Missing or Murdered

by Robin Forsythe

  When Vereker reached his flat that evening he returned to the garb and name of the Rev. Passingham Patmore and made his way to Glendon Street, carrying with him some drawing material to pass away the time of his sojourn at that address. He knew that otherwise the sojourn meant a species of incarceration for some days with time hanging heavily on his hands. On arrival he at once retired to his room and wrote a letter to David Winslade asking him to call with regard to matters concerning Mr. Henry Parker, and signed it with his assumed name—he felt that the ruse offered a chance of a dramatic meeting—and, with a quickened sense of excitement, walked to the pillar-box at the corner of Glendon Street and posted it. On his return Mrs. Parslow was busy in his room laying the table for his supper. He soon discovered that Mrs. Parslow was a woman ever ready to enter into conversation and obstinately slow to desist from it once it had commenced. Hers was a clear mind which held tenaciously to the main subject, though continually slipping down explanatory by-ways. Before he retired that evening he had discovered that there was only one other fellow-lodger in the house, an American, Drayton C. Bodkin by name, who had arrived the morning after Mr. Henry Parker had so suddenly left.

  The following day hung heavily on Vereker’s hands. It was a dull pause in the very midst of the most exciting part of a game. He ventured out of doors only to get a supply of tobacco, and during the afternoon pottered about with some drawing, but could not get deeply absorbed in it owing to the distraction of expected events.

  In the evening Mr. Drayton C. Bodkin asked if he might come and smoke a pipe with him. Vereker willingly acceded to the request and passed a very pleasant evening with the American. Mr. Bodkin was a journalist who was intent on writing an intimate book on London and Londoners for the edification of his compatriots. He was not going to live in the orthodox way of Americans in England. He was out to discover things for himself and not allow the hospitality of Englishmen to pull the wool over his eyes. From his own account, Vereker was informed that Mr. Drayton C. Bodkin was neither a bone-head nor a mutt nor a hike, but had something lively always doing in the cocoa. Most of his compatriots, at least in his own profession, were dead from the knees upwards. That sort of state was the least desirable one in the world for a journalist, who must be right there from the word “Go.”

  Vereker was in a mood to listen and thoroughly enjoyed Mr. Drayton C. Bodkin’s information about himself and the world, couched in his vivid and arresting phraseology. He wondered as he listened how long it would take to get tired of that continual straining after the explosive in language, and whether Englishmen could ever get over their culture of reticence to stomach easily American gush and genial vulgarity. Perhaps the world’s future depended upon an emulsion of these two antagonistic ingredients. It was late when Mr. Bodkin, after finishing his last whisky and averring that he was lit up like a cathedral, bade Vereker good night and good-bye. He was going next morning; stagnation was impossible for a man who liked to see a “chemical hustle in the grey-matter.”

  Next morning, after breakfast, Vereker watched the departure of America’s representative on his voyage of discovery in the land of racial characteristics, and wished him good fortune and the divine blessings of an understanding mind and a kind heart. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Parslow handed him in a wire which came from David Winslade and stated that he would call at four o’clock. The result was a sense of excitement tempered with a feeling akin to shame.

  “The fly is going to walk into the spider’s parlour,” he said to himself, “but I’m afraid, in spite of its necessity, the action of the spider is not morally alluring. However, it’s got to be done.”

  The time between ten and four o’clock was going to flit on leaden wings; of this Vereker was confident; to counteract the perception of its tardiness something was to be done. He would pay a visit to the National Gallery, lunch at the grill room of the Grand, stroll through the Mall and get back to Glendon Street at the pace of a lazy camel. He was on the point of setting out and was about to descend the flight of stairs from his room to the ground floor when he heard the booming of a now very familiar voice. He was at once startled and amused and perplexed. Quickly going downstairs, he was on the point of acquainting Mrs. Parslow with his plans for the day when that lady emerged from the drawing-room with Detective-Inspector Heather. At sight of the latter Vereker could not restrain a hearty laugh.

  “Hello, Heather; our courses seem to be running parallel.”

  “Good heavens, Mr.”—he deftly omitted the surname—“what on earth brings you here?” asked the detective, with a look of astonishment.

  “I wanted a quiet little retreat where I should not be disturbed by callers and, knowing of this address, I decided to put up here. And you? What wind blew you to these shores?”

  “Oh, only the ordinary course of business. I see you are just going out.”

  “Yes, I’m going down to the National Gallery for inspiration about the Bygrave case.”

  Heather smiled. “Well, I’ll come along a little of the way with you, if I may.”

  “By all means, Heather,” replied Vereker genially.

  The two men sallied forth. As they passed out of Glendon Street Vereker again returned to the question of Heather’s visit to No. 10. There was something so unexpected in the inspector’s sudden appearance at that address that Vereker was distinctly piqued.

  “Now, Heather, be frank about this ordinary course of business which brought you to Mrs. Parslow’s. What on earth did you want there?”

  “I thought that would prick your curiosity, Mr. Vereker. Well, I came to see if I could find a Mr. Drayton C. Bodkin, who purports to be an American citizen. Unfortunately he has already taken his departure.”

  “You don’t mean to say he’s involved in the Bygrave case?” asked Vereker abruptly.

  “Well, no, I can’t say that he is. You must remember that the Bygrave case is not the only mystery with which we have to deal at Scotland Yard. Now, did you see this American gentleman?”

  “Yes; I had quite a long conversation with him. He is an American journalist, and came up to my expectations of such, for I have never met one in the flesh before. He was shrewd, quick to form a facile generalization, vivid, ready to exaggerate in an overpowering desire to be interesting to the average listener, a good fellow, genial, not easily deterred by any rebuff, ambitious and as curious as a child—that’s a sketchy portrait of him, but, I think, a fairly good likeness.”

  “You wouldn’t credit him with being a continental crook wanted by the police of France, America, Italy, Austria and few other nations thrown in?” asked Heather quietly.

  “Good Lord! You don’t mean to tell me, Heather, that my estimate of a man can be so far from the mark as all that?” exclaimed Vereker with some surprise.

  “Well, Mr. Vereker, a man who can hoodwink two continents is not going about among his fellow men with a character that can be read like an open book, eh? It’s quite within the bounds of possibility that he has deceived you as well as the two continents.”

  “Quite neatly put, Heather! I like the undercurrent of sarcasm; it’s a shade heavy, but let that pass. On the other hand, seeing that Mr. Drayton C. Bodkin is so clever, how is it that the C.I.D. know so much about him?”

  Heather burst into loud laughter.

  “That’s simply told, Mr. Vereker. We’ve got all our information from the French and American police. I don’t know what we’d do without these wonderful foreign detectives, but this is in strict confidence.” Inspector Heather perpetrated a portentously heavy wink and added, with a smile. “I rely on your reverence not to give our incompetence away to the public.”

  With this last sally he left Vereker musing with some perplexity as to just what Mr. Drayton C. Bodkin was wanted for, and entertaining a distinct suspicion that once again Inspector Heather had managed to effect that delicate operation known “leg-pulling.”

  Just before four o’clock in the afternoon Vereker returned to his room at Glendon Street,
and it was with a heightened sense of excitement that he awaited Winslade’s arrival. Punctually at four he heard the front door bell ring and, glancing out of his window, saw that his expected caller had arrived. Mrs. Parslow, who had been asked to show him in without delay, answered the bell, and soon his firm tread resounded on the creaking stairs of the old house. Vereker casually met him at the door of his room and extended his hand.

  “Come in, Winslade, come in,” he said.

  For a few moments Winslade looked with hesitating curiosity at Vereker, and then turned suddenly pale.

  “You, Vereker!” he stammered uneasily. “What the devil are you doing here? What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Sit down, Winslade, and let me explain matters. At present I’m masquerading as the Rev. Passingham Patmore. As you know, I have been endeavouring for some time past to elucidate the mystery of your uncle’s strange disappearance, and I eventually tracked him to the present address. I believe you were aware that he came here subsequent to that disappearance.”

  For some moments David Winslade failed to reply. His face was a study in annoyance, and that annoyance arose out of a keen sense of shame, for had not Vereker found him out in some unequivocal lying? He paced up and down the room with flushed cheeks and tightly pressed lips.

  “Well, Vereker,” he said at length, as if with some feeling of relief, “I’m not going to lie about the matter any more. You have already detected me in some departures from the truth, and I feel it will ease my conscience to make a clean breast of things and let you know all that is to be known. The only condition of my speaking, however, is that I must enjoin the very strictest secrecy on your part. The action I have so far taken in this extraordinary business has not been of my own choice. What I have done has been done in the interests of Uncle Henry. You can imagine that the reason for my conduct has been an extremely urgent one, for though I have never claimed to be a rival of George Washington I certainly have an aversion to being called a disciple of Ananias.”

  “I can quite understand how distasteful your prevarication must have been to you, Winslade,” said Vereker, “and I feel that the affair must be a very grave one to drive you to such a course as far as I was concerned.”

  “It was a matter of life and death, Vereker. It was impossible for me willingly to divulge my secret to anyone. Besides, I’d given a pledge to my uncle. I was between the devil and the deep sea.”

  “I don’t think your uncle, who was my friend and who trusted me implicitly, would have minded your confiding in me, Winslade.”

  “Perhaps not, Vereker, but he gave me no instructions on that point. From his silence I could only infer that he felt that too many people were already privy to the whole ghastly affair. Even now I’m afraid you are not alive to the seriousness of the situation as far as all of us who know anything about it are concerned. Can I ask you before I speak that you will not use any information that I may give against my uncle?”

  “I am one of his greatest friends,” replied Vereker calmly. “You must let me know the facts of the case. In any circumstances is it likely that I would consciously do anything to injure your uncle?”

  “Well, to put it as briefly as possible, Vereker, he has killed a man—and is anxious to keep out of the clutches of the law.”

  “Good God, you don’t mean to say so!” exclaimed Vereker, overwhelmed with the suddenness and seriousness of the news. “It’s impossible, Winslade, impossible! I can’t believe it. There must be some awful mistake—an accident. Why, Henry Darnell could never kill a beetle, much less a human being!”

  “I’m afraid that is the terrible truth, Vereker. The man he killed was a damned scoundrel, if that’s any justification for taking a human life, but let me tell you everything from the beginning and leave you to judge for yourself. As you are aware, Uncle Henry set out on the evening of the 1st of October on a brief holiday, which he intended to spend at Hartwood. One of the principal reasons for his visiting our neighbourhood was to see Miss Mary Standish, for from the first he was hostile to our engagement owing to the disparity between our social positions. I am reminding you of all this, though you probably remember that I have told you it all before.”

  “I remember quite well, Winslade; but proceed.

  “Well, a few days before his intended visit to Hartwood he asked me to meet him at Fordingbridge Junction and motor him round through Eyford and Castleton to his destination. He had arranged, as you are aware, to put up at the White Bear Inn.”

  “And you took him to the Mill House at Eyford on your way, I presume,” commented Vereker quietly.

  Winslade looked up sharply.

  “You have found that out?” he asked.

  “It was merely an assumption. You remember you told me your car broke down opposite the Mill House. I assumed that this was camouflage in case anyone had seen your car on the road at that spot. It was unreasonable to think you chose that appalling route without some definite purpose. The rest was a wild guess on my part.”

  “It was a very shrewd guess, Vereker,” replied Winslade. “To resume. On meeting my uncle at Fordingbridge he informed me that he wished to stop at the Mill House because he had an important appointment with the occupant, and from the general tone of his remarks I gathered that it was going to be a none too pleasant function.”

  “Who was this occupant of the Mill House?” asked Vereker.

  “I know nothing whatever about him. From subsequent but extremely guarded inquiries I learned that he went by the name of Twistleton—a Mr. Twistleton. He was only in the place a week, but the villagers gathered even in that short space of time that he was a solitary sort of man who lived entirely alone and looked after himself.”

  “Did he run a car?” asked Vereker, remembering the wheel tracks up the drive.

  “Not to my knowledge, but let me proceed. After I had met my uncle at Fordingbridge I had to go and get my car out of Layham’s garage. As you know, it is at the other end of the village and, instead of accompanying me there, my uncle said he would walk on and let me overtake him. I picked him up about half a mile out of Fordingbridge, and we ran without any stop to the Mill House. He asked me to pull up about a hundred yards from the gate, because he did not wish it to be known by Mr. Twistleton that he was accompanied. This I did and, with the parting remark that he would not be long, he disappeared.”

  “What, in your opinion, Winslade, was Bygrave’s general state of mind at the time? Was he calm or much perturbed?” asked Vereker.

  “I could see he was ill at ease; though, as you know, it took a great deal to ruffle my uncle’s serenity. Before arriving at Mill House he spoke as if the matter was one of those unpleasant interviews that are the lot of nearly all of us from time to time. Of the object of the interview he did not tell me until afterwards. I waited about an hour at the point at which we had halted and, remembering his remark that he would not be long, I grew uneasy.”

  “Did you remain in your car the whole time?”

  “Practically. I had a thermos flask of tea and some sandwiches with me, and passed some of the time in refreshing myself. I had had a light lunch, and a busy afternoon had prevented my having tea at the usual time. My housekeeper had, however, put the sandwiches and tea in my car in the morning, knowing that at times it is difficult for me to return home regularly for meals. At the end of an hour my uneasiness verged on anxiety, so I thought I would look into matters. I drove the car quietly up to the gates of the house and waited there for a few minutes.”

  “You heard no cry or loud conversation?”

  “Not a sound; so I got out of the car and walked up the drive—if it can be called a drive—and approached the house. The front door was wide open. This surprised me at the moment; I don’t know why, but I suppose by this time my nerves were getting jumpy. The very place was enough to give any man a fit of depression: the dark yews, the gloomy facade of the old building and, in the air, a damp musty smell betraying a garden sheltered from freshening winds—you
know the odour of moss and wet undergrowth! I stood at the door and listened, and thought I heard the dull thud of footsteps in the upper part of the house. Straight in front of me, running up from the small hall, was a flight of stairs which terminated in a landing. Thence the staircase swung round spirally to the right and was lost to view. On the wall just above the landing was fixed an ordinary kerosene lamp with a pear-shaped funnel and a reflector—one of those old-fashioned lamps now only seen in remote country villages. It had evidently been placed there to light up the staircase—but only seemed to accentuate the general gloom. As there seemed to be nobody about downstairs, I took the liberty of stepping into the hall, and had barely done so when I heard the sharp slam of a door upstairs, and footsteps came hurrying down the first flight of steps to the landing above me.