“You really didn’t mind? It was a hell of a cheek. But you see how important it could be if Shelley actually could have reasoned like that. There he is, sure you won’t bother to claim the picture once Cranmer says your father’s disputing its ownership, but just let the whole thing go, and put all the dirty work down to your father. So Shelley and Cranmer can quietly dispose of the goods and share the proceeds. And then suddenly out of the blue, when he’s home after getting back from the pub that night, Kitty rings him up.
“You said he was one person she might very well turn to in her trouble. She blurts out everything to him, and asks him to come and get her away. She doesn’t realise she’s telling him anything very terrible when she says that you’ve been there in the barn with your father, because you know he told her it was you he was going out to see, but just think what it would mean to Shelley! The very thing he was sure wouldn’t happen had happened. Instead of letting the whole thing drop you’d gone rushing off to your father, to pitch into him about the dirty trick he’d played you. Then of course he wouldn’t know what you were talking about, and he’d say so, and the whole business would come out. And finish for Shelley! He’d been with your father, how many years? Just think what it would mean to him to be kicked out now and have to start afresh with your father against him, maybe even to be disgraced publicly and have a charge laid against him. But there’s Kitty on the phone, babbling that she’s pushed your father down the stairs and he’s lying there in the barn unconscious. It’s now or never if Shelley wants to shut down on the scandal for good, and keep hold of his share in the picture deal. So he tells Kitty yes, don’t worry, just stay there, he’s on his way. And he gets out the car and drives like hell back to the barn. And kills your father.”
They were both gazing at him with wide and wary eyes, in wonder and doubt. Leslie said in a tight, quiet voice: “It could have happened, I suppose. It would certainly seem like the end of the world to him if Dad turned against him. And I’m not saying he wouldn’t have gone the limit against him in the circumstances. He didn’t mind a little sharp practice, he expected it and he could deal with it, but if there was a lot of money involved, , , And then, his vanity would be desperately hurt if he found out that for once he hadn’t been the smartest operator around.”
“And when you pitched into him about pinching his own letter, he did deny all knowledge of it, didn’t he?”
“He did,” agreed Leslie dubiously, “but he could just as well have been lying like a trooper, I took it he was. Still, I suppose it could have happened like that.”
Jean had sat silent and intent throughout this exchange, her eyes turning from one face to the other as they talked, her chin on her fists. She made a sudden movement of protest. “No, it couldn’t,” she said, “it didn’t. I’m sorry, boys, there’s just one thing wrong with it, but it makes it all wrong. Oh, I’m not saying it couldn’t be Mr. Shelley who did it, but if so, it didn’t happen like that.”
They had both turned to stare at her. “Why not?” they asked together.
With the gentle reasonableness and absolute authority of a kindergarten teacher instructing her brighter charges, Jean told them.
CHAPTER XIII.
OCTOBER CAME IN cold and gusty, with squally days and ground frosts at night; the grass in front of the main offices of Armiger’s Ales stopped growing and shrank into its winter sleep, and the leaves began suddenly to fall from the trees thicker than rain, until the pure, slender skeletons showed through the thinning, yellowing foliage against a blown and blustery sky. Inside, the full heating system was put into use for the first time that season. Ruth Hamilton, coming down the stairs at five o’clock on Thursday evening, listened to the moaning of the wind outside the long staircase window and hunched her shoulders. It was going to be a stormy night; the last fine spell had broken, and the last traces of summer had blown away in a day.
Old Charlcote, the pensioner who manned the janitor’s desk in the hall, had come out of his cage and had his coat on already. Miss Hamilton was usually the last of the staff to leave, he often had occasion to curse her inflexible sense of duty, though never above his breath, she being the force she was in the affairs of the firm. He was just pulling on his home-knitted navy-blue mittens, the tail of one eye on the clock, the other on the stairs, and only a very small part of his attention indeed on the person who was doing his best to engage it. What on earth did a boy from the grammar school want here at this hour, or, for the matter of that, at any hour?
“What is it, Charlcote?” asked Miss Hamilton, sailing authoritatively across the polished floor from the foot of the stairs. “Is anything the matter?”
Why couldn’t she have been just one minute later? The kid would have been safely off the premises, and they all could have gone home. Now that conscience of hers would probably insist on probing into the last recesses of whatever the little pest wanted, and he’d have to hang about for an hour or more before he’d be able to lock up and get out.
“Nothing we can do anything about, miss. This young fellow was asking for Mr. Shelley, but he’s left about ten minutes ago. I don’t suppose it’s anything very urgent.”
The boy, gripping his school-bag very tightly under his arm, said vehemently: “It is urgent. I did want awfully to talk to him tonight. But I suppose if he’s gone, , , ” The constrained voice faded out rather miserably. The eyes, large and anxious and very bright, dwelt questioningly upon Miss Hamilton’s face, and hoped for a sign of encouragement. She thought she saw his lips quiver. “It’s difficult,” he said. “I don’t know what I ought to do.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Shelley left a little early tonight. He has a lot of work on his hands just now.” She didn’t go into details; what could this child know about the case that was preoccupying Ray Shelley’s time and thought? “I’m afraid you won’t be able to contact him tonight, I know he has an appointment, and they’re liable to be at work most of the evening.” The appointment was with counsel, and would include an interview with Kitty. “Won’t tomorrow do? He’ll be in tomorrow.”
“I shan’t be able to skip school,” explained the boy with self-conscious dignity. “I should have been earlier, tonight, only I had to stay for rugger practice. I did hurry, I hoped I might be in time.” He had certainly hurried his shower, there were still traces of playing-fields mud beneath his left ear and just along the hairline beneath the thick chestnut thatch at his left temple. Miss Hamilton’s shrewd eyes had not missed them; she knew quite a lot about boys. There was something decidedly wrong with this one, behind that composed, strained front of his; it showed no less clearly than the tide-marks.
“Haven’t I see you before somewhere? I’m sure I ought to know you.”
A pale smile relaxed the fixed lines of his face for a moment. “We played your club a couple of times this summer, I expect you saw me at tea. I bowl a bit, spins, not awfully good. My name’s Dominic Felse.”
“Felse? Not the same Felse, isn’t that right, the detective-sergeant?”
“He’s my father,” said the boy, and clutched his bag even more tightly, with a sudden contortion of nervous muscles, as though he had shuddered. “It’s something about the case that I wanted to talk to Mr. Shelley about.”
“But your father surely wouldn’t, , , “
“He doesn’t know,” said Dominic with a gulp. “It’s just an idea of my own that I thought I ought to put to Mr. Shelley.”
