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<h2>Chapter XV. A Matter of Heredity</h2> Shortly before noon on Monday occurred two events destined to assume a paramount importance in the affair which was wringing the withers of Steynholme. As in the histories of both men and nations, these first steps in great developments began quietly enough. For one thing, Furneaux returned to the village. For another, the London telegraphist, who expected the day to prove practically a blank, was reading a newspaper when the telegraph instrument clicked the local call. Doris was checking and distributing the stock of stamps which had arrived that morning; her father was counting mail-bags in a small annex to the main room, the Knoleworth office having acquired a habit of making up shortages by docking the country branches. No member of the public happened to be present. The girl could have heard what the Morse code was tapping forth had she chosen, but she had trained herself to disregard the 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 her that the chemist might possess relatives in some part of the country. “That’s what it says,” went on the other. “‘Regret inform you your mother died 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’d surely 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 if we three weren’t alone. Where’s that boy?” “Gone to his dinner. Father will take it. By the way, say nothing to him as to the contents. Would you mind calling him?” Doris hurried swiftly to the sitting-room, and thence upstairs. The telegraphist explained the absence of a messenger, so Mr. Martin delivered the telegram in person. Crossing the street, he detected a dead bee. He picked it up, horrified at the thought that the Isle of Wight disease might have reached Sussex. So it was an absent-minded postmaster who handed the telegram over Siddle’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 put it under the microscope.” Siddle examined the telegram again. The handwriting was that beloved of Civil Service Commissioners. Unquestionably, it was not Doris’s. No sooner had his friend gone off, still intent on the dead insect, than Siddle followed. He knew that the bee would undergo scientific scrutiny at once, so gave Martin just enough time to dive into the sitting-room before 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 of it 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 really have in mind.” The telegraphist cooled down. “You may be quite sure that neither they nor any other person in Steynholme will ever see the duplicate,” he said confidentially. “I make up a package containing duplicates each evening, and it is sent to headquarters. 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 a Londoner, will understand that such a telegram from—er—Horton is not the sort of thing one would like to become known even in the most limited 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 be careful! This village contains surprises.” Doris, watching from an upper room, saw the visitor, and timed him. She imagined he had dispatched an answer. Being a woman, she sought enlightenment 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 is necessary departmentally.” Doris was silenced, but she read the riddle correctly. The chemist was particularly anxious that no Steynholme resident should be made aware of his mother’s death. She wondered why. She was enlightened when Furneaux paid a call about tea-time. She took him 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 modern ones, destroy romance. Even the Georgian method of using initials, or leaving 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 in your own way.” Doris had a good memory. She was invariably letter-perfect in a play after a couple of rehearsals, and could prompt others if they faltered. The detective listened in silence while she repeated the conversation between Siddle and herself. He took no notes. In fact, he hardly ever did make any record in a case unless it was essential to prove the exact words of a suspected person. “Good!” he said, when she had finished. “That sounds like the complete text.” “I don’t think I have left out anything of importance—that is, if a single word of it is important.” “Oh, heaps,” he assured her. “It’s even better than I dared hope. Can you tell 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 you into revealing post office secrets. I knew she was dying, and, when I saw your father take a message to the chemist’s shop I simply made an accurate guess.... Now, I’m going to scare you, purposely and of malice aforethought, because I want you to be a good little girl, and obey orders. Mrs. Siddle, senior, now happily deceased, was an epileptic lunatic of a peculiarly dangerous type. She suffered from what is classed by the doctors as furor epilepticus, a form of spasmodic insanity not inconsistent with a high degree of bodily vigor and long periods of apparently complete mental saneness. Now, if I were not speaking to one who has shared her father’s studies in bee-life, I would not introduce the subject of heredity. But you know, Miss Martin, that such racial characteristics are transmitted, or transmissible, I should say, by sex opposites. Thus, an epileptic mother is more likely to give her taint to a 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. “There must 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 as firm as you like in a non-committal way. I mean, by that, an entire absence on your part of any suggestion that you are repulsing him because of a real or supposed preference for any other man.” “Do you want me to believe that he is liable to attack me?” demanded the girl, 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 force himself 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 strain would become unbearable. You are busy, owing to the certain increase of work brought about by this murder. Your time will be greatly occupied. But, don’t render him morbidly suspicious. For instance, no more dinners at The Hollies. No more gadding about by night, if you hear weird noises on the other side of the river. And you must absolutely deny yourself the pleasurable 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 profoundly serious note. “Your father would never admit that what he knows to be true of bees is equally true of humanity. You can trust the police to keep a pretty sharp eye on Siddle, of course, but the present is a strenuous period, both for us and for people with maniacal tendencies, so accidents may happen.” “You have distressed me immeasurably,” said the girl, striving to pierce the 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 not nice reading.” “There was a Mrs. Siddle, junior, then?” “A Mrs. Theodore Siddle, if one adopts the conventional usage. Yes. She died last month.” “Last month!” gasped Doris, feeling vaguely that she was moving in a maze of deceit and subterfuge. “On May 25th, to be precise. She lived apart from her husband. I have reason 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 a fairly decent world, taken en bloc. I ought to speak with authority. I see enough of the seamy side of it, goodness knows. Now, forewarned is forearmed. Don’t be nervous. Don’t take risks. Everything will come right in time. Remember, I’m not far away in an emergency. Should I chance to be absent if you need advice, send for Mr. Franklin. You can easily devise some official excuse, a mislaid letter, or an error in a telegram.” “I think I shall feel confident if both of you are near,” and the ghost of a smile lit Doris’s wan features. “We’re a marvelous combination,” grinned Furneaux, reverting at once to his normal impishness. “I am all brain; he is all muscle. Such an alliance 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 a decoy duck?” “A duck, anyhow.” She laughed lightly. Furneaux would vouchsafe no further information, it would appear. For a girl of nineteen, Doris was uncommonly gifted with clear, analytical reasoning powers. The detective returned to the Hare and Hounds, and went upstairs. He met Peters 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 South American gent is having the time of his life. I’ve just been to my room for Whitaker’s Almanack, wherewith a certain Don Walter Hart purposes flooring him.” Wally Hart had, indeed, succeeded in running to earth the Argentine magnate, and was giving Winter a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour. “Ha!” shouted Hart, when Furneaux came in with Peters. “Here’s the pocket marvel who’ll answer any question straight off. What is the staple export of 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 to claim acquaintance with the representative of Scotland Yard, and there were some farmers present, each of whom had a “likely animal” to offer the 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, to any man who claims the friendship of Don Manoel Alcorta, a sincere patriot. 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 say in London.” Six glasses were duly filled with champagne. When it was consumed, Hart buttonholed Peters. “A word with you, scribe,” he said. “Good-day, gentlemen. I leave you to your nags. Treat Mr. Franklin fairly. The friend of Don Manoel Alcorta must be a true man.” Winter heaved a sigh of relief when the professional revolutionist had vanished. “He’s a funny ’un,” commented one of the farmers. “A bit touched, I reckon,” said another. “Wot’s ’e doin’ now to the other one?” They looked through the window. The two were standing in the middle of the road, and Wally was shaking Peters violently. The argument was not so fierce as it appeared to be. Peters had been commanded to bring both detectives to dinner that evening; when he demurred, trying to hedge on the 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 fellow is the man Grant heard of a week ago. I was an idiot to take him seriously about the Argentine. Bring the pair of ’em, I tell you. We’ll make a night of it.” “I’ll try,” said Peters faintly, “but if you stir up that wine so vigorously I won’t answer for the consequences.” Winter, wishing devoutly that would-be sellers of horseflesh were not so numerous in the district, noted the names and addresses of the local men, and promised to write when he could make an appointment. Then he escaped upstairs, whither Furneaux soon followed. Winter had secured an extra bedroom, overlooking the river, which Tomlin had converted into a sitting-room. Thus, he held a secure observation post both in front and rear of the hotel. “Well, how did she take it?” inquired the Chief Inspector, when he and his 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 in the cart?” “How could I help it? I was extracting some really helpful facts about Siddle and Elkin from Tomlin and the others when a shock-headed whirlwind blew in, and nearly embraced me because I claimed acquaintance with the El 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 side than 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 him with a full-sized mastiff.” “No, you won’t. He’s done you a lot of good. You were simply reeking with conceit when I met you this morning. It was ‘Siddle this’ and ‘Siddle that’ until you fairly sickened me. One would have thought I hadn’t cleared the ground for you, left you with all lines open and yourself unknown to the enemy. Sometimes, you make me tired.” “Sorry, Charles,” said Winter patronizingly. “I had a bit of luck on Sunday, I admit. The chance turn taken by the conversation with Doris, with the result that I was able to occupy a strategic position on the cliff, and hear every word Siddle uttered, was really fortunate. But, isn’t that just what men mean when they prate of success? Opportunity knocks once at every man’s door, says the old saw. The clever man grabs hold instantly. The indolent one, often a mere gabbler, opens his eyes and his mouth weeks afterwards, and cries, ‘Dear me! Was that the much-looked-for opportunity?’ Of course, Robinson’s by-play with the sack and rope was merely thrown in by the prodigal hand of Fate.” “Stop!” yelped Furneaux. “Another platitude, and I’ll assault you with the tongs!” It was the invariable habit of the Big ’Un and Little ’Un to quarrel like cat 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, and selecting, with great care, one out of half a dozen precisely similar cigars. “We’re pretty sure of our man, but we haven’t a scrap of evidence against him. How, or where, to begin ringing him in I haven’t the faintest 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’s as artful as a pet fox. I bought soap, and a pound of sal volatile, but he did up each parcel with sealing-wax.” “Sal volatile!” smiled Winter. “I, too, went in for soap, but my imagination would not soar beyond a packet of cotton-wool. It was the lumpiest thing I could think of.” “And perfectly useless!” sneered Furneaux. “I must say you do fling the taxpayers’ money about. Now, my little lot will keep the electric bells in my flat in order for two years.” “You forget that constant association with you demands that I should frequently plug my two ears,” retorted Winter. Furneaux would surely have thrown back the jest had not a knock on the door 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 me if you two don’t dine with him and Grant to-night.” There was silence for a little while. The detectives looked at each 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 shall walk back from Knoleworth. Furneaux will make his own arrangements. Tell Grant 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 the unresisting 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 Manoel Alcorta was a superb effort as an authority on gee-gees. Wally tells me his donship is the recognized expert south of the line on seismic disturbances, and spends his days and nights watching a needle making scratches 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 like baffling the shrewdest wits in Scotland Yard.” “My very phrase—my own ewe lamb. Pardon. I shouldn’t have alluded to 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!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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