“Never!” replied Mr. Copperdock emphatically. “Although they’d both lived in these parts most of their lives, I don’t suppose they even knew one another by sight.”
“The fact that they had nothing in common makes it all the more puzzling,” said Mr. Ludgrove reflectively. “But perhaps you have thought of a way out of the difficulty?”
A cloud came over Mr. Copperdock’s naturally cheerful face, and there was a marked hesitancy in his tone as he replied. “Aye, I have thought of something, and it’s that that’s been worrying me. Mind, I don’t believe it myself, but I’m in mortal fear lest someone else should see it too.”
“I think I can guess what you mean,” said Mr. Ludgrove gently. “I know as well as you do that it isn’t true, but we’re both of us too well aware of the mischief that can be caused by whispering tongues to treat it as unimportant. You mean that young Colburn was not on good terms with his father, that he and your son are great friends, and that your son sold Mr. Colburn the pipe which is supposed to have been the agency of his death.”
“I do mean that,” replied Mr. Copperdock deliberately. “I mean too that Ted is very sweet on Ivy Tovey, and that poor old Jim wasn’t very keen on the idea. Now you see the sort of lying whispers that might get about if all this was known. And I’m blest if I see what I can do about it.”
“I think you told me that you had some conversation with a Police Inspector last week on the subject of Mr. Tovey’s murder?” suggested Mr. Ludgrove.
“That’s right,” replied Mr. Copperdock. “Very decent sort of chap he was, too. What about him?”
“Do you know where and how to get hold of him?”
“Yes, he left me his card. I’ve got it at home somewhere.”
“Well, Mr. Copperdock, if you will take my advice you will go and see him, and tell him everything you know, as you have just told me. It’s all bound to come out, sooner or later, and if you have already informed the police, your position will be all the stronger. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I suppose I do,” replied Mr. Copperdock reluctantly. “But it seems terrible, like giving evidence against my own flesh and blood.”
“On the contrary, you will be doing the very best for your son. A frank statement of facts is always the best defence of the innocent. Tell your friend the Inspector everything, not forgetting the curious incident of the numbered discs. He will know better than I do what advice to give you in the matter. And, if you feel that I can be of the slightest assistance to you, do not hesitate to come to me at once.”
After some further discussion Mr. Copperdock agreed to follow his friend’s advice, and, after a parting drink, went home, somewhat comforted. The herbalist, having locked the door behind him, returned to the interrupted classification of his plants. But, from the slight frown which passed across his face from time to time, one might have guessed that he was thinking more of his conversation with Mr. Copperdock than of the specimens before him.
V
Inspector Whyland
The death of Mr. Colburn, following so closely upon that of Mr. Tovey, caused a distinct sensation in Praed Street and its immediate neighbourhood. Suspicion was, so to speak, in the air, and anybody known to have been intimate with either of the dead men was looked at askance, and became the subject of whispered comment when their backs were turned. Not that this floating suspicion actually settled down upon any individual head. But Praed Street discovered an uneasy feeling that the two inexplicable deaths of which it had been the scene indicated that it harboured a murderer.
On the Wednesday morning following Mr. Ludgrove’s visit to Suffolk, a man walked into his shop and rapped upon the counter. The herbalist emerged from the back room at the summons, and, as was his habit, glanced gravely at his customer. He saw before him a youngish man, immaculately dressed, who immediately turned towards him interrogatively. “Mr. Ludgrove?” he said.
The herbalist bowed. “That is my name,” he replied. “Can I be of any service to you?”
The stranger placed a card upon the counter, with an apologetic gesture. “I’m Detective Inspector Whyland, attached to the F Division,” he said. “And if you could spare me a few minutes, I should be very grateful. I’m awfully sorry to have to intrude in business hours.”
“Oh, pray do not apologize, I am rarely very busy in the morning,” replied Mr. Ludgrove courteously. “Perhaps you would not mind coming through this door. We shall be able to talk more privately.”
Inspector Whyland accepted the invitation, and sat down in the chair offered him. Mr. Ludgrove having pressed him to smoke, sat down in the opposite chair, and looked at him enquiringly.
“I daresay that you can guess what I have come to talk about,” began the Inspector, with a pleasant smile. “I may as well confess at once that I want your help. We policemen are not the supermen which some people think we ought to be, and most of us are only too anxious to ask for assistance wherever we are likely to get it. And I personally am under a debt of gratitude to you for persuading Mr. Copperdock to unburden himself to me.”
Mr. Ludgrove smiled. “Oh, he told you, did he?” he replied. “It was much the best thing he could do. I hope he convinced you, as he certainly did me, that both he and his son were completely innocent of any knowledge of these queer happenings.”
It was the Inspector’s turn to smile. “He did. I don’t think that Mr. Copperdock is of the stuff of which deliberate murderers are made, and from
