The Seeds of Mischief
Ingerman was a shrewder judge of human nature than the village chemist.
As well try to stem the flowing tide as stop tongues from wagging when
such a theme offered.
Tomlin created a momentary diversion by clattering in the bar. After
this professional interlude, Ingerman ignored his own compact.
“I’m sure you local residents will be interested, at least, in hearing
something of my wife’s career,” he said. “There never was a more
lovable and gracious woman, and no couple could be more united than she
and I till some three years ago. Then came a break. She was independent
of me, of course. She was a celebrity, I a mere nobody, best known, if
at all, as ‘Miss Melhuish’s husband.’ Nevertheless, we were devoted to
each other until, to her and my lasting misfortune, a certain author
wrote a book which, when dramatized, contained a part for which my
wife’s stage presence and talents seemed to be peculiarly suited.”
Siddle stirred uneasily, but the others were still as partridges in
stubble. Ingerman did not intend to alarm the shy bird of the covey,
however.
“I name no names,” he said solemnly. “Nor am I telling you anything
that will not be thoroughly exposed before the coroner and elsewhere.
From that unhappy period dated our estrangement. My wife fell under a
fatal influence which lasted, practically unchecked, until the day, if
not the very hour, of her death. Do I blame her? No—a thousand times
no! You see me, a plain man, considerably her senior. _I_ had not the
gift of writing impassioned love passages in which she could display
her artistic genius. When I came home from the City, tired after the
day’s work, _she_ was just beginning hers. You know what London
fashionable life is—the theater, a supper, a dance, some great lady’s
‘reception,’ and the rest of it. Ah, me! The stage, and literature, and
the arts generally are not for poor fellows moiling in a City office.
You gentlemen, I take it, are all happily married—”
“I’m not,” said Elkin, “but I’ll lay you long odds I will be soon.”
For some reason, this remark produced a certain uneasiness among his
friends. Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars “stood” by this
talkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again,
examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to
say something, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then
Ingerman made a very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was,
and what Hobbs’s cryptic allusion had meant.
“Good luck to you, sir,” he said, “but—take no offense—don’t marry an
actress. There’s an old adage, ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’ I
would go farther, and interpolate the word ‘should.’ If Adelaide
Melhuish had never met me, but had married the man who could write her
plays, this tragedy in real life would never have been.”
“D—n him,” muttered Elkin fiercely. “He’s done for now, anyhow. He’ll
turn no more girls’ heads for a bit.”
“An’ five minutes since you yapped at me like a vicious fox-terrier for
’intin’ much the same thing,” chortled Hobbs.
Siddle stood up.
“You ain’t goin’, Mr. Siddle?” went on the butcher. “It’s ’ardly ’arf
past nine.”
“I have some accounts to get out. It’s near the half year, you know,”
and Siddle vanished unobtrusively.
Hobbs shook his head, and gazed at Elkin as though the latter was a
refractory bullock.
“Siddle’s a fair-minded chap,” he said. “He can’t stand ’earin’ any of
us ’angin’ a man without a fair trial.”
Ingerman had marked the chemist for more subtle treatment when an
opportunity arose, or could be made. At present, he was not sorry such
a restraining influence was removed. The next half hour should prove a
golden one if well utilized. He was right. Before the inn was cleared,
what between Elkin’s savage comments and the other men’s thinly-veiled
allusions, he knew all that Steynholme could tell with regard to Grant
and Doris Martin.
Grant’s first thought next morning was of the girl who had been thrust
so prominently into his life by the death of another woman. That was,
perhaps, the strangest outcome of the tragedy. Doris was easily the
prettiest and most intelligent girl in the village, a rare combination
in itself, even among young ladies of much higher social position than
a postmaster’s daughter. But her father was a self-educated man, whose
life had been given to books, whose only hobby was the culture and
study of bees. He had often refused promotion, solely because his
duties at Steynholme were light, and permitted of many free hours. In
his only child he found a quick pupil and a sympathetic helper. Of her
own accord she took to poetry and music. In effect, had Doris Martin
attended the best of boarding-schools and training colleges, she would
have received a smattering of French and a fair knowledge of the piano
or violin, whereas, after more humble tuition, it might fairly be said
of her that few girls of her age had read so many books and assimilated
their contents so thoroughly. From her mother she inherited her good
looks and a small yearly income, just sufficient to maintain a better
wardrobe than her father’s salary would permit.
Grant, newly settled in Steynholme, found the postmaster and his
daughter intellectually on a par with himself, and this claim could
certainly not be made on behalf of the local “society” element. The
three became excellent friends. Naturally, the young people spent a
good deal of time together. But there had been no love-making—not a
hint or whisper of it!
And now, by cruel chance, their names were linked by scandal in its
most menacing form, since there was no gainsaying the fact that Doris’s
star-gazing on that fatal Monday night was indissolubly bound up with
the death of Adelaide Melhuish.
For the first time, then, the notion peeped up in Grant’s mind that the
whirligig of existence might see Doris his wife. But the conceit
resembled the Gorgon’s teeth, which, when sown in the ground, sprang
forth as armed men. The very accident which revealed a not unpleasing
possibility had established a grave obstacle in the way of its ultimate
realization. Already there was a cloud between him and the Martins,
father and daughter. To what a tempest might not that cloud develop
when the questionings and innuendoes of the inquest established an aura
of suspicion and intrigue around a perfectly innocent meeting in the
garden of _The Hollies_!
Grant ate his breakfast in wrath. In wrath, too, he glanced through the
morning newspapers, and saw his own name figuring large in the “story”
of the “alleged” murder. The reporters had missed nothing. They had
even got hold of the “peculiar coincidence” of his (Grant’s) glimpse of
a face at the window. His play was recalled, and Adelaide Melhuish’s
success in the title-rôle. Then Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman was introduced.
He was described as “a man fairly well known in the City.” That was
all. The press could say nothing as yet of marital disagreements, nor
was any hint concerning Doris Martin allowed to appear. But these
journalistic fire-works were only held in reserve. “Dramatic and
sensational developments” were promised, and police activity in “an
unexpected direction” fore-shadowed.
All of which, of course, was mere journalistic paraphrasing of
circumstances already known to the writers, and none the less galling
to Grant on that account.
And there was no answer from the Commissioner of Police at Scotland
Yard. True, the overnight telegram might have reached the Department
after office hours. Grant, like most members of the general public,
held the vague belief that Government officials do very little work.
Still, one might reasonably expect better things from the institution
which was supposed to safeguard law-abiding citizens.
Calm analysis of Ingerman’s nebulous threats had revealed a hostile
force not to be despised. Possibly, the man was already in league with
that narrow-minded village constable, so every passing hour made more
urgent the need of a trained intelligence being brought to bear on the
mystery of Adelaide Melhuish’s killing. Grant racked his brains to
discover who could possibly have a motive for committing the crime.
Naturally, his thoughts flew to Ingerman. Surely that sinister-looking
person should be forced to give an account of himself instead of, as
was probable, being allowed to instill further nonsense into the
suspicious mind of P. C. Robinson.
There were two morning deliveries of London letters in Steynholme, one
at eight and another at half past ten. Grant waited until the postman
had left a publisher’s circular (the only letter for _The Hollies_ by
the second mail). Then, in a fever of impatience, he jammed on a hat
and went out. He would wait no longer. He would telegraph Scotland Yard
again, and, incidentally, demand an audience at the post office.
No sooner had he entered the highroad than he saw P. C. Robinson on
guard. That important person was standing on the bridge, apparently
taking the air. He was nibbling the chin-strap of his helmet; both
thumbs were locked in his belt. From that strategic position three
roads came under observation.
It was a fine morning, and Grant’s sense of humor was not proof against
this open espionage. He smiled, and determined to take a rise out of
“Sherlock,” as Bates had christened the policeman.
The bridge lay a hundred yards to the left. The road was straight until
it curved around the house and its shrubberies, so the view was blocked
on that side. Grant filled and lighted a pipe with a deliberateness
meant to be provoking, glancing several times doubtfully at P. C.
Robinson, who, of course, was grandly unaware of his presence. Then he
strolled off to the right, and, when hidden, took to his heels for a
hundred yards sprint. Turning into a winding bridle-path tucked between
hedges of thorn and hazels, he walked to a point where it crossed a
patch of furze. At a little distance a hand-bridge spanned the river,
and gave access to the eastern end of the village by a steep climb of
the wooded cliff. The path, in fact, was a short cut to that part of
Steynholme.
He sat on a hump of rock, and waited. It was a boyish trick, but very
successful. Within three minutes, at the utmost, P. C. Robinson
hurried past, using a stalking, stealthy stride which was distinctly
ludicrous.
The eyes of the two men met, but Grant alone was prepared.
“Hello, Robinson!” he cried cheerfully. “What’s the rush? Surely our
rural peace has not been disturbed again?”
Robinson knew he had been “sold,” but rose to the occasion.
“Excuse me, Mr. Grant,” he puffed. “Can’t wait now. Have an
appointment. I’ll see you later.”
Honor demanded that he should not relax that swift pace. Unhappily, the
path up the cliff was visible throughout from Grant’s rock, so, on
reaching the summit, Robinson was a-boil in more ways than one.
Moreover, peeping through the first screen of trees that offered, he
had the mortification of seeing the man who had befooled him go back
the way he came.
Purple-faced with heat and anger, the policeman forgot his
surroundings, and glowered at Grant with real fury. So he heard no one
approaching along the main road until he was hailed a second time with,
“Hello, Robinson!”
He turned sharply. This was Mr. Elkin.
“Good morning!” he said. “Have you seen the superintendent?”
“What? Mr. Fowler? No. Is _he_ here so early?”
“I must have missed him.”
“Well, you’ll hardly find him on Bush Walk,” which was the name of the
path.
“You never can tell,” came the dark answer.
At any rate, the policeman elected to abandon his self-imposed vigil,
and the two walked together into the village.
“My! You look as though you’d run a mile,” commented Elkin.
“This murder has kept me busy,” growled the other, frankly mopping his
forehead.
“Ay, that’s so. And it isn’t done with yet, by a long way. Pity you
weren’t in the Hare and Hounds last night. You’d have heard something.
There’s a chap staying there, name of Ingerman—”
“I’ve met him. The dead woman’s husband.”
“Oh, perhaps you’ve got his yarn already?”
“It all depends what he said to you.”
“Well, he hinted things. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, you’ll soon be
making an arrest.”
“I believe I could put my hand on the murderer this very minute,” said
Robinson vindictively.
Elkin laughed, somewhat half-heartedly.
“Lay you fifty to one against the time,” he said. “I’m the only one
near enough for that limit, you know.”
The policeman realized that he had allowed annoyance to shake his wits.
He looked at Elkin rather sharply, and noticed that the horse-breeder
seemed to be nervous and ill.
“I didn’t quite mean that I could grab my man this minute,” he said,
“but, if I can guess him, it amounts to nearly the same thing. What
have you been doing to yourself, Mr. Elkin? You look peeky to-day.”
“Too much whiskey and tobacco. I’ll call at Siddle’s for a
‘pick-me-up.’ Am I wanted for the jury?”
“Yes. I left a notice at your place last evening.”
“I didn’t get it.”
“Been away?”
“No. Fact is, I went home late, and didn’t bother about letters this
morning. What time is the inquest?”
“Three o’clock, in the club-room of the Hare and Hounds.”
“Will that fellow, Grant, be there?”
“Rather. Dr. Foxton warned him yesterday.”
“Good! What about Doris Martin? Will she be a witness?”
“Not to-day.”
They were entering the village, and could see down the long, wide slope
of the hill. Grant had just come into sight at its foot.
Both men scowled at the distant figure, but neither passed any comment.
They parted, the policeman walking straight on, Elkin bearing to the
left. The chemist’s shop stood exactly opposite the post office, so
Elkin, arriving first, was aware of his unconscious rival’s
destination.
He had not answered Mr. Siddle’s greeting, but gazed moodily through a
barricade of specifics piled in the window. Then he swore.
“What’s wrong now?” inquired the chemist quietly.
“That Grant. Got a nerve, hasn’t he?”
“I can’t say, unless you explain.”
“He’s just gone into the post office.”
“Why shouldn’t he? He wants stamps, may be; plenty of ’em, I should
imagine.”
“Oh, you’re a fish, Siddle. You aren’t crazy about a girl, like I am.
The sooner Grant’s in jail the better I’ll be pleased.”
“If you take my advice, which you won’t, I know, you will not utter
that sort of remark publicly.”
“Can’t help it. Bet you a fiver I’m engaged to Doris Martin within a
week.”
Mr. Siddle took thought.
“Why so quickly?” he asked, after a pause.
“I’ll catch her on the hop, of course. If she’s engaged to me it’ll
help her a lot when this case comes into court.”
“I cannot believe that Doris would accept any man for such a reason.”
“I’m not ‘any man.’ She knows I’m after her. Will you take my bet, even
money?”
“No. I don’t bet.”
“Well, you needn’t put a damper on me. In fact, you can’t. Have you
that last prescription of Dr. Foxton’s handy? My liver wants a tonic.”
The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and
retired to a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop.
“Shall I send it?” came his voice.
“No. I’ll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don’t mind.”
For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, and
fretful as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause
accurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and
had considered them in the “mixture.”
The post office was not busy when Grant entered. A young man, a
stranger, was seated at the telegraphist’s desk, tapping a new
instrument. The G. P. O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with
press messages.
Mr. Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant. His
kindly, somewhat pre-occupied face was long as a fiddle.
“Good morning, Mr. Martin,” said Grant.
“Good morning. What can I do for you?” was the stiff reply. Grant was
in no mind to be rebuffed, however.
“I must have a word with you in private,” he said.
“I’m sorry—but my time is quite full.”
“I’m sorry, too, but the matter is urgent.”
The click of the sounder became less businesslike. There was an element
in the tone of each voice that drew the London telegraphist’s
attention. Martin, usually the mildest-mannered man in Sussex, was
obviously ill at ease. But he simply could not hold out against Grant’s
compelling gaze.
“Come into the back room,” he said nervously. “Call me if I’m needed,”
he added, nodding to his assistant.
Grant did not hesitate an instant when the postmaster reached the “back
parlor” through another door. The open window, draped in clematis, gave
a delightful glimpse of _The Hollies_. A window-box of mignonette
filled the air with its delicate perfume. Grant hoped that Doris would
be there, but the only signs of her recent presence were a hat and an
open book on the table.
“Now, Mr. Martin,” he said gravely, “you and I should have a serious
talk. It is idle to deny that gossip is spreading broadcast certain
malicious and absurd rumors which closely concern Doris and myself. To
me these things are of slight consequence. To a girl of your daughter’s
age they are poisonous. If you, her father, know the whole truth, you
can regulate your actions so as to defeat the scandalmongers. That is
why I am here to-day. That is why I came here yesterday, but your
attitude took me aback, and I was idiot enough to go without a word of
explanation. I was too shaken then to see my clear course, and follow
it regardless of personal feelings. This morning I am master of myself,
and I insist that you listen now while I tell you exactly what occurred
on Monday night.”
“Surely—these matters—are—for the authorities,” stammered the older
man.
“What? Your daughter’s good name?”
Mr. Martin reddened. His agitation was pitiful.
“That is hardly in question, sir,” he said brokenly.
“I am speaking of the tongue of slander. Heaven help and direct me! I
would suffer death rather than see Doris subjected to the leers and
innuendoes of every lout in the village.”
Grant’s earnestness could hardly fail to impress his friend. But Martin
had either made up his mind or been warned not to discuss the murder,
and adhered loyally to that line of conduct. He retreated toward the
door leading to the post office proper.
“It is too late to interfere now,” he said.
“What on earth do you mean?” demanded Grant, yielding to a gust of
anger.
“The whole—of the circumstances—are being inquired into by the police,”
came the hesitating answer.
“Has that prying scoundrel, Robinson, dared to cross-examine Doris?”
“He came here, of course, but Scotland Yard has taken up the inquiry.”
“A detective—here?”
“Yes. He is with Doris in the garden at this moment.”
Grant knew the topography of the house. Without asking permission, he
tore through yet a third door leading to a kitchen and scullery, nearly
upsetting a tiny maid who had her ear or eye to the key-hole, and raced
into the garden in which the postmaster kept his bees.
Doris, standing with her hands behind her back, was looking at The
Hollies, and deep in conversation with an alert and natty little man
who was evidently absorbed in what she was saying.
Grant, in a whirl of fury, was only conscious that Doris’s companion
was slight, almost diminutive, of frame, very erect, and dressed in a
well-fitting blue serge suit, neat brown boots and straw hat, when the
two heard his footsteps.
Doris was flustered. Her Romney face held a look of scare.
“Oh, here is Mr. Grant!” she said, striving vainly to speak with
composure.
The little man pierced Grant with an extraordinarily penetrating glance
from very bright and deeply-recessed black eyes.
“Ah, Mr. Grant, is it!” he chirped pleasantly. “Good morning! So
_you’re_ the villain of the piece, are you?”