Comes a Stranger Read online

  CHAPTER VIII

  POINTS OF INTEREST—A TO K

  The search failed, nor was it long before Bobby found that he was meeting with failure, too, in his efforts to keep up the interest and the enthusiasm of his voluntary helpers. His idea of a search was to cover the whole ground, inch by inch, each searcher assigned a definite area as his own responsibility. These farm labourers’ idea of a search was to plunge about here and there in what looked likely spots and then give up. But the police never give up. Their job is simply to make sure, success or failure being merely incidental. Then again, as was pointed out to Bobby with much force by more than one of his helpers, they had their work to do next day. Mr. Chapman would expect them all to be at their jobs as usual in the morning and anyhow what was the good of messing about in the dark any longer?

  One by one therefore his volunteers, the first flush of excitement and interest over, slipped away. Bobby had indeed been deserted by almost all of them when presently a message came from Major Harley, summoning him back to the farm. Glad to abandon a task that was plainly beyond one man’s capacity, Bobby returned accordingly, and found the Major waiting by his car.

  “They’ve been giving you the slip, haven’t they?” he said as Bobby came up. “Not much good trying to do anything more to-night, anyway. We must wait till morning. Lot to do then. I’ve been fixing things up. You had better come back with me and we can have a talk. Mills has been telling me a queer sort of yarn about some young American—can’t make head or tail of it myself.”

  Bobby obediently took his seat in the car and they started. When they reached his home, the Major left the car standing outside the front door with the remark that now the rain had cleared off and it looked like remaining fine, he wouldn’t bother about opening the garage.

  “Want the car again soon enough,” he said as he led Bobby into the house and across the hall to a small room he used as his office when at home. There was a tray with sandwiches, whisky and soda, and coffee in a vacuum flask, waiting for them, and they were both glad of the refreshment. Seating himself comfortably and waving Bobby to another chair, he said:

  “Now, then, what’s all this about a dead body seen in the Kayne library?”

  Bobby repeated the story in careful detail, and the chief constable listened with close attention.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked when Bobby ceased.

  “It seems incredible in itself, and equally incredible that anyone should invent such a story,” Bobby answered slowly. “I haven’t got beyond that as yet, sir. Immovable object and irresistible force problem. Mr. Virtue seemed very strong on wanting to search the whole library. I thought that seemed quite genuine. I suppose Mr. Broast would consent?”

  “He’s very touchy about that blessed library of his,” observed the Major, a little doubtfully. “There’s no confirmation of Virtue’s story, and there seems evidence it can’t be true in the fact that there’s no artificial lighting. And if Broast says he closed the shutters as usual—well, how could anyone see anything, dead body or living man or anything else?”

  “Yes sir, quite so, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I should be inclined in a way myself to wipe it out. Of course, Virtue can be questioned again. We hadn’t much time to ask him anything. Only there is one thing. Mills says the description Virtue gave of the dead body he claims he saw is just like a photograph in Miss Perkins’s possession.”

  “I know,” said the Major. “Mills told me. Very odd. I don’t see how it can be a mere coincidence.”

  “No, sir, I think coincidence can be ruled out. The left ear peculiarity is decisive.”

  “How about this for an idea?” the chief constable asked. “Virtue killed Nat Kayne and then reported this yarn to Mills to prove an alibi. How about time and distance?”

  “The murder was at ten o’clock, according to Len Hill, at least, that’s when he says he heard shots,” Bobby answered. “It must be about two miles from where it was committed to the village. Mills says Virtue turned up at about a quarter past ten. Virtue is a good runner, I saw that. It would be possible. He wasn’t out of breath at all when I saw him, but it’s down hill and he could cover the two miles in ten minutes or so and have a minute or two to get his breath again. It’s possible but only just. He might have had a bicycle.”

  “Check that up,” said the Major. “Someone may have seen him—heard him if he ran the whole way.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “But there’s this again. It’s doubtful if he had ever even seen Nat Kayne. There seems no motive at present. He has only been in England three months I think he said. And I don’t think Nat Kayne had ever been in America. That applies to Miss Perkins also, I imagine. I should suggest as a starting point investigating the apparent connection between Miss Perkins’s photograph and the description given by Mr. Virtue.”

  The chief constable nodded and made a note.

  “Looks as if they might be confederates. Very valuable stuff in the Kayne library. May have been after it. Broast is always nervous about burglary attempts. Anyhow, there’s Starting Point A.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I thought of that, too, only it does seem going a long way round, if it was all a put up job to get a chance to do a spot of burglary. Complicated.”

  “If it’s Virtue and Miss Perkins working together,” the Major pointed out, “they’re amateurs, and amateurs are like that—complicated. Try to be clever. You say Virtue pressed for an immediate search. He may have reckoned that would give him his chance. Broast was out, wasn’t he? Chance for Virtue to slip something in his pocket while you and Mills were searching—something like these Mandeville pages, that are worth money.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, “only if it’s that way, why did he draw attention to Miss Perkins, if they were working together, by describing a photograph of the man she’s engaged to? Mills says she started showing it round as soon as she got her job at the library. He says some of the women didn’t believe her—she’s never worn an engagement ring. They seem to think she invented it to show off.”

  “Might be that,” agreed the Major, who liked to keep up-to-date with all the newest theories. “Repressed sex instinct. Knew she wasn’t attractive to men and wanted to make other people think she was. I’ve known instances. It’s all in Freud. He knows. Well, call that Starting Point B.—why did she show the photo round the village?”

  He made another note and Bobby went on.

  “There’s another thing I don’t understand. I mean Miss Kayne’s attitude. The Kayne library is famous all over the world pretty well. It’s extremely valuable—fame and fortune in one for its owner. And yet she gives me the impression—well, it’s almost as if she hated the place. I’ve seen her look at it just as you imagine an old Hebrew prophet might have looked at an image of Baal.”

  “I expect it’s a little like that,” the Major said, “the false god to whom her father sacrificed. He spent all his money on it. Her life, too; that was sacrificed as well. She never had any youth No social life. No friends. The library and nothing else.”

  “Wasn’t she engaged or nearly engaged at one time?” Bobby asked.

  “Goodness, no, never any man in her life,” the Major answered. “I doubt if she ever saw anyone in trousers except old professors and bookworms—and the villagers of course. It was all her father and his books.”

  “But if she hated—”

  “Oh, that was only afterwards, after his death. That left a big gap in her life, and I suppose she began to feel then how much she had given up, and all for nothing, now she had lost interest in the library when her father had gone.”

  “I see, sir,” said Bobby and hesitated, remembering what Olive had told him. But there seemed no object in repeating a story that could have nothing to do with recent happenings and that, although it had not been told under any pledge of secrecy, was still a matter of purely private interest. Probably neither Miss Kayne nor Olive would wish it repeated unless for good reason. He said: “I und
erstand all the money old Mr. Kayne spent on the library he made out of it, that his discoveries and dealings made it self-supporting?”

  “Oh, he used his private means as well, every penny almost,” the Major answered.

  “Did Miss Kayne ever object or grumble?”

  “Not while he was alive,” the Major answered. “In fact, I never heard of her grumbling about the financial side. I don’t see how she could. There’s a fortune there, and the Courts would certainly give permission for a sale if she pressed for it. She just seemed to lose interest, that’s all. Natural enough.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “Though I should like to call that Point C.—why Miss Kayne’s attitude to the library changed.”

  “Oh, all right,” said the Major and made a note though without much conviction—Bobby suspected he put a note of interrogation against it.

  “There is one point I think I ought to mention,” Bobby went on. “Miss Kayne told me this afternoon she was interested in my being a C.I.D. man because once she had committed a murder.”

  “Eh?” said the Major, startled. “What’s that?”

  “The perfect murder, she called it,” Bobby added.

  “Nonsense,” said the Major.

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I thought it was a kind of joke at the time. I didn’t pay it any attention. Some people like to joke about my job. Only now—well, now this has happened it seems a coincidence. I don’t like coincidences.” He hesitated, remembering once more what Olive had told him of the love passage in Miss Kayne’s life and her tale of the buried love letters and poems which had reminded him so much of the strange Rossetti affair. Perhaps it was reading about that had suggested the notion to Miss Kayne. Another queer thing was the damage done to the portrait of Miss Kayne hanging in the dining-room. But it was always wiser to avoid cluttering up the consideration of a case by bringing into it the non-essential. He would bear the two things in mind, he decided. If the course of events in the future seemed to make it desirable to do so, he would mention them. “All the same, sir, I think we ought to call it Point D.,” he added. “I mean, Miss Kayne’s saying that.”

  The Major was looking grave. He seemed to attach as much importance to this point as to anything Bobby had said so far. He made a note accordingly.

  “You think,” he said, “it suggests some sort of uneasiness—anticipation? It might. Don’t like it. She’s not a woman to make jokes as a rule. Only there’s no possible motive why she should want Nat Kayne out of the way. He made no difference to her about the library, one way or the other, and there’s never been any ill-feeling between them.”

  “No, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I’m told there was disagreement between Mr. Broast and Nat Kayne. When I was being shown over the library this afternoon I couldn’t help seeing what looked very much like a quarrel between him and Sir William Winders and Mr. Broast. Kayne went off in what looked like a very bad temper.”

  The major nodded and looked grave again.

  “Call that Point E.,” he said. “Very important. Everyone knew there was bad feeling. Perhaps that’s what Miss Kayne was hinting at. Nat Kayne wanted the library sold and that meant Broast out of a job—out of control of the library anyhow, a little like trying to get the baby away from its mother.”

  “I understand Mr. Broast was out at the time of the murder,” Bobby said.

  “I believe he always took a stroll late at night,” the Major remarked. “As it happens I’ve met him once or twice when I’ve been prowling around on some job or another. He had an idea a walk before bed made him sleep better. He told me once a good brisk walk, wet or fine, was his cure for sleeping badly. After dinner he went to his own room—he lived at the Lodge, you know—attended to his letters. He used to speak them into a Dictaphone for the Perkins girl to type next day. When he had finished he went for a walk, so it was quite usual for him to be out at that time.”

  “I had forgotten one thing,” Bobby said. “I remember now Miss Perkins came in with a message for him that Sir William was driving over to see him that evening—I rather thought at the time perhaps it was about the quarrel there had been with Mr. Nat Kayne.”

  “Hum,” said the Major. “Sir William, eh? Does he come into it, too? Perhaps they can alibi each other. Anyhow, that’s Point F., eh?

  “Yes, sir. Point G., I think,” suggested Bobby, “might be finding out what caused the quarrel I saw. Kayne looked murderous enough as he went off, and if he felt like that, perhaps the others did as well—either Mr. Broast or Sir William.”

  “Sir William, Sir William,” muttered the Major uneasily. “I can’t think—very influential, very leading family and all that. Of course he must be asked. Point G. then—yes, Point G., undoubtedly.”

  “Point H.,” continued Bobby, “might be where was Sir William at the time of the murder, and whether he heard the shots.”

  “Point H.,” agreed the Major gloomily. “His family have been settled here since—oh, since the Conquest pretty well. Oh, yes, point H., undoubtedly. Of course, Sir William is one of the library trustees, but he didn’t want to sell. He’s almost as cracked on books as Broast—used to be a great friend of old Mr. Kayne’s when they weren’t trying to do the dirty on each other over some dog-eared old volume you would have expected to get for twopence. But they were great friends when they weren’t at each other’s throats.”

  “Queer business, this book collecting,” Bobby said thoughtfully.

  “It is,” agreed the Major with conviction. “Do you want that put down as Point I.?”

  “Well, sir, I thought myself Point I. might be checking up on Mr. Adams. But we can call that Point K.”

  “Who is Mr. Adams?” demanded the chief constable. “Haven’t heard of him before. Where does he come in?”

  “He is stopping at the pub here,” Bobby explained. “He says he is interested in bibliography and wanted to examine the Mandeville pages. Mr. Broast wouldn’t let him see them, and there was a row. Then this evening, early, Mr. Broast told me he had seen someone hanging about the library, in the Lodge grounds, just before it got dark. He thought it was Adams. Adams claims to be a professor at the University of Nebraska. Broast says he doesn’t believe it, he seems to suspect Adams of wanting to steal the Mandeville pages. I suppose they are valuable?”

  “Broast calls them priceless,” the Major agreed. “Difficult to dispose of, though. What started the trouble with the Nebraska gentleman?”

  “Just that Mr. Broast wasn’t satisfied with his credentials. I must say Mr. Adams doesn’t look like a burglar to me.”

  “Point K. all right all the same,” declared the Major; “that is, of course, if it does turn out he’s not what he says and the Nebraska people don’t know him. We’ll cable them and see what they have to say. Of course, if they’re prepared to vouch for him—” The Major paused and looked worried. “Where’s all this link up with the murder of poor young Kayne?” he demanded. “Does Broast think Adams was employed by Kayne to burgle the Mandeville leaves and they quarrelled or anything like that? Or what has he got in his mind?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Bobby answered. “I haven’t seen Mr. Broast since quite early this evening.” He paused and added in tones he made as colourless as he could: “I think I mentioned before that Mr. Broast was apparently out at the time of the murder.”

  “Oh yes, yes, so you did,” agreed the Major and looked thoughtful.

  Bobby said:

  “Am I right, sir, in thinking Mr. Broast has a revolver? I suppose, if that’s so, the number and make will be in the firearms register?”

  “And all that, I suppose,” sighed the Major, “will be point L. I’ll look up particulars about Broast’s revolver in the morning.” He got to his feet. “Look at the time,” he said, “and we must make an early start. Breakfast at seven. I rang them up from Chapman’s to tell them, and to have a bed ready for you. You had better turn in now and get what sleep you can. Even a couple of hours is better than none.”
/>   CHAPTER IX

  POINT M, TOO

  Scanty sleep and hurried breakfast brought Major Harley and Bobby to Mrs. Somerville’s house so early next morning that Miss Perkins was not yet visible.

  Mrs. Somerville, however, was bustling about in a very excited state, divided between the necessary morning tasks and sudden darts to the door in the hope that someone would appear who really knew what had actually happened the night before. Early as it was, rumours were already abroad, the only point on which they agreed being that a dead body had been found in the sunk lane through the wood. Mrs. Somerville’s interest was the greater in that she herself had been out the night before and had actually passed by the spot where the lane entered the wood.

  “So it might have been me as like as not,” she pointed out, a trifle tremulously, “and never shall I get over it, never.”

  “What time was this?” Bobby asked, wondering if she, too, had heard the shots.

  But it appeared that she had reached home almost exactly at ten. She was quite sure of the hour, because Miss Perkins had been sitting up waiting for her, busy sewing and listening to the wireless. Miss Perkins, a little peeved perhaps at being kept up beyond her usual bed time, had switched off the wireless the moment she heard Mrs. Somerville returning, made some remark about the late hour—she was generally in bed by ten or soon after apparently—and had gone straight up to her room where Bobby remembered he and Mills had seen her sitting at the window, smoking a final cigarette presumably, when they passed by in their car on the way to Longmeadow farm. As ten was the hour at which Len Hill heard the shots, it was evident Mrs. Somerville had been indoors at the time of the murder. Seeing Bobby glance first at the clock and then at his wrist watch, she remarked that her clock was always right because they set it each day by the wireless signal, though indeed it was the wireless programme itself by which they went in that house almost as much as by the clock. They knew what was on, what coming on, when it began, when it ended, indeed it appeared as if she personally regulated her whole life by wireless. And she remained convinced that last night she had had the narrowest possible escape.