Thus dismissed Meakin departed with a curious duck of his head, probably intended for a farewell bow.
The station detective looked at Stoddart. "I don't suppose we shall get much further. But I will have inquiries made to see whether anyone else saw the bag or its owner and let you know." When they had got well away from the station Harbord looked across at his superior.
"Well, of all the rum goes! That he should crop up again!"
The inspector looked at him fixedly "What do you mean?"
"The Man with the Dark Beard," Harbord said, meeting the inspector's eyes steadily. "Who is he, inspector?"
"Who is he, Harbord?" Stoddart mimicked. "When we know that and can prove it"—with emphasis—"we shall know and have solved the two mysteries—that of Dr. Bastow's death and of Iris Wilton's. Now our next step—"
"Yes?" Harbord said interrogatively. "After all, the discovery of the box does not definitely connect the two crimes, beyond the finding of the cloak-room ticket in Wilton's coat."
"And that will be a strong enough connexion for most people, I fancy," the inspector said cynically.
"If Wilton committed both murders he must be a homicidal maniac," Harbord went on slowly. "He first kills Dr. Bastow presumably because the doctor will not allow him to marry his daughter, for no other motive has ever been arrived at. And then not apparently caring enough for Miss Bastow to remain constant to her for a few weeks he marries the doctor's pretty secretary, now a rich young woman, on her own, and murders her within three weeks. No possible motive that I can see except to possess himself of her money. And—"
"And that is no motive at all," the inspector said slowly, "since no money of Iris Wilton's can be found except the ready money at her account in the Bank and a couple of hundred in the Argentine Loan. If she had any other, the most stringent inquiries have failed to trace it. I heard half an hour before we started from Fowler, who is on the job."
Harbord twisted his face up as if he were about to whistle.
"Who did she blackmail?"
"Ah! That," said the inspector dryly, "is a question a good many of us would like answered."
Chapter XIX
Hawksview Mansions Mystery. Dramatic Development. Discovery of the pistol with which Mrs. Wilton was shot. Arrest of the murdered woman's husband. The bag at the cloak-room.
The newspaper lay upon the breakfast table at Rose Cottage. Hilary Bastow was staring at it with dry, miserable eyes. The "Daily Wire" had really excelled itself this morning. The headlines in extra large type ran across the front page. Beneath there was a highly coloured account of the discoveries at the flat. "The revolver on the wardrobe" was a secondary heading at the top of the first column. The next inquired pertinently: "What is the meaning of the false beard and the Chinese box?"
As plainly as it dared while the case was sub judice, the "Daily Wire" indicated that not only had Basil Wilton shot his wife, but that he was also the long sought-for murderer of Dr. John Bastow. There could be no doubt that the revolver and the cloak-room ticket found in his waistcoat pocket, combined with the contents of the bag at the railway station, did make the whole affair look extremely black against Basil Wilton.
Even Hilary could see no way out of it. Her faith in her whilom lover had never faltered hitherto, in spite of his treachery to her. But this morning she could not help asking herself whether it could be possible that she had been deceived all along. As she sat there gazing at the paper with unseeing eyes, she told herself that it was—it must be a miserable dream from which she would presently awaken to find herself a happy girl in her father's house, with her young lover by her side. Then her future had seemed to be all bathed in golden sunshine. Now it was veiled in horrible darkness; and in the horizon there loomed that dense, awful cloud of which she dared not even let herself think.
The door opened softly and Miss Lavinia Priestley came into the room and laid her hands on the girl's shoulders.
"Ah, you have seen it, Hilary! I hoped I should be in time to tell you before you had the paper."
"Aunt Lavinia!" Hilary sprang to her feet and swung round to confront her aunt. "It's not true—not a word of it. Doesn't everybody say the 'Daily Wire' is a horrible rag?" She crumpled up the paper and threw it on the floor.
"Well, I don't hold a brief for the 'Daily Wire.' Heaven forbid that I should!" observed Miss Lavinia dispassionately. "Personally I rather enjoy a glance at it with my breakfast—don't feel up to the 'Times Literary Supplement' then. And the 'Wire' is a cheerful gossipy sort of paper that goes well with your bacon and eggs, though to be sure what it tells you one day it generally contradicts the next. But this morning all the papers tell the same tale."
"I don't care if they do," Hilary said, stamping her foot. "Basil did not kill Dad. Why should he? They were always friendly. Dad liked him very much—until that last day, and he knew—Basil knew that Dad would have been kind to us—when he had had time to realize—things."
"Should say the man is mad myself," Miss Lavinia said, avoiding her niece's eyes. "Always thought he was myself when he married that sly-faced creature. Wouldn't have had her in my house for ten fortunes. I don't wonder he shot her. Aggravating little fool! I dare say I should have shot her myself if I had had to live with her."
"Aunt Lavinia!" Hilary turned upon her passionately. "How can you speak as if you thought Basil was guilty?"
"My dear Hilary!" Miss Lavinia's countenance was fully of pity. "It is no use trying to shirk facts: you have got to face them. That is why I came hurrying to you after I had seen the evening papers. How did your father's Chinese box and that false beard get into Basil Wilton's bag at the cloak-room, if he was innocent? Tell me that!"
"Oh, I don't know!" Hilary said in a tone of wrathful impatience. "The tickets may have got mixed together, or something of that kind. Anyway, it's no use your talking, Aunt Lavinia—or the 'Daily Wire'—or—or anything. I know Basil is innocent."
She dropped back in her chair and laying her head on her arms burst into bitter weeping. The horror and thwarted love of the past few weeks found their outlet in those tears.
"Poor child!" Miss Lavinia said in an unwontedly softened tone. "It will do you good to have a cry. Hilary, do you know what I heard a man say in the train? That the only man that could save Basil Wilton now was Sir Felix Skrine."
"Godfather!" Hilary looked up through her tears, a gleam of hope in her brown eyes. "But—but he doesn't like Basil. He wouldn't try to help him."
"Perhaps he would if you asked him," Miss Lavinia suggested. "Try, Hilary."
"I don't believe he would if I did. I—I think he is very angry with me," Hilary said tearfully. "He hasn't been to the Manor for ages."
"He is coming today," Miss Lavinia said quietly. "As soon as I saw the paper last night I rang him up, and he said he should be here almost as soon as I was. He is coming in his touring car and offered me a lift. But he is a rather reckless driver, I have heard, so I stuck to the train. I believe it is safer in the end. Besides, I always find Sir Felix a tiring person to talk to—never know what he is driving at myself."
Hilary dried her tears.
"Yes, you think it tiring to talk to him for an hour or so, and you want me to have him altogether—to marry him!"
"Heaven defend me!" Miss Lavinia groaned. "Marrying a man is very different from talking to him, as you will find out some day. As for listening to them, you can always think of something else. But I believe Sir Felix is coming now. I hear the sort of 'Yonk-yonk' he makes to tell fowls and children and other things to get