Missing or Murdered by Robin Forsythe Read Free Book Online Page A

Algernon Vereker sat lost in thought. His memory had flitted back some years to a glorious day during the May eights at Oxford—the day on which Lord Bygrave had introduced him to David Winslade. It was the last occasion on which he had seen him. Subsequently he had heard a great deal of him from his uncle, Lord Bygrave: how he had done moderately well at the University, been a very fair athlete and gone through the War with credit. Bygrave would have liked to see him called to the Bar; but, to a legal career, Winslade had objected strongly. He had told his uncle definitely that his life was to be spent if possible in the open air, and shortly after demobilization he had bought Brookwater Farm, near Hartwood. So far he had found it an arduous and lean living, but he liked it and was determined to stick to it, and his pluck had won his uncle’s unexpected admiration. Lord Bygrave, however, was a man of deeds rather than words, and he had made David Winslade heir to his considerable fortune as a result of that admiration.
    â€œMary Standish may prove rather a disruptive factor in the problem,” thought Vereker. “I wonder what Bygrave would think of it?” He rubbed his chin and smiled thoughtfully. “Perhaps a piece of youthful philandering on young Winslade’s part. But, if there wasn’t a wedding-bell appeal in his glance, I’m no thought-reader! A domestic servant at a country inn! Not the usual type, I admit. Very pretty—I should like to paint her portrait—speaks perfectly correctly, has a nice taste in hosiery, might be anybody. She might even be an aristocrat already hiding from the wrath to come or that has come—who knows! In any case a jolly nice girl. I give up the problem. Tea, tea, that’s the first consideration!”
    He walked across to the little summer-house and rang the bell on the wicker-table within. The shrill note seemed to summon Hebe with some of the celerity of a genie of the magic lamp, and Hebe was Mary Standish, rosily flushed and undeniably exalted. Vereker made a mental note and gave his order. When she returned and was arranging what Vereker loved to term facetiously the “tea equipage,” he metaphorically leaped from his ambush by asking:
    â€œDoes a Mr. David Winslade ever visit the White Bear?”
    A penetrating glance, a deeper flush were followed by a swift self-control and the reply:
    â€œYes, sir, he often lunches here. He had tea here this afternoon. Do you know him?”
    â€œI met him once many years ago. I was aware that he lived in the parish. He is Lord Bygrave’s heir, and I was wondering whether he was here on the day of Lord Bygrave’s arrival or on the day of his sudden and inexplicable disappearance.”
    â€œNo, sir. I think I can say definitely that he wasn’t.”
    â€œYou would have remembered?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œCan you remember when he was here last?”
    There was a momentary hesitation. Miss Standish appeared as if trying to recollect; her lip quivered nervously—or rather Vereker thought it did.
    â€œTuesday following Lord Bygrave’s departure, I think,” she replied slowly.
    â€œHe never mentioned the subject of Lord Bygrave to anybody in the inn, I suppose?”
    â€œI cannot say, sir. He never mentioned it to me. I was unaware that he was Lord Bygrave’s heir.”
    â€œDon’t think my persistent questioning of you rude, but a village inn is the centre of all village news and gossip. Perhaps you heard of Mr. Winslade’s movements, say, during the period of Lord Bygrave’s stay here?”
    â€œI don’t know the village well enough to be interested in its news or gossip, sir.”
    The reply had a forbiddingly cold tone, and a deeper flush had suddenly mounted to Mary Standish’s cheek.
    â€œBy Jove, this is glorious toast!” came the swift and tactfully irrelevant exclamation.
    There was a pause, a