The Postmaster's Daughter Part 30

There were others far more perturbed by that odd conjunction of diners than the puzzled host, who merely expected Mrs. Bates to belabor him with a rolling pin. Mr. Siddle, for instance, had just closed his shop when the five met. That is to say, the dark blue blind was drawn, but the door was ajar. He came to the threshold, and watched the party until the bridge was neared, when one of them, looking back, might have seen him, so he stepped discreetly inside. Being a non-interfering, self-contained man, he seemed to be rather irresolute. But that condition pa.s.sed quickly. Leaning over the counter, he secured a hat and a pair of field-gla.s.ses, and went out. He, too, knew of Mrs. Jefferson's weakness for shopping in Knoleworth, and that good lady had gone there again. Her train was due in ten minutes. A wicket gate led to a narrow pa.s.sage communicating with the back door of her residence. He entered boldly, reached the garden, and hurried to the angle on the edge of the cliff next to the Martins' strip of ground.

Yes, a s.p.a.cious dinner-table was laid at The Hollies. Doris, Mr. Martin, and Peters soon strolled out on to the lawn. The pedestrians had obviously gone upstairs to wash after their tramp.

Mr. Siddle rather forgot himself. He stared so long and earnestly through the field-gla.s.ses that he ran full tilt into Mrs. Jefferson and maid before regaining the high-street. But the chemist was a ready man. He lifted his hat with an inquiring smile.

"Didn't you say you wanted some anti-arthritic salts early in the week?" he asked.

"Yes," said Mrs. Jefferson, "but I got some to-day in Knoleworth, thank you."

"Well, I was just making up an indent, and might as well include your specific if you really needed it."

Which was kind and thoughtful of Mr. Siddle, but not quite true, though it fully explained his presence at Mrs. Jefferson's gate.

Mr. Franklin, escorting a fragrant Havana up the hill (he had traveled by the same train) saw the meeting, and, being aware of Mrs. Jefferson's frugal habits, since Furneaux had omitted no item of his movements in Steynholme, remembered it later during the nightly gathering in the inn.

Elkin greeted Mr. Franklin respectfully when the great man joined the circle.

"Did you see anything worth while at Knoleworth, sir?" he said.

"No. I was unlucky. All the princ.i.p.als were at a race meeting."

"By gum! That's right. It's Gatwick today. Das.h.!.+ I might have saved you a journey."

"Oh, it doesn't matter. In my business there is no call for hurry."

Elkin looked around.

"Where's our friend, the 'tec?" he said.

"I think you're wrong about 'im, meanin' Mr. Peters," said Tomlin. "'E's 'ere for a noospaper, not for the Yard."

"That's his blarney," smirked Elkin. "A detective doesn't go about telling everybody what he is."

"Whatever his profession may be," put in Siddle's quiet voice, "I happen to know that he is dining with Mr. Grant. So are Mr. Martin and Doris. By mere chance I called at Mrs. Jefferson's. I went to the back door, and, finding it closed, looked into the garden. From there I couldn't help seeing the a.s.sembly on the lawn of The Hollies."

"Dining at Grant's?" shouted Elkin in a fury. "Well, I'm--"

"'Ush, Fred!" expostulated Tomlin with a shocked glance at Mr. Franklin.

"Wot's wrong wi' a bit of grub, ony ways? A very nice-spoken young gent kem 'ere twiced, an' axed for Mr. Peters the second time. He's a friend o' Mr. Grant's, I reckon."

"What's wrong?" stormed the horse-dealer. "Why, everything's wrong! The bounder ought to be in jail instead of giving dinner-parties. Imagine Doris eating in that house!"

"Ay! Sweetbreads an' saddle o' lamb," interjected Hobbs with the air of one imparting a secret.

Elkin was pallid with wrath. He glared at Hobbs.

"What I had in my mind was the impudence of the blighter," he said shrilly. "That poor woman's body leaves here to-morrow for some cemetery in London, and Grant invites folk to a small dinner to-night!"

A sort of awe fell on the company. None of the others had as yet put the two events in juxtaposition, and they had an ugly sound. Even Mr. Siddle stifled a protest. Elkin had scored a hit, a palpable hit, and no one could gainsay him. He felt that, for once, the general opinion was with him, and drove the point home.

"Hobson--the local joiner and undertaker"--he explained for Mr.

Franklin's benefit--"came this morning to borrow a couple of horses for the job. It's to be done in style--'no expense spared' was Mr. Ingerman's order--and the poor thing is in her coffin now while Grant--"

He stopped. Mr. Siddle coughed.

"You've said enough, Elkin," murmured the chemist. "This excitement is harmful. You really ought to be in bed for the next forty-eight hours, dieting yourself carefully, and taking Dr. Foxton's mixture regularly. He has changed it, I noticed."

"Bed! Me! Not likely. I'm going to kick up a row. What are the police doing? A set of blooming old women, that's what they are. But I'll stir 'em up, if I have to write to the Home Secretary."

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Franklin, smiling genially, "I cannot help taking a certain interest in this affair. May I, then, as a complete stranger to all concerned, tell you how this minor episode strikes me. Mr. Grant, I understand, denies having seen or spoken to Miss Melhuish during the past three years. None of the others now in his house had met her at all.

Really, if a man may not give a dinnerparty in these conditions, dining-out would become a lost art."

Elkin was obviously seeking for some retort which, though forcible, would not offend a possible patron. But Siddle answered far more deftly than might be looked for from the horse-dealer.

"Your contention, sir, is just what the man of the world would hold," he said, "but, in this village, where we live on neighborly terms, such an incident would be impossible in almost any other house than The Hollies."

Mr. Franklin nodded. He was convinced. Tomlin, Hobbs, and a local draper bore out the chemist's reasonable theory. Next morning Steynholme was again united in condemning Grant, while the postmaster and his daughter were not wholly exempted from criticism.

The dinner itself was an altogether harmless and cheery meal. By common consent not one word was said about the murder. Hart was amusing on the question of bees--almost flippant, Mr. Martin deemed him. Peters had a wide store of strange experiences to draw on, while Grant, if rather silent in deference to two such brilliant talkers, found much satisfaction in regarding Doris as a hostess.

The next day being Sat.u.r.day, or market day, the village was busy. At eleven o'clock there was a somewhat unnecessary display of nodding plumes and long-tailed black horses at the removal of the coffin to the railway station. For some reason, the funeral arrangements had not been bruited about until Elkin made that envenomed attack on Grant in the Hare and Hounds the previous night. Ingerman had sent a gorgeous wreath, the only one forthcoming locally. This fact, of course, invited comment, though no whisperer in the crowd troubled to add that the interment was only announced in that day's newspapers.

Peters, meeting Mr. Franklin on the stairs of the inn, put a note into his hand. It read:

"Why don't you have a chat with Grant? The public mind is being inflamed against him. It's hardly fair."

Mr. Franklin, meeting Peters in the pa.s.sage, winked at him, and the journalist tortured his brains to turn out some readable stuff which should grip the million on Sunday yet not to be damaging to the man whose hospitality he enjoyed over night.

In a word, the pa.s.sing of Adelaide Melhuish was exploited thoroughly as an indictment of her one-time lover, and the only two in Steynholme not aware of the fact were Grant, himself, and Wally Hart.

By a singular coincidence, not ridiculously beyond the ken of a verger, when Doris went to church on Sunday morning, she found herself beside Mr. Franklin.

At the close of the service the same big man whom she had noticed as a neighbor in the pew overtook her at the post office door. He lifted his hat. A pa.s.ser-by heard him say distinctly:

"Pardon me for troubling you, but can you tell me at what time the mail closes for London?"

"At four-thirty," said Doris.

No other person overheard Mr. Franklin's next words:

"I am now going to drop a letter in the box. It's for you. Get it at once. It is of the utmost importance."

Doris was startled, as well she might be. But--she went straight for the letter. It was marked: "Private and Urgent," and ran:

DEAR MISS MARTIN. I am here _vice_ Mr. Furneaux, who is engaged on other phases of the same inquiry. My business is absolutely unknown. I figure at the inn as "Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina." Indeed, Mr. Furneaux left the village because he realized the difficulties facing him in that respect.

Now, I trust you, and I hope you will justify my faith. You know Superintendent Fowler. I want you to meet me and him this afternoon at two o'clock at the crossroads beyond the mill. A closed car will be in waiting, and we can have half an hour's talk without anyone in Steynholme being the wiser. Remember that this village, like the night, has a thousand eyes. Naturally, I would not trouble you in this way if the cause was not vital to the ends of justice. Whether or not you decide to keep this appointment, I have every confidence that you will respect my wish that _no one_, other than yourself, shall be informed of my ident.i.ty. But I believe you will be wise, and come.

I am,