Thenext witness was Miss Kitty Clevedon herself and I confess I awaited her coming with more than ordinary interest. Of one thing I was certain, that she would say exactly what she wanted to say and not a word more, and that no intrusive scruples would confine her too urgently to the truth, unless, indeed, the fact that she was on oath might have any influence with her, which I doubted. I have always found that a woman’s conscience is in that respect far more elastic than a man’s. She took her seat in the witness’s chair and glanced round her with thoughtful calm, nor was her tranquillity in the least abated when she saw me watching her. There was certainly not the faintest suggestion in her manner that my presence disturbed her in the slightest, or, indeed that she had ever so much as seen me before. The coroner took up the hatpin.
“Have you ever seen this before?”
“Many times. It belongs to Lady Clevedon.”
“Have you ever borrowed it?”
“Often.”
“Did you wear it when you visited Mrs. Halfleet on the day—er—the day of Sir Philip Clevedon’s—er—decease?”
“Yes.”
“Will you kindly detail the circumstances of your visit to White Towers?”
“Lady Clevedon asked me to convey a message to Mrs. Halfleet regarding some parish business, the clothing club at the church of which Lady Clevedon is president and Mrs. Halfleet is secretary. On my way I was caught in the rain and my hat was soaked through. Mrs. Halfleet advised me to dry it at the fire in her room and I did so.”
“You say you were caught in the rain—did you walk to White Towers?”
“No, I went in my own motor, a little two-seater which I drive myself.”
“There was no one with you in the car?”
“No one.”
“You used this hatpin to secure your hat?”
“Yes.”
“And of course took it out when you removed—?”
“Of course.”
“What happened to the hatpin when you resumed your hat?”
“I do not recollect.”
“Could you wear that hat without a pin?”
“Oh, yes, I frequently did. Sometimes I use a hatpin and sometimes not. That particular hat fits very close and I pull it well down.”
“Now I want you to be very careful in answering the next few questions as they are exceptionally important. You are sure you had the hatpin when you visited Mrs. Halfleet?”
“No, I am not sure.”
“You said—”
“Yes, but that was because I don’t see how else it could get here. The use of a hatpin is more or less mechanical, you know, and sometimes I wear one and sometimes I don’t. I think I brought it here but I cannot remember either putting it in my hat or taking it out.”
“You would not swear then that you had it?”
“No, nor that I hadn’t. I cannot remember.”
“It is hopeless, then, to ask you where you laid it down?”
“Quite, I am afraid. If I had it with me I should take it out without thinking and lay it down anywhere.”
“Where were you standing when you took your hat off?”
“Before the fire.”
“You might possibly lay the hatpin on the mantelpiece?”
“I should think that a very likely place.”
“But you cannot recollect?”
“No, I cannot remember anything about it.”
“How long did you remain with Mrs. Halfleet?”
“Oh, about half an hour, I should say.”
“Where was the cap during that time?”
“It was in the fender drying.”
“Was it dry when you took it up?”
“Drier than it was, but still damp.”
“When you put it on again, can you remember whether you used the hatpin?”
“No, I cannot remember for certain, but apparently I did not.”
“Can you suggest any reason why you should want a hatpin when you left Hapforth House, but did without one when you were going from White Towers?”
“No, I cannot explain it.”
“When did you again remove the hat?”
“When I reached home.”
“Didn’t the absence of the hatpin strike you then?”
“No, I didn’t think of it. I could not even say for certain that it was absent.”
The coroner sat for a moment or two drawing figures on his blotting-paper, then turned suddenly towards her.
“Did you go out again that night?”
As Miss Kitty Clevedon looked casually round, our glances met and for a brief second her eyes held mine, hardly in questioning, certainly not in fear, but with some subtle suggestion I could not then interpret.
“No,” she said with inimitable composure, “I did not go out again.”
That might have been perfectly true since it was at least possible that she had not gone straight from White Towers to Hapforth House. Though it was hardly possible she could have been absent all the evening without some remark. If, on the other hand, she was lying, and I had good reason for knowing that she possessed all the qualities essential to success in that very difficult art, then her midnight expedition had been secret. It was a tangle that would have to be straightened out later, and so far, I hadn’t either end of the string in my fingers.
“Did you see Sir Philip Clevedon?”
“No, I went to his study, but he was not there and I did not wait.”
That is all the evidence it is necessary for me to detail here, nor need I reproduce the address of the coroner, who carefully examined in his summing-up the possibilities of suicide, and rather discounted them.
The jury retired into the study—the room in which Sir Philip’s dead body had been found—to consider their verdict. It was not quite such a simple matter as one might suppose. My fellow jurymen were deeply impressed with the heavy responsibility thrust upon them, quite unnecessarily so, since a coroner’s verdict does not matter a snap of the finger one way or the other.
“Now, gents all,” said Tim Dallott, our foreman, “the question is—suicide or murder? Why should he want to commit suicide? And if he did, where did he hide the bottle? You, Mester Hapton”—this to a big, heavy man with a vast head, a considerable farmer in the Dale—“what do you say?”
“Well,” said Mr. Hapton slowly, “there’s no knowing.”
“But you’ve got to know one way or the other,” Tim Dallott cried. “You’ll have an opinion.”
“No, I don’t know as I have,” was the deliberate reply.
“Then we’ll say murder, eh?”
“No, I’m not so sure—”
“Well, suicide?”
“Ah, but then, you see—”
“Well, if it wasn’t suicide, it was murder, and if it wasn’t murder it was suicide—”
“Aye, that’s right,” Mr. Hapton cried, brightening up a little.
Fortunately, I was the next to be interrogated, and I snapped out my answer even before our foreman had completed his question. “Murder, undoubtedly,” I said, not because I had really any such certainty, or had made up my mind on the matter, but in order to get the thing settled. My very unrural promptitude gave the cue to the rest, and “murder” went round with affecting unanimity.
“Now, Mester Hapton,” Tim Dallott added, “everybody but you’s said murder—you’ll not stand out.”
“I’m not one to be contrary-like,” Mr. Hapton said. “But murder—it’s an ugly business, that.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter very much,” I interposed. “We’re not going to hang anybody this afternoon.”
“Nor not to mention no names,” our foreman put in. “Persons or person unknown—that’s what it is.”
“Ah, well,” Mr. Hapton said, with a gloomy shake of the head, “if you’re all set on murder, murder let it be, but it’s an ugly word.”
And that was our verdict—“Murder by some person or persons unknown.” But, for my part, like Mr. Hapton, I wasn’t at all sure. And, curiously enough, the hatpin was not so much as mentioned.
It was the day following the inquest that I met Detective Pepster in the village.
“Ah, good morning, Mr. Holt,” Pepster cried, as I joined him. “How is Cartordale using you these times? Have you settled down amongst us?”
“More or less,” I replied. “This place rather improves on acquaintance. I think I would like to see a summer here.”
“Yes, it’s all right in the summer, if the summer is all right,” Pepster rejoined dryly. “But our summer isn’t much to rave over. It doesn’t last long enough.”
“No, that’s true. And how is the mystery getting on?”
“The mystery?” Pepster echoed. “Oh, you mean the murder. It isn’t getting on. I was just coming along to see you.”
“To see me!” I cried.
“Oh, I’m not going to arrest you,” hereturned, with a soft chuckle. “No, not at all. But do you know Kelham, of Scotland Yard? I had a letter from him to-day. ‘Dennis Holt is living in your neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘Ask him who murdered Clevedon.’ Now, what does he mean by that?”
“Kelham—yes, I know Kelham very well,” I replied. “He is a humorist.”
“Well, I wish he’d let me in on the joke, anyway,” Pepster said discontentedly. “Do you know who murdered Sir Philip Clevedon?”
“No,” I said, “not yet. For that matter, I don’t even know that he was murdered. But I shall find out, and then I’ll let you know.”
“Do you belong to the Force?”
“Not at all.”
“Then are you—?”
“Sherlock Holmes disguised,” I said with a laugh. “Why not? Anyway, Kelham is no fool. Why not take his advice and let me come in? Not that you can keep me out, but it’s easier. I am not a detective, not at all, but merely a writer of books. Still, I have discovered a few little things that have been useful to the police and especially to Kelham.”
“Are you quite sure you will know who—?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I am quite sure I shall know eventually. But whether theknowledge will be of any use to you is another matter. I only solve the mystery, but you have to prove the case.”
“Yes,” Pepster said thoughtfully, “and that is a different thing, isn’t it? I may have a good idea who did it, but where is my proof? But as to letting you in, it seems I can’t help myself. I showed Kelham’s letter to the Chief Constable this morning. ‘Dennis Holt?’ he said. ‘Is he at Cartordale? Did he come down especially for this?’ I told him, no, that you’d been living here and that you’d been on the jury. ‘Go and see him,’ he said. ‘Talk it over with him. Tell him everything.’ And there you are.”
“Just so,” I replied. “And I’ll make the same bargain with you I did with Kelham and his crowd. What I discover I will pass on, but I don’t appear in it publicly. Do we work together?”
“Why, yes, certainly,” Pepster said. “Since both Kelham and the Chief insist on it I should be a fool to stand out.”
We strode along in silence for a few minutes.
“Of course,” Pepster remarked, “there are a few matters that haven’t—come out.”
“There always are,” I replied, thinking of Kitty Clevedon’s midnight visit regardingwhich, at present, at all events, I intended to say nothing.
“For example, that valet, John Tulmin,” Pepster went on. “Why should Sir Philip Clevedon have given him a cheque for £500 the day before he was—before he died?”
“That certainly hasn’t come out. Did he? And did Tulmin cash it?”
“Oh, yes, there was no particular secret about it. The counterfoil of the cheque-book seemed quite plain, ‘John Tulmin, £500,’ and the money was paid out to Tulmin by the bank in Midlington at 11.30 on the morning of the day Sir Philip was—died. The bank knew Tulmin well. He had often transacted business for Sir Philip. Now, suppose that cheque was a forgery, or suppose it had been made out for £5 and Tulmin altered it to £500, or suppose the money was really for household expenses, and Tulmin stuck to it and Clevedon discovered it or Tulmin feared discovery, and so—”
“There would be your motive, certainly,” I agreed. “Has Tulmin explained the cheque?”
“Well, not in detail.”
“Has he been asked?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That it was money owing him. ‘What about this cheque?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, the governor owed me that,’ he said. But when I wanted something a bit more definite be dried up.
“Any other cheques of that sort?”
“No, I don’t know. I might inquire.”
“Perhaps it was salary.”
“No, Tulmin’s salary was paid monthly—£20 a month. This is an extra.”
“And he declares it is money owing?”
“Yes.”
“Well, perhaps it was,” I said, as we drew up outside the little post office where I had to make a call. “Anyway, I don’t think I would arrest Tulmin just yet. Tell the Chief you have that from me.”
But what I wanted to know more than anything just then was why John Tulmin was blackmailing Sir Philip Clevedon.
“Oh, Mr. Holt,” cried the young lady behind the counter of the little general shop that was also the village post office. “I have just taken a telegram for you. You can have it now if you like. It’s against the regulations, but that doesn’t matter.”
I took the yellow slip and perused the message which was from a publishing firm with whom I was negotiating, offering me a price for a manuscript I had submitted to them.
“It is a lot of money,” the girl said, with a touch of envy. “It would take me years and years to earn that at this job.”
“You’ll not be here years and years,” I replied smilingly. “Some lucky man will snap you up long before that.”
“Well, there’s no queue so far,” the girl returned dryly.
“Perhaps when Mr. Holt has quite finished, other customers may have a turn,” said a mockingvoice at my elbow, and wheeling round with a quick movement that dislodged a pile of picture post cards and albums and brought them clattering to the floor, I saw Kitty Clevedon’s face flushed with pretty colour.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I was just reading a telegram.”
“I have been down to Stone Hollow,” Kitty Clevedon went on. “In fact, I have been looking for you. I have a message for you from Lady Clevedon. She would like you to come and see her.”
“Yes? When?”
“Well, could you come now? I have my car here.”
I nodded assent, and followed her out of the shop to the smart little two-seater, which she managed with a skill that betokened plentiful practice. As we drove off I saw Pepster walking slowly through the village.
“I don’t know that man,” Kitty said, as Pepster saluted, “but I have seen him about quite a lot lately. And he was at the—the inquest. I suppose he belongs to the police.”
“Yes, a detective. He is very interested in me.”
“I dare say you are a very interesting person,” Kitty rejoined equably.
“You see,” I went on, “I am under suspicion.”
She turned to have another look at Pepster, and the car swerved suddenly to the left.
“Steady on!” I cried. “You’ll have us into the wall.”
“But—I do not understand. Why should they—?”
“Oh, the story is very simple. The police knew I was out late on that particular night. Sergeant Gamley saw me. They questioned me, of course, and after all, it was a trifle—er—suspicious-looking, wasn’t it? Here was I, a new-comer and a stranger, wandering about the Dale at midnight—”
I paused and glanced at her to note the effect of my words; and was interested to see that she had grown perceptibly paler.
“But they—surely they didn’t suspect you?” she said, in tones that were very little above a whisper.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I returned cheerfully, “why shouldn’t they suspect me? They know nothing about me, and certainly nothing that would count particularly in my favour. At all events, they questioned me. Had I seen anyone that night? And I lied to them. I had seen nobody at all. There are occasions,you know, when mendacity may be condoned.”
Kitty gazed at me with wide-open eyes for fully a minute, then pulled herself together with an effort and laughed with a quite passable imitation of merriment.
“And had you seen anyone?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied, smiling into her face. “I had seen a very beautiful and clever woman and an extremely capable actress whose ideas regarding truth are apparently nearly as flexible as my own.”
She flushed a little, but remained apparently undisturbed by either the compliment or the sarcasm.
“And which had committed the crime?” she asked. “Was it the beautiful and clever woman—you said beautiful and clever, didn’t you?—or the capable actress? But still, I don’t understand. I thought you were a great detective—a sort of Sherlock Holmes in real life.”
I threw myself back on the cushioned seat with a quick laugh.
“Where did you get that fairy story from?” I demanded.
“But—it’s true, isn’t it?”
“No,” I said, “I am not a detective, certainlynot. And I am not a great anything, unless it be a great liar. I have had a little practice at that just lately.”
“But that is why auntie has sent for you,” she added, with a puzzled frown.
“Because I am a great liar?” I asked.
“No,” she replied, quite seriously. “Because you—because she thinks that you—somebody told her you were a great detective.”
“Oh, yes, and why does she need the services of a—er—a detective?” I demanded.
“She wants you to find out who murdered Sir Philip Clevedon.”
“I see. And doyouwant me to discover that?”
“Of course, but I don’t think you can.”
“If you thought I could, you wouldn’t want me to try—is that it?”
“No—oh, I don’t know what you mean.”
She gave all her attention to the car after that, while I, having nothing particular to say, lapsed into silence.
We found Lady Clevedon seated in the small parlour, a square, cheerful room, furnished evidently for comfort with couches and big arm-chairs. The old lady bade me sit down and then plunged with characteristic abruptness into the subject of the interview.
“What is your fee?” she demanded.
“My fee?” I echoed. “But I have no fee. I am neither a doctor nor a solicitor.”
“Nor a parson—you may as well complete the usual trio,” the old lady said dryly. “But you are a policeman.”
The word was so unexpected that I could not forbear a soft laugh in which, after a momentary hesitation, Miss Kitty Clevedon joined me. I expected her to label me detective; that she should call me policeman had all the elements of novelty that go to make up unconscious humour.
“But policemen are not allowed to take fees,” I replied. “They have their salaries—or is it wages?”
“Do you get a salary?” Lady Clevedon demanded.
“No, but then you see I am not a policeman; I am merely a writer of books.”
“But the Chief Constable of Peakborough—he is a cousin of mine, distant, but still a cousin, and a fool at that, or he would have found out before this who killed Sir Philip—told me you were a celebrated detective and that if I could get your help—now, who did murder Sir Philip Clevedon?”
“Did you?” I asked, rudely enough I admitthough the question was well in accord with her own conversational style. Nor did she take it amiss.
“I? No,” she said. “Why should I murder him?”
“Then if you are quite sure of that,” I returned, “you have all the world to go at. I may have done it, or Miss Clevedon may have done it, or Tulmin may—”
“May, may, may—you tire me to death with your may’s. I don’t want to know who may have done it, but who did. I suppose it is a case of the needle in the haystack.”
“Even the needle in the haystack could be found, given the necessary time and labour,” I observed.
“I wish you would talk sense,” the old lady rejoined tartly. “I have had that fat man Peppermint, Peppercorn—”
“Pepster,” I suggested.
“Yes—I have had him here and pumped him hard. But he knows nothing, merely talks in a squeaky voice and gets nowhere. Now, how would you start discovering who—?”
I found the old lady interesting and decided to humour her, not because I intended to be of any use to her, but because it was just possible she might be useful to me.
“Well,” I replied slowly, “there are several starting points. For example, who benefits most by his death?”
“Eh!”
I happened to glance just then at Miss Kitty Clevedon and noticed that her face had gone an almost chalky whiteness that extended even to her lips and that she was gripping the arm of her chair with a strong, nervous tension.
“For instance,” I went on slowly, keeping my voice low and tranquil as if it were really a matter of small importance, “who is Sir Philip’s heir?”
But I still kept my eyes on Kitty Clevedon and noted that her grip on the chair tightened.
“Well, he didn’t do it, anyway,” Lady Clevedon retorted.
“No, I don’t suppose he did,” I returned, carefully refraining from raising my voice. “I merely said that he would be my starting point. Then, doubtless, he would prove an alibi and I should eliminate him.”
“Billy might have hit him over the head with a stick,” Lady Clevedon went on, “but he wouldn’t poison a man nor would he dig a hatpin into him.”
“Oh, you never know,” I replied cheerfully. “Who is Billy?”
“Sir William Clevedon—the new baronet—Kitty’s brother,” the old lady explained. “But he never poisoned Philip. They weren’t friends, certainly, but then, Philip had no friends. And they had quarrelled; though for that matter Philip had quarrelled with Ronald Thoyne, as you heard at the inquest. Philip was that way. He quarrelled with most people. But Billy didn’t do it. He is with his regiment in Ireland, trying to keep the Sinn Feiners quiet.”
“Then there is his alibi which rules him out,” I said.
But I made up my mind to learn more regarding Billy Clevedon. His sister’s agitation had been too pronounced to be disregarded; and it was the more impressive in that I knew her for a very clever actress with a singular capacity for holding her own and keeping a straight face.
What was it, I wondered, that had so completely upset her and smashed down all her defences. It did not take me long to decide that. She had been told that I was “a great detective” who would infallibly discover the murderer and practically my first observation had been a direct hint that her brother might be the man. A suggestion so libellous should have caused her to flame out in resentment and denial instead of which she had had to exert all herstrength and will-power to keep herself from fainting. There was more in all this than one could sum up in a moment or two and I made up my mind then and there that Billy would become an object of great interest to me.
It was not difficult to learn all I wanted. The fact that most people referred to him as Billy Clevedon and that no one called him Sir William may indicate something of his general personality, though that would be to do him some injustice since the diminutive was partly born of affection and was partly a survival from bygone years. There were those who declared that his sister had been mainly responsible for the reputation Billy had enjoyed for juvenile mischief. I could well believe that, knowing her in maturer years. She would lead him on and he, being a little gentleman, would bear the blame.
But that after all is only the female way. Man was intended by Nature to carry every burden save one and that the heaviest of the lot. From my housekeeper to whom I first applied I learnt little. She had heard stories but had never known Billy Clevedon personally. I applied to both Dr. Crawford and the Vicar, but with hardly more success. They, too, had the usual legends off by heart, but Billy hadnever been ill and had no reputation for piety and seemed to have kept out of the way of both doctor and parson. Tim Dallott could tell me a little more but it consisted chiefly of reminiscences of Sunday rat-hunts and fishing. Among them all, however, I built up a picture of a freckled, yellow-haired lad, full of high spirits and mischief, but honest and never afraid to face punishment for what he had done. And somewhere, not far away, hovered incessantly the figure of his sister, as irrepressible as himself but far more adroit.
But all that was years ago when they came as orphans to live at White Towers, when Lady Clevedon’s husband was alive and before the late Sir Philip had succeeded to the title. In due time they both went away to school and Cartordale knew them only in the holidays. They were but shadows of their former selves as far as their general activities went, or possibly were more careful and clever at evading the results.
Eventually Billy Clevedon went into the army, but as a career, not merely as a war measure, and won some distinctions in France. But he justified his old-time reputation in that he remained apparently a somewhat incalculable quantity always doing the unexpected. Hissister, having finished her education with more or less credit, accompanied her aunt to Hapforth House and settled there, though during the war she engaged in various occupations and learnt to drive a motor, milk cows, and use a typewriter.
The“Waggon and Horses” in Cartordale was one of the best known inns in the district, with a history behind it that went far beyond the printed word into the mists and myths of legend and tradition. I believe, in fact, that it possessed its own duly authenticated ghost, that of a sailor on tramp towards the coast, who had been murdered for his gold by a rascally landlord and his wife. This was well over two centuries ago and it was a long time now since the sailor’s restless spirit had been seen. But the records of its appearances were definite and were at all events implicitly believed in by the Dale folk.
The inn was a favourite visiting place of holiday-makers from Midlington and on a fine Saturday afternoon or Sunday in the summer one might see sixty or seventy vehicles lined up in the wide open space before the entrance, while their passengers refreshed themselves within.
Tim Dallott, the landlord, was well knownthroughout the Dale and was highly esteemed. The new-fangled notion that an innkeeper is a sort of semi-criminal had no countenance in Cartordale, where they liked their ale and took it strong—as strong, that is, as a grandmotherly Control Board would allow them to have it.
And, whatever else Tim Dallott was, he was a judge of ale and would have only the best. Being an observer of my fellow-man, I had early made Tim’s acquaintance and had spent more than one interesting hour with him and his customers.
Tim, himself, was a masterful man, rather given to laying down the law, though with an occasional touch of humour that leavened his bluntness; and he had a curious habit of screwing the forefinger of his right hand into the open palm of his left when he was saying anything particularly emphatic. His build was inclined to stoutness and he was very bald for all he was still some years off sixty. His wife had died just before the war and he had neither son nor daughter. It was he, the reader will recollect, who had been foreman of the jury at the Clevedon inquest.
“Well,” he said, as I entered the ‘snug,’ “and what do you think of it all? I haven’t seen you since the inquest, Mr. Holt.”
“Give me a glass of beer,” I replied. “It puzzles me.”
“What I’d like to know,” chimed in old Tompkinson, who was verger at the parish church and gardener at the vicarage, “is why old Crimin”—have I explained that Crimin was the coroner?—“worried about that whisky bottle.”
“Aye, you may say that,” Tim agreed, nodding his head with an air of vague mystery.
“It seemed main foolish to me,” Tompkinson went on, “and I couldn’t get a grip of it nohow. Nobbut Crimin is a good crowner, I’m saying nowt agin him, an’ I dessay he’d summat oop his sleeve an’ all, but I’m fair bothered as to what it could be.”
“It’s bothering better men than you, Joe Tompkinson,” Tim Dallott said dryly.
“But ain’t you got no idea, Mr. Dallott?” Joe asked.
“Perhaps I have and perhaps I haven’t,” was the cautious reply. “Now what would you say about it, Mr. Holt?”
A little, shrivelled old man, who had been seated in a corner by the fire, sipping occasionally at a glass of hot rum, interposed suddenly.
“Who was the gal they quarrelled over?” he demanded in a shrill, piping treble. “I know who it was.”
“Then if I were you I’d keep it to myself, Jonathan Crossty,” Tim said. “No names—think what you like but don’t say it out loud—that’s safest.”
Jonathan nodded as if in agreement and returned once more to his hot rum.
“Now, that whisky bottle,” Joe Tompkinson resumed, “how could any man tell it was the same. ‘Taint in sense, is it? Then why worry?”
A youth came briskly in and asked for a glass of stout. He caught Joe’s last remark.
“Aye,” he said, “but there’s more than one theory will fit that.”
“You newspaper gentlemen are wonderful fond of theories,” Tim Dallott responded. “Your papers would be none the worse if you were a bit fonder of facts.”
The youth laughed good-humouredly and took a long drink at his stout.
“Well,” he said, as he set his glass down again, “suppose that X—we’ll not mention names, the libel laws being what they are—wanted to poison Z. ‘Bring me a whisky and soda,’ says Z. And X, as he brings the bottle, drops a dose of prussic acid in it. Good!”
“I see nowt good in that,” Joe Tompkinson interrupted.
“You should skin your eyes, then,” Tim Dallott retorted brusquely.
“Well, it’s good enough, anyway,” the pressman went on. “So Z drinks his whisky and falls down dead. Then X creeps in, takes away the doped bottle, and smashes it, and puts another of the same brand in its place. Could anyone tell that the bottle had been changed?”
“Meaning by Z, Sir Philip Clevedon,” Joe interposed, “and by X—”
“Didn’t I tell you to mention no names,” Tim interrupted angrily. “If you’re intent on dragging folk in by name go and do it outside and not in this snug.”
“No offence meant,” Joe replied meekly.
“Well—no names, and stick to that,” Tim retorted.
“But there’s another way,” the pressman went on oracularly, obviously in love with the sound of his own voice and delighted with the impression he was making. “Let’s suppose that X gives Z a drink of whisky at dinner and then puts the bottle on the sideboard. Presently Y creeps in and drops the dope into the whisky and then, when Z has pegged out, comes back and changes the bottles—how about that? Y would be somebody who had a grudge against Z—perhaps he had had a quarrel with him. Butthe point is here—nobody can swear it was the same bottle, that stands to reason.”
“You’ll not print either of these theories in your paper, I’ll bet a dollar,” Tim Dallott said.
“Perhaps, and perhaps not,” the youth returned vaguely. “That’s the editor’s job, not mine.”
“I know the gal they quarrelled over,” Jonathan Crossty chimed in suddenly.
“Who quarrelled over?” demanded the youth, wheeling round. “Oh, you mean—”
“I mean I won’t have any names in this snug,” Tim interrupted angrily. “Don’t I keep saying it? What a lot of cross-grained, gossiping old hags it is. X’s and Z’s are all right, but not names.”
“But that came out in evidence—that they’d quarrelled,” the reporter said.
“The girl’s name didn’t, and it might be anybody.”
“But I know who it is,” Jonathan persisted.
I finished my drink and nodding a good night all round took myself off, but not very far because I waited in the shadows until old Jonathan Crossty came hobbling out. I met him in the doorway.
“Hallo!” I cried. “Not home yet, Mr. Crossty?”
I swung round and we went down the road together. He lived in a little cottage nearly opposite Stone Hollow, and it was thus quite natural that we should be going the same way.
“And so you know the lady they quarrelled over,” I remarked, after a few preliminary observations.
“Yes,” he replied, “but I’m not telling. My grand-darter’s ’tween maid at Hapforth and she knows all about it. They quarrelled over her right enough.”
“Over your grand-daughter?” I queried.
“Over Lucy!” he said scornfully. “Don’t be a big fule, mister. Why should they quarrel over Lucy? She’s a good girl and she’s only sixteen. Don’t you go for to mix her up in this business.”
“No,” I said, “I’m sorry. Lucy, who’s as good as she’s pretty and—”
“Nay, she’s nowt to look at,” the old man said, with a chuckle.
“And so Lucy told you that both Sir Philip and Mr. Thoyne were in love with Miss Kitty—”
“She never said nowt o’ th’ sooart,” the old man retorted. “It’s none of her business, is it?”
“Not at all,” I agreed.
I changed the subject after that and we discoursed on various matters of no great interest to either of us until we parted at the gate of Stone Hollow.
Later, when I had dined comfortably and well, and was seated in my study smoking a cigar, Mrs. Helter, my housekeeper entered with the information that Mr. Thoyne had called and wished to see me.
“He says he will not keep you long,” Mrs. Helter explained, “and his business is not immediately pressing if you are otherwise engaged. But, if not, he says it would be convenient if you could see him now.”
“Mr. Thoyne,” I echoed. “H’m, that’s rather funny. But show him in, anyway.”
Ronald Thoyne entered the room a moment or two later, a large, rather lumbering figure in appearance but moving with a curiously alert lightness. His bulk signified strength, not fat. I rose and greeted him, then returned to my own chair.
“You will wonder why I have come,” Thoyne began, as he took the seat indicated and selected a cigarette from the box I offered him. Apparently, he wanted to maintain at least an appearance of friendship. “No, thanks, I’ll have nothing to drink,” he added, as I motionedtowards the whisky on the table. “But, now, as to the reason for coming, well, in the first place, I have wanted to make your acquaintance. The fact that you are a near neighbour renders you—shall I say?—an object of interest. No, do not smile. If that had been all I should have waited. There is something else, but we shall come to that presently.”
I nodded, but offered no comment on these obviously preliminary observations. I was quite well aware that this was no mere friendly call—that Thoyne had some very definite purpose in his mind—and I was quite content to wait until it should suit him to disclose it. Thoyne, probably, had expected some sort of a reply, something that would, so to speak, open a conversation and for a moment or two he paused. But he did not allow my calculated silence to disconcert him.
“I dare say,” Thoyne began again, “that my manner may seem a little abrupt to you, Mr. Holt, but I always go straight to the point. Perhaps it would have been more tactful if I’d talked a bit first—yes. I have noticed that the people of these old countries like to go round and round the mulberry bush before they come to the point, but that is not our way—no, sir. I had a lesson on that from old SilasPegler when I was a very young man. He was president of the Trans-Central and scores of other big things and he pulled all sorts of wires. I had to see him once about a deal and I began: ‘Good morning, Mr. Pegler, a fine morning, isn’t it?’ But he only wrinkled his ugly old face and glared at me. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘I am here to talk dollars, not weather.’ And since then I have cultivated the habit of straight talk. It pays in New York but not so well in this country. A lot of people write me down as bad form and a man over here who is once labelled bad form had far better be dead and buried.”
I lay back in my chair and regarded my visitor smilingly. Certainly for a person who cultivated a habit of straight talk, he was singularly discursive.
“Are you intending to remain in Cartordale?” Thoyne asked, seeing that I remained silent.
“I shall be here for a little while yet, though I cannot say that I have made any definite plans,” I replied.
“But I mean as a permanent resident. You see, somebody, I think it was Dr. Crawford told me—hinted that you—. Now, if you wanted to sell this house, I’d like to buy it.”
The suggestion was so surprising that for a moment I had nothing to say, but I recovered quickly, knowing that if there was an explanation it would appear in due course.
“What are you prepared to offer for it?” I demanded cautiously. “Since, apparently, you want the house, you should be prepared to bid high for it. That makes a difference, doesn’t it? The seller who wants to sell would take less than—”
“Well, it’s like this,” Thoyne said persuasively. “I shouldn’t have thought of it but for Dr. Crawford. He gave me the idea. ‘I wish he were staying amongst us,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid, he’ll not be here long! A very charming young—’ yes, those were his words.”
“Almost photographic in their accuracy,” I said dryly.
“‘But he wants a customer for his house—hankers after the fleshpots of London,’ said the doctor. And I thought that perhaps—”
“I believe I did make some such remark—casually,” I said. “But Dr. Crawford took it too seriously. This place improves on acquaintance. No, on the whole, I don’t think I want to sell.”
“But—”
“Oh, let us forget Dr. Crawford. I do notwant to sell, therefore I must be tempted. It is your turn now—to tempt me.”
“I would give you—four thousand pounds.”
“The place isn’t worth that.”
“No, but I’m willing to give it.”
“Very good—it is yours. There is a charming little cottage just by the church that I could get for six hundred. It would suit me exactly.”
Thoyne frowned heavily and spoke as if choosing his words with some care.
“I should attach to my offer a condition—that you leave Cartordale—and do not return. For that I would make it five thousand.”
“Ah, now we really are getting to the straight talk,” I said smilingly. “Suppose we make it absolutely straight. You want to get me out of Cartordale—why?”
Thoyne sat silent for the space of fully two minutes.
“Straight talk doesn’t seem so easy as you thought—is that it?” I asked. “But you owe me some explanation surely.”
“The talk is straight enough,” Thoyne responded half sullenly. “I want to get you out of Cartordale—yes, that is true, and I have told you so frankly enough. What do my reasons matter? I am willing to pay.”
“Yes, it’s plain enough,” I returned. “Iwill be equally straight. I decline to go. Did Miss Kitty Clevedon send you here?”
“What has she to do with it—or you with her?” he demanded angrily.
But I saw easily enough that my chance shot had hit the mark. And I sat eyeing him thoughtfully for a moment or two wondering how far it would be safe to go.
“I suppose,” I said, speaking calmly, even casually, as if it were a matter of no great moment, “it was over Miss Kitty Clevedon that you quarrelled with the late baronet.”
“You have no right—” he began explosively but I pulled him up.
“Oh, yes I have,” I replied, “you see I am retained, in a semi-professional capacity—”
“Yes, I know,” he cried. “That damned old fool—”
“Meaning whom?” I interrupted.
“Oh, I beg her pardon,” he said. “Yes, I meant Lady Clevedon. Why did she want to drag you into it? You have a reputation, haven’t you, for solving such puzzles as—”
“Some little,” I agreed. “I shall solve this.”
“Yes,” he said, “and I don’t want it solved. At least, I want to see it buried and forgotten. The thing’s a damned nightmare. There, nowit’s out. We want you to drop the case—to go away and leave it alone.”
“We?” I echoed. “Does Miss Clevedon know of this visit?”
“No, but she knows I am to try and persuade you to drop the case. She asked me—”
“It is for her sake you want me to leave it alone,” I commented. “It is not for yours.”
“Mine—no—it doesn’t concern me,” he replied, “except as everything that interests her, concerns me.”
“But—doesn’t concern you?” I asked. “Yet you were the last person known to have quarrelled with—”
“If you mean to accuse me of the murder—”
“I don’t,” I interrupted promptly, “but look at the sequence. You quarrel with Sir Philip Clevedon and a few hours later he is dead. Then a celebrated detective—that I am neither a detective nor celebrated is only a detail—is put on the case and you try to buy him off, to bribe him in fact.”
“It is a complete case,” he admitted, with a quick grin.
“Yes,” I agreed, “the sort of completeness that is too good to be true.”
“Not at all,” he added, as the grin widened.“I can already feel the rope round my neck.”
He ran his finger along the inside of his collar with a very expressive gesture.
“On the other hand,” I went on, still speaking with off-hand tranquillity, “though you did not murder Sir Philip Clevedon you think you know who did.”
He drew himself slowly up from the chair and stood over me with a face that had gone curiously grey.
“I have in point of fact already begun my inquiries,” I went on, rising in my turn and looking him straight in the eyes. “Why hasn’t Sir William Clevedon come to Cartordale to take up his title and estate? He left his quarters in Ireland on the 19th, three or four days before Sir Philip Clevedon died. He is still absent from duty. You can learn a lot by well-placed telegrams in a very short time. Where is he now? Where was he on February 23rd?”
I knew now what Thoyne and Kitty Clevedon feared. He stood glaring at me for a moment or two, then buttoned his coat with fingers that trembled.
“I’ll go now,” he said. “I don’t know that I have done anybody much good by cominghere but it seemed the quickest and straightest way.”
He did not offer his hand nor did he say another word, but opened the door himself without waiting for my help and disappeared.
Thenext move in this very curious game was made by Pepster who called on me a few days after my interview with Ronald Thoyne.
“I have a warrant for Tulmin’s arrest,” he announced.
“Yes,” I said, “I am not surprised. I could see you were edging that way.”
“It’s the right way. Tulmin has disappeared.”
“Has he? That is interesting at least.”
“Yes, he went from White Towers to Lennsdale—that is Mr. Thoyne’s house, you know. Thoyne engaged him the day after the inquest and he went at once. And now he has gone altogether.”
“Engaged him as what?”
“Same as Clevedon—valet, and so on.”
“How do you know?”
“I put someone on to watch him of course. I wasn’t going to let him slip away. But hehas managed it, at least so my man reports and he must be a damned fool, as I told him. He hasn’t been seen for two days.”
“Your man hasn’t?”
“No, I mean Tulmin.”
“Thoyne should know where he is.”
“He says he doesn’t but I haven’t seen him myself. I am going up to Lennsdale now to question him. Would you care to come?”
At first I thought not, and then I altered my mind. After all, Thoyne really was right in the thick of it.
When we reached Thoyne’s house Pepster took the lead and rang lustily at the bell, which was one of the old-fashioned type with a long, hanging handle of cast-iron. He had to ring three times before he obtained any response and then the door was slowly opened to disclose a very old, white-headed man standing blinking at us with watery eyes. To Pepster’s question as to whether Mr. Thoyne was at home he only shook his head, but whether in negative reply or merely in stupidity we could not quite make out. The old man’s face at all events was devoid of expression.
“Do you mean he is not at home?” I demanded sharply.
“We will see for ourselves,” Pepster said,pushing past the old man into the hall. “Now, then, who else is in the house, and be careful what you say or we may be taking you with us.”
Pepster was very angry that Tulmin had slipped through his fingers and apparently regarded the old man as an ally of the enemy.
“Taking me with you!” the old fellow cried, in the quavering accents of age. “Taking me where?”
“To prison, old chap,” Pepster replied cheerfully. “People who won’t answer questions often find themselves in gaol.”
It was pure bluff and Pepster’s superiors would probably have had something rather drastic to say had they overheard it. But the detective knew pretty well how far to go, and with whom it was safe to go even that distance.
“But, dear sir, I have done nothing wrong,” the old man said, manifesting a sudden fluency which caused Pepster to turn on him with a sharp glance. “I am a very old man, gentlemen, seventy-seven, and I have never been in any trouble of that sort, never, gentlemen.”
“You are making for it now,” Pepster rejoined dryly.
“But, gentlemen, I—”
“Look here,” Pepster said, “we asked you a question—where’s Thoyne? If you mean toanswer that, get going, and quick. If you don’t mean to answer it, don’t talk at all.”
“But, sir, I—”
“Where’s Mr. Thoyne?”
“But, gentlemen, if you would—”
“Where’s Mr. Thoyne?”
“He—I don’t know.”
“Is he in the house?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I don’t know who Mr. Thoyne is, I—I never heard of him.”
“You are in his house.”
“Yes”
“Where are the other people—the servants—the housekeeper—?”
“There is nobody here but me, gentlemen, truly there is nobody here. I am alone in the house, me, Silas Ballaker, seventy-seven—”
“How long have you been in this house?”
“Not long—I came to-day—”
“Came to-day—what do you mean, you came to-day?”
“Sir, I am Silas Ballaker and—”
“Yes, you said that before, and you are seventy-seven years of age. Neither statement interests us. We want Mr. Thoyne.”
“Hallo! hallo!” cried suddenly a new voice.“Silas, who are these gentlemen? Ha! Mr. Pepster, I did not recognise you. Have you come to take my house?”
“No, Mr. Bannister,” Pepster replied slowly. “I haven’t come to take any house.”
He paused, a little irresolute, knowing that Mr. Bannister was a different proposition from old Silas Ballaker and that he would have to be a little more careful.
“May I ask what you are doing here?” Pepster went on.
“Now is that a kindly personal inquiry from a friend or is it asked in an official capacity?”
Mr. Bannister was a little fat man, with two small, keen eyes peering out of a sallow, bearded face.
“Oh, purely personal,” Pepster replied, a little impatiently. “We came to see Mr. Thoyne. I was merely surprised to see you where we expected—someone else.”
“Oh, Thoyne, yes, he was my tenant. But he has gone. Gave me notice some days ago, paid me up and cleared out. A good tenant, very good. I was sorry to lose him—yes. He said he was going back to America and he left this morning. I sent old Silas here as caretaker. Good old chap, Silas, but—”
He tapped his head significantly with theforefinger of his right hand. The old man did not see the movement but he caught the words.
“They have come to take me to prison,” he said mournfully.
“To prison!” cried Mr. Bannister. “Nonsense! What for? What have you been doing, old Silas?”
“I haven’t been doing nothing,” Silas quavered. “But this stout gentleman seemed mortally offended and—”
“Oh, we’ll see, we’ll see,” Mr. Bannister said. “Now, Mr. Pepster, what does all this mean?”
“We want to see Mr. Thoyne and—”
“He isn’t here.”
“Well, we should like to look through the house—”
“Yes, yes, and no doubt you have a search warrant?”
“I have no search warrant,” Pepster said patiently. “I am asking your permission.”
“No, no, let’s do everything in order. No warrant, no search. An Englishman’s house, et cetera, you know. Can’t be done, Mr. Pepster, can’t be done. Think what would happen if the papers got hold of it. High-handed action by a Peakborough detective—eh?”
“The papers will not get hold of it if you don’t tell them,” Pepster said quietly.
“Oh, one never knows. How do these fellows get hold of things? It’s wonderful, but, you know, it’s their job. And your Chief is just a bit nervous, isn’t he?”
“I could get a warrant in an hour,” Pepster said.
“Well, why not? The house won’t disappear in an hour. It will still be here and so will old Silas. But if it’s Thoyne you want, a warrant’ll not help you. He isn’t here.”
“His furniture is,” I interposed.
“No,” Mr. Bannister replied, with an oily smile, “you are wrong there also. The furniture’s mine. I let it furnished.”
“Did you see Mr. Thoyne go?” I asked.
“Yes, I was here. He handed me the key.”
“Had he a man named Tulmin with him?”
“He had a servant, a little man, but I don’t know what his name was.”
“They have gone away together,” Pepster said, turning to me. “Come along, there’s nothing more to do here!”
“If you want to go through the house—” Mr. Bannister began.
“We don’t,” Pepster rejoined promptly. “We’ll take your refusal and if anything occurs we’ll call you as a witness.”
“But—”
“Is Thoyne in the house?”
“He isn’t.”
“Then good day to you.”
We turned away and though Mr. Bannister did not quite seem to like it, he made no effort to detain us.
“Yes, they’ve gone away together,” Pepster repeated, as we strolled towards Stone Hollow. “Why has Thoyne taken Tulmin out of the way?”
“It may be only a coincidence,” I observed.
“It would be a curious coincidence,” Pepster remarked. “Not that I rule coincidences out myself. They happen. I have run up against some very queer instances in my time. I once had a case in which a man prepared a dose of poison for another man. The latter died of poison and the other gave himself up to justice. A clear case—but when the post-mortem took place it was found that the victim had died of quite another sort of poison altogether. He had, in fact, committed suicide and had never taken the dose prepared for him by the would-be murderer!”
“But if this isn’t a coincidence, then there must be an explanation,” I said. “How would this do? Ronald Thoyne quarrels with Sir Philip Clevedon over Miss—over a woman.Then Thoyne pays Tulmin to assassinate Sir Philip. That is why Thoyne took the man into his service so promptly. But they find the chase getting too hot for them and so they clear out. What?”
“Is that the story?” Pepster demanded, evidently impressed.
“No,” I replied, “I am quite sure it isn’t. But it would fit the facts up to date, wouldn’t it?”
“I shall go after Tulmin, anyway,” Pepster rejoined.
I nodded smilingly, but did not further discuss the matter though I divined Thoyne’s move. He had taken Tulmin away in order to divert suspicion from young Clevedon. How far Thoyne had taken Tulmin into his confidence I did not know. Perhaps he had bluffed him as he had tried to bluff me. And at all events he would have paid him well. Whatever faults Thoyne may have possessed any form of parsimony was certainly not one of them.