The Postmaster's Daughter Part 33

"The first thing he will suggest," and Doris's voice waxed unconsciously bitter. "He knows that dad will be busy with the mails for an hour after tea."

"Good!"

"I think it bad, most disagreeable."

"You won't find the position so awkward if you are playing a part. And that is what I want--a bit of clever acting. Lean on those railings, and make Siddle believe that your heart is on Mr. Grant's lawn. You know the kind of thing I mean. Dreamy eyes, listless manner, inattention, with smiling apologies. You will annoy Siddle, and a cautious man in a temper becomes less cautious. Force him to avow his real thoughts. You will learn something, trust me."

"About what?"

There were no tears in Doris's eyes. They were wide open in wonderment.

"About his att.i.tude to this tragedy. Do this, and you will be giving Mr.

Grant the greatest possible help. He needs it. Next Wednesday, at the adjourned inquest, he will be put on the rack. Ingerman will fee counsel to be vindictive, merciless. Such men are to be hired. Their reputation is built up on the slaughter of reputations. I want to understand Siddle before Wednesday. By the way, what's his other name?"

"Theodore."

"Theodore Siddle. Unusual. Well, your half hour is nearly up. Will you do what I ask?"

"I'll try. May I put one question?"

"Yes."

"You said you had something altogether different in view before we met.

What was it?"

"I'll tell you--let me see--I'll tell you on Thursday."

"Why not now?"

"Because it is the hardest thing in the world for a woman to be single-minded, in the limited sense of concentration, I mean. Focus your wits on Siddle to-day. I don't suggest any plan. I leave that to your own intelligence. Vex him, and let him talk."

"Vex him!"

"Yes. What man won't get mad if he notices that his best girl is thinking about a rival."

This time Doris did not blush. She was troubled and serious, very serious.

"I'll do what I can," she promised. "When shall I see you again?"

"Soon. There's no hurry. All this is preparatory for Wednesday."

"Am I to tell my father nothing?"

"Please yourself. Not at present. I recommend you."

The car had stopped. It sped on when Doris alighted. She would be home with her cakes at three o'clock, and Mr. Martin would never have noticed her absence.

"A fine bit of work, if I may say so," exclaimed Fowler appreciatively.

"But I am jiggered if I can imagine what you're driving at."

Winter was cutting the end off a big cigar. He finished the operation to his liking before answering earnestly:

"We stand or fall by the result of that girl's efforts. Furneaux thinks so, and I agree with him absolutely. After five days, where are we, Mr. Fowler? In the dark, plus a brigand's hat and hair. But there's a queer belief in some parts of England that a phosph.o.r.escent gleam shows at night over a deep pool in which a dead body lies. That's just how I feel about Siddle. The man's an enigma. What sort of place is Steynholme for a chemist of his capacities? Dr. Foxton has the highest regard for him professionally, and I'm told he doctors people for miles around. Yet he lives the life of a recluse. An old woman comes by day to prepare his meals, and tidy the house and shop. His sole relaxation is an hour of an evening in the village inn, his visits there being uninterrupted since the murder. He was there on the night of the murder, too. For the rest, he is alone, shut off from the world.

Without knowing it, he's going to fall into deep waters to-day, and he'll emit sparks, or I'm a Chinaman.... I'll leave you here. Good-by!

See you on Tuesday, after lunch."

The superintendent drove on alone. He pondered the Steynholme affair in all its bearings, but mostly did he weigh up Winter and Furneaux. At last, he sighed.

"London ways, and London books, and London detectives!" he muttered.

"We're not up to date in Suss.e.x. Now, if I could please myself, I'd be hot-foot after Elkin. I see what Winter has in his mind, but surely Elkin fills the bill, and Siddle doesn't.... What was that word--volt what!"

Doris was lucky. She met Mr. Siddle as she emerged from the back pa.s.sage to the cake-shop. Resolving instantly that if an unpleasant thing had to be done it should at least be done well, she smiled brightly.

"See what you have driven me to--breaking the Sabbath," she cried, holding up the bag of cakes.

"Tea and bread-and-b.u.t.ter with you would be a feast for the G.o.ds,"

said Siddle.

"Now you're adapting Omar Khayyam."

"Who's he?"

"A Persian poet of long ago."

"I never read poetry. But, if your tastes lie that way, I'll accomplish some more adaptation."

"Oh, no, please. Cakes for you, Mr. Siddle; poets for giddy young things like me."

There was a sting in the words. Doris preened herself on having carried out the detective's instructions to the letter thus far.

Arrived in the house she found her father still in the garden, examining some larvae under a microscope. He looked severe rather than studious.

He might have been an omnipotent being who had detected a malefactor in a criminal act. Was Steynholme and its secret felon being regarded in that way by the providence which, for some inscrutable purpose, permitted, yet would infallibly punish, a dreadful murder? She was a girl of devout mind, and the notion was appalling in its direct application to current events.

In the meantime the chemist, evidently taking a Sunday afternoon const.i.tutional, came on Winter, who was leaning on a wall of the bridge and looking down stream--Grant's house being on the left.

He would have pa.s.sed, in his wonted un.o.btrusive way, but the detective hailed him with a cheery "Good day, Mr. Siddle. Are you a fisherman?"

"No, Mr. Franklin, I'm not," he answered.

"Well, now, I'm surprised. You are just the sort of man whom I should expect to find attached to a rod and line--even watching a float."

"I tried once when I was younger, but I could neither impale a worm nor extract a hook. My gorge rose against either practice. I am a vegetarian, for the same reason. If it were not for this disturbing tragedy you would have heard Hobbs, the butcher, rallying me about my rabbit-meat, as he calls my food."

"Well, well!" laughed Winter. "Your ideas and mine clash in some respects. I look on a well-grilled steak as a gift from Heaven, and after it, or before it--I don't care which--let me have three hours whipping a good trout stream. With the right cast of flies I could show a fine bag from this very stretch of water."

"Why not ask Mr. Grant's permission? It would be interesting to learn whether he will allow others to try their luck."

Mr. Siddle strolled on. Winter bent over, keen to discern the gray-backed fish which must be lurking in those clear depths and rippling shallows.