Comes a Stranger (10 page)

“Sharp like,” he told Bobby.

It had been exactly ten o'clock when he heard the shots and went to investigate them. He had found the dying man lying in a sunk lane, providing a short cut for foot passengers to and from the village, who thus avoided the rather long detour by road that would otherwise have been necessary. On his giving the alarm Mr. Chapman and several of his men had gone with him, bringing back the wounded man on a stretcher improvised on the spot from branches cut or broken from neighbouring trees.

Bobby reflected that this probably meant that every likely clue on the spot had been thoroughly trampled out of existence. Half a dozen heavy booted men moving excitedly to and fro in the vicinity would leave little trace of what had happened before their arrival. No good saying so, however. The mischief was done for one thing, and for another the first necessity had been that the injured man should receive attention. Then, too, the thought of murder had probably occurred to no one. Accident or suicide at first it would be put down as, and only later would the grim thought, certainty, of murder begin to be entertained.

Both unfair and useless, then, to complain, but all the same bad luck that there probably remained no chance of gleaning any information from even the most careful inspection of the scene of the crime.

In reply to a question Hill had no doubt about finding the exact spot, even now, in the darkness. But he did not see what the good would be.

“You won't see nought,” he said, “not till daylight.”

“It's the weapon,” Bobby said. “We ought to get hold of the weapon if we can possibly.”

Another car arrived. It was Major Harley. He had driven on from Wynton Lodge. He was a brisk, quick-spoken, apparently capable man, and he agreed at once, as soon as he understood the position, to Bobby's suggestion that a search should be begun immediately for the weapon used. 

“Most important to find it,” he agreed.

“He undertook, too, to 'phone the Scotland Yard authorities, explain the circumstances, and secure permission for Bobby to remain on the spot for the time.

“I shall tell them I consider it most fortunate to have an experienced officer here from the very start,” he said.

Two or three of the farm labourers agreed to accompany Bobby and Len Hill to make a renewed search for the weapon, and Mr. Chapman allowed them to provide themselves with stable lanterns. They started off accordingly and as they went Len Hill said:

“I don't wonder the Major thinks it rare luck there should be a Scotland Yard man here. Never been a murder in these parts before that ever I heard tell of, and when one happens, there's a London man right on the spot.”

Bobby said nothing, but again there came a little nagging thought in his mind that perhaps there was no coincidence at all, that perhaps his arrival in the village, his known occupation, had merely been the spark serving to bring about an explosion that time and circumstance had long since prepared.

The search failed, nor was it long before Bobby found that he was meeting with failure, too, in his efforts to keep up the interest and the enthusiasm of his voluntary helpers. His idea of a search was to cover the whole ground, inch by inch, each searcher assigned a definite area as his own responsibility. These farm labourers' idea of a search was to plunge about here and there in what looked likely spots and then give up. But the police never give up. Their job is simply to make sure, success or failure being merely incidental. Then again, as was pointed out to Bobby with much force by more than one of his helpers, they had their work to do next day. Mr. Chapman would expect them all to be at their jobs as usual in the morning and anyhow what was the good of messing about in the dark any longer?

One by one therefore his volunteers, the first flush of excitement and interest over, slipped away. Bobby had indeed been deserted by almost all of them when presently a message came from Major Harley, summoning him back to the farm. Glad to abandon a task that was plainly beyond one man's capacity, Bobby returned accordingly, and found the Major waiting by his car.

“They've been giving you the slip, haven't they?” he said as Bobby came up. “Not much good trying to do anything more to-night, anyway. We must wait till morning. Lot to do then. I've been fixing things up. You had better come back with me and we can have a talk. Mills has been telling me a queer sort of yarn about some young American—can't make head or tail of it myself.”

Bobby obediently took his seat in the car and they started. When they reached his home, the Major left the car standing outside the front door with the remark that now the rain had cleared off and it looked like remaining fine, he wouldn't bother about opening the garage.

“Want the car again soon enough,” he said as he led Bobby into the house and across the hall to a small room he used as his office when at home. There was a tray with sandwiches, whisky and soda, and coffee in a vacuum flask, waiting for them, and they were both glad of the refreshment. Seating himself comfortably and waving Bobby to another chair, he said:

“Now, then, what's all this about a dead body seen in the Kayne library?”

Bobby repeated the story in careful detail, and the chief constable listened with close attention.

“What do you make of it?” he asked when Bobby ceased.

“It seems incredible in itself, and equally incredible that anyone should invent such a story,” Bobby answered slowly. “I haven't got beyond that as yet, sir. Immovable object and irresistible force problem. Mr. Virtue seemed very strong on wanting to search the whole library. I thought that seemed quite genuine. I suppose Mr. Broast would consent?”

“He's very touchy about that blessed library of his,” observed the Major, a little doubtfully. “There's no confirmation of Virtue's story, and there seems evidence it can't be true in the fact that there's no artificial lighting. And if Broast says he closed the shutters as usual—well, how could anyone see anything, dead body or living man or anything else?”

“Yes sir, quite so, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I should be inclined in a way myself to wipe it out. Of course, Virtue can be questioned again. We hadn't much time to ask him anything. Only there is one thing. Mills says the description Virtue gave of the dead body he claims he saw is just like a photograph in Miss Perkins's possession.”

“I know,” said the Major. “Mills told me. Very odd. I don't see how it can be a mere coincidence.”

“No, sir, I think coincidence can be ruled out. The left ear peculiarity is decisive.”

“How about this for an idea?” the chief constable asked. “Virtue killed Nat Kayne and then reported this yarn to Mills to prove an alibi. How about time and distance?”

“The murder was at ten o'clock, according to Len Hill, at least, that's when he says he heard shots,” Bobby answered. “It must be about two miles from where it was committed to the village. Mills says Virtue turned up at about a quarter past ten. Virtue is a good runner, I saw that. It would be possible. He wasn't out of breath at all when I saw him, but it's down hill and he could cover the two miles in ten minutes or so and have a minute or two to get his breath again. It's possible but only just. He might have had a bicycle.”

“Check that up,” said the Major. “Someone may have seen him—heard him if he ran the whole way.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “But there's this again. It's doubtful if he had ever even seen Nat Kayne. There seems no motive at present. He has only been in England three months I think he said. And I don't think Nat Kayne had ever been in America. That applies to Miss Perkins also, I imagine. I should suggest as a starting point investigating the apparent connection between Miss Perkins's photograph and the description given by Mr. Virtue.”

The chief constable nodded and made a note.

“Looks as if they might be confederates. Very valuable stuff in the Kayne library. May have been after it. Broast is always nervous about burglary attempts. Anyhow, there's Starting Point A.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I thought of that, too, only it does seem going a long way round, if it was all a put up job to get a chance to do a spot of burglary. Complicated.”

“If it's Virtue and Miss Perkins working together,” the Major pointed out, “they're amateurs, and amateurs are like that—complicated. Try to be clever. You say Virtue pressed for an immediate search. He may have reckoned that would give him his chance. Broast was out, wasn't he? Chance for Virtue to slip something in his pocket while you and Mills were searching—something like these Mandeville pages, that are worth money.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, “only if it's that way, why did he draw attention to Miss Perkins, if they were working together, by describing a photograph of the man she's engaged to? Mills says she started showing it round as soon as she got her job at the library. He says some of the women didn't believe her—she's never worn an engagement ring. They seem to think she invented it to show off.”

“Might be that,” agreed the Major, who liked to keep up-to-date with all the newest theories. “Repressed sex instinct. Knew she wasn't attractive to men and wanted to make other people think she was. I've known instances. It's all in Freud. He knows. Well, call that Starting Point B.—why did she show the photo round the village?”

He made another note and Bobby went on.

“There's another thing I don't understand. I mean Miss Kayne's attitude. The Kayne library is famous all over the world pretty well. It's extremely valuable—fame and fortune in one for its owner. And yet she gives me the impression—well, it's almost as if she hated the place. I've seen her look at it just as you imagine an old Hebrew prophet might have looked at an image of Baal.”

“I expect it's a little like that,” the Major said, “the false god to whom her father sacrificed. He spent all his money on it. Her life, too; that was sacrificed as well. She never had any youth No social life. No friends. The library and nothing else.”

“Wasn't she engaged or nearly engaged at one time?” Bobby asked.

“Goodness, no, never any man in her life,” the Major answered. “I doubt if she ever saw anyone in trousers except old professors and bookworms—and the villagers of course. It was all her father and his books.”

“But if she hated—”

“Oh, that was only afterwards, after his death. That left a big gap in her life, and I suppose she began to feel then how much she had given up, and all for nothing, now she had lost interest in the library when her father had gone.”

“I see, sir,” said Bobby and hesitated, remembering what Olive had told him. But there seemed no object in repeating a story that could have nothing to do with recent happenings and that, although it had not been told under any pledge of secrecy, was still a matter of purely private interest. Probably neither Miss Kayne nor Olive would wish it repeated unless for good reason. He said: “I understand all the money old Mr. Kayne spent on the library he made out of it, that his discoveries and dealings made it self-supporting?”

“Oh, he used his private means as well, every penny almost,” the Major answered.

“Did Miss Kayne ever object or grumble?”

“Not while he was alive,” the Major answered. “In fact, I never heard of her grumbling about the financial side. I don't see how she could. There's a fortune there, and the Courts would certainly give permission for a sale if she pressed for it. She just seemed to lose interest, that's all. Natural enough.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “Though I should like to call that Point C.—why Miss Kayne's attitude to the library changed.”

“Oh, all right,” said the Major and made a note though without much conviction—Bobby suspected he put a note of interrogation against it.

“There is one point I think I ought to mention,” Bobby went on. “Miss Kayne told me this afternoon she was interested in my being a C.I.D. man because once she had committed a murder.”

“Eh?” said the Major, startled. “What's that?”

“The perfect murder, she called it,” Bobby added.

“Nonsense,” said the Major.

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I thought it was a kind of joke at the time. I didn't pay it any attention. Some people like to joke about my job. Only now—well, now this has happened it seems a coincidence. I don't like coincidences.” He hesitated, remembering once more what Olive had told him of the love passage in Miss Kayne's life and her tale of the buried love letters and poems which had reminded him so much of the strange Rossetti affair. Perhaps it was reading about that had suggested the notion to Miss Kayne. Another queer thing was the damage done to the portrait of Miss Kayne hanging in the dining-room. But it was always wiser to avoid cluttering up the consideration of a case by bringing into it the non-essential. He would bear the two things in mind, he decided. If the course of events in the future seemed to make it desirable to do so, he would mention them. “All the same, sir, I think we ought to call it Point D.,” he added. “I mean, Miss Kayne's saying that.”

The Major was looking grave. He seemed to attach as much importance to this point as to anything Bobby had said so far. He made a note accordingly.

“You think,” he said, “it suggests some sort of uneasiness—anticipation? It might. Don't like it. She's not a woman to make jokes as a rule. Only there's no possible motive why she should want Nat Kayne out of the way. He made no difference to her about the library, one way or the other, and there's never been any ill-feeling between them.”

“No, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I'm told there was disagreement between Mr. Broast and Nat Kayne. When I was being shown over the library this afternoon I couldn't help seeing what looked very much like a quarrel between him and Sir William Winders and Mr. Broast. Kayne went off in what looked like a very bad temper.”