The Polo Ground Mystery by Robin Forsythe

Author:Robin Forsythe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2016-03-28T04:00:00+00:00

Have got in touch with Edmée prospects look costly treasury depleted—RICKY

Procuring a telegram form from the messenger, Vereker scribbled the reply:

Lunch with me at L’Escargot one o’clock Monday—ALGERNON

Handing it to the boy for transmission, he set out at a brisk pace towards the gates of Vesey Manor.

Mrs. Burton, the gardener’s wife, was one of those comfortable women who take existence with a sane and versatile enjoyment. No note in its pleasant roundel was unduly stressed; there was a quiet, happy interest in birth, in love, in marriage, and even a funeral, though a gloomy emotional necessity, could yield its quota of sweet tears. Funerals had to stand the test of criticism from the point of view of successful functions. “Uncle Jim’s funeral was pretty good, but I’ve seen better in our family,” were her words on a recent occasion, and they are instructive. She and her husband had finished tea when Vereker arrived. Victor Burton, her husband, was a thin, weather-beaten-looking man of very few words. His vital juices seemed to have been sapped as a tribute to his wife’s bland exuberance, but he had an air of complacency which suggested that the process had not been altogether unpleasant. When Vereker explained that he was a friend of Mr. Ralli and would like to ask a few questions about the car she had heard start up and pass the lodge on Thursday morning, Mrs. Burton shed any pretence at reserve and became affable, if not voluble. She was unable, however, to add much to what Vereker had already learned from Inspector Heather. In the midst of the conversation her son, Reginald Burton, entered, and hearing a discussion about a motor-car at once became alert. He was a fresh-looking youth of about sixteen, who had just got employment in a garage and petrol station at Nuthill. At this phase of his existence the world seemed to him to have been created as a fitting mise en scène for the internal combustion engine. With the superciliousness of youth and its pride in knowledge, he brushed his mother aside and took the matter into his own hands.

“I heard both cars, sir,” he said, addressing Vereker.

“Then there were two cars?” asked Vereker, with surprise.

“Oh, yes. I’m nearly certain the first was a Rover Meteor and I know the second was a Trojan. Nobody could mistake a Trojan engine.”

“At what time did you hear the first car?”

“I couldn’t say exactly, but it must have been between two and half-past two. I was lying awake with toothache. When I heard the first car, I sat up and looked out of the window. You can see right down the Nuthill road from my window. The driver was larking about with his headlights, putting them on and then dimming them. Having a game with them, I suppose. It wasn’t a pitch-dark night, and I could see fairly well across the meadow next to the road. A woman was in the meadow about twenty yards from the hedge when I looked out.

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