Chapter XXIV

“So you’re going to hang the Squire’s brother! What terrible fellows you are, to let loose on a quiet town!” Like a cheerful Jack-in-the-box, Mr. Brandreth popped out of an entry, and strolled along by the side of a very reluctant Michael. Driven from Wilson’s company by a curt intimation that the latter wanted to think and that he got in the way, Michael had chosen the calm of the High Street in preference to the buzz of the inn; but it appeared that he had jumped from the frying-pan into the fire. Curse the fellow and his gift of ubiquity!

“I hope, for his own sake, your friend’s got plenty of evidence against him,” Brandreth continued. “It won’t be a popular arrest hereabouts. Our democracy has always taken John’s side against the Squire.”

“Don’t they get on, then?”

“There’s a proverb hereabouts,” the lawyer said. “Two Lorings, one hanging. I don’t know that it’s generally fulfilled in detail, but one feels that it might be any moment. The father and uncle of these two had a regular battle-royal, and there would have been murder done if they hadn’t been separated. And John and Godfrey have fought from their cradles. Oh, it’s not about anything; it never is. Just two Lorings--that’s all. Not that I think your friend’s very wise to go nap on John, you know. I don’t exactly fancy him in the part.”

“Then who do you fancy?”

“Oh, come, I’m not a tipster. I never back my fancy, even when the field’s small. And in this case, I fear it’s rather a large one. I always felt, you know, that the late William Meston was one of Nature’s murderees, if I may put it that way--only convention keeps most of us from following our natural impulses. By the way, talking of him, what does Mr. Wilson make of his researches into the financial affairs of his own firm?”

“Why should he make anything? He’s investigating his death, not his financial position.”

“Oh, he doesn’t think they’re connected, then? That’s very interesting. Now I wonder----You had a bit of a look into that, hadn’t you? Would it be very indiscreet to ask what sort of conclusion you reached?”

“It would,” said Michael, with a firmness not unmixed with pleasure at being able to baffle the solicitor for once in a way. “Anyway, I don’t see why on earth you should assume I’ve any interest in the matter.”

“My dear sir, Colchester is a charming town, no doubt; but few find it so attractive as to want to go there, with the prospect of an exciting inquest at home. But I forgot--of course you must have known that the inquest was going to be a wash-out. Your friend’s rather hard on us, isn’t he? Withholding of information beyond a certain point about seems to me a crime.”

“It’s a crime which can affect you singularly little!” Michael retorted. “You seem to know who is guilty, or who is going to be hanged, before I do myself!”

“Oh, as to that,” said Brandreth, unperturbed, “you can’t expect to bring John Loring home in a motor with two plain-clothes men, and lodge him in Lockwood’s house all night, without having a bit of a buzz about it. You see, we in these parts don’t need uniforms to rouse our suspicions. We know our local force’s Sunday best as well as its blues, and so--we draw our own conclusions.”

“Well, you’d better go on drawing them,” said Michael, moving off. “It seems to me you get much more interest out of life that way than I could give you.”

“Meaning you won’t tell me what you found in Colchester. Well, well, it’s a pity,” said Mr. Brandreth. “And after all the interesting conversations you must have had with Strake, too.” Michael made a sudden movement, as he remembered how on the morning following the finding of the body he had surprised Brandreth in an earnest conversation with the inquiry agent. “Oh, Strake’s not as secret as the grave, I’m quite aware. The difficulty is, isn’t it, to know what to believe and what not to believe with a fellow like that? I was in hopes you’d have been able to sift his stories a little. But, if you can’t, you can’t. Any time you _do_ feel like a chat about it, of course, I’m your man. By the way,” as Michael made another effort to get away, “I was thinking of going along to Kershaw’s place now. Care to come with me? It’s really worth seeing.”

“Sorry; I’m afraid I can’t manage it at the moment.” Brandreth looked at him with a quizzical smile.

“Well, well, I’m not sure you’re not right. Perhaps, on the whole, Kershaw might be a little sore at the way you’ve treated him.”

“Sore? Treated him? What do you mean?” Michael’s wrath with the doctor had been overlaid a little by the events of the last few days; but it was still lively enough to awake at any suggestion that he had been in the wrong.

“Why, I don’t know what you said to Kershaw or he to you. But if you let him make a fool of himself in open court, he’s hardly likely to be pleased.”

“He gave his own evidence.”

“Pointing to accidental death--and you go and arrest John Loring for murder!”

“Why should you assume----”

“That it was murder? Well, I don’t suppose Mr. Wilson arrested him for accidentally pushing Meston into the water. And you’ve just told me it wasn’t anything to do with Meston’s financial affairs.”

“You’re very certain Wilson _did_ arrest him,” said Michael, biting his lip.

“Didn’t he? Lockwood’s a very impulsive fellow at times,” said Brandreth sympathetically. “But I shouldn’t have thought his impulses would have led him to arrest John, unprompted. However that may be, it does seem to mean Kershaw’s got a bit of a grievance. He says somebody’s been burgling his house, by the way. Odd sort of thing to do; I shouldn’t think there was twenty pounds’ worth of stuff in the place, bar the house itself. But he’s quite annoyed about it.” He stared at Michael till the latter felt that the marrow of his spine was blushing. Suddenly there was a welcome diversion. “Good heavens!” said Mr. Brandreth, “there’s a man trying to get into my house, and the housekeeper’s out. I must go. So sorry. Au revoir, Dr. Prendergast.” And he trotted off to his house at a pace which Michael could not help thinking unduly speedy for a mere caller kept waiting.

* * * * *

“Now, what did he want to know that for?” Wilson mused, when Michael reported the conversation to him as they sat at lunch. “It’s quite obvious that he was trying unusually hard to pump you--but with what purpose? What conceivable interest can he have in Meston’s financial affairs? Or--is this a hint to me that I’m on the wrong track? I think perhaps I’ve been neglecting the Warden-Hanborough aspect of the thing. This wants looking into.” And he fell into a brooding silence.

“Have you got any further, this morning?” Michael asked.

“No; I can’t say I have. I went up to Lockwood’s to have another look at the prisoner; but he doesn’t seem any more talkative than he was last night. He’s slept for fourteen hours, and agreed to demean himself by taking food; so he’s in altogether better physical trim. But it doesn’t appear to have loosened his tongue any, as the Yankees say.”

“Much the wisest thing for a murderer to do, to say nothing,” Michael said.

“Yes, but they don’t all look so pleased about it. He’s in an odd mood altogether. Something has obviously happened to make him very angry, not to say despairing; for even the Loring temper would hardly account for his ferocious surliness. But at the same time there’s a quite perceptible air that can only be called _exalté_--a sort of Sydney Carton--‘It’s a far, far better thing’--if you know what I mean; which hardly seems to fit in with hanging one’s rival. If you’ve an odd moment, Michael, you might like to go up and have a look at him. You can say I sent you as medicine man, and I’d like to know what you think of your suspect in the flesh. Otherwise, there’s no news, except that I’m waiting hourly for news of Mr. Potts. Ah, there’s the good Colonel coming. This is probably it.”

The Colonel had, it was true, seen Potts, and had brought along, for what it was worth, the information he had secured. But, like most of the information secured in the case, it did not advance matters much. Potts, said the Colonel, had been very unwilling to talk at all, being a surly and secretive man by nature. “He’s a queer-looking customer, too,” the Colonel said. “Something like a talking gorilla. I often think the man’s not quite right in the head, but he’s said to be an excellent servant, and he’s certainly fond of the family. I had to call in Godfrey to help, before he would speak at all.” When he did speak, however, Potts confirmed the story of his meeting John Loring and receiving the note for Mrs. Meston, which he duly delivered. He had no idea, he said, what was in it. More than that he either did not know or would not tell. He had not seen Mr. John again, had not gone to the town that afternoon or evening, had not seen Meston or held any communication with him or any one else. Had not told any one of Mr. John’s return. Asked how Mrs. Meston looked when receiving her note, he professed himself unable to remember. And that, meagre as it was, was all the information which the Colonel had been able to extract from the footman. No amount of questioning or cross-questioning had been able to shake or vary his story.

“And that’s that,” the Colonel finished, as he took his leave. “Supposing the doctor’s suggestions are correct, we’re still no nearer knowing how Meston heard that young Loring was in the place.”

“Or how he got to the bridge--if he did.” Wilson was staring dreamily in front of him. “Thanks, Colonel. Don’t be downcast. I admit it’s not very satisfactory at present; but the only thing is to keep pegging away. I’ve known worse cases.”

“By the way,” said Michael, when the Colonel had gone, “Kershaw apparently has a fancy he’s been burgled over the week-end, so Brandreth tells me.”

“Rubbish!” said Wilson. “He couldn’t. I looked over the place myself, before I left, and there wasn’t a thing out of place.”

“Except the bit of cocaine I took to examine,” Michael said.

“No one could have missed that.”

“Well, Brandreth said he thought so, anyway.”

“That,” said Wilson, “proves either a guilty conscience or--special information. By Jove!” he sat up, suddenly wide awake. “That decides me. If he suspects burglary he may as well know about it--at least what it was for. Yes, I think a little conversation with Dr. Kershaw is indicated. No, Michael, I don’t want you. You’d put him off. You amuse yourself; I shan’t be long.”