Chapter XV

As luck would have it, just as Michael was completing his negotiations about a car to take them back to the Grange, Wallace Burden himself came into the garage to collect his own Talbot. He looked as offensively handsome as ever, and Michael wanted nothing so much as to knock him down; but as the man had been standing by the office wicket while the transaction was taking place, including the name of the hirer and the destination of the car, and had obviously listened with interest, Michael thought that it might prove rather awkward if he did not explain. Accordingly, he briefly described his meeting with Edna Loring, his friend’s fiancée, and his intention of taking her home; and was considerably surprised, not to say pleased, to find that the actor seemed more relieved than otherwise.

“Oh, very well,” Burden said. “In that case, I’ll be getting on to town, I think. Will you tell Miss Loring for me, and thank her for her hospitality and all, you know? Matter of fact,” he added, with a grin, “it’s a bit overdone for me, I must say--with all this excitement recently. Look here, Dr. Prendergast,” with a sudden movement he took Michael by the arm and dragged him out into the street, “you found this fellow Meston, didn’t you? Well, you know they’re saying he’s been murdered. What’s your view about that, eh?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” said Michael, who had no intention of being pumped in this quarter. “I have nothing to do with it, officially. Why didn’t you go to the inquest, if you want to know?”

“And be asked a lot of damfool questions by a silly coroner? Not likely,” the actor said, with an angry shrug. “Do you think I want to be mixed up with a murder case? Loring ought to keep his damned village in better order, if he wants people to stay in it. No, thank you. I’m off--if you’ve nothing to tell me?”

“Nothing at all, I’m afraid,” said Michael, shaking him off. He was so glad to see the last of him that it was not until he was well inside the public library and had secured the _Medical Directory_ that it occurred to him to wonder at the reason of this sudden departure, immediately a suspicion of murder was raised. Was Wallace Burden putting a convenient distance between himself and any too inquiring policeman? And ought Michael to have warned anybody in authority? However, Inspector Bille, after their brief lunch, had completely disappeared, and Michael did not feel equal to tackling the Colchester police force. He decided that it would be enough if he informed Wilson on his return, and set to work to look up Dr. Kershaw’s medical record.

Dr. Amory Kershaw had graduated M.D. from Guy’s Hospital in 1904, with a good degree. After that, he had held two or three temporary posts of the kind normally occupied by newly qualified men, and had then become physician to a fair-sized Midland hospital, where he had remained till 1910. He had, in the meantime, published one or two monographs on medical subjects, and, as far as Michael could judge from the _Medical Directory_, was on the high-road to become a distinguished physician. But after 1910 there was a gap, and in 1913 he reappeared in some unintelligible job in Stamboul, which he had apparently held until he left to join the army in 1915. After the war, in which his career had been perfectly normal, he had taken on this Essex practice, which he had retained ever since, becoming police-surgeon in 1924. The only two points of suspicion in the record were the gap between 1910 and 1913, followed by a distant appointment, and the rather humdrum work to which a man of exceptionally high qualifications had apparently settled down. The latter might, of course, be due to war injuries; but the _Medical Directory_ is not exactly a repository of gossip, and Michael had no real hope of finding out anything else. He called at a friend’s house in Colchester, and made some inquiries; but it did not appear that Dr. Kershaw was known so far afield. About Meston and Hanborough, on the other hand, every one was willing to talk--and the latter’s fondness for good company and the former’s hatred of it were becoming as familiar to Michael as the palm of his hand by the time he kept his rendezvous. One fact which puzzled him not a little, but which was attested by more than one witness, was that Meston, in the last week or so of his life, had been observed more than once in the company of bookies. Had the virtuous man fallen from grace at the end?

Tea with Edna Loring was a refreshing and enjoyable affair. Relieved of the incubus of Burden, and highly amused at the manner of his departure--“I suppose that was what he quarrelled with Sylvia about”--Edna talked happily all through the meal, and Michael was both surprised and annoyed when the hired car appeared. As he was handing the passenger in, a sudden voice said, “Hullo, Edna!” and a tweed-clad, florid-faced person with a cheerful smile appeared.

“Hullo, Nick!” Edna responded; and introduced Mr. Hanborough. Mr. Hanborough appeared to enjoy a casual chat, and detained them some little time before they could get away, congratulating Edna on having had the sense to avoid the inquest, which had proved a complete frost in the matter of sensation.

“They didn’t even call the doctor fellow who had a row with Kershaw about the cause of death,” he said, as they were parting. “And Evershed shut up any poor chap who so much as whispered. If you ask me, the police ought to have a compulsory training in elementary psychology. The amount of unsatisfied curiosity there was in that room this afternoon would drive a dozen men to murder. Well, good-bye, my dear, and good luck.”

“I say, Dr. Prendergast,” Edna asked, as they drove away, “were _you_ the mysterious doctor who disagreed?”

Michael admitted it, but declined to enter upon discussion, and as soon as he could changed the subject, and once more began making inquiries about Nicholas Hanborough. Edna, who appeared to like the senior partner, answered willingly for some time, though she was obviously more and more puzzled; but when Michael began asking her about Hanborough’s doings on the night of Meston’s death, she gave a gasp of amazement.

“Why, he was at our dance, of course! Dr. Prendergast, what is the matter with you? Any one would think he was a criminal, and you were trying to test his alibi!”

“Well,” Michael considered, “that was the night Meston died, wasn’t it? And no one knows yet whether it was an accident--or whether he killed himself--or whether some one killed him. I mean--there’s talk of some financial trouble between Meston and Mr. Hanborough, and it’s possible that some one may want to know where he was that night.”

“I see,” said Edna. She turned her face to Michael, and the latter was surprised to see how white it had become. “Well, they needn’t ask. He was at our dance.”

“All the time?”

“Yes. Well, I can’t say every minute. But he was about nearly all the time. I mean, I noticed him almost every time I looked up.”

“How long did it go on?”

“Till about six. But Nick didn’t go then. He and I and several others drove over to Little Friday and had breakfast. It was too fine to go to bed. Then we stayed in the woods a bit. We didn’t get back till after nine. Then Nick went back. He said he’d got to get home, and then to the office.”

And he arrived about then, Michael reflected. That looked like an alibi, at any rate for the earlier part of the twenty-four hours he had mentioned to Wilson. Edna Loring, he felt in his bones, was a good witness. He would have acquitted any one on her evidence. But why did she look so worried?

“Dr. Prendergast,” she said suddenly, “why are you asking this? Why should you--or any one else--think Nick Hanborough has anything to do with Mr. Meston’s death--however he died? What does it matter where he was?”

“Well,” Michael hedged, “he knew Meston well, and----”

“So did dozens of people! And you aren’t bothering about them. Why about Nick? Is it--because he was his partner? Is it anything to do with that money business?”

So she knew! Whether Mark had been less than discreet, or whether the long tongues of Steeple Tollesbury had been busy about that as well as everything else, did not seem to matter. She knew, and she was alarmed. This could only point to one person--Mark. On a sudden impulse Michael leaned forward and took her hands in his. He could feel them shaking.

“Miss Loring,” he said gently, “won’t you let me help you?”

The girl stiffened, and was silent. “Is it about Mark?” Michael pressed. A slight twitch was the only answer. “Listen,” Michael said. “I’ve known Mark for a long time--though not as long as you have--and it would be sheer nonsense to suggest his having anything to do with anything doubtful. If there’s something, I don’t know what, that worries you--something that wants explaining--I’m quite sure it can be easily explained. Whatever has or hasn’t happened to Meston, it’s absolutely certain _Mark_ had nothing whatever to do with it. Can’t you trust me?”

Not exactly the professional detective’s manner, Michael thought. But it had its reward at once, in the look of relief that came into Edna Loring’s face and the return of the colour to her cheeks.

“Oh, you _are_ nice!” she said appreciatively. “It was only--I got into an idiotic panic for a minute, you sounded so portentous. As if you were meaning to arrest Nick the next moment, if he couldn’t say where he was that night. But I knew he was at the party, and then I suddenly remembered that Mark--Mark wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t he?”

“At least, he was and he wasn’t. I mean, he came to the party--only he hated it, and went away soon after midnight, I think it was. And I know he didn’t go home, because he told me he’d spent ages wandering about--he does that, sometimes. Then when I thought you were asking about Nick just because he was that man’s partner--I simply went cold all over. I can’t think how I could have been so silly, but I feel much better now. Thank you.”

“Did Mark tell you about the money?” Michael asked, wondering whether he had not been slightly carried away by his enthusiasm. Was it possible that Warden----? No, surely it was absurd. Was all his journey to Colchester to result only in clearing everybody except his own friend?

“No.” Edna answered his last question. “Godfrey hinted something to me. I suppose Nick told him. Mark hasn’t said anything, and I didn’t like to ask him. He doesn’t believe in mixing up women and business, you know. And, anyway, he’s been in a funny mood lately, jumpy and not like himself. I shouldn’t wonder if that had got on my nerves a bit, and made me see bogies. I’m all right now. But, Dr. Prendergast, if you know and Godfrey knows, it can’t be much of a secret, can it? I wish you’d tell me just what it is that’s gone wrong with the business. I swear I won’t say a word to a soul--even to Mark--if you think I’d better not. But it’s pretty awful, not knowing.”

More to save himself from awkward questions than from any other reason, Michael told her. She listened attentively, with her chin on her hands, putting occasionally a question whose appositeness surprised him. But her final reception of the story astonished him still more.

“When did Mark tell you all this?” she asked. Provided with some particulars of the discussion in the Old Malting House, she leaned back with a triumphant smile.

“Then it _was_ Mr. Wilson!” she said. “I knew I was right!”

“Who?”

“Why, your friend! I told Mark so; but he wouldn’t believe me. Mark never remembers names, but he told me a long time ago about your wonderful Scotland Yard friend called Wilson; and when he said you’d a friend called Wilson staying with you, I thought at once it must be the same. Oh, Dr. Prendergast, how perfectly marvellous! And is he going to find out all about everything? Oh, very well,” seeing Michael’s alarmed face. “If it’s a secret I won’t tell any one. Really, I won’t. But you shouldn’t have such a nice innocent face, you know?”