Comes a Stranger (12 page)

In the little parlour Major Harley was saying:

“There's something else we wanted to mention, Miss Perkins. It's a rather odd story we've been told about something seen in the library last night.”

On a nod from the chief constable Bobby repeated as exactly as he could Virtue's tale of the body he declared he had seen through one of the library windows. She listened gravely and in silence, without that perpetual giggle of hers, without once interrupting to say she was so sorry, without even any of those exclamations of surprise and incredulity Bobby felt would have been natural. It seemed indeed as though she were hardly attending, or, rather, that she was finding it almost impossible to keep her attention on what she was listening to when her mind was full of the tragedy of which she had just heard. When Bobby ceased she seemed to draw herself together. She said:

“It sounds very funny, doesn't it? I should think he made it up. It's the young American gentleman you mean, the one that's staying in the village?”

“Yes,” said Bobby. “You've seen him, I suppose.”

“Only once,” she answered. She gave her little giggle again, and seemed now to be more like her usual self. “He's very nice looking,” she said. “Not like Mr. Nat, though.” She paused and her face seemed as it were to crumple up, though only momentarily. Recovering herself, she went on: “You don't think it was him, do you? Why should he? I mean, why should he want to shoot Mr. Nat? They didn't know each other. He called at the library Wednesday, I think—Mr. Virtue, I mean. He wanted Mr. Broast to let him go over it. Mr. Broast wouldn't. He said he hadn't time, he said he wasn't going to act as guide to every fool of a tourist that came along. He said he didn't like Americans anyhow, except when they buy his books he wants to sell and then he always asks more from them than he would from anyone else. They keep asking questions, trying to find out things, poking about everywhere. Mr. Broast hates that. Mr. Virtue wrote once or twice, too, but it didn't make any difference.”

“Did Mr. Virtue give any special reason for wanting to see over the library?”

“I don't know, I don't think so; of course it's awfully famous,” answered Miss Perkins. “I'm so sorry.” Then she added: “How could he see anything at all—Mr. Virtue, I mean? There's no lights in the library and shutters, too.”

Bobby questioned her on this point, but she was quite clear that the shutters had been closed as usual at dusk. She had helped in the task herself and she was sure all of them had been carefully fastened. Of course, they might have been opened again. That was possible, evidently, but, if so, she knew nothing about it, and did not understand who could have done such a thing without the knowledge of Mr. Broast or of herself or the inmates of the house.

“The dead man Virtue saw, if he's telling the truth,” observed Major Harley, “might have opened them himself to escape by.”

Miss Perkins screamed faintly, said not Two dead men, oh, not Two, and then apologised and said she was so sorry.

“Difficult to understand,” agreed Bobby. “Now, Miss Perkins, there's something else we have to ask you about. Please be very careful in answering.” He repeated slowly, emphasizing each detail, the description given by Virtue of the features of the body he said he had seen. When Bobby had finished, he said: “Does that description suggest anything, bring anything to your mind? Please think carefully?”

Miss Perkins was gaping at him. She had every appearance of utter astonishment. She said slowly:

“It sounds just like a friend of mine. I've a photograph. Only it can't be. How can it?”

“Do you mind letting us see it?”

“The photograph?”

“Yes, please.”

“But it's silly,” she protested. “It's just silly.”

“It does seem extraordinary,” Bobby agreed. “That's why we have to ask about it.”

“I don't understand,” she repeated. She was plainly uneasy and alarmed, on the defensive. Not that there was now in her expression that extremity of horror and of wild amaze she had shown before. It was more a kind of incredulous astonishment she displayed, mingled with a sort of alert doubtfulness. Suddenly she gave her familiar giggle. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said. “I'll go and get it.”

She left the room and they heard her run upstairs Major Harley said:

“She's upset. I can guess why. Eh?”

“I'm afraid I can't, sir,” Bobby said, for indeed at the moment he saw no reasonable explanation.

“She'll bring someone else's photo,” the Major went on. “You see if she doesn't. It'll be a pointer.”

Bobby wondered why, and in what direction. Miss Perkins came back. She was normal again now, once more her usual fluttering nervous self, full of giggles and apologies.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said. “Oh, I expect it's this one, isn't it?”

The one she showed answered in fact very closely to the description Virtue had given. The abnormality of the left ear was plainly visible. On the back Bobby found the name and address of a New York photographer.

“Would you mind telling us who this is and where he is now?” Bobby asked.

“I'm so sorry,” Miss Perkins said helplessly. “I'm afraid… what I mean is… you see…”

“Our information,” interposed the Major, “is that it's the young man you're engaged to?”

“That's right,” she admitted. “I am,” she said defiantly. “It's quite true. Only he's abroad.” She hesitated, looked pitiful. “He's been abroad a long time,” she almost whispered. “Sometimes I think he won't come back.”

“I see,” said the Major, a little awkwardly. “I'm sorry to have to press you. I'm afraid it's necessary. Of course, it's all quite confidential. We shouldn't bother you about your private affairs unless we had to. It's necessary to investigate this story Mr Virtue tells, especially in view of what happened last night. In a case of murder everything must be cleared up.”

“Murder?” she repeated. “Murder—couldn't it have been—an accident? a mistake?”

The Major shook his head. One shot might be an accident, he agreed, not three. Three meant deliberation, determination, He took up the questioning now. Bit by bit he got her simple story from her. She had been born in Fromavon the great west-country port. She had never known her father or any relatives. There was some quarrel and her mother had left them. When her mother died, they refused to have anything to do with her or help in any way. She had been brought up by the woman in whose charge her mother had left her, together with a small sum of money to pay for her keep. When that became exhausted the woman had continued to give her shelter, but had turned her into a useful, unpaid little maid-of-all-work. She had managed to teach herself shorthand and typing, and had obtained work in London and then her present position with Mr. Broast. It was when she was in London she had met Mr. Cadman, the original of the photograph. They had become engaged, but he had been obliged to return to America on business. She admitted she had not heard from him since his departure, and it was quite plain she had little hope that any message would ever arrive. Apparently she had nothing more to tell, and after a few more questions they thanked her, asked permission to keep the photograph for a time, and so departed.”

“Pathetic little thing, pathetic little story,” said the Major, as they settled themselves in their car. “Repressed sex. Most likely she was never engaged to this Mr. Cadman at all. Probably they met, he may have taken her out once or twice perhaps, somehow she got hold of his photograph, and she imagined all the rest of it. Pure romance. Did you notice how really distressed she was about poor Nat Kayne's death?”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby slowly. “I didn't quite understand—I thought of calling that Point M. I mean, whether there is some connection or explanation we don't know about. I thought she was going to collapse utterly.”

“Repressed sex again,” explained the Major. “She was in love with him. Didn't you notice the way she talked about his good looks? I'll bet a good deal she's got hold of a photograph she shows of her fiancé. I've known cases—these sex starved, unattractive women. Pathetic, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby.

“Anyhow, it seems clearly established there can be no connection between her and Virtue,” decided the Major. “We had better see him next and hear what he has to say for himself.”

On their way through the village to the Wynton Arms, the Major stopped at the little police station and spent there a few energetic moments at the 'phone and reading reports that had come in. Having thus assured himself that the various orders he had issued were being carried out, he joined Bobby, who had waited in the car outside. He said to him:

“Nothing about the pistol yet. If it doesn't turn up, I'll offer a reward. Of course, the murderer may have it in his pocket still. Anyhow, I can't have all my men tied up in that wood, wasting their time raking it over. Plenty for them to do. We aren't like you people in London with a force twenty thousand strong to call on.”

Bobby fairly gasped. Twenty thousand men to call on, perhaps, but twenty thousand jobs for them to attend to, and press and public all ready to raise a howl if a constable wasn't always there just when and as required.

“Well sir,” he began in a voice trembling with indignation, but the Major wasn't listening. He said as he started the car:

“I wonder if they would give the kids a holiday from school. If I could get them turned loose on the job and the pistol is anywhere about they might find it. Sharp eyes, kiddies have. Might try it, only then I should have to warn them not to touch it, and of course they would and probably shoot themselves. Then the fat would be in the fire. Better not try it, perhaps. Oh, there's a temporary authority through from London about you, and it'll go in at once for confirmation—detailed for provincial assistance. Here we are,” he added as they drew up before the ancient inn, one half of which looked as if it might tumble down at any moment while the other half was brand new in red brick and sham half timber. “What's happening, though?”

An ancient-looking car was standing before the inn. An elderly man walked briskly from it towards the car. Mr. Drew, the landlord, stood at the inn threshold, looking on. Robins, porter, garage attendant, and general factotum, was in the act of placing a suit-case in the car. Bobby said:

“That's Mr. Adams, the man Mr. Broast said he saw—hanging round the library last night.”

“Doing a bunk, eh?” said the Major darkly. “Looks bad. Can't have it, anyhow.”

He jumped out. Mr. Adams saw him and with a startled air jumped in and shouted to his driver to hurry. The Major shouted to him to stop, and the driver was evidently not quite sure which to obey. The Major said:

“Police.”

Magic word. The driver doubted no more where obedience lay. Mr. Adams put his head out of the window.

“What's the matter?” he asked. “I can't wait. I've a train to catch.”

“Sorry,” said the Major. “I'm afraid you'll have to miss it. I am making inquiries into a murder that took place last night.”

“I know nothing about any murder,” Mr. Adams asserted angrily. “Why should I? Nothing to do with me. Most inconvenient.”

“Murders often are,” said the Major dryly and opened the car door.

Obeying the hint this gesture conveyed. Mr. Adams alighted, though with evident reluctance. He was small, thin, elderly, with hair already grey, a pale, thin face, a big nose, and short-sighted, peering eyes behind large, horn-framed glasses. He did not look very prosperous—he did look eminently respectable. A timid, rabbit sort of little man, Bobby thought, though he knew well enough that timid, rabbit little men can do desperate things at times. Certainly, he looked exceedingly nervous now, with his shaking hands and frightened eyes, and his voice that seemed not fully under his control. He said:

“I consider this an outrage. I have a train to catch. I shall consult my solicitors.”

“You are, of course, fully entitled to legal advice,” agreed the Major. “Will you let them know at once—there's a 'phone here or you can wire? Until you have a reply, perhaps you will be good enough to wait at the police station.”

Mr. Adams fairly jumped. Evidently he did not like the suggestion at all. He began to perspire slightly, and he tried to bluster. A feeble effort. He protested again that he knew nothing about a murder, this murder, any murder. If, as he understood from what was being said, the victim was a Mr. Nat Kayne, then he had never even seen Mr. Nat Kayne in all his life. Oh, yes, he supposed he did know Mr. Nat Kayne's as one of the library trustees, but what had that to do with it? But here's the Major cut short his protests by asking Bobby to go round with him to the police station, there to await the arrival of the solicitors not yet sent for.

“No time to waste,” the Major told him. “You are only making a lot of unnecessary trouble by forcing me to detain you for inquiries. Much more sensible if you would answer a few questions. For you to decide, of course.”

“Oh, very well,” said Mr. Adams petulantly. “Most inconvenient. Most annoying. A train to catch. It's nothing to do with me. I'm not concerned with their quarrels. If there was anything wrong at the library, nothing to do with us.”

“Have you any reason to suppose there was anything wrong at the library?” the Major asked.

Mr. Adams looked first startled, next alarmed, then cunning.

“If there's been a murder, it looks like it, doesn't it?” he said, and bustled away to dismiss the still waiting car and have his suit-case taken back to his room.

It was an opportunity the Major took to ask the landlord when this urgency to depart had first become apparent. He learned, as he had expected, that nothing had been seen of it till the gossip about the death of the unfortunate Nat Kayne had reached the inn.