Johnson disappeared and Mr. Algernon Vereker slowly entered the room. Having watched the door close behind him by means of a pneumatic arrangement fitted for that purpose, much as a child would gaze upon some new wonder stumbled upon for the first time in experience, he turned and glanced rapidly at Mr. Grierson, and then at Detective-Inspector Heather.
“Quaint device,” he remarked, pointing with his whangee cane at the door. “Closing mechanism. I could play with it for hours. Mr. Grierson, I believe,” he continued, his eyes returning to that gentleman.
Mr. Grierson nodded assent.
“I have come to see if you know anything of Lord Bygrave. Is there any truth in the Press statements that he has mysteriously disappeared? I see one alert Daily has already made a prize competition out of him. I at once phoned Bygrave Hall, but found that Farnish, the butler, knew nothing of his lordship’s whereabouts.”
“I have just been discussing Lord Bygrave’s extraordinary disappearance with Detective-Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard,” replied Mr. Grierson, and he proceeded to give Vereker a summary of the conversation and the facts of the case as known to himself.
During this interval Inspector Heather’s attention was riveted on Mr. Algernon Vereker, and he soon came to the conclusion, to put it in his own words, that he was a rum-looking specimen. There was something about the man’s appearance that suggested the possession of a vein of eccentricity and a whimsical outlook on life. With such people Inspector Heather was inclined to be impatient. They’re crazy; I have no use for them, he would say, and lightly flick them off the face of the particular earth that he himself inhabited.
When Mr. Grierson had concluded his statement, Vereker rolled his soft felt hat into a cone with his long nervous fingers.
“It’s very strange altogether,” he drawled; “so out of harmony with anything that one associates with old Bygrave. He hasn’t disappeared of his own account—that’s a certainty! No one could possibly imagine Bygrave vanishing with another man’s wife or making a run for it with trust funds. The only thing I can think of is that he has gone to heaven.”
“You really think that something serious has happened to him, Mr. Vereker?” asked the inspector, disregarding the levity of that individual’s last remark.
“I am going to work on that assumption straightway,” replied Vereker. “If anything untoward has happened to him—which God forbid—my hands will be pretty full, for I’m executor and trustee under his will.”
“You know the contents of the will, Mr. Vereker?” promptly asked the inspector.
“Oh, yes. Translating it from legalese into the intelligible, David Winslade, his nephew, comes into all his property, save for five hundred pounds left to Farnish, the butler, and a thousand to me for acting as executor.”
Inspector Heather made an entry in his notebook of these facts.
“I may as well tell you at this point, inspector, that I haven’t got rid of my friend Bygrave for that thousand pounds,” continued Vereker. “If you can accept this information as true it may save you some time, should further investigations be necessary. In the latter case I shall promptly suspect both Farnish and Winslade—it’s only logical to do so, even though I am fairly certain that neither of them is a criminal. They at least supply a motive—a sordid one in all conscience, but a motive.”
“Murders have been committed for less,” remarked the inspector in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Yes,” sighed Vereker wearily, “I suppose so. Keeping the fact in mind, it is difficult to cherish ideals as to the future of mankind. It would be quite as rational to entertain hopes of domesticating Bengal tigers. My faith grows weak, but I console myself that I’m only moderately imbecile when I think of the unbridled optimism of the Socialist.”
Detective-Inspector Heather glanced uneasily at Vereker, whose eyes gazed dreamily across the sunlit river to the smoky haze that hung over the south, his thoughts lost in a vague, wistful conjecture about humanity’s future, a subject which troubled Inspector Heather no more than, say, Einstein’s theory of relativity.
Vereker rose abruptly from his chair.
“Well, I must be going,” he said. “I shall probably see you down at Hartwood, inspector, for I shall get to work at once. Good day, gentlemen.” The door opened quietly and Mr. Algernon Vereker disappeared.
“So that’s Mr. Algernon Vereker, the artist!” exclaimed Mr. Grierson.
“Somewhat eccentric young gentleman,” remarked the inspector.
“It’s the first time I’ve met him,” said Mr. Grierson. “Lord Bygrave, however, always speaks of him in terms of sincere affection. ‘That lovable lunatic, Vereker,’ he always calls him. He has a very high opinion of Mr. Vereker’s character and must consider him, shorn of his eccentricities, a man of sterling worth. Otherwise he would hardly have appointed him a trustee and executor in his will—Lord Bygrave has an almost uncanny power of judging a man’s character.”
“Mr. Vereker seems a bit of a buffoon to me,” commented the inspector quietly. “You say he’s an artist?”
“According to modern standards, yes,” replied Mr. Grierson cautiously. “He’s making quite a name for himself among the newer school of painters. Whether his reputation or theirs will live is another matter.”
“It’s a subject I don’t profess to understand, and I wouldn’t give a pipe of good tobacco for the best picture in the world,” boomed the inspector weightily and, with a sardonic smile spreading over his features, asked, “Does he earn a living at it?”
“I should say, confidently, that his work’s a dead financial loss to him. Mr. Vereker, however, is a fairly wealthy man, though to judge from his appearance no one would believe it. He always professes a complete disregard for money—again, that may be, in a great measure, a pose. Suffers from a kink,” remarked the inspector bluntly; “that’s how I’d put it—a kink. Bless my soul if I don’t think a University education gives every man a kink—some more, some less.”
“Most up-to-date people would agree with you,” said Mr. Grierson, raising his brows and looking over his glasses at the inspector. “However, in Mr. Vereker’s case it’s a harmless sort of kink—paint and canvas suffer more than humanity. Lord Bygrave tells me he’s one of the most generous of men and is always helping some lame dog over a stile.”
“He probably does a lot of good, but in a foolish, unsystematic way,” concluded Inspector Heather, rising from his chair.
At this moment the door again opened and Mr. Algernon Vereker returned.
“I thought I’d just let you know my address, Inspector Heather, in case you want any personal information about Lord Bygrave. But I shall be down at Hartwood from this evening—I start on the trail from the White Bear Inn. If I can be of any assistance—”
“Thanks, Mr. Vereker,” replied the inspector.
“I like to do good even in a foolish and unsystematic way,” added Vereker.
Inspector Heather looked up sharply. There was a trace of annoyance on his alert features. He deduced the fact that Mr. Vereker’s ears were preternaturally acute.
“Ah, you overheard my remark,” he laughed diplomatically. “I was speaking of you, Mr. Vereker.”
“I wondered,” replied Mr. Vereker, smiling broadly;” but I didn’t think I’d extract a confirmation so easily from one of your profession. An unsystematic way of doing good is all that the complexity of life allows an individual; a wise and systematic method is reserved for some future blissful state. What do you think?”
“I’m unable to discuss the matter just now, Mr. Vereker,” replied the inspector dryly.
“Then on some future occasion; say over a bottle of port, for I love to reconstruct the universe over good port. A man with your experience of the evil men do ought to be well worth listening to on the good they might do. By the way, inspector, I don’t like the name of the innkeeper at the White Bear Inn.”
“I don’t see what a man’s name has got to do with it,” replied the inspector
curtly.
“I’m rather influenced by names. Now George Lawless is an unpleasant name. Give a dog a bad name, you know! There’s a lot in these old sayings—mother wit I think they call it. Well, once more good day, gentlemen,” and Mr. Vereker took his departure.
“He’s what is usually called a ‘balm-pot’!” exclaimed Inspector Heather when he had made sure that Mr. Vereker had passed well beyond ear-shot. “By the way, is Mr. Vereker an amateur detective as well as an artist?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t take much notice of Mr. Vereker’s activities,” replied Mr. Grierson, with a shrug of his shoulders. “He has been, so I have heard, actor, politician, amateur tramp, athlete, vegetarian and gentleman rider in turns. He will take Scotland Yard in his stride so to speak. Only the other day, so Lord Bygrave told me, he was going to equip an expedition to discover King Solomon’s mines. He had dreamt they were in Borneo, and not in Africa, and he was convinced that their discovery would pay off the National Debt and give France a decent leg up. At the same time don’t altogether class him as a fool. You will find, as far as I can gather, that he wears buffoonery as a kind of cloak—probably because he is in reality a very shy and self-depreciatory man.”
Inspector Heather laughed as he let himself out of Mr. Grierson’s room, and before he had reached the street he had come to a vague conclusion, the reason for which he would have been unable to express, that Mr. Algernon Vereker was probably not a bad sort even though he was undoubtedly a “balm-pot” to all outward appearances.
Published by Dean Street Press 2016
All Rights Reserved
First published in 1936 by The Bodley Head
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 911095 19 4
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
The Spirit Murder Mystery Page 25
