Wilkins was a little puzzled when he opened the door to Mr. Goddard.
His orders were definite. Lord Manton was not at home when the police
called. Mr. Goddard in his uniform, complete to the sword, the whistle
and the spurs, was undeniably a policeman. But Wilkins was a good
servant, a very good servant. He was accustomed to interpreting his
orders as well as obeying them. He knew that Mr. Goddard was a superior
kind of policeman. He dined occasionally at Clonmore Castle, and
Wilkins waited on him. After a moment’s hesitation, Wilkins offered to
go and find out whether Lord Manton was at home or not. Mr. Goddard
was shown into a large, desolate drawing-room, and left there. Wilkins
was glad afterwards that he had appreciated the difference in standing
between a district inspector and a sergeant. It appeared that Lord
Manton was quite willing to see this visitor. Mr. Goddard was shown
into the library.
“Sit down,” said Lord Manton. “I’m very glad to see you. You’ll stay
and dine, won’t you? Since poor O’Grady left us I haven’t had a soul to
speak to at meals.”
“It was about Dr. O’Grady’s disappearance that I called to see you,”
said Mr. Goddard.
“There’s no use coming to me about that. I’m a magistrate, I know; but
I very seldom act. Why not go to Jimmy O’Loughlin? He loves signing
papers.”
“I’m rather puzzled over the case. The fact is----”
“My advice to you is to leave it alone. Don’t do anything. Masterly
inactivity is plainly the policy for you.”
“That’s all well enough. I’d be very glad to leave it alone. There’s
nothing I’d like better. But the fact is, I can’t. I’m more or less
pledged to---- My hand has been, so to speak, forced.”
“Had a visit from Miss Blow?”
“Yes.”
“She’s a wonderful woman. She was here yesterday; spent half an hour
with me in this very room.”
“She’s a very good-looking girl,” said Mr. Goddard.
“She is. I admit that. Her eyes, for instance. Grey, I thought them;
but they looked quite blue in certain lights; and a very good figure,
a remarkable figure. All the same I couldn’t have her settling herself
down for good and all in my house. I had to get her out of it somehow.
I gave her a note for Sergeant Farrelly.”
“Oh! That’s the meaning of your note. It rather puzzled me.”
“I’m afraid it must have rather puzzled Sergeant Farrelly too. I felt
sorry for him; but what could I do? She evidently meant to stay here
till I gave her a note of the sort she wanted. I thought it better to
shift the responsibility of dealing with her on to the sergeant. After
all, he’s paid for looking into things of the kind. I’m not.”
“The sergeant sent her on to me. It was extremely awkward. She cried
like anything.”
“I thought she’d have cried here,” said Lord Manton; “but she didn’t.
Did you comfort her?”
“No, I didn’t. At least I suppose I did in the end. I didn’t know what
to do. I’m not a married man, and I’m not accustomed----”
“How did you comfort her in the end? It would interest me very much to
hear, if the details are of the sort that will bear repeating without
giving Miss Blow away. Did you hold a pocket-handkerchief to her eyes?”
“No, nothing of that kind. I----” Mr. Goddard hesitated.
“Go on,” said Lord Manton. “I’ll treat whatever you say as strictly
confidential.”
“Well, I promised to do what she asked.”
“Do you mean to say that you’ve pledged yourself to go searching the
country for Dr. O’Grady’s body?”
“I couldn’t help it. What on earth else could I do?”
“And when do you start?”
“I don’t mean to start at all.”
Lord Manton pretended not to hear this remark.
“Do the thing in style if you do it at all,” he said. “Get bloodhounds.
I’ll give you the address of a man in England who breeds them. Fish out
an old sock of the doctor’s; let the bloodhound get the scent, and then
we’ll be off across country.”
“I don’t mean to do any such fool thing.”
“We’ll have glorious paragraphs in all the papers,” said Lord Manton.
“MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A DOCTOR. VIGOROUS ACTION OF THE ROYAL
IRISH CONSTABULARY. DISTRICT INSPECTOR GODDARD THINKS HE HAS A CLUE.
BLOODHOUNDS USED. FIANCEE IN TEARS. Your portrait will appear
along with Miss Blow’s.”
“It’s all very fine to laugh,” said Mr. Goddard; “but of course I’m not
going----”
“You’ll have to. You’ve promised. You can’t go back on a promise made
to a lady. Her portrait will be published in the papers and everybody
will see how charming she is. You’ll be an object of universal hatred
and contempt if you go back on your word.”
“If ever it gets into the papers at all, you’ll look quite as great a
fool as I shall. Your note will be published. And, after all, you know,
the girl has something to say for herself. The doctor’s gone. Now, why
the devil did he go, and where has he gone to?”
“Can’t you give a guess at his motives?”
“No, I can’t. It wasn’t debt. Miss Blow told me herself that she was
ready to pay every penny that he owed.”
“No; it’s not debt. I thought it was at first, but it appears I was
wrong.”
“He didn’t drink,” said Mr. Goddard, “that ever I heard of. Besides,
even if he did, that would be no reason for bolting. Whisky’s as plenty
here as anywhere in the world.”
“No; it’s not drink. Try the other thing. There’s only one more. ‘Love,
or debt, or whisky’--you know the old saying. If it isn’t either of the
last two, it must be the first.”
“Love!” said Mr. Goddard.
“Precisely.”
“But, hang it all! Miss Blow’s quite ready to marry him.”
“Too ready,” said Lord Manton; “that’s my point.”
Mr. Goddard thought hard for a couple of minutes.
“Do you mean to suggest,” he said at last, “that he’s run away from
her?”
“In the absence of any other conceivable reason for his bolting,” said
Lord Manton, “I am unwillingly driven to the conclusion that he wants
to escape from Miss Blow.”
“But, hang it all! why should he? The girl’s uncommonly good-looking.”
“Good looks aren’t everything,” said Lord Manton; “when you come to
my time of life, you’ll understand that. Just put yourself in the
doctor’s place for a minute. You’ve had some little experience of Miss
Blow. So have I. But the poor doctor knew her a great deal better than
we do. Just think of what his feelings must have been when he heard
that she was coming over here to pay his debts. He’d be bound to marry
her straight off after that. And then--just think of sitting down to
breakfast every morning opposite a young woman of her character. I
admit her good looks, but she’s masterful. She’d bully a prize-fighter.
The poor doctor wouldn’t have had the ghost of a chance, especially as
married life would begin by her paying his debts. That would give her
the whip hand of him at once; and she’s just the sort of girl who would
make the most of her opportunities.”
“I don’t know--it’s possible, of course.”
“It’s certain, man. Be reasonable. Here’s a fact, a perfectly
undeniable fact. The doctor’s gone. Unless you’re going to adopt Miss
Blow’s hypothesis----”
“Oh, he’s not murdered, of course. I know that.”
“Very well, then, my explanation of his disappearance is the only one
that’s left. And it’s quite a probable one in itself. Nine men out of
ten in the doctor’s position would do exactly what he’s done.”
“Then what the devil am I to do?”
“You’re in a deuced awkward position. I don’t know what the end of it
will be. The authorities certainly won’t stand your taking the police
away from their ordinary duties, and setting them to scour the country
for the body of a man who isn’t dead. There’d be questions asked in
Parliament about it, and all sorts of fuss. Besides, you’d look such an
ass.”
“I know I should.”
“All the same, you’re in for it now. Unless you choose to go and tell
Miss Blow the truth. She might believe you, though I very much doubt
it.”
“I couldn’t possibly do that. No man could tell a girl that her----
But, look here, Lord Manton, your theory may be all very well so far as
O’Grady is concerned; but there’s another man gone now.”
“Patsy Devlin,” said Lord Manton. “I heard about that.”
“Do you think he has run away through fear of his wife?”
“No, I don’t. There are plenty of other ways of accounting for his
disappearance. Besides, in the case of Mrs. Devlin--you know her,
perhaps?”
“No; I never set eyes on the woman in my life.”
“Well, she’s not equal to Miss Blow in personal appearance; but she has
a certain charm of her own. You wouldn’t meet a quieter, less obtrusive
sort of woman anywhere. Nobody would run away from her unless he was
forced to. You take my word for it, Patsy will send for her to follow
him wherever he’s gone to. I knew both Patsy and his wife well, and
they always got on splendidly together. The poor fellow was something
of a _protégé_ of mine. I think he regarded me as a friend, and was
inclined to confide in me. I gave him a letter of recommendation to the
Board of Guardians, at the time of the election of the inspector of
sheep dipping.”
“I understood from Sergeant Farrelly,” said Mr. Goddard, “that the man
was rather a blackguard.”
“A horrid blackguard,” said Lord Manton. “That’s why I didn’t want them
to elect him.”
“But I thought you said----”
“So I did; but there’s no use discussing that now. It’s all over and
done with. Poor Patsy will never inspect the dipping of a single sheep
now. Besides, it’s almost dinner-time. You’ll stay, of course. Never
mind about dressing.”
Mr. Goddard was tempted. Lord Manton would give him a good dinner;
Jimmy O’Loughlin--and the choice lay between the two--would almost
certainly give him a bad one. Inclination struggled with conscience. In
the end conscience prevailed.
“I can’t,” he said. “I must see Miss Blow this evening.”
“Oh, of course, if you have an appointment with Miss Blow--I suppose
the poor doctor won’t mind now.”
“You’re quite wrong. I haven’t that sort of an appointment at all. The
simple fact is that I’m afraid of her. If I don’t see her and manage to
keep her quiet somehow, she’ll be over at the barrack again making a
nuisance of herself. You couldn’t tell what she’d do.”
“She might take it into her head that you were murdered, and set
everybody searching for your body.”
“She might do anything. That’s the reason I won’t stay to dine with
you, though I’d like to.”
“Good night,” said Lord Manton. “Let me know how things go on; and if
you are driven to bloodhounds, remember that I can put you on to the
best in England.”
When Mr. Goddard got back to the hotel, he found that his
self-sacrifice was wasted. Miss Blow had retired to her room for the
night.
“It could be,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin, “that the young lady was tired.
‘Bridgy,’ says she, when she came in, ‘I’m off up to my bed; and I’d be
thankful to you if you’d bring me up a cup of tea when it’s convenient
to Mrs. O’Loughlin to wet it.’”
This did not sound like a thing Miss Blow would have said. Mr. Goddard
felt that Jimmy O’Loughlin was adding a varnish of politeness to the
original remark. The next words reassured him. There was at least a
foundation of fact beneath the version of the story which he had heard.
“‘And take care,’ says she, ‘that the kettle’s boiling, for the last
cup you made for me was poison, and smoked at that.’”
The words were not yet the words of Miss Blow, but the meaning might
very well have been hers.
“She’s mighty particular about her tea,” said Jimmy. “She has the life
fair plagued out of Bridgy; not but what Bridgy deserves it. And what
would you be wishing for yourself, Mr. Goddard?”
Mr. Goddard wished that he had accepted Lord Manton’s invitation. Since
it appeared that Miss Blow was safely in her room, perhaps actually in
bed, he might just as well have dined in comfort at Clonmore Castle.
But he did not make this reply to Jimmy O’Loughlin. He said that what
he was wishing for himself was a chop and a bottle of porter. He might
have said whisky instead of porter, but he knew that there was no hope
of getting anything else in the way of food except the chop. Jimmy
O’Loughlin accepted the order and ushered his guest into the commercial
room, which happened to be empty.
In due time Bridgy entered with the chop. It was served on a plate
with a round tin cover over it; a cover which meant well, but failed
to keep the chop warm. Mr. Goddard contemplated the frozen grease
which clung round the edges of the plate, and then, lest it too should
freeze, plunged his knife and fork into the chop. Bridgy uncorked his
bottle of porter, and set it on the table beside a dish of potatoes.
Yellow froth oozed rapidly from the mouth of the bottle and ran down
on to the tablecloth. It added one more brown stain to those which
the last four commercial travellers, eating in haste, had made with
Worcester sauce, mustard, or gravy. Mr. Goddard, who had a fastidious
dislike of dirty table linen, seized the bottle, and then discovered
that he had no tumbler. He set the bottle in the fender, and rang the
bell furiously. Bridgy half opened the door, and put her head into the
room. The rest of her body remained outside. This was her ordinary way
of presenting herself to people who rang bells. She looked as if she
expected to have plates thrown at her, and meant to be ready for a
swift retreat.
“A tumbler,” said Mr. Goddard.
Bridgy smiled pleasantly. “It’s hardly ever,” she said, “I lay the
table but I do be forgetting something. It might be the salt, or--have
you the salt? Glory be to God! you have, and the spoon along with it.”
There was a pool of considerable size in the fender round the porter
bottle, and the froth was still oozing out persistently.
“A tumbler,” said Mr. Goddard again.
His tone startled Bridgy. She disappeared, closing the door behind her.
In a few minutes she was back again without the tumbler.
“Where is it?” said Mr. Goddard.
“The mistress is giving it a bit of a rinse the way it’ll be clean for
you; and I came back to tell you that Mr. Moriarty from the barrack
below is at the door, and he says he wants to see you. I’m thinking
it’s a telegram he has in his hand.”
Mr. Goddard rose. “Get a cloth,” he said, “if there is a cloth in the
house----”
“Sure there is,” murmured Bridgy, “there’s dozens.”
“And mop up that abominable mess. Take the chop down to the kitchen and
heat it up again. Get another bottle of porter; and for heaven’s sake
let me have a meal I can eat when I come back.”
He went out and discovered Constable Moriarty, who had, as Bridgy
observed, a telegram in his hand.
“It came, sir,” said the constable, “and you just after leaving
Ballymoy with the young lady. The sergeant beyond said I’d better bring
it with me the way you’d get it at once, in case it might be important.”
Mr. Goddard opened it. “From Inspector-General, Dublin Castle,” he
read. “Party of Members of Parliament arrive Clonmore to-morrow, noon,
from Dublin. On tour. Provide vehicles to meet train. Show every
attention. Five in party.”
“Damn it!” said Mr. Goddard.
Every one in Ireland had heard of the tour of the Members of
Parliament. It was well advertised by means of paragraphs in all
the daily papers, so well advertised that an exaggerated opinion
was formed in Ireland of the importance of the party. It was
generally believed--and the language of the newspapers fostered the
delusion--that at least two Cabinet Ministers were coming, ten or
twelve influential politicians, and that more than the usual number of
journalists would be in attendance. It was felt that the tour offered
a unique opportunity for producing a lasting effect on English public
opinion. There was, consequently, a severe struggle in Dublin among
the numerous people who wanted to conduct the strangers round Ireland.
Not only all the heads of all the Boards and Departments, but all the
Presidents and Secretaries of the Leagues and Associations unconnected
with the Government were anxious to secure the honour. In the end it
fell to a high official, who, in order to obtain it, made what was felt
to be an unfair use of the influence he possessed in England. When he
found at the last moment that the party consisted after all of only two
Members of Parliament, and they men of inferior calibre and no real
standing, he was disgusted and withdrew his offer of a motor car. When
he found, further, that there were to be no journalists, and that the
Members of Parliament were to be accompanied only by three women, two
wives and one aunt, he lost his temper and offered the party to any
League which liked to apply for it. In the end he made over his whole
responsibility to the police. The party went from place to place in
the usual way. It was met at railway stations by polite inspectors of
police, allowed to ask questions of the people who could be relied upon
to supply the proper answers, and given every opportunity of seeing
with its own eyes the things that inquiring Englishmen ought to see.
The Members enjoyed themselves immensely, and insisted on prolonging
their tour after all the places originally marked out for them had been
visited. Then the Inspector-General of Police, who was getting tired
of making arrangements for them, sent them to Clonmore. It was a very
distant place, the terminus of the line of railway on which it stood,
and it was supposed that no harm could possibly come of their visiting
it. They were told to drive from Clonmore round a particularly
desolate coast, to stop at hotels which were quite abominable, and to
pick up another railway fifty miles off. The Inspector-General reckoned
that the trip would take at least four days, and that at the end of it
the party would have had enough of Ireland. In any case he would not
be bothered with them again until they reached the fifty miles distant
railway station.
When Mr. Goddard read the telegram he was greatly irritated. He did not
want to conduct a party of Members of Parliament round Clonmore, and
their coming would certainly not help him to deal with Miss Blow. He
foresaw frightful complications. It was possible that the Members of
Parliament, rejoicing in the unexpected discovery of a side of Irish
life hitherto unknown to them, might insist on joining in the search
for the body of Dr. O’Grady. He determined, if he possibly could, to
prevent their arrival. He went back into the hotel and wrote a telegram.
“Inspector-General of Police, Dublin. This district quite unsuited
to Members of Parliament. Am investigating cases of mysterious
disappearance. Inhabitants greatly excited. Disaffection feared. Send
party elsewhere.”
“Take this,” he said to Constable Moriarty, “and dispatch it at once.”
“The office shuts at eight, sir,” said the constable; “but I’ll see
that it’s sent off first thing in the morning.”
Mr. Goddard looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to nine o’clock.
At eight the next morning the party would leave Dublin. He swore again
and tore up his telegram.