“It’s extraordinary. Not a vestige of anything that’s useful. Only one villager admits to having seen a gentleman that might have been Lord Bygrave, and that was as he emerged from the inn on Saturday morning. He couldn’t even say in what direction the gentleman went.”
“Yet I can’t help thinking we might discover something here, inspector. I have no very definite grounds for thinking so, but there are all sorts of vague things in my mind. They’re only ghosts of suspicions; I can’t definitely lay hold of one definite surmise. But they’re like spirits brooding. I feel certain they’ll suddenly materialize and give me a clear, tangible something. It’s sure to happen when I’m miles away from the place. It’s always the way with me. Ah, here’s the dinner at last!”
During dinner the conversation flagged. Inspector Heather seemed buried in his own thoughts and little disposed to discuss matters with his companion. Vereker, on his part, was absorbed in the quality of a bottle of Madeira that he had bought and was sampling with undisguised zest.
“You ought to try this wine, inspector,” he urged at length.
“I seldom want anything better than good, honest ale,” replied the inspector, and suddenly diving into his waistcoat pocket he produced Lord Bygrave’s signet-ring.
“Did you look at that ring carefully?” he asked.
“Not very carefully,” replied Vereker. “Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing wrong; there’s nothing mysterious about it. That is Lord Bygrave’s crest, I suppose?”
“Certainly,” said Vereker. “By the way, that ring is mine should anything have happened to Bygrave. He wants me to keep it as a little remembrancer.”
“You had better take charge of it, then,” said the inspector. “But should I require it again you can let me have it back.”
“Most assuredly. I think I’d better wear it or I’ll leave it lying about somewhere. You don’t think it would be unlucky to wear it, do you, Heather?”
The inspector vouchsafed no reply, so Vereker put the ring on the third finger of his left hand and the meal ended in silence.
After dinner Vereker retired to his room. He drew an arm-chair to the empty fire-place and filled his pipe. Now that he was alone his usual look of irrepressible gaiety had vanished and his brow was furrowed with thought.
“The gloom seems to be luminous,” he soliloquized, “but not a definite shaft of light!”
He then stretched out his hand to the mantelpiece for Lord Bygrave’s tin of tobacco, and carefully read the label.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “Why, he buys it at the Civil Service Stores! The plot thickens!” For half an hour Vereker sat gazing into the chill darkness of the empty grate, his right thumb and forefinger ceaselessly twirling the signet-ring on his left hand. Then he jumped up from his chair, hurriedly undressed and got to bed. He lay awake for more than an hour, arranging and re-arranging in his mind the salient facts of the case as he understood them.
“I won’t rest, Darnell, till I discover the whole truth about this mysterious affair. I think I’ve already left Heather with all his myrmidons a lap or so behind.”
Shortly afterwards Algernon Vereker was sound asleep—even Inspector Heather’s loud snore, audible from the next room through the lath-and-plaster wall, failed to disturb his tranquil repose.
Chapter Five
When Vereker came down to breakfast next morning Inspector Heather was already there, and apparently busy. Seated at a small table in the breakfast-room, he was writing up all his memoranda in a notebook. On Vereker’s appearance he looked sharply round; then, closing his book, carefully thrust it into his breast pocket.
“I’ve got a car down from town,” he said, “and when you’re ready, Mr. Vereker, we’ll start. They tell me (from headquarters) that Mr. Sidney Smale has cabled that he is on the way back to Bygrave Hall.”
“Famous, inspector, famous! There’s something awe-inspiring about your methods. There’s no getting away from you. Smale, instead of making giant strides for the Sahara, promptly walks back right into the jaws of death. Of course it’s bluff, we know; he’s going to pretend he’s entirely innocent and all that sort of thing. What a fool he must be!”
“We’ll soon take any bluff out of him,” remarked the inspector stoutly.
“Prick the bladder of his audacity, so to speak,” remarked Vereker, cracking another egg. “I shall enjoy the stern drama. I never did care much for Smale. He doesn’t like me either, because I used to call him Mr. Snail—quite inadvertently, you know. I’m frightfully inexact about names.”
Inspector Heather lit his pipe and continued to smoke thoughtfully until Vereker had finished his meal.
An hour or so later their car swung round the drive and pulled up before the stately porch of Bygrave Hall. As Vereker stepped out of the car he turned to Inspector Heather.
“What do you think of the place, Heather?”
“Bit of a ruin in parts, Mr. Vereker, but it looks a nice, old place for an English gentleman to live in.”
“Very neatly expressed. I’m glad you like it. I wish the place were mine. It’s a fine example of the late fortified manor of the Middle Ages. It radiates the spirit of mediaevalism, and that’s why I love it. Do you know, Heather, just one glance at Bygrave Hall reveals to you one of the most remarkable defects of our own age.”
“What’s the defect, Mr. Vereker?”
“Lack of dignity. Our modern attempts at dignified architecture are so ineffectual because we are no longer dignified. The character of an age is expressed in its Art and, when we try to express the characteristic called dignity in these days, we are generally merely pompous. If you were to live any length of time in Bygrave Hall it would change you from a detective inspector into a knight, and you would forget all about the Bygrave case. It would ruin a modern politician in a fortnight—but I’m wasting time; let’s get in and make our inquiries.”
On their entry they were met by Farnish, who since Lord Bygrave’s departure for Hartwood had had complete control of the household management. He was the typical trusted servant of the old type, a type that under the swiftly changing order of things is passing away. He knew Mr. Algernon Vereker as one of his master’s most intimate friends, and that fact alone was sufficient to win, for Vereker, Farnish’s loyalty and esteem. An English gentleman was to him one of the finest of God’s handiworks, and he had very definite opinions as to who did and who did not come in that category. He had long since placed Algernon Vereker among those who could do no wrong. Whether he understood Vereker’s whimsical attitude to life and everything under the sun it would be difficult to say. He may possibly have thought him a trifle insane, but his deportment before his social superiors was that of the trained gentleman’s servant—the perfection of correctness; it was a tacit implication that he was a servant of the gods.
To Vereker, Farnish had always been a mystery. Whoever else took servants for granted as necessary adjuncts to life, and differentiated by only two characteristics—good and bad—Vereker did not do so. His inquisitive mind was interested in their mentality; he was always trying to discover the human being hidden so discreetly behind the servant. Their psychology intrigued him, and nothing would have pleased him more than to know Farnish’s real opinion about the men and affairs that constituted a portion of the texture of his life and experience. But Vereker had never been able really to penetrate that deferential armour which Farnish wore when his inferior clay came in contact with what was socially supposed to be a superior earth. He had only managed once or twice to glimpse the soul sheltering within this decorous automaton, and the difficulty of the task had always interested him.
“He’s a winkle—a bally mollusc!” he had often exclaimed.
Farnish was to-day looking more dignified than ever. The disappearance of Lord Bygrave was to him the most serious matter on earth, and he evidently considered that it required a corresponding gravity of countenance on his part. Vereker, however, thought that there was j
ust a trace of anxiety in his manner, an extra sharpness in the lines of his thin face, a shade more pallor.
“No further news of his lordship, Farnish?” he remarked.
“None whatever, sir.”
“This is Detective-Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard. He has come to look round the place and make inquiries. Put everything at his disposal and give him all the assistance you can. As you may know, Farnish, I am a trustee under Lord Bygrave’s will, and in his absence you will take your orders from me and come to me for anything you want.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Farnish, and his eyes glanced up at Vereker with a strangely furtive, inquisitive look.
Vereker was astonished. Never before in his life had he seen the slightest trace of inquisitiveness in Farnish’s manner, and here all at once the miracle had happened. Vereker, however, strove to hide any sign of the surprise that he experienced at this unusual occurrence, though it shook him to the extent of causing him to conceal his face and expression with his handkerchief, under cover of violently blowing his nose. When he had sufficiently recovered his equanimity and looked again at Farnish, the miracle had passed, but in Vereker’s mind it had left a shadow, the first, almost imperceptible shadow of doubt and suspicion.
Inspector Heather at this juncture signified that he would at once have a look over the entire house, and would be glad of Farnish’s guidance. He would also like to question Farnish about all Lord Bygrave’s recent movements.
“Then I will go out and study the case in the Japanese garden,” said Vereker, “and, Farnish, you might see that lunch is ready for one o’clock.”
Vereker slowly made his way to his favourite spot in the Japanese garden, and sat down on a large boulder forming a bridge over a tiny rivulet of clear water. He sat there until lunch-time, deep in thought, his eyes glancing now and then at various aspects in the garden with swift and keen appreciation, but his whole mind bent on the problem of his friend’s inexplicable disappearance. And, as he sat pondering, certain points in his experiences since he assumed the rôle of amateur detective began to assume significance and form the skeleton on which his supple imagination commenced to build.
“But I can’t understand Farnish!” he soliloquized. “What did that note of interrogation in his eye mean? I wonder—I wonder if he knows anything. I must keep a sharp look-out.” Vereker paused, and then a smile spread over his features. “Of course he may suspect that I have had some hand in Henry’s disappearance and was trying to read me. The incident is most important and looks as if it is going to fit into a mysterious scheme of things.”
After lunch Inspector Heather unburdened himself.
“Well, Mr. Vereker,” he began, “I’ve thoroughly cross-examined Farnish. He’s a rum specimen, is Farnish. I don’t quite know what to make of him.”
“His best manner is rather devastating,” replied Vereker. “Do you know, Heather, in Farnish’s presence I always begin to shrink. My clothes seem too big for me and I have a strange sensation that I am being firmly assured that my ancestors did not come over with the Conqueror. What effect did he have on you?”
“Nothing of that sort, Mr. Vereker. But he’s so confoundedly discreet. He never answers in a hurry, and then weighs every word he utters. You feel that he is fencing all the time, that he is determined you shall know no more than he wishes to let you know. Anyone would think he was hiding something.”
“Oh, he’s a past-master at that sort of thing. You must remember that the life of a man like Farnish is apparently one long discretion. Have you any suspicion with regard to him?”
“I’m going to keep a watchful eye on him. As to my cross-examination of him, it uncovered nothing of any importance with regard to Lord Bygrave. His information was exactly what I expected it to be and revealed not a jot more than we both already know. Lord Bygrave left him in charge of the place until his return from Hartwood. There was nothing unusual in his lordship’s behaviour prior to his departure. He said nothing out of the ordinary to Farnish before leaving, and Farnish entertains no ideas of any kind as to where his lordship has gone or when he may choose to return.”
“Farnish is a blank slate, inspector, as far as you are concerned?”
“Absolutely.”
“What is your next move?”
“I’m going to search the place thoroughly and look through all Lord Bygrave’s papers.”
“Good; but let me warn you to be careful when exploring the undercroft. There’s a well down there in which you may inadvertently find yourself unless you are careful. I should take Farnish with you and observe him closely but furtively while you are searching. You remember Carlton’s explanation of his method of discovering an object hidden in a town simply by watching the feet of the man who had hidden it, and who was accompanying him. No? Well, never mind. But it was a brainy idea. I should not hesitate to make use of it.”
“You suspect Farnish?” asked the inspector quickly.
“I am not quite satisfied that he is innocent of everything connected with this affair. Merely an idea of mine, with very scanty foundations for it. Perhaps I’m entirely wrong—it’s a duel between reason and the vague promptings of that shadowy faculty called intuition.”
“Not much use for intuition in these matters, Mr. Vereker,” sighed the inspector heavily and, rising from his seat, added, “Well, I think I’ll have a good look round and examine Lord Bygrave’s papers—at least those to which I can get access here. What are you going to do?”
“Oh, I’m going to read the most up-to-date novel of the day. I always carry it with me. It is so true to modern life—‘The Satyricon.’”
“May I ask who’s the author?” queried the inspector listlessly.
“A Mr. Titus Petronius.”
“Perhaps he’s a friend of yours, Mr. Vereker.”
“One of my best friends—but I’ve not met him. Perhaps I shall in the distant future. I hope so.”
The inspector made no further remark and left Vereker smiling, as he filled his pipe.
Vereker sat in an easy chair engrossed in his book for some time; then he suddenly closed the volume and rang.
Farnish appeared in response.
“Tell Walter I should like to speak to him, Farnish,” said Vereker, eyeing the butler closely.
Farnish’s physiognomy was now, however, as unreadable as that of the Sphinx, and his manner the old unperturbed manner of the Farnish known to Vereker for so many years.
Walter was one of Lord Bygrave’s footmen; a tall, slimly built man with raven black hair, carefully brushed and sleek. His head was a handsome head, shapely in the skull; his nose aquiline; his eyes dark brown and frank in their expression. Vereker had always liked Walter.
“There’s nothing much wrong with a man who has a symmetrical skull,” was one of Vereker’s favourite sayings. “Your brilliant men and scoundrels have all got asymmetrical heads.”
Lord Bygrave also had a sincere affection for his servant, and at times, when he felt in an expansive mood, extracted much private amusement from Walter’s opinions and unconsciously humorous outlook on life generally.
When Walter appeared Vereker at once saw that the man had something to divulge, and had only been waiting to divulge it in what he felt was the right quarter.
“I can see he’s simply bursting to impart information,” thought Vereker. “Heather has already cross-questioned him and probably learned nothing. I must handle him as gently as an egg—a very valuable egg.”
“Oh, Walter,” he began, addressing the footman, “I want to speak to you on a matter the nature of which you have doubtless already guessed.”
“Well, sir, I have an idea it’s about his lordship’s disappearance.”
“You say ‘disappearance,’ Walter. Don’t you think his absence may be easily explained? For instance, if his lordship extended his holiday you’d hardly call it disappearing?”
“If he extended his holiday without letting us know, sir, I’d certainly call it di
sappearing. His lordship never did such a thing in his life before.”
“Perhaps not, Walter, but there’s no knowing what he might do under the force of circumstances never before encountered?”
“That’s just what I think, sir; and some strange circumstances must have been the cause of his not returning on the date he said he would.”
“You noticed nothing peculiar about his lordship’s manner of late?”
“Not of late, sir, but six months ago a very strange thing happened.”
“Oh! What was that?”
“Well, sir, I wouldn’t tell you, only I know you were his lordship’s greatest friend. I didn’t say a word to Inspector Heather when he was questioning me, because, thinks I, if there’s going to be a scandal about his lordship, I won’t be the one to publish it. It’s not my way, sir. Besides, his lordship has always been very good to me—a better master no man could wish for.”
“Scandal, did you say?” asked Vereker, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
“Yes, sir. Where there’s womenfolk there’s nearly always a scandal. As his lordship once remarked—‘Walter,’ says he, ‘I don’t know whether the pleasure they give outweighs the trouble they create.’ True words those are, sir. I never have anything to do with them—”
“Ah, so you’re a misogynist, Walter, a confirmed misogynist?” interrupted Vereker.
“If that means keeping clear of trouble, sir, I’m one.”
“And what about a woman and his lordship. You don’t mean to say—”
“Pardon me interrupting, sir, but this is exactly what happened, and I’m certain sure it has something to do with his lordship’s disappearance. I said no good would come of it at the time. Six months ago a lady came to see his lordship. Very few people ever call on his lordship, but I know them, sir, by name and sight. His lordship rarely made new friends. This lady was a stranger to me, and what’s more she was one of those handsome, bold as brass sort as you see on the halls. She walked up the drive and handed me a note for his lordship. I took the note to him myself, and on opening it his lordship started violently and turned very pale. He told me to show the lady into the drawing-room, and he followed her in a few minutes later. It would be a good half-hour before she left, and his lordship seemed very agitated, more agitated than ever I’ve seen him before. That’s all, sir.”
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