Missing or Murdered (27 page)

“Good heavens, Heather, what has happened?” asked Vereker, consternation written on his face.

“I was just going to ask you the same question,” retorted Heather, smiling.

“Take a pew,” suggested Vereker, pulling another chair to the fire.

The inspector sank into it heavily and, looking mysteriously at Vereker, said:

“Come now, Mr. Vereker, tell me all about it.”

Vereker leaned back and briefly related the adventures which he had encountered during the day. He noticed the light of surprise which glowed in Heather's eyes as he unfolded his tale, and then eagerly awaited Heather's narrative.

“A remarkable occurrence—almost incredible!” commented Heather. “Do you know that I also visited Bramblehurst to-night. It must have been about an hour after you had left. I was nosing round the place, after I had discovered that this Mrs. Cathcart—whom I particularly wanted to meet—had flown, and I was struck down in much the same way as you yourself, but from behind. Did you get a glimpse of your assailant, Mr. Vereker?”

“I did,” replied Vereker laconically.

“Could you identify him?”

“Nothing so simple.”

“Who on earth could he be?” asked Heather impatiently.

“It was Lord Bygrave,” replied Vereker bluntly.

For some moments Heather gazed in dumb astonishment at Vereker. “You don't mean to say so!” he remarked, as if utterly bewildered, and then brought his hand down with a resounding slap on his knee.

That simple action worked like a flash of lightning on the dark sky of Vereker's confused surmises, but he remained silent, gazing stolidly into the fire as if nothing of importance had occurred to him, and in that brief space of time he learned that Inspector Heather was still running neck and neck with him in the slow-motion race of investigation.

“You went to see Mrs. Cathcart about those bearer bonds, I suppose?” asked Vereker with disturbing directness.

Heather's sharp, observant eyes glanced up quickly and an amused smile broke slowly over his features.

“That was one reason,” he replied. “Don't you think she cleverly squeezed them out of Bygrave? I take it for granted you have discovered that they are still man and wife.”

Vereker could not avoid a sudden start at this communication, and then burst into hearty laughter. “Heather, you are splendid!” he said sincerely. “How you get your information puzzles me; but, as for Mrs. Cathcart being a blackmailer, the very idea seems preposterous to me.”

“And Smale, of course, you dismiss him too, without a stain on his character, after his behaviour of this evening?”

“I have just been looking at that problem from every angle to-night, Heather, and I am at loss to arrive at any conclusion at present. Perhaps you know more than I do about Smale. It seems an extraordinary coincidence that he should arrive at Bramblehurst at the moment he did—it was almost uncannily opportune.”

“There is such a thing as pulling the wool over people's eyes,” commented Heather quietly. “It only requires nerve and a convincing manner. I've seen so much of it in my experience that I may be unduly sceptical. The Good Samaritan is a very effective rôle when well played.”

“If it was merely a rôle it was played with genius to-night,” commented Vereker.

“All the more reason to be on the alert,” warned Heather. “But, tell me, have you made any further progress in the elucidation of this mystery of Bygrave's disappearance? Have you formulated any further theory as to why he should vanish other than Mr. Winslade's incredible murder story?”

Vereker sat silent for a moment, thinking deeply, and then with impish but hidden glee replied:

“Having gone deeply into the matter since our last meeting, Heather, I have come to the conclusion that all my previous surmises were incorrect. One by one they tottered and fell, having no solid foundations. After much cogitation I have elicited the fact that the master brain in the whole baffling affair is Bygrave's. He is spoofing everybody. Winslade and Farnish know he's alive. I have seen him. He was the perpetrator of the outrage on you and me to-night. Of course the story of the murder of Mr. Twistleton was sheer moonshine, flung off to deceive Winslade as to whom he really met at the Mill House at Eyford.”

“Whom did he meet?” asked the inspector bluntly.

“Smale, of course. Smale, his private secretary, knows every move of the game—a game of blackmail played desperately by Mrs. Cathcart, his former wife. You understand now why Smale appeared so opportunely to-night. He was undoubtedly there with his employer to checkmate the machinations of the lady. He's a clever and artistic liar and an excellent co-adjutor in Bygrave's plan. You will also remember, to revert for a moment to the Mill House, that there was an open window upstairs when I made a thorough search of the place. Naturally, Smale had made his exit that way in case he should by any chance encounter Winslade on the road.”

“H'm,” grunted Inspector Heather, “and you think Smale impersonated Bygrave at the White Bear?”

“No; we'll have to drop that impersonation theory.”

“I see. But why all this mystification on Lord Bygrave's part?”

“Can't you see that his wife has been blackmailing him? He doesn't want his early, secret marriage divulged now. He had definitely closed that chapter of his life and made his will as if he were a single man. He probably hates the sight of his wife. She, on the other hand, wishes to disclose the story of that marriage in her reminiscences—it would probably prove her brightest chapter—and he gives her £10,000 as settlement for her silence. Having received the money, she promptly, like most blackmailers, tries the extracting process again. Bygrave finally resolves to get her out of the country or, driven mad with rage, goes down to Farnaby to use physical violence as a persuasive. We were in the way of his prearranged plan, and he taps us forcibly on the head as a playful reminder that we should be at home and in bed long ago.”

“And his further intentions?” asked Heather, looking dreamily into the fire.

“The rest is plain sailing,” replied Vereker with a gesture of finality. “Having rid himself of his female incubus, he turns up suddenly at some tiny English village in a dazed and dishevelled state, like some bemused visitant from a distant and ferocious star. Another case of lost memory, thinks the constable leading him gingerly to the nearest police station. Next day the Press with gigantic headlines report the amazing discovery of Lord Bygrave, and there is a chorus of joy and sympathy from all sides. He is a great public figure; he has been overworking at the Ministry and broken down in health in his unflagging service of the State. A famous physician counsels a long rest and a sea-voyage as a restorative, and a grateful country is happy ever afterwards. You see the underlying cunning of the whole plan? Only one man—Smale—was to have been privy to all the facts, and he is promptly leaving England, doubtless with a nice little pension from his lordship. I must say this for Smale: he has been loyal through and through to Bygrave and was a labourer worthy of his hire.”

“Why was Smale at the Mill House that night?” asked Heather pertinently.

“I'm rather hazy about that point,” said Vereker, “but Bygrave, I imagine, was going to buy the house—you know he loves the district—and Smale was evidently down there having a look over it for him. Bygrave suddenly wished to give him some urgent instructions and was obliged to call there on his way down to the White Bear. It is a minor point in the mystery, I should say.”

“Who was Mr. Twistleton?” asked the inspector, remorselessly interrogative.

“I think, if you make inquiries,” replied Vereker, smiling, “you'll find that Mr. Twistleton had left the Mill House some days previous to his supposed murder.”

“That's the first word of truth you've told, Mr. Vereker,” replied the inspector quietly.

“Perhaps I've gone wildly astray in my deductions, Heather, but what else can you expect from an amateur? And your conclusions? Aren't you going to enlighten me and expose to me my crass ignorance?”

Inspector Heather smiled knowingly.

“I'm going to tell you some facts,” he said, “frigid facts which you probably know as well as I do. We'll disregard for the moment the misleading squish you've just been spouting in a clumsy effort to put a joke across me. I won't say just how I have arrived at those facts, for of course I have a staff of agents who make matters comparatively easy for me. In the first place, Lord Bygrave—of this I'm almost certain—is dead. The story of Mrs. Cathcart's blackmailing him is sheer bunkum. Smale has no complicity in the business of Lord Bygrave's death whatever. Winslade and Farnish have as much acumen as my boots—probably less. Lord Bygrave's office staff—Grierson, Bliss and Murray—amiable nonentities, know as much about the affair as my hat knows about snipe-shooting.”

“But hold on, Heather. Whom did I see at Bramblehurst to-night?”

“God knows. In your highly-strung state you must have imagined you saw Lord Bygrave. You have had him on your mind so long that such an hallucination is quite within the bounds of probability. The mind plays strange tricks at times.”

“Quite so,” agreed Vereker airily, “but I distrust that explanation. Then you have definitely concluded that Lord Bygrave has been murdered?”

“I said I was certain that he was dead,” corrected the inspector. “I only surmise that he has been murdered.”

“To put aside the squish I spouted to you to-night, Heather, and which lamentably failed to materialize into a joke at your expense, and to be thoroughly in earnest, I agree with you in all your conclusions but one. I will further add that I am as near certain as ‘damn it' that Lord Bygrave has been murdered. I see clearly that we are both nearing the end of our labours. An even sovereign with you that I pass the post first.”

“Taken,” said Heather, extending his hand, “and, to adjust the weights fairly, I'll give you a line on the culprit.”

“Ah, and he is?” queried Vereker.

“I'm not certain, of course, but what do you think about Lawless as an odds on favourite?”

“No, Heather, I don't like the tip. You are simply going on book-form, if I may continue the racing phraseology.”

Inspector Heather rose. “I wish Mrs. Cathcart hadn't vanished so suddenly,” he said; “it means we've got to track her down.”

“Imperatively the next step,” agreed Vereker. “You'll probably hear from me before long, Heather—or I may look you up for that sovereign.”

“You'll be welcome, Mr. Vereker, and then we can go over the ground together just for the love of the thing. It ought to be an interesting post-mortem on the case. Good night.”

Hardly had Inspector Heather taken his departure than Vereker's telephone bell rang, making him start with its sudden summons.

“I wonder,” he soliloquized as he picked up the instrument.

“Is that you, Mr. Vereker?' came a well-known and nicely modulated voice.

“Yes; you are Mrs. Cathcart, I believe?”

“Fancy your recognizing my voice!” came the exclamation. “I called on you to-day about tea-time and was very hospitably received by your friend, Mr. Ricardo.”

“So he told me. I had gone down to Farnaby to see you on rather an urgent matter, but found you had vacated the house.”

“I'm so sorry you made the journey in vain, especially after my asking you to come down and see me, but I was obliged to hasten my departure, Mr. Vereker. I had very cogent reasons for doing so. I'm going to the Riviera, as you know, but please keep this strictly private and tell Mr. Ricardo to do the same. I wished to bid you good-bye before leaving and, perhaps more important to you, I have a little confession to make. There is something on my mind which indirectly concerns you, and I shall be glad to see you as soon as possible.”

“When can we meet, Mrs. Cathcart?” asked Vereker.

“It has just struck eleven, and I am here in Graham Street, Number 56, quite close to you. Would you care to come round now, if it's not too late? I shall not retire till one to-night—I have so many things to arrange before my departure. I am staying with a friend, but every one has turned in except myself, so we shall be able to talk alone.”

“I shall be with you in ten minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Vereker hung up the receiver and, seizing hat and coat, promptly set out for Graham Street. He chose to walk the distance, feeling that the exercise would steady him, for he had to admit to himself that his heart was beating with undue rapidity and that his nerves were distinctly shaky. He felt also that he was stealing a valuable start on Inspector Heather.

On his arrival at 56 Graham Street, Mrs. Cathcart opened the door of the flat herself and led him into a brightly lit and exquisitely furnished drawing-room, where a cheerful fire was flaming briskly. She motioned him to a comfortable armchair beside her own and, sitting down, turned and looked him frankly in the face. Vereker saw by her heightened colour and sparkling eyes that she was excited, and noted that in such a mood she was ineffably beautiful. He felt the colour rising to his own cheeks under the magic of her radiant gaze, and knew that she had intuitively divined his secret admiration of her.

“So you are going abroad, Mrs, Cathcart?” he said to open the conversation.

“Yes, and I'm sorry that I'm going,” she replied, with a hint of sadness in her voice. “I came back to England to settle down and live quietly and happily in the country, but the Fates have decided, it seems, that such peace is not for me. The past thrusts itself ruthlessly into the present, and cruelly shatters all my dreams. Perhaps I deserve it—the mills of God grind slowly but grind exceeding small. To come to the point, however, I have been utterly miserable since I saw you last, and all on account of that receipt you showed me, purporting to be in my handwriting, and which was supposed to be an acknowledgment to Lord Bygrave for £10,000 worth of bearer bonds. You will remember that I stoutly denied having received those bonds and, in my rage, tore up the receipt.”