“If you can wait ten minutes, sir, I’ll join you there,” the inspector agreed.
He had seen the expensive car at the door and argued that the lunch would not be stinted. Inspector Pagnell liked his food and was a sound trencherman.
“Right! I’ll go along and order it,” The Counsellor decided. “Come as soon as you can.”
He went out, gave his chauffeur orders to fend for himself, and by the time the inspector appeared at the inn, everything was ready for him. The Counsellor had gauged his man accurately; and during luncheon he kept the conversation at a minimum, allowing his guest ample time to devote himself to his meal.
“Coffee here, or in the other room?” he said at last. “We’ll try the other room. It’s quieter.”
When they got their coffee, The Counsellor, having now established contact with the more human side of the inspector, approached his real objective.
“This isn’t official,” he began. “All I want’s some general information about the neighbours and neighbourhood. I pitched on you not because you are in the police, but simply because you’re the only knowledgeable person in the place that I’ve had dealings with. And nothing between us is for official use. Understand?”
“Oh, quite so,” Pagnell agreed. “Did you get any news of the car. We’ve had no word of it being stolen, or anything.”
“I’ve had it traced,” The Counsellor admitted, “and after we’ve had our chat I’m going along to Longstoke House to report about it. What sort of person is Miss Treverton, by the way?”
“A very nice young lady,” said the inspector approvingly. “Always got a nice smile when I come across her accidental-like. Very pleasant and friendly. But no gush about her. She keeps herself to herself, if you see what I mean. Quite popular in the village. Helps sometimes at charity affairs and all that kind of thing.”
“A sociable kind of girl?” asked The Counsellor. “She’s got friends round about here, I suppose?”
“Oh, plenty. She plays golf and tennis and bridge, and you need company for all of them. She’s got some money of her own, too, they say. She lives with an uncle. He runs a picture-factory or something at Longstoke House.”
“I’ve heard something about it,” admitted The Counsellor. “Does it need a big staff—apart from the actual workmen, I mean.”
“A few,” the inspector said, evidently going over the list in his mind. “There’s Whitgift to begin with. He lives in the lodge at the gate. And there’s a man Albury, a bit of a boor, he is, from anything I’ve seen of him. And there’s a sharpset little chap called Barrington. There’s another—Dibdin’s his name—but he’s only here once in a way. He doesn’t live about here. A kind of commercial traveller for them, or something, perhaps. But how do they come to interest you, sir?” he inquired with a faint air of suspicion, as if he feared he might be saying too much.
“Pure curiosity,” admitted The Counsellor, frankly. “In my line, you know, one never knows when a little local knowledge may turn out to be useful. Next time you’re in London, Inspector, just drop in at my offices and you’ll begin to see that everything’s useful some time or other.”
“Well, you certainly did give me a hand,” Pagnell confessed.
“What kind of a countryside is this?” demanded The Counsellor, evading further questionings. “Nice people about? I’ve heard of one family . . . what’s their name? . . . Mulock or Hurlock or something that sounds like that.”
“Trulock’s what you mean, I expect, sir. Dr. Trulock. He’s not what you’d call a native here. He took Fairlawns furnished, in the spring—that’s a place with a big garden a few miles along the road, past Longstoke House. He’s a medical but he doesn’t practice. Retired, I gather, though he’s only in the forties. Handsome man, grey-haired, always very pleasant when I run across him, and sociable. Gives tennis-parties quite a lot, mostly for the young people hereabouts. A kindly sort of man, too. He paid for a treat to some kids at an orphan home, the other day. Hired a bus to take them to the Fair we had last week and stood each of them half-a-crown for the shows. Very decent of him, I thought. His wife’s quite young—under thirty, I’d say. They’ve got two kids, about four or five, with a nannie to look after them, one of the kind that wears a special uniform to show she’s out of the ordinary run. She’s been on holiday lately, but I see she’s back again now.”
“Anyone else of interest?” asked The Counsellor.
“There’s the vicar, of course. A fine old gentleman, and if you’re interested in the history of the place he’s the man for you, sir. It’s his hobby. He’s spent twenty years digging into all the family records he could get his hands on round about here, and he’ll talk yards about it, if you give him a start. Not my line exactly; I’m more interested in things that haven’t been dead fifty years.”
“Anybody else worth noticing?”
The inspector slapped his knee as though he had just remembered something which should not be passed over.
“And if I wasn’t almost forgetting that!” he exclaimed. “If it’s out-of-the-way things you’re looking for, we’ve got one for you here. What do you say to a monkery; you know, the sort of place people retire to, to be out of the swim? Only, this is a sort of mixed monkery and nunnery, male and female. The vicar doesn’t much care about it, I gather. Opposition show, perhaps, is the way he may look at it. I’ve seen a nasty look in his eye when he called it a something-or-other . . . a thellemy, I think . . . whatever that is.”
“Theleme,” suggested The Counsellor.
“That’s it!” confirmed the inspector. “This thing’s run by some silly sort of society, I gather. They took Grendon Manor, an old house up Fairlawns way, this summer. They call it The Abode of Light. Some new fancy religion, perhaps. I don’t know. They don’t make themselves a nuisance, and that’s all that concerns me. Not liked about the village, though, because they don’t buy much. Everything comes from some Stores in London. That doesn’t make for popularity, as you can guess, sir. There’s a good deal of nasty gossip and hints about this and hints about that amongst the local people, mostly invented, I expect.”
“Not running a Hell-Fire Club, are they?”
“I’m not quite sure what a Hell-Fire Club is, sir,” admitted the inspector, cautiously. “I see them playing tennis on Sunday, but that’s not supposed to be much in the hell-fire line nowadays. You’d better ask the vicar about that side of it. Not that he’s ever been inside the gate, so far as I know.”
“It seems a quiet enough countryside,” The Counsellor commented. “I suppose you have fairs, and that sort of thing occasionally?”
“Fairs? Oh, yes, we have ’em. There was one last week in Byward’s Field, at Little Saltern, a bit beyond Fairlawns where Dr. Trulock lives. They had a circus, and a lot of side-shows, and some fellow brought an old plane and gave them five minutes in the air for five bob. Did quite a good trade, he did, from what I saw. But not with me. I didn’t much like the look of his machine. However, he got off with no accidents, and that’s always something. Called himself “The Great Foscari” to catch the public. His real name’s Nat Rabbit, which is perhaps why he uses the other. No one has much faith in rabbits, cricketing or other.”
“When was this fair?” inquired The Counsellor, without much interest. “What days, I mean.”
“Wednesday to Saturday. I had to put some of my men on extra duty at it. These things bring a lot of sharks about the place, always: three-card men and what not.”
“I expect so,” said The Counsellor, sympathetically.
“And now, sir,” said the inspector, unexpectedly, “perhaps you’ll give me a bit of news in return. There’s been a bit of gossiping about the village about Miss Treverton. The Longstoke House maids started it, most likely. They say she’s cleared out at a moment’s notice. It’s no affair for the police, you understand? No one’s given us any official news. But what with that, and your broadcast about her car, one can’t help putting two and two together and wondering wha
t the total is. I hope it’s all right. I wouldn’t like to see any harm come to Miss Treverton. She’s too nice a young lady for that.”
He looked earnestly at The Counsellor’s face, and The Counsellor had to do some quick thinking before he answered.
“All I can tell you is that she went off in her car on Thursday afternoon. The car’s in a garage at Annan, up in Scotland. We traced it there. But where she is, I don’t know. What makes you think there might be anything amiss?”
Inspector Pagnell rubbed his nose as though in some perplexity before he answered:
“There’s nothing amiss, that I know of. I’m just giving you the common talk when I say that she and her uncle didn’t get on well together. I was just wondering. They may have had a row, and she found the place too hot for her. That’s not unlikely. He’s a sharp-tempered old man, not easy to get on with. Well, they say she’s got money enough for her wants; and that’s always something. Still. . . .”
“I know nothing about where or why she went off,” The Counsellor hastened to assure him with a frankness which carried conviction.
“But you’d like to find out,” said the inspector, shrewdly. “I’m not such a fool as all that, sir. I can make four out of two pairs as well as the next man, and I could see you were fishing for information. And you broadcast about that car of hers. That makes the four, and it means you’re interested in her, some ways. Well, it’s no affair of mine officially, as I told you. But if it does veer towards the official side, you can count on me. I wouldn’t like to see any harm come to her, just as I said. A real nice young lady. . . . You’re going on to Longstoke House, you said? Just you see what that uncle of hers has got to say about it.”
“I shall, if I can,” said The Counsellor. “In fact, I’ll go now.”
He rose from his chair.
“Just to avoid misconceptions, Inspector,” he added with a grin, “I’ve never met Miss Treverton in my life. So don’t be getting any romantic notions into your mind. See?”
“I see, sir,” admitted Pagnell. “I shan’t make one and one into a pair, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
He glanced at his watch.
“And now it’s time I was back at work. Good afternoon, sir, and thanks for the lunch. And if things turn out so as I can be useful, I’ll be quite glad to help, you understand?”
The Counsellor paid his bill, recalled his chauffeur, and went on to Longstoke House. This time he inquired for Treverton; and after some delay, the crusty old gentleman appeared.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded crossly as he recognised The Counsellor. “I suppose you’ve come to say you haven’t found out anything. Just what I expected. Now, I’ve no time to waste on busy-bodies. What d’you want?”
“I’ve found the car EZ 1113,” explained The Counsellor, quietly. “It’s in a garage at Annan, just across the Border.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” said Treverton, evidently taken aback by the news. “Well, what next?”
“I suppose you’d better send for it,” suggested The Counsellor. “It’s costing so much per day while it lies up there,” he added with a faint touch of malice.
“What’s that to me?” asked Treverton angrily. “It’s not my car. I’ve nothing to do with it. I’m not responsible for garage charges on it. They can send the bill to my niece if they want their money. No business of mine.”
“No, I see your point. Now for another matter. Are you interested in what’s happened to your niece? I notice you don’t ask about her.”
The implied rebuke did nothing to soothe Treverton.
“She’s gone off on some wild-goose chase, I suppose,” he growled. “No business of mine. She’s her own mistress—can do what she likes.”
“It looks as if she’d gone off with a friend of yours, one Querrin,” The Counsellor explained. “Does that interest you?”
“Querrin? That American? Gone off with him? How d’you know that?” demanded Treverton with a trace of uneasiness in his tone and manner.
“Well, two people giving the names of Querrin and Miss Treverton went up the Great North Road in EZ 1113 last week. And they went through a form of marriage at the Blacksmith’s Shop at Gretna Green on Friday.”
“The devil they did!”
“The proceedings were illegal,” added The Counsellor.
“No proper marriage, you mean? That man’s diddled her, eh? And what do you expect me to do? Throw a fit, for your amusement? I’m not going to. She’s a fool, that girl. She always was a fool, without any idea of her own interests. And now she’s gone and landed herself. Well, what am I to do about it? She’s of age, isn’t she? I’m not her guardian. If she’s made a fool of herself, it’s her own look-out. I wash my hands of the matter—entirely.”
“You won’t give me any assistance in going further in the matter then?”
“Not if it means wasting my valuable time. I’m not interested.”
“The police might be, if I dropped them a word,” said The Counsellor smoothly. “They’re beginning to prick up their ears already, I may tell you.”
Treverton’s mouth worked as though he were about to break out into a storm of words. Then, by an obvious effort, he regained his temper.
“Well, what is it you want? I’ve no wish for a public scandal—on my own account, purely. And I suppose there’s been some hankey-pankey in this marriage business which might let the police push themselves in if they were incited to do it—by you.”
“All I want is a talk with your housekeeper.”
“Ah! A little gossip below stairs, eh?” sneered Treverton. “Have it if you like. More suitable company for you than I am, I suspect. Very well, I’ll ring for her.”
He did so; and when the woman appeared, he made a gesture of introduction towards The Counsellor.
“Give this gentleman any information he wants,” he said, regaining some manners in presence of the servant. Then, with a nod to The Counsellor, he added: “I’ll wish you good day. I’ve other things to do.”
When Treverton had left the room, The Counsellor turned to the housekeeper, a rosy-faced woman of fifty-odd who evidently did not favour modern methods of make-up. With considerable tact, he managed to elicit that she was rather worried by Helen Treverton’s disappearance. Yes, she admitted, she had even said a word or two about it in the village. Everyone there liked Miss Treverton, so naturally they were interested. It wasn’t ill-tongued gossip at all. But there was no denying that the whole business was puzzling. No one could make head or tail of it, her going off like that.
“You’re sure she did go off on the spur of the moment?” asked The Counsellor. “She didn’t take any things with her?”
“I’m as sure as sure about that,” retorted the housekeeper. “When she didn’t come back, I got to worrying over it, and one night I couldn’t sleep, I was that anxious about it all. We were all so fond of her, you see? She was always so thoughtful for other people. One of the last things she did was to arrange for us to go to the Fair, if we wanted to. Offered to take us over in her car, to save us any walking, though the buses pass the foot of the avenue. That was the kind of thing she was always doing. So when I was worrying and worrying about her I thinks to myself: ‘Did she take any night-things or anything with her, without us knowing it?’ And I got up and crept down to her room, there and then, just to feel sure about it in my mind. And I went through her things. Everything was there: all her brushes and things on her dressing-table, her nightie, her dressing-jacket, all her clothes, except the grey coat and skirt I saw her go off in and her tennis-things that she took with her to play in at the party. It worries me a lot, for she wasn’t the kind of girl to go off all unprepared like that. If she’d meant to go, arranged it beforehand I mean, she’d have had every thing packed hours before, for she was always ready in plenty of time for anything of that sort. No, I can’t see her dashing off without anything, the way she did. It doesn’t fit with her character, if you understand what I mean.”
“No, and that makes it all the queerer,” the housekeeper declared. “When she went away any time, she always used to send us a picture post-card to show us what the place was like. She treated us like as if we were friends, as well as servants, though none of us would have presumed on that, not for anything. But this time, not a card’s come to any of us. And she hasn’t written to Mr. Treverton either, or I’d have recognised her writing on the envelope. It’s very worrying.”
“She used to get letters from America, I think?” hazarded The Counsellor.
“She did. One of them came just a few days back. I know who they were from, for he had a habit of writing his name and address on the envelope. A foreign kind of habit, I suppose. It was Mr. Querrin that was writing to her.”
“You knew him?” asked the Counsellor.
“Well, I’ve seen him when he came to call often, when he was staying over here. A good-looking young gentleman and it was plain enough he was struck with Miss Treverton, though it didn’t seem to come to anything at the time, though he’s kept on writing since he went back home.”
“They weren’t engaged then?”
“I never see her wearing a ring on that finger, I can say that.”
“But some people get engaged without publishing it, don’t they?”
“I’d call that underhand myself,” said the housekeeper decidedly. “There’s nothing to be ashamed about if you get engaged. And Miss Treverton was the last girl in the world to do anything underhand, the very last. If she’d got engaged, she’d have said so, I’m sure.”
“Nobody else on the horizon?” queried The Counsellor.
The housekeeper hesitated, evidently in doubt whether she should commit herself or not. At last she made up her mind.
“There was one of the staff here would have liked her,” she admitted reluctantly. “Mentioning no names, of course. But anyone with half an eye could see how it was with him. He’d no chance at all. Not half good enough for her, to my way of thinking, so it was all for the best, really.”
The Counsellor Page 9
