Comes a Stranger (16 page)

“Sir William and he were friends, weren't they?” observed Bobby.

“Sir William knew him when he was that high,” declared the butler indicating some eight inches from the ground, “and they were both of them library trustees, too, so it brought them together, not that Mr. Nat knew much about books, not like Sir William, a real expert he is. Makes him feel it, and then, too, he was over to the Hall to see Mr. Broast last night. I reckon he must have come back along the sunk lane not more than twenty minutes or half an hour after the murder. It's a mercy,” said the butler fervently “it wasn't him too.”

“What made him walk? Doesn't he generally take the car?” Bobby asked.

It appeared that Sir William was fond of walking. It helped him, or so he thought, to keep down a certain tendency to increase of bulk. He had always been a great walker. Sometimes, of course, he took the car, but it was almost as quick to go by the footpath and the sunk lane as to motor round by the road. It was quite common for him to pay a visit to Mr. Broast after dinner, and they often sat up late, arguing, quarrelling, disputing, over the various problems of bibliography. On these occasions, when Sir William was late home, he let himself in by the side door, left on the latch. So here was yet another, Bobby reflected, who had no alibi, who must indeed have been quite near the scene of the murder at the time it happened.

Sir William Winders was a tall, bigly made, elderly man, a little inclined probably to put on flesh, but still vigorous and upright. That he was in a highly nervous and excited state was both evident and not unnatural, since the violent and sudden death of a friend and neighbour must have touched him deeply. But Bobby thought, too, there was fear in the deepset, uneasy eyes overhung by bushy brows, in the continued restlessness of movement, in the constant licking by the tongue of lips dry and parched.

He received Bobby in the breakfast-room, a pleasant, book-lined apartment overlooking the garden, in the distance the dark mass of Wynton wood, and, to one side, a glint of reflected sunshine suggesting the presence of that pond whereof the butler had spoken.

Sir William began to talk at once, without waiting for any question to be put him. Sometimes seated, sometimes shifting from one chair to another, or moving about or standing, he talked at length of the shock the news had been to him, of the impossibility of understanding how such a thing could have happened to disturb the serenity of their quiet countryside, of his absolute certainty that no one in the neighbourhood could have been guilty of such a crime.

“Don't you think it must have been an accident or suicide?” he asked abruptly.

Bobby shook his head. Suicides do not shoot themselves three times over. The same consideration applied to the accident theory. Bobby had been content to listen for a time. Listening in silence to those anxious to talk is useful from many points of view. It gives opportunity to form an impression of the speaker. Besides, in a flow of unchecked talk often more is said than would be elicited by questioning.

“An unbelievable thing to happen, I can't tell you what a shock it was,” declared Sir William for about the tenth time; “I can't understand it, I can hardly believe it,” and Bobby, watching him attentively, grew more and more certain that either he knew or he suspected something.

But Bobby continued to say nothing, and he had the impression, too, that his silent watchfulness was having, as silent watchfulness always has, its effect upon the other's nerves and self-control.

“Well, I suppose there's something you want to know,” Sir William snapped suddenly. “Not that there's anything I can tell you. I don't know anything. I can't make it out. The very last thing I should have expected to happen, the very last. A quiet little place like this. I nearly walked across to the village to see what was being done, and then I thought you people would probably have your hands full, and I thought, too, perhaps you might be coming up here, as I knew young Kayne. Co-trustee, you know. So I made up my mind to stay in case I missed you. Always the way. Turn your back for two minutes and that's the moment someone calls. So I thought I wouldn't. I thought I would stop indoors just in case.”

“You have not been out at all this morning then?” Bobby asked.

“Not a soul in the house been anywhere, none of us know anything except gossip—the postman and the milkman and the rest of them.”

There seemed a discrepancy here, reflected Bobby. The butler had said that Sir William started out before breakfast, went as far as the wood, and then changed his mind and returned. But the difference was one susceptible of easy explanation. Sir William might only mean that he had not gone as far as the village, and he might easily consider that his uncompleted work was too un-important to mention. He might even have quite genuinely forgotten it for the moment. Nevertheless, a little disturbing that Mr. Adams, too, had denied having been out when he had in fact been at least as far as the wall post box, a few yards from the inn. No doubt, he, too, might have thought so brief an excursion not worth mentioning. This coincidence in forgetfulness seemed, however, to be worth remembering. Bobby went on to ask a few more routine questions and then said:

“I daresay you will remember seeing me in the Kayne library yesterday afternoon, just as Mr. Kayne left after he had been talking to you and Mr. Broast—a little heatedly, I thought.”

Sir William, seated now fairly jumped in his seat. The man's nerves were on edge, Bobby thought. He seemed quite literally jumpy. Bobby reminded himself that he must not draw hasty conclusions. Murder of a friend, a neighbour, a co-trustee might well make any one nervous. Sir William stammered:

“Oh, was that you?... I saw some one… I didn't realize… you mean you noticed…?”

“Well, no one could help, could they?” Bobby said. “It was pretty evident there was some sort of quarrel, and that Mr. Kayne was very excited. I remember remarking that he looked quite murderous. Only it is he who has been murdered. Major Harley thought it would be as well to ask if you mind informing us what the dispute was about and why Mr. Kayne appeared so angry. It may be of help in our investigation. I am sure you understand that. My instructions are to ask you to make a statement in writing.”

Sir William looked more and more uncomfortable. He fidgeted in his chair, he huddled down into it as if for all his size he hoped somehow that in it he might escape notice. At last he mumbled:

“Oh, it was nothing, nothing of any consequence.”

“Of consequence enough,” murmured Bobby gently, “to upset Mr. Nat Kayne. He appeared very disturbed.”

“What I mean is,” Sir William said reluctantly, “it was just the same old thing we have been over hundreds of times. Nat always lost his temper about it. Regular thing. He wanted the library sold. He didn't care or know anything about books, and he wanted his slice of the purchase money as soon as he could get it. Broast and I objected. Nor was it Miss Kayne's wish. Her desire and ours was to keep the library intact.”

“With Miss Kayne, you, and Mr. Broast objecting, he had no chance of getting his way, I suppose?”

“Certainly not, not unless he could prove neglect—or—or anything unsatisfactory. The terms of the trust are quite clear. But he always lost his temper. Tried to bully. Naturally Broast resented it. So did I, for that matter.”

“I suppose it would have meant a lot to Mr. Broast if there had been a decision to sell,” observed Bobby. “He would have lost his post.”

“Oh, well, as far as that goes, he would soon have had his choice of another,” Sir William answered. “He is about the leading expert in his line in the world, I should think. Besides, in the event of a sale he is entitled to five years' salary as compensation. He gets £200 I think, though he doesn't always draw it.”

“How is that?”

“Well, he lives at Wynton Lodge, he never takes a holiday, he buys a suit of clothes about once in five years, if he wants a little pocket-money he draws a few pounds on account of salary. I expect the library owes him a thousand or two. That, and the thousand he is entitled to as compensation, would enable him to start a business of his own. His reputation would soon make it go. Knows more about books and printing than any man alive, and I know enough about them to know that.”

“You are an expert, too?” Bobby asked.

“Not like Broast,” Sir William said. He seemed less nervous now. He even smiled. “Most of what I know, Broast has taught me. He has a nose for a rare book, smells 'em out, sort of sixth sense almost. Show him a pile of a hundred volumes and he'll pick out instinctively just the one that's really interesting. It's entirely thanks to him that my collection of first editions of the Caroline poets is complete—unique, I believe. I've the quarto illustrated Quarles no one else had ever heard of till Broast and I found it in a pile of uninteresting old stuff at Sotheby's—bought it for fifty shillings. No one knew it was Quarles. My Americana, too. I've the
Psalter
that was the first book ever printed in America, and the American
Sartor Resartus
that came out over there when no English publisher would look at it. My Edgar Allen Poe's, too. I've the 1827
Tamerlane
, and a complete set of the
Southern Literary Messenger
which published much of his early work, as you remember.”

Bobby could not truthfully say he remembered what he had never known. So he said nothing, and Sir William continued:

“That reminds me. Perhaps I ought to tell you poor Nat Kayne seemed worried about a letter he had received from some American visiting this country, from an hotel in London.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bobby, who thought this might be interesting.

But Sir William, though Bobby questioned him closely, knew nothing more about it. Nat Kayne had talked in a vague, excited way about having received such a letter, had seemed to think it might be important, but without explaining why, and had also said something about a coming personal interview with the writer. Neither Mr. Broast nor Sir William himself had paid much attention to him. Nat Kayne had tried vague bullying threats before in his attempts to force a sale. He had even got a firm of solicitors to write a stiff letter.

“Ridiculous, of course,” said Sir William, “bluff, very weak bluff, too. Broast wrote back and told them not to make fools of themselves—said they might succeed in bluffing a poor widow or an ignorant working man, but he was neither, and they needn't try their dirty tricks with him. Hot correspondence. He told them finally that if they tried to carry out the inspection they talked about—of course, they had no right to do any such thing—he would turn the garden hose on them. Oh, I can tell you, when Broast gets his blood up—well, things happen.”

And Bobby found himself wondering if murder was one of the things that happened when the fiery tempered librarian got his blood up. And he wondered, too, if this sidelight on Mr. Broast's character had been given intentionally. A quiet, shy, scholarly man to all appearance but in defence of his beloved library, what might he not be capable of? Bobby decided it was time to inquire into another point.

“I think you paid Mr. Broast a visit last night?” he said.

Again Sir William, whose manner had been growing more confident and assured, became alarmed. His nervousness returned, his eyes grew wary once again. He hesitated, and Bobby felt certain that his first impulse was to return a flat denial, but that then second thoughts told him denial would be useless.

“Yes,” he said. “I walked over after dinner. I suppose that means I must have passed quite close to where the murder took place—not very pleasant.”

“You walked—you didn't go by car?”

“No, I walked, I generally do when I'm going to the Lodge. It's as quick going through the wood as having to drive all round by the road, even without the trouble of getting out the car. I've no chauffeur, you know. Can't afford one.”

“I was only wondering what made you change your mind?”

“Why? I didn't, I almost always walk, unless I'm going on somewhere else.”

“I happened to be there when you rang up,” Bobby explained. “I was talking to Mr. Broast when your message was given him. I am sure the word ‘drive' was used, not walk.”

Sir William looked faintly puzzled and shook his head.

“I am sure I said ‘walk', not ‘drive',” he repeated. “I rang up myself, and I am certain I said I would walk over. I had no intention of getting out the car.”

“I see,” said Bobby. “There is a path through the wood, I believe?”

“Two as a matter of fact. They both run into the sunk lane, one higher up than the other. It runs right on to Chapman's place—Longmeadow Farm. The other curves round a lot, joins a footpath to the high road and then ends up in the sunk lane.”

“Which one did you take last night?”

“The lower one. There's not much in it. One is as short as the other. Sometimes I take one, sometimes the other. Last night I took the lower one. Why? Does it matter?”

“Impossible to say at present,” answered Bobby. “The murderer can't have been far away. You saw nothing? heard nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

Sir William was quite clear about that. He insisted he had seen nothing, heard nothing. He hinted it would be a long time before he would care to come back alone through the wood at night. He hoped he was neither a coward nor superstitious. All the same, there would be no more taking those paths at night. As regards time he was not clear. He had not noticed. He believed he had started out about nine, but after rather than before. He did not walk fast. It would probably be about half-past nine when he emerged on the open space at the back of the Lodge where he had expected to meet Mr. Broast. On this occasion he had not seen the librarian, and after waiting a little he had decided they must have missed each other and he had returned home.