Nicholas Blaise was studying him thoughtfully. He said, after a moment or two:
‘It’s a picturesque little place—especially now, with all this snow about. It’s queer to think that at this very moment it may be giving shelter to a murderer.’
‘Strange indeed, Nick,’ said Mordecai Tremaine slowly.
There was a sense of oppression in his soul. All the deep love of sentiment that was a part of him was stirring in helpless revolt. It was all wrong that greed and hatred, fear and violence should find their way into the lovely places of the earth. It was all wrong that the cold winter beauty upon which he was gazing should be marred by man’s inability to live in charity with his neighbours and that murder should lay like an evil smudge across perfection.
He liked to feel that the sun shone always upon lovers. He liked to feel that God was in His Heaven and that all was right with a world in which there was no false note. Perhaps it was a sign of weakness in him. Perhaps it was a shrinking from reality, a refusal to face the bitter truths of existence. But it was an integral part of him and he could not change it.
They walked on over snow that received them silently and as they came near the village church the rector came out of the gate set in the grey stone wall bordering the roadway. He recognized Nicholas Blaise and nodded a greeting.
‘Good morning,’ he said. He hesitated, and then, a little awkwardly, he added: ‘I’ve heard the terrible news. I would have come up to the house to see whether there was anything I could do, but it might have seemed like interference on my part and I didn’t wish to intrude.’
‘It was very good of you to have thought of us,’ said Blaise. ‘But the police have taken charge now, of course. There’s not much any of us can do.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the rector. ‘The police. Naturally they will be busy carrying out their investigations.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Poor Mr. Rainer! It was a dreadful thing to have happened. And at such a season when we should all be thinking of peace on earth and goodwill to men. It makes it seem doubly tragic.’
‘I suppose you saw a great deal of Mr. Rainer?’ said Mordecai Tremaine.
The rector shook his head.
‘I knew him by sight, of course, but I’m afraid we seldom saw him in our congregation here.’ For an instant or two the man revealed himself behind the garb of the priest. He said: ‘Have the police any theories as to whom might have been responsible?’
‘If they have they haven’t made them public,’ said Nicholas Blaise.
Mordecai Tremaine said:
‘We enjoyed the carollers. Their voices were excellently balanced.’
The rector did not seem disconcerted by the sudden change of subject. He appeared, in fact, rather relieved, as though he regretted having put his question to Blaise and was anxious to seize any opportunity of distracting attention from it.
‘I’m so glad,’ he said. ‘I’m sure everyone appreciated being able to sing to you. It was the highlight of the evening, you know.’
‘Were they all local people?’
It might easily have been imagination that he detected a slight hesitation in the rector’s manner.
‘They’re all known to me, of course,’ he returned, and Mordecai Tremaine said quietly:
‘But were they all local people?’
‘They all live in the village or the near neighbourhood,’ said the rector. ‘Except Desmond Latimer. And I suppose you might describe him as being one of us, although I believe his home is somewhere in the Midlands.’
The deceptively casual look that concealed an ulterior motive was in Mordecai Tremaine’s face.
‘Latimer?’ he said. ‘Is he rather tall, well-built and on the dark side?’
‘The description certainly could fit him,’ said the rector. Most of his attention had so far been given to Nicholas Blaise, but now he studied the mild-looking man with the pince-nez who was Blaise’s companion with a keener interest. ‘Do you know him?’
‘We haven’t been introduced,’ said Tremaine. ‘I saw him among the carol singers and I noticed him particularly because I happened to see him just outside the house on my arrival. As a matter of fact I was rather afraid of missing my way as darkness was closing in and I asked him if he could direct me.’
He waited. The rector’s kindly face was thoughtful and a little perplexed. Tremaine saw that he was wavering, and said:
‘I must confess that he rather intrigued me. He has a striking-looking head. He looks like the kind of man who has a story to tell.’
The rector said uncomfortably:
‘He’s staying in the village. You may meet him.’
‘I’d very much like to,’ said Tremaine, with his most innocent air. And he added, in the same casual tone: ‘I suppose all your—er—flock left the house with you the other night, rector?’
The rector’s surprise at the question was genuine enough. At first, indeed, he did not understand what Tremaine meant.
‘Oh—after the carols? Is that when you mean? Yes. Of course. We all came away together.’
‘There’s no doubt of that? There’s no chance of your being mistaken? After all, it was quite a big party. Fourteen people, you know. I imagine that it would have been quite easy for someone to be missing and for it not to be noticed. Especially in the dark.’
‘Was it fourteen? I’m really not sure. Yes, I suppose it would have been possible for someone to slip away. We were in several small parties——’ The rector broke off suddenly, a look of concern in his face. It was obvious that he had become aware of the significance of what he was saying. ‘You don’t mean that someone was missing?’
‘I just wondered,’ said Tremaine evasively, ‘whether you could be certain that all the members of your party were with you the whole time. Just supposing you were asked that very question, for instance. You couldn’t definitely state that everybody left the house with you?’
The rector shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’m afraid I couldn’t.’ He was looking a very worried man now. And he was clearly unwilling to be drawn any further into conversation. He said: ‘I’m sorry I can’t spend longer with you, gentlemen. The call of duty, you know. Will you excuse me?’
‘Of course,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘Forgive me for detaining you with so many trivial questions. I’m afraid I’m rather an inquisitive sort of person!’
They watched the rector’s benign form go hurrying up the path and disappear from sight as he entered the stone porch of the church. After a moment or two they walked on towards the village. Nicholas Blaise said:
‘You rattled the old boy, Mordecai. There’s something on his mind. Something about that chap Latimer.’
‘I think there is, Nick,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘When I asked him whether he would have noticed it if anyone had stayed behind it was plain enough that he hadn’t given it a thought until that moment. But it was also plain that as soon as the thought was in his mind it was Latimer he suspected at once. Which means that he knows of a reason why that particular member of the carol party might have wanted to stay in the house.’
‘I feel inclined to go back and put the question to him point-blank,’ said Blaise. ‘But I suppose it’s no use doing that.’
‘Don’t worry, Nick,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘The rector isn’t likely to hold back vital evidence. He won’t betray confidences by talking to us, but he’ll talk to the police frankly enough when the time comes.’
There was more sign of life in the village now. An excited group of small boys and girls went whooping past pulling toboggans and Mordecai Tremaine gazed after them enviously. Two men who were obviously not natives of the place came out of the yard adjoining an inn halfway along the main street. Their clothes bore the mark of the town and they gave Tremaine and his companion appraising stares that enquired who they were and what their purpose was in Sherbroome.
A prickle of anticipation teased its way along Mordecai Tremaine’s spine. Reporters, he surmised
. The Press had arrived.
So far publicity had been absent. The murder, having taken place in the early hours of Christmas morning, had inconsiderately missed the last editions before Christmas. Both Christmas Day and Boxing Day were blank days in the newspaper world as far as publication was concerned. Only north of the border where the Scotsmen waited for Hogmanay could the world’s news be found in print.
But tomorrow—ah, tomorrow! Then would the headlines leap in black sensation from the page. Then would the special correspondents be able to enthral their readers with vivid accounts of the way in which death had come to Sherbroome and made a mockery of the Christmas scene.
Mordecai Tremaine’s eyes were glistening.
‘Let’s go in for a drink, Nick,’ he said. They were within a few yards of the inn door when he stopped, clutching his companion’s arm. ‘Talk of the devil!’ he said in a low voice.
A man was coming out of the inn. A tall, dark man whose bulk momentarily blocked the entrance. Recognition flickered in his eyes and he seemed to hesitate. But it was only for an instant or two. Before Mordecai Tremaine could address him he had stepped quickly past them and was striding up the street.
‘Not,’ said Nicholas Blaise, ‘in a chatty mood. I can’t say I’m surprised.’
Mordecai Tremaine’s hand strayed to the pince-nez. He settled them more firmly on his nose.
‘If I were in his shoes,’ he observed, ‘I don’t think I’d be very eager to talk.’
They went into the inn. The low-ceilinged bar was vibrating to the hum of conversation from many voices. Tobacco smoke wavered in a blue curtain. There was a pleasant smell of Christmas cigars.
Mordecai Tremaine threaded his way to the counter and ordered their drinks. Tankard in hand he studied his neighbours. The majority of them were locals. He heard the mellow burr of the county, saw hands calloused by long years of work in the fields. At one end of the bar a darts match was in progress. He heard a mock groan and a laugh from the spectators and saw that someone had thrown awry; the dart was a good two inches off the board.
Through the drifting haze he saw the man who had thrown. He was taking aim again. This time the dart went hard and straight to double top.
The other’s face was in profile. It was outlined against the light that came through the leaded panes of the bay window looking out upon the street. It was a face he had seen before—in a mirror when he had sat in a tea-shop in Calnford.
Mordecai Tremaine’s eyes were shadowed with thought. Had the other seen him when he had entered the bar with Nicholas Blaise? Was there any connection between that fact and that badly aimed dart?
He nudged his companion’s arm.
‘D’you know him, Nick?’
Blaise nodded. His voice had acquired a wariness that had not been in evidence before.
‘Yes. His name’s Brett. He’s staying here.’
‘Stranger?’
‘In a way. He doesn’t live in the district.’
‘I’ve seen him before,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘With Charlotte Grame. Does that surprise you?’
Blaise did not give him a direct reply.
‘Does Charlotte know you saw her?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Because she denied that she was there.’
Tremaine was not looking at his companion. He was still studying the man who stood in the little group about the dart-board. So far Brett had given no sign that he was aware he was under observation.
He was not quite as tall as Tremaine had imagined him to be, so that his gauntness did not now seem so noticeable as it had been under the hard light of the tea-shop. But there was about him still that air of intense, nervous vitality. The eyes beneath the high forehead still burned with that visionary fire. The face was still characterized by the lean and hungry expression that had brought the Shakespearean quotation into his mind.
Certainly he did not have the appearance of a man who would be easily scared. Could that badly thrown dart have been merely coincidence, after all?
Mordecai Tremaine pondered the matter carefully and found that the theory of coincidence was not one he could accept. If Brett had not actually observed his entrance with Blaise he had undoubtedly noticed him at some subsequent moment and the discovery had shaken his self-control.
But why should Brett have been unnerved by the sight of a man whom he had seen only once before, and that under circumstances when it was reasonable to suppose that he would not even remember the encounter?
To that there could be only one answer. At some time during the intervening period he had learned something. Something that had caused him to regard Mordecai Tremaine as a man to be feared.
The pattern was taking shape. Charlotte Grame had left the house on a hurried and mysterious errand on the previous afternoon, and Charlotte Grame was the only other person, with the possible exception of Lucia Tristam, who knew of that tea-shop encounter. She had seen Brett. She had told him that Mordecai Tremaine had seen them together in Calnford. And she had told him that he was working with the police officer who was investigating the murder of Jeremy Rainer.
Her sole reason for going out in the gloom of that bitter day had been to find Brett and to warn him. Which meant, Mordecai Tremaine told himself, that she must have considered she had good cause to do so.
His eyes had become more accustomed to the haze and he was able to discern Brett’s gaunt features more clearly. He saw the hard line of the jutting chin. He saw, too, the dark bruise and the long uneven scratch that marked it.
He caught his breath suddenly as he realized its significance. It was as though a picture that had been dark and obscure had become animated all in an instant so that every detail of it was clear.
Carefully he traced its outlines. If he could impress them upon his mind now while the image was still sharp he would never again have to grope his way blindly, trying to evolve truth out of the murky shadows.
Across the bar he caught sight of a face. It was an alert, shrewdly thoughtful face. It was vaguely familiar. It caused him to search in the depths of his mind for the reason for the sensation that he had seen it before.
Memory brought the clue. Reporter. The face turned speculatively towards his own belonged to a newspaperman who believed that he knew Mordecai Tremaine and was trying to recall his identity.
Tremaine set his empty glass upon the bar counter. He turned to Nicholas Blaise.
‘Shall we go, Nick?’
He was relieved when they stood outside the door of the inn and no one had spoken to them. It had not occurred to him that the presence of so many reporters in the village might constitute a personal danger, but he was on his guard now. If one of them connected him with the Mordecai Tremaine who had achieved such a blaze of publicity over another murder case not so long ago his relationship with Superintendent Cannock would be jeopardized. For whereas the superintendent might be willing to admit him to an unofficial confidence, it was highly probable that he would shrink from being linked with him in the newspapers. He was, after all, answerable to his superiors, and those superiors would undoubtedly take a poor view of amateurs being allowed to play a part in what should be purely police business.
Nicholas Blaise was in a silent mood on the way back to the house, and Tremaine, busy with his own thoughts, did not try to draw him into conversation. They were within sight of the lodge gates when Blaise said hesitantly:
‘I don’t want you to think that I’m holding out on you, Mordecai. Especially after having been responsible for bringing you here. But there are some things that—well, that I don’t feel justified in talking about.’
Mordecai Tremaine looked quizzically at him over the pince-nez.
‘Meaning our friend Mr. Brett?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Blaise. ‘Meaning Brett.’
His companion gave him a slow smile. There was warmth and understanding in it, but Blaise was too preoccupied to notice it.
‘Maybe I know the reason, Nick.’
They were passi
ng the old lodge now. Blaise gave a glance towards it. Tremaine said:
‘I wonder what took Jeremy Rainer there so late at night?’
Blaise swung back to him.
‘Did he go there?’ he queried sharply.
‘Yes. It must have been just before he was killed. Any ideas, Nick? Why do you suppose he went trudging through the snow to the lodge after everybody else had gone to bed?’
‘I imagine that whatever his motive was,’ said Blaise slowly, ‘it must have been a pretty strong one. What do the police think? I presume they know all about it?’
‘They know he went to the lodge,’ returned Tremaine. ‘But they don’t know why he went. At least, they didn’t the last time I saw the superintendent. You don’t suppose,’ he added, ‘that Benedict could tell us?’
Nicholas Blaise did not reply for a moment or two. And then he said:
‘Benedict seems to be in your thoughts a great deal, Mordecai. You know the way I feel about that.’
‘It does you credit, Nick, but it doesn’t answer the question. If Jeremy Rainer went to the lodge it’s obvious that there can be only two explanations. Either he went there of his own accord or someone told him to go. If he went for his own reasons it means that we’ve a wide field to cover, but if he went because someone else wanted him to then the only person, so far as we know, who was close enough to him to have had that much influence is Benedict Grame.’
‘But why on earth should Benedict want him to go to the lodge? The place is never used, and in any case why choose such a time?’
‘I thought,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘you might be able to suggest a reason.’
Nicholas Blaise’s face was grave and intent.
‘Listen, Mordecai,’ he said earnestly. ‘If you’re suspecting Benedict you’re making a terrible mistake. I know he isn’t guilty. I don’t doubt that they had their differences at times, but he and Jeremy were too close, too much a part of each other’s lives.’
‘Can you prove he isn’t guilty, Nick?’ persisted Mordecai Tremaine. ‘Can you prove, for instance, that he didn’t leave his room again when he went upstairs after decorating the tree?’
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