Missing or Murdered (23 page)

“You mean Lord Bygrave?”

“Yes. From all I have gathered I'm coming swiftly to the conclusion that he has been got rid of.”

“Who's the culprit?” asked Vereker quietly.

“Everything points to his nephew, young Winslade, being deeply concerned.”

“I have been thinking that myself for some time now,” remarked Vereker, with a grave shake of the head, “but the indications are none too convincing.”

“Well, let's be frank about the matter,” said the inspector, as if discarding for the time being his usual attitude of professional secrecy and discretion. “We both agree on the point that he is the one man mixed up in the case who benefits most by his uncle's disappearance.

“Materially, Heather, yes. But I'm inclined to view these matters from a psychological point as well. I do not believe that Winslade is much concerned one way or another about his uncle's money.”

“He's short of money, as I've discovered,” continued Heather imperturbably.

“Yes; but he has been short of money for many years.”

“He's engaged to be married.”

“To a woman quite accustomed to hard work and little enough luxury.”

“Just so, but that doesn't kill the desire for luxury.”

“That's a point to you, Heather. I quite agree.”

“He was the last man known to be with his uncle on the Friday night of his supposed disappearance.”

“But he is supposed to have disappeared on Saturday morning,” argued Vereker.

“You maintain that you have disproved that Lord Bygrave visited the White Bear on Friday night. You surmised or deduced that some one had impersonated Lord Bygrave; isn't that so?”

“I did, but I'm in a quandary about the point just now. Let's leave it in abeyance for a moment, Heather, and return to it later. I think you have gone a shade too rapidly for my complete comprehension. How did you discover that Winslade was the last man to have been with his uncle on Friday night?”

“He was seen driving him towards Eyford by a villager working in the fields between Fordingbridge and Eyford. This villager happened to have once worked on Lord Bygrave's estate and knew both the men.”

“Ah, that's satisfactory. Where did they part?”

“That's the one point I wish to discover. I should say at the cow-pond near Hartwood, where there is a short cut across the fields right to the White Bear. That, of course, is presuming that Lord Bygrave
did
stay at Lawless's hostelry on Friday night. It is just at this very juncture that there is room for some clever work on the part of Winslade. Did he assume the rôle of his uncle? Lawless is a most unobservant man. Mary Standish, the only other person who saw his lordship, is engaged to Winslade. She is an astute and very discreet woman. It's not likely that she would give her lover away should there be any question of his being involved in the case. In fact, she would tell us just what Winslade would teach her to tell us. She is at present very greatly distressed. Winslade himself is behaving in a strange manner, and is nothing like the man he used to be before this matter occurred. That signet-ring was a master stroke on Winslade's part—presuming this theory to be correct.”

“Winslade's disguise would be an extremely risky venture,” suggested Vereker, lighting a cigar. “You know, Heather, I've thought out very carefully what you have just sketched. I also came to the conclusion that between Fordingbridge Junction and Hartwood was a vital time in the affair, but I couldn't quite convince myself that Winslade played the rôle of his uncle. I wondered if there might be an accomplice.”

“You discovered that they drove together towards Hartwood?” asked the detective with a shade of surprise.

“Oh, yes. That was not a very difficult matter. Winslade admitted it to me.”

“Ah, that's most important. You remember, he denied it at first. It looks very fishy.”

“It does; but he told me that he did so to cover his uncle's tracks. He says that Bygrave left him at the cow-pond, and that he hasn't seen him since.”

“But what was the reason for all this mystery?”

“Perhaps he'll tell you,” remarked Vereker guardedly. “Perhaps at this moment you know. But to return to the question of whether the person who stayed at the White Bear was Lord Bygrave, what do you make of this?”

Vereker handed the inspector the trouser button that he had picked up at the stile near the cow-pond. Heather examined it carefully and returned it.

“It means little enough to me,” he remarked, “in its isolated state. What story does it tell you?”

“That button is one of Lord Bygrave's,” remarked Vereker. “I found it at the stile near the cow-pond. It looks as if Lord Bygrave actually left Winslade's car at that point and in hastily crossing the stile lost it. That's the name of his tailor. Strange coincidence, if it's only a coincidence, that some one in Hartwood should also patronize a Bond Street tailor.”

“It can hardly be a coincidence,” remarked the detective, lost in thought.

“I'm perfectly convinced that it is one of Lord Bygrave's buttons,” said Vereker and returned it carefully to his purse.

“So,” said the detective with a non-committal air. “And tell me, Mr. Vereker, did you discover the reason for Winslade taking such a time over his journey from Fordingbridge to Hartwood? Of course we need not believe the story of the breakdown of his car unless we choose to do so.”

“I didn't choose to do so. He stopped at the Mill House, Eyford, where he alleges that his uncle paid a call on a gentleman called Twistleton.”

“Good. I can verify that much. Two yokels on the road saw a car stop near the house. They, however, maintain that the car was coming from the Hartwood direction, and they only noticed one gentleman enter Eyford Mill House.”

“Winslade remarked to me that he had seen two yokels, but they were in a stage of beery mirth. Now, Heather, I wish you could find out just where this Mr. Twistleton is, and who he is, and why Lord Bygrave should call on him.”

“You don't know anything about him, Mr. Vereker?” asked the detective, with a sly glance.

“I don't, beyond the fact that Lord Bygrave called on him with regard to money matters, and that the interview wound up in a violent quarrel; that Lord Bygrave struck him, thought he had killed him and promptly vanished, believing himself to be a murderer.”

“A sufficient reason for making a hasty disappearance, of course. Lord Bygrave was quite certain that he had killed him?”

“He was. Winslade promptly drove him, after this fracas, to the stile at the cow-pond, left him there and hasn't seen him since. Winslade returned to the Mill House to verify the story, but found no trace of the defunct Mr. Twistleton. That accounts for the direction in which the car came when Winslade was seen by the two yokels.”

“Have you examined the Mill House since?” asked the inspector.

“Very carefully. I found the window of the library—the scene of the altercation—open, and I dropped from the window into the back-yard, which contains the garage.”

“And you deduced that Mr. Twistleton must be an active young man to jump from the window and bolt before anybody—say, Winslade—could return from the gate with Lord Bygrave and continue the little altercation?”

“That's the exact inference I drew, Heather. If an old man had dropped from the window it would have shaken him up pretty badly.”

“And do you believe this cock-and-bull yarn of Winslade's?” asked the inspector with some impatience.

Vereker blew a smoke ring into the air and with some deliberation replied:

“In the main it's perfectly true.”

Detective-Inspector Heather greeted this remark with a loud guffaw of laughter.

“My dear Mr. Vereker, really this is too bad. I have never heard such balderdash in my life. I begin to see that we shall shortly have to arrest Mr. David Winslade. If not the actual criminal, he's an accessory.”

“Ah, well, I must leave all the arresting to Scotland Yard. Later on, however, I may have some very important information for you. I feel that matters are coming to a climax.”

“Well, I'll look you up again very shortly,” said Heather, and rose to go. “By the way, how's your sprained wrist getting on?” he asked on reaching the door.

“Oh, progressing very favourably,” replied Vereker, carelessly thrusting the injured wrist more deeply into his trouser pocket, and mentally cursing the inspector's inquisitiveness.

“A burn takes some time to heal, doesn't it?” remarked the detective, smiling broadly as he hastened away.

For some moments Vereker stood at the threshold of his flat with a slightly chagrined look on his face. He was just trying to measure the depth of Heather's last remark.

“Now, how did the devil find that out?” he exclaimed as he closed the door and re-entered his room. “I really believe the wily old hound has got on the scent too. I must hurry up or he'll forestall me.”

Returning to his easy chair on Detective-Inspector Heather's departure, Vereker sat with legs extended, his elbows resting on the comfortably padded arms, his hands clasped together in front of him. It was an attitude he always unconsciously assumed when he was engrossed in thought. Every now and then he would jump to his feet and pace the room with short, quick steps, a curious smile on his lips, his eyes alight with excitement, his glance swiftly, restlessly roving over the pattern of the red and blue turkey carpet. It seemed as if the detective's last remark had fired a train of thought, the materials for which had lain dormant in his mind awaiting the inflammatory touch.

“So much seems clear,” he soliloquized, “so clear that I wonder why I haven't assembled the apparently disconnected fragments before. And Heather must know a good deal, that's patent from the significance of his last remark. I scarcely think he was merely drawing a bow at a venture.”

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The hour was late and as yet there was no sign of Ricardo's return.

“I wonder what has happened to Ricky!” he exclaimed with some impatience. “I hope he hasn't run his head into any trouble. It would be just like him to get mixed up in some imbroglio.”

Vereker yawned with the weariness of his vigil and then, going into his studio, prepared himself a pot of hot coffee. With this he returned to his drawing-room and picking up a volume of Tchekov's short stories he settled himself down to read them over a pipe. He read on until weariness—sheer boredom of their naked primitiveness—overcame his attention, the hand holding the volume fell listlessly on to his knees and his head lurched forward on to his breast. He was awakened at length by the persistent ringing of an electric bell followed by a booming tattoo of the knocker on the entrance door to his flat. He jumped from his chair and hastened to open the door. A white and weary Ricardo entered listlessly, emerging into the brilliantly lit hall from the twilight of the landing like some dejected apparition.

“You look tired, Ricky, what on earth kept you so late?” asked Vereker with gentle concern.

“Fagged out, old man. I guess you knew what sort of a job shadowing a man like Smale would be. I shan't deputize for you again on such an errand for the price of a dinner at Jacques'.”

“I'm sorry you had such a rough journey. Here, have a whisky and soda, it will buck you up.”

“Ugh, whisky and soda—not just now, thank you. I've just eaten a quantity of sausages and mashed and drunk a pint of coffee at a questionably clean coffee-stall amidst a band of apparent cut-throats.”

“Can I offer you anything?”

“Sympathy, Vereker.”

“Won't you try your tinned lobster?”

“Don't, Vereker, don't. You might as well whisper boiled pork to a seasick passenger. Let me sit down and in a few minutes I'll relate my lurid adventures.”

Ricardo flung himself into an easy chair, loosened the laces of his shoes, decided that perhaps after all whisky and soda might be piled on top of inferior sausages and mashed as a corrective, and began his story.

“When I left you, Vereker, I followed your man into Jacques' restaurant and, taking a small table behind him, I ordered a sumptuous repast. I did the thing properly, you know—it's impossible to be careful with other people's money, and I assured myself that you wouldn't countenance any niggardliness on my part when on such an important errand as your proxy.”

“Naturally—I expected you to do yourself proud, Ricky.”

“It wouldn't have mattered in any case. When I see a menu with all that choice, mouth-watering French I simply throw discretion to the four winds of heaven. I cut loose with the knife and fork and fairly tear leaves out of the wine list. I'd use Trust funds if anyone were so foolish as to trust me with anything; that is—I press the point—if I had no money of my own.”

“Well, and what about our friend Smale?”

“I didn't give him a thought at the moment. By Jove, the fish was excellent, you know—grilled sole, and the wine accompanying it was Chambertin. I've tasted better, but not much. Then old Jacques possesses a Burgundy fit for Olympus. I got through a bottle of that—I couldn't help it. The sweets were good of their kind, which is saying a lot for me, for I rarely touch sweets. I did the dessert justice with a port of delightful quality—a really estimable wine.”

“And Smale, what about Smale?” asked Vereker with a faint show of impatience.

“I capped it all with a Corona. I say, they do know how to distil a drop of majestic coffee at Jacques'. Liqueurs are poison—I abhor them. How people can ruin the carefully built edifice of a good dinner by drinking liqueurs!”

“Did Smale indulge in them?” asked Vereker.

“Damned if I know,” replied Ricardo. “I wasn't looking at the brute, and when I did look up to see how he was getting on, what do you think?”