Chapter VIII.Introducing a Goat-faced ClergymanRoger had no definite plan in his mind as he walked with quick strides along the cliff-top in the direction of Ludmouth. His impulsive flight from the other two had been dictated by two instinctive feelings—that he wanted to be alone to ponder over the significance of this fresh information, and that Anthony and Margaret would probably be not at all averse to a little dose of each other’s undiluted company. His first idea, equally instinctive, had been to make a bee-line for the Russells’ house and pour out a torrent of eager questions into the lady’s astonished ears. Second thoughts warned him against any such precipitation. He sat down on a convenient little hummock facing the sea, pulled out and re-lit his pipe and began to think.It did not take him many minutes to see that, if this new lane of enquiry were not to prove a blind alley, there were two questions of paramount importance first requiring a satisfactory answer. Of these one was concerned with Mrs. Russell’s shoes: did they fit the second lot of footprints in that patch of mud on the cliff-path, or not? If they did, that did not actually prove anything, but Mrs. Russell remained a suspected person; if they did not, then she must be exonerated at once. The second, and far more important, was this—who had been at the Russells’ house during the time when Mrs. Vane might have been expected to call?Roger was still considering the interesting possibility depending on the answer to this question, when a gentle voice behind him cut abruptly into his reverie.“A charming view from this point, sir, is it not?” observed the gentle voice.Roger turned about. A little elderly clergyman, with silvery hair and a face like a benign but beardless goat, was peering at him benevolently through a large pair of horn spectacles. “Oh, Lord, the local parson!” Roger groaned to himself—not because he disliked parsons, local or otherwise, but because parsons are inclined to talk and Roger, at that particular moment in his existence, surprisingly enough was not. Aloud he said, courteously enough, “It is indeed; particularly charming.”The little old parson continued to beam, the sunlight glittering on his huge spectacles. He did not go nor did he very definitely stay—he hovered.“He’s going to talk,” Roger groaned to himself again. “He wants to talk. He’s aching to talk—I know he is! My pipe to the Coliseum he’s going to talk!”Roger’s deduction was not amiss. It was only too plain that the little old clergyman had every intention of talking. He had, to be accurate, on seeing Roger’s back in the distance, come nearly a quarter-of-a-mile out of his way for the express purpose of talking. He began to talk.“I don’t remember seeing you in our little village. Perhaps you have walked over from Sandsea?”“No,” said Roger patiently. “I’m staying in Ludmouth.”“Ah! At Mrs. Jameson’s, no doubt? I did hear that she was expecting a visitor.”“No, at the Crown.”“Oh! Oh, dear me! Surely I am not talking to Mr. Roger Sheringham, am I?” twittered the little clergyman.“That is my name, sir, yes,” Roger admitted, with a mental side-note upon village gossip, its velocity and the surprising quarters it reaches.“My dear sir!” The little parson’s beam grew brighter than ever. “You must permit me to shake hands with you. No, really you must! This is indeed a gratifying moment. I have read all your books, every one; and I cannot tell you how I enjoyed them. Well, fancy, now!”Roger was never in the least embarrassed by this kind of encounter. He shook hands with his admirer with the greatest heartiness.“It’s very kind of you to say so,” he smiled. “Very kind indeed. I won’t pretend I’m not gratified. Any author who pretends to be indifferent to appreciation of his books is a hypocrite and a liar and an anointed ass.”“Quite so,” agreed the little clergyman in some bewilderment. “Quite so, no doubt. Well, well, well!”“How did you know I was staying at the Crown, sir?”“Oh, these things get about in a little community like ours, Mr. Sheringham; very rapidly indeed, if I may say so. And having read your books, to say nothing of your recent articles in theCourier, including even this morning’s⸺ Ah, a sad business that brings you down here, Mr. Sheringham! Very sad indeed! Dear me, poor lady, poor lady!”Roger’s annoyance at the interruption to his thoughts, already considerably lessened, vanished completely. If this garrulous old man had anything of interest to tell, without doubt he could be induced to tell it. Perhaps the encounter could be turned to good account; in any case it would be no bad thing to bepersona gratawith the vicar. He indicated with the stem of his pipe the hummock on which he had been sitting.“Won’t you sit down, sir?” he asked with a fittingly serious face. “Yes, indeed it is; extraordinarily sad.”The little clergyman seated himself with a nod of gratitude and Roger dropped on to the warm turf by his side.“Do you know, there is a most distressing rumour going about in the village, I understand,” remarked the former deprecatingly, but none the less gossipingly. “Something about foul play. That is nothing new, of course; your article this morning hinted quite plainly at it. But they have got to the stage in the village of importing actual names into their suspicions. Do you know that? Most regrettable;mostregrettable.”“It’s what you’d expect, isn’t it?” said Roger a trifle shortly; he had stayed to pump the other, not to be pumped himself. “What name or names have they imported?”“Really, Mr. Sheringham,” the parson hesitated, “I’m not sure whether I ought⸺”“I’ve only got to walk into the bar at the Crown and ask the nearest loafer, if you don’t wish to tell me,” Roger pointed out with an air of indifference.“That is true. Yes, that is very true, I’m afraid. Yes, I fear you have. Well, perhaps in that case⸺ Well, they are talking about Miss Cross, you know; Mrs. Vane’s cousin. Most regrettable;mostregrettable! Surelyyoudon’t think, Mr. Sheringham, that⸺”“I agree with you,” Roger interrupted brusquely, forestalling the unwelcome question. “Most regrettable! But surely you, as their vicar, could⸺?” He broke off meaningly.The little clergyman looked at him in surprise. “Me?” he said innocently. “Oh, but you are making a mistake.Iam not the vicar here. Oh, dear, no! Meadows, my name is: Samuel Meadows. Wait a moment; I have a card somewhere.” He began to fumble violently in all his pockets. “Oh, dear, no; I am not the vicar. I have retired into private life. A small legacy, you understand. Just a resident here, that is all; and of only a few weeks’ standing. Oh, dear, no; my parish was in Yorkshire. But Ludmouth is so— Ah, here we are!” With an air of mild triumph he produced a card from the pocket which he had first searched, and held it out to Roger. “Perhaps if you were passing one day—? I should be extremely honoured.”“Very kind of you indeed,” said Roger politely, his interest in the little cleric now completely evaporated. He struggled to his feet. “Well, I must be getting along.”“You are going back to Ludmouth?” queried the other with gentle eagerness, rising also. “So am I. We might perhaps walk in together.”“I’m sorry, but I’m going the other way,” returned Roger firmly. “Good morning, Mr. Meadows. See you again soon, I expect.” And he set briskly off in the direction of Sandsea.Behind the first undulation he took cover and watched his late interlocutor make for the road and pass slowly out of sight. Then he came out of hiding and walked rapidly over to the little house which lay half-way between that of Dr. Vane and the village—the house which sheltered the frivolous Mr. Russell and his jealous lady.A perfectly respectable parlour maid answered his ring and looked at him enquiringly.“Is Mrs. Russell in?” Roger asked. “I should like to speak to her for a moment.”“No, sir; I’m afraid she isn’t. And Mr. Russell is out too.”“Oh! That’s a nuisance.” Roger rubbed his chin a moment in thought; then he came to a sudden decision. “You read theCouriersometimes I expect, don’t you?” he asked unexpectedly.“Yes, sir,” replied the maid in a puzzled voice. “Cook takes it in, she does.”“She does, does she? Good for Cook! Well, look here, I’ve come down to Ludmouth specially for theCourier, to send them news about that accident you had here the other day.”The girl’s face cleared. “Mrs. Vane? Oh, yes, sir! Then you’re a—a reporting gentleman, sir?”“A reporting gentleman!” Roger laughed. “Yes, rather; that describes me to a T. Well, now,” he went on very confidentially, “the fact of the matter is this. I ran along to ask Mrs. Russell one or two questions, and I’m in too much of a hurry to wait for her. Now, do you think you could answer them for me instead?”“Oh, yes, sir,” fluttered the maid. “I think I could. What would it be that you want to know?”“Well, now; Mrs. Vane was coming here that afternoon, wasn’t she? And she never came. Now, I suppose you were in all the afternoon yourself, weren’t you?”“Me, sir? Oh, no. I was on my holidays. I only got back yesterday.”“I see. Rotten, coming back to work again, isn’t it? But the cook would have been in, of course?”“No, sir; she was out too. It was her afternoon off. There was nobody in that afternoon but Mrs. Russell herself.”“Aha!” observed Roger all to himself. Aloud he said mechanically, “I see,” and began to rack his brains furiously for a tactful way of getting hold of a pair of Mrs. Russell’s shoes. It was not an easy problem.Usually a problem tended to lose its interest for Roger if it were too easy, but for this one the time-limit was not sufficient. On the spur of the moment he could only see one thing to do, so he did it.“Can you lend me a pair of Mrs. Russell’s shoes for an hour or so?” he asked blandly.“Hershoes?” repeated the astonished maid.“Yes; any pair of outdoor ones. I’ll let you have them back before she notices they’re gone.” And he jingled significantly the loose silver in his trouser-pocket.“Not—notfoot-prints?” twittered the maid, thrilled to the bone.Roger made up his mind in a flash. After all, why not tell the truth? There was no doubt that the maid would appreciate it, and a spy in the enemy’s camp might be useful.“Yes,” he nodded. “But keep this to yourself, mind. Don’t tell a soul!”“Not even Cook?” breathed the excited girl.“Yes, you can tell Cook,” conceded Roger gravely, knowing the paramount necessity of permitting a safety-valve. “But you’ll be responsible for it going no further. Promise?”“Oo, yes, sir! I promise.”“Well, cut up and get me a pair of her shoes, then.”The girl needed no second invitation. She cut.In less than a minute she was back again. “Here you are, sir. I put a bit of newspaper round them, so as nobody could see what you’re carrying. But you’ll bring them back, won’t you, sir?”“Oh, yes; some time this afternoon. In fact, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll bring them to the back-door. How about that?”“Yes, that would be better, sir. Thank you.”“And if anybody else wants to know what I came for, say I’m a reporter for theCourierwanting to see Mrs. Russell; that’ll do as well as anything else. Here!”A ten-shilling note changed hands, and Roger turned to go. A stifled sound from the girl caused him to look round.“Yes?” he said enquiringly.“Oo, sir! Mrs. Russell! You don’t think as how shedoneit, do you?”“Done what?” asked Roger gravely.“P-pushed Mrs. Vane over the cliff! They hated each other like wild cats, they did. Many and many’s the time I’ve heard the missis giving it to the master about Mrs. Vane. ‘If I get hold of her,I’llgive her what-for!’ she says. ‘I’ll spoil her looks for her! I’ll show her she can’t⸺’ ”“No, no!” Roger interrupted hastily. “Good gracious, no! You mustn’t think anything like that. I want the shoes for—for quite a different reason.” And he fled for the front gate.The maid looked after him with an air of distinct disappointment.The newspaper parcel under his arm, Roger made at top-speed for the point on the cliffs where the second stair-way emerged. It was only a matter of form to try the shoes he was carrying into that second lot of footprints; he knew beyond any shadow of doubt that they were going to fit. Within a quarter-of-an-hour of leaving the lady’s own front door his confidence was justified: her shoes fitted as perfectly into the tracks as if they had made them—which Roger had very little doubt they had! With a crow of triumph he turned round and scurried up the stairs again two at a time. The Ludmouth Bay Mystery was as good as ended.Half-way across the open ground toward the house he caught sight of a large and portly figure turning in at the front gate from the road. Judging correctly that the mistress of the household was returning, he changed his direction abruptly and made for the little ledge, whistling loudly (and quite unnecessarily, as Anthony pointed out later with some heat. “Dash it all, man, I haven’t known the girl for twenty-four hours yet. That sort of thing makes a chap look such an ass!”) as he approached within view of it.“Victory! Victory!” he exclaimed dramatically to the startled couple beneath him, waving the shoes above his head. “And here are the spoils—your prize, fair lady! You might return them to the owner for me some time, will you? Or rather, to the owner’s parlour maid for preference. Catch!” And tossing the shoes down on to the ledge below, he took a standing jump and hurtled through the air in their wake.“Roger, you’ve discovered something!” Margaret cried, as the victorious one landed with a thud perilously near her feet. “What?”“I say, you haven’t got to the bottom of it, have you?” demanded Anthony excitedly.Roger folded his arms and, striking a Napoleonic attitude, grinned down most un-Napoleonically at the other members of the alliance. “I have solved the Mystery of Ludmouth Bay, my children!” he announced. “Not aloneIdid it, for you, Margaret, put me on the right track, and yon pair of shoes also played their part. But the important thing is that the mystery is solved, and you can hold up your head again, Margaret, my dear, or your hands or your feet or anything else you jolly well like; nobody will say you nay.”“Oh, Roger, do explain! Not—not Mrs.Russell?”The grin died slowly out of Roger’s face. His imagination was his trade, yet it had simply never occurred to him that the rescue of Margaret meant the snaring of somebody else—that through his activities Mrs. Russell now stood in the perilous position from which Margaret had been plucked only just in time.“I’m afraid so,” he nodded seriously. “And by the way, there’s one very obvious thing we overlooked about you, Margaret,” he went on, glancing at the neat little feet upon which he had so nearly landed. “However much the rest of the evidence might seem to compromise you, you were never in any real danger; that second lot of footprints was obviously never made by you, you see. Well, I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing.”He dropped on to the turf, pulled out his pipe and began his story.“I say, that’s great!” exclaimed Anthony in high glee, when he had finished.“Oh, poor Mrs. Russell!” was Margaret’s comment, and Roger glanced at her with quick understanding. It was an echo of his own thoughts of a few minutes before.They began to discuss the situation.“Well, Anthony,” Roger remarked half-an-hour later. “Time we were getting back for lunch. And I want to hear what Moresby’s got to say, too.”“Moresby’s going to get the shock of his young life,” observed Anthony grimly. “And I’m going to be in at the death.” Inspector Moresby, one gathered, had infringed upon Anthony’s code of things that aren’t done when he had the presumption to follow up a train of evidence to its logical conclusion—Margaret; henceforward there was no good in him.“Well, in that case come along,” Roger replied, scrambling up. “Margaret, you’ll deliver those shoes at the back-door some time this afternoon, will you? Thanks very much. Well, now, about meeting you again, I should think⸺”“Oh, we’ve fixed all that,” Anthony interrupted very airily.It was about five minutes after this that Anthony delivered his views upon whistling already recorded. At the same time he had something to say on the subject of grins, and still more upon that of winks. Grins, winks and whistles, it appeared, shared with Inspector Moresby the murkiest depths of Anthony’s hatred and contempt.Lunch was waiting for them when they arrived back, hot and thirsty, at the inn—huge plates of cold beef, a salad, a white loaf and pleasantly salt butter, raspberry tart and cream. Inspector Moresby was also waiting for them, his face completely obscured at the moment of their entering the room by the bottom of one of their host’s satisfactory tankards (one cannot realise too strongly the fact that, when not standing at street corners or arresting unarmed the most dangerous criminals, members of the British Police Force are utterly and completely human).“Ah, here you are, gentlemen,” he observed heartily, emerging from the tankard. “They asked me if we were going to take our meals together in here, and I took the liberty of telling them we were. It’s a bit lonely eating down there alone, if you’ve no objection.”“None at all,” responded Roger, no less heartily. “Only too pleased, Inspector. And I see you had the forethought to order up three of the best. Excellent! Well, you’d better get ready to drink my health.”“What have you been doing then, sir?” asked the Inspector humorously. “Solving the mystery?”“I have,” said Roger, and plunged into his story once more.“So what do you think of that?” he concluded, not without a certain triumph.The Inspector wiped his moustache carefully. “It’s ingenious,” he said. “Quite ingenious. But I shouldn’t pay too much importance to footprints if I were you, Mr. Sheringham. Footprints are the easiest thing in the world to fake.”“It’s ingenious because we’re dealing with the deeds of an ingenious criminal. That’s all. Anyhow, can you produce anything that can’t be explained by the theory?” Roger challenged.“Yes, sir, I can,” replied the inspector imperturbably. “That bit of paper you picked up yourself. Our expert made it out all right. The original’s coming on by special messenger, but I got a code telegram half-an-hour ago, and I’ve written out for you what was on the paper. How are you going to explain that by your theory?”Roger took the piece of paper the other was holding out to him and read it eagerly, Anthony craning over his shoulder. It was inscribed as follows:⸺Monday.“Elsie darling, for Heaven’s sake meet me once more before you do anything rash. You must let me explain. Youcan’tdo what you threaten when you think what we’ve been to each other. Meet me at the usual place to-morrow, same time.Please, darling!“Colin.”“P. S. Destroy this.”
Roger had no definite plan in his mind as he walked with quick strides along the cliff-top in the direction of Ludmouth. His impulsive flight from the other two had been dictated by two instinctive feelings—that he wanted to be alone to ponder over the significance of this fresh information, and that Anthony and Margaret would probably be not at all averse to a little dose of each other’s undiluted company. His first idea, equally instinctive, had been to make a bee-line for the Russells’ house and pour out a torrent of eager questions into the lady’s astonished ears. Second thoughts warned him against any such precipitation. He sat down on a convenient little hummock facing the sea, pulled out and re-lit his pipe and began to think.
It did not take him many minutes to see that, if this new lane of enquiry were not to prove a blind alley, there were two questions of paramount importance first requiring a satisfactory answer. Of these one was concerned with Mrs. Russell’s shoes: did they fit the second lot of footprints in that patch of mud on the cliff-path, or not? If they did, that did not actually prove anything, but Mrs. Russell remained a suspected person; if they did not, then she must be exonerated at once. The second, and far more important, was this—who had been at the Russells’ house during the time when Mrs. Vane might have been expected to call?
Roger was still considering the interesting possibility depending on the answer to this question, when a gentle voice behind him cut abruptly into his reverie.
“A charming view from this point, sir, is it not?” observed the gentle voice.
Roger turned about. A little elderly clergyman, with silvery hair and a face like a benign but beardless goat, was peering at him benevolently through a large pair of horn spectacles. “Oh, Lord, the local parson!” Roger groaned to himself—not because he disliked parsons, local or otherwise, but because parsons are inclined to talk and Roger, at that particular moment in his existence, surprisingly enough was not. Aloud he said, courteously enough, “It is indeed; particularly charming.”
The little old parson continued to beam, the sunlight glittering on his huge spectacles. He did not go nor did he very definitely stay—he hovered.
“He’s going to talk,” Roger groaned to himself again. “He wants to talk. He’s aching to talk—I know he is! My pipe to the Coliseum he’s going to talk!”
Roger’s deduction was not amiss. It was only too plain that the little old clergyman had every intention of talking. He had, to be accurate, on seeing Roger’s back in the distance, come nearly a quarter-of-a-mile out of his way for the express purpose of talking. He began to talk.
“I don’t remember seeing you in our little village. Perhaps you have walked over from Sandsea?”
“No,” said Roger patiently. “I’m staying in Ludmouth.”
“Ah! At Mrs. Jameson’s, no doubt? I did hear that she was expecting a visitor.”
“No, at the Crown.”
“Oh! Oh, dear me! Surely I am not talking to Mr. Roger Sheringham, am I?” twittered the little clergyman.
“That is my name, sir, yes,” Roger admitted, with a mental side-note upon village gossip, its velocity and the surprising quarters it reaches.
“My dear sir!” The little parson’s beam grew brighter than ever. “You must permit me to shake hands with you. No, really you must! This is indeed a gratifying moment. I have read all your books, every one; and I cannot tell you how I enjoyed them. Well, fancy, now!”
Roger was never in the least embarrassed by this kind of encounter. He shook hands with his admirer with the greatest heartiness.
“It’s very kind of you to say so,” he smiled. “Very kind indeed. I won’t pretend I’m not gratified. Any author who pretends to be indifferent to appreciation of his books is a hypocrite and a liar and an anointed ass.”
“Quite so,” agreed the little clergyman in some bewilderment. “Quite so, no doubt. Well, well, well!”
“How did you know I was staying at the Crown, sir?”
“Oh, these things get about in a little community like ours, Mr. Sheringham; very rapidly indeed, if I may say so. And having read your books, to say nothing of your recent articles in theCourier, including even this morning’s⸺ Ah, a sad business that brings you down here, Mr. Sheringham! Very sad indeed! Dear me, poor lady, poor lady!”
Roger’s annoyance at the interruption to his thoughts, already considerably lessened, vanished completely. If this garrulous old man had anything of interest to tell, without doubt he could be induced to tell it. Perhaps the encounter could be turned to good account; in any case it would be no bad thing to bepersona gratawith the vicar. He indicated with the stem of his pipe the hummock on which he had been sitting.
“Won’t you sit down, sir?” he asked with a fittingly serious face. “Yes, indeed it is; extraordinarily sad.”
The little clergyman seated himself with a nod of gratitude and Roger dropped on to the warm turf by his side.
“Do you know, there is a most distressing rumour going about in the village, I understand,” remarked the former deprecatingly, but none the less gossipingly. “Something about foul play. That is nothing new, of course; your article this morning hinted quite plainly at it. But they have got to the stage in the village of importing actual names into their suspicions. Do you know that? Most regrettable;mostregrettable.”
“It’s what you’d expect, isn’t it?” said Roger a trifle shortly; he had stayed to pump the other, not to be pumped himself. “What name or names have they imported?”
“Really, Mr. Sheringham,” the parson hesitated, “I’m not sure whether I ought⸺”
“I’ve only got to walk into the bar at the Crown and ask the nearest loafer, if you don’t wish to tell me,” Roger pointed out with an air of indifference.
“That is true. Yes, that is very true, I’m afraid. Yes, I fear you have. Well, perhaps in that case⸺ Well, they are talking about Miss Cross, you know; Mrs. Vane’s cousin. Most regrettable;mostregrettable! Surelyyoudon’t think, Mr. Sheringham, that⸺”
“I agree with you,” Roger interrupted brusquely, forestalling the unwelcome question. “Most regrettable! But surely you, as their vicar, could⸺?” He broke off meaningly.
The little clergyman looked at him in surprise. “Me?” he said innocently. “Oh, but you are making a mistake.Iam not the vicar here. Oh, dear, no! Meadows, my name is: Samuel Meadows. Wait a moment; I have a card somewhere.” He began to fumble violently in all his pockets. “Oh, dear, no; I am not the vicar. I have retired into private life. A small legacy, you understand. Just a resident here, that is all; and of only a few weeks’ standing. Oh, dear, no; my parish was in Yorkshire. But Ludmouth is so— Ah, here we are!” With an air of mild triumph he produced a card from the pocket which he had first searched, and held it out to Roger. “Perhaps if you were passing one day—? I should be extremely honoured.”
“Very kind of you indeed,” said Roger politely, his interest in the little cleric now completely evaporated. He struggled to his feet. “Well, I must be getting along.”
“You are going back to Ludmouth?” queried the other with gentle eagerness, rising also. “So am I. We might perhaps walk in together.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going the other way,” returned Roger firmly. “Good morning, Mr. Meadows. See you again soon, I expect.” And he set briskly off in the direction of Sandsea.
Behind the first undulation he took cover and watched his late interlocutor make for the road and pass slowly out of sight. Then he came out of hiding and walked rapidly over to the little house which lay half-way between that of Dr. Vane and the village—the house which sheltered the frivolous Mr. Russell and his jealous lady.
A perfectly respectable parlour maid answered his ring and looked at him enquiringly.
“Is Mrs. Russell in?” Roger asked. “I should like to speak to her for a moment.”
“No, sir; I’m afraid she isn’t. And Mr. Russell is out too.”
“Oh! That’s a nuisance.” Roger rubbed his chin a moment in thought; then he came to a sudden decision. “You read theCouriersometimes I expect, don’t you?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Yes, sir,” replied the maid in a puzzled voice. “Cook takes it in, she does.”
“She does, does she? Good for Cook! Well, look here, I’ve come down to Ludmouth specially for theCourier, to send them news about that accident you had here the other day.”
The girl’s face cleared. “Mrs. Vane? Oh, yes, sir! Then you’re a—a reporting gentleman, sir?”
“A reporting gentleman!” Roger laughed. “Yes, rather; that describes me to a T. Well, now,” he went on very confidentially, “the fact of the matter is this. I ran along to ask Mrs. Russell one or two questions, and I’m in too much of a hurry to wait for her. Now, do you think you could answer them for me instead?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” fluttered the maid. “I think I could. What would it be that you want to know?”
“Well, now; Mrs. Vane was coming here that afternoon, wasn’t she? And she never came. Now, I suppose you were in all the afternoon yourself, weren’t you?”
“Me, sir? Oh, no. I was on my holidays. I only got back yesterday.”
“I see. Rotten, coming back to work again, isn’t it? But the cook would have been in, of course?”
“No, sir; she was out too. It was her afternoon off. There was nobody in that afternoon but Mrs. Russell herself.”
“Aha!” observed Roger all to himself. Aloud he said mechanically, “I see,” and began to rack his brains furiously for a tactful way of getting hold of a pair of Mrs. Russell’s shoes. It was not an easy problem.
Usually a problem tended to lose its interest for Roger if it were too easy, but for this one the time-limit was not sufficient. On the spur of the moment he could only see one thing to do, so he did it.
“Can you lend me a pair of Mrs. Russell’s shoes for an hour or so?” he asked blandly.
“Hershoes?” repeated the astonished maid.
“Yes; any pair of outdoor ones. I’ll let you have them back before she notices they’re gone.” And he jingled significantly the loose silver in his trouser-pocket.
“Not—notfoot-prints?” twittered the maid, thrilled to the bone.
Roger made up his mind in a flash. After all, why not tell the truth? There was no doubt that the maid would appreciate it, and a spy in the enemy’s camp might be useful.
“Yes,” he nodded. “But keep this to yourself, mind. Don’t tell a soul!”
“Not even Cook?” breathed the excited girl.
“Yes, you can tell Cook,” conceded Roger gravely, knowing the paramount necessity of permitting a safety-valve. “But you’ll be responsible for it going no further. Promise?”
“Oo, yes, sir! I promise.”
“Well, cut up and get me a pair of her shoes, then.”
The girl needed no second invitation. She cut.
In less than a minute she was back again. “Here you are, sir. I put a bit of newspaper round them, so as nobody could see what you’re carrying. But you’ll bring them back, won’t you, sir?”
“Oh, yes; some time this afternoon. In fact, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll bring them to the back-door. How about that?”
“Yes, that would be better, sir. Thank you.”
“And if anybody else wants to know what I came for, say I’m a reporter for theCourierwanting to see Mrs. Russell; that’ll do as well as anything else. Here!”
A ten-shilling note changed hands, and Roger turned to go. A stifled sound from the girl caused him to look round.
“Yes?” he said enquiringly.
“Oo, sir! Mrs. Russell! You don’t think as how shedoneit, do you?”
“Done what?” asked Roger gravely.
“P-pushed Mrs. Vane over the cliff! They hated each other like wild cats, they did. Many and many’s the time I’ve heard the missis giving it to the master about Mrs. Vane. ‘If I get hold of her,I’llgive her what-for!’ she says. ‘I’ll spoil her looks for her! I’ll show her she can’t⸺’ ”
“No, no!” Roger interrupted hastily. “Good gracious, no! You mustn’t think anything like that. I want the shoes for—for quite a different reason.” And he fled for the front gate.
The maid looked after him with an air of distinct disappointment.
The newspaper parcel under his arm, Roger made at top-speed for the point on the cliffs where the second stair-way emerged. It was only a matter of form to try the shoes he was carrying into that second lot of footprints; he knew beyond any shadow of doubt that they were going to fit. Within a quarter-of-an-hour of leaving the lady’s own front door his confidence was justified: her shoes fitted as perfectly into the tracks as if they had made them—which Roger had very little doubt they had! With a crow of triumph he turned round and scurried up the stairs again two at a time. The Ludmouth Bay Mystery was as good as ended.
Half-way across the open ground toward the house he caught sight of a large and portly figure turning in at the front gate from the road. Judging correctly that the mistress of the household was returning, he changed his direction abruptly and made for the little ledge, whistling loudly (and quite unnecessarily, as Anthony pointed out later with some heat. “Dash it all, man, I haven’t known the girl for twenty-four hours yet. That sort of thing makes a chap look such an ass!”) as he approached within view of it.
“Victory! Victory!” he exclaimed dramatically to the startled couple beneath him, waving the shoes above his head. “And here are the spoils—your prize, fair lady! You might return them to the owner for me some time, will you? Or rather, to the owner’s parlour maid for preference. Catch!” And tossing the shoes down on to the ledge below, he took a standing jump and hurtled through the air in their wake.
“Roger, you’ve discovered something!” Margaret cried, as the victorious one landed with a thud perilously near her feet. “What?”
“I say, you haven’t got to the bottom of it, have you?” demanded Anthony excitedly.
Roger folded his arms and, striking a Napoleonic attitude, grinned down most un-Napoleonically at the other members of the alliance. “I have solved the Mystery of Ludmouth Bay, my children!” he announced. “Not aloneIdid it, for you, Margaret, put me on the right track, and yon pair of shoes also played their part. But the important thing is that the mystery is solved, and you can hold up your head again, Margaret, my dear, or your hands or your feet or anything else you jolly well like; nobody will say you nay.”
“Oh, Roger, do explain! Not—not Mrs.Russell?”
The grin died slowly out of Roger’s face. His imagination was his trade, yet it had simply never occurred to him that the rescue of Margaret meant the snaring of somebody else—that through his activities Mrs. Russell now stood in the perilous position from which Margaret had been plucked only just in time.
“I’m afraid so,” he nodded seriously. “And by the way, there’s one very obvious thing we overlooked about you, Margaret,” he went on, glancing at the neat little feet upon which he had so nearly landed. “However much the rest of the evidence might seem to compromise you, you were never in any real danger; that second lot of footprints was obviously never made by you, you see. Well, I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing.”
He dropped on to the turf, pulled out his pipe and began his story.
“I say, that’s great!” exclaimed Anthony in high glee, when he had finished.
“Oh, poor Mrs. Russell!” was Margaret’s comment, and Roger glanced at her with quick understanding. It was an echo of his own thoughts of a few minutes before.
They began to discuss the situation.
“Well, Anthony,” Roger remarked half-an-hour later. “Time we were getting back for lunch. And I want to hear what Moresby’s got to say, too.”
“Moresby’s going to get the shock of his young life,” observed Anthony grimly. “And I’m going to be in at the death.” Inspector Moresby, one gathered, had infringed upon Anthony’s code of things that aren’t done when he had the presumption to follow up a train of evidence to its logical conclusion—Margaret; henceforward there was no good in him.
“Well, in that case come along,” Roger replied, scrambling up. “Margaret, you’ll deliver those shoes at the back-door some time this afternoon, will you? Thanks very much. Well, now, about meeting you again, I should think⸺”
“Oh, we’ve fixed all that,” Anthony interrupted very airily.
It was about five minutes after this that Anthony delivered his views upon whistling already recorded. At the same time he had something to say on the subject of grins, and still more upon that of winks. Grins, winks and whistles, it appeared, shared with Inspector Moresby the murkiest depths of Anthony’s hatred and contempt.
Lunch was waiting for them when they arrived back, hot and thirsty, at the inn—huge plates of cold beef, a salad, a white loaf and pleasantly salt butter, raspberry tart and cream. Inspector Moresby was also waiting for them, his face completely obscured at the moment of their entering the room by the bottom of one of their host’s satisfactory tankards (one cannot realise too strongly the fact that, when not standing at street corners or arresting unarmed the most dangerous criminals, members of the British Police Force are utterly and completely human).
“Ah, here you are, gentlemen,” he observed heartily, emerging from the tankard. “They asked me if we were going to take our meals together in here, and I took the liberty of telling them we were. It’s a bit lonely eating down there alone, if you’ve no objection.”
“None at all,” responded Roger, no less heartily. “Only too pleased, Inspector. And I see you had the forethought to order up three of the best. Excellent! Well, you’d better get ready to drink my health.”
“What have you been doing then, sir?” asked the Inspector humorously. “Solving the mystery?”
“I have,” said Roger, and plunged into his story once more.
“So what do you think of that?” he concluded, not without a certain triumph.
The Inspector wiped his moustache carefully. “It’s ingenious,” he said. “Quite ingenious. But I shouldn’t pay too much importance to footprints if I were you, Mr. Sheringham. Footprints are the easiest thing in the world to fake.”
“It’s ingenious because we’re dealing with the deeds of an ingenious criminal. That’s all. Anyhow, can you produce anything that can’t be explained by the theory?” Roger challenged.
“Yes, sir, I can,” replied the inspector imperturbably. “That bit of paper you picked up yourself. Our expert made it out all right. The original’s coming on by special messenger, but I got a code telegram half-an-hour ago, and I’ve written out for you what was on the paper. How are you going to explain that by your theory?”
Roger took the piece of paper the other was holding out to him and read it eagerly, Anthony craning over his shoulder. It was inscribed as follows:⸺
Monday.“Elsie darling, for Heaven’s sake meet me once more before you do anything rash. You must let me explain. Youcan’tdo what you threaten when you think what we’ve been to each other. Meet me at the usual place to-morrow, same time.Please, darling!“Colin.”“P. S. Destroy this.”
Monday.
“Elsie darling, for Heaven’s sake meet me once more before you do anything rash. You must let me explain. Youcan’tdo what you threaten when you think what we’ve been to each other. Meet me at the usual place to-morrow, same time.Please, darling!
“Colin.”
“P. S. Destroy this.”