CHAPTER XIII
It was two o'clock when Sir Henry Wilding's motor turned its back uponthe outskirts of London, and it was a quarter past seven when it whirledup to the stables of Wilding Hall, and the baronet and his grey-headed,bespectacled and white-spatted companion alighted, having taken fivehours and a quarter to make a journey which the trains which run dailybetween Liverpool Street and Darsham make in four.
As a matter of fact, however, they really had outstripped the train, butit had been Cleek's pleasure to make two calls on the way, one atSaxmundham, where the paralysed Murple lay in the infirmary of the localpractitioner, the other at the mortuary where the body of Tolliver wasretained, awaiting the sitting of the coroner. Both the dead and thestill living man Cleek had subjected to a critical personal examination,but whether either furnished him with any suggested clue he did not say;indeed, the only remark he made upon the subject was when Sir Henry, onhearing from Murple's wife that the doctor had said he would probablynot last the week out, had inquired if the woman knew where to "put herhand on the receipt for the payment of the last premium, so that herclaim could be sent into the life assurance company without delay whenthe end came."
"Tell me something, Sir Henry," said Cleek when he heard that, andnoticed how gratefully the woman looked at the baronet when she replied,"Yes, Sir Henry, God bless you, sir!" "Tell me, if it is not animpertinent question, did you take out an insurance policy on Murple'slife and pay the premium on it yourself? I gathered the idea that youdid from the manner in which the woman spoke to you."
"Yes, I did," replied Sir Henry. "As a matter of fact, I take out asimilar policy--payable to the widow--for every married man I employ inconnection with my racing stud."
"May I ask why?"
"Well, for one thing, they usually are too poor and have too manychildren to support to be able to take it out for themselves, andexercising racers has a good many risks. Then, for another thing, I'm afirm believer in the policy of life assurance. It's just so much moneylaid up in safety, and one never knows what may happen."
"Then it is fair," said Cleek, "to suppose, in that case, that you havetaken out one on your own life?"
"Yes--rather! And a whacking big one, too."
"And Lady Wilding is, of course, the beneficiary?"
"Certainly. There are no children, you know. As a matter of fact, wehave been married only seven months. Before the date of my wedding thepolicy was in my uncle Ambrose's--the Rev. Mr. Smeer's--favour."
"Ah, I see!" said Cleek reflectively. Then fell to thinking deeply overthe subject, and was still thinking of it when the motor whizzed intothe stable yard at Wilding Hall and brought him into contact for thefirst time with the trainer, Logan. He didn't much fancy Logan at firstblush--and Logan didn't fancy him at all at any time.
"Hur!" he said disgustedly, in a stage aside to his master, as Cleekstood on the threshold of the stable, with his head thrown back and hischin at an angle, sniffing the air somewhat after the manner of abird-dog. "Hur! If un's the best Scotland Yard could let out to ye,sir--a half-baked old softy like that!--the rest of 'em must be ablessed poor lot, Ah'm thinkin'. What's un doin' now, thenoodle?--snuffin' the air like he did not understand the smell of it!He'd not be expectin' a stable to be scented with eau de cologne, wouldhe? What's un name, sir?"
"Cleek."
"Hur! Sounds like a golf-stick--an' Ah've no doubt he's got a head likeone: main thick and with a twist in un. I dunna like 'tecs, Sir Henry,and I dunna like this one especial. Who's to tell as he aren't in withthey devils as is after Black Riot? Naw! I dunna like him at all."
Meantime, serenely unconscious of the displeasure he had excited inLogan's breast, Cleek went on sniffing the air and "poking about," as hephrased it, in all corners of the stable; and when, a moment later, SirHenry went in and joined him, he was standing before the door of thesteel room examining the curving scratch of which the baronet hadspoken.
"What do you make of it, Mr. Cleek?"
"Not much in the way of a clue, Sir Henry--a clue to any possibleintruder, I mean. If your artistic soul hadn't rebelled against baresteel--which would, of course, have soon rusted in thisammonia-impregnated atmosphere--and led you to put a coat of paint overthe metal, there would have been no mark at all, the thing is so slight.I am of the opinion that Tolliver himself caused it. In short, that itwas made by either a pin or a cuff button in his wristband when he wasattacked and fell. But, enlighten me upon a puzzling point, Sir Henry:What do you use coriander and oil of sassafras for in a stable?"
"Coriander? Oil of sassafras? I don't know what the dickens they are.Have you found such things here?"
"No; simply smelt them. The combination is not usual--indeed, I know ofbut one race in the world who make any use of it, and they merely for apurpose which, of course, could not possibly exist here, unless--"
He allowed the rest of the sentence to go by default, and turning,looked all round the place. For the first time he seemed to noticesomething unusual for the equipment of a stable, and regarded it withsilent interest. It was nothing more nor less than a box, covered withsheets of virgin cork, and standing on the floor just under one of thewindows, where the light and air could get to a weird-looking,rubbery-leaved, orchid-like plant, covered with ligulated scarletblossoms which grew within it.
"Sir Henry," he said, after a moment, "may I ask how long it is sinceyou were in South America?"
"I? Never was there in my life, Mr. Cleek--never."
"Ah! Then who connected with the hall has been?"
"Oh, I see what you are driving at," said Sir Henry, following thedirection of his gaze. "That Patagonian plant, eh? That belonged to poorTolliver. He had a strange fancy for ferns and rock plants and things ofthat description, and as that particular specimen happens to be one thatdoes better in the atmosphere of a stable than elsewhere, he kept it inhere."
"Who told him that it does better in the atmosphere of a stable?"
"Lady Wilding's cousin, Mr. Sharpless. It was he who gave Tolliver theplant."
"Oho! Then Mr. Sharpless has been to South America, has he?"
"Why, yes. As a matter of fact, he comes from there; so also does LadyWilding. I should have thought you would have remembered that, Mr.Cleek, when--But perhaps you have never heard? She--they--that is,"stammering confusedly and colouring to the temples, "up to seven monthsago, Mr. Cleek, Lady Wilding was on the--er--music-hall stage. She andMr. Sharpless were known as 'Signor Morando and La Belle Creole'--theydid a living statue turn together. It was highly artistic; people raved;I--er--fell in love with the lady and--that's all!"
But it wasn't; for Cleek, reading between the lines, saw that the madinfatuation which had brought the lady a title and an over-generoushusband had simmered down--as such things always do sooner or later--andthat the marriage was very far from being a happy one. As a matter offact, he learned later that the county, to a woman, had refused toaccept Lady Wilding; that her ladyship, chafing under this ostracism,was for having a number of her old professional friends come down tovisit her and make a time of it, and that, on Sir Henry's objecting, aviolent quarrel had ensued, and the Rev. Ambrose Smeer had come down tothe hall in the effort to make peace. And he learned something else thatnight which gave him food for deep reflection: the Rev. Ambrose Smeer,too, had been to South America, and when he met that gentleman--well, inspite of the fact that Sir Henry thought so highly of him, and it wasknown that his revival meetings had done a world of good, Cleek did notfancy the Rev. Ambrose Smeer any more than he fancied the trainer,Logan.
But to return to the present. By this time the late falling twilight ofMay had begun to close in, and presently--as the day was now done andthe night approaching--Logan led in Black Riot from the paddock,followed by a slim, sallow-featured, small-moustached man, bearing ashotgun, and dressed in grey tweeds. Sir Henry, who, it was plain tosee, had a liking for the man, introduced this newcomer to Cleek as theSouth American, Mr. Andrew Sharpless.
"That's the English of it, M
r. Cleek," said the latter jovially, butwith an undoubted Spanish twist to the tongue. "I wouldn't have you riskbreaking your jaw with the Brazilian original. Delighted to meet you,sir. I hope to Heaven you will get at the bottom of this diabolicalthing. What do you think, Henry? Lambson-Bowles's jockey was over inthis neighbourhood this afternoon. Trying to see how Black Riot shapes,of course, the bounder! Fortunately I saw him skulking along on theother side of the hedge, and gave him two minutes in which to makehimself scarce. If he hadn't, if he had come a step nearer to the mare,I'd have shot him down like a dog. That's right, Logan, put her up forthe night, old chap, and I'll get out your bedding."
"Aye," said Logan, through his clamped teeth, "and God help man or devilthat comes a-nigh her this night--God help him, Lunnon Mister, that'sall Ah say!" Then he passed into the steel room with the mare, attendedher for the night, and coming out a minute or two later, locked her upand gave Sir Henry the key.
"Broke her and trained her, Ah did; and willin' to die for her, Ah am,if Ah can't pull un through no other way," he said, pausing before Cleekand giving him a black look, "A Derby winner her's cut out for, LunnonMister, and a Derby winner her's goin' to be, in spite of all theLambson-Bowleses and the low-down horse-nobblers in Christendom!" Thenhe switched round and walked over to Sharpless, who had taken a pillowand a bundle of blankets from a convenient cupboard, and was making abed of them on the floor at the foot of the locked steel door.
"Thanky, sir, 'bliged to un, sir," said Logan as Sharpless hung up theshotgun and, with a word to the baronet, excused himself and went in todress for dinner. Then he faced round again on Cleek, who was once moresniffing the air, and pointed to the rude bed: "There's where Ted Logansleeps this night--there!" he went on suddenly; "and them as tries toget at Black Riot comes to grips with me first, me and the shotgun Mr.Sharpless has left Ah. And if Ah shoot, Lunnon Mister, Ah shoot tokill!"
"Do me a favour, Sir Henry," said Cleek. "For reasons of my own, I wantto be in this stable alone for the next ten minutes, and after that letno one come into it until morning. I won't be accountable for this man'slife if he stops in here to-night, and for his sake, as well as for yourown, I want you to forbid him to do so."
Logan seemed to go nearly mad with rage at this.
"Ah won't listen to it! Ah will stop here--Ah will! Ah will!" he criedout in a passion. "Who comes ull find Ah here waitin' to come to gripswith un. Ah won't stop out--Ah won't! Don't un listen to Lunnon Mister,Sir Henry--for God's sake, don't!"
"I am afraid I must in this instance, Logan. You are far too suspicious,my good fellow. Mr. Cleek doesn't want to 'get at' the mare; he wants toprotect her; to keep anybody else from getting at her, so--join theguard outside if you are so eager. You must let him have his way." And,in spite of all Logan's pleading, Cleek did have his way.
Protesting, swearing, almost weeping, the trainer was turned out and thedoors closed, leaving Cleek alone in the stable; and the last Logan andSir Henry saw of him until he came out and rejoined them he was standingin the middle of the floor, with his hands on both hips, staring fixedlyat the impromptu bed in front of the steel-room door.
"Put on the guard now and see that nobody goes into the place untilmorning, Sir Henry," he said when he came out and rejoined them someminutes later. "Logan, you silly fellow, you'll do no good fightingagainst Fate. Make the best of it and stop where you are."
Cleek: the Man of the Forty Faces Page 16
