As luck would have it, just as Michael was completing his
negotiations about a car to take them back to the Grange, Wallace
Burden himself came into the garage to collect his own Talbot. He
looked as offensively handsome as ever, and Michael wanted nothing so
much as to knock him down; but as the man had been standing by the
office wicket while the transaction was taking place, including the
name of the hirer and the destination of the car, and had obviously
listened with interest, Michael thought that it might prove rather
awkward if he did not explain. Accordingly, he briefly described his
meeting with Edna Loring, his friend’s fiancée, and his intention of
taking her home; and was considerably surprised, not to say pleased,
to find that the actor seemed more relieved than otherwise.
“Oh, very well,” Burden said. “In that case, I’ll be getting on
to town, I think. Will you tell Miss Loring for me, and thank her
for her hospitality and all, you know? Matter of fact,” he added,
with a grin, “it’s a bit overdone for me, I must say--with all this
excitement recently. Look here, Dr. Prendergast,” with a sudden
movement he took Michael by the arm and dragged him out into the
street, “you found this fellow Meston, didn’t you? Well, you know
they’re saying he’s been murdered. What’s your view about that, eh?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say,” said Michael, who had no intention
of being pumped in this quarter. “I have nothing to do with it,
officially. Why didn’t you go to the inquest, if you want to know?”
“And be asked a lot of damfool questions by a silly coroner? Not
likely,” the actor said, with an angry shrug. “Do you think I want
to be mixed up with a murder case? Loring ought to keep his damned
village in better order, if he wants people to stay in it. No, thank
you. I’m off--if you’ve nothing to tell me?”
“Nothing at all, I’m afraid,” said Michael, shaking him off. He was
so glad to see the last of him that it was not until he was well
inside the public library and had secured the _Medical Directory_
that it occurred to him to wonder at the reason of this sudden
departure, immediately a suspicion of murder was raised. Was Wallace
Burden putting a convenient distance between himself and any too
inquiring policeman? And ought Michael to have warned anybody in
authority? However, Inspector Bille, after their brief lunch, had
completely disappeared, and Michael did not feel equal to tackling
the Colchester police force. He decided that it would be enough if
he informed Wilson on his return, and set to work to look up Dr.
Kershaw’s medical record.
Dr. Amory Kershaw had graduated M.D. from Guy’s Hospital in 1904,
with a good degree. After that, he had held two or three temporary
posts of the kind normally occupied by newly qualified men, and had
then become physician to a fair-sized Midland hospital, where he
had remained till 1910. He had, in the meantime, published one or
two monographs on medical subjects, and, as far as Michael could
judge from the _Medical Directory_, was on the high-road to become
a distinguished physician. But after 1910 there was a gap, and in
1913 he reappeared in some unintelligible job in Stamboul, which
he had apparently held until he left to join the army in 1915.
After the war, in which his career had been perfectly normal, he
had taken on this Essex practice, which he had retained ever since,
becoming police-surgeon in 1924. The only two points of suspicion
in the record were the gap between 1910 and 1913, followed by a
distant appointment, and the rather humdrum work to which a man of
exceptionally high qualifications had apparently settled down. The
latter might, of course, be due to war injuries; but the _Medical
Directory_ is not exactly a repository of gossip, and Michael had no
real hope of finding out anything else. He called at a friend’s house
in Colchester, and made some inquiries; but it did not appear that
Dr. Kershaw was known so far afield. About Meston and Hanborough,
on the other hand, every one was willing to talk--and the latter’s
fondness for good company and the former’s hatred of it were becoming
as familiar to Michael as the palm of his hand by the time he kept
his rendezvous. One fact which puzzled him not a little, but which
was attested by more than one witness, was that Meston, in the last
week or so of his life, had been observed more than once in the
company of bookies. Had the virtuous man fallen from grace at the end?
Tea with Edna Loring was a refreshing and enjoyable affair. Relieved
of the incubus of Burden, and highly amused at the manner of his
departure--“I suppose that was what he quarrelled with Sylvia
about”--Edna talked happily all through the meal, and Michael was
both surprised and annoyed when the hired car appeared. As he was
handing the passenger in, a sudden voice said, “Hullo, Edna!” and a
tweed-clad, florid-faced person with a cheerful smile appeared.
“Hullo, Nick!” Edna responded; and introduced Mr. Hanborough. Mr.
Hanborough appeared to enjoy a casual chat, and detained them some
little time before they could get away, congratulating Edna on having
had the sense to avoid the inquest, which had proved a complete frost
in the matter of sensation.
“They didn’t even call the doctor fellow who had a row with Kershaw
about the cause of death,” he said, as they were parting. “And
Evershed shut up any poor chap who so much as whispered. If you ask
me, the police ought to have a compulsory training in elementary
psychology. The amount of unsatisfied curiosity there was in that
room this afternoon would drive a dozen men to murder. Well,
good-bye, my dear, and good luck.”
“I say, Dr. Prendergast,” Edna asked, as they drove away, “were _you_
the mysterious doctor who disagreed?”
Michael admitted it, but declined to enter upon discussion, and as
soon as he could changed the subject, and once more began making
inquiries about Nicholas Hanborough. Edna, who appeared to like the
senior partner, answered willingly for some time, though she was
obviously more and more puzzled; but when Michael began asking her
about Hanborough’s doings on the night of Meston’s death, she gave a
gasp of amazement.
“Why, he was at our dance, of course! Dr. Prendergast, what is the
matter with you? Any one would think he was a criminal, and you were
trying to test his alibi!”
“Well,” Michael considered, “that was the night Meston died, wasn’t
it? And no one knows yet whether it was an accident--or whether he
killed himself--or whether some one killed him. I mean--there’s talk
of some financial trouble between Meston and Mr. Hanborough, and it’s
possible that some one may want to know where he was that night.”
“I see,” said Edna. She turned her face to Michael, and the latter
was surprised to see how white it had become. “Well, they needn’t
ask. He was at our dance.”
“All the time?”
“Yes. Well, I can’t say every minute. But he was about nearly all the
time. I mean, I noticed him almost every time I looked up.”
“How long did it go on?”
“Till about six. But Nick didn’t go then. He and I and several others
drove over to Little Friday and had breakfast. It was too fine to go
to bed. Then we stayed in the woods a bit. We didn’t get back till
after nine. Then Nick went back. He said he’d got to get home, and
then to the office.”
And he arrived about then, Michael reflected. That looked like an
alibi, at any rate for the earlier part of the twenty-four hours he
had mentioned to Wilson. Edna Loring, he felt in his bones, was a
good witness. He would have acquitted any one on her evidence. But
why did she look so worried?
“Dr. Prendergast,” she said suddenly, “why are you asking this? Why
should you--or any one else--think Nick Hanborough has anything to do
with Mr. Meston’s death--however he died? What does it matter where
he was?”
“Well,” Michael hedged, “he knew Meston well, and----”
“So did dozens of people! And you aren’t bothering about them. Why
about Nick? Is it--because he was his partner? Is it anything to do
with that money business?”
So she knew! Whether Mark had been less than discreet, or whether
the long tongues of Steeple Tollesbury had been busy about that as
well as everything else, did not seem to matter. She knew, and she
was alarmed. This could only point to one person--Mark. On a sudden
impulse Michael leaned forward and took her hands in his. He could
feel them shaking.
“Miss Loring,” he said gently, “won’t you let me help you?”
The girl stiffened, and was silent. “Is it about Mark?” Michael
pressed. A slight twitch was the only answer. “Listen,” Michael said.
“I’ve known Mark for a long time--though not as long as you have--and
it would be sheer nonsense to suggest his having anything to do with
anything doubtful. If there’s something, I don’t know what, that
worries you--something that wants explaining--I’m quite sure it can
be easily explained. Whatever has or hasn’t happened to Meston, it’s
absolutely certain _Mark_ had nothing whatever to do with it. Can’t
you trust me?”
Not exactly the professional detective’s manner, Michael thought. But
it had its reward at once, in the look of relief that came into Edna
Loring’s face and the return of the colour to her cheeks.
“Oh, you _are_ nice!” she said appreciatively. “It was only--I got
into an idiotic panic for a minute, you sounded so portentous. As if
you were meaning to arrest Nick the next moment, if he couldn’t say
where he was that night. But I knew he was at the party, and then I
suddenly remembered that Mark--Mark wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t he?”
“At least, he was and he wasn’t. I mean, he came to the party--only
he hated it, and went away soon after midnight, I think it was. And I
know he didn’t go home, because he told me he’d spent ages wandering
about--he does that, sometimes. Then when I thought you were asking
about Nick just because he was that man’s partner--I simply went cold
all over. I can’t think how I could have been so silly, but I feel
much better now. Thank you.”
“Did Mark tell you about the money?” Michael asked, wondering whether
he had not been slightly carried away by his enthusiasm. Was it
possible that Warden----? No, surely it was absurd. Was all his
journey to Colchester to result only in clearing everybody except his
own friend?
“No.” Edna answered his last question. “Godfrey hinted something to
me. I suppose Nick told him. Mark hasn’t said anything, and I didn’t
like to ask him. He doesn’t believe in mixing up women and business,
you know. And, anyway, he’s been in a funny mood lately, jumpy and
not like himself. I shouldn’t wonder if that had got on my nerves a
bit, and made me see bogies. I’m all right now. But, Dr. Prendergast,
if you know and Godfrey knows, it can’t be much of a secret, can
it? I wish you’d tell me just what it is that’s gone wrong with the
business. I swear I won’t say a word to a soul--even to Mark--if you
think I’d better not. But it’s pretty awful, not knowing.”
More to save himself from awkward questions than from any other
reason, Michael told her. She listened attentively, with her chin
on her hands, putting occasionally a question whose appositeness
surprised him. But her final reception of the story astonished him
still more.
“When did Mark tell you all this?” she asked. Provided with some
particulars of the discussion in the Old Malting House, she leaned
back with a triumphant smile.
“Then it _was_ Mr. Wilson!” she said. “I knew I was right!”
“Who?”
“Why, your friend! I told Mark so; but he wouldn’t believe me. Mark
never remembers names, but he told me a long time ago about your
wonderful Scotland Yard friend called Wilson; and when he said you’d
a friend called Wilson staying with you, I thought at once it must
be the same. Oh, Dr. Prendergast, how perfectly marvellous! And is
he going to find out all about everything? Oh, very well,” seeing
Michael’s alarmed face. “If it’s a secret I won’t tell any one.
Really, I won’t. But you shouldn’t have such a nice innocent face,
you know?”