Transcriber’s Note: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores:
_italics_.
[Illustration: (Steeple Tollesbury with Loring Grange & surrounding
country)]
THE MAN FROM THE RIVER
BY G. D. H. AND M. COLE
THE BLATCHINGTON TANGLE
THE MURDER AT CROME HOUSE
THE DEATH OF A MILLIONAIRE
THE MAN
FROM THE RIVER
A WILSON STORY
BY
G. D. H. COLE
AND
MARGARET COLE
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1928
_All rights reserved_
Copyright, 1928,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
THE MAN FROM THE RIVER
THE MAN FROM THE RIVER
CHAPTER I
“Thank goodness! Wilson’s coming to-day,” was the first thought of
Michael Prendergast, M.D., F.R.C.S., and “rising consultant” of
Harley Street, as he woke on a glorious July morning in his bed at
the Old Malting House, Steeple Tollesbury.
Michael Prendergast was not unlike many other people in that,
while he remained in London and perforce went through a certain
round of daily toil and daily pleasure, he complained bitterly of
the continual presence of people and yearned for green fields and
solitude; but as soon as he found himself actually solitary in a
green field, he tired at once of his own company and began to pine
for the society of a friend. It was the first of these moods that had
sent him down to the sleepy little Essex town, and suggested that he
should take up his quarters rather at the pleasant old inn than six
miles away at the house of his friend, Mark Warden, who had actually
introduced him to the place; it was the second that, after only a
week of “solitude,” had urged him to the ’phone to ring up that same
Warden, and on finding that he was away in Colchester on business and
not expected back for some days, had suggested a frantic appeal to
Mr. Henry Wilson, Superintendent of the C.I.D., to put aside official
cares and join him, if only for two or three days. And now Wilson was
really coming! In the light of his impending arrival, the morning
looked twice as fine, and the little cobbled market-square reclothed
itself in the romance it had worn when Michael first set eyes on it.
Indeed, it was hardly the fault of Steeple Tollesbury that restless
London nerves would not stay contented with it. It is emphatically
a place which possesses all the charm of past greatness and present
peace. Two centuries ago it was a busy little port, with its small
but thriving fleet of colliers plying to and from the Tyne with
“sea-coals,” and its respectable trade in various kinds of produce
with the Dutch coast. But this glory has long departed. The old
harbour at Tolleshithe has silted up; any produce that is still
exported goes unromantically (though still as slowly) by train to
London, and the best Wallsend arrives by the same route, though an
occasional string of coal barges may yet be seen ambling gently
up the Toll to Market Crumbles, the little town ten miles inland.
To-day, though a few buildings such as the ridiculously large church,
the great tithe-barn, and the Guild House, where young men and women
are herded to hear the Vicar’s periodical discourses, remain as
evidence of former greatness, Steeple Tollesbury is, in fact, the
sleepiest township of that remote and sleepy district which lies
between the estuaries of the Blackwater and the Crouch.
One of the aforesaid buildings is undoubtedly the inn, which goes by
the name of the Old Malting House. It stands by the side of the Toll,
one of its sides dropping sheer down into the water, facing a little
stone wharf which is now seldom used, and a hundred yards or so above
the old and narrow bridge, where the approach of an adventurous or
bemused motor-car makes the pedestrian scuttle for safety into one
of the stone embrasures. It is fourteenth century in design; its
restorations have blended excellently with the old lines; roses and
creepers run riot over its face; and, best of all, in cooking, in
wines, and hospitality generally, it has remembered more of its old
tradition than is always the case in forgotten towns. Its landlord is
a gossip, and a pint of Guinness will always start him off; it has
pewter mugs and oak settles and great log fires; in short, it is a
peach of an inn.
So, at least, Michael Prendergast thought, when Warden took him to
dine there on a chilly autumn day, in part payment, as he put it, for
first-aid administered on the cricket-field. It seemed so much the
acme of desire then, sitting hospitably permanent in the middle of
that secret and sometimes terrifying countryside--the part of England
where real ghosts still live--that he had pigeon-holed it in his mind
as a place to revisit--even, perhaps, without his friend. For Mark
Warden was one of those cheerful and hearty souls who, in certain
moods to which Michael was as prone as most intellectuals, seem to
be always saying the same thing in a loud voice, as if it had just
occurred to them; and whose perplexities, when they have any, appear
to them so much a violation of the natural order of the universe that
they must complain loudly of them at all hours, at breakfast, dinner,
and tea, until the tiresome thing is at last settled or forgotten.
And Mark Warden, during the past winter, had been abruptly introduced
to perplexity as a result of his decision to retire from the pleasant
existence of a county cricketer, abandon the West Indian tour, and
take seriously at last the position of junior--very junior--partner
in the firm of stockbrokers which his father had founded, and had
thence retired, owing to advancing years and a stroke, for his
last act bringing in Mark as an innocent fledgling. Whether the
fledgling’s decision to take a real part in the business had been
prompted by the broken knee-cap to which Michael had attended, or by
the growth of his desire to marry a neighbouring young lady, was not
very clear; at all events the mysteries of law, finance, and love
combined had had a serious effect on him, causing him very quickly to
tear his hair and naïvely to come and lay his troubles, in season and
out of season, before his new friend, in whose superior brains he had
a complete and touching confidence. Michael knew nothing of finance
and law, and cared less; and so, when he decided he was run down and
must take a holiday, he had quite firmly decided that, though the Old
Malting House was the place for him, Mark Warden was emphatically not
the companion.
Not, indeed, that he could quite escape from his friend’s
personality. Hellier Croft, the Wardens’ country home, was only six
miles away across country, though nearer fourteen by the tortuous
Essex roads. The family was an old one, and well known in the
neighbourhood; and, if you stand a landlord a pint of stout, you must
bear with the subjects of conversation he chooses. Samuel Wason,
landlord of the Old Malting House, and fat and cheerful as such a
landlord should be, had a very high opinion of old John Warden, as a
judge both of horseflesh and of investments, and deeply regretted his
illness. His son seemed equally popular; but it was clear that he was
regarded as an ornament of society rather than a pillar; and Michael
reflected with amusement how hurt Mark would have been at Warden’s
genuine regret that he should be leaving the cricket-field--implying,
in the way he put it, a distinct reflection on the heir’s business
abilities. This was all in the correct tradition, the slightly
patronising pride in the gay but brainless youth; but Michael was
a little perturbed to notice a certain tinge of doubt in the way
in which Wason spoke of the firm. It seemed that the firm was not
what it had been in old Warden’s time; there were rumours of shaky
investments, possible speculations, and one or two old clients
transferring their business elsewhere. Mr. Hanborough, he that on old
Warden’s retirement had become senior partner, didn’t belong to these
parts, had come from London and never quite been taken to--though
old Mr. Warden, he backed him through thick and thin. Oh, no, there
wasn’t nothing against him that Wason knew of; he was different-like,
and it wasn’t the same, that was all. Michael began to feel that he
had perhaps been over-contemptuous of Mark Warden’s troubles, that
they might after all be more than the instinctive protests of the
butterfly bound to the business wheel, and in a mood of repentance
had tried vainly to get into touch with him.
Then, of course, the second partner, Mr. Meston----At this point,
Michael’s thoughts, recapitulating as he lay in bed, gave a sudden
jump of delight. “Thank God _that_ fellow’s gone, at any rate!” was
how he phrased it. For, of course, the real objection to solitude
in the countryside is that it never _is_ solitude. There are always
Mr. Mestons. One does not, naturally, mean by solitude a desert
loneliness; innkeepers, potmen, tap-room habitués, even garrulous
visitors like that old solicitor fellow--what’s his name?--Brandreth,
of course--all these are local colour, and fit in with the picture.
Besides, one need not talk to them unless one likes; one can keep out
of the bar, sit upstairs or go for a walk, and they will not pursue.
But a creature like Meston, with his lank hair, his gloomy face, his
vast Adam’s apple, and his perpetual boring presence--what can be
done with him?
Mr. Meston, middle partner of the Warden firm, who, till four or five
days ago, had shared the hospitality of the Old Malting House with
Michael, could certainly not have been called a cheerful companion.
He was by origin a clerk in that firm, who had grown, or was about
to grow, grey in its service, and who had been rewarded with a
partnership by old John Warden. Faithful he might be, but he was
neither beautiful nor entertaining. As already hinted, he was long,
lean, and scraggy, of a sallow, rather unhealthy complexion, gloomily
dressed in Sunday blacks, and showing a great tendency to protrude
bony purplish wrists from his coat-sleeves. He was also singularly
melancholy in manner--more depressed, Michael felt, even than his
physical appearance warranted--and he seemed to have nothing to do
but to moon miserably about the inn and the market-square in front
of it. All this would have mattered little, however, if the creature
had not obviously had something on its mind, something about which it
ardently and horribly desired to talk to Michael. It was hardly safe
to try to entice it into ordinary conversation; almost at once the
talk would languish, it would begin to fidget with the salt-cellar
or the fire-irons, and into its eye would come that yearning look
peculiar to people who are just about to unbosom themselves. Michael,
having fled from the possibility of Warden’s confidences, was by
no means inclined to suffer the same treatment at the hands of a
snuffling undertaker, as he unkindly termed his fellow-visitor;
more especially as it was at least possible that the undertaker’s
confidences might concern Warden, and Michael did not at all want
to discuss his friend with him. For this reason he not only gave
the widest possible berth to Meston himself, but even discouraged
the landlord in various attempts to tell him “some things about Mr.
Meston.” Whatever was to be known about Meston, Michael felt, he at
all events did not want to know it. He wanted to have as little to do
with the man as he could.
At least, thank goodness, he was not here any longer, polluting
the sunshine. He had left, more or less unexpectedly, late in the
evening of the previous Friday, or early the following morning; and
the inn was perceptibly the brighter for his departure. What with
that, and the immediate prospect of a friend who could be relied
upon not to burden him with confidences of any kind, Michael felt so
benevolent as he descended to breakfast, that he even, with a kind
of overflowing of goodwill, asked the landlord whether he had heard
anything of Mr. Meston.
“Only wish I had,” Wason replied. “It’s a nuisance to me, not knowing
when he’s coming back and whether he’ll want to stay, when he does.
Packed his baggage and all, too; looks as though he wasn’t going to
stay. But it’s not like Mr. Meston to go on paying for a room when he
needn’t.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t know he is. Perhaps he’s just forgotten,” Michael
suggested.
“Forgotten? Not he. Mr. Meston, he’ve the longest memory in these
parts for small things. Take care of a penny, he would--if it meant
holding it in his mouth till Land’s End. No, that’s not like him.
It don’t matter to me, much; we’re not overfull, as you can see for
yourself. But his room’s the best in the place, and it’s a confusion
to me not knowing whether he wants to keep it or not. Your friend
might ’a’ liked it, now, supposing I’d had it free.”
“Oh, I think he’ll do very well where he is,” Michael said,
suppressing none the less a slight regret at the loss of Meston’s
room, which was indeed very attractive, being a long, low, oak-beamed
room overlooking the river, and the only bedroom which looked out
that side. As it was, Wilson must perforce be accommodated in a
pleasant, but completely modern, room overlooking the cobbled
market-place and not far from Michael’s own.
“London gentleman, isn’t he?” Wason continued. “What time will he be
arriving, now?”
“Oh, some time this afternoon. I’m not sure when. He’s coming by
car,” Michael said, wondering how often Wilson must have thanked
his stars for his inconspicuous name. It is true that since the
Brooklyn Case,[1] and still more since other problems in crime which
he had triumphantly solved, Wilson’s name had become something
of a national byword; but Henry Wilsons are still as common as
blackberries in England, and there was no particular danger that
this particular one’s incognito would be pierced during his stay at
Steeple Tollesbury. For, of course, he was coming down incognito. A
distinguished detective must of necessity eschew certain forms of
publicity which delight a distinguished film-actor, for example.
He does not want either his autograph or his likeness to figure
prominently in the picture-press; still less does he want to be
thronged by an admiring crowd wherever he goes. If the Superintendent
had been called Sherlock Holmes, now, the whole of the market-place
would already have been black with sightseers; but Henry Wilson! Even
though he had only just brought to a conclusion his most spectacular
case, it was hardly likely that a single village eye would be batted
for his arrival. Unless, indeed, a crime were to occur; but Michael
had yet to see a place which less suggested crime than Steeple
Tollesbury.
As he stood in the inn doorway, drinking in deep draughts of sun,
there was the purr of an engine, and a long racing car dashed over
the bridge and turned down into the square. A man with what Michael
felt to be an altogether unnecessarily good-looking profile and a
mass of curly hair was at the wheel.
“Who’s that--cinema gentleman?” he said; “do you know? And why does
he think he’s Jehu?”
“Why, that’s Wallace Burden,” the landlord said, turning Michael’s
scornful remark into a compliment. Wallace Burden bid fair at the
moment to climb to Valentino’s vacant pedestal. “He always drives
like that. He’ll be going up to Lorings’--to the Grange--I shouldn’t
wonder.”
“Well, I don’t like him,” Michael pronounced.
“There’s them that does, though,” the landlord said darkly.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See _The Brooklyn Murders_, by G. D. H. Cole.