When Cynthia stepped out of the train at Staveley Grange she found
Fayre waiting on the platform. The station-master, an old friend of
her childhood, bustled forward to receive her and she did not have an
opportunity of unburdening herself of her news till she found herself
alone with Fayre in the car on their way to Staveley.
“I’ve one disappointment for you, Uncle Fayre,” she began. “We’ve
traced the car, but we haven’t got the rest of the number.”
For a moment he could not conceal his chagrin. He had been counting on
that one invaluable piece of information ever since he had received
her message the night before.
“Do you mean to say that two garages can have housed the car and
neither have taken the number? It’s incredible!”
“This time it wasn’t there for them to take. The man said that the car
came in with half the number-plate missing! It was broken clean across
just after the number 7, and the owner said that he had been run into
from behind by a lorry just outside Carlisle. Tubby had a talk with
one of the cleaners who had had a good look at the car while he was
working on it and he said that the number-plate was an aluminium one,
the sort that will snap easily with a smart blow from a hammer. Except
for the cracked mudguard there were no other signs of a collision, but
there was paint, red paint, on the mudguard. He remembered trying to
get it off. Tubby thinks it possible that the man broke the plate
himself and that’s why the carter couldn’t see more than half.”
“Looks as if our friend, Mr. Page, must have done it soon after he
left Stockley’s garage. They certainly said nothing about a broken
number-plate there.”
“Tubby says he wouldn’t get far with only half a number-plate and, if
he were stopped, we ought to be able to trace him.”
“Did the garage people describe the man at all?”
“If you can call it a description. It was very like Stockley’s. I
think it must have been the same man. Tall and thin, with a heavy coat
and goggles that he did not take off. He brought in the car on the
evening of the twenty-third, about eight-thirty and took it out again
on the twenty-sixth, but they are not certain of the time. Tubby says
he’s sure that the man was trying to avoid observation or he wouldn’t
have gone to that garage. It’s a rotten little place almost on the
outskirts of Carlisle and it’s not near a hotel or on any of the
direct routes north and south. It’s the last place any one would leave
a car if he were just passing through. Tubby had an awful hunt before
he found it.”
“Page must have been in Carlisle from the twenty-third till the
twenty-sixth, then. I wonder where he went after that? Probably south
to London. The chances are that he didn’t dare risk having the
mudguard mended in Carlisle, in which case there is a bare chance that
we may trace him by it on the London route. And, as you say, he’d have
to do something about the number.”
“As for that, he could use a temporary number, but it would be more
noticeable than an ordinary number-plate.”
“I’ll send a line to Grey to-night and see if he can get onto anything
at his end. He’ll know better how to set about it than I do. Frankly,
I still think this man, Page, may have nothing whatever to do with the
affair. He may have had his own reasons for lying low. After all,
there’ve been several cars stolen in the north during the last few
weeks. It’s becoming a regular profession and he may have been working
his way to London with some car he had taken. We’ve got very little to
go on.”
Having decided not to take Cynthia into his confidence on the subject
of Gregg’s complicity, he could not give her his real reason for
doubting the importance of the Page clue. Argue as he might, he could
not manage to connect the doctor with the strange car, and if he was
at the Hammonds’ farm from seven till nine on the twenty-third he
could not possibly have been in Carlisle at eight-thirty.
Cynthia was gazing at him in astonishment.
“But, Uncle Fayre, the car was seen coming away from the farm just
after the murder was committed, and you know that that lane doesn’t go
beyond the farm. It must have been coming from there and there are
hardly liked to have been two cars with _Y.0.7._ on the number-plate
and a cracked mudguard. You can’t rule the car out altogether!”
“The tramp may have been lying. We haven’t cleared him yet, remember,”
objected Fayre.
“The carter’s honest enough, anyway, and he backed up everything the
tramp said. After all, the real description of the car came from him.
And you’ve always said you were sure Mrs. Draycott was driven to
John’s.”
“I still think she was driven there, but we can’t afford to ignore the
fact that cars have been known before now to turn up a blind lane and
come back in a hurry, after finding out their mistake and that’s what
this car may very well have done. I’m all for tracing this man Page,
if we can, but I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that he found a car
already at the gate of the farm when he got there and that all he did
was to turn round and go back the way he had come. I’m only trying to
save you from possible disappointment, my dear.”
“In that case, we’re just where we were before,” sighed the girl, her
hopes cruelly dashed.
Fayre suddenly realized that, in his determination not to be diverted
from his pursuit of Gregg, he had allowed himself to wound and
discourage Cynthia. He was conscious, too, that his case against the
doctor was getting lamentably weak and that only his native obstinacy
prevented him from admitting it.
“My dear, what nonsense!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “Don’t you see
the immense importance of getting in touch with the one person who was
actually on the spot at the time of the murder, even if he didn’t
actually commit it, and, mind you, I don’t say that he didn’t. For all
we know, though, he may have seen the thing happen and it’s hardly
possible that he didn’t hear the shot. If we do get him, it will be
your doing. You’ve been invaluable.”
Cynthia had been watching him closely.
“I believe you do mean it,” she said at last, “and are not saying it
just to comfort me.”
The car drew up before the broad double flight of steps that led to
the great oak doors of Staveley, and Cynthia prepared to get out.
“But I would most awfully like to know,” she added over her shoulder,
“what you’ve got up your funny old sleeve.”
With that she ran up the steps and disappeared into the house, leaving
Fayre staring in front of him, a comic picture of dismay.
“Bless the women!” he ejaculated as he prepared to follow her.
He made for the library and entrenched himself firmly behind the
_Times_; but he wasn’t to escape for long. Less than ten minutes later
he heard Cynthia’s voice in the hall and then her quick, light step as
she came into the room. He buried his nose deeper in the leading
article.
There was a protesting creak from his chair as she settled herself
comfortably on the arm and placed a slim white hand between his eyes
and the print.
“I did play the game, didn’t I, Uncle Fayre?” she murmured softly. “I
never asked a single question. Don’t you think I deserve a lump of
sugar?”
“What do you want now?” he asked, trying in vain to speak gruffly.
Cynthia in her wheedling moods was doubly dangerous.
“Supposing we were to nip back into the car and run over to the
Cottage Hospital, just you and me. If we go at once we shall be back
in plenty of time for tea.”
“And may I ask what you propose to do there?”
“Sit in the car while you go in and see the tramp. Please, Uncle
Fayre! If you do I promise I won’t bother you to tell me anything you
don’t want to.”
“What do you suggest that I should say to the tramp when I do see him?
He’s told us all he knows already.”
“I don’t believe he has. I’ve been thinking that, if he was really
lying there all that time, he must have seen any one else who came up
the lane and, if you really think the Page man hasn’t got anything to
do with it, then somebody else must have driven to the farm while the
tramp was there. How did Mrs. Draycott get there, if the Page car
didn’t bring her?”
“If you can answer that, my child, you’ve all but solved the mystery,”
sighed Fayre.
“Well, if the tramp can’t answer it, who can?” demanded Cynthia. “You
said he was frightened and suspicious and on his guard against the
police. Why shouldn’t he have been keeping back something? I’ve got a
hunch that if you treat him like a human being and get him to believe
that you’re not his enemy like the rest, you may get something out of
him. Anyway, it’s worth trying. Just to please me, Uncle Fayre! His
leg’s getting better and once he’s out and in the hands of the police
you won’t have a chance to get at him.”
Fayre knew that he was weakening, but he made a determined effort to
retain his comfortable seat by the fire.
“It’s an absolutely forlorn hope, you know,” he urged. “And the
chances are that they won’t let us see him when we get there. You must
remember that I went with Grey last time. Besides, by the time we get
the car . . .”
“The car’s there now,” stated Cynthia calmly. “I ordered it as I was
coming through the hall just now. I told them I’d drive myself.
Please, Uncle Fayre!”
With a sigh Fayre heaved himself out of his chair. “You’re a nuisance
and a bully and you don’t play fair,” he complained, with a smile that
belied his words. “But I suppose if I’m to have my tea in peace, I
shall have to humour you.”
Cynthia drove with her usual cheerful abandon and they arrived at the
police station at Whitbury in record time. Fayre had insisted on going
there for a pass before attempting to storm the hospital and was glad
he had done so, for the Inspector recognized Cynthia as the daughter
of a J. P. and was ready to oblige her.
“As a matter of fact, we’ve withdrawn our man,” he said. “The hospital
authorities are quite capable of looking after their patient. He can’t
walk on that leg yet and nobody except yourself and your friend has
visited him so far, Mr. Fayre. He’s still under suspicion, of course,
but it’s ten to one against his having anything to do with the
murder.”
They drove on to the hospital and Fayre presented his pass, leaving
Cynthia in the car outside.
He found his man sitting up in bed reading the paper. His appearance
had improved considerably in the interval, owing, no doubt, to good
food and soap and water. He received Fayre’s friendly greeting with
the reserve of one who has learned to put his trust in no one.
“Glad to see you looking so fit,” said Fayre. “I was passing and
thought I’d look in and see how you were doing. Also, I wanted to
thank you.”
The man observed him warily.
“I ain’t done nothing for you that I know of,” he volunteered
grudgingly.
“On the contrary, you’ve helped me and my friend very considerably and
we’re grateful to you. The fact is, this man they’ve arrested in
connection with the farm murder is a pal of mine and I’m doing what I
can to help him. If it hadn’t been for you, I should never have got
onto that car you saw, and that car may mean a lot to us. If there’s
anything I can do for you when you get about again, let me know. You
won’t be fit for the road yet awhile, you know.”
The hunted look came back into the tramp’s face. “I wish to God I was
back on the road!” he burst out. “Fat chance I’ve got of ever gettin’
there, it seems to me. I ain’t blind nor deaf neither. The police ’ave
got it in for me proper. I know where I’m goin’ from ’ere, right
enough. And me got no more to do with it than a babe unborn!”
“I believe you,” said Fayre simply. “It’s just a bit of bad luck that
you and Mr. Leslie got dragged in at all. It’s the third person that’s
responsible for all this that I’m anxious to find.”
The man gave him a quick, sidelong glance.
“Is Mr. Leslie the gent what found the body?” he asked.
Fayre nodded.
“’E didn’t do it,” affirmed the man with surprising conviction. “I see
’im through the winder when ’e found ’er, like I told the police. Rare
taken aback, ’e was. ’E didn’t do it. I could’ve told them that if
they’d asked me. The police!”
He spoke with infinite scorn.
“I know he didn’t; but the trouble is to prove it. And what clears him
will probably clear you—that’s why I wanted to have a chat with you.
You haven’t any theory of your own, I suppose?”
“Not me. I wasn’t nowhere near the place when it ’appened. Didn’t even
’ear the shot, for the matter of that.”
He was talking freely now and Fayre could see that he had managed to
gain the man’s confidence and was quick to act on the discovery. He
bent forward confidentially.
“There’s absolutely nothing you can remember, no matter how small,
that happened while you were waiting at the corner of the lane, is
there? The murder was committed while you were lying there and there
may be something you didn’t think worth mentioning before. I give you
my word I won’t pass it on to the police, unless it’s something that
will go towards fastening the guilt on the right person.”
“Come to that, ’ow am I to know as you don’t think I’m the right
person, mister?” queried the man shrewdly. “I was there all right,
wasn’t I?”
“I’m ready to take your word for it that you never budged from the
corner of the lane, and I’m taking my chances there, you know. But if
I’m straight with you I look to you to be straight with me.”
The tramp leaned back on his pillows wearily. “What do you want me to
say?” he asked bitterly. “That I saw the bloomin’ murderer goin’ up
the lane with the weapon in ’is ’and? I tell you, I didn’t see no one,
’cause there wasn’t no one to see.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“As sure as I’m lyin’ ’ere, which I wish I wasn’t.”
The conversation languished and Fayre had almost made up his mind to
give it up as a bad job and depart when the man turned on him
suddenly.
“What time would you say that there murder was committed, mister?” he
asked.
“According to what little we have been able to find out, about
six-thirty. It must have been then, if the car you saw had anything to
do with it.”
Fayre took some sheets of paper out of his pocket and looked up the
notes he had made.
“Here you are. You saw the car going towards the farm at about
six-twenty and you saw it again, coming away, at six-forty or
thereabouts. At six-thirty you were at the Lodge gates of Galston. If
you can prove that, I think you may consider yourself out of it
altogether.”
The man hesitated.
“’Ow can I prove it? What d’you think?” he said at last. “But I’ll
tell you this, though I wouldn’t say it to no one else. And it’s not
for the police, mind you. You said as you wouldn’t pass it on,
mister?”
“I won’t. Fire away.”
“There was a woman as might ’ave seen me. She was comin’ towards me on
the Whitbury road and she turned into the Lodge just before I got
there. Lodge-keeper’s wife, I put her down to be.”
Fayre stared at him in amazement.
“Good Lord, man!” he cried. “Why on earth didn’t you say so when they
questioned you? It’s your one chance of clearing yourself. How do you
know she didn’t see you?”
“I ’ad me own reasons,” stated the man stubbornly. “The cops won’t get
nothin’ out of me I don’t choose to tell.”
Fayre shrugged his shoulders.
“Hanging’s a nasty death,” he suggested.
His curiosity was thoroughly roused, but he knew that his one chance
of getting anything out of the man was not to seem too eager.
The tramp’s face seemed to grow whiter and more pinched.
“They can’t fix it onto me,” he whispered doggedly.
“They can, unless you can prove that you were not at the farm at
six-thirty. You don’t seem to realize that you’re in almost as bad a
position as Mr. Leslie.”
“Supposin’ she didn’t see me?” The man was evidently wavering.
“If you saw her she probably saw you.”
The logic of this was so obvious that it reached the tramp’s brain,
warped though it was with suspicion. He considered it for a moment;
then, raising himself on his elbow, brought his face close to Fayre’s.
“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered. “I see it now. But I was afraid of
gettin’ in bad with the police. Will you promise not to pass it on
without I tell you?”
“I told you I wouldn’t. Go on.”
“It was this way. I see the woman, like I told you, and I watched her
go into the Lodge. Then I went on to the Lodge, meanin’ to ask for a
bite of something. When I got there I see something lyin’ in the road
and I picks it up. It was a purse. It ’adn’t got much in it, only a
’alf-crown.”
He paused, evidently at a loss as to how to proceed.
“And you pocketed the half-crown and put the purse back where you
found it,” suggested Fayre calmly.
He knew now why the man had kept silence and marvelled at his
mentality. Better, apparently, to risk the gallows for a crime he
hadn’t committed than risk “getting in bad with the police” for one he
had. The one evil he understood, the other he hadn’t sufficient
imagination to realize.
“That’s right, mister. But I wasn’t goin’ to tell the cops that, was
I?”
“No, I suppose not. You can trust me, but, I warn you, you’ll probably
have to make a clean breast of it in the end if you want to clear
yourself of something much more serious.”
“Seems to me I’m for it, whether I tells ’em or whether I don’t. Never
did ’ave no blinkin’ luck, did I?”
Fayre had risen to his feet and stood looking down at the man in the
bed. He was not a prepossessing object, with his furtive eyes and weak
chin. But probably, as he had said, he had never had any luck and
Fayre was conscious of a sudden feeling of pity as he realized the
utter friendlessness of this wretched, homeless creature who existed
only on the sufferance of other men more fortunate and stronger than
himself. No wonder he trusted no one and felt instinctively that every
man’s hand was against him.
“Look here,” said Fayre, speaking on impulse. “I’ll do this for you.
I’ll go to the Lodge myself and see the woman there. If she remembers
you, well and good; you’ll have your alibi ready then if you need it.
As to the purse, I’ll settle with her myself over the half-crown.
You’ve spent it, I suppose?”
“Most of it, mister. The rest’s there.”
He jerked his head in the direction of the table by his bed. On it lay
the contents of the dirty red handkerchief he had been carrying when
he was picked up. The police had been through them and found nothing
worth confiscating.
“Very well, I’ll square you with her. I think I can undertake to do
that without giving you away. If she’s a decent woman she’ll no doubt
agree not to prosecute once she’s got the money back. I will give you
my word not to go to the police about it, but, if you take my advice,
you’ll make a clean breast of it to them as soon as you get on your
feet again. Otherwise, you know where you’ll find yourself. However,
that’s your affair. Anyway, I’ll see to the purse business for you,
which is more than you deserve, you know!”
If Fayre’s last words were harsh his smile was very friendly as he
extended his hand in farewell. Weakness had always irritated and, at
the same time, appealed to him and he had only just begun to
understand how peculiarly helpless the class to which this man
belonged must be.
The tramp thrust a limp hand into his extended one. He was evidently
struggling for expression.
“Thank you, mister; I shan’t forget it,” was all he said, but Fayre
knew he spoke the truth.
He had reached the door when the man called him back.
“I say, mister, I reckon you’d best take these towards that there
half-crown. It’s all I got left.”
He was holding out the small pile of coppers that had been on the
table by his side. Fayre took them from him and gently laid them down
again beside the folded red handkerchief. The man watched him and, as
he did so, his eyes fell on a small object which lay among his pitiful
possessions.
“I’d rather you took it, mister,” he said half-heartedly.
Then, as Fayre shook his head: “Thank you kindly, all the same. You
were askin’ if there was anythin’, no matter how small, as I could
remember. There’s that, if it’s any use to you. It ’ad gone clean out
of my ’ead. It won’t ’elp you much, but if I’d remembered I’d ’a’ give
it to you. By the gate of the farm, it was. I stepped on it in the
dark goin’ in, when I was on my way to the barn.”
He held out his hand and in the palm was lying the cap of a “Red
Dwarf” stylographic pen.