Missing or Murdered (26 page)

He came to his senses it seemed an interminable time afterwards, coughing and spluttering from the effects of some burning liquid having been poured down his throat. It was brandy, and a warm glow seemed instantly to percolate through his veins. Some one had placed a supporting arm round his shoulders and was holding a flask to his face with his free hand. A candle lit up the room with a weak and fluctuating light, throwing grotesque shadows on walls and ceiling. His head was throbbing with an agonizing pain. Then a reddish mist seemed to envelop his immediate surroundings, and he slipped jerkily back into oblivion. When he regained consciousness once more an anxious voice was speaking to him:

“Come on, Vereker, pull yourself together like a man. “Get your teeth into life and hang on. You're all right. Bad flesh wound and concussion, that's all! Good job you have a thick skull! It was a wallop like the kick of a mule as far as I can gather. The brute must have used a life-preserver. Now then, there you are—have a little more brandy.”

It was a voice familiar to Vereker and seemed to be chattering on partly to encourage its nervous owner, but in his dazed condition he could not place it. With an effort he looked up and found, to his astonishment, a pair of distorted, spectacled eyes gazing anxiously at him from the ludicrously childlike face of Sidney Smale.

“Better now, old horse?” asked the latter.

“Yes; but how the devil did you get here, Smale? This is Bramblehurst, Mrs. Cathcart's house?” queried Vereker weakly.

“You've spotted it first go,” replied Smale. “It shows that your senses are beginning to regain their self-respect and coming out of their hiding-holes. Don't worry about anything for the present, and take another swig at this reviver: it will lace you up.”

Vereker took an ample gulp from the flask, and soon felt decidedly better.

“Can you get on your feet?” asked Smale. “If you can manage it, we'll make an effort to get back at once to Farnaby. But first let me sponge the blood from your face and clothes. I have found a kettle and put it on to boil. It must be almost ready.”

With these words he placed his arms around Vereker and, bringing him with a gentle heave to his feet, guided him to an arm-chair.

“Now sit there quietly; I won't be a minute,” he said and disappeared into the kitchen.

He reappeared almost immediately with a basin of hot water and a clean handkerchief and, having gently but dexterously bathed Vereker's head and hands, bound the handkerchief firmly round his cut forehead.

By this time Vereker had regained sufficient strength to rise unaided to his feet, and with Smale's assisting arm and walking-stick protested that he was ready to proceed.

“That's better,” remarked Smale encouragingly. “Now we'll quit this unhallowed spot or something worse may befall us.”

“What on earth brought you down here?” again asked the bewildered Vereker, as they slowly and shakily walked along the path to the front gate of Bramblehurst.

“I had come to see Mrs. Cathcart about that receipt for bearer bonds. From your conversation this morning it seemed to me that I was under suspicion as a forger. Naturally I wasn't going to take that lying down—especially as I am about to make a hurried departure from England. I've no desire to return later and find that I've got that lie to lay. Lord knows I'm a fool, but I haven't yet stooped to crime. I knocked at the front door, though I noticed the house was in darkness, and received no reply. I was about to return when an amazing thing happened. I chanced to glance at the drawing-room window from the front door. Suddenly the darkness of the room beyond was lit up by the bright flash of an electric torch. A man's figure (yours it proved to be) was silhouetted clearly against the light. Then something shot out like a cobra striking from beyond the beam of the electric torch, there was a groan and you fell backward with a crash on the floor. Gripping my stick, I stole stealthily round to the back of the house, hoping that I might ambush the assailant. I had no desire to meet him face to face—I'm not a man of brawn—but there was just a chance that I could give him a shrewd blow when he wasn't looking. When I reached the back of the house the scoundrel had escaped. I heard his sprinting feet doing their damnedest across the paddock beyond, and at once came to your assistance. Who on earth could the man have been? A burglar, I suppose.”

“It would be difficult for me to hazard a guess,” replied Vereker cautiously. “I was blinded by the glare of the flash-lamp.”

“It appears that Mrs. Cathcart has vamosed. I wonder where she has gone?” said Smale. “I should dearly like to clear up the matter of those bonds before quitting these inhospitable shores. I presume you journeyed down on the same errand?”

“I did,” replied Vereker. “The result was as painful as it was unexpected, to say the least of it.”

“It might have been worse,” added Smale, “and you ought to sing with old Horace: ‘Quam paene furvae regna Proserpinae et judicantem vidimus Aeacum.'”

“I ought to be thankful, I suppose,” replied Vereker; “I've had a narrow squeak.”

The journey back to London seemed to Vereker an endless affair. The blow which he had received had shaken him badly, and every jolt of the train was a sharp renewal of agony. In an unobtrusive way Smale was as solicitous about his comfort as anybody could have been, and Vereker in his heart was touched by the gentleness and care which his companion displayed. He was now beginning to feel a distinct remorse for all the hard things he had thought of him. Yet Smale had only himself to blame: his behaviour had, to put it mildly, been erratic enough in the circumstances to arouse the gravest suspicions.

As Vereker sat propped up in the corner of a first-class carriage, reviewing the almost incredible incidents of the night, he congratulated himself that some strange but beneficent chance had sent Smale down to Bramblehurst. He shuddered to think what might have happened had it not been for the secretary's opportune arrival. His mind then wandered off into a labyrinth of speculation on that unfathomable element in life which men call luck and, growing weary, he fell fast asleep.

On arrival at Charing Cross he took a taxi to his flat, where Smale, to his companion's surprise, firmly refused the proffered hospitality of a whisky and soda and decided to drive on to his own rooms.

“I'm done with drinks for the time being,” Vereker,” he said. “My temperament is one that cannot use such a blessing; it promptly starts to abuse it, and under alcoholic impulsion I'm little short of a raving lunatic.”

“Then you're better without, I suppose. Shall I see you before you go, Smale?” asked Vereker.

“Hardly, old man. I'm off early in the morning, and I have so much at present to think about that my time will be fully occupied.”

“Ah, well,
bon voyage
!” said Vereker and, with a warm handshake, Smale leaped back into the conveyance, which glided away into the whirling maze of London's traffic.

On opening his door Vereker discovered that the ebullient Ricardo was still in possession. That youth was now writing furiously at his so-called
magnum opus
surrounded by the debris of a meal, and studiously finished his paragraph before looking round to greet his arrival.

“Crystallized ginger—high-frequency pep—that's what I call that love scene!” he soliloquized. “None of your amorous snail about it. It ought to calcinate every flapper in Britain and America. Then the screen rights, etc., etc. Lord, I hear the shekels rattling!”

Flinging down the manuscript, he at length turned round to welcome Vereker.

“Suffering humanity!” he exclaimed on seeing his friend's bandaged forehead. “What on earth has happened, Vereker?”

“Got a nasty knock, that's all. Don't worry, Ricky, I'm all right.”

“If you'll give me the money, I know where I can get a bottle of brandy on the Q.T.—
I
myself prefer whisky. There's no elixir in this abandoned place.”

“Yes, there is,” replied Vereker. “Knowing your propensities, I hid it. But I'd rather have a strong cup of tea.”

“Righty-o. I've got a kettle on the murmur. You'll have one in a few minutes. But who on earth fouled your intelligence department?”

“Pardon me, Ricky, if I'm not communicative to-night. I don't feel up to it. I'll tell you all another time. To put it baldly, I got an unexpected knock on the head when exploring Mrs. Cathcart's empty house down at Farnaby this evening.”

“Well, I'm damned! You know you oughtn't to do these detective stunts single-handed. It's dangerous. Now, if I had been there the chances are that you wouldn't have been tackled except by a gang. I can use my dooks, as you know. But, talking of Farnaby reminds me, this very Mrs. Cathcart called here to-day at four o'clock. Isn't that strange?”

“Mrs. Cathcart?” queried Vereker, with undisguised surprise.

“The same. She seemed very disappointed when I told her you were away for the day and that I was uncertain when you would return. I gave her tea, or rather we made it together, and I was rather pleased you were away. It was delightfully jolly all on our own. Isn't she a stunner! If you haven't a prior claim, I think I'll fall in love with her without further delay. If you have, then name your seconds at once and choose your weapons.”

“Did she leave an address?” asked Vereker.

“No, she didn't. She seemed rather overwrought; but she said she'd ring you up, because she particularly wants to see you before she goes abroad. There's something on her mind, I'm sure; women can't deceive the ripe and experienced Ricky.
Prenez garde
, Vereker!”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“The Riviera.”

Vereker was silent and, throwing off his overcoat, sank into a comfortable arm-chair. Ricardo, taking the hint, brought him a cup of tea and prepared to retire.

“I'm going to turn in, Vereker. I can see you want to ruminate alone. I've to be up early tomorrow, I've just received a letter from my mother. She wants to see me. I hope it prognosticates cash. I'll have to give her a résumé of my life for the past few weeks. When she knows I've been staying with you, and working like a driven Egyptian, she'll be mollified to the tune of forty quid or so. I did the ‘starving author in a garret' once, but it didn't mint a fiver out of my people. Unknown to me, they had seen me on the river with Freda the day before. We were busy at the moment with a bottle of Pol Roger which I had just fished out of the locker. But I mustn't hold you spellbound any longer, old wimple. Don't make too long a day of it. Good night.”

“Good night, Ricky; wake me when you turn out, like a good chap,” replied Vereker, and drank off his cup of tea at one draught. He now felt considerably refreshed and, as the pain from his wound had subsided, he poked up the fire and sat back at ease in his arm-chair. An evening paper lay on the table. He picked it up lazily and glanced cursorily at the headlines; further than that he seldom ventured. There was little news of importance, so he dropped the paper on the floor beside his chair and began to recapitulate to himself all the incidents of an eventful day. By far the most momentous fact that he had gathered about the Bygrave case was that Lord Bygrave was apparently alive but insane. Some damnable and evil thing had evidently occurred and sent awry that once keen and supple brain. Grief and horror commingled at his recollection of that drawn and frenzied face, those feverish eyes, that look of determined malevolence. What could have brought about such a dire change in so kindly, lovable and sane a man?

For a long while Vereker sat gazing into the cheerful, leaping flames of his fire, trying hard to find some solution to this mystery. Of course Bygrave must have been insane when he made the murderous attack on the man Twistleton at the Mill House at Eyford. This new knowledge shed a clear light on that episode and went a long way to corroborate Winslade's story, which at the time seemed to him utterly incredible. But why had Bygrave gone down to Bramblehurst? In his disordered brain there might have been born some thought of settling matters violently with his former wife—a sudden hatred, a cunning plan of murder. Thank God, Mrs. Cathcart had left in the nick of time! Vereker uttered a genuine sigh of relief. Had she received some warning? Her departure seemed to have been hurried. Where had she gone? Or was her disappearance simply due to an anxiety to avoid any further inconvenient investigation about the receipt for the bonds? It was hopelessly bewildering and, to add the last straw, Smale, for whom he had never cared much and whom he had always instinctively distrusted, had unexpectedly behaved like a trump.

Truly, human nature was utterly baffling! And human character remained steadfast it seemed only when running along the permanent way of habitual, daily life. Take away the familiar lines and fling that character into the medley of unexpected circumstance and anything might happen: your saint might turn devil, your devil saint. The guise in which a man journeyed through life was merely the flimsiest of garments that might be blown away by any chance wind of fortune or adversity. It was quite within the bounds of possibility that Smale had forged that receipt after all. At this moment the clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten, and immediately afterwards the telephone bell rang shrilly. Vereker rose and picked up the instrument.

“That you, Mr. Vereker?” came the question over the wire.

“Yes.”

“May I come along and see you? Inspector Heather speaking.”

“Do by all means, Heather; I shall be glad to see you. I want somebody to talk to.”

“Then I'll come along at once.”

A quarter of an hour later Vereker heard the rumble of a taxi and the detective's tread outside his door. On letting him in he noticed that Heather's face was unusually pale. The inspector, after glancing at Vereker's bandaged forehead without a word, doffed the soft felt hat that he was wearing and revealed his own head also swathed in linen.