neighbourhood. Passing police headquarters as he did on his way to the
station, he stopped and thought, and, reaching a decision, he went into
the gloomy building.
“Dr. Macleod is in the laboratory, Mr. Downer.” The door sergeant shook
his head dubiously. “I shouldn’t think he’d see anybody.” He lowered
his voice. “He’s on the poisoned woman, the Sweizer case. Yes, Reeder
is in charge, but the doctor is doing the examinations. We had Tensey,
the big specialist, here this afternoon. That’s for yourself.”
Downer nodded, and impressed these two facts upon his memory. He had
thought of taking up the case. The _Daily Globe-Herald_ had invited him
to do so, but the _Globe-Herald_ were notoriously tight-fisted, and
fought every item of the most reasonable expense account.
“Find out if he is visible, and, if he is, get my card to him.”
The gateman beckoned a uniformed man, who was gone some time before he
reappeared flourishing Downer’s card.
“Will you step up, Mr. Downer?”
Andy, in his white overall, was washing his hands when Downer came in.
“Sit, will you, Downer. I’ve nothing for you in this case. The autopsy
isn’t complete, but you can say that Sweizer has been arrested this
morning as he was going aboard a French boat.”
Andy bore no malice. The man had his living to get; he was indubitably
painstaking, and had been, and could be again, of real help to the
police. Besides which, he was telling him nothing.
“I didn’t come to see you about the Sweizer case, and the news of his
arrest is in the evening editions,” said Downer, tossing his cigar-butt
into a waste-paper basket. “I came up to see you about Miss Nelson.”
Andy finished drying his hands and hung up the towel.
“I should have thought your interest in Miss Nelson had evaporated by
now,” he said. “What is the latest discovery?”
“She’s in town.”
“Here?”
Andy’s surprise was genuine.
“Do you mean that she is living here, or that you saw her passing
through?”
“I don’t know where she lives, but for a fortnight she has been
visiting a sick sailor at 73 Castle Street.”
Andy was using an orange stick on his nails; he looked across at his
informant.
“At 73 Castle Street?”
He gave Downer the impression that he was trying to collect his
thoughts. Then:
“A pretty poor neighbourhood, isn’t it?”
Downer nodded.
“I thought you would like to know. Somehow it didn’t strike me that you
were aware of this.”
Andy resumed his manicure.
“There is no particular reason why she should not nurse a sick sailor
at 73 Castle Street, is there?” he asked carefully.
“Not at all,” said Downer.
“I suppose you know that Miss Nelson had a nursing course? She did a
lot of that kind of work during the war.”
“I didn’t know,” said Downer, choosing a cigar from his packed case
with some care. “Maybe she’s carrying on the good work.”
“Very likely,” said Andy.
Downer rose.
“I thought of going to Beverley one day next week to see whether there
are any loose threads that I could get hold of,” he suggested, and Andy
smiled.
“Your old pet thread will be difficult to grip,” he said significantly.
“Wilmot?”
Andy nodded.
“He’s a queer fellow,” ruminated Downer, lighting his cigar. “What does
he do for a living? He has some sort of an office in town, hasn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never enquired.”
“Isn’t there a possibility that he is Abraham Selim?”
“That idea occurred to me, but I did not pursue it,” said Andrew.
“Why not try your expert hand in that direction? It would make a fine
story.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AN INTERESTING INVALID
Andy was glad when Downer had gone. The news the reporter had brought
was startling. He had neither seen nor heard from Stella since he had
left Beverley. A letter from her father had told him that she was
staying with relations for a month, for apparently Kenneth Nelson
was satisfied. It would be a simple matter for Andy to discover the
identity of the sick sailor, but he shrank from spying upon the girl
and whatever secret she had. He was even more reluctant to revive the
painful unrest which he had experienced when he had returned to town.
Life had lost a great deal of its colour and sweetness when she had
gone out of his life. Pique? Perhaps he was piqued that she did not
come to him in her trouble. He wished he had asked Downer about her
hand. Was it bandaged still, he wondered? Why hadn’t she told him
everything? He had heard things from outside. That had hurt him.
As to the sick sailor——He shrugged his shoulders. He found nothing
significant in that episode. Stella was a law unto herself. If it
pleased her to devote herself to the sick poor, that was a matter
entirely for herself. And yet—he told himself that he was curious to
discover the identity of the invalid. In reality, as he knew, he was
hungry to see the girl again.
He sat down to write her a letter, and succeeded in writing and
destroying three before he came to his decision. She knew him well
enough to believe that he would not spy on her, and that his intentions
were not antagonistic. Having decided this much, the rest was easy.
He put on his hat, and out of the laboratory walked at a leisurely pace
in the direction of Castle Street. Even his leisure had a significance.
It was consistent with an indefinite and haphazard call. He intended
walking through the street; whether he would call or not he would
decide when he got there. In reality, his decision had been taken, and
he did not hesitate for a second before he raised the knocker of No. 73.
He heard a whisper of voices and a creak on the stairs. A little
interval, and then the door was opened.
Stella’s jaw dropped at the sight of him.
“Oh!” she said. It was the first time he had seen her embarrassed.
“This is a surprise, Andrew,” she went on. “However did you find out
where I was? I don’t live here. I’m just paying a visit.”
She was jerky of speech and inconsequent. More noticeable was the fact
that she stood square in the doorway and made no attempt to invite him
inside.
“I thought I’d look you up,” said Andrew quietly. “They told me you
were nursing somebody here.”
“Who told you? Father doesn’t know,” she said quickly.
She had gone red and white again, and was so palpably distressed at
having been found that, with a sick little feeling at his heart, he was
on the point of turning away when she stopped him.
“Will you wait here one moment?” she said.
She went down the passage and into a room. Presently she came out again.
“Come in,” she said. “I want to introduce you to my patient.”
Andy hesitated for a second, and then followed her. She stood inside
the room holding the door, and from where he stood in the passage he
could only see the foot of a bed.
“Come in,” she said again, and Andy entered.
He stared at the invalid, unable to believe his eyes. It was Scottie!
“Well I’m damned!” said Andy, and his profanity was justified.
Scottie did not look very ill, and, though he lay on the bed under a
light coverlet, he was fully dressed.
“What is the matter with you, Scottie?”
“Malaria with complications,” said Scottie promptly.
“What is the matter with him?” asked Andy.
The girl looked at Scottie, then looked back at Andy again.
“I suppose I shall have to tell you,” she said. “Scottie hurt himself,”
she continued hurriedly. “He didn’t want to go to a doctor, and, you
see, I had a nursing course, and though it was a terrible wound, I
managed to heal it.”
Scottie nodded.
“That’s right, Macleod. With all due respect to you, she is the only
doctor I have ever had who worked a miracle.”
“You’re hurt, are you?” said Andy slowly. “In the hand by any chance?”
Scottie nodded.
“Not as the result of a pistol fired haphazard in the dark by an
outraged householder, whose home had been burgled?”
“Got it first time,” said Scottie cheerfully. “I happened to be in the
park and stepped in the way of one of his projectiles.”
“I see,” said Andy softly, and seeing, was relieved. “So it was your
hand that was hurt, and Miss Nelson took you up to her room and
bandaged it? I didn’t notice anything when you went away.”
“I kept my hands in my pockets,” said Scottie. “It gave me a little
extra hell, but it was worth it.”
“You see, Andrew,” said the girl, laying her hand on his arm, “Mr.
Scottie was badly hurt, and if he had gone to a doctor there would have
been all sorts of stupid enquiries. The police were looking for a man
with a hurt hand.”
“So you burgled Beverley Hall, did you?” said Andy, sitting down and
glowering at the unabashed Scottie. “What’s all this talk I heard about
your reformation?”
“It is working very well,” said Scottie agreeably. “The camouflage
being no longer necessary, I will take my hand from beneath the
counterpane and get up. The truth is, Macleod,” he said with convincing
frankness, “I had an idea that the gent who held up you and Wilmot with
a gun was a servant at the Hall, so I went up to investigate. I was
anxious to get that marriage certificate back.”
“What servant at the Hall?” asked Andy.
“I didn’t know then and I don’t know now which one, and maybe it would
have been better if I had given you my views and you had conveyed them
to Salter. That it was a servant at the Hall I am sure. I have seen
him. After you told me about what happened at Wilmot’s place I slipped
out of the house and got into Salter’s grounds. I’ve always had a
theory that Merrivan’s murderer made his escape that way. In fact, my
pet theory was that he was one of the gamekeepers, and so he is!”
“What!”
Scottie nodded. There was no doubt about his earnestness.
“Don’t you see why it might have been? The gamekeepers were the only
people who were around at night and who have the range of the estate to
hide in. I told you about the man I saw sneaking in the trees. What I
didn’t tell you was that he was dressed like a gamekeeper—Brown velvet
coat and gaiters——”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted to do a little private detective work myself,” said
Scottie. “It would have tickled me to death if I could have come up
to you and said: ‘Macleod, meet the murderer of Merrivan and Sweeny?’
Conceit. I admit it. I am human.”
“Well, what happened?”
“I got into the park,” said Scottie, “and I made a bee-line for the
house. Unless the lad who held you up went straight back I should see
him, if my theory was correct. I did see him,” he said impressively, “I
was lying under a bush when he came up. I could have put out my hand
and touched him, but for certain reasons I didn’t. He went straight
into the house.”
“By which way?” asked Andy.
“Through a window,” said the other. “The window I opened afterwards,
though I didn’t find it so easy. There was no light in the room when he
pulled the window down after him. I thought I had missed him, but after
a while he put on a light—the little lamp on Salter’s desk.”
“That was the library?”
Scottie nodded.
“His back was towards me and he was leaning over the desk looking at
something.”
“Was he a gamekeeper?”
“He was a gamekeeper,” agreed Scottie. “Which of the bunch I couldn’t
swear to. I’ve never shot up the estate, though I’ve met a few brigands
from Beverley that have.”
Andrew stared at him.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” said Scottie. “I only saw him for a few seconds. He
pulled open one drawer and then he pulled open another, and then, quite
unexpectedly, he put the light out. I didn’t understand why he did this
at first, but I soon found it out. I had only just time to dip down
under the window when he came to it and pulled down the blind. Then the
light went on again, and was on for about four or five minutes. After
that time it went out, and I waited for a long while before I moved.
You see, I expected him to come out by the front door, and that’s where
I made a mistake. It was an hour before I discovered that he had come
out by the servants’ hall. I worked my way round the house, and was
wondering what I should do next, when a little door leading to the
courtyard opened and a man came out. I guessed by his kit that he was
my man, and I watched him out of sight.”
“Did you see his face?”
Scottie shook his head.
“It was much too dark,” he said. “He was a gamekeeper, and my
gamekeeper, I’ll swear. After he’d gone I went back to the front and
tried the window where he got in, but he had fastened it. It took me
about a quarter of an hour to get it open, and I went straight to the
library. I admit I made it untidy,” said Scottie, “but I’ll swear to
you, Macleod, that I was not after loot. It is not my game to burgle a
house unless I know where the stuff is to be found.”
“I thought that, too, Scottie, but I can’t quite understand why you
made such a mess, as you call it.”
“I don’t know myself,” said Scottie, “but I had an idea he had broken
in to read Salter’s private papers, and I was mighty anxious to see
what he could have been looking for.”
“Did you burn anything?”
“Did I what?” said Scottie in surprise.
“Did you burn anything?”
“No, I didn’t burn anything.” Scottie shook his head. “Why, was
anything burnt?”
“Go on with your story,” said Andy.
“There isn’t much more to tell,” replied the other. “Like a fool I
started loafing around the house and barged into Salter’s room. I wish
I hadn’t,” he said ruefully, examining his bandaged hand.
The girl’s eyes had been on Andy all the time. She had heard the story
again and again. Now she added her narrative.
“When Scottie came back and told me, I was awfully worried. I thought
he really had been burgling. But when he explained he had been
looking for the murderer I did all I could for him. He told me he
would be caught because you were certain to notify the doctors in the
neighbourhood to look for a man with a gun-shot wound, and when Mr.
Scottie said he had a little house in town that he rented, I promised
to come and dress his hand every day.”
Andrew drew a long sigh.
“My professional training induces me to call Scottie a liar. My
instinct tells me he is speaking the truth,” he said. “Really, you
people are almost as much a nuisance to me as Abraham Selim. Have you
lost the use of your hand, Scottie?”
“I have not,” said the other with satisfaction. “Sorry to disappoint
you, Macleod, but my hand’s in thorough working order. The bullet
missed the bone and I am nearly well again. If you hadn’t come to-day,
Macleod, you wouldn’t have seen me. And I wish you hadn’t.”
“I had to come,” said Andy slowly. “Downer trailed you—at least, he
trailed Miss Nelson. By the way, who is the gentleman upstairs?”
Scottie looked guilty for a second.
“He is a friend of mine,” he said carelessly, “an old college chum.”
“Dartmoor College, or Pentonville Preparatory?” asked the sarcastic
Andy, and Scottie smiled indulgently.
“The stage lost something when you went in for doctoring, Macleod,” he
said. “No, he is just an old friend. You wouldn’t know him, and don’t
call him down,” he added hastily. “He’s much too shy!”
The discreet Andy acceded to his request.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MR. WILMOT’S PROFESSION
Andy waited whilst the girl impressed upon Scottie for the twentieth
time the necessity for dressing his hand twice a day and drilled into
him the medicinal value in an array of lotions, powders, and ointments,
and then he walked back with her to her lodgings.
He was absurdly happy to see her again, even to meet her under these
somewhat compromising circumstances, and happiness made him silent. She
thought he was offended with her, and was disappointed.
“Andrew,” she said, speaking for the first time since they had left the
house, “I did it because I thought you would want me to do it.”
“Did what?” he said with a start, emerging from his dreams. “Oh,
looking after Scottie? I think it was most noble of you, Stella. I
realise that I am being feeble-minded in believing all that Scottie
says, and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred his story of the
murderous gamekeeper would be bunkum. Somehow, though I know he would
lie to me, I am pretty certain that he would not lie to you. I am going
down to Beverley Green again,” he said. “The gamekeeper gives me an
excuse.”
“Do you want an excuse?” she asked, looking up at him, and dropping her
eyes almost as quickly.
“No,” he said slowly, after a pause, “I don’t think I do.”
“Come down to-night,” she said, and instantly regretted her
impulsiveness.
“I was thinking of doing that,” said Andy, “but it had occurred to me
that it would look less—er——”
She flushed.
“You mean if we went back together after going away the same day?” she
said quietly. “It is curious how things like that occur to men before
they occur to women. I suppose I have no sense of propriety. Now you
must wait here, Andrew, whilst I pack my bag—which you can carry.”
He walked up and down outside the little house where she had taken
lodgings, peace in his heart and a glowing sense of triumph that his
greatest successes had never brought to him.
Something of the same happiness possessed Stella Nelson as she packed
her suit-case in frantic haste, for fear she should keep him waiting
too long. There was a bill to be settled with her landlady, and Stella
fretted whilst that good woman went in search of change. It was five
minutes before she came back, and Stella, not waiting to count the
silver she had given her, picked up her case and walked out of the
house.
She looked up and down the street in dismay. Andy had disappeared. She
waited ten minutes before she despatched a boy in search of a cab, and
when the cab came and she had put her baggage inside she could have
wept.
* * * * *
Andy, pacing the pavement before the house, was so completely absorbed
in his thoughts that the impression he received of his surrounding
was of the faintest. On the opposite side of the street was a high
wall, behind which the glass skylight of a workshop showed. It was
evidently part of one of the shops in the High Street, the back of
which he could see from where he stood. In the wall was a small door,
and he was looking abstractedly at this when it opened and a man came
out, followed by a bareheaded woman. She was smartly dressed, and they
stood for a moment in consultation before, with a little nod, she went
back, closing the door behind her, and the man set off at a smart pace
towards the main road.
Andrew’s interest was an idle one. He would have watched two sparrows
fighting with a concern as great. It was not until the man, reaching
the corner, turned to beckon something (a cab, thought Andy) that
all his senses were awake. It was Arthur Wilmot! Never before had
he seen that young man in town, and, though he had set enquiries on
foot, he had not discovered the mysterious business which brought
Arthur so regularly to the city. He looked round, hoping to see the
girl, but he knew that she could not have finished her packing. It was
an opportunity too good to be lost, and, although it was a wrench,
he turned reluctantly and crossed the road as Wilmot jumped into
the car he had summoned. Stella would understand. He would explain
to her to-morrow. Such a chance might not occur again, he thought.
Nevertheless, Andrew wished Arthur Wilmot at the bottom of the sea.
He called a taxi to him as the car drove off.
“Follow that car,” he said.
* * * * *
Stella’s home-coming had been a disappointing experience. She was glad
to be back at Beverley Green, almost as glad as Kenneth Nelson was to
see her. He fussed around her, took her to the studio to show her a new
picture, and produced a glowing record of the new cook’s economy and
efficiency, and yet she felt dispirited and amazingly lonely. The note
which she found waiting for her from Arthur Wilmot, and which she read
without realising that he was the writer, neither added to nor relieved
her gloom.
“Now tell me all about what you have been doing,” said Kenneth,
beaming. “People have been enquiring about you, but I told them you had
gone in for an extra nursing course. By the way, what made you take it
up again, my dear? I suppose you were bored, and I don’t wonder. Did
you see our mutual friend Macleod?”
“I saw him for a moment,” she said briefly.
“People have stopped talking about poor Merrivan,” Mr. Nelson rattled
on, “and I must say it is a relief. Arthur Wilmot is selling the
house—there was no will, by the way. A curious fellow, Wilmot. He
glares at me every time I meet him, as though he had any cause for
offence, by gad! He’s a lucky fellow I didn’t meet him the night that
infernal reporter——”
She listened without hearing. Beverley Green would be very different
without Andy. She could not realise what it would be like, and yet she
had spent nearly three years in the village before she had known him.
But she was only a child then (she was immeasurably superior to those
adolescent days), a woman now. Andy was necessary.
She almost wished, she thought whimsically, that she had asked Scottie
to come down and commit a burglary—just a little burglary, where
nothing really valuable was stolen, but which would necessitate the
permanent return of Andrew Macleod. She made a mental calculation; if
every house in the Green was burgled, he would only be there three
months, supposing there was a sufficient interval between each crime,
and probably Scottie would be bored too. But Scottie was reformed. She
had a little warm feeling of satisfaction at the thought that she had
been responsible for his reformation.
At one time she had hated Andy. She recalled this period with
satisfaction, and strove again, without success, to remember just
how she felt. Andy was not coming back. He had thought things out
whilst she was in the house, and he had decided to break off the
friendship then and there. It had been cruel of him to go away without
a word—moral cowardice on his part.
“I am going over to the Sheppards to play bridge. Will you come?
They’ll be delighted if you will,” said Nelson.
She shook her head.
“No, thank you, father, but please go.”
She was glad to be alone in her present mood. Of course, Andy had not
believed Scottie’s story. All the time, when he was being so pleasant
to her, he was secretly disapproving, and had seized the moment of her
departure to run away. She couldn’t imagine Andy running away from
anything. It was inconsistent with her knowledge of him. But, then, she
had made so many mistakes about men. Take Arthur Wilmot, for example;
her error there had been disastrous. She wished she could hate Andy
again. After all, she had only helped Scottie because she thought she
was helping him. The acquaintance, the friendship, could not end this
way. She would write to him.
She had got as far as “Dear Dr. Macleod” when the maid came through to
open the door. Stella had not heard the faint tinkle of the bell, and
then she looked up into the smiling face of Andy, and, regardless of
the maid, who was hurrying to obliterate herself, ran at him and caught
him by the arms.
“You did come? You are a brute, Andy! Why did you leave me?”
“I’m all you say and worse, but I’ve come with the loveliest
story—something that will amuse you, Stella.”
Evidently it appealed to Andy. His laughter filled the room.
“I don’t want to be amused,” she said obstinately. “I want to be
mollified. I was just writing you a terrible letter. No, you can’t see
it!”
But he snatched up the paper.
“Dear Dr. Macleod,” he mimicked. “I should have answered you with even
greater dignity.”
“Tell me all the amusing news. I am glad to see you,” she breathed.
“Why did you leave me, Andy?”
“Because I saw Arthur Wilmot behaving as mysteriously as a stage
criminal. I just had to find out what this secret business of his was.
Do you know Flora?”
“Flora?” She frowned. “Flora who?”
“Have you never heard of Flora? I thought her name was famous amongst
women.”
“I know Flora the milliner,” she said.
He nodded.
“Flora the milliner,” he said solemnly, “is Arthur Wilmot!”
She gasped.
“Arthur Wilmot! Oh, that’s too ridiculous. Arthur doesn’t know anything
about hats.”
“On the contrary, he is an authority,” he chuckled. “A little time ago
I went into his house, saw a woman’s hat in course of making lying on
the table, and drew the worst possible conclusions. That is Arthur’s
secret. He is a man milliner; he is, in fact, Flora. He has three
stores in town, and I followed him from one to the other. Apparently he
always goes round in the evening to check the takings. Of course, there
is no reason in the world why he shouldn’t be a milliner.”
“Wait,” she said, and went to her desk.
She returned with a letter.
“This was waiting for me when I got back,” she said.