CHAPTER VIII. Winnie Cotterill Pays a Visit to Frattenbury
“Hurry up, Winnie, breakfast is all ready.”
“All right,” came a voice from somewhere, “I’ll be with you in a minute. You begin—don’t wait for me.”
Maude Wingrave seated herself at the breakfast table and poured out a cup of tea. It was a tiny room, high up in a block of flats, looking over Battersea Park. The girl who sat at the table was short and dark-haired, with a merry expression on her somewhat plain face.
“You are the limit, Winnie,” she exclaimed as a newcomer entered the room, a girl of about five and twenty, with a fresh, clear-cut face and grey eyes. “You’re a downright lazy pig.”
“I can’t help it. I simply hate getting up. What’s for breakfast? I’m hungry.”
“Go on—help yourself. Do something towards running this establishment, if it’s only that. I’ve not too much time. Can’t look after you.”
And she glanced at her wrist-watch.
“You ought to be thankful, Winnie Cotterill, that you don’t have to keep office hours.”
“I am,” replied Winnie. “Providence never intended me to be punctual, so Providence has provided me with work that doesn’t need a 9 a.m. beginning each day. Pass the toast.”
“What are you doing to-day?”
“Finishing the cover of the Christmas number of Peter’s Magazine, my dear, and I’m thankful to get it off my hands. Then I’m going seriously to tackle that short story the editor of The Holborn sent me to illustrate. A ‘horrible murder,’ Maude. With a detective in it. I’m going to make him a little ugly, snubbed-nose creature, wearing big police boots. True to life, my dear—none of your impossible Sherlock Holmes.”
The other girl laughed.
“I’ve got an interview with our new ‘serial’ this morning,” she said— “a great big man of fifty, with a solemn beard and spectacles. He’s selling us the most romantic piffle you ever read. There’ll be a boom in our issue when the servant girls get hold of it. Hand over the paper if you’re not using it. I want to glance at the news before I go.”
Winnie Cotterill passed the newspaper to her friend. Maude Wingrave opened it.
“Hallo!” she exclaimed, “talk about your story with a ‘horrible murder’ in it—here’s a real one!”
“What is it?”
Maude read out the head-lines:
“Mysterious Crime.”
“Yachtsman Murdered on Board His Yacht.”
“Inquest To-day.”
“Who is it?” asked Winnie, as she reached over for the teapot.
Maude began to read:
“Early yesterday morning a shocking discovery was made on board a small yacht, anchored in the little harbour of Marsh Quay, on an estuary of the Channel, about two miles from the cathedral city of Frattenbury. Mr. Reginald Templeton, a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, only lately returned from South Africa——”
Winnie Cotterill dropped her knife and fork on her plate.
“Who?” she exclaimed.
“Mr. Reginald Templeton. Why?”
“Oh, my dear!”
“What is it?”
“Pass me the paper. It must be—yes—it is—murdered! Oh, Maude!”
“Do you know him?”
“Why, of course I do! Ever since I can remember. He was a great friend of my mother, and always so kind to me. I always called him Uncle. Why, I only had a letter from him last week. He was coming to London, soon, he said.”
“Oh, you poor dear! Are you sure it’s the same man, Winnie?”
“It must be,” said the girl, looking at the paper again. “Yes—when he wrote he said he was yachting on the South Coast. Oh, Maude, what am I to do?”
Maude had risen from the seat and was looking over her friend’s shoulder.
“Look,” she said, pointing with her finger, “he’d been dining the night before with his cousin, Canon Fittleworth. Do you know him?”
“I’ve heard Uncle speak of him. No, I’ve never met him.”
“Why not write to him—or telegraph?”
Winnie shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Of course, you see, Mr. Templeton isn’t any relation of mine. But I was awfully fond of him. Poor old Uncle! I know what I will do, dear,” she went on impulsively.
“What?”
“I must finish that cover this morning. But I’ll go down to Frattenbury this afternoon and see Canon Fittleworth—yes, I will.”
Maude had glanced at her watch again, and was putting on her gloves.
“Will it be any good?” she asked.
“Oh, Maude, I must! He’s been so awfully good to me. Why, my dear, when my mother died, and there wasn’t a penny, it was Mr. Templeton who paid for my art training. I owe my living to him—really. Don’t you see?”
Maude nodded her head sympathetically.
“I know, dear. I should do just the same. I’m so sorry. Yes—go down to Frattenbury. I wish I could go with you, but I simply have to get to the office.”
“Don’t worry about me, dear. I shall take a handbag in case I stay the night—I can get a room at an hotel. I’ll wire and let you know if I’m not coming back this evening.”
“Thanks. I’d like to know. Good-bye!”
And she nodded brightly as she left the room to go to her work. She was sub-editress of one of the many popular weeklies issued by a well-known firm of publishers and newspaper proprietors. The two “bachelor” girl friends had been sharing the same flat for nearly a year.
Winnie Cotterill slowly finished her breakfast, reading the details of the tragedy as she did so—a couple of columns in the usual blaring journalistic style, followed by a short article on local police methods, detrimental, of course, to the said local police. She was getting into a calmer frame of mind now, though still much upset by the shock of hearing such unexpected news.
Breakfast over, she went into the little adjacent room she dignified by the name of “studio” and got to work on the magazine cover. When it was finished, she took a bus to Fleet Street and deposited it with her editor, in whose office she consulted a Bradshaw.
She had already packed a small handbag and, after a light lunch at a restaurant, she caught the afternoon train to Frattenbury, arriving about six, and at once made her way to the Close.
Canon Fittleworth was closeted in his study with Anthony Crosby, who had returned from Marsh Quay and was staying the night at an hotel. A maid announced the fact that a young lady wished to see the Canon, and handed him a visiting card on a salver.
The Canon adjusted his pince-nez and read the name out loud.
“Miss Winifred Cotterill.”
“Eh?” interjaculated the lawyer, looking up from some papers he was studying.
“Miss Winifred Cotterill,” repeated the Canon. “I don’t know her.”
“But I do,” said Anthony Crosby, “at least, I know of her. She is, in a way, connected with this case, and I was going to communicate with her as soon as I got back to London.”
“Oh, well, in that case, we’ll see her together. Show Miss Cotterill in, Jane.”
The Canon looked her over quickly as she entered. He was, for the moment, half afraid that there might have been some unpleasant incident in his cousin’s life, with some undesirable female connected with it. His suspicions were quickly removed. He saw a neatly-dressed girl with a refined and pleasant face, and took a step towards her.
“Miss Cotterill?”
“I’m afraid I must apologise. I came down to Frattenbury because—because I read about Mr. Templeton’s murder in the paper this morning, and you are his cousin, and——”
“Now do sit down, Miss Cotterill,” interrupted the Canon, “and before I ask you anything else—have you had any tea?”
“I’ve only just arrived,” replied the girl.
“I thought so. Now, I’m going to ring for tea. I’m sure you want some, and then you can tell us all about it. Mr. Crosby,” and he waved his hand in introduction towards the lawyer, “heard your name when it was announced, and says he knows of you.”
Winnie Cotterill looked surprised.
“You know me?” she asked.
“I’ve heard about you, Miss Cotterill,” said the lawyer. “You see, I had the privilege of being a friend of Mr. Templeton, as well as his legal adviser, and he mentioned you several times. I quite understand what a shock this terrible affair must be to you.”
“He was most awfully kind to me,” said the girl, her voice quavering a little, “and I felt I must come down and find out more about it.”
Anthony Crosby nodded sympathetically. The maid brought in tea. Winnie Cotterill explained how Mr. Templeton had been a friend of her mother, and what he had done for her. Then she listened while the Canon told her about the murder.
“But why, why was he murdered?” she asked. “I can’t understand.”
“Ah, my dear young lady,” said the Canon, “that is what we all want to know. We suspect that robbery was the cause of it and, of course, the police have it in hand. Now tell me,” and he looked at his watch, “I naturally take an interest in any friend of my poor cousin. Were you thinking of going back to London to-night? I ask because the funeral will take place to-morrow afternoon—the coroner has given an order for burial—and I thought you might like to be present.”
“I should, very much,” replied the girl, “and I’ll get a bed at an hotel for to-night. Perhaps you can tell me of one?”
She had risen to go.
“Sit down and have another cup of tea,” said the Canon with a smile. “I’ll be back in a minute or two.”
He came back with his wife. Mrs. Fittleworth greeted the girl warmly.
“You poor thing!” she said; “my husband has just told me about you. I’m so sorry. But you mustn’t think of going to an hotel. Do let us put you up for the night.”
“It’s very kind of you.”
“Nonsense. Of course you will stay with us. Come along, you must be very tired.”
She took the girl out of the room, and the two men were left together. The Canon looked inquiringly at Anthony Crosby. The latter took a cigarette from his case, tapped it deliberately, lighted it, and began.
“I was going to tell you about Miss Cotterill, anyhow,” he said. “From all I have gathered, you know very little of your late cousin?”
“Very little indeed. I so rarely saw him. And he was a reticent man. I really know nothing at all about his affairs.”
The lawyer nodded.
“Yes,” he agreed, “he was distinctly reticent, I know. I suppose I know as much as anyone, and that isn’t a great deal. Now, about this girl—I speak in confidence, of course?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Templeton—like most men—had a romance in his life.”
“He never married.”
“No,” said the lawyer deliberately, “the other man did that—it was years ago now.”
“Who was the woman?” asked the Canon, his curiosity aroused.
“This girl’s mother,” replied Crosby. “That is as much as he told me. She was left a widow when Winifred was about five years old—as far as I understand.”
“Why didn’t he marry her then?”
The lawyer smiled grimly.
“I always consider that parsons, doctors and we lawyers have more chances of knowing about human nature than the rest of the world. And you ought to know that very often when a man doesn’t get his first chance of marrying the woman he loves, he won’t take a second chance when it comes. That’s the only answer I can give you.”
“Yes—it’s often true,” said the Canon thoughtfully. “I’ve seen it more than once.”
“Exactly. Well, the fact remains that Templeton didn’t marry Mrs. Cotterill. But he stood by her and her child. The girl has told you he paid for her training as an art student.”
The Canon nodded.
“Just so. Well, before he went abroad to South Africa he came to me and asked me to draw up his will. I have it at my office. If there isn’t a later one, of course, it stands good for probate.”
“I see.”
Crosby flicked the ash off his cigarette and smiled at the Canon.
“I’m afraid you won’t benefit by it,” he said.
Canon Fittleworth laughed.
“It’s no disappointment,” he replied; “I never expected anything.”
“Then I hope that, as his nearest relative, as I suppose you are, you won’t be envious when I tell you he has left everything he possesses to this girl—Winifred Cotterill.”
“Indeed?” said Canon Fittleworth. “No, I’m not a bit envious. The girl is an orphan, and I’m only too glad. Besides, after what you tell me, it’s perfectly natural. Romance has a strange sway over human affairs.”
“But,” said the other slowly and deliberately, “unless Templeton made anything out of his last venture—which I doubt—it won’t be very much—not two thousand pounds.”
“I see—I knew nothing of his affairs. But I always imagined him to be comfortably off.”
“He should have been—but for my profession,” said the lawyer. “No, don’t blame me. I did the best I could for him, but he would not listen to reason. He got involved, some years ago, in an unfortunate and expensive lawsuit—a question of adjacent properties. I advised him, at the time, to compromise, but he was adamant. The case went against him, and he insisted upon carrying it to the Court of Appeal. The appeal was quashed—as I knew it would be. The costs were enormous—he insisted on having the best counsel—and he had to sell the whole of his property to pay them. The other man bought the property, and Templeton never forgave him.”
“I remember hearing something about it at the time,” said the Canon. “So that was why he sold the little place in Buckinghamshire! What a pity! I suppose he was in the wrong, though?”
“I didn’t say that,” replied the other dryly. “It was a case of law. And I admit that the law is not always just. Anyhow, he became a comparatively poor man. Besides, he spent what money he had on travelling. An explorer, out on his own, can’t expect to make money unless he discovers a gold-mine. And Templeton didn’t. Even if he had, he’d not the business capacity to make anything out of it. Poor chap! ‘De mortuis,’ eh?”
“Quite so,” said the Canon. After a silence he remarked:
“Are you going to tell the girl—now?”
Anthony Crosby shook his head.
“Not for the moment,” he replied. “I prefer to act professionally. As a matter of fact, I didn’t bring the will. It’s at my office, and I had to come straight down here from my home. Besides, there’s a sealed packet that Templeton handed me just before he sailed—only to be opened by me in the event of his death. It may contain a codicil, or even another will. So it wouldn’t be fair to tell her yet, you see. You won’t say anything about it, will you?”
“Of course I won’t. Must you be going now?”
For the lawyer had risen.
“I must. I’m staying at the ‘Dolphin,’ and I’ve some letters to write. I shall see you to-morrow—at the funeral. I want to have a consultation with the police in the morning.”
It was about ten o’clock that evening that the Canon, who had retired to his study after dinner, came into the drawing-room. His wife and daughter and Winnie Cotterill were seated there.
“Who was with you in the study, dear?” asked his wife. “I heard Jane showing someone in.”
“Major Renshaw,” replied her husband, seating himself. “He came in to have a smoke and discuss the events of the day.”
Mrs. Fittleworth glanced swiftly at Winnie Cotterill. With a woman’s instinct she knew the girl had had nearly enough strain that day. She was just going to try to turn the conversation when the Canon went on in his best parsonical manner that brooked no interruption:
“Of course, I refrained from asking him very much about any possible clues, and so on,” he said. “The police naturally wish to keep these things to themselves. But he did tell me something, which isn’t exactly private, because it’s being talked about at Marsh Quay. There was a young man lodging at the inn there—the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ An artist, apparently, though no one seems to know anything about him.”
“Go on, father,” said Doris; “this sounds most exciting.”
“Well, the strange thing is that he left quite suddenly yesterday morning—just before the unhappy affair was discovered. The landlady says he came downstairs very early and announced his intention of leaving at once.”
The three women were listening intently. The Canon went on:
“He was, it seems, cycling into Frattenbury. But he never went there. The police have been making inquiries, and only found out this evening that he stayed last night at Selham—three miles from Marsh Quay down the estuary, you know. He left there this morning, so they say, and must have been close to Marsh Quay, because he was seen riding in the direction of Frattenbury. Then all trace of him was lost again.”
“Oh, daddy, how exciting! Do they think he committed the murder?”
“Well, Renshaw didn’t say that—but, of course, it’s suspicious going off like that, and the police are making every effort to find him. They have his description, and it shouldn’t be difficult.”
“Do they know his name?” asked Mrs. Fittleworth.
“They know the name under which he stayed at the inn,” replied the Canon, “but, of course, it may be a fictitious one.”
“What is it, daddy?”
“Grayson—Harold Grayson.”
“Oh!”
They all turned towards Winnie Cotterill, from whom the exclamation proceeded. The girl was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her hands clutching at its arms, her face deadly pale.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Fittleworth, crossing over to her.
“Oh—it can’t be,” said Winnie in a low voice, half choking. “He couldn’t have done it—I know he couldn’t have done it.”
“What—do you know him?” asked the Canon anxiously.
The girl nodded.
“If it’s the same—Mr. Grayson. Yes. He was at the Art School with me. And I’ve seen him since. I—I know him quite well. It’s impossible. Oh, oughtn’t I to tell the police? It’s dreadful to think of.”
Mrs. Fittleworth, who noticed the deep blush to which the girl’s ashy cheeks had given place, with a motherly instinct put her arm over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “The Canon has said the police don’t necessarily suspect him. If he is really the Mr. Grayson you know—and he may not be, after all—of course he will be able to explain. You’re quite done up with all this terrible affair, and I’m going to take you to bed. Come along.”
“Thank you,” said Winnie gratefully, “you are kind to me. I’m very silly, I know, but I can’t bear to think that he—he is suspected. I know he couldn’t have done it.”
“Of course he couldn’t,” said Mrs. Fittleworth soothingly. “Now—I must insist. You come to bed, dear.”
When the Canon himself went to bed that night he had to listen to a little lecture. And he took it calmly—from force of habit—much more calmly than if it had come from the Dean, or even the Bishop. Whereat it is evident that even for cathedral dignitaries there is a higher court than the mere ecclesiastical.
“Really, Charles,” said his wife, “you ought to have noticed that the poor girl had gone through quite enough for one day.”
The Canon tried defensive argument, which was foolish of him—for he ought to have remembered that he never succeeded.
“But how was I to know, my dear, that she was acquainted with the young man?”
“Oh, do be reasonable, Charles. You ought not to have mentioned the subject of the murder at all at that time of night. Doris and I had been doing our best to get the girl’s mind off it. And then you came in and started it all again!”
“Why didn’t you stop me, my dear?”
“Stop you!” exclaimed his wife; “stop you when you once begin to hold forth on a subject. How can anyone stop you? I can’t. There. I know you didn’t mean to upset her, but you ought to have thought.”
“I suppose I ought,” said the Canon resignedly. “I’m very sorry. Good night, my dear.”