Missing or Murdered (12 page)

“Any confirmation that the story is true?” asked Vereker.

“A Woodbridge constable saw his car making for Hartwood about 11.30, which bears out Mr. Winslade's story in one particular. There is no other corroborating evidence. The only other person who saw a car on that night was the blacksmith at Eyford, who says a car was going towards Fordingbridge as if it had come
from
Hartwood. This is so contradictory that it must have been another car altogether. These country roads are deserted at night. You might go that round after dark and not meet a soul.”

“It strikes me he took a long time to do that round,” suggested Vereker after some computation.

“The same thought struck me,” agreed the detective. “But he says he had a breakdown. Something wrong with the magneto which, being a mystery to a novice, took him an hour to discover. Finally the ignition seemed to right itself and he was able to proceed.”

“And on Saturday?” asked Vereker.

“He was at Crockhurst Farm till after lunch, and in the afternoon drove into Castleton. This we have verified fully.”

“Friday night seems a bit sketchy,” said Vereker to himself, and aloud to Heather: “I think I'll go over his route to-morrow myself. I may glean something from the run.”

“You know of his engagement to Mary Standish?” asked the inspector tentatively.

“Yes.”

“It proves that Winslade is fairly short of money at present.”

“Oh!” remarked Vereker, experiencing some surprise. “How did you figure that out?”

The inspector laughed. “He hasn't paid the bill for that ring outright. We discovered that he bought it at Drake's, the jeweller's, of Barton Ferry. A fair deposit and the rest to follow.”

At this moment Mary Standish suddenly entered the room. The inspector glanced uneasily at Vereker and, when the girl had gone, asked:

“Did you hear her approach the door, Mr. Vereker?”

“I'm afraid I didn't, Heather. You ought to be more careful.

“I shall be in future,” remarked the inspector and rose to go up to his bedroom.

On retiring Vereker strove in vain to sleep. Finally he lit a candle, reached for his coat, hanging on a chair beside his bed, and thrust his hand into a capacious inner pocket for his pillow book. Emerson's essays—“The Conduct of Life.” To his annoyance, the book was not there. What could have made him omit to bring with him that trusted companion of his sleepless hours? Much as he loved them, these essays always reminded him of the rush and incessant flicker of the early kinematograph film. Their dogmatism and lively sequence of half-caught and elliptically expressed ideas bore a strange parallel to swift and indistinct visual presentation.

“But they never fail to send me to sleep,” he always added to himself with a smile.

What could he do to banish the very unpleasant thoughts that had besieged his brain ever since he had been to Crockhurst Farm that afternoon? The unpleasantness, he was aware, arose from the fact that he was perfectly convinced that Winslade had lied to him about his not having seen Lord Bygrave at some time on Friday night. He had risen and turned his back on him under the pretence of ringing for his housekeeper to avoid lying to his face. And when he had performed this action and returned to the tea-table his cheeks had been deeply flushed and his manner extremely uneasy. Assuming that Winslade had seen Lord Bygrave on Friday night, the whole matter took on a very sinister aspect. Suppose they had quarrelled over the subject of Winslade's proposed marriage—a marriage which his uncle deprecated—there was no knowing what might have happened! Vereker found it extremely difficult to face the probability of Winslade's connexion with Lord Bygrave's disappearance, just as it is difficult for an honourable man to find any motive sufficiently overpowering to account for the committal of a murder. But he felt that because he knew Winslade that was all the more reason why he should harden his heart and face the problem in a cold, analytical manner. He determined there and then that he would probe the mystery thoroughly, regardless of any question of friendship. From various deductions that he had made the whole affair assumed a more puzzling complexion than ever. For, though Winslade's movements on Friday night were rather sketchy, his whereabouts on Saturday had been definitely settled by Heather and his assistants, and those movements were entirely innocent.

“Very strange, very strange!” murmured Vereker. “But it's getting more and more exciting. I wonder what old Heather has arrived at? Personally I feel on the eve of a vital discovery!”

He leaned over to a dressing-table and picked up an ordnance survey map of the district. His eye ran over the route that Winslade had said he had taken on Friday night.

“He picks up his car at Fordingbridge Junction, where it had been garaged for a day or two, takes the road that runs through Eyford, Castleton, Woodbridge, and thence round to Crockhurst Farm.”

Vereker paused and pondered for some moments. “I will traverse that route to-morrow, and I'll call at Mill House, Eyford, in front of which he says he had a breakdown, and inquire whether anyone there remembers having seen a motor standing on the road for an hour. It's a sordid business when you have to doubt the word of a friend, but I must doubt everybody and everything now. One lie opens the way to a multitude and disrupts the foundations of confidence.”

Vereker sat and gazed blankly at the ordnance survey map for some minutes, but his eyes saw nothing. A curious light of excitement was burning in their depths, for his thoughts had suddenly taken an unexpected turn and he felt more convinced than ever that he was on the brink of a momentous discovery. It might be the first decisive step towards elucidating the mystery of Bygrave's extraordinary disappearance.

“By Heaven!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I believe I'm at last on the right track.” With these words he flung the map on his dressing-table, extinguished the light and lay back in bed. Sleep, however, was as elusive as a shadow, and when morning came Vereker had had but fitful snatches of rest. Yet the long quiet hours of night seemed to have clarified his thoughts and marshalled them in some order. He rose with alacrity and, having breakfasted well, took the first train to Fordingbridge Junction. There he would get a car and run round the route which Winslade alleged he had taken on the night of Bygrave's disappearance and see what there was to be discovered.

On arrival at the junction Vereker called at Layham's garage, where Winslade had put up his car, and, after hiring a Ford, intimated that he was a private detective and would like to know certain facts about a Mr. Winslade who had garaged his car there for some days at the beginning of October.

“Quite willing to give you any information, sir,” remarked the proprietor, “but, bless you, you won't find anything crooked about Mr. Winslade; he's a gent from top to toe. You're a bit behind the Scotland Yard folk too. They've been and got all the information a week ago.”

“Thanks; then I'll not trouble you,” remarked Vereker, smiling, and added to himself, “You're a wily old fox, Heather. In future I'll leave you in the dark too, except for incidents that I feel won't give you a handicap over me. The tussle is getting exhilarating—I wonder if you know as much as I do, as far as we've gone.”

A few moments later Vereker had passed out of the garage gates in his hired Ford, and his first stop was just outside Fordingbridge, where a road turning to the right runs parallel with the branch line direct to Hartwood.

“This was Winslade's shortest way home,” he muttered, “and an excellent road as far as I can see. I wonder why he chose the long way round? For the sake of the run, I suppose. There would be no difficulty about traffic at that time of night in this neighbourhood, which lies clear of the main routes to the south coast.”

He was more perplexed as he ran along the bumpy, winding and deplorably bad road which led to Eyford.

“A novice in driving would hardly choose this jungle track to try a new car on,” he soliloquized. “It becomes more and more evident to me that it was not altogether a matter of choice.”

A quarter of an hour's further jolting through a beautifully rural district brought him to Eyford Mill, lying in the valley to his left, but clearly discernible from the road. The mill-wheel was revolving and grinding away on the old millstone process as it had done for centuries. Vereker pulled up and surveyed the scene. It might make a nice water-colour sketch was his first thought; but he banished such pleasant projects as painting from his mind and once more started the car.

“Ah, here we are!” he exclaimed when there came into view a house lying on the sloping ground to his right. A high boundary wall flanked the road, and above it a terraced rockery ran up to the dwelling. On the heavy oak gates, painted in white, was the name “Mill House.” Vereker pulled up his car and leisurely surveyed the place. It was an old-world house with shingled roofs and hipped gables, and singularly well situated as far as outlook was concerned, for it overlooked the picturesque valley with its mill-stream and dam below. But, though it had been modernized, it bore the unmistakable appearance of neglect, and the presence of a row of yews, bordering the short drive up to the front door, lent a gloom almost inseparable by association from these funereal trees.

“Looks as if I were going to draw a blank,” thought Vereker.

He got out of the car and walked briskly up the moss-covered gravel approach. His sharp eye noticed the tracks of a car's wheels made at no distant date on the gravel, but a total lack of movement and the absence of any sound of life suggested that if the place were inhabited its tenants were at present away.

A vigorous tattoo on the front-door knocker brought no response. Vereker glanced at the windows, but it was impossible to look within through the heavy lace curtains, which, from their appearance, had evidently not been changed for many months. An overwhelming curiosity came upon him, and he decided to explore. Making his way round to the right, he passed through a pair of folding gates into a yard containing a garage. Traces of oil and the marks of wheels were symptomatic, but beyond the garage lay a mournful kitchen-garden, overgrown with weeds and devoid of any appearance of recent culture. Vereker wandered idly round the house, tried several doors, peered in at a scullery window and, coming to the conclusion that nobody was about, returned somewhat disappointed to his car.

“I should have liked to verify the fact that Winslade had broken down here,” he thought, and added aloud: “I wonder who lives at Mill House?”

But the question was not to be answered by wandering about the precincts of the gloomy old place, so Vereker retraced his steps and, closing the oak gates behind him, boarded his car and ran into the village of Eyford. There he lunched on sandwiches and a glass of beer and, having made about an hour's break altogether on his journey, decided to finish the route without another stop. This would enable him to compare his time with Winslade's.

His further progress gave him food for thought. It was one of the worst roads he had ever driven a car on. What on earth had induced Winslade to take this route? At night, too, it would be dangerous unless the driver knew every inch of his way. Nothing of any importance, however, occurred, and towards three o'clock in the afternoon, having passed through Castleton and Woodbridge on his way, Vereker came in sight of Crockhurst Farm. He met Winslade standing at the gate, and pulled up.

“Hello, Vereker; where did you get that tub from?” he asked, eyeing the Ford car critically.

“Hired it at Fordingbridge from old Layham. I thought I'd have a run round in the fresh air. I came by Eyford and Castleton along the most execrable road that I've ever covered.”

An uneasy glance from Winslade was the result of this information.

“Were you making for Hartwood?” he asked. “If you were, you could have taken the direct road parallel with the railway line. It has a really good tar-macadam surface.”

“I saw that,” returned Vereker with satisfaction; “but I wanted a run, and I'd heard that the old mill at Eyford would make a charming watercolour drawing. You know my passion for messing about with paints.”

“It's a lovely spot,” agreed Winslade.

“By the way, Winslade, do you know if the Mill House is tenanted?” asked Vereker, carelessly lighting a cigarette.

With the tail of his eye he saw that Winslade involuntarily started, but recovered himself at once.

“I couldn't say,” he replied. “It's a tumbledown old place, low ceilings, stuffy little rooms and no damp courses, as far as I know. You're not thinking of taking it?”

“No, I haven't got as far as that. I had a look round the grounds this morning. I thought what a charming place it could be turned into with the expenditure of a little money.”

Winslade pulled out his watch. “What are your plans?” he asked, as if eager to change the conversation.

“Oh, I'm going straight back to Hartwood.”

“You won't stay and have some tea?”

“No, thanks; I must get back. I've a good deal of work to do and several letters to write. Au revoir.”

“Cheerio,” returned Winslade as Vereker's car, with a throb and a jerk, started off on the way to Hartwood.

Vereker was smiling. He felt that he had sailed dangerously near the wind, if he had not indeed roused some suspicion in Winslade's mind as to the object of that journey. He would have liked to cast a glance back; something personal, almost magnetic, nearly caused him to do so. He would have given a lot to see the expression on Winslade's face, but second thoughts counselled discretion. He must not startle the quarry; it might elude him if forewarned of his approach. The journey had not been altogether fruitless: it had confirmed some of his conclusions of the night before and convinced him that his research was proceeding along lines which would yield definite results.