Missing or Murdered (20 page)

Vereker rose from his chair.

“Don't let me detain you, Winslade, if you want to catch a train. I must say your story is an amazing one. Naturally, I shall keep the whole matter entirely to myself. There are several points about it that completely puzzle me at present. I may want to discuss certain details with you over again; in that case, I'll come down to Crockhurst Farm and see you when you are disengaged.”

“I'll be at your service at any time, Vereker.”

“Thanks. Meanwhile, should you be interrogated further by the police, stick grimly to the statement you have already made. You and Farnish and I are the only persons who know the somewhat baffling facts of Bygrave's disappearance and, come what may, we must shield old Henry in this dreadful trouble.”

“By Jove, Vereker, you don't know what a relief your words have given me! I should have told you everything long ago, but I didn't know how you would take matters and thought I'd better keep the secret to myself until I saw clearly how things stood.”

“I quite understand, Winslade,” replied Vereker, as he warmly gripped the young man's hand. “After all, we may be over-estimating the gravity of the affair. From what you have told me I should feel inclined to prophesy that—Mr. Twistleton is at this moment very much alive.”

“I hope so in all conscience,” remarked Winslade, picking up hat and gloves, and added: “Should I hear from my uncle I will let you know.”

“Do so at once, but I'm afraid the chances are against your hearing from him for the present. He will be too cautious,” said Vereker.

A few moments later Winslade was hurrying down to Charing Cross to catch the 5.30 train to Hartwood. Unknown to him—but now in his ordinary garb, for he had changed swiftly at his flat on the way down—followed Vereker, who managed to enter one of the rear coaches of the same train just as it began to move slowly from the platform.

On the journey down to Fordingbridge Junction—for that was Vereker's destination—he sat in a corner of a first-class carriage apparently asleep. He was, in fact, very much awake, his alert brain swiftly analysing the details of David Winslade's story. Once again had his chain of reasoning received a dislocating jolt. He thought almost ruefully of his deduction that Lord Bygrave had not himself visited the White Bear on that Friday night. The clues from which he had arrived at this conclusion had seemed irrefragable: they had apparently satisfied even the cautious and experienced Heather.

That theory seemed utterly at variance with Winslade's assertion that Bygrave had undeniably passed the night at Hartwood. If Winslade's assertion were true, that theory fell to the ground. But was Winslade's assertion true? He had lied in the first instance when he disclaimed all knowledge of Lord Bygrave's whereabouts. That would justify the assumption that, on being cornered at 10 Glendon Street, he would lie again to save himself. Yet his story fully explained the mystery of Lord Bygrave's rifled drawer. Again, Bygrave had undoubtedly come to Glendon Street, for even Mrs. Parslow's description of Henry Parker bore out the truth of this statement. Moreover, there was the startling fact that he had from this boarding-house addressed an envelope to his wife—an envelope which had proved so useful in the discovery of Mrs. Cathcart's whereabouts.

“What about that boiled-egg breakfast?” soliloquized Vereker with a wry smile. “Perhaps I've been under-estimating old Henry's astuteness all the time. It has been a great mistake, now I come to ponder over the matter. Henry has as fine a brain as any man living. In difficult circumstances, as I know from experience, it can rise to an extraordinary height of alertness—and he's as supple as an eel!”

At, this moment the train ran into Fordingbridge Junction.

With some trepidation Vereker leaped from his compartment and hurried through the station gates, glancing anxiously back to see that Winslade had not left the train. Satisfied on this point, he hastened to Layham's garage and once more hired the Ford car. Without stopping he drove straight to the Mill House at Eyford and pulled up in front of the gate. A few moments later he was knocking loudly on the door. Receiving no response to this summons, he knocked again and listened intently to any sound of movement within, but not a sound disturbed the almost oppressive silence of the place.

“He hasn't returned here,” he soliloquized, and for some moments stood on the whitened doorstep uncertain what to do. At this juncture something prompted him to try the handle of the door and to his amazement he discovered that the door was not locked.

“Hello! this is rather unexpected,” he exclaimed to himself, and silently entered.

“Anyone in?” he shouted, but his query remained unanswered. A strange sense of eerieness, and an unaccountable fear came over him, and for some moments he hesitated whether he should make a further examination of the house or return to the car. Upbraiding himself for being unnecessarily nervous, he decided to pursue his investigations, and was about to ascend the stairs leading direct from the hall when the front door closed with a sharp slam. In a flash Vereker was on the defensive, his hand instinctively clutching the automatic pistol that of late he had carried in his hip pocket. But his alarm was groundless, for the door had been closed by a sudden gust of wind sweeping through the hall.

“Ah, that's symptomatic,” he said, and smiled at the sudden start he had received. “It bears out my little theory.”

Without further delay he quickly ascended the stairs and made a swift examination of the rooms, following the order that Winslade had taken. In the library he lit the gas and seated himself at one of the chairs drawn up at the table, his observant eye glancing leisurely at every detail of the furnishing. Here was the overturned chair, the blotting-pad, inkpot and pen just as Winslade had described them. The book-shelves were all neatly stacked with books which looked as if they had remained untouched for years. Beyond the overturned chair not a vestige indicative of any struggle or violence was to be observed; but one fact which Winslade had not mentioned seemed to hold Vereker's attention with an all-absorbing interest—an open window.

“Very remarkable,” he exclaimed, as he lit a cigarette. “It explains many things—the slamming of the front door for instance.”

He rose quickly, walked over to the window and very carefully examined the catches, the frame and window-sill. Thrusting out his head, he glanced down into the old cobbled backyard below.

“Just what I thought,” he murmured and, swinging his legs through the open window, dropped down into the yard, a distance of some twelve to fourteen feet. “H'm,” he murmured, as he glanced upwards at the open window, “that points to one very definite fact.”

Passing out of the yard gate he returned to the front door of the building, retraced his steps to the library, and shut the open window.

“There's nothing more to be learned from this room,” he said, as he passed out of the door and descended the stairs to the first landing. There he drew from his pocket a box of matches and lit the kerosene lamp affixed to the wall. Standing with his back to the light, he peered down the stairs into the hall and tried to imagine just where Winslade had stood when Lord Bygrave had turned out the lamp on the night that he had killed the blackmailing Mr. Twistleton. As he did so, he uttered a sudden exclamation of surprise and rapidly descended a few steps to examine a broken rail of the banister. The light on the staircase was now so feeble that he was obliged to strike a match to observe the fracture of the wood more clearly.

“That's quite recent,” he muttered. “I wonder if Winslade remembers whether it was done previous to his visit. It's a point I must remember to ask him. I'm rather astonished that he failed to acquaint me with two such important facts as the open window and this broken banister rail.”

Extinguishing the lamp on the landing, Vereker passed down into the hall with a strangely bitter look on his curiously handsome face. Something that he had deduced from his search had evidently disturbed his usual equanimity, and his short, rapid steps betokened that he had suddenly picked up some unexpected thread and was eagerly following it up. Without any further examination of the house he passed out, closed the door behind him, and walked straight across to the rock-garden, which stretched from the circular gravelled space in front of the house to the stone wall dividing the grounds from the road. The light was fast waning and it was with difficulty that he made his way over the tangled plants, stepping on the boulders projecting through the growth. All at once he halted and struck a match to examine a displaced stone. Carefully raising it, he pushed it back into the socket from which it had been moved, and noted the bleached appearance of the rock plants on which it had been resting.

“Good, good!” he exclaimed to himself, and made his way rapidly to the wall at the point where it terminated at the front gate-post. Seating himself on the coping of the wall, he found just below him the top of the gas-lamp illuminating the road. Leaning forward, he extended his hand to see if the lamp was within reach and in so doing his wrist touched the scorching hot frame of the lamp and was rather severely burnt. With a stifled oath he quickly withdrew his hand, and the sudden movement, throwing him out of equilibrium, sent him hurtling into the rock-garden behind him. The back of his head struck a sharp boulder and for some moments Vereker was too stunned to move. Gradually, however, his senses returned, and picking himself up he scrambled on to the gravel drive and passed out of the front gates on to the road. Clambering up the standard, he made another careful examination of the gas-lamp, especially the side facing the boundary wall of the Mill House garden, and, having satisfied himself on a certain point, descended and entered his car. Without further delay he drove straight into Hartwood and put up once more at the White Bear Inn. George Lawless, in his brusque way, seemed pleased to see him again, and even ventured on conversation.

“No more noos of his lordship, sir?” he asked.

“No, Lawless, none so far, but of course at any moment Scotland Yard may let us know what has happened—they keep us in the dark at present for very good reasons no doubt.”

“My candid opinion, sir, is that his lordship is wandering about somewhere, having lost his memory. It seems to be the rage just now to lose the memory, though it never were when I was a boy.”

Having thoroughly agreed with Lawless in his theory, Vereker ordered some supper before retiring, and when Mary Standish brought in the meal he was quick to notice a worried and detached look on her face. He at once inferred that she suspected, if she was not thoroughly acquainted with David Winslade's connexion with the strange disappearance of Lord Bygrave. Her curt manner also declared that she was none too pleased to see Vereker back at Hartwood, whereupon he deduced that any reference to the subject would fail to elicit any information that might prove useful. He smoked a cigarette after his meal, and retired—but not to sleep. As was his wont when absorbed in any subject, he lay awake with eyes closed and quietly pondered over his recent experiences and discoveries. His mind reverted again and again to the details of the story that Winslade had told him, and the more he analysed it the less credible it seemed. Told as it had been either with actual or well-feigned sincerity, it had at the time seemed extraordinarily strange, but probably true. Now, under close and cold examination, it appeared to Vereker as almost impossible.

In the first place it seemed to him contrary to all his knowledge of Lord Bygrave that the latter would resort to physical violence in a moment of fury. In unusual circumstances, however, there was no saying what any man might do, but even were this possible with regard to Henry Darnell, it was highly improbable. Secondly, what could have happened to the body of the man he was supposed to have killed. If there were no accomplice that body could not have been removed. No, this portion of the story was sheer nonsense. The only deduction he could draw, if Mr. Twistleton had actually been killed, was that Winslade had disposed of the body and was for some reason or other lying on this point. Yet another theory presented itself. Could Bygrave have framed this story for some hidden purpose of his own, and deceived Winslade? Finally, the whole story might be a fabrication on the part of Winslade to cover up his own tracks and gain time by keeping Vereker inactive. He finally fell asleep troubled in mind, for once again the threads of mystery which he had picked clear seemed to have become irretrievably tangled.

In the morning, when he awoke, he resumed his speculation and as he was buttoning his collar his face brightened, and he suddenly exclaimed:

“A ray of light, a ray of light!”

He finished dressing hastily and without waiting for breakfast left the inn on foot and walked briskly across to the cow-pond, the point at which Lord Bygrave had left Winslade.

“Exactly ten minutes walk,” he soliloquized, glancing at his watch and, taking a seat on the stile, lit a cigarette. On throwing down the match, his eye caught sight of a small shining disc in the morning sunlight. Thinking it was a coin he stooped to pick it up. It was merely a trouser button, but on that button was something which momentarily startled him. It bore the inscription, John Wilkes, tailor, Bond Street, W.

“Bygrave's tailor!” he exclaimed with suppressed excitement. “This is surely more than a coincidence! Apparently he lost it when crossing the stile.”

Placing the button in his pocket, he walked quickly back to the White Bear, and with an air of briskness, which always betokened with Vereker a sense of satisfaction, ordered his breakfast. After breakfast he took leave of Lawless, and on entering the yard where his car was garaged he met Mary Standish. A glance at her face showed that she had slept ill, and her eyes bore the red and swollen appearance of recent weeping. It flashed through Vereker's mind that she might possibly wish to speak to him; but in this surmise he was mistaken, for on seeing him she turned aside and hurriedly disappeared into the kitchen. Without further delay he took out his hired car and drove back to Fordingbridge. Having returned the car to Layham's, he discovered that he had an hour to wait for a train to London. A sudden thought struck him that he had sufficient time to see a doctor about his badly burned wrist, which, owing to the friction of his cuff, was becoming severely inflamed. Some liniment and a bandage sufficed to relieve irritation and, catching his train with some minutes to spare, Vereker ensconced himself in a corner seat and fell fast asleep.