“I should have liked to verify the fact that Winslade had broken down here,” he thought, and added aloud: “I wonder who lives at Mill House?”
But the question was not to be answered by wandering about the precincts of the gloomy old place, so Vereker retraced his steps and, closing the oak gates behind him, boarded his car and ran into the village of Eyford. There he lunched on sandwiches and a glass of beer and, having made about an hour’s break altogether on his journey, decided to finish the route without another stop. This would enable him to compare his time with Winslade’s.
His further progress gave him food for thought. It was one of the worst roads he had ever driven a car on. What on earth had induced Winslade to take this route? At night, too, it would be dangerous unless the driver knew every inch of his way. Nothing of any importance, however, occurred, and towards three o’clock in the afternoon, having passed through Castleton and Woodbridge on his way, Vereker came in sight of Crockhurst Farm. He met Winslade standing at the gate, and pulled up.
“Hello, Vereker; where did you get that tub from?” he asked, eyeing the Ford car critically.
“Hired it at Fordingbridge from old Layham. I thought I’d have a run round in the fresh air. I came by Eyford and Castleton along the most execrable road that I’ve ever covered.”
An uneasy glance from Winslade was the result of this information.
“Were you making for Hartwood?” he asked. “If you were, you could have taken the direct road parallel with the railway line. It has a really good tar-macadam surface.”
“I saw that,” returned Vereker with satisfaction; “but I wanted a run, and I’d heard that the old mill at Eyford would make a charming watercolour drawing. You know my passion for messing about with paints.”
“It’s a lovely spot,” agreed Winslade.
“By the way, Winslade, do you know if the Mill House is tenanted?” asked Vereker, carelessly lighting a cigarette.
With the tail of his eye he saw that Winslade involuntarily started, but recovered himself at once.
“I couldn’t say,” he replied. “It’s a tumbledown old place, low ceilings, stuffy little rooms and no damp courses, as far as I know. You’re not thinking of taking it?”
“No, I haven’t got as far as that. I had a look round the grounds this morning. I thought what a charming place it could be turned into with the expenditure of a little money.”
Winslade pulled out his watch. “What are your plans?” he asked, as if eager to change the conversation.
“Oh, I’m going straight back to Hartwood.”
“You won’t stay and have some tea?”
“No, thanks; I must get back. I’ve a good deal of work to do and several letters to write. Au revoir.”
“Cheerio,” returned Winslade as Vereker’s car, with a throb and a jerk, started off on the way to Hartwood.
Vereker was smiling. He felt that he had sailed dangerously near the wind, if he had not indeed roused some suspicion in Winslade’s mind as to the object of that journey. He would have liked to cast a glance back; something personal, almost magnetic, nearly caused him to do so. He would have given a lot to see the expression on Winslade’s face, but second thoughts counselled discretion. He must not startle the quarry; it might elude him if forewarned of his approach. The journey had not been altogether fruitless: it had confirmed some of his conclusions of the night before and convinced him that his research was proceeding along lines which would yield definite results.
From Crockhurst Farm Vereker bounded along until he reached the White Bear. He was anxious to get back because he was eager to ask Mary Standish a very personal question. Her answer would possibly strengthen a theory. He had long since formed a theory which as time passed seemed to him more and more to embody the salient facts of the Bygrave mystery. Running the car into the courtyard of the inn, he left it in the hands of Dick and hastened into the inn. He ordered tea and went into the large dining-room to await its arrival. Mary Standish brought in the tray a little later and, after some preliminary conversation, Vereker suddenly asked:
“I wonder could you tell me, Mary, if you remember what Lord Bygrave had for breakfast on the morning of his disappearance?”
“Quite well, sir. Two boiled eggs, toast, butter and marmalade and coffee.”
“Thanks,” replied Vereker with suppressed excitement, “that’s all I wish to know.”
When Mary Standish had left the room he could no longer contain himself. Bringing his hand down on his thigh with a resounding slap he exclaimed:
“Well, I’m damned!”
He was so agitated that he wanted to talk things over with Inspector Heather at once, but the latter was out and would not be in until dinner, so that he had to exercise his patience until the officer returned.
Retiring to his room he took a sheet of foolscap from his case and put down on paper all the surmises that were surging chaotically in his brain. This cold examination of the facts rid his mind of all details not germane to his main theory. Every now and then he glanced at the ordnance survey map, and when he had grasped the significance of that network of roads more thoroughly his eye lit with enthusiasm. Brick after brick seemed to be dropping into place in the construction of his edifice. He felt that the foundation was sound and was gleefully rubbing his hands together when the dinner gong warned him of the hour.
“That infernal signet-ring only points to one very grave conclusion,” he exclaimed, as he descended to the dining-room, and his features assumed a seriousness that was seldom seen on the face of Algernon Vereker.
As he entered the room he saw Inspector Heather seated at their usual little table, waiting for dinner to be served. His brow was puckered and he was lost in a brown study. Vereker’s entry brought him at once to the world.
“Well, Mr. Vereker,” he said when the latter had taken his seat opposite to him, “has your run round the route disclosed anything of value?”
“Yes,” replied Vereker, “it disclosed that you had already tapped Layham at Fordingbridge for information, and I dare say I’d not be far wrong in saying you had already covered the very ground I’ve gone over to-day.”
The inspector laughed heartily. “I won’t deny it, Mr. Vereker. If we compare notes perhaps something important may divulge itself. In the first place, I know you will have wondered why Mr. Winslade took such a rotten road to get to Crockhurst Farm.”
“I did wonder, and could come to no conclusion,” replied Vereker guardedly.
“You have no theory on the matter?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve many theories, but what we want is significant facts. I’ve got a strange piece of information for you, inspector—much more important than theories.”
“What’s that?”
“Lord Bygrave had boiled eggs for breakfast on the morning of his disappearance.”
“I hope they were good,” remarked the inspector as he helped himself to vegetables.
“Now that I am serious you are beginning to assume a jocular vein, Heather.”
“I can’t quite hatch those eggs,” replied the inspector, looking hard at Vereker.
“I hardly expected you to, although you’re broody. But to me they’re significant, more than significant—they’re conclusive!”
“Of what?”
“That Lord Bygrave never arrived here on Friday night,” said Vereker impressively.
“Explain, Mr. Vereker.”
“Lord Bygrave hasn’t eaten boiled eggs for years—they are almost poison to him. You know how some people are upset by certain kinds of food. For instance, I cannot touch honey. Though I like it, I suffer almost agonizing pains after consuming even a spoonful. Some people daren’t partake of strawberries, others of rhubarb. The man who ate those boiled eggs for breakfast on that Saturday morning was certainly not Lord Bygrave!”
Heather was distinctly impressed. “This is most important,” he remarked, “but there are one or two facts we have to clear away before accepting your the
ory as conclusive. In the first place, Mary Standish and George Lawless have identified this photograph as the man who arrived here on Friday night. It is a portrait of Lord Bygrave.”
Vereker took the photograph from the inspector’s hand and closely examined it. “That is Lord Bygrave, but it was taken some years ago,” he said, “and it’s not a good photograph at that. It is just possible that Mary Standish and Lawless have made a mistake. As you know, people are hopelessly unobservant and identification is, with the majority of witnesses, an altogether inconclusive business. Women have identified strangers as their long-lost husbands. Inspector, you surely cannot have forgotten the facts of the famous Tichborne case.”
“That is so. Let us say for the sake of argument that we have removed the first obstacle to your theory. Number two requires the elucidation of the mystery that Lord Bygrave left his signet-ring here on Saturday morning. You are convinced that it is his ring?”
“I believe it is his ring,” replied Vereker gravely, “and it drives me to a very serious conclusion that the man who arrived here and impersonated Lord Bygrave—for I assume this for the present—had by some means, fair or foul, obtained possession of his ring. There is one thing, however, about that ring that puzzles me. It seems to be a somewhat larger ring than I thought it was. It may be a duplicate; it may have worn away to such an extent that it now slips easily on and off my finger. Once upon a time it fitted me very tightly, for I tried it on my finger years ago and had great difficulty in removing it.”
“Have you any more facts in support?” asked the inspector, with kindling enthusiasm.
“Several. You remember the dottle of tobacco I found in the fender on our examination of Lord Bygrave’s bedroom?”
“Distinctly.”
“That was not the same tobacco as was contained in Lord Bygrave’s tin. The dottle contained latakia. Bygrave only smoked a certain Civil Service Stores mixture which contains no trace of latakia. Again, Bygrave was supposed to have drunk whisky before retiring. He may have done so, but I have never remembered him to touch spirits all the time I have known him. Once more, you see this key-chain. It is undoubtedly Bygrave’s, but it has been detached so violently that the leather buttonhole on the tab has been torn, and, as I pointed out before, there was no reason for Bygrave detaching this keychain, unless he had changed his clothes. Miss Standish, however, has informed us that he wore a dark suit all the time he was here, and, as you know, the only other suit he had was a light one. To sum up, inspector, the man who stayed here on Friday night and left early on Saturday morning never to return was not Lord Bygrave, in my humble opinion.”
Inspector Heather could not resist expressing his admiration. “Mr. Vereker, you are shaping uncommonly well—uncommonly well for an amateur,” he said patronizingly. “My own investigations bear out your theory—a theory which I myself have entertained for some time. For instance, the porters at Hartwood Station cannot remember Lord Bygrave arriving by the train he is supposed to have arrived by. This is very extraordinary, because very few people ever return to Hartwood by the last train from town. But, granting that you have discovered that it was not Lord Bygrave that stayed at the White Bear on Friday night, the next difficulty is to find out who impersonated him.”
Algernon Vereker smiled: he thought that his discovery would have startled the inspector, and he was secretly amused that Heather was quietly professing to have arrived at the same conclusions, without disclosing his reasons.
“Yes, that is the next difficulty, Heather, and I’m counting on you to make the matter look quite simple. My efforts have rather exhausted me and it’s your turn now for some hard work.”
“I shall go back to London to-morrow,” said Heather quietly. “The centre of gravity of the mystery has moved to London. It’s my opinion that Lord Bygrave never left London.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Vereker, with some surprise.
“Certain investigations we have made point to the fact,” replied Heather with solemn satisfaction.
“I’m afraid you’re wrong, inspector,” replied Vereker carelessly.
“And what makes you think that?” asked the detective, with a keen glance.
“Other investigations that I have made,” retorted Vereker, with a broad smile.
At this moment Mary Standish brought in a telegram for Vereker. He tore open the envelope, read the message without displaying any emotion and thrust it into his pocket.
“Another important discovery?” asked Heather tentatively.
“Not in the least, inspector. Merely a message saying I’ve got to return to London to-morrow. I shall probably only stay there for the day and return at night.”
“I made a discovery to-day,” continued the inspector, lazily puffing his pipe.
“Oh!” exclaimed Vereker in a non-committal way.
“Yes. Our young friend Smale is a liar. He stayed at no hotel in Soho during the week-end that Lord Bygrave disappeared.”
“I guessed as much,” remarked Vereker. “I tell you, Heather, you’ll have to keep a skinned eye on Smale. He’s a particularly clever young man.”
“We’re watching him very closely, Mr. Vereker.”
“You know I took a dislike to that clever young man from the very first.”
“Purely prejudice, inspector. I’m surprised at your making such an admission. I thought such a privilege was reserved for thoughtless and inexperienced beings like myself. Well, if you’re determined to watch Smale, I’m going to keep young Winslade under observation.”
Inspector Heather laughed loudly.
“You’ll be wasting your time,” he said confidently.
“Well, that’s my own and not worth much, Heather,” replied Vereker and, complaining of having had a tiring day, he went up to his room. There he drew from his pocket the telegram he had received earlier in the evening and read it again. The message ran:
9.15 train from Fordingbridge tomorrow—Walter.
Chapter Ten
On reaching his room, Vereker rang for a strong coffee and, filling his pipe, sat down in the wicker-chair at the foot of his bed. He was not yet ready for sleep.
“As Heather has put the matter very concisely, we have now to ascertain who impersonated Lord Bygrave,” he said to himself, and sat for some time lost in thought. “In the first place it must have been some one who bore some physical resemblance to him,” he added, “the question of make-up I think we can temporarily leave out of the discussion—though it must not be recklessly discarded. Again, the impersonator must have been fairly well acquainted with Bygrave’s affairs, and known two things especially. First, that Bygrave had not been to the inn for some years, for if Lawless had remembered Lord Bygrave’s appearance the impersonation would have been detected at once. Lawless had evidently been deceived, but that was not a supremely difficult matter. As for Mary, she would scarcely have known Lord Bygrave by sight unless she had seen a photograph of him, and even the photograph which Heather had obtained was a very old one. Secondly—”
At this point in his soliloquy Vereker halted. He had encountered a remote possibility—that of collusion between Lawless, Mary Standish and David Winslade. It was not a point to be lightly set aside, though the motive for such a deception was not strikingly obvious. He would bear it in mind and keep all three under suspicion. Vereker racked his brains to remember anyone in any way concerned in the case who could possibly impersonate Bygrave, but could think of no one without the concomitant idea of collusion. Temporarily he gave up the problem and decided to get to bed. A night’s sleep would refresh his tired brain and to-morrow—well, there was work in hand to be done. He would travel up to London by the 8.15. Walter’s telegram might open up another line of inquiry and lead to a fuller phase of understanding.
Next morning, Vereker rose early and made an elaborate toilet. The elaboration consisted of trying to disguise his rather well-marked features without the disguise being palpable. A heavy moustache gave him considerable
trouble and after innumerable attempts he discarded it with the words:
“Too much of the walrus about it—its pessimistic droop would reduce me to melancholy before the day was out—this business is depressing enough without artificial aids.”
He finally adopted a nicely-waxed, impertinent type hovering airily above an imperial, and having fixed these adjuncts to his satisfaction descended to breakfast. Heather was the sole occupant of the coffee-room at the hour and on seeing Vereker he promptly burst into loud and unrestrained laughter.
“What are you laughing at, inspector?” asked Vereker.
“Your face, Mr. Vereker,” was all the reply the detective could make as he shot helplessly down another cascade of hilarity.
“I thought you’d address me as Count Antoine de something, inspector. You’ve got a hard heart and offer no encouragement to a mere tyro at your own game. I hope I shan’t get any yolk of egg on this imperial. Perhaps I’d better stick to fish for breakfast.”
Inspector Heather wiped the tears of merriment from his eyes.
“It won’t do, Mr. Vereker—you remind me of that man, what’s his name, who played Captain Kettle.”
“Then be helpful and suggest some other facial lie, Heather. I must do something to obliterate Algernon Vereker for the day.”
Inspector Heather pulled out a notebook, tore a leaf from it and wrote some words thereon. “Go to that address, Mr. Vereker, and I think they’ll put you right. You must be a curate for the day, it suits your frank cast of countenance. Show them that note and old Jacobs will make you a work of art.”
When the 9.15 train steamed into Charing Cross Station that morning Algernon Vereker, in clerical garb, was standing under the clock ostensibly reading a morning paper. He was actually watching every passenger who had come by the 9.15 train from Fordingbridge file past the ticket collectors at the platform gate, and could hardly repress the excitement he felt. Every one seemed to have emerged, and a look of disappointment and annoyance passed across Vereker’s face. The collectors were about to close the gates, but they hesitated and impatiently glanced up the platform. There was still another passenger. At length he burst into view—it was Farnish, Lord Bygrave’s butler! At once the morning paper eclipsed Vereker’s face from any direct scrutiny and he waited until Farnish had passed through the western exit of the station before swiftly following him. Vereker had a taxi in readiness should Farnish decide to drive, but Farnish had evidently no taste for such luxuries and wended his way on foot, at a medium pace into the Strand. Crossing the Strand he passed into Trafalgar Square and up the Haymarket, with Vereker following at a discreet distance.
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