After dinner that night Lord Staveley, wishing to ring up his bookie,
strolled into the little ante-room that housed the telephone. Here, to
his surprise, he discovered Fayre. He had settled himself comfortably
in the one armchair and, with the help of the local telephone
directory, was busy compiling a list on a half-sheet of paper. Bill
Staveley eyed him quizzically.
“Rotten place to spend the evening,” he observed with cheerful scorn.
“Looking for a good dentist, or is it Sherlock Holmes on the trail?”
“It’s Holmes in the devil of a muddle,” was Fayre’s acid rejoinder.
“I’ve come a cropper, Bill!”
“In other words, you’ve met your match. Who’s the local genius?”
“Gregg. I started out to pump him according to the most approved
methods and he pumped me instead and very efficiently too! And he was
uncommonly disagreeable about it.”
“He would be. What have you got against him? I suppose you know that,
amongst other things, he’s the Police Surgeon?”
“I don’t care if he’s the Prime Minister!” snapped Fayre, still hot
from his gruelling at Gregg’s hands. “But I’d give something to know
where he was on the night of Mrs. Draycott’s death!”
Bill Staveley gave a low whistle.
“As bad as that, is it? Why, he was at the farm, wasn’t he? I thought
he gave evidence.”
“He turned up at the farm soon after ten o’clock, after the police had
been trying to get him for nearly an hour. The assumption was that he
had come in late from a case and, as far as I know, he has never been
asked to give an account of his movements. All I do know is that he
left the Whitbury garage at five-thirty in a hired car and,
apparently, did not get home till about nine-thirty, when he found the
police call waiting for him.”
Staveley’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Fayre.
“You don’t seriously mean that you suspect Gregg of Mrs. Draycott’s
murder?” he ejaculated.
“On my word, I don’t know what to think. If the fellow was bluffing
this afternoon he did it uncommonly well. If he wasn’t, why didn’t he
clear himself? He could have done it easily.”
“What line did he take?”
“Told me to go to the devil—in other words, the police—and flatly
refused to give any account of himself whatever. The worst of it is,
he’s in a very strong position. Practically the only thing I’ve got to
go on at present is the fact that he undoubtedly knew Mrs. Draycott at
one time and has gone out of his way to lie to the police about it.
You must admit it looks fishy.”
“The devil he did! Do the police know?”
Fayre looked rather sheepish.
“Unless they’ve been pursuing the same lines of investigation as
myself, they don’t. I kept quiet about it in the hope that it might
lead to something.”
“Being naturally afraid that the Force, in its naïve way, would
blunder. Oh, Hatter, Hatter, this comes of reading detective stories!”
“I know; you needn’t rub it in. I’ve made an infernal hash of the
whole thing.”
“How much did you tell the fellow?”
“Quite enough to put him on his guard, unfortunately.”
“What’s your theory about the whole thing?”
“Somebody picked up Mrs. Draycott in a car and drove her to Leslie’s
farm. Everything points to that. We’ve got good reason to believe that
we’ve got part of the number of the car. It ran into a farm-cart and
the carter took what he could see of it. If the man in the car was
Gregg he must have done one of two things. Either he deliberately
faked the number of the car he hired from the Whitbury garage, or he
changed cars somewhere before he picked up Mrs. Draycott. There is, of
course, the possibility that he picked her up in the hired car and
somehow managed to reach the farm and get away again without being
seen. In the light of what we know, this is extremely unlikely.”
“If he’s got an alibi, why on earth doesn’t the fellow produce it?”
“Either because he’s so sure of his position that he can afford not to
or for the more simple reason that he hasn’t got one. Meanwhile, I’m
left kicking my heels. I’ve got a list here of the garages in this
neighbourhood within a radius of fifteen miles or so. If he did change
cars, it will be bound to have been at one of them.”
“Touching spectacle of Mr. Fayre, late of the Indian Civil, peddling
on his little push-bike within a radius of fifteen miles!” mused Bill
Staveley. “Poor old Hatter! I can let you off that, though. You don’t
know Foot, do you?”
“That’s the chap who drove me the other day, isn’t it?”
“Probably. He was my batman in France and, after the war, I gave him a
driver’s course. He took to it like a duck to water and he’s a
first-rate chauffeur and an uncommonly intelligent chap. He’s bought
himself a motor-bike and takes it to pieces every Saturday night just
for fun and I’ll bet there isn’t a garage round here where he hasn’t
talked motor for hours. Give him the description of the car you want
and he’ll find it for you if it’s anywhere in this part of the
country.”
“The question is, will he talk?”
“Not if I give him a hint. You can leave that part of the job to him
quite safely. On the other hand, if we could get onto the case Gregg
was called to that night we could keep Foot out of it altogether. Even
if he was at the farm that night he must have gone on somewhere
afterwards. He’s not such a fool as to drive vaguely round the country
for three solid hours before going home. You may be pretty certain he
looked up a patient, even if he wasn’t called to one.”
“None of the tenants been ill or injured, I suppose?”
“Not that I know of, but we might go through the local rag. I’ve got
it in my room and it’s one of those conscientious papers that puts in
catchy little comments on old Mrs. Snook’s chilblains and that sort of
thing. It doesn’t miss much and if any one hurt himself that night, we
shall find it there.”
They adjourned to the library, where they spent a fruitless half-hour
searching the columns of the local paper. They were about to give it
up in despair when Fayre, who had reached the last page, gave a cry.
“What about this?” he asked, pointing to the _Births_ column. “_March
23rd. The wife of George Hammond of The Willow Farm, Besley, of a
son._”
“Would Gregg be their man?”
“Sure to be. He attends all the farmers round here. Hammond’s a tenant
of mine and I can ride over to-morrow, if you like, and do the heavy
landlord. As a matter of fact, it’ll probably be expected of me,
sooner or later, so it won’t rouse any comment. I take it that you
want to know what time Gregg was sent for, what time he arrived, and
when he left, with a description of his car, if I can get it without
rousing too much curiosity. Anything else?”
“No. I think that covers it. How long ought it to take him to reach
the Hammonds?”
“If he left Whitbury at five-thirty he should arrive at Besley at five
to six, and the farm is, roughly, five to ten minutes’ run from
Besley. Say thirty to thirty-five minutes.”
“And if he took the corner of the lane running to Greycross and then
Leslie’s farm on the way?”
“Give me a minute. That’s considerably more complicated.”
He took a pencil and made some notes on an old envelope.
“Just under the hour, I should say. Perhaps longer. That’s not
allowing for getting out and going into the farm.”
“In that case, we’ll give the garages the go-by for the moment,”
decided Fayre. “Time enough for them when we’ve discovered whether
Gregg was at the Hammonds’ or not. It will be just as well to keep
your man out of it, if possible.”
“Good. Then I’ll ride over to Willow Farm to-morrow and see what I can
find out. By the way, did I tell you that Kean is coming down
to-night? You can have the whole thing out with him to-morrow. He
ought to be able to suggest something.”
Fayre gave an exclamation of surprise.
“Sybil said nothing when I saw her.”
“She did not know. He telephoned yesterday saying he could get away
earlier than he had expected and was going to motor straight through.
I gather that he’s going to take Sybil back to town by car as soon as
she’s fit to travel. He’ll be on tenterhooks till she’s seen her own
doctor, and I don’t blame him. I should feel the same myself. To tell
you the truth, fond as I am of her, I shall be relieved to get rid of
the responsibility. It’s touch-and-go when she has these attacks.”
“She’s better away from this business,” said Fayre thoughtfully. “I’d
no idea until I saw her on Tuesday how much she’s taking it to heart.”
“She’s got a very weak spot for Cynthia. She’s a fascinating little
minx and I fancy Sybil would have given a lot to have had a daughter
of her own. What about Bridge, eh?”
Lady Staveley’s brother and a nephew had arrived the day before and
they played until the arrival of Kean shortly before midnight. He had
come without a chauffeur and had driven his car himself all that day
and through a good portion of the night before. Fayre was amazed at
his powers of endurance. If he were exhausted he certainly did not
show it in the few minutes that he stood chatting with the four men,
but he was impatient to see his wife and went upstairs almost
immediately and Fayre did not get a chance to talk to him until after
breakfast the next day, when he found him on the terrace, waiting for
Gregg to put in an appearance. He was intent on getting his wife up to
London as soon as the doctor would allow her to travel. It was evident
that her collapse had been a severe shock to him and only her
insistent messages on the telephone through Lady Staveley had
prevented him from throwing up his work and traveling down post-haste
to see for himself how she was. Even now his mind was full of her and
Fayre was aware that his interest in what he had to relate was purely
perfunctory.
It appeared that he had seen Grey and was fairly well posted as to
what had transpired since his departure. Fayre told him the result of
his inquiries about Gregg.
“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” said Kean frankly when he
had finished. “The fact that the fellow knew Mrs. Draycott does not
necessarily point to him as her murderer.”
“On the other hand, he’s the only person we have been able to discover
who had a definite grudge against her.”
“Come to that, she was hardly popular with a good many people. And
there’s the difficulty of the motor. You’ll find it a hard job to
connect him with that.”
“Unless he faked the number on Stockley’s motor or changed cars
somewhere.”
“In which case the crime was premeditated and, on your own showing,
that is unlikely. A man does not detest a woman for years and take no
steps about it and then, just because he happens to run across her
staying in the same neighbourhood, devise an elaborate scheme to
murder her. Psychologically, your theory doesn’t hang together unless
we can discover some better motive than that of mere dislike. The best
thing you can do is to take the story to the police; he will then be
obliged to tell them where he was that night. He can’t take the line
with them that he took with you, and I’ve a strong conviction that he
will be able to produce a perfectly satisfactory alibi.”
“You advise me not to waste time in following it up, then?” asked
Fayre, feeling more than a little damped.
Kean’s smile was so friendly that it was impossible to take offence.
“If you want my real advice, old chap,” he said, “I should say drop
the whole thing and leave it to Grey and the police. Let Grey have a
clear account of what you’ve done and he will deal with it. I’m not
belittling your work: it’s been uncommonly good as far as it goes, and
if Gregg _is_ concerned it may prove invaluable; but it’s useless to
pit yourself against experts or to try to act without proper
authority. How did you get hold of this letter to Gregg?”
The question came with startling abruptness and Fayre stifled a sudden
spasm of amusement as he realized that Kean was using professional
methods on him.
“I took it out of his desk when I was waiting for him the other day,”
he answered with rather exaggerated meekness.
“And put yourself in a very nasty position if he finds out, apart from
the fact that, if he jumps to the fact that you searched his desk, it
will be the easiest thing in the world for him to destroy any evidence
it contains.”
“Do you suggest that I should have kept it?” asked Fayre, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“I certainly don’t,” was Kean’s dry rejoinder. “But I should like to
point out that if his desk had been searched officially the police
would have kept the letter and we should have had our evidence to hand
if we’d needed it. That sort of amateur detective work is all right in
fiction, but it’s dangerous in practice.”
Fayre was left feeling rather sheepish and distinctly obstinate. He
had taken his dressing-down meekly enough and, on the whole, he felt
bound to admit that it was not undeserved, but he hadn’t the smallest
intention of being warned off the course by Kean or any one else. And
he still held to his theory about Gregg.
The rest of his day was spent as harmlessly as even Kean could have
wished. Fayre sat for a time with Sybil, who was up and dressed and so
much better that the doctor had sanctioned her removal, by easy
stages, to London the following day. The various members of the
house-party were in and out of the room most of the time, so that, to
Fayre’s relief, there was no opportunity to broach the subject of the
murder.
As he was dressing for dinner he received a visit from Bill Staveley.
He was still in riding kit and had just returned from his call at
Hammond’s farm.
“I’ve got your times for you,” he began, “and I found out what car
Gregg was driving. A very cunning bit of work, I may tell you, on my
part! I’m beginning to think I’ve got a natural gift for this sort of
thing! If you imagine I’m just a sort of Watson, my dear Holmes,
you’re entirely mistaken.”
“If you want real appreciation and encouragement let me suggest that
you go and tell Edward all about it,” advised Fayre dryly. “Meanwhile,
when you’ve finished wagging your tail, you might produce the proofs
of your genius.”
Lord Staveley chuckled.
“So that’s how the land lies, is it? Was he very down on our little
efforts? He always was a damned superior beggar.”
“I kept you out of it, which is more than you deserve. What did you
find at the Hammonds’?”
“A brand-new baby, among other things, which was brought into the
world by Gregg at eight-fifteen precisely, on the night of the
twenty-third. They telephoned to him between four-thirty and five and
he must have started almost at once and walked over to Whitbury for
the car. And I’ve no doubt he used some language, too, considering
what a beastly night it was. After that things get more interesting.
You say he left Stockley’s at five-thirty. Well, he didn’t get to
Hammond’s till close on seven. Hammond was quite definite about that.
He was in a bit of a stew because Gregg was so late.”
Fayre, who was busy with his tie, spun round with an exclamation.
Staveley nodded.
“That’s a fact,” he said quietly. “An hour and a half to do thirty
minutes’ run. Of course, he may have called somewhere else on the way,
but, considering that Hammond’s message was urgent, it doesn’t seem
likely.”
“What excuse did he give Hammond?”
“None, I gather, but I imagine things were pretty urgent by the time
he got there. He just said he was sorry he was late and they were all
in such a state of nerves by that time that nothing more was said.
It’s the chap’s first baby and he seems to have thought the world was
coming to an end. Gregg left about nine, which would bring him home
just in time to get the police call.”
“Did you find out what car he turned up in?”
“Stockley’s. Hammond knows it well because they take in lodgers in the
summer and they use Stockley’s cars. I couldn’t very well ask him
about the number, but he didn’t seem to have noticed anything
unusual.”
“I wonder if the carter could have made a mistake?”
“Not likely. He probably knows Stockley’s cars. Every one does round
here and he’d be practically certain to know Gregg, even if it was
dark. You’ll have to rule out the garage car, I suspect. That is, if
Gregg’s really implicated.”
Fayre sighed.
“Well, we seem to be getting somewhere at last,” he said. “Though
Heaven knows what it’s going to lead to.”
“Do we break the glad news to Edward or not?” asked Staveley
mischievously.
“I’m blessed if we do!” answered Fayre, with unexpected heat. “After
all, it’s Grey’s job at present. I’ll write to him to-night.”
He kept his word and sent the solicitor a clear and concise account of
all that had happened.
He was hardly to be blamed if there was a spark of malice in his eyes
the next morning as he stood on the steps with the rest of the
house-party watching the departure of the Keans. Sir Edward was too
absorbed in the task of making his wife comfortable for the journey to
notice anything unusual in his friend’s manner, but Sybil Kean gave
him a moment of discomfort as she said good-by.
“I believe you and Bill are up to some mischief,” she said jestingly.
“I advise you to keep an eye on them, Eve! They had their heads
together after breakfast this morning—and look at them now!”
Fayre managed to retain an expression of bland innocence, but Bill
Staveley was grinning openly.
“I thought so,” she went on quietly. “Always distrust Hatter, Eve,
when he looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”
At this moment, to Fayre’s relief, Kean joined her, his arms full of
cushions, and together they went down the steps to the car.
They had hardly disappeared round the bend at the end of the long
drive when Fayre was rung up by Cynthia.
“Tubby’s done it, Uncle Fayre! Didn’t I tell you he would?” Her voice
was breathless with excitement. “I’m coming back this afternoon on the
two-thirty. Will you ask Eve to have me met? I’ll tell you all about
it when I see you, but we’ve traced the car, broken mudguard and
everything!”