Colin Upsets the Apple-cart
Inspector Moresby was evidently having a busy day. He did not put in
an appearance at lunch, and when Roger and Anthony strolled down to
the sea-level to smoke their post-prandial pipes there was still no
sign of him. Anthony surmised vaguely that his investigations must be
covering a larger field than their own.
Anthony had plenty of time for his surmises, for ever since their
return to the inn Roger had lapsed into a highly unaccustomed state of
taciturnity. To his cousin’s efforts to make conversation or discuss
their discoveries of the morning he replied with only a brief word or
grunt. Anthony, who was not always so tactless as he appeared,
realised that his mind was busy with some knotty problem connected
with the case, and was content to leave him to his meditations. They
scrambled out to their usual rock and composed themselves to smoke in
silence.
It was nearly three-quarters of an hour before Roger volunteered any
clue as to what was puzzling him. “I’m sure,” he said abruptly, “that
this information of the landlady’s ought to give us a pointer to the
truth, if we could only interpret it correctly.”
“You mean, about Mrs. Vane’s visit and their quarrel?” Anthony
enquired.
“No, no,” Roger said with unusual testiness. “That doesn’t give us
anything fresh. It’s natural enough for her to have visited him, and
we’d gathered already that they were on bad terms. No, about those
pipes.”
“Oh! But I don’t see how they come in.”
“Well, after all,” observed Roger sarcastically, “a pipe does play
rather a leading part in the affair, doesn’t it?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Anthony blankly.
Roger stared at him for a moment and then laughed. “Oh, sorry! I was
forgetting that you don’t know anything about that. And you mustn’t
ask me either, because I’m under the most fearful oaths of secrecy.
Anyhow, a pipe _does_ play a leading part—but don’t tell Moresby I
told you.”
“Mum’s the word,” agreed Anthony cheerfully. “All right, carry on,
then. You’ll get to the bottom of it, Roger, if you work your grey
matter hard enough.”
“Thank you, Anthony,” Roger murmured. “I do need a little
encouragement, it’s true.” He relapsed into his brown study.
Anthony sat on the rock till it became too hard to sit on any longer,
then he removed his shoes and socks, tucked up his trousers and began
to wander further afield. Anthony was growing up.
High overhead an aeroplane made its appearance, sweeping a vast circle
in the blue sky. The drone of its engine reached their ears as a
muffled hum.
“Wonder if that’s Woodthorpe’s bus,” Anthony called out, seeing his
cousin’s eyes following the tiny speck across space.
“Woodthorpe’s?” said Roger absently. “Didn’t know he’d got one.”
“So Margaret told me. He was in the Air Force during the war, and now
he keeps a bus of his own. They’re rolling in money, of course.”
“Lucky devils,” remarked Roger mechanically.
Anthony found a small crab under a flat stone and the conversation
lapsed.
It was another half-hour before Roger again broke the silence. He rose
from his cramped position and made his way over to Anthony, jumping
agilely from rock to rock and refilling his pipe as he went.
“Look here, Anthony,” he said, “is there absolutely no way of getting
hold of Margaret this afternoon? There’s something I particularly want
to ask her.”
“I don’t think there is,” Anthony replied doubtfully. “I wanted to
take her out in the car, as a matter of fact, but she said she
couldn’t possibly manage it; far too busy.”
“She’s gone into Sandsea, you said?”
“Yes.”
Roger frowned. “What an infernal nuisance! It’s a point I badly want
to clear up.”
“What is it?”
“I wanted to ask her whether by any remote chance Mrs. Vane had
expressed any intention before her death of going away in the near
future.”
“Well, it’s funny you should say that, sir,” replied Anthony
humorously, “because as a matter of fact I _do_ know. She had. What’s
the great idea?”
“She had, had she?” Roger demanded eagerly. “Did Margaret tell you?”
“She mentioned it once, I remember; just casually. Mrs. Vane hadn’t
been away this summer, and she was going to stay with some friends for
the twelfth.”
“The twelfth, eh?” Roger made a rapid calculation. “Then she’d have
gone about a fortnight ago. Excellent! Anthony, I do believe I’m on
the track of something.”
“I say, are you really?” Anthony’s enthusiasm was all that the most
exacting detective could have required. “Mean you’ve solved the whole
thing?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Roger said modestly. “But
I do think I’m beginning to see daylight. I’ve got a rather stupendous
idea, at any rate, and things seem to be fitting into it rather
neatly.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, you mustn’t ask me that yet. I shall have to chew it over a lot
more before I can make a connected and logical story of it. Besides,
the best detectives always hold up their brilliant solutions for the
most effective moment (surely you know that), and I refuse to think
that an audience of Anthony Walton, two green crabs and a limpet would
be in the least effective.”
“Well, hurry up and think it out properly,” said Anthony, ignoring
this pleasantry. “You know we all want to see this damned business
cleared up once and for all.”
“Then let’s go back and have our tea. And after that, if you’ll leave
me to myself for a couple of hours, I’ll see what can be done.”
Inspector Moresby had still not returned to the inn when they got
there, as the landlord informed them on Roger’s enquiry. Roger
wondered uneasily what exactly he might be up to; feeling as he did
that he himself was on the verge of the truth he had no wish that
anybody should forestall him in crossing it.
Throughout tea he chattered incessantly about nothing at all,
explaining on Anthony’s remonstrance that he wished to clear his brain
of all stale notions in order to approach the problem afterward with
an entirely fresh mind.
As soon as they had finished he took his pipe down once more to the
rocks, and sternly forbade Anthony to come within half-a-mile of him.
More than the stipulated two hours had passed before he climbed once
more up to the little path along the face of the cliff and thence to
the top of the headland where Anthony, bored beyond tears with his own
company but far too eager to risk missing his cousin’s return, was
anxiously waiting.
“Well?” demanded the latter at once, hurrying forward. “Any luck?”
“Not so much luck, Anthony, as brilliance,” Roger replied with
pardonable pride. “Yes, I think I’ve solved this little problem, as
Holmes would have said if he’d been here instead of me.”
“Who’s the murderer, then?”
“Can you possess your soul in patience a little longer? I don’t want
to spoil a good story, but it’s such a long and complicated one that I
don’t want to have to tell it twice over. If you can wait till Moresby
arrives I can kill two birds with one stone.”
“But he may be ages,” Anthony grumbled.
“Well, give me till half-way through supper,” said Roger, “and if he
isn’t back by then I’ll promise to give you an outline of it in
advance.” And with that Anthony had to be content.
“By Jove,” Roger resumed, as they walked back to the inn. “By Jove, I
do hope Moresby hasn’t been working along this line himself. He’s such
a reticent devil, I never know what’s in his mind; he’ll spill a fact
or two occasionally, but never a theory—that is, not without some
ulterior motive. Yes, if this idea hasn’t occurred to him already, I
fancy I’ve got a little shock in store for Inspector Moresby.”
“Is the solution quite—quite unexpected, then?”
“Entirely, so far as I know—or at any rate, by me. Then I suddenly
caught a glimpse of things from a fresh angle, and all the facts
proceeded to arrange themselves in the neatest way possible.”
“You’ll be able to convince the inspector, I suppose? He’s a bit of a
sceptical devil.”
“He is that,” Roger agreed with feeling. “But I don’t see how I can
fail to convince even him. The facts ought to do that for themselves.
Of course the solution isn’t capable of cast-iron proof, that’s the
only trouble; but if it comes to that, what solution that depends only
on circumstantial evidence ever can be? And proof hasn’t necessarily
got to be cast-iron, it only needs to be reasonably convincing; and
that mine certainly is.”
“Good egg!” quoth Anthony with satisfaction.
In the hall of the inn the landlord intercepted them.
“There’s a gentleman come to see Inspector Moresby,” he said. “I told
him he was out, but he wanted to wait, so I said he could wait in your
sitting-room, thinking you wouldn’t mind, gents.”
“Of course not,” Roger concurred. “Did he leave his name?”
“Well, there wasn’t no need for him to do that,” replied the landlord
quite seriously. “I know who ’e is, you see. It’s young Mr.
Woodthorpe.”
Roger and Anthony exchanged glances. “Oh, yes?” said the former.
“Well, no doubt the inspector will be in soon. Thank you,
landlord.—And what the devil,” he observed to Anthony, as they made
their way up the stairs, “does young Mr. Woodthorpe want? We’d better
go in and see.”
Young Mr. Woodthorpe was standing by the window, his usually ruddy
face decidedly pale and set in grim lines. He wheeled round abruptly
as they entered the room.
“Hullo! You wanted to see Inspector Moresby?” Roger greeted him
pleasantly.
Woodthorpe nodded. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Will he be long?”
“I can’t say, I’m afraid. We haven’t seen him since breakfast. Is it
anything important?”
“It is rather.”
“Well, have a drink while you’re waiting. I can recommend the beer
here.”
“Thanks.”
“Anthony, shout down for three tankards,” Roger said hospitably, quite
unperturbed by his guest’s noticeable failure to return his own
cordiality; indeed the young man’s manner was so abrupt and cold as to
be not far short of downright rude.
Anthony’s stentorian shout echoed down the dark stairs.
“Couldn’t I give the inspector a message, if he’s longer than you care
to wait?” Roger asked, turning back to Woodthorpe.
“I’m afraid not,” said the young man stiffly. “My business with him is
rather private.” He swallowed slightly and swept a nervous glance
toward the door, through which Anthony was just returning. “Oh, well,”
he burst out with sudden defiance, “you’ll know soon enough in any
case, so I may as well tell you now. I’ve come to give myself up. I
killed Mrs. Vane and—and Meadows.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Roger blankly.