Down Under

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Yes, I remember. The accompanist went too, didn’t he?”

  “Yes—they were together. He was a fellow Pole. Neither was traced. Then, later in that same year—in December, I think—Violette de Parme, the brilliant young French dancer, disappeared in Paris. She was rehearsing the—er—star role in a new ballet, and a great many people were very seriously inconvenienced, but public opinion declined to take the affair seriously. People shrugged their shoulders and—er—smiled. It was considered that the lady was amusing herself, and that she would return when it suited her to do so. When she did not return she was soon forgotten. During nineteen-thirty-five I find the disappearance of two crooners, a jazz pianist, a negro saxophonist, and half a dozen variety artists. None of them in the front rank, but all clever rising young men and women with the prizes of their profession before them—not failures, Captain Loddon, not elderly discouraged men and women, but young people well on the way to success.”

  Mr Smith had been speaking in an inexpressive monotone, but now he changed it. Leaning a little forward, he said with some emphasis,

  “It was the cases relating to the—er virtuoso class which attracted my—er—particular attention. I found myself working backwards towards the Rennard case. The threads I followed often—er—broke, often tangled, but those points of—er—similarity to which I referred a little while ago recurred continually. I became convinced of the importance of the Rennard case.”

  “What do you mean by points of similarity?” said Oliver.

  Mr Smith looked dreamily over his head.

  “I will give you an instance. There is one recurrent factor. I have not been able to—er—trace it in all these cases, but in many of them it—er—recurs. I think I—er—mentioned Amos Rennard’s predilection for red hair.”

  “You didn’t say he had a predilection for red hair—you said he had red hair.”

  Mr Smith smiled.

  “I seem to remember mentioning his pride in the fact that his sons had inherited the family hair. He had, I am told, an extreme partiality for the colour, and chose a wife from a family as red as his own. It would, in the circumstances, have been surprising if the sons had had hair of any other shade.”

  Florrie came up again into Oliver’s mind—Florrie’s red hair. What was he getting at? Where were they getting to? They weren’t getting anywhere.

  Mr Smith said in a measured voice,

  “Two of Mr Simpson’s parishioners remember to have seen him in the company of a red-haired lad. Their recollection is too vague to be of much value. One of them, a Miss Lucy Thorpe, says she passed Mr Simpson on the Ledstow road. She was on her bicycle, and went past quickly. She says the minister was standing by the side of the road talking to a young man who seemed to be in deep distress. He had his back to her, so she did not see his face, but she was positive he had red hair. She is not sure which day this was, but it was not far off the time Mr Simpson disappeared. It might have been the Friday, or the Saturday, or the Sunday—she doesn’t know. A very poor witness. The other, a man, is even vaguer. He saw Mr Simpson walking with a red-haired man who was a stranger to Ledlington. It was some time that autumn. In the case of Dr Spendlow the red hair motif is very slight. The friend whom he drove to Virginia Water station remembers that they passed a very pretty girl just after they turned off the London Road. She crossed the road, and they had to brake in order to avoid running her down. She was very young indeed, and she had a very fine head of red hair. In the case of the Polish violinist the motif does not appear, but Violette de Parme was credited with a red-haired lover—a young man, very handsome, very distinguished. Several of her friends had seen her with him, but no one knew his name, and Violette refused to gratify their—er—curiosity.”

  “Had she red hair herself?” said Oliver.

  Mr Smith shook his head.

  “Oh, no. Those who disappeared were not—er—selected on that account. I should not expect it except—I have not asked you what is the colour of Miss Carew’s hair.”

  Oliver felt a kind of tingling horror. He said,

  “Not red—it’s not—I suppose there is some red in it. It’s a lovely colour—a sort of dark chestnut.”

  A moment ago he had felt that they were not getting anywhere. Now, with a violent recoil, he had a glimpse of where all this was leading them. He cried out,

  “What has this Rennard business to do with Rose Anne? What possible connection is there?”

  Mr Smith looked at him gravely.

  “I should have asked that question myself. I had not thought of any connection. I did not anticipate any connection until you mentioned a very uncommon name.”

  “What name?”

  “The name of the people from whose house Miss Carew disappeared.”

  “Garstnet?” said Oliver. “For God’s sake, sir!”

  “I told you Amos Rennard was a widower, but I did not tell you his wife’s name. It was Garstnet—Ellen Francis Garstnet.”

  CHAPTER IX

  In a stunned silence Oliver tried to think what this might mean. There was a time that passed. Then Mr Smith was speaking again.

  “This is naturally a shock to you, Captain Loddon. It was—er—a considerable shock to me. While you were telling me about Miss Carew’s—er—disappearance I had no other thought than that her flight was a voluntary one. Some trouble had been—er—taken to make it appear that she had not gone alone. I was entirely deceived. Then you mentioned the name of a village—er—Hillick St Agnes. It arrested my attention by its similarity to a name which I have had occasion to—er—note in connection with the Rennard case. I will recur to this presently. I was about to ask you a certain question when you mentioned the name of Garstnet. When you further informed me that little Florrie Garstnet was the possessor of a very fine head of red hair, I became convinced that Miss Carew’s disappearance could no longer be accounted a voluntary one. Now, Captain Loddon—this inn-keeper—is his Christian name Matthew?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Mr Smith nodded.

  “The father, also Matthew Garstnet, kept the Bell and Bucket inn on the Exeter turnpike road. He had it from his father, and he from his father again—all Matthews. Amos Rennard met his wife there. About the time of the smash her brother Matthew sold the goodwill of the inn and went away. He was then a widower with two daughters. When did he come to Hillick St Agnes?”

  “About ten years ago. He married Rose Anne’s nurse. Florrie is their only child.”

  “And the two elder daughters?”

  “Fanny is married. Mabel is at home.”

  “I see—” said Mr Smith. His gaze became so absent-minded that Oliver wondered with impatience whether he ever really saw anything at all.

  There was a considerable silence, and then he heard Mr Smith say in a dreamy voice,

  “Mabel Garstnet—I wonder—er—about Mabel Garstnet. Is—she—er—by any chance of the same—er—general appearance as Miss Carew?”

  “Certainly not!” said Oliver. And then, “What do you mean?”

  Mr Smith did not look at him.

  “Height—build—” he suggested.

  “There are thousands of girls of approximately the same height and build.”

  “Just so, just so. You will remember, Captain Loddon, that you—er—raised the question as to why Miss Carew should walk or drive the three miles into Malling and proceed by train to Claypole, where she was met by a car, when that car might just as easily have fetched her from Hillick St Agnes, a distance of only six miles by road. The point was, I think, very well taken. It has occurred to me that there was perhaps a reason for this train journey. Mrs. Garstnet says that Miss Carew left the inn wearing a bright green hat. It may have been considered desirable that this green hat should be—er—noticed and described. It may have been very important to establish the fact that Miss Carew—er—travelled from Malling to Claypole that night. We do not know whether she did or not. A young woman in a green hat travelled that way. She got out at Cla
ypole, dropped an envelope addressed to Miss Carew, and drove away in a car which was waiting for her. A young woman in a green hat, Captain Loddon. Not—er—necessarily Miss Carew. Just—er—possibly Mabel Garstnet.”

  Oliver got up. This was not a case to him. It was Rose Anne—her safety, her danger. He said harshly,

  “Is it any good going to the police with this? What are we going to do about it? If you’re right—if you’re right, sir,—we ought to get a search warrant—we ought to be searching the inn. But the Garstnets—she was Rose Anne’s nurse—she was devoted to her—I can’t believe it.”

  “I am—er—afraid that the police would not believe it either, Captain Loddon. I do not think that you would get your—er—search warrant. I fear you would only put a very powerful and—er—unscrupulous organization upon its guard. As to the question of Mrs Garstnet’s affection for Miss Carew, I think one must remember the undoubted presence of such—er—under-currents as fear, self-interest, self-preservation, hope of—er—benefits to come. All these are factors to be—er—reckoned with. There is, for instance her own child—you say a delicate child. If the choice lay between Florrie and Miss Carew, what line would you expect Mrs Garstnet to take?”

  “How could there be a choice like that?”

  “I don’t know—there might be. We do not know what pressure might be brought to bear on a woman in Mrs Garstnet’s position. And she might not think that she was harming Miss Carew. She might—” Mr Smith’s tone became dreamier than usual—“she might even—er—imagine that she was doing her a service.”

  Oliver spoke more harshly still.

  “I’m not concerned with Mrs Garstnet’s motives. If the Garstnets have touched Rose Anne, she can go to blazes with the rest of them. You say it’s no good going to the police. Well, what do you expect me to do?”

  “I expect you to do all that any man can do who is quite willing to take his life in his hands. Try the police if you wish, but I do not think that you will get them to listen to you. I have not been able to get them to listen to me. I think you will merely put the Rennards on their guard. I do not by any means suggest that you should do nothing. I am willing to place all my knowledge at your disposal. I am willing to help you in every way that I can. I believe that I can help you. Will you sit down and listen to what I have to say?”

  Oliver sat down. He knew very well that it was no use going back to the police. They had their theory, and they would stick to it unless and until he could produce some strong rebutting evidence. At present the only evidence seemed to be Mrs Rennard’s maiden name and Florrie’s red hair. Impossible to believe that these things would make any impression upon the police.

  Mr Smith leaned back against the worn leather of his chair.

  “Now, Captain Loddon, I will tell you that I have taken it upon myself to pursue some—er—investigations. I was—er—interested. I—er—employed a private detective, a clever young man who had been invalided out of the police service. His name was Gilbert Wray. He collected a good deal of the information I have given you. Then he was found dead. He had had a fall over the edge of a quarry. There were no suspicious circumstances. He was lame. It was his lameness which had necessitated his leaving the police. The slope above the quarry was covered with short grass slippery from rain. There was a verdict of death from misadventure. I—er—wished to continue my investigations. I was in a position to put my hand on a very able man—I will call him John Smith. He took on the work and collected some useful information. Then one day he wrote to me and said he was following up an important clue. He said, ‘It’s much too important to be risked on paper, but in case anything happens to me there are some rough notes in my despatch-case. I’m going up to Hillick St Anne tonight.’”

  Mr Smith paused for a moment and leaned slightly forward.

  “You see now why I was startled when you mentioned Hillick St Agnes. Perhaps you can tell me something about the connection between these two places.”

  “Well, Hillick St Anne isn’t really a place at all. No one lives there now. I believe there are about three hundred people in Hillick St Agnes, but St Anne’s died seventy or eighty years ago. It was just a mining village about half a mile farther up the hill.”

  “A mining village—” said Mr Smith in his vaguest tone.

  “There are old lead workings. The vein petered out, and the St Anne’s people moved down to St Agnes. You can still see the remains of some of the cottages.”

  “And the—er—shaft?” said Mr Smith.

  “There is one quite close to Hillick St Agnes, but it has been filled in. Some child got lost there about forty years ago. It was really more of an entrance than a shaft. Anyway they filled it up, and I think they did the same at St Anne’s, but I’m not sure.”

  There was a pause. Then Mr Smith said,

  “John Smith wrote his letter to me and set out for Hillick St Anne’s. There is nothing to show whether he got there or not. He was riding a bicycle. It was found badly damaged at the foot of a steep drop. John Smith was lying beside it with his neck broken. There is a hairpin bend in the road above and no parapet. The place was one at which such an accident could easily have happened. I am entirely convinced that John Smith was wilfully murdered, but there is not the least hope of being able to prove it.”

  “But this only happened ten days ago,” said Oliver. “The village was full of talk about it. I know the place quite well. The road isn’t much more than a track beyond Hillick St Agnes, and if he tried to ride his bicycle round those bends, well, it was suicide, not murder.”

  “Murder, I think, Captain Loddon. But, as I stated, it will, I fear, never be possible to prove it. As soon as I received the—er—news I made enquiries as to the despatch-case mentioned in John Smith’s last letter. I was not altogether surprised to find that it had disappeared. The landlady, a very voluble and tearful person, assured my—er—representative that such a thing had never happened in her house before, and that she was quite at a loss to account for it. I, as I have told you, was not surprised. The Old Fox leaves very little to chance.”

  “Amos Rennard?”

  “Amos Rennard.”

  “You think Amos Rennard murdered those two men of yours?”

  “I haven’t the very slightest doubt of it,” said Mr Smith.

  “But why, sir—why?”

  “They were—er—enquiring into his affairs. I do not think that his affairs would bear enquiry. Or shall we put it another way? Shall we say that he is of the opinion that his affairs will not—er bear investigation?”

  Oliver leaned forward.

  “You say he was written off as dead, but you talk of him as if he were alive.”

  “I am quite sure he is alive,” said Mr Smith.

  “And you think he would do murder?”

  “I am quite sure that he would do murder, Captain Loddon.”

  “Why?”

  Mr Smith lifted one hand and let it fall again. “My—er—conviction is the—er—result of a series of investigations. It has—er—been built up from a number of small pieces of evidence. I cannot—er—convey it to you. I can only say that I have it.”

  “Well then, sir, you have this conviction that Amos Rennard is alive, and that he is not only capable of murder, but that he has murdered these two men. You also believe that he has kidnapped a number of people. You suggest a motive for the murders, but what motive could there possibly be for such wholesale kidnapping? What does he want with these people? What does he do with them? You must have some theory. What is it?”

  Mr Smith was silent. He looked into the fire. A long, slow minute went by. Then he said,

  “I will tell you my theory. You will not believe it—I have not been able to make anyone believe it. I am willing to tell it to you because it does not—er—matter to me at all whether you believe it or not. But if you do believe it, you may perhaps find it—er—helpful.”