He nodded and departed. Bobby added his report of the morning’s proceedings to the already formidable and always growing pile of documents dealing with the case, and then went on to the Wynton Arms, where Olive soon joined him.
“I don’t know what to make of Miss Kayne,” she told him, looking very worried, “or what she means about poor little Miss Perkins. I’m sure she wouldn’t steal anything. I asked Mr. Broast, and he only laughed. I don’t believe anyone could take a pen nib out of the library without his knowing.”
“Well, let’s feed,” Bobby said, and during the meal he chatted resolutely of other things, though indeed they both found it difficult to keep out of their talk the one subject occupying their minds. Their meal finished and themselves established with cigarettes and coffee, Olive said:
“Bobby, tell me, why is all this happening as soon as you get here?”
“That,” Bobby answered grimly, “is what I’m wondering—wondering quite a lot. It may be merely coincidence. Coincidences do happen, and very odd ones, too. Only it’s so easy to say ‘coincidence’ and leave it at that. And if it isn’t coincidence then there’s a reason, and it’s the reason we’ve got to dig up. Once we’ve got that, we shall know where we are—or have some idea. At present I’ve none. I suppose everyone in the place knew about my job?”
“I expect so,” said Olive, looking a little self-conscious. “Everyone always seems interested. I don’t say you’re a C.I.D. man now when people ask me. I say you’re a policeman, and then they look down their noses and think of me bringing you sandwiches and coffee in a thermos flask while you’re directing traffic.”
“If you did, you would get it in the neck,” observed Bobby. “Policemen aren’t supposed to need mundane things like sandwiches and coffee.”
“Well, if it isn’t coincidence, it’s rather horrid,” Olive said, frowning anxiously.
“There’s one thing I wanted to ask you about perhaps you can help in,” Bobby went on. “You know that yarn Virtue told us? You heard Miss Kayne say first it was a lie and then it was true, and I was to guess what that meant—Major Harley’s guess, by the way, is that she’s mad.”
“She’s not mad,” Olive said slowly. “She’s something—I don’t know what.”
“That’s how I feel,” agreed Bobby. “The funny thing about Virtue’s story is that the rather full description he gave of the body in the library he says he saw, exactly resembles a photograph in Miss Perkins’s possession she says is of her fiancé, though apparently he has gone back to America and she doesn’t seem too confident of ever hearing of him again. Now, what does that mean, and what possible connection can there be between whatever it does mean and the murder of Nat Kayne? Virtue has never been in England before, Miss Perkins has never been in America, and Nat Kayne had nothing much to do with Miss Perkins, and apparently they had never seen Virtue.”
“What do they say themselves?” Olive asked.
“Virtue seemed genuinely astonished, says he can’t understand it or explain it. Miss Perkins will have to be questioned again. By the way, while I am thinking of it—there’s a pond near Sir William Winders’s place, isn’t there?”
“Yes. Why? There used to be fish in it and I used to try to catch them when I was here years ago. I never did.”
“Is it deep?”
“I don’t think so. Not very. Why?”
“I was just wondering,” Bobby answered. “To return to Miss Perkins. Major Harley is always talking about her being sex starved.”
“It’s very horrid of him,” said Olive. “Why is it always women who are supposed to be sex starved? Why not men for a change?”
“Well, I suppose men needn’t be if they don’t want.”
“Women needn’t either, need they? Not now, not to-day. My gracious, walk along Piccadilly, if you’re a girl, I mean, and see how many men are willing to relieve any symptoms of sex starvation. Piccadilly may not be flowing with milk and honey, but it certainly is with the most obliging men. Sex starvation, fiddlesticks.”
“I suppose Major Harley doesn’t quite mean that,” observed Bobby.
“No, he’s just muddled between the old kind of licence and the new. You can’t starve in a world overflowing with fodder if you want it. Sex starvation is just a phrase invented by gentlemen who don’t want to run any risk of suffering from it themselves, blast them. It’s all a dodge to make women easy.” Olive paused and snorted. “Silly,” she said, “when we all are already. Only poor little Miss Perkins isn’t like that. You can always tell.”
“I suppose,” agreed Bobby tolerantly, “she is rather a dull little thing.”
“She needn’t be if she didn’t want,” retorted Olive. “She’s got quite good features and have you never noticed her teeth? They’re lovely, perfect. If she had taken half the trouble about herself she must have gone to to learn shorthand and typing, she would be all right. If she permed her hair, and looked after her skin and dropped in a smile sometimes to show off her teeth, and attended to herself generally, and thought about her dress, and didn’t wear those spectacles all the time—she only needs them for close work and pince-nez would do and make all the difference—she would look just as smart as anyone else. As it is—well,” asked Olive in a voice of awe, “did you notice her hat? It was awfully rude of me, but I just couldn’t help saying something.”
“What did she say?”
“Oh, she just giggled in that silly way she puts on. I don’t think she was a bit interested. She’s the only girl I ever met who isn’t—in hats I mean. As for men, you would think she didn’t know they existed.”
“Well, then,” said Bobby, “how does that fit with her showing a photograph all round the village and telling everyone it’s her fiancé?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t what?”
“Doesn’t fit?”
“No, only it does, because it’s what she did, so there you are. Only nothing seems to fit. Lots of odd things but none of them have any possible connection with Nat Kayne’s death. They are all just on the fringe so to speak. I don’t get it. There’s another thing. At the Lodge when I was there Miss Kayne seemed hardly able to get out of her chair without help. When she was leaving the police station just now, she seemed quite nimble.”
“Oh, she can get about quickly enough when she wants to,” Olive answered, smiling a little. “She suspected one of the maids of having a key to her bureau and taking money and stamps from it. She let the girl see her in the garden and then nipped back into the house as quickly as anything and caught her in the act. It is difficult for her to get out of a chair or go upstairs, but on the level ground she gets about easily enough—when she wants to.”
“I thought it was like that,” observed Bobby. “She gives the idea of having a kind of reserve of energy—a sort of hidden heat she can turn into action if she wants to. Do you remember what time she went up to bed last night?”
“We said good night as soon as you had gone. I went into the dining-room for a book, and when I came back she had gone upstairs. I didn’t notice the time exactly.”
“You couldn’t say for certain that she did actually go upstairs then?”
“No. I suppose she did. Why shouldn’t she? She said she was. Why? Oh, Bobby, you don’t mean you think it might be—her. Oh, that’s horrible.”
“I don’t think it,” Bobby hastened to re-assure her. “It’s only that we’ve got to consider everything. If Miss Kayne can get about as quickly as it seems she can, it would have been possible for her to get from the Lodge to the sunk lane and back again in the time. There’s not the least indication that she did. And I suppose she has a motive. It’s her library and Kayne was trying to force a sale.”
“It’s too terrible to think of,” Olive said.
“Don’t think of it,” Bobby told her. “Besides, she seems to hate the very thought of the library. Perhaps she really wants it sold and was backing up Nat Kayne on the quiet.”
“Why shoul
d she?” Olive said. She added: “She’s been so strange all day—ever since we heard. She keeps saying one thing leads to another. Why does she say that? What does it mean?”
“It’s true enough anyway,” Bobby said. “One thing does lead to another. Broast will have to be questioned next.”
“I would much rather think it was him,” Olive muttered. “I don’t like him.”
“Well, I think he is a more likely choice myself,” agreed Bobby, “but there’s not enough to go on yet. He has a motive of sorts, too, —not that Nat Kayne had much chance of forcing a sale apparently, but he may have got on Broast’s nerves, always talking about it. One never knows. Fixed idea of sale on Nat Kayne’s part, fixed idea of stopping him in Broast’s mind. It might be. That would make Broast the most likely person. Of course, there’s Virtue, too. Or Mr. Adams. Miss Perkins seems to be Major Harley’s choice.”
Olive smiled faintly.
“Poor Major Harley,” she said, “he’s terribly worried, and I don’t think he is very clever. Anyhow, you can tell him Miss Perkins is no more sex starved than she is food starved.”
CHAPTER XV
THE STOLEN REVOLVER
When Bobby returned to the little village police station that had become, for the time being at least, the centre of the investigation, he found Major Harley returned from Mayfield and very deeply immersed in the report of Superintendent Killick, the officer in charge of this district, to whom had been delegated the duty of visiting Nat Kayne’s home and endeavouring to secure there any information that might throw light on the circumstances or the motive of the murder.
“Not much in it,” decided the Major at last. “Nothing to help that I can see. No trace of correspondence with Virtue. Lived with his mother and a sister. Did a bit of farming—dairy, chiefly. Director of a company, ‘Gay Doings, Ltd.,’ owning two or three roadhouses. Said to dabble a bit in stock and share dealing, and generally believed to be pressed for money. Explains why he wanted the library sold, so that he could get his share in cash, but not much guidance otherwise. Not known to have any love affairs. Good reputation generally, but not much liked. Bit quarrelsome, apparently, argumentative sort of person, but nothing known of any serious trouble. Had an important engagement that night after dinner with the chairman of ‘Gay Doings’, who had promised to call when motoring past on his way somewhere else. There was some talk of extending ‘Gay Doings’’ operations apparently. Kayne was keen on it, and was very disappointed when the chairman rang up to say he couldn’t call that night as he had been delayed in starting and it would make him too late to stop at Kayne’s place, Kayne told his sister it was only a put off to avoid making a decision. He seemed angry and restless, and after a time said he would walk over to Wynton as he believed Broast and Winders were up to something and he would try to catch them out. Nothing there to help us, I’m afraid. We knew before there was bad feeling between Kayne and the others, and we knew he was shot on the way to the Lodge. Leaves us just where we were.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bobby. “May I see the report, sir?” he asked, for it seemed to him that it established at least one fact that might be of extreme significance, both in itself and because it carried with it implications of still greater importance.
The Major handed it to him. A constable came in to say Major Harley was wanted on the ’phone, from the Coroner’s office at Mayfield. As there was no extension, the chief constable had to go to the instrument to answer the call. When he came back he said to Bobby, still busy with the report:
“Well? Noticed anything?”
“Sorry, sir,” Bobby answered. “I’m trying to think it out. I’m afraid I’m a bit slow,” he added apologetically. “I always have to mull things over before I can get them clear in my mind.”
“Being quick is everything in police work,” said the Major severely. “In my opinion speed is the essence of detection.” He was rather pleased with this aphorism, and decided to remember it for future use, perhaps at the next meeting of chief constables; and Bobby said ‘Yes, sir’ in a very respectful voice, and continued to let the details of Superintendent Killick’s report turn over and over in his mind in that kind of half unconscious manner which sometimes, but only sometimes, ends in bringing the truth uppermost.
“The inquest date is settled, anyhow,” the Major went on. “Day after to-morrow, but it’ll be purely formal to allow of the burial taking place. There’ll be an adjournment to allow us to continue inquiries. The next thing, I think, will be to push along and see if Broast can tell us anything useful. We shall have to find out, too, where he was around about ten o’clock last night. Perhaps we ought to have seen him first. He’ll have had time to think out a story if he wants to.”
“He would have had time to do that anyhow,” Bobby pointed out. “And if any one starts telling lies, it’s always a useful pointer.”
“Yes, if we can find out they are lies,” agreed the Major in a very gloomy and doubtful voice, and Bobby refrained from remarking that distinguishing between lies and truth was precisely their business.
When they arrived at Wynton Lodge, Briggs, the butler, informed them that Miss Kayne had retired to her room, Miss Farrar was somewhere in the grounds, and Mr. Broast was in the library as usual. He conducted them there, and in the small anteroom left them in the charge of Miss Perkins, who looked up from her typing to greet them with her customary nervous giggle.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Is it about the photograph? have you brought it back? what does Mr. Virtue say?”
“He identifies it as resembling the man he states he saw here last night, dead or seriously injured,” answered the Major. “He has no explanation to offer.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Miss Perkins, “but I haven’t either.”
“Such a coincidence,” the Major told her sternly, “requires an explanation. I am afraid we shall find it necessary to question you further.”
Miss Perkins merely produced again that exasperating giggle. The Major glared and then asked if Mr. Broast was disengaged. Miss Perkins said, “Oh, yes, certainly,” and as they passed through from the anteroom into the library proper, she added to Bobby:
“It’s Mr. Virtue you ought to ask questions.”
“Oh, we shall,” Bobby promised her, and then she giggled again, and said it was that way, please, and they would find Mr. Broast at his desk.
“You know,” the Major said to Bobby as they proceeded in the direction indicated, “it’s a bit awkward. Nothing much we can do if a man invents a silly yarn about a corpse where there certainly isn’t one, or if a girl likes to pretend a photograph she’s got hold of is the sweetheart she hasn’t got but wishes to goodness she had.”
“No, sir,” agreed Bobby, “only I would like to know how Virtue came to describe the original of the photograph and who that original is.”
“Must try to find out if he ever had a chance to see it,” the Major remarked. “The girl seems to have shown it about pretty freely. Perhaps he heard it described.”
They had paused to exchange these whispered remarks, but now they came to the open alcove at the end of the library where Mr. Broast worked. He was busy with a ‘block’ book, technical points of which he was noting down to use as evidence in support of his belief that printing from movable type was in clear line of development from these early ‘block’ books printed from whole blocks in which letters had been carved. He received his two visitors without surprise, waved them to chairs, returned to his place behind the writing table so heaped with piled up papers and pamphlets like columns, book after book one on top of another, as to remind one of many-towered Ilium, and said:
“It’s about this tragic affair, I suppose. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you. But I understand there’s some wild tale about a dead man having been seen here—does that mean Nat Kayne? How could that be possible? and there’s something about a photograph… isn’t there?”
Major Harley produced it.
“Do yo
u recognize this at all?” he asked.
Mr. Broast took it. He put it on the table before him. Resting his chin on his hands he stared at it long and thoughtfully, nor could Bobby, watching him intently, detect any sign of emotion, yet none the less felt sure that to the librarian it conveyed some meaning. His eyes still fixed upon the picture, he said:
“Will you leave it here? I should like you to leave it here.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” the Major said, and then he added: “Why?”
“I thought I might remember,” Mr. Broast said. He got to his feet. His eyes were still upon the photograph. He said: “If I ever knew any one like that, I’ve forgotten.” He made a slow gesture of a deep contempt. “I have other things to think of more important,” he said, “but if you left it here I would keep it on my table and perhaps I might remember.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The past is past,” he said; “and if it returns what does it matter? Take it away.”
As he spoke he picked up the photograph and with a gesture of something like defiance handed it back to the Major.
“That’s all as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “Where did it come from?”
The Major did not answer. He said instead:
“We understand there was some kind of quarrel or dispute between Mr. Kayne and yourself and Sir William Winders. Could you give us particulars?”
“He wanted us to sell. Both Sir William and Miss Kayne objected. That’s all. Sir William was a little impatient, naturally, at the way in which Mr. Kayne would insist on bringing up something that had been decided over and over again. Sir William got quite cross yesterday. He told Kayne he was behaving like a fool. Kayne made some sort of insolent retort. They both lost their tempers. Of course Kayne was entirely in the wrong. He had no business to keep on worrying like that. Quite ridiculous.”
“What was your own attitude?” asked the Major.
“In my opinion selling would be an almost criminal act of folly,” answered Mr. Broast at once. “Not that my opinion matters. I’m a paid servant of the library. Miss Kayne is the owner. Winders and Nat Kayne are the joint trustees—were I suppose I should say now. Miss Kayne has complete control, and the trustees have merely powers of inspection.”
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