Missing or Murdered by Robin Forsythe Page A

his mind the salient facts of the case as he understood them.
    â€œI won’t rest, Darnell, till I discover the whole truth about this mysterious affair. I think I’ve already left Heather with all his myrmidons a lap or so behind.”
    Shortly afterwards Algernon Vereker was sound asleep—even Inspector Heather’s loud snore, audible from the next room through the lath-and-plaster wall, failed to disturb his tranquil repose.

Chapter Five
    When Vereker came down to breakfast next morning Inspector Heather was already there, and apparently busy. Seated at a small table in the breakfast-room, he was writing up all his memoranda in a notebook. On Vereker’s appearance he looked sharply round; then, closing his book, carefully thrust it into his breast pocket.
    â€œI’ve got a car down from town,” he said, “and when you’re ready, Mr. Vereker, we’ll start. They tell me (from headquarters) that Mr. Sidney Smale has cabled that he is on the way back to Bygrave Hall.”
    â€œFamous, inspector, famous! There’s something awe-inspiring about your methods. There’s no getting away from you. Smale, instead of making giant strides for the Sahara, promptly walks back right into the jaws of death. Of course it’s bluff, we know; he’s going to pretend he’s entirely innocent and all that sort of thing. What a fool he must be!”
    â€œWe’ll soon take any bluff out of him,” remarked the inspector stoutly.
    â€œPrick the bladder of his audacity, so to speak,” remarked Vereker, cracking another egg. “I shall enjoy the stern drama. I never did care much for Smale. He doesn’t like me either, because I used to call him Mr. Snail—quite inadvertently, you know. I’m frightfully inexact about names.”
    Inspector Heather lit his pipe and continued to smoke thoughtfully until Vereker had finished his meal.
    An hour or so later their car swung round the drive and pulled up before the stately porch of Bygrave Hall. As Vereker stepped out of the car he turned to Inspector Heather.
    â€œWhat do you think of the place, Heather?”
    â€œBit of a ruin in parts, Mr. Vereker, but it looks a nice, old place for an English gentleman to live in.”
    â€œVery neatly expressed. I’m glad you like it. I wish the place were mine. It’s a fine example of the late fortified manor of the Middle Ages. It radiates the spirit of mediaevalism, and that’s why I love it. Do you know, Heather, just one glance at Bygrave Hall reveals to you one of the most remarkable defects of our own age.”
    â€œWhat’s the defect, Mr. Vereker?”
    â€œLack of dignity. Our modern attempts at dignified architecture are so ineffectual because we are no longer dignified. The character of an age is expressed in its Art and, when we try to express the characteristic called dignity in these days, we are generally merely pompous. If you were to live any length of time in Bygrave Hall it would change you from a detective inspector into a knight, and you would forget all about the Bygrave case. It would ruin a modern politician in a fortnight—but I’m wasting time; let’s get in and make our inquiries.”
    On their entry they were met by Farnish, who since Lord Bygrave’s departure for Hartwood had had complete control of the household management. He was the typical trusted servant of the old type, a type that under the swiftly changing order of things is passing away. He knew Mr. Algernon Vereker as one of his master’s most intimate friends, and that fact alone was sufficient to win, for Vereker, Farnish’s loyalty and esteem. An English gentleman was to him one of the finest of God’s handiworks, and he had very definite opinions as to who did and who did not come in that category. He had long since placed Algernon Vereker among those who could do no wrong. Whether he understood Vereker’s whimsical attitude