Wilson did not show any great anxiety to discuss the bearings of the
last interview. The morning paper arrived just as Sylvia Meston had
gone, and he spent some time reading it in a desultory manner, with
occasional lapses into brooding. At last he looked up. “You know,
Michael,” he said, “I’m inclined to think that that young woman was
telling the truth.”
“If that’s so,” Michael said uncharitably, “it must be the first time
on record.”
“Very possibly. Which perhaps gives it all the more weight. If she
is, of course, it rather knocks the bottom out of your Loring-Kershaw
reconstruction, doesn’t it?”
“It doesn’t necessarily clear John Loring, even if it is true,”
Michael said. “He might have committed the murder after she went
away.”
“And after he went away himself, you mean. He couldn’t have done it
in between, because, in the first place, he hadn’t time, and in the
second, our friend Machin was watching him, if you remember. So that
involves his going away, picking up Meston somewhere in his car, and
murdering him--all as a deliberate plot, laid in advance. It doesn’t
sound likely, and further, I doubt whether he’d really have had time.
It’s a little uncertain when he left the bridge, but the police have
been making inquiries into his accident, and it was only half-past
two when he ran into the other car.”
“What did happen, then?”
“I only wish I knew! I wonder if young Weaver notified Godfrey Loring
of his brother’s accident, by the way, or if he found out by chance?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Just an idea of mine,” said Wilson. “Thank you.” The maid-servant
had just brought in a letter sent round by hand. Wilson read it
through twice, with his eyebrows going up. Finally he handed it to
Michael, with a shrug. It was a note from Colonel Lockwood, and it
merely stated that a silk rope, knotted, had been found hidden in
the leaves just by the old boathouse. With a smile almost of pity,
Michael handed it back to his friend.
“This is a topsy-turvy case, isn’t it?” he said. “Just when you
think you’ve cleared John Loring, there turns up a piece of nearly
conclusive evidence against him. That is, unless you think there were
two ropes.”
“That’s hardly likely,” Wilson admitted. “But no--this is impossible!
Sorry, Michael, I want to think it out.”
“You might think just how good an actress a woman can be,” Michael
suggested nastily, but could not pursue the matter, as he was just
then summoned to the telephone. When he came back, all thoughts
of Sylvia Meston had left his mind, and his face was strained and
anxious.
“That was Warden, Harry, on the ’phone from Colchester,” he said.
“He’s very anxious for me to go over there at once--and you too, if
you can spare the time.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Hanborough’s levanted. He didn’t turn up to his rendezvous this
morning, and sent a note saying he was clearing out.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Nor I. But he’s apparently admitted a whole lot of things which may
or may not have a bearing on this business. The police are in the
Colchester office now, and Warden very much wants me to hear what
they’ve got to say. He didn’t want to tell me any more himself over
the ’phone. But I thought you might think it worth while to come too.”
“Perhaps it is.” Wilson got out of his chair. “Anyway, it’s probably
more useful than sitting puzzling one’s brains here. I want some
time to go and see that rope; but I think I’ll leave it till I know
a little more what I want to find. We’d better go by car, I should
think. Will you go and see about one, Michael? There’s a job I have
to do first.”
As Michael left the garage, having bargained with it for the
immediate use of its fastest vehicle, he met Brandreth ambling along.
The little lawyer looked more debonair than ever, and he greeted
Michael with a twinkle and an amiable good-morning.
“Let me congratulate you--or, rather, Mr. Wilson--on your
discernment,” he said. “Sylvia has just been telling me her young
man’s not going to be hanged after all.”
“Mrs. Meston is a little premature in her conclusions,” said Michael
sourly. “As far as I recollect, Wilson only told her that she made
matters much better for him when she consented to tell the truth!”
“Aggravating girl, isn’t she?” said the aggravating little man. “I
must say it says much for your fair-mindedness that you’re able to
admit when she’s speaking the truth. It’s a pity Kershaw can’t see
that.”
“Can’t see _what_?” said Michael, thoroughly bewildered.
“Your essential fair-mindedness. He thinks you’re out to hang him,
you see.”
“And wouldn’t that be fair?”
“Don’t be prejudiced, doctor. Of course it wouldn’t. Kershaw’s
manners may not be pretty, but he never killed Meston. What on earth
would he have gained by it, do you suppose? And if you weren’t too
proud to listen to gossip, as I do, you’d have discovered long since
that Kershaw never does anything unless he stands to gain something
by it!”
“Why does he need to gain such a lot?”
“Oh, that’s a different question, isn’t it?” said Brandreth. “You’d
better ask him. Well, I won’t keep you. You’ll tell Mr. Wilson what a
meddlesome old nuisance I am, won’t you?”
* * * * *
“That man’s like a revolting Greek chorus, always turning up and
moralising where he isn’t wanted!” said Michael, when they were
seated in the car. “What on earth was he up to then, I should like to
know?”
“Giving us a hint, I should say.”
“What on earth about?”
“Why, about Kershaw’s motives. It may be useful yet.”