The girl lowered her eyes and again her lips quivered, and then without a word she walked out of the room, pulling her sable wrap about her throat.
It was noon before Rennett’s car deposited Lydia Meredith at the door of her lodging.
She found Mrs. Morgan in a great state of anxiety, and the stout little woman almost shed tears of joy at the sight of her.
“Oh, miss, you’ve no idea how worried I’ve been,” she babbled, “and they’ve been round here from your newspaper office asking where you are. I thought you had been run over or something, and the Daily Megaphonehave sent to all the hospitals—”
“I have been run over,” said Lydia wearily. “My poor mind has been under the wheels of a dozen motorbuses, and my soul has been in a hundred collisions.”
Mrs. Morgan gaped at her. She had no sense of metaphor.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Morgan,” laughed her lodger over her shoulder as she went up the stairs. “I haven’t really you know, only I’ve had a worrying time — and by the way, my name is Meredith.”
Mrs. Morgan collapsed on to a hall chair.
“Meredith, miss?” she said incredulously. “Why I knew your father—”
“I’ve been married, that’s all,” said Lydia grimly. “You told me yesterday that I should be married romantically, but even in the wildest flights of your imagination, Mrs. Morgan, you could never have supposed that I should be married in such a violent, desperate way. I’m going to bed.” She paused on the landing and looked down at the dumbfounded woman. “If anybody calls for me, I am not at home. Oh, yes, you can tell the Megaphone that I came home very late and that I’ve gone to bed, and I’ll call tomorrow to explain.”
“But, miss,” stammered the woman, “your husband—”
“My husband is dead,” said the girl calmly. She felt a brute, but somehow she could not raise any note of sorrow. “And if that lawyer man comes, will you please tell him that I shall have twenty thousand pounds in the morning,” and with that last staggering statement, she went to her room, leaving her landlady speechless.
Chapter VI
The police search of the house and grounds at Dulwich Grange, Mr. Rennett’s residence, occupied the whole of the morning, and neither Rennett’s nor Jack’s assistance was invited or offered.
Before luncheon Inspector Colhead came to the study.
“We’ve had a good look round your place, Mr. Rennett,” he said, “and I think we know where the deceased hid himself.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Rennett.
“That hut of yours in the garden is used, I suppose, for a tool house. There are no tools there now, and one of my men discovered that you can pull up the whole of the floor, it works on a hinge and is balanced with counterweights.”
Mr. Rennett nodded.
“I believe it was used as a wine cellar by a former tenant of the house,” he said coolly. “We have no cellars at the Grange, you know. I do not drink wine, and I’ve never had occasion to use it.”
“That’s where he was hidden. We found a blanket, and pillows, down there, and, as you say, it has obviously been a wine cellar, because there is a ventilating shaft leading up into the bushes. We should never have found the trap, but one of my men felt one of the corners of the floor give under his feet.”
The two men said nothing.
“Another thing,” the detective went on slowly, “is that I’m inclined to agree that Meredith did not commit suicide. We found footmarks, quite fresh, leading round to the back of the hut.”
“A big foot or a little foot?” asked Jack quickly.
“It is rather a big foot,” said the detective, “and it has rubber heels. We traced it to a gate at the back of your premises, and the gate has been opened recently — probably by Mr. Meredith when he came to the house. It’s a queer case, Mr. Rennett.”
“What is the pistol?”
“That’s new too,” said Colhead. “Belgian make and impossible to trace, I should imagine. You can’t keep track of these Belgian weapons. You can buy them in any shop in any town in Ostend or Brussels, and I don’t think it is the practice for the sellers to keep any record of the numbers.”
“In fact,” said Jack quietly, “it is the same kind of pistol that killed Bulford.”
Colhead raised his eyebrows.
“So it was, but wasn’t it established that that was Mr. Meredith’s own weapon?”
Jack shook his head.
“The only thing that was established was that he had seen the body and he picked up the pistol which was lying near the dead man. The shot was fired as he opened the door of Mr. Briggerland’s house. Then he saw the figure on the pavement and picked up the pistol. He was in that position when Miss Briggerland, who testified against him, came out of the house and saw him.”
The detective nodded.
“I had nothing to do with the case,” he said, “but I remember seeing the weapon, and it was identical with this. I’ll talk to the chief and let you know what he says about the whole affair. You’ll have to give evidence at the inquest of course.”
When he had gone the two men looked at one another.
“Well, Rennett, do you think we’re going to get into hot water, or are we going to perjure our way to safety?”
“There’s no need for perjury, not serious perjury,” said the other carefully. “By the way, Jack, where was Briggerland the night Bulford was murdered?”
“When Miss Jean Briggerland had recovered from her horror, she went upstairs and aroused her father, who, despite the early hour, was in bed and asleep. When the police came, or rather, when the detective in charge of the case arrived, which must have been some time after the policeman on point duty put in an appearance, Mr. Briggerland was discovered in a picturesque dressing gown and, I presume, no less picturesque pyjamas.”
“Horrified, too, I suppose,” said Rennett dryly.
Jack was silent for a long time. Then: “Rennett,” he said, “do you know I am more rattled about this girl than I am about any consequences to ourselves.”
“Which girl are you talking about?”
“About Mrs. Meredith. Whilst poor Meredith was alive she was in no particular danger. But do you realise that what were advantages from our point of view, namely, the fact that she had no relations in the world, are to-day a source of considerable peril to this unfortunate lady?”
“I had forgotten that,” said Rennett thoughtfully. “What makes matters a little more complicated, is the will which Meredith made this morning before he was married.”
Jack whistled.
“Did he make a will?” he said in surprise.
His partner nodded.
“You remember he was here with me for half an hour. Well, he insisted upon writing out a will and my wife and Bolton, the butler, witnessed it.”
“And he has left his money — ?”
“To his wife absolutely,” replied the other. “The poor old chap was so frantically keen on keeping the money out of the Briggerland exchequer, that he was prepared to entrust the whole of his money to a girl he had not seen.”