Detective White & Furneaux: 5 Novels in One Volume. Louis Tracy
at an empty decanter.
"My dim recollection of your port, Jack, is that it was a wine of many virtues and few vices," he mused aloud.
Grant took the hint, and went to a cellar. Returning, he found his crony poring over the book which, singularly enough, figured prominently on each occasion when the specter-producing window was markedly in evidence. Hart glanced up at his host, and nodded cheerfully at a dust-laden bottle.
"What is there in 'The Talisman' which needed so much research?" he asked.
"Some lines by Sir David Lindsay, quoted by Scott," was the answer.
"Are these they?" And Hart read:
One thing is certain in our Northern land;
Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit,
Give each precedence to their possessor,
Envy, that follows on such eminence,
As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck's trace,
Shall pull them down each one.
"Yes," said Grant.
"Love isn't mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You're in luck, my boy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. Gee whizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist. What is a lyme-hound?"
"'Lyme,' or 'leam,' is the old-time word for 'leash.'"
"Good!" said Hart. "That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in to dinner every day, Jack. He's a tonic!"
Furneaux, for some reason known only to himself, did not accompany Doris to the post office. Once they were across the bridge, and the broad village street, more green than roadway, was seen to be empty, he tapped her on the shoulder and said pleasantly:
"Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don't worry. The tangle will right itself in time."
"Poor Mr. Grant is suffering," she ventured to murmur.
"And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I'll wait here till you are behind a locked door."
"No one in Steynholme will hurt me," she said.
"You never can tell. I'm not taking any chances to-night, however."
So Doris sped swiftly up the hill. Arrived at her house, she waved a hand to the detective, who flourished his straw hat in response. A fine June night in England is never really dark, so the two could not only see each other but, when Doris disappeared, Furneaux, turning sharply on his heel, was able to make out the sudden straightening of a pucker in the blind of a ground-floor room in P. C. Robinson's abode.
The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window. Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"As if you didn't know," laughed Furneaux.
Robinson turned a key, and looked out.
"Oh, it's you, sir?" he cried.
"You'll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme," said the detective. "May I come in? No, don't show a light here. Let's chat in the back kitchen."
"I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir," began Robinson apologetically. "It's laid in the kitchen. On'y bread and cheese an' a glass of beer. Will you join me?"
"With pleasure, if I hadn't stuffed myself at Grant's place. Nice fellow, Grant. Pity you and he don't seem to get on together. Of course, we policemen cannot allow friendship to interfere with duty, but, between you and me, Robinson—strictly in confidence—Grant had no more to do with the actual murder of Miss Melhuish than either of us two."
Robinson had turned up a lamp, and hospitably installed Furneaux in his own easy-chair.
"The 'actual murder,' you said, sir?" he repeated.
"Yes. It was his presence at The Hollies which brought an infatuated woman there, and thus directly led to her death. That is all. Grant is telling the truth. I assure you, Robinson, I never allow myself to break bread with a man whom I may have to convict. So, I'll change my mind, and take a snack of your bread and cheese."
The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the implied tribute. What he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that his somewhat massive form was being twiddled round the detective's little finger.
"Right you are, sir," he cried cheerily. "But, if Mr. Grant didn't kill Miss Melhuish, who did!"
"In all probability, the man who wore that hat," chirped Furneaux, taking a nondescript bundle from a coat pocket, and throwing it on the table.
Robinson started. This June night was full of weird surprises. He set down a jug of beer with a bang—his intent being to fill two glasses already in position, from which circumstance even the least observant visitor might deduce a Mrs. Robinson, en negligé, hastily flown upstairs.
He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb.
"By gum!" he muttered. "Are these bullet-holes?"
"They are."
"An' is this what someone fired at?"
"Yes."
"But how in thunder—"
He checked himself in time. He did not want to admit that he had been watching the only recognized road to Grant's house all the evening.
"Quite so!" chortled Furneaux, with admirable misunderstanding. "You're quick on the trigger, Robinson—almost as quick as that friend of Grant's who arrived by the 5.30 from London. You perceive at once that no ordinary head could have worn that hat without having its hair combed by the same bullet. It was stuck on to a thick wig. Now, tell me the man, or woman, in Steynholme, who wears a wig and a hat like that, and you and I will guess who killed Miss Melhuish."
Robinson suspected that, as he himself would have put it, his leg was being pulled rather violently. Furneaux read his face like a printed page. Chewing, much against his will, a mouthful of bread and cheese, he mumbled in solemn, broken tones:
"Think—Robinson. Don't—answer—offhand. Has—anybody—ever worn—such things—in a play?"
Then the policeman was convinced, galvanized by memory, as it were.
"By gum!" he cried again. "Fred Elkin—in a charity performance last winter."
Furneaux choked with excitement.
"A horsey-looking chap, on to-day's jury," he gurgled.
"That's him!"
"The scoundrel!"
"No wonder he looked ill."
"No wonder, indeed. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!"
"But, sir—"
Robinson was flabbergasted. He could only murmur "Fred Elkin!" in a dazed way.
"Have a drink," said Furneaux sympathetically. "I'll wet my whistle, too. Only half a glass, please. Now, we mustn't jump to conclusions. This Elkin looks a villain, but may not be one. That is to say, his villainy may be confined to dealings in nags. But you see, Robinson, what a queer turn this affair is taking. We must get rid of preconceived notions. Superintendent Fowler and you and I will go into this matter thoroughly to-morrow. Meanwhile, breathe not a syllable to a living soul. If I were you, I'd let Mr. Grant understand that we regard him as rather outside the scope of our inquiry. This beer is very good for a country village. You know a good thing when you see it, I expect. Pity I don't smoke, or I'd join you in a pipe. I must get a move on, now, or that fat landlord will be locking me out. Good night! Yes. I'll take the hat. Good night!"
While walking up the hill Furneaux fanned himself with the straw hat.
"One small bit of my brain is evidently a hereditary bequest from a good-natured ass!" he communed. "Here am I, Furneaux, plagued beyond endurance