The Garston Murder Case, page 20
“Then what do you suppose Clunk’s up to?” Gunn cried. “How is it going to help him to get Harwood pinched?”
“Cover him up, wouldn’t it?” said Bell. “We get busy making a case against Harwood and Old Man Clunk slips out.” He snorted. “I don’t think!”
“Well but—” Gunn began, and a plain-clothes constable came in. “What is it?”
“About that medicine, sir. Warrens’ have sold several bottles to Mrs. Garston’s maid. Paid herself. Didn’t have it on the Abbey account.”
“All right,” Gunn dismissed him. “The maid then, old man,” he whistled. “The maid, with her down on the nurse. Looks ugly.”
“And that’s another of ’em,” Bell grinned. “Quite embarrassing, isn’t it, George?”
“I own I don’t see my way,” Gunn lamented.
“See your way!” said Bell grimly. “You want a lot. I know what I’m going to do. We ought to hear about Harwood soon. If he don’t turn up in his regular ways in town, we’ll know he’s the man we want. If he does, our people will get him quick. Then I’ll put him through it. And as soon as young Underwood gets here I’ll stick him on to Josh Clunk’s tail. If Josh isn’t up to something on his little own I miss my guess.”
In a little while Sergeant Underwood arrived and was given his instructions, and under another name and without a mustache took a humble room at the Victoria.
Before lunch the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department rang up Bell. Mr. Gordon Harwood had been found at Brighton: he had his usual room at his usual hotel: no attempt at secrecy. He was told that the officers investigating the murder of Mrs. Garston at Bradstock Abbey in Sandshire wanted to ask him some questions. He replied that it was damned nonsense, for he knew nothing about Mrs. Garston and had never seen her. He was told that it would be necessary to take him to Limbay to give him an opportunity of explaining himself. His answer was that they would get themselves into an infernal mess meddling with him.
The Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department gave judgment that Mr. Harwood was rattled and bluffing but confident. He advised Bell to go slow. He did not want another charge which would have to be dropped.
“I’ll watch it, sir,” said Bell ruefully.
“All right. You’ll get him this afternoon. I should say you’re on to something. But God knows what. Take your time. Good-bye.”
Bell turned to Gunn. “The Chief thinks there’s a something, George. And a good judge too. Now what about a bit o’ lunch.”
But before this, rather before Sergeant Underwood reported himself at the police station, though they had come by the same train, a short, thick-set young man approached the Victoria Hotel. He had an unobtrusive care in keeping out of people’s way rather at variance with the pugnacity of his heavy face.
Mr. Clunk was taking the sun on the hotel steps. He strolled away along the promenade into the gardens, and there choosing an empty seat sat down. The young man joined him. “Very good and quick of you, Scott,” Mr. Clunk beamed. “Have you any money?”
“Drew twenty pound, sir.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be enough.” Mr. Clunk began to feel in his pocketbook. “You have to get a motor bicycle. If you can hire, that will do, but it must be a good one. You know all about that, don’t you?”
The bulldog face grinned. “I think so.”
“Yes, Lewis said you did.” Mr. Clunk gave him notes. “Now what you have to do is quite easy. Buy a map and you’ll find on it Bradstock Abbey. Take your bicycle and go out there. You’re a tourist going to look at the ruins. You’ll meet Lewis. You have to stay out there all night and notice anybody who comes, but most particularly anybody who goes. What we’re most interested in is Lord Croyland, a large gentleman, big head, no neck, stooping shoulders. There”—he passed Scott a portrait cut from a paper. “If he leaves, you follow him wherever he goes. Telephone me as you can. But on no account lose him. Quite a simple job, you see.”
“Right, sir. Do I stay out there for ever?”
“Oh no, no. You take the night. Lewis will relieve you in the morning. I don’t think this will go on very long. Now have a really good meal and get anything you want for the night and run along. Good-bye, my dear boy.”
Mr. Clunk tripped away.
As he sat down to lunch, a little later than others, he remarked that Miss Morrow was not there. That did not surprise him. But he sighed. “Poor dear lady. Too cruel! Really too cruel.” He reflected on the shock which the news must have given Miss Morrow. It did not spoil his lunch. He was almost the last in the room, eating a second helping of rice pudding.
As he drank his coffee rather belated among the aspidistras in the lonely lounge, he became aware of a man in its darkest corner: a man who read a paper. The ineligibility of that seat for reading was obvious to Mr. Clunk. He dipped lumps of sugar in his coffee and sucked.
After a while he went out swiftly and tripped away to the post office and went in and spent some time writing a telegram. While thus engaged he saw a man look in and pass on. He put the telegram in his pocket and went out and took a cab to the railway station. Another cab followed him close. He made inquiries about trains and went back to the hotel on foot. He had seen the shaven face of Sergeant Underwood emerge from the cab. It was the face which had looked into the post office.
Mr. Clunk was annoyed. “Tut, tut, tut, a foolish fellow, a very, very foolish fellow,” he complained to providence. “That really makes one so uneasy.” He sighed heavily. “Ah well, we must do as we can.”
He comforted himself with a hymn:
“There’s no time for idle scorning,
While the days are going by;
Let your face be like the morning
While the days are going by!”
CHAPTER XXI
INVESTIGATIONS AT THE ABBEY
Considering their plans over a steak, Bell and Gunn agreed that a little more work at Bradstock Abbey might provide knowledge useful generally and for the handling of Mr. Harwood in particular. The effect of new facts had to be tried—what the maid would be moved to say about Algicure might be illuminating. The detention of Mr. Harwood—the suggestion that somebody at Limbay knew more about him than anyone had said might have interesting reactions with Croyland or with Gladys.
Gunn undertook this investigation and Bell remained in Limbay to receive Mr. Harwood.
Life in the Abbey through these days seemed to May a cruel ridiculous unreality, such as life is when passing under or waking from an anæsthetic. All the more unreal, because it was so little changed. The exacting bodily presence of Mrs. Garston had vanished, but the dread which she had infused in May, the fear of her and for her, endured. The affairs of the household were ordered with the old smooth precision, the equanimity of those efficient servants undisturbed by shock or grief. For them, nothing had happened. Croyland and Gladys neither sought May nor avoided her and when they met at table talked carefully of things indifferent, as in the days before, when Mrs. Garston sat there looking misery. Nothing was changed. She being dead yet lived with them….
After lunch May was going up to her room, and in the archway from the new part of the house to the old, that archway where she had found Mrs. Garston’s body, came upon the maid. She was given so hard a stare that she stopped. “Do you want anything?” she said sharply.
“Want anything? Of you, Nurse?” The tone was insolence. “No, I’m sure.” The maid stood still and waited for her to go.
This was the first time May had found anyone watching her. The old suspicion that she was always being watched in the horrible house surged over her. She felt like going mad. It was urgently necessary to get out and away, and to be sure she had meant to go out.
She put on her things in a hurry and was running downstairs when she met Gladys. “Hallo, baby! Off to your young man again? Well, if you can’t be good, be careful.”
With rage and pink cheeks but a slow step of disdainful composure, May went out. She had, of course, no idea of meeting Mr. Wisberry. How stupid Gladys was when she was spiteful—and how contemptible. As if one could possibly feel in that way! Of course she never thought of meeting him. It wouldn’t be the least use. He couldn’t do anything that would help. She simply wanted to be alone and away from everybody. And it would only bother him, poor boy: make him worry about her, get him into more trouble with those hateful police. Besides, it was perfectly certain he wouldn’t be anywhere. Why should he?
She made her way through the park to the Brad-stock road.
A statelier dignity clothed her slim form. If people thought she was afraid to be seen with him, or ashamed, or anything, clearly she must show that she didn’t care at all. They could all come and look, Gladys and the policemen and everybody. She was not to be frightened. There was nothing to hide.
Ah! He felt like that too. She gave a little laugh of happy courage. He certainly wasn’t hiding himself. Rather difficult for him to hide! What a big fellow! But he wasn’t trying by any means.
Tony had the aged car of the Cock and Pie: it was stopped on the summit of one of the hillocks of the road, and from that eminence he watched for her. He waved his hat, he came to her in swinging strides.
“I say!” he took hold of her shy hand and did not say it. She had to look up at him, quite a way up to his face—comical face—big chin and hard but so kind. She smiled at it and felt like crying. So it was necessary to look away.
“Awfully decent of you to come,” said Tony in a hurry. “I was coming for you really, but I thought p’raps you’d rather I didn’t, so I left it to you for a bit.” He still had hold of her hand. “If you hadn’t, I should have come along. See?”
“I see.”
“Knew I’d be here, didn’t you?”
“Well, I came.” May looked up at him again and for that was allowed to recover her hand.
“Good girl. I’ve got to see you every day, you know. Promise.”
“How can I? Why?”
“Just because,” said Tony, “if I don’t I shall come and break in. Get that.”
“Oh, don’t be absurd.”
“I won’t. But you’re my job.”
“Indeed I’m nothing of the sort,” she cried.
“Better get used to the idea,” Tony smiled.
“I don’t want any help,” she said fiercely. “I won’t have you think so. You shan’t waste your time over me.”
“No, dear,” said Tony with satisfaction. “I shan’t. Well, how’s things going?”
She gave him a look of angry surprise. “What do you mean? What things?”
“Things in general. Our jolly old bobbies and their little games.”
“Is that what you came for? How can I possibly tell? I don’t know in the least what they’re doing. I haven’t seen any of them.”
“Not bothering you. That’s good. All gone away from the Abbey?”
“Oh yes. You needn’t worry about that.” Her voice was cold and contemptuous but her eyes watched him anxiously. “Whatever they’re doing, they’re not here.”
“Well, that’s a relief anyway.”
“Is it? Oh, we’re quite happy. You wouldn’t think anything had happened at all.”
“Sorry.” Tony frowned. “It is ghastly for you, I know.”
“Oh, not at all. And there’s no reason in the world why you should stay any longer.”
Tony pointed a finger at her. “That’s one fine, large reason, my child,” he laughed. “Great big reason, aren’t you?”
“Don’t talk as if I were a baby!” She remembered at the word that it was Gladys’s name for her and blushed. “You make me furious.”
“Your mistake,” said Tony placidly. “I’m feeling you’re quite grown up, May All of a woman. I’m a bit of a man, if you don’t mind thinking of that.”
“But I do! I don’t want to!” she cried, and looked at him in bewildered anxiety. “How can you talk like this? It’s all wrong. It isn’t real, you know it isn’t. There’s just this dreadful thing around us all the time. We’re caught in it, you’re sorry for me and you want to be kind. That’s all that really is.”
“My ghost! Don’t you believe it. There’s just you and me and nothing else that really matters to either of us. The mess at the Abbey—the only thing about that you’ve got to think of is we’re in it together.”
“You’re not. You’re not. You’re nothing to do with it.”
“In it just as deep as you,” Tony repeated. “My good girl, these priceless bobbies are on to me all right. If there wasn’t any May in the world I should have to stay and see it through.”
She looked at him with large eyes. “Oh, but that’s my fault,” she said unsteadily.
“What, again?” Tony laughed.
“They think I’m something to do with you, so they suspect you too. I ought never to have spoken to you.”
“Yes, all your fault,” Tony chuckled. “I say, you are like my mother. Anything that went wrong with people she liked was always her fault.”
“You told me that before.” May was contemptuous.
“Yes, it does keep coming up. You’re very like her. But let’s be reasonable by all means,” he grinned. “Everything is really my fault. The bobbies only worry you because it bothers ’em I should know somebody in the house. I’m the man they’re after. I don’t blame ’em.”
“Don’t be so horrible.”
“We’ve got to see it their way. A chap who has a rummy claim on Croyland” might break into the house to get his papers and then—the rest just happened.”
“They don’t think it was you. They couldn’t.”
“Well, I should say that’s one of the things they’ve pretty well got to think. And we’ve got to make up our minds to see it through. That’s the way to take it, my child. Frightened?”
“Yes,” she said vehemently. “Oh, it isn’t true?”
“My ghost! No,” Tony frowned. “You didn’t ever think I did it. You don’t have to be told.”
She looked at him and her blue eyes darkened. She shook her head. But her dread was plain enough.
Tony put his arm round her. “Fear’s a damned liar,” he said. “This is going to work out all right, my dear.” He felt her against him and his arm hardened. “Very dear. Do you know?”
May said nothing but she came to him yielding and was still. When Tony kissed her, her lips were cold….
After a while, “Little girl,” said Tony, and held her more gently and caressed her with diffident hands….
She looked up at him. “What are we going to do?” she asked.
“Marry,” Tony smiled. “That’s the idea. Can you bear it?”
She put her hands against him with a gesture of holding him off. “It’s a thousand miles away.”
“Or next week.”
“This is just playing. Like a dream.”
“Nice dream,” said Tony. “Coming all true.”
“We’re not free,” she cried, “we’re not free. Anything may happen.”
“But it won’t,” said Tony, and drew her to him again for kissing.
“No—well—let me go then.” He had his way and she hers. “I must go. I want to think.” She stood away and looked at him and her eyes were dark and troubled.
“All right. To-morrow,” said Tony, not pleased but gracious. “Good times to-morrow. Promise.”
“To-morrow,” she repeated with a little pitiful laugh.
He watched her go well pleased at himself and life. She went with her mind in tumult. She believed him completely: she was as sure as of her own life that he could never hurt anybody, never do anything cruel or mean. She felt him just what she wanted a man to be, strong and gentle and true and rather a child. But he was a child! He didn’t seem to think. He hadn’t done anything wrong, so everything must come right. As if the world was like that! He just laughed and talked about seeing it through—and all the while he knew those detectives were working to prove him a murderer and they had a sort of evidence. And he was only going to wait and stand up and say he wasn’t, though he really knew people must suspect him. Such a child!
She must think for both of them. Unless the real truth was found out, it would be terrible for him. Even if he wasn’t accused, there would be dreadful things said. See it through! They would never be free of it unless they could prove how it really happened, why it was done, who did it. No other way to be happy, to be safe. They couldn’t ever—without the truth. How could it have happened?
She lived over again the moments of her waking and the stumble on the dead woman’s body in the dark. No fresh memory came: it was all cruelly vivid and familiar; no new thought, only the old, first, baffling questions: How did the woman come there in the old archway? Why was it there she was killed?
While May thus stated the problem Inspector Gunn was making his investigations at the Abbey.
The butler received him as if he were a common, insignificant incident. He established himself in the morning room and said that there were one or two people he wanted to have a word with. He would begin with Mrs. Garston’s maid.
While he was waiting for her, Gladys came in. “Hallo! I didn’t know you’d blown in again. Anything I can do for you?”
“Well, there might be. Later on, miss, if you don’t mind. I’ll let you know.”
“Righto. I shall be about. Any news?”
“Not what you’d call news. I wouldn’t say but there might be developments before long.”
Gladys laughed. “That’s the stuff to give the troops, what?” She winked and swung out.
She produced in the simple mind of Inspector Gunn the conviction that he did not like her; and also a suspicion that she was not as free from anxiety as she wished him to believe.
The maid stood before him tense, fighting excitement, and under his slow inspection broke out. What did he want her for? Was there something he wanted to ask her? Gunn told her to sit down. But that did not check her flow of words. “I’m sure anything I can tell you, you’ve only got to ask me, I can’t hardly bear it, my poor dear lying murdered and nothing done about it, it’s too cruel—”
