“I wouldn’t call it ‘collared’, Harry,” remonstrated the big man gently. “I’d call it just takin’ an interest in you. So you’ve been payin’ a visit to your old friend’s widow, eh? Hoping she might be able to tell you somethin’ about that old friend, I s’pose?”
“Perhaps,” retorted Harry. “Is that any concern of yours?”
“It’s the concern of every member of the police force at the moment,” said Mr. Budd extravagantly. “This is a murder job, you know, Harry, an’ I wouldn’t like to think that you was mixed up in it.”
A flicker of alarm came and went in Mr. Bates’s eyes.
“You can’t connect me with it,” he said sharply. “I ’ad nothing’ to do with it and you know it. . . .”
Mr. Budd shook his head sorrowfully.
“I don’t know it,” he said. “I don’t know who’s mixed up in it. That’s what I’m here for—to find out.” He turned to the frightened Miss Titmarsh. “Now, m’am,” he continued, “we was getting along nicely when we was interrupted. It was about Sam Sprigot’s last visit to you that we were talking about. . . .”
“I’ve told you all I know,” whispered Miss Titmarsh.
“Maybe you’ve told me all you think you know,” corrected the stout superintendent. “You’d be surprised how many people think they’ve told all they know until somebody starts questioning ’em, an’ then they remember all kinds of odd things that they’d forgot. Why did Sam come to see you?”
“I’ve told you,” she answered. “He wanted me to put him up for a week or two. Of course, I refused. . . .”
“And he said,” pursued Mr. Budd, “that he was going to make the people at Marbury Court pay?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Now, think very carefully,” said the big man. “Did he say anything else in connection with that—anything at all?”
Miss Titmarsh started to shake her head and then stopped.
“He did say something else,” she said, frowning. “He was laughing when he said it as though it was a joke. . . .”
“What did he say?” asked the stout superintendent.
“He said . . .” she puckered up her forehead in an effort of recollection. “He said something about it was always good to know where the body was buried. . . .”
“You never told me that,” snapped Harry Bates.
“I’d forgotten it,” she answered.
“H’m,” remarked Mr. Budd raising his eyebrows and scratching the lowest of his many chins. “It’s always good to know where the body’s buried, eh? H’m. Well, now, I wonder just what he meant by that?”
“It’s a well-known expression,” said Leek. “Meanin’ that you know somethin’ about somebody that they wouldn’t want anyone ter know.”
Mr. Budd gave him a withering look.
“It’s a wonder to me,” he said, “how you manage to think these things out. It surprises me that you don’t suffer from a perpetual headache.”
“I’ve got a lot of general knowledge that comes in useful,” said the lean sergeant complacently. “It’s remarkable what a lot o’ things I know.”
“It’s even more remarkable what a lot of things you don’t,” snarled Mr. Budd. He turned back to Miss Titmarsh. “This visit from your husband was several months ago, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Miss Titmarsh nodded.
“He couldn’t have been out of prison very long when he came to see you,” murmured Mr. Budd thoughtfully.
“He wasn’t,” said Miss Titmarsh. “Oh, you can’t imagine the disgrace of it all—being married to a man like that. . . .”
Her troubled face twisted and she gripped the back of the chair until her thin knuckles were milk-white.
“Very nasty for you, m’am,” said the stout superintendent sympathetically. “What happened to ’im after he left you? When you wouldn’t let him stay?”
“He went to Greystock and took lodgings there,” said Miss Titmarsh. “I had to give all my savings—a little over a hundred pounds. I took the money over to him as soon as I could get it out of the post office. He—he threatened to make our relationship public unless I—I helped him. . . .”
A nasty bit of work, Sam, thought Mr. Budd, but it wasn’t getting him any nearer finding out who had killed him. Was it at Greystock that he spent that unaccountable three months?
“How long was he at Greystock?” he asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” she replied. “I hoped he had gone. I prayed that he would go and that I could feel safe again—safe from any scandal. . . .”
Mr. Budd could imagine how it had worried her. No wonder she looked scared. She had been terrified that something would come out to destroy the respectability she had built up. . . .
“Look here,” broke in Harry Bates. “I don’t want to hang about here all the blessed night. You’ve got nothing on me, any of you. I want to get back to London. . . .”
“That’s all right, Harry,” said Mr. Budd genially. “You can go anywhere you like. I’m not stoppin’ you. But, if you take my advice you’ll be careful. Keep out of this business, Harry. It’s nasty an’ dangerous. I wouldn’t like to find you like they found Sam. . . .”
Mr. Bates’s face lost some of its colour.
“What d’you mean?” he muttered. “You don’t think. . . .”
“If you don’t know anythin’,” advised the big man, “don’t try to know anythin’. . . .”
“I don’t know anything,” said Harry quickly.
“I don’t think you do. I think you was only hopin’ to,” said Mr. Budd. “There’s nothin’ in this business for you, Harry. . . .”
Harry Bates grinned suddenly.
“We have to make a living somehow,” he said shrugging his shoulders. “I thought there might be pickings.” He looked quickly from one to the other of them. “I think I’ll be off,” he said. “Maybe I can just get a train back. . . .”
“Leek ’ull take you to the station,” said Mr. Budd, “an’ see you safely on your way.”
“There’s no need to . . .” began Harry.
“I’d like to make sure you get there,” interrupted the stout superintendent. “It’s a lonely walk to the station . . .”
Sergeant Leek looked as though he would have preferred to remain where he was. Quite obviously he didn’t relish the assignment of seeing Harry Bates safely in the train for London, but an order was an order and he had to make the best of it.
“Now, m’am,” said Mr. Budd, when they had gone, “there’s no need for you to worry yourself any more. If the only connection that you’ve got with this affair is the fact that you was Sam Sprigot’s wife, you needn’t have any fear that it’ll be made public property.”
The thin face of Miss Titmarsh lost something of its scared expression.
“I’ve been so frightened,” she said, “so very frightened that it would all come out. . . .”
“You’ve lived here quite a long time, haven’t you?” asked Mr. Budd.
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “Many, many years. . . .”
“Then you may be able to help me,” said the stout superintendent and proceeded to tell her how.
Chapter Sixteen
During the next two days Mr. Budd was very busy indeed.
On the morning following his talk with Miss Titmarsh, he went over to Greystock and had a conference with Superintendent Sones, the result of which was to make that worthy official look more astonished than ever he had done in his life before. From Greystock, the stout superintendent took a train to London and spent some hours at Scotland Yard. From here he sought out the firm of estate agents who had let the flat from which the redoubtable Mr. Sprigot had descended into the waiting arms of the law.
The manager of the estate agents listened to what Mr. Budd had to say and did his best to supply the information that the big man wanted.
“Mr. Danesford gave up the flat soon after the robbery,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you where he is at presen
t. It was quite a long time ago, you know.”
“I realise that,” said Mr. Budd. “Did you ever meet him personally?”
“Oh, yes,” answered the manager. “Twice, as a matter of fact. When he first came to us to find him a flat and again when he signed the agreement.”
Mr. Budd produced from an inside pocket of his overcoat a photograph.
“Do you recognize that?” he asked.
The manager looked at it.
“Yes,” he said. “This is a photograph of Mr. Danesford.”
“I thought maybe it was,” remarked the stout superintendent, and there was nothing to show in his expression the sudden elation which filled him. His theory was receiving confirmation. At last he began to feel that he was on the right track.
“I hope,” said the manager, “there’s nothing wrong?”
“No, there’s somethin’ right,” said Mr. Budd.
“Mr. Danesford’s a very nice gentleman,” began the manager.
“Was,” corrected Mr. Budd gently.
“Do you mean he’s dead?” asked the astonished manager.
“I’m afraid he is,” said Mr. Budd with a sigh, as he replaced the photograph in his pocket. “I’m very much afraid he is.”
Later that afternoon, the big man sought an interview with Colonel Blair.
The dapper assistant commissioner of the C.I.D. listened to what he had to say with growing amazement. When Mr. Budd had finished, he passed a well-manicured hand over his neat grey head.
“Have you any real proof for all this?” he asked.
Mr. Budd shook his head slowly.
“No, sir,” he answered. “Not the kind o’ proof that ’ud be any use in a Court. But I’m sure I’m right.”
“Probably you are,” said Colonel Blair, “but you’ll have to have indisputable evidence before we can act. There are still a lot of loose ends. . . .”
“I know that, sir,” agreed the big man, “but I think I can tie ’em up pretty soon.”
The assistant commissioner, who had known Mr. Budd tie up a great number of loose ends during the course of his career, thought so too. He said:
“How do you propose to set about it?”
Mr. Budd raised his heavy-lidded eyes and looked sleepily at his questioner.
“I want to find a surgeon who performed a certain operation, sir,” he answered cryptically.
Colonel Blair smiled. He was fully aware of the stout man’s love of mystification. It was a boyish attribute that few would have suspected, and it was coupled with a predilection for the dramatic.
“All right,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll buy it.”
“It was an operation on a knee-cap,” said Mr. Budd. “A smashed knee-cap. It was mended with silver wire . . .”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the assistant commissioner, shaking his head, “but I am quite sure you do. . . .”
“Well, you’d be right in a way, sir,” admitted the big man. “The knee-cap was broken by a cricket ball, but you see, this silver wire wouldn’t fade away. It’d be visible in an X-ray photograph for instance. . . .”
“I think I’m beginning to understand what you mean,” said Colonel Blair shrewdly.
“I rather thought you might, sir,” said Mr. Budd.
“How did you find out about this—this broken knee-cap?” asked the assistant commissioner curiously.
“Information received,” answered Mr. Budd with a twinkle in his eye. “I was hopin’ to find something of the sort—not a knee-cap, p’raps, but something. . . .”
“The knee-cap was a bit of luck,” said Colonel Blair.
“It was better than I expected,” answered the big man.
“It’s the sort of evidence a jury likes,” said Colonel Blair.
“It’s the sort of evidence I like,” said Mr. Budd. “It’s certain an’ conclusive.”
Colonel Blair picked up a pencil and thoughtfully rolled it up and down his blotting pad. His neat brows were drawn together.
“It still leaves you with a lot to do, though,” he said.
The stout superintendent got heavily to his feet.
“I know that,” he said wearily, “nobody knows that better than what I do. . . .”
*
“I remember the case very well,” said the surgeon. “It was rather an unusual case, as a matter of fact. I suppose that’s why I recall it so easily. Very successful too.”
“There’d be no trace of a limp, sir?” asked Mr. Budd.
“Only at first,” replied the surgeon. “It would soon wear off. Nasty fracture, though, it was. Cricket ball caught him smack on the knee. Must have been a terrific crack, eh? Straight off the bat. . . .”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Budd.
The grey-haired, elderly surgeon looked at him curiously.
“What is this all in aid of?” he asked. “Why are you so interested in this operation? It was a very long time ago . . .”
“I’d rather not explain just at present,” said the big man.
“I suppose it’s got to do with this murder business at Marbury? said the surgeon. “Shocking affair. I read about it in the papers. . . .”
“Maybe you’ll read a lot more about it soon,” said Mr. Budd non-commitally and took his departure.
*
“This what you want?” said the radiologist holding up a still wet plate.
Mr. Budd peered at the large, cloudy picture with its darker markings.
“I suppose it is,” he said. “Those dark bits are the silver wires, eh?”
The radiologist nodded.
“That’s right,” he said. “Old compound fracture of the knee-cap by the look of it.”
“Can I have three or four copies of it?” asked the big superintendent.
“Yes.”
“How soon can I have ’em?”
The radiologist considered.
“Have ’em ready for you this evening—say about five-thirty,” he replied.
“I’ll come and collect them at six,” said Mr. Budd.
*
Sergeant Leek was a little disgruntled.
For nearly three days he had seen very little of his superior. With an attack of unusual energy, Mr. Budd was in and out of Kenwiddy’s farm, only staying for a few minutes sometimes and once not returning until the following day. During the short periods when he was there, Leek tried to get him to talk, but the stout superintendent refused to discuss anything. He seemed in a remarkably good temper which the melancholy sergeant, from long experience, took to be a sign that things were going well, but he was as close as the proverbial oyster.
Leek, in consequence, was not only annoyed but curious. Even the notes for his book of reminiscences failed to interest him.
What was Mr. Budd up to?
Somehow or other, he had found a line to the solution of the case, but what was it?
Leek strongly objected to being left out in the cold. It was always the way, he thought, gloomily. If there was any unpleasant work to be done, it always fell to him. But when things were plain-sailing, Budd preferred to deal with them himself. He liked to spring surprises, even on his own associates. Liked to be dramatic, that was his trouble.
But it was useless trying to get him to say anything before he was ready. Trying to prise open a steel safe with a meat skewer would be easier than getting information out of Mr. Budd until he was prepared to divulge it.
It was the evening of the fourth day when the stout superintendent came back to the farm after being absent on one of his mysterious trips and sought out Leek in the big sitting-room.
“Get your coat on,” he said abruptly, “we’re goin’ out.”
“Where?” asked Leek.
“Up to Marbury Court,” replied the big man shortly.
“What are we goin’ up there for?” inquired the sergeant curiously.
“You’ll see, when we get there,” retorted Mr. Budd.
Leek sighed. He was still to be
kept in the dark, apparently. He pulled on his coat and they set off. Mr. Budd was silent during the walk, but Leek judged by his expression that he was very pleased with himself.
Lupton admitted them, and Mr. Budd asked to see Mr. Titer. They were shown into a small room opening off the hall, and the butler went in search of the solicitor.
After a short while, Mr. Titer came in.
“You wished to see me?” he inquired unnecessarily. “You have—er—news?”
“I think so, sir,” said Mr. Budd. “I believe I have news of Mr. Francis Conyers.”
Mr. Titer’s usually expressionless face for once expressed surprise.
“Indeed,” he said. “Do you mean that you have—er—found him?”
“Yes, I’ve found him,” said Mr. Budd.
“Is he alive?” asked the lawyer.
“No, sir,” answered Mr. Budd shaking his head. “No, I’m afraid he’s not alive. . . .”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Titer frowning. “I don’t quite understand—er—Superintendent. When did he die—where . . .?”
“He died,” said Mr. Budd slowly and carefully, “a few nights ago. . . .”
“A few nights ago,” echoed the now thoroughly astonished lawyer.
“As to how and where he died,” continued Mr. Budd, “he died from a heavy blow on the head in the hall of that old, ruined house, Jackson’s Folly.”
“But that’s nonsense,” ejaculated Mr. Titer. “That was Sir Basil. . . .”
“No, sir,” answered Mr. Budd. “That was Francis, his younger brother. The man you have always believed to be Sir Basil Conyers has always been Francis, sir, from the time he took his brother’s identity to inherit the estate.”
Chapter Seventeen
The rather prominent adam’s apple in Mr. Titer’s stringy throat moved convulsively up and down as he appeared to have difficulty in swallowing. Leek’s face was the picture of incredulous astonishment.
If Mr. Budd had intended to spring a surprise he had succeeded.
“But—but,” stammered the lawyer, “this—this is incredible. It’s absurd! There must be a mistake. . . .
“There’s no mistake,” said Mr. Budd. “The man who was killed in Jackson’s Folly was Francis Conyers. . . .”
The Nursery Rhyme Murders Page 12
