The Mystery At Lover's Cave

It is not an easy exercise in hospitality to entertain a guest who has just announced that he is a double murderer. Small talk about the weather and the latest books seems something of an anticlimax, while to display a polite interest in his hobby and question him as to details might be misconstrued as mere indecent curiosity. On the whole it is difficult to see how the situation (should it ever occur to the reader) could be better handled than it was by Roger.

“Did you really?” observed that gentleman politely, pulling himself together with an effort as the three tankards preceded the landlord into the room. “Well, well!—er—cheerio!”

“Cheerio!” echoed the self-confessed murderer gloomily, and extracted what comfort he could from his tankard.

“Won’t you sit down?” mumbled Roger, still mechanically polite.

“Thanks.”

The trio seated themselves and looked at one another in silence.

“The—the inspector ought to be here soon, I should think,” volunteered Roger helpfully.

“Will he?”

“Yes, I should think so.”

“I see.”

There was another pause. Roger frowned at Anthony. Anthony continued to preserve unbroken silence; the situation was evidently beyond him.

It was rather beyond Roger too, but he flung himself valiantly into the breach once more. “Have you been waiting long?” he enquired desperately.

“Not very.”

“Oh!—Well—he ought to be in any minute now.”

“I see.”

There was another pause.

“Look here,” said Roger still more desperately, “what are we to talk about?”

Woodthorpe smiled faintly. “I suppose it is a bit awkward for you fellows,” he remarked.

“Infernally awkward,” Roger agreed warmly. “I don’t know what the etiquette is on these occasions at all. Besides, they’ll be coming in to lay the supper in a minute. Shall I tell them to lay a place for you, by the way?”

“I don’t know. That rather depends on the inspector, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I should think he’ll allow you to have some food at any rate, whatever he does with you afterward. I’ll tell the girl when she comes up. In the meantime, if you don’t care for talking here’s the morning paper.”

Colin Woodthorpe smiled again. “Thanks,” he said and began to read it diligently, upside-down.

“Well, I suppose I’d better go along and wash,” Roger observed very airily. “Coming, Anthony?”

They escaped from the room.

“Was this your solution, Roger?” Anthony asked, when they had gained the privacy of one of their four bedrooms.

“Don’t rub it in!” Roger groaned. “And I’d got it all worked out so beautifully. Dash it, I can’t believe I was wrong! I wonder if the chap can be making a mistake?”

“Fellow ought to know whether he’s murdered somebody or not, surely,” Anthony stated judicially.

“Yes, I suppose he ought. It would be a difficult thing to overlook, wouldn’t it? Well, all I can say is, dash the chap! This is the second time I’ve solved this mystery wrong.—Anthony, I don’t want to go back to that room a bit. Let’s sit down and smoke and talk about Ibsen.”

“I’ll go down and tell them about that extra place first,” said Anthony, and extricated himself with neatness and despatch.

Twenty minutes later the maid knocked on the door and informed them that supper was ready. With reluctance they returned to the sitting-room.

Their guest was by this time a little more composed, and a scrappy conversation upon various subjects of no interest at all was determinedly maintained. Nevertheless it was with considerable relief that Roger hailed the arrival of Inspector Moresby ten minutes later. He did not wish to see young Woodthorpe, to whom he had taken a liking, being bundled off to prison, but the situation really was a very difficult one.

Woodthorpe jumped to his feet immediately the door opened. “Inspector,” he said, with a return to his former abrupt manner, “I’ve been waiting to see you. I want to give myself up for the murders of Mrs. Vane and Meadows.”

The inspector gazed at him coolly for a moment. Then he closed the door behind him. “Oh, you do, do you?” he said without emotion. “So it was you who did it after all, was it, Mr. Woodthorpe?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well,” said the inspector tolerantly, “boys will be boys, I suppose. What’s for supper, eh, Mr. Sheringham?”

“C-cold veal and salad,” stammered Roger, somewhat taken aback. He had never seen an experienced policeman arresting a murderer before, but this certainly did not coincide with his ideas of how it should be done.

“Well, let’s hope the salad’s better than it was last night,” observed the inspector with some severity, and took his seat at the table.

Roger was not the only person to whom things did not seem to be going right. “Well, aren’t you going to arrest me, Inspector?” asked Woodthorpe in bewilderment.

“All in good time, sir, all in good time,” replied the inspector, busying himself with the veal. “Business first and pleasure afterward, perhaps, but food before either of them.”

“And drink before that,” murmured Roger, who was beginning to recover himself. Roger thought he saw a gleam of light in the darkness.

Woodthorpe dropped back into his seat. “I—I don’t understand,” he muttered.

“You’ve got no salad, sir,” said the inspector in tones of some concern. “Help yourself and then pass the bowl across to me.—Well, well! So it’s you who’s been giving us all this trouble, is it?”

“If you like to put it that way,” replied Woodthorpe stiffly. Certainly it must be galling to any conscientious murderer, who has just brought off a neat right and left, to hear his exploit described merely as ‘troublesome.’ There is nobody like an inspector of police for showing things up as they prosaically are.

“And why did you suddenly make up your mind to come and tell me all about it, sir?” pursued the inspector, with the air of one making polite conversation.

“I don’t see that I’m called upon to give you my reasons.”

“Of course not,” the inspector agreed with the utmost heartiness. “Worst thing in the world you could do. Never give reasons, that’s my advice. Have some more veal? Mr. Walton, you’ve finished; cut Mr. Woodthorpe some more veal.”

Anthony, who had been watching this exchange with open mouth, started violently and began to cut the bread.

“I don’t want any more veal, thank you,” said Mr. Woodthorpe, flushing angrily.

“Just as you like, sir, of course,” murmured the inspector, and bestowed a large wink on Roger.

Roger, to whom the gleam of light had now become a broad beam, returned the wink with interest.

Unfortunately Woodthorpe intercepted both. He sprang wrathfully to his feet again, knocking his chair over behind him. “Look here,” he burst out, “I’ve had about enough of this fooling. I told you what I came here for, Inspector. Are you going to arrest me or are you not?”

The inspector looked up from his plate. “Well, sir,” he said blandly, “since you ask me so candidly—no, I’m not!—But I’d like to ask you a few questions, perhaps.”

For a long moment the eyes of the two men held each other, while a deep flush slowly overspread the younger’s face. Then Woodthorpe turned away and marched over to the door.

“Then you can jolly well come up to my home and ask me them there,” he announced as he opened it. “I’ve had about enough of this.” The door closed behind him with a bang.

“That looks like a walk for me, I’m afraid,” observed the inspector with regret.

“Yes,” Roger laughed. “He got one back on you there, Inspector.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Anthony. “Good Lord!”

“What’s the matter, Anthony?” Roger asked sympathetically.

“You mean—that chap never did it at all?”

“No, not exactly that, Anthony,” said Roger with a grave face. “It’s simply that Inspector Moresby has a conscientious objection to arresting anybody for murder under the age of thirty.”

“Ass!” growled his cousin, and helped himself to stewed gooseberries. “Well, what about your story now, then? Did you know Roger had solved the mystery, Inspector?”

“No, Mr. Walton, I didn’t,” said the inspector with interest. “Has he?”