Chapter XI

“It won’t be quite as easy as you think, Mr. Wilson,” Dr. Evershed said doubtfully. “The people in these parts are an infernally inquisitive crowd, and I gather there’s been a good deal of talk. I don’t quite know how I’m to avoid calling Dr. Prendergast.”

“If you call him, and he doesn’t answer, that’s good enough, isn’t it?” Wilson said. They were all three having a morning consultation at Colonel Lockwood’s house. “I’ve been thinking for some time that a trip to Colchester would do you good, Michael.”

“Do I want to go to Colchester?” Michael inquired mildly.

“You won’t be allowed to go to the inquest, in any event,” Wilson said firmly, “so you might as well be in Colchester as anywhere else. I’ll think of something to amuse you. Then he can’t be called, Dr. Evershed; and you can perfectly well agree to ask the police to look into his evidence. I don’t think anybody here has the slightest suspicion that it was murder, except old Brandreth, and I’ve done my best to shut his mouth, though I judge it’s an unusually wide one.”

“Meanwhile, I suppose I’ve got to set about finding the murderer,” Colonel Lockwood groaned.

“If you could find the place at which the murder took place, it would be a step onward, at any rate,” Wilson said.

“Don’t you think he was killed where he was thrown in, then--at the Old Malting House?”

“I don’t know if he was killed where he was thrown in. But I hardly think he can have been thrown in where he came up. Do you know the river-bed there? I was examining it this morning. It’s almost free of tangled weed--and there’s a considerable current. The stream just there flows well on the left-hand side.”

“You mean,” said Dr. Evershed, who was keenly interested, “that if the body had been thrown in there on Friday night, it would have floated down-stream?”

“Precisely.”

“Then it must have been thrown in farther up-stream,” the Colonel triumphantly deduced. “How much farther up?”

“That, I’m afraid, we can hardly say,” Wilson said, exchanging a smile with the coroner. “Rivers don’t flow at a uniform pace, nor do objects committed to their charge. The body might have got into an eddy, or stuck in a patch of weed higher up. I’m afraid it means examining the banks, however, for some distance up. If he was killed by the riverside, and not brought from somewhere else--which, of course, he may have been--there will probably be traces of a struggle. Remember, you can’t hang a man in the air. He must be hung _from_ something, and something pretty strong. Anyway, even if he was only carried to the river, there may be signs of some sort. It’s been dry as a bone this last week, which ought to help us. What is the river scenery like above the Old Malting House?”

“Meadow for four hundred yards or thereabouts,” the Colonel said, “then thick woods for two or three miles. One side is Loring property, and the other belongs to Sir Felix Lewis, the Stock Exchange fellow. He’s away just now. The woods are very damp and soggy, and there’s practically no firm ground but the tow-path. The next crossing is by an old bridge at the end of Lewis’s woods, about a quarter of a mile below Watergate Lock.”

“Thanks.” Wilson was drawing a rapid sketch-map from the Colonel’s directions. “The woods are private, I suppose? I’d rather like to have a look up there this afternoon, Colonel, if you can provide me with a boat and an inconspicuous man. I’ll go immediately the inquest’s over, if you’ll tell him to be waiting by the bridge. We’ll be off before the crowd comes along.”

“Right you are,” said the Colonel; “I’ll send Collins.” And after a little more conversation he departed, taking Dr. Evershed with him to see the body.

“That’s a sensible fellow,” Wilson said. “I feel I can trust him to hold Lockwood’s hand and let as little as possible come out this afternoon. I was rather in fear that our murderer would be provided with a nice little warning.”

“Do you know who he is, then?”

“Indeed I don’t! I don’t even know his motive yet.”

“I should have thought we’d heard motive enough, yesterday.”

“Yes, of course. The trouble is, there’s too much motive; or, rather, two perfectly plausible motives, each of which points to a quite different set of persons. There’s the very significant fact, which we heard yesterday morning, that Meston’s continued presence in the world was a great trouble and inconvenience to his wife--and presumably to any one else who might want to marry her. The trouble with that motive is that, as far as we can see, it seems likely to point to every marriageable male within miles.”

“Surely it points to her, first of all?” Michael said viciously.

“My dear Michael, surely even your prejudiced mind can take in that this isn’t a woman’s crime. You don’t mean to suggest that that girl hanged a twelve-stone man and then threw him in the river? If she was concerned in any way, she must have had a fairly hefty male accomplice; and, in that case, I hardly think she would be likely to come and urge me to take the thing up. The only thing that is suspicious about her is, first, that she clearly wanted to be rid of him (though I don’t suggest her reaction to the sight of his corpse was anything but genuine); and secondly, that she was so convinced that he couldn’t have committed suicide. But that may be simple observation. No, it is much more likely that one of the fair Sylvia’s admirers, seeing in Meston a permanent obstacle, determined to remove him. But which? It presumes a desperate character and a pretty strong infatuation; for this, as you remarked, is not only a savage, but a premeditated crime.”

“Burden,” said Michael promptly.

“Well, we don’t know, of course. We’ve only just seen his face, and killing a pig isn’t evidence for killing a human. Besides, I can’t somehow see a man of his kind taking an affair seriously enough. He is too much in a position to have his pick. I haven’t seen his infernal machine since yesterday, by the way. I wonder if he’ll turn up at the inquest?”

“Well, there must be plenty more.”

“So one gathers; but one knows very little. Shane I’ve met; he’s not in the least likely to compromise his career with murder. Besides, he couldn’t think it out if he tried. Mackenzie I don’t know; he has the reputation of a savage fellow, but you can’t build much on that. At present, I gather, he’s not at the Grange. He was there not long ago, but nobody seems to know exactly when he left. John Loring, the discarded swain, would fit the part best, no doubt. But you can’t very well murder a man from China.”

“Well, _one_ of them ought to fit,” Michael said obstinately.

“Maybe. But you’re forgetting the other motive.”

“What’s that?”

“The money. The embezzlement.”

“Oh, that! But I don’t see how that throws any light. You don’t murder a man because he’s embezzled funds--unless you are thinking of an outraged client. Besides, he didn’t look like a successful embezzler when I saw him.”

“If he was an embezzler, he had presumably ceased to be successful by the time you saw him,” Wilson reminded him. “But I agree. We’ve nothing whatever, except Warden’s untrained conjecture, to suggest that he _was_ an embezzler. But--I’ll just put this point to you. Supposing he wasn’t the embezzler, but supposing he’d found out who was? Would that provide a motive?”

“You mean if he was tracking the real criminal,” Michael said slowly. “And the man found out, and killed him. But, in that case, who was he?”

“Well, one would have to make inquiries in Colchester, obviously,” Wilson said. “Remember, though, it would have to be somebody fairly high up in the firm to get the opportunity. I know where my suspicions would go.”

“Hanborough!” Michael cried; “the senior partner.”

“Yes. Or Warden.”

“Mark! But that’s rubbish! You’ve seen him. He couldn’t cheat a fly.”

“I’ve seen him,” Wilson admitted, “but it doesn’t do to go too much by first impressions. No, keep your hair on. I’m not saying I suspect him. I’m only really trying to warn you that some people may, so that you may go carefully.”

“But it’s ridiculous. He wasn’t even there at the time!”

“Where? and at what time? We don’t know where Meston was murdered; we don’t know exactly when. Because he was last seen at 10.30 on Friday night, that doesn’t prove that he didn’t live for another twelve hours afterwards. We shall have to be very careful in accepting alibis for this business, Michael.”

“But, surely--it’s much more likely to have been Hanborough than Mark! He was senior partner; he was bound to know what was going on.”

“That depends, I should say,” said Wilson, “on how much of his time he spent at the Grange, and how much at the office.”

“The more at the Grange, the more likely to have been the murderer!”

“Michael, you really ought to be at the criminal bar. I never met anybody so determined to import prejudice into a case. You know nothing about Hanborough except that he employed an agent to look into the matter, which isn’t, on the face of it, proof of guilt. I think I’ll have a word with Mr. Strake, some time. But nobody here seems to know much about Hanborough.”

“Brandreth does,” said Michael. “Brandreth knows a great deal more than he need.”

“Yes. There’s something very odd about Brandreth, but what it is I’m hanged if I know. Has it struck you, Michael, that the only people who have been behaving suspiciously are people with no apparent connection with the deceased--at least, no motive for getting rid of him?”

“Brandreth and----?”

“Kershaw. Kershaw’s conduct so far is absolutely inexplicable on any other hypothesis except that of guilt of some sort. Yet I can’t find out that the two men ever exchanged a word.”

“Kershaw’s up at the Grange a lot,” Michael said. “He might be in love with Mrs. Meston, too.”

“Then it’s odd Brandreth shouldn’t have mentioned it in his sheaf of gossip.”

“You can’t tell with Brandreth,” Michael said shrewdly. “He won’t mention more than it suits him to mention. If Kershaw were guilty, now----”

“True, O sage. But this sort of speculation won’t get us much farther, without a few more facts. How do you propose to get to Colchester?”

“Do you really want me to go there?” Michael asked in some surprise. “I thought you only wanted me out of the way.”

“That, primarily. But I don’t see why your enforced banishment shouldn’t be profitable. There are a number of things which I think might usefully be looked into.”

“Go ahead. I’m your man--if you think I’m likely to do any good.”

“Well, I want as much as possible found out about all the people we’ve mentioned. First,” said Wilson, ticking them off on his fingers, “there’s Meston himself. Make an excuse for going to the office, if you can; and find out what’s thought of Meston, and whether he’s likely to have been your embezzler. Then I want all you can get hold of about Nicholas Hanborough, his circumstances, habits, etc.; and particularly what he was supposed to be doing--when? What should you say was the limit of time during which Meston could have been killed?”

“Oh, about twenty-four hours from the time he was last seen. Certainly not more.”

“Well, track Hanborough for that period, if you can. And in your friend Warden’s interest, you’d better do the same for him. Then I want any mortal thing you can find out about Kershaw--who he is, what he did before he came here, etc. There doesn’t appear to be a medical directory in this place. And you might see what you can pick up about Sylvia Meston, or any of her friends, as well, would you? But, for pity’s sake, put your own feelings temporarily in the background. You won’t get any information if you begin by disclosing your hand.”

“I’ll try,” Michael promised. “And, if I’m to do all this, I’d better be going. I wonder if there’s a train.”