Crossword Mystery (16 page)

Mitchell looked at him.

“I daresay she would have done it for me, too,” he remarked, “when I was as young as you and just as beautiful. But I never had a permanent wave like yours in my hair. Personally, I am rather inclined to call a curl like that just plain cheating; hardly fair, at any rate.”

Bobby wriggled. He always wriggled when anyone talked about that curl he had done so much, and so ineffectually, to straighten out by means of soap, combings, and brushings
ad lib
.

“She knew I was staying with Mr. Winterton,” he protested. “It was that did it.”

“Not it,” said Mitchell with decision. “Let me look at the thing again.”

Bobby took the telegram from his pocket, and Mitchell smoothed it out thoughtfully.

“
‘You know who released gaol yesterday morning; you can expect him soon'
,” he read aloud. “Handed in at Charing Cross, where there's no chance of its being remembered. Well, anyhow, it gives us a clue we ought to be able to follow up easily enough. We'll check up on every living creature who was let out of gaol in these British Isles yesterday and find out which of them has anything to do with Mr. George Winterton, and, when we know that, it ought to put us on the right track. Nothing else?”

“No, sir.”

Mitchell fell into deep thought again.

“Well,” he said, rousing himself, “there's one thing you've noticed that must mean something, because a discrepancy always does.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby gravely.

“Well, then,” said Mitchell, “remember it, and now you had better get along back to Fairview. Your instructions are,” he added, his voice suddenly stern and official, “so far as possible, don't let George Winterton out of your sight. Be on your guard every moment – more especially to-night.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby once more, and this time more gravely still.

Mitchell put his young colleague down at a lonely spot on the road and then drove on alone, so that no inquisitive eyes might notice them together. The rest of the distance to Suffby Cove Bobby accomplished, therefore, on foot, hurrying a little now, for an obscure apprehension drove him on.

Likely enough, he supposed, that in fact no real danger threatened, and yet he felt he would be easier in his mind, once he were back at Fairview and knew that nothing had happened during his absence, and knew that if anything threatened in the future, it would be while he was on the spot to check and meet it. Yet still it remained likely enough that Archibald's drowning had been purely accidental; and, indeed, how could murder have been carried out with no sign left and the Airedale lying there and making no sound? Besides, who had benefited in any way whatever by his death? A possible hint about as yet unproved semi-flirtations with one or other of the village girls was no sufficient background for so grim a picture as premeditated murder makes. And yet there was always the difficulty of understanding why the sea should have had its way with so strong a swimmer on so quiet and calm a morning.

At any rate, Bobby reflected, there was now a good solid clue to work on. Mitchell's methods were thorough, the C.I.D. organisation complete; soon there would be a separate report on every living creature, man, woman, or child, released from any gaol in the British Isles during the last day or two, and it would be a very funny thing if they could not find out to whom the recent telegram referred. Once that was known, progress would be easy, and it would be possible to form some idea of what all these happenings meant, if indeed they meant anything at all. For that, Bobby's sense of logic and reasoning powers, and his sense of the reality of things, led him to doubt, while yet some instinct, deeper and more profound than logic, told him that things evil and horrible were brewing. There came into his mind a memory of the opening scene in
Macbeth
where the three witches brew mischief together, and he fancied that perhaps, somewhere very near, that same scene was being repeated, though it might be in a different shape and form, with all the difference there is between the society of to-day and that of a thousand years ago. Nor could he quite get rid of the teasing memory of the recently swilled floor in the half-ruinous summer-house built like a Greek temple, for somehow he still had the impression that if only he knew why that had been done, then he would know all.

Then, of course, there was the “discrepancy,” as Mitchell called it, so noticeably occurring in his narrative of his experiences. He supposed that must have some significance, and, as now he was near the village, he left the main road to take the path leading through the cottages. One or two of his acquaintances of the morning he met and nodded to, and he noticed old Mrs. Shipman standing on her threshold with her “unlucky” black cat in her arms. But she scowled when she saw him, and went indoors, and he walked on till he came to the cottage occupied by Adams, the Fairview chauffeur and gardener, and his wife, with Miss Raby for a lodger. Mrs. Adams, of course, knew who Bobby was, and as he saw her in her garden he stopped to chat for a moment. Turning the conversation on to sea-bathing, he learnt that Miss Raby, though no great swimmer, generally went for a dip in the sea before breakfast. Her alarm-clock roused her at six every morning, Mrs. Adams explained in answer to a leading question of Bobby's, and, when he suggested that perhaps she kept it slow on purpose, Mrs. Adams laughed at the little joke and explained that they “had the wireless” and that Miss Raby's alarm-clock and their own and the kitchen clock were put right by it every evening. Bobby made one or two other little jokes and aimless inquiries so that Mrs. Adams should not suspect any special meaning was hidden in his questions about the alarm-clock, and then took his leave. In his pocket-book he made a note in the private cypher he used, to remind him to put in his report that he had checked up on Miss Raby's alarm-clock and had evidence that it was always kept right.

When he reached Fairview, he found Mrs. Cooper in the hall in the act of taking into the study, where Mr. Winterton and Miss Raby were still at work, a tray with tea and a plate of freshly baked scones of most appetising appearance, so golden-brown and crisp they looked.

“They look jolly good,” Bobby commented; “make my mouth water. I say, if I drifted into the study should I stand a chance of getting some?”

Mrs. Cooper laughed a little, evidently not ill pleased at the compliment.

“I made them specially for Mr. Winterton,” she said. “I can't always find the time, but he seems to enjoy them when I do.”

“They look scrumptious,” Bobby repeated, and then made a wry face. “Only I don't know if I dare eat anything at all,” he said. “I'm half afraid a hollow tooth I've got is starting off again.”

Mrs. Cooper was interested. She was always interested in other people's troubles or difficulties, and always knew just what ought to be done. In this case she knew a very good dentist; only a young man certainly, but very clever and careful, who visited Suffby Horpe once a week. Mr. Owen would do well to see him, she said, and Bobby thanked her and made a note of the name, but confessed he was an awful coward where dentists were concerned. However, those scones looked so jolly he decided that he could cadge one he would risk its setting that exposed nerve going again, so he followed Mrs. Cooper into the study, where he received a smiling greeting from Mr. Winterton.

“While you've been wandering over half the country, young man,” he said, “looking for a chance to get into mischief most likely, we've been sitting here with our noses to the grindstone, haven't we, Miss Raby, with nothing to disturb our labours?”

Bobby smiled faintly, understanding that these last few words were meant specially for him, and were a teasing reference to his fears and nervousness and warnings about taking every precaution possible. Miss Raby, busy clearing a table of a mass of books and manuscript, that Mrs. Cooper might have somewhere to put down her tray, responded to her employer's remark with some sort of muffled sound between a word and a grunt that might have meant anything, and Mr. Winterton laughed a little.

“Miss Raby's cross because I've spent all afternoon over my crossword puzzle I won't let her help me with,” he said smilingly. “But I don't want any professional expert butting in; this is my own little effort – my ewe-lamb of a crossword. Interested in crossword puzzles, Owen?”

“I try them sometimes,” Bobby answered. “I think the clues are often a bit far-fetched, though.”

“You can't make them too obvious,” protested Miss Raby from the professional point of view.

“Some of the clues in this one I'm working on might interest you, Owen, some day perhaps,” remarked Mr. Winterton, repeating an observation he had made before, and it struck Bobby that though he had taken every care to inform Mitchell of every detail, even the most insignificant, he was not sure that he had said anything of Mr. Winterton's interest in crossword puzzles, or of his efforts to construct one to rival Miss Raby's professional concoctions.

However, crosswords were only a harmless pastime, without, Bobby supposed, any reference to the strange, impalpable fog of threat and menace into which it seemed they were all caught up, and Mr. Winterton was now devoting his attention to the scones.

“Ah, your own special make,” he said beamingly to Mrs. Cooper. “They're always first rate.”

“I'm sure I hope you'll enjoy them, sir,” Mrs. Cooper said.

“You can be perfectly sure I shall,” declared Mr. Winterton, “they're always delicious”; and, after Mrs. Cooper had withdrawn, he remarked: “She makes them from a secret recipe of her own, and very good they are, too. I only get them when she wants to be specially nice to me.”

Bobby, in spite of his expressed fears about that tooth of his, did them full justice, and found them delicious. Miss Raby expressed a considered opinion that their secret consisted in the use of honey and cream, and afterwards Bobby got a book and sat in the garden, close to the study door, so as to be at hand in case of need, for he was still troubled by a kind of dim, unacknowledged apprehension that kept his attention less on his book than on every sound or movement near. It was always a relief to him when the steady tap, tap, tap of the typewriter, or the sight of Mr. Winterton's figure passing to and fro near the window, told that all was still quiet and normal within.

Once Bobby, weary of sitting still and unable to keep his attention on his book, took a stroll round the house, and looked for a little time and very thoughtfully at the spot upon the lawn where he had seen the dead body of the unlucky Airedale laid down. It was, he noticed, by a coincidence almost exactly the spot where had taken place that strange and still unexplained midnight interview of which he had been an unseen witness – he and another of whose presence he had then been unaware, of whose identity he was still ignorant. He wondered whether this other witness had been equally unaware of his vicinity, was still equally ignorant of his identity. Neither suggestion seemed to him probable, and he felt himself at a heavy disadvantage.

He went back to his seat till it was time to prepare for dinner. Dinner that evening consisted of sole cooked in Madeira, roast duck served with green peas done in butter, and so young and tender they vanished almost as they touched the tongue and left only their flavour lingering behind like a blissful memory, and apple tart with cream, followed by coffee obedient to the maxim of the Eastern sage that coffee should be “as sweet as love, as black as night, as strong as death, and as hot as hell.”

No wonder that, with such a dinner, Mr. Winterton seemed in good spirits as he put forward a reasoned argument that this dinner was the best dinner that in an imperfect world could be made manifest to imperfect man.

He sent his compliments to Mrs. Cooper by Jane, the day-girl doing the waiting in place of Cooper, who had asked to be excused from duty that evening on the plea of a bad headache.

“He hasn't seemed quite himself the last day or two,” Mr. Winterton remarked, “I don't know if that's the reason why Mrs. Cooper has been so good to us to-night. Perhaps she wants to make up for his absence; she doesn't often give us a dinner like this.” Then he looked at Bobby and began to chuckle. “Or perhaps there's another reason,” he said, still chuckling. “The women are all the same – a straight nose, good teeth, and a wavy sort of curl to the hair, and where are they? Miss Raby will have to be careful.”

Miss Raby tried to combine an air of extreme contempt of this with an air of not having heard a word of it. Bobby went very red and longed passionately to be bald, since, he supposed, nothing else would prevent people making idiotic remarks about that curly hair of his. Colin observed thoughtfully that he didn't care who made the running so long as they all got to the winning-post together, and Mr. Winterton, very pleased with himself, or the dinner, or both, chuckled again.

Afterwards they all played bridge. Bobby managed rather better this time, avoiding worse trouble by making as few bids as possible, and deciding that the secret of contract was to let the others do the bidding and come the inevitable croppers. Colin was on the winning side in each rubber, and with undisguised satisfaction collected ninepence winnings from all the others. Miss Raby observed acidly that such skill in cards was conclusive evidence of a university career put to other than its proper uses, and Mr. Winterton fell asleep twice, once when dummy, and once when Bobby was dealing. Each time he put the blame on Mrs. Cooper's dinner.

“A meal I shall remember all the rest of my life,” he declared solemnly.

The party broke up a little earlier than usual. Miss Raby, escorted by Jane, departed for the village. Colin retired to bed, remarking that he wanted to be up early as he was attending a certain race-meeting next day. Mr. Winterton observed that he, too, was ready for bed, and with him Bobby went upstairs.