The Postmaster's Daughter

  CHAPTER XV

  A MATTER OF HEREDITY

  Shortly before noon on Monday occurred two events destined to assume aparamount importance in the affair which was wringing the withers ofSteynholme. As in the histories of both men and nations, these firststeps in great developments began quietly enough. For one thing, Furneauxreturned to the village. For another, the London telegraphist, whoexpected the day to prove practically a blank, was reading a newspaperwhen the telegraph instrument clicked the local call.

  Doris was checking and distributing the stock of stamps which had arrivedthat morning; her father was counting mail-bags in a small annex to themain room, the Knoleworth office having acquired a habit of making upshortages by docking the country branches. No member of the publichappened to be present. The girl could have heard what the Morse code wastapping forth had she chosen, but she had trained herself to disregardthe telegraph when occupied on other work.

  Suddenly, however, the telegraphist's pencil paused.

  "Hello!" he said. "Theodore Siddle! That's the chemist opposite,isn't it!"

  "Yes," said Doris, suspending her calculations at mention of the name.

  "Well, his mother's dead."

  "Dead?" she echoed vacantly. Somehow, it had never hitherto dawned on herthat the chemist might possess relatives in some part of the country.

  "That's what it says," went on the other. "'Regret inform you your motherdied this morning. Superintendent, Horton Asylum.'"

  "In an asylum, too," said the girl, speaking at random.

  "Yes. Horton is the place for epileptic lunatics, near Epsom, you know."

  "I didn't know. Does it mean that--that she was an epileptic lunatic?"

  "So I should imagine, from the wording. If a nurse, or a matron, they'dsurely describe her as such."

  "I suppose we ought not to discuss Mr. Siddle's telegram," said Doris,after a pause.

  "Well, no. But where's the harm? I wouldn't have yelled out the news ifwe three weren't alone. Where's that boy?"

  "Gone to his dinner. Father will take it. By the way, say nothing to himas to the contents. Would you mind calling him?"

  Doris hurried swiftly to the sitting-room, and thence upstairs. Thetelegraphist explained the absence of a messenger, so Mr. Martindelivered the telegram in person.

  Crossing the street, he detected a dead bee. He picked it up, horrifiedat the thought that the Isle of Wight disease might have reached Sussex.So it was an absent-minded postmaster who handed the telegram overSiddle's counter, inquiring laconically:

  "Is there any answer?"

  Siddle opened the buff envelope, and read. He glanced sharply at Martin.

  "No," he said. "What's wrong with that bee?"

  "I don't know. I have my doubts. When I have a moment to spare I'll putit under the microscope."

  Siddle examined the telegram again. The handwriting was that beloved ofCivil Service Commissioners. Unquestionably, it was not Doris's. Nosooner had his friend gone off, still intent on the dead insect, thanSiddle followed. He knew that the bee would undergo scientific scrutinyat once, so gave Martin just enough time to dive into the sitting-roombefore entering the post office.

  "Did you receive this telegram a few minutes ago!" he inquired.

  The young man became severely official.

  "Which telegram?" he said stiffly.

  "This one," and Siddle gave him the written message.

  "Yes," was the answer.

  "Excuse me, but--er--are its contents known to you only?"

  "What do you mean, sir? It would cost me my berth if I divulged a word ofit to anyone."

  "I'm sorry. Pray don't take offense. I--I'm anxious that my friends,Mr. and Miss Martin, should not hear of it. That is what I reallyhave in mind."

  The telegraphist cooled down.

  "You may be quite sure that neither they nor any other person inSteynholme will ever see the duplicate," he said confidentially. "I makeup a package containing duplicates each evening, and it is sent toheadquarters. If it will please you, I'll lock the copy now in my desk."

  "That is exceedingly good of you," said Siddle gratefully. "You, as aLondoner, will understand that such a telegram from--er--Horton is notthe sort of thing one would like to become known even in the mostlimited circle."

  "You can depend on me, sir."

  Siddle hastened back to his shop. The telegraphist looked after him.

  "Queer!" he mused. "Miss Doris guessed him at once. Phi-ew, I must becareful! This village contains surprises."

  Doris, watching from an upper room, saw the visitor, and timed him. Sheimagined he had dispatched an answer. Being a woman, she soughtenlightenment a few minutes later.

  "Mr. Siddle came in," she said tentatively.

  "Yes," said the specialist, smiling. "And I agree with you, Miss Martin.We mustn't talk about telegrams, even among ourselves, unless it isnecessary departmentally."

  Doris was silenced, but she read the riddle correctly. The chemist wasparticularly anxious that no Steynholme resident should be made aware ofhis mother's death. She wondered why.

  She was enlightened when Furneaux paid a call about tea-time. She tookhim into the garden. The lawn at The Hollies was empty.

  "Well, you entertained an acquaintance yesterday?" he began.

  "Yes. Am I to tell you what happened?"

  "Not a great deal, I imagine," he said, with a puzzling laugh.

  "No, but I annoyed him, as Mr.----"

  "No names!" broke in the detective hastily. "Names, especially modernones, destroy romance. Even the Georgian method of using initials, orleaving out vowels, lend an air of intrigue to the veriest balderdash."

  "But no one can overhear us," was the somewhat surprised comment.

  "How true!" said Furneaux. "Pardon me, Miss Martin. Tell the story inyour own way."

  Doris had a good memory. She was invariably letter-perfect in a playafter a couple of rehearsals, and could prompt others if they faltered.The detective listened in silence while she repeated the conversationbetween Siddle and herself. He took no notes. In fact, he hardly ever didmake any record in a case unless it was essential to prove the exactwords of a suspected person.

  "Good!" he said, when she had finished. "That sounds like thecomplete text."

  "I don't think I have left out anything of importance--that is, if asingle word of it _is_ important."

  "Oh, heaps," he assured her. "It's even better than I dared hope. Can youtell me if Siddle's mother is dead yet?"

  The question found Doris so thoroughly unprepared that she blurted out:

  "Have you had a telegram, too, then?"

  "No. But Siddle has had one, eh? Don't be vexed. I'm not tricking youinto revealing post office secrets. I knew she was dying, and, when I sawyour father take a message to the chemist's shop I simply made anaccurate guess.... Now, I'm going to scare you, purposely and of maliceaforethought, because I want you to be a good little girl, and obeyorders. Mrs. Siddle, senior, now happily deceased, was an epilepticlunatic of a peculiarly dangerous type. She suffered from what is classedby the doctors as _furor epilepticus_, a form of spasmodic insanity notinconsistent with a high degree of bodily vigor and long periods ofapparently complete mental saneness. Now, if I were not speaking to onewho has shared her father's studies in bee-life, I would not introducethe subject of heredity. But _you_ know, Miss Martin, that such racialcharacteristics are transmitted, or transmissible, I should say, by sexopposites. Thus, an epileptic mother is more likely to give her taint toa son than to a daughter.... Yes, I mean all that, and more," he went on,seeing the look of horror, not unmixed with fear, in Doris's eyes. "Theremust be no more irritating of Siddle, or playing on his feelings--by you,at any rate. Treat him gently. If he insists on making love to you, be asfirm as you like in a non-committal way. I mean, by that, an entireabsence on your part of any suggestion that you are repulsing him becauseof a real or supposed preference for any other man."

  "Do you want me to believe that he is liable to a
ttack me?" demanded thegirl, her naturally courageous spirit coming to her aid.

  "I do," said Furneaux, speaking with marked earnestness.

  "Yet you ask me to endure his company if he chooses to forcehimself on me?"

  "For a few days."

  "But it may be a few years?"

  "No. That is not to be thought of. Leave it to me to devise a way.Besides, you need not allow him so many opportunities that the strainwould become unbearable. You are busy, owing to the certain increase ofwork brought about by this murder. Your time will be greatly occupied.But, don't render him morbidly suspicious. For instance, no more dinnersat The Hollies. No more gadding about by night, if you hear weird noiseson the other side of the river. And you must absolutely deny yourself thepleasurable excitement of Mr. Grant's company."

  "You are carrying a warning to its extreme limit."

  "Exactly."

  "And am I to keep this knowledge to myself?"

  "In whom would you confide?"

  "My father, of course."

  "I know you better," and the detective's voice took on a profoundlyserious note. "Your father would never admit that what he knows to betrue of bees is equally true of humanity. You can trust the police tokeep a pretty sharp eye on Siddle, of course, but the present is astrenuous period, both for us and for people with maniacal tendencies, soaccidents may happen."

  "You have distressed me immeasurably," said the girl, striving to piercethe mask of that inscrutable face.

  "I meant to," answered Furneaux quietly. "No half measures for me.I've looked up the asylum record of Mrs. Siddle, senior, and it's notnice reading."

  "There was a Mrs. Siddle, junior, then?"

  "A Mrs. Theodore Siddle, if one adopts the conventional usage. Yes. Shedied last month."

  "Last month!" gasped Doris, feeling vaguely that she was moving in a mazeof deceit and subterfuge.

  "On May 25th, to be precise. She lived apart from her husband. I havereason to believe she feared him."

  "Yet--"

  She hesitated, hardly able to put her jumbled thoughts into words.

  "Yes. That's so," said the detective instantly. "Never mind. It's afairly decent world, taken _en bloc_. I ought to speak with authority. Isee enough of the seamy side of it, goodness knows. Now, forewarned isforearmed. Don't be nervous. Don't take risks. Everything will come rightin time. Remember, I'm not far away in an emergency. Should I chance tobe absent if you need advice, send for Mr. Franklin. You can easilydevise some official excuse, a mislaid letter, or an error in atelegram."

  "I think I shall feel confident if both of you are near," and the ghostof a smile lit Doris's wan features.

  "We're a marvelous combination," grinned Furneaux, reverting at once tohis normal impishness. "I am all brain; he is all muscle. Such analliance prevails against the ungodly."

  "Is Mr. Grant in any danger?" inquired Doris suddenly.

  "No."

  The two looked into each other's eyes. Doris was eager to ask a question,which Furneaux dared her to put. The detective won. She sighed.

  "Very well," she said. "I'm to behave. Am I to regard myself as adecoy duck?"

  "A duck, anyhow."

  She laughed lightly. Furneaux would vouchsafe no further information, itwould appear. For a girl of nineteen, Doris was uncommonly gifted withclear, analytical reasoning powers.

  The detective returned to the Hare and Hounds, and went upstairs. He metPeters on the landing.

  "The devil!" he cried.

  "My _dear_ pal!" retorted the journalist.

  "Are you living here?"

  "Why not?"

  "Why not, indeed? Where the eagles are there is the carcase."

  "Your misquotation is offensive."

  "It was so intended."

  "Come and have a drink."

  "No."

  "I say 'yes.' You'll thank me on your bended knees afterwards. The SouthAmerican gent is having the time of his life. I've just been to my roomfor _Whitaker's Almanack_, wherewith a certain Don Walter Hart purposesflooring him."

  Wally Hart had, indeed, succeeded in running to earth the Argentinemagnate, and was giving Winter a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour.

  "Ha!" shouted Hart, when Furneaux came in with Peters. "Here's the pocketmarvel who'll answer any question straight off. What is the staple exportof the Argentine!"

  "How often have you been there?" demanded the detective dryly.

  "Six times."

  "And you've lived there?" This to Winter.

  "Yes," glowered the big man, fearing the worst.

  "Then the answer is 'fools,'" cackled Furneaux.

  Wally laughed. He had remembered, just in time, that he had no right toclaim acquaintance with the representative of Scotland Yard, and therewere some farmers present, each of whom had a "likely animal" to offerthe buyer of blood stock.

  "Gad, I think you're right," he said.

  "You wanted me to say 'sheep,' I suppose?"

  "Got it, at once."

  "As though one valuable horse wasn't worth a thousand sheep."

  "Just what my friend, Don Manoel Alcorta, of Los Andes ranch, Catamarca,always held," put in Winter, drawing the bow at a venture.

  Hart cocked an eye at him.

  "Sir," he said, "I would take off my hat, if I wore one in Steynholme, toany man who claims the friendship of Don Manoel Alcorta, a sincerepatriot. I suggest that we crack a bottle to his immortal memory."

  "My doctor forbids me to touch wine," said Winter mournfully.

  "But these bucolic breeders of browns and bays employ wiser medicos,I'll go bail. Landlord, a quart of the best, and six out, as they sayin London."

  Six glasses were duly filled with champagne. When it was consumed, Hartbuttonholed Peters.

  "A word with you, scribe," he said. "Good-day, gentlemen. I leave you toyour nags. Treat Mr. Franklin fairly. The friend of Don Manoel Alcortamust be a true man."

  Winter heaved a sigh of relief when the professional revolutionisthad vanished.

  "He's a funny 'un," commented one of the farmers.

  "A bit touched, I reckon," said another. "Wot's 'e doin' now to theother one?"

  They looked through the window. The two were standing in the middle ofthe road, and Wally was shaking Peters violently. The argument was not sofierce as it appeared to be. Peters had been commanded to bring bothdetectives to dinner that evening; when he demurred, trying to hedge onthe question of Winter's identity, Hart grabbed him by the shoulder.

  "Do as I tell you," he hissed. "Of course, I know now that the big fellowis the man Grant heard of a week ago. I was an idiot to take himseriously about the Argentine. Bring the pair of 'em, I tell you. We'llmake a night of it."

  "I'll try," said Peters faintly, "but if you stir up that wine sovigorously I won't answer for the consequences."

  Winter, wishing devoutly that would-be sellers of horseflesh were not sonumerous in the district, noted the names and addresses of the local men,and promised to write when he could make an appointment. Then he escapedupstairs, whither Furneaux soon followed. Winter had secured an extrabedroom, overlooking the river, which Tomlin had converted into asitting-room. Thus, he held a secure observation post both in front andrear of the hotel.

  "Well, how did she take it!" inquired the Chief Inspector, when he andhis colleague were safe behind a closed door.

  "Sensible girl," said Furneaux. "By the way, Siddle's mother is dead.Telegram came this morning. Things should happen now."

  "I don't quite see why."

  "No. You're still muddled after floundering in the mud of South America.What possessed you to let that cheerful idiot, Wally Hart, put you inthe cart?"

  "How could I help it? I was extracting some really helpful facts aboutSiddle and Elkin from Tomlin and the others when a shock-headed whirlwindblew in, and nearly embraced me because I claimed acquaintance with theEl Dorado bar in Buenos Ayres. From that instant I was lost. Like St.Augustine on the gridiron, no sooner was I nicely toasted on one
sidethan I was turned on to the other. That grinning penny-a-liner, Peters,too, helped as assistant torturer. Wait till he asks me for a 'pointer'in this or any other case. He sold me a pup to-day, but I'll land himwith a full-sized mastiff."

  "No, you won't. He's done you a lot of good. You were simply reeking withconceit when I met you this morning. It was 'Siddle this' and 'Siddlethat' until you fairly sickened me. One would have thought I hadn'tcleared the ground for you, left you with all lines open and yourselfunknown to the enemy. Sometimes, you make me tired."

  "Sorry, Charles," said Winter patronizingly. "I had a bit of luck onSunday, I admit. The chance turn taken by the conversation with Doris,with the result that I was able to occupy a strategic position on thecliff, and hear every word Siddle uttered, was really fortunate. But,isn't that just what men mean when they prate of success? Opportunityknocks once at every man's door, says the old saw. The clever man grabshold instantly. The indolent one, often a mere gabbler, opens his eyesand his mouth weeks afterwards, and cries, 'Dear me! Was that themuch-looked-for opportunity?' Of course, Robinson's by-play with the sackand rope was merely thrown in by the prodigal hand of Fate."

  "Stop!" yelped Furneaux. "Another platitude, and I'll assault you withthe tongs!"

  It was the invariable habit of the Big 'Un and Little 'Un to quarrel likecat and dog when the toils were closing in around a suspect. Woe, then,to the malefactor! His was a parlous state.

  "Let's cool down, Charles!" said Winter, opening a leather case, andselecting, with great care, one out of half a dozen precisely similarcigars. "We're pretty sure of our man, but we haven't a scrap of evidenceagainst him. How, or where, to begin ringing him in I haven't thefaintest notion. If only he'd kill Grant we'd get him at once."

  "But he won't. He trusts to Ingerman playing that part of the game. He'sas artful as a pet fox. I bought soap, and a pound of sal volatile, buthe did up each parcel with sealing-wax."

  "Sal volatile!" smiled Winter. "I, too, went in for soap, but myimagination would not soar beyond a packet of cotton-wool. It was thelumpiest thing I could think of."

  "And perfectly useless!" sneered Furneaux. "I must say you do fling thetaxpayers' money about. Now, _my_ little lot will keep the electric bellsin my flat in order for two years."

  "You forget that constant association with you demands that I shouldfrequently plug my two ears," retorted Winter.

  Furneaux would surely have thrown back the jest had not a knock on thedoor interrupted him.

  "Who's there? I'm busy," cried Winter.

  "Me-ow!" whined Peters's voice.

  "Oh, it's you, Tom. Come in!"

  The journalist crept in on tiptoe.

  "Hush! We are not observed," he said. "Wally Hart threatens to choke meif you two don't dine with him and Grant to-night."

  There was silence for a little while. The detectives looked ateach other.

  "At what time?" said Winter, at last.

  Peters was astonished, and showed it.

  "Why, I assured him it was absolutely imposs.," he cried.

  "Well, it isn't. In fact, it suits our plans. I want exercise, and shallwalk back from Knoleworth. Furneaux will make his own arrangements. TellGrant that I shall drop in without knocking."

  "And tell him I shall arrive by parachute," added Furneaux.

  "In case of accidents, and there is a shoot-up, with myself as theunresisting victim, my front name is James," said Peters.

  "The only good point about you," scoffed Winter.

  "You're strong on names to-day," tittered the journalist. "Don ManoelAlcorta was a superb effort as an authority on gee-gees. Wally tells mehis donship is the recognized expert south of the line on seismicdisturbances, and spends his days and nights watching a needle makingscratches on a sensitive plate."

  "He would be useful here in a day or two," said Winter.

  "Ah, thanks! Is that a tip?"

  "Not for publication. What you must say is that this affair looks likebaffling the shrewdest wits in Scotland Yard."

  "My very phrase--my own ewe lamb. Pardon. I shouldn't have alludedto sheep."

  "The only known representative of the Yard in Steynholme is Furneaux,"smiled the Chief Inspector.

  Furneaux was drumming on a window-pane with his finger-tips.

  "True," he cackled. "Just to prove it, he now informs you that Siddle,finding trade slow, has called on Mr. John Menzies Grant!"