The Monk of Hambleton Part 31

"Good gracious, I don't think so!" Miss Ocky straightened in her chair and shot a quick glance at the detective. "He's the agitator type--more bark than bite. I don't believe he'd have the courage to kill a man. Is--is he suspected?"

"I can't tell you. We may know more about that after the inquest--unless Norvallis gets it adjourned, which he may. I don't think he'll want to show his hand so soon."

"This will be a spicy bit of gossip for Janet," mused Miss Ocky half to herself, then caught Creighton's raised eyebrow and explained her remark. "Janet Mackay is my maid, and she used to know Maxon in Scotland when he was a youngster."

"Um. Have they seen anything of each other lately?"

"No. Janet has no use for him. She says he was always getting into trouble as a boy."

"He doesn't seem to have lost the habit. Is Janet a tall thin woman who wears steel-rimmed gla.s.ses?"

"Yes. You noticed her in the kitchen this morning, didn't you? She told me you went through that way."

"Has she been with you long?"

"Twenty-five years. She came here as a sort of companion-maid to my sister and me a few years before my father's death. She was very fond of Lucy, but she didn't care so much for Simon, so when I went East I took her with me. We've been together ever since."

"No need to ask, then, if you trust her."

"Trust her! Trust Janet?" Miss Ocky's voice was warm. "I'd trust her with my life!"

Creighton dropped the subject, but added another fragment to the data he was compiling. Janet, the nondescript lady, didn't care much for Varr, and was acquainted with Charlie Maxon. Important? Um--too soon to say. He concentrated his attention once more on his search.

"Nothing," he finally announced briefly. He rose as he spoke--he had been on his hands and knees the better to examine the floor in front of the desk--and shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "Said I expected as much, didn't I? Now for that window in the living-room."

Krech had finished his story and Miss Ocky was looking at the detective with considerable interest and some respect.

"That was clever of you to notice the shallowness of the footprints,"

she said. "And your deductions from them and the note are quite shrewd. A small educated man instead of a large illiterate one?"

"Yes. Not that I'd advise you to bet on it. Quite often the brilliant deduction falls by the wayside and leaves the obvious conclusion to jog home a winner. You had a good look at the fellow didn't you? You got the impression that he was tall? How tall?"

"Oh, six feet perhaps. It was dusk, you know, and he brushed by me very quickly. I was too scared to do much observing!"

"Uncomfortable experience," said Krech, "having a masked monk pop out at you from a peaceful countryside. What did you think about it? Did you know the fool legend?"

"N-no. I learned about that next day from Sheila Graham. I was telling her my experience and she remembered the story and went and got the book."

"She's the daughter of Billy Graham, the manager whom Varr had decided to get rid of?" Creighton's face was serious.

"How in the world did you know _that_!" cried Miss Ocky.

"Gossip. I love to listen to it. Ever talk to a chap named Nelson, a watchman at the tannery? He's full of it." It was a trick of Peter Creighton's to sound most flippant when he was soberest inside, and Krech, who knew it, fell to watching him sharply. But the detective's face was inscrutable. "So Graham's daughter had a book containing the legend of the monk, eh? Just what was the trouble between him and Mr.

Varr?"

"Well--I suppose I may as well tell you," said Miss Ocky reluctantly.

"It wouldn't be right to keep anything back from you, especially as you'd be bound to hear about it anyway. The trouble between them was mostly started by my brother-in-law, who objected to the interest his son was showing in Sheila Graham. They considered themselves engaged--"

"What? Varr had a son?" Creighton broke in on her abruptly, unconsciously raising his voice in his surprise. "Where is he?"

"His father drove him from the house!" cried a hoa.r.s.e voice from the door. "I don't know where he is. He ought to be with me now---_and I don't know where he is_!"

Creighton wheeled swiftly toward the speaker, Krech shot out of his chair as though a powerful spring had been released beneath him, and Miss Ocky darted, birdlike, to the side of a slender figure which swayed in the doorway, gripping the woodwork for support. It was Lucy Varr.

"Lucy! What are you doing down here?" Miss Ocky circled her sister's slender waist with a gently compelling arm. "Come with me!"

"I rang and rang and n.o.body came. I wanted water. I was _so_ thirsty!" She muttered the words feverishly and the brightness of her big eyes told its own story of a tortured brain. "I heard somebody talking in here--"

"Come, Lucy! I'll bring you the water."

"Was it you who was asking for my son?" Her gaze pa.s.sed over Krech, whom she appeared vaguely to recognize, and fixed itself on the grave, sympathetic face of the detective. "You're Mr. Creighton, aren't you?

They tell me you have come to find out who killed my husband--"

"Lucy, dear! Please--"

"I--I'm sure I wish you luck!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Varr," said Creighton quietly, choosing to ignore the irony in her tone. "I'll do my very best, I promise you."

His promise was made to her retreating figure as she finally permitted her sister to lead her away. Left alone, the two men exchanged a quick glance and were silent for a minute. Then Krech jerked his head toward the door significantly.

"Could it be--her?" he whispered.

"Not grammatically!" retorted Creighton with a grin, much as if his friend's query had freed him from a spell. "Piffle, Krech. If a woman like that--high-strung, nervous--were to kill a man it would be in some swift fit of pa.s.sion. Varr's death came as the climax of a deliberate campaign of persecution. She isn't capable of that."

"If you can tell me what any woman can or can't do--"

"Oh, I grant them an infinite capacity for surprising a man! However, this interesting little interlude isn't getting us anywhere. Come into the living-room. I want a look at that window before daylight goes."

"The police have probably mucked that all up," said Mr. Krech gloomily.

"I heard one of the detectives tell Norvallis they had found nothing.

Anyway, if I don't miss my guess, they were so satisfied with something they're keeping up their sleeve that I don't believe they paid more than cursory attention to other details. Just gave everything a perfunctory once-over and let it go at that."

"What have they got, Creighton? Do you know?"

"Charlie Maxon seems an attractive prospect," replied the detective.

They had gone to the window in the living-room and he was busily engaged upon the same eager scrutiny that he had given the desk. "They may have discovered something that links him with the murder--that business of taking plaster casts of footprints is very suggestive.

Maxon could have reached here after breaking jail in plenty of time to knife Varr in keeping with the schedule as we know it. He's an ugly customer by reputation, and he certainly had no reason to love Simon Varr."

"How did he get the dagger? He didn't steal it, because the evening it was stolen he was safe in the hoosgow."

"Correct, Krech, absolutely correct." The detective was intently studying the bra.s.s lock of the door through his powerful gla.s.s. "Now you've started thinking, persevere! If Maxon committed the murder but didn't steal the knife, what's the answer?"

"An accomplice!" cried Krech. "A whole gang, perhaps!"

"Oh, don't be extravagant. One accomplice will do for the time being."

Creighton dropped to his knees and transferred his interest to the flooring of the piazza outside the window and the carpet within. "_By golly!_"