The Monk of Hambleton Part 37

Again Copley jumped, but this time with the air of shrinking from a blow rather than delivering one. His voice, when it came, was hoa.r.s.e.

"Don't ask me that--now!"

"Um. Yes, it's rather a tough question--new father-in-law, new bride and all that! You needn't answer it, Mr. Varr!"

"Plainer than you have already, my son!" he added to himself as he left the room. "William Graham--to the bar!"

Creighton was light on his feet and invariably wore rubber-soled shoes--not, as he had been obliged to explain to Krech aforetime, because he was trying to be the complete p.u.s.s.y-footed sleuth, but because he really preferred them to leather. The result, however, whether designed or not, was to make him as soundless in his movements as a panther.

He slipped noiselessly along the hall to the front door, his thoughts busy with what he had just learned, his immediate intention to go to town for the talk he had promised himself with Judge Taylor. Lawyers often could throw light on an affair of this kind if they chose to; what if there were some secret, unsuspected page in Simon Varr's life--?

As he put on his hat and stepped out of the front door, he heard the low hum of voices from the cozy corner at the end of the piazza. He wondered who it might be, and curiosity turned his steps in that direction. Instead of turning the corner, however, he halted abruptly when he heard his own name spoken by unmistakable accents.

"Where is Mr. Creighton, do you know?"

"He's in the study with Master Copley. Do you wish to speak to him, Miss Ocky?"

"No. Has he had any conversation with you yet, Bates?"

"No, Miss Ocky; nothing special."

"He probably will, though. It struck me, Bates, that you might inadvertently mention our little talk of the other day if I didn't warn you. I don't think that would be advisable."

"Nor do I, Miss Ocky! I was only afraid you might let it out yourself!"

"It would be a pity to put notions in his head," continued Miss Ocky calmly. "I must say, Mr. Creighton seems to be unusually sensible, but you can never tell which way a detective will jump."

"They're worse'n cats!" agreed the old butler.

_XVIII: Some Old Men Are Out_

There was a tinkle of silver and china suggestive of the butler picking up a tray and preparing to depart, so Creighton fled from the vicinage as softly as the furry felines to which Bates had spitefully compared him. A smile played around the corners of his mouth. Utterly shameless, he reminded himself that if listeners hear no good of themselves, they also occasionally hear much that is valuable. So Bates and Miss Ocky were in conspiracy to conceal from him some conversation they had had! Um. It would be funny if he couldn't pry the truth out of one of them; mentally, he girded up his loins for the fray.

The immediate effect of what he had overheard was an alteration in his plans for the balance of the afternoon. He wanted to see Judge Taylor for more than one reason, but his brief essay in eavesdropping had served to remind him of a ch.o.r.e neglected nearer home. The servants.

He must question them, painstakingly and at length, on the chance that one or more of them might have heard or noticed something that would bring him a step closer to the truth.

Copley Varr had gone upstairs, summoned to his mother's bedside by Janet Mackay who was temporarily in attendance on the stricken Lucy.

That left the study clear for Creighton who immediately possessed himself of it and touched the bell for Bates. The old man appeared presently, gave an attentive ear to the detective's brief statement of his intentions, and answered on behalf of himself and the staff that all would be glad to a.s.sist Mr. Creighton in every possible way.

"The main essential is perfect frankness," said the detective.

"Yes, indeed, sir, I quite understand that," said the butler, a trifle too promptly. "It's wrong to hold anything back."

"I'll begin with the cook. I had a few words with her yesterday, just enough to learn she's n.o.body's fool. She's good-hearted, too--you can tell it by the layer of fat on the ribs of that Angora I've seen about." Creighton's eyes were laughing behind the sh.e.l.l-rimmed gla.s.ses. "Did it ever occur to you, Bates, that you can learn a lot about the cook by looking at the cat?"

"No, sir, it never did," said Bates, smiling faintly.

"It never did to me, either, until just this minute," admitted the detective frankly, "but I dare say there's a lot in it. Anyway, ask her to come here, please, and tell her I won't keep her long from her work."

Thus he played upon the sensibilities of his witnesses after a fas.h.i.+on whose worth he had demonstrated frequently in the past. He had put Bates a little more at his ease and to that extent weakened his defenses if it became necessary to startle him into speaking the truth, and he had sent a bouquet of flattering phrases to the cook which he confidently counted on Bates to deliver with his summons. That the butler had indeed done so was apparent the moment the cook appeared, her fat red face wreathed in smiles. A cross, recalcitrant woman who had sorely tried the patience of Mr. Norvallis the day before was an angel of sweetness as she responded to Creighton's inquisition.

Unfortunately, she did not have anything of value to offer in repayment for his studied politeness. Hers was the most prosaic of lives. She rose in the morning, cooked all day and went to bed, to rise and cook again. She knew nothing of what went on in the front part of the house, and Bates was the most close-mouthed butler she had ever worked with, he never opened his head about what he heard in the dining-room.

That let her out, and Creighton dismissed her with a request that she send in Betty Blake.

When she had recovered from a preliminary attack of nervousness, the pretty young housemaid unexpectedly produced information that gave Creighton furiously to think, for he reawakened an idea that had been present, but dormant, in his brain since his talk with Copley. It reminded him of a chance remark made by Jason Bolt to the effect that Langhorn had accompanied Graham when the latter came to see Varr, for Betty described how in pa.s.sing through the hall on her way to bed she had seen the tannery manager "quarreling with Mr. Varr in his study."

"Sure they were quarreling, Betty?"

"Oh, yes, sir. They were both angry and excited."

"That was the night of the fire? The night of the robbery?"

"Yes, sir."

"You were on your way to bed--do you know what time it was?"

"Just past ten, sir,--or maybe half-past."

"That's near enough."

After a few more questions he let her go, telling her to ask Janet Mackay to join him in the study at her first opportunity. While he waited for the "tall, gaunt nondescript" to appear he contemplated the case of William Graham, and sitting in Varr's chair he came slowly to the same dark suspicions that Varr had entertained.

"Graham saw the notebook here, and knew what it was. He could use what was in it--none better. According to the watchman, Nelson, Graham sympathized with the strikers even if he ranked with the bosses. He was a bit the worse for liquor when he was here that evening, in the mood to think of some wild act and perhaps drunk enough to carry out the thought. He had time to slip down and set that fire, then come back when it was under way and sneak into the house. Granting that he used the dagger because it was handy, why did he carry it away with him? Was he thinking of murder already? Was he cool enough to figure that a weapon taken from Varr's own house would not readily be traced to him? Can't answer these questions--now!" Creighton lighted a cigarette and wrinkled his brow. "Graham has plenty of intelligence, from all accounts. He is clever enough to have thought of an effective disguise, and he probably knew the legend of the monk, since his daughter showed it to Miss Copley in a book belonging to them. Um. Is he the man I'm looking for?"

He did not have time for further reflection before the entrance of Miss Janet Mackay, once of Aberdeen, now a citizen of the world and the devoted henchwoman of Miss October Copley. She inclined her head stiffly in reply to his pleasant greeting, refused a chair, and remained standing in front of him, hands folded across her flat stomach, her cold eyes fixed on him through her cheap, steel spectacles. She was taller and gaunter and more angular than ever.

Creighton chuckled inwardly. If Miss Copley was October, then this was January, or at best late December!

It did not take him long to discover that he had drawn another perfect blank. Trying to extract information from Janet Mackay was about as profitable as trying to squeeze water from a handful of Sahara sand.

She knew nothing, and said less. After ten minutes of fruitless effort he gave it up.

"It's clear you know nothing!"

"I know the world is well rid of a selfish deevil."

"Tut, tut! Have you no respect for the dead?"

"Not a whit for him, dead or alive."

"How is Mrs. Varr?"

"Resting easier."

"Is her son with her still?"

"He went off somewhere an hour ago."