The Postmaster's Daughter

  CHAPTER V

  THE SEEDS OP MISCHIEF

  Ingerman was a shrewder judge of human nature than the village chemist.As well try to stem the flowing tide as stop tongues from wagging whensuch a theme offered.

  Tomlin created a momentary diversion by clattering in the bar. After thisprofessional interlude, Ingerman ignored his own compact.

  "I'm sure you local residents will be interested, at least, in hearingsomething of my wife's career," he said. "There never was a more lovableand gracious woman, and no couple could be more united than she and Itill some three years ago. Then came a break. She was independent of me,of course. She was a celebrity, I a mere nobody, best known, if at all,as 'Miss Melhuish's husband.' Nevertheless, we were devoted to each otheruntil, to her and my lasting misfortune, a certain author wrote a bookwhich, when dramatized, contained a part for which my wife's stagepresence and talents seemed to be peculiarly suited."

  Siddle stirred uneasily, but the others were still as partridges instubble. Ingerman did not intend to alarm the shy bird of thecovey, however.

  "I name no names," he said solemnly. "Nor am I telling you anything thatwill not be thoroughly exposed before the coroner and elsewhere. Fromthat unhappy period dated our estrangement. My wife fell under a fatalinfluence which lasted, practically unchecked, until the day, if not thevery hour, of her death. Do I blame her? No--a thousand times no! You seeme, a plain man, considerably her senior. _I_ had not the gift of writingimpassioned love passages in which she could display her artistic genius.When I came home from the City, tired after the day's work, _she_ wasjust beginning hers. You know what London fashionable life is--thetheater, a supper, a dance, some great lady's 'reception,' and the restof it. Ah, me! The stage, and literature, and the arts generally are notfor poor fellows moiling in a City office. You gentlemen, I take it, areall happily married--"

  "I'm not," said Elkin, "but I'll lay you long odds I will be soon."

  For some reason, this remark produced a certain uneasiness among hisfriends. Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars "stood" by thistalkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again,examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to saysomething, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then Ingerman madea very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was, and what Hobbs'scryptic allusion had meant.

  "Good luck to you, sir," he said, "but--take no offense--don't marry anactress. There's an old adage, 'Birds of a feather flock together.' Iwould go farther, and interpolate the word 'should.' If Adelaide Melhuishhad never met me, but had married the man who could write her plays, thistragedy in real life would never have been."

  "D--n him," muttered Elkin fiercely. "He's done for now, anyhow. He'llturn no more girls' heads for a bit."

  "An' five minutes since you yapped at me like a vicious fox-terrier for'intin' much the same thing," chortled Hobbs.

  Siddle stood up.

  "You ain't goin', Mr. Siddle?" went on the butcher. "It's 'ardly 'arfpast nine."

  "I have some accounts to get out. It's near the half year, you know," andSiddle vanished unobtrusively.

  Hobbs shook his head, and gazed at Elkin as though the latter was arefractory bullock.

  "Siddle's a fair-minded chap," he said. "He can't stand 'earin' any of us'angin' a man without a fair trial."

  Ingerman had marked the chemist for more subtle treatment when anopportunity arose, or could be made. At present, he was not sorry such arestraining influence was removed. The next half hour should prove agolden one if well utilized. He was right. Before the inn was cleared,what between Elkin's savage comments and the other men's thinly-veiledallusions, he knew all that Steynholme could tell with regard to Grantand Doris Martin.

  Grant's first thought next morning was of the girl who had been thrust soprominently into his life by the death of another woman. That was,perhaps, the strangest outcome of the tragedy. Doris was easily theprettiest and most intelligent girl in the village, a rare combination initself, even among young ladies of much higher social position than apostmaster's daughter. But her father was a self-educated man, whose lifehad been given to books, whose only hobby was the culture and study ofbees. He had often refused promotion, solely because his duties atSteynholme were light, and permitted of many free hours. In his onlychild he found a quick pupil and a sympathetic helper. Of her own accordshe took to poetry and music. In effect, had Doris Martin attended thebest of boarding-schools and training colleges, she would have received asmattering of French and a fair knowledge of the piano or violin,whereas, after more humble tuition, it might fairly be said of her thatfew girls of her age had read so many books and assimilated theircontents so thoroughly. From her mother she inherited her good looks anda small yearly income, just sufficient to maintain a better wardrobethan her father's salary would permit.

  Grant, newly settled in Steynholme, found the postmaster and his daughterintellectually on a par with himself, and this claim could certainly notbe made on behalf of the local "society" element. The three becameexcellent friends. Naturally, the young people spent a good deal of timetogether. But there had been no love-making--not a hint or whisper of it!

  And now, by cruel chance, their names were linked by scandal in its mostmenacing form, since there was no gainsaying the fact that Doris'sstar-gazing on that fatal Monday night was indissolubly bound up with thedeath of Adelaide Melhuish.

  For the first time, then, the notion peeped up in Grant's mind that thewhirligig of existence might see Doris his wife. But the conceitresembled the Gorgon's teeth, which, when sown in the ground, sprangforth as armed men. The very accident which revealed a not unpleasingpossibility had established a grave obstacle in the way of its ultimaterealization. Already there was a cloud between him and the Martins,father and daughter. To what a tempest might not that cloud develop whenthe questionings and innuendoes of the inquest established an aura ofsuspicion and intrigue around a perfectly innocent meeting in the gardenof The Hollies!

  Grant ate his breakfast in wrath. In wrath, too, he glanced through themorning newspapers, and saw his own name figuring large in the "story" ofthe "alleged" murder. The reporters had missed nothing. They had even gothold of the "peculiar coincidence" of his (Grant's) glimpse of a face atthe window. His play was recalled, and Adelaide Melhuish's success in thetitle-role. Then Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman was introduced. He was describedas "a man fairly well known in the City." That was all. The press couldsay nothing as yet of marital disagreements, nor was any hint concerningDoris Martin allowed to appear. But these journalistic fire-works wereonly held in reserve. "Dramatic and sensational developments" werepromised, and police activity in "an unexpected direction" fore-shadowed.

  All of which, of course, was mere journalistic paraphrasing ofcircumstances already known to the writers, and none the less galling toGrant on that account.

  And there was no answer from the Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard.True, the overnight telegram might have reached the Department afteroffice hours. Grant, like most members of the general public, held thevague belief that Government officials do very little work. Still, onemight reasonably expect better things from the institution which wassupposed to safeguard law-abiding citizens.

  Calm analysis of Ingerman's nebulous threats had revealed a hostileforce not to be despised. Possibly, the man was already in league withthat narrow-minded village constable, so every passing hour made moreurgent the need of a trained intelligence being brought to bear on themystery of Adelaide Melhuish's killing. Grant racked his brains todiscover who could possibly have a motive for committing the crime.Naturally, his thoughts flew to Ingerman. Surely that sinister-lookingperson should be forced to give an account of himself instead of, as wasprobable, being allowed to instill further nonsense into the suspiciousmind of P.C. Robinson.

  There were two morning deliveries of London letters in Steynholme, one ateight and another at half past ten. Grant waited until the postman hadleft a publisher's circular (the onl
y letter for The Hollies by thesecond mail). Then, in a fever of impatience, he jammed on a hat and wentout. He would wait no longer. He would telegraph Scotland Yard again,and, incidentally, demand an audience at the post office.

  No sooner had he entered the highroad than he saw P.C. Robinson on guard.That important person was standing on the bridge, apparently taking theair. He was nibbling the chin-strap of his helmet; both thumbs werelocked in his belt. From that strategic position three roads came underobservation.

  It was a fine morning, and Grant's sense of humor was not proof againstthis open espionage. He smiled, and determined to take a rise out of"Sherlock," as Bates had christened the policeman.

  The bridge lay a hundred yards to the left. The road was straight untilit curved around the house and its shrubberies, so the view was blockedon that side. Grant filled and lighted a pipe with a deliberateness meantto be provoking, glancing several times doubtfully at P.C. Robinson, who,of course, was grandly unaware of his presence. Then he strolled off tothe right, and, when hidden, took to his heels for a hundred yardssprint. Turning into a winding bridle-path tucked between hedges of thornand hazels, he walked to a point where it crossed a patch of furze. At alittle distance a hand-bridge spanned the river, and gave access to theeastern end of the village by a steep climb of the wooded cliff. Thepath, in fact, was a short cut to that part of Steynholme.

  He sat on a hump of rock, and waited. It was a boyish trick, but verysuccessful. Within three minutes, at the utmost, P.C. Robinson hurriedpast, using a stalking, stealthy stride which was distinctly ludicrous.

  The eyes of the two men met, but Grant alone was prepared.

  "Hello, Robinson!" he cried cheerfully. "What's the rush? Surely ourrural peace has not been disturbed again?"

  Robinson knew he had been "sold," but rose to the occasion.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Grant," he puffed. "Can't wait now. Have an appointment.I'll see you later."

  Honor demanded that he should not relax that swift pace. Unhappily, thepath up the cliff was visible throughout from Grant's rock, so, onreaching the summit, Robinson was a-boil in more ways than one.Moreover, peeping through the first screen of trees that offered, hehad the mortification of seeing the man who had befooled him go backthe way he came.

  Purple-faced with heat and anger, the policeman forgot his surroundings,and glowered at Grant with real fury. So he heard no one approachingalong the main road until he was hailed a second time with, "Hello,Robinson!"

  He turned sharply. This was Mr. Elkin.

  "Good morning!" he said. "Have you seen the superintendent?"

  "What? Mr. Fowler? No. Is _he_ here so early?"

  "I must have missed him."

  "Well, you'll hardly find him on Bush Walk," which was the name of thepath.

  "You never can tell," came the dark answer.

  At any rate, the policeman elected to abandon his self-imposed vigil, andthe two walked together into the village.

  "My! You look as though you'd run a mile," commented Elkin.

  "This murder has kept me busy," growled the other, frankly moppinghis forehead.

  "Ay, that's so. And it isn't done with yet, by a long way. Pity youweren't in the Hare and Hounds last night. You'd have heard something.There's a chap staying there, name of Ingerman--"

  "I've met him. The dead woman's husband."

  "Oh, perhaps you've got his yarn already?"

  "It all depends what he said to you."

  "Well, he hinted things. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, you'll soon bemaking an arrest."

  "I believe I could put my hand on the murderer this very minute," saidRobinson vindictively.

  Elkin laughed, somewhat half-heartedly.

  "Lay you fifty to one against the time," he said. "I'm the only one nearenough for that limit, you know."

  The policeman realized that he had allowed annoyance to shake his wits.He looked at Elkin rather sharply, and noticed that the horse-breederseemed to be nervous and ill.

  "I didn't quite mean that I could grab my man this minute," he said,"but, if I can guess him, it amounts to nearly the same thing. What haveyou been doing to yourself, Mr. Elkin? You look peeky to-day."

  "Too much whiskey and tobacco. I'll call at Siddle's for a 'pick-me-up.'Am I wanted for the jury?"

  "Yes. I left a notice at your place last evening."

  "I didn't get it."

  "Been away?"

  "No. Fact is, I went home late, and didn't bother about letters thismorning. What time is the inquest?"

  "Three o'clock, in the club-room of the Hare and Hounds."

  "Will that fellow, Grant, be there?"

  "Rather. Dr. Foxton warned him yesterday."

  "Good! What about Doris Martin? Will she be a witness?"

  "Not to-day."

  They were entering the village, and could see down the long, wide slopeof the hill. Grant had just come into sight at its foot.

  Both men scowled at the distant figure, but neither passed any comment.They parted, the policeman walking straight on, Elkin bearing to theleft. The chemist's shop stood exactly opposite the post office, soElkin, arriving first, was aware of his unconscious rival's destination.

  He had not answered Mr. Siddle's greeting, but gazed moodily through abarricade of specifics piled in the window. Then he swore.

  "What's wrong now?" inquired the chemist quietly.

  "That Grant. Got a nerve, hasn't he?"

  "I can't say, unless you explain."

  "He's just gone into the post office."

  "Why shouldn't he? He wants stamps, may be; plenty of 'em, Ishould imagine."

  "Oh, you're a fish, Siddle. You aren't crazy about a girl, like I am. Thesooner Grant's in jail the better I'll be pleased."

  "If you take my advice, which you won't, I know, you will not utter thatsort of remark publicly."

  "Can't help it. Bet you a fiver I'm engaged to Doris Martin within aweek."

  Mr. Siddle took thought.

  "Why so quickly?" he asked, after a pause.

  "I'll catch her on the hop, of course. If she's engaged to me it'll helpher a lot when this case comes into court."

  "I cannot believe that Doris would accept any man for such a reason."

  "I'm not 'any man.' She knows I'm after her. Will you take my bet,even money?"

  "No. I don't bet."

  "Well, you needn't put a damper on me. In fact, you can't. Have you thatlast prescription of Dr. Foxton's handy? My liver wants a tonic."

  The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, andretired to a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop.

  "Shall I send it?" came his voice.

  "No. I'll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don't mind."

  For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, andfretful as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its causeaccurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and hadconsidered them in the "mixture."

  The post office was not busy when Grant entered. A young man, a stranger,was seated at the telegraphist's desk, tapping a new instrument. The G.P. O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with press messages.

  Mr. Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant. Hiskindly, somewhat pre-occupied face was long as a fiddle.

  "Good morning, Mr. Martin," said Grant.

  "Good morning. What can I do for you?" was the stiff reply. Grant was inno mind to be rebuffed, however.

  "I must have a word with you in private," he said.

  "I'm sorry--but my time is quite full."

  "I'm sorry, too, but the matter is urgent."

  The click of the sounder became less businesslike. There was an elementin the tone of each voice that drew the London telegraphist's attention.Martin, usually the mildest-mannered man in Sussex, was obviously ill atease. But he simply could not hold out against Grant's compelling gaze.

  "Come into the back room," he said nervously. "Call me if I'm needed," headded, nodding to his as
sistant.

  Grant did not hesitate an instant when the postmaster reached the "backparlor" through another door. The open window, draped in clematis, gavea delightful glimpse of The Hollies. A window-box of mignonette filledthe air with its delicate perfume. Grant hoped that Doris would be there,but the only signs of her recent presence were a hat and an open book onthe table.

  "Now, Mr. Martin," he said gravely, "you and I should have a serioustalk. It is idle to deny that gossip is spreading broadcast certainmalicious and absurd rumors which closely concern Doris and myself. To methese things are of slight consequence. To a girl of your daughter's agethey are poisonous. If you, her father, know the whole truth, you canregulate your actions so as to defeat the scandalmongers. That is why Iam here to-day. That is why I came here yesterday, but your attitude tookme aback, and I was idiot enough to go without a word of explanation. Iwas too shaken then to see my clear course, and follow it regardless ofpersonal feelings. This morning I am master of myself, and I insist thatyou listen now while I tell you exactly what occurred on Monday night."

  "Surely--these matters--are--for the authorities," stammered theolder man.

  "What? Your daughter's good name?"

  Mr. Martin reddened. His agitation was pitiful.

  "That is hardly in question, sir," he said brokenly.

  "I am speaking of the tongue of slander. Heaven help and direct me! Iwould suffer death rather than see Doris subjected to the leers andinnuendoes of every lout in the village."

  Grant's earnestness could hardly fail to impress his friend. But Martinhad either made up his mind or been warned not to discuss the murder, andadhered loyally to that line of conduct. He retreated toward the doorleading to the post office proper.

  "It is too late to interfere now," he said.

  "What on earth do you mean?" demanded Grant, yielding to a gust of anger.

  "The whole--of the circumstances--are being inquired into by the police,"came the hesitating answer.

  "Has that prying scoundrel, Robinson, dared to cross-examine Doris?"

  "He came here, of course, but Scotland Yard has taken up the inquiry."

  "A detective--here?"

  "Yes. He is with Doris in the garden at this moment."

  Grant knew the topography of the house. Without asking permission, hetore through yet a third door leading to a kitchen and scullery, nearlyupsetting a tiny maid who had her ear or eye to the key-hole, and racedinto the garden in which the postmaster kept his bees.

  Doris, standing with her hands behind her back, was looking at TheHollies, and deep in conversation with an alert and natty little man whowas evidently absorbed in what she was saying.

  Grant, in a whirl of fury, was only conscious that Doris's companion wasslight, almost diminutive, of frame, very erect, and dressed in awell-fitting blue serge suit, neat brown boots and straw hat, when thetwo heard his footsteps.

  Doris was flustered. Her Romney face held a look of scare.

  "Oh, here is Mr. Grant!" she said, striving vainly to speak withcomposure.

  The little man pierced Grant with an extraordinarily penetrating glancefrom very bright and deeply-recessed black eyes.

  "Ah, Mr. Grant, is it!" he chirped pleasantly. "Good morning! So _you're_the villain of the piece, are you?"