MAX CARRADOS MYSTERIES - Complete Series in One Volume. Bramah Ernest
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silence. The girl turned away her head.
“I am afraid that I am a little disappointed,” she murmured.
“Perhaps better now than later. I wished to warn you that we must prove every inch of ground. Does your cousin Frank smoke cigarettes?”
“I cannot say, Mr Carrados. You see … I knew so little of him.”
“Quite so; there was just the chance. And your father?”
“He never did. He despised them.”
“That is all I need ask you now. What time to-morrow shall I find you in, Miss Whitmarsh? It is Sunday, you remember.”
“At any time. The curiosity I inspire doesn’t tempt me to encounter my friends, I can assure you,” she replied, her face hardening at the recollection. “But … Mr Carrados——”
“Yes?”
“The inquest is on Monday afternoon…. I had a sort of desperate faith that you would be able to vindicate papa.”
“By the time of the inquest, you mean?”
“Yes. Otherwise——”
“The verdict of a coroner’s jury means nothing, Miss Whitmarsh. It is the merest formality.”
“It means a very great deal to me. It haunts and oppresses me. If they say—if it goes out—that papa is guilty of the attempt of murder, and of suicide, I shall never raise my head again.”
Carrados had no desire to prolong a futile discussion.
“Good-night,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Good-night, Mr Carrados.” She detained him a moment, her voice vibrant with quiet feeling. “I already owe you more than I can ever hope to express. Your wonderful kindness——”
“A strange case,” moralized Carrados, as they walked out of the quadrangular yard into the silent lane. “Instructive, but I more than half wish I’d never heard of it.”
“The young lady seems grateful, sir,” Parkinson ventured to suggest.
“The young lady is the case, Parkinson,” replied his master rather grimly.
A few score yards farther on a swing gate gave access to a field-path, cutting off the corner that the high road made with the narrow lane. This was their way, but instead of following the brown line of trodden earth Carrados turned to the left and indicated the line of buildings that formed the back of one side of the quadrangle they had passed through.
“We will investigate here,” he said. “Can you see a way in?”
Most of the buildings opened on to the yard, but at one end of the range Parkinson discovered a door, secured only by a wooden latch. The place beyond was impenetrably dark, but the sweet, dusty smell of hay, and, from beyond, the occasional click of a horse’s shoe on stone and the rattle of a head-stall chain through the manger ring told them that they were in the chaff-pen at the back of the stable.
Carrados stretched out his hand and touched the wall with a single finger.
“We need go no farther,” he remarked, and as they resumed their way across the field he took out a handkerchief to wipe the taste of whitewash off his tongue.
Madeline had spoken of the gradual decay of High Barn, but Carrados was hardly prepared for the poverty-stricken desolation which Parkinson described as they approached the homestead on the following afternoon. He had purposely selected a way that took them across many of young Whitmarsh’s ill-stocked fields, fields in which sedge and charlock wrote an indictment of neglected drains and half-hearted tillage. On the land, the gates and hedges had been broken and unkempt; the buildings, as they passed through the farmyard, were empty and showed here and there a skeletonry of bare rafters to the sky.
“Starved,” commented the blind man, as he read the signs. “The thirsty owner and the hungry land: they couldn’t both be fed.”
Although it was afternoon the bolts and locks of the front door had to be unfastened in answer to their knock. When at last the door was opened a shrivelled little old woman, rather wicked-looking in a comic way, and rather begrimed, stood there.
“Mr Frank Whitmarsh?” she replied to Carrados’s polite inquiry; “oh yes, he lives here. Frank,” she called down the passage, “you’re wanted.”
“What is it, mother?” responded a man’s full, strong voice rather lazily.
“Come and see!” and the old creature ogled Carrados with her beady eyes as though the situation constituted an excellent joke between them.
There was the sound of a chair being moved and at the end of the passage a tall man appeared in his shirt sleeves.
“I am a stranger to you,” explained Carrados, “but I am staying at the Bridge Inn and I heard of your wonderful escape on Thursday. I was so interested that I have taken the liberty of coming across to congratulate you on it.”
“Oh, come in, come in,” said Whitmarsh. “Yes … it was a sort of miracle, wasn’t it?”
He led the way back into the room he had come from, half kitchen, half parlour. It at least had the virtue of an air of rude comfort, and some of the pewter and china that ornamented its mantelpiece and dresser would have rejoiced a collector’s heart.
“You find us a bit rough,” apologized the young man, with something of contempt towards his surroundings. “We weren’t expecting visitors.”
“And I was hesitating to come because I thought that you would be surrounded by your friends.”
This very ordinary remark seemed to afford Mrs Whitmarsh unbounded entertainment and for quite a number of seconds she was convulsed with silent amusement at the idea.
“Shut up, mother,” said her dutiful son. “Don’t take any notice of her,” he remarked to his visitors, “she often goes on like that. The fact is,” he added, “we Whitmarshes aren’t popular in these parts. Of course that doesn’t trouble me; I’ve seen too much of things. And, taken as a boiling, the Whitmarshes deserve it.”
“Ah, wait till you touch the coal, my boy, then you’ll see,” put in the old lady, with malicious triumph.
“I reckon we’ll show them then, eh, mother?” he responded bumptiously. “Perhaps you’ve heard of that, Mr——?”
“Carrados—Wynn Carrados. This is my man, Parkinson. I have to be attended because my sight has failed me. Yes, I had heard something about coal. Providence seems to be on your side just now, Mr Whitmarsh. May I offer you a cigarette?”
“Thanks, I don’t mind for once in a way.”
“They’re Turkish; quite innocuous, I believe.”
“Oh, it isn’t that. I can smoke cutty with any man, I reckon, but the paper affects my lips. I make my own and use a sort of paper with an end that doesn’t stick.”
“The paper is certainly a drawback sometimes,” agreed Carrados. “I’ve found that. Might I try one of yours?”
They exchanged cigarettes and Whitmarsh returned to the subject of the tragedy.
“This has made a bit of a stir, I can tell you,” he remarked, with complacency.
“I am sure it would. Well, it was the chief topic of conversation when I was in London.”
“Is that a fact?” Avowedly indifferent to the opinion of his neighbours, even Whitmarsh was not proof against the pronouncement of the metropolis. “What do they say about it up there?”
“I should be inclined to think that the interest centres round the explanation you will give at the inquest of the cause of the quarrel.”
“There!