The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  There was a pause during which she did some earnest thinking.

  “Perhaps you would like to look at Mr. Brett’s rooms?”

  “If it is not too much trouble.” He was suspicious of the change in her attitude after learning his name.

  She led the way upstairs and opened a door on the first landing.

  “This is his sitting-room,” she said.

  It was a large, comfortably furnished room, with a window looking onto the front garden. Crewe’s keen eye took in the details of the interior. The manner in which the room had been left suggested that its owner intended to return. Several pipes and a box of cigars, nearly full, stood on a table near the fireplace. Beside them was a folded newspaper, and on top of it was a novel.

  An arm-chair was drawn up close to the fire-place, and beside it was a pair of slippers. Near the window was another table, on which there was an open writing-desk containing notepaper, envelopes and pens. The room looked neat and tidy, as if for an occupant of regular habits who liked his comfort to be studied. It was this impression which gave Crewe the clue to the landlady’s invitation to inspect the apartments. If Brett had anything to hide he could depend on the loyal support of Mrs. Penfield.

  Among the photographs which decorated the room, the one that claimed Crewe’s attention was that which occupied the place of honour in the centre of the mantelpiece. It was enclosed in a silver frame. He took it in his hands to examine it closely, and glancing at Mrs. Penfield as he lifted it down he saw her give a slight disdainful toss of her head.

  “A very pretty girl,” said Crewe, looking critically at the photograph.

  “It is very flattering,” was the cold comment of his companion.

  “But even allowing for that”—he left the sentence unfinished, as if unable to find words for his admiration of the subject of the photograph. His real interest in the photograph was that he had recently seen the sitter, and was astonished to find that she had some connection with Brett. “Do you know her?”

  “I have seen her. She came here several times to see Mr. Brett. She came today about an hour ago.”

  “She didn’t know that Mr. Brett had gone away?”

  It occurred to Mrs. Penfield that she had made a mistake in volunteering this information—a mistake due to the feminine desire to convey the impression that the subject of the photograph was in the habit of running after Mr. Brett.

  “She wanted to know when he would be back,” she answered hastily.

  “What is her name?” asked Crewe.

  “Miss Maynard.”

  “Is she Mr. Brett’s fiancée?”

  “I have heard some people say that they are engaged, but I never heard Mr. Brett say so. At any rate, she doesn’t wear an engagement ring.”

  “That seems to settle it,” said Crewe, who knew the value of sympathy in a jealous nature. “And this photograph, I presume, is one of Mr. Brett,” he added, pointing to a photograph of a young man which stood at the other end of the mantelpiece.

  Mrs. Penfield nodded without speaking.

  “Would you like to look at Mr. Brett’s bedroom?” she asked after a pause.

  “I may as well, now that I am here.”

  She led the way to the door of another room and Crewe entered it. Here, again, there were many indications that the occupant of the room did not expect to be absent for any great length of time. It was smaller than the sitting-room, but it looked very cheerful and cosy. Behind the door a dressing-gown was hanging.

  Crewe’s rapid inspection of the room showed him that there was no shaving tackle visible, and that there were no hair-brushes or clothes-brushes on the dressing-table. It was to be assumed from these facts that Mr. Brett had taken his brushes and shaving things with him. As far as appearances went, his departure had not been hurried.

  “A very nice set of rooms,” said Crewe. “I think you said you promised to let Inspector Murchison know when Mr. Brett returns. I shall get the inspector to ring me up when he hears from you. There are one or two questions I should like to ask Mr. Brett. When he comes back, will you please tell him I called?”

  Crewe’s next act was to get his car and visit the garage kept by Gosford in High Street. Inside the building he saw the proprietor standing by a large grey motor-car in the centre of the garage, watching a workman in blue overalls who was doing something to one of the wheels.

  “Not much the worse,” said Crewe, nodding his head in the direction of the grey car, and addressing himself to the proprietor of the garage.

  Gosford, a short stout man, looked hard at him as he approached. He was clean-shaven, and his puffed-out cheeks made his large face look like a ball.

  Gosford again looked at Crewe out of his little black eyes, but said nothing. His business caution acted as a curb on his natural geniality, for he had learnt by experience of the folly of giving information to strangers until he knew what business brought them into the garage.

  “Not much the worse for its accident,” said Crewe. “You were not long in getting it into repair.”

  The proprietor’s glance wandered backwards and forwards from the car to his visitor.

  “As good as ever,” he said. “Do you want to buy it?”

  “No,” said Crewe. “I have one already.” He nodded in the direction of his car outside.

  “She’s a beauty,” said Gosford. “But those Bodesly touring cars run into a lot of money. You paid a big price for her, I’ll be bound.”

  “Oh, yes. You motor-car people are never reasonable—manufacturers, garage proprietors, repairers, you are all alike.”

  “No, no, sir, we are very reasonable here. That is what I pride myself on.”

  “In that case I’ll know where to bring my repairs. But today all I want is some petrol. That is what I came for, but when I saw this car I thought I’d like to see what sort of job you had made of it. The last time I saw it was when it was lying in the ditch about six miles from here on the road to Ashlingsea.”

  “Oh, you saw her there?” said Mr. Gosford genially. “But there wasn’t much the matter with her, beyond a bent axle.”

  “I hope that is what you told the gentleman who left it there—Mr.—?”

  “Mr. Brett,” said Mr. Gosford, coming to the relief of his visitor’s obvious effort to recall a name.

  “Ah, yes; Mr. Brett,” said Crewe. “Was it Thursday or Friday that I met him on the Ashlingsea road in this car?”

  “Friday, sir. This car wasn’t out on Thursday. Friday was the night of the big storm. She was out in it all night. I didn’t know where she was until Mr. Brett rang me up on Saturday morning.”

  “So he was in Staveley on Saturday morning?”

  “No, no, sir. He said he was speaking from Lewes. He must have caught an early train out from Staveley or Ashlingsea before we were open. That is why he didn’t ring up before.”

  Crewe, on leaving the garage, drove through the western outskirts of the town, and kept on till he passed the sand dunes, and the cliff road stretched to Ashlingsea like a strip of white ribbon between the green downs and grey sea. About a mile past the sand dunes he saw a small stone cottage with a thatched roof, standing back on the downs about fifty yards from the road.

  Crewe stopped his car, and walked up the slope to the little cottage. The gate was open, and he walked through the tiny garden, which was crowded with sweet-scented wallflowers and late roses, and knocked at the door.

  His knock brought a woman to the door—an infirm and bent old woman, with scattered grey locks falling over her withered face. She peered up at him with rheumy eyes.

  Crewe looked at the old woman in some doubt whether she was not past answering any questions. Before he could put the point to the proof she solved it for him by turning her head and crying in a shrill cracked voice:

  “Harry, lad, come here and see to the gentleman.”

  A man approached from the back in reply to the call. He was short and stout, and his perspiring face and bare arms showed that he
had been hard at work. He looked at Crewe, made a movement of his knuckle towards his forehead, and waited for him to speak.

  “I am trying to get in touch with a friend of mine who I believe motored along this road on Friday last,” said Crewe. “It was on Friday night that we had the big storm. He must have driven along here on Friday afternoon; he was driving a big grey car. Did you see him?”

  “Friday afternoon?” the man repeated. “I’m just trying to get my bearings a bit. Yes, Friday was the night we had the storm, and Friday was the day I seen this gentleman I’m thinking of.”

  “In a grey car?” suggested Crewe.

  “In a grey car, as you say, sir. There ain’t so many cars pass along this road this time of year.”

  “Then you saw a grey car go past in the direction of Ashlingsea on Friday afternoon?” said Crewe. He put a hand in his trousers pocket and jingled the silver there.

  “I did,” exclaimed the other, with the positiveness of a man who had awakened to the fact that he possessed valuable information for which he was to be paid, “I was standing here at this very door after selling two bushels of apples to Mr. Hope, and was just thinking about going back to dig some more taters, when I happened to hear a motor-car coming along. It was the grey car, sure enough, sir. No doubt about that.”

  “And was there anyone with my friend—or was he alone in the car?”

  This was a puzzling question, because it contained no indication of the answer wanted.

  “I can’t say I noticed anybody at the time, cos I was thinking more about my taters—it’s a bit late to be getting up taters, as you know, sir. I’d left ’em over late through having so much thatching to do, there being so few about as can thatch now that the war is on, and not many at the best o’ times—thatching being a job as takes time to learn. My father he was best thatcher they ever did have hereabouts, and it was him taught me.”

  “And there was no one but my friend in the car?”

  “I couldn’t say that I did see any one, my mind being more on taters, but, mind you, sir, there might have been. Your friend he went past so quickly I didn’t rightly see into the car—not from here. It ain’t reasonable to expect it, is it, sir?”

  “No, of course not,” said Crewe. “I’m very much obliged to you.” He produced half a crown and handed it to the man.

  “Thank you, sir.” The unexpected amount of his reward had a stimulating effect. “I’ll tell you a strange thing about your friend, sir, now that I’ve had time to think about it. I hadn’t dug more’n a row, or perhaps a row and a half of my taters, when I seen him coming back again.”

  “Coming back again?” exclaimed Crewe. “Surely not.”

  “Yes, sir; the same grey car.”

  “Driving back in the direction of Staveley?”

  “Driving back along the road he’d come.”

  “And this would be less than an hour after you saw him pass the first time?”

  “Not more’n half-hour. I reckon it don’t take me full twenty minutes to dig a row o’ taters.”

  “But the grey car I mean didn’t go back past here to Staveley,” said Crewe. “It was wrecked on Friday night about four miles from here in the direction of Ashlingsea.”

  “That’s right,” exclaimed the man, with childish delight. “Didn’t I see it go past here noon Saturday—another car drawing it because it wouldn’t work. I said to myself, something’s gone wrong with it.”

  “But, according to your story, it was driven back to Staveley that afternoon. The car you saw going back to Staveley could not have been the car that was wrecked on Friday, unless the driver turned round again and went back towards Ashlingsea—but that seems impossible.”

  “That’s what he did, sir. That’s what I was going to tell you, only I hadn’t come to it. What I said was, I hadn’t dug more’n a row and half of taters after dinner afore I see this car coming back Staveley way, and when I’d got to end of second row I happened to look up the road and there was this car coming back again. I didn’t know what to think—that is, at first. I stood there with the fork in my hand thinking and thinking and saying to myself I’d not give it up—I’m a rare one, sir, when I make up my mind. I don’t wonder it’s puzzled you, sir, just as it puzzled me. What has he been driving up and down for—backwards and forwards? That’s how it puzzled me. Then it came to me quite sudden like—he’d lost something and had drove back along the road until he found it.”

  CHAPTER XII

  It was not Elsie Maynard’s first visit to London, but her visits had been so few that London had presented itself to her as a vast labyrinth of streets, shops and houses. The prevailing impression of all previous visits was that, since it was a simple matter to get lost involuntarily in the labyrinth, it would be a simple matter for any one to disappear voluntarily and remain hidden from search. But on this occasion, when there was need for secrecy as to her visit and its object, she fancied the vast city to be full of prying eyes.

  It seemed improbable that among the thousands of people she met in the streets there would not be some one who knew her. There might be some one watching her—some one who had received a telephone message regarding her journey by train from Ashlingsea. To disappear from some one who was watching her seemed to be impossible, for among the throng of people it was impossible to single out the watcher.

  From Victoria Station she took a tube ticket to Earl’s Court, so as to give the impression to any one who was following her that her destination was in the west of London. She inspected closely all the people who followed her into the carriage. She alighted at South Kensington and changed to the Piccadilly tube. She got out at Holborn and then took a bus to Aldgate. She walked along to the junction of Whitechapel Road and Commercial Road, where she took a tram. After a short journey by tram along Commercial Road she got out and walked along the south side of the street, keeping a look out for the names of the side streets.

  When she reached Quilter Street she turned down it, and eventually stopped at the door of No. 23. It was a short street with a monotonous row of houses on each side. At one side of the corner where it joined Commercial Road was a steam laundry, and at the other side a grocer’s which was also a post office. The faded wrappings of the tinned goods which had been displayed for many months in the windows were indicative of the comparative poverty of the locality. In the ground-floor windows of most of the houses were cardboard notices showing that tailoring was the craft by which the inhabitants earned their bread. It was here that a great deal of the work sent out by tailors’ shops in the City was done, and the placards in the windows proclaimed a desire for work from chance customers whose clothes needed repairs and pressing.

  There were dirty ragged children playing in the gutters, and dirty slatternly women, with black shawls over their heads and shoulders and jugs in their hands, were to be seen hurrying along the pavement for milk and beer. Although Miss Maynard had taken care not to dress herself elaborately for her journey to London, she was aware that her appearance before the door of No. 23 was attracting some attention among the women standing at their doors and gossiping across area railings. When the door was opened by a girl in her early teens who had her sleeves rolled up and was wearing a piece of sacking as an apron, Miss Maynard entered hurriedly and closed the door after her.

  “Does Mr. Miller live here?” she asked.

  “Yes,” replied the girl.

  “Is he in now?”

  “Yes, he told me he was expecting a lady to call. Are you her?”

  “Yes.”

  “First floor—front,” said the girl, jerking a dirty thumb in the direction of the stairs as an indication to her visitor that she could find her way up unaided.

  But before she had reached the top of the stairs the door of the front room on the first floor was opened, and the man she had come to see appeared on the stairs to welcome her. He clasped her hands eagerly and led her to his room, closing the door carefully behind him. For a moment he hesitated and then pla
ced his arms around her. Her head fell back on his shoulder and he pressed his lips to hers in a long lingering kiss.

  Arnold Brett was a young man of spare build whose military training had taught him to keep his shoulders well back. He had a slight black moustache, and his hair, which was carefully brushed down on his head, was raven black in colour. His aquiline nose seemed to emphasize the sharpness of his features; the glance from his dark eyes was restless and crafty.

  “Darling, I knew you would come,” he said. He released her, but only for the purpose of taking her again in his arms and kissing her.

  “But why are you here?” she asked, giving a glance at the impoverished furniture—the narrow bed with its faded counterpane, the cheap chest of drawers, the dressing-table with a cracked mirror, the dirty window curtains and the single wooden chair.

  “Before God, I swear I had nothing to do with it, Elsie,” he exclaimed passionately.

  It was a relief to hear him declare his innocence. Even if he had spoken without emphasis she would not have doubted his word. It was because her belief in his innocence deepened the mystery of his reason for hiding that she repeated:

  “But why are you here?”

  “Do you believe me?” he asked. Between lovers faith counts for much more than reason.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I knew you would,” he said. “It is because I know you were true that I asked you to come. I am beginning to think that perhaps I made a great mistake in running away. But I was unnerved by the accident. I was thrown out of the car and I must have been unconscious in the road for more than an hour. And, recalling how poor Frank had met his death, it seemed to me that there was a diabolical scheme on foot to murder me as well. Perhaps I was wrong. Tell me everything. Do the police suspect me? Have they a warrant out for me? Did you go to the farm that night? I have sent out for a newspaper each day, but the London newspapers have said very little about the murder. All I have seen is a couple of small paragraphs.”

  She was more immediately concerned in the discovery that he had been thrown out of a motor-car and injured than in his thirst for information about the murder at Cliff Farm. She was solicitous as to the extent of the injury he had suffered, the length of time he had been unconscious, and his movements after he came to his senses on the lonely road. Not only were her feminine sympathies stirred by the thought of the sufferings of the man she loved, but by the fear that the accident must have affected his mind temporarily and prompted him to hide himself.