Fayre was only half-way through his first cup of tea when Cynthia
cornered him.
“You look hipped, Uncle Fayre,” she said, her sharp eyes on his face.
“Didn’t you like your old friend when you did find him? Or are you
just fed up?”
He shook himself out of his abstraction.
“My old friend was excellent company, thank you, and very much his old
self, plus a jolly little wife. But I do feel a bit weary. Too much
bicycling, no doubt!” But Cynthia resolutely ignored the red herring
so adroitly drawn across her path.
“It isn’t anything new about John, is it?” she asked with a note of
real terror in her voice. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“My dear, of course not! Honestly, it’s only the after-effects of the
Hendersons’ overpowering hospitality. They gave me the most enormous
lunch and made me eat it, too. How have things been going here?”
“You’re sure it’s nothing else?” she urged doubtfully. “You wouldn’t
keep anything from me from a mistaken idea of kindness, would you,
Uncle Fayre?” Fayre’s eyes met hers with the blandest innocence. He
could not take her into his confidence yet. Time enough when his
suspicions were verified.
“The moment I discover anything definite, either for or against
Leslie, I shall bring it to you, my dear,” he said with complete
sincerity. “You’ve got a right to know before any one else.”
“Thank you,” she answered simply. Then, with a return to her usual
manner: “Sybil’s much better. Dr. Gregg was here this afternoon and he
says she may see people, in reason, if they don’t stay too long. But
she’s not to be excited, so don’t let her talk about Leslie’s affairs,
Uncle Fayre.”
“I won’t, if I can possibly help it,” promised Fayre with all his
heart. The last thing he wanted, at this juncture, was to share his
knowledge with Sybil Kean. He could not forget that, at any moment,
her life might be in Gregg’s hands and, so long as she was dependent
on him, he resolved to do nothing to shake her confidence in him.
“She’s anxious to see you,” went on Cynthia. “But Eve and Bill have
both been with her and they think she’s had enough people for to-day.
She wants to see you first thing to-morrow, though, and I’m afraid she
means to go on with what we were saying on the day she was taken ill.”
“She’s a wilful woman, too,” he said ruefully. “She’ll probably have
her way. I’m no match for her.”
Cynthia laughed.
“You old fraud! Even I have seen you twiddle people round your finger
before now. As for shutting up, you’re like a clam when you choose!”
After tea Fayre joined his host in the library.
“I feel I owe you both thanks and an apology,” he said slowly, as he
filled his pipe. “You’ve been a brick over this business, Bill. You’ve
let me have the car at all hours, and use your house like a hotel and
you’ve never asked what I’m up to or even when I’m going! You must
want to know that, I should think, by now!” Bill Staveley chucked a
box of matches over to Fayre, who caught it neatly.
“That’s the third! You’ve got two boxes of mine in your pocket now,”
he murmured. “I saw them go in.”
Then, as Fayre turned out his pockets and sheepishly revealed three
boxes of matches, he went on:
“Don’t be an old ass, old man, and stop handing round compliments. I
like watching you trotting about, so happy and busy! As for asking
questions, I never believe in butting in on other people’s affairs. So
long as I know you’re on the job, I’m satisfied. And stay as long as
you like. If you don’t know how Eve and I feel about that, I’m not
going to indulge your vanity by telling you!”
“It’s something to know that I’ve got you both behind me,” said Fayre
soberly.
“You can count on that, old chap.”
Bill Staveley had abandoned his usual easy banter and spoke seriously
enough now.
“Personally, I’d put my shirt on that boy’s innocence, and I know Eve
feels the same. Tell us as much or as little as you like; we don’t
care provided you clear him. And if any one can do it, I believe it’s
you. Only, if you’ve got any nefarious schemes up your sleeve,
remember that I’m a J. P. and keep them to yourself. I don’t want to
know anything about them!” Fayre chuckled.
“I must say, you’re a tophole-hogger! When I fall into the hands of
the worthy Gunnet, I suppose you’ll turn up looking as if butter
wouldn’t melt in your mouth and bail me out! If it’s any comfort to
you, I’m not contemplating anything of the sort at present. Cynthia
may have told you that we’ve got hold of a couple of clues, but they
may lead to nothing. Sometimes I think it’s a hopeless business. The
only thing I do feel sure of is Leslie’s innocence.”
Lord Staveley nodded.
“Same here, and if he is innocent it ought to be possible to prove it.
Has any one thought of digging up that beastly cat?”
For a moment Fayre was puzzled; then his face cleared.
“The one Leslie shot? It appears that it was there, all right.
According to Grey, Gunnet went off and did a bit of sleuthing of his
own and he found the place and dug the cat up. Unfortunately it wasn’t
labelled like a pheasant with the day on which it had been killed and
though I suppose they’ll use it in the defence, it won’t cut much ice
with a jury. We want something more tangible than that.”
“What you want is to produce the murderer, old man. That’s your best
defence and I don’t see why you shouldn’t do it if you’re anything
like the sticker you used to be.”
Fayre’s interview with Lady Kean the next morning proved far less
easy. He found her lying on the sofa in her bedroom, looking pitifully
frail and white. She was much weaker than she chose to admit and, at
the first sight of her, he made up his mind to cut the interview as
short as possible.
“Hatter dear,” was her greeting, “I _am_ sorry to have made such a
fool of myself. I must have given you both a scare and I’m thoroughly
ashamed of myself. I’d been feeling seedy all day and never dreamed
when I started that I shouldn’t manage to get to my room and collapse
decently in private. Please forgive me for being such a nuisance.”
Fayre pulled a chair up to her side and sat down.
“I think we were the culprits,” he said gently. “We tired you out
between us. It’s something to see you up and dressed, but, for
Heaven’s sake, don’t overdo it again like that. You don’t look fit to
be talking even now.”
“Talking doesn’t tire me,” she assured him eagerly. “Hatter, please, I
want to know what you’ve been doing. Is there any news? Cynthia says
you went to Carlisle yesterday.”
“I promised Cynthia I wouldn’t let you discuss it,” he answered
reluctantly. “But if it will set your mind at rest, I’ll give you my
assurance that nothing definite has turned up since our last
conversation. As a matter of fact, I went to Carlisle to look up an
old friend and had very little time for anything else. I did go to one
or two of the garages in the hope of finding some trace of the car
that was seen that night, but I drew a complete blank.”
“I had an idea that that’s what had taken you to Carlisle,” she
murmured. “Thinking things over, it struck me the car might have
stopped there. You found nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing. As far as I can see at present, it must have
vanished into space. Grey did his best before he left, but could find
no one who’d seen it.”
“And Dr. Gregg?” she insisted and her tone was so urgent that he
thought it better to humour her. “There’s nothing new about him?”
“My dear Sybil, I was away all yesterday and Grey has gone back to
London,” he hedged. “Even if he’s managed to stumble on something
there, he hasn’t had time to communicate with me. If anything turns up
from him, I’ll let you know, but don’t worry your head about it now.
Rest and get well.”
She turned to him with a display of emotion quite foreign to her.
“I can’t help thinking about it,” she said piteously. “That boy shut
up in prison haunts me! Just imagine, Hatter, what it must be. Alone,
with nobody to reassure him, not knowing how it is all going to turn
out! And Cynthia! Just at the beginning of her young life! It’s
cruel!”
He tried to soothe her.
“I know, Sybil, but it’s no good for either of us to let it get on our
nerves. Thank goodness, they _are_ young and able to face things. Some
day this will be like an evil dream to them and they’ll be able to
start afresh, with their whole lives before them. Don’t waste your
strength in futile pity, my dear!”
She managed to smile at him, though her face was still white and
drawn.
“You’re right, of course, and I know I’m being silly. It’s only that
when one’s ill and helpless one loses one’s sense of proportion. If I
know how things are going, it won’t be so bad. You will tell me, won’t
you? Don’t keep things from me because of my rotten health, will you,
Hatter?”
Her voice was very appealing and Fayre mentally cursed his luck. He
had barely succeeded in heading off Cynthia and now here was Sybil
Kean pressing him even more closely.
He rose and took both her hands in his.
“The moment anything definite happens, you shall know. Meanwhile, try
to put it all out of your mind for a bit, anyhow till you’re stronger.
Edward was right when he said you ought never to have been mixed up in
this.”
She sank back on her pillows with a tired sigh.
“All right. I can rest more easily if I know that I can trust you to
keep me posted. And come again soon, Hatter, please!”
He looked back as he reached the door and saw that her eyes were
already closed. Evidently his visit, short as it had been, had taken
what little strength she possessed.
He went straight from her room to the garage where he had housed his
bicycle. One of the chauffeurs had cleaned and overhauled it and had
it waiting in readiness. Now that his first stiffness was past Fayre
was beginning to enjoy this despised method of getting about the
country and he pedalled down the drive and out onto the highroad quite
unperturbed by the grin on Bill Staveley’s face as he rode past him on
the chestnut mare he had put at Fayre’s disposal at the beginning of
his visit. Fayre, who had promised himself some hunting next winter,
looked after him with only a passing feeling of regret. His mind was
busily engaged with other things.
He kept a sharp lookout on the fields on either side of the road, but
he had gone some distance before he found one that apparently
interested him sufficiently to make him dismount and stand for a
minute or two looking into it.
Lord Staveley had been having the gates on the estate repainted and
this one had evidently only been finished that day; nevertheless Fayre
leaned heavily against it, with the result that, during his absorbed
contemplation of three cows and a diminutive donkey, he managed to
adorn his coat with a long smear of bright green paint. He took the
misfortune with commendable fortitude and, picking up his bicycle,
rode quickly off in the direction of Gregg’s house.
Arrived there he went straight round to the garage at the back of the
house. He found the doctor’s man polishing the brass of a small
two-seater.
“I don’t know whether the doctor’s in,” he said genially. “If he is,
I’ll go round in a minute and have a few words with him, but I’ve just
discovered this beastly stuff on my coat and I wondered if you could
let me have a drop of petrol to clean it off with. I must have got it
leaning over a gate near here.”
The man touched the paint with his finger.
“You’ll find the doctor in, sir, and this will come off easily enough
while it’s fresh,” he said. “Lucky it’s still wet.”
He went into the garage and came out with a tin of petrol.
“If you’d got such a thing as a clean rag,” suggested Fayre.
“If you’ll wait a minute, sir, I’ll get one from the kitchen.”
He disappeared round the corner of the house and, as he did so, Fayre
darted into the garage. It needed only a glance to see that there was
room for but one car and that a small one. Fayre cast a quick look
round the tiny garage and then made for a file of bills hanging from a
hook against the wall. With one eye alert for the returning chauffeur
he ran through them swiftly. Knowing the ways of small cars when left
to the care of odd-jobmen he hoped that Gregg might on occasion be
driven to hire a car from the local garage and there was a faint
chance that the garage bill might be on this file. Fortunately for him
it was not only there but near the top of the pile and he found it
almost immediately. It took him but a second to find the entry he
needed.
“_March 23rd. To hire . . . . . . . . . . . . £0. 10_”
He slipped back into the yard just in time and was standing by the
car, ruefully regarding his coat when the doctor’s man returned.
“If you’ll let me have the coat, sir, I’ll have it off in a moment,”
he said, as he unscrewed the can of petrol.
While he was at work on the stain Fayre examined the car.
“Find her satisfactory?” he asked casually. “I’m thinking of getting a
small car myself and I can’t make up my mind about the make.”
The man grunted.
“Been givin’ a lot of trouble lately,” he said. “Wants a thorough
overhaul, but the doctor can’t spare her.”
“Always chooses the worst night to baulk on, I expect, if I know
anything of cars.”
“That’s right. With the wind blowin’ fit to knock you down and bitin’
cold, she’ll lay down on you proper.”
“There was a night like that just after I got down to these parts,”
said Fayre reminiscently. “There were a lot of trees down, I was
told.”
“Night of the murder up to Mr. Leslie’s farm. Awful night, that were.
I was two hours workin’ on this blessed car and then the doctor had to
hire. I think you’ll find that all right, sir.”
Fayre thanked him and slipped a generous tip into his hand; then,
getting into his coat, he made his way round to the front door.
The doctor was in, but was busy in the surgery. Fayre was shown into
the study, an untidy, comfortable-looking room on the ground floor.
He took a quick inventory of the contents. A big desk piled with
papers stood in the window. The fireplace was flanked by a couple of
shabby, roomy armchairs. Fayre sat down in one of them and warmed his
hands at the fire. As he did so, his eye fell on the mantelpiece and
in a second he was on his feet again, examining a small framed
photograph that stood there. He turned at the sound of the opening
door to meet the steady gaze of Gregg.
“I haven’t come to waste your time,” he explained as he shook hands.
“I know this is your busy time. I only wanted to explain that I’ve
made free with your petrol and the kind offices of your man in the
most shameless way. I got some paint on my coat, leaning over a gate,
and, as I was passing your house, I ventured to ask for some petrol to
repair the damage.”
“Very glad you did. I hope you got the stuff off,” answered Gregg
cordially. “Smoke?”
He handed a box of cigarettes to Fayre, who thanked him and took one.
“Sorry I can’t be more hospitable,” went on the doctor. “But I’ve got
a pack of people waiting in the surgery and I sha’n’t get rid of them
for another hour, at least.”
Fayre reached for a spill from a vase on the mantelpiece. As he did so
his eye lighted on the photograph.
“That’s an interesting head,” he remarked.
“He was an interesting chap. He’d have gone a long way if he’d been
allowed. One of the best fellows I ever knew.”
“He looks it,” said Fayre quietly, but with such obvious sincerity
that Gregg was moved to enlarge on the subject.
“Got into the hands of a woman and she killed him as surely as if
she’d murdered him. He died of alcoholic poisoning, the worst case
I’ve ever seen. Trying to forget, he called it.”
Gregg’s voice was rough with emotion and, for the first time, Fayre
felt really drawn towards him.
“What happened to the woman?” he asked carelessly.
Gregg turned away to light his cigarette. Fayre, watching him closely,
noticed that his hand was steady as a rock, but his voice was not
quite so certain as he answered.
“I lost sight of her,” he said; “but, judging from the pace she was
going, she’s probably got her deserts by now.”
He accompanied his guest to the door and stood chatting with him for a
moment. He had regained his usual bluff manner; but Fayre, for all his
quiet cordiality, was sick at heart. For the photograph was that of
Baxter, and Gregg had once more flatly denied all knowledge of the
identity of Mrs. Draycott.