Sergeant Purse, who had come over from Redleigh to take charge of the
matter, was a foxy-faced little man, lean and dried up in appearance,
with beady black eyes like those of a rat. He was immensely interested
in the matter, as he recognised that this was no common crime, and
hoped by tracing the assassin to make a big reputation as a zealous
officer and gain advancement. The description of the murderer given by
Mrs. Vence was largely advertised, and pointed mention was made of the
red-painted bicycle. In the illustrated daily papers pictures of
Hedgerton and Maranatha appeared, both the inside and the outside of
the house being delineated. Mrs. Vence also shared the honour of this
painful publicity, and her portrait looked like that of an old witch.
She was very much annoyed by this caricature.
"Me like that," screamed the housekeeper, when Sergeant Purse showed
her the picture. "Why, 'taint me at all. 'Tisn't saucy, and I always
had a bit of sauciness about me."
The sergeant, laughed drily. "You were not as young as you were."
"Oh, I'm growing old, I don't deny," snapped Mrs. Vence, crushing up
the paper wrathfully. "Sixty's getting on, say what you will. But I
ain't so bad-looking when all's said and done, although not so
handsome as when a gel. I'm active, too, cooking like an angel and
celebrated for my tidiness."
Purse had his own opinion about this, and, staring at the disreputable
dirty old beldame, wondering for the hundredth time why a fastidious
gentleman had engaged her. "Did you know Sir Hector before you came
here?" he asked, wondering in his own mind why he had not put the
question before.
"No, I didn't," retorted Mrs. Vence, alertly. "I saw an advertisement
in the paper as I picked up in a friend's house, and applied for the
situation, saying I could cook and hold my tongue, so Sir Hector
engaged me. I came down here a few days afore he did, quite a month
ago, to get the house ready, and dirty it was, with that, old Peddler,
the caretaker, as didn't half look after the furniture."
"Why was it necessary for you to hold your tongue?" asked Purse,
seizing on the only phrase in the speech which seemed to be important.
"Lawks! How should I know? Sir Hector, he says to me, he says, 'Hold
your tongue and don't talk, for I wants to be secret and quiet like
for a bit.' Them were his words, and inquisitions won't make me say
otherwise."
"Did he explain why he wished to be secret and quiet like?"
"No, he didn't drat you!" grunted the old woman, who was in a vile
temper. "He just had his dinner about six, when Mr. Lemby arrived, and
I showed him into the drorin'-room. I don't think Sir Hector, expected
him, for he seemed surprised like when I took the card of the gent
into the dinin'-room. But he said nothing to me, and went up to the
drorin'-room to have a chat, s'pose. Afore seven there was a ring at
the door, and the other gent arrived. While I was asking his business
Sir Hector came flying down the stairs and took him into the study,
telling me to come with cake and wine in a quarter of an hour. I went
to the kitchen and watched the clock, and about seven I walks in,
happy-like, into the study, knowing as I was doing my duty. There I
saw Sir Hector a corpse, and the gent bending over him, and----"
"You explained all that before," interrupted the sergeant, who knew
the sequel to the statement.
"Then why did you bother me to say it again?" demanded Mrs. Vence,
crabbedly.
"What was the exact time when the second gentleman arrived?"
"About twenty to seven; and a gent I call him, though I don't see if
he was one when he was muffled up like a Christmas-pudding. It was
twenty to seven, as I know from the kitchen clock, which I had my eye
on so's to bring in the wine and cake punctual-like."
"Hall, the postman, says that he arrived at the door about seven, or a
trifle afterwards," said Purse, meditatively, "I expect the murder
took place about that time. You heard no noise?"
"Drat you, how could I when in the kitchen at the back of the house,
and me not expecting horrors and corpses. I came into the study with
the victuals and drinks, as I says, and the postman knocked twice, as
I more or, less fainted, while the gent cut like the wind."
"Did Sir Hector appear to be afraid of his second visitor?"
"No. He seemed to expect him, for he says, 'Oh, you've come,' or
something like that, as he drawed him into the study and sent me about
my business."
"He expected him, then, and was quite friendly."
"You can put it like that if you likes," snarled Mrs. Vence, hugging
herself, and rocking to and fro, "but I'd like to know when I'm to be
let go?"
"After the inquest, which takes place to-morrow."
"And who's going to pay me for what I've had to put up with? I didn't
get no wages from Sir Hector, me having arranged for monthly
payments."
"Well, I suppose Sir Hector's heir will pay you, Mrs. Vence."
"Who's he?"
"I don't know. I'm off to see Mr. Lemby, who is a friend of Sir
Hector's. I may learn something about the heir from him."
"Well," said Mrs. Vence, rising with an ill-humoured look, "the sooner
you get information and them wages the better. I'm travelling to
London myself after the inquest to-morrer, and I do hope as my next
situation won't be police news and chamber of horrors." She paused,
then remarked significantly, "There's the letter, you know, Mr.
Purse."
"What letter?" asked the sergeant, alertly, and pricking up his ears.
"That as the post delivered when he come. He put it on the table in
the hall when talking to me. I shoved him out, and the policeman came.
Afterwards, that imp, Neddy Mellin. When things was quieter, I looked
for the letter. Never a sign of it, Mr. Purse, though I hunted
careful."
"Who took it?"
"Ask me another," said Mrs. Vence, cunningly. "All I can say is as the
door was open from the time the post came to the time I chased that
imp out, me being too worried to shut it."
"Did the boy take it?" asked the sergeant, rather foolishly.
"Lawks! and why should he? It wasn't nothing to do with him. I did ask
him, and he said as he never saw no letter on the table."
"Did Mr. Lemby----"
"He was in the study with the policeman, and with me and the corpse,"
said Mrs. Vence, truculently. "I don't go for to tell lies, do I? But
the door was open all the time, and the fog was pouring in like steam.
If you ask me," added the old woman, slowly, "I do say as the
murderer came back for that letter."
Purse jumped. "Why do you say that?"
"'Cause I don't see as anyone else could have taken it. 'Course it
ain't no business o' mine, but the murderer might have slipped round
the corner on the bicycle and waited his chance to steal."
"He would have acted like a fool had he done that," said Purse,
incredulously.
"Well, well, it's only an idea, as you might say."
"Have you any reason to----"
"No, I ain't got reasons. But the letter's gone, and as no one we know
took it, someone as we don't know did. And that's sense. Well, I'm
going to make myself some tea, and trim up my popping-out bonnet, so
as to look smart for the sitting on the corpse to-morrow. This me?"
Mrs. Vance glared at the crushed newspaper. "I'll have the
law on him as did it."
"Oh, go away and hold your tongue," said Purse, impatiently.
"I was engaged to hold my tongue," said Mrs. Vence, with great
dignity, and tottered out of the room along the passage and into the
kitchen.
Her repetition of the phrase dwelt in the sergeant's memory as he
walked to the inn where Mr. Lemby was staying pending the inquest.
Purse entered the little dark and damp sitting-room, where the
buccaneer bulked largely in the twilight atmosphere. It was a gloomy,
grey day, by no means cheerful, and the sergeant was glad to warm his
hands at the fire which Lemby's desire for comfort had provided. He
also suggested a lamp.
"What the dickens should I do with a lamp at twelve o'clock," asked
Lemby, bluffly. "It's darkish here I don't deny. But if you think that
I'm afraid to show my blamed face let's go outside."
"I never suggested such a thing."
"You hint at it because you think I have something to do with this
confounded murder, sergeant," roared the big man, garnishing his
speech with oaths after his usual fashion.
"Don't talk rubbish, sir," said the sergeant, imperiously, for
although a small man he had a great idea of his own importance.
"There's no evidence to implicate you. All the same, I'm bound to say
that anything you say will be used as evidence against you, if
suspicions are aroused."
"There, dash you! Didn't I say you suspect me?" growled Lemby. "Well,
you have stumbled on a mare's nest, hang you! No one was more
surprised than I was when I stumbled on that policeman and that old
hag dealing with a corpse."
"No one says otherwise," remarked Purse drily. "Undoubtedly the man
who stole the bicycle is the guilty person. Do you know who he is?"
"No, dash you, I don't. Wyke said nothing to me about seeing anyone."
"Did he tell you that he expected a visitor?"
"No. The ring came at the door about twenty or fifteen minutes to
seven, and he bolted away, asking me to wait."
"And he did not return?" said the officer, musingly.
"How the deuce could he, when the man had knifed him?"
"No, of course not," said the sergeant, soothingly, for Lemby was a
difficult witness to deal with. "You were a friend of Sir Hector's?"
"Yes, great friend."
"What do you know about him?"
"What everybody else knows. Everything I know is in the newspapers, as
these infernal reporters have been smelling round here."
"Was there anything in Sir Hector's past life to lead you to suppose
that he had some secret likely to bring about his violent death?"
"No. What a dashed roundabout way you have of asking questions! Why
don't you trace that bicycle and catch the assassin?"
"All over the country I have people on the watch. They may----"
"Yes, and they mayn't," interrupted the buccaneer. "And how long am I
to stay in this rotten hole?"
"Until the inquest is over. It will be held to-morrow. It's strange,"
went on the sergeant, "that no relative of Sir Hector's has appeared
to look after his interests. Yet the case is set forth in the
newspapers."
"Wyke has no relatives," said Lemby, grimly plucking at his beard.
"The title becomes extinct. If you don't believe me ask Mr. Sandal, of
Lincoln's Inn Fields, sergeant. He is Sir Hector's lawyer. I wrote and
asked him to come down."
Purse nodded approvingly. "Very wise of you, sir. But why take this
trouble?"
"Because I wish to know where the property goes to. Sir Hector should,
by rights, leave it to my daughter. He was engaged to marry her."
"Your daughter!" Purse started and stared.
"Yes, dash you! Why shouldn't I have a daughter? Here's the case in a
nutshell, and you can make what you can of it." Lemby paused, cleared
his throat, and continued. "Sir Hector was engaged to marry my
daughter Claudia, though she wasn't overfond of him, since she loved a
chap called Craver."
"That's the name of the Rector of this parish!" exclaimed Purse,
staring hard.
"It's the son I mean, not the father. Well, then, Edwin Craver loved
Claudia; but I refused to allow the marriage as I wanted my daughter
to become a lady of title. Sir Hector proposed, and the marriage was
to have taken place a month ago, as I insisted that Claudia should
become Lady Wyke. Then Sir Hector wrote postponing the marriage, and
came down here."
"What reason did he give?"
"Said his health was bad. I tried to see him and he refused. I
couldn't find out his address for a long time, as he wrote from his
London house. Finally I got it from Craver--Edwin, I mean--and came
down the other night to force Wyke to explain his dashed impudence.
While he was explaining the ring came at the door and he bolted. The
rest you know. Well?"
"Well," echoed Purse, vaguely and rather distraught. He did not know
very well what to say, as this new complication took him by surprise.
Edwin Craver loved the girl, Edwin Craver was the son of the Rector in
whose parish the crime had been committed. "Could it be that Edwin
Craver----"
"No," said Lemby, reading suspicion in the sergeant's eyes. "Edwin is
innocent. I'll swear. In my opinion it was----" He hesitated, faltered
and broke down, while Purse waited for him to complete the sentence.