Chapter XXV

Dr. Kershaw was in his surgery when Wilson was announced. He looked up with a cold glance of hostility as the detective came in, and Wilson noticed an additional shake of the long, nervous fingers that were beating up something in a mortar. “He’s running his drug pretty hard,” he thought.

“What can I do for you?” Kershaw asked.

Wilson held out his card. “My name’s Wilson, of the C.I.D.,” he said, thinking that it was of little use to try to keep his identity dark. “I’ve been requested by Colonel Lockwood to help him look into the matter of the death of Mr. Meston.”

“Why?” If Kershaw was alarmed, he was controlling it well. “Is there anything wrong with his death? It looked to me like an accident, but I may have been mistaken. I’ve heard nothing about it since the inquest was adjourned.”

“I understand that the police are not entirely satisfied to accept the explanation of accident,” said Wilson, with his eyes on the doctor’s face. “Particularly in view of certain events connected with Mr. Meston’s life.” Kershaw made no sign, but waited for him to proceed. “Can you throw any light, doctor, on anything which would suggest a motive for any one putting him out of the way?”

“I? No, I can’t. I barely knew the man.”

“Yet they say you’d had a violent quarrel with him.”

“Who say? Whoever it is, they’re lying.”

“There’s some talk of a very acrimonious correspondence between you.”

“Look here, Mr. Wilson,” said Kershaw, who had turned a greenish yellow, and seemed very angry, “are you intending to bring a charge against me? For if you are, I know enough of the law to know that you ought to caution me formally before you try to make me commit myself, and, if you aren’t, I’ll be glad if you’ll say plainly what you’re up to!”

“I’m not arresting you, Dr. Kershaw,” Wilson said, “and I should be glad to avoid the necessity of detaining you in order to answer my questions. There is a little information which I think you could quite easily give me, and I’d rather get it in an amicable manner. Of course, if you force my hand----”

The doctor turned round and fidgeted for a little with his test-tubes. “Well,” he said at last, “what is it you want to know?”

“Did you, or did you not, have a quarrel with William Meston?”

“We didn’t quarrel. He wrote me a very offensive letter--I suppose that’s what you’re alluding to, though how you found out about it I can’t imagine. But I didn’t take any notice. It was the sort of communication that’s best left alone.”

“What was it about?”

A dull red spot rose on the doctor’s cheeks. “If you must know, it was an insolent and unwarrantable attack on my private character. Meston, as you’ll know for yourself if you’ve been looking into his affairs, was a thoroughly unpleasant Paul Pry of a man--a kind of preaching deacon in other folks’ lives. He saw fit to call my conduct in question, and wrote me an entirely unfounded letter. If I’d done anything about it, I should have called him out and taken a horsewhip to him; but I didn’t. That kind of thing is best left alone, and everybody knew what Meston was like. There wasn’t a word of truth in it.”

“I see. And then you didn’t have any more ill-feeling?”

“I don’t know about feeling,” said Kershaw. “We weren’t on speaking terms; and if his face was any guide, his feelings about me must have been quite strong. But we didn’t have any row. As I’ve already told you, I barely knew the man.”

“I see,” said Wilson again. “Where were you on the night of his death?”

Kershaw gave a jump. “I? I was at a party at the Grange.”

“Till when?”

“Oh, some time after midnight, I think.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I had a case to go to. Midwifery.”

“Billings, the cowman?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you get there?”

“I’m not certain--some time between one and two, I think,” said Kershaw, licking his lips a little. “I was delayed.”

“What delayed you?”

“I--I forgot some appliances, and had to go back for them.”

“So that you went to your house twice, did you?”

“Twice--yes. Once for my bag, and once for the things I’d forgotten. That’s twice.”

“On your bicycle?”

“Yes.”

“How far were you when you found you’d forgotten your appliances?”

“Just by the bridge.”

“And it takes you--say--five minutes to bicycle from the bridge to your house. And from the Grange--how long?”

“I don’t know--I’ve never timed it.”

“Twenty minutes, perhaps. Or longer?”

“I don’t know. I tell you I haven’t inquired.”

“Even if we put it at half an hour, with a quarter of an hour for your other goings and comings--still you didn’t get to Billings’s cottage till an hour and three-quarters after you’d left the Grange. Where were you in the meantime, Dr. Kershaw?”

“Here,” said Kershaw. “I was--looking for things. I’d mislaid them. I had to turn the whole place out.”

“But when Billings’s boy came and knocked, you didn’t answer?”

“No, I didn’t,” the doctor snapped. “I looked out of the window and saw who it was, and I didn’t want to waste more time coming down after him. These people think one’s a mechanism at their beck and call--the fools!”

“And that’s all you did?”

“That’s all. Look here, Mr. Wilson----”

“You didn’t by any chance call at the Old Malting House?”

“No.” There was a gasp in Kershaw’s voice, but it sounded like a gasp of relief more than apprehension.

“Or see--anything remarkable?”

“No!” No relief this time. The question had clearly been a nasty one.

“And you’ve no notion or suspicion of how Meston came by his end?”

“No! None. I tell you I hardly knew him.”

“If that is so, Dr. Kershaw,” said Wilson, looking hard at him, “how do you account for the fact that in the week after his death you became unexpectedly possessed of a large sum of money?”

There was no mistaking, this suggestion had gone very near the mark, though what exactly the mark was, Wilson was not at all certain. Kershaw flushed furiously, and looked as if he was about to spring on him.

“That’s no business of yours--and nothing whatever to do with Meston,” he said eventually. “If you must know, a man paid me an old debt, that’s all.”

“And you used it?”

“I used it as I commonly use money--to pay for what I wanted!” Kershaw flashed back at him. “And now, Mr. Wilson, I’m a busy man, and I think I’ve wasted about enough time. Unless you’ve any more _pressing_ questions, I will wish you good afternoon!”

“You haven’t any information that would help me, then?” Wilson said, preparing to take his leave.

“I have not. If I had I’d have given it to the proper quarters long ago. Good afternoon.” And without any attempt to show the visitor out, Dr. Kershaw returned to his mortar, and resumed his braying.

“That’s a scared man,” Wilson thought, “if ever I saw one. But what exactly is he scared of? Are we on the right track--or not?” He looked round at the sunny peaceful afternoon. “I think a walk might help to clear my mind a bit. Sorry, Michael”--he apostrophised his absent friend--“but it can’t be helped.”