“You have a queer way of looking for help,” said Miss Rich, crushingly. “The morning would appear to me to be a more obvious and suitable time. Still, you’ve got me out of bed now. Mind, I disapprove of the third degree.”
“I don’t propose to do anything like that, Miss Rich,” answered Harrison. “Believe me, I hated disturbing you and I am very sorry. But I have just had a long talk with the men down in the kitchen and they said that you visited them last night.”
“I did.”
“It is very important then to hear what you saw. You might recall something tonight which would be completely forgotten in the morning.”
“I am not in the habit of forgetting,” said Miss Rich, her tone showing that her feelings were thawing. “But I understand a bit more. If this is the regular way a detective goes about his business I can’t complain. Still, I fear I am going to disappoint you. I was only down in the kitchen a minute and I don’t think I noticed anything special.”
“You realise that I want to find out something more about the strange tramp.”
“Naturally,” said Miss Rich, “and I wish I could help you, but I saw nothing of him at all.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” said Miss Rich. “He had his back to me and was warming his hands at the fire.”
“A pity,” said Harrison.
“Wait a moment,” said Miss Rich, obviously thinking hard. “There was something. Yes, I did see something.”
The other three sat breathless while Miss Rich seemed to be in a kind of trance.
“The palm of his hand,” she said. “The left hand. I saw it in the gleam of the fire. Just under the thumb. Very dirty his hand must have been. It looked like a line drawn in chalk.”
“A scar?”
“I don’t know,” answered Miss Rich; “but that is what saw.”
“Just ordinary hands?”
“Oh, yes, just ordinary,” was the reply, “but very dirty.”
“Good,” said Harrison. “That may be very useful, Miss Rich, as a further point of identification. Sam and Flick didn’t mention it, and it might be overlooked at the mortuary.”
“It doesn’t strike me as very important,” said Miss Rich. “You needn’t try to console me, Mr. Harrison. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t.”
“I apologise for my very feeble effort, Miss Rich,” replied Harrison. “I certainly wish you could have told me more. Well, that’s that. Now we can all go to bed.”
They all moved to the door and Miss Rich, clutching her dressing-gown more tightly than ever around her, went in front of them up the stairs. As she reached the top, she turned and, facing the others below her, said, as if pronouncing a final judgment, “Of course, the Jogger never murdered anybody.”
Chapter IV
Don’t Meddle
Harrison rather prided himself on his faculty of being able to dismiss any problem, however serious, when he wished to sleep. As soon as he touched the pillow, “He was gone,” according to Henry, with the result that he usually woke feeling cheerfully refreshed. The next morning at Great Crockham was no exception, and he felt particularly alert as he sprang from his bed and looked out across the glorious sweep of Surrey country.
“It’s not the place for a murder,” he said to himself. “There must be something peculiarly evil in a murder among such surroundings.”
He roused Henry, telling him to put on a few clothes and bring his notebook and pencil and, although he had been answered by an inarticulate rumbling from beneath a mass of bedclothes—Henry believed in sleeping warm—it was with surprising speed that Henry appeared in his master’s room.
“You can’t imagine one angel murdering another,” said Harrison.
“I can, sir,” said Henry, with conviction. “They might be out of tune. But why can’t you, sir?”
“Paradise would be too splendid for an angel to think of such a thing,” answered Harrison. “That’s what I feel about Surrey. It’s too lovely for the filthy business of murder.”
“Its inhabitants may not all be angels,” said Henry.
“I can’t help feeling that there is something specially horrible behind this murder,” said Harrison. “Especially if we rule the Jogger out of it.”
“Do we?” asked Henry, innocently.
“Don’t we?” returned Harrison. “You know as much as I do, Henry.”
“Of course, I don’t say we shouldn’t,” answered Henry. “The money should prove that.”
“Good for you, Henry,” said Harrison. “Now for your reasons.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if he really did find that ten-shilling note,” said Henry.
“Better still, Henry,” said Harrison. “More detail, please.”
“Well, you see, sir,” started Henry, rather diffidently, “the strange tramp had no money—unless that thing they found on him was something like that—I understood why you were so persistent in your questions. The man named Flick would never have missed a ten-shilling note, I feel sure. Even if he had—”
“Go on, Henry,” said Harrison, “this is splendid.”
“Well, sir, it may sound far-fetched,” said Henry, “but even if he had, that means that the stranger must have hidden it fearfully carefully. It seems hardly likely, in that case, that he would have told the Jogger about it or brought it out while they were walking along.”
“Absolutely right, Henry,” said Harrison. “If the police rely on that they won’t get very far. If they rely on the quarrel, nobody’s going to hang a man on that as a motive. What else have they got?”
“The Jogger’s a tramp, sir,” replied Henry.
“Quite right,” said Harrison. “A very strong point. And yet one very remarkable thing stands right out in this case.”
“What is that, sir?”
“The extraordinary belief in the Jogger’s innocence,” said Harrison. “You can’t disregard that.”
“Especially the way that Miss Rich said so,” exclaimed Henry.
Harrison looked keenly at Henry, and the latter looked uneasy.
“That woman notices things,” said Henry, in explanation.
“And what have you been noticing?” asked Harrison, with a smile.
“Nothing particular, sir,” answered Henry.
“Out with it, Henry,” said Harrison. “Admit you were impressed.”
“She seems a very sensible person, sir,” replied Henry.
“She’d be better still without her make-up,” said Harrison.
“I should have said that was the last thing she did,” answered Henry, indignantly.
“I don’t mean lipstick and that sort of thing,” said Harrison. “She has deliberately made herself up as a companion with a very large ‘C.’ Just think of her clothes, Henry.”
“Pretty awful, sir, I agree.”
“Dressing the part, that’s all, Henry. Her dressing-gown, her awful cap, everything is what she thinks she should be wearing.”
“You don’t think there’s anything wrong about her, sir?” asked Henry.
“Good heavens, no,” was the reply. “A bit theatrical and rather over-conscientious, that’s all. I expect Miss Docket saw through it pretty quickly. I shouldn’t be surprised if Miss May Rich proved to be quite an attractive young woman if she were properly taken in hand.”
“That’s what I was thinking, sir,” said Henry, with a broad smile.
“I leave that to you, then, Henry,” said Harrison. “But we are getting away from the Jogger. I still think this unanimity about is innocence is very remarkable. The regular argument, of course, is that the most unlikely people commit murder—I had a fling at that last night. So many different kinds of people have told us of their belief in the Jogger—and with a good bit of emphasis, too. Miss Docket, Miss Rich, the sergeant, and his two friends—you must admit, Henry, that it’s hard to believe him guilty, even though we’ve never seen him.”
“That’s true, sir.”
“So if the Jogge
r didn’t do it,” said Harrison, “it’s going to be a first-rate case to solve.”
“I don’t see that, sir,” said Henry. “A tramp found dead in a ditch with a knock on the head. I should not have said it was worth your time.”
“Except for the Jogger?” queried Harrison.
“Of course,” said Henry. “If you look at it from his point of view, you’d be doing a great act of kindness in clearing it up. Miss Docket would be grateful—”
“Grateful, Henry,” exclaimed Harrison, “I daren’t refuse her.”
“And I think you’re right, sir,” added Henry, while Harrison thought of Miss Rich and smiled. “But first-rate. No, sir, that’s not the word for it.”
“Sorry, Henry, but, apart from the Jogger, I stick to my opinion. Let’s see what we’ve got. The air needs a bit of clearing. You might take down any notes you think will be useful later on.”
Henry settled down with his notebook and pencil.
“First,” said Harrison, “the strange tramp himself. Although obviously not a genuine tramp, he knew all about Miss Docket’s kitchen. Found the way there in the dark and knew exactly what he was coming to. He wasn’t known in the neighbourhood, as far as Griskin has told us. The genuine tramps were suspicious. To them he talked like a gentleman. He turned up his nose at their food. Altogether a poor sort of tramp. One can hardly imagine that any of the regulars on the road would like him so much as to be bursting to confide in him the useful knowledge of the comforts of Miss Docket’s kitchen. How did he know about it?”
“It’s difficult to answer if you put it that way, sir,” replied Henry.
“The next points,” continued Harrison, “are various oddities of behaviour of the said strange tramp. He seemed down and out. He looked hungry. Yet he refused their food. In an unpleasant way, too. Now, he said he was a waiter. Waiters don’t live on the fat of the land, as far as we know. A hungry waiter—let us say even, a starving waiter—is not likely to be so particular about his food. Do you think so, Henry?”
“It doesn’t seem to fit, sir,” said Henry.
“That’s just the right phrase, Henry,” said Harrison, “it doesn’t fit. These queer facts certainly do not seem to fit. Another oddity of behaviour is the way he treated the Jogger. The two men told us that the stranger settled down to ferreting things out about them. Deliberately, there’s no doubt of that. Now there seems to be no specially defined characteristic about our friends called Sam and Flick. Flick may be an expert at picking a pocket, but the stranger never realised that. The Jogger was the only one he could really fix anything on to. And, Henry, he immediately started in to do it.”
“You mean, sir, the quarrel about Yarmouth was deliberate?”
“It’s hard to think it was anything else,” answered Harrison. “We know there is a Yarmouth in the Isle of Wight, and, if we felt humorously inclined, we might have pulled the Jogger’s leg about it a bit because he thought so much of his own attainments. But the stranger went so far as to make a real quarrel of it.”
“He didn’t know when to stop, sir,” said Henry.
“Not good enough,” answered Harrison. “A waiter who is not used to tramping, who finds a comfortable spot for the night, who has managed to satisfy his very suspicious company, all that, Henry, and then he goes and picks a quarrel with one of them. Again I don’t think it fits.”
“He did try and make up for it in the morning, sir,” suggested Henry.
“Personally, Henry, I think that makes it worse,” answered Harrison. “To my mind there’s some deliberate planning throughout the whole business. The stranger intended to go off with the Jogger in the morning. All we have heard points to it. The Jogger wasn’t so keen, but the stranger went out of his way to arrange it. That’s why I say it’s a first rate case. Here we have the stranger staging a quarrel and then going off affectionately with his opponent.”
“You’re not implying, sir,” asked Henry, “that the man was getting ready for his own murder.”
“Not so fast, Henry,” answered Harrison. “You are at your old game of jumping at conclusions. All we can guess is that he was getting ready for something. It is my business to try and find out that something. You see, Henry, try as I will, I can’t make it seem just an ordinary knock-on-the-head business.”
“I don’t see where you are getting to, sir,” said Henry.
“You do, Henry, but you won’t admit it,” replied Harrison. “You were always against coming to Great Crockham, and you won’t give it any credit. We’ve come across something worth tackling. We can tell ourselves that we are doing our best to help Miss Docket but, if we are going to be honest, we’re going to admit we’re doing it to please ourselves.”
“Very well, sir,” said Henry.
“One final point about the stranger,” said Harrison, “he claimed to be able to speak languages—”
“Not difficult to take in those tramps,” interrupted Henry.
“Certainly,” answered Harrison. “But I am inclined to think it was true. He thought of something on the spur of the moment to prove he was a waiter. Not an easy thing to prove, Henry. He thought of the accomplishment he felt the others would agree to be convincing. I hardly think he would have risked deception on that point. And you see, Henry, that gives it an international flavour, so it’s our duty to go on with it.”
“It’s a possible argument, sir,” said Henry, cautiously.
“Don’t be too enthusiastic, Henry,” answered Harrison, with a smile. “Now we’ve done with indoors, what about outside?”
“Outside where, sir?”
“The house, Henry,” said Harrison. “What happened there last night?”
“Nothing, sir,” answered Henry.
“What about Sergeant Griskin’s light?”
“Oh, that!”
“Yes, Henry, that light. What about it?”
“Nothing particular, I should have said, sir.”
“Didn’t you notice what it was doing?”
“It went out directly we appeared on the scene, sir. Then the sergeant chased after it and couldn’t find anything.”
“And you noticed nothing before it went out?”
“There wasn’t time, sir.”
“Oh, yes, there was, Henry.”
Henry looked at Harrison and realised by the tone of voice that his master attached great importance to the point.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Did you notice anything yourself?”
“For the short time I saw that light, Henry, it was pointed to the ground and swinging like a pendulum. If the person using it was trying to find his way along the road, it would have come steadily forward, but this light remained mainly in the same spot as it swung.”
“Looking for something, sir,” exclaimed Henry, excitedly.
“That’s how it appeared to me, Henry,” answered Harrison. “It must have been something very valuable for the owner could not wait until the morning, when it would have been much easier to see. It must have been something he or she didn’t want to explain or they would not have disappeared. I wonder,” he paused reflectively, “I wonder, Henry if they were looking for this,” and he pulled out of his pocket the ivory disc with the number “5” stamped upon it.
“You mean someone dropped it and the tramp must have picked it up, sir?” exclaimed Henry. “I shouldn’t be surprised if—” but a gong sounded below and gave him no opportunity of explaining his reason for surprise, for Harrison cried, “Breakfast, Henry,” and immediately sallied out of the room.
They found Miss Docket and Miss Rich waiting for them in a sunny breakfast room. Miss Docket seemed no worse for her late hours of the night before, and her eyes twinkled as she greeted them. Miss Rich’s greeting was polite but not cordial. She was extremely primly dressed—as Harrison has said, as a companion ought to be dressed. A remarkable blouse was crowned by a collar which encircled the neck to an alarming height. Her hair was carefully and very modestly arranged. She certainly did no
t wear mittens, to Harrison’s mind a serious omission. And yet, it was not difficult to believe that, underneath that stern and repressed exterior, there lived a young and possibly enthusiastic woman. If the manner seemed self-effacing and crushed, the eyes belied it by giving occasional indication of deep feeling, and even odd movements of the body were evidence of a youthful spring and vigour which the prim external Miss Rich had been quite unable to conceal.
“I’m afraid you must be tired, Julia, after your escapade of last night,” said Miss Rich, solemnly, as they settled down to their breakfast.
“Really, May, what an idiotic word to use,” laughed Miss Docket. “Escapade, indeed. You are mixing me with those terrible women Mr. Harrison has to deal with.”
“I sometimes think that’s what you’d like to be, Julia,” answered Miss Rich, reprovingly, “I should have thought this business would have cured you of being romantic.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Harrison.
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Harrison,” said Miss Docket.
“And you, Miss Rich,” continued Harrison; “are you really serious when you hurl rocks at romance?”
“When it comes to my feelings, Mr, Harrison,” answered Miss Rich, and Harrison thought he detected a speedily repressed twinkle in the austere looking lady’s eye, “I never mix my drinks.”
“Congratulations,” said Harrison. “You would make a marvellous criminal investigator.”
“That’s true,” said Henry, emphatically, and then looked somewhat uncomfortable.
“I have no desire to dabble in anything of the kind,” replied Miss Rich, coldly. “But if I have any thought for Miss Docket’s welfare, I cannot help disapproving of actions which lead to crime. Miss Docket’s misapplied kindness has resulted in an innocent man being accused of murder. Queer kind of romance, to my mind.”
“Stuff and nonsense, May,” commented Miss Docket. “And besides, the Jogger will be all right.”
“You know best, Julia,” answered Miss Rich, with underlined sarcasm. “Will he be all right, Mr. Harrison?”
“Not until we have found the murderer,” was the reply.
Death on the Highway Page 5