Roger Sheringham and the Vane Mystery (25 page)

Anthony sat on the rock till it became too hard to sit on any longer, then he removed his shoes and socks, tucked up his trousers and began to wander further afield. Anthony was growing up.

High overhead an aeroplane made its appearance, sweeping a vast circle in the blue sky. The drone of its engine reached their ears as a muffled hum.

“Wonder if that’s Woodthorpe’s bus,” Anthony called out, seeing his cousin’s eyes following the tiny speck across space.

“Woodthorpe’s?” said Roger absently. “Didn’t know he’d got one.”

“So Margaret told me. He was in the Air Force during the war, and now he keeps a bus of his own. They’re rolling in money, of course.”

“Lucky devils,” remarked Roger mechanically.

Anthony found a small crab under a flat stone and the conversation lapsed.

It was another half-hour before Roger again broke the silence. He rose from his cramped position and made his way over to Anthony, jumping agilely from rock to rock and refilling his pipe as he went.

“Look here, Anthony,” he said, “is there absolutely no way of getting hold of Margaret this afternoon? There’s something I particularly want to ask her.”

“I don’t think there is,” Anthony replied doubtfully. “I wanted to take her out in the car, as a matter of fact, but she said she couldn’t possibly manage it; far too busy.”

“She’s gone to Sandsea, you said?”

“Yes.”

Roger frowned. “What an infernal nuisance! It’s a point I badly want to clear up.”

“What is it?”

“I want to ask her whether by any remote chance Mrs Vane had expressed any intention before her death of going away in the near future.”

“Well, it’s funny you should say that, sir,” replied Anthony humorously, “because as a matter of fact I
do
know. She had. What’s the great idea?”

“She had, had she?” Roger demanded eagerly. “Did Margaret tell you?”

“She mentioned it once, I remember; just casually. Mrs Vane hadn’t been away this summer, and she was going to stay with some friends for the twelfth.”

“The twelfth, eh?” Roger made a rapid calculation. “Then she’d have gone about a fortnight ago. Excellent! Anthony, I do believe I’m on the track of something.”

“I say, are you really?” Anthony’s enthusiasm was all that the most exacting detective could have required. “Mean you’ve solved the whole thing?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Roger said modestly. “But I do think I’m beginning to see daylight. I’ve got a rather stupendous idea, at any rate, and things seem to be fitting it rather neatly.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, you mustn’t ask me that yet. I shall have to chew it over a lot more before I can make a connected and logical story of it. Besides, the best detectives always hold up their brilliant solutions for the most effective moment (surely you know that), and I refuse to think that an audience of Anthony Walton, two green crabs and a limpet would be in the least effective.”

“Well, hurry up and think it out properly,” said Anthony, ignoring this pleasantry. “You know we all want to see this damned business cleared up once and for all.”

“Then let’s go back and have our tea. And after that, if you’ll leave me to myself for a couple of hours, I’ll see what can be done.”

Inspector Moresby had still not returned to the inn when they got there, as the landlord informed them on Roger’s enquiry. Roger wondered uneasily what exactly he might be up to; feeling as he did that he himself was on the verge of the truth he had no wish that anybody should forestall him in crossing it.

Throughout tea he chatted incessantly about nothing at all, explaining on Anthony’s remonstrance that he wished to clear his brain of all stale notions in order to approach the problem afterward with an entirely fresh mind.

As soon as they had finished he took his pipe down once more to the rocks, and sternly forbade Anthony to come within half a mile of him.

More than the stipulated two hours had passed before he climbed once more up to the little path along the face of the cliff and thence to the top of the headland where Anthony, bored beyond tears with his own company but far too eager to risk missing his cousin’s return, was anxiously waiting.

“Well?” demanded the latter at once, hurrying forward. “Any luck?”

“Not so much luck, Anthony, as brilliance,” Roger replied with pardonable pride. “Yes, I think I’ve solved this little problem, as Holmes would have said if he’d been here instead of me.”

“Who’s the murderer, then?”

“Can you possess your soul in patience a little longer? I don’t want to spoil a good story, but it’s such a long and complicated one that I don’t want to have to tell it twice over. If you can wait till Moresby arrives I can kill two birds with one stone.”

“But he may be ages,” Anthony grumbled.

“Well, give me till halfway through supper,” said Roger, “and if he isn’t back by then I’ll promise to give you an outline of it in advance.” And with that Anthony had to be content.

“By Jove,” Roger resumed, as they walked back to the inn. “By Jove, I do hope Moresby hasn’t been working along this line himself. He’s such a reticent devil, I never know what’s in his mind; he’ll spill a fact or two occasionally, but never a theory – that is, not without some ulterior motive. Yes, if this idea hasn’t occurred to him already, I fancy I’ve got a little shock in store for Inspector Moresby.”

“Is the solution quite – quite unexpected, then?”

“Entirely, so far as I know – or at any rate, by me. Then I suddenly caught a glimpse of things from a fresh angle, and all the facts proceeded to arrange themselves in the neatest way possible.”

“You’ll be able to convince the inspector, I suppose? He’s a bit of a sceptical devil.”

“He is that,” Roger agreed with feeling. “But I don’t see how I can fail to convince even him. The facts ought to do that for themselves. Of course the solution isn’t capable of cast-iron proof, that’s the only trouble; but if it comes to that, what solution that depends only on circumstantial evidence ever can be? And proof hasn’t necessarily got to be cast-iron, it only needs to be reasonably convincing; and that mine certainly is.”

“Good egg!” quoth Anthony with satisfaction.

In the hall of the inn the landlord intercepted them.

“There’s a gentleman come to see Inspector Moresby,” he said. “I told him he was out, but he wanted to wait, so I said he could wait in your sitting-room, thinking you wouldn’t mind, gents.”

“Of course not,” Roger concurred. “Did he leave his name?”

“Well, there wasn’t no need for him to do that,” replied the landlord quite seriously. “I know who ‘e is, you see. It’s young Mr Woodthorpe.”

Roger and Anthony exchanged glances. “Oh, yes?” said the former. “Well, no doubt the inspector will be in soon. Thank you, landlord. And what the devil,” he observed to Anthony, as they made their way up the stairs, “does young Mr Woodthorpe want? We’d better go in and see.”

Young Mr Woodthorpe was standing by the window, his usually ruddy face decidedly pale and set in grim lines. He wheeled round abruptly as they entered the room.

“Hullo! You want to see Inspector Moresby?” Roger greeted him pleasantly.

Woodthorpe nodded. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Will he be long?”

“I can’t say, I’m afraid. We haven’t seen him since breakfast. Is it anything important?”

“It is rather.”

“Well, have a drink while you’re waiting. I can recommend the beer here.”

“Thanks.”

“Anthony, shout down for three tankards,” Roger said hospitably, quite unperturbed by his guest’s noticeable failure to return his own cordiality; indeed the young man’s manner was so abrupt and cold as to be not far short of downright rude.

Anthony’s stentorian shout echoed down the dark stairs.

“Couldn’t I give the inspector a message, if he’s longer than you care to wait?” Roger asked, turning back to Woodthorpe.

“I’m afraid not,” said the young man stiffly. “My business with him is rather private.” He swallowed slightly and swept a nervous glance toward the door, through which Anthony was just returning. “Oh, well,” he burst out with sudden defiance, “you’ll know soon enough in any case, so I may as well tell you now. I’ve come to give myself up. I killed Mrs Vane and – and Meadows.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Roger blankly.

It is not an easy exercise in hospitality to entertain a guest who has just announced that he is a double murderer. Small talk about the weather and the latest books seems something of an anticlimax, while to display a polite interest in his hobby and question him as to details might be misconstrued as mere indecent curiosity. On the whole it is difficult to see how the situation (should it ever occur to the reader) could be better handled than it was by Roger.

“Did you really?” observed that gentleman politely, pulling himself together with an effort as the three tankards preceded the landlord into the room. “Well, well! – er – cheerio!”

“Cheerio!” echoed the self-confessed murderer gloomily, and extracted what comfort he could from his tankard.

“Won’t you sit down?” mumbled Roger, still mechanically polite.

“Thanks.”

The trio seated themselves and looked at one another in silence.

“The – the inspector ought to be here soon, I should think,” volunteered Roger helpfully.

“Will he?”

“Yes, I should think so.”

“I see.”

There was another pause. Roger frowned at Anthony. Anthony continued to preserve unbroken silence; the situation was evidently beyond him.

It was rather beyond Roger too, but he flung himself valiantly into the breach once more. “Have you been waiting long?” he enquired desperately.

“Not very.”

“Oh – well – he ought to be in any minute now.”

“I see.”

There was another pause.

“Look here,” said Roger still more desperately, “what
are
we to talk about?”

Woodthorpe smiled faintly. “I suppose it is a bit awkward for you fellows,” he remarked.

“Infernally awkward,” Roger agreed warmly. “I don’t know what the etiquette is on these occasions at all. Besides, they’ll be coming in to lay the supper in a minute. Shall I tell them to lay a place for you, by the way?”

“I don’t know. That rather depends on the inspector, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I should think he’ll allow you to have some food, at any rate, whatever he does with you afterward. I’ll tell the girl when she comes up. In the meantime, if you don’t care for talking here’s the morning paper.”

Colin Woodthorpe smiled again. “Thanks,” he said and began to read it diligently, upside down.

“Well, I suppose I’d better go along and wash,” Roger observed very airily. “Coming, Anthony?”

They escaped from the room.

“Was this your solution, Roger?” Anthony asked, when they had gained the privacy of one of their four bedrooms.

“Don’t rub it in!” Roger groaned. “And I’d got it all worked out so beautifully. Dash it, I can’t believe I was wrong! I wonder if the chap can be making a mistake?”

“Fellow ought to know whether he’s murdered somebody or not, surely,” Anthony stated judicially.

“Yes, I suppose he ought. It would be a difficult thing to overlook, wouldn’t it? Well, all I can say is, dash the chap! This is the second time I’ve solved this mystery wrong. Anthony, I don’t want to go back to that room a bit. Let’s sit down and smoke and talk about Ibsen.”

“I’ll go down and tell them about that extra place first,” said Anthony, and extricated himself with neatness and despatch.

Twenty minutes later the maid knocked on the door and informed them that supper was ready. With reluctance they returned to the sitting-room.

Their guest was by this time a little more composed, and a scrappy conversation upon various subjects of no interest at all was determinedly maintained. Nevertheless it was with considerable relief that Roger hailed the arrival of Inspector Moresby ten minutes later. He did not wish to see young Woodthorpe, to whom he had taken a liking, being bundled off to prison, but the situation really was a very difficult one.

Woodthorpe jumped to his feet immediately the door opened. “Inspector,” he said, with a return to his former abrupt manner, “I’ve been waiting to see you. I want to give myself up for the murders of Mrs Vane and Meadows.”

The inspector gazed at him coolly for a moment. Then he closed the door behind him. “Oh, you do, do you?” he said without emotion. “So it was you who did it after all, was it, Mr Woodthorpe?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well,” said the inspector tolerantly, “boys will be boys, I suppose. What’s for supper, eh, Mr Sheringham?”

“C-cold veal and salad,” stammered Roger, somewhat taken aback. He had never seen an experienced policeman arresting a murderer before, but this certainly did not coincide with his ideas of how it should be done.

“Well, let’s hope the salad’s better than it was last night,” observed the inspector with some severity, and took his seat at the table.

Roger was not the only person to whom things did not seem to be going right. “Well, aren’t you going to arrest me, Inspector?” asked Woodthorpe in bewilderment.

“All in good time, sir, all in good time,” replied the inspector, busying himself with the veal. “Business first and pleasure afterward, perhaps, but food before either of them.”

“And drink before that,” murmured Roger, who was beginning to recover himself. Roger thought he saw a gleam of light in the darkness.

Woodthorpe dropped back into his seat. “I – I don’t understand,” he muttered.

“You’ve got no salad, sir,” said the inspector in tones of some concern. “Help yourself and then pass the bowl across to me. Well, well! So it’s you who’s been giving us all this trouble, is it?”

“If you like to put it that way,” replied Woodthorpe stiffly. Certainly it must be galling to any conscientious murderer, who has just brought off a neat right and left, to hear his exploit described merely as ‘troublesome’. There is nobody like an inspector of police for showing things up as they prosaically are.

“And why did you suddenly make up your mind to come and tell me all about it, sir?” pursued the inspector, with the air of one making polite conversation.