Having at last found something definite to do Cynthia proved herself a
very able organizer. By lunch-time the next day she had extracted an
invitation from the Campbells, squared Lady Staveley and packed her
trunk. Directly the meal was over she started for Carlisle, brimming
with enthusiasm for the task she had set herself.
Her departure was followed almost immediately by the arrival of Gregg
on his daily visit to Lady Kean. He had barely turned the first bend
on the wide oak staircase before Fayre was on his bicycle, riding his
hardest in the direction of Gregg’s house.
His disappointment at finding the doctor out was convincing enough to
impress the maid, who showed him into the little surgery, assuring him
that her master was certain to be in soon, as he was always at home to
patients from four to six in the afternoon. Fayre, after a moment of
apparent hesitation, decided to await his return and settled down to
the inspection of the very stale literature provided by Gregg for the
use of his patients. The maid, recognizing him as the gentleman who
had called on a previous occasion, departed with a clear conscience to
the back regions, leaving him to his own devices. He waited till she
was out of sight and then, with a rather guilty smile at the thought
of Lord Staveley’s injunctions of the day before, cautiously opened
the door leading into the study. A quick glance through the window
assured him that the small front garden was deserted and that he could
carry out his plans unobserved. The farther door, which led into the
front hall, was shut and he opened it carefully, leaving it ajar, that
he might be sure of hearing the footsteps of the maid should she
return. Then he sat down at the writing-table and went quickly, but
efficiently, through the mass of papers with which it was littered. As
he expected, none of them had any bearing on the subject he had in
mind. Neither was there anything of interest to be found in the top
drawer, which he found unlocked.
The desk was of a standard make and closely resembled one he had used
in his office in India, the key of which he still carried on a ring in
his pocket. He tried this key and, to his relief, it fitted the two
rows of drawers on each side of the knee-hole. The first two drawers
proved disappointing, but at the back of the third he found a packet
of letters, tied together and docketed: “Baxter.” He glanced hastily
out of the window once more, but there was no sign of Gregg and,
slipping out the first envelope in the pile, he opened it.
It contained a letter from Baxter to Gregg and, as Fayre read it, he
felt himself grow hot with shame at the part he was playing. If it had
not been for Leslie’s danger and the unworthy part he believed Gregg
to be playing in this game of life and death, he would have bundled
the letters back into the drawer and locked it, for the letter was
that of a broken man to a friend from whom he had no reservations. It
seemed to have been written more in grief than in anger and in it
Baxter said that he had traced his wife to Brighton, where she had
been staying openly with Captain Draycott and that he proposed to do
his utmost to persuade her to return to him. It was evidently in
answer to a letter from Gregg, urging him to take action. This, he
declared, he did not intend to do unless he were persuaded that the
step would insure his wife’s happiness and then only on the
undertaking from Draycott that, in the event of a divorce, he would
marry her. It was an honest, straightforward letter, pathetic in its
complete selflessness. On the envelope Gregg had scribbled a pencilled
note:
“_L. has seen her in Paris several times with a man whose name he was
unable to discover. Comparing dates I have ascertained that Draycott
was in Egypt at the time. L., knowing I was interested, took the
trouble to trace them to their hotel, but is convinced that they were
staying there under an assumed name. Useful evidence, if she
interferes with the boy and I shall not hesitate to use it. Draycott
will not stand for that sort of thing!_”
This note had evidently been made after her divorce and subsequent
marriage to Captain Draycott and suggested that, for some reason,
Gregg was wishful to retain a hold over her and proposed to use this
hold if necessary. It looked as if Gregg’s power to harm her had
ceased with Draycott’s death, in which case he could hardly have used
his knowledge to force her to meet him at the farm. At the same time,
Fayre realized that he had at last stumbled on a possible motive for
an assignation. Supposing that Gregg’s power over her still held and
that, for some reason, he had decided to put on the screw. Given the
man’s bitterness against her, combined with his obviously uneven
temper, it was not outside the bounds of possibility that he had been
exasperated beyond endurance at her refusal to accede to his demands
and had shot her in a moment of blind rage. Fayre, knowing Gregg,
could not bring himself to believe that the thing was premeditated. He
did, on the other hand, consider him perfectly capable of using the
revolver as a threat, probably with no intention of firing it.
Fayre slipped the letter back under the string before extracting the
one underneath it and was glad he had done so for, while he was in the
very act, his ear caught the sound of an approaching motor. Quick as
lightning he threw the packet back into the drawer, closed and locked
it and was back in the surgery before Gregg was out of his car.
He heard him open the front door and go down the passage, where he was
evidently met by the maid, for, a few minutes later, he appeared at
the surgery door and invited Fayre into the study.
His manner was no less cordial than it had been on the previous
occasion, but, this time, Fayre had the impression that he was waiting
rather sardonically for an explanation of his visit. He hastened to
assure him that he had come as a patient and went on to describe
certain perfectly genuine recurrent symptoms, the result of the heavy
bouts of fever he had suffered from in the East, complaining that they
seemed to be becoming more frequent, probably as the result of the
English climate.
Gregg listened to him in silence and, when he had finished, asked him
the usual questions, making notes on the pad at his elbow as he did
so. He finished by subjecting him to a very thorough examination.
“You’ve taken up bicycling lately, I see,” he said, as he thrust his
stethoscope back into his pocket.
“Yes. Anything against it?” asked Fayre, who was standing before the
glass over the mantelpiece, refastening his collar.
“Nothing. You’re in as perfect a state of health as any one can expect
to be who has lived the greater part of his life in the Tropics. In
fact, you’re an admirable example of what temperate living will do for
a man in a hot climate. I congratulate you!”
The words were harmless enough, but Fayre, suddenly catching sight of
Gregg’s face in the glass, was not taken in by them. He realized, and
the discovery was anything but pleasant, that the doctor was laughing
at him in a grim way all his own.
“I’ll make you up a prescription, if you like,” he went on, unaware
that Fayre was watching him, “but I warn you it will probably be the
same as the one you’ve got already.”
“Thanks,” said Fayre warily. He was waiting for the other’s next move.
“I suppose I may count myself lucky to have got off so lightly.”
“You can thank your own common sense,” was Gregg’s curt rejoinder, as
he turned to his writing-table.
Fayre slipped his hand into his breast pocket and the doctor gave him
a quick, sidelong glance.
“There’s no fee,” he said abruptly.
Fayre’s colour deepened as he took out his note-case and opened it,
but he waited in silence for Gregg’s explanation. It came with
startling clarity.
“You didn’t come here to consult me, Mr. Fayre. You could have done
that any day at Staveley. And I doubt if you took up bicycling for the
sake of exercise. And that paint you got on your coat the other day
was put there on purpose. Oh, I know it was paint, all right,” he cut
in, as Fayre opened his mouth to speak. “I verified that, as you
thought I should. I also discovered that you went straight from here
to Stockley’s garage, as the result, I suppose, of something my man
told you. He described you, by the way, as ‘a very chatty gentleman’!
It was unfortunate for you that I paid my bill at Stockley’s that
evening and had a word with him. Stockley is a chatty gentleman, too.
The thing I want to know now is, what’s it all about?”
He had risen and was sitting on the edge of the writing-table, his
hands in his pockets and his truculent eyes on Fayre’s.
“Leslie’s your friend, I understand, and I can only imagine that
you’re working in his interests,” he went on. “I should like to
mention that he’s also mine and that there’s nothing that would give
me greater pleasure than to hear that he’s been cleared. That being
the case, I should be obliged if you’d tell me your object in hanging
about here and questioning my servants. Anything you wish to know I
prefer to tell you myself.”
Fayre was silent for a moment. When he spoke he chose his words
carefully, but it was evident from his whole bearing that he was
saying frankly what was in his mind.
“I’m not sorry it’s come to this,” he said, meeting Gregg’s angry gaze
squarely. “To tell you the truth, I’m not proud of the part I’ve been
playing and it’s relief to me to come out into the open. In answer to
your question, let me put one to you. Why have you concealed the fact
that Mrs. Draycott was an old acquaintance of yours?”
The doctor’s eyes shifted ever so slightly. Evidently he was
unprepared for so bold an attack.
“I had my own reasons,” he said curtly, “and I’m not accountable to
you or any one else for them, at present, at any rate.”
“You admit that you did know her?”
“I admit nothing.”
“And if I tell you that I have proof that you not only knew her but
were intimate with both her and her husband at one time?”
“I still admit nothing and I deny your right to question me.”
“Let me put it to you in another way, then,” went on Fayre, firmly
keeping a hold on his temper. “You say you are a friend of Leslie’s.
He is lying at this moment under the shadow of an accusation that we
both know is totally unfounded. In the face of that, do you still
refuse to say anything?”
Gregg laughed suddenly and bitterly.
“We both know! There’s a sting there, isn’t there? If by clearing him
you mean confessing to a murder I didn’t commit, I certainly do
refuse. I suppose that’s what you’re driving at, but you’re taking a
good deal for granted, aren’t you?”
Fayre suddenly lost patience.
“Good heavens, man,” he cried, “if you had nothing to do with it, why
not say so, and if you can prove it, so much the better. I’ve only one
motive in all this, to clear Leslie. Why work against instead of with
me?”
“Because I resent your insinuations. If you think you’ve got anything
against me, prove it. You’ve apparently had the damned impertinence to
rake up my past and pry into my private affairs and you’ve all but
told me to my face that I killed Mrs. Draycott. Well, take your story
to the police and see what ice it cuts with them! If they’ve any
questions to ask me I’m ready to answer them. Meanwhile, I advise you
to take your amateur detective work elsewhere.”
Fayre hesitated for a moment; then he decided to make one more effort
towards conciliation.
“I’m very sorry you’ve taken this line,” he said. “Frankly, I have
hoped all along that you would be able to give some satisfactory
explanation of your attitude towards the whole affair. I can very well
believe that the subject is a painful one to you and I can sympathize
with your reluctance to drag it up again after all these years, but
you must admit that your behaviour has been open to suspicion. Once
more I appeal to you to act reasonably, if only for Leslie’s sake.”
Gregg’s only answer was to stride heavily to the door and fling it
open.
“I have already told you that I resent your interference,” he said
shortly. “If I make any statement, it will be to those who have a
right to demand it. You can hardly be surprised if I don’t consider
you one of them. Take what steps you please, but I warn you that I am
quite prepared to meet them.”
Without a word Fayre took out his note-case once more. He walked over
to the writing-table and picked up the prescription Gregg had written,
leaving two guineas in its place. Then he took his hat and coat and
left the room with such dignity as he could muster. As he passed
through the hall he heard the crash of the study door as Gregg slammed
it, and realized that in the first encounter, at any rate, the honours
of war were to the doctor. Either the man was innocent or he had put
up the most amazing bluff Fayre had ever encountered.
And the worst of it was that, as Gregg no doubt guessed, he was not in
a position to act. His information, as far as it went, pointed to but
one thing: Gregg’s deliberate attempt to conceal from the police his
former connection with Mrs. Draycott. Beyond this, Fayre had nothing
to go on, unless he could trace the mysterious car to Gregg. According
to Stockley, the proprietor of the garage, he had taken out the hired
car at five-thirty. This would give him ample time to drive to one of
the several other garages within a radius of ten to fifteen miles,
change his car, pick up Mrs. Draycott and arrive at the farm at about
the time the murder was presumably committed. But here the London
number on the car described by the carter arose as a distinct
stumbling-block, for it was extremely improbable that a local garage
would have a London car for hire. On the other hand, if by some
extraordinary chance one of them had let out such a car, it should be
easy enough to get on the track of it; but Fayre realized that the
doctor had him at a hopeless disadvantage unless he could manage to
trace his movements on the night of the twenty-third, and he
recognized the cleverness of the man in forcing his hand before his
investigations were complete. And yet, for the life of him, he could
not make up his mind whether Gregg’s outburst had been mere bluff or
the genuine anger of a man smarting under the sting of a false
accusation. Either way Fayre had cut an uncommonly poor figure and he
was painfully aware of the fact.