The Draycott murder mystery

By Molly Thynne

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Title: The Draycott murder mystery

Author: Molly Thynne

Release date: January 27, 2025 [eBook #75222]

Language: English

Original publication: Middlesex: Dean Street Press, 1928

Credits: Brian Raiter


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DRAYCOTT MURDER MYSTERY ***


The Draycott Murder Mystery

by Molly Thynne

Copyright 1928 Molly Thynne
Published by Dean Street Press 2016
First published in 1928 by Hutchinson



Chapter I

The wind swept down the crooked main street of the little village of
Keys with a shriek that made those fortunate inhabitants who had
nothing to tempt them from their warm firesides draw their chairs
closer and speculate as to the number of trees that would be found
blown down on the morrow.

All through the month of March it had rained, almost without ceasing,
and now, in the fourth week, the north of England had been visited by
an icy gale which had already lasted two days and showed no signs of
abating. The lanes, that for weeks had been knee-deep in mud, had
dried with almost miraculous swiftness and the more frugal of the
cottagers had gleaned a fine store of wood from the branches with
which they were strewn. To-night they were thankful to sit indoors and
enjoy the fruits of their industry.

The gale swept on its devastating way across the open meadow-land that
surrounded Keys, increasing every moment in violence and causing the
timbers of the small farmhouse which stood at the end of a blind lane
about a mile from the village to creak and groan under its terrific
onslaught.

The front door of the house stood open and, with each gust of wind, it
swung with a heavy thud against the inside wall of the dark passage,
but no one came to close it and there was no light at any of the
windows of the apparently deserted house.

Once the gale dropped for a moment and the monotonous barking of a dog
in a distant farmhouse could be heard; beyond this there was no sound
but the renewed, long-drawn howl of the wind, the protesting creak of
the trees as the heavy branches were swept across each other, and the
dull thud of the swinging door.

The sun had set and it was already dark when the first sound of
footsteps was heard in the lane. The walker approached quickly, with
an odd, shuffling tread that became almost noiseless as he neared the
house. Arrived at the gate which led into the little front garden, he
paused for a moment, then, without opening it, slid away like a shadow
in the direction of the barn that stood on the other side of the
farmyard. Whatever his business may have been there he made no sound,
and for nearly an hour after he had passed the farmhouse stood silent
and deserted and the open door continued to swing monotonously on its
hinges.

Then a second shadow loomed out of the darkness of the lane. This time
there was the click of the latch as the newcomer opened the gate and
went quickly up the path to the front door. Here he paused with a
sharp exclamation of surprise, then passed on into the hallway beyond.
There was the scratch and flare of a match, followed by a steadier
glow as he lit an oil-lamp that stood by the door. Carrying the lamp,
he went first to the front door and examined the latch to see that it
was undamaged before closing it. Then he passed on into the little
kitchen at the back of the house, placed the lamp on the table, and
was about to put a light to the fire when he discovered that his
matches had run out. He had used the last one to light the lamp.

With an exclamation of annoyance he picked up the lamp once more and
made his way to the sitting-room, one of the two rooms that lay right
and left of the front door. He moved quickly, his mind intent on the
food and warmth he needed badly, for he had walked a long way in the
bitter wind and was feeling both hungry and tired. Dazzled by the
glare of the lamp in his eyes, he was already well inside the door of
the sitting-room when he saw the thing that pulled him up with a jerk
as sharp as though some one had laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.

He stood arrested, holding the lamp at such an angle that it smoked
violently. But the black fumes drifted past his nose unheeded.

For the room which he had thought untenanted save for himself held yet
another occupant.

Seated at the writing-table facing the door, her arms outflung across
it and her head pillowed on the open blotter between them, was a
woman.

From where he stood he could see only the top of her head, a tangle of
fair curls that gleamed yellow as spun gold in the lamplight, and the
rich fur collar of the coat in which she was wrapped. He could see her
hands, too, and the sparkle of her rings. There was something about
those hands, with their strangely crisped fingers, as though they had
been arrested in the very act of closing, that somehow gave the lie to
the woman’s attitude of sleep.

But it was not her hands or the beauty of her hair that held the eyes
of the man at the door. They were glued to the open blotter and the
stain which had spread across it, a stain which had already stiffened
the fair curls that lay so still upon the once white paper into hard
little rings and which was even now fading from its first bright
scarlet into a dull rust.

He stood motionless, oblivious of the acrid odour of the smoking lamp,
then, with an effort, pulled himself together and crossed the room.
Placing the light on the mantelpiece, he bent over the woman and laid
his hand gently on hers; but he knew, even before he touched her, that
she was beyond all human aid. Raising the thick fair hair at the side
of her head he revealed a wound in the temple from which the blood had
already ceased to flow.

As he straightened himself after his brief examination, his eyes went
instinctively to the window; but he was not quick enough.

Had he been a second earlier he would have seen the white face of a
man, pressed against the glass outside, taking in every detail of the
room and its grim occupant. As he was in the very act of raising his
head the watcher ducked below the sill of the window and when, a few
minutes later, he ran out of the front door, after a hurried search
through the house, there was no one either in the barn or any of the
outhouses.

The unseen watcher at the window had vanished like a shadow into the
darkness of the night.



Chapter II

Police Constable George Gunnet bent down with a grunt of satisfaction
and slowly unlaced his second boot. He was not a quick mover at the
best of times and the pleasant kitchen, with its glowing fire and
appetizing aroma of toasted cheese, was conducive to drowsiness. He
had just come in from his last round and, to one fresh from the wild
night outside, the kitchen was a haven of peace and comfort. His tunic
hung over the back of a chair and he sat, very much at ease, in his
shirt-sleeves, waiting for Mrs. Gunnet to finish her bustling
preparations for the supper he felt he had more than earned.

“Nobody been, I suppose?” he asked, according to custom, as he filled
his pipe.

“Who should have been?” his wife countered tartly. Mrs. Gunnet had
once, some twenty years ago, been in service in Glasgow and, as she
often said, never could get used to a dead-alive little place like
Keys. “Nothing ever happens here, as I’m aware of.” Gunnet stretched
his legs luxuriously towards the warm glow of the fire.

“There’s quite enough happening for me, if it’s all the same to you,”
he said comfortably. “There’s a big elm down in Fanning’s meadow and
there’ll be more before morning if this goes on. All I could do to
stand up against the wind at the Four Corners and it fair blew me
home. Oye, shut the door, can’t you?” He made a grab at the newspaper
as, in the path of the wind, it leaped from the table and scudded
across the room into a corner. It was followed by a half-empty packet
of tobacco which he was too late to save.

“Here, will you shut that door!” he shouted, his head half under the
table. Then, emerging and catching sight of the visitor: “Beg your
pardon, Mr. Leslie; I didn’t see as it was you. What with that outer
door opening straight onto this room like, the wind comes in something
cruel.”

But Mrs. Gunnet’s sharp eyes had already detected something unusual in
the caller’s bearing.

“There’s nothing wrong, is there, sir?” she broke in. “Was you coming
after George?”

The newcomer nodded. He was panting with the haste in which he had
come and his face had a queer, grey look underneath the natural tan of
an open-air man. When he spoke it was in a hard, dry voice, carefully
devoid of all emotion, as if he were afraid that, at any moment, it
might get beyond his control.

“I say, Gunnet, I want you up at the farm. Something’s happened.”

He stopped, apparently not wishing to go further before Mrs. Gunnet,
who was gazing at him, her round eyes wide with curiosity.

Gunnet got slowly to his feet.

“Anything wrong, Mr. Leslie?” he asked. “It’s a wild night, for
certain, but if I’m really needed . . .”

Leslie gave a high-pitched laugh that ended in a crow. It was evident
that he was keeping himself in hand with difficulty.

“Needed, man!” He pulled himself up once more. “I’m sorry, Gunnet, but
I’m afraid I shall have to haul you away from your supper. I won’t
keep him longer than I can help, Mrs. Gunnet,” he went on as his eye
fell on the meal she had been just about to dish up.

Gunnet heaved himself reluctantly into his tunic and buttoned it, his
eyes on the troubled face of his visitor.

“Look here, sir,” he said weightily. “I’d better know what it’s all
about. You can talk in front of the missus, here. She knows when to
keep a still tongue in her head.”

Leslie gripped the back of the chair behind which he was standing. His
throat seemed to have grown suddenly dry.

“There’s a woman up at the farm, in my sitting-room,” he said, his
voice unnaturally quiet. “And she’s dead.”

Gunnet stared at him for a moment in silence, then, with an assumption
of officialdom that contrasted almost comically with his usual bluff
good-humour, pulled out his notebook.

“A woman? Who is she?”

“I don’t know. Never seen her before, to my knowledge. I found her
when I got back this evening.”

Gunnet unhooked his great-coat and got slowly into it.

“Better keep the rest till we get there. And don’t you get talking,
Mother,” he added gruffly as he went out.

“There ain’t nobody to talk to except the cat,” retorted Mrs. Gunnet,
“and she don’t answer.”

She had no cause, however, to complain of the village of Keys that
night. Even in Glasgow she had never spent an evening more replete
with variety. Gunnet’s return, and almost immediate departure, an hour
later, was followed by the arrival of the Sergeant and a Constable
from Whitbury, the market-town to which Gunnet had telephoned. To Mrs.
Gunnet was left the important task of directing them to John Leslie’s
farm and she would have given a great deal to have gone with them.

Gunnet opened the door to them when they arrived at the farm. John
Leslie was standing just behind him and did not miss the sharp,
appraising glance bestowed on himself by the Sergeant as he came in.

“Have you got the doctor?” was his first question.

“Couldn’t get him, sir,” Gunnet answered. “He was out when I
telephoned, but I left word for him to come up the instant he returned
to inspect the deceased.”

Overshadowed as his spirits were by the whole unpleasant affair,
Leslie could not resist an internal chuckle at this new aspect of
Gunnet. The easy-going, rather garrulous villager had already draped
himself in the majesty of the Law and was expressing himself
accordingly.

Gunnet led the way into the sitting-room. Leslie had placed the lamp
on the mantelpiece before making his hasty expedition to the police
station and it still burned there, lighting up the writing-table with
its tragic burden.

The Sergeant bent down and felt the cold cheek of the woman who lay
across it. Then he lifted her eyelid and looked under the soft, bobbed
hair that fell round her face.

“Dead, all right,” he said. “She’s just as you found her?”

Leslie stepped forward into the ring of light.

“I didn’t touch her, except to feel her face, just as you did. I knew
then that she was dead.”

He could hear the scratching of the Constable’s pencil as he made his
notes.

“You’re sure she was dead then?”

“I don’t think there was the faintest doubt. If I’d had the smallest
suspicion she was alive I should have tried to do something for her,
but I was so sure she was dead that I went straight for Gunnet. The
blood on the blotter was almost dry then.”

“What time was this, Mr. Leslie?”

“Just about eight. The clock in the kitchen struck while I was in
here.”

The Sergeant, a tall, lean man with a shrewd, typical North-country
face, scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“You live here alone, I think?” he asked.

Leslie nodded.

“Mrs. Grey, the carter’s wife, does for me. She comes in the morning
and leaves about two.”

“So that when you are out the house is deserted?”

“Absolutely, unless Grey is about in the yard. He was up at the
station fetching some stuff this evening and didn’t get back till
about nine. Gunnet was here then.”

“Could any one get in easily?”

“Quite. There is nothing here to steal. It’s only occasionally, when
there’s money in the house, that I lock the front door.”

The Sergeant was about to speak again when Leslie interrupted him.

“I’ve just remembered. I forgot it till just now. The door was wide
open when I came in. I’ve never found it like that before.”

“It was unlocked when you went out?”

“Yes, but it was latched. I always shut it. It’s a good latch, too.”

“Were you about the premises at all this afternoon, Mr. Leslie?”

So far, except for the Constable and his busy pencil in the
background, the interrogation had been more or less friendly and
informal. Now there was an official ring in the Sergeant’s voice that
made Leslie look carefully to his answer.

“I went out about four this afternoon and did not get back till just
before eight.”

“You weren’t near enough at any time during the evening to have heard
a shot? This is a shooting case, you know.”

Leslie shook his head.

“I went for a long tramp across country. Unless it was done just after
four or just before eight I couldn’t have heard anything.”

“An unusual time at which to take a walk, Mr. Leslie.”

The Sergeant’s voice was noncommittal, but Leslie felt himself flush.

“I was too busy to go before and I needed exercise,” he said shortly.

“You can account for your time, I suppose? I must ask you to think
carefully . . .”

Leslie broke in on him. His nerves had already been badly jarred by
the events of the evening and the man’s manner was beginning to annoy
him.

“Good Heavens, man, you’re not going to tell me that anything I may
say may be used against me? You’re welcome to what I can tell you, but
it isn’t much. I never saw this lady before in my life till I came in
at eight and found her in my room. How she got here I’ve no idea. You
surely don’t think I’ve murdered her!”

But the Sergeant refused to be drawn.

“All the same, we should like to know where you were during the
evening and whether you spoke to any one who could identify you during
that time.”

“Who was I likely to speak to? I tell you I went on a long,
cross-country tramp. I don’t suppose I met a soul, certainly not any
one who could identify me.”

“Four hours is a long time. You were walking all the time?”

“Yes.”

Leslie spoke curtly. He was tired and the whole thing was beginning to
get on his nerves.

“Then, if that’s all you can tell me, Mr. Leslie, I’ll take a look
round here. If you’ll step into another room . . .”

Leslie opened his mouth as though about to say something, and then,
apparently, thought better of it.

“You’ll find me in the kitchen if you want me,” he volunteered as he
went out. “There’s some coffee on the stove for any one who would like
it.”

The Sergeant looked after him thoughtfully, then strolled to the door.

“I should be obliged if you wouldn’t leave the house just at present,”
he called after him.

Leslie suddenly lost his temper.

“My good fellow, I’m not going to run away!” he exploded.

Once in the little kitchen he sank into a chair by the stove and ran
his fingers through his hair. He was abominably tired, too tired to
think properly, but it was beginning to strike him that he was in a
tighter place than he had realized. He had been a fool to lose his
temper like that. After all, the chap couldn’t be blamed for feeling a
bit suspicious.

With a long sigh, he dropped his head into his hands and tried to view
the situation calmly. But the thoughts went chasing round in a futile
circle in his tired brain, and at last, in despair, he gave it up and
straightened himself. If only the police would hurry up and get
through with the job!

He reached for the coffee-pot and poured himself out a big cup of
black coffee.

“Damn!” he said with heartfelt emphasis. “Oh, damn!”

Meanwhile the Sergeant was pursuing his investigations. With the help
of Gunnet and the man he had brought with him he raised the body from
the table and laid it on the floor. As the head fell back against his
shoulder Gunnet gave vent to an exclamation.

“It’s her from Miss Allen’s! Her sister, I think she is. I see her in
the village this morning!”

“Miss Allen of Greycross?”

“That’s right. Been here a matter of five years now. I heard tell
somewhere that she was expecting her sister, and this lady come
yesterday. A Mrs. Something, I think she is. The wife’d know. She’s a
rare one for picking up news, she is.”

The Sergeant was examining the wound that was hidden under the thick,
fair hair.

“It’s a bullet-wound, all right, and fired at fairly close range. Any
sign of a weapon anywhere?”

But there was no trace of the weapon by which the unfortunate woman
had met her death. The little room seemed unnaturally tidy and normal
for the scene of so grim a tragedy; an ordinary man’s room, giving no
sign of any struggle; the only feminine note in it being the still
figure on the ground and a brocade bag which, with the ominous,
suggestive stain on the blotter, supplied the only touch of colour on
the dark wood of the writing-table. The Sergeant opened the bag. A
small powder-puff, a cigarette-case and holder, a stick of lip-salve,
a tiny gold purse with a few shillings in it, and a lace handkerchief,
were all it contained. The handkerchief bore an embroidered monogram
in the corner. “R. D.” or “D. R.” were the letters, but, as Gunnet was
unable to remember the name of Miss Allen’s guest, this was of little
use for purposes of identification.

The contents of the bag were costly and the woman’s clothes in keeping
with them. She was expensively dressed in a long fur coat which fell
open as they moved her and revealed a fawn-coloured georgette dress,
heavily trimmed with sequins, underneath. As well as the rings on her
fingers she wore a long chain of rhinestones and a gold watch-bracelet
set with diamonds. Fine silk stockings and brown glace beaded shoes
with very high heels covered her feet. To the soles of the shoes dried
earth was clinging and a dead leaf was adhering to one of the heels.

“Doesn’t look much like robbery,” remarked Gunnet.

“She came here of her own accord, too, I should say. There is no sign
of any struggle. Her clothes are as tidy as when she left home.” The
Sergeant stood looking down at the calm face upturned to his. “She was
a beauty, poor thing, and no mistake,” he added gently. “It must have
been sudden, the end. She never knew what was coming to her. Look at
her face.”

It was true. Except for the smear of dried blood down one side of the
cheek, and its ghastly pallor, there was nothing to suggest that she
was not quietly sleeping. The still lips even held a faint smile and
it was evident that death had come swiftly and mercifully.

“It looks as if the murderer must have been some one known to her,
some one she would have no cause to fear,” went on the Sergeant.
“Either that or she thought she was alone in the house and he came on
her unawares from behind. That young chap in there,” he continued,
indicating the direction of the passage with a jerk of his head. “He
knows Miss Allen, doesn’t he? I seem to remember him and her at the
Point to Point together.”

“Very good friends, they are,” assented Gunnet. “But this lady only
came yesterday, I’m thinking, and I don’t remember ever to have seen
her here before. Likely he doesn’t know her.”

He stood stolidly by the table while the Sergeant proceeded with his
examination of the room; once, only, he volunteered a statement.

“He seemed proper upset when he came down to the station,” he remarked
thoughtfully.

The Sergeant looked round sharply.

“In what way, upset?”

Gunnet’s ruddy face took on an even deeper hue in his efforts to
express himself clearly.

“Startled like, as any one would be that had found a thing like this
in his room. More excited than guilty, if you understand me. By the
time we got back here he was acting quite natural. Lit the fire and
made coffee and all while we was waiting for you. I shouldn’t say he
acted suspicious.”

If the Sergeant held any opinion on the subject, he kept it to
himself. He finished his examination of the room and moved to the
door.

“Nothing here,” he said. “Give me your lantern and I’ll have a look
outside. You stay and keep an eye on things here. Come on, Collins.”

He went out, followed by the man he had brought from Whitbury, a young
Constable, fresh to his job and awed into silence by the magnitude of
his first case.

Meanwhile John Leslie sat huddled over the stove in the kitchen, half
asleep. It seemed to him as if this pleasant country life to which he
had retired so thankfully after four hideous years of warfare had
suddenly merged itself into a nightmare which would never end. His one
longing was for bed and sleep and yet even that seemed out of the
question so long as the farm housed that tragic figure. Meanwhile
there seemed nothing for it but to hang about until all this sordid
official procedure was over.

He was roused by the entry of Collins.

“Sergeant Brace says would you come outside for a minute, sir,” he
announced.

Leslie rose wearily to his feet and followed the man. Brace stood just
outside the door leading into the garden.

“We’ve found footsteps in the bed under the sitting-room window. Looks
as if some one had stood there looking into the room. Perhaps you’d
have a look at them.”

He led the way to the flower-bed and turned the lantern on it. The
footprints were distinctly to be seen in the soft earth. They were
large and curiously undefined in outline.

“That’s not a clear-cut mark like you or I would make,” commented the
Sergeant. “I should say they were done by some one in an uncommonly
old pair of boots. There’s more upper than sole to those! What sort of
boots does your man wear?”

“The usual heavy labourer’s boot with nails in it. Good solid sole.
I’m not an adept at this sort of thing, but, if what you say is true,
he did not make those marks. Neither did I, for the matter of that.”

He held out his own foot for inspection.

For the first time Brace permitted himself to smile.

“I never suspected you of boots like the ones that made those prints,
Mr. Leslie. But I wanted to make sure that they were not the carter’s.
There’s been no rain for three days and those marks may have been
there some time, provided the bed hasn’t been raked over lately.”

“As for that, I raked it over myself yesterday morning; but that
doesn’t tell you much, I suppose, as they might have been made any
time afterwards.”

In spite of his fatigue and distaste for the whole business, Leslie
was beginning to grow interested.

Brace flashed his lantern on the brick path that led across the front
of the house.

“Nothing there, unfortunately, but there’s something I’d like to show
you over here.”

Leslie followed him to the barn. Here the footsteps were distinctly
discernible on the earthen floor, but less clearly defined and, in
some cases, blurred in a manner that suggested that the walker had
crossed his own tracks. But they led quite obviously to the foot of
the ladder up to the loft.

Brace went on ahead up the ladder.

“Here’s something you might be able to help us with,” he said as they
reached the top.

He pointed to the straw in the corner.

“That’s been slept on lately, and look at this.”

He indicated a couple of dirty rags that looked as though they might
have been used as bandages, except that they were bare of any stain.

“Probably some tramp. I’ve had them in here more than once in cold
weather,” said Leslie.

“It’s a tramp, right enough. Those are the rags they mostly bind their
feet up with instead of socks. They stick to them, too, as a rule.
Looks as if this chap must have been disturbed and left in a hurry.
It’s probably his footsteps under the window. You don’t recall turning
a tramp out of the barn any time lately?”

Leslie shook his head.

“I don’t think I ever have turned one off. I sometimes find their
traces in the morning, but, even if I knew one of them was here, I
should probably wink at it and let him stay. The fowls are all
securely locked up and the tramps round here are a harmless lot, as a
rule, so long as they don’t smoke in the straw and fire the old place.
It wouldn’t be much loss if they did. It’s not even weather-tight.”

“You haven’t seen one hanging round the last day or so?”

“No. They don’t hang round much in the daytime, anyhow, because of the
dog. They slip in at night after he’s chained up.”

“He’s a sound sleeper, that dog!” commented Brace. “We’ve made noise
enough and he hasn’t stirred.”

“He’s not here. I had intended to go to London to-night, so I took him
down to the Greys this morning.”

“And then didn’t go, after all?”

“I shouldn’t be here now if I had,” said Leslie wearily. “I had a wire
saying I wasn’t wanted, after all.”

“What was the appointment, if I may ask?”

Leslie was tickled, in spite of himself. His irritation was beginning
to wear off, no doubt due to the coffee which had begun to allay his
fatigue.

“The appointment was at the Law Courts,” he said dryly. “Not in the
dock, however. Just a perfectly respectable witness for the
prosecution. Case of a stolen car, to be exact. Unfortunately for me,
I happened to be talking to the owner when we saw the chap actually
making off with the car.”

“Case of identifying the thief,” remarked Brace with professional
interest.

“That’s the idea. Wish to goodness I’d gone now, then I should have
been out of all this, but the case was postponed. You’d have accepted
that alibi all right, Sergeant?”

“I’d accept any alibi you like to offer if it was authentic, Mr.
Leslie,” answered Brace soberly.

That the whole business was awkward Leslie had been slowly realizing
ever since his first interview with the Sergeant, but there was that
in Brace’s voice now that, for the first time, gave him a feeling of
real apprehension.

“I’d give you one like a shot if I could,” he answered quickly.

Brace moved the lantern so that the light fell full on Leslie’s face.

“Have you seen Miss Allen lately?” he asked suddenly.

Leslie, dazzled by the glare of the lantern and bewildered by the
inconsequence of the question, hesitated.

“Miss Allen? I saw her in the village yesterday—no, the day before.
Why?”

“Did she say anything about expecting a visitor?”

Leslie blinked and turned his face away from the blinding light.

“She said she was expecting her sister, a Mrs. Something-or-other. She
mentioned the name, but I’ve forgotten it.”

“You wouldn’t recognize the lady if you saw her?”

“I shouldn’t think so, unless she’s some one I’ve met in some other
part of the world. I’ve never seen her here, if that’s what you mean.”

“Doesn’t often stay with her sister, eh?”

“I don’t think so. Miss Allen didn’t say much about her, but, from
what she did say, I gathered that they were not very intimate. She
mentioned that she’d proposed herself and seemed rather surprised at
it.”

He saw no reason to repeat Miss Allen’s actual words. That elderly and
very downright spinster had spoken with her usual incisive frankness.
“What Tina’s up to, I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Some
mischief, I’ll be bound, and possibly crooked mischief at that. I
don’t trust her. She’s got some good reason for wanting to spend a
week with her old sister. I told her she could stay as long as she
liked, provided she didn’t try to ride my horses. She’s got a seat
like a sack of potatoes; and as for her hands! Luckily scented
cigarettes and a chair by the fire are more in her line.”

The wind had dropped and, for the first time for three days, a fine
rain was falling. As they left the barn they heard the sound of a car
making its way up the lane.

“That’ll be the doctor, I expect,” said Brace, obviously relieved.
“After that we shall be able to get away to our beds.”

The doctor met them at the door. After a few words of explanation on
both sides he hurried into the sitting-room and knelt down beside the
body, drawing off his thick driving-gloves as he did so. His hands
were cold and he seemed to have some difficulty in freeing them from
the stiff leather. As he pulled at the gloves his quick eyes scanned
the body, taking in all the details of its appearance. Leslie, who was
standing immediately opposite to him, was struck with the keen
alertness of his glance and revised his opinion of him then and there.
Gregg had always struck him as rather a stupid person and he made a
mental note of the fact that, until you have seen a man at his job, it
is wiser not to pass judgment on him.

Gregg parted the hair over the side of the head as Brace had done.

“Good Lord! Shot!” he ejaculated.

Leslie noticed that the hands with which he unfastened the woman’s
dress to make a further examination were not quite steady, and again
decided that he had never done the man justice. He was evidently
genuinely moved at the sight of the pitiful figure before him.

“Can you arrive at any conclusion as to how long she’s been dead?”
asked Brace when he had finished his examination.

“Difficult to say with such a cursory examination, but, roughly, four
or five hours would cover it.”

“Not longer?”

“I don’t think so. I shouldn’t like to say within an hour or so. Not
more than six hours, certainly.”

“Would death be instantaneous?”

“Almost certainly. Shot in the temple. Who killed her?”

He swung round, still on his knees, and looked up at the Sergeant.

Brace answered with another question as sharp as his own.

“You don’t admit the possibility of suicide?”

“Quite possible. For a left-handed woman. The wound’s on the wrong
side.”

“On the wrong side for a right-handed person,” commented Brace. “But
we’ve no reason to think that she was right-handed.”

Gregg rose to his feet and dusted the knees of his trousers.

“Probably was. Most women are,” he said slowly.

He bent down and examined the hands carefully.

“She wrote with her right hand, anyway,” he said. “Look at this.”

There were faint stains, evidently of ink, on the first and second
fingers of the right hand.

“One to you, Doctor,” conceded Brace good-humouredly. “Apart from
that, it was a good shot of yours. There’s no weapon.”

“Who found her?”

“Mr. Leslie here. Whoever did it seems to have got away.”

Brace looked sharply at Leslie.

“A nasty jar, eh? Feel all right?”

“Quite, thanks. But it’s a beastly business and I wish it had happened
anywhere else.”

“Ever seen the lady, Doctor?” asked Brace.

Gregg scrutinized the delicate features of the unfortunate woman.

“No friend of mine,” he said curtly. “Any idea who she is?”

“Gunnet here has recognized her as a lady staying with Miss Allen, of
Greycross. Thinks she’s her sister.”

Leslie’s exclamation of horrified astonishment was drowned by Gregg.

“Good God!” he shouted. “Not Miss Allen’s sister!”

“I’m afraid so, from what Gunnet says. However, we shall know soon
enough.”

Gregg seemed aghast at the discovery.

“Miss Allen’s sister!” he repeated. “It’s impossible! Why, they’re as
different as chalk from cheese.”

“There’s a difference in age, too. But Gunnet saw her in the village
this morning.”

Gregg picked up his coat.

“Well, it’s a queer world,” he said reflectively. “You’ll want me, I
suppose, for the inquest. Are you moving her?”

The Sergeant nodded.

“Gunnet’s gone down to fetch a van from the village and we’ll get her
over to Whitbury to-night. I’m going on from here to see Miss Allen.
It’s not a job I’m hankering after, to tell you the truth.”

“Want me to come along?” asked Gregg. “I might be needed, but I doubt
it. She’s a strong-minded woman, Miss Allen, and I shouldn’t say
hysterics were much in her line.”

“I’d be grateful if you would, all the same. It’s not a pleasant thing
to have to tell a lady.”

Gregg nodded.

“Righto,” he said. “It’s all in the day’s work.”

They went back to the kitchen and sat by the fire, talking desultorily
while they waited for Gunnet and the van. Leslie produced drinks and
did his best to join naturally in the conversation, but he was ill at
ease. He found himself wondering what was passing in Gregg’s mind. Was
he, too, curious as to what part Leslie had played in this tragic
drama? Leslie tried to visualize the whole thing from the point of
view of a casual observer, and failed. Already he was too deeply
entangled in this gruesome business to see it in its right
proportions.

He was thankful when Gunnet arrived with the van and a stretcher to
bear away the corpse. Brace and the doctor left five minutes later in
Gregg’s little two-seater. It seemed to Leslie that there was an
unusual warmth in Gregg’s voice as he bid him good night. He had never
liked the doctor, but he felt grateful to him now, for his hearty
handshake came hot on the heels of Brace’s last words as he climbed
into the car.

“I must ask you to hold yourself at the disposal of the police until
further notice, Mr. Leslie.”



Chapter III

“How long is it since you have seen Cynthia, Mr. Fayre?”

Lady Staveley’s fine eyes were alight with amusement as she turned
them on her guest. He had just alluded to Lady Cynthia Bell as “a
demure little thing” and was now discussing his tea-cake with the
serenity of one quite unaware that he has been guilty of an incredible
misstatement.

Allen Fayre, better known to his friends as “Hatter,” a nickname he
had somehow managed to collect in his unregenerate Oxford days, paused
for reflection.

“Quite twelve years, I should think. She was a leggy little thing of
about eight when I last set eyes on her.”

Lady Staveley gave a soft gurgle of amusement.

“She’s leggy still! All these modern girls are, you know, but I’m
afraid you’ll find that the demureness has evaporated. She’s decidedly
what the children’s old nurse used to call ‘a cure’ now.”

Hatter Fayre caught the mirth in her voice and responded to it. When
he smiled it was easy to see how he had come by the network of fine
wrinkles at the corners of his keen grey eyes and why the old Oxford
nickname had persisted through all the long years of his exile in
India, for a nickname, unless it is an unkind one, rarely sticks to a
man who is not beloved of his friends.

“I do seem to be a bit of a back number!” he admitted ruefully. “Girls
occasionally were demure, you know, in my day.”

“I’m fond of Cynthia,” went on his hostess thoughtfully. “But she
sometimes makes me rejoice that my peck of troubles are all sons.”

Fayre turned to his other neighbour.

“What do you say, Sybil? You know Lady Cynthia, don’t you?”

Lady Kean, who had been listening to the discussion in silence, shot a
languid glance of derision at her hostess.

“Eve’s a cat,” she said. “She’s only trying to assert her
independence. Cynthia can twist her round her little finger. She
twists us all, I think, except perhaps Edward. He’s untwistable.”

Sir Edward Kean, catching the sound of his name, strolled towards
them.

“What about Edward?” he asked, smiling down on his wife from his great
height. “Something flattering, I hope.”

To Fayre, deeply interested in these old friends from whom he had been
separated for so long, there was nothing he had come across since his
return to England more surprising or touching than Kean’s attitude
towards his wife. Fayre and Sybil Kean had known each other since
their nursery days; had played together as children in the country and
had foregathered again later in London. Kean had come into both their
lives later, at a time when he was a struggling young barrister and
Fayre was cramming for the Indian Civil. When Sybil Lane, as she was
then, fell madly in love with her first husband, a handsome guardsman,
married and was carried off by him to Malta, Fayre had a suspicion
that Kean was badly hit. Certainly he had remained single and had
developed a capacity for work which, according to his friends, was
almost demoniacal. To Fayre, far away in India, had come, first the
news of the death of Sybil’s husband, killed in the first year of the
War, and second the report of her marriage to Kean five years later,
and now he was back in England for good, picking up old threads once
more and keenly interested to see how time had dealt with the friends
of his youth. For a week, now, they had been at Staveley together, and
what he had seen there had both saddened and touched him.

To the outside observer it would seem that Kean had at last achieved
the two great ambitions of his life. He had married the woman of his
choice and a knighthood had already set the seal on his fame as the
most brilliant counsel of his day. But to Fayre, who had known Sybil
Kean too well in the past to be deceived by appearances, his absolute
devotion to his invalid wife seemed little short of tragic in its
intensity. For Sybil Kean was of the kind that does not forget. Her
husband’s death had come near to killing her; for weeks she lay
hovering between life and death, only to emerge with her health
shattered and an empty life before her. When, at last, Kean’s
insistence was rewarded and he persuaded her to marry him, she gave
him all she had to give, a sympathy and understanding such as has
fallen to the lot of few men and a rare loyalty. But her health had
grown steadily worse and Fayre, on first seeing her after the lapse of
years, had been appalled at the change in her.

He had often wondered, during the long hours on shipboard, how these
two would run in double harness and, curiously enough, his fears had
been all for Sybil. For even in his youth Kean had been hard, as hard
perhaps on himself as on others, in the pursuit of his aims, a man who
did not make allowances and expected none. His judgments were ruthless
and pitilessly exact and he had carved his way, with neither influence
nor money to help him, by sheer strength of personality and an amazing
brilliance both of mind and speech. When addressing a jury he used
sentiment with a skill that is only shown by those whose perceptions
are never blurred by emotion and he was a cruel cross-examiner. Kean,
the lawyer, had been no surprise to Fayre, who had watched him in the
first stages of his career, but Kean, the husband, had come as a
revelation. To Fayre, the tenderness and consideration he showed
towards his wife was almost incredible, until he remembered that, even
in his youth, Kean had always been a man of one idea. Then he had
sacrificed everything, sleep, diversion, even food, to his work, his
whole being concentrated on achieving success in the career he had
chosen, and now an influence even stronger than ambition had come into
his life and he had given himself up to it with that complete
absorption that was so characteristic of him. And the pity of it was
that all his devoted care, backed by the luxury with which he was now
able to surround her, did not serve to strengthen Sybil Kean’s frail
hold on life.

Fayre’s kindly heart was troubled as he watched these two: Sybil Kean,
incredibly slender and still beautiful, in spite of her forty years,
lying half buried in the cushions of a huge armchair, and Kean
standing over her, his height accentuated by his habit of standing
with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, dark and
saturnine, his face alight with amusement at something his wife had
just said.

“When do you get back, Edward?” asked Lady Staveley.

“Thursday, at latest, if you can really put up with me for a little
longer. I’ll try to get through to you to-morrow; I shall know better
then.”

“Meanwhile I shall have Sybil to myself for a couple of days. On the
whole, I think I’m glad you’re going, Edward!”

Kean laughed.

“Make her behave herself, and if that minx, Cynthia, arrives in the
middle of the night, as she no doubt will, keep her out of Sybil’s
room, will you? They haven’t met for at least a month and she’ll want
to tell her the story of her life.”

“You must admit that it’s a good story,” murmured Lady Kean from the
depths of the big chair.

“It will keep,” said her husband dryly, “till breakfast to-morrow
morning. I must go now, if I’m to catch the five-forty.”

“What time do you get in?” asked his wife as he bent over her.

“Six-twenty to-morrow morning. A barbarous time.”

“Make them give you a good breakfast before you go on to Chambers.”

“You’ll be all right?” Fayre heard him murmur.

“Of course. Run now, or you’ll miss it. I wish it wasn’t such a vile
day. Listen to the wind!”

“Excellent weather for traveling. Good-by.”

He was gone, and soon afterwards Lady Kean disappeared with her
hostess and Fayre was taken off by Lord Staveley to the billiard-room.

After dinner that night he gravitated as usual to Sybil Kean’s side.
For a long time they discussed old friends and Fayre gradually became
well posted in all that had happened during his absence.

“Tell me about Cynthia,” he said at last. “What _is_ she like now.
You’ve all been rather mysterious about her, you know.”

Sybil Kean glanced at him. There was the same spark of amusement in
her eyes that he had surprised in Lady Staveley’s.

“I wonder how you’ll like her,” she said thoughtfully. “I believe you
_are_ rather old-fashioned, Hatter. She’s a very perfect specimen of
the modern girl, plus extreme good looks and a charm that’s quite her
own. She manages her elders perfectly, when she takes the trouble;
when she doesn’t, she just goes her own way and entirely ignores us.”

“She sounds a minx,” remarked Fayre dryly.

“Oh, no, she isn’t! Besides, there are no minxes nowadays, my dear.
She’s very affectionate, very loyal, and with an excellent head on her
shoulders. When I say she ignores us, I simply mean that she considers
her own judgment quite as good as ours and goes by it. I’m not at all
sure she isn’t right.”

“Which means that she’ll ride for a fall one of these days and get it
and then her elders will have to pick her up and see to the damage.”

Lady Kean’s eyes were very thoughtful.

“I wonder. The new generation is better able to look after itself than
any of us are willing to admit. If she does come a toss, which is more
than possible, I’m inclined to think she will pick herself up and say
nothing about it. She’s got more grit than I ever had, Hatter.”

“Nonsense!” Fayre began explosively; but she interrupted him.

“It’s true,” she went on, her voice half whimsical, half sad. “I never
stood up to life and it broke me. If I had, I should not be the
useless creature I am to-day. Cynthia will fight like a little tiger
and come out at the end, scarred perhaps, but probably a wiser and
better woman than she was before. There’s something gallant about
her. . . .”

Her voice trailed off and he knew she was thinking of the past.

“Useless creature is grossly inaccurate,” he said gruffly. “No one who
has seen you with Edward could call you that.”

She turned on him eagerly.

“Do you think he’s happy?” she asked with an insistence that surprised
him. “He gives so much and I seem to have so little to offer in
return.”

“You are everything to him,” he answered with conviction. “I have
never seen a man so changed. I believe he’s younger now at heart than
he was when I first knew him.”

“His capacity for work is still inhuman. If he hadn’t got nerves like
steel he would have broken down long ago. I feel frightened about him
sometimes. He’s so incapable of half-measures. Sometimes I think these
very strong people are really the weakest. Their hold on things is so
tremendous that when they lose them . . .”

She made a little gesture with her hand, a hand so frail that Fayre
turned his eyes away from it quickly. His protest was as much for his
own reassurance as for hers.

“I don’t think Edward’s of the kind to lose anything once he’s got
it,” he asserted with a cheeriness he tried to feel. “He’s a very
lucky man, Sybil.”

He was more moved than he cared to show, and for a time he sat smoking
in silence. When he spoke, it was to lead the conversation back to its
original subject.

“I’m intrigued about our friend the minx,” he said. “What’s she up to
that she should arrive at country houses in the middle of the night?”

Lady Kean laughed.

“That’s an exaggeration of Edward’s. She’s motoring over and dining
with a Miss Allen on the way. She’ll probably be here before twelve.
As to what she’s up to, I’ve got my own suspicions.”

Fayre settled himself comfortably in his chair.

“This is gossip,” he said fervently. “Tell me some more.”

“It isn’t gossip; on the contrary, it’s solid fact. Cynthia is at
present engaged in bringing down her mother’s grey hairs with sorrow
to the grave. The result is that she’s having rather a thin time at
home just now.”

“It’s a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Cynthia’s
mother,” remarked Fayre thoughtfully. “But I seem to remember that I
never liked her.”

“She set her heart on a good match for Cynthia and of course the
inevitable happened. The wretched child has engaged herself to a boy
with nothing to recommend him but a fine war record and an inadequate
pension. Her mother is beside herself and, in a way, I don’t blame
her. Cynthia might have married anybody.”

“Instead of which she’s marrying a nobody. And you like him.”

“How on earth did you know that?” said Lady Kean, startled. “You’re
quite right, I do. John Leslie’s a nice boy and he knows how to manage
Cynthia. There’s plenty of money on her side of the family and he’s
working hard, farming on a small scale, and, I believe, manages to
make it pay. The last I heard of the affair, he had been forbidden the
house.”

“In spite of which, the engagement continues?”

“Of course! And I happen to know that Cynthia’s people went up to
London this afternoon. John Leslie’s farm is halfway between Callston
and Miss Allen’s. All of which accounts largely for Cynthia’s decision
not to arrive here till late this evening. I don’t know anything; this
is pure conjecture.”

“It seems sound reasoning. Who is this Miss Allen?”

“Mrs. Draycott’s sister.”

“Oh!” remarked Fayre, taking another cigarette and lighting it
thoughtfully.

Lady Kean regarded him with approval.

“That was nice of you,” she said. “I don’t like her, either. The
sister’s quite different, though. She went on to stay with her
yesterday. I expect Cynthia’s meeting Mrs. Draycott to-night and if
_she_ doesn’t like her she’ll say so!”

Fayre meditated, enjoying his cigarette.

“No, I don’t like her,” he said at last. “We get women like that in
India.”

“We get them in England too.”

Lady Kean’s voice sounded suddenly flat and lifeless and Fayre,
realizing suddenly how late it was, decided that she was tired and
that he had better leave her to herself for a time. In any case, he
had no desire to discuss Mrs. Draycott. She had been his fellow-guest
at Staveley for the past week and he had been glad to see her go.

He had just risen to his feet when the door opened and Lady Cynthia
came in.

She stood in the doorway, straight and slim, sheathed in vivid blue,
her dark shingled hair clinging in tight waves about her beautiful
little head and, at the sight of her, Fayre realized the truth of Lady
Kean’s description. There _was_ something “gallant” about this quaint
mixture of youth and self-reliance, and it appealed to him at once.
That she was popular, there could be no doubt. A chorus of welcome
greeted her entrance, and Lady Staveley swept to meet her and draw her
up to the fire.

“Cynthia, dear, you must be frozen. Your hands are like ice. Is it
bitter outside?”

The girl nodded.

“Pretty bad. The wind’s dropped, though.”

To Fayre, observing her with frank curiosity, her voice sounded tense
and there was a glitter in her eyes and a flush just beneath them that
troubled him. Was the “modern” girl, he wondered, usually as exotic as
this? If so, heaven help her! He watched her as she bent over Lady
Kean and was struck by the real affection and solicitude she showed in
her manner.

“You look tired, child,” said her hostess. “Was it very dull at Miss
Allen’s?”

“It wasn’t dull,” answered Lady Cynthia slowly. “Anything but.”

She stood by the fire warming her hands in silence; then, abruptly, as
if she had come to a sudden decision, she drew herself up and faced
the room.

“You’ll hear it to-morrow, so I may as well tell you now,” she cried
with a ring of defiance in her voice. “Mrs. Draycott was killed this
afternoon. She was found shot in John’s sitting-room at the farm.”



Chapter IV

Sir Edward Kean’s separation from his wife was to prove shorter than
he had anticipated. On the local train which dawdled its lazy way to
Whitbury he dozed fitfully, only to have the fumes of sleep
drastically swept from his brain by the biting wind that met him as he
stepped onto the platform at the Junction. The journey from Staveley
was always a tedious one, with its change from the slow train to the
London express at Whitbury and the long wait at Carlisle where the
dining-car was picked up. This, however, was the only long stop and
after a passable dinner Sir Edward was able to settle down to a long
evening’s work, being one of those fortunate people who can
concentrate their minds as easily in a crowded train as in the
seclusion of their studies.

He alighted at Euston probably having slept less than any of his
fellow travellers and looking infinitely less jaded. Also he had got
through all the work he had intended to do on the journey and was
ready for a strenuous morning at his Chambers. His wife had been right
in saying that only a man with an iron constitution could have stood
the pressure under which he lived.

He drove straight to his house in Westminster, where breakfast was
awaiting him and then, after a bath and change of clothes, took a taxi
to his Chambers.

“Farrer, ring up Mr. Carter and tell him I should like to see him
before he goes into Court,” he called to his head clerk as he hurried
to his room.

“You know the case is postponed, Sir Edward?” ventured the old man
nervously. He had not expected Kean until late in the evening and was
uncomfortably aware now that he should have wired instead of writing
about the postponement of the case.

Sir Edward stopped dead, his hand on the latch of the door.

“What’s that?” he said sharply. “Strickland _v._ Davies postponed?”

“Yes, Sir Edward. We understood that you were leaving the North this
morning and that a letter would reach you if it was posted yesterday
afternoon. Had we known . . .”

His voice trailed off into silence. In all the years he had worked for
Kean he had never seen him look so angry.

“Knowing you were coming up, in any case, for the other consultation,”
he began again.

“My instructions were that I was to be notified immediately.” Kean’s
voice was icy.

“I wrote, Sir Edward.”

“And gave me a night’s journey for nothing! Always telegraph if there
is any doubt as to my movements. You knew I was coming up to-day.”

“Yes, Sir Edward.”

“In the future I should be grateful if you would obey my instructions.
I suppose the witnesses have been notified?”

“Bentley’s will have seen to that, Sir Edward.”

Kean closed the painful interview abruptly by vanishing into his room.

“All because he’s missed twelve hours up in the North,” muttered
Farrer, as he hurried thankfully out of range. “He never used to be so
set on holidays. His heart’s more with her Ladyship than his work,
nowadays.”

Sir Edward, having said his say, did not refer to the matter again,
but he proved a difficult task-master all through that day. He worked
ferociously and his staff found themselves hard put to it to keep the
pace he had set. It was late before he left his Chambers and then it
was with a sheaf of papers that kept him hard at it till the small
hours, in spite of which an accumulation of work still remained which
would keep him in town till late the following day. Ever since a
severe heart attack had brought Lady Kean almost to death’s door he
had dreaded leaving her for any length of time and, on the few
occasions on which any great distance lay between them, he was a
difficult man to work with. He went to bed fretted and out of patience
and his first act on reaching his Chambers in the morning was to ring
up Staveley, ostensibly to let his hostess know when to expect him,
but actually in the hope of a few words with his wife and an assurance
that all was well with her.

There was the usual vexatious delay over the trunk call, but when he
did get through, he was surprised to hear Lady Kean’s voice at the
other end. She should, by rights, have been breakfasting in her room
according to her wont, and he said so.

“I might have known you’d be up to your tricks as soon as I turned my
back,” he told her.

“In spite of which, you were going to ask for me and drag me out of
bed in your usual heartless way,” she mocked.

“You could have gone back again as soon as I’d done with you. As it
is, I suppose you are up and dressed and in for a strenuous day. The
folly of women!”

For the first time since his arrival in London he ceased to feel at
odds with the world. Even at this distance his wife’s influence made
itself felt and already all his annoyance had evaporated in the mere
delight of listening to her voice.

“There’s wisdom in my madness this morning, though,” she assured him.
“I guessed you’d ring up early and I wanted to catch you myself. I
should have rung up yesterday if I had not known you were too busy to
help. I’m worried, Edward, and I want you.”

In an instant he was on the alert.

“You don’t feel seedy?”

“No, no. I’m all right. It isn’t that. But come back as soon as you
can, my dear. That child, Cynthia, is in trouble and I want you to see
her.”

Kean’s face darkened. As far as it was in him to take an interest in
any woman besides his wife he liked Cynthia Bell, though it is
doubtful whether, if it had not been for Lady Kean’s fondness for the
child, he would have paid any special attention to her. He did not,
however, propose to have Sybil worried by the consequences of any of
that young woman’s mad escapades.

“What has she been up to?” he demanded sharply.

“Nothing. It’s not her fault this time. But that young man of hers is
in a very nasty position, from all accounts. Come back as soon as you
can, dear, and see what you can do.”

Kean’s scowl deepened.

“Young Leslie? I’d forgotten that affair of hers. Well, what’s he been
doing?”

He paused for a moment as though trying to control his impatience,
then:

“I won’t have you worried over the affairs of a couple of children,
Sybil!”

Sybil Kean laughed in spite of herself at the intense exasperation in
his voice.

“My dear, it doesn’t do me any harm and, anyhow, I shall worry much
less if I know that you have taken a hand in things. They really do
need advice, Edward.”

“If you take my advice, you’ll keep out of the affair. Let them settle
their troubles in their own way.”

“You don’t even know what their troubles are! Don’t be difficult,
Edward!”

Lady Kean’s voice was very appealing. She did not often take this line
with her husband, but when she did she almost invariably got her own
way.

“Well, I want you to keep out of it, whatever it is,” he said curtly.

“Edward, John Leslie’s mother was a great friend of mine and she was
extraordinarily kind to me as a girl. I really do owe her something
and I am fond of both John and Cynthia. I can’t keep out of it and I
am counting on you to stand by me. Be nice about it and come back as
soon as you can.”

“Well, you haven’t told me yet what _is_ the matter,” he temporized.

In as few words as possible she repeated all she had been able to
learn from Cynthia, supplemented by the account of Dr. Gregg, who had
turned up on a professional visit to Lady Kean on the day after the
girl’s arrival. Kean heard her in silence and, for some moments after
she had finished, made no comment. Then he gave vent to a muffled
exclamation.

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘The Devil!’” he replied grimly. “What on earth did the young
idiot want to go roaming all over the country for at that time of
night? Very well, I’ll see what I can do, though I should have
preferred it if you had managed to keep out of it altogether. It’s bad
for you and I don’t like it.”

“When can you come? Cynthia’s aching to see you. Nobody seems to be
doing anything and the inaction is hard on the child.”

“I can’t get away before this evening, but I’ll come straight through
on the night train. It means I shall have to come up again for a
consultation at once. After that I shall be free for a bit.”

“When were you coming if this hadn’t happened?”

“I had intended to drive down the day after to-morrow. I’m going to
bring the car and take you back by road when we go. It’s less tiring
for you than the train.”

“My dear! Two night journeys and then a long motor drive!” Lady Kean’s
voice was full of compunction. “Don’t do it,” she went on. “Stick to
your original plan and come down with the car the day after to-morrow.
I don’t suppose the extra day will really make much difference. It’s
only that the child’s fretting.”

“And so are you!” he retorted grimly. “No, I’ll come to-night and see
what I can do, though I don’t suppose there’s much. I’m inured to
journeys and I can work in the train. Meanwhile, don’t wear yourself
to fiddle-strings. It will all come right in the end. I know you
haven’t much opinion of the law, but it doesn’t often make mistakes.
If the boy’s innocent, he will come out of it, you’ll see.”

“Thank you, Edward. I don’t believe you’ll ever fail me!”

There was more in her tone than in the words and he felt amply repaid
for having yielded as he hung up the receiver. But he found it
difficult to fix his mind on his work that morning and he wished with
all his heart that his wife had been safe in London at the time of the
murder. He knew that she would not know a night’s real rest so long as
any friend of hers was in trouble and, in spite of his brave words on
the telephone, he thought things looked awkward, to say the least of
it, for John Leslie.

And once more he cursed the Fates that had decreed the postponement of
the case of Strickland _v._ Davies. For Leslie had been subpoenaed as
a witness and, if things had taken their normal course, would have
been in London at the moment when Mrs. Draycott met with her tragic
end. And if it had not been for that unfortunate blunder of old
Farrer’s he would have heard in time about the postponement and would
have been at Staveley instead of in London when Lady Cynthia arrived
with the news.

Kean was usually studiously courteous in his dealings with underlings,
but he was positively brutal to the old head clerk when, later in the
day, he had occasion to pull him up for a slight error in the wording
of a letter.



Chapter V

At the best of times Whitbury Junction cannot be described as an
attractive spot, with its three long platforms, flanked on either hand
by sidings with their usual array of cattle-trucks and, apparently
derelict, third-class coaches. An uninspiring collection of faded
posters, imploring the weary traveller to hasten at once to Ostend or
the Cornish Riviera and a row of battered milk-cans embellish the
platforms; and the porters, elderly men of pessimistic habit, take
even the arrival of the London train with complete lack of enthusiasm.
At seven o’clock on a chilly March morning the Junction is at its
worst, and Sir Edward Kean, alighting somewhat stiffly from his
first-class carriage after a night of mingled boredom and discomfort,
eyed his surroundings with marked disapproval. The fact that he would
have over an hour to wait before taking the local train to the little
station of Staveley Grange did not serve to cheer him, and he was
entirely unprepared for the apparition of Cynthia Bell, the last
person he desired to see under the circumstances, waiting for him on
the platform.

There was a hint of shyness in her greeting. Sybil Kean’s
distinguished husband was one of the few people of whom she stood in
awe and she not only felt responsible for his presence at an unearthly
hour at this dreary spot, but was quite aware that, but for his wife’s
persuasion, he would not have made the journey at all. It was this
knowledge that had decided her to meet the train and see him first
alone, in the hope of winning his sympathy and inducing him to take
more than a cursory interest in John Leslie’s affairs. The sight of
his dark, inscrutable face and thin-lipped, relentless mouth sent her
courage into her boots and she felt pitifully young and very helpless
as she hurried to meet him.

“I wanted to see you and thank you, Sir Edward,” she began rather
breathlessly. “Sybil told me you were coming down on purpose. . . .”

In spite of his annoyance Kean was touched by her distress.

“It seemed better to look into things at once,” he said kindly. “Sybil
said you were anxious to see me.”

“I wanted to ask your advice. There’s something I’m worried about and
no one seems to know in the least what’s going to happen or what one
ought to do. It’s the waiting that’s so hard. It makes one imagine
things. They haven’t even said they suspect John yet, but they behave
all the time as if they did and they’ve searched the farm as if they
expected to find something. Meanwhile one hangs about. . . .” She was
getting almost incoherent and Kean could see that she was on the verge
of tears and was holding them back with difficulty.

“You’ve let this get on your nerves,” he said quietly. “I suggest that
we shelve the subject altogether till you’ve had some breakfast. We’ll
go over to the station hotel and see what they can do for us, and
afterwards you shall put the whole case before me and I’ll give you
what advice I can. There’s plenty of time before my train goes and
you’ll take a different view of things after you’ve eaten something.”

She gave him a swift look of gratitude and followed him without
speaking. At the hotel he ordered food and, when it came, quietly but
firmly insisted that she should do it justice, making an excellent
breakfast the while himself and keeping the conversation rigidly to
impersonal topics. It was not till the meal was over and he had handed
her a cigarette and lighted one himself that he allowed her to
unburden her mind.

“First of all, what did you wish to consult me about?”

His tone was curt and business-like and, fortified by the food which
she had badly needed, she was able to collect her thoughts and put
them more clearly into words.

She gave him a brief account of what had happened. The main facts he
had already learned from the evening papers, in which Mrs. Draycott’s
latest photograph, over the caption of “The Murdered Woman,” had
confronted him. He questioned her sharply on one or two points,
otherwise he let her tell the story in her own way. When she had
finished he sat back in his chair, smoking thoughtfully, for a minute.
Then he leaned forward, his keen eyes on hers.

“Where was Leslie while all this was happening at the farm?” he asked
sharply.

Cynthia met his gaze without flinching.

“With me,” she answered simply.

“Then why doesn’t he say so?”

“That’s what I wanted to see you about. It doesn’t clear him. You see,
he wasn’t with me at the time they seem to think the murder actually
took place. And now he doesn’t want me to say anything because he’s
afraid it will drag me into it for nothing. I think he’s wrong and he
ought to tell them. Mother being so hateful about our engagement makes
it all so much more difficult.”

“When was he with you?”

“From five till nearly half-past. Then he did exactly what he said,
took a long walk and did not get back to the farm till about eight. It
was all my fault, really.”

She broke off, as though she found it difficult to continue.

“You’d better tell me exactly what happened,” came in Sir Edward’s
quiet voice.

“It’s all rather complicated,” she went on haltingly. “You know what
Mother’s been, about our engagement. Daddie likes John and he’d be all
right if it wasn’t for her. Lately she’s been trying to get round John
too, telling him that he is ruining my young life and all that sort of
rot. And poor old John gets fits of the blues and then he swallows
everything she says and behaves like a blithering idiot afterwards,
offers to let me off the engagement and all that sort of thing. He’s
done it once already and we had an awful row and I wouldn’t speak to
him for nearly a week. On Monday the parents went up to London and,
thank goodness, they’re there still, or else I don’t think I could
bear it. John and I arranged to meet in a copse near the Home Farm at
five, after they’d gone, and go for a long walk. After that I was
going home to dress for Miss Allen’s dinner and we’d planned that John
should pick me up at her house and drive me in my car to Staveley at
about eleven. You see, when the parents are at home, we never seem to
get much time together and we were going to take advantage of their
being away. We met at five, just as we’d arranged, but we did not go
for the walk. John had met Mother somewhere the day before and she’d
filled him up with the usual nonsense. He began to talk all sorts of
rot about not being able to marry me for years, and all that kind of
thing, and wanting to break it off. It ended in our having a fearful
row, me saying he didn’t care for me and all the things one says when
one’s in a rage, and so we parted. And I suppose the poor old thing
was upset and went crashing off on this rotten walk and here we are in
the soup. If only I hadn’t been such an ass we should have been
together and everything would have been all right.”

“I don’t know that you would gain anything by coming forward now,”
commented Kean thoughtfully.

“That’s what John says and, of course, after the line Mother’s taken,
he doesn’t want to mix me up in it. What I say is, that sane people
don’t go charging about the country for nearly four solid hours,
unless there’s something wrong with them, and of course everybody
thinks John must have been up to something. If he’d tell them exactly
what happened and what _was_ wrong with him, there’d be some sense in
the whole thing. Of course, we should both look awful fools,” she
finished ruefully.

“I’d better see Leslie to-morrow and then you can appear at the
inquest if we think it’s advisable. Tell him I’ll come over to the
farm in the course of the morning.”

Kean rose and picked up his overcoat.

Cynthia hesitated, then took her courage in both hands.

“Sir Edward, Mr. Fayre is at the farm now with John and he wants to
see you. Won’t you come over with me now? I’ve got the car outside and
I could run you over to Staveley afterwards. Sybil knows. In fact, it
was her idea, so she won’t be expecting you.”

In her anxiety she forgot her shyness of him, clinging to his arm, her
beseeching eyes fixed on his face.

“Won’t you come now? Please, Sir Edward! The inquest’s this afternoon
and it would make all the difference if you could see John first.”

Kean’s face had begun to darken at her first words, but, at the
mention of the inquest, it sharpened to a look almost of anxiety.

“The inquest? Already? I was afraid of that!”

“Sir Edward! They can’t arrest John!”

“I don’t know. It all depends on what the police have up their sleeve.
I think you’re right; I’d better come up to the farm now.”

On their way they spoke little. Cynthia drove with all the
recklessness of youth, and less than half an hour had passed before
they turned into the little lane that led to the farm.

Fayre and Leslie were at the door to meet them. “It’s very good of
you, sir,” said Leslie. “I seem to be giving you a fearful lot of
trouble.”

He looked worn and anxious, but his eyes met Kean’s fearlessly and the
lawyer, accustomed as he was to read faces, was both attracted and
impressed by his manner.

He laid his hand on Leslie’s shoulder.

“Come inside,” he said. “And let’s talk things over. So you’ve got a
finger in this pie, Hatter? You always were an old busybody!”

There was a hint of annoyance in his voice. For one thing, he had all
the professional’s dislike for amateur interference, and he knew Fayre
too well not to be aware that he was lamentably thorough in his
methods. Also, he would be yet another link which would serve to draw
Sybil still more surely into this unsavoury business.

There was a gleam of mischief in Fayre’s eyes as he answered.

“Beastly nuisance, Edward, an outsider butting in! I know. I’ve had
experience of them in the East. Don’t worry; I’m only here in the
capacity of family adviser. I’ve constituted myself a sort of adopted
uncle of Cynthia’s. After all, I’ve known her since her pigtail days.”

He tucked the girl’s arm under his as he spoke, with a smile so
friendly and encouraging that she felt her heart lighten.

“Mr. Fayre’s been most awfully decent,” said Leslie impulsively. “It’s
made all the difference, feeling we’ve got him on our side. And now
you’ve come! I _am_ grateful, sir!”

“Everybody’s been decent,” put in Cynthia. “I can’t tell you what a
brick Lady Staveley was when I told them all on Monday. And Miss Allen
has written to ask me to go there and see her this morning. I don’t
know why, unless it’s just to show that she believes in John. They’ve
always been jolly good friends, but it’s pretty wonderful of her to
see me at all, considering what’s happened.”

“It’s unusual. And not in the best of taste, either, in the
circumstances. Still, as you say, she may want to show herself
definitely on your side. All the same, I think you’d better let me see
her instead. It will be best for you to keep away until after the
inquest.”

“You don’t think Cynthia will have to appear?” put in Leslie
anxiously.

“I’m inclined to agree with her that it may put your actions in a more
favourable light if she tells her story. After all, so long as your
engagement holds she is involved, in any case. Her name is in the
papers already and five minutes in the witness-box won’t make much
difference.”

Cynthia shot an indignant glance at him, and Leslie’s face took on an
added gloom.

“I told her we’d much better consider it off, at any rate till I was
clear of all this business,” he said miserably. “But she won’t listen
to me.”

Cynthia turned in desperation to Fayre.

“Uncle Fayre! You’re the only one of the lot with a gleam of sense. Do
stop him! If he starts this argument again, I shall go mad! We’ve had
enough rows already about it, and I should have thought the result of
the last one might have taught him a lesson! Tell him what a fool he
is, Uncle Fayre! You said you agreed with me. If I argue any more
about it I shall lose my temper.”

She swung round on Leslie.

“Understand this! I’m not going to let this make any difference. I’m
going to hang on like a leech, whatever happens! So you can’t get rid
of me!”

Kean’s eyes met Fayre’s meaningly.

“I think she’s right,” he said quietly, and left it at that; but the
other knew what he was thinking. If Leslie were to find himself in the
dock the fact that his engagement to Cynthia still held would tell in
his favour.

He nodded absently. His mind was on the coming inquest. While they
were talking they had drifted into the sitting-room, and he saw Kean’s
face harden into grim lines as he took in the scene that had staged so
dramatic a drama. It struck him that the lawyer, in spite of his air
of calm efficiency, was taking anything but a light view of Leslie’s
predicament.

The table had been cleared of all its paraphernalia. No doubt the
blotter was in the hands of the police. Fayre and Cynthia sat down
near the table and Kean took up his position on the hearth-rug in his
favourite attitude, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched
almost to his ears. Leslie stood behind Cynthia, his eyes on Kean’s
face.

“What’s this about a police search?” asked Kean abruptly.

“They went through the entire house,” answered Leslie. “Goodness knows
what they were looking for. They wouldn’t let me go with them.”

“What have you told them so far about your movements on Monday
evening?”

“Simply that I went for a walk. I wanted to keep Cynthia out of it.”

“You’re sure you met no one who could identify you?”

“I’m afraid not. I was riled and I wanted to walk it off. I went clean
across country, away from the roads. I did see a chap with a spade
over his shoulder, some labourer going home, I suppose, but he was a
good way off and it was getting dark. I remember him because his dog
barked.”

“What time?”

“Round about six, I should think. I’d been walking for about an hour.”

“We might trace the fellow. In any case, I’m afraid there’s nothing
for it but to give a clear account of your movements, including the
time you were with Cynthia. You will gain nothing by holding it back
at this juncture. I’ll go now and see this Miss Allen. She may
possibly have something to say that throws a light on things. Is it
within a walk?”

“Take the Staveley car which brought me,” suggested Fayre. “It’s
waiting at the gate and Staveley said I was to use it as I liked.”

“In that case, I suggest that we all meet for lunch at the hotel at
Whitbury. We shall be on the spot, then, for the inquest. You’re sure
Sybil is not expecting me?”

Fayre smiled.

“This is one of her little plots. Didn’t you recognize her hand behind
it? She told me to say that she would expect you when she saw you.”

“We meet at the hotel, then.”

Fayre accompanied him down the little path to the gate, where the
Staveley car stood waiting. They had almost reached the end of the
path when Fayre, who had been walking with his eyes on the ground,
deep in thought, bent down suddenly and picked up something from the
long grass that bordered the path.

“Found anything?” asked Kean.

“An old stylographic pen,” said Fayre, examining it curiously. “I
remember them in my youth. ‘Red Dwarfs,’ I think they used to be
called. I wonder how it got there.”

Kean held out his hand for it.

“It’s probably been there some time. We’ll ask Leslie if he recognizes
it. We’ll stick to it, anyway. It may prove of interest.”

Fayre was peering about in the grass.

“There’s nothing else,” he said, “except some copper-coloured
spangles, three of them, here on the path. I believe the poor creature
was wearing a brown-spangled dress, so, as we know she probably came
up this path, that does not lead us anywhere. The pen may prove more
useful.”

“It has probably got there since the murder,” Kean reminded him. “It’s
hardly likely the police would have missed it. They must have gone
over this ground pretty carefully. The pressmen have been down here
already, remember. One of them may have dropped it.”

He slipped the pen into his pocket as he spoke.

After Kean had climbed into the car Fayre stood for a moment, his hand
on the door.

“I’m not going to make a nuisance of myself, Edward,” he said. “But,
if there’s anything I can do, you might put me onto it. I’m sorry for
those children and would give a great deal to help them. Also, I’m at
a loose end and I’ve no ties. If there’s any special line you want
followed I could do it more tactfully, possibly, and unobtrusively
than one of these fellows from an agency.”

Kean nodded.

“I’ll remember. Don’t underrate the private detective, though. It’s
not such an easy job as you seem to think. Meanwhile, if you can keep
Sybil from worrying herself silly I should take it as a kindness. I’ve
got to go back to town to-night and I should like to leave her in good
hands. Yours are the best I know, old chap.”

The car slid away, leaving Fayre, for all his even temper, a little
ruffled. His offer, not a very practical one, perhaps, but none the
less heartfelt for that, had been quietly, but firmly, put aside. The
lump of sugar, skilfully administered after the pill, did not deceive
him and he was human enough to feel snubbed. There was something
significant, too, in the way in which Kean had quietly pocketed his
find in the garden. Evidently he had no intention of taking his old
friend into his confidence with regard to his conduct of the case.
Fayre, who had meant to ask him his intentions should Leslie be
committed for trial, decided to leave all such negotiations to Lady
Kean. They had both hoped that he might be persuaded to undertake the
defence and he felt now that she was the only person who could be
counted on to influence him, should the occasion arise. He returned to
the farm in as near a bad temper as was possible to one of his
temperament and thoroughly out of patience with the legal mind.

“If Edward takes this line, blessed if I don’t do a bit of
investigating on my own,” he told himself doggedly. “He always was a
hide-bound beggar. Come to that, why couldn’t he let Cynthia go and
see Miss Allen? She’d probably get more out of her, as woman to woman,
than he will. Another of his absurd points of legal etiquette.”

Meanwhile the object of his wrath was reviewing the situation as the
motor bore him swiftly on his way to Greycross. If Cynthia had seen
his face now she would have been robbed of even the faint hope that
had been kindled by his visit to the farm. But he felt no doubt as to
Leslie’s innocence. His manner, all that he knew of him in the past,
the complete lack of motive, even the very weakness of his alibi, all
served to exonerate him; but, as Kean knew from long experience, only
the lack of motive would weigh with a jury. He had guessed that part
of Leslie’s time on the Monday had been passed in the company of
Cynthia Bell and had counted on her to produce a sufficient alibi,
expecting to be confronted with nothing more serious than the boy’s
chivalrous desire to shield her. He had been far more concerned than
he had chosen to admit, even to Fayre, when he found that Cynthia’s
evidence would be worse than useless. He was so deep in thought that
he was taken unawares when the motor drew up in front of Miss Allen’s
pleasant, picturesque old house.

A bulldog ambled out onto the drive to greet him and a couple of
terriers sniffed at his legs as he waited in the comfortable
drawing-room into which the maid had shown him. The pale March
sunlight filtered in through the long French windows, but the blinds
had been drawn in the ante-room through which he had passed and he
knew that probably all the other windows of the house were shrouded.
An ominous quiet seemed to brood over the whole place and he found
himself moved for the first time by the realization of Mrs. Draycott’s
death. Until now he had been too occupied with the consequences of the
murder to give much thought to the woman who had, after all, been his
fellow-guest at Staveley for over a week. Now, in her sister’s house,
the sense of tragedy deepened and, when Miss Allen found him standing
by the window, staring with sombre eyes into the sunlit garden, she
was struck by the weariness of his pose and the almost haggard pallor
of his face.

He, summing her up sharply in his turn, was surprised to see but
little sign of the violent grief he had expected. Her plain,
fresh-coloured features were grave and a little sad, but she was
obviously not prostrated by the loss of her sister. She greeted him
frankly and with a certain quiet dignity.

“My maid said that you wished to see me?” she said simply.

“I must apologize for intruding on you at such a time, but I have come
from Lady Cynthia Bell. She tells me that you very kindly offered to
see her and she asked me to express her gratitude and appreciation. I
am afraid that I am responsible for her failure to take advantage of
your suggestion. . . . It is difficult to explain my interference
without encroaching on a subject which, I am afraid, must be very
painful to you.”

He broke off, his face alight with a very real sympathy.

“You mean my sister’s death,” she said steadily. “I know your name
well, Sir Edward, and if you have come on Cynthia’s behalf, there is
one thing I should like to make quite clear before we go any further.
You have guessed, probably, why I wanted to see her and I am very glad
to have the opportunity of saying as much to you as I had intended to
say to her. It is simply this: I have known John Leslie for some time
and I’m not a bad judge of character. I am absolutely convinced that
he had nothing to do with my poor sister’s death and, what’s more, am
practically certain that he had never met her or had ever had anything
to do with her.”

Having said her say, she stood waiting, a dignified, sturdy figure of
an English spinster, a look of quiet resolution on her well-cut,
weather-beaten features. Kean summed her up as a good friend and a bad
enemy.

“This will mean a lot to Cynthia,” he said warmly. “And I should like
to thank you on her behalf. As for myself, I entirely agree with you;
but, as you know, we may have to convince people who do not know
Leslie, and, however strongly we may feel ourselves on the subject, we
have no real proof to offer. Frankly, I came here in the hope that you
might have some evidence that would help us. You say you are
practically certain that Leslie never knew your sister. Is this only
conjecture?”

“Mr. Leslie told me himself that he had never met her when I spoke to
him about her visit to me; but that, I suppose,” she went on with a
rather grim smile, “is hardly sufficient for you lawyers! But, as a
matter of fact, by sheer luck, my sister happened to pick up a
snapshot of Cynthia and Mr. Leslie the morning she arrived. She
recognized Cynthia from a photograph she had seen in some paper and
asked who the attractive boy was with her. When I told her his name
she said she had heard him spoken of at Staveley, but had never met
him. Now, if what these idiots seem to suspect were true, John Leslie
might have his reasons for keeping their acquaintance dark, but my
sister could have had no objection to saying she knew him. Besides,
from her manner, I am sure she did not recognize the photograph.”

“Could you let me have this snapshot, Miss Allen?”

“It is on the mantelpiece behind you. Keep it, if you think it will be
of any use.”

“You will forgive me if I seem insistent,” he went on. “But, as you
know, this is a very serious matter for Leslie. Can you think of any
one, in the past, who might possibly have harboured a grudge against
your sister?”

Miss Allen hesitated, her clear eyes very troubled.

“I’d better be frank with you,” she said at last. “You’ll probably
think what I am about to say almost indecent, but I’ve never shirked
the truth in my life and I want to leave no stone unturned to help
that boy. You met my sister at Staveley, I believe, Sir Edward, and I
think you will understand what I am trying to tell you. You may not
know that she was divorced by her first husband and would have been
divorced by her second if he had not died in the nick of time. It
isn’t pleasant for me to say this and I hope it need not go any
further, but that is the kind of woman she was. I don’t judge her, and
I suppose it was largely a matter of temperament. She was spoiled,
too, as a child. But she was a woman who was bound to have enemies,
both male and female, and she had some queer friends, too. If her
first husband were not dead I should have been very much inclined to
put this down to him. He went to pieces, altogether, after she left
him, and became just the kind of half-mad, reckless creature that
might end in the dock. Thank goodness, he is out of it, but she has
made many friends and many enemies since his day.”

“You know of no one in particular?” pressed Kean eagerly. “Is there
nothing she said, at any time, that would suggest any one?”

But Miss Allen shook her head.

“You must remember that I was not in her confidence. We have never
been intimate, and for the last ten years I have seen very little of
her. I did not like her ways or her friends and I told her so. As a
matter of fact, I was surprised when she proposed this visit herself.
She told me when she arrived that she was economizing and wanted to
put in a week somewhere in between two visits.”

“She said nothing else that might possibly be a clue? Will you search
your memory very carefully, Miss Allen? There may be something that
seemed quite unimportant at the time.”

He leaned forward, watching her anxiously.

“There was one thing. I didn’t take much account of it at the time and
I don’t now. It was her way to make exaggerated statements. But, when
she spoke of economizing, she said that, anyhow, it wouldn’t last
long. She was out to make a lot of money; in fact, was practically
certain of it. I asked her whether it wasn’t just another of her ‘sure
things,’ for she was a born gambler, you know. And she said it was as
sure as death. I’ve remembered her words since.”

“As sure as death,” echoed Kean softly. “What irony!”

“I took it for granted that she was talking either of racing or of
some speculation she was mixed up in. She had a lot of queer people in
tow, bookies and the sort of shady-looking men who are supposed to be
something in the city. Looked like criminals, most of them, and I told
her so, more than once. But I dare say they were harmless enough,
really. I met her once in Paris with a man she told me was a
well-known French bookie and I wouldn’t have trusted him alone in a
room with my purse. They fleeced her a lot, one way and another.”

“There was nothing among her papers that pointed to any big
transaction?”

Miss Allen shook her head.

“I went through them carefully yesterday. There was nothing. As I
said, I don’t believe John Leslie had anything to do with this and I
should like to see him cleared, but I am not so heartless as I may
have sounded. I don’t say that we got on well together, but she was my
sister, when all’s said and done, and I find myself regretting many
things now. Perhaps if I had taken the trouble I might have been of
some influence in her life. I don’t know. But I should like to see the
man who did this brought to book.”

Her voice was wrung with emotion and Kean could see that she had been
tried more hardly than she realized in the past few days.

“I don’t think I had ever understood the strength of
blood-relationship until I saw her lying in that horrible place at
Whitbury,” she muttered almost inaudibly.

Kean waited in silence. There seemed nothing he could say. She pulled
herself together with a pluck that roused his admiration and turned to
him.

“I’m afraid I’ve helped you very little,” she said regretfully.

“I’m not so sure. Anything may turn out to be important in a case like
this. In the meantime, I am more than grateful to you, Miss Allen, for
your frankness. Cynthia will no doubt see you very soon and thank you
herself. In view of the fact that she may have to appear at the
inquest this afternoon I considered it better that she should not be
known to have been in touch with you. She saw my point; otherwise she
would have come in answer to your note this morning.”

Miss Allen nodded.

“I’m very glad she has got you to turn to, Sir Edward. If there is
anything more I can tell you at any time I will let you know.”

Kean paused in the act of shaking hands.

“One thing more,” he said. “You have no reason to suspect that your
sister went out with the intention of meeting anybody on Monday
night?”

“I hadn’t at the time, but I have wondered since. I was writing
letters in the little room I call my study when she went out. I shut
myself up there directly after tea, to get through some troublesome
correspondence, and left her comfortably settled in front of the fire
in here. When I came back about half-past six she was gone and the
maid told me she had seen her go out. I was surprised, because she
hated walking and it was not the sort of weather to tempt her out of
the house, but I did not get anxious until after the arrival of
Cynthia. We waited dinner for her until past eight, and after dinner I
sent the groom down to Keys to ask if she had been seen there. When he
returned and said he could get no trace of her I began to get really
anxious. Until then I had simply thought she had lost her way, and was
in hopes that she might have telephoned to the inn at Keys, leaving a
message for me saying she was hung up somewhere. I have no telephone
here, you see, and she knew that the people at The Boar sometimes take
messages for me. I sent my man straight back to Keys, telling him to
see Gunnet, the constable there. But Gunnet was out and his wife did
not know when he would be back. Of course, I know now that he was at
the farm. Cynthia was just trying to persuade me to let her take her
car and scour the lanes when the police arrived with the news of what
had happened.”

“You have no idea what could have taken her to Leslie’s farm?”

“None whatever. I should certainly never have dreamed of looking for
her there. By ten o’clock I had made up my mind that she had either
lost her way or had an accident. There was a gale blowing that night
and a good many trees were down, and I was afraid she might have been
hit and be lying helpless somewhere. Thinking it over, I feel certain
of one thing.”

Kean looked up quickly.

“Yes?”

“She never meant to go to the farm. It is two miles the other side of
Keys and forty minutes’ walk from here. She was wearing an old pair of
evening shoes and she hadn’t troubled to change them. No sane woman
would walk even a mile on a country road in thin slippers.”



Chapter VI

Kean found Fayre waiting for him when he reached the hotel at
Whitbury. Cynthia, he learned, had taken the car to the garage to fill
up and Leslie had accompanied her.

“With consummate tact, I said I should prefer to be dropped here to
wait for you,” explained Fayre. “Heaven knows how much more time
they’ll have together. It strikes me as a black outlook, Edward.”

His kindly face was grave and troubled.

Kean nodded.

“I haven’t been able to get much out of Miss Allen. She is convinced
that Leslie had nothing to do with it, and I believe she is right. All
the same, his story is weak.”

“It’s the most infernal bad luck! If only he’d gone up to London as he
intended! What do you suppose induced poor Mrs. Draycott to go to the
farm?”

“If we knew that, Leslie could snap his fingers at them,” answered
Kean sombrely.

He pulled out his handkerchief from his pocket as he spoke, and a
small red stylographic pen came with it and rolled on the floor at
Fayre’s feet. He picked it up and examined it. The cap was missing
and, half concealed beneath the mud with which it was plastered, was
an inkstain, running right round the pen.

“Hullo! This is the fellow I picked up!” he exclaimed.

Kean took it from him and slipped it into the pocket of his coat.

“Our one clue,” he assented dryly. “And we shall probably trace that
to one of the reporters. I don’t think we need build on it.”

He pulled off his heavy coat and threw it over a chair. Then he turned
and faced Fayre squarely.

“I’m going to save that boy if I can, Hatter, if things go against
him,” he said. “You can tell Cynthia that, if I don’t have an
opportunity myself after the inquest. We’ll hope it won’t come to
that, but, frankly, I’m not sanguine.”

“Neither am I. It looks almost as if suspicion had been deliberately
thrown on Leslie. It’s an inconceivably devilish scheme, if it is so.
There’s no earthly reason, as far as we know, why Mrs. Draycott should
have gone to his farm at all, unless she were decoyed there, and, if
she were, why choose that spot? Surely it would have been as easy to
shoot the poor creature in the open. It looks uncommonly as if some
one had tried to plant the murder on John Leslie.”

Kean walked over to the window and stood there looking out, his hands
deep in his pockets.

“It hasn’t occurred to you,” he said slowly, “that whoever did it may
have known that Leslie had been subpoenaed as a witness and was due in
London on Tuesday. Remember, he should, by rights, have been in the
train at the time Mrs. Draycott was killed. I don’t suppose he made
any secret of the fact that he was going, and news travels fast in a
small country place.”

Fayre stared at him for a moment then, with a sudden look of
comprehension:

“By Jove! That narrows things down a bit! If there is anything in your
theory, we shall find the man is some one who either lives in the
neighbourhood or who was there for a time, at least, before the crime
was committed.”

Kean turned to him with a smile.

“Come to that, why ‘the man’? Women have been known to shoot people
before now.”

“Women!”

Fayre stopped, appalled. There was only one woman who, so far, could
be said to have any connection with the case. Cynthia had, according
to her own account, gone straight home when she parted from Leslie at
five-thirty. She was fairly certain to have been seen by some member
of her father’s household. Supposing that, by some evil chance she
hadn’t been seen? Fayre gazed at Kean with something like horror in
his eyes.

“Not Cynthia?”

Kean’s smile vanished.

“Thank goodness, we can rule Cynthia out. The lodge gates are kept
closed at Galston and, unless we are up against another piece of
unheard-of bad luck, the lodge-keeper must have let her in. As a
matter of fact, I had nobody in mind when I spoke. You were theorizing
so smoothly that I couldn’t resist the temptation to point to at least
one weak point in your argument. After all, as you say, the murderer
may have deliberately planted the whole thing on Leslie. It is as good
an explanation as any, considering how little we have to go on.”

“If it wasn’t a plant, why did he take the trouble to get her to the
farm?”

Kean had turned again to the window.

“The sound of a shot carries a good way in the open air, remember. I
can see our young couple. I suggest that we drop the subject, as far
as possible, during lunch. I can give Leslie a few hints on the
correct behaviour for witnesses afterwards. I fancy he’s a hotheaded
young beggar and he mustn’t be allowed to lose his temper.”

Kean could be a delightful and interesting companion when he chose and
on this occasion he laid himself out to keep Leslie’s mind off the
coming ordeal, with the result that even the two people most concerned
found the meal a pleasant one. After it was over Kean drew the boy
aside and spoke to him very seriously while Fayre did his best to keep
the ball of conversation rolling with Cynthia. She had conquered her
agitation and was facing things with a pluck that did her credit; but,
in spite of both their efforts, the time dragged heavily and he was
glad when the suspense was over and they started for the Town Hall
where the inquest was to be held.

At Kean’s suggestion they separated and he and Fayre joined the crowd
in the body of the Court. Though one or two people looked curiously at
the two strangers, it is doubtful whether anybody recognized the lean
man with the keen eyes and hawk-like face, though his photographs had
appeared often enough in the press. Their interest was focused on
Leslie and on Miss Allen, who came in just before the proceedings
opened and took her seat on the opposite side of the Court.

Fayre looked at her with interest. She was dressed in a black coat and
skirt and a small black felt hat, of the kind affected by the more
downright type of middle-aged spinster. She was pale, but composed,
and was apparently oblivious of the little stir occasioned by her
entrance. Catching sight of Leslie, she bowed to him, gravely, but
with marked friendliness.

The Jury filed in, followed by the Coroner, an elderly man whose
practice lay on the other side of Whitbury. His address to the Jury
was short and to the point.

“You have inspected the body of this lady,” he concluded, “and have
been shown the cause of death, a bullet-wound in the left temple. The
body, as you know, has already been identified. After hearing the
evidence which will be brought before you, you are called on to settle
in your minds in what way the deceased came by her death.”

The proceedings opened with the evidence of Gunnet and Sergeant Brace.
Brace described his visit to the farm and the discovery of the
footsteps under the window and in the barn. He reported his
conversation with Leslie concerning them.

“You have not, so far, been able to trace them to any definite
person?” suggested the Coroner.

“We are making inquiries,” answered Brace evasively. “At present we
have nothing to report.”

One of the jurors, a tradesman whose shop was on the outskirts of
Whitbury, cleared his throat nervously.

“There was a tramp passed my place on Monday afternoon,” he
volunteered.

There was a slight delay while he was sworn in.

“What time did you see this man?”

“Round about four. I was dressing the window, that’s how I happened to
remember the time. He was going in the direction of Keys, all right.”

“Could you describe him?”

“A smallish man. Thin, with a reddish face. That’s all I can remember.
Don’t know as I should recognize him if I saw him again. I just
noticed him in passing.”

The Coroner recalled Brace.

“I understand that the deceased was identified on the Monday night?”

“I went straight from Mr. Leslie’s farm to Greycross, where I
interviewed Miss Allen. At my suggestion she came at once with me to
the mortuary. The body had arrived there about half an hour before and
she identified it as that of her sister, Mrs. Henry Draycott, who was
staying at her house.”

The Coroner dismissed Brace and called Miss Allen.

“I am sorry to have to ask these questions, Miss Allen,” he said. “I
will be as brief as possible. Will you tell us the circumstances in
which your sister left your house on Monday night. Was it usual for
her to take a walk at this hour?”

“Very unusual, I should say. It was a long time since she had stayed
with me and she had only arrived the night before, but she had never
been a walker and did not care for exercise, especially in bad
weather.”

“Can you think of anything which could have drawn her out on such a
night?”

“Nothing. I did not see her leave the house and was surprised when I
discovered she was out. She had said nothing about going.”

“You can think of no reason why she should have gone to Mr. Leslie’s
farm?”

“None. She did not know Mr. Leslie and, to the best of my belief,
could have had no possible reason for going there.”

The Coroner leaned forward.

“I am sorry to have to touch on such a subject, but did your sister
speak openly to you about her affairs? Supposing she had gone out with
the intention of meeting some one, would she be likely to mention it
to you?”

Miss Allen hesitated for a moment.

“I was not in my sister’s confidence,” she said at last. “We have seen
little of each other in the last few years and, though she was very
frank as a rule about her affairs, I do not think she would have
chosen me for her confidante in the case of any intimate business.”

“So that she might quite well have left your house to keep an
appointment without consulting you?”

“It is more than likely.”

“You know of no message or letter which might have had some bearing on
a possible appointment?”

“No. As soon as I became alarmed at her absence I questioned the
servants as to whether any message had come for her, and found there
had been nothing of the sort. I have since looked through her letters,
but can find nothing. She had only arrived the day before and had
received no letters through the post.”

Miss Allen returned to her seat with the same quiet dignity she had
shown all through the examination. Fayre, watching her closely, was
astonished at the perfection of her poise; but now that she was off
her guard for a moment it was easy to see that only the most iron
self-control had enabled her to go through the ordeal. She was no
longer young and her sister’s death had evidently shocked her deeply,
but he doubted, having known Mrs. Draycott, whether there could have
been any real affection between the two women. Mrs. Draycott, shallow,
yet astute enough in her small way, a born huntress of men, but
only of those men she considered worth while, could have had
nothing in common with Miss Allen, who, after all, had been almost
disconcertingly frank in her description of her relations with her
sister. She had stated plainly that she had never been in her
confidence and he suspected that she had probably actually disliked
her and was generous enough to feel repentant now of her attitude
towards her.

Dr. Gregg was called next. He gave his evidence clearly and
straightforwardly, but with an awkwardness of manner that amounted
almost to surliness. Fayre had the impression that he was either shy
or bad-tempered, possibly both. He expressed his opinion that the
deceased had been dead for about four hours at the time of his
examination. Asked whether the wound might have been self-inflicted,
he said that such a thing would be practically impossible, even in the
case of a left-handed person, as the shot had been fired at
arm’s-length, a feat so difficult as to be almost out of the question.
In answer to a question by the Coroner, he stated that death would
have been instantaneous and that, in the case of suicide, the weapon
would undoubtedly have fallen either on the table or on the floor
close to the chair. He gave his answers grudgingly, as though he
resented having been drawn into the affair at all. His evidence was
corroborated by the police surgeon who had been summoned from
Carlisle.

There was a little stir in the court as John Leslie stepped forward.
Kean had drilled him well in the few minutes he had had at his
disposal and he gave his evidence in a clear, audible voice, confining
himself to the bare facts of the case. He described his return to the
farm and the finding of the body and stated emphatically that he had
never met Mrs. Draycott and had no idea of her identity until Gunnet
recognized her. Asked to account for his movements, he said that he
had left the farm at about four o’clock and that from five until just
before eight he had been walking.

“That leaves a certain period of time unaccounted for. Where did you
go when you left the farm?” asked the Coroner.

“I walked to the edge of the Galston copse. I had an appointment there
at four-thirty.”

“Did you keep that appointment?”

“I did, leaving there at five and walking straight across the fields
in the direction of Besley. When I was almost in sight of the village
I turned off and made a wide detour and arrived back at the farm from
the Whitbury side.”

“You did not stop at any inn or speak to any one in the course of your
walk?”

“No. I was in the fields practically all the time. I hardly saw a
soul. It was dark before seven and pitch-black by the time I got
home.”

“Then I understand that you spoke to no one except the person with
whom you had the appointment?”

“No one.”

“Who was that person, Mr. Leslie?”

“Lady Cynthia Bell.”

Leslie spoke with obvious reluctance and there was a rustle as the
crowd turned, sheep-like, to stare at Cynthia.

“And you parted at five o’clock?”

“Thereabouts.”

“Why didn’t you return to the farm after leaving the Galston copse?”

“I had been working all day and I needed exercise.”

“Farm work is fairly heavy work, Mr. Leslie, even at this time of
year. According to your account, you must have walked a good twelve
miles between five o’clock and eight. Had you no other reason for
making such a wide detour?”

Leslie’s eyes flashed and for a moment it seemed as if Kean’s
admonitions were to go for naught, then he controlled himself with an
effort.

“I was annoyed and wanted to walk it off.”

“What had happened to upset you?”

“I had had a difference of opinion with Lady Cynthia. We had been
going for a walk together, but, owing to this, we parted, rather
suddenly. I’d got the walk in my mind, I suppose, so when that
happened I just went on by myself and tried to walk my temper off.”

“You are engaged to Lady Cynthia Bell, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“Was the difference of opinion you mentioned just now due to
attentions you had been paying to another lady? Mrs. Draycott, for
instance?”

Leslie stared blankly at his interrogator, a dark flush slowly
mounting to his forehead.

“Good Lord, no!” he ejaculated.

“You say that you tried to walk off your anger. Was that anger
directed against anybody in particular?”

“I was annoyed with Lady Cynthia at first, in the way one is annoyed
with any one one has had an argument with. But after that I was angry,
principally, with myself for being such an ass as to quarrel.”

“There was no third person involved either in the quarrel or in your
thoughts afterwards?”

“Of course not. Who should there be?”

“You are sure that you did not go back to the farm after leaving Lady
Cynthia Bell for the purpose of keeping an appointment you had made
with the deceased?”

Fayre heard the sharp hiss of Kean’s breath between his teeth,
followed by a whisper:

“Then they have got something up their sleeves, after all.”

Leslie, after the first blank stare of astonishment, flushed with
anger as he realized the full force of the insinuation.

“Of course not,” he said curtly. “I have told you that I didn’t know
Mrs. Draycott.”

“You are certain that you did not meet Mrs. Draycott at all that
evening?”

“I never saw Mrs. Draycott in my life until I found her body at the
farm.”

“Thank you, Mr. Leslie. Sergeant Brace!” Sergeant Brace took his
stand, very erect and soldierly in his blue uniform.

“On the day after the murder you visited Mr. Leslie’s farm, I
believe.”

“I went to the farm on Tuesday, the twenty-fourth, in company with
Police-Constable Collins, and made a thorough search of the premises.
In a drawer in Mr. Leslie’s bedroom I found a Webley Service revolver,
one chamber of which had been discharged. The other chambers were
loaded and the gun had not been cleaned since it had last been fired.”

“You have the bullet which killed Mrs. Draycott?”

Brace held out his hand and displayed a bullet lying in the palm.

“Does it correspond with those used in the weapon you found at the
farm?”

“It does.”

“You have the revolver in court?”

Police-Constable Collins stepped forward and handed a heavy Service
revolver to the Coroner. “Thank you. Call Mr. Leslie.”

Leslie’s expression was one of blank consternation.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Leslie?”

Leslie examined the revolver.

“It belongs to me,” he said simply. “I keep it in the drawer of the
dressing-table in my bedroom. I suppose Sergeant Brace found it
there.”

“When did you last fire it?”

“About a week ago. I found a poor beast of a cat in a trap in Smith’s
field, just across the lane from me. It was past saving, so I went
home and fetched this and shot it through the head.”

“You have not used it since then?”

“No. I haven’t had it out of the drawer since.”

“Was any one present when you shot the cat?”

“No. I was alone.”

“Did you speak to anybody afterwards of what you had done?”

“No. If I’d run across Smith I should probably have mentioned it to
him, but I haven’t seen him.”

“Was there any one who could have heard the shot?”

“There might have been. Quite likely not. My man had gone home and
Smith’s farm lies a good way back from the lane.”

“Why did you hide the revolver at the back of the drawer?”

Leslie coloured hotly.

“I’ve never hidden it. The drawer’s full of mufflers and silk
handkerchiefs and things and I keep it at the back for fear Mrs. Grey,
who does my room, should get monkeying with it. She puts my
handkerchiefs back when she brings them from the wash and I didn’t
want to run any risk with the revolver.”

“You persist in your statement that you did not return to the farm
till eight o’clock?”

“I went for a long walk, as I have said, and did not get back till
close on eight. Hang it all, if I’d killed Mrs. Draycott do you
suppose I’d have left my revolver in a drawer where any one could find
it? Without cleaning it or reloading it either?”

Leslie’s quick temper had got the better of him at last.

“That is for the Jury to decide, Mr. Leslie,” said the Coroner. There
was a sharp note of reproof in his voice and Fayre realized that, in a
moment of irritation, Leslie had gone a long way towards effacing the
good impression he had made in the beginning.

“You have no explanation as to why Mrs. Draycott went to the farm?”

“As I’ve already said, I didn’t know Mrs. Draycott. Why she should
have gone there is a mystery to me.”

Leslie went back to his seat to the accompaniment of a low murmur of
voices, as the crowds composed mostly of his own friends and
neighbours, exchanged their whispered comments on the unexpected turn
the inquiry had taken. He was popular in the district and Fayre
noticed that, in spite of the damning evidence the police had brought
forward, there was little hostility, so far, in the faces that were
turned so eagerly in Leslie’s direction. His heart sank when Cynthia
was called. He had hoped that she might escape this ordeal.

“Will you tell us in your own words exactly what happened on the
evening of March 23rd?” said the Coroner.

Cynthia’s colour was a little deeper, her eyes a trifle brighter, than
usual; otherwise she showed no embarrassment at the position in which
she found herself.

“I met Mr. Leslie, as we had arranged, on the edge of the Galston
copse . . .” she began.

“What time was that?” interrupted the Coroner.

“About a quarter past four. We talked for about three-quarters of an
hour and then I went back to Galston and Mr. Leslie walked away
through the copse in the direction of Besley.”

“Good girl,” murmured Kean in Fayre’s ear. “She’s got her wits about
her.”

“You are sure you noticed the direction in which Mr. Leslie went?”

“Quite sure. After I had gone a few yards I turned round, meaning to
say something to him, but he was walking so quickly that I gave up the
idea. He was going in the opposite direction to the farm then.”

The Coroner leaned forward.

“You were not on friendly terms with Mr. Leslie when you parted, I
understand?”

“I was furious with him at the moment and I expect he loathed me. I
got over it almost at once. That’s why I turned round, meaning to call
to him.”

“You considered that he had treated you badly?”

“It wasn’t that, exactly. I was angry because he would go on trying to
treat me too well, or at least what he thought was well. I didn’t
agree with him and lost my temper. He’d got into his head that because
he’d no prospects and couldn’t marry for a long time he was putting me
in a false position and that he ought to break off the engagement.”

“Was this the first time he had made the suggestion to break off the
engagement?”

“O dear, no. He began worrying about it ten minutes after we first
became engaged.”

A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the court and the Jury, who
had pricked up their ears at the Coroner’s question, relapsed into
somewhat amused languor.

“Was it an old argument between you?”

“Oh, yes. That’s why I was annoyed. We’d had it out so often that I
was tired of the subject.”

“So that, when Mr. Leslie wished to break off the engagement, you
refused and held him to it?”

The colour flooded Cynthia’s cheeks, but she was too wise to take
offense at the suggestion. She looked at the Coroner with disarming
frankness.

“He didn’t wish to break off the engagement. That was why the whole
argument was so silly. He went on suggesting it simply from a sense of
duty. I shouldn’t have held him to his word if I’d thought he wanted
to go.”

“Was he more insistent than usual on this occasion?”

“No. He didn’t have time. I lost my temper almost at once.”

“Are you sure that the presence of Mrs. Draycott in the neighbourhood
was not one of the causes of this quarrel?”

“Perfectly certain. I had never heard of Mrs. Draycott. Miss Allen
told me her sister was coming and asked me to meet her at dinner that
night, but I didn’t know then that that was her name.”

“Had you never heard her name coupled with that of Mr. Leslie?”

“Never.”

Lady Cynthia was the last witness. She returned to her seat, her head
held high and her cheeks flaming, but she had done better work than
she knew, for her gallant bearing had won the sympathy, not only of
the spectators, but of the Jury, two of whom were her father’s tenants
and had known her since childhood.

There was an expectant hush as the Coroner rose to address the Jury.
Fayre summed him up as a man of mediocre intelligence, slow, but
conscientious, and perhaps a little over-conscious of the importance
of his own position.

“Gentlemen of the Jury,” he began. “You have heard the evidence put
before you and are now called upon to consider your verdict. If there
is anything that you have not fully understood I am here to help you.
As to the manner in which the deceased met her death, you will have
seen from the doctor’s evidence how unlikely it is that she died by
her own hand. You must not, however, entirely disregard the
possibility of suicide. Unlikely as it may seem, it is not absolutely
impossible that she herself fired the fatal shot. If, however, you
decide that the deceased did not voluntarily cause her own death you
must state whether she died at the hand of any person known to you or
at the hand of some person unknown. I take it that you are ready to
consider your verdict now, gentlemen.”

The Jury filed out of the court and Fayre, after a word with Kean,
crossed over to a chair by the side of Cynthia. He found her pale, but
composed, talking quietly with Leslie. To his surprise they were
discussing the farm and the steps to be taken should Leslie find
himself unable to return there immediately, and his sympathy and
admiration for these two increased as he realized the pluck with which
they were facing an almost unbearable situation. Kean remained in his
old place in the body of the court, deep in his own thoughts. He had
little doubt as to what the verdict would be, in the face of the
unexpected evidence brought forward by the police.

Indeed, the Jury was not absent for more than twenty minutes. Fayre
watched them, trying to judge from their faces what line they would
take. The Coroner addressed them.

“Well, gentlemen, have you considered your verdict?”

And even before the foreman spoke, Fayre knew what was coming.

They found that Mrs. Draycott had been murdered, and John Leslie left
the court in the custody of the police.



Chapter VII

The drive back to Staveley was a silent one. Cynthia had been allowed
to see Leslie for a few minutes before he was removed to the police
station and had taken friendly and reassuring messages from both Kean
and Fayre with her. She found him cheerful and, apparently,
undismayed, but even her pluck had not been proof against the sordid
atmosphere of the dingy little waiting-room and the menace of the two
policemen who remained within earshot all through the interview, and
she could no longer conceal her weariness and depression.

Miss Allen, who had waited at the entrance to the Town Hall, begged
for a lift to Greycross, thereby earning the gratitude of the two men,
who were in dread of collapse now that the strain was over. But
Cynthia had not the smallest intention of breaking down; her whole
mind was centred on Leslie and the necessity for instant action. What
form this was to take she had no idea, but inactivity had always irked
her and now, in the face of Leslie’s danger, she found it almost
unbearable. She sat huddled in a corner of the car, her mind working
feverishly, barely hearing the low-voiced conversation of the two men
and Miss Allen. With the wisdom of true sympathy they left her alone
with her thoughts, knowing that even a chance word might undermine her
control.

They dropped Miss Allen at Greycross. As the car started again, Fayre
glanced at Cynthia.

“All right?” he asked kindly.

She nodded.

“Quite. Only thinking. There must be something we can do, Uncle
Fayre!”

Kean roused himself from his abstraction.

“Want to get moving, eh?” he said in his incisive way. “I know how you
feel, but it’s no good trying to rush things. You did more for Leslie
than you realized at the inquest to-day. I’ve seldom heard a more
satisfactory witness. I congratulate you.” Cynthia’s eyes shone with
pleasure. As he had intended, his praise supplied just the tonic she
needed.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I propose to do,” he went on. “Then you
won’t feel that we are being idle. Directly I get back to town
to-morrow I will see the man I have in mind for Leslie. He is a young
solicitor I’ve had my eye on for some time. As keen as mustard and
with his name to make. He’ll do better for Leslie than one of the
older fellows who’ve settled into their grooves long ago. He’ll
probably come down here at once and see Leslie. Then, later, he’ll
brief me and if we don’t get your young man off between us, I shall be
surprised. Your job is to stand by and keep a brave face on things.
Let Leslie know that you believe in him and see that other people
realize it too. You’ve got Miss Allen on your side and, from the look
of it, a good portion of the people who were present to-day. That sort
of thing helps more than you may realize. See any reporters who may
approach you and talk to them. You’ve got nothing to hide, remember.
You won’t like it, of course, but keep in mind that the more
confidence you manage to inspire, the better, and you can do that best
by publicly advertising your own belief in Leslie. Make a point of the
fact that he had no motive for the crime. In short, carry on on the
lines you took at the inquest. The press can be an abominable
nuisance, but, fortunately, it can be used too. I leave that part of
the business in your hands. You’ve no idea how important it is.”

Later, after they had handed the girl over to Lady Staveley and were
sitting over the fire with Sybil Kean in the deserted billiard-room,
Fayre went back to the subject.

“That was clever of you, Edward,” he said. “And merciful. The inaction
was driving the child frantic. Now you have given her something to do
and made her feel that she has actually helped already.”

Lady Kean’s eyes stole to her husband’s face. To her, his tact and
consideration had always been unfailing, but it had never been his way
to show much kindness to others and she had often been half amused,
half exasperated, by the cold courtesy with which he had treated even
her closest friends. She felt very grateful to him now for his
gentleness to Cynthia.

“As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, “it wasn’t all eyewash. She can
be quite useful and it will keep her out of mischief. She’s got a head
on her shoulders and plenty of grit. Leslie’s a lucky man.”

“I only hope his luck won’t fail him now,” put in his wife.

“Don’t you worry, my dear,” Kean assured her. “We’ll pull him through,
all right. You needn’t lose any sleep over him!”

His hand was on hers and Fayre, after a glance at them, slipped out of
the room and settled himself by the fire in his bedroom. For one
thing, he wanted to think; for another, he possessed tact enough to
leave these two to their own devices till the time came for Kean to
catch the London train.

With a smile at his own childishness, he fell back on the
time-honoured method of all detectives of fiction and set to work with
a pencil and paper to get his thoughts in order.

According to Gregg, Mrs. Draycott had been shot some two hours before
Leslie discovered her body in the sitting-room at the farm. Going on
this assumption Fayre headed his paper:

“_March 23rd. Between six and seven, Mrs. Draycott shot._”

When he had finished, half an hour later, his notes ran as follows:

“_John Leslie. According to his own account at six o’clock was walking
across the fields in the direction of Besley. Motive: apparently none.
Have only his own explanation of his movements and of the empty
chamber in his revolver._”

“_Tramp seen by juryman outside Whitbury: May have no connection with
the person whose footsteps were found by the police outside the
sitting-room window at Leslie’s farm. Some one undoubtedly slept in
the barn on the day of the murder and this man was passing through
Whitbury at four o’clock. This would get him to the farm before six.
Motive: Robbery? May have been scared away by Leslie or the police._”

“_Cynthia Bell. Was at Galston Manor by six. Note: See lodge-keeper at
Galston for corroboration. Motive: None, unless she and Leslie are
keeping back Leslie’s possible connection with Mrs. Draycott in the
past. This is unlikely, as Mrs. Draycott herself stated that she had
never met Leslie._”

Fayre sat back in his chair and contemplated his handiwork. He did not
seem to have got very far. Then he picked up his pencil again.

“May as well go through the lot of them,” he muttered, out of patience
with his own futility.

“_Miss Allen. Was writing letters in her study at Greycross at six
o’clock. Motive: None, unless her disapproval of her sister’s mode of
life amounted to insanity. Does not impress one as a person likely to
go to extremes. Note: Find out whether she benefits to any extent
financially by her sister’s death, also whether she was seen by any of
the servants at Greycross round about six o’clock._”

While he was in the act of writing the last entry Kean’s words at the
hotel recurred to his mind: “Why ‘the man’?” Had he had Miss Allen in
his thoughts then, Fayre wondered?

He sat over the fire for a long time, his thoughts busy with the
problem of Miss Allen. He recalled her emphatic denial that her sister
had ever had any dealings with John Leslie, her letter to Cynthia.
Kean’s suggestion that Mrs. Draycott might have died at the hand of a
woman had come hot on his return from his visit to Miss Allen. Fayre
wished with all his heart that he had been present at that interview.
What had she told him?

As he dressed for dinner he was conscious of a growing resentment
against Kean. The more he pondered on his manner at the hotel, the
more he suspected that Kean had discovered something of importance at
Miss Allen’s, something, Fayre told himself with growing exasperation,
that to-morrow he would pass on as a matter of course to Leslie’s
solicitor. He did not blame Kean. He knew him well enough by now to
accept his methods, however annoying and inhuman they might seem; but
there was a streak of obstinacy in Fayre’s nature which responded to
just such treatment as he had received from his old friend and he felt
more than ever determined to take a hand in the game. He had offered
to meet Grey, the solicitor, at the station and Kean had not demurred.
He made up his mind to get as much out of him as possible and then
work on his own lines. He realized that these were disconcertingly
vague, so far.

The events of the next morning, however, opened out a possible field
of action. Crossing the hall, he ran into Dr. Gregg on his way to
visit Lady Kean. The doctor’s greeting was curt, but friendly.

“Have you heard that they’ve got our friend, the tramp, who was at the
farm that night?” he said. “The police seem to have moved fairly
quickly, for once.”

“Have they got anything out of him?”

“I don’t know. Except for old Gunnet, they’re a close-mouthed lot. The
fellow’s safe enough, at all events. Literally tied by the leg in the
infirmary at Whitbury. He was run down by a silly young ass on a motor
bike and got his ankle badly smashed. I gather that he was up at the
farm that night, meant to sleep there. Something seems to have
frightened him off at the last minute. Probably the arrival of the
police. If he does turn out to be the chap that did it, Leslie’s
troubles are over.”

“Leslie’s solicitor is coming to-day and I’m by way of meeting him. I
suppose he will be allowed access to this man if he wants to see him?”

“I imagine so. Can I be of any use? I’m for Whitbury after this and
can run you over in about half an hour’s time.”

Fayre accepted the invitation, glad of the chance to talk to the man,
of all others, most likely to know the neighbourhood well. Gregg had
not impressed him very favourably at the inquest and he did not take
to him now. As a witness he had seemed almost surly; to-day, no doubt
in an effort to be agreeable, he was garrulous and, at the same time,
ill at ease. Fayre knew that he had the reputation of being a clever
doctor, though something of a vulgarian.

Lord Staveley joined him as he was collecting his hat and coat in the
hall and confirmed his impression of the man.

“Clever chap, Gregg,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sorry
to have him on hand when Sybil’s here. It’s always a bit of a
responsibility and I sometimes think Kean would murder us if anything
happened to her. Amazing, the way the fellow’s wrapped up in her.
Never would have thought he was that sort. My wife’s about the one
person he’ll trust to look after her. Thank goodness, Gregg’s
dependable.”

“A queer fellow,” commented Fayre thoughtfully. “A bit of a rough
diamond, isn’t he?”

Lord Staveley laughed.

“Very much so. Didn’t get on with the old women round here at all at
first. However, the old chap at Whitbury is such a dud that they had
to come round. Now they swear by him. He’s a self-made man. Son of a
vet up in the North, so they say.”

As he spoke, Gregg appeared at the top of the staircase and he and
Fayre were soon on their way to the Junction.

“A bad business, this of Leslie’s, if they find they haven’t got their
man, after all,” said Gregg in his abrupt way. “I met Lady Cynthia on
the stairs and she looked pretty hipped. It isn’t doing my patient any
good, either.”

“You’re not anxious about her?” put in Fayre quickly.

“She’s no worse, if that’s what you mean, but she can’t stand worry. I
should be better pleased if she was out of all this. If I had my way
she’d be in her bed in London now.”

“What do you think of Leslie’s chances?”

“Bad. You and I know he isn’t the sort to do a thing like that, but
the evidence is strong against him. Depends what sort of old women
they get on the Jury, if it comes to that. I hope it won’t, now
they’ve got this tramp.”

“There’s the lack of motive. Personally, I don’t believe he ever saw
Mrs. Draycott in his life until that night. You were there, weren’t
you? How did he impress you?”

“He was speaking the truth, all right. He behaved just as you or I
would have done under the circumstances. It’s a nasty jar to find the
body of a strange lady in your sitting-room. On the whole, he took it
very well.”

“I wish they could find some clue as to why Mrs. Draycott ever went to
the farm. I believe the secret of the whole wretched business lies
there.”

“It’s a mystery. Though, from what I’ve heard of the lady, that’s not
the queerest of the many queer things she seems to have been up to,”
said Gregg dryly.

“There’s been gossip already, has there? Bound to be, I suppose.
Still, they might have let the poor creature rest in peace.”

“If you lived in this neighbourhood you’d know that that was the last
thing they’d be likely to do. If what they’re saying is true, she was
no loss.”

Fayre was struck by the bitterness of his tone.

“You never met her, did you?” he asked.

“I must have paid a couple of calls at Staveley while she was there,
but I did not run across her. From all accounts, though, she was a
pretty average rotter.”

Gregg’s tone was brutal and Fayre felt his instinctive dislike for the
man increase.

“I’ve come across that type once or twice in the course of my life and
I don’t blame the man that killed her,” Gregg went on. “She probably
richly deserved it.”

“Well, the poor woman’s dead and, unfortunately, her secret, whatever
it was, has died with her,” answered Fayre, in a voice calculated to
put an end to the discussion.

But Gregg was not so easily quenched.

“Very pretty sentiment,” he allowed, with something very like a sneer.
“But it’s neither just nor logical. It’s a hard fact that the evil
people do lives after them and I don’t believe in the whitewashing
process myself. The world’s the better for her removal, so why not say
so?”

“That’s a strong thing to say of a woman who, at the worst, was only
heartless and calculating, and, considering that I only knew her
slightly and you not at all, it seems a good deal to assume,” Fayre
reminded him. He was interested, in spite of himself, in the viewpoint
of a man who could work himself up to such a pitch of resentment
against a woman who, after all, was a stranger to him. His first
instinct had been to drop the subject, but now he found himself trying
to draw out the doctor.

“In my experience, it’s the stupid, greedy people who do the real harm
in this world, not the wicked ones. The bad man works with an object
and, once that’s gained, is usually content to let his neighbour
alone. The stupid man blunders on in his imbecile way, leaving a trail
of mischief behind him.”

“You would put down Mrs. Draycott as a stupid woman?”

Fayre had been struck himself by the dense strata of obtuseness that
lay beneath Mrs. Draycott’s surface acuteness and he was surprised at
the accuracy with which Gregg seemed to have diagnosed her.

“From what I hear, she was of the blunt-fingered, blunt-minded type
and a born petty schemer. However, I may be wrong. I’m going by
hearsay, you know.”

“It’s curious how people get hold of their information,” said Fayre
thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose more than half a dozen people in this
neighbourhood had ever met her.”

“They read their papers, though, and she’s been before the public more
than once, you must remember. Also, the mere fact that she was Miss
Allen’s sister would be enough to draw attention to her. After all,
there was the Dare Case.”

“She was mixed up in that, was she? I’ve been out of England for so
long that I’ve missed things.”

“She was called as a witness and came out of it pretty badly, as far
as I can remember. I don’t read those things much myself.”

“All the same, you seem to have got your knife into her pretty
thoroughly,” remarked Fayre dryly.

The doctor sat silent for a moment.

“I’m afraid I rather let myself go on the subject of stupidity,” he
said at last. “It’s a thing we doctors are always up against and we
get to hate it. I was probably doing Mrs. Draycott a gross injustice.”

He seemed to realize that he had said too much, for, in spite of
Fayre’s attempts to get out of him the exact form the gossip had
taken, he kept resolutely off the subject during the rest of the drive
to the station.

The London train was late and as Fayre sat waiting on the platform he
read over the notes he had made the night before. After some thought,
he added a memorandum on Dr. Gregg.

“_Seems curiously well-informed as to Mrs. Draycott’s past and general
characteristics and is almost vindictive in his attitude towards her.
Did not reach the scene of the murder till ten o’clock. Up till then,
movements unknown, but was probably with patients. If possible, find
out from Leslie whether he noticed anything unusual in his manner at
the farm._”

Grey, the solicitor, turned out to be an even younger man than Fayre
had expected, but he was, as Kean had predicted, very much on the spot
and not only ready, but anxious, to discuss the case. His first object
was to see Leslie, and he arranged to go straight to the police
station and meet Fayre at the hotel on his return. Fayre told him of
the arrest of the tramp, and Grey undertook to procure a permit to
visit the infirmary. He did not imagine that any objection would be
raised to Fayre’s presence at the interview with the patient.

They parted in High Street and, as luck would have it, Fayre almost
immediately ran into Gunnet, the constable from Keys. Fayre was known
to him, both as a friend of Lady Cynthia’s and as a guest at Staveley,
and, being off duty, he saw no objection to stepping into the hotel
and accepting the offer of a glass of beer. He had little of interest
to relate. Two things he did say which had some bearing on Fayre’s
notes of the evening before.

“I stepped up to Galston yesterday,” he remarked, “and had a few words
with Doggett, the lodge-keeper there. He informed me that he let the
young lady in at the gates shortly before five-thirty and she did not
go out again till she passed through in the motor on her way to Miss
Allen’s.”

“That tallies with what she and Mr. Leslie said at the inquest.”

“It does. Come to that, beggin’ your pardon, sir, I’ve known her
ladyship since she was so high and she wasn’t never one to tell a
crooked story. I’d take her word anywhere, and so would any one in
Keys. What I did, I had to do, in the way of duty, if you understand
me.”

Fayre nodded.

“Anything settled about the funeral?” he asked.

“The body’s to be moved to Hampshire, I understand. The family grave
is there and Miss Allen wished it. Very trying for Miss Allen, the
whole thing, though they do say she’s come into a bit of money as next
of kin, seeing as the deceased left no will.”

Gunnet departed, leaving Fayre with further food for reflection. He
was very thoughtful as he strolled through the little town, whiling
away the time until Grey should return from his visit to Leslie. By
the time the solicitor joined him, armed with the permit, he had
decided that, reluctant as he felt to do so, he would have to place
Miss Allen in his category of suspected persons.

They found the tramp, a small, grey, shrunken individual, neatly
tucked up in the accident ward of the infirmary with a cradle over his
injured leg. As a potential murderer Fayre found him disappointing. He
had already gathered from Gunnet that the police were inclined to
accept his statement that he was not at the farm at the time the crime
was committed. At the same time he seemed unable to produce a
satisfactory alibi. One thing was obvious, the man was scared, though
he tried to hide it under an assumption of indifference.

Grey questioned him closely as to his movements on the night of the
twenty-third. He admitted that he had intended to sleep at the farm
and described how he had looked through the window into the
sitting-room and been frightened away by what he had seen there. He
corroborated the statement of the juryman that he had left Whitbury
about four in the afternoon, arriving at the corner of the lane
leading to the farm at about five-thirty. According to his statement
he then rested for about an hour on the grass by the roadside, not
wishing to try the farm while any one was likely to be about in the
yard. He had then retraced his steps down the highroad, intending to
try his luck at the Lodge at Galston in the hope of begging some food.
Here, however, he was frightened away by the barking of a dog and
returned to the lane, this time going up to the farm. Finding no one
about, he made his way to the barn and crept into the loft, meaning to
stay the night there. He remained in the barn till about eight, when
he was driven out by hunger. Then it was that he made the discovery
that resulted in his abrupt departure from the neighbourhood of the
farm.

“It wasn’t likely I should stay there, after what I’d seen, now was
it?” he demanded indignantly.

“You might have informed the police,” suggested Grey.

“The police! Not me! Let them find out for themselves. It’s what
they’re paid for!”

“Then from five-thirty to six-thirty, according to your account, you
were lying in the grass at the corner of the lane,” said Grey,
consulting his notes.

“As true as I lie ’ere. I never went near the place till I went up to
the loft at seven or thereabouts.”

“No one saw you? You didn’t beg from any one while you were at the
corner of the lane and the highroad?”

“Not a soul come near me save a car or two. Not a soul that’d speak
for me. I ain’t got no luck, I ’aven’t. Never ’ad!” The little man’s
voice was bitter.

Fayre bent over him, struck by a sudden idea.

“Nothing turned up the lane to the farm while you were lying there,
did it?” he asked.

A gleam of suspicion crept into the tramp’s furtive eyes. He
distrusted everybody on principle, especially people who asked abrupt
questions, but he had not the courage or the intelligence to lie.

“There was one car,” he admitted cautiously. “They wouldn’t ’ave seen
me, though. It was dark and I was out of range of the lights.”

Grey took up the interrogation eagerly, speaking softly so that his
words should not reach the ears of the policeman sitting in the chair
by the window.

“Can you remember what the car was like? Was it too dark to see who
was in it?”

The little man looked at him with weary scorn. He was tired of being
on the defensive and wanted, above all things, to be left alone.

“Pitch-dark, it was, nearly. I couldn’t ’ave recognized the Prince of
Wales in all ’is feathers.”

“You’ve no idea of the colour of the car, or how many people were in
it?” persisted Grey.

“You can’t see no colours in the dark. There was two people in it,
though, unless one was the shofer. It come close to me, takin’ the
turn, and I see the two heads. I did think one was a woman, but I
don’t know why. It was pretty dark.”

“It went up to the farm, you say?”

“I don’t know where it went. How should I? It went up the lane, like I
told you.”

“What time was this?”

“Just before I went along the road to the Lodge. About an hour after I
lay down at the corner.”

“You are sure of the time, more or less?”

The tramp groaned.

“I don’t carry no watch, mister. Anyway, they couldn’t ’ave seen me,
so it don’t prove nothing, either way.”

Fayre hitched up his chair nearer to the bed, his friendly gaze on the
man’s face.

“I’ve been on trek myself without a watch,” he said cheerily, “and had
to go by the skies. It’s a gift in itself and I’ll wager you’re as
good a hand as any at calculating time. What time would you put it at,
now?”

The man observed him shrewdly for a moment. Then:

“Seein’ as you’re the first as ’as spoke to me friendlylike since I’ve
been ’ere I’ll tell you as near as may be. Gettin’ on for half-past
six, I should say it was.”

“And more likely right than a dozen watches. Can you remember if it
was a big car?”

The tramp nodded.

“Goin’ a lick of a pace, too. And what’s more, I see it again, goin’
back. And it was fair scorchin’ then.”

“Where was that?”

“On the road, just as I was comin’ away from that there Lodge.”

“Much later?”

“Twenty minutes or perhaps twenty-five, I’d put it.”

Fayre’s little bit of flattery had done its work and the man was now
anxious to show off his ability to reckon time.

“It was going fast, you say?”

“Dangerous fast, I should call it. If I’d been a bit nearer the corner
it’d ’ave caught me. As it was, it come near to smashin’ up a
farm-cart that was goin’ peaceable and quiet down the main road. The
carter didn’t ’alf ’ave something to say about it and I don’t blame
’im.”

“Too dark to see the farm-cart, I suppose? You wouldn’t know the
carter?”

“Wouldn’t reckernize ’im, though ’e passed me close a minute or two
later. The cart ’ad a white ’orse, though. I see that in the light of
the lamps. And I see the man in the car, too, when the light ’it ’im.
He was alone then.”

“You couldn’t identify him?” asked Fayre quickly.

But the man shook his head.

“I only see ’im for a second,” he said.

Fayre rose to his feet.

“We’ll look up that carter,” he said decisively. “After all, he may
have seen _you_ in the light of the lamps. If he did, you’ve got your
alibi. Good-by and good luck. I hope your leg’s mending.”

For the first time the man’s gloom lifted. Fayre’s friendliness was,
as usual, infectious and the tramp looked after him with something of
the wistfulness of a stray dog.

“Good luck to _you_, mister,” he croaked in his hoarse voice.

Back at the hotel Grey went carefully through his notes.

“Not a bad morning’s work, on the whole,” he said. “I shouldn’t wonder
if that car brought Mrs. Draycott.”

Fayre nodded thoughtfully.

“It looks like it. She was in thin evening slippers when they found
her and it struck me at the inquest that she could never have walked
that distance in them. And it went back without her and that poor
little beggar at the infirmary never grasped the importance of what
he’d seen. I wonder if the police got as much out of him as we did!”

Grey laughed.

“I’m willing to bet they didn’t. He’s a suspicious customer and
wouldn’t say more than he was obliged and he obviously didn’t think it
worth the telling. What about tackling the carter? It shouldn’t take
long to run him to earth, given the white horse and the collision.”

Fayre thought of Kean and the snubbing he had received at his hands
and hugged himself. Now, at last, he had a definite plan of action.

“I’ll tackle the carter,” he said gleefully, “and let you know how I
get on.”



Chapter VIII

Fayre and Grey lunched at the station hotel, where the solicitor had
booked a room for the night. From Fayre’s point of view, the meal was
more than satisfactory. Grey showed a keenness that was after his own
heart and proved not only ready to impart information, but anxious to
hear anything his companion might have to tell him that had any
bearing on the case. He suggested that Fayre should make a note of any
questions he wished put to Leslie and leave it in his hands. They
agreed to meet at lunch on the following day and report progress.

Fayre’s first act on parting with Grey was to hire a bicycle. It was a
ramshackle affair with dubious tires, but it was the best the Whitbury
dealer could provide, and at least it made Fayre independent of the
Staveley motor. Lord Staveley had put his garage at his guest’s
disposal and had begged him to consider himself free to come and go as
he pleased, but Fayre hesitated to take too great an advantage of his
kindness. With the help of the bicycle he could pursue his
investigations in peace, unhampered by the thought of a waiting
chauffeur.

Mounted on the hireling, he set out for Keys, the first stage on his
quest for the carter. It did not take him long to locate the village
smithy, and the two men at work there looked with considerable
curiosity at “the gentleman from Staveley” as he toiled past their
door on an obviously inferior push-bike. A little farther on, on the
opposite side of the road, was a small ironmonger’s shop. Here he
dismounted, propped the bicycle against the curb, and went in. A
dusty-looking old man emerged from behind the counter and Fayre
proffered his request. It appeared that the old man might or might not
have a pair of trouser-clips. He would see, but it was a long time
since he had been asked for any. While he was rummaging in a drawer,
Fayre strolled to the window. From it there was, as he hoped, an
excellent view of the smithy.

The trouser-clips materialized and Fayre explained that he had taken
up cycling again after a lapse of years for the sake of exercise, and
added the comment that he found the roads very different from what
they had been when he was last in England.

“I reckon you got to have your wits about you nowadays, sure enough,”
agreed the shopkeeper. “I mind the day when a man might walk five mile
round here and see nothing but a horse and cart, and a child could
play in the lanes and its mother not give it a thought. It’s a
different story now.”

“I suppose you get a lot of motors through here?”

“A goodish few. They got one of the red signs at the bend there, but
it’s little notice most of them takes of it.”

“I saw a narrow shave the other day on the other side of the village,”
remarked Fayre conversationally. “A big car, coming round the corner
too quickly, as nearly as anything ran down a farm-cart. I wonder the
carter didn’t summons him.”

“Went off too quick, I reckon. That’s their way. Main difficult to
catch, they are.”

“They were going too fast for me to see the number. I should know the
cart, though. You don’t often see a white horse, nowadays.”

The old man’s face lit up with the proverbial curiosity of the
villager.

“That’ll be George Sturrock’s cart, I’m thinking. There’s not a many
white horses round about here, as you say. Or it might be Mr. Giles,
the farmer over to Grantley. ’E got a white mare. In a fine way, ’e’d
be, if anything ’appened to ’er.”

“I expect you know most of the horses round here,” observed Fayre.
“Living where you do.”

The old man chuckled.

“Always one for ’orses, I was. They’ve mostly got their allotted days
for coming down to the farriers yonder. You wouldn’t believe ’ow I
notice if one of ’em misses. Them two white ones, I see ’em regular,
the mare on a Monday and the ’orse Saturday.”

“You’ll see one of them to-morrow, then,” said Fayre pleasantly.

“Saturday morning, regular as clockwork, ’e come. George ’as only got
the one carter and ’e brings the old ’orse down afore ’e goes to ’is
dinner.”

Fayre paid for the clips and strolled out of the shop, well satisfied
with his opening move. The storm of chaff that greeted him as, flushed
and breathless, he peddled up the drive to Staveley nearly an hour
later failed to disturb his equanimity. He said he needed exercise
and, as Lord Staveley sapiently remarked, he seemed to be getting it.

Certainly he was markedly stiff the next morning and it required a
certain amount of determination to unearth his steed once more from
the garage and climb painfully into the saddle. He was rewarded,
however, for March was going out gently indeed and the air was soft as
spring. As he coasted quietly down the long slope to Keys he found
himself wondering, for the hundredth time, at the beauty of England
and regretting the long years he had wasted in the tropics.

He dismounted at the end of the road that led to the smithy and
wheeled his bicycle slowly to the door. Here he paused and stood
watching the smiths at work, one of a group of interested idlers. Out
of the corner of his eye he kept a good lookout for the white horse.

He had been there about ten minutes when it came round the corner, led
by a lanky, brown-faced farm labourer. Fayre noted with satisfaction
that he did not belong to the heavy, bovine type so prevalent farther
south. Here was a true North-countryman with the shrewd grey eyes and
long upper lip of his kind.

Fayre moved aside to let him pass.

“I’ve seen you before, old fellow,” he remarked pleasantly, addressing
the horse.

The carter turned and summed him up silently.

“It was a bit dark and I didn’t get a good look at him,” Fayre went
on, speaking to the carter directly this time. “But he’s uncommonly
like the horse I saw on the Whitbury road about a week ago. If he was,
he’s lucky to be here now, that’s all I can say. There’s one motorist
near here that ought not to be allowed on the road.”

The carter flushed a deep red under his tan.

“It wasn’t no one round here or I’d ’a’ let him hear of it. It was
some damned stranger. I know the cars round here well enough. Ought to
be hung, comin’ round the corner like that, he ought!”

Fayre nodded.

“Lucky for me I hadn’t reached the bend,” he said. “I was walking
carelessly and he’d probably have got me. You didn’t take his number,
I suppose? A fellow like that deserves to be hauled up.”

“I got a bit of it,” the man answered grimly, “but he was off too fast
for me to catch the rest. _Y.0.7._ I did see, but I missed the rest of
the number. Likely enough one of them chaps from Carlisle.”

“Did he get you badly? I was too far off to see properly in the dark,
but it seemed to me that he caught you a bit of a smack.”

“It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t get us proper. Took a great
splinter off the tailboard. I’ll wager his mud-guard’s caught it.”

“That will give you something to go by if you see him again.
Especially if he took a bit of your paint with him.”

“Aye. He’ll have a touch of red on him, all right. But I don’t suppose
I’ll ever see him again. Likely he took the wrong turn up the lane and
had to come back and was makin’ up for lost time like. That’s the way
I figure it out.”

“No doubt. If I see him about anywhere, I’ll pass the word to you. He
was driving himself, wasn’t he? Or was there a chauffeur?”

“No, he was alone in the car. Joe Woodley, up to Mr. Sturrock’s, will
find me and I’d be glad to hear of him. He didn’t do no damage, not to
speak of, but that wasn’t his fault and I’d like to have my say with
him. On my right side, I was, and he can’t question it.”

The man moved forward into the smithy with the horse and Fayre
retrieved his bicycle and pursued his way to Whitbury. He had not
dared hope for so satisfactory an end to his investigations and was
anxious to see Grey and make his report. That the carter should have
noted even part of the number was an unlooked-for piece of good luck.
That and an injured mud-guard, probably with a smear of red paint on
it, was all they had to go on, but it was something, at least. If only
Miss Allen had been more intimate with her sister’s friends! Fayre
felt that to apply to her would be worse than useless, but, on the
impulse of the moment, he left the main road and swung round the bend
that led to Greycross. Once more his luck held, for, almost within
sight of the drive, he passed her, trudging sturdily along the road,
evidently on her way home to lunch.

He jumped off his bicycle and waited till she overtook him.

“I’m afraid you won’t remember me, Miss Allen,” he said. “But we drove
home from Whitbury together the other day.”

For a moment she looked puzzled, then her face relaxed in a pleasant
smile.

“Of course,” she exclaimed. “You were with Lady Cynthia and Sir Edward
Kean.”

“I’m an old friend of hers, though I hadn’t seen her for years till
the other day. I could wish we hadn’t renewed our acquaintance under
such sad circumstances.”

“Poor child, I’m afraid she’s in for a bad time. I wish it was over,
for all our sakes.”

“It is as hard on you as on her,” said Fayre sympathetically. “If you
will forgive my saying so, it was very kind of you to write to her as
you did.”

“It was the least I could do. I was as convinced then, as I am now,
that John Leslie had nothing to do with it and I felt it was my duty
to say so.”

“I wonder if I may ask you a question? Believe me, it is not from idle
curiosity.”

She looked both surprised and interested. “Certainly,” she said. “But
if it is about my sister, I am afraid I told Sir Edward all I knew
when he came to see me the other day.”

“Can you think of any one among your sister’s friends who drives a
large car with a touring body and who was likely to have been in this
part of the world on the night of the tragedy?”

She shook her head.

“The trouble is that I knew so few of my sister’s friends. I rarely go
up to town and she lived almost entirely in London, except when she
was abroad or visiting friends in the country. She had a very large
circle of acquaintances, but they were not people I should be likely
to meet down here. Why do you ask?”

She had hardly uttered the question when her own quick wits supplied
the answer.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, her voice sharp with interest, “You think she was
driven to the farm! I have known all along that she could never have
walked there.”

“You mean on account of her shoes?”

“Of course. I was surprised that no one at the inquest made any
comment on it. I couldn’t have walked that distance myself in thin
evening slippers, and I am a good walker. My sister was a very bad
one; she hated it. I have said from the beginning that I was sure she
had no intention when she started of going to the farm. But, of
course, if she expected to be driven there . . .”

“You are sure she never mentioned any friend with a car whom she
expected to meet in this neighbourhood?” persisted Fayre.

“Absolutely certain,” was the decisive answer. “As a matter of fact,
she hardly mentioned any of her own friends to me. We had not met for
a long time and most of our talk was about various relations and
acquaintances who belonged to the past. What had happened to them, and
that sort of thing. You know how one goes over ancient history at
those times. Besides, she knew I took very little interest in the
people among whom she moved latterly. I wish now I had taken more!”

“Did anybody see her leave the house?”

“One of the maids saw her, through the scullery window, going down the
drive. That was how I first knew she had gone out.”

“When was this, Miss Allen?”

“About six, I gather, but the girl was a little vague about the exact
time when I questioned her.”

“And when did you first hear of it?”

“About half-past six. I went back to the drawing-room when I had
finished my letters and did not find her there. The maid came in to
make up the fire and I asked her if she had seen her. I was astonished
to hear that she had gone out.”

Fayre held out his hand.

“It is more than good of you to have been so frank with me,” he said
gratefully. “You have cleared up one or two points that were puzzling
me. I am ashamed of myself for worrying you about such a painful
subject. My only excuse is that I am lunching with Leslie’s solicitor
and all is grist that comes to his mill just now.”

“I am only too glad to be of help. You must remember that I, too, have
my reasons for wishing to see this matter cleared up. Give my love to
Cynthia when you see her.”

Fayre rode on to Whitbury with one load, at least, off his mind. Miss
Allen, quite unconsciously, had cleared herself definitely of
suspicion. Just about the time Mrs. Draycott must have reached the
farm her sister was questioning the servant concerning her. With a
sigh of relief he wiped Miss Allen off his list of suspects.

He found Grey hungrily awaiting his lunch. While they were eating
Fayre gave him a brief account of his morning’s work.

“We haven’t done so badly,” he finished. “We have corroborated the
tramp’s story of the car and, what is more, got at least part of the
number. We know that the mud-guard was injured and is probably marked
with red paint. We have established the fact that there was only one
person, a man, in it when it returned and I see no reason to doubt the
tramp’s assertion that there were two people in it going. It looks
very much as if one of those people was Mrs. Draycott. Anyhow, it is
odd that the tramp should have had the impression that one was a
woman. He made the suggestion on his own, without any prompting from
us. Best of all, we have established the fact that Mrs. Draycott could
not, according to the maid at Miss Allen’s, have been shot before
six-thirty. The doctor has put it down as not later than seven. That
fits in, more or less, with the arrival and departure of the
mysterious car.”

Grey nodded.

“It’s straightening itself out a little,” he agreed. “But the car is a
tough proposition! That number, by the way, is a London one, as you
probably know, which widens our field considerably.”

“Miss Allen, also, is convinced that her sister never walked to the
farm.”

“I know. I gather that she emphasized that point in her interview with
Sir Edward. I have seen Leslie, by the way, and I put your questions
to him. His description of the scene at the farm after the arrival of
Gregg was very circumstantial. He told me one thing that rather struck
me.”

“Anything that bears on our friend the doctor?”

“Yes. It’s small, but interesting. Fortunately for us, Leslie has got
what is known as an oral memory. That is to say, he remembers things
he has heard more easily than things he has read. With most people it
is the other way round. He told me that, at school, he always had to
say a thing out loud before he could learn it. The result is that he
was able to repeat to me, almost word for word, everything that was
said in his presence that night. Of course, the peculiar circumstances
helped to impress it all on his memory. He shares your opinion of
Gregg. Thinks him a tough customer and inclined to be brutal, at any
rate in speech. This being the case, he was surprised at the emotion
Gregg showed at the sight of Mrs. Draycott’s body. He says it was
slight, but quite apparent, and would have been perfectly natural in a
layman. In Gregg, it struck him as curious. There was something
curious, also, in the wording of Gregg’s answer to the Sergeant when
he asked him if he had ever seen the deceased. Leslie says he thought
nothing of it at the time, but it remained in his memory and he is
certain that he has it correct.”

“I thought Gregg denied ever having met her.”

“His exact words were that she was no friend of his. The Sergeant,
very naturally, accepted it as a denial.”



Chapter IX

When Fayre got back to Staveley he found a tea-party in full swing and
spent the rest of the afternoon trying to escape from various
formidable old ladies, who picked his brains as tactfully as might be
as to the way Leslie’s affairs were shaping; how Cynthia was taking
the whole affair and whether Sir Edward Kean was likely to be briefed
for the defence. He put them off as best he could with noncommittal
answers and felt thankful, for Cynthia’s sake, that she had decided
earlier in the day to drive over to Galston and spend the afternoon at
home.

Lady Staveley, realizing that the girl was dreading her mother’s
comments on the situation, had been over the day before and persuaded
Lady Galston to let her keep Cynthia with her for the present.
Fortunately, that lady had not realized that Staveley was a stronghold
of the enemy and that Cynthia’s loyalty to the man she had promised to
marry would meet with nothing but encouragement there and was only too
glad to feel, as she artlessly put it, that Cynthia would be out of
mischief for a day or two.

The Staveleys had decided to wipe off two irksome duties in one day
and Fayre found himself let in for a big dinner-party of county
worthies. He was still stiff and tired from his unwonted exertions and
was heartily glad when the evening was over. He managed, however, to
glean a few facts about Gregg’s past from people who, on the arrival
of the “new doctor,” had made it their business to find out all about
him and who responded only too readily to his adroit questions. He
also discovered that the local vicar’s wife had known the Allens in
Hampshire in years gone by and had followed Mrs. Draycott’s career
from the beginning with considerable interest. In her capacity as
vicar’s wife she could not approve of her, but Fayre detected a touch
of envy in her voice as she recounted some of the episodes in the dead
woman’s chequered past. According to her, Mrs. Draycott had managed to
“have a good time,” as she expressed it, from the moment she left the
schoolroom and, at one time, in spite of her divorce from her first
husband, had moved in a smart, but quite reputable, set in London. Of
late years, however, she had undoubtedly gone down in the social
scale. The Dare Divorce Suit had done her reputation irretrievable
damage and she spent most of her time abroad when she was not staying
with people who, for old times’ sake or because they were less
squeamish than the rest, were still willing to ask her to their
houses. Lady Staveley’s invitation, he gathered, had been the result
of a large charity entertainment in which they had both been involved
and in connection with which Mrs. Draycott had made herself very
useful. Unfortunately, when it came to her associates in the last few
years, the vicar’s wife proved a broken reed. She knew as little as
Miss Allen of the set in which Mrs. Draycott had been moving when she
died.

Gregg’s record, allowing for certain embroideries at the hands of the
local gossips, proved slightly more enlightening. He had arrived in
the neighbourhood about three years before, having come straight from
a large, but very poor, practice in London. His predecessor, from whom
he had bought his present practice, was retiring, after a long and
popular career, and, having weathered a short period of unpopularity
due to his brusque manner, Gregg stepped into his shoes as a matter of
course. Of his skill there was no question, and, according to Fayre’s
informants, he hid a kind heart under a rough exterior. He was
unmarried and lived alone, his women-folk being a cook-housekeeper and
a maid. He kept one car, which was looked after by the cook’s husband,
who combined the duties of chauffeur and gardener. He had the
reputation of being a good bridge player, but cared little for society
and was not often to be seen at the local entertainments.

On one point Fayre’s informants were unanimous: that never, at any
time, could he have been a lady’s man, and the general opinion was
that he had once suffered at the hands of a woman. Certainly, his
opinion of the sex was unflatteringly small and he made no secret of
his views. Fayre began to modify the conclusions he had drawn from
Gregg’s antagonistic attitude towards Mrs. Draycott; in the light of
what he had just heard, it seemed a fairly natural one.

Cynthia returned just as the party was dispersing and slipped up to
her room, so that he had no opportunity of speaking to her that
evening. He sent a message by Lady Staveley to the effect that Grey
had seen Leslie that morning and that he had found him well and
cheerful, and then went to bed himself, feeling more tired than he had
been for many a long day.

The fine weather held and the next morning he basely turned a deaf ear
to the bells of the little church at Keys and, having seen the
Staveleys off to the pursuance of their Sunday duties, went in search
of his fellow-truants, Lady Kean and Cynthia. He found them, wrapped
in furs, in a sunny corner of the terrace.

Cynthia greeted him eagerly.

“I very nearly came to your room and heaved you out of bed, Uncle
Fayre, last night,” she exclaimed. “I did so want to know what you’d
been up to. Only Eve said you were too tired. She declared you’d been
bicycling!”

Fayre laughed outright at the horror of her tone.

“Why not?” he retorted. “When I left England all the best people
bicycled and it seemed to me as good a way to get exercise as any. It
never occurred to me that it would make such a sensation. Even the
villagers look at me as if I’d suddenly gone mad!”

“You probably have,” said Cynthia severely. “If you’ve really started
careering about the country on a push-bike.”

“Anyhow, I careered to some purpose. For one thing, Grey and I have
pretty well established the fact that Mrs. Draycott was taken to the
farm by some one in a car and that person was actually seen leaving,
alone, after the murder.”

He had made his point as effectively as a good actor, and his audience
responded to the full. Even Sybil Kean’s habitual languor deserted her
and she leaned forward in her chair, her fine eyes alight with
interest.

“Am I on in this scene?” she asked almost eagerly. “Or must I do the
correct and tactful thing and drift away down the terrace as if I
hadn’t heard a word of what you’ve just said? I expect you do want to
talk to Cynthia alone.”

Cynthia turned on her indignantly.

“We want you, don’t we, Uncle Fayre?”

“Of course. I was counting on your advice. For one thing, you must
have a closer acquaintance with the person I want to discuss, than any
one else in this house.”

For a moment she looked puzzled. Then:

“Dr. Gregg?” she said quietly.

“How did you know? There are times when you’re uncanny, Sybil.”

“There’s nothing uncanny about this. I’ll tell you later, but get on
with your story first. It’s brutal to keep us in suspense.”

“Begin at the very beginning, Uncle Fayre. And, please, what did Mr.
Grey say, exactly, about John? Was he really cheerful and is he
desperately uncomfortable?”

Fayre told her all he had been able to gather from Grey.

“He’s going to try to get you an interview again next week. It’s a bit
of a strain for you, my dear, I’m afraid, but it means a lot to
Leslie.”

Cynthia’s almost boyish youth seemed to fall from her like a garment
and Fayre, watching her, had a sudden vision of what a charming woman
she would make in the days to come.

Sybil Kean looked meaningly across at him.

“Get on with your story, Hatter,” she said gently, and he knew that
she did not want the girl’s emotions played on at this juncture.

He told them in as few words as possible of the tramp’s disclosures
and his own subsequent investigations.

“The probability is,” he finished, “that Mrs. Draycott was picked up
at the bottom of the lane leading to Greycross—whether by appointment
or not we do not know—and driven to the farm. Why she was taken to the
farm is a mystery, unless it was part of a deliberate attempt to cast
suspicion on Leslie. It certainly looks as if there was an appointment
and she left Greycross to keep it. She was hardly the kind of woman to
go for a stroll on a cold, windy night in such unsuitable clothing.”

“It was a queer kind of appointment if she did not tell her sister
about it,” said Sybil Kean thoughtfully.

“It may have been with one of the many friends of whom she knew her
sister would disapprove. In fact, that’s pretty obvious, or she’d have
asked him to the house instead of slipping out to meet him.”

“I suppose Miss Allen can’t suggest anybody?” put in Cynthia.

“Useless. I’ve asked her. She did her best—and sent a lot of messages
to you, by the way, Cynthia—but she says she knows very little of her
sister’s friends. I gather they weren’t a very reputable lot.”

“Somebody else may have seen the car,” suggested Cynthia.

“There’s always a bare chance,” agreed Fayre. “If our luck holds we
may come across some one. You mustn’t forget that the tramp’s not out
of the reckoning yet. He admits to being in the immediate
neighbourhood of the farm at the time the crime was committed and
we’ve no proof that he wasn’t actually present.”

“What he said fitted in very well with the carter’s story, though.”

“It did, but that doesn’t alter the fact that he might have been
actually _at_ the farm when he saw the car the first time. We’ve only
his word for it that he was at the corner of the lane. Personally, I
don’t think he’s got brains enough to invent such an ingenious defence
or enough pluck to commit a murder; but one never knows. A timid man
sometimes kills in a moment of panic, from sheer fright at being
discovered. We can’t afford to rule him out yet. Mrs. Draycott may
have gone to the farm on her own account and been surprised there by
the tramp; and he, in his turn, may have been surprised by the arrival
of the man in the car and have killed her to stop her mouth.”

“But there were two people in the car, going, and only one coming
back.”

“Remember, that’s according to the tramp himself. He’s the only person
who saw the car the first time.”

“Then we get back to the original problem,” said Sybil Kean. “Why did
Mrs. Draycott go to the farm at all?”

Fayre nodded.

“That’s the real snag,” he agreed. “Still, I can’t help thinking that
it all points to an appointment, probably with the driver of the car.
Given that the tramp killed her, the man with the car may have kept
his appointment, found her dead and cleared off, hence his haste.”

“And where does Dr. Gregg come into all this?” asked Sybil Kean.

“On very flimsy grounds at present, I’m glad to say, for the sake of
your peace of mind! I can imagine it would be a little disquieting to
find you’d got a murderer as your medical attendant!”

Sybil Kean smiled lazily.

“Poor Dr. Gregg! He is rather a bear, on the surface, but you’d be
surprised how gentle he can be. You’ve got to be ill to see the best
side of him. He’s not cold-blooded enough for a murderer.”

Fayre looked at her in surprise.

“Then what made you pitch on him as the person in whom I was
interested? You said there was a reason.”

“A very vague one. And I may be absolutely mistaken. It was more an
impression I had.”

“Let’s have it, anyway; then I’ll tell you what’s been worrying me. We
may make something of it between us.”

“It was really Mrs. Draycott. As soon as she heard his name she did
nothing but ask questions about him. When he came here; where he came
from; what was he like, and that sort of thing. I may have been wrong,
but I had a distinct impression that she had met him before.”

“Why didn’t she see for herself? She had plenty of opportunities. He
came two or three times while she was staying here, didn’t he?”

“That was the funny thing. I don’t believe she wanted to meet him. As
a matter of fact, I chaffed her about her curiosity and suggested she
should stroll casually into my room and have a look at him. She
laughed and seemed quite ready to fall in with the idea, but she never
came.”

“Did you ever tackle him on the subject?”

“Yes. On one occasion, I asked him point-blank if he had ever met her.
He laughed and said that, unless she had ever been addicted to
slumming, she was the last person he was likely to meet. All the same,
I had an odd conviction that they had come across each other at some
time or other and that neither was anxious to renew the acquaintance.
Of course, I’ve nothing to go on but my own very vague impressions.
That and the fact that I see more of him than most of the people here
made me suspect that you had him in your mind.”

“It’s funny how it fits in with what I was going to tell you. My
suspicions were roused in very much the same way. When he drove me to
the station to meet Grey we discussed Mrs. Draycott and he seemed
quite extraordinarily bitter against her, considering they had never
met. Also, he struck me as knowing a good deal about her, nothing that
gossip and newspaper reports would not account for, but enough to show
that he had followed her career with considerable interest.
Unfortunately I said something that put him on his guard and he shut
up like a clam. Mine, like yours, was only a vague impression, but,
oddly enough, Leslie seems to have been struck by the same idea. It’s
only fair to say, though, that Leslie may have been influenced by
certain leading questions Grey put to him at my request.”

“What roused John’s suspicions?” asked Cynthia.

“Gregg’s manner when he was called to view the body. Also, according
to him, Gregg did not actually deny having met Mrs. Draycott when he
was questioned by the police. He said, apparently, that she was ‘no
friend of his’ and the police naturally took it to mean that he did
not know her. It may have been merely his way of putting it. We’ve
none of us really got anything to go on.”

“Also, if he’s got anything to hide, he’s giving himself away rather
stupidly, isn’t he?” suggested Sybil Kean.

“He’s apparently being criminally careless and he’s not a stupid man.
I admit to being puzzled by him, he’s such a queer mixture of
bluntness and reserve.”

“And so you want me to do a little Sherlock Holmes work while he’s
taking my temperature! Cynthia can play Watson! Joking apart, though,
I like Dr. Gregg and I can’t believe he’s got any real connection with
the murder. He’s a much better sort than people think.”

“Probably,” said Fayre. “Though I don’t care for the chap myself. But
it doesn’t follow that he mayn’t have a shrewd idea who did commit the
murder and be shielding him for some reason of his own.”

Sybil Kean laughed.

“Edward would say we were a lot of old women, with our impressions and
deductions. Still, considering the paucity of clues, it seems a pity
to disregard anything.”

“_Y.0.7._” admitted Fayre ruefully. “It’s not much to go on.”

Sybil Kean looked up quickly.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“All we have got of the number of the car. That and a stylographic pen
that might have been lying in the grass for ages.”

“A pen!” exclaimed Cynthia. “This is quite new. You’ve been keeping it
up your sleeve all this time, Uncle Fayre!”

“Didn’t Edward tell you? I suppose he hadn’t time. I picked up a red
stylographic pen—a ‘Red Dwarf,’ I think they used to be called—by the
gate the first time we went to the farm. The day we were there with
you and Leslie. As I say, it may have been there for ages or, more
probably still, was dropped by one of the reporters after the murder.
I know he didn’t consider it of much importance.”

Sybil Kean rose to her feet.

“I must leave you, my children,” she said regretfully. “If I don’t go
and rest, that sinister man, Gregg, will have my blood. If Hatter
comes out with any more interesting revelations, mind you report to
me, Cynthia.”

She moved slowly towards the house. Cynthia looked after her with a
little frown of mingled pity and anxiety.

“She doesn’t seem to get any better,” she said. “I hope we haven’t
tired her. She looked all in, just now.”

“I wonder what Gregg’s opinion really is . . .” began Fayre; then
broke off with a sudden exclamation and sprang to his feet.

But he was too late. Sybil Kean had wavered for a moment, recovered
herself, and then, before he or Cynthia could reach her, sunk in a
huddled heap by the door leading from the terrace to the drawing-room.

Cynthia was by her side in an instant.

“Ring for her maid, quick!” she commanded. “And then get Dr. Gregg on
the telephone. It’s her heart again!”

Fortunately the maid proved efficient and, while Fayre was ringing up
the doctor, she and Cynthia got the unconscious woman to bed between
them. Gregg was not at his house, but at the Cottage Hospital, where
Fayre eventually ran him to earth and managed to get him on the end of
the telephone. He promised to come at once and Fayre was waiting
impatiently in the hall for his arrival when Cynthia joined him,
looking worried and anxious.

“She’s still unconscious,” she said. “Her maid’s splendid—she seems to
know exactly what to do; but I wish Dr. Gregg would come!”

“Do you think all that stuff about Gregg could have upset her?” asked
Fayre, his conscience smiting him. “I could kick myself for being such
a fool. After all, she’s entirely dependent on him while she’s here.”

Cynthia laid a reassuring hand on his arm.

“Nonsense, Uncle Fayre! Sybil’s got much too much sense for that.
You’re not to blame. She gets attacks like this and they’ve been
getting worse, her maid says. Probably the dinner-party last night
knocked her up. It was pretty awful, according to Eve.”

Gregg arrived sooner than they had dared hope. He was upstairs for a
long time and Fayre hung about miserably, wishing most heartily that
the Staveleys would return from church, for Eve Staveley was one of
those cheerfully competent people who are invaluable in a case of
illness. He waylaid Gregg on his way out.

“She’ll do,” was his verdict in answer to Fayre’s inquiry. “But she
won’t weather many more attacks like this. Each one is a fresh drain
on her vitality. Blast that dinner-party!”

“You think that did it?”

“Sure. A stuffy dining-room and the effort of talking to a lot of
stodgy people would be quite enough.” Fayre looked him squarely in the
eyes.

“Is she going to get any stronger?” he asked. “I’m one of the oldest
friends they’ve got and I’d like to know how things really are.”

Gregg shrugged his shoulders.

“The machine’s worn out,” he said. “We can patch it, of course, but
every time we do, it becomes a bit weaker. Heart’s always the devil,
you know. I wish I could speak differently,” he went on with a touch
of real feeling in his voice. “She’s one of the best and pluckiest
patients I’ve ever had.”

“Can nothing be done?”

Gregg shook his head.

“She couldn’t be in the hands of a better man than Sir Victor, if
that’s what you mean. No one in Europe can beat him in his own line. I
know, because I worked under him at St. Swithin’s. He’ll do all that’s
humanly possible. I must get back to the hospital. You can get me
there or at home for the next few hours, but you probably won’t need
me. With rest and care she should do all right now. I’ll drop in again
this evening.”

He hurried away, leaving Fayre to make the most of the small comfort
he had given him.

He proved right. By that evening Sybil Kean was noticeably better and
Fayre was able to fix his mind once more on his own, or rather
Leslie’s, affairs. As far as the tracing of the car was concerned,
that was best left in Grey’s hands and, in default of a better job, he
decided to turn his attention to Gregg. The doctor had mentioned St.
Swithin’s and, for some reason he could not place, the name roused an
illusive echo in his mind. For a long time he searched his memory in
vain and it was not till he was in the act of getting into bed that he
suddenly traced the connection. One Henderson, a man he had known well
in his student days in London, had been at St. Swithin’s. He did not
know Gregg’s age, but, from the look of him, they must have been
contemporaries, more or less. It would do no harm to look the man up
and ask him a few questions. In any case, he had been one of the many
people he had meant to run to earth on his return to England and now,
provided he was not in the Antipodes, would be as good a time as any.
He made up his mind to get hold of a medical directory and write to
Henderson at the first opportunity.



Chapter X

Next morning the report of Lady Kean was reassuring and Fayre felt at
liberty to devote himself to his own business.

Immediately after breakfast he betook himself to the library in the
vain hope of finding a medical directory. A brief survey of the rows
of calf-bound volumes convinced him that his search was vain and he
was obliged to fall back on the telephone-book. Here, rather, to his
surprise, he found what he was looking for.

“_L. S. P. Henderson, M.D. 24.a. Selkirk Road. Carlisle._”

He scribbled the address and telephone number on the back of an old
envelope, reflecting that, once more, his luck was in. He had not only
found his man, but found him at Carlisle, of all convenient places.
Things could not have fallen better to his hand. There was nothing to
prevent his running over to Carlisle that morning and it struck him
that, while he was about it, he might call at one or two of the big
garages and try to find out if they had housed a car answering to the
description of the one seen near the farm. Given the London number, it
was on the cards that the man had made a bolt for the south in his
flight from the scene of the murder. Unless he made an all-night job
of it he would probably break the journey at Carlisle. At any rate, it
would be worth trying.

His next step was to telephone. Here again he was fortunate, for
Henderson himself answered the call. He was enthusiastic when he
discovered Fayre at the other end of the line and pinned him down then
and there for lunch at his house.

Lord Staveley, as soon as he heard his plans, insisted on his
commandeering one of the cars for the day and by twelve o’clock he was
in Carlisle. He chose a busy garage near the station as a likely place
to start his inquiries.

He found the manager in the office and, on the plea that he was acting
for a farmer whose cart had been run into on the evening of March the
twenty-third, ascertained that no car answering to the very meagre
description he was able to give had been garaged there on the night in
question. He drew as complete a blank at three other garages he
visited and was compelled at last to give up the quest in despair. In
one case he did hit on a car with _Y.0.7._ as the beginning of the
registered number, but the owner was well known to the garage
proprietor and the car had been in his keeping for a week prior to the
day of the murder and, to his knowledge, had not been outside the
garage during that time.

Rather disheartened, he drove on to Henderson’s and found the doctor
and his wife awaiting him. They gave him a welcome that more than made
up for his unsuccessful morning. Henderson, a huge, burly man with the
strength of an ox and the gentlest of bedside manners, had married in
the interval and was evidently immensely proud of his tiny, very
capable-looking Scotch wife. They entertained Fayre lavishly and, so
infectious was their open-hearted friendliness, that, by the time
lunch was over, he felt as though the intervening years had vanished
like a dream and that he was back again in his old student days.
Henderson was able to give him news of several old friends he had lost
sight of and they were so deeply engaged in discussing the past that
it was not until they were settled with their pipes beside the fire in
the doctor’s study that Fayre found an opportunity to bring up the
subject of Gregg.

Henderson recognized the name at once as that of a man he had known
fairly well at St. Swithin’s and was interested to learn what had
become of him.

“Very able chap, he was, but a bit of a roughneck. He was very raw
when he first arrived, I remember, and had to put up with a good deal
of chaff. Came from somewhere in the North, I believe, and had got
most of his training from an old local doctor who took an interest in
the boy. Apart from that he was mostly self-educated. Correspondence
schools and that sort of thing. Rather an interesting fellow, in his
way.”

“Did you see anything of him after he left?”

“Lost sight of him entirely. I’ve a sort of idea that I heard a rumour
at one time that he had a practise somewhere in London, but I’m rather
hazy.”

“Do you remember at all who his associates were at the hospital? I’ve
an idea that he knew some one I’m interested in and I don’t care to
ask him point-blank.”

“His great pal was a man named Baxter. They used to go about a good
deal with a couple of nurses, one of whom was by way of being engaged
to Baxter. I remember that because there was a certain amount of talk
about it. The girl had the reputation of being hot stuff and Baxter
was supposed to be making rather a fool of himself over her. It’s
extraordinary how it all comes back when one starts talking about old
times. There was a St. Swithin’s man here the other day and we began
gassing and, I give you my word, I felt at the end as if it was
yesterday that we were there together. We were talking about Baxter,
among other things, so that he’s fairly fresh in my memory.”

“What happened to him?”

“According to Parry, the fellow who was here the other day, he married
the girl and the thing proved a ghastly failure. Parry said he
believed he was dead. Gregg would know, though; they were very thick
with each other.”

“You don’t remember the names of the two girls? They may have been
friends of the person I’m after.”

Henderson shook his head.

“I haven’t the remotest idea. They were pretty girls, I remember. The
sort that take up nursing to get away from home and have a bit of
fun.”

Mrs. Henderson, who had been busy over the coffeepot, looked up
suddenly.

“If you’re wanting information about any of the nurses at St.
Swithin’s, why not go to Ella Benson?” she suggested.

Her husband brought his hand down on the arm of his chair with a whack
which made the dust fly.

“By Jove, she’s right! Mrs. Benson’s a friend of my wife’s and lives a
few doors up this street. She was a nurse at St. Swithin’s and she’s
up in all the gossip of her day. She’s probably at home now.”

“I’ll stroll along and see when I’ve finished this,” said his wife.
“She often drops in after lunch. Her husband’s a surgeon and we see a
good deal of them, one way and another. She’s a decent little body.”

“Since when have you taken an interest in the medical profession?”
asked Henderson lazily, his shrewd eyes on his friend.

Fayre laughed rather guiltily.

“It’s curiosity, mostly, about Gregg. He’s a queer stick and when he
flatly denied having met some one I’m pretty sure used to know him in
the past, it was too much for my inquisitive mind. I remembered that
you were a St. Swithin’s man and thought I’d sound you when I saw you.
It’s not important. The truth is, that I haven’t got enough to do,
nowadays, and I’m developing into a confirmed busybody.”

Henderson grinned.

“Very good,” he said appreciatively. “As far as it goes. But you
weren’t in the habit of doing things without a reason in the old days
and you don’t look as if you’d changed much.”

Fayre felt himself redden.

“Confound you!” he said. “To be frank, it isn’t all curiosity, but
I’ve got so little to go on that I’d rather not say anything yet.”

“Right,” was Henderson’s good-tempered answer. “That’s good enough for
me, but what are we going to say to Mrs. Benson? She’s a lady with a
very efficient tongue and not particularly lacking in imagination!”

“Why not leave Gregg out of it? Put it that I knew Baxter years ago
and want to find out what has become of him. That ought to be enough
to lead her onto the girls.”

“Ella won’t want much leading, if it’s a question of St. Swithin’s,”
remarked Mrs. Henderson, as she finished pouring out the coffee. She
rose and slipped out of the room before Fayre could apologize for the
trouble he was giving her.

“What’s your program now?” asked Henderson.

“You’ll find vegetation a bit of a bore, won’t you?” Fayre settled
himself luxuriously in his chair.

“I don’t know about that. I’ve done my share of hard work and had one
go of fever too many and I shan’t be sorry to settle down. I shall
loaf round for a bit, looking up old friends and that sort of thing,
and then take a little place in the country with a spare bedroom or
two and a bit of fishing. I might perpetrate a book. Like most of us
who’ve been in the East, I’ve got ideas I shouldn’t mind airing.”

They chatted desultorily until Mrs. Henderson came back with Mrs.
Benson, a plump, voluble little woman who seemed only too pleased to
find a fresh audience for her reminiscences.

“It’s funny you should mention Baxter,” she said as she settled
herself comfortably by the fire. “I turned up an old photograph of him
only yesterday in a group taken just before I left the hospital. I’m
afraid he made a mess of things, poor fellow.”

“Do you know if he’s alive? Henderson seems to think that he died.”

“He went to pieces after his wife left him. He took to drink, I
believe, and ended by drinking himself to death. He was a fool ever to
have married her.”

“There was a certain amount of gossip, I hear, over that affair.”

“Gossip about her. She was a bad lot from the beginning. We nurses
knew a thing or two, both about her and her great friend, a girl
called Philips. They and Baxter and a man called Gregg were always
about together and they got themselves a good deal talked about. We
were all surprised when Baxter married her, not on his account, he was
dotty about her, but because we all thought she was after bigger game.
She was the sort of girl who’s set on making a good marriage and
generally succeeds in the end, too. Usually, she hooks a rich patient
after she’s left the hospital, and both she and the Philips girl were
clever enough to do it.”

“Was Gregg in love with either of them?” asked Fayre.

“I shouldn’t think so. He amused himself with Philips all right, but
he wasn’t taken in by her. He was dead against Baxter’s marriage, I
know, and did his best to stop it. He wasn’t a bad sort, old Gregg. He
was surly and bad-tempered, but we liked working with him.”

“What happened to Mrs. Baxter after she left her husband, do you
know?”

“I’ve no idea. He divorced her in the end, I’ve been told. She was the
sort to fall on her feet.”

“What was her name before she married? It’s funny I never heard it,
but most of this happened after I had left England,” explained Fayre,
carefully avoiding Henderson’s malicious eye.

“Tina Allen,” answered Mrs. Benson. “She came of quite good stock, I
believe. I heard once that her people were pretty sick at her taking
up nursing at all.”

For a moment Fayre was bereft of speech and, when he did speak, he
controlled his voice with difficulty. That Mrs. Draycott should have
started her career as a nurse at St. Swithin’s was the last thing he
had suspected.

“She knew this man Gregg well, you say,” he asked at last.

“Must have. The four of them were always about together. I don’t think
he liked her much, though. As I said, he did his best to stop her
marriage.”

“You didn’t keep up with any of them after you left, I suppose?”

She shook her head.

“I married, myself, and came up here. I used to get news of all the
old lot from time to time, from a friend who stayed on at the
hospital. There were some funny goings on there, I can tell you!”

She rambled on, but the flood of her reminiscences rolled over Fayre’s
head unheeded. He sat smoking, his thoughtful eyes fixed on the
glowing fire, his mind full of Mrs. Benson’s last revelation.
“Christina Mary Draycott.” The name had been given in full at the
inquest. And Miss Allen had spoken of her sister as “Tina.” The
vicar’s wife had alluded to her divorce from her first husband, but
had not mentioned his name. Tina Allen, then Tina Baxter, and finally
Tina Draycott! The whole thing fitted in with the precision of the
pieces in a jigsaw-puzzle. Not only was her connection with Gregg
explained at last, but his obvious venom was more than accounted for.
And there was nothing surprising now in her curiosity concerning him,
followed by her odd reluctance to meet him. Supposing they _had_ come
together at the farm that night! He could imagine what that meeting
would be like and what it might lead to, given a man of Gregg’s
temperament. He collected his scattered thoughts with an effort and
turned to Mrs. Benson, who had paused for a moment for sheer want of
breath.

“Would it be giving you too much trouble if I asked for a look at that
photograph you spoke of?” he asked. “I’d like to see one of Baxter
again.”

Mrs. Benson beat even her own record as a purveyor of information.

“I’ve got it here!” she announced triumphantly. “When I heard that you
were an old friend of Baxter’s I said to myself: ‘I expect that
photograph will amuse him.’ It was lying on my table where I put it
yesterday, so I just picked it up and brought it with me.”

She fumbled in her bag and produced a photograph which she handed to
Fayre. He looked at it eagerly and was at once confronted with an
unforeseen difficulty. Gregg he spotted at once, younger and a trifle
leaner, but unmistakable. He was sitting in the front row of a group
of about fifteen men. Any one of the other fourteen might have been
Baxter, for all Fayre knew. But which? And he did not dare ask!

It was Henderson who came to the rescue. He had risen and was leaning
over the back of Fayre’s chair, studying the photograph, and he
grasped the situation almost immediately. Out of sheer devilry he
allowed Fayre to sit for some minutes helpless, glowering at Gregg’s
not very pleasing features, racking his brains for a way out of the
difficulty, before he placed a finger on the portrait of a dark,
rather haggard-looking man at the end of the front row and remarked
lazily:

“Baxter looks as if he’d been making a night of it! It’s very like
him, though.”

“He was always a queer, nervous creature. But he was clever enough. I
know they thought a lot of him at St. Swithin’s,” rattled on the
unsuspecting Mrs. Benson.

Fayre was busy studying the photograph. The figures in the group were
small, but very clearly defined, and Baxter’s head stood out
distinctly against the white overall of the man behind him. Fayre
could place his type at a glance. Very dark, with a high, narrow
forehead and deep-set eyes and the too sensitive mouth of a man whose
nerves are perilously near the surface. The kind to fare badly at the
hands of a woman like Mrs. Draycott. No wonder the marriage had ended
in tragedy, he thought, and was not surprised that Gregg had done his
best to spare his friend.

He returned the photograph to Mrs. Benson with a sigh. He could
understand and sympathize now with many of the things Gregg had said
during their drive to the station. He felt a sudden, rather
disconcerting, sympathy for the man and was not sorry when Mrs. Benson
took herself off and gave him an opportunity to get away himself. He
wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

By tea-time he was back at Staveley. During the drive he had had ample
time for reflection, but it had not helped him much. He was still very
much at sea as to his next move and realized that it would need
considerable diplomacy to discover Gregg’s whereabouts at the time of
the murder without rousing his suspicions. And, keen as he was to
clear Leslie, he now found himself almost dreading the answer to his
thoughts.

Bill Staveley met him with the news that Leslie had appeared before
the Magistrate and been committed for trial at the Carlisle Assizes.



Chapter XI

Fayre was only half-way through his first cup of tea when Cynthia
cornered him.

“You look hipped, Uncle Fayre,” she said, her sharp eyes on his face.
“Didn’t you like your old friend when you did find him? Or are you
just fed up?”

He shook himself out of his abstraction.

“My old friend was excellent company, thank you, and very much his old
self, plus a jolly little wife. But I do feel a bit weary. Too much
bicycling, no doubt!” But Cynthia resolutely ignored the red herring
so adroitly drawn across her path.

“It isn’t anything new about John, is it?” she asked with a note of
real terror in her voice. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“My dear, of course not! Honestly, it’s only the after-effects of the
Hendersons’ overpowering hospitality. They gave me the most enormous
lunch and made me eat it, too. How have things been going here?”

“You’re sure it’s nothing else?” she urged doubtfully. “You wouldn’t
keep anything from me from a mistaken idea of kindness, would you,
Uncle Fayre?” Fayre’s eyes met hers with the blandest innocence. He
could not take her into his confidence yet. Time enough when his
suspicions were verified.

“The moment I discover anything definite, either for or against
Leslie, I shall bring it to you, my dear,” he said with complete
sincerity. “You’ve got a right to know before any one else.”

“Thank you,” she answered simply. Then, with a return to her usual
manner: “Sybil’s much better. Dr. Gregg was here this afternoon and he
says she may see people, in reason, if they don’t stay too long. But
she’s not to be excited, so don’t let her talk about Leslie’s affairs,
Uncle Fayre.”

“I won’t, if I can possibly help it,” promised Fayre with all his
heart. The last thing he wanted, at this juncture, was to share his
knowledge with Sybil Kean. He could not forget that, at any moment,
her life might be in Gregg’s hands and, so long as she was dependent
on him, he resolved to do nothing to shake her confidence in him.

“She’s anxious to see you,” went on Cynthia. “But Eve and Bill have
both been with her and they think she’s had enough people for to-day.
She wants to see you first thing to-morrow, though, and I’m afraid she
means to go on with what we were saying on the day she was taken ill.”

“She’s a wilful woman, too,” he said ruefully. “She’ll probably have
her way. I’m no match for her.”

Cynthia laughed.

“You old fraud! Even I have seen you twiddle people round your finger
before now. As for shutting up, you’re like a clam when you choose!”

After tea Fayre joined his host in the library.

“I feel I owe you both thanks and an apology,” he said slowly, as he
filled his pipe. “You’ve been a brick over this business, Bill. You’ve
let me have the car at all hours, and use your house like a hotel and
you’ve never asked what I’m up to or even when I’m going! You must
want to know that, I should think, by now!” Bill Staveley chucked a
box of matches over to Fayre, who caught it neatly.

“That’s the third! You’ve got two boxes of mine in your pocket now,”
he murmured. “I saw them go in.”

Then, as Fayre turned out his pockets and sheepishly revealed three
boxes of matches, he went on:

“Don’t be an old ass, old man, and stop handing round compliments. I
like watching you trotting about, so happy and busy! As for asking
questions, I never believe in butting in on other people’s affairs. So
long as I know you’re on the job, I’m satisfied. And stay as long as
you like. If you don’t know how Eve and I feel about that, I’m not
going to indulge your vanity by telling you!”

“It’s something to know that I’ve got you both behind me,” said Fayre
soberly.

“You can count on that, old chap.”

Bill Staveley had abandoned his usual easy banter and spoke seriously
enough now.

“Personally, I’d put my shirt on that boy’s innocence, and I know Eve
feels the same. Tell us as much or as little as you like; we don’t
care provided you clear him. And if any one can do it, I believe it’s
you. Only, if you’ve got any nefarious schemes up your sleeve,
remember that I’m a J. P. and keep them to yourself. I don’t want to
know anything about them!” Fayre chuckled.

“I must say, you’re a tophole-hogger! When I fall into the hands of
the worthy Gunnet, I suppose you’ll turn up looking as if butter
wouldn’t melt in your mouth and bail me out! If it’s any comfort to
you, I’m not contemplating anything of the sort at present. Cynthia
may have told you that we’ve got hold of a couple of clues, but they
may lead to nothing. Sometimes I think it’s a hopeless business. The
only thing I do feel sure of is Leslie’s innocence.”

Lord Staveley nodded.

“Same here, and if he is innocent it ought to be possible to prove it.
Has any one thought of digging up that beastly cat?”

For a moment Fayre was puzzled; then his face cleared.

“The one Leslie shot? It appears that it was there, all right.
According to Grey, Gunnet went off and did a bit of sleuthing of his
own and he found the place and dug the cat up. Unfortunately it wasn’t
labelled like a pheasant with the day on which it had been killed and
though I suppose they’ll use it in the defence, it won’t cut much ice
with a jury. We want something more tangible than that.”

“What you want is to produce the murderer, old man. That’s your best
defence and I don’t see why you shouldn’t do it if you’re anything
like the sticker you used to be.”

Fayre’s interview with Lady Kean the next morning proved far less
easy. He found her lying on the sofa in her bedroom, looking pitifully
frail and white. She was much weaker than she chose to admit and, at
the first sight of her, he made up his mind to cut the interview as
short as possible.

“Hatter dear,” was her greeting, “I _am_ sorry to have made such a
fool of myself. I must have given you both a scare and I’m thoroughly
ashamed of myself. I’d been feeling seedy all day and never dreamed
when I started that I shouldn’t manage to get to my room and collapse
decently in private. Please forgive me for being such a nuisance.”

Fayre pulled a chair up to her side and sat down.

“I think we were the culprits,” he said gently. “We tired you out
between us. It’s something to see you up and dressed, but, for
Heaven’s sake, don’t overdo it again like that. You don’t look fit to
be talking even now.”

“Talking doesn’t tire me,” she assured him eagerly. “Hatter, please, I
want to know what you’ve been doing. Is there any news? Cynthia says
you went to Carlisle yesterday.”

“I promised Cynthia I wouldn’t let you discuss it,” he answered
reluctantly. “But if it will set your mind at rest, I’ll give you my
assurance that nothing definite has turned up since our last
conversation. As a matter of fact, I went to Carlisle to look up an
old friend and had very little time for anything else. I did go to one
or two of the garages in the hope of finding some trace of the car
that was seen that night, but I drew a complete blank.”

“I had an idea that that’s what had taken you to Carlisle,” she
murmured. “Thinking things over, it struck me the car might have
stopped there. You found nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing. As far as I can see at present, it must have
vanished into space. Grey did his best before he left, but could find
no one who’d seen it.”

“And Dr. Gregg?” she insisted and her tone was so urgent that he
thought it better to humour her. “There’s nothing new about him?”

“My dear Sybil, I was away all yesterday and Grey has gone back to
London,” he hedged. “Even if he’s managed to stumble on something
there, he hasn’t had time to communicate with me. If anything turns up
from him, I’ll let you know, but don’t worry your head about it now.
Rest and get well.”

She turned to him with a display of emotion quite foreign to her.

“I can’t help thinking about it,” she said piteously. “That boy shut
up in prison haunts me! Just imagine, Hatter, what it must be. Alone,
with nobody to reassure him, not knowing how it is all going to turn
out! And Cynthia! Just at the beginning of her young life! It’s
cruel!”

He tried to soothe her.

“I know, Sybil, but it’s no good for either of us to let it get on our
nerves. Thank goodness, they _are_ young and able to face things. Some
day this will be like an evil dream to them and they’ll be able to
start afresh, with their whole lives before them. Don’t waste your
strength in futile pity, my dear!”

She managed to smile at him, though her face was still white and
drawn.

“You’re right, of course, and I know I’m being silly. It’s only that
when one’s ill and helpless one loses one’s sense of proportion. If I
know how things are going, it won’t be so bad. You will tell me, won’t
you? Don’t keep things from me because of my rotten health, will you,
Hatter?”

Her voice was very appealing and Fayre mentally cursed his luck. He
had barely succeeded in heading off Cynthia and now here was Sybil
Kean pressing him even more closely.

He rose and took both her hands in his.

“The moment anything definite happens, you shall know. Meanwhile, try
to put it all out of your mind for a bit, anyhow till you’re stronger.
Edward was right when he said you ought never to have been mixed up in
this.”

She sank back on her pillows with a tired sigh.

“All right. I can rest more easily if I know that I can trust you to
keep me posted. And come again soon, Hatter, please!”

He looked back as he reached the door and saw that her eyes were
already closed. Evidently his visit, short as it had been, had taken
what little strength she possessed.

He went straight from her room to the garage where he had housed his
bicycle. One of the chauffeurs had cleaned and overhauled it and had
it waiting in readiness. Now that his first stiffness was past Fayre
was beginning to enjoy this despised method of getting about the
country and he pedalled down the drive and out onto the highroad quite
unperturbed by the grin on Bill Staveley’s face as he rode past him on
the chestnut mare he had put at Fayre’s disposal at the beginning of
his visit. Fayre, who had promised himself some hunting next winter,
looked after him with only a passing feeling of regret. His mind was
busily engaged with other things.

He kept a sharp lookout on the fields on either side of the road, but
he had gone some distance before he found one that apparently
interested him sufficiently to make him dismount and stand for a
minute or two looking into it.

Lord Staveley had been having the gates on the estate repainted and
this one had evidently only been finished that day; nevertheless Fayre
leaned heavily against it, with the result that, during his absorbed
contemplation of three cows and a diminutive donkey, he managed to
adorn his coat with a long smear of bright green paint. He took the
misfortune with commendable fortitude and, picking up his bicycle,
rode quickly off in the direction of Gregg’s house.

Arrived there he went straight round to the garage at the back of the
house. He found the doctor’s man polishing the brass of a small
two-seater.

“I don’t know whether the doctor’s in,” he said genially. “If he is,
I’ll go round in a minute and have a few words with him, but I’ve just
discovered this beastly stuff on my coat and I wondered if you could
let me have a drop of petrol to clean it off with. I must have got it
leaning over a gate near here.”

The man touched the paint with his finger.

“You’ll find the doctor in, sir, and this will come off easily enough
while it’s fresh,” he said. “Lucky it’s still wet.”

He went into the garage and came out with a tin of petrol.

“If you’d got such a thing as a clean rag,” suggested Fayre.

“If you’ll wait a minute, sir, I’ll get one from the kitchen.”

He disappeared round the corner of the house and, as he did so, Fayre
darted into the garage. It needed only a glance to see that there was
room for but one car and that a small one. Fayre cast a quick look
round the tiny garage and then made for a file of bills hanging from a
hook against the wall. With one eye alert for the returning chauffeur
he ran through them swiftly. Knowing the ways of small cars when left
to the care of odd-jobmen he hoped that Gregg might on occasion be
driven to hire a car from the local garage and there was a faint
chance that the garage bill might be on this file. Fortunately for him
it was not only there but near the top of the pile and he found it
almost immediately. It took him but a second to find the entry he
needed.

“_March 23rd. To hire . . . . . . . . . . . . £0. 10_”

He slipped back into the yard just in time and was standing by the
car, ruefully regarding his coat when the doctor’s man returned.

“If you’ll let me have the coat, sir, I’ll have it off in a moment,”
he said, as he unscrewed the can of petrol.

While he was at work on the stain Fayre examined the car.

“Find her satisfactory?” he asked casually. “I’m thinking of getting a
small car myself and I can’t make up my mind about the make.”

The man grunted.

“Been givin’ a lot of trouble lately,” he said. “Wants a thorough
overhaul, but the doctor can’t spare her.”

“Always chooses the worst night to baulk on, I expect, if I know
anything of cars.”

“That’s right. With the wind blowin’ fit to knock you down and bitin’
cold, she’ll lay down on you proper.”

“There was a night like that just after I got down to these parts,”
said Fayre reminiscently. “There were a lot of trees down, I was
told.”

“Night of the murder up to Mr. Leslie’s farm. Awful night, that were.
I was two hours workin’ on this blessed car and then the doctor had to
hire. I think you’ll find that all right, sir.”

Fayre thanked him and slipped a generous tip into his hand; then,
getting into his coat, he made his way round to the front door.

The doctor was in, but was busy in the surgery. Fayre was shown into
the study, an untidy, comfortable-looking room on the ground floor.

He took a quick inventory of the contents. A big desk piled with
papers stood in the window. The fireplace was flanked by a couple of
shabby, roomy armchairs. Fayre sat down in one of them and warmed his
hands at the fire. As he did so, his eye fell on the mantelpiece and
in a second he was on his feet again, examining a small framed
photograph that stood there. He turned at the sound of the opening
door to meet the steady gaze of Gregg.

“I haven’t come to waste your time,” he explained as he shook hands.
“I know this is your busy time. I only wanted to explain that I’ve
made free with your petrol and the kind offices of your man in the
most shameless way. I got some paint on my coat, leaning over a gate,
and, as I was passing your house, I ventured to ask for some petrol to
repair the damage.”

“Very glad you did. I hope you got the stuff off,” answered Gregg
cordially. “Smoke?”

He handed a box of cigarettes to Fayre, who thanked him and took one.

“Sorry I can’t be more hospitable,” went on the doctor. “But I’ve got
a pack of people waiting in the surgery and I sha’n’t get rid of them
for another hour, at least.”

Fayre reached for a spill from a vase on the mantelpiece. As he did so
his eye lighted on the photograph.

“That’s an interesting head,” he remarked.

“He was an interesting chap. He’d have gone a long way if he’d been
allowed. One of the best fellows I ever knew.”

“He looks it,” said Fayre quietly, but with such obvious sincerity
that Gregg was moved to enlarge on the subject.

“Got into the hands of a woman and she killed him as surely as if
she’d murdered him. He died of alcoholic poisoning, the worst case
I’ve ever seen. Trying to forget, he called it.”

Gregg’s voice was rough with emotion and, for the first time, Fayre
felt really drawn towards him.

“What happened to the woman?” he asked carelessly.

Gregg turned away to light his cigarette. Fayre, watching him closely,
noticed that his hand was steady as a rock, but his voice was not
quite so certain as he answered.

“I lost sight of her,” he said; “but, judging from the pace she was
going, she’s probably got her deserts by now.”

He accompanied his guest to the door and stood chatting with him for a
moment. He had regained his usual bluff manner; but Fayre, for all his
quiet cordiality, was sick at heart. For the photograph was that of
Baxter, and Gregg had once more flatly denied all knowledge of the
identity of Mrs. Draycott.



Chapter XII

Fayre did not turn back to Staveley when he left Gregg’s house, but
rode straight on to Whitbury and lunched at the hotel there.

For one thing he did not feel equal just at that moment to facing any
of the members of the Staveley party and, for another, the heading on
the bill in Gregg’s garage had been that of the Station Garage at
Whitbury and he had a weakness for tackling nasty jobs at once and
getting them over as quickly as possible. He did not conceal from
himself that he dreaded the result of this next step.

He did not linger over his solitary meal, and by two o’clock he had
already broached the subject of the car to the owner of the garage, a
good-natured, chatty little man who seemed anxious to give him any
information within his power. He adopted much the same story that he
had used at Carlisle, only that, in this case, taking into account the
manner in which news flies in a small town, he did not rely on the
carter, but explained that he was acting for a friend in London whose
motorcycle had been run down by a car on the night of the
twenty-third, and who had narrowly escaped serious injury. The manager
led him into the hutch that served him for an office and produced a
ledger.

“A big, closed car, make unknown,” he muttered. “London number with a
seven in it.”

He ran his finger down the page.

“Nothing of the sort in that night. It was the day of the murder,
wasn’t it? Blowing big guns and bitterly cold and there weren’t many
people out. We had nothing in at all, from lunch-time onwards, and I’m
not surprised.”

“You didn’t let out any car answering to that description?”

“It’s not much of description, if you’ll excuse me!” said the man with
a friendly grin. “You can’t say you’ve given us much to go by! I’ve
only two cars for hire and naturally neither of them has got a London
number. One’s too small for you and the other’s well known round
here.”

He referred to his book again.

“Dr. Gregg had it that night. His own car was laid up. He took it out
about five-thirty.”

“Is it in now?” asked Fayre. “I know the doctor and I certainly don’t
suspect him of careless driving, but I promised my friend I’d have a
thorough look round.”

“Righto, I’ll show it to you. If it was anybody but the doctor I might
suspect a faked number. It’s been done often enough. Except for the
number, the car answers to your description, such as it is. So do half
the other cars in this county, for the matter of that.”

He was closing the book when his eye fell on another entry and he gave
a sudden exclamation.

“Wait a minute! There was a car went out on the evening of the
twenty-third, at about six o’clock. I’ve a kind of feeling it was a
London car, too. Owner’s name, Page. The number ought to have been
entered, but my wife evidently forgot to do it. She’s usually in
charge of the desk here, and you know what women are!”

“Then six o’clock was the last you saw of it?”

“Yes. It didn’t come back.”

He was looking through the back pages of the book.

“Here it is. It came in on March 14th, and was fetched out on March
23rd. It’s a pity we haven’t got the number. I’ll see if my wife
remembers anything about it and I can show you the other car on the
way.”

He led the way to a somewhat weather-beaten, but still presentable,
Daimler and Fayre gave the mud-guards a keen, but hasty, scrutiny.

“You haven’t had this repaired at all lately, I suppose?” he asked.
“My friend’s pretty certain that he injured the paint on the
mud-guard.”

“Haven’t had this touched for over a year. Besides, it was all right
when the doctor brought it back. I always look over them pretty
carefully, even when it’s a customer I know who’s had them out. You
never know what damage you’ll find. No, I’ll vouch for it that car
hasn’t been messed up in any way since I’ve had it.”

He went off to find his wife, leaving Fayre battling with mingled
feelings of relief and disappointment. Search as he might, he could
find no trace of red paint on any of the mud-guards and they were
quite intact. He seemed to have run into a blind alley, after all,
unless the doctor were even cleverer than he had supposed. It was
still within the bounds of possibility that he had changed cars again
after leaving the garage in the hireling. If so, where? Fayre made up
his mind to find that second car, if there was one, even if he had to
search every garage in the county.

His thoughts were broken into by the arrival of the manager and his
wife.

“It’s no good, I’m afraid,” he announced. “The wife, here, says she
can’t recall the number, even if she ever noted it, which is doubtful,
seeing that she forgot to put it down. She says she does remember the
owner, though, if that’s any use to you.”

Fayre started.

“You remember the man who brought it in? That’s capital!”

She shook her head.

“Not the man who brought it in,” she said. “That’s too long ago, but I
do remember the man who took it out that night. You see, what with it
being the night of the murder and such awful weather, added to the
fact that my sister and her husband came over from Carlisle for the
night, that evening seems to stand out more clearly than most. Then,
there were very few people in and out that day, so that one noticed a
stranger. Not that I really saw him, though, if you understand me.”

Fayre didn’t, but he showed exemplary patience and left her to tell
her story in her own way.

“I can remember it as if it was yesterday,” she went on. “My sister
was sitting at the desk with me, just chatting, and we watched him
come in. As I say, he was the only one we’d had that afternoon and we
were naturally interested and passed one or two remarks about him. He
spoke about the car and then came over to the desk to pay his bill.
What struck me was that he never took off his goggles. You know the
way most people push them up on their foreheads, even if they don’t
take them off, but he didn’t even take the trouble to do that. They
were those big ones with the leather nose-flap and they pretty well
covered his whole face. That’s why I said I’d never seen him, really.
My sister joked about it afterwards.”

“What sort of man was he?” asked Fayre.

“Well-to-do, I should say. Tall and thin, and he had a big motoring
coat and a cap with a peak. I remember that, because it and the
goggles hid nearly the whole of his face.”

“You didn’t notice his voice, I suppose?”

“No. I don’t think he spoke except just to ask for the bill. He may
not have done that. A lot of people just stand and wait till I give it
to them. He must have given his name when he brought the car in
because it’s down in the book there. Page, wasn’t it?”

Her husband nodded.

“Was there nothing else you noticed about him? I’m in luck’s way to
have hit off such an observant person as yourself,” said Fayre with a
smile.

“I was always one to take an interest in things and, what with so many
coming in and out here, you find yourself wondering about them. I do
remember one thing, now you mention it: his hands. He took off his
gloves to pay the bill, and I noticed how thin they were and yet how
strong-looking. I was in the manicure before I married and I suppose
that’s why I’m such a one to notice hands. My husband’s always
laughing at me about it. I said something about it at supper that
night and I remember them all laughing.”

“Quite true,” put in her husband. “I remember it now. It’s always been
a joke of ours, but we chaffed her a lot that night about one thing
and another and that was one of them. There was another joke Lotty had
that night, too, about a bottle. Do you remember?”

“Rather! That was that particular man, too. When he turned away from
the desk his coat swung against the corner and something heavy came an
awful thump up against the wood. Lotty said: ‘Well, he’s got his
little drop of comfort with him, anyway,’ meaning it sounded like a
bottle. That was what she was laughing over at supper. She was always
one for a joke and she’ll make one over anything.”

“Well, thanks to you, I’ve got some idea what the chap was like and he
may be the one my friend’s after. Page by name, tall and thin, with a
bottle in his pocket! And if my friend can find him he may get the
money for his broken lamp out of him! It doesn’t sound a hopeful
prospect, does it! I’m deeply grateful to you, all the same. I wish
everybody had a memory like yours!”

“I’m sorry about that number,” she said regretfully. “It isn’t often I
forget, but I must have been taken up with my sister.”

Fayre rode back to Staveley very much divided in his mind between the
mysterious Mr. Page and Gregg. Of the two, he was inclined to suspect
the doctor, who seemed to be getting more and more involved in the
whole business and for whose brains he had already conceived a
wholesome respect. The other man was probably nothing but a harmless
motorist who wanted his car badly enough to brave the weather and
fetch it.

He found Cynthia writing letters in the drawing-room and gave her a
short account of his visit to the garage.

She fastened onto the Page episode with an enthusiasm Fayre found
pathetic. He told her frankly that he considered it of minor
importance.

“You must remember that there may have been any number of people
fetching their cars from garages just about that time. It isn’t as if
we’d been able to trace the number of the car. There is nothing except
its size that answers to the carter’s description.”

“Still, that’s about all we’ve got to go on anyway, Uncle Fayre, and
the time does fit in. He could have gone round by Miss Allen’s and
reached the farm just about the time the tramp saw him. I know,
because I’ve done it in a car myself.”

“And the bottle in his pocket was a revolver, I suppose?” laughed
Fayre, knowing the disappointment that lay in store for her if the
whole thing petered out and determined not to encourage her in a false
hope.

“Why not?” she said seriously. “And why did he keep his goggles down
all the time? That woman was right: it _is_ unusual.”

“All right, my dear, we’ll add him to our list of suspects; but I
don’t quite see what we’re going to do about it.”

“I do,” was Cynthia’s decisive answer. “I’m going to put the garages
at Carlisle through a small sieve. I’ll bet he did stay there, if he
was going south, and, if he did, he must have garaged the car.”

“But I told you I’d drawn Carlisle the other day. It was hopeless.”

“What did you do?” she burst out scornfully. “You went to three or
four of the big, obvious places. That’s not where I’d park my car if I
were trying to get away on the quiet. You wait, Uncle Fayre. If he
went there at all, I’ll run him to earth, you’ll see!”

“And what do you propose to do? You can’t go sleuthing about Carlisle
all by yourself. They must know you pretty well there and we don’t
want this affair talked about.”

“I’m not going by myself. I’m going with Tubby Campbell.”

“Tubby Campbell?” murmured Fayre helplessly.

“If you weren’t just a measly bicyclist you’d know his name at
Brooklands,” she scoffed. “He married the clergyman’s daughter at
Galston and they’ve settled at Carlisle. I’ve always promised I’d stay
with them. I’ll ring them up and go over for a few days and see what
Tubby can do. If anybody will know how to set about it, he will. It’s
a gorgeous idea, Uncle Fayre; you must admit it!”

“You’ll probably do the thing much more efficiently than I did, I
admit that. But don’t let your enthusiasm run away with you. Don’t
forget that it is probably a very forlorn hope!”

“If you think that, really, it means that you’ve got something else up
your sleeve,” was Cynthia’s shrewd and unexpected comment. “What is
it? Is it Dr. Gregg?”

Fayre was taken unawares.

“I have got an idea,” he said slowly. “But it’s so vague at present
that I tell you frankly I’m going to keep it to myself. If it comes to
anything, you shall be the first to know, but, so far, it’s only fair
to say that I’ve come up against a blank wall. I think your field of
investigation is likely to prove quite as fruitful as mine.”

For a moment she looked disappointed. Then:

“All right,” she agreed. “You get to work at your end and I’ll see
what I can do at mine. If you only knew the relief it is to do
something instead of sitting watching other people!”

The cry came so straight from her heart that Fayre was glad he had not
succeeded better in his efforts to discourage her. At least the search
would keep her employed during a very anxious period and he felt, too,
that he could tackle Sybil and her questions better without Cynthia.
He had been dreading the time when the two would get their heads
together over Dr. Gregg and begin putting two and two together in
earnest. Cynthia, he knew, already suspected that there was something
behind his own visit to Carlisle. He would be able to pursue his
investigations more freely in her absence.



Chapter XIII

Having at last found something definite to do Cynthia proved herself a
very able organizer. By lunch-time the next day she had extracted an
invitation from the Campbells, squared Lady Staveley and packed her
trunk. Directly the meal was over she started for Carlisle, brimming
with enthusiasm for the task she had set herself.

Her departure was followed almost immediately by the arrival of Gregg
on his daily visit to Lady Kean. He had barely turned the first bend
on the wide oak staircase before Fayre was on his bicycle, riding his
hardest in the direction of Gregg’s house.

His disappointment at finding the doctor out was convincing enough to
impress the maid, who showed him into the little surgery, assuring him
that her master was certain to be in soon, as he was always at home to
patients from four to six in the afternoon. Fayre, after a moment of
apparent hesitation, decided to await his return and settled down to
the inspection of the very stale literature provided by Gregg for the
use of his patients. The maid, recognizing him as the gentleman who
had called on a previous occasion, departed with a clear conscience to
the back regions, leaving him to his own devices. He waited till she
was out of sight and then, with a rather guilty smile at the thought
of Lord Staveley’s injunctions of the day before, cautiously opened
the door leading into the study. A quick glance through the window
assured him that the small front garden was deserted and that he could
carry out his plans unobserved. The farther door, which led into the
front hall, was shut and he opened it carefully, leaving it ajar, that
he might be sure of hearing the footsteps of the maid should she
return. Then he sat down at the writing-table and went quickly, but
efficiently, through the mass of papers with which it was littered. As
he expected, none of them had any bearing on the subject he had in
mind. Neither was there anything of interest to be found in the top
drawer, which he found unlocked.

The desk was of a standard make and closely resembled one he had used
in his office in India, the key of which he still carried on a ring in
his pocket. He tried this key and, to his relief, it fitted the two
rows of drawers on each side of the knee-hole. The first two drawers
proved disappointing, but at the back of the third he found a packet
of letters, tied together and docketed: “Baxter.” He glanced hastily
out of the window once more, but there was no sign of Gregg and,
slipping out the first envelope in the pile, he opened it.

It contained a letter from Baxter to Gregg and, as Fayre read it, he
felt himself grow hot with shame at the part he was playing. If it had
not been for Leslie’s danger and the unworthy part he believed Gregg
to be playing in this game of life and death, he would have bundled
the letters back into the drawer and locked it, for the letter was
that of a broken man to a friend from whom he had no reservations. It
seemed to have been written more in grief than in anger and in it
Baxter said that he had traced his wife to Brighton, where she had
been staying openly with Captain Draycott and that he proposed to do
his utmost to persuade her to return to him. It was evidently in
answer to a letter from Gregg, urging him to take action. This, he
declared, he did not intend to do unless he were persuaded that the
step would insure his wife’s happiness and then only on the
undertaking from Draycott that, in the event of a divorce, he would
marry her. It was an honest, straightforward letter, pathetic in its
complete selflessness. On the envelope Gregg had scribbled a pencilled
note:

“_L. has seen her in Paris several times with a man whose name he was
unable to discover. Comparing dates I have ascertained that Draycott
was in Egypt at the time. L., knowing I was interested, took the
trouble to trace them to their hotel, but is convinced that they were
staying there under an assumed name. Useful evidence, if she
interferes with the boy and I shall not hesitate to use it. Draycott
will not stand for that sort of thing!_”

This note had evidently been made after her divorce and subsequent
marriage to Captain Draycott and suggested that, for some reason,
Gregg was wishful to retain a hold over her and proposed to use this
hold if necessary. It looked as if Gregg’s power to harm her had
ceased with Draycott’s death, in which case he could hardly have used
his knowledge to force her to meet him at the farm. At the same time,
Fayre realized that he had at last stumbled on a possible motive for
an assignation. Supposing that Gregg’s power over her still held and
that, for some reason, he had decided to put on the screw. Given the
man’s bitterness against her, combined with his obviously uneven
temper, it was not outside the bounds of possibility that he had been
exasperated beyond endurance at her refusal to accede to his demands
and had shot her in a moment of blind rage. Fayre, knowing Gregg,
could not bring himself to believe that the thing was premeditated. He
did, on the other hand, consider him perfectly capable of using the
revolver as a threat, probably with no intention of firing it.

Fayre slipped the letter back under the string before extracting the
one underneath it and was glad he had done so for, while he was in the
very act, his ear caught the sound of an approaching motor. Quick as
lightning he threw the packet back into the drawer, closed and locked
it and was back in the surgery before Gregg was out of his car.

He heard him open the front door and go down the passage, where he was
evidently met by the maid, for, a few minutes later, he appeared at
the surgery door and invited Fayre into the study.

His manner was no less cordial than it had been on the previous
occasion, but, this time, Fayre had the impression that he was waiting
rather sardonically for an explanation of his visit. He hastened to
assure him that he had come as a patient and went on to describe
certain perfectly genuine recurrent symptoms, the result of the heavy
bouts of fever he had suffered from in the East, complaining that they
seemed to be becoming more frequent, probably as the result of the
English climate.

Gregg listened to him in silence and, when he had finished, asked him
the usual questions, making notes on the pad at his elbow as he did
so. He finished by subjecting him to a very thorough examination.

“You’ve taken up bicycling lately, I see,” he said, as he thrust his
stethoscope back into his pocket.

“Yes. Anything against it?” asked Fayre, who was standing before the
glass over the mantelpiece, refastening his collar.

“Nothing. You’re in as perfect a state of health as any one can expect
to be who has lived the greater part of his life in the Tropics. In
fact, you’re an admirable example of what temperate living will do for
a man in a hot climate. I congratulate you!”

The words were harmless enough, but Fayre, suddenly catching sight of
Gregg’s face in the glass, was not taken in by them. He realized, and
the discovery was anything but pleasant, that the doctor was laughing
at him in a grim way all his own.

“I’ll make you up a prescription, if you like,” he went on, unaware
that Fayre was watching him, “but I warn you it will probably be the
same as the one you’ve got already.”

“Thanks,” said Fayre warily. He was waiting for the other’s next move.
“I suppose I may count myself lucky to have got off so lightly.”

“You can thank your own common sense,” was Gregg’s curt rejoinder, as
he turned to his writing-table.

Fayre slipped his hand into his breast pocket and the doctor gave him
a quick, sidelong glance.

“There’s no fee,” he said abruptly.

Fayre’s colour deepened as he took out his note-case and opened it,
but he waited in silence for Gregg’s explanation. It came with
startling clarity.

“You didn’t come here to consult me, Mr. Fayre. You could have done
that any day at Staveley. And I doubt if you took up bicycling for the
sake of exercise. And that paint you got on your coat the other day
was put there on purpose. Oh, I know it was paint, all right,” he cut
in, as Fayre opened his mouth to speak. “I verified that, as you
thought I should. I also discovered that you went straight from here
to Stockley’s garage, as the result, I suppose, of something my man
told you. He described you, by the way, as ‘a very chatty gentleman’!
It was unfortunate for you that I paid my bill at Stockley’s that
evening and had a word with him. Stockley is a chatty gentleman, too.
The thing I want to know now is, what’s it all about?”

He had risen and was sitting on the edge of the writing-table, his
hands in his pockets and his truculent eyes on Fayre’s.

“Leslie’s your friend, I understand, and I can only imagine that
you’re working in his interests,” he went on. “I should like to
mention that he’s also mine and that there’s nothing that would give
me greater pleasure than to hear that he’s been cleared. That being
the case, I should be obliged if you’d tell me your object in hanging
about here and questioning my servants. Anything you wish to know I
prefer to tell you myself.”

Fayre was silent for a moment. When he spoke he chose his words
carefully, but it was evident from his whole bearing that he was
saying frankly what was in his mind.

“I’m not sorry it’s come to this,” he said, meeting Gregg’s angry gaze
squarely. “To tell you the truth, I’m not proud of the part I’ve been
playing and it’s relief to me to come out into the open. In answer to
your question, let me put one to you. Why have you concealed the fact
that Mrs. Draycott was an old acquaintance of yours?”

The doctor’s eyes shifted ever so slightly. Evidently he was
unprepared for so bold an attack.

“I had my own reasons,” he said curtly, “and I’m not accountable to
you or any one else for them, at present, at any rate.”

“You admit that you did know her?”

“I admit nothing.”

“And if I tell you that I have proof that you not only knew her but
were intimate with both her and her husband at one time?”

“I still admit nothing and I deny your right to question me.”

“Let me put it to you in another way, then,” went on Fayre, firmly
keeping a hold on his temper. “You say you are a friend of Leslie’s.
He is lying at this moment under the shadow of an accusation that we
both know is totally unfounded. In the face of that, do you still
refuse to say anything?”

Gregg laughed suddenly and bitterly.

“We both know! There’s a sting there, isn’t there? If by clearing him
you mean confessing to a murder I didn’t commit, I certainly do
refuse. I suppose that’s what you’re driving at, but you’re taking a
good deal for granted, aren’t you?”

Fayre suddenly lost patience.

“Good heavens, man,” he cried, “if you had nothing to do with it, why
not say so, and if you can prove it, so much the better. I’ve only one
motive in all this, to clear Leslie. Why work against instead of with
me?”

“Because I resent your insinuations. If you think you’ve got anything
against me, prove it. You’ve apparently had the damned impertinence to
rake up my past and pry into my private affairs and you’ve all but
told me to my face that I killed Mrs. Draycott. Well, take your story
to the police and see what ice it cuts with them! If they’ve any
questions to ask me I’m ready to answer them. Meanwhile, I advise you
to take your amateur detective work elsewhere.”

Fayre hesitated for a moment; then he decided to make one more effort
towards conciliation.

“I’m very sorry you’ve taken this line,” he said. “Frankly, I have
hoped all along that you would be able to give some satisfactory
explanation of your attitude towards the whole affair. I can very well
believe that the subject is a painful one to you and I can sympathize
with your reluctance to drag it up again after all these years, but
you must admit that your behaviour has been open to suspicion. Once
more I appeal to you to act reasonably, if only for Leslie’s sake.”

Gregg’s only answer was to stride heavily to the door and fling it
open.

“I have already told you that I resent your interference,” he said
shortly. “If I make any statement, it will be to those who have a
right to demand it. You can hardly be surprised if I don’t consider
you one of them. Take what steps you please, but I warn you that I am
quite prepared to meet them.”

Without a word Fayre took out his note-case once more. He walked over
to the writing-table and picked up the prescription Gregg had written,
leaving two guineas in its place. Then he took his hat and coat and
left the room with such dignity as he could muster. As he passed
through the hall he heard the crash of the study door as Gregg slammed
it, and realized that in the first encounter, at any rate, the honours
of war were to the doctor. Either the man was innocent or he had put
up the most amazing bluff Fayre had ever encountered.

And the worst of it was that, as Gregg no doubt guessed, he was not in
a position to act. His information, as far as it went, pointed to but
one thing: Gregg’s deliberate attempt to conceal from the police his
former connection with Mrs. Draycott. Beyond this, Fayre had nothing
to go on, unless he could trace the mysterious car to Gregg. According
to Stockley, the proprietor of the garage, he had taken out the hired
car at five-thirty. This would give him ample time to drive to one of
the several other garages within a radius of ten to fifteen miles,
change his car, pick up Mrs. Draycott and arrive at the farm at about
the time the murder was presumably committed. But here the London
number on the car described by the carter arose as a distinct
stumbling-block, for it was extremely improbable that a local garage
would have a London car for hire. On the other hand, if by some
extraordinary chance one of them had let out such a car, it should be
easy enough to get on the track of it; but Fayre realized that the
doctor had him at a hopeless disadvantage unless he could manage to
trace his movements on the night of the twenty-third, and he
recognized the cleverness of the man in forcing his hand before his
investigations were complete. And yet, for the life of him, he could
not make up his mind whether Gregg’s outburst had been mere bluff or
the genuine anger of a man smarting under the sting of a false
accusation. Either way Fayre had cut an uncommonly poor figure and he
was painfully aware of the fact.



Chapter XIV

After dinner that night Lord Staveley, wishing to ring up his bookie,
strolled into the little ante-room that housed the telephone. Here, to
his surprise, he discovered Fayre. He had settled himself comfortably
in the one armchair and, with the help of the local telephone
directory, was busy compiling a list on a half-sheet of paper. Bill
Staveley eyed him quizzically.

“Rotten place to spend the evening,” he observed with cheerful scorn.
“Looking for a good dentist, or is it Sherlock Holmes on the trail?”

“It’s Holmes in the devil of a muddle,” was Fayre’s acid rejoinder.
“I’ve come a cropper, Bill!”

“In other words, you’ve met your match. Who’s the local genius?”

“Gregg. I started out to pump him according to the most approved
methods and he pumped me instead and very efficiently too! And he was
uncommonly disagreeable about it.”

“He would be. What have you got against him? I suppose you know that,
amongst other things, he’s the Police Surgeon?”

“I don’t care if he’s the Prime Minister!” snapped Fayre, still hot
from his gruelling at Gregg’s hands. “But I’d give something to know
where he was on the night of Mrs. Draycott’s death!”

Bill Staveley gave a low whistle.

“As bad as that, is it? Why, he was at the farm, wasn’t he? I thought
he gave evidence.”

“He turned up at the farm soon after ten o’clock, after the police had
been trying to get him for nearly an hour. The assumption was that he
had come in late from a case and, as far as I know, he has never been
asked to give an account of his movements. All I do know is that he
left the Whitbury garage at five-thirty in a hired car and,
apparently, did not get home till about nine-thirty, when he found the
police call waiting for him.”

Staveley’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Fayre.

“You don’t seriously mean that you suspect Gregg of Mrs. Draycott’s
murder?” he ejaculated.

“On my word, I don’t know what to think. If the fellow was bluffing
this afternoon he did it uncommonly well. If he wasn’t, why didn’t he
clear himself? He could have done it easily.”

“What line did he take?”

“Told me to go to the devil—in other words, the police—and flatly
refused to give any account of himself whatever. The worst of it is,
he’s in a very strong position. Practically the only thing I’ve got to
go on at present is the fact that he undoubtedly knew Mrs. Draycott at
one time and has gone out of his way to lie to the police about it.
You must admit it looks fishy.”

“The devil he did! Do the police know?”

Fayre looked rather sheepish.

“Unless they’ve been pursuing the same lines of investigation as
myself, they don’t. I kept quiet about it in the hope that it might
lead to something.”

“Being naturally afraid that the Force, in its naïve way, would
blunder. Oh, Hatter, Hatter, this comes of reading detective stories!”

“I know; you needn’t rub it in. I’ve made an infernal hash of the
whole thing.”

“How much did you tell the fellow?”

“Quite enough to put him on his guard, unfortunately.”

“What’s your theory about the whole thing?”

“Somebody picked up Mrs. Draycott in a car and drove her to Leslie’s
farm. Everything points to that. We’ve got good reason to believe that
we’ve got part of the number of the car. It ran into a farm-cart and
the carter took what he could see of it. If the man in the car was
Gregg he must have done one of two things. Either he deliberately
faked the number of the car he hired from the Whitbury garage, or he
changed cars somewhere before he picked up Mrs. Draycott. There is, of
course, the possibility that he picked her up in the hired car and
somehow managed to reach the farm and get away again without being
seen. In the light of what we know, this is extremely unlikely.”

“If he’s got an alibi, why on earth doesn’t the fellow produce it?”

“Either because he’s so sure of his position that he can afford not to
or for the more simple reason that he hasn’t got one. Meanwhile, I’m
left kicking my heels. I’ve got a list here of the garages in this
neighbourhood within a radius of fifteen miles or so. If he did change
cars, it will be bound to have been at one of them.”

“Touching spectacle of Mr. Fayre, late of the Indian Civil, peddling
on his little push-bike within a radius of fifteen miles!” mused Bill
Staveley. “Poor old Hatter! I can let you off that, though. You don’t
know Foot, do you?”

“That’s the chap who drove me the other day, isn’t it?”

“Probably. He was my batman in France and, after the war, I gave him a
driver’s course. He took to it like a duck to water and he’s a
first-rate chauffeur and an uncommonly intelligent chap. He’s bought
himself a motor-bike and takes it to pieces every Saturday night just
for fun and I’ll bet there isn’t a garage round here where he hasn’t
talked motor for hours. Give him the description of the car you want
and he’ll find it for you if it’s anywhere in this part of the
country.”

“The question is, will he talk?”

“Not if I give him a hint. You can leave that part of the job to him
quite safely. On the other hand, if we could get onto the case Gregg
was called to that night we could keep Foot out of it altogether. Even
if he was at the farm that night he must have gone on somewhere
afterwards. He’s not such a fool as to drive vaguely round the country
for three solid hours before going home. You may be pretty certain he
looked up a patient, even if he wasn’t called to one.”

“None of the tenants been ill or injured, I suppose?”

“Not that I know of, but we might go through the local rag. I’ve got
it in my room and it’s one of those conscientious papers that puts in
catchy little comments on old Mrs. Snook’s chilblains and that sort of
thing. It doesn’t miss much and if any one hurt himself that night, we
shall find it there.”

They adjourned to the library, where they spent a fruitless half-hour
searching the columns of the local paper. They were about to give it
up in despair when Fayre, who had reached the last page, gave a cry.

“What about this?” he asked, pointing to the _Births_ column. “_March
23rd. The wife of George Hammond of The Willow Farm, Besley, of a
son._”

“Would Gregg be their man?”

“Sure to be. He attends all the farmers round here. Hammond’s a tenant
of mine and I can ride over to-morrow, if you like, and do the heavy
landlord. As a matter of fact, it’ll probably be expected of me,
sooner or later, so it won’t rouse any comment. I take it that you
want to know what time Gregg was sent for, what time he arrived, and
when he left, with a description of his car, if I can get it without
rousing too much curiosity. Anything else?”

“No. I think that covers it. How long ought it to take him to reach
the Hammonds?”

“If he left Whitbury at five-thirty he should arrive at Besley at five
to six, and the farm is, roughly, five to ten minutes’ run from
Besley. Say thirty to thirty-five minutes.”

“And if he took the corner of the lane running to Greycross and then
Leslie’s farm on the way?”

“Give me a minute. That’s considerably more complicated.”

He took a pencil and made some notes on an old envelope.

“Just under the hour, I should say. Perhaps longer. That’s not
allowing for getting out and going into the farm.”

“In that case, we’ll give the garages the go-by for the moment,”
decided Fayre. “Time enough for them when we’ve discovered whether
Gregg was at the Hammonds’ or not. It will be just as well to keep
your man out of it, if possible.”

“Good. Then I’ll ride over to Willow Farm to-morrow and see what I can
find out. By the way, did I tell you that Kean is coming down
to-night? You can have the whole thing out with him to-morrow. He
ought to be able to suggest something.”

Fayre gave an exclamation of surprise.

“Sybil said nothing when I saw her.”

“She did not know. He telephoned yesterday saying he could get away
earlier than he had expected and was going to motor straight through.
I gather that he’s going to take Sybil back to town by car as soon as
she’s fit to travel. He’ll be on tenterhooks till she’s seen her own
doctor, and I don’t blame him. I should feel the same myself. To tell
you the truth, fond as I am of her, I shall be relieved to get rid of
the responsibility. It’s touch-and-go when she has these attacks.”

“She’s better away from this business,” said Fayre thoughtfully. “I’d
no idea until I saw her on Tuesday how much she’s taking it to heart.”

“She’s got a very weak spot for Cynthia. She’s a fascinating little
minx and I fancy Sybil would have given a lot to have had a daughter
of her own. What about Bridge, eh?”

Lady Staveley’s brother and a nephew had arrived the day before and
they played until the arrival of Kean shortly before midnight. He had
come without a chauffeur and had driven his car himself all that day
and through a good portion of the night before. Fayre was amazed at
his powers of endurance. If he were exhausted he certainly did not
show it in the few minutes that he stood chatting with the four men,
but he was impatient to see his wife and went upstairs almost
immediately and Fayre did not get a chance to talk to him until after
breakfast the next day, when he found him on the terrace, waiting for
Gregg to put in an appearance. He was intent on getting his wife up to
London as soon as the doctor would allow her to travel. It was evident
that her collapse had been a severe shock to him and only her
insistent messages on the telephone through Lady Staveley had
prevented him from throwing up his work and traveling down post-haste
to see for himself how she was. Even now his mind was full of her and
Fayre was aware that his interest in what he had to relate was purely
perfunctory.

It appeared that he had seen Grey and was fairly well posted as to
what had transpired since his departure. Fayre told him the result of
his inquiries about Gregg.

“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” said Kean frankly when he
had finished. “The fact that the fellow knew Mrs. Draycott does not
necessarily point to him as her murderer.”

“On the other hand, he’s the only person we have been able to discover
who had a definite grudge against her.”

“Come to that, she was hardly popular with a good many people. And
there’s the difficulty of the motor. You’ll find it a hard job to
connect him with that.”

“Unless he faked the number on Stockley’s motor or changed cars
somewhere.”

“In which case the crime was premeditated and, on your own showing,
that is unlikely. A man does not detest a woman for years and take no
steps about it and then, just because he happens to run across her
staying in the same neighbourhood, devise an elaborate scheme to
murder her. Psychologically, your theory doesn’t hang together unless
we can discover some better motive than that of mere dislike. The best
thing you can do is to take the story to the police; he will then be
obliged to tell them where he was that night. He can’t take the line
with them that he took with you, and I’ve a strong conviction that he
will be able to produce a perfectly satisfactory alibi.”

“You advise me not to waste time in following it up, then?” asked
Fayre, feeling more than a little damped.

Kean’s smile was so friendly that it was impossible to take offence.

“If you want my real advice, old chap,” he said, “I should say drop
the whole thing and leave it to Grey and the police. Let Grey have a
clear account of what you’ve done and he will deal with it. I’m not
belittling your work: it’s been uncommonly good as far as it goes, and
if Gregg _is_ concerned it may prove invaluable; but it’s useless to
pit yourself against experts or to try to act without proper
authority. How did you get hold of this letter to Gregg?”

The question came with startling abruptness and Fayre stifled a sudden
spasm of amusement as he realized that Kean was using professional
methods on him.

“I took it out of his desk when I was waiting for him the other day,”
he answered with rather exaggerated meekness.

“And put yourself in a very nasty position if he finds out, apart from
the fact that, if he jumps to the fact that you searched his desk, it
will be the easiest thing in the world for him to destroy any evidence
it contains.”

“Do you suggest that I should have kept it?” asked Fayre, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“I certainly don’t,” was Kean’s dry rejoinder. “But I should like to
point out that if his desk had been searched officially the police
would have kept the letter and we should have had our evidence to hand
if we’d needed it. That sort of amateur detective work is all right in
fiction, but it’s dangerous in practice.”

Fayre was left feeling rather sheepish and distinctly obstinate. He
had taken his dressing-down meekly enough and, on the whole, he felt
bound to admit that it was not undeserved, but he hadn’t the smallest
intention of being warned off the course by Kean or any one else. And
he still held to his theory about Gregg.

The rest of his day was spent as harmlessly as even Kean could have
wished. Fayre sat for a time with Sybil, who was up and dressed and so
much better that the doctor had sanctioned her removal, by easy
stages, to London the following day. The various members of the
house-party were in and out of the room most of the time, so that, to
Fayre’s relief, there was no opportunity to broach the subject of the
murder.

As he was dressing for dinner he received a visit from Bill Staveley.
He was still in riding kit and had just returned from his call at
Hammond’s farm.

“I’ve got your times for you,” he began, “and I found out what car
Gregg was driving. A very cunning bit of work, I may tell you, on my
part! I’m beginning to think I’ve got a natural gift for this sort of
thing! If you imagine I’m just a sort of Watson, my dear Holmes,
you’re entirely mistaken.”

“If you want real appreciation and encouragement let me suggest that
you go and tell Edward all about it,” advised Fayre dryly. “Meanwhile,
when you’ve finished wagging your tail, you might produce the proofs
of your genius.”

Lord Staveley chuckled.

“So that’s how the land lies, is it? Was he very down on our little
efforts? He always was a damned superior beggar.”

“I kept you out of it, which is more than you deserve. What did you
find at the Hammonds’?”

“A brand-new baby, among other things, which was brought into the
world by Gregg at eight-fifteen precisely, on the night of the
twenty-third. They telephoned to him between four-thirty and five and
he must have started almost at once and walked over to Whitbury for
the car. And I’ve no doubt he used some language, too, considering
what a beastly night it was. After that things get more interesting.
You say he left Stockley’s at five-thirty. Well, he didn’t get to
Hammond’s till close on seven. Hammond was quite definite about that.
He was in a bit of a stew because Gregg was so late.”

Fayre, who was busy with his tie, spun round with an exclamation.
Staveley nodded.

“That’s a fact,” he said quietly. “An hour and a half to do thirty
minutes’ run. Of course, he may have called somewhere else on the way,
but, considering that Hammond’s message was urgent, it doesn’t seem
likely.”

“What excuse did he give Hammond?”

“None, I gather, but I imagine things were pretty urgent by the time
he got there. He just said he was sorry he was late and they were all
in such a state of nerves by that time that nothing more was said.
It’s the chap’s first baby and he seems to have thought the world was
coming to an end. Gregg left about nine, which would bring him home
just in time to get the police call.”

“Did you find out what car he turned up in?”

“Stockley’s. Hammond knows it well because they take in lodgers in the
summer and they use Stockley’s cars. I couldn’t very well ask him
about the number, but he didn’t seem to have noticed anything
unusual.”

“I wonder if the carter could have made a mistake?”

“Not likely. He probably knows Stockley’s cars. Every one does round
here and he’d be practically certain to know Gregg, even if it was
dark. You’ll have to rule out the garage car, I suspect. That is, if
Gregg’s really implicated.”

Fayre sighed.

“Well, we seem to be getting somewhere at last,” he said. “Though
Heaven knows what it’s going to lead to.”

“Do we break the glad news to Edward or not?” asked Staveley
mischievously.

“I’m blessed if we do!” answered Fayre, with unexpected heat. “After
all, it’s Grey’s job at present. I’ll write to him to-night.”

He kept his word and sent the solicitor a clear and concise account of
all that had happened.

He was hardly to be blamed if there was a spark of malice in his eyes
the next morning as he stood on the steps with the rest of the
house-party watching the departure of the Keans. Sir Edward was too
absorbed in the task of making his wife comfortable for the journey to
notice anything unusual in his friend’s manner, but Sybil Kean gave
him a moment of discomfort as she said good-by.

“I believe you and Bill are up to some mischief,” she said jestingly.
“I advise you to keep an eye on them, Eve! They had their heads
together after breakfast this morning—and look at them now!”

Fayre managed to retain an expression of bland innocence, but Bill
Staveley was grinning openly.

“I thought so,” she went on quietly. “Always distrust Hatter, Eve,
when he looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

At this moment, to Fayre’s relief, Kean joined her, his arms full of
cushions, and together they went down the steps to the car.

They had hardly disappeared round the bend at the end of the long
drive when Fayre was rung up by Cynthia.

“Tubby’s done it, Uncle Fayre! Didn’t I tell you he would?” Her voice
was breathless with excitement. “I’m coming back this afternoon on the
two-thirty. Will you ask Eve to have me met? I’ll tell you all about
it when I see you, but we’ve traced the car, broken mudguard and
everything!”



Chapter XV

When Cynthia stepped out of the train at Staveley Grange she found
Fayre waiting on the platform. The station-master, an old friend of
her childhood, bustled forward to receive her and she did not have an
opportunity of unburdening herself of her news till she found herself
alone with Fayre in the car on their way to Staveley.

“I’ve one disappointment for you, Uncle Fayre,” she began. “We’ve
traced the car, but we haven’t got the rest of the number.”

For a moment he could not conceal his chagrin. He had been counting on
that one invaluable piece of information ever since he had received
her message the night before.

“Do you mean to say that two garages can have housed the car and
neither have taken the number? It’s incredible!”

“This time it wasn’t there for them to take. The man said that the car
came in with half the number-plate missing! It was broken clean across
just after the number 7, and the owner said that he had been run into
from behind by a lorry just outside Carlisle. Tubby had a talk with
one of the cleaners who had had a good look at the car while he was
working on it and he said that the number-plate was an aluminium one,
the sort that will snap easily with a smart blow from a hammer. Except
for the cracked mudguard there were no other signs of a collision, but
there was paint, red paint, on the mudguard. He remembered trying to
get it off. Tubby thinks it possible that the man broke the plate
himself and that’s why the carter couldn’t see more than half.”

“Looks as if our friend, Mr. Page, must have done it soon after he
left Stockley’s garage. They certainly said nothing about a broken
number-plate there.”

“Tubby says he wouldn’t get far with only half a number-plate and, if
he were stopped, we ought to be able to trace him.”

“Did the garage people describe the man at all?”

“If you can call it a description. It was very like Stockley’s. I
think it must have been the same man. Tall and thin, with a heavy coat
and goggles that he did not take off. He brought in the car on the
evening of the twenty-third, about eight-thirty and took it out again
on the twenty-sixth, but they are not certain of the time. Tubby says
he’s sure that the man was trying to avoid observation or he wouldn’t
have gone to that garage. It’s a rotten little place almost on the
outskirts of Carlisle and it’s not near a hotel or on any of the
direct routes north and south. It’s the last place any one would leave
a car if he were just passing through. Tubby had an awful hunt before
he found it.”

“Page must have been in Carlisle from the twenty-third till the
twenty-sixth, then. I wonder where he went after that? Probably south
to London. The chances are that he didn’t dare risk having the
mudguard mended in Carlisle, in which case there is a bare chance that
we may trace him by it on the London route. And, as you say, he’d have
to do something about the number.”

“As for that, he could use a temporary number, but it would be more
noticeable than an ordinary number-plate.”

“I’ll send a line to Grey to-night and see if he can get onto anything
at his end. He’ll know better how to set about it than I do. Frankly,
I still think this man, Page, may have nothing whatever to do with the
affair. He may have had his own reasons for lying low. After all,
there’ve been several cars stolen in the north during the last few
weeks. It’s becoming a regular profession and he may have been working
his way to London with some car he had taken. We’ve got very little to
go on.”

Having decided not to take Cynthia into his confidence on the subject
of Gregg’s complicity, he could not give her his real reason for
doubting the importance of the Page clue. Argue as he might, he could
not manage to connect the doctor with the strange car, and if he was
at the Hammonds’ farm from seven till nine on the twenty-third he
could not possibly have been in Carlisle at eight-thirty.

Cynthia was gazing at him in astonishment.

“But, Uncle Fayre, the car was seen coming away from the farm just
after the murder was committed, and you know that that lane doesn’t go
beyond the farm. It must have been coming from there and there are
hardly liked to have been two cars with _Y.0.7._ on the number-plate
and a cracked mudguard. You can’t rule the car out altogether!”

“The tramp may have been lying. We haven’t cleared him yet, remember,”
objected Fayre.

“The carter’s honest enough, anyway, and he backed up everything the
tramp said. After all, the real description of the car came from him.
And you’ve always said you were sure Mrs. Draycott was driven to
John’s.”

“I still think she was driven there, but we can’t afford to ignore the
fact that cars have been known before now to turn up a blind lane and
come back in a hurry, after finding out their mistake and that’s what
this car may very well have done. I’m all for tracing this man Page,
if we can, but I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that he found a car
already at the gate of the farm when he got there and that all he did
was to turn round and go back the way he had come. I’m only trying to
save you from possible disappointment, my dear.”

“In that case, we’re just where we were before,” sighed the girl, her
hopes cruelly dashed.

Fayre suddenly realized that, in his determination not to be diverted
from his pursuit of Gregg, he had allowed himself to wound and
discourage Cynthia. He was conscious, too, that his case against the
doctor was getting lamentably weak and that only his native obstinacy
prevented him from admitting it.

“My dear, what nonsense!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “Don’t you see
the immense importance of getting in touch with the one person who was
actually on the spot at the time of the murder, even if he didn’t
actually commit it, and, mind you, I don’t say that he didn’t. For all
we know, though, he may have seen the thing happen and it’s hardly
possible that he didn’t hear the shot. If we do get him, it will be
your doing. You’ve been invaluable.”

Cynthia had been watching him closely.

“I believe you do mean it,” she said at last, “and are not saying it
just to comfort me.”

The car drew up before the broad double flight of steps that led to
the great oak doors of Staveley, and Cynthia prepared to get out.

“But I would most awfully like to know,” she added over her shoulder,
“what you’ve got up your funny old sleeve.”

With that she ran up the steps and disappeared into the house, leaving
Fayre staring in front of him, a comic picture of dismay.

“Bless the women!” he ejaculated as he prepared to follow her.

He made for the library and entrenched himself firmly behind the
_Times_; but he wasn’t to escape for long. Less than ten minutes later
he heard Cynthia’s voice in the hall and then her quick, light step as
she came into the room. He buried his nose deeper in the leading
article.

There was a protesting creak from his chair as she settled herself
comfortably on the arm and placed a slim white hand between his eyes
and the print.

“I did play the game, didn’t I, Uncle Fayre?” she murmured softly. “I
never asked a single question. Don’t you think I deserve a lump of
sugar?”

“What do you want now?” he asked, trying in vain to speak gruffly.
Cynthia in her wheedling moods was doubly dangerous.

“Supposing we were to nip back into the car and run over to the
Cottage Hospital, just you and me. If we go at once we shall be back
in plenty of time for tea.”

“And may I ask what you propose to do there?”

“Sit in the car while you go in and see the tramp. Please, Uncle
Fayre! If you do I promise I won’t bother you to tell me anything you
don’t want to.”

“What do you suggest that I should say to the tramp when I do see him?
He’s told us all he knows already.”

“I don’t believe he has. I’ve been thinking that, if he was really
lying there all that time, he must have seen any one else who came up
the lane and, if you really think the Page man hasn’t got anything to
do with it, then somebody else must have driven to the farm while the
tramp was there. How did Mrs. Draycott get there, if the Page car
didn’t bring her?”

“If you can answer that, my child, you’ve all but solved the mystery,”
sighed Fayre.

“Well, if the tramp can’t answer it, who can?” demanded Cynthia. “You
said he was frightened and suspicious and on his guard against the
police. Why shouldn’t he have been keeping back something? I’ve got a
hunch that if you treat him like a human being and get him to believe
that you’re not his enemy like the rest, you may get something out of
him. Anyway, it’s worth trying. Just to please me, Uncle Fayre! His
leg’s getting better and once he’s out and in the hands of the police
you won’t have a chance to get at him.”

Fayre knew that he was weakening, but he made a determined effort to
retain his comfortable seat by the fire.

“It’s an absolutely forlorn hope, you know,” he urged. “And the
chances are that they won’t let us see him when we get there. You must
remember that I went with Grey last time. Besides, by the time we get
the car . . .”

“The car’s there now,” stated Cynthia calmly. “I ordered it as I was
coming through the hall just now. I told them I’d drive myself.
Please, Uncle Fayre!”

With a sigh Fayre heaved himself out of his chair. “You’re a nuisance
and a bully and you don’t play fair,” he complained, with a smile that
belied his words. “But I suppose if I’m to have my tea in peace, I
shall have to humour you.”

Cynthia drove with her usual cheerful abandon and they arrived at the
police station at Whitbury in record time. Fayre had insisted on going
there for a pass before attempting to storm the hospital and was glad
he had done so, for the Inspector recognized Cynthia as the daughter
of a J. P. and was ready to oblige her.

“As a matter of fact, we’ve withdrawn our man,” he said. “The hospital
authorities are quite capable of looking after their patient. He can’t
walk on that leg yet and nobody except yourself and your friend has
visited him so far, Mr. Fayre. He’s still under suspicion, of course,
but it’s ten to one against his having anything to do with the
murder.”

They drove on to the hospital and Fayre presented his pass, leaving
Cynthia in the car outside.

He found his man sitting up in bed reading the paper. His appearance
had improved considerably in the interval, owing, no doubt, to good
food and soap and water. He received Fayre’s friendly greeting with
the reserve of one who has learned to put his trust in no one.

“Glad to see you looking so fit,” said Fayre. “I was passing and
thought I’d look in and see how you were doing. Also, I wanted to
thank you.”

The man observed him warily.

“I ain’t done nothing for you that I know of,” he volunteered
grudgingly.

“On the contrary, you’ve helped me and my friend very considerably and
we’re grateful to you. The fact is, this man they’ve arrested in
connection with the farm murder is a pal of mine and I’m doing what I
can to help him. If it hadn’t been for you, I should never have got
onto that car you saw, and that car may mean a lot to us. If there’s
anything I can do for you when you get about again, let me know. You
won’t be fit for the road yet awhile, you know.”

The hunted look came back into the tramp’s face. “I wish to God I was
back on the road!” he burst out. “Fat chance I’ve got of ever gettin’
there, it seems to me. I ain’t blind nor deaf neither. The police ’ave
got it in for me proper. I know where I’m goin’ from ’ere, right
enough. And me got no more to do with it than a babe unborn!”

“I believe you,” said Fayre simply. “It’s just a bit of bad luck that
you and Mr. Leslie got dragged in at all. It’s the third person that’s
responsible for all this that I’m anxious to find.”

The man gave him a quick, sidelong glance.

“Is Mr. Leslie the gent what found the body?” he asked.

Fayre nodded.

“’E didn’t do it,” affirmed the man with surprising conviction. “I see
’im through the winder when ’e found ’er, like I told the police. Rare
taken aback, ’e was. ’E didn’t do it. I could’ve told them that if
they’d asked me. The police!”

He spoke with infinite scorn.

“I know he didn’t; but the trouble is to prove it. And what clears him
will probably clear you—that’s why I wanted to have a chat with you.
You haven’t any theory of your own, I suppose?”

“Not me. I wasn’t nowhere near the place when it ’appened. Didn’t even
’ear the shot, for the matter of that.”

He was talking freely now and Fayre could see that he had managed to
gain the man’s confidence and was quick to act on the discovery. He
bent forward confidentially.

“There’s absolutely nothing you can remember, no matter how small,
that happened while you were waiting at the corner of the lane, is
there? The murder was committed while you were lying there and there
may be something you didn’t think worth mentioning before. I give you
my word I won’t pass it on to the police, unless it’s something that
will go towards fastening the guilt on the right person.”

“Come to that, ’ow am I to know as you don’t think I’m the right
person, mister?” queried the man shrewdly. “I was there all right,
wasn’t I?”

“I’m ready to take your word for it that you never budged from the
corner of the lane, and I’m taking my chances there, you know. But if
I’m straight with you I look to you to be straight with me.”

The tramp leaned back on his pillows wearily. “What do you want me to
say?” he asked bitterly. “That I saw the bloomin’ murderer goin’ up
the lane with the weapon in ’is ’and? I tell you, I didn’t see no one,
’cause there wasn’t no one to see.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“As sure as I’m lyin’ ’ere, which I wish I wasn’t.”

The conversation languished and Fayre had almost made up his mind to
give it up as a bad job and depart when the man turned on him
suddenly.

“What time would you say that there murder was committed, mister?” he
asked.

“According to what little we have been able to find out, about
six-thirty. It must have been then, if the car you saw had anything to
do with it.”

Fayre took some sheets of paper out of his pocket and looked up the
notes he had made.

“Here you are. You saw the car going towards the farm at about
six-twenty and you saw it again, coming away, at six-forty or
thereabouts. At six-thirty you were at the Lodge gates of Galston. If
you can prove that, I think you may consider yourself out of it
altogether.”

The man hesitated.

“’Ow can I prove it? What d’you think?” he said at last. “But I’ll
tell you this, though I wouldn’t say it to no one else. And it’s not
for the police, mind you. You said as you wouldn’t pass it on,
mister?”

“I won’t. Fire away.”

“There was a woman as might ’ave seen me. She was comin’ towards me on
the Whitbury road and she turned into the Lodge just before I got
there. Lodge-keeper’s wife, I put her down to be.”

Fayre stared at him in amazement.

“Good Lord, man!” he cried. “Why on earth didn’t you say so when they
questioned you? It’s your one chance of clearing yourself. How do you
know she didn’t see you?”

“I ’ad me own reasons,” stated the man stubbornly. “The cops won’t get
nothin’ out of me I don’t choose to tell.”

Fayre shrugged his shoulders.

“Hanging’s a nasty death,” he suggested.

His curiosity was thoroughly roused, but he knew that his one chance
of getting anything out of the man was not to seem too eager.

The tramp’s face seemed to grow whiter and more pinched.

“They can’t fix it onto me,” he whispered doggedly.

“They can, unless you can prove that you were not at the farm at
six-thirty. You don’t seem to realize that you’re in almost as bad a
position as Mr. Leslie.”

“Supposin’ she didn’t see me?” The man was evidently wavering.

“If you saw her she probably saw you.”

The logic of this was so obvious that it reached the tramp’s brain,
warped though it was with suspicion. He considered it for a moment;
then, raising himself on his elbow, brought his face close to Fayre’s.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered. “I see it now. But I was afraid of
gettin’ in bad with the police. Will you promise not to pass it on
without I tell you?”

“I told you I wouldn’t. Go on.”

“It was this way. I see the woman, like I told you, and I watched her
go into the Lodge. Then I went on to the Lodge, meanin’ to ask for a
bite of something. When I got there I see something lyin’ in the road
and I picks it up. It was a purse. It ’adn’t got much in it, only a
’alf-crown.”

He paused, evidently at a loss as to how to proceed.

“And you pocketed the half-crown and put the purse back where you
found it,” suggested Fayre calmly.

He knew now why the man had kept silence and marvelled at his
mentality. Better, apparently, to risk the gallows for a crime he
hadn’t committed than risk “getting in bad with the police” for one he
had. The one evil he understood, the other he hadn’t sufficient
imagination to realize.

“That’s right, mister. But I wasn’t goin’ to tell the cops that, was
I?”

“No, I suppose not. You can trust me, but, I warn you, you’ll probably
have to make a clean breast of it in the end if you want to clear
yourself of something much more serious.”

“Seems to me I’m for it, whether I tells ’em or whether I don’t. Never
did ’ave no blinkin’ luck, did I?”

Fayre had risen to his feet and stood looking down at the man in the
bed. He was not a prepossessing object, with his furtive eyes and weak
chin. But probably, as he had said, he had never had any luck and
Fayre was conscious of a sudden feeling of pity as he realized the
utter friendlessness of this wretched, homeless creature who existed
only on the sufferance of other men more fortunate and stronger than
himself. No wonder he trusted no one and felt instinctively that every
man’s hand was against him.

“Look here,” said Fayre, speaking on impulse. “I’ll do this for you.
I’ll go to the Lodge myself and see the woman there. If she remembers
you, well and good; you’ll have your alibi ready then if you need it.
As to the purse, I’ll settle with her myself over the half-crown.
You’ve spent it, I suppose?”

“Most of it, mister. The rest’s there.”

He jerked his head in the direction of the table by his bed. On it lay
the contents of the dirty red handkerchief he had been carrying when
he was picked up. The police had been through them and found nothing
worth confiscating.

“Very well, I’ll square you with her. I think I can undertake to do
that without giving you away. If she’s a decent woman she’ll no doubt
agree not to prosecute once she’s got the money back. I will give you
my word not to go to the police about it, but, if you take my advice,
you’ll make a clean breast of it to them as soon as you get on your
feet again. Otherwise, you know where you’ll find yourself. However,
that’s your affair. Anyway, I’ll see to the purse business for you,
which is more than you deserve, you know!”

If Fayre’s last words were harsh his smile was very friendly as he
extended his hand in farewell. Weakness had always irritated and, at
the same time, appealed to him and he had only just begun to
understand how peculiarly helpless the class to which this man
belonged must be.

The tramp thrust a limp hand into his extended one. He was evidently
struggling for expression.

“Thank you, mister; I shan’t forget it,” was all he said, but Fayre
knew he spoke the truth.

He had reached the door when the man called him back.

“I say, mister, I reckon you’d best take these towards that there
half-crown. It’s all I got left.”

He was holding out the small pile of coppers that had been on the
table by his side. Fayre took them from him and gently laid them down
again beside the folded red handkerchief. The man watched him and, as
he did so, his eyes fell on a small object which lay among his pitiful
possessions.

“I’d rather you took it, mister,” he said half-heartedly.

Then, as Fayre shook his head: “Thank you kindly, all the same. You
were askin’ if there was anythin’, no matter how small, as I could
remember. There’s that, if it’s any use to you. It ’ad gone clean out
of my ’ead. It won’t ’elp you much, but if I’d remembered I’d ’a’ give
it to you. By the gate of the farm, it was. I stepped on it in the
dark goin’ in, when I was on my way to the barn.”

He held out his hand and in the palm was lying the cap of a “Red
Dwarf” stylographic pen.



Chapter XVI

As Fayre passed down the broad staircase of the Cottage Hospital he
reviewed his conversation with the tramp and decided that, considering
the little he had gained by it, he might as well have stayed by the
comfortable fireside in the library. Cynthia’s “hunch” had not
amounted to much, after all, and he was sorry, more on her account
than his own, for he had not expected anything himself from the
interview. It had, however, simplified matters, in so far as it had
definitely wiped off the tramp from the possible list of suspects. He
had a strong conviction that the man’s story was true.

He suddenly became conscious of something hard pressing against the
palm of his hand and remembered the little red cap the tramp had given
him at parting. It belonged obviously to the pen he had picked up on
his visit to the farm and he was in the act of slipping it into his
pocket and dismissing it from his mind when a thought struck him which
caused him to pause in his descent and stand gazing blankly into the
hall below. He had suddenly realized that if the tramp had picked up
the cap on the occasion of his arrival at the farm somewhere about
seven o’clock the pen must have been dropped still earlier in the
evening. Fayre’s mind went back to the copper-coloured sequins he had
found by the gate. They had been lying close to the pen and he found
himself trying to picture what had happened.

If Mrs. Draycott’s dress had caught in the gate in passing, the pen
might have fallen from her companion’s pocket while he was
disentangling it. Or could the unhappy woman have been seized with a
premonition of her fate and hesitated on the very threshold of the
farm? At any rate, the finding of the cap by the tramp did away once
for all with the possibility of the pen’s having been dropped after
the murder by a reporter, as Kean had suggested, and its proximity to
the spangles from Mrs. Draycott’s dress pointed to the possibility
that she and her companion might have paused for a moment near the
gate on their way to the house.

The pen had suddenly developed into a far more important link than
they had supposed, and Fayre went on his way feeling that not only had
his morning not been wasted, but that Cynthia, this time at least, had
scored, not only against himself but against Kean, a fact which
afforded him a certain amount of satisfaction.

He found Cynthia deep in conversation with the porter of the hospital.

“Cummin’s son is our undergardener at Galston,” she explained with a
smile that included both men. “I was telling him that he’s the only
person who really understands Mother’s beloved roses.”

Fayre, watching her, understood why it was that she had, not only the
estate, but the whole of the village of Galston, at her feet, and
remembered how even Gunnet had dropped his official reserve when
speaking of her. He climbed into the car and, after a few more
friendly words to the porter, they drove off.

“Well?” she asked as they swept round the corner into the High Street
of Whitbury. “Did he say anything?”

“He cleared himself, if what he says is true. Is there time to call on
your lodge-keeper at Galston on the way back?”

She turned to him in surprise.

“Of course. It’s a little out of the way, but not enough to matter.
Why do you want to see him?”

“I want to see her, if there is a her.”

“There is. His wife, Mrs. Doggett, is a dear old thing. If you want to
get something out of her, you’d better leave it to me. I’ve known her
all my life.”

“I do. I want her to deal kindly with our friend, the tramp, for one
thing.”

He told her the story of the purse and then showed her the red cap the
man had given him and explained its significance.

“Mrs. Doggett will be all right; I’ll manage her. But the cap is
important, Uncle Fayre! I’m glad you went!”

“So am I, now. You were quite right and it’s decent of you not to rub
it in!”

He waited while Cynthia went into the Lodge. After a short interval
she came out, followed by a pleasant-looking old woman.

“This is Mrs. Doggett,” she said. “Mr. Fayre’s a great friend of mine,
Mrs. Doggett, so you must be kind to him.”

Mrs. Doggett’s answer was a broad smile and an old-fashioned curtsey.

“It _was_ her purse,” went on Cynthia, “and she’s going to be a brick
and let the poor man off. Tell Mr. Fayre about it, Mrs. Doggett.”

“I must ’a’ dropped it just before I got to the gate, sir,” explained
the old woman. “I hadn’t been home more than a few minutes when I
missed it and went out again into the road to have a look. I found it
almost at once, but it was empty. I was quite took aback, wondering
who could ’a’ cleaned it out in such a short time, when I remembered
seein’ some one comin’ towards me as I neared the gate. I went up the
road a bit, but I couldn’t see no one, so I give it up. There wasn’t
only half-a-crown in it and, if he was in want, I’m glad he should
have it, pore soul.”

“Do you remember at all what time you reached home that night?” asked
Fayre.

“I couldn’t tell you to a minute, sir, but it must have been somewhere
round about six-thirty, I should say. I’d been doin’ me bit of
shoppin’ at Whitbury and I usually stay till the shops close at six
and it’s just about half an hour’s walk home.”

“How long were you in the house, do you think, before you discovered
your loss?”

“I can’t rightly say, but not more than a quarter of an hour. I
hurried out as soon as I found it was gone. It wasn’t long, because me
’usband come in for ’is supper at seven and I’d got it all cooked and
ready for ’im by then. And _he_ hasn’t been late once this month, to
my knowledge, sir.”

“Then, that clears the tramp. You’ve done him more than one good turn
to-day, Mrs. Doggett. Perhaps Lady Cynthia explained that I had
promised not to report the theft to the police, so if you wouldn’t
mind keeping it dark . . .”

“They won’t hear nothing from me, sir! I don’t want no traffic with
them. Writin’ everythin’ down in their little books! Oh, I couldn’t,
sir, thankin’ you kindly all the same,” she finished, as Fayre slipped
a note into her hand. “It wasn’t only half-a-crown and I don’t grudge
it ’im.”

“You’ve got to, Mrs. Doggett,” called Cynthia over her shoulder as the
car leaped forward. “And you deserve it for being such a brick.”

“So that’s that!” said Fayre, with striking lack of originality. “He’s
out of it. Now we can concentrate on the real culprits. It’ll take us
all our time, too!” he added ruefully.

He spoke more truly than he realized. They had only just passed the
lane leading to Leslie’s farm when a small two-seater turned out of a
by-road on their right and sped past them on the way to Whitbury.

It was being driven by Gregg and by his side was the man who had
cleaned the paint off Fayre’s coat in the doctor’s garage. At the
sight of Cynthia Gregg raised his hand towards his hat, but his eyes
were on Fayre and it seemed to the latter that his glance held both
contempt and defiance.

He turned and looked after the car and, at the sight of the
luggage-rack at the back, an exclamation broke from him. It was loaded
with a portmanteau and a big suitcase.

“Good Lord, I might have guessed it! What an ass I was!” he muttered
in consternation.

“What’s the matter?” asked Cynthia, surprised at his tone.

“He’s bolting! Idiot that I was not to have foreseen this!”

“Dr. Gregg? Then you really do suspect him?”

“I not only suspect him, but he knows it. Cynthia, I’ve made an unholy
mess of this. The only thing to do now is to make for Staveley as
quickly as possible. I must get into touch with Grey and warn him.”

Cynthia wasted no time in asking questions. She did her best and Fayre
made a mental note never again, when she was at the wheel, even to
suggest to her that he was in a hurry. To do him justice he underwent
three hairbreadth escapes without making a sound, but he thanked his
stars that he was still alive as he tore up the steps and into the
little room that housed the telephone at Staveley.

He got Grey with surprisingly little delay and told him what had
happened.

“It’s my fault, I’m afraid. If I hadn’t shown my hand he’d never have
taken fright. Can you do anything at your end?”

“I’ll see to that if he makes for London. I can put a man onto the
station here. What’s he wearing, did you notice?”

“No idea. I was looking at his face. That wouldn’t be enough, anyhow,
for your man to go by. If only I could catch that train!”

“If you did you’d give the show away worse than ever. He’s certain to
be on the lookout. I wish to goodness we had a photograph! We must go
by the ticket, that’s all. I’ll back my man to get onto him if it’s
humanly possible. Fortunately, he’s on good terms with the station
people. It’ll be a bore if Gregg goes north, though!”

“It doesn’t even follow that he’s going by train. He was on his way to
the Junction, but that means nothing. He’s got his man with him, which
looks as if he were sending the car home from the station. The
fellow’s a sort of gardener as well, so he’s not likely to take him
with him if he’s going far.”

“That points to a train journey, so our luck may be in, after all.
Look here, are you free to come up at any moment?”

“Quite. To-night, if you like.”

“There’s no great hurry, but you might run up in the course of the
next day or two. There’s nothing much you can do where you are now,
and it’s about time we compared notes again. I may have something for
you by the time you get here.”

Fayre calculated for a moment.

“I’ll come up by the night train to-morrow, arriving Sunday morning.
Then I can look you up on Monday.”

“Good! Or, better still, lunch with me on Sunday at the Troc.”

“Excellent! I’ll be there at one. By the way, if Gregg was making the
night train he’ll get in about six-twenty. Tell your man to be
careful. He’s no fool, remember.”

“Thanks. See you Sunday, then.”

Fayre was hanging up the receiver when a voice at his elbow made him
start.

“What’s this? Not the naughty doctor doing a bunk? Now, that looks
fishy, if you like!”

Bill Staveley had come in unperceived and had overheard Fayre’s last
sentence.

“He’s off,” answered Fayre. “Met him just now on the way to the
Junction, luggage and all. It looks as if he’d got the wind up.”

Staveley glanced at his watch.

“Even if you’re only just back he was allowing time and to spare for
the five-forty. What makes you think he was going to London?”

“Nothing. He may not have been going by train at all.”

For answer Staveley pushed him gently to one side and, picking up the
receiver, gave a number.

“That Whitbury station? That you, Millar? Lord Staveley speaking. Has
the London train gone yet? Confound it, then, I’ve missed it. I wanted
to catch Dr. Gregg about something. He was on that train, wasn’t he? I
thought so. You don’t happen to know if he was going straight through
to London, do you? If he’s stopping at Carlisle, I might ring him up
there. Thanks, I’ll hold on.”

There was a short pause while he waited, the receiver to his ear.

“Hullo. Yes. He booked through, did he? Yes, that settles it. Thanks
very much.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to Fayre.

“Booked to London and had his luggage labelled straight through. Want
to let your man know?”

He stood waiting while Fayre put through the trunk call.

“What’s the next move?” he asked. “By Jove, I’m beginning to think
you’re right about the doctor!”

“I’d better go up myself and see if Grey’s got anything for me to do
there. To-morrow night will be time enough.”

“If it wasn’t for this blessed Cattle Show on Monday I’d come myself.
I’m beginning to enjoy this business. I wish it hadn’t been Gregg,
though.”

“So do I,” agreed Fayre heartily. “I disliked the fellow at first, I
admit, but now I’ve got a sneaking sympathy for him. He’s a loyal
friend, whatever else he may be.”

“He’s a benighted idiot to cut and run now. I’d have given him credit
for more sense. Was Cynthia with you when you saw him?”

“Yes. And I shall have my work cut out to prevent her from dashing up
to town with me, I expect, once she knows what it all means. Which
reminds me that if I don’t go and make a clean breast of the whole
thing at once I shall never hear the last of it. It’s no good keeping
it from her now.”

He departed hastily in search of her, but she was nowhere to be found
and he concluded that she must have gone straight to her room. When
she failed to put in an appearance at tea he was really puzzled. He
knew she must be waiting eagerly for his explanation and it was not
like her to curb anything, least of all curiosity. He was relieved to
find that the Staveleys took her defection very calmly.

“If you knew Cynthia better you’d take everything she did as a matter
of course,” announced Eve Staveley. “She’s probably gone home to
collect a few more oddments.”

“If she hasn’t made a dash for the five-forty and caught it!”
suggested Bill Staveley with a wicked gleam in his eye. “She can twist
old Millar round her little finger and if she told him to keep the
train till she arrived, I wouldn’t bank on his not doing it.”

“My dear Bill, why on earth should she go off on the five-forty?”
demanded his wife.

“Why shouldn’t she? It’s just the sort of Tom Fool thing she would
do,” he countered cheerfully.

The suggestion made Fayre uncomfortable and he went through a good
deal of quite unnecessary worry before she walked calmly into the
dining-room, ten minutes late for dinner, and apologized very prettily
to her hostess for her unpunctuality.

Lady Staveley took it for granted that she had been to Galston and
neither of the two men thought it wise to question the fact in public.
After dinner, however, she found herself pinned into a corner of the
big drawing-room, well out of hearing of her hostess, and made to give
an account of herself.

“It’s no good trying the happy home stunt on us,” remarked Bill
Staveley lazily. “We want to know where you’ve really been and what
mischief you’ve been up to.”

“I never said I’d been to Galston,” protested Cynthia, the picture of
injured innocence. “It was Eve who insisted on it.”

“In spite of all your protestations,” jibed Staveley. He and Cynthia
were old sparring partners and he was a worthy match for her.

“Well, did you want me to give the show away?” she asked.

“Considering that we don’t know what the show is!”

She cut him short and tackled Fayre direct.

“Did you manage to do anything about Dr. Gregg, Uncle Fayre?” she
asked.

“I rang up Grey, and Bill got the station and discovered that he had
caught the London train. Grey’s going to try to keep him under
observation at the other end. That was all we could do.”

For answer Cynthia opened the little gold bag she carried and took
from it a slip of paper. She handed it to Fayre and watched him in
silence as he read it aloud.

“_Care of Dr. Graham, Brackley Mansions, Victoria Street_,” it ran.

For a moment he stared at the girl in utter bewilderment; then he
broke into a low chuckle.

“She’s beaten us, Bill!” he exclaimed. “It’s Gregg’s address, I’ll be
bound. How did you get it?”

“Ran the car over to his house and asked for it, of course. That’s why
I was late for dinner. I punctured on the way home. I told the maid
that Lady Kean had written to say that she’d lost his prescription and
had asked me to see him about it. They said that he always stays at
that address when he’s in London and that he’d told them to forward
letters there, so he’s sure to go to it if only to collect them.”

There was a blank silence, broken eventually by Lord Staveley.

“Absurdly simple, my dear Watson, when you know how it’s done. One up
to you, Cynthia. He’ll smell a rat, of course, when he gets back, but
it probably won’t matter then.”

Fayre caught the night train for London on the following evening. Lord
Staveley had offered to send him into Carlisle by car, thus saving the
change at Whitbury, but he preferred to go from Staveley Grange.

“Both your chauffeurs must hate the sight of me by now, though why you
persist in using that wretched little branch line is beyond me,” he
complained.

“Lord knows!” admitted Staveley frankly. “It’s a bit of a way round to
Whitbury, it’s true, but that’s nothing in a car. Of course, in the
old horse days it was a consideration. That and the fact that they
gave my grandfather the branch line as a special concession in days
gone by and we’ve felt it our duty to use it ever since is the only
reason I can think of why we stick to it still. We’re a hide-bound
lot, but I must admit I’ve got a weakness for that rotten little
station. It reminds me of coming home for the holidays in my school
days for one thing.”

“And then we’re surprised to find Americans laughing at us! We are a
queer country, you know.”

“Well, if you can find a better ’ole, go to it!” quoted Staveley
cheerfully. “You can have the car to Carlisle if you like to-night,
but I’m dashed if I’ll send you to Whitbury now!”

So Fayre travelled from Staveley Grange after the approved Staveley
fashion and was glad he had done so, for, as he was waiting for his
train at Whitbury he was joined by Miss Allen, whom he would
undoubtedly have missed in the crowd at Carlisle. She, too, was on her
way to London and she and Fayre dined very pleasantly together in the
restaurant car. He found, as he had suspected, that she improved on
acquaintance and they sat talking for some time after the meal ended.

Fayre wondered later, as he sat huddled in his stuffy corner, waiting
for the sleep that would not come, what she would have said if she had
known the reason of his journey to town.

“The whole cast of the melodrama seems to be moving to London,” he
thought whimsically. “Though what we’re all going to do there,
goodness knows! It would be more satisfactory, too, if one knew which
of us was the villain of the piece!”



Chapter XVII

Fayre saw Miss Allen into a cab and then drove straight to his club.
After a hot bath and a leisurely breakfast he felt better able to face
the world, but he was not sorry to spend a quiet Sunday morning
drowsing in front of the smoking-room fire and it was with a distinct
effort that he turned out, shortly before one, to keep his appointment
with Grey at the Trocadero.

He found the solicitor already seated and busy studying the wine-card.
At the sight of Fayre he sprang to his feet and greeted him with a
mixture of enthusiasm and deference which the older man found
refreshing in these casual days.

“How about a pick-me-up, sir?” he asked, with a keen glance at his
guest. “Or do you despise cocktails?”

“They have their uses,” admitted Fayre, a glint of mischief in his
eyes, “especially after a long night in the train, but I’m not such a
dug-out as you might think, you know!”

Grey laughed.

“I didn’t mean that!” he apologized hastily. “Only you look a bit done
up.”

He ordered a couple of Martinis and then plunged at once into the
business which was engrossing both their minds.

“My man rang up about an hour ago,” he said. “He got onto Gregg all
right. He managed to square the ticket-collector and stood by his side
as the passengers passed through. The collector spotted the Whitbury
ticket and gave him the tip and he followed the man. He says he
answered to our description. I think it was Gregg all right.”

“Where did he go?” asked Fayre.

His lips twitched involuntarily, for he guessed what was coming.

“To a doctor’s house, or rather flat. Brackley Mansions, Victoria
Street. He took his luggage in, so that looks as if he meant to stay
there, unless it was a blind.”

“Good work,” was Fayre’s only comment.

Grey looked at him sharply.

“What’s the joke?” he asked.

“Nothing much, only we had our noses pulled rather thoroughly over
that address by Lady Cynthia!”

He told Grey what had happened.

“I like that girl,” was Grey’s enthusiastic comment. “She’s keen.
We’ll get Leslie off, if only for her sake.”

“We don’t look much like doing it at present,” said Fayre rather
hopelessly. “It seems to me that until we can get Gregg to account for
that extra hour he spent getting from Whitbury to Hammond’s farm we’re
pretty well stuck. And, if he won’t speak we’re not in a position to
make him.”

“I can’t for the life of me see any connection between Gregg and the
Page car,” said Grey thoughtfully.

“There is none. Of that I feel convinced. My opinion is that Page
simply turned up the lane and, finding it a cul-de-sac, came back
again. He may have seen something, but I don’t believe he took Mrs.
Draycott to the farm.”

“The tramp seemed to think there was a woman in the car, though, the
first time it passed him.”

“He was very vague about it and admitted he could hardly see the
occupants. I believe we ought to concentrate on Gregg.”

Grey deliberated for a moment.

“I’m not sure that I agree with you,” he said at last. “Gregg’s not
behaving like a guilty man. I fully expected that he’d make a break
for the boat-train, instead of which he’s gone quite openly to the
address at which he always stays, according to his servants, when he
comes to town. He may have come up merely to get legal advice.”

“Lady Cynthia’s certainly got a strong feeling that this man Page is
implicated,” admitted Fayre.

“I think she’s right and her suggestion that the car may have been
stopped if it ran to London with a broken number-plate is quite sound.
We can work on that, anyhow.”

“In the meanwhile, is there anything I can do?”

“Yes,” answered Grey decisively. “Get in touch with Sir Edward, if you
can, and see if he won’t arrange an interview with us. He’s got one of
the acutest brains in England and I’d welcome his advice. Besides,
he’s got a personal interest in the case.”

Fayre laughed.

“He hasn’t exactly encouraged my maiden efforts!” he complained. “In
fact, he told me flatly to go to the police just before he left
Staveley.”

Grey nodded.

“That’s the line he would take. Like all competent people he distrusts
the capacity even of professionals; and amateurs simply don’t exist
for him. I don’t think he’ll take that line now, however, especially
when he realizes how far we’ve got. He’ll admit that we’ve every
reason now to keep the thing in our own hands.”

“I’ll call on Lady Kean this afternoon and see if I can get hold of
him. He’s sure to be there unless they are week-ending out of town,
and I don’t think she’s well enough yet for that.”

“Any time he chooses to appoint will suit me. Meanwhile, if nothing
further transpires as regards Gregg, I’ll beard him myself. He may not
resent my curiosity as much as yours, and if he has been to see his
solicitor he’ll no doubt have had it impressed upon him that his
attitude is not only stupid but dangerous, if he’s really got nothing
to hide.”

They lingered over lunch and again over their coffee. When they at
last parted Fayre strolled down Piccadilly and across Green Park and
it was close on four o’clock when he reached Kean’s house in
Westminster.

Two cars were standing before the door when he reached it. Evidently
he was not the only caller, a discovery which afforded him a certain
satisfaction. If there were other people there Sybil would have little
opportunity for discussing the Draycott murder and he might manage to
slip away and transact his business with Kean.

He had hardly taken his hand off the bell when the door was opened
and, without waiting for his inquiry as to whether Lady Kean was at
home, the butler stood aside for him to pass into the hall.

“Sir William is waiting for you, sir, if you’ll step up,” he said.

“Sir William?” repeated Fayre, puzzled. “Isn’t this Sir Edward
Kean’s?”

For a moment the man seemed taken aback; then he realized his mistake.

“I beg your pardon, sir; I took you for the doctor the gentlemen are
expecting. Lady Kean is very ill. The doctors are holding a
consultation upstairs. Sir Edward is at home, but I don’t know . . .”

“I won’t trouble him now, of course,” said Fayre quickly. “I’m very
sorry about this. When was she taken ill?”

“Her ladyship had a heart attack yesterday evening soon after she
arrived from the North. The doctor thinks the journey was too much for
her. We are very anxious about her, sir.”

The man looked genuinely distressed. Evidently Sybil Kean was of those
who endear themselves to their servants.

Fayre produced a card and scribbled the address of his club on it.

“Tell Sir Edward that this will find me if I can be of any use. I’ll
call again later in case there is better news.”

As he went down the steps a car drove up, no doubt bearing the third
doctor. His heart was very heavy as he made his way slowly back to his
club. For the moment his mind was swept completely clear of the
Draycott case and he could think of nothing but the Keans: the hushed
house and the possibly fruitless consultation that was now taking
place. Sybil Kean was the oldest of all his friends in England and he
was very fond of her. Edward could, on occasion, exasperate him almost
beyond endurance and he was an unsatisfactory companion in the sense
that he gave little and asked for nothing where the ties of friendship
were concerned, but Fayre had always both liked and admired him. He
had struck him from the first as one of the loneliest beings in
existence, a man fated to remain detached, too strong to invite
sympathy and too engrossed in his own interests to offer it. Fayre
pictured him, waiting alone for the verdict of the doctors, and wished
he had had the courage to break in upon his privacy.

He dined at the club and, after a fruitless attempt to enjoy a quiet
cigar, was driven by sheer anxiety to return to Westminster.

To his surprise he was told that Sir Edward wished to see him.

“It was good of you to call, Hatter,” was Kean’s brief comment as he
rose to greet him.

His voice had lost none of its resonance, but Fayre thought he had
never seen a man look so ill. His face was a grey mask and his eyes,
bleak and lifeless, seemed literally to have receded into his head.
Fayre cast a swift glance round the room.

“Look here, old man,” he said, “have you dined?”

Kean stared at him vaguely.

The butler, who had been making up the fire and was about to leave the
room, turned at his words.

“Sir Edward made a very poor dinner, sir,” he ventured.

Kean swung round on him impatiently; but he was too exhausted to act
with his customary vigour and Fayre forestalled him.

“Do you think you could raise a few sandwiches?” he asked the man
pleasantly. “I see drinks are here.”

The butler responded with alacrity.

“Cook did cut some, sir, on the chance.”

He vanished, only too thankful to feel that Sir Edward was at last in
the hands of some one who seemed able to influence him. He had hardly
eaten or slept, in the opinion of his household, since his wife had
been taken ill.

Fayre strolled over to the little table near the window, on which
stood a tantalus and a couple of syphons. He poured out a stiff drink,
but withheld it until the butler returned with a tray of fruit and
sandwiches.

Kean sat gazing into the fire. He did not show the slightest interest
in Fayre’s movements and the fact that his old friend had coolly taken
possession and was issuing orders to his servants seem to have escaped
him.

Fayre moved the table with the tray to Kean’s elbow.

“Is Sybil conscious?” he asked quietly and with what seemed deliberate
cruelty.

Her name was enough to rouse Kean from his abstraction.

“Her mind’s quite clear, but she’s so weak she can hardly speak,” he
said. “The doctors won’t say anything definite yet.”

“Then, if she’s able to think at all she’s worrying about you. Don’t
give her more cause for anxiety than you can help, old chap. She’ll
need you as soon as she picks up a bit and what earthly use are you
going to be to her if you let yourself go to pieces now?”

He held out the tumbler and Kean, after a moment’s hesitation, took it
and drank thirstily.

“I wanted that,” he said.

For answer Fayre silently pushed over the plate of sandwiches. Then he
sat quietly watching the dancing flames while Kean forced himself to
eat. The self-discipline he had always practised stood him in good
stead and the plate was half-empty before he leaned back in his chair
and fumbled for his cigarette-case.

“Sorry, Hatter,” he said with the ghost of a smile, “but that’s the
best I can do.”

Fayre grinned back at him.

“Good enough,” he answered. “Feel better?”

Kean nodded.

“I’d lost grip of myself for the moment, that’s all. Those confounded
doctors took such a time this afternoon and then I couldn’t get a
thing worth having out of them. I suppose they couldn’t help it, poor
beggars, but it seemed a lifetime to me. It was decent of you to come,
Hatter.”

“I came because I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer myself. Glad
I did, now.”

“So am I. I’ll tell you as much as I know myself. If she pulls through
the night they think she’ll do and she’s no weaker than she was this
morning. That’s all I’ve got to go on. If there’s any change the nurse
will come for me, otherwise she’s to see no one. The doctor’s coming
again in an hour’s time.”

“Thanks,” said Fayre appreciatively. “I’m glad to know. It’s not such
a bad lookout as I feared. Like so many people with frail bodies,
Sybil’s always had more than her share of nervous vitality and I’m
ready to bank on that. And you’ve given her an incentive to live, old
man,” he finished gently.

Kean stared at him for a moment without speaking. Then:

“I’ve done my best,” he said with a curious grim note in his voice
that made Fayre wonder whether, after all, he had not always realized
how very little of her heart Sybil Kean had to give when she married
him.

There was a pause; then Kean rose to his feet and thrust his hands
into his pockets with the gesture that was so characteristic of him.

“I can’t stand this,” he said abruptly. “I must get my teeth into
something or my imagination will get away with me. What have you and
Grey been doing?”

“As a matter of fact, I came here to-day at Grey’s request. He wants
to consult you and suggested I should make an appointment. Of course,
that’s all off now.”

“For the present, anyhow. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t put
me _au fait_ with things. I should be grateful for anything to hitch
my brain onto at this moment.”

Fayre realized that he was actuated by sheer instinct for
self-preservation and met him half-way by plunging at once into a
recital of all that had happened in the last few days.

Kean listened attentively. Now and then he interrupted to ask a
trenchant question; otherwise he heard him in silence. When he had
finished Fayre handed him the little red cap the tramp had given him.

“This may as well go with the other exhibit,” he said. “Anyhow, we
know now that it was lost before, and not after, the murder.”

Kean dropped it into the drawer of his writing-table and turned the
key.

“It would be interesting to know how much that fellow, Gregg, really
knows of Mrs. Draycott’s past,” he said slowly.

“Whatever it is, he’s made up his mind not to speak.”

Kean stood rocking backward and forward on his heels, lost in thought.
Fayre watched him in amazement. Half an hour ago he had been a broken
man. Not only had he pulled himself together by sheer force of will,
but he was now giving his whole mind to the matter in hand with a lack
of effort that seemed almost superhuman.

“Gregg ought to be get-at-able,” he said at last. “His treatment of
you was nothing but a display of bad temper. If he’s innocent it ought
to be possible to convince him of the folly of the line he’s taking.
If he’s guilty, the only course will be to put the matter in the hands
of the police. My own impression is that he’s shielding some one. Miss
Allen said that this man Baxter, Mrs. Draycott’s first husband, was
dead. She also went so far as to say that he was the one person she
could think of connected with her sister’s past who would have been
capable of killing her. Have we any proof that the fellow _is_ dead?”

“Gregg told me that he had died in his arms. We haven’t followed the
matter up, if that’s what you mean.”

“A statement of that sort, coming from Gregg, is of no value to us.
Get Grey to look the thing up, will you?”

“It’s an idea!” exclaimed Fayre. “I wonder we never thought of it!
Baxter was Gregg’s friend and Gregg hated Mrs. Draycott on his
account. He’d certainly shield him if the necessity arose. And Baxter
was a drunkard and half demented, at that, if the accounts be true.
There may be something in it.”

Kean made a gesture of impatience.

“Don’t go off the deep end, Hatter. The man’s probably dead and
buried. It’s worth investigating, though. And look here, Hatter, keep
Grey off Gregg, will you? We don’t want this thing muddled and if
Grey’s clumsy he’ll do more harm than good. Tell him I’ll make the
doctor my business, that is . . .”

He broke off and the lines on his face deepened. Fayre knew that his
mind was back in the quiet, shaded room upstairs and that the words
“if all goes well” had trembled on his lips and he had been afraid to
utter them.

“I’ll see to that, old chap,” he broke in hastily, “and I’ll put the
Baxter theory to him at once.”

Kean sank into a chair and closed his eyes. He looked mortally tired
and Fayre forbore to disturb him. For a time they sat in silence; then
Kean shook himself out of his abstraction.

“As regards the Page business,” he began thoughtfully, “I
doubt . . .”

There was a sound in the hall and in a moment he was on his feet,
everything but his wife forgotten. They heard the front door close,
followed by the sound of subdued voices.

“It’s the doctor. Wait here, old man, will you?” Kean flung the words
over his shoulder as he left the room, and for the next half-hour or
so Fayre, alone in the big shadowy library, gave himself up
shamelessly to the depression which had haunted him all day.

He waited till the departure of the doctor and the return of Kean with
the news that his wife was, if anything, a little stronger and then
walked back through the quiet, lamplit streets to his club.



Chapter XVIII

Before going out the next morning Fayre rang up Kean’s house and
ascertained that Sybil Kean had passed a good night and was
appreciably stronger. The doctors were still unable to pronounce her
definitely out of danger and had warned Kean that, at any moment,
there might be a relapse, but Fayre was conscious of an immense relief
as he set out for Grey’s office in Chancery Lane.

He gave Grey the gist of his interview with Kean. The solicitor was
inclined to be sceptical as to the existence of Baxter, but he
admitted that, were the man still alive, Kean’s suggestion would more
than hold water and he promised to look into the matter at once. He
smiled at Kean’s offer to deal with Gregg himself if the occasion
arose.

“Didn’t I tell you that he trusted no one but himself in a matter of
any real importance?” he exclaimed. “That’s a part of the secret of
his success. That and his amazing capacity for cramming two men’s work
into the twelve hours. He must be uncommonly keen on the case, though.
Apart from Lady Kean’s illness he’s up to his eyes in work already.”

“Which will be the saving of him if things go wrong with her,” said
Fayre. “I wish this next week were over.”

Grey nodded.

“So do I, from our point of view as well as his. If Lady Kean dies Sir
Edward will do one of two things: try to lose himself in work or chuck
everything. It’s a toss-up. If he were to throw up the sponge, I don’t
know what we should do. Even with the little we’ve got now, Kean might
get Leslie off on insufficient evidence, but there’s not another man
at the Bar who could put it through. We’re still in an uncommonly
tight corner.”

In the afternoon Fayre called on Kean and literally forced him into
the open air. The two men walked across the Park as far as Bayswater.
Once there, however, Kean fell into a panic and, refusing Fayre’s
offer to ring up his house at the nearest public telephone, jumped
into a taxi and hurried home. Fayre turned back and strolled quietly
along the Serpentine in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. He had not
gone far when his eye fell on the figure of a woman walking just ahead
of him. Something in the purposeful swing of her walk and the carriage
of her erect figure struck him as familiar and he quickened his steps
and was soon abreast of her.

She turned at the sound of his voice.

“Mr. Fayre! I was just thinking of you, curiously enough, and wishing
I had asked you for your address the other day when we met in the
train.”

Fayre turned to her with a smile.

“If I were a more conceited man I should feel flattered, but I’m
afraid you’ve got some annoyingly good reason for wishing to see me.
Is there anything I can do?”

“It is only that you asked me once whether I could tell you anything
about my sister’s associates and I wondered if you would care to go
through some papers of hers which have only just come into my
possession. They have been in a dispatch-box at her bank all this time
and were handed over to me yesterday. I went through them cursorily
and they seem to consist mostly of business papers, but there are one
or two letters and photographs which might give you some hint as to
the set she was moving in. They convey nothing to me, but you may know
something about these people.”

“It is more than good of you . . .” began Fayre.

“Nonsense, Mr. Fayre. I am as anxious to find out who killed my poor
sister as you are to clear John Leslie and it struck me that two heads
are better than one. Also, you may have arrived at certain conclusions
already and these letters may throw some light on them. I warn you
that there was nothing private, with the exception of certain letters
which I have already destroyed or disposed of. They concerned only my
sister and could have been of no use to you whatever, but I prefer to
deal frankly with you.”

Fayre’s sharp eyes did not miss the sudden wave of colour that swept
to the roots of her grey hair when she mentioned the letters and he
made a shrewd guess as to the character of that portion of Mrs.
Draycott’s correspondence that her sister had found it better to
destroy.

He hastened to reassure her.

“Of course I understand. Show me only what you care for an outsider to
see. As you say, you may have something that confirms certain
suspicions of mine. In any case, I am very grateful to you for giving
me the opportunity to see them.”

“Could you look at them to-morrow?” she suggested, coming to the point
at once in her downright way. “I shall be in from four onwards.”

“Delighted, and if you are going to walk back to your hotel, perhaps
you’ll let me take you to the door. You look as if, like myself, you
were out for exercise.”

“I am, and to tell you the truth, I was bored to death! It’s a funny
thing, but I can walk for miles alone in the country and enjoy every
moment of it, but five minutes of it in London is enough to make me
long for some one to grouse to. The crowds both worry and stifle me.”

“I know what you mean; I feel the same myself. I put it down to the
years I have been away. London’s the one place where I feel really
lonely nowadays.” She nodded.

“I forgot you’d been abroad for so long. The truth is, I suppose we’ve
both dropped out of things. It’s dawning on me that I’ve turned into a
regular country cousin. I’m not going straight back to my hotel, by
the way. I’ve got a parcel to leave near Victoria. Is that out of your
way?”

“Not a bit. The further, the better.”

They walked on, chatting quietly. Their conversation ranged over a
wide field and Fayre discovered that, though she was pleased to call
herself a country cousin, she had not by any means lost touch with the
outside world, for she was a voracious reader and had gathered a store
of homely wisdom in the course of her quiet life. The time passed so
pleasantly that he was surprised when he found himself at the corner
of Grosvenor Place, facing Victoria Station.

“Where do we go now?” he asked idly.

Her answer took his breath away.

“I’m making for some flats behind the Cathedral. Brackley Mansions,
they’re called.”

Gregg’s headquarters in London! They crossed the road in silence,
Fayre busily engaged in assuring himself that there was nothing
unusual in such coincidences.

“If you’re really so keen on exercise and are not in a hurry we might
stroll on to my hotel,” pursued Miss Allen. “I’m only leaving this
parcel. I can’t offer you tea to-day, as I’m entertaining a dull batch
of relations, but I shall be glad of your company to the door.”

She took a small, flat package out of her bag and Fayre, glancing at
it involuntarily, could not help seeing Dr. Gregg’s name written
across it in a clear, bold script, the type of handwriting he would
have expected from Miss Allen.

They left the parcel with the porter and then strolled on to Miss
Allen’s hotel. Fayre’s conversation was as intelligent as could be
expected in the circumstances, but it was somewhat mechanical, for his
mind was wrestling busily with this new problem. Until now it had not
occurred to him to connect Miss Allen’s visit to London with that of
Gregg, but now he began to wonder. He had parted from her and was on
his way back to his club when the probable explanation dawned on him.
Did the parcel she had just left for Gregg contain some of the letters
she had “disposed of”? It seemed more than likely. If so, Fayre would
have given a good deal for a glance at the contents of the packet.

Events followed each other in an almost uncanny sequence. When he
reached the club he was handed a card by the porter, who told him that
a gentleman was waiting to see him, and the name on it, to his
astonishment, was that of Gregg. Fayre found some difficulty in
collecting his thoughts as he went in search of his visitor and led
him to a secluded corner of the almost deserted library.

The conversation opened awkwardly, for Gregg seemed to be labouring
under an acute attack of embarrassment.

“Very good of you to see me after what happened,” he began clumsily,
his manner even more abrupt than usual. “Fact is, I made a blithering
ass of myself the other day and I’ve come to say so. Hope you’ll
accept an apology.”

“That’s all right. I expect I must have seemed an infernal busybody,”
said Fayre hastily. “I’m only too glad you’ve come to look on me in a
more friendly light. Are you a tea-drinker or would you prefer
something else?”

He waited impatiently while the servant supplied their needs. When he
had gone Gregg, as he had hoped, came directly to the point.

“You asked for an explanation the other day,” he said bluntly. “If it
hadn’t been for my infernally hot temper I should have given it and
saved us both a lot of trouble. Well, I’ve come to give it now.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his tea cooling unheeded by his
side.

“It’s a bit difficult to know where to begin, but you may as well have
the whole story. I did know Mrs. Draycott, as you guessed, but that
was before she married Draycott. I give you my word that, until I saw
her lying dead at Leslie’s farm, I’d never set eyes on her since the
week after she ran away from Baxter in 1916. I knew she was staying at
Staveley, of course, but I fancy she avoided me there. Anyhow, I never
saw her and I was glad of it, for it wasn’t an acquaintance I was
anxious to renew. When that chap, Brace, asked me if I knew her, I
denied it on impulse. If you ask me why, I’m blessed if I know. I
hated her and everything to do with her and the time I had known her,
and I suppose it was a sort of blind endeavour to put it all behind
me. Anyway, as soon as I’d done it, I knew what a fool thing it was to
do, but there was nothing for it then but to stick to what I’d said.
How you got onto the fact that I’d ever had anything to do with her, I
don’t know, but it was cursed awkward for me and I’m not surprised you
got the wind up.”

“It was an accident, more or less, helped by your own obvious dislike
of her. You made a mistake there.”

“I know. I was rattled over the whole thing and I’ve no doubt I gave
myself away. You see, I had more than one reason for wishing to keep
out of it. For one thing, I knew that my statement that I had never
seen her looked fishy, to say the least of it, and then there was the
boy.”

He paused, evidently trying to sort out his story. Then, catching
sight of Fayre’s face of bewilderment:

“I expect it all seems an unholy muddle to you. I’d better get back to
the beginning. Miss Allen, as she was then, was at St. Swithin’s with
me, as you probably know by now. She married my special pal, Baxter,
and I can assure you I did my best to put a spoke in her wheel there.
It was no good, however; Baxter was almost insane about her and
wouldn’t listen to a thing against her, and, knowing what I knew about
her, it made me pretty sick, as you may imagine. So much so that,
after they married, I saw very little of them.

“I’d got a big, very poor practice then and was too busy, anyway, to
look up old friends. Then one day he turned up, half demented, and
told me she’d gone off with Draycott and left him with their small boy
on his hands. To make a long story short, he ended by divorcing her
after trying in vain to get her back. I went to see her myself, much
as I disliked her, the day after Baxter’s visit to me. I found her at
a hotel with Draycott and she laughed in my face when I tried to get
her to return to her husband. After the divorce he went to pieces
altogether and I had my hands full, I can tell you. When he got past
work I persuaded him to come to me with the boy, and he died soon
afterwards in my house. I’d got fond of the little chap by then, and I
stuck to him, there being no other relations he could go to. He’s at a
preparatory school now and going to a public school next term. That’s
the principal reason why I didn’t want my connection with this
business to come out. I gave him my name and he’s supposed to be my
nephew and, for his sake, I don’t want to drag up the past now.”

“I see that,” said Fayre sympathetically. “In fact, I’m beginning to
realize now how you must have cursed my interference.”

“Your butting in as you did was a calamity, from my point of view,
and, like a fool, I lost my temper and tried to bluff it out. You see,
I’d concealed his identity with a good deal of care and I began to see
myself in the witness-box and photographs of the little chap in the
papers, all my trouble gone for nothing, as it were, and I saw red.”

“Does the boy know he’s Baxter’s son?”

“He knows his name was Baxter originally, but he wouldn’t connect his
mother with Mrs. Draycott. He thinks she died before he came to me
with his father. I never tried to conceal his parentage from him; in
fact, I’ve done my best to keep the memory of his father alive as he
was before he let himself go to pieces. Fortunately the little chap
was too young to notice much in those days. No, it was his mother I
was afraid of. She’d got no legal claim on the boy, but I knew her.
She was a greedy woman where money was concerned and an infernally
clever one. Even when Draycott was alive she was eternally hard up and
there was very little she’d stick at to raise money. I never saw her
again, as I said, but I kept track of her and, from what I heard, I’m
pretty certain that, if she’d known where to find the boy, she’d have
put the screw on me, little as I should have been able to give her.
She knew I’d do a good deal to prevent her from getting at him. She
was an attractive woman and a good enough actress to make a very
pretty and affecting scene if she’d chosen to look him up and play the
fond mother. She’d have got round him, I’ve no doubt, and she knew I
couldn’t afford to risk that. That was why I changed his name and I
was very careful not to talk openly of where he was. You must remember
that she detested me and, apart from the money, she was quite capable
of going and worrying the boy out of sheer spite.”

“She wouldn’t descend to blackmail, surely,” protested Fayre.

He had disliked Mrs. Draycott and everything that he had since heard
of her had been to her discredit, but he found it difficult to believe
that a sister of Miss Allen should have sunk low enough for blackmail.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Gregg shrewdly. “She came of good
stock and was brought up according to the traditions of her class,
but, believe me, when a woman’s once started on the downward slope she
gets pretty callous about what she does. I give you my word that, bad
as the shock of finding her dead was, it had less effect on me that
night than the discovery that she was Miss Allen’s sister. I realized
then, for the first time, the sort of people she had sprung from and I
came very near to giving myself away, I was so surprised. Oddly
enough, in spite of the name, I had never connected them with each
other.”

“You say you kept an eye on Mrs. Draycott. Does that mean that you
were in touch with any of her associates? I don’t mind telling you
that we’re still at sea as to the motive of the crime.”

“I can’t help you there, I’m afraid,” answered Gregg frankly. “There
was an old servant of hers who took up dressmaking and to whom she
always went when she wanted anything of the sort. I believe she had
some arrangement with her, too, by which she used to send her cast-off
dresses to sell on commission. I used to go and see the woman every
now and then and she’d give me the latest news of Mrs. Draycott. She
worked for her, but she’d no reason to love her and she liked the boy
and was ready to do him a good turn. But she only saw Mrs. Draycott at
intervals and knew none of the people with whom she foregathered.”

“You can think of no one yourself who owed her a grudge?”

“There must have been plenty, but I don’t know of any one in
particular. I’ve told you my reason for wishing to keep out of her
clutches. She failed with me, but she probably succeeded with others.
There’s motive enough, if you want one.”

“Blackmail!” said Fayre thoughtfully. “It seems incredible, but the
idea has its possibilities. In that case, there ought to be papers of
some sort among her effects.”

“They’re all in Miss Allen’s hands now,” volunteered Gregg. “And
what’s more, she’s in town. She’s been going through some things her
sister kept at the bank and she wrote to me yesterday to say that
there were some old letters of Baxter’s that she thought I might like
to have and offering to send them to me. From something she’s found
she’s got onto the fact that I know where the boy is and she proposes
to make over to him what money her sister left. As straight as a die,
Miss Allen is, and I’ve written to thank her. It seems that she
thought he was in the hands of Baxter’s people until now. You might go
and see her, but she’s not the kind to give her sister away.”

“I’m calling on her to-morrow, but, as you say, it’s hardly a subject
one can broach.”

His heart sank as he remembered the papers Miss Allen had told him she
had burned and the hot flush that had risen to her cheeks when she
spoke of them.

Gregg buttoned his coat preparatory to departure.

“I’ve told you all I know,” he said. “But I doubt if it’s been much
help to you. There’s one thing more that you might think worth
following up. A fellow I know saw Mrs. Draycott in Paris in 1920,
three years after she married Draycott. Draycott was in Egypt at the
time and she was with a man whom this friend of mine, Lloyd, was
unable to identify. He was an old friend of Baxter’s and knew that I
should not be sorry to have a hold over her, so, after he’d run across
them three or four times, he followed them to their hotel one night,
but her name was not on the register and he couldn’t trace the man. He
believes they were staying together under assumed names. I kept his
letter, thinking I might bluff her with it if we ever came up against
each other. I give you the story for what it’s worth and I’ll write
down Lloyd’s address for you and send him a line asking him to tell
you what he knows, if you think it’s worth while to look him up. But I
warn you, he doesn’t know much. It’s possible, however, that if she
went to Paris with this man, she may have put the screw on him later.”

He scribbled an address on the back of a card and placed it on the
table.

Fayre picked it up and slipped it into his pocket-book.

“Anything’s worth while at this stage of the game,” he admitted
thoughtfully.

He stood hesitating, considering his next move. Knowing Gregg’s quick
temper, he found considerable difficulty in clothing the question that
was trembling on his lips in a form the other would not immediately
resent, but he knew that he could not let the man go until he had an
answer.

“I wish you’d tell me one thing,” he said at last.

“Fire away. I’m not going off the deep end again, if that’s what
you’re afraid of,” answered Gregg with disconcerting intuition.

“Can you give me your movements from, say, five onwards on the evening
of the murder? I’ve a good reason for asking.”

Gregg looked genuinely surprised; then his lips parted in a rather
grim smile.

“I’m blessed! You’ve got it all pat, haven’t you? It was about five
when I left the house and I bet you’re perfectly aware that I went
straight to Stockley’s garage at Whitbury and hired a car. Mine was
out of commission. You’ve been putting in some hard work, Mr. Fayre,
and if you don’t know already that I went on to Willow Farm on a
maternity case, I’ll eat my hat. However, you shall have the whole
program. I picked up the car at Stockley’s at about five-thirty and
made straight for Hammond’s, that is, the Willow Farm. There’s a
little village, you may or may not know, about three miles from
Whitbury on the Besley road. I was going through when a boy ran out of
one of the cottages and yelled something at me. I stopped the car and
shouted back that, unless it was urgent, I could not see any one just
then. Mrs. Hammond’s a delicate little woman and I was anxious about
her. However, it was urgent. A wretched baby had pulled over a kettle
of boiling water and scalded its legs and one arm. It was in a bad way
and it was over an hour before I got away, with the result that I
didn’t get to Willow Farm till close on seven. I left Hammond’s
somewhere about nine, drove home and went on, almost immediately, to
Leslie’s farm.”

Fayre stood observing him with some chagrin. It was obvious that the
man was speaking the truth, and, in any case, his story would be easy
enough to verify. “I don’t mind telling you,” he said ruefully, “that
you’ve just cheerfully demolished my best clue. If it wasn’t for John
Leslie I would tell you, quite honestly, that I’m uncommonly glad. As
it is, I feel rather cheap. I’d got all your movements except for the
hour lost on the way to Willow Farm. You must admit that it looked
suspicious, taking into account the fact that Mrs. Draycott met her
death somewhere about six-thirty.”

Gregg stared at him for a moment.

“Good Lord!” he burst out. “I don’t wonder you’ve been nosing about
after my black past. I’d no idea you’d got me cornered like that!”

He dived into his pocket and produced a pencil and an old envelope.

“If you don’t mind I’ll add the name and address of that unfortunate
baby! You’d better verify my statement and, while you’re about it,
have a look at the scar on the kid’s arm. I’m proud of the way that
healed, I can tell you.”

He held out his hand with a friendly smile. Fayre took it, and as he
did so, his old dislike for the man vanished once for all.

“By the way,” he said, “what made you come along to-day to bury the
hatchet?”

Gregg laughed.

“Because I made up my mind I wasn’t going to be ballyragged by any
damned lawyer! As you may imagine, it’s not a story I care to dwell on
and I decided that if I’d got to tell it it should be to a human
being. And I was beginning to feel that I owed you an apology, too. So
when Sir Edward Kean rang up this afternoon and tried to bully me into
making an appointment I temporized and then, ten minutes later, rang
up his house, feeling pretty sure a servant would answer. Luck was
with me and I got the butler at the other end and he gave me your
address, after which I came straight along to you. Pity you asked! I
rather hoped you’d think it was spontaneous!”

So this was Kean’s doing! Kean, who had requested Fayre to keep Grey
from butting in and making a mess of things!



Chapter XIX

On his way to keep his appointment with Miss Allen, Fayre called at
Kean’s house in Westminster, where he was assured by the butler that
Lady Kean’s improvement “was maintained.” That solemn functionary had
recovered his professional manner and looked a different person from
the harassed and very human individual who had mistaken Fayre for a
Harley Street specialist on the night of his mistress’s illness.
Fayre, observing his native pomposity for the first time, realized how
complete his collapse had been and liked him the better for it.

Before going on to Miss Allen’s hotel he dropped into a florist’s and
ordered a great sheaf of flowers to be sent to Lady Kean. Remembering
their old days together in the country he chose simple, country
flowers rather than the heavy-smelling hot-house blooms that were
pressed on him by the saleswoman. He had an idea that they would
please her and he knew that she would understand and appreciate the
spirit that had caused him to select them. He enclosed a short note
bearing his good wishes for her speedy recovery and then, on a sudden
impulse, he bought another, smaller bunch and carried it away with
him.

He produced his offering a little shyly on his arrival at Miss
Allen’s. It was a long time, he realized, since he had done this sort
of thing and the very act seemed, somehow, to emphasize the fact that
neither he nor the recipient were in their first youth. Miss Allen,
however, was troubled with no such misgivings and was frankly
delighted with the gift. Ringing for vases she set herself to arrange
the flowers with the appreciative care of one who really loves them.
Fayre sat watching her as she moved about the ugly hotel sitting-room
and decided that Greycross must be a pleasant house to stay in and its
owner a delightful hostess.

She was putting the finishing touches to her last vase when tea was
brought in.

“Pour it out, will you, Mr. Fayre,” she said in her decisive way,
“while I clear up this mess. Lots of milk and no sugar for me,
please.”

She disappeared into the next room, her hands full of paper and wet
foliage, and came back carrying a good-sized dispatch-box.

“We’ll have a go at this after tea,” she said as she sat down and
observed the results of her handiwork. “Mercy, how different the room
looks! Those flowers are a breath of the real country. You’ve chased
London out of the window, Mr. Fayre!”

“London isn’t so easily chased out as that, I’m afraid. It makes me
ache to get away from it. It’s all very well for the young, but for
people like myself it’s grown a little overwhelming. So many of the
old landmarks are gone and life seems to have grown amazingly hectic
in such a short time. I dare say it’s partly a question of contrast.
The East’s noisy, but it’s a place of leisure. I’ve lost the habit of
moving quickly.”

She nodded appreciatively.

“I know what you mean. It takes me the same way. I spend my life among
plants and animals and I’m beginning to realize how slowly and surely
nature progresses. Everything else, nowadays, seems anything but slow
and appallingly insecure. At least, that’s my feeling, but then I’ve
crossed Piccadilly at least half a dozen times to-day and I’m
wondering why I’m still alive. The moment my business here is finished
I shall make for home again. What are your plans, now that you are
back in England for good?”

“A little place somewhere in the country, just large enough to hold a
few friends and a dog or two. If possible, some fishing. Then I shall
settle down and cultivate my garden and write a dull book about
India.”

“You won’t be lonely?”

“Are you?” Fayre shot back at her.

She laughed.

“No, I must admit I’m not, but you must remember that I’ve got a small
village on my hands and I’m on all sorts of queer little local
committees and things. _You_ don’t propose to become the vicar’s prop
and stay, I presume?”

“Not exactly, but I’ve no doubt that some of the philanthropists of
the neighbourhood will find a use for me. I’ve never met any one yet
who escaped them.”

“Oh, they’ll get you,” agreed Miss Allen cheerfully. “When I took
Greycross, more years ago than I like to think of, I mapped out a neat
little program for myself. Riding to hounds in winter and gardening
and tennis in summer. I saw myself drifting into a healthy, mildly
selfish old age, but the local busybodies got me before I’d been there
a year. And you’ll be easier to net than I was!”

“I’m not so sure,” asserted Fayre grimly.

“I am. You’re the sort that can’t see a child fall down without
crossing the road to pick it up. You won’t have a chance!”

Fayre reddened as he caught the disarming twinkle in her eyes.

“Look at you now,” she went on ruthlessly. “How long have you been
home?”

“Three months, more or less,” he informed her meekly.

“And you’re up to your eyes in this affair of John Leslie’s already.
And, as soon as that’s over, you’ll find some one else in trouble.”

“It’s a depressing program for a man who has come home to enjoy a
well-earned rest,” he protested.

“It’s the fate of all unattached people,” she assured him briskly.
“Don’t you know that the spinster and the bachelor are at the mercy of
their friends? I speak from personal experience.”

“And you enjoy every moment of it!” put in Fayre shrewdly.

It was Miss Allen’s turn to blush.

“Well, it keeps me busy and it may save me from becoming a selfish,
cantankerous old woman.”

She drew the dispatch-box to her and unlocked it.

“The private letters, such as they are, are at the bottom,” she said,
removing several bundles that were obviously bills and receipts. “Do
any of these names suggest anything to you?”

She handed him a packet of letters and he went through them with the
swiftness of one accustomed to handle papers. They seemed to consist
mostly of old invitations. Why Mrs. Draycott should have kept them, it
was difficult to imagine. Probably she had been too lazy to sort them
out and had thrown them carelessly into the box with other papers, but
they were useful inasmuch as they gave some clue as to the people she
was in the habit of visiting. One or two of the signatures Fayre
recognized as being well known in the City. He made a note of some of
them in his pocketbook, meaning to ask Grey for information about
them. As Miss Allen emptied the box his list grew longer, but even the
few private letters which he read carefully from beginning to end, in
the hope of finding at least some allusion to Mrs. Draycott’s private
affairs, failed to produce any enlightening information. There were
several packets of photographs, some of which were signed and many of
which bore inscriptions, but they conveyed nothing either to Fayre or
Miss Allen.

“That’s the lot,” she said at last, beginning to stack the pile of
papers back in the box. “I’m afraid it hasn’t been much help.”

Fayre rose to help her.

“It’s given me a list of names that may prove useful and at least we
know now what sort of set she was moving in. Any one of these people
may be able to give us information as to some one who had reason to
bear her a grudge.”

He picked up an envelope which was lying at the top of a bundle of
receipts and opened it idly. A snapshot fell out and dropped, face
upwards, onto the table.

Fayre bent over it and, as he did so, the colour ebbed slowly from his
face, leaving even his lips white.

He snatched the photograph up and walked quickly over to the
electric-lamp that stood on the writing table. Holding the snapshot
just under the light, he studied it carefully.

Miss Allen, who was absorbed in fitting the papers back into the box,
had not noticed his emotion. Now she suddenly became aware that he had
found something that interested him.

“What have you got there?” she asked. Then, seeing the envelope on the
table: “Is it that snapshot? It puzzled me, too. The odd thing is that
it seems to have come from Germany, according to the inscription on
the back.”

Fayre turned it over. Stamped across the back were the words:
“Staatsnarrenhaus, Schleefeldt.”

“What do you make of it?” she went on. “I don’t know a word of German,
but it seems to be the name of a place.”

Fayre came slowly back to the table and picked up the envelope. His
face had regained its normal colour and there was nothing in his
manner to show that he had just had, perhaps, the greatest shock of
his life. He was a good German scholar, but he did not enlighten Miss
Allen as to the full meaning of the inscription he had just read.

“It seems to have come from a place called Schleefeldt,” he said,
examining the envelope narrowly as he spoke. “You’ve no idea, I
suppose, how your sister got it?”

“None. She had no connection with Germany that I know of, either
before or after the war, though she may have been there when she was
abroad. She was on the Continent a good deal and had a good many
friends there. There was nothing in the box that seemed to have any
connection with the photograph. It was lying on the top, in the
envelope, just as you saw it, when I first came on it.”

“We may take it, then, that it was probably one of the last things she
put into the box,” suggested Fayre.

“It looked like it, certainly.”

Fayre picked up the topmost packet of receipts and pulled one out. It
was dated 1926.

“You don’t know at all when your sister last asked for this box at the
bank?” he asked.

Miss Allen shook her head.

“I could find out, I suppose. But I do know that my sister only sent
it to the bank with her plate when she left her London flat about two
months ago, so that she had access to it up till then. I believe she
stayed on in town for a bit after giving up her flat, so she may have
had the box out again. Do you want me to find out?”

“It’s very kind of you, but I don’t think it’s necessary. There’s no
date on the envelope; evidently it is just an unused one that she
slipped the photograph into for safety and I was trying to get a clue
as to when she is likely to have received the photograph. As it was at
the top and as the receipts under it are for 1926, it looks as if she
had put the photograph in fairly recently.”

“Does it suggest anything to you?” she asked.

“It bears an extraordinary resemblance to a man I firmly believe to be
dead,” said Fayre slowly. “Of course, it probably is only a chance
likeness, but it is so strong that I am going to ask you whether I may
borrow the photograph for a day or two.”

“Of course,” agreed Miss Allen readily. “Keep it as long as you like.
If, later, I come across anything that throws any light on it, I’ll
let you know, but I think I’ve been through all my sister’s papers
now.” Fayre stowed the envelope and its content carefully away in his
breast pocket. He stayed chatting with Miss Allen for a minute or two
and then took his leave. As he was saying good-by he remembered a
question he had meant to put to her.

“By the way, you could not tell me anything about the death of your
sister’s first husband, I suppose?”

“He died of drink, poor soul,” she said bluntly. “He was a friend of
Dr. Gregg’s, you know, and the doctor was with him to the end. He was
buried at Putney, I’ve never quite known why, and, as a matter of
fact, I went to the funeral.”

“You went to the funeral?” Fayre echoed her words mechanically in his
surprise.

“I suppose it was rather an astonishing thing to do,” she admitted,
“considering what had happened, but I’d always liked him, though I’d
never seen much of him. I had a very painful interview with him after
my sister left him and was sorry for him. I was in London when he died
and Dr. Gregg wrote to me about the funeral. I don’t know quite why I
went, but, somehow, it seemed the decent thing to do. My sister had a
lot to answer for there, Mr. Fayre.” Fayre could hear the pain and
humiliation in her voice.

“I think you are right about unattached people,” he said gently, “only
you forgot to mention that some of them are apt to take the sins as
well as the troubles of others on their shoulders.”

“They get there of their own accord,” she said with a rueful smile.
“Believe me, they need no taking.” As he was leaving, a thought struck
him.

“Didn’t Gregg’s attitude at the inquest strike you as odd?” he asked.
“You must have known that your sister was no stranger to him.”

She shook her head.

“I took it for granted that he didn’t recognize her. I always
understood that he saw very little of the Baxters after their marriage
and I don’t suppose he ever saw her before. The name Draycott might
have given him a clue, but, when he first saw her at the farm, he
didn’t know her name even.”

Evidently Miss Allen was unaware of Gregg’s connection with St.
Swithin’s and the fact that he had known Mrs. Draycott before her
marriage.

On the way back to his club Fayre bought a powerful magnifying-glass.
Armed with this he went to his room and examined the photograph
closely under the light of a strong reading-lamp.

The snapshot was that of a man sitting on a bench in what looked like
a private garden. He was staring straight in front of him, his face
devoid of all expression, his hands hanging loosely between his knees.
He was poorly dressed and his clothes looked shabby and ill cared-for.
By his side, hanging over the edge of the bench, was a newspaper. Even
without the glass, the name of the paper, printed in large type at the
head of the first page, was decipherable. It was that of a well-known
German daily. Underneath it was the date, in much smaller type, and
Fayre had some difficulty in making it out, even with the aid of the
glass he had bought. He did succeed at last. It was January 16th and
the address, printed with an ordinary stamp on the back of the
photograph, was that of the State Lunatic Asylum at Schleefeldt, a
small town in north Germany.

When Fayre at last raised his head his face in the crude light of the
electric-lamp was white and drawn. He seemed to have aged ten years in
as many minutes.



Chapter XX

Fayre slept little that night and rose the next morning jaded and sick
at heart. During the long hours in which he had tossed ceaselessly on
his bed, wrestling in vain with the problem that was torturing him, he
had been unable to come to any conclusion. If he did what he felt was
his duty he would be the means of involving two, at least, of his
dearest friends in dire trouble, besides running the risk of
jeopardizing the cause he had most at heart. If, on the other hand, he
held back the discovery he had just made he would be taking on his
shoulders a responsibility so great that he hardly dared face it. He
had confronted difficult problems in the course of his official life,
but seldom one that touched him so nearly or made him feel so utterly
helpless.

It was in this mood that Cynthia found him when she rang up from her
aunt’s house in Grosvenor Square and asked him to take her out to
lunch. A troublesome tooth had given her the opportunity she longed
for and she had hurried up to town, ostensibly to see the dentist, but
really to find out what progress Fayre had made in his investigations.

For a moment Fayre was taken aback, then he found himself welcoming
the prospect of her company for an entire afternoon. He feared her
sharp eyes and direct mode of attack, but, more even than these, he
dreaded his own thoughts. Cynthia was the embodiment of youth and
courage and, after his night of miserable indecision, he felt a
positive craving for the stimulus of her society.

As though in answer to his needs she seemed even more vividly alive
than usual when he picked her up and carried her off to an
unpretentious, but very select, little restaurant he and several of
the older members of his club affected. Cynthia had stipulated for a
quiet place where her ready tongue could wag freely. She had plenty to
say. Bill Staveley had managed to procure her another interview with
John Leslie and she reported him as cheerful and inclined to take a
hopeful view of the future.

“He says that, so long as he knows he’s innocent and that I believe in
him, he doesn’t mind what happens; but he doesn’t realize how black
things look against him,” said Cynthia. “He’s frightfully grateful to
you and Edward Kean and full of faith in you both. I tried not to show
how anxious I was. Uncle Fayre, they surely can’t convict him if he’s
innocent, can they?”

On the face of this Fayre found it hard to break to her the news that
Gregg had completely cleared himself. To his relief she took it more
cheerfully than he had expected.

“I never really suspected him, you know,” she said. “I suppose I
should have been beast enough to be glad if he had done it, because it
would have cleared John, but I should have been sorry, too. It would
be too horrible if it was some one that one knew. It’s a relief, in a
way. Has Mr. Grey done anything about the Page clue? I always felt
that that was where our hope lay.”

“He’s working on the Carlisle to London route, on the chance that the
car may have got held up somewhere and, if that fails, he proposes to
advertise openly for Page. If, as I still think, the man had nothing
to do with the actual murder, he may come forward. On the other hand,
it would be a mistake to warn him by advertising too soon. It is a
last resort.”

“I believe he did it,” asserted Cynthia obstinately. “If we can find
Page we shall get to the bottom of the whole thing. You know the
police have let the tramp go? He ended by confessing that he took Mrs.
Doggett’s money and I made her go up to the station and speak for him.
He’s very lame still and the police want him to stay in the
neighbourhood, so Bill found him a room in one of his cottages. I went
to see him. He’s a funny little man and we got quite chummy, but he’s
determined to go back to ‘the road,’ as he calls it, as soon as he can
get away. He told me that he had been tramping for years and he’s got
all sorts of interesting stories about tramps and burglars and all
kinds of queer people and he adores you. When I spoke about John he
said: ‘The gentleman’ll get ’im off, you see,’ as if you were a kind
of Providence. He’s rather a pet, really. What did you do to make him
love you so?”

“Treated him like a human being, I suppose. He’s not going back to the
road, if I can help it, poor little beggar. He’s never had a chance
and I’d like to give him one.”

“If we do get onto that man, Page, he’ll deserve it. After all, it was
through him that we first heard of the strange car.”

“When I get my cottage I’ll see what I can find for him to do. He’s
not a pleasing object at present, but he’ll improve with prosperity.”

“I can see your cottage!” observed Cynthia mischievously. “It’ll be
crammed with all sorts of derelicts and lame dogs and you’ll go
fussing round them like a hen with a lot of chickens. May I come and
stay with you, Uncle Fayre?”

“As often and as long as you like. You’ll be a respectable married
woman by then and you can act as chaperone to Miss Allen.”

“Is Miss Allen going to stay with you?”

“If she’ll come. I haven’t asked her yet.”

“I’m glad you’ve made friends with her. She’s a brick, isn’t she?”

“A thorough good sort, I should say,” assented Fayre rather
cautiously. There was a gleam in Cynthia’s eye he didn’t quite like.

She flashed a sidelong glance at him.

“It’s an awfully good idea; I wonder I never thought of it.”

“What is?” asked Fayre suspiciously.

“Her coming to stay with you, of course,” was Cynthia’s innocent
rejoinder.

After lunch they called at Grey’s office.

“I’m glad you dropped in,” he told Fayre. “We’ve got on the track of a
car which was held up at York. It was traveling without a tail-light.
If it was our friend, Page, he was probably trying to conceal his
broken number-plate. Anyway, I’ve sent a man up there to find out all
the particulars and he’ll be back early to-morrow. There’s just a
chance that we’ve got onto the right car.”

“That’ll please you, Cynthia. Lady Cynthia’s always believed in the
Page clue,” explained Fayre.

“Now that Dr. Gregg’s gone off with a clean sheet, it’s all we’ve got
to go on,” said Grey. “It’s a funny thing how he crops up all through
this case. That fellow Baxter died in his house, you know, and Gregg
signed the certificate. As far as we can make out, everything seems in
order and, short of exhuming Baxter, we’ve done all that’s necessary
to prove his death.”

“I’ve no reason to think that Gregg was concealing anything the other
day. He seemed only too anxious to tell all he knew. If he’s shielding
any one he’s doing it very cleverly.”

“I think we may wipe out Dr. Gregg altogether now. After all, at the
time, he’d have had no reason to conceal Baxter’s death, whatever he
may feel about it now.”

“I’ve got a feeling in my bones about this Page business,” said
Cynthia, as they turned into the Strand after leaving Grey’s office.
“I believe we’re going to find him and that things are going to be all
right for John. You can call it imagination, if you like, but this is
the first time I’ve felt really hopeful. Life seems quite different,
all of a sudden!”

Fayre was suddenly afraid for her. There was something terribly
pathetic in her optimism and he knew it was reared on a pitifully
frail foundation.

“Don’t build too much on it,” he begged, ruefully aware that it was
always his lot to throw cold water on her enthusiasm. “If may be
nothing but a wild goose chase, after all.”

“It isn’t,” she asserted positively. “I can’t tell you why I know, but
I do and you’ll see I’m right. The funny thing is that Sybil Kean has
had the same feeling all along. Did you know? She told me so when she
was ill at Staveley.”

The haggard look came back into Fayre’s eyes. He had forgotten his own
worries for the moment, carried away by Cynthia’s enthusiasm, but now
they returned to him, their strength in no wise diminished. Cynthia,
intent on her own thoughts, did not notice his preoccupation.

“It was the night before I went to Carlisle to stay with the
Campbells. I didn’t tell her why I was going, because we’d agreed that
it was better for her not to talk about the whole thing. We hadn’t
mentioned John or anything, but, when I said good night, she looked at
me in such a queer way and said, somehow as if she knew it was true:
‘Don’t worry, Cynthia, John will never be convicted. I’m certain of
it.’”

Fayre stared at her in astonishment.

“Sybil said that! Did she give any reason for it?”

“None, but she seemed so curiously certain. Almost as if she knew
something. She didn’t say any more and she looked so desperately ill
and tired that I just went. Do you think she had some sort of
second-sight, Uncle Fayre? People do do that sort of thing when
they’ve been very ill, don’t they? I’m certain she wasn’t just saying
it to reassure me.”

The worried lines on Fayre’s face deepened.

“I don’t know,” he said, “and I can’t understand it. I was under the
impression that she was worrying about the whole thing more than was
good for her. It never occurred to me that she was in the least
hopeful. I only hope she’s right. You know she’s been very ill again?”

“Yes. Edward wrote to Bill. He was a fool to whisk her off like that
before she was really fit. It was Dr. Gregg’s fault, really, for
saying she could go. It’s funny, but he felt just as you did about the
case. He said she must be got away from the atmosphere of the whole
thing because she was wearing herself to a thread over it and would
never have a chance of pulling up unless she got right away. And she’s
the only person who’s given me any real hope!”

“You’re very fond of Sybil, aren’t you?” asked Fayre thoughtfully.

Cynthia stared at him.

“Of course. She’s been a perfect brick to me always and she’s a dear,
anyway. You know, whenever I’ve got hopelessly fed up with things at
home she’s had me in London for weeks together, and she was an angel
about John from the beginning. I’d do a good deal for Sybil, and I’m
not naturally an unselfish person,” she finished frankly.

Fayre did not allude to the matter again and, when Cynthia announced
her intention of going to the Keans’ on the chance of being allowed to
see Sybil, he walked with her to the door, but he did not offer to go
in. Instead, he mounted a bus and went out to Richmond. Arrived there,
he made for the Park and walked until he was tired out. It was late
when he entered the station and took the train back to London and he
was worn out with hard exercise and lack of food, but he had at last
come to a part solution of his difficulties. He had some supper at the
club and then literally fell into bed. And this time he slept.

Next morning he rang up Cynthia, whom he found just starting for her
dentist’s. He picked her up there after her appointment and carried
her off to Kensington Gardens.

He waited until they had found chairs under the trees and then went
straight to the point.

“You’re an unusual person, Cynthia,” he said appreciatively. “I’ve
kidnapped you in the middle of a busy morning and you’ve not asked a
single question.”

“I’ve been worrying, though,” she answered. “Do you realize that
you’ve been looking as if you’d lost a shilling and found sixpence, as
old Mrs. Doggett would say, ever since I’ve been in town? I nearly
asked you before what was the matter, but I thought I’d wait till you
came out with it yourself. There is something wrong, isn’t there?”

“Nothing that affects you or Leslie,” he hastened to assure her. “But
you are right, I have been worried about something. The trouble is not
my own, or I’d put the whole thing before you, and I don’t mind
admitting that I should be glad of an outside opinion on it. But
that’s out of the question. I’m sorry to be so mysterious.”

Cynthia nodded. Her face showed complete understanding.

“Poor Uncle Fayre!” she said. “I know how you feel. One bothers and
bothers over a thing until one can’t see it straight at all and then
one loses faith in one’s own judgment. It’s quite true, an outsider
_is_ a help sometimes.”

“It’s a help I shall have to do without in this instance,” he admitted
reluctantly. “Let’s forget it and talk of something pleasant.”

They chatted desultorily for a while, laughing and joking and taking a
genuine pleasure in each other’s company, as people with a keen sense
of humour will, even though tragedy be close upon their heels, but
Cynthia never ceased to be aware that there was an object in their
meeting and knew that he was only waiting for an opportunity to broach
the subject that was really on his mind.

He did so at last, so casually that, if she had not been on the alert,
she might have missed the significance of his question. He had brought
the conversation round to Sybil Kean and her illness.

“If only she doesn’t have a relapse now,” he said thoughtfully. “If
would be a bit of bad luck for us if Edward were to throw up the
case.”

Cynthia turned to him with something like panic in her eyes.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she exclaimed. “Of course if she were
really ill he wouldn’t be able to go to Carlisle. He’d never leave
her.”

“I’m afraid he wouldn’t. He’s utterly wrapped up in her. Sybil is a
fascinating person, but I must admit that Edward’s devotion was a
revelation to me. I did not know he had it in him to care so much for
any one.”

“I don’t believe anybody else would ever have understood him as Sybil
does,” said Cynthia slowly. “He’s not an easy person to know.”

Fayre gazed reflectively at the tips of his well-polished boots.

“You’ve seen a lot of Sybil in the last few years, haven’t you?” he
asked suddenly.

Cynthia knew that the question for which she had been waiting had come
at last, but she could not see its point.

“Yes,” she answered wonderingly. “I’ve stayed with her in London, you
know, as well as seeing her often at Staveley. Why do you ask?”

“What do you really think of those two, Cynthia?” Then, seeing the
genuine bewilderment in her face: “I’m curious about Sybil. Edward is,
and always has been, absolutely devoted and there can be no question
that, from his point of view, their marriage has been a very happy
one. But what about Sybil?” Cynthia’s face cleared.

“You mean, does she love him?” she said frankly. “It’s funny you
should ask that. I was puzzling over it last night. Eve Staveley told
me a long time ago that Sybil had never got over her first husband’s
death and that she believed that it was only Edward’s insistence that
made her marry him. Well, I was wondering last night whether she was
right.”

“You think that Sybil’s fonder of Edward than any of us realize?”

In spite of his efforts he could not subdue the urgency in his voice.

“Honestly, I believe she is fonder of him than she realizes herself,”
answered Cynthia slowly. “If you asked her, she’d probably tell you
that she had never forgotten her first husband and could never care
for any one else and she’d think she was speaking the truth, but I saw
Sybil once when she was really anxious about Edward and I’m certain
she cares far more than people think. You see, I’d just got engaged to
John then and I suppose I was in the mood to notice that sort of
thing,” she finished, with a swift, shy glance at his intent face.

He nodded.

“I expect you’re right. At any rate, I’m prepared to trust to your
intuition.”

He returned to the study of his boot-tips and, for a minute or two,
they sat in silence. It was broken by Cynthia.

“Then it was Sybil you were worrying about,” she remarked calmly.

Fayre jumped.

“I have been worrying about her ever since I got back to England,” he
began mendaciously; but she interrupted him ruthlessly.

“The thing that has been bothering you and that you said you wished
you could consult some outside person about has something to do with
Edward and Sybil Kean, hasn’t it? I’m not going to ask indiscreet
questions, Uncle Fayre, but Sybil’s my friend as well as yours and
it’s only fair to tell me if she’s in any real trouble.”

Fayre hesitated for a moment and then he spoke frankly. “As I said
before, I can’t tell you what it is all about. But I can say this.
There is something that, sooner or later, I shall have to tell Edward,
something that affects him so nearly that, I honestly believe, were he
to hear it now, would cause him to throw up the case. I would do
anything to keep the knowledge from him altogether, but I cannot. My
only problem is, whether I am justified in keeping this news back till
after the trial. That’s what I have been trying to decide and I’ve
made up my mind at last. So far as I can see I shall be harming nobody
if I hold the news over until after the trial is over, and I have
definitely decided to do so. But I’ve got to a point at which I hardly
dare trust my own judgment.”

“Does Sybil know of this, Uncle Fayre?”

“Good Heavens, no! If she did I think it would kill her.”

“And it will really make no difference to her if you keep this back
till John’s trial is over?” she persisted.

“None, that I can see. In fact, my instinct is to put off telling
Edward as long as possible, but that’s simply because I shrink from
hurting either of them. He’s got to be told in the end, but, what with
the impending strain of the trial and all the worry he has gone
through on Sybil’s account lately, this seems the worst moment to
spring bad news on him. Grey says that the case is one of the first on
the list at the Carlisle Assizes and should come on early next month.”

At the thought of the trial Cynthia’s face blanched and she clenched
her hands tightly on her lap to stop their trembling. Fayre realized
that it was kinder to ignore her agitation.

“As I said,” he went on quietly, “I made up my mind last night to hold
this thing over. You can rest assured that, as far as I am concerned,
nothing will happen to put a spoke in Edward’s wheel and, if we can
count on him, it will be half the battle.”

He gave her a few minutes in which to recover herself and then saw her
back to her aunt’s house, after which he strolled slowly back to the
club. On the way he pondered over Sybil Kean’s words to the girl at
Staveley. He could not reconcile them with her evident anxiety when
she spoke to him about Leslie. No doubt she had seen that Cynthia was
near to the breaking-point and had lied nobly in the hope of
reassuring her. And yet that wasn’t like Sybil, as he knew her.

She was the last person to kindle a false hope deliberately.

His mind was still dwelling on her as he picked up the little pile of
letters that awaited him at the club and it was with a shock that he
recognized her handwriting on one of them. He opened it eagerly.
Inside was a closed envelope, unaddressed, with a covering letter from
Sybil herself which ran:

“Hatter dear, the flowers were lovely. It was like you to think of
them. In a day or two I shall have got rid of the doctor and be able
to thank you in person, instead of in this silly note which looks so
much more shaky than I really am. I am picking up wonderfully, but it
was a close shave this time, Hatter, and it has made me think. Don’t
tell Edward, but I have a strong feeling that the next attack will be
my last. I want you to do me a favour and put the enclosed among your
most private papers. If I should die before John Leslie’s trial is
over and if he should be convicted I want you to open it and read it
and then show it to Edward. If John Leslie is acquitted or if I am
alive at the close of the trial I am trusting you to burn it unread. I
expect you think I am mad, and sometimes, lately, I have wondered
whether my brain is not going, but you are the only friend I have
whose loyalty I know I can utterly depend on. I know I can trust you
and that you will do what I ask unquestioningly. Good-by, my dear,
till we meet. They won’t let me write any more. Sybil.”

Fayre stood staring blankly at the letter and the enclosure; then he
crossed to a writing-table and wrote in his small, neat hand across
the envelope: “_In the event of my death, to be destroyed unread._”

This done, he put it carefully away in his pocket-book with the
snapshot Miss Allen had given him.

“She knows,” he told himself heavily. “And she has kept the truth from
Edward. No wonder the strain of it has almost killed her!”



Chapter XXI

Sybil Kean’s amazing letter left Fayre in a condition of mingled
bewilderment and relief. Out of all the tangle of events that he had
been trying in vain to unravel one strand at least had inexplicably
straightened itself. Lady Kean was not only already in possession of
the information he had stumbled on so unexpectedly, information which
he had hoped against hope might possibly be kept from her, but she had
deliberately withheld it from her husband. That the truth was
contained in the letter which she had asked him only to open in the
event of her death he had no doubt, and that she was relying on him to
break the news as mercifully as possible to Kean was equally evident.
Little difference it would make to Edward, Fayre reflected grimly,
once he had lost the one being in whom his whole life was centred.

His last action that night was to switch on the light over his bed and
read her letter again for the tenth time, amazed at the strength and
devotion of the woman he had thought he knew so well, but whom he had
after all understood so little. He realized how greatly he had
underestimated her affection for Kean and how misled he had been in
concluding that her heart was irretrievably buried in her first
husband’s grave, and he wondered by what feminine logic she had
managed to reconcile her conscience with the deception she had
practised on Kean. The one thing that puzzled him in her letter was
her stipulation that he should not read the enclosure in the event of
Leslie’s acquittal. Try as he would, he could see no connection
between the trial and the information he believed the enclosure to
contain. One thing was obvious: at the earliest opportunity he must
see Sybil Kean and tell her that he had surprised her secret. That she
was, literally, worrying herself into the grave he had no doubt.

As it turned out, all his plans were frustrated. For the next three
days Fayre called in vain at the house in Westminster, only to be told
that Lady Kean was allowed to see no one and, on the fourth, that
which the doctor had been dreading occurred, she had another heart
attack even more violent than the last.

For a week she hovered between life and death and then, almost
miraculously, took a turn for the better. Kean was invisible whenever
Fayre called at the house and Grey, who was in hourly dread that Lady
Kean would die, confessed to feeling more and more pessimistic as to
Leslie’s chances.

“It was an amazing piece of luck getting Sir Edward at all,” he
admitted to Fayre. “With such strong evidence against Leslie I never
thought he would have acted. We’ve got Lady Kean to thank for that, I
fancy, and perhaps, for her sake, even if the worst happens, he’ll
pull himself together and do his best for us. I know he’s almost
superhuman when it comes to work, but, unless she takes a turn for the
better soon, I shall begin to regret that we didn’t brief some one
else.”

“And we’ve got no further with the Page clue than when we first
started,” reflected Fayre ruefully.

The clerk Grey had sent to collect evidence as to the car which had
been held up at York had reported a complete failure. Except for the
first letter and number the car had entirely failed to answer to the
description of the Page car. It was a two-seater, the number-plate had
been intact and there was no sign of any damage to either of the
guards, and they had had to face the fact that they had been following
yet another blind alley.

In addition to his other anxieties, Fayre was troubled about Cynthia.
The girl had faced things nobly, but already she was beginning to show
signs of strain and Fayre dreaded the coming ordeal for her. Her
mother had written to her peremptorily ordering her to go home.
Cynthia, lost to everything but Leslie’s danger, had taken no notice
of her mother’s letter. Fortunately, her father’s sister, with whom
she was staying, had proved more humane and had merely stipulated that
the girl should stay in her house until the trial was over, realizing
that she was not in a state to brook opposition. She welcomed Fayre’s
visits and, at her suggestion, he persuaded Cynthia to motor with him
out into the country for a few hours every day.

A few days after Sybil Kean had been declared out of danger Grey rang
him up suggesting that they should meet for lunch.

“I’ve heard from Sir Edward,” he said as soon as he saw Fayre. “I’m to
meet him this afternoon and he would like to see Lady Cynthia. Could
you bring her round to his Chambers at about four o’clock? I gather
Lady Kean really has turned the corner, so luck may be with us, after
all.”

Before sitting down to lunch Fayre rang up Cynthia and arranged to
call for her. Grey followed him into the telephone-box.

“Tell her I’ve seen Mr. Leslie and he’s in fine form. If he can keep
his pluck up till next month he ought to make a good impression.”

“How did you really find Leslie?” asked Fayre as they sat down.

“Just as I said. He’s a plucky young beggar. I think he’s more worried
about her than about himself. Wanted to know how she was looking, and
all that sort of thing. Said it wasn’t only the war that came hardest
on the women. They’re a fine couple.”

Fayre nodded absently. He was feeling horribly depressed and wished
with all his heart that the whole wretched business were over.

“I don’t suppose Sir Edward’s in a laughing mood, but, if he were,
he’d get a certain sardonic amusement out of the Page episode,” went
on Grey. “My man came back from the North yesterday. He’s been kept up
there on some other business till now. He told me a funny thing.”

“About the car that was held up?” asked Fayre rather wearily. He found
it difficult to see anything amusing in connection with the Draycott
murder.

“No; that belonged to a harmless little commercial traveller. But when
he was looking over the back reports in search of a clue to our man he
caught another fish altogether, Sir Edward Kean himself! He got hung
up at York on March 14th for traveling without side-lights.”

Fayre, who was blessed with a quick and accurate memory, stared at him
in amazement.

“But Sir Edward came down to Cumberland by train!” he exclaimed. “He
didn’t have his car with him! I know, because I met him myself at the
station. I’d gone down to see about a lost suitcase.”

“His chauffeur must have been joy-riding. The licence was the
chauffeur’s. It’s not the first time that’s happened. Sir Edward,
apparently, paid the fine without a murmur. What he said to the
chauffeur is another matter!”

Fayre, knowing Kean, did not envy the delinquent.

Grey looked at his watch and rose.

“I must go,” he said. “Now Leslie has been moved to Carlisle it will
be more difficult for Lady Cynthia to see him. Tell her to let me know
when she goes North again and I’ll do my best for her. It’ll buck him
up more than anything if he can have a few minutes with her.”

“And be uncommonly hard on Cynthia,” remarked Fayre grimly.

He and Cynthia arrived punctually at Kean’s Chambers. He had not
returned, but had left a message asking them to wait for him. As Fayre
sat chatting with Cynthia, his eye fell on a photograph of Sybil Kean
that stood in a plain silver frame on the writing-table. He remembered
suddenly that, owing to her illness, he had never answered her letter
and it struck him that, if she were better and conscious, she might be
worrying as to whether it had reached him. He decided to send a few
noncommittal lines by Kean, saying that he had received it and would
be delighted to do her commission. This would convey nothing to any
one should she be too weak to read her own letters and would at least
reassure her.

There were some sheets of writing-paper on the table and, with a word
of explanation to Cynthia, he sat down and drew one towards him.
Having written his note he looked about for an envelope, but could
find none. Instinctively his hand went to the top drawer of the
writing-table. It was unlocked and slid out easily and Fayre peered
into it in search of the thing he wanted. He did not find it, but in
the front of the drawer was lying an object he knew only too well, the
“Red Dwarf” pen he had picked up near the gate of Leslie’s farm. The
cap the tramp had given him was now fitted neatly over the nib. He
picked the pen out of the drawer and turned it thoughtfully in his
fingers. The mud stain still clung to the side, half obliterating a
long smear of black ink. Here, after all, he reflected, lay the real
clue to the puzzle. Leslie, he knew, had never used a stylo and Mrs.
Draycott was the last person to carry a cheap pen of that type in her
gold bag. Everything pointed to its having been dropped by the
murderer. As a last resort, Grey had inserted an advertisement in most
of the daily papers asking Page to come forward and it had appeared
for the first time that morning. If Page were the owner of the pen,
Fayre concluded, he was hardly likely to make himself known.

With a sigh he replaced the “Red Dwarf” in the drawer. As he did so
his sleeve caught in the edge of a large envelope that was lying near
the back of the drawer and shifted it a few inches. Cynthia, who was
standing near the window watching for Kean, did not hear the quick
intake of his breath as he picked it up to replace it. For perhaps
five minutes he sat motionless, the envelope in his hand, then he put
it gently back in its place and closed the drawer. The letter to Lady
Kean he slipped into his pocket, having apparently given up the idea
of sending it.

When Cynthia looked round he was immersed in a copy of the _Times_ he
had found lying on Kean’s table.

“Edward has just driven up in the car,” she said, and almost as she
spoke the door opened and he came in. He looked distressingly worn and
tired, but was more cheerful than Fayre had dared to hope. The doctors
had given a good report of Sybil that morning, he told them, and they
considered that she was responding to treatment better than she had
done after the former attack. Fayre wondered whether the letter she
had sent him had not been at least partly responsible for her illness
and whether, now that the effort of writing it was over, she was not
benefiting by the relief to her mind.

“I was afraid we’d have to leave town without seeing you,” he said.
“It was too much to expect you to give your mind to anything while
Sybil was laid up.”

Kean looked up sharply.

“I should have carried on, in any case,” he answered quickly. “If it’s
humanly possible to get Leslie off I’m going to do it.”

Fayre was astonished at the depth of feeling in his voice, but he
realized that Kean meant what he said and that he would fight for
Leslie as he had never fought before. What would happen if he failed,
Fayre did not dare contemplate. He was convinced now that, for some
reason he could not fathom, the lines of Leslie’s fate were
inextricably intermingled with those of Sybil and Edward Kean and he
had a grim conviction that more than Kean’s professional reputation
was at stake should he fail to get an acquittal.

He sat through the long interview between Kean and Cynthia like a man
in a dream and his report of their conversation, had he been called
upon to make one, would have been both vague and garbled. It was only
at the close, when Kean offered to drive her back to her aunt’s house,
that he woke to a sense of his surroundings and managed to rouse
himself to action.

“If you are going to steal Cynthia I’ll be off,” he said pleasantly.
“I’ve one or two things I must do on the way home.”

They were so absorbed that they hardly noticed his departure; but if
Kean had happened to glance out of the window, he would no doubt have
wondered why Fayre, instead of going directly about his business, had
chosen to waste fifteen minutes or so in desultory chat with the
chauffeur of Kean’s car.

His talk finished, he hailed a taxi and drove to the club. Arrived
there he went straight to his room and looked up the address Gregg had
given him when he suggested that he should look up his chemist friend,
Lloyd. Then, from the bottom of his portmanteau, he unearthed a pile
of old photographs, adding to them the snapshot he had borrowed from
Miss Allen. Thrusting them into his pocket he ran downstairs and got
into the waiting taxi, giving the driver Lloyd’s address.

He found him at home, an unkempt little man with a face not unlike
that of an abnormally intelligent monkey, surmounted by a shock of
untidy grey hair. Evidently he had been expecting to hear from Fayre
and showed no surprise at his visit. His manner was business-like and
a trifle brusque. He impressed Fayre as a man who had little time to
give to the affairs of others, but who invariably bent his whole mind
to the matter in hand, whatever it might be.

“I can’t do much for you,” he began frankly. “Never have known who the
chap was that I saw with Mrs. Draycott in Paris and I don’t suppose I
ever shall, unless I run into him somewhere. And that’s unlikely, as I
never go anywhere if I can help it. Beastly waste of time. Hate
society. Tepid tea and a lot of silly talk about nothing. Better ask
me what you want to know. Quicker and more satisfactory.” He ran his
hand through his untidy hair and, sitting perched on the edge of his
littered writing-table, blinked at Fayre expectantly through his
strong glasses.

“If you’d give me an account of what happened in Paris I should be
grateful,” suggested Fayre. “I’m a bit vague as to dates, for
instance.”

“One gift I have got,” went on Lloyd abstractedly. “That’s a memory
for faces. Never forget a face. Beastly bore sometimes it is, too. I
should know that man if I saw him again. As regards dates, it was in
the spring of 1920 that I saw him. Went over to Paris to consult a man
at the Sorbonne and ran into this chap and Mrs. Draycott in a little
restaurant in Montmartre. Sort of place I go to because it suits me,
but this fellow wasn’t the sort to go there at all. Wrong place for
Mrs. Draycott, too. They were there because they didn’t want to be
seen and, of course, they were seen. That’s how things happen. I’d met
Draycott once and I knew this man wasn’t he. Mrs. Draycott being what
she was, I put the worst interpretation on it. May have been mistaken,
of course. Don’t quite know to this day why I followed them. Gregg was
a pal of mine and I knew he was jumpy for fear she would make a grab
at the boy and I’d just finished a big job and was at a loose end for
the moment with a blank evening in front of me. Anyway, it was the
third night I’d seen them and I happened to leave just behind them.
She never even looked my way and, if she had, she probably wouldn’t
have recognized me. They were walking and I just went too. It was a
dark night and I tagged along behind till they got to their hotel and
watched them go in. A little place bang in the middle of the Latin
Quarter. By that time I’d had about enough of it and I didn’t wait to
see if either of them came out, but a couple of days later I was in
that part of the world and I dropped in and asked to see the visitors’
book. Drew a complete blank. The only English names registered for
months were a Mrs. Grant, whom I took to be Mrs. Draycott, and a
George Collins. Apparently there was no other English man or woman
staying in the hotel. I wrote to Gregg, telling him what I’d done and
there the matter ended. I found out afterwards that Draycott was in
Egypt at the time. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do for you.”

“You say you’d recognize the man if you saw him?” asked Fayre eagerly.

“Could pick him out anywhere. I tell you, I’ve got an abnormally good
memory for faces.”

Fayre took half a dozen photographs from his pocket, the snapshot
among them, and placed them on the table.

“Do any of these suggest him to you?” he asked.

Lloyd ran through them quickly, then stabbed one of them with a long,
yellow-stained forefinger.

“That’s the fellow,” he pronounced unhesitatingly. “It’s an unusual
head and quite unmistakable.”

Fayre picked it up with a hand that shook a little. He had had a vague
notion that Lloyd might pitch on the snapshot, though, in his secret
heart, he had prayed that he would recognize none of the photographs.

This, of all others, was the last he had expected him to select.



Chapter XXII

The next six weeks dragged heavily enough for John Leslie within the
four walls of his cell at Carlisle, but, to Cynthia, they were one
long agony. She spent one short week-end with her people at Galston
and then gratefully accepted Miss Allen’s proposal that she should
stay with her till the Assizes opened at Carlisle. Her mother’s open
antagonism to John Leslie made her home unbearable to the girl and she
was thankful to get away.

Miss Allen’s tactful sympathy and uncompromising common sense acted as
a tonic to the girl and the older woman, who was never idle for long
herself, managed to keep her guest employed with a variety of small
occupations which gave her little chance to brood over the ordeal that
lay before her.

“It’s no earthly good meeting troubles half-way,” Miss Allen assured
her. “The more you think of things, the more likely you are to invent
all sorts of horrors that will probably never happen. And, for
heaven’s sake, don’t go off your food now or you’ll be fit for nothing
when the time comes.”

In spite of her sharp tongue she watched over the girl like a mother,
pampered her uncertain appetite with all sorts of unexpected and
tempting dishes and developed an almost uncanny instinct for knowing
when she was sleeping badly and would appear in her room with hot milk
and biscuits in the small hours of the morning and sit and chat until
she saw the girl’s eyelids beginning to droop. Cynthia grew to love
the sight of her bulky red-quilted dressing-gown and the grey plait
that stuck out stiffly between her shoulders.

Fayre ran down to Staveley for a fortnight and spent most of his time
over at Greycross. He and Miss Allen were fast becoming close friends
and she had already promised to be the first of his guests when the
cottage of his dreams materialized.

The rest of his time he spent in London, looking up old friends and
haunting Grey’s office, a disheartening pursuit, for the solicitor had
little enough to report as time went on.

The middle of May found them all gathered at Carlisle. Dreading the
publicity of a hotel Miss Allen had taken lodgings for herself and
Cynthia. Grey and Fayre were at the station hotel, where they were
joined by Kean on the night before the trial.

Fayre had tried in vain to persuade Cynthia not to go near the
courthouse until she was actually called as witness for the Defence,
but he received no support from either Kean or Grey, both of whom
considered that her appearance would create a good impression and, in
any case, he would not have succeeded in keeping her away. He could
only feel thankful that she was in the keeping of so staunch a friend
as Miss Allen and do all in his power to make things as easy for her
as possible.

The trial seemed to drag on interminably and it was not till the
afternoon of the sixth day that Kean rose to make his speech for the
Defence. To Fayre, who had sat through the Counsel for the Crown’s
very able address to the Jury, Leslie’s case seemed almost hopeless
and he was beginning to feel that only a miracle could save him. He
had watched Kean, on whom all their hopes rested, sitting motionless,
his face utterly impassive, apparently entirely unmoved by his rival’s
eloquence, and had tried to read his mind in vain. And all the time he
had thanked his stars that he had allowed Cynthia to influence him and
had kept back until after the trial the secret that, even now, he
dreaded to reveal to Kean. Indeed, it seemed to Fayre, during the long
hours of suspense, as though his mind had become a sort of Bluebeard’s
chamber into which he no longer dared look. So much that he could not
fathom and a little that he understood only too well he had locked
away there until after Leslie’s fate was decided. Even if Kean managed
to secure an acquittal for him Fayre could only look forward with a
kind of horror to the aftermath of the trial.

For one who wished nothing but happiness to his fellow men the world
had indeed gone agley. The knowledge that lay at the back of all his
thoughts and actions had come between him and Edward Kean and their
friendship had lost its old ease and intimacy. In his distress he had
lost all desire to see and consult with Sybil Kean and, in spite of
the fact that her health was mending rapidly and that he had had a
charming letter of invitation from her in answer to the note he had
written in Kean’s Chambers and had eventually posted from his club, he
had felt unable to face her. Fortunately her health had given no
further cause for anxiety and her improvement had been so steady that
Kean had come north for the trial comparatively free from anxiety.

He was at his best now as he stood facing the Jury. Fayre, who had
persuaded Cynthia to allow Miss Allen to take her home before lunch,
fell so completely under the spell of his eloquence that, for a few
brief moments, he forgot his personal interest in the case and was
lost in admiration of the sheer genius that inspired it. It was not
the first time he had heard Kean plead. One of his first actions on
reaching England had been to go to the Old Bailey to see his old
friend in harness. He had not been disappointed then, in spite of all
he had heard of his ability, but to-day Kean spoke like a man
inspired. One by one he took the very points which the Counsel for the
Crown had used so effectively and turned them to his client’s
advantage. He possessed a beautiful voice and knew how to make the
most of it. He had had Cynthia in the box the day before and had
examined her with a skill that was so little apparent that it was all
the more telling. And Cynthia, partly helped by her own quick wits and
partly as the result of careful coaching, had backed him up nobly. He
used her evidence now as the basis of his speech, turning even the
quarrel between her and Leslie to advantage and playing on the
emotions of his audience with a skill and audacity that was little
short of amazing. Given a Latin jury, Fayre told himself, the result
would have been a foregone conclusion by now and, not for the first
time in his life, he cursed British stolidity as he gazed hopelessly
at the inscrutable countenances of the twelve respectable citizens who
composed the jury and tried in vain to follow the progress of their
thoughts. To his excited fancy they seemed the only people in the
packed courthouse who remained totally unmoved by Kean’s eloquence.

Then, suddenly it was over and, like a douche of icy water, after the
burning flow of Kean’s impassioned appeal, came the calm, measured
accents of the Judge as he summed up.

By the time he had finished Fayre was once more in the depths of
depression and in bad shape to face the long wait while the Jury
considered their verdict. He watched them file out feeling as near
despair as he had ever been in his life and then settled down to
endure a suspense that seemed interminable but which, in reality,
lasted just over an hour and a half.

By the time the jury returned, the proceedings seemed to Fayre to have
taken on all the unreality of a nightmare. As one in a dream he heard
the Judge’s voice break the tense silence of the crowded court.

“Are you all agreed?”

“We are all agreed, My Lord.”

Then, as his numbed brain mechanically registered the fact that the
foreman, surprisingly, spoke with a strong Cockney accent instead of
the North-country burr he had expected, came the verdict.

“We find the prisoner guilty, My Lord.”



Chapter XXIII

“_To be hanged by the neck until you are dead._” The sentence still
rang in Fayre’s ears as his taxi sped through the streets on its way
to Miss Allen’s lodgings. He could hear the thin, strained voice of
the Judge, an old man nearing death himself, but still, after a long
experience on the Bench, shaken and appalled at the awful magnitude of
the words he was called upon to utter.

Fayre groaned aloud as the full sum of their meaning dawned upon him.
Leslie, of whose innocence he was assured, cut off from life just when
it was about to mean so much to him and Cynthia!

Fayre did not dare to think of Cynthia, waiting, torn between hope and
fear, through the long hours in the grey old house where she and Miss
Allen lodged. He wished with all his heart that it had not fallen to
him to break the news to her.

He stopped his cab at the corner of the street and walked the last
hundred yards to the house. At least he could save the girl the
inevitable rush to the window at the sound of wheels and the moments
of suspense while he entered the house and mounted the stairs. As it
happened, he found the front door open and reached the sitting-room
before she realized his presence in the house.

She sprang to her feet as he entered, and Miss Allen instinctively
moved to her side.

His face must have given him away for, before he opened his lips, she
knew.

“Guilty!” she gasped.

He threw out his hands in a gesture of utter helplessness.

“It went against him,” he said, hardly recognizing his own voice.

With a little moan of anguish Cynthia turned blindly to the haven of
Miss Allen’s arms. She did not cry and, for a moment, he was afraid
she had fainted, then, to his relief, Miss Allen led her gently from
the room.

He stood by the window looking out into the grey, dingy street,
waiting for her return. It was some time before Miss Allen rejoined
him.

“How is she?” he asked eagerly.

Miss Allen’s eyes were red and her voice was unsteady as she answered.

“As well as she is likely to be for some time,” she said rather
tartly. She was suffering from the aftermath of an unaccustomed
emotion. “She’s not going to die, if that’s what you mean, but her
last hope has just been taken from her. I must go back to her in a
minute. If the child had a decent mother I’d send for her.”

She crossed to the table and took a cigarette.

For a minute or two she smoked in silence. Then she turned to Fayre
with a very pleasant smile on her homely face.

“I was a bear just now,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had a bad
quarter of an hour. Mr. Fayre, what are we going to do now?”

Fayre looked at her with utter misery in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said desperately. “I must see Grey. After
that . . . I don’t know.”

He buried his face in his hands.

“It’s out of our hands,” said Miss Allen softly. “How pitifully small
we human beings feel when the big things happen. That child upstairs,
with no experience of life to guide her, is dealing with something
infinitely larger than anything I have ever known and I cannot help
her. She must find her own way out, Mr. Fayre. On my word, I believe I
would rather be John Leslie!”

“And I,” answered Fayre, rising to his feet. “This is not the first
time he has faced death gallantly and, as I grow older, I begin to
wonder if it is as terrible a thing as we think. But to live on, with
all the light taken from your life! I wish I knew what to do,” he
finished abruptly.

Miss Allen stared at him, puzzled.

“He’ll appeal, of course?”

“I suppose so, but there’s no hope there, I’m afraid. I can imagine no
reason for upsetting the verdict. Kean was magnificent, but the facts
were too strong for him. Don’t let Cynthia count on it.”

They talked for a few minutes and then he hurried back to his hotel,
hoping to catch Grey.

The solicitor was waiting for him in their joint sitting-room.

“Sir Edward has gone back to town,” he said. “He could not wait. He
told me to say that he was sorry to have missed you. He’s sick over
this business. I’ve never seen a man so cut up at losing a case.”

“You’ll appeal, I suppose?”

“Of course, but I’m not sanguine; neither is Sir Edward.”

Fayre looked him straight in the eyes.

“What’s your honest opinion?” he asked.

Grey hesitated for a moment. Then:

“I think it’s absolutely hopeless,” he said frankly. “Nothing short of
a miracle can save Leslie now.”

“So that an appeal will simply mean the infliction of quite
unnecessary anguish on two people who have already had more than their
share of suffering?”

“I suppose you can put it that way,” answered Grey soberly. “All the
same, it’s his last chance and we can’t afford not to take it.”

Fayre nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ll travel up with you,” he said. “Have I time to pack?”

“Plenty. I’m off to see Leslie. I’d hoped you might stay on and have a
few words with him before he is moved. I think I can work it and it
would mean a lot to him now.”

The distress on Fayre’s face deepened, but his lips were set in an
obstinate line.

“I’m sorry,” he said firmly, “but I must get up to town at once. I’d
stay if I could, and anyhow I’ll run down again later.”

“Any message for him?”

“Tell him we’re not beaten yet,” said Fayre cryptically.

Grey raised his eyebrows.

“What’s the idea?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I wish to goodness I did!” was Fayre’s rejoinder as he
disappeared into his room to pack.

He and Grey reached London in the small hours of the morning. Fayre
drove straight to his club and forced himself to take a couple of
hours’ rest, but he did not sleep and by nine o’clock he had bathed
and breakfasted and was on his way to Kean’s Chambers.

Early as he was, Kean was there before him and was already well
started on a strenuous day’s work. He pushed his papers aside when
Fayre entered and came to meet him.

“I rather fancied you might turn up,” he said sombrely. “We shall
appeal, of course.”

Fayre faced him as he had faced Grey.

“With what result?”

Kean did not mince matters.

“If I know anything of the law, none,” he said. “I’m sorry, Hatter; I
did my best.”

Fayre’s eyes did not move from his face.

“That’s what I’ve come to ask you,” he said slowly. “You made a very
brilliant speech. It was a magnificent defence, and it failed. To any
one but myself it would seem that you had done your utmost.”

He paused and Kean turned on him sharply.

“I’ve worked harder over this case than I ever worked in my life,” he
cut in.

Fayre nodded.

“I admit it. That’s not what I’m driving at. One or two things have
come to my knowledge lately, facts that I have told no one, not even
Grey.”

He paused again. He was finding it very hard to choose words for what
he had come to say and Kean made no effort to help him.

“Ever since I discovered certain things,” Fayre went on, “I have been
fighting against the conviction that you could have cleared Leslie if
you had wished. Can you look me in the face now and say that you were
not shielding some one from the beginning and that you undertook
Leslie’s defence because you hoped by sheer eloquence to get him off
without being forced to give this person away?”

Kean had strolled over to the hearth-rug and seemed absorbed in the
selection of a cigarette from the box on the mantelpiece.

“I don’t know how you managed to unearth all this,” he said at last,
“or what you think you have discovered, but you’re right on one point.
I _was_ shielding some one.”

“You’ve tried to save Leslie and failed,” went on Fayre inflexibly.
“What steps do you propose to take now?”

Kean hesitated.

“Before I answer that question,” he said slowly, “suppose you put your
cards on the table. How much do you know?”

“I know that, for some reason I have so far failed to discover, you
allowed it to be supposed that you travelled by rail to Staveley
Grange on March 14th, when, as a matter of fact, you motored from
London to some station north of York and picked up the train there.
You were held up at York for driving without side-lights.”

Kean smiled.

“You’ve hit on a snag there,” he said. “Blake, my chauffeur, was held
up and nearly lost his job on the strength of it.”

“I’ve seen Blake,” was Fayre’s quiet reply. “He was on his holiday in
London and was with his wife that night. A summons was served on him
which he brought to you and which you said you would deal with. He is
under the impression that it was a mistake on the part of the police.”

There was a pause during which Kean smoked thoughtfully. He seemed in
no way disconcerted.

“Given that I was in York that night, what do you infer from that?
March 14th was not the night of the murder, if that’s what you are
driving at,” he said at last.

Fayre went on steadily.

“How long have you known Mrs. Draycott and what were you and she doing
in Paris in the spring of 1920? You had been married to Sybil for less
than a year and I know you too well to insult you by the suggestion
that it was merely a vulgar intrigue.”

Kean threw his cigarette into the fire.

“You’re right there,” he answered evenly; “it wasn’t. You haven’t
entirely lost your sense of proportion yet, Hatter. I had my own
reasons for wishing to see Mrs. Draycott, and, as she happened to be
in Paris at the time, I went there. I stayed at the Bristol and she
was in a small hotel on the other side of the river. Does that satisfy
you?”

Fayre walked over to the writing-table and drew out the top drawer.
From it he took two “Red Dwarf” pens and threw them on the table. With
the exception of a brown earth stain down the side of one of them,
they were identical, even to the black ink-stains that smeared the
handles.

“One of these is the pen I picked up at the farm. Can you explain the
other, or give any reason why you did not use this in your defence? We
have proof that it did not belong to Leslie and that it was dropped
some time before the murder. It would at least have proved the
presence of a third person at the farm that night.”

Once more Kean hesitated. Then he raised his head and spoke quite
frankly.

“Because it was the property of the person I wished to shield. I give
you fair warning, Hatter, that, however deeply you may have managed to
implicate me, I do not intend to divulge the name of the owner of that
pen. Any more exhibits?”

Fayre was stung by the contempt in his voice. He took his note-case
out of his pocket and extracted a snapshot which he placed on the
table beside the pens.

“Yes,” he answered, and there was grief rather than anger in his
voice. “This. I would have spared you this if I could, Edward.”

Kean picked it up and examined it.

“So you’ve stumbled on that, too. You’ve been pretty thorough,
Hatter.”

“You knew, then?”

“That Sybil’s first husband was alive? I’ve known it for the last six
years. As a matter of fact, I fetched him from Germany myself and
placed him in an asylum in Dorset. You know he’s hopelessly insane, I
suppose. Three specialists have pronounced him incurable.”

“You’ve lived with Sybil for six years, knowing all the time that
Gerald Lee was alive?”

Kean looked at him with frank speculation in his eyes.

“What would you have done in my place, I wonder,” he said quietly.
“Sybil’s heart was in such a state that any shock might prove fatal.
Lee was hopelessly insane, incapable even of recognizing her. I’m not
exaggerating when I say that the mere sight of him would have killed
her. Rather than take the chance of the knowledge of his existence
reaching her now, I would kill you, here in this room, with my own
hands, and take the consequences.”

He spoke quite gently, but his voice carried conviction and Fayre
realized that he would shrink from nothing in the effort to spare his
wife.

“Sybil knows,” he said and, even as he spoke, he felt that he would
have given anything to unsay the words.

For the first time Kean’s composure deserted him. His face became
suddenly grey and lined. “Impossible!”

Then, with sudden vehemence:

“Do you realize what you’re saying? Good God, man, it can’t be true!”

“It is true, unless I’ve made some ghastly mistake,” answered Fayre
steadily. “I thought she had discovered it and was keeping the secret
from you.”

“My God, if that woman told her!” muttered Kean. “It’s the only
explanation. What have you got to go on?”

“A letter Sybil wrote me, which reached me just after I had come on
the photograph of Lee. I took it for granted that that was what she
was alluding to.”

“You didn’t speak to her about it?”

“I haven’t seen her since. I had meant to, but there’s been no
opportunity.”

Kean sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

“Thank God!” he murmured. “There’s some mistake. It’s impossible that
she should have found out. She would never . . .”

He was interrupted by the insistent peal of the telephone-bell. With a
half-frenzied exclamation he tore the receiver from its hook.

“Yes, Sir Edward Kean speaking,” he said mechanically, his mind
entirely occupied with the revelation Fayre had just made. Then, as he
listened, the already ghastly pallor of his face increased.

“It’s Sybil,” he said, hardly above his breath as he dropped the
receiver. “They’ve rung up from Westminster. It’s another attack.”

For a moment he sat staring blankly into space; then he turned to
Fayre with a look of almost childish entreaty in his eyes.

“I must go to her, Hatter. For heaven’s sake, don’t keep me now!”

For answer Fayre picked up Kean’s hat and coat and handed them to him.

“We must have this out soon, Edward,” he said gravely. “No matter what
happens.”

Kean was already struggling himself into his coat.

“At the earliest opportunity I promise you a full explanation. Will
that do, Hatter?”

Fayre nodded. A moment later he was alone with his troubled thoughts.
He strolled over to the table and, picking up the snapshot, put it
back into his notecase. As he did so the door opened and Farrer, the
old head clerk, looked in.

“I thought I heard Sir Edward go out, sir,” he said.

“He’s been sent for. Lady Kean has been taken ill again. I doubt if
he’ll be back this morning. You’d better cancel any engagements he had
for to-day.”

The old man made a clucking sound with his tongue against his teeth.

“It’s a pity she’s so delicate, sir,” he ventured.

And Fayre, overwrought to the verge of hysteria, almost laughed aloud
at the utter inadequacy of the remark.



Chapter XXIV

The report of Sybil Kean when Fayre rang up at lunch-time was not
reassuring. The heart attack had been less violent than either of
those that had preceded it, but she had not rallied well. Fayre,
remembering the letter she had sent him and the conviction she had
expressed in it that the next attack would prove her last, wondered
whether the wish to live had not forsaken her. In his heart he knew it
would be better, both for her and for Edward, if she died. The
connection between the unopened letter in his note-case and the
Draycott trial was becoming clear to him at last. There was only one
person for whom Kean cared enough to shield at the expense of his
professional honour; that was Sybil, and Sybil, as was now evident
from her letter to Fayre, had some secret knowledge of the case which
she may or may not have been aware that she shared with her husband.

Fayre went over the events of the evening of March 23rd. So far as he
could remember, he had parted from Sybil Kean in the drawing-room at
Staveley shortly before six o’clock. From then onwards she had been
invisible, presumably in her room, and had not appeared again until
she joined the party in the drawing-room just before eight. He knew
the country round Staveley well enough to realize that this would
leave her ample time to reach Leslie’s farm by six-thirty, or
thereabouts. It seemed incredible that any one in her state of health
should have been capable of such an effort and, in Sybil’s case,
doubly so, for, apart from her delicacy, she had always been indolent
and easy-going to a fault, the last person to screw herself up to such
a pitch of nervous tension as such an expedition would entail.

There was one other, and on the whole more probable, solution of the
problem. Evidently Mrs. Draycott had become in some way possessed of a
photograph of Gerald Lee. It was more than possible that she had had
dealings with him in the past and that, in his distorted brain, he had
harboured a grudge against her. Supposing Kean had been aware of this
obsession and had received news of his escape from the asylum in which
he had placed him? If Lee had managed to waylay the unfortunate woman
and had murdered her, Kean would have every reason to wish to keep his
guilt secret. Once the affair got into the courts it would be
impossible to hide the fact of his existence from Sybil. Where and how
Lee and Kean had met on the fatal night, Fayre was unable to
determine, but the complete lack of motive for the crime had pointed,
from the first, to an act of almost insane malice, and that there was
some connection between the events at the farm and the survival of
Sybil Kean’s first husband Fayre was becoming more convinced each
moment.

He tried to picture the consequences of the inevitable disclosure
which would follow should this second solution prove the correct one,
and his heart sank. That it would mean the end of Edward Kean’s career
seemed certain. Not only was the part he had played in the grim drama
bound to appear, but with the discovery of the identity of the
murderer would come the disclosure of the damning fact that, during
six years of his marriage to Sybil, he had been aware of the existence
of Gerald Lee. And insanity is not recognized as a ground for divorce!
If Sybil, knowing of Lee’s existence, had concealed it from her
husband it seemed hardly likely that she would leave him for Lee, who,
according to Kean, was not even in a condition to recognize his wife
should she return to him. And if she decided to stick to Kean? Fayre
could picture them dragging out their existence, probably in Italy or
the south of France, Kean bereft of the work that was as his life’s
blood to him and Sybil cut off forever from her friends and the world
to which she belonged. He did not think she would long survive under
such conditions and, Sybil once taken from him, what would become of
Kean?

In a vain effort to get away from his own thoughts, Fayre went out and
walked the busy streets until he was tired, but the exercise brought
no relief and he was driven at last by sheer fatigue back to the club
again.

He was dressing for dinner when he was called to the telephone. He was
surprised to hear Kean’s voice at the other end.

“Come round after dinner and we’ll finish our conversation of this
morning,” he said.

Fayre’s first feeling was one of relief. He knew that Kean would not
have suggested an interview unless Sybil had definitely turned the
corner. He gave a hasty assent, but before he could inquire after her,
Kean had rung off.

As soon as he had finished his solitary dinner he set out for
Westminster.

Kean met him in the hall and led the way into his study. He had been
working and held a closely written manuscript in his hand. He pushed
Fayre gently into an armchair and placed a box of cigars at his elbow,
then he seated himself at the writing-table.

“I’ve got the whole story here,” he said, pointing to the papers
before him. “I suggest that you take it to Grey first thing to-morrow
morning. He will know what to do with it. I might have sent it to you.
In some ways it would have been easier for me, but I’ve got a feeling
I’d rather you heard it from my own lips.”

The amused contempt which had angered Fayre earlier in the day had
gone from his voice and had given place to an utter weariness. His
face was grey with fatigue, and Fayre, remembering all he had gone
through that day, forgot his anxiety about Leslie and was conscious
only of compassion. He rose impulsively to his feet.

“Look here, old man,” he exclaimed, all the warmth of their long
friendship back in his voice. “Let’s leave the whole thing for
to-night. You’re not fit for it. I’ll take that paper home with me and
go through it there or, if you’d prefer it, we can have it out
to-morrow. I don’t know to what extent it will help Leslie but a few
hours’ delay can make little difference to him.”

Kean shook his head.

“We’ll go through with it now,” he said, with a touch of his old
vigour. “I shan’t sleep till it’s over and done with.”

He sat for a moment in silence, his eyes fixed on the closely written
sheets before him. When he spoke, his voice was as coldly
dispassionate as though he were telling a story in which he was in no
way concerned.

“As you have no doubt guessed,” he began, “the whole thing dates from
the year of my visit to Paris. How you got onto that, I don’t know.
You will remember that Gerald Lee and three other men were killed by a
shell in the first year of the war. Identification was impossible, but
his disk was found close to the spot and it was taken for granted that
he was one of the victims.

“The first intimation I had that he was alive came from Mrs. Draycott,
almost a year after my marriage to Sybil. She wrote from Paris,
enclosing a copy of the snapshot you showed me this morning. It
appeared that she had been staying with friends in Germany and, so far
as I could make out, had had an affair with a doctor out there. It was
like her, with her morbid love of sensation, to persuade him to take
her over the local lunatic asylum. She had known Gerald Lee slightly
in the days before the war and she recognized him at once and, with
characteristic acumen, realized that she might make use of the
discovery to her own advantage.

“I found out afterwards that he had been picked up unconscious by the
Germans, badly wounded in the head, and that he had been passed from
one hospital to another, never once recovering his sanity, until he
eventually drifted to the municipal asylum at Schleefeldt. By that
time he was in civilian clothes and all efforts to identify him had
been in vain. All the authorities could find out about him was that he
was an Englishman. They were much interested when Mrs. Draycott
recognized him and did all they could to help her, one of the doctor’s
taking a snapshot of him for her to send to England.

“On receipt of her letter, I went at once to Paris and we had several
interviews. I need hardly say that I had to offer to buy her silence,
but I went to Schleefeldt myself and satisfied myself that she was
speaking the truth before paying her the money she demanded. I also
ascertained from the doctor in charge of the asylum that not only was
Lee incapable of recognizing any one, but that he was considered
absolutely incurable. Apparently there was some pressure on the brain
which could not be removed. I may say that this diagnosis was
confirmed after his arrival in England by three of our own brain
specialists. So that, however much at fault I may have been, I have
robbed Lee of nothing. There, at least, my conscience is clear. I
confess that, taking into account Sybil’s state of health, I do not
see how I could have acted otherwise.”

He unlocked a drawer at his elbow and, taking out a bundle of
cancelled cheques, tossed them onto the table.

“That is what I found I had let myself in for,” he went on bitterly.
“For Sybil’s sake, I did not dare appear in the matter, and, going on
the principle that the fewer people involved, the better, I left the
whole affair in Mrs. Draycott’s hands, and I must say she proved both
practical and efficient. Pretending to recognize him as a relation of
her own, she had him brought to England and, in the capacity of her
legal adviser, I was able to visit him and see to his installation in
the best private asylum I could hear of. And then the game began. Mrs.
Draycott had only to threaten to go with the story to Sybil and she
had me absolutely at her mercy.”

He picked up the packet of cheques and balanced it in his hand.

“Every one of these is made out to ‘self,’” he said. “I was absolutely
helpless and she was too clever to accept anything but cash. For six
years I have been trying to trap her, in vain. And then, last January,
I succeeded. Until then she had steadfastly refused to accept a cheque
or give a receipt for anything I paid her. All the payments were in
notes and I had no evidence that she had ever attempted to blackmail
me.

“Then, last January, I caught her. She was at Nice and had been
gambling heavily at Monte Carlo. When she wrote to me she was
desperate and in such a hurry for the money that she accepted the
cheque I sent her. As soon as I ascertained that she had cashed it I
knew that I had a hold over her at last. On her return I went to see
her and offered her a lump sum down, on condition that she did not
molest me again, pointing out that, if she went to Sybil, I was
prepared to take the matter into the courts and, on the evidence of
the Nice cheque, she would not stand the ghost of a chance if she were
sued for blackmail. She had begun to realize that Sybil might die and
that I might then prefer exposure to the constant drain on my purse.
Anyhow, she gave in, but for nearly a month she haggled over the terms
and in the end agreed to accept seven thousand pounds down.

“Even then I did not trust her. She was a vindictive woman as well as
a greedy one and, as you may imagine, our liking for each other had
not progressed during our intercourse. I knew that, in a fit of malice
or cupidity, she was capable of burning her boats and going to Sybil.
Also, it was anything but convenient for me to realize so large a sum
just then. At best, it would cripple me financially for some time to
come, and retrenchment of any kind meant discomfort for Sybil. Just
before my final interview with Mrs. Draycott I received the news that
one of my investments had failed and I realized that I was going to
have considerable difficulty in raising the seven thousand.”

He paused and sat for a moment in thought, as though he were taking
stock of his own past actions and appraising them.

Then his eyes drifted to where his wife’s photograph, in its heavy
silver frame, stood in the full glare of the reading-lamp.

“It was then,” he went on, “that I made up my mind to kill Mrs.
Draycott.”



Chapter XXV

There was a tense silence, broken only by the sound of the distant
traffic in Victoria Street. Fayre made an ineffectual effort to speak,
but no words came. There was nothing he could say. His mind was a
chaos of contending emotions, the strongest of which, even now, was
pity: pity for the man who, in his blind arrogance, had wrecked the
life of the one being he had hoped to save.

Something of what he felt must have reached Kean, for when he spoke
again there was a gentler, almost apologetic note in his voice.

“I’m sorry, Hatter,” he said. “Of all my friends you are the one I can
least afford to lose. If it had not been for Farrer’s appalling
blunder in not letting me know in time that the case in which John
Leslie was to appear had been postponed things would have turned out
very differently. Luck was against me from the beginning.

“When Eve invited us to Staveley and told me that Mrs. Draycott was to
be there I realized that my opportunity had come at last. I laid my
plans carefully and thought I had covered any possible emergency; but
I did not realize that I should have you to reckon with, Hatter. You
were too intimately connected with us all to be a safe antagonist.

“On the plea that there had been a delay in the selling of certain
securities I persuaded Mrs. Draycott to go on from Staveley’s to her
sister’s, arranging to meet her while she was there and hand the money
in cash over to her. We arranged to meet at the corner of the
Greycross lane at six o’clock on the evening of March 23rd. Meanwhile
I had brought the car from London and garaged it at the garage at
Whitbury. If you remember, Sybil was the first to arrive at Staveley
and I followed her four days later, that is to say, on March 14th. I
wired the time of my arrival and was met by the Staveley motor in the
usual way and you all took it for granted that I had come by train. As
a matter of fact, I drove the car myself from London to Whitbury,
garaged it there and then went on by train to Staveley Grange.
Unfortunately my sidelights gave out at York and I was held up. I had
had the forethought to borrow my chauffeur’s licence, on the plea that
I had mislaid my own and might have occasion to use the car while he
was on his holiday, and it was that licence that the policeman who
stopped me saw. That was where you proved my undoing, Hatter. If it
had not been for your long memory and the fact that you took the
trouble to interrogate my chauffeur your suspicions would never have
been aroused. Grey, who knew nothing of my supposed movements at that
date, certainly wouldn’t have jumped to it. As it was, that _Y.0.7._
number you were looking for was under your very nose and you never saw
it!”

Fayre looked up suddenly.

“Then Page—?”

Kean nodded.

“Page was the name I gave when I garaged the car at Whitbury. It was
there that the woman noticed my hands. I was startled when Grey told
me that, I admit.”

He spread out his hands on the blotter before him and regarded them
thoughtfully. They were characteristic enough, with their long,
clean-boned, sensitive fingers, and hard, muscular palms.

“Fortunately they are not marked in any way, or it might have been
awkward. Apart from that, I had covered my tracks well. On the evening
of the 23rd I was driven to the station from Staveley. There I took a
ticket to London and got into the local train from Staveley Grange to
Whitbury. At Whitbury, as you know, there is an hour’s wait before the
London express comes in. I had only a small suitcase with me and this
I carried to the Whitbury garage, where I picked up the car. I drove
to the corner of the Greycross lane, where I was joined by Mrs.
Draycott. I had prepared a packet of notes, tied up in batches of one
thousand pounds. The uppermost packet only was genuine, the rest were
made up of sheets of paper, cut to the correct size.”

He paused for a moment.

“Here I knew I was up against my one real difficulty, that of
persuading Mrs. Draycott to go to the farm. Fortunately, the weather
was on my side. She hated the country, at the best of times, and had
suffered considerably during her short walk to the corner of the lane.
So as not to arouse her sister’s suspicions she had come out in the
thin dress and slippers she had been wearing in the house, and it had
been no joke struggling against a bitter wind in inadequate garments.
I put it to her that she would have to count the notes in my presence
before I could undertake to hand them over to her and that, in view of
the size of the payment, I had no intention of making it without a
receipt. I had some argument with her over the last point, but she had
seen the notes in the light of my head-lamps and her cupidity had been
aroused. Also, she knew that, since the affair of the cheque, I
already had a hold over her. It was blowing a gale and bitterly cold
and, while she was hesitating, a big branch came down with a crash in
the field quite close to us. I think that decided her. I explained
that, as we could not go to her sister’s, I proposed to drive her to
Leslie’s farm, where we could complete our transaction under cover,
telling her that he was away and that I had the run of the place.
Leslie had let drop one day that he invariably left either the front
or the back door open and I had taken stock of the place when Sybil
and I had gone over to tea with him and Cynthia there. I knew that,
if, by any chance, we found the door locked I could run the car into
the barn and complete my plans there.

“As it turned out, the door was unlocked and I led the way into the
sitting-room by the light of an electric torch I had brought with me.
Mrs. Draycott sat down at the writing-table and I stood behind her,
holding the torch in one hand so that its light fell on the table. I
handed her the packet of notes and she began to count them. My
revolver was in the right-hand pocket of my overcoat.”

His eyes contracted as though, for a moment, the whole scene were
vividly before him.

“The rest was easy. The thing was over in a moment. She fell forward
without uttering a sound. I made sure that she was dead, then I picked
up the bundle of notes and thrust the torch and the revolver into my
pocket. Then I felt my way out in the dark. I must have left the front
door open, but I only found that out after Leslie had been arrested.
At the gate I undid my coat and placed the notes in an inside pocket.
It must have been then that Sybil’s ‘Red Dwarf’ pen rolled out onto
the path where you found it.”

Fayre drew in his breath sharply.

“Good God!” he muttered.

Kean’s fixed gaze shifted for a moment to Fayre’s face.

“You never guessed it was Sybil’s. And yet she had used one for years.
That wretched ‘Red Dwarf’ gave me more than one bad quarter of an
hour. For one thing, I was terrified that you would mention it to her.
She lent it to me on the morning of the 23rd, and I must have slipped
it into my pocket; when I got back to Staveley on the 26th one of the
first things she did was to ask me for it. I made the excuse that I
had left it in London. If you had spoken to her about it after that
she might possibly have put two and two together.”

Fayre opened his lips to say that he had mentioned it, with ominous
results, but Kean interrupted him. Afterwards he was thankful that he
had not been given the chance to speak.

“I suppose you must have opened the drawer of the table at my Chambers
and seen the two pens or you wouldn’t have produced them as you did
this morning. You probably also realized what I had been doing. I was
afraid she would ask me for it again and, somehow, I could not bring
myself to return her own to her, apart from the fact that I might have
been called upon to produce it and did not dare let it out of my
possession. So I bought another and stained it with ink, meaning to
return it to her as her own. You guessed that?”

Fayre nodded.

“I knew, naturally, that you had been trying to fake a duplicate, but
I was entirely at sea as to your object.”

“I think, all along, Sybil was the person I feared most. She has more
intuition than any one I have ever met and I was in terror that
something in my manner or attitude towards the case would rouse her
suspicions. Thank goodness she never dreamed that anything was wrong.”

This time Fayre deliberately held his peace, but his heart turned sick
within him, for, bit by bit, the patterns in the puzzle were beginning
to slip into their places and, among them, Sybil’s letter and the
enclosure.

“There’s not much more to tell,” pursued Kean. “It was too late to
pick up the London train at Whitbury, so I drove straight to Carlisle,
counting on the fact that the express waited there for an hour. I just
had time to garage the car and catch the train, arriving in London at
the same hour and by the same train I should have arrived by had I
taken it direct from Whitbury. I made a point of speaking to the three
men who shared my table in the dining-car and went out of my way to
give them a clue as to my profession, mentioning the fact that I had
been staying at Staveley. I did not anticipate any trouble, but, had I
been forced to prove an alibi, I have no doubt they would have come
forward and it would have been taken for granted that I had travelled
over the entire distance by train. But, from the time I left the farm,
luck was against me. There was the collision with the farm-cart that
put you onto the track of the mythical Page. You were right, by the
way, about the number-plate. I broke it myself as a precaution. I had
it replaced and the mudguard mended in Carlisle. You took it for
granted that, when the car was removed from the first garage in
Carlisle on March 26th it was driven to London. As a matter of fact, I
simply moved it to one on the other side of the town, where I had the
repairs executed and it stayed there till I picked it up on April 1st
on my way to Staveley. The news that the case in which Leslie was to
appear had been postponed and that he had already been notified was, I
think, the greatest shock I have ever had. I had been so absolutely
certain that he was in London. It was as though an abyss had opened
under my feet. Until I actually saw the papers and read the first
description of the case I hoped that he might not have received the
notification in time. As soon as I saw them I knew that, unless I
could manage to get him off, I was faced with disaster.”

He raised his clasped hands and brought them down so heavily on the
table that it shook.

“Everything was against me,” he exclaimed with uncontrollable
bitterness. “If the police had not found Leslie’s revolver or if that
wretched cat had not got caught in a trap, just at that particular
moment in the whole of Leslie’s career, I could have got him off
without a stain on his character. As it was, I was helpless from the
beginning.”

He rose, picked up the sheets of manuscript from the table, and joined
Fayre.

“The whole thing is here,” he said, handing them to him. “It is signed
and witnessed by two of the servants. I believe they thought it was my
will,” he added ironically. “I want you to take it to Grey first thing
to-morrow.”

Fayre sprang to his feet and laid his hand on the other man’s arm.

“What are you going to do, Edward?” he asked.

Kean hesitated.

“Make a bolt for it, I suppose,” he said grimly. “I may bring it off
with luck.”

“Where will you go?”

Kean looked at him curiously.

“I don’t know,” he said. “On my word, Hatter, I don’t know.”

“Edward,” began Fayre impulsively; but Kean cut him off.

“There’s one thing you can do for me, old chap,” he said swiftly. “I
want to see Cynthia. I’ve got something I must say to her, something
that I cannot leave unsaid. It’s early still and she won’t have gone
to bed. Will you go round there now and ask her if I can see her? What
I’ve got to say won’t take more than ten minutes.”

Fayre stared at him in astonishment.

“Don’t you realize that, if you are going, you must go now?” he
expostulated. “Edward, there’s no time to lose. For God’s sake, don’t
take a chance like that!”

“There’s time for that,” said Kean dryly. “I will go straight from
there. I can catch the night boat to Ostend. I don’t suppose we shall
meet again, Hatter, and it’s the last thing I shall ask you to do for
me. Will you do it?”

“I’ll do it,” answered Fayre reluctantly, “but I think it’s sheer
madness at this juncture.”

“I want you to go to her now and ask her if I can come round. Don’t
tell her anything else. If she can see me, ring me up here and I’ll
start at once. After I am gone you can tell her the whole story, but
get this through as quickly as you can first.”

Fayre moved to the door. Half-way he stopped as though he had been
shot.

“Good God, Edward!” he cried. “Sybil! You can’t leave her without a
word!”

Kean straightened his shoulders with a jerk, as though he were bracing
himself to face something he was seeing clearly for the first time.

“Sybil died about an hour before I telephoned to you this evening,” he
said slowly.



Chapter XXVI

Afterwards, in bitter anguish and remorse, Fayre cursed himself for
his blindness. At first he had been deceived by Kean’s attitude of
cold detachment towards the whole gruesome business and the impression
he had managed to convey that he had definitely decided on flight.
Later, the news of Sybil Kean’s death had stunned him and he had gone
blindly on his errand to Cynthia, dazed with grief and consternation.
But he could not forgive himself for not having insisted on staying by
his friend in his extremity.

Instead, he had carried out Kean’s instructions to the letter, had
found Cynthia still up and had interviewed her in the rather dreary
little room that had been her uncle’s study.

He had sent a message by the servant, asking to see her alone, and she
came to him, curiosity and apprehension in her eyes.

John Leslie was never out of her mind in these days and, though it
would seem that the worst had happened, she lived in hourly dread of
some further attack on her fortitude.

“Have you come from John?” she asked piteously. “When will they let me
see him?”

He took both her hands in his and drew her to him.

“Listen,” he said gently. “It’s all right about John. He is cleared
absolutely. In a short time you will be together and all this will
seem like a bad dream. Steady, now,” he added sharply, for the girl
had swayed away from him and, for a second, he thought the news had
been too much for her. But even as he spoke, a great rush of colour
flooded her face and she drew herself erect.

“It can’t be true!” she whispered. “Say it again, Uncle Fayre. John,
free!”

Her hands were on his shoulders and she almost shook him in her
eagerness.

“John’s safe,” he repeated. “Edward has cleared him. I have come from
Westminster now. Edward wants to speak to you. Can I ring him up now
and tell him you will see him?”

“Of course. Tell him to come quick. Does John know?”

“Not yet. Grey will see him to-morrow.”

“Couldn’t the news be got to him to-night? It’s cruel to make him
wait,” she pleaded.

Fayre shook his head.

“I’m afraid not. But you can ask Edward when he comes. Where’s your
telephone?”

She led the way into the hall, and in another moment Fayre was ringing
up the house in Westminster.

Kean’s butler answered the call.

“Can I speak to Sir Edward Kean?” asked Fayre. “He is expecting a call
from me. Mr. Fayre speaking.”

“Mr. Fayre?” The man’s voice was eager and hurried. “If you could come
round, sir? We’re in great trouble here and the responsibility . . .
There’s no one . . .”

The broken sentences tailed off oddly and Fayre was suddenly seized
with an ominous sense of foreboding.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

“Sir Edward, sir. He shot himself just after you left. . . .”

“Is he dead? Quick, man!”

“Yes. He must have died at once. The doctor’s here now. If you could
come at once, sir . . .”

“I’ll come now.”

Mechanically Fayre hung up the receiver and put the telephone down on
the table. Then he collapsed completely, his face buried in his hands,
his whole body shaking uncontrollably.

When he pulled himself together sufficiently to look up he found
Cynthia standing by his side.

“What is it, Uncle Fayre? Not Sybil?”

In as few words as possible he explained the situation to her,
omitting any mention of Kean’s confession. He could not bring himself
to speak of that yet to her.

She was terribly shaken, but she held back her tears until she had
taken him into the dining-room and mixed him a stiff drink. While he
was drinking it she telephoned for a taxi and within five minutes he
was on his way back to Westminster.

It was late before he got back to the club, utterly worn out and
shaken with remorse. If he had had the sense to stay with Kean he
might have averted this final catastrophe.

Then, as he sat in his room, too tired and disheartened to face the
task of undressing, his sanity reasserted itself and he knew that Kean
had taken the only possible way out. Sybil was dead and nothing could
hurt her now. If only he could be sure that she had not guessed!

With an exclamation he rose to his feet and picked up the note-case he
had thrown on the table on first entering his bedroom. He drew out her
letter and opened the enclosure. He had not read a dozen lines before
his worse fears were confirmed.

“It is terribly difficult to write this,” it ran, “and yet I must tell
some one. I am so desperately afraid of what Edward may do. And the
awful thing is that I may be wrong and yet I cannot ask him to
explain. If what I think is true and he has kept this from me it is
because it would break his heart for me to know. There is some
extraordinary mystery behind it all. I can only tell you this, Hatter.
I am almost certain that the pen you found after the murder was mine
and, the day Edward motored me up to London in the car, I found some
of the sequins from Mrs. Draycott’s brown evening-dress between the
cushions of the back seat of the car. The papers said she had it on
when she was found and she wore it at Staveley the night before she
left. And yet I know that the car was in London then! I can’t
understand it. But, Hatter, the night before Mrs. Draycott left
Staveley I came out of my bedroom to go down to dinner and she and
Edward were standing by the door of her room, talking. I must have
opened my door very quietly, for they did not hear me, but I heard
Mrs. Draycott say: ‘This is the second time you’ve put it off. You
know what to expect if you don’t come up to the scratch this time.’ I
went back into my room and shut the door and they never saw me. I
don’t understand it, Hatter. Edward could not have been at the farm
that night. He went up to town that afternoon. My reason tells me that
I must be mistaken, and yet, all the time, I know that something is
going on, something horrible that I cannot understand. Edward has
never been like this over a case before. For once, his nerves are
beginning to go back on him. I do not know what to do, but I am
haunted by the fear that I may die before the trial is over and that
Edward, in his desire to save me, may do something. . . . I do not
know what I am writing, Hatter; I am so stupidly weak still and my
brain does not seem to work properly; but I want you to show this to
Edward and tell him that, for my sake, he must not let John Leslie
suffer. I am haunted by the thought that he may be led into doing
something utterly unlike everything I know of him, something he may
regret to his dying day, and I shall not be here to save him. I am so
tired. I cannot write any more, but do your best for me, Hatter.”

The letter dropped from Fayre’s nerveless fingers and fluttered to the
floor.

Shaken with pain and horror as he was, he could still give thanks for
two things: Kean had never guessed that his wife knew and had gone to
his grave believing that the crime he had committed for her sake had
not been in vain, and Sybil had died in ignorance of her first
husband’s tragic survival.



Chapter XXVII

On one of those perfect July days which are occasionally vouchsafed to
the inhabitants of the British Isles Cynthia Bell and John Leslie were
married.

They had chosen an old church, tucked away in an unfashionable corner
of South London, as the scene of their wedding and had asked to the
ceremony only those whose friendship they really valued.

Lady Galston had flatly refused to sanction the marriage or to be
present at it, but Cynthia’s father had, once more, asserted himself
and had brought his daughter to London and insisted on giving her away
himself.

“A good thing Lady Galston has taken that line,” was the comment of
that other woman who had mothered Cynthia so efficiently in her time
of trouble, as she and Hatter Fayre drove together from the church to
the Staveleys’ house in Eaton Square which they had insisted on
lending for the occasion.

“She’s never been an atom of good to that child since the day she was
born and, in her present mood, she’d cast a blight over a Bacchanalian
orgy!”

They found Cynthia and Leslie in the hall on their arrival and it
certainly did not seem as if Lady Galston’s antagonism had served to
dim the girl’s radiance on this, the happiest day of her life.

She stood, her arm through Leslie’s, talking to old Mrs. Doggett and
surrounded by a shy, beaming crowd of Galston retainers who had come
of their own accord all the way from Cumberland to see her married.
Fayre, looking round, recognized the Gunnets and, with them, his own
special protégé, Albert Small, late tramp, now boot-boy, dog-washer,
bicycle-cleaner, etc., at Fayre’s newly acquired cottage in Surrey. He
was resplendent in an old suit of his master’s and looked a very
different being from the furtive and defiant tatterdemalion who had
slept in John Leslie’s barn on the fatal night of March 23rd.

At the sight of Fayre and his companion, Cynthia gave a little cry of
pleasure and came forward eagerly to greet them.

“It’s all much too wonderful to be true!” she said. “Even now, I feel
as if I may wake up at any minute!”

“It’s wonderful. But it’s not my idea of a quiet wedding,” gibed
Fayre, looking round the crowded hall. “The whole village of Keys and
all the tenants seem to have migrated from the North to wish you
luck!”

“Aren’t they pets? It never occurred to me that they would dream of
coming so far, but Father received a sort of deputation, headed by
Gunnet, to ask if they might be present. Gunnet said that, after what
had happened, he’d take it as a kindness if he might be allowed to
attend! They’re all going back by the night train. There are some old
friends waiting to see you upstairs. Even Dr. Gregg has turned up. I
asked him, though I didn’t think it was much in his line, and he said
that, as he’d _be_ in London anyhow on business, he’d be very pleased
to look in. Do go and be kind to him; he looks so miserable and he’s
already been quite rude to Father, just to show that he isn’t shy!”

“I’m glad you’re not going too far away from them all,” said Fayre.
“Bill tells me that the farm is finished. It sounds charming.”

Leslie had resigned his tenancy of the farm near Galston and built a
comfortable, roomy house on some farm-land on the Staveley estate.
After what had happened he had not cared to take Cynthia to the
ill-fated house up the lane nor had he wished to settle down in the
immediate vicinity of his mother-in-law. The Staveleys had been glad
to have Cynthia as a neighbour and, Fayre suspected, had done a good
deal towards giving Leslie a good start in his venture.

“It’s lovely and the land’s gorgeous. John’s simply delighted. You’re
going to be our first guest, Uncle Fayre. Promise you’ll come soon!”

Hatter Fayre’s face grew a shade pinker than usual.

“I’ll come with pleasure, on one condition,” he said.

His voice seemed suddenly to have grown curiously hoarse and
unmanageable.

“You can make any conditions you like, so long as you come,” was
Cynthia’s cheerful rejoinder. “You don’t want to bring that horrid old
bicycle with you, do you?” she finished, struck by a sudden suspicion.

Fayre shook his head.

“I’ve finished with that old friend for the present. No, I want to
bring something quite different. By the way, I’ve been busy with the
stables.”

“Hunters?”

“Yes, when I’ve finished my alterations. The stabling’s too inadequate
for my needs and there’s a good deal to be done.”

“Do you propose to travel with a couple of mounts? If so, John will
have to put them up in the barn. After all, though, it’s only July now
and we expect you long before the winter—or do you take them about as
pets in the off season? Is that your condition?”

“Oh, no. I’m not bringing any livestock—at least, not of that
kind. . . .”

“Well, I’m blessed!” ejaculated his companion suddenly and
indignantly.

Then, as Fayre cast a helpless glance in her direction and began to
flounder hopelessly, she took the matter firmly out of his hands.

“Livestock indeed!” she exclaimed. “The man’s impossible! What he’s
trying to do, my dear, is to ask if he may bring his wife. And why
he’s behaving like a self-conscious schoolboy over it, heaven only
knows!”

In spite of her brave words she was blushing vividly.

Cynthia fell on her neck.

“Oh, you darlings!” she exclaimed. “You haven’t really done it! You
and Miss Allen! Now I know I am going to wake up and find it’s all a
dream. It’s too perfect to be true!”

“Not Miss Allen, but Mrs. Fayre!” he corrected, with immense
satisfaction. “We stole off all by ourselves and did it yesterday. And
we’re not a bit ashamed of ourselves, either, thank you.”


The End



Transcriber’s Note

_The Draycott Murder Mystery_ was first published in 1928 under the
title _The Red Dwarf_. This transcription follows the text of the Dean
Street Press reprint of 2016. The following alterations have been made
to correct what are believed to be unambiguous scanning errors:

 * “she overlook him” has been changed to “she overtook him”
   (Chapter VIII).
 * “beside the lire” has been changed to “beside the fire”
   (Chapter X).
 * “If was about” has been changed to “It was about” (Chapter XVIII).
 * “anything hut slow” has been changed to “anything but slow”
   (Chapter XIX).
 * Two occurrences of suprious commas (e.g. “the writing, table”) have
   been removed.
 * Three occurrences of spurious hyphenation (e.g. “him-self”) have
   been removed.
 * Six occurrences of deleted hyphens in the words “to-day”,
   “to-morrow”, and “to-night” have been restored.

Additionally, two other errors, both in Chapter XI, appear to be
unambiguous enough to be safely corrected:

 * The ungrammatical phrase “to him dismount” has been changed to
   “to make him dismount”.
 * A reference to the nonexistent personage “Sybil Fayre” has been
   changed to “Sybil Kean”.





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