The Draycott Murder Mystery: A Golden Age Mystery Page 10

  “When was this, Miss Allen?”

  “About six, I gather, but the girl was a little vague about the exact time when I questioned her.”

  “And when did you first hear of it?”

  “About half-past six. I went back to the drawing-room when I had finished my letters and did not find her there. The maid came in to make up the fire and I asked her if she had seen her. I was astonished to hear that she had gone out.”

  Fayre held out his hand.

  “It is more than good of you to have been so frank with me,” he said gratefully. “You have cleared up one or two points that were puzzling me. I am ashamed of myself for worrying you about such a painful subject. My only excuse is that I am lunching with Leslie’s solicitor and all is grist that comes to his mill just now.”

  “I am only too glad to be of help. You must remember that I, too, have my reasons for wishing to see this matter cleared up. Give my love to Cynthia when you see her.”

  Fayre rode on to Whitbury with one load, at least, off his mind. Miss Allen, quite unconsciously, had cleared herself definitely of suspicion. Just about the time Mrs. Draycott must have reached the farm her sister was questioning the servant concerning her. With a sigh of relief he wiped Miss Allen off his list of suspects.

  He found Grey hungrily awaiting his lunch. While they were eating Fayre gave him a brief account of his morning’s work.

  “We haven’t done so badly,” he finished. “We have corroborated the tramp’s story of the car and, what is more, got at least part of the number. We know that the mud-guard was injured and is probably marked with red paint. We have established the fact that there was only one person, a man, in it when it returned and I see no reason to doubt the tramp’s assertion that there were two people in it going. It looks very much as if one of those people was Mrs. Draycott. Anyhow, it is odd that the tramp should have had the impression that one was a woman. He made the suggestion on his own, without any prompting from us. Best of all, we have established the fact that Mrs. Draycott could not, according to the maid at Miss Allen’s, have been shot before six-thirty. The doctor has put it down as not later than seven. That fits in, more or less, with the arrival and departure of the mysterious car.”

  Grey nodded.

  “It’s straightening itself out a little,” he agreed. “But the car is a tough proposition! That number, by the way, is a London one, as you probably know, which widens our field considerably.”

  “Miss Allen, also, is convinced that her sister never walked to the farm.”

  “I know. I gather that she emphasized that point in her interview with Sir Edward. I have seen Leslie, by the way, and I put your questions to him. His description of the scene at the farm after the arrival of Gregg was very circumstantial. He told me one thing that rather struck me.”

  “Anything that bears on our friend the doctor?”

  “Yes. It’s small, but interesting. Fortunately for us, Leslie has got what is known as an oral memory. That is to say, he remembers things he has heard more easily than things he has read. With most people it is the other way round. He told me that, at school, he always had to say a thing out loud before he could learn it. The result is that he was able to repeat to me, almost word for word, everything that was said in his presence that night. Of course, the peculiar circumstances helped to impress it all on his memory. He shares your opinion of Gregg. Thinks him a tough customer and inclined to be brutal, at any rate in speech. This being the case, he was surprised at the emotion Gregg showed at the sight of Mrs. Draycott’s body. He says it was slight, but quite apparent, and would have been perfectly natural in a layman. In Gregg, it struck him as curious. There was something curious, also, in the wording of Gregg’s answer to the Sergeant when he asked him if he had ever seen the deceased. Leslie says he thought nothing of it at the time, but it remained in his memory and he is certain that he has it correct.”

  “I thought Gregg denied ever having met her.”

  “His exact words were that she was no friend of his. The Sergeant, very naturally, accepted it as a denial.”

  CHAPTER IX

  When Fayre got back to Staveley he found a tea-party in full swing and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to escape from various formidable old ladies, who picked his brains as tactfully as might be as to the way Leslie’s affairs were shaping; how Cynthia was taking the whole affair and whether Sir Edward Kean was likely to be briefed for the defence. He put them off as best he could with noncommittal answers and felt thankful, for Cynthia’s sake, that she had decided earlier in the day to drive over to Galston and spend the afternoon at home.

  Lady Staveley, realizing that the girl was dreading her mother’s comments on the situation, had been over the day before and persuaded Lady Galston to let her keep Cynthia with her for the present. Fortunately, that lady had not realized that Staveley was a stronghold of the enemy and that Cynthia’s loyalty to the man she had promised to marry would meet with nothing but encouragement there and was only too glad to feel, as she artlessly put it, that Cynthia would be out of mischief for a day or two.

  The Staveleys had decided to wipe off two irksome duties in one day and Fayre found himself let in for a big dinner-party of county worthies. He was still stiff and tired from his unwonted exertions and was heartily glad when the evening was over. He managed, however, to glean a few facts about Gregg’s past from people who, on the arrival of the “new doctor,” had made it their business to find out all about him and who responded only too readily to his adroit questions. He also discovered that the local vicar’s wife had known the Allens in Hampshire in years gone by and had followed Mrs. Draycott’s career from the beginning with considerable interest. In her capacity as vicar’s wife she could not approve of her, but Fayre detected a touch of envy in her voice as she recounted some of the episodes in the dead woman’s chequered past. According to her, Mrs. Draycott had managed to “have a good time,” as she expressed it, from the moment she left the schoolroom and, at one time, in spite of her divorce from her first husband, had moved in a smart, but quite reputable, set in London. Of late years, however, she had undoubtedly gone down in the social scale. The Dare Divorce Suit had done her reputation irretrievable damage and she spent most of her time abroad when she was not staying with people who, for old times’ sake or because they were less squeamish than the rest, were still willing to ask her to their houses. Lady Staveley’s invitation, he gathered, had been the result of a large charity entertainment in which they had both been involved and in connection with which Mrs. Draycott had made herself very useful. Unfortunately, when it came to her associates in the last few years, the vicar’s wife proved a broken reed. She knew as little as Miss Allen of the set in which Mrs. Draycott had been moving when she died.

  Gregg’s record, allowing for certain embroideries at the hands of the local gossips, proved slightly more enlightening. He had arrived in the neighbourhood about three years before, having come straight from a large, but very poor, practice in London. His predecessor, from whom he had bought his present practice, was retiring, after a long and popular career, and, having weathered a short period of unpopularity due to his brusque manner, Gregg stepped into his shoes as a matter of course. Of his skill there was no question, and, according to Fayre’s informants, he hid a kind heart under a rough exterior. He was unmarried and lived alone, his women-folk being a cook-housekeeper and a maid. He kept one car, which was looked after by the cook’s husband, who combined the duties of chauffeur and gardener. He had the reputation of being a good bridge player, but cared little for society and was not often to be seen at the local entertainments.

  On one point Fayre’s informants were unanimous: that never, at any time, could he have been a lady’s man, and the general opinion was that he had once suffered at the hands of a woman. Certainly, his opinion of the sex was unflatteringly small and he made no secret of his views. Fayre began to modify the conclusions he had drawn from Gregg’s antagonistic attitude towards Mrs
. Draycott; in the light of what he had just heard, it seemed a fairly natural one.

  Cynthia returned just as the party was dispersing and slipped up to her room, so that he had no opportunity of speaking to her that evening. He sent a message by Lady Staveley to the effect that Grey had seen Leslie that morning and that he had found him well and cheerful, and then went to bed himself, feeling more tired than he had been for many a long day.

  The fine weather held and the next morning he basely turned a deaf ear to the bells of the little church at Keys and, having seen the Staveleys off to the pursuance of their Sunday duties, went in search of his fellow-truants, Lady Kean and Cynthia. He found them, wrapped in furs, in a sunny corner of the terrace.

  Cynthia greeted him eagerly.

  “I very nearly came to your room and heaved you out of bed, Uncle Fayre, last night,” she exclaimed. “I did so want to know what you’d been up to. Only Eve said you were too tired. She declared you’d been bicycling!”

  Fayre laughed outright at the horror of her tone.

  “Why not?” he retorted. “When I left England all the best people bicycled and it seemed to me as good a way to get exercise as any. It never occurred to me that it would make such a sensation. Even the villagers look at me as if I’d suddenly gone mad!”

  “You probably have,” said Cynthia severely. “If you’ve really started careering about the country on a push-bike.”

  “Anyhow, I careered to some purpose. For one thing, Grey and I have pretty well established the fact that Mrs. Draycott was taken to the farm by some one in a car and that person was actually seen leaving, alone, after the murder.”

  He had made his point as effectively as a good actor, and his audience responded to the full. Even Sybil Kean’s habitual languor deserted her and she leaned forward in her chair, her fine eyes alight with interest.

  “Am I on in this scene?” she asked almost eagerly. “Or must I do the correct and tactful thing and drift away down the terrace as if I hadn’t heard a word of what you’ve just said? I expect you do want to talk to Cynthia alone.”

  Cynthia turned on her indignantly.

  “We want you, don’t we, Uncle Fayre?”

  “Of course. I was counting on your advice. For one thing, you must have a closer acquaintance with the person I want to discuss, than any one else in this house.”

  For a moment she looked puzzled. Then:

  “Dr. Gregg?” she said quietly.

  “How did you know? There are times when you’re uncanny, Sybil.”

  “There’s nothing uncanny about this. I’ll tell you later, but get on with your story first. It’s brutal to keep us in suspense.”

  “Begin at the very beginning, Uncle Fayre. And, please, what did Mr. Grey say, exactly, about John? Was he really cheerful and is he desperately uncomfortable?”

  Fayre told her all he had been able to gather from Grey.

  “He’s going to try to get you an interview again next week. It’s a bit of a strain for you, my dear, I’m afraid, but it means a lot to Leslie.”

  Cynthia’s almost boyish youth seemed to fall from her like a garment and Fayre, watching her, had a sudden vision of what a charming woman she would make in the days to come.

  Sybil Kean looked meaningly across at him.

  “Get on with your story, Hatter,” she said gently, and he knew that she did not want the girl’s emotions played on at this juncture.

  He told them in as few words as possible of the tramp’s disclosures and his own subsequent investigations.

  “The probability is,” he finished, “that Mrs. Draycott was picked up at the bottom of the lane leading to Greycross—whether by appointment or not we do not know—and driven to the farm. Why she was taken to the farm is a mystery, unless it was part of a deliberate attempt to cast suspicion on Leslie. It certainly looks as if there was an appointment and she left Greycross to keep it. She was hardly the kind of woman to go for a stroll on a cold, windy night in such unsuitable clothing.”

  “It was a queer kind of appointment if she did not tell her sister about it,” said Sybil Kean thoughtfully.

  “It may have been with one of the many friends of whom she knew her sister would disapprove. In fact, that’s pretty obvious, or she’d have asked him to the house instead of slipping out to meet him.”

  “I suppose Miss Allen can’t suggest anybody?” put in Cynthia.

  “Useless. I’ve asked her. She did her best—and sent a lot of messages to you, by the way, Cynthia—but she says she knows very little of her sister’s friends. I gather they weren’t a very reputable lot.”

  “Somebody else may have seen the car,” suggested Cynthia.

  “There’s always a bare chance,” agreed Fayre. “If our luck holds we may come across some one. You mustn’t forget that the tramp’s not out of the reckoning yet. He admits to being in the immediate neighbourhood of the farm at the time the crime was committed and we’ve no proof that he wasn’t actually present.”

  “What he said fitted in very well with the carter’s story, though.”

  “It did, but that doesn’t alter the fact that he might have been actually at the farm when he saw the car the first time. We’ve only his word for it that he was at the corner of the lane. Personally, I don’t think he’s got brains enough to invent such an ingenious defence or enough pluck to commit a murder; but one never knows. A timid man sometimes kills in a moment of panic, from sheer fright at being discovered. We can’t afford to rule him out yet. Mrs. Draycott may have gone to the farm on her own account and been surprised there by the tramp; and he, in his turn, may have been surprised by the arrival of the man in the car and have killed her to stop her mouth.”

  “But there were two people in the car, going, and only one coming back.”

  “Remember, that’s according to the tramp himself. He’s the only person who saw the car the first time.”

  “Then we get back to the original problem,” said Sybil Kean. “Why did Mrs. Draycott go to the farm at all?”

  Fayre nodded.

  “That’s the real snag,” he agreed. “Still, I can’t help thinking that it all points to an appointment, probably with the driver of the car. Given that the tramp killed her, the man with the car may have kept his appointment, found her dead and cleared off, hence his haste.”

  “And where does Dr. Gregg come into all this?” asked Sybil Kean.

  “On very flimsy grounds at present, I’m glad to say, for the sake of your peace of mind! I can imagine it would be a little disquieting to find you’d got a murderer as your medical attendant!”

  Sybil Kean smiled lazily.

  “Poor Dr. Gregg! He is rather a bear, on the surface, but you’d be surprised how gentle he can be. You’ve got to be ill to see the best side of him. He’s not cold-blooded enough for a murderer.”

  Fayre looked at her in surprise.

  “Then what made you pitch on him as the person in whom I was interested? You said there was a reason.”

  “A very vague one. And I may be absolutely mistaken. It was more an impression I had.”

  “Let’s have it, anyway; then I’ll tell you what’s been worrying me. We may make something of it between us.”

  “It was really Mrs. Draycott. As soon as she heard his name she did nothing but ask questions about him. When he came here; where he came from; what was he like, and that sort of thing. I may have been wrong, but I had a distinct impression that she had met him before.”

  “Why didn’t she see for herself? She had plenty of opportunities. He came two or three times while she was staying here, didn’t he?”

  “That was the funny thing. I don’t believe she wanted to meet him. As a matter of fact, I chaffed her about her curiosity and suggested she should stroll casually into my room and have a look at him. She laughed and seemed quite ready to fall in with the idea, but she never came.”

  “Did you ever tackle him on the subject?”

  “Yes. On one occasion, I asked him
point-blank if he had ever met her. He laughed and said that, unless she had ever been addicted to slumming, she was the last person he was likely to meet. All the same, I had an odd conviction that they had come across each other at some time or other and that neither was anxious to renew the acquaintance. Of course, I’ve nothing to go on but my own very vague impressions. That and the fact that I see more of him than most of the people here made me suspect that you had him in your mind.”

  “It’s funny how it fits in with what I was going to tell you. My suspicions were roused in very much the same way. When he drove me to the station to meet Grey we discussed Mrs. Draycott and he seemed quite extraordinarily bitter against her, considering they had never met. Also, he struck me as knowing a good deal about her, nothing that gossip and newspaper reports would not account for, but enough to show that he had followed her career with considerable interest. Unfortunately I said something that put him on his guard and he shut up like a clam. Mine, like yours, was only a vague impression, but, oddly enough, Leslie seems to have been struck by the same idea. It’s only fair to say, though, that Leslie may have been influenced by certain leading questions Grey put to him at my request.”

  “What roused John’s suspicions?” asked Cynthia.

  “Gregg’s manner when he was called to view the body. Also, according to him, Gregg did not actually deny having met Mrs. Draycott when he was questioned by the police. He said, apparently, that she was ‘no friend of his’ and the police naturally took it to mean that he did not know her. It may have been merely his way of putting it. We’ve none of us really got anything to go on.”

  “Also, if he’s got anything to hide, he’s giving himself away rather stupidly, isn’t he?” suggested Sybil Kean.

  “He’s apparently being criminally careless and he’s not a stupid man. I admit to being puzzled by him, he’s such a queer mixture of bluntness and reserve.”

  “And so you want me to do a little Sherlock Holmes work while he’s taking my temperature! Cynthia can play Watson! Joking apart, though, I like Dr. Gregg and I can’t believe he’s got any real connection with the murder. He’s a much better sort than people think.”