Maurice Walsh - Nine Strings to your Bow

“You were right, Madden,” Peter said. “It will be no use to me living here under a cloud. If you don’t get me out from under I’ll break your bloody Irish neck.”

“I will and you couldn’t,” Con said. “No Canuck could. Look here, Falkner, I’ll absolve you from those two fears I taunted you with. You did not kill your uncle, and those two fine people across the street—You three make a team that I can use.”

“Then you have decided to stay with me?”

“I—think so. Do not leave your back door on the latch.”

“That’s my second warning to-day.”

“Your second warning?” said Con quickly.

“Yes. Muriel said I had to be watchful and careful.”

“Did she, begod! That’s interesting. But leave it for the time,” Con said. “That young lady has been frowning at you for the last five minutes. Go on now!”

And Con went off down the street in the general direction of the resort hotel where people came to drink the waters of the spring.

IV

Daniel Glover was in his bedroom, at the Spa. He sat over a glass-topped table, thoughtfully puffing pipe smoke and working out a chess problem. On the dressing table at his right hand stood a three-parts-full bottle of Scotch, a full bottle of Irish, a soda-syphon, a jug of water and two glasses. The window was wide open, and the sun, low in the west, sent an orange ray aslant into the room.

He tentatively moved an obvious white knight, contemplated the board, and restored the piece to its former place; he did likewise with a less-obvious queen, and shook his head.

A soft tap sounded and the door opened and closed softly.

“I am not sure that I should offer you a libation,” he said, but did not turn his head.

“Thanks,” said Con Madden at his shoulder. “Irish and water for me.” His hand was already on the bottle, and he poured three fingers into the empty glass. “The labourer is worthy, you know.”

“Then you did hire yourself?”

“By accident.” Con moved across to the bed, and sat down heavily. They kept their voices low as was their custom in conference.

“Been investigating on your own, master? Did you try out Hughes Everitt?” Con asked.

“An attractive character. An odd character. He considers Buddhism seriously. Says he expects to return as a swine in his next reincarnation. And he is something more than a useful chessplayer.”

“Did you find that I fell down anywhere in my earlier report to you about this place and its people?”

“Not disastrously. You underestimated Tobias Aitken’s perniciousness. He is a false-fronted weakling, and under the influence of alcohol might act on any impulse.”

“Impulse to murder?”

“Even so. It may be essential to retrace his course between certain hours on that fatal night.” Glover frowned.

“Any other reactions or discoveries?”

“You were over-emphatic about Muriel Gordon’s charms. Her intelligence is more important.”

“And combined they are the very devil. You should have seen her this evening. Quite adequate, Mr. Glover.” Con picked up his glass. “I notice you call her Muriel Gordon?”

“A convenient cognomen. Proceed, Cornelius.”

“Our Miss Cole made searches at the Registry Office?”

“She found that Muriel Buckley’s son was registered as David Buckley, and father’s name not given.”

“You astound me, Mr. Glover. Well?”

“He might have been legitimatized. That is why I asked you to search for a record of the marriage of Marcus Aitken and Muriel Buckley. No such record exists?”

“Nary a record.”

“It was necessary to make certain. Also, I conclude that no record was found of a marriage between Philip Gordon and Muriel Buckley, but it is also possible that your instructions to Miss Cole were inadequate. What period did she search?”

“Inadequate, your granny!” said Con. “She searched from the time Muriel left home until this very last week.”

“Wholly inadequate, Cornelius. Miss Buckley was at college in the town where Gordon resided.”

Con’s mouth opened. “God’llmighty! I fell down there, Daniel. They might have married then.”

“Totally unlikely, considering the registered name of the woman’s son. But a search going further back might establish that Gordon had married another woman, who may be still alive. I shall get our Miss Cole to institute a further search. Leave it at present. While we are on the Gordon household, the whole family, with Buckley the farm steward, are soon leaving permanently.”

“I learned that this evening.”

“Some folk are saying that Buckley will not work with a man whose hands are not clean.”

“Blast them! Gordon and Muriel and Buckley may be leaving because their own hands are not clean.”

“A speculation to be investigated. For that purpose, and pending verification, we shall assume that Gordon and the woman are not married.”

“Where do we go from there?” Con enquired. He saw, as yet, no connection between bloody hands and living-in-sin.

“We shall discuss it after you have considered it,” Glover said. “To return to the beginning, having achieved contact with Falkner what did you engage to perform?”

“To bring the murderer into the open. If we fail he engages to break my neck—bloody and Irish. But I forgot to bind him to a fee—or expenses.”

“Makes your sincerity all the more impressive. A fee, no doubt, will eventuate. He invited you to stay with him?”

“At the Home Farm—he is staying on there.”

“You accepted?”

“Tentatively. But it will spoil my incognito.”

“You could not have maintained it, and it leaves mine secure. I want you close to Falkner and his friends—”

“You think he’s running a risk?”

“I do not, but you had better take that automatic pistol with you. I want you to be friendly—sincerely friendly—”

“Not with Toby?”

“Do your best with Tobias. Take Everitt and Barbara Aitken into your confidence—and Falkner too of course. Only those three.”

“Fine!” Con rubbed his big hands together. “I thought you would see that. With that team we should go places.”

Glover leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.

“Your close attention, please, Cornelius. You will remember that Hughes Everitt and Barbara Aitken, in their evidence, spoke of a mysterious man in brown, that they could not or would not identify. The girl saw him disappearing into the wood shortly after four, and Everitt saw a similar man one-and-a-half hours later. You also informed me that the girl is country bred and lives an outdoor life—a Diana of the Uplands I think you said—”

“Good for you, Daniel!” cried Con. “I did not think you noticed that. When I was a boy in the open if I got a glimpse of a man a mile off in any sort of light—even moonlight—I would know him by his carriage.”

“And she did not, and the poacher fellow, Wells, is not a stranger to her. Moreover, Wells has a characteristic carriage including a limp, and Everitt recognized that the man he saw was limping.”

“You think the man Barbara saw was not Charley Wells?”

“Either that or these two young people are hiding something important about that man in brown. Find out.”

“Just like that! All right, guvnor! I can but fail. Do I gather that we are investigating Charley Wells?”

“Our investigation is already under way.”

“Gawd help Charley! Have you had a look-see at him?”

“In a business way—his business. He is a rodent of an inferior type, and that second-hand emporium of his is unique in its decay. By the way I have, more than once, heard you extol your prowess as an angler?”

“I kept you in salmon salad all last season.”