Chapter XXVIII

Wilson did not show any great anxiety to discuss the bearings of the last interview. The morning paper arrived just as Sylvia Meston had gone, and he spent some time reading it in a desultory manner, with occasional lapses into brooding. At last he looked up. “You know, Michael,” he said, “I’m inclined to think that that young woman was telling the truth.”

“If that’s so,” Michael said uncharitably, “it must be the first time on record.”

“Very possibly. Which perhaps gives it all the more weight. If she is, of course, it rather knocks the bottom out of your Loring-Kershaw reconstruction, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t necessarily clear John Loring, even if it is true,” Michael said. “He might have committed the murder after she went away.”

“And after he went away himself, you mean. He couldn’t have done it in between, because, in the first place, he hadn’t time, and in the second, our friend Machin was watching him, if you remember. So that involves his going away, picking up Meston somewhere in his car, and murdering him--all as a deliberate plot, laid in advance. It doesn’t sound likely, and further, I doubt whether he’d really have had time. It’s a little uncertain when he left the bridge, but the police have been making inquiries into his accident, and it was only half-past two when he ran into the other car.”

“What did happen, then?”

“I only wish I knew! I wonder if young Weaver notified Godfrey Loring of his brother’s accident, by the way, or if he found out by chance?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Just an idea of mine,” said Wilson. “Thank you.” The maid-servant had just brought in a letter sent round by hand. Wilson read it through twice, with his eyebrows going up. Finally he handed it to Michael, with a shrug. It was a note from Colonel Lockwood, and it merely stated that a silk rope, knotted, had been found hidden in the leaves just by the old boathouse. With a smile almost of pity, Michael handed it back to his friend.

“This is a topsy-turvy case, isn’t it?” he said. “Just when you think you’ve cleared John Loring, there turns up a piece of nearly conclusive evidence against him. That is, unless you think there were two ropes.”

“That’s hardly likely,” Wilson admitted. “But no--this is impossible! Sorry, Michael, I want to think it out.”

“You might think just how good an actress a woman can be,” Michael suggested nastily, but could not pursue the matter, as he was just then summoned to the telephone. When he came back, all thoughts of Sylvia Meston had left his mind, and his face was strained and anxious.

“That was Warden, Harry, on the ’phone from Colchester,” he said. “He’s very anxious for me to go over there at once--and you too, if you can spare the time.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Hanborough’s levanted. He didn’t turn up to his rendezvous this morning, and sent a note saying he was clearing out.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Nor I. But he’s apparently admitted a whole lot of things which may or may not have a bearing on this business. The police are in the Colchester office now, and Warden very much wants me to hear what they’ve got to say. He didn’t want to tell me any more himself over the ’phone. But I thought you might think it worth while to come too.”

“Perhaps it is.” Wilson got out of his chair. “Anyway, it’s probably more useful than sitting puzzling one’s brains here. I want some time to go and see that rope; but I think I’ll leave it till I know a little more what I want to find. We’d better go by car, I should think. Will you go and see about one, Michael? There’s a job I have to do first.”

As Michael left the garage, having bargained with it for the immediate use of its fastest vehicle, he met Brandreth ambling along. The little lawyer looked more debonair than ever, and he greeted Michael with a twinkle and an amiable good-morning.

“Let me congratulate you--or, rather, Mr. Wilson--on your discernment,” he said. “Sylvia has just been telling me her young man’s not going to be hanged after all.”

“Mrs. Meston is a little premature in her conclusions,” said Michael sourly. “As far as I recollect, Wilson only told her that she made matters much better for him when she consented to tell the truth!”

“Aggravating girl, isn’t she?” said the aggravating little man. “I must say it says much for your fair-mindedness that you’re able to admit when she’s speaking the truth. It’s a pity Kershaw can’t see that.”

“Can’t see _what_?” said Michael, thoroughly bewildered.

“Your essential fair-mindedness. He thinks you’re out to hang him, you see.”

“And wouldn’t that be fair?”

“Don’t be prejudiced, doctor. Of course it wouldn’t. Kershaw’s manners may not be pretty, but he never killed Meston. What on earth would he have gained by it, do you suppose? And if you weren’t too proud to listen to gossip, as I do, you’d have discovered long since that Kershaw never does anything unless he stands to gain something by it!”

“Why does he need to gain such a lot?”

“Oh, that’s a different question, isn’t it?” said Brandreth. “You’d better ask him. Well, I won’t keep you. You’ll tell Mr. Wilson what a meddlesome old nuisance I am, won’t you?”

* * * * *

“That man’s like a revolting Greek chorus, always turning up and moralising where he isn’t wanted!” said Michael, when they were seated in the car. “What on earth was he up to then, I should like to know?”

“Giving us a hint, I should say.”

“What on earth about?”

“Why, about Kershaw’s motives. It may be useful yet.”