“Sensible enough,” commented The Counsellor. “I expect they were a bit afraid of making a bloomer of some sort. Treverton’s temper was none of the best.”
“Quite so. They said as much to me,” confirmed Pagnell. “When Whitgift put in an appearance, they explained matters to him. It was all a bit unusual, considering Treverton’s regular habits, you understand. Anyhow, Whitgift seems to have acted much as you or I might have done. He collected some of the staff and started to search the grounds. He didn’t know what to make of it all, but he thought that was as useful a thing to do as he could think of. Perhaps, he said, the old boy had gone wandering out in the dark and broken a leg or something, though midnight strolls weren’t much in his character, I gathered.”
“No,” declared The Counsellor, “from what I saw of him, fresh air wasn’t much in his line, especially chilly night air. That doesn’t sound a bit likely. Still, I suppose they felt they had to do something to show zeal.”
“They found nothing,” Pagnell continued. “Then one of them—it was Albury, so far as I can make out—suggested that perhaps Treverton had gone off in his old car and got stuck somewhere. That sounded likely enough—the car sticking, I mean—for it was a shabby old crock. So off they went to the garage to see if the car was amissing as well. And when they opened the side door, there was the car O.K. They found more than the car. Treverton was lying on the floor by the side-door to the garage. The car engine wasn’t running—I found later on that the tank had gone dry—but the place was full up with exhaust gases. The stink warned them, luckily; but one of them rushed in and hauled Treverton out into the open air, and then they swung the doors wide to clear the choke-gas out of the place. Incidentally”—Pagnell added sardonically—“they destroyed any evidence we might have got from the position of the body. One of them, I admit, had enough wit to notice that the radiator was warm.”
“Half a jiff,” interrupted The Counsellor. “You talk about a side door to that garage. Let’s get the lie of the land clear.”
“It’s an old coach-house converted into a garage,” Pagnell explained. “It must have been built to take two carriages side by side with a couple of big double doors, cheek by jowl, to let in the vehicles. These doors are fastened by bolts on the inside and they open outwards, of course. You take your car in and bolt the door from the inside. Obviously you can’t get out that way. So there’s a small door at the back of the garage, in the side wall just about level with the bonnet of the car. That door leads into another room in the building, which may have been the original harness-room. It’s now filled up with all sorts of odds and ends decrepit garden tools, old garden hose, and a big cylinder and fittings which were once part of the old acetylene plant that used to light the house, before they got current in. It’s just a lumber-room, and through it you pass out by another door into the yard. To get your car out, you pass in this way and then unbolt the big doors to open a way for your motor. Most people would have modernised the place a bit, put on a ‘roll-top’ pattern door or at any rate one that slid on rollers. But Treverton grudged the expense, they tell me. He had the name for being a bit ‘near’ in some things.”
“Sure it was suicide and not accident?” asked The Counsellor doubtfully. “Some people, you know, are fools enough to stay in a garage with the engine running. The engine had been running?”
“Ran till the tank went dry,” Pagnell assured him. “The radiator was faintly warm when I got there. Besides the ignition key was turned on.”
“Right!” said The Counsellor, apparently satisfied.
“Now here’s the rum bit,” the inspector continued, with a satisfied smile. “When they came to look about, once the fumes had cleared off, they found a foot-pump attached to the tyre of the off front wheel. I’ve taken the pressure of that tyre, and it was pretty low. So he must have started pumping it up when he came in. Likely he felt it was down, while he was out in the car.”
“Looks more than ever like an accident through sheer carelessness,” said The Counsellor. “I was just wondering how he came to be knocked out if he was in the place only for the minute or so needed to fix the door and get to the other exit. But if he was working a foot-pump, of course, he’d be breathing deeper than usual owing to the exertion. He didn’t look in good condition when I saw him.”
“Very nice,” admitted Pagnell with an air of suppressed triumph. “But the light in the garage was switched off, and the car lamps were off as well. Do you usually pump up a tyre in the dark, by preference, sir, when light’s available?”
“Moonlight?” suggested The Counsellor.
“No good, sir. The place has no windows, except a tiny one and it faces the wrong way to catch any moonlight. Besides, it was a cloudy night. But here’s the clincher, sir. We know Treverton was pretty ‘near’. He never spent or wasted a penny if he could help it. Now is it likely that a man of that sort would leave his engine running—wasting petrol—while he pumped up a tyre. No! You can take it from me that this foot-pump business was all my eye, just planned by him to make it look like an accident. He may have had an anti-suicide clause in his insurance policy.”
“Wonder where his money goes,” mused The Counsellor. “His niece is the only relation I’ve heard about.”
The inspector made a jotting in his notebook.
“Something in that, perhaps, sir. I’ll see his solicitors and get a look at his life policy and his will. Nothing like being thorough, is there? But I’ve no doubt it’s suicide. I gathered from a hint that Albury dropped that this picture business wasn’t doing too well. He may have been in financial trouble, for all we know.”
“It’s a limited company,” said The Counsellor, doubtfully. “But he may have had financial bothers apart from that. Whitgift gave me a hint that pointed that way. Well, let’s call it suicide. And now, I suppose, you want to know about Miss Treverton’s disappearance?”
“If you please, sir.”
“Well, this is how it is,” The Counsellor began. “It’s a longish tale, so I’ll just give you the gist of it. Miss Treverton went off at three o’clock last Thursday afternoon. She had a grey coat and skirt on, and in her car was an attaché case containing tennis things. She probably had her racquet with her, but no one can speak to that. She was going to play tennis at the Trulocks. She didn’t turn up at Fairlawns. But her car, No. EZ 1113, was next seen at St. Neot’s. She was then accompanied by a young man. They took in some petrol there, after having tea, and they paid with a bad pound note. Just keep that note in your mind, Inspector. This pair—the girl in the grey coat and skirt and the young man—were next heard of at Tuxford. There’s a two-star A.A. hotel in Tuxford but they didn’t go there. Nor did they go on to Doncaster, where they could have got a choice of hotels even if the racing did happen to be on at that time. No, they picked out a very small temperance hotel in Tuxford. Note that point, Mr. Pagnell. They unloaded two suitcases from the car along with the attaché case containing Miss Treverton’s tennis things. The suitcases were new and initialled H.Q. The attaché case, as one might expect, had H.T. on it, Miss Treverton’s initials. They had dinner at this temperance shop, and stayed the night there, occupying different rooms. The girl had a long chat with the landlady and left a marked impression. Note that, also. They left next morning, and their next appearance was at Baldersby Gate about noon. The girl was driving, and she ran over a pet dog. The owner of the dog says it looked like being done on purpose, and when she tackled the girl about it, all she got was: ‘I’m not fond of dogs.’ That’s another point to note.”
“If there’s going to be more of them, I’ll jot ’em down,” interrupted the inspector. “Let’s see. Bad pound note . . . poor hotel (temperance) . . . accident to dog. . . .”
“And the strange young man and the two suit-cases,” amplified The Counsellor. “Now I’ll go on. At Temple Sowerby they stopped for lunch. They could have gone to a one-star A.A. hotel, but apparently they went to one that isn’t on the A.A. list. They could hav
e been in Carlisle in half an hour at the rate they were driving, and there they could have had a choice of larger hotels. Or they could have stopped at a three-star hotel in Greta Bridge, earlier on the road. But no, they chose this very minor pub. And then, mark this, Inspector, they made the devil’s own fuss because the best wine the place kept wasn’t good enough for their palates.”
The inspector made another jotting and then looked up, waiting for The Counsellor to continue.
“The next stop was—now for Romance, Inspector—at Gretna Green where they were made man and wife over the famous anvil in the Old Blacksmith’s Shop, quite in the best tradition. They gave the names of Howard Querrin and Helen Treverton, but unfortunately the marriage didn’t conform to the present laws of Scotland, as Mr. Querrin hadn’t the necessary residence qualification.”
The inspector pricked up his ears.
“Sounds like some White Slavery dodge,” he surmised uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t like to see anything of that sort happen to so nice a young lady as Miss Treverton. You’re sure of your facts sir?”
“Dead sure,” The Counsellor affirmed. “I’ve seen the register myself and read the entry. Took a copy of it, in fact.”
“And who’s this man Querrin?” demanded the inspector. “I’ve a notion I remember that name . . . Querrin . . . Querrin? . . . Oh, yes, now I’ve got it. There was an American, name of Querrin, was in this neighbourhood a while back; and he was often about Longstoke House. Is that him?”
“Let me finish the story first,” The Counsellor suggested. “They left Gretna Green and pushed off on the road to Stranraer. About six o’clock that evening, they hailed an A.A. patrol near Crocketford and got him to change a wheel for them. The man in the car had his arm in a sling, which accounted for his needing help. They happened to say something about Moville, which he picked up.”
“Moville? Isn’t there some darky song about Old Moville, sir?”
“I daresay,” agreed The Counsellor, “but the Moville I think they meant was the one in Donegal. The Anchor Line boats lie off there to pick up and set down passengers from or to Ireland.”
“Ah! Now I see where it’s leading,” declared the inspector. “I remember there’s a service to Ireland via Stranraer. I see, I see.”
“Do you?” said The Counsellor, innocently. “That’s nice. Well, the young couple turned up in Stranraer by train at about 10 p.m. They stayed the night at an hotel—sharing a room this time, which would be all right for a properly-married couple—and they left on the following evening in time to catch either the Irish mail-boat or a train to Glasgow. And they left their car, EZ 1113, hidden in a small wilderness called Lochar Moss. And to get to Lochar Moss from the place they met the A.A. patrol, they had to go back some thirty miles of the road they’d already traversed. There it is, inspector. All in plain sight, I think, if you’ll just put your brains on to it. I’ve given you the tips as I went along.”
Inspector Pagnell apparently set his brains to work for a minute or more, as his face betrayed. But evidently he thought it would be easier to take a short cut to the solution by asking The Counsellor for his version.
“Well, sir, I’ll save time by giving it up and taking what you’ve got to say about it.”
The Counsellor grinned without dignity.
“Put it in four words, Inspector. Laying a false trail. Look at what I’ve given you. The first thing you hear is that they pass a bad pound note. Isn’t that likely to get them well kept in mind? Of course it is. Then in Tuxford, they don’t go to an ordinary hotel. Not they. They pick out a little temperance shop, and the girl takes care to stamp herself well into the memory of the landlady. Why choose that particular pull up? Because a guest in a tiny little hotel gets more notice than in a bigger place. Then next morning they run over a pet dog, with the girl driving. And when she’s given a bit of the owner’s mind, all she says is: ‘I’m not fond of dogs.’ Just put your brain to work there, Inspector. You can’t miss it.”
“But she was fond of dogs,” Pagnell protested. “Why she had a dog of her own, sir, a collie; and when it died the other day she was terrible cut up about it, I know.”
“I’d seen a snapshot of her with her collie. That’s what made me sit up and take notice. Why, man, it stares you in the face. That girl in the car wasn’t Miss Treverton at all. It was another girl, dressed in the same kind of get-up—grey coat and skirt.”
The inspector sat up in his chair, taken aback by this suggestion.
“It doesn’t sound over likely,” he objected. “After all, it was her car.”
“Well, let’s continue the tale, if you’re not convinced,” retorted The Counsellor. “At Temple Sowerby, they deliberately choose a small pub to stop at for lunch. Why? Because they’re more likely to be noticed there than in a bigger place such as they could have found in Greta Bridge or Carlisle. And to impress themselves on the staff, they kick up a dust about the wine. A couple who were quite content to stop at a temperance place for dinner the night before! It simply screams at you, Inspector.”
“It does fit in with your notion, sir, I’ll admit,” confessed Pagnell, becoming convinced in spite of himself.
“Then they go on to Gretna and go through a form of marriage. That leaves a permanent record in the register kept at the Blacksmith’s Shop. Another dodge to leave a trail behind them, obviously. After that, they take the trouble to make themselves conspicuous again. The man puts his arm in an improvised sling—to make himself the more noticeable and to give an excuse for stopping the A.A. scout. I don’t suppose that tyre was punctured at all. I expect they simply slacked off the valve and let some air out. Anyhow, they waited till someone came along to help. They were lucky in an A.A. scout turning up, but anyone would have done for their purposes. And they were careful to talk loud about their next arrangements—Stranraer, Moville.”
“You’re almost convincing me,” Pagnell admitted. “But why did they leave their car in this place . . . what’s its name . . . Lochar Moss?”
“Because they wanted to be rid of it without leaving traces. A car’s much too easily identifiable. They might have shoved it into a garage. Admitted. But people sailing for America don’t shove their car into the nearest garage and leave it. That would have made the Moville stuff look a bit thin when the car was brought to light. Nor could they risk trying to sell it. That might have led to inquiries about their bona fides. So they had to ‘lose’ it, and well back on the road. Hence Lochar Moss. And once they landed at Stranraer, all they had to do was to vanish, leaving the impression that they’d taken the boat to Larne. Whereas, I believe, they really took the train to Glasgow. Anyhow, so far as I’m concerned, they’ve gone into the unknown. Now, does that help you much?”
“It just makes things worse,” the inspector grumbled. “That is, if all this has any connection with Treverton’s suicide at all. Why did he do himself in? Do you think he was mixed up in his niece’s disappearance, sir?”
“I don’t know, but I can find out,” answered The Counsellor, using one of his repertoire of clichés. “I’ve a vague glimmering of an idea, Inspector. Too thin yet to talk about. Still, from what I do know already, I’m inclined to back the notion that Treverton’s death and her vanishing aren’t independent affairs. There’s a link between them, somewhere.”
“You think Miss Treverton’s been kidnapped? At least, that’s what I took you to be driving at.”
“I leave it to you,” said The Counsellor. “I’m practically certain the girl in the car wasn’t Miss Treverton. Therefore Miss Treverton must have left that car somewhere after she set off from home and before she got to Fairlawns. After that, the car was taken away by two people who took great care to leave clues en route to give the impression that Miss Treverton had gone out of the country. Well, I don’t think she went that way.”
“My point is,” said the inspector doggedly, “was Treverton himself mixed up in this abduction? Had he any motive for getting his niece out of the way, tempor
arily or permanently? And did something go wrong with the works, so that he found himself in the devil of a tight corner, and had to suicide? That would fit the two affairs together, since you’re looking for a connection between them.”
“Something in that, perhaps,” admitted The Counsellor. “That is, provided you can prove he was mixed up in the abduction, find his motive, and discover why he suicided. Otherwise, I can’t see any definite proof of a connection between the two affairs myself, for the moment.”
“Well, I believe there’s a connection, and I’m going to find it,” declared Pagnell decidedly.
“I know where I’d start, if it were my job,” said The Counsellor with equal decision in his tone.
“And where, then?” demanded the inspector, clutching at the suggestion, since he himself had no clear idea of how to begin.
“I’d get that dog of Miss Treverton’s dug up and have the spectrum of its blood examined by an expert,” explained The Counsellor. “Whether he’d find much after this delay I can’t say. But I’d ask him to see if he could spot the absorption spectrum produced by the presence of carbon monoxide.”
“I see what you’re after,” said Pagnell, after a few seconds consideration. “You mean that Treverton had a preliminary canter with that dog, just to see if he could be sure of finishing himself comfortably with the exhaust gases in the garage?”
“No, I don’t mean anything of the sort,” retorted The Counsellor. “The dog died a day or two before Miss Treverton disappeared, didn’t it? Well, in that case, why rehearse a suicide at all, just then? If you’re anxious, I can suggest another reason for the dog’s death. Suppose Miss Treverton had taken it along with her in the car to that tennis party? It might have been a nuisance to the person who got hold of her, mightn’t it?”
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