The Counsellor Read online

  “No, not the actual things. But I saw her attaché case on the seat beside her when she passed me; it’s rather worn and has her initials on it, “H.T.” She always uses it for her tennis things. And besides, she mentioned she was going to play tennis.”

  “That seems conclusive,” admitted The Counsellor. “But does one usually need a cheque book at a tennis-party? Because it seems to be missing.”

  Whitgift knitted his brows at this information.

  “It’s gone, is it? You got old Treverton to hunt for it, I suppose? She keeps it always in that drawer there, but I didn’t want to go ferreting among her private papers myself to make sure. I wonder. . . .”

  For some reason, the news about the missing cheque-book seemed to have depressed him.

  “Just a question,” said The Counsellor, after a pause. “Was she a fast driver, in the ordinary way?”

  Whitgift considered for a moment or two.

  “No, nothing furious, so far as I’ve seen,” he decided. “Call it a cruising speed of forty. That would come near it on the average. She was careful in built-up areas, always. I’d call her a good driver.”

  “Likely to get tired, easily?”

  “No, not a bit. She was always in good condition, what with golf and tennis and walking. She wouldn’t tire easily.”

  “Well, that’s all for the moment,” said The Counsellor, moving doorwards. “If any news of the car turns up, I’ll let you know.”

  “Do all you can,” urged Whitgift. “There’s no use pretending; I’m damnably anxious about what’s happened to her. Why should she dash off like this, at a moment’s notice? She was her own mistress, as old Treverton’s always saying. Nobody could hinder her going, if she wanted to, wherever she’s gone. Then what’s the point in clearing out like this, without a word to anyone and no luggage with her? I simply can’t make it out.”

  He bit his lip as though in perplexity.

  “I wonder now,” said The Counsellor, using one of his clichés which irritated his subordinates.

  Chapter Four

  The Track of EZ 1113

  WHEN The Counsellor reached his office next morning, he found on his desk a small pile of six neatly-docketed letters: replies to the inquiry in his broadcast. Without glancing over them, he picked up his desk-telephone and summoned Sandra Rainham and Standish.

  “Sit down,” he directed, with a grin. “Not being Sherlock Holmes, I need a double allowance of Watsons.”

  Sandra took one of the arm-chairs; Standish seated himself on the edge of The Counsellor’s desk.

  “This is how it is,” The Counsellor began.

  He gave them a terse account of what he had seen and learned at Grendon St. Giles. Long practice in preparing his broadcasts had made him, when he chose, a master of précis-construction. Neither listener offered any comment; but at the end Standish nodded towards the papers on the desk.

  “You offered a quid reward for any report of that car,” he said to The Counsellor. “That’s £6 you’re out, up to the present. I’ve sent off the cheques.”

  The Counsellor picked up the papers and glanced at the dockets.

  “Right! St. Neot’s . . . Tuxford . . . Baldersby Gate . . . Temple Sowerby . . . Gretna . . . Crocketford,” he said, reading the headings. “Well, it’s plain sailing at the start. That car went right up the Great North Road, aiming for Carlisle. Just pass me the A.A. Road Book of Scotland, Wolf. Thanks.”

  He turned over the pages, consulted the maps, and then left the volume open on his desk.

  “After Carlisle, it turned off through Gretna, Annan, and Dumfries. Crocketford’s about ten miles west of Dumfries. And that’s the last news of it. Now let’s hear the details. Here’s a letter from St. Neot’s.”

  He picked up the top letter of the pile, unfolded it and read it aloud:

  Sunday

  Dear Sir,

  If you want to know about a car with the number EZ. 1113, I can tell you, and I’ll be glad of your one pound reward for these people took in eight gallons of petrol from my pump and gave me a bad pound note when they paid me. I can’t afford to lose money this way, so I’ll be glad if you’ll forward your reward by return.

  There were two people in the car. A girl in a grey dress with brown hair and a clean-shaven fair-haired fellow in grey flannels. It was him gave me the bad note, and he had an American accent or something like it. They had tea at the hotel here, near my garage. That would be about half-past five when they left, going towards Crosshall. I’ll have the law on them if I can, for giving me bad money. Please send reward by return.

  “He seems to have come out all square in the end,” Standish commented. “What’s he grumbling about?”

  The Counsellor paid no attention but picked up the next letter.

  “Crosshall would bring them on to the Great North Road again,” he pointed out. “Evidently they followed that up. This is from The Kirkcaldy Temperance Hotel, Tuxford. Just see what the A.A. Hotel List says about it, Sandra.”

  Miss Rainham picked up the green volume, turned to the page, and shook her head.

  “Not listed. There’s only one hotel given under Tuxford: a two-star one.”

  “Well, never mind just now,” said The Counsellor. “This seems to be from the proprietress of the other place.”

  He again read aloud:

  12th September

  Sir,

  I listened to your broadcast on Sunday. I always listen to your broadcasts. I’ve come to look on you as a real friend, though I’ve never seen you. You always say such sensible things and give silly girls such good advice. I’ve just been wondering why you want to know about this car with the number EZ. 1113, for I’m sure the young lady that was in it was quite a nice young lady, though it did seem to me queer her going about all alone with the gentleman and staying the night at hotels. But there was nothing wrong, I do assure you. They wrote their names in my book: Miss H. Treverton and Mr. H. Querrin of the U.S.A. I’ve copied his name from my book, to make sure I get it right, since it’s a queer one.

  They arrived here just about eight in the evening, last Thursday and wanted dinner, which wasn’t quite convenient, but I gave them quite a nice little cold dinner and they didn’t mind that, as she told me herself. She had only an attaché case for luggage, but it had her initials on it, H.T., and she had a tennis-racquet. He had two new suitcases with his initials on them too. I looked to see, because one never knows what sort of people may come in cars. But after dinner, I had a talk with her and when I found he was her half-brother and they wanted separate rooms, I knew it was all right. She was in a grey coat and skirt, with quite a fashionable hat, and he had dark grey flannels on. She told me her half-brother had spent some time in America, and I thought as much myself though really I mistook him for an Australian, having a brother out in Australia myself that I haven’t seen for years.

  They spent the night here, and slept very comfortably, as they said in the morning, and after they had breakfast, they went off again about nine o’clock. I overheard them say something about being over the Border that afternoon, so I suppose they were going to Scotland.

  And before I stop, I’d like to thank you again for your broadcasts which I enjoy very much every Sunday. They are magnificent. I am glad indeed to have the privilege of helping you in this matter, for I am sure it is for some good purpose.

  “Nice to be appreciated,” confessed The Counsellor cheerfully. “I was afraid she’d spoil it all by reminding me of the reward. You sent it all right, Wolf?”

  “Of course,” said Standish, wearily. “And what’s the next article?”

  “Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said The Counsellor, holding up his hand. “Just ask a question. Doncaster’s only five miles or so from Tuxford. In their shoes, I’d have pushed on to there. Just look up Doncaster for hotels, Sandra.”

  “One three-star and three two-star ones,” Miss Rainham reported after consulting the book.

  “Just ask another question,” Standish
put in. “Isn’t it possible that these people are hard up and want to do their trip on the cheap? It seems possible. We’re not all so flush as yourself, Mark.”

  “But this Querrin man?” Miss Rainham interjected before The Counsellor could reply. “Is he her half-brother?”

  “Far from it,” The Counsellor explained. “I learned at Grendon St. Giles that he’s an American and once upon a time he seemed to be an aspirant for her hand. But perhaps I’d better give you the whole tale.”

  He amplified the information on this point which he had already given them.

  “You say Mr. Whitgift saw that attaché case in the car as the girl drove away from the house,” Miss Rainham said thoughtfully when The Counsellor had finished. “And evidently she had it with her at Tuxford, since the landlady mentions the initials. Well, she may have gone to bed in tennis shorts. But it doesn’t sound likely to me. I’d bet that she had night things, a brush and comb, and so forth in that attaché case. Or else Mr. Querrin had them in his suit-cases. In either case, this affair had been planned beforehand and wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment business.”

  “She may have bought these things en route,” said Standish.

  “Have it your way,” said Miss Rainham, “and then explain why she went off at all like that. My idea makes sense, and that’s always something.”

  “Well, then,” retorted Standish, “explain why she poses as his half-sister, if they’ve gone off together by pre-arrangement.”

  “How could they have got married at that time in the afternoon,” Sandra retorted. “It’s after hours. Mark’s impression was that she’s a nice girl. And the initials on the luggage were different, so she couldn’t pretend they were brother and sister, could she? I’m just pandering to your evil mind, Wolf. Besides, if you remember the tone of the landlady’s letter, you’ll see that the dear old soul wouldn’t have had them under her roof at all, without some pretence of the sort.”

  “Granted,” agreed Standish. “But in that case they could have gone on to Doncaster and found somebody less particular.”

  “I dare say,” Sandra admitted impatiently. “Go on, Mark. Read the next one.”

  The Counsellor, who had listened only absentmindedly to the argument, picked up the next letter.

  “This is from Baldersby Gate,” he explained. “It seems to be written by some infuriated female or other. If you’ll stop arguing for a moment or two, I’ll put you wise to the contents. Here goes.”

  Spreading out the letter on his desk he began to read:

  Dear Sir,

  If you are friends of the people in car No. EZ. 1113, then you can tell them from me that I’ve put the police on their track for killing my dog. They came through here between ten and eleven last Friday morning and ran right over the poor little thing, and if it wasn’t done on purpose it looked more like that than an accident. When they pulled up after striking the poor tittle creature, I spoke to the woman who was driving the car and told her what a pet it was, and all she said was: “I’m not fond of dogs.” Not a word about being sorry or anything, which was the least any human being could have done. And when I began to say some more about their carelessness, the man who was sitting beside her said: “Drive on, Helen,” and she just drove away. But I took their number and went and complained at the police station, so they needn’t think that they’ll get off scot free, for they won’t. I’ll have the law on them for killing my dog, such a nice quiet pet it was, a springer spaniel that I’d had for years and I was so fond of it. I’ve written to the S.P.C.A. about it, too, because they could easily have helped the accident and it wasn’t poor Brownie’s fault, for a dog has as much right on the road as they have with their grand cars. I’ll make them pay for it, though no money would ever pay me for the loss of my pet. So you just tell them that, if you know them.

  “What a beastly thing to do!” Sandra said, hotly.

  “Well, pass that for the moment,” suggested The Counsellor. “We’ll take the next dip in the lucky-bag. It comes from Temple Sowerby.

  Respected Sir,

  The car EZ.1113 you’re looking for came to this hotel where I’m a waiter between one and two o’clock on Friday. The parties in it, a youngish man and a girl in grey who was a real good-looking piece, had lunch here. They made a rumpus about the wine-list, because we hadn’t good enough drinks in stock for their taste, it seems, and when they got the best we had, they seemed to think they’d been given the vinegar bottle by mistake. They might have known we weren’t the Carlton or the Ritz. They took in eight gallons of petrol before they went off.

  I know I’m right about the car number, for I remember the EZ because I once had an Aunt Eliza, and I remember the 1113 because I have a habit of totting up the figures of the first car that comes here after one o’clock each day and if it tots up to 5, I put my money on No. 5 in the next race I bet on, and I remember the 1113 totted up to 6.

  Please send me the one pound reward by return as I have an absolutely sure tip for a Thing that’s bound to win at Warwick and I want to get my money on before the odds shorten.

  “That’s from The Nag’s Tail Hotel,” added The Counsellor. “Just look up Temple Sowerby, Sandra, and see what the A.A. says about it.”

  Sandra Rainham turned over the leaves of the Handbook rapidly.

  “There’s only a one-star hotel listed here—eight bedrooms—and it isn’t The Nag’s Tail.”

  “Then presumably our friend’s right in saying that his hostelry could hardly be mistaken for the Ritz, if it’s not on the list at all. But I like the way he stands up for his shop. Evidently he doesn’t care to have its cellar despised. Wish him luck with his bet, I’m sure.”

  He paused, then added to Sandra:

  “What’s the next town further on? Penrith, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, 6 miles further on.”

  “Just look up Penrith’s hotel list.”

  “Two three-stars and one two-star,” she reported.

  “H’m! Let’s see. Appleby’s about six miles ahead of Temple Sowerby on the road, isn’t it? Yes? What’s it got in the hotel line?”

  “A two-star and a one-star.”

  The Counsellor nodded without comment and picked up the next letter from the diminishing pile. As he did so, a curious expression passed over his face.

  “Now after these dull details, we get a flash of romance,” he explained. “It surprises me as much as it’ll surprise you. It’s from Gretna Green, no less.”

  Dear Sir,

  Send your pound to me, at the above address. The car EZ. 1113 came here before four o’clock last Friday. The young chap and the girl on board it stood up before the anvil at the Old Blacksmith’s Shop and got spliced in proper form. I was called in as a witness. The girl signed herself Treverdon or Treverton and the man’s name began with a Q, which I noticed specially though I don’t remember the rest of it. I remember the car number, because after the wedding, when they came out, he said something like: “Lucky number, isn’t it, darling? Eleven and thirteen make 24—just your age.” After that, they had tea and drove off along the Annan road.

  P.S. please send the pound in a registered letter for fear it goes astray.

  “‘Curiouser and curiouser’,” mused The Counsellor. “A lot of good confused thinking to be done on the data we’re getting. But we’ll take the facts first, before we start on theory. Here’s the last of the batch. It’s from an A.A. patrol.”

  Dear Sir,

  At 5.40 p.m. on Friday, 9th Sept., I found the brown Vauxhall 12 h.p. mentioned in your Sunday broadcast standing about a mile east of Crocketford on the Dumfries road. The back tyre on the near side was flat. The young gentleman in the car had his arm in a sling and the young lady couldn’t manage the brace to get the wheel off. I rendered the necessary assistance, and changed the wheel for them. They asked me some questions about the road to Stranraer. I gathered they were too late for the night boat to Ireland and would have to wait for the morning one instead. They said something about
Moville, wherever that is, and being in time there, anyhow. They seemed in very high spirits, and I noticed the young lady wore a wedding-ring which seemed new, so perhaps that was why. They had a couple of suitcases and an attaché case in the back seats of the car. When the wheel was changed, they drove on towards Crocketford and I saw no more of them of course. The foregoing is strictly confidential.

  “Got his eyes and ears about him, that chap,” commented The Counsellor. “H’m! Moville? That’s in Donegal. But why Moville? . . . I have it! The Anchor Line boats stop, off Moville, to pick up and set down Irish passengers. That must be it. Or might be, anyhow.”

  He swung round on his two subordinates.

  “Now, my dear Watsons, it seems to be your turn to take a hand. My throat’s dry with all this reading. State your views.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Sandra frankly, “is why this girl should have gone off like this, all in a hurry and with no notice, and got married in that beastly way at Gretna Green. It doesn’t sound decent, to me.”

  “Well,” said The Counsellor judiciously, “if they wanted to catch the Anchor Line boat, perhaps they hadn’t time down here, except by special licence. And special licences cost £25. Gretna Green may come cheaper. Besides, you’ve got to give reasons for wanting a special licence. And the Archbishop of Canterbury might not have approved of their reasons, whatever they were.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Standish in his turn, “is how an English girl and an American could contract a valid marriage in this way at all. My people are Scottish, and I know definitely that you can’t have a legal marriage unless at least one of the parties has his or her usual place of residence in Scotland, or has lived in Scotland for twenty-one days immediately preceding such a marriage. The first condition blocks out the girl; the second one blocks out this American, since he’s been in England during part at least of the twenty-one days.”