The Draycott Murder Mystery: A Golden Age Mystery Page 5

  She gave him a swift look of gratitude and followed him without speaking. At the hotel he ordered food and, when it came, quietly but firmly insisted that she should do it justice, making an excellent breakfast the while himself and keeping the conversation rigidly to impersonal topics. It was not till the meal was over and he had handed her a cigarette and lighted one himself that he allowed her to unburden her mind.

  “First of all, what did you wish to consult me about?”

  His tone was curt and business-like and, fortified by the food which she had badly needed, she was able to collect her thoughts and put them more clearly into words.

  She gave him a brief account of what had happened. The main facts he had already learned from the evening papers, in which Mrs. Draycott’s latest photograph, over the caption of “The Murdered Woman,” had confronted him. He questioned her sharply on one or two points, otherwise he let her tell the story in her own way. When she had finished he sat back in his chair, smoking thoughtfully, for a minute. Then he leaned forward, his keen eyes on hers.

  “Where was Leslie while all this was happening at the farm?” he asked sharply.

  Cynthia met his gaze without flinching.

  “With me,” she answered simply.

  “Then why doesn’t he say so?”

  “That’s what I wanted to see you about. It doesn’t clear him. You see, he wasn’t with me at the time they seem to think the murder actually took place. And now he doesn’t want me to say anything because he’s afraid it will drag me into it for nothing. I think he’s wrong and he ought to tell them. Mother being so hateful about our engagement makes it all so much more difficult.”

  “When was he with you?”

  “From five till nearly half-past. Then he did exactly what he said, took a long walk and did not get back to the farm till about eight. It was all my fault, really.”

  She broke off, as though she found it difficult to continue.

  “You’d better tell me exactly what happened,” came in Sir Edward’s quiet voice.

  “It’s all rather complicated,” she went on haltingly. “You know what Mother’s been, about our engagement. Daddie likes John and he’d be all right if it wasn’t for her. Lately she’s been trying to get round John too, telling him that he is ruining my young life and all that sort of rot. And poor old John gets fits of the blues and then he swallows everything she says and behaves like a blithering idiot afterwards, offers to let me off the engagement and all that sort of thing. He’s done it once already and we had an awful row and I wouldn’t speak to him for nearly a week. On Monday the parents went up to London and, thank goodness, they’re there still, or else I don’t think I could bear it. John and I arranged to meet in a copse near the Home Farm at five, after they’d gone, and go for a long walk. After that I was going home to dress for Miss Allen’s dinner and we’d planned that John should pick me up at her house and drive me in my car to Staveley at about eleven. You see, when the parents are at home, we never seem to get much time together and we were going to take advantage of their being away. We met at five, just as we’d arranged, but we did not go for the walk. John had met Mother somewhere the day before and she’d filled him up with the usual nonsense. He began to talk all sorts of rot about not being able to marry me for years, and all that kind of thing, and wanting to break it off. It ended in our having a fearful row, me saying he didn’t care for me and all the things one says when one’s in a rage, and so we parted. And I suppose the poor old thing was upset and went crashing off on this rotten walk and here we are in the soup. If only I hadn’t been such an ass we should have been together and everything would have been all right.”

  “I don’t know that you would gain anything by coming forward now,” commented Kean thoughtfully.

  “That’s what John says and, of course, after the line Mother’s taken, he doesn’t want to mix me up in it. What I say is, that sane people don’t go charging about the country for nearly four solid hours, unless there’s something wrong with them, and of course everybody thinks John must have been up to something. If he’d tell them exactly what happened and what was wrong with him, there’d be some sense in the whole thing. Of course, we should both look awful fools,” she finished ruefully.

  “I’d better see Leslie to-morrow and then you can appear at the inquest if we think it’s advisable. Tell him I’ll come over to the farm in the course of the morning.”

  Kean rose and picked up his overcoat.

  Cynthia hesitated, then took her courage in both hands.

  “Sir Edward, Mr. Fayre is at the farm now with John and he wants to see you. Won’t you come over with me now? I’ve got the car outside and I could run you over to Staveley afterwards. Sybil knows. In fact, it was her idea, so she won’t be expecting you.”

  In her anxiety she forgot her shyness of him, clinging to his arm, her beseeching eyes fixed on his face.

  “Won’t you come now? Please, Sir Edward! The inquest’s this afternoon and it would make all the difference if you could see John first.”

  Kean’s face had begun to darken at her first words, but, at the mention of the inquest, it sharpened to a look almost of anxiety.

  “The inquest? Already? I was afraid of that!”

  “Sir Edward! They can’t arrest John!”

  “I don’t know. It all depends on what the police have up their sleeve. I think you’re right; I’d better come up to the farm now.”

  On their way they spoke little. Cynthia drove with all the recklessness of youth, and less than half an hour had passed before they turned into the little lane that led to the farm.

  Fayre and Leslie were at the door to meet them. “It’s very good of you, sir,” said Leslie. “I seem to be giving you a fearful lot of trouble.”

  He looked worn and anxious, but his eyes met Kean’s fearlessly and the lawyer, accustomed as he was to read faces, was both attracted and impressed by his manner.

  He laid his hand on Leslie’s shoulder.

  “Come inside,” he said. “And let’s talk things over. So you’ve got a finger in this pie, Hatter? You always were an old busybody!”

  There was a hint of annoyance in his voice. For one thing, he had all the professional’s dislike for amateur interference, and he knew Fayre too well not to be aware that he was lamentably thorough in his methods. Also, he would be yet another link which would serve to draw Sybil still more surely into this unsavoury business.

  There was a gleam of mischief in Fayre’s eyes as he answered.

  “Beastly nuisance, Edward, an outsider butting in! I know. I’ve had experience of them in the East. Don’t worry; I’m only here in the capacity of family adviser. I’ve constituted myself a sort of adopted uncle of Cynthia’s. After all, I’ve known her since her pigtail days.”

  He tucked the girl’s arm under his as he spoke, with a smile so friendly and encouraging that she felt her heart lighten.

  “Mr. Fayre’s been most awfully decent,” said Leslie impulsively. “It’s made all the difference, feeling we’ve got him on our side. And now you’ve come! I am grateful, sir!”

  “Everybody’s been decent,” put in Cynthia. “I can’t tell you what a brick Lady Staveley was when I told them all on Monday. And Miss Allen has written to ask me to go there and see her this morning. I don’t know why, unless it’s just to show that she believes in John. They’ve always been jolly good friends, but it’s pretty wonderful of her to see me at all, considering what’s happened.”

  “It’s unusual. And not in the best of taste, either, in the circumstances. Still, as you say, she may want to show herself definitely on your side. All the same, I think you’d better let me see her instead. It will be best for you to keep away until after the inquest.”

  “You don’t think Cynthia will have to appear?” put in Leslie anxiously.

  “I’m inclined to agree with her that it may put your actions in a more favourable light if she tells her story. After all, so long as your engagement holds she
is involved, in any case. Her name is in the papers already and five minutes in the witness-box won’t make much difference.”

  Cynthia shot an indignant glance at him, and Leslie’s face took on an added gloom.

  “I told her we’d much better consider it off, at any rate till I was clear of all this business,” he said miserably. “But she won’t listen to me.”

  Cynthia turned in desperation to Fayre.

  “Uncle Fayre! You’re the only one of the lot with a gleam of sense. Do stop him! If he starts this argument again, I shall go mad! We’ve had enough rows already about it, and I should have thought the result of the last one might have taught him a lesson! Tell him what a fool he is, Uncle Fayre! You said you agreed with me. If I argue any more about it I shall lose my temper.”

  She swung round on Leslie.

  “Understand this! I’m not going to let this make any difference. I’m going to hang on like a leech, whatever happens! So you can’t get rid of me!”

  Kean’s eyes met Fayre’s meaningly.

  “I think she’s right,” he said quietly, and left it at that; but the other knew what he was thinking. If Leslie were to find himself in the dock the fact that his engagement to Cynthia still held would tell in his favour.

  He nodded absently. His mind was on the coming inquest. While they were talking they had drifted into the sitting-room, and he saw Kean’s face harden into grim lines as he took in the scene that had staged so dramatic a drama. It struck him that the lawyer, in spite of his air of calm efficiency, was taking anything but a light view of Leslie’s predicament.

  The table had been cleared of all its paraphernalia. No doubt the blotter was in the hands of the police. Fayre and Cynthia sat down near the table and Kean took up his position on the hearth-rug in his favourite attitude, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched almost to his ears. Leslie stood behind Cynthia, his eyes on Kean’s face.

  “What’s this about a police search?” asked Kean abruptly.

  “They went through the entire house,” answered Leslie. “Goodness knows what they were looking for. They wouldn’t let me go with them.”

  “What have you told them so far about your movements on Monday evening?”

  “Simply that I went for a walk. I wanted to keep Cynthia out of it.”

  “You’re sure you met no one who could identify you?”

  “I’m afraid not. I was riled and I wanted to walk it off. I went clean across country, away from the roads. I did see a chap with a spade over his shoulder, some labourer going home, I suppose, but he was a good way off and it was getting dark. I remember him because his dog barked.”

  “What time?”

  “Round about six, I should think. I’d been walking for about an hour.”

  “We might trace the fellow. In any case, I’m afraid there’s nothing for it but to give a clear account of your movements, including the time you were with Cynthia. You will gain nothing by holding it back at this juncture. I’ll go now and see this Miss Allen. She may possibly have something to say that throws a light on things. Is it within a walk?”

  “Take the Staveley car which brought me,” suggested Fayre. “It’s waiting at the gate and Staveley said I was to use it as I liked.”

  “In that case, I suggest that we all meet for lunch at the hotel at Whitbury. We shall be on the spot, then, for the inquest. You’re sure Sybil is not expecting me?”

  Fayre smiled.

  “This is one of her little plots. Didn’t you recognize her hand behind it? She told me to say that she would expect you when she saw you.”

  “We meet at the hotel, then.”

  Fayre accompanied him down the little path to the gate, where the Staveley car stood waiting. They had almost reached the end of the path when Fayre, who had been walking with his eyes on the ground, deep in thought, bent down suddenly and picked up something from the long grass that bordered the path.

  “Found anything?” asked Kean.

  “An old stylographic pen,” said Fayre, examining it curiously. “I remember them in my youth. ‘Red Dwarfs,’ I think they used to be called. I wonder how it got there.”

  Kean held out his hand for it.

  “It’s probably been there some time. We’ll ask Leslie if he recognizes it. We’ll stick to it, anyway. It may prove of interest.”

  Fayre was peering about in the grass.

  “There’s nothing else,” he said, “except some copper-coloured spangles, three of them, here on the path. I believe the poor creature was wearing a brown-spangled dress, so, as we know she probably came up this path, that does not lead us anywhere. The pen may prove more useful.”

  “It has probably got there since the murder,” Kean reminded him. “It’s hardly likely the police would have missed it. They must have gone over this ground pretty carefully. The pressmen have been down here already, remember. One of them may have dropped it.”

  He slipped the pen into his pocket as he spoke.

  After Kean had climbed into the car Fayre stood for a moment, his hand on the door.

  “I’m not going to make a nuisance of myself, Edward,” he said. “But, if there’s anything I can do, you might put me onto it. I’m sorry for those children and would give a great deal to help them. Also, I’m at a loose end and I’ve no ties. If there’s any special line you want followed I could do it more tactfully, possibly, and unobtrusively than one of these fellows from an agency.”

  Kean nodded.

  “I’ll remember. Don’t underrate the private detective, though. It’s not such an easy job as you seem to think. Meanwhile, if you can keep Sybil from worrying herself silly I should take it as a kindness. I’ve got to go back to town to-night and I should like to leave her in good hands. Yours are the best I know, old chap.”

  The car slid away, leaving Fayre, for all his even temper, a little ruffled. His offer, not a very practical one, perhaps, but none the less heartfelt for that, had been quietly, but firmly, put aside. The lump of sugar, skilfully administered after the pill, did not deceive him and he was human enough to feel snubbed. There was something significant, too, in the way in which Kean had quietly pocketed his find in the garden. Evidently he had no intention of taking his old friend into his confidence with regard to his conduct of the case. Fayre, who had meant to ask him his intentions should Leslie be committed for trial, decided to leave all such negotiations to Lady Kean. They had both hoped that he might be persuaded to undertake the defence and he felt now that she was the only person who could be counted on to influence him, should the occasion arise. He returned to the farm in as near a bad temper as was possible to one of his temperament and thoroughly out of patience with the legal mind.

  “If Edward takes this line, blessed if I don’t do a bit of investigating on my own,” he told himself doggedly. “He always was a hide-bound beggar. Come to that, why couldn’t he let Cynthia go and see Miss Allen? She’d probably get more out of her, as woman to woman, than he will. Another of his absurd points of legal etiquette.”

  Meanwhile the object of his wrath was reviewing the situation as the motor bore him swiftly on his way to Greycross. If Cynthia had seen his face now she would have been robbed of even the faint hope that had been kindled by his visit to the farm. But he felt no doubt as to Leslie’s innocence. His manner, all that he knew of him in the past, the complete lack of motive, even the very weakness of his alibi, all served to exonerate him; but, as Kean knew from long experience, only the lack of motive would weigh with a jury. He had guessed that part of Leslie’s time on the Monday had been passed in the company of Cynthia Bell and had counted on her to produce a sufficient alibi, expecting to be confronted with nothing more serious than the boy’s chivalrous desire to shield her. He had been far more concerned than he had chosen to admit, even to Fayre, when he found that Cynthia’s evidence would be worse than useless. He was so deep in thought that he was taken unawares when the motor drew up in front of Miss Allen’s pleasant, picturesque old house.
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br />   A bulldog ambled out onto the drive to greet him and a couple of terriers sniffed at his legs as he waited in the comfortable drawing-room into which the maid had shown him. The pale March sunlight filtered in through the long French windows, but the blinds had been drawn in the ante-room through which he had passed and he knew that probably all the other windows of the house were shrouded. An ominous quiet seemed to brood over the whole place and he found himself moved for the first time by the realization of Mrs. Draycott’s death. Until now he had been too occupied with the consequences of the murder to give much thought to the woman who had, after all, been his fellow-guest at Staveley for over a week. Now, in her sister’s house, the sense of tragedy deepened and, when Miss Allen found him standing by the window, staring with sombre eyes into the sunlit garden, she was struck by the weariness of his pose and the almost haggard pallor of his face.

  He, summing her up sharply in his turn, was surprised to see but little sign of the violent grief he had expected. Her plain, fresh-coloured features were grave and a little sad, but she was obviously not prostrated by the loss of her sister. She greeted him frankly and with a certain quiet dignity.

  “My maid said that you wished to see me?” she said simply.

  “I must apologize for intruding on you at such a time, but I have come from Lady Cynthia Bell. She tells me that you very kindly offered to see her and she asked me to express her gratitude and appreciation. I am afraid that I am responsible for her failure to take advantage of your suggestion. … It is difficult to explain my interference without encroaching on a subject which, I am afraid, must be very painful to you.”

  He broke off, his face alight with a very real sympathy.

  “You mean my sister’s death,” she said steadily. “I know your name well, Sir Edward, and if you have come on Cynthia’s behalf, there is one thing I should like to make quite clear before we go any further. You have guessed, probably, why I wanted to see her and I am very glad to have the opportunity of saying as much to you as I had intended to say to her. It is simply this: I have known John Leslie for some time and I’m not a bad judge of character. I am absolutely convinced that he had nothing to do with my poor sister’s death and, what’s more, am practically certain that he had never met her or had ever had anything to do with her.”