“There was a yarn going round that the old man had a secret hoard, in gold sovereigns,” Sir Alfred said moodily. “It might be that.”
“Was it a story generally known—or believed?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Most people were a bit scared of the old man. He was inclined to turn violent if people bothered him. There are stories of what happened to people he had a grudge against. Anyhow, you don’t suspect a respectable tradesman like Crayfoot of that sort of thing—robbery and burglary, I mean?”
“It doesn’t seem very probable,” Bobby agreed. “All I have to go on is that Mr Crayfoot is missing, that the last trace of him seems to be his card I found, and that there are signs of violence in the old man’s hut.”
Sir Alfred looked disturbed, uneasy, more than uneasy, indeed, even frightened. He was silent for a moment or two and then burst out abruptly as though he could no longer keep the fear to himself.
“But, good God, you can’t suppose he killed Crayfoot?”
“I don’t know enough to suppose anything,” Bobby answered, and he wondered if it was this possibility alone that was causing Sir Alfred such evident alarm or whether some other, deeper, fear was in his mind.
“Well, look here,” he said abruptly, “you had better have a talk with Dick. I don’t know anything about it. Wait a moment.”
He went out of the room and came back soon. He said:
“Dick and I were having a talk about estate business. I’m not married, so he’s my heir. Mr Hart’s there, too—our solicitor. Some of the property’s got to be sold. It’s mostly settled property, though. Heirlooms as well. We have to get permission from the courts. All that sort of thing. Come along, will you?”
CHAPTER XVI
LAWYER HART
SIR ALFRED LED the way into an adjoining room; a large and imposing apartment, oblong in shape, with wide windows looking out over the forest, its walls lined with books that had not much the air of ever being read. Ponderous tomes most of them, clad in calf, sometimes with bindings more interesting than the contents. At a big table in the middle of the room two men were sitting. One was Dick Rawdon, sprawling in his chair with outstretched legs and hands in his pockets. He nodded a curt greeting when Bobby came in and then seemed to lapse again into that profound meditation Bobby’s entrance had apparently interrupted. The other man, sitting facing him, was of a youngish middle age with a square body and a square flat face. Bobby noticed specially his eyes, so pale under pale, scanty eyebrows, as to be almost colourless. Yet they were alert enough; with a trick of giving sudden sideway glances, as though in the hope of catching something or some one unawares. He wore pince-nez or rather held them up in one hand, much as if he used them more to emphasize a meaning or illustrate a point than as an aid to vision. He was introduced to Bobby as Mr Montague Hart, the Rawdon family lawyer. Bobby decided that he did not much like his looks and especially not his mouth, at once, as mouths sometimes are, soft, with its full, red lips, and cruel, with its corners slightly lifted to show a gleam of white, pointed teeth behind.
“Inspector Owen,” Sir Alfred explained, “is trying to find out what’s become of Crayfoot—you know, Dick, Walters’s, the baker’s. Apparently Crayfoot has turned up missing.”
“He is not supposed to be hiding in the Abbey, is he?” Montague Hart inquired, trying to look amused and evidently very much the reverse. “For that matter, is there any reason for taking a serious view of Mr Crayfoot’s absence from home?”
“Mrs Crayfoot seems worried,” Bobby answered briefly. “We are making inquiries at her request.”
“He may have private reasons of the sort wives don’t know about,” Hart suggested with a faintly unpleasant grin.
“Oh, quite,” Bobby agreed. He added thoughtfully: “One or two things seem a bit odd, though.”
He paused. None of the three made any comment but he thought that all three looked not only expectant but a little anxious as well. At least, both with Hart and with Sir Alfred he felt sure there was anxiety. Dick Rawdon puzzled him more. The young man seemed changed in some curious, secret, yet excited way. As if he had been through some recent experience of which his mind was so full he could only bring his full attention to bear by fits and starts on present matters. Bobby spoke to him directly.
“You remember, Mr Rawdon,” he said, “when we met, I told you I had picked up Mr Crayfoot’s card?”
Dick removed his abstracted gaze from the window and transferred it to Bobby.
“Yes, I know,” he said. “What about it?”
“Well, for one thing,” Bobby told him, “that card seems the last known trace of Mr Crayfoot. I don’t think you mentioned that you knew him, did you?”
“I don’t expect so. No, I didn’t. Why? I didn’t know what you were up to. You weren’t looking for Crayfoot then, were you?”
“No, not then,” Bobby agreed. “Mrs Crayfoot tells me you called to have a talk with Mr Crayfoot the other night?”
“Well?”
“Did you find him in ordinary health and spirits?”
“Yes. I suppose so. As far as I know. I didn’t notice anything.”
“Do you mind telling me why you wanted to see him? I take it your call had some special purpose?”
Dick hesitated, frowned, looked at the lawyer. Mr Montague Hart said:
“I suggest the inspector ought to tell us exactly what is in his mind.”
“It’s almost a perfect blank at present,” Bobby answered cheerfully. “I’m merely trying to get hold of something that may help me to relieve Mrs Crayfoot’s anxiety. After all, a wife has some reason to be anxious when her husband turns up missing, as Sir Alfred says.”
“Is there any reason,” demanded Mr Hart, not too pleasantly, shaking his eyeglasses severely in the air and in Bobby’s direction, “any reason at all to suppose that this very natural anxiety you speak of would be in any way relieved by your knowledge of what passed during a private interview?”
“That,” said Bobby amiably, “is precisely what I am wondering. Would it or would it not? It might, mightn’t it?” He paused. No one answered. He felt they did not mean to answer. He said: “Of course, if it was merely a question of a road block—”
He paused once more. He had been watching Dick Rawdon closely. It was easy to recognize the look of surprise this reference to road blocks brought into the young man’s eyes. Bobby went on:
“That is what Mrs Crayfoot told me. I rather thought she might have got hold of the wrong end of the story. I believe Mr Rawdon is in charge of the Home Guard at his factory?”
Dick nodded.
“Used to make toys for kiddies,” he said. “Model trains, model aeroplanes, that sort of thing—the Summit models. Now we make uglier toys for naughtier children. Supposed to be so important we are all specially reserved.”
“That’s what made me wonder,” Bobby explained. “I mean, why a factory unit officer should be dealing with a road block opposite Mr Crayfoot’s shop.”
“Surely it is evident,” put in Montague Hart in the same slightly aggressive tone, the eyeglasses still raised in minatory fashion, “that Mr Crayfoot was merely satisfying his wife’s curiosity?”
“I expect so,” Bobby agreed. “A pity. Warning to husbands to be frank. Greater frankness to Mrs Crayfoot might have helped us now. Helped us to know how seriously we ought to take her anxiety—she is certainly very anxious.”
“I am aware of the reason for Mr Rawdon’s call,” Montague Hart put in, slowly and gravely lifting his eyeglasses up and down, a little as if he were beating time to an unheard and invisible orchestra. “It was an entirely private matter. It can have no possible bearing on Mr Crayfoot’s disappearance. Indeed, personally, I am rather at a loss to imagine what useful information the inspector thinks he is likely to obtain here. Naturally, there is a most perfect willingness to afford every possible help.”
“But not apparently to the extent of answering all questions,” Bobby interposed qui
etly, and left it at that for the time. For one thing he had the impression that the lawyer’s remarks were not altogether approved either by uncle or nephew. It seemed to him that they were both growing uneasy, that they did not quite like the somewhat bullying tone the lawyer was adopting. Bobby felt it just possible that if, without appearing too eager or pressing, he let them think it over for a few minutes, they might become more communicative. He said to Dick:
“After you left us in the forest on Sunday, you went on to Coop’s Cottage, they call it, don’t they? To see Miss Mary Floyd?”
Dick jerked round in his chair, stared, his mouth open, too taken aback at first for any emotion but surprise. He blurted out:
“How do you know?” Then he began to grow angry. “What the devil has it to do with you?” he asked heatedly.
“Are we to understand,” demanded Hart, his eyeglasses waggling more impressively than ever, “that you are keeping a watch on my client?”
“Good gracious, no,” protested Bobby. “Why should I?” he asked; and then he looked from uncle to nephew and back again as if he were asking himself that question very seriously indeed.
He tried to make these quick looks of his as full of meaning as possible, and he was glad to see the two of them showing signs of increasing discomfort. He told himself that one or other of them would soon be speaking freely and he thanked his lucky stars for the presence of a blundering, bullying lawyer who was really being a great help. But then he began to wonder whether Mr Montague Hart could really be as stupid and incompetent as he seemed or whether perhaps he was pursuing some ulterior aim.
Only what?
A fresh puzzle there, Bobby felt.
He went on:
“I asked about the visit to Miss Floyd because when I was at Mrs Crayfoot’s, I noticed a small oil portrait. Mrs Crayfoot didn’t seem to know much about it. She thought it was the work of Mr Crayfoot’s grandfather and that was why they kept it. Otherwise she would have liked to get rid of it. What struck me was there seemed a curious but quite recognizable resemblance to Miss Floyd.”
“My God, so there is,” cried Dick Rawdon and leaped to his feet, all sudden animation, “that is why when I saw her, I thought that I had always known her.”
CHAPTER XVII
FAMILY HISTORY
DURING ALL THIS time Sir Alfred had been leaning against the mantelpiece, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking down at the others in moody silence from his six feet three of height, apparently only half listening to what was being said. But now he straightened himself abruptly and made one long stride from fireplace to table.
“What the devil does that mean?” he demanded.
“I knew I had always known her, always,” Dick repeated, but he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to them.
“May I suggest—?” began Montague Hart, and then paused.
Evidently he did not really know what to suggest and as evidently he was as much puzzled as was Bobby himself. Sir Alfred went back to the mantelpiece and stood there, balancing himself on his toes, swinging slowly backwards and forwards.
“Well, look here—” he began and then was silent again. Looking at Bobby, he said: “Are you sure the thing was done by Crayfoot’s grandfather?”
“I am sure that is what Mrs Crayfoot said,” Bobby answered. “I am sure you understand that all I want is any information that may help me to find out what has happened to Crayfoot. Has the fact that Crayfoot’s grandfather painted a not very good portrait which has a likeness to a young lady living not far away any connection with Crayfoot’s disappearance?’’
“The question answers itself,” interposed Mr Hart, and Bobby had the clear impression that he spoke, not because he knew or understood anything of what was passing, but because he wished to play well his part of family solicitor, offering advice and counsel and generally protecting the interests of his clients.
Another impression that Bobby had was that neither of the two Rawdons, neither uncle nor nephew, was much impressed. Sir Alfred said now:
“Any connection? No, I don’t think so. I don’t see how. Do you, Dick?”
Dick was not listening. He was deep in his own thoughts and Bobby fancied that they had taken him back to that cottage in the forest and the young girl he had seen there.
“There’s another point I should like to mention,” Bobby went on. “Mr Rawdon told me a stranger had called here, and had made some inquiries about two presumably very valuable pictures—El Grecos. Sergeant Turner in the village says the same man—at least I assume it was the same man—has been making other inquiries in the neighbourhood. The idea seems to be that the pictures may possibly still be about here somewhere. Unrecognized. I suppose it’s possible. I have heard of an old master being used to patch a broken window in a garret. It’s an odd story and Mr Crayfoot’s disappearance is odd, and between two odd things happening at once there may be a connection—they may even be cause and effect.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Montague Hart.
“That’s what I want to be sure about,” Bobby explained. “That’s why I want to get in touch with this man—to ask him a few questions. I take it he is the same man I saw near the hut in the forest, a chap who made off in a hurry when he saw me. I suppose when he called here he gave his name and address?”
“I don’t think so,” Sir Alfred answered. “He said his name was Smith which I didn’t much believe. He said he represented the Nelson Art Gallery in New Bond Street in London. That’s a lie anyhow. I took the trouble to look it up. There doesn’t seem to be any such place. He tried to pump me about the El Grecos. I didn’t see why I should answer his questions. I told him what every one knows, that there are no El Grecos in the collection, and that we didn’t know anything about them, and if we did most likely we shouldn’t tell him. Then I asked him why the Nelson Art Gallery wasn’t on the ’phone, since their name didn’t appear in the ’phone directory, and he looked rather taken aback and made some silly excuse about keeping the number out of the book for the sake of privacy—rubbish, of course—and took himself off.”
“Thank you,” Bobby said. “We shall have to try to trace him. I’ve got his description. I’ll have some inquiries made among art dealers and see if he is known at all. Can there be any possibility of any connection between these lost El Grecos and the fact that Mr Crayfoot’s grandfather was a bit of an artist himself? Could the grandfather have got possession of the El Grecos?”
“You mean,” put in Mr Montague Hart excitedly, “that Crayfoot has suddenly discovered them and gone off with them to sell on the quiet?”
Bobby pondered the suggestion. It seemed a possibility. Sir Alfred whistled softly and appeared to think so, too. Dick looked round. He had seemed entirely lost in his own thoughts but all the same he had evidently heard what was being said. Now he uttered one word—and with emphasis.
“Nonsense,” he said.
“Not at all,” declared Hart with some heat. “Those paintings might be worth thousands—thousands. Enough to tempt anyone,” and the gleam that came so suddenly into those pale and distant eyes of his, made it pretty clear that for him at least, the temptation would be great.
“Rubbish,” said Dick, changing the word but not the emphasis. “Crayfoot’s a decent little man. He wouldn’t do it, and if he wanted to he wouldn’t know how to set about it—or have the guts to try. Respectable tradesmen don’t go in for tricks of that sort.”
“I have known cases,” declared Hart, and plainly wished it to be understood that only professional reticence prevented him from giving details.
Bobby had known cases, too. The outwardly respectable are sometimes inwardly very much the reverse. Was not Charles Peace known to all his neighbours as a kindly old gentleman who spent most of his time playing the fiddle? He said:
“Possession still counts for a good deal. Suppose these pictures are in Mr Crayfoot’s hands, could you make good to the satisfaction of the courts, that they are in fact your property?”
“Blessed if I know,” said Sir Alfred.
“In my opinion, undoubtedly,” declared Mr Hart.
“Could Mr Crayfoot’s grandfather have had access to the picture gallery?” Bobby asked.
Sir Alfred hesitated. It was Dick who answered. He said:
“The old boy was a footman here. He was chucked out at a moment’s notice—without warning, without a character, with a spate of abuse to make your hair stand on end.”
“There’s our case,” said Hart triumphantly.
“Nothing to do with stealing pictures,” Dick interposed. “I mean, there’s nothing to show he had anything to do with the disappearance of the El Grecos. Oh, you’ll keep it to yourself, won’t you?—I mean, about Crayfoot’s grandfather having been a footman here?”
“Does he know?” Bobby asked.
“I expect so, sure to. He may not want every one else to know, though.”
“Big wig locally, you know,” interposed Sir Alfred. “I daresay he could buy us up—not that that’s saying much.”
“We certainly shan’t say anything unless it becomes necessary,” Bobby said. “Police know many secrets—and keep them. It seems a bit of a coincidence, though, that footman Crayfoot had some artistic gifts. The portrait I mentioned isn’t a bad bit of work. The man who did it knew something—may have known enough to recognize El Grecos were a bit out of the way. However I’m not looking for lost pictures, it’s a missing man I want to find. At present, I don’t see much connection. Do you know why the Crayfoot grandfather was sacked?”
“Family scandal,” said Sir Alfred. Then he looked at Dick. “May as well tell the whole story,” he said. “Nothing much in it.”
“I suggest,” began Montague Hart, “it is both unnecessary and undesirable. I give that as my considered opinion.”
“All very well,” retorted Sir Alfred, “but there it is. Crayfoot’s missing, and God knows what’s become of the old hermit, and you’ve only got to look at Inspector Owen to see he is going on digging things up.”
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