Chapter XXX

Wilson roused himself, as they swept up the drive of the Grange, to comment, like Michael before him, on the extreme danger of that narrow entry; and found that Bille, unlike Edna, was a whole-hearted sympathiser. “It ought to have been widened years ago,” he agreed. “Would have been, too, but that Squire and his father were both chairmen of the Bench. One of these days there’ll be a bad accident, and then I suppose something will be done about it. Do you want to see the Squire, sir?”

“Not if I can help it,” Wilson replied. “In fact, I want as little fuss as possible. I just want to have a few words with Potts, and then get away. Perhaps you’d better stay in the car, Bille, if you don’t mind. You’re probably a bit too well known hereabouts, and Dr. Prendergast can do any necessary introducing. There’s just a chance that Potts may open the door.”

As a matter of fact, the last-named eventuality actually did occur. But Wilson’s hope of getting his interview without disturbing any other member of the household was doomed to disappointment; for, even as they stood in the doorway preparatory to stating their business, a door on the far side of the hall opened suddenly, and Dr. Kershaw bounced, more than walked, out, his method of exit suggesting rather strongly that he had been assisted from behind. As he staggered into the hall, the face of the Squire, bearing a sardonic grin, appeared in the open doorway. Seeing the little group at the front door, he came forward, with a change of expression. Kershaw, whose face was livid with emotion, appeared not to see them, but on hearing Godfrey Loring’s footsteps, turned, and all but shook his fist in his face.

“Very well,” he said, “I shan’t forget.”

“I hope you won’t,” the Squire replied. “You might also remember that it isn’t altogether healthy to get thrown out of here.” He laughed. “Hullo, doctor, what can I do for you?”

At these words Kershaw, whom the penultimate sentence appeared to have reduced almost to a fit of apoplexy, turned sharp round, and, seeing Michael and his companion, made a sudden rush for the door. He nearly knocked over the footman as he disappeared down the steps.

“May I introduce my friend, Mr. Wilson?” Michael said. Godfrey Loring raised his eyebrows politely, but said nothing.

“Good afternoon, Squire,” said Wilson. “I’m really here on false pretences--it should be Colonel Lockwood. He understands that one of your men found a rope down by the old bridge last night, and there are just one or two points about it he wants cleared up, if I could see the man. It won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

“Certainly. Potts!” Loring called to the footman. “Do you want a private conversation? If so, my study’s at your disposal.”

“There’s no reason you should not hear every word, Squire,” Wilson said carelessly, and somewhat to Michael’s surprise. “But perhaps we needn’t inform the world, though the point’s of no great interest.” He passed into the study, followed by Loring, Michael, and the footman. A whisky decanter and glasses were set out, and Loring offered drinks, helping himself when the others declined. Meanwhile, Michael gazed at Potts, whom he had not seen before. The footman, he decided, was not prepossessing, though it was with an animal, rather than a criminal, ugliness. He was of the gorilla type, with long arms, low brow, a prognathous jaw, and a heavy crop of black hair; and Michael wondered at the taste which should select such an object to open the door to its visitors. He seemed phenomenally stupid. Michael could not conceive how cross-examination could get any useful information out of him, and waited with all the more interest for Wilson to begin. He was proportionally disappointed to find that Wilson elicited nothing whatever beyond the story they had already been told by Bille in the car, and, indeed, hardly seemed to try. He only established, perhaps a little more exactly, the position of the stump by which the rope was found, and then thanked the footman, and indicated to the Squire that he might be dismissed at once.

“You’d never seen the rope before, I suppose?” was his parting question.

“Not that I know, sir,” said the footman, as he disappeared.

“That all right, Mr. Wilson?” said Loring. “Case getting on nicely?”

“So-so,” said Wilson. “It’s a long job. We’re holding your brother, you know, for the present.”

“So I heard,” said the Squire. “Dashed inconvenient for him, poor chap. I suppose you’ll have done with him soon?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say, at the moment,” said Wilson gravely. “When did you hear of his accident, by the way?”

“Some time the next day--Saturday,” was the reply. “Weaver--the fellow who picked him up--rang up and told me.”

“But you didn’t tell Mrs. Meston, did you--when she went off to find him?”

“No, I didn’t.” The Squire took a long drink. “I wasn’t aware that that came into the case, but if it does, I don’t mind telling you that I didn’t tell her deliberately. You know what Mrs. Meston is, and she had thoroughly gone in off the deep end. I’d just half a suspicion at the time--knowing my brother--that if he _had_ managed to run across Meston while he was here, there might have been trouble, and I thought the less she poked her nose in it, the better for all concerned.”

“Then you knew he’d been in the neighbourhood?”

“Yes. Potts told me he’d seen him.”

“Didn’t you expect him to turn up here?”

“Hadn’t the slightest idea,” Godfrey Loring said. “John don’t exactly love the home of his ancestors, you know; and when he left it he didn’t bless the threshold. I supposed he’d turn up if he wanted to, and not otherwise.”

“Thank you. Can you tell me one other thing? What were you and Dr. Kershaw quarrelling about?”

“Well, I’m damned! Aren’t you being a trifle personal, Mr. Wilson? What’s it got to do with you?”

“If I tell you that Dr. Kershaw is under grave suspicion of being connected with a--financial scandal, which we are anxious to clear up with as little publicity as possible, will you tell me, Mr. Loring?”

Loring took another drink. “Oh, if it’s a criminal matter--I don’t mind. There’s nothing in it, anyway. Kershaw merely wanted to borrow some money off me.”

“For any particular purpose?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t ask. Kershaw’s always hard up, more or less, and always sponging on his friends. I don’t know if that helps you.”

“Did you lend it him?”

Loring smiled. “From his expression as he left the house, I should have thought you would have gathered that I did not.”

Wilson smiled back. “Have you often let Dr. Kershaw have money?”

“Nary a once. I’m not quite a fool,” was the reply.

“Well, thank you very much. I’m very much obliged to you, and I need not take up your time any longer,” said Wilson, getting himself and Michael out of the room. Shepherded by the Squire, they passed down the steps and out to the car, where Inspector Bille was awaiting them rather uneasily.

“I say, sir,” he said, “while you were in there, Dr. Kershaw passed out, with a face like nothing on earth, and rode off hell-for-leather on his bike. In view of what you were telling me awhile back, don’t you think we’d best pass the word to the station to keep an eye on him? We don’t want him to get off.”

“I’ve already warned them,” Wilson soothed him. “I don’t want him too closely watched, because I thought he might give somebody else away, if he was frightened and left at large. But I think you’ll find that your people have got their eye on him.”

“Hang-dog sort of fellow that Potts is,” said Michael. “It was a pity the Squire turned up just when he did. It stopped you getting any more out of him. I suppose you didn’t want to press him in front of his master?”

“I didn’t,” said Wilson. “And I didn’t want to alarm him either. But I got what I wanted.”

“_Did_ you? I didn’t think you got anything fresh.”

“I got from his own lips the statement that he found that rope by the alder clump.”

“What’s the importance of that?”

“Only this,” said Wilson, his eyes dancing, “that I went through that pile of leaves myself with a tooth-comb on the afternoon of the inquest, and there was no rope there then.”

Inspector Bille gasped, and his jaw dropped. “Why, then--then----” he said, and stopped, for Wilson had ceased to listen.

“I _know_,” he was saying to himself--“I _know_ the answer’s just under my hand. Wait a minute.” And he relapsed into silence; but just as they reached Steeple Tollesbury he almost sprang to his feet.

“Bille,” he said, “do you happen to know what the bottom of the Toll is like by the Old Malting House? Is it all mud, I mean?”

“All mud, I think,” said the Inspector. “No, bless my soul. That’s where the piers are.”

“Piers? What piers? And where are they?”

“Jutting out into the river just by the Old Malting House. There used to be a stone quay there, but it’s gone years ago, and there’s only these two piers left. They’re about eight feet down, covered with mud themselves now. I’d forgotten about them till you asked me.”

“Just so. Thank you. I believe, Michael--I’ve been a blind fool, but I believe I see daylight.”

“What’s the idea?” Michael asked curiously.

“Do dead bodies float or sink, Michael?”

“Float, generally,” Michael said. “But what----”

“And that dead body was in the river five days, and no one saw it floating! I think we’d better test this quickly.”