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"Third Alibi"
Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1943
When Timothy Wynne, late Oxford student, made an after-dinner wager with fellow-student George Petworth, that he would break into his uncle's mansion, he little bargained for the series of hair-raising adventures that were in store for him, involving a most sensational murder and the eventual breaking of the three alibis of the murderer.
WITH a last desperate effort Timothy Wynne pulled himself up, hung dubiously on the verge for a moment, then with a heartfelt sigh of relief gained the ledge. Perched precariously in the darkness on a stone hardly more than a foot wide, he wiped from his face the perspiration which was not wholly due to the effort of climbing, and had time to consider the situation.
At any rate, he had got up. So much was certain, and it was all to the good. But it was equally clear that he could never get down the same way. Adjusting his position on the narrow foothold, he gingerly explored the damage to the wrenched arm which, only a few minutes back, had nearly made him fall. It was not broken. In all probability it was not even dislocated; but it was undoubtedly twisted, badly enough, he decided, to render it useless for the time being. If he had just managed to reach the ledge with both arms, he could certainly never achieve the descent with one. For a moment he felt depressed at the thought. It might complicate matters. Then his natural spirits reasserted themselves, and he grinned in the darkness. Luck was still with him. He had more than a chance yet of being one up on George, and incidentally, of being five pounds richer.
"If you go in, you're sure to win..." He quoted to himself from his favourite author. "Though there isn't a lady... And can I get in?"
It had been a good dinner. The White Hart had risen nobly to an unforeseen occasion; and that was the reason for his presence there. George's mixture of drinks had been indiscreet and indiscriminate. No doubt that had made the man argumentative. Admittedly Timothy himself could not recall the precise stages by which the conversation had passed from Church Disestablishment to cat-burglars; but his own sobriety was adequately proved by his scaling the nastiest wall he had ever encountered. Still, that was not the real point of the bet. George had not denied he could climb; it had been in what he alleged to be the higher qualities of housebreaking technique and nerve that he had thought Timothy deficient. That part was still to come, and the sooner it was over the better.
He turned carefully on the sill and, with his one good hand, started to investigate. The window should be open, or at least unlatched. But, judging by the rest of the information George had given him, it would not have been remarkable if it had been secured with bars and steel shutters. At least there were none on the outside. His fingers encountered the cold, damp surface of the panes; then just above the frame of the upper sash. He nodded approvingly. This time George had not failed him. Pulling himself to his feet, not without an unpleasant recollection of the flagstones forty feet below, he felt the edge of the woodwork and got an arm inside.
The lower sash came up with scarcely a sound. He was glad of that; for with a single arm the scramble through the upper opening would have been troublesome and risky. Though George had said his uncle's house ought to contain only an aged retainer of poor sight and defective hearing, even he might be aroused by a heavy fall or a smashed pane; and, since violence was ruled out by the terms of the bet, detection even by the sexagenarian would be fatal. Now it was simple enough. Lowering himself to the sill again, he inserted a leg, groped with it for a second or two in search of obstacles, then followed it with the other and slipped inside.
It was black in the room; not merely dark as it had been on the wall outside. There was an inkiness that seemed stifling. He could just make out the shape of the window, and nothing more. And, as he stood there, he felt a vague feeling of disquiet. Of course it was all right. If he were discovered, it was all a joke. But for a minute or two he stood there uncertainly, straining his eyes uselessly in the gloom and listening without result for sounds which did not exist.
Then the thought that he was actually justifying George's jibes spurred him to action. The first thing was to find the door. He started forward rather over-optimistically, and at the second step tripped over what seemed to be a folded carpet and nearly went headlong. That sobered him. He remembered the torch which he had borrowed from the landlord before setting out. The chances involved in showing a light and stumbling about in the dark seemed about even. Extracting the torch from his pocket, he covered the bulb with his fingers and let a mere pinpoint of light flash round the room.
There was the door. He seemed to be in some kind of lumber-room. George had been wrong again; for it should have been a servant's bedroom temporarily untenanted. Memorising the positions of the more relevant obstacles, he switched off the torch, dodged stealthily across the room and found his objective. Not without distrust he groped for the handle and turned it. The door yielded, and the next moment he was in the passage.
Just for an instant he risked another flash. The passage was according to schedule; he caught a glimpse of banisters at the end. He started down it quite confidently, secure in the knowledge that the aged guardian of the house slept on the next floor and in a different wing. In spite of the pain of his arm he felt quite cheerful again. An appropriate song from Gilbert came to his mind, and he hummed it under his breath.
"With catlike tread upon our way we steal..."
Along the passage all was straight sailing; the staircase was another matter. He was painfully aware that his tread as he descended was anything but feline; it far more resembled a herd of elephants thundering through the jungle. Every step creaked; the banisters seemed to be threatening collapse, and it was with a great feeling of relief that he gained the bottom.
Just in front another staircase led off to the ground floor. Two passages led from the landing, one on each side but at right angles to each other. So much another brief flash of his torch told him and it was satisfactory. George's bedroom lay at the extreme end of the left branch, and should be easy to find; but now he would have to go warily. The caretaker servant slept in the other wing, and was probably in his room. He should be asleep, if the noise of Timothy's descent had not roused him trembling from a dream of earthquakes. At least it would be unsafe to use the torch until he was in the room itself. Reaching the corner, he shone the beam once along to assure himself that the way was clear; stood for a moment listening, and was on the very point of going forward when he turned again with a start, and something very like a gasp.
Some little distance along the other passage a door opened suddenly, casting a yellow glow of light against the opposite wall. Outlined against it, a vast shadow stood threateningly, apparently on the point of emerging. Then the sound of running water came to him. It was reassuring. Probably the aged guardian of the house had been performing his ablutions. Perhaps he had forgotten the soap. At least with the splashing it seemed unlikely he could have heard anything, or that he would wander far in searching the house. But the next second his hopes were dashed. A grave, deferential voice reached him.
"Certainly, sir. I will see that they are dealt with.... I do not think there will be any stain, sir."
To Timothy the words had somehow a horribly sinister ring. No doubt it was nervous strain that made a ghastly vision of blood and murder flash across his eyes. How were they to be dealt with? What sort of stain? Even the splashing took on an ominous significance. He heard a mumbling, indistinguishable voice from inside the room; a respectful, inaudible reply; then the shadow enlarged suddenly.
In a flash Timothy was round the corner of the passage. Just what was happening he did not know; but even in that moment two things were plain. There were at least two persons in the house, and they were awake and active. He heard measured steps approaching, and peered round the corner, temporarily regardless of the risk in his extreme curiosity.
The man coming down the passage was only silhouetted against the glow from the door. Timothy could not see his face, but he seemed to be in evening dress, and something black was draped over his left arm. With his mind still running on sensational lines, Timothy wondered what it could be. But a more urgent question was where he was going. If it was down the stairs, all might be well; if along the passage, it was hard to see how Timothy could possibly avoid detection. The door from which the light came shut suddenly, leaving the passage momentarily in darkness. Then the glare of a pocket-lamp made Timothy back hurriedly. He half turned, with the idea of making a dash for it and perhaps gaining George's room before the other turned the corner. The footsteps stopped. A door opened and shut, and the light vanished.
There were cold drops of perspiration on Timothy's brow. It was at least a respite. The man in evening dress had gone into one of the other rooms. It gave him his chance. In an instant he had turned and was making his way through a gloom which was doubly intense after the light at a pace in which caution was perhaps sacrificed to speed; but at all costs he must gain the room at the end before anyone emerged.
The wall at the far end brought him up suddenly, with a painful blow on his nose. He scarcely regarded that. The door should be right beside it. His fingers touched the woodwork, found the handle, and turned it. Next second he was inside, and for the moment safe. He stood listening for an instant. There was not a sound. He was aware that he was breathing quickly, and that his heart was thumping. George had been right. Certainly the job needed nerve. A fleeting doubt as to how he was to get out again crossed his mind; but the great thing was that he had got there. The next step was obvious. He had merely to pick up some trifle as a guarantee of good faith and then he would be free to consider the problem of his getaway. Opening the door a crack, he peered out. Everything was quiet. He closed it again gently. A light should be safe enough. His finger pressed the switch, and he shone the beam round.
It was a large room, obviously one of the biggest in the half-farm, half-manor house that the place seemed to be. And at the first glimpse Timothy was conscious of a certain surprise. It was not in the least like any room he would have expected George to have. The furniture was severe, almost Spartan in its simplicity; but it must also have been terribly expensive. An atmosphere of extreme neatness characterised every detail of the arrangements, and there was not a sign of the comfortable disorder which had marked George's rooms at Oxford. The light of the torch shone for a moment on a large engraving over the mantelpiece, and he was aware of a slight shock. Unless he was very much mistaken it was a portrait of Wordsworth, whom of all poets George hated most.
He felt a sudden doubt. Had he got the right room? At least he had faithfully followed instructions. Possibly the furniture, even the pictures, were dictated by George's uncle; though even the retired Indian Civil servant could scarcely have been expected to have such tastes. But he could not afford to loiter. The great thing was to grab something and go. A small ash-tray on the bedside table caught his eye, and he moved across to it. It was of small intrinsic value, but distinctive enough. He had decided it would do, and was in the act of pocketing it when the click of the door lock reached him.
Timothy ducked hastily. He was barely in time. Certainly he would not have been if the newcomer had not taken an unconscionable time in opening the door. It was as though at the first click he had merely tried it; for there was quite a long pause. Then the handle turned again, and he had the impression that the door was open. But by that time his torch was out, and he was crouching down beside the bed, hidden at least from anyone who merely glanced in casually.
Now that the moment had come he was conscious of an excitement which was not unpleasant. Slowly bewilderment succeeded it. What was happening? There was no sound of anyone entering; there was not a glimmer of light. For more than a minute there was a silence in which he could hear his own breathing. At last a light footstep sounded on the threshold, the door closed softly, and he knew that he was no longer alone.
A whole scries of questions raced through his mind. Who was it? What did he want? Why was there all this stealthy business? Why was there no light? Then a match flared, held high as though the newcomer were surveying the room. Timothy was half tempted to peer over the bed; but that would have invited detection at once. By bending down he could perhaps get a view of the other's feet under the edge of the counterpane, and he acted on the idea. Then he gave a gasp which might well have been audible. It was a woman!
He had barely time to ascertain so much before the match went out, and it was only as he waited in the darkness that he supplemented the fact with the impression that she had had a pair of particularly graceful ankles. There was no leisure to dwell on that. He caught a sound of gentle movement, as though she was crossing the room. Then a match flared again, this time beside the desk near the far window. The hand which held it was just out of sight; but from the fact that the light increased, increased again, and then remained steady he guessed that she had lit the pair of candles that stood on the desk. There was a jingle of keys; a lock snapped back, and a drawer was opened. At the risk of exposing himself to view, Timothy edged forward a little to a position from which he could see.
His guess about the ankles had been right. Moreover, so far as one could judge from a back view, the rest was according to sample. There was grace in every line of the figure which knelt beside the open drawer, and the candles gleamed on the glossy black hair. Once as she turned to hold a paper up to the light he had a view of a half-profile which was quite consistent with the rest. Then she bent to her task again.
Just what she was doing was a mystery. She seemed to be searching systematically, taking drawer by drawer, and as soon as she had finished one side she turned to the next. There was something very odd about it. Although she was hatless she seemed to have just come in from outside; for she wore a grey tweed costume, with a scarf hanging loosely at the neck, and there was mud on the brown brogue shoes.
Her search was proceeding methodically, but with obvious haste, and she seemed to be in no doubt what she wanted. But for some time her diligence was unrewarded. It was in the last drawer that she seemed to be successful at last. She stood up, extracting from an envelope a small wad of papers which she scrutinised under the light. Then, as she stooped to close and relock the drawer, Timothy realised his own danger.
He was no less visible to her than she to him. She had only to turn and she must see him immediately. And then? Timothy was not sure. He was too puzzled about the whole business. But a bright idea flashed across his mind. It was just possible that he might be able to back under the bed before she looked around. He slid one leg sideways and backwards, and then disaster came. His shoe slipped from the edge of the carpet, and scraped noisily along the boards.
She turned in a flash. Apparently she had been stuffing the papers into her handbag, and in her haste one of them fluttered unnoticed to the ground. He heard her gasp. For half a minute she stood staring at him as though she had been turned to stone.
Timothy rose to his feet. Any further crouching was not only useless but undignified. He smiled in apology.
"I say," he began placatingly, "I'm fearfully sorry... It's quite all right."
The last words died on his lips. She made a quick movement as though to push the papers into her bag. For the first time in his life he found himself looking into the muzzle of a small automatic which had somehow appeared in her hand.
For a moment he could only gape at it. Then he took a pace forward and smiled.
"It's really all right—"
"Don't move!"
On another occasion the voice might have been charming; and she was certainly a pretty girl. But the command was backed by a threatening movement of the gun, and Timothy was conscious of a slight nervousness. It was a small enough pistol, it was true, but quite a small bullet could kill one. And there was a deadly earnestness in her manner.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
Timothy was only too glad to explain. "My name's Wynne—Timothy Wynne. It's quite all right my being here, though I expect I scared you. George said I could—that is, he said I couldn't. A bet, you know—"
The explanation did not seem to enlighten her.
"George?" she echoed bewilderingly. "A bet?"
"George Petworth, you know—the nephew of old Petworth. He bet I couldn't cat-burgle the house and get away with something from his room. Must be some mistake, you know. He said the house was empty."
"George Petworth?" She echoed the name, and all at once seemed to understand. "You thought this was his house? That this is his room?"
"Great Scott!" Timothy's jaw dropped. "You don't mean—?"
Abruptly it struck him as funny. He laughed. But the girl did not reciprocate. There was a worried frown on her face.
"I mean that you're in the wrong house—if you're speaking the truth—?"
"Oh, it's true enough. George himself will verify it. You could get him on the phone at the White Hart. I say, I'm fearfully sorry. Then this isn't Three Gables at all?"
She drew a deep breath, and the hand which held the gun dropped to her side.
"No," she said slowly. "It isn't Three Gables. Then—then you mean that it's all a joke? You were burgling for a bet?"
Timothy nodded. "Which, incidentally, I've lost," he said ruefully. "I'm not allowed to escape if you let me. And, anyhow, I haven't burgled George's room. I'd an idea something was up—"
It seemed as though an idea occurred to her suddenly. She glanced down momentarily at her handbag; then looked up, and there was a new alarm in her eyes.
"You must go!" There was an urgency in the words which startled him. "You must get out—quickly. Before anyone finds you. Anyone else— You must not be found—"
"I suppose it might be a bit awkward." Timothy considered the point. "But, dash it! I could explain. I'm perfectly respectable really, and surely they'd understand it was a mistake—?"
She shook her head. "You must go. You are really in danger. I can't explain—but please—"
The last word conquered Timothy. He bowed with mock solemnity.
"Just as you say, lady..."
"Please," she pleaded again. "You must go at once. Hurry!"
"The trouble is, I can't," Timothy rejoined. "You see, I came in by an attic window, but I've twisted my arm. I can't get out again. And being as it were a stranger to the house—"
Her eyes were brown, he decided; dark, certainly, though the inadequate light of the candles made it hard to decide. They met his with a look of desperate appeal.
"There's a room—at the bottom of the stairs. On the left. The window is open. You can get out that way. If you're careful—" She broke off. "And don't—don't say you've been here!"
"Not a whisper." Timothy grinned reassuringly. "A window? Lead me to it!"
"I—I—" She hesitated. Apparently she took his last words literally. "We—we mustn't go together," she said. "If I go first—see if the way is clear— You will put out the candles, and wait—wait three minutes. If you don't hear anything—"
"Just as you like," Timothy assented cheerfully.
She was already moving towards the door. Then she was gone.
Timothy stared after her foolishly. What it was all about he could not see in the least. Watch in hand, he set himself to wait the appointed time. The first minute had almost ticked away when a sudden thought struck him.
"By George!" he said softly. "She's the real thing! And she's got away under my nose!"
Suspicion grew to a certainty. The girl had had no more right there than he had himself. In a sense even less. For she was a genuine burglar. She had come there to steal; she had rifled the desk under his nose—and got away.
Everything pointed towards it. At the thought he started for the door; then reconsidered it. He would stick to the agreement. Instead, he turned towards the candles, suddenly aware of the increased caution needed now that jest had turned into earnest. If he were found there now, and if things were actually missing, would anyone believe him? At the best he would have to give the girl away, and he felt an obstinate determination to do nothing of the kind. There was absolutely no time to waste.
She had seemed pretty confident—as witness her opening of the door with the candles lit. Presumably she had good reason for believing no one was likely to come that way. And yet—
He was in the very act of pinching the second candle when he saw the slip of paper. As the darkness came, he stooped and felt for it. Just what it was he could see later; it did not seem to be money. He stuffed it into his pocket, crossed the room towards the door, and opened it.
For a minute he stood on the threshold listening. There was no light or movement. Somewhere in the depths of the house the mellow bell of a grandfather's clock chimed the half-hour. Then all was quiet again. He was on the point of starting down the passage when a new sound made him pause.
Somewhere in the gloom ahead a door had slammed. It might have been quite accidental; but he half expected to hear the sound of a challenge—perhaps the girl's cry for help—the pursuit. But all was silent. Probably it had been the merest accident. He waited long enough to assure himself that nothing was happening, then set off noiselessly towards the stairs.
His experiences coming down from above had filled him with a distrust for staircases; but the one to the ground floor seemed to be an exception. There was hardly a creak as he descended, and the thick pile of the carpet deadened his footsteps perfectly. As he turned the corner a faint glow of light revealed the passage at the bottom; but everything was quiet enough. Very circumspectly he peered round the edge of the wall. The light came from a door which stood ajar some distance along, and the smell of cigar smoke drifted to him.
The door of which the girl had spoken was right beside him. If she had been right about the window, getting out would be simplicity itself. Then he glanced up quickly at a sound overhead. Someone was coming down the stairs. There was no time for hesitation. A couple of paces brought him to the door. He turned the handle quickly, and slipped inside.
Or rather, he had started to. He had expected the darkness of an unoccupied room; instead he stood blinking in a light which seemed positively dazzling. But blinded as he was by it, he could see well enough to make out the shape of the man who sat at the desk right in front of him.
Evidently the game was up. His retreat was cut off in all directions. There was nothing for it but to give in. If he tried to run it would only make things worse. He stepped into the room and started to stammer an apology.
"I'm sorry to—to burst in like this. The fact is—"
Suddenly he was aware of the complete motionlessness of the man at the desk. Was he asleep? His eyes were getting accustomed to the light. He must be asleep, or—? Surely the attitude was awkward? There was something wrong. He started forward, and as he did so his foot kicked against something hard. He glanced down. It was a small automatic pistol.
"Good God!"
He almost jumped across the room to the desk. The man in the chair made no movement. And the reason was plain. In the very centre of his forehead was a small, bluish hole, from which trickled a tiny stream of blood. Timothy bent over the desk in a kind of stunned horror. There was not a sign of life or movement. Then he jumped around. Behind him the half-open door was pushed wide.
"Bowmore! I say Bowmore—"
Timothy backed guiltily from the desk as the speaker entered.
FOR something like half a minute the newcomer stood staring from Timothy to the dead man. The expression on his face was less of fear or horror than of sheer amazement. He was a well-built man, fairly advanced in middle age, and the tan of his face contrasted strongly with the hair which was already whitening round the temples. But for the faultless evening dress, and an expression of superciliousness, almost arrogance, about his grey eyes, one might have placed him as a prosperous farmer or dealer; certainly he was a man used to living out of doors. So much Timothy noticed even in spite of the shock which held him motionless. For a moment he could only return the other's stare. With an effort he managed to speak.
"I say—" he hesitated, and to his own ears the tone sounded false and unnatural. "You don't think—? I can explain—"
The other made no answer in words. With a quick but unhurried movement he stepped forward and stooped. The next instant for the second time that night Timothy was looking into the muzzle of a gun. While he gazed at it stupidly it crossed his mind that in all probability it was the same one. Timothy broke an oppressive silence.
"Look here—" he began in a desperate attempt at explanation.
"Stay there," his captor interrupted briskly. "I think," he added it as though it was an afterthought, "perhaps you had better put up your hands?"
Timothy obeyed, not without some little pain. There seemed nothing else for it. If excuses had been difficult to find before to the legitimate occupants of the house, it was a thousand times worse now. The man behind the gun stood eyeing him speculatively, as though himself at a loss what to do. Then, still keeping Timothy covered, he stepped back towards the wall, felt for and pressed the bell.
"You can explain?" he said at last. The voice was that of a cultured man, and there was something sardonic in its tone. "If I might advise you, I should reserve explanations... Your presence here at all—"
He shrugged his shoulders and broke off. Footsteps were approaching along the passage, the measured, unexcited footsteps of someone who had no suspicion of the tableau inside the room. Timothy felt trapped. He had a wild, idiotic impulse to brave the gun and make a bolt for it. Then it was too late.
"Whitley." The man with the gun did not turn or take his eyes off Timothy. "I'm afraid Mr. Manningtree has been shot. If you would call the police—"
"Good—good God! Fareham—!"
The eyebrows of Timothy's captor rose slightly. For a single instant he glanced at the new arrival who was standing in horrified amazement in the doorway; then his eyes returned to Timothy.
"Oh, it's you, Bowmore," he said without emotion. "Perhaps you would be good enough—"
"But what—what happened? He didn't— It wasn't—suicide?"
The man addressed as Fareham lowered his eyes for a moment towards the still figure in the chair.
"No," he said deliberately. "It wasn't suicide. Nor, I should imagine, accident. But this young gentleman says that he can explain everything."
In spite of the threat of the gun Timothy lowered his arms, and faced the two men. Like Fareham, the man called Bowmore was in evening dress; but he wore it awkwardly, like a man not too used to it, and even more in his voice and carriage than in the highly coloured face there was something that suggested the self-made man. In contrast to the emotionless calm of Fareham, his eyes were almost starting from his head, and there was a whitish look about his lips.
"Look here," Timothy began again, "I don't know anything about—about this. I found him like that when I came in. I meant I could explain how I came to be here at all."
Fareham had not lowered the gun; but he had made no gesture when Timothy moved.
"Yes?" he prompted courteously. "You can explain that?"
"It was a joke—a silly bet," Timothy began; but the arrival of the servant whom the bell had summoned interrupted him.
"Whitley," Fareham repeated in almost the identical tone and words, "Mr. Manningtree has been shot. If you would call the police—"
Timothy heard the butler gasp. In spite of the seriousness of the situation the thought crossed his mind that it was a scene to shake even the best-trained servant.
"Yes—yes, sir," Whitley managed to reply with an effort, and his voice only shook a little. "The police, sir—"
"See that none of the servants leaves the house," Fareham went on equably. "And if you have a key to this room—"
"It—it's in the door, sir," Whitley said, and extracted it from the inner side of the keyhole. "No one is to leave, sir?"
"Or communicate in any way with outside. You need not tell them what has happened. The police first."
Still without looking away from Timothy, he extended his hand for the key. With a scared glance at the dead man in the chair the butler went out. For a moment there was a pause, in which they could hear his footsteps receding down the passage.
"And now, Bowmore," Fareham suggested. "If you'd go first. Then you, Mr.— I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name?"
"Wynne," Timothy managed to say, and wondered whether he should have done so. "I say—"
"Wynne? Not the Herefordshire—" Fareham seemed to realise it was no time for genealogical discussions. He broke off. "If you would go next, Mr. Wynne. I will come last."
He did not say "with the gun," but he conveyed it with a slight motion of the weapon.
"But—but, Fareham—we can't leave him!" Bowmore protested.
"It's exactly what we should do. We must leave things as little disturbed as possible."
"But—but is he dead? You're sure—?"
"I should say that there was no doubt of it. Perhaps Mr. Wynne can tell us?"
"Yes," Timothy answered before he thought. "That is, I'm almost sure. I was just looking—"
Fareham inclined his head. "The position of the wound leaves no doubt," he said calmly. "And now— To the lounge, I think, Bowmore."
Bowmore turned helplessly to lead the procession, not without a nervous glance back. The key clicked in the lock behind them. Again Timothy had the impulse to run for it. There was something in Fareham's emotionless attitude which was horribly unnerving. But the gun was just behind, and he had no doubt that its holder would use it without compunction. Besides, they had his name. It would only make things worse.
Almost at the top of the passage Bowmore turned into a doorway on the right. It was a long, low room, comfortably furnished in excellent taste; though here the conversion of the old farmhouse was more apparent. Two doors gave out of it, besides the one by which they had entered, and at one time it had obviously been two smaller and separate rooms.
Fareham closed the door behind them and glanced around.
"Doune?" he asked. "I thought he was here?"
"He said something about seeing Royton," Bowmore answered. "In the office. Shall I get him?"
"Better get both. My daughter is upstairs, of course. There is no need to disturb her at the moment."
As Bowmore went out by one of the two doors at the far end of the room, Fareham motioned Timothy to a chair.
"The police will be here shortly, Mr. Wynne," he said, and moved towards a table near the fireplace. The gun was still in his hand, but he seemed to have lost some of his watchfulness. "You might be well advised to say nothing until they arrive. Still, if you care to explain—"
Timothy hesitated. After all, he had nothing to hide. It was hard to see how he could make things worse. And he felt the need of talking to someone.
"It—it sounds pretty silly," he began lamely. "I hardly know how to start."
"You'd like a drink?" Fareham had been busying himself with the glasses. "Soda?"
Timothy shook his head, but accepted the neat whisky and gulped it. That seemed to make things better.
"It was just as I said," he plunged after an uncomfortable pause. "You see—there was a dinner—a sort of anniversary celebration—"
"An anniversary?" Fareham queried politely.
"Of a kind." Timothy grinned sheepishly. "It's just four years since I was sent down from Oxford for climbing the Martyrs' Memorial. You see, it sort of ran in the family. I happened to meet a few friends down here—chaps who'd been there at the time. So we celebrated."
"Naturally," Fareham assented gravely.
"I don't quite know how it came up," Timothy confessed. "But we were having a discussion on cat-burgling. George said I should never have made a cat-burglar. Somehow it ended in a bet. I was to burgle his uncle's house—not really burgle, you know, but just break in and take something to show I'd been there. So I did. You see, I thought this was his uncle's. Perhaps George got the directions a bit mixed—"
"George?" Fareham inquired.
"The man I made the bet with. That's George Petworth."
"Our neighbours?" Fareham inclined his head. "Perhaps, as you say, he got the directions mixed. Or perhaps—"
He did not go into the other possibility, but looked at Timothy as if to encourage him to proceed.
"You mean—" A sudden light flashed on Timothy. "You think it might all have been some silly joke on his part? That he meant to send me here?"
"It might even have been that. Yes, Mr. Wynne?"
"So I got in. Through an upper window. Wrenched my arm a bit and went to the bedroom George said was his—at the end of the passage—"
"The left branch?" Fareham frowned as Timothy nodded assent. "That was Manningtree's own room," he explained, and thought for a moment. "And you took something as evidence?"
"Oh, yes. This."
Timothy produced the ash-tray from his pocket. But something else came with it. It was the slip of paper which he had retrieved from the floor where the girl had dropped it. It brought him up all of a sudden. What was he to say? The girl had been there in Manningtree's room, searching in Manningtree's drawers. She had held him up with a gun—probably the very gun which Fareham was holding at that moment. Then he half jumped to his feet. The door slamming—just when she had gone downstairs. It had not been the door at all. It had been— Fareham's quiet voice broke in on his thoughts.
"Ah, the ash-tray?" he said. "Yes. I recognise it. And this?"
He stooped and retrieved the folded slip of paper. He opened it, and his eyebrows rose.
"And this," he repeated with decision, and this time it was a statement.
"And that," Timothy admitted, "I picked up off the floor. What is it?"
Fareham flipped it open with his finger and extended it. Then Timothy saw that it was a cheque. The bend of one end of the paper hid the amount, but at the righthand bottom corner he could see the signature, C. Manningtree.
"A cheque," Fareham explained unnecessarily. "A cancelled cheque. You found that too—in the bedroom?"
Timothy nodded. He hoped that his face did not show his feelings for he was thinking furiously. The girl had taken from the drawer a little bundle of slips like that. And there had been the gun, and her leaving so hastily just at that minute and the shot. But she could not have done it. Presumably she was Fareham's daughter. Abruptly he decided, without quite knowing why, to say nothing about her. All at once he was aware that Fareham's eyes were upon him.
"Yes, Mr. Wynne," he said softly. "You picked that up on the floor of the bedroom. There's nothing wrong?"
Timothy shook his head. "It was just before I went out," he said with an effort. "Then I came downstairs. You see, I'd hoped to be able to find some way of leaving the house. But there didn't seem to be any. I saw the light under Mr.—Mr. Manningtree's door, and I thought I'd give it up as a bad job. I went in to tell him. And he was sitting there and didn't answer. I saw the gun on the floor. Then I went round to see—and you came in."
"The gun?" Fareham frowned at it. "No doubt I should have left it there for the police. As it is— Here they come."
Timothy followed the direction of his glance towards the top end of the room. Bowmore had re-entered, followed by a young, bespectacled man of impeccably neat appearance to whom Timothy took a dislike on sight. Presumably, he thought, that must be Doune; but Bowmore's first words undeceived him.
"Royton says that Doune never came," he said with a trace of bewilderment in his voice. "He hasn't seen him at all."
He glanced at the bespectacled young man for confirmation. Royton nodded.
"That is so, Mr. Fareham," he said, and his voice exactly fitted his manner. "I have been alone in the office for the past hour. Is anything wrong?"
Fareham glanced quickly at Bowmore, who shook his head. It seemed that he had not told the young man the news, and Timothy found himself wondering why. But Fareham gave an imperceptible nod of approval. Royton looked curiously at Timothy; then glanced around the room.
"Mr. Manningtree?" he asked. "I was to go to him after you had seen him, sir. He's in his study?"
"Yes," Fareham agreed. "He's in his study. But I'm afraid you can't see him just now, Mr. Royton. You see—" He broke off, and his eyes were on the other's face.
"But Mr. Manningtree said—" Royton began with a trace of doggedness in his voice. "He particularly wanted to see me, sir—after Mr. Bowmore had gone."
"He can't see you, Royton," Fareham said quite calmly; then added in a tone which did not change in the least, "You see, he's been shot."
"Shot?" Royton's face was not well equipped for showing the more violent emotions. He merely blinked at the first blunt statement; then his eyes almost popped from his head, and his mouth opened in a way which vaguely suggested a codfish. "You mean—you don't mean he's dead? Not—not murdered?"
His voice rose on the last word. Fareham's steady eyes were fixed on him curiously. He nodded.
"Yes," he assented. "We've sent for the police."
"Then—then he was right!" Royton almost squeaked. "He said—he said—the letters—"
Fareham's eyebrows rose perceptibly. "He told you?" he demanded. "He expected—something?"
"He did, I'm sure he did. But I never believed— It was just after Doune left—" He broke off abruptly and drew a deep breath. Something of his normal precise air came back to him. "But—but we'd better not discuss it, had we?" he said after a pause. "The police—"
"A very proper view," Fareham assented. "But, by the way, where is Doune?"
He glanced at Bowmore, who coloured as though he had been accused of something.
"I left him here," he said. "I mean in the card-room." He jerked his head towards the second door: "When I was going to see Manningtree—after the wine was spilt—"
"That would be about twenty-past eleven?" Fareham suggested. "And your appointment was for half-past? It is now a quarter to twelve—"
It seemed to Timothy as though for some reason Bowmore did not relish this analysis of the position.
"He was there then," he said firmly. "Just pouring himself out some more port—though he'd had enough already. He said he was going to see Royton in the office about something."
"He did not come, sir," Royton said firmly. "I have been there all the time—"
"You're sure he's not in the card-room?" Fareham suggested. "He might have fallen asleep."
There was a suggestion of contempt in the last words. Timothy had risen to his feet. He caught Fareham's eye.
"Perhaps you would come with us, Mr.—Mr. Wynne," he suggested. "We had better keep together for the present."
That, Timothy thought, was a delicate way of putting it. He preceded Fareham obediently up the room, leaving Royton and Bowmore to bring up the rear.
Fareham halted in the doorway and looked around. "He's not here," he said, and there was a puzzled note in his voice. "But I don't quite see— What's that?"
A sharp click had broken in on his words. Then the curtains hiding the long French window at the far end of the room billowed suddenly as the casement opened. A young man staggered into the room and stood blinking foolishly in the light. He had obviously been drinking, and he stared stupidly at the group in the doorway. Timothy was conscious of a dim suspicion that he had seen him somewhere before.
"Doune!" Fareham said sharply. "You've been out?"
Doune scowled angrily; but he hesitated before he answered.
"How the hell should I come in if I hadn't?" he demanded a little thickly. "Why shouldn't I?"
"Why not, indeed?" Fareham echoed; then his voice changed. "You don't know any reason?" he asked sharply. "Sure?"
"I don't know what the devil you're blithering about!" Doune retorted fiercely. Timothy judged that his temper was never of the best and he had certainly drunk more than was good for him. "And let me tell you, I'll not be spied upon! If anyone tries to follow me—"
"I don't follow you in the least," Fareham interposed suavely. "You mean someone was following you outside? I can assure you that none of us have left the house. You saw someone?"
"There was someone out there just now." Doune lurched towards the window and pointed. "Over there—"
The four of them peered over his shoulders. The moon was just rising, and it was possible to distinguish the far side of the lawn where the black mass of the shrubbery bounded it.
"What were you doing over there?" Fareham asked suddenly. "I have a—"
"There!" Timothy pushed past them excitedly. "Did you see—"
Before anyone could stop him he had jumped through the window and was running across the grass. Behind him he heard Fareham's voice raised threateningly.
"Come back! Stop! Stop! Or—"
Whatever the unspoken threat might have been, Timothy did not heed it. It was only when he was half-way across the lawn that he remembered the gun in Fareham's hand. In his mind there had been no thought of escape. Obviously that would be worse than useless. But just for an instant on the edge of the shrubbery he had had a glimpse of something moving, and the merest impulse had taken him in pursuit. As he ran a thought flashed across his mind. It might be the girl. And if it were—? He did not know what to do. There was a dim idea in his mind that somehow he might hold off the pursuit long enough for her to escape. He could hear the feet of the others thudding behind him. Then, in front, he heard something else, the crackle of the bushes as though someone were pushing through. There was no light to pick or choose a way. He plunged into the shrubbery anyhow, struggled through a mass of small twigs and branches, and unexpectedly found himself on an open pathway.
In his excitement he seemed to have overrun the mark. The unknown, whoever it might be, was still struggling in the trees. Timothy turned and started up the path in the direction of the sound. For a moment the noise ceased. He could hear the others shouting on the lawn. All at once, almost on top of him a dark figure emerged from the shadows. He closed in a flying tackle, and both went headlong.
Certainly it was not the girl. He had seen so much before he leaped, and in any case he would certainly have known it. His opponent was a man very much of his own size and weight, and in spite of the surprise of Timothy's attack, he fought back fiercely. Timothy got home one blow on the other's nose, only to receive himself one just as good under the ear. He felt his grip weakening.
Then lights were flashing upon them, and he was seized by the shoulders and dragged back.
Someone shone a torch in his face. He saw that he was in the grip of a burly man who was a complete stranger to him. Then the glimpse of a uniform explained what had happened. The police had arrived.
"That's Wynne," Fareham's voice announced. "And the other?"
His late opponent had risen to a sitting position. He was mopping at his face with his handkerchief, and the blood from the wounded nose made him hard to identify. With a sudden start Timothy realised who it was.
"Good heavens!" He peered down at the other's face. "George! It's you?"
His friend looked up savagely. "You?" he said. "You here? What—? You damned fool!"
NINE o'clock was just striking when Inspector Richard Hayle stepped out of the French window on to the terrace and reached for his pipe. Although he had contrived to maintain an outward calm and an official woodenness of feature he had been feeling his responsibilities acutely. Murders in that part were rare; since his recent promotion there had been none at all. Now he had suddenly found himself in charge of one, and, with the Superintendent confined to his bed with influenza, there was a fair chance that he would remain so.
Everything depended on the Chief Constable. Colonel Chedder was a man of impulse. He might decide to hand the case immediately to Scotland Yard; he might equally well sneer at Londoners in general and praise the county police. The first impression was all-important, and that was why Hayle had worked all night without a break. At that moment, with the Chief Constable due to arrive any moment from his interrupted holiday, he could only pray he had done enough.
It was true there was no arrest in sight. He might have detained Timothy Wynne as an obvious suspect, and the one person whose mere presence was unauthorised and extraordinary. But the more he had gone into things, the less he was inclined to think of the appearance of the young man as anything but an accident, and it was a comforting thought that perhaps the murderer would find it even more embarrassing than the police. For the present, unless the impulsive colonel ordered his arrest out of hand, Timothy was released on parole; with the possibility of a charge of housebreaking at least if he misbehaved.
Lighting his pipe the Inspector strolled down the path towards the end of the garden. From there he could command a view of the drive by which the Chief Constable must approach, and of most of the rest of the surrounding country. He had never been to the house before, and he found comfort in excusing himself for his brief respite by the need for getting an idea of the locality. From the lower wall, where the land fell away sharply by way of two or three rough fields to the tangled valley bottom where the stream ran, he could command a view of everything which at that moment appeared to have any relevance to the murder.
Directly opposite was Three Gables. Situated on different sides of the V-shaped indentation in the hills, the two houses were approached by drives which sidled up the hillside, leaving at right angles the lane from the village which, after proceeding for another hundred yards, faded imperceptibly and without apparent reason into the grassy track leading to the disused china-clay pit at the head of the valley. Except for the squat tower of the village church, which just contrived to peer over the trees hiding the village, there was not another house in sight.
But there were signs where one might have been. A gash of raw earth in the brown of the hillside and the harsh red of new bricks indicated the foundations of an extensive building. Hayle had already heard about that. It was where Manningtree had intended to build his new house, and he had chosen the site well. As it was, it would probably never be built. Hayle found the thought depressing. Perhaps his own weariness made him see in it a commentary on the vanity of human wishes. Probably Manningtree had all his life wanted a house in just such a spot; and now he was dead.
His eyes were still on the place where the house might have been when his attention was attracted by something on the hillside immediately above it. It came from a clump of bushes part-way up the slope, and at first glimpse he almost dismissed it as the twinkling of the sunlight on a piece of broken glass. Quite suddenly he noticed something peculiar. There was a regularity about the twinkles. The pin point of light came and went among the bushes at fixed intervals. Obviously it was deliberate. It came across his mind that someone was signalling, probably with a small mirror, and he began to read the flashes so far as his very limited knowledge of the morse code allowed.
"Dot-dot-dot... Dot-dot-dot... Dot-dot-dot..."
"S—S—S—" he translated mentally as the sign was repeated. "S—S—S—"
For two or three minutes there was nothing else. It occurred to him that he might have misread it. "S.O.S." was, he knew, a call for help. Had he misunderstood the second group as dots instead of dashes? A minute later the repetition of the sign put the matter beyond doubt. It was simply the repetition of three S signs.
It might be some code. He could remember only about half the morse alphabet, and yet it might be vital to know the message. In the following pause, he felt for a pencil and paper to take down whatever might be flashed, thankful that whoever was sending it was doing so slowly enough for the veriest amateur to follow without trouble. Abruptly he wondered to whom the message was being sent. To someone in the house? He looked back. A screen of bushes hid everything except for the roof. He remembered that even from the terrace one could not see the site of Manningtree's house; but one might from the upper windows. He looked back hurriedly, just in time to catch the end of the next signal.
"Dot-dot-dot—"
But this time it seemed as though there had been an answer to the calling signal. A succession of other letters followed. Some of them he knew, and some he did not; but he duly noted them. Then again came the "S.S.S." and here it must have been a signature. No more flashes came. Apparently the message had ended.
For some time he kept his eyes fixed on the clump of bushes. Whoever it was who had signalled would presumably be leaving. But there was no sign of it. From where he stood, it seemed to be a bare, green hillside; but the very colour gave him the clue to what had probably happened. The moor grass was brown; the green was bracken. What at that distance seemed a space devoid of cover was probably covered by the fronds three or four feet deep. It would have been easy enough for anyone to have crept away unobserved. After a while he gave it up.
Only momentarily the idea occurred to him of trying to give chase. But that would be hopeless. He would have to appear in full view on the bare slope below the garden; he could never get anywhere near without giving the alarm. Instead, he turned his attention to the message.
There was little enough he could decipher. First the three S signs. Then two dots. That was "I" and apparently used as a word by itself. "Four dots—H... dot-dash—A; then a sign he did not know; then a solitary dot. But jotting down those which were intelligible he achieved a kind of result.
"S.S.S... I... HA-E... THEM... E-E-EN... S.S.S."
He frowned down at the notebook. Of course he could easily get the other letters interpreted; but it should be possible to make something of that in any case. The sound of a car coming up the hill made his thoughts break off abruptly. That would be the Chief Constable, and for the next half hour or so he must concentrate on making himself as brisk, capable and competent as he could. Shutting the book, he started to hurry back up the path. He had nearly reached the top when it came to him quite suddenly.
"By George!" he exclaimed under his breath. "S.S.S... I have them... Eleven... S.S.S.!"
He had not a doubt that that was the correct reading. What it meant was another matter. Who was the message intended for? Did the sender know what had happened? Had it anything to do with the case? For the moment he had to leave those questions unanswered. The car was just drawing up at the door when he reached the drive.
Luck was on Hayle's side. It was true that Colonel Chedder had been roused from his bed in the small hours, and his tone at that time had augured the worst. But he had had to drive some distance. After an hour or two of irritation, the early morning air had produced its effect, and by good fortune the Colonel had been able to get breakfast en route. He jumped quite lightly from the car, for a man of his build, and beamed with a cheerfulness which was almost indecent on the Inspector as he hurried up.
"Morning, Hayle. Lovely morning. Everything all right? Got him yet? It's that young Wynne, I suppose?"
That was just what the Inspector had feared he might suppose; but he did not venture a contradiction.
"Well, sir," he said. "I've not arrested him yet. The fact is, sir, I think there may be complications. I might explain—"
"Complications, h'm? The Colonel frowned. "Clear case, I should have thought. Manningtree catches the young fool—holds him up. There's a struggle. Wynne gets the gun, loses his head and shoots him. Eh?"
"That's certainly possible, sir. But there are objections. Perhaps if you could see the room—"
"View the body first, eh? Good plan. Right. Lead on—"
On Hayle's instructions, not even the body had been moved until the Chief Constable's arrival; or at least, no more than had been necessary for the doctor to make a preliminary examination. But the Colonel was not depressed by it; if anything he eyed it with pleased interest.
"Queer thing," he commented. "Rank outsider, that chap. Started life in a chip-shop. But judging by the look of him you'd think he came of a decent family. Whereas old Fareham, whose ancestors came over with William the Conqueror, looks like a horse-dealer."
However heartless it might be, there was justice in the remark. Perhaps death had added dignity to Manningtree's face; but even in life it must have been finely featured and of a type which most people would associate with aristocracy. But Hayle was not interested in natural contradictions at that moment.
"You knew them then, sir?" he asked.
"Manningtree? Hardly. Made of cash—nothing else about him. Hardly knew which fork to eat with. Always trying to suck up to people. I suppose that's how he picked on Fareham. Quite the other way there. Blood without money."
The Colonel was obviously pleased with his epigram. Hayle nodded.
"I understood so, sir. That's how Fareham came to let the house to him. You see, Manningtree was going to build a house of his own just up the valley. They'd started the foundations. He wanted to be here to supervise—"
"Heard about that. Who are all this other crowd—Beaumont or whatever his name is?"
"I understand he's a business acquaintance, sir. He'd come down to discuss some kind of a deal. Royton was the secretary, and Doune was a sort of protégé of Manningtree's, training for the business. You see, he'd no son—"
"No. Separated from his wife. I saw her once. A bit loud, but a dashed good-looking woman for her age... That can wait. Look round here first, eh? Everything as it was?"
"Except the gun, sir. Fareham picked that up when he captured Wynne. I chalked a mark on the floor—here—to show where it seems to have been."
"Dashed silly thing to do. Ought to have known better."
"Perhaps, sir. But I suppose he thought he'd surprised a murderer on the scene of his crime—and Wynne's six foot, and pretty hefty. I don't blame him—"
The Colonel was not listening. He was frowning fiercely around the room.
"Not suicide, eh?" he demanded.
"Out of the question, sir. For one thing, the gun couldn't have fallen that distance away. Then there's no mark of burning on the skin. The doctor said that the shot must have been fired from about five or six feet at least. The bullet entered the forehead quite straight, and death must have been instantaneous."
"Five or six feet? From somewhere near the door, then."
"Perhaps, sir. But Dr. Gibson wouldn't say definitely. His point was that the man's head might have been at any angle, and turned in any direction. The impact of the bullet might throw it back against the chair. We can't quite say, sir."
"Gibson's a fool. Pretty obvious I should say. Looks bad for young Wynne. Might be manslaughter, though?"
"That's a question, sir. If it were, it's hard to see how it happened. You see, supposing there had been some kind of a struggle, would it be reasonable for Manningtree to have sat down at his desk again as though nothing had happened? He'd have jumped up when Wynne came in anyhow; but he certainly wouldn't have been sitting like that if Wynne had snatched the gun from him."
"H'm... No. Maybe not. But it's Manningtree's gun?"
"I'm trying to establish that. It has his initials on it, but no one seems to have known he had one. Of course, we can probably trace it."
"Where is it?"
"I've got it locked up in the card-room, sir. If we went along there afterwards, I could explain the position better."
"Right." Chedder glanced around the room again. "Nothing else to see here?"
"Nothing, sir. No one seems to have left a trace. There's only one thing. You'll see the window was open. That may be important."
Colonel Chedder was by no means a fool. He glanced at Hayle sharply.
"Doune, eh?" he demanded. "You've got your eye on him?"
"Among others, sir. Certainly his conduct's a bit queer."
"Better tell me all about it. Nothing more here? Come along."
Either Fareham or Fareham's butler had had the good sense to provide a tray containing whisky and soda in the card-room. It was two hours before the Colonel's normal time, but he helped himself. The occasion was exceptional. He looked at Hayle.
"Drink, Inspector?" he asked.
"No, thank you, sir."
"Smoke if you care to. Now, let's talk it over comfortably."
Hayle obediently seated himself in the armchair his superior indicated and produced his notebook, and a small sheaf of reports which he handed over.
"Well, sir, these are what I've got so far," he began a little hesitantly. "You know the general position. Fareham had let this house to Manningtree furnished—except for a few things of his own Manningtree brought along. He and his daughter were staying on until Manningtree was a little settled. The housekeeper who had been hired wasn't available, and Miss Fareham was still in charge of the house. The servants were the same, except for a sort of chauffeur fellow who lodges at the cottage down below. Fareham and his daughter were leaving at the end of next week."
Colonel Chedder nodded. "That's plain enough. Right," he said.
"Bowmore came down the day before yesterday—Wednesday, that is. Exactly what his business was, I can't quite make out. Royton knows nothing of it. He says that Manningtree was considering buying some shares. Doune came on the Thursday night for a long weekend. I understand that that was to fix up the place he was to occupy in Manningtree's business. You see, until lately he'd been acting as a sort of secretary. Royton has only been with him a month. Without counting the servants, that accounts for everyone in the house."
"Servants trustworthy?"
"I understand they've been with Mr. Fareham for some time, sir. Besides, since Manningtree's only been here a fortnight, it isn't likely any of them would have any motive."
The Chief Constable shook his head in reproof. "Can't be sure," he said. "Doesn't do."
"I'm not overlooking them, sir. Though most of them have alibis. Perhaps I'd better just explain in detail what happened that night. Dinner seems to have been as usual. Almost immediately afterwards Miss Fareham went to bed with a headache."
"H'm? Nothing wrong with that? Why shouldn't she?"
"No reason, sir. But it was unusual. She wasn't subject to headaches. On the particular night of the murder she had one, went to bed and wasn't seen again until her father went up to see her."
"No alibi, eh?"
"No, sir. Afterwards the four of them—Manningtree, Fareham, Doune and Bowmore—sat down to a game of bridge. Royton went to the office to work."
"Work, eh? Pretty late?"
"That seems to have been fairly normal. When Mr. Manningtree had anything special on, he didn't spare himself or anyone else. But even when things were busiest, he'd take an hour off for a game of bridge—though he preferred whist—"
Chedder snorted. "Whist, eh? He would."
"At half-past ten Manningtree himself went to the study to work. He'd fixed an appointment with Bowmore for half-past eleven. And, I think, that was a little odd, sir. Bowmore's been there two days and they've hardly had a word together so far as one can make out. Then on the night Manningtree's killed, they are just going to discuss business at half-past eleven at night."
The Chief Constable frowned and nodded assent.
"The other three settled down to a game of dummy. Doune was winning; but he was drinking heavily. The game ends when he manages to knock a decanter of port over. Most of it went on Fareham's trousers and he went up to change them."
There seemed to be something significant in Hayle's pause, but the Colonel failed to grasp it.
"Nothing wrong with that?" he suggested. "Sensible thing to do."
"Perhaps. On the other hand, it was so late that Fareham might reasonably have decided to go to bed. But he does change his trousers. The butler takes the others to clean them, and generally looks after things. That was just after a quarter-past eleven."
"If Whitley was there, Fareham had an alibi?"
"I'm not sure how complete, sir. I'm going into it. Doune says he's going to see Royton. And in the ordinary way he can't stand Royton. In any case he doesn't go. Apparently he wanders out into the garden for half an hour, and comes back after everything is over saying people are spying on him. His explanation is that he wasn't feeling well and thought the fresh air would buck him up."
"Just as likely to bowl him right over."
"Yes, sir. But he's no alibi. The window was open. He might have shot Manningtree through the window. And at last we come to Bowmore. When he left Doune, he said he was going to see Manningtree. That was at about twenty-five minutes past. But though it wouldn't take him two minutes to get to the study, he only arrives after Fareham has held up Wynne—or at about twenty-five minutes to twelve. What was he doing in the interval?"
"If he'd not been to the study—" Chedder began hazily.
"The point is, sir, he might have been, shot Manningtree and come back. Both Wynne and the butler heard the shot at about half-past eleven—though both of them thought it was a door slamming."
"No one else? That's odd."
"It is in a way. They were upstairs, and I suspect the sound came through the window. And in the end, sir, none of them had an alibi except Fareham, and all had acted strangely."
"H'm... Four. Five counting the girl. And that's your list of suspects? If you've ruled out Wynne—"
"I haven't, sir. I've ruled out his shooting Manningtree accidentally. He might have some motive we don't know of."
"Good God!" the Colonel said rather heavily.
"And still less have I ruled out George Petworth," Hayle said grimly. "Because he might have engineered Wynne's mistake to suit himself."
"He guessed Wynne had made a mistake and came to look."
"That's what he says this morning... But he didn't last night. He gave no intelligible explanation at all, except that he'd made a mistake."
Colonel Chedder considered. "Plenty of choice, eh?" he said at last. "It's a question of pinning it down to one of 'em... You'll have plenty to do, Hayle."
Hayle flushed a little. "Then you weren't thinking of calling in the Yard, sir?" he asked. "Last night you mentioned—"
"Yard? What do we want with them? You feel equal to it, eh?"
"I hope so, sir."
"Got all the men you want? Right. Then you'd better carry on. Got any line to work on?"
"I think so, sir." Hayle had suddenly remembered the morse message. He hesitated for a moment; then decided not to reveal it just then. "In fact, there's plenty, sir—"
Colonel Chedder rose. "I'll have a look round myself," he said firmly. "No. You needn't come. I'd just like to have a chat with one or two of 'em. Nothing like seeing them yourself... See you later—"
It was with mixed feelings that Hayle watched his departure. It was true that he had gained his main point and was to be left in charge. On the other hand, he had scarcely counted on the active co-operation of the Chief Constable, and rather dreaded the effect that his superior's over-blunt questions and elephantine diplomacy might have on any suspect. With a sigh he moved towards the French window and went out into the garden.
He had walked to the end of the terrace before he had quite satisfied himself that from no point upon it could one see the clump of bushes from which he had seen the signals an hour earlier. That seemed to leave only the upper windows. There were three which were likely, and one possible—Doune's, Fareham's and his daughter's. So far as he could see, any of them might have been on the look-out. He would have to try to find out where they were at the time. But the possibility made things even worse. It was the bathroom window, and as such available to anyone.
Stepping back into the shade of a laurestinus bush on the terrace edge, he scrutinised the front of the house. Of the three, Fareham's perhaps provided the best view.
Suddenly he was aware of someone coming towards him along the terrace. Mere instinct made him back into the bush, and he peered through the branches carefully. It was Doune. He was walking quickly, like a man with some definite object in view, glancing back from time to time as though to see if anyone was following. He disappeared down the steps at the far end, and Hayle heard the clicking of a gate latch.
He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven, and the Chief Constable had said an hour. Probably he would be quite happy for even longer. He hesitated. Not to be available when the Colonel wanted him might easily ruin everything. Suddenly an idea flashed through his mind. Eleven! It had not referred to "them" whatever they might have been. It had been an appointment for that time; and Doune was going to keep it at that moment.
Hayle did not hesitate. Waiting for a minute until his quarry should have a fair start, he was on the very point of following when the sound of footsteps on the pavement made him turn quickly. Someone else was coming along the terrace, and this time there was no mistaking the light, quick footsteps. It was a woman. He parted the boughs cautiously and looked through. Winifred Fareham was hurrying towards him.
ON the whole, Timothy was inclined to regard the events of the night in a philosophic spirit. His apprehension by the police and his conditional release appeared in retrospect to be stimulating rather than otherwise. The Inspector had been quite decent. He had not even been disposed to raise the question of housebreaking, much less to query Timothy's version of what had happened in Manningtree's room. So that, on being told he was free to go but must remain available, Timothy had adjourned quite cheerfully to the inn, wired for the rest of his luggage, and after an early breakfast gone to bed.
Except for the stiffness of his left arm, he was completely himself again when he awoke four hours later. It was a beautiful morning, sunny and just pleasantly warm; and having ascertained from the landlord that there had been no messages or inquiries for him, he ordered a pint of beer, and sat on the verandah sipping it while he considered his further action.
Two things rankled. First, there was George's inexplicable conduct. Admittedly he had been hit on the nose; but that had been an error, and might have happened to anyone. It was no reason for behaving like a bear with a sore head, utterly refusing conversation, and, when he was released some time before Timothy, disappearing without a word to say where he was going. If anything, Timothy felt that the grievance had been on his side. It had been George's idiotic direction which had caused him to be involved in the affair at all. Thinking it over, Timothy felt that George owed him an explanation, and he was determined to get one.
Then there was the girl. The more he thought about her, the more puzzled he became. Presumably she was the daughter of whom Fareham had spoken. In that case his first impression had been wrong, and her presence in the house legitimate. Even so, what was she doing in Manningtree's bedroom, ransacking Manningtree's drawers? What did she want with the cheques, and how had she come to be carrying the gun?
Timothy frowned at his beer mug. There might be some reasonable story to account for all that, but what lingered in his mind unpleasantly was her treatment of himself. Pretending to help him get away, she had deliberately sent him into danger.
Timothy thought that over; then without very much reason rejected it utterly. Whatever she might be, the girl was not a murderess. Unless she had been utterly desperate, she could not have killed Manningtree. Except by accident? In any case he must see her. The question was just how?
He thought it over carefully. Again the answer seemed to be that he must see George. George was a neighbour of the Farehams. He probably knew her, and could arrange some kind of an interview. In that case, the first thing to do was to find him. Since he was not at the inn, in all probability he had gone to his uncle's. At least he would go there first. He finished his beer and was on the point of starting when another thought struck him.
Perhaps Inspector Hayle had not been so guileless as he had looked. It was a common police dodge to release people and have them watched. Someone might be shadowing him, at that moment. He looked around the verandah. There were three other guests on it when he arrived, and he had paid little enough attention to them. One was a pretty, quiet-looking girl with brown hair and pleasant blue eyes who sat knitting just to the left of the doorway. She seemed harmless enough. And yet, even as he decided that she was, she looked up covertly, dropping her eyes quickly as they met his. She had been watching him. But then, she was certainly not a police woman. Probably everyone in the inn was curious about him for that matter.
He turned his attention to the other two, and as he did so he was aware that their eyes dropped hastily. They were not merely looking at him but were talking about him. He was sure of that. And in any case, he was not favourably impressed. The man was thin, dark, delicate-looking and very pale—rather a weed, in fact, Timothy decided. And he was certainly nervous. He seemed to have difficulty in keeping still.
The woman might have been pale too. One had no chance to judge. She was pretty enough, though heavily made up; but of a type which had always scared Timothy thoroughly. There was a confidence in her manner which was almost boldness. And just when he had decided that, whatever she might have been, she too could hardly be a police spy, she looked up quite deliberately, smiled at him and then rose to her feet.
Timothy felt completely taken aback. He sat and stared at her as she crossed the verandah towards him.
"Good morning." She smiled quite pleasantly as he rose to his feet. "Haven't I met you before? I'm afraid I've forgotten your name. I'm so stupid that way—"
"Wynne," Timothy supplied automatically; then floundered. "I don't think I remember—"
"Wynne?" She echoed the name, and the faintest pucker of a frown appeared. "Didn't I meet you at Oxford?"
The words decided Timothy, but in a way she could not have expected. For a moment he had actually thought he might have met her somewhere; but not at Oxford. His existence there had been riotous occasionally, but strictly celibate. The idea that he could conceivably have met anyone of that type there was absurd. She was trying to scrape an acquaintance with him.
"I don't think—" he began, paused, then plunged rudely. "No. I'm sure there's some mistake."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." Her words were apologetic, though she had raised her eyebrows a little at his tone. For a moment a calculating look showed on her face; then she smiled frankly. "You're quite right," she confessed. "We haven't met before... The truth is I was curious."
Timothy could think of nothing to say. He simply stared.
"Oh?" he said at last
"It was you—wasn't it? Up at the house last night? Everyone is saying so. I wondered. Is it true? Cha—Mr. Manningtree. He—he's dead?"
Just what the emotion was which made her last words falter Timothy could not decide. Her eyes were fixed upon his face, and it seemed to him that they burned with a fierce eagerness.
"I think I'd better not say anything," Timothy managed to say after a long pause. "The police—"
"But it is true? It's really true that he's dead?"
"Well, I suppose I can say that," Timothy admitted hesitantly. "He's dead."
Her expression changed suddenly. All at once her face was an enigmatic mask. Then she smiled.
"I suppose you think my asking is perfectly dreadful," she said sweetly. "But I couldn't help it. Thank you so much."
Timothy had no words to answer as she turned away. All at once he was aware that the quiet-looking girl had been an interested spectator, and probably a listener. He flushed furiously, and it was more with the idea of escape than of anything else that he turned blindly and hurried through the door. In the reception hall he paused for a moment and wiped the perspiration from his brow. He had made an ass of himself, no doubt; but it had all been so unexpected. That woman— He was suddenly aware that the landlord was approaching, carrying a large book in his hand.
"Excuse me, sir," he apologised. "If you wouldn't mind signing the register... With the police about like this—"
Timothy obeyed without a word. Then above his own signature he noticed the two fresh entries—one dated that morning, and one the day before. Automatically he read them.
"Mr. and Mrs. Mayence, Mary Cunningham."
He handed the book back. The landlord blotted it carefully, and closed it.
"Going out, sir?" he asked respectfully. "You'll want lunch?"
"Just for a walk... Yes." Timothy hesitated. "Mr. Petworth's house. Just where is that?"
"Up the lane a little piece—just by the church... Well, sir, it's almost opposite Mr. Fareham's—where—"
"Thank you," Timothy said curtly, and went out.
There was little enough of the village. Only the hotel, relying on the holiday traffic to the little cove below, was of any size. Otherwise three shops, a post office, the church and a Methodist chapel seemed to comprise the principal buildings, and there was not a great deal besides. But it seemed to Timothy that the whole place was one big stare. He did not know if any detective was watching him as he turned up the lane; but everyone else was.
His spirits revived as he walked up the narrow road beside the stream. The village might be curious enough to stare; it was polite enough not to follow. And it seemed as though Hayle had neglected the elementary precaution of having him shadowed. He satisfied himself on that point in the first quarter of a mile, and that very fact reassured him. By daylight the walk seemed shorter than it had done the previous night. It was only a brief time before he came in sight of the twin white gates facing each other across the road.
Last night, however the mistake had arisen, he had taken the one to the left. The one to the right must actually lead to Three Gables. And there, presumably, there would only be the ancient butler of whom George had spoken. Everything seemed plain sailing. And then, from the opening of the gate leading to Fareham's house, a tall helmeted figure stepped out into the road. It was a policeman.
Timothy drew back instinctively. There was nothing wrong about his going to see George. Of course the policeman had been put there to keep away possible sightseers. But he would certainly see that Timothy went to Three Gables, and report it. When he came to think it over, Timothy was not too keen on that. There was no saying what construction might be placed on the visit. If it could be avoided it would be all to the good. And suddenly he remembered a point on the road a little way back where a gap in the wall had led to what had seemed as though it might be a short cut. At the time he had thought about taking it. Now he decided to do so. Choosing a time when the policeman's back was turned, he started to retrace his steps, and in half a dozen strides was safely out of sight.
The gap was a bare thirty yards away. And yet, if he were seen going that way, it would look worse than if he boldly walked past the policeman. He seated himself on the wall of one of the bridges crossing the river and felt for a cigarette while he thought things over. He was in the very act of striking the match when he saw someone emerge into the roadway, glance up and down the lane, then scurry across into the bushes which fringed the other side. He let the match drop unheeded in his surprise. It was George.
His first thought was to shout. But the policeman would hear. He might come to investigate. The only course was to follow and overtake him; though at the pace George had been setting that might take some doing. In a moment he had started down the lane towards the point at which his friend had vanished.
It was easy enough to find. There was a rough track up through the bracken and gorse directly opposite the hole in the wall. He could hear George somewhere just ahead, and wondered whether to risk a shout. The question was how George would react to it. He might bolt for cover immediately. On the whole the best course seemed to be to go on. After a few yards the track led to a thick fence and hedge, the boundary, he guessed, of Fareham's property, and continued up the slope along it.
George was still invisible, but still audible ahead. The path reached the end of the fence, turned at right angles, and continued around the back of the garden for a space, before heading up the hill between isolated clumps of gorse and blackberries to a ragged group of trees, beyond which it wound up the bare hillside.
He had a glimpse of George, judged that he had not gained much and put on a spurt. They were dodging now from clump to clump, and some of the time at least must have been visible to anyone watching from the upper windows of the house, which could be seen above the hedge. George was just entering the trees. Above them the path took a sharp bend. Timothy was wondering whether he could cut off the corner and so draw nearer when he suddenly realised that George had not reappeared at the other side of the cover. For a moment he stopped. Apparently George had reached the point he had intended. Then from a clump of gorse just the other side the figure of a girl emerged. He had a momentary glimpse of a tweed costume and a slim, graceful figure, before she too disappeared.
Timothy halted in the shelter of the gorse clump, completely at a loss. To spy on them seemed abominable and yet— What had George got to do with it? Had the whole thing been a plot between them? He had no thought but that it was the girl he had seen in Manningtree's room the night before. And he wanted desperately to see both of them. Perhaps the best thing to do was to go right on and confront them. He hesitated, trying to make up his mind one way or the other. Quite suddenly his sense of injury overcame his scruples. He set his jaw and started up the hill, keeping his eyes on the clump.
There was no sign from the two inside. Perhaps they had not seen him. He had nearly reached the trees. Through the branches he had a glimpse of a light-coloured costume. The girl was seated upon a stump, looking up towards the clay-pit. He could see nothing of George. Then something moving on the far side of the clump caught his eye. George was going down the hill in the direction by which the girl had ascended.
Timothy hesitated only for a moment. The girl was still there, and it was with the girl that he was most anxious to speak. He started forward again. On the green turf his footsteps were noiseless, though he made no special effort at secrecy. In any case the girl was otherwise employed. Shading her eyes with her hand, she was looking at something across the valley, precisely what he could not make out. Whatever it was, she was so intent upon it that she did not hear him even when he was a few yards away. Timothy decided to speak. He could not creep upon her like that. He called gently.
"Miss Fareham! Miss Fareham! I—"
The girl sprang to her feet with a little cry and turned to face him.
"Oh! Who—?"
Timothy might have asked precisely the same question. For it was a perfect stranger who faced him. Undeniably she was a pretty girl; undeniably the costumes were not dissimilar, though he noted automatically, not by any means the same. If he had had a fair view he would have known at once. There was even a faint resemblance in figure. But it was certainly not the girl who had held him up.
COLONEL CHEDDER'S methods of tackling the case had the merit of simplicity. He poured himself another whisky and soda and lit a pipe. Then he thumbed through the reports rapidly, snorting at intervals as his eye caught some passage which was particularly offensive to him. He finished the whisky and soda, brooded for a moment, then rang the bell. He was scowling so fiercely at the empty glass when the butler entered that Whitley instinctively glanced towards the tray. But no. The supply was not exhausted, and the Colonel's first words showed that he had more serious matters on his mind.
"Whitley," he said solemnly, "this is a bad business, eh?"
The butler inclined his head in grave assent. "Yes, sir," he agreed. "It appears to be a most mysterious affair, sir."
The Colonel nodded. "I understand you heard the shot, Whitley?"
"Yes, sir. That is to say, I heard something that might have been the shot, sir."
"You didn't know it was one at the time?"
"No, sir. I thought it was a door slamming."
"What time was it you heard the shot?"
"As near as possible at half-past eleven, sir."
"You were upstairs then?"
"In Mr. Fareham's room, sir."
"Was Mr. Fareham there?"
"Not at the time, sir. He came in almost immediately afterwards to change his clothes."
"Almost immediately, eh? What d'you mean by that?"
"A minute, sir. Two the outside."
Chedder nodded approval. If Fareham had been in his room one minute, or even two, after the firing of the shot, it seemed almost inconceivable that he could have been downstairs at the time it was fired. That seemed to be one alibi established—or rather two; for the same reasoning cleared Whitley.
"And while that young foo— While Mr. Wynne was running about upstairs, you heard nothing."
"I was in the other wing, sir. It was unlikely that I should hear anything, except perhaps when he went downstairs."
"And you didn't hear that?"
"No, sir, at least—I don't think so, sir."
The Colonel glared at him. "Damn it, you did hear something, then?"
"Well, sir, I can't be sure. I fancied I heard a door close, sir."
"Manningtree's, you mean."
"No, sir. I actually looked out, sir, in case anyone was wanting me... It would have been a door quite close, sir."
"Now," the Colonel said solemnly, "was that before or after the shot?
"A minute or two before, sir."
"And whose room would you have said it was?"
"Mr. Doune's—or Miss Fareham's, sir."
"And Miss Fareham was in bed."
"I understand so, sir."
"Anything else that's struck you?"
Whitley hesitated. "I can hardly say, sir. When I showed the Inspector Mr. Manningtree's room this morning, it occurred to me, sir, that the drawers of his desk might have been opened."
"Why?"
"There was a small corner of paper sticking out, sir. It would not have been like Mr. Manningtree, sir, to leave it like that. He was exceptionally tidy, if I may say so, sir."
"You didn't mention that to the Inspector?"
"It only really occurred to me afterwards, sir."
"Right." Chedder gave a satisfied nod. "That's very helpful, Whitley—very helpful... And now— Where's Mr. Fareham?"
"I believe, sir, that he is still breakfasting. He retired very late, sir."
"I'd better see him... No, you needn't disturb him. I'll go along there—"
He found Fareham just on the point of finishing a meal which had obviously been in no way diminished by the thought of the murder. Colonel Chedder felt slightly shocked.
"This is a bad business, Fareham," he said at last, without any great originality. "About Manningtree. I'd never have thought anything like that could have happened here."
Fareham nodded. There was no emotion on his face, except a slightly rueful expression.
"It's a bad business for me," he admitted.
"For you?" Chedder was startled. "What on earth—?"
"If he'd lived, a year or two would have seen me out of the wood." Fareham smiled. "You don't know the benefits of associating with a great financier—who believes you have something to give him."
Chedder grunted. He thoroughly disapproved of Fareham's attitude.
"It beats me why you ever had the man here," he said a little irritably after a pause. "Damn it, he was a perfect bounder—"
"De mortuis—" suggested Fareham. "I've given you the reason. I wanted the cash. First, from the rent of the house. And then he relied on me to get him into society by the back stairs somehow. On the other hand, he was teaching me the practical arts of which he was an undoubted master." He sighed.
"Good lord!" Chedder looked his surprise. "You don't mean to say you were going into that business?"
"Why not? My ancestors were business men—in the sense that they acquired the biggest proportion of this world's goods they could by the means best adapted to the times. It was fighting then. Now—" He shrugged his shoulders. "You know best if you get rich at that nowadays, Colonel! My family got poor because it failed to change with the times, and I was going to make up for them."
Chedder frowned his disapproval. Having his own money solidly invested in gilt-edged, he felt a profound distaste for financiers.
"You'd never have done that," he protested.
"Why, I have done it to some extent... Though if Manningtree had lived, perhaps—" He broke off, and for the first time a shade crossed his face. "Poor devil," he said with real sympathy. "Perhaps if he had lived—"
"Surely you didn't like the fellow?" Chedder demanded.
"Well, that's hard to say. He was a useful instrument for my purpose. I confess his conversation was scarcely sparkling."
"Separated from his wife, wasn't he? What was it? Another woman?"
"Oh no. Not 'another'. Not even one was the trouble."
"I don't see what you mean," Chedder said bewilderedly. "They were married all right?"
"Certainly. Manningtree's attitude seems to have been that a wife was a useful thing to have about the house, and possibly a social asset. He looked round for one that filled the bill, paid a fair market price, and expected her to get on with the business. She tired of it. Ran off with another man... I can't honestly say that I blame her."
"He divorced her?"
"Oh, no. He wasn't the man to call a business deal off." Fareham smiled cynically. "There may even have been some jealousy. At any rate, he wanted to punish her. If she was going with the other man, she wouldn't be respectable."
A sudden thought struck Chedder. "You don't think—?" he began and broke off. "That might be a sort of motive, you know. Get him out of the way—"
The idea seemed to take Fareham aback a little. "I saw her once. She wasn't exactly my idea of a murderess... Besides, a week or two ago they were in the South of France."
"They might have come back. I'll have it looked into." He paused. "Who the devil could have done it?" he demanded.
"Plenty of people, I should think. You don't make a fortune that way without taking it from someone. Perhaps a business friend whom he'd ruined."
Chedder frowned. "Any reason for suggesting that?" he demanded.
"Perhaps I had... You've heard what Royton says—about threatening letters—"
"I've not seen him yet. That might not be business."
"Perhaps not. But business was so much the more interesting and important part of his life that I'm open to bet that if he were killed it would be for business reasons."
Chedder nodded. He thought for a minute or two. "But it must have been someone in the house," he said. "Someone who knew him. The gun was his own—"
"Then you take your pick of us!" Fareham suggested lightly. "Myself, Bowmore, Royton, Doune—"
He lingered a little on the last name. "That is, if Doune could see to shoot."
"Don't forget Wynne and Petworth."
"Petworth doesn't seem to have been inside, or to have had any conceivable motive. He didn't know Manningtree, and could hardly have had the gun. Wynne—" He smiled. "Hardly. I like that boy."
The Colonel remembered suddenly one reason for the interview.
"How about the servants?" he demanded with what was for him unusual subtlety. "D'you think any of them—?"
"Well, why on earth should they? They never murdered me... He may have been a little irritating at times, but murder—"
"They've all got alibis," Chedder admitted. "That is, except Whitley. And it's plain from his manner that he couldn't stand Manningtree."
"Good heavens!" Fareham's eyebrows rose. "Whitley! He thought for a moment. Besides, I don't see how he could have done it. He was with me a minute after—that is, if the shot really was fired at half-past? I didn't hear it—"
"I'd better get along," Chedder said with something very like a sigh. "There are one or two I'd like to see yet—"
Fareham smiled. "I thought Chief Constables merely acted in a supervisory capacity?" he suggested.
"My dear fellow," Chedder protested. "Hayle's a good chap, but he's young, and he hasn't had my experience, you know. Thought I'd better give him a hand. After all, murder's got to be punished."
There was a certain sympathy in Fareham's smile. "I wonder, Colonel," he said, "if you're sincere with yourself. Isn't there any thrill in hunting, the noblest game of all? I don't say in the hanging of the murderer, but in the matching of your wits against his—"
He was interrupted. Both men swung around, as the door was burst violently open.
"What the deuce—?" Chedder demanded irritably.
Probably his astonishment was not half so great as Fareham's. He had not had the privilege of knowing Royton and his peculiar cult of correctness. And it was the secretary who had burst in so unceremoniously, waving a paper in one hand.
"There's another!" he burst out without preliminary. "It's just come, sir, and it was sent before—before—"
"Now, Royton," Fareham said soothingly. "You seem excited. Suppose you explained just what is the matter?"
Royton stared at him for a moment; then his hand dropped to his side and he flushed.
"A letter has just arrived by post, sir," he said in something more like his usual voice. "It was given to me as usual, sir, and I opened it without thinking—"
"Well?" Chedder demanded.
"A letter, sir—threatening Mr. Manningtree! And, sir, it was posted before—before he was killed. He should have got it yesterday, sir!"
Colonel Chedder accepted the paper which he offered a little dubiously. Holding it by the extreme edge, he unfolded it.
"Threats, eh?" he said. "Let's see—"
He frowned at the paper for a moment. Fareham could see that it was a single typewritten sheet, apparently without signature. Then the Chief Constable looked up at him.
"What d'you make of this, Fareham?" he demanded, and with a fine disregard of professional secrecy read aloud: "'I am utterly desperate. You shall answer me. You shall do it. We shall be arriving at the village to-morrow. If you do not see me you will regret it.'"
HAYLE'S first emotion was one of mere surprise. He backed automatically into the bush again, praying that his luck would hold for a second time. And then he was conscious of a certain exasperation. If he had to wait until the girl was out of sight, it would make it almost impossible to follow Doune. Of course, he could follow the girl; but it was Doune he was most interested in. As the quick footsteps approached the thought flashed through his mind that perhaps she and Doune were going to the same place, and had for some reason arranged a meeting away from the house. In that case—
The girl never glanced round as she passed. Hayle had a full view of her face. Wherever she was going, it was certainly not for a casual stroll. The haste alone would have been against that; her expression left no doubt. She was worried about something; she was in a desperate hurry to get somewhere. As he watched her down the path to the gate, Hayle wondered what on earth could be taking her from the house secretly at such a time. Perhaps she, and not Doune, was the person to whom the message had been flashed. He had no time to think it over.
At the very first minute when the hedge had hidden her and he heard the gate click, he was himself running silently along the terrace.
Three steps led from the terrace to the level of the garden. Then the path curved slightly before reaching the gate. Hayle had had no chance to see which way either of them had turned, and the track on to which the wicket gave, went up and down the hill, in neither direction straight enough to give a view of more than three or four yards.
He swore under his breath. Which way had they gone? Or had they gone different ways? It was still Doune that he really wanted. He glanced down at the ground. Just by the gate, it was hard gravel; beyond, a short green turf which made the idea of any tracks impossible. For a full minute he stood listening before he was rewarded. Faintly there came to his ears the snapping of a twig. He was almost certain that it was up the hill. He had to chance it. Without further hesitation he started to hurry up the hill.
The path was infuriatingly crooked. It wound between the gorse and bracken, never straight for more than a yard or two, and never allowing him a glimpse of what lay ahead. From the trees of the garden on his left he realised that he must almost have reached the end of Fareham's garden. Listen as he might, there was no sound from ahead to show that he was on the right track; but he kept his eyes on the ground hopefully, and as the track dodged a big boulder his patience was suddenly rewarded. The small trickle of a stream ran across to join the ditch by the garden hedge, and for a few feet the grass gave way to soft mud. Outlined in it clearly were three small footprints obviously fresh, for the water was only beginning to trickle into them.
For an instant he halted. He was following the girl, then Doune must have turned the other way, unless he had deliberately jumped the soft patch. But it was too late to turn back. Instead, he started to hurry forward, with more haste than was wise. Quite unexpectedly he found himself on the open hillside just above the garden, with only isolated patches of brushwood hiding parts of the track ahead. He could see it winding right up the hill, and there was no sign of the person he sought.
Almost immediately he had slipped back into the cover of the bracken; but he might have been visible long enough. Where had the girl gone? She could certainly not have reached the top of the path. There was only one explanation that he could think of. She must be hiding in one of the scattered clumps, perhaps with the very intention of watching the way she had come, and in that case she would most certainly have seen him.
That made it almost hopeless. He could not search the whole of the slope. It would be no good if he did. And, after all, it had been Doune in whom he had been most interested. He glanced backwards. From that elevation the track could be seen for some distance, descending towards the lane, and then by an irregular, dark mark showing itself on the opposite side. And quite suddenly he called himself several kinds of fool and glanced at his watch.
He had been a complete idiot. It wanted only two minutes to eleven. If he had had time to think he would have realised that in all probability Doune would have gone in the direction from which the light had flashed that morning. And the dark line of the path, so far as he could see it, seemed to lead almost straight towards the place where Manningtree's house was to have stood.
He could do nothing where he was. If the girl had seen him, it must resolve itself into a matter of patience; they could both hide until one of them was tired. Hayle had scarcely time for that. And it would be no good if he did. He could ask her for an explanation; she could tell him a lie. But there was still hope. Now that he knew the meeting place, he might arrive there at least before the interview had ended. He turned abruptly and started back the way he had come even quicker than he had ascended, furious with himself for his own stupidity.
He had crossed the lane before he had the slightest confirmation that he was on the right track. Then another soft patch gave him what he wanted. Doune, or at least some man, had passed there only a few minutes before. He stopped just long enough to make sure of that. It was only after he started that he realised there had been other tracks too, those of a woman, going and returning. They had been fairly fresh, he thought, but not so fresh as the man's. And he had no time to deal with them just then.
The path was not behaving as he could have wished. It was veering to the left, wide of the house site, and tending towards the clay-pit. Only a portion of it had been visible from where he had seen it, and this part had turned. It was not going to the place from which the signals had been flashed. But Doune must certainly have come this way. He could hardly have left it without plunging into the bracken and leaving some traces.
Another track met it at a sharp angle. Obviously that would lead to the place from which he had seen the flashes. He was on the point of taking it when his keen nostrils caught something which made him change his mind. It was the smell of burning paper.
The wind was blowing from the other track. The fire, whatever it might be, had quite possibly no connection with the man he was following; but it probably showed someone was there. He might at least be able to find out whether anyone had passed. Exasperatingly, the ground offered no help whatever; but he decided to follow the slight indication that there was. Turning along the main path, he crept stealthily forward.
Abruptly the bracken walls on each side fell back. It was a good thing that he had been going carefully, for he found himself on the edge of a small clearing. His first impression was of dazzling whiteness. Right ahead lay the pyramid dumps of the clay-pit; a few feet to one side, the ground dropped sheer to a thick, milky pool of some size. But neither of these interested him. To the right, a little back from the path, stood a ruined stone hut, apparently at some time an outbuilding of the clayworks. And seated on the doorstep barely a dozen yards away was Doune.
He was alone. His elbows were on his knees, and his head was buried in his hands in an attitude of utter dejection. From the ground almost between his feet a tiny spiral of smoke ascended above the little pile of papers which burnt there. Whatever they might be, they were almost consumed. Only a few scraps were still smouldering around the black ashes in the centre. If Hayle was to know what it was, he would have to act at once. Without hesitation, he advanced into the open.
Doune had not heard him coming. He seemed to be so immersed in his thoughts that he never noticed Hayle until he spoke.
"Good morning, Mr. Doune."
The young man jumped to his feet with a queer little cry. For a moment, there was something very like terror on his face. Then he saw who it was. Surprisingly, his fear vanished. He scowled; then gave a quick, guilty glance down at the pile of ashes.
So did Hayle. He was already too late. The fire had smouldered out, even in the few seconds it had taken him to cross the clearing. But he might not be. Even burnt papers could often be read; or at least one might be able to tell what they had been. Then Doune looked up, and there was an expression of anxiety on his face.
"What—what—?" he began and stopped.
"Nice morning, isn't it?" Hayle said cheerfully. He was wondering whether Doune had noticed the direction of his glance.
"Yes. I—" Doune began, and stopped. He eyed the Inspector frowningly for a moment. "What do you want?" he demanded. Then, before Hayle could make any attempt to stop him, his right foot moved quickly, crushing the smoking heap into the earth. He scowled, and burst out furiously:
"What the devil do you mean by following me?"
Hayle's eyes dropped only for a moment to the right foot. It was grinding the ashes into the earth. However angry Doune might be, or appear to be, he was in his senses enough to try to eliminate all traces of what he had been doing.
"Following you?" Hayle echoed innocently. "Of course, I'd no idea you'd come this way, Mr. Doune.... Why should I follow you?"
Doune gave a short, artificial laugh.
"Sorry, Inspector," he apologised. "I'm afraid my nerves are rather on edge. "This business—" He broke off, and for a moment there seemed to be real emotion in his voice. "You see, I owed him nearly everything," he said at last. "And to think that—that he's dead—"
Hayle nodded sympathetically. There was no doubt about the state of Doune's nerves; but then, an overindulgence in port might well produce that effect next morning. And the emotion in the young man's voice might not be grief.
"Naturally, Mr. Doune," he assented. "You'd been with him for years, I believe?"
"Yes... He educated me—sent me to Oxford, and was going to take me into the business—"
"You were his secretary, in fact, for a time, sir, I think?"
For some reason that seemed to shake Doune. He hesitated perceptibly.
"In a sense I was," he admitted. "That is, when he was at home I sometimes did odd jobs... But he was a man who liked to keep things in his own hands."
"Until Mr. Royton came?"
"Royton?" Doune scowled. "Oh, yes... I suppose he found things were getting too much for him. And that fellow—"
He broke off, but his tone as well as his expression had left no doubt concerning his sentiments with regard to Royton.
Hayle smiled. "He's not exactly an appealing character in most ways—Mr. Royton," he said with an appearance of candour. "But I believe he was an excellent secretary?"
"I suppose so. I could never stand him. And he couldn't me. It—"
Whatever he might have been going to say, he stopped himself in time. Hayle felt that he was getting nowhere, and the young man was steadily recovering his self-possession.
"So you just came out for a walk?" he suggested.
"Yes." Doune shot a quick glance at him. "I—I couldn't stand that place any longer."
"I'm a great believer in walking myself when I want to think things over," Hayle said quite truthfully. "That was partly why I came out just now—"
"Partly?"
"Yes." Hayle had decided to try a long shot. "I hoped I might meet someone here."
Doune started perceptibly. "Meet someone?" he demanded. "Who?"
"Oh, you wouldn't know her," he said casually. "A young lady."
The effect of his words was immediate. Doune paled, then flushed a deep, angry red. He eyed the Inspector angrily.
"She—she wouldn't—!" he burst out. "She didn't tell you? She promised—" broke off. "You damned liar!"
Without another word he turned, brushed furiously past the Inspector, and started back down the path. Hayle watched him go. Certainly he had obtained a reaction to his remark, and he knew something that he had not known before. But he was far from sure it had been wise. Doune was on his guard now. He knew that he was suspected of something. But he had at least feared it before. He looked down at the place where the fire had been. Doune's foot had done its work well. The ashes were mere powder, driven into the mud. There would be no learning anything from them. And then, just where Doune had been standing, he saw a scrap of white.
He stared at it for several seconds. It had not been there a minute or two before. He had been watching the heap and Doune's feet too carefully to have missed it. Hoping against hope he stooped to pick it up; and then the mystery of its appearance was explained. One side was blank. On this side, outlined in the mud, was the pattern of a rubber sole. And on the other, grimed though it was from its contact with the ashes, he could make out a trace of pink lettering. He spelt it out.
"...sterbankwestminst..."
There was no doubt that it was a part of a cheque; and no doubt too, that it was a cheque on the same bank as that one which Wynne had found in the bedroom. Its sudden appearance was plain enough. Doune, intending to destroy the last trace of the papers, had actually saved it. If he had not trodden on the ashes, it would probably have charred away with the rest; instead, it had stuck to the damp sole of his boot.
Here was positive evidence of something. Just what, Hayle was not quite sure, but it seemed to establish some sort of connection between Doune and Manningtree's bedroom. Hayle stooped and began to gather together the mixed ashes and mud from the ground carefully, transferring it to an empty envelope. It might be no good; but there was no saying what a laboratory could do. He was still busy with his task when a voice behind him made him turn quickly.
"Hullo, Inspector. Botanising?"
George Petworth stood looking down at him only three or four yards away. How long he had been there, Hayle had no idea. The grass had deadened his footsteps as they had his own when he came upon Doune.
It was disconcerting. Even more so, perhaps, was the fact that George, who during his examination had been irritable and suspicious, seemed suddenly to have recovered both his temper and his self-confidence. He grinned at Hayle as he rose to his feet.
"This looks like the real thing, Inspector," he said admiringly. "Cigar ash as a clue, what? The Sherlock Holmes touch?"
Hayle smiled because it seemed the best thing to do.
"Good morning, sir," he said. "I hope your nose is better?"
Quite obviously it was not. George's grin became a shade less cheerful. Hayle decided to strike while the iron was hot and to get in another one.
"Have you seen Mr. Wynne at all this morning?" he asked quite conversationally. "You'll be stopping at the inn with him?"
Actually, he was perfectly aware where both of them had spent the night; but it was just as well to convey a wrong impression if possible. He was wondering how George came to be there at all. Had he come to meet Doune? Or someone else? At least his questions had their desired effect in knocking the bounce out of George. The young man's smile became distinctly less assured.
"I stayed at my uncle's," he answered briefly. "I haven't seen Wynne."
"Ah, the one whose house Mr. Wynne ought to have burgled? Queer mistake that, if you gave him the proper directions, wasn't it?"
"Not at all. He'd never been here before. Not to either house. He must have mistaken his right for his left or something."
"But you gave him a plan of the route?" It was at that moment reposing in Hayle's breast pocket. "I understood him to say—"
"Yes, I did," George admitted. "But—" He frowned. "I can't think how he could have gone wrong," he admitted. "Except that we'd just had dinner and—well—"
Hayle smiled. Timothy had suggested that George was drunk; George was returning the compliment.
"You only drove him as far as the village, I understand," he said. "Just why was that? I should have thought it would have been better all round if you'd taken him to the house—"
"I was going to stop at the inn—" George began uncertainly.
"But you didn't," Hayle countered.
"Well, I had somewhere else to go."
"Mr. Manningtree's?"
"Why the devil should I?"
"But you did go," Hayle pointed out.
"Yes—but—" George was not a good liar. "That was afterwards. When it occurred to me that there might have been some mistake—"
"Then you'd been to your uncle's already? Otherwise you could hardly know that he hadn't gone there."
"Of course," George assented dubiously.
"No doubt the servant could tell us about that?"
"I didn't see him. I let myself in with my key—"
"The front door?"
"Of course."
Hayle frowned thoughtfully. "Then why should your man lie?" he asked. "He said that he shot the bolts on the door as usual as well as locking up—"
He had said nothing of the kind, but it was sufficient to draw George.
"I didn't exactly go in—" he began; then flared up. "What the devil is all this?"
"I suppose you wouldn't care to say where it was you were going when you dropped Mr. Wynne? Did you go there?"
"No!" George snapped, and it might have been an answer to either question or both. "I've had enough of—"
"Then I won't detain you," Hayle said politely. "I'm rather busy myself... By the way, I'm afraid it's no use your waiting. Mr. Doune's gone."
"Doune? He was here? This time George was startled. Then it was he—"
"You weren't expecting him?"
"No. I just happened to see him coming this way—"
The only possible place from which George could have seen him, Hayle decided, was from the other side of the valley near Fareham's house; at least at such a distance that he could not be sure who it was; but he left that point for the moment.
"I was talking to him only a few minutes ago," he said thoughtfully. "Oh, and that reminds me... When you were walking around the house, Mr. Petworth, you would pass quite close to Mr. Manningtree's study window. Was it open at the time?"
"I didn't walk around the house. I didn't pass Manningtree's window. I told you that I'd only just come—"
George was reduced to the defensive again. At least, Hayle reflected, he was making denials in large quantities, and some of them could be proved or disproved.
"That's very odd," he said, and paused. "Mr. Doune—"
This time he did not have to tell the whole lie. George understood it for himself.
"If Doune said he saw me there, he's a damned liar!" he flared out.
"But Mr. Doune was definite—"
"He's got reason to be... You might ask why Manningtree suddenly dropped him like a hot brick; why he stopped being his secretary; why—"
George seemed to realise that he was letting his anger get the better of him. He broke off abruptly; glared at Hayle for a moment, then turned and strode away up the path.
"I might," Hayle murmured to himself; then smiled. "I wonder if policemen ever get to heaven?"
THE girl was the first to recover her self-possession. She looked at Timothy and the alarm faded from her face. Unexpectedly, she smiled.
"You wanted me?" she asked.
"Er—no!" Timothy blurted out. "I'm sorry... There's some mistake... I thought—"
"A mistake?" Her eyebrows rose a little. "But you called my name—?"
"Oh!" Timothy said blankly. "Then you're—you're—?"
"I am Winifred Fareham... It's Mr. Wynne, isn't it?"
Timothy nodded.
"I know we haven't met, but I've seen you through the window. And George has spoken to me about you."
"Oh," Timothy said again; but this time with rather less bewilderment. He had the feeling that the fact of her knowing George probably accounted for a good deal. The one point about which he was really clear was that she was Fareham's daughter. In that case the other girl was not. He was aware all at once that he had not spoken for some time. There was a trace of alarm on the girl's face.
"There's nothing—there's nothing wrong?" she said a little anxiously.
"No," he admitted. "But, you see, I thought you were someone else."
"But you called me 'Miss Fareham'?"
"Yes. But I thought someone else was Miss Fareham... You see, I'd met a girl— She was wearing a costume very like yours. So when I saw you I thought you were her. And I wanted—well, I wanted to speak to her. But George—"
He had the feeling that the explanation was distinctly obscure.
"I see. You thought George was with the girl you'd met. And you wanted to speak to her, but you didn't want to speak to George."
"Oh, I did, you know," Timothy said hastily. "It was to speak to him I came here. But he'd gone before I could make up my mind—"
"Whether to butt in or not?" she finished for him crudely. "I see... A girl with a costume like mine— Oh!"
There was an emphasis about her last exclamation.
"What—?" Timothy asked.
"I've just remembered something... Of course, George wasn't with that girl. But he might be now!"
"What?" Timothy demanded.
"I'd better explain. You see, we met here to talk things over. George, at any rate, is more or less under suspicion for this murder."
"He said he came to look for me."
"But he doesn't think the police believe him.... But if the murderer were caught—"
She broke off. Timothy felt a little appalled at this example of the feminine viewpoint. The fact that a man had been murdered was nothing more than an inconvenience; it disturbed her interview. So the murderer had to be disposed of.
"Well, we were talking it over," she went on a little hurriedly. "And we saw Mr. Doune leave the house and cross the lane where the path comes out. And you know, I think Mr. Doune is much more likely to commit a murder than anyone else in the house. So I told George he had better follow him and see where he went."
Timothy pondered on that. "Why?" he asked at last.
"Don't you see? He might have been doing something in connection with the murder? Or seeing somebody—"
"You don't mean—that he met that girl?" he asked.
"I've an idea he may have done... I was looking out of the window this morning with a pair of field glasses—"
"Good Lord!" said Timothy. "Why?"
"Well—you can see Three Gables from there... I wanted to be sure—just to see that George was all right. And I saw the girl. She was coming along the path over the hill beyond the clay-works. I suppose she must be stopping at the farm. And it was just after that I saw the flashes—"
"Flashes?"
"As though someone was signalling... I feel certain that she must have been signalling to Doune."
Timothy was frowning. He had not been favourably impressed by Doune, and the idea of the girl knowing him was bad enough. But if George and this girl were trying to pin the murder on her— He came to a sudden decision.
"Look here, I've got to go and see about this," he said abruptly. "Where were they meeting?"
There was an amused look in her eyes. "Of course, I don't know. George will probably find out. I know that she came from the hill beyond the china-clay works. I suppose she'd go back there—"
Timothy had already started to move away. "Thanks," he said briefly. "I'm sorry... I really must go—"
"Wait!" She hurried after him. "If she does go back that way, you could meet her. Take the first path off the lane to the left. You see, it would be no good trying to catch up now—"
"Oh, thanks," Timothy said.
He was sure it was not his imagination that something very like a giggle followed him down the hill. If anything was needed to complete his dislike for Miss Winifred Fareham that did it.
As he came to the path of which Winifred Fareham had spoken, and turned along it, it came to him that perhaps he had been unjust in accusing the girl mentally of trying to get him caught. But the thought brought him no comfort; for it carried the implication that after all, she had shot Manningtree. Doune might be the real offender; but it would be the girl who would be charged with the murder. He must help her somehow. She must get away before she was found. And Doune? Timothy would cheerfully have seen Doune hung. It seemed so plain that he must have induced the girl to do it.
He must help her. He reached that conclusion just as the path emerged on to the hill-top, and joined another path which seemed to run past the clay-works on the other side of the valley. Up to that point, everything had been plain sailing; but now he had to decide what to do. The girl, Winifred Fareham had said, must be staying at 'the farm' and there was a farm in plain view about half a mile on the opposite slope of the hill. Had she returned there? He did not see how she could have done. Doune had just been crossing the lane when George went down the hill. If he were meeting the girl somewhere over the other side of the valley, it would take him ten minutes at least to get there, and the interview between them would probably take some time. In all probability she had not even started back yet. He turned to the right, along the opposite slope of the hill.
It came to him quite suddenly. In fact, he had been trying to make up his mind what he should say to the girl when he found her, when the inspiration positively obtruded itself upon his mind. Doune had been Manningtree's secretory. The girl had gone to the length of burgling Manningtree's house, apparently in order to acquire some cancelled cheques which were of no use to anyone. Unless there was something wrong about them. And if there was, Doune had been the person with the best opportunities of forging them. It would explain a good deal. It gave no reason for Doune's comparatively sudden dismissal from the post of secretary. It might explain why he had been drunk. The puzzling feature about it was that Manningtree seemed to have done nothing about it, except to take the cheques and stow them away in his bedroom. But by all accounts he had been fond of Doune. It was quite possible that he was prepared to condone the felony, and even give the young man another chance—though not to continue him in his post. Then why should Doune have stolen them?
He was still trying to find an answer to that question when the path turned sharply. For a moment he was so wrapped in his speculations that he was quite close before he saw. Only a yard or two away, a girl was sitting on one of the rocks which strewed the hillside, and this time there was no mistake. It was the girl in Manningtree's room. She was sitting at the side of the road staring straight in front of her over the valley, and in her right hand she clutched a crumpled handkerchief. Evidently she had been crying, and now her face wore such a look of hopeless misery that any anger Timothy might have felt, and any scruples, vanished completely. He stepped forward and spoke.
"I say—" he began, and stopped. Anything he had intended to say had been completely obliterated from his mind. "Look here, can't I do something to help?"
The girl sprang to her feet with a little cry, and for a moment stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then she seemed to recognise him. She drew a deep breath.
"It—it's you!" she said almost unbelievingly; then a quick alarm showed in her face. "How—how did you find me?"
"I was looking for you," Timothy admitted. "I thought we'd better talk. And then someone said that she'd seen a girl in a costume like yours, and that you were meeting Doune somewhere over here. So I came, hoping to meet you."
She looked at him uncomprehendingly for a second or two. "Someone told you?" she echoed. "Then—then they know—?"
"They don't know anything yet," Timothy said firmly. "Unless George saw you and Doune together. You were with him, weren't you?"
She nodded. "George?" she asked.
"You know. The man who made the bet... You see, he's keen on Miss Fareham. And they seem to have tumbled to the fact that Doune had been up to something last night and that you were concerned in it somehow. That's all."
"They know—" she began. Her face was terribly pale, and she seemed to sway a little as she stood there. Timothy stepped forward, thinking she was going to fall, but she shrank back with a cry. Somehow that hurt him. He frowned.
"Sit down!" he commanded with a sudden determination. "We've got to talk... If you don't explain to me, I shall go to the police."
He put a grimness into his voice which could not have allowed her to guess how absurd it was that he should ever fulfil the threat.
There was a frightened look on her face as she seated herself obediently on the extreme end of the flat slab. Timothy did the same on the other.
"Look here," he said abruptly. "Did you kill Manningtree?"
There was something like surprise on her face. She shook her head.
"You can tell me if you did," Timothy persisted. "I haven't the slightest intention of going to the police. I never had. If you did it was an accident. I mean, you didn't intend to—"
"But I didn't," she interrupted in a low voice. "Please believe that I didn't.... I didn't go near him. Why should I? I didn't—didn't know he was dead until this morning."
Timothy frowned a little. "But you were going to get out of the house by way of his room," he suggested. "At least, you sent me there."
She looked up in bewilderment. "To his room?" she asked; and then she seemed suddenly to understand.
"You went to that room?" she demanded.
"I did. You said the room on the left at the bottom of the stairs, and I went there. I was inside before I realised there was anything wrong. Fareham found me there. I don't quite know why the police didn't charge me with the murder."
"But—but you see, I meant the room at the bottom of the top stairs," she faltered, and paused. "Then—he was dead when you got there? You didn't—you didn't—?"
"Good lord!" Timothy interrupted. "I didn't kill him. It would have been too silly. You didn't think—"
"I didn't really. But I couldn't help feeling that he might have caught you and that somehow—"
"We're quits there. That's what I thought about you."
"But—but who did?"
Timothy did not answer immediately. The answer that he would have given if he had spoken the strict truth was "Doune." It was all so obvious. Doune had come in from outside, and he had suddenly remembered that the study window was open. Somehow he must have— He looked at the girl with a frown.
"How did your gun get there?" he demanded.
"My gun? But it wasn't there. I took it home with me. You see, I didn't know he was dead."
"Then you've got it now? Timothy felt a sudden hope. You could produce it if—"
"I couldn't," she said dully. "I threw it away—this morning. When I heard—I was afraid—"
"Where? Perhaps we could get it?"
She shook her head. "No," she said. "I threw it into the pool by the clay-pit. No one could ever get anything out of there."
Timothy thought. "I don't know that it matters," he decided. "No one knows you had a gun—except me."
"You—you do believe me—?" She looked at him appealingly. "It couldn't have been my gun—"
"I believe it, all right... The trouble is, that I'm a pretty poor liar. If it came to going into the witness-box, they'd almost certainly spot that I was hiding something... But we'd better get things straight. I know you went to Manningtree's to get some cheques Doune had forged. I suppose that you're keen on him. No one else knows." Then a sudden thought struck him.
"But they do—or will. About the cheques."
"But—but why?"
"You dropped one and I picked it up. It came out of my pocket and Fareham got it. I suppose he's given it to the police. Well. If they examine that, they're pretty sure to spot that it's a forgery. You nearly always can, if you look for it."
"But—but how did you know—?"
"I didn't, really. I mean I guessed. That's the only way I could work things out... It's true?"
She nodded. "But—but if you found out—?" she said in a hopeless voice. "As the police hove the cheque, they're sure to guess too."
"No. You see, I knew that you'd taken the cheques. That's the essential link. They don't know you were there at all. They might find out that the cheque is a forgery. They can't very well trace it to you—or to Doune... No. I think he's safe enough—now that Manningtree's dead."
Perhaps there was something in the last words which showed what he was thinking. She looked at him with a sudden horror.
"But—but you don't think that—that he—?"
"I don't know," Timothy admitted. "He certainly had a motive, hadn't he? It wasn't much use stealing the cheques if Manningtree knew about it and was still alive."
"But—but you don't understand. Mr. Manningtree did know. He'd already spoken to James about it. He had said that he'd overlook it—or at least that he'd think things over. Only he wouldn't have him as secretary—"
Timothy considered that. "Then, what was the good of taking the cheques?" he demanded.
"They—they quarrelled again. And Mr. Manningtree said that he still had the cheques. He showed them to James. That's how he knew where they were. He threatened to hand them to the police... You see, in one way, the damage was done already. James couldn't hope for much from Mr. Manningtree. But I thought that, if the evidence was destroyed, he couldn't take it to court. It was my idea to get them. You see, he told me that he'd taken them because of me. I couldn't bear that."
Timothy grunted. It was only by a great effort that he refrained from expressing a forcible opinion about Doune.
"And he let you do that for him?" he demanded.
She was silent for a moment. "You see, if he'd gone himself, he would have been suspected—" she said uncertainly.
"He'd have been suspected anyhow," Timothy rejoined. "Manningtree would have known that he was the only person who was interested in the cheques... And Manningtree's dead."
"But—but he couldn't—?"
"Through the window," said Timothy implacably. "He was outside."
"To—to meet me—"
"Did he?"
"No." The word was barely audible. "That's why I went to meet him this morning."
"You'd arranged that?"
"I signalled to him. We'd arranged that—" She broke off and thought for a moment. "But—but he'd no gun?" she suggested with a trace of hope.
"You don't know that... Isn't it obvious?"
She gazed at him for a moment with her eyes wide with horror. All at once she buried her face in her hands. Timothy eyed her gloomily.
"I suppose you're fearfully fond of the fellow," he said at last.
"I—I was," she said almost in a whisper. "I thought he was wonderful... But I began to see after a little—"
"And yet you risked stealing the cheques for him."
"I couldn't help it. Don't you see? He made me think it was my fault—that he'd ruined himself because of me. I had to do something."
Timothy's expression was positively savage. "The swine!" he said between his teeth. "Good God!... You don't love him now?"
"I—I—" she faltered. "How can I? But, don't you see, I can't leave him—"
"That's rot... He didn't give you the money, did he?"
"He said he'd spent it in coming to see me partly."
"Was it much?"
"A—a good deal."
"More than he would have spent coming to see you?"
She did not answer immediately; then she nodded. "But, you see, he'd been gambling too. He wanted to get enough money to be independent—"
Timothy snorted. "He's either a liar or a damned fool!" he said bluntly. "Now, look here. He's no claim on you at all. His blaming it on you is a dirty trick. The best thing you could do would be to go to the police and tell them the whole thing. If it isn't your gun, it's someone else's. They might be able to prove that—"
"But—but you won't—?" she pleaded.
"No," Timothy admitted reluctantly. "I won't.... I don't quite feel like it myself, for that matter. But we've got to think what we can do. After all, we're both involved in this mess. If the police don't get him, they may fasten it on to us." He paused; then added grimly, "I won't stand that."
She was silent. Timothy considered. It was a minute or two before he broke the silence.
"We've got to find out what's happening," he said. "I'll go to the house. I'll try and see what they think. I can find something to tell the Inspector. If he's guilty, we'll give him a chance to get away—though he doesn't deserve it. You'd better go back. Where are you staying? At the farm?"
"Yes." She rose in a sudden panic. "They'll be wondering—"
"I must see you again... when we know how we stand. Would you meet me somewhere? This evening? Say at the place the path forks?"
She nodded. "It—it's awfully good of you," she said in a low voice. "I must go. They really will think—"
"This evening then... Say half-past seven... You will?"
"Yes." She hesitated; then turned abruptly. "Thank you and—goodbye."
As Timothy stood watching her go up the path, he knew that there was one very good reason why he should help her. He watched her until a bend in the path hid her, then he turned slowly back towards the house.
RATHER to the Inspector's relief, the Chief Constable was so wrapped up in his own discoveries that he was scarcely interested in the activities of his subordinate. Hayle fancied that he saw the beginnings of a reasonable theory about Doune, and he was not anxious for any precipitate intervention from his superior until things were a little more advanced. He found the Colonel, with a perspiring sergeant and detective, industriously taking finger-prints from every square inch of possible surface in Manningtree's bedroom, and perhaps his face expressed his surprise. Chedder positively chuckled.
"Ha, Inspector, you never thought of this, eh?"
"No, sir," Hayle replied quite truthfully. Since the only person who was likely to have been in that room was Wynne, and he admitted as much, he had hardly thought it necessary. "Have you found anything, sir?"
The Colonel led him across the room to the desk, and with some pride showed a number of prints on the mahogany surface.
"See those, Hayle?" he demanded.
"Yes, sir." In Hayle's experience, unless they had just been dusted, it was not uncommon to find fingerprints on polished surfaces. "Whose are they, sir?" he asked.
"That's the mystery. Someone who came into this room, Hayle. Someone who opened these drawers. Someone who relocked them, and left an edge of paper sticking out... And, Hayle, it was a woman! What d'you think of that, eh?"
"One of the servants, sir?"
Colonel Chedder's face fell a little, but only for a moment.
"Nonsense!" he said positively. "Can't you see that they're exactly in the position where someone would leave them if he—or she—was unlocking the drawers?"
Hayle eyed them dubiously. It was a possible explanation.
"Miss Fareham's, sir."
"That's what we shall have to look into... Sergeant, you'd better get a set of prints of the entire household. Without letting them know, of course... Hand them a bit of card, eh? Ask 'em if they've seen anything like that about."
He voiced the idea as though it was thoroughly original. The sergeant's face bore a patient expression, and Hayle himself had to struggle with a smile.
"But how did you come to think of it, sir?" he asked gravely.
"Ah, I've been doing a little interviewing on my own account. Come along downstairs. I'll tell you about it... You can finish here, sergeant."
Comfortably established in the card-room, Hayle listened with becoming deference to the Colonel's story of his morning's work. It might have been professional jealousy which made him attach to his superior's discoveries a good deal less importance than their author appeared to do. Certainly the alibis of Fareham and Whitley seemed to have been established; but Hayle would have been more excited about that if he had ever suspected them. Perhaps that of Wynne too. His story fitted in far too accurately with that of the other two to be false, and it seemed fairly certain that he could hardly have fired the shot. Of the rest he made very little. The butler might easily have been mistaken about the paper and the noise of the door. In Fareham's financial ambitions he was not greatly interested, and even the details of the dead man's separation left him comparatively cold.
Only the letter seemed to have any real significance, and the trouble with that was that it did not fit in the least into his theory about Doune. There was, of course, the possibility that Doune had foreseen the need for creating a trail leading away from the household, and had written the letter himself. Otherwise it merely confused an issue which had seemed as though it might clear.
"Cheap paper, you see, Hayle," Chedder informed him. "Cheap envelope. No chance of tracing it. But look—"
He pointed to two places where the lettering was slightly out of alignment. "If we could find that machine, we shouldn't have much difficulty in proving who wrote it, eh?"
"If we knew where to look, sir," Hayle agreed. "But there are quite a lot of Remingtons in this country."
"Eh? Oh, yes. A Remington machine, of course," Chedder said so hastily that it was quite obvious that he had had no idea of the fact. "And look, Hayle. You see the postmark? The date's illegible, unfortunately. But you can make out '9.15' and 'S.W. 16" quite plainly. In fact, it looks as though it was posted yesterday morning in Streatham."
Hayle coloured. "My— I know someone who lives there, sir," he said with a certain amount of confusion.
"Anyway, you see what it says," Chedder continued firmly. "There is a definite threat. The writer is desperate, and says so. 'I am coming down to-morrow'... That would be yesterday. In time for the murder!"
Hayle nodded. That, at least, was sufficiently plausible not to need much comment. But he made a mental note to inquire into any recent visit Doune might have made to London; and for that matter he need not have posted it himself.
"Notice anything else about it?" Chedder demanded.
To his obvious pleasure Hayle shook his head.
"Well, it was written by a woman!"
"Hayle's eyebrows rose. How do you know that, sir?" he asked.
"It's a matter of the style, my boy. You can't mistake it. Look at that phrase. 'I am desperate.' Obviously a woman. They're desperate half the time. How often do you find a man saying he's desperate?"
The Inspector had known several, but he was determined not to argue. Besides, for once, he was inclined to think there might be something in the Colonel's suggestion.
"You see?" Chedder pursued. "A woman writing a threatening letter. A woman's finger-prints on the desk. A small gun—just what a woman would use—"
"But probably that's Manningtree's, sir? The initials—"
The Colonel smiled. "The initials?" he said. "Yes. C.M. or M.C. One can't say which it is. It would be quite reasonable for a woman to have the same initials as Manningtree. But when she might have the same letters the other way round, the chances are more than doubled."
"Yes, of course, sir: Then your suggestion is—?"
That we must look for a woman with the initials C.M. or M.C. And the question is, where must we look?"
That, Hayle thought, was certainly the question; but it was one which he himself had not the slightest idea how to answer. He shook his head.
"And that's the easiest of the lot," said the Colonel triumphantly. "You see she says that she's coming down to-morrow. It was just a matter of inquiring at the hotels and so on for a lady travelling by herself who had just arrived... I put the sergeant on to it. He rang all the hotels in town, and then it occurred to me what an ass I'd been. I tried the village pub here, and got her at once."
Hayle gasped. Was it really possible that there was any truth in that fantastic pile of romance? He took a grip on himself.
"Her name, sir?" he asked.
Chedder frowned. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "Old Davis speaks so indistinctly. Marion—Marion something. Channington, or something of that kind. You see? M.C.—the letters on the gun. It can't be coincidence."
In spite of himself, Hayle was shaken.
"She came last night?" he inquired.
"No. As a matter of fact, she came this morning. Said she'd been travelling all night. What probably happened was that she arrived too late to go to the inn without arousing suspicion. She came at once to see Manningtree, and went to the inn next morning."
"Why, sir?" Hayle demanded.
"That's for you to find out. You'd better go along there at once. I've an appointment. I'll be back this afternoon, perhaps. Say about three."
As the door closed behind the Chief Constable, Hayle collapsed into a chair. He felt very much as critics of Einstein's theory must have done when his predictions were astronomically proved correct.
It took him a minute or two to pull himself together. Of course, he would have to go to the inn and inquire. But, since the lady had apparently calmly booked a room after committing the murder, it seemed as though she would wait a few minutes longer. He went in search of the sergeant.
"I think we can leave those finger-prints for the present, sergeant," Hayle told him. In fact, I think the best thing to do would be for me to ask Mr. Fareham to persuade the servants to let us have their prints in a straightforward way... I was wondering about the garden. You had a look round there?"
"I was doing, sir," the sergeant said, "but then the Colonel put me on to the finger-prints, and after that ringing the hotels, sir. I don't think there's much, sir. You see, it's all stone—"
With obvious relief he followed Hayle into the garden. The stone pavement ran right round that side of the house, and chances of tracks were sufficiently remote. Certainly there was nothing that he could see outside the study window to suggest that anyone might have entered that way. But the murderer would not have needed to enter. He could have fired through the window after attracting the dead man's attention. Still, it would have been necessary for him or her to stand on the stone window sill. There was not a mark to show that anyone had done so.
That proved nothing. The murderer might have put something soft there before climbing up. Rubbers might not leave a mark if they were clean. Or he might have fired from further away— He glanced around at the thought, and his eyes fell upon the large horse-chestnut tree a little way up the path.
It must have been there almost as long as the house. It was a giant of its kind; its great sweeping boughs almost touched the first floor windows. But if one were to climb it and follow along the first limb, it might easily be possible to look right down into the study window.
He crossed towards it. The great trunk was scarred and uneven, rough enough, certainly, to give a foothold for any moderately good climber. Then he caught his breath sharply. Someone had climbed it and quite recently. He could see the marks on the bark where the shoes had scratched. Supposing the murderer had climbed it. Could he have seen the desk? Hayle was almost certain that he could, but the obvious thing to do was to try. He was on the point of mounting the tree when a thought struck him. He had better not destroy any traces that there were. A ladder to the projecting limb would be a better, as well as a more comfortable, means of finding out.
But there was hardly time for that now. The tree would wait. Wild-goose chase though it might be, he had better deal once and for all with Marion Channington, who in all probability was nothing more than a schoolmistress on holiday. He turned to the sergeant.
"You'd better look round for a ladder, sergeant," he suggested. "Have a look at that limb—but be careful not to spoil any marks there may be on it. I want to know if, from there, you could look down into Manningtree's study and see the chair he was sitting in. You get the idea?"
"Good lord, sir!" The sergeant looked his surprise. "You think—"
"I don't know. Only someone's climbed that tree recently... I'm going down to the inn. Be back in an hour or so."
His mind was busy with this new discovery as he steered the car down the zig-zag drive and out into the lane. If the bough commanded a view of the desk, it could have been done that way. The doctor, he remembered, had pointed out that Manningtree's head might have been held at any angle and turned in any direction. Then he could easily have been shot from above, and have looked much as they had found him.
Then he began to think of difficulties. The curtains had been drawn. It would have been easy enough for anyone standing on the sill to pull them apart far enough to insert the gun; but how could anyone do it from the tree? How would the murderer attract Manningtree's attention so as to make him turn around? The second question was easier than the first. The chestnut tree itself would supply any number of missiles in the form of "conkers" which could be thrown against the pane. But he was still puzzling over the curtain difficulty when he reached the village.
Somehow the sight of the inn reawakened his doubts. It looked so particularly peaceful, and so very much a place where one could spend a pleasant, lazy holiday that he found it hard to believe that it could be used for anything so sinister as to harbour a murderer—or murderess. In any case, a certain amount of tact was necessary. Either the lady had some connection with the murder, and in that case he had better not put her on her guard until he had a rather better case than that which the Chief Constable had worked out; or else she knew nothing about it. If she were entirely innocent, it would be both unkind and unwise to start a flood of rumours about her in the village.
Probably the Chief Constable's message had excited the curiosity of the landlord. He had evidently been on the lookout for an official visit of some kind, for he was waiting for the Inspector just inside the doorway, and did not have to be asked anything.
"She's there, sir," he said in a tense whisper. "In the garden, sir. The seat that overlooks the cove. She's been there pretty well all morning—except for being on the terrace a bit early on, sir."
"Oh," Hayle said briefly, and frowned. "You mean the lady you spoke to Colonel Chedder about?"
"Of course, sir... Came alone, she did, as he said. And if you ask me, she's worried about something—though she's not one to give away much. Come down by the night train, she said."
He emphasised the last word slightly, as though he for one were not inclined to accept the story without reserve.
"And did she?" Hayle asked coolly.
"Well, she came in a taxi just about the right time, sir," the landlord admitted reluctantly. "But, of course, she might have worked that out."
Hayle nodded , slowly. "Know where she comes from?" he asked. "She's signed the register?"
"Yes, sir... Some part of London, sir. I'd better get the book... Oh, Streatham, it was, sir."
He pronounced it as spelt, and for a moment Hayle failed to recognise it. Then he looked up quickly.
"Streatham?" he echoed.
"Yes, sir." The landlord had obviously been disappointed by the reception which had been given to his earlier news; but the effect of this last piece of information atoned for the rest. "She said she was stopping a week, sir... You'll not be making an arrest just yet?"
Hayle smiled. Obviously the landlord was out to make the best of things both ways. With any luck, he hoped to collect his money for the week, and only then enjoy the notoriety of having a murderess arrested there. Then he sobered. It might be all nonsense; but the woman came from the place the letter had been posted from.
"I don't expect I shall be making an arrest at all," he denied. "This is merely a routine inquiry... I wonder if I could see her? Not to question her, necessarily, at the moment, but just to find out what kind of a woman she is—"
"Of course, sir. Through here." The landlord led the way.
They emerged by way of the back door on to the garden facing the sea behind the inn. It was a garden by courtesy rather than by cultivation. A few seats, some veronica bushes in full bloom, and some weather-beaten shrubs made up the whole, except for the shingle paths, and the blackberry bushes along the cliff edge.
"This way, sir," the landlord whispered, stealthily gesticulating towards the veronica bushes at one side. His feet made a thunderous crunching noise on the path for a moment, then settled down to a heavy thudding on the turf. Hayle could have sworn at him, except that that would have been to make more noise than ever. To be seen at all might be bad enough; to be seen approaching mysteriously was either fatal or ridiculous.
Certainly their stalking failed to deceive the girl on the seat. As they approached, she looked up from her knitting quite naturally. Hayle caught a glimpse of her face and sprang forward with a cry.
"Mary!"
"Dick!"
She rose to meet him. The next moment the astonished landlord was staring open-mouthed at the spectacle of a detective-inspector kissing and being kissed by a suspected murderess.
RATHER to Timothy's relief, both the Chief Constable and the Inspector seemed to have chosen the time of his arrival at the house for being somewhere else. As substitutes Whitley, who in spite of his introduction had accepted him as a friend of the family, offered Fareham and the sergeant, and Timothy chose the latter. No doubt Fareham had been decent enough, even when behind the gun; but since his main purpose in calling at the house at all was to acquire information without letting people know it, he preferred someone less intelligent. The sergeant seemed to fill the bill nicely.
"He's in the garden, sir," Whitley volunteered.
"What?" Timothy stared. He had imagined the sergeant crawling all over the house looking for clues, getting finger-prints, interviewing suspects. "What's he doing there?" he asked curiously. "Shooing off slugs?"
"I understand that he is pursuing his investigations, sir. He has just borrowed a ladder."
"Righto," Timothy assented. "Which way?"
"Round to the left, I believe, sir. Along the terrace."
To Timothy's first glance, it seemed that the terrace was completely desolate. He had walked half-way along it and was almost abandoning hope when he saw the foot of the ladder. The top was invisible among the thick branches of the horse-chestnut.
Timothy walked forward and looked up. There was no one on the ladder, or, indeed, on the limb against which it rested. Then a loud rustling of leaves and cracking of twigs made him raise his eyes to the branch above. Quite suddenly through the leaves at the far end appeared a large pair of boots followed by feet to match, and for a moment they hung dangling in the air.
"Hullo! Is that you, sergeant?"
The legs wriggled and vanished. They were replaced by a face, very red and rather dirty; though still recognisable as that of the officer of whom he had come in search.
"What on earth's the idea, sergeant?" Timothy asked curiously. "Bird-nesting?"
"You want me, sir?" the sergeant asked very curtly for so placid a man.
"Well, I just came along to let you know that I was still alive and hadn't bolted or anything... Besides, I'd thought of something I was going to mention to the Inspector... But what's this Tarzan stuff?"
The sergeant looked embarrassed. "Well, sir, we have to look everywhere," he said cautiously.
"'A policeman's lot is not a happy one,'" Timothy quoted.
"I'm just coming down, sir," he said. "I shan't be a minute."
He came very near to doing it in less. The tree swayed convulsively. There was a sudden crack; then the whole bough sagged to a dangerous angle, bringing the sergeant into plain view, clutching at his insecure support with a grasp like that of the proverbial drowning man.
"Good lord—!" Timothy exclaimed. "Look out—"
The sergeant was equal to the occasion. Just in time he swung himself from the creaking branch to another near at hand. Timothy watched him with admiration.
"'He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease, That daring young man on a flying trapeze,'" he quoted aptly.
If the sergeant heard him he paid no attention. Very circumspectly he worked his way along towards the trunk and started to descend. That was precisely what Timothy wanted. His nonsense had not been without motive. It had suddenly occurred to him why the police might be interested in that tree. One great limb came within easy reach of the window from which he guessed the girl had made her escape.
"Good lord," he said in genuine surprise. "That's the study, isn't it? You don't think he was shot from there?"
"There's no sign—" the sergeant began, and then remembered the need for caution. At the same time he seemed to recall Timothy's airy remarks while be was in the tree. He frowned. "You wanted me, sir?" he demanded.
"Well, more or less." Timothy saw the need for pouring oil on his ruffed spirit. "Good heavens, sergeant, that was a near one. You must be pretty supple."
As a man tending to stoutness the sergeant was not immune from the implied compliment. He wiped his brow.
"We have to be, sir," he said modestly.
"I should jolly well think so. You must be pretty fit."
The sergeant expanded. He had seen the wall which Timothy had scaled the previous night, and could recognise that the compliment came from one well qualified to judge.
"But you've done a bit of climbing yourself, sir," he said, and almost grinned.
Timothy grinned without concealment. "Yes," he admitted. "And I'm afraid it was rather a nuisance to you... Was the Inspector looking for me?"
The sergeant hesitated. Presumably, since he was at large at all, Timothy was considered to be above suspicion. On the other hand, Timothy was staying at the inn. Perhaps he might know something about the mysterious lady who had been the object of the Chief Constable's exhaustive inquiries that morning. And the sergeant was a little tired of doing the donkey work on other people's ideas. He wanted to find out something himself.
"No, sir," he said at lost. "I understand that he's gone down to see a lady who was staying there—"
"A lady?" Timothy's mind jumped back to the encounter of the morning. "That's odd."
"What, sir?"
"Well, there is a lady staying there— As a matter of fact, there are two, but only one that matters. It struck me there was something funny about her. She seemed so darned eager to know if Manningtree was dead."
"She did, sir? She asked you?"
"Yes. Tried to claim an acquaintance, first; then admitted it was just curiosity about the murder."
"And probably it was neither, sir," the sergeant said sagely. "At least— You didn't get her name?"
"I did as it happens. That is, I saw the names in the register. Mr. and Mrs. Mayence."
"'M'!" the sergeant exclaimed unintelligibly. "You don't know her Christian name, sir?"
"We didn't get on those terms, sergeant... And I don't want to. Though I shouldn't think it would be hard."
"I'd be glad if you'd just keep an eye on her, sir."
Timothy nodded. It was not a job he wanted very much. On the other hand, anything was welcome which might distract the attention of the police from the girl. A thought seemed to strike the sergeant.
"But that wasn't what you came about, sir?" he asked.
"Not exactly," Timothy admitted. He had had all the way back to think of something which he might conceivably mention to the Inspector with a view to drawing him into conversation, and he was not feeling in a very scrupulous mood. He did not care very much who was suspected, providing the girl was not, and besides, an innocent man ought to be able to prove it. "I'm not sure there's anything in it, sergeant. It was when we were talking last night. Mr. Fareham was trying to work out the times and so on. It struck me that Mr. Bowmore didn't like it."
"Didn't like what, sir?"
"Didn't like having the times gone into too carefully. And there was no reason why he should be worried. Actually we were talking about Doune."
The sergeant wrinkled his brows. He had more than a suspicion that the Inspector was interested in Doune, but up to date no one seemed to have bothered much about Bowmore.
"What exactly was said, sir?" he asked.
"Only that he'd left Doune at twenty-past, and his appointment was at half-past. You see, the point is, the room is only just up the passage. It could hardly have taken him two minutes to get there, let alone ten. And actually, he was a bit late. He didn't arrive until after Fareham had held me up. In fact— By Jove!"
He had suddenly remembered something which he had not told even to the Inspector.
"In fact what, sir?" the sergeant demanded.
"In fact, when Fareham came, he was expecting to find Bowmore there," Timothy said slowly. "He spoke his name in the doorway, before he had seen what had happened—"
"Did he, sir?" The sergeant was not impressed.
"He didn't say much. One couldn't prove anything, you know. But—"
"It's worth looking into, anyhow, sir." The sergeant was quite grateful. "But I don't quite see his motive. Or how he could have got Manningtree's gun—"
"Manningtree's?" Timothy stared. "You mean it was his own?"
The sergeant looked uncomfortable. "I shouldn't have said that, sir," he admitted. "There's a possibility that it might be his—though the Chief Constable is working on a different line entirely." He hesitated. "I wonder, sir, if you'd mind letting me have your finger-prints?" he asked. "Just so that we can sort them out a bit—"
Timothy endured almost absently the guidance of the sergeant through the mysteries of having his prints taken. At another time, he would have been interested; but just then he had too much to think about. So far as he had gathered, there was nothing to show that the police were on the trail of the girl whom he had left half an hour ago. Indeed, there had been no very marked reaction even to the name of Doune. Their energies at the moment seemed to be concentrated on the idea of the Chief Constable, for which Timothy blessed him, that the objectionable woman at the inn was to blame for everything. So far that was all right. But he would have liked to know just how they had got on to her. It might be that they had followed a trail which should actually have led to Sylvia herself. At least he had poured poison into the sergeant's ear so far as Bowmore was concerned, and the sergeant recurred to the subject as he finished the last print and put away his apparatus.
"I don't quite see what motive Mr. Bowmore could have had, sir," he suggested. "Admitting that he might have gone along to the study in that ten minutes—"
But Timothy was saved the trouble of deciding whether to advance or retreat by the opening of the door.
It was Fareham who entered. His eyebrows rose as he saw the finger-prints; then he smiled a greeting at Timothy.
"Good morning, Mr. Wynne," he said amiably. "Going through the mill again?"
"Only a routine measure, sir," the sergeant explained hastily. "The Inspector was going to speak to you, sir. We'd like the finger-prints of everyone in the house last night—just as a matter of form. To help identification—"
"Make it after lunch, then, sergeant. We'll have a finger-print parade... By the way, Wynne, you'll stay to lunch? We shall be a small party. Doune's not feeling well. Bowmore's out somewhere. I don't know whether he'll be back or not. The Inspector—?"
He looked at the sergeant, who shook his head. "I don't know, sir. It all depends—"
Timothy hesitated. After all, it was to find out the position that he had come to the house, and within reason the longer he stayed, the better chance he had.
"I'd love to," he assented. "If it's no trouble—and if the police don't mind?"
"Not at all, sir," the sergeant said almost eagerly.
"Right. Come along to the billiard room. My daughter's there. You haven't met her yet, I think?"
That was something Timothy had not thought of. He was in no mood for any more of Winifred Fareham just then, but it was hard to see how he could avoid it. He followed his host obediently down a long passage beyond the stairs which seemed to be an addition to the rest of the house. So far as he could judge, they were going towards the back of the house, a region he had not explored during the previous night. A glance through a window showed that his guess was correct. He looked out on to the yard.
Perhaps Fareham had noticed his interest. He paused at the double door which formed the far end of the passage.
"Formerly the barn," he explained. "The whole place, you see, is merely a converted farmhouse. We have taken in a good many of the outbuildings—disguised a little."
"But it's called the Manor?" Timothy suggested.
"Originally with the addition of 'Farm'. You see, the old place was burnt down. I still remember it as a child—and the fire." There was a regretful note in his voice. "You can see the ruins still, higher up the valley. You won't have been there yet."
Timothy was not quite so sure. "I don't think I've seen it," he said. "Though I went for a walk this morning."
Fareham pushed open the door. The converted barn was really a magnificent room. Like the main building, it had been altered as little as possible, and still retained its old beamed roof; though windows had been cut high up in the walls. He had no time to dwell on it. Winifred Fareham had risen from a seat at the far end of the room, and was coming towards them. He tried to make up his mind how to receive her but one glance at her face gave him his cue. She looked at him as though he was a complete stranger.
"My daughter Winifred—Mr. Wynne," Fareham introduced. "Mr. Wynne is stopping to lunch—"
"I've heard so much about you," Winifred Fareham said without turning a hair. "But I'm afraid I was in bed when you came last night... I think that was awfully exciting, don't you?"
"Exciting?" There was a faint note of remonstrance in Fareham's voice. "My dear, a murder—"
"I meant Mr. Wynne's climb," Winifred said hastily. "Was it fearfully difficult, Mr. Wynne? Have you climbed many mountains?"
"No," said Timothy, and then: "Yes."
He had answered both questions anyhow. That was as far as he could get. But the girl obviously had self-possession enough for two.
"You were sent down from Oxford, weren't you?" she asked innocently. "For climbing the Martyrs' Memorial, wasn't it? What is the Martyrs' Memorial?"
"It—it's a sort of monument," Timothy managed. "A bit like a wedding cake," he said finally.
"Oh... I've heard of people going up it... Why did you want to climb it?"
"Well, to put—" Timothy stopped suddenly, and from a faint smile on the girl's face he was not at all sure she had not guessed what he was going to say. Fareham came to his rescue.
"Perhaps you'd like a game?" he suggested. "It's one of my many vices... Recently I have lacked an opponent—owing to various circumstances."
Something in the girl's expression suggested to Timothy that in all probability the circumstances concerned her. She moved over to the table.
"There's a ball missing in this set," she announced.
"I'm aware of that," her father countered. "Mr George Petworth, by some curious means, managed to drive it into the fire last time he played here."
Now there was no denying that the girl was furious. Perhaps the hostile atmosphere put Timothy off his game; but in any case Fareham was an expert. His victory came with such ridiculous ease that he was moved to an apology.
"I had forgotten your arm," he said. "We must play again... My dear, it must be almost time for the one o'clock news. Would you just switch it on?"
Winifred Fareham obeyed viciously. Timothy started as a terrific bellow sounded just behind him.
"Hammurabi," said a voice, and a long pause. Then came the chime of the hour.
Winifred Fareham smiled at Timothy's alarm, and it was not a pleasant smile.
"We dance in here sometimes, Mr. Wynne," she said. "Did it startle you?"
Timothy contrived to smile. "We've missed something good," he said feebly. "But I thought it was a symphony or something?"
The girl's hand found the knob and turned it, but she made no answer.
"Here," said a voice in perfect B.B.C., "is the news—"
AT that moment Inspector Hayle was seated under an arbour in the inn garden, waiting for lunch. Even an inspector must eat somewhere and just at that moment he would rather have eaten there than anywhere else in the world. The meeting had come as a surprise to both of them; but more to him, because he had just that morning sent off a lengthy wire telling Mary not to come. He should have known better. Even if Mary Cunningham had seen it, it would probably have had no effect. He smiled at her through the smoke of a cigarette.
"I'm still not sure you should have come," he said slowly.
She smiled in return. "Why?"
"Business and pleasure—" Hayle said vaguely.
"You'll have to put up with me when we're married."
"Will that make so much difference?"
"Then I shall solve all your cases for you, of course. Now, I can only help with an occasional one."
Hayle grinned. "If I hadn't met you, I should be hard at work now," he pointed out.
She made a grimace. "Didn't you say the Chief Constable sent you here to inquire about some awful woman or other? Obviously I could keep an eye on her."
Hayle laughed outright. "I don't think anyone could do it better. You only want one thing—"
She looked a question.
"Just a mirror," Hayle explained.
"You don't mean me—?" she asked incredulously; then laughed in chorus with him. He suspects
"Very gravely." Hayle assumed a serious expression. "I hope you have an alibi for last night?"
She considered. "I think the guard would swear to me," she said demurely. "He was very fatherly."
"Oh, was he? Thank heaven! You're acquitted."
"Just what am I suspected of?"
"Your first crime was unknown. But Manningtree was blackmailing you for it. He was asking too much for the compromising document. You were desperate, and wrote a threatening letter, saying you must meet him. You posted it at 9.15 p.m. in Streatham the day before yesterday."
She looked up with startled eyes. "But I did post a letter then."
"You'd better keep it dark... Who to?"
"Aunt Catherine... What else?"
"You came down here last night. We don't know the exact time of your arrival, but probably it was too late for you to get to the inn here. You went straight to Manningtree's."
There was rather a queer look on her face. "But, you know, that's why I didn't come by that train. It gets in at 11.17."
"Well, you didn't catch it, anyhow, so you needn't worry.... You went to Manningtree's, burgled the desk in his bedroom and shot him." He laughed. "You then came to the inn and booked a room next morning. The Colonel hasn't said why."
She did not respond to his mood. "It's rather horrible, isn't it?" she said after a pause. "Just think how often things must happen like that—people being involved through mere coincidence... Tell me all about it."
"What, the whole thing?"
"Everything. It will help you to get things clear yourself."
Hayle began a little hesitantly; but he was a man who liked talking. After a little he got really into his stride. He was giving her a far better résumé than he had achieved for the Chief Constable, and even the arrival of lunch did not interrupt it. By the time they had reached the stage of coffee, Mary Cunningham probably knew as much about the murder of Manningtree as anyone except the murderer.
"And now I'm going to criticise," she said. "First, you were quite right in not arresting Wynne. He might have shot him in a struggle. He wouldn't have shot him sitting down—even if he'd had ten times the motive. That's just an accident."
"You seem to have great faith in Wynne..."
"What do you think is the most striking thing about this murder?" she asked.
Hayle thought. "I don't know," he said at last. "Unless it's the number of fools who've managed to get mixed up in it."
She wrinkled her brows. "I can see it must have been a temptation to go running after Doune, and it produced a result. Also, if you'd lost the chance, it wouldn't have recurred. But really, there was so much routine stuff to do at the house that it was almost a pity. It wasted time."
"That's just what I'm guiltily conscious of doing now," Hayle said ruefully. "I ought to be—"
"No. You've been at it for twelve solid hours, till you can't see the wood for the trees. It's not likely you'll do anything very clever, darling, until you've had a night's rest and start again. But you might devote this afternoon to getting things into some kind of order. If you could get here, I'd type them out for you—"
Hayle looked across at her quickly. "You've got your typewriter here?" he asked. "What kind is it?"
"A portable Remington."
"Oh, lord!" He made a grimace. "That's the kind you're suspected of having."
She smiled. "Well, don't forget that there may be other coincidences."
"Don't keep me in suspense."
"The Chief Constable was wrong about me. But he wasn't very wrong. There is a mysterious woman staying here, and I suppose you'll have to consider her." She paused. "She goes under the name of Mrs. Mayence."
"I seem to have heard the name? Oh. Paul Mayence. The writer?"
"He's staying here with her."
"But I seem to remember reading somewhere that he wasn't married?"
"He isn't—because he can't be... Or couldn't. He might very well be soon, if—" She broke off and shivered.
Hayle stared at her for a minute. Slowly the truth dawned upon him; but it was a minute before he could speak.
"You mean," he said at last. "You mean that Mrs. Mayence, as she calls herself, is—Mrs. Manningtree."
"Good heavens! How do you know?"
"I was sitting on the verandah this morning when she spoke to Wynne. She asked him if it was true that Manningtree was dead. She wanted to hear he was."
"It sounds rather horrible," Hayle frowned. "And bad for her."
"I don't know... We don't know what provocation she's had. And she and Mayence really seem to be in love with one another."
"He was her husband," Hayle said grimly.
"I gather that Mayence isn't rich. He's fairly well known among a certain type of reader, but he doesn't make a lot of money. And he's likely to make less. He's practically an invalid now, and will get worse. Marrying him wouldn't be much more than taking on a job as nurse—unless she loved him."
Hayle did not argue the point. "I don't quite see your grounds even now," he said.
"Mayence isn't married. But it's no secret—among the gossips—that he has had a woman staying with him. No one seemed to know her name. And they're living in Streatham. The letter comes from Streatham. The most likely person to have written it is his wife. Can't you see? When she says 'you must give it me' she means divorce. The threat—well, she's already begun to carry that out by coming. It's simply to stay here—and let it be known that she's Mrs. Manningtree."
"You think that would have made him give way?"
"He's building—I mean, he was building—a house here. He was trying to get Fareham to introduce him into society. He evidently meant to play the country gentleman. What sort of a chance would he have had with his wife living with another man on his doorstep?"
Hayle considered that.
"Then, you don't think she did the murder?"
"That's just what I don't know. And I'm almost frightened— If you'd seen her face this morning—when she asked Wynne—she was glad—very glad." She shivered a little. "And yet her asking seems to show she didn't murder him."
"Not necessarily," Hayle rejoined.
"She wouldn't have dared to ask."
"There's another reason for suspecting her," Hayle continued. "The gun."
"Why?"
"No one seems to have seen Manningtree with a gun. If it is his—we're inquiring—he's kept it out of the way pretty well. Then why does it suddenly appear now?"
"I don't see—"
"Because it wasn't Manningtree's gun. It was his wife's. She's had it in her possession all the time."
Mary shook her head with more than a little obstinacy. "But it doesn't fit," she declared. "She couldn't have known where to find him. She couldn't have known that he'd be sitting up late. She couldn't have thrown suspicion upon the other people... And why should she stay on here?"
Hayle ticked the points off on his fingers. "First, or rather, first and second. Her finding him was largely luck. She saw the open window with a light there, looked through and saw him. But as his wife she knew his habit of sitting up late. She could guess that he'd be there somewhere. Third—she didn't. Just as it happened, all kinds of people were throwing suspicion upon themselves as hard as they could. And the last—" He hesitated. "It might be one of two reasons. One's suggested by her asking Wynne—to make sure. The other—well, she daren't leave. I suppose she'd booked these rooms for a certain period, meaning to stay here. If she'd left it might have invited inquiry. If she stayed, since no one knew her, no one would suspect."
She shook her head. "I don't really think so... It would be horrible. But there's another possibility. It's almost as bad—"
"What?"
"That he did it."
Hayle frowned. "It is possible," he said slowly. "I mean, it's psychologically possible. Judging by his books... Can one judge a man by what he writes?"
"Only he's an—" She broke off sharply, and her foot pressed his. "Careful!" she whispered suddenly. "She's coming—"
"And there's one thing you don't know about detective work, darling," Hayle went on in the same voice and smiled. "If you are talking about someone and he or she happens to come into the room don't stop talking suddenly. Go on about something, anyhow, and try to look as though that was what you were saying before... I really am a great admirer of the way he writes. But do you think what a man puts on paper is genuine emotional experience?"
The woman was quite close to them. Mary rose to greet her and smiled. As he followed suit, Hayle could not help thinking what born actors, not to say hypocrites, even the best women could be.
"Oh, Mrs. Mayence," Mary was saying, as though there was no one she wanted to see more in the world. "You must meet Dick—my fiancé. He's just arrived quite unexpectedly."
The woman smiled. It was a pleasant enough smile. To Hayle there seemed genuine amusement in it. Perhaps that made him plunge.
"We were just talking about your husband," he said. "Or rather his books... It's awfully interesting to meet you, Mrs. Mayence—"
Her eyes met his squarely. "But not so interesting as it is for me," she said after a slight pause, "to meet not only you but your fiancé—Inspector Hayle."
There was a moment's dead silence. Mary rushed into the breach.
"Yes, Dick's got to investigate this awful murder—just when we'd planned to have a holiday. Isn't it tiresome?"
"Very," Mrs. Manningtree agreed drily. "Shall we sit down?"
There was something in her manner which silenced even Mary. She set the example by sitting down herself opposite them.
"I had supposed Inspector Hayle was probably here in connection with the murder," she said after a brief pause. "I can even imagine why you may have been discussing my—my husband. And perhaps me?... You may even have a letter of mine?"
"I think, Mrs. Manningtree—it is Mrs. Manningtree, I believe?" Hayle accepted her nod of assent and went on. "I should warn you before you say anything. We have no charge to make against you yet, but—"
"Anything I say may be taken down and used in evidence at my trial?" She smiled. "Where's your notebook, Inspector?"
"If the position is plain, I shall be pleased to listen to any statement you care to make."
"You won't... I want to say first of all that you're a damned fool!"
Hayle had been called worse things. It had merely been recorded in the evidence that the accused was extremely abusive and used obscene language. But it was the presence of Mary which made it anger him.
"It would be better, Mrs. Manningtree, if you explained a few other things first," he said grimly. "Why did you come down here? Why did you threaten your husband? Where were you last night?"
"In bed, you idiot.... Do you think I'd have written to tell him, if I'd meant to kill him?... Why did I come down? Because I knew where I could hurt him. I meant to make him divorce me—and I should have done. Now, it's not needed, thank God!"
"You admit the authorship of this letter?" Hayle produced it and showed it across the table.
"Of course."
"Your husband gave you a pistol, didn't he?"
It was merely a wild shot. Perhaps it got home just because it was unexpected. She flinched.
"I haven't got that. I never took it... I don't think so. I couldn't have done."
"You know your husband—Mr. Manningtree—was shot with that pistol?"
"I didn't— I haven't had it since— There was only the empty case—when I unpacked—"
Her voice trailed away. All at once her face had gone the colour of ashes, and there was a look of terror in her eyes. But Hayle went on inexorably.
"You say that—when you unpacked—you found the empty pistol case but not the pistol?"
"Yes," she said almost inaudibly.
"But you thought you had taken it?" Hayle urged; but she did not answer. "When did you come to look at the case?"
At the last question she suddenly started erect. Hayle almost thought that she was going to throw herself upon him bodily. With a great effort she seemed to regain her self-control, and the fear vanished from her face.
"Naturally, as soon as I unpacked," she said in almost a normal voice. "Immediately—immediately I arrived at—"
Hayle would have sworn she was lying. He frowned a little.
"Then, Mrs. Manningtree," he said, "your explanation amounts to this. You admit the ownership of the Pistol. You intended to take it with you and assumed you had done so. On unpacking—immediately on your arrival at Streatham—you discovered you had taken only the empty case. You have not seen the pistol since. Is that what I understand you to say?"
"Yes." She spoke the word defiantly. "I say that—since I was a fool to say it at all... And I say that I didn't come here to murder my husband—only to shame him. I didn't kill him—but I'm glad he's dead. That's all—except for one thing."
She paused and leaned forward a little, gazing at him with a look of deadly earnestness.
"I understood that question, Inspector," she said harshly. "There's one person I care for in the world. I don't mind what you think about me. But if you or the spy you've planted here to trap me injure him—"
"Well?" Hayle snapped.
"I'll hurt you as you hurt me!" she burst out violently.
Before Hayle could say anything or make a motion to stop her, she turned quickly and was half running across the grass. Hayle jumped up, but Mary's hand was on his arm.
"Don't!" she begged. "Don't make things worse for her—"
"She'd better be locked up now," Hayle said grimly. "She's not safe— You're not safe with her here. I—"
He stood frowning at the door into which she had vanished. All at once it was flung open; but it was a very different figure which emerged. The obviously excited landlord hurried towards them.
"Telephone for Inspector Hayle," he gasped. "Very urgent. The Chief Constable—"
COLONEL CHEDDER had at least spoken a half truth when he pleaded business as an excuse for his departure. Certainly the reason was not pleasure. Peppery and obstinate though he might be with his subordinates and with men generally, he was the most docile of husbands, and even the urgency of the murder investigation had failed to extricate him from the luncheon engagement which his wife had arranged for both of them.
He was faced accordingly with two hours of sheer boredom, and his temper had suffered accordingly. Besides, he was already late. That was why he had chosen the short cut up the valley which though winding and overgrown was still practicable. Past the clay-works and beyond the crest of the hill, it led through a farmyard to the main road at a point which would save a good quarter of an hour.
Perhaps for these reasons as well as his preoccupation with the murder, Colonel Chedder was driving with something less than his usual care. He had reached the top of the steep slope with a sigh of relief, slipped into top gear, and was speeding down the other side of the hill towards the farm buildings when it happened. Without the least warning, and with no preparatory horn, a large brown car emerged suddenly from behind a barn just ahead, slid into the narrow roadway, and backed up the hill. Only a miracle could save a collision. The Colonel's feet jammed on brake and clutch; but the car had been going at a good pace. There was a screeching of brakes; the car skidded violently, slithered sideways across the rough surface, and, half-turning round, collided heavily with the barn wall.
The shock threw the Colonel completely from his seat. For a moment he lay half-stunned before he scrambled to his feet. If his temper had been poor before, it was boiling over as he flung the door wide.
"Here, you, sir!" he roared at the car ahead. "What the devil—"
Then he stopped and stood staring. What happened was odd enough to make anyone pause. Suddenly the rear off-side door of the brown car opened. A figure emerged, stumbled awkwardly and fell headlong into the hedge; then recovering, started at a staggering run down the lane.
"Good God!" Colonel Chedder exclaimed. "What the—?"
It was a woman. He judged so merely from the legs, and the fact that it wore a skirt; for the upper part of the figure was invisible. It was enveloped completely in something that looked like a sack, falling below the waist. Only in front a pair of hands emerged, tugging at it ineffectively. Then he noticed they were tied together at the wrists.
It had all happened so quickly that mere amazement held him paralysed. Before he could move, the door by the driver's seat crashed back, and a man jumped out. He gave a single glance backwards towards the Colonel and the battered car; then started in pursuit.
Colonel Chedder came to himself. He was not quite clear what was happening, but it had every appearance of something extraordinary and illegal. He must do something. In a moment he was in the lane and pounding after them, shouting as he ran:
"Hi! You there! Stop!"
Neither showed any signs of obeying. At the sound of the footsteps behind her the girl in the sack had quickened her pace; but from the start the chase was a foregone conclusion. Almost before the Colonel had got into his stride it was all over. The girl stumbled again, as her foot struck a loose stone, made a desperate effort to recover, and would have fallen. In the same instant the man from the brown car grabbed her, tugging savagely at her wrist to pull her to her feet. Chedder heard him growl something unintelligible; then he turned to face his own pursuer as the Colonel panted up.
"What—? What—?" Chedder gasped, and came to a halt.
A yard or two away the man stood eyeing him. The eyes were, in fact, all that was visible of the face, between the brim of a soft hat pulled low and a scarf wound round the mouth and chin in a way which certainly the weather did not justify. With one hand he still gripped the struggling girl. The right was clenched forbiddingly and his whole attitude was a threat.
Colonel Chedder gave a quick look around. The farm seemed completely desolate. There was no sign of any possible assistance, and the stranger was a big man. But no one had ever accused him of lack of courage, and in the present case both his chivalry and his respect for law and order had been outraged. He took a step forward, keeping his eye on the clenched fist.
"What's this?" he demanded. "Let that lady go! At once!"
"Get out of this!" the other commanded roughly. "Before you're hurt!"
Though the tone was savage, the voice was that of an educated man. Colonel Chedder seemed to have heard it before; and in spite of the muffled face, there was something about the other which was vaguely familiar. But he had no time to think about it. He saw the man give a quick glance back down the lane, as though meditating an escape; but he was between them and the car. There would be a fight at least, before— He decided to bring matters to a head at once.
"Look here," he said. "I advise you to release that lady at once and accompany me without further trouble. It is my duty to arrest you for—"
"Arrest?" the unknown demanded in a startled voice. "Who—who are you? What right—"
"Any citizen has the right to make an arrest during the commission of a felony," Chedder broke in. "But as a matter of fact I am the Chief Constable of the county. I have to warn you that—"
He got no further. With a sudden movement of the arm which showed the strength behind it, the man flung the girl from him. And before Chedder had quite realised it, he was engaged in the toughest fight of his life.
From the beginning it was quite hopeless. Chedder knew that, even while he battled grimly to hold his own. Chief Constables do not generally arrest violent criminals alone and unsupported, and his best fighting days were over. Besides, the other had the advantage over him in youth, height, strength, and a disregard for the rules. It was a wicked kick on the shin as they closed which really made Chedder see red. Up till that time he had been playing a cautious game, contenting himself with defence, and trying to estimate the science of his opponent. With the kick he realised that that way he must be beaten unless help came quickly. If it came to a question of endurance, the other could stand even the pace of attacking longer than he could defend. He set his jaw grimly, dodged a savage swing which went past his ear, and started to fight back.
That way there seemed to be a chance. The other's defence was patchy enough. Chedder got in one or two fair hits before a beauty from his right over the heart absolutely staggered his opponent. Chedder was going in to finish it when the sound of someone running behind him reached his ears. He half turned his head, realised just in time the imprudence of doing so, and turned again to parry a swing to the chin. Then a terrific drive just above the stomach brought him crashing to the ground.
"Hi! What be 'ee doing there?"
The man with the muffled face had caught the Chief Constable full on the solar plexus. Chedder never completely lost consciousness. He was vaguely aware of running feet and shouting voices. A woman screamed; there was the roar of a car engine starting. Then a wheel whizzed past his head, snatching his soft hat with it; a second followed. Almost before Chedder realised the narrowness of his escape, the sound of the engine was dying away down the lane.
He sat up dizzily and opened his eyes to look into the astonished face of the elderly farmer who was bending over him.
"Here, what's this, sir—?"
Chedder had no time for questions. He scrambled to his feet and looked round. The brown car had gone. So had the bound girl and his late assailant. Far along the straight ribbon of the moorland road he caught a moving dot and swore. He glanced at his own car. After all, the wings and running board had suffered more than anything else. He made a dive towards it, only to be pulled up by the restraining hand of the farmer.
"Here, mister... You don't go just yet... Where's she gone—?"
"The girl? I suppose he's taken her—damn it! Chedder exploded. Didn't you see? Look here, I'm the Chief Constable. We've got to catch—"
The farmer peered; then his face cleared suddenly.
"So you be," he admitted. "Saw 'ee at the Police Sports... But 'ee looks different, somehow, sir."
Chedder glanced up the road again. The car was still in sight.
"Out of the way," he commanded; then as an afterthought: "Or are you coming?" he demanded.
With a brief nod the farmer followed him as he jumped into the car. The engine started sweetly, and it was plain that there was nothing wrong there. He backed, extricated the shattered wing from the stonework, then started suddenly forward at a rate which was utterly reckless.
Two hundred yards further on the track met the main road, which at that point undulated over the broad top of the moors for miles. It was a question simply of which had the better car; for though the other had a start of a minute or two, there was no hiding place and no turning. It was not only pride in the performance of his own car that made Chedder believe his was the faster; after a few minutes he was positive that he was gaining. For the first time he had leisure to jerk a question at the farmer.
"What happened? What do you know about all this?"
"Well, sir," the slow voice of the farmer answered after a pause. "I do hardly know... I was up beyond the rick when I heard the young lady call out. So I came down to see what was happening, and there you were, sir, fighting with the other gentleman. And as I watched you fell, sir, and he made for his car. I went for to stop 'un, and before I could do a thing, sir, he gave me one which pretty fair dizzied me, and drove off."
"But the girl?" Chedder demanded. "He carried her off?"
"I never saw any girl, sir," the farmer answered. "There was no girl there when I come, sir... Maybe in the car—"
"But she wasn't," Chedder snapped. "She escaped—just after I collided with the bank. He caught her— You're sure he didn't take her with him?"
"How could he, sir, without me seeing 'un?" He paused. "Maybe she'd have run up to the house, sir."
"She's staying at the farm there?"
"Since day before yesterday, sir... Who'd have thought—"
"What's her name?" Chedder almost snapped. For the first time it flashed across his mind that perhaps what had just happened might have some connection with the main problem of Manningtree's death. If she had arrived the day before yesterday—"Where's she from?"
"I did know it," the farmer said with an exasperating reflective note in his voice. "The missus would tell 'ee. Ah. 'Tis Miss Knowle... Miss Sylvia Knowle, that's who she be. From London it was, I do believe."
Chedder frowned at the road ahead. The space between the two cars was steadily diminishing. With any luck, and barring accidents, they would certainly overtake the fugitive and then— He was not quite sure. Either it might come to a fight again, or they might drive the car into a town or village where help would be at hand. But was the girl there? And had she any connection with the murder?
"Why was she staying with you?" he demanded.
"Just on holiday... You see, we don't let the rooms regular, but 'tis company for the missus, ours being away.... We'll get him yet, sir!"
"She's alone?"
"Ay... Her friend couldn't come... Miss—Miss—I did know it. But the missus will tell 'ee... I owe him one, sir—"
"Ever seen the man before?"
"No... I wouldn't say that I have... Didn't see him properly that time, if you understand, sir."
"He's not visited her?"
"I wouldn't say that he had," the farmer answered cautiously. "But the missus would tell 'ee. Look.... He's turning, sir, seems to me—"
Ahead, the road forked, the branch to the right continuing over the high moors, while that to the left turned down the beginnings of a low valley towards the sea. The car had taken the left branch. Possibly, Chedder reflected, because the cultivated land below offered better opportunities of evasion or concealment. But they were near enough now for that to be relatively unimportant. Chedder knew the whole district well. For something over a mile there was no practicable turning at all, only odd cart tracks to farms. By that time they should be right on his tail. He swung the car on two wheels around the curve, caught a glimpse of the quarry in front before it vanished around a corner, and then had leisure to put the question that was in his mind.
"Where was she last night?"
"Last night?" The farmer thought deeply. "Went for a long walk over the moors in the afternoon, sir, came back late and had her supper... Went to bed when we did, I should say, sir."
"You don't know?"
"Well, I didn't just go to tuck her in... we locked up as usual."
"You didn't hear her go out again?"
For a moment the road ahead gave a glimpse of the brown car not much over two hundred yards away.
"No, sir, we didn't hear her go out... But you see, sir, I'd been stooking the corn all day. Nearly fell asleep while I was having a bit to eat. So we just heard the news as usual—"
Chedder did not bother very much about the rest of the explanation. If the girl had gone to bed, it was very likely that she could quite easily have got up again and let herself out. Fastenings on farmhouse doors, even if present at all, generally ran to bolts, and if a key had been used it was probably left in the lock.
Chedder gave it up. He was practically sure that the man could tell him nothing more. Presumably the girl had managed to wriggle the sack off her head and had run back to the farm. He would be able to question her later; or the farmer's wife would probably prove a better source of information than the farmer. Besides, the chase itself was now requiring all his attention. By sheer recklessness he was gaining more than ever. Now they saw the brown car only at irregular intervals; for the road was in the lower hills, winding and undulating among the spurs and valleys, and with scattered copses of trees to complicate matters. Something was bound to happen soon. They were getting to more civilised regions, and the narrow road would only allow two vehicles to pass at a few places. Sooner or later they would be stopped. And then? Chedder was dubious. If the man chose to make a run for it, he would probably outstrip them easily enough. But once on foot, he must be caught. They could easily find a telephone and throw a cordon around the district before—
"There, sir! He's turning—"
Chedder's thoughts broke off abruptly at the farmer's cry.
"Which way?" he demanded. Why, there's no lane there—"
"Up the hill, sir. I saw 'un—"
Chedder remembered there was a cart track on the left. It led only to a farm, and the other side of the road the ground fell steeply to the stream two or three hundred feet below. If the brown car had turned there, it must have been in the hope that they would go past. It looked as though their quarry was trapped.
He braked as he reached the turning, nosing his way slowly around the bank. The farmer had been right. There was the car, just ahead on the steep hill, and it had stopped. It seemed as though the driver was in the very act of alighting; for he was standing on the running board, with his head and shoulders half-way through the open doorway.
All at once a cloud of smoke came from the exhaust. Too late, Chedder realised the danger and applied the brakes. Before he had time to do more the driverless car, with the impetus given by both the slope and the engine in reverse, was charging down at them.
"Look out—!"
As Chedder flung the door open it was upon them. There was a terrific crash; the windscreen shivered and cracked. With a sickening lurch which flung them sideways, the two cars rocked across the road. Chedder was suddenly aware of what seemed to be an enormous space visible through the inadequate hedge. Then as the car plunged through the bushes, something struck his head and he knew no more.
INSPECTOR HAYLE was conscious of a certain sense of grievance. He had known that his sit-down lunch was a stolen hour, but by no conceivable process of thought could he have imagined that so much would happen that would demand his attention. What precisely had happened, so far as the Chief Constable was concerned, he was far from sure. The message he had had from his superior was sufficiently complicated and excessively vague. It gave a few instructions, alluded to unspecified adventures, and told him to hang on until Chedder came. And the message had concluded with a vague reference which had sounded rather triumphant about a new witness.
Obviously things had been happening, and the Chief Constable seemed to have had his usual luck. Once already that day he had made a discovery by accident and in the face of all the rules of probability. He had said there should be a mysterious woman at the inn, and there had been; even though it had not been the one he had expected. And as though that was not enough, the sergeant was to administer a further blow. He hurried up to Hayle as soon as he had finished telephoning, holding a perfect pack of pasteboard slips, and with tidings written on his face.
"Excuse me, sir," he began. "Acting on your instructions, I obtained the finger-prints of the household and those who were present in the grounds last night."
"Get on," snapped Hayle.
"Well, sir, I obtained the finger-prints as instructed, with the co-operation of Mr. Fareham, sir. I had previously arranged for photographs of the finger-prints found by the Chief Constable in Mr. Manningtree's room this morning, and I compared them, sir."
"Well?" Hayle asked patiently. "Whose were they?"
"They were not made by any one of those whose finger-prints I have taken, sir."
"What?" Hayle asked. "Oh. The devil!"
"Yes, sir," the sergeant agreed with relish.
Hayle thought for a moment. "Sergeant," he said at last, "if you go down to the inn, you'll find a lady staying there—"
"Yes, sir. A Miss Cunningham, sir. The Chief Constable—"
"Not Miss Cunningham," Hayle rejoined firmly. "You can leave her alone... She's my young lady."
The sergeant's eyes widened visibly. "Yes, sir," he assented.
"A lady staying there under the name of Mrs. Mayence... Her real name is Mrs. Manningtree."
"Good lord, sir!"
"I want you, without her knowledge, to get a set of her finger-prints—" He ignored something like a groan from his subordinate and went on: "I might tell you she doesn't like policemen a bit. But use your discretion and get them. And tell Davis to keep his head shut.... You can take the car if you like."
The sergeant's face brightened a little at the last concession, but he made no move to go.
"About the tree, sir—" he began.
"Well, what about the tree? Hayle snapped.
He listened a little gloomily to the negative result, and with positive impatience to the sergeant's hairbreadth escape from death. He pricked up his ears at the mention of the conversation with Timothy, and the mention of Bowmore; then at last he succeeded in getting rid of his subordinate.
What the Chief Constable's discovery might be, why he too had had a hairbreadth escape, and what he had been doing, Hayle had no idea. The only thing to do seemed to be to await his return and let him say. In the meantime, he was inclined to think that the best advice had been given by Mary Cunningham. He ought to try to get things into some kind of order, and find some definite line to follow. Until the return of the sergeant and the Chief Constable, it looked as though he might have some kind of respite. With a notebook and pencil he settled himself down in the card-room, lit his pipe, and set to work.
But he was to be disappointed again. He had gone no further than heading a few sheets with names before a knock sounded on the door and Fareham entered.
"I hope I'm not interrupting you, Inspector," he said a little hesitantly. "And perhaps it's a matter into which we aren't supposed to inquire. But naturally we are curious. And I thought I might help in some way?"
Hayle looked a question, not too amiably. He himself did not share the Chief Constable's prejudice in favour of Fareham as a member of an old county family. The only things in his favour so far were that he seemed to have acted fairly sensibly following the murder, and that it seemed impossible for him to have committed it. But Hayle certainly was not prepared to make him the recipient of any private information.
"Well, sir?" he prompted curtly.
"It's about that wireless police message," Fareham said apologetically. "Was it really Doune's car which is wanted?"
"Police message?" Hayle echoed stupidly. "Doune's car?"
"In the one o'clock news... I didn't hear it myself, but my daughter caught the number. And the message certainly asked that any information should be communicated to our Chief Constable——"
For a moment Hayle could find no words to answer him. Chedder had certainly hinted at mysterious activities of his own in the interval between his departure and his telephone call. He had mentioned nothing about any communications with the B.B.C. And why Doune's car should suddenly appear in the limelight he had no idea; nor even that Doune possessed one.
"You're sure it was to Mr. Doune's car the message referred?" he asked.
"My daughter was positive. And he certainly has a brown car."
"It isn't here then?"
"No. It's not kept here. The garage accommodation won't run to it. With my own and Manningtree's we were full up. He kept his in the village. At the garage—Wilkes', you know, on the corner."
"And the message said—?"
"It asked for any information regarding the whereabouts of the car to-day to be communicated immediately to the Chief Constable."
"To-day?" Hayle frowned. Then a thought occurred to him. "By the way," he said, "where is Mr. Doune, sir? Have you seen him?"
Fareham thought. "He didn't lunch with us," he said. "He came in from a walk this morning at about half-past eleven or a quarter to twelve. I gather that he wasn't feeling well—not that that's surprising—and he asked for something to be sent up to his room. I haven't seen him since... Perhaps Whitley—"
Hayle reached over and pressed the bell. "I'm afraid, sir, it's even more of a mystery to me than to you," he confessed. "I didn't know the message had been issued. I didn't know we were interested in Mr. Doune's car. I didn't know he had one. Perhaps Whitley can help us?"
Whitley, in fact, was helpful in a variety of directions. He confirmed the S.O.S. message; the number of Mr. Doune's car, and that the two numbers had been the same. He confirmed Fareham's account of Doune's activities that morning, supplementing it in some particulars. Mr. Doune had returned at a quarter to twelve. He had asked for a little lunch to be sent up to his room. He was certainly looking very unwell. And he had given instructions that he was not to be disturbed on any account until five o'clock.
Hayle frowned over that for a moment. "I'm afraid we must disturb him though," he said at last. "Would you please ask him if he would mind seeing us for a moment? We will come up, if he prefers it—"
With the disappearance of the butler, Hayle thought for a moment, then reached for the telephone book.
"Wilkes', you said, sir?" he asked.
Fareham nodded. "You don't think—" he began, and stopped. Hayle's face certainly did not encourage any speculations. On the other hand, he had given Fareham no hint that he should go, and he remained accordingly, while the Inspector put a few brief questions to the garage. What the answers might be, Fareham could not gather, but they did not seem to cheer their recipient at all.
Whitley returned just as Hayle was in the act of replacing the receiver.
"Mr. Doune is not in his room, sir," he announced. "I took the liberty of making a few inquiries among the under-servants, sir. I am informed that Mr. Doune left soon after half-past twelve, sir—"
"How?" Hayle demanded. Presumably it had not been by way of the front door, or it would have been reported. "Who saw him?"
"I am not aware, sir, exactly how he left the house. He was seen by the gardener, sir, walking down the drive in the direction of the lane."
Hayle nodded. Of course, he could hardly be expected to guard all possible exits from the house. Doune might have got out in a dozen ways. But almost certainly he had not gone down the drive as far as the main gate where the constable was on duty. He had presumably found some short cut of his own through the hedge. That, in itself, argued that the journey he was making was surreptitious.
"Thank you," Hayle said briefly. "I don't think there's any more you can tell us." He turned to Fareham as the door closed behind the butler. "Mr. Doune has disappeared," he said. "So has Mr. Doune's car.... I should say that in all probability the message was genuine... I wonder, sir, if you could suggest anywhere he might have gone?"
Fareham thought; then shook his head. "I can hardly claim to know him well," he said. "But I understand he has no relatives living. Probably he has friends in London. But I am afraid I do not know them."
It was no more than Hayle had expected. Nor, for that matter, was it likely that Doune would have gone to any place that Fareham might have suggested. He considered for a moment.
"Thank you, sir," he said. "I'm very glad you mentioned the matter to me. I'm afraid I can't give you any more information—"
Fareham seemed content to accept that as his dismissal and as he disappeared, Hayle set himself to consider this latest development. He could not avoid the unpleasant feeling that he had been to blame. He himself had given Doune the fright that morning which in all probability had prompted his flight. To some extent, in that, he had been the victim of circumstances.
A call to the police station confirmed the version of events which he had worked out. The police message had been put out by the Chief Constable alone; there had been no mention of Doune, and they were ignorant that the number applied to Doune's car. He gave instructions that Doune, as well as the car, should be searched for and rang off. Of course, the flight might turn out to be all for the best. If Doune were caught, it would strengthen the case against him materially; and in the meantime, it might give them opportunities they would not otherwise have had.
For example, an obvious step seemed to be to search Doune's room and belongings. No doubt he would have done his best to remove any traces; but criminals often overlooked something. He was more than a little tempted to go and begin the search immediately; but his caution prevailed. The Chief Constable might return at any time, and, in case Doune's trip were really innocent, it would be safer to have the proper backing and authorisation. The more he thought about it the better it seemed to postpone any positive action until he knew definitely what had happened. Instead, he set himself to work out the actual case against Doune, in the hope that it might offer some new line of investigation. At the end of half an hour, he looked dubiously at the scribbling in his notebook, under the heading "Doune" which he had written on the top of the first page.
He was on the point of continuing his entry when the sound of a car outside made him jump up. He glanced through the window. Certainly that was the Chief Constable's car; but the Chief Constable was not driving. Indeed, at the first glimpse, the car seemed to have no other occupant except the uniformed man at the wheel. Then a white object showed through the glass which resolved itself into a bandaged head; the door opened, and a figure showed in the opening. For an instant Hayle stared in amazement. Then realisation came to him.
"Good lord!" he exclaimed, and bolted for the door.
Quite a little crowd had gathered in the entrance hall to witness the hero's return. Fareham was there, looking mildly surprised, and with the suggestion of a smile lurking round the corners of his mouth; Winifred Fareham and Wynne, with Whitley in the background. Royton and Bowmore emerged, apparently from the office, just as Hayle got there. All stared with varying expressions of astonishment at the bandages which swathed a large part of Colonel Chedder's person.
Battered the Chief Constable might be, but he was cheerful. He greeted Hayle almost boisterously.
"Return of the warrior, what, Inspector?" he said. "You got my message all right? Couldn't speak myself; they were tying me up."
"But, good heavens, Colonel—!" Fareham exclaimed. "How—?"
"Oh, these? Just a little car accident... But things are moving, Hayle. An attempted abduction—an attempt on my life, Hayle. I've a new theory about this business—yes, business is the word. I've an idea that business may have a lot to do with it. We'll look into that later—"
Hayle frowned a little. Something in the Colonel's manner suggested either that he had been celebrating his discoveries, or that he had fallen into the hands of someone who believed in brandy as a restorative. At least he seemed even more than usual to have forgotten the need for discretion, and the undesirability of taking the world in general into one's confidence.
"I'm very anxious to hear what's happened, sir," he said with truth. "If we went along to the lounge where we could be quiet—"
"Lounge, eh? Good idea, Hayle... Yes, I've a good deal to talk over... And there's my new witness—he'll absolutely revolutionise the whole case—" He nodded emphatically. "If you'll give me an arm, Inspector— This damned leg isn't much good."
Hayle stepped forward eagerly, but Fareham had anticipated him. Whatever might be said about Colonel Chedder's prudence, there was no doubt about his fortitude. He was obviously in considerable pain when moving, but he bore it stoically at least as far as the lounge. There he almost collapsed, and Fareham guided him to a chair.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" Hayle asked rather anxiously; but again Fareham was before him. He was already busy at the small table by the wireless set, and there was the chink of glasses followed by the fizz of a siphon.
Colonel Chedder drank thirstily. "H'm. That's better," he said. "Thanks, Fareham. And now—"
Fareham smiled as the Colonel hesitated. "I mustn't intrude upon police secrets," he suggested. "I'll leave you to your plotting. You might give me a censored version of your adventures later, Colonel."
As the door closed behind him, Hayle settled himself in a chair with an air of distinct relief.
"What on earth happened, sir?" he asked. "How did you get like that? And who's the new witness?"
"Well, it's a long story," Chedder began. "Roughly speaking, I found Doune abducting a girl. He knocked me out, dashed off in a car, and ditched me... and when I got back the fool of a girl had run off somewhere."
"And Doune?"
"He got away," Chedder admitted. "You see, I was knocked out— But I'll tell you that later. When I got back to the station, I had a most tremendous bit of luck. There was a note from a chap there called Halliday—Mike Halliday. Apparently he's a furniture remover or something, and lives at the village just up the valley. Well, he wrote to say he'd got some information which he was sure would solve the whole business; that he'd be away all afternoon, seeing it was a half day, but that he'd be along at a quarter-past seven to-night."
"Hayle was not impressed. May be only some crank, sir," he said. "You're sending the car?"
"No. It's only a step. He's used to it, I gather... But I don't see what the devil he can know, do you?"
Hayle did not. His private view was that the man probably knew nothing at all.
"Still, sir," he said, "perhaps you'd better send a bobby to bring him along. You never know what might happen—"
"What the devil's that?" Chedder demanded.
Then Hayle heard it too—a faint, ghostly music seeming to come from an immense distance.
"Tum-tum-ti-tum; tum-tum-ti-tum; tum-tum-ti-tum-tum-ti-tum-ti-tum-ti-tum—"
"Good God!" Chedder said. "It's that damned thing—the 'Dead March'!"
Hayle laughed outright. "It's only the wireless, sir," he said, and switched it off.
JUST in time, Mary Cunningham slid down the last few feet of the cliff, and gained the rocks below. It had been a near thing. From above, nothing had seemed easier than to scramble down the slope and reach the corner of the little cove without being seen. It had been more difficult than she had expected; and precisely at that point where she could hardly escape being noticed she had stuck altogether for several ghastly minutes, aware that every second was bringing discovery nearer.
She glanced up towards the corner of the zig-zag path which was the more normal method of approach to the beach. There was still no one visible; but they might appear at any moment. Even among the rocks she would be unduly conspicuous, and she wished that she had chosen a darker frock. A stunted bramble bush growing at the foot of the shale bank offered a refuge, and she had started towards it as the two figures rounded the first bend of the descent.
Crouching in its shelter, she wondered if she had been seen. Probably not. Her attention had been concentrated on that particular spot; theirs, she judged from her knowledge of the track, must partially have been devoted to their foothold. At any rate, she would soon know. Peering between the matted vines of the bush, she waited for their next appearance.
Mrs. Manningtree had called her a spy. She could hardly resent that at the moment; for it was precisely accurate, and she was spying on Mrs. Manningtree. With that end in view, she had lurked about the inn until they set out, had stalked them like a Red Indian, and at the last moment, when it had seemed certain that she must lose them, had thought of the plan which she had just put into practice.
Her position was almost perfect. Three-quarters of the beach was in shadow; only in the corner directly below her the low afternoon sun still shone brightly. Mayence was an invalid, and the shade would be distinctly chilly to sit in. And Mayence would need a rest before tackling the ascent, and therefore they would sit. And all but a narrow strip of the shingle was still wet from the falling tide; therefore they would sit near the rocks.
She had worked it out perfectly. At another time she might have felt ashamed of her mental attitude towards the man's sickness; just now it was merely a means to an end. At another time, she might have sympathised with Mrs. Manningtree. Now, neither consideration affected her at all. She belonged to a not uncommon class of women whose personal loyalties or affections override everything else. Dick was worried about the case. Dick's happiness, and her own with Dick, depended upon his success in it.
Apparently she had not been seen. The two figures were descending the last slope quite unconcernedly. As they stopped to survey the apparently empty beach, she crouched a little lower, hoping that her light coloured frock would not be seen through the leaves. When she looked up again, they had disappeared, hidden behind the rocks, but as she listened she could hear the crunching of their feet on the shingle. Now it was quite close, and she could hear the sound of voices. Almost opposite the place where she was hidden, the sound of footsteps stopped. There was a moment's silence; then the voices came again.
She must get nearer. Forseeing the possible need for silence, she had donned sandshoes, and, barring a slip, on the rock the rubber soles would be completely noiseless if she went carefully. The only risk lay in the fact that she might unexpectedly come upon them, at a time when one or the other was looking straight in her direction. And if that did happen—? It was not exactly a pleasant prospect. Her firm belief, and her sole reason for being there, was that the woman had murdered her husband. They were two to one, and the beach was absolutely empty. Her heart was beating a little more quickly as, after waiting three minutes by her watch to let them settle themselves, she started forward across the intervening boulders.
The voices were her main guide. But placing them exactly was the trouble; for the origin of the sounds was confused by the jumbled slabs of rock, and if she were to overhear she must be very close. Rounding the corner of a great mass of stone which raised itself from the rest, she came suddenly to the open beach, for a second emerging into full view. And that second might have been fatal; for the glimpse she had, showed them seated not half a dozen yards away. A breathless, silent scramble a minute later brought her directly above them.
"...get right away before they do," Paul Mayence was saying. "It's bound to be discovered. And now there's no need to stay. Why should we?"
"Yes, Paul, I know." The contrast between Mrs. Manningtree's voice now and in the inn garden was startling. She sounded as though she was soothing a frightened child. "I feel the same as you do. But can't you see that to leave just now would be to call attention to ourselves?"
"But now that we could be really happy—" Mayence began and broke off. "Now that—that all that dreadful business is over and you've finished with it—"
"Finished?" There was something in the echo of the single word which almost made Mary shiver. I suppose it is finished?.... Oh God! If it only were—"
"But it is? No one can show we've done anything. If we go away—"
"Paul," Mrs. Manningtree interrupted him. "We mustn't go on arguing about this. I can't stand that. Please listen to me... We can't go away just yet. Or I can't. I must wait until—until it's settled one way or the other. Can't you see that?"
There was a long pause. "I suppose he was your husband," Mayence said at last in a strained voice. "And I—"
"You mustn't brood on it, Paul.... Everything will turn out all right. You must try to pretend it doesn't concern us. You must try not to worry—and not to look so guilty when people speak about it. And, Paul, just for the present, I shouldn't go out again at night—"
"But why? You know that I always think best then... And they seemed to think fishing a perfectly good reason."
"That was yesterday.... And you didn't go fishing. If anyone had actually seen you—or some fish—"
"I couldn't. The boat was too high up, and I couldn't move it. What does that matter? It would only have been a pretence?"
"Perhaps... But, Paul, you will do as I say? It's difficult, perhaps, but it means a good deal—" She broke off. "Wouldn't you like some fishing now? We could imagine, perhaps, that this is a holiday, and that that's why we came..... It might help—"
Mary missed the end of that sentence. One of them was getting up. There was no time to lose if she was to make good her retreat. Before the sound of their footsteps reached her, she was crouching in a crevice a dozen yards inside her shelter. Then she risked a peep.
There was nothing to fear. They were walking down the beach together, hand in hand like a couple of children. For the first time she noticed the boat drawn up just above high-water mark. It was evident that they were making for it, and there would be no following them out to sea.
It was no good waiting. She reached that decision calmly. In fact, she could certainly do more elsewhere. On the sea, they would be visible even from the inn garden; she would have ample warning of a possible return. The one difficulty would be getting up the cliff.
It was rough going. Once she slipped, wrenching her ankle painfully, and she was thoroughly tired by the time she had crossed the cove again. The boat had already rowed out of sight beyond the point which bounded the cove, and she might just as well have walked quite normally along the beach. Mere desperation gave her the strength to mount the path. Her ankle was swelling rapidly, and there was a painful throbbing which was increasing with every movement. By the time she reached the inn, she had had more than enough detective work.
So, apparently, had her frock. She caught the surprised eyes of the landlady upon her as she entered and glanced at the empty letter rack; then she volunteered an explanation.
"I had a little fall on the cliffs," she explained, and indicated the grass and mud stains with what she hoped was a smile. "I wonder if you've some cold water, and something I could use as a compress—a bandage, I mean—"
The landlady was all sympathy. In fact, her efforts to be helpful threatened to become troublesome. It was only with some difficulty, and after her ankle was thoroughly enclosed in wet bandages, that she managed to get rid of her, on the plea that she needed a rest. And that was perfectly true. For a few minutes she lay there, utterly exhausted, before she dragged herself reluctantly to her feet and crossed towards the window.
From it, the whole coast to the southward was visible for miles; though a great part of the cove was hidden. For several minutes what she sought failed to materialise. Then, perhaps a mile beyond the point around which it had disappeared, she made out the black dot which must be the boat. Apparently they were safe enough. And she would hear the landlady coming upstairs. She limped across to the door, opened it without a sound, and peeped out.
There was not a sign of anyone stirring. The door of the room which interested her lay directly opposite, and it was not even closed. Perhaps Mrs. Manningtree realised that the best way to encourage curiosity was to lock doors. But other things might be locked. She retraced her steps back to the arm-chair, picked up her handbag, and limped on to the landing. Stopping to listen for only a moment, she pushed the door open and went in.
Now she was really committed. If she were to be surprised there, she could scarcely plead that she had mistaken the room. The great thing was to get through the job as soon as possible. She glanced quickly around the room. The furniture included a wardrobe, wash-stand, dressing table and a chest of drawers, any one of which might contain what she sought. And what was she seeking? She hardly knew, unless it was some letter written to Manningtree, or to some accomplice in the house who could have told her what was happening there, and perhaps secured her entrance.
She worked it out while with feverish but silent haste she opened and shut the drawers and cupboards, trying to find which were in use. If Mrs. Manningtree were guilty of the murder she must have an accomplice. By no ordinary reasoning or guesswork could she have found her husband's study in an entirely strange house, or could have known that on that particular night he would be sitting there with an open window at such an hour; no amount of deduction could have told her where the bedroom was, what was in the desk, or what key would open it. Either someone inside had helped her, or she had had luck which was simply incredible.
It was a point that both she and Dick seemed to have missed before, though now it seemed obvious enough. But she had no time to work out its exact significance. Her task proved in a way much easier than she had thought. The two cases had hardly been unpacked at all; and evidently there, if anywhere, what she was seeking would be found. They were both locked, but that proved no great obstacle. Some time ago, Hayle had given her a pick-lock as a souvenir, and had even shown her how to manipulate it. The locks on the cases were easy, and gave her no trouble. It was only a minute before she had flung back the lid of the first one.
Obviously that was Mayence's, and it seemed to contain nothing of any interest. There remained Mrs. Manningtree's, and the locks had just clicked back under her manipulations when she was suddenly aware that someone was on the landing outside.
Escape was impossible. Whoever it was had come so quietly up the stairs that she had heard nothing; though she had perhaps been too much absorbed to notice. She glanced quickly around the room, and the bed seemed the only possibility. By the time the door opened, she was safely underneath it, almost holding her breath as she peered under the counterpane.
The view was poor enough. Whoever had opened the door did not enter immediately. Then she caught the sound of whispering. It seemed as though there was more than one person. But, unless she had been mistaken in the boat, it could not be the real owners of the room, and they would scarcely need to observe such secrecy, or to hesitate outside the door. She waited in growing bewilderment. Then a large pair of boots surmounted by about nine inches of trouser leg crept stealthily into the room.
Seen like that, they looked utterly ridiculous. She could have laughed, in spite of the awkwardness of her position. It looked as though she was not the only unauthorised person to be interested in the contents of the room. And if he were to search—if he were even to bend down to look at the cases, he must see her immediately.
The suspense was not unduly prolonged. Unlike herself, this visitor had clearly got a definite idea of what he had come for. He moved with a heavy quietness across to the wash-stand; she heard the chinking of crockery. Then the boots slowly retraced their steps. They had almost reached the door before she ventured to peep out. Then she had only a single glimpse of a large man carrying something shrouded in a handkerchief before the door closed softly.
It was a minute or two before she dared to emerge, and stole over to the door. The landing was empty. The visitor, or visitors, had gone down the stairs as softly as they had ascended. But the interruption had wasted time and to some extent spoilt her nerve. She was more than a little flurried as she set to work again on the case. Perhaps she missed something; perhaps that, like the other, was actually a blank. She had nearly reached the bottom before she found anything at all to her purpose; and then she had almost passed it over. On the top sheet of a writing block the indentation of something which had been written in pencil on the sheet above showed faintly, and as she managed to make out a word or two she realised that her search had not been entirely in vain. It was plainly a rough draft of the letter to Manningtree.
It was little enough for her trouble; but still it might serve as proof. She was on the point of putting back the things when her eyes fell upon the bank book. The record of anyone's income is very often revealing as to the record of their life. She picked it up and glanced through it rapidly. A name caught her eye which surprised her; then it came again, and again three weeks later—only a little while before the murder. As she looked, she felt sure that she had found what she was seeking.
Hastily copying the entries, she almost flung the clothes back. Now that her work was finished, she was more anxious than ever about discovery. She dreaded at any moment to hear the footsteps on the stairs which would signify their return. It was with a feeling of overwhelming relief that at last she stepped out on to the landing.
She thought for a moment. The next thing seemed to be to get in touch with Dick. The business needed investigation from his end as well, and the sooner it was done the better. Downstairs was the telephone; and though it was situated in rather a public spot, she thought she could speak so as not to be understood. Making her way downstairs, she was crossing the hall to the alcove in which the instrument was placed when she happened to glance at the letter rack.
Something had been placed there since she had last looked. It bore no stamp, and so presumably had come by hand. Her first thought as she crossed towards it was that it might be some message to her from Dick. She glanced at the name. It was addressed to Mrs. Mayence and it was marked "Private and very urgent."
She had done so much that afternoon that was outside her normal moral code that she never hesitated about the rights and wrongs of the affair. The only question was, was it safe? If the two in the boat would delay their return for another ten minutes, all would be well. If not, she would simply have to suppress the letter and deny all knowledge of it. She stretched out her hand and took it from the rack.
The problem of opening it remained. It was soon solved. A request at the kitchen door for hot water to bathe her ankle produced a steaming can which should be hot enough to steam the flap; and an offer of assistance which she managed to reject. With the can in one hand, and the letter held gingerly in the other, she started back up the stairs.
SYLVIA KNOWLE was feeling terribly hungry. Lunch at the farm had been early and she had had no meal since. Water she had managed to get from the trickle of a spring which looked clean enough to drink, and at that moment she was chewing the last of four caramels found in her pocket, which she had strictly rationed out to herself at one and a half hour intervals.
But in spite of it all she was feeling oddly cheerful. She admitted the reason to herself. In about twenty minutes she would be meeting Timothy, and she had somehow the feeling that that would solve all her difficulties out of hand.
Certainly the situation was complicated enough. It might have surprised, or even flattered, Colonel Chedder that she had first fled from the farm on impulse at the mere terror of his name. Even when she had managed to get rid of the sack and ropes, and could think things out clearly, it had seemed impossible to come back. Perhaps the Chief Constable had come to interview her. In any case, he would certainly want to do so now, after actually witnessing her attempted abduction, and she was afraid that, if questioned, she would somehow be forced to betray Doune.
It was merely a persistent loyalty which made her desperately anxious to avoid that. So far as he was concerned, she only wished never to meet him again. The business of carrying her off, which she was bound to admit had been done quite neatly, had even at the time made her more angry than frightened. Looking back on it, the whole thing seemed utterly ridiculous, and she could smile at the figure she must have cut running down the lane in a corn sack. And yet, just for a minute or two she had been afraid. She had known Doune to be moody before; and generally after some particularly violent outburst he had come begging for forgiveness like a child. But that had somehow been different. It had crossed her mind uncomfortably that in just such a mad fit it was possible he had killed Manningtree.
Still, she herself could scarcely betray him. That was the root of all her troubles. If she went back to the farm, apart from any difficulties she might find herself in, she might be forced into doing that. The trouble was she had nowhere else to go. Doune, in abducting her, had failed to remember her handbag, and even if she had dared risk the journey, she had no money to pay the fare back home.
The ruined clay-works had appealed to her as the only refuge; but for a long period it left a good deal to be desired. Most of the roof was gone and all the windows. Though it gave shelter of a kind it was far from adequate, and she would have preferred even a cell to the prospect of spending the night in company with its mixed insect population which certainly included spiders and wood lice in large numbers.
But Timothy was coming. Somehow he would deal with the whole problem. There was something extremely comforting in his large, cheerful and reliable person. By now he should be on his way; but as she looked out of the broken window of the ruined first floor, the path was empty as far as she could see.
In the low rays of the sunset the whole valley was transformed. It looked like a picture beaten out in gold, and for a minute or two she was content to sit and look at it. Then an unpleasant thought forced itself upon her mind. It was beautiful now; but in another hour it would be dark. The thought of being alone in that desolate spot was more than she could bear. If Timothy— She put the thought from her. Of course he would come. She rose to her feet in impatience at herself, and started to walk across to the rickety stairs. She had only taken a pace or two when she stopped, sniffing suspiciously. Unless she was beginning to imagine things, someone was smoking a cigarette quite close at hand.
Perhaps the smoker had entered while she was in the other room at the far end of the building. She herself had been quiet enough not to be noticed, and he had not come upstairs. But certainly someone was there. The scent of tobacco was unmistakable, and as she stood listening, the sound of someone pulling something across the floor came to her.
Probably it was only some chance stranger who had been moved to look in by curiosity. Perhaps it was a tramp who intended to spend the night there. If she had been sure it was either, she might have gone down and enlisted his aid. But there remained another possibility. The police must know that she was somewhere in the district; they might be searching. Before she did anything definite, she must somehow make sure. Tip-toeing across the rotten floorboards, she reached the rough banisters and peered over.
A man was sitting on a broken case which had been pulled over to a position near the window, perhaps so that he could command a view of the approach to the building. Who it was she had no means of telling. She could see only a cap and his hunched-up back and shoulders, and neither was recognisable. He was resting his chin on his left hand, and in the other the cigarette which had given the alarm was smouldering away to a stub apparently unheeded.
Who he might be she had no means of guessing. He seemed too well dressed for a tramp, and she could scarcely imagine a policeman in so despondent an attitude. The puzzle was what she should do. It was getting time to go to the meeting place. If she were not there, Timothy would have no notion where to find her.
Suddenly the man moved, flinging the smouldering cigarette away viciously.
"Damn!" She heard him swear in a thick voice and realised that the cigarette had burnt him as he rose to his feet and rubbed his burnt finger.
In one way that decided her. There had been something in the voice, even in that single word, which told her not to go down. But in a way it had seemed familiar too, and a vague fear clutched at her heart. He had turned a little as he rose, and his face must now be visible. Somehow she must see it. By leaning over a little further—
The banisters creaked sharply. She heard the man swing around to face the staircase.
"Who's there?" he cried hoarsely, and paused. "Who's there? Come out of it, or—"
He left the threat unfinished, and Sylvia did not wait. In view of any sudden emergency, she had already chosen her hiding place. A door opened just beyond the staircase, leading into what was little more than a cupboard, though it possessed a small window. She had gained it in a moment, and closed the door noiselessly behind her. As heavy steps began to ascend the stairs, she forced the rusty bolt home, hoping that the noise of his progress would cover the grating which it made.
It seemed to her that he was coming very slowly. Between each heavy thud there seemed to be an age of waiting; and at the top he stopped, apparently looking around the empty room; then shouted again.
"Who's there? Come out of it, whoever you are!"
And this time she was sure even before he emerged into the view which the keyhole offered her. It was Doune, and as she caught a glimpse of his face she felt a shock of horror. Certainly he had been drinking; but that was not all. There was a look on his face of desperation mingled with fear and despair which was indescribable. His expression changed abruptly to a furious rage. He staggered forward straight towards her.
"Damn you!" he shouted. "Come out! I'm not afraid of you!"
For one dreadful instant she thought he was actually speaking to her. He seemed to be coming directly towards the cupboard. Then he was past it, apparently making for the other door leading to the second room. The footsteps stopped. She could picture him standing in the doorway looking around the empty room. Now he was coming back. She could feel the floor shake as he moved only just outside the door which separated them. And all at once the latch clicked, lifted and fell again. There was a moment of dreadful silence. She made an effort to control her trembling. There was a lock as well as a bolt, though there was no key. She could only pray that he would decide that the door was locked from the outside; and give up the attempt. The latch clicked up again, but this time it did not fall. The woodwork shook, and shook again, as though he was throwing his weight against it.
"Open the door!" he snarled. "Open, before I kick it in!"
As if to mark the threat, something crashed against the panel. The door rattled in its frame, but held firm. Actually, it was the one sound piece of woodwork in the whole building, she thought; but even so, it could not stand a serious attempt. Quite abruptly, he seemed to give it up. His footsteps receded, and as they thudded down the stairs she drew a sharp breath of relief.
It seemed as though she was safe for the time being, but she was trapped there with no escape. She had already investigated both rooms. The windows were impossible. There was no way out except by the stairs. She glanced at her watch. It was already twenty minutes past seven. Although she had intended to allow ten minutes, the short distance to the junction of the paths could be done in five. And Timothy would surely wait a little. There must be five or ten minutes in which to make some plan.
Down below everything was still. Perhaps he had gone. She drew the bolt back cautiously, pushed the door open, and crept across to the staircase, ready at the least sound to fly back to her hiding place: Then, up the staircase she heard a queer sound rising and falling rhythmically. Even before she looked over she guessed what it was. Doune was asleep and snoring heavily.
It was a chance, if she dare take it. She hesitated. If he should wake—? Perhaps it was the reflection that in his present condition she could almost certainly outrun him which finally gave her courage. Keeping her eyes fixed upon him, ready for the least movement, she started down the stairs.
But he did not move. He had settled down against the wall in a sprawling position, and if it had not been for his snoring she might have wondered if he was alive. With no further thought of caution she was running full tilt down the track.
It was only a few yards to the path, and she was still running blindly when she reached it. The one thought in her mind was that she must find Timothy. Unexpectedly, a tall figure suddenly emerged around a bend of the path. She stopped with a gasp of fear.
"Oh!"
Then she saw who it was. Timothy was grinning cheerfully at her, and under his arm he carried a large rectangular package. The smile faded from his face as he looked at her, and an anxious look replaced it.
"What—?" he began. "Syl—Miss Knowle—there's nothing wrong?"
He realised the idiocy of the remark as soon as he had made it. Of course, there were all kinds of things wrong. Perhaps it was that which made Sylvia smile; or it might have been sheer relief. But even as she did so it flashed across her mind that she must not tell him about Doune.
"It—it's nothing," she said. "Or rather— There's such a lot. And I was afraid I'd missed you... And I'm so horribly hungry—"
The anxious look was still on Timothy's face. It was only at the last word that he seemed to cheer up a little.
"Hungry?" he said. "But why—"
"I haven't eaten since lunch... I had to leave the farm. I hadn't got my bag and I didn't know where to go... And I thought the Chief Constable might start a search—Chedder? He's not after you?"
"I'm afraid—I'm afraid he may be... I can't go back... That's why I don't know what I can do."
Timothy thought. "Look here," he said. "The best thing to do at the moment is to get out of this path somehow. I don't know why, but this place seems popular this evening. It's like Blackpool promenade almost. If there's somewhere quiet where we could talk— I've a good deal to tell you—"
His eyes wandered around and settled on the ruined clay-works. "D'you think—?" he began; but she guessed the suggestion he was going to make.
"No, not there!" she burst out. "Not there—"
"Righto," Timothy assented bewilderedly. "But why?"
"It—it's where I've been hiding," she managed at last. "All afternoon. I can't bear it... And there are spiders—"
The last reason made Timothy grin. "Rats, too," he suggested. "Well, anywhere will do—out of the crowds—"
Sylvia hesitated. "Along here," she said a little hesitantly. The track which she showed led to the place from which she had signalled to Doune that morning; but it seemed half a century ago. "Crowds?" she said as they turned. "Who are they?"
"Well, there's an awful woman and a chap from the inn—they're somewhere behind... And there was George. He's probably going to the Manor, but one can never tell with him these days. And Fareham popped out for a walk somewhere—though I think he took the other turning... That's all, I think—unless perhaps Doune's returned from his motor tour."
There was a silence until they reached the clump of bushes from which the Manor could be seen quite clearly just opposite. Perhaps Timothy realised the associations of the place, but he suppressed any knowledge.
"Here—" Sylvia said hesitantly. "No one comes along this way. And we can see the other track—and the house—"
"Well, then, suppose we sit down?" Timothy suggested, and bowed her to a convenient rock. "I've a good deal to tell you—"
"And so have I," Sylvia admitted, though she was wondering just how much.
"And there's probably more I can't tell you," Timothy admitted. "But still— I say, did you say you were hungry?"
Only momentarily, Sylvia had forgotten about it.
"I really am," she answered, but managed a wan kind of smile.
"That's lucky!" Timothy said surprisingly... "I mean, it was lucky I happened to think— You see, you were living in the wilds and so on.... I just brought along some chocolates."
He extended the package shyly. Sylvia seized it with an eagerness which was certainly unbecoming. She had eaten two before she even remembered to thank him.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" she apologised. "I haven't even said—"
"That's all right... It's a pleasure to give satisfaction. Now, I was thinking. The best thing would be for me to tell you the news and you eat the chocolates. Then, you can tell me the news and I will—I'll—well, I'll listen." He looked at her a little anxiously.
Sylvia could at least claim to be a silent listener while he recounted the events of the day so far as they were known to him. At first he got on splendidly; but with the return of the Chief Constable he began to hesitate a little.
"So, you see, he came along fearfully battered," he explained, "and talking about attempted murder and abduction—" He broke off. "I say, was that you?" he asked directly.
Sylvia did not meet his eyes. "Yes," she admitted.
"Then I suppose the chap was Doune," Timothy said positively. His right fist clenched on his knee. "Wish I'd been there instead of the Chief Constable," he said with evident regret. "We could really have settled a few things... Sorry... Well, I think that's the lot. Oh, except that he burbled something about a new witness who'd simply turn the whole case upside down. Though I think it's rather that way already... You don't happen to have a guess who it is?"
Sylvia shook her head. "It can't be me," she suggested.
"No. You're still the mystery lady. Though, you see, they've got a hint of your existence now... Suppose you tell yours—if you've finished the chocolates—"
Sylvia had not; but she had certainly eaten more than was wise. A little hesitantly she began, glossing over good many things. Even so, it was almost too much for Timothy at times, and his cigarette failed to enable him to preserve complete silence.
"I say, dash it all, a corn sack!" he protested in a really shocked voice.
Sylvia smiled in spite of herself. "I had to be kept quiet, you see, and he didn't think of chocolates," she suggested with rather forced humour, and hurried on, not unaware of the grim expression on her hearer's face. She was all too conscious that the ending was unduly abrupt. "And so," she concluded. "I finished the last caramel and then—and then—" she hesitated. "It was time to meet you."
Timothy said nothing for a moment. "And that's all?" he said quietly.
"Isn't it enough?" she tried to say lightly. "Yes. That's all—"
Timothy made no comment whatever. If he had put another question, she would probably have persisted in the lie. It was nearly dark, and the cigarette between his lips lit up his face redly as he drew in deep puffs of smoke. Suddenly she changed her mind.
"No," she said with a sudden resolution. "It isn't all. Doune was there. At the clay-works."
Timothy took the cigarette from his lips and it described a red arc as he threw it from him.
"I'm glad," he said. "I mean, I'm glad you told me.... You see, I guessed he must have been."
"You guessed?" She was startled. "But—"
"Evidently something had happened.... It couldn't have been the police. You'd have told me that—"
"I ought to have told you," Sylvia said. "But—"
"What happened?" he asked.
"He was drunk... I was upstairs, but I made a noise. He came up and I hid. I suppose he thought he must have imagined it... He went to sleep and I crept out."
Put like that it seemed trifling enough, she thought. But Timothy probably guessed the facts.
"He's still there?" he said after a long pause.
"I left him there asleep... But you won't—you won't—"
"I'm not going to beat him up while he's tight, or anything," Timothy assured her. "But the point is this. As things stand now, the police will arrest him on sight. He's liable to stumble into them any time. The question is, can we let him?" He laughed harshly. "Oh don't think I care what happens to him. The point is, we've got to find a way out for you... And I think we've got to try to get him away."
"Perhaps—perhaps he isn't there."
"That's the next thing to settle." Timothy rose to his feet. He looked at her. "There's no need for you to come," he said. "I'm not going to touch him."
"I'll—I'll come," she said and rose too. "Oh, if only—"
She left the wish unexpressed. They walked down the path in silence. Once Sylvia stumbled. Her arm caught his, and stayed there. They were near the junction with the other path when Timothy stopped suddenly.
"Someone coming," he muttered. "Wait—"
She felt herself drawn back into the shadow, and instinctively clutched at his arm a little more tightly. There was hardly light to distinguish the tall bracken on the far side of the path.
Hurrying footsteps approached the end of the path. They had a momentary glimpse of a dark shadow scurrying past, with the dull red of a cigarette end. Then the soft thudding died away and all was still again.
"Who—?" Sylvia asked.
Timothy sniffed the air. "Mayence," he said briefly.
"You—you couldn't see—?"
"He smokes Egyptian cigarettes... I wonder why—?" He paused. "We'd better get on."
The track to the clay-works was already a tunnel of blackness with its covering of bushes. Ahead, the twin pyramids of the dumps seemed to catch and focus a last pinkish glow. Sylvia had to nerve herself to enter it. Only the moral support of Timothy's arm kept her from running. She did not know why, but she was horribly afraid. Then the dark outline of the building showed against the sky.
"You're sure you'll come?" Timothy asked in a whisper. "He may be— He may not like to see us together."
Sylvia only clutched his arm without answering. They entered the empty doorway together to face a deathly stillness. Not even the outlines of the room could be distinguished. Only across the window a last dull red streak glowed a threatening crimson.
"Where—?" Timothy breathed.
"Over there.... Beyond the window... He must have gone—"
And even as she was speaking, she stumbled over something lying on the floor. Timothy knelt down and felt with his hands.
"No," he announced. "He's here... Still asleep. Hullo!"
He said the last word quite loudly, and there was a note in it which made the hair prickle on the girl's scalp.
"What?"
"Something—something sticky—" Timothy said in a queer voice, and then: "My God!"
"Timothy—what is it? What's the matter?"
After a long pause the answer came, and his voice shook.
"He—he's dead."
Sylvia said no word. There was the rattle of a matchbox. A light flared up. And the first thing Sylvia saw was Timothy's reddened hand. She gave a shuddering gasp.
"A-ah!"
Timothy bent nearer with the match. "His head—head's battered in," he said; and then as the match fell his voice rose excitedly. "It isn't—it isn't him!"
BY something like a complete reversal of roles, it was the Chief Constable who was getting irritated and impatient, and Hayle who was beginning to be worried by half-past seven that evening. They were still waiting for their new witness, and perhaps it was the pain of the Colonel's injuries which was beginning to make him take a more pessimistic view.
"Quite probably the fellow can't tell us anything," he said for the second time. "I only hope that he hasn't been drinking."
"Was there any suggestion of that, sir?"
"Most of these labouring chaps do," Chedder said sweepingly, "and he's been having a day out—"
"I think, sir, it would have been better to send a car to collect him," Hayle said after a pause. "After all, he may have something really important to say."
"Let the beggar walk!" Chedder rejoined vindictively. "It'll give him a chance to sober up." He paused. "And there's still no news of Doune. That's odd, don't you think? Damned odd. They ought to have traced the car by now."
"He may have found friends to protect him," Hayle suggested. "In any case, he's probably had the sense to leave the car somewhere hidden. You see, until we realised it was Doune, we hadn't issued a description of the person with the car. Or at least, nothing that anyone could identify."
There was a long silence. Chedder broke it at last.
"I suppose he did murder Manningtree?" he said, more to himself than to his colleague.
"Well, sir, that's just what I'm inclined to doubt. I mean, that he did the actual murder. Although he had the motive, might have had the gun, and could have done it through the window, I don't believe he was sober enough to make a shot like that."
"A sort of alibi of means," Chedder suggested. "Not concerned with the possession of the weapon, but with sheer inability to use it. That's the idea, eh?"
"What's that, sir?"
"Well, you see," Chedder expounded, "there's the alibi of place, or opportunity; there's the alibi of means—not having had access to or power to use the weapon or means, and there's the alibi of motive, where the victim must have been killed from one motive, and the suspect hasn't got it."
Hayle was not impressed. "That book stuff is all very well, sir—" he began.
"It isn't book stuff... Fareham invented it... I thought it was pretty smart, myself."
Hayle had always possessed tact. "Very interesting, sir," he assented, and even repeated it with emphasis. "Very interesting... And, Fareham himself practically has all three—though he might have got the gun."
"We don't know what motive actually prompted Manningtree's murder," Chedder observed a little gloomily. "It might have been the cheques, or this marriage business, or some financial stuff, or one we don't know at all."
"I was going to tell you, sir. The finger-prints on the desk aren't Mrs. Manningtree's. The sergeant got a specimen of hers a little while ago."
"Then, who the devil—" Chedder began. "By George! Of course, that girl in the sack!"
"I think that's very likely, sir. But, you see, that gives no ground whatever for thinking Doune and Mrs. Manningtree were working in collusion."
"We've got to find that girl, Hayle," Chedder said.
"We're trying, sir. But she seems to have vanished."
"Nonsense. Pretty girls don't vanish like that."
The Inspector repressed a smile. "And it's very doubtful, sir, if the girl could have got downstairs and out again after shooting him... It seems to me, sir, that that affair may have nothing to do with the murder at all."
"Nothing to do with it?" Chedder stared. "And I suppose you think Mrs. Manningtree being here's nothing to do with it? And that young ass Wynne and his precious friend George have nothing to do with it? And Doune and the whole boiling have nothing to do with each other."
"It's quite possible, sir," Hayle answered imperturbably.
"Then damn it, you're an idiot! Never heard anything so deuced silly in my life. Anybody with half the brains of a mentally deficient earthworm—"
Hayle was just getting interested when a knock sounded on the door, and the butler entered.
"A young lady to see the Chief Constable or Inspector Hayle. A Miss Mary Cunningham, sir," he said.
"Mary Cunningham?" Chedder echoed. "By George! The girl at the inn. You'd better bring her along, Whitley."
He turned to Hayle excitedly. "Mary Cunningham!" he exploded. "M.C.!... Look here, Hayle. Mightn't she be the one?"
"I hope not, sir," Hayle said seriously. "You see, she's my young lady."
"Your young lady?" Chedder almost gaped. "I'd no idea—" He chuckled. "Hayle, you're a sly dog!"
For the life of him Hayle could not see why being engaged to Mary Cunningham was sly; but the words seemed to be intended as a compliment, and he accepted them as such. Chedder chuckled again as Mary entered.
She looked from one to the other, gave a little smile at Hayle, and advanced into the room. Chedder went forward to meet her.
"My dear girl," he said enthusiastically, "Hayle's only just let me know. I ought to congratulate him... I think we owe him a grudge for keeping you back from us... But we'll forgive him. Clever chap—one of the best we've got. You'll be proud of him."
"I am." Mary smiled.
Hayle himself flushed a little; but the words "half the brains of a mentally deficient earthworm" running through his mind prevented any undue pride.
"You'll have come to see Hayle, I suppose? Sorry we're keeping him so busy—"
"I had to see one of you," Mary managed to interpose. "You see, I've been doing a little detective work on my own—"
"The de— You have, eh?" Chedder raised his eyebrows. "You'd better sit down and tell us about it."
Mary accepted the chair which he offered.
"And I'm not feeling very proud of myself," she admitted. "Because I've really failed badly... I was following Mrs. Manningtree to an appointment with Doune, and I lost them."
Chedder ignored the last statement. "An appointment with Doune, eh?" he echoed, and shot a triumphant glance at Hayle. "I said as much—"
"You're sure of that, Mary?" Hayle asked seriously.
"Quite sure... You see, there was a letter—" She wrinkled her brows. "But I'd better tell you the whole thing—"
Concisely and in perfect order she related the events of the afternoon, interrupted only by occasional admiring comments from the Chief Constable.
"And so I got the letter, steamed it open, copied it, and put it back after re-sealing. Mrs. Manningtree came in a minute or two later."
Hayle spoke for the first time. "It would be damp," he said with a slight frown.
"I'd dried it in front of the fire... I also photographed it; though I don't know how that will come out with a small camera. This is the copy."
She handed it over to Chedder, who stared for a moment at the typewritten sheet; then read it aloud.
"'You must meet me to-night, at the time and place arranged. Don't fail, or the police must know everything.'" He passed the sheet over to Hayle. "And it's signed by Doune," he said eloquently.
"So then?" Hayle merely glanced at the sheet.
"I ought to have phoned you. But I decided to follow her myself instead. I think I should have managed all right, but there was a difficulty I hadn't foreseen. She was being followed already by someone else."
"She was?" Hayle demanded. "Who?"
"Mayence. He slipped out just after her, when I was going to myself. All I could do was to follow him. But that kept me too far back to see her at all."
"That may have been the idea," Hayle suggested.
"I don't think so. Judging by his face... I've an idea he was jealous or suspicious.... Well, there's one piece of the path just there which is straight for quite a long way, and just beyond there are several turnings. I had to wait there until he was out of sight, and I couldn't tell which he'd taken. So I lost him too."
"That was a pity," Hayle said.
"My dear Miss Cunningham, you've done marvellously," Chedder interrupted. "Gives us something to think about, eh?"
"It does," Hayle admitted.
"How about having a shot at it now?" He glanced at the clock. "Put a man on each track. Bound to catch him—"
"We haven't the men. And we couldn't get them or place them in time, sir... What we might do is to throw some kind of cordon round the whole area at the top of the valley there. He might run into it somehow—"
"We can arrange for that," Chedder agreed. "Though it's a long shot—"
"Just a minute—" Mary had been trying to speak. "I'd not quite finished... I looked for them everywhere and couldn't find them. It was getting quite dark, and I realised that I'd been wrong in following at all. I thought I'd better come here as the quickest way to get in touch with you. Just before I reached the drive, I heard someone coming. I only just had time to get back into the hedge. It was Mayence and he was running hard. I could hear him gasping for breath as he went. I waited for a little longer, but there was no one else. Then I came up."
Hayle thought for a moment. "I think the best thing to do would be to put someone on at once to watch the inn," he said. "Two men, and arrange for reliefs. And then—"
"And then," Chedder broke in. "Suppose you and I go and have a scout round up there, eh?"
Hayle would much rather have gone alone, but he inclined his head in assent.
"We'll take the sergeant too," Chedder decided. "Never know what might happen— I'll just get my coat. Good night, Miss Cunningham. Hayle will arrange to send you back."
Hayle caught Mary's look of appeal as the Chief Constable went out, and shook his head.
"Can't possibly take you, darling," he said. "You've done quite enough already... And you really have done jolly well. They'll lend us a car to take you to the inn. And we really shall need someone to keep an eye on things inside there."
Mary smiled assent; then her face grew grave again.
"You really think there may be something serious," she said, with her eyes on his face. "Don't you?"
"I'm afraid it may be very serious indeed... You'll be careful, won't you? Don't take any risks... And now, I must dash off... Good night."
Whitley entered just as he was kissing her.
"The Chief Constable asked me to see you, sir, about the car," he said. "It can be ready in five minutes... He is waiting, sir."
"I must fly, darling... Good night."
Outside in the hall, he found Chedder fully equipped, and impatient to start. The sergeant, on the other hand, was patience personified. He had just settled himself down for the evening.
Evidently Chedder was impressed by the importance of the occasion. For once he made no attempt to talk. The precaution struck Hayle as a little unnecessary. The sound of their progress resembled the marching of a battalion of particularly heavy infantry. If he could only have gone alone— He shrugged his shoulders in the darkness, and tried to work out the significance of this latest development without much success.
They had gone about a quarter of a mile before Chedder broke the silence.
"Good God!" he said; and then, "Mike!"
"Pardon, sir?"
"Mike Halliday—my witness. I'd forgotten him."
So had Hayle. He thought for a moment. "The man on duty at the house would keep him till we return, sir," he suggested. Besides, he'd come this way—"
He broke off. They were quite close to the ruined works. Up on the hillside above them he had just seen a blur of yellow light; then a bright flash. He caught the sound of an engine.
"Someone's coming, sir," the sergeant remarked. "Motor bike, I should say."
"What the devil's he doing coming down there?" Chedder demanded. "It's only a footpath—"
Next moment the headlamp swung blindingly into the main track, dazzling them completely.
"Stop him!" Chedder commanded. "Across the road... I shall fire at his tyres if—"
Hayle took up his position two or three feet behind, and on the left; the sergeant moved forward to the right. Chedder himself stood manfully in the middle of the track, and Hayle could see a revolver glistening in his hand. Then his torch flashed as the motor cycle drew near.
"Stop!" he shouted. "Stop there! Police!"
But the motor cyclist was already stopping. Colonel Chedder stepped forward as the motor cyclist stopped, holding his gun ready, and flashing the torch in his face.
"Who are you?" he demanded. And then in a voice of amazement, "Good God! It's Royton!"
"Colonel Chedder! It's you! Thank heavens!"
For a moment Hayle thought that the secretary was merely expressing his relief at finding the man with the gun was a Chief Constable and not a footpad. The next words undeceived him.
"There's something wrong. Look!"
Royton stretched out his hand into the glare of the lamp.
"What—?" Chedder demanded. Then he saw the red smears upon it. "It's blood? You're not hurt?"
"Up there—a pool of it in the path. And—and there's Fareham's stick lying beside it!"
"Fareham's stick?" Hayle demanded. "You're sure?"
"It's covered with blood—and—and hairs. On the knob—"
"There's nothing else?" Chedder snapped. "No body?"
"Nothing. At least, I didn't see anything."
"Where is it?" Chedder asked. "You'd better leave the bike here, and walk back with us. How did you come to find it?"
"The headlamp picked up the stick. I recognised it—"
"In a flash like that?"
"It's very distinctive. I've often seen Fareham using it. There's a sort of knob on the top—"
"Yes. And then?"
"I stopped and got off to pick it up. I knelt in the grass, and it seemed wet. I looked and—and it was all red. Then I saw the blood and hair on the knob of the stick... And look!"
He displayed the stained knee of a light grey pair of flannel trousers. No doubt, Hayle thought, it was all plausible enough; but it might be only a plausible invention to cover the presence of blood on his clothes and hands.
"Leave the bike," Chedder repeated. "Quick!"
Royton obeyed, wheeling it into the side of the lane, and doing something to immobilise it before he left. For a few paces they walked in silence.
"My God, it was awful," Royton said all at once. "I didn't know what to do! I never expected anything—up there—"
"What were you doing up there—on a motor cycle?" Hayle asked.
"It's the nearest way... It's quite easy when you know—"
"The nearest way to where?" Hayle persisted.
"To where I was going... To Willow Farm."
"Why did you go to Willow Farm, sir?"
"I have to go regularly—every month. I take the parish magazine there."
"I see, sir," Hayle assented; but Colonel Chedder gave something very like a snort.
There was silence for a minute. Then Royton whispered a warning.
"Be careful... It's near here... Look!"
Hayle's torch focused upon the knobbed stick lying on the edge of the track. As Royton had said, the ivory was stained with red, and there was a dark patch on the grass just nearby.
"Keep back, sir," he commanded. "Stand still."
He flashed his torch on the bracken stems immediately behind the stick. They rose tall and unbroken. Obviously no one had been that way. He crushed himself right into them, treading on ground that no one could have used.
"Sergeant, look the other side," he commanded. "Keep off the path. See if there are any tracks or signs of the body—"
Chedder seemed to have accepted the role of waiting with Royton. They watched the torches flashing along the sides of the path. In a minute or two Hayle returned.
"There's no sign of any body lying anywhere, sir," he said. "Let's have a look here..."
He had flashed his torch down on to the dark patch, moving it to cover the ground on each side. On one side the longer grass along the edge of the path was definitely flattened; on the other, it seemed to Chedder that there were traces of something having been dragged.
"It looks as though it was taken down the hill, sir," Hayle said. "There are marks of dragging. And look—"
There were smears of blood on the grass blades going down the hill they had just ascended. Chedder thought for a moment.
"Then—you think there was a body?" he asked.
"I'd take my oath on it, sir... The question is, where has it been taken?"
Together they stood looking around over the limited space that the tall bracken allowed them to see.
"It's a question of getting more men and searching," Chedder said. "Or waiting until morning? It'll take a week to search all this... D'you think the pool—"
"What's that?" Hayle interrupted.
Automatically they had looked in the direction of the clay-works. They both saw together what had excited Hayle's interruption. In one of the windows of the building, a light showed for a moment; then flickered and went out.
"Come on!" Chedder urged. "Sergeant, bring along Mr. Royton—"
He plunged down the hill towards the entrance to the factory. Hayle overtook him, and could have passed, but he deemed it politic to keep level. They were nearing the building when he ventured a warning.
"Better go quietly, sir... He might get away—"
They slowed down; but another match from inside the building showed that whoever was there had taken no alarm. It lit up the empty doorway. Chedder pushed ahead and entered first. On the threshold he stopped and stood staring at the picture which met his eyes.
"Good God! Wynne—!"
Hayle peered over his shoulder. Wynne and a girl he had never seen before were standing together, and the light of the Chief Constable's torch lit up the dead man at their feet.
"We—we found him here," Timothy said, and it sounded horribly weak. "He—he's quite dead."
Hayle pushed past his superior, not without a qualm at the thought of the gun being behind his back. He bent over the body; then looked up quickly.
"Good lord, sir! It's not Fareham!"
"Not Fareham?"
"No. Never seen the chap before. Looks like a workman of some kind... Let's have a look in his pockets—"
The breast pocket revealed a collection of papers. Hayle glanced at the top one, and his jaw dropped visibly. As if unable to believe his eyes he tried a second, and then a third. A frown gathered on his face.
"Well?" Chedder snapped. "Who is it? What are those?"
Hayle passed the papers over. "Only old letters, sir," he said. "But— It's your witness, sir. Mr. Mike Halliday."
THE arrival of the police had followed so quickly upon their own discovery of the body that Timothy had had no time even to think about the necessity of accounting for their presence. Now, as Hayle turned a cold eye upon him, the full difficulty of their position came to him. So far as the girl was concerned, the police were already searching for her; they might or might not suspect her of the actual murder of Manningtree; they certainly knew she was somehow connected with it. And he himself, for the second time in twenty-four hours, was faced with the task of explaining how he came to be on the scene of a murder about which he knew nothing whatever.
He had to decide quickly what line he was to adopt; and it flashed across his mind that the great thing was to prevent the girl from saying too much until they had had more time to see what the position was. It was with a certain inward shrinking that he encountered Hayle's scrutiny.
"I'd better explain, Inspector," he said, and glanced warningly at Sylvia. "We were out for a walk—Miss—I mean, this young lady and myself. We happened to come in here, and found—found it lying there... I struck a match. At first I thought he was drunk. I saw that he was dead... I've never seen the man before."
Hayle only looked at him for a moment, but his expression had hardened perceptibly. Then he turned to the girl.
"And you?" he demanded. "Did you know him?"
Sylvia hesitated. She had guessed the intention of Timothy's half-truths; but perhaps she had a greater realisation of the difficulties than he had. She felt absolutely stunned by what had happened and for a moment she could only stare stupidly.
"Did you know him, Miss—?" Hayle repeated.
"I haven't—I haven't looked—" she faltered.
Hayle was aware that the girl was nearly on the point of collapse. He himself had seen the battered head, and it had affected even him unpleasantly. His brutality was quite deliberate.
"Perhaps you would look now, Miss—?" he suggested, and flashed his torch.
Sylvia nerved herself to turn her eyes in the direction of the body. But she was reaching a point where no amount of resolution could prevail over her weariness, and where her overstrained mind was incapable of standing further shocks. She had only glanced at the bloodstained white mask before she staggered back with her hands to her face.
"No!" she cried. "No... I haven't... I can't—I can't—"
She swayed and would have fallen, but Timothy's arm upheld her. He scowled at Hayle.
"Inspector," he protested, "the shock has been too much for—for the young lady. She is hardly in a condition to make a statement—"
"Mr. Wynne," Hayle interrupted, "obviously we shall require some explanation from both of you. I will take that in a few minutes. Might I suggest that last night you told a good deal of the truth and we accepted it? Your best course now might be the same."
Having delivered that broadside, Hayle turned to the Chief Constable. Chedder was standing there helplessly. It was not so much the discovery of the body which had unnerved him; but the realisation of who it was, and the knowledge that he must be in great part to blame.
"We must have more help, sir," the Inspector suggested. "If I might—"
"You—you had better take any necessary measures, Inspector," Chedder said a little hesitantly. "The matter is entirely in your hands."
"Then, the first thing to do is to send word— Ah, here's the sergeant and Mr. Royton... Sergeant, here a moment—"
The body had been screened from Royton by the group standing around it. Now he advanced with the sergeant, and suddenly he saw. He made a curious noise, almost like a grunt, and stood staring in horrified fascination.
"Oh!" he said in a shaken voice. "Oh, dear! Then it was—it was—"
Even in that moment the ludicrous inadequacy of the explanation struck Hayle. He put one question to Royton.
"Do you know him, sir?"
"I don't—At least, I don't think... I've an idea I have seen—"
He broke off incoherently. For the moment, Hayle gave him up.
"Sergeant," he said. "You'd better get to the Manor as soon as possible. Borrow Mr. Royton's bike—if he's no objection. I'll scribble a note. Ring the station for a doctor and some more help. And—" He lowered his voice. "You might check up on things there. See who's at home—and where they have been in, say, the past hour or so."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant assented stolidly.
"And I think I should keep everyone in the house for the present. You needn't tell them just what's happened."
Having scribbled a note in pencil, Hayle dismissed the sergeant, and turned to Chedder, drawing him aside.
"We ought to make sure of the stick, sir," he said in a whisper. "You see, he's only just died. A matter of minutes... The murderer may still be about. And he might remove it... But we can't leave these, because any one of them might have done it... Would you go for the stick, sir, or stay here?"
Chedder's normal assertiveness seemed to have deserted him. He hesitated.
"I'll go for the stick," he said at last. "But, good lord, Hayle! Fareham's stick! Fareham can't have done that?"
"That's one thing we'll have to find out, sir. Don't forget, you said that this poor devil had evidence against someone who wasn't even suspected... But it may be an attempt to throw suspicion on Fareham."
"Of course, it might." Chedder brightened up a little at that. "In that case, it would have to be someone in the house? Who could it be?"
"Or someone with access to the house," Hayle amended, and glanced at Wynne. "Look here, sir," he appealed. "We've got these two on our hands. I don't really believe that lad had anything to do with Manningtree's murder—or this one. I don't believe she'd anything to do with the murder—but I do think she's the woman whose finger-prints are on the desk... In other words, sir, she's scared because she's done something illegal, and won't tell what she knows. And he won't talk because he's keen on her, and won't get her into trouble.... Of course, if they don't we can charge them. I've only to take her finger-prints, and they'll correspond with those on the desk—"
Perhaps it was the Inspector's own obvious embarrassment that made Chedder regain something of his old manner. "What other evidence have you against her?"
Hayle thought. "Can you identify her, sir?" he asked. "I mean as the girl who was being abducted? Was she the girl Doune was carrying off?"
Chedder looked at Sylvia Knowle. "I'll bet she was!" he said quite cheerfully. "I'd know those legs in a million."
In spite of his worries Hayle smiled. "I'm not sure, sir, how it would go down in court, if you had to swear to her legs," he suggested.
"No," Chedder admitted.
"Anyway, I'll leave it to you. And now, I'll do a bobby's job and get that stick." He thought for a moment. "That chap Royton," he said at last. "All that stuff about the parish magazine... Seemed pretty thin to me."
"I suppose the vicar could tell us, sir," Hayle answered. "Not that it isn't what you might expect of him. I'll look into that, sir."
Left alone, Hayle flashed the torch around the room. Timothy and the girl were standing together, and Timothy's arm was supporting her protectively. The girl did not even look up as the light shone on her. It was plain enough to Hayle that she was completely exhausted.
He flashed the torch on Royton. The secretary was less self-possessed than either of the other two—perhaps because he had not resigned himself to the worst. He blinked in the light of the torch; took a step forward and spoke.
"Inspector, you can't think that I—that I had anything to do with it?" he protested. "Why, good heavens, I can prove exactly where I went. And I'd no reason for killing—for killing this fellow. And I couldn't have got the stick. It was there when I left. I can prove it—"
"You can?" Hayle asked with interest. "Of course, sir, we're not accusing you at all. But I'd be glad to hear anything you can tell me about the stick?"
"Well," Royton began. "It was in the cupboard—where Fareham keeps all his sticks... You know, he has quite a collection. That is one of his favourites—"
"When was it in the cupboard, sir?" Hayle interrupted. "You saw it there?"
"Well, just before Fareham went out. Bowmore and I were both sitting there when he came in—"
"Just what time would that be, sir?"
"At about twenty minutes to seven? Yes, I heard the clock strike the quarter soon afterwards. He was going to take it with him; then he changed his mind, and took an amber-headed stick. He sat down for a minute and talked. He left just as the clock was striking."
Hayle thought for a moment. "You actually saw the stick at about twenty minutes to seven?" he said. "It wasn't just that he said he was taking the other stick?"
"Of course. I saw him take it out of the cupboard, and look at it, make some remark about it to Bowmore; then put it back. He brought out the amber-headed one."
"And you'd be prepared to swear that when he left the room he was carrying the amber-headed stick, and not the one which has just been found?"
"Most certainly I should." Royton looked puzzled; but he was certainly not so puzzled as Hayle.
"And then, sir?" Hayle asked. "What did you do?"
"Well—" Royton thought. "Bowmore went out to write some letters. I put my magazines in order. Then I went out to see to my motor-cycle. I came back—"
"At about what time, sir?"
"Just after seven. I picked up the magazines and went out. Bowmore had finished his letters and was sitting reading a paper... And then I called at three farms—I can let you have the names. I had hoped to get back by daylight, but they would talk. And it was as I was coming back that—that I saw it."
Hayle was frowning thoughtfully. "I wonder, sir, if you saw anyone at all between the time Mr. Bowmore went out and the time you came back to find him there again?"
"No—no one."
"And you say you've an idea you've seen the man before?" he asked. "But you can't tell where or when?"
"I can't," Royton admitted, and it seemed as though the fact troubled him.
"Does the name Halliday suggest anything to you? Mike Halliday?"
Royton hesitated. "I've heard someone use the name Mike recently," he said. "But I can't tell where."
"I should be glad if you'd try to remember, sir. That's all, just now, sir. Thank you. Perhaps you'll just wait a few minutes?"
That, Hayle thought, was one part of the problem, and a sufficiently bewildering one. They could prove the stick had been at the house just after seven when Royton left. At least, Royton had said so. For a moment, he had actually suspected Fareham and his walk. Had he gone back to the house? That would have to be inquired into. Could his movements be checked in any way? And how long had Bowmore remained in the room after that?
For the stick, and what happened to the stick, was vitally important. Apparently there were two witnesses to its presence in the cupboard an hour before the crime had been committed. And Halliday had certainly been killed with that stick, or one very like it.
He had deliberately avoided questioning his other two witnesses because he had wanted to give them time to think it over. Timothy had been sensible enough in their first interview after the murder of Manningtree. He had told the truth quite straightforwardly, and Hayle was hoping he would again. The girl was the trouble, and the mistaken chivalry which might lead Timothy to protect her. He decided to try her first.
For a moment he flashed the light upon them again; then transferred the beam to the whitewashed wall, where it would give sufficient reflection for their faces to be seen without dazzling.
"And now, Miss Knowle," he began. "It is Miss Knowle, isn't it?"
"I—I— That is my name," the girl said almost inaudibly.
"And recently you have been staying at the farm just above here?"
She only nodded.
"And this morning an attempt was made to abduct you?"
"Yes."
"By whom? You are aware of the man's identity?"
"I—I have nothing to say about that."
Hayle sighed. All these questions were the merest preliminaries, and she was already proving stubborn.
"Miss Knowle," he said. "We can already prove that an attempt was made to abduct you. We are already searching for Mr. Doune in that connection. Do you deny that the man was Mr. Doune?"
"No."
"Then it would be better, Miss Knowle, if you would answer my questions directly without my having to compel the answers... You ran away then. Why?"
"I—I was frightened."
"Of whom?"
She made no answer.
"You must have known that Mr. Doune was being pursued by the Chief Constable. Wasn't it a fact that you actually wanted to avoid, not Mr. Doune but Colonel Chedder and the police?"
Timothy broke in. "I don't think I should answer that, Sylvia," he said, and turned to Hayle. "Inspector, Miss Knowle isn't bound to incriminate herself. If you are charging her, she should be warned—"
"Mr. Wynne," Hayle said coldly. "At the moment I am not charging her. I am merely trying to arrive at a reasonable explanation of her presence here—"
"I think Miss Knowle should obtain legal advice before answering further questions."
"Just as you like," Hayle assented. He was actually admiring Timothy's good sense; but he could hardly tolerate any such delay. "I leave you to imagine whether that attitude is that of a witness who has nothing to conceal."
He waited for a moment to let that sink in. Timothy made no comment.
"As a matter of fact, we have good reason to believe that neither of you could have committed this murder," Hayle went on. "If you can explain your movements satisfactorily we can probably prove it. For the moment we will leave the other matters... Now, Miss Knowle, for some reason you were frightened of someone and you ran away. Where were you in the interval between the attempted abduction and now—?"
"Sylvia—" Timothy began.
"Don't, Timothy. It—it's better—better to answer—" Her voice faltered. "I was here."
"All the time?"
"Nearly. I was waiting to see Mr. Wynne. We talked for a little time further along the path. Then we came here."
"Why?"
"We wanted to talk privately," Timothy broke in. "And then I—"
"Mr. Wynne, I shall ask for your account later," Hayle snapped. Timothy had supplied an answer to what was intended to be an awkward question. He might have pursued the matter with the deliberate intention of embarrassing the girl; but he changed his ground. "Were you alone all that time?" he demanded. "Until Mr. Wynne came?"
She hesitated perceptibly, quite long enough for Hayle to detect the lie.
"Yes."
"And you did not at any time go to the Manor? And certainly not after seven o'clock?"
"I was with Miss Knowle from before half-past—" Timothy began.
"No," Sylvia answered definitely.
"And have you ever met the dead man before?"
"No."
Hayle nodded. Perhaps to the surprise of both his victims, he suddenly stopped his questions.
"That will be all, Miss Knowle, for the moment," he said.
"I must ask you to wait a little longer... Now Mr. Wynne, I should like to hear about your movements in the same period. I mean, say, the period from about half-past six until now."
"Well, I was at the inn until it was time to come up here," Timothy said slowly. "I left about seven—just after. That can be proved. I walked straight up, stopped to say a word to the policeman at the Manor gate—"
"What time would that be?"
"About a quarter-past, I should think."
"You arrived here—when?"
"I arrived at the fork of the path—where I was to meet Miss Knowle—about twenty-five past. She came almost at once. Then we talked. That's all... I've never seen this chap before."
"And you met no one while coming up here?"
"Oh, I did," Timothy rejoined. "Or rather, I overtook them. That woman at the inn—Mrs. Mayence. And later her husband. He seemed to be following her."
Hayle raised his eyebrows. "Anyone else?" he asked.
"George," Timothy said rather hesitantly. "Mr. Petworth, I mean. He was just coming down the opposite drive when I was talking to the constable."
"You spoke to him?"
"Oh. Yes. Just a word or two."
"Can you tell me what about?"
"Nothing much," Timothy said uneasily. "He asked me if Fareham had come back yet. Apparently he'd seen him going for a walk."
"That's interesting, Mr. Wynne. And you said—?"
"Well, of course, I didn't know. That's all. We were both in a hurry. I came on here." He thought for a moment. "Oh, just as we were coming here we saw that chap—Mayence, hurrying back."
"Hurrying?"
"Almost running—"
"You didn't see—"
He broke off abruptly. From outside there came the sound of a shout. He recognised the Chief Constable's voice.
"Hayle! Hayle! Look out! Grab him!"
Hayle sprang towards the door, switching off his torch as he did so. Someone was running up the track towards the ruin. Then right at the junction with the other path, he saw the flash of a torch. Again he heard Chedder's voice.
Hayle waited, crouching low. Whoever it might be who was approaching, he was completely trapped. Along either side of the roadway was an impenetrable wall of brambles and blackthorn. And Chedder was pounding up behind.
The steps were very near. Then a dark figure loomed against the sky, and Hayle sprang, tackling low. Considering the darkness, his aim was good. He caught a leg, grabbed the other and they crashed to the ground together. And to his amazement he heard a woman's scream.
Hayle's captive lay there inert. He transferred his hold from the legs to the arms, and was kneeling beside her when Chedder dashed up. Hayle saw that in one hand he was carrying the white-knobbed stick. With the other he flashed his torch.
Hayle was prepared for the identity of his captive. It was Chedder who was taken aback.
"A woman, eh?" he said. Then he saw. "By God! Mrs. Mayence?"
"Yes, sir," Hayle agreed.
"But what the devil—?"
There was the sound of a car in low gear creeping along the track. Then the headlamps flashed up towards them.
"Thank heavens!" Hayle said with real feeling. "Here come reinforcements."
IT was not entirely a matter of choice that Timothy removed bag and baggage from the inn to the Manor at nine o'clock that evening. With sardonic humour Fareham had pointed out the propriety of all the suspects being under one roof, and had extended the invitation. Inspector Hayle had made it sufficiently clear that, so far as he and Sylvia Knowle were concerned, the choice lay between sleeping at the Manor or in the local gaol, though when he came to think it over, he could not recall that the word arrest had been mentioned.
For himself, Timothy was not sure that he would not have preferred gaol. There was an unpleasant atmosphere about the house; the feeling that everyone was being watched, and everyone watching everyone else. It had been the prospect of being with Sylvia which had prevented him from challenging Hayle and forcing an issue one way or the other. But even the comfort of her company was denied him. The same doctor who had come to examine Halliday's body had taken charge of her, proclaimed she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and promptly sent her to bed with a sleeping draught; though Timothy suspected with a certain anger that it was Hayle who had insisted on the nurse. For all practical purposes, he thought, they were in prison, except for the bars.
The conduct of Winifred Fareham had been an additional source of worry. She had pursued him persistently, with the obvious intention of cornering him somewhere alone. Timothy had been driven to desperate lengths in order to evade her, and even to a rudeness which was entirely foreign to his nature in dealing with women. It was that more than anything else which, after a belated and straggling supper had come miserably to an end, drove him to the lounge and the company of Bowmore.
Rather to his surprise, the financier turned out to be a very human person, not in the least interested in finance, except as a means of earning money, and with a yearning which was almost pathetic for a house in the country on the lines of the Manor. He held forth on that subject to Timothy at some length in the earlier part of that conversation.
"Just a little place," he said, and sighed rather sentimentally. "I don't mean a great cinema sort of place like Manningtree was building. Just something simple like this... There's no need for a big splash. Why, Fareham can live here, and he's County."
There was an envious reverence in the last word which almost made Timothy smile; though next minute he was more inclined to think it pathetic.
"Perhaps that's why he can," he suggested.
"That's a fact." Bowmore paused. "You were at Oxford, weren't you? Ever meet my girl there?"
That surprised Timothy even more. He had certainly never imagined Bowmore with a daughter at Oxford.
"I don't remember," he admitted. "One meets so many people... What year would she be in?"
"She's just taken her Final something. Schools, was it? Not that the idea was for her to be a teacher. She was going on to read a B.Litt... Though it may come in handy as things are. Be a job, anyhow."
"As things are?" Timothy echoed. "Is there something wrong?"
"It's this way," Bowmore explained. "Now Manningtree's dead, his executors have got to do something with the cash. It all depends what they do. I was working along with him—more or less. More than he knew, in fact. That talk I was to have with him meant everything to me. Now—"
Timothy thought. "What is the effect of a man like Manningtree dying?" he asked. "I mean, the money's still there?"
"Well, most things he had an important interest in would probably go down a bit. Some of 'em would simply go smash. That is, any that really depended on Manningtree."
"Did any?" Timothy asked. "I thought a financier just bought shares low and sold 'em high and so on."
"There's more than that in it," Bowmore smiled a little. "Probably it was a real source of satisfaction to him to have something in which he was really superior to Timothy. "Not that it would interest you."
"But it does," Timothy protested. "So Manningtree's shares have gone down?"
"Some of 'em. Of course, that hits me. I'll know in a week or so whether I'm broke or not." He paused and frowned thoughtfully. "And that was a queer thing. Some of those started to go down before he died at all. That's what made me insist on seeing him that night."
"Why?"
"I'd an idea he might have sold me."
"No, I meant, why did they go down?"
"Somebody selling hard... I think it was Manningtree himself—gunning for me."
"Why should he?"
Bowmore evaded that point. "My daughter met that chap Doune at Oxford," he said. "She says he's a rotter."
Timothy smiled. "And she's right," he agreed.
"She is... It beats me how Manningtree put up with him. You get some queer things in business, but when it comes to selling your employer's secrets—"
Bowmore broke off.
"Did he?" Timothy asked. "How do you know?"
"Besides, he was always gambling, and always losing," Bowmore went on. "Where'd he get the cash from? Manningtree didn't pay him all that."
An idea which had half-dawned in Timothy's mind quite unexpectedly emerged.
"I suppose that would be a motive for killing Manningtree?" he said. "I mean, the effect on the shares?"
"You could sell sh—" Bowmore began; then stopped, and looked hard at Timothy. Then he scowled. "You needn't think I don't see your game," he said grimly. "I know what you're getting at. Because I'm the only one affected by that, eh? It's like that Inspector. He's smooth enough, but I can see through him. Hinting, and trying to find out what I was doing before I went along to the study. Couldn't take me a quarter of an hour, he said."
"Well, dash it, it couldn't, could it?" Timothy said. "You must have done something. Couldn't you tell him?"
"I told him I stopped to tie up my shoe and light a cigarette," Bowmore said doggedly.
Timothy thought. "It took you a pretty long time, then," he said tactlessly.
For a moment he thought Bowmore was going to get up and leave him, and with the threat of Winifred Fareham banging over him, he was sorry he had said it.
Certainly it embarrassed Bowmore. He looked at Timothy with a curious expression on his face, and it was half a minute before he spoke.
"You're a jannock sort of young chap," he said with what seemed to be approval. "That's straight, and the way I like it."
Timothy was wondering just what sort of a young chap the unfamiliar adjective made him.
"I've a good mind to tell you," Bowmore went on. "Maybe you wouldn't think I was such a fool. Well, things were pretty bad with me. I was going to see Manningtree and I thought the chances were he'd tell me to go to the devil. And I thought about my girl and so on, and I just stopped and—"
A loud, explosive sneeze behind them made both men turn sharply. Inspector Hayle stood there, with his handkerchief to his nose, and as they looked he sneezed again. Bowmore rose, and his face was as black as thunder. Timothy only smiled unpleasantly.
"Nasty sort of job, a bobby's," he said sympathetically. "D'you get much eavesdropping in it, Inspector?"
Hayle merely disregarded that. Perhaps it was the sneezing which had made his face red.
"I'd be glad if you could spare me a few minutes, Mr. Bowmore," he said. "It won't take very long—"
Bowmore scowled again, and it almost seemed as though he was going to refuse. Then he followed the Inspector meekly enough, leaving Timothy to his own devices.
Whatever Inspector Hayle might have overheard, and whatever it might have conveyed to him, it was a pity that his sneeze had occurred at that moment. The idea that he was being spied upon had thoroughly annoyed Bowmore, and from his annoyance he had drawn a spirit which he would not otherwise have had. Instead of a pliable, depressed witness, Hayle and the Chief Constable found themselves with a person who was ready to flare up at the least opportunity. Though invited to take a chair, he insisted on remaining standing in a hostile attitude, and it was plain enough that he had no intention of being helpful.
"We shan't keep you long, Mr. Bowmore," the Chief Constable said soothingly. "It's just a little matter that emerges from Mr. Royton's evidence. You were here with him, I think—I mean in the lounge—when Mr. Fareham was setting out for his walk... That is so, I think?"
"I was there and he was there," Bowmore growled. "We weren't sitting together.... What about it?"
"Mr. Fareham came in, I think, and selected a stick from the cupboard. Can you tell me what stick he chose?"
"I didn't notice," Bowmore said surlily.
"But I understand that he actually spoke to you about it?"
"He didn't."
The Chief Constable sighed. "Did he produce another stick first of all? One with a white knob?"
"Yes."
"But he didn't take that one?"
"No... He did speak about that one. Sort of flourished it playfully and said he wasn't going to knock anyone on the head that evening so he'd take a lighter one."
Hayle and the Chief Constable exchanged glances; for the white-knobbed stick was heavily loaded.
"And then?"
"He put it back and took another."
"You're sure he put it back?"
"I've said so."
"And you're sure he took another? But you don't remember what stick it was?"
"One with a yellow top, I believe. Look here—"
"We shan't keep you much longer, Mr. Bowmore. And then, what did you do?"
"I went out to write a letter."
"To whom?"
"To my lawyer," Bowmore snapped. "I expect he'll be down to-morrow."
"And then?"
"I left the letter to be posted and came back. I sat and read for a bit."
"Mr. Royton was there?"
"For a time. He left somewhere about seven."
"And you remained in the lounge?"
"No. I strolled out into the garden. Your man saw me. I expect he's told you. Why the devil ask me?"
Colonel Chedder was not used to being sworn at.
"We have to check up on everything, Mr. Bowmore," he said stiffly. "And no innocent man can object to assisting the law."
"Well, I'm answering your fool questions, aren't I?" There was a distinct redness around Bowmore's collar. "What else d'you expect?"
"How long were you in the garden, Mr. Bowmore?" Hayle asked. He was afraid that the Colonel would explode at any moment. "Of course, as near as you can guess—"
"Probably about half an hour. Perhaps three-quarters."
"It would be getting quite dark, then, by the time you came in."
"It was."
"And was there anyone in the lounge when you returned?"
"Only Whitley, the butler. He came in as I did, but from the other door."
"Thank you, Mr. Bowmore. That's all we wanted to ask you. Unless there's anything you can think of that you'd like to tell us?"
Hayle had intended it as an invitation to say what he had evidently been on the point of revealing to Timothy when the unfortunate sneeze interrupted him. Bowmore took it otherwise.
"I'd like to tell you this," he said heatedly. "This is a free country, isn't it? We're not a lot of b— slaves! I've had all I want of your spying and snooping and eavesdropping, and I'm going to put an end to it, d'you hear? And I'll make it hot for the pair of you!"
It would have been difficult to avoid hearing him say the last few remarks. Chedder gazed after him open-mouthed as he slammed the door.
"What the devil's wrong with the man?" he demanded angrily.
"I think I know, sir," Hayle said, and related briefly how he had been caught listening. "And the worst of it was, sir, I don't think I heard anything worth hearing—though I was just going to, I believe."
"Most unfortunate," Chedder commented. "We don't want any suggestion of police persecution."
"No, sir," Hayle assented promptly. "But you see where that leaves us, sir? I mean his evidence and Royton's?"
"Not quite," Chedder admitted. "I can see that either of them might have got the stick."
"Yes. That's one point. Another is that there was a time when anyone could have got it—that is, anyone who was in the house or could obtain access to the room."
"That doesn't leave very much choice," Chedder answered. "Only the servants—the police on duty—and Miss Fareham—"
"Couldn't anyone have got in without being seen?"
"I'll take my oath they couldn't. I was having the garden patrolled later on, but the chap hadn't gone on duty. But I'd seen everywhere locked up. If anyone got in—"
"It must have been with the collusion of someone inside, sir?"
"Yes." Hayle frowned. "And, so far as I can see, it lets out our friend Fareham."
"Fareham?" Chedder echoed. "But he was never in, was he? He'd got a perfect alibi for Manningtree's murder—"
"Yes," Hayle admitted without enthusiasm; then smiled mirthlessly. "What he'd call a place or opportunity alibi. And this time he's got a 'means alibi'... And that's just what bothers me."
"I don't quite see," Chedder said, frowning.
"Well, we've two witnesses to show the stick was here when he went out, haven't we? And you say everything except the front door was properly locked up. So he couldn't have got the stick without coming back, could he, I mean, and being seen by the man on duty?"
"No," Chedder admitted. "Of course, it's nonsense. But I suppose Fareham is the one person who might have arranged a way in or out."
"Perhaps. And now take his own statement... According to that, he was talking to a farmer just about the time the murder must have been committed. That is to say, he might have had ten minutes to go and do it, not more—"
"Yes. But that farm is only about ten minutes' walk away from the clay-works. Just over the hill."
"Yes, sir. But up till then he accounts for his time exactly. He might have committed the murder. But he couldn't have done it with that stick—unless someone else gave it to him." He paused. "And that's not all, sir. He's got a motive alibi as well!"
"How d'you mean?"
"Why was Mike Halliday murdered, sir?"
Chedder raised his eyebrows. "Obviously because his evidence was important, and the murderer had to take any risk to prevent his giving it."
"Can you imagine any other reason, sir, why a casual labourer whose only connection with this place is that he once helped to shift Manningtree's furniture into the house, should be murdered just now?"
"Unless it's a coincidence, and he was murdered for some private reason not connected—" Chedder began.
"But, sir, we know it was connected!" Hayle went on. "We know, because that stick was used. That connects it with this house at once."
"I can't think of any reason," Chedder admitted.
"In fact, it's pretty well an 'only motive' murder so far as one can see. And how many people could have had that motive?"
"Why, only the murderer."
"Yes. But the point is, sir, how many people knew at all that he was coming? How many people could have overheard the reason for his visit, and the time and the place? And could Fareham?"
"Fareham left before we started to talk," Chedder said. "I doubt if anyone could have overheard... Unless Royton or Bowmore? They were about at the time."
"Exactly, sir."
"I don't see where all that gets us," Chedder said irritably. "He wasn't guilty of the first murder. It's convenient to be able to rule him out. But that's all."
Hayle looked as though he would have liked to argue the point; but there seemed to be no answer to that. He sighed. It offended his sense of the fitness of things that a man should enunciate a theory involving three alibis and then have a sample of each.
"Well, sir," he said, "that's pretty well all there is up to date. There's the doctor's report—which is exactly what one would expect. And the evidence about the servants—all here and correct. We can't question Miss Knowle any more, since the doctor's taken her over—and besides, she's asleep—"
"Mrs. Manningtree—" Chedder said frowningly. "That's the thinnest of the lot. Says she just went for a walk, met no one, and did nothing until I shouted at her. We know that's a lie. We know she went to see Doune... I wonder if she did?"
"There wasn't any use in telling her that just yet, sir," Hayle said defensively. "And besides, I'm not sure it's her we're after."
On the pronoun there was the slightest possible emphasis. Chedder looked at him.
"And Mayence saw her go out, followed, and lost her," he said reflectively. "And last night he didn't go fishing." He paused significantly. "But damn it, there's Doune. We haven't found him yet. And murder or no murder we could arrest him."
"Yes, sir," Hayle said without much enthusiasm. "But the trouble is, that stick rules out all our best possibilities, and drives us back on Royton and Bowmore, whom we hadn't suspected at all... I don't see exactly what motive either could have had—or rather, I could imagine one, but—"
Chedder thought for quite a long time. "They're the only possibles," he said. "Not only for the stick, but for overhearing us. You'd better get to work on them to-morrow and see what you can dig up. And I—" He scowled fiercely. "I'll mobilise every man in the county and round up Doune somehow. That way we'd get the Manningtree woman too."
"Leaving only Wynne and his girl, sir—and I'm not sure it wouldn't settle that as well." He hesitated. "Is it all right not to have arrested him, sir?"
"There's nothing much to charge him with—unless we charge her. That had better wait. I don't think he'll give you any trouble. If you ask me, that young man's had his lesson, and won't do anything else idiotic for a little while."
In which Colonel Chedder showed himself a poor judge of character, and certainly no mind-reader. For in the next room Timothy Wynne, finally run to earth by Winifred Fareham, had just finished one of the most unpleasant quarters of an hour in his experience.
"Very well, Miss Fareham," he was saying in capitulation. "At half-past twelve... I'll do what I can."
SEATED at his bedroom window overlooking the garden, Timothy Wynne for the third time heard the regular pad of slow footsteps on the terrace beneath, and glanced at his watch. He was tired enough, but bed had been out of the question, for he could not rely upon waking at the right time. And accordingly he had had two hours of uncomfortable thought.
Over the trees directly opposite a half moon was just rising, and to him it represented an additional complication at a time when darkness would have been appreciated very much more. It was true that it had enabled him to see as well as to hear the sentry on his regular patrol outside, but it was striking full upon the house wall, and was likely to make any descent unpleasantly conspicuous. And the business, Timothy could not help feeling, would have been bad enough without that.
It had been George's letter which had really decided him. Since their forcible encounter in the shrubbery, he had been able to make nothing of his friend's attitude. Even their meeting that evening had been of the briefest; George's manner had been strained and unnatural, and oddly enough he had said nothing of the business which must have been most on his mind. The one thing obvious was that he was thoroughly worried and unhappy, and knowing his normal temperament, Timothy could guess that it was no trifle which could have reduced him to that state of mind.
That was what was worrying Timothy. In the ordinary way, he would have regarded the planned elopement as rather a lark, and would rather have enjoyed outwitting Fareham, whose manner he was inclined to dislike. But now it was really serious. From his own point of view, it might very well be the deciding point. He and Sylvia Knowle, he was perfectly aware, had only just escaped arrest, and might still be arrested; and there was little enough doubt that Inspector Hayle would regard this latest escapade unfavourably. He had been a fool to have anything to do with it, and was still wondering why he had ever consented. Partly it was the stark appeal in George's letter; partly he had been overborne by the urgency of Winifred Fareham.
That troubled him all the more now that he thought it over. Why was there such urgency? For there had been a world of difference in her manner in the two interviews, and that she had been in deadly earnest. If she and George wanted to elope, why on earth could they not choose a more fitting time, when it was merely a question of outwitting an irate father, and not dodging the whole of the county police force? The only explanation was far from comforting. It was not Fareham, but the second murder which had prompted this haste, and that could only mean that either George or the girl was somehow involved.
In other words, he was not merely helping a romantic runaway match, he might very well be conniving at the escape of a murderess. Far he had no doubts about George; but the more he saw of Winifred Fareham, the more he was struck by the power of her ruthless personality and the less he liked her. If anyone could commit a murder, she could; and his sole source of comfort was that he could find no reason why she should have done so in that particular case.
And why had he been dragged into the business at all? It had seemed perfectly natural when she explained it. It was necessary for George to wait with the car. To leave it anywhere might be to risk finding it in the hands of the police on their arrival; and her scheme was to have it waiting and ready with the engine running for her to jump in. His part was to get her out of the house, and somehow to elude the watchers.
The job was going to be no sinecure. Hayle or the Chief Constable must have been suffering from an attack of nerves; for the house was guarded like the gaol which, so far as he was concerned, it actually was. Hayle himself and at least one other man were, he knew, somewhere in the house itself, and in the garden there were certainly a couple of sentries, making their rounds at intervals and meeting at a point at the end of the terrace.
The one thing in his favour was that they seemed to be observing that beautiful regularity which makes sentries easy to dodge. And there was perhaps another. They had been on duty for two hours. From the fact that recently one of them had dared to light a surreptitious cigarette, it was likely that they were getting tired enough of it since nothing had happened. If nothing went wrong, and if there were no other watchers he had failed to locate, they might take advantage of these two factors to slip between them.
If he had been easier in his mind he would have enjoyed the prospect of trying. He told himself that his suspicions were purely fanciful; but nothing could quite obscure the fact that he was jeopardising the position of Sylvia Knowle as well as his own.
As the illuminated dial of his wrist watch showed a minute before the half-hour, he rose to his feet and crossed towards the door. That was the first nasty moment. He did not know if, in addition to the other precautions, Hayle had posted a guard on the landing at the top of the staircase; and he had nearly the whole length of a passage to traverse past the doors of bedrooms which were, in two or three cases at least, occupied. He opened the door and peered out. By the staircase head a window cast a pale square of moonlight on the opposite wall, making it easy enough to see the way, and fatally easy to be seen if anyone looked out. He stood listening for a moment; but there was not a sound. Then, closing the door gently behind him, he started along the corridor.
It was the second door in the other wing; and the top of the stairs was the danger point. At any moment he expected to see a figure emerge against the patch of moonlight and to hear a challenge, but he reached it without incident. And yet his fears were not unfounded. As he passed, the smoke of a pipe ascended fragrantly; then he heard a subdued cough. Though he did not know it, it was the same cold which had already given offence to Bowmore, and it was the Inspector himself who was standing just below debating whether to go upstairs or not. Although Timothy was not aware how narrow his escape had been, it was with a sigh of relief that he reached the door. There could be no question of knocking. With a vague feeling that it was the wrong thing to do, he turned the handle and walked in.
Winifred Fareham rose from the bed, throwing back the blankets; but she was fully dressed. On this side the moonlight struck full into the windows, making the room quite light. It showed a case standing ready at the foot of the bed; and a coat was flung over a chair nearby. Without a word the girl started to pull on a small felt hat, and as she did so the moonlight fell on her face. Timothy had been on the point of speaking, of saying something reassuring. But what he saw stopped him. There was no nervousness there, and none of the blushing shyness traditionally associated with such occasions. All her expression showed was a fierce resolution. His doubts revived abruptly.
"Look here," he whispered. "The place is guarded like a barracks with sentries all round... I don't believe we can do it. Wouldn't it be better—?"
She turned and looked at him. Although her back was towards the light, her eyes seemed to have a luminosity of their own, and shone like a cat's. "You're afraid?" she asked. "You want to back out?"
Timothy did, but the scorn in her voice made him deny it. "No," he denied, "but—"
"Then don't waste time. Get that case and coat, will you?"
The curtness of her tone roused a dormant obstinacy in Timothy.
"Listen a minute," he said without moving. "I don't know if you've thought how this will look. I don't mean only so far as your father's concerned. But to the police. They'll think you're bolting... You'll have every bobby in the country looking for you—"
"We shan't be in the country," she interrupted. "Besides, it's no affair of theirs. There's not the smallest reason to suspect either George or me. Probably—they'll find out who did it—" She broke off. "There's no time to argue. Are you helping or not?"
"I'll help," he said grimly, and picked up the case.
"There's a rope behind the dressing-table... Let's hurry—"
Timothy duly found and affixed the rope. Winifred Fareham was at least thorough; for it was an admirably efficient rope for the purpose, and the stone bar of the window offered a secure place for fastening. He held the coiled part in his hand and stood looking out. Beside him he heard her mutter something under her breath.
"Quick!" she urged.
"We've got to wait," Timothy rejoined, and glanced at his watch. "The chap outside here is due any time. They're passing regularly. He'd spot us a mile off."
"But George—" she began. "Can't you see that every minute—?"
Timothy turned from the window and shrugged his shoulders.
"If you want to dangle from a rope in the full moonlight while a policeman is walking by you're welcome, he said irritably. I'm not doing it myself." He paused and listened. "He's coming now.... He's just talking to the other chap at the far end of the terrace—"
She hesitated. "Of course, you're right," she said.
There was a long pause. They heard the stealthy footsteps approach, pause somewhere almost underneath the window, then pass on. Timothy gripped the rope again.
"Just a minute," she said in a changed voice. "I'm sorry. I suppose I am rather on edge. I know that you aren't doing this for my sake. But it's decent of you to help George against all your inclinations, and when you've enough on your own hands.... Thank you."
"That's all right." If anything Timothy was more uncomfortable with her in her present mood than when she was being rude and bad-tempered. "We mustn't stop—"
"No. But I want to say one thing. You're pretty well up to your neck in other people's troubles already. And the best way out for you is the simplest. Of course that girl you're keen on didn't commit the—the murder and hadn't anything to do with it. I suppose she's shielding some one else, and has probably got into a mess through it, and you are, and you have. If I were you I should tell the police the whole thing. Only do it soon."
"What—?" Timothy asked uncertainly.
"It's the obvious thing to do. That Chief Constable is a sentimental old ass. If you go to him and pitch him a pathetic tale, he'll probably overlook any minor sins. But you must do it before they find out who killed Manningtree... And, incidentally, we'd better not be caught now. That wouldn't make 'em feel too amiable with you.
A thought struck Timothy. He uncoiled the rest of the rope, estimated its length, then, untying it from the stone bar preparatory to simply hitching it round with a loop, he peered cautiously out. Waiting until the red glow of the illicit cigarette had turned the far corner, he let the two ends fall, hanging evenly.
"What's the idea?" Winifred Fareham demanded.
"Daren't leave the rope hanging," Timothy explained. "In this moonlight they'd be sure to see it. This way we can pull it down when we've used it. You simply hold both pieces—"
"I—oh!" She looked down. "But—but how will you get up?"
"I'll have to take my chance of that. Don't worry, I'll get up somehow. Now, if you're ready—"
"Yes," she assented dubiously and approached the window. She handed him her handbag; then had actually laid hold of the rope before she recoiled. "I—I can't—!" she said. "I shall fall—"
"For heaven's sake get on!" Timothy pleaded impatiently. "George will be waiting—"
She went obediently to the window, but turned away hastily again. Then she sat down on a chair.
"It—it's no use," she said. "I can't stand heights. Never could. That—" She looked up at him, and though her face looked queer there was a suspicion of a smile on it. "You'll just have to sling me out."
Timothy was already pulling up the rope, mentally cursing the loss of time. He whipped a blanket from the bed to prevent the rope chafing, secured it under her armpits, then without further parley, lifted her bodily and pushed her through.
He heard her give a shuddering gasp. For a moment her hands clutched at him; but holding the rope with one hand, he detached them forcibly and lowered. His one fear was that she might cry out. But it seemed as if her self-control extended so far. She reached the ground, found her feet and began to detach the rope from about her. Timothy slung out the other end, and grabbing the case and coat, slid down. In a minute he was standing beside her. With a good tug the coils of rope fell at his feet. He looked up again, and a rueful expression came on his face. Without the rope, there would be no getting back that way.
He was aware that the girl beside him was trembling, and turned and whispered to her.
"Buck up! It's all over now—at least that part—"
Then to his surprise, he realised that she was shaking with suppressed laughter. He eyed her frowning, suspecting hysteria; but she managed to speak.
"This elopement isn't very romantic!" she said. "Lowered like a sack by the man I'm not in love with!"
"Come on!" Timothy urged impatiently. He was expecting the guard to return at any moment. "For heaven's sake—quick!"
The urgency of the last word roused her, and it was no more than in time. The figure of the policeman was actually outlined against the sky at the far end of the terrace. No, there were two. They were standing sideways and talking. On the terrace there was no possible place to hide, and if the policemen merely turned they must see them. There was no time for argument or explanation. He grabbed her by the hand and dragged her forcibly across the stone path and over the step down to the lawn, landing in a heap. Then he peered up over the wall and ducked rapidly.
The man was already actually walking towards them. There was no real cover; not even a shadow. The place where they crouched was in the full pale glare of the moon. If he walked near the wall side and they stayed where they were he might miss them. Otherwise it would be a question of running for it. He cast a glance behind him. There was only the bare lawn, and the nearest cover twenty yards or more beyond it.
The slow footsteps came nearer. Their leisurely regularity showed one thing: they had not been seen in that moment when they were crossing the terrace. Then Winifred Fareham bent near to him and whispered:
"The rope! He'll find it—"
"Quiet!" Timothy commanded. "I've got it."
The man must be level with their hiding place. Timothy kept his eyes fixed on the coping of the wall showing white in the moon. If the man's head appeared above that, they had better bolt. Surely he was past? He waited a minute longer. There was no doubt about it. The sounds were growing fainter. He could hardly hear them. He ventured a cautious peep. The man was nearing the terrace end, and they had better move.
"Run for the bushes," he whispered. "Hurry! He may turn to look round—"
The girl was groping at the base of the wall.
"My bag!" she said. "I've dropped it—"
There was an unnecessary panic in her voice. Timothy swore under his breath. That was just like a woman, bothering about a handbag at such a time.
"Run!" he commanded. "I'll find it—"
She had scarcely gone when he did, under the coil of rope. It had burst open with the fall and part of its contents were scattered. He crammed some in, pocketed a mysterious white object, and himself sprinted across the lawn. The girl was waiting for him in the shadow of the tall evergreens.
"My bag?" she demanded instantly, and snatched it from him.
"Come along!" he urged. "Hurry like blazes!"
"But we're safe enough—"
"Look!" He pointed back over the dewy lawn. On the grey surface two blackish trails stood out with a distinctness which was startling. "He'll see those when he comes back. He must see them. Hurry!"
The girl stumbled as she tried to follow him, and a little moan escaped her.
"My ankle!" she exclaimed. "I've twisted it—"
"Grab my arm then, and come on!" Timothy rejoined unsympathetically. "There should be a path here."
There was. It was the very one on which Timothy and George had engaged in their grapple in the darkness the night before. It led towards the bottom of the garden at the corner away from the drive. That, Timothy thought, was all to the good. The front entrance was certain to be watched. But they were going dreadfully slowly. Evidently the girl was in pain. She leant on him heavily, and now and again he could hear the sharp intake of her breath.
"It's not far now," he encouraged. "Here's the wall—"
Getting her over it was again a matter of dragging; but beyond the field stretched quite open to a gap, and beyond another field was the lane. Timothy bore to the left. There should be a gate there, and if nothing had happened George should be there. If he was not—? Timothy's mind simply refused to entertain the prospect. Perhaps it was her courage which had done it. He had to admit that his feelings towards Winifred Fareham had changed. But not for untold gold would he have shouldered the responsibility one minute longer than was necessary.
The low purr of an engine came to his ears. George was adhering rigidly to instructions. Timothy pushed the gate open, and they staggered out into the lane. Under the shade of the trees a car was waiting, and the door was flung open as they appeared. George jumped out.
"I say, old man, I can't say how grateful I am," he said with an unusual effusiveness. It was Winifred who—"
"Get on, for God's sake," Timothy urged. "That's all right."
"Oh, well. I'll never forget it. If ever—"
He broke off and turned to Winifred Fareham. Timothy was thinking that he would never forget it either; and that if George had been on the point of saying he would do as much for him, it was a perfectly safe promise.
"Get in!" he begged. "They may be here any minute. And Lord knows how you're to hide, or get married, or anything—"
"That's arranged," George said as he disengaged himself. "I've got a plane—"
"The dickens you have—" Timothy began. Winifred Fareham interrupted him.
"I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Wynne," she said. "I don't think I ever felt quite so much like a sack of coal in my life!"
Timothy flushed. "I'm sorry if—" he began stiffly.
All at once he was aware of a pair of arms flung round his neck, and he was kissed firmly on the cheek.
"I—I hope she deserves you!" Winifred Fareham said, and, before Timothy had quite recovered, with a slam of the door the car started up the lane.
Timothy started back up the fields with feelings so mixed that they defied analysis. But there was the problem of his own return to the house to be considered. If that could be achieved successfully, there was no reason why any great suspicion should attach to him. From some points of view the elopement would actually explain away suspicious points such as the presence of George Petworth at the house. And when an uncomfortable doubt actually raised its head again, Timothy promptly squashed it. George and the girl were going to be all right.
Then he found himself thinking of Sylvia. To his own particular problem he could see no such sweeping solution. After all, the girl had committed a crime in stealing the cheques; she was hopelessly involved with Doune, and even now seemed obstinately determined not to do anything that might harm him. The fact might have made him jealous. Instead, he found himself contrasting her attitude favourably with that of Winifred Fareham, whose ruthless determination to marry George seemed prepared to sacrifice anything which might offer an obstacle.
His arrival at the wall forced his mind back to actualities. It was impossible to get back by way of Winifred Fareham's room, even if it had been wise. If he had had any sense, he would have provided some means of getting into his own window. He thought it over as he made his way up through the shrubbery. Perhaps, after all, it was not impracticable. He seemed to remember there were some creepers or fruit trees on the wall below, and surely there was a bay window? He decided to try it, and worked his way round accordingly under cover of the trees.
He was not greatly afraid of Hayle's watchers. All the evidence showed that they were taking their duties in a sufficiently casual spirit. He had merely to locate the man watching this side, he told himself, and wait until he reached the end of his beat. And on this side the cover was much better. In places the bushes came up to the terrace wall, and the horse-chestnut tree provided a possible refuge right on the terrace itself.
In the cover of the nearer bushes Timothy waited, partly to locate the gentry, and partly to study the house front. For a moment he thought of the tree itself; but the window which Sylvia Knowle had used was shut. Probably it was locked. If Hayle had discovered the possibility of an entrance there, he was not likely to have left it open. But two windows were open on that floor, and one of them was his own. They were next door to each other, and he was actually working out means of reaching them before a new difficulty occurred. He had not the faintest idea which was which.
Although the heavy-footed sentry was actually advancing along the front, that problem occupied Timothy's mind to the exclusion of everything else. He tried counting the number of windows and comparing it with the doors. His own room, he knew, was the second door from the end. But there were two extra windows. Some of the rooms must have two windows, and he had not the faintest idea which. There was only one thing for it; to choose the second window and hope for the best.
The sentry was right opposite him and a bare three yards away when he reached that decision. Timothy heard him yawn. That did not seem very like any considerable vigilance. He decided to take a risk, and realised even as he came to the decision that it was a necessary one. It would take longer to climb up than it had done merely to slip down a rope. He would have to start before the man reached the corner, and trust that he would not turn round. The policeman was only half-way along when Timothy slipped from his cover and made for the house. But the man did not turn.
Perhaps Timothy's decision in favour of the second window had been influenced by the pear tree. There was a mass of ivy under the third, and it might have been possible; but Timothy hated ivy. Not one batch of ivy in a dozen could be counted upon to hold a man of his weight.
The pear tree was practically a ladder. With the ornamental stonework on the house front it should be simplicity itself.
And so far as the pear tree was concerned it was. He was level with the open window by the time the policeman reached the end of the terrace. But then the difficulty came. He was level, but he was about eight feet to one side. By no conceivable stretch could he reach the sill. It was a matter of working along with his hands, or rather his fingers, using the narrow, rotten stone ledge which ran the whole length of the house. And as he committed himself to it he was made unpleasantly aware that his arm, though apparently recovered for normal purposes, was hardly equal to the task. Perhaps he had strained it during the excitement of the elopement. At least he could only move by inches, and even then dangerously. He was still a yard from any grip on the window when, to his horror, he heard the sound of returning footsteps.
Timothy froze where he was. It was the only thing to do, but it was almost more than he could do. His fingers were aching terribly. He could not hold on much longer. And there he was, stuck on the wall like a fly, with the policeman coming straight at him. If one single chip of stone or mortar had fallen, the man must have looked up immediately. Instead, his eyes seemed to be wandering over the garden. For a moment Timothy had a unique moonlit view of a policeman's helmet and shoulders seen in plan; then the danger was almost past. At least he had to consider it so. He could hold on no longer, though the least noise would make the man turn. He edged his way along again, gripped the window with a great sigh of relief, and pulled himself up and in. And in the same moment a little bedside light flashed into a mild radiance.
It showed him quite a number of things. It was not his room. It was much larger, and with the two windows which had proved his undoing. And on the pillow of the bed, flushed and feverish-looking, he saw the head of Sylvia Knowle. But a more immediate matter requiring his attention was the quiet-faced girl who was seated in the chair beside the table holding the lamp, eyeing him calmly. For a moment he could only stare. Then he recognised her, and amazement gave him the power to speak. It was the girl at the inn.
"Good lord!" he exclaimed. "You!"
The girl rose to her feet. He saw there was a little flush on her cheek-bones, and her eyes were angry.
"Yes, Mr. Wynne," she said in a very cold tone. "I suppose you expected to find Miss Knowle alone?"
Timothy had no words to answer that, in view of the fact that he had only just realised Sylvia's presence. In any case, she did not wait.
"Mr. Wynne," she went on, "no doubt some very remarkable circumstances have thrown you into contact with Miss Knowle. But if you care for her at all—or if you've any decency—do you consider this is fair?"
Timothy blushed a bright red. "But—but—" he stammered. "Good lord! I'd no idea—I was trying to get into my own room. I must have chosen the wrong window."
For half a minute she eyed him. Then a faint smile appeared at the corner of her mouth.
"I shouldn't let that become a habit, Mr. Wynne," she said. "And the question arises, what were you doing outside, and how did you get out?"
"Well—" Timothy hesitated. "It's not exactly my secret. You'll know to-morrow morning, though. And I suppose I shall be in it up to the neck. As for getting out, that was simplicity itself. That ass of an inspector might as well have posted blind paralytics as those bobbies."
The faint smile showed again and vanished.
"Perhaps I should mention I am engaged to Inspector Hayle," she said.
"Oh!" Timothy said. "Then that's torn it thoroughly."
At that she could not help laughing, and Timothy grinned sheepishly in return. She sobered abruptly.
"Whom, incidentally, you have been giving a great deal of unnecessary trouble—even before to-night," she said.
"I really didn't mean to," he confessed, feeling very like a naughty schoolboy. "But I didn't see how I could help it."
"You might have tried telling the truth."
"But that's just the trouble. I don't like all this bother and concealment a bit. But if I told everything, it might get—" His eyes involuntarily moved towards the bed, and he broke off. "She's all right?" he asked.
"She isn't, but she will be, if she's not disturbed. Like yourself, Mr. Wynne, her life has been rather too exciting recently... You were saying that telling the truth—"
"Might get—get a friend into trouble... Not for murder, of course. But something else the idiot—the police might think they ought to do something about. If only I could be sure that they'd be sensible—"
"The police cannot condone a felony, and they cannot promise immunity," the girl pointed out. "But I don't see why you distrust their good sense."
"I don't," Timothy said hastily. "If only I could explain—" He broke off; then grinned. "I say, you aren't police, are you?"
She smiled in response.
"No," she admitted. "But, you see, I'm engaged to Inspector Hayle."
Timothy only hesitated a moment.
"I think I'll risk that," he said.
TO say that Inspector Hayle was amazed by the news of the elopement would be to put it mildly. Fareham made the announcement quite calmly at the breakfast table next morning.
"I must apologise for the absence of my daughter," he remarked without the least emotion. "She eloped with Mr. George Petworth during the night."
He helped himself to bacon and kidneys. Hayle's knife dropped with a clatter, and he half rose to his feet.
"What—what—?" he asked.
"She was kind enough to leave me a note explaining what had happened," Fareham explained courteously. "And I find that she is certainly missing from her room—also a small case. I think, quite apart from my knowledge of my daughter as a woman of her word, there is every reason to credit the report."
Hayle sat down again. He wanted a minute to think.
"You—you take it very calmly, Mr. Fareham," Bowmore said. He had been staring open-mouthed at the speaker. "If it were my girl—I should be most upset. You weren't in favour of the match between the two young people, then?"
"That is perhaps putting it rather strongly. I most certainly doubted whether Mr. Petworth possessed those qualities of character which I should welcome in a son-in-law. Otherwise he is an estimable young man, and of quite moderate fortune... Fortunately, the elopement goes far to remove my objections."
Bowmore's jaw dropped. "That—that's queer, isn't it?" he managed to articulate.
"You see, Mr. Bowmore, Winifred is my only daughter." The slightest possible emotion showed for a moment on his face. "If the family is to be continued, it must be through her, and it is important that she should choose a husband fitted to maintain the stock."
He paused. Bowmore was looking a little shocked. Timothy, who had been chewing vigorously, caught Hayle looking at him and stopped. Undoubtedly he ought to be showing more surprise; though, in fact, he was surprised, both by Fareham's reception of it, and the fact that Mary Cunningham had not already told Hayle.
"I am a great believer in aristocracy," Fareham went on. "But an aristocracy must consist of the best people—the natural leaders. I wished, therefore, for a son-in-law who naturally showed the qualities of initiative and enterprise which have marked so many of my ancestors."
"Then—then you don't oppose it?" Timothy managed.
"You might say, Mr. Wynne, that I no longer oppose it. I think that to carry my daughter off under my eyes—and, I believe, under the eyes of the police—shows both qualities."
Hayle flushed and rose to his feet.
"If you'll excuse me, sir," he said, "I should like to telephone to the Chief Constable."
He went out. Fareham watched him with a smile. "I'm afraid that they have inadvertently injured the Inspector's feelings," he said. "Perhaps you were not aware that the house was under police protection last night? And my daughter must, somehow, have contrived to escape the notice of our guardians... I am afraid that the men on duty are in for an unpleasant quarter of an hour."
In that, Fareham was perfectly accurate. Hayle, learning that the Chief Constable was already on his way to the Manor, had turned his attention to the men on duty, and he was still questioning them and imparting a few home truths when Chedder arrived, full of the plans he had contrived for the capture of Doune.
"There's every reason to believe that he is still in the neighbourhood," he assured Hayle. "It is impossible that he should have got through—"
"Judging by what's happened here, our watchers might as well be so many block ornaments, sir," Hayle broke out. "You've not heard—"
An expression of shocked astonishment grew on Chedder's face as he listened.
"Poor Fareham!" he commented sympathetically. "He will be most upset—"
"He isn't, sir. That's the queer part of it."
"There never was any real objection to the match, except Fareham's absurd theories," Chedder said reflectively.
"The question is, sir, what do we do?" Hayle asked. "Issue a description and try to drag them back, or just concentrate on trying to keep it out of the papers?"
"I don't see that we have any real reason to arrest them—"
"They're both witnesses, sir—"
"But not particularly essential ones... And I don't think we seriously suspect either of them of being guilty of Manningtree's murder. And now, about the arrangements to catch Doune—"
Inspector Hayle listened to them at some length. The Chief Constable, he thought, was certainly going the whole hog in that business. There was only one objection that occurred to him.
"Of course, sir, he may have got away altogether," he said.
"No. Information was received at the station just before I left of a farm labourer who had seen some suspicious person in that neighbourhood. thought that the man was probably mad."
"If he's still there, I should think he must be, sir," Hayle said. "But there's no objection to my going on with the investigation as arranged?"
"Why, no... not at all. We shall have quite enough men..."
When Hayle saw them assembling a short time later, he entirely agreed. It was a small army, including a number of volunteers. Fareham himself was among a number of local gentlemen who were to assist, and it was plain enough that the chase appealed to their hunting spirit.
He himself proposed to be much more peaceably employed. The sole link connecting Halliday with the Manningtree household seemed to have been that he had helped to move Manningtree's furniture. It must have been then that he discovered whatever he had considered to be so important just before his death; and whatever it was that the murderer had considered important enough to kill him for. It was a slim enough chance, but he decided to try it. From Whitley he ascertained the name of the removal firm, and took advantage of the opportunity to ask a few questions.
"Mr. Manningtree's furniture would be pretty difficult to get up there, wouldn't it?" he demanded. "That wardrobe in his bedroom—?"
"I understand, sir, that they had no great difficulty," the butler answered. "It was simply a matter of fitting a tackle and hauling them up, sir."
"I see," Hayle assented. "There wasn't much damaged, then? Nothing broken open, say?"
"Nothing to my knowledge, sir. I inspected the furniture afterwards with a view to any possible claim."
That, Hayle thought, disposed of that. He had had some hope that something like a desk had been broken open, so that Halliday might have seen some vital document or other.
He was a conscientious man, but, on the excuse of inquiring about her patient, or prisoner, he snatched the opportunity of stealing a few minutes with Mary Cunningham. The few minutes had extended to nearly three-quarters of an hour before he remembered to look at his watch, and he was still trying to recover from his second shock of the morning. Mary watched him anxiously.
"You're not going to do anything, are you?" she asked.
"About last night? I don't see what I can do. Fareham seems satisfied, and he's the only injured party; unless we find a charge against the other two. Chedder isn't doing that... No, so far as last night is concerned, Wynne doesn't seem to have done anything very criminal. Only behaved like a lunatic—"
"He's really a very nice boy—only rather young—"
"I shall begin to get jealous soon... But the rest is another matter—"
"Don't forget, I wasn't giving evidence on that. I merely advanced it as a hypothesis to fit the facts—"
"H'm. I expect I could get it out of them, though. If Doune's caught he may let it all out."
"You can wait until you see whether he does or not," she urged. "You don't lose anything. She can't leave as things are at present, and he won't while she's here. Of course, if Doune did the murders—"
"I'm pretty sure he didn't. You see, it's the actual killing in each case. He wasn't sober enough to fire like that at Manningtree. And however mad he may have been, it wouldn't give him Fareham's stick to do the killing with... No, I think I know the murderer—only I can't see how he did it."
Mary wrinkled her brows. "But who—?" she asked. "Not Mayence?"
"You have the facts, my dear," Hayle said exasperatingly. "You must draw your own conclusions... I'm hoping to be able to tell you more at lunch."
He was on the point of leaving the house when something occurred to him which made him delay still further. He might or might not find out the motive for Halliday's murder; it would be just as well to check up on an idea he had formed about the possible motive in the case of Manningtree. He went in search of Bowmore, and found him on the terrace watching the gathering of the search party.
"Good morning, sir," Hayle greeted cheerfully. "You're not joining them then, sir?"
Bowmore scowled at him and made no reply. Hayle assumed a penitent expression and proffered an apology.
"I'm sorry, sir, if I annoyed you yesterday," he said in a manner which was certainly friendly. "It was not exactly intentional, sir. As you know, we wanted your evidence about the stick. I came in to find you, and happened to overhear what you were saying. I was so interested that I never thought of interrupting."
Probably Bowmore had regretted his outburst to so important a person as the Chief Constable.
"I expect I was a bit hasty," he conceded. "What was it that interested you, Inspector?"
"Well—not quite what you said, but what you didn't say. You were on the point of telling Mr. Wynne how one could have made money if one had known Mr. Manningtree would die... Now, of course, sir, I could easily find out that from anyone who knew about these things. But it would save me trouble if you could oblige me."
Bowmore considered. He was flattered by the inquiry, and yet a little nervous about revealing his knowledge.
"As you say," he remarked cautiously, "it's a thing anyone might know—who was in the business at all. I think I remember what you mean. I was saying that someone might have sold shares likely to be affected, knowing that they would go down."
Hayle reflected. "They wouldn't have to have the shares, would they?" he asked. His knowledge of finance was limited. "I mean you can sell, and pay or be paid any differences? And in this case, the man would be banking on a certainty."
"Of course the brokers would have to know you could pay if the shares didn't go down," Bowmore pointed out. "But if you were in a fairly good position, one could make quite a lot."
"But those sales could be traced?"
"Obviously. The brokers would have to know who they were selling for. But they mightn't be keen on parting with the information. And a smart man could cover things up a good deal. He might find people ready to act as nominal buyers or sellers."
Hayle nodded. That was obvious enough, but it was probably not a matter beyond the capacity of Scotland Yard. It would be worth putting through a call.
"Of course, there are a number of other ways in which business might be responsible for his death," Bowmore said, warming to his work. "For instance—"
Once again Hayle had difficulty in tearing himself away; but by the time he did so he had at least a pretty fair grasp on most of the reasons why a financier as such might be murdered. Not without some reluctance he put through a call to London and explained his requirements, and then at last felt free to pursue the slim clue of the removal.
It was only when he had almost reached the town that something recurred to his mind from the conversation he had had with Whitley. The butler had spoken airily about erecting a tackle and hoisting up, and he had accepted it in the same spirit. In fact, he could recall the same thing having happened in his own home. Faced with an awkward corner, and a particularly massive specimen of Victorian furniture, the removal men had simply removed a window frame, fitted a block and tackle, and heaved it up bodily.
That was how Hayle had understood it must have happened at the Manor. He had not thought of one insuperable objection. Except for one or two in the top floor, which had been added more recently, all the windows were of a Tudor type, separated into narrow divisions by stone uprights. To remove the wooden frames would be no advantage at all. And they could scarcely have taken out the stone. Was it on the staircase? But the staircase, he was sure, was too awkward to take that wardrobe, tackle or no tackle. For the moment he left the problem, and let his mind wander, a little wrathfully, over Timothy's escapade of the night before.
Inquiry at the firm's office showed that Mr. Joseph Fielding was the foreman in charge of the work at the Manor, and Joe Fielding, it appeared, was out on a job. Luckily it was not far away. Hayle obtained precise directions, and then took the opportunity of putting a few questions.
Halliday, it appeared, was not a regular employee. He had once been in the removal business himself, had retired, and now lived in a little cottage in a village a few miles away. But he had had bad luck with his investments, and had lost a good deal of his money. He was, accordingly, ready to take on a certain amount of casual work, and, since he was admittedly an expert at his job, the firm was glad to avail itself of his services whenever there was any specially difficult or important work on hand. It had done so in the case of Manningtree's furniture. He was a man of impeccable character.
Though the foreman himself was out on the job, one of the men who had worked on that removal was there. Hayle questioned him for some time without eliciting any useful information whatever. It had been a perfectly normal removal, special care had been taken, in view of the probability of a much bigger job in the offing when Manningtree finally settled down, and everything had gone like clockwork.
This man knew Halliday quite well. He had never said anything about the Manningtree removal. Manningtree, or anyone in the household. There was only one point which might be illuminating, and that might be an explanation which would go to prove Halliday's actual evidence of no value whatever.
"He was very interested in them wireless things, sir," his informant explained. "Inspector What's-his-name—"
"Hornleigh?"
"That's him. Always listened in to those, he did, and generally got 'em right, too... And now, poor chap, in a manner of speaking, he's one himself."
That was not exactly reassuring, Hayle thought. Perhaps Halliday had had some theory of the crime; perhaps he had rung the station and asked for the Chief Constable. And the murderer might somehow have heard, really believed that the man could give decisive evidence against him, and murdered him almost by mistake.
He found Mr. Joseph Fielding eventually busily engaged, but not so busily that he could not pause for a moment and, supervising from afar the work of a couple of sweating furniture men, answer such questions as Hayle put to him. Generally he confirmed what Hayle had learnt already; but on one point he contradicted Whitley when the Inspector asked about the tackle.
"No, sir. We never fitted one at all. Not for that little bit of stuff, and most of it small, sir. It all went up the stairs what didn't go into the study, sir."
"But Whitley said—"
"Whitley wasn't there, sir, most of the time. He only came along at the end. And then, I suppose, he thought we'd done the same as we did nine years back when we did have some big stuff. Now, then—"
Hayle listened, or affected to listen, almost absently, watching as he did so the furniture going into the house. The sight of one piece which was just entering reminded him.
"But that wardrobe of Manningtree's?" he asked. "That never went up the stairs?"
"Not in one piece, sir, no. But the top lifts off the bottom." Fielding grinned. "There's tricks in every trade, sir."
Hayle's eyes were still on the one which was being carried into the cottage. "But, damn it, that one doesn't come apart," he said. "And you're not telling me that that'll go up there? Or are they having it downstairs?"
"That'll go up, sir," Fielding said knowingly. "Easy enough. If you come along you'll see. It's a bit heavy for 'em, and I'd better give 'em a hand. There's tricks, sir, in—"
Ten minutes later, when Inspector Hayle left the house, he knew three things; who murdered Manningtree, how he was murdered, and why Halliday had met his death.
THOUGH on two or three occasions in the past he had badly wanted to thrash Doune within an inch of his life, Timothy felt not the slightest impulse to join in the man hunt. Doune probably deserved anything that was coming to him, and if he were mad, as the popular theories seemed to suggest, he could certainly not be allowed to remain at large, but that made the business of chivvying him no more pleasant. Timothy was not particularly squeamish, but the hearty zest with which some of Chedder's amateur helpers entered into the spirit of the thing jarred upon him distinctly.
Colonel Chedder was obviously in his element. He might have been organising a tiger hunt, or arranging the beaters for a shoot. And, assuming that the quarry were still in the neighbourhood of the clay-works, his plans were well arranged. Two parties of the beaters had already set off by car, to make a circuit round the back of the hills and come over the brow at a zero hour which had been fixed for eleven o'clock. Another two were just then setting off along the lane, to scatter along the respective sides of the valley, and complete the circle with those who were coming from the valley head. Timothy's private opinion was that anyone in the circle would not stand a dog's chance of escaping.
He wondered whether the hunted man, if he were sane enough to understand, knew anything about the preparations for his capture. Quite probably he did not. He might have noticed the stir of people arriving, but he could hardly be sure for what purpose they had gathered. And Chedder had been judicious in his concealment of the parties setting out. From where he sat on the part of the terrace which gave the best view of the valley he could see nothing out of the ordinary at all, and it was twenty minutes to eleven.
Colonel Chedder emerged from the house, talking to the sergeant who, perhaps out of consideration for his bulk, had been left in charge of the base. He frowned a little as he saw Timothy; then seemed to change his mind and advanced with a smile.
"'Morning, Wynne," he greeted him quite cheerfully. "Not joining us, then? We might need a few active young fellows like you—"
"No, sir," Timothy answered politely, but his manner was guarded. "I thought—"
"Too tired after last night, eh?" the Chief Constable suggested genially. "You young dog! Two nights running—"
It was the first intimation Timothy had had that Mary Cunningham had not preserved as a secret the story which he had told her. He stood there in confusion, scarcely knowing what to say.
"You needn't worry, my boy... Fareham's taken it in good part—and so have we. You certainly scored off Hayle and his bobbies. A dashed smart bit of work!"
"I had a lot of luck, sir," Timothy said as soon as he could get a word in. "The men aren't really much to blame—"
"Um... to tell the truth," Colonel Chedder dropped his voice confidentially, "I'm glad it came off. It's a good match. But you aren't envious, eh? Didn't think of running off with her yourself?"
Timothy quailed mentally at the thought. "No, sir," he said.
"Or I wonder she didn't run off with you.... Spirited girl, that." The Colonel chuckled. "But you've other views, eh?"
Timothy blushed. Obviously Mary Cunningham's account to the Colonel had been singularly complete. He was inclined to resent it, but the effect had evidently been good, and it seemed as though the whole ghastly business might blow over peaceably.
"Dashed fine girl," the Colonel proceeded. "Good family, too. Made a few inquiries. Had to, you know. People in India... that explains it... I believe I met her grandfather once in the Pamirs."
That, Timothy thought, might explain a good deal; for to have come of a good family and travelled anywhere east of Suez seemed to be a guarantee so far as Chedder was concerned.
"I'm afraid, sir, things have hardly gone as far as that," he protested.
"Never mind, my boy. Plenty of time." As though reminded, he glanced at his watch. "Got to go... catch this fellow... public danger... might murder half a dozen people, eh?"
It was a distinct relief to Timothy that the Colonel's other activities had cut the conversation short. Nothing is more irritating than being accused of making love to a girl one wants to make love to when one has had no opportunity, and Timothy was wondering how on earth he was to see Sylvia Knowle. For Mary Cunningham, though a quiet and good-looking enough dragon, was nevertheless a dragon, and quite capable of dealing with him. After the Colonel's conversation he needed soothing. He felt for and found a cigarette, but the matches eluded him. Generally they were in his right-hand coat pocket; but they were missing. He slapped his left in exploration, encountered some hard, round object for which he could not account; then he pulled it out.
He looked at it in complete bewilderment. It was spherical in shape, perhaps a couple of inches in diameter, and made apparently of some substance like ivory. Out of one side a large cylinder had been cut which practically hollowed it out. What its purpose might be, and how it had got there, was a complete mystery. But for the hollow inside, it might almost have been a billiard ball...
At the thought he frowned. There had been some talk of a lost billiard ball. It was when he was playing Fareham, and his statement that George Petworth had contrived to knock it into the fire had for the time being caused that constraint which he had then hardly understood. But had that anything to do with what he had found? If it had been burnt, that was obviously impossible. And, above all, how had it got in his pocket? Suddenly he remembered. Winifred Fareham's bag had burst open. He had replaced most of the things, but in the hurry he had pushed something white into his pocket. He remembered it had felt smooth and hard, and had supposed it might be a cream box or powder puff. And he had forgotten to give it back.
It was an explanation up to a point, but beyond that it left things as dark as ever. Why had Winifred Fareham ever had it in her bag? Was it the lost ball? And if so, who had so carefully hollowed it out? He was still turning it over dubiously in his hands when a voice sounded behind him. He looked round.
"Good morning, sir." Hayle's expression was a little grim, but he was smiling. "Want a light?"
Timothy had forgotten all about the unlighted cigarette between his lips. He accepted the match which Hayle struck and held out.
"Thanks," he said. "You're not with the hunt?"
"I've a little hunting of my own to do, sir," Hayle answered. "In fact, I've done some."
"Oh?" Timothy said. "I suppose—"
All at once Hayle dropped on his knees beside him. His eyes were fixed on the object which Timothy was still holding.
"What—?" he said in a queer voice. "What's that?"
"That's just what I don't know," Timothy admitted. "I've an idea it might have been a billiard ball; but just why it's been treated like that I can't imagine. Perhaps George took it as a souvenir of the worst shot in his life."
"George?" Hayle tried desperately to make his voice sound casual. "Mr. Petworth? Why should he, sir?"
"Well, so far as I understand, he knocked it into the fire. That's a pretty fair record in bad shots. I suppose it wasn't quite burnt, so he had it bored out for something. Might have meant it as an ash-tray—"
He tried experimentally to stand it up on the stonework, but it promptly rolled over.
"Or—or a knob," Hayle suggested.
"Of course. That's what it must have been. George gave it to Miss Fareham, I suppose, for— What on earth would she use it for?"
Hayle drew a deep breath. "Or a stick," he murmured.
"Perhaps—"
"Were you there at the time, sir? When he made the shot?"
"No. Fareham told me. We were playing the other day—in fact yesterday. He beat me hollow."
"Mr. Petworth gave it to you, sir?"
"Why, no." Timothy coloured a little. "It was last night, you know. It fell out of Miss Fareham's bag... I forgot to give it back. Oh. I suppose you have heard?"
"Yes," said Hayle, and there was none of the Colonel's coy playfulness in his voice.
"I'm really awfully sorry, you know," Timothy apologised. "And I do feel you've been quite decent. But I simply got bullied into it. Or rather, they seemed so fearfully keen on it, and I hadn't the heart—"
"Of course, sir," Hayle assented absently. "Might I look at that, sir?"
He took the ball and turned it over in his hands, thrusting his finger into the hollow part and holding it up as though to see the effect. Then he looked at Timothy sharply.
"You'd swear to that, sir?" he demanded. "What you've told me about this ball?"
"Of course," Timothy said. "But why on earth—"
"I'm afraid I must retain possession of it, sir—at any rate for the present."
"I don't mind. But what—?" An uncomfortable suspicion grew in his mind. "What is it?"
"Well," Hayle smiled grimly, "you might say that it was an alibi. On Mr. Fareham's definition, an alibi of means—"
"You mean—it had something to do with the murder?" Timothy asked incredulously. "But that's rot—" A bright thought occurred to him. "Miss Fareham would never have called attention to the fact that the ball was missing if she'd known that George had taken it for anything like that."
"No, she wouldn't," Hayle agreed. "But I'll take it, sir." He had been kneeling on the stones ever since he had first seen what Timothy was holding. Now he rose abruptly. "And, sir, you mustn't mention it to a soul. Not to anyone at all... It might even be dangerous for you!"
"I won't," Timothy assented. "But—but there must be some mistake—"
Hayle did not wait to answer. He was already hurrying towards the house. Timothy's eyes followed him unhappily. He had had no notion that it might be important when he first produced the ball. And now he had the unpleasant feeling that he had somehow harmed George or Winifred Fareham, just at a time when everything had seemed to be smoothing out—
Then he saw something which made him forget even what had just happened. Mary Cunningham had just emerged on to the terrace, and Sylvia was leaning on her arm. Timothy stood up. But they did not seem to have seen him. They were crossing the terrace slowly, without having glanced in his direction, and apparently making for the central path which led ultimately to the bottom of the garden where the little summer-house stood. It did not need any very great effort at deduction to guess that that was where they were going.
Timothy hesitated only for an instant. The next, he was sprinting across the lawn for the shrubbery. He was beginning to get to know the garden rather well; and the path they had taken wound by very devious routes, to which short cuts were impossible. By the time the two girls reached the summer-house, he was seated there already, panting a little, perhaps, but smoking a cigarette, and otherwise looking as though he had been there all morning. He rose with an expression of pleased surprise as they came in.
Mary Cunningham started perceptibly, then laughed. Sylvia greeted him with a little cry of pleasure.
"Timothy!"
"You're better?" Timothy's eyes devoured the pale face. She certainly was better, he thought, than she had been when he had seen her in the bedroom with that horrible flush on her cheeks. But she was looking tired. He pushed forward a garden chair. "I say," he said anxiously, "you'd better sit down. Are you warm enough?"
Mary Cunningham seated herself opposite them. There was an amused look on her face.
"Really, Mr. Wynne," she said. "You're the most omnipresent person I ever met... Or am I seeing things?"
Sylvia looked at her in bewilderment. "Omnipresent?" she echoed. "But why—?"
"I could have sworn I saw Mr. Wynne sitting on the terrace as we came out," Mary explained mischievously. "You know—just after my own fiancé cut me dead!"
"But how could you—" Sylvia began.
Timothy had regained his self-possession. Murder or no murder he felt extraordinarily light-hearted.
"Miss Cunningham is gifted with second sight," he declared gravely. "That was my ka, or double. Most of the best ancient Egyptian families had one. See Rider Haggard. My father spent a month in Egypt—"
"Or anyone who could talk greater nonsense," Mary Cunningham elaborated her earlier statement. She rose to her feet. "From Dick's expression as he went into the house," she said, "I rather think he might need me—if only in the capacity of a Dr. Watson. You were talking to him, weren't you, Mr. Wynne?"
"Yes," Timothy admitted soberly.
"Perhaps you can tell me what the trouble is? I might not be needed."
"Well," Timothy hesitated. "I can't, I'm afraid. That is, he said I was to tell no one at all."
"I see." Mary considered. "Then, if you can manage without me—"
"Oh, of course!"
Mary Cunningham laughed and turned up the path. Sylvia looked at Timothy with eyes wide with horror.
"Is it—is it—?" she faltered.
"It's nothing to do with Doune," Timothy said stoutly. "It's just something I happened to find that he thought might lead to the murderer. And"—he hesitated—"I can't say who it is, but I'm pretty sure it's not him at all."
For quite a long time Sylvia sat without speaking. At last she sighed.
"If only—if only—" she said, and stopped.
"Now look here," Timothy frowned at her. "Everything's going to be quite all right. Chedder seems to have decided to overlook everything we may have done wrong as a youthful escapade. We look like being dismissed without a stain on our characters—"
"Thanks to Mary Cunningham," Sylvia said, but it was not all gratitude in her voice. "She's very pretty, isn't she?"
"Who? Her?" Timothy asked in genuine surprise, which perhaps justified the lack of grammar. "I suppose she is—anyway, Hayle thinks so."
"So is Miss Fareham, isn't she?"
There was the faintest possible hesitation in Timothy's manner as he replied.
"Well, George thinks so."
"And they both seem to have taken a fancy to you But I suppose you didn't notice them at all? When you were helping Winifred Fareham out of the window or telling Mary Cunningham the story of your life—"
Timothy looked unhappy. He found the conversation puzzling, and there was something in Sylvia's manner which made him uncomfortable.
"Well, I don't know about helping," he said, trying to speak lightly. "I think pushing would be a better word." Then a light broke upon him. "I say, is that it?" he asked. "About Mary Cunningham?"
"What?"
"Are you awfully fed up because I told her all about things? Of course, I ought to have asked you first. But you see, I'd been thinking that the best thing to do was to make a clean breast of it to the police. And then Miss Fareham said it was. And she seemed a decent sort, so I thought it might be a sort of compromise to tell her."
"I'm sure Miss Fareham's advice was excellent."
There was a long pause. Timothy sighed. "I'm honestly sorry," he said. "You see, I couldn't ask you. And I didn't think you'd mind, and this morning I thought it had all turned out all right. She seemed to have managed things beautifully."
"But perhaps I don't want her to manage me."
"Well, I wouldn't have done it for worlds if—" Timothy said desperately and broke off. "Dash it all," he said with a trace of impatience, "when you happen to climb into the bedroom of a detective inspector's fiancée in the small hours of the morning, you've got to tell her something!"
For a moment Sylvia struggled with her feelings; then she laughed outright. Timothy smiled in return with a sort of pleading apology.
"I say, I am sorry—"
"I think it's I who ought to be sorry," Sylvia said, and her voice trembled a little. "I owe a lot to—to both of you. And you must think me a perfect cat."
"I think—" Timothy stopped, drew a deep breath and tried again. "I think," he said carefully, "what Hayle thinks about Mary Cunningham, and George about Winifred Fareham. Only, you know, ever so much more!"
He was aware of the warm colour which had suddenly flooded her face and throat. His hand stole out and timidly took hers. For a moment it seemed to withdraw, then it rested there.
"Sylvia—" said Timothy, and then again, as though the mere name helped him. "Sylvia—"
"Wynne! Wynne!"
The shouting of his name from up the garden did not so much as make him break off as prolong a pause which existed already. He scowled up the path as a figure emerged round the bend.
"Wynne! Are you there?"
Sylvia gently disengaged her hand.
"It's Inspector Hayle," she said.
"Damn Inspector Hayle!" said Timothy savagely; then looked at her in anxious apology. "I say, I'm sorry—"
Sylvia laughed. "You'd better go to him," she said, then added as he rose to his feet, "And I think so, too."
"Think what?" Timothy turned a puzzled face.
"Damn Inspector Hayle," said Sylvia softly.
Timothy turned and his face lit up. "Sylvia," he said, "I want—"
"Wynne!" bellowed Hayle.
"Oh—!" Timothy stopped himself in time. "Coming!" he roared.
THE Inspector paid not the least attention to Timothy's obvious annoyance. He was more cheerful than he had been since his arrival at the house, and there was a light of triumph in his eye.
"I'm afraid I must ask you to come with me at once, sir," he said without preliminary. "Mary will be down to look after Miss Knowle in a few minutes."
For a moment the words startled Timothy. He half suspected that he was being arrested.
"Where?" he demanded. "Why?"
"To the Chief Constable, sir. I want you to tell him what you've told me. About the ball, sir."
They walked in silence towards the car which was waiting outside the front door.
"I say," Timothy protested as the Inspector let in the clutch and the car started to move. "I'd no idea about that—about that ball thing. It was important?"
"Extremely, sir."
"But does it mean that you'll go chasing after George and Miss Fareham? Because, if so—"
Hayle smiled a rather sinister smile. "We've no intention of doing that," he said. "You see, I'm inclined to think that Miss Fareham came into possession of the ball very much as you did yourself. She probably picked it up by accident."
"Oh." He felt that Hayle was speaking the truth—at least so far as it went, and the fact was a great relief to him. "Where is the Chief Constable?" he asked curiously. "They've not—they've not caught the chap yet?"
"I understand that he's been seen," Hayle said almost indifferently. Timothy noticed it.
"Then it's not him you're after?" he asked.
"Doune? No, sir," Hayle agreed absently. "He'd nothing to do with it."
"And you've got a complete case against someone else?" Timothy felt a great weight had been lifted from his mind. If Doune were not to be tried for the murder, surely it might be possible to keep the girl's name out of things. "You're going to make an arrest?"
Hayle suddenly seemed to realise that he was talking more than was discreet. He hesitated, glanced quickly at Timothy, and frowned.
"I suppose there's no objection to your knowing, sir," he said at last. "Everyone will know soon."
"Then who is it?" Timothy demanded.
"I won't go quite so far as that, sir." Hayle smiled. "But I'll tell you that I've a good enough case to apply for a warrant. I don't say it's complete. But—"
Timothy frowned. "Then, I gather that billiard ball helped you to complete it?" he said.
"Yes, sir. That removed, so to speak, one alibi... The trouble is, there's still one left—though it's less important. I doubt if it would hold in a court—"
Perhaps nervousness had put the Inspector into an unusually communicative mood. And undoubtedly he was nervous. He was quite convinced in his own mind that his case was at least sufficient to justify the warrant and an arrest; but he was only too well aware that the Colonel might take a lot of persuading. It was not that he would for a moment have shown any favouritism or have shrank from any duty, however unpleasant; but what he was going to hear ran directly counter to all his prejudices.
They bumped up the lane. Timothy was feeling distinctly worried. Somehow he felt that Hayle in assuring him that they would not chase George and Winifred Fareham hod not been entirely ingenuous. There was something behind it. Suppose they had already been arrested? But he had said the ball had probably come into the girl's possession by accident. He tried vainly to work out who it could possibly be, and how any alibi provided by a spoilt billiard ball could affect anyone who had ever been mentioned in the case.
The car bumped to a stop. Hayle leaned out of the window to say a quick word to a policeman at the side of the road. Timothy caught a few words.
"...Chief Constable?... important."
They had reached the point where the path turned off the lane leading over the hill above the clay-works; the very path, he reflected, where he had met Sylvia the night before. He saw the constable's arm point along it; though he did not catch the words. Hayle turned to him.
"We'll get out here, sir, if you please," he said. "I understand Colonel Chedder is along this way—"
Timothy obeyed, and they started up the path. Almost immediately, they passed a small group of police and other helpers waiting in concealment by the side of the path. Timothy realised from their expressions that the hunt for Doune must be very near its end. One of the local gentlemen ventured a warning.
"I'd be careful, Inspector," he suggested. "He's somewhere quite close, and he's fighting mad... We had him once—or thought we had, but he broke through. And we've two badly beaten up."
"Thank you, sir," Hayle replied politely, but his mind was evidently only half on what had been said.
"You'd have thought," the man who had given the warning persisted reflectively, "that he'd have been in pretty poor shape. He can't have eaten since yesterday. But he may diddle us yet. Watch out, that's all."
Hayle thanked him again, and they hurried up the path. Timothy did not mind confessing to himself that he was a little scared. He was not afraid of standing up to any sane man he had ever met, but the idea of a madman jumping out on one from the bushes affected him unpleasantly. He found himself glancing around nervously, watching little movements on the hillside and straining his ears to catch the vague sounds which seemed to be all about them.
Certainly there were some odd noises and movements of the bracken which could not be due to the wind. But then, probably the whole hillside was practically alive with men. He remembered the large party which had gathered at the Manor that morning. Now, although for a moment a lower patch of bracken allowed a fair view of the top half of the valley, he could not actually see a soul, except for the man at his side.
"Who's that?"
Timothy almost jumped out of his skin. The whispered challenge had seemed to come from right under his nose.
"Inspector Hayle. The Chief Constable's up here?"
"By the pool..." A gorse bush just beside the path half-rose to its knees. At least, that was how it looked to Timothy. Then he saw there was a face under it. "I say, look out," the man said. "He's here somewhere. And he isn't trying any more rushes. After that last business, he's lying low... So I thought I'd do the same myself. Neat, isn't it?"
He was exhibiting his camouflage with pride, but Hayle only nodded curtly.
"Good idea," he said. "Thanks."
"Good lord, there's a small army here!" Timothy exclaimed in a whisper as they proceeded.
"And they may need them, sir," Hayle rejoined. "It's surprising how many people it often takes to deal with a madman. You see, you don't want to hurt him—and you don't want him to hurt you. And he doesn't give a damn about either. They can be cunning, too."
Timothy had been inclined to smile at the extravagance of the Chief Constable's precautions; but the Inspector's endorsement of them changed his opinion. He could see that it would be no light job to search that broken, overgrown hillside, no matter how many men one had. And if Doune had to be caught— But had he? He voiced the question to the Inspector. "If he's not guilty of the murder, what's all the fuss about?"
Hayle smiled a little. "There are other charges, sir. Such as forgery, embezzlement, receiving stolen goods, attempted abduction, inflicting grievous bodily harm on the Chief Constable—"
"Good lord!" Timothy exclaimed. "All those?"
Hayle laughed silently. "Not to mention car offences," he said. "I think we could find—"
He broke off. They had just rounded the bend and were emerging into the clearing above the pool. The little platform, raised above both the level of the buildings and most of the surrounding hillside, had evidently been adopted by Chedder as headquarters; or at least as a kind of look-out post; for the Chief Constable was seated on a piece of rock just near the ruined shed, and a little in front of him, on the edge of the cliff which led to the water, stood Fareham, scrutinising the opposite slope through a pair of field glasses.
"Why, hullo, Hayle!" The Chief Constable looked up as they approached. "Come to give us a hand, eh? We had him once, and the fools let him loose again. I've an idea he's still lurking round here. Fareham thinks he's circled... But what I say is he couldn't have crossed the lane; nor even the path—"
Fareham turned, lowering his glasses. "I still think, Colonel, that there's someone behaving queerly over there," he said. "Of course, it may be one of our own people. Not all of them are absolute models of good sense... Ah!" He raised his glasses again. Hayle gave a significant glance at him.
"Could I have a word with you privately, sir?" he said in a low voice. "I've something pretty important to tell you. About the murder, sir... I believe we could make an arrest—"
"Good God!" Chedder exclaimed, and looked at Timothy. "If you don't mind, Wynne—"
"He's a part of it, sir. I mean, one of the main witnesses... But I'd like to ask, sir, if I may tell you things in my own way. I'd prefer to tell you all the evidence before I actually give the name. Though, of course, you'll probably guess before I've done. First, sir, there's the motive. Oddly enough, we'd been neglecting the most obvious motive of all—I mean the business motive. We hadn't really thought that the murderer might have killed Manningtree simply because he could make money out of it, and not from fear, or revenge, or even any real hatred. It was mere gain. At least, that's how I understand it."
"Go on—" Chedder prompted.
"Well, sir, the worst of monetary gain as a motive is that it's one anyone might have. We all want it more or less. The question becomes one of who could have got it, and how... Now, there was one very good way at least that anyone with a little capital could make more money if he knew about Manningtree's affairs, and that Manningtree was going to die. He could sell shares in certain of Manningtree's companies at a high price, and buy them at a lower price as the price went down. In fact, he could invest in Manningtree's murder. He did, sir."
"Good God!" Chedder said. "But who—?"
"At least, sir, I've found the name of a man who did sell shares, and sell pretty freely, in companies which might be affected by the death of Manningtree, and most of which were affected. And he started selling before Manningtree died. In other words, he knew Manningtree was going to die, because he meant to kill him. He couldn't lose. But I can prove a certain man sold as I have said."
Chedder thought for a moment. "That's suspicious, certainly," he admitted, and a frown was gathering on his brow. "But it proves nothing. There might be other explanations."
"Exactly, sir. And by itself it's worth exactly nothing. You see, the murderer has been pretty careful. If we try to work things out for the double murder, he's protected by no less than three alibis—in fact, as Mr. Fareham said, by alibis of means, opportunity, and motive. In the first by an alibi of place or opportunity; in the second by the other two."
For the first time Chedder seemed to have an inkling of the way things were going. He glanced across to where Fareham was still standing in the act of lighting a cigarette, and there was a shocked expression on his face.
"In the first case," Hayle pursued, "he was able to suggest that he couldn't have got to the room where Manningtree was shot. It was that point which poor Halliday could have dealt with. So he killed Halliday. But that brings us to his next alibi. The only conceivable reason we've been able to find for anyone murdering Halliday was that he was going to give certain evidence. And, on the face of it, it doesn't look as though the murderer could have had the intention of preventing him; because the murderer couldn't possibly have known what his evidence was, whether he was coming at all, and when. The only way, so far as I can see, was for the murderer to have overheard that conversation between you and me in the lounge. And that—" Hayle hesitated and frowned. "That, sir, to be quite honest, is exactly what I haven't been able to do. In fact, so far as my investigations go, I proved that he couldn't possibly have done so."
Chedder looked puzzled. "Then how can you prove the murder?" he demanded. "Or, for that matter, either murder? Because I suppose we may take it that the two hang together."
"I should say so, sir... Well, I think we could chance an arrest, just because it is a 'motive' alibi—to use Mr. Fareham's expression, sir—and motives are pretty indefinite things. I think that a court would come to the conclusion that, though we couldn't prove the murderer knew about Halliday's visit, and though it looked as though he couldn't have found out, somehow he must have done. At least, I'm hoping so. Because, with the help of Mr. Wynne here, I've just smashed the weapon alibi... He could have had the stick—and he was within reach of the place."
"You have?" Chedder said, so excitedly that Fareham glanced around towards them. "But still, as I understand it, it's all possibility—"
"No, sir. If you haven't done anything out of the ordinary, though there may be any amount of suspicious circumstances against you, it will probably be pretty hard to prove to a judge's satisfaction that you're guilty. But if you've pretended to have done or not to have done something, once the pretence is found out, it actually points against you. I've found out two out of three of the murderer's pretences. I wanted to ask you if you thought that enough—"
As the Colonel raised his handkerchief to wipe his face, it seemed to Timothy that he was actually trembling. Certainly his voice faltered a little as he spoke.
"We—we don't want—we don't want to create a scandal—if there could be any mistake," he said.
"No, sir," Hayle agreed, and stood looking at him.
"Just explain again. About Manningtree's—"
"He'd got a motive, sir. I've proved that. He'd got an opportunity—and he pretended not to have. And he'd at least as good a chance as most people to get the weapon. Then, about Halliday; I've said about the motive. He'd certainly got it—if he knew. He was in the right place, and he could have had the weapon. Now, sir—"
Quite violently Timothy interrupted him. No one had told him not to listen; so he had duly listened, though rather with the feeling that Hayle's recital erred unnecessarily on the side of tactful vagueness. So, for that matter, did his own exclamation.
"Hammurabi!" he ejaculated. "I've got it... Good Heavens... What an ass! What a perfect ass! And when Bowmore said—"
Then he himself was interrupted. There was a cry from the hill beyond the clay-works. Fareham, who had already half-turned, pointed excitedly.
"There!" he said. "He crossed the path... He's going round us—"
There was a rustling and a crackling somewhere above, as though someone was forcing his way through the bracken and undergrowth; then a shout, and a sudden scream of pain. It was like no human scream, Timothy thought. It was a purely animal cry, inarticulate but horribly expressive; and it changed as he listened to something like a furious roar.
"Help! Got him— Help—"
It was a man's voice, only a little way up the hill. Timothy jumped forward; though, oddly enough, Inspector Hayle still held his ground, and his eye was still upon Fareham. But he was hardly into the bracken before it happened. The fronds just a little to one side suddenly swayed, reeled, and went down. Doune emerged into full view, running like the madman which his eyes alone showed he certainly was.
Chedder jumped for him as Timothy turned to help, and he was bowled headlong. Fareham's leap showed better judgment, and for a second or two that seemed an age they wrestled like two men trying a fall. Inspector Hayle had moved at last. He was actually grabbing Doune's collar when it happened. Beneath the very feet of the fighting men the ground seemed to sag and bend. Then with a curious cracking noise a whole piece about eight feet square bent rather than fell down towards the milky slime below. There was a tremendous splash, and the ground and the two fighters vanished together beneath the bubbling white of the pool.
Hayle, on the very edge of the new chasm, had been thrown headlong. Only a miracle had saved him. But shaken though he was he rose to his feet, backed a little from the edge, and stood looking at the turbulent water with an expression of something like disappointment. As the sluggish ripples subsided, he turned to Chedder.
"And there, I'm afraid, sir," he said, "goes our murderer."
"You mean—you mean—" Chedder said, and stopped. Then: "It wasn't Doune," he said, and it was more a regretful statement than a question.
"No," Hayle assented. "No, sir. It was Mr. Fareham. And"—he turned to Timothy—"unless I'm mistaken, you'd got some idea about the third alibi—"
"Yes," Timothy managed to say. "It's quite simple—"
Better keep it a bit. "We'll get them out first—"
But it was the better part of two hours before the mud disgorged them, still clinging together, and transformed from head to foot by the kaolin to a spotless white.
IN the billiard room, Colonel Chedder eyed the loudspeaker dubiously. There was thunder in the air, and at the moment it was emitting the occasional splitting crash of atmospherics; otherwise it was silent.
"I shouldn't have believed it possible," he said. "You're sure there isn't any foolery about it? Microphone attachments or anything of the kind?"
Hayle shook his head. "That was my first idea, sir," he said. "When I knew that Fareham must somehow have overheard that conversation, and yet it was obvious that he couldn't have done, I went over things pretty thoroughly making sure there wasn't anything of the sort... Of course, it seemed a bit far-fetched, but he was such a thorough devil that I couldn't be sure."
"He was thorough," Colonel Chedder produced from his pocket a damp, white-stained notebook. "And as a criminal pretty considerate. I mean, he doesn't leave the matter in any doubt—"
There was a noise from the loud-speaker.
"Just a minute, sir," Hayle interrupted. "I think the sergeant's just going to begin—"
"That, eh?" Colonel Chedder frowned. "That was just atmospheric, wasn't it?"
"I think he was clearing his throat, sir... There he goes again, sir."
This time the "ahem" was unmistakable. Colonel Chedder's eyebrows rose.
"What's he going to say?" he demanded.
"I left that to him, sir. Told him to say something unexpected... It gives a better proof—"
"Westmorland, Appleby, on the Eden," the loudspeaker announced in a husky whisper, but yet with some gusto. "Durham, Durham on the Wear. Lancashire, Lancaster on the Lune—"
"You see, sir," Hayle pointed out, "it comes through pretty clearly. That's why Wynne didn't notice anything wrong with the word he overheard... Of course, the sergeant hasn't got a pure B.B.C. accent. Royton's was much more like the real thing—"
"They grew in beauty side by side;
They filled one home with glee;
Their graves are scattered far and wide
By mountain, stream and sea—"
The loud-speaker interrupted him pathetically. It was plain that the sergeant was getting into his stride.
"Good God!" said Colonel Chedder.
Hayle strode hurriedly towards the door. "Just run and tell the sergeant that that's enough," he told the constable outside. "Tell him it was a great success."
With a slight shudder he turned off the loud-speaker. The Colonel frowned at it suspiciously.
"I'd no idea that could happen," he said. "Makes you wonder a bit, eh?"
"It only can happen in very exceptional circumstances, sir. You've got to have the right wiring, with an amplifier between the set and the extension. And to be overheard, you've got to speak fairly near the set loud-speaker, and bellow a bit—I mean, have a good voice, sir... Of course, as they used this place for dancing, it was quite reasonable to have an amplifier."
"How did he find out?" Chedder inquired.
"I imagine by accident—as Wynne did. Of course, when he helped you in and poured out the drinks, the wireless was right beside him. Perhaps the fizz of the soda-water covered any click. He merely switched on between two wavelengths—though in the end it did pick up something—"
"It did." Chedder laughed; then sobered. "Dashed queer coincidence, eh?"
"So, sir, that's the third alibi... What got me, sir, was his stuffing us—I mean, outlining the theory to you so that we couldn't miss the point. Though, actually, that set me on to him—"
"Yes, yes," Colonel Chedder assented, and eyed the little book in his hand. "I'd like to hear about it—I mean, how you managed to pick things up. You'd better let me have that first.... Then we'll see how right you are."
Hayle wrinkled his brow to think. "Well, sir, that was what really set me off," he said. "Though I'd had the glimmerings of an idea before. Or to be quite candid, Mary put it into my head. That is, that the whole thing was carefully planned to throw suspicion on one man and that most of the other things were just complications, which probably disconcerted the murderer just as much as they worried us. Wynne was one of them, and Doune was another. Not to mention Mrs. Manningtree—because actually she was a complication arranged by Doune. As things turned out, his whole main scheme was spoilt; though he was still in a good position."
"On one man, you said?" Chedder asked. "But who?"
"I should say Bowmore undoubtedly, sir. Because he was the one person on whose actions Fareham could really calculate, Manningtree used to talk about his business affairs with Fareham—just to show off, perhaps. It was the one thing in which he felt himself really superior. I expect he told him about the interview with Bowmore, and I expect, if he knew the whole truth, he'd told Bowmore, or was going to, that he was going to smash him."
"But Fareham had no grudge against Bowmore?"
"No, sir. But he'd not much use for financiers generally, and no doubt despised the man pretty thoroughly. But I imagine he was judging entirely from the point of view of expediency—"
"It seems—well, pretty ruthless," Chedder objected. "And would it have worked?"
"He was utterly ruthless—and it would have worked, if things had gone normally. Just imagine the situation, sir. Fareham is upstairs with his alibi nicely established by Whitley. Royton, who doesn't matter, is in the office. Bowmore leaves Doune to go to see Manningtree. A shot rings out, and Bowmore is found with Manningtree dead, a smoking pistol at his feet, and a good motive for killing. I don't believe he'd have had a dog's chance. No doubt Fareham would have come forward and have remembered Manningtree showing the murderer the gun, or something like that... Or at any rate, have said Manningtree told him he had."
"But, as a matter of fact, we hardly suspected Bowmore at all. What went wrong?"
"Pretty well everything. If Doune had been in the lounge, he might have heard the shot and rushed in to discover the murder. But he'd gone outside. So Fareham had to do the discovering himself. And he rushes in with the words 'Bowmore! I say, Bowmore' or something like that, and then finds that the person in the room isn't Bowmore at all."
"It must have been rather a shock for him?"
"It was, I should say, sir... And incidentally, I doubt if young Wynne was ever nearer to death in his life—though he seems to get into some queer places. Because if Fareham had happened to think of it, I'm not sure he wouldn't have shot Wynne, and staged a murder and justifiable homicide!... So, of course, Wynne spoilt things badly. And Bowmore was late. He wouldn't say why, but he's told me since. His reluctance seems to have been due to shyness. The fact is, he realised how slim his chances were, and he stopped and prayed for a minute—"
"Prayed!"
"Yes. He doesn't look like a praying man; but there's a strong streak of his upbringing in him. And he's naturally—apart from finance—a homely, sentimental soul. Then, to crown all, there's Sylvia Knowle upstairs burgling the desk, and Mrs. Manningtree at the inn... The reason we didn't suspect Bowmore much was that there were so many other better suspects. And that was all Doune's fault—"
"Just a minute, Hayle," Chedder begged. "Of course, you got on to the actual method of the murder by seeing that trap-door the removal men were using. I suppose he cut that himself?"
"No, sir. That's the peculiar beauty of the scheme. It was, though you probably wouldn't think it, a natural part of the house. The only luck was that it opened into Manningtree's study. And I'm not sure that was luck. I expect Fareham influenced him to choose that for a study. You see, sir, on the whole the Manor is just an ordinary Cornish farm-house of rather exaggerated size, with a few adaptations and additions. But the main structure hasn't been touched. So, as you'll find in about nine out of ten of the older houses, the floorboards of the upper room are the ceiling of the lower. And, since they specialised on awkward staircases, in any number of houses you'll find that a piece of the floor of one room has been cut out so as to make a trap for pushing furniture up through the beams. The boards are simply cut half-way across the joists, and put back, and nailed down... And that shows you, sir, how thorough he was. He'd taken the opportunity of having a bath next morning not to nail, but to screw them down. Nailing would have made too much noise."
"Why should he?"
"Just in case it should occur to anyone to push on the ceiling boards. Actually, he'd only had to loosen one board. That was enough to put the gun through and fire... Of course, when Manningtree heard the noise of the board being lifted just over his head and a little behind, he leant back in his chair and looked up. The angle of the bullet would be just the same as though he'd been shot horizontally sitting upright."
"I see that. And Halliday?"
"Halliday had helped, not only in that removal, but in the one before as well. When Manningtree's stuff came, the trap wasn't needed, so no one thought about it. But, of course, Halliday knew which room Manningtree's study was, and knew the trap was overhead. And here, I think, we had a bit of luck. The particular account of the murder Halliday had read was a jumbled bit of work in an early edition of a local evening paper. And it presented the murder as a sort of sealed room mystery—as though no one could have shot him. That's what made Halliday think of it."
Chedder coughed. "I think I may say that I was responsible for that," he said, not without some pride. "Some of those reporter chaps came bothering me. I thought it might be a good idea to put 'em off the scent a bit."
Hayle shuddered. The actual misleading of the Press was a game he was not himself prepared to play quite so light-heartedly.
"It was lucky you did, sir," he said with restraint, and mentally he added, "and on a par with your luck throughout."
"But you didn't find that out until near the end, Hayle?"
"No, sir. The first thing I did find for him was a motive—I mean for Manningtree's murder. That was when Bowmore was talking. So I'd got a possible motive. I'd got someone who at least knew about, and could largely control, the situation. And then an inquiry into the furniture business found the trap-door. Then it seemed fairly certain. But it didn't make Halliday's death much easier. There was that stick, and there was that interview he couldn't have overheard. Two impossibilities—and in the end it was young Wynne who showed me the way out of both of them."
Chedder frowned thoughtfully. "How did Miss Fareham get the ball?" he demanded. "Why did she keep it in her handbag?"
"I don't know how she got it, sir. But I think when she did, she knew her father had killed Manningtree. Now, she was pretty well as ruthless as he was, and she was going to marry George Petworth. Fareham never showed us that letter she sent him; but I suspect that it contained something like: 'And I've got proof that you killed Halliday, so you'd better give your blessing and make the best of it.'"
"You don't think she'd do that?" Chedder protested. "She seems quite a nice girl—"
"Perhaps not so crudely; but I think she did it, sir," Hayle said doggedly. His opinion of Miss Fareham was not unlike Timothy's. "You see, when she found it, she knew there was something wrong, and she was annoyed. Because the particular lie her father told connected the ball with George Petworth. And she seems to have been really keen on him."
"Just how was it used?"
"Well, sir, the ball was cut out to fit the top of a cane pretty much like the cone part of the ivory-headed stick the murder was committed with. The exact likeness didn't matter, because the head was the distinctive part, and he was only going to show it to Bowmore and Royton from a distance. So he goes to the cupboard in their presence, having previously taken out the ivory-headed stick and hidden it ready somewhere. He fits the billiard ball on to the stick, shows what seems the genuine article, then in selecting another stick, he simply removes and pockets the billiard ball. So, the presence of that particular stick in the cupboard is established when he leaves the house. And he's already pointed out to you that inability to have the weapon is practically an alibi."
"But overhearing that conversation—he couldn't have known how important it was?"
"He knew it was important, sir—because you told him," Hayle said cruelly. "So, he naturally tried to get us to hold it in the lounge—a place where he could overhear. And he did. So he'd got his two alibis. He knows, of course, which way Halliday can be expected to come. Over the hill that path is bare enough, and he takes a walk in a direction from which he can command that path, and yet be only a few minutes' walk away from it, so as to be able to intercept Halliday and kill him. When he sees Halliday coming, he starts the conversation with that farmer, and calls attention to the time. Then he goes and kills him."
"He couldn't rely on the time of death being so definitely established."
"I think he could, to within a quarter of an hour. In any case, he was really relying not on the impossibility of getting back to the house but the impossibility of getting in again without being seen, in view of the police on duty."
"That's all fairly clear," Chedder said thoughtfully. "But all the rest—"
"All the rest was simply a nuisance to him, and most of it arose through Doune. Because Doune was a thorough-going rascal himself, and as it happened was just then in a very awkward spot. Perhaps Fareham knew that and meant to use him originally, but I should say he changed his mind, not knowing just what an exciting set of circumstances Doune had created for him. You see, Doune had been doing Manningtree down in three separate ways. He wanted money to gamble on the Stock Exchange himself. He was a thorough-going rotter, as everyone agrees."
"Three ways?" Chedder asked.
"Well, sir, first of all he seems to have tried a spot of direct forgery. Manningtree found that out, forgave him, but decided to remove temptation from his way by finding him a job which wouldn't give him any opportunity. But he kept the cheque forms. And, since he didn't want his new secretary to discover them, he put them in the bedroom desk, among his purely personal papers. Now he makes a discovery, I think, about one of the other things, because besides his forging, Doune has been selling information about Manningtree's business moves—I'm pretty sure Bowmore bought some. And, in addition, he'd been keeping Mrs. Manningtree supplied with information about her husband."
"You got that from her?"
"Yes. Doune actually suggested she should come down. And, later on, he threatened to make up some tale involving them if she didn't help him. Mrs. Manningtree was scared stiff about it, because Mayence really had been out that night. He suffers from insomnia, and had said he was going fishing. But he hadn't been. Perhaps she really suspected him. I don't know. At any rate, that took her to see Doune later on. And Mayence saw that there was something up, and followed her."
"But why get her down?"
"I believe it may have been to distract Manningtree's mind from the other side of his activities. Manningtree had found there was a leakage. Bowmore thinks he'd set a few traps. He was beginning to be pretty sure it was Doune and had got to the stage of threatening him. Doune daren't do anything himself; but he tells the girl. And she goes and steals the cheques. She finds Wynne there, and holds him up; then, by mistake, she sends Wynne down to the very room where Manningtree is lying dead. She gives the cheque to Doune next morning—because the presence of George wandering about in the hope of doing some Romeo and Juliet stuff, prevents her seeing him that night. But she also tells him that she's had enough of him. And most of the rest of her activities and Wynne's are due to fear that she should be accused either of the murder, or of stealing the cheques. I gather, sir, that you don't propose to press that—though strictly, we should—"
"Nonsense," Chedder said firmly. "The poor girl has suffered enough." He thought. "How about that abduction?"
"Probably Doune had the idea that a wife can't be required to give evidence against her husband. Or he may have been really keen on her. Or he may have meant to put her out of the way. It was a mad enough scheme, but I'm inclined to think that by then Doune really was beginning to go a bit mad. And it nearly succeeded. He probably thought he could talk her round, given time. When you found him, he managed to ditch you, because he had to shake you off somehow. As luck would have it, his car pushed yours over, and stopped on the edge. He was able to drive off, double back here and hide... We found the car in an old barn, sir. By that time, I think he was quite bughouse, sir. Probably he was always a bit unstable, and that may have accounted for the whole thing."
Chedder considered deeply. "You said that Fareham arranged the setting, so to speak, for the murder," he objected. "But it was Doune who tipped the wine over."
"Fareham could have found some excuse easily enough, sir. Besides, perhaps he put the wine in a position where Doune would be bound to knock it over."
The Colonel thought again. "Why did they fix the elopement for that night?" he demanded.
"I believe, sir, because Winifred Fareham had discovered that her father had killed Halliday. It was only after then she induced Wynne to help. I don't know whether a murder was more than she could stomach; or whether she just saw her chance of getting a hold over her father. She seems to have been really afraid of him. And that's not surprising. She knew him better than we did."
Chedder nodded. "It's turned out unfortunate in some ways," he said with some gloom. "But you deserve every credit, Hayle... I might say that I've glanced at this." He held up the stained notebook. "And you're right on most points. Extraordinarily right, considering how complicated a case it was... One thing this does throw some light on, and that is the extraordinary character of the man. He seems to have been a great believer in the aristocracy—"
"He said as much at breakfast, sir," Hayle said. "I thought it was just a way out."
"No. He really believed, I think, in old families, and especially in old families constantly recruited from the more successful members of the new ones—if you understand me?"
"I think so, sir," Hayle assented.
"But at the same time he had an extraordinary cynical outlook, and seems to have been disgracefully lacking in any real ancestral pride... Listen."
Chedder fumbled with the pages of the book. They had stuck at the edges but that had actually preserved the rest. He struggled with it for a minute; then gave it up.
"I can give you a rough idea, anyhow," he said a little irritably. "His view was that on the whole his ancestors from the time of William the Conqueror had been a lot of thieves and pirates, but they had shown initiative, and had adopted the methods most suited to their own time." He made a gesture of distaste. "Damned communistic stuff, almost," he said disgustedly.
"Well, sir, the Communists say something like that." Hayle grinned.
"He thought his family had gone downhill because the past generation hadn't acted on that rule—being utterly unscrupulous within the limits allowed by your generation. The one point on which he admired Manningtree was as a successful shark, if you gather what I mean. He deliberately cultivated Manningtree to learn how it was done."
"But, sir," Hayle suggested, "in the actual murders, he seems to have reverted to his ancestors' methods."
"That's true. The Farehams were a queer lot. There are one or two very discreditable episodes in the family history... Perhaps Fareham was a bit mad."
Hayle grunted. "I don't think a court would have thought so, sir," he objected.
"Perhaps not... He thoroughly despised Manningtree from all points of view except that... He quotes Byron about him and all that kind of thing. So, as he regards Manningtree as of no importance, he kills him when Manningtree fails to serve his turn in other ways."
"He was making some money out of him, sir."
"Yes. But not enough, I think, and he resented the idea of playing second fiddle to Manningtree. And more particularly to his building a house in that particular spot. It's practically on the site of the old Fareham mansion. But the chief trouble seems to have been that Manningtree wasn't ready enough to share the spoils by letting Fareham in on his deals..."
"I rather thought that might be the case," Hayle said thoughtfully. "I mean, that Manningtree would expect more for cash paid out in the social line than Fareham would like to give..."
"One other point." Chedder dipped into the book. "It seems as though he'd been contemplating the murder for some time. He'd worked out quite a number of methods—and they show great ingenuity. His idea was that one mustn't try to make one's murder fit into circumstances for which it wasn't designed; that it was the thing one had overlooked, or couldn't control, that gave one away."
"And, in the case of Wynne, I think he was right... But he couldn't be expected to see that... Oh, sir. There's one thing more. I've found why Wynne came to the wrong house."
Chedder looked the question.
"Well, sir, the plan George drew was a pretty rough piece of work. It simply showed the lane as two lines—without a trace of the village, and the two drives and houses with one marked with a cross. I suppose they were both feeling pretty cheerful. When George pushed it over, Wynne accepted it wrong way up. It looked just as good both ways."
Chedder smiled. "A good type, eh, Inspector?" he said. "He should have a great future before him—"
"If he doesn't break his neck, sir," Hayle agreed.
"He'll soon settle down... I should say they would be very happy."
"Good heavens, sir, has it gone as far as that?" Hayle was genuinely surprised. "Why, sir, it took me about three years—"
If Hayle could have looked directly through the wall, it would have been clear enough that Timothy was a much quicker worker. For he and Sylvia Knowle had got so far that, at that very moment, she was saying:
"But, Timothy.... It's impossible. I'm fond of you. And I think I do love you... But—but things have been so queer. And you don't know me. You don't—"
"I know—" Timothy began; but she sensed the compliment which was coming and stopped him.
"I don't mean that... You don't know anything about me—what I am and so on— What would your parents say—"
"Don't I?" This time Timothy would not be denied. "I know," he said solemnly, "that you're a dashed fine girl. I know that your family is in India. And I know that it's a good, respectable family."
Sylvia was looking at him in sheer amazement.
"But—but how can you know anything about my family?" she said weakly. "You can't have asked—"
"And, what's more," Timothy said triumphantly, "your uncle met Colonel Chedder in the Pamirs. That's good enough for me... Now, will you marry me?"
She was smiling. Though the answer was not given verbally, Timothy seemed to understand it. It was some minutes before she could disengage herself to look at him with an assumption of seriousness.
"But, Timothy, I can't marry you under false pretences. There's something I must tell you—"
"I don't care what—" Timothy began.
"It's really serious—" she began; and then her face dimpled. "It wasn't an uncle. It was a second cousin... Does that matter?"
If Timothy's actions were evidence, it did not.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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