“Precisely, sir. Mr Vereker called out to know what was the matter. The stranger kept on smiling, in what I could only think a very peculiar way, under the circumstances, and after a moment he said, amiable as you please: “You'd better be at home to me, old fellow.” Those were his exact words, and the effect of them upon Mr Vereker was remarkable. Mr Vereker was a gentleman with a high complexion, but he turned quite pale, and stood there with his hand on the banister, staring.”
“Did he seem to be afraid?”
“I should not like to say that, sir. He looked to me to be very angry and amazed.”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“He did not speak at all, sir, until the stranger said that it would save a lot of unpleasantness if he had a few words with him alone. Then he gave a kind of choke, and told me to let the man in. I did so, of course, and Mr Vereker led the way into this room, and shut the door.”
“How long were they both here?”
“Until Mr Vereker left the house, sir, which he did in company with his visitor. It might have been twenty minutes, or half an hour.”
“Have you any idea what took place between them? Was there any quarrel?”
“I should not call it a quarrel, sir. I never heard the stranger's voice raised once, though I could not help but hear Mr Vereker shouting occasionally. It is my belief that it was money the man wanted, for Mr Vereker said, “Not one penny do you get out of me!” several times.”
“Did you hear him say anything else?”
“Not a great deal, sir. The term scoundrel was frequently made use of, and Mr Vereker said once, very loudly: “So you think you can frighten me, do you?” But what the other man replied I don't know, him speaking all the time in a soft voice. After a little while Mr Vereker seemed to calm down, and I was unable to catch what was said. But at ten minutes to eight they both came out of the library, and by the way Mr Vereker damned me for being in the hall to open the door for him I judged that something had happened to put him in a bad temper. The other man was as amiable as ever, and seemed to be laughing up his sleeve, to my way of thinking. He said Mr Vereker could give him a lift, and Mr Vereker threw him a look which quite startled me, accustomed as I was to his moods. I could see he hated the man, and it is my belief that he had a deal of trouble forcing himself to agree to take him in the car with him. But whatever the reason he did actually do so, the stranger making himself very much at home, and Mr Vereker with his mouth shut like a trap. That, sir, is the last I ever saw of Mr Vereker.”
The Superintendent had listened to this story with an unmoved countenance. “Would you know the man if you were to see him again?”
“I think so, sir. I should, I believe, recognise both his smile, and his voice. His person was not, however, in any way remarkable.”
“Very well. You do not know of anyone else who may have visited Mr Vereker on Saturday?”
“Mr Vereker was at his office until lunch-time, sir, and no one called at this house during the afternoon. He went out at four o'clock, and did not return until shortly before seven. Miss Vereker rang up at about six, but my orders being to inform anyone who wanted him that he had gone out of town, I did so.”
“Do you know why Mr Vereker gave that order?”
“It was not unusual, sir. He had been out of temper all day, and when that occurred he never wanted to see or speak to anyone, least of all a - a member of his family.”
“I see. One other question: do you know what Mr Vereker's plans were for Saturday evening?”
“Oh no, sir! Mr Vereker was never communicative. I inferred from his attire that he was dining in town before motoring into the country, but where or in what company I fear I have no idea.”
“Thank you. I won't keep you any longer, then.”
The butler bowed, and looked towards Giles. “I beg your pardon, sir, but in the face of this unexpected occurrence there is a feeling amongst the staff that everything is very unsettled. I do not know whether the staff is to be kept on - ?”
“That will be for the heir to decide,” answered Giles pleasantly. “Meanwhile, just carry on as you are.”
“If you say so, sir,” said Taylor, and withdrew.
Hannasyde waited until he had gone before saying: “What did you make of that, Mr Carrington?”
“Not very much,” shrugged Giles. “I daresay it might be a good thing if you could run the seedy stranger to earth, but it sounds to me as though it were a somewhat inexpert blackmailer at work. Would you like the safe opened first?”
“Yes, please. And a certain amount of animus displayed against the chauffeur. Or merely protective measures?”
“Probably a bit of both,” said Giles, opening a very obvious door in the panelling beside the fireplace, and disclosing a steel safe. “Servants are always anxious to protect themselves against any possible accusation -even,” he added bitterly, “when it's only one of watering the whisky. Here you are.”
The Superintendent moved across the room to his side, and together they went through the contents of the safe. There was nothing in it relevant to the case, only share-certificates, a bank-book, and some private papers. Giles put them back, when the Superintendent had finished with them, and shut the doer again.
“We'll try the desk,” he said, going over to it, and sitting down in the swivel-chair.
“Did you bring the Will?” asked Hannasyde.
Giles drew it from his inner pocket, and handed it over. The Superintendent sat down on the other side of the desk, and spread open the crackling sheets, while Giles sought amongst the keys on the ring for one which fitted the drawers of the desk.
The Superintendent read the Will, and at the end laid it carefully down, and said in his measured voice: “I see that the residuary legatees are Kenneth and Antonia Vereker, who share equally all that is left of Arnold Vereker's fortune when the minor legacies have been paid.”
“Yes,” agreed Giles, glancing through a paper he had taken from one of the drawers. “That is so.”
“Both of them, then, benefit very considerably by Arnold Vereker's death?”
“I can't tell you, off hand, how much Arnold's private fortune amounted to. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of sixty thousand pounds.”
The Superintendent looked at him. “What about his holding in the mine?”
“That,” said Giles, laying a sheaf of papers on one of the heaps he had made on the desk, “in default of male issue by Arnold, goes to Kenneth, under the terms of his father's Will. I thought you'd want to see that, so I brought a copy.”
“Thanks,” said Hannasyde, stretching out his hand for it. “I really am grateful. You're saving me a lot of time, Mr Carrington.”
“Don't mention it,” said Giles.
The Superintendent read Geoffrey Vereker's Will, knitting his brows over it.
“This is a most extraordinary document,” he remarked. “All that seems to be left to his other children is his private fortune - and even that is divided between the four of them. What's the meaning of it, Mr Carrington?”
“It isn't as extraordinary as it appears,” replied Giles. “The Shan Hills Mine was an obsession with my uncle. In his day it wasn't the huge concern it is now. My uncle believed in it, and made a private company to work it. It was to be developed, and it was on no account to pass out of the family. So he left his holding to Arnold, with a reversion to Arnold's eldest son, if any; and failing a son, to Roger and his heirs; or, in the event of Roger's death without legitimate male issue, to Kenneth. The private fortune amounted to thirty-three thousand pounds, and was at that time the more substantial bequest. It was divided equally between the four children. But a few years after my uncle's death, his belief in the potentialities of Shan Hills was justified by the discovery, on one of the leases, of a very rich deposit — a limestone replacement deposit, if you're interested in technicalities. Arnold floated the mine as a public company - and you know pretty well how it stands today. Arnold's holding probably represents about a quarter of a million.”