Harold Grayson is Detained
Harold Grayson came down to breakfast on the Tuesday morning in the
little cottage where he had found a lodging in the downland village of
Linderton, some four or five miles north of Frattenbury, profoundly
oblivious of the fact that the stolid-looking policeman who was
digging in his garden directly opposite his lodgings had been,
according to orders, watching the house all night and was yawning
heavily at the prospect of the snooze he would take when the promised
relief came that morning.
For although Harold Grayson had escaped detection for the moment by
riding round Frattenbury instead of through it on his way to the
downs, the net which the superintendent had quietly spread had soon
closed in upon him. That stolid village policeman, Constable Drake, to
wit, already had a description of the fugitive in his pocket, and when
Grayson had alighted from his bicycle the evening before and asked him
where he could get a bed, Drake had recognised the quarry at once.
But Drake was absolutely imperturbable. By never a sign did he
intimate that anything unusual was happening. Instead, he tilted back
his helmet, scratched his head thoughtfully—for he was really thinking
astutely all the time—and said:
“A bed, sir? Well, there’s the ‘Blue Lion,’ but I’m not sure if you’d
like it. It ain’t up to much”—that was because the “Blue Lion” was at
the extreme end of the village, well away from the constable’s
cottage. “Let me see, now. Tell you what, sir. We don’t often have
anyone stayin’ here, but there’s a neighbour o’ mine who lets rooms
sometimes—clean and comfortable they are. You come along o’ me, sir,
and I’ll do what I can for you.”
With a view to his own as well as the artist’s comfort, he led him
straightway to the cottage opposite his own, and, with bland
persuasion, induced the occupant to take in the stranger. Grayson, as
he unstrapped his holdall from his bicycle, gratefully gave him a tip,
which the policeman as gratefully acknowledged.
“Tell you what, sir,” he said, “Mrs. Goring ain’t got much room for
your bicycle. There’s my shed handy. You can put it there if you
like.”
Which Grayson promptly did, and as soon as he had departed Drake
promptly removed the valves—with much satisfaction. Then he went
indoors, slowly and laboriously wrote a letter, which began, “While on
duty at 6.38 p.m. in the main road at Linderton I was accosted,” and
dispatched it by his son, who took it into Frattenbury on his bicycle
and brought out a reply.
That is all that is necessary to say about Police-Constable Drake.
When he got his well-earned snooze he had a vision of sergeant’s
stripes in the future.
As Grayson ate his eggs and bacon he could see the line of downs
opposite and was picturing in his mind a pleasant day’s work, when a
smart motor-car drew up at the garden gate of the cottage and a tall,
military-looking man got out of it, followed by a stiff-looking man in
plain clothes, who took up his position outside the cottage. A moment
later the landlady opened the door of the room and announced:
“A gentleman to see you, sir.”
Grayson rose, surprised.
“Good morning,” exclaimed the newcomer. “Your name is Grayson, I
believe—Mr. Harold Grayson?”
“It is,” replied Grayson; “but I confess I haven’t the honour——”
“I am Major Renshaw, Chief Constable of this district. I fear I have
rather an unpleasant duty to perform.”
“Yes?”
“You were recently staying at the ‘Mariner’s Arms’ at Marsh Quay, I
believe?”
Grayson, looking a little uncomfortable under the penetrating gaze of
Major Renshaw, replied that he was.
“And you left rather suddenly, very early on Sunday morning?”
“I did—but I don’t understand——”
“It was a little unfortunate, Mr. Grayson, that you did so. Please
understand that I am making no charge against you at present, but I
suppose you are aware what took place at Marsh Quay the night before
you left?”
The young man shook his head.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied.
“Oh, come now!” said Major Renshaw sharply. “Mr. Templeton’s
murder—you must have heard of it. Everyone’s talking about it, and
you’ve been in the neighbourhood all the time.”
“Mr. Templeton’s murder?” stammered Grayson. “He—he had his yacht
there.”
“I see you know _that_,” said the Chief Constable grimly. “And do you
mean to tell me you don’t know that he was murdered on that yacht?”
“I—I—really I don’t.”
Major Renshaw shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps you can explain,” he said coldly. “You must be an
extraordinary young man either to think you can make me believe you
know nothing or to have escaped hearing about it. Perhaps you won’t
mind telling me your movements since you left Marsh Quay?”
“I—I can do that. You may not believe me, and I admit it sounds
strange—but I’ll tell you the facts. I left the ‘Mariner’s Arms’ quite
early, intending to go to Frattenbury. Then I changed my mind and went
to Selham. I put up at the ‘Wheatsheaf’ there. I asked them to give me
some lunch to take out with me—I wanted to do some sketching—I am fond
of being alone—I suffered from shell-shock in the war—and I find it
rests me.”
“Go on,” said the Major, a little more sympathetically now that
Grayson had touched on his erstwhile profession. “What did you do
next?”
“I found my way to a very lonely bit of the coast and sketched. I can
show you the sketches. I particularly wanted to get a sunset effect,
so I waited till then. When I started back I began to feel hungry, and
called at a solitary farm-house, where they gave me bread and cheese
and milk. It was dark when I left and I wandered considerably out of
my way before I got back to the ‘Wheatsheaf.’ When I did, I was
awfully tired. I glanced in the tap-room. There was a noisy crowd
there, so I went straight to bed. I never spoke to anyone.”
“Go on, please. The next morning?”
“I was up early. There was only a girl about, and she got me some
breakfast. Then I paid my bill and rode off.”
“Where?”
“To the lower part of the estuary. I bought some food at a grocer’s
shop in a village I passed through, sketched till the afternoon, and
then rode out here. With the exception of the girl in the morning and
a deaf old woman in the grocer’s shop, I never spoke to a soul all day
till I asked the village policeman here where I could get a bed. Those
are the facts, Major Renshaw. I hope you don’t dispute them?”
The Chief Constable regarded him critically, but did not answer his
question. Instead he asked:
“Did you know this Mr. Reginald Templeton?”
The young man hesitated a little.
“Yes—I did,” he admitted.
“Did you see him to speak to at Marsh Quay?”
“N—no.”
“You knew he was there—you have admitted that already.”
“Yes—I knew he was there.”
“You avoided him, then?”
Grayson nodded.
“Why?”
“Well—you see—we weren’t exactly friends. That’s why I came away. I
didn’t want to meet him.”
“Why?”
After a brief silence the Chief Constable said:
“Well, Mr. Grayson, I told you mine was an unpleasant duty. I make no
charge against you at present, but there are certain ugly facts which
you will have to account for. You are not under arrest—or I should
not, of course, have questioned you—but I am afraid I shall have to
ask you to come back with me to Frattenbury and I must warn you that
you will be detained there, at all events till you can give a further
account of yourself. I am sorry if there is any mistake. I cannot say
more.”
Grayson bowed. He was still very pale and a little agitated. He
recognised the seriousness of his position.
“I understand,” he said quietly, “and of course I cannot refuse to go
with you; but I assure you it is all a mistake.”
“I hope it is,” said Major Renshaw dryly. “You had better bring some
things with you—for your own comfort.”
Just before they were ready to start the Chief Constable suddenly
said:
“Have you any cigars on you, Mr. Grayson?”
The young man pulled out his case.
“These are all I have left. Why?”
“Thank you,” said Major Renshaw, putting the case in his pocket. “I’m
afraid I must deprive you of them.”
“Am I not allowed to smoke?” asked Grayson. “I understood I was not
under arrest.”
Major Renshaw smiled grimly, and as soon as they were in the car
offered his cigarette-case.
“Smoke, by all means,” he said. “I’ll supply you willingly. Only we
rather bar cigars.”
He looked at him keenly as he spoke. But Grayson was lighting a
cigarette quite calmly.
When they arrived at the police station a further examination took
place in the presence of the superintendent and Colson. Grayson, who
had recovered his equanimity by this time, repeated all he had told
the Chief Constable. The superintendent took careful notes.
“We shall make inquiries, Mr. Grayson,” he said, “to verify these
statements so far as the people to whom you say you spoke are
concerned. Now will you tell me, please, something about yourself?”
“In what way?”
“Well, your home.”
“I am at present in lodgings in London. I will give you the address.
My home is just outside Marlow, in Buckinghamshire. My father, who is
a county magistrate, is well known—Mr. Osmond Grayson.”
“What are you doing in this neighbourhood?”
“Sketching, mostly.”
“Did you know that Mr. Templeton was likely to be at Marsh Quay?”
“Certainly not. I have already told you I wished to avoid him when I
found he was there.”
“Why?”
“Because—well, the whole affair is a private matter.”
“You need not tell us unless you wish to, Mr. Grayson,” interposed the
Chief Constable. “But if the rest of your story is correct it will
materially help us to account for your hasty departure.”
“Very well,” said the young man after a moment’s thought, “there is
really nothing to conceal. Some years ago my father was involved in a
lawsuit with Mr. Templeton—and won it. Templeton had to sell his
estate to pay the costs, and my father bought it. He hated the lot of
us, and, I think, justly, because it’s always been my opinion that my
father was not so much in the right as the law said he was. My father
knows I think this. Well, if you want the truth, when I knew that
Templeton was at Marsh Quay I didn’t want him to see me, because I’m a
bit ashamed of the whole affair. I watched to see him come off the
yacht to make quite sure it was he, and when I saw it was, I made up
my mind to leave early the next morning. That’s all there is in it.”
The superintendent nodded thoughtfully.
“You don’t happen to know the name of Mr. Templeton’s solicitors when
this case was tried, I suppose?”
“Yes, I do. Of course I remember. Sir Henry Cateford was his counsel—I
forget the name of the junior—and his solicitors were Crosby and
Paxton, well-known people, I believe.”
The Chief Constable and the superintendent exchanged glances, but
Colson broke in at that moment. “Do you recognise this cigar?” he
asked, showing him the crushed one he had received from Tom Gale.
Grayson examined it.
“It’s the same brand I’ve been smoking lately,” he said. “I couldn’t
swear, of course, that it’s one of my actual cigars. What of it? If I
can explain anything I’m quite willing to do so.”
“Can you tell us if you smoked one of your cigars on board Mr.
Templeton’s yacht, then?” asked Colson.
“I never was on his yacht. Why do you ask?”
The detective did not reply to this. He asked another question:
“Can you account for your movements from ten o’clock on Saturday night
to, say, six o’clock on the following morning?”
“No, I can’t,” replied Grayson.
“Why not?”
“Because I happened to be asleep. I went to bed at the ‘Mariner’s
Arms’ just before ten, and I woke up at a quarter-past six. I can’t
help you there.”
“It was to help you that the question was asked,” said the
superintendent gravely.
The young man gave a short laugh.
“I see what you mean,” he said, “but the same thing applies to a score
or so of people who were sleeping close to the quay that night,
doesn’t it? I can’t prove an alibi any more than they can.”
The Chief Constable shrugged his shoulders, but would not commit
himself.
“Well, Mr. Grayson,” he said, “thank you for all you have told us. I’m
sorry we must detain you for a time, but I hope, for your sake, it
will not be long. Superintendent Norton will do his best to make you
comfortable. We shan’t lock you up in a cell, you know—unless we see
cause to arrest you. But you won’t be allowed to leave the house.”
“Well?” he asked when Grayson was out of the room.
“I’m not satisfied yet,” said Colson. “There’s that matter of the
cigar band. I’d like to have it identified by Canon Fittleworth. I
don’t expect it, but he _may_ help us there.”
The superintendent laughed.
“Don’t be too down on the parson, Colson,” he said. “We’ll see what he
says by and by. Meanwhile, Mr. Crosby ought to be here. He can
identify Grayson’s statement about the lawsuit, sir.”
“Yes,” said the Chief Constable, “I agree.”
A few minutes later Crosby came in, by appointment, and was told of
the detention of Grayson and the statement he had made.
“I can verify all he says about there being ill-feeling between my
late client and Grayson’s family,” he said. “That’s perfectly true. I
don’t know this young Grayson personally, but from what I’ve heard of
him he’s all right. He did splendidly in the war, I know—and he’s had
to pay for it—yes—shell-shock, Major. That’s all right. As to what you
tell me about the cigar band, you’ll get Canon Fittleworth to identify
it, I suppose? Exactly. As it’s a fairly well-known brand, I shouldn’t
think there’s much upon which to build a case; but that’s your
lookout. Whoever the fellow is, I hope you’ll get him. Now, I’m
returning to London immediately after the funeral. I shall come down
to the adjourned inquest, of course. But is there anything else I
ought to know?”
“We’re in confidence, Mr. Crosby?” asked the wary superintendent.
“Of course. As the legal representative of the deceased I shall
naturally observe that.”
“We’d like to show you a few things we found in the cabin, then.
Colson, where are they?”
Colson, who had stipulated that at this juncture no mention should be
made of the walking-stick—he was emphatic on this point—produced the
chamois leather bag, the diamond and the blotting-pad. From the latter
he had transcribed the scraps of writing, in print capitals, onto a
piece of ordinary paper.
The lawyer looked at the exhibits shrewdly.
“Wonder what he was doing with diamonds,” he said. “Of course there
were more than this one. And the bag was not tied up, you say?
H’m—queer! Yes—I see—the first letter you’ve put together very well.
Evidently his appointment with Moss. You’ve got your eye on him, eh?”
“One of us will probably run up to interview him to-morrow,” said the
superintendent. “He’s under observation.”
“Of course—good. And this other bit of writing—— Gad! it’s a poser,
isn’t it? Have you made it out?”
“Not yet,” said Colson.
“I’ll take a copy. I’m rather keen on this sort of thing. I’ll see
what I can make of it. Of course, as you say, it might be of
importance—if in any way it put you on the track of the individual
with whom Templeton had an appointment on Saturday night.” He copied
it carefully. “You’ve allowed for the blank spaces in the original?”
he asked Colson.
“Yes.”
The lawyer studied the letters for a minute.
a d ver zr ice s o ion & roo
s is nal
“There’s one point about it that strikes one,” he said. “I dare say
you’ve noticed it, sergeant. There aren’t many words that have the
letters ZR close together. The only one I can think of is ‘Ezra,’ eh?”
“I thought of that, too, sir.”
The superintendent was looking over the lawyer’s shoulder. He laughed.
“Ezra’s ices!” he exclaimed. “Sounds like an Italian Jew and an
ice-cream barrow!”