Before going out the next morning Fayre rang up Kean’s house and
ascertained that Sybil Kean had passed a good night and was
appreciably stronger. The doctors were still unable to pronounce her
definitely out of danger and had warned Kean that, at any moment,
there might be a relapse, but Fayre was conscious of an immense relief
as he set out for Grey’s office in Chancery Lane.
He gave Grey the gist of his interview with Kean. The solicitor was
inclined to be sceptical as to the existence of Baxter, but he
admitted that, were the man still alive, Kean’s suggestion would more
than hold water and he promised to look into the matter at once. He
smiled at Kean’s offer to deal with Gregg himself if the occasion
arose.
“Didn’t I tell you that he trusted no one but himself in a matter of
any real importance?” he exclaimed. “That’s a part of the secret of
his success. That and his amazing capacity for cramming two men’s work
into the twelve hours. He must be uncommonly keen on the case, though.
Apart from Lady Kean’s illness he’s up to his eyes in work already.”
“Which will be the saving of him if things go wrong with her,” said
Fayre. “I wish this next week were over.”
Grey nodded.
“So do I, from our point of view as well as his. If Lady Kean dies Sir
Edward will do one of two things: try to lose himself in work or chuck
everything. It’s a toss-up. If he were to throw up the sponge, I don’t
know what we should do. Even with the little we’ve got now, Kean might
get Leslie off on insufficient evidence, but there’s not another man
at the Bar who could put it through. We’re still in an uncommonly
tight corner.”
In the afternoon Fayre called on Kean and literally forced him into
the open air. The two men walked across the Park as far as Bayswater.
Once there, however, Kean fell into a panic and, refusing Fayre’s
offer to ring up his house at the nearest public telephone, jumped
into a taxi and hurried home. Fayre turned back and strolled quietly
along the Serpentine in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. He had not
gone far when his eye fell on the figure of a woman walking just ahead
of him. Something in the purposeful swing of her walk and the carriage
of her erect figure struck him as familiar and he quickened his steps
and was soon abreast of her.
She turned at the sound of his voice.
“Mr. Fayre! I was just thinking of you, curiously enough, and wishing
I had asked you for your address the other day when we met in the
train.”
Fayre turned to her with a smile.
“If I were a more conceited man I should feel flattered, but I’m
afraid you’ve got some annoyingly good reason for wishing to see me.
Is there anything I can do?”
“It is only that you asked me once whether I could tell you anything
about my sister’s associates and I wondered if you would care to go
through some papers of hers which have only just come into my
possession. They have been in a dispatch-box at her bank all this time
and were handed over to me yesterday. I went through them cursorily
and they seem to consist mostly of business papers, but there are one
or two letters and photographs which might give you some hint as to
the set she was moving in. They convey nothing to me, but you may know
something about these people.”
“It is more than good of you . . .” began Fayre.
“Nonsense, Mr. Fayre. I am as anxious to find out who killed my poor
sister as you are to clear John Leslie and it struck me that two heads
are better than one. Also, you may have arrived at certain conclusions
already and these letters may throw some light on them. I warn you
that there was nothing private, with the exception of certain letters
which I have already destroyed or disposed of. They concerned only my
sister and could have been of no use to you whatever, but I prefer to
deal frankly with you.”
Fayre’s sharp eyes did not miss the sudden wave of colour that swept
to the roots of her grey hair when she mentioned the letters and he
made a shrewd guess as to the character of that portion of Mrs.
Draycott’s correspondence that her sister had found it better to
destroy.
He hastened to reassure her.
“Of course I understand. Show me only what you care for an outsider to
see. As you say, you may have something that confirms certain
suspicions of mine. In any case, I am very grateful to you for giving
me the opportunity to see them.”
“Could you look at them to-morrow?” she suggested, coming to the point
at once in her downright way. “I shall be in from four onwards.”
“Delighted, and if you are going to walk back to your hotel, perhaps
you’ll let me take you to the door. You look as if, like myself, you
were out for exercise.”
“I am, and to tell you the truth, I was bored to death! It’s a funny
thing, but I can walk for miles alone in the country and enjoy every
moment of it, but five minutes of it in London is enough to make me
long for some one to grouse to. The crowds both worry and stifle me.”
“I know what you mean; I feel the same myself. I put it down to the
years I have been away. London’s the one place where I feel really
lonely nowadays.” She nodded.
“I forgot you’d been abroad for so long. The truth is, I suppose we’ve
both dropped out of things. It’s dawning on me that I’ve turned into a
regular country cousin. I’m not going straight back to my hotel, by
the way. I’ve got a parcel to leave near Victoria. Is that out of your
way?”
“Not a bit. The further, the better.”
They walked on, chatting quietly. Their conversation ranged over a
wide field and Fayre discovered that, though she was pleased to call
herself a country cousin, she had not by any means lost touch with the
outside world, for she was a voracious reader and had gathered a store
of homely wisdom in the course of her quiet life. The time passed so
pleasantly that he was surprised when he found himself at the corner
of Grosvenor Place, facing Victoria Station.
“Where do we go now?” he asked idly.
Her answer took his breath away.
“I’m making for some flats behind the Cathedral. Brackley Mansions,
they’re called.”
Gregg’s headquarters in London! They crossed the road in silence,
Fayre busily engaged in assuring himself that there was nothing
unusual in such coincidences.
“If you’re really so keen on exercise and are not in a hurry we might
stroll on to my hotel,” pursued Miss Allen. “I’m only leaving this
parcel. I can’t offer you tea to-day, as I’m entertaining a dull batch
of relations, but I shall be glad of your company to the door.”
She took a small, flat package out of her bag and Fayre, glancing at
it involuntarily, could not help seeing Dr. Gregg’s name written
across it in a clear, bold script, the type of handwriting he would
have expected from Miss Allen.
They left the parcel with the porter and then strolled on to Miss
Allen’s hotel. Fayre’s conversation was as intelligent as could be
expected in the circumstances, but it was somewhat mechanical, for his
mind was wrestling busily with this new problem. Until now it had not
occurred to him to connect Miss Allen’s visit to London with that of
Gregg, but now he began to wonder. He had parted from her and was on
his way back to his club when the probable explanation dawned on him.
Did the parcel she had just left for Gregg contain some of the letters
she had “disposed of”? It seemed more than likely. If so, Fayre would
have given a good deal for a glance at the contents of the packet.
Events followed each other in an almost uncanny sequence. When he
reached the club he was handed a card by the porter, who told him that
a gentleman was waiting to see him, and the name on it, to his
astonishment, was that of Gregg. Fayre found some difficulty in
collecting his thoughts as he went in search of his visitor and led
him to a secluded corner of the almost deserted library.
The conversation opened awkwardly, for Gregg seemed to be labouring
under an acute attack of embarrassment.
“Very good of you to see me after what happened,” he began clumsily,
his manner even more abrupt than usual. “Fact is, I made a blithering
ass of myself the other day and I’ve come to say so. Hope you’ll
accept an apology.”
“That’s all right. I expect I must have seemed an infernal busybody,”
said Fayre hastily. “I’m only too glad you’ve come to look on me in a
more friendly light. Are you a tea-drinker or would you prefer
something else?”
He waited impatiently while the servant supplied their needs. When he
had gone Gregg, as he had hoped, came directly to the point.
“You asked for an explanation the other day,” he said bluntly. “If it
hadn’t been for my infernally hot temper I should have given it and
saved us both a lot of trouble. Well, I’ve come to give it now.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his tea cooling unheeded by his
side.
“It’s a bit difficult to know where to begin, but you may as well have
the whole story. I did know Mrs. Draycott, as you guessed, but that
was before she married Draycott. I give you my word that, until I saw
her lying dead at Leslie’s farm, I’d never set eyes on her since the
week after she ran away from Baxter in 1916. I knew she was staying at
Staveley, of course, but I fancy she avoided me there. Anyhow, I never
saw her and I was glad of it, for it wasn’t an acquaintance I was
anxious to renew. When that chap, Brace, asked me if I knew her, I
denied it on impulse. If you ask me why, I’m blessed if I know. I
hated her and everything to do with her and the time I had known her,
and I suppose it was a sort of blind endeavour to put it all behind
me. Anyway, as soon as I’d done it, I knew what a fool thing it was to
do, but there was nothing for it then but to stick to what I’d said.
How you got onto the fact that I’d ever had anything to do with her, I
don’t know, but it was cursed awkward for me and I’m not surprised you
got the wind up.”
“It was an accident, more or less, helped by your own obvious dislike
of her. You made a mistake there.”
“I know. I was rattled over the whole thing and I’ve no doubt I gave
myself away. You see, I had more than one reason for wishing to keep
out of it. For one thing, I knew that my statement that I had never
seen her looked fishy, to say the least of it, and then there was the
boy.”
He paused, evidently trying to sort out his story. Then, catching
sight of Fayre’s face of bewilderment:
“I expect it all seems an unholy muddle to you. I’d better get back to
the beginning. Miss Allen, as she was then, was at St. Swithin’s with
me, as you probably know by now. She married my special pal, Baxter,
and I can assure you I did my best to put a spoke in her wheel there.
It was no good, however; Baxter was almost insane about her and
wouldn’t listen to a thing against her, and, knowing what I knew about
her, it made me pretty sick, as you may imagine. So much so that,
after they married, I saw very little of them.
“I’d got a big, very poor practice then and was too busy, anyway, to
look up old friends. Then one day he turned up, half demented, and
told me she’d gone off with Draycott and left him with their small boy
on his hands. To make a long story short, he ended by divorcing her
after trying in vain to get her back. I went to see her myself, much
as I disliked her, the day after Baxter’s visit to me. I found her at
a hotel with Draycott and she laughed in my face when I tried to get
her to return to her husband. After the divorce he went to pieces
altogether and I had my hands full, I can tell you. When he got past
work I persuaded him to come to me with the boy, and he died soon
afterwards in my house. I’d got fond of the little chap by then, and I
stuck to him, there being no other relations he could go to. He’s at a
preparatory school now and going to a public school next term. That’s
the principal reason why I didn’t want my connection with this
business to come out. I gave him my name and he’s supposed to be my
nephew and, for his sake, I don’t want to drag up the past now.”
“I see that,” said Fayre sympathetically. “In fact, I’m beginning to
realize now how you must have cursed my interference.”
“Your butting in as you did was a calamity, from my point of view,
and, like a fool, I lost my temper and tried to bluff it out. You see,
I’d concealed his identity with a good deal of care and I began to see
myself in the witness-box and photographs of the little chap in the
papers, all my trouble gone for nothing, as it were, and I saw red.”
“Does the boy know he’s Baxter’s son?”
“He knows his name was Baxter originally, but he wouldn’t connect his
mother with Mrs. Draycott. He thinks she died before he came to me
with his father. I never tried to conceal his parentage from him; in
fact, I’ve done my best to keep the memory of his father alive as he
was before he let himself go to pieces. Fortunately the little chap
was too young to notice much in those days. No, it was his mother I
was afraid of. She’d got no legal claim on the boy, but I knew her.
She was a greedy woman where money was concerned and an infernally
clever one. Even when Draycott was alive she was eternally hard up and
there was very little she’d stick at to raise money. I never saw her
again, as I said, but I kept track of her and, from what I heard, I’m
pretty certain that, if she’d known where to find the boy, she’d have
put the screw on me, little as I should have been able to give her.
She knew I’d do a good deal to prevent her from getting at him. She
was an attractive woman and a good enough actress to make a very
pretty and affecting scene if she’d chosen to look him up and play the
fond mother. She’d have got round him, I’ve no doubt, and she knew I
couldn’t afford to risk that. That was why I changed his name and I
was very careful not to talk openly of where he was. You must remember
that she detested me and, apart from the money, she was quite capable
of going and worrying the boy out of sheer spite.”
“She wouldn’t descend to blackmail, surely,” protested Fayre.
He had disliked Mrs. Draycott and everything that he had since heard
of her had been to her discredit, but he found it difficult to believe
that a sister of Miss Allen should have sunk low enough for blackmail.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Gregg shrewdly. “She came of good
stock and was brought up according to the traditions of her class,
but, believe me, when a woman’s once started on the downward slope she
gets pretty callous about what she does. I give you my word that, bad
as the shock of finding her dead was, it had less effect on me that
night than the discovery that she was Miss Allen’s sister. I realized
then, for the first time, the sort of people she had sprung from and I
came very near to giving myself away, I was so surprised. Oddly
enough, in spite of the name, I had never connected them with each
other.”
“You say you kept an eye on Mrs. Draycott. Does that mean that you
were in touch with any of her associates? I don’t mind telling you
that we’re still at sea as to the motive of the crime.”
“I can’t help you there, I’m afraid,” answered Gregg frankly. “There
was an old servant of hers who took up dressmaking and to whom she
always went when she wanted anything of the sort. I believe she had
some arrangement with her, too, by which she used to send her cast-off
dresses to sell on commission. I used to go and see the woman every
now and then and she’d give me the latest news of Mrs. Draycott. She
worked for her, but she’d no reason to love her and she liked the boy
and was ready to do him a good turn. But she only saw Mrs. Draycott at
intervals and knew none of the people with whom she foregathered.”
“You can think of no one yourself who owed her a grudge?”
“There must have been plenty, but I don’t know of any one in
particular. I’ve told you my reason for wishing to keep out of her
clutches. She failed with me, but she probably succeeded with others.
There’s motive enough, if you want one.”
“Blackmail!” said Fayre thoughtfully. “It seems incredible, but the
idea has its possibilities. In that case, there ought to be papers of
some sort among her effects.”
“They’re all in Miss Allen’s hands now,” volunteered Gregg. “And
what’s more, she’s in town. She’s been going through some things her
sister kept at the bank and she wrote to me yesterday to say that
there were some old letters of Baxter’s that she thought I might like
to have and offering to send them to me. From something she’s found
she’s got onto the fact that I know where the boy is and she proposes
to make over to him what money her sister left. As straight as a die,
Miss Allen is, and I’ve written to thank her. It seems that she
thought he was in the hands of Baxter’s people until now. You might go
and see her, but she’s not the kind to give her sister away.”
“I’m calling on her to-morrow, but, as you say, it’s hardly a subject
one can broach.”
His heart sank as he remembered the papers Miss Allen had told him she
had burned and the hot flush that had risen to her cheeks when she
spoke of them.
Gregg buttoned his coat preparatory to departure.
“I’ve told you all I know,” he said. “But I doubt if it’s been much
help to you. There’s one thing more that you might think worth
following up. A fellow I know saw Mrs. Draycott in Paris in 1920,
three years after she married Draycott. Draycott was in Egypt at the
time and she was with a man whom this friend of mine, Lloyd, was
unable to identify. He was an old friend of Baxter’s and knew that I
should not be sorry to have a hold over her, so, after he’d run across
them three or four times, he followed them to their hotel one night,
but her name was not on the register and he couldn’t trace the man. He
believes they were staying together under assumed names. I kept his
letter, thinking I might bluff her with it if we ever came up against
each other. I give you the story for what it’s worth and I’ll write
down Lloyd’s address for you and send him a line asking him to tell
you what he knows, if you think it’s worth while to look him up. But I
warn you, he doesn’t know much. It’s possible, however, that if she
went to Paris with this man, she may have put the screw on him later.”
He scribbled an address on the back of a card and placed it on the
table.
Fayre picked it up and slipped it into his pocket-book.
“Anything’s worth while at this stage of the game,” he admitted
thoughtfully.
He stood hesitating, considering his next move. Knowing Gregg’s quick
temper, he found considerable difficulty in clothing the question that
was trembling on his lips in a form the other would not immediately
resent, but he knew that he could not let the man go until he had an
answer.
“I wish you’d tell me one thing,” he said at last.
“Fire away. I’m not going off the deep end again, if that’s what
you’re afraid of,” answered Gregg with disconcerting intuition.
“Can you give me your movements from, say, five onwards on the evening
of the murder? I’ve a good reason for asking.”
Gregg looked genuinely surprised; then his lips parted in a rather
grim smile.
“I’m blessed! You’ve got it all pat, haven’t you? It was about five
when I left the house and I bet you’re perfectly aware that I went
straight to Stockley’s garage at Whitbury and hired a car. Mine was
out of commission. You’ve been putting in some hard work, Mr. Fayre,
and if you don’t know already that I went on to Willow Farm on a
maternity case, I’ll eat my hat. However, you shall have the whole
program. I picked up the car at Stockley’s at about five-thirty and
made straight for Hammond’s, that is, the Willow Farm. There’s a
little village, you may or may not know, about three miles from
Whitbury on the Besley road. I was going through when a boy ran out of
one of the cottages and yelled something at me. I stopped the car and
shouted back that, unless it was urgent, I could not see any one just
then. Mrs. Hammond’s a delicate little woman and I was anxious about
her. However, it was urgent. A wretched baby had pulled over a kettle
of boiling water and scalded its legs and one arm. It was in a bad way
and it was over an hour before I got away, with the result that I
didn’t get to Willow Farm till close on seven. I left Hammond’s
somewhere about nine, drove home and went on, almost immediately, to
Leslie’s farm.”
Fayre stood observing him with some chagrin. It was obvious that the
man was speaking the truth, and, in any case, his story would be easy
enough to verify. “I don’t mind telling you,” he said ruefully, “that
you’ve just cheerfully demolished my best clue. If it wasn’t for John
Leslie I would tell you, quite honestly, that I’m uncommonly glad. As
it is, I feel rather cheap. I’d got all your movements except for the
hour lost on the way to Willow Farm. You must admit that it looked
suspicious, taking into account the fact that Mrs. Draycott met her
death somewhere about six-thirty.”
Gregg stared at him for a moment.
“Good Lord!” he burst out. “I don’t wonder you’ve been nosing about
after my black past. I’d no idea you’d got me cornered like that!”
He dived into his pocket and produced a pencil and an old envelope.
“If you don’t mind I’ll add the name and address of that unfortunate
baby! You’d better verify my statement and, while you’re about it,
have a look at the scar on the kid’s arm. I’m proud of the way that
healed, I can tell you.”
He held out his hand with a friendly smile. Fayre took it, and as he
did so, his old dislike for the man vanished once for all.
“By the way,” he said, “what made you come along to-day to bury the
hatchet?”
Gregg laughed.
“Because I made up my mind I wasn’t going to be ballyragged by any
damned lawyer! As you may imagine, it’s not a story I care to dwell on
and I decided that if I’d got to tell it it should be to a human
being. And I was beginning to feel that I owed you an apology, too. So
when Sir Edward Kean rang up this afternoon and tried to bully me into
making an appointment I temporized and then, ten minutes later, rang
up his house, feeling pretty sure a servant would answer. Luck was
with me and I got the butler at the other end and he gave me your
address, after which I came straight along to you. Pity you asked! I
rather hoped you’d think it was spontaneous!”
So this was Kean’s doing! Kean, who had requested Fayre to keep Grey
from butting in and making a mess of things!