Chapter I

“Thank goodness! Wilson’s coming to-day,” was the first thought of Michael Prendergast, M.D., F.R.C.S., and “rising consultant” of Harley Street, as he woke on a glorious July morning in his bed at the Old Malting House, Steeple Tollesbury.

Michael Prendergast was not unlike many other people in that, while he remained in London and perforce went through a certain round of daily toil and daily pleasure, he complained bitterly of the continual presence of people and yearned for green fields and solitude; but as soon as he found himself actually solitary in a green field, he tired at once of his own company and began to pine for the society of a friend. It was the first of these moods that had sent him down to the sleepy little Essex town, and suggested that he should take up his quarters rather at the pleasant old inn than six miles away at the house of his friend, Mark Warden, who had actually introduced him to the place; it was the second that, after only a week of “solitude,” had urged him to the ’phone to ring up that same Warden, and on finding that he was away in Colchester on business and not expected back for some days, had suggested a frantic appeal to Mr. Henry Wilson, Superintendent of the C.I.D., to put aside official cares and join him, if only for two or three days. And now Wilson was really coming! In the light of his impending arrival, the morning looked twice as fine, and the little cobbled market-square reclothed itself in the romance it had worn when Michael first set eyes on it.

Indeed, it was hardly the fault of Steeple Tollesbury that restless London nerves would not stay contented with it. It is emphatically a place which possesses all the charm of past greatness and present peace. Two centuries ago it was a busy little port, with its small but thriving fleet of colliers plying to and from the Tyne with “sea-coals,” and its respectable trade in various kinds of produce with the Dutch coast. But this glory has long departed. The old harbour at Tolleshithe has silted up; any produce that is still exported goes unromantically (though still as slowly) by train to London, and the best Wallsend arrives by the same route, though an occasional string of coal barges may yet be seen ambling gently up the Toll to Market Crumbles, the little town ten miles inland. To-day, though a few buildings such as the ridiculously large church, the great tithe-barn, and the Guild House, where young men and women are herded to hear the Vicar’s periodical discourses, remain as evidence of former greatness, Steeple Tollesbury is, in fact, the sleepiest township of that remote and sleepy district which lies between the estuaries of the Blackwater and the Crouch.

One of the aforesaid buildings is undoubtedly the inn, which goes by the name of the Old Malting House. It stands by the side of the Toll, one of its sides dropping sheer down into the water, facing a little stone wharf which is now seldom used, and a hundred yards or so above the old and narrow bridge, where the approach of an adventurous or bemused motor-car makes the pedestrian scuttle for safety into one of the stone embrasures. It is fourteenth century in design; its restorations have blended excellently with the old lines; roses and creepers run riot over its face; and, best of all, in cooking, in wines, and hospitality generally, it has remembered more of its old tradition than is always the case in forgotten towns. Its landlord is a gossip, and a pint of Guinness will always start him off; it has pewter mugs and oak settles and great log fires; in short, it is a peach of an inn.

So, at least, Michael Prendergast thought, when Warden took him to dine there on a chilly autumn day, in part payment, as he put it, for first-aid administered on the cricket-field. It seemed so much the acme of desire then, sitting hospitably permanent in the middle of that secret and sometimes terrifying countryside--the part of England where real ghosts still live--that he had pigeon-holed it in his mind as a place to revisit--even, perhaps, without his friend. For Mark Warden was one of those cheerful and hearty souls who, in certain moods to which Michael was as prone as most intellectuals, seem to be always saying the same thing in a loud voice, as if it had just occurred to them; and whose perplexities, when they have any, appear to them so much a violation of the natural order of the universe that they must complain loudly of them at all hours, at breakfast, dinner, and tea, until the tiresome thing is at last settled or forgotten. And Mark Warden, during the past winter, had been abruptly introduced to perplexity as a result of his decision to retire from the pleasant existence of a county cricketer, abandon the West Indian tour, and take seriously at last the position of junior--very junior--partner in the firm of stockbrokers which his father had founded, and had thence retired, owing to advancing years and a stroke, for his last act bringing in Mark as an innocent fledgling. Whether the fledgling’s decision to take a real part in the business had been prompted by the broken knee-cap to which Michael had attended, or by the growth of his desire to marry a neighbouring young lady, was not very clear; at all events the mysteries of law, finance, and love combined had had a serious effect on him, causing him very quickly to tear his hair and naïvely to come and lay his troubles, in season and out of season, before his new friend, in whose superior brains he had a complete and touching confidence. Michael knew nothing of finance and law, and cared less; and so, when he decided he was run down and must take a holiday, he had quite firmly decided that, though the Old Malting House was the place for him, Mark Warden was emphatically not the companion.

Not, indeed, that he could quite escape from his friend’s personality. Hellier Croft, the Wardens’ country home, was only six miles away across country, though nearer fourteen by the tortuous Essex roads. The family was an old one, and well known in the neighbourhood; and, if you stand a landlord a pint of stout, you must bear with the subjects of conversation he chooses. Samuel Wason, landlord of the Old Malting House, and fat and cheerful as such a landlord should be, had a very high opinion of old John Warden, as a judge both of horseflesh and of investments, and deeply regretted his illness. His son seemed equally popular; but it was clear that he was regarded as an ornament of society rather than a pillar; and Michael reflected with amusement how hurt Mark would have been at Warden’s genuine regret that he should be leaving the cricket-field--implying, in the way he put it, a distinct reflection on the heir’s business abilities. This was all in the correct tradition, the slightly patronising pride in the gay but brainless youth; but Michael was a little perturbed to notice a certain tinge of doubt in the way in which Wason spoke of the firm. It seemed that the firm was not what it had been in old Warden’s time; there were rumours of shaky investments, possible speculations, and one or two old clients transferring their business elsewhere. Mr. Hanborough, he that on old Warden’s retirement had become senior partner, didn’t belong to these parts, had come from London and never quite been taken to--though old Mr. Warden, he backed him through thick and thin. Oh, no, there wasn’t nothing against him that Wason knew of; he was different-like, and it wasn’t the same, that was all. Michael began to feel that he had perhaps been over-contemptuous of Mark Warden’s troubles, that they might after all be more than the instinctive protests of the butterfly bound to the business wheel, and in a mood of repentance had tried vainly to get into touch with him.

Then, of course, the second partner, Mr. Meston----At this point, Michael’s thoughts, recapitulating as he lay in bed, gave a sudden jump of delight. “Thank God _that_ fellow’s gone, at any rate!” was how he phrased it. For, of course, the real objection to solitude in the countryside is that it never _is_ solitude. There are always Mr. Mestons. One does not, naturally, mean by solitude a desert loneliness; innkeepers, potmen, tap-room habitués, even garrulous visitors like that old solicitor fellow--what’s his name?--Brandreth, of course--all these are local colour, and fit in with the picture. Besides, one need not talk to them unless one likes; one can keep out of the bar, sit upstairs or go for a walk, and they will not pursue. But a creature like Meston, with his lank hair, his gloomy face, his vast Adam’s apple, and his perpetual boring presence--what can be done with him?

Mr. Meston, middle partner of the Warden firm, who, till four or five days ago, had shared the hospitality of the Old Malting House with Michael, could certainly not have been called a cheerful companion. He was by origin a clerk in that firm, who had grown, or was about to grow, grey in its service, and who had been rewarded with a partnership by old John Warden. Faithful he might be, but he was neither beautiful nor entertaining. As already hinted, he was long, lean, and scraggy, of a sallow, rather unhealthy complexion, gloomily dressed in Sunday blacks, and showing a great tendency to protrude bony purplish wrists from his coat-sleeves. He was also singularly melancholy in manner--more depressed, Michael felt, even than his physical appearance warranted--and he seemed to have nothing to do but to moon miserably about the inn and the market-square in front of it. All this would have mattered little, however, if the creature had not obviously had something on its mind, something about which it ardently and horribly desired to talk to Michael. It was hardly safe to try to entice it into ordinary conversation; almost at once the talk would languish, it would begin to fidget with the salt-cellar or the fire-irons, and into its eye would come that yearning look peculiar to people who are just about to unbosom themselves. Michael, having fled from the possibility of Warden’s confidences, was by no means inclined to suffer the same treatment at the hands of a snuffling undertaker, as he unkindly termed his fellow-visitor; more especially as it was at least possible that the undertaker’s confidences might concern Warden, and Michael did not at all want to discuss his friend with him. For this reason he not only gave the widest possible berth to Meston himself, but even discouraged the landlord in various attempts to tell him “some things about Mr. Meston.” Whatever was to be known about Meston, Michael felt, he at all events did not want to know it. He wanted to have as little to do with the man as he could.

At least, thank goodness, he was not here any longer, polluting the sunshine. He had left, more or less unexpectedly, late in the evening of the previous Friday, or early the following morning; and the inn was perceptibly the brighter for his departure. What with that, and the immediate prospect of a friend who could be relied upon not to burden him with confidences of any kind, Michael felt so benevolent as he descended to breakfast, that he even, with a kind of overflowing of goodwill, asked the landlord whether he had heard anything of Mr. Meston.

“Only wish I had,” Wason replied. “It’s a nuisance to me, not knowing when he’s coming back and whether he’ll want to stay, when he does. Packed his baggage and all, too; looks as though he wasn’t going to stay. But it’s not like Mr. Meston to go on paying for a room when he needn’t.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know he is. Perhaps he’s just forgotten,” Michael suggested.

“Forgotten? Not he. Mr. Meston, he’ve the longest memory in these parts for small things. Take care of a penny, he would--if it meant holding it in his mouth till Land’s End. No, that’s not like him. It don’t matter to me, much; we’re not overfull, as you can see for yourself. But his room’s the best in the place, and it’s a confusion to me not knowing whether he wants to keep it or not. Your friend might ’a’ liked it, now, supposing I’d had it free.”

“Oh, I think he’ll do very well where he is,” Michael said, suppressing none the less a slight regret at the loss of Meston’s room, which was indeed very attractive, being a long, low, oak-beamed room overlooking the river, and the only bedroom which looked out that side. As it was, Wilson must perforce be accommodated in a pleasant, but completely modern, room overlooking the cobbled market-place and not far from Michael’s own.

“London gentleman, isn’t he?” Wason continued. “What time will he be arriving, now?”

“Oh, some time this afternoon. I’m not sure when. He’s coming by car,” Michael said, wondering how often Wilson must have thanked his stars for his inconspicuous name. It is true that since the Brooklyn Case,[1] and still more since other problems in crime which he had triumphantly solved, Wilson’s name had become something of a national byword; but Henry Wilsons are still as common as blackberries in England, and there was no particular danger that this particular one’s incognito would be pierced during his stay at Steeple Tollesbury. For, of course, he was coming down incognito. A distinguished detective must of necessity eschew certain forms of publicity which delight a distinguished film-actor, for example. He does not want either his autograph or his likeness to figure prominently in the picture-press; still less does he want to be thronged by an admiring crowd wherever he goes. If the Superintendent had been called Sherlock Holmes, now, the whole of the market-place would already have been black with sightseers; but Henry Wilson! Even though he had only just brought to a conclusion his most spectacular case, it was hardly likely that a single village eye would be batted for his arrival. Unless, indeed, a crime were to occur; but Michael had yet to see a place which less suggested crime than Steeple Tollesbury.

As he stood in the inn doorway, drinking in deep draughts of sun, there was the purr of an engine, and a long racing car dashed over the bridge and turned down into the square. A man with what Michael felt to be an altogether unnecessarily good-looking profile and a mass of curly hair was at the wheel.

“Who’s that--cinema gentleman?” he said; “do you know? And why does he think he’s Jehu?”

“Why, that’s Wallace Burden,” the landlord said, turning Michael’s scornful remark into a compliment. Wallace Burden bid fair at the moment to climb to Valentino’s vacant pedestal. “He always drives like that. He’ll be going up to Lorings’--to the Grange--I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Well, I don’t like him,” Michael pronounced.

“There’s them that does, though,” the landlord said darkly.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See _The Brooklyn Murders_, by G. D. H. Cole.