As Fayre passed down the broad staircase of the Cottage Hospital he
reviewed his conversation with the tramp and decided that, considering
the little he had gained by it, he might as well have stayed by the
comfortable fireside in the library. Cynthia’s “hunch” had not
amounted to much, after all, and he was sorry, more on her account
than his own, for he had not expected anything himself from the
interview. It had, however, simplified matters, in so far as it had
definitely wiped off the tramp from the possible list of suspects. He
had a strong conviction that the man’s story was true.
He suddenly became conscious of something hard pressing against the
palm of his hand and remembered the little red cap the tramp had given
him at parting. It belonged obviously to the pen he had picked up on
his visit to the farm and he was in the act of slipping it into his
pocket and dismissing it from his mind when a thought struck him which
caused him to pause in his descent and stand gazing blankly into the
hall below. He had suddenly realized that if the tramp had picked up
the cap on the occasion of his arrival at the farm somewhere about
seven o’clock the pen must have been dropped still earlier in the
evening. Fayre’s mind went back to the copper-coloured sequins he had
found by the gate. They had been lying close to the pen and he found
himself trying to picture what had happened.
If Mrs. Draycott’s dress had caught in the gate in passing, the pen
might have fallen from her companion’s pocket while he was
disentangling it. Or could the unhappy woman have been seized with a
premonition of her fate and hesitated on the very threshold of the
farm? At any rate, the finding of the cap by the tramp did away once
for all with the possibility of the pen’s having been dropped after
the murder by a reporter, as Kean had suggested, and its proximity to
the spangles from Mrs. Draycott’s dress pointed to the possibility
that she and her companion might have paused for a moment near the
gate on their way to the house.
The pen had suddenly developed into a far more important link than
they had supposed, and Fayre went on his way feeling that not only had
his morning not been wasted, but that Cynthia, this time at least, had
scored, not only against himself but against Kean, a fact which
afforded him a certain amount of satisfaction.
He found Cynthia deep in conversation with the porter of the hospital.
“Cummin’s son is our undergardener at Galston,” she explained with a
smile that included both men. “I was telling him that he’s the only
person who really understands Mother’s beloved roses.”
Fayre, watching her, understood why it was that she had, not only the
estate, but the whole of the village of Galston, at her feet, and
remembered how even Gunnet had dropped his official reserve when
speaking of her. He climbed into the car and, after a few more
friendly words to the porter, they drove off.
“Well?” she asked as they swept round the corner into the High Street
of Whitbury. “Did he say anything?”
“He cleared himself, if what he says is true. Is there time to call on
your lodge-keeper at Galston on the way back?”
She turned to him in surprise.
“Of course. It’s a little out of the way, but not enough to matter.
Why do you want to see him?”
“I want to see her, if there is a her.”
“There is. His wife, Mrs. Doggett, is a dear old thing. If you want to
get something out of her, you’d better leave it to me. I’ve known her
all my life.”
“I do. I want her to deal kindly with our friend, the tramp, for one
thing.”
He told her the story of the purse and then showed her the red cap the
man had given him and explained its significance.
“Mrs. Doggett will be all right; I’ll manage her. But the cap is
important, Uncle Fayre! I’m glad you went!”
“So am I, now. You were quite right and it’s decent of you not to rub
it in!”
He waited while Cynthia went into the Lodge. After a short interval
she came out, followed by a pleasant-looking old woman.
“This is Mrs. Doggett,” she said. “Mr. Fayre’s a great friend of mine,
Mrs. Doggett, so you must be kind to him.”
Mrs. Doggett’s answer was a broad smile and an old-fashioned curtsey.
“It _was_ her purse,” went on Cynthia, “and she’s going to be a brick
and let the poor man off. Tell Mr. Fayre about it, Mrs. Doggett.”
“I must ’a’ dropped it just before I got to the gate, sir,” explained
the old woman. “I hadn’t been home more than a few minutes when I
missed it and went out again into the road to have a look. I found it
almost at once, but it was empty. I was quite took aback, wondering
who could ’a’ cleaned it out in such a short time, when I remembered
seein’ some one comin’ towards me as I neared the gate. I went up the
road a bit, but I couldn’t see no one, so I give it up. There wasn’t
only half-a-crown in it and, if he was in want, I’m glad he should
have it, pore soul.”
“Do you remember at all what time you reached home that night?” asked
Fayre.
“I couldn’t tell you to a minute, sir, but it must have been somewhere
round about six-thirty, I should say. I’d been doin’ me bit of
shoppin’ at Whitbury and I usually stay till the shops close at six
and it’s just about half an hour’s walk home.”
“How long were you in the house, do you think, before you discovered
your loss?”
“I can’t rightly say, but not more than a quarter of an hour. I
hurried out as soon as I found it was gone. It wasn’t long, because me
’usband come in for ’is supper at seven and I’d got it all cooked and
ready for ’im by then. And _he_ hasn’t been late once this month, to
my knowledge, sir.”
“Then, that clears the tramp. You’ve done him more than one good turn
to-day, Mrs. Doggett. Perhaps Lady Cynthia explained that I had
promised not to report the theft to the police, so if you wouldn’t
mind keeping it dark . . .”
“They won’t hear nothing from me, sir! I don’t want no traffic with
them. Writin’ everythin’ down in their little books! Oh, I couldn’t,
sir, thankin’ you kindly all the same,” she finished, as Fayre slipped
a note into her hand. “It wasn’t only half-a-crown and I don’t grudge
it ’im.”
“You’ve got to, Mrs. Doggett,” called Cynthia over her shoulder as the
car leaped forward. “And you deserve it for being such a brick.”
“So that’s that!” said Fayre, with striking lack of originality. “He’s
out of it. Now we can concentrate on the real culprits. It’ll take us
all our time, too!” he added ruefully.
He spoke more truly than he realized. They had only just passed the
lane leading to Leslie’s farm when a small two-seater turned out of a
by-road on their right and sped past them on the way to Whitbury.
It was being driven by Gregg and by his side was the man who had
cleaned the paint off Fayre’s coat in the doctor’s garage. At the
sight of Cynthia Gregg raised his hand towards his hat, but his eyes
were on Fayre and it seemed to the latter that his glance held both
contempt and defiance.
He turned and looked after the car and, at the sight of the
luggage-rack at the back, an exclamation broke from him. It was loaded
with a portmanteau and a big suitcase.
“Good Lord, I might have guessed it! What an ass I was!” he muttered
in consternation.
“What’s the matter?” asked Cynthia, surprised at his tone.
“He’s bolting! Idiot that I was not to have foreseen this!”
“Dr. Gregg? Then you really do suspect him?”
“I not only suspect him, but he knows it. Cynthia, I’ve made an unholy
mess of this. The only thing to do now is to make for Staveley as
quickly as possible. I must get into touch with Grey and warn him.”
Cynthia wasted no time in asking questions. She did her best and Fayre
made a mental note never again, when she was at the wheel, even to
suggest to her that he was in a hurry. To do him justice he underwent
three hairbreadth escapes without making a sound, but he thanked his
stars that he was still alive as he tore up the steps and into the
little room that housed the telephone at Staveley.
He got Grey with surprisingly little delay and told him what had
happened.
“It’s my fault, I’m afraid. If I hadn’t shown my hand he’d never have
taken fright. Can you do anything at your end?”
“I’ll see to that if he makes for London. I can put a man onto the
station here. What’s he wearing, did you notice?”
“No idea. I was looking at his face. That wouldn’t be enough, anyhow,
for your man to go by. If only I could catch that train!”
“If you did you’d give the show away worse than ever. He’s certain to
be on the lookout. I wish to goodness we had a photograph! We must go
by the ticket, that’s all. I’ll back my man to get onto him if it’s
humanly possible. Fortunately, he’s on good terms with the station
people. It’ll be a bore if Gregg goes north, though!”
“It doesn’t even follow that he’s going by train. He was on his way to
the Junction, but that means nothing. He’s got his man with him, which
looks as if he were sending the car home from the station. The
fellow’s a sort of gardener as well, so he’s not likely to take him
with him if he’s going far.”
“That points to a train journey, so our luck may be in, after all.
Look here, are you free to come up at any moment?”
“Quite. To-night, if you like.”
“There’s no great hurry, but you might run up in the course of the
next day or two. There’s nothing much you can do where you are now,
and it’s about time we compared notes again. I may have something for
you by the time you get here.”
Fayre calculated for a moment.
“I’ll come up by the night train to-morrow, arriving Sunday morning.
Then I can look you up on Monday.”
“Good! Or, better still, lunch with me on Sunday at the Troc.”
“Excellent! I’ll be there at one. By the way, if Gregg was making the
night train he’ll get in about six-twenty. Tell your man to be
careful. He’s no fool, remember.”
“Thanks. See you Sunday, then.”
Fayre was hanging up the receiver when a voice at his elbow made him
start.
“What’s this? Not the naughty doctor doing a bunk? Now, that looks
fishy, if you like!”
Bill Staveley had come in unperceived and had overheard Fayre’s last
sentence.
“He’s off,” answered Fayre. “Met him just now on the way to the
Junction, luggage and all. It looks as if he’d got the wind up.”
Staveley glanced at his watch.
“Even if you’re only just back he was allowing time and to spare for
the five-forty. What makes you think he was going to London?”
“Nothing. He may not have been going by train at all.”
For answer Staveley pushed him gently to one side and, picking up the
receiver, gave a number.
“That Whitbury station? That you, Millar? Lord Staveley speaking. Has
the London train gone yet? Confound it, then, I’ve missed it. I wanted
to catch Dr. Gregg about something. He was on that train, wasn’t he? I
thought so. You don’t happen to know if he was going straight through
to London, do you? If he’s stopping at Carlisle, I might ring him up
there. Thanks, I’ll hold on.”
There was a short pause while he waited, the receiver to his ear.
“Hullo. Yes. He booked through, did he? Yes, that settles it. Thanks
very much.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to Fayre.
“Booked to London and had his luggage labelled straight through. Want
to let your man know?”
He stood waiting while Fayre put through the trunk call.
“What’s the next move?” he asked. “By Jove, I’m beginning to think
you’re right about the doctor!”
“I’d better go up myself and see if Grey’s got anything for me to do
there. To-morrow night will be time enough.”
“If it wasn’t for this blessed Cattle Show on Monday I’d come myself.
I’m beginning to enjoy this business. I wish it hadn’t been Gregg,
though.”
“So do I,” agreed Fayre heartily. “I disliked the fellow at first, I
admit, but now I’ve got a sneaking sympathy for him. He’s a loyal
friend, whatever else he may be.”
“He’s a benighted idiot to cut and run now. I’d have given him credit
for more sense. Was Cynthia with you when you saw him?”
“Yes. And I shall have my work cut out to prevent her from dashing up
to town with me, I expect, once she knows what it all means. Which
reminds me that if I don’t go and make a clean breast of the whole
thing at once I shall never hear the last of it. It’s no good keeping
it from her now.”
He departed hastily in search of her, but she was nowhere to be found
and he concluded that she must have gone straight to her room. When
she failed to put in an appearance at tea he was really puzzled. He
knew she must be waiting eagerly for his explanation and it was not
like her to curb anything, least of all curiosity. He was relieved to
find that the Staveleys took her defection very calmly.
“If you knew Cynthia better you’d take everything she did as a matter
of course,” announced Eve Staveley. “She’s probably gone home to
collect a few more oddments.”
“If she hasn’t made a dash for the five-forty and caught it!”
suggested Bill Staveley with a wicked gleam in his eye. “She can twist
old Millar round her little finger and if she told him to keep the
train till she arrived, I wouldn’t bank on his not doing it.”
“My dear Bill, why on earth should she go off on the five-forty?”
demanded his wife.
“Why shouldn’t she? It’s just the sort of Tom Fool thing she would
do,” he countered cheerfully.
The suggestion made Fayre uncomfortable and he went through a good
deal of quite unnecessary worry before she walked calmly into the
dining-room, ten minutes late for dinner, and apologized very prettily
to her hostess for her unpunctuality.
Lady Staveley took it for granted that she had been to Galston and
neither of the two men thought it wise to question the fact in public.
After dinner, however, she found herself pinned into a corner of the
big drawing-room, well out of hearing of her hostess, and made to give
an account of herself.
“It’s no good trying the happy home stunt on us,” remarked Bill
Staveley lazily. “We want to know where you’ve really been and what
mischief you’ve been up to.”
“I never said I’d been to Galston,” protested Cynthia, the picture of
injured innocence. “It was Eve who insisted on it.”
“In spite of all your protestations,” jibed Staveley. He and Cynthia
were old sparring partners and he was a worthy match for her.
“Well, did you want me to give the show away?” she asked.
“Considering that we don’t know what the show is!”
She cut him short and tackled Fayre direct.
“Did you manage to do anything about Dr. Gregg, Uncle Fayre?” she
asked.
“I rang up Grey, and Bill got the station and discovered that he had
caught the London train. Grey’s going to try to keep him under
observation at the other end. That was all we could do.”
For answer Cynthia opened the little gold bag she carried and took
from it a slip of paper. She handed it to Fayre and watched him in
silence as he read it aloud.
“_Care of Dr. Graham, Brackley Mansions, Victoria Street_,” it ran.
For a moment he stared at the girl in utter bewilderment; then he
broke into a low chuckle.
“She’s beaten us, Bill!” he exclaimed. “It’s Gregg’s address, I’ll be
bound. How did you get it?”
“Ran the car over to his house and asked for it, of course. That’s why
I was late for dinner. I punctured on the way home. I told the maid
that Lady Kean had written to say that she’d lost his prescription and
had asked me to see him about it. They said that he always stays at
that address when he’s in London and that he’d told them to forward
letters there, so he’s sure to go to it if only to collect them.”
There was a blank silence, broken eventually by Lord Staveley.
“Absurdly simple, my dear Watson, when you know how it’s done. One up
to you, Cynthia. He’ll smell a rat, of course, when he gets back, but
it probably won’t matter then.”
Fayre caught the night train for London on the following evening. Lord
Staveley had offered to send him into Carlisle by car, thus saving the
change at Whitbury, but he preferred to go from Staveley Grange.
“Both your chauffeurs must hate the sight of me by now, though why you
persist in using that wretched little branch line is beyond me,” he
complained.
“Lord knows!” admitted Staveley frankly. “It’s a bit of a way round to
Whitbury, it’s true, but that’s nothing in a car. Of course, in the
old horse days it was a consideration. That and the fact that they
gave my grandfather the branch line as a special concession in days
gone by and we’ve felt it our duty to use it ever since is the only
reason I can think of why we stick to it still. We’re a hide-bound
lot, but I must admit I’ve got a weakness for that rotten little
station. It reminds me of coming home for the holidays in my school
days for one thing.”
“And then we’re surprised to find Americans laughing at us! We are a
queer country, you know.”
“Well, if you can find a better ’ole, go to it!” quoted Staveley
cheerfully. “You can have the car to Carlisle if you like to-night,
but I’m dashed if I’ll send you to Whitbury now!”
So Fayre travelled from Staveley Grange after the approved Staveley
fashion and was glad he had done so, for, as he was waiting for his
train at Whitbury he was joined by Miss Allen, whom he would
undoubtedly have missed in the crowd at Carlisle. She, too, was on her
way to London and she and Fayre dined very pleasantly together in the
restaurant car. He found, as he had suspected, that she improved on
acquaintance and they sat talking for some time after the meal ended.
Fayre wondered later, as he sat huddled in his stuffy corner, waiting
for the sleep that would not come, what she would have said if she had
known the reason of his journey to town.
“The whole cast of the melodrama seems to be moving to London,” he
thought whimsically. “Though what we’re all going to do there,
goodness knows! It would be more satisfactory, too, if one knew which
of us was the villain of the piece!”