Comes a Stranger (24 page)

“Motive no concern of ours, sir,” said Killick firmly. “It's facts we want.”

Bobby said:

“A jury always wants a motive.” He added: “I get the feeling there's someone watching all the time, always just one move ahead of us, someone working out a plan we've no idea of yet.”

Killick said:

“We always seem to trace the pistol back to Mr. Broast.”

The Major went over to the 'phone and rang up Wynton Lodge. It was Olive who answered. Evidently no news of this fresh tragedy had yet reached there. Olive explained that Mr. Broast had left by the early train for London, and had not said when he would be back. It was a piece of news that made Major Harley, Killick, Bobby, exchange doubtful glances.

“Looks bad, very bad,” Killick said. “Time after the murder to go back to the Lodge, collect what he wanted, and catch the early train. What about warning the Yard and trying to pick him up in town?”

“Hardly enough to go on,” decided the Major. “He may come back of his own accord. If he is really running for it, well, that'll make things a bit clearer.”

Further enquiries over the 'phone revealed that he had taken nothing with him, not even a handbag, and had said he would be back early in the afternoon or at any rate in time for dinner. A suggestion that he might be found at his club at lunch time, or that perhaps he had some favourite restaurant he usually went to, brought the information that he belonged to no club and when he went to London generally lunched at any tea shop he happened to be near when he remembered he was hungry—a glass of milk, roll, butter and cheese, total cost 7
d
., was his accustomed lunch, and, he used to say, the best value in nourishment obtainable for the money anywhere in the world.

Major Harley shook his head, hung up the 'phone, and decided that there was nothing to do but wait and see if Mr. Broast returned as he had promised.

The statements made by the other inmates of the house revealed nothing of importance. Sir William had been sitting in his study, reading, when the rest of the household retired about half past ten. He had not seemed in any way perturbed by his quarrel, if quarrel it had been, with Virtue, nor had he referred to it again. He had not said anything about taking a stroll before bed, but it was not at all unusual for him to do so. He had not been heard to go out, but there was no reason why anyone should, in fact, have heard him. The garden door was only a yard or two away from the door to the study, and Sir William was always quiet in his movements. Someone discovered an odd looking impression in a flower bed beneath the study window, and further investigation showed two morsels of earth on the window sill. It was consistent with the suggestion that Sir William's attention had been attracted by earth thrown against the window, and that he had then been induced on some pretext, when he had answered the signal, to proceed to the spot where he met his death.

The impression on the soft earth of the flower bed was too nebulous for any conclusion to be drawn, though Bobby spent a long time staring at it with all the slow concentration of his nature. Someone had once said rudely that it took him as long to bring an idea to fruition as it took for a blossom to take shape as fruit ripe for the plucking, and there was some truth in this, though there was also truth in the retort that generally his ideas, when ripe, were, like the ripe fruit, worth the plucking, and ready for digestion. Now, however, for all his slow and careful pondering as he turned one thing after another over and over in his mind, he could draw no clear direction from this odd, shapeless imprint on the flower bed.

“If only it could tell,” he thought.

Careful search revealed nothing like it anywhere else, and in fact recent dry weather, broken only for some time past by faint and ineffectual drizzle on one or two occasions, made it little likely that the ground would have retained many visible tracks or markings.

All this had taken so much time that it was not till late afternoon that Mr. Adams could be interviewed again, though indeed Major Harley had been in no hurry to question him further. He had made a statement in writing, and it contained nothing of much importance. In it he admitted he had been out late the previous evening. He had gone for a walk after supper, but was sure he had been back by about half past ten or possibly a little later. He agreed, however, that he had spoken to no one on his return, and so far as he was aware no one had seen him come back. He had gone straight to his room and to bed, and so could produce no independent testimony to confirm his statement.

“A most unsatisfactory story,” commented the Major severely.

Mr. Adams said that no one regretted it more than he did.

“You still refuse to give your real name and address or explain your business here?”

“I am constrained, I am under the compulsion,” Mr. Adams replied slowly, “of an unfortunate coincidence of circumstances. It has been well said that self-preservation is nature's first law, and I do not wish to involve myself and others in risks that might produce the most serious consequences as a result of events in which we are not intimately concerned.”

Major Harley looked at him for a long time in silence.

“Self-preservation? risks?” he repeated. “That's saying a good deal. You mustn't be surprised if we draw certain conclusions.”

Mr. Adams looked worried and made no answer. The Major continued:—

“Where did you go when you went out last night? Did you meet anyone you can tell us about? Had you any special object?”

Mr. Adams described his route. He appeared to have made a fairly long circuit. It was late, dark, he had met no one he recognized or who could recognize him. Passing through another village some distance away, he had posted letters there. The postmarks would prove that at least. The Major retorted that it wouldn't prove he had posted them in person, and what was important was to have evidence of his whereabouts between eleven and twelve. Also, why had he gone to this other village to post his letters when there was a letter box within a few yards of the inn?

“I had no wish,” explained Mr. Adams, “for the address of the person with whom I was communicating to be known at present, and from what I have perceived of the methods in this investigation I am not prepared to affirm any strong belief that strict propriety is always observed. I considered it wiser, therefore, to post my letters unperceived in a locality where a possibly surreptitious glimpse of the envelope would be harder to obtain.”

Major Harley went red. Bobby, who was acting again as shorthand writer, rubbed his nose reflectively with the end of his pencil and told himself, not for the first time, that Mr. Adams was hard to place. Mr. Adams remained tranquil, apparently quite unaware of any effect his remarks had produced. The Major swallowed twice and, when his self-control was again firmly established, he said:

“Well, now then, about this morning—you were out early? Posting another letter on the quiet for fear it should be seen by the police?”

“On this occasion, I was actuated by no such motive,” answered Mr. Adams sedately. “My mind has been much occupied by recent events, and I had decided to seek an interview with the unfortunate gentleman whose demise we must deplore and whose murderer I am no less desirous than yourself to see brought to a severe and condign judgement.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” growled the Major blinking a little. He was beginning to have an air of knowing that he was waging a hopeless fight.

“Rather early for a call, wasn't it?” he asked.

“In the very remarkable circumstances prevailing,” Mr. Adams explained, “I was inclined to think that the usual conventions of society might not unreasonably be set aside. I was well aware the interview might lead to disagreements of a marked character.”

The Major stared. Killick gave a little gasp. Bobby leaned so heavily on the point of his pencil that it broke off. Mr. Adams again seemed serenely unaware of the effect produced. He appeared to be making these admissions without in any way realizing their significance. Once more he declined to be more explicit.

“Sir William,” he explained, “having met with so tragic and melancholy an end, I am precluded, at any rate for the present, from entering into details.”

“Very well,” said the Major. “I remind you again that what you say may be used in evidence, if necessary. I ask you another question. How did you happen to find the body? The spot where it was is quite out of the way for anyone going from the village to Highfields?”

“I was not,” observed Mr. Adams thoughtfully, “contemplating with any pleasure the interview I had felt it necessary to seek with Sir William, a violent and hasty-tempered person. I have a marked constitutional objection to scenes of violence, much heightened by the extremely unpleasant, indeed loathsome and even disgusting experiences I was force to endure in France, for reasons I never clearly apprehended. I even wondered whether to go through with my intention. It was in order to obtain time for further consideration that instead of proceeding direct to my destination I turned aside into the field in which I discovered the body of our unfortunate friend.”

The Major fired off another series of questions. He learned nothing more. Finally he gave it up. He said:

“Mr. Adams, you will be called as a witness at the inquest. I advise you to consider your position very seriously. I advise you to secure legal assistance. At present it seems as though it may be suggested that you were the first to find the body because you alone knew where to look for it.”

“It is an aspect of this unfortunate affair I have not overlooked,” confessed Mr. Adams. “It has indeed been present very clearly to my mind. The suspicion is unjust, though not, I admit, in all respects unreasonable. You may be sure I shall continue to give it my most careful consideration, as also your valued suggestion that I should secure legal advice.”

That concluded the interview, and when Adams had gone the Major wiped a forehead damp with perspiration and said “Ouf”. Then he turned to Killick and Bobby and said:—

“Well, what do you make of all that?”

“Sweat it out of him in time,” said Killick. “Give him a gruelling. What he wants is to be on oath with a good smart man having a go at him.”

The Major agreed that that was probably the best way of dealing with Adams, and then sent for Virtue, who was in waiting.

Virtue agreed at once that he visited Sir William the previous evening, that high words had passed between them. But he insisted that the dispute had not been important.

“It was like this,” Virtue said. “I told him you fellows weren't satisfied with what I saw in the library, and as he was a trustee I asked him to back me up about having a search made. I told him you said there were no grounds for insisting on one so would he agree. He seemed to resent the idea. Lost his temper about it. That's all.”

Afterwards he returned to the inn and went presently to his room and to bed as usual. But as Major Harley remarked wearily there was no evidence he stayed there. From most bedrooms in most houses it would be easy for any one who wished to do so to leave and to return unseen.

With Virtue's dismissal after an interview almost as unsatisfactory as that with Mr. Adams, teatime arrived, and Bobby decided to go to the Wynton Arms, being not without hope that there he might find Olive, of whom he had not so far had a glimpse all day. As he was going out, a gloomy Constable Mills, returned limpingly to duty and much harassed by all these happenings, said to him:—

“As if we hadn't got enough on hand as it is, here's Mrs. Somerville complaining that two of her hand towels were stolen last night. Seems to think we ought to stop everything and go chasing after her towels. I told her we had two murders on our hands—two hand towels indeed,” grumbled Constable Mills.

Bobby said vaguely that it was too bad, and hurried along to the inn, where he found for once his luck was in and Olive waiting for him, very quiet and silent, though, under the weight of this new tragedy.

“Miss Kayne wants you to go and see her as soon as you can,” she told Bobby.

“What for?” he asked. “How is she now?”

“I can't make her out,” Olive answered slowly. “When I told her about this new awful thing happening to Sir William, she said something about that was two, but two wasn't all. She wouldn't say what she meant only if you were as clever as I said you were, then you ought to know. After that, I couldn't get another word from her. She sits there, doing nothing, just as if she were waiting…”

“Waiting? what for?” Bobby asked quickly.

“I don't know. It's only what I feel. The way she sits—and, well, listens. I don't know if she knows something, but I'm sure there's something she expects. She was out last night herself quite late.”

“Alone?”

“I think it was to meet Mr. Broast. He had been in town all day, he got back very late.”

“Yes, I know,” Bobby said moodily, remembering the theory that had been put forward that Broast had been to town to prepare for flight or concealment, had returned to commit the murder, and now this morning had put his escape plans into execution.

“I heard someone talking under my window,” Olive went on, “and I got out of bed to see who it was, and I could see Miss Kayne and Mr. Broast standing talking near the house. He must have come back by the last train and she was waiting for him, I suppose.”

“What time was that?”

“About twelve it must have been. I asked her this morning why she had been out so late. She wouldn't say, but she told me to tell you.”

“To tell me?” repeated Bobby frowningly. He found himself wondering if that had been meant as defiance, as a challenge. “She gets about by herself all right,” he remarked.

“Oh, yes, when she wants to,” agreed Olive, “though sometimes she pretends she can't.”

One of the maids attached to the inn tea-rooms came up. She was carrying a small box.