Comes a Stranger (15 page)

“Mr. Adams,” said Bobby, “do you know a murder was committed last night near here?”

“So I am informed by current report,” replied Mr. Adams. “I trust you do not need my assurance that I am entirely ignorant of the circumstances surrounding such a lamentable occurrence.”

“Your assurance seems pretty badly needed,” retorted Bobby. “You admit you are here under a false name and description. Also we have information that you were seen near the library building, in private grounds so you were trespassing anyhow. That was last night.”

“I imagined I had been seen,” agreed Mr. Adams. “I heard someone shouting. It is why I departed. Mr. Broast, I presume?”

“What were you doing there?”

“I regret that as I have already informed you certain circumstances make it impossible for me to offer the explanations I would otherwise gladly impart to you.”

“Now you just understand this, Mr. Adams,” said Bobby crossly. “No circumstances excuse withholding information from the police—above all in a murder case. Do you know what is meant by being an accessory after the fact?”

“I am not,” confessed Mr. Adams, “well acquainted with legal phraseology. I should be inclined to presume that it indicates—er—some degree of complicity. That I beg you to believe would be an entirely erroneous impression. I think I may go so far as to inform erroneous impression. I think I may go so far as to inform you that I was in my room, engaged with my correspondence, from about nine o'clock, or very soon after, till the hour appropriate for retirement. That, if I am correctly informed,” he concluded, “is what is known as an alibi.”

“You didn't go out at all?” Bobby asked.

“I remained the whole evening from nine onwards within the privacy of my apartment. The correspondence with which I was engaged was of primary importance.”

“What was it about?”

“I have already explained,” replied Mr. Adams gently, “that until the matter has received further and careful consideration I am unwilling, indeed unable, to submit to interrogation.”

“That exposes you to grave suspicion,” Bobby pointed out, not quite sure yet whether to be angry, bewildered, or merely amused by the other's calm and gentle obstinacy, a little like that of a feather pillow you can pommel as much as you like with remarkably little effect.

“It is an attitude on your part I must confess appears to me distinctly unreasonable,” declared Mr. Adams in mild protest. “I was within my room at the moment when this unfortunate young man met his death. I was in no way concerned with him, I had no dealings with him whatever. To the best of my knowledge I have never even seen him. I was aware, naturally, that he was a trustee of the Kayne library, but I gathered he was concerned solely with the financial aspects. I doubt, I seriously doubt,” said Mr. Adams with a touch of heat coming into his calm and level tones, “if he would have known the difference between a signature and a colophon—incredible as that may seem to most of us.”

Bobby, who had no idea himself of the technical meaning of the word ‘signature' in bibliography, passed this over.

“I believe,” he said, “you had applied for permission to visit the library and had been refused?”

“I perceive you have taken steps to obtain certain information,” observed Mr. Adams. “I presume in the course of your official inquiries. It is, however, not entirely accurate. It was permission to examine closely the Mandeville leaves that was so remarkably refused me. Mr. Broast chose to behave in a manner I can only describe as—unprecedented. Yes, unprecedented,” repeated Mr. Adams firmly. “He literally—I choose the word with deliberation—he literally snatched the camera from my hands. It is one of considerable value, nor is it my personal property. For a moment he appeared to contemplate inflicting serious and deliberate injury on it. He contented himself with removing the roll of film and destroying it by exposure.”

“Had you taken any snaps?” Bobby asked.

“I had secured two of the
Jason
, to my mind the most remarkable exhibit in the library.”

“I thought the Mandeville pages were that?” observed Bobby, who had not before heard of the
Jason
.

“In my considered opinion,” said Mr. Adams with such a slow solemnity of utterance as the head of a state might use when speaking of issues of peace and war, “the Fust and Schoeffer
Romance of Jason
is the most important production known to bibliographists. Although I am aware the statement may be disputed, I consider it proved that this, the only copy known, is the first book ever printed, anterior to the
Psalter
issued in Mayennce in 1457, anterior to the 32-line Bible, anterior to the great 42-line Bible, commonly known as the Gutenberg Bible. No one,” said Mr. Adams, warming to his theme, “can deny that the Gutenberg Bible necessitated the usage of an enormous fount of letters—about 2,700 to the page. It follows, therefore, of necessity, that that fount of letters must have been in existence, and it may be concluded had been previously made use of. So great an undertaking as the 42-line Bible could not possibly have been launched without previous trials. Of these undoubtedly the
Jason
was the first actually completed. For certain technical reasons which I could not fully explain to you without the use of diagrams, I consider that the letters used in the
Jason
of which it is merely perverse to doubt the genuineness, were some of those subsequently made use of in the printing of the Gutenberg, or 42-line Bible.”

“Yes, very interesting,” interposed Bobby, fearing that this lecture would continue indefinitely. “You took a photograph of it and Mr. Broast objected?”

“He returned, contrary to my expectations,” explained Mr. Adams, “as I was in the act of securing photographs of the Mandeville leaves. As I have already mentioned, he chose to behave with the most extraordinary violence. Further he used language of a regrettable, even curious nature. I use the word ‘curious' in its technical sense of improper or obscene. He described me as the son of—er—of a female of the canine species. It is an appellation,” he added, in his voice a touch of nostalgia Bobby did not at the moment understand, “I have not heard employed for a considerable period.”

“What happened then?”

“I obtained re-possession of my camera which Mr. Broast had—er—impelled somewhat abruptly in my direction. I considered it undesirable to engage in further controversy, more particularly undesirable on the lines of physical encounter apparently contemplated by Mr. Broast, if I may judge from the gestures he was making with a ruler he had taken from his writing table. I therefore withdrew, ignoring both the language of Mr. Broast, and the books and other loose objects he directed towards me. One, a particularly heavy tome of, I am inclined to think, the late eighteenth century—probably a volume of sermons and of small or indeed of no interest—came into violent contact with the central portions of my back. A discoloration of the skin is, I am informed by one of the male attendants at this inn, plainly visible. Indeed, at the moment I lost my balance, and Mr. Broast so far forgot himself as to indulge in a cachinnation of unseemly merriment.”

Bobby both looked and felt very puzzled. This tale of a violent scene between Broast and Adams was curious, but he could not see any connection between it and the murder of young Nat Kayne.

Mr. Adams continued:

“I admit that at the moment I was aware of a sensation not highly dissimilar from those one experienced during the late war before going over the top. Cold feet, we used to call it, I remember. Mr. Broast had called my attention to the fact that he possessed a revolver and that he considered he would be fully justified in its employment. It recalled vividly to my mind the extreme distaste I have always entertained for firearms, a distaste much heightened as a result of my very unpleasant term of service in the army.”

“Did you see any fighting?” Bobby could not help asking.

“I was wounded three times,” Mr. Adams told him. “I was presented with a D.C.M. I am glad to say I have since mislaid it. I find it most unpleasant to be reminded of the occasion. Yet I was not to blame. A German soldier advancing with considerable precipitation, projected himself on the point of my bayonet. A repulsive experience.”

“Was that what you got the D.C.M. for?”

“That and because, not having been notified of the receipt of orders to retire, I therefore continued to make use of a machine gun that chanced to be in my proximity. Under appropriate conditions a machine gun, the trigger being subjected to adequate pressure, continues to eject bullets to a considerable number. The credit for this seems to me to belong to the machine gun itself and to its manufacturers. On this occasion, however, that credit was assigned to me, as I was subsequently informed in hospital. I was glad of it at the time, as the language of sergeants was often considerably modified when directed towards those in the ranks to whom that decoration had been awarded. In my case this was especially desirable, as sergeants often expressed a measure of dissatisfaction with the state of my equipment and with the difficulty I often found in keeping step and such other matters as seem of importance to the somewhat infantile military mind—of which,” Mr. Adams added musingly, “the police mind frequently reminds me.”

Bobby gave it up.

“Well, look here, Mr. Adams,” he said, “I am afraid unless you choose to tell us a little more about your identity, the chief constable is almost certain to want to detain you for inquiries. I shall let him know at once what you've told me. I should like your promise to remain here for the present. I am afraid if you make any attempt to leave it will probably be thought necessary to arrest you.”

“On what charge?” snapped Mr. Adams with an unexpected force and decision that seemed reminiscent of his military days.

“Accessory after the fact,” retorted Bobby. “But that will be for Major Harley to decide. May I have your promise to stay here for the time?”

“I have already consented to do so,” replied Mr. Adams. “It is perhaps as well to await here a reply to my letters. If I change my mind I will let you know. I repeat I have no knowledge of, and am in no way concerned with, the death of this unfortunate young man.”

With that he made Bobby a stiff little bow and went back into the inn, leaving Bobby entirely puzzled.

There had been this violent scene with Broast that might have an explanation other than that put forward by Adams, for indeed there seemed no reason why an attempt to photograph the Mandeville pages should cause such an outburst of anger and the use of such threats. Mr. Adams acknowledged, too, having known of the existence of a revolver, and his army record seemed to suggest that in spite of his usual placidity there was a formidable side to his character. It was certain, too, that he possessed information of some relevance and importance, or why should he refuse to answer questions?

Robins came up now with the motor cycle Bobby had asked him to fetch. Bobby said to him:

“Did you see Mr. Adams last night at all?”

Robins considered, trying to remember.

“Only when he went out to post his letters somewhere about half past nine,” he answered finally.

“Oh, yes,” said Bobby, remembering that Mr. Adams had denied leaving his room. “Did you see him come back?”

Robins shook his head. He had been going past the front entrance to the inn on some trifling errand when he noticed Mr. Adams slipping out with letters in his hand. He had never given it another thought. Why should he? The door was always open till eleven or after, and anyone could slip in or out without any great risk of attracting attention. That Adams had been seen going out was pure accident occurring could be greatly lessened by the careful choice of a suitable moment. Inquiries would have to be made, but probably with small chance of success. For the moment, Bobby supposed, all he could do was to make a report to Major Harley and then go on to Highfields, the residence of Sir Williams Winders.

It was a fairly large house, standing in three or four acres of private grounds, the home of a man very comfortably off, if not of great riches. All its inmates were evidently in a state of considerable excitement, much intensified by the sight of Bobby, whose names and profession, even before the murder, had been passed from mouth to mouth.

“Never anything so awful known in these parts in mortal memory,” the butler informed him, “the only thing like it was when a tearing, rushing motor cycle ran into young Mrs. Lewis's perambulator she was wheeling full of potatoes, and everyone thought at first the baby was there, too, along with the potatoes, only it wasn't by the mercy of Providence, as Vicar said himself when he heard of it. Sir William is terribly upset.”

“Can I see Sir William?” Bobby asked.

“Terrible upset he is,” the butler confirmed. “Couldn't believe it—when I took his tea in this morning and told him, I thought he would faint, he came over so pale and trembling. So you can tell what a shock it was.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Bobby.

“In a fair state, he was, and when he got up, that restless it seemed he couldn't settle, felt like he must find out what was being done. He was going to 'phone Major Harley first, and then he thought he would go and inquire himself. Wouldn't even wait for breakfast, but started off to walk through the wood.”

“Didn't he take his car?” Bobby asked.

“No, said he would walk, it's not so far by the short way into the sunk lane through the wood.”

“That would take him past the spot where Mr. Kayne was shot, wouldn't it?” Bobby asked.

The butler shook his head.

“No, the path comes out into the lane lower down than that, nearer the Lodge; at least, the lower path does, there's another as well,” answered the butler. “Anyhow, Sir William changed his mind and just walked round by the pond and home again. Seemed quieter like then, and said it wasn't fair to bother the police, and we must wait, and he would have his breakfast first, though it wasn't much he took, except coffee. And upset we all are, knowing Mr. Nat as we did here.”