Wilson, for his part, had not spent an idle evening. After the
extraordinarily inopportune meeting with Mr. Brandreth, he had
decided to postpone his search of the tow-path, on which, in any
case, there seemed to be too many miscellaneous footprints for
accurate evidence to be obtainable. Machin, the tramp, was the person
he really wanted to see; but Machin was not likely to be available,
for a little while at any rate. At the moment, the most fruitful
possibility appeared to be to test some of the conjectures he had
formed at the bridge.
The first step was to find Colonel Lockwood, report his discoveries,
and borrow the boots which Meston had been wearing at his death. The
examination of the latter was annoyingly inconclusive. They were the
right size, and fitted fairly closely, but not quite accurately,
to the sketch which Wilson had made. Unlike the prints usually
offered to the conventional sleuth, these had no nails, patches, or
protectors obligingly fitted to the soles. The only thing was to try
a borrowed boot on the spot.
Wilson then drew the scrap of green silk and the shred of tweed
from his pocket, and asked the Colonel if he could identify either
of them. The tweed produced no reaction; indeed, Wilson had hardly
expected any. It might have come from almost anywhere, though it
had definitely not come from William Meston’s suit, which was of
the “respectable black” suggested by his calling. But when he saw
the green silk, the good Colonel obviously suffered from a pang of
recognition. He did not want to “put a name to it,” and endeavoured
for some time to cloak himself in generalities; but Wilson, if
patient, was ruthless, and in time forced the Colonel to disclose his
practical certainty that it had come from an evening dress of Sylvia
Meston’s.
Something, if not much, was gained at all events, if this were true.
Some time within the last ten days, and probably near about the time
at which her husband died, Sylvia Meston had spent a considerable
time in the company of a man in that somewhat unattractive rendezvous
up-stream. It now became of paramount importance to ascertain, if
possible, who the man was. Making sure that, on this occasion at any
rate, Brandreth was not hovering about his starting-point, Wilson set
off to walk once more to the old bridge.
Within a couple of hours he was back again, and any one who knew him
well would have been able to see that he was puzzled rather than
satisfied. In the first place, Sylvia’s companion was definitely not
her husband, unless the latter had on a different pair of boots.
The prints resembled the borrowed boot, but they were not the same.
Wilson made a note to investigate Meston’s belongings for a spare
pair of boots; but realised that even if he found such a pair, and
they fitted the marks, it would tell him very little about the crime.
For obviously, if Meston had kept tryst wearing a different pair of
boots, he must have returned alive to his hotel in order to change
them.
It looked, on the whole, as though there had been another man
present. But, if so, Wilson had no present means of identifying
him--nor of saying whether the watcher by the knot-hole was or was
not Meston. The tow-path, as he expected, told him nothing; there
were trampled footprints of many kinds, but none visibly belonging
either to Meston or to the two who had crossed the bridge. The only
new information which he had secured was that there were certainly
traces of not one, but two, cars on the little-used road which
crossed the bridge, and that all the indications pointed to their
having both been present on the same occasion--which might or might
not be the night of the murder. The second car had come from the
opposite direction, and had parked on the right bank, but on the
far side of the road, which was why he had not seen its tracks at
first, and had remained parked for quite as long as the other. From
the parking place tracks of the man in size ten shoes led in various
directions, as though he had been walking up and down; and eventually
brought him to the place where they had first been observed, by
the tracks of the second car. Wilson now thought that only one
passenger--the woman--had been in the second car, that the man had
joined her, and they had walked into the summerhouse together.
Eventually both cars had gone away in the direction from which they
had severally come. The woman had gone first, for the man’s footsteps
were visible treading in the tracks of the woman’s car as it turned
to go away; but, of course, it was quite uncertain by how long she
had preceded him, and whether either or both had been there on the
fatal night or at a different time. Nor could he find where either of
the cars had gone after leaving the boathouse. Both tracks vanished
completely in a little while--the woman’s at the cross-roads where
the roads from Steeple Tollesbury and the Grange met it, and the
other on a stretch of hard road by Sir Felix Lewis’s drive. Unless
Mr. Jerry Machin had some information to give, Wilson very much
feared that he had exhausted the clues at that spot.
As he returned to the hotel, thoughts of supper in his mind, he met
Michael’s _bête noire_, Mr. Strake, at the tap-room entrance; and
bethought himself that he had meant to have a word with him. Wilson
had a short and harsh way with outsiders of his own profession, and
Mr. Strake found himself speedily disclosing what information he had
in his possession without the _quid pro quo_ which he had obviously
intended to extract. There was not very much of it, but what there
was, was significant enough. He was an “old friend” of Nicholas
Hanborough’s, who had been “very kind” to him more than once--Wilson
was able, without much difficulty, to guess the nature of the
kindness. He had been employed by Mr. Hanborough, nominally to look
into the firm’s position, but in reality to spy on William Meston;
and he was under strict orders to bring all he got straight to Mr.
Hanborough himself. But the results of his spying had been remarkably
meagre. He, like Inspector Bille, had found that Meston had shown a
singular fondness for the firm’s books during the past few weeks, and
had once or twice caught him talking to racing men; but that was all.
He had begun to wonder whether there was anything to be found out,
and for what, exactly, he was being paid.
Then, when Meston disappeared from Colchester, he had pursued his
investigations in that town; and had then discovered, as he had
already begun to suspect, that whatever Meston had been doing, he
could not have been doing it without the connivance of the senior
partner--in fact, that his own employer had been equally guilty.
Hanborough had kept his own traces pretty well covered; but after
patient investigation, Strake had at last succeeded in nosing them
out. At this point he confessed, with an entire absence of shame,
he had been rather at a loss what to do, whether to go back to
Hanborough and demand blackmail, or to find somebody else who would
be willing to pay him more highly for information against both
partners. Eventually he tossed for it, and decided to go to Mark
Warden--who had promptly hunted him off with a flea in his ear. Now
he was open to an offer of any sort.
But, as already stated, he was forced to part with his information
without any compensation, Wilson dragging from him piece by piece
all the evidence he had against Hanborough, which was certainly
enough to put the man in a very dubious light. After he had found
out all he could on this point, Wilson began to fish for anything
which might connect Hanborough more definitely with Meston’s murder.
Here, however, he drew blank. Strake professed absolute ignorance
of any question propounded to him; yet there was a look in his eye
which made Wilson absolutely certain that he knew something which
bore directly on the events of that fatal night, and he was about to
employ more drastic measures, when he saw Brandreth, complete with
smile and walking-stick, approaching him down the street.
Annoyed as much at being caught talking to the inquiry agent as
by the abrupt termination of his interview, Wilson went indoors,
and over his solitary supper began tabulating the result of his
investigations.
He had to confess that they were not very exciting. Of the five
questions which he propounded to himself--how, when, where, by whom,
and with what motive had Meston been killed--only the first could be
answered with any degree of certainty. Meston had been hanged--but
when? and where? The boathouse up-river seemed the most probable
place, but it could not be said to be in any way proved. Nothing
had been found by the boathouse, except the tree, which suggested
violent death, and the marks on the tree might easily have been
caused by climbing boys. When? Any time from 10.30 p.m. onwards.
This was no help to an investigator. And as to the murderer, and the
motive, Wilson felt himself as much at a loss as when he had talked
to Michael in the morning. He could not even yet choose between
his two motives--and as to the men----! The most likely person was
the man who, if his conjectures were true, had talked to Sylvia
in the boathouse, but who was he? If he turned out to be Nicholas
Hanborough, the two lines of suspicion would blend admirably; but
was he likely to? Well, that could perhaps be ascertained. He was
approximately the right height, at all events.
Wilson sent for the landlord, and endeavoured to get some light on
Sylvia’s relations with Hanborough, but without any useful result.
If Hanborough admired the siren, he kept it closely to himself; and
she had never shown any predilection for him. He was married, yes, to
a quiet little woman who didn’t go about much. They had no children.
Oh yes, Mr. Hanborough liked the girls as well as any other man, and
was a very pleasant-spoken gentleman; but nothing special to nobody,
as you might say.
“If you’ve got the key of Meston’s room, Wason,” Wilson closed the
conversation, “I wish you’d let me borrow it. I’d like to have a
look round.” He had Colonel Lockwood’s authorisation ready in his
pocket, in case it proved necessary; but Wason seemed to think such
innocent curiosity the most natural thing in the world, and without
any protest departed to fetch the key. Wilson was still engaged on
the subsequent investigation when Michael reappeared, full of sound
and fury.
“What are you doing?” he asked, when he had resigned himself to the
realisation that Wilson was not at present interested in gossip about
the Grange.
“Trying to fix, if possible, the time when Meston left the inn to go
to his death,” was the reply. “I started like this. The probability
is that he left it before any of you were awake on Saturday morning.
It isn’t certain; but if he’d gone away in broad daylight some one
would have been almost sure to see him. Also, it seems probable that
he was intending to leave about then.”
“Probable?” said Michael. “I thought it was certain. Wason told me
he’d packed all his things ready.”
“Well, yes. I think we may take it he intended to leave. I found his
portmanteau in his cupboard--very methodically packed, poor fellow,
not as if he was merely going off for a night or two--and labelled in
the handwriting you can see in the visitors’ book, ‘To be kept till
called for.’”
“Well, then----?”
“But it’s not by any means certain that he intended to leave in the
middle of the night. His trunk wasn’t locked. I thought at first he’d
packed everything, and forgotten to lock it; but on examining the
chambermaid, I found that when she came in the following morning she
found his pyjamas, sponge, etc., lying about the room. She left them
alone that day; but the next day collected them and put them in the
trunk. So he hadn’t finished packing when he went.”
“Where was he going?” Michael wondered.
“I’ve no idea. And as nobody here knew he was going till he’d gone,
we shan’t find out from that source.
“There’s another point, though. With his portmanteau I found his
hat, stick, and overcoat. That is to say, when he went away, he
went, apparently, without some obvious portions of his attire. Of
course, he may have had a second hat. But, unless he had, it appears
that either he went out in a hurry, intending to return, or that he
departed for good--at least for some time--bareheaded and without a
coat, which seems out of character, or----”
“Or that he went out and drowned himself,” said Michael. “He wouldn’t
need a hat for that.”
“Yes. Suicide would fit the case admirably. But you and I know he
didn’t commit suicide. So that won’t do.”
“When did the things turn up?”
“The day after his departure. The chambermaid found them, and shoved
them into the cupboard.”
“Any other indications?”
“Nary a one. Either he, or the chambermaid, suffers from excessive
tidiness. If more were like them, there would be more undiscovered
crime in the world.”
Michael sighed. “Nothing seems to take us anywhere. He makes all
preparations for suicide, it would seem, and then doesn’t commit it.
Hanborough appears as a nice suspect for a murder--and he turns out
to have been safely out of the way. Sylvia Meston meets a suspicious
sounding man at the old ferry, and you don’t know who it is, or
whether Meston was there at all. And one knows just nothing of
anybody else. What are we to do?”
“Plod on,” Wilson said. “I’ve been trying to establish, if I can, the
time at which he left the inn. The probability is, as I say, that it
was between 10.30 when you saw him go up to bed, and, say, seven the
next morning. It was well after 10.30, because his bed had been slept
in.”
“Unless he tumbled it himself.”
“Unless he did, of course. We could probably have established that,
if we’d been on the spot at the time. As it is, we shall have to
leave it open. There’s another point, however. There’s a cottage
in fairly full view, across the river, beyond the tow-path; and
the occupier, a cowman called Billings, happened to be up, and has
told everybody that he could see Meston’s light on till well past
one o’clock. I haven’t questioned him yet; but I can do so in the
morning, if it seems worth while. Unfortunately, even that doesn’t
tell us how late he was here, for the chambermaid apparently forgot
to fill his lamp the day before, and found it burnt out in the
morning. And she can’t give me any idea how much oil there would have
been in it the previous evening. There were candles in the room, both
partly burnt. So whether he went out and left his lamp burning, or
whether the oil failed while he was there, and he completed whatever
he was doing by candlelight, I’m afraid we can only guess.”
“I should think we’re likely to have our fill of guessing, by the
time we’ve finished,” Michael remarked. “What about Kershaw?”
He produced the result of his researches into the doctor’s career.
Wilson shook his head. “There’s really nothing in that, you know.
There may be a dozen reasons for the gap between 1910 and 1913;
and, though this doesn’t on the face of it seem a good enough job
for a man of his qualifications, there may be some war injury to
account for it. From the look I had at him to-day, I shouldn’t put
shell-shock out of the question.”
“Shell-shock needn’t make him hit that poor fellow on the head,”
Michael said.
“_If_ he did. Oh, I quite agree his behaviour calls for some
explanation. But I don’t think we shall get it to-night. Suppose we
try bed, for a change?”