CHAPTER VI
THE MAYOR
Here, then, thought Brereton, was Gentleman Jack's daughter--the girl ofwhom Bent had just been telling him. He looked at her narrowly as shestood confronting the strange group. A self-possessed young woman, hesaid to himself--beyond a little heightening of colour, a littlequestioning look about eyes and lips she showed no trace of unduesurprise or fear. Decidedly a good-looking young woman, too, and not atall the sort of daughter that a man of queer character would be supposedto have--refined features, an air of breeding, a suggestion of culture.And he noticed that as he and Bent raised their hats, the two policementouched their helmets--they were evidently well acquainted with thegirl, and eyed her with some misgiving as well as respect.
"Beg pardon, miss," said the sergeant, who was obviously anything butpleased with his task. "But it's like this, d'you see?--your father,now, does he happen to be at home?"
"What is it you want?" she asked. And beginning a glance of inquiry atthe sergeant she finished it at Bent. "Has something happened, Mr.Bent?" she went on. "If you want my father, and he's not in, then Idon't know where he is--he went out early in the evening, and he hadn'treturned when I left the house an hour ago."
"I daresay it's nothing," replied Bent. "But the fact is that somethinghas happened. Your neighbour at the other end of the wood--old Mr.Kitely, you know--he's been found dead."
Brereton, closely watching the girl, saw that this conveyed nothing toher, beyond the mere announcement. She moved towards the door of thecottage, taking a key from her muff.
"Yes?" she said. "And--I suppose you want my father to help? He may bein--he may have gone to bed."
She unlocked the door, walked into the open living-room, and turning upa lamp which stood on the table, glanced around her.
"No," she continued. "He's not come in--so----"
"Better tell her, Mr. Bent," whispered the sergeant. "No use keeping itback, sir--she'll have to know."
"The fact is," said Bent, "Mr. Kitely--we're afraid--has been murdered."
The girl turned sharply at that; her eyes dilated, and a brighter tingeof colour came into her cheeks.
"Murdered!" she exclaimed. "Shot?"
Her eyes went past Bent to a corner of the room, and Brereton, followingthem, saw that there stood a gun, placed amongst a pile of fishing-rodsand similar sporting implements. Her glance rested on it for only thefraction of a second; then it went back to Bent's face.
"I'd better tell you everything," said Bent quietly. "Mr. Kitely hasbeen strangled. And the piece of cord with which it was done is--so thepolice here say--just such a piece as might have been cut off one of thecords which your father uses in his trade, you know."
"We aren't suggesting aught, you know, Miss Avice," remarked thesergeant. "Don't go for to think that--at present. But, you see,Harborough, he might have one o' those cords hanging about somewhere,and--do you understand?"
The girl had become very quiet, looking steadily from one man to theother. Once more her eyes settled on Bent.
"Do you know why Kitely was killed?" she asked suddenly. "Have you seenany reason for it?"
"He had been robbed, after his death," answered Bent. "That seemsabsolutely certain."
"Whatever you may say, you've got some suspicion about my father," sheremarked after a pause. "Well--all I can say is, my father has no needto rob anybody--far from it, if you want the truth. But what do youwant?" she continued, a little impatiently. "My father isn't in, and Idon't know where he is--often he is out all night."
"If we could just look round his shed, now?" said the sergeant. "Just tosee if aught's missing, like, you know. You see, miss----"
"You can look round the shed--and round anywhere else," said Avice."Though what good that will do--well, you know where the shed is."
She turned away and began taking off her hat and coat, and the four menwent out into the garden and turned to the lean-to shed at the end ofthe cottage. A tiled verandah ran along the front of cottage and shed,and the door of the shed was at its further end. But as the sergeant wasabout to open it, the policeman of the observant nature made his thirddiscovery. He had been flashing the light of his bull's-eye lamp overhis surroundings, and he now turned it on a coil of rope which hung froma nail in the boarded wall of the shed, between the door and the window.
"There you are, gentlemen!" he said, lifting the lamp in one hand andpointing triumphantly to a definite point of the coiled cord with theindex finger of the other. "There! Cut clean, too--just like the bit upyonder!"
Brereton pressed forward and looked narrowly at what the man wasindicating. There was no doubt that a length of cord had been freshlycut off the coil, and cut, too, with an unusually sharp, keen-bladedknife; the edges of the severance were clean and distinct, the separatedstrands were fresh and unsoiled. It was obvious that a piece of thatcord had been cut from the rest within a very short time, and thesergeant shook his head gravely as he took the coil down from its nail.
"I don't think there's any need to look round much further, Mr. Bent,"he said. "Of course, I shall take this away with me, and compare it withthe shorter piece. But we'll just peep into this shed, so as to makehis daughter believe that was what we wanted: I don't want to frightenher more than we have done. Naught there, you see," he went on, openingthe shed door and revealing a whitewashed interior furnished withfittings and articles of its owner's trade. "Well, we'll away--with whatwe've got."
He went back to the door of the cottage and putting his head insidecalled gently to its occupant.
"Well?" demanded Avice.
"All right, miss--we're going," said the sergeant. "But if your fathercomes in, just ask him to step down to the police-station, d'you see?--Ishould like to have a word or two with him."
The girl made no answer to this gentle request, and when the sergeanthad joined the others, she shut the door of the cottage, and Breretonheard it locked and bolted.
"That's about the strangest thing of all!" he said as he and Bent leftthe policemen and turned down a by-lane which led towards the town. "Ihaven't a doubt that the piece of cord with which Kitely was strangledwas cut off that coil! Now what does it mean? Of course, to me it's thevery surest proof that this man Harborough had nothing to do with themurder."
"Why?" asked Bent.
"Why? My dear fellow!" exclaimed Brereton. "Do you really think that anyman who was in possession of his senses would do such a thing? Take apiece of cord from a coil--leave the coil where anybody could findit--strangle a man with the severed piece and leave it round thevictim's neck? Absurd! No--a thousand times no!"
"Well--and what then?" asked Bent.
"Ah! Somebody cut that piece off--for the use it was put to," answeredBrereton. "But--who?"
Bent made no reply for a while. Then, as they reached the outskirts ofthe town, he clapped a hand on his companion's arm.
"You're forgetting something--in spite of your legal mind," he said."The murderer may have been interrupted before he could remove it. Andin that case----"
He stopped suddenly as a gate opened in the wall of a garden which theywere just passing, and a tall man emerged. In the light of the adjacentlamp Bent recognized Mallalieu. Mallalieu, too, recognized him, andstopped.
"Oh, that you, Mr. Mayor!" exclaimed Bent. "I was just wondering whetherto drop in on you as I passed. Have you heard what's happened tonight?"
"Heard naught," replied Mallalieu. "I've just been having a hand atwhist with Councillor Northrop and his wife and daughter. What hashappened, then?"
They were all three walking towards the town by that time, and Bentslipped between Brereton and Mallalieu and took the Mayor's arm.
"Murder's happened," he said. "That's the plain truth of it. You knowold Kitely--your partner's tenant? Well, somebody's killed him."
The effect of this announcement on Mallalieu was extraordinary. Bentfelt the arm into which he had just slipped his own literally quiverwith a spasmodic response to the astonished brain; the pipe whichMall
alieu was smoking fell from his lips; out of his lips came somethingvery like a cry of dismay.
"God bless me!" he exclaimed. "You don't say so?"
"It's a fact," said Bent. He stopped and picked up the fallen pipe."Sorry I let it out so clumsily--I didn't think it would affect you likethat. But there it is--Kitely's been murdered. Strangled!"
"Strangled!" echoed Mallalieu. "Dear--dear--dear! When was this, now?"
"Within the hour," replied Bent. "Mr. Brereton here--a friend of minefrom London--and I were spending the evening at your partner's, whenthat neighbour of his, Garthwaite, came running in to tell Mr.Cotherstone that Kitely was lying dead on the Shawl. Of course we allwent up."
"Then--you've seen him?" demanded Mallalieu. "There's no doubt aboutit?"
"Doubt!" exclaimed Bent. "I should think there is no doubt! Asdetermined a murder as ever I heard of. No--there's no doubt."
Mallalieu paused--at the gate of his own house.
"Come in, gentlemen," he said. "Come in just a minute, anyway. I--egadit's struck me all of a heap, has that news! Murder?--there hasn't beensuch a thing in these parts ever since I came here, near thirty yearsago. Come in and tell me a bit more about it."
He led the way up a gravelled drive, admitted himself and his visitorsto the house with a latchkey, and turned into a parlour where a fireburned and a small supper-tray was set out on a table beneath a lamp.
"All my folks'll have gone to bed," he said. "They go and leave me abite of something, you see--I'm often out late. Will you gentlemen havea sandwich--or a dry biscuit? Well, you'll have a drink, then. And so,"he went on, as he produced glasses from the sideboard, "and so you werespending the evening with Cotherstone, what?"
"Well, I can't say that we exactly spent all the evening with him,"answered Bent, "because he had to go out for a good part of it, onbusiness. But we were with him--we were at his house--when the newscame."
"Aye, he had to go out, had he?" asked Mallalieu, as if from merecuriosity. "What time would that be, like? I knew he'd businesstonight--business of ours."
"Nine to ten, roughly speaking," replied Bent. "He'd just got in whenGarthwaite came with the news."
"It 'ud shock him, of course," suggested Mallalieu. "His own tenant!"
"Yes--it was a shock," agreed Bent. He took the glass which his hosthanded to him and sat down. "We'd better tell you all about it," hesaid. "It's a queer affair--Mr. Brereton here, who's a barrister, thinksit's a very queer affair."
Mallalieu nodded and sat down, too, glass in hand. He listenedattentively--and Brereton watched him while he listened. A sleek, sly,observant, watchful man, this, said Brereton to himself--the sort thatwould take all in and give little out. And he waited expectantly to hearwhat Mallalieu would say when he had heard everything.
Mallalieu turned to him when Bent had finished.
"I agree with you, sir," he said. "Nobody but a fool would have cut thatpiece of cord off, left it round the man's neck, and left the coilhanging where anybody could find it. And that man Harborough's no fool!This isn't his job, Bent. No!"
"Whose, then?" asked Bent.
Mallalieu suddenly drank off the contents of his glass and rose.
"As I'm chief magistrate, I'd better go down to see the police," hesaid. "There's been a queer character or two hanging about the town oflate. I'd better stir 'em up. You won't come down, I suppose?" hecontinued when they left the house together.
"No--we can do no good," answered Bent.
His own house was just across the road from Mallalieu's, and he andBrereton said goodnight and turned towards it as the Mayor strodequickly off in the direction of the police-station.