“I hope, for his own sake, that Mr. Nicholas Hanborough _has_ got a
satisfactory explanation of the financial affairs of his firm,” was
Michael’s only comment on the afternoon’s proceedings. “You observed
that he and Kershaw were apparently simultaneously absent from the
party at the Grange at exactly the critical time?”
“I did. Our suspects seem to be crowding round the body again, don’t
they? I wonder if your friend Mackenzie was there too. Hadn’t you
better inquire?”
“I wonder whether Kershaw could have been mixed up in the financial
business?” Michael suggested hastily, having detected what he thought
a tinge of irony in his friend’s tone. “Do you think he was, and that
_he_ was the ‘last man one would ever have suspected’?”
“No reason against; no reason for,” was Wilson’s opinion. “We shall
have to wait. Perhaps to-morrow will bring us some fresh light.”
It did, but not exactly of the kind which Michael, at any rate, had
anticipated. They had not long finished their breakfast when there
was the sound of a car tearing across the bridge. It stopped at the
hotel; there was a murmur of voices below; and in another half-minute
the chambermaid knocked at the door and announced, “Mrs. Meston to
see you, sir.” As before, the owner of the name followed it into the
room.
She had changed enough in the three days since he had seen her
last, to have satisfied even Michael’s vindictive Puritanism. She
was very pale, so pale that the rouge on her cheeks was worse than
useless, and she was breathing hard, as if the normal supply of air
were insufficient to keep her going. Her grey eyes, dark-circled,
darted from side to side, as if she feared a new attack from almost
any quarter. But her lips were firmly set, and she came to business
without beating about the bush.
“Mr. Wilson,” she said, “is it true that you’ve arrested John
Loring?” Wilson intimated that it was.
“On the charge of murdering--my husband?”
“On the charge of being concerned in his death.”
“He wasn’t! It’s a lie! You know it’s a lie.” Wilson said nothing,
waiting to see what was coming next.
“He couldn’t have been, because--because----Is it true that Lockwood
asked him where he was on that night, and he wouldn’t say, and that’s
why he’s been arrested?”
“Mr. Loring,” Wilson said, “has so far declined to give any account
whatever of his movements.”
“But you know where he was. Don’t you? Can’t you guess?” She looked
up at him with an appeal.
“I don’t deal in guesses, Mrs. Meston. If you know, you had better
tell us, hadn’t you?”
“He was with me. That’s why he wouldn’t say. He was with me.” Her
fingers were gripping the back of a chair so furiously that all the
blood had left them, and her underlip was drawn in.
“May I ask where?”
“By the river. You know Sir Felix Lewis’s grounds. There’s an old
boathouse there, by the old bridge. It’s used as a summerhouse
sometimes. That’s where we were.”
“What were you doing?”
“Oh, talking, and talking--and being fools, as usual. We quarrelled,
you see.”
“Were you--alone?” Something in the tone of the question seemed to
strike Sylvia.
“Alone--why, of course. It wasn’t the sort of meeting we’d invite our
friends to.”
“You were alone all the time?”
“Yes--yes. Haven’t I said so?”
“How long were you there?”
“I don’t know. It felt like hours. I suppose it might have been an
hour, really, or a bit more.”
“From when, do you know?”
“Twelve o’clock, or a little bit later. We’d arranged to be there at
twelve.”
“Did you go there together?”
“No, John was there first. He sent me a note to the Grange to ask
me to meet him there at midnight. So I shammed sick, and didn’t go
to the party. Instead, I got out the Rover, and went down to the
boathouse, and he was there waiting for me.”
“Did you go away together?”
“No. I went away first. I left him.” Sylvia said the last words
almost solemnly.
“And you saw nobody while you were there?”
“No, of course not. There was nobody to see. Oh, do you mean there
_was_ somebody?”
“At any rate, you saw nobody. What did you and Mr. Loring quarrel
about?”
“Oh, the usual thing.” Sylvia shrugged her shoulders bitterly. “John
and I always quarrel. Ask Brandreth--ask any one. You don’t want me
to tell you all over again, do you?” She looked up; but, at Wilson’s
inexorable face, looked down again. “Oh, well, if it’s part of the
show----You know, if you know anything at all about our crowd, that
John was my lover a long time ago, before I was married. I ought
to have married him, then. God knows why I didn’t, except that I
was born a fool, I think. Anyway, I was having a jolly good time
then, and I didn’t see why I should stop it all just to marry John.
It would have meant stopping it all, you see--John didn’t make any
bones about that. He’d have wanted me all to himself, and I didn’t
see it. We quarrelled like cats about it, only we generally made up.
Then, one day, we had a worse quarrel than usual. John got absolutely
wild--and if you haven’t seen John furious you’ve missed one of the
sights of the world--and practically told me I could choose. I could
marry him at once or never see him again. Of course, that put my back
up, and I told him he could go to hell for all I cared, and I’d marry
him just when I pleased and not a bit sooner. So he went off in a
rage, and I stayed here and cursed him. I thought, of course, he’d
come back in a day or two and we’d make it up again. But the next
thing that happened was that Godfrey called me into his study, and
explained in his beastly fatherly way that John had gone to China,
and was never coming back to England, and that _he_ was responsible
for me now, and--oh, God! such a lot of stuff. It makes me sick to
think of it.
“I was absolutely furious with John for doing such an idiotic thing.
And I couldn’t bear to hang around, living on Godfrey’s money and
with his paws all over me. So I thought the best thing I could do was
to marry William and get out of it. Oh, it’s all very well to sneer,
Dr. Prendergast,” she said, turning upon him, “but I should like to
know what you would have done?”
As Michael prudently refrained from taking up this challenge, Sylvia
went on after a pause.
“Anyway, I _did_ marry him; and I’m not going to tell you just how
much of a mess that was, because I know Brandreth has. Of course, I
didn’t know what he was like, and besides, I didn’t know till I’d
tried how much I cared for John--damn him! We went on, somehow, and
I never saw John again till the night William--died. And I suppose
it’s that night you really want to know about, and you’re only just
putting me through this----
“I got John’s note just before dinner. It was just asking me to
meet him--nothing else; but it made all the difference. Wallace
Burden--you know him--had been bothering me to go off with him,
and one way and another I was absolutely fed up. Then, suddenly,
there was John--in England. Fortunately, I’d already told Godfrey I
wasn’t going to turn up at the party--I’d had enough of his damned
parties to last me a long time. So I just said I wasn’t feeling well,
and slipped off to my room. I knew by the time I came back--if I
did--they’d all be too drunk to bother where I’d been. And, anyway, I
didn’t mean to come back. I knew John must have come to take me away,
and I meant to go as soon as he asked me.
“So I went. I was a bit late getting off, because I met Brian
Mackenzie mooning about the grounds, and I couldn’t get away from
him. But at last I got off and down to the river, and found John
there. It was all right for a bit”--Sylvia’s eyes for one moment
grew dreamy with recollection--“then--I’m damned if I know what
happened. Somehow John began cursing me for marrying William--as if
I needed telling what a fool I’d been, and anyway _he_ hadn’t had to
put up with the consequences. Anyway, I lost my temper and answered
him back, and he began to tell me just what he thought about my
character. I suppose he’d had time to think it all out, in China; and
he didn’t waste any of it. John never was exactly what you’d call a
polite lover, Mr. Wilson. At last I told him I’d had about enough of
it; and he said, if I felt like that, he was sorry he’d ever come
back to England, and I could stay with William and be damned. We went
on that way for a bit, and at last it ended by my telling him I was
going back to bed at the Grange and he could do what he liked. So
I went. He didn’t try to stop me; he didn’t even help me start the
car, though it had sunk in the leaves and I could hardly get it out.
He just stood the other side of the river and looked. I half thought
he’d follow me, even then; but he didn’t. So that’s where he was--and
that was absolutely everything that happened. Why he couldn’t
have told you himself I don’t know, but John always was a damned
fool--like me. And--will you let him go, please?” In her desperation
her appealing glance even included the obdurate Michael, who was, as
a matter of fact, trying to make up his mind whether this was only
remarkable acting or the real truth.
“My dear Mrs. Meston,” Wilson was saying in a very gentle voice, “if
Mr. Loring is innocent, no one will be better pleased to let him go
than I shall. But----”
“But what? What are you talking about, may I ask?”
“Mrs. Meston, where was your husband that night? While you were
meeting Mr. Loring, I mean?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not the slightest idea. I didn’t know anything
about what he was doing. What do you mean?”
“Suppose,” said Wilson slowly, “suppose he was there too?”
Sylvia Meston stared at him with horrified, yet fascinated eyes.
“There? Where? Why? Oh, my God, you can’t mean that! How appalling!
But he _wasn’t_ there, Mr. Wilson! He couldn’t have been. You’re
telling lies--trying to frighten me. Aren’t you?”
“I didn’t say he was,” said Wilson. “I only want you to realise that
your statement does not of itself clear Mr. Loring.”
“But--I don’t know what you mean. William was killed here--at the
bridge. Wasn’t he? How could--any one up at the summerhouse have had
anything to do with it?”
“He wasn’t necessarily killed where he was found, Mrs. Meston.
In fact, the probabilities are that he was not killed there, but
somewhere up the river. Suppose it was at the summerhouse?”
“Oh, Christ!” The girl was as white as a sheet now, and swaying as
she clung to the chair. It seemed a miracle that she did not faint.
“I’ve been making it worse for John all the time! I tell you he
didn’t do it! He didn’t! Oh, what can I do to make you believe it?”
“Come now, steady,” said Wilson, laying a hand on her wrist. “Sit
down, and let’s talk it over quietly.” He guided her to a chair,
where she sat almost like a person in a trance, biting her fingers
and staring desperately at him. “You won’t do anything with
melodrama. Nobody wants Mr. Loring to suffer if he isn’t guilty,
and I for one will pledge my word that he shall have the fairest
chance I can give him. I will even tell you that he made a favourable
impression on me, and that, in spite of certain black appearances,
I’m at present willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“He didn’t!” Sylvia repeated. “It’s a lie--it must be lies.”
“But if he didn’t,” Wilson said, “and if you lose your head, you’ll
only make them look blacker still. Do you understand that, and are
you prepared to be sensible?”
Sylvia looked up sharply. “Do you mean you don’t believe what you
said just now? Was William there, or wasn’t he?”
“That, Mrs. Meston, is exactly what I am trying to find out, if you
will be so good as to help me.”
“Was he killed there? Not by here?”
“That also has to be investigated. And I want you, instead of trying
to shield people and behaving, if I may say so, like a fool, to
try and pull yourself together. Are you fit to answer one or two
questions, and to answer them truthfully?”
A flash of resentment showed itself in Sylvia’s face, but died away.
“Ask them,” she said. “I’ll answer--if I can.”
“First, then--Why did you come to me in the first place?”
“Because I thought William had been murdered--I told you so.”
“Why were you so certain?”
“I told you. Because I knew he couldn’t have killed himself--you
would too, if you’d lived with him. And I didn’t believe in its being
an accident. Nor did Brandreth. You know he didn’t.”
“But--excuse my pressing you--why were you, in any event, so anxious?
If he was dead, surely that was sufficient for your--purposes?”
“You talk as though I’d killed him,” said Sylvia listlessly. “I
didn’t. I didn’t _want_ him killed. And I thought, if anybody had
killed him--it was only fair--to him--that somebody should find it
out. I don’t suppose you’ll understand--but that’s the truth, all the
same.”
“Who did you think it was?”
“I didn’t think it was anybody.”
“Didn’t you? Then why were you so alarmed at the idea of Colonel
Lockwood’s arresting the wrong person--when you first came to me, I
mean?”
“You’re very observant. It did just flash through my mind, then,
that--well, if anybody knew John had been about, they might think all
sorts of things.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t! If I had, should I have asked you to go on?”
“And then you asked me to stop. Why?”
“Well, I should have thought that was obvious. I heard you were
after John--and that you’d been up at the summerhouse--and that
somebody had seen John at the cross-roads; and I didn’t know what you
would do next. So I asked Godfrey, and he told me I’d been a fool,
and it was most likely suicide, and I’d better choke you off before I
did any more harm. So I wrote to Brandreth--I thought that was better
than writing direct to you. But I meant him to show you the letter.”
“So I gathered,” said Wilson dryly. “And then you ran away. Where to?
And why?”
“I went to John. At least, I meant to, only he wasn’t there. Godfrey
gave me his address, but he’d had an accident, you know, and had
never gone home. It took me ages to find out where he was.”
“And why did you go?”
“Why, to tell him not to come back, of course!” said Sylvia, opening
her eyes wide. “And besides, if I wasn’t there, I thought you
couldn’t ask me questions. Then I found that Weaver, whose house he
was in, and he told me what had happened. So I came back.”
“I see. When, and why, did you fetch your property from Colchester in
Mr. Burden’s car?”
“Oh, Lord, do you know that too? It was--Wednesday week, I think. I
thought--I might be going to go off with him.”
“Had you told him so?”
“More or less. You have to say something to Wallace, sooner or later,
or he won’t stop talking.”
“But you didn’t?”
“Why, John came back,” said Sylvia, with complete naïveté. “I didn’t
know he was in England.”
“Did you--er--convey this fact to Mr. Burden?”
“No. But he didn’t need any facts conveyed to him. He took himself
off the moment he thought there was going to be a row. Before the
inquest, even,” said Sylvia scornfully.
“I see. Why didn’t you tell us all this before, when you first came
to consult me?”
“I didn’t want you to know it,” said Sylvia.
“Well, you see I do. And perhaps you can take in that it would have
been much better if you’d told me yourself in the first instance. If
anything would make me believe in Mr. Loring’s guilt it is the web of
inefficient lying with which you have tried to surround him,” said
Wilson severely.
“I----” Sylvia looked up indignantly, but suddenly gave up the
attempt. “I think you’ve got me on toast, Mr. Wilson, so I won’t try.
Anyway, I haven’t said a word that isn’t true, this time.”
“Oddly enough, I believe you,” said Wilson. “It may also interest you
to know that I have corroborative evidence, in the form of a piece
of your evening-frock which you tore on a nail in the boathouse.” He
produced it from his pocket-book. After a pause, the figure in the
arm-chair emitted a weak little giggle.
“Do you know,” it said, “you make me feel rather a fool.”
“That,” said Wilson, smiling cheerfully, “was my intention. And now,
will you answer one last question? Is Mr. Loring, as far as you know,
a friend of Dr. Kershaw’s?”
“_Kershaw’s?_ No, not that I know of. Kershaw’s always about the
place, but I never heard of John having anything to do with him.”
“Was he--a friend of yours?”
“No, thank you,” said Sylvia emphatically. Michael noticed that she
seemed quite to have regained her composure.
“Nor in love with you?”
“I hope not! I don’t like baboons.”
“Was Mr. Hanborough?”
“Nick? No, indeed. Nothing of the sort. Do you think I’m a honeypot,
Mr. Wilson?”
“I think you’re rather a violent and wrong-headed young woman,” said
Wilson. “But I’m in hopes that we may be working on the same lines
at last, if you’ll remember that, in my view, truth pays best in the
long run.”
“I’ll try,” Sylvia promised, looking dangerously meek. “But, Mr.
Wilson, can’t I see him?”
“Mr. Loring? Oh, I dare say that can be arranged,” said Wilson, “if
you behave yourself.”