The whole thing came to this, Linda thought: Was Ardfalloch really in the palm of Iain’s hand, or was it not? Was he as strong and ubiquitous as he thought, or was his strength only a dream, an echo from the past when the MacAslans had been all powerful in the district. Was Iain’s strength real? Could he take Richard and keep him in spite of the law?
Linda could not make up her mind one way or the other; sometimes she thought: It is a mad plan, a crazy idea. How could they hide him here when one chance word would give the whole thing away? How could I bear to leave him here, with the MacNeils, in a peasant’s cottage? How could I ever have thought of such a wild plan? And sometimes she thought of Jack Medworth and the sneer on his face as he spoke of “licking the little rabbit into shape,” and she flung herself face downwards upon her bed and cried, “No, no, I can’t let him have Richard, anything would be better than that,” and she remembered that even seeing the man had upset Richard and made him quite ill; and she thought of all that Iain had said, and how Richard would be quite safe and happy with Morag, and that it would do him no harm to live with them for a little until Jack forgot, or found something else to interest him.
By this time it was getting light—the room was filled with a queer half-light that seemed to choose what it would illumine and what it would hide. The oval mirror shone like a silver shield, and, across the grey windows, the dark feathery branch of a fir tree moved up and down in the wind of dawn. Day had returned. Linda turned her pillows for the twentieth time and tried to forget her troubles in sleep.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE INSPECTOR’S VISIT
The mystery of the young man who was living at MacTaggart’s Inn was solved a few days later. It was a Sunday morning. Mrs. MacAslan and Janet had gone for a walk and Iain was alone in the cottage. He was sitting by the fire, thinking as usual about the extraordinary muddle in which he and Linda had been involved, and wondering why they had heard nothing more of Medworth and his machinations, when there was a knock on the door. Iain went to open it and found a strange man standing on the step. The man was about his own age—or slightly older—and was dressed in a plus-four suit and a shabby but well-cut Burberry coat.
“Mr. MacAslan?” he enquired.
“Yes,” replied Iain. “Do you want to see me?”
“Please,” said the stranger. He took off his coat and followed Iain into the sitting-room.
Iain looked at him critically, he was rather a nice-looking fellow, clean-shaven, with a long straight nose and good teeth. I suppose he has come to deliver the summons—or whatever it is, Iain thought vaguely.
“Won’t you sit down?” he said.
“Thank you,” said the man. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I want your help in rather a curious case—I am Detective-Inspector Howles—Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard!” exclaimed Iain in amazement.
Inspector Howles showed his badge.
“That’s interesting,” Iain said. “Perhaps you won’t believe me when I tell you I have often read of a Scotland Yard badge, but never seen one before.”
Howles laughed. “I believe you, all right,” he said.
Iain thought hard—surely Scotland Yard could have no interest in Linda’s case—it was the King’s Proctor, Iain knew that much. This man must have come to see him about some other matter. What could it be?
“I am told that you own this place,” Inspector Howles was saying, “so I thought I’d like a talk with you. I thought perhaps you might be able to throw some light on my case. It’s rather a strange case, very puzzling. I suppose you know that Mr. Jack Medworth has disappeared—”
“Disappeared!”
“Completely vanished,” Howles said. “I see you don’t know about it. He left here on the 28th August. Drove to Balnafin in the local taxi and took the Glasgow train—but he never arrived there.”
Iain was gazing at the Inspector in amazement. “Never arrived there,” he echoed stupidly. “How d’you know?”
“I’ve made every enquiry,” the man replied. “His luggage arrived, and was placed in the lost luggage depot, but nobody saw Mr. Medworth. I’ve searched the luggage, of course, but there was no clue to his disappearance—perhaps you are aware that he stayed here under the name of Middleton.”
“I knew that,” Iain admitted. “I knew him when he was here—I lent him my boat once or twice.” He thought: I must be careful, there’s something queer about this.
“Perhaps you knew he was divorced from his wife—she is staying at Ardfalloch House, I believe.”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“You know Mrs. Medworth?”
“Yes.”
“Can you help me at all, Mr. MacAslan? Do you know if the man had any enemies?”
“Enemies? D’you mean here?”
“Yes.”
“I think he was liked,” replied Iain thoughtfully. “He was amusing—very good company. I used to go down to the inn, sometimes, and it seemed to me he was popular. He had travelled, you see, and he had a fund of stories—rather doubtful stories, but they went down well. It’s quiet here, you see, and the men rather like somebody new, somebody who has knocked about a bit and can tell them about the world. He used to have quite an audience sometimes.”
The Inspector sighed. “I know all that,” he said.
“I’ve been here nearly a week, making enquiries on the Q.T., but I haven’t got any further—not a yard further. I thought perhaps you might have heard something.”
“What sort of thing?” enquired Iain cautiously.
“Well, do you think there was a woman he was after, or anything like that? Medworth was a bit of a devil with women—I found that out—I thought perhaps he might have interfered with somebody’s sweetheart, and got murdered for his pains—something like that. Your people here have got the reputation for being wild and fierce—they don’t seem so, I must say. I never saw people who were quieter, or kinder, or more law-abiding on the surface—what’s under the surface, Mr. MacAslan?”
Iain could not help smiling. “They’re good and bad like other people,” he said. “If Medworth had meddled with their women they wouldn’t have liked it—but did he?”
“I can’t find anything,” Howles admitted. “Not a blessed thing. That’s why I’m asking you.” He hesitated a moment and then added, “Supposing he had meddled with their women, should you think it likely that they would kill him?”
Iain did not like the question—he scarcely knew why. He thought a moment and then he said, “I can tell you this, if any of them had felt inclined to avenge themselves upon Medworth they would have done it here. They wouldn’t have waited until he left Ardfalloch. These people are primitive, in a way—they would have killed the man here, in their own glen, if they were going to do it at all—but it seems to me you have no reason to suspect the people here, have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Howles with a sigh; “and what’s more I happen to know that there was nobody from here on the train. I’m afraid I shall have to rule out that possibility. I’m loath to rule it out because I haven’t got anything else to work on—except suicide. What do you think of that as a solution, Mr. MacAslan? Was Medworth that sort of man?”
For a moment Iain was tempted to say he was—it would be such a nice easy explanation of the mystery—and then, suddenly, he couldn’t say it.
“That was not my impression of the man,” he admitted.
Howles nodded. “It couldn’t possibly have been that, or we should have found the body. I just wanted to see what you would say.”
Iain had a feeling of panic. He didn’t know why he was frightened, but quite suddenly he felt that this man was more clever than he seemed. He had set a sort of trap, and Iain had nearly walked into it. What did the man know? Did he know about Linda? Did he know that Medworth had intended to bring an action against himself and Linda? Did he—could he possibly suspect that Iain had wanted to kill Medworth? He can’t know, Iain told himself firmly—it’s not the l
east use getting rattled. The man’s more clever than I thought and he’s trying to trap me, but he can’t possibly know that. And he can’t trap me because I’ve done nothing wrong, and I know no more than he does about Medworth—not as much.
“Did he speak to you of his reason for staying here?” enquired Howles, after a few moments’ silence.
“Yes; the first time I saw him,” replied Iain, glad that this was a question so easily answered. “It was in the bar-parlour at MacTaggart’s; he told us that he was writing a treatise on birds. He also made enquiries about the fishing.”
“That is all correct, Mr. MacAslan,” said the Inspector, smiling. “But was that the real reason he was here? Did he try to see Mrs. Medworth?”
Iain felt his forehead grow damp. He said, “Medworth met her once—here in my house—by arrangement.”
“Were you present at the interview?”
“Yes.”
“What took place?”
Iain thought hurriedly, then he said, “Need I tell you that? I mean, is it important—has it any real bearing on your case?”
“I understand your reluctance,” Howles replied in quite a friendly manner. “You needn’t tell me, of course. I can’t insist upon you telling me anything, but if you could give me an idea of what took place at their interview it might save me from having to trouble Mrs. Medworth.”
Iain hesitated; the last thing he wanted was for Linda to be worried by Inspector Howles. “Then you needn’t see Mrs. Medworth—if I tell you?” he asked.
“I can’t promise that,” replied Howles. “But your account might satisfy me.”
Iain thought: That’s nonsense. He’s only saying that to persuade me to speak. I shall have to be damned careful with this man. “They talked about the child,” he said aloud. “Mrs. Medworth has the custody of the child. Medworth wanted to come to an arrangement by which he should have the child, but Mrs. Medworth couldn’t agree to that. If you know anything about Medworth I needn’t tell you why. Mrs. Medworth saw no reason to give him what the law had denied him.”
“I see,” said Howles slowly. “He was angry, I suppose.”
“He was—annoyed,” amended Iain.
“Was that what he was going to see his solicitor about?”
Iain felt his hair rise in horror—so Howles knew that.
“He wrote to his solicitor, making an appointment,” explained the Inspector. “Rather an ambiguous letter. I take it he was a man who liked making little mysteries—surprising people. It was Medworth’s solicitor who called in the Yard. The letter was urgent, and Medworth never appeared on the day appointed. Mr. Wales was worried. He thought it was odd after writing so urgently that the man should not turn up. I’ve got the letter here,” added Howles, touching his pocket.
“Could I see it?” Iain enquired, trying to make his voice sound as casual as possible.
“I see no reason why you shouldn’t,” Howles replied. He took the letter out of his pocket-book and handed it over. It was a crumpled half-sheet of paper.
27th August.—MACTAGGART’S INN,
ARDFALLOCH.
DEAR WALES,
Can you see me on Monday about 4? It’s urgent. You’ll be surprised when you hear my news. I’ve got a big job for you. No more now as I want to see your face when you hear my news.
Yours in haste,
J. M.
“Yes,” said Iain slowly. He folded the note and handed it back.
“Any comments?” enquired Howles.
“It’s very like the man.”
“H’m. You mean breezy?”
“I suppose I do,” said Iain. He thought: I really meant impudent, but it’s wiser not to let him see how much I disliked Medworth.
“But what was the big job?” Howles asked. “That’s the question. From what you tell me Mrs. Medworth refused to relinquish the child. Had he any hold on her? Was the big job something to do with her, or was it something quite different, something we know nothing about?”
Iain did not like this at all. The man was far too near the truth. It was most uncomfortable. He waited a few moments as though he were considering the matter, and then he said, “I suppose you are quite sure that Medworth really is dead?”
“I’m not sure he’s dead,” replied Howles a trifle irritably. “I’m not sure of anything. All I know is that the man has disappeared. He may have disappeared voluntarily, but that isn’t likely in view of this letter—is it? Here’s a man writing urgently to his solicitor about a ‘big job’—it was Wales who defended him in the divorce suit, of course—here’s a man, I say, writing to London full of confidence, and then, suddenly, he disappears. What happened to him? Did something go wrong at the last minute? Did something happen to make him change his mind? Perhaps you think he lost his memory—”
“No, I don’t think that.”
“Neither do I. You see what a mystery it is. I’ve worked at the thing till I’m tired and I can’t find any clue. I started working at the other end, but I soon saw that was hopeless, so I came up here. I traced him quite easily as far as Balnafin and into the train. Quite half a dozen people saw him at the station. It’s a small place and they all remembered him perfectly—the man in the booking office who sold him a ticket (a through ticket to Glasgow)—the station-master—a couple of farmers. The porter remembers handling his luggage. The station-master saw him into a first-class compartment—it was empty. The guard saw him get in. That’s all right: the man got into the train; after that—blank. Nobody saw him get out at any of the stations where the train stops. Nobody saw him again as far as I know—the man simply vanished,” said Howles with a gesture of something like despair. “The man simply vanished into thin air—”
“Most extraordinary,” Iain said.
“Most extraordinary,” agreed Howles. “It’s beaten me. The man was an easily recognisable sort of man—a big man, a man you would not be likely to forget—people like that don’t vanish. If they’ve been killed you find their bodies. I’ve had the line searched, of course. I thought he might have fallen out of the train, or been pushed out, but no—not a vestige of the man has been found. What d’you make of it, Mr. MacAslan?”
“I can’t make anything of it,” replied Iain truthfully.
“Neither can I,” said Howles. He rose from his chair. “Well, that’s that,” he said with a sigh. “I must thank you, Mr. MacAslan. You haven’t helped me much, but I am grateful for the frank way you have answered my questions. I must try another line, that’s all. A man like Medworth, with his reputation, may have had enemies. In fact, he must have had enemies—women and racing—yes. One of his enemies has done him in, and I’ve got to find who it is. I’m on the wrong scent here. It’s disappointing to have wasted so much time to no purpose, but it’s all in the day’s work.”
“Queer sort of work it must be!” said Iain in a friendly manner.
“Yes, queer but interesting,” agreed Howles.
“Have a drink before you go,” suggested Iain.
“Thank you, sir—I don’t mind if I do.”
Iain fetched the whisky and a couple of glasses; they sat down and lighted cigarettes. Howles at once began to talk in a different way; he was more casual and his eyes lost their piercing directness. The Inspector was “off duty”; the interview was over; they were merely chatting now. But I must still be careful, Iain thought—although what he had to be careful about was not very clear in his mind.
“It’s funny how my ideas have changed in the last few days,” Howles was saying. “When I came up here I thought I was coming amongst—well, amongst sort of savages—wild Highlanders with kilts, and daggers in their stockings. I thought I had only got to walk into this valley and find a murderer—several perhaps. The only thing that worried me at all was in case I got a dagger in my own back.”
Iain laughed. “You find Ardfalloch more civilized than you expected?”
“I find the people more civilized,” replied Howles. “You could hardly call the place ci
vilized, with the roads in that frightful condition, and scarcely a telephone in miles; no evening papers except a stray one from Glasgow if someone in the village happens to have come over from somewhere else; with no plumbing to speak of and no cinemas—”
“There’s wireless,” Iain reminded him, somewhat amused at the Inspector’s indictment.
“Yes, there’s wireless,” admitted Howles. “What on earth did they do before wireless was invented? Those little farms amongst the mountains are cut off from everybody—so they tell me—for weeks on end during the winter. And yet the people living in them are better informed and more interested in world affairs than many a Londoner.”
“You certainly seem to have sized us up,” said Iain, smiling.
“Well, that’s my job, sir,” replied Howles, with a kind of modest self-satisfaction. “It’s my job to size people up. I’ve gone about a lot amongst the people here. They were a bit suspicious of me at first, but I’ve made friends with them now—some of them—and a kinder, quieter, better-living set of people I’ve never met. There’s practically no drunkenness—there’s no theft. I made friends with Mac Var—your local P.C.—and if ever I want a soft job I’ll exchange with him. The man doesn’t know he’s born. Spends most of his time gardening, and the remainder walking out with the best-looking girl in the village. I’ve poked about a bit, and talked to people in the bar, and round about the place, and I’ve met with the greatest kindness and hospitality. They’re a great crowd. Take MacTaggart, for instance—I’ve been staying at his inn—he’s a fine man, and well-read, too. Take Donald MacNeil—what a splendid type! I consider Donald MacNeil absolutely typical of the Highlander—am I right?”
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