“I am, for a very definite reason.”
“Perhaps Bygrave would rather you didn’t interfere in the matter at all,” suggested his secretary significantly.
“I have thought of that,” replied Vereker, “and, if I see that it is diplomatic to end the inquiry, I shall promptly do so.”
“It might be. One never knows. As for my suggesting anything—have you looked in the secret drawer of the bureau?”
“Is there one?”
“Yes, fancy Inspector Heather missing it! I’m delighted.”
Mr. Smale rose and crossed over to the bureau. Touching a hidden spring at the top of the bureau, a small drawer shot out at the bottom. It contained one letter which he withdrew and brought over to Vereker.
“That’s all there is beyond what you’ve already seen,” he said.
Vereker took the envelope from his hand and extracting a sheet of note-paper discovered that it was a simple receipt for ten thousand pounds worth of bearer bonds. The written address at the head of the note-paper was 10 Glendon Street, W., and the signature, “Muriel Cathcart.”
“You knew all along of the existence of this receipt, Smale?” he asked.
“I did,” came the laconic reply.
“Why did you hide the matter from Inspector Heather?”
“I’m Lord Bygrave’s confidential secretary—you, I presume, are his friend. Verb. sap.”
“I see. It’s rather risky, you know.”
“I don’t mind that. What can Inspector Heather do to me?”
“He might make things very unpleasant, Smale. As a matter of fact, he has just gone off to verify your account of putting up in a Soho hotel.”
“Has he? He won’t find any trace of my temporary sojourn there, Vereker.”
“Didn’t you put up in a Soho hotel?”
“Not I, Vereker. Now, I’ll be frank with you. I met, as I have said before, one or two friends and after a very good dinner and the pouring out of copious libations to the gods, we hied us to a West End gambling den known to me. This would sound very dreadful to Inspector Heather; but, unlike certain wealthy and yet very respectable members of society, I cannot afford to visit Monte Carlo for a little harmless excitement, so I pay an occasional visit to the tables—much nearer home. We played chemmy, trente-et-quarante and roulette and my expenditure for the whole evening, counting my gains and losses, was under a tenner. That wasn’t deadly. I wasn’t going to give Heather the address of my little casino, so I had to lie, point-blank.
“Indiscreet,” remarked Vereker.
“Indiscretion is not a crime,” replied Smale. “If I had made Heather my father confessor, so to speak, I should have compromised others. It simply couldn’t be done.”
Vereker was silent for some moments. “Have you ever seen this Mrs. Cathcart?” he asked.
“I got a glimpse of her when she came here. She only came once, about six months ago. She was heavily veiled and I doubt whether I could recognize her again.”
“You don’t know if she is still at the London address on that receipt?”
“I know absolutely nothing about her. Bygrave never mentioned the matter to me. It was not my business to be unduly inquisitive.”
“I wonder what claim she had on Bygrave?” said Vereker.
“Possibly none at all. Lord Bygrave was very generous in his charity, especially when he came up against a deserving case. He always, however, made a meticulous inquiry into tales of woe. He was no fool.”
“Well, I must be off,” said Vereker. “But before I go, can you tell me, Smale, if one of the drawers of that bureau had been forced before you left for Paris?”
Mr. Smale started involuntarily, but made a swift recovery of his composure. He rose and walked over to the bureau and carefully examined the drawer.
“It may have been. I can’t say I noticed it. However, Bygrave was a perfect artist at losing his keys. He has broken open half the drawers in the house at one time or another.”
“Thanks. I’m going over to Hartwood for a day or two. If there’s anything you want, let me know. As trustee under Lord Bygrave’s will, I’m taking charge.”
“Good. I’ll expect my orders from you. For the present I suppose I’d better carry on as usual?”
“Just so. Good day.”
On the way to the station Vereker met Inspector Heather, who was returning to Bygrave Hall.
“Well, Mr. Vereker,” asked the detective, “what do you think of Mr. Sidney Smale for a glib liar?”
“H’m, I’m not quite certain yet, Heather, whether he’s a natural or an artificial liar. A natural liar lies because he can’t help it, or because he wishes to be interesting; an artificial liar lies to deceive. He’s a pretty smart young man, Heather, you must be doubly on the alert.”
“I’ll see to that, Mr. Vereker. I shall probably join you at Hartwood to-night or to-morrow before lunch. Au revoir.”
At the station Walter was waiting on the down platform with Vereker’s bag.
“I shall be all right now, Walter, thank you. You won’t forget,” said Vereker, handing the footman some money.
“I shall not forget, sir,” replied Walter, “as soon as I know, I’ll wire.”
Chapter Eight
As Vereker sat in the corner of a comfortable first-class carriage on the way to Hartwood he swiftly recapitulated in his mind the net results of his labours at Bygrave Hall. Briefly they could be summarized under three heads.
In the first place, Farnish, the trusted servant of the family, was inclined to be secretive and was, according to Walter, behaving in an unwontedly mysterious manner. It was quite possible that it was he who had broken open the drawer in Lord Bygrave’s writing-bureau, for some purpose which might or might not be connected with Lord Bygrave’s disappearance, Vereker felt uneasy about this matter. In spite of his being able to give no reason for his belief he was, somehow or other, convinced that this incident of the rifled bureau was connected with the whole mystery of Lord Bygrave. He felt that it would eventually fall into its place in the chain of events when their sequence became clear.
Secondly, ten thousand pounds worth of bearer bonds had been given by Lord Bygrave to a mysterious woman, by the name of Muriel Cathcart, who at that time was living at 10 Glendon Street, W. This again might have nothing to do with subsequent events. On the way to the station he had wired to his trusted friend, Ricardo, to make full inquiries about Mrs. Cathcart at Glendon Street and reply to the White Bear Inn at Hartwood as soon as possible.
Thirdly, he had discovered that Smale, Lord Bygrave’s secretary, was a gambler, drank, and frequented night clubs. Putting it as baldly as this, it was not a wholesome reputation for a man in a position of trust. Smale, on his own confession, had lied to Heather under the excuse that it was out of loyalty to his employer. He had ostensibly been frank with him, but could any credence be placed in his words? It might be an astute way of misleading both the inspector and himself. Vereker felt that he didn’t like Smale, but again this was a prejudice he had entertained long before the disappearance of Lord Bygrave. Smale might, at the worst, only be a young fool. Many good men had passed through a similar phase of sowing wild oats. There was in life such a thing as reaching an age of discretion in which previous experience of the world led to a tolerant attitude towards everyday humanity. Tout comprendre—
Taking it all round, the results had been neither very definite nor very encouraging. Still, there had been results. The difficulty of the problem ought not, he felt, to be allowed to dishearten him. He must continue the task with some of the massive imperturbability of Inspector Heather.
On arriving at Hartwood Station he found old Dick, George Lawless’s handy man, awaiting him with the pony and trap. The day was gloriously fine, as days in early October can be. Chestnut and oak had strewn the road with russet leaves and shining fruit; the elms had gowned themselves in pale gold, and every gust of wind blew from them some of their autumn drapery. In the hedgerows, where the sun�
��s direct beams could not penetrate, the light hoar frost had distilled into chill dew—the first icy breath of the coming winter. Vereker’s eyes were alight with joyousness. It was the time of the year he loved. The heavy, rounded masses of summer foliage had gone and given place to the airiness of half-naked trees. He had a keen eye for their anatomy and loved to trace the shapes of boles and boughs now half disclosed through the scanty but gorgeous raiment of the waning year. The keen, brisk, buoyant air seemed to drive from his mind all the tenseness and morbidity of his occupation with the Bygrave case, and even the smoke blowing from Dick’s disreputable clay pipe, and carrying the odour of strong shag, acquired some of the sweetness of commonplace, healthy humanity, free from all taint of mystery.
“Oh, for a knapsack, my water-colour box and the open road,” he thought, "and bread and cheese and beer!”
It was with a sense of returning to a distasteful task that he alighted in the courtyard of the White Bear Inn. As he entered he met Mary Standish, looking radiantly beautiful. She had been busy at her morning tasks and was flushed with hurry and exertion.
“Will you be in for lunch, sir?” she asked in her soft, pleasing voice.
“It will be ready about one, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything you would like to order specially?”
“No, thanks. I’ll take the ordinary lunch. I know I shall enjoy it—it’s always good—and I’m sure I shall be hungry.”
The day was too fine to stay indoors, so Vereker hurried up to his room, changed into an old sports coat, flannel trousers and heavy comfortable shoes. He set off from the inn at a long swinging pace, whirling his ash-stick around in sheer exuberance of spirits. He felt more like his old irresponsible self this morning.
“This business has had a sobering effect on me,” he thought as he paced along. “I entered it in the spirit of cap and bells, and before it’s over I shall have assumed the gravity of a Divorce Court judge.”
He made his way along the road to Windyridge, his eyes taking in the sweeping lines of the rolling country around—lines that seemed to fall into design without any effort on the part of the artist’s eye and imagination. He was wrapt in contemplation of a particularly beautiful interlacement of hills and valleys when he heard the cuff cuff of a horse’s hoofs on the road in front of him. He glanced ahead at the horseman approaching at a gentle trot. There seemed even at that distance something familiar in the rider’s carriage of shoulder and head, and as he came up Vereker recognized him. It was David Winslade. The latter hesitated a moment; then a look of recognition came into his eyes, and he at once reined in his horse. The next moment he had dismounted and was holding out his hand.
“Vereker—what a surprise to meet you out here!”
“I’ve come down purposely to see you, Winslade. I’ve been down here once already, you know, but affairs took me away again before I could look you up.”
“I heard you’d been at the White Bear and had gone again.”
“Of course you’ve guessed the reason of my visit?”
“Well, I suppose it’s all about this strange business of my Uncle Henry.” A tense, worried look swept swiftly across Winslade’s face—as a cloud shadow sweeps across a sunny upland—and was gone. He struck his leather gaiter with his whip as if dismissing the matter from his mind. “I don’t know what has happened. It’s a rum business altogether and damned unpleasant for me, I can assure you, Vereker.”
“I should like to have a talk with you on the subject at your leisure. You know I’m your trustee in case anything—”
“Yes, I know,” interrupted Winslade, and his brow furrowed again.
Vereker was watching him closely. Those boyish blue eyes that he had always remembered for their disarming frankness were glancing uneasily around at anything and everything, but failed to look him straight in the face as had been their wont.
“Well, come over and have some tea with me this afternoon and we’ll discuss the affair,” said Winslade, after an uncomfortable pause, and next moment he had swung himself easily into the saddle. “I’ll expect you about four o’clock,” he said as his cob moved impatiently forward, and with a wave of his whip he went clattering off along the dusty road.
Vereker returned to the White Bear by a circuitous route. He was thinking of Winslade as he entered the inn, and at the same moment Mary Standish came out of the dining-room and went into the kitchen. On her way she passed through a beam of sunshine pouring in from a window looking out on to the garden, and a vivid flash of diamonds from a ring on the third finger of her left hand caught Vereker’s all-observing eye.
“Hello!” he thought. “So they’re engaged! A magnificent ring, too, I should say. I wonder what his Uncle Henry would say if he knew! This is certainly an unexpected turn of events.”
Vereker lunched early, and when Mary Standish came in with his food they were alone in the dining-room. It was an opportunity that Vereker felt that he could hardly let escape. As the girl laid the vegetable dishes in front of him he glanced at the ring with a smile and asked:
“Well, Mary, who’s the lucky man?”
She blushed deeply.
“Are you very much interested, Mr. Vereker?” she retorted, trying to assume an air of severity, but without much success.
“Very much so.”
“That’s very kind of you. But do you think that it’s any business of yours?”
Vereker’s features broke from smiles into laughter.
“In certain circumstances, Mary, it may concern me quite a lot.”
“I cannot see that it concerns you in any way at all, Mr. Vereker,” replied Mary. She was now looking distinctly annoyed; Vereker’s hilarity had quite upset her dignity.
“It all depends upon who the man is. I think I can guess his name. I believe I told you on my last visit that he was Lord Bygrave’s heir.”
“And you are a trustee under Lord Bygrave’s will,” she said coldly.
“Just so. You’ve given me quite a shock. I didn’t think you knew.”
“I’ll give you a further shock, Mr. Vereker. Whatever Lord Bygrave’s attitude is to our engagement, and whatever instructions he leaves you as trustee with regard to the disposal of his effects, we—that is Mr. Winslade and I—don’t care one rap.”
“I came here an ordinary human being, Mary. I’m afraid I shall leave disguised as a pancake. You’re so crushing.”
But Mary Standish was in no mood to be humoured and, turning on her heel, quickly left the room. For the remainder of the meal another maid attended to Vereker’s wants, but Vereker had discovered all that he had set out to discover. The result kept him absorbed in thought for the rest of the afternoon.
At four o’clock Vereker turned into the gate of Crockhurst Farm, and a few steps along a well-kept gravel drive brought him to the house. It was a square, white-walled, old-fashioned farmstead with vigorous climbing roses nailed to its homely front. A green painted wooden portico formed the entrance, and large windows opened on to a well-shorn lawn, which ran to a thick stone wall where in recesses nestled modern, wooden beehives. Beyond the wall could be seen serried rows of orchard trees. As Vereker approached the door a flock of white pigeons settled with a loud rustle of wings on the red-tiled roof, and a quick-eared dog barked from the yard behind. He was about to ring when Winslade leaned out of one of the open windows.
“Don’t stand on any ceremony, Vereker. Come in; the door’s open and tea’s ready.”
Vereker walked in and, turning to the left through an open door, entered Winslade’s drawing-room. There was a faint odour of potpourri in the air which was infinitely pleasing, and the whole room instilled a feeling of restfulness and quietude which somehow seemed to clash reproachfully with the subject uppermost in Vereker’s mind.
“Sit down, Vereker, and help yourself to those potato cakes. They’re hot, and Mrs. Rafferty has made them specially in the Irish way—with currants—in your honour. I’m going to be ‘mother,’ and will p
our out the tea.”
The words were said in an attempt at a light, jocular mood, but Vereker at once marked the jerky, uneasy manner Winslade displayed. He was feeling distinctly nervous and uncomfortable, and the brow once so sunny and care-free was troubled by an unpleasant furrow.
“I believe I’ve got to offer you congratulations, Winslade,” Vereker remarked, as if the Bygrave case was a subsidiary affair.
“So the news has even reached you, a stranger to the village? Yes, I’m engaged to Miss Standish. Of course you’ve seen her?”
“Oh, yes. I wrung the admission of her engagement to you from her this morning after seeing her engagement ring. I believe your uncle knew of your intentions.”
“Yes, I wrote and told him. He seemed rather disgruntled over the business. You know the line of argument they always take on such occasions—‘marrying out of one’s social sphere being seldom a success’ and all that sort of twaddle. He didn’t cut me off with the time-honoured shilling on the spur of the moment. The matter was sub judice, so to speak; in fact he was coming down to Hartwood on this last occasion to see ‘the lady for myself,’ so he said. Really, I thought my uncle would have been too unconventional to play the orthodox heavy to his nephew in such a way, but I suppose he belongs to a theatrical age. In any case it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m not beholden to Uncle Henry. I can earn my own living and am certainly going to arrange my own marriage without anyone’s interference. The girl he would have chosen for me would certainly never have been one fitted for a hard-working farmer’s wife.”
“He was doubtless thinking of your prospects as his heir,” suggested Vereker quietly.
“Oh, hang him and his money!” said Winslade bitterly. “All the money in the world won’t alter my manner of life. I shall still remain a farmer. He never seemed to grasp that fact.”
“You’ve no idea what has happened to him?” asked Vereker bluntly.
“Look here, Vereker,” said Winslade, and his face was flushed with rising anger, “I don’t know where my uncle is. If I did, why should I conceal his whereabouts? Your inspector fellow—I don’t know his name—who is on the business from Scotland Yard, has been annoying the life out of me of late. I’ve been answering questions to one of his men as to my whereabouts on the day of my uncle’s disappearance until I’m heartily sick of it. I suppose he thinks I’ve spooked my uncle away for the sake of getting my hands on his money?”
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