The Master of the Priory (22 page)

“She won't make fools of us much longer,” said Mr. Gregg quietly. “It has been a difficult case, but I think I see daylight at last. Miss Lorrimer put us in the way when she told us about Lady Treadstone taking a fancy to this Miss Martin and wanting her to go and see her, and yesterday I had a bit of luck. I found a man who had been working in the garden at Walton when Miss Martin disappeared from the Priory. He had been keeping company with the under housemaid, and that very night they were doing a bit of sweethearting in the dark, and at a side door, and to make a long story short they saw a woman in a dark dress of some kind come round the house and go to the morning-room, where Lady Treadstone was sitting.”

Marlowe coughed impatiently. “Now why on earth couldn't they have told us this before? To think of the time and trouble it would have saved us.”

Mr. Gregg shrugged his shoulders. “The bucolic mind works slowly. They strolled round after her, and were in time to hear the window of the morning-room shut, and the blind pulled down, but there was no sign of the lady, and they never heard any more of her. However, it just gives us the confirmation we wanted. Now we can set to work in real earnest. I have had a guard set at all the nearest stations, and the private landing-stage at the Hold is watched. I don't think she can escape us this time.”

“I wouldn't answer for it,” Marlowe said gloomily. “As slippery as an eel she is. I shan't ever feel sure of her till she is landed in gaol, if then.”

The Winter affair had shaken the ex-constable's confidence in himself. He had been so sure that he had only wanted his opportunity to make his mark, and here he found himself circumvented at every turn by a woman. He felt inclined to throw the whole thing up in despair sometimes.

Mr. Gregg paced up and down the room restlessly. He was a little nearer the solution than Marlowe, but there was much that puzzled even him yet. “The question is, where has Lady Treadstone hidden her,” he went on, coming to a standstill before his subordinate and eyeing him narrowly. “You are certain that she is not disguised as one of the servants at the Hold?”

“Quite certain!” Marlowe returned emphatically. “Naturally that was the first thing I thought of. But I have made it my business to see them all and there isn't one that resembles her. No, I can't make out where she is,” he finished in a puzzled tone. “My friend, the housemaid, swears that there isn't a woman at the Hold but the servants and her ladyship and Miss Treadstone.”

“Ay! Miss Treadstone,” Gregory repeated thoughtfully. “Have you seen her, Marlowe?”

“No, I can't say that I have. But surely you would never think—”

“I get queer thoughts sometimes like other folks,” Mr. Gregg returned philosophically. “Miss Treadstone was not at Walton?”

“No. But there can't be any mistake.” Marlowe was perspiring freely in his excitement. “Lots of people at Porthcawel remember Miss Treadstone as a child. They call her Miss Rosamond.”

“Oh, there is a Miss Treadstone safe enough,” Mr. Gregg said at once. “I looked her up in the peerage. What has occurred to me is—is this the real Miss Treadstone at the Hold?”

“By Jove!” Marlowe exclaimed, then his face fell. “Oh, I don't think there is any mistake about that. She has been to see the landlady at the inn on the beach, who remembers her as a child and talks a lot about Miss Rosamond, and they had a long chat over old times. Mrs. Tregarth told me about it herself, and said the young lady was just like her mother.”

Mr. Gregg pursed up his lips. “Umph! Well, that is another check. Still we can't help it. Now then, I want you to step over to the post office with me, Marlowe. It is the only place in this confounded town that has a telephone.”

Marlowe got up at once. “You have been getting into communication with Scotland Yard?”

Mr. Gregg shook his head. “No, I haven't. I want to get a bit further off my own bat. You know we have never been able to make much of the Winter's past nor to make out even Mrs. Winter's maiden name, owing to the difficulties of tracing them at Somerset House, Winter being such a common name. There were dozens of John Winters, and we had no guide as to which we wanted, not even the year the marriage took place. Well, the idea came to me yesterday that it might be as well to go over them again. So I sent up Wright, who has the case pretty well at his finger-ends, to see if he could find anything that might be useful to us. I am waiting for his report now.” He took up his hat. “Come along, Marlowe.”

The ex-constable followed silently. He thought his superior was on the wrong track, but the surprises in the Winter case had been so many that he told himself he was prepared for anything.

Mr. Gregg walked straight across to the post office. Marlowe stood outside the door of the telephone box.

“That you, Wright?” he heard. “Well, what luck?” He could not catch the answer, but the very tone of Mr. Gregg's voice betokened satisfaction, and when he emerged his face was beaming.

He took Marlowe's arm without saying a word, and led him back to his sitting-room, then with the door safely closed he looked at the other with an expression of congratulation.

“We have hit it this time, Marlowe, and no mistake. Wright has found the certificate of marriage by special licence of John Winter and Rosamond Elizabeth Treadstone!”

C
ARLYN
H
ALL
was looking its brightest. Outside, the park was sweet with lilac and syringa, drooping laburnums shone pale gold against a background of evergreens, and everywhere there were May trees in blossom. Inside the house all the preparations for the home-coming of the Squire's bride that had been stopped last year had been set on foot again. Certain rooms that had been got ready for Barbara and closed when the engagement was broken off had been opened again. Everything was putting on its best face for the young mistress who was soon to be brought to it.

Mrs. Carlyn was frankly delighted at the turn things had taken. Yet, as Frank Carlyn got up from the arm-chair and strolled over to the window, his face was gloomy and preoccupied; he looked like anything but a successful lover.

“You will be in at tea-time, Frank?” his mother asked as he stepped out on to the terrace. “The Sheringhams are coming to tennis, and Barbara said she would very likely walk up.”

“Oh, yes. I don't know. I expect so,” Carlyn rejoined vaguely. “I can't tell, mother. I have promised to go out with Davenant. Ah, there he is.”

“Well, really, I can't imagine what Sir Oswald Davenant is about, staying all this time at the ‘Carlyn Arms.' And, if he does like this part of the country so much, I wish he would take up his quarters here and behave like a civilized being, instead of sending for you at all sorts of odd times and seasons,” Mrs. Carlyn grumbled.

Her son made no answer. He was moving forward to meet Sir Oswald who was coming up to the Hall from the direction of the Home Wood. Like Carlyn he was looking worried and anxious.

“You had my note?” he said, as they got within speaking distance.

“Of course,” Carlyn said shortly. “And here I am, though what on earth you want with me I can't make out.”

“I told you the time would come when I should claim your help,” Sir Oswald went on, ignoring the other's evident ill humour. “You remember what day this is? The anniversary of Winter's death?”

Carlyn nodded. “I am not likely to forget it.”

“I hope in future years it may be remembered as the day on which the truth was discovered,” Sir Oswald said gravely. “I want you to come with me to the Home Wood, Carlyn.”

Carlyn did not make any demur, but there was sullen displeasure in every line of his face, in the hunch of his broad figure, as he walked by Sir Oswald's side.

“Well, I can't get the hang of it all, but you must do as you please,” he said at last.

“You will understand it just now I hope and trust,” Sir Oswald told him gravely. “For the rest I am much obliged to you for letting me have a free hand, Carlyn.”

The other shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I could do nothing else.”

Sir Oswald gave him one keen glance, then he relapsed into silence, a silence that remained unbroken until they had entered the Home Wood and were nearing the gamekeeper's cottage.

Then Sir Oswald stepped behind a clump of rhododendrons, and motioned to Carlyn to follow him. The surprise in the latter's face deepened as he saw that an opening had been carefully arranged through which a view of the front of the cottage could be obtained. In the last day or two a curious change had taken place. All appearance of disuse and decay had been cleared away, it was apparently as trim, the little garden as gay with flowers, as if the Winters had been living there to-day. The door stood half-open and it was evident that some one was moving about inside.

Carlyn turned to Sir Oswald.

“What does it all mean? What is going to happen?”

Sir Oswald hurriedly motioned him to be quiet. “We may not have long to wait!” he whispered. “But you must be absolutely silent.”

Carlyn turned aside with an impatient gesture. He had been brought there against his will, and the whole affair seemed to him to be the veriest mummery. He disliked the stirring up of the muddy waters involved in the reopening of the inquiry into Winter's death. Sympathize though he might with Sir Oswald, he had not the faintest belief in Mrs. Winter's innocence; none at all in Sir Oswald's capability of proving it. However, he had no choice but to give the latter the help he claimed, and he resigned himself to the inevitable, and waited, gazing across the clearing at the front of the cottage.

Sir Oswald, for his part, was not looking at the house at all. His eyes were fixed on the undergrowth opposite. When at last he detected a faint movement, he drew a long breath of satisfaction. They had stood there perhaps half an hour, and Carlyn was beginning to feel cramped and restless, when the silence around them, which had been previously uninterrupted, save for the twitter of the birds and the faint multitudinous hum of the insects, was broken by a new sound. There were voices inside the cottage which were raised in anger. It was evident that some altercation was taking place. At last the door was flung violently open—Carlyn stared and rubbed his eyes-—surely the man who strolled rapidly down the path and off in the direction of the Hall bore a curious likeness to himself. His interest was quickened, he leaned forward eagerly.

The perspiration stood on Sir Oswald's brow. His eyes grew very eager as he noted a rustling among the undergrowth.

Another moment and another man came out of the cottage. He was garbed in loose velveteens, and he held a gun which he was examining with some care, but presently with a muttered oath he set it against the garden palings and catching up a spade began to dig in the flower-beds beside.

Carlyn's face grew more and more bewildered. Had it been possible for the dead to revisit their old haunts he would have believed it to be his murdered gamekeeper, John Winter, whom he saw in the flesh before him. He had little time for speculation, however. The bushes Sir Oswald had been watching, were suddenly burst apart. There was an appalling howl—a sound of which Carlyn had never heard the like before, then, quick as a panther, Sir Oswald sprang across and dragged a sobbing, bellowing mass into the open.

“Make a clean breast of it, my lad,” he counselled. “It will be best for you in the end.”

To his amazement Carlyn saw that the boy was young Jim Retford, his gamekeeper's son. He went across to them.

Retford's sobs redoubled when he saw his master. He tried to tear himself out of Sir Oswald's clasp, to throw himself on the ground. In vain, Sir Oswald's grasp was as firm as a vice.

“Father! Father!” the boy cried. “Don't let him come near me, I never meant no harm.” His terrified eyes were fixed upon the figure in the path—a figure that was now standing perfectly still with its back to them. “Don't let him get me!” Softly Retford sobbed.

Sir Oswald set him on his feet and held him there. “He shall not get you if you tell me the truth. If not—” He paused suggestively.

Young Retford howled again. “It wasn't my fault. Dad told me to say naught,” he blubbered. “Might have hanged me-—they might, and I couldn't know as the gun was loaded.”

“What?” a curious change came over Sir Oswald's face, but his hold on the boy did not relax. “What was it you never meant to do?” he demanded sternly, giving him a shake. “Speak the truth, lad.”

Young Retford's teeth chattered, his legs tottered under him. “I never meant to harm John Winter,” he howled, amid a fresh paroxysm of sobbing. “I had just come up here to see if I could find our Esther, what was lost and the gun stood by the gate. I took it up and it went off in my hand and shot him right in the face. Oh, oh, oh!”

Sir Oswald drew a deep breath. “So that is the solution of the Home Wood mystery. To think it never occurred to any of us before. Why did you not speak out and tell the truth, Jim Retford?”

“Father told me not, sir,” the boy sobbed. “Many a man has been hanged for less, he said, or shut up in a reformatory. And that would have killed me, too, sir. So I never said a word, not till he came back to make me,” with a shuddering glance at the cottage garden from which the figure had disappeared now.

Carlyn took off his hat and passed his hand over his forehead, staring at the boy in amazement. “So you mean to tell us that it—was you who killed John Winter,” he said slowly.

“I never meant to do it, sir.” The lad's grimy, tear-stained face was contorted anew. “And Father—Father said—oh, oh!” And he made a last desperate attempt to free himself.

Carlyn saw that his keeper was hurrying towards them from a side path. His face was white and frightened.

“Let the lad go, sir,” he said heavily. “I will make a clean breast of it.”