“Between three and four?” Smith repeated, and puckered his brows. “I don’t think so, sir, although I wouldn’t swear to it.”
“Tell me,” said Knollis; “tea is at four o’clock in this house. How is it that you didn’t have yours before you drove to Trentingham?”
“Well,” Smith replied, “the staff don’t get tea at the same time. I mean, Mrs. Redson and Freeman are serving the others. We usually get ours half-past four-ish, but I’d a bit of trouble with the car, and Freddy wanted to be down in town by five, and so I had to scrub my tea and get weaving on the car.”
“What was wrong with it?” Knollis asked.
“Brakes wanted taking up. Freddy—Mr. Manchester—had been taking it out lately, and he seems to drive on the brakes instead of the hooter.”
“So you can’t remember going into the house?”
“I can’t remember doing so, and I don’t think I did, either. I’d no need to go in, and as I say, I was extra busy.”
“You didn’t slip in for a chat with Miss Freeman, by any chance?” Knollis suggested.
“Freeman would be upstairs then, sir.”
“Quite,” said Knollis. “I’m trying to find who went to the larder between three and four. I don’t suppose you can help me?”
Smith’s face reddened. “I’ve told you, sir, that I wasn’t in the house!”
“I’m not disputing it,” Knollis said smoothly. “I merely wondered if you had seen anyone enter the staff door. You didn’t?”
“I never saw anybody.”
“Thanks,” said Knollis. “Please carry on with your magazine.”
He strolled round the grounds until the constable arrived from Trentingham with the car, and then he sent him back again with the beer-case and a suitable message to the laboratory staff. “Tell them I suspect that chloral hydrate has been in the wrapped bottle—knockout drops, if you can’t remember the name. Bring the car back here. I’ll be somewhere in the village, and will collect it later.”
He went across to Gate Cottage. Temple was downstairs, seated by the fire, and looking sorry for himself. Knollis greeted him cheerfully, and at Mrs. Temple’s invitation took the opposite seat. She then left them.
“I hope you’re satisfied about me not being—you know,” said Temple miserably.
“There are only a few odd points which need clearing up,” Knollis answered, “and if you can clear them, then you have no need to worry. First; did anyone pay for a drink for you while you were in the Anchor on Tuesday?”
Temple shook his head. “Not a soul, sir.”
“Who sat next to you?”
“Why,” Temple said slowly, “there was only Jake Meadows. I was sitting in the fireplace corner, you see.”
“Meadows didn’t buy you a drink?”
“He never does,” said Temple.
“You didn’t happen to see Mr. Brailsford while you were there?”
“I don’t think he came in, sir. It isn’t often he gets in before night, and then it is with Mr. Manchester.”
“I see,” said Knollis. “Now on your return to Baxmanhurst, did you meet anyone you knew—anyone connected with the house?”
“Ye-es, I did meet Mr. Brailsford. Actually, he caught me up. He’d got a bundle of papers under his arm.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“I can’t remember as he did,” replied Temple. “He looked at me, and went down the drive to the front door.”
“And you went to the woodshed!”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Have you a good memory, normally, Temple?”
“Fairish, sir.”
“Good,” said Knollis. “Now tell me; what is the last thing you remember in the shed?”
“Getting down and getting to sleep, sir.”
Knollis stared at him slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he murmured. “Listen, Temple; did you fasten the door on the inside before you got your head down?” Temple considered. “Yes,” he said after a minute. “The door swings inwards unless it’s fastened, and I seem to remember that I leaned a shovel against it.”
“You didn’t wedge it so that it couldn’t be opened from the outside?”
“It can’t be done, sir. I’ve meant putting a catch on the inside for long enough, but somehow it doesn’t seem to have got done.”
Knollis scribbled a note and then looked up at Temple again. “The drink you had in the Anchor? That was the last you had that day?”
Temple scratched his head, and appeared to be puzzled. “That’s what I can’t make out, sir. It’s what I was trying to get a hold of last time you saw me. I think it must have been a dream . . . !”
“Tell me,” Knollis said shortly.
“Well, it’s daft, sir, and I’m feeling ashamed of myself about the whole business, but I had an idea that I woke up and found a bottle of pale ale beside me, and that I’d drunk it, and then thrown the bottle across the hut. I can’t say for certain, because I haven’t been across to see if the bottle is still there!”
Knollis nodded. “There is no bottle there, Temple. It looks as if it was a dream, after all. Dreams are so vivid, aren’t they?”
Temple shook his head sadly. “They certainly are, sir. And this one was extra.”
“I don’t suppose you know what brand of beer you drunk in this—er—dream?”
“Well, that’s what makes me think it must have been a dream, sir, because it was the same as Mr. Manchester drinks in the house, India pale ale. I like it, but I can’t afford to drink it.”
“See, those bottles have crown caps, haven’t they?”
“They have, sir,” said Temple, “but this wasn’t on.”
“Mm!” said Knollis. “And you went to sleep as soon as you had disposed of the beer, and the bottle?”
“In my dream, sir; yes.”
“Look, Temple,” said Knollis, “would you have any objection to having your finger-prints taken?”
Temple looked surprised. “Why, no! I don’t think so, sir.”
“Then I’ll have a man call round and take them. I think that will clear you entirely. By the way, you did not have other dreams, did you?”
“I can’t remember them if I did, sir.”
“No dreams about finding bloody axes and taking them to your dustbin?”
“Certainly none like that, sir.”
“Mm!” said Knollis again. “Have you any idea whether your wife was out after tea on Tuesday? You’ll understand that I’m trying to find out who put the axe in your dustbin.”
Temple called his wife. “The Inspector wants to know if you went out after tea on Tuesday.”
“Why, yes, sir. After I heard about poor Mr. Manchester I didn’t feel too safe in the house, and I went up to my sister’s for half an hour, or perhaps it would be an hour.”
“At what time did you go, Mrs. Temple?”
“Round about seven o’clock, sir, as near as I can say,” she replied.
“And stayed until about eight, say?” asked Knollis.
“About that, sir.”
“Thank you both,” said Knollis. “I think that will be about all for now, although I may have to call round again to-morrow.”
“Matt’s all right, sir!” Mrs. Temple asked anxiously.
Knollis patted her shoulder. “Matt is all right, Mrs. Temple.”
He paused a minute, and then said: “Would you care to help me? Then, if anyone asks you the question that you have just asked me, pretend that things don’t look too good for him. You understand?”
Temple shook his head, but his wife replied: “I think I do, Inspector, and I’ll see as Matt does, too.”
“Bravo,” said Knollis.
He stood under the elms for some minutes after leaving the Temples, and his forehead was furrowed. It was evident that the axe had been parked between seven o’clock and eight, and that meant that it had been hidden from the time of the murder until after seven. The state of the axe when found suggested that it had b
een in the water-butt. . . .
Knollis strode down the drive, and pushed behind the bushes to where the butt stood. He ferreted about in the fallen leaves that bestrewed the ground, and gave a grunt which expressed satisfaction rather than surprise as he retrieved a length of thin and yet strong string. There was a running noose in one end. Knollis found a stone, and tightened the noose round it; then lowered the stone into the butt. When it reached the bottom he was left with about seven inches of the string in his hand.
“Now where do I fix this?” he murmured, and then answered his own question by wedging it between two of the staves of the somewhat worn butt.
“That,” he said aloud, “is that! Now who put it here? Who was missing between seven o’clock and eight? Who, that is, apart from Temple.”
And then he remembered something, and nodded his satisfaction. He had asked Brailsford for an interview on the Tuesday night, and Brailsford had sought him out after Sir Giles Tanroy left, or as he was leaving. Knollis could hear his queer, high-pitched voice again in his mind: I want to go into town in half an hour or so, Inspector, so I thought I’d better call on you now.
Knollis was grim-featured as he drew the string from the barrel. He loosened the stone and threw it away. He coiled the string, soaking wet as it was, and put it in his pocket. Then he strode down to the house, walked in, and sought out Freeman. “Will you please tell Mr. Brailsford that I would like to see him in the study—at once.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE GUEST OF BAXMANHURST
Desmond Brailsford entered the room cautiously, closing the door softly behind him and advancing in a wary manner to the table behind which Knollis was seated.
“You wanted to speak to me?” he asked in his high-pitched voice.
“I want to ask you a question,” Knollis replied. “You will remember that our first chat was on Tuesday evening, and you said you wanted to go into town. Did you go?”
Brailsford gave an uneasy laugh. “I didn’t know that you had the right to pry into my private affairs, Inspector. Whether I did or did not is my own business, and nobody else’s.”
“I see,” said Knollis. “In that case I will not detain you. Good evening, Mr. Brailsford!”
Brailsford ambled over to the door, and stood there with his hand on the knob. “Why should you want to know, anyway?” he asked.
Knollis shrugged. “Since you have no intention of answering the question, there is no point in continuing the conversation. Good evening, Mr. Brailsford!”
He bent his head over his notes and ignored Brailsford’s presence. Brailsford shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, and relinquished the door-knob.
“If I thought that the information would help you over Fred’s death I’d have no hesitation in telling you, but I can’t see how it could help you.”
Knollis made no answer, but scribbled busily in his notebook.
Brailsford edged back towards the table. “As a matter of fact, I did set off for town.”
Knollis looked up. “Did you get there?”
“Er—no, I didn’t!”
“The car pack up on you?” Knollis asked casually.
“I haven’t a car. I don’t like the things. No, I intended to go by bus, and I missed it by about two minutes,” Brailsford replied.
Knollis grunted. “Hm! Where is the bus-stop?”
“About twenty yards beyond Gate Cottage.”
“You waited for it at that point?”
Brailsford nodded. “About five to ten minutes. It’s the usual country run—y’know, runs to time when it feels like it, and when the driver and conductor are feeling so disposed.”
“Now we are getting somewhere!” Knollis exclaimed with deep satisfaction. “Did anyone pass you while you were waiting for the bus?”
Brailsford gave an audible sigh of relief. “So that’s why you wanted to know where I was!”
“You have only yourself to blame if you deduced anything more in the nature of prying,” Knollis replied dryly.
Brailsford coughed his embarrassment. “Well, perhaps I was a bit sharp on the uptake. Anyway, the gardener’s wife was the only person I can remember seeing. She went past me and continued up the hill.”
“At what time would that be?” asked Knollis.
“Oh, five to ten-past seven. I asked her about the bus, and she said it would have gone, so I came back here and packed up the idea for the night.”
“I see,” said Knollis. “Now tell me; surely it was an odd idea to want to go into town a mere hour or so after you had discovered your friend’s body?”
Brailsford wriggled, and his left eye sought the ceiling. “To tell you the truth, I wanted to get away from the place. It was giving me the willies. I could have got a drink in the house, but I wanted to get out. I thought about dodging down to the local, and then realised the danger of that—being quizzed and all that. I don’t like villagers!”
“You just wanted to get away,” said Knollis flatly.
“Just that, Inspector.”
“By the way,” said Knollis, “I suppose you have seen the murder-weapon?”
“The fire-axe? Oh yes!” Brailsford replied easily.
“Where?” asked Knollis.
Brailsford’s mouth twisted queerly. “Where? Why, the thing was always hanging about the place. Couldn’t miss it. Black-handled thing.”
Knollis looked down at the table, and then quickly fixed his eyes on Brailsford. “You doubtless saw it on its nails in the woodshed?”
“Ye-es, that would be it,” Brailsford answered. “Yes, it would be in the woodshed.”
Knollis’s lips twitched. “But I thought you never went near the staff quarters? I mean, I thought it was one of those things which simply isn’t done.”
“We-ell,” Brailsford replied hesitantly. “I don’t call the gardener’s shed part of the staff quarters. I often used to drop round there for a chat with Temple. I rather like the cuss.”
“And you saw no one else but Mrs. Temple?” Knollis asked anxiously.
“Not that I can remember, Inspector!”
Knollis gave a perfect imitation of a sigh of satisfaction, and closed his notebook. “Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Brailsford. You have relieved my mind.” He rose, and collected his hat. “I can give myself a rest at last.”
Brailsford followed him to the front door. “You—er—any nearer the arrest of the culprit, Inspector?”
Knollis lowered one eyebrow. “I’ve never been nearer, Mr. Brailsford, not after so few days. Good night!”
Knollis went no farther than Gate Cottage, where he once more began asking questions.
“When you went out on Tuesday night, Mrs. Temple, did you see anyone against the bus-stop?”
She put a finger to her lips. “See now—oh yes, I saw Mr. Brailsford, the poor gentleman with the twisted face. He asked me if he had missed the bus. Well, it was ten-past seven when I left the house, and I was sure that he had, so I told him so.”
“It was dark, of course, Mrs. Temple. You are sure that it was him?” Knollis said with deliberation.
“The bus-stop is under the lamp, Inspector, and he was standing about two yards away, so that the light fell full on his face. Oh, it was him all right!”
“So you would see that he was carrying a parcel, Mrs. Temple?”
“Aye,” she said slowly, “he had a parcel! A brown-paper parcel—”
“Brown paper!” Knollis exclaimed involuntarily.
“Brown paper it was, sir.”
“Oh!” said Knollis. “A round parcel, such as—say—a cake, or a hat, wrapped up?”
“Oh no, sir!” said Mrs. Temple. “It was flattish, and funny-shaped. Sort of square at one end and thin at the other.”
“As if he had a tennis-racket wrapped up?”
“Aye, like that, only not so long. A brown paper parcel it was. I’m sure of that.”
“Mm!” said Knollis, and turned to her husband. “Is Brailsford very friendly wit
h you, Temple?”
Temple laughed shortly. “We don’t like each other very much. He’s tried interfering with my work a few times, and I’ve told him off. One master is enough for any man, I always says.”
“How often has he visited you in the shed?”
“Never, not as I can remember,” Temple replied. “I’ve seen him hanging about round it a few times, but that’s different.”
“Why would he be hanging round it?” asked Knollis. Temple stared open-mouthed at the question. “I don’t know, sir, now I come to think about it.”
Knollis returned to Baxmanhurst, and asked Freeman to take him to Dana Vaughan’s room, and ask her if she could see him for a few minutes. She could see him, and Knollis was ushered into the feminine atmosphere of her room.
“More questions, Inspector?” she asked caustically, “or do you need my birth certificate this time?”
“All I need is your memory,” Knollis replied cheerfully. “I’m hazy about certain periods of Manchester’s life, and I have an idea that you may be able to de-fog me. You will understand that I do not wish to bother Mrs. Manchester.”
She seated herself, and indicated a second chair. “What do you want to know, Inspector?”
“How long have you known Mrs. Manchester?”
“Mrs. Manchester! I thought you were interested in Fred. At all events, I have known her for several years.”
“And how long have you known that she was the daughter of Marlin, the one-time hangman?” Knollis asked sharply.
Dana Vaughan gripped the edge of her chair, and took in a deep breath. “So you know . . . ! How did you find out? Does she know that you know?”
“It is my business to find out,” Knollis replied. “Scotland Yard is mainly a well-organised bureau for finding out. The question is; how long have you known?”
She hesitated before answering. “A mere two years. She told me herself.”
Knollis lifted an eyebrow. “Two years? I suggest that you have known it for over four years, Miss Vaughan.”
She bridled at the suggestion, her chin going up sharply. “Two years only, Inspector! Mildred will corroborate that herself!”
“Four,” Knollis repeated stolidly, “and perhaps a little longer than that.”
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