CHAPTER XI
A VISIT FROM RONALD THOYNE
THE “Waggon and Horses” in Cartordale was one of the best known inns in the district, with a history behind it that went far beyond the printed word into the mists and myths of legend and tradition. I believe, in fact, that it possessed its own duly authenticated ghost, that of a sailor on tramp towards the coast, who had been murdered for his gold by a rascally landlord and his wife. This was well over two centuries ago and it was a long time now since the sailor’s restless spirit had been seen. But the records of its appearances were definite and were at all events implicitly believed in by the Dale folk.
The inn was a favourite visiting place of holiday-makers from Midlington and on a fine Saturday afternoon or Sunday in the summer one might see sixty or seventy vehicles lined up in the wide open space before the entrance, while their passengers refreshed themselves within.
Tim Dallott, the landlord, was well known throughout the Dale and was highly esteemed. The new-fangled notion that an innkeeper is a sort of semi-criminal had no countenance in Cartordale, where they liked their ale and took it strong—as strong, that is, as a grandmotherly Control Board would allow them to have it.
And, whatever else Tim Dallott was, he was a judge of ale and would have only the best. Being an observer of my fellow-man, I had early made Tim’s acquaintance and had spent more than one interesting hour with him and his customers.
Tim, himself, was a masterful man, rather given to laying down the law, though with an occasional touch of humour that leavened his bluntness; and he had a curious habit of screwing the forefinger of his right hand into the open palm of his left when he was saying anything particularly emphatic. His build was inclined to stoutness and he was very bald for all he was still some years off sixty. His wife had died just before the war and he had neither son nor daughter. It was he, the reader will recollect, who had been foreman of the jury at the Clevedon inquest.
“Well,” he said, as I entered the ‘snug,’ “and what do you think of it all? I haven’t seen you since the inquest, Mr. Holt.”
“Give me a glass of beer,” I replied. “It puzzles me.”
“What I’d like to know,” chimed in old Tompkinson, who was verger at the parish church and gardener at the vicarage, “is why old Crimin”—have I explained that Crimin was the coroner?—“worried about that whisky bottle.”
“Aye, you may say that,” Tim agreed, nodding his head with an air of vague mystery.
“It seemed main foolish to me,” Tompkinson went on, “and I couldn’t get a grip of it nohow. Nobbut Crimin is a good crowner, I’m saying nowt agin him, an’ I dessay he’d summat oop his sleeve an’ all, but I’m fair bothered as to what it could be.”
“It’s bothering better men than you, Joe Tompkinson,” Tim Dallott said dryly.
“But ain’t you got no idea, Mr. Dallott?” Joe asked.
“Perhaps I have and perhaps I haven’t,” was the cautious reply. “Now what would you say about it, Mr. Holt?”
A little, shrivelled old man, who had been seated in a corner by the fire, sipping occasionally at a glass of hot rum, interposed suddenly.
“Who was the gal they quarrelled over?” he demanded in a shrill, piping treble. “I know who it was.”
“Then if I were you I’d keep it to myself, Jonathan Crossty,” Tim said. “No names—think what you like but don’t say it out loud—that’s safest.”
Jonathan nodded as if in agreement and returned once more to his hot rum.
“Now, that whisky bottle,” Joe Tompkinson resumed, “how could any man tell it was the same. ‘Taint in sense, is it? Then why worry?”
A youth came briskly in and asked for a glass of stout. He caught Joe’s last remark.
“Aye,” he said, “but there’s more than one theory will fit that.”
“You newspaper gentlemen are wonderful fond of theories,” Tim Dallott responded. “Your papers would be none the worse if you were a bit fonder of facts.”
The youth laughed good-humouredly and took a long drink at his stout.
“Well,” he said, as he set his glass down again, “suppose that X—we’ll not mention names, the libel laws being what they are—wanted to poison Z. ‘Bring me a whisky and soda,’ says Z. And X, as he brings the bottle, drops a dose of prussic acid in it. Good!”
“I see nowt good in that,” Joe Tompkinson interrupted.
“You should skin your eyes, then,” Tim Dallott retorted brusquely.
“Well, it’s good enough, anyway,” the pressman went on. “So Z drinks his whisky and falls down dead. Then X creeps in, takes away the doped bottle, and smashes it, and puts another of the same brand in its place. Could anyone tell that the bottle had been changed?”
“Meaning by Z, Sir Philip Clevedon,” Joe interposed, “and by X—”
“Didn’t I tell you to mention no names,” Tim interrupted angrily. “If you’re intent on dragging folk in by name go and do it outside and not in this snug.”
“No offence meant,” Joe replied meekly.
“Well—no names, and stick to that,” Tim retorted.
“But there’s another way,” the pressman went on oracularly, obviously in love with the sound of his own voice and delighted with the impression he was making. “Let’s suppose that X gives Z a drink of whisky at dinner and then puts the bottle on the sideboard. Presently Y creeps in and drops the dope into the whisky and then, when Z has pegged out, comes back and changes the bottles—how about that? Y would be somebody who had a grudge against Z—perhaps he had had a quarrel with him. But the point is here—nobody can swear it was the same bottle, that stands to reason.”
“You’ll not print either of these theories in your paper, I’ll bet a dollar,” Tim Dallott said.
“Perhaps, and perhaps not,” the youth returned vaguely. “That’s the editor’s job, not mine.”
“I know the gal they quarrelled over,” Jonathan Crossty chimed in suddenly.
“Who quarrelled over?” demanded the youth, wheeling round. “Oh, you mean—”
“I mean I won’t have any names in this snug,” Tim interrupted angrily. “Don’t I keep saying it? What a lot of cross-grained, gossiping old hags it is. X’s and Z’s are all right, but not names.”
“But that came out in evidence—that they’d quarrelled,” the reporter said.
“The girl’s name didn’t, and it might be anybody.”
“But I know who it is,” Jonathan persisted.
I finished my drink and nodding a good night all round took myself off, but not very far because I waited in the shadows until old Jonathan Crossty came hobbling out. I met him in the doorway.
“Hallo!” I cried. “Not home yet, Mr. Crossty?”
I swung round and we went down the road together. He lived in a little cottage nearly opposite Stone Hollow, and it was thus quite natural that we should be going the same way.
“And so you know the lady they quarrelled over,” I remarked, after a few preliminary observations.
“Yes,” he replied, “but I’m not telling. My grand-darter’s ‘tween maid at Hapforth and she knows all about it. They quarrelled over her right enough.”
“Over your grand-daughter?” I queried.
“Over Lucy!” he said scornfully. “Don’t be a big fule, mister. Why should they quarrel over Lucy? She’s a good girl and she’s only sixteen. Don’t you go for to mix her up in this business.”
“No,” I said, “I’m sorry. Lucy, who’s as good as she’s pretty and—”
“Nay, she’s nowt to look at,” the old man said, with a chuckle.
“And so Lucy told you that both Sir Philip and Mr. Thoyne were in love with Miss Kitty—”
“She never said nowt o’ th’ sooart,” the old man retorted. “It’s none of her business, is it?”
“Not at all,” I agreed.
I changed the subject after that and we discoursed on various matters of no great interest to either of us until we parted at the gate of Stone Hollow.
Later, when I had dined comfortably and well, and was seated in my study smoking a cigar, Mrs. Helter, my housekeeper entered with the information that Mr. Thoyne had called and wished to see me.
“He says he will not keep you long,” Mrs. Helter explained, “and his business is not immediately pressing if you are otherwise engaged. But, if not, he says it would be convenient if you could see him now.”
“Mr. Thoyne,” I echoed. “H’m, that’s rather funny. But show him in, anyway.”
Ronald Thoyne entered the room a moment or two later, a large, rather lumbering figure in appearance but moving with a curiously alert lightness. His bulk signified strength, not fat. I rose and greeted him, then returned to my own chair.
“You will wonder why I have come,” Thoyne began, as he took the seat indicated and selected a cigarette from the box I offered him. Apparently, he wanted to maintain at least an appearance of friendship. “No, thanks, I’ll have nothing to drink,” he added, as I motioned towards the whisky on the table. “But, now, as to the reason for coming, well, in the first place, I have wanted to make your acquaintance. The fact that you are a near neighbour renders you—shall I say?—an object of interest. No, do not smile. If that had been all I should have waited. There is something else, but we shall come to that presently.”
I nodded, but offered no comment on these obviously preliminary observations. I was quite well aware that this was no mere friendly call—that Thoyne had some very definite purpose in his mind—and I was quite content to wait until it should suit him to disclose it. Thoyne, probably, had expected some sort of a reply, something that would, so to speak, open a conversation and for a moment or two he paused. But he did not allow my calculated silence to disconcert him.
“I dare say,” Thoyne began again, “that my manner may seem a little abrupt to you, Mr. Holt, but I always go straight to the point. Perhaps it would have been more tactful if I’d talked a bit first—yes. I have noticed that the people of these old countries like to go round and round the mulberry bush before they come to the point, but that is not our way—no, sir. I had a lesson on that from old Silas Pegler when I was a very young man. He was president of the Trans-Central and scores of other big things and he pulled all sorts of wires. I had to see him once about a deal and I began: ‘Good morning, Mr. Pegler, a fine morning, isn’t it?’ But he only wrinkled his ugly old face and glared at me. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘I am here to talk dollars, not weather.’ And since then I have cultivated the habit of straight talk. It pays in New York but not so well in this country. A lot of people write me down as bad form and a man over here who is once labelled bad form had far better be dead and buried.”
I lay back in my chair and regarded my visitor smilingly. Certainly for a person who cultivated a habit of straight talk, he was singularly discursive.
“Are you intending to remain in Cartordale?” Thoyne asked, seeing that I remained silent.
“I shall be here for a little while yet, though I cannot say that I have made any definite plans,” I replied.
“But I mean as a permanent resident. You see, somebody, I think it was Dr. Crawford told me—hinted that you—. Now, if you wanted to sell this house, I’d like to buy it.”
The suggestion was so surprising that for a moment I had nothing to say, but I recovered quickly, knowing that if there was an explanation it would appear in due course.
“What are you prepared to offer for it?” I demanded cautiously. “Since, apparently, you want the house, you should be prepared to bid high for it. That makes a difference, doesn’t it? The seller who wants to sell would take less than—”
“Well, it’s like this,” Thoyne said persuasively. “I shouldn’t have thought of it but for Dr. Crawford. He gave me the idea. ‘I wish he were staying amongst us,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid, he’ll not be here long! A very charming young—’ yes, those were his words.”
“Almost photographic in their accuracy,” I said dryly.
“‘But he wants a customer for his house—hankers after the fleshpots of London,’ said the doctor. And I thought that perhaps—”
“I believe I did make some such remark—casually,” I said. “But Dr. Crawford took it too seriously. This place improves on acquaintance. No, on the whole, I don’t think I want to sell.”
“But—”
“Oh, let us forget Dr. Crawford. I do not want to sell, therefore I must be tempted. It is your turn now—to tempt me.”
“I would give you—four thousand pounds.”
“The place isn’t worth that.”
“No, but I’m willing to give it.”
“Very good—it is yours. There is a charming little cottage just by the church that I could get for six hundred. It would suit me exactly.”
Thoyne frowned heavily and spoke as if choosing his words with some care.
“I should attach to my offer a condition—that you leave Cartordale—and do not return. For that I would make it five thousand.”
“Ah, now we really are getting to the straight talk,” I said smilingly. “Suppose we make it absolutely straight. You want to get me out of Cartordale—why?”
Thoyne sat silent for the space of fully two minutes.
“Straight talk doesn’t seem so easy as you thought—is that it?” I asked. “But you owe me some explanation surely.”
“The talk is straight enough,” Thoyne responded half sullenly. “I want to get you out of Cartordale—yes, that is true, and I have told you so frankly enough. What do my reasons matter? I am willing to pay.”
“Yes, it’s plain enough,” I returned. “I will be equally straight. I decline to go. Did Miss Kitty Clevedon send you here?”
“What has she to do with it—or you with her?” he demanded angrily.
But I saw easily enough that my chance shot had hit the mark. And I sat eyeing him thoughtfully for a moment or two wondering how far it would be safe to go.
“I suppose,” I said, speaking calmly, even casually, as if it were a matter of no great moment, “it was over Miss Kitty Clevedon that you quarrelled with the late baronet.”
“You have no right—” he began explosively but I pulled him up.
“Oh, yes I have,” I replied, “you see I am retained, in a semi-professional capacity—”
“Yes, I know,” he cried. “That damned old fool—”
“Meaning whom?” I interrupted.
“Oh, I beg her pardon,” he said. “Yes, I meant Lady Clevedon. Why did she want to drag you into it? You have a reputation, haven’t you, for solving such puzzles as—”
“Some little,” I agreed. “I shall solve this.”
“Yes,” he said, “and I don’t want it solved. At least, I want to see it buried and forgotten. The thing’s a damned nightmare. There, now it’s out. We want you to drop the case—to go away and leave it alone.”
“We?” I echoed. “Does Miss Clevedon know of this visit?”
“No, but she knows I am to try and persuade you to drop the case. She asked me—”
“It is for her sake you want me to leave it alone,” I commented. “It is not for yours.”
“Mine—no—it doesn’t concern me,” he replied, “except as everything that interests her, concerns me.”
“But—doesn’t concern you?” I asked. “Yet you were the last person known to have quarrelled with—”
“If you mean to accuse me of the murder—”
“I don’t,” I interrupted promptly, “but look at the sequence. You quarrel with Sir Philip Clevedon and a few hours later he is dead. Then a celebrated detective—that I am neither a detective nor celebrated is only a detail—is put on the case and you try to buy him off, to bribe him in fact.”
“It is a complete case,” he admitted, with a quick grin.
“Yes,” I agreed, “the sort of completeness that is too good to be true.”
“Not at all,” he added, as the grin widened. “I can already feel the rope round my neck.”
He ran his finger along the inside of his collar with a very expressive gesture.
“On the other hand,” I went on, still speaking with off-hand tranquillity, “though you did not murder Sir Philip Clevedon you think you know who did.”
He drew himself slowly up from the chair and stood over me with a face that had gone curiously grey.
“I have in point of fact already begun my inquiries,” I went on, rising in my turn and looking him straight in the eyes. “Why hasn’t Sir William Clevedon come to Cartordale to take up his title and estate? He left his quarters in Ireland on the 19th, three or four days before Sir Philip Clevedon died. He is still absent from duty. You can learn a lot by well-placed telegrams in a very short time. Where is he now? Where was he on February 23rd?”
I knew now what Thoyne and Kitty Clevedon feared. He stood glaring at me for a moment or two, then buttoned his coat with fingers that trembled.
“I’ll go now,” he said. “I don’t know that I have done anybody much good by coming here but it seemed the quickest and straightest way.”
He did not offer his hand nor did he say another word, but opened the door himself without waiting for my help and disappeared.