The Postmaster's Daughter

  CHAPTER XII

  WHEREIN WINTER GETS TO WORK

  Winter had identified Bates at the first glance. The letters in the man'shand, too, showed his errand, so, while the gardener was climbing thehill, the detective slipped into Robinson's cottage.

  He found the policeman awaiting him in the dark, because a voice said:

  "Beg pardon, sir, but the other gentleman from the 'Yard' asked me totake him into the kitchen. A light in the front room might attractattention, he thought."

  "Just what Mr. Furneaux would suggest, and I agree with him," saidWinter, quite alive to the canny discretion behind those words, "theother gentleman."

  Robinson led the way. Supper was laid on the table. Poor Mrs. Robinsonhad again beaten a hasty retreat.

  "Now, Robinson," said the Chief Inspector affably, "before we come tobusiness I'll prove my bona fides. Here is my official card, and I'll runquickly through events until 1.30 p.m. to-day. I met Mr. Furneaux atVictoria, and he posted me fully up to that hour."

  So the policeman listened to a clear summary of the Steynholme case asit was known to the authorities.

  "I did not warn either Mr. Fowler or you of my visit because a telegramcould hardly be explicit enough," concluded Winter. "At the inn I am Mr.Franklin, an Argentine importer of blood stock in the horse line. Atthis moment the only other man beside yourself in Steynholme who isaware of my official position is Mr. Peters, and he is pledged tosecrecy. To-morrow or any other day until further notice, you and I meetas strangers in public. By the way, Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell youthat he found the wig and the false beard in the river early thismorning. The wearer had apparently flung them off while crossing thefoot-bridge leading from Bush Walk, having forgotten that they would notsink readily. Perhaps he didn't care. At any rate, Mr. Hart's bulletseems to have laid Owd Ben's ghost. Now, what of this fellow, Elkin? Heworries me."

  "Can I offer you a glass of beer, sir?"

  "With pleasure. May I smoke while you eat? You see, I differ from Mr.Furneaux in both size and habits."

  Robinson poured out the beer. He was preternaturally grave. The somewhatincriminating statements he had wormed out of the horse-dealer thatafternoon lay heavy upon him. But he told his story succinctly enough.Winter nodded to emphasize each point, and congratulated him at the end.

  "You arranged that very well," he said. "I gather, though, that Elkinspoke rather openly."

  "Just as I've put it, sir. He tripped a bit over the time on Mondaynight. But it's only fair to say that he might have had Tomlin'slicense in mind."

  "That issue will be settled to-morrow. I'll find out the commercialtraveler's name, and send a telegram from Knoleworth before noon.... Whois Peggy Smith?"

  Robinson set down an empty glass with a stare of surprise.

  "Bob Smith's daughter, sir," he answered.

  "No doubt. But, proceed."

  "Well, sir, she's just a village girl. Her father is a blacksmith. Hisforge is along to the right, not far. She'll be twenty, or thereabouts."

  "Frivolous?"

  "Not more than the rest of 'em, sir."

  "Have you seen her flirting with Elkin?"

  Robinson took thought.

  "Now that I come to think of it, she might be given a bit that way. Herfather shoes Elkin's nags, so there's a lot of comin' an' goin' betweenthe two places. But folks would always look on it as natural enough. Yes,I've seen 'em together more than once."

  "In that case, he can hardly grumble if the postmaster's daughter has aneye for another young man."

  "Miss Martin!" snorted Robinson. "She wouldn't look the side of the roadhe was on. Fred Elkin isn't her sort."

  "But he said to-night in the Hare and Hounds that he and Miss Martin werepractically engaged."

  "Stuff an' nonsense! Sorry, sir, but I admire Doris Martin. I like to seea girl like her liftin' herself out of the common gang. She's thesmartest young lady in the village, an' not an atom of a snob. No, no.She isn't for Fred Elkin. Before this murder cropped up everybody wouldhave it that Mr. Grant would marry her."

  "How does the murder intervene?"

  Robinson shifted uneasily in his chair. He knew only too well that hehimself had driven a wedge between the two.

  "Steynholme's a funny spot, sir," he contrived to explain. "Since it cameout that Doris an' Mr. Grant were in the garden at The Hollies at halfpast ten on Monday night, without Mr. Martin knowin' where his daughterwas, there's been talk. Both the postmaster an' the girl herself are upto it. You can see it in their faces. They don't like it, an' who canblame 'em!"

  "Who, indeed? But this Elkin--surely he had some ground for a definiteboast, made openly, among people acquainted with all the parties?"

  "There's more than Elkin would marry Doris if she lifted a finger, sir."

  "Can you name them?"

  "Well, Tomlin wants a wife."

  Winter laughed joyously.

  "Next?" he cried.

  "They say that Mr. Siddle is a widower."

  "The chemist? Foreman of the jury?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "From appearances, he is a likelier candidate than either Elkin orTomlin. Anybody else?"

  "I shouldn't be far wrong if I gave you the name of most among the youngunmarried men in the parish."

  "Dear me! I must have a peep at this charmer. But I want those names,Robinson."

  Winter produced a note-book, so he was evidently taking the matterseriously. The policeman, however, was flustered. His thoughts ran onElkin, whereas this masterful person from London insisted on discussingDoris Martin.

  "My difficulty is, sir, that she has never kep' company with any of'em," he said.

  "Never mind. Give me the name of every man who, no matter what hisposition or prospects, might be irritated, if no more, if he knew thatMiss Martin and Mr. Grant were presumably spooning in a garden at arather late hour."

  It was a totally new line of inquiry for Robinson, but he bent his witsto it, and evolved a list which, if published, would certainly beregarded with incredulous envy by every other girl in the village thanthe postmaster's daughter; as for Doris herself, she would be mightilysurprised when she saw it, but whether annoyed or secretly gratified nonebut a pretty girl of nineteen can tell.

  Winter departed soon afterwards. Before going to the inn he had a look atthe forge. A young woman, standing at the open door of the adjoiningcottage, favored him with a frank stare. There was no light in thedwelling. When he returned, after walking a little way down the road, thedoor was closed.

  Next morning, Bates heard of Peters as the detective and of Mr. Franklinas a "millionaire" from South America. Moreover, he scrutinized both inthe flesh, and saw Robinson salute Peters but pass the financialpotentate with indifference.

  Alas, that a reputation, once built, should be destroyed!

  "I was mistook, sir," he reported to Grant later. "There's another 'tecabout, but 'e ain't the chap I met last night. They say this other blokeis rollin' in money, an' buyin' hosses right an' left."

  "Then he'll soon be rolling in the mud, and have no money," put in Hart.

  "Who is he?" inquired Grant carelessly.

  "A Mr. Franklin, from South America, sir."

  Grant and Hart exchanged glances. Curiously enough, Hart remained silenttill Bates had gone.

  "I must look this joker up, Jack," he said then. "To me the mere mentionof South America is like Mother Gary's chickens to a sailor, a harbingerof storm."

  But Hart consumed Tomlin's best brew to no purpose--in so far as seeingMr. Franklin was concerned, since the latter was in Knoleworth, buying afamous racing stud. Being in the village, however, this fisher introubled waters was not inclined to return without a bag of some sort.

  He walked straight into the post office. Doris and her father were there,the telegraphist being out.

  "Good day, everybody," he cried cheerfully. "Grant wants to know, Mr.Martin, if you and Miss Doris will come and dine with him, us, thisevening at 7.30?"

  The postma
ster gazed helplessly at this free-and-easy stranger. Dorislaughed, and blushed a little.

  "This is Mr. Hart, a friend of Mr. Grant's, dad," she explained. "I'mafraid we cannot accept the invitation. We are so busy."

  "The worst of excuses," said Hart.

  "But there is a London correspondent here who hands in a long telegramat that hour."

  "What's his name?"

  "Mr. Peters."

  "Great Scott! Jimmie Peters here? I'll soon put a stopper on him. He'llcome, too--jumping. See if he doesn't. Is it a bargain? Short telegramat six. Dinner for five at 7.30. Come, now, Mr. Martin. It's up to you. Ican see 'Yes' in Doris's eye. Over the port--most delectable, I assureyou--I'll give full details of the peculiar case of a man inWorcestershire whose crop of gooseberries increased fourfold afterstarting an apiary. And what does it matter if you do lose a queen or twoin June? The drones will attend to that trifle.... It's a fixture, eh?Where's Peters? In the Pull and Push? I'll rout him out."

  The whirlwind subsided, but quickly materialized again.

  "Peters nearly fell on his knees and wept with joy," announced Hart. "Hebelieves he was given a bull steak for luncheon. He pledges himself tohave only five hundred words on the wire at five o'clock."

  Meanwhile, father and daughter had decided that there was no valid reasonwhy they should not dine with Mr. Grant. Martin already regretted hisaloofness on the day of the inquest, though, truth to tell, Hart's expertknowledge of bee-culture was the determining factor. On her part, Doriswas delighted. Her world had gone awry that week, and this smallfestivity might right it.

  Not one word of the improvised dinner-party did Hart confide to Grant. Heinformed the only indispensable person, Mrs. Bates, and left it at that.Grant, a restless being these days, took him for another long walk. Itchanced that their road home led down the high-street. The hour was aquarter past seven, and Peters hailed them.

  Hart introduced the journalist, saying casually:

  "Jimmie is coming to dinner, Jack."

  "Delighted," said Grant, of course.

  Peters looked slightly surprised, but passed no comment. Then Doris andher father appeared. They joined the others, shook hands, and, to Grant'ssecret perplexity, the whole party moved off down the hill in company.When the Martins turned with the rest to cross the bridge, Grant began tosuspect his friend.

  "Wally," he managed to whisper, "what game have you been playing?"

  "Aren't you satisfied?" murmured Hart. "Sdeath, as they used to say inthe Surrey Theater, you're as bad as Furshaw!"

  There were others far more perturbed by that odd conjunction of dinersthan the puzzled host, who merely expected Mrs. Bates to belabor him witha rolling pin. Mr. Siddle, for instance, had just closed his shop whenthe five met. That is to say, the dark blue blind was drawn, but thedoor was ajar. He came to the threshold, and watched the party until thebridge was neared, when one of them, looking back, might have seen him,so he stepped discreetly inside. Being a non-interfering, self-containedman, he seemed to be rather irresolute. But that condition passedquickly. Leaning over the counter, he secured a hat and a pair offield-glasses, and went out. He, too, knew of Mrs. Jefferson's weaknessfor shopping in Knoleworth, and that good lady had gone there again. Hertrain was due in ten minutes. A wicket gate led to a narrow passagecommunicating with the back door of her residence. He entered boldly,reached the garden, and hurried to the angle on the edge of the cliffnext to the Martins' strip of ground.

  Yes, a spacious dinner-table was laid at The Hollies. Doris, Mr. Martin,and Peters soon strolled out on to the lawn. The pedestrians hadobviously gone upstairs to wash after their tramp.

  Mr. Siddle rather forgot himself. He stared so long and earnestly throughthe field-glasses that he ran full tilt into Mrs. Jefferson and maidbefore regaining the high-street. But the chemist was a ready man. Helifted his hat with an inquiring smile.

  "Didn't you say you wanted some anti-arthritic salts early in theweek?" he asked.

  "Yes," said Mrs. Jefferson, "but I got some to-day in Knoleworth,thank you."

  "Well, I was just making up an indent, and might as well include yourspecific if you really needed it."

  Which was kind and thoughtful of Mr. Siddle, but not quite true, thoughit fully explained his presence at Mrs. Jefferson's gate.

  Mr. Franklin, escorting a fragrant Havana up the hill (he had traveled bythe same train) saw the meeting, and, being aware of Mrs. Jefferson'sfrugal habits, since Furneaux had omitted no item of his movements inSteynholme, remembered it later during the nightly gathering in the inn.

  Elkin greeted Mr. Franklin respectfully when the great man joinedthe circle.

  "Did you see anything worth while at Knoleworth, sir?" he said.

  "No. I was unlucky. All the principals were at a race meeting."

  "By gum! That's right. It's Gatwick today. Dash! I might have saved youa journey."

  "Oh, it doesn't matter. In my business there is no call for hurry."

  Elkin looked around.

  "Where's our friend, the 'tec?" he said.

  "I think you're wrong about 'im, meanin' Mr. Peters," said Tomlin. "'E's'ere for a noospaper, not for the Yard."

  "That's his blarney," smirked Elkin. "A detective doesn't go abouttelling everybody what he is."

  "Whatever his profession may be," put in Siddle's quiet voice, "I happento know that he is dining with Mr. Grant. So are Mr. Martin and Doris. Bymere chance I called at Mrs. Jefferson's. I went to the back door, and,finding it closed, looked into the garden. From there I couldn't helpseeing the assembly on the lawn of The Hollies."

  "Dining at Grant's?" shouted Elkin in a fury. "Well, I'm--"

  "'Ush, Fred!" expostulated Tomlin with a shocked glance at Mr. Franklin."Wot's wrong wi' a bit of grub, ony ways? A very nice-spoken young gentkem 'ere twiced, an' axed for Mr. Peters the second time. He's a friendo' Mr. Grant's, I reckon."

  "What's wrong?" stormed the horse-dealer. "Why, everything's wrong! Thebounder ought to be in jail instead of giving dinner-parties. ImagineDoris eating in that house!"

  "Ay! Sweetbreads an' saddle o' lamb," interjected Hobbs with the air ofone imparting a secret.

  Elkin was pallid with wrath. He glared at Hobbs.

  "What I had in my mind was the impudence of the blighter," he saidshrilly. "That poor woman's body leaves here to-morrow for some cemeteryin London, and Grant invites folk to a small dinner to-night!"

  A sort of awe fell on the company. None of the others had as yet put thetwo events in juxtaposition, and they had an ugly sound. Even Mr. Siddlestifled a protest. Elkin had scored a hit, a palpable hit, and no onecould gainsay him. He felt that, for once, the general opinion was withhim, and drove the point home.

  "Hobson--the local joiner and undertaker"--he explained for Mr.Franklin's benefit--"came this morning to borrow a couple of horses forthe job. It's to be done in style--'no expense spared' was Mr. Ingerman'sorder--and the poor thing is in her coffin now while Grant--"

  He stopped. Mr. Siddle coughed.

  "You've said enough, Elkin," murmured the chemist. "This excitement isharmful. You really ought to be in bed for the next forty-eight hours,dieting yourself carefully, and taking Dr. Foxton's mixture regularly. Hehas changed it, I noticed."

  "Bed! Me! Not likely. I'm going to kick up a row. What are the policedoing? A set of blooming old women, that's what they are. But I'll stir'em up, if I have to write to the Home Secretary."

  "Gentlemen," said Mr. Franklin, smiling genially, "I cannot help taking acertain interest in this affair. May I, then, as a complete stranger toall concerned, tell you how this minor episode strikes me. Mr. Grant, Iunderstand, denies having seen or spoken to Miss Melhuish during the pastthree years. None of the others now in his house had met her at all.Really, if a man may not give a dinnerparty in these conditions,dining-out would become a lost art."

  Elkin was obviously seeking for some retort which, though forcible, wouldnot offend a possible patron. But Siddle answered far more deftly thanmigh
t be looked for from the horse-dealer.

  "Your contention, sir, is just what the man of the world would hold," hesaid, "but, in this village, where we live on neighborly terms, such anincident would be impossible in almost any other house than The Hollies."

  Mr. Franklin nodded. He was convinced. Tomlin, Hobbs, and a local draperbore out the chemist's reasonable theory. Next morning Steynholme wasagain united in condemning Grant, while the postmaster and his daughterwere not wholly exempted from criticism.

  The dinner itself was an altogether harmless and cheery meal. By commonconsent not one word was said about the murder. Hart was amusing on thequestion of bees--almost flippant, Mr. Martin deemed him. Peters had awide store of strange experiences to draw on, while Grant, if rathersilent in deference to two such brilliant talkers, found muchsatisfaction in regarding Doris as a hostess.

  The next day being Saturday, or market day, the village was busy. Ateleven o'clock there was a somewhat unnecessary display of noddingplumes and long-tailed black horses at the removal of the coffin to therailway station. For some reason, the funeral arrangements had not beenbruited about until Elkin made that envenomed attack on Grant in the Hareand Hounds the previous night. Ingerman had sent a gorgeous wreath, theonly one forthcoming locally. This fact, of course, invited comment,though no whisperer in the crowd troubled to add that the interment wasonly announced in that day's newspapers.

  Peters, meeting Mr. Franklin on the stairs of the inn, put a note intohis hand. It read:

  "Why don't you have a chat with Grant? The public mind is being inflamedagainst him. It's hardly fair."

  Mr. Franklin, meeting Peters in the passage, winked at him, and thejournalist tortured his brains to turn out some readable stuff whichshould grip the million on Sunday yet not to be damaging to the man whosehospitality he enjoyed over night.

  In a word, the passing of Adelaide Melhuish was exploited thoroughly asan indictment of her one-time lover, and the only two in Steynholme notaware of the fact were Grant, himself, and Wally Hart.

  By a singular coincidence, not ridiculously beyond the ken of a verger,when Doris went to church on Sunday morning, she found herself besideMr. Franklin.

  At the close of the service the same big man whom she had noticed as aneighbor in the pew overtook her at the post office door. He lifted hishat. A passer-by heard him say distinctly:

  "Pardon me for troubling you, but can you tell me at what time the mailcloses for London?"

  "At four-thirty," said Doris.

  No other person overheard Mr. Franklin's next words:

  "I am now going to drop a letter in the box. It's for you. Get it atonce. It is of the utmost importance."

  Doris was startled, as well she might be. But--she went straight for theletter. It was marked: "Private and Urgent," and ran:

  DEAR MISS MARTIN. I am here _vice_ Mr. Furneaux, who is engaged on otherphases of the same inquiry. My business is absolutely unknown. I figureat the inn as "Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina." Indeed, Mr. Furneaux left thevillage because he realized the difficulties facing him in that respect.Now, I trust you, and I hope you will justify my faith. You knowSuperintendent Fowler. I want you to meet me and him this afternoon attwo o'clock at the crossroads beyond the mill. A closed car will be inwaiting, and we can have half an hour's talk without anyone in Steynholmebeing the wiser. Remember that this village, like the night, has athousand eyes. Naturally, I would not trouble you in this way if thecause was not vital to the ends of justice. Whether or not you decide tokeep this appointment, I have every confidence that you will respect mywish that _no one_, other than yourself, shall be informed of myidentity. But I believe you will be wise, and come.

  I am,

  Yours faithfully,

  J.L. WINTER,

  Chief Inspector, C.I.D., Scotland Yard, S.W.

  A card was inclosed, as a sort of credential. But, somehow, it was notneeded. Doris had seen "Mr. Franklin" more than once, and she had heardhim singing the hymns in church. He looked worthy of credence. Hiswritten words had the same honest ring. She resolved to go.

  Her father, sad to relate, had found three dead queens in the hives. Hewas busy, but spared a moment to tell her that Mr. Siddle was coming totea at four o'clock. Doris was rather in a whirl, and seemed to beunnecessarily astonished.

  "Mr. Siddle! Why?" she gasped.

  "Why not!" said her father. "It's not the first time. You can entertainhim. I'll look after the letters."

  "I must get some cakes. We have none."

  "Well, that's simple. I wonder if that fellow Hart really understandsapiaculture? You might invite him, too."

  With that letter in her pocket Doris had suddenly grown wary. Hart andSiddle would not mix, and her woman's intuition warned her that Siddlehad chosen the tea-hour purposely in order to have an uninterruptedconversation with her. She disliked Mr. Siddle, in a negative way, butthe very nearness of the detective was stimulating. Let Mr. Siddle come,then, and come alone!

  "No, dad," she laughed. "Mr. Hart's knowledge will be availableto-morrow. In his presence, poor Mr. Siddle would be dumb."