Comes a Stranger (21 page)

“Put on,” growled the Major. “They're all of them keeping things back, like that Adams fellow. I'll get the truth out of him, though, somehow, or I'll charge him as an accessory before the event.”

“I think that would be a good plan,” agreed Bobby. “There's another thing. I've been thinking over Mr. Killick's report, and there's one point seems interesting.”

“I know,” said the Major, interrupting with a smile, “I've been doing a bit of thinking myself—can't leave it all to you young yard men. You mean that it shows Kayne's decision to walk over to the Lodge, through the wood, was taken quite unexpectedly, so that the murder couldn't have been premeditated. I think the answer is simple. The murder was premeditated, but not the occasion. That presented itself quite unexpectedly, and was at once seized on. I think everything suggests the murder had been contemplated and prepared for, and then an opportunity came along and was taken. That's all.”

This was not quite what Bobby himself had meant, but he decided that though the possibility suggested to him by the Killick report differed from that put forward by the Major, yet perhaps he had better not attempt to explain further, especially while it and its implication all remained so vague, so unformed in his mind.

All this questioning, of the old librarian and of his typist, had taken so long that there was little time left for anything further to be done that day. Major Harley, indeed, had plenty to occupy him in the shape of ordinary routine work, and in reading various reports to hand concerning other aspects of the investigation. Then, too, Superintendent Killick had to be seen and consulted, the withdrawal of so many men from ordinary work involving a complete re-casting of duties.

The chief constable, therefore, had plenty to occupy his time, but Bobby was left with no more definite instructions than to stand by, think things over, and report again first thing in the morning. So he went back to the Wynford Arms to get some tea and have a rest, and also partly to assure himself that young Virtue and Mr. Adams were still there, though indeed he knew precautions were in force to prevent either of them taking an unnoticed departure.

That, however, neither of them had shown any sign of wishing to attempt, and when Bobby reached the inn they were both there, sitting together over tea cups and cigarettes and engaged in what seemed earnest and confidential conversation. They stopped talking as soon as Bobby appeared, and seemed to expect him to join them, but that he did not do, contenting himself with a nod and word of greeting as he passed.

Natural and to be expected, no doubt, that they should have much to talk over, even though hitherto they had been complete strangers, since both were concerned in some measure in what had happened, and both were under some degree of suspicion—Virtue on account of the doubtful and unsupported tale he had told, Adams because of his calm admission that he had given a false description of himself in an attempt to secure admission to the library, and of his refusal to offer any explanation.

Bobby seated himself in a corner and ordered tea and scones. He saw Virtue and Adams whispering together and looking at him. He took no notice. Then Mr. Adams got up and came towards him.

“May I venture to inquire,” he said in his precise, formal way, “if there is any likelihood of the situation becoming sufficiently clarified to allow of my taking my departure in the near future?”

“None at all,” said Bobby cheerfully.

Mr. Adams sighed.

“I should be loath,” he said, “to question your right to inflict upon any citizen this kind of prohibition of his movements, but I must consider my position. Mr. Virtue informs me he is willing to stay around, as he expresses it, until the case cracks, which I understand means until a satisfactory solution is arrived at. But for me the inconvenience is considerable.”

“Then why not,” Bobby asked him, “tell us the truth? If I were running the inquiry,” he added, though not quite truthfully, “you would have been before the magistrates already, on a charge of being an accessory before the fact.”

“That would be most unpleasant,” observed Mr. Adams sedately, with no sign of undue alarm; “a situation so repugnant indeed I can hardly conceive. But I am unable to—er—speak the truth as you express it, with, if I may say so, a certain crudity, a certain lack of courtesy even, some might hold. I am between—er—the devil and the deep sea, if I may employ a well known locution.”

He paused, shook his head, sighed deeply. Bobby said.

“Meaning the police by the first term?”

“On that point,” said Mr. Adams, with mild but firm decision, “I must request you to be so good as to draw your own conclusions, which I shall beg leave neither to confirm nor to dispute.”

“What about the deep sea?” asked Bobby.

Mr. Adams turned pale. He seemed far more affected, far more frightened, than he had been by Bobby's hint of a possible arrest and charge. But he made no reply, and went back to join Virtue, to whom he began to talk in low whispers, with occasional glances in Bobby's direction. They might have been complete strangers before, Bobby thought, but they certainly seemed on confidential and intimate terms now. He wondered if there could be any truth in the theory that had seemed to put itself forward once or twice, to the effect that these two were accomplices in some elaborate plan to secure burglarious possession of some of the Kayne library treasures. A rare book differs in this from other artistic and antiquarian treasures that while, say, a Holbein miniature is unique, there is no reason why another copy or two of perhaps the first edition of Bunyan's
Pilgrim's Progress
should not be found any day in any attic. Impossible often to prove, if some such work were stolen and then offered for sale, that it was identical with the stolen book, and not merely another copy recently discovered by a bit of good luck. Bobby was still turning over this possibility in his mind when there appeared one of the waitresses with a telegram that had just arrived for Mr. Adams. Bobby saw him read it and look more worried still, and then show it to his companion before putting it in his pocket. That decided Bobby. If Virtue could see it, so could he. He got up and went across to them.

“Have you any objection to showing me the telegram you have just had?” he asked.

Mr. Adam perpended.

“I conceive,” he said finally, “you have no authority entitling you to inspect private communications. I fear, therefore, I must oppose a direct negative to your suggestion.”

“In that case,” said Bobby bluntly, “I must ask you to come to the police station with me.”

“You can do a bit of third degree over on this side, too,” murmured Virtue.

Mr. Adams still hesitated.

“Well?” said Bobby sharply. He added “Telegrams aren't so very private, and I saw you show this one to Mr. Virtue.”

“Under compulsion then, I submit,” said Mr. Adams, “more especially as I think the message will convey no meaning whatsoever to you.”

He produced it. Bobby took it and read:

“For God's sake, don't say a word.”

There was no signature. It had been handed in at Charing Cross Post office, where they probably handle hundreds of telegrams every day. Not much chance of tracing the sender. Bobby said:

“Who is it from?”

“I propose,” said Mr. Adams sedately, “to give you no further information whatsoever.”

“Do you object to my keeping the telegram?” Bobby asked.

“I should most certainly object,” answered Mr. Adams, “if I thought there was any likelihood that my objection would be respected. As I do not, I refrain from expressing it.”

Bobby, therefore, put the telegram in his pocket and went back to finish his tea, feeling completely baffled; for what to make of Mr. Adams's enigmatic personality, he had no idea. The incident of the telegram seemed to him, however, sufficiently important to be reported at once. So he took it to the police station, where, as a natural result, he told himself ruefully, he was at once caught up again in the routine of the investigation and dispatched to verify some entirely unimportant and irrelevant facts.

A hopelessly blind trail, it turned out, but it had to be followed up, and it kept Bobby busy both the rest of that evening and the whole of the next day. Some ingenious neighbour of Len Hill, the young man who had discovered Nat Kayne's body, had unearthed, invented, misinterpreted, and otherwise distorted a few simple facts to make it appear that Len Hill himself must be the murderer. Not till evening, after a trying and exhausting day, was Bobby able to report that the story had no foundation other than the neighbour's busy imagination. All that, however, was quite normal, since in every serious investigation the blind trail along which the police are directed by would-be assistants, is common enough. So Major Harley, to whom Bobby made his report, thanked him, agreed that that at least was cleared up, and told Bobby he could go off duty for the rest of the evening.

“And,” he added, “just at the moment, sergeant, I don't quite see where we are going on from in the morning.”

Bobby didn't either, so having a little time to spare before it was time to think of supper or bed, he took the road to Wynford Lodge, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Olive.

As, after her own tea, which she had been obliged to take in solitude, since Miss Kayne spent most of her time now shut up in her own room, Olive had set out towards the village in the hope of catching a glimpse of Bobby, their common hope was presently fulfilled when they encountered each other near the Lodge gate.

They strolled on together, both of them glad to forget as far as they could, recent events in more personal matters, when they met Mrs. Shepheard, the wife of the vicar of the parish, and a lady of whom it was said that having been vicar's wife for thirty years she knew far more of all the inhabitants of the village, than any of them knew about themselves.

She and Olive had met several times. She stopped now, evidently determined on an introduction to Bobby, and he at once sank to zero in her esteem when she learned that he had never been to the new police college at Hendon.

“I thought that's what it was for, to have gentlemen in the police,” she said, “and very upsetting, too, though I'm sure everything is, nowadays, and not in the least what it was when I was a girl. But I suppose, Mr. Owen, you'll be a chief constable soon, like our dear Major Harley, because, of course, he's a gentleman, too.”

Bobby admitted that he saw no immediate chance of obtaining that advancement, but Mrs. Shepheard, having now satisfactorily classed him with Major Harley and not with Constable Mills, went on to talk about Miss Kayne.

“It's all so very trying for her,” she said, “all this and the responsibility and everything—such a pity she never married.”

“I suppose that was her father's fault, wasn't it?” Bobby remarked.

“Oh no, he wanted her to marry, he often said so, only how could she when she never saw a man who wasn't as old as Mr. Kayne himself, and his head just as full as his of books and first editions and all that kind of thing.”

“But wasn't she engaged at one time?” Bobby asked. “Didn't her father think it unsuitable and make her break it off?”

“Good gracious no, certainly not,” declared Mrs Shepheard with vigour. “That's nonsense. Who ever told you such rubbish? The poor girl was never engaged to anyone, never saw anyone to be engaged to, never the least hint of such a thing.”

Bobby asked one or two more questions, but Mrs. Shepheard was quite clear and emphatic.

“You've just been hearing silly gossip without even the tiniest foundation,” she repeated. “Though it is true Mr. Kayne did change a little towards the end, though not quite in that way. He did tell me once that he was afraid when he was gone his daughter might make a bad choice, and that he wished she had had more opportunity to make friends of her own age. Of course, he was quite right, it wasn't intentional, but the poor child was sacrificed to that library of his.”

With that she took her leave, and when she had gone Bobby and Olive turned back towards the Lodge, both of them looking a little puzzled. Bobby said:

“She seems quite certain about it, and yes Miss Kayne told you herself she was engaged and her father made her break it off.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Shepheard never heard about it,” Olive remarked, but doubtfully, so plainly evident was it that Mrs. Shepheard was precisely the sort of person who would have heard all about it, down to the smallest detail and even more.

“Anyhow, Miss Kayne ought to know best,” Bobby remarked. “I suppose she wasn't only trying to be funny when she told you about those letters she said she had buried?”

“I am sure she wasn't,” Olive declared. “She was awfully upset and nervous; I can't describe it, it might have been the most awful thing she was telling me about. I think she thought it was.”

They went back through the Lodge grounds and out towards Wynton wood, where a sporadic, though by now hopeless, search for the missing pistol was still in progress. Behind the Lodge the ground rose slightly, and their way led them through a clump of trees growing just before the old boxwood hedge that here marked the boundary of the Lodge gardens. A fine view over the surrounding country was to be had here, and there was a seat in position from which it could be enjoyed. They went behind this seat and onwards through the trees, passing, as Bobby noticed, a fine bed of forget-me-nots, a bed some six feet long and two or three wide and that seemed to be carefully looked after. Bobby said:

“They look nice.”

Olive did not answer, but hurried on. Bobby said, thinking of Miss Kayne's story and Mrs. Shepheard's unconscious denial of it:

“This thing seems full of contradictions of one sort or another, but none of them seem to have anything to do with Nat Kayne's death—or with each other for that matter.”