The Postmaster's Daughter Part 22

Next morning, after a long conference with Superintendent Fowler, from which, to his great chagrin, P. C. Robinson was excluded, Furneaux went to the post office, dispatched an apparently meaningless telegram to a code address, and exchanged a few orthodox remarks with Doris and her father about the continued fine weather. While he was yet at the counter, Ingerman crossed the road and entered the chemist's shop.

"Let me see," said the detective musingly, "by committing a slight trespa.s.s on your left-hand neighbor's garden, can I reach the yard of the inn?"

"What the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve over," smiled Doris.

"Mrs. Jefferson went to Knoleworth early to-day, and took her maid. By shopping at the stores there, they save their fares, and have a day out each week."

"May I go that way, then?" he said. "Suppose you send that goggle-eyed skivvy of yours on an errand."

This was done, and Furneaux made the desired transit.

Now, Tomlin, to whom the comings and goings of all and sundry formed the staple of the day's gossip, had seen the detective go out, but could "take his sollum davy" that the queer little man had not returned. He, too, had watched Ingerman going to Siddle's. Ten minutes later Elkin came down the hill, and headed for the same rendezvous. Five minutes more, and Hobbs, the butcher, joined the others. Tomlin was seething with curiosity, but there were some casual customers in the "snug," so he could not abandon his post.

Soon, however, Ingerman led Elkin and Hobbs to the inn. Evidently, the "financier" had been making some small purchases. He was in high spirits.

Ordering appetizers before the mid-day meal, he announced that he was returning to London that afternoon, but would be in Steynholme again for the adjourned inquest.

"No matter how my business suffers, I mean to see this affair through,"

he vowed. "You gentlemen can pretty well guess my private convictions.

You were good enough to give me your friendship, so I spoke as openly as one dares when no charge has actually been laid against any particular person."

"Ay," said Elkin, with whom sunshine seemed to disagree, because he looked miserably ill. "We know what you mean, Mr. Ingerman. If the police were half sharp they'd have nabbed their man before this ... Did you put any water in this gin, Tomlin?"

"Water?" wheezed Tomlin indignantly. _"Water?"_

"Well, no offense. I can't taste anything. I believe I could swallow dope and not feel it on my tongue."

"You do look bad, an' no mistake, Fred," agreed Hobbs. "Are you vettin'

yerself? Don't. Every man to his trade, sez I. Give Dr. Foxton a call."

"I'm taking his medicine regular. Perhaps I need a change."

"'Ave a week-end in Lunnon," said Hobbs, with a broad wink.

"Change of medicine, I mean. I'm not leaving Steynholme till things make a move. My next trip to London will be my honeymoon."

"You look like a honeymooner, I don't think," guffawed Hobbs.

"You wouldn't laugh if I told _you_ what you really look like," cried Elkin angrily. "Bet you a level fiver I'm married this year. Now, put up or shut up!"

Furneaux peeped in, through a door, always open, which led to the stairs.

"Can I have my account, Mr. Tomlin?" he said. "I'm going to town by the next train."

"You don't mean to say, Mr. Furneaux, that you are abandoning the case so soon?" broke in Ingerman.

"Did I say that?" inquired the detective meekly.

"No. One can't help drawing inferences occasionally."

"Great mistake. Look at our worthy landlord. He's been drawing inferences as well as corks, and he's beat to the world."

Tomlin was, indeed, gazing at his smaller guest open-mouthed.

"S'elp me!" he gurgled. "I could ha' sworn--"

"Bad habit," and Furneaux crooked a waggish forefinger at him. "Even the wisest among us may err. Last night, for instance, I blundered. I really fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do you think it ended? In the loft of your club-room, Mr. Tomlin. In a box of old clothes at that. Silly, isn't it?"

"Wot! Them amatoor play-hactin' things?"

"Exactly."

Elkin grunted, though intending to laugh.

"Not so sharp for a London 'tec, I must say," he cried. "Why, those props have been there since before Christmas."

"Yes. I know now," was the downcast reply. "Twelve hours ago I thought differently. Didn't I, Mr. Tomlin?"

Tomlin tried hard to look knowing.

"Oh, is that wot you wur drivin' at?" he said. "Dang me, mister, I could soon ha' put you right 'ad you tole me."

"Well, well. Can't be helped. I may do better in London. What do _you_ say, Mr. Ingerman? The City is the real mint of money and crime. Who knows but that a stroll through Cornhill may have some bearing on the Steynholme mystery?"

"May be you'd get a bit nearer if you took a stroll along the Knoleworth Road, and not so very far, either," guffawed Elkin.

"Who knows?" repeated Furneaux sadly. "Good-day, gentlemen. Some of this merry party will meet again, of course, if not here, at the a.s.sizes.

Don't forget my bill. Mr. Tomlin. By the way, one egg at breakfast had seen vicissitudes. It shouldn't be rated too highly."

"I'm traveling by your train," cried Ingerman.

"So I understood," said Furneaux over his shoulder.

There was silence for a moment after he had gone. Ingerman looked thoughtful, even puzzled. He was casting back in his mind to discover just how and when the detective "understood" that his departure was imminent, since he himself had only arrived at a decision after leaving the chemist's.

"That chap is no good," announced Elkin. "I'll back old Robinson against him any day."

"Sh-s-sh! He may 'ear you," muttered the landlord.

"Don't care if he does. Cornhill! What the blazes has Cornhill to do with the murder at The Hollies?"

Ingerman appreciated the value of that concluding phrase. Elkin had used it once before in Siddle's shop, and was quietly reproved by the chemist for his outspokenness.

Ingerman, however, did not inform the company that his office lay in an alley off Cornhill. He elected to rub in Elkin's words.

"Mr. Siddle seemed to object to The Hollies being mentioned as the scene of the crime," he said. "I wonder why?"

"Because he's an old molly-coddle," snapped the horse-dealer. "Thinks everyone is like himself, a regular slow-coach."

Tomlin closed the door into the pa.s.sage, closed it for the first time in living memory, whereat Furneaux, on the landing above, grinned sardonically, and ran downstairs.