The Ginger Cat Mystery (5 page)

As he looked forward to his work on the morrow his excitement increased and he grew more wakeful. The virus of detection was beginning to work with its old feverishness in his blood. The feelings of lassitude and dejection which he had experienced of late were fast vanishing under the stimulus of the approaching hunt. For some time he tossed restlessly in spite of the enveloping comfort of the feather bed, his mind flitting with nervous alertness from one idea to another. Then he suddenly sat up, lit his candle and from the pocket of his jacket, thrown over the back of a chair beside his bed, produced a well-thumbed volume of Emerson. This was his habitual sleeping draught, a certain remedy for a feverish mood of wakefulness. He opened the book and began to read the lecture on literary ethics. The amazing perception, the inexhaustible flow of bright analogy, the astonishing sequence of associated ideas and apt imagery, the poetry and plasticity of expression at once caught him in their hypnotic web and tore him away from preoccupation in his own affairs. At length he yawned, closed his book, blew out the candle and his mind sweeping from the Emersonian empyrean sank softly to earth and restful slumber.

The bright morning sun pouring in at the open window wakened him. It had dispelled a soft autumn mist which covered the lush grass of the meadows in a silvery sheen of heavy dew. He glanced at his watch, jumped out of bed and almost immediately afterwards a knock sounded on his door announcing the deposit of a can of hot water. A quarter of an hour later he entered the small private room in which he had had a meal the previous night. He found to his surprise that Heather had already breakfasted and gone out. He had left a message for Vereker saying that he would be at Marston Manor at about eleven o'clock. Vereker ate a leisurely meal, glanced through the pages of the
East Anglian Times
, and was about to rise from the table when the landlord entered the room.

“Good morning, sir. Sleep well?” he asked pleasantly.

“Soundly. The room is an excellent one and the bed most comfortable.”

“Had sufficient breakfast, sir?”

“Made a splendid meal, thanks.”

The conversation lapsed into silence and the landlord was about to depart when Vereker asked, “What do you think of this business up at the Manor, Mr. Borham?”

“A shocking affair, sir; one hardly likes to speak about it.”

“I've always found a village inn a kind of central news exchange. You'll have heard all that the village has to say about it?”

“Well, yes, sir. Customers will talk and I can't help hearing what's said. Not that I take all the yarns for gospel. Some men talk sense and others a lot of rubbish. There's old Harry Weddup, the thatcher, for instance. If what he says was to be taken seriously, he'd get locked up in no time. A spell of silence might do him a heap of good, too.”

“Did Mr. Frank Cornell ever visit the inn?”

“Oh, yes, sir. If he happened to be staying up at the Manor, he never missed a day. A first-rate customer.”

“What sort of man was he?”

“Very pleasant young gentleman. Fond of drink and company and free with his money. I'll miss him for one and so will some of my regulars. When he was in the mood it was drinks all round and it's surprising how many customers would arrive when drinks were going free. The news travelled almost as quick as wireless.”

“Rather a rapid young man?” asked Vereker.

“I wouldn't say that, sir. He was brisk, full of life and liked a joke. He was a great favourite with the young ladies, I'm told. You haven't heard how he won first prize for Victoria plums at the flower show last year?”

“No.”

“Well, he put in his entry just like one of the villagers for the best dozen plums. Now Jim Pettitt has the best Victoria plum tree in the district and had won the prize last three years in succession. Got a notion that it was almost his by right. Mr. Frank beat him and Jim Pettitt lodged a complaint. Well, the young gent confessed to the committee he had stolen Into Pettitt's garden one afternoon just before the show while Jim was at work and his wife over at Bury market. He pinched what he reckoned was the best dozen plums and beat the old man with his own fruit. He did it for a barney and then doubled the prize money to quieten old Jim down. Most of us knew beforehand what he was up to and I can tell you it was the best joke we've had in Marston for years. You'd think so, too, if you knew Jim Pettitt.”

The innkeeper's long face burst into genial smiles at the memory. “He was a bit of a lad, I must say,” he added, “but he'd have settled down all right when he'd got married. Needed a woman who could boss him. That's what he needed.”

“He was engaged to be married, I hear,” remarked Vereker.

“Yes, to a young lady from London. She was going on the stage, so they say. Not the kind I'd marry, but there—that's all over now!”

“Of course there are as good women on the stage as off, Mr. Borham,” suggested Vereker.

“I daresay, sir, but we all expected he would marry his cousin, Miss Stella Cornell. They were very fond of one another, so everyone said, but perhaps they saw too much of one another.”

“Were they engaged?” asked Vereker.

“No, it never came to that, more's the pity. Now, Miss Stella's as good a young lady as ever trod ground. Not a child in the village but loves her and the help she has given to those who needed it badly will never be known. She is always doing something for the village—women's institute, amateur theatricals, church work and all that. A great favourite with us all is Miss Stella. I don't know what parson would do without her.”

“Whose daughter is she?”

“She's the daughter of Mr. David Cornell, old John Cornell's blind brother. Old Mr. John built his brother a bungalow in the Manor grounds and settled a comfortable little income on him, so they say. Mr. David's wife's dead and he lives there alone with his daughter.”

“I suppose she keeps house for him,” remarked Vereker.

“Yes. They have one maid, Mary Lister, daughter of Jack Lister, the Marston carrier. A very capable girl she is, too.”

“Has Mr. Cornell been blind from birth?”

“Oh, no, sir. He lost his sight in 1917 at the front during the war. I think he was in the canteen service or something of that sort. A German shell blew up the canteen and Mr. David went up with it. When he recovered consciousness he found he was blind. At first there was some hope he would get back his sight but he never did. I've never met the gentleman though I've often seen him walking through the village. By all accounts he's as fine a man as anyone could wish to meet. He always says he wouldn't have minded being wounded in the front line, but it was hard luck to get hit when hiding behind the canteen groceries.”

“What was he before the war?”

“He'd tried his hand at all sorts of things and was farming when the war broke out. He never could make things pay. Had no money sense. Lots of men have no money sense and if you haven't got it you're always in trouble. They say he always wanted to be a composer of music but never had the time to go in for it properly. Now he's better off than ever he was and spends most of his time at his music. His daughter writes it all down for him. Some say it's good and some say it ain't got no toon in it.”

“What does the village think of Mrs. Cornell, John Cornell's wife?”

“Everyone speaks well of her, sir, but she has never taken any interest in the village. Nobody knows much about her. Very reserved lady who keeps herself to herself.”

“I suppose there was some gossip over the exhumation of her husband's body? It was an extraordinary event for Marston village.”

“A lot of nasty tittle-tattle among those who're always ready to think bad of anyone. I must say the lady wasn't wise to be seen so much about with young Doctor Redgrave. People will talk when a good-looking young married woman gets friendly with a handsome bachelor even if there's nothing wrong behind the scenes. I was glad the gossips got a suck-in when nothing came out of the business. Some of them was real disappointed if I'm not mistaken. As for myself, I think Doctor Redgrave's a straight man and mighty clever at his job. My missus always swears he saved her life when she nearly went under with the 'flu and pneumonia two years ago this winter. But all the ladies swear by him and good looks is a great help when you're mixing up medicines,” smiled the innkeeper shrewdly.

At this point the voice of Mrs. Borham calling sharply from the tap-room for her husband brought the conversation to an abrupt end. Abner Borham excused himself and hurried away at a pace quite unusual for him for he almost ran, and Vereker rose and went up to his room. Glancing at his watch he found it was half-past nine. He had an hour to spare before meeting Heather at the Manor. Slipping on a rainproof coat, for the morning sky promised light showers, he left the inn and made his way leisurely towards his destination.

A quarter of an hour's walk brought him to the wide entrance gates of the Manor. A small lodge and a diminutive garden flanked it on the side nearer the village. He was about to walk up the drive but as he had some time on hand, changed his mind and continued his way along the high road with the idea of getting a view of the house as he had seen it the previous night from the motor-coach. He came to the point from which he had caught that first romantic glimpse of Marston Manor in the moonlight and was surprised to see that almost the whole frontage of the building was visible by day from the highway and running at an angle to it so as to face the south. The morning was warm and sunny and in the wide sweep of meadow which divided the Manor from the road, black and white cattle grazed lazily or sought the shade of the magnificent forest oaks scattered at wide intervals about the parkland. Strolling along farther, Vereker came to a second entrance gate about half a mile distant from the first. He opened this gate, entered, and was proceeding up the drive when in an adjoining paddock there came to view a modern bungalow with white roughcast walls and a green-tiled roof.

“That'll be Mr. David Cornell's place,” he thought and wandered off the drive through a belt of rhododendrons to the hedge dividing the Manor grounds from the adjoining paddock. From the brief description of the man which he had elicited from the innkeeper, Vereker was already interested in Mr. David Cornell. The fact that he was a musician, an artist and ineffectual in business, unconsciously deepened this interest. All the arts spoke the language of beauty; music sang it. The tragedy of the man's blindness, too, evoked in Vereker the sympathy which any human suffering at once evoked in him. Finding a gap in the dividing hedge, he forced his way through, entered the paddock, and walked slowly in the direction of the bungalow. As he approached there suddenly came to view a garden which was a sheer blaze of colour. Bordering a wide crazy pavement, the nasturtiums ran like a cordon of fire; through them, gladioli thrust their fountains of scarlet upwards and higher still in the floral sky dahlias burst like rockets in starry showers. As Vereker stood, his eyes delighted with this vivid mass of colouring, his quick ear caught the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned sharply and came face to face with a young woman of about twenty-six years of age who had evidently been making her way to the bungalow and was approaching him. Her face, which was pale and serious, at once broke into a pleasing smile.

“You look as if you'd lost your bearings. Can I help you?” she asked.

“No, thanks. I was making my way leisurely up to the Manor and noticing the bungalow came into the paddock to have a look at it. I hope I'm not trespassing,” replied Vereker, feeling that even the truth seemed to limp badly as an explanation of his curiosity.

“Oh, no, not at all,” she said affably. “I was just admiring the garden when you came up. I'm rather proud of it,” she continued. “The dahlias have been a great success. Of course, the year has been exceptionally fine.”

“You're Miss Cornell, I presume?” asked Vereker.

“Quite correct. You seem to know all about us,” she remarked, her dark brows arching in a quizzical expression.

“I'm afraid it's a newspaper correspondent's privilege to be inquisitive—almost impertinent at times,” apologized Vereker.

“You've come about this horrible affair at my aunt's place,” she said, a frown suddenly clouding her face. “I don't envy you your job.”

“No, I daresay you don't, but the matter's quite an impersonal thing with me. I'm already very much interested. I certainly wouldn't look at it in that light if I were intimately concerned.”

“No, I suppose not,” she remarked slowly as if her thoughts were not in her words. “Is there anybody you want particularly to see at the Manor?”

“Well, I've an appointment there with Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard at eleven o'clock,” replied Vereker, glancing at his watch.

“He has been up there all the morning. I've just been through the ordeal of what I believe is called a searching police interrogatory. It's been quite an experience. I didn't think famous detectives could be so affable. Wisdom of the serpent with the gentleness of the dove, I suppose,” she remarked thoughtfully as she tapped an elegant shoe with her light walking-stick.

“I hope you were on your guard,” suggested Vereker pleasantly.

“I was dreadfully nervous,” she replied with sudden seriousness. “I can't explain why and I'm sure I should have broken down if the inspector hadn't immediately put me at ease. The whole affair has upset us all terribly and I was—I was very fond of my cousin Frank.”

Her large dark eyes suddenly grew moist with imminent tears and to save the situation from further embarrassment she exclaimed, “But I mustn't detain you. It's nearly eleven o'clock.

With these words she passed on and Vereker, turning on his heel, extracted a loose cigarette from his pocket and lit it.