Chapter VII

All the same, Michael was not happy. As soon as the immediate amusement of Warden’s naïveté had worn off, his mind returned to its troubles, to his annoyance with the corpse, the neighbours, Mr. Strake, and Dr. Kershaw. Warden’s story might well throw light on Meston’s end; for Michael could not deny that he had looked very much as though he might be contemplating suicide--but, if he had, that did not explain why he should deliver a blow on his own head and conceal it so carefully that Michael could not see it. “Damn! Why can’t I see him again?” grumbled Michael, turning his pillow. And if he had embezzled trust moneys, what had he done with them? He did not look like a man in funds, or a man with luxurious tastes. Spent them on his wife, most likely, thought Michael spitefully, while _she_ was driving about in a scarlet car with cinema heroes. And, as he gradually slid off into an uneasy sleep, he saw Mrs. Meston leaning over the running-board of the Talbot to strike at the submerged face of her husband with what appeared to be Mr. Strake’s billycock.

He woke as early and unrefreshed as one commonly does after such slumber, and thought he would drive away his headache by taking a walk before breakfast. It was as glorious a morning as the previous one, and he made an endeavour to get Wilson to accompany him. But a visit to his friend’s bedroom only produced a sleepy request to go away and be damned; and he set out alone. He took no particular direction, but soon found that his legs had led him down the street of old houses where Mr. Brandreth lived. And there in the garden, as on the previous morning, was Mr. Brandreth himself, syringing a rosebush with soap and water.

“The very man I wanted to see,” Mr. Brandreth hailed him. “I’m an early bird myself, but I didn’t expect to see you about so soon. Where’s your friend?”

“My friend?” Michael gasped.

“Bless my soul,” Mr. Brandreth chuckled, “you didn’t think anything so important as a new guest’s arrival would pass without notice in Steeple Tollesbury, did you? Besides, as it happens, I saw him myself, when you were taking the air together yesterday evening. Between ourselves, doctor, is he here merely for a holiday?”

“What do you mean?” said Michael.

“Oh, only idle curiosity. You know, I’m pretty certain I’ve seen your friend before.” Mr. Brandreth lowered the syringe, and directed a wink straight at Michael. “And I’d almost be prepared to bet that I know where. At the Central Criminal Court, eh? Yes, I see I’m right.”

“Well, if you are, what of it?” said Michael sourly, annoyed at having so transparent a countenance. “My friend is here on a holiday, incognito. He won’t be particularly grateful to any one who spreads rumours abroad about his identity.”

“Oh, quite so, of course,” Mr. Brandreth agreed. “Don’t think I’ve been talking, doctor. I haven’t said an indiscreet word, and won’t, if you tell me not to. But, as I say, I happened to recognise him; and, having my fair share of natural curiosity, it occurred to me to wonder if he was here on--this business.”

“What, _Meston_?” Michael gave a jump in spite of himself. “Why--why should he be?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know, of course,” Brandreth said. “People have been saying all sorts of things--I rather gathered that some of them came from you, by the way--and when I saw your Mr. Wilson walking down the High Street so opportunely, I naturally wondered if he were concerned in it. Between you and me and the gate-post, I rather hoped he was.”

“Well, he isn’t,” said Michael shortly. “He’s on holiday.” Then, his natural curiosity getting the better of him, he asked, “Why did you hope he was?”

“Well--I think things aren’t always what they seem, you know. Don’t you? It looks to me a bit fishy altogether,” said Brandreth.

“You mean--you don’t think his death was all right?” Michael asked excitedly.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t. I look at it this way. Here’s a man fallen in the river--yes, I know he broke his neck on the way, but that only makes it odder. Now, I put it to you--Is there anywhere a man would be likely to fall into the Toll, unless he was blind drunk? And that Meston never was. I’ve never seen him take a drop more than was good for him--and often not half as much as would have been good for him, if you take my meaning. And I’m not to believe he fell into that river, not if he were to tell me so himself. The tap-room, I gather, says suicide. Well, that’s all very well; but a man doesn’t develop suicidal tendencies in ten minutes, and I’ve known Meston a good long time, and any one less likely to commit suicide I’ve seldom seen. Too struck with his own virtues, by a long way. Well, how did he get into that river?”

“Are you trying to tell me he was murdered?” Michael said. “Who would have murdered him?”

“Softly! I didn’t say murdered. Nothing of the sort. I only said he didn’t get there unassisted. And I’m naming no names, for obvious reasons. What I wondered was, whether your Superintendent Wilson was thinking of looking into the thing.”

“He’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Of course, I take your word,” Brandreth said doubtfully. “But, all the same, why shouldn’t he--quietly, you know? I’m sure you agree with me that the thing ought to be cleared up.”

“I don’t see quite how you come into it,” Michael said.

“Oh, well, I do, in a way. You see, I’m Mrs. Meston’s lawyer--it’s one of the few bits of business I still keep on with. And you can quite understand that she’ll be anxious to find out how her husband died; and if it is anything but accident, you can also understand, unless you’re too proud to listen to gossip, that it may be a bit awkward for her.”

“If there’s any truth in the gossip,” said Michael spitefully, “I should have thought she’d better lie low.”

“Well, I’m her lawyer, you see. I’m taking the line that there isn’t. But I’m also taking the line that it ought to be cleared up. And, as a matter of fact, though I’m speaking at the moment in a non-professional capacity, I don’t mind telling you that Mrs. Meston agrees with me. She came to see me yesterday evening, and was particularly urgent that it should be cleared up. So, you see, I thought your Mr. Wilson----”

“He’s not in it,” said Michael. “Anyway, he couldn’t come in unless he was asked by the local people. And your Chief Constable didn’t seem likely to ask him.”

“Oh, Lockwood! Of course, Lockwood doesn’t want a fuss of any kind. You see, if there’s any trouble, all the people likely to be involved--the Loring lot, Nicholas Hanborough”--Michael hoped he had suppressed his start this time--“and so on, are personal friends of his. And Lockwood’s a very decent chap, the last man in the world who ought to be a policeman, if you’ll excuse me saying so. You aren’t in that line yourself, by the way, are you? No, I thought not. So much the better for Kershaw”--Michael gasped again. “Well, naturally, what Lockwood wants is to get the fellow buried quickly and quietly, and no questions asked. But, personally, I don’t feel satisfied. That’s why I wanted to see you, in case your friend had any views. I thought of calling on him after breakfast. It’s all the better, in a way, if he really isn’t officially committed.”

“You couldn’t retain him, you know. He’s not a private inquiry agent,” said Michael, a recollection of Mr. Strake adding venom to his disclaimer. Was Brandreth, he wondered, thinking of running Wilson and Strake in harness? “And, anyway, he’s come down for a holiday. He needs one badly.”

“And doesn’t appreciate the busman’s kind, eh? All the same, I’d be obliged if you’d mention what I’ve told you to him. It can’t do any harm, and he might feel interested, you know.”

“I don’t think so,” said Michael. “But I’ll tell him, if you like.”

“Thanks, I should. And, look here, I’m on the ’phone. If you _do_ find he’s interested, I shall be at home all morning, and a call will bring me at any time. Good luck, doctor. By the way, if there’s a fuss, your friend’s fiancée may be involved too, you know.”

“But he’s married!”

“I beg your pardon. I meant young Warden. You knew he was engaged to Edna Loring, the Squire’s sister, didn’t you? Oh, I thought you’d have heard. He’s going through a thin time now, isn’t he, poor lad? Well, I hope to hear from you.”

Michael passed the old lawyer’s request to Wilson, with an all-but-expressed prayer that the latter should decline to consider it. He had an uneasy feeling that Brandreth knew too much by half; and in spite of his last night’s strictures on Warden, he was fond enough of the young man not to wish him to be ruined by casual talk about his affairs. And, anyway, why should Brandreth suppose that Wilson had come down officially to investigate a case when there wasn’t a case to be investigated? For Scotland Yard could hardly have been called in on the question of embezzlement--unless, indeed, Warden were lying with a skill utterly foreign to his character; and, as to the death, Wilson must have started before even the body was found. Mr. Brandreth, Michael thought, was altogether too much of a gossip; and he was surprised and disappointed when Wilson, having heard a report of the conversation, said, “I think we’ll have him round. You’d better ’phone up.”

“But--surely you can’t take it up without Colonel Lockwood’s consent?”

“Of course I can’t,” said Wilson, a trifle impatiently. “But that doesn’t prevent me having a look round into interesting features--in fact, it rather eases it by setting me free. And Mr. Brandreth, if you’ve reported him correctly, sounds a distinctly interesting feature. I think I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

Michael accordingly telephoned Dunster House, where Brandreth lived; and a cheerful voice, in which he thought he detected a faint ring of triumph, assured him that its owner would be with them immediately after breakfast.