“Confound it all, though, how on earth could we expect him to know that he was being shadowed, and that the canoe had got ahead of him? That’s what I can’t get over. If he’s any sense, realizing that he was being followed and not wanting to be caught, he’ll have left the punt somewhere close to the bridge, and legged it for Oxford by road. Probably he was in time to catch the late bus, which would mean getting to Oxford at a respectable hour. If you feel up to it, of course, we might take the car to Oxford and see if we can track him through the bus people. It’s almost incredible that he should have had the effrontery to go on by river.”
A door opened somewhere in the passage, and for a moment they heard, from the bar, the voices of agriculturists raised in high debate—heard, from the kitchen, the inevitable drone of wireless. The door shut again, and there were uncertain steps in the passage, as of a man hesitating which way he should turn. Then Angela was heard asking, “Did you want anybody?” and an unknown voice replied, “I was wondering if I could see Inspector Leyland. I’m sorry to bother him at such a time of night, but it’s really rather important. My name’s Farris (would you tell him?), Edward Farris.”
It was not likely that the bearer of such a name would be kept waiting. Angela looked in, raised her eyebrows, and held the door open for the newcomer. Four eyes, still blinking after a long trudge in the darkness, turned towards it, and saw, unmistakable on the threshold, the figure of the stranger in the punt.
XXII
Another Story
Mr. Edward Farris, for all his vigorous physique, somewhat recalled in his speech and manner that legendary person who was said to be “descended from a long line of maiden aunts.” His voice was carefully modulated, his pronunciation meticulously exact; he marshalled his thoughts, without apparent effort, under headings A, B and C; he brushed cigarette-ash off his trousers with irritating particularity. In a word, you might have supposed from first impressions that Mrs. Coolman had advertised for a lady’s companion and had got one.
“My name must, I think, be familiar to you,” he began, “assuming, what I suppose I am right in assuming, that your presence here is connected with the recent doings of the Burtell family. Their aunt, Mrs. Coolman, had been very good to me; I was, to all intents and purposes, her adopted child; I had the melancholy privilege of being the last person she saw on this side of the grave. Thank you, yes, soda-water. Right up, please.
“I ought perhaps to explain that the Burtell cousins were not personally known to me, except in their extreme youth. Partly because they saw very little of their aunt, partly because I felt that they must regard me as something of an intruder in the family. I knew them, however, by reputation, and I could not but feel regret when, at the very end of her life, Mrs. Coolman began to take a fresh interest in them. However, it was not for me to interfere. When she asked me what character they bore, I did not like to particularize; but I said it was unfortunate they were on such bad terms with each other. This, of course, was common knowledge.
“Mrs. Coolman was of a somewhat masterful disposition; she liked to influence other people’s lives. She immediately determined that this reproach must be removed from the family. I wrote at her dictation—for her eyesight was failing somewhat—a letter to her nephew Derek, less than a month ago, urging him to effect a reconciliation. He replied not long afterwards, in terms of what I could not help regarding as somewhat insincere affection. Nigel and he, he wrote, had decided to bury the past; they were on terms of frequent communication; and indeed, even as he wrote, he was off for a tour up the river with his cousin in a canoe. The tour had been recommended for his health; but he had no doubt it would prove to be also a pleasure trip, with old Nigel in his company.
“I am afraid that my manner on this occasion must have betrayed a certain incredulity. Mrs. Coolman, with the excitability of those who have the misfortune to suffer from heart trouble, took it amiss; she asked me whether I really supposed that Derek was telling a lie? Did I suggest that she should demand to see the lock tickets? I confess that I was a little put out on my own side. I reminded her that a lock ticket does not specify the number of persons present in the boat. ‘Very well, then,’ she said (I cannot vouch for her exact words), ‘you shall go and see for yourself. You will hire a punt at Oxford in a few days’ time and go up to meet them. If you do not meet them, or if you find on inquiry that they have not been seen together, you shall come back and tell me.’ I supposed at first that she was speaking in irony, but discovered later on that she meant what she
