Fayre saw Miss Allen into a cab and then drove straight to his club.
After a hot bath and a leisurely breakfast he felt better able to face
the world, but he was not sorry to spend a quiet Sunday morning
drowsing in front of the smoking-room fire and it was with a distinct
effort that he turned out, shortly before one, to keep his appointment
with Grey at the Trocadero.
He found the solicitor already seated and busy studying the wine-card.
At the sight of Fayre he sprang to his feet and greeted him with a
mixture of enthusiasm and deference which the older man found
refreshing in these casual days.
“How about a pick-me-up, sir?” he asked, with a keen glance at his
guest. “Or do you despise cocktails?”
“They have their uses,” admitted Fayre, a glint of mischief in his
eyes, “especially after a long night in the train, but I’m not such a
dug-out as you might think, you know!”
Grey laughed.
“I didn’t mean that!” he apologized hastily. “Only you look a bit done
up.”
He ordered a couple of Martinis and then plunged at once into the
business which was engrossing both their minds.
“My man rang up about an hour ago,” he said. “He got onto Gregg all
right. He managed to square the ticket-collector and stood by his side
as the passengers passed through. The collector spotted the Whitbury
ticket and gave him the tip and he followed the man. He says he
answered to our description. I think it was Gregg all right.”
“Where did he go?” asked Fayre.
His lips twitched involuntarily, for he guessed what was coming.
“To a doctor’s house, or rather flat. Brackley Mansions, Victoria
Street. He took his luggage in, so that looks as if he meant to stay
there, unless it was a blind.”
“Good work,” was Fayre’s only comment.
Grey looked at him sharply.
“What’s the joke?” he asked.
“Nothing much, only we had our noses pulled rather thoroughly over
that address by Lady Cynthia!”
He told Grey what had happened.
“I like that girl,” was Grey’s enthusiastic comment. “She’s keen.
We’ll get Leslie off, if only for her sake.”
“We don’t look much like doing it at present,” said Fayre rather
hopelessly. “It seems to me that until we can get Gregg to account for
that extra hour he spent getting from Whitbury to Hammond’s farm we’re
pretty well stuck. And, if he won’t speak we’re not in a position to
make him.”
“I can’t for the life of me see any connection between Gregg and the
Page car,” said Grey thoughtfully.
“There is none. Of that I feel convinced. My opinion is that Page
simply turned up the lane and, finding it a cul-de-sac, came back
again. He may have seen something, but I don’t believe he took Mrs.
Draycott to the farm.”
“The tramp seemed to think there was a woman in the car, though, the
first time it passed him.”
“He was very vague about it and admitted he could hardly see the
occupants. I believe we ought to concentrate on Gregg.”
Grey deliberated for a moment.
“I’m not sure that I agree with you,” he said at last. “Gregg’s not
behaving like a guilty man. I fully expected that he’d make a break
for the boat-train, instead of which he’s gone quite openly to the
address at which he always stays, according to his servants, when he
comes to town. He may have come up merely to get legal advice.”
“Lady Cynthia’s certainly got a strong feeling that this man Page is
implicated,” admitted Fayre.
“I think she’s right and her suggestion that the car may have been
stopped if it ran to London with a broken number-plate is quite sound.
We can work on that, anyhow.”
“In the meanwhile, is there anything I can do?”
“Yes,” answered Grey decisively. “Get in touch with Sir Edward, if you
can, and see if he won’t arrange an interview with us. He’s got one of
the acutest brains in England and I’d welcome his advice. Besides,
he’s got a personal interest in the case.”
Fayre laughed.
“He hasn’t exactly encouraged my maiden efforts!” he complained. “In
fact, he told me flatly to go to the police just before he left
Staveley.”
Grey nodded.
“That’s the line he would take. Like all competent people he distrusts
the capacity even of professionals; and amateurs simply don’t exist
for him. I don’t think he’ll take that line now, however, especially
when he realizes how far we’ve got. He’ll admit that we’ve every
reason now to keep the thing in our own hands.”
“I’ll call on Lady Kean this afternoon and see if I can get hold of
him. He’s sure to be there unless they are week-ending out of town,
and I don’t think she’s well enough yet for that.”
“Any time he chooses to appoint will suit me. Meanwhile, if nothing
further transpires as regards Gregg, I’ll beard him myself. He may not
resent my curiosity as much as yours, and if he has been to see his
solicitor he’ll no doubt have had it impressed upon him that his
attitude is not only stupid but dangerous, if he’s really got nothing
to hide.”
They lingered over lunch and again over their coffee. When they at
last parted Fayre strolled down Piccadilly and across Green Park and
it was close on four o’clock when he reached Kean’s house in
Westminster.
Two cars were standing before the door when he reached it. Evidently
he was not the only caller, a discovery which afforded him a certain
satisfaction. If there were other people there Sybil would have little
opportunity for discussing the Draycott murder and he might manage to
slip away and transact his business with Kean.
He had hardly taken his hand off the bell when the door was opened
and, without waiting for his inquiry as to whether Lady Kean was at
home, the butler stood aside for him to pass into the hall.
“Sir William is waiting for you, sir, if you’ll step up,” he said.
“Sir William?” repeated Fayre, puzzled. “Isn’t this Sir Edward
Kean’s?”
For a moment the man seemed taken aback; then he realized his mistake.
“I beg your pardon, sir; I took you for the doctor the gentlemen are
expecting. Lady Kean is very ill. The doctors are holding a
consultation upstairs. Sir Edward is at home, but I don’t know . . .”
“I won’t trouble him now, of course,” said Fayre quickly. “I’m very
sorry about this. When was she taken ill?”
“Her ladyship had a heart attack yesterday evening soon after she
arrived from the North. The doctor thinks the journey was too much for
her. We are very anxious about her, sir.”
The man looked genuinely distressed. Evidently Sybil Kean was of those
who endear themselves to their servants.
Fayre produced a card and scribbled the address of his club on it.
“Tell Sir Edward that this will find me if I can be of any use. I’ll
call again later in case there is better news.”
As he went down the steps a car drove up, no doubt bearing the third
doctor. His heart was very heavy as he made his way slowly back to his
club. For the moment his mind was swept completely clear of the
Draycott case and he could think of nothing but the Keans: the hushed
house and the possibly fruitless consultation that was now taking
place. Sybil Kean was the oldest of all his friends in England and he
was very fond of her. Edward could, on occasion, exasperate him almost
beyond endurance and he was an unsatisfactory companion in the sense
that he gave little and asked for nothing where the ties of friendship
were concerned, but Fayre had always both liked and admired him. He
had struck him from the first as one of the loneliest beings in
existence, a man fated to remain detached, too strong to invite
sympathy and too engrossed in his own interests to offer it. Fayre
pictured him, waiting alone for the verdict of the doctors, and wished
he had had the courage to break in upon his privacy.
He dined at the club and, after a fruitless attempt to enjoy a quiet
cigar, was driven by sheer anxiety to return to Westminster.
To his surprise he was told that Sir Edward wished to see him.
“It was good of you to call, Hatter,” was Kean’s brief comment as he
rose to greet him.
His voice had lost none of its resonance, but Fayre thought he had
never seen a man look so ill. His face was a grey mask and his eyes,
bleak and lifeless, seemed literally to have receded into his head.
Fayre cast a swift glance round the room.
“Look here, old man,” he said, “have you dined?”
Kean stared at him vaguely.
The butler, who had been making up the fire and was about to leave the
room, turned at his words.
“Sir Edward made a very poor dinner, sir,” he ventured.
Kean swung round on him impatiently; but he was too exhausted to act
with his customary vigour and Fayre forestalled him.
“Do you think you could raise a few sandwiches?” he asked the man
pleasantly. “I see drinks are here.”
The butler responded with alacrity.
“Cook did cut some, sir, on the chance.”
He vanished, only too thankful to feel that Sir Edward was at last in
the hands of some one who seemed able to influence him. He had hardly
eaten or slept, in the opinion of his household, since his wife had
been taken ill.
Fayre strolled over to the little table near the window, on which
stood a tantalus and a couple of syphons. He poured out a stiff drink,
but withheld it until the butler returned with a tray of fruit and
sandwiches.
Kean sat gazing into the fire. He did not show the slightest interest
in Fayre’s movements and the fact that his old friend had coolly taken
possession and was issuing orders to his servants seem to have escaped
him.
Fayre moved the table with the tray to Kean’s elbow.
“Is Sybil conscious?” he asked quietly and with what seemed deliberate
cruelty.
Her name was enough to rouse Kean from his abstraction.
“Her mind’s quite clear, but she’s so weak she can hardly speak,” he
said. “The doctors won’t say anything definite yet.”
“Then, if she’s able to think at all she’s worrying about you. Don’t
give her more cause for anxiety than you can help, old chap. She’ll
need you as soon as she picks up a bit and what earthly use are you
going to be to her if you let yourself go to pieces now?”
He held out the tumbler and Kean, after a moment’s hesitation, took it
and drank thirstily.
“I wanted that,” he said.
For answer Fayre silently pushed over the plate of sandwiches. Then he
sat quietly watching the dancing flames while Kean forced himself to
eat. The self-discipline he had always practised stood him in good
stead and the plate was half-empty before he leaned back in his chair
and fumbled for his cigarette-case.
“Sorry, Hatter,” he said with the ghost of a smile, “but that’s the
best I can do.”
Fayre grinned back at him.
“Good enough,” he answered. “Feel better?”
Kean nodded.
“I’d lost grip of myself for the moment, that’s all. Those confounded
doctors took such a time this afternoon and then I couldn’t get a
thing worth having out of them. I suppose they couldn’t help it, poor
beggars, but it seemed a lifetime to me. It was decent of you to come,
Hatter.”
“I came because I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer myself. Glad
I did, now.”
“So am I. I’ll tell you as much as I know myself. If she pulls through
the night they think she’ll do and she’s no weaker than she was this
morning. That’s all I’ve got to go on. If there’s any change the nurse
will come for me, otherwise she’s to see no one. The doctor’s coming
again in an hour’s time.”
“Thanks,” said Fayre appreciatively. “I’m glad to know. It’s not such
a bad lookout as I feared. Like so many people with frail bodies,
Sybil’s always had more than her share of nervous vitality and I’m
ready to bank on that. And you’ve given her an incentive to live, old
man,” he finished gently.
Kean stared at him for a moment without speaking. Then:
“I’ve done my best,” he said with a curious grim note in his voice
that made Fayre wonder whether, after all, he had not always realized
how very little of her heart Sybil Kean had to give when she married
him.
There was a pause; then Kean rose to his feet and thrust his hands
into his pockets with the gesture that was so characteristic of him.
“I can’t stand this,” he said abruptly. “I must get my teeth into
something or my imagination will get away with me. What have you and
Grey been doing?”
“As a matter of fact, I came here to-day at Grey’s request. He wants
to consult you and suggested I should make an appointment. Of course,
that’s all off now.”
“For the present, anyhow. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t put
me _au fait_ with things. I should be grateful for anything to hitch
my brain onto at this moment.”
Fayre realized that he was actuated by sheer instinct for
self-preservation and met him half-way by plunging at once into a
recital of all that had happened in the last few days.
Kean listened attentively. Now and then he interrupted to ask a
trenchant question; otherwise he heard him in silence. When he had
finished Fayre handed him the little red cap the tramp had given him.
“This may as well go with the other exhibit,” he said. “Anyhow, we
know now that it was lost before, and not after, the murder.”
Kean dropped it into the drawer of his writing-table and turned the
key.
“It would be interesting to know how much that fellow, Gregg, really
knows of Mrs. Draycott’s past,” he said slowly.
“Whatever it is, he’s made up his mind not to speak.”
Kean stood rocking backward and forward on his heels, lost in thought.
Fayre watched him in amazement. Half an hour ago he had been a broken
man. Not only had he pulled himself together by sheer force of will,
but he was now giving his whole mind to the matter in hand with a lack
of effort that seemed almost superhuman.
“Gregg ought to be get-at-able,” he said at last. “His treatment of
you was nothing but a display of bad temper. If he’s innocent it ought
to be possible to convince him of the folly of the line he’s taking.
If he’s guilty, the only course will be to put the matter in the hands
of the police. My own impression is that he’s shielding some one. Miss
Allen said that this man Baxter, Mrs. Draycott’s first husband, was
dead. She also went so far as to say that he was the one person she
could think of connected with her sister’s past who would have been
capable of killing her. Have we any proof that the fellow _is_ dead?”
“Gregg told me that he had died in his arms. We haven’t followed the
matter up, if that’s what you mean.”
“A statement of that sort, coming from Gregg, is of no value to us.
Get Grey to look the thing up, will you?”
“It’s an idea!” exclaimed Fayre. “I wonder we never thought of it!
Baxter was Gregg’s friend and Gregg hated Mrs. Draycott on his
account. He’d certainly shield him if the necessity arose. And Baxter
was a drunkard and half demented, at that, if the accounts be true.
There may be something in it.”
Kean made a gesture of impatience.
“Don’t go off the deep end, Hatter. The man’s probably dead and
buried. It’s worth investigating, though. And look here, Hatter, keep
Grey off Gregg, will you? We don’t want this thing muddled and if
Grey’s clumsy he’ll do more harm than good. Tell him I’ll make the
doctor my business, that is . . .”
He broke off and the lines on his face deepened. Fayre knew that his
mind was back in the quiet, shaded room upstairs and that the words
“if all goes well” had trembled on his lips and he had been afraid to
utter them.
“I’ll see to that, old chap,” he broke in hastily, “and I’ll put the
Baxter theory to him at once.”
Kean sank into a chair and closed his eyes. He looked mortally tired
and Fayre forbore to disturb him. For a time they sat in silence; then
Kean shook himself out of his abstraction.
“As regards the Page business,” he began thoughtfully, “I
doubt . . .”
There was a sound in the hall and in a moment he was on his feet,
everything but his wife forgotten. They heard the front door close,
followed by the sound of subdued voices.
“It’s the doctor. Wait here, old man, will you?” Kean flung the words
over his shoulder as he left the room, and for the next half-hour or
so Fayre, alone in the big shadowy library, gave himself up
shamelessly to the depression which had haunted him all day.
He waited till the departure of the doctor and the return of Kean with
the news that his wife was, if anything, a little stronger and then
walked back through the quiet, lamplit streets to his club.