Wilson roused himself, as they swept up the drive of the Grange,
to comment, like Michael before him, on the extreme danger of that
narrow entry; and found that Bille, unlike Edna, was a whole-hearted
sympathiser. “It ought to have been widened years ago,” he agreed.
“Would have been, too, but that Squire and his father were both
chairmen of the Bench. One of these days there’ll be a bad accident,
and then I suppose something will be done about it. Do you want to
see the Squire, sir?”
“Not if I can help it,” Wilson replied. “In fact, I want as little
fuss as possible. I just want to have a few words with Potts, and
then get away. Perhaps you’d better stay in the car, Bille, if you
don’t mind. You’re probably a bit too well known hereabouts, and Dr.
Prendergast can do any necessary introducing. There’s just a chance
that Potts may open the door.”
As a matter of fact, the last-named eventuality actually did occur.
But Wilson’s hope of getting his interview without disturbing any
other member of the household was doomed to disappointment; for, even
as they stood in the doorway preparatory to stating their business,
a door on the far side of the hall opened suddenly, and Dr. Kershaw
bounced, more than walked, out, his method of exit suggesting rather
strongly that he had been assisted from behind. As he staggered into
the hall, the face of the Squire, bearing a sardonic grin, appeared
in the open doorway. Seeing the little group at the front door, he
came forward, with a change of expression. Kershaw, whose face was
livid with emotion, appeared not to see them, but on hearing Godfrey
Loring’s footsteps, turned, and all but shook his fist in his face.
“Very well,” he said, “I shan’t forget.”
“I hope you won’t,” the Squire replied. “You might also remember that
it isn’t altogether healthy to get thrown out of here.” He laughed.
“Hullo, doctor, what can I do for you?”
At these words Kershaw, whom the penultimate sentence appeared to
have reduced almost to a fit of apoplexy, turned sharp round, and,
seeing Michael and his companion, made a sudden rush for the door. He
nearly knocked over the footman as he disappeared down the steps.
“May I introduce my friend, Mr. Wilson?” Michael said. Godfrey Loring
raised his eyebrows politely, but said nothing.
“Good afternoon, Squire,” said Wilson. “I’m really here on false
pretences--it should be Colonel Lockwood. He understands that one of
your men found a rope down by the old bridge last night, and there
are just one or two points about it he wants cleared up, if I could
see the man. It won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”
“Certainly. Potts!” Loring called to the footman. “Do you want a
private conversation? If so, my study’s at your disposal.”
“There’s no reason you should not hear every word, Squire,” Wilson
said carelessly, and somewhat to Michael’s surprise. “But perhaps we
needn’t inform the world, though the point’s of no great interest.”
He passed into the study, followed by Loring, Michael, and the
footman. A whisky decanter and glasses were set out, and Loring
offered drinks, helping himself when the others declined. Meanwhile,
Michael gazed at Potts, whom he had not seen before. The footman, he
decided, was not prepossessing, though it was with an animal, rather
than a criminal, ugliness. He was of the gorilla type, with long
arms, low brow, a prognathous jaw, and a heavy crop of black hair;
and Michael wondered at the taste which should select such an object
to open the door to its visitors. He seemed phenomenally stupid.
Michael could not conceive how cross-examination could get any useful
information out of him, and waited with all the more interest for
Wilson to begin. He was proportionally disappointed to find that
Wilson elicited nothing whatever beyond the story they had already
been told by Bille in the car, and, indeed, hardly seemed to try. He
only established, perhaps a little more exactly, the position of the
stump by which the rope was found, and then thanked the footman, and
indicated to the Squire that he might be dismissed at once.
“You’d never seen the rope before, I suppose?” was his parting
question.
“Not that I know, sir,” said the footman, as he disappeared.
“That all right, Mr. Wilson?” said Loring. “Case getting on nicely?”
“So-so,” said Wilson. “It’s a long job. We’re holding your brother,
you know, for the present.”
“So I heard,” said the Squire. “Dashed inconvenient for him, poor
chap. I suppose you’ll have done with him soon?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say, at the moment,” said Wilson gravely. “When
did you hear of his accident, by the way?”
“Some time the next day--Saturday,” was the reply. “Weaver--the
fellow who picked him up--rang up and told me.”
“But you didn’t tell Mrs. Meston, did you--when she went off to find
him?”
“No, I didn’t.” The Squire took a long drink. “I wasn’t aware that
that came into the case, but if it does, I don’t mind telling you
that I didn’t tell her deliberately. You know what Mrs. Meston is,
and she had thoroughly gone in off the deep end. I’d just half a
suspicion at the time--knowing my brother--that if he _had_ managed
to run across Meston while he was here, there might have been
trouble, and I thought the less she poked her nose in it, the better
for all concerned.”
“Then you knew he’d been in the neighbourhood?”
“Yes. Potts told me he’d seen him.”
“Didn’t you expect him to turn up here?”
“Hadn’t the slightest idea,” Godfrey Loring said. “John don’t exactly
love the home of his ancestors, you know; and when he left it he
didn’t bless the threshold. I supposed he’d turn up if he wanted to,
and not otherwise.”
“Thank you. Can you tell me one other thing? What were you and Dr.
Kershaw quarrelling about?”
“Well, I’m damned! Aren’t you being a trifle personal, Mr. Wilson?
What’s it got to do with you?”
“If I tell you that Dr. Kershaw is under grave suspicion of being
connected with a--financial scandal, which we are anxious to clear up
with as little publicity as possible, will you tell me, Mr. Loring?”
Loring took another drink. “Oh, if it’s a criminal matter--I don’t
mind. There’s nothing in it, anyway. Kershaw merely wanted to borrow
some money off me.”
“For any particular purpose?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t ask. Kershaw’s always hard up, more or less, and
always sponging on his friends. I don’t know if that helps you.”
“Did you lend it him?”
Loring smiled. “From his expression as he left the house, I should
have thought you would have gathered that I did not.”
Wilson smiled back. “Have you often let Dr. Kershaw have money?”
“Nary a once. I’m not quite a fool,” was the reply.
“Well, thank you very much. I’m very much obliged to you, and I need
not take up your time any longer,” said Wilson, getting himself and
Michael out of the room. Shepherded by the Squire, they passed down
the steps and out to the car, where Inspector Bille was awaiting them
rather uneasily.
“I say, sir,” he said, “while you were in there, Dr. Kershaw passed
out, with a face like nothing on earth, and rode off hell-for-leather
on his bike. In view of what you were telling me awhile back, don’t
you think we’d best pass the word to the station to keep an eye on
him? We don’t want him to get off.”
“I’ve already warned them,” Wilson soothed him. “I don’t want him too
closely watched, because I thought he might give somebody else away,
if he was frightened and left at large. But I think you’ll find that
your people have got their eye on him.”
“Hang-dog sort of fellow that Potts is,” said Michael. “It was a pity
the Squire turned up just when he did. It stopped you getting any
more out of him. I suppose you didn’t want to press him in front of
his master?”
“I didn’t,” said Wilson. “And I didn’t want to alarm him either. But
I got what I wanted.”
“_Did_ you? I didn’t think you got anything fresh.”
“I got from his own lips the statement that he found that rope by the
alder clump.”
“What’s the importance of that?”
“Only this,” said Wilson, his eyes dancing, “that I went through
that pile of leaves myself with a tooth-comb on the afternoon of the
inquest, and there was no rope there then.”
Inspector Bille gasped, and his jaw dropped. “Why, then--then----” he
said, and stopped, for Wilson had ceased to listen.
“I _know_,” he was saying to himself--“I _know_ the answer’s just
under my hand. Wait a minute.” And he relapsed into silence; but just
as they reached Steeple Tollesbury he almost sprang to his feet.
“Bille,” he said, “do you happen to know what the bottom of the Toll
is like by the Old Malting House? Is it all mud, I mean?”
“All mud, I think,” said the Inspector. “No, bless my soul. That’s
where the piers are.”
“Piers? What piers? And where are they?”
“Jutting out into the river just by the Old Malting House. There used
to be a stone quay there, but it’s gone years ago, and there’s only
these two piers left. They’re about eight feet down, covered with
mud themselves now. I’d forgotten about them till you asked me.”
“Just so. Thank you. I believe, Michael--I’ve been a blind fool, but
I believe I see daylight.”
“What’s the idea?” Michael asked curiously.
“Do dead bodies float or sink, Michael?”
“Float, generally,” Michael said. “But what----”
“And that dead body was in the river five days, and no one saw it
floating! I think we’d better test this quickly.”