Comes a Stranger

by E. R. Punshon

  “Yes, very interesting,” interposed Bobby, fearing that this lecture would continue indefinitely. “You took a photograph of it and Mr. Broast objected?”

  “He returned, contrary to my expectations,” explained Mr. Adams, “as I was in the act of securing photographs of the Mandeville leaves. As I have already mentioned, he chose to behave with the most extraordinary violence. Further he used language of a regrettable, even curious nature. I use the word ‘curious’ in its technical sense of improper or obscene. He described me as the son of—er—of a female of the canine species. It is an appellation,” he added, in his voice a touch of nostalgia Bobby did not at the moment understand, “I have not heard employed for a considerable period.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I obtained re-possession of my camera which Mr. Broast had—er—impelled somewhat abruptly in my direction. I considered it undesirable to engage in further controversy, more particularly undesirable on the lines of physical encounter apparently contemplated by Mr. Broast, if I may judge from the gestures he was making with a ruler he had taken from his writing table. I therefore withdrew, ignoring both the language of Mr. Broast, and the books and other loose objects he directed towards me. One, a particularly heavy tome of, I am inclined to think, the late eighteenth century—probably a volume of sermons and of small or indeed of no interest—came into violent contact with the central portions of my back. A discoloration of the skin is, I am informed by one of the male attendants at this inn, plainly visible. Indeed, at the moment I lost my balance, and Mr. Broast so far forgot himself as to indulge in a cachinnation of unseemly merriment.”

  Bobby both looked and felt very puzzled. This tale of a violent scene between Broast and Adams was curious, but he could not see any connection between it and the murder of young Nat Kayne.

  Mr. Adams continued:

  “I admit that at the moment I was aware of a sensation not highly dissimilar from those one experienced during the late war before going over the top. Cold feet, we used to call it, I remember. Mr. Broast had called my attention to the fact that he possessed a revolver and that he considered he would be fully justified in its employment. It recalled vividly to my mind the extreme distaste I have always entertained for firearms, a distaste much heightened as a result of my very unpleasant term of service in the army.”

  “Did you see any fighting?” Bobby could not help asking.

  “I was wounded three times,” Mr. Adams told him. “I was presented with a D.C.M. I am glad to say I have since mislaid it. I find it most unpleasant to be reminded of the occasion. Yet I was not to blame. A German soldier advancing with considerable precipitation, projected himself on the point of my bayonet. A repulsive experience.”

  “Was that what you got the D.C.M. for?”

  “That and because, not having been notified of the receipt of orders to retire, I therefore continued to make use of a machine gun that chanced to be in my proximity. Under appropriate conditions a machine gun, the trigger being subjected to adequate pressure, continues to eject bullets to a considerable number. The credit for this seems to me to belong to the machine gun itself and to its manufacturers. On this occasion, however, that credit was assigned to me, as I was subsequently informed in hospital. I was glad of it at the time, as the language of sergeants was often considerably modified when directed towards those in the ranks to whom that decoration had been awarded. In my case this was especially desirable, as sergeants often expressed a measure of dissatisfaction with the state of my equipment and with the difficulty I often found in keeping step and such other matters as seem of importance to the somewhat infantile military mind—of which,” Mr. Adams added musingly, “the police mind frequently reminds me.”

  Bobby gave it up.

  “Well, look here, Mr. Adams,” he said, “I am afraid unless you choose to tell us a little more about your identity, the chief constable is almost certain to want to detain you for inquiries. I shall let him know at once what you’ve told me. I should like your promise to remain here for the present. I am afraid if you make any attempt to leave it will probably be thought necessary to arrest you.”

  “On what charge?” snapped Mr. Adams with an unexpected force and decision that seemed reminiscent of his military days.

  “Accessory after the fact,” retorted Bobby. “But that will be for Major Harley to decide. May I have your promise to stay here for the time?”

  “I have already consented to do so,” replied Mr. Adams. “It is perhaps as well to await here a reply to my letters. If I change my mind I will let you know. I repeat I have no knowledge of, and am in no way concerned with, the death of this unfortunate young man.”

  With that he made Bobby a stiff little bow and went back into the inn, leaving Bobby entirely puzzled.

  There had been this violent scene with Broast that might have an explanation other than that put forward by Adams, for indeed there seemed no reason why an attempt to photograph the Mandeville pages should cause such an outburst of anger and the use of such threats. Mr. Adams acknowledged, too, having known of the existence of a revolver, and his army record seemed to suggest that in spite of his usual placidity there was a formidable side to his character. It was certain, too, that he possessed information of some relevance and importance, or why should he refuse to answer questions?

  Robins came up now with the motor cycle Bobby had asked him to fetch. Bobby said to him:

  “Did you see Mr. Adams last night at all?”

  Robins considered, trying to remember.

  “Only when he went out to post his letters somewhere about half past nine,” he answered finally.

  “Oh, yes,” said Bobby, remembering that Mr. Adams had denied leaving his room. “Did you see him come back?”

  Robins shook his head. He had been going past the front entrance to the inn on some trifling errand when he noticed Mr. Adams slipping out with letters in his hand. He had never given it another thought. Why should he? The door was always open till eleven or after, and anyone could slip in or out without any great risk of attracting attention. That Adams had been seen going out was pure accident occurring could be greatly lessened by the careful choice of a suitable moment. Inquiries would have to be made, but probably with small chance of success. For the moment, Bobby supposed, all he could do was to make a report to Major Harley and then go on to Highfields, the residence of Sir Williams Winders.

  It was a fairly large house, standing in three or four acres of private grounds, the home of a man very comfortably off, if not of great riches. All its inmates were evidently in a state of considerable excitement, much intensified by the sight of Bobby, whose names and profession, even before the murder, had been passed from mouth to mouth.

  “Never anything so awful known in these parts in mortal memory,” the butler informed him, “the only thing like it was when a tearing, rushing motor cycle ran into young Mrs. Lewis’s perambulator she was wheeling full of potatoes, and everyone thought at first the baby was there, too, along with the potatoes, only it wasn’t by the mercy of Providence, as Vicar said himself when he heard of it. Sir William is terribly upset.”

  “Can I see Sir William?” Bobby asked.

  “Terrible upset he is,” the butler confirmed. “Couldn’t believe it—when I took his tea in this morning and told him, I thought he would faint, he came over so pale and trembling. So you can tell what a shock it was.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Bobby.

  “In a fair state, he was, and when he got up, that restless it seemed he couldn’t settle, felt like he must find out what was being done. He was going to ’phone Major Harley first, and then he thought he would go and inquire himself. Wouldn’t even wait for breakfast, but started off to walk through the wood.”

  “Didn’t he take his car?” Bobby asked.

  “No, said he would walk, it’s not so far by the short way into the sunk lane through the wood.”

  “That would take him past the spot where Mr. Kayne was s
hot, wouldn’t it?” Bobby asked.

  The butler shook his head.

  “No, the path comes out into the lane lower down than that, nearer the Lodge; at least, the lower path does, there’s another as well,” answered the butler. “Anyhow, Sir William changed his mind and just walked round by the pond and home again. Seemed quieter like then, and said it wasn’t fair to bother the police, and we must wait, and he would have his breakfast first, though it wasn’t much he took, except coffee. And upset we all are, knowing Mr. Nat as we did here.”

  “Sir William and he were friends, weren’t they?” observed Bobby.

  “Sir William knew him when he was that high,” declared the butler indicating some eight inches from the ground, “and they were both of them library trustees, too, so it brought them together, not that Mr. Nat knew much about books, not like Sir William, a real expert he is. Makes him feel it, and then, too, he was over to the Hall to see Mr. Broast last night. I reckon he must have come back along the sunk lane not more than twenty minutes or half an hour after the murder. It’s a mercy,” said the butler fervently “it wasn’t him too.”

  “What made him walk? Doesn’t he generally take the car?” Bobby asked.

  It appeared that Sir William was fond of walking. It helped him, or so he thought, to keep down a certain tendency to increase of bulk. He had always been a great walker. Sometimes, of course, he took the car, but it was almost as quick to go by the footpath and the sunk lane as to motor round by the road. It was quite common for him to pay a visit to Mr. Broast after dinner, and they often sat up late, arguing, quarrelling, disputing, over the various problems of bibliography. On these occasions, when Sir William was late home, he let himself in by the side door, left on the latch. So here was yet another, Bobby reflected, who had no alibi, who must indeed have been quite near the scene of the murder at the time it happened.

  CHAPTER XIII

  MISS KAYNE ACCUSES

  Sir William Winders was a tall, bigly made, elderly man, a little inclined probably to put on flesh, but still vigorous and upright. That he was in a highly nervous and excited state was both evident and not unnatural, since the violent and sudden death of a friend and neighbour must have touched him deeply. But Bobby thought, too, there was fear in the deepset, uneasy eyes overhung by bushy brows, in the continued restlessness of movement, in the constant licking by the tongue of lips dry and parched.

  He received Bobby in the breakfast-room, a pleasant, book-lined apartment overlooking the garden, in the distance the dark mass of Wynton wood, and, to one side, a glint of reflected sunshine suggesting the presence of that pond whereof the butler had spoken.

  Sir William began to talk at once, without waiting for any question to be put him. Sometimes seated, sometimes shifting from one chair to another, or moving about or standing, he talked at length of the shock the news had been to him, of the impossibility of understanding how such a thing could have happened to disturb the serenity of their quiet countryside, of his absolute certainty that no one in the neighbourhood could have been guilty of such a crime.

  “Don’t you think it must have been an accident or suicide?” he asked abruptly.

  Bobby shook his head. Suicides do not shoot themselves three times over. The same consideration applied to the accident theory. Bobby had been content to listen for a time. Listening in silence to those anxious to talk is useful from many points of view. It gives opportunity to form an impression of the speaker. Besides, in a flow of unchecked talk often more is said than would be elicited by questioning.

  “An unbelievable thing to happen, I can’t tell you what a shock it was,” declared Sir William for about the tenth time; “I can’t understand it, I can hardly believe it,” and Bobby, watching him attentively, grew more and more certain that either he knew or he suspected something.

  But Bobby continued to say nothing, and he had the impression, too, that his silent watchfulness was having, as silent watchfulness always has, its effect upon the other’s nerves and self-control.

  “Well, I suppose there’s something you want to know,” Sir William snapped suddenly. “Not that there’s anything I can tell you. I don’t know anything. I can’t make it out. The very last thing I should have expected to happen, the very last. A quiet little place like this. I nearly walked across to the village to see what was being done, and then I thought you people would probably have your hands full, and I thought, too, perhaps you might be coming up here, as I knew young Kayne. Co-trustee, you know. So I made up my mind to stay in case I missed you. Always the way. Turn your back for two minutes and that’s the moment someone calls. So I thought I wouldn’t. I thought I would stop indoors just in case.”

  “You have not been out at all this morning then?” Bobby asked.

  “Not a soul in the house been anywhere, none of us know anything except gossip—the postman and the milkman and the rest of them.”

  There seemed a discrepancy here, reflected Bobby. The butler had said that Sir William started out before breakfast, went as far as the wood, and then changed his mind and returned. But the difference was one susceptible of easy explanation. Sir William might only mean that he had not gone as far as the village, and he might easily consider that his uncompleted work was too un-important to mention. He might even have quite genuinely forgotten it for the moment. Nevertheless, a little disturbing that Mr. Adams, too, had denied having been out when he had in fact been at least as far as the wall post box, a few yards from the inn. No doubt, he, too, might have thought so brief an excursion not worth mentioning. This coincidence in forgetfulness seemed, however, to be worth remembering. Bobby went on to ask a few more routine questions and then said:

  “I daresay you will remember seeing me in the Kayne library yesterday afternoon, just as Mr. Kayne left after he had been talking to you and Mr. Broast—a little heatedly, I thought.”

  Sir William, seated now fairly jumped in his seat. The man’s nerves were on edge, Bobby thought. He seemed quite literally jumpy. Bobby reminded himself that he must not draw hasty conclusions. Murder of a friend, a neighbour, a co-trustee might well make any one nervous. Sir William stammered:

  “Oh, was that you?... I saw some one… I didn’t realize… you mean you noticed…?”

  “Well, no one could help, could they?” Bobby said. “It was pretty evident there was some sort of quarrel, and that Mr. Kayne was very excited. I remember remarking that he looked quite murderous. Only it is he who has been murdered. Major Harley thought it would be as well to ask if you mind informing us what the dispute was about and why Mr. Kayne appeared so angry. It may be of help in our investigation. I am sure you understand that. My instructions are to ask you to make a statement in writing.”

  Sir William looked more and more uncomfortable. He fidgeted in his chair, he huddled down into it as if for all his size he hoped somehow that in it he might escape notice. At last he mumbled:

  “Oh, it was nothing, nothing of any consequence.”

  “Of consequence enough,” murmured Bobby gently, “to upset Mr. Nat Kayne. He appeared very disturbed.”

  “What I mean is,” Sir William said reluctantly, “it was just the same old thing we have been over hundreds of times. Nat always lost his temper about it. Regular thing. He wanted the library sold. He didn’t care or know anything about books, and he wanted his slice of the purchase money as soon as he could get it. Broast and I objected. Nor was it Miss Kayne’s wish. Her desire and ours was to keep the library intact.”

  “With Miss Kayne, you, and Mr. Broast objecting, he had no chance of getting his way, I suppose?”

  “Certainly not, not unless he could prove neglect—or—or anything unsatisfactory. The terms of the trust are quite clear. But he always lost his temper. Tried to bully. Naturally Broast resented it. So did I, for that matter.”

  “I suppose it would have meant a lot to Mr. Broast if there had been a decision to sell,” observed Bobby. “He would have lost his post.”

  “Oh, well, a
s far as that goes, he would soon have had his choice of another,” Sir William answered. “He is about the leading expert in his line in the world, I should think. Besides, in the event of a sale he is entitled to five years’ salary as compensation. He gets £200 I think, though he doesn’t always draw it.”

  “How is that?”

  “Well, he lives at Wynton Lodge, he never takes a holiday, he buys a suit of clothes about once in five years, if he wants a little pocket-money he draws a few pounds on account of salary. I expect the library owes him a thousand or two. That, and the thousand he is entitled to as compensation, would enable him to start a business of his own. His reputation would soon make it go. Knows more about books and printing than any man alive, and I know enough about them to know that.”

  “You are an expert, too?” Bobby asked.

  “Not like Broast,” Sir William said. He seemed less nervous now. He even smiled. “Most of what I know, Broast has taught me. He has a nose for a rare book, smells ’em out, sort of sixth sense almost. Show him a pile of a hundred volumes and he’ll pick out instinctively just the one that’s really interesting. It’s entirely thanks to him that my collection of first editions of the Caroline poets is complete—unique, I believe. I’ve the quarto illustrated Quarles no one else had ever heard of till Broast and I found it in a pile of uninteresting old stuff at Sotheby’s—bought it for fifty shillings. No one knew it was Quarles. My Americana, too. I’ve the Psalter that was the first book ever printed in America, and the American Sartor Resartus that came out over there when no English publisher would look at it. My Edgar Allen Poe’s, too. I’ve the 1827 Tamerlane, and a complete set of the Southern Literary Messenger which published much of his early work, as you remember.”

  Bobby could not truthfully say he remembered what he had never known. So he said nothing, and Sir William continued:

  “That reminds me. Perhaps I ought to tell you poor Nat Kayne seemed worried about a letter he had received from some American visiting this country, from an hotel in London.”