CHAPTER XIII

Colonel Leach-Fletcher Is at Home to Visitors

“Stewart!” echoed Goodall. “Great Scott! Where on earth are we getting to? Did you get a description of these people, Clegg?”

“I did, sir. According to my information the man was between thirty and forty—his wife about the same. They had been at Blanchard’s Hotel about a week—I didn’t wait for any more details—I was anxious to get back to you with the information I had got!”

Goodall gave him a quick nod of praise, then turned to Anthony. “Do you know what I’m thinking, Mr. Bathurst?” he said. “I’m thinking that this lady and gentleman who left this hotel so suddenly are the identical pair that lunched with Mr. Daventry. What do you think, yourself?”

Anthony considered for a brief moment. “Yes, Inspector, I’m inclined to agree with you—I _was_ thinking the same, myself. And when you get them you’ll clap your hands on the murderer of poor Mason, the night-watchman—you can bet your bottom dollar on that.”

Goodall’s jaw set tight. “Well, I _shall_ clap my hands on them—if it means chasing them over two continents. At the same time—I’ve got precious little to go upon—two people from New York that put up at an hotel for a week and then walk out of it suddenly. It’s a needle in a haystack job, very probably,” he concluded pessimistically.

“You have two other facts besides that, Inspector,” added Anthony. “They possess a tapestry fire-screen, stolen from Day, Forshaw and Palmers’, and the lady sneezes.”

Goodall snapped his fingers impatiently.

“All the same, Mr. Bathurst—that won’t help me overmuch. But with regard to what you just said about the screen—have they one screen or two?”

“That’s difficult to say, Inspector. I don’t know what to think—upon reflection, perhaps two.”

“That’s what I think,” agreed Goodall, “and when I’ve had my little interview with Miss Lennox and Llewellyn—I’ll decide upon a plan of action.”

Half an hour later he joined Anthony and Peter. “I’m running up to Blanchard’s Hotel,” he announced. “It’s imperative that I should have a look round there—there may be a most valuable clue left behind—you never know. What will you do, Mr. Bathurst?”

“I’m calling on a gentleman whose name has been mentioned more than once in connection with this case, Inspector—a gentleman who lives very near—Colonel Leach-Fletcher.”

Goodall’s face brightened. “Exactly my own idea,” he exclaimed, “it was just on the cards that I called on him myself before getting my train up to town.” He stopped and thought—then swung round quickly on the two men. “And I will, Mr. Bathurst,” he declared, “I’ll come with you—if anybody can tell us anything it’s this Colonel chap.”

“Right‑o, there’s no time like the present. What about getting away now?”

“Delighted—I’ll just run back and tell Clegg.” Goodall dashed back and within a couple of minutes had made a start. “The address is ‘Neuve Chapelle’—it’s a charming bungalow, I’m given to understand, on the road to Rockinge—a matter of about four miles. The gallant Colonel, I presume, judging from the name he has given his bungalow, saw service in the European War—I expect Stewart found him an interesting and delightful neighbor.”

“No doubt,” agreed the Inspector, “I hear from Clegg that they were pretty close cronies.”

“Neuve Chapelle” was reached in an hour, and the smart maid-servant who answered their ring showed some signs of surprise at the number of the visitors. The Colonel evidently didn’t have many friends who called upon him of mornings. Goodall took upon himself the post of spokesman.

“My compliments to Colonel Leach-Fletcher,” he said, “and will you please tell him that Detective-Inspector Goodall, of Scotland Yard, would like to see him for a moment or two?”

The maid-servant looked scared and her rosy cheeks whitened a trifle. “Will you please step inside, I’ll tell my master.”

An interval of a few moments saw them ushered into what was evidently the lounge. It was altogether a charming room, furnished in irreproachable taste. A man in the early sixties was standing in the center of the room—facing them as they entered. Colonel Leach-Fletcher was a man of fine physique——round about five feet ten and weighing as far as Anthony could judge from a quick glance, somewhere in the region of fourteen stone. His manner was very decisive—some people might have described it as curt.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said rather abruptly. “I understand you wish to see me—about poor Stewart I presume?”

Goodall bowed. “These gentlemen are Mr. Anthony Bathurst and Mr. Peter Daventry—they represent Mr. Charles Stewart’s interests.”

Colonel Leach-Fletcher acknowledged the introduction with a quick inclination of the head—and a rather cavalier one, at that. “I am ready to tell you anything you think necessary—but really, I’m afraid you will find it of small consequence—sit down, gentlemen!” The Colonel took up his position in front of the mantelpiece as his self-invited guests accepted his invitation.

“In the first place, Colonel,” said Goodall, opening the interview, “I am informed that you dined with the murdered man on the evening of the murder, and left Assynton Lodge somewhere about ten o’clock.” Goodall looked up for the Colonel’s corroboration. It came immediately.

“Quite correct!” Goodall waited to see if the Colonel purposed adding anything to his reply, but the Colonel didn’t—he waited for Goodall.

“Was Mr. Stewart in normally good spirits during the evening, Colonel?”

Colonel Leach-Fletcher twirled his white moustache. Then he thrust his two hands deep into his trouser-pockets and stood still. “Look here, Inspector—what name did you say—Goodall?—look here, Inspector Goodall—I’m utterly opposed to beating about the bush, so I’ll tell you straight to your face without any embroidery that I hate your infernal trade and all its tricks and practices. But I’m a man that realizes the exigencies of duty—so I’ll waive my personal inclinations that prompt me to send you to the Devil—and I’ll answer your question—even though I feel within me that I’m betraying a dead man’s confidence. Mr. Stewart was _not_ exactly in his ordinary cheerful frame of mind on the evening in question.”

“H’m,” said Goodall, “perhaps you will explain more fully.”

Anthony’s eyes never left the Colonel now—he realized that he might be on the point of hearing something that touched the crime very closely. The Colonel’s steely-blue eyes were full of resolution and determination. He had made a decision, and though he found its carrying-out irksome and unpleasant, he was determined to see it through.

“You must understand that Stewart and I had become very friendly and were on very intimate terms. We had a number of common interests and we were almost neighbors, four miles isn’t a great distance in the country. I am not sure that, when he invited me to dine with him that evening, he hadn’t a special reason for so doing. If I may be permitted to say so—he valued my opinion on most things and regarded himself as privileged to consider me a friend. During the evening—_after_ dinner—he took me into the library and told me of two matters that were causing him a good deal of uneasiness. The first was rather a surprising one. He told me that there was underhand work going on at Assynton Lodge.”

Anthony, with a quick glance at Goodall, cut in. “Did he actually use the word ‘underhand,’ Colonel?”

The latter pursed his lips. “Upon reflection, I believe he used the word ‘treacherous,’ but I’m not absolutely certain on the point. Is it very important?”

Anthony shook his head. “Tell us more, Colonel——this is most illuminating.” The Colonel appeared gratified at this testimony to his narrative powers. He proceeded.

“Mr. Stewart went on to tell me that more than once he had found that his private papers and documents had been interfered with. This fact was worrying him considerably and causing him great concern. It wasn’t so much the espionage that troubled him, but the idea that there was somebody near to him that was acting treacherously. I gathered from his conversation with me that evening that he was determined to take the bull by the horns and endeavor to put a stop to it, if at all possible.”

“Did he suspect anybody?” questioned Goodall.

“I think not,” replied the Colonel, “at any rate, if he did, he refrained from taking me into his confidence to that extent.”

“One point that strikes me as important, Colonel,” interposed Anthony, “did Mr. Stewart give you any idea as to how long this had been going on?”

“Only for a matter of months at the most—that at all events is certain—it commenced, he told me, some time after he came to England.”

“Had he mentioned it to you before?” Anthony watched the Colonel very keenly as he put this question to him.

“Not in actual terms,” came the reply, “he had hinted once or twice very recently that he was disturbed about something, but he never gave me any actual details till that last night of his life.”

The Colonel leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece and put his head in his hand.

“What was the second matter that Mr. Stewart spoke about?” queried Goodall.

The Colonel deliberated for a moment or two before he answered.

“There, gentlemen, you approach me on much more delicate ground. And in some ways, I regret having made the admission to you and the promise to tell you all I know. The dead man, if he still possesses a spiritual consciousness in some other sphere, will, I hope, understand. I can only hope also that the living man will understand too. Gentlemen, Mr. Stewart was extremely upset about the conduct of his son—Charles Stewart.”

Goodall’s body became all attention. It seemed to him that he was beginning to emerge into the light at last.

“What had Charles Stewart done to offend his father?” he demanded. The Colonel extended his hands towards them—palms upwards. It was a gesture of deprecation and at the same time seemed to contain a tinge of disappointment. “That is a question I cannot answer! Mr. Stewart did not enlighten me. He told me that he was grievously disappointed over something Charles had done. He said that it would make a difference to his whole life.”

“_Whose_ life?” Anthony shot the question at him. “His own life or his son’s?”

“I understood him to mean his _own_ life,” rejoined the Colonel very quietly.

“And he gave you no inkling as to what this conduct was?”

“None at all!” The Colonel shook his head slowly, “and I didn’t press him for any more information on the point. It would have been a breach of courtesy on my part to have appeared unwarrantably inquisitive. I let Mr. Stewart tell me as much as it pleased him—and I sympathized with him. He was deeply attached to Charles and felt the misunderstanding or whatever it was very keenly. There is just one more piece of information that I am in a position to give. Mr. Stewart intended having an interview with his son after I left that evening. Of course, I can’t say that the interview ever took place.” The Colonel caressed his moustache again.

Goodall sprang to his feet. “Good heavens, Colonel! Do you realize the gravity of this last statement? Do you know at what time Mr. Stewart’s murder has been put at—pretty well _fixed_?”

“I do not, Inspector,” responded the Colonel. “I have only heard the bare facts.” He looked at Goodall with an invitation for information. The Inspector gave it to him.

“As far as we are able to judge—we who have been looking into the case—the late Mr. Stewart met his death somewhere about eleven o’clock—just about an hour after Butterworth saw you out.”

The Colonel shrugged his square shoulders. “An hour is a long time, gentlemen, I would remind you! And Charles Stewart may not have been with his father after all. Events may have conspired to prevent it—there’s no knowing. You are working more or less in the dark.”

Anthony ranged himself with the Colonel. “I quite agree with you, sir. Half-a-dozen people might have been in the library with Mr. Stewart between ten and eleven o’clock that night—there is no evidence to the contrary—that’s certain. But this interview that you mention, Colonel! Are you convinced that it was to be on the subject that had caused Mr. Stewart such displeasure? That seems to me to matter a great deal.”

“I can’t be certain with regard to that,” was the Colonel’s reply. “Mr. Stewart didn’t tell me so exactly—but I think that I should be perfectly justified in assuming so—coming as it did after what he had just previously told me.”

Goodall took a hand again. “Coming back to the details of your own visit, Colonel—I’m sure you won’t mind answering a few more questions. How did you travel over to Assynton Lodge on that particular evening?”

The Colonel’s reply came quickly with a touch of annoyance in his voice. “By car, of course, my own car. What’s your point in asking a question like that?”

Goodall affected not to hear the question—he made no immediate answer. “So that I presume,” he continued, “that you were home here by ten-fifteen easily?”

“I should imagine that would be about the time,” said Colonel Leach-Fletcher testily, “though what the blazes all this has to do with the affair——”

Goodall intervened again. “In that quarter of an hour’s journey—did you pass anybody or notice anybody on the road?”

“I did not,” snapped the Colonel. “It was a perfectly glorious night, and if I had passed anybody, I probably shouldn’t have seen them—my attention is always too much taken up in driving my car.”

Anthony flashed him a cordial smile. “Fond of motoring, Colonel?”

“I am that. It’s one of my hobbies—the roads are pretty good down this way, and I go for some fast spins.”

Anthony rubbed his hands. “You’re another like myself,” he chuckled. “What’s your car?”

“A Bentley—latest model,” said the Colonel—“real beauty—I can knock an easy seventy-five out of her.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen the latest model,” said Anthony reflectively, “I don’t fancy——”

The Colonel broke in on his musings enthusiastically. “Come out to the garage then and have a look at mine. It won’t take a moment.”

They followed the Colonel, who explained the car’s fine points with the eagerness of a schoolboy. Goodall looked at his watch.

“Good-bye, Colonel,” he said, “I must be going! Many thanks for your kindness. You know where I’m off to, Mr. Bathurst—don’t quite know when I shall be back—if you want me, ’phone ‘the Yard.’”

The Colonel’s eyes followed his retreating figure for some distance. “We must be going too, Colonel,” exclaimed Anthony, “but there’s one little point before I go. That last evening you spent with Mr. Stewart—did he refer to any book while you were there—was he reading any book at any time during the evening? Try to remember if you possibly can!”

The Colonel knitted his brows. “There was a book open on his desk, now you come to mention it—I remember seeing it there—what was it called now?” he searched his mind in the effort of remembrance—“I know—it was Renan’s _Vie de Jésus_.”