Crow's Inn Tragedy (12 page)

Cecily looked at it again.

“It looks—I believe I am sitting in my favourite seat in the Field of Rest. I suppose I must have been snapshotted without my knowing it—by some amateur probably.”

“Mr. Thompson?” the inspector suggested.

“I do not know!” Cecily tip-tilted her chin scornfully. “It was a mean thing to do, anyway.”

The inspector wrapped the photograph in its paper. “No use bothering about that any more,” he said, somewhat contradictorily, putting it away carefully in his pocket as he did so. “Now, Miss Hoyle, once more, you adhere to your statement that you heard some one moving about in Mr. Bechcombe's room when you passed the door on your return from lunch—that return being some little time after one o'clock.”

“Half-past one, I dare say,” Cecily corrected. “As I came down the passage I heard the door into Mr. Bechcombe's room close rather softly, as I have heard Mr. Bechcombe close it heaps of times. Then just as I passed I heard some one move inside the room distinctly. It was a sound like a chair being moved and catching against something hard—table leg or something of that sort.”

“And you are aware that the doctors say that Mr. Bechcombe's death must have occurred about twelve o'clock?”

“I have heard so. You told me so,” Cecily murmured, then gathering up her courage, “but doctors make mistakes very often.”

“Scarcely over a thing of this kind,” the inspector remarked. “I suppose you realize the inference that will be drawn from your testimony?” he went on.

A little frown came between Cecily's straight eyebrows.

“Inference? No, I don't!” she said bluntly.

“If Mr. Bechcombe died at twelve o'clock, and you heard some one moving about when you came back about half-past one o'clock,” the inspector said very slowly, giving due weight to each word, “the inference is that the person you heard moving about when you came back was the murderer.”

Cecily shivered as she stared at him.

“Oh, no, no, surely it could not have been! I do not believe it could!”

The inspector made no rejoinder. He glanced at his notebook again.

“Most probably you will be among the first witnesses called at the adjourned inquest on Friday, Miss Hoyle. I think that is all for to-day. Your name and address, please.”

“Cecily Frances Hoyle, Hobart Residence, Windover Square.”

The detective wrote it down.

“I think that is only a temporary address, though, you said, Miss Hoyle. Will you let me have your permanent one, please?”

Cecily hesitated in obvious confusion.

“I—I—that is my only address—the only one I have at present. I came to Mr. Bechcombe straight from school.”

The inspector scratched the side of his nose with his pencil.

“That is rather awkward. It will be necessary that we should be in touch with you for some time. And you might leave Hobart Residence at any moment.”

“Then I could let you know,” Cecily suggested.

“That would not quite do,” the inspector said mildly. “No. Just give me some address from which letters could be forwarded to you. Some relatives, perhaps!”

“I don't know any of my relatives—yet,” Cecily faltered, a streak of red coming in her pale cheeks. “But Miss Cochrane, Morley House, Beesford, Meadshire, would always forward letters.”

The inspector wrote the address down without further comment.

Cecily got up. “If that is all, I think Mrs. Bechcombe wants me, inspector.”

“Yes, thank you.” The inspector and Mr. Steadman rose too. John Steadman moved to the door.

“I must introduce myself, Miss Hoyle,” he said courteously. “I am the late Mr. Bechcombe's cousin and, as your post with Mrs. Bechcombe is of course only temporary, it has struck me that you might possibly be looking out for another engagement. Now, a friend of mine is in urgent need of a secretary, and we thought you might like the post.”

The red streak in Cecily's cheeks deepened to crimson.

“I—I don't mean to do anything else at present, thank you.”

John Steadman looked disappointed.

“Oh, well! Then there is no more to be said. Should you change your mind perhaps you will let us know,” he said politely.

When he had closed the door behind Cecily he looked across at the inspector.

“Well, you were right.”

“I was pretty sure of my ground,” returned the inspector. “What do you think of young Mr. Collyer's choice, Mr. Steadman?”

“Well, she looks a nice girl enough,” the barrister returned somewhat dubiously.

“It is easier to look nice than to be nice nowadays,” the inspector returned enigmatically. “What do you make of this, Mr. Steadman?” throwing a torn telegram form on the table. “And this, and this,” placing several odd pieces of writing paper beside it.

The barrister bent over them. The used telegraph form had been torn across and crumpled, but as the inspector smoothed it out the writing was perfectly legible.

“Do not mention home address. Father.”

“Um!” John Steadman drew in his lips. “Handed in at Edgware Road Post Office at 12.30, March 4th,” he said. “Well!”

He turned to the scraps of paper. The inspector leaned forward and pieced them together. The whole made part of a letter.

“Will see you as soon as possible. In the meantime be very careful. A chance word of yours may do untold harm. Say as little as possible—all will be explained later. Further instructions will reach you soon.” Then came a piece that was torn away, and it ended in the corner—“5 o'clock, Physical Energy.”

John Steadman's face was very stern as he looked up.

“It is obvious the girl knows—something. How did you get these scraps of paper, inspector?”

“One of our most trustworthy women agents has been doing casual work in Hobart Residence,” said Inspector Furnival with a quiet smile. “These were found in Miss Cecily's Hoyle's room there, in the waste-paper-basket.”

“Have you taken any steps in the matter?”

“Not yet! Of course we have had ‘Physical Energy'—the statue in Kensington Gardens, you know—watched since yesterday morning, but so far there has been no sign of Miss Cecily Hoyle, or of anyone who could be identified as the writer of that letter.”

“Have you any idea who that is likely to be?”

“Well, ideas are not much use, are they, sir? It is not young Mr. Collyer's writing, so much is certain, I think.”

Was the inspector's reply evasive? Used to weighing evidence, John Steadman decided that it was. He made no comment, however, but bent his brows over the paper once more.

“Of course the temporary help has been chatting with the regular staff at Hobart Residence,” the inspector pursued. “But there is little enough to be learned of Miss Hoyle there. Hobart Residence is a sort of hostel, you know, sir; all the inmates are supposed to be ladies in some sort of a job. They have a bedroom varying in price according to its position, and there is a general dining-room in which meals are served at a very reasonable price. Miss Hoyle usually took her breakfast and dinner there and was very seldom absent from either meal. She was looked upon as a very quiet, well-conducted girl, but she made no friends—and nothing was known of her private life. It was impossible to get at her home address there. Then I rang up Miss Watson, her old schoolmistress, but found that Cecily Hoyle's father had always paid her school bills in advance. He is an artist and has never given any settled address; sometimes he took his daughter away in the vacation. If he did not Miss Watson was asked to arrange a seaside or country holiday for her. Miss Watson only knew the Hobart Residence address.”

“Extraordinary! I should have thought Cecily Hoyle one of the last girls about whom there would be any mystery,” was the barrister's comment.

“Well, having drawn both those coverts blank, yesterday I made an exhaustive search of her room at Mr. Bechcombe's offices,” the inspector proceeded. “For a long time I thought I was going to have no better luck there. There were no letters; no private papers of any kind. Then just at the last I had a bit of luck. Right down at the bottom of the drawer in Miss Hoyle's desk I found a time-table. I ran through it, not expecting to discover anything there when I noticed that one leaf was turned down. It was a London and South Western Railway Guide, I may mention, and it was one of the “B” pages that was turned down. I ran down it and saw in a minute that some one had been doing so with a lead pencil—there were several marks down the page—and one name, that of Burford in the New Forest, was underlined.”

“Burford, Burford!” John Steadman repeated reflectively. “Why, of course I have been there for golf. There are some very decent links. My friend, Captain Horbsham, rented a house in the neighbourhood, and I have been over the course with him.”

“Many burglaries down there?” the inspector said abruptly.

The barrister emitted a short laugh. “None that I ever heard of. Why, do you suspect Miss Hoyle—?”

“I don't suspect anybody,” the inspector returned. “It isn't my place to, you know, sir. But I am going down to Burford to-morrow morning. Do you feel inclined to come with me?”

“I don't mind if I do,” said the barrister cheerfully. “I can always do with a day in the country. We will drive down in the car, and I might take my clubs.”

“One o'clock. We have come down in very decent time. Tidy old bus, isn't it?” John Steadman replaced his watch and looked round with interest as his car slowed down before the “Royal Arms” at Burford. Rather a dilapidated “Royal Arms” to judge by the signboard swaying in the breeze, but quite a picturesque-looking village inn for all that. There was no station within five miles of Burford, which so far had preserved it from trippers. Of late, however, two or three of the ubiquitous char-à-bancs had strayed through the village and there appeared every prospect of its being eventually opened up. This, with other scraps of information, was imparted by the garrulous landlord to Mr. Steadman and his companion, Inspector Furnival. But, though he talked much of the village and its inhabitants, the inspector did not catch the name for which he was listening. At last he spoke.”

“I used to know a man named Hoyle who lived somewhere in this part, I wonder if he is still here?”

“Oh, I should think that would be Mr. Hoyle of Rose Cottage,” the landlord said at once. “A very nice gentleman. He has been here some years. He is an artist, as no doubt you know, sir. And I have heard that some of his paintings have been exhibited in London in the Royal Academy. Oh, we are very proud of Mr. Hoyle down here.”

“He is a good deal away on his sketching expeditions, though, isn't he?” the inspector ventured.

“Well, naturally he is,” the landlord agreed. “Sometimes he's away weeks at a time. But he is generally here on a Sunday to take the collection in church. He is a sidesman and takes a great interest in parish matters. I did hear that he was far away the biggest subscriber to the new parish hall that our vicar is having built. Oh, a very nice gentleman is Mr. Hoyle. Mrs. Wye, his housekeeper, can't say so often enough.”

“I think that must be the man I used to know,” said the inspector mendaciously. “I think we must drive up and pay him a visit, Mr. Steadman. It isn't far, you said, I think, landlord?”

“Get there in ten minutes in the car, sir. Rose Cottage, straight up by the church. You can't miss it. But, there, I doubt if you will find Mr. Hoyle at home. I was at church on Sunday morning and I noticed he wasn't. He usually is when he is at home. I can't always say the same myself!” And the landlord shook his fat sides at his own pleasantry.

“Well, I think we will try anyway,” the inspector concluded. “Perhaps Miss Hoyle may be at home if he isn't.”

“Miss Hoyle?” The landlord looked puzzled for a moment then his face cleared. “Oh Mr. Hoyle's daughter you mean, sir. No. She is away at school, though Mr. Hoyle did say she would be coming home ‘for keeps' this year.”

“Anyhow I shall leave a message and Mr. Hoyle will know I have looked him up,” said the inspector pleasantly. “I expect he would think me a good deal altered, for we haven't met for something like twelve years, and we none of us grow younger, you know, landlord.”

“We don't, sir, that's a fact. Not but what Mr. Hoyle is as little changed as anybody I know. Just the same pleasant-looking gentleman he is as he was the first time I saw him. A nice cheerful gentleman is Mr. Hoyle—always ready with his joke.”

The inspector nodded.

“Oh, ay. Just the same, I see. Well, well, we will be off. As likely as not we shall come in here on our way back. Anyhow, I shall not forget your Stilton in a hurry, landlord. I haven't had a cut from a cheese like that since I was a boy in Leicestershire. By the way, what was that I heard of a burglary down this way last week?”

The landlord scratched his head.

“It is funny you should ask that, sir. I haven't heard of anything lately. I was talking to a couple of gents this morning about a robbery there was about this time a year ago—a couple of robberies I might say. Squire Morpeth over at the Park, and Sir John Lington at Lillinghurst were both broken into and hundreds of pounds' worth of goods—silver and what not—taken. Nobody was ever brought to account for it either, though there were big rewards offered.”

“Dear, dear! One doesn't expect to hear of such things in a quiet little place like Burford,” the inspector observed contradictorily. “Well, so long, landlord. See you again later.”

It did not take long, following the landlord's instructions, to run the car up to Rose Cottage, but just as they were nearing it John Steadman looked at his companion.

“I think you're running off on a side track, you know, inspector.”

“I'm sure I am!” the other returned cheerfully. “But, when the straight track takes you nowhere, one is inclined to make a little excursion down a side path, right or wrong.”