“What made you go there?”
“I don’t know.” Drew shrugged. “Just a hunch, I suppose.” He winked at Madeline. “Perhaps it was divine guidance.”
Nick scowled. “That’s hardly cricket. Father Knox says the detective must never have an unaccountable intuition which—”
“Oh, bother Father Knox. Do you know what I found?”
Madeline narrowed her eyes at him. “What?”
“Our Mr. Whiteside has a lady friend.”
Nick burst out laughing. “No. Are you certain?”
“I managed to get a look round his room. Traces of lipstick on the dishes, despite efforts to wipe them off, lipstick-marked cigarette butts bagged up and dumped into the ashtray in the bar, that sort of thing. And evidently our mystery woman has gone out the window and down the trellis at least once.”
“How do you know that?”
“Seems old Whiteside put a pound note up there and then pointed it out to the boy that works at the inn. Told him he could have it if he cared to climb up for it. Best way to account for any marks his inamorata may have left, don’t you think?”
Nick frowned. “Why go to all that trouble? Couldn’t he just have said she was his wife? Who’s to know the difference here?”
“Perhaps she’s got a husband,” Drew said.
“From around here?” Nick shook his head. “Who else would know her?”
“It’s probably that girl from the tea shop,” Madeline said. “That Kitty.”
“Now, now, darling. Mustn’t be snide. I’m sure old Leicester would have noticed if his wife had disappeared for that long, don’t you think?” Drew considered for a moment. “I suppose all we can do is keep our eyes open.”
“Besides,” Nick added, “the police would have surely investigated if they thought Lincoln was hiding out at the Queen Bess. They’ve been combing the area for him for days now. It is combing that they do, isn’t it?”
“I believe combing is the preferred term,” Drew replied. “No doubt they’ll want to know about our little tête-à-tête with the intruder in the curtains and have a look at the shoes. I suppose I ought to telephone our chief inspector at once. Excuse me a minute, darling.”
Madeline smiled. “All right, but don’t be gone long. I don’t like being left alone with a murderer around.”
Nick drew himself up melodramatically. “Well, I like that.”
“You can stay here and protect me from the killer,” Madeline said, laughing. “Or at least throw yourself into his path until I have a chance to run away.”
“Yes, do that, old man,” Drew said. “And we’ll make sure our grandchildren know the sacrifice you made to ensure their eventual existence.”
Nick straightened his shoulders and resolutely adjusted his tie. “You have at least to name your firstborn after me in that event.”
“Unless it’s a girl,” Madeline said.
“Especially if it’s a girl,” Nick insisted. “Nick’s a fine name for a girl. Quite sporty, if you ask me.”
“You two hash out the details,” Drew said. “I’m off to telephone the inspector, and then we’ll see what we ought to do next.”
He went down the hallway, intending to telephone from his stepfather’s study but found Mason in there on a business call, something about drill bits and viscosity and other things with which Drew was unfamiliar.
“I’ll go upstairs,” he half whispered when Mason noticed him there in the doorway, and he pointed to the floor above them. Mason nodded and returned to his call.
Drew headed for Constance’s sitting room and her private line.
“I’ll call you the minute I get something.”
Drew stopped outside Constance’s door. The voice he heard was soft, distinctly American, a young man’s voice. Besides Whiteside, Drew didn’t know of any Americans in the area, much less here at Farthering Place.
After a brief pause, the voice said, “Right. They’ll have to be able to prove it.”
Drew waited a moment more. Then, hearing nothing, he flung open the door.
The room was empty.
He hurried to the door to the bedroom and pushed that open. It was empty, too.
He went through the door that led to the hallway from Constance’s bedroom, surprised to find it unlocked, and then opened the door to the guest room next to it.
“I can be of service to Mr. Farthering, please?”
Min stood there, coatless, with a flatiron in his hand. A pair of gentleman’s trousers, Rushford’s no doubt, were spread on the bed to be pressed. No one else was in the room.
“Did anyone come through here, Min?”
“No. I see no one.” Min set the iron down on the hearth and hurried into his coat. “Please forgive state of disarray.”
“No, no,” Drew said. “That’s all right. Carry on.” He turned to the door and then back again. “Min, did you hear anyone on the telephone just now?”
“Telephone? No, no telephone that I have heard.”
“Very well then.”
Drew went back into the sitting room and opened the connecting door on the other side. No one in that room. Whoever he was, if the American had gone out that way, he would be well away by now.
With a flash of inspiration, he snatched up the phone. “Hello, operator? Did you just put through a trunk call from this number?”
“Yes, sir. Shall I reconnect you?”
“Why, uh, yes. Yes. Please.”
A moment later there was a click at the other end of the line.
“Hello?”
“Ah, yes. May I ask to whom I am speaking?”
“Who’s this?”
The voice was male, clearly not English, and rather surly upon such short acquaintance.
“I was just wondering . . .” Drew winced as the other phone slammed down, and then he jiggled the switch hook. “Operator! Operator!”
“Operator.”
“Ring that number again, please, and hurry.”
He waited, pacing a semicircular path in front of the little mirrored telephone table. It was taking too long this time.
“Are you there, sir?”
Finally. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that number doesn’t answer.”
“I just spoke to someone there.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Shall I keep trying?”
“Yes. Definitely. Ring me back if you get anyone.”
“I certainly will, sir.”
He paced awhile longer, still waiting, and then he returned to the library.
Seeing him, Nick stood up. “Did you reach the inspector?”
“Not yet, no.”
“No?”
“Someone was using the line.”
Nick sighed. “I suppose it was too much trouble to telephone from the kitchen or upstairs.”
“I did go upstairs, actually,” Drew said. “Mason was using the phone in the study, so I went up and found Constance’s telephone engaged, as well.”
“Who . . . ?”
“That’s what I would like to know. I overheard only a couple of sentences, a man’s voice, but not one I recognized.” Drew glanced at Madeline. “And it was definitely American.”
She caught her breath. “But there aren’t any—”
“Precisely. No American men staying here at the house. So where could he have come from? And where could he have gone to?”
“And you’re sure he’s not still in the house?”
“Don’t worry, darling. Stalwart Nick is going to get a couple of the men and have a look around.”
Nick blinked. “I am?”
“Yes. That’s after you call the inspector and tell him what’s gone on here and present him with our mystery footwear. Still untouched, of course.”
“That’s all very well,” Nick said, “but what will you be doing?”
Drew smiled at Madeline. “I thought a certain charming young lady and I might wander down into Farthering St. John and catch up on the gossip, perha
ps stop by the good Queen Bess and see if our Mr. Whiteside is still visiting.”
Madeline took his hand and stood up. “Are you sure we shouldn’t stay and see what happens here? I mean, if somebody’s in the house—”
“If somebody’s in the house, Nick and the others will see to him. You’d better get your walking shoes.”
She looked down at the stylish little silver sandals she was wearing. “You don’t mean for us to walk all the way there again, do you?”
“Why not? It’s not far. Just a pleasant stroll.” He turned her toward the door. “Now hurry on up and put on your sturdiest, most unfashionable shoes, and we’ll see what lovely scandals we can hear about over sweet old Mrs. Beecham’s garden gate.”
She hurried up to her room and returned a moment later wearing a pair of the most hideous, sensible shoes he’d seen on anyone younger than sixty, and a daisy-strewn, black straw hat to make up for the shoes. Soon they were walking down the tree-shaded lane that led to the village.
“Oh, she’s not there,” Madeline said, scanning Mrs. Beecham’s garden. “And I’m sure she could have told us about anyone staying in the village.”
“Not to worry, darling,” Drew told her. “There she is at Mrs. Eversleigh’s next door, nattering away.”
They hurried over to the rose arbor, where the two women sat talking.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Drew said, smiling as he removed his hat. “And how are you this fine day?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Farthering,” Mrs. Beecham said. “Oh, do come in, the two of you. How are you, Miss Parker?”
Drew opened the little iron gate for Madeline and then followed her into Mrs. Eversleigh’s garden. The owner of the garden was a wizened, frail little woman, a sharp contrast to the plump, hearty Mrs. Beecham, but she seemed just as eager to gossip.
“Yes, come in,” she said, her black eyes snapping. “Sit down.”
“We can’t stay but a minute, Mrs. Eversleigh.” Drew pulled up a wicker chair for Madeline and then took one for himself.
“This is the American girl I was telling you about, Madge,” Mrs. Beecham told her neighbor. “Miss Parker, we were just talking about the terrible goings-on at your uncle’s company.”
“Hello,” Madeline said to her hostess, and then she nodded at Mrs. Beecham. “Yes, it was pretty terrible.”
“And that poor man who was attacked, how is he today? He is staying at Farthering Place now, isn’t he?”
Drew fought off a smile. There was nothing the ladies of the village missed. “He is. At least for a day or two. The whole thing was rather unnerving for him, as you might understand.”
“It’s a wonder we’re not all murdered in our beds,” Mrs. Beecham said, one hand over her heart.
“If we were, it wouldn’t be any less than I’ve expected every night since the war,” Mrs. Eversleigh put in, sounding mournfully delighted at the prospect. “The world’s never been the same since.”
“No. No, it hasn’t,” Mrs. Beecham sighed, and then her expression brightened. “And where are you two young people off to this afternoon?”
“We heard there was another American visiting,” Drew said, “and Miss Parker thought she’d see if it was someone she knows.”
Mrs. Beecham frowned. “Another American?”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Eversleigh said. “At least no one I’ve heard about.”
“Nor I,” Mrs. Beecham confirmed. “Why, even the ones we had have since gone.”
“Have they?” Drew asked, glancing at Madeline. “When was this?”
“Oh, this morning, so they say,” Mrs. Beecham said.
“And we never did get to meet that Mr. Flesch,” her neighbor added. “He must have been very fond of his wife to be still so grieved.”
“No one got to meet him?” Madeline asked.
“No, dear,” Mrs. Beecham said. “He had all his meals brought up to him the whole time he was here.”
“Well, Mr. Whiteside did say he took cold after he’d got here,” Mrs. Eversleigh said, “although he did take the air some mornings later on. Still, such a shame to come all this way and never see anything. At least he didn’t end up like Mr. Martindale. Once he took cold, he was here one moment and gone the next.”
Mrs. Beecham made a sympathetic clucking noise. “Poor Mr. Martindale. And he was such fun at cards. He’d pretend he was holding one sort of hand and drop little hints about it. Made one feel so clever to have figured it out, and so foolish later to find he had won with something else entirely.”
“And where did they go this morning?” Drew asked, turning over in his mind what she had just said. “Mr. Whiteside and Mr. Flesch?”
“Mr. Piggot at the station said they got tickets to Southampton. Sounds as though they’ll be going straight back to America.”
Drew stood, pulling Madeline up with him.
“I hope you’ll excuse us, ladies. I’ve just remembered something I must see to.” Drew replaced his hat with a brief bow. “It’s been lovely seeing you both.”
“Yes, good to meet you, Mrs. Eversleigh,” Madeline called as Drew hurried her out the gate and toward the center of town.
“Young people are always in a hurry,” Mrs. Beecham sighed, and her neighbor nodded.
“I tell you, it hasn’t been the same since the war.”
“Where are we going?” Madeline asked, struggling to keep up.
“If Whiteside and the supposed Mr. Flesch are still in Southampton, they may be worth talking to.” Drew crossed the street, making a beeline toward the police station. “What the ladies said just now about their friend Martindale dropping little hints to set them wrong . . .”
She caught her breath. “You don’t think—”
Drew pushed open the door to the police station and saw Police Constable Applegate at the desk. “You’ve got to ring up the police in Southampton, Jimmy, before Lincoln gets away.”
Seventeen
In another minute, Applegate was on the telephone to the station in Southampton and then to Chief Inspector Birdsong at Farthering Place. Soon the constable and the chief inspector were on their way to the coast, with Drew and Madeline reluctantly in tow.
“It makes perfect sense,” Drew insisted. “If Lincoln was supposed to be dead, he’d have to hide somewhere, but it would have to be somewhere near enough for him to carry on with his mischief. It would be easy enough for him to check into the Queen Bess as Mr. Flesch before he was supposedly killed in the greenhouse. Then all he need do is slip out via the trellis, show up at the house as Lincoln, kill Clarke to take his place, and slip back to the inn. And there’s poor little Eddie to unwittingly cover his footmarks.”
“Then Whiteside is in on it, too,” Birdsong said.
“Obviously. But why?”
“The money, of course.” The inspector wagged his thick finger in Drew’s face. “We’re not talking a few hundred in blackmail anymore.”
“I realize that, but why? Whiteside’s a rich man. He needn’t do another day’s work in his life if he doesn’t like to, even if he lives a hundred years more and doesn’t make another farthing.”
“Some men’s greed knows no bounds,” Madeline said.
“Still, murdering for it?” Drew shook his head. “He doesn’t at all seem the type.”
“You’re always saying you can’t tell about people,” she reminded him.
“Perhaps it’s a game to him,” Birdsong said. “See how much he can get away with and never be suspected.”
“Then he oughtn’t have been so clumsy with his tales about poor Mr. Flesch.” Drew crossed his arms over his chest, struggling to keep a calm demeanor. They were close now.
“And what about the things in the room?” Birdsong asked. “The lipstick marks on the cigarettes and the napkin.”
“Red herrings,” Drew said. “What better way to turn suspicions the wrong way round?”
It wasn’t long before they were in Southampton and, soon after, at the dock of the ship next leav
ing for New York City. An official request for a look at the passenger list showed a Mr. Whiteside and a Mr. Flesch booked for a first-class cabin. They had not yet checked in.
“The ship leaves in less than an hour. They’ll have to show up soon.”
“No need to worry, Mr. Farthering. I have men set up at both ends of the pier and on the ship itself. They won’t be slipping away from us at this point.”
As if they had been summoned, Whiteside and his companion showed up a few minutes later. Whiteside was his usual jocund self. His companion, shrouded in an overcoat and broad-brimmed hat, was still an enigma.
“All right,” Birdsong said, and with a nod to the two waiting constables he stepped forward and took Whiteside’s arm. “I’ll have to ask you to come with me, gentlemen.”
“Here now. What are you doing?”
“You are Mr. Jonas Whiteside of New York City?”
“Yes. And who the devil are you?”
Birdsong showed him his identification. “I am Chief Inspector Birdsong of the Hampshire Police. Now, if you and your companion would come along quietly—”
“I won’t! I’m an American citizen and I’ll be hanged if I’ll come quietly. You there! Farthering! Tell these idiots who I am.”
“It’s not a question of who you are, sir,” Drew said. “We do have some concerns about the elusive Mr. Flesch here.”
The two constables already had custody of the man in the overcoat and hat. They hadn’t yet attempted to remove the dark glasses and muffler that concealed his face.
“We’re both Americans! We’ve broken none of your laws, and you have no right to hold us!”
Already a little gathering of the curious was taking place around them.
“You’d best come along, sir,” Drew counseled. “And do stop shouting. No need to lay this all out in the street as it were.”
“What are the charges, Inspector?” Whiteside demanded. “What laws have we broken? You can’t just arrest us for nothing!”
“Perhaps our Mr. Flesch can clear everything up for us,” Drew offered. “If you’ll just remove your hat and those glasses, sir . . .”
“You can’t do that,” Whiteside protested. “Mr. Flesch has been very sick. It’s a wet day, and it won’t do him any good to catch a chill on the trip home.”
Rules of Murder Page 23