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diff --git a/10110-h/10110-h.htm b/10110-h/10110-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4c5858c --- /dev/null +++ b/10110-h/10110-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13376 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Postmaster's Daughter , by Louis Tracy</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10110 ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>The Postmaster’s Daughter</h1> + +<h2>by Louis Tracy</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<b>1916</b> +</p> + +<p class="center"> +Also by this author: <i> Number Seventeen, The Wheel of Fortune, The Terms of +Surrender, The Wings of the Morning, &c.</i> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">I. The Face at the Window</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">II. P. C. Robinson “Takes a Line”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">III. The Gathering Clouds</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">IV. A Cabal</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">V. The Seeds of Mischief</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">VI. Scotland Yard Takes a Hand</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">VII. “Alarums and Excursions”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">VIII. An Interrupted Symposium</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">IX. He Whom the Cap Fits—</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">X. The Case Against Grant</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">XI. P. C. Robinson Takes Another Line</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">XII. Wherein Winter Gets To Work</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">XIII. Concerning Theodore Siddle</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">XIV. On Both Sides of the River</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">XV. A Matter of Heredity</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">XVI. Furneaux Makes a Successful Bid</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">XVII. An Official Housebreaker</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">XVIII. The Truth at Last</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>Chapter I.<br /> +The Face at the Window</h2> + +<p> +John Menzies Grant, having breakfasted, filled his pipe, lit it, and strolled +out bare-headed into the garden. The month was June, that glorious rose-month +which gladdened England before war-clouds darkened the summer sky. As the hour +was nine o’clock, it is highly probable that many thousands of men were +then strolling out into many thousands of gardens in precisely similar +conditions; but, given youth, good health, leisure, and a fair amount of money, +it is even more probable that few among the smaller number thus roundly favored +by fortune looked so perplexed as Grant. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, his actions were eloquent as words. A spacious French window had been +cut bodily out of the wall of an old-fashioned room, and was now thrown wide to +admit the flower-scented breeze. Between this window and the right-hand angle +of the room was a smaller window, square-paned, high above the ground level, +and deeply recessed—in fact just the sort of window which one might +expect to find in a farm-house built two centuries ago, when light and air were +rigorously excluded from interiors. The two windows told the history of <i>The +Hollies</i> at a glance. The little one had served the needs of a +“best” room for several generations of Sussex yeomen. Then had come +some iconoclast who hewed a big rectangle through the solid stone-work, +converted the oak-panelled apartment into a most comfortable dining-room, built +a new wing with a gable, changed a farm-yard into a flower-bordered lawn, and +generally played havoc with Georgian utility while carrying out a determined +scheme of landscape gardening. +</p> + +<p> +Happily, the wrecker was content to let well enough alone after enlarging the +house, laying turf, and planting shrubs and flowers. He found <i>The +Hollies</i> a ramshackle place, and left it even more so, but with a new note +of artistry and several unexpectedly charming vistas. Thus, the big double +window opened straight into an irregular garden which merged insensibly into a +sloping lawn bounded by a river-pool. The bank on the other side of the stream +rose sharply and was well wooded. Above the crest showed the thatched roofs or +red tiles of Steynholme, which was a village in the time of William the +Conqueror, and has remained a village ever since. Frame this picture in +flowering shrubs, evergreens, a few choice firs, a copper beech, and some +sturdy oaks shadowing the lawn, and the prospect on a June morning might well +have led out into the open any young man with a pipe. +</p> + +<p> +But John Menzies Grant seemed to have no eye for a scene that would have +delighted a painter. He turned to the light, scrutinized so closely a strip of +turf which ran close to the wall that he might have been searching for a lost +diamond, and then peered through the lowermost left-hand pane of the small +window into the room he had just quitted. +</p> + +<p> +The result of this peeping was remarkable in more ways than one. +</p> + +<p> +A stout, elderly, red-faced woman, who had entered the room soon after she +heard Grant’s chair being moved, caught sight of the intent face. She +screamed loudly, and dropped a cup and saucer with a clatter on to a Japanese +tray. +</p> + +<p> +Grant hurried back to the French window. In his haste he did not notice a long +shoot of a Dorothy Perkins rose which trailed across his path, and it struck +him smartly on the cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid I startled you, Mrs. Bates,” he said, smiling so +pleasantly that no woman or child could fail to put trust in him. +</p> + +<p> +“You did that, sir,” agreed Mrs. Bates, collapsing into the chair +Grant had just vacated. +</p> + +<p> +Like most red-faced people, Mrs. Bates turned a bluish purple when alarmed, and +her aspect was so distressing now that Grant’s smile was banished by a +look of real concern. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very sorry,” he said contritely. “I had no notion +you were in the room. Shall I call Minnie?” +</p> + +<p> +Minnie, it may be explained, was Mrs. Bates’s daughter and assistant, the +two, plus a whiskered Bates, gardener and groom, forming the domestic +establishment presided over by Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“Nun-no, sir,” stuttered the housekeeper. “It’s stupid +of me. But I’m not so young as I was, an’ me heart jumps at little +things.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant saw that she was recovering, though slowly. He thought it best not to +make too much of the incident; but asked solicitously if he might give her some +brandy. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bates remarked that she was “not so bad as that,” rose +valiantly, and went on with her work. Her employer, who had gone into the +garden again, saw out of the tail of his eye that she vanished with a +half-laden tray. In a couple of minutes the daughter appeared, and finished the +slight task of clearing the table; meanwhile, Grant kept away from the small +window. Being a young man who cultivated the habit of observation, he noticed +that Minnie, too, cast scared glances at the window. When the girl had finally +quitted the room, he laughed in a puzzled way. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I dreaming, or are there visions about?” he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +Urged, seemingly, by a sort of curiosity, he surveyed the room a second time +through the same pane of glass. Being tall, he had to stoop slightly. Within, +on the opposite side of the ledge, he saw the tiny brass candlestick with its +inch of candle which he had used over-night while searching for a volume of +Scott in the book-case lining the neighboring wall. Somehow, this simplest of +domestic objects brought a thrill of recollection. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dash it all!” he growled good-humoredly, “I’m +getting nervy. I must chuck this bad habit of working late, and use the blessed +hours of daylight.” +</p> + +<p> +Yet, as he sauntered down the lawn toward the stream, he knew well that he +would do nothing of the sort. He loved that time of peace between ten at night +and one in the morning. His thoughts ran vagrom then. Fantasies took shape +under his pen which, in the cold light of morning, looked unreal and nebulous, +though he had the good sense to restrain criticism within strict limits, and +corrected style rather than matter. He was a writer, an essayist with no slight +leaven of the poet, and had learnt early that the everyday world held naught in +common with the brooding of the soul. +</p> + +<p> +But he was no long-haired dreamer of impossible things. Erect and +square-shouldered, he had passed through Sandhurst into the army, a profession +abandoned because of its humdrum nature, when an unexpectedly “fat” +legacy rendered him independent. He looked exactly what he was, a healthy, +clean-minded young Englishman, with a physique that led to occasional bouts of +fox-hunting and Alpine climbing, and a taste in literature that brought about +the consumption of midnight oil. This latter is not a mere trope. Steynholme is +far removed from such modern “conveniences” as gas and electricity. +</p> + +<p> +At present he had no more definite object in life than to watch the trout +rising in the pool. He held the fishing rights over half a mile of a noted +river, but, by force of the law of hospitality, as it were, the stretch of +water bordering the lawn was a finny sanctuary. Once, he halted, and looked +fixedly at a dormer window in a cottage just visible above the trees on the +opposite slope. Such a highly presentable young man might well expect to find a +dainty feminine form appearing just in that place, and eke return the greeting +of a waved hand. But the window remained blank—windows refused to yield +any information that morning—and he passed on. +</p> + +<p> +The lawn dipped gently to the water’s edge, until the close-clipped turf +gave way to pebbles and sand. In that spot the river widened and deepened until +its current was hardly perceptible in fine weather. When the sun was in the +west the trees and roofs of Steynholme were so clearly reflected in the mirror +of the pool that a photograph of the scene needed close scrutiny ere one could +determine whether or not it was being held upside down. But the sun shone +directly on the water now, so the shelving bottom was visible, and +Grant’s quick eye was drawn to a rope trailing into the depths, and +fastened to an iron staple driven firmly into the shingle. +</p> + +<p> +He was so surprised that he spoke aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“What in the world is that?” he almost gasped; a premonition of +evil was so strong in him that he actually gazed in stupefaction at a blob of +water and a quick-spreading ring where a fat trout rose lazily in midstream. +</p> + +<p> +Somehow, too, he resisted the first impulse of the active side of his +temperament, and did not instantly tug at the rope. +</p> + +<p> +Instead, he shouted:— +</p> + +<p> +“Hi, Bates!” +</p> + +<p> +An answering hail came from behind a screen of laurels on the right of the +house. There lay the stables, and Bates would surely be grooming the cob which +supplied a connecting link between <i>The Hollies</i> and the railway for the +neighboring market-town. +</p> + +<p> +Bates came, a sturdy block of a man who might have been hewn out of a Sussex +oak. His face, hands, and arms were the color of oak, and he moved with a +stiffness that suggested wooden joints. +</p> + +<p> +Evidently, he expected an order for the dogcart, and stood stock still when he +reached the lawn. But Grant, who had gathered his wits, summoned him with +crooked forefinger, and Bates jerked slowly on. +</p> + +<p> +“What hev’ ye done to yer face, sir?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +Grant was surprised. He expected no such question. +</p> + +<p> +“So far as I know, I’ve not been making any great alteration in +it,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s all covered wi’ blood,” came the disturbing +statement. +</p> + +<p> +A handkerchief soon gave evidence that Bates was not exaggerating. +Miss—or is it Madam?—Dorothy Perkins can scratch as well as look +sweet, and a thorn had opened a small vein in Grant’s cheek which bled to +a surprising extent. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is nothing,” he said. “I remember now—a rose +shoot caught me as I went back into the dining-room a moment ago. I shouted for +you to come and see <i>this.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Soon the two were examining the rope and the staple. +</p> + +<p> +“Now who put <i>that</i> there?” said Bates, not asking a question +but rather stating a thesis. +</p> + +<p> +“It was not here yesterday,” commented his master, accepting all +that Bates’s words implied. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, that it wasn’t. I was a-cuttin’ the lawn till nigh +bed-time, an’ it wasn’t there then.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant was himself again. He stooped and grabbed the rope. +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose we solve the mystery,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No need to dirty your hands, sir,” put in Bates. “Let I haul +’un in.” +</p> + +<p> +In a few seconds the oaken tint in his face grew many shades lighter. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Gawd!” he wheezed. At the end of the rope was the body of a +woman. +</p> + +<p> +There are few more distressing objects than a drowned corpse. On that bright +June morning a dreadful apparition lost little of its grim repulsiveness +because the body was that of a young and good-looking woman. +</p> + +<p> +If one searched England it would be difficult to find two men of differing +temperaments less likely to yield to the stress of even the most trying +circumstance than Grant and Bates, yet, during some agonized moments the one, +of tried courage and fine mettle, was equally horrified and shaken as the +other, a gnarled and hard-grained rustic. It was he from whom speech might +least be expected who first found his tongue. Bates, who had stooped, +straightened himself slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“By gum!” he said, “this be a bad business, Mr. Grant. Who is +she? She’s none of our Steynholme lasses.” +</p> + +<p> +Still Grant uttered no word. He just looked in horror at the poor husk of a +woman who in life had undoubtedly been beautiful. She was well but quietly +dressed, and her clothing showed no signs of violence. The all-night soaking in +the river revealed some pitiful little feminine secrets, such as a touch of +make-up on lips and cheeks, and the dark roots of abundant hair which had been +treated chemically to lighten its color. The eyes were closed, and for that +Grant was conscious of a deep thankfulness. Had those sightless eyes stared at +him he felt he would have cried aloud in terror. The firm, well-molded lips +were open, as though uttering a last protest against an untimely fate. Of +course, both men were convinced that murder had been done. Not only were arms +and body bound in a manner that was impossible of accomplishment by the dead +woman herself, but an ugly wound on the smooth forehead seemed to indicate that +she had been stunned or killed outright before being flung into the river. +</p> + +<p> +And then, the rope and the staple suggested an outlandish, maniacal disposal of +the victim. Here was no effort at concealment, but rather a making sure, in +most brutal and callous fashion, that early discovery must be unavoidable. +</p> + +<p> +The bucolic mind works in well-scored grooves. Receiving no assistance from his +master, Bates pulled the body a little farther up on the strip of gravel so +that it lay clear of the water. +</p> + +<p> +“I mum fetch t’ polis,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The phrase, with its vivid significance, seemed to galvanize Grant into a +species of comprehension. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he agreed, speaking slowly, as though striving to measure +the effect of each word. “Yes, go for the police, Bates. This foul crime +must be inquired into, no matter who suffers. Go now. But first bring a rug +from the stable. You understand? Your wife, or Minnie, must not be told till +later. They must not see. Mrs. Bates is not so well to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so well! Her ate a rare good breakfast for a sick ’un!” +</p> + +<p> +Bates was recovering from the shock, and prepared once more to take an interest +in the minor features of existence. Among these he counted ability to eat as a +sure sign of continued well-being in man or beast. +</p> + +<p> +Grant, too, was slowly regaining poise. +</p> + +<p> +“I hardly know what I am saying,” he muttered. “At any rate, +bring a rug. I’ll mount guard till you return with the policeman. There +can be no doubt, I suppose, that this poor creature is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead as a stone,” said Bates with conviction. “Why, +her’s bin in there hours,” and he nodded toward the water. +“Besides, if I knows anythink of a crack on t’head, her wur outed +before she went into t’river.... But who i’ t’world can she +be?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you don’t fetch that rug I’ll go for it myself,” +said Grant, whereupon Bates made off. +</p> + +<p> +He was soon back again with a carriage rug, which Grant helped him to spread +over the dripping body. Then he hastened to the village, taking a path that +avoided the house. +</p> + +<p> +The lawn and river bank of <i>The Hollies</i> could only be overlooked from the +steep wooded cliff opposite, and none but an adventurous boy would ever think +of climbing down that almost impassable rampart of rock, brushwood, and +tree-roots. At any rate, when left alone with the ghastly evidence of a +tragedy, Grant troubled only to satisfy himself that no one was watching from +the house. Assured on that point, he lifted a corner of the rug, and, +apparently, forced himself to scrutinize the dead woman’s face. He seemed +to search therein for some reassuring token, but found none, because he shook +his head, dropped the rug, and walked a few paces dejectedly. +</p> + +<p> +Then, hardly knowing what he was about, he relighted his pipe, but had hardly +put it in his mouth before he knocked out the tobacco. +</p> + +<p> +Clearly, he was thinking hard, mapping out some line of conduct, and the +outlook must have been dark indeed, judging by his somber and undecided aspect. +</p> + +<p> +More than once he looked up at the attic window of the cottage which had drawn +his eyes before tragedy had come so swiftly to his very feet. But, if he hoped +to see anyone, he was disappointed, though, in the event, it proved that his +real fear was lest the person he half expected to see should look out. +</p> + +<p> +He was not disturbed in that way, however. Fish rose in the river; birds sang +in the trees; a water-wagtail skipped nimbly from rock to rock in the shallows; +honey-laden bees hummed past to the many hives in the postmaster’s +garden. These were the normal sights and sounds of a June morning—that +which was abnormal and almost grotesque in its horror lay hidden beneath the +carriage rug. +</p> + +<p> +To and fro he walked in that trying vigil, carrying the empty pipe in one hand +while, with the other, he dabbed the handkerchief at the cut on his face. He +was aware of some singular change in the quality of the sunlight pouring down +on lawn and river and trees. Five minutes earlier it had spread over the +landscape a golden bloom of the tint of champagne; now it was sharp and cold, a +clear, penetrating radiance in which colors were vivid and shadows black. He +was in no mood to analyze emotions, or he might have understood that the fierce +throbbing of his heart had literally thinned the blood in his veins and thus +affected even his sight. He only knew that in this crystal atmosphere the major +issues of life presented themselves with a new and crude force. At any rate, he +made up his mind that the course suggested by truth and honor was the only one +to follow, and that, in itself, was something gained. +</p> + +<p> +By the time Bates returned, accompanied by the village policeman, and two other +men carrying a stretcher, Grant was calmer, more self-contained, than he had +been since that hapless body was dragged from the depths. He was not +irresponsive, therefore, to the aura of official importance which enveloped the +policeman; he sensed a certain uneasiness in Bates; he even noted that the +stretcher was part of the stock in trade of Hobbs, the local butcher, and +ordinarily bore the carcase of a well-fed pig. +</p> + +<p> +These details were helpful. Naturally, Bates had explained his errand, and the +law, in the person of the policeman, was prepared for all eventualities. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a bad business, Mr. Grant,” began the policeman, producing +a note-book, and moistening the tip of a lead pencil with his tongue. Being a +Sussex man, he used the same phrase as Bates. In fact, Grant was greeted by it +a score of times that day. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” agreed Grant. “I had better tell you that I have +recognized the poor lady. Her name is Adelaide Melhuish. Her residence is in +the Regent’s Park district of London.” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson, the policeman, permitted himself to look surprised. He was, in fact, +rather annoyed. Bates’s story had prepared him for a first-rate detective +mystery. It was irritating to have one of its leading features cleared up so +promptly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, drawing a line under the last entry in the +note-book, and writing the date and hour in heavy characters beneath. +“Married or single?” +</p> + +<p> +“Married, but separated from her husband when last I had news of +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when was that, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nearly three years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have not seen her since?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t see her last night?” +</p> + +<p> +Grant positively started, but he looked at the policeman squarely. +</p> + +<p> +“It is strange you should ask me that,” he said. “Last night, +while searching for a book, I saw a face at the window. It was that +window,” and four pairs of eyes followed his pointing finger. “The +face, I now believe, was that of the dead woman. At the moment, as it vanished +instantly, I persuaded myself that I was the victim of some trick of the +imagination. Still, I opened the other window, looked out and listened, but +heard or saw nothing or no one. As I say, I fancied I had imagined that which +was not. Now I know I was wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“About what o’clock would this be, Mr. Grant?” +</p> + +<p> +“Shortly before eleven. I came in at a quarter past ten, and began to +work. After writing steadily for a little more than half an hour, I wanted to +consult a book, and lighted a candle which I keep for that purpose. I found the +book, and was about to blow out the candle when I saw the face.” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson wrote in his note-book:— +</p> + +<p> +“Called to <i>The Hollies</i> to investigate case of supposed murder. +Body of woman found in river. Mr. Grant, occupying <i>The Hollies</i>, says +that woman’s name is Adelaide Melhuish”—at this point he +paused to ascertain the spelling—“and he saw her face at a window +of the house at 10.45 P.M., last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, and what next?” he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me that the next thing is to have the unfortunate lady +removed to some more suitable place than the river bank,” said Grant, +rather impatiently. “My story can wait, and so can Bates’s. He +knows all that I know, and has probably told you already how we came to +discover the body. You can see for yourself that she must have been murdered. +It is an extraordinary, I may even say a phenomenal crime, which certainly +cannot be investigated here and now. I advise you to have the body taken to the +village mortuary, or such other place as serves local needs in that respect, +and summon a doctor. Then, if you and an inspector will call here, I’ll +give you all the information I possess, which is very little, I may add.” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson began solemnly to jot down a summary of Grant’s words, and +thereby stirred the owner of <i>The Hollies</i> to a fury which was repressed +with difficulty. Realizing, however, the absolute folly of expressing any +resentment, Grant turned, and, without meaning it, looked again in the +direction of the cottage on the crest of the opposite bank. This time a girl +was leaning out of the dormer window. She had shaded her eyes with a hand, +because the sun was streaming into her face, but when she saw that Grant was +looking her way she waved a handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +He fluttered his own blood-stained handkerchief in brief acknowledgment, and +wheeled about, only to find P. C. Robinson watching him furtively, having +suspended his note-taking for the purpose. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>Chapter II.<br /> +P. C. Robinson “Takes a Line”</h2> + +<p> +“It will help me a lot, sir,” he said, “if you tell me now +what you know about this matter. If, as seems more than likely, murder has been +done, I don’t want to lose a minute in starting my inquiries. In a case +of this sort I find it best to take a line, and stick to it.” +</p> + +<p> +His tone was respectful but firm. Evidently, P. C. Robinson was not one to be +trifled with. Moreover, for a sleuth whose maximum achievement hitherto had +been the successful prosecution of a poultry thief, it was significant that the +unconscious irony of “a case of this sort” should have been lost on +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really insist on conducting your investigation while the body is +lying here?” demanded Grant, deliberately turning his back on the girl in +the distant cottage. +</p> + +<p> +“Not that, sir—not altogether—but I must really ask you to +clear up one or two points now.” +</p> + +<p> +“For goodness’ sake, what are they?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, in the first place, how did you come to find the body?” +</p> + +<p> +“I walked out into the garden after finishing breakfast a few minutes +ago, and noticed the rope attached to the staple, just as you see it +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you walk straight here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Not exactly. I was—er—curious about the face I saw, or +thought I saw, last night, and looked into the room through the same window. By +doing so I scared Mrs. Bates, who was clearing the table, and she +screamed—” +</p> + +<p> +“Her would, too,” put in Bates. “Her’d take ’ee +for Owd Ben’s ghost.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shut up, Bates,” said the policeman. “Don’t +interrupt Mr. Grant.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant was conscious of an undercurrent of suspicion in the constable’s +manner. He was wroth with the man, but recognized that he had to deal with +narrow-minded self-importance, so contrived again to curb his temper. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not acquainted with old Ben or his ghost,” he said quietly. +“I can only tell you that I went inside to reassure Mrs. Bates, and then +strolled slowly to this very spot. Naturally, I could not miss the rope and the +staple. To my mind, it was not intended that I or anyone else should miss them. +I regarded them as so peculiar that I shouted for Bates. He came at once, and +drew the body out of the water.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you recognized the dead woman as the one you saw last night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“At about ten minutes to eleven?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it likely, sir, that any other person saw her in these grounds a bit +earlier?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, I can’t put it much plainer. Could anybody else have +seen her here, say about 10.15?” +</p> + +<p> +Grant met the policeman’s inquiring glance squarely before he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“It is possible, of course,” he said, “but most +unlikely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you alone here at that hour?” +</p> + +<p> +Again Grant sought and held that inquisitive gaze, held it until Robinson +affected to consult his notes. There was a moment of tense silence. Then the +reply came with an icy stubbornness that was not to be denied. +</p> + +<p> +“I decline absolutely to be cross-examined about my movements. If you are +unable or unwilling to order the removal of the body, I’ll telegraph to +the chief of police at Knolesworth, and ask him to act. Further, I shall +request Dr. Foxton to examine the poor lady’s injuries. It strikes me as +a monstrous proceeding that you should attempt to record my evidence at this +moment, and I refuse to become a party to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, then, Robinson, stop yer Sherlock Holmes work, an’ help me to +lift this poor woman on to the stretcher,” said Bates gruffly. +</p> + +<p> +The policeman’s red face grew a shade deeper with annoyance, but he had +the sense to avoid a scene. He was not popular in the village, and was well +aware that the two rustics pressed into service as stretcher-bearers would +joyfully retail the fact that he had been “set down a peg or two by Mr. +Grant.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do all that’s necessary in that way, sir,” he +said stiffly. “I suppose you have no objection to my askin’ if you +noticed any strange footprints on the ground hereabouts?” +</p> + +<p> +“That was the first thing I looked for, both here and outside the +window—the latter, of course, for another reason. I found none. These +stones would show no signs. The ground is so dry that even the five men now +present leave no traces, but I remember seeing in the bed of the stream certain +marks which, unfortunately, were obliterated when Bates hauled the body ashore. +They were valueless, however—shapeless indentations in the mud and +sand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were they wide apart or close together, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite irregular. No one could judge by the length of the stride whether +they were made by the feet of a man or a woman, if that is what you have in +mind ... but, really—” +</p> + +<p> +Grant’s impatient motion was not to be misunderstood. Robinson stooped, +removed the rug, and unfastened the rope, after noting carefully how it was +tied, a point which he called on the others to observe as well. Then he and the +villagers went away with their sad burden, the rug being requisitioned once +more to hide that wan face from the vivid sunshine. +</p> + +<p> +Bates had a trick of grasping a handful of his short whiskers when puzzled; he +did so now; it seemed to be an unconscious effort to pull his jaws apart in +order to emit speech. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve a sort of idee, sir,” he said slowly, “that +Robinson saw Doris Martin on the lawn with ’ee last night.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant turned on his henchman in a sudden heat of anger. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Martin’s name must be kept out of this matter,” he +growled. +</p> + +<p> +But Sussex is not easily browbeaten when it thinks itself in the right. +</p> + +<p> +“All very well a-sayin’ that, sir, but a-doin’ of it is a +bird of another color,” argued Bates firmly. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you know that Miss Martin was here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless your heart, sir, how comes it that us Steynholme folk know +everythink about other folk’s business? Sometimes we know more’n +they knows themselves. You’ve not walked a yard wi’ Doris that the +women’s tittle-tattle hasn’t made it into a mile.” +</p> + +<p> +No man, even the wisest, likes to be told an unpalatable truth. For a few +seconds, Grant was seriously annoyed with this village Solon, and nearly +blurted out an angry command that he should hold his tongue. Luckily, since +Bates was only trying to be helpful, he was content to say sarcastically: +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, if you are so well posted in my movements last night, you can +assure the coroner and the Police that I did not strangle some strange woman, +tie a rope around her, and throw her in the river.” +</p> + +<p> +“Me an’ my missis couldn’t help seein’ you an’ +Doris a-lookin’ at the stars through a spyglass when us were goin’ +to bed,” persisted Bates. “We heerd your voices quite plain. Once +’ee fixed the glass low down, an’ said, ‘That’s +serious. It’s late to-night.’ An’ I tell ’ee straight, +sir, I said to the missis:—‘It will be serious, an’ all, if +Doris’s father catches her gallivantin’ in our garden wi’ Mr. +Grant nigh on ten o’clock.’ Soon after that ’ee took Doris as +far as the bridge. The window was open, an’ I heerd your footsteps on the +road. You kem’ in, closed the window, an’ drew a chair up to the +table. After that, I fell asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +Perturbed and anxious though he was, Grant could hardly fail to see that Bates +meant well by him. The mental effort needed for such a long speech said as +much. The allusion to Sirius, amusing at any other time, was now most valuable, +because an astronomical almanac would give the hour at which that brilliant +star became visible. Other considerations yielded at once, however, to the fear +lest Robinson and his note-book were already busy at the post office. Without +another word, he hurried away by the side-path through the evergreens, leaving +Bates staring after him, and, with more whisker-pulling, examining the rope and +staple, which, by the policeman’s order, were not to be disturbed. +</p> + +<p> +Grant reached the highroad just as Robinson and the men with the stretcher were +crossing a stone bridge spanning the river about a hundred yards below <i>The +Hollies</i>. A slight, youthful, and eminently attractive female figure, +walking swiftly in the opposite direction, came in sight at the same time, and +Grant almost groaned aloud when the newcomer stood stock still and looked at +the mournful procession. He, be it remembered, was somewhat of an idealist and +a poet; it grieved his spirit that those two women, the quick and the dead, +should meet on the bridge. He took it as a portent, almost a menace, he knew +not of what. He might have foreseen that unhappy eventuality, and prevented it, +but his brain refused to work clearly that morning. A terrible and bizarre +crime had bemused his faculties. He seemed to be in a state of waking +nightmare. +</p> + +<p> +He was stung into impetuous action by seeing the policeman halt and exchange +some words with the girl. He began to run, with the quite definite if equally +mad intent of punching Robinson into reasonable behavior. He was saved from an +act of unmitigated folly by the girl herself. She caught sight of him, +apparently broke off her talk with the policeman abruptly, and, in her turn, +took to her heels. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, on that strip of sun-baked road, with its easy gradient to the crown of +the bridge, there was the curious spectacle offered by two men jogging along +with a corpse on a stretcher, a young man and a young woman running towards +each other, and a discomfited representative of the law, looking now one way +and now the other, and evidently undecided whether to go on or return. +Ultimately, it would seem, Robinson went with the stretcher-bearers, because +Grant and the girl saw no more of him for the time. +</p> + +<p> +Grant had received several shocks since rising from the breakfast-table, but it +was left for Doris Martin, the postmaster’s daughter, to administer not +the least surprising one. +</p> + +<p> +Though almost breathless, and wide-eyed with horror, her opening words were +very much to the point. +</p> + +<p> +“How awful!” she cried. “Why should any-one in Steynholme +want to kill a great actress like Adelaide Melhuish?” +</p> + +<p> +Now, the name of the dead woman was literally the last thing Grant expected to +hear from this girl’s lips, and the astounding fact momentarily banished +all other worries. +</p> + +<p> +“You knew her?” he gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not exactly. But I couldn’t avoid recognizing her when she +asked for her letters, and sent a telegram.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Robinson told me she was dead. I see now what is puzzling +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not quite that. I mean, why didn’t you tell me she was in +Steynholme? Has she been staying here any length of time?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl’s pretty face crimsoned, and then grew pale. +</p> + +<p> +“I—had no idea—she was—a friend of yours, Mr. +Grant,” she stammered. +</p> + +<p> +“She used to be a friend, but I have not set eyes on her during the past +three years—until last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Last night!” +</p> + +<p> +“After you had gone home. I was doing some work, and, having occasion to +consult a book, lighted a candle, and put it in the small window near the +bookcase. Then I fancied I saw a woman’s face, <i>her</i> face, peering +in, and was so obsessed by the notion that I went outside, but everything was +so still that I persuaded myself I was mistaken.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, is that what it was?” +</p> + +<p> +Grant threw out his hands in a gesture that was eloquent of some feeling +distinctly akin to despair. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t usually speak in enigmas, Doris,” he said. +“What in the world do you mean by saying:—‘Oh, is that what +it was?’” +</p> + +<p> +The girl—she was only nineteen, and never before had aught of tragic +mystery entered her sheltered life—seemed to recover her self-possession +with a quickness and decision that were admirable. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no enigma,” she said calmly. “My room overlooks +your lawn. Before retiring for the night I went to the window, just to have +another peep at Sirius and its changing lights, so I could not help seeing you +fling open the French windows, stand a little while on the step, and go in +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you saw that? Then I have one witness who will help to dispel that +stupid policeman’s notion that I killed Miss Melhuish, and hid her body +in the river at the foot of the lawn, hid it with such care that the first +passerby must find it.” +</p> + +<p> +Every human being has three distinct personalities. Firstly, there is the man +or woman as he or she really is; secondly, there is the much superior +individual as assessed personally; thirdly, and perhaps the most important in +the general scheme of things, there is the same individuality as viewed by +others. For an instant, the somewhat idealized figure which John Menzies Grant +offered to a pretty and intelligent but inexperienced girl was in danger of +losing its impressiveness. But, since Grant was not only a good fellow but a +gentleman, his next thought restored him to the pedestal from which, all +unknowing, he had nearly been dethroned. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a nice thing to say,” he cried, with a short laugh of +sheer vexation. “Here am I regarding you as a first-rate witness in my +behalf, whereas my chief worry is to keep you out of this ugly business +altogether. Forgive me, Doris! Never before have I been so bothered. Honestly, +I imagined I hadn’t an enemy in the world, yet someone has tried +deliberately to saddle me with suspicion in this affair. Not that I would give +real heed to that consideration if it were not for the unhappy probability +that, strive as I may, your name will crop up in connection with it. What sort +of fellow is this police constable? Do you think he would keep his mouth shut +if I paid him well?” +</p> + +<p> +Grant was certainly far from being in his normal state of mind, or he would +have caught the tender gleam which lighted the girl’s eyes when she +understood that his concern was for her, not for himself. As it was, several +things had escaped him during that brief talk on the sunlit road. +</p> + +<p> +On her part, Doris Martin was now in full control of her emotions, and she +undoubtedly took a saner view of a difficult situation. +</p> + +<p> +“Robinson is a vain man,” she said thoughtfully. “He will not +let go the chance of notoriety given him by the murder of a well-known actress. +Was she really murdered? Robinson said so when I met him on the bridge.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid he is justified in that belief, at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Grant, what have we to conceal? I was in your garden at a +rather late hour, I admit, but one cannot watch the stars by day, and a big +telescope with its tripod is not easily carried about. Of course, father will +be vexed, because, as it happens, I did not tell him I was coming out. But that +cannot be helped. As it happens, I can fix the time you opened your window +almost to a minute, because the church clock had chimed the quarter just before +you appeared.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant, however, was not to be soothed by this matter-of-fact reasoning. +</p> + +<p> +“I am vexed at the mere notion of your name, and possibly your portrait, +appearing in the newspapers,” he protested. “Miss Melhuish was a +celebrated actress. The press will make a rare commotion about her death. Look +at the obvious questions that will be raised. What was she doing here? Why was +she found in the river bordering the grounds of my house? Don’t you see? +I had to decide pretty quickly whether or not I would admit any previous +knowledge of her. I suppose I acted rightly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why hide anything, Mr. Grant? Surely it is always best to tell the +truth!” +</p> + +<p> +He looked into those candid blue eyes, and drew from their limpid depths an +element of strength and fortitude. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, Doris, small wonder if a jaded man of the world, such as I was +when I came to Steynholme, found new faith and inspiration in friendship with +you,” he said gratefully. “But I am wool-gathering all the time +this morning, it would seem. Won’t you come into the house? If we have to +discuss a tragedy we may as well sit down to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, with the promptitude of one who had anticipated the +invitation. “I must hurry home. There are accounts to be made up. And +Robinson and others will be telegraphing to Knoleworth and London. I must +attend to all that, because dad gets flustered if several messages are handed +in at the same time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come and have tea, then, about four o’clock. The ravens will have +fled by then.” +</p> + +<p> +“The ravens?” +</p> + +<p> +“The police, you dear child, and the reporters, and the +photographers—the flock of weird fowl which gathers from all points of +the compass when the press gets hold of what is called ‘a first-rate +story,’ By midday I shall be in the thick of it. But, thank goodness, +they will know nothing to draw them your way until the inquest takes place, and +not even then if <i>I</i> can manage it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t mind me, Mr. Grant. You must not keep anything back on my +account. I’ll try and come at four. But I may be very busy in the office. +By the way, you ought to know. Miss Melhuish came here on Sunday evening. She +arrived by the train from London. I—happened to notice her as she passed +in the Hare and Hounds’ bus. She took a room there, at the inn, I mean, +and came to the post office twice yesterday. When I heard her name I recognized +her at once from her photographs. And—one more thing—I guessed +there was something wrong when I saw you, and Robinson, and Bates, and the +other men standing near a body lying close to the river. That is why I came +out. Now I really must go. Good-by!” +</p> + +<p> +She hastened away. Grant stood in the road and looked after her. Apparently she +was conscious that he had not stirred, because, when she reached the bridge, +she turned and waved a hand to him. She was exceedingly graceful in all her +movements. She wore a simple white linen blouse and short white skirt that +morning, with brown shoes and stockings which harmonized with the deeper tints +of her Titian red hair. As she paused on the bridge for a second or two, +silhouetted against the sky, she suggested to Grant’s troubled mind the +Spirit of Summer. +</p> + +<p> +Returning to the house by way of the main gate, which gave on to the highway, +he bethought him of Mrs. Bates and Minnie. They must be enlightened, and warned +as to the certain influx of visitors. He resolved now to tackle a displeasing +task boldly. Realizing that the worst possible policy lay in denying himself to +the representatives of the press, who would simply ascertain the facts from +other sources, and unconsciously adopt a critical vein with regard to himself, +he determined to go to the other extreme, and receive all comers. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, there would be reservations in his story. That is what every man +decides who faces a legal inquiry as a novice. It is a decision too often +regretted in the light of after events. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, P. C. Robinson was hard at work. In his own phrase, he “took a +line,” and the trend of his thoughts was clearly demonstrated when a +superintendent motored over from Knoleworth in response to a telegram. He told +how the body had been found, and then went into details gathered in the +interim. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Melhuish hadn’t been in the village five minutes,” he +said, “before she asked Mr. Tomlin, landlord of the Hare and Hounds, +where <i>The Hollies</i> was, and how long Mr. Grant had lived in the village. +She went for a walk in the direction of his house almost at once. Tomlin +watched her until she crossed the bridge. That was on Sunday evening.” +</p> + +<p> +Superintendent Fowler allowed his placid features to show a flicker of +surprise. In that rural district an actual, downright murder was almost +unknown. Even a case of manslaughter, arising out of a drunken quarrel between +laborers at fair-time, did not occur once in five years. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, she came here on Sunday, did she?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. Yesterday, too, she spoke of Mr. Grant to Hobbs, the butcher, +and Siddle, the chemist.” +</p> + +<p> +The two were closeted in the sitting-room of Robinson’s cottage, which +was situated on the main road near the bridge. It faced the short, steep hill +overhanging the river. A triangular strip of turf formed the village green, and +the houses of Steynholme clustered around this and a side road climbing the +hill. From door and windows nearly every shop and residence in the village +proper could be seen. In front of the Hare and Hounds had gathered a group of +men, and it was easy to guess the topic they were discussing. The +superintendent, who did not know any of them, had no difficulty in identifying +Hobbs, who looked a butcher and was dressed like one, or Tomlin, who was either +born an innkeeper or had been coached in the part by a stage expert. A thin, +sharp-looking person, pallid and black-haired, wearing a morning coat and +striped trousers, must surely be Siddle, while a fourth, the youngest there, +and of rather sporting guise, was apparently a farmer of a horse-breeding turn. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that fellow in the leggings?” inquired the superintendent +irrelevantly. He was looking through the window, and Robinson considered that +the question showed a lack of interest in his statement, though he dared not +hint at such a thing. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a Mr. Elkin, sir,” he said. “As I was +saying—” +</p> + +<p> +“How does Mr. Elkin make a living?” broke in the other. +</p> + +<p> +“He breeds hacks and polo ponies,” said Robinson, rather shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I thought so. Well, go on with your story.” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson was irritated, and justly so. His superior had put him off his +“line.” He took it up again sharply, leaving out of court for the +moment the various rills of evidence which, in his opinion, united into a +swift-moving stream. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is, sir,” he blurted out, “there is an uncommonly +strong case against Mr. John Menzies Grant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Phew!” whistled the superintendent. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you’ll agree with me, sir, when you hear what I’ve +gathered about him one way and another.” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson was sure of his audience now. Quite unconsciously, he had applied the +chief canon of realism in art. He had conveyed his effect by one striking note. +The rest of the picture was quite subsidiary to the bold splurge of color +evoked by actually naming the man he suspected of murdering Adelaide Melhuish. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>Chapter III.<br /> +The Gathering Clouds</h2> + +<p> +Thus, it befell that Grant was not worried by officialdom until long after his +housekeeper and her daughter had recovered from the shock of learning that they +were, in a sense, connected at first hand with a ghastly and sensational crime. +</p> + +<p> +Like Bates and their employer, neither Mrs. Bates nor Minnie had heard or seen +anything overnight which suggested that a woman was being foully done to death +in the grounds attached to the house. As it happened, Minnie’s bedroom, +as well as that occupied by her parents, overlooked the lawn and river. +Grant’s room lay in a gable which commanded the entrance. He had chosen +it purposely because it faced the rising sun. The other members of the +household, therefore, though in bed, had quite as good an opportunity as he, +working in the dining-room beneath, of having their attention drawn to sounds +disturbing the peace of the night in a quiet and secluded spot. Moreover, none +of them was asleep. Minnie Bates, in particular, said that the +“grandfather’s clock” in the hall struck twelve before she +“could close an eye.” +</p> + +<p> +At last, just as Grant was rising from an almost untasted luncheon, Mrs. Bates, +with a voice of scare, announced “the polis,” and P. C. Robinson +introduced Superintendent Fowler. This time Grant did not resent questions. He +expected them, and had made up his mind to give full and detailed answers. Of +course, the finding of the body was again described minutely. The +superintendent, a man of experience, one whose manner was not fox-like and +irritating like his subordinate’s, paid close attention to the face at +the window. +</p> + +<p> +“There seems to be little room for doubt that Miss Melhuish did enter +your grounds about a quarter to eleven last night,” he said thoughtfully. +“You recognized her at once, you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I imagined so. Until this horrible thing became known I had persuaded +myself that the vision was a piece of sheer hallucination.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us assume that the lady actually came here, and looked in. +Evidently, her face was sufficiently familiar that you should know instantly +who this unusual visitor was. I understand, though, that you had not the least +notion she was staying in Steynholme?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the least.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long ago is it since you last saw her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nearly three years.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were very well acquainted with her, then, or you could not have +glanced up from your table, seen someone staring at you through a window, and +said to yourself, as one may express it:—‘That is Adelaide +Melhuish’.” +</p> + +<p> +“We were so well acquainted that I asked the lady to be my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said the superintendent. +</p> + +<p> +His placid, unemotional features, however, gave no clew to his opinions. Not so +P. C. Robinson, who tried to look like a judge, whereas he really resembled a +bull-terrier who has literally, not figuratively, smelt a rat. +</p> + +<p> +Despite his earlier good resolutions, Grant was horribly impatient of this +inquisition. He admitted that the superintendent was carrying through an +unpleasant duty as inoffensively as possible, but the attitude of the village +policeman was irritating in the extreme. Nothing would have tended so +effectively to relieve his surcharged feelings as to supply P. C. Robinson then +and there with ample material for establishing a charge of assault and battery. +</p> + +<p> +“That is not a remarkable fact, if regarded apart from to-day’s +tragedy,” he said, and there was more than a hint of soul-weariness in +his voice. “Miss Melhuish was a very talented and attractive woman. I +first met her as the outcome of a suggestion that one of my books should be +dramatized, a character in the novel being deemed eminently suitable for her +special rôle on the stage. The idea came to nothing. She was appearing in +a successful play at the time, and was rehearsing its successor. Meanwhile, +I—fell in love with her, I suppose, and she certainly encouraged me in +the belief that she might accept me. I did eventually propose marriage. Then +she told me she was married already. It was a painful disillusionment—at +the time. I only saw her, to speak to, once again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she reveal her husband’s name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—a Mr. Ingerman.” +</p> + +<p> +The superintendent looked grave. That was a professional trick of his. He had +never before in his life heard of Mr. Ingerman, but encouraged the notion that +this gentleman was thoroughly, and not quite favorably, known to him. Sometimes +it happened that a witness, interpreting this sapient look by the light of his +or her personal and intimate knowledge, would blurt out certain facts, good or +bad as the case might be, concerning the person under discussion. +</p> + +<p> +But Grant remained obstinately silent as to the qualities of this doubtful +Ingerman, so Mr. Fowler scribbled the name in a note-book, and was particular +as to whether it ended in one “n” or two. +</p> + +<p> +Still, he carried other shots in his locker. In fact, Mr. Fowler, had he taken +in youth to nicer legal subtleties than handcuffs and summonses, would have +become a shrewd lawyer. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll leave Mr. Ingerman for the moment,” he said, implying, +of course, that on returning to him there might be revelations. “I gather +that you and Miss Melhuish did not agree, shall I put it? as to the precise +bearing of the marriage tie on your love affair?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your meaning,” and +Grant’s tone stiffened ominously, but his questioner was by no means +abashed. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no great acquaintance with the stage or its ways, but I have +always understood that divorce proceedings among theatrical folk were, shall we +say? more popular than, in the ordinary walks of life,” said Mr. Fowler. +</p> + +<p> +Grant’s resentment vanished. The superintendent’s calm method, his +interpolated apologies, as it were, for applying the probe, were beginning to +interest him. +</p> + +<p> +“Your second effort is more successful, superintendent,” he said +dryly. “Miss Melhuish did urge me to obtain her freedom. It was, she +thought, only a matter of money with Mr. Ingerman, and she would be given +material for a divorce.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” murmured Fowler again, as though the discreditable +implication fitted in exactly with the life history of a noted scoundrel in a +written <i>dossier</i> then lying in his office. “You objected, may I +suggest, to that somewhat doubtful means of settling a difficulty?” +</p> + +<p> +“Something of the kind.” +</p> + +<p> +Assuredly, Grant did not feel disposed to lay bare his secret feelings before +this persuasive superintendent and an absurdly conceited village constable. +Love, to him, was an ideal, a blend of mortal passion and immortal fire. But +the flame kindled on that secret altar had scorched and seared his soul in a +wholly unforeseen way. The discovery that Adelaide Melhuish was another +man’s wife had stunned him. It was not until the fire of sacrifice had +died into parched ashes that its earlier banality became clear. He realized +then that he had given his love to a phantom. By one of nature’s miracles +a vain and selfish creature was gifted in the artistic portrayal of the finer +emotions. He had worshiped the actress, the mimic, not the woman herself. At +any rate, that was how he read the repellent notion that he should bargain with +any man for the sale of a wife. +</p> + +<p> +“You might be a trifle more explicit, Mr. Grant,” said the +superintendent, almost reproachfully. +</p> + +<p> +“In what direction? Surely a three-years-old love affair can have little +practical bearing on Miss Melhuish’s death?” +</p> + +<p> +“What, then, may I ask, could bear on it more forcibly? The lady +admittedly visits you, late at night, and is found dead in a river bordering +the grounds of your house next morning, all the conditions pointing directly to +murder. Moreover—it is no secret, as the truth must come out at the +inquest—she had passed a good deal of her time while in Steynholme, +unknown to you, in making inquiries concerning you, your habits, your +surroundings, your friends. Surely, Mr. Grant, you must see that the history of +your relations with this lady, though, if I may use the phrase, perfectly +innocent, may possibly supply that which is at present lacking—a clew, +shall I term it, to the motive which inspired the man, or woman, who killed +her?” +</p> + +<p> +P. C. Robinson was all an eye and an ear for this verbal fencing-match. It was +not that he admired his superior’s skill, because such finesse was wholly +beyond him, but his suspicious brain was storing up Grant’s admissions +“to be used in evidence” against him subsequently. His own brief +record of the conversation would have been:—“The prisoner, after +being duly cautioned, said he kept company with the deceased about three years +ago, but quarreled with her on hearing that she was a married woman.” +</p> + +<p> +The superintendent seldom indulged in so long a speech, but he was determined +to force his adversary’s guard, and sought to win his confidence by +describing the probable course to be pursued by the coroner’s inquest. +But Grant, like the dead actress, had two sides to his nature. He was both an +idealist and a stubborn fighter, and ideality had been shattered for many a day +by that grewsome object hauled in that morning from the depths of the river. +</p> + +<p> +“I am willing to help in any shape or form, but can only repeat that Miss +Melhuish and I parted as described. I should add that I have never, to my +knowledge, met her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“He may be dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly. You may know more about him than I.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even then, we have not traveled far as yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Fowler was puzzled, and did not hesitate to show it. He believed, not without +reasonable cause, that this young man was concealing some element in the +situation which might prove helpful in the quest for the murderer. He resolved +to strike off along a new track. +</p> + +<p> +“I am informed,” he went on, speaking with a deliberateness meant +to be impressive, “that you did entertain another lady as a visitor last +night.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant allowed his glance to dwell on Robinson for an instant. Hitherto he had +ignored the man. Now he surveyed him as if he were a viper. +</p> + +<p> +“It will be a peculiarly offensive thing if the personality of a helpless +and unoffending girl is brought into this inquiry,” he cried. +“‘Brought in’ is too mild—I ought to say ‘dragged +in.’ As it happens, astronomy is one of my hobbies. Last evening, as the +outcome of a chat on the subject, Doris Martin, daughter of the local +postmaster, came here to view Sirius through an astronomical telescope. There +is the instrument,” and he pointed through P. C. Robinson to a telescope +on a tripod in a corner of the room. The gesture was eloquent. The burly +policeman might have been a sheet of glass. “As you see, it is a solid +article, not easily lifted about. It weighs nearly a hundred-weight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why is it so heavy?” +</p> + +<p> +The superintendent had a knack of putting seemingly irrelevant questions. +Robinson had been disconcerted by it earlier in the day, but Grant seemed to +treat the interruption as a sensible one. +</p> + +<p> +“For observation purposes an astronomical telescope is not of much use +unless the movement of the earth is counteracted,” he said. +“Usually, the dome of an observatory swings on a specially contrived +axis, but that is a very expensive structure, so my telescope is governed by a +clockwork attachment and moves on its own axis.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fowler nodded. He was really a very well informed man for a country +police-officer; he understood clearly. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Martin came here about a quarter to ten,” continued Grant, +“and left within three-quarters of an hour. She did not enter the house. +She was watching Sirius while I explained the methods whereby the distance of +any star from the earth is computed and its chemical analysis +determined—” +</p> + +<p> +“Most instructive, I’m sure,” put in the superintendent. +</p> + +<p> +He smiled genially, so genially that Grant dismissed the notion that the other +might, in vulgar parlance, be pulling his leg. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that is the be-all and end-all of Miss Martin’s presence. It +would be cruel, and unfair, if a girl of her age were forced into a distasteful +prominence in connection with a crime with which she is no more related than +with Sirius itself.” +</p> + +<p> +The older man shook his head in regretful dissent. +</p> + +<p> +“That is just where you and I differ,” he said. “That very +point leads us back to your past friendship with the dead woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely you see, Mr. Grant, that Miss Melhuish might be, probably was, +watching your star-gazing, especially as your pupil chanced to be, shall I say, +a remarkably attractive young lady ... No, no,” for Grant’s anger +was unmistakable—“It does no good to blaze out in protest. An +unhappy combination of circumstances must be faced candidly. Here are you and a +pretty girl together in a garden at a rather late hour, and a woman whom you +once wanted to marry spying on you, in all likelihood. I’ve met a few +coroner’s juries in my time, and not one of them but would deem the +coincidence strange, to put it mildly.” +</p> + +<p> +“What in Heaven’s name are you driving at?” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not impute motives, sir. I am seeking them, not supplying +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what am I to say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you will now tell me just how Miss Melhuish and you +parted.” +</p> + +<p> +The fencers were coming to close quarters. Even P. C. Robinson had to admit +that his “boss” had cornered the suspect rather cleverly. +</p> + +<p> +Grant realized that there was no room for squeamishness in this affair. If he +did not speak out now, his motives might be woefully misunderstood. +</p> + +<p> +“We parted in wrath and tears,” he said sadly. “Miss Melhuish +could not, or did not, appreciate my scruples. She professed to be in love with +me. She even went so far as to threaten suicide. I—hardly believed in her +sincerity, but thought it advisable to temporize, and asked for a few +days’ delay before we came to a final decision. We met again, as I have +said, and discussed matters in calmer mood. Ultimately, she professed agreement +with my point of view, and we parted, ostensibly to remain good friends, but +really to separate for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. That’s better. What <i>was</i> your point of view, Mr. +Grant?” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely I have made it clear. I could not regard my wife as purchasable. +The proposed compact was, I believe, illegal. But that consideration did not +sway me. I had been dreaming, and thought I was roaming in an enchanted garden. +I awoke, and found myself in a morass.” +</p> + +<p> +The superintendent nodded again. Singularly enough, Grant’s somewhat +high-flown simile appeared to satisfy his craving for light. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mind telling me—is there another woman?” he demanded, +with one of those rapid transitions of topic in which he excelled. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“You see what I am aiming at. Let us suppose that Miss Melhuish never, in +her own mind, abandoned the hope that some day the tangle would straighten +itself. Women are constituted that way. If her husband is now dead, and she +became free, she might wish to renew the old ties, but, being proud, would want +to ascertain first whether or not any other woman had come into your +life.” +</p> + +<p> +“I follow perfectly,” said Grant, with some bitterness. “She +would be consumed with jealousy because my companion in the garden last night +happened to be a charming girl of nineteen.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“So she went off and got someone to kill her, and tie her body with a +rope, and arrange a dramatic setting whereby it would be patent to the meanest +intelligence that I was the criminal?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fowler smiled, and looked fixedly at P. C. Robinson. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” he said, quite good-humoredly. “That would be +carrying realism to extremes. Still, I am convinced, Mr. Grant, that this +mystery is bound up in some way with your romance of three years ago. At +present, I admit, I am working in the dark.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose. Apparently, the interview was at an end. But, while pocketing his +note-book, he said suddenly:— +</p> + +<p> +“The inquest will open at three o’clock tomorrow. You will be +present, of course, Mr. Grant?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it is necessary.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes. You found the body, you know. Besides, you may be the only +person who can give evidence of identity. In fact, you and the doctor will be +the only witnesses called.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Foxton?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has he made a post-mortem?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is doing so now. You see, there is clear indication that this +unfortunate lady was struck a heavy blow, perhaps killed, before she was put in +the river.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heavens! Somehow, I was so stunned that I never thought of looking +for signs of any injury of that sort.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant’s horror-stricken air was so spontaneous that it probably justified +the severe test of that unexpected disclosure. He was so unnerved by it that +the two policemen had gone before he could frame another question. +</p> + +<p> +Once they were in the open road, and well away from <i>The Hollies</i>, +Robinson ventured to open his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a clever one is Mr. Grant,” he said meaningly. +“You handled him a bit of all right, sir, but he didn’t tell you +everything he knew, not by long chalks.” +</p> + +<p> +The superintendent walked a few yards in silence. Even when he spoke, his gaze +was introspective, and seemed to ignore his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m inclined to agree with you, Robinson,” he said, speaking +very slowly. “We have a big case in our hands, a very big case. We must +tread warily. You, in particular, mixing with the village folk, should listen +to all but say nothing. Don’t depend on your memory. Write down what you +hear and see. People’s actual words, and the exact time of an occurrence, +often have an extraordinarily illuminating effect when weighed subsequently. +But don’t let Mr. Grant think you suspect him. There is no occasion for +that—yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fowler could be either blunt or cryptic in speech at will. In one mood he +was the straightforward, outspoken official; in another the potential lawyer. +P. C. Robinson, though unable to describe his chief’s erratic qualities, +was unpleasantly aware of them. He was not quite sure, for instance, whether +the superintendent was encouraging or warning him, but, being a dogged person, +resolved to “take his own line,” and stick to it. +</p> + +<p> +Grant passed a distressful day. Work was not to be thought of, and reading was +frankly impossible. His mind dwelt constantly on the tragedy which had come so +swiftly and completely into his ordered life. He could not wholly discard the +nebulous theory suggested by Superintendent Fowler, but the more he surveyed it +the less reasonable it seemed. The one outstanding fact in a chaos of doubt was +that someone had deliberately done Adelaide Melhuish to death. The murderer had +been actuated by a motive. What was that motive? Surely, in a place like +Steynholme no man could come and go without being seen, and the murderer must +be a stranger to the district, because it was ridiculous to imagine that he was +one of the residents. +</p> + +<p> +Yet that was exactly what a dunderheaded policeman believed. P. C. Robinson had +revealed himself by many a covert glance and prick-eared movement. Grant +squirmed uneasily at the crass conceit, as there was no denying that +circumstances tended towards a certain doubt, if no more, in regard to his own +association with the crime. +</p> + +<p> +The admission called for a fierce struggle with his pride, but he forced +himself to think the problem out in all its bearings, and the folly of adopting +the legendary policy of the chased ostrich became manifest. What, then, should +he do? He thought, at first, of invoking the aid of a barrister friend, who +could watch the inquest in his behalf. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, he shrank from that step, which, to his super-sensitive nature, +implied the need of legal protection, and he fiercely resented the mere notion +of such a thing. But something must be done. Once the murderer was laid by the +heels his own troubles would vanish, and the storm raised by the unhappy fate +of Adelaide Melhuish would subside into a sad memory. +</p> + +<p> +He was wrestling with indecision when a newspaper reporter called. Grant +received the journalist promptly, and told him all the salient facts, +suppressing only the one-time prospect of a marriage between himself and the +famous actress. +</p> + +<p> +The reporter went with him to the river, and scrutinized the marks, now rapidly +becoming obliterated, of the body having been drawn ashore. +</p> + +<p> +“The rope and iron staple, I understand, were taken from the premises of +a man who lets boats for hire on the dam quarter of a mile away,” he said +casually. +</p> + +<p> +Grant was astounded at his own failure to make any inquiry whatsoever +concerning this vital matter. He laughed grimly. +</p> + +<p> +“You can imagine the state of my mind,” he said, “when I +assure you that, until this moment, it never occurred to me even to ask where +these articles came from or what had become of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can sympathize with you,” said the journalist. “A brutal +murder seems horribly out of place in this environment. It is a mysterious +business altogether. I wonder if Scotland Yard will take it up.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant surprised him by clapping him on the back. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, my friend, the very thing! Of course, such an investigation +requires bigger brains than our local police are endowed with. Scotland Yard +<i>must</i> take it up. I’ll wire there at once. If necessary, I’ll +pay all expenses.” +</p> + +<p> +The newspaper man had his doubts. The “Yard,” he said, acted in the +provinces only if appealed to by the authorities directly concerned. But Grant +was not to be stayed by a trifle like that. He hurried to the post office, +hoping that Doris Martin might walk back with him. +</p> + +<p> +The girl and her father were busy behind the counter when he entered. He +noticed that Doris was rather pale. She was about to attend to him, but Mr. +Martin intervened. It struck Grant that the postmaster was purposely preventing +his daughter from speaking to him. +</p> + +<p> +For some inexplicable reason, he felt miserably tongue-tied, and was content to +write a message to the Chief Commissioner of Police, London, asking that a +skilled detective should be sent forthwith to Steynholme. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Martin read it gravely, stated the cost, and procured the requisite stamps. +In the event, Grant quitted the place without exchanging a word with Doris, +while her father, usually a chatty man, said not a syllable beyond what was +barely needed. +</p> + +<p> +As he passed down the hill and by the side of the Green he was aware of being +covertly watched by many eyes. He saw P. C. Robinson peering from behind a +curtained window. Siddle, the chemist, came to the shop door, and looked after +him. Hobbs, the butcher, ceased sharpening a knife and gazed out. Tomlin, +landlord of the Hare and Hounds Inn, surveyed him from the “snug.” +</p> + +<p> +These things were not gracious. Indeed, they were positively maddening. He went +home, gave an emphatic order that no one, except Miss Martin, if she called, +was to be admitted and savagely buried himself in a treatise on earth-tides. +</p> + +<p> +But that day of events had not finished for him yet. He had, perforce, eaten a +good meal, and was thinking of going to the post office in order to clear up an +undoubted misapprehension in Mr. Martin’s mind, when Minnie Bates came +with a card. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, sir,” said the girl, “this gentleman is very +pressing. He says he’s sure you’ll give him an interview when you +see his name.” +</p> + +<p> +So Grant looked, and read:— +</p> + +<p> +<b>Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman</b> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Prince’s Chambers, London, W.</i> +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>Chapter IV.<br /> +A Cabal</h2> + +<p> +Grant stared again at the card. A tiny silver bell seemed to tinkle a sort of +warning in a recess of his brain. The name was not engraved in copper-plate, +but printed in heavy type. Somehow, it looked ominous. His first impression was +to bid Minnie send the man away. He distrusted any first impression. It was the +excuse of mediocrity, a sign of weakness. Moreover, why shouldn’t he meet +Isidor G. Ingerman? +</p> + +<p> +“Show him in,” he said, almost gruffly, thus silencing shy +intuition, as it were. He threw the card on the table. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Ingerman entered. He did not offer any conventional greeting, but nodded, +or bowed. Grant could not be sure which form of salutation was intended, +because the visitor promptly sat down, uninvited. +</p> + +<p> +Minnie hesitated at the door. Her master’s callers were usually cheerful +Bohemians, who chatted at sight. Then she caught Grant’s eye, and went +out, banging the door in sheer nervousness. +</p> + +<p> +Still Mr. Ingerman did not speak. If this was a pose on his part, he erred. +Grant had passed through a trying day, but he owned the muscles and nerves of +an Alpine climber, and had often stared calmly down a wall of rock and ice +which he had just conquered, when the least slip would have meant being dashed +to pieces two thousand feet below. +</p> + +<p> +There was some advantage, too, in this species of stage wait. It enabled him to +take the measure of Adelaide Melhuish’s husband, if, indeed, the visitor +was really the man he professed to be. +</p> + +<p> +At first sight, Isidor G. Ingerman was not a prepossessing person. Indeed, it +would be safe to assume that if, by some trick of fortune, he and not Grant +were the tenant of <i>The Hollies</i>, P. C. Robinson would have haled him to +the village lock-up that very morning. It was not that he was +villainous-looking, but rather that he looked capable of villainy. He was a +tall, slender, rather stooping man, with a decidedly well-molded, if hawk-like, +face. His aspect might be described as saturnine. Possibly, when he smiled, +this morose expression would vanish, and then he might even win a favorable +opinion. He had brilliant black eyes, close set, and an abundant crop of black +hair, turning gray, which, in itself, lent an air of distinction. His lips were +thin, his chin slightly prominent. He was well dressed, and managed a hat, +stick, and gloves with ease. Altogether, he reminded Grant of a certain notable +actor who is invariably cast for the rôle of a gentlemanly scoundrel, but +who, in private life, is a most excellent fellow and good citizen. Oddly +enough, Grant recognized in him, too, the type of man who would certainly have +appealed to Adelaide Melhuish in her earlier and impressionable years. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, the visitor, finding that the clear-eyed young man seated in an easy +chair (from which he had not risen) could seemingly regard him with blank +indifference during the next hour, thought fit to say something. +</p> + +<p> +“Is my name familiar to you, Mr. Grant?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +The voice was astonishingly soft and pleasant, and the accent agreeably +refined. Evidently, there were surprising points about Mr. Ingerman. Long +afterwards, Grant learned, by chance, that the man had been an actor before +branching off into that mysterious cosmopolitan profession known as “a +financier.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Grant. “I have heard it very few times. Once, +about three years ago, and today, when I mentioned it to the police.” +</p> + +<p> +The other man’s sallow cheeks grew a shade more sallow. Grant supposed +that this slight change of color indicated annoyance. Of course, the +association of ideas in that curt answer was intolerably rude. But Grant had +been tried beyond endurance that day. He was in a mood to be brusque with an +archbishop. +</p> + +<p> +“We can disregard your confidences, or explanations, to the +police,” said Ingerman smoothly. “Three years ago, I suppose, my +wife spoke of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean Miss Adelaide Melhuish—yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do mean her. To be exact, I mean the lady who was murdered outside +this house last night.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant realized instantly that Isidor G. Ingerman was a foeman worthy of even a +novelist’s skill in repartee. Thus far, he, Grant, had been merely +uncivil, using a bludgeon for wit, whereas the visitor was making play with a +finely-tempered rapier. +</p> + +<p> +“Now that you have established your identity, Mr. Ingerman, perhaps you +will tell me why you are here,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to Steynholme to inquire into my wife’s death.” +</p> + +<p> +“A most laudable purpose. I was given to understand, however, that at one +time you took little interest in her living. I have not seen Mrs. Ingerman for +three years—until last night, that is—so there is a chance, of +course, that husband and wife may have adjusted their differences. Is that +so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Until last night!” repeated Ingerman, almost in a startled tone. +“You admit that?” +</p> + +<p> +Grant turned and pointed. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw, or fancied I saw, her face at that window,” he said. +“She looked in on me about ten minutes to eleven. I was hard at work, but +the vision, as it seemed then, was so weird and unexpected, that I went +straight out and searched for her. Perhaps ‘searched’ is not quite +the right word. To be exact, I opened the French window, stood there, and +listened. Then I persuaded myself that I was imagining a vain thing, and came +in.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was she doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“She arrived in Steynholme on Sunday evening, I am told.” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard that, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“You imply that you did not meet her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No need to imply anything, Mr. Ingerman. I did not meet her. Beyond the +fanciful notion that I had seen her ghost last night, the first I knew of her +presence in the village was when I recognized her dead body this +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange as it may sound, I am inclined to believe you.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant said nothing. He wanted to get up and pitch Ingerman into the road. +</p> + +<p> +“But who else will take that charitable view?” purred the other, in +that suave voice which so ill accorded with his thin lips and slightly hooked +nose. +</p> + +<p> +“I really don’t care,” was the weary answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at the moment, perhaps. You have had a trying day, no doubt. My +visit at its close cannot be helpful. But—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am feeling rather tired mentally,” interrupted Grant, “so +you will oblige me by not raising too many points at once. Why should you +imagine that conversation with you in particular should add to my supposed +distress?” +</p> + +<p> +“Doesn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, then, may I ask, do you so obviously resent my questions? Who has +so much right to put them as I?” +</p> + +<p> +Grant found that he must bestir himself. Thus far, the honors lay with this +rather sinister-looking yet quiet-mannered visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry if anything I have said lends color to that belief,” he +answered. “Candidly, I began by assuming that you forfeited any legal +right years ago to interfere in behalf of Miss Melhuish, living or dead. Let +us, at least, be candid with each other. Miss Melhuish herself told me that you +and she had separated by mutual consent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Allow me to emulate your candor. The actual fact is that you weaned my +wife’s affections from me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a downright lie,” said Grant coolly. +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman’s peculiar temperament permitted him to treat this grave insult +far more lightly than Grant’s harmless, if irritating, reference to the +police. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us see just what ‘a lie’ signifies,” he said, +almost judicially. “If a lady deserts her husband, and there is good +reason to suspect that she is, in popular phrase, ‘carrying on’ +with another man, how can the husband be lying if he charges that man with +being the cause of the domestic upheaval?” +</p> + +<p> +“In this instance a hypothetical case is not called for. Three years ago, +Mr. Ingerman, you had parted from your wife. Your name was never mentioned. +Apparently, none in my circle had even heard of you. Miss Melhuish had won +repute as a celebrated actress. I met her, in a sense, professionally. We +became friends. I fancied I was in love with her. I proposed marriage. Then, +and not until then, did the ghost of Mr.”—Grant bent forward, and +consulted the card—“Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman intrude.” +</p> + +<p> +“So marriage was out of the question?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you expect an answer—yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman rested the handle of his stick against his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“That isn’t how the situation was represented to me at the +time,” he said thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +Grant was still sore with the recollection of the way in which the +superintendent of police had forced him to confess the pitiful scheme whereby a +woman in love had sought to gain her ends. He refused to sully her memory a +second time that day, even to gain the upper hand in this troublesome +controversy. +</p> + +<p> +“I neither know nor care what representations may have been made to +you,” he retorted. “I merely tell you the literal truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly. Possibly. It was not I who used the word ‘lie,’ +remember. But if you are ungracious enough to refuse to withdraw the offensive +phrase, let it pass. We are not in France. This deadly business will be fought +out in the law courts. I am here to-night of my own initiative. I thought it +only fair and reasonable that you and I should meet before we are brought face +to face at a coroner’s inquest, and, it may be, in an Assize Court.... +No, no, Mr. Grant. Pray do not put the worst construction on my words. +<i>Someone</i> murdered my wife. If the police show intelligence and reasonable +skill, <i>someone</i> will be tried for the crime. You and I will certainly be +witnesses. That is what I meant to convey. The doubt in my mind was +this—whether to be actively hostile or passively friendly to the man who, +next to me, was interested in the poor woman now lying dead in a wretched +stable of this village.” +</p> + +<p> +The almost diabolical cleverness of this long speech, delivered without heat +and with singularly adroit stress on various passages, was revealed by its +effect on Grant. He was at once infuriated and puzzled. Ingerman was playing +him as a fisherman humors a well-hooked salmon. The simile actually occurred to +him, and he resolved to precipitate matters by coming straightway to the +landing-net. +</p> + +<p> +“Is your friendship purchasable?” he inquired, making the rush +without further preamble. +</p> + +<p> +“My wife was, I was led to believe,” came the calm retort. +</p> + +<p> +Grant threw scruples to the wind now. Adelaide Mulhuish was being defamed, not +by him, but by her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“We are at cross purposes,” he said, weighing each word. +“Your wife, who knew your character fairly well, I am convinced, thought +that you were open to receive a cash consideration for your connivance in a +divorce.” +</p> + +<p> +“She had told me plainly that she would never live with me again. I was +too fair-minded a man to place obstacles in the way when she wished to regain +her freedom.” +</p> + +<p> +“So it was true, then. What was the price? One thousand—two? I am +not a millionaire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor am I. As a mere matter of pounds, shillings, and pence, it was a +serious matter for me when my wife’s earnings ceased to come into the +common stock.” +</p> + +<p> +“My first, if rather vague, estimate of you was the correct one. You are +a good bit of a scoundrel, and, if I guess rightly, a would-be +blackmailer.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are talking at random, Mr. Grant. The levying of blackmail connotes +that the person bled desires that some discreditable, or dangerous, fact should +be concealed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Such is not my position.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I wonder.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can relieve you of any oppressive doubt. I informed the police some +few hours ago that you have appeared already in a similar role.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you did, did you?” snarled Ingerman, suddenly abandoning his +pose, and gazing at Grant with a curiously snakelike glint in his black eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It interested them, I fancied.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant was sure of his man now, and rather relieved that the battle of wits was +turning in his favor. +</p> + +<p> +“So you have begun already to scheme your defense?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hadn’t you better go?” was the contemptuous retort. +</p> + +<p> +“You refuse to answer any further questions?” +</p> + +<p> +“I refuse to buy your proffered friendship—whatever that may +mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have I offered to sell it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I gathered as much.” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman rose. He was still master of himself, though his lanky body was taut +with rage. He spoke calmly and with remarkable restraint. +</p> + +<p> +“Go through what I have said, and discover, if you can, the slightest +hint of any suggested condonation of your offenses, whether avowed or merely +suspected. I shall prove beyond dispute that you came between me and my wife. +Don’t hug the delusion that your three years’ limit will save you. +It will not. I wish you well of your attempt to prove that I was a consenting +party to divorce proceedings. I came here to look you over. I have done so, and +have arrived at a very definite opinion. I, also, have been interviewed by the +police, and any unfavorable views they may have formed concerning me as the +outcome of your<i> ex parte</i> statements are more than counteracted by the +ugly facts of a ghastly murder. You were here shortly before eleven +o’clock last night. My wife was here, too, and alive. This morning she +was found dead, by you. At eleven o’clock last night I was playing bridge +with three city men in my flat. When the news of the murder reached me to-day +my first thought, after the shock of it had passed, was:—‘That +fellow, Grant, may be innocently involved in a terrible crime, and I may figure +as the chief witness against him.’ I am not speaking idly, as you will +learn to your cost. Yet, when I come on an errand of mercy, you have the +impudence to charge me with blackmail. You are in for a great awakening. Be +sure of that!” +</p> + +<p> +And Isidor G. Ingerman walked out, leaving Grant uncomfortably aware that he +had not seen the last of an implacable and bitter enemy. +</p> + +<p> +It was something new and very disturbing for a writer to find himself in the +predicament of a man with an absolutely clear conscience yet perilously near +the meshes of the criminal law. He had often analyzed such a situation in his +books, but fiction diverged so radically from hard fact that the sensation was +profoundly disconcerting, to say the least. +</p> + +<p> +He did not go to the post office. He was not equal to any more verbal +fire-works that evening. So he lit a pipe, and reviewed Ingerman’s +well-rounded periods very carefully, even taking the precaution to jot down +exact phrases. He analyzed them, and saw that they were capable of two +readings. Of course, it could not be otherwise. The plausible rascal must have +conned them over until this essential was secured. Grant even went so far as to +give them a grudging professional tribute. They held a canker of doubt, too, +which it was difficult to dissect. Their veiled threats were perplexing. While +their effect, as apart from literal significance, was fresh in his mind, he +made a few notes of different interpretations. +</p> + +<p> +He went to bed rather early, but could not sleep until the small hours. +Probably his rest, such as it was, would have been even more disturbed had he +been able to accompany Ingerman to the Hare and Hounds Inn. +</p> + +<p> +A small but select company had gathered in the bar parlor. The two hours +between eight and ten were the most important of the day to the landlord, Mr. +Tomlin. It was then that he imparted and received the tit-bits of local gossip +garnered earlier, the process involving a good deal of play with shining +beer-handles and attractively labeled bottles. +</p> + +<p> +But this was a special occasion. Never before had there been a Steynholme +murder before the symposium. Hitherto, such a grewsome topic was supplied, for +the most part, by faraway London. To-night the eeriness and dramatic intensity +of a notable crime lay at the very doors of the village. +</p> + +<p> +So Tomlin was more portentous than usual; Hobbs, the butcher, more assertive, +Elkin, the “sporty” breeder of polo ponies, more inclined to +“lay odds” on any conceivable subject, and Siddle, the chemist, a +reserved man at the best, even less disposed to voice a definite opinion. +</p> + +<p> +Elkin was about twenty-five years of age, Siddle looked younger than his +probable thirty-five years, while the others were on the stout and prosperous +line of fifty. +</p> + +<p> +They were discussing the murder, of course, when Ingerman entered, and ordered +a whiskey and soda. Instantly there was dead silence. Looks and furtive winks +were exchanged. There had been talk of a detective being employed. Perhaps this +was he. Mr. Tomlin knew the stranger’s name, as he had taken a room, but +that was the extent of the available information. +</p> + +<p> +“A fine evenin’, sir,” said Tomlin, drawing a cork noisily. +“Looks as though we were in for a spell o’ settled weather.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” agreed Ingerman, summing up the conclave at a glance. +“Somehow, such a lovely night ill accords with the cause of my visit to +Steynholme.” +</p> + +<p> +“In-deed, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you and these other gentlemen may judge for yourselves. It will be +no secret tomorrow. I am the husband of the lady who was found in the river +outside Mr. Grant’s residence this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Sensation, as the descriptive reporters put it. Mr. Tomlin was dumbly but +unanimously elected chairman of the meeting, and was vaguely aware of his +responsibilities. He drew himself a fresh glass of bitter. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t tell me, sir!” he gasped. “Well, the idee! +The pore lady’s letters were addressed to Miss Adelaide Melhuish. Perhaps +you don’t know, sir, that she stayed here!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes. I was told that by the local police-constable. Have I, by any +chance, been given her room?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. Not likely. It’s locked, and the police have the key till +the inquest is done with.” +</p> + +<p> +“As for the name,” explained Ingerman, in his suave voice, +“that was a mere stage pseudonym, an adopted name. My wife was a famous +actress, and there is a sort of tacit agreement that a lady in the theatrical +profession shall be known to the public as ‘Miss’ rather than +‘Mrs.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there!” wheezed Tomlin. “Who’d ever ha’ +thought it?” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord was not quite rising to the occasion. He was, in fact, stunned by +these repeated shocks. So Hobbs took charge. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a sad errand you’re on, sir,” he said. +“Death comes to all of us, man an’ beast alike, but it’s a +terrible thing when a lady like Miss— Mrs. ——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ingerman is my name, but my wife will certainly be alluded to by the +press as Miss Melhuish.” +</p> + +<p> +“When a lady like Miss Melhuish is knocked on the ’ead like +a—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hobbs hesitated again. He also felt that the situation was rather beyond +him. +</p> + +<p> +“But my wife was flung into the river and drowned,” said Ingerman +sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. She was killed fust. It was a brutal business, so I’m +told.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that she was struck, her skull battered?” came the +demand, in an awed and soul-thrilling whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. An’ the wust thing is, none of us can guess who could +ha’ done it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lay yer five quid to one, Hobbs, that the police cop the scoundrel afore +this day fortnight,” cried Elkin noisily. +</p> + +<p> +Then Mr. Siddle put in a mild word. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” he said, “let me remind you that we four will +probably be jurors at the inquest.” +</p> + +<p> +That was a sobering thought. Elkin subsided, and Hobbs looked critically at the +remains of a gill of beer. +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman took stock of the chemist. He might easily induce the others to +believe that Grant was the real criminal, but the quiet man in the black +morning-coat and striped cloth trousers was of finer metal. He knew instantly +that if he could persuade this one “probable juror” of +Grant’s guilt, the remainder would follow his lead like a flock of sheep. +</p> + +<p> +But there was no need to hurry. Next day’s inquest would be a mere +formality. The real struggle would begin a week or a fortnight later. +</p> + +<p> +“You have said a very wise thing, sir,” he murmured appreciatively. +“Even my feelings must be kept under better control. But this is no +ordinary murder. Before it is cleared up there will be astounding revelations. +Mark the word—astounding.” +</p> + +<p> +Hobbs, whose heavy cheeks were of a brick-red tint, almost startled the +conclave by a sudden outburst which gave him an apoplectic appearance. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re too kind’earted, Siddle,” he cried. +“Wot’s the use of talkin’ rubbish. We all know where the body +was found. We all know that Doris Martin an’ Mr. Grant were +a’sweet-’eartin’ in the garden—” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Hobbs, just keep Doris Martin’s name out of it!” +shouted Elkin, smiting the table with his fist till the glasses danced. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen!” protested Siddle gently. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all dashed fine, but I’m not—” blustered +Elkin. He yielded to Ingerman’s outstretched hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I seem to have brought discord into a friendly gathering,” came +the mournful comment. “Such was far from being my intent. Landlord, the +round is on me, with cigars. Now, let us talk of anything but this horror. If I +forget myself again, pull me up short, and fine me another round.” +</p> + +<p> +Siddle half rose, but thought better of it. Evidently, he meant to use his +influence to stop foolish chatter. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>Chapter V.<br /> +The Seeds of Mischief</h2> + +<p> +Ingerman was a shrewder judge of human nature than the village chemist. As well +try to stem the flowing tide as stop tongues from wagging when such a theme +offered. +</p> + +<p> +Tomlin created a momentary diversion by clattering in the bar. After this +professional interlude, Ingerman ignored his own compact. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure you local residents will be interested, at least, in +hearing something of my wife’s career,” he said. “There never +was a more lovable and gracious woman, and no couple could be more united than +she and I till some three years ago. Then came a break. She was independent of +me, of course. She was a celebrity, I a mere nobody, best known, if at all, as +‘Miss Melhuish’s husband.’ Nevertheless, we were devoted to +each other until, to her and my lasting misfortune, a certain author wrote a +book which, when dramatized, contained a part for which my wife’s stage +presence and talents seemed to be peculiarly suited.” +</p> + +<p> +Siddle stirred uneasily, but the others were still as partridges in stubble. +Ingerman did not intend to alarm the shy bird of the covey, however. +</p> + +<p> +“I name no names,” he said solemnly. “Nor am I telling you +anything that will not be thoroughly exposed before the coroner and elsewhere. +From that unhappy period dated our estrangement. My wife fell under a fatal +influence which lasted, practically unchecked, until the day, if not the very +hour, of her death. Do I blame her? No—a thousand times no! You see me, a +plain man, considerably her senior. <i>I</i> had not the gift of writing +impassioned love passages in which she could display her artistic genius. When +I came home from the City, tired after the day’s work, <i>she</i> was +just beginning hers. You know what London fashionable life is—the +theater, a supper, a dance, some great lady’s ‘reception,’ +and the rest of it. Ah, me! The stage, and literature, and the arts generally +are not for poor fellows moiling in a City office. You gentlemen, I take it, +are all happily married—” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not,” said Elkin, “but I’ll lay you long +odds I will be soon.” +</p> + +<p> +For some reason, this remark produced a certain uneasiness among his friends. +Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars “stood” by this +talkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again, examined +the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to say something, but, +with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then Ingerman made a very shrewd guess, +and wondered who Doris Martin was, and what Hobbs’s cryptic allusion had +meant. +</p> + +<p> +“Good luck to you, sir,” he said, “but—take no +offense—don’t marry an actress. There’s an old adage, +‘Birds of a feather flock together.’ I would go farther, and +interpolate the word ‘should.’ If Adelaide Melhuish had never met +me, but had married the man who could write her plays, this tragedy in real +life would never have been.” +</p> + +<p> +“D—n him,” muttered Elkin fiercely. “He’s done +for now, anyhow. He’ll turn no more girls’ heads for a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ five minutes since you yapped at me like a vicious fox-terrier +for ’intin’ much the same thing,” chortled Hobbs. +</p> + +<p> +Siddle stood up. +</p> + +<p> +“You ain’t goin’, Mr. Siddle?” went on the butcher. +“It’s ’ardly ’arf past nine.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have some accounts to get out. It’s near the half year, you +know,” and Siddle vanished unobtrusively. +</p> + +<p> +Hobbs shook his head, and gazed at Elkin as though the latter was a refractory +bullock. +</p> + +<p> +“Siddle’s a fair-minded chap,” he said. “He can’t +stand ’earin’ any of us ’angin’ a man without a fair +trial.” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman had marked the chemist for more subtle treatment when an opportunity +arose, or could be made. At present, he was not sorry such a restraining +influence was removed. The next half hour should prove a golden one if well +utilized. He was right. Before the inn was cleared, what between Elkin’s +savage comments and the other men’s thinly-veiled allusions, he knew all +that Steynholme could tell with regard to Grant and Doris Martin. +</p> + +<p> +Grant’s first thought next morning was of the girl who had been thrust so +prominently into his life by the death of another woman. That was, perhaps, the +strangest outcome of the tragedy. Doris was easily the prettiest and most +intelligent girl in the village, a rare combination in itself, even among young +ladies of much higher social position than a postmaster’s daughter. But +her father was a self-educated man, whose life had been given to books, whose +only hobby was the culture and study of bees. He had often refused promotion, +solely because his duties at Steynholme were light, and permitted of many free +hours. In his only child he found a quick pupil and a sympathetic helper. Of +her own accord she took to poetry and music. In effect, had Doris Martin +attended the best of boarding-schools and training colleges, she would have +received a smattering of French and a fair knowledge of the piano or violin, +whereas, after more humble tuition, it might fairly be said of her that few +girls of her age had read so many books and assimilated their contents so +thoroughly. From her mother she inherited her good looks and a small yearly +income, just sufficient to maintain a better wardrobe than her father’s +salary would permit. +</p> + +<p> +Grant, newly settled in Steynholme, found the postmaster and his daughter +intellectually on a par with himself, and this claim could certainly not be +made on behalf of the local “society” element. The three became +excellent friends. Naturally, the young people spent a good deal of time +together. But there had been no love-making—not a hint or whisper of it! +</p> + +<p> +And now, by cruel chance, their names were linked by scandal in its most +menacing form, since there was no gainsaying the fact that Doris’s +star-gazing on that fatal Monday night was indissolubly bound up with the death +of Adelaide Melhuish. +</p> + +<p> +For the first time, then, the notion peeped up in Grant’s mind that the +whirligig of existence might see Doris his wife. But the conceit resembled the +Gorgon’s teeth, which, when sown in the ground, sprang forth as armed +men. The very accident which revealed a not unpleasing possibility had +established a grave obstacle in the way of its ultimate realization. Already +there was a cloud between him and the Martins, father and daughter. To what a +tempest might not that cloud develop when the questionings and innuendoes of +the inquest established an aura of suspicion and intrigue around a perfectly +innocent meeting in the garden of <i>The Hollies</i>! +</p> + +<p> +Grant ate his breakfast in wrath. In wrath, too, he glanced through the morning +newspapers, and saw his own name figuring large in the “story” of +the “alleged” murder. The reporters had missed nothing. They had +even got hold of the “peculiar coincidence” of his (Grant’s) +glimpse of a face at the window. His play was recalled, and Adelaide +Melhuish’s success in the title-rôle. Then Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman +was introduced. He was described as “a man fairly well known in the +City.” That was all. The press could say nothing as yet of marital +disagreements, nor was any hint concerning Doris Martin allowed to appear. But +these journalistic fire-works were only held in reserve. “Dramatic and +sensational developments” were promised, and police activity in “an +unexpected direction” fore-shadowed. +</p> + +<p> +All of which, of course, was mere journalistic paraphrasing of circumstances +already known to the writers, and none the less galling to Grant on that +account. +</p> + +<p> +And there was no answer from the Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard. True, +the overnight telegram might have reached the Department after office hours. +Grant, like most members of the general public, held the vague belief that +Government officials do very little work. Still, one might reasonably expect +better things from the institution which was supposed to safeguard law-abiding +citizens. +</p> + +<p> +Calm analysis of Ingerman’s nebulous threats had revealed a hostile force +not to be despised. Possibly, the man was already in league with that +narrow-minded village constable, so every passing hour made more urgent the +need of a trained intelligence being brought to bear on the mystery of Adelaide +Melhuish’s killing. Grant racked his brains to discover who could +possibly have a motive for committing the crime. Naturally, his thoughts flew +to Ingerman. Surely that sinister-looking person should be forced to give an +account of himself instead of, as was probable, being allowed to instill +further nonsense into the suspicious mind of P. C. Robinson. +</p> + +<p> +There were two morning deliveries of London letters in Steynholme, one at eight +and another at half past ten. Grant waited until the postman had left a +publisher’s circular (the only letter for <i>The Hollies</i> by the +second mail). Then, in a fever of impatience, he jammed on a hat and went out. +He would wait no longer. He would telegraph Scotland Yard again, and, +incidentally, demand an audience at the post office. +</p> + +<p> +No sooner had he entered the highroad than he saw P. C. Robinson on guard. +That important person was standing on the bridge, apparently taking the air. He +was nibbling the chin-strap of his helmet; both thumbs were locked in his belt. +From that strategic position three roads came under observation. +</p> + +<p> +It was a fine morning, and Grant’s sense of humor was not proof against +this open espionage. He smiled, and determined to take a rise out of +“Sherlock,” as Bates had christened the policeman. +</p> + +<p> +The bridge lay a hundred yards to the left. The road was straight until it +curved around the house and its shrubberies, so the view was blocked on that +side. Grant filled and lighted a pipe with a deliberateness meant to be +provoking, glancing several times doubtfully at P. C. Robinson, who, of +course, was grandly unaware of his presence. Then he strolled off to the right, +and, when hidden, took to his heels for a hundred yards sprint. Turning into a +winding bridle-path tucked between hedges of thorn and hazels, he walked to a +point where it crossed a patch of furze. At a little distance a hand-bridge +spanned the river, and gave access to the eastern end of the village by a steep +climb of the wooded cliff. The path, in fact, was a short cut to that part of +Steynholme. +</p> + +<p> +He sat on a hump of rock, and waited. It was a boyish trick, but very +successful. Within three minutes, at the utmost, P. C. Robinson hurried past, +using a stalking, stealthy stride which was distinctly ludicrous. +</p> + +<p> +The eyes of the two men met, but Grant alone was prepared. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, Robinson!” he cried cheerfully. “What’s the +rush? Surely our rural peace has not been disturbed again?” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson knew he had been “sold,” but rose to the occasion. +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me, Mr. Grant,” he puffed. “Can’t wait now. +Have an appointment. I’ll see you later.” +</p> + +<p> +Honor demanded that he should not relax that swift pace. Unhappily, the path up +the cliff was visible throughout from Grant’s rock, so, on reaching the +summit, Robinson was a-boil in more ways than one. Moreover, peeping through +the first screen of trees that offered, he had the mortification of seeing the +man who had befooled him go back the way he came. +</p> + +<p> +Purple-faced with heat and anger, the policeman forgot his surroundings, and +glowered at Grant with real fury. So he heard no one approaching along the main +road until he was hailed a second time with, “Hello, Robinson!” +</p> + +<p> +He turned sharply. This was Mr. Elkin. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning!” he said. “Have you seen the +superintendent?” +</p> + +<p> +“What? Mr. Fowler? No. Is <i>he</i> here so early?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must have missed him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ll hardly find him on Bush Walk,” which was the +name of the path. +</p> + +<p> +“You never can tell,” came the dark answer. +</p> + +<p> +At any rate, the policeman elected to abandon his self-imposed vigil, and the +two walked together into the village. +</p> + +<p> +“My! You look as though you’d run a mile,” commented Elkin. +</p> + +<p> +“This murder has kept me busy,” growled the other, frankly mopping +his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, that’s so. And it isn’t done with yet, by a long way. +Pity you weren’t in the Hare and Hounds last night. You’d have +heard something. There’s a chap staying there, name of +Ingerman—” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve met him. The dead woman’s husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, perhaps you’ve got his yarn already?” +</p> + +<p> +“It all depends what he said to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he hinted things. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, you’ll +soon be making an arrest.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe I could put my hand on the murderer this very minute,” +said Robinson vindictively. +</p> + +<p> +Elkin laughed, somewhat half-heartedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Lay you fifty to one against the time,” he said. “I’m +the only one near enough for that limit, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +The policeman realized that he had allowed annoyance to shake his wits. He +looked at Elkin rather sharply, and noticed that the horse-breeder seemed to be +nervous and ill. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t quite mean that I could grab my man this minute,” +he said, “but, if I can guess him, it amounts to nearly the same thing. +What have you been doing to yourself, Mr. Elkin? You look peeky to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Too much whiskey and tobacco. I’ll call at Siddle’s for a +‘pick-me-up.’ Am I wanted for the jury?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I left a notice at your place last evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t get it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Been away?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Fact is, I went home late, and didn’t bother about letters +this morning. What time is the inquest?” +</p> + +<p> +“Three o’clock, in the club-room of the Hare and Hounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will that fellow, Grant, be there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rather. Dr. Foxton warned him yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good! What about Doris Martin? Will she be a witness?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +They were entering the village, and could see down the long, wide slope of the +hill. Grant had just come into sight at its foot. +</p> + +<p> +Both men scowled at the distant figure, but neither passed any comment. They +parted, the policeman walking straight on, Elkin bearing to the left. The +chemist’s shop stood exactly opposite the post office, so Elkin, arriving +first, was aware of his unconscious rival’s destination. +</p> + +<p> +He had not answered Mr. Siddle’s greeting, but gazed moodily through a +barricade of specifics piled in the window. Then he swore. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s wrong now?” inquired the chemist quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“That Grant. Got a nerve, hasn’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t say, unless you explain.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s just gone into the post office.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why shouldn’t he? He wants stamps, may be; plenty of ’em, I +should imagine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you’re a fish, Siddle. You aren’t crazy about a girl, +like I am. The sooner Grant’s in jail the better I’ll be +pleased.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you take my advice, which you won’t, I know, you will not utter +that sort of remark publicly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t help it. Bet you a fiver I’m engaged to Doris Martin +within a week.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Siddle took thought. +</p> + +<p> +“Why so quickly?” he asked, after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll catch her on the hop, of course. If she’s engaged to me +it’ll help her a lot when this case comes into court.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot believe that Doris would accept any man for such a +reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not ‘any man.’ She knows I’m after her. Will +you take my bet, even money?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I don’t bet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you needn’t put a damper on me. In fact, you can’t. +Have you that last prescription of Dr. Foxton’s handy? My liver wants a +tonic.” +</p> + +<p> +The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and retired to +a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I send it?” came his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“No. I’ll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don’t mind.” +</p> + +<p> +For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, and fretful +as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause accurately; a +discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and had considered them in +the “mixture.” +</p> + +<p> +The post office was not busy when Grant entered. A young man, a stranger, was +seated at the telegraphist’s desk, tapping a new instrument. The G. P. +O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with press messages. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant. His kindly, +somewhat pre-occupied face was long as a fiddle. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, Mr. Martin,” said Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning. What can I do for you?” was the stiff reply. Grant +was in no mind to be rebuffed, however. +</p> + +<p> +“I must have a word with you in private,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry—but my time is quite full.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry, too, but the matter is urgent.” +</p> + +<p> +The click of the sounder became less businesslike. There was an element in the +tone of each voice that drew the London telegraphist’s attention. Martin, +usually the mildest-mannered man in Sussex, was obviously ill at ease. But he +simply could not hold out against Grant’s compelling gaze. +</p> + +<p> +“Come into the back room,” he said nervously. “Call me if +I’m needed,” he added, nodding to his assistant. +</p> + +<p> +Grant did not hesitate an instant when the postmaster reached the “back +parlor” through another door. The open window, draped in clematis, gave a +delightful glimpse of <i>The Hollies</i>. A window-box of mignonette filled the +air with its delicate perfume. Grant hoped that Doris would be there, but the +only signs of her recent presence were a hat and an open book on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. Martin,” he said gravely, “you and I should have a +serious talk. It is idle to deny that gossip is spreading broadcast certain +malicious and absurd rumors which closely concern Doris and myself. To me these +things are of slight consequence. To a girl of your daughter’s age they +are poisonous. If you, her father, know the whole truth, you can regulate your +actions so as to defeat the scandalmongers. That is why I am here to-day. That +is why I came here yesterday, but your attitude took me aback, and I was idiot +enough to go without a word of explanation. I was too shaken then to see my +clear course, and follow it regardless of personal feelings. This morning I am +master of myself, and I insist that you listen now while I tell you exactly +what occurred on Monday night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely—these matters—are—for the authorities,” +stammered the older man. +</p> + +<p> +“What? Your daughter’s good name?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Martin reddened. His agitation was pitiful. +</p> + +<p> +“That is hardly in question, sir,” he said brokenly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am speaking of the tongue of slander. Heaven help and direct me! I +would suffer death rather than see Doris subjected to the leers and innuendoes +of every lout in the village.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant’s earnestness could hardly fail to impress his friend. But Martin +had either made up his mind or been warned not to discuss the murder, and +adhered loyally to that line of conduct. He retreated toward the door leading +to the post office proper. +</p> + +<p> +“It is too late to interfere now,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“What on earth do you mean?” demanded Grant, yielding to a gust of +anger. +</p> + +<p> +“The whole—of the circumstances—are being inquired into by +the police,” came the hesitating answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Has that prying scoundrel, Robinson, dared to cross-examine +Doris?” +</p> + +<p> +“He came here, of course, but Scotland Yard has taken up the +inquiry.” +</p> + +<p> +“A detective—here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. He is with Doris in the garden at this moment.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant knew the topography of the house. Without asking permission, he tore +through yet a third door leading to a kitchen and scullery, nearly upsetting a +tiny maid who had her ear or eye to the key-hole, and raced into the garden in +which the postmaster kept his bees. +</p> + +<p> +Doris, standing with her hands behind her back, was looking at The Hollies, and +deep in conversation with an alert and natty little man who was evidently +absorbed in what she was saying. +</p> + +<p> +Grant, in a whirl of fury, was only conscious that Doris’s companion was +slight, almost diminutive, of frame, very erect, and dressed in a well-fitting +blue serge suit, neat brown boots and straw hat, when the two heard his +footsteps. +</p> + +<p> +Doris was flustered. Her Romney face held a look of scare. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, here is Mr. Grant!” she said, striving vainly to speak with +composure. +</p> + +<p> +The little man pierced Grant with an extraordinarily penetrating glance from +very bright and deeply-recessed black eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Mr. Grant, is it!” he chirped pleasantly. “Good morning! +So <i>you’re</i> the villain of the piece, are you?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>Chapter VI.<br /> +Scotland Yard Takes a Hand</h2> + +<p> +It was a singular greeting, to say the least, and the person who uttered it was +quite as remarkable as his queer method of expressing himself seemed to +indicate. +</p> + +<p> +Grant, though in a fume of hot anger, had the good sense to choke back the +first impetuous reprimand trembling on his lips. In fact, wrath quickly +subsided into blank incredulity. He saw before him, not the conventional +detective who might be described as a superior Robinson—not even the +sinewy, sharp-eyed, and well-spoken type of man whom he had once heard giving +evidence in a famous jewel-robbery case—but rather one whom he would have +expected to meet in the bar of a certain well-known restaurant in Maiden Lane, +a corner of old London where literally all the world’s a stage, and all +the men and women merely players. +</p> + +<p> +During his theatrical experiences he had come across scores of such men, dapper +little fellows, wizened of face yet curiously youthful in manner; but they, +each and all, were labeled “low comedian.” Certainly, a rare +intelligence gleamed from this man’s eyes, but that is an attribute not +often lacking in humorists who command high salaries because of their facility +in laughter-making. This man, too, had the wide, thin-lipped, mobile mouth of +the actor. His ivory-white, wrinkled forehead and cheeks, the bluish tint on +jaws and chin, his voice, his perky air, the very tilt of his straw hat, were +eloquent of the footlights. Even his opening words, bizarre and cheerfully +impertinent, smacked of “comic relief.” +</p> + +<p> +“I figure prominently in this particular ‘piece,’” +snapped Grant. “May I ask your name, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“A wise precaution with suspicious characters,” rejoined the other, +smiling. Grant was suddenly reminded of a Japanese grinning at a joke, but he +bent over a card which the stranger had whisked out of a waistcoat pocket. He +read: +</p> + +<p> +<b>Mr. Charles F. Furneaux</b>, +</p> + +<p> +<i>Criminal Investigation Department</i>, +</p> + +<p> +<b>New Scotland Yard, S.W</b>. +</p> + +<p> +He could not control himself. He gazed at Mr. Charles F. Furneaux with a +surprise that was not altogether flattering. +</p> + +<p> +“Did the Commissioner of Police send <i>you</i> in response to my +telegram?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“That is what lawyers call a leading question,” came the prompt +retort. “And I hate lawyers. They darken understanding, and set honest +men at loggerheads.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it happens to be very much to the point at this moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Grant, if you really press for an answer, it is +‘Yes’ and ‘No.’ The Commissioner received a certain +telegram, but he may have acted on other grounds. Even Commissioners can be +creatures of impulse, or expediency, just as the situation demands. +</p> + +<p> +“You are here, at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what legal jargon terms an admitted fact.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you had better begin by assuming that I am no villain.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is assumed. It couldn’t well be otherwise after the excellent +character you have been given by this young lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“She, at least, will speak well of me, I do believe,” said Grant, +with a strange bitterness, for his heart was sore because of the seeming +defection of his friend, the postmaster. “What I actually had in mind was +the stupidity of the local policeman, who is convinced that I am both a +criminal and a fool.” +</p> + +<p> +“The two are often synonymous,” said Furneaux dryly. “But I +acquitted you on both counts, Mr. Grant, on hearing, and even seeing, how you +spent Monday evening.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant, who had cooled down considerably, found a hint of badinage in this +comment. +</p> + +<p> +“You have evidently been told that Miss Martin and I were star-gazing in +the garden of my house,” he said. “It happens to be true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes. There was a very fine cluster of small stars in Canis Major, +south of Sirius, that night.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know something about the constellations, then?” was the +astonished query. +</p> + +<p> +“Enough for the purposes of Scotland Yard,” smirked Furneaux, who +had checked P. C. Robinson’s one-sided story by referring to +Whitaker’s Almanack. “It may relieve your mind if I tell you that I +have never seen a real live astronomer in the dock. Venus and Mars are often in +trouble, but their devoted observers seldom, if ever.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant warmed to this strange species of detective, though, if pressed for an +instant decision, he would vastly have preferred that one of more orthodox +style had been intrusted with an inquiry so vital to his own happiness and good +repute. Eager, however, to pour forth his worries into any official ear, he +brought back the talk to a definite channel. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you come to my place?” he asked. “I have much to say. +Let me assure you now, in Miss Martin’s presence, that she is no more +concerned in this ghastly business than any other young lady in the +village.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she is interested. And <i>you</i> are. And I am. Why not discuss +matters here, for the present, I mean? We have a glorious view of your house +and grounds. We can see without being seen. None can overhear. I advise both of +you to go thoroughly into this matter here and now.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux spoke emphatically. Even Doris put in a timid plea. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps that would be the best thing to do,” she said. “Mr. +Furneaux has been most sympathetic. I am sure he understands things already in +a way that is quite wonderful to me.” +</p> + +<p> +The very sound of her voice was comforting. Grant might have argued with the +detective, but could not resist Doris. Without further demur he went through +the whole story, giving precise details of events on the Monday night. Then the +recital widened out into a history of his relations with Adelaide Melhuish. He +omitted nothing. Doris gasped when she heard Superintendent Fowler’s +version of the view a coroner’s jury might take of her presence in the +garden of <i>The Hollies</i> at a late hour. But Grant did not spare her. He +reasoned that she ought to be prepared for an ordeal which could not be +avoided. He was governed by the astute belief that his very outspokenness in +this respect would weaken the inferences which the police might otherwise draw +from it. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux uttered never a word. He was a first-rate listener, though his +behavior was most undetective-like, since he hardly looked at Grant or the +girl, but seemed to devote his attention almost exclusively to the scenic +panorama in front. +</p> + +<p> +However, when Grant came to the somewhat strenuous passage-at-arms of the +previous night between Ingerman and himself, the little man broke in at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Isidor G. Ingerman?” he cried. “Is he a tall, lanky, +cadaverous, rather crooked person, with black hair turning gray, and an +absurdly melodious voice?” +</p> + +<p> +“You have described him without an unnecessary word,” said Grant. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux clicked his tongue in a peculiar fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on!” he said. “It’s a regular romance—quite +in your line, Mr. Grant, of course, but none the less enthralling because, as +you so happily phrased Miss Martin’s lesson in astronomy, it happens to +be true.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant was scrupulously fair to Ingerman. He admitted the +“financier’s” adroitness of speech, and made clear the fact +that if the visit had the levying of blackmail for its object such a possible +outcome was only hinted at vaguely. Being a novelist, one whose temperament +sought for sunshine rather than gloom in life, he wound up in lighter vein. The +ruse which tricked P. C. Robinson into a breathless scamper of nearly a mile +on a hot day in June was described with gusto. Doris, who knew the village +constable well, laughed outright, while Furneaux cackled shrilly. None who +might be watching the little group in that delightful garden, with its scent of +old-world flowers and drone of bees, could have guessed that a grewsome tragedy +formed their major theme. +</p> + +<p> +The girl was the first to realize that even harmless merriment was in ill +accord with the presence of death, for the body of Adelaide Melhuish lay within +forty yards of the place where they stood. +</p> + +<p> +“May I leave you now?” she inquired. “Father may be wanting +help in the office.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t detain you more than a few seconds,” said Furneaux +briskly. “On Monday evening you two young people parted at half past ten. +How do you fix the time?” +</p> + +<p> +Doris answered without hesitation: +</p> + +<p> +“The large window of Mr. Grant’s study was open, and we both heard +a clock in the hall chime the half-hour. I said, ‘Goodness me, is that +half past ten?’ and started for home at once. Mr. Grant came with me as +far as the bridge. When I reached my room, in exactly five minutes after +leaving <i>The Hollies</i>, I stood at the open window—that +window”—and she pointed to a dormer casement above the +sitting-room—“and looked out. It was a particularly fine night, +mild, but not very clear, as a slight mist often rises from the river after a +hot day in summer. I may have been there about ten minutes, no longer, when I +saw the study window of <i>The Hollies</i> thrown open, and Mr. Grant’s +figure was silhouetted by the lamp behind him. He seemed to be listening for +something, so I, who must have heard any unusual sound, listened too. There was +nothing. I could hear the ripple of the river beneath the bridge, so everything +was very still. After a minute, or two, perhaps—no longer—Mr. Grant +went in, and closed the window. Then I went to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did Mr. Grant draw any blind or curtains?” +</p> + +<p> +“There are muslin curtains attached to each side of the window. One +cannot see into the room from a distance.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux measured an imaginary line drawn from Doris’s bedroom to the +edge of the cliff, and prolonged it. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor can you see the river or foot of the lawn from your room,” he +commented. +</p> + +<p> +“No. In winter I can just make out the edge of the lawn. When the trees +are in leaf, all the lower part is hidden.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had actually retired to rest about eleven, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“So if Mr. Grant came out again you would not know?” Doris blushed +furiously, but her reply was unfaltering. +</p> + +<p> +“I would have known during the next half-hour, at least,” she said. +“An inclined mirror hangs in my room. I use it sometimes for adjusting a +hat. The square of light from Mr. Grant’s room is reflected in it, and +any sudden increase in the illumination caused by opening the window or pulling +the curtains aside would certainly have caught my eye.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have an unshakable witness in Miss Martin,” said Furneaux, +stabbing a finger at Grant. “Now, I’ll hurry off. You and I, Mr. +Grant, meet at Philippi, otherwise known as the crowner’s quest.” +</p> + +<p> +Any benevolent intent he may have had in leaving these young people together +was, however, frustrated by Doris, whose composure seemed to have fled since +her statement about the mirror. She resolutely accompanied the detective, and +Grant had to follow. All three passed into the post office, Doris using the +private door. Mr. Martin looked up from his desk when they appeared, and +requested his daughter to check a bundle of postal orders. The pretext was +painfully obvious, but Grant was not so wishful now to clear up matters with +Doris’s father, as the girl herself might be trusted to pass on an +accurate account of the affair from beginning to end. +</p> + +<p> +He was about to reach the street quick on Furneaux’s heels when the +little man turned suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, don’t you want a shilling’s worth of +stamps?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Grant smiled comprehension, and went back to the counter, where Doris herself +served him. She did not try to avoid his glance, but rather met it with a +baffling serenity oddly at variance with her momentary loss of self-possession +in the garden. +</p> + +<p> +When he entered the street the detective had vanished. +</p> + +<p> +He walked down the hill at a rapid pace, disregarding the eyes peeping at him +through open doorways, over narrow window-curtains, and covertly staring when +people passed in the roadway. The sensitive side of his temperament shrank from +this thinly-veiled hostility. He was by way of being popular in Steynholme, yet +not a soul spoke to him. Before he reached the bridge, the other side of him, +the man of action, of cool resource in an emergency, rose in rebellion against +the league of silly clodhoppers. Back he strode to the post office and dashed +off a telegram. It ran: +</p> + +<p> +“Walter Hart, Savage Club, Adelphi, London. Come here and help to lay a +ghost.” +</p> + +<p> +He signed it in full, name and address. Doris was gone, but her father received +it, and read the text in a bewildered way. +</p> + +<p> +“I find myself deserted by my Steynholme friends so I am trying to import +one stanch one,” said Grant, almost vindictively. +</p> + +<p> +Martin murmured the cost, and Grant stormed out again. This time, passing the +Hare and Hounds, he looked at door and windows. He caught a face scowling at +him over a brown wire blind bearing the words “Wines and Spirits” +on it in letters of dull gold. It was a commonplace type of face, +small-featured, ginger-moustached, and crowned by a billy-cock hat set at a +rakish angle. Its most marked characteristic was the positive hatred which +glowed in the sharp, pale-blue eyes. Grant wondered who this highly censorious +young man might be. At any rate, he meant to ascertain whether or not the +critic was susceptible of satire at his own expense. He walked up to the +window, elevated his eyebrows at the frowning person within, pretended to read +the words on the screen, looked again at the man inside, and shook his head +gravely in the manner of one who has accurately determined cause and effect. +</p> + +<p> +Fred Elkin was quick-witted enough to appreciate Grant’s unspoken +comment. He was also unmannerly enough to put out his tongue. Then Grant +laughed, and turned on his heel. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Siddle, quietly observant of recent comings and goings, was standing at the +door of the shop, and missed no item of this dumb show. He raised both hands in +silent condemnation of Elkin’s childishness, whereupon the horse-dealer +jerked a thumb toward Grant’s retreating figure, and went through a rapid +pantomime of the hanging process. His crony disapproved again, and went in. +Now, both those men were on the jury panel, so, to all appearance, Grant would +be judged by at least one deadly enemy, whose animosity might or might not be +fairly balanced by the chemist’s impartial mind. +</p> + +<p> +The tenant of <i>The Hollies</i> actually dreaded the loneliness of his +dwelling now, though it was that very quality which had drawn him to Steynholme +a year earlier. Work or reading was equally out of the question that day. He +sought the industrious Bates, who was trenching celery in the kitchen garden. +</p> + +<p> +“Have ’ee made out owt about un, sir?” inquired that hardy +individual, pausing to spit on the handle of his spade. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Grant. “The thing is a greater mystery than +ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m thinkin’ her mun ha’ bin killed by a loony,” +announced Bates. +</p> + +<p> +“Something of the kind, no doubt. But why are the little less dangerous +loonies of Steynholme united in the belief that I am the guilty one?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ax me another,” growled Bates. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is spreading this rumor? Robinson?” +</p> + +<p> +“’E dussen’t, sir. ’E looks fierce, but +’e’ll ’old ’is tongue. T’super will see to +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Someone is talking. That is quite certain.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a chap in the ’Are an’ ’Ounds—kem +’ere last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ingerman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sir, that’s the name. ’E’s makin’ a song of +it, I hear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anybody else?” +</p> + +<p> +“Fred Elkin is gassin’ about. Do ’ee know un? Breeds +’osses at Mount Farm, a mile that-a-way,” and Bates pointed to the +west. +</p> + +<p> +Grant hazarded a guess, and described the face of condemnation seen at the inn. +Bates nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s un,” he said. Then he drove the spade into the rich +loam. “They do say,” he added, apparently as an after-thought, +“as Fred Elkin is mighty sweet on Doris, but her’ll ’ave nowt +to do wi’ un.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant whistled softly. This explanation threw light on a dark place. +</p> + +<p> +“The plot thickens,” he said. “Mr. Elkin becomes more +interesting than he looks. Are there other disappointed swains in the +offing?” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Has Miss Martin any other suitors?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lots of ’em ’ud be after her like wasps round a plum-tree if +she’d give ’em ’alf a chance. But <i>you</i> put a stopper on +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +Bates was blunt of speech, though a philosopher withal. +</p> + +<p> +“Elkin is my only serious rival, then?” laughed Grant, passing off +as a joke a thrust which was shrewder than the gardener knew. +</p> + +<p> +“’E ’as plenty of brass, but I reckon nowt on +’im,” was the contemptuous answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he is not a likely person to kill a woman he had never before +seen. Miss Martin will marry whom she chooses, no doubt. The present problem is +to find out who murdered Miss Melhuish. Now, had <i>I</i> been the victim you +would be thinking hard, Bates.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell ’ee, sir, it wur a loony.” +</p> + +<p> +Nor was Bates to be moved from that opinion. He held to it, through thick and +thin, for many days. +</p> + +<p> +Grant wandered into the front garden. His eyes rose involuntarily to the +distant post office, and he noticed at once that the dormer window was closed. +Yet Doris shared his own love of fresh air, and that window had always been +open till that very hour. Somehow, this simple thing seemed to shut him out of +her life. He walked to the river, and gazed at the spot where the body was +drawn ashore. In the absence of rain the water ran clear as gin, and the marks +made by the feet of Adelaide Melhuish’s murderer were still perceptible. +If only those misshapen blotches could reveal their secret! If only some +Heaven-sent ray of intuition would enable him to put the police on the track of +the criminal! Theoretically, a novelist and essayist should be a first-rate +detective, yet, brought face to face with an actual felony, here was one who +perforce remained blind and dumb. +</p> + +<p> +Yet he was not blameworthy for failing to solve a mystery which was rapidly +establishing a record for bewildering elements. Wherein he did err most +lamentably was in his reading of a woman’s heart. +</p> + +<p> +No answering telegram came from his friend in London. The day wore slowly till +it was time to attend the inquest. He found a crowd gathered in front of the +Hare and Hounds. Superintendent Fowler was there, and quite a number of +policemen, whose presence was explained when a buzz of excitement heralded +Grant’s arrival. He decided not to stand this sort of persecution a +moment longer. +</p> + +<p> +Before the superintendent could interfere, he leaped on to a set of stone +mounting-steps which stood opposite the door. Instantly, seeing that he was +about to speak, the angry murmuring of the mob was hushed. He looked into a +hundred stolid faces, and stretched out his right hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot help feeling,” he said, in slow, incisive accents which +carried far, “that a set of peculiar circumstances has led you Steynholme +folk to suspect me of being responsible, in some way, for the death of the lady +whose body was found in the river near my house. Now, I want to tell you that I +am not only an innocent but a much-maligned man. The law of the land will +establish both facts in due season. But I want to warn some of you, too, I +shall not trouble to issue writs for libel. If any blackguard among you dares +to insult me openly, I shall smash his face.” +</p> + +<p> +He knew when to stop. Superintendent Fowler’s nudge was not called for, +as the orator simply met the scrutiny of all those eyes without another word. +</p> + +<p> +Curiously enough, the sense of justice is inherent in every haphazard gathering +of the public. Grant’s soldierly bearing, his calm defiance of hostile +opinion, the outspoken threat which he so plainly meant, won instant favor. +Someone shouted, “Hear, hear!” and the crowd applauded. From that +moment he had little to complain of in the attitude of the community as a +whole. There were subtle and dangerous enemies to be fought and conquered, but +Steynholme looked on, keen to learn of any new sensation, of course, but +placidly content that the final verdict should be left in the hands of the +authorities. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>Chapter VII.<br /> +“Alarums and Excursions”</h2> + +<p> +The inquest was surprisingly tame after the stirring events which had led up to +it. Indeed, save for two incidents, the proceedings were almost dull. +</p> + +<p> +The coroner, a Knoleworth solicitor named Belcher, prided himself on conducting +this <i>cause cĂ©lèbre</i> with as little ostentation as he would have displayed +over an ordinary inquiry. Messrs. Siddle, Elkin, Tomlin and Hobbs, with eight +other local tradesmen and farmers, formed the jurors, and the chemist was +promptly elected foreman; no witnesses were ordered out of court; the +formalities of “swearing in” the jury and “viewing” the +body were carried through rapidly. Almost before Grant had time to assimilate +these details Superintendent Fowler, who marshalled the evidence, called his +name. The coroner’s officer tendered him a well-thumbed Bible, while the +coroner himself administered the oath. +</p> + +<p> +Grant eyed the somewhat soiled volume, and opened it before putting it to his +lips. The action probably did not please the jury. Elkin nudged Tomlin, and +sniggered at the rest of his colleagues, as much as to say: “What did I +tell you? The cheek of him!” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin, by the way, looked ill. When his interest flagged for an instant his +haggard aspect became more noticeable. +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman was there, of course. Furneaux sat beside Mr. Fowler. A stranger, whom +Grant did not recognize, proved to be the County Chief Constable. There was a +strong muster of police, and the representatives of the press completely +monopolized the scanty accommodation for the public. To Grant’s relief, +Doris Martin was not in attendance. +</p> + +<p> +He told the simple facts of the finding of Adelaide Melhuish’s corpse. A +harmless question by the coroner evoked the first “scene” which set +the reporters’ pencils busy. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you recognize the body!” inquired Mr. Belcher. +</p> + +<p> +“I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you can give the jury her name?” +</p> + +<p> +Before Grant could answer, Ingerman sprang up, his sallow face livid with +passion. +</p> + +<p> +“I protest, sir, against this man being permitted to identify my +wife,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +He was either deeply moved, or proved himself an excellent actor. His +flute-like voice vibrated with an intense emotion. Thus might Mark Antony have +spoken when vowing that Brutus was an honorable man. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you?” demanded the coroner sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Isidor George Ingerman, husband of the deceased lady,” came the +clear-toned reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sit down, sir, and do not interrupt the court again,” said +the coroner. +</p> + +<p> +“I demand, sir, that you note my protest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down! Were you any other person I would have you removed. As it is, +I am prepared to regard your feelings to the extent of explaining that the +witness is not identifying the body but relating a fact within his own +knowledge.” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman bowed, and resumed his seat. +</p> + +<p> +For some reason, Grant stared blankly at Furneaux. The latter did not meet his +glance, but put a finger on those thin lips. It might, or might not, be a +warning to repress any retort he had in mind. At any rate, obeying a nod from +the coroner, he merely said: +</p> + +<p> +“She was a well-known actress, Miss Adelaide Melhuish.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Belcher’s pen hesitated a little. Then it scratched on. Undoubtedly, +he was himself exercising the restraint he meant to impose on others. +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite sure?” he said, after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mr. Grant. Wait here until you sign your deposition. Of +course, you are aware that this inquiry will stand adjourned, and the whole +matter will be gone into fully at a later date.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I have been informed, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman was the next witness. <i>He</i>, like a good democrat, kissed the +cover of the Bible. The coroner began by giving him some advice. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a purely formal inquiry, to permit of a death certificate being +issued. You will oblige me, therefore, by answering my questions without +introducing any extraneous subject.” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman adhered to these instructions. Having already shot a +carefully-prepared bolt, he meant avoiding any further conflict with the +authorities. His evidence was brief and to the point. The deceased was his +wife. They were married at a London registrar’s office on a given date, +six years ago. His wife acted under her maiden name. There was no family. +</p> + +<p> +The court was well lighted by four long windows in the eastern wall, which each +witness faced, so Grant was free to study his avowed enemy at leisure. He +thought he made out a crafty underlook in Ingerman which he had failed to +detect the previous night. That slow, smooth voice seemed to weigh each +syllable. Such a man would never blurt out an unconsidered admission. He was a +foe to be reckoned with. The subtle malignancy of that well-timed outburst was +proof positive in that respect. +</p> + +<p> +The jury, apparently, attached much weight to his words. On some faces there +was an expectancy which merged into marked disappointment when his evidence +came to an end. The foreman alone displayed the judicial attitude warranted by +the oath he had taken. Somehow, Grant had faith in Mr. Siddle. The man looked +intellectual. When spoken to in his shop his manner was invariably reserved. +But that was his general repute in Steynholme—a quiet, uninterfering +person, who had come to the village a young man, yet had never really entered +into its life. For instance, he neither held nor would accept any public +office. At first, people wondered how he contrived to eke out a living, but +this puzzle was solved by his admitted possession of a small annuity. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Foxton, general practitioner, who held undisputed sway in the district, +told how he had conducted an autopsy on the body of the deceased. He found a +deep, incised wound on the back of the skull, a wound which would have caused +death in any event. The instrument used must have been a heavy and blunt one. +Miss Melhuish was dead or dying when thrown into the river. The body was well +nourished, and the vital organs sound. Undoubtedly she had been murdered. +</p> + +<p> +Bates followed, and evoked a snigger by the outspokenness of blunt Sussex. +</p> + +<p> +“I hauled ’um in,” he said, “an’ knew it wur a +dead ’un by the feel of the rope.” +</p> + +<p> +The coroner was not curious. He merely wished to put on record the time and +manner in which Mr. Grant summoned assistance. +</p> + +<p> +Then P. C. Robinson entered the box, and contrived to bring about the second +“incident.” +</p> + +<p> +He told how, “from information received,” he went to <i>The +Hollies</i>, and found Mr. Grant standing near the river with a dead body at +his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“One side of Mr. Grant’s face was covered with blood,” he +went on. +</p> + +<p> +If the policeman was minded to create a sensation, he certainly succeeded. A +slight hum ran through the court, and then all present seemed to restrain their +breathing lest a word of the evidence should be lost. The mention of +“blood” in a murder case was a more adroit dodge than Robinson +himself guessed, perhaps. Few of his hearers troubled to reflect that a smudge +of fresh gore on Grant’s cheek could hardly have any bearing on the death +of a woman whose body had admittedly lain all night in the river. It sufficed +that Robinson had introduced a touch of the right color into the inquiry. Even +the coroner was worried. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” he said testily. +</p> + +<p> +“I took down his statement, sir,” said the witness, well knowing +that he had wiped off Grant’s morning score in the matter of Bush Walk. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind his statement. That must await the adjourned hearing. What +did you do with the body?” +</p> + +<p> +“Took it to the stable of the Hare and Hounds, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where it was viewed recently by the jury?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the body identified by Mr. Ingerman as that of his wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“That will do.... Superintendent Fowler, will this day week at ten +o’clock suit you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said the superintendent. +</p> + +<p> +“Then the inquest stands adjourned until that day and hour. Gentlemen of +the jury, you must be here punctually.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t we ask any questions?” cried Elkin, in an injured +tone. +</p> + +<p> +“No. You cannot,” snapped the coroner emphatically. +</p> + +<p> +After a few formalities, which included the reading and signing of the +depositions, the courthouse emptied. The whole thing was over in half an hour. +Grant, determined to have a word with the representative of Scotland Yard, went +openly to Furneaux, and asked him to come to The Hollies and join him in a cup +of tea. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” was the curt answer. “I’m busy. I’ll see +you later.” +</p> + +<p> +It was difficult to reconcile the detective’s present stand-off manner +with his earlier camaradie, to say nothing of the seemingly friendly hint +conveyed by the signal to pass no comment on Ingerman’s interruption. +</p> + +<p> +Rather sick at heart, Grant went out into the sunshine. He was snap-shotted a +dozen times by press photographers. One man, backing impudently in front of him +in order to secure a sharp focus, tripped over the raised edge of a cartway +into a yard, and sat down violently. +</p> + +<p> +The onlookers laughed, but Grant helped the photographer to rise. +</p> + +<p> +“If you want a really good picture of the Steynholme murderer, come to my +place, and I’ll give you one,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The pressman was grateful, because Grant’s action had tended to mitigate +his discomfiture. +</p> + +<p> +“No one but a fool thinks of you as a murderer, Mr. Grant,” he +said. “What I really want is a portrait of ‘the celebrated’ +author in whose grounds the body was found.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come along, then, and I’ll pose for you.” +</p> + +<p> +The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the gods gave. +He could not guess that his host was pining for human companionship. He could +not fathom Grant’s disappointment, on reaching <i>The Hollies</i>, at +finding no telegram from a trusted friend, Walter Hart. And he was equally +unconscious of the immense service he rendered by compelling his host to talk +and act naturally. He enlightened Grant, too, in the matter of inquests. +</p> + +<p> +“Next week there will be a gathering of lawyers,” he said. +“The police will be represented, probably by the Treasury, if the case is +thought sufficiently important. That chap, Ingerman, too, will employ a +solicitor, I expect, judging from his attitude to-day. In fact, any one whose +interests are affected ought to secure legal assistance. One never knows how +these inquiries twist and turn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Grant, smiling at the journalist’s tact. +“I’ll order tea to be got ready while you’re taking your +pictures. By the way, what sort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?” +</p> + +<p> +“A pocket marvel,” was the enthusiastic answer. +“Haven’t you heard of him before? Well, you wouldn’t, unless +you followed famous cases professionally. He seldom appears in the +courts—generally manages to wriggle out of giving direct evidence. But +I’ve never known him to fail. He either hangs his man or drives him to +suicide. If I committed a crime, and was told that Furneaux was after me, +I’d own up and save trouble, because I wouldn’t have the ghost of a +chance of winning clear.” +</p> + +<p> +“He strikes one as too flippant for a detective.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Lots of people have thought that, and they’re either +disappearing in quicklime beneath some corridor of a prison, or doing time at +Portland. I wonder if Winter also is coming down on this job.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is ‘Winter’?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Chief Inspector at the ‘Yard.’ A big, cheerful-looking +fellow—from his appearance might be a gentleman-farmer and J. P., with a +taste for horses and greyhounds. He and Furneaux are called the Big ’Un +and the Little ’Un, and each is most unlike the average detective. But +Heaven help any wrong-doer they set out to trail! They’ll get him, as +sure as God made little apples.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the sooner Mr. Winter visits Steynholme the better I shall be +pleased. This tragedy is becoming a perfect nightmare. You heard that +fat-headed policeman speak of my face being covered with blood. He did it +purposely. I made a fool of him this morning, so he paid me out, the literal +truth being that a branch of that Dorothy Perkins rose there caught my cheek as +I entered this room on Tuesday morning—before I discovered the +body—and broke the skin. I suppose the cut is visible still? I saw it +to-day while shaving.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the other, chortling over the “copy” his +colleagues were missing. “The mark is there right enough. Queer how +inanimate objects like a rose-tree can make mischief. I remember a case in +which a chestnut in a man’s pocket sent him to penal servitude. There was +absolutely no evidence against him, except a possible motive, until that +chestnut was found and proved to be one of a particular species, grown only in +a certain locality.” +</p> + +<p> +“How fortunate that the Dorothy Perkins is popular!” laughed Grant. +“Will your paper publish photographs of the principals in this +affair?” +</p> + +<p> +“I expect so. I’ve a fine collection—the jury, all in a +row—and you, making that speech to the mob.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Will that appear?” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, yes, sir. It was wired off before the inquest opened.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant reddened slightly. His own impetuous action had blurted out to the whole +world that which Steynholme was only thinking. No wonder Furneaux had warned +him to go slow. Perhaps the little man was annoyed because of his challenge to +the village crowd? Well, be it so. He meant, and would live up to, every word +of it! +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon dragged after the pressman’s departure. What Grant really +hungered for was a heart-to-heart talk between Doris Martin and himself. But, +short of a foolish attempt to carry the post office by storm, he saw no means +of realizing his desire. He must, perforce, await the less troubled hours of +the morrow or next day. Doris would surely give her father an exact account of +the conversation between Grant, Furneaux, and herself that morning, and that +greatly perplexed man could hardly fail to see how unjust was the tittle-tattle +of the village. +</p> + +<p> +So, avoiding Mrs. Bates, whose fell intent it was to ask him what he wanted for +dinner, he struck off along the road to Knoleworth, walked eight miles in two +hours, and reached <i>The Hollies</i> about seven o’clock, rather +inclined for a meal and much more contented with life. +</p> + +<p> +Minnie announced that a gentleman “who brought a bag” had been +awaiting him since half-past five, and was now asleep on the lawn! A glance at +the aforesaid bag, still reposing in the entrance hall, sent Grant quickly into +the garden. A long, broad-shouldered person was stretched on a wicker chair, +and evidently enjoying a nap. A huge meerschaum pipe and tobacco pouch lay on +the grass. The newcomer’s face was covered by a broad-brimmed, decidedly +weather-beaten slouch hat, which, legend had it, was purchased originally in +South America in the early nineties, and had won fame as the only one of its +kind ever worn in the Strand. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo! Wally! Glad to see you!” shouted Grant joyously. +</p> + +<p> +The sleeper stirred. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not another drop!” he muttered. “You fellows must have +heads of triple brass and stomachs of leather!” +</p> + +<p> +“Get up, you rascal, or I’ll spill you out of the chair!” +said Grant. +</p> + +<p> +A lazy hand removed the hat, and a pair of peculiarly big and bright eyes gazed +up into his. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s you, is it?” drawled a quiet voice. “Why the +blazes did you send for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep +I’ve had for a week?” +</p> + +<p> +“But why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have met +the train.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did. Here’s the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly +had a fit when I opened it to show her that I was expected.” +</p> + +<p> +“You wired from Victoria, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn’t +Victoria respectable?” +</p> + +<p> +Grant laughed as they shook hands. Hart was the most casual adventurer in +existence. His specialty was revolutions. Wherever the flag of rebellion was +raised against a government, thither went Walter Hart post-haste by train, +steamer, or on horseback. He had been sentenced to death five times, and +decorated by successful Jack Cades twice as often. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a sort of outlaw. That’s why I sought your help,” +explained Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“I know all about you, Jack,” said Hart slowly, picking up the pipe +and filling it from the pouch. The meerschaum was carved to represent the head +of a grinning negro, and was now ebon black from use. +</p> + +<p> +“I felt like a pint of Sussex ale after a hot journey in the train, so +hied me to the village inn, where several obliging gentlemen told me your real +name. Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a hobby of enlightening +strangers as to your right place in society.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must interview Elkin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not worth while, my boy. Ingerman is the crafty one. I thought I might +be doing you more harm than good, or I would have given him a thick ear this +afternoon ... Oh, by the way, what time is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seven o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +“A little fellow named Furneaux is coming here to dinner at seven-thirty. +Said he would drop in by the back door, and mutter ‘Hush! I’m +Hawkshaw, the detective.’ He resembles a cock-sparrow, so I asked him why +he didn’t fly in through an attic window. He took my point at once, and +remarked that he wanted none of my lip, or he would ask me officially what +became of Don Ramon de Santander’s big pink pearl. It’s a queer +yarn. There was a bust-up in Guatemala—” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Wally,” broke in Grant anxiously. “Are you +serious? Did Furneaux really say he was coming here?” +</p> + +<p> +“He did, and more—he expressed a partiality for a chicken roasted +on a spit. You have a spit in your kitchen, he says, and a pair of chickens in +your larder.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you contrive to meet him?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a poor guesser, Jack. <i>He</i> met <i>me</i>. ‘That +you, Mr. Hart?’ he said. ‘Mr. Grant’s house is the first on +the right across the bridge. Tell him’—and the rest of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you warned Mrs. Bates?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Bates being?” +</p> + +<p> +“My housekeeper.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. If she’s anything like your housemaid, I’m glad I +didn’t, or I should have been chucked into the road. I had the deuce of a +job to reach the lawn. Had I ordered dinner I might now have been in the +village lockup.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant hurried away, and placated Mrs. Bates after a stormy interlude. Precisely +at 7.30 p. m. Minnie came and said that “Mr. Hawkshaw” had arrived. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring him out here,” said Grant. “Fetch some sherry and +glasses, and give us five minutes’ notice before dinner is served.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, sir,” tittered Minnie, “the gentleman prefers to +stay indoors. He said his complexion won’t stand the glare.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” smiled Grant, rising. “Put the sherry and +bitters on the sideboard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say,” murmured Hart, “is this chap really a +detective?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. He stands high at Scotland Yard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never more than five feet four, I’ll swear. But I wouldn’t +have missed this for a pension. I have a revolver in my hip pocket, of course. +One would feel lonely without it, even in England. But I hope you can stage a +few knives and daggers, and a red light. I can cut masks out of a strip of +black velvet. That girl will have a piece stowed away somewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +The two entered the dining-room study, where the table was now laid for dinner. +Furneaux was seated on the edge of a chair in the darkest corner. His eyes +gleamed at them strangely. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you trust Bates?” he said to Grant. +</p> + +<p> +It was a wholly unexpected question, and Grant answered sharply: +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, I can.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him to make sure that no one trespasses on your lawn between now +and ten o’clock. Close that window, draw the blind and curtains, and +block that small window, the one through which you saw the ghost.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye gods!” cackled Hart ecstatically. +</p> + +<p> +“Why all these precautions?” demanded Grant, rather amused now. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m supposed to be on the very verge of arresting you, and it +would weaken the faith of my allies if I were seen drinking your wines and +eating your chicken.” +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, how did you know I had chickens in store, and a spit on +which to roast them?” +</p> + +<p> +“I looked you over at five-thirty this morning, having traveled from +London by the mail train. I must lecture you on your inefficient +window-catches, Mr. Grant. Several self-respecting burglars of my acquaintance +would give your house the go-by as being too easy. And, one other matter. I +suggest that any man who mentions the Steynholme murder again before the coffee +arrives shall be fined a sovereign for each offense, such fine, or fines, to +form a fund for the relief of his hearers. <i>CrĂ© nom d’un pipe</i>! +Three intelligent men can surely discuss more interesting topics while they +eat!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>Chapter VIII.<br /> +An Interrupted Symposium</h2> + +<p> +“Have a cigarette,” said Grant to Furneaux, when the blinds were +drawn, a lamp lighted, and the sherry dispensed. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +The self-invited guest took one. He sniffed it, broke the paper wrapping, and +crumbled some of the tobacco between finger and thumb. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, those Greeks!” he said sadly. “They simply can’t +go straight. This brand of Turk used to be made of a tobacco grown on a slope +above Salonica. A strip of sun-baked soil built up a reputation which is now +being bartered for filthy lucre by the use of Egyptian +‘fillings.’” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a connoisseur, Mr. Hawknose—try these,” said +Hart, proffering a case, from which the detective drew a cigarette, throwing +the other one aside. +</p> + +<p> +“Why ‘Hawknose’?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“A blend. First syllable of Hawkshaw and second of Furneaux—the +latter Anglicized, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“And vulgarized.” +</p> + +<p> +“You prefer Furshaw, perhaps?” +</p> + +<p> +“Either effort is feeble for a man who can write about South America, and +be lucid. Do you smoke this stuff, may I ask?” While talking, he had +smelt and destroyed the second cigarette. +</p> + +<p> +“If it’s a fair question, what the devil do <i>you</i> +smoke?” cried Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. I’m a non-smoker. My profession demands a clear +intellect, not a brain atrophied by nicotine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Piffle! Carlyle and Bismarck were smokers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who reads Carlyle now-a-days? And what modern German pays heed to +Bismarck’s dogmas? Look at that pipe of yours. It was once a pure ivory +white. Now it is black—soiled by tobacco juice. Your lungs are slowly +emulating it, and your wits will cloud in time. Read Tolstoi, Mr. Hart. He will +teach you how nicotine deadens the conscience.” +</p> + +<p> +“At last I know why I smoke like a Thames tug,” laughed Hart, +“but I’m blest if I can understand why <i>you</i> make such a study +of the vile weed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most criminals are addicted to the habit. I classify them by their brand +of tobacco. For instance, a clever forger would never descend to thick twist, +while a swell mobsman would turn with horror from a woodbine.” +</p> + +<p> +Minnie entered, and nodded, whereupon Grant led the others upstairs to wash. +From the bathroom he looked out over a darkening landscape. Doris’s +dormer window was open. She was leaning on the sill, but he could not tell +whether or not her eyes were turned his way. Her attitude was pensive, +disconsolate, curiously forlorn for a girl normally high-spirited. He was on +the point of signaling to her when he remembered Furneaux’s presence. +There was something impish, almost diabolically clever, in that little +man’s characteristics which induced wariness. +</p> + +<p> +The dinner was a marvel, considering the short notice given to the cook. +Luckily, Mrs. Bates, a loyal soul, had resolved to tempt her employer’s +appetite that evening. Village gossip had it that the police were about to +arrest him, and she was determined he should enjoy at least one good meal +before being haled to prison. Hence, the materials were present. The rest was a +matter of quantities, and Sussex seldom stints itself in that respect. +</p> + +<p> +The chatter round the table was light and amusing. The three were well matched +conversationally. Furneaux evidently held the opinion once expressed by a +notable Walrus—that the time had come +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>To talk of many things:<br /> +Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—<br /> +Of cabbages—and kings.</i> +</p> + +<p> +He was in excellent form, and the others played up to him. Hart’s slow +drawl was ever trenchant and witty, and Grant forgot his woes in congenial +company. As for the mercurial detective himself, it might be said of him as of +the school-master of Auburn: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,<br /> +That one small head could carry all he knew.</i> +</p> + +<p> +It was he who dropped them with a bounce from the realm of fancy to the +unpleasing region of ugly fact. No sooner had Minnie cleared the table, and +brought in the coffee, than he whisked around on Grant as though hitherto he +had been only awaiting an opportunity of scarifying him. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” he said, propping an elbow on the table, and supporting his +chin on a clenched fist, “the embargo is off the Steynholme affair. +<i>You</i> didn’t kill Adelaide Melhuish, Mr. Grant. Who did?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could tell you,” was the emphatic answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suspect anybody? You needn’t fear the libel law in +confiding your secret thought to me, and I assume that Mr. Hart is +trustworthy—where his friends are concerned?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why that unkind differentiating clause, my pocket Vidocq?” put in +Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“Because two Kings and a baker’s dozen of Presidents have, at +various times, sent most unflattering reports to this country about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must have annoyed ’em most damnably.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had. I congratulate you, but Heaven only knows where I may convoy +you some day on an extradition warrant....Proceed, Mr. Grant.” +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you, on my honor, that the only reasonable suggestion I can +make is that put forward by my gardener to-day,” said Grant. “He +thinks that the murder must have been committed by a lunatic. I can offer no +other hypothesis.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your gardener may be right. But what lunatic, barring yourself and the +horse-coper, Elkin, is in love with Doris Martin?” +</p> + +<p> +Like Elkin the previous night, Grant struck the table till things rattled. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep her name out of it,” he cried fiercely. “You are a man +of the world, not a suspicious idiot of the Robinson type. You heard to-day the +full and true explanation of her presence here on Monday night. It was a sheer +accident. Why harp on Doris Martin rather than any member of the Bates +family?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who, may I ask, is Doris Martin?” put in Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“The Steynholme postmaster’s daughter,” said Furneaux. +“A remarkably pretty and intelligent girl. If her father was a peer she +would be the belle of a London season. As it is, her good looks seem to have +put a maggot in more than one nut in this village.” +</p> + +<p> +Hart waved the negro’s head in the air. +</p> + +<p> +“The lunatic theory for mine,” he declared. “If one +woman’s lovely face could bring a thousand ships to Ilion, why should not +another’s drive men to madness in Steynholme?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well phrased, sir,” cackled Furneaux delightedly. +“I’ll wangle that in on a respected colleague of mine, who is a +whale at deducing a proposition from given premises, but cannot induce a +general fact from particular instances to save his life ... Now, stifle your +romantic frenzy, Mr. Grant, and listen to me. If you were minded to instruct me +in the art of writing good English, I would sit at your feet an attentive +disciple. When I, Furneaux, of the ‘Yard,’ lay down a first +principle in the investigation of crime, I expect deference on your part. I +tell you unhesitatingly that if Doris Martin didn’t exist, Adelaide +Melhuish would be alive now. That, as a thesis, is nearly as certain a thing as +that the sun will rise to-morrow. I go farther, and hazard the guess, not the +fixed belief, though my guesses are usually borne out by events, that if Doris +Martin had not been in this garden at half past ten on Monday night, Adelaide +Melhuish would not have been killed some twenty minutes later. It is useless +for you to fume and rage in vain effort to disprove either of these presumptive +facts. You are simply beating the air. This mystery centers in and around the +postmaster’s daughter. Come, now, you are a reasonable person. Admit the +cold, hard truth, and then give play to your fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said Hart, brandishing his pipe again, “I suggest that +you and I, here and now, form a mutual admiration society.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a cruel and bitter thing that an innocent girl should be dragged +into association with a foul crime,” said Grant stubbornly. “I am +not disputing the force of your acumen, Mr. Furneaux. My only desire is to +shield the good name of a very charming young lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s done can’t be undone,” countered the detective, +well knowing that Grant confessed himself beaten. +</p> + +<p> +“But what is all the bother about? You heard from Miss Martin’s own +lips absolutely the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Put her in the +witness-box, and what more can she tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not worrying about her appearance in the witness-box,” said +Furneaux dryly. “Long before that stage is reached I shall be hunting a +star burglar, or, perhaps, looking into the Foreign Office <i>dossier</i> of +our worthy friend here, as to-day’s papers hint at trouble in Venezuela. +No, sir. The county police will get all the credit. P. C. Robinson will be +swanking about then, telling the yokels what <i>he</i> did. I, with Olympic +nod, say, ‘There’s your man!’ and the handcuffs’ +brigade do the rest. So far as I can foresee, Miss Martin’s name may be +spared any undue prominence in this inquiry. I go even farther, and promise +that anything I can do in that way shall be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very kind and considerate of you,” said Grant gratefully. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t halloo till you’re out of the wood.” said +Furneaux, sitting back suddenly and nursing his left knee with clasped hands. +“I can’t control other people’s actions, you know. What I +insist on to-night is that you shall envisage this affair in its proper light. +We have a long way to travel before counsel rises with his smug ‘May it +please you, me lud, and gentlemen of the jury.’ But, having persuaded you +to agree that, willy nilly, Miss Doris is the hub of our little universe for +the hour, I now swear you and this fire-eater in as assistants. There must be +no more speeches, no punching of heads, very little love-making, and that by +order—” +</p> + +<p> +“Has the postmaster’s daughter a delectable sister, O Liliputian +cop?” demanded Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“No. Two of ’em would have caused a riot long since. Mr. Grant will +do all, and more than all, necessary in that direction.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant leaned forward. He spoke very earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“I want you to believe me when I tell you,” he said, “that I +never gave serious thought to the notion of marrying Miss Martin until such a +possibility was suggested last night by that swab, Ingerman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Ingerman! You kept a record of what he said, I gather?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, here it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant rose, and went to a writing-desk with nests of drawers which stood +against the wall on the left of the door. He never used it for its primary +purpose. When the table was laid for meals, Minnie or her mother had orders to +remove all papers and books to the top of the desk. The house contained no +other living-room of size. The hall was spacious; a smoking den next the +dining-room had degenerated into a receptacle of guns, fishing-rods, +golf-clubs, Alpenstocks, skis and other such sporting accessories. The +remainder of the ground-floor accommodation was given up to the Bateses. +</p> + +<p> +Unlocking a drawer, Grant produced a notebook, which he handed to Furneaux. The +detective laid it on the table. He was sitting with his back to the large +window. Hart faced him. Grant’s chair was between the two. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, as you’re on your feet, Mr. Grant,” said +Furneaux, “you might just show me exactly where you were standing when +you saw the face at the window.” +</p> + +<p> +“For the love of Mike, what’s this?” gurgled Hart. +“‘The face at the window’; ‘the postmaster’s +daughter.’ How many more catchy cross-heads will you bring into the +story?” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Adelaide Melhuish undoubtedly came here on Monday night and looked +in at me while I was at work,” said Grant sadly. “You know the +history of my calf love three years ago, Wally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I ever forget it? You bored me stiff about it. Then, when the +crash came, you walked me off my legs in the Upper Engadine. Ugh! That night on +the Forno glacier. It gives me a chill to think of it now. Furneaux, pass the +port. Your name is wrongly spelt. It should be <i>fourneau</i>, not Furneaux. A +little oven. Hot stuff. Got me?” +</p> + +<p> +“My <i>dear</i> Hart, you flatter me,” retorted the detective +instantly. +</p> + +<p> +“How long am I to pose here?” snapped Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry,” said Furneaux. “These interruptions are banal. Is +that where you were?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I had my hand outstretched for a book. It’s dark in this +corner. When I want to find a book I light a candle, which is always placed on +the ledge of the window for the purpose. The blind was not drawn that night. It +seldom is. I had the book in my hand, and had found the required passage when I +chanced to look at the window and saw <i>her</i> face.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mind reconstructing the scene. This lamp was on the table, I +suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, pull up the blind, light your candle, and find the book. Act the +whole incident, in fact.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant obeyed. He held the candlestick until he had picked out the particular +volume; then he placed it in the recess of the window, and searched through the +pages of the book. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux bent forward so as to watch the rehearsal and catch the effect of the +light externally. The hour was not so late as when Adelaide Melhuish, or her +ghost, gazed in through one of those narrow panes, but the night was dark +enough to lend the necessary <i>vraisemblance</i>. Hart, deeply interested, +looked on with rapt, eager eyes. For a full minute the tableau remained thus. +Then, with a rapidity born of many a close ’scape in wild lands, Hart +drew a revolver from a hip pocket, and fired at the window. +</p> + +<p> +He alone was in a position to see through all parts of it. Grant was still +thumbing a small brown volume in the manner of one who knew that a certain +passage would be found therein but was ignorant of its exact place in the text. +Furneaux, intent on his every movement, had only a side-long view of the +window, which, it will be remembered, formed a tiny rectangle in a thick wall. +</p> + +<p> +The revolver was a heavy-caliber weapon, and the explosion blew out the lamp. +The flame of the candle flickered, owing either to the passage of the bullet or +the disturbance of the air. But it burnt steadily again within the fifth part +of a second, and they all saw a starred hole in the center pane of glass of the +second tier from the bottom. +</p> + +<p> +“What fool’s game are you playing?” shrilled Furneaux, +nevertheless active as a wildcat in his spring to the French window, there to +snatch at the blind and turn the knob which controlled a lever bolt. +</p> + +<p> +“Laying another ghost—one with whiskers,” said Hart coolly. +“I got him, too, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must be mad, mad!” shrieked the detective, tearing open the +window, and vanishing. +</p> + +<p> +“For Heaven’s sake, Wally, no more shooting!” cried Grant, +running after Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +Minnie and her mother appeared at the dining-room door. Finding the place in +semi-obscurity, and reeking with gunpowder, they screamed loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“You Steynholme folk are all on the jump,” said Hart. “Cheer +up, fair dames! Thunder relieves the atmosphere, you know, and one live +cartridge is often more effective than an ocean of talk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bub-bub-but who’s shot, sir?” gasped Minnie. +</p> + +<p> +“A ghost, a most scoundrelly apparition, with fearsome eyes, offensive +whiskers, and a hat which is a base copy of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Owd Ben!” sighed Mrs. Bates, collapsing straightway in a faint. +</p> + +<p> +Luckily, Minnie caught her mother and broke her fall, because the housekeeper +was large and solid, and might have been seriously injured otherwise. Hart was +distressed by this development, but, being eminently a ready person in an +emergency, he rose to the occasion by extracting the empty case from the +revolver, and holding it to the poor woman’s nostrils, while supporting +her with an arm and a knee. +</p> + +<p> +“This is far more effective than burnt brown paper, Minnie,” he +said. “Now, don’t get excited, but mix some brandy and water, and +we’ll have your mother telling us who Owd Ben is, or was, before Hawk-eye +comes back to disturb us. Judging by the noises I hear, he’s busy +outside.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s father!” shrieked Minnie hysterically. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Lord! Has your father—” +</p> + +<p> +For an instant, Hart was nearly alarmed, but Grant’s voice came +authoritatively: +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right, Bates. Let go, I tell you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Phew!” said Hart. “I was on the point of confusing your +respected dad with Owd Ben ... That’s it, ma! Sniff hard! As a cook +you’re worth your weight in gold, which is some cook.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Furneaux, seeing that no dead body was stretched on the strip of +grass beneath the window, dashed into the shrubbery to the right, and was +clutched in a mighty embrace by an older but much more powerful man in Bates, +who had hurried from the front of the house on hearing the pistol-shot. Most +fortunately, the gardener, deeming his vigil a needless one, had not armed +himself with a stick, or the consequences might have been grave. As it was, no +one except Hart had been vouchsafed sight or sound of the latest specter, +which, however, had left a very convincing souvenir of its visit in the shape +of a soft felt hat with two bullet holes through the crown. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux, quivering with silent wrath, soon abandoned the search when this +<i>pièce de conviction</i> was found at the root of the Dorothy Perkins +rose-tree. Seeing the lamp relighted, he peremptorily bade Grant and Bates come +in with him. He closed the window, adjusted the blind again, and poured +generous measures of port wine into two glasses. Handing one to Bates, he took +the other himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Friend,” he said, “some men have fame thrust upon them, but +you have achieved it. To-night you pierced the heel of Achilles. Here’s +to you!” +</p> + +<p> +“I dunno wot ’ee’s saying mister, but ‘good +health’,” said Bates, swigging the wine with gusto. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, for your master’s sake, not a word to a soul about this +hubbub.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right you are, sir! But that there pryin’ Robinson wur on t’ +bridge five minutes since. And, by gum, here he is!” +</p> + +<p> +A determined knock and ring came at the front door. Minnie, helped by Hart, had +just escorted Mrs. Bates to the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +“Let <i>me</i> go!” said Furneaux, darting out into the hall. He +opened the door, and thrust his face into the police-constable’s, +startling the latter considerably. Before Robinson could utter a syllable, the +detective hissed a question. +</p> + +<p> +“Did anyone cross the bridge after that shot was fired?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nun—No, sir,” stuttered the other. +</p> + +<p> +“You saw no one running along the road?” +</p> + +<p> +“Saw nothing, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Glad to find you’re on the job. Don’t let on you +met me here. Good-night!” +</p> + +<p> +Mighty is Scotland Yard with the provincial police. Robinson was back on his +self-imposed beat before he well realized that he knew neither why nor by whom +nor by what sort of weapon the commotion had been created. But he was quite +sure the noise came from the garden front of Mr. Grant’s house. +</p> + +<p> +“That little hop-o’-me-thumb thinks he’s smart, dam +smart,” he communed angrily, “but I’ve taken a line of me +own, an’ I’ll stick to it, though the Yard sends down twenty +men!” +</p> + +<p> +He heard footsteps coming down a paved footpath which ran like a white riband +through the cobble-beaded width of the high-street, and withdrew swiftly to the +shelter of a disused tannery adjoining the village end of the bridge. A cloaked +female figure sped past. Though the night was rather dark for June, he had no +difficulty in recognizing Doris Martin’s graceful movements. No other +girl in Steynholme walked like her. She was slim enough to dispense with tight +corsets, and tall enough to wear low-heeled shoes, nor did she need to pinch +her toes in order to gain the semblance of small feet. +</p> + +<p> +After her went Robinson, keyed to exultation by this outcome of his +watchfulness. She was going to <i>The Hollies</i>, of course. The road led to +Knoleworth, and no young woman of her age in the village would dream of taking +a lonely walk in the country at ten o’clock at night. +</p> + +<p> +For a man of his height and somewhat ponderous build, the policeman followed +with real stealth. Thus, when she turned in at the gate, he was there by the +time she had reached the front door. He heard her pull the bell. Curiously +enough, to his thinking, Furneaux again appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mr. Grant at home?” he heard Doris say. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Will you come in?” replied the detective. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he—is all well here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite, I assure you. But <i>do</i> come in. I’ll escort you home. +I’m going to the inn in five minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +Doris, after hesitating a little, entered. +</p> + +<p> +Robinson crept on tiptoe over a stretch of gravel, and took to the shrubbery. +It was high time, he thought, that the local constabulary learnt what was going +on in that abode of mystery. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>Chapter IX.<br /> +How Whom the Cap Fits—</h2> + +<p> +Several minutes had elapsed between the two unexpected visits. During those +minutes a somewhat acrimonious discussion broke out in the dining-room. Bates +went to reassure his wife, and Hart sauntered back from the kitchen. He was +received by Furneaux and Grant more in sorrow than in anger, a pose on their +part which he blandly disregarded. He helped himself to the remains of the +decanter of port. +</p> + +<p> +“The next point of vital interest in the narrative is to establish, by +such evidence as is available, who Owd Ben is, or was,” he said. “I +presume, since he had attained local celebrity as a ghost, he has passed over, +as the spiritists say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down!” cried Furneaux savagely. +</p> + +<p> +Hart sat down, and began filling that portentous pipe. +</p> + +<p> +“You fellows merely ran into each other outside, I take it,” he +said, apparently by way of a chatty remark. “The crack of the pistol-shot +and the supposed resurrection of Owd Ben threw Mrs. Bates temporarily off her +balance, so I helped in reviving her. Between such a cook and such a ghost, who +would hesitate?” +</p> + +<p> +When Furneaux was really irritated, he swore in French. +</p> + +<p> +<i>“Nom d’un bon petit homme gris!”</i> he almost squealed, +“why did you whip out that infernal revolver? You spoiled everything, +everything! Have you no sense in that picturesque head of yours? Your skull is +big enough to hold brains, not soap-bubbles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did your French father marry a Jap?” inquired Hart, with sudden +interest. +</p> + +<p> +“And now you’re insulting my mother,” yelped the detective. +</p> + +<p> +“Not I. You know nothing about the finest race of little women in the +world, or you would not even imagine such rubbish.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why, why, didn’t you tell me that you saw someone +outside?” +</p> + +<p> +“You wouldn’t have believed me. The goblin was disappearing. I had +to shoot quick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why shoot at all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, there are certain manifestations I object to on principle. What +self-respecting ghost ever wore whiskers?” +</p> + +<p> +“This was no ghost. You shot the man’s hat off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what the blazes are you growling at? Had I, in blood-curdling +whisper, told you that once again there was a face at the window, you would +have scoffed at me. The ill-looking scamp caught my eye after his first glance +at Grant. He was mizzling when I fired. You would have sat there and argued +about hypnosis, with our worthy author’s skilled support. And there would +have been no hat! I do an admirable bit of trick shooting, yet I am only +reviled for my dexterity. Really, Charles François!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! You remember, at last,” and the detective smiled sourly. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Parfaitement</i>! as they say in Paris, where you and I met once, +though ’twas in a crowd. But <i>I</i> didn’t steal the blessed +pearl. I believe it was that blatant patriot, Domengo Suarez.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got <i>some</i> brains, then. Why not use them? Don’t +you see what a fix we three would have found ourselves in had you shot the +man?” +</p> + +<p> +“But, consider, Carlo mio! A spook with whiskers! What court would find +me guilty? Let me produce the authentic record of Owd Ben, and I have no doubt +but that the Lord Chief Justice himself would have potted his representative. +He’d be bound to confess it.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux was cooling down. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve shaken my confidence,” he said. “Unless I have +your promise that you will never do such a thing again while in my company, I +shall ban you from this inquiry with bell, book, and candle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. It’s a bargain. Now let us ponder Exhibit A.” +</p> + +<p> +He stretched a long arm over the table, and took the hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Put it on!” commanded the detective. +</p> + +<p> +Hart did so, and scowled frightfully. Furneaux bent forward and squinted. +</p> + +<p> +“Notice the line of those bullet-holes,” he said to Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“Any man wearing that hat must have had his scalp ploughed up,” +said Grant instantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we know that nothing of the kind happened. Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was perched on top of a wig,” drawled Hart. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux was slightly disappointed—there was no denying it. Being a vain +little person, he liked to show off in a minor matter such as this. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he admitted, “and what’s the corollary?” +</p> + +<p> +“That the wearer is probably a clean-shaven person with thin hair, a +daring scoundrel who is well posted in the leading characteristics of Owd Ben. +Charles le Petit, time is now ripe for details of that hairy goblin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you dig him up from, anyhow?” said the detective +testily. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Bates recognized him from my vivid description.” +</p> + +<p> +“Her husband can tell us the story,” put in Grant. +“I’ll fetch him.” +</p> + +<p> +He had not moved ere the front door bell rang a second time. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is Owd Ben himself, I expect,” said Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“If it’s that Robinson—” growled Furneaux vexedly, +hastening to forestall Minnie. +</p> + +<p> +But it was Doris Martin, and very pretty she looked as she entered the room, +her high color being the joint outcome of a rapid walk and a very natural +embarrassment at finding the frankly admiring eyes of a stranger fixed on her. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite know why I’m here,” she said, with a +nervous laugh, addressing Grant directly. “You will think I am always +gazing in the direction of <i>The Hollies</i>, but my room commands this house +so fully that I cannot help seeing or hearing anything unusual. A few minutes +ago I heard what I thought was a muffled gunshot. I looked out, and saw your +window thrown open, though the light was dim, and only a candle was showing in +the smaller window. I was alarmed, so came to inquire what had happened. +You’ll pardon me, I’m sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say you don’t, Jack, I implore you, and let me apologize for +you,” pleaded Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“Doris, this is my good friend, Wally Hart,” smiled Grant. +“Won’t you sit down? We have an exciting story for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father will be horribly anxious if he knows I have gone out.” +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, there was sufficient spice of Mother Eve in Doris that she should +take the proffered chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry to interrupt,” broke in Furneaux. “Did you meet P. C. +Robinson!” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“You came by way of the bridge?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no other way, unless one makes a detour by Bush Walk.” +</p> + +<p> +The detective whirled round on Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“What room is over this one?” +</p> + +<p> +“Minnie’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s in the kitchen, with her mother. See that she doesn’t +come upstairs while I’m absent. You three keep on talking.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks,” said Hart. +</p> + +<p> +Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Grant has often spoken of you,” she said. “You talk, and +we’ll listen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so, divinity,” came the retort. “I may be a parrot, but +I don’t want my neck wrung when you’ve gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t encourage him, Doris,” said Grant, “or +you’ll be here till midnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“If that’s the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to +me,” laughed Hart. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. The +casement window was open—he had noted that fact while in the garden. He +peeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux Indian on +the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about to peer +cautiously through the small window. The detective’s blood ran cold. What +if Hart discovered yet another ghost? +</p> + +<p> +“Robinson—go home!” he said, in sepulchral tones. +</p> + +<p> +The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror. He, too, +had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben. +</p> + +<p> +“Go home!” hissed Furneaux, leaning out. +</p> + +<p> +Then the other looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s you, sir!” he gasped, sighing with relief. +</p> + +<p> +“Man, you’ve had the closest shave of your life! There’s a +fellow below there who shoots at sight.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m on duty, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be in Kingdom Come if you gaze in at that window. Be +off!” +</p> + +<p> +“I—” +</p> + +<p> +“Robinson, you and I will quarrel if you don’t do as I bid you. And +that would be a pity, because I want to inform Mr. Fowler that he has a +particularly smart man in Steynholme.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, sir, if <i>you’re</i> satisfied, I <i>must</i> +be.” +</p> + +<p> +And away went the eavesdropper, crushed, still tingling with that fear of the +supernatural latent in every heart, but far from convinced. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux tripped downstairs. The routing of Robinson had put him into a real +good humor. He found the three in the dining-room gazing spell-bound at the +felt hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, young lady, you’re coming with me,” he said, grinning +amiably. “The Sussex constabulary is quelled for the hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mr. Furneaux, I recognize that hat!” said Doris, and it was +notable that even Hart remained silent. +</p> + +<p> +The detective looked at her strangely, but put no question. +</p> + +<p> +“I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic +Society,” went on the girl. “It was worn by Mr. Elkin last +November. He played a burlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid +cold from walking about without shoes or stockings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t tell me any more,” was Furneaux’s surprising +comment. “I’ll do the rest. But let me remark, Miss Martin, that I +experienced great difficulty, not so long ago, in persuading friend Grant that +you were the only important witness this case has provided thus far. Playing in +a burlesque, were you? We’ve been similarly engaged to-night. The farce +must stop now. It makes way for grim tragedy. Not one word of to-night’s +events to anyone, please.... Are you ready?” +</p> + +<p> +Doris stood up. Hart thrust the negro’s head at the detective. +</p> + +<p> +“FouchĂ©,” he said, “do you honestly mean slinging your hook +without making any inquiry as to Owd Ben?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the ghost!” said Doris eagerly. “The Bateses would think +of him, of course. An old farmer named Ben Robson used to live in this house +about the time of Napoleon. He was suspected by the authorities to be an agent +of the smugglers, and the story goes that his own daughter quarreled with him +and betrayed him. He narrowly escaped hanging, owing to his age, I believe, and +was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. At last he was released, being +then a very old man, and he came straight here and strangled his daughter. It +is quite a terrible story. He was found dead by her side. Then people +remembered that she had spoken of someone scaring her by looking in through +that small window some nights previously. Naturally, a ghost was soon +manufactured. I really wonder why the man who rebuilt and renamed the place in +the middle of last century didn’t have the window removed +altogether.” +</p> + +<p> +“Glad I began the work of demolition tonight,” said Hart, and, for +once, his tone was serious. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you never tell me that scrap of history, Doris?” inquired +Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“You liked the place so much that father and I agreed not to mar your +enthusiasm by recalling an unpleasant legend,” she said frankly. +“Not that what I’ve related isn’t true. The record appears in +a Sussex Miscellany of those years.... Oh, my goodness, can it be eleven +o’clock!” +</p> + +<p> +The hall clock had no doubt on the point. Furneaux pocketed the written notes +regarding Ingerman, and grabbed the hat off the table. Grant, for some reason, +was aware that the detective repressed an obvious reference to the last +occasion on which the girl had heard that same clock announce the hour. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux would allow no other escort. He and Doris made off immediately. +</p> + +<p> +When they were gone, Hart stared fixedly at an empty decanter. +</p> + +<p> +“My dim recollection of your port, Jack, is that it was a wine of many +virtues and few vices,” he mused aloud. +</p> + +<p> +Grant took the hint, and went to a cellar. Returning, he found his crony poring +over the book which, singularly enough, figured prominently on each occasion +when the specter-producing window was markedly in evidence. Hart glanced up at +his host, and nodded cheerfully at a dust-laden bottle. +</p> + +<p> +“What is there in ‘The Talisman’ which needed so much +research?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Some lines by Sir David Lindsay, quoted by Scott,” was the answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Are these they?” And Hart read: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>One thing is certain in our Northern land;<br /> +Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit,<br /> +Give each precedence to their possessor,<br /> +Envy, that follows on such eminence,<br /> +As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck’s trace,<br /> +Shall pull them down each one.</i> +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“Love isn’t mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You’re in +luck, my boy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. +Gee whizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist. What +is a lyme-hound?” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Lyme,’ or ‘leam,’ is the old-time word for +‘leash.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” said Hart. “That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in +to dinner every day, Jack. He’s a tonic!” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux, for some reason known only to himself, did not accompany Doris to the +post office. Once they were across the bridge, and the broad village street, +more green than roadway, was seen to be empty, he tapped her on the shoulder +and said pleasantly: +</p> + +<p> +“Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don’t worry. The +tangle will right itself in time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Mr. Grant is suffering,” she ventured to murmur. +</p> + +<p> +“And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I’ll +wait here till you are behind a locked door.” +</p> + +<p> +“No one in Steynholme will hurt me,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You never can tell. I’m not taking any chances to-night, +however.” +</p> + +<p> +So Doris sped swiftly up the hill. Arrived at her house, she waved a hand to +the detective, who flourished his straw hat in response. A fine June night in +England is never really dark, so the two could not only see each other but, +when Doris disappeared, Furneaux, turning sharply on his heel, was able to make +out the sudden straightening of a pucker in the blind of a ground-floor room in +P. C. Robinson’s abode. +</p> + +<p> +The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window. +Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s there?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“As if you didn’t know,” laughed Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +Robinson turned a key, and looked out. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s you, sir?” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme,” +said the detective. “May I come in? No, don’t show a light here. +Let’s chat in the back kitchen.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir,” began Robinson +apologetically. “It’s laid in the kitchen. On’y bread and +cheese an’ a glass of beer. Will you join me?” +</p> + +<p> +“With pleasure, if I hadn’t stuffed myself at Grant’s place. +Nice fellow, Grant. Pity you and he don’t seem to get on together. Of +course, we policemen cannot allow friendship to interfere with duty, but, +between you and me, Robinson—strictly in confidence—Grant had no +more to do with the actual murder of Miss Melhuish than either of us +two.” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson had turned up a lamp, and hospitably installed Furneaux in his own +easy-chair. +</p> + +<p> +“The ‘actual murder,’ you said, sir?” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It was his presence at <i>The Hollies</i> which brought an +infatuated woman there, and thus directly led to her death. That is all. Grant +is telling the truth. I assure you, Robinson, I never allow myself to break +bread with a man whom I may have to convict. So, I’ll change my mind, and +take a snack of your bread and cheese.” +</p> + +<p> +The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the implied tribute. What +he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that his somewhat massive form +was being twiddled round the detective’s little finger. +</p> + +<p> +“Right you are, sir,” he cried cheerily. “But, if Mr. Grant +didn’t kill Miss Melhuish, who did!” +</p> + +<p> +“In all probability, the man who wore that hat,” chirped Furneaux, +taking a nondescript bundle from a coat pocket, and throwing it on the table. +</p> + +<p> +Robinson started. This June night was full of weird surprises. He set down a +jug of beer with a bang—his intent being to fill two glasses already in +position, from which circumstance even the least observant visitor might deduce +a Mrs. Robinson, <i>en negligĂ©</i>, hastily flown upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb. +</p> + +<p> +“By gum!” he muttered. “Are these bullet-holes?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ is this what someone fired at?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how in thunder—” +</p> + +<p> +He checked himself in time. He did not want to admit that he had been watching +the only recognized road to Grant’s house all the evening. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so!” chortled Furneaux, with admirable misunderstanding. +“You’re quick on the trigger, Robinson—almost as quick as +that friend of Grant’s who arrived by the 5.30 from London. You perceive +at once that no ordinary head could have worn that hat without having its hair +combed by the same bullet. It was stuck on to a thick wig. Now, tell me the +man, or woman, in Steynholme, who wears a wig and a hat like that, and you and +I will guess who killed Miss Melhuish.” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson suspected that, as he himself would have put it, his leg was being +pulled rather violently. Furneaux read his face like a printed page. Chewing, +much against his will, a mouthful of bread and cheese, he mumbled in solemn, +broken tones: +</p> + +<p> +“Think—Robinson. Don’t—answer—offhand. +Has—anybody—ever worn—such things—in a play?” +</p> + +<p> +Then the policeman was convinced, galvanized by memory, as it were. +</p> + +<p> +“By gum!” he cried again. “Fred Elkin—in a charity +performance last winter.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux choked with excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“A horsey-looking chap, on to-day’s jury,” he gurgled. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s him!” +</p> + +<p> +“The scoundrel!” +</p> + +<p> +“No wonder he looked ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“No wonder, indeed. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill +deeds done!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, sir—” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson was flabbergasted. He could only murmur “Fred Elkin!” in a +dazed way. +</p> + +<p> +“Have a drink,” said Furneaux sympathetically. “I’ll +wet my whistle, too. Only half a glass, please. Now, we mustn’t jump to +conclusions. This Elkin looks a villain, but may not be one. That is to say, +his villainy may be confined to dealings in nags. But you see, Robinson, what a +queer turn this affair is taking. We must get rid of preconceived notions. +Superintendent Fowler and you and I will go into this matter thoroughly +to-morrow. Meanwhile, breathe not a syllable to a living soul. If I were you, +I’d let Mr. Grant understand that we regard him as rather outside the +scope of our inquiry. This beer is very good for a country village. You know a +good thing when you see it, I expect. Pity I don’t smoke, or I’d +join you in a pipe. I must get a move on, now, or that fat landlord will be +locking me out. Good night! Yes. I’ll take the hat. <i>Good</i> +night!” +</p> + +<p> +While walking up the hill Furneaux fanned himself with the straw hat. +</p> + +<p> +“One small bit of my brain is evidently a hereditary bequest from a +good-natured ass!” he communed. “Here am I, Furneaux, plagued +beyond endurance by a first-class murder case, and I must go and busy myself +with the love affair of a postmaster’s daughter and a feather-headed +novelist!” +</p> + +<p> +When Tomlin admitted him to the Hare and Hounds, he buttonholed the landlord, +who, at that hour, was usually somewhat obfuscated. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said the detective gravely, “I am told that you +Steynholme folk indulge occasionally in such frivolities as amateur +theatricals?” +</p> + +<p> +“Once in a way, sir. Once in a way. Afore I lock up the bar, will +you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to-night. I’ve mixed port and beer already, and I’m only +a little fellow. Now you, Mr. Tomlin, can mix anything, I fancy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve tried a few combinations in me time, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, about these theatrical performances—is there any scenery, +costumes, ‘props’ as actors call them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. They’re stored in the loft over the club-room—the +room where the inquest wur held.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, <i>here</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux’s shrill cry scared Mr. Tomlin. +</p> + +<p> +“Y-yes, sir,” he stuttered. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that my candle?” said the detective tragically. +“I’m tired, dead beat. To-night, Mr. Tomlin, you are privileged to +see the temporary wreck of a noble mind. God wot, ’tis a harrowing +spectacle.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux skipped nimbly upstairs. Tomlin proceeded to lock up. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s good for trade,” he mumbled, “but I’ll be +glad when these ’ere Lunnon gents clears out. They worry me, they do. +Fair gemme a turn, ’e did. A tec’, indeed! He’s nothin’ +but a play-hactor hisself!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>Chapter X.<br /> +The Case Against Grant</h2> + +<p> +Next morning, after a long conference with Superintendent Fowler, from which, +to his great chagrin, P. C. Robinson was excluded, Furneaux went to the post +office, dispatched an apparently meaningless telegram to a code address, and +exchanged a few orthodox remarks with Doris and her father about the continued +fine weather. While he was yet at the counter, Ingerman crossed the road and +entered the chemist’s shop. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see,” said the detective musingly, “by committing a +slight trespass on your left-hand neighbor’s garden, can I reach the yard +of the inn?” +</p> + +<p> +“What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve +over,” smiled Doris. “Mrs. Jefferson went to Knoleworth early +to-day, and took her maid. By shopping at the stores there, they save their +fares, and have a day out each week.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I go that way, then?” he said. “Suppose you send that +goggle-eyed skivvy of yours on an errand.” +</p> + +<p> +This was done, and Furneaux made the desired transit. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Tomlin, to whom the comings and goings of all and sundry formed the staple +of the day’s gossip, had seen the detective go out, but could “take +his sollum davy” that the queer little man had not returned. He, too, had +watched Ingerman going to Siddle’s. Ten minutes later Elkin came down the +hill, and headed for the same rendezvous. Five minutes more, and Hobbs, the +butcher, joined the others. Tomlin was seething with curiosity, but there were +some casual customers in the “snug,” so he could not abandon his +post. +</p> + +<p> +Soon, however, Ingerman led Elkin and Hobbs to the inn. Evidently, the +“financier” had been making some small purchases. He was in high +spirits. Ordering appetizers before the mid-day meal, he announced that he was +returning to London that afternoon, but would be in Steynholme again for the +adjourned inquest. +</p> + +<p> +“No matter how my business suffers, I mean to see this affair +through,” he vowed. “You gentlemen can pretty well guess my private +convictions. You were good enough to give me your friendship, so I spoke as +openly as one dares when no charge has actually been laid against any +particular person.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said Elkin, with whom sunshine seemed to disagree, because he +looked miserably ill. “We know what you mean, Mr. Ingerman. If the police +were half sharp they’d have nabbed their man before this ... Did you put +any water in this gin, Tomlin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Water?” wheezed Tomlin indignantly. <i>“Water?”</i> +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no offense. I can’t taste anything. I believe I could +swallow dope and not feel it on my tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do look bad, an’ no mistake, Fred,” agreed Hobbs. +“Are you vettin’ yerself? Don’t. Every man to his trade, sez +I. Give Dr. Foxton a call.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m taking his medicine regular. Perhaps I need a change.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Ave a week-end in Lunnon,” said Hobbs, with a broad wink. +</p> + +<p> +“Change of medicine, I mean. I’m not leaving Steynholme till things +make a move. My next trip to London will be my honeymoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“You look like a honeymooner, I don’t think,” guffawed Hobbs. +</p> + +<p> +“You wouldn’t laugh if I told <i>you</i> what you really look +like,” cried Elkin angrily. “Bet you a level fiver I’m +married this year. Now, put up or shut up!” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux peeped in, through a door, always open, which led to the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Can I have my account, Mr. Tomlin?” he said. “I’m +going to town by the next train.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t mean to say, Mr. Furneaux, that you are abandoning the +case so soon?” broke in Ingerman. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I say that?” inquired the detective meekly. +</p> + +<p> +“No. One can’t help drawing inferences occasionally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Great mistake. Look at our worthy landlord. He’s been drawing +inferences as well as corks, and he’s beat to the world.” +</p> + +<p> +Tomlin was, indeed, gazing at his smaller guest open-mouthed. +</p> + +<p> +“S’elp me!” he gurgled. “I could ha’ +sworn—” +</p> + +<p> +“Bad habit,” and Furneaux crooked a waggish forefinger at him. +“Even the wisest among us may err. Last night, for instance, I blundered. +I really fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do you +think it ended? In the loft of your club-room, Mr. Tomlin. In a box of old +clothes at that. Silly, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wot! Them amatoor play-hactin’ things?” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin grunted, though intending to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Not so sharp for a London ’tec, I must say,” he cried. +“Why, those props have been there since before Christmas.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I know now,” was the downcast reply. “Twelve hours ago +I thought differently. Didn’t I, Mr. Tomlin?” +</p> + +<p> +Tomlin tried hard to look knowing. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, is that wot you wur drivin’ at?” he said. “Dang +me, mister, I could soon ha’ put you right ’ad you tole me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well. Can’t be helped. I may do better in London. What do +<i>you</i> say, Mr. Ingerman? The City is the real mint of money and crime. Who +knows but that a stroll through Cornhill may have some bearing on the +Steynholme mystery?” +</p> + +<p> +“May be you’d get a bit nearer if you took a stroll along the +Knoleworth Road, and not so very far, either,” guffawed Elkin. +</p> + +<p> +“Who knows?” repeated Furneaux sadly. “Good-day, gentlemen. +Some of this merry party will meet again, of course, if not here, at the +Assizes. Don’t forget my bill. Mr. Tomlin. By the way, one egg at +breakfast had seen vicissitudes. It shouldn’t be rated too highly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m traveling by your train,” cried Ingerman. +</p> + +<p> +“So I understood,” said Furneaux over his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment after he had gone. Ingerman looked thoughtful, +even puzzled. He was casting back in his mind to discover just how and when the +detective “understood” that his departure was imminent, since he +himself had only arrived at a decision after leaving the chemist’s. +</p> + +<p> +“That chap is no good,” announced Elkin. “I’ll back old +Robinson against him any day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sh-s-sh! He may ’ear you,” muttered the landlord. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t care if he does. Cornhill! What the blazes has Cornhill to +do with the murder at <i>The Hollies</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman appreciated the value of that concluding phrase. Elkin had used it +once before in Siddle’s shop, and was quietly reproved by the chemist for +his outspokenness. +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman, however, did not inform the company that his office lay in an alley +off Cornhill. He elected to rub in Elkin’s words. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Siddle seemed to object to <i>The Hollies</i> being mentioned as the +scene of the crime,” he said. “I wonder why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he’s an old molly-coddle,” snapped the horse-dealer. +“Thinks everyone is like himself, a regular slow-coach.” +</p> + +<p> +Tomlin closed the door into the passage, closed it for the first time in living +memory, whereat Furneaux, on the landing above, grinned sardonically, and ran +downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot’s this about them amatoor clo’es?” he inquired +portentously. “Oo ’as the key of that box?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> have,” said Elkin. “I locked it after the last +performance, and, unless you’ve been up to any monkey tricks, Tomlin, the +duds are there yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re bitin’ me ’ead off all the mornin’, +Fred,” protested the aggrieved landlord. “Fust, the gin was wrong, +an’ now I’m supposed to ’ave rummidged yur box. Wot +for?” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux popped in. +</p> + +<p> +“My bill ready?” he squeaked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. The train—” +</p> + +<p> +“Leaves at two, but I’m driving to Knoleworth with Superintendent +Fowler.” +</p> + +<p> +The door closed behind him. Tomlin shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Box! Jack-in-the-box, I reckon,” he said darkly, turning to a +dog-eared ledger. +</p> + +<p> +Neither at Knoleworth nor Victoria did Ingerman catch sight of the detective, +though he was anxious either to make the journey in the company of the +representative of Scotland Yard or arrange an early appointment with him. True, +he was not inclined to place the strange-mannered little man on the same high +plane as that suggested by certain London journalists to whom he had spoken. +But he wanted to win the confidence of “the Yard” in connection +with this case, and the belief that he was being avoided was nettling. He found +consolation, of a sort, in the illustrated papers. One especially contained two +pages of local pictures. “Mr. Grant addressing the crowd,” with +full text, was very effective, while there were admirable studies of <i>The +Hollies</i> and the “scene of the tragedy.” His own portrait was +not flattering. The sun had etched his Mephistophelian features rather sharply, +whereas Grant looked a very fine fellow. +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman would have been more than surprised were he privileged to overhear a +conversation which began and ended before he reached his flat in North +Kensington. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux, who had jumped into the fore part of the train at Knoleworth, and was +out in a jiffy at Victoria, handed his bag to a station detective, and turned +into Vauxhall Bridge Road, one of the quietest of London’s main +thoroughfares. There he met a big man, dressed in tweeds, whose manifest +concern at the moment seemed to center in a rather bad wrapping of a very good +cigar. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! How goes it, Charles?” cried the big man heartily, affecting +to be aware of Furneaux’s presence when the latter had walked nearly a +hundred yards down a comparatively deserted street. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s wrong with the toofa?” inquired Furneaux testily. +</p> + +<p> +“My own carelessness. Stupid things, bands on cigars.... Well, +what’s the rush?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a train to Steynholme at five o’clock. I want you to +take hold. I must have help. Like your cigar, this case has come +unstuck.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. James Leander Winter, Chief Inspector under the Criminal Investigation +Department, whistled softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Tut, tut!” he said. “One can never trust the newspapers. +Reading this morning’s particulars, it looked dead easy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me how it struck you. Sometimes the uninformed brain is vouchsafed +a gleam of unconscious genius.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter appeared to be devoting his mind to circumventing the vagaries of a +fragile tobacco-leaf. He was a man of powerful build, over forty, heavy but +active, deep-chested, round-headed, with bulging blue eyes which radiated +kindliness and strength of character. The press photographer described him +accurately to Grant. The average Londoner would have taken him for a county +gentleman on a visit to the Agricultural Show at Islington, with a morning at +Tattersall’s as a variant. Yet, Sam Weller’s extensive and peculiar +knowledge of London compared with his as a freshman’s with a don’s +of a university. It would be hard to assess, in coin of the realm, the value of +the political and social secrets stowed away in that big head. +</p> + +<p> +“First, I must put a question or two,” he said, smiling at a baby +which cooed at him from the shaded depths of a passing perambulator. “Is +there another woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the postmaster’s daughter, Doris Martin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shy, pretty little bird, of course?” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything that is good and beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is Grant a Lothario?” +</p> + +<p> +“Excellent chap. Quarter of an hour before the murder he was giving Doris +a lesson in astronomy in the garden of <i>The Hollies</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never heard it called <i>that</i> before.” +</p> + +<p> +“This time the statement happens to be strictly accurate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Honest Injun?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure of it. If anything, the death of Adelaide Melhuish +cleared the scales off their eyes. Those two have never kissed or +squeezed—yet. They’ll be starting quite soon now.” +</p> + +<p> +“How old is Doris?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nineteen.” +</p> + +<p> +“But a really good-looking girl of nineteen must have had admirers before +Grant went to the village.” +</p> + +<p> +“She had, and has. Having educated herself out of the rut, however, she +left many runners at the post. One is persistent—a youngish horse-coper +named Elkin. Adelaide Melhuish probably saw her with Grant. Neither Doris nor +Grant knew that Adelaide Melhuish, as such, was in Steynholme. That is to say, +the girl had seen Miss Melhuish in the post office, and recognized her as a +famous actress, but that is all. And now I shan’t tell you any more, or +you’ll know all that I know, which is too much.” +</p> + +<p> +The cigar was behaving itself at last, having burnt down to the fracture, so +Winter’s thoughts could be given exclusively to the less important matter +of the Steynholme affair. +</p> + +<p> +“To begin with,” he said instantly. “Ingerman can establish a +cast-iron alibi.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I imagined. But he’s a bad lot. I throw in that item +gratuitously.” +</p> + +<p> +The oddly-assorted pair walked in silence until Vauxhall Bridge was in sight. +Winter pulled out a watch. +</p> + +<p> +“What time did you say my train left Victoria?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Plenty of time yet to make your guess and listen to further +details,” scoffed Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +“Frankly, I give it up. But, if I must share in the hunt, I tell you now +that, metaphorically speaking, I shall cling to the postmaster’s daughter +till torn away by sheer force of evidence.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux dug his colleague in the ribs. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the effect of constant association with me, James,” +he cackled gleefully. “Ten years ago you would have pounced on Elkin. +You’ve hit it! I’m a prood mon the day. The pupil is equaling the +master.” +</p> + +<p> +“You little rat, I had hanged my first murderer before you knew the +meaning of <i>habeas corpus</i>! Let’s turn now, and get to +business.” +</p> + +<p> +Few Treasury barristers, leading for the Crown, could have marshaled the facts +with such lucidity and fairness as Furneaux during that saunter to Victoria +Station. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice,” said Othello to +Lodovico, and these Scotland Yard men, charged with so great a responsibility, +never forgot the great-hearted Moor’s advice. +</p> + +<p> +When Winter took his seat in the train at five o’clock he could have +drawn a plan of Steynholme, which he had never seen, and marked thereon the +exact position of each house mentioned in this record. Moreover, he was +acquainted with the chief characters by sight, as it were. And, finally, he and +Furneaux had arranged a plan of campaign. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux refreshed a jaded intellect by an evening at the opera. Next morning, +at eleven o’clock, he was inquiring for Mr. Ingerman at an office in a +certain alley off Cornhill. +</p> + +<p> +A smart youth interposed a printed formula between the visitor and a door +marked “Private.” Furneaux wrote his name, and put +“Steynholme” in the space reserved for “business.” He +was admitted at once. Mr. Ingerman, apparently, was immersed in a pile of +letters, but he swept them all aside, and greeted the caller affably. +</p> + +<p> +“Glad to see you, Mr. Furneaux,” he said. “I missed you on +the train yesterday. Did you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Nice quiet place you’ve got here, Mr. Ingerman,” interrupted +the detective. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But, as I was about to—” +</p> + +<p> +“Artistically furnished, too,” went on Furneaux dreamily. +“Oak, self-toned carpets and rugs, restful decorations. Those etchings, +also, show taste in the selection. ‘The Embankment—by Night.’ +Fitting sequel to ‘The City—by Day.’ I’m a child in +such matters, but, ’pon my honor, if tempted to pour out my hard-earned +savings into the lap of a City magnate, I would disgorge here more readily than +in some saloon-bar of finance, where the new mahogany glistens, and the +typewriters click like machine-guns.” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman was nettled. He glanced at his correspondence. +</p> + +<p> +“You have a somewhat far-fetched notion of my position,” he said, +with a staccato quality in his velvet voice. “I am not a magnate, and I +toil here to make, not to lose, money for my clients.” +</p> + +<p> +“A noble ideal. Forgive me if my rhapsody took the wrong line.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I’m sure you will forgive me if I now put the question which +leads to the probable cause of your visit. Did you travel by the two +o’clock train yesterday?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I avoided you purposely.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask, why?” +</p> + +<p> +“My mind was weary. I wanted my wits about me when I tackled you.” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman smiled, and leaned back, resting both elbows on the arms of the chair, +and bringing the tips of his fingers together. +</p> + +<p> +“Proceed,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You prefer that I should drag out a statement piecemeal rather than +receive it <i>en bloc</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“Put it that way, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall even enjoy it. To clear the ground, are you the Isidor G. +Ingerman who exploited the A1 Mine in Abyssinia?” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman’s finger-tips whitened under a sudden pressure, but his voice +remained calm. +</p> + +<p> +“An unfortunate episode,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And the Aegean Transport Company, Limited?” +</p> + +<p> +“Into which I was inveigled by Greeks. But why this history of ruined +enterprises?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a sort of schooling. I have noticed that the smartest counsel +invariably begin with a few fireworks in order to induce the proper frame of +mind in a witness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does that mean that you want me to blurt out bitter and prejudiced +accusations against Mr. Grant?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to hear what you have to say about the death of your wife. You +forced the cross-examining role on me. I’m doing my best.” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman kept silent during many seconds. When he spoke, his cultured voice was +suave as ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it was my fault, Mr. Furneaux,” he said. “You gave +me a strong hint. I should have taken it, and we might have started an +interesting chat on pleasanter lines. So, with apologies for my insistence +about the train, I make a fresh start. I believe firmly that Grant was directly +concerned in the murder. And I shall justify my belief. Within the past +fortnight a <i>rapprochement</i> between my wife and myself became possible. It +was spoken of, even reduced to the written word. I have her letters. Mine +should be found among her belongings. May I take it that they <i>have</i> been +found?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah. So far, so good. My poor wife reached the parting of the ways. She +saw that her life was becoming an empty husk. I think the theater was palling +on her. But I see now that she still cherished the dream of winning the man she +loved—not me, her husband, but that handsome dilettante, Grant. I take +it, therefore, that she went to Steynholme to determine whether or not the +glamour of the past was really dead. Unfortunately, she witnessed certain +idyllic passages between her one-time lover and a charming village girl. +Imagine the effect of this discovery on one of the artistic temperament. +‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ and my unhappy wife would +lash herself into an emotional frenzy. She would tear a passion to rags. Her +very training on the stage would come to her aid in scathing +words—perhaps threats. If Grant remained cold to her appeal the village +beauty should be made to suffer. Then <i>he</i> would flame into storm. And so +the upas-tree of tragedy spread its poisonous shade until reason fled, and some +demon whispered, ‘Kill!’ I find no flaw in my theory. It explains +the inexplicable. Now, how does it strike you, Mr. Furneaux?” +</p> + +<p> +“As piffle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that so? I have the advantage, of course, in knowing my wife’s +peculiarities. And I have made some study of Grant. He admits already that he +is under suspicion. Why, if he is innocent? Mind you, I pay little heed to the +crude disposal of the body. Horace, I think, has a truism that art lies in +concealing art. My wife’s presence in Steynholme was no secret. She would +have been missed from the inn. Search would be made. The murder must be +revealed sooner or later, and the murderer himself was aware that by no +twisting or turning could his name escape association with that of his victim. +Why not face the music at once? he would argue. The very simplicity of the +means adopted to fasten a kind of responsibility on him might prove his best +safeguard. Even now I doubt whether any jury will find him guilty on the +evidence as it stands, but my duty to my unhappy wife demands that I shall +strengthen the arm of justice by every legitimate means in my power.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that your case, Mr. Ingerman?” +</p> + +<p> +“At present, yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“It assumes that the police adopt your view.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not necessarily. The police must do their work without fear or favor. +But Grant can be committed for trial on a coroner’s warrant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Grant is certainly in an awkward place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only a little while ago you dismissed my theory of the crime as airy +persiflage.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was before you quoted Horace. I have a great respect for Horace. +His ode to the New Year is a gem.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you care to see my wife’s recent letters?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are at my flat, I’ll send you copies. The originals are +always at your disposal for comparison, of course. Now may I, without offense, +ask a question?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it wise that the emissary of Scotland Yard should leave +Steynholme?” +</p> + +<p> +“But didn’t I tell you that I might obtain light in the +neighborhood of Cornhill?” +</p> + +<p> +“True. I could have given you the facts in Steynholme.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a greater believer in what the theater people call +‘atmosphere.’ Some of your facts, Mr. Ingerman, remind me of an +expert’s report in a mining prospectus. When tested by cyanide of +potassium the gold in the ore often changes into iron pyrites. But don’t +hug the delusion that I shall neglect Steynholme. The murderer is there, not in +London, and, unless my intellect is failing, he will be tried for his life at +the next Lewes Assizes. Meanwhile, may I give you a bit of advice?” +</p> + +<p> +“By all means.” +</p> + +<p> +“Employ a sound lawyer, one who will avoid needless mud-slinging. Good +day! Send those letters to the Yard by to-night’s post if +practicable.” +</p> + +<p> +“It shall be done.” +</p> + +<p> +When the door closed on Furneaux, Ingerman smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve given that little Frenchman furiously to think,” he +murmured. +</p> + +<p> +But the “little Frenchman” was smiling, too. He had elaborated the +scheme already discussed with Winter. It was much to his liking, though +unorthodox, rather crack-brained, more than risky, and altogether opposed to +the instructions of the Police Manual. Each of these drawbacks was a +commendation to Furneaux. In fact, the Steynholme mystery had taken quite a +favorable turn during that talk with Ingerman. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>Chapter XI.<br /> +P. C. Robinson Takes Another Line</h2> + +<p> +About the time Furneaux was whisked past <i>The Hollies</i> in Superintendent +Fowler’s dogcart, Grant and Hart were finishing luncheon, and planning a +long walk to the sea. Grant would dearly have liked to secure Doris’s +company, but good taste forbade that he should even invite her to share the +ramble. Thus, the death of a woman with whom he had not exchanged a word during +three years had already set up a barrier between Doris and himself. Though +impalpable, it was effective. It could neither be climbed nor avoided. Quiet +little Steynholme had suddenly become a rigid censor of morals and etiquette. +Until this evil thing was annihilated by slow process of law, Doris and he +might meet only by chance and never remain long together. +</p> + +<p> +When the two were ready to start, Hart elected to dispense with his South +American sombrero. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sensitive to ridicule,” he professed. “The village +urchins will christen me ‘Owd Ben,’ and the old gentleman’s +character was such that I would feel hurt. So, for to-day, I’ll join the +no hat brigade.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder if we’ll meet Furneaux,” said Grant, selecting a +walking-stick. “It’s odd that we should have seen nothing of him +this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be still more odd if we had, remembering the precautions he +took not to be observed coming here last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s so. I forgot to ask the reason. There was one, I +suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of the best. That little man is a live wire of intelligence. He’s +wasted on Scotland Yard. He ought to be a dramatist or an ambassador.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quaint alternatives, those.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best in +coining cute phrases. I’ve met scores of both tribes, and they’re +like as peas in a pod.” +</p> + +<p> +A bell rang. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the front door,” said Grant. “It’s +Furneaux himself, I hope.” +</p> + +<p> +But the visitor was P. C. Robinson, who actually smiled and saluted. +</p> + +<p> +“Glad I’ve caught you before you went out, sir,” he said. +“Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you he had to hurry back to London. I was +also to mention that he had got the whiskers.” +</p> + +<p> +“What whiskers? Whose whiskers?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all he said, sir—he’d got the whiskers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Owd Ben’s whiskers, of course. How dense you are, +Jack!” put in Hart. +</p> + +<p> +Now, this was the first Robinson had heard of whiskers in connection with the +crime. He remembered Elkin’s make-up as Svengali, of course, and could +have kicked himself for not associating earlier a set of sable whiskers with +the black wig and the bullet-torn hat. +</p> + +<p> +But, Owd Ben! What figure did that redoubtable ghost cut in the mystery? +</p> + +<p> +“There are certain <i>lacunae</i> in your otherwise vigorous and +thrilling story, constable,” went on Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“Very likely, sir,” agreed Robinson, much to the surprise of his +hearers. He had not the slightest notion what a <i>lacuna</i>, or its plural, +signified. He was only adopting Furneaux’s advice, and trying to be +civil. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you see that, do you?” said Hart. “Well, fill ’em +in. When, where, and how did the midget sleuth obtain the specter’s hairy +adornments?” +</p> + +<p> +The policeman, whose wits were thoroughly on the alert, realized that he had +scored a point, though he knew not how. +</p> + +<p> +“He did not tell me, sir,” he answered. “It’s a rum +business, that’s what it is, no matter what way you look at it.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant, agreeably aware of the village constable’s change of front, +accepted the olive branch readily. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re just going for a walk,” he said. “If you have +ten minutes to spare, Mrs. Bates will find you some luncheon, I have no +doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, meals are a trifle irregular during a busy time like +this,” admitted Robinson, feeling that his luck was in, because tongues +would surely be loosened in the kitchen to an official guest introduced by the +master of the establishment. He was right. No member of the Bates family +dreamed of reticence, now that the household was restored to favor with +“the force.” Before Robinson departed, he was full of information +and good food. +</p> + +<p> +What more natural, then, an hour later, than that he should contrive to meet +Elkin as the horse-dealer was taking home a lively two-year-old pony he had +been “lungeing” on a strip of common opposite his house? +</p> + +<p> +Each was eager to question the other, but Elkin opened fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything fresh?” he cried. “You have a fair course now, +Robinson. That little London ’tec has bunked home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has he?” In the language of the ring, Robinson thought fit to spar +for an opening. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, none of your kiddin’,” said Elkin, stroking the nervous +colt’s neck. “You know he has. You don’t miss much +that’s going on. Bet you half a thick ’un you’d have put +someone in clink before this if the murder at <i>The Hollies</i> had been left +in your hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s as may be, Mr. Elkin. But this affair seems to have gripped +you for fair. You look thoroughly run down. Sleepin’ badly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rotten! Hardly got a wink last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shouldn’t be out so late. Why, on’y a week ago you were +in bed regular at 10.15.” +</p> + +<p> +“That inquest broke up the day yesterday, so I was delayed at +Knoleworth.” +</p> + +<p> +“What time did you reach home?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dashed if I know. After twelve before I was in bed. By the way, +what’s this about things missing from a box owned by the Amateur Dramatic +Society? That silly josser of a detective—What’s his name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Furneaux,” said Robinson, who was clever enough not to appear too +secretive, and was thanking his stars that Elkin had introduced the very topic +he wanted to discuss. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, Furneaux. I remember now. He worried old Tomlin last night about +that box, which is kept in the loft over the club-room. So Tomlin and I, and +Hobbs, just to satisfy ourselves, went up there as soon as Furneaux left +to-day. And, what do you think? The box was unlocked, though I locked it +myself, and have the key; and a hat and wig and whiskers I wore when we played +a skit on ‘Trilby’ were missing. If that isn’t a clew, what +is?” +</p> + +<p> +“A clew!” repeated the bewildered Robinson. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I’m telling you, though I kept dark before the other fellows. +Didn’t you say Grant’s cheek was bleeding on Tuesday +morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the whiskers were held on by wires that slip over the ears. One +wire was sharp as a needle. I know, because it stuck into a finger more than +once. Why shouldn’t it scratch a man’s cheek, and the cut open +again next morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“By jing, you’ve got your knife into Mr. Grant, an’ no +mistake,” commented Robinson. +</p> + +<p> +“You yourself gave him a nasty jab at the inquest,” sneered Elkin. +</p> + +<p> +“I was just tellin’ the facts.” +</p> + +<p> +“So am I. I think you ought to know about that hat and the other things. +I would recognize them anywhere. Furneaux had something up his sleeve, too, or +he wouldn’t have pumped Tomlin... Woa, boy! So long, Robinson! I must put +this youngster into his stall.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll wait, Mr. Elkin,” said Robinson solemnly. “I want +to have a word with you.” +</p> + +<p> +The policeman was glad of the respite. He needed time to collect his thoughts. +The story of the dinner-party and its excitement disposed completely of +Elkin’s malicious theory with regard to Grant, but, since the +horse-dealer was minded to be communicative, it would be well to encourage him. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, and have a drink,” said Elkin, when the colt had been +stabled. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thanks—not when I’m on duty.” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin raised his eyebrows sarcastically. He could not possibly guess that +Robinson was adopting Furneaux’s pose of never accepting hospitality from +a man whom he might have to arrest. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, blaze away. I’m ready.” +</p> + +<p> +The younger man leaned against a gate. He looked ill and physically worn. +</p> + +<p> +“Your business has kept you out late of a night recently, you say, Mr. +Elkin,” began the other, speaking as casually as he could contrive. +“Now, it might help a lot if you can call to mind anyone you met on the +roads at ten or eleven o’clock. For instance, last night—” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin laughed in a queer, croaking way. +</p> + +<p> +“Last night my mare brought me home. I was decidedly sprung, Robinson. +Glad you didn’t spot me, or there might have been trouble. What between +the inquest, an’ no food, an’ more than a few drinks at Knoleworth, +I’d have passed Owd Ben himself without seeing him, though I believe I +did squint in at <i>The Hollies</i> as I went by.” +</p> + +<p> +“What time would that be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, soon after eleven.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t be certain to ten minutes or so. The pubs hadn’t +closed when I left Knoleworth. What the devil does it matter, anyhow?” +</p> + +<p> +It mattered a great deal. Robinson could testify that Elkin did not cross +Steynholme bridge “soon after eleven.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing much,” was the answer. “You see, I’m anxious +to find out who might be stirring at that hour, an’ you know everybody +for miles around. I’d like to fix your journey by the clock, if I +could.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dash it all, man, I was full to the eyes. There! You have it +straight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you out on Monday night?” +</p> + +<p> +“The night of the murder?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I left the Hare and Hounds at ten, and came straight home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was there with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“The usual crowd—Hobbs, and Siddle, and Bob Smith, and a commercial +traveler. Siddle went at half past nine, but he generally does.” +</p> + +<p> +“You met no one on the road?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +The monosyllable seemed to lack Elkin’s usual confidence. It sounded as +if he had been making up his mind what to say, yet faltered at the last moment. +</p> + +<p> +Robinson ruminated darkly. As a matter of fact, long after eleven o’clock +on that fateful night, he himself had seen Elkin walking homeward. He was well +aware that the licensing hours were not strictly observed by the Hare and +Hounds when “commercial gentlemen” were in residence. Closing time +was ten o’clock, but the “commercials,” being cheery souls, +became nominal hosts on such occasions, and their guests were in no hurry to +depart. Robinson saw that he had probably jumped to a conclusion, an acrobatic +feat of reasoning which Furneaux had specifically warned him against. At any +rate, he resolved now to leave well enough alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we don’t seem to get any forrarder,” he said. +“You ought to take more care of your health, Mr. Elkin. You’re a +changed man these days.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be all right when this murder is off our chests, Robinson. +You won’t have a tiddley? Right-o! So long!” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson walked slowly toward Steynholme. At a turn in the road he halted near +the footpath which led down the wooded cliff and across the river to Bush Walk. +He surveyed the locality with a reflective frown. Then, there being no one +about, he made some notes of the chat with Elkin. The man’s candor and +his misstatements were equally puzzling. None knew better than the policeman +that the vital discrepancy of fully an hour and a half on the Monday night +would be difficult to clear up. Tomlin, of course, would have no recollection +of events after ten o’clock, but the commercial traveler, who could be +traced, might be induced to tell the truth if assured that the police needed +the information solely for purposes in connection with their inquiry into the +murder. That man must be found. His testimony should have an immense +significance. +</p> + +<p> +That evening, shortly before seven o’clock, a stalwart, +prosperous-looking gentleman in tweeds “descended” from the London +express at Knoleworth. The local train for Steynholme stood in a bay on the +opposite platform, and this passenger in particular was making for it when he +nearly collided with another man, younger, thinner, bespectacled, who hailed +him with delight. +</p> + +<p> +“You, too? Good egg!” was the cry. +</p> + +<p> +The gentleman thus addressed did not seem to relish this geniality. +</p> + +<p> +“Where the deuce are you off to?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“To Steynholme—same as you, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Peters, a word in your ear. If you know me during the next +few days, you’ll never know me again. I suppose you’ll be staying +at the local inn—there’s only one of any repute in the +place?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s so. I’ve got you. May I take it that you will +reciprocate when the time comes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have I ever failed you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. We meet as strangers.” +</p> + +<p> +Peters bustled off. He had the reputation of being the smartest “writer +up” in London of mystery cases. The Steynholme affair had interested both +him and a shrewd news-editor. +</p> + +<p> +The pair arrived at the Hare and Hounds within a few minutes of each other. The +big man registered as “Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina.” Peters ordered +a chop, and went off at once to interview the local policeman. Mr. Franklin +took more pains over the prospective meal. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you a nice chicken?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, Mr. Tomlin had a veritable spring chicken in the larder at that moment. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you think your cook could provide a <i>tourne-dos</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“A what-a, sir?” wheezed Tomlin. +</p> + +<p> +The visitor explained. He liked variety, he said. Half the chicken might be +deviled for breakfast. The two dishes, with plain boiled potatoes and French +beans, would suit him admirably. He was sorry he dared not try Tomlin’s +excellent claret, but a dominating doctor had put him on the water-cart. In +effect, Mr. Franklin impressed the landlord as a man of taste and ample means. +</p> + +<p> +Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room, but they +met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs anent his +carryin’s on in Knoleworth the previous night. +</p> + +<p> +Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habituĂ©s had the +place to themselves. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Peters had marked the gathering as one that suited his purpose exactly, so +he gave the conversation the right twist. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by this +sensational murder?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively at his neat +boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the stranger, and summing +him up as a detective, answered brusquely: +</p> + +<p> +“The murder is bad enough, but the fat-headed police are worse. Three +days gone, and nothing done!” +</p> + +<p> +“What murder are you discussing, may I ask?” put in Franklin. +</p> + +<p> +Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarly mobile +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to say, sir, that you haven’t heard of the Steynholme +murder?” he gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I landed +in England only a week ago from France, my ignorance, though abyssmal, is +pardonable. Moreover, I can say truly that I am far more interested in pedigree +horses than in vulgar criminals.” +</p> + +<p> +Peters explained fluently. This was no ordinary crime. A beautiful and popular +actress had been done to death in a brutal way, and the country was already +deeply stirred by the story. +</p> + +<p> +Elkin waited impatiently till the journalist drew breath. Then he broke in. +</p> + +<p> +“Pedigree horses you mentioned, sir,” he said, his rancor against +Grant being momentarily conquered by the pertinent allusion to his own +business. “What sort? Racing, coaching, roadsters, or hacks?” +</p> + +<p> +“All sorts. The Argentine, where I have connections, offers an ever-open +door to good horseflesh.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you having a look round?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. There are several decent studs within driving distance of +Steynholme. Isn’t that so, landlord?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lots, sir,” said Tomlin. “An’ the very man +you’re talkin’ to has some stuff not to be sneezed at.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that so?” Mr. Franklin gazed at Elkin in a very friendly +manner. “May I ask your name, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin produced a card. Every hoof in his stables appreciated in value +forthwith, but he was far too knowing that he should appear to rush matters. +</p> + +<p> +“Call any day you like, sir,” he said. “Glad to see you. But +give me notice. I generally have an appetizer here of a morning about +eleven.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ you want it, too, Fred,” said Hobbs. “Dash me, +you’re as thin as a herrin’. Stop whiskey an’ drink beer, +like me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you might also follow that gentleman’s example,” +interposed Siddle quietly, nodding towards Mr. Franklin. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” snapped Elkin. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t worry about murders.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a nice thing to say. Why should <i>I</i> worry about the +d—d mix-up?” +</p> + +<p> +The chemist made no reply, but Hobbs stepped into the breach valiantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep yer ’air on, Fred,” he vociferated. “Siddle means +no ’arm. But wot else are yer a-doing of, mornin’, noon, an’ +night?” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin laughed, with his queer croak. +</p> + +<p> +“If you stay here a day or two, you’ll soon get to know what +they’re driving at, sir,” he said to Franklin. “The fact is +that this chap, Grant, who found the body, and in whose garden the murder was +committed, has been making eyes at the girl I’m as good as engaged to. +That would make anybody wild—now, wouldn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly,” smiled Franklin. “Of course there is always the +lady’s point of view. The sex is proverbially fickle, you know. +‘Woman, thy vows are traced in sand,’ Lord Byron has it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, an’ some men’s, too,” guffawed Hobbs. “Wot +about Peggy Smith, Fred?” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the butcher. +</p> + +<p> +“What about that tough old bull you bought at Knoleworth on +Monday?” he retorted. +</p> + +<p> +Hobbs’s face grew purple. Mr. Franklin beckoned to Tomlin. +</p> + +<p> +“Ask these gentlemen what they’ll have,” he said gently. The +landlord made a clatter of glasses, and the threatened storm passed. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve aroused my curiosity,” remarked Franklin to Peters, +but taking the company at large into the conversation. “This does +certainly strike one as a remarkable case. Is there no suspicion yet as to the +actual murderer?” +</p> + +<p> +“None whatever,” said Peters. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what you may call the police opinion,” broke in +Elkin. “We Steynholme folk have a pretty clear notion, I can assure +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“The matter is still <i>sub judice</i>, and may remain so a long +time,” said Siddle. “It is simply stupid to attach a kind of +responsibility to the man who happens to occupy the house associated with the +crime. I have no patience with that sort of reasoning.” +</p> + +<p> +Hobbs, who did not want to quarrel with Elkin, suddenly championed him. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all very well,” he rumbled. “But the hevidence +you an’ me ’eard, Siddle, an’ the hevidence we know +we’re goin’ to ’ear, is a lot stronger than that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure you’ll pardon me, friends,” said Siddle, +rising with an apologetic smile, “but I happen to be foreman of the +coroner’s jury, and I feel that this matter is not for me, at any rate, +to discuss publicly.” +</p> + +<p> +Out he went, not even heeding Tomlin’s appeal to drink the ginger-ale he +had just ordered. +</p> + +<p> +“Just like ’im,” sighed Hobbs. “Good-’earted +fellow! Would find hexcuses for a black rat.” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin talked more freely now that the chemist’s disapproving eye was off +him. Ultimately, Mr. Franklin elected to smoke a cigar in the open air, and +strolled forth. He sauntered down the hill, stood on the bridge, and admired +the soft blue tones of the landscape in the half light of a summer evening. +Shortly before closing time, Robinson appeared, it being part of his routine +duty to see that no noisy revelers disturbed the peace of the village. He +noticed the stranger at once, and elected to walk past him. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, he received yet another shock when Mr. Franklin addressed him by name. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, Robinson,” said the pleasant, clear-toned voice. +“I’ve been expecting you to turn up. Kindly go back home, and leave +the door open. I want to slip in quietly. I am Chief Inspector Winter, of +Scotland Yard.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t say so, sir!” stammered Robinson. +</p> + +<p> +“But I do say it, and will prove it to you, of course. I’ll be with +you in a minute or two. There’s someone coming. You and I must not be +seen together.” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson made off, and Winter lounged along the Knoleworth road. He met Bates, +going to the post with letters. +</p> + +<p> +Naturally, Bates looked him over. Returning from the post office, he kept a +sharp eye for the unknown loiterer, but saw him not. He even walked quickly to +the bend of the road, but the other man had vanished. +</p> + +<p> +Grant and Hart were talking of anything but the murder when Bates thrust his +head in. He was grasping his goatee beard, sure sign of some weight on his +mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Beg pardon,” he said, “but I thought you’d like to +know. The place is just swarmin’ with ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bees?” inquired Hart. +</p> + +<p> +Bates stared fixedly at the speaker for a second or two. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, ’tecs,” he said. “There’s a big +’un now—just the opposite to the little ’un, Hawkshaw. I +’ope I ’aven’t to tackle this customer, though. He’d +gimme a doin’, by the looks of ’im.” +</p> + +<p> +Bates had disappeared before Grant remembered that the press photographer had +mentioned the Big ’Un and the Little ’Un of the Yard. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, I wonder,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +His wonder could hardly have equaled Winter’s had he heard the +gardener’s words. The guess was a distinct score for blunt Sussex, though +it was founded solely on the assumption that all comers now, unless Bates was +personally acquainted with them, were limbs of the law. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>Chapter XII.<br /> +Wherein Winter Gets to Work</h2> + +<p> +Winter had identified Bates at the first glance. The letters in the man’s +hand, too, showed his errand, so, while the gardener was climbing the hill, the +detective slipped into Robinson’s cottage. +</p> + +<p> +He found the policeman awaiting him in the dark, because a voice said: +</p> + +<p> +“Beg pardon, sir, but the other gentleman from the ‘Yard’ +asked me to take him into the kitchen. A light in the front room might attract +attention, he thought.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just what Mr. Furneaux would suggest, and I agree with him,” said +Winter, quite alive to the canny discretion behind those words, “the +other gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson led the way. Supper was laid on the table. Poor Mrs. Robinson had +again beaten a hasty retreat. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Robinson,” said the Chief Inspector affably, “before we +come to business I’ll prove my bona fides. Here is my official card, and +I’ll run quickly through events until 1.30 p.m. to-day. I met Mr. +Furneaux at Victoria, and he posted me fully up to that hour.” +</p> + +<p> +So the policeman listened to a clear summary of the Steynholme case as it was +known to the authorities. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not warn either Mr. Fowler or you of my visit because a telegram +could hardly be explicit enough,” concluded Winter. “At the inn I +am Mr. Franklin, an Argentine importer of blood stock in the horse line. At +this moment the only other man beside yourself in Steynholme who is aware of my +official position is Mr. Peters, and he is pledged to secrecy. To-morrow or any +other day until further notice, you and I meet as strangers in public. By the +way, Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you that he found the wig and the false +beard in the river early this morning. The wearer had apparently flung them off +while crossing the foot-bridge leading from Bush Walk, having forgotten that +they would not sink readily. Perhaps he didn’t care. At any rate, Mr. +Hart’s bullet seems to have laid Owd Ben’s ghost. Now, what of this +fellow, Elkin? He worries me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can I offer you a glass of beer, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“With pleasure. May I smoke while you eat? You see, I differ from Mr. +Furneaux in both size and habits.” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson poured out the beer. He was preternaturally grave. The somewhat +incriminating statements he had wormed out of the horse-dealer that afternoon +lay heavy upon him. But he told his story succinctly enough. Winter nodded to +emphasize each point, and congratulated him at the end. +</p> + +<p> +“You arranged that very well,” he said. “I gather, though, +that Elkin spoke rather openly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just as I’ve put it, sir. He tripped a bit over the time on Monday +night. But it’s only fair to say that he might have had Tomlin’s +license in mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“That issue will be settled to-morrow. I’ll find out the commercial +traveler’s name, and send a telegram from Knoleworth before noon.... Who +is Peggy Smith?” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson set down an empty glass with a stare of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Bob Smith’s daughter, sir,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt. But, proceed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, she’s just a village girl. Her father is a blacksmith. +His forge is along to the right, not far. She’ll be twenty, or +thereabouts.” +</p> + +<p> +“Frivolous?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not more than the rest of ’em, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen her flirting with Elkin?” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson took thought. +</p> + +<p> +“Now that I come to think of it, she might be given a bit that way. Her +father shoes Elkin’s nags, so there’s a lot of comin’ +an’ goin’ between the two places. But folks would always look on it +as natural enough. Yes, I’ve seen ’em together more than +once.” +</p> + +<p> +“In that case, he can hardly grumble if the postmaster’s daughter +has an eye for another young man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Martin!” snorted Robinson. “She wouldn’t look the +side of the road he was on. Fred Elkin isn’t her sort.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he said to-night in the Hare and Hounds that he and Miss Martin were +practically engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stuff an’ nonsense! Sorry, sir, but I admire Doris Martin. I like +to see a girl like her liftin’ herself out of the common gang. +She’s the smartest young lady in the village, an’ not an atom of a +snob. No, no. She isn’t for Fred Elkin. Before this murder cropped up +everybody would have it that Mr. Grant would marry her.” +</p> + +<p> +“How does the murder intervene?” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson shifted uneasily in his chair. He knew only too well that he himself +had driven a wedge between the two. +</p> + +<p> +“Steynholme’s a funny spot, sir,” he contrived to explain. +“Since it came out that Doris an’ Mr. Grant were in the garden at +<i>The Hollies</i> at half past ten on Monday night, without Mr. Martin +knowin’ where his daughter was, there’s been talk. Both the +postmaster an’ the girl herself are up to it. You can see it in their +faces. They don’t like it, an’ who can blame ’em!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who, indeed? But this Elkin—surely he had some ground for a +definite boast, made openly, among people acquainted with all the +parties?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s more than Elkin would marry Doris if she lifted a finger, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you name them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Tomlin wants a wife.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter laughed joyously. +</p> + +<p> +“Next?” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“They say that Mr. Siddle is a widower.” +</p> + +<p> +“The chemist? Foreman of the jury?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“From appearances, he is a likelier candidate than either Elkin or +Tomlin. Anybody else?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t be far wrong if I gave you the name of most among the +young unmarried men in the parish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me! I must have a peep at this charmer. But I want those names, +Robinson.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter produced a note-book, so he was evidently taking the matter seriously. +The policeman, however, was flustered. His thoughts ran on Elkin, whereas this +masterful person from London insisted on discussing Doris Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“My difficulty is, sir, that she has never kep’ company with any of +’em,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. Give me the name of every man who, no matter what his +position or prospects, might be irritated, if no more, if he knew that Miss +Martin and Mr. Grant were presumably spooning in a garden at a rather late +hour.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a totally new line of inquiry for Robinson, but he bent his wits to it, +and evolved a list which, if published, would certainly be regarded with +incredulous envy by every other girl in the village than the postmaster’s +daughter; as for Doris herself, she would be mightily surprised when she saw +it, but whether annoyed or secretly gratified none but a pretty girl of +nineteen can tell. +</p> + +<p> +Winter departed soon afterwards. Before going to the inn he had a look at the +forge. A young woman, standing at the open door of the adjoining cottage, +favored him with a frank stare. There was no light in the dwelling. When he +returned, after walking a little way down the road, the door was closed. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning, Bates heard of Peters as the detective and of Mr. Franklin as a +“millionaire” from South America. Moreover, he scrutinized both in +the flesh, and saw Robinson salute Peters but pass the financial potentate with +indifference. +</p> + +<p> +Alas, that a reputation, once built, should be destroyed! +</p> + +<p> +“I was mistook, sir,” he reported to Grant later. +“There’s another ’tec about, but ’e ain’t the +chap I met last night. They say this other bloke is rollin’ in money, +an’ buyin’ hosses right an’ left.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he’ll soon be rolling in the mud, and have no money,” +put in Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is he?” inquired Grant carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“A Mr. Franklin, from South America, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant and Hart exchanged glances. Curiously enough, Hart remained silent till +Bates had gone. +</p> + +<p> +“I must look this joker up, Jack,” he said then. “To me the +mere mention of South America is like Mother Gary’s chickens to a sailor, +a harbinger of storm.” +</p> + +<p> +But Hart consumed Tomlin’s best brew to no purpose—in so far as +seeing Mr. Franklin was concerned, since the latter was in Knoleworth, buying a +famous racing stud. Being in the village, however, this fisher in troubled +waters was not inclined to return without a bag of some sort. +</p> + +<p> +He walked straight into the post office. Doris and her father were there, the +telegraphist being out. +</p> + +<p> +“Good day, everybody,” he cried cheerfully. “Grant wants to +know, Mr. Martin, if you and Miss Doris will come and dine with him, us, this +evening at 7.30?” +</p> + +<p> +The postmaster gazed helplessly at this free-and-easy stranger. Doris laughed, +and blushed a little. +</p> + +<p> +“This is Mr. Hart, a friend of Mr. Grant’s, dad,” she +explained. “I’m afraid we cannot accept the invitation. We are so +busy.” +</p> + +<p> +“The worst of excuses,” said Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“But there is a London correspondent here who hands in a long telegram at +that hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s his name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Peters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Great Scott! Jimmie Peters here? I’ll soon put a stopper on him. +He’ll come, too—jumping. See if he doesn’t. Is it a bargain? +Short telegram at six. Dinner for five at 7.30. Come, now, Mr. Martin. +It’s up to you. I can see ‘Yes’ in Doris’s eye. Over +the port—most delectable, I assure you—I’ll give full details +of the peculiar case of a man in Worcestershire whose crop of gooseberries +increased fourfold after starting an apiary. And what does it matter if you do +lose a queen or two in June? The drones will attend to that trifle.... +It’s a fixture, eh? Where’s Peters? In the Pull and Push? +I’ll rout him out.” +</p> + +<p> +The whirlwind subsided, but quickly materialized again. +</p> + +<p> +“Peters nearly fell on his knees and wept with joy,” announced +Hart. “He believes he was given a bull steak for luncheon. He pledges +himself to have only five hundred words on the wire at five +o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, father and daughter had decided that there was no valid reason why +they should not dine with Mr. Grant. Martin already regretted his aloofness on +the day of the inquest, though, truth to tell, Hart’s expert knowledge of +bee-culture was the determining factor. On her part, Doris was delighted. Her +world had gone awry that week, and this small festivity might right it. +</p> + +<p> +Not one word of the improvised dinner-party did Hart confide to Grant. He +informed the only indispensable person, Mrs. Bates, and left it at that. Grant, +a restless being these days, took him for another long walk. It chanced that +their road home led down the high-street. The hour was a quarter past seven, +and Peters hailed them. +</p> + +<p> +Hart introduced the journalist, saying casually: +</p> + +<p> +“Jimmie is coming to dinner, Jack.” +</p> + +<p> +“Delighted,” said Grant, of course. +</p> + +<p> +Peters looked slightly surprised, but passed no comment. Then Doris and her +father appeared. They joined the others, shook hands, and, to Grant’s +secret perplexity, the whole party moved off down the hill in company. When the +Martins turned with the rest to cross the bridge, Grant began to suspect his +friend. +</p> + +<p> +“Wally,” he managed to whisper, “what game have you been +playing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you satisfied?” murmured Hart. “Sdeath, as they +used to say in the Surrey Theater, you’re as bad as Furshaw!” +</p> + +<p> +There were others far more perturbed by that odd conjunction of diners than the +puzzled host, who merely expected Mrs. Bates to belabor him with a rolling pin. +Mr. Siddle, for instance, had just closed his shop when the five met. That is +to say, the dark blue blind was drawn, but the door was ajar. He came to the +threshold, and watched the party until the bridge was neared, when one of them, +looking back, might have seen him, so he stepped discreetly inside. Being a +non-interfering, self-contained man, he seemed to be rather irresolute. But +that condition passed quickly. Leaning over the counter, he secured a hat and a +pair of field-glasses, and went out. He, too, knew of Mrs. Jefferson’s +weakness for shopping in Knoleworth, and that good lady had gone there again. +Her train was due in ten minutes. A wicket gate led to a narrow passage +communicating with the back door of her residence. He entered boldly, reached +the garden, and hurried to the angle on the edge of the cliff next to the +Martins’ strip of ground. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, a spacious dinner-table was laid at <i>The Hollies</i>. Doris, Mr. Martin, +and Peters soon strolled out on to the lawn. The pedestrians had obviously gone +upstairs to wash after their tramp. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Siddle rather forgot himself. He stared so long and earnestly through the +field-glasses that he ran full tilt into Mrs. Jefferson and maid before +regaining the high-street. But the chemist was a ready man. He lifted his hat +with an inquiring smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t you say you wanted some anti-arthritic salts early in the +week?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mrs. Jefferson, “but I got some to-day in +Knoleworth, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I was just making up an indent, and might as well include your +specific if you really needed it.” +</p> + +<p> +Which was kind and thoughtful of Mr. Siddle, but not quite true, though it +fully explained his presence at Mrs. Jefferson’s gate. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Franklin, escorting a fragrant Havana up the hill (he had traveled by the +same train) saw the meeting, and, being aware of Mrs. Jefferson’s frugal +habits, since Furneaux had omitted no item of his movements in Steynholme, +remembered it later during the nightly gathering in the inn. +</p> + +<p> +Elkin greeted Mr. Franklin respectfully when the great man joined the circle. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you see anything worth while at Knoleworth, sir?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No. I was unlucky. All the principals were at a race meeting.” +</p> + +<p> +“By gum! That’s right. It’s Gatwick today. Dash! I might have +saved you a journey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it doesn’t matter. In my business there is no call for +hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin looked around. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s our friend, the ’tec?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you’re wrong about ’im, meanin’ Mr. +Peters,” said Tomlin. “’E’s ’ere for a noospaper, +not for the Yard.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s his blarney,” smirked Elkin. “A detective +doesn’t go about telling everybody what he is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever his profession may be,” put in Siddle’s quiet +voice, “I happen to know that he is dining with Mr. Grant. So are Mr. +Martin and Doris. By mere chance I called at Mrs. Jefferson’s. I went to +the back door, and, finding it closed, looked into the garden. From there I +couldn’t help seeing the assembly on the lawn of <i>The +Hollies</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dining at Grant’s?” shouted Elkin in a fury. “Well, +I’m—” +</p> + +<p> +“’Ush, Fred!” expostulated Tomlin with a shocked glance at +Mr. Franklin. “Wot’s wrong wi’ a bit of grub, ony ways? A +very nice-spoken young gent kem ’ere twiced, an’ axed for Mr. +Peters the second time. He’s a friend o’ Mr. Grant’s, I +reckon.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s wrong?” stormed the horse-dealer. “Why, +everything’s wrong! The bounder ought to be in jail instead of giving +dinner-parties. Imagine Doris eating in that house!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay! Sweetbreads an’ saddle o’ lamb,” interjected Hobbs +with the air of one imparting a secret. +</p> + +<p> +Elkin was pallid with wrath. He glared at Hobbs. +</p> + +<p> +“What I had in my mind was the impudence of the blighter,” he said +shrilly. “That poor woman’s body leaves here to-morrow for some +cemetery in London, and Grant invites folk to a small dinner to-night!” +</p> + +<p> +A sort of awe fell on the company. None of the others had as yet put the two +events in juxtaposition, and they had an ugly sound. Even Mr. Siddle stifled a +protest. Elkin had scored a hit, a palpable hit, and no one could gainsay him. +He felt that, for once, the general opinion was with him, and drove the point +home. +</p> + +<p> +“Hobson—the local joiner and undertaker”—he explained +for Mr. Franklin’s benefit—“came this morning to borrow a +couple of horses for the job. It’s to be done in style—‘no +expense spared’ was Mr. Ingerman’s order—and the poor thing +is in her coffin now while Grant—” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped. Mr. Siddle coughed. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve said enough, Elkin,” murmured the chemist. +“This excitement is harmful. You really ought to be in bed for the next +forty-eight hours, dieting yourself carefully, and taking Dr. Foxton’s +mixture regularly. He has changed it, I noticed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bed! Me! Not likely. I’m going to kick up a row. What are the +police doing? A set of blooming old women, that’s what they are. But +I’ll stir ’em up, if I have to write to the Home Secretary.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Franklin, smiling genially, “I cannot +help taking a certain interest in this affair. May I, then, as a complete +stranger to all concerned, tell you how this minor episode strikes me. Mr. +Grant, I understand, denies having seen or spoken to Miss Melhuish during the +past three years. None of the others now in his house had met her at all. +Really, if a man may not give a dinnerparty in these conditions, dining-out +would become a lost art.” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin was obviously seeking for some retort which, though forcible, would not +offend a possible patron. But Siddle answered far more deftly than might be +looked for from the horse-dealer. +</p> + +<p> +“Your contention, sir, is just what the man of the world would +hold,” he said, “but, in this village, where we live on neighborly +terms, such an incident would be impossible in almost any other house than +<i>The Hollies</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Franklin nodded. He was convinced. Tomlin, Hobbs, and a local draper bore +out the chemist’s reasonable theory. Next morning Steynholme was again +united in condemning Grant, while the postmaster and his daughter were not +wholly exempted from criticism. +</p> + +<p> +The dinner itself was an altogether harmless and cheery meal. By common consent +not one word was said about the murder. Hart was amusing on the question of +bees—almost flippant, Mr. Martin deemed him. Peters had a wide store of +strange experiences to draw on, while Grant, if rather silent in deference to +two such brilliant talkers, found much satisfaction in regarding Doris as a +hostess. +</p> + +<p> +The next day being Saturday, or market day, the village was busy. At eleven +o’clock there was a somewhat unnecessary display of nodding plumes and +long-tailed black horses at the removal of the coffin to the railway station. +For some reason, the funeral arrangements had not been bruited about until +Elkin made that envenomed attack on Grant in the Hare and Hounds the previous +night. Ingerman had sent a gorgeous wreath, the only one forthcoming locally. +This fact, of course, invited comment, though no whisperer in the crowd +troubled to add that the interment was only announced in that day’s +newspapers. +</p> + +<p> +Peters, meeting Mr. Franklin on the stairs of the inn, put a note into his +hand. It read: +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you have a chat with Grant? The public mind is being +inflamed against him. It’s hardly fair.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Franklin, meeting Peters in the passage, winked at him, and the journalist +tortured his brains to turn out some readable stuff which should grip the +million on Sunday yet not to be damaging to the man whose hospitality he +enjoyed over night. +</p> + +<p> +In a word, the passing of Adelaide Melhuish was exploited thoroughly as an +indictment of her one-time lover, and the only two in Steynholme not aware of +the fact were Grant, himself, and Wally Hart. +</p> + +<p> +By a singular coincidence, not ridiculously beyond the ken of a verger, when +Doris went to church on Sunday morning, she found herself beside Mr. Franklin. +</p> + +<p> +At the close of the service the same big man whom she had noticed as a neighbor +in the pew overtook her at the post office door. He lifted his hat. A passer-by +heard him say distinctly: +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me for troubling you, but can you tell me at what time the mail +closes for London?” +</p> + +<p> +“At four-thirty,” said Doris. +</p> + +<p> +No other person overheard Mr. Franklin’s next words: +</p> + +<p> +“I am now going to drop a letter in the box. It’s for you. Get it +at once. It is of the utmost importance.” +</p> + +<p> +Doris was startled, as well she might be. But—she went straight for the +letter. It was marked: “Private and Urgent,” and ran: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i><b>Dear Miss Martin</b>.<br /> +<br /> +I am here</i> vice <i>Mr. Furneaux, who is engaged on other phases of the same +inquiry. My business is absolutely unknown. I figure at the inn as “Mr. +W. Franklin, Argentina.” Indeed, Mr. Furneaux left the village because he +realized the difficulties facing him in that respect. Now, I trust you, and I +hope you will justify my faith. You know Superintendent Fowler. I want you to +meet me and him this afternoon at two o’clock at the crossroads beyond +the mill. A closed car will be in waiting, and we can have half an hour’s +talk without anyone in Steynholme being the wiser. Remember that this village, +like the night, has a thousand eyes. Naturally, I would not trouble you in this +way if the cause was not vital to the ends of justice. Whether or not you +decide to keep this appointment, I have every confidence that you will respect +my wish that</i> no one<i>, other than yourself, shall be informed of my +identity. But I believe you will be wise, and come.</i> +</p> + +<p class="right"> +<i>I am,<br /> +Yours faithfully,<br /> +<b>J. L. Winter</b>,<br /> +Chief Inspector, C. I. D., Scotland Yard, S. W.</i> +</p> + +<p> +A card was inclosed, as a sort of credential. But, somehow, it was not needed. +Doris had seen “Mr. Franklin” more than once, and she had heard him +singing the hymns in church. He looked worthy of credence. His written words +had the same honest ring. She resolved to go. +</p> + +<p> +Her father, sad to relate, had found three dead queens in the hives. He was +busy, but spared a moment to tell her that Mr. Siddle was coming to tea at four +o’clock. Doris was rather in a whirl, and seemed to be unnecessarily +astonished. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Siddle! Why?” she gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not!” said her father. “It’s not the first time. +You can entertain him. I’ll look after the letters.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must get some cakes. We have none.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s simple. I wonder if that fellow Hart really +understands apiaculture? You might invite him, too.” +</p> + +<p> +With that letter in her pocket Doris had suddenly grown wary. Hart and Siddle +would not mix, and her woman’s intuition warned her that Siddle had +chosen the tea-hour purposely in order to have an uninterrupted conversation +with her. She disliked Mr. Siddle, in a negative way, but the very nearness of +the detective was stimulating. Let Mr. Siddle come, then, and come alone! +</p> + +<p> +“No, dad,” she laughed. “Mr. Hart’s knowledge will be +available to-morrow. In his presence, poor Mr. Siddle would be dumb.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>Chapter XIII.<br /> +Concerning Theodore Siddle</h2> + +<p> +Winter, being a cheerful cynic, had not erred when he appealed to that love of +mystery which, especially if it is spiced with a hint of harmless intrigue, is +innate in every feminine heart. Indeed, he was so assured of the success of his +somewhat dramatic move that as he walked to a rendezvous arranged with +Superintendent Fowler on the Knoleworth road he reviewed carefully certain +arguments meant to secure Doris’s assistance. +</p> + +<p> +Passing <i>The Hollies</i>, he smiled at the notion that Furneaux would +undoubtedly have brought Grant to the conclave. It was just the sort of +difficult situation in which his colleague would have reveled. But the Chief +Inspector was more solid, more circumspect, even, singularly enough, more +sensitive to the probable comments of a crusty judge if counsel for the defense +contrived to elicit the facts. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything fresh?” inquired the superintendent, when a smart car +drew up, and Winter entered. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fowler was in plain clothes, and the blinds were half drawn. No one could +possibly recognize either of the occupants unless the car was halted, and the +inquisitor literally thrust his head inside. The motor was a private one, +borrowed for the occasion. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a little,” said Winter, as the chauffeur put the engine in +gear. “Your man, Robinson, has been drawing Elkin, or Elkin drew +him—I am not quite sure which, but think it matterless either way.” +</p> + +<p> +He sketched Robinson’s activities briefly, but in sufficient outline. +</p> + +<p> +“A new figure has come on the screen—Siddle, the chemist,” he +added thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Siddle!” Mr. Fowler was surprised. “Why, he is supposed to +be a model of the law-abiding citizen.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t say he has lost his character in that respect,” said +Winter. “Still, he puzzles me. Elkin is a loud-mouthed fool. The verbal +bricks he hurls at Grant are generally half baked, and crumble into dust. +Hitherto, Siddle has tried to repress him, with a transparent honesty that +rather worried me. On Friday night, however, Siddle attacked Grant with +poisoned arrows. He did more damage in two minutes than Elkin could achieve in +as many months.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“He showed very clearly that Grant was guilty of gross bad taste in +inviting Mr. Martin and his daughter to dinner that evening. I’m inclined +to agree with him, if the story has been told fairly. But that is beside the +main issue. Siddle aroused the sleeping dogs of the village, and the pack is in +full cry again. Grant seems to have been popular here; he had almost recovered +from the blow of Miss Melhuish’s death by the straightforward speech he +made before the inquest. But Siddle threw him back into the mud by a few +skillful words. What is Siddle’s record? Is he a local man?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think not. Robinson can tell us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Robinson says he ‘believes’ Siddle is a widower. That +doesn’t argue long and close knowledge.” +</p> + +<p> +“We must look into it. Robinson has been stationed here four years. +Siddle is not old, but he has been in business in Steynholme more years than +that. But—you’ll pardon me, I’m sure, Mr. Winter—may I +take it that you are really interested in the chemist’s history?” +</p> + +<p> +The superintendent was perplexed, or he would not have adopted his professional +method of semi-apologetic questions with a man from the C.I.D. +</p> + +<p> +“I hardly know what I’m interested in,” laughed Winter. +“Grant didn’t kill the lady. I shall be slow to credit Elkin with +being the scoundrel he looks. Siddle, and Tomlin, if you please, are regarded +as starters in the Doris Martin Matrimonial Stakes, and I don’t think +Tomlin could ever murder anything but the King’s English. It is +Siddle’s <i>volte face</i> that bothers me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” murmured Mr. Fowler. He was not an uneducated man, but +<i>volte face</i>, correctly pronounced, was unfamiliar in his ears. +</p> + +<p> +“The change was so marked,” went on the detective. “I gather +that Siddle is a stickler for charity and fair dealing. He didn’t abandon +the role, of course. It was the sheer ingenuity of his method that caught my +attention. So I simply catalogue him for research.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has Miss Martin promised to meet us?” inquired the other, feeling +that he was on the track of <i>volte face</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“No. But there she is!” cried Winter. “She has just heard the +car. Tell your chauffeur to slow up. The road is empty otherwise. By the way, +you help her in. She might be a bit shy of me, and I don’t want a +second’s delay.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter’s judgment was not at fault. Doris <i>was</i> feeling a trifle +uncertain, seeing that she was about to encounter a complete stranger. +Moreover, she had come a good half mile from the shop whence the cakes for tea +were to be procured at the back door, and as a favor. Her eyes were fixed on +the slowing car with a timid anxiety that betrayed no small degree of doubt as +to the outcome of this Sunday afternoon escapade. She was pale and nervous. At +that moment Doris wished herself safe at home again. +</p> + +<p> +“One word,” broke in the superintendent hurriedly. “Why are +you so sure that Grant is innocent, Mr. Winter?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure of nothing with regard to this case. But I have great +faith in Furneaux’s flair for the true scent. It has never failed +yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fowler wished his companion would not use such uncommon words. However, he +got out, and took off his hat with a courteous sweep. Doris had to look twice +at him. Hitherto, she had always seen him in uniform. Winter smiled at the +unmistakable expression of relief in her face. She was almost self-possessed as +she took the seat by his side. +</p> + +<p> +“Good day, Mr. Winter,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Franklin, please. Better become used to my pseudonym.... Plenty of +room for your feet, Mr. Fowler? That’s it. Now we’re comfy. The +chauffeur will bring us back here in half an hour, Miss Martin. Will that suit +your convenience?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes. I am free till nearly four o’clock. We have a guest to +tea then.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a well-developed bump of curiosity these days. Who is it, may I +ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Siddle, the local chemist.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed. An old friend, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“We have known him seven years, ever since he came to Steynholme.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah. He is not a native of the place?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He bought Mr. Benson’s business. He’s a Londoner, I +believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there—a Mrs. Siddle?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I—er—that is to say, gossip has it that he was married, +but his wife died.” +</p> + +<p> +“He doesn’t speak of her? Is that it? One would have thought that +in a house where he is well known—” +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t really know him well. No one does, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve invited him to tea, at any rate,” laughed Winter. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Doris. “He invited himself. At least, so I +gathered from dad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well. He feels lonely, no doubt, and wishes to chat about recent +strange events in Steynholme. And that brings me to the reason why I sought +this chat under such peculiar conditions. You realize my handicap, Miss Martin? +If I were seen talking to you, or even entering your house as apart from the +post office, people would begin to wonder. You follow that, don’t +you?” +</p> + +<p> +Yes, Doris did follow it. What she did not follow was the veiled admiration in +Superintendent Fowler’s glance at the detective. Those few +inconsequential questions had shed a flood of light on Siddle’s past and +present, yet the informant was blissfully unaware of their real purport. And +the way was opened so deftly. The purchase of a chemist’s business would +almost certainly be negotiated through a local lawyer. Let him be found, and +Siddle’s pre-Steynholme days could be “looked into,” as the +police phrase has it. The superintendent had the rare merit of being candid +with himself. He had no previous experience of Scotland Yard men or methods, +and was inclined to be skeptical about Furneaux. But Winter’s prompt use +of a chance opening, and the restraint which cut off the investigation before +the girl could suspect any ulterior motive, displayed a technique which the +Sussex Constabulary had few opportunities of acquiring. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Miss Martin,” began Winter, “if ever you have the +misfortune to fall ill—touch wood, please—and call in a doctor, +you’ll tell him the facts, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why consult him at all, if I don’t?” she smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly. To-day I’m somewhat in the position of a Harley-street +specialist, summoned to assist an eminent local practitioner in Dr. Fowler. +That’s a sort of gentle preliminary, leading up to the disagreeable duty +of putting some questions of a personal nature. What you may answer will not go +beyond ourselves. I promise you that. You will not be quoted, or requested to +prove your statements. Such a thing would be absurd. If I were really a doctor, +and you needed my advice, you might easily describe your symptoms all wrong. It +would be my business to listen, and deduce the truth, and I would never dream +of rating you for having misled me. You see my point?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but Mr. Win—Mr. Franklin, I know nothing whatever about the +murder.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure you don’t. It was a wicked trick of Fate that took +you to Mr. Grant’s garden last Monday night.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was really an astronomical almanac,” retorted Doris, who now +felt a growing confidence in this nice-spoken official. “Sirius is a star +remarkable for its beautiful changing lights, and on Monday evening was at its +best. I think I ought to explain,” and she blushed delightfully, +“that the village gossip about Mr. Grant and me is entirely mistaken. We +are not—well, I had better use plain English—we are not lovers. My +father and I are just on close, friendly terms with Mr. Grant. I—my +position hardly warrants even that relationship with an author of some +distinction. But please set aside any notion of us as likely to become engaged. +For one thing, it is preposterous. For another, I shall not leave my +father.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Doris! She little guessed how accurately this skilled student of human +nature read the hidden thought behind that vehement protest. Even the note of +vague rebellion against social disabilities was pathetic yet illuminating. Of +course, he took her quite seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us keep to the hard road of fact,” he said. “What you +really mean is that Mr. Grant has never made love to you. But I must be candid, +young lady. There is no earthly reason why he shouldn’t, though I could +name offhand half a dozen why he should.... Well, well, I must not pay +compliments. My friend, Mr. Furneaux, can manage that with much greater +facility, being half a Frenchman. And now I’m going to say an unpleasant +thing. I ask your forgiveness in advance. Both Mr. Furneaux and I agree in the +opinion that your imaginary love affair is indissolubly bound up with the +mystery of Miss Melhuish’s death. In a word, I have brought you here +today to discuss your prospective marriage, and nothing else. That astonishes +you, eh? Well, it’s the truth, as I shall proceed to make clear. +There’s a Mr. Fred Elkin, for instance—” +</p> + +<p> +Doris uttered a little laugh of dismay. Winter’s emphatic words had +astounded her, but the horse-dealer’s name acted as comic relief. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t bear the man,” she protested. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt. But you ought to know that he is loudly proclaiming his +determination to marry you before the year is out.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl’s face reddened again, and her eyes sparkled. +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t marry him if he were a peer of the realm,” she +said indignantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so. But he is an avowed suitor. Now don’t be vexed. Has he +never declared his intentions to <i>you</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“He would never dare. I sing and act a little, at village concerts and +dramatic performances, and he has annoyed me at times by an officious pretense +that he was deputed by my father to see me home. I came here quite a little +girl, so people learnt to use my Christian name. I don’t object to it at +all. But I simply hate hearing it on Mr. Elkin’s lips.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exit Fred!” said Winter solemnly. “Next!” +</p> + +<p> +Doris, after a period of calm, was now profoundly uncomfortable. This kind of +prying was the last thing she had expected. She had come prepared to defend +Grant, but, beyond one exceedingly personal reference, the detective had +studiously shut him out of the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“What am I to say?” she cried. “Do you want a list of all the +young men who make sheep’s eyes at me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I can get that from the Census Bureau. Come, now, Miss Martin. +<i>You</i> know. Has any man in the village led you to suspect, shall we put +it? that sometime or other, he might ask you to become his wife?” +</p> + +<p> +Lo, and behold! Doris’s pretty eyes filled with tears. Superintendent +Fowler was so pleased at hearing Scotland Yard introducing a parenthetical +query into its sentences that he, sitting opposite, was taken aback when Winter +said in a fatherly way: +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been rather clumsy, I’m afraid. But it cannot be +helped. I must go blundering on. I’m groping in the dark, you know, but +it’s a thousand pities I shall have to tread on <i>your</i> toes.” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t that,” sobbed Doris. “I hate to put my +thoughts into words. That’s all. There <i>is</i> a man whom +I’m—afraid of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Siddle?” +</p> + +<p> +She turned on Winter a face of sudden awe. +</p> + +<p> +“How can you possibly guess?” she said wonderingly, and sheer +bewilderment dried her tears. +</p> + +<p> +“My business is nine-tenths guesswork. At any rate, we are on firm ground +now. If you could please yourself, I suppose, Mr. Siddle would not come to tea +to-day!” +</p> + +<p> +“He certainly would not,” declared the girl emphatically. +</p> + +<p> +“You believe he is coming for a purpose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Elkin—I must drag him in again for an instant—pretends that +the commotion aroused in the village by this murder would incline you favorably +to a proposal of marriage. Mr. Siddle may have discovered some virtue in the +theory.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did Mr. Elkin really hint that I needed <i>him</i> as a shield?” +</p> + +<p> +Doris was genuinely angry now. She little imagined that Winter was playing on +her emotions with a master hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t waste any wrath on Elkin,” he soothed her. “The +fellow isn’t worth it. But his crude idea might be developed more subtly +by an abler man.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it odd that Mr. Siddle should choose to-day, of all days, for a +visit,” she admitted. +</p> + +<p> +Winter relapsed into silence for a while. The car was running through a +charming countryside, and a glimpse of the sea was obtainable from the crest of +each hill. Mr. Fowler was too circumspect to break in on the thread of his +coadjutor’s thoughts. The inquiry had taken a curious turn, and was +momentarily beyond his grasp. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s singular, but it’s true,” said the detective +musingly when next he spoke, “that I am now going to ask you to act +differently than was in my mind when I sought this interview. I should vastly +like to be present when Siddle bares his heart to you this afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“I can invite you to tea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! that won’t serve our ends. But, if you feel you have a +purpose, you will be nerved to deal with him. Bring him out into that secluded +garden of yours—” +</p> + +<p> +“The first thing he will suggest,” and Doris’s voice waxed +unconsciously bitter. “He knows that dad will be busy with the mails for +an hour after tea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it bad, most disagreeable.” +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t find the position so awkward if you are playing a part. +And that is what I want—a bit of clever acting. Lean on those railings, +and make Siddle believe that your heart is on Mr. Grant’s lawn. You know +the kind of thing I mean. Dreamy eyes, listless manner, inattention, with +smiling apologies. You will annoy Siddle, and a cautious man in a temper +becomes less cautious. Force him to avow his real thoughts. You will learn +something, trust me.” +</p> + +<p> +“About what?” +</p> + +<p> +There were no tears in Doris’s eyes. They were wide open in wonderment. +</p> + +<p> +“About his attitude to this tragedy. Do this, and you will be giving Mr. +Grant the greatest possible help. He needs it. Next Wednesday, at the adjourned +inquest, he will be put on the rack. Ingerman will fee counsel to be +vindictive, merciless. Such men are to be hired. Their reputation is built up +on the slaughter of reputations. I want to understand Siddle before Wednesday. +By the way, what’s his other name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Theodore.” +</p> + +<p> +“Theodore Siddle. Unusual. Well, your half hour is nearly up. Will you do +what I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try. May I put one question?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You said you had something altogether different in view before we met. +What was it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you—let me see—I’ll tell you on +Thursday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it is the hardest thing in the world for a woman to be +single-minded, in the limited sense of concentration, I mean. Focus your wits +on Siddle to-day. I don’t suggest any plan. I leave that to your own +intelligence. Vex him, and let him talk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Vex him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. What man won’t get mad if he notices that his best girl is +thinking about a rival.” +</p> + +<p> +This time Doris did not blush. She was troubled and serious, very serious. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do what I can,” she promised. “When shall I see +you again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Soon. There’s no hurry. All this is preparatory for +Wednesday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I to tell my father nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please yourself. Not at present. I recommend you.” +</p> + +<p> +The car had stopped. It sped on when Doris alighted. She would be home with her +cakes at three o’clock, and Mr. Martin would never have noticed her +absence. +</p> + +<p> +“A fine bit of work, if I may say so,” exclaimed Fowler +appreciatively. “But I am jiggered if I can imagine what you’re +driving at.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter was cutting the end off a big cigar. He finished the operation to his +liking before answering earnestly: +</p> + +<p> +“We stand or fall by the result of that girl’s efforts. Furneaux +thinks so, and I agree with him absolutely. After five days, where are we, Mr. +Fowler? In the dark, plus a brigand’s hat and hair. But there’s a +queer belief in some parts of England that a phosphorescent gleam shows at +night over a deep pool in which a dead body lies. That’s just how I feel +about Siddle. The man’s an enigma. What sort of place is Steynholme for a +chemist of his capacities? Dr. Foxton has the highest regard for him +professionally, and I’m told he doctors people for miles around. Yet he +lives the life of a recluse. An old woman comes by day to prepare his meals, +and tidy the house and shop. His sole relaxation is an hour of an evening in +the village inn, his visits there being uninterrupted since the murder. He was +there on the night of the murder, too. For the rest, he is alone, shut off from +the world. Without knowing it, he’s going to fall into deep waters +to-day, and he’ll emit sparks, or I’m a Chinaman.... I’ll +leave you here. Good-by! See you on Tuesday, after lunch.” +</p> + +<p> +The superintendent drove on alone. He pondered the Steynholme affair in all its +bearings, but mostly did he weigh up Winter and Furneaux. At last, he sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“London ways, and London books, and London detectives!” he +muttered. “We’re not up to date in Sussex. Now, if I could please +myself, I’d be hot-foot after Elkin. I see what Winter has in his mind, +but surely Elkin fills the bill, and Siddle doesn’t.... What was that +word—volt what!” +</p> + +<p> +Doris was lucky. She met Mr. Siddle as she emerged from the back passage to the +cake-shop. Resolving instantly that if an unpleasant thing had to be done it +should at least be done well, she smiled brightly. +</p> + +<p> +“See what you have driven me to—breaking the Sabbath,” she +cried, holding up the bag of cakes. +</p> + +<p> +“Tea and bread-and-butter with you would be a feast for the gods,” +said Siddle. +</p> + +<p> +“Now you’re adapting Omar Khayyam.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s he?” +</p> + +<p> +“A Persian poet of long ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never read poetry. But, if your tastes lie that way, I’ll +accomplish some more adaptation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, please. Cakes for you, Mr. Siddle; poets for giddy young things +like me.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sting in the words. Doris preened herself on having carried out the +detective’s instructions to the letter thus far. +</p> + +<p> +Arrived in the house she found her father still in the garden, examining some +larvae under a microscope. He looked severe rather than studious. He might have +been an omnipotent being who had detected a malefactor in a criminal act. Was +Steynholme and its secret felon being regarded in that way by the providence +which, for some inscrutable purpose, permitted, yet would infallibly punish, a +dreadful murder? She was a girl of devout mind, and the notion was appalling in +its direct application to current events. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime the chemist, evidently taking a Sunday afternoon +constitutional, came on Winter, who was leaning on a wall of the bridge and +looking down stream—Grant’s house being on the left. +</p> + +<p> +He would have passed, in his wonted unobtrusive way, but the detective hailed +him with a cheery “Good day, Mr. Siddle. Are you a fisherman?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Franklin, I’m not,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, I’m surprised. You are just the sort of man whom I +should expect to find attached to a rod and line—even watching a +float.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tried once when I was younger, but I could neither impale a worm nor +extract a hook. My gorge rose against either practice. I am a vegetarian, for +the same reason. If it were not for this disturbing tragedy you would have +heard Hobbs, the butcher, rallying me about my rabbit-meat, as he calls my +food.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well!” laughed Winter. “Your ideas and mine clash in +some respects. I look on a well-grilled steak as a gift from Heaven, and after +it, or before it—I don’t care which—let me have three hours +whipping a good trout stream. With the right cast of flies I could show a fine +bag from this very stretch of water.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not ask Mr. Grant’s permission? It would be interesting to +learn whether he will allow others to try their luck.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Siddle strolled on. Winter bent over, keen to discern the gray-backed fish +which must be lurking in those clear depths and rippling shallows. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>Chapter XIV.<br /> +On Both Sides of the River</h2> + +<p> +The sun, transmuted into Greenwich time, exercised an extraordinary influence +on the seemingly humdrum life of Steynholme that day. A few minutes after three +o’clock—just too late to observe either Winter or Siddle—P. +C. Robinson strolled forth from his cottage. He glanced up the almost deserted +high-street, in which every rounded cobble and white flagstone radiated heat. A +high-class automobile had dashed past twice in forty minutes, but the pace was +on the borderland of doubt, so the guardian of the public weal had contented +himself with recording its number on the return journey. +</p> + +<p> +But his thoughts were far a-field from joyriders, stray cattle, hawkers without +licenses, and other similar small fry which come into the constabulary net. It +would be a feather in his cap if he could only strike the trail of the +veritable Steynholme murderer. The entrancing notion possessed him morning, +noon, and night. Mrs. Robinson declared that it even dominated his dreams. +Robinson was sharp. He knew quite well that the brains of the London detectives +held some elusive quality which he personally lacked. They seemed to peer into +the heart of a thing so wisely and thoroughly. He did not share Superintendent +Fowler’s somewhat derogatory estimate of Furneaux, with whom he was much +better acquainted than was his superior officer, while Chief Inspector +Winter’s repute stood so high that it might not be questioned. Still, to +the best of his belief, the case had beaten both these doughty representatives +of Scotland Yard; there was yet a chance for the humble police-constable; so +Robinson squared his shoulders, seamed his brows, and marched majestically down +the Knoleworth road. +</p> + +<p> +He had an eye for <i>The Hollies</i>, of course, though neither he nor anybody +else could discern more than the bare edge of the lawn from bridge or road, +owing to the dense screen of evergreen trees and shrubs planted by the tenant +who remodeled the property. +</p> + +<p> +But the spot where the body of Adelaide Melhuish was drawn ashore was visible, +and the sight of it started a dim thesis in the policeman’s mind which +took definite shape during less than an hour’s stroll. Thus, at four +o’clock exactly, he was pulling the bell at <i>The Hollies</i>. Almost +simultaneously, Mr. Siddle knocked modestly on the private door of the post +office, to reach which one had to pass down a narrow yard. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Grant at home?” inquired Robinson, when Minnie appeared. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, the master was on the lawn with Mr. Hart. The policeman found the two +there, seated in chairs with awnings. They had been discussing, of all things +in the world, the futurist craze in painting. Hart held by it, but Grant +carried bigger guns in real knowledge of the artist’s limitations as well +as his privileges. +</p> + +<p> +Hart was the first to notice the newcomer’s presence, and greeted him +joyously. +</p> + +<p> +“Come along, Robinson, and manacle this reprobate,” he shouted. +“He’s nothing but a narrow-minded pre-Rafaelite. A period in prison +will dust the cobwebs out of his attic.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, Robinson!” said, Grant. “Anything stirring?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not much, sir. I just popped in to ask if you remembered exactly how the +body was roped?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I do not. Some incidents of that horrible half hour have gone +into a sad jumble. I recollect you calling attention to the matter, but what +your point was I really cannot say now. Perhaps it may come back if you +explain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we don’t seem to be making a great deal of progress, sir, +and I was wondering whether you two gentlemen might help. I don’t want it +mentioned. I’m taking a line of me own.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant repressed a smile. He recalled well enough the first “line” +the policeman took, and the mischief it had caused. Being an even-minded +person, however, he admitted that his own behavior had not been above suspicion +on the day the crime was discovered. In allotting blame, as between Robinson +and himself, the proportion was six of one and half a dozen of the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Propound, justiciary,” said Hart. “You’ve started +well, anyhow. The connection between a line and a rope should be obvious even +to a judge.... As a pipe-opener, have a drink!” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson had removed his helmet, and was flourishing a red handkerchief, not +without cause, the day being really very hot. +</p> + +<p> +“Not for a few minutes, thank you, sir,” said the policeman. +“May I ask Bates for a sack and a cord?” +</p> + +<p> +He went to the kitchen. Hart was “tickled to death,” he vowed. +</p> + +<p> +“We are about to witness the reconstruction of the crime, a procedure +which the French delight in, and the intellect of France is a hundred years +ahead of our effete civilization,” he chortled. +</p> + +<p> +Grant was not so pleased. The memory of a distressing vision was beginning to +blur, and this ponderous policeman must come and revive it. Yet, even he grew +interested when Robinson illustrated a nebulous idea by knotting a clothesline +around a sack stuffed with straw, having brought Bates to bear him out in the +matter of accuracy. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are, gentlemen!” he said, puffing after the slight +exertion. “That’s the way of it. How does it strike you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s what a sailor calls two half hitches,” commented Hart +instantly. “A very serviceable knot, which will resist to the full +strength of the rope.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have no sailors in Steynholme, sir,” said the policeman. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s used regularly by tradesmen,” put in Grant. +“A draper, or grocer—any man accustomed to tying parcels securely, +in fact—will fashion that knot nine times out of ten.” +</p> + +<p> +“How about a—a farmer, sir?” That was as near as Robinson +dared to go to “horse-dealer.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think a farmer would be more likely to adopt a timber hitch, which is +made in several ways. Here are samples.” And Grant busied himself with +rope and sack. +</p> + +<p> +Robinson watched closely. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ve seen those knots in a +farmyard.... Well, it’s something—not much—but a trifle +better than nothing.... All right, Bates. You can take ’em away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you shown that knot to Mr. Furneaux?” inquired Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. I’ve kept that up me sleeve, as the sayin’ +is.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why?” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson shuffled uneasily on his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“These Scotland Yard men will hardly listen to a uniformed constable, +sir,” he said. “I’ll tell ’em all about it at the +inquest on Wednesday.” +</p> + +<p> +“In effect, John P. Robinson he sez they didn’t know +everythin’ down in Judee,” quoted Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got my name pat,” grinned the policeman, whose +Christian names were “John Price.” +</p> + +<p> +“My name is Walter, not Patrick,” retorted Hart. Robinson continued +to smile, though he failed to grasp the joke until late that evening. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you make up that verse straight off, sir,” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No. It’s a borrowed plume, plucked from an American quill +pen.” +</p> + +<p> +Hart gave “plume” a French sound, and Robinson was puzzled to know +why Grant bade his friend stop profaning a peaceful Sunday afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll have a glass of beer now?” went on the host. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind if I do, sir, though it’s tea-time, and I make +it a rule on Sundays to have tea with the missis. A policeman’s hours are +broken up, and his wife hardly ever knows when to have a meal ready.” +</p> + +<p> +Minnie was summoned. It took her a couple of minutes to draw the beer from a +cool cellar. So it chanced that when Doris led Mr. Siddle to the edge of the +cliff about twenty-five minutes past four, the first thing they saw was the +local police-constable on the lawn of <i>The Hollies</i> putting down a gill of +“best Sussex” at a draught. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” cried the chemist icily, “I wonder what +Superintendent Fowler would say to that if he knew it?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is there particularly wrong about Robinson drinking a glass of +beer?” demanded Doris, more alive to the insinuation in Siddle’s +words than was quite permissible under the role imposed on her by Winter. +</p> + +<p> +She waved her hand to the party on the lawn. Grant, whose eyes ever roved in +that direction, had seen her white muslin dress the moment she appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Who the deuce is that with Miss Martin?” he said, returning her +signal. +</p> + +<p> +“Siddle, the chemist,” announced Robinson, not too well pleased +himself at being “spotted” so openly. “Well, gentlemen, +I’ll be off,” and he vanished by the side path through the laurels. +</p> + +<p> +“Siddle!” repeated Grant vexedly. “So it is. And she dislikes +the man, for some reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s go and rescue the fair maid,” prompted Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. If Doris wanted me she would let me know.” +</p> + +<p> +“How? At the top of her voice?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re far too curious, Wally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Semaphore, of course,” drawled Hart. “When are you going to +marry the girl, Jack!” +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as this infernal business has blown over.” +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t asked her, I gather?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me when you do, and I’ll hie me to London town, though in +torrid June. You’re unbearable in love.” +</p> + +<p> +“The lash of your wit cuts deeply sometimes,” said Grant quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Dash it all, old chap, I was talking at random. Very well. I’ll do +penance in sackcloth and ashes by remaining here, and applauding your poetic +efforts. I’ll even help. I’m a dab at sonnets.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Mr. Siddle had regained his poise. +</p> + +<p> +“I meant nothing offensive to the donor of the beer,” he said, +tuning his voice to an apologetic note. “But I take it Robinson is +conducting certain inquiries, and I imagine that his superiors demand a degree +of circumspection in such conditions. That is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely you do not rank with the stupid crowd in its suspicions of Mr. +Grant?” said the girl. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m pleased to think you refuse to class me with the +gossip-mongers of Steynholme, Doris,” was the guarded answer. +</p> + +<p> +There had been no reference to the murder during tea, which was served as soon +as the chemist came in. The visitor had tabled a copy of a current medical +journal containing an article on the therapeutic qualities of honey, so the +talk was lifted at once into an atmosphere far removed from crime. Doris was +grateful for his tact. When her father went to the office she brought Mr. +Siddle into the garden solely in pursuance of her promise to the detective, +though convinced that there would be no outcome save a few labored compliments +to herself. And now, by accident, as it were, the death of Adelaide Melhuish +thrust itself into their conversation. Perhaps it was her fault. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said candidly. “No one who has known you for seven +years, Mr. Siddle, could possibly accuse you of spreading scandal.” +</p> + +<p> +“Seven years! Is it so long since I came to Steynholme? Sometimes, it +appears an age, but more often I fancy the calendar must be in error. Why, it +seems only the other day that I saw you in a short frock, bowling a +hoop.” +</p> + +<p> +“A tom-boy occupation,” laughed Doris. “But dad encouraged +that and skipping, as the best possible means of exercise.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was right. Look how straight and svelte you are! Few, if any, among +our community can have watched your progress to womanhood as closely as I. You +see, living opposite, as I do, I kept track of you more intimately than your +other neighbors.” +</p> + +<p> +Siddle was trimming his sails cleverly. The concluding sentence robbed his +earlier comments of their sentimental import. +</p> + +<p> +“If we live long enough we may even see each other in the sere and yellow +leaf,” said Doris flippantly. +</p> + +<p> +“I would ask no greater happiness,” came the quiet reply, and Doris +could have bitten her tongue for according him that unguarded opening. Suddenly +availing herself of the advice which the detective, like Hamlet, had given to +the players, she gazed musingly at the fair panorama of The Hollies and its +gardens, with the two young men seated on the lawn. By this time Minnie was +staging tea, and the picture looked idyllic enough. Doris saw, out of the tail +of her eye, that her companion was watching her furtively, though apparently +absorbed in the scene. He moistened his thin lips with his tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“As a study in contrasts, that would be hard to beat,” he said, +after a long pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Contrasts!” she echoed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes. Even an uncontentious man like myself can hardly fail to +compare Sunday afternoon with Tuesday morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not Monday night?” she flashed. +</p> + +<p> +“Monday night, in part, remains a mystery yet to be unveiled. I blot +Monday night from my mind. I have no alternative, being on the jury which has +to arrive at a just verdict. Now, if Fred Elkin were here, he would foam at the +mouth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Happily, Fred Elkin is <i>not</i> here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I am glad, glad, to hear you say that. You don’t like +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I detest him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He makes out, to put it mildly, that you are great friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will oblige me by contradicting the statement. Or—no. One +treats that sort of man with contempt.” +</p> + +<p> +“I agree with you most heartily. I’m sorry I ever mentioned +him.” +</p> + +<p> +Yet Doris was well aware that the chemist had dragged in Elkin by the scruff of +the neck, probably for the sake of getting him disposed of thoroughly and for +all time. Rather on the tiptoe of expectation, she awaited the next move. It +was slow in coming, so again she looked wistfully at the distant tea-drinkers. +She found slight difficulty in carrying out this portion of the stage +directions. Truth to tell, she would gleefully have gone and joined them. +</p> + +<p> +Siddle was not altogether at ease. The conversation was too spasmodic to suit +his purpose. Though slow of speech he was nimble of brain, and, knowing Doris +so well, he had anticipated a livelier duel of wits. In all likelihood, he +cursed the tea-party on the lawn. He had not foreseen this drawback. But, being +a masterful man, he tackled the situation boldly. +</p> + +<p> +“I seized the opportunity of a friendly chat with you to-day, +Doris,” he went on, leaning over the fence to inhale the scent of a briar +rose. “The story runs through the village that you and your father dined +at The Hollies on Friday evening. Is that true?” +</p> + +<p> +Now, Doris had it on reliable authority that Siddle himself had been the runner +who spread that story, and the knowledge steeled her heart against him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said composedly. +</p> + +<p> +“It was kind and neighborly of you to accept the invitation, but a +mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned and faced him. His expression was baffling. She thought she saw in +his sallow, clean-cut features the shadow of a confident smile. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that this horrid murder should make some difference in the +friendship between ourselves and Mr. Grant?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. To you, though to no one else would I speak so plainly, I have no +hesitation in saying that Mr. Grant is far, very far, from being clear of +responsibility in that matter. Three days from now you will understand what I +mean. Evidence will be forthcoming which will put him in a most unenviable +light. I am not alleging, or even hinting, that he may be deemed guilty of +actual crime. That is for the law to determine. But I do tell you emphatically +that his present heedless attitude will give place to anxiety and dejection. It +cannot be otherwise. A somewhat sordid history will be revealed, and his +pretense that relations between him and the dead woman ceased three years ago +will vanish into thin air. Believe me, Doris, I am actuated by no motive in +this matter other than a desire to further your welfare. I cannot bear even to +think of your name being associated, in ever so small degree, with that of a +man who must be hounded out of his own social circle, if no worse fate is in +store for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious!” cried Doris, genuinely amazed. “How do you +come to know all this?” +</p> + +<p> +“I listen to the words of those qualified to speak with knowledge and +authority. I have mixed in varied company this past week, wholly on your +account. Don’t be led away by the mere formalities of the opening day of +the inquest. The coroner deliberately shut off all real evidence except as to +the cause of death. On Wednesday the situation will change, and you cannot fail +to be shocked by what you hear, because you will be there.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am given to understand that, even if I am called, my testimony will be +of no importance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Such may be the police view. Mr. Ingerman will press for a very +different estimate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has he told you that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“So, although foreman of the jury, you have not declined to hobnob with a +man who is avowedly Mr. Grant’s enemy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would hobnob with worse people if, by so doing, I might serve +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant, “fed up,” as he put it to Hart, with watching the +<i>tête à tête</i> between Doris and the chemist, sprang to +his feet and went through a pantomime easy enough to follow save for one or two +signs. Doris held both hands aloft. Well knowing that anything in the nature of +a pre-arranged code would be gall and wormwood to Siddle, she explained +laughingly: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Grant signals that he and Mr. Hart are going for a walk; he wants me +to accompany them. But I can’t, unfortunately. I promised dad to help +with the accounts.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you really mean what you say, my warning would seem to have fallen on +deaf ears.” +</p> + +<p> +Siddle’s voice was well under control, but his eyes glinted dangerously. +His state was that of a man torn by passion who nevertheless felt that any +display of the rage possessing him would be fatal to his cause. +</p> + +<p> +But, rather unexpectedly, Doris took fire. Siddle’s innuendoes and +protestations were sufficiently hard to bear without the added knowledge that a +ridiculous convention denied her the companionship of a man whom she loved, and +who, she was beginning to believe, loved her. She swept round on Siddle like a +wrathful goddess. +</p> + +<p> +“I have borne with you patiently because of the acquaintance of years, +but I shall be glad if this tittle-tattle of malice and ignorance now +ceases,” she said proudly. “Mr. Grant is my friend, and my +father’s friend. In the first horror of the crime which has besmirched +our dear little village, we both treated Mr. Grant rather badly. We know better +to-day. Your Ingermans and your Elkins, and the rest of the busybodies gathered +at the inn, may defame him as they choose, or as they dare. As for me, I am his +loyal comrade, and shall remain so after next Wednesday, or a score of +Wednesdays. I am going in now, Mr. Siddle, and shall be engaged during the +remainder of the evening. Your shop opens at six, and I am sure you will find +some more profitable means of spending the time than in telling me things I +would rather not hear.” +</p> + +<p> +Siddle caught her arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Doris,” he said fiercely, “you must not leave me without, at +least, learning my true motive. I—” +</p> + +<p> +The girl wrested herself free from his grip. She realized what was coming, and +forestalled it. +</p> + +<p> +“I care nothing for your motive,” she cried. “You forget +yourself! Please go!” +</p> + +<p> +She literally ran into the house. The chemist, unless he elected to behave like +a love-sick fool, had no option but to follow, and make his way to the street +by the side door. +</p> + +<p> +The only other happening of significance that Sunday was an unheralded visit by +Winter to the policeman’s residence. +</p> + +<p> +He popped in after dusk, opening the door without knocking. +</p> + +<p> +“You in, Robinson?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. Will you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Shan’t detain you more than a minute. At the inquest you said that +you personally untied the rope which bound Miss Melhuish’s body. Here are +a piece of string and a newspaper. Would you mind showing me what sort of knot +was used?” +</p> + +<p> +Robinson was nearly struck dumb, and his fingers fumbled badly, but he managed +to exhibit two hitches. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, thanks,” said Winter, and was off in a jiffy. +</p> + +<p> +From the window of a darkened room Robinson watched the erect, burly figure of +the detective until it was merged in the mists of night. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m—,” he exclaimed bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“John, what are you swearing about?” demanded his wife from the +kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +“Something I heard to-day,” answered her husband. “There was +a chap of my name, John P. Robinson, an’ he said that down in Judee they +didn’t know everything. And, by gum, he was right. They knew mighty +little about London ’tecs, I’m thinking. But, hold on. +Surely—” +</p> + +<p> +He bustled into his coat, and hastened to <i>The Hollies</i>. No, neither Mr. +Grant nor Mr. Hart had spoken to a soul about the knot. Nor had Bates. Of +course, Robinson did not venture to describe Winter. Finally, he put the +incident aside as a clear case of thought-reading. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>Chapter XV.<br /> +A Matter of Heredity</h2> + +<p> +Shortly before noon on Monday occurred two events destined to assume a +paramount importance in the affair which was wringing the withers of +Steynholme. As in the histories of both men and nations, these first steps in +great developments began quietly enough. For one thing, Furneaux returned to +the village. For another, the London telegraphist, who expected the day to +prove practically a blank, was reading a newspaper when the telegraph +instrument clicked the local call. +</p> + +<p> +Doris was checking and distributing the stock of stamps which had arrived that +morning; her father was counting mail-bags in a small annex to the main room, +the Knoleworth office having acquired a habit of making up shortages by docking +the country branches. No member of the public happened to be present. The girl +could have heard what the Morse code was tapping forth had she chosen, but she +had trained herself to disregard the telegraph when occupied on other work. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, however, the telegraphist’s pencil paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello!” he said. “Theodore Siddle! That’s the chemist +opposite, isn’t it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Doris, suspending her calculations at mention of the +name. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, his mother’s dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead?” she echoed vacantly. Somehow, it had never hitherto dawned +on her that the chemist might possess relatives in some part of the country. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what it says,” went on the other. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>“‘Regret inform you your mother died this morning. +Superintendent, Horton Asylum.’”</i> +</p> + +<p> +“In an asylum, too,” said the girl, speaking at random. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Horton is the place for epileptic lunatics, near Epsom, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know. Does it mean that—that she was an epileptic +lunatic?” +</p> + +<p> +“So I should imagine, from the wording. If a nurse, or a matron, +they’d surely describe her as such.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose we ought not to discuss Mr. Siddle’s telegram,” +said Doris, after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no. But where’s the harm? I wouldn’t have yelled out +the news if we three weren’t alone. Where’s that boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone to his dinner. Father will take it. By the way, say nothing to him +as to the contents. Would you mind calling him?” +</p> + +<p> +Doris hurried swiftly to the sitting-room, and thence upstairs. The +telegraphist explained the absence of a messenger, so Mr. Martin delivered the +telegram in person. +</p> + +<p> +Crossing the street, he detected a dead bee. He picked it up, horrified at the +thought that the Isle of Wight disease might have reached Sussex. So it was an +absent-minded postmaster who handed the telegram over Siddle’s counter, +inquiring laconically: +</p> + +<p> +“Is there any answer?” +</p> + +<p> +Siddle opened the buff envelope, and read. He glanced sharply at Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said. “What’s wrong with that bee?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. I have my doubts. When I have a moment to spare +I’ll put it under the microscope.” +</p> + +<p> +Siddle examined the telegram again. The handwriting was that beloved of Civil +Service Commissioners. Unquestionably, it was not Doris’s. No sooner had +his friend gone off, still intent on the dead insect, than Siddle followed. He +knew that the bee would undergo scientific scrutiny at once, so gave Martin +just enough time to dive into the sitting-room before entering the post office. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you receive this telegram a few minutes ago!” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +The young man became severely official. +</p> + +<p> +“Which telegram?” he said stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“This one,” and Siddle gave him the written message. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” was the answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me, but—er—are its contents known to you only?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, sir? It would cost me my berth if I divulged a word of +it to anyone.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry. Pray don’t take offense. I—I’m +anxious that my friends, Mr. and Miss Martin, should not hear of it. That is +what I really have in mind.” +</p> + +<p> +The telegraphist cooled down. +</p> + +<p> +“You may be quite sure that neither they nor any other person in +Steynholme will ever see the duplicate,” he said confidentially. “I +make up a package containing duplicates each evening, and it is sent to +headquarters. If it will please you, I’ll lock the copy now in my +desk.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is exceedingly good of you,” said Siddle gratefully. +“You, as a Londoner, will understand that such a telegram +from—er—Horton is not the sort of thing one would like to become +known even in the most limited circle.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can depend on me, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Siddle hastened back to his shop. The telegraphist looked after him. +</p> + +<p> +“Queer!” he mused. “Miss Doris guessed him at once. Phi-ew, I +must be careful! This village contains surprises.” +</p> + +<p> +Doris, watching from an upper room, saw the visitor, and timed him. She +imagined he had dispatched an answer. Being a woman, she sought enlightenment a +few minutes later. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Siddle came in,” she said tentatively. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the specialist, smiling. “And I agree with you, +Miss Martin. We mustn’t talk about telegrams, even among ourselves, +unless it is necessary departmentally.” +</p> + +<p> +Doris was silenced, but she read the riddle correctly. The chemist was +particularly anxious that no Steynholme resident should be made aware of his +mother’s death. She wondered why. +</p> + +<p> +She was enlightened when Furneaux paid a call about tea-time. She took him into +the garden. The lawn at <i>The Hollies</i> was empty. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you entertained an acquaintance yesterday?” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Am I to tell you what happened?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a great deal, I imagine,” he said, with a puzzling laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I annoyed him, as Mr.——” +</p> + +<p> +“No names!” broke in the detective hastily. “Names, +especially modern ones, destroy romance. Even the Georgian method of using +initials, or leaving out vowels, lend an air of intrigue to the veriest +balderdash.” +</p> + +<p> +“But no one can overhear us,” was the somewhat surprised comment. +</p> + +<p> +“How true!” said Furneaux. “Pardon me, Miss Martin. Tell the +story in your own way.” +</p> + +<p> +Doris had a good memory. She was invariably letter-perfect in a play after a +couple of rehearsals, and could prompt others if they faltered. The detective +listened in silence while she repeated the conversation between Siddle and +herself. He took no notes. In fact, he hardly ever did make any record in a +case unless it was essential to prove the exact words of a suspected person. +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” he said, when she had finished. “That sounds like the +complete text.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I have left out anything of importance—that +is, if a single word of it <i>is</i> important.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, heaps,” he assured her. “It’s even better than I +dared hope. Can you tell me if Siddle’s mother is dead yet?” +</p> + +<p> +The question found Doris so thoroughly unprepared that she blurted out: +</p> + +<p> +“Have you had a telegram, too, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. But Siddle has had one, eh? Don’t be vexed. I’m not +tricking you into revealing post office secrets. I knew she was dying, and, +when I saw your father take a message to the chemist’s shop I simply made +an accurate guess.... Now, I’m going to scare you, purposely and of +malice aforethought, because I want you to be a good little girl, and obey +orders. Mrs. Siddle, senior, now happily deceased, was an epileptic lunatic of +a peculiarly dangerous type. She suffered from what is classed by the doctors +as <i>furor epilepticus</i>, a form of spasmodic insanity not inconsistent with +a high degree of bodily vigor and long periods of apparently complete mental +saneness. Now, if I were not speaking to one who has shared her father’s +studies in bee-life, I would not introduce the subject of heredity. But +<i>you</i> know, Miss Martin, that such racial characteristics are transmitted, +or transmissible, I should say, by sex opposites. Thus, an epileptic mother is +more likely to give her taint to a son than to a daughter.... Yes, I mean all +that, and more,” he went on, seeing the look of horror, not unmixed with +fear, in Doris’s eyes. “There must be no more irritating of Siddle, +or playing on his feelings—by you, at any rate. Treat him gently. If he +insists on making love to you, be as firm as you like in a non-committal way. I +mean, by that, an entire absence on your part of any suggestion that you are +repulsing him because of a real or supposed preference for any other +man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want me to believe that he is liable to attack me?” +demanded the girl, her naturally courageous spirit coming to her aid. +</p> + +<p> +“I do,” said Furneaux, speaking with marked earnestness. +</p> + +<p> +“Yet you ask me to endure his company if he chooses to force himself on +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“For a few days.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it may be a few years?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. That is not to be thought of. Leave it to me to devise a way. +Besides, you need not allow him so many opportunities that the strain would +become unbearable. You are busy, owing to the certain increase of work brought +about by this murder. Your time will be greatly occupied. But, don’t +render him morbidly suspicious. For instance, no more dinners at <i>The +Hollies</i>. No more gadding about by night, if you hear weird noises on the +other side of the river. And you must absolutely deny yourself the pleasurable +excitement of Mr. Grant’s company.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are carrying a warning to its extreme limit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +“And am I to keep this knowledge to myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“In whom would you confide?” +</p> + +<p> +“My father, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you better,” and the detective’s voice took on a +profoundly serious note. “Your father would never admit that what he +knows to be true of bees is equally true of humanity. You can trust the police +to keep a pretty sharp eye on Siddle, of course, but the present is a strenuous +period, both for us and for people with maniacal tendencies, so accidents may +happen.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have distressed me immeasurably,” said the girl, striving to +pierce the mask of that inscrutable face. +</p> + +<p> +“I meant to,” answered Furneaux quietly. “No half measures +for me. I’ve looked up the asylum record of Mrs. Siddle, senior, and +it’s not nice reading.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was a Mrs. Siddle, junior, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“A Mrs. Theodore Siddle, if one adopts the conventional usage. Yes. She +died last month.” +</p> + +<p> +“Last month!” gasped Doris, feeling vaguely that she was moving in +a maze of deceit and subterfuge. +</p> + +<p> +“On May 25th, to be precise. She lived apart from her husband. I have +reason to believe she feared him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet—” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated, hardly able to put her jumbled thoughts into words. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. That’s so,” said the detective instantly. “Never +mind. It’s a fairly decent world, taken <i>en bloc</i>. I ought to speak +with authority. I see enough of the seamy side of it, goodness knows. Now, +forewarned is forearmed. Don’t be nervous. Don’t take risks. +Everything will come right in time. Remember, I’m not far away in an +emergency. Should I chance to be absent if you need advice, send for Mr. +Franklin. You can easily devise some official excuse, a mislaid letter, or an +error in a telegram.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I shall feel confident if both of you are near,” and the +ghost of a smile lit Doris’s wan features. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re a marvelous combination,” grinned Furneaux, reverting +at once to his normal impishness. “I am all brain; he is all muscle. Such +an alliance prevails against the ungodly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mr. Grant in any danger?” inquired Doris suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +The two looked into each other’s eyes. Doris was eager to ask a question, +which Furneaux dared her to put. The detective won. She sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” she said. “I’m to behave. Am I to regard +myself as a decoy duck?” +</p> + +<p> +“A duck, anyhow.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed lightly. Furneaux would vouchsafe no further information, it would +appear. For a girl of nineteen, Doris was uncommonly gifted with clear, +analytical reasoning powers. +</p> + +<p> +The detective returned to the Hare and Hounds, and went upstairs. He met Peters +on the landing. +</p> + +<p> +“The devil!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“My <i>dear</i> pal!” retorted the journalist. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you living here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not, indeed? Where the eagles are there is the carcase.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your misquotation is offensive.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was so intended.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come and have a drink.” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say ‘yes.’ You’ll thank me on your bended knees +afterwards. The South American gent is having the time of his life. I’ve +just been to my room for <i>Whitaker’s Almanack</i>, wherewith a certain +Don Walter Hart purposes flooring him.” +</p> + +<p> +Wally Hart had, indeed, succeeded in running to earth the Argentine magnate, +and was giving Winter a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” shouted Hart, when Furneaux came in with Peters. +“Here’s the pocket marvel who’ll answer any question straight +off. What is the staple export of the Argentine!” +</p> + +<p> +“How often have you been there?” demanded the detective dryly. +</p> + +<p> +“Six times.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ve lived there?” This to Winter. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” glowered the big man, fearing the worst. +</p> + +<p> +“Then the answer is ‘fools,’” cackled Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +Wally laughed. He had remembered, just in time, that he had no right to claim +acquaintance with the representative of Scotland Yard, and there were some +farmers present, each of whom had a “likely animal” to offer the +buyer of blood stock. +</p> + +<p> +“Gad, I think you’re right,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You wanted me to say ‘sheep,’ I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Got it, at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“As though one valuable horse wasn’t worth a thousand sheep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just what my friend, Don Manoel Alcorta, of Los Andes ranch, Catamarca, +always held,” put in Winter, drawing the bow at a venture. +</p> + +<p> +Hart cocked an eye at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” he said, “I would take off my hat, if I wore one in +Steynholme, to any man who claims the friendship of Don Manoel Alcorta, a +sincere patriot. I suggest that we crack a bottle to his immortal +memory.” +</p> + +<p> +“My doctor forbids me to touch wine,” said Winter mournfully. +</p> + +<p> +“But these bucolic breeders of browns and bays employ wiser medicos, +I’ll go bail. Landlord, a quart of the best, and six out, as they say in +London.” +</p> + +<p> +Six glasses were duly filled with champagne. When it was consumed, Hart +buttonholed Peters. +</p> + +<p> +“A word with you, scribe,” he said. “Good-day, gentlemen. I +leave you to your nags. Treat Mr. Franklin fairly. The friend of Don Manoel +Alcorta must be a true man.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter heaved a sigh of relief when the professional revolutionist had +vanished. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a funny ’un,” commented one of the farmers. +</p> + +<p> +“A bit touched, I reckon,” said another. “Wot’s +’e doin’ now to the other one?” +</p> + +<p> +They looked through the window. The two were standing in the middle of the +road, and Wally was shaking Peters violently. The argument was not so fierce as +it appeared to be. Peters had been commanded to bring both detectives to dinner +that evening; when he demurred, trying to hedge on the question of +Winter’s identity, Hart grabbed him by the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Do as I tell you,” he hissed. “Of course, I know now that +the big fellow is the man Grant heard of a week ago. I was an idiot to take him +seriously about the Argentine. Bring the pair of ’em, I tell you. +We’ll make a night of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try,” said Peters faintly, “but if you stir up +that wine so vigorously I won’t answer for the consequences.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter, wishing devoutly that would-be sellers of horseflesh were not so +numerous in the district, noted the names and addresses of the local men, and +promised to write when he could make an appointment. Then he escaped upstairs, +whither Furneaux soon followed. Winter had secured an extra bedroom, +overlooking the river, which Tomlin had converted into a sitting-room. Thus, he +held a secure observation post both in front and rear of the hotel. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, how did she take it?” inquired the Chief Inspector, when he +and his colleague were safe behind a closed door. +</p> + +<p> +“Sensible girl,” said Furneaux. “By the way, Siddle’s +mother is dead. Telegram came this morning. Things should happen now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite see why.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. You’re still muddled after floundering in the mud of South +America. What possessed you to let that cheerful idiot, Wally Hart, put you in +the cart?” +</p> + +<p> +“How could I help it? I was extracting some really helpful facts about +Siddle and Elkin from Tomlin and the others when a shock-headed whirlwind blew +in, and nearly embraced me because I claimed acquaintance with the El Dorado +bar in Buenos Ayres. From that instant I was lost. Like St. Augustine on the +gridiron, no sooner was I nicely toasted on one side than I was turned on to +the other. That grinning penny-a-liner, Peters, too, helped as assistant +torturer. Wait till he asks me for a ‘pointer’ in this or any other +case. He sold me a pup to-day, but I’ll land him with a full-sized +mastiff.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, you won’t. He’s done you a lot of good. You were simply +reeking with conceit when I met you this morning. It was ‘Siddle +this’ and ‘Siddle that’ until you fairly sickened me. One +would have thought I hadn’t cleared the ground for you, left you with all +lines open and yourself unknown to the enemy. Sometimes, you make me +tired.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry, Charles,” said Winter patronizingly. “I had a bit of +luck on Sunday, I admit. The chance turn taken by the conversation with Doris, +with the result that I was able to occupy a strategic position on the cliff, +and hear every word Siddle uttered, was really fortunate. But, isn’t that +just what men mean when they prate of success? Opportunity knocks once at every +man’s door, says the old saw. The clever man grabs hold instantly. The +indolent one, often a mere gabbler, opens his eyes and his mouth weeks +afterwards, and cries, ‘Dear me! Was that the much-looked-for +opportunity?’ Of course, Robinson’s by-play with the sack and rope +was merely thrown in by the prodigal hand of Fate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop!” yelped Furneaux. “Another platitude, and I’ll +assault you with the tongs!” +</p> + +<p> +It was the invariable habit of the Big ’Un and Little ’Un to +quarrel like cat and dog when the toils were closing in around a suspect. Woe, +then, to the malefactor! His was a parlous state. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s cool down, Charles!” said Winter, opening a leather +case, and selecting, with great care, one out of half a dozen precisely similar +cigars. “We’re pretty sure of our man, but we haven’t a scrap +of evidence against him. How, or where, to begin ringing him in I haven’t +the faintest notion. If only he’d kill Grant we’d get him at +once.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he won’t. He trusts to Ingerman playing that part of the game. +He’s as artful as a pet fox. I bought soap, and a pound of sal volatile, +but he did up each parcel with sealing-wax.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sal volatile!” smiled Winter. “I, too, went in for soap, but +my imagination would not soar beyond a packet of cotton-wool. It was the +lumpiest thing I could think of.” +</p> + +<p> +“And perfectly useless!” sneered Furneaux. “I must say you do +fling the taxpayers’ money about. Now, <i>my</i> little lot will keep the +electric bells in my flat in order for two years.” +</p> + +<p> +“You forget that constant association with you demands that I should +frequently plug my two ears,” retorted Winter. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux would surely have thrown back the jest had not a knock on the door +interrupted him. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s there? I’m busy,” cried Winter. +</p> + +<p> +“Me-ow!” whined Peters’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s you, Tom. Come in!” +</p> + +<p> +The journalist crept in on tiptoe. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! We are not observed,” he said. “Wally Hart threatens +to choke me if you two don’t dine with him and Grant to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a little while. The detectives looked at each other. +</p> + +<p> +“At what time?” said Winter, at last. +</p> + +<p> +Peters was astonished, and showed it. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I assured him it was absolutely imposs.,” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it isn’t. In fact, it suits our plans. I want exercise, and +shall walk back from Knoleworth. Furneaux will make his own arrangements. Tell +Grant that I shall drop in without knocking.” +</p> + +<p> +“And tell him I shall arrive by parachute,” added Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +“In case of accidents, and there is a shoot-up, with myself as the +unresisting victim, my front name is James,” said Peters. +</p> + +<p> +“The only good point about you,” scoffed Winter. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re strong on names to-day,” tittered the journalist. +“Don Manoel Alcorta was a superb effort as an authority on gee-gees. +Wally tells me his donship is the recognized expert south of the line on +seismic disturbances, and spends his days and nights watching a needle making +scratches on a sensitive plate.” +</p> + +<p> +“He would be useful here in a day or two,” said Winter. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, thanks! Is that a tip?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not for publication. What you must say is that this affair looks like +baffling the shrewdest wits in Scotland Yard.” +</p> + +<p> +“My very phrase—my own ewe lamb. Pardon. I shouldn’t have +alluded to sheep.” +</p> + +<p> +“The only known representative of the Yard in Steynholme is +Furneaux,” smiled the Chief Inspector. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux was drumming on a window-pane with his finger-tips. +</p> + +<p> +“True,” he cackled. “Just to prove it, he now informs you +that Siddle, finding trade slow, has called on Mr. John Menzies Grant!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>Chapter XVI.<br /> +Furneaux Makes a Successful Bid</h2> + +<p> +The lawn front of <i>The Hollies</i> was not visible from the upper story of +the Hare and Hounds owing to a clump of pines which had found foothold on the +cliff, but, through the gap formed by the end of the post office garden, the +entrance to the house from the Knoleworth road was discernible. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux’s dramatic announcement brought the other two to the window. By +this time Peters, gifted with a nose for news like a well-trained +setter’s for partridges, had begun to associate the quiet-mannered, +gentle-spoken chemist with the inner circle of the crime, so waited and watched +with the detectives for Siddle’s reappearance. +</p> + +<p> +At any rate the visitor must have been admitted, because a long quarter of an +hour elapsed before he came in sight again. He walked out slowly into the +roadway, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and glanced to right and +left. Then, turning abruptly, he stared at the dwelling he had just quitted. +What this slight but peculiar action signified was not hard to guess. Furneaux, +indeed, put it into words. +</p> + +<p> +“Having warned Grant off Miss Doris Martin, and been cursed for his +pains, the foreman of the jury does not trouble to await further evidence, but +arrives at a true and lawful verdict straight off,” announced the little +man. +</p> + +<p> +“We ought to hear things to-night,” said Peters. +</p> + +<p> +“We?” inquired Winter. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Didn’t I make it clear that I shared in the dinner +invitation?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, and I’m—” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t say it!” pleaded the journalist. “If I fell from +grace to-day, remember my unswerving loyalty since the hour we met on the +platform at Knoleworth! Haven’t I kept close as an oyster? And would any +consideration on earth move me to publish an accurate and entertaining account +of the roasting of Chief Inspector Winter by Wally Hart? Think what I’m +sacrificing—a column of the best.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter bent a weighing look on the speaker. There was treason in the thought, +as King James remarked to the barber who tried to prove his loyalty by pointing +out how easily he might cut his majesty’s throat any morning. But Peters +maintained the expression of a sphinx, and the big man relaxed. +</p> + +<p> +“The conditions are that not a word about this business appears in print, +either now or in the future until we have a criminal in the dock,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Accepted,” said Peters. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux laughed shrilly, even derisively, but him his colleague treated with +majestic disdain. Then, the chemist having reentered the village, the group +broke up, Peters to search his brains for “copy” which should be +readable yet contain no hint of the new trail, Winter to take train to +Knoleworth, and Furneaux to tackle Fred Elkin, who, he had ascertained earlier, +would drive home from a neighboring hamlet about five o’clock. +</p> + +<p> +Elkin had returned when the detective reached the house, a somewhat pretentious +place, half farm, half villa, and altogether horsey. The entrance hall bristled +with fox masks and brushes. A useful collection of burnished bits and snaffles +hung on a side wall. A couple of stuffed badgers held two wicker stands for +sticks and umbrellas, and whips and hunting-crops were ranged on hooks beneath +a 12-bore and a rook rifle. +</p> + +<p> +A pert maid-servant took Furneaux’s card, blanched when she read it, and +forgot to close the door of the dining-room. Hence, the detective heard +Elkin’s gruff comments: +</p> + +<p> +“What? <i>That</i> chap? Wants to see me? Not more than I want to see +him. Show him in.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux, looking very meek and mild, entered an apartment of the carpet-bag +upholstery period. A set of six exceedingly good and rare sporting prints +caught his eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Good day,” he said, finding Elkin drinking tea, and eating a +boiled egg. “You’re feeling better, I’m glad to see.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, no matter how ungracious a man may be, a courteous solicitude as to his +health demands a certain note of civility in return. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. “Sit down. Will you join me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll have a cup of tea, with pleasure,” said Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +“Right-o! Just touch that bell, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +The other obeyed, and took a closer look at one of the prints. Yes, the date +was right, 1841, and the stippling admirable. +</p> + +<p> +“Nice lot of pictures, those,” he said cheerfully, when the +frightened maid, much to her relief, had been told to bring another cup and a +fresh supply of toast. +</p> + +<p> +“Are they?” Elkin had taken them and some kitchen furniture for a +bad debt. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Will you sell them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I haven’t thought about it. What’ll you give?” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t resist anything in the art line that takes my +fancy,” he said, after a pause of indecision. “What do you say to +ten bob each?” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin valued the lot at that figure, but Furneaux was a fool, and should be +treated as such. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come now!” he cried roguishly. “They’re worth more +than that.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux reflected again. +</p> + +<p> +“Three pounds is a good deal for six prints,” he murmured, +“but, to get it off my mind, I’ll spring to guineas.” +</p> + +<p> +“Make it three-ten and they’re yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Three guineas is my absolute limit,” said Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +“Done!” cried Elkin. The original debt was under two pounds, so he +had cleared more than fifty per cent. on the transaction, and was plus a number +of chairs and a table. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux counted out the money, wrote a receipt on a leaf torn from his +pocket-book, and stamped it. +</p> + +<p> +“Sign that,” he said, “pocket the cash, send the set to the +Hare and Hounds for me in a dog-cart now, and the deal is through.” +</p> + +<p> +Leaving the table, he went and lifted down each picture carefully. Somewhat +wonderingly, Elkin rang the bell once more, gave the necessary instructions, +and the room was cleared of its art. He was quite sure now that Furneaux was, +as he put it, “dotty.” The latter, however, sat and enjoyed his tea +as though well pleased with his bargain. +</p> + +<p> +“And how are things going in the murder at <i>The Hollies</i>?” +inquired the horse-dealer, by way of a polite leading up to the visitor’s +unexplained business. +</p> + +<p> +“Fairly well,” said the detective. “My chief difficulty was +to convince certain important people that you didn’t kill Miss Melhuish. +Once I—” +</p> + +<p> +“Me!” roared Elkin, his pale blue eyes assuming a fiery tint. +“<i>Me!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Once I established that fact,” went on the other severely, +“a real stumbling-block was removed. You see, Elkin, you have behaved +throughout like a perfect fool, and thus lent a sort of credibility to an +otherwise absurd notion. Your furious hatred of Mr. Grant, for instance, born +of an equally fatuous—or, shall I say? fat-headed—belief that Miss +Martin would marry you for the mere asking, led you into deep waters. It was a +mistake, too, when you lied to P. C. Robinson as to the time you came home on +that Monday night. You told him you walked straight here from the Hare and +Hounds at ten o’clock. You know you didn’t—that it was nearer +half past eleven when you reached this house. Consider what that discrepancy +alone might have meant if Scotland Yard failed to take your measure correctly. +Then add the fact that the murderer wore the hat, wig, and whiskers in which +you made a guy of yourself while filling the rôle of Svengali last +winter. Now, I ask you, Elkin, where would you have stood with the average +British jury when the prosecution established those three things: Motive, your +jealousy of Grant; time, your unaccounted-for disappearance during the hour +when the crime was committed; and disguise, a clumsy suggestion of Owd +Ben’s ghost? Really, I have known men brought to the scaffold on +circumstantial evidence little stronger than that. Instead of glaring at me +like a cornered rat you ought to drop on your knees and thank providence, as +manifested through the intelligence of the ‘Yard,’ that you are not +now in a cell at Knoleworth, ruminating on your own stupidity, and in no small +jeopardy of your life.” +</p> + +<p> +Many emotions chased each other across Fred Elkin’s somewhat mean and +cruel face while Furneaux rated him in this extraordinary manner. Surprise, +wrath, even fear, had their phases. But, dominating all other sensations, was +an overpowering indignation at the implied hopelessness of his pursuit of Doris +Martin. +</p> + +<p> +He literally howled an oath at his torturer. Furneaux was shocked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” he protested in a horrified tone. “Don’t +swear at your best friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“Friend! By—, I’ll make you pay for what you’ve said. +There’s a law to stop that sort of thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the law requires witnesses. A slander isn’t a slander unless +it’s uttered to your detriment before a third party. How different would +be Mr. Grant’s action against you! Your well-wishers simply +couldn’t muzzle you. Whether before your pot-house cronies or mere +strangers, you charged him openly with being a murderer. I’m sorry for +you, Elkin, if ever you come before a judge. He’ll rattle more than my +three guineas out of you. Even now, you don’t grasp the extent of your +folly. Instead of telling me how you spent that hour and a half on the night of +the crime you have the incredible audacity to threaten me, <i>me</i>, the man +who has saved you from jail. One more word, you miserable swab, and I’ll +let Robinson arrest you. You’ll be set free, of course, when I stage the +actual villain, but a few remands of a week each in custody will thin your hot +blood. You were with Peggy Smith after leaving the Hare and Hounds, making a +fool of an honest girl who thinks you mean to wed her. Yet you blather about +being ‘practically engaged’ to Doris Martin, a girl who +wouldn’t let you tie her shoe-lace. You’re an impudent pup, Fred, +and you know it. But you stock decent tea, so I’ll take another cup. If +you’re wise, you’ll take a second one yourself. It’s better +for you than whiskey.” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin, despite all his faults, was endowed with the shrewdness inseparable from +his business, because no man devoid of brains ever yet throve as a +horse-dealer. He smothered his rage, thinking he might learn more from this +strange-mannered detective by seeming complaisance. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a bit rough on a fellow,” he growled sulkily, pouring +out the tea. +</p> + +<p> +“For your good, my boy, solely for your good. Now, own up about +Peggy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. That’s right. She’d prove an alibi, so your tom-fool +case breaks down when the flag falls.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does it? A girl may say anything to save her supposed lover. How will +the twelve good men and true view Doris Martin’s evidence on Wednesday? +What did <i>you</i> mean, for instance, by your question to the coroner at the +first hearing?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought Grant was guilty, and I think so still,” came the savage +retort. +</p> + +<p> +“A nice juryman you are, I must say! May I trouble you to pass the +sugar?” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here! What are you gettin’ at? Damme if I can see through +your game. What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t want to worry poor Peggy. And her father might set about +you if he knew the facts, so I’m probably saving you a hiding as well as +a period in jail. The only reliable witness we had as to events in +Tomlin’s place was a commercial traveler, and he is positive that the +house closed at ten o’clock. However, that’s all right. How do you +account for the marvelous improvement in your health? Dr. Foxton cannot +understand your illness. He says you are wiry, and have a strong +constitution.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Foxton jolly near knocked me up,” said Elkin. “I took +his medicine till I was sick as a cat.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you took spirits, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s nothing fresh. Anyhow, I’ve dropped both, and am +picking up every hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Since when?” +</p> + +<p> +“Since yesterday morning, if you want to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do. I’m most interested. Dr. Foxton doesn’t compound his +own prescriptions, does he?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I get ’em made up at Siddle’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah. These country chemists often keep drugs in stock till they +deteriorate, or even set up chemical changes. Have you the bottles?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But what the—” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything left in them?” +</p> + +<p> +“The last two are half full. Still—” +</p> + +<p> +“What a cross-grained chap you are? I buy your pictures, drink your tea, +rescue you from a positively dangerous position, warn you against carrying any +farther a most serious libel, yet you won’t let me help you in a matter +affecting your health!” +</p> + +<p> +“Help me? How?” +</p> + +<p> +“Even you, I suppose, realize that Scotland Yard employs skilled +analysts. Give me your bottles, in strict confidence, of course, and I’ll +tell you what they really contain. Then you can compare the analyses with the +doctor’s prescriptions. The knowledge should be useful, to say the least. +Siddle’s reputation needn’t suffer, but, unless I am greatly +mistaken, you will have the whip hand of him in future.” +</p> + +<p> +The prospect was alluring. Elkin would enjoy showing up the chemist, who had +treated him rather as a precocious infant of late. +</p> + +<p> +“By jing!” he cried, “I’m on that. Bet you a +quid—But, no. You’d hardly lay against your own opinion. Just wait +a tick. I’ll bring ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux stared fixedly at the table while his host was absent. His conscience +was not pricking him with regard to an unmerited slur on the country chemists +of Great Britain. All is fair in love and the detection of crime, and he simply +had to get hold of those bottles by some daring yet plausible ruse. +</p> + +<p> +“Now—I wonder!” he muttered, as Elkin’s step sounded on +the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are!” grinned the horse-dealer. “Take a dose of +the last one. It’ll stir your liver to some tune.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux drew the corks out of both bottles, and sniffed the contents. Then he +tasted, with much tongue-smacking. +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” he said. “Stale laudanum, for a start. I expected as +much. Bought by the gallon and sold by the drop. Is that the dogcart with my +pictures?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hail your man. He can give me a lift.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there’s lots of things I want to ask you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Probably. I’m here to put questions, not to give information. +I’ve gone a long way beyond the official tether already. If you’ve +a grain of sense, and I think you’re not altogether lacking in that +respect, you’ll keep a close tongue, and act on the tips thrown out. +You’ll find pearls of price among the rubbish-heap of my remarks +generally. Good-by. See you on Wednesday.” +</p> + +<p> +And Furneaux climbed into the cart, holding the pictures so that they would not +rattle, and perhaps loosen the old gilded frames. +</p> + +<p> +“Drive me to the chemist’s” he said to the groom; within five +minutes, he was explaining his purchase to Siddle, and requesting, as a favor, +that the latter should wrap the set of prints in brown paper, making two +parcels, and tying each securely, so that they might be dispatched by train. +</p> + +<p> +Siddle examined one, the first of the series, which depicted the Aylesbury +Steeplechase. +</p> + +<p> +“Rather good,” he said. “Where did you pick them up?” +</p> + +<p> +“At Elkin’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed. What an unexpected place!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the only way a poor man can get hold of a decent thing +nowadays. The dealers grab everything, and sell them as collections.” +</p> + +<p> +“Art is not in my line, though anyone can see that these are +excellent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But you’re looking at ‘The Start.’ Have a peep at +this one, ‘The Finish.’ The artist <i>would</i> have his joke. You +see that the dark horse wins.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you persuade Elkin to part with them?” +</p> + +<p> +“By paying him a tempting price, of course. I’m a weak-minded ass +in such matters.” +</p> + +<p> +The chemist busied himself to oblige the detective, wrapping and tying the +packages neatly. Furneaux insisted on paying sixpence for the paper, string, +and labor. There was quite a friendly argument, but he carried his point. +</p> + +<p> +The dog-cart then brought him to the station, where he tipped and dismissed the +man; a little later, he caught a London-bound train. +</p> + +<p> +At half past seven precisely, Winter turned in through the Knoleworth-side gate +of <i>The Hollies</i> (there were two, the approach to the house being +semi-circular) and pushed the door open, as it was standing ajar. +</p> + +<p> +Grant was waiting in the hall, and greeted him pleasantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s a telegram which is meant for you, I fancy,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Winter read: +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +<i>“Sorry to spoil your party. Compelled to travel to London. Returning +early to-morrow. F.”</i> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +“That’s pretty Fanny’s way,” smiled the Chief +Inspector. “But there’s something in the wind, or he would never +have hurried off in this fashion. He tells me that the only pleasant evening he +spent in Steynholme was under your roof, Mr. Grant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come along in, Don Jaime!” drawled Hart’s voice from the +“den,” which had been cleared of its litter, the lawn being deemed +somewhat unsuitable for the purposes of a drawing-room on that occasion. It was +overlooked from too many quarters. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, we meet now under less uneven conditions, Mr. Hart,” said +Winter. “Do you know that Enrico Suarez is in London?” +</p> + +<p> +Hart, startled for once in his life, gazed at the detective fixedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Since when?” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“He crossed from Lisbon last week.” +</p> + +<p> +Hart took a revolver from his hip pocket, and opened it, apparently making sure +that it was properly loaded. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the law in England?” he inquired. “Can I shoot +first, or must I wait till the other fellow has had a pop?” +</p> + +<p> +Winter laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right,” he said. “Suarez is in Holloway, +awaiting extradition. But I owed you one for the rise you took out of me +to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +A bell sounded, and Peters came in. He glanced around. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Furneaux?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone to London. Why this keen interest?” said Winter. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s something up. Elkin dropped in at the Hare and Hounds. He +was simply bursting with curiosity, and had to talk to somebody. So he chose +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“He would,” was the dry comment. +</p> + +<p> +“Fact, ’pon me honor. I didn’t lead him on an inch. It seems +that Furneaux bought some prints which caught his eye in Elkin’s house, +and Tomlin says that that hexplains hit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Explains what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Furneaux’s visit to Siddle, and certain bulky parcels brought in +and brought out again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Queer little duck, Furneaux,” said Hart. “Now that my mind +is at ease about the immediate future of the biggest rascal in Venezuela I can +take an active part in Steynholme affairs once more. When it’s all +through I’ll make a novel of it, dashed if I don’t, with the +postmaster’s daughter in the three-color process as a +frontispiece.” +</p> + +<p> +“But who will be the villain?” said Peters. +</p> + +<p> +Hart waved the negro-head pipe at the other three. +</p> + +<p> +“Draw lots. I am indifferent,” he said. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>Chapter XVII.<br /> +An Official Housebreaker</h2> + +<p> +No word bearing on the main topic in these men’s minds was said during +dinner. Grant was attentive to his guests, but markedly silent, almost +distrait. Two such talkers as Hart and Peters, however, covered any gaps in +this respect. Cigars and pipes were in evidence, and, horrible though it may +sound in the ears of a <i>gourmet</i>, the port was circulating, when Winter +turned and gazed at the small window. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that where the ghost appears!” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Grant. “You know the whole story, of +course?” +</p> + +<p> +“Furneaux misses nothing, I assure you.” +</p> + +<p> +“He missed a daylight apparition this afternoon, at any rate. I have no +secrets from my friends, so I may as well tell you—” +</p> + +<p> +“That Siddle called, and implored you to consider Doris Martin’s +future by avoiding her at present,” put in the Chief Inspector. +</p> + +<p> +Such shocks were losing some of their effect, on the principle that a man hears +the burst of the thousandth high-explosive shell with a good deal less +trepidation than attended the efforts of the first dozen. Still, Grant gazed at +the speaker in profound astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“You Scotland Yard men seem to know everything,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“A mere pretense. Try him on sheep-raising in the Argentine, Jack,” +murmured Hart. +</p> + +<p> +“Wally, this business is developing a very serious side,” protested +Grant. Hart stretched a long arm for the port decanter. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, friend!” he addressed it gravely. “Let us commune! You +and I together shall mingle joyous memories of +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +<i>“A draught of the Warm South,<br /> +The true, the blushful Hippocrene.”</i> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +“We read Siddle’s visit aright, it would appear,” said Winter +quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. That was his mission, put in a nutshell.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I told him that, after Wednesday, I would ask Doris Martin to marry me, +which is the best answer I can give him and all the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why ‘after Wednesday’?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I shall know then the full extent of the annoyance which +Ingerman can inflict.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you give Siddle that reason?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter frowned. +</p> + +<p> +“You literary gentlemen are all alike,” he said vexedly. “You +become such adepts in analyzing human duplicity in your books that you never +dream of trying to be wise as a serpent in your own affairs. The author who +will split legal hairs by way of brightening his work will sign a contract with +a publisher that draws tears from his lawyer when a dispute arises. Why be so +candid with a rank outsider, like Siddle?” +</p> + +<p> +“I distrust the man. Doris distrusts him, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you take him into your confidence.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I merely give him chapter and verse to prove that his interference +is useless.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you engaged a lawyer for Wednesday?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Why should I? My hands are clean.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your clothes may suffer if enough mud is slung at you. Wire to this +man in the morning, and mention my name—Winter, of course, not +Franklin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Codlin’s your friend, not Short,” said Hart. “Sorry. +It’s a time-worn jape, but it fitted in admirably.” +</p> + +<p> +The detective scribbled a name and address on a card. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think you need worry about Ingerman,” he went on, +“though it’s well to be prepared. A smart solicitor can stop +irrelevant statements, especially if ready for them. But there must be no more +of this heart-opening to all and sundry, Mr. Grant. Siddle is your rival. He, +too, wants to marry Miss Martin, and regards you now as the only +stumbling-block.” +</p> + +<p> +“Siddle! That stick!” gasped Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“Ridiculous, indeed monstrous,” agreed Winter, rather heatedly, +“but nevertheless a candidate for the lady’s hand.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he laughed. Peters’s keen eyes were watching him, and Wally Hart was +giving more heed to the conversation than was revealed by a fixed stare at the +negro’s head in meerschaum. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve bothered me,” he went on. “I thought you had +more sense. Don’t you understand that all these bits of gossip reach +Ingerman through the filter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?” +</p> + +<p> +“The man’s visit was unexpected, and his mission even more so. I +just blurted out the facts.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ve rendered the services of a solicitor absolutely +indispensable now.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant, by no means so clear-headed these days as was his wont, followed the +scent of Winter’s red herring like the youngest hound in a pack; but +Wally Hart and Peters, lookers-on in this chase, harked back to the right line. +</p> + +<p> +“May I—” they both broke in simultaneously. +</p> + +<p> +“Place to the fourth estate,” bowed Hart solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks,” said the journalist. “May I put a question, +Winter?” +</p> + +<p> +“A score, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Totting up the average of the murder cases in which Furneaux and you +have been engaged, in how many days do you count on spotting your man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes we never get him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come a bit closer than that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Generally, given a clear run, with an established motive, we know who he +is within eight days.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wednesday, in effect?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t say, this time?” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose, as a hypothesis, you are convinced of a man’s guilt, but +can obtain little or no evidence?” +</p> + +<p> +“He goes through life a free and independent citizen of this or any other +country. Arrests on suspicion are not my long suit.” +</p> + +<p> +“How does one get evidence?” purred Hart. “It isn’t +scattered broadcast by a clever criminal. And you fellows seem to object to my +method, which has been the only effectual one so far in this affair.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had shot that specter the other night there would have been the +deuce to pay.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you would now be sure of the murderer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you assume that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Like Eugene Aram, he can’t keep away from the scene of his +crime.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter felt he was skating on thin ice, so hastened to escape. +</p> + +<p> +“Detective work is nearly all guessing,” he said sententiously, +“yet one must beware of what I may term obvious guessing. If cause and +effect were so closely allied in certain classes of crime my department would +cease to exist, and the protection of life and property might be left safely to +the ordinary police. By the way, P. C. Robinson has been rather inactive during +two whole days. That makes me suspicious. What’s he up to? Can you throw +a light on him, Peters?” +</p> + +<p> +The journalist knew that he was being told peremptorily to cease prying. He +kicked Hart under the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Hi!” yelled Wally. “What’s the matter? Strike your +matches on your own shin, not mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Peters is announcing that the discussion is now closed,” said +Winter firmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. He needn’t emphasize the warning by a hob-nailed boot. +When my injured feelings have recovered I’ll discourse to you of strange +folk and stranger doings on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, and your stock as +an Argentine plutocrat will rise one hundred per cent, next time you’re +badgered by a man who knows the country.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meanwhile, Robinson is hot-foot on the Elkin trail,” laughed +Peters. “His face was a study to-day when the groom supplied details of +the picture-buying.” +</p> + +<p> +“Furneaux wanted that transaction to be widely known,” said Winter. +“He gave every publicity to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he secure a bargain, I wonder?” said Grant. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I expect so. He doesn’t waste his hard-earned money, even for +official purposes.” +</p> + +<p> +But Winter was well aware of, and kept to himself one phase of the art deal, at +any rate. Furneaux had persuaded Siddle to fasten two bulky packages with +string! +</p> + +<p> +He was shaving next morning when his colleague entered, spruce as ever in +attire, but looking rather weary. The little man flung himself at full length +on Winter’s bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Been up all night,” he explained. “Chemical analysis is +fascinating but slow work—like watching a moth evolve from a grub. Had a +fearful job, too, to get an analyst to chuck a theater and attend to business. +The blighter talked of office hours. <i>CrĂ© nom</i>! Ten till four, and an hour +and a half for lunch! Why can’t we run <i>our</i> show on those lines, +James!” +</p> + +<p> +Winter finished carefully the left side of his broad expanse of face. +</p> + +<p> +“You came down by the mail, I suppose?” he said casually. +</p> + +<p> +“What a genius you are!” sighed Furneaux. “If <i>I</i> were +trembling with expectation I could no more put a banal question like that than +swallow the razor after I was done with it. You might at least have the common +decency to thank me for leaving you to gorge on rare meats and vintage wines +while I dallied with the deadly railway sandwich.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter scraped the other cheek, his chin, and upper lip. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I go to the bathroom first, or listen?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, I’m tired, and hiking these frail bones to bed till +twelve, so I’ll give you a condensed version,” snapped Furneaux. +“Elkin’s illness, begun by whiskey and over-excitement, developed +into steady poisoning by Siddle. The chemist used a rare agent, too—pure +nicotine—easy, in a sense, to detect, but capable of a dozen reasonable +explanations when revealed by the post-mortem. But Elkin wasn’t to be +killed outright, I gather. The idea was to upset stomach and brain till he was +half crazy. As you can read print when it’s before your eyes, I +needn’t go into the matter of motive; Elkin’s behavior supplies all +details.” +</p> + +<p> +“How about the knots? Hurry! I hate the feeling of soap drying on my +skin.” +</p> + +<p> +“One running noose and twice two half hitches on each package.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good! Charles, we’re going to pull off a real twister.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>We!</i> Well, that tikes it, as the girl said when her hat blew off +with the fluffy transformation pinned to it.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter rushed to the bathroom, and Furneaux crept languidly to bed. +</p> + +<p> +Before going to Knoleworth, Mr. Franklin consulted with Tomlin as to a suitable +dinner, to which the other guests staying in the inn, namely, Mr. Peters and +the Scotland Yard gentleman—the little man with the French +name—might be invited. This important point settled, Mr. Franklin caught +an early train, and was absent all day, being, in fact, closeted with +Superintendent Fowler and a Treasury solicitor. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux was sound asleep long after twelve o’clock, and swore at Tomlin +in French when the landlord ventured to arouse him. Tomlin went downstairs +scratching his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Least said soonest mended,” he communed, “but we may all be +murdered in our beds if them’s the sort of ’tecs we ’ave to +look arter us.” +</p> + +<p> +However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and some pressmen, +arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and the kitchen was +redolent of good fare. All parties gathered in the dining-room, of course, and +Ingerman had an eye for Mr. Franklin’s party. The scraps of talk he +overheard were nothing more exciting than the prospects of a certain horse for +the Stewards’ Cup. Peters had the tip straight from the stables. A racing +certainty, with a stone in hand. +</p> + +<p> +After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, and tapped +him professionally on the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“A word with you outside,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman was irritated—perhaps slightly alarmed. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t we talk here?” he said, in that singularly melodious +voice of his. +</p> + +<p> +“Better not, but I shan’t detain you more than five minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything my legal adviser might wish to hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not from me. Tell him yourself afterwards, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +In the quiet street the detective suddenly linked arms with his companion. +Probably he smiled sardonically when he felt a telltale quiver run through +Ingerman’s lanky frame. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve brought down Norris, I see?” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meaning to make things hot for Grant tomorrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Meaning to give justice the materials—” +</p> + +<p> +“Cut the cackle, Isidor. I know you, and it’s high time you knew +me. Grant has retained Belcher. Ah! that gets you, does it? You haven’t +forgotten Belcher. Now, be reasonable! Or, rather, don’t run your head +into a noose. Grant had no more to do with the murder of your wife than you +had. Call off Norris, and Grant withdraws Belcher. Twig? It’s dead easy, +because the Treasury solicitor will simply ask for another week’s +adjournment, as the police are not ready to go on. In the meantime, you pay off +Norris, and save your face. Is it a deal?” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I to understand—” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t wriggle! The key of the situation is held by Belcher. Name +of a pipe! What prompting does Belcher need from me or anybody else after the +Bokfontein Lands case?” +</p> + +<p> +“But—” +</p> + +<p> +“Isidor, this is the last word. I was at the funeral on Saturday, and met +your wife’s mother and sister. They do love you, don’t they?” +</p> + +<p> +Ingerman died game. +</p> + +<p> +“If I have your assurance that Mr. Grant is really innocent of +Adelaide’s death, that is sufficient,” he said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if it pleases you to put it that way, I’m agreeable. Which +is your road? Back to the hotel? I’m for a short stroll. Mind you, no +wobbling! Go straight, and I’ll attend to Belcher. But, good Lord! How +his eyes will sparkle when they light on you to-morrow!” +</p> + +<p> +Neither the redoubtable Belcher, nor the Bokfontein Lands, nor poor Adelaide +Melhuish’s mother and sister may figure further in this chronicle. The +inquest opened at the appointed hour next day, and was closed down again for a +week with a celerity that was most disappointing both to the jury and the +general public. Of three legal luminaries present only one, the Treasury man, +uttered a few bald words. Belcher and Norris did not even announce the names of +their clients. Norris noticed that Belcher surveyed Ingerman with a grim smile, +but thought nothing of it until he received a check later in the week. Then he +made some inquiries, and smiled himself. +</p> + +<p> +The foreman of the jury looked a trifle pinched, though his cheeks bore two +spots of hectic color. Mr. Franklin, drawn to the court by curiosity, happened +to glance at him once, and found him gazing at Furneaux in a peculiarly +thoughtful manner. +</p> + +<p> +Elkin, thriving on a diet of tea and eggs, was also interested in the +representative of Scotland Yard. He seemed to ignore Grant entirely. Doris +Martin was not in court. Superintendent Fowler had called about half past nine +to tell her she would not be asked to attend that day. +</p> + +<p> +Near Mr. Franklin sat a few village notabilities, who, since they had not the +remotest connection with anyone concerned in the tragedy, have been left +hitherto in their Olympian solitude. He listened to their comments. +</p> + +<p> +“As usual, the police are utterly at sea,” said one. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ‘following up important clews,’ the newspapers +say,” scoffed another. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a disgraceful thing if a crime like this goes undetected and +unpunished.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which is the Scotland Yard man!” +</p> + +<p> +“The small chap, in the blue suit.” +</p> + +<p> +“What? <i>That</i> little rat!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he’s sharp. I met a man in the train and he told +me—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Franklin grinned amiably; Hobbs, the butcher, intercepting his eye, grinned +back. It is not difficult to imagine what portion of the foregoing small talk +reached Furneaux subsequently. +</p> + +<p> +Oddly enough, both detectives had missed a brief but illuminating incident +which took place in the Hare and Hounds the previous night, while Winter was +finishing a cigar with Peters, and Furneaux was bludgeoning Ingerman into +compliance with his wishes. +</p> + +<p> +Elkin’s remarkable improvement in health was commented on by Hobbs, and +Siddle took the credit. +</p> + +<p> +“That last mixture has proved beneficial, then?” he said, eying the +horse-dealer closely. +</p> + +<p> +“Top-hole,” smirked Elkin. “But it’s only fair to say +that I’ve chucked whiskey, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you finish the bottle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Which bottle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nearly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t take any more. It was decidedly strong. I’ll send a +boy early to-morrow morning with a first-rate tonic, and you might give him any +old medicine bottles you possess. I’m running short.” +</p> + +<p> +Elkin hesitated a second or two. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell my housekeeper to look ’em up,” he said. +After the inquest he communicated this episode to Furneaux as a great joke. +</p> + +<p> +“Queer, isn’t it?” he guffawed. “A couple of dozen +bottles went back, as I’m always getting stuff for the gees, but those +two weren’t among ’em. You took care of that, eh? When will you +have the analysis?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll be fully a week yet,” said the detective. +“Government offices are not run like express trains, and this is a free +job, you know. But, be advised by me. Stick to plain food, and throw physic to +the dogs.” +</p> + +<p> +Another singular fact, unobserved by the public at large, was that a policeman, +either Robinson or a stranger, patrolled the high-street all day and all night, +while no one outside official circles was aware that other members of the force +watched <i>The Hollies</i>, or were secreted among the trees on the cliffside, +from dusk to dawn. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning, however, there was real cause for talk. Siddle’s shop was +closed. Over the letter-box, neatly printed, was gummed a notice: +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +<i>“Called away on business. Will open for one hour after arrival of 7 p. +m. train. T. S.”</i> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +Everyone who passed stopped to read. Even Mr. Franklin joined Furneaux and +Peters in a stroll across the road to have a look. +</p> + +<p> +“I want you a minute,” said the big man suddenly to Furneaux. There +was that in his tone which forbade questioning, so Peters sheered off, well +content with the share permitted him in the inquiry thus far. +</p> + +<p> +“That fellow, Hart, is no fool,” went on Winter rapidly. “He +said last night ‘How does one get evidence?’ It was not easy to +answer. Siddle has gone to his mother’s funeral. What do you +think!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d turn me into a housebreaker, would you?” whined +Furneaux bitterly. “I must do the job, of course, just because I’m +a little one. Well, well! After a long and honorable career I have to become a +sneak thief. It may cost me my pension.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no real difficulty. An orchard—” +</p> + +<p> +“Bet you a new hat I went over the ground before you did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Get over it quickly now, and get something out of it, and I’ll +<i>give</i> you a new hat. Got any tools?” +</p> + +<p> +“I fetched ’em from town Tuesday morning,” chortled Furneaux. +“So now who’s the brainy one?” +</p> + +<p> +He skipped into the hotel, while Winter went to the station to make sure of +Siddle’s departure and destination. Yes, the chemist had taken a return +ticket to Epsom, where a strip of dank meadow-land on the road to Esher marks +the last resting-place of many of London’s epileptics. On returning to +the high-street, Winter lighted a cigar, a somewhat common occurrence in his +everyday life, where-upon Furneaux walked swiftly up the hill. A farmer, living +near the center of the village, owned a rather showy cob. Winter found the man, +and persuaded him to trot the animal to and fro in front of the hotel. There +was a good deal of noise and hoof-clattering, and people came to their doors to +see what was going on. Obviously, if they were watching the antics of a +skittish two-year-old in the high-street, their eyes were blind to proceedings +in the back premises. Even the postmaster and his daughter were interested +onlookers, and a policeman, who might have put a summary end to the display, +vanished as though by magic. +</p> + +<p> +Luckily, Winter was a good judge of a horse. When the cob was stabled, and the +farmer came to the inn to have a drink, he was forced to admit a tendency to +cow hocks, which, it would seem, is held a fatal blemish in the Argentine. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Furneaux had dodged into a lane and thence to a bridle-path which +emerged near Bob Smith’s forge. When he had traversed, roughly speaking, +one-half of a rectangle in which the Hare and Hounds occupied the center of one +of the longer sides, he climbed a gate and followed a hedge. Though not losing +a second, he took every precaution to remain unseen, and, to the best of his +belief, gained an inclosed yard at the back of Siddle’s premises without +having attracted attention. He slipped the catch of a kitchen window only to +discover that the sash was fastened by screws also. The lock of the kitchen +door yielded to persuasion, but there were bolts above and below. A wire screen +in a larder window was impregnable. Short of cutting out a pane of glass, he +could not effect an entry on the ground floor. +</p> + +<p> +Nimble as a squirrel, and risking everything, he climbed to the roof of an +outhouse, and tried a bedroom window. Here he succeeded. When the catch was +forced, there were no further obstacles. In he went, pausing only to look +around and see if any curious or alarmed eye was watching him. He wondered why +every back yard on that side of the high-street was empty, not even a +maid-servant or woman washing clothes being in sight, but understood and +grinned when the commotion Winter was creating came in view from a front room. +</p> + +<p> +Then he undertook a methodical search, working with a rapid yet painstaking +thoroughness which missed nothing. From a wardrobe he selected an overcoat and +pair of trousers which reeked with turpentine. They were old and soiled +garments, very different from the well-cut black coat and waistcoat, with +striped cloth trousers, worn daily by the chemist. He drew a blank in the +remainder of the upstairs rooms, which included a sitting-room, though he +devoted fully quarter of an hour to reading the titles of Siddle’s books. +</p> + +<p> +A safe in the little dispensing closet at the back of the shop promised sheer +defiance until Furneaux saw a bunch of keys resting beside a methylated spirit +lamp. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas ever thus!” he cackled, lighting the lamp. +“Heaven help us poor detectives if it wasn’t!” +</p> + +<p> +In a word, since murder will out, Siddle had forgotten his keys! Probably, he +had gone to the safe for money, and, while writing the notice as to his +absence, had laid down the keys and omitted to pick them up again. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux disregarded ledgers and account books. He examined a bank pass-book +and a check-book. In a drawer which contained these and a quantity of gold he +found a small, leather-bound book with a lock, which no key on the bunch was +tiny enough to fit. A bit of twisted wire soon overcame this difficulty, and +Furneaux began to read. +</p> + +<p> +There were quaint diagrams, and surveyor’s sketches, both in plan and +section, with curious notes, and occasional records of what appeared to be +passages from letters or conversations. The detective read, and read, referring +back and forth, absorbed in his task, no doubt, but evidently puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +At last, he stuffed the book into a pocket, completed his scrutiny of the safe, +examined the bottles on the shelf labeled “poisons,” and took a +sample of the colorless contents of one bottle marked +“C<sub>10</sub>H<sub>14</sub>N<sub>2</sub>.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he went to the kitchen, replaced all catches and the lock of the door, and +let himself out by the way he had come. +</p> + +<p> +Winter saw him from afar, and hastened upstairs to the private sitting-room. +Furneaux appeared there soon. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said the Chief Inspector eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“Got him, I think,” said Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +Not much might be gathered from that monosyllabic question and its answer, but +its significance in Siddle’s ears, could he have heard, would have been +that of the passing bell tolling for the dead. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>Chapter XVIII.<br /> +The Truth at Last</h2> + +<p> +Not often did Furneaux qualify an opinion by that dubious phrase, “I +think,” which, in its colloquial sense, implies that the thought contains +a reservation as to possible error. +</p> + +<p> +Winter looked anxious. Both he and his colleague knew well when to drop the +good-natured banter they delighted in. They were face to face now with issues +of life and death, dark and sinister conditions which had already destroyed one +life, threatened another, and might envisage further horrors. Small wonder, +then, if the Chief Inspector’s usually cheerful face was clouded, or that +his hopes should be somewhat dashed when Furneaux seemed to lack the abounding +confidence which was his most marked characteristic. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got something, I see,” he said, trying to speak +encouragingly, and glancing at the bundle of clothing which Furneaux had +wrapped in a newspaper before dropping from the bedroom window of +Siddle’s house. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a lot. What to make of it is the puzzle. We either go ahead on the +flimsiest of evidence or I carry out another housebreaking job this afternoon +and restore things in status quo. First, the bundle—an old covert-coating +overcoat and a pair of frayed trousers which probably draped Owd Ben’s +ghost. They’ve been soaked in turpentine, which, chemist or no chemist, +is still the best agent for removing stains. We’ll put ’em under +the glass after we’ve examined the book. Siddle keeps a sort of diary, a +series of jumbled memoranda. If we can extract nutriment out of that we may +have something tangible to go upon. Let’s begin at the end.” +</p> + +<p> +Opening the leather-bound note-book, Furneaux stood with his back to the +window. Winter, owing to his superior height, could look over the lesser +man’s shoulder. Many an occult document affecting the famous crimes and +social or dynastic intrigues of the previous decade had these two examined in +that way, the main advantage of scrutiny in common being that they could +compare readings or suggested readings without loss of time, and with the +original manuscript before both pairs of eyes. +</p> + +<p> +In the first instance, there were no dates—only scraps of sentences, or +comments. The concluding entry in the book was: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>“A tactical error? Perhaps. Immovable.”</i> +</p> + +<p> +Then, taking the order backward: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>“Scout the very notion of such an infamy. You and every scandal-monger +in S. may do your worst.”<br /> +“Free to confess that events have opened my eyes to the truth, so, not +for the first time, out of evil comes good.”<br /> +“A prig.”<br /> +“Visit for such a purpose a piece of unheard-of impudence.”</i> +</p> + +<p> +These were all on one page. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite clearly a <i>prĂ©cis</i> of Grant’s remarks when Siddle +called on Monday,” said Winter. +</p> + +<p> +At any other time, Furneaux would have waxed sarcastic. Now he merely nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Stops in a queer way,” he muttered. “Not a word about the +inquest or the missing bottles.” +</p> + +<p> +The preceding page held even more disjointed entries, which, nevertheless, +provided a fair synopsis of Doris’s spirited words on the Sunday +afternoon. +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +<i>“Malice and ignorance.”<br /> +<br /> +“Patient because of years.”<br /> +<br /> +“Loyal comrade. Shall remain.”<br /> +<br /> +“Code.”<br /> +<br /> +“No difference in friendship.”<br /> +<br /> +“E. hopeless. Contempt.”<br /> +<br /> +“Skipping—good.”<br /> +<br /> +On the next page:<br /> +<br /> +“Isidor G. Ingerman. Useful. Inquire.”<br /> +<br /> +“E.’s boasts? Nonsensical, surely!”<br /> +<br /> +“Why has D. gone?”</i> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +Both men paused at that line. +</p> + +<p> +“Detective?” suggested Winter. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s how I take it,” agreed Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a sign: “+10%.” +</p> + +<p> +“Elkin’s mixture was not ‘as before.’ It was +fortified,” grinned Furneaux. “That’s the exact increase of +nicotine. By the way, I have a sample. We can take care of him on that charge, +without a shadow of doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter blew softly on the back of his friend’s head. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re thorough, Charles, thorough!” he murmured. +“It’s a treat to work with you when you get really busy.” +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux ran his thumb across the end of several leaves. +</p> + +<p> +“I can tell you now,” he said, “that there’s nothing of +real value in the earlier notes. So far as I can judge, they refer either to a +sort of settlement with his wife or chance phrases used by Doris Martin which +might imply that she was heart whole and fancy free. There’s not a bally +word dealing with the murder, or that can be twisted into the vaguest allusion +to it. But here’s a plan and section which have a sort of significance. +I’ve seen the place, so recognized it, or thought I did. We must check +it, of course. Here you are! You know the footbridge across the river from Bush +Walk?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“The eastern end is supported on a hollow pier of masonry, in which one +might tog up unseen. These drawings would be useful as an <i>Aide Memoire</i> +on a dark night. A false step, with the river in flood, might be +awkward.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that on the opposite page?” +</p> + +<p> +“I give it up—at present.” +</p> + +<p> +This somewhat rare display of modesty on Furneaux’s part was readily +understandable. A series of straight lines and angles conveyed very little hint +of their purport; but Winter smiled behind his friend’s back. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been prowling about this wretched inn longer than you,” +he said. “Look outside, to the left.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t need to, now,” cackled Furneaux. “It’s the +profile of a wall, gate, and outhouse along which one could reach the window of +the club-room. Would you mind stopping grinning like a Cheshire cat?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything else?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. This one: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘<i>S. M.? 1820</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +That beats you, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dished completely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doris Martin, as usual, supplies the answer. An old volume of the +<i>Sussex Miscellany</i>, probably that for 1820, contains the full story of +Owd Ben. I might have mentioned it to you, but focussed on current events. +Siddle has it among his books, which, by the way, are made up largely of +scientific and popular criminal records.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that the lot?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid so. Have a look.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just a minute. I want to think.” +</p> + +<p> +Winter turned and gazed through the open window. Seldom had a more gracious +June decked England with garlands. The hour was then high noon, and a pastoral +landscape was drowned in sunshine. The Chief Inspector cut the end off a cigar +dreamily but with care. +</p> + +<p> +“Broadmoor—perhaps,” he muttered. “But we can’t +hang him yet, Charles. A couple of knots and a theory won’t do for the +Assizes. We haven’t a solitary witness. Hardly a night but he goes home +at 9.30. If only he had killed Grant! But—Adelaide Melhuish!” +</p> + +<p> +In sheer despair he struck a match. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let’s overhaul these duds,” said Furneaux savagely. +“I’ll chance the dinner hour for the return visit. Steynholme folk +eat at half past twelve to the tick, and you can hardly get up another horse +show.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a knock at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me in, quick!” came Peters’s voice, and the handle was +tried forcibly. +</p> + +<p> +“Go away! I’m busy!” cried Winter. +</p> + +<p> +“This is urgent, devilish urgent,” said Peters. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux snatched up the note-book, and Winter tore off his coat, throwing it +over the package which reposed in an armchair. Then the Chief Inspector +unlocked the door, blocking the way aggressively. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, I must say—” he began. +</p> + +<p> +But Peters clutched his shoulder with a nervous hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Siddle has just hurried up the street and entered his shop,” he +hissed. +</p> + +<p> +The journalist had not only kept his eyes open, but excelled in the art of +putting two and two together, an arithmetical calculation which, as applied to +the affairs of life, is not so readily arrived at as many people imagine. +</p> + +<p> +“Buncoed! He’s missed his keys!” shrilled Furneaux. +</p> + +<p> +“Confound the man! He might at least have attended his mother’s +funeral!” stormed Winter, retrieving his coat. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it happened that Furneaux was the first down the stairs, though the three +emerged from the door of the inn on each other’s heels. A stout man, in +all likelihood a farmer with horses for sale, was mounting the two steps which +led to the entrance. His head was down, and his weight forward, so he +successfully resisted Furneaux’s impact, but Peters and Winter were +irresistible, and he tumbled over with a muffled yell. +</p> + +<p> +At that instant Siddle quitted his shop, and headed straight for the post +office. In his right hand he carried an automatic pistol. The street was wide. +Furneaux, absolutely fearless in the performance of his duty, ran in a curve so +as to bar the chemist’s path, and it was then that Siddle saw him. The +man’s face was terrible to behold. His eyes were rolling, his teeth +gnashing; he had bitten his tongue and cheeks, and his stertorous breathing +ejected from his mouth foam tinged with blood. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” he screamed in a falsetto of fury, “not yet, little +man, not yet!” +</p> + +<p> +With that he raised the pistol, and fired point-blank at the detective. +Furneaux ducked, and seized a small stone, being otherwise quite unarmed. He +threw it with unerring aim, and, as was determined subsequently, struck the +hand holding the weapon. Possibly, almost by a miracle, the blow caused a +faulty pressure, because the action jammed, though the pistol itself was most +accurate and deadly in its properties. +</p> + +<p> +By this time Winter, sweeping Peters aside, was within ten feet of the maniac, +who turned and ran into the shop. The door, a solid one, fitted with a spring +lock, slammed in the Chief Inspector’s face, and resisted a mighty effort +to burst it open. A few yards away stood an empty, two-wheeled cart, uptilted, +and Winter demanded the help of a few men who had gathered on seeing or hearing +the hubbub. +</p> + +<p> +“I call on you in the King’s name!” he shouted. “We +must force that door! Then stand clear, all of you!” +</p> + +<p> +He raced to the cart, and, when his object was perceived, willing hands +assisted in converting the heavy vehicle into a battering-ram. The gradient of +the hill favored the attack, which was made at an acute angle, and the first +assault smashed the lock. There were a couple of seconds’ delay while the +cart was backed out, and the detectives rushed in, Furneaux leading, because +Winter gave his great physical strength to the shafts. But the Chief Inspector +grabbed his tiny friend by the collar as the latter darted around the counter +and into the dispensary in the rear. +</p> + +<p> +“Two of us can’t go abreast, and you’ll only get hurt,” +he said, speaking with a calmness that was majestic in the circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +“The nicotine is gone!” yelped Furneaux; both saw that the safe +stood open. +</p> + +<p> +Behind the dispensary was a small passage, whence the stairs mounted, and a +door led to the kitchen. That door was closed now, though it was open when +Furneaux ransacked the house. Therefore, they made that way at once. No +ordinary lock could resist Winter’s shoulder, and he soon mastered this +barrier. But the kitchen was empty—the outer door locked but unbolted. +Since it is practically impossible for the strongest man to pull a door open, +the two made for the window, and tore at screws and catch with eager fingers. +Furneaux, light and nimble-footed, scrambled through first, so it was he who +found Siddle lying in the orchard beyond the wall of the yard. The unhappy +wretch had swallowed nearly the whole remaining contents of the bottle of +nicotine, or enough to poison a score of robust men. He presented a lamentable +and distressing spectacle. Some of the more venturesome passers-by, who had +crowded after the detectives and Peters, could not bear to look on, and slunk +away in horror. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux soon brought an emetic, which failed to act. Siddle breathed his last +while the glass was at his lips. +</p> + +<p> +In that moment of crisis only three men did not lose their heads. Winter +cleared away the gapers, while Furneaux remained with the body. P. C. Robinson +came up the hill at a run, and was sent for a stretcher, bringing from +Hobbs’s shop the very one on which the ill-fated Adelaide Melhuish was +carried from the river bank. +</p> + +<p> +But where was Peters? In the post office, writing the first of a series of +thrilling dispatches to a London evening newspaper. What journalist ever had a +more sensational murder-case to supply “copy”? And when was +“special correspondent” ever better primed for the task? He wrote +on, and on, till the telegraphist cried halt. Then he hied him to London by +train, and began the more ambitious “story” for next morning. What +he did not know he guessed correctly. A fagged but triumphant man was Jimmie +Peters when he “blew in” to the Savage Club at 1 A.M. to seek +sustenance and a whiskey and soda before going home. +</p> + +<p> +Furneaux was white and shaken when Winter escorted the stretcher-bearers to the +orchard. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor devil!” he said, as the men lifted the body. +“Foredoomed from birth! We can eradicate these diseases from cattle. Why +not from men!” +</p> + +<p> +The villagers could not understand him. Already, in some mysterious way, the +word had gone around that Siddle had murdered the actress, and taken his own +life to avoid arrest, after shooting at the detective who was hot on his trail. +</p> + +<p> +Not until Peters’s articles came back to Steynholme did the public at +large realize that the chemist undoubtedly meant to kill Doris Martin. He was +going straight to the post office when the way was barred by Furneaux. The +bullet which missed the latter actually pierced the zinc plate of the +letter-box, and scored a furrow, inches long, in an oak counter which it struck +laterally. +</p> + +<p> +The village did not recover its poise for hours. Grant and Hart, to whom Bates +brought the news about one o’clock, rose from an untasted luncheon and +hurried to the high-street. Knots of people stared at Grant, some sheepishly, +others with frank relief, because all who knew him liked him. One man, a +retired ironmonger and an impulsive fellow, came forward and wrung his hand +heartily. A few prominent residents followed suit. Grant was greatly +embarrassed, but managed to endure these awkward if well-meant congratulations. +There could be no mistaking their intent. He had been tried for murder at the +bar of public opinion, and was now formally acquitted. +</p> + +<p> +Even Fred Elkin, ignorant as yet of his own peril, yielded to the influences of +the moment and bustled through the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Grant,” he cried outspokenly, “I ask your pardon. I seem +to have made a d—d fool of myself!” +</p> + +<p> +“Easier done than said,” chimed in Hart. “But, among all this +bell-ringing, can anyone tell what has actually happened? Where’s +Peters?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the post office.” +</p> + +<p> +The two went in, and found the journalist scribbling against time. Hart coolly +grabbed a few slips of manuscript, and commenced reading. Grant looked about +for Doris. She was not visible, but Mr. Martin, pallid and nervous, nodded +toward the sitting-room. The younger man, taking the gesture as a tacit +invitation, entered the room. +</p> + +<p> +Doris was sitting there, crying bitterly. Poor girl! She had seen that portion +of the drama which was enacted in the street, and the shock of it was still +poignant. She looked up and met her lover’s eyes. Neither uttered a word, +but Grant did a very wise thing. He caught her by the shoulders, raised her to +her feet, and, after kissing her squarely on the lips, gave her a comforting +hug. +</p> + +<p> +“It will be all right now, Doris,” he whispered tenderly. +“Such thunderstorms clear the air.” +</p> + +<p> +An eminent novelist might have found many more ornate ways of avowing his +sentiments, but never a more satisfactory one. At any rate, it served, so what +more need be said? +</p> + +<p> +Certain rills of evidence accumulated into a fair-sized stream before night +fell. P. C. Robinson, for instance, scored a point by ascertaining that Peggy +Smith had seen Furneaux dropping from the bedroom window of the chemist’s +shop. She was some hundreds of yards away, and could not be positive that some +man, perhaps a glazier, had not been there legitimately effecting repairs. +Still, when she met Siddle hurrying from the station, she told him of the +incident. +</p> + +<p> +“He never even thanked me,” she said, “but broke into a run. +The look in his eyes was awful.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl had, in fact, confirmed his worst fears, and her neighborly solicitude +had merely hastened the end. +</p> + +<p> +Again, the railway officials showed that Siddle had returned from Victoria +instead of taking train to the asylum. Furneaux had guessed aright. The +discovery that his keys had been left behind drove the man into a panic of +fright. +</p> + +<p> +It took nearly three weeks before the unhappy business was finally disposed of. +A Treasury solicitor was given the chance of his career by the medico-legal +disquisition which cleared up an extraordinary record. The annals of the +disease which predisposed Theodore Siddle to crime went back many years. He was +a fairly wealthy man by inheritance, and adopted the profession of chemistry as +a hobby. One fact stood out boldly. He was aware of his hereditary taint, and +had settled down in Steynholme believing that a quiet life, free from care or +the distractions of a town, would enable him to overcome it. Probably, the +lawyer held, the man owned two distinct individualities, and the baser +instincts gradually overpowered the humane ones. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, the whole history of those trying days had to come out in open +court, and the postmaster’s daughter was given a descriptive and +pictorial boom which many an actress envied. Peters was restored to grace when +he showed plainly that his articles had kept the fickle barometer of public +opinion at “set fair,” in so far as Grant and Doris were concerned. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” as Hart drawled during a dinner of reconciliation, +“you needn’t have been so infernally personal about my hat.” +</p> + +<p> +Grant and Doris were married before the year was out. Mr. Martin retired on a +pension, and the young couple decided that they could never dissociate <i>The +Hollies</i> from the tragic memories bound up with its ghost-window and lawn. +So the place was sold, and Steynholme knows “the postmaster’s +daughter” no more. Winter and Furneaux week-ended with them recently at a +pretty little nook in Dorset. Hart, just home from the Balkans, traveled from +town with the detectives, and Doris, a radiant young matron, was as flippant as +the best of them. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, when the men were sitting late in the smoking-room, the talk +turned on the now half-forgotten drama in which the hapless Adelaide Melhuish +played her last rôle. +</p> + +<p> +“I met Peters in the Savage Club the other night,” said Hart, +filling the negro-head pipe with care while he talked, “and he was +chortling about his ‘psychological study,’ as he called it, of that +unfortunate chemist. He still clings to the theory that your wife was the +intended victim, Grant. Do you agree with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rubbish!” cried Furneaux, before his host could answer. “At +best, Peters is only a clever ass. Siddle never had the remotest notion of +killing Miss Doris Martin, as Mrs. Grant was then. We shall never know for +certain just what happened, but there are elements in the affair which give +ground for reasonable guesswork. The first thing that impressed Winter and +me—at least, I suppose I really evolved the idea, though my bulky friend +elaborated it” (whereat Winter smiled forgivingly, and beheaded a fresh +Havana) “was the complete noiselessness of the crime. Here we had Mr. +Grant startled by the face at the window, and actually searching outside the +house for the ghostly visitant, while Miss Doris was gazing at <i>The +Hollies</i> from the other side of the river, and not a sound was heard, though +it was a summer’s night, without a breath of wind, and at an hour when +the splash of a fish leaping in the stream would have created a commotion. Now, +Miss Melhuish was an active and well-built young woman, an actress, too, and +therefore likely to meet an emergency without instant collapse. Yet she allows +herself to be struck dead or insensible without cry or struggle! How do you +account for it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, Charles; don’t be theatrical,” jeered Winter. +“You’ve got the story pat. Even that simile of the jumping fish is +mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“True,” agreed Furneaux. “I only brought it in as a sop. But, +to continue, as the tub-thumper says. Isn’t it permissible to assume that +Siddle accompanied the lady, either by prior arrangement or by contriving a +meeting which looked like mere chance? We know that she went to his shop. We +know, too, that he was clever and unscrupulous, and any allusion to Grant would +stir his wits to the uttermost. He would see instantly how interested Miss +Melhuish was in the owner of <i>The Hollies</i>, while she, a smart Londoner, +would recognize in Siddle an informant worth all the rest of the babblers in +Steynholme. At any rate, no matter how the thing was brought about, it is +self-evident that Siddle brought his intended victim into the grounds, and told +her of the small uncovered window through which she could peer at Grant after +Miss Doris had gone. He showed her which path to use, and undoubtedly waited +for her, and stayed her flight when Grant rose from his chair. She was close to +him, and wholly unafraid, finding in him an ally. They were purposely hidden, +in the gloom of dense foliage, and remained there until Grant had closed the +window again. Then, and not till then, did the murderer strike, probably +stifling her with his free hand. He had the implement in his pocket. The rope +was secreted among the bushes. He could carry through the whole wretched crime +in little more than a minute. And his psychology went far deeper than Peters +gave him credit for. He had weighed up the situation to a nicety. No matter who +found the body, Mr. Grant was saddled with a responsibility which might well +prove disastrous, and was almost sure to affect his relations with the Martin +household. For instance, nothing short of a miracle could have stopped Robinson +from arresting him on a charge of murder.” +</p> + +<p> +“You, then, are a miracle?” put in Hart, pointing the pipe at the +little man. +</p> + +<p> +“To the person of ordinary intelligence—yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“After that,” said Winter, “there is nothing more to be said. +Let’s see who secures the pocket marvel as a partner at auction.” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +As a fitting end to the strange story of wayward love and maniacal frenzy which +found an unusual habitat in a secluded hamlet like Steynholme, a small vignette +of its normal life may be etched in. The trope is germane to the scene. +</p> + +<p> +On a wet afternoon in October Hobbs and Elkin had adjourned to the Hare and +Hounds. Tomlin was reading a newspaper spread on the bar counter. He was alone. +The day was Friday, and the last “commercial” of the week had +departed by the mid-day train. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot’s yer tonic?” demanded the butcher. +</p> + +<p> +“A glass of beer,” threw Elkin over his shoulder. He had walked to +the window, and was gazing moodily at the sign of the “plumber and +decorator” who had taken Siddle’s shop. The village could not +really support an out-and-out chemist, so a local grocer had elected to stock +patent medicines as a side line. +</p> + +<p> +Tomlin made play with a beer-pump. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s yer own?” inquired Hobbs hospitably. +</p> + +<p> +Elkin came and drank. After an interlude, Tomlin ran a finger down a column of +the newspaper. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, Fred, didn’t you tell me about that funny little chap, +Furno, the ’tec, buyin’ some pictures of yours?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I did. Had him there, anyhow,” chuckled Elkin. +</p> + +<p> +“How much did you stick ’im for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Three guineas.” +</p> + +<p> +“They can’t ha’ bin this lot, then, though I’ve a +notion it wur the same name, ‘Aylesbury Steeplechase.’” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you talking about?” +</p> + +<p> +“This.” +</p> + +<p> +Tomlin turned the paper, and Elkin read: +</p> + +<p> +At their monthly art sale on Wednesday Messrs. Brown, Jenkins and Brown +disposed of an almost unique set of colored prints, by F. Smyth, dated 1841. +The series of six represented various phases of the long defunct Aylesbury +Steeplechase, “The Start,” “The Brook,” “The +In-and-Out,” and so on to “The Finish.” It is understood that +this notable series, produced during the best period of the art, and at the +very zenith of Smyth’s fame, were acquired recently by a Sussex amateur +at a low price. Bidding began at fifty guineas, and rose quickly to one hundred +and twenty, at which figure Messrs. Carnioli and Bruschi became the owners. +</p> + +<p> +Elkin read the paragraph twice, until the words burnt into his brain. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said thickly. “They’re not mine. No such +luck!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10110 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + + |