“By jingo, Albert, you’re a thought reader!” exclaimed Heather on his entry.
“Middlin good guesser, sir, that’s all. Nice drop of Button that, if I may take the liberty of sayin’ so. Reminds me o’ mother’s milk with a flavour of ’oney. It’s a good companion to any lonesome soul.”
“You’ve sampled it, I’ll bet,” replied Heather, smiling.
“Just a heggcupful now and then to see ’ow it was getting on, sir. You can’t muzzle the hox as treads the corn. It’s as near perfection now as our young Prince of Wales. God bless ’im!”
With this solemn benediction Albert left the room, and Heather, filling his tankard, emptied it at a draught.
“I feel a better man already,” he breathed noisily and, fumbling in his pocket, produced a photograph and handed it to Vereker. “That’s Miss Maureen O’Connor, a recent portrait,” he added.
Vereker took the print and scrutinised it eagerly for some seconds. He was bubbling over with excitement.
“She’s a captivating creature,” he remarked.
“Now, now, come off the captivation business, Mr. Vereker. You’re not interested in her that way. The vital question is, is she like her sisters, Beryl and Constance?”
“They’re all very much alike,” replied Vereker, smiling.
“I thought so,” continued Heather and, rising from his chair, prepared to leave. “Before you go down to Firle House and start listening to what the Sussex Downs whisper about beauty, I would run round to Sussex Gardens and listen to what Miss O’Connor’s maid has to say. You’re not a police officer, and though I’m a bit of a success with women I think you’d get more out of her than I did.”
“Not a bad idea, Heather. Did she give you the frosty paw?”
“No, no,” said Heather, glancing at himself in a mirror and twirling his moustaches, “but the words ‘Scotland Yard’ make a girl forget a chap’s handsome and human. You’d better be Miss O’Connor’s long lost brother or cousin or faithful lover. Perhaps a faithful lover who has been jilted would be best. Romance is a good worm when you’re fishing for information. Most girls snap at it without thinking about barbed hooks and all that.”
“Detection’s a heartless game at times, Heather,” remarked Vereker reflectively.
“Yes, I sometimes go home and sob myself to sleep thinking what a cruel, cruel man I am. Burglars and murderers don’t know that side of my nature or they’d like me better. Perhaps they weep bitterly themselves when they think how badly they treat me. Life’s a rum show without the Sussex Downs whispering about it and letting the cat out of the bag, Mr. Vereker.”
“I’ll run round to Sussex Gardens tomorrow, Heather, and if I find out anything important I’ll ring you up. Then I’ll go down to Firle House.”
“Good. Keep in touch with me. I like to give a trier like yourself a helping hand. When I’m with you I always feel like a great painter encouraging a promising young pupil in a difficult career.”
With these words, spoken with inimitable smugness, Heather took his leave, and Vereker, picking up the photograph of Maureen O’Connor from the table where he had temporarily laid it, looked at it very carefully and then slipped it into his pocket book.
“Came the dawn!” he soliloquised with a smile and prepared to turn in.
Chapter Twelve
I
You are Miss Maureen O’Connor’s maid?” asked Vereker as he stood on the threshold of Maureen’s flat in Sussex Gardens.
“Yes, sir, but Miss O’Connor’s not at home,” replied the girl, looking at her visitor with anxiety and suspicion in her glance.
“I’m quite aware of that. That’s just why I called,” replied Vereker.
“Are you from Scotland Yard, sir?” came the question.
“God forbid. I’m a friend, a great friend, of Miss O’Connor’s. My name is Vereker. I was informed by Scotland Yard that she was missing. How they found out my address I don’t know, unless some one here told them.”
“Nobody here told them as far as I know.”
“Strange how they discover things at Scotland Yard. May I come in? I should like to have a private talk with you, Miss…”
“Marchant,” supplied the maid.
“Miss Marchant,” concluded Vereker, and was promptly shown into a beautifully furnished sitting-room.
“Would you mind closing the door, Miss Marchant?” asked Vereker when he had taken a seat. “I want to talk very confidentially to you.”
Miss Marchant, with some show of apprehension, closed the door and took a seat facing her caller.
“Are you a relative of Miss O’Connor’s?” asked the maid when she had come to the conclusion that Vereker was not a police official.
“No, I am no relation at all. I heard she was missing, and as I’m—well, shall I say deeply interested in Maureen, I came to see if I could get any information at all about her.”
Miss Marchant, evidently from the country and gifted with that ingenuous shrewdness which is a peculiar trait of those who have lived a rural life, at once jumped to conclusions on Vereker’s use of her mistress’s Christian name. She promptly assumed that it hinted at some affair of the heart and that this Mr. Vereker, clever as he might think himself, was unable to conceal it from her. He was without doubt one of Miss O’Connor’s admirers, and from the solemnity of his face probably one whose affection was not adequately returned. She had seen that hungry look before. There were several others in the same sad plight. She knew their general symptoms and had sympathised with them on many occasions.
“I’m terribly sorry to hear of her disappearance like this. I can’t make it out. Was she very unhappy?” asked Vereker, instilling a world of sadness into his voice.
“Of late she’s been acting very queer, sir. I didn’t know what to make of her.”
“Poor Maureen! A man in the case as usual!” remarked Vereker, his whole bearing drooping with grief.
“Two,” admitted Miss Marchant, shaking her head at the admission. “I told her no good would come of one of them. I never liked the look of him, and she seemed afraid of him, like a rabbit with a stoat. Whenever he came to the flat she was all at sixes and sevens, and he nearly always bullied her and left her in tears.”
“I think I know the man by sight. Dark fellow,” essayed Vereker.
“Yes, that’s him. Dark, with flashing eyes. Very handsome, but he looked wicked—one of Satan’s own. She called him Mig or Miggie. I don’t know his surname, but it sounded something like ‘dice’. He was a foreigner. The other was a real gentleman; always remembered to leave me something. His name was Mesado. Though I don’t hold with foreigners and usually can’t abide them, I must say I liked him. He was kind and thoughtful and was very good to Miss O’Connor until they quarrelled over something or other and he went away and left her.”
“I know them both,” said Vereker, “especially Mr. Dias. He’s a scoundrel if I’m any judge of character. Was the quarrel with Mr. Mesado the cause of Maureen suddenly going away and not returning?”
“I couldn’t say exactly. Miss O’Connor didn’t tell me all about her private affairs, or bedroom secrets as she always called them, but I gathered that Mr. Mesado warned her to have nothing to do with Mr. Mig. She must have refused, and so Mr. Mesado never called again.
“Jealousy, I suppose?” remarked Vereker reflectively.
“Mebbe, but Mr. Mesado always treated her more like an uncle than er—you know. He used to bring her flowers and chocolates and all that sort of thing and always behaved most polite. She told me he was a relation, a distant relation.”
“He’s her brother-in-law,” said Vereker.
“Well I never! She never let on about that. Very close in some things she is,” exclaimed Miss Marchant with unconcealed surprise.
“Did Mr. Mesado help her financially?” asked Vereker.
“He was always making her presents and paying off her debts. I used to tell her it wouldn’t last and that she ought to put most of
it by, but she wouldn’t listen to me. As for Mr. Mig, he used to sponge on her for everything—money, clothes, food—fairly bled her white. At last Mr. Mesado refused to help her any more until she got rid of Mr. Mig.”
“Was Mr. Dias the cause of their final quarrel?” asked Vereker.
“Indirectly, I should say.”
“Looks very much as if Mr. Mesado was in love with Miss Maureen,” remarked Vereker.
“Love or no love, I advised her to stick to Mr. Mesado. He had the money and was real generous. It’s all very well talking about love, but you can’t quarrel with your bread and butter. What’s the use of being in love with a sponger without a bean?”
“Did Mr. Mesado give her a regular allowance as well as presents?”
“Oh, yes, a thousand a year, bought her a lovely car and paid the rent of her flat here. He was a fairy godfather, so to speak. She was a fool not to get rid of Mr. Mig. He was no earthly good to her, but I know she was very fond of him. Used to sit on his knee and make a fuss of him and call him ‘Mig darling’. Some women have no sense when they get sweet on a man. She fair went crackers on Mig!”
“Did Mr. Mig, as you call him, know Mr. Mesado before the latter called on Maureen?”
“Oh, yes, he brought him here. They had evidently become acquainted with one another when they were in the Argentine. They often spoke of a Miss Penteado and others as their mutual friends.”
“I see,” said Vereker, lost in thought. It was now clear to him that Dias had ferreted out the Diss family history and become acquainted with Miss Maureen O’Connor with a very definite purpose.
“When exactly did Miss Maureen leave here?” he asked.
“On Friday the 23rd of March. She said she was fed up with London and all lovers and was going into the country for a week-end, but I’m sure that Mr. Mig was at the back of her going. I heard him telling her that she must go or he would finish with her. I think he wanted her to make it up with Mr. Mesado because he found the money getting tight.”
“Did she give you any idea where she was going?” asked Vereker, deeply interested.
“Not definitely. She simply said she was going into the country, somewhere in Sussex, for the week-end.”
“Take much luggage with her?”
“Only just what she would need. A tweed costume which she was wearing, an evening dress, dress shoes and a few other things she would need. She left all her jewellery here in my charge except a very valuable diamond necklace.”
“I remember that necklace. Cinnamon and white diamonds.”
“Fancy you remembering it! It was a real beauty and the one piece of jewellery I envied her. The rest of her stuff was a bit too flash for me. No lady would wear it.”
“Was the necklace a present from Mr. Mig?”
“Not on your life! He never gave her anything you couldn’t buy in Woolworth’s. It was a present from Mr. Mesado on her birthday, and Mr. Mig used to quarrel with her often because she wouldn’t pawn it when he was short of dough.”
“She used to take drugs at times to sooth her nerves, didn’t she?” asked Vereker.
“Drugs? Oh, no, sir, nothing of that sort. She was hysterical at times, and once when a lover had had a row with her she went into a trance. I thought she was dead, but the doctor said no. He said it was a cataleptic state due to hysteria. It seems as if she had these fits at times, but she has only had one since I’ve been in her service. Though she never took drugs, on the other hand she was very fond of a bottle of Guinness with a drop of port in it. She always said it was strengthening and good for one.”
“I suppose you don’t know where Mr. Mesado is?” asked Vereker with suppressed excitement, for Miss Marchant was proving a mine of vital information.
“No. He said good-bye, and I’m sure he was crying when he left her, but he never said where he was going. Miss O’Connor told me his home was somewhere in South America, but I never can remember these outlandish names. Somewhere in the Argentine is all I know about it.”
“Thanks, Miss Marchant. I think that’s all I want to know. I have an idea where Miss Maureen has gone. In the meantime what are you going to do about her flat here?”
“Well, I can’t stay on here without money to carry on with. She left me enough to run the place for a little while in case she stayed longer than the week-end. I didn’t know what to do about it when she didn’t return, so I informed the police that she was missing. A very nice man from Scotland Yard came down and said he would look into things and see if he could trace her.”
“Was it Inspector Heather?” asked Vereker quietly.
“That’s him. Big handsome man. Patted me on the back and told me not to cry, and spoke so kind to me that I could hardly believe that he was in the police force. Still, I don’t like the police. Fair to your face they are, and foul behind your back. They’re too inquisitive, and I didn’t let him pump me about Miss O’Connor’s private affairs. None of his business. As I told him straight, his job was to find her somehow and not ask so many questions about things that didn’t concern him. They broadcasted about her being missing on the wireless, but nothing came of it.”
“Did Mr. Mig call again after Miss O’Connor left?” asked Vereker.
“No, I haven’t seen him, and if he turns up he’ll get marching orders from me. I may get blamed for it afterwards, but I’m taking no risks where that gent is concerned. After he’d been in the house for five minutes something would go missing for certain sure.”
“I’ll back you up, Miss Marchant, so don’t be afraid to show him the door. In the meantime I’ll leave some money with you so that you can carry on. When you need some more just phone me up at my flat in Fenton Street. My name is Anthony Vereker.”
“Thank you very much, sir. If it’s a fair question, were you very fond of Miss O’Connor?” asked Miss Marchant boldly.
“No, well, I wasn’t in love with her, if that’s what you mean,” stammered Vereker, rather abashed by the directness of the question. “More like a brother, if you can understand.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” replied Miss Marchant with unexpected emphasis.
“Why, Miss Marchant?” asked Vereker, nonplussed.
“Well, Mr. Vereker, it’s this way. Some women seem to get more lovers than they want, and it’s always the fast ones that men run after. They’re not faithful to their men. Those women who could be good and true to a man never seem to get a chance. It don’t seem fair somehow. It’s not as if we were made any different. None of us has got more than two legs in any case. I said I was glad to hear that you weren’t in love with her because she’d only break your heart if you were, and you seem to be a real nice gentleman.”
“Too nice to have my heart broken?” asked Vereker with amusement.
“I’m certain of it, sir, and I’m a good judge of character too,” replied Miss Marchant, blushing becomingly.
“It’s nice of you to say so, Miss Marchant. I’m sure we shall be good friends. Now I would never break a man’s heart,” said Miss Marchant confidently.
“I’m convinced you wouldn’t,” agreed Vereker, and hastily added, “In the meantime if Mr. Dias turns up you’ll know what to do with him. I don’t think he will, because I feel sure he’s abroad. If Mr. Heather from Scotland Yard calls, just tell him that he’s a Nosey Parker and that Mr. Vereker told you he was hardly worth his beer money as a detective. You might add that, although he’s big and handsome, Mr. Vereker thinks he ought to shave off his spikey moustache. Good-bye for the present, Miss Marchant.”
“Good-bye, sir, and I’ll tell Mr. Heather what you’ve said. If I hear anything more of Miss O’Connor shall I ring you up?”
That’s the idea. I feel sure I’m on her track already, and I won’t rest till I find her.”
With these words Vereker took his leave, and was given such an arch glance by Miss Marchant that he began to feel that he really was too nice a gentleman to have his heart broken.
II
Next day
Vereker packed his bag, his easel, canvas and paints and made his way down to Jevington, in Sussex. Taking a conveyance at Polegate Station, he drove up to Firle House, where he was expected. Dobbs, the butler, and his wife, the housekeeper, made him welcome, and on Vereker expressing a wish to have a look around Dobbs escorted him over the whole mansion. Much to his satisfaction he found the butler a garrulous man in spite of his pompous air and reserved mien. Dobbs soon disclosed that he had been a butler to the “quality” nearly all his life and that though the Mesados were wealthy there was an unbridgable gulf between trade and birth.
“A very nice man to work with, you know, sir, but still a furriner and a noover rish. Now Mrs. Mesado was the goods. Came from a good old Norfolk family. Sad business her dying at sea and being buried among a lot of Portuguese cutthroats, but what’s going to happen’s going to happen. This place is up for sale, and as I’ve no instructions to the contrary from Mrs. Colvin I suppose it’s still on the market.”
“It will be Mrs. Colvin’s property now?” asked Vereker, anxious to know how much Dobbs knew of Mrs. Mesado’s testamentary dispositions.
“Oh, yes, sir. Mrs. Mesado has often told me that if anything happened to her she was leaving everything she possessed to her sister.”
“It was common knowledge?”
“I think so, sir. Mrs. Colvin often used to joke and say she had a good mind to poison off her sister so that she could be well off.”
“The two sisters were fond of one another?”
“They were like Siamese twins, sir, they hung so well together, and yet Mrs. Colvin was as different from Mrs. Mesado as chalk from cheese. Nevertheless I don’t remember ever hearing one snap at the other.”
“What kind of a lady was Mrs. Mesado?” asked Vereker.
“Very changeable, sir. Sometimes as sweet as honey, and next moment a regular spitfire. You never knew when you had her. She led Mr. Mesado a dance at times—regular hornpipe he had to dance too. But I liked madam; she always treated me fair, and you can’t wish for more than that.
The Pleasure Cruise Mystery Page 17
