“So you’re going to hang the Squire’s brother! What terrible
fellows you are, to let loose on a quiet town!” Like a cheerful
Jack-in-the-box, Mr. Brandreth popped out of an entry, and strolled
along by the side of a very reluctant Michael. Driven from Wilson’s
company by a curt intimation that the latter wanted to think and that
he got in the way, Michael had chosen the calm of the High Street in
preference to the buzz of the inn; but it appeared that he had jumped
from the frying-pan into the fire. Curse the fellow and his gift of
ubiquity!
“I hope, for his own sake, your friend’s got plenty of evidence
against him,” Brandreth continued. “It won’t be a popular arrest
hereabouts. Our democracy has always taken John’s side against the
Squire.”
“Don’t they get on, then?”
“There’s a proverb hereabouts,” the lawyer said. “Two Lorings, one
hanging. I don’t know that it’s generally fulfilled in detail, but
one feels that it might be any moment. The father and uncle of these
two had a regular battle-royal, and there would have been murder done
if they hadn’t been separated. And John and Godfrey have fought from
their cradles. Oh, it’s not about anything; it never is. Just two
Lorings--that’s all. Not that I think your friend’s very wise to go
nap on John, you know. I don’t exactly fancy him in the part.”
“Then who do you fancy?”
“Oh, come, I’m not a tipster. I never back my fancy, even when
the field’s small. And in this case, I fear it’s rather a large
one. I always felt, you know, that the late William Meston was one
of Nature’s murderees, if I may put it that way--only convention
keeps most of us from following our natural impulses. By the way,
talking of him, what does Mr. Wilson make of his researches into the
financial affairs of his own firm?”
“Why should he make anything? He’s investigating his death, not his
financial position.”
“Oh, he doesn’t think they’re connected, then? That’s very
interesting. Now I wonder----You had a bit of a look into that,
hadn’t you? Would it be very indiscreet to ask what sort of
conclusion you reached?”
“It would,” said Michael, with a firmness not unmixed with pleasure
at being able to baffle the solicitor for once in a way. “Anyway, I
don’t see why on earth you should assume I’ve any interest in the
matter.”
“My dear sir, Colchester is a charming town, no doubt; but few find
it so attractive as to want to go there, with the prospect of an
exciting inquest at home. But I forgot--of course you must have known
that the inquest was going to be a wash-out. Your friend’s rather
hard on us, isn’t he? Withholding of information beyond a certain
point about seems to me a crime.”
“It’s a crime which can affect you singularly little!” Michael
retorted. “You seem to know who is guilty, or who is going to be
hanged, before I do myself!”
“Oh, as to that,” said Brandreth, unperturbed, “you can’t expect to
bring John Loring home in a motor with two plain-clothes men, and
lodge him in Lockwood’s house all night, without having a bit of a
buzz about it. You see, we in these parts don’t need uniforms to
rouse our suspicions. We know our local force’s Sunday best as well
as its blues, and so--we draw our own conclusions.”
“Well, you’d better go on drawing them,” said Michael, moving off.
“It seems to me you get much more interest out of life that way than
I could give you.”
“Meaning you won’t tell me what you found in Colchester. Well, well,
it’s a pity,” said Mr. Brandreth. “And after all the interesting
conversations you must have had with Strake, too.” Michael made
a sudden movement, as he remembered how on the morning following
the finding of the body he had surprised Brandreth in an earnest
conversation with the inquiry agent. “Oh, Strake’s not as secret as
the grave, I’m quite aware. The difficulty is, isn’t it, to know what
to believe and what not to believe with a fellow like that? I was in
hopes you’d have been able to sift his stories a little. But, if you
can’t, you can’t. Any time you _do_ feel like a chat about it, of
course, I’m your man. By the way,” as Michael made another effort to
get away, “I was thinking of going along to Kershaw’s place now. Care
to come with me? It’s really worth seeing.”
“Sorry; I’m afraid I can’t manage it at the moment.” Brandreth looked
at him with a quizzical smile.
“Well, well, I’m not sure you’re not right. Perhaps, on the whole,
Kershaw might be a little sore at the way you’ve treated him.”
“Sore? Treated him? What do you mean?” Michael’s wrath with the
doctor had been overlaid a little by the events of the last few days;
but it was still lively enough to awake at any suggestion that he had
been in the wrong.
“Why, I don’t know what you said to Kershaw or he to you. But if you
let him make a fool of himself in open court, he’s hardly likely to
be pleased.”
“He gave his own evidence.”
“Pointing to accidental death--and you go and arrest John Loring for
murder!”
“Why should you assume----”
“That it was murder? Well, I don’t suppose Mr. Wilson arrested him
for accidentally pushing Meston into the water. And you’ve just told
me it wasn’t anything to do with Meston’s financial affairs.”
“You’re very certain Wilson _did_ arrest him,” said Michael, biting
his lip.
“Didn’t he? Lockwood’s a very impulsive fellow at times,” said
Brandreth sympathetically. “But I shouldn’t have thought his impulses
would have led him to arrest John, unprompted. However that may be,
it does seem to mean Kershaw’s got a bit of a grievance. He says
somebody’s been burgling his house, by the way. Odd sort of thing
to do; I shouldn’t think there was twenty pounds’ worth of stuff in
the place, bar the house itself. But he’s quite annoyed about it.”
He stared at Michael till the latter felt that the marrow of his
spine was blushing. Suddenly there was a welcome diversion. “Good
heavens!” said Mr. Brandreth, “there’s a man trying to get into my
house, and the housekeeper’s out. I must go. So sorry. Au revoir,
Dr. Prendergast.” And he trotted off to his house at a pace which
Michael could not help thinking unduly speedy for a mere caller kept
waiting.
* * * * *
“Now, what did he want to know that for?” Wilson mused, when Michael
reported the conversation to him as they sat at lunch. “It’s quite
obvious that he was trying unusually hard to pump you--but with what
purpose? What conceivable interest can he have in Meston’s financial
affairs? Or--is this a hint to me that I’m on the wrong track? I
think perhaps I’ve been neglecting the Warden-Hanborough aspect of
the thing. This wants looking into.” And he fell into a brooding
silence.
“Have you got any further, this morning?” Michael asked.
“No; I can’t say I have. I went up to Lockwood’s to have another
look at the prisoner; but he doesn’t seem any more talkative than he
was last night. He’s slept for fourteen hours, and agreed to demean
himself by taking food; so he’s in altogether better physical trim.
But it doesn’t appear to have loosened his tongue any, as the Yankees
say.”
“Much the wisest thing for a murderer to do, to say nothing,” Michael
said.
“Yes, but they don’t all look so pleased about it. He’s in an odd
mood altogether. Something has obviously happened to make him very
angry, not to say despairing; for even the Loring temper would hardly
account for his ferocious surliness. But at the same time there’s
a quite perceptible air that can only be called _exalté_--a sort
of Sydney Carton--‘It’s a far, far better thing’--if you know what
I mean; which hardly seems to fit in with hanging one’s rival. If
you’ve an odd moment, Michael, you might like to go up and have a
look at him. You can say I sent you as medicine man, and I’d like to
know what you think of your suspect in the flesh. Otherwise, there’s
no news, except that I’m waiting hourly for news of Mr. Potts. Ah,
there’s the good Colonel coming. This is probably it.”
The Colonel had, it was true, seen Potts, and had brought along, for
what it was worth, the information he had secured. But, like most
of the information secured in the case, it did not advance matters
much. Potts, said the Colonel, had been very unwilling to talk at
all, being a surly and secretive man by nature. “He’s a queer-looking
customer, too,” the Colonel said. “Something like a talking gorilla.
I often think the man’s not quite right in the head, but he’s said
to be an excellent servant, and he’s certainly fond of the family.
I had to call in Godfrey to help, before he would speak at all.”
When he did speak, however, Potts confirmed the story of his meeting
John Loring and receiving the note for Mrs. Meston, which he duly
delivered. He had no idea, he said, what was in it. More than that
he either did not know or would not tell. He had not seen Mr. John
again, had not gone to the town that afternoon or evening, had not
seen Meston or held any communication with him or any one else. Had
not told any one of Mr. John’s return. Asked how Mrs. Meston looked
when receiving her note, he professed himself unable to remember. And
that, meagre as it was, was all the information which the Colonel had
been able to extract from the footman. No amount of questioning or
cross-questioning had been able to shake or vary his story.
“And that’s that,” the Colonel finished, as he took his leave.
“Supposing the doctor’s suggestions are correct, we’re still no
nearer knowing how Meston heard that young Loring was in the place.”
“Or how he got to the bridge--if he did.” Wilson was staring dreamily
in front of him. “Thanks, Colonel. Don’t be downcast. I admit it’s
not very satisfactory at present; but the only thing is to keep
pegging away. I’ve known worse cases.”
“By the way,” said Michael, when the Colonel had gone, “Kershaw
apparently has a fancy he’s been burgled over the week-end, so
Brandreth tells me.”
“Rubbish!” said Wilson. “He couldn’t. I looked over the place myself,
before I left, and there wasn’t a thing out of place.”
“Except the bit of cocaine I took to examine,” Michael said.
“No one could have missed that.”
“Well, Brandreth said he thought so, anyway.”
“That,” said Wilson, “proves either a guilty conscience or--special
information. By Jove!” he sat up, suddenly wide awake. “That decides
me. If he suspects burglary he may as well know about it--at least
what it was for. Yes, I think a little conversation with Dr. Kershaw
is indicated. No, Michael, I don’t want you. You’d put him off. You
amuse yourself; I shan’t be long.”