‘I’m very glad we’ve had this chat all the same,’ said the dramatist. ‘There’s something definitely wrong going on, and whether what you’ve mentioned has anything to do with it or not, I’m going to find out what it is if I can.’
‘I’d like to help, sir, in any way I can,’ said Hartley eagerly.
‘And I shall be very glad of your help,’ answered Lowe. ‘Between us we ought to be able to get to the bottom of the mystery.’
‘There’s one thing I’d like to suggest, sir,’ said the superintendent a little diffidently, and hesitated.
‘What’s that?’ asked the dramatist.
‘Don’t stop here, sir,’ said Hartley seriously. ‘If there is anything going on Japper may be in it, and it’s dangerous.’
‘I’ve considered that,’ said Lowe, nodding.
‘If you want a safe place to stay while you’re carrying on your inquiries,’ went on the superintendent, ‘my old aunt’s got a spare room in her cottage, and she could easily fix up an extra bed for your secretary.’
‘I’ll think about it, Hartley,’ said Lowe. ‘It seems a very good suggestion.’
‘It’s a safe suggestion, sir,’ said Hartley meaningly, and stopped with a quick look round as there came a tap on the door and Mr. Japper entered.
‘You’re wanted, Super,’ he said in his husky voice, his little eyes darting from one to the other. ‘Mr. Winslow wants to speak to you.’
‘Mr. Winslow?’ For the moment Hartley was perplexed.
‘Mr. James Winslow,’ said the landlord. ‘Old Winslow’s nephew, the new owner of Stonehurst.’
Chapter Nine – At the Mortuary
Jim stopped dead in the middle of the road and stared at his friend with startled eyes.
‘By Jove, Ian!’ he exclaimed. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if you aren’t right.’
‘I’m sure I’m right,’ grunted McWraith grimly. ‘It was the fellow who was found at the cross-roads whom you saw. It’s hardly likely that there were two people killed last night.’
‘I wouldn’t like to swear that the man I saw was dead —’ began Jim, but McWraith interrupted him impatiently.
‘Do you think he was drunk?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘I’ll bet he was dead, and I’ll bet that he was killed when we heard that scream.’
Jim shivered.
‘If you’re right, it’s horrible!’ he muttered; ‘because you realise that North must have killed him himself, or been aware who did?’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised if he killed the man himself,’ said McWraith coolly. ‘That man would be capable of anything.’
‘Well, I appear to have come into a pretty exciting inheritance,’ said Jim. ‘What do you think we ought to do, Ian?’
‘I think we ought to try and get a look at the dead man,’ answered the friend, ‘and see if you can identify him as the man you saw on the ambulance.’
‘That means informing the police,’ said Jim.
‘I’m afraid it does,’ answered McWraith. ‘I’m sorry about that, because I was looking forward to working this thing out on our own and keeping whatever excitement was going to ourselves. But we can’t very well do that now. A case of murder is a serious business.’
‘Well, then, we’d better get on with it,’ said Jim. ‘I suppose there’s a police station in the place.’
‘Let’s go and see,’ said McWraith, and set off with such enormous strides that Jim had all his work cut out to keep pace with him.
They saw nothing in the way of a police station in the High Street, and Jim suggested that they should inquire at the post office. This was also a small shop that appeared to sell everything from a reel of cotton to a side of bacon, and the old man who appeared from an inner room after McWraith had nearly banged the counter to pieces to attract his attention was able to supply them with the information they required.
‘We ain’t got no police station at Stonehurst,’ he said in a wheezy whisper. ‘’Ythe is the nearest.’
‘Have you got a telephone?’ asked Jim.
The shopkeeper stabbed with a rheumaticky finger at a dark corner.
‘Over there,’ he said asthmatically. ‘It’ll be sixpence.’
Jim paid the exorbitant fee and went over to the ancient instrument. The old man behind the counter waited, obviously listening. It was some time before Jim could get through, but at last he succeeded and stated his business.
‘You’ll have to see Superintendent Hartley, sir,’ said the gruff voice that answered him. ‘He’s on his way to Stonehurst now to call on a gentleman who is stayin’ at the Crossed Hands. You’ll be able to catch ’im there.’
‘What time’s he likely to get there?’ asked Jim.
‘In about an hour, sir, I should think,’ was the reply, and Jim thanked the man and rang off.
As he turned away after hanging up the receiver the old shopkeeper leaned forward.
‘Be you old Mr. Winslow’s nevvy?’ he inquired, and Jim nodded.
‘Are you thinkin’ of stayin’ up at Greytower, sir?’ asked the old man. ‘Permanent like?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ answered Jim. ‘I haven’t made up my mind, but I think it’s very probable. It’s very beautiful round here.’
The old shopkeeper nodded his bald head slowly.
‘Aye, it is that,’ he said, and then he looked quickly all round him with sharp nervous glances and leaned forward until his lips almost touched Jim’s ear. ‘But if you take my advice, sir, you won’t stop.’
The amazement that Jim felt was expressed in his face as he stared at the old man.
‘Why not?’ he demanded.
‘Stonehurst ain’t lucky to strangers, sir,’ said the shopkeeper solemnly ‘Things ’appen to people what tries to come and live ’ere.’
‘What kind of things?’ said McWraith, who had been listening interestedly.
‘Queer things, sir,’ replied the shopkeeper. ‘Look what ’appened to that fellow last night, an’ ’e was a stranger. The village didn’t want ’im.’
‘Are you suggesting that if I stop here the same thing will happen to me?’ said Jim.
‘No, sir, p’raps not that,’ answered the old man; ‘p’raps nothing ’ll ’appen to ye at all. It depends whether the village wants ye ’ere. If it does — well, you’ll be all right. If it don’t, somethin’ will ’appen.’
‘It seems as though Stonehurst is a nice hospitable spot,’ remarked McWraith, and the old man looked at him queerly.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘if you leave it be.’
Apparently he decided that he was saying too much, for before either of them could put any further question he turned abruptly away with a muttered good morning and disappeared through the door at the back of the shop. Jim looked at McWraith, and McWraith shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, you’ve got a nice property,’ he said as they came out into the High Street, and Jim grunted.
‘What do you make of it?’ he said, frowning.
‘Do you mean the old gentleman’s warning?’ asked McWraith. ‘I think a great deal of it was superstition, but I also think that there was a grain of something else more material.’
‘Well, it’s all confoundedly interesting, Ian,’ said Jim, ‘and I don’t mind telling you that if I had ever thought of not living here I’ve seen and heard enough to make me change my mind. There’s something peculiar about this place, and I’m jolly well going to find out what it is.’
‘I’m with you,’ agreed McWraith heartily, ‘and I’ll stay and back you up. What are we going to do until this superintendent fellow turns up?’
‘Have a look round the village,’ said Jim. ‘I’m rather interested to see if there are any visible signs of this marked antipathy to strangers.’
They explored the High Street from end to end, watched furtively by little groups of people who were gossiping at their gates and on whom a sudden hush fell as they approached. This silence continued until they had passed, and then was r
eplaced by an excited whispering that was like a high wind blowing through a forest of trees. Whatever it was that was wrong with Stonehurst, it certainly was not the village itself, for a more beautiful place Jim had never seen.
The half-timbered old cottages with their thatched roofs, picturesquely screened by the trees that surrounded them; the cobbled High Street, from which narrow lanes wound away to open fields and woods; the old forge still in use at the bottom of the hill, and the little poky shops with their windows of thick green glass that distorted the goods behind until they bore no resemblance to what they really were; the square tower of Greytower that rose above the foliage like a watchful sentinel, and the complete absence of all the rush and bustle associated with modern life, combined to make the place a backwater of beauty and peace: the very incarnation of one of those woodcuts that may be found in very old books.
Jim and McWraith were enchanted with it, and the hour that they had set themselves to while away became nearly two before they realised it.
‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Jim suddenly as the cracked bell in the ancient church proclaimed that it was half past twelve. ‘We’d better hurry back to the Crossed Hands or that superintendent fellow will have gone.’
They found a sprinkling of villagers in the bar when they entered, who stared at them curiously as Jim approached the counter and spoke to the stout man who was slowly sipping from a tankard.
‘Has Superintendent Hartley arrived yet?’ asked Jim. ‘If he has, will you tell him that Mr. Winslow would like to speak to him?’
Mr. Japper lowered the tankard and regarded Jim with interest.
‘The Super’s here now, sir,’ he said. ‘Are you old Mr. Winslow’s nephew?’
‘I am,’ said Jim.
‘Pleased to see you, sir,’ said the landlord, ‘and I’d like to take this opportunity of hoping that you’ll settle down at Greytower.’
Jim thanked him, and wiping his hand on his apron, Mr. Japper disappeared through a door at the back of the bar. He was gone for less than a minute, and when he returned it was by an archway that led into a passage.
‘If you’ll step this way, sir, I’ll take you to the Super, sir.’
Jim went out into the passage, followed by McWraith, and the landlord conducted them to a door on the right.
Opening it, he ushered them into the room beyond, and Jim saw that it was occupied by two men. A large man who had ‘policeman’ written all over him and another of medium height whose pleasant humorous eyes were regarding him with a look of interest.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ asked the large man as Mr. Japper withdrew.
Jim nodded.
‘Yes, if you’re Superintendent Hartley,’ he replied.
‘That’s me, sir,’ said Hartley; ‘this gentleman is Mr. Trevor Lowe.’
McWraith gave an exclamation.
‘Are you the dramatist?’ he asked.
‘I’ve written several plays,’ replied Lowe with a smile.
‘I saw one of them three nights ago,’ said McWraith. ‘Jolly good, it was.’
‘I’m glad you liked it,’ murmured Lowe.
‘What was it you wanted to see me about, Mr. Winslow?’ asked the superintendent.
‘I understand,’ said Jim, ‘that a man was found shot dead at the cross-roads outside the village last night. Is that correct?’
‘Quite correct, sir,’ nodded Hartley.
‘Well, if it’s possible, I should like to see the body,’ Jim went on. ‘I think I may be able to supply you with some useful information.’
‘Does that mean that you think you know the man, sir?’ said Hartley quickly.
‘By name, no,’ answered Jim, ‘but I think I may have seen him before. The best thing I can do is to tell you all about it.’
Without preamble he began to give them an account of what he had seen from the window of his room on the previous night. Both Hartley and Lowe listened with great interest.
‘I can’t be sure that it was the same fellow, of course,’ Jim concluded, ‘but I’d know if I could see him.’
‘That’ll be easy, Mr. Winslow,’ said the superintendent. ‘I’ve got my little car here, and I can drive you over to Hythe now if it’s convenient.’
‘What do you say, Ian?’ Jim looked at his friend, ‘It’ll mean postponing our lunch.’
‘I say, carry on,’ answered McWraith. ‘What is a lunch more or less in the cause of justice?’
Superintendent Hartley looked doubtful.
‘I’m afraid,’ he said deprecatingly, ‘that I can’t take your friend, Mr. Winslow. My car’s only a small one —’
McWraith grinned.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry about me. You can carry on with the good work, and while you’re gone I will make the acquaintance of the good ale of Stonehurst.’
‘Sure you don’t mind?’ said Jim. ‘We could go and get our own car if you like, and —’
‘No, no,’ boomed McWraith. ‘You cut along and get it over while I try and see if I can find another sort of body — perhaps the beer down here has got some for a change!’
They left him to sample it and climbed into the superintendent’s dilapidated car. Although its appearance suggested that it was only fit for the scrap-heap, they quickly discovered that this was deceiving, for it was capable of a good speed, and ate up the ten miles that lay between Stonehurst and Hythe in just over fifteen minutes.
Hartley drove straight to the mortuary, and presently Jim found himself bending over a low trestle-table on which lay a motionless figure covered by a sheet.
‘Now, sir,’ said Hartley, ‘perhaps you’ll just tell us if this is the man you saw.’
He pulled down the sheet, and Jim looked at the white face that was disclosed. For a second only he looked, and then he straightened up and turned to Lowe and the superintendent.
‘That is the man,’ he said briefly.
Chapter Ten – In the Tower Room
‘Well, this fresh information seems to indicate that the man was killed at or in the vicinity of your house, Mr. Winslow,’ said Trevor Lowe gravely, ‘and that would also seem to implicate your butler.’
Jim nodded with knit brows.
‘I’ve been thinking the same,’ he admitted.
They were back again in the parlour of the Crossed Hands and had collected McWraith from the bar to join them.
‘As I said before,’ remarked that huge man, balancing himself precariously on the edge of the table, ‘it wouldn’t surprise me in the least to hear that North was the actual murderer. I’m sure the man’s face would hang him if he ever appeared in the dock.’
‘I took an instant dislike to him,’ said Jim. ‘There’s something horribly shifty about the man.’
‘H’m!’ said Lowe thoughtfully. ‘I should like to see this unpleasant person and also have a look at the Tower room, and that ambulance.’
‘Come back to lunch,’ suggested Jim; ‘we’re terribly late, but if it’s spoiled I dare say Mrs. North will be able to rake up something eatable.’
‘Thanks, I’d like to,’ replied the dramatist.
‘You’ll come, too, Superintendent, won’t you?’ said Jim, turning to Hartley.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the superintendent.
‘Then, suppose we make a move.’ Jim rose to his feet. ‘I must say that I’m beginning to get hungry.’
‘I’ve been hungry for a long time,’ growled McWraith. ‘There may be a lot wrong with Stonehurst, but you can take it from me that the beer’s all right. It’s given me a prodigious appetite.’
Lowe had a word with Mr. Japper, in case White should return during his absence, and then the little party set off for Greytower. Lowe and Jim walked on ahead, Hartley and McWraith bringing up the rear.
‘If North has got anything to do with the business,’ Jim remarked, ‘it’ll be interesting to see his face when I arrive with the superintendent.’
‘It may be very instructive,’ said Low
e. ‘Tell me, what time was it when you heard that scream?’
Jim thought before he replied.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ he said at length, ‘but it was somewhere between seven and eight — nearer eight, I should think.’
‘That complicates matters a bit,’ said Lowe musingly.
‘Why?’ asked Jim, a little puzzled.
‘Because,’ answered the other, ‘we were assuming that scream you heard was the death cry of the man who was killed. But either it was nothing of the sort or the man I found in the ditch was not the same man who rang me up.’ He rubbed his chin gently. ‘My telephone call was at twenty minutes past ten,’ he went on, ‘and if he had been killed when you heard the scream he couldn’t have phoned. And yet I’m pretty certain that the dead man was the man who made the appointment. It was the making of that appointment that brought about his death.’
‘Then, who screamed?’ demanded Jim.
‘That’s what I should like to know,’ replied Lowe, drawing his brows into a frown. ‘Who screamed?’
He was lost in thought until they turned into the drive, and then he roused himself and looked about him.
‘I’d like to stop and have a look at this path you mentioned,’ he said. ‘The one on which you found the marks of the wheels.’
‘It’s farther up,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll show you when we come to it.’
A little farther on he stopped at a break in the shrubbery that lined the drive.
‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘The marks of the car are just there.’
The dramatist stared at the ground and then looked round at Jim.
‘Where?’ he asked quietly.
‘There,’ said Jim, coming over to him; ‘just —’ He broke off; the tyre marks he had seen that morning were no longer there. ‘But — but —’ he stammered, completely taken aback. ‘They were there, Mr. Lowe.’
‘I can see that something was there,’ interrupted Lowe, ‘but whatever it was has been carefully erased — with a stiff brush, I should think by the look of it.’
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