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Postmaster's Daughter

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<h2>Chapter V. The Seeds of Mischief</h2> 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 when such a theme offered. Tomlin created a momentary diversion by clattering in the bar. After this professional interlude, Ingerman ignored his own compact. “I’m sure you local residents will be interested, at least, in hearing something of my wife’s career,” he said. “There never was a more lovable and gracious woman, and no couple could be more united than she and I till 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 other until, to her and my lasting misfortune, a certain author wrote a book which, when dramatized, contained a part for which my wife’s stage presence and talents seemed to be peculiarly suited.” Siddle stirred uneasily, but the others were still as partridges in stubble. Ingerman did not intend to alarm the shy bird of the covey, however. “I name no names,” he said solemnly. “Nor am I telling you anything that will not be thoroughly exposed before the coroner and elsewhere. From that unhappy period dated our estrangement. My wife fell under a fatal influence which lasted, practically unchecked, until the day, if not the very hour, of her death. Do I blame her? No—a thousand times no! You see me, a plain man, considerably her senior. I had not the gift of writing impassioned love passages in which she could display her artistic genius. When I came home from the City, tired after the day’s work, she was just beginning hers. You know what London fashionable life is—the theater, a supper, a dance, some great lady’s ‘reception,’ and the rest of it. Ah, me! The stage, and literature, and the arts generally are not for poor fellows moiling in a City office. You gentlemen, I take it, are all 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 his friends. Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars “stood” by this talkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again, examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to say something, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then Ingerman made a very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was, and what Hobbs’s cryptic allusion had meant. “Good luck to you, sir,” he said, “but—take no offense—don’t marry an actress. There’s an old adage, ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’ I would go farther, and interpolate the word ‘should.’ If Adelaide Melhuish had never met me, but had married the man who could write her plays, this tragedy in real life would never have been.” “D—n him,” muttered Elkin fiercely. “He’s done for now, anyhow. He’ll turn 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 ’arf past nine.” “I have some accounts to get out. It’s near the half year, you know,” and Siddle vanished unobtrusively. Hobbs shook his head, and gazed at Elkin as though the latter was a refractory 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 an opportunity arose, or could be made. At present, he was not sorry such a restraining influence was removed. The next half hour should prove a golden one if well utilized. He was right. Before the inn was cleared, what between Elkin’s savage comments and the other men’s thinly-veiled allusions, he knew all that Steynholme could tell with regard to Grant and Doris Martin. Grant’s first thought next morning was of the girl who had been thrust so prominently into his life by the death of another woman. That was, perhaps, the strangest outcome of the tragedy. Doris was easily the prettiest and most intelligent girl in the village, a rare combination in itself, even among young ladies of much higher social position than a postmaster’s daughter. But her father was a self-educated man, whose life had been given to books, whose only hobby was the culture and study of bees. He had often refused promotion, solely because his duties at Steynholme were light, and permitted of many free hours. In his only child he found a quick pupil and a sympathetic helper. Of her own accord she took to poetry and music. In effect, had Doris Martin attended the best of boarding-schools and training colleges, she would have received a smattering of French and a fair knowledge of the piano or violin, whereas, after more humble tuition, it might fairly be said of her that few girls of her age had read so many books and assimilated their contents so thoroughly. From her mother she inherited her good looks and a small yearly income, just sufficient to maintain a better wardrobe than her father’s salary would permit. Grant, newly settled in Steynholme, found the postmaster and his daughter intellectually on a par with himself, and this claim could certainly not be made on behalf of the local “society” element. The three became excellent friends. Naturally, the young people spent a good deal of time together. 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 most menacing form, since there was no gainsaying the fact that Doris’s star-gazing on that fatal Monday night was indissolubly bound up with the death of Adelaide Melhuish. For the first time, then, the notion peeped up in Grant’s mind that the whirligig of existence might see Doris his wife. But the conceit resembled the Gorgon’s teeth, which, when sown in the ground, sprang forth as armed men. The very accident which revealed a not unpleasing possibility had established a grave obstacle in the way of its ultimate realization. Already there was a cloud between him and the Martins, father and daughter. To what a tempest might not that cloud develop when the questionings and innuendoes of the inquest established an aura of suspicion and intrigue around a perfectly innocent meeting in the garden of The Hollies! Grant ate his breakfast in wrath. In wrath, too, he glanced through the morning newspapers, and saw his own name figuring large in the “story” of the “alleged” murder. The reporters had missed nothing. They had even got hold of the “peculiar coincidence” of his (Grant’s) glimpse of a face at the window. His play was recalled, and Adelaide Melhuish’s success in the title-rôle. Then Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman was introduced. He was described as “a man fairly well known in the City.” That was all. The press could say nothing as yet of marital disagreements, nor was any hint concerning Doris Martin allowed to appear. But these journalistic fire-works were only held in reserve. “Dramatic and sensational developments” were promised, and police activity in “an unexpected direction” fore-shadowed. All of which, of course, was mere journalistic paraphrasing of circumstances already known to the writers, and none the less galling to Grant 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 after office hours. Grant, like most members of the general public, held the vague belief that Government officials do very little work. Still, one might reasonably expect better things from the institution which was supposed to safeguard law-abiding citizens. Calm analysis of Ingerman’s nebulous threats had revealed a hostile force not to be despised. Possibly, the man was already in league with that narrow-minded village constable, so every passing hour made more urgent the need of a trained intelligence being brought to bear on the mystery of Adelaide Melhuish’s killing. Grant racked his brains to discover who could possibly have a motive for committing the crime. Naturally, his thoughts flew to Ingerman. Surely that sinister-looking person should be forced to give an account of himself instead of, as was probable, being allowed to instill further nonsense into the suspicious mind of P. C. Robinson. There were two morning deliveries of London letters in Steynholme, one at eight and another at half past ten. Grant waited until the postman had left a publisher’s circular (the only letter for The Hollies by the second mail). Then, in a fever of impatience, he jammed on a hat and went out. 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 the air. He was nibbling the chin-strap of his helmet; both thumbs were locked in his belt. From that strategic position three roads came under observation. It was a fine morning, and Grant’s sense of humor was not proof against this 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 until it curved around the house and its shrubberies, so the view was blocked on that side. Grant filled and lighted a pipe with a deliberateness meant to be provoking, glancing several times doubtfully at P. C. Robinson, who, of course, was grandly unaware of his presence. Then he strolled off to the right, and, when hidden, took to his heels for a hundred yards sprint. Turning into a winding bridle-path tucked between hedges of thorn and hazels, he walked to a point where it crossed a patch of furze. At a little distance a hand-bridge spanned the river, and gave access to the eastern end of the village by a steep climb of the wooded cliff. The path, 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 very successful. Within three minutes, at the utmost, P. C. Robinson hurried past, 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 our rural 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, the path up the cliff was visible throughout from Grant’s rock, so, on reaching the summit, Robinson was a-boil in more ways than one. Moreover, peeping through the first screen of trees that offered, he had the mortification of seeing the man who had befooled him go back the 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 approaching along 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 the path. “You never can tell,” came the dark answer. At any rate, the policeman elected to abandon his self-imposed vigil, and the 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 mopping his forehead. “Ay, that’s so. And it isn’t done with yet, by a long way. Pity you weren’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 be making an arrest.” “I believe I could put my hand on the murderer this very minute,” said Robinson vindictively. Elkin laughed, somewhat half-heartedly. “Lay you fifty to one against the time,” he said. “I’m the only one near enough 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-breeder seemed 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 have you 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 this morning. 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 slope of 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 the left. The chemist’s shop stood exactly opposite the post office, so Elkin, arriving first, was aware of his unconscious rival’s destination. He had not answered Mr. Siddle’s greeting, but gazed moodily through a barricade 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, I should imagine.” “Oh, you’re a fish, Siddle. You aren’t crazy about a girl, like I am. The sooner 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 that sort of remark publicly.” “Can’t help it. Bet you a fiver I’m engaged to Doris Martin within a week.” 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 help her 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 that last prescription of Dr. Foxton’s handy? My liver wants a tonic.” The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and retired 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, and fretful as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause accurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and had considered 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. His kindly, 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 in no 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 element in the tone of each voice that drew the London telegraphist’s attention. Martin, usually the mildest-mannered man in Sussex, was obviously ill at ease. 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,” he added, nodding to his assistant. Grant did not hesitate an instant when the postmaster reached the “back parlor” through another door. The open window, draped in clematis, gave a delightful glimpse of The Hollies. A window-box of mignonette filled the 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 on the table. “Now, Mr. Martin,” he said gravely, “you and I should have a serious talk. It is idle to deny that gossip is spreading broadcast certain malicious and absurd rumors which closely concern Doris and myself. To me these things are of slight consequence. To a girl of your daughter’s age they are poisonous. If you, her father, know the whole truth, you can regulate your actions so as to defeat the scandalmongers. That is why I am here to-day. That is why I came here yesterday, but your attitude took me aback, and I was idiot enough to go without a word of explanation. I was too shaken then to see my clear course, and follow it regardless of personal feelings. This morning I am master of myself, and I insist that you listen now while I tell you exactly what occurred on Monday night.” “Surely—these matters—are—for the authorities,” stammered the older 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! I would suffer death rather than see Doris subjected to the leers and innuendoes of every lout in the village.” Grant’s earnestness could hardly fail to impress his friend. But Martin had either made up his mind or been warned not to discuss the murder, and adhered loyally to that line of conduct. He retreated toward the door leading 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, he tore through yet a third door leading to a kitchen and scullery, nearly upsetting a tiny maid who had her ear or eye to the key-hole, and raced into the garden in which the postmaster kept his bees. Doris, standing with her hands behind her back, was looking at The Hollies, and deep in conversation with an alert and natty little man who was evidently absorbed in what she was saying. Grant, in a whirl of fury, was only conscious that Doris’s companion was slight, almost diminutive, of frame, very erect, and dressed in a well-fitting blue serge suit, neat brown boots and straw hat, when the two 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 with composure. The little man pierced Grant with an extraordinarily penetrating glance from 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?” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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