Crow's Inn Tragedy (21 page)

The station for Burford was soon reached. Cecily, who was fond of walking, made up her mind to walk to Rose Cottage instead of taking the shabby one-horse cab that stood outside the station, but she was out of practice and she was distinctly tired when she reached her destination.

The housekeeper received her with evident amazement.

“Miss Hoyle! Well, I never! And I have been expecting your pa down every day this past week!”

“Well, I have come instead, you see. I hope I am not a dreadful disappointment,” Cecily said, calling up a smile with an effort as she shook hands. She did not know much of Mrs. Wye and what little she did know she did not much like, but she knew that the woman had been a long time with her father and felt that it behoved her to make herself pleasant.

The housekeeper held open the sitting-room door and Cecily walked in and sat down with an air of relief.

“My father has been ill, Mrs. Wye. That is why he has not been down here lately. He is much better now and I am hoping to take him to the sea soon to convalesce. In the meantime he wants some papers from the desk in his bedroom and I have come to fetch them.”

“I am very sorry to hear Hoyle has been ill, miss,” and the woman really did look concerned. “We have had several people here asking after him of late and there is a lot of letters. But I never know where to forward them. I take it Mr. Hoyle will have been in a nursing-home, miss?”

“Er—oh, yes.” Cecily began to feel that even this woman might want to know too much. “Perhaps you would get me a cup of tea, Mrs. Wye,” she went on. “I hadn't time for lunch before I started and though I had some tea at the station it wasn't up to much. It never is at stations, somehow.”

“You are right there, miss,” Mrs. Wye agreed. “And is the master out of the nursing-home now, might I ask, miss?”

“Oh, yes. He is with friends,” Cecily said vaguely. Her colour deepened as she spoke.

The housekeeper's little eyes watched her curiously.

“Perhaps you would give me an address I could forward the letters to, miss.”

“Oh, of course!” Cecily got up. She could not sit here to be badgered by this woman who she began to feel was inimical to her.

“I will get the things my father wants,” she went on. “For I must catch an early train back. I do not want to be away longer than necessary.”

She went upstairs to the front bedroom which she knew to be her father's. It was spotlessly clean and tidy, but it had the bare look of a room that has been unoccupied for a long time. The desk stood on a small table near the window. Cecily had the key, and the envelope for which she had come down was lying just at the top. A long rather thin envelope inscribed 11260. Doubled up it just fitted into Cecily's handbag. She pushed it in and shut it with a snap. Then she sat down in a basket-work chair near the open window. She really could not start back without some rest, and she was not anxious to encounter Mrs. Wye again. As she sat there her thoughts went back to Tony's letter; and though she told herself that nothing could come of it the recollection of his love seemed to fall like sunshine over her, cheering and enveloping her.

She was feeling more herself when her eyes, mechanically straying past the little garden with its ordered paths and flower-beds fixed themselves on the road that ran beyond. Suddenly they focused themselves upon an object nearly opposite the cottage gate. Slowly the colour ebbed from her cheeks and lips, her eyes grew wide and frightened, the hands lying on her lap began to twitch and twine themselves nervously together.

Yet at first sight there seemed nothing in the road outside to account for her agitation—just a heap of broken stones and sitting by it a worn, tired-looking old tramp. Just a very ordinary-looking old man. Yet Cecily got up, and, craning forward while keeping herself in the shadow as much as possible, tried to view him from every possible angle. Surely, surely, she said to herself, it could not be the very same old man to whom she had seen John Steadman give a penny outside the house in Carlsford Square only that very morning! Yet try to persuade herself that it could not be the same as she might, she knew from the first moment beyond the possibility of a doubt that there was no mistake. And that could mean only one thing, that she was being followed, that they suspected—what? She began to shiver all over. Then one idea seemed to take possession of her. Almost she could have fancied it had been whispered in her ear by some outside unseen agency. She must get back to town without delay, by the very next train, she must take that mysterious envelope to its destination at once. She ran downstairs. Mrs. Wye was laying the table.

“I thought maybe you would relish a dish of ham and eggs. Butcher's meat is a thing we can't come at out here at the end of the week, not unless it is ordered beforehand.”

“Oh, no, no! Please don't trouble to cook anything. I will just have a bit of bread and butter. Indeed I would rather,” Cecily protested. “I find I must get back again as quickly as possible, I have forgotten something in town.”

She sat down and drawing the plate of brown bread and butter towards her managed to eat a piece while she drank a cup of the strong tea Mrs. Wye poured out for her.

“It isn't any use your hurrying,” the housekeeper babbled on. “You will have plenty of time to make a good meal and walk slowly to the station and still have time to spare, before eight o'clock.”

“Ah, but I want to get the half-past six,” Cecily said quickly. “I shall have time if I start at once, I think.”

“You might, but then again you might not,” Mrs. Wye said in a disappointed tone. The hour's gossip to which she had been looking forward was apparently not coming off. “You would save a few minutes by taking the footpath at the back,” she added honestly. “You cut off a good bit beside Burford Parish Church that way.”

The back! Cecily's heart gave a great throb. Would she be able to escape that watcher in the front after all?

“Do you mean at the back of this cottage?” she questioned.

“Dear me, yes, miss. It is a favourite walk of the poor master's. If you go out of the front you just go round the house. Or you can get on to the path by our back door and the little gate behind we use for bringing in coal and such-like.”

“I will go by the back, please,” Cecily said, standing up. “No, thank you, Mrs. Wye, I really can't eat any more. And I will write and let you know how my father is in a day or two.”

She made her escape from the loquacious housekeeper with a little more difficulty, and sped quickly on to the path pointed out to her, clutching the precious handbag tightly to her side. She almost ran along the footpath in her anxiety to reach the station and was delighted to find herself there with a quarter of an hour to spare. She got her ticket and then ensconced herself in the waiting-room in a corner so that she could watch the approach to the station and find out whether the old beggar was on her track.

As soon as the train was signalled she went out on to the platform, and managed to get a seat in an empty carriage. It did not remain empty long, however. There were more people waiting for the train than she had expected. Evidently the 6.30, slow though it might be, was popular in Burford. The carriage, a corridor one, was soon full. Cecily took her seat by the window, clutching her handbag closely to her, and winding the cord tightly round her wrist. Opposite to her was a young, smart-looking man, who showed a desire to get the window to her liking which was distinctly flattering. Next to him sat a young woman, very pale and delicate-looking. Beyond her again was an elderly woman apparently of the respectable lodging house keeper type. The other seats were occupied by a couple of working men, one with his bag of tools on his shoulder. Cecily, after one look round, decided that she was certainly safe here. She had brought a pocket edition of Keats's poems with her, and she took it out now and, opening the book at “Isabella and the Pot of Basil,” was soon deep in it.

The man opposite was reading, the old lady beside him was sleeping, the two working men were staring at the flying landscape with uninterested, lack-lustre eyes, half open mouths and one hand planted on each knee. Cecily after her unwonted exercise in the open air felt inclined to sleep herself, but she remembered the contents of her bag and resolutely resisted the inclination of her eyelids to droop. Still she was feeling pleasantly drowsy when they ran into the long tunnel between Rushleigh and Fairford. The man opposite her put down his paper and leaned across her to draw up the window with a murmured “Excuse me.”

At the same moment the light went out. There was a chorus of exclamations, a shriek from the old lady beside Cecily, something very like a swear word from the man opposite. In a trice he had lighted a match and held it up. “It is not much of a light,” he said apologetically, “but it is better than nothing and I have plenty to last to the end of the tunnel.”

Then he uttered a sharp exclamation. Cecily's eyes followed his. She saw that the old lady next her had slipped sideways, the pretty apple colour in her cheeks had faded, that the pendulous cheeks had become a sickly indefinite grey. The man in the corner dropped his match and lighted another. He moved up the seat and struck another.

“She has fainted,” he announced. “In itself that is not serious, but I am a doctor and I should say she has heart trouble. She certainly ought not to travel alone.”

Already they were getting through the tunnel. Cecily felt the old lady lurch against her and lie like a dead weight against her arm. The girl put out her other hand and held the helpless form tightly. As the light spread the doctor leaned over and felt the woman's pulse.

“She must be laid flat,” he said briefly. “Will you help me?” He beckoned to the man at the other end, and between them they raised the woman, and laid her down. Cecily unfastened a scarf that was twisted tightly round the flabby neck. The doctor's quick, capable fingers produced a pair of scissors from a case and cut down the woollen jumper in front, then from a handbag he produced a tiny phial. From this he poured just one drop into the poor woman's mouth, while Cecily by his directions fanned her vigorously with a sheet of newspaper. By and by they were rewarded by signs of returning consciousness, and presently the patient opened her eyes and gazed round questioningly at the strange faces. Then she began to sit up and try to pull her jumper together with shaking fingers.

“Did I faint?” she asked tremulously. “I know it all went dark, and then I don't remember any more.”

“Don't try!” advised the doctor, “just rest as long as you can. I think we can manage a pillow for you.” He disposed his bag and rug behind her so that she was propped up against the end of the carriage.

As she watched him fix the handbag, Cecily was suddenly reminded of her own bag with its precious contents. With a certain prevision of evil she clapped her free hand on her wrist. The bag was gone! She remembered that it had been in her way when she began to help with the invalid—then she could remember no more. Withdrawing her hand from the sick woman's grasp, she began to search feverishly among the newspapers and various odds and ends that were strewn all over the compartment. The doctor looked at her.

“You have lost something? Your bag? Oh, now where did I see it? Oh, I remember—you put it down here.” He produced it from the side of his patient, from between her and the wood of the compartment, and handed it to her.

Cecily almost snatched it from him. How had she come to let it fall, she asked herself passionately. But had she dropped it or had it been taken from her? She fumbled with the clasp with fingers that were numb with fear. Yes, yes! There it was, that mysterious packet, just as she had placed it, and with a sigh of relief she sat down again and leaned back.

There was little more to be done for the woman who was ill. She lay quietly in her seat until they ran into the London terminus. Then Cecily leaned forward.

“Will your friends meet you?” she asked gently. “Or can I help you?”

The sick woman did not open her eyes.

“I shall be met, thank you. Thank you all so much.”

Quite a crowd of porters, apparently beckoned by the guard, appeared at the door. The doctor smiled as he stood aside for Cecily.

“You have been a most capable assistant.”

“Thank you!” Cecily gave him a cold little smile of farewell as she sprang out.

She hesitated a moment outside the station, then she beckoned to a passing taxi and gave her address at the Hobart Residence. She was taking no further risks, and her hand held the handbag firmly with its precious contents intact inside until it had been safely locked up in her desk.

Meanwhile another taxi had flashed out of the station and bowled off swiftly in the opposite direction to that which she had taken. In it were seated side by side the woman who had been ill in the train, now marvellously recovered, and the smart young doctor, while opposite to them there lounged one of the working men who had been sitting at the other end of the compartment.

Half an hour later, Inspector Furnival, busily writing at his desk in his room at Scotland Yard, looked up sharply as there was a tap at the door.

“Come in!”

The door opened to admit a man who bore a strong resemblance to the young doctor of the train, though in some subtle fashion a curious metamorphosis seemed to have overtaken him. To Cecily he had seemed to be all doctor—now, he looked to even a casual observer all policeman as he saluted his superior.

The inspector glanced at him.

“Any luck, Masterman?”

For answer Masterman held out a piece of paper on which a few words were scrawled.

The inspector drew his brows together over it.

“Samuel Horsingforth,” he read. “Sta. Irica. Portugal.” Then he looked up at his subordinate. “You have done very well, Masterman. This is really all that is essential.”

Masterman, well-pleased, saluted again.