“Standing just inside the room?”
“No-o.” Salter’s voice had hesitated for the first time. “By the screen in front of the door leading to the kitchen. In fact, I remember now, I was sufficiently ill-bred to say something about that going to the servants’ quarters. That was why she gave me her rather startling answer.”
“Which was?”
“‘I know. I came in that way. But who are you?’ Well, I never argue with people, and I try to make it a rule to mind my own business, so I simply said that I was staying with Mr Yeldham for a couple of nights. The rest of the conversation was quite short and I think that I can give it you verbatim if you are interested.”
“As if,” Scoresby had thought at the time, “I was likely not to be interested!”
The conversation as detailed by Salter genuinely proved to be extremely brief. In fact, the schoolmaster, who apparently rather appreciated a touch of the dramatic, had given it by acting both parts, standing by the door into the hall when speaking for himself, and by the screen when posing as the unknown woman. The method had, at any rate, made it easy for Scoresby to take it all down, and it was now tidily, if without emphasis, recorded on the sheet which lay in front of him on the chief constable’s table.
‘Where is Mr Yeldham?’ it read.
‘In his study. He went to write a few letters.’
‘Will he be back soon?’
‘He said he would when anyone arrived. Shall I fetch him?’
‘No. I shall wait.’
“And that is all we said, sergeant,” Salter had gone on. “She just sat down at the end of the table, and remained there, practically motionless, and without saying anything, until those four people arrived. Then I made some attempt to introduce her, but for her part she made no attempt to help me out with her name. In fact, she remained absolutely silent until she departed. I suppose that I might have made a more determined effort to fetch Yeldham—wish I had now—but, as I said, I believe in minding my own business. So, apparently, did she. Anyhow, we both sat there, and since she seemed to have no desire for conversation, I went on with my game of patience—or rather game of cards. I was simply playing cold poker between my right hand and my left. I’m afraid that when Miss Hands came I rather exaggerated that.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Oh, it looked so silly otherwise. I thought that I had better make out that there was some better reason for it than that I was just trying to pass the time. Besides, they might have thought that I ought to have been entertaining this lady, and that was almost an impossibility.”
“After that, sir,” Scoresby turned over a page of his typescript, and for a moment broke his narrative to the chief constable, “I got no more out of him as to what happened before the Hands’ party arrived. He gave me a pretty good account of what happened then.”
“I don’t quite see why you worry about that conversation at all,” Flaxman answered. “Yeldham was dead before they arrived.”
“He was. Still, I have a reason. But to finish with Salter first. Naturally, the first thing to do was to find out how long he had been out of the dining-room, and so I asked him to go through the actions that he had taken then. Ostensibly, that was only to find out about the time, but I think that he was sufficiently intelligent to guess what else I had in mind.”
“And was he able to repeat his actions quite naturally?”
“Quite. And they seemed reasonable ones. I mean, he looked in the places where I should have expected to find a pack of cards and there weren’t any there. Finally, he tried a rather unlikely cabinet, and the companion pack to the one that he had been playing with was there. In the middle, so he says, his eye was caught by a book lying on a table, and he looked at two illustrations. The whole performance, as he did it for my benefit, took just about four minutes.”
“And you think he did do just that?”
“Yes. You see, I told him when he was doing it the second time not actually to touch anything. Then I had the places where he said that he had been tested. In each case his fingerprints were there. I should like to point out, sir, by the way, that Detective Constable Johnson has been very successful over that. It’s his first real try-out since we had him taught, and he has produced very good results.”
“I’ll have a word with him,” Flaxman agreed readily enough. “But the immediate point is that with the exception of the events after the four visitors arrived, that is practically the sum total of the information to date.”
“There’s one more important point. Those four people were not together all the evening, and Y Bryn is no long distance from where the dance was held, and outside was a car which all of them could drive.”
“Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?”
“Possibly. But remember, sir, they were the four people who had demurred at going to Yeldham’s house at all, and were only with difficulty induced to come there on the third night. It’s very likely that they have nothing to do with it at all, but as yet, I do not feel that it is safe to remove them entirely from our list of suspects.”
“Have you got as far as making one?”
“Only in my mind, and remembering all the while that as that door was open there is nobody in the world who is excluded. First of all there are these four, of whom one—Hands—is noticed to refuse to eat or drink anything under Yeldham’s roof, giving as an excuse, that he is afraid of being drunk when in charge of the car.”
“Some people are afraid of taking anything alcoholic at all in those circumstances.”
“But that would not apply to a cigarette, which he also avoided. I can make no suggestion as to why he should refuse so consistently, but I am going to try to find out if there is a reason. Then there is Miss Carmichael. As you know, she was old Miss Yeldham’s adopted daughter, and no doubt she must have hoped to inherit a good deal from her. She didn’t, and I want to see Miss Yeldham’s will. Then there is Lansley who was in Yeldham’s house at Finchingfield, and apparently not too popular there.”
“I never heard of anyone who carried his dislike of his housemaster to the extent of murdering him some years later.”
“Quite, sir. But, once again, there is some sort of connection. If all was well, why didn’t he go round long before?”
“Remember that he is engaged to Miss Hands.”
“Exactly so, sir, and if that is the reason, there is all the more reason for finding out why Miss Hands’ brother was so averse to having anything to do with Yeldham, especially as Yeldham served in the war with his father.”
“That may be the reason.”
“Perhaps. Of course, sir, I agree at once that there is no case against any of them, but I only want to point out that we cannot leave them out. Then, of course, there is Constable Reeves himself. After all, he found the body, and acted very oddly afterwards. Motive? I know of none, but it might be robbery or to conceal a robbery. From what I know of him, I should think it was very unlikely, but it’s another reason why I want to keep him about me. Then there is Salter himself, who obviously had every chance, the only person who has a trace of blood on him, and who admits that there was the making of a slight quarrel between himself and the deceased.”
“But only the makings. And he did, in fact, look for those cards.”
“But not necessarily at the time that he says. Finally, there is obviously this woman who walked out. I admit that, apparently, she had to act pretty quickly. All the same—”
“All the same she has got to be found.”
6
Description
It was all very well for Major Flaxman to say “she has got to be found”, but it was not, as he was well aware, so easy to do. Nor was he the only person who would like to discover her. As Patricia Hands put it to Gerald Lansley, “In a way, you know, I feel vaguely responsible. I mean, there she was with us, and we let her go away.”
“I don’t see,” Gerald answered, “that we are responsible for that. At the time we had no idea that there was anyt
hing wrong.”
“Of course not. Still—”
“Look here, Patricia, aren’t you worrying yourself unnecessarily? Ever since we got to Y Bryn you’ve been funny and on edge. The whole business is nothing to do with us, and it’s very unpleasant. Why not forget it altogether?”
“I can’t. To think that we were under his roof and enjoying—more or less—his hospitality, and all the time he was lying dead. Perhaps if we had done something about trying to find him earlier, it might have made all the difference.”
“Nonsense. I don’t know but from what I hear, he died almost at once, and that must have happened before we got there.”
“It isn’t nonsense. As you say, you don’t really know whether anything could have been done to save him. Besides, he might have been killed while we were actually there.”
The tone of her voice and the way she put her hand on his arm expressed an intense horror of the thought. Lansley immediately took steps to comfort her.
“Now, that is impossible. I understood that policeman—Reeves—to say definitely that he had found him to be dead before we arrived.”
Patricia thought a minute.
“Yes,” she answered slowly, “I believe he did, but I still feel we ought to have done something a bit more about it.”
“Really, Patricia—”
“Don’t go on saying ‘Really’ to me. I’m not a child!”
“Don’t get cross about it. I mean what could we have done?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps nothing. The question is can we do anything now?”
“What can we do? We’ve told the police everything we know.”
“Have we?” Martin came up to them and joined in the conversation. “Barbara’s just reminded me that we didn’t mention the mileage on the speedometer.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Patricia was in a mood when she was ready to be angry with anyone, and her brother’s words only suggested to her that he was still sore about some implied criticism of his driving.
“I can’t imagine that it can have anything to do with it, but as you were saying that we ought to tell the police everything we know, well, perhaps—” Lansley’s voice trailed away inconclusively.
“Perhaps,” suggested Martin, “this woman pinched the car and drove to Y Bryn in it.”
“And then brought it back again and walked up again to the house. It sounds highly probable.” Patricia was bitingly sarcastic.
“It sounds unlikely.” Her fiancé tried to relieve the tension by laughing. “It’s only that you said that we ought to tell the police everything. I shouldn’t think that they would thank us for the information, though. By the way, has anyone, in fact, told them?”
It appeared that none of them had happened to mention the extra two miles, and finally Patricia insisted that it was unnecessary to bring the point to Scoresby’s attention, although she agreed that there was no reason why it should be concealed.
“Inconsistent things, women,” thought Lansley, as he left the Hands’ house to go back to his own lodgings, “and given to temper, too,” he added to himself. “I wonder—oh, well, she’s tired and upset.”
The little town of Trevenant was pleasant in the sunshine of the late afternoon. The Nant looked clear and cool under the old stone bridge that spanned it. There were fine black and white buildings scattered about the town, and on the hills above the meadows were brilliantly green, despite the time of year. Occasionally there were century-old oaks in them, and here and there woods of pine, beech, and fir completed the gamut of shades of green. It seemed such a pleasant and quiet district, so far remote from sudden death and, enjoying the fresh air after the hot atmosphere of three consecutive dances, and the scene of the previous night, Lansley walked slowly up the hill towards Y Bryn, his mind running on the subject of the woman who had arrived and disappeared so mysteriously, and wondering what other people would make of her.
Obviously she must have had a car somewhere near, for she emphatically did not look the type of person who would have walked any long distance, and the railway service was such that though she might, no doubt, have arrived by train, she could not have left so late at night, nor, so far as Lansley knew, was there any bus by which she could have escaped. No doubt, if there was, the police would interrogate the conductor. In fact, very likely, that was one of the reasons why he and everybody else concerned had been pressed so closely for a description of the woman.
But, apparently, he was not the only person to whom the idea of a car concealed nearby was present. In a by-road beyond Y Bryn, where the main road having reached the crest of the hill was beginning to drop down again, he caught sight of a face that seemed vaguely familiar. He was not surprised when he was hailed by a friendly “Good afternoon, sir.” A few seconds afterwards he recognised the athletic figure of Police Constable Reeves, clad this time in a tweed coat and grey-flannel trousers.
“Trying to see if I can do something right after the mess I made last night, sir,” Reeves went on in a less cheerful voice. “Proper hash that was, and I’ve had my name properly taken for bad. It seems to me my only chance is to spend my time off in finding something out, and hope they forget the rest. And between you and me, I rather think that I have.”
“That’s good,” Lansley answered. “I suppose I mustn’t ask what?”
“I don’t think there’s any harm, sir. Just follow me down this lane a few yards, sir. As you see, it’s really a cart track leading to that farm where, as I happen to know, nobody has a car, because the farm isn’t even let just now. It’s an overgrown sort of road, as you can see, and consequently it hasn’t dried up properly, although it’s some days since it rained, and moreover it makes it a good place to hide a car in for a bit. Out of sight and no one likely to come. All the same, somebody has driven a car in here, and then backed it out. Look at the marks there, sir.” Reeves pointed triumphantly to the side of the road.
Undoubtedly a car had executed such a manoeuvre at a fairly recent date. Still, there was no certainty that it had done so on the previous night, and not at some other time during the last few days. Nor was the fact necessarily in any way connected with the subject in their minds, despite the fact that the lane was clearly little used, and no one was likely to go down it by mistake. Lansley looked at the wheel marks and wondered what, if anything, Scoresby would deduce from them. It might suggest to him how the lady had arrived and departed, but that he had probably guessed, anyhow. It might tell him the type of tyre on the car, perhaps something as to the size of the vehicle—facts unlikely to be of much distinguishing value—but so far as Lansley could see, it would be of little further use. Nevertheless, it seemed cruel to discourage Reeves, and he turned round to congratulate him just as the constable made a sharp ejaculation.
“What are you doing there, sonny?”
“Looking for number eleven,” was the unexpected answer from a small boy sitting on the gate near the end of the lane.
“The last man in the football side? I don’t see the rest.”
“No.” The small boy gave Lansley a glance of withering contempt. “Car number eleven.”
Enlightenment dawned on Reeves.
“There’s a game some of the boys play—and I believe some grown-up people, too, with childish minds—of collecting car numbers, the registration numbers, that is. First of all, you want to find a car—”
“Or a lorry. Or a bus. Anything will do,” the boy put in.
“Any motor vehicle.” Reeves corrected himself and, at the same time, changed from his genuine, rather slangy choice of words that betrayed a Cockney origin to his official preference for clichés, “which is numbered ‘one’. Having obtained that you require a ‘two’ and so on. The lettering of the registration is of no importance. The boy here has reached ten, and is now searching for an eleven.”
“That’s right,” the lad agreed. “I usually goes down into the town to look but I live up here.” He pointed to a cottage on the other side of the
road. “And I often do it from this gate. I got a ten only last night, just where you’ve come from, mister.”
“What sort of time?” Reeves asked, as casually as he could.
“Pretty late. I’d been out helping father.” Suddenly a look of alarm came over the boy’s face, and Reeves had the sense not to press the point. It was more than probable that father had been poaching, and had given very strict standing instructions in the past that nothing was to be said about nocturnal adventures. Having begun to learn discretion from his errors of the previous night, Reeves contented himself with a mental note that “father” could be found later, although he completely failed to disguise the interest in his voice as he went on:
“What were the letters of this number ten car?”
But the boy shook his head.
“The letters don’t matter. You said so yourself. It were a number ten. And now I want an eleven.” With the air of complete unconcern he went back to the gate off which he had got, and hurriedly looked at a passing car. “Fourteen ninety-two. What’s the good of that? The number ten had four letters, not two, mister. Nearly all the low ones don’t have two.”
A few more questions brought no more information, and a request for his name caused him to disappear abruptly.
“You can always find him,” Lansley put in comfortingly.
“Always,” Reeves agreed, “and a lucky thing I wasn’t in uniform, too. I shouldn’t have got even that much. Well, it isn’t much, but it’s something. It’ll annoy old Evans that I’ve even got that, and I think it’s worth telling to the sergeant.”
The distinction in the matter of referring to his usual, as contrasted with his temporary, superior, was not lost upon Lansley, nor did Evans fail to note or comment upon the fact that the report was made direct to Scoresby, and when it was pointed out to him that Reeves was quite right to do so, he was even more annoyed, so that on the whole the unfortunate, but irrepressible, Reeves gained little at first from his discovery.
And Death Came Too Page 5