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Postmaster's Daughter

<h2>Chapter III. The Gathering Clouds</h2> Thus, it befell that Grant was not worried by officialdom until long after his housekeeper and her daughter had recovered from the shock of learning that they were, in a sense, connected at first hand with a ghastly and sensational crime. Like Bates and their employer, neither Mrs. Bates nor Minnie had heard or seen anything overnight which suggested that a woman was being foully done to death in the grounds attached to the house. As it happened, Minnie’s bedroom, as well as that occupied by her parents, overlooked the lawn and river. Grant’s room lay in a gable which commanded the entrance. He had chosen it purposely because it faced the rising sun. The other members of the household, therefore, though in bed, had quite as good an opportunity as he, working in the dining-room beneath, of having their attention drawn to sounds disturbing the peace of the night in a quiet and secluded spot. Moreover, none of them was asleep. Minnie Bates, in particular, said that the “grandfather’s clock” in the hall struck twelve before she “could close an eye.” At last, just as Grant was rising from an almost untasted luncheon, Mrs. Bates, with a voice of scare, announced “the polis,” and P. C. Robinson introduced Superintendent Fowler. This time Grant did not resent questions. He expected them, and had made up his mind to give full and detailed answers. Of course, the finding of the body was again described minutely. The superintendent, a man of experience, one whose manner was not fox-like and irritating like his subordinate’s, paid close attention to the face at the window. “There seems to be little room for doubt that Miss Melhuish did enter your grounds about a quarter to eleven last night,” he said thoughtfully. “You recognized her at once, you say?” “I imagined so. Until this horrible thing became known I had persuaded myself that the vision was a piece of sheer hallucination.” “Let us assume that the lady actually came here, and looked in. Evidently, her face was sufficiently familiar that you should know instantly who this unusual visitor was. I understand, though, that you had not the least notion she was staying in Steynholme?” “Not the least.” “How long ago is it since you last saw her?” “Nearly three years.” “You were very well acquainted with her, then, or you could not have glanced up from your table, seen someone staring at you through a window, and said to yourself, as one may express it:—‘That is Adelaide Melhuish’.” “We were so well acquainted that I asked the lady to be my wife.” “Ah,” said the superintendent. His placid, unemotional features, however, gave no clew to his opinions. Not so P. C. Robinson, who tried to look like a judge, whereas he really resembled a bull-terrier who has literally, not figuratively, smelt a rat. Despite his earlier good resolutions, Grant was horribly impatient of this inquisition. He admitted that the superintendent was carrying through an unpleasant duty as inoffensively as possible, but the attitude of the village policeman was irritating in the extreme. Nothing would have tended so effectively to relieve his surcharged feelings as to supply P. C. Robinson then and there with ample material for establishing a charge of assault and battery. “That is not a remarkable fact, if regarded apart from to-day’s tragedy,” he said, and there was more than a hint of soul-weariness in his voice. “Miss Melhuish was a very talented and attractive woman. I first met her as the outcome of a suggestion that one of my books should be dramatized, a character in the novel being deemed eminently suitable for her special rôle on the stage. The idea came to nothing. She was appearing in a successful play at the time, and was rehearsing its successor. Meanwhile, I—fell in love with her, I suppose, and she certainly encouraged me in the belief that she might accept me. I did eventually propose marriage. Then she told me she was married already. It was a painful disillusionment—at the time. I only saw her, to speak to, once again.” “Did she reveal her husband’s name?” “Yes—a Mr. Ingerman.” The superintendent looked grave. That was a professional trick of his. He had never before in his life heard of Mr. Ingerman, but encouraged the notion that this gentleman was thoroughly, and not quite favorably, known to him. Sometimes it happened that a witness, interpreting this sapient look by the light of his or her personal and intimate knowledge, would blurt out certain facts, good or bad as the case might be, concerning the person under discussion. But Grant remained obstinately silent as to the qualities of this doubtful Ingerman, so Mr. Fowler scribbled the name in a note-book, and was particular as to whether it ended in one “n” or two. Still, he carried other shots in his locker. In fact, Mr. Fowler, had he taken in youth to nicer legal subtleties than handcuffs and summonses, would have become a shrewd lawyer. “We’ll leave Mr. Ingerman for the moment,” he said, implying, of course, that on returning to him there might be revelations. “I gather that you and Miss Melhuish did not agree, shall I put it? as to the precise bearing of the marriage tie on your love affair?” “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your meaning,” and Grant’s tone stiffened ominously, but his questioner was by no means abashed. “I have no great acquaintance with the stage or its ways, but I have always understood that divorce proceedings among theatrical folk were, shall we say? more popular than, in the ordinary walks of life,” said Mr. Fowler. Grant’s resentment vanished. The superintendent’s calm method, his interpolated apologies, as it were, for applying the probe, were beginning to interest him. “Your second effort is more successful, superintendent,” he said dryly. “Miss Melhuish did urge me to obtain her freedom. It was, she thought, only a matter of money with Mr. Ingerman, and she would be given material for a divorce.” “Ah,” murmured Fowler again, as though the discreditable implication fitted in exactly with the life history of a noted scoundrel in a written dossier then lying in his office. “You objected, may I suggest, to that somewhat doubtful means of settling a difficulty?” “Something of the kind.” Assuredly, Grant did not feel disposed to lay bare his secret feelings before this persuasive superintendent and an absurdly conceited village constable. Love, to him, was an ideal, a blend of mortal passion and immortal fire. But the flame kindled on that secret altar had scorched and seared his soul in a wholly unforeseen way. The discovery that Adelaide Melhuish was another man’s wife had stunned him. It was not until the fire of sacrifice had died into parched ashes that its earlier banality became clear. He realized then that he had given his love to a phantom. By one of nature’s miracles a vain and selfish creature was gifted in the artistic portrayal of the finer emotions. He had worshiped the actress, the mimic, not the woman herself. At any rate, that was how he read the repellent notion that he should bargain with any man for the sale of a wife. “You might be a trifle more explicit, Mr. Grant,” said the superintendent, almost reproachfully. “In what direction? Surely a three-years-old love affair can have little practical bearing on Miss Melhuish’s death?” “What, then, may I ask, could bear on it more forcibly? The lady admittedly visits you, late at night, and is found dead in a river bordering the grounds of your house next morning, all the conditions pointing directly to murder. Moreover—it is no secret, as the truth must come out at the inquest—she had passed a good deal of her time while in Steynholme, unknown to you, in making inquiries concerning you, your habits, your surroundings, your friends. Surely, Mr. Grant, you must see that the history of your relations with this lady, though, if I may use the phrase, perfectly innocent, may possibly supply that which is at present lacking—a clew, shall I term it, to the motive which inspired the man, or woman, who killed her?” P. C. Robinson was all an eye and an ear for this verbal fencing-match. It was not that he admired his superior’s skill, because such finesse was wholly beyond him, but his suspicious brain was storing up Grant’s admissions “to be used in evidence” against him subsequently. His own brief record of the conversation would have been:—“The prisoner, after being duly cautioned, said he kept company with the deceased about three years ago, but quarreled with her on hearing that she was a married woman.” The superintendent seldom indulged in so long a speech, but he was determined to force his adversary’s guard, and sought to win his confidence by describing the probable course to be pursued by the coroner’s inquest. But Grant, like the dead actress, had two sides to his nature. He was both an idealist and a stubborn fighter, and ideality had been shattered for many a day by that grewsome object hauled in that morning from the depths of the river. “I am willing to help in any shape or form, but can only repeat that Miss Melhuish and I parted as described. I should add that I have never, to my knowledge, met her husband.” “He may be dead.” “Possibly. You may know more about him than I.” “Even then, we have not traveled far as yet.” Fowler was puzzled, and did not hesitate to show it. He believed, not without reasonable cause, that this young man was concealing some element in the situation which might prove helpful in the quest for the murderer. He resolved to strike off along a new track. “I am informed,” he went on, speaking with a deliberateness meant to be impressive, “that you did entertain another lady as a visitor last night.” Grant allowed his glance to dwell on Robinson for an instant. Hitherto he had ignored the man. Now he surveyed him as if he were a viper. “It will be a peculiarly offensive thing if the personality of a helpless and unoffending girl is brought into this inquiry,” he cried. “‘Brought in’ is too mild—I ought to say ‘dragged in.’ As it happens, astronomy is one of my hobbies. Last evening, as the outcome of a chat on the subject, Doris Martin, daughter of the local postmaster, came here to view Sirius through an astronomical telescope. There is the instrument,” and he pointed through P. C. Robinson to a telescope on a tripod in a corner of the room. The gesture was eloquent. The burly policeman might have been a sheet of glass. “As you see, it is a solid article, not easily lifted about. It weighs nearly a hundred-weight.” “Why is it so heavy?” The superintendent had a knack of putting seemingly irrelevant questions. Robinson had been disconcerted by it earlier in the day, but Grant seemed to treat the interruption as a sensible one. “For observation purposes an astronomical telescope is not of much use unless the movement of the earth is counteracted,” he said. “Usually, the dome of an observatory swings on a specially contrived axis, but that is a very expensive structure, so my telescope is governed by a clockwork attachment and moves on its own axis.” Mr. Fowler nodded. He was really a very well informed man for a country police-officer; he understood clearly. “Miss Martin came here about a quarter to ten,” continued Grant, “and left within three-quarters of an hour. She did not enter the house. She was watching Sirius while I explained the methods whereby the distance of any star from the earth is computed and its chemical analysis determined—” “Most instructive, I’m sure,” put in the superintendent. He smiled genially, so genially that Grant dismissed the notion that the other might, in vulgar parlance, be pulling his leg. “Well, that is the be-all and end-all of Miss Martin’s presence. It would be cruel, and unfair, if a girl of her age were forced into a distasteful prominence in connection with a crime with which she is no more related than with Sirius itself.” The older man shook his head in regretful dissent. “That is just where you and I differ,” he said. “That very point leads us back to your past friendship with the dead woman.” “Why?” “Surely you see, Mr. Grant, that Miss Melhuish might be, probably was, watching your star-gazing, especially as your pupil chanced to be, shall I say, a remarkably attractive young lady ... No, no,” for Grant’s anger was unmistakable—“It does no good to blaze out in protest. An unhappy combination of circumstances must be faced candidly. Here are you and a pretty girl together in a garden at a rather late hour, and a woman whom you once wanted to marry spying on you, in all likelihood. I’ve met a few coroner’s juries in my time, and not one of them but would deem the coincidence strange, to put it mildly.” “What in Heaven’s name are you driving at?” “You must not impute motives, sir. I am seeking them, not supplying them.” “But what am I to say?” “Perhaps you will now tell me just how Miss Melhuish and you parted.” The fencers were coming to close quarters. Even P. C. Robinson had to admit that his “boss” had cornered the suspect rather cleverly. Grant realized that there was no room for squeamishness in this affair. If he did not speak out now, his motives might be woefully misunderstood. “We parted in wrath and tears,” he said sadly. “Miss Melhuish could not, or did not, appreciate my scruples. She professed to be in love with me. She even went so far as to threaten suicide. I—hardly believed in her sincerity, but thought it advisable to temporize, and asked for a few days’ delay before we came to a final decision. We met again, as I have said, and discussed matters in calmer mood. Ultimately, she professed agreement with my point of view, and we parted, ostensibly to remain good friends, but really to separate for ever.” “Thank you. That’s better. What was your point of view, Mr. Grant?” “Surely I have made it clear. I could not regard my wife as purchasable. The proposed compact was, I believe, illegal. But that consideration did not sway me. I had been dreaming, and thought I was roaming in an enchanted garden. I awoke, and found myself in a morass.” The superintendent nodded again. Singularly enough, Grant’s somewhat high-flown simile appeared to satisfy his craving for light. “Do you mind telling me—is there another woman?” he demanded, with one of those rapid transitions of topic in which he excelled. “No,” said Grant. “You see what I am aiming at. Let us suppose that Miss Melhuish never, in her own mind, abandoned the hope that some day the tangle would straighten itself. Women are constituted that way. If her husband is now dead, and she became free, she might wish to renew the old ties, but, being proud, would want to ascertain first whether or not any other woman had come into your life.” “I follow perfectly,” said Grant, with some bitterness. “She would be consumed with jealousy because my companion in the garden last night happened to be a charming girl of nineteen.” “It is possible.” “So she went off and got someone to kill her, and tie her body with a rope, and arrange a dramatic setting whereby it would be patent to the meanest intelligence that I was the criminal?” Mr. Fowler smiled, and looked fixedly at P. C. Robinson. “No, no,” he said, quite good-humoredly. “That would be carrying realism to extremes. Still, I am convinced, Mr. Grant, that this mystery is bound up in some way with your romance of three years ago. At present, I admit, I am working in the dark.” He rose. Apparently, the interview was at an end. But, while pocketing his note-book, he said suddenly:— “The inquest will open at three o’clock tomorrow. You will be present, of course, Mr. Grant?” “I suppose it is necessary.” “Oh, yes. You found the body, you know. Besides, you may be the only person who can give evidence of identity. In fact, you and the doctor will be the only witnesses called.” “Dr. Foxton?” “Yes.” “Has he made a post-mortem?” “He is doing so now. You see, there is clear indication that this unfortunate lady was struck a heavy blow, perhaps killed, before she was put in the river.” “Good Heavens! Somehow, I was so stunned that I never thought of looking for signs of any injury of that sort.” Grant’s horror-stricken air was so spontaneous that it probably justified the severe test of that unexpected disclosure. He was so unnerved by it that the two policemen had gone before he could frame another question. Once they were in the open road, and well away from The Hollies, Robinson ventured to open his mouth. “He’s a clever one is Mr. Grant,” he said meaningly. “You handled him a bit of all right, sir, but he didn’t tell you everything he knew, not by long chalks.” The superintendent walked a few yards in silence. Even when he spoke, his gaze was introspective, and seemed to ignore his companion. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Robinson,” he said, speaking very slowly. “We have a big case in our hands, a very big case. We must tread warily. You, in particular, mixing with the village folk, should listen to all but say nothing. Don’t depend on your memory. Write down what you hear and see. People’s actual words, and the exact time of an occurrence, often have an extraordinarily illuminating effect when weighed subsequently. But don’t let Mr. Grant think you suspect him. There is no occasion for that—yet.” Mr. Fowler could be either blunt or cryptic in speech at will. In one mood he was the straightforward, outspoken official; in another the potential lawyer. P. C. Robinson, though unable to describe his chief’s erratic qualities, was unpleasantly aware of them. He was not quite sure, for instance, whether the superintendent was encouraging or warning him, but, being a dogged person, resolved to “take his own line,” and stick to it. Grant passed a distressful day. Work was not to be thought of, and reading was frankly impossible. His mind dwelt constantly on the tragedy which had come so swiftly and completely into his ordered life. He could not wholly discard the nebulous theory suggested by Superintendent Fowler, but the more he surveyed it the less reasonable it seemed. The one outstanding fact in a chaos of doubt was that someone had deliberately done Adelaide Melhuish to death. The murderer had been actuated by a motive. What was that motive? Surely, in a place like Steynholme no man could come and go without being seen, and the murderer must be a stranger to the district, because it was ridiculous to imagine that he was one of the residents. Yet that was exactly what a dunderheaded policeman believed. P. C. Robinson had revealed himself by many a covert glance and prick-eared movement. Grant squirmed uneasily at the crass conceit, as there was no denying that circumstances tended towards a certain doubt, if no more, in regard to his own association with the crime. The admission called for a fierce struggle with his pride, but he forced himself to think the problem out in all its bearings, and the folly of adopting the legendary policy of the chased ostrich became manifest. What, then, should he do? He thought, at first, of invoking the aid of a barrister friend, who could watch the inquest in his behalf. Nevertheless, he shrank from that step, which, to his super-sensitive nature, implied the need of legal protection, and he fiercely resented the mere notion of such a thing. But something must be done. Once the murderer was laid by the heels his own troubles would vanish, and the storm raised by the unhappy fate of Adelaide Melhuish would subside into a sad memory. He was wrestling with indecision when a newspaper reporter called. Grant received the journalist promptly, and told him all the salient facts, suppressing only the one-time prospect of a marriage between himself and the famous actress. The reporter went with him to the river, and scrutinized the marks, now rapidly becoming obliterated, of the body having been drawn ashore. “The rope and iron staple, I understand, were taken from the premises of a man who lets boats for hire on the dam quarter of a mile away,” he said casually. Grant was astounded at his own failure to make any inquiry whatsoever concerning this vital matter. He laughed grimly. “You can imagine the state of my mind,” he said, “when I assure you that, until this moment, it never occurred to me even to ask where these articles came from or what had become of them.” “I can sympathize with you,” said the journalist. “A brutal murder seems horribly out of place in this environment. It is a mysterious business altogether. I wonder if Scotland Yard will take it up.” Grant surprised him by clapping him on the back. “By Jove, my friend, the very thing! Of course, such an investigation requires bigger brains than our local police are endowed with. Scotland Yard must take it up. I’ll wire there at once. If necessary, I’ll pay all expenses.” The newspaper man had his doubts. The “Yard,” he said, acted in the provinces only if appealed to by the authorities directly concerned. But Grant was not to be stayed by a trifle like that. He hurried to the post office, hoping that Doris Martin might walk back with him. The girl and her father were busy behind the counter when he entered. He noticed that Doris was rather pale. She was about to attend to him, but Mr. Martin intervened. It struck Grant that the postmaster was purposely preventing his daughter from speaking to him. For some inexplicable reason, he felt miserably tongue-tied, and was content to write a message to the Chief Commissioner of Police, London, asking that a skilled detective should be sent forthwith to Steynholme. Mr. Martin read it gravely, stated the cost, and procured the requisite stamps. In the event, Grant quitted the place without exchanging a word with Doris, while her father, usually a chatty man, said not a syllable beyond what was barely needed. As he passed down the hill and by the side of the Green he was aware of being covertly watched by many eyes. He saw P. C. Robinson peering from behind a curtained window. Siddle, the chemist, came to the shop door, and looked after him. Hobbs, the butcher, ceased sharpening a knife and gazed out. Tomlin, landlord of the Hare and Hounds Inn, surveyed him from the “snug.” These things were not gracious. Indeed, they were positively maddening. He went home, gave an emphatic order that no one, except Miss Martin, if she called, was to be admitted and savagely buried himself in a treatise on earth-tides. But that day of events had not finished for him yet. He had, perforce, eaten a good meal, and was thinking of going to the post office in order to clear up an undoubted misapprehension in Mr. Martin’s mind, when Minnie Bates came with a card. “If you please, sir,” said the girl, “this gentleman is very pressing. He says he’s sure you’ll give him an interview when you see his name.” So Grant looked, and read:— Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman Prince’s Chambers, London, W. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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