Chapter FOURTEEN: A Gamekeeper Who Heard a Shot

Mr. Boyd Salter was sitting at a small table drawn up near the open window of his library, a window which commanded an extensive view of the valley and a corner of Beverley Green. He was engaged in an elaborate game of patience, yet he was not so completely absorbed that he could not pause for lengthy periods and take an interest in such trivial things as came into his range of vision. Once it was a small flock of sheep that cropped their way slowly across the meadowlands. Once it was the swift downward swoop of a greyish hawk, and its disappearance with a limp victim. Then he saw a man in a long dark coat, and him he watched for a time. The stranger was behaving curiously, but he was too far away for the master of Beverley Hall to distinguish exactly his business, for he was skirting a plantation from which, apparently, he had emerged.

Mr. Salter pressed a bell at his elbow.

“Bring me my field-glasses, Tilling. Is there a keeper about?”

“Madding is in the servants’ hall, sir.”

“Send him, please, but bring my glasses first.”

Through the prismatics he saw the stranger, without then recognising him. He seemed to be searching for something, for his progress was slow and he followed a zigzag path.

Boyd Salter turned his head. A stout and red-faced man, in velveteen coat and gaiters, had been ushered into the room.

“Madding, who is that walking by Spring Covert?”

The gamekeeper shaded his eyes.

“Looks to me like one of those Beverley Green gentlemen,” he said, “name of Wilmot, I think.”

His employer looked again.

“Yes, I think it is. Go to him with my compliments, Madding, and ask him if there is anything we can do for him. He may have lost something, though how he lost it on this part of my estate is beyond me.”

Madding went out, and Mr. Salter resumed his game of patience. He looked up to see the stout gamekeeper striding across the grounds and returned to his cards. When he looked out again he saw Madding only; the unauthorised visitor had disappeared.

“Tiresome,” said Mr. Boyd Salter, and, gathering up the cards, shuffled and began all over again.

Some time after—

“Thank you, Madding. I saw that you had missed him.”

“I found this, sir, a little way beyond where the gentleman was searching. I should think it was this he was looking for.”

He held out a gold cigarette case, from which he had wiped the yellow mud, for Spring Covert was sited in marshland, and got its name from the tiny river that had its source in the heart of the wood.

The Justice took the case in his hand and pressed it open. It contained two damp cigarettes and a torn scrap of newspaper on which an address had been scribbled in pencil.

“Thank you, Madding. I will see that it is restored to Mr. Wilmot. There are his initials. I dare say he will reward you. I hear you trapped a stoat yesterday—this morning was it? Good. They are pests with the young birds. Are the birds plentiful this year? Good. Thank you, Madding.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

The gamekeeper stood waiting, and Salter nodded to him to go on.

“About these murders, sir. I’ve got an idea that the man who did it escaped through the park.”

“Good heavens! What makes you think so?”

“Well, sir, I was out that night looking after things. These fellows of Beverley are poaching worse than ever. Mr. Golding’s head keeper told me only to-day that he’d caught a fellow with six brace of pheasants in his bag. Well, sir, I was out and wandering about when I heard a shot, down by Valley Bottom, so off I went as fast as I could, though poachers don’t usually work with guns around here. When I’d gone some way I stopped and listened, and I’ll swear I heard somebody walking on the hard path—the path that goes up to Spring Covert, where that gentleman was. I called out ‘Hello!’ and then the sound stopped. ‘Come on, the game’s up,’ I said, thinking it was a poacher, but I never heard another sound, nor saw anybody.”

“Have you informed the police? We should have done so, Madding. It may be a very important clue. Fortunately, Mr. Macleod is coming to see me this afternoon.”

“I didn’t know what to do exactly. As a matter of fact, sir, I didn’t connect the shot with the murder until I’d talked it over with my wife—a rare head-piece my good lady’s got, sir—and she up and said ‘You must tell the squire.’”

Mr. Boyd Salter smiled.

“Your wife is an intelligent woman, Madding. You had better be around when Mr. Macleod calls. I think that that he is coming up the Long Drive,” he said. “You had better wait.”

Andy, who had called in connection with the inquests, heard the gamekeeper’s story with interest and questioned the man as to the time.

“Madding has also found a cigarette case belonging to Mr. Wilmot,” said Boyd Salter, and related the story of Arthur Wilmot’s search. “I tell you this, not because it has anything to do with the murder—thank you, Madding, you need not wait, unless Mr. Macleod has any further questions to ask you. No? Thank you, Madding.”

Andy was examining the case.

“How did he come to be near the Covert? Is it on a public road?”

“Nowhere near. He must have been trespassing, though I would not use that harsh word about the wanderings of a neighbour. Our friends of Beverley Green have a standing invitation to avail themselves of the estate for picnics. I expect them to give notice to my head gamekeeper, and, of course, they never come too near the coverts, and particularly Spring Covert, which is not the most pleasant of places.”

Andy opened the case and took out the scrap of paper.

“An address, I think?” suggested Mr. Boyd Salter.

“It is an address—the address of Sweeny,” said Andy, “and it was given to Wilmot on the day of the murder!”

He turned over the scrap of paper.

It had been torn from the edge of a Sunday news-sheet and the date line ran: “... unday, 23rd. June.”

Obviously, thought Andy, the newspaper from which this scrap had been torn was the property of Sweeny. As clearly, the address had been written in the morning, because people do not as a rule carry about Sunday newspapers in the afternoon. They had met and talked, these two men, and, for some reason, Wilmot had decided that he had a use for Abraham Selim’s clerk and had taken his address. The meeting would hardly have taken place in Spring Covert, near where the case had been found, so that either they met again after dark, or else, for some purpose or other, Wilmot had made a furtive visit to the place after nightfall. He accepted the first hypothesis as being the more likely. Wilmot was in it, then—Wilmot, whose mysterious occupation Merrivan had discovered, and whose announcement of his discovery had cowed his hectoring nephew.

“What do you think?” asked Boyd Salter.

“I don’t know. It is curious. I’ll see Wilmot and restore his case, if you will allow me.”

Certain coincidences occurred to him walking back to Beverley Green. Every important incident which had marked his stay had been in duplicate. He had heard the threat of Wilmot and the ravings of Nelson from the outside of their houses. There were burnings of paper at Merrivan’s and burnings at Nelsons. Now something had been picked up——

“We have found a valuable diamond ring—at least Mr. Nelson discovered it when he was walking across the green,” were the inspector’s first words. “I haven’t heard that any ring has been missing from Mr. Merrivan’s house, but nobody in the village claims it.”

Really, Stella was the most careless of suspects! She strewed most damning evidence behind her with the prodigality of a “hare” in a paper chase.

“Somebody will claim it,” he said carelessly.

He overtook Wilmot that night as he was turning in at the gate.

“I think this belongs to you,” he said, and produced the case.

The man went red and white.

“I don’t think so,” he said loudly. “I haven’t lost——”

“Your monogram is on it,” insisted Andy, “and two people have already identified it as yours.”

This was not exactly the truth.

“So it is. Thank you, Macleod. I’ve never missed it.”

Andy smiled.

“You were probably searching Spring Covert for something else,” he said, and the last vestige of colour left Wilmot’s face.

“When did you take Sweeny’s address?”

Wilmot’s eyes blazed his hate of the man who was questioning him. This manifestation was so unexpected that Andy was momentarily taken aback. There could be two causes for such an attitude—guilt or jealousy. He fancied that the second reason was the real one. He either guessed or knew just how Andy felt towards Stella Nelson.

“I met him on Sunday morning,” said Wilmot suddenly. “He came to ask me to recommend him for a job. I knew him when he was in my uncle’s employ. I met him on the golf course and wrote down his address on a piece of newspaper.”

“You did not tell me or Inspector Dane that you had met him.”

“I had forgotten. No, I hadn’t forgotten, but I did not want to come into this case.”

“You met him again at night. Why at Spring Covert?”

Wilmot was silent, and the question was repeated.

“He had been turned away from Beverley Green and was anxious to see me. He thought that I wouldn’t want to be seen speaking to him.”

“When did he think this? In the morning, when the second meeting must have been arranged?”

“Yes,” reluctantly, and then: “Will you come in, Macleod?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, quite. Anyway, the servants never come into my room unless I send for them, and they are out.”

Arthur Wilmot’s bachelor establishment was the smallest house in the village, and it was furnished with exceptional taste. If it faulted, it was because it was thought too finicky for a man.

And on a table in the room into which he was ushered was a woman’s hat. Wilmot followed the direction of the glance and smothered an exclamation. It was a hat in the course of creation—a glittering needle-point, a festoon of coloured silk.

Their arrival had interrupted somebody, thought Andy, and pretended that he had not seen the evidence of anything remarkable. Wilmot was too flustered to leave well alone, and must needs explain.

“One of the servants, I expect,” he said, and flung the hat viciously into a corner of the room.

The incident, which might well have increased his embarrassment, seemed to have the opposite effect, and his voice was steady when he spoke.

“I met Sweeny on both occasions, and it was stupid of me not to admit it. Sweeny hated my uncle, and came to me with a story—at least, with the hint of a story that he said would give me a hold on Mr. Merrivan. Even now I do not know what this great secret was. The second meeting in Spring Covert was really to discuss the terms on which Sweeny would impart this information. I wish I hadn’t gone, and certainly I did not stay very long. I had placed myself in a false, and, to say the least, an undignified position. I promised to write to him, and there the matter ended.”

“What was this secret of Sweeny’s?”

Wilmot hesitated.

“Honestly, I don’t know. The impression I received was that Mr. Merrivan was in Selim’s debt—Selim was the name of Sweeny’s employer. But that, of course, was ridiculous. My uncle was a rich man when he died.”

Andy was silent, pondering the possibilities of this story being true. And then:

“Mr. Wilmot, have you, in your mind, any opinion as to who killed your uncle?”

Wilmot’s brown eyes rose.

“Have you?” he asked.

Andy knew then the direction in which this man’s evidence would run if there came the slightest hint of danger to himself.

“I have many theories,” he answered coolly, “but it would be a rash proceeding to pin myself to any one of them. Which reminds me, Mr. Wilmot. The last time you and I spoke together you talked about some worthless girl. That interested me. You quarrelled over her, you told me, quarrelled with your uncle. That is rather important, you know. Who was she?”

It was a masterful challenge, well planned, and delivered at the most propitious moment.

Wilmot was not prepared for a question so brutally direct. He knew that Macleod was well aware that he had been speaking of Stella Nelson. He must speak now or——

“I am not prepared to say,” was his compromise, but Andy had gone too far and risked too much to allow his enemy to break off action.

“You either know such a girl or you do not. There was either a quarrel between your uncle and yourself or there was no such quarrel. I am speaking to you as the police officer in charge of these investigations and I want the truth.”

His voice was harsh, menacing. Arthur Wilmot was no fighter.

“I was a little distracted that morning,” he said grudgingly, “I didn’t know what I was saying. There was no woman and no quarrel.”

Slowly Andy drew a note-book from his pocket and wrote down the words, and the other watched him in a cold and growing fury.

“Thank you,” said Andy. “I won’t trouble you again.”

He went out without another word and left behind him a man who now, at least, had murder in his heart.

“Mr. Macleod!”

Andy, at the end of the path, turned. Wilmot was behind him.

“I suppose there is no reason why I shouldn’t visit the house now. I am my uncle’s heir-at-law and there are certain preparations that have to be made for his funeral.”

“The only thing is that for the moment I do not want you to go into the long room. I have kept that undisturbed until after the inquest.”

He went across and spoke to the police sergeant in charge.

“It will be quite in order, Mr. Wilmot. I have told the sergeant to admit you.”

Andy took certain phenomena for granted. He was neither surprised nor amused to have discovered the tell-tale woman’s hat in Wilmot’s room. The man’s embarrassment had been as eloquent as his explanation had been feeble. “One of the servants” did not quite accord with the statement he had made, only a few seconds earlier, that none of Wilmot’s household staff ever went into that particular room unless they were sent for. Wilmot was a bachelor—no better, no worse, perhaps, than the generality of well-off bachelors—though it was a little surprising that he brought his indiscretions to Beverley Green, where servants were notorious gossips. Yet it did not seem quite like Arthur Wilmot.

He called at the Nelsons. He would have gone there every day and remained all day if his own wishes governed. As it was, he usually consulted Scottie in the early hours of the morning, usually in the very centre of the village green.

Stella received him. Her father was in the studio working against the failing light and the girl was enthusiastic, for Kenneth Nelson had started a new picture, and the obliging Scottie was his principal model.

“It will be useful to have a real good picture of Scottie available,” said Andy heartlessly. “When I want him in the future, I’ll send my hounds to the Academy to study him.”

“But he’ll never do wrong again,” said she, horrified at the thought. “He was telling me that he had given up his old life and that nothing would ever tempt him to steal.”

Andy smiled.

“I shall be glad if he does,” he said, and changed the topic. “Do you know Arthur Wilmot very well, Stella?”

Her impulse was to say very well.

“I thought I did. Evidently I don’t. Why?”

“Do you know whether he has any girl friends or relations?”

She shook her head.

“The only relation I know was his uncle and a very old aunt. Do you mean, does he have people staying with him? I’ve never known him to entertain people except the aunt, whom I think is dead now. He doesn’t ever have bachelor parties. Why?”

“I wondered,” he said, and she smiled, but became serious instantly.

“I don’t know what is happening. Have you found any—any clue? The place has been crowded with reporters. One of them came here and asked me if I could give him any details about Mr. Merrivan’s daily life. Did he go to church, was he a quiet man, and things like that. I told him I didn’t know much about him. He was easily satisfied.”

Andy drew a long breath.

“Thank heaven Downer wasn’t amongst them. Who is Downer? He is a reporter, the toughest of the whole bunch, and not as easily satisfied as your caller. And he wouldn’t have asked such crude questions. He’d have talked art to your father, and been in the studio admiring Pygmalion and discussing colour values and atmosphere and movement and all the other jargon of the studio—and when he had gone he would have left you with an uneasy feeling that you had said much more than you ought to have said, not about old masters, but Mr. Merrivan’s private life.”

She never took her eyes from his face when he was speaking. For his part, he never looked too long at her, for fear he would gather her into his arms and not let her go.

“You must know an awful lot of people. I don’t mean that they’re ‘awful’—I mean—you know what I mean. I had no idea you were like you are. The man Downer, for instance, and people like the professor—Scottie. I called him ‘Scottie’ quite inadvertently and he seemed tremendously pleased. There is nothing new?”

“Except that Dane found your ring. Do you usually scatter diamond rings over the countryside?”

She was not at all perturbed.

“I threw it away, I don’t remember where. Are you going? You have only been here a minute and you haven’t seen father or the picture.”

“I have been here long enough to scandalise the neighbourhood,” he said. “Do you realise that I cannot visit you unless I call on almost everybody on some excuse or other? I make myself a nuisance a dozen times a day in order—well, to see you.”

She went with him to the door.

“I wish you’d come and dust the hall-room again,” she said softly.

“And I—I wish we were at the second golf hut,” he said fervently.

She laughed. He heard the sound of it as he went down the path.