Chapter XXIII

“This,” said Colonel Lockwood, “is Superintendent Wilson, of Scotland Yard. Superintendent Wilson, Mr. John Loring.”

“Do I say, ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilson,’ or, ‘Damn you for a cursed, interfering swine’?” John Loring asked amiably. “The latter seems more appropriate, I think. Please consider it said.” He sank back into the Colonel’s arm-chair, with which, in deference to his physical condition, he had been accommodated, and leant his scowling head on his hand.

Wilson looked at him with some curiosity. He saw a tall, powerfully built man, four or five years younger than his brother, the Squire, but of the same general physical appearance. John, however, was the better-looking of the two, mainly because, owing either to the superior discipline of life in China or simply to less self-indulgent habits, he was obviously in much better general condition. He had Godfrey’s broad, low brow and heavy jaw, and the same deep-set grey eyes; but he was thinner and browner altogether, the bones of his face and head still stood out clearly, and he had not yet begun to thicken about the neck. At present he was looking very wan and exhausted, which was not surprising, considering that he had absolutely refused to touch either food or drink in Colonel Lockwood’s house; but his powers of resistance appeared unabated, and Wilson’s first reflection, on seeing him, was that the Colonel seemed to have bungled the affair again, and that it was long odds on extracting an admission, or indeed any information, from this formidable young man. Why on earth had Lockwood not gone to London himself, and put his own questions? Anything rather than let himself be jockeyed into making a quite possibly premature arrest. One fact, nevertheless, Wilson had to admit. There was no doubt that John Loring was physically capable of committing the crime they had set out to investigate.

“You know, John,” the Colonel said in a tone of mild reproof, “you’re not helping us very much.”

“I’m not trying to. Did I look as if I was?” was the reply. “I don’t know who killed the blighter and I don’t care. If I did I wouldn’t tell you. He deserved all he got. I hope you’re taking all this down, by the way?”

“You,” said the Colonel, “were in Steeple Tollesbury the night when he was murdered.”

“So were you,” said John. “Did you kill him? I congratulate you, Lockwood. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You had a grudge against him.”

“Have it your own way. You know best, I’m sure. What about it?”

“Mr. Loring,” Wilson said, “I think you’ve got this affair the wrong way round. We are not trying to make you incriminate yourself; we are only asking for an explanation on one or two points----”

“Don’t you wish you may get it?”

“You were in Sir Felix Lewis’s boathouse from midnight till about 1.30 on that Friday night.” Wilson saw Loring’s hand clench, but he said nothing. “What we want to know is what you were doing there, and what you did when you left?” No answer.

“And who was with you,” said the Colonel injudiciously. Loring put his hand down in order to glare at him; but an expression of relief showed momentarily in his eyes.

“You don’t want much, do you?” he said.

“I don’t think so,” the Colonel replied, “seeing that a man has been murdered in what even his enemies must admit to have been a cowardly manner----”

“How _was_ he murdered?” John interrupted. “You didn’t mention that. You’ve given me a pile of gossip and things I didn’t ask for about my own movements, but you haven’t told me the really interesting thing--how that ---- got himself done in.”

“For the moment,” Wilson put in, “I think we might leave that. The thing is, Mr. Loring, that it is necessary, in the best interests of all who knew Mr. Meston, and particularly, if I may say so, of those who are known to have been on bad terms with him, that they should give us a frank account of their movements on the night he was murdered. That is the reason we are asking you these questions.”

“To which you seem to know the answers--or have ’em made up,” said John. “Why bother me?”

“We should like your confirmation,” said the Colonel.

“I’ve no doubt you would,” with a sneer, “but that’s just what you aren’t going to get. My dear fool, do you think I don’t know you, that you come here with a booby-trap and expect me to walk into it, and hang myself out of my own mouth to oblige you and my precious brother? I’ve told you I didn’t kill him, and if that isn’t enough for you, you can go and whistle for more, or get some of your dirty little police spies to swear it. I don’t admit I was here on Friday night; I don’t admit I was at the boathouse; I don’t admit anything. Now go to hell!” His voice died away, and his eyes stared suddenly.

“Look out!” said Wilson. “He’s going to faint!” But before they could get to the prisoner he had slid forward in a heap and dropped inertly on the floor. He was a good thirteen stone in weight, and they had to summon the assistance of the sergeant on guard before they could get him restored to consciousness and placed on the couch, where he lay glaring at them like a trapped beast, but obviously beyond speech. Wilson noted that the sergeant appeared to relish his job no better than the Colonel, and approached the prisoner with an odd mixture of pity and deference. Plainly, Mr. John Loring was popular in the neighbourhood; and his arrest was not likely to range the gossiping population on the side of the law.

“You aren’t likely to get anything more out of him to-night,” Wilson said in an undertone to the Colonel. “In fact, I should get him to bed as quickly as possible.”

“Here?” said the Colonel, in the tone of one asked to extend a neighbourly lodging to a tiger.

“Well, he obviously isn’t fit to be housed in jail,” said Wilson. “You can put a guard, if you think he’s likely to run away. Personally, I doubt his having the strength for it, at the moment. You might get Kershaw to have a look at him, if he’s back.” For reasons of his own, he rather wished his two suspects to have a chance of communicating.

“Kershaw--can go to--hell,” the prisoner remarked in a faint but forcible whisper, as if he had read Wilson’s thoughts. “I’ll give you--parole--if you like. Won’t run away--feel too--damned sick.” And he shut his eyes as if the effort of keeping them open was beyond his strength.

“What do you make of it, Wilson?” the harassed Colonel said, when he had, with considerable labour, installed John Loring in his spare room. “It looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?”

“It looks to me very much the same as it did,” was the reply. “We haven’t succeeded in getting any fresh information--in fact, we’re just where we were.”

“But look how he’s incriminated himself!” the Colonel cried. “You didn’t hear half what he said about Meston! It would be enough to hang him with any ordinary jury.”

“Oh no, Colonel, it wouldn’t. A clever counsel could easily turn that to the prisoner’s advantage. It’s quite rare for a man who premeditates a crime like this to give himself away afterwards by abusing his victim. We know, of course, that Loring doesn’t like Mr. Meston; but that, by all accounts, we knew before.”

“But it’s indecent,” the Colonel said, “to curse the man when he’s dead.”

“Oh, Mr. John Loring is obviously in an exceedingly bad temper--a worse temper, one would think, than would be normal under the circumstances. But is it so out of keeping with his character?” The Colonel could not say that it was. “There you are, then. That goes no way with a local jury. I’m bound to say it seems to me that there’s more in his manner than meets the eye. But I don’t think, in his present mood, he’s likely to explain that for us himself. We’ll have to look for it elsewhere.”

“Then you don’t think he’s guilty?”

“I did not say so.” Wilson, tired himself with a long day and a series of disturbing suspicions, had much ado not to show his impatience. “What I meant to imply was that it is by no means fitted together yet, and that we certainly haven’t enough evidence to go before a jury. In the first place, we’re not definitely sure that it was Mrs. Meston who was with him at the boathouse, though I don’t feel much doubt that it was, and we can probably succeed in proving it. But, what’s much more important, we’ve no real evidence that Meston was there too, and that’s very much too large a fact to assume--however sure we may be in our own minds. Did you see the man Potts, by the way?”

“No; he had the day off. I’ll see him to-morrow,” the Colonel promised.

“The answer may be there--though I’m more inclined to think we’ve got to look further. Anyway, I’m not satisfied yet,” And with this negative conclusion Michael also had to be content, when his friend returned to bed at the Old Malting House.