Chapter V: “What about you?” Michael asked

“To the best of my belief Colonel Lockwood doesn’t know me,” Wilson replied, “though I’ve seen him once or twice. I think I’ll stay and risk it. I’d rather like to see you arrested for suspicious behaviour. But be careful you don’t give me away.”

Accordingly, a minute later the same maid ushered in the military figure they had seen in the street. At closer quarters it looked even more military, with a brick-red face, a bristling yellow moustache, and a beaked nose; all belied, however, by a pair of very mild, very worried blue eyes which surmounted it.

“Dr. Prendergast?” he inquired in his best parade growl, and looked uneasily at Wilson.

“This is my friend, Mr. Wilson,” Michael explained. “He’s just come down to join us. Have you any objection to his remaining?”

The Colonel looked as if he were searching Army Orders for the correct procedure, and failing to find it. Finally, with a grunt, he decided to let it pass.

“Provided he knows how to hold his tongue,” he said. “The business I’ve come on is private, doctor.”

“Quite,” said Wilson. “I assure you I can keep my mouth shut.”

“That’s all right, then. Well, Dr. Prendergast, I won’t waste your time. I understand that you were present this morning when a body was taken out of the river?”

“Yes--Mr. Meston’s body,” Michael said. The Colonel frowned as if he very much disliked the fact.

“And you examined it before the police-surgeon arrived?”

“I did,” said Michael; “but not thoroughly. And your man didn’t appear to desire my assistance afterwards.”

“Oh, you mustn’t mind that,” said the Colonel. “Kershaw likes to do his work himself. It’s only his way.”

“It’s a very unpleasant way,” said Michael.

“Well, we can’t help that. Now, what I wanted to ask you was--Did you form any idea as to the cause of death?”

“The man had a broken neck, and I should say he died of it. The condition is frequently fatal.”

“You don’t think he died of drowning?”

“No. As far as I could see, I’m certain he didn’t.”

“Yes. So far you’re in complete agreement with Dr. Kershaw. You agree that he must have hit something with his head as he fell into the river, which broke his neck?”

“That, it seems to me, would have produced the mark of a blow or cut of some kind on his head. And I couldn’t see any.”

“Pardon me, doctor, but you’re wrong there. There’s a very distinct mark--under his hair. I’ve just seen it. He must have hit his head a tremendous crack.”

Michael caught Wilson’s eye, and thought it looked derisive. He became suddenly angry and positive. “That’s impossible,” he said.

“Impossible! My dear doctor, what do you mean? I tell you I’ve seen it. You admit you only made a perfunctory examination. You must have overlooked it.”

“I may have overlooked a slight mark,” Michael said, “because, as I told you, I was given no opportunity of making a proper examination. But I couldn’t possibly have overlooked a serious one, of course!”

“Well, but as Colonel Lockwood has seen it, it’s presumably there,” Wilson interrupted; and at the sound of his voice the other two, who had begun to glare at each other, sank down into their chairs. “What exactly is the point, Colonel?”

“Slight or serious, it’s there,” the Colonel repeated. “However, the point is--how long should you say the body had been in the water?”

“Several days--three or four at least. It couldn’t have been more than five, for the man was walking about here five days ago.”

“Precisely. Dr. Kershaw says the same. So we may take it that he probably fell or jumped into the river. Is there anything, in your view, to show whether it was accident or suicide?”

“That’s hardly a medical question, you know. There is obviously nothing to show.”

“You mean the medical evidence is consistent with either?”

“Accepting the mark, and the presence of some object in the river hard enough to break his neck--yes.”

The Colonel gave a sigh of relief. “That’s all right, then,” he said. “I’ve had to ask these questions, doctor, because there are a lot of local gossips here, and they will have it that you cast doubt on Doctor Kershaw’s conclusions. I suppose I may take it that you didn’t.”

“I would rather,” Michael answered, a trifle stiffly, “retrain from committing myself to any conclusions at all. I prefer to stick to facts.”

“So do we all, I hope. As to the facts, then, you agree?”

“I would rather not venture a definite opinion.”

The Colonel sighed. “At any rate you agree with Doctor Kershaw that the man died of a broken neck?”

“I agree that that appears to have been the cause of death----”

“Then it seems to me that’s all right. There’s no disagreement on the vital question.”

“--_but_,” persisted Michael, who was not going to be baulked of his grievance, “I’d really rather not say anything, without having a further look at the body.”

“Oh, surely--I hardly think that’s necessary.” The Colonel’s determination to let sleeping dogs lie was so obvious that Michael’s protest died away. He was well aware that he had no right to intervene in the matter; but he was so cross that he might easily have persisted had Wilson given him the least shadow of encouragement. But Wilson sat perfectly silent, with a faint smile on his face; and, after trying several more hints, all of which the Colonel politely ignored, Michael allowed the interview to come to an end, and scowled his visitor out of the room. This done, he turned furiously on Wilson.

“You might have helped me out instead of sitting there grinning like a Cheshire cat! Is this whole damned place in a conspiracy? First the doctor, and now this Chief Constable fellow!”

Wilson’s smile broadened. “Don’t you know innocence when you see it, Michael? There never was any one with less guile than Lockwood. It’s quite natural he shouldn’t want you butting in and questioning his expert medical evidence.”

“If that’s so, why wouldn’t he let me have another look at the body?”

“Because, for all practical purposes, it isn’t his body; it’s Kershaw’s. And you’ve upset Kershaw, and he’s told the Colonel you’re a meddlesome outsider--which you are, you know, from his point of view.”

“_Why_,” Michael said, “are you so keen on my letting the thing alone? It’s not like you. If there’s something wrong--and I’m certain there is--isn’t it everybody’s concern?”

“_If_ there is,” said Wilson. “But the hardened professional is perhaps less anxious to find crimes than the amateur. Not everything is criminal that is a little odd, you know. And, if there has been any foul play--which I gather is what you are suggesting--shouldn’t we be better advised at the present moment to hold our tongues instead of making a shout of it?”

Michael coloured and bit his lip at the rebuke, and to cover his discomfiture went to look out of the window. What he saw there, however, appeared to please him very little, for he turned back into the room with an exclamation of disgust.

“What’s the matter?” Wilson asked. “Kershaw?”

“No. That little bounder,” Michael said, “hanging around still. Look!”

“What a lot of enemies you seem to have made,” Wilson commented mildly; but he went to the window obediently, and gazed out on Michael’s acquaintance in the bowler hat, who was having a semi-confidential conversation with the postman.

“Not an attractive creature, certainly,” he said. “But what has he done to you?”

“Only hung about all day, and tried to pump me--greasy little tyke!” said Michael. “Not to mention everybody else. What is he, Harry? A tout, or a reporter? Not a reporter, I hope.”

“I don’t think so,” Wilson said. “He looks to me, I regret to say, rather more like an outside broker in my line. He has the air of private inquiry agent--and not a very nice specimen of the breed. I wonder what cause there is for private inquiries into the late Mr. Meston? He’s buttonholed somebody else now--rather a nice-looking young fellow.”

Michael looked over his shoulder. “Why, it’s _Warden_!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know he was back. I’ll bring him in, shall I?” And in a moment he was gone.

“Oh, impetuosity!” Wilson murmured to himself. “I’m afraid you may get another setback.”