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  “I had to explain,” interposed Mitchell quickly, “I hadn’t one available; so he said, well, practically anyone would do, and so then I thought of you, Owen.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Bobby meekly.

  “You’re to be,” explained Major Markham, “the son of an old business friend of Mr. Winterton’s. He hasn’t met you before, but for your father’s sake he is anxious to make your acquaintance.”

  “I see, sir,” said Owen, “but I don’t quite understand what he wants protection against.”

  “Against murder,” Major Markham answered; and the word had a strange, grim sound in the peace of that quiet garden, where the roses and the honeysuckle grew in such profusion, where it seemed the still and scented air should be troubled by nothing worse than the buzz of a passing wasp or the hum of a hungry gnat. “Against murder,” Major Markham repeated; “it seems he thinks that last month, when he lost his brother, that was murder.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bobby Receives His Instructions

  Even Mitchell, a man not easily reduced to silence, whose career had made him familiar with many tragedies, seemed to feel the chill that word imposed upon the warm summer afternoon. He made no comment, but shivered slightly and sat quiet and still; nor was it now of set purpose that Bobby allowed that deadly cheroot of his to lie forgotten on the table. Not till this silence had lasted two or three minutes did Major Markham continue his story.

  “The verdict was ‘accidentally drowned,’” he went on then. “On the evidence given, no other was possible. When Mr. Winterton and his brother, Archibald Winterton – they were twins, by the way – retired from business, they settled at Suffby, George buying the house, Fairview, on the west shore of Suffby Cove and Archibald building one for himself across the Cove, at the southern extremity of Suffby Point. They lived in good style; had done well as stockbrokers, I understand. Suffby was chiefly Archibald’s choice; he was fond of the sea, loved swimming, fishing, sailing. Every morning very early, he used to go down to a little beach near his home for a swim before breakfast. Bathing is perfectly safe in the Cove and quite safe off the Point, provided you don’t go too far out, when, at the turn of the tide, there’s a strong current runs down the coast. Archibald knew all that quite well, of course, and had the reputation of being a prudent as well as a strong swimmer. Two months ago he went for his usual swim, and never came back. Three weeks later his body was found by fishermen twenty miles down the coast.”

  The Major paused, and Bobby asked:

  “There were no marks of violence on the body?”

  “Well, after three weeks in the water...” Major Markham answered. “Still, the doctors were all agreed that death had been caused by drowning, and that the injuries to the body had almost certainly been caused after death. Probably he had swum out too far; got caught in the current or had an attack of cramp. Impossible to say what really happened, but the jury returned the only verdict possible. There’s one difficulty. The tide didn’t turn that morning, and therefore the current wouldn’t begin to run strongly, till more than an hour after he must have entered the water; in fact, not till some time after the alarm had been given and he had been missed. He had probably gone down for his swim earlier than usual on account of the state of the tide. He used to do that, apparently; he would go either earlier or later than his usual time, according to how the current would be running; he used to note the tides carefully every day.”

  “Sometimes it is the most careful man who makes the worst slip,” observed Mitchell, “like the story of the man who was always careful to wash his cherries before eating them, but one day forgot and drank the water he had rinsed them in, and so caught cholera and died. Besides, anything might account for it – cramp or heart failure or anything like that.”

  “Both the brothers were exceptionally big, strong men, extremely healthy,” the Major observed. “Still, the jury took the view that something like that must have happened. I certainly agreed with them. Also, there seems no reason why anyone should have wished to murder him.”

  “Does Mr. George Winterton give any reason for suspecting foul play?” Bobby asked.

  ‘‘Nothing you can lay hold of,” answered the Major, a little hesitatingly. “I admit he impressed me. I was inclined not to take him very seriously at first. But he meant it. He believes it all right enough. Then he looked at me and said: ‘I’ll be the next, very likely.’ Well, he meant that, too. But he wouldn’t give any explanation. He seemed to me – well, resigned, if you know what I mean. I asked him if he suspected anyone, and he said he didn’t. He kept on talking about what a strong, experienced swimmer his brother was, and how careful. When there was any real risk, he never went far outside the Cove. I put it to him there was no way any foul play could have been carried out. There were no signs of struggle. An Airedale dog Archibald always took with him was found lying quite placidly on the sand waiting for its master to return. It’s a dog that’s very quiet and friendly with anyone it knows, but it barks its head off at the sight of any stranger. If it had barked at all, it would certainly have been heard at the house and certainly have started Mrs. Winterton’s poms barking too – she has two or three of them. His clothing hadn’t been touched, either; and his gold watch – rather a valuable one – and a diamond ring he wore, but always took off before he went into the water, were quite safe. A thermos flask with hot coffee he used to take down with him for a warm drink after he came out of the water was there just as usual.”

  “There was no footprint unaccounted for, I suppose?” Bobby asked.

  “I can’t be sure about that. The place had been well trampled over by people from the house and from the village, anxious to help after the alarm was given, before any of my men got there. But I think the evidence of the dog is conclusive that no stranger had been near. Finally, after a good deal of talk, it came out that he had had a dream – George I mean, of course.”

  “A dream?” repeated Bobby.

  “So he said,” answered the Major, almost apologetically. “One can understand his brother’s tragic death was a terrible shock to them all. The widow has gone to stay with some relatives. I don’t much suppose she and the children will ever come back here. Probably the property will be sold; I’ve heard a London syndicate are after it to put up a big hotel and develop the place for golf and so on. Not that you would have expected a man like George Winterton – a fine, big, healthy fellow, as strong and active as anyone half his age; hard-headed business man, too – to start worrying about dreams.” The Major paused and smiled a little. “Mrs. Cooper did tell me she had given him crab salad for supper that evening,” he added, his smile broadening.

  “Who is Mrs. Cooper, sir?” Bobby asked.

  “Oh, she’s the wife of the butler, a very capable woman – runs the house like clockwork, and her husband too, and I think Winterton himself into the bargain. But he says it’s worth putting up with a little bossing at times to have the house organised like an up-to-date factory. And then she’s not like some housekeepers; she doesn’t sulk if the routine’s upset. Winterton told me once he thought she rather liked it if he brought back half a dozen unexpected guests from the golf-club to dinner. It gave her a chance to show her powers of resource – the artist exercising his functions, you know.”

  “Must be a wonder,” observed Mitchell, with some slight show of emotion. “Mrs. Mitchell might allow me to bring home one man without warning, or even two at a pinch – but half a dozen. There’s reason in all things,” he said.

  “I understand, sir,” Bobby went on to Major Markham, “that Mr. Winterton doesn’t give any grounds for his suspicions of foul play? Or for thinking he’s threatened himself?”

  “No; what actually happened was that he got a bit excited, and burst out that very likely what had happened to his brother would happen to him, too, if he wasn’t careful. After that he calmed down and wouldn’t say any more, and then he rolled up with this extraordinary request for police protection. I should have w
anted to turn it down, even though he’s willing to pay all expenses, except for one thing – a rather curious thing: an assault on one of my men that happened some little time before the accident to Archibald. Early in the spring we got word that a strange motorboat had been seen lying off the entrance to Suffby Cove. Well, there’s a certain amount of smuggling goes on now that, thank God, we’ve stopped being the world’s dumping-ground. If you can run a consignment of cameras or Paris frocks through to London, it pays very well. Now and again, too, an alien tries to slip in without a passport, or an undesirable who’s been expelled tries to get back. And there’s always the drug traffic. So we have to keep our eyes open, and when, very early one morning last April, my man there – Jennings – saw a motor-boat lying in the creek that runs into Suffby Cove, he thought he had better have a look at it. But, as he was passing some pine-trees, someone from behind dropped a sack over his head. You haven’t much chance when you’ve got a sack over your head, and, though I expect Jennings put up a good fight – and he’s quite a hefty young fellow – they roped him up to a tree, and there he was found by his sergeant a little later. The motor-boat had disappeared, of course, though it had been seen leaving the Cove under sail. It was fitted up with mast and sail as well as its motor. And nothing’s been seen of it since. We found out that the sack was of Dutch manufacture, but we couldn’t trace it further. There were a few vague footprints, but none plain enough to be of any value, and no other clues that we could find; and no more’s been heard of the motor-boat.”

  “Sounds like a spot of smuggling,” observed Mitchell.

  “It does,” agreed the Major, “only – there’s this. By a lucky coincidence a special watch was being kept on the roads that night. We had had word – as you may remember, Mr. Mitchell; it was the O’Reilly gang – that London burglars were in the district. A sharp look-out on all roads was being kept, therefore, and we are fairly confident that no contraband was landed; anyhow, it was not taken inland that night, and next day the whole of the neighbourhood was thoroughly searched.”

  “Easier to hide than to find,” murmured Mitchell.

  “Agreed, agreed. But you don’t land silk frocks or spirits or watches or cameras to stuff them up the chimney, or keep them buried in some hole or a hollow tree; and a very careful watch has been kept ever since. I don’t think anything could be moved without our knowing it. I expect the whole lot of them down in the village would smuggle anything they got a chance at, but there’s no sign of anything unusual there; no one suddenly more prosperous or spending money they can’t account for; no gossip going on or anything like that. A reward’s been offered and no one has tried to claim it. If there’s been smuggling, I am pretty sure no one in the village knows anything about it. You must remember it’s a very small community indeed – not more than a score of families; all of them know each other’s business, and if one were in a smuggling game, all would be. But I think it’s certain that’s not the case, or somehow, somewhere, something suspicious would appear.”

  “Could Mr. Winterton, either the living brother or the dead one...?” Bobby asked.

  “It’s possible; it’s been considered,” the Major answered. “But is it conceivable that two well-to-do retired business men of the highest reputation would go in for smuggling on a big scale at their time of life? Well-to-do people smuggle like blazes, of course, when it’s a new silk frock for a woman, or when a man buys a new watch abroad and pretends he got it in London, or tries to slip a new camera past the customs house officer. But doing the thing on a big scale is rather different. No, I can’t think the explanation’s there. I’m inclined, for my part, to say that the motorboat and the attack on Jennings meant some undesirable slipping into the country – perhaps some refugee from Germany without money, but with friends here ready to shelter him. And Archibald’s death was probably purely accidental and George’s dream just crab salad, as Mrs. Cooper hinted.”

  “Who gets Archibald’s money? Was it much?” Mitchell asked.

  “Between forty and fifty thousand,” Markham answered. “It all goes to the widow and children except for a few small legacies. George Winterton and the Town and Country Bank are executors. There is one thing. I managed to get out of the bank people that Archibald, some time before his death, realised securities for a large sum – between ten and twelve thousand pounds.”

  “Nearly a quarter of his whole fortune,” Mitchell observed.

  “It was transferred to Holland.”

  “Where the sacks come from,” murmured Mitchell.

  “After Archibald’s death, the whole sum was repaid by George Winterton, by cheque. The explanation is that they had been speculating together in exchange – quite common nowadays – and Archibald’s death resulted in the transactions coming to an end, without, for that matter, either great loss or gain.”

  “I suppose, sir,” Bobby suggested, “it isn’t likely there had been quarrelling between the brothers over that? Or any possibility that George Winterton–?”

  “You mean there may have been big profits, and George murdered his brother to keep the profits for himself? I think, out of the question, on score of character and opportunity alike. The brothers were good friends; retired, respectable, well-to-do stockbrokers don’t turn into murderers. The evidence both of Mrs. Cooper and of her husband is conclusive that George was in bed and asleep at the time his brother was drowned. It happens that Cooper remembers that at six o’clock, when he got up, there was a strange cat – one from the village probably – on the sill of Mr. George Winterton’s window. It happened to be a black cat, and Mr. Winterton has the common superstition that black cats bring luck. This time it brought bad luck, which is partly why the incident made an impression on Cooper. At the time he hesitated whether to drive the cat away for fear of its wakening his master or leave it there as a bringer of good luck. Finally he tried to shoo it away, but it wouldn’t go, so he got a ladder and fetched it down, and in doing so saw his master in bed and asleep – the window open, as it always was. That was about six o’clock. At seven, as usual, he took in a cup of tea, and Mr. Winterton was still asleep. That’s a fairly complete alibi, if one were needed.”

  “Yes,” agreed Bobby thoughtfully. “Yes – ye-es.”

  “Thinks he sees something,” observed Mitchell. “Thinking it depends on Cooper’s testimony, and can he be trusted, eh?”

  “Oh, as for that, it’s confirmed by Mrs. Cooper,” Major Markham said. “She remembers the incident of the black cat perfectly, because of the bad luck it brought, instead of the supposed good luck. She says, too, that Mr. Winterton slept a little later than usual, most likely because he had been sitting up late with one of his crossword puzzles. He is a crossword ‘fan,’ as they call them now, you know. And,” added the Major, a little slowly, “I don’t think either Cooper or Mrs. Cooper would go out of their way to commit perjury for their employer’s sake. He – well, he has the name of being a little mean about money, and of always suspecting other people of trying to cheat him. He makes sure he gets value for every penny, watches the books carefully, and so on. It’s the same with them all. The gardener, for instance, has to account for all the fruit, and there’s no doubt Mr. and Mrs. Cooper rather resent it; in fact, all the staff do. Archibald was quite the opposite; rather free-handed.”

  “Not enough to make them want to murder him, I suppose,” Mitchell remarked. “I suppose that isn’t what’s making our gentleman nervous.” He turned to Bobby. “You’ve heard it all,” he said. “Your job now is to look like a summer visitor having a good time at a friend’s house by the sea, and meanwhile try to find out if Archibald Winterton’s death was accident or murder, to see that neither accident nor murder happens to George Winterton, to find out who tied up Constable Jennings, and why motor-boats sail into Suffby Cove and out again without saying by-your-leave to anyone, what it was they landed if they landed anything, and where it is now. And when you’ve been as long in the force as I have, you’ll learn that police wor
k is generally like that – making bricks without straw. You haven’t asked yet what sort of man Mr. George Winterton is, apart from being a retired stockbroker of the highest character, as all stockbrokers have to be, because if they get found out, then they aren’t stockbrokers any more.”

  “No, sir,” said Bobby. “I didn’t ask, because I understand I shall be seeing him soon.”

  “Wants to form his own judgments,” grunted Mitchell, “instead of taking them from his official superiors, as all good juniors do. Well, time we were all moving. Report every day, Owen, whether you’ve anything to say or not, and be careful to send your reports to the private address given you. Don’t want the local postman to spot there’s a letter going every day to the chief of the county police.”

  “No, sir; very good, sir,” said Bobby.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mr Shorton’s Threats

  After leaving Ye Olde Sunke Garden, Bobby rode quietly on his way, revolving in his mind the task that lay before him. On the whole he was inclined to think that Archibald Winterton’s death was really one of those bathing tragedies every holiday season records in such tragic numbers, and that little importance need be attached to his brother’s expressed suspicions. A formerly busy and active man, retiring suddenly from affairs, will sometimes let his mind play him strange tricks, as, missing its accustomed food, it seizes on any trifle in order to ascribe to it the significance in which life seems now so sadly wanting.

  So George Winterton, having nothing now to occupy his thoughts formerly occupied with daily business routine, and having tried to find sustenance for them in crossword puzzles and so on, had allowed them to dwell on his brother’s death till the tragedy appeared in heightened, exaggerated colours.