Missing or Murdered by Robin Forsythe Read Free Book Online

of possible murderers—and in this case they do not at present impress me as of much importance—it seems to me one of the most reasonable lines to take. You never know what secret political organizations even the mildest public men may fall foul of. Well, there’s nothing more to be learned here just now. I think I’ll get about the village and see if I can glean any information from the inhabitants.” And with these words Inspector Heather rose, thanked Vereker for the lunch and left the inn.
    For some moments Algernon Vereker sat in silence, thinking over all the facts of the case as they presented themselves to him in their present amorphous state.
    â€œThe bally stuff lacks cohesion!” he exclaimed at length. “There’s an absence of affinity among the atoms.” He thereupon stood up and looked out of the coffee-room window into the rambling sunlit garden behind the inn.
    It was a warm afternoon in early October, and that glance into the garden brought another and quite different trend of thought into Vereker’s mind. He strolled leisurely into the sunshine and, picking up a wicker-chair, took it into a very sheltered nook screened from the rest of the garden by a thick evergreen hedge. He sat lazily down in the chair and thrust out his long, active legs in front of him.
    â€œThe essence of detective work,” he soliloquized, “seems to be the power to concatenate.” And after unburdening his mind of this wisdom the material influence of good food and sound ale eclipsed the spiritual side of Algernon Vereker, and he fell fast asleep.
    An hour or two later he awoke, rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms lazily and sat up in a more erect posture. His thoughts involuntarily swung round to the subject of tea. He glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock, and the hour forced on him the conclusion that there were few things on earth comparable with good tea. Vereker was about to rise and order it when a ripple of laughter issuing from another corner of the garden fell on his ear. The voice was unmistakable; it was that of Mary Standish. Vereker rose and glanced over the evergreen hedge. In a summer-house on the other side of the lawn sat a youth with the fair hair, blue eyes and profile of the Greek god so acceptable to the consumers of everyday fiction. He purported to be drinking tea. The paraphernalia for the ceremony lay in front of him on a small wicker-table. As a matter of fact he was holding Mary Standish’s hand between his own and gazing with unconcealed rapture into a pair of unmistakably responsive eyes. Vereker at once resumed his seat. There occur in life little tableaux which may be entrancing to the imagination; they appeal to the mind’s eye of every lover and poet; they can be viewed with equanimity in an illustration if the illustration be good, or with sympathy on the stage, but they cannot be looked upon in actuality. So thought Vereker as he once more reclined at ease and out of sight. He began to probe further into the psychology of this little problem of human delicacy. It flung out a thousand elusive questions. He pulled out his notebook and roughly jotted down some of his musings. Meanwhile he was conscious that the idyll was still being enacted behind his back.
    â€œAnd I want my tea!” he exclaimed petulantly to himself. Shortly afterwards he made convulsive efforts to stifle a sneeze. In vain. It burst and metaphorically dissipated a rainbow, Vereker heard the two voices grow distant as the pair left the garden, and when they were gone he suddenly brought his hand with a resounding slap on his thigh.
    â€œWell, I’m damned!” he exclaimed. “It has taken me some time to place this tea-garden Apollo. Fancy my not recollecting his face at once: the association with Mary Standish evidently jammed the working of the subconscious mind. David Winslade—Lord Bygrave’s heir!”

Chapter Four
    For a long while