Missing or Murdered (11 page)

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 pour 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?”

“Of course he does,” replied Vereker. “It's his business to do so. That's the first thought that enters the criminal investigator's mind. The circumstances in which you are placed with regard to your uncle supply a very strong motive.”

“Well, I've given his representative a full account of my movements, and I'm not going to be pestered about the matter any more. You're my trustee, aren't you?”

“I am, if anything serious has happened to your uncle.”

“You mean if by any chance he is dead?” asked Winslade, and his eyes looked out of the open window with a strangely disturbed gleam in their depths.

“His death will have to be presumed before his will can be proved,” replied Vereker.

“I don't believe for a moment he's dead,” came the remark as Winslade stretched his hand for Vereker's empty tea-cup.

“What prompts you to think so?” asked Vereker quickly.

“Nothing—nothing at all. I've not the slightest reason for thinking so. Still, I can't bring myself to think my uncle is not alive. It seems impossible! Nevertheless, this business of his disappearance is beyond my comprehension. I leave it to the inspector and yourself to unravel.”

“It's what we've been trying to fathom ever since we feared that it was not altogether innocent,” replied Vereker.

For some moments Winslade sat in silence, deep in thought. Then, looking up sharply at Vereker, he asked:

“Do you think the inspector really believes that I've had a hand in my uncle's disappearance?”

“I'm afraid I can't answer your question, Winslade. The inspector suspects anybody he fancies. Of course he bases his fancy on the possible existence of a motive.”

“The motive in my instance being that I would benefit by my uncle's death?”

“Naturally.”

“It's confoundedly awkward. Moreover, my uncle and I did not see eye to eye over my engagement to Mary Standish. That would be a contributory factor making it all the more necessary that I should get him out of the way—eh?”

“Therefore it's the best thing to be quite frank over every question that Inspector Heather may ask you, Winslade. If you are not, it all goes to supply evidence against you in his eyes. For instance—did you see your uncle on Saturday morning?”

“No, certainly not!”

“Good! Did you see him on Friday night before or after he arrived at the White Bear?”

Winslade rose from his chair to ring for Mrs. Rafferty for more tea.

“No, I did not,” he said as he turned his back on Vereker to perform this action. “I've nothing whatever to do with my uncle's disappearance and I don't want to be mixed up in the case at all.”

Vereker was silent, but observant. He noticed the uneasy flush that had crept over Winslade's face as he was speaking, and from the look in his eye—for the eye is the last citadel of truth—he felt sure that Winslade was prevaricating. At once all his faculties were alert; there was here something that needed elucidation, but he must probe with the utmost caution. He was sure that Winslade was as yet unaware that he harboured any suspicion as to his being implicated in the matter of Lord Bygrave's inexplicable disappearance, and he felt that he had gone far enough for the present. He therefore changed the topic of conversation to farming, on which subject he found an enthusiastic talker in Winslade and, having thus engendered once more a friendly atmosphere, found that it was high time to take his departure.

Vereker did not return by the direct route to the White Bear Inn. His interview with Winslade had suddenly given his thoughts a new twist, and he desired time and loneliness to adapt his mind to a changed and unpleasant point of view. The unpleasantness arose from the fact that he had been obliged to drag within the circumference of his suspicion a man whom he had always liked. When he had last seen him, he was an ingenuous youth; but that was some time ago. Though he was yet only a young man he had since then passed through the crucial experience of war. What effect might not that devastating period have had on David Winslade? Some strong men it had unbalanced, sending their whole moral outlook unaccountably askew. Winslade had been severely wounded and shell-shocked. Apparently he was again enjoying fairly good physical health, but who could say what mysterious disturbance might not have taken place in those delicate cells man calls the brain?

As he walked along Vereker viewed the matter in every light. Winslade had been blunt enough about the possibility of suspicion falling on himself through the fact of his being heir to Lord Bygrave's money and the subsidiary factor that his uncle had not looked with an altogether favourable eye on his engagement to Mary Standish. Yet this capitulation of the reasons why he ought to be suspect might only be the old ruse of assumed innocence. Why, again, had he made the admission that there had been some friction between his uncle and himself over Mary Standish? Perhaps he was anticipating that it might leak out from Mary Standish and had already prepared the counter move. Should this supposition prove true—for at present the whole was supposititious—it was clear that Mary Standish knew nothing of his connexion with the affair of his uncle's disappearance. Otherwise he would have forbidden her to mention the avuncular distaste for his choice of a partner.

Vereker was still pondering over the subject when he arrived at the White Bear Inn. He found a wire awaiting him from Ricardo with regard to the mysterious lady called Muriel Cathcart. The telegram ran:

“That's not very helpful,” remarked Vereker, and he walked into the coffee-room, where, to his surprise, he found Inspector Heather apparently asleep in a comfortable chair before the fire. The detective, however, was far from asleep. Without even opening his eyes he said:

“Good evening, Mr. Vereker, and where may you have been all the afternoon? Over at Crockhurst Farm, I suppose.”

“Quite correct, Heather. I've been over to see Mr. Winslade. He's fed up to the teeth with you and your subordinates. He says he'll brown you and any of your men who dare to interrogate him further as to his movements on the day of Lord Bygrave's disappearance.”

“You can tell him from me that we shall not bother him further,” replied the detective with a smile.

“You're satisfied as to his innocence?” asked Vereker cautiously.

“By no means,” replied the inspector, “but about our further inquiries we'll keep him strictly in the dark.”

Vereker sat in silence for some moments. All at once Inspector Heather sat up in his chair.

“You were not quite satisfied with your interview with Mr. Winslade this afternoon?” he asked.

“Not quite,” replied Vereker. “How did you guess?”

“You must be more careful in the future when you enter a room containing a sleeping man, Mr. Vereker. Your face was an open book of words to your unpleasant thoughts.”

“Cunning old fox, Heather. I shall suspect you in the future. I begin to think you are implicated in this affair. To be serious, have you made sure of all Winslade's movements on Friday night and Saturday morning?”

“Why do you suggest Friday night?” asked the inspector, raising his brows.

“Simply to ascertain if Winslade could possibly have seen Lord Bygrave prior to his arrival at the Inn.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Vereker, we have made very careful inquiries, and we have discovered that on Friday he was out all the evening in his new motor-car and did not return till midnight. He has given us the route he followed.” The inspector produced an ordnance survey map and pointed out with a thick forefinger the route Winslade had indicated.