by Molly Thynne
“Would it be giving you too much trouble if I asked for a look at that photograph you spoke of?” he asked. “I’d like to see one of Baxter again.”
Mrs. Benson beat even her own record as a purveyor of information.
“I’ve got it here!” she announced triumphantly. “When I heard that you were an old friend of Baxter’s I said to myself: ‘I expect that photograph will amuse him.’ It was lying on my table where I put it yesterday, so I just picked it up and brought it with me.”
She fumbled in her bag and produced a photograph which she handed to Fayre. He looked at it eagerly and was at once confronted with an unforeseen difficulty. Gregg he spotted at once, younger and a trifle leaner, but unmistakable. He was sitting in the front row of a group of about fifteen men. Any one of the other fourteen might have been Baxter, for all Fayre knew. But which? And he did not dare ask!
It was Henderson who came to the rescue. He had risen and was leaning over the back of Fayre’s chair, studying the photograph, and he grasped the situation almost immediately. Out of sheer devilry he allowed Fayre to sit for some minutes helpless, glowering at Gregg’s not very pleasing features, racking his brains for a way out of the difficulty, before he placed a finger on the portrait of a dark, rather haggard-looking man at the end of the front row and remarked lazily:
“Baxter looks as if he’d been making a night of it! It’s very like him, though.”
“He was always a queer, nervous creature. But he was clever enough. I know they thought a lot of him at St. Swithin’s,” rattled on the unsuspecting Mrs. Benson.
Fayre was busy studying the photograph. The figures in the group were small, but very clearly defined, and Baxter’s head stood out distinctly against the white overall of the man behind him. Fayre could place his type at a glance. Very dark, with a high, narrow forehead and deep-set eyes and the too sensitive mouth of a man whose nerves are perilously near the surface. The kind to fare badly at the hands of a woman like Mrs. Draycott. No wonder the marriage had ended in tragedy, he thought, and was not surprised that Gregg had done his best to spare his friend.
He returned the photograph to Mrs. Benson with a sigh. He could understand and sympathize now with many of the things Gregg had said during their drive to the station. He felt a sudden, rather disconcerting, sympathy for the man and was not sorry when Mrs. Benson took herself off and gave him an opportunity to get away himself. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
By tea-time he was back at Staveley. During the drive he had had ample time for reflection, but it had not helped him much. He was still very much at sea as to his next move and realized that it would need considerable diplomacy to discover Gregg’s whereabouts at the time of the murder without rousing his suspicions. And, keen as he was to clear Leslie, he now found himself almost dreading the answer to his thoughts.
Bill Staveley met him with the news that Leslie had appeared before the Magistrate and been committed for trial at the Carlisle Assizes.
CHAPTER XI
Fayre was only half-way through his first cup of tea when Cynthia cornered him.
“You look hipped, Uncle Fayre,” she said, her sharp eyes on his face. “Didn’t you like your old friend when you did find him? Or are you just fed up?”
He shook himself out of his abstraction.
“My old friend was excellent company, thank you, and very much his old self, plus a jolly little wife. But I do feel a bit weary. Too much bicycling, no doubt!” But Cynthia resolutely ignored the red herring so adroitly drawn across her path.
“It isn’t anything new about John, is it?” she asked with a note of real terror in her voice. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“My dear, of course not! Honestly, it’s only the after-effects of the Hendersons’ overpowering hospitality. They gave me the most enormous lunch and made me eat it, too. How have things been going here?”
“You’re sure it’s nothing else?” she urged doubtfully. “You wouldn’t keep anything from me from a mistaken idea of kindness, would you, Uncle Fayre?” Fayre’s eyes met hers with the blandest innocence. He could not take her into his confidence yet. Time enough when his suspicions were verified.
“The moment I discover anything definite, either for or against Leslie, I shall bring it to you, my dear,” he said with complete sincerity. “You’ve got a right to know before any one else.”
“Thank you,” she answered simply. Then, with a return to her usual manner: “Sybil’s much better. Dr. Gregg was here this afternoon and he says she may see people, in reason, if they don’t stay too long. But she’s not to be excited, so don’t let her talk about Leslie’s affairs, Uncle Fayre.”
“I won’t, if I can possibly help it,” promised Fayre with all his heart. The last thing he wanted, at this juncture, was to share his knowledge with Sybil Fayre. He could not forget that, at any moment, her life might be in Gregg’s hands and, so long as she was dependent on him, he resolved to do nothing to shake her confidence in him.
“She’s anxious to see you,” went on Cynthia. “But Eve and Bill have both been with her and they think she’s had enough people for to-day. She wants to see you first thing to-morrow, though, and I’m afraid she means to go on with what we were saying on the day she was taken ill.”
“She’s a wilful woman, too,” he said ruefully. “She’ll probably have her way. I’m no match for her.”
Cynthia laughed.
“You old fraud! Even I have seen you twiddle people round your finger before now. As for shutting up, you’re like a clam when you choose!”
After tea Fayre joined his host in the library.
“I feel I owe you both thanks and an apology,” he said slowly, as he filled his pipe. “You’ve been a brick over this business, Bill. You’ve let me have the car at all hours, and use your house like a hotel and you’ve never asked what I’m up to or even when I’m going! You must want to know that, I should think, by now!” Bill Staveley chucked a box of matches over to Fayre, who caught it neatly.
“That’s the third! You’ve got two boxes of mine in your pocket now,” he murmured. “I saw them go in.”
Then, as Fayre turned out his pockets and sheepishly revealed three boxes of matches, he went on:
“Don’t be an old ass, old man, and stop handing round compliments. I like watching you trotting about, so happy and busy! As for asking questions, I never believe in butting in on other people’s affairs. So long as I know you’re on the job, I’m satisfied. And stay as long as you like. If you don’t know how Eve and I feel about that, I’m not going to indulge your vanity by telling you!”
“It’s something to know that I’ve got you both behind me,” said Fayre soberly.
“You can count on that, old chap.”
Bill Staveley had abandoned his usual easy banter and spoke seriously enough now.
“Personally, I’d put my shirt on that boy’s innocence, and I know Eve feels the same. Tell us as much or as little as you like; we don’t care provided you clear him. And if any one can do it, I believe it’s you. Only, if you’ve got any nefarious schemes up your sleeve, remember that I’m a J. P. and keep them to yourself. I don’t want to know anything about them!” Fayre chuckled.
“I must say, you’re a tophole-hogger! When I fall into the hands of the worthy Gunnet, I suppose you’ll turn up looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth and bail me out! If it’s any comfort to you, I’m not contemplating anything of the sort at present. Cynthia may have told you that we’ve got hold of a couple of clues, but they may lead to nothing. Sometimes I think it’s a hopeless business. The only thing I do feel sure of is Leslie’s innocence.”
Lord Staveley nodded.
“Same here, and if he is innocent it ought to be possible to prove it. Has any one thought of digging up that beastly cat?”
For a moment Fayre was puzzled; then his face cleared.
“The one Leslie shot? It appears that it was there, all right. According to Grey, Gunne
t went off and did a bit of sleuthing of his own and he found the place and dug the cat up. Unfortunately it wasn’t labelled like a pheasant with the day on which it had been killed and though I suppose they’ll use it in the defence, it won’t cut much ice with a jury. We want something more tangible than that.”
“What you want is to produce the murderer, old man. That’s your best defence and I don’t see why you shouldn’t do it if you’re anything like the sticker you used to be.”
Fayre’s interview with Lady Kean the next morning proved far less easy. He found her lying on the sofa in her bedroom, looking pitifully frail and white. She was much weaker than she chose to admit and, at the first sight of her, he made up his mind to cut the interview as short as possible.
“Hatter dear,” was her greeting, “I am sorry to have made such a fool of myself. I must have given you both a scare and I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself. I’d been feeling seedy all day and never dreamed when I started that I shouldn’t manage to get to my room and collapse decently in private. Please forgive me for being such a nuisance.”
Fayre pulled a chair up to her side and sat down.
“I think we were the culprits,” he said gently. “We tired you out between us. It’s something to see you up and dressed, but, for Heaven’s sake, don’t overdo it again like that. You don’t look fit to be talking even now.”
“Talking doesn’t tire me,” she assured him eagerly. “Hatter, please, I want to know what you’ve been doing. Is there any news? Cynthia says you went to Carlisle yesterday.”
“I promised Cynthia I wouldn’t let you discuss it,” he answered reluctantly. “But if it will set your mind at rest, I’ll give you my assurance that nothing definite has turned up since our last conversation. As a matter of fact, I went to Carlisle to look up an old friend and had very little time for anything else. I did go to one or two of the garages in the hope of finding some trace of the car that was seen that night, but I drew a complete blank.”
“I had an idea that that’s what had taken you to Carlisle,” she murmured. “Thinking things over, it struck me the car might have stopped there. You found nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing. As far as I can see at present, it must have vanished into space. Grey did his best before he left, but could find no one who’d seen it.”
“And Dr. Gregg?” she insisted and her tone was so urgent that he thought it better to humour her. “There’s nothing new about him?”
“My dear Sybil, I was away all yesterday and Grey has gone back to London,” he hedged. “Even if he’s managed to stumble on something there, he hasn’t had time to communicate with me. If anything turns up from him, I’ll let you know, but don’t worry your head about it now. Rest and get well.”
She turned to him with a display of emotion quite foreign to her.
“I can’t help thinking about it,” she said piteously. “That boy shut up in prison haunts me! Just imagine, Hatter, what it must be. Alone, with nobody to reassure him, not knowing how it is all going to turn out! And Cynthia! Just at the beginning of her young life! It’s cruel!”
He tried to soothe her.
“I know, Sybil, but it’s no good for either of us to let it get on our nerves. Thank goodness, they are young and able to face things. Some day this will be like an evil dream to them and they’ll be able to start afresh, with their whole lives before them. Don’t waste your strength in futile pity, my dear!”
She managed to smile at him, though her face was still white and drawn.
“You’re right, of course, and I know I’m being silly. It’s only that when one’s ill and helpless one loses one’s sense of proportion. If I know how things are going, it won’t be so bad. You will tell me, won’t you? Don’t keep things from me because of my rotten health, will you, Hatter?”
Her voice was very appealing and Fayre mentally cursed his luck. He had barely succeeded in heading off Cynthia and now here was Sybil Kean pressing him even more closely.
He rose and took both her hands in his.
“The moment anything definite happens, you shall know. Meanwhile, try to put it all out of your mind for a bit, anyhow till you’re stronger. Edward was right when he said you ought never to have been mixed up in this.”
She sank back on her pillows with a tired sigh.
“All right. I can rest more easily if I know that I can trust you to keep me posted. And come again soon, Hatter, please!”
He looked back as he reached the door and saw that her eyes were already closed. Evidently his visit, short as it had been, had taken what little strength she possessed.
He went straight from her room to the garage where he had housed his bicycle. One of the chauffeurs had cleaned and overhauled it and had it waiting in readiness. Now that his first stiffness was past Fayre was beginning to enjoy this despised method of getting about the country and he pedalled down the drive and out onto the highroad quite unperturbed by the grin on Bill Staveley’s face as he rode past him on the chestnut mare he had put at Fayre’s disposal at the beginning of his visit. Fayre, who had promised himself some hunting next winter, looked after him with only a passing feeling of regret. His mind was busily engaged with other things.
He kept a sharp lookout on the fields on either side of the road, but he had gone some distance before he found one that apparently interested him sufficiently to him dismount and stand for a minute or two looking into it.
Lord Staveley had been having the gates on the estate repainted and this one had evidently only been finished that day; nevertheless Fayre leaned heavily against it, with the result that, during his absorbed contemplation of three cows and a diminutive donkey, he managed to adorn his coat with a long smear of bright green paint. He took the misfortune with commendable fortitude and, picking up his bicycle, rode quickly off in the direction of Gregg’s house.
Arrived there he went straight round to the garage at the back of the house. He found the doctor’s man polishing the brass of a small two-seater.
“I don’t know whether the doctor’s in,” he said genially. “If he is, I’ll go round in a minute and have a few words with him, but I’ve just discovered this beastly stuff on my coat and I wondered if you could let me have a drop of petrol to clean it off with. I must have got it leaning over a gate near here.”
The man touched the paint with his finger.
“You’ll find the doctor in, sir, and this will come off easily enough while it’s fresh,” he said. “Lucky it’s still wet.”
He went into the garage and came out with a tin of petrol.
“If you’d got such a thing as a clean rag,” suggested Fayre.
“If you’ll wait a minute, sir, I’ll get one from the kitchen.”
He disappeared round the corner of the house and, as he did so, Fayre darted into the garage. It needed only a glance to see that there was room for but one car and that a small one. Fayre cast a quick look round the tiny garage and then made for a file of bills hanging from a hook against the wall. With one eye alert for the returning chauffeur he ran through them swiftly. Knowing the ways of small cars when left to the care of odd-jobmen he hoped that Gregg might on occasion be driven to hire a car from the local garage and there was a faint chance that the garage bill might be on this file. Fortunately for him it was not only there but near the top of the pile and he found it almost immediately. It took him but a second to find the entry he needed.
“March 23rd. To hire................................£0. 10”
He slipped back into the yard just in time and was standing by the car, ruefully regarding his coat when the doctor’s man returned.
“If you’ll let me have the coat, sir, I’ll have it off in a moment,” he said, as he unscrewed the can of petrol.
While he was at work on the stain Fayre examined the car.
“Find her satisfactory?” he asked casually. “I’m thinking of getting a small car myself and I can’t make up my mind about the make.”
The man grunt
ed.
“Been givin’ a lot of trouble lately,” he said. “Wants a thorough overhaul, but the doctor can’t spare her.”
“Always chooses the worst night to baulk on, I expect, if I know anything of cars.”
“That’s right. With the wind blowin’ fit to knock you down and bitin’ cold, she’ll lay down on you proper.”
“There was a night like that just after I got down to these parts,” said Fayre reminiscently. “There were a lot of trees down, I was told.”
“Night of the murder up to Mr. Leslie’s farm. Awful night, that were. I was two hours workin’ on this blessed car and then the doctor had to hire. I think you’ll find that all right, sir.”
Fayre thanked him and slipped a generous tip into his hand; then, getting into his coat, he made his way round to the front door.
The doctor was in, but was busy in the surgery. Fayre was shown into the study, an untidy, comfortable-looking room on the ground floor.
He took a quick inventory of the contents. A big desk piled with papers stood in the window. The fireplace was flanked by a couple of shabby, roomy armchairs. Fayre sat down in one of them and warmed his hands at the fire. As he did so, his eye fell on the mantelpiece and in a second he was on his feet again, examining a small framed photograph that stood there. He turned at the sound of the opening door to meet the steady gaze of Gregg.
“I haven’t come to waste your time,” he explained as he shook hands. “I know this is your busy time. I only wanted to explain that I’ve made free with your petrol and the kind offices of your man in the most shameless way. I got some paint on my coat, leaning over a gate, and, as I was passing your house, I ventured to ask for some petrol to repair the damage.”
“Very glad you did. I hope you got the stuff off,” answered Gregg cordially. “Smoke?”
