The Draycott Murder Mystery: A Golden Age Mystery

by Molly Thynne

  “If you can answer that, my child, you’ve all but solved the mystery,” sighed Fayre.

  “Well, if the tramp can’t answer it, who can?” demanded Cynthia. “You said he was frightened and suspicious and on his guard against the police. Why shouldn’t he have been keeping back something? I’ve got a hunch that if you treat him like a human being and get him to believe that you’re not his enemy like the rest, you may get something out of him. Anyway, it’s worth trying. Just to please me, Uncle Fayre! His leg’s getting better and once he’s out and in the hands of the police you won’t have a chance to get at him.”

  Fayre knew that he was weakening, but he made a determined effort to retain his comfortable seat by the fire.

  “It’s an absolutely forlorn hope, you know,” he urged. “And the chances are that they won’t let us see him when we get there. You must remember that I went with Grey last time. Besides, by the time we get the car …”

  “The car’s there now,” stated Cynthia calmly. “I ordered it as I was coming through the hall just now. I told them I’d drive myself. Please, Uncle Fayre!” With a sigh Fayre heaved himself out of his chair. “You’re a nuisance and a bully and you don’t play fair,” he complained, with a smile that belied his words. “But I suppose if I’m to have my tea in peace, I shall have to humour you.”

  Cynthia drove with her usual cheerful abandon and they arrived at the police station at Whitbury in record time. Fayre had insisted on going there for a pass before attempting to storm the hospital and was glad he had done so, for the Inspector recognized Cynthia as the daughter of a J. P. and was ready to oblige her.

  “As a matter of fact, we’ve withdrawn our man,” he said. “The hospital authorities are quite capable of looking after their patient. He can’t walk on that leg yet and nobody except yourself and your friend has visited him so far, Mr. Fayre. He’s still under suspicion, of course, but it’s ten to one against his having anything to do with the murder.”

  They drove on to the hospital and Fayre presented his pass, leaving Cynthia in the car outside.

  He found his man sitting up in bed reading the paper. His appearance had improved considerably in the interval, owing, no doubt, to good food and soap and water. He received Fayre’s friendly greeting with the reserve of one who has learned to put his trust in no one.

  “Glad to see you looking so fit,” said Fayre. “I was passing and thought I’d look in and see how you were doing. Also, I wanted to thank you.”

  The man observed him warily.

  “I ain’t done nothing for you that I know of,” he volunteered grudgingly.

  “On the contrary, you’ve helped me and my friend very considerably and we’re grateful to you. The fact is, this man they’ve arrested in connection with the farm murder is a pal of mine and I’m doing what I can to help him. If it hadn’t been for you, I should never have got onto that car you saw, and that car may mean a lot to us. If there’s anything I can do for you when you get about again, let me know. You won’t be fit for the road yet awhile, you know.”

  The hunted look came back into the tramp’s face. “I wish to God I was back on the road!” he burst out. “Fat chance I’ve got of ever gettin’ there, it seems to me. I ain’t blind nor deaf neither. The police ’ave got it in for me proper. I know where I’m goin’ from ’ere, right enough. And me got no more to do with it than a babe unborn!”

  “I believe you,” said Fayre simply. “It’s just a bit of bad luck that you and Mr. Leslie got dragged in at all. It’s the third person that’s responsible for all this that I’m anxious to find.”

  The man gave him a quick, sidelong glance.

  “Is Mr. Leslie the gent what found the body?” he asked.

  Fayre nodded.

  “’E didn’t do it,” affirmed the man with surprising conviction. “I see ’im through the winder when ’e found ’er, like I told the police. Rare taken aback, ’e was. ’E didn’t do it. I could’ve told them that if they’d asked me. The police!”

  He spoke with infinite scorn.

  “I know he didn’t; but the trouble is to prove it. And what clears him will probably clear you—that’s why I wanted to have a chat with you. You haven’t any theory of your own, I suppose?”

  “Not me. I wasn’t nowhere near the place when it ’appened. Didn’t even ’ear the shot, for the matter of that.”

  He was talking freely now and Fayre could see that he had managed to gain the man’s confidence and was quick to act on the discovery. He bent forward confidentially.

  “There’s absolutely nothing you can remember, no matter how small, that happened while you were waiting at the corner of the lane, is there? The murder was committed while you were lying there and there may be something you didn’t think worth mentioning before. I give you my word I won’t pass it on to the police, unless it’s something that will go towards fastening the guilt on the right person.”

  “Come to that, ’ow am I to know as you don’t think I’m the right person, mister?” queried the man shrewdly. “I was there all right, wasn’t I?”

  “I’m ready to take your word for it that you never budged from the corner of the lane, and I’m taking my chances there, you know. But if I’m straight with you I look to you to be straight with me.”

  The tramp leaned back on his pillows wearily. “What do you want me to say?” he asked bitterly. “That I saw the bloomin’ murderer goin’ up the lane with the weapon in ’is ’and? I tell you, I didn’t see no one, ’cause there wasn’t no one to see.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “As sure as I’m lyin’ ’ere, which I wish I wasn’t.”

  The conversation languished and Fayre had almost made up his mind to give it up as a bad job and depart when the man turned on him suddenly.

  “What time would you say that there murder was committed, mister?” he asked.

  “According to what little we have been able to find out, about six-thirty. It must have been then, if the car you saw had anything to do with it.”

  Fayre took some sheets of paper out of his pocket and looked up the notes he had made.

  “Here you are. You saw the car going towards the farm at about six-twenty and you saw it again, coming away, at six-forty or thereabouts. At six-thirty you were at the Lodge gates of Galston. If you can prove that, I think you may consider yourself out of it altogether.”

  The man hesitated.

  “’Ow can I prove it? What d’you think?” he said at last. “But I’ll tell you this, though I wouldn’t say it to no one else. And it’s not for the police, mind you. You said as you wouldn’t pass it on, mister?”

  “I won’t. Fire away.”

  “There was a woman as might ’ave seen me. She was comin’ towards me on the Whitbury road and she turned into the Lodge just before I got there. Lodge-keeper’s wife, I put her down to be.”

  Fayre stared at him in amazement.

  “Good Lord, man!” he cried. “Why on earth didn’t you say so when they questioned you? It’s your one chance of clearing yourself. How do you know she didn’t see you?”

  “I ’ad me own reasons,” stated the man stubbornly. “The cops won’t get nothin’ out of me I don’t choose to tell.”

  Fayre shrugged his shoulders.

  “Hanging’s a nasty death,” he suggested.

  His curiosity was thoroughly roused, but he knew that his one chance of getting anything out of the man was not to seem too eager.

  The tramp’s face seemed to grow whiter and more pinched.

  “They can’t fix it onto me,” he whispered doggedly.

  “They can, unless you can prove that you were not at the farm at six-thirty. You don’t seem to realize that you’re in almost as bad a position as Mr. Leslie.”

  “Supposin’ she didn’t see me?” The man was evidently wavering.

  “If you saw her she probably saw you.”

  The logic of this was so obvious that it reached the tramp’s brain, warped thou
gh it was with suspicion. He considered it for a moment; then, raising himself on his elbow, brought his face close to Fayre’s.

  “I’ve been a fool,” he whispered. “I see it now. But I was afraid of gettin’ in bad with the police. Will you promise not to pass it on without I tell you?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t. Go on.”

  “It was this way. I see the woman, like I told you, and I watched her go into the Lodge. Then I went on to the Lodge, meanin’ to ask for a bite of something. When I got there I see something lyin’ in the road and I picks it up. It was a purse. It ’adn’t got much in it, only a ’alf-crown.”

  He paused, evidently at a loss as to how to proceed.

  “And you pocketed the half-crown and put the purse back where you found it,” suggested Fayre calmly.

  He knew now why the man had kept silence and marvelled at his mentality. Better, apparently, to risk the gallows for a crime he hadn’t committed than risk “getting in bad with the police” for one he had. The one evil he understood, the other he hadn’t sufficient imagination to realize.

  “That’s right, mister. But I wasn’t goin’ to tell the cops that, was I?”

  “No, I suppose not. You can trust me, but, I warn you, you’ll probably have to make a clean breast of it in the end if you want to clear yourself of something much more serious.”

  “Seems to me I’m for it, whether I tells ’em or whether I don’t. Never did ’ave no blinkin’ luck, did I?”

  Fayre had risen to his feet and stood looking down at the man in the bed. He was not a prepossessing object, with his furtive eyes and weak chin. But probably, as he had said, he had never had any luck and Fayre was conscious of a sudden feeling of pity as he realized the utter friendlessness of this wretched, homeless creature who existed only on the sufferance of other men more fortunate and stronger than himself. No wonder he trusted no one and felt instinctively that every man’s hand was against him.

  “Look here,” said Fayre, speaking on impulse. “I’ll do this for you. I’ll go to the Lodge myself and see the woman there. If she remembers you, well and good; you’ll have your alibi ready then if you need it. As to the purse, I’ll settle with her myself over the half-crown. You’ve spent it, I suppose?”

  “Most of it, mister. The rest’s there.”

  He jerked his head in the direction of the table by his bed. On it lay the contents of the dirty red handkerchief he had been carrying when he was picked up. The police had been through them and found nothing worth confiscating.

  “Very well, I’ll square you with her. I think I can undertake to do that without giving you away. If she’s a decent woman she’ll no doubt agree not to prosecute once she’s got the money back. I will give you my word not to go to the police about it, but, if you take my advice, you’ll make a clean breast of it to them as soon as you get on your feet again. Otherwise, you know where you’ll find yourself. However, that’s your affair. Anyway, I’ll see to the purse business for you, which is more than you deserve, you know!”

  If Fayre’s last words were harsh his smile was very friendly as he extended his hand in farewell. Weakness had always irritated and, at the same time, appealed to him and he had only just begun to understand how peculiarly helpless the class to which this man belonged must be.

  The tramp thrust a limp hand into his extended one. He was evidently struggling for expression.

  “Thank you, mister; I shan’t forget it,” was all he said, but Fayre knew he spoke the truth.

  He had reached the door when the man called him back.

  “I say, mister, I reckon you’d best take these towards that there half-crown. It’s all I got left.”

  He was holding out the small pile of coppers that had been on the table by his side. Fayre took them from him and gently laid them down again beside the folded red handkerchief. The man watched him and, as he did so, his eyes fell on a small object which lay among his pitiful possessions.

  “I’d rather you took it, mister,” he said half-heartedly.

  Then, as Fayre shook his head: “Thank you kindly, all the same. You were askin’ if there was anythin’, no matter how small, as I could remember. There’s that, if it’s any use to you. It ’ad gone clean out of my ’ead. It won’t ’elp you much, but if I’d remembered I’d ’a’ give it to you. By the gate of the farm, it was. I stepped on it in the dark goin’ in, when I was on my way to the barn.”

  He held out his hand and in the palm was lying the cap of a “Red Dwarf” stylographic pen.

  CHAPTER XVI

  As Fayre passed down the broad staircase of the Cottage Hospital he reviewed his conversation with the tramp and decided that, considering the little he had gained by it, he might as well have stayed by the comfortable fireside in the library. Cynthia’s “hunch” had not amounted to much, after all, and he was sorry, more on her account than his own, for he had not expected anything himself from the interview. It had, however, simplified matters, in so far as it had definitely wiped off the tramp from the possible list of suspects. He had a strong conviction that the man’s story was true.

  He suddenly became conscious of something hard pressing against the palm of his hand and remembered the little red cap the tramp had given him at parting. It belonged obviously to the pen he had picked up on his visit to the farm and he was in the act of slipping it into his pocket and dismissing it from his mind when a thought struck him which caused him to pause in his descent and stand gazing blankly into the hall below. He had suddenly realized that if the tramp had picked up the cap on the occasion of his arrival at the farm somewhere about seven o’clock the pen must have been dropped still earlier in the evening. Fayre’s mind went back to the copper-coloured sequins he had found by the gate. They had been lying close to the pen and he found himself trying to picture what had happened.

  If Mrs. Draycott’s dress had caught in the gate in passing, the pen might have fallen from her companion’s pocket while he was disentangling it. Or could the unhappy woman have been seized with a premonition of her fate and hesitated on the very threshold of the farm? At any rate, the finding of the cap by the tramp did away once for all with the possibility of the pen’s having been dropped after the murder by a reporter, as Kean had suggested, and its proximity to the spangles from Mrs. Draycott’s dress pointed to the possibility that she and her companion might have paused for a moment near the gate on their way to the house.

  The pen had suddenly developed into a far more important link than they had supposed, and Fayre went on his way feeling that not only had his morning not been wasted, but that Cynthia, this time at least, had scored, not only against himself but against Kean, a fact which afforded him a certain amount of satisfaction.

  He found Cynthia deep in conversation with the porter of the hospital.

  “Cummin’s son is our undergardener at Galston,” she explained with a smile that included both men. “I was telling him that he’s the only person who really understands Mother’s beloved roses.”

  Fayre, watching her, understood why it was that she had, not only the estate, but the whole of the village of Galston, at her feet, and remembered how even Gunnet had dropped his official reserve when speaking of her. He climbed into the car and, after a few more friendly words to the porter, they drove off.

  “Well?” she asked as they swept round the corner into the High Street of Whitbury. “Did he say anything?”

  “He cleared himself, if what he says is true. Is there time to call on your lodge-keeper at Galston on the way back?”

  She turned to him in surprise.

  “Of course. It’s a little out of the way, but not enough to matter. Why do you want to see him?”

  “I want to see her, if there is a her.”

  “There is. His wife, Mrs. Doggett, is a dear old thing. If you want to get something out of her, you’d better leave it to me. I’ve known her all my life.”

  “I do. I want her to deal kindly with our friend, the tramp, for one thing.”
>
  He told her the story of the purse and then showed her the red cap the man had given him and explained its significance.

  “Mrs. Doggett will be all right; I’ll manage her. But the cap is important, Uncle Fayre! I’m glad you went!”

  “So am I, now. You were quite right and it’s decent of you not to rub it in!”

  He waited while Cynthia went into the Lodge. After a short interval she came out, followed by a pleasant-looking old woman.

  “This is Mrs. Doggett,” she said. “Mr. Fayre’s a great friend of mine, Mrs. Doggett, so you must be kind to him.”

  Mrs. Doggett’s answer was a broad smile and an old-fashioned curtsey.

  “It was her purse,” went on Cynthia, “and she’s going to be a brick and let the poor man off. Tell Mr. Fayre about it, Mrs. Doggett.”

  “I must ’a’ dropped it just before I got to the gate, sir,” explained the old woman. “I hadn’t been home more than a few minutes when I missed it and went out again into the road to have a look. I found it almost at once, but it was empty. I was quite took aback, wondering who could ’a’ cleaned it out in such a short time, when I remembered seein’ some one comin’ towards me as I neared the gate. I went up the road a bit, but I couldn’t see no one, so I give it up. There wasn’t only half-a-crown in it and, if he was in want, I’m glad he should have it, pore soul.”

  “Do you remember at all what time you reached home that night?” asked Fayre.

  “I couldn’t tell you to a minute, sir, but it must have been somewhere round about six-thirty, I should say. I’d been doin’ me bit of shoppin’ at Whitbury and I usually stay till the shops close at six and it’s just about half an hour’s walk home.”

  “How long were you in the house, do you think, before you discovered your loss?”

  “I can’t rightly say, but not more than a quarter of an hour. I hurried out as soon as I found it was gone. It wasn’t long, because me ’usband come in for ’is supper at seven and I’d got it all cooked and ready for ’im by then. And he hasn’t been late once this month, to my knowledge, sir.”