Chapter V

From that day a silent fight began between them. Piqued by her distrust of him, and heedless of her warning, Kinloch appears to have become determined to find out all he could about the affair at Ealing and the people concerned in it. And the lady seems to have been quite confident that he could only know what she liked to tell him.

He did not use her permission to call her Stella. When he called her anything it was "m'lady"; and just because he did not think she had any right to that form of address, the title came easy to him in the half serious fashion in which he used it.

But he was certainly wholly serious in his determination to dig out the facts. With her he had no quarrel. Indeed he thought he rather liked her. The fingers that dressed his wounded head were very gentle. And he had learned to judge people's souls by their touch. But whether she were innocently or guiltily involved in the Ealing affair he was quite sure that for his own sake, and probably for hers in the long run, he must get at the facts.

He began by cross-examining himself on what he already knew or could safely infer. Why had he not been left lying in that room with the other victim? Why take him away at all? To have left him there to be found with the murdered man--wasn't that the real game to play? For what could he say, when he came round, to explain his presence in that house? Anything he said would count as nothing in the face of what the eye could see: the man lying there murdered, and himself a wandering vagabond of disreputable appearance. His tale of being invited to the house by the dead man--how ridiculous and fantastic it would sound! Indeed, the case against him was blacker than the real criminal knew. For a blind man's weapon naturally would be a knife and not a revolver. And the murderer, leaving him where he fell, could have placed the knife in his hand and so put the halter round his neck as surely as--Kinloch pulled up suddenly. A strong motive for his own removal became apparent to him. He himself had been knocked unconscious; there was the wound in his head to witness to that fact. Therefore when he was found in the room the question would arise as to _who_ had inflicted that wound. Obviously the dead man couldn't have struck him down after he was dead! And if this blow that knocked him out had been struck before the other was dead, the man who received it would never have been able to strike back. Therefore that wound in his head would testify to the presence of a third person in that room, and so far support the otherwise incredible story he would have to tell of that night's happenings. Have to tell?

Kinloch's thoughts fastened on the words. Yes, have to tell if he had been found lying unconscious in that room. But, he asked himself, would he volunteer the story _now_? Could he come forward with the tale now? And in the answer he gave to the question he found a sufficient answer to the questions as to why he had been carried away from the Ealing house. It would never have suited the criminal that an _unconscious_ man should be found in that room--a man who, when he came round, could, for all that was known to the murderer, fully and accurately describe the man who struck the blow. But it would not suit himself now, with the wound in the head almost healed, to fall into the hands of the police. A cock and bull story it would all sound at this date, especially if he had to end it up by admitting that he did not even know the name of the village to which he said he had been taken!

Then, sitting on his bed, thoughtfully nursing his knee, he saw with sudden, startling clarity the problem he had to solve. He must find out the name of that village. He had to know where it was, as safeguard against future chances. He sat a long time racking his brains over this. For the first time he became fully aware of the woman's quiet determination to keep him ignorant of where he was, and of the terrible danger this ignorance might yet be to him. He didn't feel hopeless, though, about beating her. There was that great bell he remembered, and the little town through which they had passed. Was this queer scattered village somewhere in Sussex as he had guessed? He went over Mrs. Spedding's gossip. How easily the name of the place might have slipped out! But it hadn't.

Still, there were all those names the old woman had mentioned. Many names had, he knew, a place connection. From a surname you could often tell from what part of England a man came. Tyldesley, for instance, meant Lancashire; Fosters were common in Worcestershire. Were Prebble, Ames, Tolputt, Uden, common names in Sussex? He did not know; but he knew there were men who were authorities in such matters. And these names, taken together, had the air of belonging to some particular locality. And yet this was not much to go on. Rather like clutching at straws, he felt. He must somehow find out the name of the village she called Minnis. The problem, he saw, was a double one: to find out where he was, and to find it out without letting her know that he knew. For he had a suspicion now that this knowledge would be a very hazardous possession to him if it were known he had it.

Yet for all his brooding on the subject, on that day and on others following, he was quite unable to see how he could come by the information.

Once, a few days later, he almost got what he wanted by accident. And again it was through Mrs. Spedding. Of course after that first mischance the lady had taken care there should be no more surprises of the sort. But this once she was caught napping.

One of her precautions was to keep out of Mrs. Spedding's way whenever the old lady was at work anywhere in the house within earshot of his room. In consequence he never heard them talking together except at a safe distance, the lady never entering her room, the door of which was almost opposite his own, till Mrs. Spedding had left the house. On this particular morning, however, Kinloch heard Mrs. Spedding come stumping along the passage and, the door evidently having been left open, he heard her voice at once.

"This list of things you want, Miss Stella, it can't be right."

"Let me see."

He heard the flutter of paper.

"Sakes alive, you can't 'ave used all them things already. Unless it be as Ben Horrockes is a-givin' short weight."

Kinloch, suddenly aware of a new and unforeseen danger, bent forward to listen. The lady seemed to become aware of the danger too.

"I--I--like to--don't like to run short," she said.

"Lor', Miss Stella, but ye do eat 'arty, nowadays, though you've little enough to show for it," the old woman grumbled, "you not bein' nigh so plump as a young girl oughter be."

He heard the lady attempt a laugh.

"You don't think I--I look right, Mrs. Spedding?"

The uneasiness was obviously misinterpreted by the old woman.

"Oh, m'lady, don't you worry about your looks. You've no call. Folks here think you better looking than ever yu was," she said reassuringly. "Why, even that old nabbler, Jacob Wytch, must a got 'is head turned when he saw you yesterday; turned 'im into as big a nissy as young Bob Ames, the sight of you did. Didn't I 'ear him myself telling old Uden as hadn't seen y' yet, that you was lovelier than the Queen of Sheba in a chariot what they'd got painted on the walls of Brooky church where he was a lad nigh sixty years agone. But I wasn't meaning them sort of--" The voice diminished as the old woman was led or hustled out of earshot, and he heard no more.

Kinloch, however, sat very still for a long time thinking over what he had just heard. And at first his thoughts had nothing to do with the discovery he was so keen to make. Up till then he had scarcely ever wondered what the lady looked like. To a blind man people's looks didn't matter much. The voice counts for more, and from her voice, deepened perhaps by her own recent experiences, he had vaguely judged her to be older than it now appeared she was. But what a light this revelation threw on the whole of the tragedy at Ealing! He recalled Beaumont's words, that behind most crimes, if you could only find her, there was a woman. And this one must be beautiful indeed. There was the impression she had made on Jacob Wytch to prove that. Kinloch was deeply impressed by the effect she had made on old Wytch. The sight of her had reawakened in this old man, after an interval of sixty years, the memory of what, in his youth, had no doubt stood to him for a vision of all that was beautiful in woman. It almost awed Kinloch to see the significance of that. And his mind went back to recall the names of the fair women, good and bad, women like Helen of Troy, Deirdre, Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, and Mary, Queen of Scotland, whose beauty had brought men to ruin and death.

He was startled by this revelation. More lay behind the affair at Ealing than he had supposed; the waters were deeper than he had guessed. But startled as he was, he soon perceived that in more senses than one now he _must know where he was_.

So he was thrown back on his original line of action. He began to ponder over Mrs. Spedding's words from a new angle. But what he knew seemed precious little. The old woman had mentioned Brooky church. Yet though that was definite, it might well be a long way off; and in any case it seemed to be a diminutive of some fuller name. Still, he stored the name of the place in his memory, for possible future use. He had, on the whole, more hope from the peculiar dialect words Mrs. Spedding had used. She called Wytch an old nabbler who had been turned into as big a nissy as young Ames by the sight of the girl. The two words, nabbler and nissy, he had never before heard, but the very sound told him their meaning. They were dialect words, certainly not in common use, yet, like all dialect, familiar in a more or less restricted area. The scent was strengthening. Kinloch, pleased with his astuteness, was quite sure that a professional detective would have let these two words pass unheeded. They were not the sort of clues he would understand. For himself, he was resolved to let nothing pass.

But his self-satisfaction proved to be short lived. Days went by and brought nothing to him--nothing but a growing conviction that the girl was going to be too much for him. She countered his every move. One day she said suddenly:

"You haven't found out very much, have you?"

It was the first time she had openly referred to the struggle between them. And from this open reference he saw she considered him beaten. There was even a touch of pity in her voice as if she took him for a rather naughty child.

"Not much," he admitted.

"Nothing," she said, in the tone of one who had the situation well in hand.

"Only that you are younger than I thought, and something of a beauty, it appears."

"And that is hardly what you hoped to find out." She almost laughed.

Kinloch fired up, responding with grim humour.

"Well, you'll find I'm impervious to beauty's eyes, anyhow. Here's one man, at least, whose head isn't to be turned by any woman's looks."

But this was said merely to cover his sense of defeat. She had no need, he knew, to turn his head with her beauty, for he had not discovered anything likely to make him dangerous. He went straight off to his room. And there, sitting on his bed, kicking his heels, he started to think the thing out afresh. She had almost laughed at him. How sure she must be that she had him in her pocket! And he must stay there, it seemed, till--Kinloch sat up suddenly, under the shock, as an idea struck into his mind, an idea that had about it the brilliancy of an inspiration!

That same night he was sitting with her before the fire behind the closely curtained windows. The strong southwester that had sprung up with the fall of night made it safe for them to talk above the usual subdued monotone. No one approaching the house unseen could hear voices above that wind. He said to her:

"I can guess what a derelict I look."

"There's no one to see you but me," she said.

"It's not a matter of vanity. If any one else chanced to see me, wouldn't it be dangerous?"

"Dangerous?" she echoed sharply.

"A man like me seen in the house."

"But you're not going to be seen."

"It might happen by some accident. You can never tell. Anyway it's a needless risk to run when you could so easily get me some new clothes."

She seemed doubtful, and he felt her eyes on him when he produced the crisp, clean fiver he had received from the man in the fur coat.

"The nearest biggish town," he said. "You'll find some outfitter with a selection of ready mades. How far will you have to go?"

"Oh, not very far," she said evasively. "I can go in the car to-morrow afternoon after Mrs. Spedding has left."

She seemed pleased to find him so thoughtful of a danger that had not occurred to herself. He showed her how to take his measurements with a piece of string.

But the next afternoon a disappointment came. She returned without the clothes. It was early closing day in the unknown town, and the shops were shut.

"Didn't you know?" he asked disappointedly.

"No. Most towns close on Wednesday," she replied innocently.

Kinloch instantly forgot his disappointment. Another clue had been presented to him. Putting things together he now knew that the house in which they were hiding was one in a village of widely scattered houses which stood on a ridge of downs not more than--to judge by the time taken in going and coming--ten or twelve miles from a town whose early closing day was Thursday.

"And to-morrow will be market day," he said, fishing.

"What do you mean?"

She seemed a trifle startled, for the words came quickly.

"It will be very busy," he prevaricated, "if it's market day."

"Oh, I'll get the things to-morrow," she said, leaving him no wiser as to whether Friday was or was not market day. So he failed to get that further clue as to the identity of the town.

But had she seen him open the parcel next day she would have been still more startled. He, however, did not open it before her. When he got to his room with the new clothes the first thing he did after locking the door was to feel the inside of the coat just below the collar. A thrill came as he found what he sought. Yes, it was there, the small square of silk that bore the name of the outfitter from whom the suit had been bought--the name and, his fingers told him, the address. He could not read the lettering; and there was, as yet, no one whom he could ask to read it for him. But, he said to himself, while shaving with the new razor, it was a satisfaction to know that he now carried the information about with him!

And he fell to thinking of how easy it would be to ascertain the identity not only of the village but of the woman herself. For, the name of the town once known, it would be simple to identify the village about ten miles distant which among its inhabitants had people of the names of Prebble, Ames, Tolputt and the rest, not to mention a farmer called Noakes; a village which had in the churchyard a tomb to a lady evidently of some position, named Uden. As for the house, he could describe every corner of it. But that wouldn't be necessary. For Mrs. Spedding once found, the lady's identity could no longer be concealed.

Kinloch was so full of all this that, his toilet completed, he returned to the sitting-room without thinking of the very different appearance he now presented to the eye. A smothered cry followed his entrance.

"What is it? Anything wrong?" he said. And then he recalled his altered appearance. "Is it as bad as all that?" he asked.

"I--I--didn't know you at first," she stammered. "I thought some one had come to--" She broke off and added tamely, "I didn't know clothes could make so much difference in a man."

He brushed this aside.

"You were frightened, not surprised," he said.

"No."

"You thought it was--"

"No, I didn't. Come, here is your chair."

Kinloch put out his hand. She took it in her own to lead him, and he found that the hand in his shook like a frightened bird. Beyond doubt she had taken him for a police officer. But her eyes must have been on his face.

"What has happened?" she asked as soon as he was seated.

"Happened?" he repeated, taken aback in his turn.

"You look so different to-night--happier."

Inwardly Kinloch cursed his tell-tale face.

"Of course I do. Who wouldn't after getting rid of those rags?"

"Sorry I didn't think of it before," she said humbly.

"So am I. Feel ever so much better now."

He certainly did. He was tremendously conscious of that little square of silk at the back of his neck, just on the spot at the nape of his neck where the knot of the hangman's halter might have come one day, he reflected.