Missing or Murdered (19 page)

“Did he run a car?” asked Vereker, remembering the wheel tracks up the drive.

“Not to my knowledge, but let me proceed. After I had met my uncle at Fordingbridge I had to go and get my car out of Layham's garage. As you know, it is at the other end of the village and, instead of accompanying me there, my uncle said he would walk on and let me overtake him. I picked him up about half a mile out of Fordingbridge, and we ran without any stop to the Mill House. He asked me to pull up about a hundred yards from the gate, because he did not wish it to be known by Mr. Twistleton that he was accompanied. This I did and, with the parting remark that he would not be long, he disappeared.”

“What, in your opinion, Winslade, was Bygrave's general state of mind at the time? Was he calm or much perturbed?” asked Vereker.

“I could see he was ill at ease; though, as you know, it took a great deal to ruffle my uncle's serenity. Before arriving at Mill House he spoke as if the matter was one of those unpleasant interviews that are the lot of nearly all of us from time to time. Of the object of the interview he did not tell me until afterwards. I waited about an hour at the point at which we had halted and, remembering his remark that he would not be long, I grew uneasy.”

“Did you remain in your car the whole time?”

“Practically. I had a thermos flask of tea and some sandwiches with me, and passed some of the time in refreshing myself. I had had a light lunch, and a busy afternoon had prevented my having tea at the usual time. My housekeeper had, however, put the sandwiches and tea in my car in the morning, knowing that at times it is difficult for me to return home regularly for meals. At the end of an hour my uneasiness verged on anxiety, so I thought I would look into matters. I drove the car quietly up to the gates of the house and waited there for a few minutes.”

“You heard no cry or loud conversation?”

“Not a sound; so I got out of the car and walked up the drive—if it can be called a drive—and approached the house. The front door was wide open. This surprised me at the moment; I don't know why, but I suppose by this time my nerves were getting jumpy. The very place was enough to give any man a fit of depression: the dark yews, the gloomy facade of the old building and, in the air, a damp musty smell betraying a garden sheltered from freshening winds—you know the odour of moss and wet undergrowth! I stood at the door and listened, and thought I heard the dull thud of footsteps in the upper part of the house. Straight in front of me, running up from the small hall, was a flight of stairs which terminated in a landing. Thence the staircase swung round spirally to the right and was lost to view. On the wall just above the landing was fixed an ordinary kerosene lamp with a pear-shaped funnel and a reflector—one of those old-fashioned lamps now only seen in remote country villages. It had evidently been placed there to light up the staircase—but only seemed to accentuate the general gloom. As there seemed to be nobody about downstairs, I took the liberty of stepping into the hall, and had barely done so when I heard the sharp slam of a door upstairs, and footsteps came hurrying down the first flight of steps to the landing above me.

“It was my uncle. On reaching the landing he uttered a low cry and promptly extinguished the oil lamp on the wall. ‘Is that you, David?' he whispered hoarsely. ‘Yes. What's the matter, Uncle Henry?' I asked anxiously. ‘For God's sake keep quiet!' he said and came noiselessly and rapidly down the last flight of steps into the hall. There he caught me by the arm, and I could feel that he was trembling violently. ‘For Heaven's sake get me away from here, David!' he gasped. ‘I've killed him—the blackmailing swine. Good God, what shall I do?'

“I could only just get the sense of his words; he was speaking in an undertone and jerkily, for he was shaking with agitation and horribly unstrung. I tried to get him to sit down and calm himself, for such a stupendous crisis requires the utmost control of mind and nerves, ‘Look here, Uncle Henry,' I said, ‘collect yourself. We've got to look at matters calmly. We must come to a quick decision as to what you are going to do. Remember I'm willing to stick to you right through this matter—if you make one false step we are both undone.' ‘Get me away quick, David,' he repeated, ‘there's not one moment to lose. We'll think things out later—later—not now.”

“With these words he ran out the door and down the drive with me following at his heels. Opening the gate he looked round and, seeing nobody about, he jumped into the rear portion of my four-seater and flung himself in a huddled heap on the floor of the car. ‘Drive on to the White Bear Inn at Hartwood,' he whispered as I took my place at the wheel, and next moment we were off at top-speed. For some time I drove in silence, thinking of nothing but putting space between us and the Mill House, and thanking Fate that there was not a soul on the road. As we approached Hartwood, just where the road bends round and then bifurcates near the old cow-pond—”

“I know exactly,” interrupted Vereker. “There is a short cut across the fields from that point to Hartwood which comes out near the White Bear Inn.”

“Quite so. Well, as we approached that point my uncle spoke again, and now in more natural tones, for he had had time to pull himself together. ‘Drive slowly, but don't stop,' he said. ‘Tomorrow I shall be at 10 Glendon Street, West. Post me some money there. Address the letter to Henry Parker, but don't try to see me. I want to be alone for a day or two to think things over and make my plans. Remember, 10 Glendon Street.' And before I had time to realize what was happening he had leaped off the car and vanished into the darkness. I pulled up and shouted after him, but there was no reply. Thinking I heard a footstep coming along the road behind me, I started off again at a slow pace and, further up the road, halted once more and pretended to be attending to my engine until the late wayfarer had passed. But evidently I had made some mistake, for no one passed; and, though I listened with every faculty on the alert, I heard no sound on the road. Now, for the first time since we had left the Mill House, I had leisure to think calmly and, taking my seat in the car, began to look the whole horrible business in the face.

“The more I thought of it the more was I impressed with the gravity of the affair. Knowing the fine pitch to which detection of crime has been brought by our Criminal Investigation Department, I was convinced that if we made the slightest slip or left a single clue behind us detection would inevitably follow. At the same time the unpleasant truth dawned on me that I might be considered an accomplice, and with this realization my nerves seemed to steady themselves in a flash and I began to think rapidly and coolly. I felt I was now inextricably involved in the affair and that I must do everything in my power to cover up my uncle's tracks, for on his safety depended my own. On looking back this seems a selfish point of view, but after all the instinct for self-preservation seems to blossom out luxuriously in a crisis. I thought of all that the discovery of my uncle's deed implied. I thought of his ruin and degradation; of my own; of Mary, to whom I was virtually engaged. I must act, and act quickly. In the first place, had my uncle left any personal trace of his visit to the Mill House? In his perturbation he might have forgotten gloves, stick—anything. One clue and all was up with him. I must go back, and, though the step was one fraught with all manner of risks, I decided that it was the wisest move in the circumstances. I would return, make sure that not a trace of his presence had been left behind and then make for home at top-speed.

“Turning my car, I fairly hogged it back to the Mill House and was within a hundred yards of the place when I became aware that there was some one on the road in front of me. I could hear voices speaking in loud tones, and the speakers seemed to be standing together at a spot that I judged was right in front of the Mill House gate. I cursed their unexpected presence—the last thing I wished was to be seen by anyone on the road that night. Then, to my intense relief, a snatch of song sung in a drunken voice rang out on the stillness. The singer was soon accompanied by his friend, and a dismal discord they created between them—giving me a welcome indication of the measure of their intoxication. Soon after I heard their footsteps, dragging on the road, grow distant and die away. Good—my luck was holding. You cannot imagine what a relief I experienced! Running the car off the road into a vacant space where stones were usually stored, I put out the lights, hared it to the Mill House and ran up the drive. The place was in darkness and not a sound was to be heard. Pulling out a flash lamp which I always carried, I found the front door open as we had left it, and promptly entered. I determined to make a swift and thorough examination of the place, and decided to commence on the upper floor, for it is a two-storied building.

“I mounted the stairs and entered the first room on the landing. It was a bedroom. One glance round sufficed; it had not been occupied. A bed-spread covered the bare mattress; every piece of furniture was in place and undisturbed. Systematically I visited the other rooms, with a similar result. I had come to the last room! I opened the door with a heightened sense of excitement, for I knew it must be the room containing the body of the dead man! Flashing my electric torch round I discovered that this room had been furnished as a library: book-shelves lined the wall; a table with a thick, dark, chenille table-cover stood in the centre of the room; a blotting-pad with an inkstand and pens lay on the table. A slight odour of tobacco still pervaded the air, betraying its recent occupancy. One of the pens lying across the heavy cut-glass ink-bottle was still moist with ink. Two chairs were drawn up at the table, and these I presumed were the chairs on which my uncle and his blackmailing acquaintance had sat. All this, which I took in at a glance, was of minor interest to me at the moment. I hurried round to the other side of the table and flashed my lamp over the thickly carpeted floor—to discover an overturned chair, the only evidence of any recent haste or violence in the room. Where, I asked myself in consternation, was the body of the man whom my uncle averred he had killed? There was not a trace of it!

“A great sense of relief at once surged over me. I promptly came to the conclusion that the man could only have been stunned and, having recovered his senses, had decamped. But on second thoughts I felt this was a hasty conclusion; he must have staggered into some other room and died there. Ah! I had forgotten the bathroom. After a final glance round the library I hastened thither; but the result was the same. There was no body there! What on earth could be the solution of this mystery? I thought of my car standing by the side of the road to be observed and noted by any passer-by, and with that thought I became conscious that every moment of delay was dangerous and bore on its swift wings the risk of discovery. Hastening downstairs, I made a rapid but thorough search of all the ground-floor rooms—in vain! Quietly closing the front door of the house, I departed, hastened to my car and drove speedily home.”

“H'm,” interrupted Vereker, quietly lighting a cigarette. “There's just one point that intrigues me, Winslade. Do you remember, when you first arrived at the Mill House, whether the gas-lamp just outside the gate was alight?”

Winslade's brow wrinkled with thought. He hesitated as if in doubt, and then his face lit up with recollection.

“It was. I remember distinctly observing my foreshortened shadow flung on the rising gravel path. It struck me at the moment, in my excited state, as something rather grotesque. Strange that you should have asked the question.”

“Can you say whether it was alight when you and your uncle left the house together?”

For some moments Winslade was buried in thought, striving to recall all his observations during those critical moments.

“No,” he said, shaking his head with a gesture of weariness, “I can't remember. My thoughts were entirely centred on getting my uncle away from the wretched place. I can't even bring to mind whether it was alight when I returned by myself.”

“That's unfortunate—so much depends upon this seemingly trifling point,” remarked Vereker, his gaze wandering idly to the strip of azure sky visible above the roofs opposite.

For some moments there was silence. Vereker seemed utterly buried in his own speculations. Winslade sat with his hands clasped and his eyes fixed expectantly on the shrewd face of the man in front of him.

“When your uncle left you near the cow-pond he presumably took the field path across to the White Bear?” asked Vereker casually.

“Obviously. He stayed at the inn for the night and then incontinently vanished, as far as the world is concerned. As you know, he came here.”

“Yes. What did you do about money?”

“I sent him fifty pounds in Treasury notes next day by Farnish, who thrust them through the letter-box.”

“How did Farnish get to know he was here?”

“I told Farnish. I was obliged to let him into my confidence for one very good reason. On thinking matters over, I came to the conclusion that this man, Twistleton, must have written to my uncle fixing the appointment to meet him at the Mill House. Where was that letter? If it was at Bygrave Hall among his papers I must get hold of it and destroy it. It would have proved a most informative clue to the police had Mr. Twistleton's body been subsequently found.”

“Now I understand why one of the drawers of Lord Bygrave's writing-bureau was forced.”

“Farnish was the culprit,” remarked Winslade, with a wan smile. “You can imagine his relief when he discovered Mr. Twistleton's letter in the first bundle of papers he opened.”

“You destroyed it, of course?”

“You bet your boots!”

“A pity; but still you took a safe course. By the way, you haven't seen your uncle since?”

“No. He left here some time ago and I'm still waiting to hear from him. He left word with Mrs. Parslow that he would write to me when opportunity and circumstances permitted.” With these words Winslade glanced anxiously at his watch. “Good Lord,” he added, “how the time's flown! I must be getting back to Hartwood. I promised to meet Mary this evening.”