Chapter XXI

They hurried back to the inn, and found Edna Loring pacing up and down outside, apparently in some agitation. Michael took her up to their sitting-room, ordered tea, and waited for the ball to open.

Edna wasted no time. “Dr. Prendergast,” she said, “have you seen Mark to-day?”

“No, nor for some time.”

“We’ve had a row--I mean, this morning. And I can’t make it out, because we never have rows--I mean Mark never quarrels. But to-day he was furious.”

“Why?”

“What about, you mean. It was about Nick Hanborough, of all silly things. You know what you told me yesterday about the firm”--to Michael--“well, I began to ask him about it--we were going out for the day--and he seemed frightfully annoyed that I knew, which of course was ridiculous. As if I could help knowing something, in a place like this. But Mark is ridiculous about women; he thinks they’re all like his mother and sisters, and have to be kept in glass cases. Anyway, I asked him whether he really thought Nick had anything to do with it, and what it had got to do with Mr. Meston’s death anyway. I don’t know whether you know; but half the place thinks Meston was murdered--it’s absurd, of course, but there you are. I didn’t mean anything particular, I just wanted to know; but Mark turned quite white, and asked me what on earth I meant. So I said people seemed to be very inquisitive about Nick, and even asked where he was the night Meston died--you did, you know--and I wanted to know what it was all about. Then Mark got whiter than ever, and flew into a passion, and told me more or less I was a scandal-mongering fool, and I’d better hold my tongue. The long and short of it is that we had the first row we’ve ever had, and I told Mark to take me back here, and he did, and drove off again. And what I want to know now is whether I have put my foot in it frightfully, and if so, how? Because I’ve never seen Mark like that before.”

For a few moments both men were silent, weighing up the story.

“Is it true that Meston was murdered?” Edna asked at last.

“Miss Loring,” Wilson said, “if I give you some information which is meant to relieve your mind, you must solemnly promise to keep it to yourself. There is so much tattling going on in this town that it is very difficult either to trust any one or to believe what’s said. But if you will give me your word, I will tell you one or two things which you can be certain are true. Good. Well, then, there _are_ grave suspicions that William Meston was murdered on Friday night of last week. It is not certain that he was; nor, if he was, is it known why. But, under the circumstances, you will see that the police are bound to make inquiries--routine inquiries--into the whereabouts of any one connected with Meston on Friday night. Hence the interest in Mr. Hanborough’s movements.”

“Nick was with us,” Edna said. “I told Dr. Prendergast so.”

“That may be fortunate for Mr. Hanborough,” Wilson said. “You will possibly have to repeat it to the police. But----”

“But Mark wasn’t! Oh, is that what you mean? Of course, I ought to have known. Mark was outside, wandering about somewhere. But--Mr. Wilson--_Mark_ wouldn’t murder anybody!”

“Probably not,” said Wilson. “But for all that, he might not like too much casual talk about Mr. Hanborough’s position--especially as they are all three connected with a business which appears to have gone wrong.”

“I see. And do you think that’s all?--I mean, that’s why Mark was so queer?”

“That is all I can tell you. But I shouldn’t worry, Miss Loring, until I had something more definite to worry about. If Meston was killed, as I say, we don’t as yet know why--whether it was anything to do with this financial affair or not. And it’s no use crossing bridges till we come to them.”

“Thank you very much.” Edna still looked thoughtful, but she did not pursue the subject further, and soon afterwards finished her tea, and took her leave, rejecting all offers to see her home.

“What a fuss about nothing!” Michael said, when she was gone.

“Nothing? Aren’t you rather Spartan, Michael? Do you call the possible arrest of your fiancé, or your fiancé’s partner, for murder, nothing?”

“It’s not very likely,” Michael said, “since you’re here to see that Lockwood doesn’t arrest innocent people.”

“Oh, they’re innocent, are they? And who is guilty?”

“Isn’t John Loring?”

“Well, we haven’t got him or his statement yet,” Wilson pointed out. “We don’t know what he’s got to say in his own defence. But, as you seem to be certain, suppose you turn into counsel for the prosecution, and tell me just why you’re so sure he killed Meston?”

“I thought you were sure, too,” Michael said. “You hinted as much to Lockwood, anyway. However, if you want an Aunt Sally, here goes. John Loring was all but engaged to Mrs. Meston two years ago, and went off in a fit of temper. Everybody agrees that if he hadn’t gone to China before he had time to make it up he would have married her. You grant that?” Wilson nodded, and he continued:

“Well, then, Mrs. Meston gets married, also in a fit of temper, and repents without even a decent interval of leisure. She informs her husband that she’s made a mistake, and he informs her she’s got to stick to it. The cat-and-dog life they lead gets all round the neighbourhood, and presumably reaches the former lover--China isn’t all that distance away, you know, nowadays. Mrs. Meston, meanwhile, gets deeper and deeper in a set that has the reputation of sticking at nothing; and finally runs away--with a magnificent field of co-respondents ready to hand. Of course, she may have known then that Loring was coming back, though I’m inclined to think she didn’t. Anyway, she ran away; and when Meston came to fetch her back he was thrown out of the house. And she’d gone into Colchester with one of her paramours, and taken away every stick that belonged to her. That looks as if she meant her departure to be pretty final. Mark you,” Michael said, warming to his theme, “she hadn’t the smallest chance of getting untied and marrying her lover except through Meston’s death. He wouldn’t divorce her, and she couldn’t divorce him.

“Then comes the evening of this party at the Grange. Whether expected or not, John Loring turns up in the afternoon, and sends a note to Mrs. Meston, presumably asking her to meet him at the old boathouse that night, which she agrees to do. They meet, as Machin saw them. Then, when Machin has gone away, Meston comes up and surprises them. Loring, in a desperate rage, and not knowing that any one else has witnessed their encounter, kills Meston and sends the woman off by herself. Then he makes tracks for London. Mrs. Meston hangs on, believing his presence unknown, till she’s alarmed by Strake’s stories. Then she, too, makes tracks, after a futile attempt to throw you off the trail. That’s my reading, Harry. What do you say to it?”

“I should like,” said Wilson, “to know exactly how, in your view, Hanborough and the matter of the firm’s books fit into it.”

“They don’t fit at all. They’ve nothing whatever to do with it. It’s just an instance,” said Michael, doing his best to imitate his friend’s mannerisms, “of how chance coincidences may mislead an investigator.”

“I see. Well, there’s something in being ruthless, perhaps. But I’ve a larger snag for you. How did Meston happen to be walking that way at such a timely hour?”

“He was warned, I suppose.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know--I suppose it must have been Potts.”

“Who has the reputation of being devoted to the Lorings, and who had previously thrown Meston out of the Grange. _Would_ he take the trouble to warn Meston about his own master’s doings?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps not. But he must have been warned.”

“Another point,” Wilson continued. “You remember how Meston was killed? Hanged, by a silk rope. Where did that rope come from? One doesn’t find silk ropes lying about in disused boathouses.”

“I see,” Michael said slowly. “You mean--the murderer must have brought it with him?”

“Somebody must, at all events. I’m not destroying your theory, Michael. I only want to point out that it has implications which I’m not sure you’ve taken in yet. If there was a silk rope at the boathouse on the night of Friday week, it wasn’t there by accident. It was brought, presumably, by the person who was going to use it. But that isn’t murder committed in the heat of passion, by a man surprised by his bitter rival; it’s a cold-blooded, planned, diabolical killing. And the woman must have been party to it, probably stood by and saw it done, for Machin’s story makes it quite certain that the killing did not take place after Mrs. Meston left and before John Loring’s departure. Whatever was done, was done while she was there. I suggest that we ought to make fairly sure of our ground, seeing the character of the crime we are postulating.

“Another point. Not only must the hanging have been planned in advance--the victim also must have been brought to the spot by premeditation. The murderer could not have relied on any chance passing on of gossip. Do you suggest that Potts was primed by John Loring to bring Meston to his death?”

Michael pondered; then a light suddenly burst on him. “No!” he cried. “Not Potts! Kershaw!”

“Kershaw?”

“Kershaw. Wasn’t that what you were trying to suggest to me? Kershaw, as we’ve seen from his papers, must have had a pretty hefty grudge against Meston--the more so as he had, apparently, to swallow Meston’s abuse. Kershaw’s very thick with the Lorings, everybody says, particularly lately. Perhaps he, too, was in love with Mrs. Meston--no, that won’t work,” said Michael, checking himself. “Anyway, Loring fixed it up with him--he’d have had plenty of time to do it, because we haven’t any idea what happened to him between the time when he met Potts on the road and midnight. Loring goes to the old boathouse with his silk rope. Kershaw leaves the Grange early--just the time when Billings couldn’t find him anywhere--goes and rouses Meston, tells him where his wife is, and sends him to his death. Then, when the body turns up, or, rather, when _I_ turn up, Kershaw bashes it on the head so as to try and make it look like accident. Of course, that’s it! And Loring would have had to find out Meston’s movements from somebody. I suppose Kershaw told him.”

“How, in your view, did Kershaw give his fatal message? Did he stand in a boat and shout it? Or bawl from the opposite bank? The wall of the inn goes straight down into the water, you’ll remember.”

Michael hesitated, but only for a moment. “He could get in quite easily, and go right up to Meston’s room. This is the easiest place in the world to get in and out of. The front door’s locked at night, but that’s only a kind of token vote. Anybody could get in--and out--almost anywhere. That’s one of the reasons it’s been so difficult to decide when Meston _did_ depart.”

“Well, then, how did Meston get to his rendezvous in time to be murdered? Kershaw didn’t leave the Grange till after midnight. Meston, according to your theory, was murdered at all events soon after one. And it’s a good three miles’ pitch-dark walk along the tow-path.”

Once again Michael surmounted the obstacle. “Kershaw had a bicycle. He took Meston along--perhaps he helped to murder him; it would have been a difficult job single-handed. And then he cycled back quickly to get to Billings’s cottage.”

“And Mackenzie? And your other suspects?”

“Not on the map.”

“You’re very ingenious, Michael,” Wilson sighed. “You really answer my objections most convincingly.”

“_And_,” Michael ended triumphantly, “Kershaw got five hundred pounds, or something like it, for his share in the business. That’s how he managed to pay his bills last week. Isn’t that what you were hinting to me?”

“I had suspected something of that sort. But----”

“What’s the matter, Harry? Don’t you agree with me?”

“I expect,” Wilson said, “that a psycho-analyst would tell you that I don’t want to agree, and that that proves conclusively how right you must be. To be honest, I am not perfectly sure. The whole crime, as you’ve reconstructed it, suggests a diabolical completeness of prearrangement which doesn’t somehow seem to fit with the known characters.”

“You haven’t seen John Loring,” Michael pondered, “so it can’t be him that it doesn’t suit. It must be Mrs. Meston. You’ve let that woman get hold of you, Harry! It’s just the same with you as with Lockwood--she’s bemused you, and you don’t want to think her concerned, so you won’t!”

“More psycho-analysis! Lockwood and I, I admit, both agree in preferring defiant sinners. You, I fancy, like them sad and repentant.”

“You admit she’s a sinner, anyway?”

“That depends, doesn’t it, on the amount and degree of the sin. You condemn her because she uses the natural weapons of her sex, answers you back when you’re rude, and lies to get herself out of a corner. Very reprehensible, no doubt, but hardly on the same plane as deliberate murder, I think. Besides, let me put another point, which may appeal to you more. The whole business seems to me so excessive. Sylvia Meston wanted to exchange her husband for John Loring--granted. But in these degenerate days it is almost unnecessary to remove the male obstant. I don’t feel the Loring ménage would insist on John’s making an honest woman of his paramour. Why not simply go off together?”

“Well, perhaps it was Kershaw’s idea,” Michael persisted. “Meston may have been in his way to an extent that nothing but death would solve. Or there may have been other reasons. We don’t know the whole story yet.”

“We do not. Perhaps the young man will be able to enlighten us. Come in!”

Sergeant Linton, more portentous in civilian clothes, entered the room. “Colonel Lockwood asked me to let you know, sir, he’s got Mr. John Loring at his house under arrest. He thought you’d maybe step around after dinner.”