Crossword Mystery (19 page)

“No,” she agreed. “The car broke down. Miles had to take the engine nearly to bits.”

“Miles?” Bobby repeated. “You mean Miles Winterton, Mr. Winterton's other nephew?” When she nodded, he said gravely: “If Mr. Miles Winterton was near here last night, you ought to say so at once; he ought to have come along himself. It would make a very bad impression if it was thought he was keeping away on purpose.”

“I don't expect he knows anything about it yet,” she answered quickly, but with a note of hesitation, almost of fear, in her voice, so that Bobby thought he detected in her a hidden apprehension, one of which she herself was perhaps not yet wholly conscious, but that all the same was ready at any moment to leap into full growth.

“Does she know something, or is it just that she's afraid?” he asked himself. “Is it for herself she's afraid; is it for her reputation, or is it – is it for Miles Winterton, because of what's happened here... for him, or of him?”

For it was a fact that might be of very strange significance if Miles Winterton had really been in the vicinity of Suffby Cove during the night. There had been, Bobby knew, some bad feeling between uncle and nephew, and now this looked as if identity could be proved – “identity,” that is, in the sense of identity of time and place between the suspect and the crime.

She saw how he was looking at her, and understood something of what was passing through his mind, though not all. She said quickly:

“I don't want you to misunderstand me. Miles and I have been engaged quite a long time, and some friends I have, who live not very far away on the Ipswich road, know about us. I've met Miles there other times, after Mr. Winterton made a fuss about us, and last night we were all there together till quite late. I slept with my friend. They have only two bedrooms; she has one and her mother has the other, and I shared hers.”

“Where did Mr. Miles Winterton go?” Bobby could not help asking, though he knew it was not his place to question her.

“He said he would be all right in the car,” she answered, in a low, uneasy voice. “It's not his own; he borrows it from a friend; it is very big, with lots of room. It was parked at the bottom of the orchard, and he said it would do ever so nicely. It was a lovely night, quite fine and warm. We were to start early, so as to get back here without anyone knowing.”

“Didn't Mrs. Adams know?” Bobby asked.

“Oh, yes, but she promised not to say anything. She said it would be all right. She said it was a shame I couldn't see Miles oftener, and she would do just the same in my place. Only, then, when we were coming back, the car stopped and wouldn't go, and it took Miles ever so long to get it right again. He said it was very old, and nearly worn out.”

The story was probable enough. It might not be difficult to obtain corroboration for it. But accepting it implied that Miles could very well have journeyed hither in the night and done – what had been done, and returned again to the orchard behind the cottage of Mary Raby's friend, and none have known it. Then, too, he knew the house and his uncle's ways, and it might have been possible for him, as it would not have been for a stranger, to entice Mr. Winterton out into the garden.

It looked bad enough to Bobby, almost as if the solution lay there. Only there were points unexplained. The theory of Miles Winterton's guilt did not seem as yet to make a coherent whole. But when they knew more – The small quiet voice of Mary Raby broke upon his thoughts. She had read them clearly, perhaps because of a certain correspondence with her own. She said, with a kind of controlled passion:

“He didn't do it; he never did.”

“Well, tell them everything, but don't tell them that,” Bobby said. “To declare a man is innocent is as good as saying that you know others think him guilty.”

A policeman opened the study door, and came up to them. “Major Markham's compliments,” he said, “and might he have the pleasure of seeing Miss Mary Raby now?”

It was a long time before Miss Raby emerged from the study, and when she did her bearing showed very plainly how trying she had found the ordeal. She said to Bobby as she passed him:

“It's not fair to talk about Miles. I'm sure he doesn't even know yet. Why should he?” She added: “There's a crossword puzzle I ought to send the
Daily Announcer
to-night, and I can't even think. Shall I send them poor Mr. Winterton's instead? That one he was working on, you know.”

Bobby saw that in the reaction of her relief at escaping from the close questioning to which she had been subjected, she was on the point of breaking down and becoming hysterical. He took her into the drawing-room, which was fortunately unoccupied, and made her lie down on the sofa, and then sent Mrs. Cooper to her with a cup of strong tea.

“I wonder if this Miles Winterton can be the murderer,” he thought. “Anyhow, if she doesn't think so herself, it's pretty clear she is afraid we may.”

It was, in fact, a little strange that the young man had not yet made his appearance at Fairview, since by now the news of the murder had probably been published in every evening paper in the country. In fact, Bobby was now called to the front door, where an altercation was taking place with two enterprising reporters who had managed to evade the police cordon outside, and, having got hold of Bobby's name in the village, had asked for him on the pretext of being friends. It was a claim Bobby had to repudiate, as politely as he could, which, however, did not prevent an “Exclusive Interview with Murdered Man's Guest” appearing next day in one of the London papers.

After that there was another long delay, during which Bobby – who was always learning afresh and with difficulty that patience is a virtue great, and that detectives, like little boys, must learn to wait, and often to wait almost as if for evermore – had nothing to do but sit and muse in the lounge hall. He did, however, manage to obtain from Mrs. Cooper, going to and fro, busy with her household duties, a copy of a photograph of Miles Winterton she extracted for him from a collection of family photos.

“The poor lamb in there,” Mrs. Cooper told him, nodding towards the drawing-room, as she gave him the photograph, “has dropped off to sleep, bless her heart. I call it a shame to worry her with a lot of questions. She can't know anything when she wasn't here. And Mr. Miles is a real gentleman, and hasn't been near the place for weeks, so what can he know, either?”

“I suppose they've got to question everybody,” Bobby observed, a little surprised by Mrs. Cooper's use of the phrase “poor lamb,” for it was not like her to use such expressions, and they came a little oddly from her, who had more aloofness and reserve than tenderness in her general manner.

He studied, with interest, the photograph she gave him. It was that of a tall, good-looking young man, with a frank open expression, Bobby thought, but then he knew already that looks go for little, and that a man may be a murderer and yet show the world as smiling, frank, and friendly a face as any innocent. For, indeed, murder is the strangest as it is the most terrible of deeds – may discharge itself, as lightning from the clouds, from the most hidden of obscure motives; may be as swift in conception and in execution as it is eternal in result.

By now it was late in the afternoon, and Mrs. Cooper appeared with tea – luncheon she had already provided for them all, so consolidating the popularity her breakfasts had won her. She said to Bobby, as she was carrying plates of bread and butter and cake into the dining-room:

“It's a mercy there was plenty in the house, but I don't know how I'm to go on if these gentlemen stay after to-day. Or what Cooper and me are to do, neither, now the poor master's gone.”

“I believe Mr. Winterton's lawyer is here,” Bobby explained. “I expect he will be able to tell you something.”

“Well, I would like to know,” Mrs. Cooper repeated. “Cooper's worrying a lot. If him and me's to find a new place, we can't set about it too soon. Your face is a little swollen, Mr. Owen.”

“It's that tooth of mine,” Bobby explained.

She advised him again to visit the dentist she had spoken of, and returned to her household duties; and soon after that there arrived the summons Bobby had been so long expecting, to present himself in the study.

Major Markham was seated in Mr. Winterton's place at the big writing-table. On his left was one of his colleagues, and another was sitting close behind. In Miss Raby's seat was a shorthand writer, taking down everything that was said. There were three of these, taking the work in turn. On the table stood what was already a sufficiently formidable pile of documents referring to the case. A little to the right sat Superintendent Mitchell in his capacity as a helpful observer. He was following everything that passed with the closest attention, though he did not look like it. Close by, Mr. Waring occupied an armchair, his hands clasped before him, his round spectacled face puckered up into an expression of extreme distaste, as if he felt this was an affair with which no respectable family solicitor of unblemished reputation and long standing should have been asked to concern himself. Apparently he was already informed of Bobby's identity as an officer of police, detailed here for special duty, for he showed no surprise when Bobby was so addressed, and, indeed, hardly looked up from the pile of manuscript on his knees. Apparently answering some remark Major Markham had just made, he said:

“Oh, it's all exceedingly interesting. Poor Winterton was extraordinarily in earnest about this book of his. In his view, what was necessary for everyone's safety was a store of gold, that meant security, he thought, with things everywhere all topsy-turvy as they are. Quite right, too, in my opinion, and, if his book can be published, it ought to be, I think.”

Mitchell, who, not listening to this, had been looking at Bobby, said:

“What's the matter with your face, Owen?”

“Oh, just a touch of toothache, sir,” Bobby answered.

Major Markham withdrew his attention from the projected book on the gold standard, hardly noticed the reference to Bobby's swollen face, and began to ask a good many questions on Bobby's report, which had been already read.

“You spent the whole night at the door of Mr. Winterton's room,” he said, “and you are sure you heard nothing?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Not very much,” answered Bobby ruefully. “I dropped off now and again, but only for minutes at a time, and no one could possibly have got in or out without my knowing it – couldn't be done. I thought as I was watching at the door, and the window was fastened up, Mr. Winterton was all right. I can't understand it even now. I almost thought I was dreaming, or had gone cracked, when I looked out of my window and saw him lying there on the lawn.”

Major Markham smiled.

“I don't think there's any great mystery about that,” he remarked.

“Never is about anything,” observed Mitchell. “Not when you know.”

“After you heard Mr. Winterton lock his door, and saw his light go out,” the Major continued, “you went to your own room for a few minutes?”

“I wasn't away for more than five minutes or so,” Bobby answered. “And when I got back the door was still locked, for I tried it.”

“Five minutes is plenty of time for a man, who most likely hadn't even undressed, to slip out of his room and downstairs again.”

“But the door was locked on the inside,” Bobby protested. “I am positive of that, for I looked to make sure, and the key was still in the lock inside.”

“It's not difficult to turn a key from the outside by means of a fine pair of pliers,” observed Major Markham. “In point of fact, there are fresh scratches on the key, and, in a drawer of Mr. Winterton's writing-table here, we've found pliers that seem to fit exactly, though that'll have to be confirmed by the experts. Presumably, Mr. Winterton came out of his room as soon as he heard you go away, and then turned the key from the outside by means of the pliers we've found, so that you shouldn't know he wasn't there any longer.”

“But why? What for?” protested Bobby, scarcely less bewildered by this explanation than he had been by the thing itself. “I'm sure he knew he was in danger of some sort. He knew I was there to protect him all I could, and then, and then–”

“Obvious enough,” smiled Major Markham, not displeased by the air of frank bewilderment worn by this smart young Londoner. “Obviously he preferred the loss of your protection to the risk of your knowing what he was up to. Evidently, therefore, it was something – well, let us say, illegal” – this with a glance at Mr. Waring, plainly all ready to defend his late client's memory – “or, at any rate, something he didn't wish to be known by anyone whose duty it would be to make a report to the authorities. And that plainly links up with the telegram warning him that someone had just been released from gaol. Most likely he under-estimated the real danger he was in. Luckily, it shouldn't be difficult to find out who the telegram came from, and who it refers to. We're taking steps to see that every released prisoner for the last day or two is accounted for – and, once identity is established, we shall most likely find the whole thing clear itself up. It seems pretty plain that for some reason this released prisoner was able to insist on a secret interview at night with Winterton – and that during the interview the murder occurred, though whether our ex-prisoner was the actual murderer is not quite so certain.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby doubtfully. “Only–”

“Only what?”

“Well, sir, if it was like that, who killed the Airedale, and why? That happened before whoever the telegram refers to was released; so it couldn't have been him.”

“I don't see much difficulty in that,” Major Markham said. “There was certainly already someone here who was concerned in some way – remember that other interview at night you mention in your report with the girl, Laura Shipman. Possibly she had something to do with the getting rid of the dog.”