“This,” said Colonel Lockwood, “is Superintendent Wilson, of Scotland
Yard. Superintendent Wilson, Mr. John Loring.”
“Do I say, ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilson,’ or, ‘Damn you for a
cursed, interfering swine’?” John Loring asked amiably. “The latter
seems more appropriate, I think. Please consider it said.” He sank
back into the Colonel’s arm-chair, with which, in deference to his
physical condition, he had been accommodated, and leant his scowling
head on his hand.
Wilson looked at him with some curiosity. He saw a tall, powerfully
built man, four or five years younger than his brother, the Squire,
but of the same general physical appearance. John, however, was
the better-looking of the two, mainly because, owing either to the
superior discipline of life in China or simply to less self-indulgent
habits, he was obviously in much better general condition. He had
Godfrey’s broad, low brow and heavy jaw, and the same deep-set
grey eyes; but he was thinner and browner altogether, the bones
of his face and head still stood out clearly, and he had not yet
begun to thicken about the neck. At present he was looking very
wan and exhausted, which was not surprising, considering that he
had absolutely refused to touch either food or drink in Colonel
Lockwood’s house; but his powers of resistance appeared unabated,
and Wilson’s first reflection, on seeing him, was that the Colonel
seemed to have bungled the affair again, and that it was long odds
on extracting an admission, or indeed any information, from this
formidable young man. Why on earth had Lockwood not gone to London
himself, and put his own questions? Anything rather than let himself
be jockeyed into making a quite possibly premature arrest. One fact,
nevertheless, Wilson had to admit. There was no doubt that John
Loring was physically capable of committing the crime they had set
out to investigate.
“You know, John,” the Colonel said in a tone of mild reproof, “you’re
not helping us very much.”
“I’m not trying to. Did I look as if I was?” was the reply. “I don’t
know who killed the blighter and I don’t care. If I did I wouldn’t
tell you. He deserved all he got. I hope you’re taking all this down,
by the way?”
“You,” said the Colonel, “were in Steeple Tollesbury the night when
he was murdered.”
“So were you,” said John. “Did you kill him? I congratulate you,
Lockwood. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“You had a grudge against him.”
“Have it your own way. You know best, I’m sure. What about it?”
“Mr. Loring,” Wilson said, “I think you’ve got this affair the wrong
way round. We are not trying to make you incriminate yourself; we are
only asking for an explanation on one or two points----”
“Don’t you wish you may get it?”
“You were in Sir Felix Lewis’s boathouse from midnight till about
1.30 on that Friday night.” Wilson saw Loring’s hand clench, but he
said nothing. “What we want to know is what you were doing there,
and what you did when you left?” No answer.
“And who was with you,” said the Colonel injudiciously. Loring put
his hand down in order to glare at him; but an expression of relief
showed momentarily in his eyes.
“You don’t want much, do you?” he said.
“I don’t think so,” the Colonel replied, “seeing that a man has been
murdered in what even his enemies must admit to have been a cowardly
manner----”
“How _was_ he murdered?” John interrupted. “You didn’t mention that.
You’ve given me a pile of gossip and things I didn’t ask for about
my own movements, but you haven’t told me the really interesting
thing--how that ---- got himself done in.”
“For the moment,” Wilson put in, “I think we might leave that. The
thing is, Mr. Loring, that it is necessary, in the best interests
of all who knew Mr. Meston, and particularly, if I may say so, of
those who are known to have been on bad terms with him, that they
should give us a frank account of their movements on the night he was
murdered. That is the reason we are asking you these questions.”
“To which you seem to know the answers--or have ’em made up,” said
John. “Why bother me?”
“We should like your confirmation,” said the Colonel.
“I’ve no doubt you would,” with a sneer, “but that’s just what you
aren’t going to get. My dear fool, do you think I don’t know you,
that you come here with a booby-trap and expect me to walk into it,
and hang myself out of my own mouth to oblige you and my precious
brother? I’ve told you I didn’t kill him, and if that isn’t enough
for you, you can go and whistle for more, or get some of your dirty
little police spies to swear it. I don’t admit I was here on Friday
night; I don’t admit I was at the boathouse; I don’t admit anything.
Now go to hell!” His voice died away, and his eyes stared suddenly.
“Look out!” said Wilson. “He’s going to faint!” But before they could
get to the prisoner he had slid forward in a heap and dropped inertly
on the floor. He was a good thirteen stone in weight, and they had to
summon the assistance of the sergeant on guard before they could get
him restored to consciousness and placed on the couch, where he lay
glaring at them like a trapped beast, but obviously beyond speech.
Wilson noted that the sergeant appeared to relish his job no better
than the Colonel, and approached the prisoner with an odd mixture
of pity and deference. Plainly, Mr. John Loring was popular in the
neighbourhood; and his arrest was not likely to range the gossiping
population on the side of the law.
“You aren’t likely to get anything more out of him to-night,” Wilson
said in an undertone to the Colonel. “In fact, I should get him to
bed as quickly as possible.”
“Here?” said the Colonel, in the tone of one asked to extend a
neighbourly lodging to a tiger.
“Well, he obviously isn’t fit to be housed in jail,” said Wilson.
“You can put a guard, if you think he’s likely to run away.
Personally, I doubt his having the strength for it, at the moment.
You might get Kershaw to have a look at him, if he’s back.” For
reasons of his own, he rather wished his two suspects to have a
chance of communicating.
“Kershaw--can go to--hell,” the prisoner remarked in a faint but
forcible whisper, as if he had read Wilson’s thoughts. “I’ll give
you--parole--if you like. Won’t run away--feel too--damned sick.” And
he shut his eyes as if the effort of keeping them open was beyond his
strength.
“What do you make of it, Wilson?” the harassed Colonel said, when he
had, with considerable labour, installed John Loring in his spare
room. “It looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?”
“It looks to me very much the same as it did,” was the reply. “We
haven’t succeeded in getting any fresh information--in fact, we’re
just where we were.”
“But look how he’s incriminated himself!” the Colonel cried. “You
didn’t hear half what he said about Meston! It would be enough to
hang him with any ordinary jury.”
“Oh no, Colonel, it wouldn’t. A clever counsel could easily turn
that to the prisoner’s advantage. It’s quite rare for a man who
premeditates a crime like this to give himself away afterwards by
abusing his victim. We know, of course, that Loring doesn’t like Mr.
Meston; but that, by all accounts, we knew before.”
“But it’s indecent,” the Colonel said, “to curse the man when he’s
dead.”
“Oh, Mr. John Loring is obviously in an exceedingly bad temper--a
worse temper, one would think, than would be normal under the
circumstances. But is it so out of keeping with his character?” The
Colonel could not say that it was. “There you are, then. That goes no
way with a local jury. I’m bound to say it seems to me that there’s
more in his manner than meets the eye. But I don’t think, in his
present mood, he’s likely to explain that for us himself. We’ll have
to look for it elsewhere.”
“Then you don’t think he’s guilty?”
“I did not say so.” Wilson, tired himself with a long day and a
series of disturbing suspicions, had much ado not to show his
impatience. “What I meant to imply was that it is by no means fitted
together yet, and that we certainly haven’t enough evidence to go
before a jury. In the first place, we’re not definitely sure that
it was Mrs. Meston who was with him at the boathouse, though I
don’t feel much doubt that it was, and we can probably succeed in
proving it. But, what’s much more important, we’ve no real evidence
that Meston was there too, and that’s very much too large a fact to
assume--however sure we may be in our own minds. Did you see the man
Potts, by the way?”
“No; he had the day off. I’ll see him to-morrow,” the Colonel
promised.
“The answer may be there--though I’m more inclined to think we’ve
got to look further. Anyway, I’m not satisfied yet,” And with this
negative conclusion Michael also had to be content, when his friend
returned to bed at the Old Malting House.