Chapter XXXIV

Colonel Lockwood looked extremely puzzled. “I can’t understand it,” he said. “I’ve traced the pulley--it wasn’t made by Goodyear, by the way. But a man called Templeton, who lives just outside the town, remembers quite well making a pulley and pulley-block to just those measurements, about three weeks ago.”

“For whom?” said Wilson. “That’s the point.”

“For Potts, the footman up at the Grange. But----”

“That’s all right,” said Wilson, whose face had fallen, but brightened up in a minute. “Of course, it might perfectly well have been Potts. In fact, it’s really more likely.”

“More likely than what?” said the Colonel. “Potts doesn’t seem to me to have much to do with Kershaw. And it was Kershaw whom you told me to watch.”

“Yes,” said Wilson. “I hope you did, by the way. But Kershaw didn’t commit the murder.”

“Then who did?”

As Wilson opened his mouth to reply, there was a knock on his sitting-room door, and a bland, cherubic face looked in.

“May I have a look at the exhibits, please, Mr. Wilson?” Brandreth asked. “I believe that’s the proper name for them. I’ve just been up in the loft, and I noticed----”

“Mr. Brandreth,” said Wilson, “will you kindly clear out? I’m busy.”

“I’m so sorry,” the lawyer replied. “If I’m intruding I’ll come another time. But I really thought you’d like to know----” He paused expectantly.

“Like to know what?” Wilson asked. If there was no other way of ridding himself of this pestilential lawyer, he supposed he would have to hear him out.

“Why, whose bootprints they are that your man’s drawing so patiently up in the loft,” said Brandreth. “I’ve just been to have a look.”

“Then you will kindly not go again!” said Wilson, still with asperity. “Nobody is to go up there. Well, whose are they?”

“You don’t know?” said Brandreth, with a look of beautiful innocence. “Come--I give you three guesses.”

“Mr. Brandreth, will you kindly stop being a buffoon, and tell us what you know?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said the lawyer. “But, you see, I have a personal interest. The bootprints happen to be mine.”

This time there was no doubt. Wilson was genuinely startled. “_Yours?_” he said incredulously. “Mr. Brandreth, are you making me a confession, or is this another of your extremely ill-timed jokes?”

“Oh dear, no,” said the lawyer. “I’m not a murderer. I’m not even an accomplice. I’m only a member of the inquiring British public. You see, I happened to go up into the loft after lunch----”

“What, again?”

“No, before. When you chased all those people off the bridge, I met the boots, and asked him where the trunk had come from. I was standing on the bridge when you hauled it up, you see. He said it came out of the loft, so I went up to have a look. I came down before you went up there; but when I went up again just now, and saw Linton earnestly making sketches of my bootprints, I thought perhaps I’d better let you know.” He held up a foot for inspection. “Would you like to draw them? or shall I send a boot round to you? I give you my word they’re the same.”

“Mr. Brandreth,” said Wilson, “some people would call you the most impudent person they had ever met.”

The lawyer sighed. “You misinterpret my motives, Mr. Wilson. You don’t allow enough for intelligent curiosity, really you don’t. I beg your pardon for interrupting. Afternoon, Lockwood!” And with a comprehensive smile he was gone.

“Really!” said Michael. “What confounded cheek! I shouldn’t wonder if he really was the murderer.”

“Nonsense!” said Wilson. “Of course he wasn’t. Don’t be an ass, Michael. That kind of chap doesn’t commit murder, except in novels that must have ‘unexpected’ endings. He’s a buffoon and a busybody, and that’s all about it. Actually, I’m grateful to him for clearing up one difficulty.”

“Then who was?” the Colonel asked. For answer Wilson drew from his pocket the envelope in which lay the little emerald.

“John Loring!” Michael cried. “But I thought----”

“John!” gasped the Colonel. “But I’ve just given leave for Sylvia to see him! Really, Wilson, I think you might have----”

“Not John Loring, Colonel,” said Wilson, who was not always above creating a sensation. “Godfrey.”

“Godfrey! The Squire! It’s impossible! What do you mean?” The Colonel stared in horror.

“But,” said Michael, “Wason said the emerald was John Loring’s.”

“Wason was wrong. John Loring’s isn’t the only emerald tie-pin. The Squire also has one--they’re family twins, I believe--and I noticed when I met him that one of the stones was missing. John Loring’s, I think, is complete.”

“But what an appalling thing! Are you _sure_?” said the Colonel.

“I should not have mentioned it if I were not,” said Wilson, who disliked having his statements doubted. “If you ask Godfrey Loring to provide you with an alibi for Friday night of last week, I think you will find that you have put him in rather a difficulty. Of course we shall be able to be quite sure when we have compared the footprints in the loft.”

“I thought Brandreth said those were his?” Michael said.

“One set was,” said Wilson. “But there were three sets. That was one thing which puzzled me, especially as one set looked much fresher than the others. Those must have been Brandreth’s.”

“But the _Squire_?” The Colonel was still gasping like a fish. “You can’t mean it? Are you accusing Godfrey Loring of _murder_?”

“Of being concerned,” said Wilson in his grimmest voice, “in the murder of William Meston on the night of ninth August, by hanging him from a pulley in that gable. And I am prepared to swear an information to that effect against him and his accomplice.”

“His accomplice?”

“Potts--the footman. Of course, you must have seen this wasn’t a one-man job. And, from what you’ve just told me, it’s evident that Potts was the other criminal.”

“Why?”

“My dear Colonel, who was it ordered the pulley? More than that, who was it found the rope by the alder stump--the rope which was to send John Loring to the gallows for his brother’s crime--the rope which was not there a week after the crime was committed, and which only appeared when you had told Godfrey Loring that the evidence against his brother was not complete enough to take before a jury? Potts! And when I questioned him yesterday, he stuck firmly to his story, which, as I happened to know, was a lie. He is certainly a faithful servant.”

“But,” Michael said, “aren’t you forgetting Kershaw? And Hanborough? A little while ago you seemed sure that Kershaw and Hanborough had done it together.”

“Hanborough, as you so pertinently observed, my dear Michael, is off the map. The connection between him and Kershaw is very interesting, but has nothing directly to do with the murder. As to Kershaw, I shan’t know for certain till I’ve had an opportunity of questioning him freely. But I fancy he saw the crime.”

“Saw the crime?”

“Yes, from the tow-path opposite, on his way to Billings’s cottage. You remember he started to go there, but never arrived. _Something_ occurred to delay him, and if that something was a man being hanged from the Malting House windows, it might well have given him something to think about. You remember Warden, who saw him coming back across the bridge, thought he looked as if he’d seen a ghost.”

“But why did he come back at all?”

“Well, most people, seeing a murder committed before their eyes, would at least stop to inquire, wouldn’t they? I imagine Kershaw, not knowing whom he’d seen, went round to the Old Malting House, and met them coming out.”

“And then?”

“Well, have you forgotten Kershaw’s financial position? And the bills that were paid?”

“I see!” Michael said. “You mean blackmail. But--that was _before_ the body came up out of the water. Do you mean Kershaw undertook to hit it over the head when it did?”

“No, of course not. It wasn’t intended ever to be seen again. The pier--and your untimely appearance, Michael--are responsible for that unlucky blow. Unlucky, I mean, from Kershaw’s point of view.”

“Because it directed suspicion to him?”

“And because it dried up his milch-cow. That, I fancy, is where our friend tripped himself up. Five hundred pounds in one lump is a pretty good catch, and everybody knows how rich Loring is. Kershaw, I surmise, saw himself in clover for the rest of his life, and when the body turned up again, either in order to secure his income, or to prevent the crime being discovered--in which case Loring was pretty sure to give him away--took the insane step of faking that blow. Either way he did himself in. We intercepted a note at his house, Michael, giving Loring’s views on the matter, and I rather think the conversation whose tail we heard this morning was Kershaw’s last throw. Of course, by faking the blow, he at once made it impossible for himself to blackmail anybody. But this is rather idle conjecture. It’s what I think happened; but we shall get it all out of Kershaw. He’ll speak fast enough when you have him under lock and key, and kept without his drugs.”

“Drugs? Blackmail?” said the bewildered Colonel. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you really mean me to take up this charge, you’ve got to tell me why. What conceivable motive had Godfrey----?”

“Motive?” Wilson cried. “You’ve been meeting the man almost every day, and you talk to me of motive! Man alive! where are your eyes? Haven’t you seen Loring with Mrs. Meston? Why, the man’s eaten up with passion for her, and has been, I should say, for years--long before he saw the bank manager walk off with her under his very nose. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that he had something to do with John Loring’s sudden departure for China.” At this a sudden look of horrified illumination came into the Colonel’s face. “And then--she ran away from Meston to the Grange. And Meston followed her there, and was thrown out, if you’ll remember, by Potts, acting on his master’s instructions. And he saw his chance. Do you really believe, knowing him as you do, that he’s not the sort of man to take his chance when he got it--not to mention that he’s been moving heaven and earth to get you to arrest his brother and to make sure of his conviction?”

“I remember,” the Colonel said slowly, “that he _did_ get John to go to China. He found him the post, and got him to accept--he asked my advice about it. But I can’t think----”

“If we waste much time thinking,” Wilson interrupted, “it’ll be too late to act. May I remind you that these two are still at large--and news travels fast in this gossip-hive of yours!”

“I suppose,” said the Colonel reluctantly, “I’ve got to arrest him.”

“And quickly, I should say,” said Wilson, “or he won’t be there to arrest. In fact, I shouldn’t wait for the warrant. I should go straight up to the Grange and detain him pending inquiries. I’ll get the warrant, if you like. And, by the way, make for Potts first. He’s nearly as guilty, but we want his evidence to catch Loring. Don’t let him get away. And, if I may, I’ll see that your people make sure of Kershaw. Only, for God’s sake, Colonel, be careful. The man’s absolutely desperate, and he’ll stick at nothing. I’ll go in a minute, as soon as I’ve got my evidence into order.”

Only half convinced, but completely browbeaten, the Colonel got to his feet, and slowly disappeared. For a few minutes after he had gone, Wilson wrote rapidly, transferring hieroglyphic notes out of his pocket-book.

“That ought to do the trick,” he said at last. “Now for convincing Loring’s fellow-magistrates.” He led the way to the door. On the threshold he hesitated. “You know,” he said, “I’m not sure that I oughtn’t to have gone to the Grange myself. It’s a very ticklish business, and Lockwood’s such an infernal blunderer. I’m half afraid he’ll let the man get away. I wonder if I ought to go.”

“They’ll be nearly there by now,” said Michael, looking at his watch.

As he spoke, a car came tearing down the High Street, jammed on its brakes with an excruciating scream, and shot out Mark Warden, white-faced and anxious-eyed, on the pavement beside them.

“Mr. Wilson,” he said, without any preliminary, “is it true there’s a row at the Grange, and Lockwood’s gone off to arrest--the Squire?”

“It is true,” said Wilson shortly, trying to silence the young man, as a number of heads appeared at surrounding windows.

“And Edna’s there alone! Why didn’t you tell me? What’s it about?” Warden said. “I shall go up there now,” he added defiantly.

“You can go if you like,” said Wilson, making a sudden decision, “if you take me with you. You can come, if you like, Michael.”

* * * * *

“Mind if I let her out a bit?” the young man asked, having packed them in.

“Not when you’ve got past the corner,” was the reply. “I want to speak to the constable on duty there.” In a moment, it seemed, they were at the corner, and Wilson, summoning the constable, instructed him to leave his post and go and fetch Dr. Kershaw to the police-station immediately, there to await further orders. “Now you can step on it,” he said to Warden, as the man turned away.