“If you knew Lockwood,” said Sylvia, a curl suddenly appearing at
the corner of her mouth, “you wouldn’t make silly suggestions. He
couldn’t find a murderer if he tried. Besides--he’d be sure to arrest
the wrong person.”

“Oh, would he?” said Wilson, looking at her narrowly. She shifted
uneasily, and turned her eyes full on him.

“Won’t you? Mr. Wilson--please?”

“My dear lady, you must give me time to think it over. I haven’t got
my bearings yet. And, if I do take an interest, there are a great
many things I should want to know.”

“Well, why don’t you ask them?” A motor horn honked long and angrily
outside.

“It appears,” said Brandreth, who was nearest the window, “as though
this conference would shortly be increased in numbers. Do you want
Godfrey to come in and hold your hand, Sylvia?”

“Damn Godfrey!” Sylvia’s expressive face changed again. “Of course I
don’t. Why can’t he leave me alone? I told him I should be half an
hour at least.” The horn sounded again.

“He seems to be of the opinion that the half-hour has elapsed,” said
Brandreth.

“He’ll have the whole town here in a minute, if he goes on making
that noise,” said Michael.

“That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?” said Sylvia, with disconcerting
penetration. “You’d like to send me home tarred and feathered on a
cart-tail. I suppose you think I’m enjoying this. Oh, damn, there
he goes again! I suppose I’d better go and tell him to shut up. Mr.
Wilson, won’t you----”

“You must let me think it over,” Wilson said firmly; but somewhat to
Michael’s disgust he accompanied the sinner downstairs. Brandreth,
after a little hesitation, followed them, while Michael sullenly
stared out of the window, and watched Sylvia Meston climb into a
small, but smart two-seater, whose driver, a dark, heavily built,
rather scowling fellow in motoring cap and coat, was presumably the
Squire.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, when Wilson came back.

“Get you to have another look at the body,” was the answer. “We can’t
do anything till we know a little more.”

“I shan’t be allowed,” said Michael gloomily. “You heard what
Lockwood said.”

“Oh, I think we can manage that. If necessary, I’ll disclose myself
to him. In fact, I’m not sure that it wouldn’t be best to do so, as
Brandreth seems incapable of keeping his mouth shut,” Wilson mused.

“And then?”

“Oh, then we’ll see. It’s an odd business, isn’t it?”

“You don’t mean you’re going to take it up? Just because that girl
made sheep’s eyes at you! It’s the first time I ever knew you fall
for such an obvious siren, Harry,” said Michael in a hurt voice.
Wilson burst out laughing.

“My dear fellow, don’t be so censorious. I was going to ask you
what you made of Mrs. Meston and her views, but you’ve made it
unnecessary.”

“I don’t think what she meant me to think, anyway!”

“I’m not so sure that I know what she meant you to think. The air
of this place isn’t good for you, Michael. If you continue in this
strain, I shall begin to think that you slew Meston yourself in an
attack of dyspepsia.”




                              CHAPTER X


“There’s the mark,” Colonel Lockwood said. “Right under his hair, as
you see.” They were standing, late in the evening of the same day,
in the dark little mortuary, whose only light was an oil lamp, which
shed a sickly greenish ray on the face of the corpse. Neither Wilson
nor Michael, however, was enough of a novice to be moved in any way
by their physical surroundings; and the latter coolly got out his
electric torch and bent to survey the bruise.

Whatever charm it was that Wilson had employed on the
Colonel--perhaps only the disclosure of his own identity--it had
worked a considerable change in the latter’s manner to Michael. It
was a very worried and perplexed, but not a truculent soldier, who
came to the inn after dinner to conduct them to the mortuary; and his
one desire appeared to be that Michael should have all the facilities
he required. Dr. Kershaw, Michael noted with pleasure, either had not
been invited to be present, or had decided not to come.

“It’s hardly serious enough to cause death, Kershaw says,” the
Colonel remarked to Wilson; “but it’s quite sufficient to cause him
to break his neck, if he was falling at all hard. Well, doctor, what
d’you make of it?”

Michael made no answer, but motioned to Wilson to take his place. His
brow was puckered with perplexity. Wilson, in his turn, bent over the
corpse and examined the head closely, opening the mouth, feeling
the cut under the hair, and passing his hands around the skin of the
neck. When, after three or four minutes, he too straightened himself,
the light fell for a moment full on his face, and Michael read in it
a confirmation of his own opinion.

“Is it all serene, doctor?” the Colonel asked again.

“I’m afraid _not_,” Michael said gravely.

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“There _is_ a contusion,” Michael said; “and it might have been
sufficient to break his neck, if he had been alive when it was made.
But it was made after death.”

“After death! What do you mean? You can’t know that.”

“Pardon me. If you look at the skin now----” Michael drew him to the
body, and gave a brief technical explanation. “That wound was made
after death,” he ended, “and some considerable time after death, too.”

“Then--he didn’t hit his head as he fell in. He must have hit
something while he was in the water.... Of course, he struck the
barge, or the barge struck him.... But, in that case, how did he
break his neck?”

“Precisely,” said Michael. “How did he break his neck?”

“I suppose,” the Colonel pursued his agitated reflections, “that must
have been the barge too--or something else he hit up against while
he was in the water. He _could_ have broken his neck after death,
couldn’t he, doctor?”

“In that case, Colonel Lockwood, what did he die of?”

“Good God! I see what you mean. In that case, he _must_ have been
drowned.”

“Well, you’ve had the post-mortem, haven’t you? What did the doctors
say?”

“I think they disagreed, at first. But finally they both reported
that death could not possibly have been due to drowning.”

“But the man is dead.”

“Not much doubt of that, poor fellow,” said the Colonel. “But I don’t
quite follow you, doctor. What are you suggesting?”

“What _did_ the doctors find to be the cause of death?”

“A broken neck, they suggest, consequent upon his hitting his head in
a fall.”

“Well, he didn’t. Not in that place, anyway--though I can’t think how
I came to miss it yesterday,” said Michael.

“If you made a mistake yesterday,” said Colonel Lockwood hopefully,
“don’t you think it may be possible that you’re making another
to-day?”

“I’m afraid not. You see, I’ve had plenty of time to-night.”

“Then what in hell _did_ the man die of?”

“I think I can answer that,” said Wilson, who had been standing
silently by. He went back to the corpse. “Look at that, Michael,”
he said. Michael bent down, and gave a horrified exclamation. “Good
God!” he said.

“You agree?” said Wilson.

“What is it?” the Colonel asked.

“He’s been strangled,” said Michael slowly.

“_What?_ What’s that?” said the Colonel, now thoroughly alarmed.
“What fairy-tale is this, sir?”

“Look for yourself,” said Michael. “Take my torch and the lens. Do
you see that mark? It goes right round the neck--here--and here;
that’s the mark of a rope--a very fine rope----”

“Probably a silk rope,” said Wilson. “I think there’s a silk fibre
there.” He took it off as he spoke, and held it out for Michael and
the Colonel to see.

“You’re right,” said Michael. “You see, Colonel, the superficial
marks have been nearly obliterated by the water; but they’re quite
plain when you’ve noticed them. And that explains some things that
had puzzled me about his face. I thought he didn’t look like a
drowned man.”

“But, good God,” the Colonel said again, “I can’t believe it! You say
the poor devil was strangled. That means, as far as I can see, that
it wasn’t accident--or suicide.”

“The case,” said Michael grimly, “is one of murder.”

“Is that your view too, Mr. Wilson?” asked the Colonel. Wilson
nodded. The three stood still for a moment, facing the fact, in the
dark, half-lighted room.

“He was strangled,” the Colonel repeated. “Strangled! But how?”

“With a silk rope,” said Michael.

“And in a rather peculiar way,” Wilson added. “Did you notice the
position of the marks, Michael?” He illustrated on his own neck,
while the Colonel shuddered in horror. “Do you remember, they come
close up under his chin, and then slope up at the back of his head?
And his neck was broken. Doesn’t that suggest anything to you?”

“Good God!” said Michael, as Wilson’s meaning came gradually home to
him. “It’s not possible. You don’t mean----?”

Wilson nodded, and Michael took hold of the bench for support. He was
feeling slightly sick.

“Mean what?” asked the Colonel. “You’re talking in riddles. _How_ was
he strangled?”

“He was hanged,” said Michael in a low voice. The brutality of
the crime appalled him, but “appalled” is no word to describe the
Colonel’s appearance.

“_Hanged!_” he said in a stupefied voice. “_Hanged!_ But what do you
mean? _Hanged?_”

“Hanged by the neck until he was dead,” Wilson said slowly. The
meaning of his words began gradually to dawn on the Colonel.

“Hanged!” he said at last. “But--who on earth would hang him?”

“That, I imagine,” said Wilson, “is what has now to be discovered.”

For a minute or two the soldier paced up and down the mortuary,
with a look of desperate perplexity on his face. Then it suddenly
lightened a trifle, and he turned to Wilson.

“But, surely,” he said, “what you’ve just said is compatible with
suicide at least. A man may hang himself.”

“A man may hang himself,” Wilson replied, “but he certainly can’t
cut himself down and throw away the rope. If it was suicide, all
the circumstances go to show that some one else is pretty deeply
implicated. And I don’t need to tell you, Colonel, that complicity in
suicide is murder in the eyes of the law.”

The Colonel looked up at him with a face from which all hope had
fled. “What am I to do now?” he said piteously. “I never had a murder
to handle before, much less--this sort of murder.”

“Do you want me to help?” Wilson asked. “I’ve no business here, you
know, unless you call me in. This is your show.”

“Do you think I want it?” the Colonel groaned. “I’m a plain man,
Mr. Wilson, and I know when waters are too deep for me. Here’s a
man brutally murdered, and I haven’t the ghost of a notion how or
why--the murderer may be my own butcher, for all I know! Will you
help me, Mr. Wilson? Or do you want an official letter?”

“Your word will do, I think,” said Wilson, smiling a little in
spite of the situation. “But you realise we may be in for rather an
unpleasant time?”

“I do,” said the Colonel, with emphasis. “But if you’ll help me--I’ll
put myself entirely in your hands.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” said Wilson. “Let’s consider the inquest,
then; that’s the first question. When is it?”

“Two-thirty to-morrow.”

“Who is the coroner?”

“Dr. Evershed, from Malton.”

“A good man?”

“I think so. But he’s a friend of mine,” said the Colonel, who had
apparently come to the conclusion that suspicion must immediately
rest on every one of his acquaintance.

“Well, I think you’d better prime him to take no more than the
absolutely necessary evidence to-morrow--identification, of course,
and the bargees, and the sergeant, and Dr. Kershaw--and then
adjourn, if necessary. Above all, see that he doesn’t call Dr.
Prendergast, or let out a hint of our discoveries to-night. And keep
my presence dark--if you can,” said Wilson, remembering the garrulous
Brandreth.

“But why all this secrecy?”

“Well, we don’t want to give the murderers full warning, do we?”
said Wilson, with what Michael considered remarkable patience. “If
I dared, I would like the coroner’s jury to bring in a verdict of
misadventure. But it’s not safe; there’s been too much talk, and
some juryman or other would be sure to ask awkward questions. So Dr.
Evershed will just have to keep it as brief as he can. I’d better
have a word with him myself, perhaps, if you don’t mind.”

“We’ll have to let Kershaw know,” the Colonel said, “or he’ll be
giving misleading evidence.”

“So much the better for us,” said Wilson. “No, seriously, Colonel,
I must insist that not a soul beyond ourselves knows what has taken
place in this room to-night. If Kershaw’s got his diagnosis wrong,
I’m afraid it’s his funeral.”

“It’s hardly cricket, to let him down,” the Colonel objected.

“Nor was it cricket to hang Meston. I’m sorry, Colonel, but we can’t
afford to be gentlemanly in this business. We’re agents of justice at
the moment--not of the M.C.C.”

The Colonel sighed, but agreed. He was obviously too far out of his
depth to think of combating anything that Wilson laid down; and after
a few more brief interchanges, they parted.

“I think that’s the most diabolical crime I’ve ever seen,” Michael
said, as they regained their room.

“I’m not sure you’re not right,” was the reply.

“And I’m really prepared to swear that mark on the head wasn’t there
when I saw the body yesterday.”

“As long as you don’t swear it at the inquest, well and good.”

“Then you don’t think I’m mad?”

“Of course I don’t. I never did. Besides, that was a fresh mark--I
could see for myself.”

“Then how the devil did it get there?”

“That, perhaps, we shall discover in due course. I have only noted
who found it.” Michael stared.

“Harry! Do you mean to suggest that _Kershaw_ murdered the man, and
then tried to cover up the traces?”

“We can’t go as far as that, yet,” said Wilson. “But you observe
there is a pretty good reason for not interfering with Dr. Kershaw’s
evidence.”




                              CHAPTER XI


“It won’t be quite as easy as you think, Mr. Wilson,” Dr. Evershed
said doubtfully. “The people in these parts are an infernally
inquisitive crowd, and I gather there’s been a good deal of talk. I
don’t quite know how I’m to avoid calling Dr. Prendergast.”

“If you call him, and he doesn’t answer, that’s good enough, isn’t
it?” Wilson said. They were all three having a morning consultation
at Colonel Lockwood’s house. “I’ve been thinking for some time that a
trip to Colchester would do you good, Michael.”

“Do I want to go to Colchester?” Michael inquired mildly.

“You won’t be allowed to go to the inquest, in any event,” Wilson
said firmly, “so you might as well be in Colchester as anywhere
else. I’ll think of something to amuse you. Then he can’t be called,
Dr. Evershed; and you can perfectly well agree to ask the police to
look into his evidence. I don’t think anybody here has the slightest
suspicion that it was murder, except old Brandreth, and I’ve done my
best to shut his mouth, though I judge it’s an unusually wide one.”

“Meanwhile, I suppose I’ve got to set about finding the murderer,”
Colonel Lockwood groaned.

“If you could find the place at which the murder took place, it would
be a step onward, at any rate,” Wilson said.

“Don’t you think he was killed where he was thrown in, then--at the
Old Malting House?”

“I don’t know if he was killed where he was thrown in. But I hardly
think he can have been thrown in where he came up. Do you know the
river-bed there? I was examining it this morning. It’s almost free
of tangled weed--and there’s a considerable current. The stream just
there flows well on the left-hand side.”

“You mean,” said Dr. Evershed, who was keenly interested, “that if
the body had been thrown in there on Friday night, it would have
floated down-stream?”

“Precisely.”

“Then it must have been thrown in farther up-stream,” the Colonel
triumphantly deduced. “How much farther up?”

“That, I’m afraid, we can hardly say,” Wilson said, exchanging
a smile with the coroner. “Rivers don’t flow at a uniform pace,
nor do objects committed to their charge. The body might have got
into an eddy, or stuck in a patch of weed higher up. I’m afraid it
means examining the banks, however, for some distance up. If he was
killed by the riverside, and not brought from somewhere else--which,
of course, he may have been--there will probably be traces of a
struggle. Remember, you can’t hang a man in the air. He must be hung
_from_ something, and something pretty strong. Anyway, even if he was
only carried to the river, there may be signs of some sort. It’s been
dry as a bone this last week, which ought to help us. What is the
river scenery like above the Old Malting House?”

“Meadow for four hundred yards or thereabouts,” the Colonel said,
“then thick woods for two or three miles. One side is Loring
property, and the other belongs to Sir Felix Lewis, the Stock
Exchange fellow. He’s away just now. The woods are very damp and
soggy, and there’s practically no firm ground but the tow-path. The
next crossing is by an old bridge at the end of Lewis’s woods, about
a quarter of a mile below Watergate Lock.”

“Thanks.” Wilson was drawing a rapid sketch-map from the Colonel’s
directions. “The woods are private, I suppose? I’d rather like to
have a look up there this afternoon, Colonel, if you can provide
me with a boat and an inconspicuous man. I’ll go immediately the
inquest’s over, if you’ll tell him to be waiting by the bridge. We’ll
be off before the crowd comes along.”

“Right you are,” said the Colonel; “I’ll send Collins.” And after a
little more conversation he departed, taking Dr. Evershed with him to
see the body.

“That’s a sensible fellow,” Wilson said. “I feel I can trust him to
hold Lockwood’s hand and let as little as possible come out this
afternoon. I was rather in fear that our murderer would be provided
with a nice little warning.”

“Do you know who he is, then?”

“Indeed I don’t! I don’t even know his motive yet.”

“I should have thought we’d heard motive enough, yesterday.”

“Yes, of course. The trouble is, there’s too much motive; or, rather,
two perfectly plausible motives, each of which points to a quite
different set of persons. There’s the very significant fact, which
we heard yesterday morning, that Meston’s continued presence in
the world was a great trouble and inconvenience to his wife--and
presumably to any one else who might want to marry her. The trouble
with that motive is that, as far as we can see, it seems likely to
point to every marriageable male within miles.”

“Surely it points to her, first of all?” Michael said viciously.

“My dear Michael, surely even your prejudiced mind can take in that
this isn’t a woman’s crime. You don’t mean to suggest that that
girl hanged a twelve-stone man and then threw him in the river? If
she was concerned in any way, she must have had a fairly hefty male
accomplice; and, in that case, I hardly think she would be likely
to come and urge me to take the thing up. The only thing that is
suspicious about her is, first, that she clearly wanted to be rid of
him (though I don’t suggest her reaction to the sight of his corpse
was anything but genuine); and secondly, that she was so convinced
that he couldn’t have committed suicide. But that may be simple
observation. No, it is much more likely that one of the fair Sylvia’s
admirers, seeing in Meston a permanent obstacle, determined to remove
him. But which? It presumes a desperate character and a pretty strong
infatuation; for this, as you remarked, is not only a savage, but a
premeditated crime.”

“Burden,” said Michael promptly.

“Well, we don’t know, of course. We’ve only just seen his face, and
killing a pig isn’t evidence for killing a human. Besides, I can’t
somehow see a man of his kind taking an affair seriously enough.
He is too much in a position to have his pick. I haven’t seen his
infernal machine since yesterday, by the way. I wonder if he’ll turn
up at the inquest?”

“Well, there must be plenty more.”

“So one gathers; but one knows very little. Shane I’ve met; he’s not
in the least likely to compromise his career with murder. Besides,
he couldn’t think it out if he tried. Mackenzie I don’t know; he has
the reputation of a savage fellow, but you can’t build much on that.
At present, I gather, he’s not at the Grange. He was there not long
ago, but nobody seems to know exactly when he left. John Loring, the
discarded swain, would fit the part best, no doubt. But you can’t
very well murder a man from China.”

“Well, _one_ of them ought to fit,” Michael said obstinately.

“Maybe. But you’re forgetting the other motive.”

“What’s that?”

“The money. The embezzlement.”

“Oh, that! But I don’t see how that throws any light. You don’t
murder a man because he’s embezzled funds--unless you are thinking
of an outraged client. Besides, he didn’t look like a successful
embezzler when I saw him.”

“If he was an embezzler, he had presumably ceased to be successful
by the time you saw him,” Wilson reminded him. “But I agree. We’ve
nothing whatever, except Warden’s untrained conjecture, to suggest
that he _was_ an embezzler. But--I’ll just put this point to you.
Supposing he wasn’t the embezzler, but supposing he’d found out who
was? Would that provide a motive?”

“You mean if he was tracking the real criminal,” Michael said
slowly. “And the man found out, and killed him. But, in that case,
who was he?”

“Well, one would have to make inquiries in Colchester, obviously,”
Wilson said. “Remember, though, it would have to be somebody
fairly high up in the firm to get the opportunity. I know where my
suspicions would go.”

“Hanborough!” Michael cried; “the senior partner.”

“Yes. Or Warden.”

“Mark! But that’s rubbish! You’ve seen him. He couldn’t cheat a fly.”

“I’ve seen him,” Wilson admitted, “but it doesn’t do to go too much
by first impressions. No, keep your hair on. I’m not saying I suspect
him. I’m only really trying to warn you that some people may, so that
you may go carefully.”

“But it’s ridiculous. He wasn’t even there at the time!”

“Where? and at what time? We don’t know where Meston was murdered; we
don’t know exactly when. Because he was last seen at 10.30 on Friday
night, that doesn’t prove that he didn’t live for another twelve
hours afterwards. We shall have to be very careful in accepting
alibis for this business, Michael.”

“But, surely--it’s much more likely to have been Hanborough than
Mark! He was senior partner; he was bound to know what was going on.”

“That depends, I should say,” said Wilson, “on how much of his time
he spent at the Grange, and how much at the office.”

“The more at the Grange, the more likely to have been the murderer!”

“Michael, you really ought to be at the criminal bar. I never met
anybody so determined to import prejudice into a case. You know
nothing about Hanborough except that he employed an agent to look
into the matter, which isn’t, on the face of it, proof of guilt. I
think I’ll have a word with Mr. Strake, some time. But nobody here
seems to know much about Hanborough.”

“Brandreth does,” said Michael. “Brandreth knows a great deal more
than he need.”

“Yes. There’s something very odd about Brandreth, but what it is I’m
hanged if I know. Has it struck you, Michael, that the only people
who have been behaving suspiciously are people with no apparent
connection with the deceased--at least, no motive for getting rid of
him?”

“Brandreth and----?”

“Kershaw. Kershaw’s conduct so far is absolutely inexplicable on any
other hypothesis except that of guilt of some sort. Yet I can’t find
out that the two men ever exchanged a word.”

“Kershaw’s up at the Grange a lot,” Michael said. “He might be in
love with Mrs. Meston, too.”

“Then it’s odd Brandreth shouldn’t have mentioned it in his sheaf of
gossip.”

“You can’t tell with Brandreth,” Michael said shrewdly. “He won’t
mention more than it suits him to mention. If Kershaw were guilty,
now----”

“True, O sage. But this sort of speculation won’t get us much
farther, without a few more facts. How do you propose to get to
Colchester?”

“Do you really want me to go there?” Michael asked in some surprise.
“I thought you only wanted me out of the way.”

“That, primarily. But I don’t see why your enforced banishment
shouldn’t be profitable. There are a number of things which I think
might usefully be looked into.”

“Go ahead. I’m your man--if you think I’m likely to do any good.”

“Well, I want as much as possible found out about all the people
we’ve mentioned. First,” said Wilson, ticking them off on his
fingers, “there’s Meston himself. Make an excuse for going to the
office, if you can; and find out what’s thought of Meston, and
whether he’s likely to have been your embezzler. Then I want all you
can get hold of about Nicholas Hanborough, his circumstances, habits,
etc.; and particularly what he was supposed to be doing--when? What
should you say was the limit of time during which Meston could have
been killed?”

“Oh, about twenty-four hours from the time he was last seen.
Certainly not more.”

“Well, track Hanborough for that period, if you can. And in your
friend Warden’s interest, you’d better do the same for him. Then I
want any mortal thing you can find out about Kershaw--who he is, what
he did before he came here, etc. There doesn’t appear to be a medical
directory in this place. And you might see what you can pick up about
Sylvia Meston, or any of her friends, as well, would you? But, for
pity’s sake, put your own feelings temporarily in the background. You
won’t get any information if you begin by disclosing your hand.”

“I’ll try,” Michael promised. “And, if I’m to do all this, I’d better
be going. I wonder if there’s a train.”




                             CHAPTER XII


Wilson sent an appraising glance round the occupants of the big room
at the Guild House, which the Church, in the person of the Vicar,
had presently resigned to the State, in the person of Dr. Evershed.
It was a good thing, he thought, that the room was a fair size;
for at least half the township seemed to be in attendance, and he
had even heard rumours of a special country bus service being run
from surrounding villages. Well, the enterprising bus owner would
presumably get his money’s worth, if nobody else did, Wilson thought,
commiserating in his heart the Essex citizens packed in a dusty room
on a hot July afternoon in the expectation of a sensation which he
had done his best to deny them.

In the seats of honour, and probably much more conspicuous than they
desired to be, was a party obviously from the Grange. Sylvia Meston,
who had by this time acquired black clothes, in which she looked no
less effective than she did in white, was in the middle, and beside
her was Godfrey Loring in his rôle of protector. Riotous living had
dealt less kindly with him than with his cousin; at thirty-five the
marks of over-indulgence in food and drink, to say nothing of less
simple pleasures, were plain upon his face, though he was still
strong and athletic in build. He appeared to feel the physical
and moral atmosphere of the courtroom considerably, and every now
and then mopped his face and scowled round. Sylvia, on the other
hand, looked as cool as a cucumber. For the most part she kept her
eyes down; occasionally they swept the room with a look of defiant
amusement.

Beyond Godfrey sat an extremely lean man, with a skin burnt to
mahogany, and brilliant blue eyes under dark overhanging brows. He
looked forty or over, and Wilson stared at him for some time with
a vague feeling of familiarity, before he could remember where he
had seen those features before. Then the front page of the _Daily
Express_, with a streamer headline, suddenly presented itself to his
consciousness, and he nodded with satisfaction. This was Mackenzie,
the Zambesi explorer. “Back again so soon!” Wilson thought. “This
does look like flies to a honeypot.” And he noticed in confirmation
that the burning blue eyes were fixed on Sylvia’s hands. On her other
side sat a man he could not place at all, a florid fellow in tweeds,
with a humorous twist to his mouth and a slightly grizzled head.
Wilson placed him as not quite a gentleman born, but could make no
further conjecture, though the man was clearly not a stranger, for
he smiled and nodded to one or two people in the room, including
Brandreth, who was sitting well back on the right. There were one
or two other nondescripts who might or might not have come from
the Grange, but no one else who interested Wilson. Wallace Burden
was not to be seen. Warden was there, looking very miserable, and
Strake, looking very pleased, besides Wason, and what appeared to be
the entire contents of the tap-rooms of Steeple Tollesbury. Having
completed his survey, Wilson sat back in his corner and devoted his
time of waiting to wondering what the apple-cheeked Mr. Brandreth had
in his mind.

A little stir announced the arrival of the jury, rather pale and
subdued, after their viewing of the body. The proceedings went
exactly as Wilson had hoped. After the evidence of identity, the
laconic Bill and the more loquacious Jarge deposed to the finding of
the body, and Sergeant Linton then proceeded to give purely formal
evidence as to his own proceedings. No questions were put, but as
he retired there was a little stir of disappointment, and one man
emitted a sound which might have been the beginning of a protest.

“If there is any disturbance,” Dr. Evershed said, looking fiercely
down his spectacles, “I shall clear the court. This is not a public
entertainment.” At this threat a funereal silence fell on the
assembly.

Amory Kershaw, M.D., was next called, and Wilson, who had not seen
him before, looked at him with interest. He was a sallow, thin-faced
man of about forty-five, with blue chin, long nervous hands, and
an ill-tempered expression. He was clearly ill at ease as he came
forward, and stood for a second or two licking his lips and staring
round the court--presumably looking for Prendergast. Once he had
started, however, he gave his evidence clearly and impressively
enough.

He had examined the body first on the barge, and had noticed the
broken neck. But he had made no thorough investigation at that stage.
This had been done by himself and his colleague in the mortuary,
where they had observed a contused mark on the back of deceased’s
head, which appeared to offer an explanation of the broken neck.
Deceased had evidently hit his head in falling into the water, death
being thus due, not to drowning, but to the breaking of the neck in
consequence of a fall. Kershaw glanced round, as Wilson thought, a
trifle defiantly, as he made this assertion.

“Are you and your colleague in agreement on this point?” Dr. Evershed
asked.

“We are.”

At this point the inevitable juryman raised his voice to inquire
“whether the doctor thought it was an accident or something wrong
about it.” The coroner passed the question and looked at Kershaw, who
replied that while it was not strictly his business, he would say
that the state of the body was perfectly compatible with death by
misadventure. His colleague was not in court, but was in agreement
with him.

“Any further questions?” asked Dr. Evershed sharply. “Then I declare
the inquest adjourned for a fortnight,” he went on, almost without a
pause. There was a quick buzz of surprise and annoyance, under cover
of which Wilson attempted to make his escape, but was displeased to
find his way blocked by an indignant shopkeeper, who was explaining
to all and sundry that it was too bad a man should be led to leave
his shop all afternoon, and promise Sue Bradley half a crown for
minding it, and then not hear half what he could have heard if he’d
stayed at home. “Disgraceful, I call it,” he said.

“They’re deep ones, the police are,” said a woman. “They didn’t want
to say nothin’ wi’ that thar hussy listening. You mark my words,
there’ll be more to hear and see afore we’re much older.”

At last Wilson succeeded in forcing his way out to the open air; but
at the door, much to his annoyance, he collided with Brandreth, who
greeted him with a cheerful smile.

“Allow me to congratulate you on your stage management,” he said.
“You did that admirably--I suppose it was you? You’ve spoilt
everybody’s afternoon and given them only their own tales to eat.
Where’s the doctor?”

“He had to go over to Colchester,” said Wilson, who did not want
to appear to shake the man off too obviously. “I notice Mr. Burden
didn’t put in an appearance either.”

Brandreth chuckled. “Oh, he’s defaulted. Departed this morning, I
don’t know where. I gather this sort of publicity isn’t exactly what
he courts. Sylvia, I may add, is quite annoyed with him.”

“Oh! Who was that taking his place?” Wilson asked, as he turned off
down the High Street towards the river--“the man sitting next to Mrs.
Meston, I mean.”

“That?” said Brandreth. “Oh, that was Nicholas Hanborough.”




                             CHAPTER XIII


Wilson pondered on that last piece of information as he made his
way to the river. So that was Nicholas Hanborough, senior partner
of Warden, Hanborough & Meston; and he was with the party from the
Grange, and he was sitting next Sylvia Meston, having ousted from
that place the blue-eyed explorer, who would obviously have given
much to fill it. This, Wilson thought, required reflection. Suppose
Hanborough were in love with Sylvia, and suppose he, the senior
partner, had been the real defaulter in that financial business. For,
in spite of his caution to Michael, Wilson was not at all disposed to
believe that young Warden was the villain of that piece--though, of
course, appearances might be deceptive. But Hanborough, who was, it
seemed, an habitué of the Grange, might well find himself pressed for
money, and if Meston were not only on his track, but also were the
husband of the woman he loved--well, there was motive enough for a
considerable crime. But, in that case, why put a private detective on
his own track? “Ropes of sand!” said Wilson reprovingly to himself.
“I don’t even know that Meston was on the track of anything. No use
conjecturing without more evidence.”

At the bridge he found the discreet Collins with a boat and a
fishing-rod which several officious urchins were instructing him how
to manage, and climbed quickly in. Collins, who had been enlisted by
Colonel Lockwood specially from another village, was not very well
up in either the physical or the social topography of the place; and
though Wilson, in the intervals of peering over the bows to look for
any patch of weed which might have caught his corpse, made various
attempts to elicit information about his possible suspects, he met
with little success.

As to Nicholas Hanborough, he could find out no more than that he
was a frequent visitor at the Grange, free with his money, and
pretty well liked in the neighbourhood, though his antecedents were
a matter of doubt. He had been partner of old Warden ten or a dozen
years, having come originally from London; and he was accepted by the
Grange rather than the county. But the county and the Grange, Wilson
surmised, were apt to differ in their judgment of people.

Their progress was slow, for as soon as they had got a reasonable
distance above the Old Malting House, Wilson insisted on examining
the left bank as well as the bed of the stream. “I’ll do the other
bank myself on foot,” he said, “from the tow-path. But it doesn’t
look as though it would be very easy to get along here.”

“No, sir,” Collins agreed. The left bank was sedgy and sodden and
full of holes, and the trees, which seemed to hold a good deal of
water in their roots, grew thick and close to the edge. There was no
sign of a track near the waterside. “But it wouldn’t be very easy for
any one to have a struggle, or get a dead body down to the water,
either, without leaving pretty clear marks. The ground’s very spongy
still, you see. It doesn’t look to me as though it ever dried.”

“That’s true,” Wilson agreed, prodding a patch of sedge with his
boat-hook. “The body could have caught in half a dozen places just
under the bank, but I haven’t seen anywhere it could have got in.
Well, we must just carry on.”

They carried on for a long while, patiently searching the bank, until
a bend of the river brought them in sight of the old bridge which
Colonel Lockwood had mentioned.

“This is the first possible place on the left-hand bank,” Wilson
said. “I think I’ll just get out and have a look at it. Is it much
used, do you know?”

“Not very much, sir, I think,” Collins replied. “It’s not safe for
heavy traffic, and it isn’t really much more than a cut between the
Grange and Sir Felix Lewis’s place.”

Wilson climbed out and surveyed the bank. It did not contain many
indications of any kind, and certainly no signs of a struggle or
of the dragging down of a corpse to the waterside. As he crossed
the roadway, with a view to examining the farther side, his eye was
caught by the tracks of a small car coming and going. “Of course,”
he reflected, “if the murder took place at some distance from the
river, a small car would be very handy to run the body down to the
waterside. Still, there’s no particular reason why they should
take him across the bridge, and this car certainly crossed it.” In
the midst of these reflections he happened to raise his eyes and
glance across the bridge to the farther bank, and his whole figure
immediately stiffened with interest.

“I think,” he said, “we’ll just have a look at the tracks of that
car. Of course, the odds are that it may have nothing to do with us;
but it seems to have passed at about the right time--not long after
the last rain fell.”

“Yes, sir.” Collins followed in stolid surprise, which would have
been mitigated had he been aware of the object of Wilson’s attention.
This was a tree, which, when he had looked up, he had noticed
growing on the farther bank. This tree grew straight up for about
four or five feet, and then shot out at right angles to the trunk
an abrupt limb which continued for five or six feet horizontally
without branching in any way. Had a natural gallows been desired, a
better one could scarcely have been found, and just overhanging the
water too, which would swallow up the corpse immediately it was cut
down and bear it along to the Old Malting House. Decidedly, Wilson
thought, this tree, standing at the first firm crossing of the river,
had got to be investigated; and on the way he might as well keep
track of the car.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a building on the opposite bank,
just by the tree. “A boathouse?”

“Boat and summerhouse mixed, sir,” Collins replied. “’Tis on Sir
Felix Lewis’s property. Do you want to look at it, sir?”

“May as well,” said Wilson. “But I’ll just see what happened to the
car first.” By this time Collins had tied up the boat, and joined
him on the bridge. “You see it turned off the road here, just by the
summerhouse, and stopped. It stopped some time, too--you can see that
the wheels sank in pretty deeply. They must have had quite a job
getting it out again.”

“They, sir?” Collins inquired. “Was there more than one?”

“It looks so,” said Wilson, “by the tracks. See here”--he
pointed--“these marks were almost certainly made by people getting
out of the car. And there are two of them, at least. That’s a man’s
foot, size ten. And there’s the mark of a woman’s high-heeled shoe--I
can’t see any print of the whole foot.”

“They don’t look much like a struggle, sir,” Collins, who had been
following with enormous interest his first experience of tracking,
observed. “If they were connected with this affair.”

“They don’t,” Wilson admitted. “Not in the least. Nor was one of
them carrying a heavy weight. I dare say they’ve really nothing to
do with us. However, we may as well finish them off. They went into
the boathouse, it appears.” He followed suit. “Confound it! too many
people have been in this boathouse. I shouldn’t have called it a
particularly nice place to sit, would you? Dark and damp and probably
earwiggy. Yet somebody’s been smoking cigarettes all over the place.”

“Any particular kind, sir?” Collins asked.

“Gold Flake, naturally! This habit of smoking cheap cigarettes is
most deplorable. One cannot arrive at any conclusions nowadays
from a man’s cigarette-ends--not even that they are a man’s. This,
however, is a little more distinctive.” Wilson picked up a bright
purple cigarette-tip. “Silk-tipped, scented Turkish. A nasty kind of
cigarette, but, fortunately, not quite as common as the other. Are
there any more of them?”

“Several, sir,” said Collins, who had been scavenging. “And here’s
one that looks different, just outside the door.”

“It _is_ different,” said Wilson. “That’s a Woodbine. That does tell
us something about the smoker’s class, at all events. What is called
the gentry doesn’t smoke Woodbines. Let’s look round the outside.
There may be some more. Hullo! What’s that?”

In the wood behind the boathouse a sudden rustling had sounded. Both
men sprang towards the back, but only reached it in time to see a
ragged figure leap apparently out of the undergrowth and make a dash
for the road leading away from the river.

“Hi, you there! Come back!” shouted Collins, and plunged heavily
after him. But the figure only ran the faster; and in a few seconds
Collins came back, hot and cursing.

“He’s too quick for me, sir,” he explained apologetically. “Like his
darned sauce, hiding there and listening.”

“Do you know him, then?” Wilson asked.

“All our people do,” was the reply. “He’s Jerry Machin, regular
tramp, beggar, and sneak-thief, always up for poaching or vagrancy.
Perfect nuisance he is hereabouts; but he’s got a sharp tongue in
his head, and his sauce often gets him half a crown or so. I suppose
he’s been camping on Sir Felix’s property, free of charge; and
that’s why he made off. Yes, here’s his bed, you see, all complete.”
He indicated an elaborate nest of straw and dried leaves which
had been piled up against the back of the boathouse. “Here’s his
supper--pinched, I’ll bet. He left in a mighty hurry.”

“And here’s his after-lunch smoke,” said Wilson, picking it up.
“He’s our consumer of Woodbines, I’m afraid. But he doesn’t appear to
have gone inside the boathouse. That was reserved for the use of the
Gold Flakes and the scented Turks--at least, I don’t see any trace of
any other cigarettes. I’ll just have one more look round.”

He went back into the boathouse, and noted that the two smokers
appeared to have sat side by side in one corner for some time,
judging by the number of cigarettes they had consumed. From the
rather faint marks of their feet on the floor he concluded that they
were probably, though not quite certainly, the same pair who had
arrived from the car; and he found adhering to a splinter a small
piece of green silk, presumably from a woman’s dress.

Going round again to the outside of the boathouse, his attention was
caught by what appeared to be the signs of some one having stood a
fair time in the long grass close by it. No footmarks were visible;
but the grass and earth had been heavily pressed down. And the
conjecture was confirmed by the discovery of a shred of grey tweed
caught on a projecting nail in the boathouse wall. There was nothing
very remarkable in that, of course; the only curious thing was that
just by the spot where the man (if it were a man) had stood, there
was a large knot-hole in the boathouse wall, a little more than five
feet above the ground. And, on approaching his face to the knot-hole,
Wilson found that it was immediately behind the place where he had
conjectured that his two smokers were sitting. Had there been a
conversation in the boathouse to which some one had listened outside,
and had that some one, perhaps, waited for the man in the boathouse
to come out, and then struck him down? In that case, was it Meston
who was in the boathouse? and, if so, who was with him? His wife?
But having regard to the conditions of the Meston ménage, it seemed
an odd rendezvous, and an oddly long discussion. Besides, the two in
the boathouse had probably, though not certainly, arrived in a car;
and Meston did not seem to have had access to any car. Meston’s foot
would, as far as Wilson had observed it, have fitted the male prints.
But then, probably, so would a good many other people’s.

Was it possible, then, that it was not Meston who was inside the
boathouse, but Meston who stood outside watching? And did the watched
man then spring out suddenly and deal execution on the spy? There
was no particular sign of a struggle in the grass; but, of course,
Meston might have been taken by surprise. In that case, who was the
man in the shed?--and was it Sylvia Meston with him? The green silk
which his pocket-book contained might provide an answer to the last
question; but Wilson realised that he was building an altogether
extravagantly large hypothesis on the presence of the gallows-tree.
Ten to one the footmarks had nothing whatever to do with the case;
though, after examining them closely, he was inclined to believe
that they must have been made almost immediately after the last
rain--which had fallen, as he had ascertained, on the afternoon
preceding Meston’s disappearance. Last of all he examined the tree,
to see if there was any tell-tale trace left on it. But he could find
nothing definite. About half-way along the straight limb there was
a slight dip, resembling a saddle, where anything hanging from the
limb would naturally have rested. At this point the bark was rather
worn and rubbed, but there were no fibres of rope or any definite
indications visible. However, the bough was certainly marked.

“Collins,” he asked his assistant, after standing a few minutes lost
in thought--“Collins, can you get your people to catch this Machin
for me? I want to talk to him.”

“I should think so, sir,” Collins replied. “His regular haunts are
pretty well known. Do you think he had anything to do with it?”

“I’ve no idea. But _if_ there was anything out of the way happening
here, he may have seen something of it. I should judge he’d been
using this as his hotel for some time. Anyway, it’ll do no harm to
ask him. A woman has been using this place as a rendezvous not so
long ago, at least.”

“All right, sir,” Collins promised. “There’s some one in the wood,
just by the tow-path, sir,” he added.

Wilson looked, and bit off an exclamation of annoyance. Not ten yards
away, just in the shelter of the wood, and concealed by a peculiarly
thick chestnut tree, sat Mr. Brandreth on a stump, with his hands
on his knees, presumably admiring the view of the river. As Wilson
approached, he came towards him, smiling.

“Good hunting, I trust, Superintendent,” he said. “It’s a nice day
for sleuths, I should think.”

What a Jack-in-the-box the man was, Wilson reflected. How long had
he been there, and how much had he seen or heard? Not that there was
anything particularly private about the afternoon’s proceedings, but
he did not wish to conduct all his investigations under the nose of
so leaky a vessel as the little solicitor. “Do you often come this
way?” he asked aloud.

“Oh, now and then,” Mr. Brandreth assured him. “It’s a pleasant
enough walk. And I thought I might meet you.”

“Oh! Why, in particular?”

“Oh, I saw you going up-stream, and supposed you were after the place
where Meston’s body--er--confided itself to the waters. And this is
the first likely spot, of course. Had any luck?”

“Nothing to speak of,” said Wilson. If this were to go on, he
reflected, he would soon get as irritable as Michael Prendergast.




                             CHAPTER XIV


Michael had always had an affection for Colchester. He liked the
Essex country; he liked quiet towns; and he had pleasant memories of
staying in some beautiful old houses in the High Street. However,
on this occasion he decided that his mission was too important to
admit of dallying with his friends, and armed with Wilson’s authority
(to be used, the authority had urged, only in cases of absolute
necessity), he set out on the novel task of picking up information.

He began with an annoying setback. At Meston’s office he had not
expected to garner very much, and he was therefore not disappointed
when the clerk-in-charge refused to give him any but the barest
possible information. It was fairly obvious that the clerk knew that
there was something in the wind; it was equally obvious that he had
been strictly ordered to disclose nothing, and Michael did not feel
that he looked important enough to demand to see private papers. Mr.
Meston’s, he learned, were locked in the desk of the senior partner,
who had come over and taken them on the afternoon of the finding of
the body. Yes, Mr. Warden had been in the office at the time; in
fact, both partners had been in every day since Mr. Meston had left.
Neither of them was there at the moment. Mr. Hanborough had gone over
to the inquest, and Mr. Warden to his home. The clerk understood that
his father was worse. Michael was rather relieved, at the moment,
that this should be so, for he was not at all inclined to explain
his mission to Warden’s ingenuous mind; and, having acquired the
private address of both the other partners, he went on his way.

As he reached the door of Meston’s house he saw a man emerging, and
wondered idly what his business was. He was not at all pleased to
gather, from his reception, that the man had come on approximately
the same errand as himself, and had, moreover, apparently pumped
Meston’s housekeeper dry. She did not actually turn him from the
door; but she provided no information, replying morosely that “she
couldn’t say” to direct questions, and rejecting all attempts to draw
her into conversation or gossip. In despair, Michael tried his last
resource, the production of Wilson’s card, but it seemed to carry no
weight with her. She would not even allow an inspection of the man’s
rooms.

“What about Mrs. Meston’s?” Michael asked hopefully.

“There ain’t nothing of hers here,” was the reply, with a pursing of
the lips which suggested that the speaker shared Michael’s views on
the lady’s character. “She took them all away when she came.”

“Oh! When was that?”

“Couldn’t say.” The housekeeper, seeming to feel that she had
inadvertently allowed a morsel of information to escape her, shut up
like a clam, and Michael, after a few more ineffective feelers, came
away in no very pleasant mood, and betook himself to Hanborough’s
house, which was a red brick villa a mile or so from the centre of
the town.

His spirits were not brightened by passing, within a hundred yards
of the gate, the visitor who had preceded him to Meston’s house. The
man obviously recognised him, for he paused in his walk and looked
up almost as if he were going to speak. But he thought better of it,
and Michael passed on with the gloomiest anticipations of his coming
interview.

The reality could not well have been worse. The maid who answered
the door refused to admit him on any pretext; and when he tried to
press her, the only result was to bring down a horrifying and voluble
old lady looking very like a macaw, who screamed furious denials at
him till he retired in despair, convinced that even Wilson himself
could not have got in without physical force. “Confound it! how _do_
detectives get hold of information?” he muttered to himself as he
went away.

His wrath was complete when, on turning into the main road, he beheld
the first caller obviously waiting to see him come out. “Damn the
man!” Michael thought. “I might as well give up my job if he’s going
to get in first and spoil my hand at every turn.” And he prepared his
best scowl for the interloper.

The latter, however, seemed hardly to notice it, but as he came up
addressed him in a quite pleasant voice, though with a tinge of
officialism about it. “Dr. Prendergast?” he inquired.

“You have the advantage of me,” said Michael sulkily.

For answer, the stranger produced a card from his pocket, and handed
it over. It bore the name of Inspector Bille, of the Essex County
Constabulary.

“Well?” Michael said, wondering. “What is it? Do you want to arrest
me?”

Inspector Bille laughed, a low-powered chuckle. “No, indeed, sir,” he
said. “But I noticed you as I was coming away from Meston’s house,
and when I saw you here it struck me you might be wondering what I
was up to. Working with the Superintendent, I take it?” To the Forces
throughout the country, Wilson was always simply “the Superintendent.”

“Yes,” said Michael, slightly mollified--“though I don’t know how you
knew me. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“Colonel Lockwood pointed you out, sir, this morning,” Inspector
Bille explained. “I was in two minds whether to stop you before you
went in.”

“You might just as well have stopped me,” Michael grumbled, “for all
the help I got. You seem to have turned off the supply of information
pretty successfully at both places.”

Bille laughed again. “Well, sir, people--particularly old Mrs.
Hanborough--don’t very much like answering questions, unless they’re
going to get their names in the papers. And if you’ll pardon me
saying so, you don’t look very much like a newspaper man.”

“My own impression,” said Michael, “was rather that you’d forbidden
either her or Meston’s housekeeper to say a word to any one.”

“We’re a bit exclusive, no doubt,” Bille said. “We don’t, in a
general way, encourage people to chatter more than they need. But
for the Superintendent, it’s a different matter, of course; and as
you’re, so to speak, his representative, if I understand rightly,
I’ll be happy to give _you_ any information I’ve got, sir. If you’re
not doing anything in a hurry, what about taking a spot of lunch with
me, and we’ll talk over anything you want to know?”

Relieved by his affability, Michael made no demur, not even when
it appeared that the Inspector’s taste in lunches was quite other
than his own, and submitted to be seated in a little fly-blown
tea-shop-cum-restaurant, and fed on pale boiled mutton, with soapy
potatoes and nauseating greens.

“What point exactly were you on, sir?” the Inspector began. “There’s
no one else here” (“And no wonder,” thought Michael, swallowing a
piece of gristle) “so you can talk quite freely, if you don’t raise
your voice too much.”

Michael passed on Wilson’s commissions about Meston and Hanborough.

“Yes, I thought so,” the Inspector said. “Now this is what I’ve been
able to pick up. It mayn’t be much, but it’s something. There’s
something very wrong with Meston’s firm, and what’s more, he knew
about it, whether innocently or guiltily I can’t say for certain.
The last week or so before his departure, he’d been taking the books
home almost every night, and looking as worried as a sick cat in the
daytime.”

“Did you see his private papers?” Michael interrupted. “The clerk
wouldn’t let me look at them.”

“I expect he would if I’d asked him,” said the Inspector, not above
rubbing in the advantages of belonging to the regulars; “but I
thought I’d let it lie a bit. If Meston should happen to be innocent,
sir, you see, we don’t want parties that may happen to be guilty--of
anything--too wise to what we’re doing.”

“You think Meston was innocent?”

“I shouldn’t like to say definitely. All I can say is, if he’s guilty
he’s put it away pretty carefully. There’s no sign of his having
been flush at any time in the past few years; there’s nothing odd
about his banking account, and nothing in his will (I’ve seen his
lawyer) that’s any way out of the common. I expect you know, sir, his
wife gets a life-interest as long as she doesn’t marry again; but
there’s very little that doesn’t die with him. Not above two or three
hundred, I should say.”

“Is it true she’d removed all her personal property from her rooms?
And if so, why?”

“Oh, you got that, sir? Yes, it’s quite true. It was while he was
with you--at the Old Malting House, I should say” (as Michael gave
a wriggle of repudiation). “As to why, it seems she was meaning to
leave him finally. What’s more to my mind is, where did she take ’em?”

“Why, to the Grange, surely. Where else?”

“Well, I don’t know. She may or she may not. She’d Mr. Burden, the
actor, with her, for one thing.”

“Running over pigs in Meadon!” Michael interjected.

“That’s so, sir. Of course, she may’ve had anything in her mind.
The housekeeper, who hates her like poison, as good as told me
she’d killed him. Curious how nobody that knows him here cottons
to the idea of suicide. Most of ’em would put it down to his good
lady--though not with any notion how she could have done it, of
course.”

“Well, Hanborough? What about him?”

“Ah, there’s more there, I fancy, than you found. Mr. Hanborough’s
been dipping a bit, there’s no doubt; and from all I’ve heard one
way and another, it’s pretty clear he could always do with a little
extra cash. And this Strake, whom he’s put on to look into matters,
is an old clerk of his whom he sacked; and it’s well known that he
could have had him in the dock if he’d liked. So it’s not likely, to
say the least of it, that he was intended to find out anything that’d
make against Mr. Hanborough’s interests. He’s free with his money, is
Mr. Hanborough, and well enough liked hereabouts; but Newmarket’s a
bit too near for him, if you get me. And about two years ago he was
pretty heavily in debt, which he’s been clearing slowly. I’ve one or
two more points of that kind, which I can work up more closely if
I need to. I don’t want to be starting a lot more talk to-day, you
see--particularly since I’ve found out that Mr. Hanborough wasn’t at
home the night Meston was murdered.”

“Oh!” said Michael. “Why, where was he?” The Inspector sat back, well
pleased with his effect.

“He left home, sir, about 9 p.m., saying he was going to a party at
the Grange and would be in early in the morning. Then he didn’t get
back till after ten next day. His wife’s away, but I got this from
his mother--the old lady you saw. Well, of course, it may be all
right, and it may not--but we’d better keep our eyes----”

At this point the Inspector suddenly stopped, and devoted his
attention to a slab of rice pudding. Michael, seeking an explanation,
saw a slim, fair-haired girl in blue, whose face seemed vaguely
familiar to him, enter rather hurriedly and sit down. He telegraphed
an inquiry.

“Miss Loring,” the Inspector whispered in reply. “The Squire’s
sister.”

So this was Mark Warden’s fiancée. On inspection, Michael decided
that he liked her looks. She was obviously a good fifteen years
younger than her brother, an open-faced, blue-eyed child who
probably valued Warden as much for his cricket as for any other
quality. At the moment she seemed worried and anxious; her fair brows
were knitted, and she looked round the room rather nervously from
time to time.

Michael, on a sudden impulse, leaned over to the Inspector. “I think
I’d like a word with Miss Loring,” he said in a low voice. “Her
fiancé’s a friend of mine. There isn’t anything else we ought to
discuss here, is there?”

“Not as far as I’m concerned, sir,” said the Inspector impassively.
“Anyway, I ought to be getting along. I’ve an appointment at the
Colchester station at two-forty-five. But you’ll remember, sir,
fair’s fair. If you or the Superintendent do get any information
bearing on these matters, I would take it very kindly if you’d pass
it on.”

“I’ll see you have it--if I get anything worth having, which
personally I very much doubt,” Michael promised. “Good-day.” And,
leaving the Inspector stolidly consuming pudding, he made his way to
Edna Loring’s side. “At any rate,” he thought, as she lifted her eyes
and looked at him with frank amazement, “she’s not a siren.”

Siren or no, the girl seemed pleased enough to see him, when once she
had grasped who he was. She declined lunch, saying she had already
had it, but demanded coffee, rather to Michael’s astonishment, since
he could hardly imagine that even unsophisticated youth (if there was
such a thing at Loring Grange) would deliberately choose to drink
its coffee in broken-down tea-shops. The coffee, when it arrived,
confirmed him in this view; but Edna drank it without comment, and
even demanded a second supply. Michael began to get a little puzzled.
What _was_ the Squire’s sister doing here, unattended? and still
more, why did she appear so content, nay, even pleased, with his
rather humdrum company? Michael was no more modest than most men, but
he had never had reason to think himself specially attractive to the
opposite sex. Nor could he now believe that Edna Loring was moved by
any strong personal feeling for him.

She talked, certainly; indeed, it would not be wholly untrue to say
that she chattered. But it was of entirely indifferent things--the
weather, the prospects of Essex county cricket, the various breeds
of sporting dogs, etc.; and she did not appear to have the slightest
interest in the matters which one would have imagined they had most
in common. She mentioned Mark’s health, and his family, but not his
business or his business prospects; and a tentative reference to
Mr. William Meston elicited only a downright opinion that he was
better dead, after which she quite plainly shelved the subject. If
he had not had an uneasy conviction that he was playing truant, like
a schoolboy, from the business he had been set to do in Colchester,
Michael, after his humiliating experiences of the morning, would
have thoroughly enjoyed himself. He liked cheerful, downright young
things, when they were willing to talk to him, and he liked Edna
Loring particularly. But he could not help feeling a little guilty,
and at the same time wondering more and more why the girl should want
to detain him talking there.

He had just reached the conclusion, absurd though he felt it to be,
that she was contemplating an unpleasant interview or task of some
sort for which she wanted a protector, when she suddenly looked at
her watch, and asked, in a quite different tone, “Dr. Prendergast,
would you like to do me a service?”

“Ah!” thought Michael to himself. “Now we’re coming to it.” Aloud
he only said, “I should be delighted,” with more sincerity than he
expected in his voice. Indeed, he would have been quite pleased to
help the girl--if he could reasonably do so.

“Then drive me back to the Grange.”

“What!” This was the last request he would have anticipated.

“Drive me back to the Grange,” Edna Loring repeated, looking at him
earnestly.

“But----” Michael, rather disconcerted, temporised. “I haven’t got a
car. I came over by train. And I can’t drive to speak of.”

“Oh!” Edna obviously thought this an odd state of things. “Well, you
could hire one, couldn’t you?”

“But--didn’t you come by car?”

“Yes, but it’s Wallace’s. Wallace Burden’s, you know. And I don’t
want him to drive me back. I want _you_ to take me back, if you will.”

“But doesn’t Mr. Burden want to go back?” said Michael obtusely.

“Yes, he does. And I don’t want him to. Don’t you see?” As Michael
apparently did not, she added impatiently, “Oh, Dr. Prendergast,
you do make it difficult! Must I put everything in words of three
letters? I don’t want Wallace because I don’t want him to make love
to me, don’t you see?”

“But----” Michael was conscious of gaping like an idiot, but the
sudden shift of Mr. Burden’s affections was too much for him. “But I
thought--Mrs. Meston----”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. I don’t want any more of Sylvia Meston’s
cast-offs. And I don’t like Wallace, anyway.”

“Cast-offs?” Michael repeated.

“Well, you know what I mean. You all but said so yourself. Wallace
and Sylvia had a row of sorts this morning. So he hadn’t anything
to do, and he offered to drive me into Colchester. I didn’t know
anything about it then, or I wouldn’t have let him. Of course, I
found out as soon as we’d started, and then--pah! I always seem to
get hold of people who want to hold Sylvia’s hand, and think mine
will do next best if they can’t get it. I used to slap them,” said
Edna reflectively, surveying her own vigorous brown hand, “but you
can’t slap people for ever. I hate men!” she finished suddenly.

“Including Warden?” Michael asked, with slight amusement.

“Mark! _Mark_ isn’t men! Oh, don’t be silly; you know what I mean.
Of course, if I could get hold of Mark, I shouldn’t be asking you. I
mean----” At this point Edna, realising her extreme candour, burst
out laughing. “I don’t suppose I can pretend that was tactful, Dr.
Prendergast. But I thought you’d understand. Truthfully, there’s
been such a bother lately that I’ve got fed up. I almost thought of
running away at one time; and if I have much more of Wallace, I shall
commit murder or something. You do see that, don’t you? I got rid
of him after lunch, and came in here because I thought I’d be safe;
but I’ve half promised to let him take me to tea with some people
he knows. And then we’re going home. Well, I simply can’t face it. I
know Wallace, and he’s like a hippopotamus; he can’t believe that any
innocent young thing wouldn’t give a thousand pounds to squeeze his
hand. So, when you came over, I wondered if you weren’t an angel from
heaven--you know what I mean”--as Michael laughed--“and if we could
arrange to go back together, and give Wallace a hint, it would be so
much nicer. But probably you can’t.”

“But if he’s a hippopotamus,” Michael, finding the situation
embarrassing if pleasant, suggested, “will he take a hint? And I
really can’t drive.”

“Oh, Wallace won’t make a third,” said Edna, with decision. “If I
say I’m going with you, he’ll go off somewhere and sulk. He won’t
call you out. Of course, if you can’t drive, you can’t. But I could
drive. Or we could hire a man with the car, and he could take it back
from the Grange. That would perhaps be the best way. Would you mind
very much, Dr. Prendergast? I should be most awfully grateful--if you
could bear it.”

Michael was not at all sure whether he minded or not; but eventually
he agreed, subject to Edna’s herself undertaking to get rid of the
spare cavalier, and subject also to his being given the afternoon to
make one more attempt to acquire the information for which he had
been sent. He liked the girl, and his sympathy for her immediate
predicament was enhanced by the cordial dislike of Wallace Burden
which he had conceived from the first glimpse he had caught of that
gentleman’s classic profile. His friends’ fiancées, whether or not
desirable in themselves, ought to be preserved from Wallace Burdens,
he felt. There was, further, the added chance, whose attractiveness
he would not have admitted to himself, of seeing at close quarters
the ménage at the Grange, of which so many rumours were current.
Michael was himself quite certain that the Grange was the kind of
place to harbour any number of murderers; and possibly a visit there,
under Edna Loring’s wing, might provide him with a clue. So, moved
by a mixture of chivalry, wrath, and curiosity, he consented to go
and hire a car, and to meet Edna again for tea at a somewhat more
inspiring rendezvous--Burden, it was to be hoped, being by that time
satisfactorily removed from the picture.




                              CHAPTER XV


As luck would have it, just as Michael was completing his
negotiations about a car to take them back to the Grange, Wallace
Burden himself came into the garage to collect his own Talbot. He
looked as offensively handsome as ever, and Michael wanted nothing so
much as to knock him down; but as the man had been standing by the
office wicket while the transaction was taking place, including the
name of the hirer and the destination of the car, and had obviously
listened with interest, Michael thought that it might prove rather
awkward if he did not explain. Accordingly, he briefly described his
meeting with Edna Loring, his friend’s fiancée, and his intention of
taking her home; and was considerably surprised, not to say pleased,
to find that the actor seemed more relieved than otherwise.

“Oh, very well,” Burden said. “In that case, I’ll be getting on
to town, I think. Will you tell Miss Loring for me, and thank her
for her hospitality and all, you know? Matter of fact,” he added,
with a grin, “it’s a bit overdone for me, I must say--with all this
excitement recently. Look here, Dr. Prendergast,” with a sudden
movement he took Michael by the arm and dragged him out into the
street, “you found this fellow Meston, didn’t you? Well, you know
they’re saying he’s been murdered. What’s your view about that, eh?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” said Michael, who had no intention
of being pumped in this quarter. “I have nothing to do with it,
officially. Why didn’t you go to the inquest, if you want to know?”

“And be asked a lot of damfool questions by a silly coroner? Not
likely,” the actor said, with an angry shrug. “Do you think I want
to be mixed up with a murder case? Loring ought to keep his damned
village in better order, if he wants people to stay in it. No, thank
you. I’m off--if you’ve nothing to tell me?”

“Nothing at all, I’m afraid,” said Michael, shaking him off. He was
so glad to see the last of him that it was not until he was well
inside the public library and had secured the _Medical Directory_
that it occurred to him to wonder at the reason of this sudden
departure, immediately a suspicion of murder was raised. Was Wallace
Burden putting a convenient distance between himself and any too
inquiring policeman? And ought Michael to have warned anybody in
authority? However, Inspector Bille, after their brief lunch, had
completely disappeared, and Michael did not feel equal to tackling
the Colchester police force. He decided that it would be enough if
he informed Wilson on his return, and set to work to look up Dr.
Kershaw’s medical record.

Dr. Amory Kershaw had graduated M.D. from Guy’s Hospital in 1904,
with a good degree. After that, he had held two or three temporary
posts of the kind normally occupied by newly qualified men, and had
then become physician to a fair-sized Midland hospital, where he
had remained till 1910. He had, in the meantime, published one or
two monographs on medical subjects, and, as far as Michael could
judge from the _Medical Directory_, was on the high-road to become
a distinguished physician. But after 1910 there was a gap, and in
1913 he reappeared in some unintelligible job in Stamboul, which
he had apparently held until he left to join the army in 1915.
After the war, in which his career had been perfectly normal, he
had taken on this Essex practice, which he had retained ever since,
becoming police-surgeon in 1924. The only two points of suspicion
in the record were the gap between 1910 and 1913, followed by a
distant appointment, and the rather humdrum work to which a man of
exceptionally high qualifications had apparently settled down. The
latter might, of course, be due to war injuries; but the _Medical
Directory_ is not exactly a repository of gossip, and Michael had no
real hope of finding out anything else. He called at a friend’s house
in Colchester, and made some inquiries; but it did not appear that
Dr. Kershaw was known so far afield. About Meston and Hanborough,
on the other hand, every one was willing to talk--and the latter’s
fondness for good company and the former’s hatred of it were becoming
as familiar to Michael as the palm of his hand by the time he kept
his rendezvous. One fact which puzzled him not a little, but which
was attested by more than one witness, was that Meston, in the last
week or so of his life, had been observed more than once in the
company of bookies. Had the virtuous man fallen from grace at the end?

Tea with Edna Loring was a refreshing and enjoyable affair. Relieved
of the incubus of Burden, and highly amused at the manner of his
departure--“I suppose that was what he quarrelled with Sylvia
about”--Edna talked happily all through the meal, and Michael was
both surprised and annoyed when the hired car appeared. As he was
handing the passenger in, a sudden voice said, “Hullo, Edna!” and a
tweed-clad, florid-faced person with a cheerful smile appeared.

“Hullo, Nick!” Edna responded; and introduced Mr. Hanborough. Mr.
Hanborough appeared to enjoy a casual chat, and detained them some
little time before they could get away, congratulating Edna on having
had the sense to avoid the inquest, which had proved a complete frost
in the matter of sensation.

“They didn’t even call the doctor fellow who had a row with Kershaw
about the cause of death,” he said, as they were parting. “And
Evershed shut up any poor chap who so much as whispered. If you ask
me, the police ought to have a compulsory training in elementary
psychology. The amount of unsatisfied curiosity there was in that
room this afternoon would drive a dozen men to murder. Well,
good-bye, my dear, and good luck.”

“I say, Dr. Prendergast,” Edna asked, as they drove away, “were _you_
the mysterious doctor who disagreed?”

Michael admitted it, but declined to enter upon discussion, and as
soon as he could changed the subject, and once more began making
inquiries about Nicholas Hanborough. Edna, who appeared to like the
senior partner, answered willingly for some time, though she was
obviously more and more puzzled; but when Michael began asking her
about Hanborough’s doings on the night of Meston’s death, she gave a
gasp of amazement.

“Why, he was at our dance, of course! Dr. Prendergast, what is the
matter with you? Any one would think he was a criminal, and you were
trying to test his alibi!”

“Well,” Michael considered, “that was the night Meston died, wasn’t
it? And no one knows yet whether it was an accident--or whether he
killed himself--or whether some one killed him. I mean--there’s talk
of some financial trouble between Meston and Mr. Hanborough, and it’s
possible that some one may want to know where he was that night.”

“I see,” said Edna. She turned her face to Michael, and the latter
was surprised to see how white it had become. “Well, they needn’t
ask. He was at our dance.”

“All the time?”

“Yes. Well, I can’t say every minute. But he was about nearly all the
time. I mean, I noticed him almost every time I looked up.”

“How long did it go on?”

“Till about six. But Nick didn’t go then. He and I and several others
drove over to Little Friday and had breakfast. It was too fine to go
to bed. Then we stayed in the woods a bit. We didn’t get back till
after nine. Then Nick went back. He said he’d got to get home, and
then to the office.”

And he arrived about then, Michael reflected. That looked like an
alibi, at any rate for the earlier part of the twenty-four hours he
had mentioned to Wilson. Edna Loring, he felt in his bones, was a
good witness. He would have acquitted any one on her evidence. But
why did she look so worried?

“Dr. Prendergast,” she said suddenly, “why are you asking this? Why
should you--or any one else--think Nick Hanborough has anything to do
with Mr. Meston’s death--however he died? What does it matter where
he was?”

“Well,” Michael hedged, “he knew Meston well, and----”

“So did dozens of people! And you aren’t bothering about them. Why
about Nick? Is it--because he was his partner? Is it anything to do
with that money business?”

So she knew! Whether Mark had been less than discreet, or whether
the long tongues of Steeple Tollesbury had been busy about that as
well as everything else, did not seem to matter. She knew, and she
was alarmed. This could only point to one person--Mark. On a sudden
impulse Michael leaned forward and took her hands in his. He could
feel them shaking.

“Miss Loring,” he said gently, “won’t you let me help you?”

The girl stiffened, and was silent. “Is it about Mark?” Michael
pressed. A slight twitch was the only answer. “Listen,” Michael said.
“I’ve known Mark for a long time--though not as long as you have--and
it would be sheer nonsense to suggest his having anything to do with
anything doubtful. If there’s something, I don’t know what, that
worries you--something that wants explaining--I’m quite sure it can
be easily explained. Whatever has or hasn’t happened to Meston, it’s
absolutely certain _Mark_ had nothing whatever to do with it. Can’t
you trust me?”

Not exactly the professional detective’s manner, Michael thought. But
it had its reward at once, in the look of relief that came into Edna
Loring’s face and the return of the colour to her cheeks.

“Oh, you _are_ nice!” she said appreciatively. “It was only--I got
into an idiotic panic for a minute, you sounded so portentous. As if
you were meaning to arrest Nick the next moment, if he couldn’t say
where he was that night. But I knew he was at the party, and then I
suddenly remembered that Mark--Mark wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t he?”

“At least, he was and he wasn’t. I mean, he came to the party--only
he hated it, and went away soon after midnight, I think it was. And I
know he didn’t go home, because he told me he’d spent ages wandering
about--he does that, sometimes. Then when I thought you were asking
about Nick just because he was that man’s partner--I simply went cold
all over. I can’t think how I could have been so silly, but I feel
much better now. Thank you.”

“Did Mark tell you about the money?” Michael asked, wondering whether
he had not been slightly carried away by his enthusiasm. Was it
possible that Warden----? No, surely it was absurd. Was all his
journey to Colchester to result only in clearing everybody except his
own friend?

“No.” Edna answered his last question. “Godfrey hinted something to
me. I suppose Nick told him. Mark hasn’t said anything, and I didn’t
like to ask him. He doesn’t believe in mixing up women and business,
you know. And, anyway, he’s been in a funny mood lately, jumpy and
not like himself. I shouldn’t wonder if that had got on my nerves a
bit, and made me see bogies. I’m all right now. But, Dr. Prendergast,
if you know and Godfrey knows, it can’t be much of a secret, can
it? I wish you’d tell me just what it is that’s gone wrong with the
business. I swear I won’t say a word to a soul--even to Mark--if you
think I’d better not. But it’s pretty awful, not knowing.”

More to save himself from awkward questions than from any other
reason, Michael told her. She listened attentively, with her chin
on her hands, putting occasionally a question whose appositeness
surprised him. But her final reception of the story astonished him
still more.

“When did Mark tell you all this?” she asked. Provided with some
particulars of the discussion in the Old Malting House, she leaned
back with a triumphant smile.

“Then it _was_ Mr. Wilson!” she said. “I knew I was right!”

“Who?”

“Why, your friend! I told Mark so; but he wouldn’t believe me. Mark
never remembers names, but he told me a long time ago about your
wonderful Scotland Yard friend called Wilson; and when he said you’d
a friend called Wilson staying with you, I thought at once it must
be the same. Oh, Dr. Prendergast, how perfectly marvellous! And is
he going to find out all about everything? Oh, very well,” seeing
Michael’s alarmed face. “If it’s a secret I won’t tell any one.
Really, I won’t. But you shouldn’t have such a nice innocent face,
you know?”




                             CHAPTER XVI


“There’s the drive,” said Edna. “You’ll stay to dinner, won’t you?
Oh, _please_--I can’t face them alone!” And Michael, feeling he might
as well see the thing through, agreed to stay, though he was not
quite sure of his own wisdom.

The car moved slowly up the long, curving drive, which at points was
singularly narrow for the entrance to a “gentleman’s residence” of
any size.

“More like a country lane than a drive,” Michael commented. “Isn’t
it rather dangerous?” he asked, as they swung suddenly round a
completely blind corner which was not rendered any the safer for
having a stretch of wider road leading up to it, and a broad expanse
of parkland almost immediately beyond. He did not feel that the shape
of the bend was compensated for by the trails of honeysuckle which
brushed his shoulders on the one side, a high fence forming the other.

“Oh, frightfully, I should think,” Edna said. “But it’s always been
the same, and nobody will have it altered. They cut back the hedge
every now and then. But it isn’t so dangerous as you think. Every one
hereabouts knows it, and coming from the village they always hoot and
wait to see if anything’s coming.”

“But coming from the Grange? Or a stranger?”

“Cars from the Grange have the right of way. Anyway, nobody runs
straight through except Godfrey, and every one knows his horn. And
strangers oughtn’t to dash up other people’s drives at any pace they
like. Serve them right if they do get smashed,” said Edna, with such
surprising callousness as Michael could only excuse by assuming she
had grown up from birth with the death-trap. “Do you like the park?”

“It’s in awfully good order,” Michael said appreciatively. “It isn’t
often one sees timber as well kept in these degenerate days.”

“Oh, that’s Tulumba,” Edna said. “Rubber, I mean. You know Father
and Godfrey both got disgustingly rich on rubber plantations. So
Godfrey can afford to have the place properly kept up. It wasn’t
like that when I first remember it; it was full of dead wood, and
half the trees were falling down. But Father had all the dead stuff
cleared away, and Godfrey’s planted a lot, and brought the deer back.
We couldn’t do it if we weren’t bloodsucking capitalists. But it’s
rather nice, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t have to plough the park up in the war?”

“No, Father was on the County Agricultural Committee,” Edna explained
simply. “There’s the house. Isn’t it hideous?”

On the whole, Michael thought, it was. In origin it was probably
Elizabethan, or earlier, and a mellow group of red brick stables set
at one side seemed to belong to the earliest period. But the large
square Queen Anne block immediately to their left did not match them
at all; and worse still was an enormous Early Victorian atrocity in
yellowish-grey, with bands of Palladian ornament, which stood beside
the Queen Anne block, and just succeeded in overtopping it with an
obvious and ludicrous effort. It was as if one’s grandmother had
decided to stand permanently on tiptoe. Beyond that again came an
indifferent restoration of something seventeenth-century in type; and
a water tower or similar object of late nineteenth-century origin
towered above everything else in the extreme left-hand corner. As
the car swept across the front of the house preparatory to turning
into the stable-yard, Michael saw, across a couple of tennis-courts,
a flagged and flowered terrace on which half a dozen people were
distributed.

“Wallace hasn’t come back, anyway,” Edna said. “That’s one good
thing. Come along and I’ll introduce you.”

“Who are all those people?” Michael asked, as they neared the
terrace, having left the car to return to Colchester.

“Oh, nobody in particular. That’s Godfrey--my brother--in the
deck-chair, and the one walking up and down behind him is Brian
Mackenzie, the Zambesi man. That’s Tom Shane leaning up against the
sundial, and the one sitting on the steps is Leslie Buckton. The
woman by him is Dora Schlesinger, and the other’s Tony Druce. Olga
Felling ought to be somewhere about, but I don’t see her. I wonder
where Sylvia is?”

As soon as she had finished her introductions, Edna repeated the
last question, while Michael surveyed the group for possible
murderers. As an honest man, he was forced to admit that he met with
little success. Nobody’s face expressed much but boredom and slight
ill-temper, though Mackenzie favoured him with a glance of fierce
suspicion. Except for the two women, who belonged to an angular,
high-coloured type which he strongly disliked, the smooth face of
Shane the barrister impressed Michael most unfavourably. Leslie
Buckton he put down as a pink-faced goose. But Wilson, he remembered,
had contemptuously dismissed any idea of Shane’s criminality. This
was very annoying.

At Edna’s question Godfrey Loring threw up his hands in mock despair.

“My dear Edna--must you join the gang? Tom and Brian have been asking
me that question in alternate five minutes for the last two hours.”
The K.C. gave an angry shrug; but Mackenzie took no notice. “I did
think you would have spared me. Couldn’t Wallace tell you?--or what
have you done with him?”

“Don’t be silly, Godfrey. I only asked where she was.”

“I do not know. Cross my heart, I do not know. She disappeared after
that ridiculous ceremony in the town--don’t you want to hear about
it, by the way?”

“No. I met Nick.”

“Well, anyway, she departed, and I’ve not had the pleasure of seeing
her since. Gone to hold Lockwood’s hand, most likely. Sylvia always
has a tenderness for the old and decrepit. Were you nice to Wallace?”

“I don’t know. He’s gone to town,” Edna said in an indifferent tone.

“Damn quick work,” said the Squire coarsely. “I will say that for
Wallace, he doesn’t waste time. One woman for breakfast, another for
lunch, and just in time to get a third for dinner. It’s a shame to
leave you to forage for yourself, though”--with a glance at Michael.

“Shut up,” said Edna.

“Don’t get shirty, my child. I tried to find your young man for
you, but he wasn’t to be seen. Nick was representing the firm’s
sorrow--only he left his black band at home. Try consoling one of
these chaps, if you’re hard up. Dora and Tony have been at it ever
since tea without getting a rise.”

“She won’t have long to try,” either Dora or Tony remarked without
heat, as Edna turned crossly back to Michael. “There _is_ Sylvia.”

A perceptible electric movement ran through the little group; and
all, Michael included, swung round to see Sylvia’s slim figure
turning the corners of the terrace. She was paler than on the
previous day, and there was a definite furrow of anxiety or fear
between her brows. Obviously she was looking for some one; and
Michael noticed with distinct satisfaction that she favoured him with
a special stare of hostility before her eyes finally came to rest on
the Squire. There was some sort of appeal or command in her glance,
to which Godfrey Loring responded with a grunt and a wriggle, which
was probably his limit of graciousness; but she delayed long enough
to fling crumbs to the hungry trio.

“Hullo, everybody!” she said. “Isn’t it sinfully hot? Leslie, have
you got a fag? You were quite right to keep out of that court. It’s a
blessing for me Brian was brought up in the tropics, and kept cool.
He was about the only cool thing in the room. Why didn’t you come,
Tom? You could have asked Dr. Evershed leading questions--isn’t that
what you call them?--and made life a little more interesting for all
the poor dears who’d put on their Sunday-best to come. Oh, God! I’ll
never go to another inquest, not even if it’s my own. Godfrey, I
want to talk to you. Come indoors. No, lazy pig, I won’t stay here.
It’s too hot, and I want a drink. Come on.”

Firmly declining all the rather feeble efforts made to keep her
on the terrace, she led the way indoors, whither Godfrey Loring
eventually followed her, with steps lighter than his bulk would have
led one to expect. The group on the terrace stood limply still for a
moment after they had gone.

“Oh, _come_ on!” one of the women remarked at last in a sudden shrill
voice. “What’s the _use_ of standing about? Who’ll play tennis?”

“Go on, Tom,” said Leslie Buckton. “It’ll keep your figure slim.”

“No, thank you,” said Shane. “Come down and look at the frogs,” to
Edna, who merely shook her head.

“I must say,” the woman who had spoken complained to the world at
large, “you are a nice _cheerful_ set.”

This was also Michael’s feeling when, after nearly an hour of almost
pointless conversation, he was sent in Buckton’s charge to wash
his hands for dinner. If these were murderers, he felt they had
singularly little pleasure in their deed. So far from being a giddy
haunt of vice, Loring Grange appeared at the moment to be nearly the
most boring place on earth. His impression was deepened when they met
again over listless cocktails, and he observed how each of the three
men kept his eyes unashamedly glued to the door. As the gong went,
Godfrey Loring, wearing a triumphant grin, looked in.

“To save everybody trouble,” he observed, “may I just announce that
Sylvia’s not coming to dinner?”

“Fagged out?” inquired Buckton solicitously. He, at least, appeared
to have the merit of bearing his infatuation lightly; at least, he
put his arm round the woman called Olga, with a very fair attempt at
friendliness.

“Fed up, I should call it,” his host responded brutally. “She
seems to have had enough of the lot of you. Anyway, she’s gone
off--skipped--and isn’t coming back to-night, or for some time. So
sorry for you all. Another cocktail, doctor? No? Well, you can wait
for me to have one.” He drank it off. “Shall we go in and drown
Sylvia’s memory? Champagne, I think? Or would you prefer Australian
Burgundy?”

They went into the dining-room, there to partake of a longer and
drearier meal than Michael would have believed possible. There was
plenty to eat and drink, and of excellent quality, and if he had
only wanted to get drunk, he had plenty of opportunity. As he did
not, he could only listen to Godfrey Loring, who appeared to be in
excellent spirits, making inferior jokes against all the company
impartially, most of them not in what Michael considered good taste.
As his own drink mounted to his head, he began to wonder fiercely how
Mark Warden could endure to leave his fiancée a day longer in that
atmosphere--though Edna, he noticed with regret, appeared to object
to it much less than he did.

Towards the end of the meal, the K.C., who had been firmly resisting
the determined attempts of both Dora and Tony to annex him,
announced, with a carefully detached air, that he regretted that
business would call him to London early next morning.

Loring laughed heartily, and flicked some bread at him. “Mind you
call on Wallace,” he said. “Perhaps he’ll go shares with you. Well,
Brian, what about you? Where are you thinking of going? Buluwayo?”

Mackenzie clenched a lean fist but said nothing.

“Falling like autumn leaves,” the Squire said. “Well, doctor, you and
I’ll have to console ourselves. How about a game of billiards? Oh,
come, you’re not going after Sylvia too? A hundred up!” But this,
Michael thought, was really more than chivalry required, though he
was surprised to hear Edna second her brother’s invitation. Firmly he
said he must go.

“I’ll drive you down to the town, if you like. I’m going that way,”
Mackenzie offered. It was almost the first time he had spoken, and
Michael, after a little hesitation, accepted. Perhaps Mackenzie would
provide some information.

The intervening time he spent in detaching himself from his host and
wandering with Edna in the hot, dark garden. As unobtrusively as he
could, he tried to find out where all the house-party had spent the
fatal hours of Friday week; but he got little or no satisfaction.
As far as Edna knew, they had all been at the dance. But Michael
gathered that from midnight onwards nobody had been very clear
where anybody else was, and that, though alibis might possibly be
forthcoming, they would have to be sought in detail.

“They’re _all_ suspects, in fact,” he said to himself; “and not one
more than the other. Where’s Mrs. Meston gone, do you know?” he asked.

“Not an idea,” Edna said, with indifference. “Godfrey knows, but he
likes to keep things to himself if it annoys people. She’ll come
back some time, I suppose. There’s Brian--if you really must go.”

As they came back, they passed by the Squire’s study-window, and saw
the owner standing by his telephone, asking it in a rather thick
voice for Colonel Lockwood. “Does he want to have the house raided?”
Michael wondered. “I should think it ought to be.” From which it will
be observed that Dr. Prendergast was prejudiced.

“Now,” he thought, “for Mackenzie.”

But if he had anticipated any remarkable revelations on the drive,
he was disappointed. Mackenzie swore a great deal, mostly beneath
his breath, and in general appeared so near a breakdown of some sort
as to enlist Michael’s professional sympathy in spite of himself;
but immediately, it seemed, he wanted no more than physical relief
for his feelings, and all he provided for his passenger was a very
lively speculation on whether he would arrive at his destination
with a broken neck. However, there was no accident; and soon after
ten o’clock Michael made his way up to his sitting-room at the inn,
armed with a certain amount of not very useful information and
undifferentiated suspicion enough to hang an army.




                             CHAPTER XVII


Wilson, for his part, had not spent an idle evening. After the
extraordinarily inopportune meeting with Mr. Brandreth, he had
decided to postpone his search of the tow-path, on which, in any
case, there seemed to be too many miscellaneous footprints for
accurate evidence to be obtainable. Machin, the tramp, was the person
he really wanted to see; but Machin was not likely to be available,
for a little while at any rate. At the moment, the most fruitful
possibility appeared to be to test some of the conjectures he had
formed at the bridge.

The first step was to find Colonel Lockwood, report his discoveries,
and borrow the boots which Meston had been wearing at his death. The
examination of the latter was annoyingly inconclusive. They were the
right size, and fitted fairly closely, but not quite accurately,
to the sketch which Wilson had made. Unlike the prints usually
offered to the conventional sleuth, these had no nails, patches, or
protectors obligingly fitted to the soles. The only thing was to try
a borrowed boot on the spot.

Wilson then drew the scrap of green silk and the shred of tweed
from his pocket, and asked the Colonel if he could identify either
of them. The tweed produced no reaction; indeed, Wilson had hardly
expected any. It might have come from almost anywhere, though it
had definitely not come from William Meston’s suit, which was of
the “respectable black” suggested by his calling. But when he saw
the green silk, the good Colonel obviously suffered from a pang of
recognition. He did not want to “put a name to it,” and endeavoured
for some time to cloak himself in generalities; but Wilson, if
patient, was ruthless, and in time forced the Colonel to disclose his
practical certainty that it had come from an evening dress of Sylvia
Meston’s.

Something, if not much, was gained at all events, if this were true.
Some time within the last ten days, and probably near about the time
at which her husband died, Sylvia Meston had spent a considerable
time in the company of a man in that somewhat unattractive rendezvous
up-stream. It now became of paramount importance to ascertain, if
possible, who the man was. Making sure that, on this occasion at any
rate, Brandreth was not hovering about his starting-point, Wilson set
off to walk once more to the old bridge.

Within a couple of hours he was back again, and any one who knew him
well would have been able to see that he was puzzled rather than
satisfied. In the first place, Sylvia’s companion was definitely not
her husband, unless the latter had on a different pair of boots.
The prints resembled the borrowed boot, but they were not the same.
Wilson made a note to investigate Meston’s belongings for a spare
pair of boots; but realised that even if he found such a pair, and
they fitted the marks, it would tell him very little about the crime.
For obviously, if Meston had kept tryst wearing a different pair of
boots, he must have returned alive to his hotel in order to change
them.

It looked, on the whole, as though there had been another man
present. But, if so, Wilson had no present means of identifying
him--nor of saying whether the watcher by the knot-hole was or was
not Meston. The tow-path, as he expected, told him nothing; there
were trampled footprints of many kinds, but none visibly belonging
either to Meston or to the two who had crossed the bridge. The only
new information which he had secured was that there were certainly
traces of not one, but two, cars on the little-used road which
crossed the bridge, and that all the indications pointed to their
having both been present on the same occasion--which might or might
not be the night of the murder. The second car had come from the
opposite direction, and had parked on the right bank, but on the
far side of the road, which was why he had not seen its tracks at
first, and had remained parked for quite as long as the other. From
the parking place tracks of the man in size ten shoes led in various
directions, as though he had been walking up and down; and eventually
brought him to the place where they had first been observed, by
the tracks of the second car. Wilson now thought that only one
passenger--the woman--had been in the second car, that the man had
joined her, and they had walked into the summerhouse together.
Eventually both cars had gone away in the direction from which they
had severally come. The woman had gone first, for the man’s footsteps
were visible treading in the tracks of the woman’s car as it turned
to go away; but, of course, it was quite uncertain by how long she
had preceded him, and whether either or both had been there on the
fatal night or at a different time. Nor could he find where either of
the cars had gone after leaving the boathouse. Both tracks vanished
completely in a little while--the woman’s at the cross-roads where
the roads from Steeple Tollesbury and the Grange met it, and the
other on a stretch of hard road by Sir Felix Lewis’s drive. Unless
Mr. Jerry Machin had some information to give, Wilson very much
feared that he had exhausted the clues at that spot.

As he returned to the hotel, thoughts of supper in his mind, he met
Michael’s _bête noire_, Mr. Strake, at the tap-room entrance; and
bethought himself that he had meant to have a word with him. Wilson
had a short and harsh way with outsiders of his own profession, and
Mr. Strake found himself speedily disclosing what information he had
in his possession without the _quid pro quo_ which he had obviously
intended to extract. There was not very much of it, but what there
was, was significant enough. He was an “old friend” of Nicholas
Hanborough’s, who had been “very kind” to him more than once--Wilson
was able, without much difficulty, to guess the nature of the
kindness. He had been employed by Mr. Hanborough, nominally to look
into the firm’s position, but in reality to spy on William Meston;
and he was under strict orders to bring all he got straight to Mr.
Hanborough himself. But the results of his spying had been remarkably
meagre. He, like Inspector Bille, had found that Meston had shown a
singular fondness for the firm’s books during the past few weeks, and
had once or twice caught him talking to racing men; but that was all.
He had begun to wonder whether there was anything to be found out,
and for what, exactly, he was being paid.

Then, when Meston disappeared from Colchester, he had pursued his
investigations in that town; and had then discovered, as he had
already begun to suspect, that whatever Meston had been doing, he
could not have been doing it without the connivance of the senior
partner--in fact, that his own employer had been equally guilty.
Hanborough had kept his own traces pretty well covered; but after
patient investigation, Strake had at last succeeded in nosing them
out. At this point he confessed, with an entire absence of shame,
he had been rather at a loss what to do, whether to go back to
Hanborough and demand blackmail, or to find somebody else who would
be willing to pay him more highly for information against both
partners. Eventually he tossed for it, and decided to go to Mark
Warden--who had promptly hunted him off with a flea in his ear. Now
he was open to an offer of any sort.

But, as already stated, he was forced to part with his information
without any compensation, Wilson dragging from him piece by piece
all the evidence he had against Hanborough, which was certainly
enough to put the man in a very dubious light. After he had found
out all he could on this point, Wilson began to fish for anything
which might connect Hanborough more definitely with Meston’s murder.
Here, however, he drew blank. Strake professed absolute ignorance
of any question propounded to him; yet there was a look in his eye
which made Wilson absolutely certain that he knew something which
bore directly on the events of that fatal night, and he was about to
employ more drastic measures, when he saw Brandreth, complete with
smile and walking-stick, approaching him down the street.

Annoyed as much at being caught talking to the inquiry agent as
by the abrupt termination of his interview, Wilson went indoors,
and over his solitary supper began tabulating the result of his
investigations.

He had to confess that they were not very exciting. Of the five
questions which he propounded to himself--how, when, where, by whom,
and with what motive had Meston been killed--only the first could be
answered with any degree of certainty. Meston had been hanged--but
when? and where? The boathouse up-river seemed the most probable
place, but it could not be said to be in any way proved. Nothing
had been found by the boathouse, except the tree, which suggested
violent death, and the marks on the tree might easily have been
caused by climbing boys. When? Any time from 10.30 p.m. onwards.
This was no help to an investigator. And as to the murderer, and the
motive, Wilson felt himself as much at a loss as when he had talked
to Michael in the morning. He could not even yet choose between
his two motives--and as to the men----! The most likely person was
the man who, if his conjectures were true, had talked to Sylvia
in the boathouse, but who was he? If he turned out to be Nicholas
Hanborough, the two lines of suspicion would blend admirably; but
was he likely to? Well, that could perhaps be ascertained. He was
approximately the right height, at all events.

Wilson sent for the landlord, and endeavoured to get some light on
Sylvia’s relations with Hanborough, but without any useful result.
If Hanborough admired the siren, he kept it closely to himself; and
she had never shown any predilection for him. He was married, yes, to
a quiet little woman who didn’t go about much. They had no children.
Oh yes, Mr. Hanborough liked the girls as well as any other man, and
was a very pleasant-spoken gentleman; but nothing special to nobody,
as you might say.

“If you’ve got the key of Meston’s room, Wason,” Wilson closed the
conversation, “I wish you’d let me borrow it. I’d like to have a
look round.” He had Colonel Lockwood’s authorisation ready in his
pocket, in case it proved necessary; but Wason seemed to think such
innocent curiosity the most natural thing in the world, and without
any protest departed to fetch the key. Wilson was still engaged on
the subsequent investigation when Michael reappeared, full of sound
and fury.

“What are you doing?” he asked, when he had resigned himself to the
realisation that Wilson was not at present interested in gossip about
the Grange.

“Trying to fix, if possible, the time when Meston left the inn to go
to his death,” was the reply. “I started like this. The probability
is that he left it before any of you were awake on Saturday morning.
It isn’t certain; but if he’d gone away in broad daylight some one
would have been almost sure to see him. Also, it seems probable that
he was intending to leave about then.”

“Probable?” said Michael. “I thought it was certain. Wason told me
he’d packed all his things ready.”

“Well, yes. I think we may take it he intended to leave. I found his
portmanteau in his cupboard--very methodically packed, poor fellow,
not as if he was merely going off for a night or two--and labelled in
the handwriting you can see in the visitors’ book, ‘To be kept till
called for.’”

“Well, then----?”

“But it’s not by any means certain that he intended to leave in the
middle of the night. His trunk wasn’t locked. I thought at first he’d
packed everything, and forgotten to lock it; but on examining the
chambermaid, I found that when she came in the following morning she
found his pyjamas, sponge, etc., lying about the room. She left them
alone that day; but the next day collected them and put them in the
trunk. So he hadn’t finished packing when he went.”

“Where was he going?” Michael wondered.

“I’ve no idea. And as nobody here knew he was going till he’d gone,
we shan’t find out from that source.

“There’s another point, though. With his portmanteau I found his
hat, stick, and overcoat. That is to say, when he went away, he
went, apparently, without some obvious portions of his attire. Of
course, he may have had a second hat. But, unless he had, it appears
that either he went out in a hurry, intending to return, or that he
departed for good--at least for some time--bareheaded and without a
coat, which seems out of character, or----”

“Or that he went out and drowned himself,” said Michael. “He wouldn’t
need a hat for that.”

“Yes. Suicide would fit the case admirably. But you and I know he
didn’t commit suicide. So that won’t do.”

“When did the things turn up?”

“The day after his departure. The chambermaid found them, and shoved
them into the cupboard.”

“Any other indications?”

“Nary a one. Either he, or the chambermaid, suffers from excessive
tidiness. If more were like them, there would be more undiscovered
crime in the world.”

Michael sighed. “Nothing seems to take us anywhere. He makes all
preparations for suicide, it would seem, and then doesn’t commit it.
Hanborough appears as a nice suspect for a murder--and he turns out
to have been safely out of the way. Sylvia Meston meets a suspicious
sounding man at the old ferry, and you don’t know who it is, or
whether Meston was there at all. And one knows just nothing of
anybody else. What are we to do?”

“Plod on,” Wilson said. “I’ve been trying to establish, if I can, the
time at which he left the inn. The probability is, as I say, that it
was between 10.30 when you saw him go up to bed, and, say, seven the
next morning. It was well after 10.30, because his bed had been slept
in.”

“Unless he tumbled it himself.”

“Unless he did, of course. We could probably have established that,
if we’d been on the spot at the time. As it is, we shall have to
leave it open. There’s another point, however. There’s a cottage
in fairly full view, across the river, beyond the tow-path; and
the occupier, a cowman called Billings, happened to be up, and has
told everybody that he could see Meston’s light on till well past
one o’clock. I haven’t questioned him yet; but I can do so in the
morning, if it seems worth while. Unfortunately, even that doesn’t
tell us how late he was here, for the chambermaid apparently forgot
to fill his lamp the day before, and found it burnt out in the
morning. And she can’t give me any idea how much oil there would have
been in it the previous evening. There were candles in the room, both
partly burnt. So whether he went out and left his lamp burning, or
whether the oil failed while he was there, and he completed whatever
he was doing by candlelight, I’m afraid we can only guess.”

“I should think we’re likely to have our fill of guessing, by the
time we’ve finished,” Michael remarked. “What about Kershaw?”

He produced the result of his researches into the doctor’s career.
Wilson shook his head. “There’s really nothing in that, you know.
There may be a dozen reasons for the gap between 1910 and 1913;
and, though this doesn’t on the face of it seem a good enough job
for a man of his qualifications, there may be some war injury to
account for it. From the look I had at him to-day, I shouldn’t put
shell-shock out of the question.”

“Shell-shock needn’t make him hit that poor fellow on the head,”
Michael said.

“_If_ he did. Oh, I quite agree his behaviour calls for some
explanation. But I don’t think we shall get it to-night. Suppose we
try bed, for a change?”




                            CHAPTER XVIII


“Mr. Brandreth, sir,” the maid announced, ushering in a lawyer
perceptibly less rosy and debonair than he had been the previous day.

“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish,” he said, taking a letter from his
pocket and handing it to Wilson. “This has just reached me by hand,
from the Grange.” Wilson took it and read it twice through, gravely
and carefully. “Have a look, Michael,” he said.

The letter was hastily scrawled and blotted on a large sheet of
Loring-crested paper:

  “DEAR NED,”--it ran--“It seems to me I’ve been a damned fool
  to get into such a racket over William’s death. Of course, now
  I’ve thought it over, it’s quite clear that it can’t have been
  anything but suicide. I don’t know why you ever let me go on
  talking rubbish about somebody having killed him--particularly
  in front of Mr. Wilson--unless you didn’t want to tell me
  point-blank that I’d driven him to do it. You can say that or
  anything else you like--I’m not a bit proud of myself over this
  business altogether, and I’d eat dirt if it would do anybody any
  good. As it is, I think the best thing I can do is to clear out,
  so I’m going--no address, no flowers, and apologies for troubling
  you. Will you do me one last service, and tell Mr. Wilson I’ve
  been a fool, and I’m sorry I bothered him? Of course it was
  suicide, tell him. He seemed a decent fellow, and perhaps he’ll
  understand, and stop Lockwood kicking up a fuss. Anyway, I leave
  it to you. I’m sorry to be a plague.

                                                           “SYLVIA.”

“Now what do you think of that?” said the lawyer. “Isn’t that just
like a woman?”

“It seems to me just like Mrs. Meston, if I may say so,” said Wilson.
“The authentic note.”

“Makes me look a fool,” said the lawyer testily. “First she makes
a great fuss about her husband’s being murdered, and gives me no
peace till I agree to go and consult you. Then she butts into the
consultation without being asked, and drags you aside downstairs and
won’t tell me what she’s said. And now she calmly asks me to call the
whole thing off, and just remarks that she’s going away----”

“She’s gone,” Michael said. “She went last night. I told you.”

“Yes, but I didn’t grasp that she’d gone for ever,” Wilson said.

“Nor did I. The Squire didn’t say so. But she must have.”

“Then why on earth couldn’t she have written to me last night?” the
lawyer demanded.

“Surely,” said Wilson, “the explanation’s obvious. She did not want
to give you an opportunity of objecting.”

“Well, anyway, there it is. What do you make of it?”

“That was the question I was going to put to you. What do _you_ make
of it?”

“I?” The lawyer stopped and gazed at him. “Oh, I don’t make anything.
I suppose she means what she says----”

“Surely a dangerous assumption?”

“What do you mean?”

“It occurs to me that Mrs. Meston may have decided that for reasons
of her own it now suits her better to regard her husband as _not_
having been murdered. I suspect the lady’s ideas of truth are, shall
we say, a trifle pragmatic.”

“What suits her’s the truth, you mean. Oh, I dare say. All women are
like that, more or less.”

“And Mrs. Meston, I should say, decidedly more.”

“Oh, have it your own way. But what the devil is one to believe?”

“In this matter, I should say, nothing whatever,” Wilson said. “Mrs.
Meston, as a witness, cancels out. She has voted both ways. Are you
going to take that letter to Colonel Lockwood, by the way?”

“I don’t know.” The lawyer looked up at him slyly. “Should you think
it would have a good effect?”

“My dear sir,” Wilson said in his best manner, “Colonel Lockwood is a
public servant. I hope--I think he will accord to that letter exactly
the weight it deserves.”

“It’s open to everybody to hope, of course,” Brandreth said.

“Whether,” Wilson continued, “you choose to take the responsibility
of holding back evidence from him is, of course, your own
affair--though I may remind you that the matter is not now entirely
in your keeping. By the way”--as Brandreth turned to go--“you didn’t
by any chance mention to Mrs. Meston our meeting yesterday afternoon,
did you?”

“I told her I’d seen you up-stream, of course,” Brandreth said
innocently. “She was naturally anxious to hear how her investigation
was getting on.”

“You will, I think, make my position somewhat difficult if you
continue to dog my steps and publish bulletins of progress,” said
Wilson.

“Dear, dear, I’m so sorry,” said the lawyer impenitently. “I didn’t
know it was private--nor that police-officers were so sensitive to
harmless gossip. I didn’t tell Sylvia you found her frock in the
boathouse, though; I didn’t know that till afterwards.” And before
Michael’s gasp of astonishment could translate itself into words, he
was gone.




                             CHAPTER XIX


“Colonel Lockwood,” said Wilson after lunch, “has just telephoned
in a state of considerable agitation. It appears that his men have
rounded up Mr. Jerry Machin, and he wants me to come and hear what
the young man’s got to say. Care to come along too?”

“Will Brandreth be there, I wonder?” Michael mused.

“Oh, probably,” said Wilson in a resigned tone. “Yes, I think you’re
correct, and it was Lockwood that passed on that bit of information
about the green frock--possibly without knowing that he’d done so.
There ought to be a major crime in every county at least once in five
years--to keep the police up to elementary standards of caution.”

“And Brandreth told Mrs. Meston to run away.”

“She certainly ran away,” Wilson admitted. “That Brandreth put her
up to it I’m not so sure. However, we may be wiser when we’ve got
Machin’s story.”

They betook themselves to Lockwood’s house, where, in a room guarded
by a stolid police-sergeant, they found a terribly agitated Lockwood
and a calm tramp, who appeared quite unmoved by the Colonel’s
perturbation.

“This is Jerry Machin,” the Colonel began abruptly. “Tell these
gentlemen what you were telling me just now.”

“Well,” said Jerry Machin, spreading himself completely at his ease
and speaking in an unusually educated voice, “it was like this.
I’ve been taking a shakedown lately, back of Sir Felix Lewis’s
boathouse--I needn’t tell _you_ whereabouts, sir,” he added to
Wilson, “because I seem to recollect it was you along with Jim
Collins that smoked me out yesterday afternoon. Well, anyway, there I
was----”

“Trespassing,” interrupted the Colonel sourly. Jerry Machin smiled at
him.

“Wonderful how good comes out of evil, Colonel, isn’t it?” he
said. “If I hadn’t been setting the law at defiance, in a manner
of speaking, I’d not have been able to tell you what you want to
know--if you _do_ want to know it.” And, indeed, the Colonel did not
look as though the information had been welcome. “Well, as I was
saying, I had a shakedown----”

“Inside or outside the boathouse?” Wilson asked.

“Outside, sir. The weather’s good, and I’ve no love for a roof over
my head at the best of times. Anyway, there I was, and--it was the
night Mr. Meston left Sam Wason’s place--I’d had a nap, and I woke up
sudden, and, being hot, I thought I’d take a stroll by the river. I’d
only just got to the tow-path when I heard a car coming up the road
to the old bridge. I was just wondering who it was, for there isn’t
much traffic on that road late at night, when the car stopped----”

“Where?” Wilson interrupted.

“Close by the bridge, on the far side of the road.” Wilson nodded, as
if satisfied. “I saw the headlights. Then whoever the car belonged
to turned them out and began walking up and down the road. It was a
still night, and I could hear him plain as plain.”

“But you couldn’t see him, I suppose?”

“No. ’Twas too dark. Leastways, he was in the trees, and I didn’t
catch a sight of him for some time. But after a bit--quarter of an
hour, it may have been--he came to the bridge and walked right out
into the middle of it, and I could see his shape plain as plain
against the bend of the river. Then I said to myself, I know that
walk; and when he turned to go back I was quite certain.”

“And it was----?”

“Mr. John, sir.”

“John Loring,” the Colonel supplemented unhappily. Michael could not
suppress a gasp.

“But I thought Mr. John Loring was in China,” Wilson said.

“So did I, sir; and if I hadn’t known him so well I couldn’t have
believed my eyes. But I’ve known Lorings, father and sons, these
twenty years; and I’ll take my oath it was Mr. John. Besides, I saw
him after, closer to, as I’ve been telling the Colonel, and I’ve no
doubt in my own mind it was Mr. John.”

“Very well. Go on. What did you do then?”

“Just waited, sir, to see what was going to happen. It wasn’t above
five minutes after I’d seen Mr. John, sir, there was the sound of
another car along the road, the other side of the bridge, and Mr.
John went along to meet it. It crossed the bridge, and stopped on my
side of the road--the other side from Mr. John’s--and Mr. John helped
a lady to get out of it. I didn’t particularly want to be seen, so
I moved off behind the old boathouse, and then I heard them go into
it and shut the door. Well, I mooched a bit round, to see if they
were coming out. They didn’t come, and I felt more than a bit curious
to see who it was Mr. John was meeting so private at that time of
night.”

“What time was it?” Wilson asked.

“Round about midnight, sir,” Machin said. “I couldn’t speak to the
minutes, not carrying a timepiece, but it was there or thereabouts.
Well, after I’d listened awhile, I remembered seeing a knot-hole
in the back of the house, and I thought I might get a peep in that
way. So I crept up very quietly, and put my face to it--but I didn’t
see so much as a glimpse. It was all dark inside there, barring Mr.
John’s cigarette, and I couldn’t see who it was with him.”

“Couldn’t you hear?”

“I could hear, right enough; but there wasn’t anything much _to_
hear. Except that it was Mr. John’s young lady, and he’d brought her
out there to tell her so, I couldn’t hear a word. And after I’d been
looking for a bit, my foot slipped and I caught on a nail, and made a
bit of a noise. So I skipped off into the woods as quiet as a mouse.”

“Why?”

“Ask the Colonel, sir.” Jerry Machin grinned. “You’ve known the
Lorings pretty near as long as I have, Colonel. I put it to you, if
one of them found you’d been listening to his sweethearting, would
you stay around to hear what he thought about it?”

“And is that all you saw?”

“No, sir. I came back again, maybe an hour and a half later.”

“What had you been doing meanwhile?”

“Just about in the woods, sir. I’d a bit of business to attend to,”
said Jerry, with an expression which left no doubt what the “bit of
business” was. “Then I came back to see if the coast was clear, and
just as I got near the bridge I heard a car starting, and just got
there in time to see the second car--the lady’s--going away through
the trees. I wondered whether Mr. John had gone too, and in case
he hadn’t, I came up quietly. And it was my salvation I did so,
sir; because as soon as I got close I could see Mr. John down by
the waterside lighting a cigarette. The match-flame showed him up
clear--I wasn’t more than a dozen feet away--and if I ever saw hell
it was in Mr. John’s face then. It was just black with rage, and he’d
got his teeth set--you know the way he has, Colonel--and if I’d got
in his way then it wouldn’t have been long before I’d ’a’ been in the
river with a cracked skull. So I dropped into the grass and lay low;
and Mr. John, he paced up and down for a bit, muttering to himself.
But then he suddenly got into his car and made off--the same way he’d
come--without his lights, too, for all it was so black as my hat. And
that’s the last I saw of him.”

“That is to say,” Wilson said, “you saw Mr. Loring first at about
midnight. The lady came twenty minutes or so afterwards, and went
away--when?”

“Some time after one, I should guess. Near as much as the half.”

“And Mr. Loring went away--how soon after her?”

“Five to ten minutes. Not more.”

“You didn’t see any one else there all the time?”

“Not a soul. And there wasn’t any one after Mr. John left. I looked
all round before I went to bed again.”

“Could any one have been there while you were watching? Could you
tell?”

“Not within a hundred yards, sir,” Machin replied positively. “I
should have heard--and probably farther.”

“And you don’t know who the lady was?”

“Not if you say _know_, sir. Of course,” with a leer, “if you say
_guess_, I could maybe put a name to her--and so could the Colonel
for that matter. But I didn’t see her to swear to.”

“Nor hear her voice?”

“Not above a whisper, sir.”

“I see. Well, I think that’s all I want out of him, Colonel. I
suppose you’ll keep him somewhere where he can be got at?”

“Bullock will see to that,” the Colonel replied, with unnecessary
viciousness.

“Good! Wait a minute, though. I want a thread from your coat,
Machin.” Wilson drew a small pair of tweezers from his pocket, and
with a firm pull extracted from the tramp’s ragged coat a bit of
grey tweed. Then he indicated dismissal, and Jerry Machin, with an
impenitent smile to the world at large, disappeared in the firm
charge of the police-sergeant.

“Well?” said Wilson to the Colonel.

“This is a frightful thing,” the latter groaned.

“Is that man reliable, should you say?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“We can test him on one point, at all events.” From an envelope in
his pocket Wilson drew the grey thread he had taken from the old
boathouse, laid it on the table beside Jerry Machin’s specimen, and
compared the two through a lens. “That’s that,” he said. “They’re the
same piece of stuff. That means that our friend did look through the
knot-hole of the boathouse, and did see Mrs. Meston trysting with her
lover from China. I gather, Colonel, from miscellaneous gossip, that
that affair, while it was on, was pretty serious?”

The Colonel nodded unhappily. “Sylvia has never had one anything like
so serious. And John Loring was very hard hit.”

“So that, if he suddenly returned from China, there might have been
an--explosive situation?”

“There might.”

“And what would you expect Mr. John Loring to do under the
circumstances?”

The Colonel gulped. “Not--hang a man. I can’t believe that!”

“But you could believe anything else. Thank you, Colonel.”

“Whoever they were, they were left alone in that boathouse for an
hour or more,” Michael put in, “while the poacher was away. And
Loring was in a raging passion afterwards.”

“Yes. Of course, you know, that fact strikes me as a little out of
keeping with the rest of what you seem to suggest. What need to rage
because one has just killed one’s rival?”

“In such a way as to destroy one’s own chances?”

“Yes--yes. There may be something in that, of course.”

“I can’t believe it,” the Colonel repeated.

“My dear Colonel,” said Wilson a little impatiently, “you won’t have
to believe it unless some more evidence is forthcoming. We still
don’t _know_ that Meston was there. I suppose”--to Michael--“your
suggestion is that while Machin was away he walked up the tow-path,
surprised the lovers, and got killed?” Michael nodded. “Getting
out of the inn late at night, and coming for a chance walk? I
hardly think that will do, you know. He must have had some sort of
intimation or warning. Now, how did he get it? Who knew that John
Loring was in the place?”

“_I_ don’t know,” said the Colonel. “I didn’t. I suppose Sylvia did.”

“Mrs. Meston,” said Wilson, “has very prudently departed, leaving no
address. We had better get on her tracks quickly, but for the answer
to my question we must, I’m afraid, try elsewhere. There’s just one
possibility that occurs to me. Will you send for Strake, the private
inquiry agent who has been messing around here, and let me question
him? He seemed to me to have some information up his sleeve.”

The Colonel, looking rather bemused, gave the necessary orders. “And
then,” Wilson continued, when he returned, “Mr. John Loring also must
certainly be found and asked to explain. Have you any idea where he
is likely to have made for?”

“Oh, I know where he is,” said the Colonel. “Godfrey Loring told me
last night, when he was on the ’phone to me. He had a motoring smash
a few days ago, on his way up to London, and is now lying ill at a
friend’s house in St. John’s Wood. But he’s getting much better,
Godfrey says.”

“And will soon be about again, I suppose,” Wilson supplemented.
“Hadn’t you better make quite sure, that he comes here when he is,
Colonel?”

“It won’t be easy,” the Colonel said, “if he went off in a rage.”

“There is such a thing as a warrant,” Wilson cruelly reminded him.

There was a gloomy silence, which was broken by the return of the
policeman sent to fetch Strake.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, with a broad grin, “but Strake can’t
come.”

“Can’t come?”

“He’s in the Cottage Hospital, sir, with a broken nose and
contusions. The gentleman from Africa--Mr. Mackenzie--heard him in
the King’s Arms last night making allegations against Mrs. Meston,
and pretty near killed him. It took six of them to pull him off, and
the Hospital say he won’t be fit to move till to-morrow.”

“You live in a violent neighbourhood, Colonel,” Wilson commented.
“However, I think we might as well hear what the ill-advised man did
say. Shall we try the Cottage Hospital?”




                              CHAPTER XX


Mr. Strake, in spite of his swollen and bandaged face, was not
unwilling to talk. In fact, he was very anxious, as soon as the Chief
Constable appeared at his bedside, to have a very long conversation
on the wickedness of the neighbourhood and on his own grievances in
particular. A prosecution of Mackenzie for assault and battery was
obviously the least that would satisfy him.

“That will do,” Wilson cut into the tirade. “We know exactly what’s
happened to you. Now may I remind you that there’s such a thing as
provocation? What did you say that caused Mr. Mackenzie to attack
you?”

“Nothing,” growled the injured one. “At least,” he amended, “I only
’inted Mrs. Meston was no better than she should be, as everybody
knows she ain’t, when he went for me like a wild beast.”

“Did you specify any particular way in which Mrs. Meston’s conduct
was--open to suspicion?” Wilson asked smoothly.

“Only corresponding with other men on the quiet while her husband was
alive.”

“Just so. Did you perhaps take a note----?”

“I didn’t!” said the man indignantly. “I never took any note. It was
that Potts took the note.”--“David Potts, footman at the Grange,” the
Colonel replied to Wilson’s glance of inquiry.

“Oh! And what note did Potts take?--and how do you come to know
about it? Suppose you tell me the whole thing straight?”

Strake was not unwilling to oblige, and explained that late in the
afternoon preceding Meston’s death, he had been lounging about the
cross-roads on the way to the Grange, when a man came along in a
two-seater Chrysler. Just after passing Strake, the man slowed down,
and seemed to hesitate. Then he saw Potts, who was walking along
the road, and hailed him in a loud, commanding voice. Strake, for
no reason at all except natural inquisitiveness, crept along the
hedge so that he could witness the interview, and heard the man
inquire of Potts whether Mrs. Meston was at the Grange. Hearing
that she was, he gave Potts a note, with instructions to deliver
it immediately to Mrs. Meston, and to no one else. He then turned
and drove away at a great pace inland, while Strake, his curiosity
thoroughly whetted, caught up Potts on the road to the Grange,
and soon discovered--though Potts did not appear to have been
communicative--that the strange man was the Squire’s brother, John
Loring.

“And to whom did you pass on this interesting piece of news?” Wilson
asked.

“Nobody.”

“Come, I can’t believe that. Think again.” Mr. Strake thought, but
his thoughts did not appear to make him happy. Eventually, after some
wriggling, it transpired that he had, as a matter of fact, kept the
news of Mr. John Loring’s return to himself for some time. He had
intended originally to hand it over to Meston, for a consideration;
but had failed to catch the latter before his disappearance. Then
he had waited for him to return, rather wondering that nobody
but himself appeared to have seen John Loring; and when Meston
reappeared from the river under distinctly dubious circumstances, it
immediately occurred to him that his exclusive information might be
turned to profit. After the inquest he had approached Sylvia Meston,
with a request for a subvention as a price for holding his tongue.
At first she had abused him, but had eventually agreed to pay him
twenty-five pounds the following day; and he had let her go. But late
the same evening, while taking a quiet drink at the King’s Arms,
he had received the news of her departure, alone, with luggage, in
a great hurry, going Londonwards; and in his wrath at her apparent
deception, had made certain incautious reflections upon her morals.
Then from the corner of the room a tornado had fallen upon him, and
he literally knew nothing more until he found himself in bed at the
hospital.

This was Strake’s story, and all Wilson’s questioning could get no
more out of him. It seemed certain that he had told all he knew. “We
shall have to confirm the note incident with Potts,” he said; “but it
seems pretty clear that Strake has told the truth, and that Mr. John
Loring was in the neighbourhood on the Friday afternoon, and sent a
note to Mrs. Meston by hand, which may almost be assumed to be an
appointment, or request for an appointment, for that evening by the
old ferry. I’m afraid, Colonel, that your next duty is clearly to get
hold of both those parties. They may know at the Grange where Mrs.
Meston was going--if she was not going to John Loring--and you might
be able to confirm the note incident at the same time. What sort of
fellow is this Potts, do you know?”

“A sulky, hangdog sort of man,” the Colonel said, “though quite a
good servant, I believe. He’s been at the Grange some time and is
devoted to the Lorings; in fact, I think he was one of the men that
threw Meston out, the time when he went up in search of his wife.”

“I see. Well, good luck to you.”

“Did you think it might have been Strake who sent word to Meston of
his wife’s rendezvous?” Michael asked.

“I did, but after questioning him I don’t. I’m pretty certain he told
us all he knew.”

“Little swine!” said Michael.

“Certainly. Not that his swinishness appears to have availed him
much, in the present case.”

“But who was it then? Potts?”

“Possibly. But I think not very likely. There seems no reason, if he
is as devoted to the Lorings as they say, why he should want to give
away the tryst. Nobody loved Meston at the Grange.”

“But if Meston was summoned as part of a plot?”

“You’ve an ingenious mind,” Wilson said. “Even so, Potts doesn’t
appear to have had much opportunity of hatching it, does he? But
whether or no, there’s one bit of investigation that I think might
be useful, at any rate. You remember Billings, the cowman, who saw
Meston’s light on till one o’clock or thereabouts? Well, I called
on him this morning to get his statement confirmed, and I found out
one rather interesting fact. Do you know how it happened that he
was awake at that time? His wife had a baby that night, and they
couldn’t get hold of the doctor--Dr. Kershaw--till after two o’clock.”

“Why, where was he?”

“Nominally, at the Grange. At least, when Billings first sent round
to his house, soon after midnight, he wasn’t there. He made a great
row, and Kershaw’s housekeeper, who doesn’t live actually on the
premises, but next door, heard him, and poked out her head to tell
him that the doctor was up at the Grange. Billings waited about an
hour; then, as his wife was obviously nearing her time, he sent one
of his boys again to the doctor’s house to hurry him up. The boy
could get no answer of any kind, and eventually cycled up to the
Grange, and found that Kershaw had left there between midnight and
half-past. He returned to the doctor’s house, expecting to find that
he was there before him, but all was silent. He then hammered loudly,
and roused the old housekeeper, who said she’d heard the doctor
come back and go out again, ‘nigh an hour ago.’ As Kershaw had left
the Grange on his bicycle, and as it takes about five minutes to
get on a bicycle from his house to the cottage, the Billingses were
considerably puzzled--particularly as Kershaw did not finally turn up
till after two, when the child was already born.”

“And turned up very cross,” Michael supplemented.

“So I gather. How did you know?”

“I heard some chatter about it, in the pub, the afternoon Meston’s
body was found,” Michael said. “I hadn’t given it another thought
till this moment. It was apropos of Kershaw’s behaviour to me. They
were all exchanging reminiscences about his manners, and this story
was mentioned.”

“I see. Well, it appears to be true enough. Billings said the doctor
looked very queer when he came, didn’t say a word about his lateness,
snapped all their heads off, and marched away the moment he’d
finished his job. And it was all they could do to get him to come and
see the patient again. Now, that leaves a good hour and a half of
Kershaw’s time unaccounted for on that Friday night--just about the
same time as is also unaccounted for of John Loring’s.”

“I don’t quite see where we’re getting to, all the same,” Michael
remarked. “Do you mean Kershaw called up Meston, or murdered him, or
what?”

“I’m not quite sure. But I think I’d like a little more information,
all the same. Would you like to be a burglar, Michael?”

“I don’t mind. Whose house shall we burgle?”

“Kershaw’s.” Wilson’s eyes had something of a schoolboy twinkle. “The
owner, I find on inquiry, is away for the week-end, and the charwoman
who does for him has also taken the time off. After I’d finished with
Billings I took a little turn through the village, and inspected
Kershaw’s house. I find it’s in the oldest part of the town, backing
on to a little alley-way, which appears to be almost unused. The back
wall of the house is old and quite climbable, and there are back
gates of which a piece of wire ought to make fairly short work. What
do you say?”

“That’s why you were so late coming in to lunch!” Michael chuckled.
“And you never said a word. All right, I’m on.”

Together they went up the streets of the little town, and explored
the alley-way. They found the wall even more easy to scale than they
had expected, and a very few moments saw them in Kershaw’s garden,
which was fortunately screened by higher walls and thick bushes from
observation by the neighbours. A French window at the back afforded
ridiculously easy access. “It’s very simple to be a burglar,” Michael
commented. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know, quite. Evidence of character--past life--present
occupation--anything,” said Wilson, producing a pick-lock, and
beginning in a workmanlike way to rifle Kershaw’s desk.

Whatever Kershaw’s past life might have been, he was not particularly
anxious to keep relics of it. Save for discharge papers and some
other no-account stuff relating to Army life, there was at first
glance nothing which threw light on his life prior to his arrival in
Steeple Tollesbury.

“The man keeps nothing but his bills,” Michael said. “And he keeps a
good many of them,” turning out a drawer full of nothing else.

“For a very good reason,” Wilson said. “They aren’t paid. And some
of the creditors are getting quite cross about it. Our friend seems
rather in financial difficulties. Hullo! this is interesting.”

“What?”

“Receipts, for a change. Quite a lot of them.”

“Well, even the impecunious must pay _some_ bills occasionally.”

“Yes, but not all at once. These are all dated last week, and they
would add up to quite a tidy sum.”

“Looks as though he’d come into money.”

“That seems to be indicated--though there isn’t any trace of the
money’s arrival. Let’s see if we can guess how much it was.” Wilson
made a rapid calculation on the back of an envelope.

“Four hundred and twenty pounds’ worth of bills he paid in one
week. So whatever he received was more than that, anyway. Any more
financial information? His pass-book’s not here--presumably it’s at
the bank. And presumably his cheque-book’s on his person. But what
does he do with his butt-ends?” A long search eventually disclosed a
solitary butt-end reposing at the back of a drawer.

“This is rather an old one,” Wilson said. “But it may be of some
help.”

Michael ran his finger quickly through the items. “Edward Gordon,
whoever he is, had a lot.”

“Jermyn Street,” said Wilson. “Moneylender. What date?”

“1922.”

“Umph. He’s been in financial difficulties for some time, then.”

“The rest are all ordinary tradesmen, and cheques to self. There are
rather a lot of those, by the way. Looks as if he spent a lot on his
personal enjoyment--though you wouldn’t think it, to look at him.”

“No bookies?”

“Not visibly. There are some notes on the back of the self cheques,
though--five pounds to X and so on. Not a very great deal.”

“Note them down, will you? and we’ll see.” Michael went through
the cheque-book, extracting all payments made to X. They were for
miscellaneous sums, mostly small, occurring at irregular intervals,
and totalling something over seventy pounds for the period covered by
the cheque-book.

“What is it?” Michael asked. “Blackmail?”

“It’s very odd blackmail, if it is,” Wilson said. “Paid at such odd
moments and in such odd amounts. The blackmailer must have had to
work hard for his living--it almost looks as though he came to the
door with a collecting card. Let’s go to his bedroom. There’s one
possible explanation of these payments that occurs to me, and it will
be in his bedroom, if anywhere.”

Accordingly they made their way to Kershaw’s bedroom, which, though
a magnificent fourteenth-century-panelled apartment, had nothing
particular to tell them. After a few minutes’ search, however, Wilson
drew out a small box rather like a snuff-box, which he handed to
Michael.

“Humph,” said the latter, having sampled the white powder inside. “Is
that what you guessed?”

“Something like it,” Wilson replied. “When I saw him at the inquest,
I thought there was more than shell-shock in his eye. I fancy
investigation would show Mr. X to be a vendor of cocaine. Well, it’s
an expensive habit, and likely to sap the moral sense. Let’s try the
surgery.”

They were on their way to the surgery when they were suddenly checked
by a prolonged peal of Kershaw’s front-door bell, followed by a loud
clamour on the knocker.

“The caller’s in a hurry,” Wilson said. “Don’t make a noise.”

He tiptoed back to the front room, followed by Michael, and peered
out cautiously from behind the curtain. A man with a letter in his
hand was standing at the street door, and as the burglars reached
the window he raised his hand and beat another violent tattoo on the
door.

From the area of the next house an unkempt head looked out. “Bain’t
no use yammering there, Mr. Potts,” it said. “Doctor’s away to London.”

“Ain’t Mrs. Craggs here?” said Potts crossly.

“Noa; she’s gone to ’er married darter at Southend.”

“Damnation!” said Potts. “Squire wants an answer to this. Suppose I’d
best leave it in the letter-box. When’s doctor coming back?”

“To-night, for sure,” said the woman. “Mrs. Craggs she told me.”

With another growl Potts pushed the letter into the letter-box, and
turned away. Wilson led the way downstairs.

“This is mildly annoying,” he said. “I presume that this Potts is
the footman who acted as go-between for John Loring and his lady.
I wanted to have a word with him, but I could hardly spring out
unannounced from Kershaw’s front door. Shall we complete the good
work, and find out what the Squire has to say?”

Michael’s expectations rose as Wilson opened the letter, but fell
heavily on seeing the contents. They consisted of a single square
sheet of paper with the Loring crest, on which was written, “Go to
hell!” There was nothing else, not even a signature.

“It doesn’t appear, on the face of it, what answer the Squire
expected,” Michael said. “Nor does it tell us anything.”

“Not much,” Wilson agreed. “This may, however, interest you more. I
found it with one or two old papers in his bedroom.”

“This” was a letter to Kershaw from Mr. William Meston. Part of the
letter was missing, but enough remained to show its general tenor,
which was, to put it bluntly, that Mr. Meston did not at all approve
of Dr. Kershaw’s mode of life, and that if Dr. Kershaw could not
learn to keep his hands off certain unspecified persons, Mr. Meston
personally undertook to see that he was adequately punished. It was
not a letter which could have caused the recipient any pleasure;
and screwed up with it was what appeared to be the first draft of a
violent reply, from which, however, subsequent erasure had removed
most of the violence.

“Second thoughts,” said Michael.

“And very tame second thoughts,” Wilson added. “It’s pretty clear
that if he did answer Meston’s letter at all, it was in very mild
terms. Well, I think we’d better search the surgery and get out.
We can’t discuss the bearing of our new evidence here. Will you
bear witness that I found this in Kershaw’s house?” He pocketed the
incriminating letter.

They examined the surgery with care but without result, and then
retraced their steps to the alley-way, relocking the French window,
and being careful to remove all traces of their entry. As they turned
out of the alley-way a cheerful voice hailed them.

“Hullo!” it said; “inspecting our ancient architectural beauties? I’d
just been to call on Kershaw. That’s his place, just round there. But
he seems to be out. You didn’t find much down Hanging-Sword Alley,
did you?”

“The old places seem to have been pulled down,” said Wilson,
wondering how much suspicion of their real errand this inconvenient
lawyer could have.

“Yes--it’s a pity, in a way. They were picturesque if insanitary.
But we are a Borough, and we have an enlightened and unsentimental
Borough Council. Kershaw’s its mainstay: he believes in progress.
And, talking of progress, how’s the case? Hanged anybody yet?”

“I am not aware that any crime has yet been proved,” Wilson said
stiffly.

“Oh, come, my dear sir. You won’t give us our sensation at the
inquest. Why deprive us of it in private?”

“If I may say so,” Wilson said, “you seem perfectly capable of
providing your own sensations, without any assistance from me.”

“Nature,” said the lawyer, “abhors a vacuum--though I’m told no
scientific person now believes that. Progress is a most upsetting
thing. If you won’t tell us what did happen, though, you must
be prepared for intelligent surmise. Well, I mustn’t keep you.
Particularly as I think Miss Loring is looking for you around the Old
Malting House. I fancy she wants Dr. Prendergast. I told her I’d try
and see if I could locate you. But another time you ought really to
see the inside of Kershaw’s house. It’s a fine old place--fourteenth
century. I suppose you’ve not seen it, by any chance?” Was there, or
was there not, a twinkle in Brandreth’s eye?

“Some time I hope you will take us there,” was all Wilson said.

“I shall be delighted. You really mustn’t miss it. It’s as
interesting as its owner. Well, good-bye.”




                             CHAPTER XXI


They hurried back to the inn, and found Edna Loring pacing up and
down outside, apparently in some agitation. Michael took her up to
their sitting-room, ordered tea, and waited for the ball to open.

Edna wasted no time. “Dr. Prendergast,” she said, “have you seen Mark
to-day?”

“No, nor for some time.”

“We’ve had a row--I mean, this morning. And I can’t make it out,
because we never have rows--I mean Mark never quarrels. But to-day he
was furious.”

“Why?”

“What about, you mean. It was about Nick Hanborough, of all silly
things. You know what you told me yesterday about the firm”--to
Michael--“well, I began to ask him about it--we were going out for
the day--and he seemed frightfully annoyed that I knew, which of
course was ridiculous. As if I could help knowing something, in
a place like this. But Mark is ridiculous about women; he thinks
they’re all like his mother and sisters, and have to be kept in
glass cases. Anyway, I asked him whether he really thought Nick had
anything to do with it, and what it had got to do with Mr. Meston’s
death anyway. I don’t know whether you know; but half the place
thinks Meston was murdered--it’s absurd, of course, but there you
are. I didn’t mean anything particular, I just wanted to know; but
Mark turned quite white, and asked me what on earth I meant. So
I said people seemed to be very inquisitive about Nick, and even
asked where he was the night Meston died--you did, you know--and
I wanted to know what it was all about. Then Mark got whiter than
ever, and flew into a passion, and told me more or less I was a
scandal-mongering fool, and I’d better hold my tongue. The long and
short of it is that we had the first row we’ve ever had, and I told
Mark to take me back here, and he did, and drove off again. And what
I want to know now is whether I have put my foot in it frightfully,
and if so, how? Because I’ve never seen Mark like that before.”

For a few moments both men were silent, weighing up the story.

“Is it true that Meston was murdered?” Edna asked at last.

“Miss Loring,” Wilson said, “if I give you some information which is
meant to relieve your mind, you must solemnly promise to keep it to
yourself. There is so much tattling going on in this town that it is
very difficult either to trust any one or to believe what’s said.
But if you will give me your word, I will tell you one or two things
which you can be certain are true. Good. Well, then, there _are_
grave suspicions that William Meston was murdered on Friday night of
last week. It is not certain that he was; nor, if he was, is it known
why. But, under the circumstances, you will see that the police are
bound to make inquiries--routine inquiries--into the whereabouts of
any one connected with Meston on Friday night. Hence the interest in
Mr. Hanborough’s movements.”

“Nick was with us,” Edna said. “I told Dr. Prendergast so.”

“That may be fortunate for Mr. Hanborough,” Wilson said. “You will
possibly have to repeat it to the police. But----”

“But Mark wasn’t! Oh, is that what you mean? Of course, I ought to
have known. Mark was outside, wandering about somewhere. But--Mr.
Wilson--_Mark_ wouldn’t murder anybody!”

“Probably not,” said Wilson. “But for all that, he might not like too
much casual talk about Mr. Hanborough’s position--especially as they
are all three connected with a business which appears to have gone
wrong.”

“I see. And do you think that’s all?--I mean, that’s why Mark was so
queer?”

“That is all I can tell you. But I shouldn’t worry, Miss Loring,
until I had something more definite to worry about. If Meston was
killed, as I say, we don’t as yet know why--whether it was anything
to do with this financial affair or not. And it’s no use crossing
bridges till we come to them.”

“Thank you very much.” Edna still looked thoughtful, but she did not
pursue the subject further, and soon afterwards finished her tea, and
took her leave, rejecting all offers to see her home.

“What a fuss about nothing!” Michael said, when she was gone.

“Nothing? Aren’t you rather Spartan, Michael? Do you call the
possible arrest of your fiancé, or your fiancé’s partner, for murder,
nothing?”

“It’s not very likely,” Michael said, “since you’re here to see that
Lockwood doesn’t arrest innocent people.”

“Oh, they’re innocent, are they? And who is guilty?”

“Isn’t John Loring?”

“Well, we haven’t got him or his statement yet,” Wilson pointed
out. “We don’t know what he’s got to say in his own defence. But,
as you seem to be certain, suppose you turn into counsel for the
prosecution, and tell me just why you’re so sure he killed Meston?”

“I thought you were sure, too,” Michael said. “You hinted as much to
Lockwood, anyway. However, if you want an Aunt Sally, here goes. John
Loring was all but engaged to Mrs. Meston two years ago, and went off
in a fit of temper. Everybody agrees that if he hadn’t gone to China
before he had time to make it up he would have married her. You grant
that?” Wilson nodded, and he continued:

“Well, then, Mrs. Meston gets married, also in a fit of temper, and
repents without even a decent interval of leisure. She informs her
husband that she’s made a mistake, and he informs her she’s got
to stick to it. The cat-and-dog life they lead gets all round the
neighbourhood, and presumably reaches the former lover--China isn’t
all that distance away, you know, nowadays. Mrs. Meston, meanwhile,
gets deeper and deeper in a set that has the reputation of sticking
at nothing; and finally runs away--with a magnificent field of
co-respondents ready to hand. Of course, she may have known then that
Loring was coming back, though I’m inclined to think she didn’t.
Anyway, she ran away; and when Meston came to fetch her back he was
thrown out of the house. And she’d gone into Colchester with one of
her paramours, and taken away every stick that belonged to her. That
looks as if she meant her departure to be pretty final. Mark you,”
Michael said, warming to his theme, “she hadn’t the smallest chance
of getting untied and marrying her lover except through Meston’s
death. He wouldn’t divorce her, and she couldn’t divorce him.

“Then comes the evening of this party at the Grange. Whether expected
or not, John Loring turns up in the afternoon, and sends a note to
Mrs. Meston, presumably asking her to meet him at the old boathouse
that night, which she agrees to do. They meet, as Machin saw them.
Then, when Machin has gone away, Meston comes up and surprises them.
Loring, in a desperate rage, and not knowing that any one else has
witnessed their encounter, kills Meston and sends the woman off by
herself. Then he makes tracks for London. Mrs. Meston hangs on,
believing his presence unknown, till she’s alarmed by Strake’s
stories. Then she, too, makes tracks, after a futile attempt to throw
you off the trail. That’s my reading, Harry. What do you say to it?”

“I should like,” said Wilson, “to know exactly how, in your view,
Hanborough and the matter of the firm’s books fit into it.”

“They don’t fit at all. They’ve nothing whatever to do with it.
It’s just an instance,” said Michael, doing his best to imitate his
friend’s mannerisms, “of how chance coincidences may mislead an
investigator.”

“I see. Well, there’s something in being ruthless, perhaps. But I’ve
a larger snag for you. How did Meston happen to be walking that way
at such a timely hour?”

“He was warned, I suppose.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know--I suppose it must have been Potts.”

“Who has the reputation of being devoted to the Lorings, and who
had previously thrown Meston out of the Grange. _Would_ he take the
trouble to warn Meston about his own master’s doings?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps not. But he must have been warned.”

“Another point,” Wilson continued. “You remember how Meston was
killed? Hanged, by a silk rope. Where did that rope come from? One
doesn’t find silk ropes lying about in disused boathouses.”

“I see,” Michael said slowly. “You mean--the murderer must have
brought it with him?”

“Somebody must, at all events. I’m not destroying your theory,
Michael. I only want to point out that it has implications which
I’m not sure you’ve taken in yet. If there was a silk rope at the
boathouse on the night of Friday week, it wasn’t there by accident.
It was brought, presumably, by the person who was going to use
it. But that isn’t murder committed in the heat of passion, by a
man surprised by his bitter rival; it’s a cold-blooded, planned,
diabolical killing. And the woman must have been party to it,
probably stood by and saw it done, for Machin’s story makes it quite
certain that the killing did not take place after Mrs. Meston left
and before John Loring’s departure. Whatever was done, was done while
she was there. I suggest that we ought to make fairly sure of our
ground, seeing the character of the crime we are postulating.

“Another point. Not only must the hanging have been planned in
advance--the victim also must have been brought to the spot by
premeditation. The murderer could not have relied on any chance
passing on of gossip. Do you suggest that Potts was primed by John
Loring to bring Meston to his death?”

Michael pondered; then a light suddenly burst on him. “No!” he cried.
“Not Potts! Kershaw!”

“Kershaw?”

“Kershaw. Wasn’t that what you were trying to suggest to me? Kershaw,
as we’ve seen from his papers, must have had a pretty hefty grudge
against Meston--the more so as he had, apparently, to swallow
Meston’s abuse. Kershaw’s very thick with the Lorings, everybody
says, particularly lately. Perhaps he, too, was in love with Mrs.
Meston--no, that won’t work,” said Michael, checking himself.
“Anyway, Loring fixed it up with him--he’d have had plenty of time
to do it, because we haven’t any idea what happened to him between
the time when he met Potts on the road and midnight. Loring goes
to the old boathouse with his silk rope. Kershaw leaves the Grange
early--just the time when Billings couldn’t find him anywhere--goes
and rouses Meston, tells him where his wife is, and sends him to his
death. Then, when the body turns up, or, rather, when _I_ turn up,
Kershaw bashes it on the head so as to try and make it look like
accident. Of course, that’s it! And Loring would have had to find out
Meston’s movements from somebody. I suppose Kershaw told him.”

“How, in your view, did Kershaw give his fatal message? Did he stand
in a boat and shout it? Or bawl from the opposite bank? The wall of
the inn goes straight down into the water, you’ll remember.”

Michael hesitated, but only for a moment. “He could get in quite
easily, and go right up to Meston’s room. This is the easiest
place in the world to get in and out of. The front door’s locked
at night, but that’s only a kind of token vote. Anybody could get
in--and out--almost anywhere. That’s one of the reasons it’s been so
difficult to decide when Meston _did_ depart.”

“Well, then, how did Meston get to his rendezvous in time to be
murdered? Kershaw didn’t leave the Grange till after midnight.
Meston, according to your theory, was murdered at all events soon
after one. And it’s a good three miles’ pitch-dark walk along the
tow-path.”

Once again Michael surmounted the obstacle. “Kershaw had a bicycle.
He took Meston along--perhaps he helped to murder him; it would have
been a difficult job single-handed. And then he cycled back quickly
to get to Billings’s cottage.”

“And Mackenzie? And your other suspects?”

“Not on the map.”

“You’re very ingenious, Michael,” Wilson sighed. “You really answer
my objections most convincingly.”

“_And_,” Michael ended triumphantly, “Kershaw got five hundred
pounds, or something like it, for his share in the business. That’s
how he managed to pay his bills last week. Isn’t that what you were
hinting to me?”

“I had suspected something of that sort. But----”

“What’s the matter, Harry? Don’t you agree with me?”

“I expect,” Wilson said, “that a psycho-analyst would tell you that
I don’t want to agree, and that that proves conclusively how right
you must be. To be honest, I am not perfectly sure. The whole crime,
as you’ve reconstructed it, suggests a diabolical completeness of
prearrangement which doesn’t somehow seem to fit with the known
characters.”

“You haven’t seen John Loring,” Michael pondered, “so it can’t
be him that it doesn’t suit. It must be Mrs. Meston. You’ve let
that woman get hold of you, Harry! It’s just the same with you as
with Lockwood--she’s bemused you, and you don’t want to think her
concerned, so you won’t!”

“More psycho-analysis! Lockwood and I, I admit, both agree in
preferring defiant sinners. You, I fancy, like them sad and
repentant.”

“You admit she’s a sinner, anyway?”

“That depends, doesn’t it, on the amount and degree of the sin.
You condemn her because she uses the natural weapons of her sex,
answers you back when you’re rude, and lies to get herself out of
a corner. Very reprehensible, no doubt, but hardly on the same
plane as deliberate murder, I think. Besides, let me put another
point, which may appeal to you more. The whole business seems to
me so excessive. Sylvia Meston wanted to exchange her husband for
John Loring--granted. But in these degenerate days it is almost
unnecessary to remove the male obstant. I don’t feel the Loring
ménage would insist on John’s making an honest woman of his paramour.
Why not simply go off together?”

“Well, perhaps it was Kershaw’s idea,” Michael persisted. “Meston may
have been in his way to an extent that nothing but death would solve.
Or there may have been other reasons. We don’t know the whole story
yet.”

“We do not. Perhaps the young man will be able to enlighten us. Come
in!”

Sergeant Linton, more portentous in civilian clothes, entered the
room. “Colonel Lockwood asked me to let you know, sir, he’s got Mr.
John Loring at his house under arrest. He thought you’d maybe step
around after dinner.”




                             CHAPTER XXII


Three days before the discussion which took place in the last
chapter, a young man who lay with a bandaged head in bed at a house
in St. John’s Wood, becoming vaguely aware that certain irritating
sounds in the bedroom were on the whole new to him, turned half
round and opened his eyes to look at them. When he discovered that
the source of the sounds was not the nurse, but a tweed-clad person,
who was sitting by the bedside attending to the needs of his pipe,
he gave an irritated snort and rolled over again. The operation was
painful, and he cursed.

“Is he better, eh, Nurse?” said the tweed-clad one.

“Much better,” responded the nurse from some distant corner of the
room. “We’ll have him about again in a couple of days.”

“Better!” growled the patient. “You’d call yourself better if there
were a dozen trench-mortars going off inside your head, and you were
nothing but aches all the way down! Better!”

“Well, what do you expect,” his friend said, with irritating
reasonableness, “when you butt a car end on? I say, Johnnie, how on
earth did you manage it?”

“How the hell should I know? I wish you’d go away and leave me alone!”

“Ungrateful devil, isn’t he?” the other apostrophised the nurse.
“About as pleased as your dear brother was when I told him how I’d
been a good Samaritan to you.”

“What!” In his indignation the patient nearly leapt out of bed. “You
didn’t tell them at home, you damned blasted fool! Why the hell did
you do that?”

“Well, how was I to know you didn’t want me to? _You_ weren’t sayin’
nuffin, and it’s usual to let a chap’s relations know if he’s going
to kick the bucket. Ain’t you the heir and all that sort of thing?”

“You might have waited till I had, at least!”

“Well, _I_ didn’t know what you were going to do. You might have been
killed, for all I knew, and there was the other chappie dancing round
and howling like a damned dervish. Can’t imagine why he hasn’t set
the cops on you already. Seriously, old thing, I thought you might
be going to croak, and Godfrey ought to know about it, if you were.
If I’ve put my foot in it, I apologise; but I don’t see how I was to
know if you didn’t tell me.”

“Oh, all right,” John Loring grumbled. “I suppose you couldn’t help
it. I never want to hear a word of any of them again, that’s all, and
I don’t suppose they do, either. Did my charming brother show any
interest, did you say?”

“Not much, I’m sorry to tell you,” said his friend, filling his pipe.
“I must say I feel for you, ol’ man, having been a younger brother
myself. I can’t say he seemed anything but relieved to hear it was me
picked you up and he hadn’t got owt to do with it. Still, don’t take
it to heart, my boy. I expect he was up to the eyes with this chap
who’s gone and drowned himself. By the way, wasn’t Meston rather a
_bête noire_ of yours, one time?”

“Go to hell!” was the reply. “I tell you I don’t want to hear a word
about any of them.”

“No, but, I say, you ought to be bucked about this. He’s gone and got
drowned, or drowned himself, it says in the paper. What’s the matter
now?”

“Hell! What’s the good of telling me that _now_? Do shut up! Oh,
Lord, what a rotten head I’ve got! I wish you’d take your filthy pipe
away, Phil--and your face too.” John Loring, no better at bearing
unexpected pain than most young men, rolled over again and swore
furiously.

“I think you’d better go now, Mr. Weaver,” the nurse suggested. “He’s
had enough visitors for the moment. You’ll find him quite different
when he’s had a sleep,” she added in a whisper; and Philip Weaver,
with various winks and grunts expressive of tactful understanding,
took himself out of the room, feeling that ingratitude was certainly
the portion of the good Samaritans of this world.

John Loring, however, had a naturally tough constitution, and, once
he had got over the shock of his accident, his health, though not
at the moment his spirits, began to improve rapidly. By the Sunday
morning he was well enough to be dressed and to lie on Weaver’s sofa,
turning over a sheaf of Sunday papers, and impartially cursing the
items of news therein.

“Thought you said the brute drowned himself,” he growled at Weaver.

“What brute?”

“That,” said John, pushing the paper over. For some reason he seemed
to fight shy of Meston’s name. “It says there he fell in.”

“Well, I didn’t say he didn’t, did I? I only said he might have. By
Jove,” said Weaver, looking down the report of the inquest at Steeple
Tollesbury, “that’s dashed odd, isn’t it? The chappie seems to have
come to his berluggy end the same night as you smashed. Did you see
anything of him, by any chance?”

“No, I didn’t! Do you mean it was the same day? Let’s see. Oh, hell,
what a mess!” John flung himself back on the couch and beat the
cushions as if his emotions defied any other expression.

“I say, old man,” Weaver went on, after a pause, “you know I hate to
bother you and all that; but I wish you’d tell me what in thunder did
happen. I choked off the Johnny you bashed for a bit, and I don’t
think he’s killed, which is a mercy, cos the courts are always down
on manslaughter cases; but I’ve been surprised he hasn’t been along
to curse, and I’d awfully like to know what to say when he _does_
come.”

“I don’t care what you say. What’s it matter? I’m sure I don’t know
what happened. I just ran into him, that’s all, and I don’t remember
anything more till I woke up here with hell’s own headache and pains
all over me.”

“With your lights off, old boy?”

“With my what? Oh, hadn’t I put ’em on? I suppose I forgot. They’re
beastly things, anyway--make the road go all jumpy. Where did I do
the deed, by the way?”

“Cross-roads a couple of miles out of Epping. I don’t know what
happened--I wasn’t there. I’d been up at Morton’s place, and was
buzzing back to town in a hurry, when I heard a chappie hooting no
end on his horn and yelling ‘Keep out of the way!’ So I slowed down,
and there you all were in the devil of a mess. You must have just
missed hitting him amidships--as it was, you’d slewed him all across
the road and buckled his hind-wheels, and chucked the chap himself
through his windscreen. He was cut about and bleeding a bit, but
nothing to write home about. _Your_ bus was tipped over on its side
right across the road, and you’d been thrown out and were lying there
looking like a goner. You made me feel quite queer in the tummy, I
do assure you; but I think, if you ask me, it was luck for you, for
the grocer or whatever he was would’ve certainly killed you on the
spot if you hadn’t looked dead already. As it was, he let it all off
to me, and made me tell him who you were and go and feel your lamps.
And they were cold as stone, so they can’t’ve been on for some time.
Eventually, when he’d used all the cuss-words he knew, he helped me
load you into my bus, and we hoofed yours into the ditch somehow out
of the way, and I went in to Epping and got somebody to go out and
bring him in--fortunately it was a jolly hot night or he might have
died of pneumonia. When I got to town, I routed out Maurice, and he
came along grousing, and said you weren’t killed, and I was jolly
relieved, I can tell you. But I’ve been waiting for the other chap to
turn up ever since; he took your name, and said he’d have the law of
you. However, he hasn’t been, and I hope he won’t now.”

“I don’t care if he does,” said John. “What’s it matter, anyway?”

“I say, is anything up, really?” Weaver asked curiously. “You seem a
bit pipped, I must say, for a fellow that’s been miraculously saved
from pegging out. Maurice said if your skull had been a millimetre
thinner you’d have been a gone coon.”

“Only I wish it had been,” John growled. “Or I wish you’d let the
fellow bash my head in. Sorry, Phil, I ought to be grateful to you
for saving my life, I know. Only, as it happens, I’m not interested
in it at the moment.”

“Well, I’m damned if I know what’s to be done with you,” Weaver
sighed.

“Does it matter?” said John, returning to the _Sunday Express_.

Late on the same afternoon, however, the problem of Mr. John Loring’s
immediate future, was somewhat rudely solved. The bell of Weaver’s
flat rang in a peremptory manner, and, on going to the front door,
its owner found there two persons whose official manner immediately
suggested plain-clothes policemen.

“Is Mr. John Loring here?” one of them asked. “The same that met with
a motor accident last Friday week? Thank you. May we have a word with
him, please?”

“Oh, well, that’s torn it,” thought Weaver resignedly. “I suppose the
grocer fellow must have woken up at last. Poor old Johnnie, I hope
they won’t give him too rough a time.” And he led the way into the
sitting-room, where John still lay on the couch embedded in a débris
of newspapers.

“Mr. John Loring?” the first of the two policemen asked.

“That’s my name.” John Loring did not look up.

“Mr. Loring, I am Inspector Bille, of the Essex County Constabulary.”
At the name, Philip Weaver gave a weak giggle, which he immediately
suppressed as its owner turned a stern official eye on him. “I have
to ask you to be good enough to come with me.”

“Where to?”

“To Colonel Lockwood’s house. He is anxious to have a few words with
you.”

“I’m damned if I will,” said John, without moving. “If Lockwood wants
to talk to me he can come and find me, and you can tell him I said
so.”

“I’m afraid that won’t do, sir,” the Inspector said politely.
“Colonel Lockwood gave strict orders for you to go to his house.”

“Well, you can take ’em back again. I’m not going near the place.”

“Come, Mr. Loring, it’s no manner of use taking that tone. Orders are
orders, you know, and I’ve orders to bring you back with me.”

“Hard luck on you,” said John Loring insolently. “What’ll they do to
you? Take away your stripes?”

“Now, Mr. Loring, I don’t want to make it unpleasant for you----”

“Then you’d better take your face out of here quickly!”

“--but you’ll see that I must do my duty. Let me tell you that
it will be much better for you if you’d come without making
difficulties.”

“But look here, Inspector,” Weaver struck in, seeing the veins swell
on his lodger’s forehead, “aren’t you getting rather on your high
horse, don’t you know? I mean, you’re not dealing with a criminal,
are you? ’Tisn’t a crime to have a motor smash, and if the chappie
wants satisfaction, he might at least ask for it like a gentleman,
what?”

“Motor smash?” said the Inspector. “I’m not talking about any motor
smash.”

“Then what in hell’s name _are_ you talking about?”

“Mr. Loring,” said the Inspector, “are you not aware that Mr.
Meston’s body was found in the Toll last Wednesday?”

John Loring threw the papers away, and turned on him with a face of
fury. “Will _none_ of you let me alone?” he shouted. “What the devil
does it matter to me where you found his lousy body? You don’t expect
me to put on mourning for him, do you?”

“No; but Colonel Lockwood would like to ask you a few questions----”

“Devil take you and the Colonel too! I tell you I won’t answer any
questions! What’s the man got to do with me?”

“Colonel Lockwood,” the Inspector persisted, “wishes to put a few
questions to you about your movements last Friday night.”

The Inspector could hardly have expected an amiable reply; but even
he must have been astonished by the reception of his remark. For John
Loring, his face suddenly flushing a deep red, leaped from the couch
and flung himself at the Inspector’s throat, muttering, “You damned
swine! Say that again, will you?”

Taken aback by the sudden onslaught, the Inspector reeled against
the door, and would have fallen had not his companion caught him.
There ensued a sharp but short mêlée, in which Philip Weaver, utterly
bewildered by the turn of events, played no part, but stood gaping
against the wall while the Inspector and the policemen dealt firmly
but effectively with Loring.

“Well?” the latter demanded sullenly, when he was once more back on
the couch, with the policemen sitting astride his legs. “Two of you
against a crock! I hope you’re satisfied. What are you going to do
now? Arrest me?”

“Not unless you make it necessary, sir,” the Inspector said in
a soothing tone. “I’m still in hopes you’ll come with us like a
sensible man. I’ve a car outside.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’m afraid I shall have to arrest you, sir. But, believe me, I
don’t want to.”

“But what in God’s name are you going to arrest him for?” Weaver put
in. The Inspector turned an extinguishing eye on him.

“That, sir, is between me and Mr. Loring. Come now, sir, are you
coming?”

“I am not.” John Loring set his teeth and passed his hand over his
eyes. “If you’ve anything to arrest me for, you can arrest and be
damned; but I’m not going back to Steeple Tollesbury unless you drag
me. And that’s my last word, so you can stop arguing.”

“Then,” the Inspector’s voice became very official, “I have to arrest
you, John Loring, on the charge of being concerned in the murder of
William Meston at Steeple Tollesbury on the night of Friday, August
the ninth, and to warn you that anything you say may be used in
evidence against you.”

“What!” The prisoner, who had sat half up, fell back with a gasp.
“You don’t mean--O God, that about puts the lid on it! The
dirty little swine! All right, Billy-boy, arrest away. I’ll come
quietly--isn’t that the word? Only mind my head. I’ve got the most
damnable headache after talking to you. Bye-bye, Phil; I’ll see you
get a bit of the rope.”

And in such manner did Mr. John Loring return to the home of his
forefathers.




                            CHAPTER XXIII


“This,” said Colonel Lockwood, “is Superintendent Wilson, of Scotland
Yard. Superintendent Wilson, Mr. John Loring.”

“Do I say, ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilson,’ or, ‘Damn you for a
cursed, interfering swine’?” John Loring asked amiably. “The latter
seems more appropriate, I think. Please consider it said.” He sank
back into the Colonel’s arm-chair, with which, in deference to his
physical condition, he had been accommodated, and leant his scowling
head on his hand.

Wilson looked at him with some curiosity. He saw a tall, powerfully
built man, four or five years younger than his brother, the Squire,
but of the same general physical appearance. John, however, was
the better-looking of the two, mainly because, owing either to the
superior discipline of life in China or simply to less self-indulgent
habits, he was obviously in much better general condition. He had
Godfrey’s broad, low brow and heavy jaw, and the same deep-set
grey eyes; but he was thinner and browner altogether, the bones
of his face and head still stood out clearly, and he had not yet
begun to thicken about the neck. At present he was looking very
wan and exhausted, which was not surprising, considering that he
had absolutely refused to touch either food or drink in Colonel
Lockwood’s house; but his powers of resistance appeared unabated,
and Wilson’s first reflection, on seeing him, was that the Colonel
seemed to have bungled the affair again, and that it was long odds
on extracting an admission, or indeed any information, from this
formidable young man. Why on earth had Lockwood not gone to London
himself, and put his own questions? Anything rather than let himself
be jockeyed into making a quite possibly premature arrest. One fact,
nevertheless, Wilson had to admit. There was no doubt that John
Loring was physically capable of committing the crime they had set
out to investigate.

“You know, John,” the Colonel said in a tone of mild reproof, “you’re
not helping us very much.”

“I’m not trying to. Did I look as if I was?” was the reply. “I don’t
know who killed the blighter and I don’t care. If I did I wouldn’t
tell you. He deserved all he got. I hope you’re taking all this down,
by the way?”

“You,” said the Colonel, “were in Steeple Tollesbury the night when
he was murdered.”

“So were you,” said John. “Did you kill him? I congratulate you,
Lockwood. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You had a grudge against him.”

“Have it your own way. You know best, I’m sure. What about it?”

“Mr. Loring,” Wilson said, “I think you’ve got this affair the wrong
way round. We are not trying to make you incriminate yourself; we are
only asking for an explanation on one or two points----”

“Don’t you wish you may get it?”

“You were in Sir Felix Lewis’s boathouse from midnight till about
1.30 on that Friday night.” Wilson saw Loring’s hand clench, but he
said nothing. “What we want to know is what you were doing there,
and what you did when you left?” No answer.

“And who was with you,” said the Colonel injudiciously. Loring put
his hand down in order to glare at him; but an expression of relief
showed momentarily in his eyes.

“You don’t want much, do you?” he said.

“I don’t think so,” the Colonel replied, “seeing that a man has been
murdered in what even his enemies must admit to have been a cowardly
manner----”

“How _was_ he murdered?” John interrupted. “You didn’t mention that.
You’ve given me a pile of gossip and things I didn’t ask for about
my own movements, but you haven’t told me the really interesting
thing--how that ---- got himself done in.”

“For the moment,” Wilson put in, “I think we might leave that. The
thing is, Mr. Loring, that it is necessary, in the best interests
of all who knew Mr. Meston, and particularly, if I may say so, of
those who are known to have been on bad terms with him, that they
should give us a frank account of their movements on the night he was
murdered. That is the reason we are asking you these questions.”

“To which you seem to know the answers--or have ’em made up,” said
John. “Why bother me?”

“We should like your confirmation,” said the Colonel.

“I’ve no doubt you would,” with a sneer, “but that’s just what you
aren’t going to get. My dear fool, do you think I don’t know you,
that you come here with a booby-trap and expect me to walk into it,
and hang myself out of my own mouth to oblige you and my precious
brother? I’ve told you I didn’t kill him, and if that isn’t enough
for you, you can go and whistle for more, or get some of your dirty
little police spies to swear it. I don’t admit I was here on Friday
night; I don’t admit I was at the boathouse; I don’t admit anything.
Now go to hell!” His voice died away, and his eyes stared suddenly.

“Look out!” said Wilson. “He’s going to faint!” But before they could
get to the prisoner he had slid forward in a heap and dropped inertly
on the floor. He was a good thirteen stone in weight, and they had to
summon the assistance of the sergeant on guard before they could get
him restored to consciousness and placed on the couch, where he lay
glaring at them like a trapped beast, but obviously beyond speech.
Wilson noted that the sergeant appeared to relish his job no better
than the Colonel, and approached the prisoner with an odd mixture
of pity and deference. Plainly, Mr. John Loring was popular in the
neighbourhood; and his arrest was not likely to range the gossiping
population on the side of the law.

“You aren’t likely to get anything more out of him to-night,” Wilson
said in an undertone to the Colonel. “In fact, I should get him to
bed as quickly as possible.”

“Here?” said the Colonel, in the tone of one asked to extend a
neighbourly lodging to a tiger.

“Well, he obviously isn’t fit to be housed in jail,” said Wilson.
“You can put a guard, if you think he’s likely to run away.
Personally, I doubt his having the strength for it, at the moment.
You might get Kershaw to have a look at him, if he’s back.” For
reasons of his own, he rather wished his two suspects to have a
chance of communicating.

“Kershaw--can go to--hell,” the prisoner remarked in a faint but
forcible whisper, as if he had read Wilson’s thoughts. “I’ll give
you--parole--if you like. Won’t run away--feel too--damned sick.” And
he shut his eyes as if the effort of keeping them open was beyond his
strength.

“What do you make of it, Wilson?” the harassed Colonel said, when he
had, with considerable labour, installed John Loring in his spare
room. “It looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?”

“It looks to me very much the same as it did,” was the reply. “We
haven’t succeeded in getting any fresh information--in fact, we’re
just where we were.”

“But look how he’s incriminated himself!” the Colonel cried. “You
didn’t hear half what he said about Meston! It would be enough to
hang him with any ordinary jury.”

“Oh no, Colonel, it wouldn’t. A clever counsel could easily turn
that to the prisoner’s advantage. It’s quite rare for a man who
premeditates a crime like this to give himself away afterwards by
abusing his victim. We know, of course, that Loring doesn’t like Mr.
Meston; but that, by all accounts, we knew before.”

“But it’s indecent,” the Colonel said, “to curse the man when he’s
dead.”

“Oh, Mr. John Loring is obviously in an exceedingly bad temper--a
worse temper, one would think, than would be normal under the
circumstances. But is it so out of keeping with his character?” The
Colonel could not say that it was. “There you are, then. That goes no
way with a local jury. I’m bound to say it seems to me that there’s
more in his manner than meets the eye. But I don’t think, in his
present mood, he’s likely to explain that for us himself. We’ll have
to look for it elsewhere.”

“Then you don’t think he’s guilty?”

“I did not say so.” Wilson, tired himself with a long day and a
series of disturbing suspicions, had much ado not to show his
impatience. “What I meant to imply was that it is by no means fitted
together yet, and that we certainly haven’t enough evidence to go
before a jury. In the first place, we’re not definitely sure that
it was Mrs. Meston who was with him at the boathouse, though I
don’t feel much doubt that it was, and we can probably succeed in
proving it. But, what’s much more important, we’ve no real evidence
that Meston was there too, and that’s very much too large a fact to
assume--however sure we may be in our own minds. Did you see the man
Potts, by the way?”

“No; he had the day off. I’ll see him to-morrow,” the Colonel
promised.

“The answer may be there--though I’m more inclined to think we’ve
got to look further. Anyway, I’m not satisfied yet,” And with this
negative conclusion Michael also had to be content, when his friend
returned to bed at the Old Malting House.




                             CHAPTER XXIV


“So you’re going to hang the Squire’s brother! What terrible
fellows you are, to let loose on a quiet town!” Like a cheerful
Jack-in-the-box, Mr. Brandreth popped out of an entry, and strolled
along by the side of a very reluctant Michael. Driven from Wilson’s
company by a curt intimation that the latter wanted to think and that
he got in the way, Michael had chosen the calm of the High Street in
preference to the buzz of the inn; but it appeared that he had jumped
from the frying-pan into the fire. Curse the fellow and his gift of
ubiquity!

“I hope, for his own sake, your friend’s got plenty of evidence
against him,” Brandreth continued. “It won’t be a popular arrest
hereabouts. Our democracy has always taken John’s side against the
Squire.”

“Don’t they get on, then?”

“There’s a proverb hereabouts,” the lawyer said. “Two Lorings, one
hanging. I don’t know that it’s generally fulfilled in detail, but
one feels that it might be any moment. The father and uncle of these
two had a regular battle-royal, and there would have been murder done
if they hadn’t been separated. And John and Godfrey have fought from
their cradles. Oh, it’s not about anything; it never is. Just two
Lorings--that’s all. Not that I think your friend’s very wise to go
nap on John, you know. I don’t exactly fancy him in the part.”

“Then who do you fancy?”

“Oh, come, I’m not a tipster. I never back my fancy, even when
the field’s small. And in this case, I fear it’s rather a large
one. I always felt, you know, that the late William Meston was one
of Nature’s murderees, if I may put it that way--only convention
keeps most of us from following our natural impulses. By the way,
talking of him, what does Mr. Wilson make of his researches into the
financial affairs of his own firm?”

“Why should he make anything? He’s investigating his death, not his
financial position.”

“Oh, he doesn’t think they’re connected, then? That’s very
interesting. Now I wonder----You had a bit of a look into that,
hadn’t you? Would it be very indiscreet to ask what sort of
conclusion you reached?”

“It would,” said Michael, with a firmness not unmixed with pleasure
at being able to baffle the solicitor for once in a way. “Anyway, I
don’t see why on earth you should assume I’ve any interest in the
matter.”

“My dear sir, Colchester is a charming town, no doubt; but few find
it so attractive as to want to go there, with the prospect of an
exciting inquest at home. But I forgot--of course you must have known
that the inquest was going to be a wash-out. Your friend’s rather
hard on us, isn’t he? Withholding of information beyond a certain
point about seems to me a crime.”

“It’s a crime which can affect you singularly little!” Michael
retorted. “You seem to know who is guilty, or who is going to be
hanged, before I do myself!”

“Oh, as to that,” said Brandreth, unperturbed, “you can’t expect to
bring John Loring home in a motor with two plain-clothes men, and
lodge him in Lockwood’s house all night, without having a bit of a
buzz about it. You see, we in these parts don’t need uniforms to
rouse our suspicions. We know our local force’s Sunday best as well
as its blues, and so--we draw our own conclusions.”

“Well, you’d better go on drawing them,” said Michael, moving off.
“It seems to me you get much more interest out of life that way than
I could give you.”

“Meaning you won’t tell me what you found in Colchester. Well, well,
it’s a pity,” said Mr. Brandreth. “And after all the interesting
conversations you must have had with Strake, too.” Michael made
a sudden movement, as he remembered how on the morning following
the finding of the body he had surprised Brandreth in an earnest
conversation with the inquiry agent. “Oh, Strake’s not as secret as
the grave, I’m quite aware. The difficulty is, isn’t it, to know what
to believe and what not to believe with a fellow like that? I was in
hopes you’d have been able to sift his stories a little. But, if you
can’t, you can’t. Any time you _do_ feel like a chat about it, of
course, I’m your man. By the way,” as Michael made another effort to
get away, “I was thinking of going along to Kershaw’s place now. Care
to come with me? It’s really worth seeing.”

“Sorry; I’m afraid I can’t manage it at the moment.” Brandreth looked
at him with a quizzical smile.

“Well, well, I’m not sure you’re not right. Perhaps, on the whole,
Kershaw might be a little sore at the way you’ve treated him.”

“Sore? Treated him? What do you mean?” Michael’s wrath with the
doctor had been overlaid a little by the events of the last few days;
but it was still lively enough to awake at any suggestion that he had
been in the wrong.

“Why, I don’t know what you said to Kershaw or he to you. But if you
let him make a fool of himself in open court, he’s hardly likely to
be pleased.”

“He gave his own evidence.”

“Pointing to accidental death--and you go and arrest John Loring for
murder!”

“Why should you assume----”

“That it was murder? Well, I don’t suppose Mr. Wilson arrested him
for accidentally pushing Meston into the water. And you’ve just told
me it wasn’t anything to do with Meston’s financial affairs.”

“You’re very certain Wilson _did_ arrest him,” said Michael, biting
his lip.

“Didn’t he? Lockwood’s a very impulsive fellow at times,” said
Brandreth sympathetically. “But I shouldn’t have thought his impulses
would have led him to arrest John, unprompted. However that may be,
it does seem to mean Kershaw’s got a bit of a grievance. He says
somebody’s been burgling his house, by the way. Odd sort of thing
to do; I shouldn’t think there was twenty pounds’ worth of stuff in
the place, bar the house itself. But he’s quite annoyed about it.”
He stared at Michael till the latter felt that the marrow of his
spine was blushing. Suddenly there was a welcome diversion. “Good
heavens!” said Mr. Brandreth, “there’s a man trying to get into my
house, and the housekeeper’s out. I must go. So sorry. Au revoir,
Dr. Prendergast.” And he trotted off to his house at a pace which
Michael could not help thinking unduly speedy for a mere caller kept
waiting.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Now, what did he want to know that for?” Wilson mused, when Michael
reported the conversation to him as they sat at lunch. “It’s quite
obvious that he was trying unusually hard to pump you--but with what
purpose? What conceivable interest can he have in Meston’s financial
affairs? Or--is this a hint to me that I’m on the wrong track? I
think perhaps I’ve been neglecting the Warden-Hanborough aspect of
the thing. This wants looking into.” And he fell into a brooding
silence.

“Have you got any further, this morning?” Michael asked.

“No; I can’t say I have. I went up to Lockwood’s to have another
look at the prisoner; but he doesn’t seem any more talkative than he
was last night. He’s slept for fourteen hours, and agreed to demean
himself by taking food; so he’s in altogether better physical trim.
But it doesn’t appear to have loosened his tongue any, as the Yankees
say.”

“Much the wisest thing for a murderer to do, to say nothing,” Michael
said.

“Yes, but they don’t all look so pleased about it. He’s in an odd
mood altogether. Something has obviously happened to make him very
angry, not to say despairing; for even the Loring temper would hardly
account for his ferocious surliness. But at the same time there’s
a quite perceptible air that can only be called _exalté_--a sort
of Sydney Carton--‘It’s a far, far better thing’--if you know what
I mean; which hardly seems to fit in with hanging one’s rival. If
you’ve an odd moment, Michael, you might like to go up and have a
look at him. You can say I sent you as medicine man, and I’d like to
know what you think of your suspect in the flesh. Otherwise, there’s
no news, except that I’m waiting hourly for news of Mr. Potts. Ah,
there’s the good Colonel coming. This is probably it.”

The Colonel had, it was true, seen Potts, and had brought along, for
what it was worth, the information he had secured. But, like most
of the information secured in the case, it did not advance matters
much. Potts, said the Colonel, had been very unwilling to talk at
all, being a surly and secretive man by nature. “He’s a queer-looking
customer, too,” the Colonel said. “Something like a talking gorilla.
I often think the man’s not quite right in the head, but he’s said
to be an excellent servant, and he’s certainly fond of the family.
I had to call in Godfrey to help, before he would speak at all.”
When he did speak, however, Potts confirmed the story of his meeting
John Loring and receiving the note for Mrs. Meston, which he duly
delivered. He had no idea, he said, what was in it. More than that
he either did not know or would not tell. He had not seen Mr. John
again, had not gone to the town that afternoon or evening, had not
seen Meston or held any communication with him or any one else. Had
not told any one of Mr. John’s return. Asked how Mrs. Meston looked
when receiving her note, he professed himself unable to remember. And
that, meagre as it was, was all the information which the Colonel had
been able to extract from the footman. No amount of questioning or
cross-questioning had been able to shake or vary his story.

“And that’s that,” the Colonel finished, as he took his leave.
“Supposing the doctor’s suggestions are correct, we’re still no
nearer knowing how Meston heard that young Loring was in the place.”

“Or how he got to the bridge--if he did.” Wilson was staring dreamily
in front of him. “Thanks, Colonel. Don’t be downcast. I admit it’s
not very satisfactory at present; but the only thing is to keep
pegging away. I’ve known worse cases.”

“By the way,” said Michael, when the Colonel had gone, “Kershaw
apparently has a fancy he’s been burgled over the week-end, so
Brandreth tells me.”

“Rubbish!” said Wilson. “He couldn’t. I looked over the place myself,
before I left, and there wasn’t a thing out of place.”

“Except the bit of cocaine I took to examine,” Michael said.

“No one could have missed that.”

“Well, Brandreth said he thought so, anyway.”

“That,” said Wilson, “proves either a guilty conscience or--special
information. By Jove!” he sat up, suddenly wide awake. “That decides
me. If he suspects burglary he may as well know about it--at least
what it was for. Yes, I think a little conversation with Dr. Kershaw
is indicated. No, Michael, I don’t want you. You’d put him off. You
amuse yourself; I shan’t be long.”




                             CHAPTER XXV


Dr. Kershaw was in his surgery when Wilson was announced. He looked
up with a cold glance of hostility as the detective came in, and
Wilson noticed an additional shake of the long, nervous fingers that
were beating up something in a mortar. “He’s running his drug pretty
hard,” he thought.

“What can I do for you?” Kershaw asked.

Wilson held out his card. “My name’s Wilson, of the C.I.D.,” he said,
thinking that it was of little use to try to keep his identity dark.
“I’ve been requested by Colonel Lockwood to help him look into the
matter of the death of Mr. Meston.”

“Why?” If Kershaw was alarmed, he was controlling it well. “Is there
anything wrong with his death? It looked to me like an accident,
but I may have been mistaken. I’ve heard nothing about it since the
inquest was adjourned.”

“I understand that the police are not entirely satisfied to accept
the explanation of accident,” said Wilson, with his eyes on the
doctor’s face. “Particularly in view of certain events connected
with Mr. Meston’s life.” Kershaw made no sign, but waited for him to
proceed. “Can you throw any light, doctor, on anything which would
suggest a motive for any one putting him out of the way?”

“I? No, I can’t. I barely knew the man.”

“Yet they say you’d had a violent quarrel with him.”

“Who say? Whoever it is, they’re lying.”

“There’s some talk of a very acrimonious correspondence between you.”

“Look here, Mr. Wilson,” said Kershaw, who had turned a greenish
yellow, and seemed very angry, “are you intending to bring a charge
against me? For if you are, I know enough of the law to know that you
ought to caution me formally before you try to make me commit myself,
and, if you aren’t, I’ll be glad if you’ll say plainly what you’re up
to!”

“I’m not arresting you, Dr. Kershaw,” Wilson said, “and I should be
glad to avoid the necessity of detaining you in order to answer my
questions. There is a little information which I think you could
quite easily give me, and I’d rather get it in an amicable manner. Of
course, if you force my hand----”

The doctor turned round and fidgeted for a little with his
test-tubes. “Well,” he said at last, “what is it you want to know?”

“Did you, or did you not, have a quarrel with William Meston?”

“We didn’t quarrel. He wrote me a very offensive letter--I suppose
that’s what you’re alluding to, though how you found out about it
I can’t imagine. But I didn’t take any notice. It was the sort of
communication that’s best left alone.”

“What was it about?”

A dull red spot rose on the doctor’s cheeks. “If you must know, it
was an insolent and unwarrantable attack on my private character.
Meston, as you’ll know for yourself if you’ve been looking into his
affairs, was a thoroughly unpleasant Paul Pry of a man--a kind of
preaching deacon in other folks’ lives. He saw fit to call my conduct
in question, and wrote me an entirely unfounded letter. If I’d done
anything about it, I should have called him out and taken a horsewhip
to him; but I didn’t. That kind of thing is best left alone, and
everybody knew what Meston was like. There wasn’t a word of truth in
it.”

“I see. And then you didn’t have any more ill-feeling?”

“I don’t know about feeling,” said Kershaw. “We weren’t on speaking
terms; and if his face was any guide, his feelings about me must have
been quite strong. But we didn’t have any row. As I’ve already told
you, I barely knew the man.”

“I see,” said Wilson again. “Where were you on the night of his
death?”

Kershaw gave a jump. “I? I was at a party at the Grange.”

“Till when?”

“Oh, some time after midnight, I think.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I had a case to go to. Midwifery.”

“Billings, the cowman?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you get there?”

“I’m not certain--some time between one and two, I think,” said
Kershaw, licking his lips a little. “I was delayed.”

“What delayed you?”

“I--I forgot some appliances, and had to go back for them.”

“So that you went to your house twice, did you?”

“Twice--yes. Once for my bag, and once for the things I’d forgotten.
That’s twice.”

“On your bicycle?”

“Yes.”

“How far were you when you found you’d forgotten your appliances?”

“Just by the bridge.”

“And it takes you--say--five minutes to bicycle from the bridge to
your house. And from the Grange--how long?”

“I don’t know--I’ve never timed it.”

“Twenty minutes, perhaps. Or longer?”

“I don’t know. I tell you I haven’t inquired.”

“Even if we put it at half an hour, with a quarter of an hour for
your other goings and comings--still you didn’t get to Billings’s
cottage till an hour and three-quarters after you’d left the Grange.
Where were you in the meantime, Dr. Kershaw?”

“Here,” said Kershaw. “I was--looking for things. I’d mislaid them. I
had to turn the whole place out.”

“But when Billings’s boy came and knocked, you didn’t answer?”

“No, I didn’t,” the doctor snapped. “I looked out of the window and
saw who it was, and I didn’t want to waste more time coming down
after him. These people think one’s a mechanism at their beck and
call--the fools!”

“And that’s all you did?”

“That’s all. Look here, Mr. Wilson----”

“You didn’t by any chance call at the Old Malting House?”

“No.” There was a gasp in Kershaw’s voice, but it sounded like a gasp
of relief more than apprehension.

“Or see--anything remarkable?”

“No!” No relief this time. The question had clearly been a nasty one.

“And you’ve no notion or suspicion of how Meston came by his end?”

“No! None. I tell you I hardly knew him.”

“If that is so, Dr. Kershaw,” said Wilson, looking hard at him, “how
do you account for the fact that in the week after his death you
became unexpectedly possessed of a large sum of money?”

There was no mistaking, this suggestion had gone very near the mark,
though what exactly the mark was, Wilson was not at all certain.
Kershaw flushed furiously, and looked as if he was about to spring on
him.

“That’s no business of yours--and nothing whatever to do with
Meston,” he said eventually. “If you must know, a man paid me an old
debt, that’s all.”

“And you used it?”

“I used it as I commonly use money--to pay for what I wanted!”
Kershaw flashed back at him. “And now, Mr. Wilson, I’m a busy man,
and I think I’ve wasted about enough time. Unless you’ve any more
_pressing_ questions, I will wish you good afternoon!”

“You haven’t any information that would help me, then?” Wilson said,
preparing to take his leave.

“I have not. If I had I’d have given it to the proper quarters long
ago. Good afternoon.” And without any attempt to show the visitor
out, Dr. Kershaw returned to his mortar, and resumed his braying.

“That’s a scared man,” Wilson thought, “if ever I saw one. But what
exactly is he scared of? Are we on the right track--or not?” He
looked round at the sunny peaceful afternoon. “I think a walk might
help to clear my mind a bit. Sorry, Michael”--he apostrophised his
absent friend--“but it can’t be helped.”




                             CHAPTER XXVI


It was a glorious day, rather warm, perhaps, for walking, but with a
cool breeze that just lifted the burden of the heat. Wilson strolled
out along the London road, and took the first favourable turn into
the field-paths. Now he was walking along a barely visible track by
the side of the smallest imaginable stream, half hidden in brooklime
and watercresses. In winter, no doubt, that small stream would spread
out subterraneously through the porous earth until the field through
which he was walking became simply a swamp, an enlargement of the
river’s source; but now the only trace of its wintry activities was
the slight dampness of the ground beneath his feet--a phenomenon
which merely served to make the walk pleasantly cool. On his right
was a copse of grey willows, knee-deep in moon-coloured cow-parsley,
and he stared at them vaguely, wondering how this odd, forgotten
county so near London could preserve such an air of the unearthly.
Even in broad daylight the grey grove might have held any amount
of ghosts of deserted ladies, and there was never a sound but the
faint undercurrent buzz of an August afternoon. Traffic, and modern
civilisation, might have been a hundred miles away; the road, as
Essex roads do, had turned off at a crazy right angle, away from the
direction in which it was nominally wending, and was now about its
business of turning east, west, north, and south at random in order
to get, after eight miles of meandering, to Little Friday--a village
which he, across the fields, would reach in half that distance. An
Essex road, Wilson reflected, got to its destination much as a river
does in other counties, and was as little fitted for traffic in a
hurry. A pleasant place still--for those without cars.

At the end of the willow copse the straight way was blocked by one of
those curious cramped hummocks which make it absurd to speak of Essex
as a flat county. To avoid it--though it was not more than a hundred
feet high--Wilson crossed the little stream by a bridge of planks
and earth, and stood for a moment staring at a little backwater, if
a thing two feet across can be so described, which joined it just
there. The surface of the backwater was covered with an abundance
of duckweed, and Wilson remembered having heard some one say that
duckweed on the top always meant clear water below. In an idle mood
he pulled aside some of the weed with his stick and gazed down on
a dark, but perfectly clear pool, out of which his own reflection
looked serenely up at him. Was that an allegory of the Meston case?
he wondered, half-attentive. Were all these perplexing clues and
counter-clues only duckweed on clear water? and if he could once lift
them out of the way, would he see instantly to the bottom of the
problem?

His mind turned back to Amory Kershaw and the recollection of his
last interview. That the doctor was alarmed, and alarmed with some
definite reason, was quite apparent. But what was the reason? He went
over in his mind the evidence against Kershaw.

First, he was a doubtful character, a drug-taker, in low water
financially, and a man who held an appointment considerably less
good than his professional qualifications would have suggested. These
two facts were probably connected one with the other. Next, he bore
a reputation in his own neighbourhood that was not of the highest.
Wilson had not gone deeply into the general opinion of Kershaw;
but that letter of Meston’s could never have been written to a
strictly moral man. It was also interesting that Kershaw, on his own
statement, appeared to have lain down under its imputations. Wilson
did not for a moment believe the atmosphere of “too proud to fight,”
with which Kershaw had endeavoured to invest his conduct; and he
could only surmise that Kershaw had urgent reasons for not wishing to
have the matter out with his correspondent.

All this was ancient history. Coming now to the actual circumstances
of the crime, the one really damnable thing against Kershaw was
that blow on the head--and his behaviour at the inquest. The fact
that he had suddenly come into funds whose source he did not wish
to explain might easily have no connection with anything Wilson was
investigating. A man with Kershaw’s character might receive money
from a dozen dubious quarters. It was a coincidence, of course,
and a suspicious one. But it need not be anything more. Nor was
his unexplained absence at a time which might have coincided with
Meston’s murder evidence in itself of complicity. His own explanation
of that might be correct--or he might have been drunk in a ditch. He
had been at a party at the Grange, and parties at the Grange, Wilson
surmised, would be provided with plenty of liquor. There was no sign
of any particular motive on his part for murdering Meston--nor of
any connection with John Loring, supposing the latter to be the major
criminal. The conglomerated effect of that evidence was not enough to
induce even the most biassed or muddle-headed magistrate to commit
him for trial.

But the blow on the head! That was another matter. It had certainly
been inflicted after death, and Wilson’s trust in Michael’s powers
of observation was sufficient to make him take his word that it
had not been there when the body came ashore. If it was not there
then, it must have been inflicted afterwards; and nobody had such an
opportunity of inflicting it as Kershaw. But even supposing the most
unlikely thing possible, and that somebody else (either the murderer
or an accomplice) had succeeded in getting into the mortuary and
striking the corpse’s head, how on earth had Dr. Kershaw, a trained
medical man, failed to observe that the blow had been inflicted
after death? Even if he had managed to overlook that fact, any
reasonably careful examination must have disclosed the real cause
of death--indeed, unless Dr. Kershaw’s colleague was also privy to
whatever devilry was on foot, his concurrence in Kershaw’s medical
opinion could only be due either to compulsion or to his not having
been given the opportunity to examine the body for himself.

But not only had Dr. Kershaw failed to observe these facts, he had
actually stood up at the inquest and promulgated a theory of the
man’s death which he must have known could not possibly be true.
And, up to the present moment, Wilson was glad to observe, all
the leakings of information that there had been did not appear to
have put Kershaw in possession of the true cause of death, or,
at any rate, of its discovery. Otherwise, surely he would have
shown more apprehension. Yes, Kershaw must, on any showing, have
knowingly concealed the real facts about the body. And why? It was
an extraordinarily dangerous thing to do. Of course, the man could
not have bargained for his own presence on the spot, and Lockwood
was fool enough and peace-loving enough for anything. But, in any
event, there was the other doctor; there were the police; and there
might have been any amount of inconvenient observers, jurymen, and
what not. Any one of these could have started a scandal whose only
end would have been ruin and penal servitude for Kershaw. He would
not have done it, then, unless he had an exceptionally strong motive;
either the saving of his own skin (if he were the murderer), or--or
what? Shielding some one? Who, and for what? Dr. Kershaw did not look
a man likely to be actuated by motives of pure philanthropy, and even
five hundred pounds, Wilson felt, would be an inadequate compensation
for the risk. But perhaps it was only a first instalment. “I think it
will be worth while having the fellow watched,” he said to himself,
“to see whether he gets any more, and if so, from whom.”

One link in Michael’s reconstruction he felt had definitely failed
to hold good. He did not believe, from Kershaw’s manner, that he was
the man who delivered that assumed message to Meston in the dead of
night. In fact, he was inclined to think that the man had never been
to the Old Malting House at all. When questioned on that point, he
had seemed definitely relieved. Of course, this did not mean that he
had not sent the message; but that, if he had, some other hand or
mouth had delivered it. But whose?

“Hullo, Harry!” At this point his meditations were interrupted by a
hail from above him; and, returning to the external world, he found
that he had arrived at the end of his journey. Before him the path
led through a cabbage-field and up the tiny hill on which Little
Friday was built; and at the top of a sloping meadow on his right
hand, Michael, with Mark Warden and Edna Loring, sprawled in the
sunshine, eating buns and smoking cigarettes.

“Come up and have some tea,” Warden shouted. After a brief
hesitation, Wilson complied, and was soon seated beside them and
drinking a large cup of strong tea.

“We got it at a shop in the village,” Edna explained. “But it was so
stuffy we couldn’t bear to drink it in the shop, so Mark made the
woman let us bring it out here.”

“And very nice too,” said Michael, with his mouth full. “These folk
caught me up in the car as I was taking a solitary constitutional and
wondering where on earth you’d got to, and insisted on taking me for
a run.”

“Bus needed airing,” Warden explained to the newcomer.

“It hadn’t had a proper run since we quarrelled,” Edna added,
squeezing his arm. “But you’ll be glad to hear we’ve made it all
up, Mr. Wilson. I’ve apologised to Mark for interfering and being
a foolish female, and _he’s_ apologised for thinking I was one. So
everything in the garden’s lovely.” And indeed she looked as though
it was. “Tell them about it, Mark.”

“Rot!” said Mark, who looked nearly as happy as his fiancée. “Mr.
Wilson doesn’t want to hear about our troubles. He’ll be as pleased
as Punch to know we aren’t going to bother him about them any more.”

“But as I was in at the start, in a way,” said Wilson, “mayn’t I be
in at the death too? Or is it private?”

“It’s not private in the least,” said Warden. “It’s just an enormous
weight off my mind, but I hardly thought that would interest you.”

“Apart from anything else, if it’s connected with your financial
affairs, it does,” said Wilson. “You’ll remember at one time you
thought Meston’s death was the result of them, and Meston’s death has
been interesting me considerably lately.” He looked with an inquiry
at Edna, who shook her head. Wilson mentally gave her a good mark for
discretion.

“Well, yes, that’s what it is about. And the good news is that it’s
all going to be cleared up directly. You know I was in the dickens
of a fuss when I came and called on you the other day, because I
thought we were all going to be in Queer Street, and I didn’t know
what had happened. I thought poor Meston must have made off with
the cash and then killed himself. Well, a day or two later it got
much worse, because that lousy little brute Strake--I don’t know
if you’ve come across him--came oiling up to me, and said he’d got
a lot of information he wanted to give me. I told him to take it
to Hanborough, who was his employer, and then he started on a lot
of greasy hints and suggestions out of which I gathered at last
what he meant, and that was that Hanborough and Meston had been in
it together, and that _I_ was the sucker not to have seen it. And
would I please pay double rates, and he’d pass the information on to
me--that was what it amounted to. Well, that was a bit thick, you
know--I don’t mean about me being a sucker, but to come there and
calmly try and sell me stuff against Hanborough because he thought
he’d get a bit more in that quarter. So as soon as I got his meaning
I sent him off in double-quick time, and told him that I wouldn’t pay
him a single halfpenny.

“Then, you know, after he’d gone I began to have blue fits. First,
I began to wonder--you know the idiotic way one does--whether there
could conceivably be anything in it, and whether I really was the
greenest greenhorn in England. I began to think over all I knew
of Nick, and whether he could possibly be double-crossing me. And
I didn’t know--I just got more and more muddled. Then it suddenly
dawned on me that whatever I thought, I ought to have got to the
bottom of it, and at least gone and asked Nick about it. Because
I couldn’t expect that little blighter not to try and get what he
called his money’s worth out of the business, and there were probably
plenty of people, in a hole like this, who’d pay him money to get
hold of scandal about the Archbishop of Canterbury, if it came his
way. I went cold when I realised I was responsible for letting that
little worm loose in the place, with all his stories going bad on
him, so to speak; and I didn’t know what the hell I was to do. I went
mad for a moment. I rushed down to Steeple Tollesbury and tried to
find Strake, and make him cough up something, but he’d disappeared.
Then I tried to get hold of Nick and warn him what was afoot, and ask
him if there was anything in it, but I couldn’t find him either. And
Saturday night was the beastliest I’ve ever spent in my life, what
with wondering what on earth had happened, and still more what was
going to happen.

“Then, to crown it all, I met Edna on Sunday morning, and she began
to tell me that everybody was asking questions about Nick, and, of
course, I thought it was all Strake’s doing. And somehow it seemed to
have got mixed up with Meston’s death, and I thought the next thing
would be that we should all be getting arrested. I really don’t know
what I said; I expect I was pretty hairy--Edna says I was, anyway.
But I’d only one idea in my head, and that was by hook or by crook to
get hold of Nick, and find out whether I was standing on my head or
my heels. So I dropped her----”

“I believe you did it on purpose, pig,” Edna interrupted.

“On my honour, I didn’t,” Warden protested. “I was more miserable
than ever when you’d gone. But since you had, I thought I wouldn’t
let things get any worse, so I buzzed off to Nick’s house. He wasn’t
in, but his wife was, and she said he’d faithfully promised to be
in that night, and would I wait. Well, I couldn’t wait, because I’d
promised to be back home, and they get into such a bait if I don’t
come; but I sat down and wrote him a letter, telling him, so far as
I knew it, all that Strake had been at, and asking him to let me
know what he meant to do about it. Then I buzzed home, feeling a bit
better, as though I’d done something at last, and this morning,
first thing, I got a letter from him.”

“Saying what?”

“Well, saying, in effect, that I’m not to worry, and that he’s got
it all in hand. I’d show it you if I’d got it,” said Warden; “but
I’ve left it in my other suit. He says, though, that he’s been pretty
well aware of what Master Strake has been doing all the time; and
that what he’s really found is traces of _his_ investigations into
where the money’s been going--Nick’s, I mean. Also, he apologises for
not letting me know sooner; he says he would if he’d guessed I was
worrying, and anyhow he was going to tell me it all in the next few
days, when he’d got his proofs complete. Anyway, he seems to have
got it all settled. He says it’s too long to put in a letter, but
it’s quite clear now who’s the guilty party, and it’s one of the last
either of us would have suspected. _And_ he’s made an appointment
with me at the office to-morrow--he says he’s sorry he won’t be able
to get there to-day--and tell me all about it.

“I tell you, I never was so relieved in my life. I’d really begun to
think I must be going mad or something. So when I got this letter I
felt I must tell Edna, and I rushed up to the Grange with it, and we
decided we must celebrate. And we’d just done lunch when I ran into
Dr. Prendergast, and he agreed to come and celebrate too.”

“So you haven’t put in an appearance at the office to-day?” Wilson
said, smiling almost in spite of himself at the two care-free faces.

“Well--no.” Warden looked like a truant schoolboy. “I haven’t
exactly. I felt the occasion was almost worth a holiday, you know.
Besides--to tell you the truth, I shouldn’t have known how to face
the fellows there, knowing that one of them was a wrong ’un, and not
knowing which.”

“Yes; I see it might have been awkward. Tell me, have you any idea
who is the guilty party?”

“Not an atom,” Warden said promptly. “Ever since I got Nick’s
letter I’ve been racking my brains to think who it could be, and
I’m blowed if I can find the answer. _Everybody_ seems perfectly
impossible; in fact, if you’d asked me before, I’d have sworn I was
the most corruptible one among them. But there you are; I suppose
I’m ignorant of human nature. Of course, if Nick really meant what
he said literally--that it’s the last one either of us would have
suspected--I suppose old Davis fits the part best. But I simply can’t
believe it.”

“Who is Davis?”

“Head clerk and cashier. Been with us thirty years or thereabouts,
and the most devoted employee you could imagine. I should think
it would just about finish my father if----But, of course, it’s
nonsense. I only meant that he _was_ absolutely the last person you
could suspect.”

“I see.” A silence fell--the silence of a warm summer afternoon.
Wilson lay with an unlit pipe in his mouth, his eyes half closed,
pondering upon the tangled duckweed of the Meston case. Warden’s
voice roused him.

“I say, if I’m not being frightfully inquisitive, is it true what all
the gossips are saying--that Meston was murdered? Of course, if you
oughtn’t to say, or anything----”

Wilson, after exacting the same promise as he had exacted from Edna
Loring, told him just what he had told the girl, namely, that the
police were not at all satisfied with the appearance of Meston’s
body, and were inclined to think that foul play might have had a
share in his death. “That’s why, you see,” he said, “we have been
rather carefully investigating the movements of every one who could
possibly have been concerned with him that Friday night.”

“Yes, of course. By Jove,” Warden said suddenly, “it may be a good
job for Nick Hanborough that this money business is cleared up, since
Edna hasn’t got a proper alibi for him after all.”

“Hasn’t she?” Wilson murmured lazily, with a warning glance at
Michael.

“Not exactly,” Edna said. “At least, not as much as I told you
yesterday. I’d forgotten, when I said Nick was with us all the
evening, that he wasn’t there at supper. I ought to have remembered,
because he’d booked me to have supper with him, and when the time
came, I couldn’t find him anywhere. So I went in with the rest of the
crowd. He turned up again afterwards, and I clean forgot to ask him
why he’d cut me. That’s all. There’s nothing in it, is there?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Wilson. “What time was supper, by the
way?”

“About half-past twelve, as near as I can remember. Nick was back
again by half-past one, because I saw him. I don’t know where he was
in the meantime--unless he was with you, Mark?”

“I didn’t see him,” Warden responded. “Of course you know _I’ve_ no
alibi either, if it comes to that.” He appeared to find the situation
humorous.

“No. So I heard. Where were you, in fact?”

“Wandering about. It’s quite simple, really. It was a frightfully hot
night for a party, and I’d a pain in my belly. Drink made it worse,
so I went out into the park to cool off----”

“_And_ to get your temper back,” Edna put in.

“Well, of course, if you _will_ keep on dancing with all the
blighters I can’t bear. Anyway, I ambled on right through the park,
and out into the road, without thinking much what I was doing,
and suddenly I found I’d got right down to Steeple Tollesbury. By
then I was feeling better, but I didn’t particularly want to go in
again, so I went up and got the car and went home. I didn’t say
good-night, because there didn’t seem anybody in particular there
to say good-night to. That’s what I did; but it wouldn’t sound very
convincing to a bobby, I dare say.”

“No. I’m surprised you haven’t been asked about it before. But
perhaps you met somebody on your way--somebody who could swear where
you were at a particular time?”

“I don’t believe I met a soul. It’s not a populous time of night.
Wait a moment, though--yes, I did. I met Kershaw.”

“Who?”

“Kershaw. Don’t you know him--the doctor who gave evidence at the
inquest?”

“Yes, I know him. Only I thought he was at the party also.”

“By Jove, I believe you’re right. Then he must have come away too. I
say, it sounds as if Godfrey’s drink had been a bit wonky, doesn’t
it?” Warden laughed.

“Where did you meet him?”

“Right down in Steeple Tollesbury, by the bridge. He was wheeling his
bike across it.”

“How did you know it was he? Did he talk to you?”

“No; in fact, he didn’t look much as though he wanted to speak to
any one. How I saw him was that just as he came along I thought
I’d like a pipe, and I saw his face in the match. He looked pretty
green, I thought--almost as if he’d seen a ghost; and he just said
good-evening and pushed on. But he must have seen me, so I suppose
he’d be able to say so. Not that it would help much,” said Warden,
recollecting, “would it? For I suppose Meston, if he was croaked,
must have been getting croaked somewhere about there at the same
time.”

“Possibly. Which way was Kershaw coming, do you know?”

“Up from the tow-path, as far as I could see.”

“Do you know what time this was?”

“Half-past one, almost exactly. I looked at my watch then, and
thought I’d better be getting back. But I didn’t see a sign of Nick
anywhere.”

“I say,” Edna said, “if we’re going to get any dinner, hadn’t we
better start somewhere? There won’t be anything fit to eat here.”

“Let’s make a night of it, darling. Run up to Romano’s and do a
theatre. Won’t you come too?” said Warden hospitably. But this
invitation the friends refused, and set off to return to their inn on
foot.




                            CHAPTER XXVII


“I hope, for his own sake, that Mr. Nicholas Hanborough _has_ got a
satisfactory explanation of the financial affairs of his firm,” was
Michael’s only comment on the afternoon’s proceedings. “You observed
that he and Kershaw were apparently simultaneously absent from the
party at the Grange at exactly the critical time?”

“I did. Our suspects seem to be crowding round the body again, don’t
they? I wonder if your friend Mackenzie was there too. Hadn’t you
better inquire?”

“I wonder whether Kershaw could have been mixed up in the financial
business?” Michael suggested hastily, having detected what he thought
a tinge of irony in his friend’s tone. “Do you think he was, and that
_he_ was the ‘last man one would ever have suspected’?”

“No reason against; no reason for,” was Wilson’s opinion. “We shall
have to wait. Perhaps to-morrow will bring us some fresh light.”

It did, but not exactly of the kind which Michael, at any rate, had
anticipated. They had not long finished their breakfast when there
was the sound of a car tearing across the bridge. It stopped at the
hotel; there was a murmur of voices below; and in another half-minute
the chambermaid knocked at the door and announced, “Mrs. Meston to
see you, sir.” As before, the owner of the name followed it into the
room.

She had changed enough in the three days since he had seen her
last, to have satisfied even Michael’s vindictive Puritanism. She
was very pale, so pale that the rouge on her cheeks was worse than
useless, and she was breathing hard, as if the normal supply of air
were insufficient to keep her going. Her grey eyes, dark-circled,
darted from side to side, as if she feared a new attack from almost
any quarter. But her lips were firmly set, and she came to business
without beating about the bush.

“Mr. Wilson,” she said, “is it true that you’ve arrested John
Loring?” Wilson intimated that it was.

“On the charge of murdering--my husband?”

“On the charge of being concerned in his death.”

“He wasn’t! It’s a lie! You know it’s a lie.” Wilson said nothing,
waiting to see what was coming next.

“He couldn’t have been, because--because----Is it true that Lockwood
asked him where he was on that night, and he wouldn’t say, and that’s
why he’s been arrested?”

“Mr. Loring,” Wilson said, “has so far declined to give any account
whatever of his movements.”

“But you know where he was. Don’t you? Can’t you guess?” She looked
up at him with an appeal.

“I don’t deal in guesses, Mrs. Meston. If you know, you had better
tell us, hadn’t you?”

“He was with me. That’s why he wouldn’t say. He was with me.” Her
fingers were gripping the back of a chair so furiously that all the
blood had left them, and her underlip was drawn in.

“May I ask where?”

“By the river. You know Sir Felix Lewis’s grounds. There’s an old
boathouse there, by the old bridge. It’s used as a summerhouse
sometimes. That’s where we were.”

“What were you doing?”

“Oh, talking, and talking--and being fools, as usual. We quarrelled,
you see.”

“Were you--alone?” Something in the tone of the question seemed to
strike Sylvia.

“Alone--why, of course. It wasn’t the sort of meeting we’d invite our
friends to.”

“You were alone all the time?”

“Yes--yes. Haven’t I said so?”

“How long were you there?”

“I don’t know. It felt like hours. I suppose it might have been an
hour, really, or a bit more.”

“From when, do you know?”

“Twelve o’clock, or a little bit later. We’d arranged to be there at
twelve.”

“Did you go there together?”

“No, John was there first. He sent me a note to the Grange to ask
me to meet him there at midnight. So I shammed sick, and didn’t go
to the party. Instead, I got out the Rover, and went down to the
boathouse, and he was there waiting for me.”

“Did you go away together?”

“No. I went away first. I left him.” Sylvia said the last words
almost solemnly.

“And you saw nobody while you were there?”

“No, of course not. There was nobody to see. Oh, do you mean there
_was_ somebody?”

“At any rate, you saw nobody. What did you and Mr. Loring quarrel
about?”

“Oh, the usual thing.” Sylvia shrugged her shoulders bitterly. “John
and I always quarrel. Ask Brandreth--ask any one. You don’t want me
to tell you all over again, do you?” She looked up; but, at Wilson’s
inexorable face, looked down again. “Oh, well, if it’s part of the
show----You know, if you know anything at all about our crowd, that
John was my lover a long time ago, before I was married. I ought
to have married him, then. God knows why I didn’t, except that I
was born a fool, I think. Anyway, I was having a jolly good time
then, and I didn’t see why I should stop it all just to marry John.
It would have meant stopping it all, you see--John didn’t make any
bones about that. He’d have wanted me all to himself, and I didn’t
see it. We quarrelled like cats about it, only we generally made up.
Then, one day, we had a worse quarrel than usual. John got absolutely
wild--and if you haven’t seen John furious you’ve missed one of the
sights of the world--and practically told me I could choose. I could
marry him at once or never see him again. Of course, that put my back
up, and I told him he could go to hell for all I cared, and I’d marry
him just when I pleased and not a bit sooner. So he went off in a
rage, and I stayed here and cursed him. I thought, of course, he’d
come back in a day or two and we’d make it up again. But the next
thing that happened was that Godfrey called me into his study, and
explained in his beastly fatherly way that John had gone to China,
and was never coming back to England, and that _he_ was responsible
for me now, and--oh, God! such a lot of stuff. It makes me sick to
think of it.

“I was absolutely furious with John for doing such an idiotic thing.
And I couldn’t bear to hang around, living on Godfrey’s money and
with his paws all over me. So I thought the best thing I could do was
to marry William and get out of it. Oh, it’s all very well to sneer,
Dr. Prendergast,” she said, turning upon him, “but I should like to
know what you would have done?”

As Michael prudently refrained from taking up this challenge, Sylvia
went on after a pause.

“Anyway, I _did_ marry him; and I’m not going to tell you just how
much of a mess that was, because I know Brandreth has. Of course, I
didn’t know what he was like, and besides, I didn’t know till I’d
tried how much I cared for John--damn him! We went on, somehow, and
I never saw John again till the night William--died. And I suppose
it’s that night you really want to know about, and you’re only just
putting me through this----

“I got John’s note just before dinner. It was just asking me to
meet him--nothing else; but it made all the difference. Wallace
Burden--you know him--had been bothering me to go off with him,
and one way and another I was absolutely fed up. Then, suddenly,
there was John--in England. Fortunately, I’d already told Godfrey I
wasn’t going to turn up at the party--I’d had enough of his damned
parties to last me a long time. So I just said I wasn’t feeling well,
and slipped off to my room. I knew by the time I came back--if I
did--they’d all be too drunk to bother where I’d been. And, anyway, I
didn’t mean to come back. I knew John must have come to take me away,
and I meant to go as soon as he asked me.

“So I went. I was a bit late getting off, because I met Brian
Mackenzie mooning about the grounds, and I couldn’t get away from
him. But at last I got off and down to the river, and found John
there. It was all right for a bit”--Sylvia’s eyes for one moment
grew dreamy with recollection--“then--I’m damned if I know what
happened. Somehow John began cursing me for marrying William--as if
I needed telling what a fool I’d been, and anyway _he_ hadn’t had to
put up with the consequences. Anyway, I lost my temper and answered
him back, and he began to tell me just what he thought about my
character. I suppose he’d had time to think it all out, in China; and
he didn’t waste any of it. John never was exactly what you’d call a
polite lover, Mr. Wilson. At last I told him I’d had about enough of
it; and he said, if I felt like that, he was sorry he’d ever come
back to England, and I could stay with William and be damned. We went
on that way for a bit, and at last it ended by my telling him I was
going back to bed at the Grange and he could do what he liked. So
I went. He didn’t try to stop me; he didn’t even help me start the
car, though it had sunk in the leaves and I could hardly get it out.
He just stood the other side of the river and looked. I half thought
he’d follow me, even then; but he didn’t. So that’s where he was--and
that was absolutely everything that happened. Why he couldn’t
have told you himself I don’t know, but John always was a damned
fool--like me. And--will you let him go, please?” In her desperation
her appealing glance even included the obdurate Michael, who was, as
a matter of fact, trying to make up his mind whether this was only
remarkable acting or the real truth.

“My dear Mrs. Meston,” Wilson was saying in a very gentle voice, “if
Mr. Loring is innocent, no one will be better pleased to let him go
than I shall. But----”

“But what? What are you talking about, may I ask?”

“Mrs. Meston, where was your husband that night? While you were
meeting Mr. Loring, I mean?”

“I don’t know. I’ve not the slightest idea. I didn’t know anything
about what he was doing. What do you mean?”

“Suppose,” said Wilson slowly, “suppose he was there too?”

Sylvia Meston stared at him with horrified, yet fascinated eyes.
“There? Where? Why? Oh, my God, you can’t mean that! How appalling!
But he _wasn’t_ there, Mr. Wilson! He couldn’t have been. You’re
telling lies--trying to frighten me. Aren’t you?”

“I didn’t say he was,” said Wilson. “I only want you to realise that
your statement does not of itself clear Mr. Loring.”

“But--I don’t know what you mean. William was killed here--at the
bridge. Wasn’t he? How could--any one up at the summerhouse have had
anything to do with it?”

“He wasn’t necessarily killed where he was found, Mrs. Meston.
In fact, the probabilities are that he was not killed there, but
somewhere up the river. Suppose it was at the summerhouse?”

“Oh, Christ!” The girl was as white as a sheet now, and swaying as
she clung to the chair. It seemed a miracle that she did not faint.
“I’ve been making it worse for John all the time! I tell you he
didn’t do it! He didn’t! Oh, what can I do to make you believe it?”

“Come now, steady,” said Wilson, laying a hand on her wrist. “Sit
down, and let’s talk it over quietly.” He guided her to a chair,
where she sat almost like a person in a trance, biting her fingers
and staring desperately at him. “You won’t do anything with
melodrama. Nobody wants Mr. Loring to suffer if he isn’t guilty,
and I for one will pledge my word that he shall have the fairest
chance I can give him. I will even tell you that he made a favourable
impression on me, and that, in spite of certain black appearances,
I’m at present willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“He didn’t!” Sylvia repeated. “It’s a lie--it must be lies.”

“But if he didn’t,” Wilson said, “and if you lose your head, you’ll
only make them look blacker still. Do you understand that, and are
you prepared to be sensible?”

Sylvia looked up sharply. “Do you mean you don’t believe what you
said just now? Was William there, or wasn’t he?”

“That, Mrs. Meston, is exactly what I am trying to find out, if you
will be so good as to help me.”

“Was he killed there? Not by here?”

“That also has to be investigated. And I want you, instead of trying
to shield people and behaving, if I may say so, like a fool, to
try and pull yourself together. Are you fit to answer one or two
questions, and to answer them truthfully?”

A flash of resentment showed itself in Sylvia’s face, but died away.
“Ask them,” she said. “I’ll answer--if I can.”

“First, then--Why did you come to me in the first place?”

“Because I thought William had been murdered--I told you so.”

“Why were you so certain?”

“I told you. Because I knew he couldn’t have killed himself--you
would too, if you’d lived with him. And I didn’t believe in its being
an accident. Nor did Brandreth. You know he didn’t.”

“But--excuse my pressing you--why were you, in any event, so anxious?
If he was dead, surely that was sufficient for your--purposes?”

“You talk as though I’d killed him,” said Sylvia listlessly. “I
didn’t. I didn’t _want_ him killed. And I thought, if anybody had
killed him--it was only fair--to him--that somebody should find it
out. I don’t suppose you’ll understand--but that’s the truth, all the
same.”

“Who did you think it was?”

“I didn’t think it was anybody.”

“Didn’t you? Then why were you so alarmed at the idea of Colonel
Lockwood’s arresting the wrong person--when you first came to me, I
mean?”

“You’re very observant. It did just flash through my mind, then,
that--well, if anybody knew John had been about, they might think all
sorts of things.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t! If I had, should I have asked you to go on?”

“And then you asked me to stop. Why?”

“Well, I should have thought that was obvious. I heard you were
after John--and that you’d been up at the summerhouse--and that
somebody had seen John at the cross-roads; and I didn’t know what you
would do next. So I asked Godfrey, and he told me I’d been a fool,
and it was most likely suicide, and I’d better choke you off before I
did any more harm. So I wrote to Brandreth--I thought that was better
than writing direct to you. But I meant him to show you the letter.”

“So I gathered,” said Wilson dryly. “And then you ran away. Where to?
And why?”

“I went to John. At least, I meant to, only he wasn’t there. Godfrey
gave me his address, but he’d had an accident, you know, and had
never gone home. It took me ages to find out where he was.”

“And why did you go?”

“Why, to tell him not to come back, of course!” said Sylvia, opening
her eyes wide. “And besides, if I wasn’t there, I thought you
couldn’t ask me questions. Then I found that Weaver, whose house he
was in, and he told me what had happened. So I came back.”

“I see. When, and why, did you fetch your property from Colchester in
Mr. Burden’s car?”

“Oh, Lord, do you know that too? It was--Wednesday week, I think. I
thought--I might be going to go off with him.”

“Had you told him so?”

“More or less. You have to say something to Wallace, sooner or later,
or he won’t stop talking.”

“But you didn’t?”

“Why, John came back,” said Sylvia, with complete naïveté. “I didn’t
know he was in England.”

“Did you--er--convey this fact to Mr. Burden?”

“No. But he didn’t need any facts conveyed to him. He took himself
off the moment he thought there was going to be a row. Before the
inquest, even,” said Sylvia scornfully.

“I see. Why didn’t you tell us all this before, when you first came
to consult me?”

“I didn’t want you to know it,” said Sylvia.

“Well, you see I do. And perhaps you can take in that it would have
been much better if you’d told me yourself in the first instance. If
anything would make me believe in Mr. Loring’s guilt it is the web of
inefficient lying with which you have tried to surround him,” said
Wilson severely.

“I----” Sylvia looked up indignantly, but suddenly gave up the
attempt. “I think you’ve got me on toast, Mr. Wilson, so I won’t try.
Anyway, I haven’t said a word that isn’t true, this time.”

“Oddly enough, I believe you,” said Wilson. “It may also interest you
to know that I have corroborative evidence, in the form of a piece
of your evening-frock which you tore on a nail in the boathouse.” He
produced it from his pocket-book. After a pause, the figure in the
arm-chair emitted a weak little giggle.

“Do you know,” it said, “you make me feel rather a fool.”

“That,” said Wilson, smiling cheerfully, “was my intention. And now,
will you answer one last question? Is Mr. Loring, as far as you know,
a friend of Dr. Kershaw’s?”

“_Kershaw’s?_ No, not that I know of. Kershaw’s always about the
place, but I never heard of John having anything to do with him.”

“Was he--a friend of yours?”

“No, thank you,” said Sylvia emphatically. Michael noticed that she
seemed quite to have regained her composure.

“Nor in love with you?”

“I hope not! I don’t like baboons.”

“Was Mr. Hanborough?”

“Nick? No, indeed. Nothing of the sort. Do you think I’m a honeypot,
Mr. Wilson?”

“I think you’re rather a violent and wrong-headed young woman,” said
Wilson. “But I’m in hopes that we may be working on the same lines
at last, if you’ll remember that, in my view, truth pays best in the
long run.”

“I’ll try,” Sylvia promised, looking dangerously meek. “But, Mr.
Wilson, can’t I see him?”

“Mr. Loring? Oh, I dare say that can be arranged,” said Wilson, “if
you behave yourself.”




                            CHAPTER XXVIII


Wilson did not show any great anxiety to discuss the bearings of the
last interview. The morning paper arrived just as Sylvia Meston had
gone, and he spent some time reading it in a desultory manner, with
occasional lapses into brooding. At last he looked up. “You know,
Michael,” he said, “I’m inclined to think that that young woman was
telling the truth.”

“If that’s so,” Michael said uncharitably, “it must be the first time
on record.”

“Very possibly. Which perhaps gives it all the more weight. If she
is, of course, it rather knocks the bottom out of your Loring-Kershaw
reconstruction, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t necessarily clear John Loring, even if it is true,”
Michael said. “He might have committed the murder after she went
away.”

“And after he went away himself, you mean. He couldn’t have done it
in between, because, in the first place, he hadn’t time, and in the
second, our friend Machin was watching him, if you remember. So that
involves his going away, picking up Meston somewhere in his car, and
murdering him--all as a deliberate plot, laid in advance. It doesn’t
sound likely, and further, I doubt whether he’d really have had time.
It’s a little uncertain when he left the bridge, but the police have
been making inquiries into his accident, and it was only half-past
two when he ran into the other car.”

“What did happen, then?”

“I only wish I knew! I wonder if young Weaver notified Godfrey Loring
of his brother’s accident, by the way, or if he found out by chance?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Just an idea of mine,” said Wilson. “Thank you.” The maid-servant
had just brought in a letter sent round by hand. Wilson read it
through twice, with his eyebrows going up. Finally he handed it to
Michael, with a shrug. It was a note from Colonel Lockwood, and it
merely stated that a silk rope, knotted, had been found hidden in
the leaves just by the old boathouse. With a smile almost of pity,
Michael handed it back to his friend.

“This is a topsy-turvy case, isn’t it?” he said. “Just when you
think you’ve cleared John Loring, there turns up a piece of nearly
conclusive evidence against him. That is, unless you think there were
two ropes.”

“That’s hardly likely,” Wilson admitted. “But no--this is impossible!
Sorry, Michael, I want to think it out.”

“You might think just how good an actress a woman can be,” Michael
suggested nastily, but could not pursue the matter, as he was just
then summoned to the telephone. When he came back, all thoughts
of Sylvia Meston had left his mind, and his face was strained and
anxious.

“That was Warden, Harry, on the ’phone from Colchester,” he said.
“He’s very anxious for me to go over there at once--and you too, if
you can spare the time.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Hanborough’s levanted. He didn’t turn up to his rendezvous this
morning, and sent a note saying he was clearing out.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Nor I. But he’s apparently admitted a whole lot of things which may
or may not have a bearing on this business. The police are in the
Colchester office now, and Warden very much wants me to hear what
they’ve got to say. He didn’t want to tell me any more himself over
the ’phone. But I thought you might think it worth while to come too.”

“Perhaps it is.” Wilson got out of his chair. “Anyway, it’s probably
more useful than sitting puzzling one’s brains here. I want some
time to go and see that rope; but I think I’ll leave it till I know
a little more what I want to find. We’d better go by car, I should
think. Will you go and see about one, Michael? There’s a job I have
to do first.”

As Michael left the garage, having bargained with it for the
immediate use of its fastest vehicle, he met Brandreth ambling along.
The little lawyer looked more debonair than ever, and he greeted
Michael with a twinkle and an amiable good-morning.

“Let me congratulate you--or, rather, Mr. Wilson--on your
discernment,” he said. “Sylvia has just been telling me her young
man’s not going to be hanged after all.”

“Mrs. Meston is a little premature in her conclusions,” said Michael
sourly. “As far as I recollect, Wilson only told her that she made
matters much better for him when she consented to tell the truth!”

“Aggravating girl, isn’t she?” said the aggravating little man. “I
must say it says much for your fair-mindedness that you’re able to
admit when she’s speaking the truth. It’s a pity Kershaw can’t see
that.”

“Can’t see _what_?” said Michael, thoroughly bewildered.

“Your essential fair-mindedness. He thinks you’re out to hang him,
you see.”

“And wouldn’t that be fair?”

“Don’t be prejudiced, doctor. Of course it wouldn’t. Kershaw’s
manners may not be pretty, but he never killed Meston. What on earth
would he have gained by it, do you suppose? And if you weren’t too
proud to listen to gossip, as I do, you’d have discovered long since
that Kershaw never does anything unless he stands to gain something
by it!”

“Why does he need to gain such a lot?”

“Oh, that’s a different question, isn’t it?” said Brandreth. “You’d
better ask him. Well, I won’t keep you. You’ll tell Mr. Wilson what a
meddlesome old nuisance I am, won’t you?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“That man’s like a revolting Greek chorus, always turning up and
moralising where he isn’t wanted!” said Michael, when they were
seated in the car. “What on earth was he up to then, I should like to
know?”

“Giving us a hint, I should say.”

“What on earth about?”

“Why, about Kershaw’s motives. It may be useful yet.”




                             CHAPTER XXIX


At the Colchester office they entered upon a scene of funereal
excitement. The place was not, indeed, closed; but in the outer
lobby there was only one small, distracted boy, who was obviously
dreadfully ill-used at being deprived of his colleagues’ society.
Within, there was a sort of subdued bustle. Two plain-clothes
police-officers were methodically going through books and
correspondence, aided by a distressed old fellow whom Michael guessed
to be the faithful Davis. Two or three other clerks buzzed in the
background. One of the latter took Wilson and Michael through into
the inner office, where they found Inspector Bille, very calm and
official, sitting in an arm-chair with a large notebook open on his
knee, while Mark Warden, all yesterday’s confidence gone from his
face, strode restlessly up and down in front of the fireplace.

“Thank God you’ve come!” he said, as the two friends appeared. “This
is appalling. Hanborough’s gone!”

“So I heard,” said Wilson, after greeting the Inspector. “Clean gone?
Definitely run away, I mean?”

“I should say so,” the Inspector chuckled. “Read his letter, sir;
it’s on the table there.” Wilson took it and read it carefully.

  “DEAR MARK,”--it ran--“I’m sorry to tell you that I can’t keep
  our appointment for this morning; and more sorry that I can’t
  make another. The fact is, I’m throwing in my hand, and I hope
  and believe that this is the last you’ll hear of me. I apologise
  for leaving things in such a mess, but the truth is, it’s the
  fault of your friends, the police, for getting so inquisitive. If
  they’d let me have a little longer run I could have cleared it
  all up; as it is, I’m afraid you’ll have difficulty in dealing
  with Coxwell. The papers are in my desk, of which I enclose the
  keys. It’s not an easy one to open, and it’s a nice piece of
  furniture, so it would be a pity to knock it about.

  “By the way, I shall have to leave Strake on your hands too.
  I’d square him if I could, but I want every bit of cash I’ve
  got. I don’t suppose you’ll have much to spare, either, but if
  anybody has an odd five-pound note it would be an act of charity
  to give it to him. He’s really had a rotten time, full of good
  information which nobody would pay him for. With regrets and
  apologies, Yours,

                                              “NICHOLAS HANBOROUGH.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure of conversing with Mr. Hanborough,”
Wilson said, looking up, “but I should guess that this was rather a
characteristic letter, isn’t it?”

“Like his impudence, you mean, sir,” said the Inspector. “It is. Very
like.”

“How did it get here?”

“By post this morning. It was sent off by the afternoon post
yesterday. Must have been sent just before he skipped.”

“He has skipped, then?”

“Oh yes. Went off yesterday afternoon. We’ve tracked him to the
coast, and there are two or three boats he might have got a lift on.
At the moment we don’t know which, and none of them has wireless. But
I think we’ll get him.”

“And do his effects throw any light on your problems?” Wilson asked
Warden.

“As far as we’re concerned, they explain the whole thing,” was
the gloomy reply. “It was all his doing. He’d been systematically
converting the funds to his own use--must have been doing it while
Dad was still there, that’s _my_ only comfort in the business. And
that poor devil Meston was getting on his tracks. What we’re going to
do now I can’t think. We’ve no possibility of meeting Coxwell, who
wants to withdraw his account next week; and, of course, if he goes
others will follow.”

“I see,” said Wilson, referring again to the letter, “that he says
that if he had been given a few days’ more grace, he could have
put the situation right. Is that correct, do you know? or merely
gambler’s optimism?”

“Both, I should say,” said Bille, taking up the tale. “As far as we
can make out, he was expecting to get in some cash directly, and that
would have staved off the immediate collapse. How long he could have
kept it up is quite another story, of course, sir.”

“Then why did he throw his hand in? Was it Warden’s suspicions?”
To an intelligent listener, Wilson’s tone would have betrayed a
doubt that an experienced swindler would have lost his nerve at the
prospect of an interview with Mark Warden.

“Yes, and no. You see, sir,” Bille explained, “it wasn’t exactly
what Mr. Warden thought, that he was afraid of. He didn’t mind about
the misappropriation, because--if I may say so--he’d pulled the
wool over Mr. Warden’s eyes once, and he’d pretty well reckon he
could do it again. But it was one or two other things Mr. Warden let
slip--about inquiries you and your friend were making about him--that
hung on to some things we and the Colchester police had been finding
out, and that put the wind up on him.”

“You mean,” put in Michael excitedly, “about his whereabouts the
night Meston was killed?”

“That, and other things.” The Inspector obviously intended to have
his money’s worth out of his sensation. “We’d an idea where he was
that night. But, more than that, there was the question of what he
did with the funds he’d embezzled. We were pretty certain what it
was, but we couldn’t just find any way of fixing it on him.”

“And it was?”

“Drug-running, sir. Cocaine, principally; and other stuff as well.
He’d a pretty big clientele hereabouts, but very difficult to come
at. And it was with his makings on his last lot that he reckoned
to clear off these impending troubles. But he took fright when he
got Mr. Warden’s letter, and went off without them. However, we’ve
got our evidence now; and when we catch him, he’ll be for it, sir,
without a doubt.”

“Colonel Lockwood told me nothing of this,” Wilson wondered. It was
indeed inconceivable that Lockwood should have kept so exciting a
secret to himself.

“When I say we, sir,” the Inspector amplified, “I should have
mentioned it was the Colchester force handled it. It was their
business, really. We only came in because Hanborough was planting his
stuff outside the city boundaries. In fact, I’m not sure that the
Colonel really knows very much about it. You see, sir, he’s pretty
well acquainted with most of the parties we’ve suspected, and it
might have been difficult for him.” The Inspector’s opinion of his
superior’s discretion could not have been more delicately conveyed.

“Such as Kershaw, eh?” Wilson suggested. The Inspector seemed
pleased, if not astonished.

“You’ve that for a fact, sir? I’ve suspected it for some time, but
I can’t say I’ve any proof. For an open-handed, free-spoken man,
Hanborough was extremely cautious. It’s been remarkably difficult to
come on his trail. If you’ve any proof, sir, I should be very glad if
you’d let me see it.”

“You shall have it when you want it,” Wilson promised. “Meantime,
perhaps you can help me on one or two points. Do you know whether
Meston had any of this--side-line of his partner’s?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. There’s nothing in what we’ve found to show one
way or the other. Mr. Meston, unfortunately for himself, was a very
secretive man. He put hardly anything in writing, and what he had, I
think Mr. Hanborough got. He had first access to his papers after his
death, you see, sir.”

“There was nothing, as far as I remember, in the stuff found at
Steeple Tollesbury?”

“Nothing whatever. And it’s the general belief, and I don’t see much
reason to doubt it, that whatever he was doing before, the reason he
went to Steeple Tollesbury was just the obvious one--to get at his
wife. He was much stronger about her than about the firm, sir. Bit
touched, in my opinion,” said the Inspector.

“And when he left it?”

“Who’s to say? May have been going to end it all, for aught anybody
knows. Guessing’s not much good, sir.”

“It is not,” Wilson sighed. “_Was_ Hanborough anywhere in particular
that night, when he’d disappeared from the Grange, do you know?”

“Yes, sir, he was. He was with Sir Felix Lewis’s gamekeeper, fixing
up business with him. He must have been rather put to it, to choose
such a suspicious time; but I suppose he thought he wouldn’t be
missed.”

“Oh! And where did he meet this gamekeeper?”

“At his cottage. He lives alone in a little place a couple of miles
up beyond the old bridge. The cottage stands all by itself, close to
the river, and there’s a path to it from the tow-path.”

“Oh!” Wilson digested this piece of information for some time; then,
to Mark Warden’s relief, turned back to the matter in hand. For some
time they discussed the effects of Hanborough’s flight on the firm’s
affairs, Wilson endeavouring to administer a little consolation
to the young man. Then Inspector Bille looked at his watch, and
announced that he must go.

“Are you going back to Steeple Tollesbury?” Wilson asked. “If so,
perhaps we can give you a lift. Our car’s outside, and we shall just
get back in time for some lunch.” The Inspector accepted gratefully,
and they piled in. Wilson and the Inspector exchanged a few
commonplaces on the affairs of the Warden firm.

“Is it your opinion, sir,” Bille asked, “that these two affairs are
connected--I mean this and the murder? I notice you’ve got your eye
on Hanborough’s whereabouts that night?”

“I can’t say,” said Wilson. “Of course, we appear to have provided
him with an excellent motive for making away with Meston--supposing
we can prove that the latter knew anything of his activities. But you
say we can’t. Then I confess I don’t quite see Hanborough, little as
I know him, in the rôle of hangman. Do you?”

“No, sir,” the Inspector agreed. “But folk act strangely when they’re
up against it.”

“Still,” Michael put in, “the man couldn’t have been murdered all
along the river bank. This cottage, I think you said, is two miles
above where the rope was found?”

“The rope!” There was a sudden note of excitement in Wilson’s voice.
“I’d nearly forgotten the rope. Have you seen it, Bille? What was it
like? And where was it found?”

“It’s a silk rope, sir,” said Bille, puzzled, but obliging. “Quite
an ordinary kind of silk rope, I should say--though they’re not very
common. We’ve got a man now trying to find out where it came from.
It’s a good length--thirty feet or so--and it’s been knotted tight,
and cut, just as you would if you’d strangled a man and then cut him
down. I should say almost certainly it was the rope that was used to
hang him. The Colonel’s having the fibres tested--I don’t know if
that’ll prove anything, of course.”

“And where was it found?”

“Not thirty yards from the boathouse, sir, along by the tow-path,
just inside the woods, in a heap of dead leaves. Just by the stump of
an alder. It’s queer how our people came to miss it, being so near
the place.”

“It is indeed.” Wilson’s eyes were shining with a curious inward
light. “And how did they come to find it now?”

“They didn’t, sir. It was Potts, the man from the Grange, brought it
in.”

“Potts?”

“Yes, sir. I understand he was taking a walk along the tow-path with
his young lady, and sat down on the stump. Then he was kicking his
heels about in the leaves, and it came to light. So, having heard
something about strangling, though Lord knows how he did--that place
is a whispering gallery--he brought it along to the station.”

“And when did he do that?”

“This morning. It was last night he found it. Does it suggest
anything, sir?”

“It’s just possible--only just. But _something’s_ queer about this,
at all events. Would it inconvenience you greatly, Bille, if we took
the Grange on our way back? I want to make an inquiry or two about
that rope, and it won’t keep.”

The Inspector making no objection, he gave the word to the chauffeur,
and for the rest of their drive remained sunk in a deep cogitation,
which Michael knew better than to interrupt.




                             CHAPTER XXX


Wilson roused himself, as they swept up the drive of the Grange,
to comment, like Michael before him, on the extreme danger of that
narrow entry; and found that Bille, unlike Edna, was a whole-hearted
sympathiser. “It ought to have been widened years ago,” he agreed.
“Would have been, too, but that Squire and his father were both
chairmen of the Bench. One of these days there’ll be a bad accident,
and then I suppose something will be done about it. Do you want to
see the Squire, sir?”

“Not if I can help it,” Wilson replied. “In fact, I want as little
fuss as possible. I just want to have a few words with Potts, and
then get away. Perhaps you’d better stay in the car, Bille, if you
don’t mind. You’re probably a bit too well known hereabouts, and Dr.
Prendergast can do any necessary introducing. There’s just a chance
that Potts may open the door.”

As a matter of fact, the last-named eventuality actually did occur.
But Wilson’s hope of getting his interview without disturbing any
other member of the household was doomed to disappointment; for, even
as they stood in the doorway preparatory to stating their business,
a door on the far side of the hall opened suddenly, and Dr. Kershaw
bounced, more than walked, out, his method of exit suggesting rather
strongly that he had been assisted from behind. As he staggered into
the hall, the face of the Squire, bearing a sardonic grin, appeared
in the open doorway. Seeing the little group at the front door, he
came forward, with a change of expression. Kershaw, whose face was
livid with emotion, appeared not to see them, but on hearing Godfrey
Loring’s footsteps, turned, and all but shook his fist in his face.

“Very well,” he said, “I shan’t forget.”

“I hope you won’t,” the Squire replied. “You might also remember that
it isn’t altogether healthy to get thrown out of here.” He laughed.
“Hullo, doctor, what can I do for you?”

At these words Kershaw, whom the penultimate sentence appeared to
have reduced almost to a fit of apoplexy, turned sharp round, and,
seeing Michael and his companion, made a sudden rush for the door. He
nearly knocked over the footman as he disappeared down the steps.

“May I introduce my friend, Mr. Wilson?” Michael said. Godfrey Loring
raised his eyebrows politely, but said nothing.

“Good afternoon, Squire,” said Wilson. “I’m really here on false
pretences--it should be Colonel Lockwood. He understands that one of
your men found a rope down by the old bridge last night, and there
are just one or two points about it he wants cleared up, if I could
see the man. It won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

“Certainly. Potts!” Loring called to the footman. “Do you want a
private conversation? If so, my study’s at your disposal.”

“There’s no reason you should not hear every word, Squire,” Wilson
said carelessly, and somewhat to Michael’s surprise. “But perhaps we
needn’t inform the world, though the point’s of no great interest.”
He passed into the study, followed by Loring, Michael, and the
footman. A whisky decanter and glasses were set out, and Loring
offered drinks, helping himself when the others declined. Meanwhile,
Michael gazed at Potts, whom he had not seen before. The footman, he
decided, was not prepossessing, though it was with an animal, rather
than a criminal, ugliness. He was of the gorilla type, with long
arms, low brow, a prognathous jaw, and a heavy crop of black hair;
and Michael wondered at the taste which should select such an object
to open the door to its visitors. He seemed phenomenally stupid.
Michael could not conceive how cross-examination could get any useful
information out of him, and waited with all the more interest for
Wilson to begin. He was proportionally disappointed to find that
Wilson elicited nothing whatever beyond the story they had already
been told by Bille in the car, and, indeed, hardly seemed to try. He
only established, perhaps a little more exactly, the position of the
stump by which the rope was found, and then thanked the footman, and
indicated to the Squire that he might be dismissed at once.

“You’d never seen the rope before, I suppose?” was his parting
question.

“Not that I know, sir,” said the footman, as he disappeared.

“That all right, Mr. Wilson?” said Loring. “Case getting on nicely?”

“So-so,” said Wilson. “It’s a long job. We’re holding your brother,
you know, for the present.”

“So I heard,” said the Squire. “Dashed inconvenient for him, poor
chap. I suppose you’ll have done with him soon?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say, at the moment,” said Wilson gravely. “When
did you hear of his accident, by the way?”

“Some time the next day--Saturday,” was the reply. “Weaver--the
fellow who picked him up--rang up and told me.”

“But you didn’t tell Mrs. Meston, did you--when she went off to find
him?”

“No, I didn’t.” The Squire took a long drink. “I wasn’t aware that
that came into the case, but if it does, I don’t mind telling you
that I didn’t tell her deliberately. You know what Mrs. Meston is,
and she had thoroughly gone in off the deep end. I’d just half a
suspicion at the time--knowing my brother--that if he _had_ managed
to run across Meston while he was here, there might have been
trouble, and I thought the less she poked her nose in it, the better
for all concerned.”

“Then you knew he’d been in the neighbourhood?”

“Yes. Potts told me he’d seen him.”

“Didn’t you expect him to turn up here?”

“Hadn’t the slightest idea,” Godfrey Loring said. “John don’t exactly
love the home of his ancestors, you know; and when he left it he
didn’t bless the threshold. I supposed he’d turn up if he wanted to,
and not otherwise.”

“Thank you. Can you tell me one other thing? What were you and Dr.
Kershaw quarrelling about?”

“Well, I’m damned! Aren’t you being a trifle personal, Mr. Wilson?
What’s it got to do with you?”

“If I tell you that Dr. Kershaw is under grave suspicion of being
connected with a--financial scandal, which we are anxious to clear up
with as little publicity as possible, will you tell me, Mr. Loring?”

Loring took another drink. “Oh, if it’s a criminal matter--I don’t
mind. There’s nothing in it, anyway. Kershaw merely wanted to borrow
some money off me.”

“For any particular purpose?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t ask. Kershaw’s always hard up, more or less, and
always sponging on his friends. I don’t know if that helps you.”

“Did you lend it him?”

Loring smiled. “From his expression as he left the house, I should
have thought you would have gathered that I did not.”

Wilson smiled back. “Have you often let Dr. Kershaw have money?”

“Nary a once. I’m not quite a fool,” was the reply.

“Well, thank you very much. I’m very much obliged to you, and I need
not take up your time any longer,” said Wilson, getting himself and
Michael out of the room. Shepherded by the Squire, they passed down
the steps and out to the car, where Inspector Bille was awaiting them
rather uneasily.

“I say, sir,” he said, “while you were in there, Dr. Kershaw passed
out, with a face like nothing on earth, and rode off hell-for-leather
on his bike. In view of what you were telling me awhile back, don’t
you think we’d best pass the word to the station to keep an eye on
him? We don’t want him to get off.”

“I’ve already warned them,” Wilson soothed him. “I don’t want him too
closely watched, because I thought he might give somebody else away,
if he was frightened and left at large. But I think you’ll find that
your people have got their eye on him.”

“Hang-dog sort of fellow that Potts is,” said Michael. “It was a pity
the Squire turned up just when he did. It stopped you getting any
more out of him. I suppose you didn’t want to press him in front of
his master?”

“I didn’t,” said Wilson. “And I didn’t want to alarm him either. But
I got what I wanted.”

“_Did_ you? I didn’t think you got anything fresh.”

“I got from his own lips the statement that he found that rope by the
alder clump.”

“What’s the importance of that?”

“Only this,” said Wilson, his eyes dancing, “that I went through
that pile of leaves myself with a tooth-comb on the afternoon of the
inquest, and there was no rope there then.”

Inspector Bille gasped, and his jaw dropped. “Why, then--then----” he
said, and stopped, for Wilson had ceased to listen.

“I _know_,” he was saying to himself--“I _know_ the answer’s just
under my hand. Wait a minute.” And he relapsed into silence; but just
as they reached Steeple Tollesbury he almost sprang to his feet.

“Bille,” he said, “do you happen to know what the bottom of the Toll
is like by the Old Malting House? Is it all mud, I mean?”

“All mud, I think,” said the Inspector. “No, bless my soul. That’s
where the piers are.”

“Piers? What piers? And where are they?”

“Jutting out into the river just by the Old Malting House. There used
to be a stone quay there, but it’s gone years ago, and there’s only
these two piers left. They’re about eight feet down, covered with
mud themselves now. I’d forgotten about them till you asked me.”

“Just so. Thank you. I believe, Michael--I’ve been a blind fool, but
I believe I see daylight.”

“What’s the idea?” Michael asked curiously.

“Do dead bodies float or sink, Michael?”

“Float, generally,” Michael said. “But what----”

“And that dead body was in the river five days, and no one saw it
floating! I think we’d better test this quickly.”




                             CHAPTER XXXI


Wilson’s next moves were totally incomprehensible to Michael. Indeed,
at first he thought his friend had gone mad. Dropping the Inspector,
with only the barest of leave-takings, at the police-station, he
ordered the chauffeur to drive to the bridge over the Toll, and
stopped the car on the farther side. There he got out, and hurried
down the slope leading down to the tow-path, just as Michael, nearly
a week ago, had hurried to bring first aid to Mr. Meston’s corpse.
There he stopped and surveyed the land.

“Look, Michael,” he said, pointing at a small building which stood
a little way back from the tow-path, and perhaps two hundred yards
up-stream, “that’s Joe Billings’s cottage. If you were coming to it
from Kershaw’s house, which way would you go?”

“Why, along here, I suppose, would be the quickest. Unless there’s a
path through those sheds,” said Michael. Immediately to their left,
and covering most of the ground between Billings’s cottage and the
bridge[2] was a patch of waste ground half filled with some derelict
warehouses.

“No, there isn’t. You have to go quite a long way round by the
road, and then down a cart-track. Yes, this is the way he must have
come. And, mark you, it’s just here, or rather, just on the bridge,
that your friend Warden met him, at 1.30, _coming back_ from the
tow-path. But at that time, we know, he hadn’t been to Billings’s.
What is more, he didn’t arrive there till nearly half an hour later.
Where had he been? And, more important, what was he doing in that
half-hour?”

“I don’t know,” said Michael. “I thought he’d been along the river,
helping to murder Meston. If he hadn’t, I don’t know where he’d been.
And what he was doing afterwards I haven’t an idea. Perhaps he really
did go to fetch his appliances.”

“Perhaps. But on the whole I don’t think so. Let’s consider now
what there is on the other side.” Michael looked across and saw
nothing but the calm stuccoed side of the Old Malting House, with the
reflections of the water chasing themselves about its base.

“Those two are the windows of Meston’s room, aren’t they?” Wilson
said. “The one next them is passage, I fancy. Below, there appears
to be only a tiny one. The wall hasn’t any windows that end. What is
there below?”

“Billiard-room,” said Michael. “The tiny one is a boot-cupboard, or
something, I think.”

“Just so. Quite so. See any traces of those piers?” Wilson asked,
bending to look down into the water.

“No. But you wouldn’t, anyway, from this side. The reflection’s too
strong, and there’s a little loose weed at the bottom. Besides, Bille
said they were covered with mud.”

“That’s true. I think we’ll go and find Wason, and see if he can
locate them for us. All right, driver, we shan’t need you any more.”
And Wilson paid off the chauffeur, and led the way at a smart trot to
the Old Malting House.

They found Wason without much difficulty, and with even less, drew
him into conversation on the subject of the piers. “Thar’s only
foundations left now and they mud-covered,” he said. “Ye’d never seen
them without ye knew they were thar.”

Wilson asked exactly where they were, and received the information
that one was directly below the first window of Meston’s room, and
the other three or four yards up-stream. He made no comment, though
Michael could tell that the answer had satisfied him, but began to
put questions about the exact point in the river at which the body
had turned up. Neither Michael nor the landlord, however, could
recollect with sufficient accuracy to please him.

“Why don’t you ask Bill Sayers?” Wason said at last. “I reckon he’ll
know, if any one does, seeing it was he fished carpse up.”

“Where can I find him, do you know?”

“As it happens, he’s in my bar this very moment. But he ain’t
talkative. You’ll maybe have to have one with him.”

Two minutes later, having followed the landlord’s advice, Wilson was
plying the uncommunicative mariner with questions. With considerable
difficulty, he at last elicited that neither Bill nor Jarge, though
they had been keeping a good look-out, had seen anything of the body
until they actually felt it foul the tug. Then, as Jarge had said,
the convoy had nearly stopped altogether, and Jarge, seeing the
corpse’s face “way down in water,” had called to Bill to pull it out.

“What do you mean by ‘way down’?” Wilson asked. “Wasn’t the body
floating?”

“Naw, she warn’t. She were three or four feet down, an’ I couldn’t
’ardly reach her. Caart under barge, likely,” said Bill.

“And then you pulled the body in with the boat-hook? Did you notice
anything particular about it?” Wilson asked. “Did it seem heavy, for
instance?”

Bill had found it heavy, and said so with sudden and uncharacteristic
loquacity. It appeared that at the first attempts the corpse had
declined to move at all, had, indeed, nearly pulled him overboard.
“Thought I’d a-hooked barge,” he said. “She held on and she held on
like mainland o’ Scotland. I sez to Jarge, me arms is a-going, I sez;
then all of a sudden she comes away like, and I hauls her in.”

“As if it had suddenly come loose from something, eh?”

“That’s right, mister,” Jarge agreed. “Like a daisy, she come when
she did.”

“Thank you. That’s what I wanted to know. Now can you tell me the
exact spot where the body was floating?”

“That I can’t, mister, seeing ’twas under barge, and we was about
mid-stream. But when I sees her, she was a-poking-up near side of
barges, just along of Wason’s place, abouts. If ye’ll come through
and look through th’ window, I’ll show ye the ’xact spot.”

Wilson came, and followed closely the indications given by Sayers’
grimy thumb. As far as he could see, the body had been found almost
exactly above the first of the sunken piers.

“Thanks,” he said, dismissing Bill with suitable gratuities. “The
next step,” he said to his other two hearers, “demands Colonel
Lockwood’s presence. I think I’ll go up and find him. You stay about
a bit, Wason. We may want you.”

“What do you want Lockwood to do?” Michael asked, as they went off.

“Drag the river,” was the answer.

“Why, there aren’t any more bodies there, are there?”

“I don’t anticipate finding any,” was all Wilson would say.


FOOTNOTES:

[2] See endpaper map.




                            CHAPTER XXXII


They found Colonel Lockwood disposing of the remains of an excellent
lunch; and even in his excitement Michael found time to regret that
Wilson had apparently forgotten all about a midday meal. He took
the Colonel aside for a few minutes’ conversation, as a result of
which the latter left the house rapidly in the direction of the
police-station, while Wilson and Michael returned to the inn.

“We can’t get at the piers any way but by water, can we?” Wilson
asked the landlord. “Then we’d better have your boat ready. There’s
a party from the station coming along directly with a drag-net.”
Michael used the interval to fortify himself a little with Wason’s
extremely good beer.

In a very short time the party, which consisted of the Colonel,
Sergeant Linton, and two policemen with the net, arrived on the
tow-path, where the boat was waiting for them. Wilson, with the
landlord and the two policemen, climbed in, while the others watched
the proceedings from the bank. For a little while the boat manœuvred
about, Wason giving the exact bearings of the old pier, while Wilson
peered over the side into the clear water.

“See that, waving about among the weeds down there?” the watchers
heard him say at last.

“It’s a mighty thick weed,” Wason agreed.

“That?” one of the policeman said; “that ain’t no weed. That’s a
rope-end.”

“Precisely. That’s what I’m after, I think. Heave to, will you? And
give me the boat-hook.”

After two or three tries, Wilson succeeded in getting the boat-hook
to catch in the rope, and then began pulling on it gently. It did not
move. He tried again and again, using a little more strength each
time, but still the rope did not budge.

“Maybe it’s fastened to the pier,” Wason suggested, offering to
assist. But Wilson declined.

“We mustn’t break it,” he said.

The drag-net was next called into play. “Be very careful,” said
Wilson. “There’s something down there, on the pier, I think, which I
want to get up. But if you knock it off into the mud, we shall never
get it again. Go at it gently.”

For a few minutes the drag-net was manipulated to and fro. Then one
of the policemen gave an exclamation. “That’s got something!” he
said. “But we can’t move it,” he added a moment later. “It’s far too
heavy for the net.”

“Stay just as you are,” Wilson commanded. He drew a long, straight
wire from the bottom of the boat, and began to probe for the object.
“I’ve got it. Now, pull _hard_ for a second--stop! It moved,” he
announced, bringing back his wire. “But how the devil are we to get
whatever it is into the boat?”

There was a moment’s pause for consideration, while Wilson surveyed
the land. “Somebody’ll have to go down for it, I’m afraid,” he said
at last, “and tie a rope round it, and maybe we’ll be able to haul it
in. I’ve got a coil of rope here. Do you know of any one who can dive
a bit?” he asked the policemen.

“I can, sir,” one of them said. “I don’t mind going down. But I
don’t think you’ll get her in, sir, not without you capsize the boat,
and you’ll lose her again.”

“Strikes me,” the other grumbled, “what you’re trying to pull up’s a
bit of the old pier.”

“It isn’t,” Wilson said. “It moved. But I’m not sure you’re not
right,” he said to the first policeman. “And we can’t risk losing it.
I think,” he added after a moment’s pause, “the best way will be to
fix on ropes and haul the thing in at that window,” pointing to the
window of Meston’s room. “Then we’ll be able to see what it is. I
suppose it won’t pull your wall out, Wason?”

“That it won’t,” Wason said. “That wall’s a foot thick and more.”

“Then what we want,” said Wilson, “is plenty of strong rope. We’d
better land and look for it.”

The preparations took some little time, but eventually some stout
rope-ends were hanging out of the window, while Michael, the Colonel,
and the sergeant stood in the room prepared to haul. Wilson stood
at the window, and Wason remained below directing operations, while
the volunteer diver began to remove his clothes. “I’ll go down and
have a look round first,” he called up to the window. His colleague
meanwhile collected the ends of rope in the boat, which Wason
was balancing over the indicated spot. In another moment he had
disappeared over the side.

The watchers at the window craned their necks, but could see nothing
beyond bubbles and a stirring of mud from the river-bed. In a few
seconds, however, the diver reappeared, spluttering and brushing
water from his eyes. “It’s a big trunk,” he gasped. “I got hold of
it, but it won’t move an inch.”

A trunk! Absurd visions of buried treasure floated across Michael’s
mind; but Wilson seemed completely unmoved. “Anything to fasten the
ropes to?” he asked.

“Oh, aye, that’ll be easy enough. It’s got good strong handles, and
plenty of room for fastening ’em. Give me a couple of them ropes.”

Down went the diver again, and this time it seemed hours before he
reappeared, announcing that he wanted another rope for safety’s
sake. This was supplied, and after a little more delay he brought up
the news that the trunk was now ready to be hauled in. He climbed
back into the boat with some difficulty--“Easy on the rope!” said
Wason--and after a perfunctory rub-down began resuming his clothes.

“Ready?” asked Wilson from the window.

“Half a minute, sir, till we get the boat clear,” was the reply.

After a long and wearisome pull the watchers could see something
gradually approaching the surface of the water. In a series of
lurches it came to light, and disclosed itself as a large tin trunk,
covered with mud and waterweed, and trailing from it a broken length
of cord. “Sakes alive!” Wason cried, nearly capsizing the boat in his
excitement. “If that isn’t the missus’s old tin trunk from the loft!
How in Christendom did that get to the bottom of the river?”

At this point there was a muffled curse from inside the room, and the
trunk redescended with a jerk into the water. Turning to see what had
happened Wilson observed the sergeant standing up and indignantly
rubbing lacerated hands. “We shan’t get it in this way,” Colonel
Lockwood said. “There isn’t weight enough among us. Better get my
fellows in.”

“Right,” Wilson said. “Let her go again, gently. Now then,” he
called, “you in the boat, you’re not wanted any longer there. Come
round and help haul.” A roar of laughter directed his attention to
the bridge, where an interested crowd had collected. “Oh, and clear
the bridge, will you? We don’t want an audience. Linton, you’re the
lightest weight; you go out and keep the place cleared. We can do
without you, I think.”

His instructions were carried out to the letter, and at length, after
a terrific haul, during which they more than once nearly lost it, the
trunk became visible above the window-ledge, Wilson fending it off
from the wall. “Now, then, last pull. Mind the window! That’s done
it.” All stood up and mopped their brows as the trunk at last came to
rest on the floor of Meston’s room.

“What on earth do you suppose is in it, to make it that weight?” the
Colonel asked.

“Shall we look?” Wilson said. He began to tug at a double rope which
was wound about the trunk’s middle. Sodden by the water, the knots
refused to budge and had to be cut. Then, while all held their
breath, he slowly raised the lid. Michael, looking over his shoulder,
gave a sigh of disappointment.

The trunk was full to the brim of a ramshackle collection of pieces
of rusty metal, apparently parts of some disused machine. Wilson
unpacked these and disclosed beneath them something which gleamed
like marble, and on being lifted out turned out to be a piece of
sculpture representing a lady in a classical posture, with nothing
on. A similar lady followed her, and left the trunk empty. “God bless
my soul!” said Colonel Lockwood.

Wason stared at the figures, and scratched his head. “Well, I’m
damned!” he said. “If those aren’t the statues I turned out of the
coffee-room because the missus said they wasn’t decent! They’ve been
up in my loft these fifteen years, and I never give them another
thought. But what the dickens would anybody want to put them in a
trunk for?”

“That’s quite simple,” said Wilson. “The murderers overdid it a
little, or we shouldn’t have had all this trouble. But the whole
thing’s nothing more than a weight used to sink the body.”

“The body!”

“Meston’s body,” he added.

“What! Then you mean,” the landlord said, “he was killed here, in
this house, and thrown out of window wi’ that trunk tied on him?”

“That’s what I mean, more or less. See here.” Wilson picked up the
loose end of rope which had been floating in the river. “This has
been broken. If you joined it on”--he brought the end close to
another which protruded from a knot--“you’ll see it made a loop. And
that loop’s about the size of a man’s waist measurement. What clearly
happened is this. The murderers tied the trunk to the body, and sank
it in the river. But it fell on the old pier, which caught the trunk
and left the body to float freely at the end of the cord--that is,
about three or four feet below the surface. Nobody saw it--it’s not
in the main stream--until our friend Jarge, who I suspect must have
got a little out of his course, fouled it with the tug. The blow
knocked it sideways, and he then saw the face in the water on the
near side of the barge. When Bill hooked it, I judge from his account
he must actually have got his hook in the rope itself, so that when
he tried to pull it in, he was really pulling on the whole weight of
the trunk. Naturally it wouldn’t come, until Bill, who is a pretty
hefty fellow, succeeded in breaking the rope--you can see where it’s
frayed. Then, of course, the body, being released from the trunk,
came up ‘like a daisy,’ as he said, and they got it on board.”

“Good God!” the Colonel said. “You mean the devil strangled him
first, and then drowned him with the trunk round his waist! What a
diabolical thing! And if it hadn’t been for you we should never have
known!”

“If it hadn’t been for the pier,” said Wilson. “If the trunk hadn’t
happened to land directly on the pier it would have buried itself in
the mud at the bottom, and it is ten thousand to one that neither
it nor the body would ever have been seen again. The murderer or
murderers owe their failure to a lucky--for him an unlucky--chance.
If they had been able to avoid that pier----”

“They’d have got away with it,” said Michael quietly.

“They may yet, easily enough,” Colonel Lockwood said gloomily. “It
doesn’t seem to me we’re much nearer knowing who they were.”

“One step at a time,” Wilson reassured him. “We’ve got some data,
anyway. We know that they had to choose this particular place.”

“Well, that’s natural,” Wason said. “It’s just below Mr. Meston’s
window.”

“And below something else, I think. Where did you say this stuff came
from?”

“Out o’ the loft above.”

“Where is the loft? I didn’t know you had one.”

“Above this room, in the roof. Ye can’t see it from below, sir, but
it and this room, they was both part of the old grain store years
ago, when this place was a malting house. There warn’t any ceiling to
this room then, it went straight up to the rafters. Then my father,
when he took it, he put a ceiling in, so’s to make a room of the
bottom part, and turned the top space into a loft. That’s a matter
of forty or fifty years ago, and we don’t use it for nothin’ now but
lumber. But it’s thar all right.”

“How did you get up to it?” Wilson asked. “I haven’t seen a stair.”

“It’s behind a door, sir, just at the end of the passage that goes to
your room. It’s the old stair that used to lead up to the platform
they had to steady the sacks when they hauled ’em in from the grain
barges. There used to be a crane of some sort in the gable to fetch
’em up; but my father, he took it down.”

“Then the loft’s our next place of call,” said Wilson decidedly.
“Leave this trunk where it is, and lock the billiard-room door.”

“You know, Michael,” he said, as they mounted to the first floor, “I
ought to be shot for not having thought of that before.”

“Damned if I know what you’ve thought of now,” Michael said.

“I mean the weight,” Wilson explained. “It did occur to me, when
I first heard your story, that it was odd that nobody should have
noticed the body sooner, and I wondered whether it could have got
caught in weed somewhere. When I saw it, however, I realised that
there wasn’t enough weed on it for that to be true. Then that tree,
and John Loring’s tryst, came in to confuse the trail, and I never
so much as thought of the corpse having been tied to something till
I realised this morning that whatever had happened couldn’t have
happened at the old bridge.”

“Why couldn’t it?”

“Because of the rope,” said Wilson enigmatically. “Here we are.”




                            CHAPTER XXXIII


Dust and grime notwithstanding, it was a picturesque place into which
they stumbled when they had made their way up the steep staircase.
Huge rafters, of seasoned and blackened oak, spanned it, and from
under the rafters, as they entered, half a dozen disturbed bats flew
out and began to circle dismally round their heads. Two birds in
noisy alarm dashed themselves violently against the sloping roof, and
eventually, after some battering, made their way out through a broken
skylight. This skylight, with another equally encrusted with dirt,
provided all the light there was in the loft, save for a thin streak
outlining what appeared to be a door in the riverside wall; but it
was sufficient for them to see an odd collection of miscellaneous
objects of all sorts, piled up anyhow on the floor, and all half
buried in a thick layer of dust. Desolation could hardly go further.

“It’s in pretty much of a pickle,” the landlord said, surveying it.
“You see, nobody comes up here nowadays. It’s months since I’ve
been in the place myself. Every now and then I shove away something
that’s not wanted, same as I shoved those statues; but, barring that,
there’s no call to come here. ’Tisn’t worth while to keep the place
clean.”

“But somebody’s been up here recently, all the same,” said Wilson,
“or the trunk couldn’t have got down. Tread very carefully, all of
you, so as not to disturb any traces. Walk along the outside beams.
Hullo, here we are.” He pointed out some footprints which were
plainly visible in the thick dust. “Almost as good as sand, for
keeping traces. We’ll have a drawing of those in a minute. But this
is rather odd.” He straddled from one beam to the next, and stood a
moment staring at the prints. “I can’t understand this. But we can’t
do much without more light. Is that a door over there?”

“Aye,” said Wason. “It’s in the gable--used to give on to that
platform I told you about. Do you want it open, sir? I’ve got the
key, but I doubt it’s stuck fast.”

“Why couldn’t I see the door from the outside?” Wilson asked. “I was
looking at the inn from across the river just now, and there wasn’t a
sign of it.”

“It don’t show from the outside, sir,” the landlord said. “When I
had that wall stuccoed three years back, I let ’em carry the stuff
right across the old door. There’s nothing but a line shows each side
it now, and you’d never see that if you didn’t know ’twas there.”
As he spoke he inserted a rusty key, which turned with surprising
readiness, and gave the door a push. It opened immediately and with
such ease that if Wilson had not grabbed him by the coat-collar he
would have fallen into the river. “Whew-w!” said Wason. “That was a
narrow shave. Thank you, sir. But the last time I opened it, it was
as stiff as----”

“It’s been oiled since then,” said Wilson. “Feel those hinges. That
suggests somebody has found a use for it quite recently. Well, at any
rate we’ve got a bit of light on the situation.” He turned to survey
the floor of the loft, on which the flood of light from the open
door threw the footprints into strong relief. “See the mark where
they dragged the trunk across the floor, Michael? But I think our
principal concern is with the door.”

He crossed to its narrow sill, and stood looking out. Just above his
head projected the stout beams of the little gable, and immediately
below, breaking the sheer drop to the water, was the coping of Mr.
Meston’s window. “Supposing,” he said, “a man were leaning out of
that window, and supposing some one standing here dropped a noose
over his head, and began to haul on it----”

The Colonel gave a shudder, but Wason remained sceptical. “They
wouldn’t ’a’ got him up,” he said stolidly. “He’d be too heavy to
pull out o’ window. Ain’t no leverage here.”

“But you said they used to pull up sacks here--heavy sacks,” Michael
objected.

“Oh, aye, sacks. But sacks weren’t stuck in a window. Besides, they’d
a crane in the gable. But my father--he took it down. It was only a
big pulley, properly speaking, and he was afraid it’d get rotten and
do some one a mischief falling on the barges.”

“The pulley may have gone,” Wilson said, leaning precariously out
over space, while Michael moved to his side and held on to his
coat-tails; “but something’s been in that gable not so long since.
I can see screw-holes--new ones. Keep a hold, Michael. I’m going
farther out. Wait a minute.” He swung back to safety, and drew a
two-foot rule from his pocket. “Now.” He leant out as far as he
dared, and with the rule in one hand and the other gripping the
gable, began making measurements along the wood. Then he closed the
rule and dropped it back into the loft. “Got a knife, somebody?”
he asked. Wason opened his pocket-knife and handed it across. “No
good,” said Wilson, after a minute’s scratching on the woodwork.
“It’ll fall down. Fish in my trouser-pocket, Michael--no, the other
one--and you’ll find my knife. If you open it, there’s a little pair
of pincers in the head.... Good.” He leaned out still farther, and
with a jerk of the pincers removed something from the woodwork, and
placed it in his mouth for safety. “All serene. Coming in,” he said;
and with Michael’s aid swung back into the loft.

Still standing on the sill, he drew from his mouth a strong screw,
and exhibited it in the palm of his hand. “That’s what we call a
‘clue,’ Mr. Wason,” he said. “Now, have you got a wheelwright in the
town, or any one who does odd wood-turning jobs?”

“Goodyear, in Strangers’ Alley, up along High Street, does most of
that kind,” Wason said. “There’s one or two others does odd jobs; but
Goodyear, he’s known.”

“Well, then, Colonel, I wonder if you or one of your men could do
a job for me. I want to know if Goodyear at any time during the
last month made or fitted up a pulley and pulley-blocks for this
gable. Of course he won’t have known that it was for the gable; but
here are the dimensions of the pulley”--he had torn a sheet from
his pocket-book and began scribbling busily while he talked--“and
this is a rough diagram of where the screw-holes were. The timber
was three-quarters of an inch exactly, grooved for a slender rope,
and this is one of the screws that were used. You can take it as a
pattern. If Goodyear hasn’t made anything of the sort, try all the
other people you can think of until you find out who has. Only it’s
got to be done as quickly as possible, or our friends, whoever they
are, will get to know about it, and decamp. Do you mind?”

“I’ll go myself,” said the Colonel, taking the sketch. He bustled
off, looking very important. “Mind the footprints!” Wilson called
after him.

“While’s he’s gone,” Wilson said, “we’d better examine this place
as carefully as we can. There may be other traces. Have either of
you men got flashlamps? Good. Then you go off into the dark end, and
examine that thoroughly. But for goodness’ sake don’t disturb any
of the traces we’ve already got. Linton, will you be measuring and
drawing the footprints very carefully. I think you’ll find there
are three sets, apart from some smudges; but I can’t be sure till
they’re measured. Make a plan of how they lie, too--all those you can
distinguish. There’s a bit of confirmatory evidence here, Michael,
for what it’s worth,” he went on, looking out of the door again. “See
those marks in the stucco just below? They’re fresh scratches; and
they were made, I suppose, by the trunk as it went down, or by his
feet as he came up--probably the latter.”

“Ugh!” said Michael, retreating. He did not like sheer drops at the
best of times, still less drops where men had been hanged.

“There’s some cigarette-ends here, sir,” one of the constables said.
“Nothing else that I can see.”

“Pick ’em up,” said Wilson. “I don’t suppose they’ll tell us much,
but we’d better have all we can get. Look out, Michael, there’s
something shining by your foot. Hullo! This is an odd thing to find
in a loft.” In his hand lay a tiny, but blazing emerald. “Come out
of anything of yours, Wason?”

“No, sir, nor of the missus’s,” the landlord said, with emphasis. He
was staring at the brilliant little jewel as if it troubled him.

“Know whose it is?”

“Couldn’t say, sir.”

“Well, if you do, or if you find out, you’ll know pretty well who the
murderer is,” Wilson said. “How are you fellows getting on?”

“Nearly done, sir,” one of the constables replied. “There’s a lot
of junk here in this corner, that’s a bit awkward to get round.
Something’s fallen down, I think, just lately, by the dust. Yes, it’s
this box. Lend a hand, Freddy, and we’ll have it up. Holy snakes!”

“What’s the matter?” Without speaking, the man held up a long coil of
fine silk rope.

“Well,” said Wilson, “what of it? The man was hanged, wasn’t he? That
almost presupposes a rope.”

“But they found the rope, sir, by the boathouse.”

“No, they didn’t,” said Wilson. “_This_ is the rope.”

“Then what’s the other?”

“The other? Oh, a plant, of course. That’s what I suspected. But why
on earth were they such fools as to leave this one here? I suppose
they lost it, tipped the box over on it, couldn’t find it in the
dark, and didn’t dare to stay looking for it too long. It was all
odds against it ever being found.”

“Particularly,” said Michael, “if the body had stayed at the bottom
of the river.”

“Yes. Well, I think that’s about all we shall find up here. Suppose
we get down. When you’ve finished, Linton, bring those drawings to
me, and then put a guard at the bottom of the stair. What’s this?”

“A chestnut on a string,” said Michael, picking it up. “Not much good
to us, is it? They’re hardly likely to have been playing conkers
here.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Wilson. “They may have been. Bring it along,
anyway.”

He led the way out of the loft, followed by Prendergast and the
landlord. When they reached the landing Wason plucked at his sleeve.
“If you please, sir, could I have a word with you?”

“Right.” Wilson turned in at the doorway of Meston’s room. “What is
it?”

“That emerald, sir, you picked up in the loft--I didn’t like to say
much, not with all those chaps about; but I’ve a feeling I know whose
it is.”

“Well?”

“Mr. John’s, sir,” said Wason.

“Oh!” Wilson seemed more than a little surprised. “John Loring’s? Are
you sure?”

“Pretty sure, sir,” the landlord admitted unwillingly. “Mr. John,
when he was about these parts, he always had an emerald tie-pin, with
a great big stone in the centre and a lot of little ’uns all round.
And my girl, she saw him when he drove back with the police, and she
noticed particular he was wearing his emerald pin.” Wason looked very
distressed.

John Loring’s! And in the loft, where certainly John Loring had no
reason to be. Little as he liked Sylvia Meston, Michael was almost
indignant with Wilson for raising her hopes so recently. But Wilson
did not appear moved.

“Well, we shall see what we shall see,” he said. “Hullo, Colonel, any
luck?”




                            CHAPTER XXXIV


Colonel Lockwood looked extremely puzzled. “I can’t understand it,”
he said. “I’ve traced the pulley--it wasn’t made by Goodyear, by the
way. But a man called Templeton, who lives just outside the town,
remembers quite well making a pulley and pulley-block to just those
measurements, about three weeks ago.”

“For whom?” said Wilson. “That’s the point.”

“For Potts, the footman up at the Grange. But----”

“That’s all right,” said Wilson, whose face had fallen, but
brightened up in a minute. “Of course, it might perfectly well have
been Potts. In fact, it’s really more likely.”

“More likely than what?” said the Colonel. “Potts doesn’t seem to me
to have much to do with Kershaw. And it was Kershaw whom you told me
to watch.”

“Yes,” said Wilson. “I hope you did, by the way. But Kershaw didn’t
commit the murder.”

“Then who did?”

As Wilson opened his mouth to reply, there was a knock on his
sitting-room door, and a bland, cherubic face looked in.

“May I have a look at the exhibits, please, Mr. Wilson?” Brandreth
asked. “I believe that’s the proper name for them. I’ve just been up
in the loft, and I noticed----”

“Mr. Brandreth,” said Wilson, “will you kindly clear out? I’m busy.”

“I’m so sorry,” the lawyer replied. “If I’m intruding I’ll come
another time. But I really thought you’d like to know----” He paused
expectantly.

“Like to know what?” Wilson asked. If there was no other way of
ridding himself of this pestilential lawyer, he supposed he would
have to hear him out.

“Why, whose bootprints they are that your man’s drawing so patiently
up in the loft,” said Brandreth. “I’ve just been to have a look.”

“Then you will kindly not go again!” said Wilson, still with
asperity. “Nobody is to go up there. Well, whose are they?”

“You don’t know?” said Brandreth, with a look of beautiful innocence.
“Come--I give you three guesses.”

“Mr. Brandreth, will you kindly stop being a buffoon, and tell us
what you know?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said the lawyer. “But, you see, I have a personal
interest. The bootprints happen to be mine.”

This time there was no doubt. Wilson was genuinely startled.
“_Yours?_” he said incredulously. “Mr. Brandreth, are you making me a
confession, or is this another of your extremely ill-timed jokes?”

“Oh dear, no,” said the lawyer. “I’m not a murderer. I’m not even an
accomplice. I’m only a member of the inquiring British public. You
see, I happened to go up into the loft after lunch----”

“What, again?”

“No, before. When you chased all those people off the bridge, I
met the boots, and asked him where the trunk had come from. I was
standing on the bridge when you hauled it up, you see. He said it
came out of the loft, so I went up to have a look. I came down before
you went up there; but when I went up again just now, and saw Linton
earnestly making sketches of my bootprints, I thought perhaps I’d
better let you know.” He held up a foot for inspection. “Would you
like to draw them? or shall I send a boot round to you? I give you my
word they’re the same.”

“Mr. Brandreth,” said Wilson, “some people would call you the most
impudent person they had ever met.”

The lawyer sighed. “You misinterpret my motives, Mr. Wilson. You
don’t allow enough for intelligent curiosity, really you don’t. I
beg your pardon for interrupting. Afternoon, Lockwood!” And with a
comprehensive smile he was gone.

“Really!” said Michael. “What confounded cheek! I shouldn’t wonder if
he really was the murderer.”

“Nonsense!” said Wilson. “Of course he wasn’t. Don’t be an ass,
Michael. That kind of chap doesn’t commit murder, except in novels
that must have ‘unexpected’ endings. He’s a buffoon and a busybody,
and that’s all about it. Actually, I’m grateful to him for clearing
up one difficulty.”

“Then who was?” the Colonel asked. For answer Wilson drew from his
pocket the envelope in which lay the little emerald.

“John Loring!” Michael cried. “But I thought----”

“John!” gasped the Colonel. “But I’ve just given leave for Sylvia to
see him! Really, Wilson, I think you might have----”

“Not John Loring, Colonel,” said Wilson, who was not always above
creating a sensation. “Godfrey.”

“Godfrey! The Squire! It’s impossible! What do you mean?” The Colonel
stared in horror.

“But,” said Michael, “Wason said the emerald was John Loring’s.”

“Wason was wrong. John Loring’s isn’t the only emerald tie-pin. The
Squire also has one--they’re family twins, I believe--and I noticed
when I met him that one of the stones was missing. John Loring’s, I
think, is complete.”

“But what an appalling thing! Are you _sure_?” said the Colonel.

“I should not have mentioned it if I were not,” said Wilson, who
disliked having his statements doubted. “If you ask Godfrey Loring to
provide you with an alibi for Friday night of last week, I think you
will find that you have put him in rather a difficulty. Of course we
shall be able to be quite sure when we have compared the footprints
in the loft.”

“I thought Brandreth said those were his?” Michael said.

“One set was,” said Wilson. “But there were three sets. That was one
thing which puzzled me, especially as one set looked much fresher
than the others. Those must have been Brandreth’s.”

“But the _Squire_?” The Colonel was still gasping like a fish. “You
can’t mean it? Are you accusing Godfrey Loring of _murder_?”

“Of being concerned,” said Wilson in his grimmest voice, “in the
murder of William Meston on the night of ninth August, by hanging
him from a pulley in that gable. And I am prepared to swear an
information to that effect against him and his accomplice.”

“His accomplice?”

“Potts--the footman. Of course, you must have seen this wasn’t a
one-man job. And, from what you’ve just told me, it’s evident that
Potts was the other criminal.”

“Why?”

“My dear Colonel, who was it ordered the pulley? More than that, who
was it found the rope by the alder stump--the rope which was to send
John Loring to the gallows for his brother’s crime--the rope which
was not there a week after the crime was committed, and which only
appeared when you had told Godfrey Loring that the evidence against
his brother was not complete enough to take before a jury? Potts! And
when I questioned him yesterday, he stuck firmly to his story, which,
as I happened to know, was a lie. He is certainly a faithful servant.”

“But,” Michael said, “aren’t you forgetting Kershaw? And Hanborough?
A little while ago you seemed sure that Kershaw and Hanborough had
done it together.”

“Hanborough, as you so pertinently observed, my dear Michael, is off
the map. The connection between him and Kershaw is very interesting,
but has nothing directly to do with the murder. As to Kershaw, I
shan’t know for certain till I’ve had an opportunity of questioning
him freely. But I fancy he saw the crime.”

“Saw the crime?”

“Yes, from the tow-path opposite, on his way to Billings’s cottage.
You remember he started to go there, but never arrived. _Something_
occurred to delay him, and if that something was a man being hanged
from the Malting House windows, it might well have given him
something to think about. You remember Warden, who saw him coming
back across the bridge, thought he looked as if he’d seen a ghost.”

“But why did he come back at all?”

“Well, most people, seeing a murder committed before their eyes,
would at least stop to inquire, wouldn’t they? I imagine Kershaw, not
knowing whom he’d seen, went round to the Old Malting House, and met
them coming out.”

“And then?”

“Well, have you forgotten Kershaw’s financial position? And the bills
that were paid?”

“I see!” Michael said. “You mean blackmail. But--that was _before_
the body came up out of the water. Do you mean Kershaw undertook to
hit it over the head when it did?”

“No, of course not. It wasn’t intended ever to be seen again. The
pier--and your untimely appearance, Michael--are responsible for that
unlucky blow. Unlucky, I mean, from Kershaw’s point of view.”

“Because it directed suspicion to him?”

“And because it dried up his milch-cow. That, I fancy, is where our
friend tripped himself up. Five hundred pounds in one lump is a
pretty good catch, and everybody knows how rich Loring is. Kershaw,
I surmise, saw himself in clover for the rest of his life, and when
the body turned up again, either in order to secure his income, or to
prevent the crime being discovered--in which case Loring was pretty
sure to give him away--took the insane step of faking that blow.
Either way he did himself in. We intercepted a note at his house,
Michael, giving Loring’s views on the matter, and I rather think the
conversation whose tail we heard this morning was Kershaw’s last
throw. Of course, by faking the blow, he at once made it impossible
for himself to blackmail anybody. But this is rather idle conjecture.
It’s what I think happened; but we shall get it all out of Kershaw.
He’ll speak fast enough when you have him under lock and key, and
kept without his drugs.”

“Drugs? Blackmail?” said the bewildered Colonel. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about. But if you really mean me to take up this
charge, you’ve got to tell me why. What conceivable motive had
Godfrey----?”

“Motive?” Wilson cried. “You’ve been meeting the man almost every
day, and you talk to me of motive! Man alive! where are your eyes?
Haven’t you seen Loring with Mrs. Meston? Why, the man’s eaten up
with passion for her, and has been, I should say, for years--long
before he saw the bank manager walk off with her under his very nose.
I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that he had something to do with
John Loring’s sudden departure for China.” At this a sudden look of
horrified illumination came into the Colonel’s face. “And then--she
ran away from Meston to the Grange. And Meston followed her there,
and was thrown out, if you’ll remember, by Potts, acting on his
master’s instructions. And he saw his chance. Do you really believe,
knowing him as you do, that he’s not the sort of man to take his
chance when he got it--not to mention that he’s been moving heaven
and earth to get you to arrest his brother and to make sure of his
conviction?”

“I remember,” the Colonel said slowly, “that he _did_ get John to go
to China. He found him the post, and got him to accept--he asked my
advice about it. But I can’t think----”

“If we waste much time thinking,” Wilson interrupted, “it’ll be too
late to act. May I remind you that these two are still at large--and
news travels fast in this gossip-hive of yours!”

“I suppose,” said the Colonel reluctantly, “I’ve got to arrest him.”

“And quickly, I should say,” said Wilson, “or he won’t be there
to arrest. In fact, I shouldn’t wait for the warrant. I should go
straight up to the Grange and detain him pending inquiries. I’ll get
the warrant, if you like. And, by the way, make for Potts first.
He’s nearly as guilty, but we want his evidence to catch Loring.
Don’t let him get away. And, if I may, I’ll see that your people
make sure of Kershaw. Only, for God’s sake, Colonel, be careful. The
man’s absolutely desperate, and he’ll stick at nothing. I’ll go in a
minute, as soon as I’ve got my evidence into order.”

Only half convinced, but completely browbeaten, the Colonel got to
his feet, and slowly disappeared. For a few minutes after he had
gone, Wilson wrote rapidly, transferring hieroglyphic notes out of
his pocket-book.

“That ought to do the trick,” he said at last. “Now for convincing
Loring’s fellow-magistrates.” He led the way to the door. On the
threshold he hesitated. “You know,” he said, “I’m not sure that I
oughtn’t to have gone to the Grange myself. It’s a very ticklish
business, and Lockwood’s such an infernal blunderer. I’m half afraid
he’ll let the man get away. I wonder if I ought to go.”

“They’ll be nearly there by now,” said Michael, looking at his watch.

As he spoke, a car came tearing down the High Street, jammed on
its brakes with an excruciating scream, and shot out Mark Warden,
white-faced and anxious-eyed, on the pavement beside them.

“Mr. Wilson,” he said, without any preliminary, “is it true there’s a
row at the Grange, and Lockwood’s gone off to arrest--the Squire?”

“It is true,” said Wilson shortly, trying to silence the young man,
as a number of heads appeared at surrounding windows.

“And Edna’s there alone! Why didn’t you tell me? What’s it about?”
Warden said. “I shall go up there now,” he added defiantly.

“You can go if you like,” said Wilson, making a sudden decision, “if
you take me with you. You can come, if you like, Michael.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Mind if I let her out a bit?” the young man asked, having packed
them in.

“Not when you’ve got past the corner,” was the reply. “I want to
speak to the constable on duty there.” In a moment, it seemed,
they were at the corner, and Wilson, summoning the constable,
instructed him to leave his post and go and fetch Dr. Kershaw to the
police-station immediately, there to await further orders. “Now you
can step on it,” he said to Warden, as the man turned away.




                             CHAPTER XXXV


“What’s it all about, Mr. Wilson?” Warden asked in the intervals of
“stepping on it,” while Wilson and Michael held on to their hats. “Or
is it still a secret?”

Wilson gave a brief outline of the story, and he set his teeth and
drove, if possible, more violently. “The swine!” he said. “I knew he
was no good; but he was Edna’s brother, and she would stick up for
him. God, I hope he’s not done anything to her! You might have given
me a hint.”

“I would, as soon as I’d been at all sure,” Wilson said. “But until
this afternoon I had only the barest of conjectures to go on. I am
ashamed to say that I forgot Miss Loring at the moment; but I am
quite certain she’s in no danger. What I’m afraid of is that Lockwood
may bungle it somehow, and let Loring get away.”

“Well, he hasn’t got away, yet--not along this road,” said Warden, as
the lodge gates of the Grange appeared in sight.

“Nor have the police come back,” said Wilson, who was keeping an
anxious look-out.

They swung round the corner on two wheels, and shot along the curves
of the drive. “We’ll be there in a minute,” Warden said, as they
reached the narrow part. Suddenly they heard, not far ahead of them,
the sound of a Klaxon pressed furiously and continuously.

“God!” said Warden, slowing slightly in his dismay. “That’s Loring’s
horn! He’s off!”

“Stop the car!” Michael cried, taking in the danger all at once. “The
curve--look!--and cars from the Grange have the road! He’ll smash
us.” They could hear the engine now as well as the horn.

“Turn her into the hedge, quick,” Wilson ordered. “As far as you can,
and jump out.” With a grinding of brakes, Warden obeyed. Michael had
just got the door open, when the two-seater flashed round the bend,
not twenty yards ahead.

What happened then, Michael was never quite certain. The two-seater
hesitated for a second, seeing them, then made a frantic effort to
swerve past. But the space, even with Warden’s car in the hedge,
was insufficient; the two-seater caught the mud-guard, slewed round,
and plunged its nose into the fence on the far side. There was a
crash, a rearing-up of the car, and the man in it was flung violently
backwards into the drive, where he lay still. Wilson and Michael, who
had got out at the back of their own car, were pinned by it against
the hedge and unable for a minute to extricate themselves; but
Warden, who had been standing by the bonnet, after a second’s shocked
immobility, ran forward. As he came up, the figure on the ground
stirred slightly.

“Look out!” Wilson shouted; but the warning came too late. Even as
Warden bent to touch him, Godfrey Loring leaped to his feet, threw
him aside, and sprang for the fence. Warden followed; but Loring,
with his hands on the fence, dealt him a furious kick in the body,
vaulted over, and shot away across the grass. Warden staggered back,
then, recovering, made a desperate shot at the fence, and cleared
it, but on the other side dropped, writhing and clutching his
stomach, just as Wilson and Michael, at last free of the encumbering
wreckage, reached the fence.

“Got me--where I strained myself,” he gasped. “All--right. Catch
him--brute!”

Michael, with his teeth set, started in pursuit of the flying figure.

“Careful, Michael, he’s probably armed,” said Wilson, who, knowing
himself to be no match for his friend as a runner, was contenting
himself with bearing to the left so as to cut off Loring’s retreat to
the park gates.

Michael heard, but barely took in the warning as he ran. He was
measuring with his eye the distance between Loring and a little
copse of trees for which he was obviously making. He did not think
that the murderer would risk stopping to fire until he had reached
that shelter. Once there, of course, he could, if he were a good
shot, pick off both Wilson and himself with comparative ease. The
thing to do, therefore, was to catch him before he got there, and
this Michael, proud of his running powers, did not think ought to
be difficult, particularly when pitted against a man who had just
had such a violent fall. Besides, wasn’t that blood on that tuft of
grass? If he were bleeding he could not last long.

These reflections very nearly proved his undoing; for in his
excitement about the tuft he forgot to look to his own ground,
stumbled, and put his foot into a rabbit-hole, wrenching his ankle
so violently that he nearly fell; and when he recovered himself,
Loring, whose powers of endurance seemed remarkable, was barely ten
yards from the copse. Michael put on a hopeless spurt, but only to
see his enemy reach the trees, whip round, and pull something from
his pocket. Instinctively he swerved, and felt the bullet whizz past
his cheek. But before Loring could fire again, something sprang on
him from behind. There was a sound of cursing, a struggle, a couple
of quick reports, and a fall. Michael ran up as fast as he could, to
find Loring lying on the ground, a smoking revolver by his hand, and
blood pouring from his side; while, above him, Brian Mackenzie, with
a face like an avenging fury, was shaking and throttling him as if he
meant nothing less than murder.

“Here, stop that!” Michael, seeing Godfrey’s face turn purple,
shouted to the explorer. “Can’t you see the man’s shot? You’ll kill
him!”

With a gasp of astonishment, Mackenzie let go suddenly, and the
Squire gave his head a jerk. “Hell--take--you!” he gasped; and with
an expiring flicker of energy made a grab for his revolver. But just
as he touched it his fingers collapsed, his eyes glazed, and he lay
in a limp heap on the turf. Michael, his professional instincts
getting the better of his astonishment, knelt down to examine him.

“Well?” said Wilson, coming up at a leisurely trot. “What about it?
Is he dead? And what are you doing, sir?” to Mackenzie.

“No; he’s not dead,” said Michael, looking up. “Only fainted from
loss of blood. He cut his head, apparently, when he fell out of the
car. And he’s got a wound in the side--only a flesh wound, though
it’s bleeding nastily, and a broken leg. Lend me your handkerchief,
will you?”

“Good,” said Wilson. “I should have been sorry if he’d cheated the
gallows. Did you shoot him?”

“I’m not armed,” said Mackenzie, extending his hands. “Shooting’s
too good for him. Strangling’s what he needs.” His fingers twitched
suggestively.

“He’d have _been_ strangled,” Michael remarked, “if I hadn’t come up.”

“Of course he would,” said Mackenzie. “That’s what I stayed for, to
get my hands on him--the brute! I was coming down to cut him off in
the road.”

“Oh! As Mrs. Meston’s champion, I presume,” said Wilson dryly. “What
excited you so?”

“He wouldn’t keep his filthy paws off her,” the man said. “He said
he’d got her _now_, and could make her marry him--_him!_ I swore I’d
kill him first.”

“Oh!” said Wilson again. “Well, you may thank your stars you were
prevented. Murder--or even manslaughter--is not a nice charge. Now,
you might as well help to patch your friend up for us. And when
you’ve done, Michael, you’d better go and have a look at Warden. That
was a nasty kick. Will you stay with me, Mr. Mackenzie?”

Michael finished his extempore bandaging, and went down to look at
Warden, whom he found lying by the fence, very white and sick, but
not apparently badly damaged. While he was attending to him there
was again the hoot of a car. “Good lord!” said Michael, “there’ll
be another smash!” and ran to the bend, to find the police car
proceeding at a somewhat less dangerous pace towards him.

“What’s this?” Colonel Lockwood asked, surveying the wreckage. “Why,
it’s the Squire’s car! Where is he?”

“Over there,” said Michael, pointing. “Wilson’s with him. He’s a bit
damaged; you’ll have to bring a stretcher or something. You’ve got
Potts, I see?” The footman was sitting sullenly in the back of the
car between two policemen, one of whom was nursing a damaged hand.

“Fought like a wild beast, sir,” Sergeant Linton explained. “He’s
bitten Williamson’s hand near to the bone. And while we were getting
hold of him the Squire slipped away.”

“Well, he can’t slip much farther,” said Michael.

It took some little time to clear away the débris and sort out
the prisoners. Eventually Warden, leaning heavily on a stick, but
professing himself all right, was allowed to go up to the Grange to
look after Edna, whose behaviour had earned golden opinions from
Colonel Lockwood’s staff; Linton and the two policemen departed with
the prisoners; while Wilson, Michael, and Colonel Lockwood returned
to the station in the police car. Mackenzie, who had apparently
undergone some plain speaking from Wilson on the subject of taking
the law into his own hands, accompanied them to have his statement
taken down. At the station they were met with the news that Kershaw
had fled, but would probably be recaptured in an hour or so.

“Somebody’s tipped him the wink, sir,” the constable said in an
injured tone; “can’t think who it can have been.”

“I fancy I’ve an idea,” Wilson said grimly.

“What next?” Colonel Lockwood asked him, with a childlike faith in
his face.

“I should think,” the latter said, “we might perhaps release John
Loring. You transferred him here this morning, I understand.”




                            CHAPTER XXXVI


“Begging your pardon, Colonel,” the constable said, “but they’ve been
ringing up from your house continuous to say Mrs. Meston’s there and
won’t go away again till she’s seen young Mr. Loring. She was here
earlier, saying you said she was to see him; but not ’aving your
instructions, of course, we couldn’t do anything. Now she’s in your
drawing-room, your ’ousekeeper says--been there over a hower making a
great to-do.”

“Good Lord!” the Colonel said. “I quite forgot--I did tell her she
might see him.”

“Well, hadn’t she better?” Wilson suggested. “You could send for
her--or, perhaps better, take the young man over to your house. You
might even lend them a room for an hour or two.” He smiled. “If
you’ll allow me, I’ll take him over myself. There’s one little bit of
information I want from Mrs. Meston, and I think she’s perhaps more
likely to give it me if I come with an olive-branch.”

The Colonel was only too willing to oblige, and in a very few minutes
Wilson, with a rather dazed young man packed unostentatiously by
his side, drove off for the Colonel’s house. John Loring was too
bewildered by the sudden turn of events to make many comments; in
fact, it was the almost irrelevant feature of Hanborough’s behaviour
that appeared to interest him most.

“I’d never have thought it of Nick,” he said. “The chap would have
made a damned good poker-player, keeping his face like that. Of
course, everybody knew Kershaw was a rotter--he lost his first job
through killing a girl he’d got into a mess. Illegal operation, you
know.”

“Was that it? I wondered what had happened; but nobody seemed to
know.”

“I don’t think anybody hereabouts did,” said John, “except Godfrey.
Godfrey always knows everything of that sort. He chucked it at
Kershaw one evening when they were having a row, and I was there,
and Kershaw went green as grass. He made me swear not to tell,
though--Godfrey did, I mean. I suppose he wanted to keep it up his
own sleeve. Anyway, I didn’t want to split on the poor devil; it was
all over and done with. I suppose that he’ll get it in the neck now?”

“I trust they all will,” said Wilson grimly, as they pulled up at
Colonel Lockwood’s door. He entered the drawing-room, with John
behind him, and faced a figure of blazing reproach.

“What do you mean by _promising_----” Sylvia began, and then caught
sight of the other intruder. “_Oh!_” she said. “_John!_” And suddenly
her lip quivered, and Wilson saw tears in her eyes for the first time.

In two strides, John Loring had crossed the room and taken her in his
arms. There was a long silence.

“I thought,” John said triumphantly, “you wanted me to go back to
China.”

“I thought you’d gone,” said Sylvia. “You do jump to conclusions,
don’t you?”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Wilson said tactfully, “I think I’d better go
and tidy up some of my notes.”

Half an hour later he returned, having actually finished working
up the full notes of the case, and having learned from the
police-station that neither Kershaw nor Hanborough had yet been
caught. He found two happy sinners engaged in a sort of friendly
recrimination on the couch, one of them with his arm unashamedly
round the other’s waist. As he entered they looked up with radiant
faces.

“Well, how goes it?” Wilson asked.

“Quite up to sample,” Sylvia said. “John’s been telling me you’ve
released him, and I’ve been telling him you’d have released him long
ago if he hadn’t been such a fool as not to say where he was.”

“What would have been the good if I had?” John inquired. “You could
only have sworn I didn’t touch him. And who’s going to believe a
little liar like you? You’ll have to mend your ways now, my girl.”

“Don’t you wish you could make me?” Sylvia said. “Did we mention we
were thinking of getting married, Mr. Wilson?”

“My heartiest congratulations,” Wilson said. “I think it will do you
both a world of good.”

“That, darling,” said Sylvia, “is meant as a nasty one for me. Mr.
Wilson doesn’t think I’m reliable.”

“Well, good God, who wants you to be?” said John Loring, kissing her
with a sudden fierce movement. “Do you suppose I want to marry a
reliable person? Don’t you agree, Mr. Wilson?”

“My wife,” said Wilson, with a sudden descent into sententiousness,
“says that the most reliable-looking people are often those you can’t
depend on.”

“Oh dear!” said Sylvia, “is there a Mrs. Wilson? If so, I’ve been
wasting a lot on you. You look to me an incurably faithful man.”

“Hopeless, I’m afraid,” said Wilson. “But why not try Dr.
Prendergast? He’s not married.”

“Dr. Prendergast!” Sylvia said. “Why don’t you say the inkstand?”

“Oh, leave the man alone, you she-devil,” her lover interrupted. “You
haven’t yet thanked him for bringing you back a husband from the
foot of the gallows. He did it all, you know. I suppose it _is_ all
right?” he added to Wilson.

“As far as you’re concerned, perfectly,” was the reply. “There’s only
one bit of information I’m lacking, apart from what I hope to get
from Potts and Kershaw. Could you tell me, Mrs. Meston, whether at
any time, after Mr. Loring’s departure for China, Mr. Godfrey Loring
ever asked you to marry him?”

“He didn’t _ask_ me,” Sylvia said. “He took it for granted I would.
That’s partly why I married William--to get away from him. Ugh!” She
gave a shiver.

“The beast!” John Loring cried, with an irrepressible movement of his
fist. “If I get my hands on him----”

“For mercy’s sake, John, don’t murder anybody else!” Sylvia said.

“Anybody else! You talk as if _I_ had murdered Meston. Blowed if I
don’t believe you thought I did.”

“Well, how was I to know?” Sylvia asked, reasonably. “I’m very glad
you didn’t, but you can’t say you wouldn’t have if you’d thought
of it. That’s why I went away. I didn’t want Mr. Wilson asking me
questions about your sweet temper.”

“D’you really think I’d go and hang a man in cold blood?”

“You’re very particular,” said Sylvia. “If you were going to kill me,
I shouldn’t very much mind how you did it.”

“I’ll remember that,” John promised, “when I do.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Are you going to catch Kershaw?” John asked, after an interlude.

“I think so,” Wilson assured him.

“I wonder what gave him the tip to clear out. You didn’t tell any one
you were going up to the Grange, did you?”

“No,” said Wilson, who was looking out of the window. “But I fancy I
know the answer to your question, for all that. In fact, I believe
I see the answer coming. Wait a minute; I want to surprise him.” He
went out into the hall, and had a brief conversation with the maid.
Immediately afterwards the front door opened, there was a sound of
voices, and the maid threw open the drawing-room door.

“Mr. Brandreth, sir,” she announced.

For once in his life the little lawyer seemed disconcerted.
Obviously, he had not expected to find the group in the drawing-room.
He looked round a little nervously, licked his lips, and backed
towards the door. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I thought Colonel
Lockwood----”

“Would provide you with a little more exclusive information.” Wilson
finished the sentence grimly. “Just so. But, you know, I think it’s
your turn. Mr. Brandreth, what exactly have you been up to?”

“I? Nothing,” said the lawyer.

“Perhaps if I made my question a little more specific--What exactly
did you tell Kershaw?”

“Why, that you’d been looking in the loft. Plenty of people could
have told him that, as a matter of fact. But I just happened to be
passing.”

“Oh, you did, did you? When? How long after you had that conversation
with Lockwood and myself about your boots?”

“Oh, five or ten minutes, perhaps,” said Brandreth airily.

“In fact, you went immediately and warned him to clear out. Do you
know that there are legal penalties for aiding a murderer to escape,
Mr. Brandreth?”

“Dear, dear,” said the lawyer. “Is Kershaw a murderer? You really
do surprise me. I should have thought him incapable of it. But, Mr.
Wilson, you policemen should take the public into your confidence a
little more, you know. Why, any one of us may be helping a murderer
to escape, quite innocently, if you won’t tell us who he is. You
bring it on yourselves, really you do; and you might so easily have
let me get myself into serious trouble. As it happens, of course,
I didn’t assist him. I merely passed on a piece of common news. In
fact, I fear I even hindered his flight, by refusing to lend him
money. I’ve had to give up the pleasure of lending Kershaw money for
some time past. His requirements are too comprehensive.”

Wilson bit his lip. “I see. And then you went on and warned the
Squire?”

“Indeed I did not,” said Brandreth virtuously. “I have not been near
the Grange. I assure you, I had not the least idea----”

“Or you would have gone there too. It would not surprise me greatly,
Mr. Brandreth, if you found yourself in jail one of these days.”

The lawyer laughed. “And the worst of it is,” he said, “that when I
am caught, the bootprint department will instantly recognise me as an
old offender.”




                            CHAPTER XXXVII


“At last!” Michael said, as Wilson entered their sitting-room at the
Old Malting House very late for dinner next day. “We were just going
to begin without you. Any news?” He was sitting with Edna Loring and
Mark Warden, who had been invited to celebrate Wilson’s last evening
in Essex.

“Potts has decided to confess,” Wilson replied. “That’s what kept me.
But that, coupled with Kershaw’s statement, gives the Crown a very
easy job.”

“Then may we hear what really happened?” Warden begged. “There are
so many red herrings flying about, that one doesn’t know what to
believe.”

“Oh, Mark!” Edna reproached him. “Do let Mr. Wilson get something to
eat first. He looks absolutely worn out. And besides--I want to know
how he did it.”

“Beer,” said Wilson. “Lots of beer. Then I’ll tell you.”

It was not, however, until the meal was finished, and they were
leaning back comfortably in their chairs, that he began his story.

“The real trouble about this case was that it was not one, but
two--the misappropriation of your funds, Warden, and the murder
of Meston. Kershaw was the only link between them, and he was
practically an accidental link--except that his moral habits and
the financial difficulties which in part arose out of them no doubt
helped him to fall an easier prey to Loring.

“At first sight, Hanborough, I’ll admit, appeared to me much the
likeliest culprit, after my first meeting with you, Warden. It was
too much to believe that the senior partner had not been able to find
out in several months who was tampering with his funds, and it was
pretty clear that all his efforts had been directed to keeping you
and Meston off the trail. The obvious conclusion was that Meston had
found out more than he should, and had to be killed. But then--how
did Kershaw come in? From the moment we discovered the cause of
death, and still more from the date of the inquest, it became clear
that Kershaw _could not_ conceivably be innocent--no innocent man
could have been so careless. And the murderer, further, seemed to
require an accomplice. But what had Kershaw to do with Hanborough? I
could find no connection--nor any motive for Kershaw to act on his
own.

“I hadn’t, naturally, lost sight of the other possible motive--which,
of the two, was most likely, on the face of it, to lead to murder,
since nothing but Meston’s death would suffice to set his wife
free. The difficulty there was that there seemed to be such an
embarrassment of persons to choose from, and, until we heard of John
Loring’s return, no reason to pick one rather than another. There was
for a start, Burden, Mackenzie, Leslie Buckton--and Godfrey Loring.”

“What? You suspected Godfrey--then!” The question came from Edna.

“No; I certainly couldn’t say that,” said Wilson, searching for
phrases in which to clothe his opinions of Godfrey without too much
hurting Godfrey’s sister. “I had merely noticed him when he came to
pick up Mrs. Meston, and again at the inquest, and had observed that
he was obviously in love with her, and that he would be a dangerous
man to cross. I wondered for how long his affections had been
directed to that quarter--whether possibly it was before his brother
departed for China----”

“I think it was,” Edna said. “I wondered once or twice--but I wasn’t
paying much attention. And Godfrey never said a word. But do you
mean--did you think he would have killed John?”

“No. I only thought that possibly he might have had something to do
with his sudden flight, which appeared to have taken every one by
surprise. And I also thought it odd that in all this hive of gossip
nobody seemed to have coupled his name with Mrs. Meston’s. This
seemed to suggest he was keeping his feelings very dark, which, with
a man of his type, is apt to lead to an explosion. That was all.

“Then came Machin’s story, Mrs. Meston’s flight, and all the other
evidence against John Loring. Mrs. Meston, of course, had clearly
run away either to avoid questioning or to warn her lover--both, as
it turned out; and it looked as though things were going to arrange
themselves very blackly for him. You will remember that it was on the
same day that we discovered--or thought we discovered,” he smiled at
Edna, “that Hanborough had an alibi for the critical period.

“Well, it began to work out very neatly, for a time. But somehow I
didn’t quite trust it. The crime, you see, was so premeditated that
it was rather difficult to fit John Loring, from what people said
of him, into the part, even with Kershaw to help him. I couldn’t
convince myself; and, when I actually saw the young man, I was less
convinced than ever. I saw, not the callous, clever young desperado
who would have been necessary, but a hot-headed, indiscreet youth who
was obviously in despair of the world, but who was yet determined
to keep silence on some vital point. I deduced a final quarrel with
his young woman and a determination to keep her name out of it; and
eventually Sylvia Meston kindly told me I was right. But it didn’t
add up to a murderer.

“Then I began to notice one or two other things. I noticed, first,
that Godfrey Loring had been very anxious to inform the police
of his brother’s whereabouts; then--from his correspondence with
Kershaw--that he had some close and unpleasant connection with the
latter. When Mrs. Meston turned up again, she further informed me
that Godfrey was very anxious to ‘protect’ her, and--which was more
important--that he had deliberately advised her to leave the place,
to write a very stupid, incriminating letter to Brandreth, and sent
her very carefully to an address where he knew John Loring could not
possibly be. Of course, at this stage I’d nothing like proof against
him, and really very little general grounds of suspicion.

“Then came something more concrete. Lockwood, you know, was in the
habit of discussing the case regularly with the Squire as chairman
of the bench, and one of my great difficulties at that stage was
that I dared not breathe a whisper of my suspicions to the Chief
Constable. In one of these conversations, Lockwood let out that I was
unsatisfied with the evidence against John, chiefly because there
was nothing, at the place where he met Mrs. Meston, to indicate
that it was the scene of the crime. At this point, I fear, we must
say definitely that Godfrey Loring had decided to fix the crime on
his brother--whose return, of course, had made Meston’s murder quite
useless to him. He then hit on the idea of a duplicate rope, which
Potts was instructed to ‘find’ and bring in. We have the name of the
man who sold Potts the rope. Potts, however, who acted throughout
with a loyalty worthy of a better cause, unfortunately chose to
hide the rope in a spot which I happened to have actually searched
myself; so that, as soon as I came to think things over, I realised
that whether or not the rope were the rope we were looking for, its
finding by the alder stump was a plant. This, of course, implicated
Potts, and probably Potts’s master, and I began to ask myself, as I
ought to have done long ago, why, if the murder had been committed up
at the boathouse, nobody had noticed the body on its way down-stream.
At this point, I was able to evolve a fair idea of how the crime
might have been committed, though I could not get anything in the way
of proof until I found it in the loft.”

“And how was it committed?” Michael asked.

“Pretty much as I suggested yesterday. According to Potts, the
plot was laid as soon as it was known that Meston had taken up his
quarters at the Old Malting House. Potts was brought in, by the way,
because he was known to have himself a deep-seated private grievance
against Meston, who had interfered a long time before in one of his
village amours.”

“Meston’s crusades on behalf of public morals seem to have served him
singularly ill,” Michael observed. “Didn’t he win Kershaw’s ill-will
by somewhat the same means?”

“He did. He was one of those unfortunate people, poor fellow, who
gain nothing but unpopularity for themselves. And Potts never
forgot--he has that patient vindictiveness which is so often the
other side of animal loyalty.

“Well, the pulley was purchased and got into place some days
beforehand, and the date of the murder fixed to coincide with that
of the party, when it was hoped that nobody’s absence for an hour or
two would be noticed. Some time between midnight and one o’clock, the
murderers got into the inn, and Potts woke up Meston with the story
that his wife was injured at the Grange and asking for him. Meston
(who must have packed his bag over-night, though where he was going
we shall never know) got up and dressed; and when they thought they’d
given him long enough, they let down that chestnut which puzzled you
so, Michael, and tapped on his window with it. He looked out; they
called him from above; and Loring, who is a good hand with a lasso,
dropped the rope over his head. When he was dead they tied the trunk
to him, and let him down, as they thought, to everlasting oblivion in
the river. But they forgot the pier.”

“And _Godfrey_--_Godfrey_ did all this? And then tried to get John
hanged for it!” Edna whispered.

“I’m afraid,” said Wilson, with deeper sympathy in his tone than in
his words, “that he did. You must remember that one crime is almost
bound to lead to another, by the mere efforts of the criminal to
extricate himself. And I feel, though I don’t know the facts, that
the Squire’s past cannot but have led up directly to his attack on
Meston.”

“Yes, I--I think it did,” Edna said, very low. It was obvious that
she had had few illusions about her brother, though their sudden
final shattering could not but have been a heavy blow. Warden put his
arm round her without speaking, and Michael, to ease the tension,
asked, “But how about Kershaw? How did he come in?”

“He was the witness. That is to say, he was coming from his house
to Billings’s cottage, along the tow-path, when he looked up at
Meston’s lighted window, and saw the owner looking out. Then he saw
the lasso come down, and catch the man and draw him up--in fact, he
saw the whole thing, though, of course, it was too dark to recognise
the actors. He went round to the Old Malting House, intending,
possibly, to give the alarm, and on the way met Warden. No wonder
he was looking shaken when you saw him, Warden, after assisting at
such a show! But when he got to the inn, he saw Potts and the Squire
creeping out by the side-door, and it was pretty obvious they’d been
up to something. So he tackled Loring at once, and Loring, not having
had any idea, of course, that he had been observed, was for once in
his life at a loss. Eventually he offered Kershaw five hundred pounds
to hold his tongue--I can’t tell you at the moment which side that
suggestion came from, and quite possibly we shall never know. He
had Kershaw half under his thumb already, you see, because of that
incident of which John Loring told us.

“The blackmail was duly paid, and Kershaw began to think himself in
clover. He knew how wealthy Godfrey Loring was, and he had visions
of milking him until he had not merely cleared his debts, but made
enough to set him on his feet somewhere else. Then, however, came the
news of the finding of the body by the Old Malting House. Kershaw
was in a panic, knowing perfectly well that Loring, if brought to
trial, would not hesitate a moment to give him away. And when he got
to the river, and found an inquisitive fellow-practitioner fiddling
about with the corpse, he absolutely lost his head, and faked a blow,
trusting to Lockwood’s obtuseness to enable him to carry it through.
Then, on the strength of having made assurance doubly sure, he tried
to get more money out of Loring, who obligingly pointed out that he
had merely put his own head also in the noose. The rest I think you
know.”

“Then my partner had nothing to do with it?” Warden asked.

“Nothing whatever, beyond acting as a red herring.”

“Will they catch him?”

“Personally, I doubt it. Your partner’s a very clever man,
Warden--clever, I mean, not merely ingenious. He all but succeeded in
putting your firm on its feet again, and he must have had plans all
ready laid to disappear in case of necessity. Inspector Bille delayed
his blow just twenty-four hours too long. I’m afraid that’s very hard
on you.”

“Not quite as bad as I expected,” Warden said. “You see, as a matter
of fact, Nick _had_ put some things right before he went. It wasn’t
the funds, but finding out that people were on his trail about the
other thing, that made him levant. He was really going to have
straightened up, I’m sure--and some of it had been straightened
already. And, since it all came out, people have been frightfully
decent--I’m sure I don’t know why. Coxwell, for instance, is giving
me another chance, and so on. You know, I suppose it’s awfully wrong
of me, but I can’t help hoping Nick won’t be caught. I’m afraid I
liked him--there’s something sporting about him, and I should just
hate to have to go and give evidence against him.”

“But surely,” Michael said hastily, to avoid a discussion on the
ethics of this view, “you’ll be a bit put to it for cash, won’t you?”

“Well, as to that,” Warden looked at Edna and blushed very pink, “I
am marrying what they call an heiress, aren’t I, darling? And John,
who’ll--who’ll come into a lot more money--is being frightfully
generous. Of course, I should be quite in the soup if it wasn’t for
them.”

“It’s a mercy the money will be some use to somebody at last,” said
Edna. “It never has been yet. And if it hadn’t been for Mr. Wilson,
it wouldn’t be now. I do think you’re perfectly marvellous, Mr.
Wilson. I can’t imagine how you did it.”

“I very nearly didn’t do it, Miss Loring,” Wilson said. “Another hour
or so, and I should have been too late. And there’s one thing that
riles me still.”

“What’s that?” Michael asked curiously.

“Brandreth! I never got even with that old devil. He had the laugh
right up to the end.”

“Do you think he was mixed up in it?” Warden asked.

“In the murder--no. But he was a fairly close friend of your
Hanborough’s, and I’m pretty certain he knew a lot more than he ever
told about his affairs. I shouldn’t be really surprised, you know,
if he had actually assisted in concealing Hanborough--perhaps on that
occasion when he bolted from you, Michael, to keep a caller out of
his house. But that’s all guesswork. There’s not a thing on him; and
unless Hanborough is caught and explains fully--two very unlikely
contingencies--there isn’t going to be. I’m afraid Brandreth has
given us best.”

“Well,” said Michael, “each to his trade. You’ve got the glory, and
he’s had his joke. What more do you want?”

“Immediately,” said Wilson, stretching himself, “a whisky. Then, I
think, another holiday. But not with you, Michael. Holidays with you
are too much like work.”




                         Transcriber’s Notes


Obvious punctuation errors have been silently corrected after careful
comparison with other occurrences in this work. Some hyphens in words
have been silently removed and some silently added when a predominant
preference was found in the original work. Except for those changes
noted below, original spellings in the text and inconsistent or
archaic usage have been retained.

  Page 14: “tell Doctor Kershaw’s” replaced by “tell Doctor Kershaw”.

  Page 238: “clientele hearabouts” replaced by “clientele hereabouts”.

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.






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