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Postmaster's Daughter

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<h2>Chapter XII. Wherein Winter Gets to Work</h2> Winter had identified Bates at the first glance. The letters in the man’s hand, too, showed his errand, so, while the gardener was climbing the hill, 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 to take him into the kitchen. A light in the front room might attract attention, he thought.” “Just what Mr. Furneaux would suggest, and I agree with him,” said Winter, quite alive to the canny discretion behind those words, “the other gentleman.” Robinson led the way. Supper was laid on the table. Poor Mrs. Robinson had again beaten a hasty retreat. “Now, Robinson,” said the Chief Inspector affably, “before we come to business I’ll prove my bona fides. Here is my official card, and I’ll run quickly through events until 1.30 p.m. to-day. I met Mr. Furneaux at Victoria, and he posted me fully up to that hour.” So the policeman listened to a clear summary of the Steynholme case as it was known to the authorities. “I did not warn either Mr. Fowler or you of my visit because a telegram could hardly be explicit enough,” concluded Winter. “At the inn I am Mr. Franklin, an Argentine importer of blood stock in the horse line. At this moment the only other man beside yourself in Steynholme who is aware of my official position is Mr. Peters, and he is pledged to secrecy. To-morrow or any other day until further notice, you and I meet as strangers in public. By the way, Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you that he found the wig and the false beard in the river early this morning. The wearer had apparently flung them off while crossing the foot-bridge leading from Bush Walk, having forgotten that they would not sink readily. Perhaps he didn’t care. At any rate, Mr. Hart’s bullet seems to have laid Owd Ben’s ghost. Now, what of this fellow, Elkin? He worries 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 somewhat incriminating statements he had wormed out of the horse-dealer that afternoon 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 Elkin spoke rather openly.” “Just as I’ve put it, sir. He tripped a bit over the time on Monday night. But it’s only fair to say that he might have had Tomlin’s license in mind.” “That issue will be settled to-morrow. I’ll find out the commercial traveler’s name, and send a telegram from Knoleworth before noon.... Who is 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. His forge 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. Her father shoes Elkin’s nags, so there’s a lot of comin’ an’ goin’ between the 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 an eye for another young man.” “Miss Martin!” snorted Robinson. “She wouldn’t look the side of the road he was on. Fred Elkin isn’t her sort.” “But he said to-night in the Hare and Hounds that he and Miss Martin were practically engaged.” “Stuff an’ nonsense! Sorry, sir, but I admire Doris Martin. I like to see a girl like her liftin’ herself out of the common gang. She’s the smartest 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 would have it that Mr. Grant would marry her.” “How does the murder intervene?” Robinson shifted uneasily in his chair. He knew only too well that he himself had driven a wedge between the two. “Steynholme’s a funny spot, sir,” he contrived to explain. “Since it came out that Doris an’ Mr. Grant were in the garden at The Hollies at half past ten on Monday night, without Mr. Martin knowin’ where his daughter was, there’s been talk. Both the postmaster an’ the girl herself are up to it. You can see it in their faces. They don’t like it, an’ who can blame ’em!” “Who, indeed? But this Elkin—surely he had some ground for a definite boast, 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 or Tomlin. Anybody else?” “I shouldn’t be far wrong if I gave you the name of most among the young unmarried 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 matter seriously. The policeman, however, was flustered. His thoughts ran on Elkin, whereas this masterful person from London insisted on discussing Doris 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 his position or prospects, might be irritated, if no more, if he knew that Miss Martin and Mr. Grant were presumably spooning in a garden at a rather late hour.” It was a totally new line of inquiry for Robinson, but he bent his wits to it, and evolved a list which, if published, would certainly be regarded with incredulous envy by every other girl in the village than the postmaster’s daughter; as for Doris herself, she would be mightily surprised when she saw it, but whether annoyed or secretly gratified none but a pretty girl of nineteen can tell. Winter departed soon afterwards. Before going to the inn he had a look at the forge. A young woman, standing at the open door of the adjoining cottage, favored him with a frank stare. There was no light in the dwelling. When he returned, after walking a little way down the road, the door was closed. Next morning, Bates heard of Peters as the detective and of Mr. Franklin as a “millionaire” from South America. Moreover, he scrutinized both in the flesh, and saw Robinson salute Peters but pass the financial potentate with indifference. Alas, that a reputation, once built, should be destroyed! “I was mistook, sir,” he reported to Grant later. “There’s another ’tec about, but ’e ain’t the chap I met last night. They say this other bloke is 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 silent till Bates had gone. “I must look this joker up, Jack,” he said then. “To me the mere mention of South America is like Mother Gary’s chickens to a sailor, a harbinger of storm.” But Hart consumed Tomlin’s best brew to no purpose—in so far as seeing Mr. Franklin was concerned, since the latter was in Knoleworth, buying a famous racing stud. Being in the village, however, this fisher in troubled 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, this evening at 7.30?” The postmaster gazed helplessly at this free-and-easy stranger. Doris laughed, and blushed a little. “This is Mr. Hart, a friend of Mr. Grant’s, dad,” she explained. “I’m afraid 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 telegram at that hour.” “What’s his name?” “Mr. Peters.” “Great Scott! Jimmie Peters here? I’ll soon put a stopper on him. He’ll come, too—jumping. See if he doesn’t. Is it a bargain? Short telegram at six. Dinner for five at 7.30. Come, now, Mr. Martin. It’s up to you. I can see ‘Yes’ in Doris’s eye. Over the port—most delectable, I assure you—I’ll give full details of the peculiar case of a man in Worcestershire whose crop of gooseberries increased fourfold after starting an apiary. And what does it matter if you do lose a queen or two in 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. “He believes he was given a bull steak for luncheon. He pledges himself to have only five hundred words on the wire at five o’clock.” Meanwhile, father and daughter had decided that there was no valid reason why they should not dine with Mr. Grant. Martin already regretted his aloofness on the day of the inquest, though, truth to tell, Hart’s expert knowledge of bee-culture was the determining factor. On her part, Doris was delighted. Her world had gone awry that week, and this small festivity might right it. Not one word of the improvised dinner-party did Hart confide to Grant. He informed the only indispensable person, Mrs. Bates, and left it at that. Grant, a restless being these days, took him for another long walk. It chanced that their road home led down the high-street. The hour was a quarter 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 and her father appeared. They joined the others, shook hands, and, to Grant’s secret perplexity, the whole party moved off down the hill in company. When the Martins turned with the rest to cross the bridge, Grant began to suspect 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 in the Surrey Theater, you’re as bad as Furshaw!” There were others far more perturbed by that odd conjunction of diners than the puzzled host, who merely expected Mrs. Bates to belabor him with a rolling pin. Mr. Siddle, for instance, had just closed his shop when the five met. That is to say, the dark blue blind was drawn, but the door was ajar. He came to the threshold, and watched the party until the bridge was neared, when one of them, looking back, might have seen him, so he stepped discreetly inside. Being a non-interfering, self-contained man, he seemed to be rather irresolute. But that condition passed quickly. Leaning over the counter, he secured a hat and a pair of field-glasses, and went out. He, too, knew of Mrs. Jefferson’s weakness for shopping in Knoleworth, and that good lady had gone there again. Her train was due in ten minutes. A wicket gate led to a narrow passage communicating with the back door of her residence. He entered boldly, reached the garden, and hurried to the angle on the edge of the cliff next 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 had obviously gone upstairs to wash after their tramp. Mr. Siddle rather forgot himself. He stared so long and earnestly through the field-glasses that he ran full tilt into Mrs. Jefferson and maid before regaining the high-street. But the chemist was a ready man. He lifted his hat with an inquiring smile. “Didn’t you say you wanted some anti-arthritic salts early in the week?” 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 your specific if you really needed it.” Which was kind and thoughtful of Mr. Siddle, but not quite true, though it fully explained his presence at Mrs. Jefferson’s gate. Mr. Franklin, escorting a fragrant Havana up the hill (he had traveled by the same train) saw the meeting, and, being aware of Mrs. Jefferson’s frugal habits, since Furneaux had omitted no item of his movements in Steynholme, remembered it later during the nightly gathering in the inn. Elkin greeted Mr. Franklin respectfully when the great man joined the 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 you a 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 about telling everybody what he is.” “Whatever his profession may be,” put in Siddle’s quiet voice, “I happen to know that he is dining with Mr. Grant. So are Mr. Martin and Doris. By mere 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 help seeing 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 gent kem ’ere twiced, an’ axed for Mr. Peters the second time. He’s a friend o’ Mr. Grant’s, I reckon.” “What’s wrong?” stormed the horse-dealer. “Why, everything’s wrong! The bounder ought to be in jail instead of giving dinner-parties. Imagine Doris eating in that house!” “Ay! Sweetbreads an’ saddle o’ lamb,” interjected Hobbs with the air of one 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 said shrilly. “That poor woman’s body leaves here to-morrow for some cemetery in 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 the two events in juxtaposition, and they had an ugly sound. Even Mr. Siddle stifled a protest. Elkin had scored a hit, a palpable hit, and no one could gainsay him. He felt that, for once, the general opinion was with him, 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 for the job. It’s to be done in style—‘no expense spared’ was Mr. Ingerman’s order—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 is harmful. You really ought to be in bed for the next forty-eight hours, dieting yourself carefully, and taking Dr. Foxton’s mixture regularly. He has changed it, I noticed.” “Bed! Me! Not likely. I’m going to kick up a row. What are the police doing? 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 a certain interest in this affair. May I, then, as a complete stranger to all concerned, tell you how this minor episode strikes me. Mr. Grant, I understand, denies having seen or spoken to Miss Melhuish during the past three 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, would not offend a possible patron. But Siddle answered far more deftly than might be looked for from the horse-dealer. “Your contention, sir, is just what the man of the world would hold,” he said, “but, in this village, where we live on neighborly terms, such an incident would be impossible in almost any other house than The Hollies.” Mr. Franklin nodded. He was convinced. Tomlin, Hobbs, and a local draper bore out the chemist’s reasonable theory. Next morning Steynholme was again united in condemning Grant, while the postmaster and his daughter were not wholly exempted from criticism. The dinner itself was an altogether harmless and cheery meal. By common consent not one word was said about the murder. Hart was amusing on the question of bees—almost flippant, Mr. Martin deemed him. Peters had a wide store of strange experiences to draw on, while Grant, if rather silent in deference to two such brilliant talkers, found much satisfaction in regarding Doris as a hostess. The next day being Saturday, or market day, the village was busy. At eleven o’clock there was a somewhat unnecessary display of nodding plumes and long-tailed black horses at the removal of the coffin to the railway station. For some reason, the funeral arrangements had not been bruited about until Elkin made that envenomed attack on Grant in the Hare and Hounds the previous night. Ingerman had sent a gorgeous wreath, the only one forthcoming locally. This fact, of course, invited comment, though no whisperer in the crowd troubled to add that the interment was only announced in that day’s newspapers. Peters, meeting Mr. Franklin on the stairs of the inn, put a note into his hand. It read: “Why don’t you have a chat with Grant? The public mind is being inflamed against him. It’s hardly fair.” Mr. Franklin, meeting Peters in the passage, winked at him, and the journalist tortured his brains to turn out some readable stuff which should grip the million on Sunday yet not to be damaging to the man whose hospitality he enjoyed over night. In a word, the passing of Adelaide Melhuish was exploited thoroughly as an indictment of her one-time lover, and the only two in Steynholme not aware 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 beside Mr. Franklin. At the close of the service the same big man whom she had noticed as a neighbor in the pew overtook her at the post office door. He lifted his hat. A passer-by heard him say distinctly: “Pardon me for troubling you, but can you tell me at what time the mail closes 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 at once. It is of the utmost importance.” Doris was startled, as well she might be. But—she went straight for the letter. It was marked: “Private and Urgent,” and ran: Dear Miss Martin. I am here vice Mr. Furneaux, who is engaged on other phases of the same inquiry. My business is absolutely unknown. I figure at the inn as “Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina.” Indeed, Mr. Furneaux left the village because he realized the difficulties facing him in that respect. Now, I trust you, and I hope you will justify my faith. You know Superintendent Fowler. I want you to meet me and him this afternoon at two o’clock at the crossroads beyond the mill. A closed car will be in waiting, and we can have half an hour’s talk without anyone in Steynholme being the wiser. Remember that this village, like the night, has a thousand eyes. Naturally, I would not trouble you in this way if the cause was not vital to the ends of justice. Whether or not you decide to keep this appointment, I have every confidence that you will respect my wish that no one, other than yourself, shall be informed of my identity. 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 not needed. Doris had seen “Mr. Franklin” more than once, and she had heard him singing the hymns in church. He looked worthy of credence. His written words had the same honest ring. She resolved to go. Her father, sad to relate, had found three dead queens in the hives. He was busy, but spared a moment to tell her that Mr. Siddle was coming to tea at four o’clock. Doris was rather in a whirl, and seemed to be unnecessarily astonished. “Mr. Siddle! Why?” she gasped. “Why not!” said her father. “It’s not the first time. You can entertain him. 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 understands apiaculture? You might invite him, too.” With that letter in her pocket Doris had suddenly grown wary. Hart and Siddle would not mix, and her woman’s intuition warned her that Siddle had chosen the tea-hour purposely in order to have an uninterrupted conversation with her. She disliked Mr. Siddle, in a negative way, but the 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 available to-morrow. In his presence, poor Mr. Siddle would be dumb.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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