Missing or Murdered (3 page)

“Quaint device,” he remarked, pointing with his whangee cane at the door. “Closing mechanism. I could play with it for hours. Mr. Grierson, I believe,” he continued, his eyes returning to that gentleman.

Mr. Grierson nodded assent.

“I have come to see if you know anything of Lord Bygrave. Is there any truth in the Press statements that he has mysteriously disappeared? I see one alert Daily has already made a prize competition out of him. I at once phoned Bygrave Hall, but found that Farnish, the butler, knew nothing of his lordship's whereabouts.”

“I have just been discussing Lord Bygrave's extraordinary disappearance with Detective-Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard,” replied Mr. Grierson, and he proceeded to give Vereker a summary of the conversation and the facts of the case as known to himself.

During this interval Inspector Heather's attention was riveted on Mr. Algernon Vereker, and he soon came to the conclusion, to put it in his own words, that he was a rum-looking specimen. There was something about the man's appearance that suggested the possession of a vein of eccentricity and a whimsical outlook on life. With such people Inspector Heather was inclined to be impatient. They're crazy; I have no use for them, he would say, and lightly flick them off the face of the particular earth that he himself inhabited.

When Mr. Grierson had concluded his statement, Vereker rolled his soft felt hat into a cone with his long nervous fingers.

“It's very strange altogether,” he drawled; “so out of harmony with anything that one associates with old Bygrave. He hasn't disappeared of his own account—that's a certainty! No one could possibly imagine Bygrave vanishing with another man's wife or making a run for it with trust funds. The only thing I can think of is that he has gone to heaven.”

“You really think that something serious has happened to him, Mr. Vereker?” asked the inspector, disregarding the levity of that individual's last remark.

“I am going to work on that assumption straightway,” replied Vereker. “If anything untoward has happened to him—which God forbid—my hands will be pretty full, for I'm executor and trustee under his will.”

“You know the contents of the will, Mr. Vereker?” promptly asked the inspector.

“Oh, yes. Translating it from legalese into the intelligible, David Winslade, his nephew, comes into all his property, save for five hundred pounds left to Farnish, the butler, and a thousand to me for acting as executor.”

Inspector Heather made an entry in his notebook of these facts.

“I may as well tell you at this point, inspector, that I haven't got rid of my friend Bygrave for that thousand pounds,” continued Vereker. “If you can accept this information as true it may save you some time, should further investigations be necessary. In the latter case I shall promptly suspect both Farnish and Winslade—it's only logical to do so, even though I am fairly certain that neither of them is a criminal. They at least supply a motive—a sordid one in all conscience, but a motive.”

“Murders have been committed for less,” remarked the inspector in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Yes,” sighed Vereker wearily, “I suppose so. Keeping the fact in mind, it is difficult to cherish ideals as to the future of mankind. It would be quite as rational to entertain hopes of domesticating Bengal tigers. My faith grows weak, but I console myself that I'm only moderately imbecile when I think of the unbridled optimism of the Socialist.”

Detective-Inspector Heather glanced uneasily at Vereker, whose eyes gazed dreamily across the sunlit river to the smoky haze that hung over the south, his thoughts lost in a vague, wistful conjecture about humanity's future, a subject which troubled Inspector Heather no more than, say, Einstein's theory of relativity.

Vereker rose abruptly from his chair.

“Well, I must be going,” he said. “I shall probably see you down at Hartwood, inspector, for I shall get to work at once. Good day, gentlemen.” The door opened quietly and Mr. Algernon Vereker disappeared.

“So that's Mr. Algernon Vereker, the artist!” exclaimed Mr. Grierson.

“Somewhat eccentric young gentleman,” remarked the inspector.

“It's the first time I've met him,” said Mr. Grierson. “Lord Bygrave, however, always speaks of him in terms of sincere affection. ‘That lovable lunatic, Vereker,' he always calls him. He has a very high opinion of Mr. Vereker's character and must consider him, shorn of his eccentricities, a man of sterling worth. Otherwise he would hardly have appointed him a trustee and executor in his will—Lord Bygrave has an almost uncanny power of judging a man's character.”

“Mr. Vereker seems a bit of a buffoon to me,” commented the inspector quietly. “You say he's an artist?”

“According to modern standards, yes,” replied Mr. Grierson cautiously. “He's making quite a name for himself among the newer school of painters. Whether his reputation or theirs will live is another matter.”

“It's a subject I don't profess to understand, and I wouldn't give a pipe of good tobacco for the best picture in the world,” boomed the inspector weightily and, with a sardonic smile spreading over his features, asked, “Does he earn a living at it?”

“I should say, confidently, that his work's a dead financial loss to him. Mr. Vereker, however, is a fairly wealthy man, though to judge from his appearance no one would believe it. He always professes a complete disregard for money—again, that may be, in a great measure, a pose. Suffers from a kink,” remarked the inspector bluntly; “that's how I'd put it—a kink. Bless my soul if I don't think a University education gives every man a kink—some more, some less.”

“Most up-to-date people would agree with you,” said Mr. Grierson, raising his brows and looking over his glasses at the inspector. “However, in Mr. Vereker's case it's a harmless sort of kink—paint and canvas suffer more than humanity. Lord Bygrave tells me he's one of the most generous of men and is always helping some lame dog over a stile.”

“He probably does a lot of good, but in a foolish, unsystematic way,” concluded Inspector Heather, rising from his chair.

At this moment the door again opened and Mr. Algernon Vereker returned.

“I thought I'd just let you know my address, Inspector Heather, in case you want any personal information about Lord Bygrave. But I shall be down at Hartwood from this evening—I start on the trail from the White Bear Inn. If I can be of any assistance—”

“Thanks, Mr. Vereker,” replied the inspector.

“I like to do good even in a foolish and unsystematic way,” added Vereker.

Inspector Heather looked up sharply. There was a trace of annoyance on his alert features. He deduced the fact that Mr. Vereker's ears were preternaturally acute.

“Ah, you overheard my remark,” he laughed diplomatically. “I was speaking of you, Mr. Vereker.”

“I wondered,” replied Mr. Vereker, smiling broadly;” but I didn't think I'd extract a confirmation so easily from one of your profession. An unsystematic way of doing good is all that the complexity of life allows an individual; a wise and systematic method is reserved for some future blissful state. What do you think?”

“I'm unable to discuss the matter just now, Mr. Vereker,” replied the inspector dryly.

“Then on some future occasion; say over a bottle of port, for I love to reconstruct the universe over good port. A man with your experience of the evil men do ought to be well worth listening to on the good they might do. By the way, inspector, I don't like the name of the innkeeper at the White Bear Inn.”

“I don't see what a man's name has got to do with it,” replied the inspector curtly.

“I'm rather influenced by names. Now George Lawless is an unpleasant name. Give a dog a bad name, you know! There's a lot in these old sayings—mother wit I think they call it. Well, once more good day, gentlemen,” and Mr. Vereker took his departure.

“He's what is usually called a ‘balm-pot'!” exclaimed Inspector Heather when he had made sure that Mr. Vereker had passed well beyond ear-shot. “By the way, is Mr. Vereker an amateur detective as well as an artist?”

“Oh, I wouldn't take much notice of Mr. Vereker's activities,” replied Mr. Grierson, with a shrug of his shoulders. “He has been, so I have heard, actor, politician, amateur tramp, athlete, vegetarian and gentleman rider in turns. He will take Scotland Yard in his stride so to speak. Only the other day, so Lord Bygrave told me, he was going to equip an expedition to discover King Solomon's mines. He had dreamt they were in Borneo, and not in Africa, and he was convinced that their discovery would pay off the National Debt and give France a decent leg up. At the same time don't altogether class him as a fool. You will find, as far as I can gather, that he wears buffoonery as a kind of cloak—probably because he is in reality a very shy and self-depreciatory man.”

Inspector Heather laughed as he let himself out of Mr. Grierson's room, and before he had reached the street he had come to a vague conclusion, the reason for which he would have been unable to express, that Mr. Algernon Vereker was probably not a bad sort even though he was undoubtedly a “balm-pot” to all outward appearances.

The White Bear Inn lies at the western end of the village of Hartwood, and is a rambling edifice with a spacious courtyard in which the Hartwood Hunt often meets. The proprietor, George Lawless, was not an ideal innkeeper; but it requires a great genius to be an ideal innkeeper, and genius is rare in all professions. He was a man of little education and less refinement; of reserved manner, no conversation, an irritable temper and a heavy, almost repellent face. He was certainly not in keeping with the old inn. Its romance left him cold; its age—it was built in the reign of Richard III—never once lit in his imagination a thought of all those who had slept and eaten and drunk and fought and loved and danced and died beneath its heavy oak-beamed ceilings. He used daily to curse the place for not being on the main road for motor traffic to the south.

“White Bear, indeed,” he would often mutter; “it has been nothing but a white elephant to me!”

On this October morning George Lawless was in a particularly irritable temper. He had cursed Terry, the barman, about the untidy appearance of the bar; Mary Standish, who was parlourmaid, housemaid, scullery-maid and barmaid all rolled into one, had come in for a share of his ill-humour, though he was always gentler in his speech with Mary than with any of his servants. Dick, who tended the garden, drove the buggy to the station for visitors and visitors back in the buggy to the station, groomed the pony and made himself useful and attentive in the garage, had actually sworn back at the “Guv'nor” and come to the verge of giving notice. It may be mentioned, however, that Dick had been on the brink of giving notice every day for the past ten years. George Lawless had, fortunately for his peace of mind, been unaware of this Damoclean sword.

All this unpleasantness was due to the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of Henry Darnell, Lord Bygrave. On Friday night he had arrived; on Saturday morning he had gone out and never returned. On Monday Lawless had met the village constable and casually mentioned the matter; on Tuesday the sergeant had been informed; on Wednesday the affair had been bruited abroad, Scotland Yard called in and every one in England who read a daily paper knew that Lord Bygrave had mysteriously disappeared. Had Henry Darnell been a shopkeeper, or a postman, the affair would have been important news to a modern daily paper. That he was a well-known peer almost raised the mystery to the level of “Beautiful London Girl of Eighteen Missing” in terms of headline and public interest.

George Lawless couldn't for the life of him understand why Lord Bygrave should disappear, and he lost his temper thoroughly over the whole business. It was unsatisfactory and altogether unintelligible. People who stayed at the White Bear Inn, even though they were titled folk, were expected to behave like ordinary human beings in a common-sense, reasonable manner. Lawless was not annoyed that Lord Bygrave had gone without paying his bill; for in his room was a portmanteau with boots and clothes, and on the wash-hand-stand he had carelessly left a heavy, gold signet-ring with a crest cut in intaglio. On this property Lawless felt that he had a lien—it was quite sufficient security for a bed and breakfast. What had angered George Lawless was the behaviour of Police Sergeant Bailey. It had been inquisitorial. He had asked endless and seemingly irrelevant questions, and conducted himself with an air of importance and secrecy that were noxious to a degree—especially in an ordinary village police sergeant. When he had been about to depart he had informed the proprietor of the White Bear Inn that Detective-Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard would be down in the afternoon to make further investigations.

“What the dooce does he expect to find?” George Lawless had asked irritably. “Does he suspect I've done the gent in?”

Sergeant Bailey felt that this question was merely a verbal diffusion of pent-up irritability, and did not condescend to reply. When he had gone Lawless let himself go in a full-blooded effectual way that was comforting to himself but withering to the police force in general and to Sergeant Bailey in particular. Remembering the cause of the trouble, his mind reverted once more to Lord Bygrave.

“These London folk—more trouble than they're d—d well worth! Never satisfied with a decent bed and plain food, but always asking for something you ain't got and wot's not good for 'em in any case. Not that his lordship asked for much—in fact he went to the opposite extreme and asked for
nothing
, which is worse still. Then he's one of them blokes who goes chasing butterflies like a kid of ten. Nice occupation for a grown man! S'elp me if I don't think he wasn't quite right in the head. And now he goes missing. 'Pon my soul, I don't know what the country's coming to!”