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"Herald of Death"
Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1943
Set in the English countryside, "Herald of Death" begins with a chilling twist: an anonymous note warns of a murder before it happens. The victim, Richard Marney, is fatally stabbed with a silver dagger during a fox hunt. Suspicion falls on Hugh Egmont, who harbors jealousy over Richard's closeness to their cousin Joan.
Enter Inspector Lyly. The Scotland Yard detective faces a tangled web of clues, red herrings, and eerie reports of something supernatural roaming the lanes. His investigation is further complicated by Mrs. Constance Handley, a local mystery novelist with a knack for meddling.
WITH a sigh Constable Retters pushed aside the letter he had just read and reached for his cup. It was not often that he could enjoy the luxury of the morning mail at the breakfast table; for it reached the police station at a quarter to eleven, an hour by which even the representative of law and order in a village of some five hundred inhabitants should long since have been abroad. But that day he had every excuse both for lateness and for depression. He had been up all night in fruitless watch for poachers at the Grange; only to hear from the milkman that they had raided Sir John Marney's coverts and got away clear.
Certainly the post brought him no comfort, so far as he had dealt with it. Of all things he hated women's quarrels most, more particularly about pets or children. He sighed again as he put down his cup; then caught his wife's inquiring eye.
"It's Miss Miller," he vouchsafed. "Her old cat."
"She's an old cat herself," his wife rejoined. "Someone poisoned it?"
"It's had a fight." Retters glanced at the letter. "Terribly mauled, she says... Savagely attacked without provocation by a tabby belonging to Mrs. Handley in her own asparagus patch. She's confined to the house—"
His wife sniffed. "Who?" she asked.
"The cat, I think... Yes—at least, 'her tail had to be bound up.'... She wants me to see about it."
"Wants you to sit on the doorstep and shoo it off, I suppose?... Mrs. Handley may write, but she is a lady."
Retters nodded, and buttered a last slice of bread. "Comes of a good family," he said. "Blood tells."
His wife laughed. "How about the cat, then? Miss Miller's is pure Persian, and the tabby's a rat-tailed mongrel... What's the other?"
Retters eyed it gloomily. The address was roughly printed in block capitals and from that he augured the worst. It looked like an anonymous letter, probably abusive, or revealing some fictitious crime which would occasion endless bother without result. He wiped his fingers on his handkerchief and ripped the flap. His wife's eyes were on him as he read. She saw his jaw drop, and his eyebrows rose.
"Good Lord!" he said blankly.
He finished the sheet without further comment, and started to read it again, frowning as he did so.
"Well, John William?" his wife demanded. "What is it? Not struck dumb, are you?"
"Pretty near!" Retters responded. "Darned if I know what to make of it... Must be from a lunatic. It doesn't mean anything that I can see."
His wife peered vainly over his shoulders. Her glasses were upstairs and the half-dozen lines of print were the merest dark blurs.
"Read it out, then," she commanded. "Maybe if you can't see it there may be some sense in it."
Retters ignored the slight. He cleared his throat, and frowned more fiercely.
"'They found in the morning, but did not kill'—that's how it begins," he said. "'Death ends the run where the stream flows. Gules upon gules, and argent on azure. The sitting lion looks for its cub in vain.' That's all. No signature, of course... Pretty daft, eh?"
His wife sniffed. She did not like to agree, but could not deny it.
"Ghouls?" she said, and wrinkled her forehead. "Those that rob the graves? It was on the films."
"That's spelt different," Retters corrected. "G-u-l-e-s, this is. It means, well—it means—"
He broke off, wrestling with the feeling that he had met the word somewhere before; but the memory eluded him.
"About the hunt, is it?" his wife suggested. "Some of those anti-blood sports people? There was a meet at the Hall to-day... But what's that about the lion?"
"It's a lot of nonsense, anyway," her husband decided; but he gave another uneasy glance at the sheet. "Some fool trying to be clever. Or he's a bit touched."
"Not Little Jim?" His wife shook her head. "He's the only half-baked one here—really half-baked... No, it wouldn't be him. It's an educated kind of lunatic, that's plain enough."
"And they're common," Retters said sourly, and glanced at the clock. He folded the letter carefully and rose to his feet, buttoning his coat. "Better see about this darned cat, I suppose. You know what the old girl is. She'll write and complain... But gules... Now, I wonder what 'gules' are?"
He was still wondering as he started up the one long street the village boasted. The letter might be nonsense, but he was a man with a conscience, and, moreover, with ambitions. Every rural problem which came his way he sifted with a thoroughness which rather annoyed the local inhabitants and certainly amused his superiors, and this was out of the ordinary. Somehow the mysterious word lingered in his mind with a sinister significance. He was almost sure it had something to do with Shakespeare; but his acquaintance with the classics had ceased when he left school. Obviously Mr. Judkin, the local schoolmaster, was the proper authority to consult; but only the previous week he had reported him for riding a cycle without a lamp and ill-feeling still remained. There was the vicar. He played with the idea for a moment and dismissed it.
He had nearly reached the post office before he met anyone; and when he did the meeting was scarcely to his taste. Unless he was very much mistaken, Joe Wallis had been a member of the poaching party who had successfully evaded him the night before, and a forbidding frown gathered on his face. Ordinarily, the poacher would have greeted him with a triumphant grin, or a look of apprehension, according to the degree of security he felt; but to-day his manner was puzzling. He looked as though he was going to speak, seemed to think better of it and went on, and there was something in his face Retters did not understand. He turned to look back at him, and detected the poacher in the same act.
"Morning, John."
This time Retters nodded in response. Sergeant Ker, late of the Royal Engineers, was one of the few people in the village in whom he could confide, and the problem of the letter recurred to his mind.
"Fine morning, Sergeant," he replied. "Seen the hunt?"
"Out Barden way, and going well." Ker grinned. "But the Cliff will puzzle most of 'em. Heading that way, they were."
"The Cliff?" Retters echoed. He was well enough acquainted with the district to know the almost legendary fame of the difficult jump the name referred to. "Not many try that, I should think."
He glanced longingly over the hedge in the direction of which the sergeant had spoken. Had his official position permitted it, he would have enjoyed a day following hounds; as it was, all he could do was to intervene when humane enthusiasts attempted to interrupt it, as had happened on several occasions recently. Then the letter came into his mind, and he frowned.
Ker noted the expression. "Busy?" he asked.
"Cat fight," Retters said gloomily. "Miss Miller and Mrs. Handley."
The sergeant guffawed. "Two-legged, or four?"
"Both, I reckon." Retters allowed himself a rueful smile. "But that's not what's bothering me. Sergeant, what does 'gules' mean?"
"Sort of wild men?" Ker hazarded. "In one of those comics?"
Retters shook his head. The word had some more high-brow meaning.
"If my boy was here, he'd know," Ker asserted proudly. "I heard from him yesterday—"
The constable groaned in spirit. Paternal pride was a failing of the sergeant's. The clatter of a horse's hoofs behind offered an escape, and he turned to look.
"Hullo, it's young Mr. Egmont. Missed the hunt, has he? Looks fed up about it, too."
Ker nodded assent. There was no doubt the young man was not in the best of moods. There was a savage scowl on his face, and he was riding at a pace which the tarmacadam underfoot made inconsiderate if not reckless.
"Proper mad, I'd say," the sergeant decided. "His father's bad temper, he's got... A perfect terror the old man could be when his blood was up. Finest shot round here, though. And Mr. Hugh takes after him in that as well."
Retters mentally agreed. He remembered old Henry Egmont well enough, and had even had experience of his irascibility on first coming to the village; and judging by his present expression the son had undoubtedly inherited the less amiable side of his father's character. He saw the two men standing there and rode towards them, pulling the horse to a halt viciously and cursing as it registered a protest by attempting to rear.
"The hunt?" he snapped. "Seen it?"
"Gone Barden way, sir... Wonder you didn't see it if you've ridden from the Grange? You must have crossed the route, sir... I was saying to Retters not many would face the Cliff. Mr. Richard, maybe, now that you're out of it."
The young man's frown deepened. Both men knew why. Probably it was no secret to anyone in the village that Hugh Egmont had only two things in common with Richard Marney, a love of hard riding and an admiration for the latter's cousin. Neither, as things had turned out, had proved conducive to friendship. The knowledge that besides missing the meet he had also missed a chance to excel in front of Joan Marney could scarcely be expected to relieve his irritation.
"The Cliff?" he said. "Any chance of catching them?"
"Not a chance, sir—unless he doubles... A good scent, too, from the way they were going... You're late, sir!"
Egmont shot him a savage look. No one else in the village would have ventured to ask the question in the young man's present mood, but Ker was a privileged veteran.
"Yes," he said briefly, and turned his horse as if to go on. Then he seemed to think better of it. To the surprise of both men he actually volunteered an explanation. "Got a message saying the meet was cancelled. A job for you, Retters. Find the hoaxer!"
"A hoax, sir?" Retters pricked up his ears. "How was that?"
"Never mind. I wasn't serious... Look here, Retters, I don't want you poking your nose into this. I'll deal with it myself all right."
Retters was inclined to resent the tone; but he forbore to say so. And he was curious; but something in Egmont's face warned him that any curiosity was not likely to be gratified. The young man raised himself in his stirrups to look over the hedge, The hill on which the village stood commanded a view for miles over the rolling agricultural country which surrounded it, dotted here and there with copses already yellowing with the approach of autumn. His gaze was concentrated on the dark line which marked the Cliff, but there was no sign of what he sought. In the clear morning air every detail was visible right away to the golden folds of the downs on the horizon, and he studied the landscape carefully. It was a minute or two before he was rewarded. A scarlet dot, followed by a scattered line of red showed between two of the scattered clumps of woodland and disappeared again. He grunted and his jaw tightened a little. Then he subsided into the saddle.
"No good," he said. "Miles away. Well—" He broke off, and his face was not pleasant to look at. "Miss Marney there?" he demanded after a pause.
There was an eagerness in his voice which did not escape the sergeant. With a trace of malice he answered the question in a way which was likely to be very unpalatable to the man who asked it.
"And her cousins, sir. Mr. Maurice and Mr. Richard—"
He stopped. The effect of his words had been greater than he had intended. Egmont seemed to whiten with anger, and his hand clenched on the riding-crop. Ker hastened to pass over the indiscretion.
"You had the poachers your way last night, sir?" he asked.
It was half a minute before the young man answered. "Yes," he said in a strained voice and laughed abruptly. "You were on a wild-goose chase again, Retters, I hear."
"Well, sir, we can't be right every time." Retters was distinctly nettled. Simply because Egmont had seemed to want to keep it to himself, he returned to the subject of the false message. "A hoax, you said, sir?" he asked again, "That's queer—?"
"What the devil d'you mean?" Egmont snapped; then seemed to repent his outburst. "Queer? Yes. Damned queer—as someone will find."
With a boldness which was almost inspired, Retters's hand went to his tunic pocket.
"I mean, sir, it was queer, because I've had a sort of a hoax myself this morning. About the hunt, too."
"Oh?" Egmont said discouragingly; then his interest quickened. "You say about the hunt?"
"That is, I suppose it is, sir... I had a letter, but I can't rightly tell what it does mean. It sounds like a—like someone a bit unbalanced, sir."
Temporarily Egmont's temper seemed to have subsided. There was a trace of amused interest in his manner as he accepted the letter which the constable held out.
"Let's look," he said. "A mystery, eh?"
"Anyway, it's queer, sir... There's one bit that worries me. Maybe you can remember, sir—"
"Anonymous, is it? And printed. Quite in Mrs. Handley's line—Poison Pen stuff."
Retters smiled a polite assent; but his eyes were fixed on the speaker eagerly. He was not quite sure that he liked having his own particular puzzle classed with the rather lurid detective stories written by the owner of the rat-tailed mongrel; though he read her works with interest and not without a wish that reality could more resemble fiction. Egmont frowned at the paper.
"Pretty fair balderdash, isn't it?" he commented. "Writer must be off his head... What's your trouble?"
"'Gules,' sir... Shakespeare, isn't it?"
Apparently it was Egmont's turn to rack his memory. At the university he had been more prominent on the river than in the lecture-room, but a hazy recollection persisted. His face cleared.
"Got it!" he said. "'Now is he total gules.'"
"That's it, sir!" Retters in turn recognized the line. "But what does it mean, sir?"
"Bloody—in that bit. It's heraldry. Gules is red. Argent is silver... It's not me you want. Mr. Charles Marney, now. Or old Norton at the post office. He's a whale on that stuff, isn't he? But red on red? And silver on blue? That's neither sense nor heraldry. And this sitting lion stuff—"
He broke off suddenly. A queer look came on his face, and he looked again at the sheet. His lips moved as he studied it with a curious eagerness. But he handed it back without a word, and the frown returned to his face.
Retters had missed nothing. He was fairly sure that the young man had understood more than he said, and both his professional and his natural feelings prompted him to find out what it was.
Egmont's manner was forbidding, but he risked a question.
"Yes, sir? The sitting lion—"
Egmont shook his head. "Lot of damned nonsense," he said. "I'd burn it, Retters."
"You're sure you can't help, sir?" Retters insisted. With peculiar care he folded the paper and returned it to his pocket. "It might mean nothing, of course. But when this letter business starts you never know where it leads, sir."
"Sorry. I can't." His tone dismissed the subject. "Heard from your boy, Sergeant? I hear—"
He broke off, looking up the street over their heads, and his face brightened. Ker glanced over his shoulder.
"Why, it's Miss Joan!" he exclaimed. "You don't think she's had a message—?"
But the policeman had noted the mud-stained habit and the slight limp of the horse.
"She's come a cropper somewhere," he said. "Wonder if she tried the Cliff herself? She's spirit enough—"
Perhaps the same thought had occurred to Egmont. He had not stayed to listen, but started forward to meet her, and the smile on his face found an answer on the girl's as they met. Ker looked admiringly at the wind-blown hair and flushed cheeks. If she had fallen, she did not seem to be much hurt.
"Not much doubt how things stand there?" he suggested. "He's gone on her all right. And she doesn't exactly hate him either."
"Don't know." Retters objected. "I'd say her cousin was the favourite if you ask me. Playing the two of them, she is, and neither is the kind to stand it. There'll be trouble yet, you mark my words... But I wonder what got him about that letter?"
Ker had lost interest in that mystery. He was watching the two as they turned and came towards them. The girl was shaking her head and laughing; but Egmont's own smile had vanished. He looked anxious.
"I leave that to you and Dick," she was saying as they came within earshot. "It was a mere rabbit-hole, and I fell soft at that... I expect Dick tried it alone."
Her tone was provocative, and obviously it had its effect. Egmont was scowling at his horse's ears, and did not see the mischievous look she directed at him.
"I'd have been there," he growled. "But for that... I can guess who it was."
Two bright spots of colour flamed in her cheeks and her eyes flashed warningly.
"Dick didn't, if you mean that!" she said hotly. "There's no need to be mean and ungenerous, Hugh."
"Look here, Joan," Egmont raised his head suddenly, "I can't stand this—"
The rest of his words were inaudible to the two listeners; but from her defiant glance they could guess the retort her lips formed.
Ker turned to the policeman and shook his head.
"It looks as though—" he began; but he was interrupted.
"Retters!" The shout came from behind them. "Hi, Retters! Here, man!"
At the urgency in the call the policeman turned sharply. A little group of men had emerged all at once from the farm lane beside the shop. As he looked they broke into a run. Retters recognized the man who had shouted; then at the sight of his pale face he himself started to hurry towards them.
"What's up, Mr. Nicholson?" he demanded. "Something wrong?"
For a moment the farmer made no reply. He was out of breath, but also he seemed as though he was searching for words.
"It—it's a bad business, Retters," he said at last. "It's Mr. Richard Marney—"
The constable heard the girl behind him give a little cry of alarm.
"He's hurt?" he asked.
"Dead," Nicholson said soberly, and again hesitated. "Dead when Joe found him."
"The Cliff? He fell?"
Nicholson took a deep breath and shook his head.
"No," he said with an effort. "Worse than that... It's a job for you, Retters... He didn't die of any fall, that's certain—"
He stopped. Incredible as it seemed a suspicion of the truth dawned upon the constable's mind.
"Lord! You don't mean—?"
"Stabbed," Nicholson said, and for a moment his glance wandered to the young man who sat rigidly on his horse staring down at them. "It's murder all right... With a silver dagger—"
"Murder?" Retters echoed. "Good God! Mr. Richard—?"
"You—it was you! You did it!"
As the girl's cry interrupted him, all eyes turned towards her. White-faced and trembling she was staring at Egmont, one hand outstretched accusingly. Retters saw the young man wince; then his jaw set grimly.
"You—you hated him! You were jealous—because, because—"
Sergeant Ker jumped forward just in time to catch the fainting girl as she slid senseless to the ground.
TO an ignorant observer, it might have appeared that local legend had exaggerated the perils of the sharp declivity known locally as the Cliff. It was no more than the steep side of a little valley carved out by a stream scarcely larger than a brook which trickled through a ragged copse to join the river a half a mile away. But for a rider the combination of drop, stream and brushwood was dangerous enough. Midway, a few footholds had been cut to allow a pedestrian to scramble down fairly easily to the stepping-stones below, and just beyond lay the only point in its five hundred yards of length where even the most courageous rider might hope to achieve a crossing.
Stories had gathered round it. There was, indeed, an apocryphal tale of a famous highwayman saving himself from pursuit by making the jump; but there were more recent and definite instances of people taking the leap. Six had been known to do it successfully, and two without success; but Egmont and Marney had shared the distinction of being the only two men living who had tried it, and a year before Marney had paid for his boldness with a broken collar-bone. Perhaps the foxes knew of its difficulty; for they headed in that direction with a perverse frequency which suggested they did not enjoy being hunted half so much as is sometimes suggested. Then the less-dashing members of the hunt had to make a considerable detour by way of the road and bridge; while normally the fox sought cover in the thick undergrowth covering the flat and the more gentle slope on the other side.
From the village the footpath crossing the valley was not the nearest route to the spot where Marney's body had been found; but it was the way Retters chose. From a telephone conversation with his superiors, he had gathered that his hour as a detective in a murder case was likely to be a brief one; his orders were "Occupy till I come"; and his task no more glorious than to see that as little as possible was disturbed. For solo investigation, he had exactly the short time which must elapse before the arrival of the Chief Inspector from the neighbouring town, and he was determined to make the most of it. The footpath would bring him to the point from which Marney had made his leap, and from there onwards he would be following the track of the murdered man.
To the disappointment of an over-numerous body of volunteers, he halted the whole party just short of the descent, advancing himself with only Nicholson as guide and Sergeant Ker as an unofficial deputy. In the soft ground the tracks of the hunt were plainly visible, and Retters thought that they might be important.
"It's plain enough what happened here," Ker suggested. "The fox was running parallel with the valley; then it turned along the path to cross and the hounds followed. There's where one man jumped—that would be Mr. Richard. The others would ride straight on, cross by the bridge, and strike over the fields to catch up."
Nicholson looked dubious. "Don't know," he said. "Looks as though some of them came to the edge all right."
"That'd be just to see if Marney made it. If he did, they'd go on."
"Must have done from where we found him," Nicholson rejoined. "Besides, if anything had happened they'd have stopped."
Retters himself was saying nothing, but his eyes were busy. On the whole he agreed with the sergeant's reading of the situation; but one could not be quite sure that only one horse had jumped. Once across the stream, however, he felt more confident. Only one horse seemed to have landed, slipping a little in the mud but otherwise apparently in safety. There was certainly no sign of a fall. Beyond the stream the prints of the hoofs plunged straight into the trees, swerving to rejoin the path a little farther on.
"Can't see how they could see him, unless they were right on his heels," Ker suggested. "The trees are thick enough to cover him right away."
Retters nodded agreement. The undergrowth was thick, and there were still enough leaves to hide even a horse and rider almost instantly. But unfortunately, many leaves had fallen. The traces of the horse were still barely visible, but only as indistinct marks in the brown carpet which covered the pathway, and farther on, as the ground hardened, even these vanished.
"Much farther?" he demanded.
"About fifty yards beyond the lane here—where it narrows again. Just round the bend."
They had reached a point where a wide, unmetalled track joined the pathway on the left, turning with it for twenty yards or so before continuing on the other side towards the village. In his eagerness, Retters only glanced casually along it; but in his present mood he was missing nothing. He stopped abruptly, staring down at a muddy patch of earth which some chance current of wind had swept clear of the leaves.
"What's up?" Ker demanded. "H'm. Another horse, eh?"
"Yes. Turned into the path from the lane here... Couldn't be Marney's. And the shoes are different. I wonder—?"
Unfortunately he was compelled to go on wondering. The brown carpet recommenced; here and there a few vague marks showed the passage of the riders, but that was all. He halted again when they reached the point where the track turned off to the right and studied the ground anxiously. He was disappointed. At least without proceeding along it, there was no way of telling whether the second rider had turned off or not.
"Queer, eh?" Nicholson voiced his own suspicions. "Now, if you were stabbing a man on horseback, you'd need to be on horseback yourself, wouldn't you? How'd you reach—especially if he wouldn't stop? And I don't reckon anything would stop Mr. Richard."
Retters frowned. In his mind there was more than a suspicion to whom the tracks might belong; but he was certainly not going to show his hand at that stage.
"Might have been one of the members of the hunt?" he suggested. "That track turns off just the other side of the bridge."
"Might have been. Though I'd swear they'd cut across to catch up. Who'd go out of his way like that with hounds right ahead?"
Retters made no answer. Secretly he agreed. There was a growing belief in his mind that perhaps the mystery might be solved a good deal more easily than he had thought; but the fact failed to cheer him half so much as he would have supposed. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground as they advanced again, hoping for a definite glimpse of a double or single track which might settle things one way or the other, but he was unlucky. The path had narrowed, leaving barely room for a single horse to pass; but even apart from the denseness of the copse the low moss-grown banks on either side showed that no one could have left it. They were nearing the bend beyond which Nicholson had said the body was lying when his patience had its reward, though in an unexpected form. A gleam of something bright caught his eye, and he stooped eagerly.
"Hullo! Got something?"
Ker and the farmer peered over his shoulder. It was the silver top of a metal flask, bright and untarnished in spite of the dampness of the ground on which it had rested. Obviously it had not been there long. Holding it carefully by one edge in case of finger-prints, he examined it. It was silver and of expensive make, but without any special marks which might lead to its identification. So far as he could tell without testing it, there were no prints from the fingers of whoever had unscrewed it. Then he sniffed and raised it to his nose. The odour of brandy was distinctly discernible. Without comment he wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief and stowed it in his pocket, marking with a twig the place where it had been lying.
"Marney's, d'you think?" Ker's curiosity was not to be restrained. "How did it come off? It couldn't jerk unfastened. And he wouldn't drink brandy on horseback like that."
Retters preserved a massive silence, but Nicholson hazarded a suggestion.
"After he was wounded?" he suggested. "But there's no blood."
"More likely the murderer's. If he were doing a job like that he might need some Dutch courage... Maybe he'll have the flask?"
It was exactly what Retters himself was wondering about. With the discovery of the flask top, he felt he had secured a tangible piece of evidence, and his qualms subsided. After all, he reflected as they started forward again, personal considerations had no place in police work. His immediate task was to find the murderer, or as much evidence as he could, regardless of whom it might affect.
"There he is!"
Ker's voice broke in on his thoughts. They had rounded the bend, and just ahead under a rather larger tree a patch of scarlet showed vividly against the brown. At the first glance it was obvious that his precaution in keeping back the villagers had failed. There were other routes to the place, and the mysterious bush-telegraph which spreads news over an entire countryside without obvious agency had already collected a group of some half-dozen people. They were standing talking at a respectful distance from the body, and as Retters's eyes took in the members of it he was conscious of a certain surprise. The presence of the three labourers and the gamekeeper was natural enough. They could easily have heard at the farm, or have been passing. But as he hurried forward he found himself wondering exactly what had brought Dr. Ashby, the retired professor who lived at the other end of the village. And the sight of the sixth figure filled him with a mixture of emotions, not the least of which was chagrin. He had reconciled himself to having his thunder stolen soon enough; now it seemed as though it had already vanished. For the woman who stood a little apart from the rest was the popular detective novelist, Mrs. Constance Handley. Obviously she had taken charge, and judging by the way she turned towards them as they came up it appeared as though she was quite prepared to take charge of them as well.
"I'm glad you've come, Retters." Her face was a little paler than usual, but its expression of refined calm had not changed. "I came to see what I could do. I kept them back from—from it as much as I could, but I'm afraid a good many people must have trodden here."
The policeman noted the slight tremor in her voice with a grim amusement. It seemed as though the authoress found a difference between reality and fiction; for in her novels her treatment of corpses was technically cold-blooded and exhaustive. Looking down at the ground near the body he was forced to agree with her. Apparently every separate person who had arrived on the scene had felt bound to satisfy himself that life was extinct, and the tracks, though poorly marked, were only too numerous. He sighed mentally.
"Thank you, ma'am... Which way did you come here?"
She gave him a quick glance. There had been no suspicion in his mind as he asked the question; but evidently she suspected some hidden intention.
"I set off this morning to follow the hunt in my car," she said precisely. "I pulled up to ask a labourer if he'd seen it. He told me what had happened. I left the car on the road and came along Thievesdale to see if I could be of any assistance. Mr. Richard Marney was already dead. This man"—she indicated one of the labourers—"This man and the gamekeeper were already here... If I can help? Perhaps fetch a doctor, or telephone?"
"I have already done so, ma'am." He spoke a little stiffly, a little annoyed at having so obvious a part of his duty pointed out to him. "The inspector and surgeon will be along directly. Excuse me, ma'am."
Feeling for his notebook he moved over to the body. Certainly Richard Marney was dead. He was lying face downwards, with head and shoulders a little raised by the bank on which he had fallen, only his feet sprawling across the path. Beside his hand lay a hunting-crop, and a couple of yards away the hat which had rolled from his head, leaving the curly brown hair bare. For a moment he could not see the wound. Then a gleam of silver under the left armpit caught his eye, and the soaked patch of darker red upon the hunting pink.
It was the dagger which first focused his attention. Even from the hilt and the inch or two of steel exposed it was plain it was no ordinary knife. The thin, sharp blade was made for nothing but stabbing. Nicholson had been right in calling it a dagger, and certainly it was. No weapon one would have expected anyone to be carrying in an English countryside. With poor success he tried to remember his anatomy. In all probability, he thought, it had missed the heart, but had severed an artery. There was a good deal of blood. Suddenly a startling thought flashed across his mind. He raised his head with an involuntary exclamation.
"Good Lord! G—!"
Constance Handley eyed him curiously. Obviously it must be something very extraordinary which had dragged the words from the stolid constable. The next moment his face had again assumed the official blankness which he liked to affect. His face was a little red, but that might be because he was bending over the body feeling carefully for the flask of which the top reposed in his pocket. He did not find it.
"What is it, Retters?" Curiosity evidently overcame the novelist. "It is murder, isn't it?"
"That's for the doctor to say, ma'am. He'll be here soon with the inspector—"
"They're coming now." Ker pointed to the group of men hurrying along the path, and Retters's heart sank. "Now, we'll see."
What Retters saw in the next ten minutes was not precisely pleasant. Like his subordinate, Chief Inspector Boreman was in the position of being clothed in a little authority which was all too brief. In the absence of Superintendent Leyland on holiday, he was acting head of the entire county force, vice a Chief Constable who was only too pleased to delegate his responsibilities as far as possible. He had seen Retters fumbling over the body, and that in itself would have annoyed him. The constable's account of his previous activities reduced him to a profound state of irritation, Retters should have paved the way for him, leaving his superior to make the discoveries of the flask-top and tracks. He listened very grimly to Retters's report, once or twice cutting him short, and openly sneering at his mention of the anonymous letter, and accepted the flask-top without comment. Over the group of onlookers he swept an eagle eye.
"Who're these?" he demanded. "What do they know about it?"
The constable flushed. "Well, sir, I've only just arrived—" he began, and thereby gave Boreman his opening.
"Exactly. You've been wasting time doing everyone's job but your own. I told you to come straight here... Wait there. I'll have a word or two to say to you afterwards."
Obediently, but with a feeling of injustice, Retters retired to the spot indicated. Unfortunately, it was almost out of earshot of the inspector, who, while the doctor was making his examination, apparently intended to re-examine even the witnesses Retters himself had interrogated. He watched the process gloomily. There, at least he felt confident, the Chief Inspector could elicit no more than he had himself discovered. It had been a labourer called Rowles who had found the body, going along the path to repair a fence. At first he had thought it an accident but, going nearer, had seen the dagger. He had touched the body. It was dead, but still warm. The time would be about half-past ten. He had gone back to the farm and told Nicholson, who had gone back with him, accompanied by a dealer with whom he had been talking at the time. Rowles had stayed with the body while the others went for the police. None of them had seen any suspicious stranger in the vicinity.
As for those they had found by the body, it was hard to see what they could know about it. But rather to his surprise, Boreman seemed to be talking at some length to one of the labourers, a little rat-faced man named Withers. And, like the constable, he was obviously puzzled by the presence of Ashby and Mrs. Handley. Towards the professor his manner was a polite kind of bullying which at least once seemed to sting the victim to a weak anger; but though he left Mrs. Handley until last with a rudeness which was probably deliberate, one glance at her was enough to show him that bullying was not likely to succeed. Instead, he dismissed her very shortly and turned to the doctor who had just finished his preliminary examination.
"Well, Doctor?" he asked briskly. "What can you tell us?"
Dr. Hendyng frowned. Boreman's manner irritated him, and, knowing the Marney family intimately, the tragedy had come as a shock from which he had scarcely recovered.
"It's a bad business, Inspector," he said soberly. "He's been dead perhaps an hour and a half or two hours. Perhaps more—"
"Two hours, eh? That would be about right—"
"I should say that the wound made by the dagger was the cause of death. The blade appears to have missed the heart but pierced the artery. He would bleed to death. His clothes are full of blood."
"Murder, eh?" Boreman said, almost with relish. "No doubt of that?"
"I don't think the wound could have been self-inflicted—unless he fell on the dagger somehow." Hendyng eyed him with distaste. "The direction of the blade is downward. There do not appear to be any bruises or other signs of a struggle. But, of course, I cannot say until I have examined the body properly."
Boreman nodded his satisfaction. "That's what I thought," he said. "Don't think there'll be much trouble about this, Doctor... We can move the body?"
"As soon as possible. I've finished for the present."
There was an alert cheerfulness about the inspector's manner as he turned to the sergeant.
"Leave a man here, Smithson. There's a stretcher coming.... Better clear all these people off. And watch out for reporters... See the ground isn't disturbed. You never know—"
He was turning to Retters when a thought seemed to strike him.
"Where's his horse?" he demanded of the world in general. "Anyone seen it?"
There was a brief silence which signified a negative.
"It would follow the hounds on its own, Inspector," Mrs. Handley suggested. "I expect some of the other members have caught it by now."
"Maybe, madam," Boreman assented curtly, and turned to the constable. "Now, Retters. These tracks—"
Accompanied by the two plain-clothes men, they set off down the path in silence. Mentally, Retters was criticizing his superior's procedure. The body should certainly have been photographed before it was moved. What could he have got from Withers? And why had Ashby been angry. And of course the letter was important. It must be. No mere coincidence could account for its arrival on that particular morning. Even in the spot where the flask-top had been found Boreman displayed only a casual interest; but his eyes brightened as he saw the tracks.
"Ah, these are plain enough... Shouldn't have much trouble in identifying those. A few inquiries among local hunters, eh, Johnstone?"
The plain-clothes man was actually less optimistic. He was picturing someone, probably himself, going round collecting some dozens of horse-shoe prints. Even with the knowledge of their owners it would be no picnic.
"There'll be a good many horses round about, sir," he ventured.
Boreman laughed. "But if I can tell you the right stable?" he suggested. "How then?"
Incautiously, Retters felt bound to make a suggestion. "But he might never have gone so far along the path, sir," he suggested. "He might have turned off down the other lane—leading to the village, sir—"
Boreman glared at him. Exactly what withering reproof he would have delivered remained unspoken. There was the thud of horse's hoofs, and the next minute a rider appeared round the bend. He was going recklessly and almost ran right into the group of detectives before he could pull up.
"What the devil—?" Boreman snapped as the horse plunged on the very edge of the muddy patch containing the vital tracks. "Keep off there! Mind, sir?... Who're you?"
Egmont did not trouble to answer the question. He was very pale, and his eyes were fixed with a peculiar intensity on the inspector.
"It's true then?" he said, "Marney's been murdered?"
Boreman eyed him. Perhaps memory came to his aid, for he did not trouble to repeat the question.
"It's true enough, sir," he said slowly. "You've something to tell us about it?"
"I? Nothing. Wasn't even at the hunt. Haven't seen him to-day—" Egmont spoke with a nervous hurriedness. "Good God, Inspector—"
"I'd like a word with you just the same, sir... Johnstone will hold your horse... You ought to be more careful, sir. You might have—"
As he administered the reproof, his eyes sought the precious tracks. Then his jaw dropped momentarily. He stared for a moment at the muddy patch and there was a new light in his eye as he turned to the young man who had just dismounted.
"It's Mr. Egmont, isn't it?" he asked. "Yes. If you'd just step over here, sir—"
He led the way carefully away from the patch of mud to the other side of the path. None of the three men watching needed to ask why. Egmont's horse had stepped on the edge of the soft ground, and even at a glance it was obvious that the tracks corresponded.
JOAN MARNEY had only the dimmest idea of precisely what had happened from the time she recovered consciousness in the cottage to which she had been taken. Her one thought had been to get home. Egmont had been waiting as she stepped outside in a sort of dreadful dream. She had not heard what he said. But there was no need for her to reply. Evidently the way she had recoiled from him was enough, and the one thing she remembered clearly was the look on his face as she rode away.
One horrible idea dominated her. Really, it was she herself who had killed Dick. She had been perfectly aware of the rivalry between the two men. Whether she had loved either or both of them she did not know to that moment. She had enjoyed their company; she had derived a mischievous amusement from their jealousy of each other, without intending any conscious cruelty, and hardly aware of the depth of the passions she might be arousing. And now— Her cousin's death seemed utterly incredible; and it was still more incredible that Hugh Egmont should be his murderer. And yet in her mind there was a doubt. Unwillingly, she was building up against a case rather better than that which was giving Inspector Boreman a good deal of satisfaction almost at the same moment.
Everyone knew the violence of Egmont's temper. Once before they had nearly come to blows. And that morning Hugh had been particularly exasperated. He had believed that it had been her cousin who had sent the false message about the cancellation of the meet. She knew him too well not to know what effect this last offence was likely to have on him. It could so easily have been the last straw, if he had met Marney that morning; and he could have done. Like Hugh and her cousin, she had hunted all over the country and knew it like the palm of her hand. Hugh had told her that he first knew that the message was false by seeing the hunt set off. On his road to the village be could at several points have seen the line which it followed; he could have guessed it was heading for the Cliff, and he must have known that only her cousin could take the jump. He could have cut across, gained the other side, and waited...
And there was the dagger. But that thought she put violently away from her. That was the one thing she must not think about. It was only too likely the police would question her, and she shuddered at the thought of the ordeal. But for the most part she could tell them nothing which was not common knowledge. She could even make Egmont's position better by minimizing the degree of feeling which existed. But they must not find out about the dagger, nor even from the expression on her face guess for a moment that she knew.
In the very doorway of the house she hesitated. Her coming home had been merely instinctive; for she had little hope of finding either help or comfort there. The death of her mother years before had left her existence in her own home curiously lonely. It had once been said of Charles Marney that he had inherited the brains of the family; but the loss of his wife had interrupted what might have been a brilliant career. He had been content to go to seed in the Dower House which was the allotted portion of stray members of the family, mildly interested in antiquarian matters, fascinated by the hope of finding an infallible betting system, annually growing more and more hopelessly insolvent. Towards his daughter he preserved a remote kindliness; towards the world in general an unshakable politeness. But for the rather irritated and contemptuous help given by his brother he would long since have been bankrupt, and it was hard to imagine any crisis to which he would rise successfully. And of the whole family he had been friendly only with his dead nephew, whose cause he had supported against Egmont to that slight degree in which he permitted himself to intervene. And yet she must talk to someone. She pushed the door open and walked in.
There seemed something strange in the very peacefulness of the dark hall. Everything was exactly the same as it had been when she left only a few hours ago; and yet in that time her whole world had changed. Surely they must have heard? The appearance of a servant from the direction of the kitchen provided an answer to the question. In the girl's plain, rather stupid face there was no hint of agitation. She steeled herself to a false calmness.
"My father's in the study, Jane?" The question was an unnecessary one. At that hour Charles Marney was always in the study, multiplying, dividing, adding and subtracting on his system with an assiduity worthy of a better cause. But the maid's answer was surprising.
"Oh yes, miss. He came back half an hour ago... He's there with Sir John, miss."
For a moment Joan stared at her. That her father should have gone out at all during the morning was sufficiently extraordinary to provoke surprise; and then the second part of the news came home to her. Her uncle was there. And from the mere fact of his presence he could know nothing of what had happened. Instead of pouring out her troubles to her father, she was faced with the ordeal of breaking the news of Dick's death to Sir John.
For a full minute she stood there, trying to summon her resolution. Suddenly she was conscious of the maid's eyes upon her.
"Thank you, Jane," she said in what she hoped was a natural voice. "That—that was all I wanted."
But the girl did not immediately accept her dismissal. She eyed her mistress anxiously.
"You're all right, miss?" she asked. "You look sort of white—"
"Quite—thank you, Jane."
Aware that the girl's eyes were still upon her she crossed the hall steadily and turned into the corridor leading to the study. The Dower House was an architectural puzzle. Since it was first built, it had grown and shrunk at irregular intervals, now expanding according to the needs of the occupants, now being allowed to fall into ruin. In its small maze of doors and passages, the room which her father had chosen for his study lay at the extreme far corner from the entrance. She moved slowly up the passage, wondering what she was going to do; but she reached the end before she found an answer.
The study itself was queerly shaped, a long projection from the middle of its main rectangle giving it the shape of a squat letter T, and it was into this that the door gave entrance. Hesitating for a moment on the threshold, she turned the handle and entered.
At the first glance there seemed to be no one there. Her father's desk, under the big window directly in front, was empty. She advanced a pace or two into the room; then the murmur of voices reached her. It came from the right-hand branch of the T, where she knew was situated the safe containing nothing more valuable than the records of her father's losses; but in his eyes the key to immense potential wealth, given a little more capital.
At the sound she stopped. It was not that one of the voices was loud and angry. That she could almost have expected; for a visit from Sir John to his brother had come to mean almost invariably that he was called to Charles Marney's financial rescue; and during such interviews her father was politely deprecating, while her uncle blustered. But now that the prospect of facing her uncle with the news was so imminent, her nerve failed her. For a minute she stood there, hidden from their sight by the projecting wall, and trying to summon her courage.
"Damn it, Charles, it's too much. I've done all I mean to!" Her uncle's voice was raised angrily. "It's getting worse! There's that Grilney bill. And now this. There's a limit to anything. If it weren't for the family—"
"Grilney's paid." Her father's cultured voice just reached her. "You don't understand, John, I made a slight mistake—just an error of calculation—"
His brother interrupted him. "Grilney paid?" he demanded. "Where did the money come from?"
There was a perceptible pause. "He is paid," her father said hesitantly. "I got the money—"
"Lenders?"
"No."
"Then I'll know where before I stir a hand in this." The older man's voice was grim. "You'd none coming in. And I'm damned if you won it on your system."
The contempt in the last words, or perhaps the slight upon the one thing really dear to his heart, stung Charles Marney to a protest.
"Really, John, this tone is hardly necessary. I haven't asked your help—this time."
"No. And I'll not give it, except on the condition, you know... You can smash for all I care. The Marneys were never gamblers, thank God. And as for letting Dick marry blood of yours—"
"John!"
For the first time Charles Marney's gentle voice was raised sharply, but his brother did not heed.
"Let her leave my boy alone, and marry that young fool Egmont. He'd be a good match—"
Abruptly it was forced upon Joan that she was eavesdropping. A flush came on her cheek. A momentary anger nerved her to step forward into the front part of the room.
Both men turned at the sound of her footsteps on the parquet floor. They were standing near the open safe at the far end, and even at that moment she was struck by the contrast between them. The baronet's more coarsely featured face was red with anger and he was breathing heavily. One hand was still clenched in an emphatic gesture. On the pale, refined face of his younger brother there was a look of unwonted resolve, but he stood as easily as though nothing had happened. The two stood staring at her for a moment; then it was her father who spoke,
"Joan, dear, you're early." His voice was perfectly calm. "There's nothing wrong?"
Before she could answer, his brother burst in.
"She's been listening, damn it! And I hope she heard. There's been enough fooling about. One of these days there'll be the devil to pay if—"
He broke off. Angry as he was, the expression on her face seemed to strike home. She struggled to speak, but no words came. The sight of Dick's father alone might have robbed her of words. Under the circumstances she could only stare mutely at her father. Her hand went to her throat. Charles Marney stepped quickly forward.
"Joan, you're ill?... There's something wrong?"
She nodded dumbly. Then a single word escaped her lips.
"Dick—"
A sob choked her utterance. But the name alone had been enough for her uncle. Suddenly he had paled. He took a hesitating step forward, and his voice shook as he spoke.
"Dick? There's nothing wrong with Dick? He's all right?... Joan! He's all right?... He's hurt?"
She could only shake her head. There was a moment's silence. John Marney stared at her with a look of pathetic appeal, and his lips trembled.
"You mean—you mean—my boy Dick—?"
There was no need for her to speak. He swayed slightly where he stood. Gently his brother took his arm and led him to a chair. He sank into it unresistingly and raised a hand to his eyes. With a quick glance at him Charles stepped across to a side table on which stood a bottle and siphon. His own face as he lifted the bottle was strangely impassive. In the silence they could hear the trickle of the liquid as he poured it, punctuated by the baronet's quick breathing.
"The Cliff. It would be the Cliff." John spoke suddenly a curiously gentle voice. "They headed that way. Saw 'em start, and half guessed that he'd try it. He never wanted for pluck... Jack first. And now Dick—"
His voice trailed away. Charles moved over to his side and extended the tumbler. His brother made no move to take it, staring straight before him with eyes which saw nothing.
"John. Drink this." Charles spoke for the first time since the truth had dawned upon them. You mustn't give way. There's Mary to think of. And Maurice."
His brother looked at him dully for a moment.
"Maurice," he said at last, "Maurice is a good lad. He's always done the right thing by me and the estate. It'll be in good hands. But Dick—Dick—" With an effort he overcame the working of his face. "Yes. You're right. Mustn't give way... Give me that."
He swallowed the neat spirit at a gulp. "Died like his grandfather... Did he speak? He didn't suffer?"
His eyes sought Joan's. With a rush speech came to her as her self-control gave way.
"You—you don't understand... It wasn't that. He didn't fall. He'd jumped the Cliff—was all right... He was murdered!"
"Murdered?"
John Marney half rose to his feet as he spoke. Charles put a hand gently on his arm, but he shook it off.
"Murdered?" he repeated. "You say murdered?"
"He—he was stabbed—the other side of the stream—"
"Then—then it was—! And, by God, you come here to tell me! After what you've done—"
His hand shot up as though he was going to strike her. He took a single pace forward. Then even as his brother gripped his shoulder to restrain him he seemed to collapse. The upraised arm fell to his side, and he stood swaying slightly. The next moment he subsided in a limp heap to the ground.
"Joan!" Her father's voice roused her to action. "A doctor... Quickly. Send a servant—cold water and cloths. Hurry!"
He was already on his knees beside the unconscious baronet, loosening his collar and tie and raising the head. John Marney's face was purple and he was breathing stertorously. Joan stared in fascinated horror.
"Quick, Joan... It's a stroke—"
The words seemed to break the spell which had held her motionless. She had turned in an instant, running for the door. The long passage seemed endless, and she felt as though an hour had passed before she reached the hall. With a sigh of relief she saw the solitary manservant dignified by the name of butler just emerging from the dining room, and in a few hurried words told him what was needed. She was barely coherent, but Wilson had grown old in service and no emergency appalled him.
"A cold compress, miss. Yes. I'll go at once... Don't you worry, Miss Joan... The doctor—?"
"I'll telephone. Go—go at once—"
But telephoning proved more difficult than she had thought. In the whirl of her thoughts she could not remember Hendyng's number, and had to search the directory, only to be informed on getting through at last that the doctor was out. The servant to whom she was speaking could make nothing of her message, and she had to repeat it three times. Nearly ten minutes must have elapsed before she retraced her steps to the study. Outside the doorway she stopped, with a dreadful foreboding in her heart. All at once the door opened. Her father stepped out and, as he saw her, raised a finger to his lips. Then he saw the question in her eyes and spoke, closing the door behind him as he did so.
"Still unconscious... But I think—I think he will be all right. He's strong—" He broke off. A slight frown puckered his brows. "Joan, I wanted to speak to you, before—before—" He hesitated for a moment, and left the sentence unfinished. "Now, my dear, will you try and tell me what happened?"
After all, it was little enough that she could tell him. She only knew the little which she had heard from Nicholson, and a few odd remarks half-consciously absorbed in the cottage. He listened in silence, without a sign of emotion on his face. For some reason, his very impassivity frightened her; for he had been fond of Dick. As she finished he inclined his head slowly.
"Yes," he said and paused. "Of course, the police would be called in. Of course. They'll search—"
She could only stare at him in bewilderment as he broke off. The words were so different from what she had expected.
"They've not seen you yet? No. But, especially if they think Egmont is guilty, they will. Naturally. To try to get out of you just how—"
He broke off again. A queer sense of horror was growing in her mind. It seemed to her as though the shock must have affected her father's brain. He stood for a moment looking at her, and all at once his gaze seemed to have become curiously intent.
"Joan, you were there? While your uncle and I were talking. You heard—you heard something?"
She nodded dumbly.
"About the money? What John was saying—about my paying the Grilney loan? You did. Yes."
"I—I couldn't help it. I didn't mean to listen, Daddy... But I couldn't bring myself to—to tell—"
She broke off, burying her face in her hands as though to shut out the scene which she had just witnessed. Charles Marney's arm went about her sympathetically.
"Of course not, Joan dear. I quite understand... But I just wondered. You know that I've had some troubles about money. I have not the least objection to your hearing. Only—"
Again he broke off and seemed to be at a loss for words. She looked up into his face. In it she could see nothing but kindness, and yet her uneasiness persisted. There was something wrong. She stood waiting. He drew a deep breath, and seemed to nerve himself to something.
"Only—when the police come, perhaps dear, you'd better not tell them—about the money."
"But—but that's nothing to do with—with what has happened? Why should I? It—it hasn't, Daddy?"
"Of course not, dear. Only—I thought I'd better warn you. I don't mean about the debts. They'll find that out. But about paying the Grilney loan."
THERE was the trace of a smile on Superintendent Leyland's lips as he leaned back in the chair and looked at the man in the chair opposite. The smile was at the thought of the Chief Constable's reception of the representative Scotland Yard had seen fit to send them. Then the smile faded. He drew deeply at his pipe and glanced at the detective inquiringly.
"Well," he said. "You've got the dope, so far as we know it. What d'you think?"
Inspector Lyly hesitated. "I think," he said slowly, "that the chief inspector is a little precipitate in wanting to arrest Egmont. That constable seems a good man thrown away. You ought to import him into your local C. I.D."
"Retters? Yes. I thought of that myself... As for Boreman, it wasn't so much the murder that brought me back from holiday as that the chief said Boreman had solved it. It's discretion that he lacks. Now, a policeman may be as clever as you like, but unless he wants trouble he's got to be careful too... What do you make of the case?"
Lyly smiled, and his eyebrows rose. "There isn't one," he said. "There's the bare bones of what might be one. That's all."
"Why?"
"Too many loopholes for any judge and jury... There was a motive, certainly. The two men were jealous, and that morning Egmont felt particularly aggrieved because he thought Marney had hoaxed him. You may say he might have wanted to kill Marney. But did he?... Well, there was opportunity of a kind. Egmont was on or near the spot somewhere about the time the crime was committed. And he seems to have been the only person about on horseback who was. Bearing in mind the nature of the wound that is important. But, really, that's all."
"Boreman thinks it's enough."
"I don't agree. There's the dagger. Up to date we've failed completely to show that Egmont possessed, or had access to, any such weapon. Still less have we shown he was carrying it. You see, according to his account, he only knew that the hunt was on when he saw it meet. But he didn't know where it was going. Are we to suppose that he normally carried that dagger? Or that that particular morning he put it in his pocket just in case he met Marney?"
"That's possible, isn't it?"
"Theoretically, perhaps it is. But, however angry he might be, I don't see Egmont going about the job that way—at least from the character he's given. Then, there's his behaviour after he's supposed to have committed the murder. He doesn't follow the hunt or go back home. Either would have been more sensible than going into the village and chatting to the policeman. And neither Ker nor Retters thought he looked like a man who'd just committed a murder. Finally, there's the letter."
"Ah." The superintendent looked up with a sudden interest. "I wonder what you make of that?"
"Precious little... But I don't think we can dismiss it as the chief inspector does as a silly hoax without bearing on the crime."
"Boreman's a perfect ass when he gets a bee in his bonnet," Leyland commented without malice. "He'd ignore anything."
"But even he could scarcely ignore the coincidences between what the writer foretold and what happened. There's that allusion to the hunt. And death certainly ended Marney's run pretty near 'where the stream flows.' The 'gules on gules' might be the blood on his red coat. The argent might be the silver hilted dagger—though I don't get the azure exactly."
"Might mean Marney was a blue-blooded aristocrat." Leyland grinned at his joke but sobered quickly. "Aren't you overlooking something? Retters had the idea that the letter did mean something to Egmont."
"He may have been right. I'm just coming to that. Well, the letter-writer seems to have known that someone was going to be killed while dressed for hunting near the stream. And he also knew that that person was Marney. That's what bothered Egmont. He saw the reference."
Leyland opened his eyes a little wider and stared. "It's more than I do," he admitted. "That sitting lion stuff, you mean?"
"You showed it me yourself. That letter from Maurice Marney! What's the crest?"
Leyland turned over the papers. "Why, good Lord! It's a lion," he exclaimed. "You mean—?"
"It's more than a lion. In the ghastly jargon of heraldry, it's a lion sejant guardant—sitting and looking. If old Marney's regarded as the lion, Dick was the cub—or one of them. It's pretty clear the writer knew just what was going to happen."
"Good Lord!" Leyland drew the sheet towards him from where it lay on the desk at his side and studied it for a moment or two in silence. Then he nodded. "Yes," he said unwillingly. "It fits all right... But he slipped up once... The hunt did kill—a young fox, out by Barden village."
"We'll allow him a margin of error on the hunt form. But the rest's all right. Now, when was that letter posted?"
Leyland glanced at the envelope. "Half-past seven the night before," he said slowly. "But then—"
"But then, no one could possibly know that the hunt would head for the Cliff at all. It all depended on the fox. And if the hunt went anywhere else, the murderer couldn't count on Marney being separated from the rest."
"I don't get you."
"It was just because the hunt went to the Cliff, and Marney was the only man who would dare take that jump that the murderer had his opportunity. But who would know it would?"
Leyland thought for a long time, frowning down at the letter as though seeking inspiration from it.
"No one," he said at last. "No one could tell which way the fox would head. No one but a blasted prophet."
"That's what is peculiarly interesting about the letter. Was it written before the murder, by a murderer with second sight? Or was it written after—and faked?"
"Faked? How could it have been?"
"I don't know, yet. But it's a thing to look into... Now, Egmont might have noticed the sitting lion stuff, and the reference to young Marney, and as he was cordially engaged in hating him at that moment it might take him aback a little. But had he any opportunity of getting that letter delivered to Retters?"
Leyland considered. "I don't see that he could," he said. "He hadn't been in the village before that morning. Someone would certainly have seen him. That village sees everything."
"Yes. And that's in his favour—if the letter was faked. But there is an objection even to that. That's why I wanted a word with the Master—"
"The Hon. Toby?" Leyland grinned. "He'll he here soon. Most upset, I gather. Thinks it's a reflection on the hunt. Stabbing people doesn't happen in the best huntin' circles—particularly when there's a fox about. It's positively irreverent!"
Lyly smiled politely. "Well, what do we know about the letter?" he continued. "Paper and so on... You've looked into that?"
"Retters did. Whatever Boreman thought, he was sure the letter had something to do with it. They're both common—paper and envelope. So's the ink. You can't tell a thing from the printed character. But"—he paused significantly—"but Retters did find out that you can buy that kind of stationery at the village post office."
"At the post office... Yes." Lyly's brow wrinkled. "Well, until you can prove either that Egmont had the dagger, or that he could have written the letter, your case is a bit thin. It's quite possible you will prove it. A dagger like that is uncommon enough. You might find where he bought it—"
"We're trying to... But it's foreign work. The odds are it was a souvenir brought from abroad or something like that."
"Very likely... Egmont may very well be guilty. But he's not likely to bolt. If he does he gives the game away. And in the meantime it's our business to make dead sure before we do anything. Even to the point of considering other possible suspects."
Leyland shook his head. "There aren't any," he said with regret. "Barring Egmont, Marney doesn't seem to have had an enemy in the world."
"So far as we know... But it needn't be an enemy who kills you. I mean, the murderer may be inspired by other motives than hate... Isn't there something there about that Professor chap—Ashby?"
"Ashby? Yes." The superintendent turned over the pages of his notes. "But he's no good. It was just that Boreman happened to be a bit fed up at finding so many of them about when he got there and put 'em all through it—more to make himself objectionable than anything else. He didn't like the way Ashby answered. But that's all. Even he didn't suspect him."
"All the same, if you'd just go through it again?"
Leyland grunted. "He just happened to be there... No, no one had told him about the murder. He came round the corner and saw the body there. He was very shocked. No, he did not know Marney well. He had not been going anywhere in particular—just for a walk. No, he was not in the habit of walking. He suffered from corns. No—very emphatically, this. He seemed quite peeved at the idea—he had not been following the hunt. Abominable cruelty—shouldn't be permitted in a civilized country. Served Marney right if he got himself killed while hunting... That's about the sum of it. An old crank, that's all."
"And, apparently, an enthusiast of sorts... Pretty lame, isn't it?"
"That's nothing. If you'd ever seen Boreman dealing with a witness he didn't like, you wouldn't wonder if a donnish old bird of Ashby's sort got a bit rattled."
"Still, he's unexplained. We'll bear him in mind, anyhow. The others were all right? Those who were on the scene? So far as we can tell. Mrs. Handley—well, it was natural enough for her to pop along. Ever read any of her stuff?"
"Pretty gory. Oh, there was Withers. He was the man who put Boreman on to Egmont. Told him about the feud between him and Marney. I don't know what you make of that?"
"Nothing, perhaps. Or it might show a grudge against Egmont—though that's hardly a reason for murder... And no one suspicious seen about the place?"
"Strangers? You're thinking of the dagger... Well, almost certainly it's Italian. But young Marney had never been to Italy, and had no connexion with the place so far as we know." He laughed. "That's what Retters might think—that it was the Camorra, or Mafia or something. He had an idea almost as good."
Lyly looked his enquiry.
"About the dagger." Leyland grinned. "Got it from a Doctor Thorndyke story, I believe. He's a great reader. You see, one difficulty is that Marney wasn't likely to dismount under the circumstances, and unless anyone was on horseback or about the same level it's hard to see how the wound could have been inflicted in that position. But there are only the tracks of Egmont's horse, and he doesn't believe Egmont did it. He suggests that the dagger was shot."
"From a gun?" Lyly eyed the weapon where it lay on the desk. He remembered the story well enough. But there the dagger had had a hilt without a guard, capable of fitting into the bore of the chassepot from which it had been fired. Here there could be no question of that. A cross-piece where the hilt joined the blade made it impossible." He shook his head. "No gun would take it."
"Retters suggested a cross-bow! I suppose it might be done, but—!"
Lyly frowned at the weapon thoughtfully; then reached over and picked it up, weighing it carefully in his hand.
"It might," he said. "But there's another thing. It might have been thrown."
"Thrown? To go in like that?"
"You'd be surprised how hard an expert can throw. Though I'd hardly expect an expert here. Or the murderer might have been up a tree when he stabbed. I don't think we're entitled to assume he was riding. But we're getting too theoretical. The question is, what is the next thing to do?"
"Well," Leyland said with a certain amount of complacency. "We're trying to find out about the dagger. We're trying to check Egmont's time-table—I mean, to show definitely if he rode that way before or after the hunt passed. We're working on the fake call—or trying to find out if there was one—"
"You mean telling Egmont the meet was cancelled? Yes. That might be important."
"And we can follow up your suggestion of the letter. Then, there's the heraldry stuff. We're trying to make a list of people who would know enough to use it. That rules out the ordinary villager, you see... All that's pretty concrete... You were talking about other motives. See any for Marney?"
"Don't know him well enough... There's revenge?"
"Never hurt anyone in his life that we can hear of."
"Fear? But I suppose no one had any reason to be afraid of him?"
"No sign of it."
"Gain? And that's as common as any."
"But who would gain by his death? He'd no money himself. Old Marney made him an allowance, and would have made him a bigger one when he married. Of course, I suppose there'll be a bit more for Maurice Marney—his elder brother—but there's plenty of cash, and he'll hardly notice it. No, I don't see how that could work."
"About the Marney family. If you could just make it plain which is which—"
"Well, of course, Sir John is the Baronet—head of the house, and possessor of the cash. He had two sons, Maurice, and Dick—Dick being very much younger. About fifteen years. There was a girl between who died as a baby. Maurice married, and had one son. His wife died at the birth. The boy, Jack Marney, was killed a year ago—"
"Killed?"
"Car accident at Oxford... Charles is the baronet's younger brother. Invents betting systems that are going to make his fortune, and is always hard up. But he's a gentleman, anyway."
"Meaning his brother isn't?"
"Well—in a different way. Sir John can be a bit of a boor—or could. The poor old boy can't last long, I'm told."
"Leaving only Maurice, Charles and Joan?"
"There's Lady Marney. But nobody minds about her."
"There's no family trouble?"
"No. Very affectionate, I should say. Periodic blow-ups between John and Charles over finance—but they're used to that. The baronet always stumps up all right. Nothing really wrong."
Lyly sat for a minute in silence. "I'd like to see the Honourable," he said at last. "And then, if you don't mind, I'll just wander about a bit on my own. Get familiar with the ground. They don't know me there yet as a detective. I might hear more."
"Just as you like," Leyland assented and smiled. "No, you don't exactly look—"
A knock on the door interrupted him, and the sergeant entered. Leyland looked across at him.
"He's come?" he asked.
"Yes, sir... He's brought two gentlemen with him, sir. Major Rothersleigh and Mr. Maurice Marney, sir."
Leyland's eyebrows rose a little. "Show 'em all in, Sergeant," he said. "He can bring the whole hunt if he likes—barring the hounds... You'd better bring another chair."
The door closed behind him. Lyly looked at the superintendent curiously.
"Why the deputation?" he asked.
"Moral support, maybe. He's shy. But a decent lad, in his own way. Bit of an ass, perhaps—"
The potted biography was interrupted by the entrance of its subject. So far as it had gone, Lyly judged, it was accurate enough. The Hon. Toby Wilmot had taken on the mastership when his father was finally incapacitated by gout, and it was the one thing which he had taken seriously. It might well have been said of him that "hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn," except that he would have done nothing so rude. Up to date, he had merely evaded with embarrassed adroitness the wiles of dowagers who sought him for their daughters, and avoided almost by instinct any close contact with the daughters themselves. Amiability itself, he quarrelled with no one; with unlimited money, his expenditure except on horses was a model of moderation. His great aim was to keep the peace, see to the efficient stopping of earths and removal of wire, and live like his fathers before him. In the district he was universally liked, even by those who, like the superintendent, thought him a much bigger fool than was actually the case.
His two companions were readily identifiable. Rothersleigh could have been nothing but a major, even if a family resemblance had not indicated the dead man's brother. Lyly eyed Maurice Marney curiously. He had seen the corpse, and in features the likeness between the two was unmistakable. But this was a much older man, and one who had seen trouble. Lyly judged him to be in the early forties. His hair was greying slightly at the temples; his expression gave the idea of strength and purposefulness. One could have imagined him a hard man when he was convinced of the justice of his case; he would spare no one else any more than he would himself in what he judged to be his duty.
Wilmot smiled amiably at the superintendent as he effected an introduction.
"Thought you wouldn't mind, Superintendent," he said with a trace of apology. "Major Rothersleigh—you've met Mr. Marney? Of course... Brought them along, you know. Thought they might help. The fact is, the major thought you ought to know—I'm not sure, myself, mind you. But that can wait, if you like... You had a few things you wanted to ask, you said?"
"The inspector here has." Leyland indicated him, and Wilmot's face showed surprise. "Just about the hunting, you know, and so on."
"You see, sir, I don't know the country—not this part," Lyly said. "And there are one or two points that I'd like to be clearer about. Could you tell me exactly what happened that day? In the hunting, I mean."
"Well," the Hon. Toby rubbed his chin gravely. "We found right away, a hot scent. Didn't have a scrap of bother, and weren't at fault once right till we reached the Cliff. Then the fox turned to cross. They often do, you know. I saw Marney, and he was obviously going to have a shot at it. I and two or three others watched him take off and land safely. Dashed clever bit of work. It's a bit beyond my form. The rest of us hurried along for the bridge. The hounds were a good way ahead by the time we saw them, going well, and we'd a job to catch them. So we went along, going strong till we'd nearly reached Barden. Then we had to cast round a bit, but picked up the scent again and got going. We killed about a couple of miles farther on. A dashed good run; at least, I thought so, until I heard this."
"You didn't miss Mr. Richard Marney?"
"Hadn't time you know... Had to keep an eye on the hounds. Right at the end I thought about him and reckoned his horse might have strained itself. But a few minutes later his horse came along. He wasn't on it. I was a bit worried then. But it was too late to go back or anything... Of course, I couldn't guess what had happened. It's not what you'd expect, hunting—"
Lyly suppressed a smile at the last comment. "You did kill, then?"
"Well, yes," Wilmot said dubiously. "We killed a fox. But I'd not swear it was the same one."
The inspector nodded. "And the run took the course you'd expect?" he asked. "I suppose you can tell pretty well which way foxes are likely to head from a given covert? Creatures of habit, like the rest of us?"
"I wouldn't say that. You'd find one would go one way, and one another... Yes. It was pretty well what you might expect. They often go that way... I don't know if I'm telling you the right things?"
He looked anxiously at Lyly, who nodded.
"Oh, quite, sir... The run was normal, then—"
"It was a dashed sight better than usual, that's all. Nothing happened out of the ordinary—that I saw, I mean."
The mere idea seemed to worry him. Lyly looked across at the superintendent; but Leyland, who was thoroughly at sea, had nothing to add in the way of questions about the run. He looked instead at Major Rothersleigh.
"The major had something to tell us?" he suggested.
"Well, he wanted me to tell you," Wilmot said unhappily, and Leyland had no doubt that Rothersleigh's presence was due to distrust of the temper of his chosen instrument. Wilmot glanced at the major and seemed to gain strength. "We were all three there, you know. And Dick. There was a spot of bother with those anti-blood sports people—"
Leyland raised his eyebrows. "When was this?" he asked.
"About a month ago. You see—"
"I've had no report."
"Well, we decided to keep it quiet, you see... After all, it wasn't exactly the thing. He's an old man, and it wouldn't have done any one any good if it had come out. Dick got in an argument with 'em, and things were pretty hot. Then one of them tried to grab the mare's head, and she was pretty nervous. I think he lost his temper, for he just flicked out with his crop and knocked his hat off. And he was a bit peeved, and came at Dick with his umbrella—"
Leyland had been trying to get a question in for some time. In the end, the major helped him.
"Peeved?" he exploded. "Damn it, the man was a raving maniac. Ought to have been put in an asylum!"
"The man?" Leyland inquired. "Who was it?"
Wilmot stared at him. "I thought I'd been telling you," he said blankly. "Why, it's that old boy in the village—Doctor Ashby."
IT was already dark when Joan Marney left the house that night, closing the door behind her with a stealth which the circumstances hardly warranted. There was no reason to believe that her father would have made any effort to prevent her from going out; and yet she was not sure. Less than thirty-six hours had passed since the discovery of Richard Marney's death, but in that time everything seemed to have changed, and not least her father. It was not only the surprising conversation which had followed her uncle's collapse. His whole attitude seemed to have changed, even towards herself. That day he had been even more distant than usual; she had seen him only at meal-times, and he had made no allusion whatsoever to anything that had happened. But once or twice she had caught him looking at her, and though she tried to tell herself it was the result of over-imagination, it had seemed to her that there was a suggestion of doubt or fear in his eyes.
Besides, she was far from sure how he would have regarded her intention to meet Hugh Egmont. He himself had always favoured Dick, and though he had said nothing she more than suspected that he shared with John Marney and many other people the belief in Hugh Egmont's guilt. It was the very prevalence of that belief which had made her assent to the meeting suggested in a brief note from Hugh which she had received that afternoon. In the first shock of the tragedy she had been convinced of his guilt, and with more reason than most people. Yet it had seemed incredible. Thinking it over, she knew only that she could not condemn him unheard, and that innocent or guilty she must hear what he had to say.
From the Dower House to the Barden cross-roads which he had named for the meeting was a distance of about a mile through lonely by-roads; but her whole life had been spent in the country and in ordinary circumstances she would have thought nothing of it. The sky was overcast, but the half moon gave a sufficient, though fitful light to allow her to see her way with comparative ease, even if she had not known every inch of it almost from the time she could walk. And yet that night she was conscious of a vague fear. Once or twice she caught herself looking nervously back over her shoulder, as though expecting pursuit, and hurrying through the darker patches where the trees overhung the roadway. And yet there was nothing to be afraid of. She knew there could be nothing. She clutched at her walking stick a little too resolutely and went on, but the fears persisted. She was barely half-way there when despite herself she stopped and looked back along a clear stretch of road, straining her eyes to convince herself that there was nothing there.
For a minute or two she stood watching and listening, herself, as she knew, invisible in the shadow of the woods which at that point fringed the lane. The mere facing of the imaginary danger revived her courage. She told herself that she was being fanciful, and almost believed it. There was no sound but the rustling of the half-dead leaves and the trickle of the little brook running along the hedge-side; no sign of anything on the grey line of roadway up to the point where it merged imperceptibly into the white mist. On the point of proceeding, she gave a last glance back. Then her heart jumped violently. Just for a moment, something showed in dark silhouette as it crossed a gap between the higher bushes of the hedge.
It had been the merest glimpse. She could not even be sure what it was. And, after all, she told herself, it was still early. It was perfectly natural for one of the neighbouring farmers or cottagers to be walking along the lane. But the beating of her own heart contradicted her. It was not natural for any ordinary person to creep along in the shadowy area beneath the hedge. Just beyond where she had seen it was a gateway. There, whoever was coming towards her must be visible again. With an effort she forced herself to wait, gripping her stick defensively. Then, without warning, the capricious moonlight faded and vanished.
For a moment she stood her ground. There could be nothing to hurt her. Suddenly, only a few yards away, she heard the rattle of a pebble on the macadam as though someone had kicked it. Almost in the same instant there came to her the sound of stealthy footsteps coming rapidly nearer. Her nerve failed her abruptly. She turned and ran, plunging into the black tunnel of the trees just as the moon peered again from behind the cloud which had hidden it.
Round the wood the lane swept in a long curve, only a footpath crossing the intervening ground. Ordinarily, she would have taken the short cut; but she had passed the stile before she knew it. In any case, she would never have dared to leave the road with the illusion of security which it gave. She strained her ears to listen as she ran, but the sound of her own footsteps drowned everything else. There was nothing to show that the unknown was still in pursuit; but, once having started running she dare not stop. And the cross-roads were not far now. Egmont would be waiting there. In her mind the idea of him as a possible murderer had dwindled and vanished. She thought of him only as a source of protection against her unknown pursuer.
Stumbling and breathless she reached the end of the wood and emerged into the open lane. It was lighter here. She could see well enough to pick her way, and once or twice she ventured a glance backward. But under the trees the shadow was still black, and if there had been anyone she could not have seen him. The meeting place was less than fifty yards away when, rounding a bend in the lane she saw the light of a torch flash for a moment not a dozen paces from her.
For an instant she stopped dead. In her panic it seemed as though she was cut off; then her common sense re-asserted itself. Whoever it might be behind, there was no danger from the open approach of the person carrying the torch in front. And the thought flashed across her mind that it must be Hugh who, not finding her at the rendezvous, was coming to meet her. With a cry she started forward.
"Hugh! Hugh!"
The beam of the torch flashed full upon her, but for the moment there was no answer. Evidently she had been mistaken. Blinded by the glare of the torch she slowed hesitantly and stopped, staring towards the stranger. She felt a surge of fear rising in her heart again. Why did the stranger not speak? She moistened her lips which had suddenly become dry.
"Who—who is that? Hugh... It's not—it's not—?"
There was a brief pause. Suddenly the light was turned down. With a wave of relief Joan Marney recognized the voice which came to her from the darkness.
"Why, Joan! What is it? There's something wrong?"
"Oh, Mrs, Handley!" For a moment she could not go on. Between herself and the novelist, in spite of the sympathetic friendliness shown by her uncle and aunt, there was little enough good feeling; for she had always suspected that Constance Handley disapproved of her. But at that moment her worst enemy would have been welcome. "I—I thought—I thought—" she began incoherently and stopped. "I was frightened... Someone was following me—"
"Following you? My dear girl!" There was incredulity blended with amusement in the older woman's voice. She seemed to be peering at Joan doubtfully. "What do you mean?"
"I—I was going— I had to see someone. As I came along, I felt that there was something wrong—that someone was watching. So I waited. Something crossed the gap. Then the moon went in. I heard him coming closer and—and I ran—"
She shivered at the recollection, and broke off. Constance Handley stood silent for a moment as though waiting for her to continue. Then she laughed shortly. Joan Marney felt her cheeks flushing at the sound. There was contempt and disbelief in it, and it came to her suddenly how lame her story must sound. After all, what had happened? She had seen someone coming along the road; she had heard him near at hand. But she did not know whether or not she had actually been pursued.
"My dear Joan!" There was a scornful kindliness in the words. "Of course, I can quite understand. What has happened must have been a great shock to you. You should never have come out alone. I cannot think what your father was about to let you—"
"He—didn't know." Joan's temper was rising. She blurted out the words without thinking, and then realized her mistake. "I—I didn't want to worry him... There was something—someone—"
"And if there was? Plenty of people use this lane... He didn't attack you?"
"I—I ran—"
"And, no doubt, surprised him as much as he did you!... Really, there's nothing to be afraid of... Come back with me. We'll see who it is, if you like."
Joan hesitated. More than any words could express she dreaded the idea of retracing her steps to meet her pursuer; but she hated to show her cowardice. Perhaps it was more as an excuse than anything else that the thought of the meeting with Egmont came into her mind.
"It's—it's good of you. I've got to go... I'm late—"
"But you can't go on alone in that state... Let me see you to—where were you going?"
"I'm not afraid." She spoke the words quite resolutely. "I'd rather go alone. I mustn't trouble you—"
There was a pause. She heard the novelist shift her position, as though in a gesture of impatience.
"You were going to meet Hugh Egmont?"
The unexpectedness of the words took Joan Marney aback. She hesitated for a moment. Then she remembered her own cry when she had seen the light of the torch. A denial would be worse than useless.
"Yes," she said defiantly.
"Then I'd like to speak to you." There was a new note in Constance Handley's voice, and it trembled a little as if she were suppressing some strong emotion. "I heard—what happened in the village yesterday. When you first heard of your cousin's death."
For a moment the suddenness of the attack left Joan speechless. She felt her cheeks burning and was grateful for the darkness.
"You practically accused Hugh Egmont of murder—with half the village listening... No doubt you were suffering from the shock. Perhaps to-night you mean to beg his pardon?... I am trying to be just to you. But that was abominable. Even you might have known he didn't do it."
"But—but don't you understand—" Joan began and broke off. Somehow she felt the uselessness of trying to justify herself to her companion, and besides, she was conscious of an uneasy feeling that the older woman was at least partly right. "Oh, I didn't mean—"
"I understand that the police are suspicious about him. Naturally. You have certainly good reason to know that there was bad feeling between the two of them. So, they're bound to suspect. But you—anyone who knew him must know it wasn't true."
At that moment Joan Marney would have given anything in the world to have known that. She was half tempted to tell the reason for her suspicion, and it was only with an effort she put the idea from her. She must not tell that to anyone.
"But you don't know—" she began desperately and stopped. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Handley. I know that I shouldn't have—have broken down like that. Of course, he was your son's friend—"
"Yes. He was my son's friend." The answer came grimly. "And he was good to him. That's why I'll see that he's acquitted no matter what those fools of police think. Or you. All I'm asking is that you shouldn't hinder... Now, you can go to him. I'll look for your bogey."
Before the girl's lips could frame any suitable reply, she strode past her and was going down the lane in the direction from which Joan Marney had come. The next moment the darkness had swallowed her. The rapidly receding sound of her footsteps came for a minute longer; then she was gone. Until the last had died away Joan stood staring after her, half tempted to follow, to attempt an explanation, before she turned and slowly started up the road again.
Her mind was in a turmoil. Her encounter with Mrs. Handley had completely driven from her head all recollection of her fright by the wood. Of course, it was natural that the novelist should be interested on behalf of Hugh Egmont. She had always idolized her dead son, and Egmont had been, next to Jack Marney, his closest friend. It had been Egmont who, following the accident which had killed them both, had gone to Oxford to deal with what had to be done. And she had been right. Egmont could not have been guilty. It was against his whole character. Suddenly she found herself wondering what she was to say to him.
The red tip of a cigarette advanced to meet her as she reached the cross-roads. Next minute she heard Egmont's voice.
"Joan! It's you?" His voice was oddly expressionless. "You've come."
"Yes," she said and stopped. There were a hundred things she wanted to say, and yet the flatness of his reception seemed to choke them back. She hesitated. "I—I had to, Hugh. I wanted to know—"
"Then you still believe it." He spoke bitterly. "And it was the first thing you thought. You didn't doubt even for a moment... Even Retters and the others didn't believe it—at first. But you did."
"Hugh!" She tried to find words to plead with him. "It was—it was such a shock, Hugh, hearing about Dick... And I knew how you'd quarrelled. Only a few minutes before you'd been so bitter about him—"
"Yes. We'd quarrelled about you... I wonder if either of us would think it worth while now?"
She flinched as though he had struck her. For a moment she could say nothing. In her heart there was a vague resentment. He need not have been so cruel. But he was angry, and she knew from experience that Egmont's temper once roused made him do and say things he would never have dreamed of in a normal state. It had been the knowledge of that which had made her believe him guilty—
"You think I could have talked about him—like that—if I'd just killed him?" Egmont went on. "You think I'd stab him in the back?... Yes, there were times I could have killed him. But not like that."
"And you didn't, Hugh... I know you didn't—now. But just at first— Can't you see how I felt?"
There was a long pause. She saw the glowing cigarette which he still held move quickly; then describe an arc in the air to the other side of the road as he flung it away.
"No," he said at last, "I can't. If you'd loved me and thought me guilty, you'd have tried to shield me. If you'd loved me you'd never have thought of it."
Even as he spoke she realized that perhaps he was right. And yet at the same time she was conscious of his boyishness. All at once she felt immensely older.
"Perhaps I never did love you, Hugh... I don't know. I liked you both. And Dick was dead... I suppose what you say is the heroic line. But I don't think I'm a heroic person. Liking Dick, however much I'd loved you I don't think I could have gone on, believing that you'd killed him... But I would have shielded you. And I want to... However much the police question me, I'll never tell them—"
"Tell them what?"
The question came with a violence which startled her. She hesitated.
"About—about the dagger... It was yours, wasn't it? I mean, you had one like it. I remember seeing it—"
All at once he laughed. The unexpectedness of it made her pause. There was a brief silence.
"Well, I think that's all that was needed," he said at last. "You've made half the county suspect that I'm a murderer. D'you know why I had to meet you here to-night? Because I'm watched. I can't leave my own house without a flat-footed local bobby following me everywhere. They think I don't see them! I'll kill one of the fools before I'm through... It was all I could do to shake them off. I expect they'll count this against me somehow... You might as well finish the job—by giving them the evidence to hang me!"
"But, Hugh—I wouldn't... Can't you see that knowing that made it so much harder to believe you innocent?... But I came to-night—"
"And you've told me all I wanted to know." He interrupted her harshly. "You don't love me. You never have... And I'm not hanging round any girl to be made a fool of... What good is it saying anything? Tell them what you like. I'm damned if I care!"
He turned abruptly as he finished speaking. Almost before Joan had fully understood, the darkness had swallowed him. She heard his footsteps dying away up the lane as she stood there. Only momentarily she had an impulse to call him back. Then suddenly she felt angry. Whatever excuse he might have, he had no right to treat her like that. For a minute longer she waited, half hoping that he would come back, then she turned abruptly and started back the way she had come.
In her heart her anger was growing as she went. It was all that enabled her to overcome a horrible feeling of desolation. She had meant that everything should be so different, and she was very lonely. There seemed to be no one in the whole world to whom she could unburden her mind. Even her father— A new aspect of the puzzle recurred to her mind. What had he meant by telling her not to speak about his conversation with her uncle? But he had been fond of Dick. No one could ever think that he was guilty—
She had been walking almost without thinking where she was going, or realizing where she was. It was the need for feeling her way under the shade of the trees that made her notice that she had reached the wood. Until then she had not thought of what had happened on the way out. All at once the thought recurred to her. And as it did so from the darkness somewhere close beside her came a queer, moaning cry.
She stopped with a gasp. Apart from the suddenness of it, there was something very strange in the sound. It was not human, not animal; not a cry of pain, and yet— She felt the hair prickle upon her scalp. Where had it come from? What was it? Instinctively she had backed towards the hedge, straining her eyes to pierce the shadows. In the blackness very close she heard a stealthy movement. Suddenly right beside her the cry came again, a low, moaning growl which even in her terror reminded her of something. Even as she turned to run a pair of strong hands gripped her throat.
FOR a moment sheer horror paralysed her utterly. Afterwards she realized that only one thing saved her. In the darkness her assailant had not found a proper hold. Something was ahead of her, breathing heavily in great deep gasps; she could feel its hot breath on her face. Then for an instant the fingers shifted, feeling for their grip. In that second she screamed aloud.
As if in answer the strange moan came again, low and with what seemed to be a fierce satisfaction in it. Then the pressure on her throat increased, choking the cry on her lips. She struggled furiously. Her head seemed to be filled with blood, and her lungs were bursting. And then suddenly the hold loosened. She staggered back supporting herself against the bank, too weak to move, and drawing in deep breaths of the cool night air.
It was a minute before she could take in what was happening. On the road a yard or two away someone was struggling. She heard the scrape of boots on the macadam, and the sound of blows. Then there was the noise of a sharp impact. Something fell against her legs, almost knocking her over. There was a moment of dead silence in which she could hear the wild beating of her heart. Then someone ran past her in the gloom, heading back towards the cross-roads. As the steps died away the queer growling reached her again, growing fainter in the distance. With a great wave of relief she realized that it had gone.
It was only then that she was aware of something heavy lying across her feet. With a shock she realized that it was a human body. In the same second she heard the sound of a groan and the figure stirred. Then the weight was removed from her feet. A weak murmur reached her.
"A clean K.O.!" a voice said ruefully. "William, at your time of life! You ought to have a nurse!"
"Who—who is it?" She put the question tremulously. The voice was strange to her, but the words were reassuring. "What—what was it? What happened?"
"Good Lord!" The seated man turned his face towards her. She could just see its pale oval in the gloom. "Excuse me!"
He rose to his feet. There was a rattle of matches. Then a light flared up, revealing her as she stood with one hand on her bruised throat. She found herself gazing into the face of a young man of about thirty, on whose bloodstained lips a smile gathered as she looked.
"Good evening!" he said politely as the match went out, and paused. "Which way did it go?" he asked.
"What—what was it?"
"Heaven knows! But it packed a punch which felt like a kick from a mule... You're not hurt?"
"I—I don't think so... You—came in time. My throat—"
"Let's look."
There was the scraping of a match, and a brief light flared again. The young man bent towards her, and his brown eyes scrutinized her neck. He himself, she noticed, had a cut upper lip, and there was a livid mark on his jaw.
"Bruised," he commented as the light vanished. "It'll be sore to-morrow—if it isn't now... Feel shaky?"
"I—I'm all right. Really I am... I heard it cry. Then fingers gripped my throat. I screamed—"
"And I heard you... Couldn't make out what the moaning was. Thought it might be a courting cat. But when you cried out, I gathered that there was more in it. I grabbed an arm. Something hit me in the tummy, and I expect my digestion is ruined. I held on, and got one in the mouth... I landed a poor one on something darned hard which must have been a head, and I'll bet I've skinned my knuckles. It countered with a sock to the jaw, and I flopped. In the words of the poet 'Subsequent proceedings interested me no more.'... Which way did it go?"
"Back towards the cross-roads. I heard it cry... Was it—was it a man?"
"Presumably. It had fingers, as you know. It had an arm, and a head, and it certainly had a fist. Judging by the feeling in my abdominal region I'm inclined to think it had a knee... Yes, it was most likely human. And strong as a horse."
"It—it must have been— Something followed me. As I was coming along before. I ran. It was just beyond here that I saw it—"
"Saw what?"
"I—I hardly know... I had a feeling that I was being followed. So I stopped and looked back. Something crossed a gap in the hedge. Then the moon went in, and I ran."
"And a dashed good job you did, I should say... It didn't oblige with the saxophone accompaniment then?"
"No... I don't know why I was frightened really. But it seemed—it seemed furtive. I was frightened—"
"No wonder... Feeling better? You'd better let me take you home. But just a minute—"
A match flared up, showing him bending down apparently scrutinizing the roadway. As it burned his fingers he struck another and another before he seemed to be satisfied.
"No use. Our late enemy has omitted to drop his visiting card, or leave samples of his footprints on the tarmacadam... Some blood, but I'm inclined to think that's mine. My lip's bleeding, isn't it?"
"Yes. A little."
"That's spoilt my beauty... Well. There's nothing more to be done just now. If I'd even got a torch... I hope this will be a warning to me not to be so beastly careless. When I changed my clothes I forgot it. Otherwise we should have seen—"
Joan shivered. "I wonder what we should have seen? It didn't seem human Somehow."
"No? But as a ghost it was on the solid side. A gorilla, perhaps? Though I believe they're not common in this part... Feel well enough to go?"
"I—I'm all right," Joan answered shakily, and let go her hold on the bank. "Yes, I can walk—"
"You'll be better if you'll take my arm. Or, if necessary, I'll carry you. You know, fireman's lift—like a sack. I've been wanting to practice that on someone for ages. Though you'd do better to walk from the point of view of comfort."
Perhaps it was reaction, but she actually found herself laughing. A hand touched her arm, and she clutched a little dizzily at a muscular arm.
"You can manage? Right. The sooner you're in bed the better. Take the word of one who's used to being choked... Come along."
They had walked for a few paces in silence before the girl gave a little cry.
"Feeling bad?" His voice was solicitous. "Like to rest—?"
"It—it's not that... But—but Mrs. Handley?"
"I beg your pardon. Mrs. Handley?... Oh, Constance Handley? The novelist? Yes. It's quite in her line. She'd revel in it—"
Joan interrupted him desperately. "But—but you don't understand! She was here! Perhaps—"
"Here?" The young man echoed the word dubiously. "You don't mean our bogey was a lady novelist? Mind you, I'm not denying some of 'em are pretty fierce when roused. But strangling someone who, I take it, isn't a literary critic or a rival best-seller—"
"Oh, please... Don't you understand? I met her. I told her that I'd been followed, but she laughed at me... She came—this way. To see if there was anything. If—if—!"
"Good Lord!" He gave a low whistle. "You mean, she might have found there was nothing to laugh at?... Hmm."
"But she may be dead! She may be lying here hurt—"
"Or she may have gone home and at this moment be consuming an aperitif in preparation for a satisfying repast. We'd better look on the bright side... Besides, unless we actually stumble over the corpse or hear the groans—" He felt her flinch, realized his mistake and hurried on. "I mean, we can't search, you see, as I've forgotten my torch. And I've only two matches left... She's on the telephone?"
"I—I think so... Yes. I remember Dick—"
"Then the simplest and least spectacular thing to do is to ring her up... If she's there, well and good. If not—"
"If not— She might have been attacked."
"Or she might just have gone visiting, or anything. But if we can't locate her, we'd better ring the police in case. We'll have to, anyway. And the question is, where's there a 'phone?"
"Doctor Ashby's? He's quite close. Just across the fields to the right—"
"Doctor Ashby let it be." The young man groaned a trifle too emphatically. "You know, the worst of the country is, practically everywhere is just across a few fields which, when you come to tackle 'em, turn out to be a mile of thickets and quagmires populated by wild bulls—"
"Please!" Joan broke in irritably. "You needn't... I'm not going to faint or anything. You needn't talk nonsense just to—to encourage me."
"Of course." The assent was quick enough to be convincing. "On my word of honour, I wasn't... This comes natural to me. If you'll lead the way to Doctor Ashby's, I won't say a word. That is, unless there's something really vital."
They were half-way across the fields, and Joan was beginning to feel the silence oppressive before at last he broke it.
"By the way, I suppose she wasn't? I mean, Mrs. Handley couldn't have been our bogey?... I'm not asking the question sentimentally. I'm trying to find a physical impossibility."
Joan tried to think for a moment. "Of course, she couldn't," she said at last. "I met her coming from the cross-roads. But the—the other had been following me. It couldn't have been her."
"Right. I merely wanted to know. And Doctor Ashby? He doesn't strike you as being unbalanced? The kind of man who might go off his head altogether and wander round uttering cat-calls and strangling people?"
Joan considered. "No," she said doubtfully. "I don't think he would. Of course, he's a funny little man... I don't like him. But he's not mad."
"Said she, with reservations," he made the comment fairly audibly, and seemed to realize his indiscretion and hurried on. "So the question arises, who was it? And did he attack you on general principles? Or did he attack you, however bad his judgment, because you were you? And was he the murderer?"
"The murderer?" Joan echoed the words, though it was no more than what she had half thought. "You don't mean—"
"I mean, there may be half a dozen people with homicidal tendencies wandering round this place, but it's unlikely. Someone killed Richard Marney. Someone tried to kill you. The odds are it was the same person. Then, who? Who knew you were here at all?"
Joan drew a deep breath. For a moment the thought of Hugh Egmont flashed through her mind.
"I—I don't know," she said. "There isn't anyone who—" She broke off. A black shape looming through the darkness offered an excuse. "There's the house," she said. "Doctor Ashby's."
"Looks as though we're unlucky." Her companion had drawn the same conclusion as she herself had done. The whole house seemed to be in darkness as though its occupants were out. "Well. What's the next nearest 'phone? We'll try here first, though."
But an assault on the door-bell which might have awakened the dead, failed to elicit any response. They could hear the clanging of the old-fashioned bell somewhere in the back regions, but there was no answering light, and the door remained closed.
"Out," the young man said briefly. "And the servants too, it appears... Well. Quite probably he can explain where he's been—"
"But—but you don't think it was Doctor Ashby?"
"Who knows?... Then he doesn't appeal to you as a possible murderer? Or maniac?"
"That's impossible. I don't like him much, but—"
"The trouble is, of course, that murderers, and even lunatics, so often don't look the part. If you ask people who've known them well, you'll find they've never suspected anything wrong. That's often the difficulty. People who know something that would put the police on the right track don't come forward because they think 'Oh, it couldn't be so-and-so. He's such a nice man!'... Let's hope no one's doing that in this case."
She was silent for quite a long time. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak.
"Why?" she asked at last.
"Well—after to-night, it looks as though there might be other murders. It wouldn't be very pleasant, would it, to know one could have prevented them?"
Joan drew a deep breath. "But—but if you were sure a person was innocent? I mean, that he couldn't have committed a crime like—like that? If you knew something that might look suspicious—might get him convicted of a crime he didn't commit—?"
She broke off abruptly, realizing that she had been on the verge of saying more than she meant. All at once, as they stood there in the dark porch, she was conscious of the unusual position in which she found herself. She had seen the young man whose arm she was holding only for a minute or two by the light of a match.
"Who—who are you?" she asked. "You didn't tell me your name—"
"I beg your pardon... My name's Lyly—William Lyly. Bill, for short... And you're Miss Joan Marney?"
"Yes," she assented, and as she did so felt a sudden surprise. "How—how did you know? You're a stranger here—"
"Guessed... Hullo! Who's this?"
Someone was hurrying up the path towards them. In the faint light they could make out only the dark shape against the dewy background of the lawn. Then the moon gleamed faintly on something white, and Joan recognized him.
"It's Doctor Ashby," she whispered. "His beard—"
"Quiet! Let him get a bit closer."
He drew her back a little farther into the shadow. She obeyed unresistingly, though a little amazed at her own acquiescence. Ashby was only a yard or two away. Certainly he had been hurrying more than was good for a man of his age. They could hear his heavy breathing. Almost within an arm's length he stopped, and seemed to be feeling for his key. Joan could see the moonlight glisten on his bald head. Apparently he was hatless, and it crossed her mind that she had never before seen him out of doors without one.
"Excuse me, sir—"
Lyly had stepped from cover as he spoke. The suddenness of his appearance might have startled anyone. Its effect on Ashby was undeniable. He gave a strangled, gulping noise. For a moment it seemed as though he was going to take to his heels and run.
"Who—who are you?"
His voice shook as he put the question. There was a brief pause. Then Lyly seemed to think he had scared the professor enough.
"Excuse me, sir," he repeated politely. "Miss Joan Marney has been attacked... If we might use your telephone for a moment—?"
"Attacked?" Ashby echoed the word amazedly. "Marney—?"
"In the lane a few hundred yards away. Near the wood. You might have met someone, sir?"
"I met—I met no one," Ashby said hesitantly, and paused. "You want to telephone? Of course."
His hand seemed to be shaking as he fitted the key to the lock and threw the door open. He pressed a switch, and as the lights flashed up stood blinking at them doubtfully. If he had been the attacker, he showed no signs of it, barring the absence of his hat. He bowed awkwardly as his eyes met the girl's, but it was at the young man he looked most fixedly, and his uneasiness seemed to increase as he did so.
"You want to telephone?" he repeated. "Of course... Just here... Miss Marney would like to rest? A glass of sherry..."
As Lyly lifted the receiver he almost bustled her into the drawing-room and offered her a chair. Joan accepted the sherry thankfully. The young man's prophecy was proving correct, and her throat was already painful. Ashby had poured himself a glass. He drained it at a gulp, and refilled it with a rather surreptitious air. He did not sit down, but stood by the door, his head a little on one side, and casting quick, furtive glances at her.
Abruptly she realized that he was listening. Where she sat, the voice of the speaker at the telephone was an indistinguishable murmur. But Ashby must be able to hear every word of what was being said. Her knowledge must have revealed itself in her face. He caught her eyes upon him and flushed guiltily.
"The—the young man—" he began nervously. "Your friend, Miss Marney— He is hurt?"
"When he came to my help," Joan answered briefly. Although at that moment she was drinking his sherry, she felt her dislike of the man increase. "He was knocked down—"
"And you? The—the murderer escaped?"
"I was nearly strangled... Mr. Lyly came just in time."
"Lyly?" Dr. Ashby frowned over the name. "I think—he's a visitor here?"
"I only know that he probably saved my life," Joan answered wearily. She had no intention whatever of discussing her companion with the professor, even if her throat had not been aching.
"But who—? You did not see who attacked you?"
Joan shook her head. The entrance of Lyly saved her the trouble of snubbing her host. She saw his eyebrows rise a little as he noted Ashby's position, and she guessed that he knew about the eavesdropping. He turned to Joan.
"Mrs. Handley's quite all right," he announced. "She saw nothing, and got home quite safely half an hour ago. The police will be arriving in a few minutes... And I arranged for a car for you, Miss Marney—"
"The police?" Ashby said uneasily. "Of course, the police... But what can they find? Mrs. Handley was there?"
"We were afraid she might have been attacked by the lunatic, sir," Lyly said. "Luckily she was not."
"A lunatic? Homicidal mania, you think? Then—then the murder—"
"That's for the police to settle, sir. Luckily you came back when you did. There may still be time to catch him... And you saw no sign of anyone suspicious? Which way did you come?"
Ashby moistened his lips before he spoke. "I—I wasn't in the lane," he said. "I'd just been for a walk. In the fields behind—"
He glanced down at his feet. Undoubtedly his soaked shoes and trouser bottoms offered confirmation; but Joan thought, the puzzle remained why a man of his years and habits should have done anything of the kind. Lyly ignored the point.
"You heard nothing?" he asked. "No cry? A queer, moaning noise?"
The question seemed to discompose the other still more. He actually paled.
"A—a moaning cry?" He echoed. "Like— No. I heard nothing... There's a car now. I imagine that will be the police, Inspector—"
"Inspector?" Joan Marney looked at him with startled eyes. "You mean—you?"
There was a rather rueful expression on Lyly's face as he inclined his head in assent.
"Yes," he admitted. "As the professor seems to have guessed, of Scotland Yard."
IF Superintendent Leyland had known Lyly better he would have found him unwontedly silent during the fruitless hour's search which followed. The young man was oppressed by the look he had seen on Joan Marney's face when he first confessed to his official position, and his thoughts on the subject were the reverse of pleasant. But Leyland himself liked talking, and scarcely noticed the Scotland Yard man's depression.
"Not a sign except the blood-spots," he announced almost cheerfully. "And you say those are yours? You didn't mark him?"
"I shouldn't think so. Unless he's got a bump on his forehead. You see, I must have hit his head, and the hair would cover it."
Leyland considered for a moment. "Ashby's bald," he said thoughtfully. "Except at the sides. But you might have hit him on the side of the head. And you say he'd no hat? Notice his hands?"
"His hands?" Lyly looked his surprise. "What's wrong with them?"
"Regular talons, his fingers are. Might have been made for strangling... Hmm. And he was just going for a walk again? Same as when Marney died."
Lyly shook his head. "I shouldn't think he'd be strong enough," he objected. "Whoever it was handled me quite easily."
"But you were partly knocked out at the beginning. Besides, lunatics seem to get an amazing strength while the fit's on them... About that arm you grabbed. It was a coat sleeve?"
Lyly thought. "Yes," he said at last. "I wasn't noticing very much. But it must have been. Something rough, like a tweed."
"A tweed?" There was satisfaction in Leyland's voice. "And what kind of coat had Ashby got?"
"A brown—Good Lord!"
"Of course, it doesn't prove anything," Leyland admitted. "Still, there are one or two pointers towards him. Only—" He frowned. "You didn't know that Egmont slipped the man we had watching his house? He was out somewhere."
"I rather gathered he might have been." Something suspiciously like a scowl gathered on his face for a few seconds; then he smiled. "As a matter of fact, I know where he was. You see, I was following him myself."
"The devil you were! Know where he went?"
"He had an interview with Miss Joan Marney at the crossroads just above here. An unsatisfactory business... Miss Marney knows something. About the dagger."
"You overheard?"
"Not as much as I'd have liked... I caught the word. And she practically admitted she knew something about somebody. The question is, how are we going to make her talk?"
"I'll bet we don't... She's as obstinate as—as her uncle. And that's the one thing we want." A thought seemed to strike him. "But, look here. If you were watching Egmont he couldn't have done this?"
"I don't know... I gave up trailing him in favour of the girl. My idea was that I might get into conversation somehow and explore the ground a bit before she heard who I was. Unfortunately, Ashby spoilt that."
"And how the devil did he know?" Leyland demanded.
"He was listening while I 'phoned. But I quite thought he would, and I don't think I gave much away. Yes, that's an interesting point. Who could he have met to tell him?"
"He might have known your name?"
"I doubt if I'm famous enough," Lyly grinned ruefully. "Then, who knew? Wilmot and Maurice Marney, of course. They saw me with you. But that's all. Unless someone has broadcast it from the station."
"That's not likely... In any case, if Ashby'd just been for a walk in the fields, he wouldn't meet anyone who knew. You didn't tell anyone yourself?"
"No. I consumed a pint of beer at the pub, and listened in. But I rather think I succeeded in giving the impression that I was a reporter. And I went to the post office. Saw Norton, incidentally. He seems a cranky old bird."
"Ah, the post office... Find out anything?"
"Only that it would be perfectly simple for pretty well anyone to pop a letter in among the mail if they watched their chance... Pretty casual sort of show. And Norton is short sighted."
"Wonder where he's been to-night? We'd better try and find out. But, look here. If you followed Miss Marney, Egmont would have had to pass you to get to her?"
"I don't think so. She wasn't going very fast. And I seem to remember from the map that there's a sort of short cut across here? Through the wood."
"There is—if you know it."
"Egmont would. Well, suppose he did decide after waiting a minute or two to do Joan Marney in? The road curves a lot here. He could have come along just behind me, dived through the wood, and be on the spot ready for action."
"You didn't hear him?"
"Not a sound."
"Wonder if he's home yet?... Good Lord, I hope our maniac hasn't done for him?"
"We'll soon find out. There's nothing more we can do here."
"No," Leyland agreed. "Though we'll search the wood tomorrow morning. There might be footprints... I think Marney's house is next on the programme."
"How's the old man?"
"Not expected to live... And still unconscious. It's a bad business. First young Jack about a year ago. Then Dick and Sir John. Only Maurice left to inherit everything."
Lyly was thinking over that last remark as they climbed into the waiting car and started down the lane; but they had gone some distance before he at last broke the silence.
"You didn't mean that?" he asked.
"What?"
"About Maurice Marney... After all, I suppose Dick would have had a share in the estate."
"The estate could stand it if it did. So, I don't see much motive there. And why attack Joan Marney?"
"It doesn't seem to fit... And that's the snag in the other possibility too. I mean Charles."
"Don't you realize that, if anything happened to Maurice Marney, Charles would be the next heir? Three dead already—or dying. Only one left—"
"Good God!" Leyland's voice sounded shocked. "You're not suggesting he'd bump off the whole family?"
"It has been done... But there's no reason for killing Miss Marney. Assuming, that is, that the murderer knew who he was attacking."
Leyland thought. "Might it be someone who wanted to make a clean sweep of the whole family?" he asked.
"Let's hope not. Because he might beg another before we got him. The worst of it is that that's possible. Someone who's brooded over a grouse against the Marneys until his brain has gone. And, you see, he may be perfectly sane on everything else."
"Ashby. Egmont," Leyland murmured, and after a considerable interval. "Norton?"
Neither of the two men spoke again until the car drew up outside the house. Maurice Marney evidently heard its arrival, for he was waiting at the door to receive them.
"We're late, sir, I'm afraid," The superintendent apologized with a glance at the clock. "We were delayed—"
Maurice looked at him quickly. "Nothing's happened?" he asked.
"Well—" Leyland glanced at Lyly who nodded. "I'm sorry to say, sir, that your cousin has been attacked—"
"Charles?"
His face was expressionless, but there was a trace of surprise in his voice. And yet, to Lyly, there was something odd about the assumption that it was Joan's father and not Joan who had been the victim.
"Miss Joan, sir."
"Joan!" This time there was no doubt that Maurice Marney had received a shock. He stared at the superintendent incredulously. "But—but she wouldn't be out... What happened?"
His eyes did not leave Leyland's face as he listened to a severely edited account of what had happened. At the end he drew a deep breath.
"Strangling," he said. "My God, if—"
He broke off frowning down at the floor doubtfully.
"Where was she going?" he demanded.
"Perhaps she'll tell you that, sir. Though, actually, I believe she was coming back. You can't suggest who might want to attack her?"
Maurice hesitated. "Well, you'll think it's a wild accusation," he said after a pause. "But that novelist woman—she was there?"
"In a sense, yes, sir." Lyly's eyebrows rose. "But I understood she is on good terms with your family?"
"We are friendly. Or rather, when she came here my—my boy and young Handley were friendly. After—after what happened—I suppose we felt sympathetic... I've never liked her."
"But that's scarcely a reason why she should be a murderess, sir."
"No... But she's very struck on Egmont. It's just possible she might have—have killed Dick so that he'd be out of the way." He flushed. "With—with Joan, I mean."
"But why attack Joan?"
"Perhaps she'd decided she wasn't good enough? I know that all this sounds very thin. But she really has come to regard Egmont almost as a substitute for her son." A thought seemed to strike him and he looked keenly at the superintendent. "Joan—did she meet Egmont?"
"I'm afraid she hasn't told us yet," Lyly replied with literal truth. "Why?"
"Well—" Marney hesitated. "I thought she might. And the inspector—what was his name? Boreman seemed to think Egmont might have something to do with it."
"We can't say definitely yet, sir," Leyland answered. "That's why we thought it might be a good idea to look through your brother's papers. We're considering any possible person who might have had a motive. You haven't come across anything?"
Marney shook his head. "But most of my brother's stuff is locked up," he said. "I think you have the keys? So if you'll come along to his room—"
"There's one other point," Lyly intervened. "It's cropped up again to-night, and it might prove decisive... You saw the weapon, Mr. Marney."
Maurice Marney hesitated. "Yes," he said at last. "When I went to identify the body."
"You can see, sir, that it would be a great point if we could establish possession of the dagger. It's a peculiar weapon, and one which would be noticed... Have you at any time seen anything of the kind belonging to anyone you know?"
All at once every scrap of colour seemed to have left Marney's face. He stood looking at the two detectives with a curious expression. Then the colour flooded back as he flushed a dull red.
"Yes," he said after a long pause. "I have."
"You have, sir?" Leyland gave him a searching glance. "You didn't say so before."
"No," Marney admitted. He hesitated. "The fact is, it was rather a shock to me and—well, I suppose I was scared. I'd like to make a clean breast of it now. Not that it's anything very exciting. If you'll come this way—"
They followed him in silence as he led the way to a small room at the far end of the entrance hall, adjoining, Lyly judged, the kitchens and the back part of the house. The door opened on to what looked surprisingly like an office. There was a roll-top desk, several steel filing cabinets and in one corner a small safe which Lyly's expert eye told him was far better than one might have expected to find there.
It was to the desk that Marney went. He unlocked the top and flung it back.
"This is your brother's room?" Lyly asked.
"No. This is my office. There's a good deal of estate business, you know, and I've been acting as agent for my father for some years... Here."
He had been fumbling at the back of a pigeon-hole as he spoke. As he straightened himself he held out something towards the superintendent, at which both men gazed in astonishment.
"Good Lord!" Leyland exclaimed. "It's the dagger. But how—"
"It's a duplicate... I had two given me by a friend a few years ago. This one I sometimes use as a paper-knife."
"And the other?"
"I haven't seen it for ages... Until I went to see poor Dick. But of course I couldn't help recognizing it at once."
Lyly took the dagger from him gingerly. Marney's fingerprints must already be on it, but there was a chance of others. But as he examined it he decided that that was unlikely. It had been recently cleaned. In all respects it was an exact twin of the bloodstained weapon which was at that moment reposing at the police station.
"This one has been here all the time?" he asked.
"So far as I know. I don't think I've used it at all for a week or two. It was only when—when I saw Dick that I looked for it. It was in one of the drawers here."
"It's been cleaned lately?"
"Not very. I suppose when I left it lying about the servants would clean it with the rest of the things."
"I suppose a good few people come to this room?"
"Yes. It's where I do the bulk of the estate business. All the tenants. And people like carpenters and so on."
"No personal friends?"
"Not generally. If I was busy, I suppose I might ask someone to come here."
"Your brother—he could have come here?"
"Oh, yes. Very often did... I wasn't always very pleased about it. You see, though he's not unbusinesslike, he wasn't interested in it, and he used to stop me from working... You think he could have got the other? But I don't see—"
Lyly ignored the question. "I'd like you to try and remember, sir, exactly how long it is since you saw the duplicate of this?"
Marney considered. "And I'm afraid I can't tell you, Inspector. You see, they're exactly alike. I couldn't tell one from the other, or know which I happened to pick up at any given time. I don't remember seeing them together for a year or more."
"But they might have been here? I see, sir." Lyly weighed the shining blade in his hand. "You've no objection to our taking this for a little while."
Marney raised his eyebrows a little. "Not the least," he said after the slightest possible pause. "But surely that can have no connexion with—with what happened?"
"That's hard to say, sir... Do you think by any chance your brother might have borrowed the other?"
"Very possibly... Poor old Dick had rather a casual way of taking my things. But that wound couldn't have been self-inflicted."
"Perhaps not, sir... I'd like the name and address of the friend who gave the weapons to you."
"By all means." Marney drew a slip of paper towards him and scribbled a few lines on it. "Here. But you may have some trouble in getting hold of him. He's rather a globe-trotter. And I think he's abroad at the present time."
"You think those were the only two, sir?"
"Probably. It's unusual work. Of course, they did make these things in pairs very often. For duels and so on."
"Duels?" Leyland said quickly. "And when did you last see this one?"
"I don't know. A few days ago."
"I suppose, sir," Lyly suggested, "you couldn't make us out any kind of a list of people who have had access to this room and might have taken the dagger?"
Marney stared. "Well," he said hesitantly, "I might. But I couldn't guarantee it would be complete. It's rather a large order and would take time."
"Of course, sir. But I should be obliged if you would... And now, I think, sir, if we could glance through your brother's papers—"
Marney nodded. They were retracing their steps down the hall before any objection seemed to strike him.
"I suppose it is all right?" he said. "From a legal point of view? I believe he had made a will—?"
"He had, sir?"
"Yes. Not that he'd a great deal to leave, but my father insisted that we should both do so... The point is that I'm unaware of its terms. The lawyers have it... Shouldn't you apply to his executors?"
"Perhaps so, sir... You don't know who they are?"
"No idea."
"In any case, sir. It would mean delay. You see, our idea is that your brother may have been threatened or had some enemy we don't know about. There might be some record of it in his papers. And time might be important."
"I suppose it's all right?... You'll allow me to be present during the search?"
Actually Lyly would have preferred a free hand; but he had very little choice. He tried to make his assent cordial.
"By all means, sir... This is the room?"
Marney had stopped outside a door at the extreme end of the corridor which ran the length of the house and was feeling in his pocket in search of a key.
"Yes. You see, we each had a room to which we could go out of each other's way. With my father and both of us living in the same house, it was the best way to avoid friction... Here we are."
He turned the key in the lock and pushed. To his obvious surprise the door opened only an inch or two and then stuck. He pushed harder, but it still resisted him.
"That's funny," he said. "It opened easily enough—"
Through the crack Superintendent Leyland caught a glimmer of light. As he pushed Marney aside there was the sound of a window opening.
"My God, there's someone there!"
Leyland did not waste any breath on announcing the obvious, or pay any heed to Marney's exclamation. All the weight of his twelve stone odd crashed against the door. There was a crack, but the door still held.
"Damn it, we'll miss him—"
Lyly was already running down the passage towards the outside door as Leyland's shoulder battered the door again. This time there was a splintering of wood. The superintendent sprawled headlong amid the wreck of the delicate antique chair which had held it. He struggled to his feet as Marney reached for the switch. There was a click, but no more.
"The light's off—"
Leyland's torch was already in his hand. He flashed it round the room. It was empty, but the billowing curtain in the far corner gave an explanation of where the intruder had gone. He crossed the room hastily and peered out switching off the torch as he did so. But outside everything was quiet. The intruder seemed to have vanished utterly.
Leyland swore under his breath. If only the chair had smashed at his first charge they might have had a chance. As it was, their quarry must have had a good two or three minutes' start, and pursuit, if he knew the ground, was well-nigh hopeless. Suddenly his hopes revived at the sound of a stealthy step on the gravel a few yards away. He was half-way through the window, holding the torch ready, when Lyly's voice came to him from the darkness.
"Steady, Superintendent... He's got away clean. But there might be tracks."
NOT without a twinge of nervousness, superintendent Leyland switched on his torch and looked down. The alarm was already given, and whoever had been in the room must know that as soon as an entrance was forced they would come straight to the open window. From that point of view it did not greatly matter if he was seen; but the thought crossed his mind that the murderer who had killed Dick Marney and attacked the girl might not be above a pot-shot at an intrusive policeman. But nothing happened as he flashed the torch this way and that over the surface of the path.
"Not a trace," he greeted Lyly as he came up, walking carefully at the extreme edge of the gravelled space. "You didn't see him?"
"No. The door was locked, and I couldn't make that fool of a servant understand... He must be miles away... Lend me that torch, will you?"
Bending down, he examined the ground foot by foot. Marks there certainly were, where the unknown had jumped from the window-ledge, but they were indistinguishable. And almost at once they disappeared. There was no saying in what direction the burglar had gone. Lyly satisfied himself of that, and came back to the window.
"Might see more by morning," he said. "If we search now, we're as likely to spoil tracks as find them... How did he get in?"
Leyland accepted the torch which his colleague extended and switched it towards the window-frame.
"Broke the catch," he said. "No... It was broken already. He'd only got to push the window up." He turned to Marney who had entered the room and was standing just behind him. "You knew this catch had gone?"
Marney nodded. "It was reported to me three days ago. The man was coming... Ordinarily, of course, it would have been attended to by now. But with all that's happened—"
"That's quite natural, sir. Though it's bad luck—or may be." He jerked his head to the desk beside them. Even in the hurry of his first entrance into the room he had already noted the open top. "The question is, who'd know about it?"
Without waiting for an answer he slipped from the windowsill into the room, and shone his torch round. Almost the first object it revealed was the bulb of the electric light on the desk-top beside him. Just in time he arrested Marney's hand as he stretched out to take it.
"Don't, sir. Might be finger-prints on it... That's an old dodge. Maybe you could get another bulb, sir?"
Marney gave the necessary order to the butler who was keeping at bay a small crowd of excited servants in the doorway. He was back before Lyly swung himself through the window to rejoin them. Handling the socket delicately, Leyland inserted it. The light flared up, revealing the whole room.
"Shut the door!" Leyland snapped and looked round. "And now—"
But after all there was little enough to see. The room itself presented an odd contrast with that which they had just left. That had been severely business-like; this was the room of a sportsman. A couple of guns, a fishing rod, and various tackle littered one corner. The few books which the small bookcase contained dealt with fishing, hunting, or the lighter forms of natural history. About it was an air of rather untidy comfort; and the chair which had been used to block the door was the only one incapable of receiving a full-grown man with ease and security. In the whole room only the open desk-top and the shattered chair offered the least sign of disorder. Lyly joined the superintendent as he bent to examine the lock.
"Forced," he commented. "And that was easy enough. A strong knife, even... Wonder if he got what he came for?"
It was a question which it was hard to answer. Certainly the intruder had been searching undisturbed for some time; for the neat piles of paper had been moved from the pigeon holes which they had occupied, and pushed to one side of the desk. Lyly frowned at them.
"Wonder why he did that?" he asked, and turned to Marney. "Is there a secret drawer?"
"Not so far as I am aware... But, you must understand, I should not be. We generally respected the privacy of each other's rooms pretty strictly... Dick never spoke of one. But why should he?"
Lyly nodded. He had already sounded the depth of the pigeon-holes and ascertained that the back seemed unnaturally thick. His fingers were searching the woodwork feeling for the spring. All at once there was a click. The whole framework of the pigeon-holes moved under his hand, and he pulled it out.
"Ah!" Leyland gave an exclamation of satisfaction. "And now, we'll see—"
"Shall we?" Lyly said gloomily. "I doubt it... Our burglar seems to have known about the window-catch. He knew what he wanted in the desk, and that he could force the lock. It looks as though he knew about this too. It's just the bare chance that we came too soon... How the devil does it open?"
It was a minute or two before an innocent-looking knot yielded the secret and the apparently solid woodwork moved slightly. Lyly tugged at it. It lifted upwards on hinges, revealing a vertical space about eight inches high and three deep, running the full length of the desk.
"Secret my eye," he commented. "Nearly all these hiding places wouldn't fool a child... What's inside?"
At the first view the recess seemed to be empty. It was right at the side, flat against the woodwork and standing on its edge that he finally noticed the solitary envelope which formed its sole contents. He drew it out. It was addressed to Richard Marney, in an unformed, feminine hand, but it was not stamped. Inside were several closely covered sheets. With a glance at Marney who nodded a little hesitantly he opened the letter and spread it on the desk. The three men bent over it.
"Hm. No address," commented Leyland. "'My darling Dick'— Oh."
He whistled softly, skimmed through the first sheet, and stole a glance at Maurice. For once his usually calm face was as black as thunder, and his jaw was set hard.
"Pretty gushy, eh?" Leyland said as they started the second sheet. "Doesn't tell us much—except about the mental state of the writer."
"She—she was in love with Dick?" Maurice's voice shook. "And he'd been meeting her. Here. And Joan—"
"Who's it from?" Leyland glanced at the last sheet. "Ah. 'Ever your most loving Maud.'... I suppose, sir, you've never heard him speak of anyone by that name?"
"Never."
Maurice snapped the word out and was silent, staring down at the letter with a dazed, horrified look on his face.
"No, it doesn't tell us much," Leyland repeated. "Maud—well, she's a village girl, obviously. Not very well educated. It's been going on for some time. This was written to him when he'd been away for about a fortnight—"
"Six—six weeks ago," Marney said unsteadily. "He went to town."
She seems pretty badly hit. "And he—well, if we can believe this I should say that he—reciprocated."
"It's—it's damnable!" Marney burst out. "Dick—to do this... Don't you understand? All this time, he was going after Joan—?"
"Was it the only one?" Lyly asked thoughtfully. "Or was it just one our burglar missed in his hurry? And was there anything else?"
Leyland gazed at the letter thoughtfully. "If they were meeting regularly—as they seem to have been," he said, "there may not have been much occasion to write. Except when he was away... It rather alters things—"
"It alters—everything," Marney said slowly, and quite suddenly sat down and buried his face in his hands. "Thank God that he won't have to hear of it—"
"Better look through the rest," Leyland suggested. "They might tell us something about her."
Most of the papers could be dismissed at a glance. Richard Marney seemed to share at least some of his brother's businesslike qualities. Everything was in perfect order; bills, receipts docketed separately; a few unimportant private letters, retained, presumably, because they had not been answered; some oddments in the way of advertisements, licenses, and the like. But there was no sign of anything to do with the writer of the love-letter.
"No good," Leyland said briefly, and then noticed what Lyly was studying. "His bank-book, eh? Anything there?"
"I don't know... That's queer."
The book had only been made up a few days previously. On the whole, Dick Marney had been comparatively economical. They could form a fair estimate of his income, and he had not spent anything like the amount. Three months before, Lyly had noticed, there had been a balance of over £1,000; at the end of the columns of figures this had been reduced to £56. And the item to which he had pointed was undoubtedly that which accounted for the change. Leyland's eyebrows rose as he read it.
"Self, £960... Mr. Marney—"
Maurice had risen to his feet and was standing just behind them.
"Mr. Marney, you can't suggest why your brother should have drawn out this rather large sum of money?"
Marney shook his head dumbly, but from the look on his face it was plain enough that he conjectured something very like what was passing in the superintendent's own mind.
"Well, it looks as though that's all," Lyly said thoughtfully. His eyes strayed towards the window. "We'd better find some way of locking that," he suggested. "I suppose your finger-print men won't be available to-night?"
"They could be—if it's absolutely necessary."
"I think they'll wait. I'm not expecting any. The man who came here seems to have thought of most things. Who's that?"
There was a knock at the door. Leyland stepped across and opened it to reveal the butler.
"Excuse me, sir. Your sergeant is here. He asked if you had any further orders, sir."
"Sergeant? Oh. He took Miss Marney home... Yes. I'd just like a word with him. Send him along... You don't happen to have any window wedges? Or a screw?"
He jerked his thumb towards where the curtain was still blowing over the open window.
"I'll see at once, sir... The sergeant is coming, sir."
Obviously the detective-sergeant had been hoping for his immediate dismissal; for his face as he entered wore an expression of resignation.
"Ah, Sergeant," Leyland said cheerfully. "Miss Marney got home all right?"
"Yes, sir... I left her in charge of the housekeeper, Mr. Marney being out—"
"Out?" Lyly asked quickly.
"Yes, sir. He's been out most of the evening... The young lady was nearly all right, sir... You wanted something else, sir?"
"Yes. I'd just like a word with you." He gave a quick glance towards Marney, who was standing at the desk, frowning down at the carpet, and edging a little towards the door spoke a few sentences in a low voice which only the sergeant could hear. Plainly their purport did not give the detective any pleasure. If anything his face assumed an expression of deeper gloom as he went out. Leyland turned to the butler who had just re-appeared. "Got some? Splendid... I'll just shut it—"
The window had been fixed beyond any possibility of any further opening, and Leyland and the inspector had examined the fastenings of the others before Leyland turned to Marney. He was still standing in exactly the same place.
"I'd like to lock this room until morning and take the key, sir," he said. "And—that."
He indicated the letter which Lyly had refolded and replaced in its envelope. Marney only nodded assent. He hardly spoke another word up to the time they finally took leave, except to answer Lyly's question to the effect that the baronet's condition was unchanged. They entered the car behind the reproachful sergeant in silence and had started down the drive before Leyland spoke.
"Strait-laced sort, isn't he? Seemed absolutely bowled over by that letter."
"I suppose that was it? Or, of course, he may be afraid of a scandal. Or—"
He broke off exasperatingly. They sat for some minutes in silence before Leyland made another attempt.
"It's a queer business," he said obviously. "First the attack on Miss Marney—then here. And pretty well everyone wandering about the countryside—"
"Well, at any rate, Maurice is out of the burglary. And, I should say, Mrs. Handley. Unless someone was imitating her voice, she was at home when I telephoned. I don't believe she could have got here in time to be engaged in the burglary. We came straight here."
"But we spent a few minutes chatting to our friend Maurice. And looking at the knife. And that was funny, too."
"I don't know. It must have been a shock when he recognized it. And he might easily have been afraid... We should never have known about the other if he'd not owned up."
"Shouldn't we? Don't you think one of the servants would have let it out, if the daggers have just been knocking about in that room for a few years? It looks to me as though he might have made a virtue of necessity... But I can't see any really good reason why he should have killed his brother.
Lyly did not answer at once. "The worst of it is, I can," he said slowly. "But the question is, was it possible? He was with the hunt... It's a thing I'd like to inquire into a bit more closely."
"I don't see that he could have strangled Miss Marney, either. If he's been in all evening."
"We never asked that... Not that he exactly lines up as a murderer, does he? But then, he's just the quiet, dutiful type which must be suppressing the devil of a lot. It might have burst out."
"I don't believe it... Anyhow, you can't call it a bad night's work. One attempted murder, a burglary, the knife, and the letter—not to mention the bank-book... Blackmail, you think?"
"Shouldn't be surprised. I wonder how many Mauds there are in the village? The parish register might help."
"That's an idea. I'll put a man on to it. Or Retters might help us. I will say that for him, he does seem to know his district pretty well. Even the murderer recognizes his qualities—sending him a letter to tip him off—"
Lyly had been leaning back comfortably in the seat. All at once he sat upright.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "The letter—!"
"Here... Just show a light a minute. You remember the notepaper and envelope of the anonymous letter. How about this?"
Leyland studied the love-letter in the beam from the torch. Then he drew a deep breath.
"The same," he said. "And that means—?"
"It may mean nothing. Probably half the village buys its paper at the post office. But it might help to confirm things, if we find Maud."
"And, I suppose, we'd better get down to that next... How about knocking up Retters? He might know?"
"Yes... But I'd like you to drop me near the Dower House." He refolded the letter and replaced it in his case. "You arranged to have a watch there, didn't you? That was why you spoke to the sergeant?"
"I did." Leyland grinned at the sergeant's unconscious back. "I reckon if this goes on, Retters will be the only man in the entire constabulary who enjoys a murder investigation..."
"In that case," Lyly suggested, "I wonder if you could arrange for Retters to relieve me at the Dower House at about three o'clock?"
"You mean—you're going to watch there?"
"My private opinion is that just at the moment all the Marney family will bear watching. Either as potential murderers or victims. And I only wish I knew which!"
"You wouldn't like me to come back?" Leyland asked reluctantly. "Or I expect I could get hold of a detective—"
"Retters will do. In fact, I think he'll revel in the job... But you might lend me your torch... Here we are... Just ask him to stop, will you?"
As he threw the car door open the night air blew on them coldly. Maliciously, Leyland simulated a shiver.
"Brrr! Better you than me... Nothing else you want? Got enough tobacco?"
"Too much." There was genuine melancholy in the inspector's voice. "Because, you see, I don't think I ought to smoke... I'll meet Retters at the gate at three o'clock. And tell him to come as unobtrusively as possible."
He slammed the door a little viciously and was lost to view. As the car started forward, Leyland settled himself more comfortably in the seat and draped a rug round his knees. With a smile of satisfaction he pulled out his pipe.
FOR the past thirty-six hours Police Constable Retters had been nourishing a feeling of injury. His grievance had started with his snubbing by Boreman, and what had happened since had tended to increase it rather than otherwise. Since his arrival at the village, it was the first time anything had happened more exciting than a poaching raid or a road accident, and it seemed peculiarly hard that, when a murder had actually occurred in his own district, he should be practically excluded from displaying his talents in the investigation of it. It was true his interview with the superintendent had been comparatively encouraging; but Leyland had spoilt it by failing to disguise sufficiently his amusement at some of the theories which Retters had ventured to put forward. And most of the subsequent work had naturally fallen upon the detective staff, who had scarcely even bothered to visit the station to use the telephone.
A somewhat belated high tea completely failed to produce its customary cheering effect when he set off up the village street at about a quarter to eight that evening. In his mind there was the germ of an idea. With the normal lines of enquiry he could not venture to meddle and yet he must do something. What he needed was an inspiration; but a good deal of deep thinking had completely failed to provide one. It provided in the end only a possible means of achieving one, and he was trying to make up his mind whether or not to adopt it.
It had been plain enough as he watched Boreman interviewing Mrs. Handley the inspector had cut her off in very much the same way that Retters himself had suffered. As a novelist, Constance Handley could scarcely help having any number of ideas about the murder, and to Retters it seemed that they might represent an untapped spring of knowledge of which use might be made. Officially, of course, he could scarcely consult her; but there luck was with him. In his pocket reposed a perfectly good excuse for visiting her, and if she, like everyone else he had met that day, started to talk to him about the murder, he had the superintendent's own instructions to keep his ears open. Briefly, he intended to use Constance Handley's cat as a stalking horse.
He was preoccupied as he passed the inn, or the collision would never have taken place. It was true that the door had opened suddenly, but he himself was at least equally to blame. But, more especially in his present mood, that was a point he preferred to ignore.
"Steady, there, steady. Look where you're going." He admonished the man who had just emerged with unwonted sternness, and peered to see who it was in the light which came through the adjacent window. "Oh, it's you, Joe Wallis, is it? Time you went home, I should say."
Normally the poacher would certainly have resented the insinuation. But that night, strangely enough, he seemed pacifically inclined. He proffered an apology, combined with only the very mildest protest.
"Sorry, Retters," he said quite placatingly. "Didn't see you... But you know darn well I don't get sozzled—least of all by eight o'clock."
Undoubtedly that was true. To be a good poacher needs a clear head, and as Retters knew to his cost, Joe Wallis was certainly the best in the district. He accepted the olive branch.
"It's coming out into the dark that does it," he admitted. "I didn't see you, either, for that matter... Good night."
"Just a minute." Retters turned in surprise at the note in the poacher's voice. "There's something I'd like to tell you, if you'll listen."
"Well?" In Retters' mind there was a certain amount of suspicion. Once, when he first came to the village, he had received from Wallis a tip about poaching, which had resulted in getting both himself and all inconvenient gamekeepers well out of the way of that gentleman's operations. There was sarcasm in his voice as he added: "Heard of some poaching, maybe?" Wallis laughed. "No, I'm not reckoning I can catch you that way twice," he said candidly. "But it's a queer thing that happened a night or two ago. I reckoned I'd better tell you—seeing what happened yesterday."
"You mean—about the murder?" Retters tried to repress the eagerness in his voice. "But—the night before last? Why, it hadn't happened—"
"Listen a minute. Maybe it had something to do with that, and maybe it hadn't but you'd better have it... Well, I was coming home pretty late the night before last. It'd be about three in the morning—"
"I'd an idea you were," Retters said with some bitterness. "From Sir John Marney's, I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, let's say, from that direction. That's neither here nor there... As a matter of fact, if you'd like to ask, I'd been sitting up with my aunt who's been ill. She'll tell you herself."
Retters did not doubt it. "Never mind," he said. "You were saying?"
"You know the short way from there to my place, don't you? That lane which joins the footpath from the Cliff—not twenty yards from where they found him!"
He paused with the satisfaction of a man who has made a good point; but Retters kept silent with an effort.
"I was going along quiet like, just a little way before I got to the path. And I heard a noise."
"What sort of noise?" This time Retters could not restrain himself. "Not a sort of buzz?"
"Buzz? Lord, no! Darned if I know what it was... 'Twasn't a fox, or a rabbit, or an owl—nothing like 'em. It was a sort of moaning—well, a cross between a moan and a growl... Queerest sound I ever heard... As much like a cat as anything... You know, when it's warning you off."
"Well, maybe it was a cat," Retters suggested reasonably.
"It wasn't quite like a cat, either... And it wasn't no cat. I was that surprised I just stood there waiting, and I don't mind saying I was scared. It was sort of spooky, coming out of the dark that way. I wanted to know what it was before I met it... I'm pretty quick on the ear, you know, and it must have been some way off. I'd waited about a minute before I heard something running."
"Something?" Retters asked. In spite of his comments the poacher's manner was having its effect. He felt the hair tingle a little on his scalp. "A man, you mean?"
"I'll tell you when I know... Then the noise came again, quite close... I tell you, I was in a sweat. It wasn't dark, you know—not dead dark. There was just the least little bit of a moon. I could see the lane end, where the trees were blacker—"
"Well?"
"And I saw it pass... Not very clear. Just a sort of greyish shadow, running at a pretty good rate along the path there... 'Twasn't as tall as a man, unless he was bent near double; but its feet went thud-thud just like a chap running. It was gone in a second. It was about half a minute later I heard the noise again—just about from where you found Mr. Dick. And that was all."
"You didn't chase it?" Retters asked. "If you'd only grabbed it—"
"Chase it? Chase yourself... I'll tell you what I did. I dropped my bag right where I stood, and I ran back towards the road just as quick as I could get there. I wasn't interested in chasing it. All that bothered me was whether it might take it into its head to chase me!"
"You've no idea what it was?"
"If you ask me, it wasn't man or beast. It's nothing I ever heard or saw before, and I reckon I know most things you'll hear for twenty miles round. And I don't want to see or hear it again... I've heard tell of death-warnings and so on—"
"That's a lot of rot," Retters said stoutly. "Like a cat, you said?"
"Like that as much as anything... It scared me all right. It wasn't till daylight I could bring myself to go back for—what I'd dropped. And it'll be a bit before I go that way again."
"There wasn't any sign of it then?"
"Not a mark... Not that you'd expect it, there."
"Well, it's a queer tale," Retters said thoughtfully. "But I don't see how cat-calls the night before could have anything to do with young Marney being stabbed the day after... Yes, it's a queer story—"
"You believe it?" Wallis demanded aggressively. "Look here, I've not been making up a yarn just for fun—"
"No," Retters said thoughtfully. "But it's darned queer... I'm glad you told me."
"And I'm glad to get it off my chest... 'Twasn't human, I tell you, nor yet any animal I've heard. It scared me all right."
"You're about a good bit, Joe," Retters suggested. "If you should hear anything of it again—"
"If I hear it again I'll do what I did last time—but quicker. Oh, I'll come and tell you, all right, and see what you'll make of it. Maybe you'll meet it yourself yet... So long."
Certainly the story had had its effect on Retters. In spite of the poacher's previous regrettable lapse from the strict standard of veracity, this time there was something in his manner which carried conviction. And he would gain nothing by lying. Retters judged Wallis to be like the Jacobs's character who never told a lie without having a good reason for it. So he had seen and heard something—but what? Retters was puzzling over it as he proceeded up the hill.
The cottage occupied by Mrs. Handley and converted from its previous humble uses lay outside the village proper. The line of houses ended some five hundred yards short of it, and from there on there was nothing but the dark road. And Retters felt unaccountably nervous. He could not help remembering Wallis's suggestion that perhaps he himself would meet it, and though in a way it was precisely what he wanted he would have preferred to do so in company. So far from having worked out his gambit with the novelist by the time he reached her gate his mind was even more of a blank than when he left the police station, and he was sweating slightly. With a sigh of relief he saw the light in the front window and started up the path.
Undeniably his nerves had suffered in the excitement of the past few days. It was no more than a tiny rustle that reached his ears as he reached a point half-way to the house, but he stopped dead. The next second his flash-lamp was in his hand, and he cast a reassuring beam about the garden. Great shadows leaped from the bushes against the whitewashed cottage wall, startling him for a moment. But the garden was empty, at least of any human presence. Probably, he decided, it was a rabbit. As a gardener, he knew only too well that one could not keep them out. Flushing a little at his own foolishness he gained the house.
There was no bell. Retters's knock sounded with an official peremptoriness which was all the more emphatic from his recent fright. But it was not immediately answered. There was someone in the house. The light showed that, and besides, listening with his ear almost against the wood he could hear the sound of hurried movement. He knocked again, a shade more diffidently, and almost as he did so the door opened.
His first glance at Mrs. Handley as she stood in the doorway explained the delay. She was wearing a thick brown dressing-gown, which she had evidently donned hastily, for she still clutched it about her with one hand. Her eyebrows rose as the light fell on the constable.
"It's you, Retters? Good evening... I'm sorry I kept you waiting."
"I'm sorry I disturbed you, ma'am... But I'm afraid there's a little matter I've got to speak to you about—"
Mrs. Handley hesitated. "You'd better come in," she said. "I've not been getting into trouble, surely?"
"Well, ma'am, in a way," Retters answered. He himself hesitated for a moment before accepting the invitation. He would have preferred the novelist to be differently clad; for he was a shy man, but he comforted himself with the thought that she was old enough to be his mother. "At least, it's not you, ma'am. It's your cat."
Mrs. Handley laughed, not without a suggestion of relief. "The cat?" she echoed. "Oh, Miss Miller?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry to say I've had a serious complaint from her. She claims that your cat's fierce, ma'am, and persistently attacks hers. And that it's been trespassing in her garden."
"My cat's perfectly normal. That's all that's the matter. It's hers that isn't. She shouldn't have had it doctored. It makes the others go for them. Personally, I call it cruelty. Of course they fight. Any decent tom-cat fights. It's a lot of fuss about nothing."
Retters permitted himself a slight smile of agreement. "Well, ma'am, I'm not saying it's not. But you'll understand I've got to investigate any complaints... About the trespass, ma'am."
"A cat can't trespass. I should have thought you knew that."
"I beg your pardon, ma'am?"
"A cat can't trespass, from a legal point of view. I mean, the law of trespass doesn't apply to cats. Dogs, yes. You're expected to control a dog. A cat can go where it likes."
"Oh!" said Retters a little blankly. It was a point which he did not remember having encountered before, but in all probability, he decided, the information was correct. He frowned dubiously. "Well, ma'am, I'll see Miss Miller. I reckon the best thing I can do is to suggest she keeps an eye on her own cat and if yours comes into her garden—"
"Shoos it out? Yes. Anyone with a grain of sense would have done that without bothering you. I'm sorry you've had to come all the way up here for nothing." She hesitated for a moment. "You know, Retters, when I first saw you, I thought you'd come about something more serious. The murder."
"The murder, ma'am?" Retters tried to make the words sound innocent. "But you don't know anything about that, I understand, ma'am? I mean, you didn't arrive until after the body was found?"
"No," Mrs. Handley agreed. "I didn't, of course... But I'm hoping to know something about it soon... You know, that man Boreman is making a fool of himself."
"Well, ma'am—" Retters said hesitantly, and wisely stopped.
"Oh, I don't expect you to agree. He's your inspector... But it is obvious enough that he suspects Hugh Egmont, and is trying to make out that he's guilty. That is simply absurd. I've known Egmont for years, and he could never have done this."
"I shouldn't have thought he would myself, ma'am... But you see, he had a motive, and he was on the spot at about the right time—"
"Was he? And how did he come to be there—with that dagger in his pocket?... I don't mind telling you that I've been doing a bit of investigation on my own account. That's what I thought you'd come about. I mean, the inspector might have tried to stop me. Not that he could. You seem to have more sense than the rest. I'll tell you how far I've got."
Passing over the criticisms of his superiors, Retters reflected that he was merely obeying orders.
"I'd be glad to hear anything you can tell me, ma'am," he said. "Of course, your writing books—"
"Has nothing to do with it. A novelist wouldn't make a better detective, or murderer, than anyone else. In books you can make things happen as you like. In real life you can't... This is merely a matter of common sense... Now, you'll admit this murder must have been premeditated? The mere fact that the murderer was carrying the dagger shows that, I think."
To Retters, it seemed that the anonymous letter proved it even more. He assented.
"But could Egmont have planned it? You know what time he left the house that morning?"
"Just after ten, ma'am."
"Exactly. The police theory was that he saw which way the hunt was going, stuffed the dagger in his pocket, and set out to head Marney off. I've been over the ground, and he couldn't have done it."
"How's that, ma'am? You can see the place where they met from the Grange."
"Yes. Egmont admits as much. He did see them meeting, and that's how he knew the message was a hoax. But you can't see the coverts where they found. So, he couldn't know what direction the hunt set off in. But, if he's to get Marney alone, and rely on it, the hunt had to go by way of the Cliff. What chance would he have had if they'd gone any other way?"
"But you can see the line of the hunt from one or two places along the way he must have come, ma'am."
"Yes. But that's just what I've been going into. There are three places, to be exact, from which he might have seen the hunt, if the hunt had been in the right places while he was there. But he didn't. And I can prove it."
"How's that, ma'am?" Retters was distinctly interested.
"I've questioned Mr. Wilmot. And I've gone over the ground. Egmont couldn't have been in any of those places at the times the hunt was visible. You can check that yourself."
Retters thought. "He might have heard it, ma'am?"
"No doubt he did. But it's not easy to place a hunt that's some distance away merely by ear... No, I think we can take it for granted that Egmont couldn't have set off with the intention of meeting Marney at the Cliff. But, if he didn't intend to meet him, he wouldn't have taken the dagger with him."
"It might have been accident."
"It might. But you see for yourself that that knocks a big hole in Boreman's idea of a premeditated killing."
Retters wrinkled his brow. He was not quite sure that he followed the argument, and as he tried to work it out in his mind another objection occurred to him.
"But that applies to everyone, ma'am. I mean, that they couldn't tell which way the hunt was going."
"Unless they'd seen the hunt start. Look here." She reached for a map which was lying open on the table. "You know how they went? It wasn't a straight line to the Cliff, even, but a sort of big curve. And, at the Cliff itself, the fox turned at right angles. So, someone could have watched the hunt, and cut across round one end of the Cliff, in time to be waiting at the other side... The point is, that foxes often do turn at that point. Once you saw them about half-way there, you could guess which way they were going. So, I suggest, you might do worse than look for someone who was with the hunt, or was riding to the hunt, and left it part way."
Momentarily it flashed across Retters's mind that that was precisely what Joan Marney had done; but he dismissed the suspicion as too monstrous to be entertained.
"I see what you mean, ma'am," he said with partial truth. "That would be one way—"
"Candidly, I don't see any other way in which anyone could have arranged to meet Marney at that point—the only one where he was certain to be alone... There are all sorts of other reasons why Egmont couldn't have done it. That dagger business is against the man's whole nature for one thing. He might have used a gun; but he'd think a knife unsportsmanlike. More probably he'd have used his hands. Then, if he'd done it, he would hardly have been fool enough to come into the village by a way which showed he must have passed the Cliff. And, from what I gather, when he arrived there he didn't exactly look like a man who'd done a murder."
"You can't go by looks, ma'am."
"Perhaps not... You can't show that he had anything to do with the dagger. If Boreman brings a case like that to court, a good counsel would knock it to pieces."
"I think there's no intention of arresting Mr. Egmont yet, ma'am," Retters confessed. "But, if he didn't, who did?"
"You know the old Latin tag 'Cui bono'? Who benefits? Well, in fact, I think you'll find Egmont doesn't. Miss Joan seems to have turned against him at once. Looking at it coldly, the only other people seem to be the members of his own family."
"Mr. Maurice?" Retters was startled. "But he's the heir, ma'am."
"I've not got as far as names yet... But, if he was the heir, Richard was favourite. There might be jealousy. And it's fairly certain that Sir John would leave Richard as much as possible, apart from the entail—"
"But Mr. Maurice—he'd never kill his brother for money!"
Constance Handley sighed. "It's no use starting a murder inquiry on the basis of sentimental assumptions that people couldn't have done it.... Though, I partly agree with you. Maurice wouldn't be likely to do murder merely for money. But there's the estate. If too much money was left away from it, it would be badly hampered. And that's practically his religion."
Retters nodded. Constance Handley hesitated for a moment.
"Besides, he isn't the only possibility. There's Mr. Charles... He is always needing money. Everyone knows that. And the use of money is needed for the one thing he really cares about... You know that?"
"I've heard talk, ma'am... He doesn't hunt."
"He rides. And he used to hunt... There's something in that connexion I seem to remember, I'm not sure of. I'll verify it first... There's even Joan Marney."
Retters shook his head. There had to be some limits to suspicion and his recollection of the girl's laughing face as she met Egmont put that idea completely out of court. Constance Handley smiled grimly.
"That's as far as I've got... Of course, there are other possibilities. For example, that it wasn't anyone local at all. Richard Marney was a good-looking man. There might have been some affaire—say, at—at—Oxford. But this is theory... I mustn't keep you longer. You'll want to see Miss Miller."
"Well, thank you, ma'am... You've been pretty busy, I should say."
"I got wet through doing it." She smiled. "That's why you found me changing... Good night."
The door had just closed behind Retters before it occurred to him that in the heat of the novelist's arguments he had made no mention of the poacher's story. For a moment he hesitated. But, after all, there were limits to indiscretion from an official point of view. And besides, he was rather inclined to keep one trump up his own sleeve. The ringing of the telephone bell inside the house decided him, and he turned down the dark path, floundering into a flower-bed before his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom.
He had just felt for his torch when it happened. From somewhere right beside him came a low, groaning cry. Only for a second he stood rooted to the spot, and the hair lifted on the back of his neck. The next instant his torch was out, and the beam cut the darkness. It shone full on the rat-tailed mongrel which had been the excuse for his visit, enjoying underneath a rose-bush an alfresco supper off a much mangled herring.
He stared stupidly. Resenting the light, the cat snarled again, and it stung him to action. Muttering something unprintable, he stooped and found a pebble. His aim was good. As the cat fled across the lawn he strode heavily towards the gate.
INSPECTOR LYLY would not for one moment have admitted that his decision to watch the Dower House was in any way connected with the impression Joan Marney had made upon him. He assured himself that it was an elementary precaution, from at least two points of view. The girl had been attacked once that night; she might be again. And Mr. Charles Marney, having elected to be absent at a suspicious time, might either return late, or, having returned, might decide upon another trip.
In the next three and a half hours he had ample time to review the objections to both these ideas. Upon reflection, he was far from certain that the attack on Joan Marney had been directed against her personally. Unless the maniac, or whoever was responsible, had been following her, either from her home or from the time she met Egmont, it was hard to see how he could have known her identity; for it had certainly been too dark to see. And, since he had been following her himself, he had excellent reasons for knowing that no one else had done so from the crossroads. The one possibility was Egmont, and he was not optimistic in that direction. From what he had heard of the conversation between him and the girl, he was quite ready to believe the young man was a bit mad, but not that way.
By one o'clock, moreover, he had quite decided that either Charles Marney had got back home before he arrived, or that he was proposing to make a night of it; and he inclined regretfully to the former view. He had had plenty of time to watch the various lights in the house go out one by one, and to speculate as to whose rooms they illuminated. The mixed architecture of the house made the task a little difficult; but of the two upper rooms which he judged to be "best" rather than servant's bedrooms, at least one had behaved in accordance with expectations. It had come on shortly after the disappearance of the lighted windows of what he judged to be a study or library, and probably belonged to Marney. The other had gone out shortly before the lighting up of the windows of a room which might be the housekeeper's, though a faint glow still persisted. He deduced that Joan Marney had been put to bed, probably with a night light or reading-lamp left burning, and that having done so the housekeeper had herself retired.
If his speculations served no useful purpose, they at least kept him interested. With the disappearance of the last light, he realized to the full the perfect fatuity of his vigil. Short of a great deal of luck, it was absolutely impossible for him to watch the house properly. An intruder might find a dozen ways of entering its sprawling bulk, and he could only be at one side at once. With the setting of the moon, he could not see even that, and, worst of all, he was hopelessly handicapped by the fact that his knowledge of the grounds was limited to a distant view from the roadway.
A prolonged, and painful exploration taken at the beginning of his vigil had shown that the garden was an irregular oblong, much interrupted by rockeries, hedges, walls and sunken gardens, with a fair proportion of shrubbery thickly planted with thorn trees. He admitted to himself that the extent of these obstacles might have been exaggerated by the blind-man's-buff method in which he had discovered them; for he dare not use his torch. But that they certainly existed, his shins and hands bore witness.
By one o'clock he had decided to confine his watch to a half-hourly tour round the house by the one practicable path he had discovered, returning to a derelict summer-house which at least commanded the main entrance. By two, he had broken his own rule about smoking, and was feeling a little better. And as the time of his release drew near, he was reflecting quite philosophically that an ordeal such as he himself had just completed would do Retters good if the man were really such a fool as to want to be a detective.
Without incident he completed another round of the house, and looked at the illuminated dial of his wrist-watch. It showed ten minutes to the hour, and it was time he made a move towards the meeting place with the unfortunate constable. As he started down the drive he gave a casual last look back at the house. Then he stopped.
Before his last tour, it had been in utter darkness, except for the glow of light in the room which he had decided was Joan Marney's. Now there was a difference. In what he believed to be her father's window a similar glow had appeared at some time during the quarter of an hour during which he had been absent. He stood staring at it. There might be any number of innocent explanations. Possibly Charles Marney suffered from insomnia, and had at last given up the attempt to sleep in favour of a book. There were a dozen possibilities, and yet—
For a minute or two he hesitated. As long as the light was on, Charles Marney was presumably there, and he was not likely to make his appearance outside. With Retters to help, he could keep a moderately efficient watch on the place, if he himself remained, and it would take only a minute or two to reach the gate. Abruptly he decided to risk it, and started down the drive with a good deal less caution than he had shown during the entire evening, casting occasional backward glances towards the light.
There was no sign of the constable when he reached the gate. It occurred to him that they had arranged no signal. If Retters was enthusiastic about detective work as he was supposed to be, almost certainly he was there somewhere; perhaps he had taken cover at the sound of his own progress down the drive. He decided to risk calling out, though it might be heard by the wrong person.
"Retters! You here?"
It was little more than a stage whisper, but it was enough. The reply came almost instantly.
"Here, sir!"
Lyly jumped; for the voice had come from behind him and barely a yard away. He grinned to himself in the darkness.
"This is Inspector Lyly... Good man! You'd have had me, if I hadn't called out—"
"I'd have followed you, sir," Retters rejoined.
"Right... Nothing's happened. Or I think nothing's happened. But a light has just come on. I'll stay for a bit. You take the back, and I'll take the front. We'll meet every half-hour. Come along—"
From the silence of Retters's tread it was obvious that he had equipped himself for the task by discarding his boots in favour of rubber shoes, and Lyly himself was acutely conscious of the relatively loud noise he himself was making. As they reached a point from which the house was visible he looked towards it eagerly. The two lights were still burning just as they had been when he had last seen them. He turned to Retters.
"You don't happen to know the house?" he asked. "I mean, whose rooms those will be?"
"No, sir... I've only been on the ground floor a couple of times, sir... About a licence and poachers—"
"Yes... Know your way to the back?"
"Yes, sir... What were you expecting, sir?"
"Don't know." Lyly did not add that until a few minutes ago he had given up expecting anything. "The superintendent probably told you something about the attack on Miss Marney?"
"The lunatic, sir? Yes... I heard a queer tale to-night, sir—"
"Tell me later. Got a watch? Right. Meet me here, then, in—"
He broke off suddenly. Faintly but unmistakably there had reached him the sound of a distant cry, and he stiffened to a sudden attention.
"My God, sir!" He caught Retters's horrified whisper. "It's—"
"Quiet!... Listen!"
Almost holding their breath they waited. Faint as the cry had been, Lyly thought that he could place vaguely the direction from which it had come. It had been from somewhere at the back of the house. As if to put the matter beyond all doubt it came again; but this time much nearer. It was coming towards them along the side of the house where he had seen the light in the library window.
Hastily he tried to form a picture in his mind of that part of the grounds so far as he had explored them. There were two paths, one separated from the house only by a narrow flower bed; the other running almost alongside the boundary fence, past an old well down which he had nearly fallen during his recent exploration. Between them, he could recall nothing but a miniature jungle which to him at least had proved impenetrable. As the cry came a third time, nearer still, he turned quickly to Retters.
"There's a path by the house," he whispered. "Know it? Right. You take that. I'll take the other... We're bound to get him."
"Yes, sir."
There was a trace of nervousness in the constable's voice as he disappeared noiselessly into the darkness, but Lyly was not prepared to blame him for that. He remembered with an uncomfortable clarity the ease with which he himself had been worsted in the fiasco in the lane. Besides, there was something eerie about the whole business. A ghost it certainly was not, as his lip and jaw still told him when he spoke; but he would have preferred to deal with the most desperate criminal instead of the madness which faced them.
The cries had ceased as he made his way cautiously along the path, grateful for the moss-grown surface which made the going noiseless. From there he could no longer see the house or the lighted windows; between it and the path was a thick patch of bushes. From Retters there came no sound. Judging as well as he could by the distance he had come, he judged that he must be about half-way along the side of the house, and not far from the well. And there was still no sign of the man who had cried out. Had he stopped, or turned back? Had he entered the house itself? At the thought a cold fear came over him. Suppose, before Retters had got there, their quarry had managed to force a way in and was at that moment engaged in attacking Joan Marney? For a moment he was tempted to retrace his steps and wake the household; but by doing so he might open a way of escape from the trap into which the unknown would probably fall. He stopped indecisively, and as he did so something happened which put the matter beyond doubt.
From the darkness ahead came a sudden crackling of the bushes, and the sound of a fall. For an instant there was a flash of light, shining for a second on the coping of the well and down the path towards him before it vanished, leaving the darkness more intense. As he started to run forward a thin spurt of flame stabbed the darkness. He felt the wind of something passing his ear and dropped flat, rolling to the other side of the path.
There was a moment's dead silence, broken by a heavy splash. Before it had died away, he was running forward, feeling for his torch. As he pressed the switch the beam focused full on the well-head, and the prostrate figure of the man who lay beside it. It was Charles Marney.
Muffled footsteps were thudding towards them down the path. Even before their owner came into view, Lyly guessed to whom they belonged. On the alarm, Retters, with a forethought worthy of a better result, had made no attempt to cross the intervening shrubbery. He had run along to the point where the paths rejoined each other to cut off any possible retreat. Next moment he appeared round the corner, as Lyly bent down over the unconscious man.
"You—you're all right, sir?" the constable panted as he came up. "You've got him... Good Lord. It's Mr. Charles!"
As if in answer to his name, Charles Marney opened his eyes and looked up. For a moment his eyes rested uncomprehendingly on Lyly's face; then it seemed to the inspector that stark terror showed in his gaze. He started up, caught sight of Retters, and a look of relief showed on his face.
"Police!" he said inaudibly. "I thought—I thought—"
"What happened, sir?" Lyly demanded as his voice faltered and died away. He was feeling doubtful about Mr. Charles Marney. A faint was easy enough to simulate, and might give a man who had been surprised time to collect his wits to invent a lie. "What happened?" he repeated.
"I—I woke up," Charles Marney raised himself to a sitting position. "I had a feeling there was something wrong, and, after what has happened—I went downstairs quietly. There was a window open somewhere. I could feel a draught blowing along the passage. So I turned that way... Right at the end I could just make out the window, and it was open... I'd just started along the passage when—when I saw a sort of shadow against the opening—"
He broke off and shivered. Lyly waited only for a moment. So far it had been glib enough, but he had no intention of giving Marney time to think over the difficult bit that was coming.
"Yes, sir," he prompted. "You gave chase?"
"There—there was a curious noise. I don't mind admitting I was a little frightened. The shadow had gone from the window by the time I ran forward. But as I reached it, I heard the sound again. It seemed to come from somewhere here... I waited a minute; then came along to see—to see—"
"You shot at something, sir?"
"I? No. The bullet just missed me... I lost the path and fell into the bushes. My torch flashed on as I fell and was knocked out of my hand. I heard the bullet go overhead, and tried to run. I don't remember what happened... I fell against the well?"
"Perhaps, sir." Lyly's voice was non-committal. "Then where did the shot come from, sir?"
"I—I don't know. I'd just fallen down."
"No one passed me, sir," Retters broke in. "I heard a splash."
"So did I," Lyly agreed. "Just a minute."
He walked to the low coping of the well and flashed the light down it. About twenty feet below it gleamed darkly on the surface of the water at the end of the slimy tube of stone. There were white bubbles on the surface, which still rippled slightly. Obviously something had recently fallen in; but there was nothing to show what it was. It might, of course, be no more than a stone from the loose wall dislodged by Charles Marney's fall. Or it might be— He turned sharply to Marney.
"How deep is this?" he demanded.
"There must be—quite ten feet just now." The reply came hesitantly. "You think—you think—"
"But where could he have gone, sir?" Retters asked, and he failed to conceal his suspicion. "I came right down the path—"
"There's a little track—behind the well?" Marney suggested. "It leads round—"
"Wait there, Retters."
Certainly there was a path. He cursed himself for a fool in not having discovered it during his tour of the grounds; but there was every excuse. Little more than eighteen inches of stone paving and a narrow grass border on each side, it snaked away into the bushes in a way which made it invisible even by daylight unless one came close. He shone the light down. There were no tracks on the dry stone flags, but then, one could expect none. From a criminal's point of view, it provided an ideal way of escape because he need leave no traces. On the other hand, if there were no traces, it might be because no one had gone that way. He followed it for only a few yards, before another thought brought him hurrying back.
"Mr. Marney," he said a little breathlessly. "At the house—was everything all right? When you left?"
Marney wrinkled his brows. "All right?" he echoed. "I hadn't time to look if anything was missing—"
"I don't mean that. You heard what happened to-night?"
"You mean—about Joan?"
"I mean, your daughter was attacked to-night—by something which made noises exactly like those we've heard to-night."
"Good God!" He had gone as pale as death. "You mean—you mean—?"
He staggered to his feet as he spoke, and made an uncertain step up the path. If Retters had not gripped his arm he would have fallen.
"Bring him along, Retters," Lyly enjoined. "I'll hurry on ahead."
As he broke from the cover of the shrubbery, he saw that the house was already awakened. There were lights in half a dozen windows, and the front door stood open. Framed within it the figure of a man in pyjamas stood peering out timidly. Lyly hurried towards him.
"Who—who's that?"
"It's all right. I'm police." Lyly snapped an answer to the feeble challenge. "What's happened?"
"I—I don't know, sir. The housekeeper heard a shot. There was a window open... And Mr. Marney, sir—he's not there—"
Lyly pushed past him to confront an elderly woman who was standing in the hall just behind and who seemed from her appearance to have retained some measure of self control.
"Mr. Marney's all right," he vouchsafed. "He's outside... Chased the burglar... Where's Miss Marney? She's all right?"
"I—I suppose so, sir." The housekeeper answered a little hesitantly. "I expect she's still asleep, sir. You see, she'd had rather a shock. I gave her a powder when she went to bed—"
"An opiate?"
"Something of the kind, sir."
"You've not seen her?"
"Sir! You don't think—think that—?"
"Find out at once... Where's her room?"
He followed in the wake of the hurrying housekeeper just as Marney and the constable appeared in the doorway. At a room near the head of the stairs the housekeeper stopped and knocked timidly.
"For God's sake, hurry. Open the door—"
As she still hesitated, he thrust her aside and turned the handle.
Joan Marney was lying on her side in the bed almost opposite the doorway. On her uncovered throat he could see the red marks of the maniac's fingers, and she lay so still that for a moment a cold fear shook him. Then he saw that her breast rose and fell gently. He wiped the sweat from his face.
"Thank God!" he said fervently.
"Shall I—shall I wake her, sir?"
Lyly shook his head. "Better not," he whispered. "Let her have her sleep out."
He closed the door quietly behind him and turned to meet Marney and Retters at the stair head.
"It's all right," he said. "She's asleep."
"I thought—I was afraid—" Marney said shakily.
"So was I," Lyly said grimly. "Better not disturb her. She's had enough for one night... I'd like to see the window, sir?"
Marney gave one glance towards the door of his daughter's room and then inclined his head in assent.
"Certainly," he said courteously. "Down this way."
He led the way downstairs and along the long passage leading to the study. At the end he stopped and striking a match lit a gas-lamp which projected from the wall at the corner, to reveal the open casement.
Lyly examined it. There was little enough he could learn from it. Certainly there was a solitary scratch on the stone which seemed to have been made recently. But then, Marney had certainly got through it. There was no means of proving that anyone else had done so. The catch was unbroken, but it showed no signs of being forced. Lyly frowned at it.
"Was this open?" he demanded.
"Open? Let me see... Yes. I believe so. Very possibly it may have been. You see, this passage leads only to my study. When I am there I do not like to be disturbed. I look to the windows, including this one, myself... I might have forgotten."
Lyly nodded grimly. He was thinking that things had happened very conveniently for the intruder. But if Marney had staged the whole affair, for whose benefit had it been intended? He could scarcely know that the police were watching outside. He stood for a moment in silence. His next question probably took Marney by surprise; but he had noticed a detail which struck him, and never believed in remaining in ignorance about anything unusual.
"You have gas here?" he said. "Not electric light? I shouldn't have thought the main came so far."
"Actually, it doesn't." Marney looked his surprise; but he had recovered from his fright, and his usual politeness had returned. "But the house was fitted with an acetylene plant, you see. Now we work it from containers supplied under the new system by the local company."
"I see... I think, sir, I'd just like to telephone. And then if you wouldn't mind coming round the house with me to see if there's anything missing..."
"By all means, Mr.—?"
"Inspector Lyly, sir... From Scotland Yard."
Marney did not seem impressed. He bowed acknowledgment. "There's a telephone in the study," he suggested. "You would be private there."
He was still waiting with Retters when the inspector returned after ringing up the station and dragging a very sleepy superintendent from his bed. In the hall the butler joined them. He had had time to assume some clothes, and with them a certain amount of dignity. Together the four of them made a tour which embraced the whole rambling house, with the exception of the occupied servants' bedrooms, and dawn was just breaking before they finally abandoned it.
Charles Marney seemed almost cheerful. "I was afraid," he said as they were on the point of taking their leave. "I was afraid someone might have stolen my notes, Inspector. On my system." He smiled a little wanly. "My brother doesn't believe it but, personally, I'm convinced they are the most valuable things here."
Lyly eyed him for a moment. "I don't think anyone came here to steal, sir," he said a little coldly.
If Marney noticed any ambiguity in the words he did not show it. His eyebrows rose inquiringly.
"You mean—?" he asked; then suddenly paled. There was quite a long pause. "You think that—that it was Joan?" he asked and his voice shook.
"I think, sir, at any rate that for her sake you should be very careful."
"Of course... You think Joan shouldn't go out alone? Probably not. But it will be difficult, Inspector. My daughter has always been used to pleasing herself. If I tell her—"
He broke off with a sigh. Lyly had meant nothing of the sort; but he realized his error. If Marney was guilty, he had no right to warn him. If he was innocent, then there was danger to Joan. He nodded.
"I certainly think she shouldn't wander about alone," he said. "Particularly at night. And, Mr. Marney, it would certainly be wiser not to leave open windows for burglars... Good morning, sir."
He was silent as they went down the drive. They were nearing the gates before he spoke, and then it was half to himself.
"I've nothing to be proud of," he murmured. "It got away twice in one night!"
Retters had been a little overawed by finding himself actually assisting a real inspector of the C. I.D. Now he plucked up courage.
"I'm not so sure of that, sir," he said significantly.
Neither was Lyly. And, oddly enough, the thought made him more than a little uncomfortable.
LYLY had spent an hour with a distinctly sleepy superintendent and a chief constable who had obviously no use for him before he was at last able to return to the hotel for a bath and breakfast. Over the latter he tried to work out a programme for the day, always provided that the rapidity with which events proceeded did not prevent him from fulfilling it. There were plenty of loose ends which had to be tackled, and some of these the superintendent, who proposed to meet him in the village later in the day, had arranged to handle for him. From one in particular he had hopes. There had now been three separate manifestations on the part of the maniac, and a careful check on the movements of possible suspects during the times in which these had occurred ought to yield some result, always assuming that the murderer was on their list.
About some, of course, they knew already. Egmont had given an account of his movements on the morning of the murder, and they had already ascertained from the man who was supposed to be watching his house the time at which he had returned from his meeting with Joan Marney. Unfortunately the result of that was inconclusive; for though he had been a little later than one might have expected, the time he would have to have been involved in the attack was scarcely long enough to give definite results. Charles Marney had certainly been out on the first and second occasions; though it still remained to be discovered exactly where he had been. So had Ashby; and Constance Handley. He frowned as the list extended itself. From the affair last night, he was not expecting very much in the way of alibis. Any law-abiding citizen would have been asleep at that time, any criminal would say that he had been, and it was just as hard to prove or disprove one as the other.
For the present he was leaving these to Leyland, and he had seen enough of the superintendent to know that he could rely on the job being carried out at least conscientiously. His own idea was to try in one or two new directions, and it was a tribute to Constance Handley's reasoning that one of her own suggestions to Retters the night before was the reason which made him set off in search of the Hon. Toby Wilmot.
He ran him to earth at last in the stables, evidently a good deal more preoccupied with the condition of a sick horse than in the murder; but he received the detective with his natural politeness, and, though a little reluctantly, abandoned the sufferer to the charge of the grooms and led the way inside.
It was the idea that someone might have left the hunt and cut across which Lyly wanted to explore, and Mr. Wilmot, when he found that it concerned a matter in which he could be interested, listened with rapt attention while he expounded it. At the end he frowned in furious concentration, and scowled at the map which Lyly had brought with him.
"There's no reason why it shouldn't have been done," he decided at last rather gloomily. "Of course, you'd need to ride pretty fast if you waited until it was certain that the fox was going to the Cliff. But I suppose anyone could have made a good guess some time before. Did myself, for that matter... But wouldn't he have been seen?"
Lyly pointed to the map, at a spot a little less than half-way to the Cliff.
"I don't think so, necessarily," he said. "That was one thing I wanted you to verify. Look here... If I'm not mistaken, there's a bit of a hill. Now, anyone who was pretty well at the back could wait until the others were over the top, and not be seen at all."
Wilmot stared at the map a little vacantly; but Lyly guessed that he was actually trying to picture the country over which they had ridden. At last he nodded.
"That's true," he said at last. "But there's a better way. See that road marked on the map? It's a sunken lane, and the hedge is pretty high. If he turned down there, he needn't even be at the back. Provided no one just happened to see him turn down."
"I'll remember that... And now, the question is, who could have done it? And who, so far as you know, had a definite alibi?"
Wilmot looked uncomfortable. "I say," he objected, "you don't really think that anyone in the hunt did it? Surely—"
"In any case, it would be as well to make sure they didn't. I suppose there were some people whom you saw pretty well all along, and could clear definitely"
"Well, you see," Wilmot hesitated. "I was pretty well up at the front. I couldn't swear, after the very first bit, to anyone bar Dick Marney and the whips. Over the whole course, I mean... Of course, a good many came up at the end. But I didn't notice them with the middle."
"It was a fast run? I suppose the field would tail out a good distance?"
"Very fast. Though we didn't see him, we must have been pretty well on his tail all the way, and he took a pretty awkward course, too. You'd have to ask someone who was at the back to find out about most of 'em."
"Such as?"
"Well, the major on a horse isn't exactly a centaur... He rides like a sack of meal, and weighs any amount more. You'd be pretty safe in betting he was somewhere well behind... Or, wait a bit. Miss Marney fell out altogether just about there. She might have seen who went by."
Lyly thought for a moment. There were a good many things which he would probably have to ask Joan Marney, but he was conscious of certain scruples.
"I suppose someone would stop with her?"
"Maurice did, I'm pretty sure. That's why he was so late in catching up. Generally he's pretty well up—" A thought struck him, and he looked uneasily at the inspector. "Oh, I say! You can't suspect that Maurice—? They were the best pals in the world—"
"I'm not suggesting that, sir," Lyly denied; but his thoughts turned momentarily towards the incident of the dagger. "Only I wasn't anxious to trouble Miss Marney unnecessarily... By the way, I suppose Mr. Charles Marney doesn't hunt?"
Wilmot shook his head. "Used to. Gave it up about four years ago. Don't know why... He still rides a bit." He looked at Lyly anxiously. "He wasn't at the meet, if that's what you're getting at. Besides, he was another pal of Dick's."
Lyly decided to change the subject. "What do you think personally about what the major said?" he asked. "I mean, about Doctor Ashby?"
"What I said," Wilmot corrected. "I'm not trying to slip out of it. Though it's true he put it into my head.... Well, personally, I'd say there's nothing in it. I'd say Ashby was a bit cranky about hunting, but quite a harmless old boy... Damned inconsistent, of course. He collects rare birds himself. I reckon killing foxes is better."
"I gather there's been a good deal of local feeling on that subject?"
"Lord, yes. There's about half a dozen of 'em really. But they bring along reinforcements from the town with banners and what not... I reckon that's dashed unfair, bringing in outsiders."
"And that incident with Marney?"
Wilmot frowned. "I'm sorry we had to tell you," he admitted. "It was a damned silly affair, and both sides lost their heads. That's all one can say about it, you know."
"You'd agree with the major's description of Ashby—that he was like a maniac about it?"
Wilmot hesitated. "I'm afraid I would," he said. "Positively foaming at the mouth... But he's not mad, really, of course."
"And you don't think he killed Marney?... Now, sir, you know everyone about here, I expect, and you've had time to think it over. Can you think of anyone else who might have had a grudge against the dead man?"
"Honestly, I can't," Wilmot protested. "Dick was pretty popular with everyone."
Lyly hesitated. He was not sure whether or not he ought to ask the question, all the more so since, from a mistaken sense of loyalty, it was unlikely that the young man would answer. And yet he had a good opinion of Wilmot's common sense, and an appeal to it might succeed.
"I'm going to touch on a rather private matter, sir," he said. "You'll understand that we've got to investigate any possibility, and if it's not material to our inquiry anything we find out goes no further. We were looking through Mr. Dick Marney's papers last night, and we found a letter from—well, a love-letter."
Wilmot stared, but there was a trace of uneasiness in his manner.
"Well, of course, everyone knew he was pretty keen on his cousin, Inspector—"
"That's the point. It wasn't from Miss Marney... We're not sure who it was from. I wanted to know if you knew of any other girl, perhaps in the village, that he was—well, fond of?"
The young man's embarrassment was patent, and he seemed to be wrestling with his conscience.
"No," he said at last, carefully. "No. I can't say I knew any other girl."
Lyly sensed the mental reservation. "But you knew there was one?" he suggested.
"I can't even say that." He hesitated. "I suppose I'd better tell you. I don't know anything definite, but I'd an idea there might have been something of that kind."
"Just why?"
"Well, it was something I happened to see in the town a few months back. I'd have sworn I saw Marney coming out of the pictures with a girl on his arm, and that it wasn't Joan... But it turned out I'd been mistaken. He hadn't been to town at all."
"He told you?"
"Yes."
Wilmot was a poor hand at deception, Lyly decided. Certainly he failed entirely to conceal his own disbelief.
"Would you know the girl?"
"Didn't see her face. She had her head turned away from me, slim, and dark-haired, I seem to think. Not too well dressed... Of course, it wasn't my business—"
"You've never heard him speak of anyone called Maud?"
"Never." This time he was obviously sincere. "But, dash it, Inspector! You don't think a woman would do a thing like that?"
Lyly saw no point in shattering his illusions. "It might have been done on her account," he suggested. He was getting a great deal more than he had ever expected from the young man, and wanted only to keep him in a communicative mood. But his stock of questions was nearly exhausted. It was inspiration which made him try a totally different line. "I wondered if you'd seen the weapon, sir?"
"Good Lord, no!"
"I'd just like you to have a look, sir."
Without giving him time to reply, his hand went to his pocket. Actually, what he produced was the duplicate which they had obtained from Maurice Marney the previous night, but since he had made sure they were identical that made no difference. There was a rather horrified look in Wilmot's eyes as he undid the wrapping. A look of relief succeeded it as he saw that the blade was clean. Suddenly he bent forward to look more closely, and as he sat back there was an expression of utter dismay on his face.
"Look at it, sir," Lyly suggested. "Of course, we're trying to identify it... I wondered if you'd ever seen anything of the kind before?"
Wilmot made no attempt to take the weapon, or even to examine it any further. He was gazing at Lyly almost reproachfully.
"I see you have, sir?" Lyly pressed him. "Where?"
Obviously a denial was trembling on the young man's lips; but he probably realized its futility.
"I suppose I'd better tell you," he said with an effort. "Though, mind you, I can't be sure... It seems a pretty rotten thing—"
"Yes, sir?"
"I can't be sure," Wilmot repeated doggedly. "It was too long ago. A good twelve months or more. Mightn't have been the one at all... If you must know, it was at Egmont's."
In spite of the conversation he had overheard, it was not the reply the detective had been expecting. He had thought Wilmot was going to identify it with Maurice.
"Just how did you happen to see it, sir?"
"Why, I called there, and Egmont was changing. I just happened to pick it up while I was waiting. That's all. It was on the table... That is, there was a sort of dagger-thing there. It may not have been the same."
"And yet, you recognized some detail, sir."
Wilmot looked uncomfortable. "It's a fact, I did," he admitted. "It's that damned horse... It's only got three legs."
For the first time Lyly noticed that the design on the handle included a dubious-looking beast which was presumably, as Wilmot said, meant for a horse. If it had been anything else, except perhaps a dog, he reflected, Wilmot would probably have forgotten all about it long before. As it was, there was very little doubt that his identification was accurate. He looked Wilmot straight in the eyes.
"You haven't really any doubt it was the same, sir?" he asked.
"I haven't. But, hang it all, Inspector—"
"Mr. Egmont didn't say anything about the weapon?"
"Why, no... I'd put it down by the time he came... Look here, Inspector, that's all I can tell you. And, if you'll excuse me, there's Betty. I'm worried about her—"
"Of course, sir... I didn't know there was anyone ill here?"
Wilmot stared. "I mean the mare," he said. "And that wretched vet hasn't been yet. Well, if you'll excuse me—"
Lyly accepted his dismissal. He had done far better than he could ever have dreamed; but the worst of it was the results were confusing. It could, apparently, have been a member of the hunt. Particularly, it could have been Maurice Marney, who had waited to see that his cousin was all right, but had not ridden back with her. But it could also have been Charles, if Charles had happened to be lurking on horseback at some vantage point to note the progress of the riders; on foot he could never have got there in time. Then, he had made some headway in the matter of the girl; and had confirmed his suspicion that Egmont had at some time had possession of one of the daggers.
The trouble was, all the points told against different people. Of all his suspects, the only one against whom he seemed to have learnt nothing new was Ashby, about whom Wilmot had told him only that he was a bird collector. In some ways there was an embarrassing plenty of evidence. What was wanted was something to give it a little more pattern. As he walked along, he decided to tackle the business from another angle entirely, the general type of the murder.
Certain points were significant. It was not merely a murder. It was a murder which was positively advertised as such. For an enemy who merely wanted to kill Dick Marney, nothing would have been simpler than to hit him on the head and stage an accident. Probably, in the circumstances, the question of murder would never have arisen. But the murderer had not merely stabbed his victim with a highly distinctive weapon in a way which could be neither accident nor suicide; he had written the police a letter telling them about it. The whole business was simply flamboyantly murderous.
That, of course, was consistent with the idea that it was the work of a maniac. Retters had told him about the poacher's story. That taken in conjunction with the attack on Joan Marney and the events of the night, seemed to confirm that view. He dismissed the possibility that someone was merely pretending that it was the work of a madman. To go cat-calling about the countryside when one was committing serious crimes was too risky for anyone who simply did not have to do it. And yet, there had been none, or none had been heard, at the time of Marney's murder. There had been none when Dick Marney's room was burgled. There might be two separate people at work. But, on the whole, he was inclined to think one could not expect consistency from a lunatic to that extent, and to believe one person had done everything.
Granted some kind of obsession, what was it? It might be against the Marney family; for they had been the only people to suffer. It might be against hunting; for both Dick and Joan had hunted. It might be inspired by jealousy, again against those two people. He gave it up. There might be a dozen other motives which, to a madman, might have been reason enough. There remained the cat-calls. He was no psychologist, but it seemed to him they might indicate either someone who was fond of cats, or someone who hated them. So far, with the very dubious exception of Mrs. Handley, the case had not revealed any person who did either very markedly. Then an idea crossed his mind which was so far-fetched that he laughed. Ashby was a bird-collector. So were most cats! At that he gave up that line completely, merely bearing it in mind with a view to possible confirmation or otherwise.
His way to the village offered a choice of routes. That which led past the Cliff and the scene of the murder was a little longer, but after a glance at his watch he chose it. There was still plenty of time before his meeting with the superintendent. And he was far from sure that the evidence the place where the body had been found might offer had been exhausted. Boreman, unfortunately, had made up his mind too quickly to make a very thorough search. By the time Leyland took over, any traces had probably been obliterated, and now it was nearly hopeless. The one thing he might get was a general idea of what could have happened. And, except for Boreman's wild-west picture of Egmont's charge with upraised knife, so far it was a point which they had completely failed to settle with any clarity.
He stopped as he reached the spot where the body had lain and stood for several minutes trying to imagine the scene. How could Marney have been stabbed like that? From horseback, of course. But Egmont's horse was the only one, except Marney's own which seemed to have been anywhere near. As a thought struck him, he started to make a circle round the place a few yards inside the wood. Certainly no horse could have been ridden among the trees, except on the path; though it might have been possible to lead one. But in that case, there would almost certainly have been marks on the mossy banks bounding the track.
He returned to his starting-point. Of course, the knife might, as he himself had suggested, have been thrown. He doubted it. It would have needed a very strong and expert hand to send it into a moving target like that. Had the murderer been up a tree? The only one which seemed to offer any possibilities was that under which Marney had been found, but it showed no traces of having been climbed. On the other hand, it could have been climbed without. After a momentary he proceeded to do so himself, noting as he did so that he was leaving no obvious marks, and certainly none that would have lasted two or three days.
But that possibility ended there. He was a fairly tall man, and his arms could reach as far as most people's; but, try as he would, he could not get into a position from which he could conceivably have struck with any force a rider proceeding in any reasonable way along the path. He was on the right level, but too far away. On the point of coming down, he gave a last glance round, and noticed something which started another train of thought.
From his vantage point, he could see quite clearly the top of the Cliff—not, indeed, at the point where Marney had jumped; but some twenty yards the other side of the path. But, in that case, anyone standing there, and particularly on horseback, could have seen Marney; or at least his head and shoulders. Previously they had accepted the evidence of members of the hunt that the trees would hide the rider completely. But from the point towards which he was looking they would not. A pedestrian, certainly; not a horseman. If Marney had been shot, it would have been perfectly simple to have done it from there.
But Marney had not been shot, at least in any ordinary way. He had laughed at it at the time, but Retters' suggestion about shooting the dagger recurred to his mind, and his own emendation of a cross-bow. Now he considered the matter seriously. It was too far, of course. With a proper bolt or arrow it might have been possible; but he was fairly certain not with the dagger which was reposing in his pocket.
But there were other points from which it might have been done, nearer at hand. The wood was not so dense that there were not considerable gaps, and he noted the position of one in particular before he got down. From along that line, Marney would also have been visible, and he remembered the story of the moaning ghost. Up till then he had seen no reason for the murderer to visit the scene of the murder before it took place. But suppose there had been some kind of trap—something in the nature of a spring gun, which could be fired without the murderer's presence, and aimed at a certain spot?
He told himself that he was getting fanciful. Somehow or other the murderer must have made Marney dismount, difficult as it would be in the circumstances. But, now that he had started, he might as well settle the point once and for all. He set off along the line of the opening, calling himself a fool as he did so, but nevertheless looking about him carefully.
Inside the wood, the going was none too easy. Under the leaves it was boggy, and once or twice he nearly lost a shoe. He looked back. A few yards further would see the end of any possibility of an attempt of the kind he had in mind, and he had found nothing. He started forward again with a dogged desperation which ignored the soft ground underfoot. This time he was unlucky. His right shoe sank deeply into a particularly muddy patch; with a sucking sound it left his foot. He bent to retrieve it, brushing away the leaves from the hole while maintaining a precarious balance on the other foot.
The next moment the shoe was forgotten. His hand touched something cold and smooth; something gleamed up at him from the brown covering.
"My God!" he exclaimed to himself. "It's—it must be—"
Gingerly he picked it up. It was a silver pocket flask, and as he turned it over he saw the engraved initials on the side.
"R.M.," he said aloud. "R.M. Richard Marney."
SUPERINTENDENT LEYLAND could scarcely claim to have had a successful morning. At the cost of a good deal of time, and some expenditure of guile which he was inclined to think unavailing, he had succeeded in compiling a list of alibis covering the periods in question, and its result was far from what he would have wished. Still, there it was, and he sincerely hoped that Lyly would be able to make more of it than he had done. It was the sight of Dr. Hendyng coming out of the post office which reminded him that he had completely omitted from the list one of the names which had cropped up, in however distant a connexion.
There seemed to be no earthly reason why Norton should have murdered, or attempted to murder, anyone, much less Richard Marney and his cousin. Leyland knew him by report; a thin, bespectacled man, well-read even outside his favourite hobby of heraldry; a teetotaller, an ardent chapel-goer, and a rather reedy tenor in the choir. Against him there was only the wording of the anonymous letter, and the fact that, if it had been faked after the event, he was the man in the best position to do it.
Leyland hesitated for a moment. He could hardly ask Norton directly to account for his time on the morning of the murder, without giving him the idea that he was suspected, and in the present state of the village feeling to ask anyone else would be even worse. It occurred to him that the doctor's visit might offer a solution, and he crossed the road just as Hendyng was getting into his car in preparation for driving away.
"Good morning, Doctor... Just thought I'd ask how Sir John was. Seen him to-day yet?"
"Going there now," Hendyng answered a little curtly. There was a suggestion of worry or depression in his manner. "After I've seen Miss Marney, that is... He was about the same when they rang up this morning."
"Care to give me a lift?" Leyland's own car was just round the corner, and he did not want a ride so much as information. He hoped the doctor had not noticed it. "I've got to look in there—"
"Get in."
"Is old Norton ill then?" he asked as they started forward. "Saw you coming out."
"His daughter Alice. He's all right."
"Oh. Just thought I hadn't seen him about," Leyland said casually. "I suppose he'll be busy nursing her?"
"She doesn't need it." Dr. Hendyng stole a quick glance at him. "Good heavens, Leyland, you're not choosing him for your heraldic maniac?"
The superintendent was startled. "You've heard about that?" he demanded.
"I should think everyone had. It's in the morning paper... About the letter in heraldic terms and so on... Anything wrong?"
"Only that I want someone's blood," Leyland said grimly. "And I think his name's Retters."
"Well, I'm pretty sure you can wash Norton out as a madman. And I'd rather you didn't bother him any more than you can help. He's got enough worries of his own just now."
"Such as?" Leyland suggested.
"Sorry. Told in professional confidence."
Leyland frowned. "Still, under the circumstances—?" he suggested. "There's been murder done."
The doctor preserved a massive silence. Leyland tried a new tack.
"Look here, Doctor. I may have to bother him, or you may be able to save me the trouble. Quite apart from the heraldry stuff, one or two things make it desirable we should check up on Norton... Can you tell me of your own knowledge where he was when Marney died? And the earlier part of last night?"
"As to the first, following the hunt. I saw him myself—"
"While his daughter was ill?"
"She wasn't ill then. And anyway, I told you she wasn't bad."
"And the second?"
"Getting the evening post off, I should imagine. I don't know."
"He'd finish that by half-past seven," Leyland said thoughtfully. "Following the hunt, eh?"
Hendyng again made no comment. Leyland felt distinctly exasperated. In all probability the doctor could give him exactly the information he wanted, and he was refusing to do so. He tried a new line.
"Just what is the matter with Sir John?" he inquired.
"What you'd call a stroke. Cerebral hæmorrhage."
"Caused by the shock of his son's death?"
"Brought on by the shock. Of course, Sir John hasn't spared himself and is getting on. It's a case of an existing weakness."
"And it affects the brain?"
"Damn it, Superintendent, not in the way you want!" Hendyng said irritably. "It couldn't have made him go round cat-calling, if that's what you mean... In his case, its effect has been to paralyse some of the motor nerves. So far from strangling his niece, I don't think he'll ever use his right hand or foot again... And I might as well tell you that there's been a nurse in attendance day and night."
"Sorry, Doctor. I expect some of the questions I ask seem pretty silly, but the ordinary layman feels a bit at sea in the case of madness. And I think you'll agree that that's probably behind what's happening?"
"Yes." Obviously Hendyng relented a little. "I should say that's very likely."
"Well, you said Norton wasn't insane... Do you give that as a definite medical opinion?"
Hendyng hesitated. "No," he said at last. "Because I haven't examined him... And, in any case, it might be difficult. You see, this murderer may appear as sane as you or I except when the attacks come on. Like these sex cases. The person's all right except on one or two points."
"And you're not prepared to suggest any local candidates, I suppose?" Leyland asked hopefully. "Even in confidence?"
"I am not!" Hendyng laughed. "I'm sorry, Leyland. You're asking impossibilities."
The superintendent sighed, and there was silence until the car drew up outside the Dower House. The doctor raised his eyebrows as a plain-clothes detective came forward to receive them.
"Police protection?" he asked. "Or—?"
"Mustn't divulge professional secrets, Doctor," Leyland rejoined. "Thanks for the lift."
From the detective he learnt that there was nothing to report. For the last two hours a sergeant and two policemen had been doing their best but had so far failed to solve the secret of what had fallen in the well when Lyly heard the splash the night before. The sergeant, at least, was inclined to give up the struggle, and looking down into the depths made turbid by the dragging operations Leyland was inclined to agree. After all, the sergeant's explanation was very probable.
"Probably he just dislodged a stone from the wall when he fell against it, sir," he suggested. "There are plenty of those down there. In fact, so far we've found nothing else except an old bucket."
"Have you sent a man down?" Leyland asked, and the lighter of the two constables looked depressed. It was a cold morning, and he had only just succeeded in dissuading the sergeant. But now the sergeant was on his side.
"It wouldn't be any use, sir—unless he'd got a diving dress," he said. "The water's all of ten feet deep, and running at that. At the bottom, I mean—"
"Running?"
"Yes, sir. There's quite a good current, and that doesn't make things easier. You see, sir, it's not so much a well, as that they've tapped an underground stream coming from right up the hill. That's why we can't hope to pump it dry. And besides, unless it was something pretty heavy it has probably been carried away."
"It would be heavy," Leyland said, and frowned doubtfully. They had found no traces whatsoever of the mysterious visitor either inside or outside the house. Supposing that the whole thing had been staged by Marney, it would have been a sensible precaution on his part to get rid of the gun in case he was searched, and the well was the obvious place, all the more so if he was aware of its peculiarities, as he probably was. And yet, what motive Marney could possibly have for doing it at all he was at a loss to discover, except to divert suspicion by showing himself as a victim. He hesitated. "Better stick to it a bit longer, Sergeant," he said. "You've found nothing else?"
"No, sir... Only an awful lot of cigarette stubs in an old summer-house, and some footprints in the rose-beds. But—"
"Yes." Leyland grinned. "I think you'll find Inspector Lyly made those... The way to hell—"
He left the sergeant mystified by his last words, and turned towards the house. But half-way towards it Charles Marney appeared coming to meet him. He seemed quite unperturbed, and greeted him pleasantly.
"Good morning, Superintendent... You're still busy, I see."
"Yes, sir," Leyland said a little sourly. "I suppose you've found nothing new? Nothing missing?"
"So far as I can see, no, Superintendent... But, you know"—his face clouded a little—"but, you know, I'm a bit doubtful if whoever it was came to steal."
"You are, sir?"
"Yes. After what happened last night—to Joan—well, it looks as if—"
Leyland did not help him out. He stood eyeing him stolidly.
"I mean, Superintendent, what was it that woke me up? I admit I'm a light sleeper, but still— There must have been something." His face was troubled. "Suppose—suppose whoever it was mistook the room? Suppose that he was looking for my daughter, and meant to—to—"
Leyland considered him. If Charles Marney were not speaking the truth, he was certainly a good actor. And yet there was another possibility. He might not himself have been aware of what he was doing. The superintendent seemed to remember having read somewhere that madmen often attacked the people they were most fond of. And, by all accounts, Charles Marney was not only sincerely attached to his daughter, but had been on more friendly terms with his nephew than with anyone else.
"You think that such a mistake is likely, sir?" he asked.
"Yes. You see, the rooms are quite close together. It might have occurred to anyone that the room with a night light would be my daughter's, after what had happened. But, going along the passage, he would see the light under my door first."
"You had a light in your room too, sir?"
"No. But these cold nights I always have the gas-fire burning. I can't stand low temperatures; it makes me sleepless... Of course, the light isn't enough to show through the blind, but it could be seen under the door... And if the—the murderer turned the handle—perhaps came in and realized his mistake—"
There were little beads of sweat on Marney's face as he spoke. That could not be acting, surely. And what he suggested was perfectly plausible; so much so that it might have been planned in advance. The superintendent waited to see whether he would proceed, but he did not.
"Your daughter is none the worse for the attack, sir?"
"Of course, her throat is sore. And it must have been a terrible shock; but she has stood up to that wonderfully. Thank God that the inspector arrived in time."
"Yes, sir," Leyland agreed. The mention of Lyly reminded him that it was time he went to meet him, but he waited to see if Marney had any more to say.
"You—you will be taking precautions, Superintendent?" Marney asked hesitantly. "I suppose you will... The mere fact that you were here last night—"
"Precautions, sir?" Leyland asked stupidly.
"I mean, you will have someone watching?"
"Well, sir, if you're applying for protection, I've no doubt that we can give it you," Leyland conceded. It was, in fact, precisely what he wanted. Police protection would cut both ways. It would ensure that Joan Marney was not attacked; but it would also ensure Charles Marney did not attack anyone. On the other hand, he reflected a little ruefully, it would impose a still greater strain on police resources, which were already considerably taxed. "I'll speak to the Chief Constable at once, sir," he assured Marney. "I've no doubt it can be arranged."
"To-night?"
"Naturally, sir... Good day, sir."
As he walked towards the gate, he could not help feeling that either Charles Marney was innocent, or that he was playing a very subtle game. Would a guilty man ask to be watched? Hardly; but he might want to know definitely whether he was being watched or not. He admitted to himself that he did not know which to believe.
Only when he reached the end of the drive it occurred to him that he had not brought a car. By now the doctor would certainly have gone, and if he walked back to the village he would certainly be late for his appointment with Lyly. All the same, it seemed the only thing to be done. He was looking up and down the road hopefully when a neat blue two-seater rounded the corner. Even before he could signal to it, the driver must have guessed what he wanted, for it started to slow down. As it drew to a halt beside him the window opened and Constance Handley looked out.
"Can I give you a lift, Superintendent?"
There was an eagerness in Leyland's assent which was not entirely accounted for by laziness. Of the list of possible suspects, he had just remembered that the novelist was one person he had not dealt with, and though he was not inclined to suspect her he was a man who preferred to take no chances. Besides, like Retters, he was inclined to think that anyone who invented so many imaginary murders might have something interesting to say about a genuine one. Luckily, there was no difficulty in leading up to the subject. The novelist herself supplied the opening.
"Is Miss Marney all right?" she asked as she let in the clutch. "I had meant to call and inquire, but perhaps you could save me the trouble, Superintendent."
"Quite all right, I believe, madam," Leyland answered. "A bad business, though. She had a lucky escape... And you too, madam, for that matter."
"Oh?" Mrs. Handley did not quite sniff; but she suggested that she might have done with very little more provocation. "Why do you say that, Mr.—Mr. Leyland?"
He had scarcely been prepared for that reception of his remark, and her manner was more than a little irritating.
"Obviously," he rejoined, "the lunatic must have been in the neighbourhood when you passed along the road, madam. He might have attacked you."
Constance Handley smiled, enigmatically and that annoyed him still more.
"Yes, I suppose I was there at the right time," she admitted.
"But, you were, I think? You'd just got home when Inspector Lyly rang up?"
"On the contrary. I had already been home for some time. In fact, I can produce a witness, Superintendent. Constable Retters."
"Retters!" Leyland exploded. "What the dev— I mean, madam, I hadn't heard that he'd called on you. Just what was the reason for his visit?"
The novelist smiled again. "Perfectly sound," she said. "A neighbour had complained about my cat. Miss Miller, in fact."
"Oh," Leyland said rather blankly. "Still, madam, if, as we suppose, the madman had followed Miss Marney and waited at the wood—"
Constance Handley gave him a quick glance. For a moment she did not speak.
"Superintendent," she said at last. "Do you believe that attack was genuine?"
"Genuine!" Leyland was really amazed. "Why, there are marks on her throat—"
"I know. She might have been killed, you think? But, she wasn't—"
"Well, madam," Leyland said dryly, "there's no doubt that inspector was genuinely knocked out."
"Perhaps... Something else happened at the Dower House last night, I think?"
"How did you hear, madam?" Leyland demanded.
"From the milkman... My dear man, if you really think that you can keep things like that dark in a village... I gather that there was some kind of a burglary, but that nothing was missed and no one hurt... And that was genuine too?"
It was precisely the question which he had been trying to answer himself for the past few hours, and at the moment he was not prepared to be confident either way. Certainly it had occurred to both himself and Lyly that the burglary and shot were faked, and that Charles Marney had been himself responsible. But if he had done one, why not the other? An attack on his daughter might appear an excellent way of averting suspicion from himself in view of the complete absence of motive.
"You mean, madam—?" he asked.
"There's a law of slander in this country, Mr. Leyland... But you'll admit that neither produced any result. And they both might have been arranged, say, to divert suspicion from someone... But, no doubt, you are still wedded to the theory that poor Mr. Egmont is guilty?"
Again Leyland hesitated. Actually, since he had started his investigations into alibis, he was finding it even harder to suspect Egmont. The watcher outside Egmont's house during the vital time had been no less a person than Boreman himself, and he was certainly not likely to have allowed his prospective victim any chance of going out unseen.
"Well, madam, it was natural we should suspect him at first," he said placatingly. "But we've never pretended that we could prove anything against him. At this stage, there must be any number of suspects—"
"Including me, I suppose?" She smiled. "Perhaps that's why you were so eager for the lift, Superintendent?"
Leyland swallowed that thrust in silence. She was a most uncomfortable woman, he reflected, and he wished at that moment that he could think of some way of hanging the affair on to her.
"Let me see," she said. "I've told you about the earlier part of the evening. Now, about the burglary. What time was that?"
"You don't think, madam that—" Leyland began, and gave it up. "Just about three o'clock."
"I'm afraid I've no better alibi than bed. I can't even produce the evidence of a servant, because my idiot of a maid Alice left without notice."
"Alice?" The name struck a familiar chord in his memory. "Alice Norton?" he asked.
"That's the girl. At the post office."
"She's ill, I believe, madam."
"Is she?" There was genuine surprise in her voice. "I thought it was merely temper... I've had to speak to her several times lately. She's got a boy in the village somewhere, and it seems to have gone to her head. It often does.... But you're not interested in my domestic troubles. That's the best I can do for you. I imagine most of the others are no better."
"That's one of the difficulties, madam," Leyland agreed. "And, of course, the madness complicates matters in some—"
"Madness!" she positively snapped the word. "There's no madness about it!"
"I suppose, madam," Leyland said with what was intended to be sarcasm, "all that has been staged too?"
She did not reply immediately.
"Why not?" she said at last. "Why not? If you were committing a cold-blooded murder, from one of the most sordid motives, wouldn't it make you safer to add a few trimmings? Wouldn't you suggest it was due to anything rather than what it was?"
"And that is, madam?" Leyland asked.
"Gain."
"But who does gain from poor Mr. Richard Marney's death?"
She only shrugged her shoulders. They were approaching the inn, where Lyly was standing outside the door obviously waiting with some impatience.
"Here?" she asked. A police conference, eh?"
"Thank you, madam... Good day, madam—"
She slammed the door irritably. He had turned to cross the road to the inn when she spoke again.
"Oh, Superintendent!" she said. "I suppose that the girl is being guarded?"
"Well, madam," Leyland hesitated, "we are considering it, of course, in view of what has happened."
She smiled; then her face grew serious.
"If I were you, Mr. Leyland," she said slowly, "I'd make sure I was guarding the right person."
IT was barely light when Maurice Marney opened his bedroom door and stepped out into the corridor. By his appearance, one might have supposed that he had never been to bed; for his face was drawn and tired, and there were dark lines of weariness under his eyes. In fact he had heard the church clock strike every hour of the night in an agony of indecision, sometimes tossing restlessly on his pillow, and sometimes driven to pace the room; but as he walked down the passage in the first grey light towards the staircase it was with the resolution of a man who has made up his mind for good or ill.
In front of the last door but one he stopped for a moment, hesitating. Under it, a soft, yellow gleam showed in contrast to the cold daylight. Inside, Sir John Marney lay dying; a motionless, almost senseless lump of flesh which only breathed. He shivered a little. It was less the thought of death than of that dreadful helplessness of a man who had once been so energetically virile that appalled him. He raised his hand to knock; then thought better of it. Turning a little hurriedly, he made his way towards the staircase.
On the ground floor the house was still in the throes of the early morning cleaning. A couple of maids busy with brushes and dusters looked at him in surprise not unmixed with sympathy, and at the entrance to the servants' quarters the butler seemed to be giving a fatherly admonition to the boy who did the boots. He turned quickly as his attention was evidently called to Maurice's arrival, and in answer to a beckoning gesture hurried towards him.
Marney gave a quick glance round. There were no other servants in earshot.
"Goodwin," he said without preliminary, "you have a second key to Mr. Dick's room, I believe. Bring it to me."
"Yes, sir," the butler assented; then he hesitated. "You're not going in, sir? The superintendent—"
"That's my affair. Bring it to me." Maurice frowned. "At once."
"I have it here, sir," Goodwin admitted reluctantly, and produced a bunch from his pocket. "You'd like breakfast early, sir?"
"At the usual time... You can bring some coffee to the office in about half an hour."
Maurice knew the routine of the house. In that particular wing where Dick's room was situated the servants' operations should by that time have been concluded; and in fact he saw no one as he opened the door of the room and entered, locking it behind him. Only a little light filtered through the thick curtains, and he did not draw them, instead switching on a small reading-lamp which stood on the writing-table. Then for a moment he stood looking about him, and his jaw tightened. The room was so exactly as though his brother had just left it, even to the book which had been tossed untidily on to a corner of the couch. For a moment he shrank from what he had set himself to do. Then his resolution returned. With a firm step he crossed towards the writing-table.
The police search of the night before had been most perfunctory. They had concentrated upon the desk, and it seemed, indeed, to be the only possible repository for papers in the room. Maurice could have told them that this was not the case; but he had not been asked. And, after the discovery of the letter, if he had he would most certainly have lied. There was, for example, a drawer in the table; though, being without a handle, its presence might have escaped anyone looking at it casually. He pulled a chair up, seated himself, and opened it.
It was nearly half-filled with papers, not, like those in the desk, arranged in any recognizable order, but flung in anyhow, Letters, bills, stubbs of cheque-books, old dance programmes, a few photographs, cards, and a whole variety of rubbish hardly important enough to worry about, but for one reason or another worth keeping, made up the bulk of the collection, but Maurice waded solidly through it, even glancing at each separate counterfoil of the used cheques. Several times his lips set into a tight line as one or another object evoked a recollection of the past which was too painfully vivid; but he stuck to his task. At last the whole contents of the drawer lay on the table, and he had found nothing of what he was looking for. He sat gazing for a minute at the heap; then swept it carefully back and closed the drawer.
There remained the bookcase. Among its sporting contents a single fat, and rather shabby, leather-bound volume stood out in contrast to the rest, bearing on its back the title Ancient History. Maurice drew it out and opened it. Inside, it was only a cunningly disguised box file, and it was practically empty. Taking out the half-dozen papers it contained he went rapidly through them, and this time his search was rewarded. From between the folds of a blank sheet of paper doubled over, the edge of a photograph protruded, and he pulled it out. He drew in his breath with a sharp hiss as he looked, and for a second gripped it in both hands as though on the point of tearing it; then as if with an effort he replaced it in its covering and slipped it inside his breast pocket.
He had found what he had come to get; but for a moment he lingered, after replacing the file. The gilt lettering of a photograph album caught his eye. As if struck by a sudden thought he reached for it, and rapidly skimmed its pages. Over a snapshot on one page he lingered for half a minute before reluctantly turning the page and finishing the book without any special result. On the point of replacing the album, he changed his mind; turned again to the snapshot, and took it out; then put the album carefully back. With a final glance round he moved towards the door.
Either the butler was spying upon him, or he had taken upon himself to prevent anyone else from doing so; for as he locked the door behind him he saw Goodwin, standing at the corridor end, give a surreptitious glance towards him and look hastily away. He shrugged his shoulders. Almost certainly the butler would not volunteer any information, and the odds were that the police would never ask him. By telling him to be silent he would merely exaggerate the importance of what had happened. As he handed back the key, his question had nothing to do with the borrowing of it.
"Coffee ready?" he asked.
"At once, sir... The night-nurse has come off duty, sir. She is telephoning the doctor now."
Maurice nodded and glanced up the hall. The nurse was just leaving the alcove which concealed the telephone-box, and he moved towards her. She was a motherly, kind-hearted woman, and there was pity in her eyes as she answered his unspoken question.
"He's much the same, sir... Perhaps a little better."
"Better?" He repeated the word dully; then his voice changed. "You mean there's a chance—?"
The nurse hesitated; then she shook her head. "That's for the doctor to say, sir," she said hesitantly. "But— well, no, there isn't. It's no use raising false hopes, sir... But it's just possible that he might speak, sir."
"You'll send for me at once?"
"Of course, sir."
With a word of thanks he turned towards the office where the coffee awaited him. But it grew cold upon the table beside him as he seated himself and began to write. One sheet was sacrificed, and then another. It was but a single letter he had to write, but he was still engaged upon it three hours later, when the butler announced the arrival of the superintendent.
Obviously this time Leyland meant to do the job thoroughly. There were two other men with him, one of whom carried a camera and the other a small case. Leyland saw his eyes upon them and explained.
"Just going to try for finger-prints, sir... of course, probably there aren't any. A babe in arms knows enough to wear gloves these days. Still, we've got to make sure."
Maurice Marney nodded, but he was thinking rapidly. A babe in arms might know it, but it had not occurred to him. Obviously the butler had said nothing about his visit to the room and probably would not do so; but in all probability his prints were on the drawer.
"It's occurred to me, Superintendent," he said, "that your search last night didn't go far enough. There were one or two other places where my brother kept papers. Perhaps I could show you?"
"If you would, sir," Leyland assented. "Though I'm inclined to think the burglar got most of what he came for. Still, we'll see."
It was the drawer which chiefly worried Maurice. Its polished mahogany would almost certainly reveal his prints. He moved across to a strategic position as they entered. Leyland looked round.
"Better try the window, desk and light-globe first, Stevens," he suggested. "Light-globe first, I think. He'd have a job getting it into that shade with gloves on."
"The drawer's here." Maurice laid his hands on it as he spoke. "I forgot it last night—"
"Don't touch, sir—" Stevens protested too late. "There might be—"
"Sorry... You'd better take my prints, hadn't you? Then you can sort them out."
Superintendent Leyland was busying himself with the drawer while Stevens did so. He was frowning as he closed it again.
"Nothing," he said. "But it's been disturbed recently... Anywhere else, sir?"
"Over here... In the bookcase. This volume—"
This time Leyland did not trouble to stop him from reaching for the book. He had seen at a glance that the rough leather would take no prints. He ran through the papers in the file quickly, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing, sir," he said. "Anywhere else?"
"No," Maurice answered. "I don't think I can help any more. If you'll excuse me. I shall be in the office if I'm wanted."
Possibly Superintendent Leyland was relieved rather than otherwise to get rid of him, for the police had gone some time, and it was nearing the lunch-hour before he finished the letter. He was sealing the flap when the telephone extension on the desk whirred sharply. He lifted the receiver.
"A call from Mr. Charles Marney, sir," Goodwin's voice informed him. "He says it is important, sir."
"Right. Put him through at once... Hullo, Uncle Charles?"
"Maurice, is that you?" The voice came faintly. "Can you hear me? This line is very bad—"
"Yes, Uncle?"
"Maurice, I've got to see you. It's about Dick... I've found out something. I don't know whether to tell the police or not... Could you come over?"
Maurice hesitated. He could hazard a very fair guess what his uncle might have discovered; and even apart from that, he wanted very much to talk to him. But there was his father.
"I think, so, Uncle," he decided. "Unless there's any change here."
"Poor John... Goodwin says that his condition is unchanged."
"Yes... Is Joan all right?"
"Well, that's why I don't want to come over... She's all right, of course, but you understand, Maurice— But I must see you."
"What time?"
"As soon as possible this afternoon? Two o'clock?"
"Very well, Uncle. If I can. If not—"
"I'll ring up, say at quarter to. That would give you time. If you possibly can, Maurice."
He was very thoughtful as he replaced the receiver. No doubt he could rely on his uncle's discretion, especially in view of his liking for Dick. It was not that problem which exercised him as he pocketed the letter, swallowed a cup of the cold coffee, and finally collected the rejected drafts of the letter and carefully burnt them.
He was watching the last red embers curl and whiten when there was the sound of hurried footsteps in the passage outside. He rose from the fireplace beside which he had been kneeling and flung the door open. The butler had just stopped outside, and he was obviously agitated.
"Mr. Maurice! Mr. Maurice! Sir John—"
Maurice Marney stiffened himself for the news which he thought was to come.
"He—he's dead?" he said, and his voice only shook a little.
"No, sir... He—he spoke. The doctor says you may go up, sir—"
Maurice did not wait for any more. He was hurrying towards the staircase. Dr. Hendyng met him at the head.
"My father—?" Maurice began.
"Just a minute, Maurice." Hendyng's face was grave. "Your father can speak. He has insisted on seeing you... But you mustn't build on it. There's no real improvement. If anything, it's the other way."
Maurice inclined his head. His eyes looked past the doctor towards the door of the bedroom. Hendyng studied him. He had known Maurice for years and though he noted the drawn face, he judged that uncertainty was likely to produce a worse effect than the truth.
"I'd better tell you, Maurice," he said. "There's not one chance in a million. This is just a flare-up before the end... On the other hand, you mustn't cross him or excite him in any way. But I think if your father wants to say anything you'd better hear it now."
Maurice only nodded, and as the doctor stood aside made his way slowly towards the door. A thought had just struck him, and he needed time to work things out. Outside the door he hesitated for a moment; then opened it and walked in.
The dying man on the bed did not move as he approached, only his eyes turned in a look of appeal. Maurice bent closer.
"Better, sir?" he asked, and there was scarcely a tremor in his voice.
"Don't—don't be a damned—fool!" The words came slowly and distinctly, but while the baronet spoke his face remained curiously immobile. "I'm done for... Know it... Don't waste time... Not much."
He paused for a moment. Maurice tried to find words, and failed. It was a minute before the dying man continued.
"Maurice... You've always been a good son to me... You're the last of us... Barring Charles... He's no good."
This time the pause was longer. The nurse moved a little nearer, and Maurice was aware that the doctor had entered and was standing somewhere in the background.
"No one I'd sooner... leave the estate... But Jack's dead, and now Dick... The name... Marry—"
"You want me to marry, sir?"
"Children... Keep the Marneys going... A son."
His speech was coming with more difficulty. His lips scarcely moved, and in his eyes could be seen the struggle which was going on. He was holding his own by sheer will-power.
"Know you've... Not forgotten Janet... Wouldn't mind... Some nice girl... Not Dick's mistake... Poor Dick—"
This time the pause was so long that Maurice thought that it was finished.
"A son... You will?... Speak loud... Can't hear—"
Maurice bent still closer. He himself seemed to speak with am effort.
"Yes, sir," he said. "I'll promise."
The face did not move, but the eyes seemed to light for a moment with satisfaction.
"Good... Good-bye."
Before Maurice had time to reply the eyelids dropped. Hendyng hurried forward, and felt the pulse. With a backward nod of his head he motioned Maurice towards the door.
It was five minutes which seemed an eternity before he emerged. Maurice was waiting for him; but for a moment Hendyng did not speak.
"It's—it's all over?"
"Not yet." Hendyng hesitated. "I don't think he'll recover consciousness. But he'll probably linger for hours. It's a slow spreading of the paralysis. He won't be dead, but—"
"My mother?" Maurice asked. "Should she see him?"
"Better not... I don't think she'd stand it. You'd better go to her though. Don't stay long."
"You're sure—he won't recover consciousness?"
"As sure as one can be of anything."
"Death—isn't likely to come soon?
"Probably not before this evening. Or to-night. It's a miracle he could manage so much just now..." He scrutinized the other man carefully. "You've got to look after yourself. Didn't sleep, I suppose?"
"Not much."
"I'll give you something, if you like."
Maurice shook his head. "I wondered—dare I go for a walk?" he asked. "Just for an hour?"
"Best thing for you. Yes. You'd be quite safe... Keep cheerful with Lady Marney."
Maurice nodded. As he turned away, Hendyng was thinking that if the baronet died while his son was out it would be the best thing all round. There was a strained look on Maurice's face which suggested he was nearing his limit. Of course, his father's death was bound to upset him. He had always been a most affectionate son.
But as he knocked at his mother's door, Maurice Marney was thinking of the appointment at two o'clock.
LEYLAND stood frowning after the car until it was out of sight before he finally crossed the road to where Lyly was waiting. It was only then he noticed the handkerchief-wrapped parcel which the other was carrying gingerly in his left hand. The younger man had been watching him impatiently, and was evidently excited.
"Come inside," he said. "I've something to show you. And a good deal to tell."
"So have I," Leyland grunted, following Lyly into a small room at the back of the inn where they could talk without being overheard. He accepted a pint of beer, and drank satisfyingly, but it seemed to have no cheering effect. Lyly was obviously only waiting until the landlord was out of earshot, but it was the superintendent who spoke first when the door finally closed behind him.
"Damn that woman!" he said. "I believe it was her!"
"Mrs. Handley?" Lyly asked in surprise. "Why?"
"Never mind... I mean, I hope it was... Tell me what you've found."
He listened in silence as the inspector gave an account of his interview with Wilmot and of his discovery of the flask, but his gloom did not lighten. "Egmont, eh?" he commented thoughtfully. "That's the devil."
"Because I was just beginning to hope we could clear him off the list pretty definitely and take away the men who've been shadowing him... You know, this business puts the hell of a strain on a small police force. We've none too many men."
Lyly nodded sympathetically. "That's why I was sent alone," he said. "We're busy at the Yard just now... I expect I could get a sergeant sent?"
"Never mind... But what you've said brings Egmont right back into the picture."
"Just why was he out?"
"Last night's affair. Boreman was watching, and he swears that Egmont couldn't have got out for the burglary. Also, he was certainly at home when Dick Marney's room was entered."
"Of course, theoretically, he might still have done the murder. But they probably are the work of the same person... Of course, the answer to his alibi is that one man can't watch a house. I found that myself last night."
"Then, let's just review what there is against him. Motive, the obvious one. Possession of the weapon—proved by what you overheard, and Wilmot—"
"Possession some time ago, that is, and it seems to have wandered round quite a bit. How on earth did he get hold of it?"
"Don't know. But we can't prove anyone else has had it since. That's for him to explain. Then, he was on the scene of the crime at somewhere near the right time—"
"Retters isn't sure he was," said Lyly, and gave the theory the constable had been presented with the night before. "We'll check that."
"I doubt if you can get it accurately enough. Besides, he could always have heard from someone... He was in the neighbourhood when Miss Marney was strangled, and, incidentally, he's got the right physique to beat you up—"
"I'm not sure of that," Lyly protested. "In a fair field, I mean... Against all this, he didn't break into Dick Marney's room, and police evidence shows he didn't go to Charles Marney's."
"Well, I still think he's our best bet."
"Perhaps. Let's just consider the others. Charles Marney."
"That's one reason why I damned that woman. She was putting ideas into my head about him. You may as well have it—"
Lyly listened with attention. "And it is possible at that," he said as Leyland finished. "So, working on that assumption, we have against him that he hasn't accounted for his time during the murder; that he was out of the house when his daughter was attacked; that he was not at home when Dick Marney's room was entered, and that in the affair at his own house there's no evidence anyone was concerned but himself."
"The absence of the gun that fired the shot?"
"Was it absent?" Lyly frowned. "You see, we didn't search him. We might have done, but we didn't. Maybe that was the reason for the splash. We were expected to think the gun would be down the well, and all the time it was in his pocket!"
"The dagger?"
"We've not found any evidence he had it. But he was a frequent visitor, and he certainly could have got it some time."
"Motive?" Leyland frowned. "That wretched woman said gain. But I don't see how Charles Marney gains. Not enough to matter, anyhow."
"There's that nine hundred pounds?"
"Perhaps." The superintendent said the word in a way which meant he did not agree. There was a worried frown on his face. "I'm thinking of what Mrs. Handley said as a parting shot. Are we guarding the right person?"
"You mean?"
"Maybe the attack on Joan Marney was a blind—to concentrate attention on her... Sir John is dying. That means the money and estate will go to Maurice. But if anything happened to Maurice, who'd get it then?"
Lyly raised his eyebrows. He had recovered from his romantic mood of the morning during which he had visioned the entire destruction of the hunt and the Marney family.
"Charles, of course," he admitted. "But isn't it a bit wholesale?"
"The man's damned hard up. Sir John must have been reaching the end of his tether by all accounts. And anyhow he's mad about that system. It's not impossible."
"I hope to God that Maurice isn't bumped off!" Lyly said fervently. "There would be a row... You've seen the morning paper? I suppose Retters talked."
"He'll hear about it, if he did," Leyland said grimly. He sat for a moment in silence, drumming his fingers on his knee. "I don't feel inclined to take the risk," he said unhappily. "I'll find a man to tail him somehow."
"If you think it will do any good," Lyly said doubtfully. To him, it seemed a dubious precaution. The attack, if it came, would probably not be delivered in circumstances against which the detective could guard, and to have a man killed while he was being watched would make things even worse. "Let's just complete the list... Ashby?"
"There's that silly quarrel. And he seems cracked enough about blood-sports to go off his head and start wiping out the hunt... Suppose he wouldn't class that as a blood-sport? He was somewhere near the place when it happened. He was out last night—and both times explains it by a rotten excuse. No connexion with the weapon... Nothing very much else, is there?"
"The burglaries? Had he an alibi?"
"Of a sort. His servant says he went to the study soon after she came in—that was some time after eight—and stayed there all the evening. She didn't see him again. But that was quite normal. He's writing a book."
"On what?"
"'Uncommon migrants,' I gather. He's a bird collector."
The ridiculous idea that had occurred to him earlier recurred to Lyly. He smiled.
"I'd an idea that might explain the cat noises!" he explained.
Leyland actually grinned. "It might," he said. "But maybe you're mistaken. I mean, maybe the noises aren't cat but dog, only his voice doesn't allow a good imitation. Thinks he's a pack of hounds on the trail!"
"The point is, there's nothing really concrete against Ashby, except the quarrel and his mysterious walks. Who next?"
"Mrs. Handley," Leyland said vindictively. "I'm having her on the list somehow."
Lyly grinned. "By all means," he said. "But just how?"
Leyland wrinkled his brow. "She's no motive, of course," he conceded reluctantly. "But if she's a maniac that doesn't matter—"
"Oh, yes!" Lyly objected. "A maniac generally has a reason of sorts. Only it's not one that would appeal to a normal man. If we accept the madman theory, the apparent absence of motive counts against her."
"That's fine... A bit subtle for a jury, though. And then, she was on the scene of the crime shortly afterwards—"
"So was Nicholson and Retters, and half a dozen more. If your trade was murders and you heard of one, wouldn't you go to have a look?"
"It is, and I wouldn't—if I could help it. Well, I admit I don't see how she could have attacked Miss Marney, but she was about. She couldn't have broken into Dick Marney's. We've only her word she was in bed."
"The weapon?"
"She was friendly with the Marneys." Leyland frowned. "And, anyway, she's making herself such a damned nuisance, poking her nose into things... She's got a cat, too."
Lyly laughed. "I wouldn't call it an overwhelming case," he said. "And if she did it, she must have been mad. I decline to believe an ordinary woman could put me down for the count like that."
"Oh, there's Norton... But I don't quite see why we included Norton. And I've not heard about him properly, yet."
"There's the letter, and the heraldry—another count against Charles that we forgot, by the way."
"And he was following the hunt. He might have had a chance."
"On foot? How did he get the dagger?
"That's what I was saying. He's an absolute outside chance. And that's the lot."
"Maurice Marney?"
"Dash it, the only thing against him was not owning up to the dagger. He's no motive... He might have done your heading off stunt, but I doubt it. He was with us for his own burglary, and doesn't seem to have been out when Miss Marney was attacked... Besides, why the devil should he attack her?"
Lyly looked up quickly. "Maybe for the same reason he killed his brother," he said. "No, we're getting too far-fetched, and there's no evidence—"
There was a knock at the door; for the landlord had received his instructions. In answer to their summons, he entered.
"Constable Retters is outside, sir," he announced. "He heard you were here, and wondered if you could spare a minute?"
"I can," Leyland said grimly. "Send him in."
Certainly there was no consciousness of wrong-doing on Retters's face as he entered and closed the door behind him. He seemed rather satisfied with himself; but the superintendent did not wait for him to begin.
"Seen the papers, Retters?" he snapped.
The constable looked his astonishment. "Yes, sir," he admitted; then he flushed. "I hope, sir, you don't think that I—?"
"You didn't? Then who was it?"
"I don't know, sir... I thought that you'd given it out, sir."
Leyland frowned. He believed that Retters was telling the truth, but that seemed to lay the burden on headquarters itself.
"Well, Retters," he said, "who else could have done? Who knew?"
Retters thought. "Mr. Egmont, sir? I showed him the letter—asked him to explain it. Before I knew about the murder, sir."
"Umph!" Leyland grunted. "In that case— You'd got something to tell me?"
"Only about Norton, sir. You said I was to find out anything about his movements I could without attracting attention—"
"Well?"
Retters produced a notebook. "He was following the hunt—" he began.
"I know that. You don't know where he was while he was doing it?"
"No, sir. I may hear. He wouldn't be alone."
"I suppose he wouldn't. And last night?"
"He was at home, sir, sitting with his daughter. She's ill—"
"I know that too... Anyone see him?"
"Why, no, sir... He's a bit sore just now, and won't see anyone. On account of his daughter's trouble—"
"Trouble?"
"Well, sir—she's going to have a child. And she isn't married."
"Oh," Leyland said thoughtfully, and an idea suddenly occurred to him. "What does she look like?"
"A bit too good-looking, if you know what I mean sir. One of the flighty sort—make-up and all that. I don't think anyone's really surprised—"
"They never are," Leyland said sardonically. "Who's the man?"
"That's it, sir... She insists on keeping that dark. Her father tried to find out. Wanted to force him to marry her and make an honest woman—"
"Poor devil!" Leyland said with sympathy. "But you didn't answer my question. Can't you describe her?"
"She's about five feet, six or seven inches, sir," Retters said, frowning in his effort at concentration. "Eyes, brown—rather long lashes. Hair, dark, almost black. A thinnish sort of face sir, and a slim figure—"
"Dark and slim?" Lyly repeated. "But her name's Alice, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. Alice after her father's mother, and Maud after—"
"Maud!"
Retters stared as he jumped to his feet.
"Yes, sir. Maud after her mother."
There was a moment's dead silence. Leyland drew a deep breath, and looked at Lyly.
"Been any gossip about it?" he asked.
"Oh, plenty, sir." Retters had been mystified, but a light was beginning to dawn on him. "You mean, sir—?"
"I don't mean anything... Any suggestions who the man is?"
"No one seems to know, sir. She used to go about with several, sir, but she's settled down this last year—"
Leyland thought. "You've done well," he conceded. "Pick up any more you can. Gossip or not. And particularly about their movements... I suppose you're guessing things, Retters?"
"Well, yes, sir—"
"Then keep your mouth shut. And don't seem too interested... That's one reason why you can do this better than anyone else. Get everything you can. It may be important. Right."
"Yes, sir. I will, sir."
The two men stared at each other as the door closed behind him.
"Well, I'm damned!" Leyland exploded. "This—this alters everything—"
"Not necessarily. It may explain one thing—the letter. But Norton—and the girl too—may be able to prove they couldn't do it. All it does is to give a motive."
"Maybe more than that... Isn't she the one person he might have stopped for wherever he was, and whatever the circumstances?" He paused. "But why call her Maud? If she's generally called Alice?"
"Might be just that he preferred the name. Of course, she'd be called Alice at home to avoid confusion with her mother. We ought to try and get a specimen of her handwriting."
"Should be easy. I forgot that... But someone must have been in charge of the post office that morning? I'll have to see Retters again. There's the heraldry—and the envelope—the attack on Joan Marney. Of course, she'd think she'd been supplanted, and she'd be desperate, poor girl... It wouldn't be surprising if she was off her head—"
"But the heraldry stuff would come from Norton... And he doesn't know—"
"Or doesn't admit knowing... He wouldn't."
"There's the dagger... I think we'll have to go slow—"
Suddenly the door burst open. This time there had been no preliminary knock. It was Retters who entered, but he was greatly excited, and somehow his helmet had gone askew, giving a ludicrous effect. He stood there for a moment struggling for breath.
"Well?" Leyland stared at him wrathfully. "What the devil—"
He broke off. He and Lyly saw in the same instant the envelope which Retters was waving speechlessly towards them. They sprang to their feet.
"Good God! It's not—?"
"It—it's another," Retters managed. "It's another—letter, sir. Printed. Like the other."
TO judge by his manner, Mr. Charles Marney was not in the least aware that he was an object of police suspicion. It was true that he was preoccupied, but no more so than might reasonably have been expected in view of what had happened. Only for the second day in one week, and incidentally during the last twelve months, he failed to shut himself up in his study to work upon his system. To anyone who knew him that might have been significant.
On taking leave of Leyland he made his way towards the well, where he still further irritated the exasperated sergeant by suggesting a little liquid refreshment. The sergeant, a man with a conscience, would have liked to accept; but at that moment, he was hoping, if all went well, to help materially in hanging the man who made it. Or rather, he had almost ceased to hope. But he refused, more than a little curtly.
Marney was not deterred. He stood there for some time longer, making a few helpful suggestions. It was possible, he pointed out, that the object which had fallen in, though heavy enough to sink some distance, was still light enough to be affected by the current before reaching the bottom. In that case, its present whereabouts must remain a complete mystery. No one, positively no one, knew the precise course of the underground stream which the well tapped. All he could tell them was that it had not failed even in the driest summers, and that on one occasion it had become so unruly that it overflowed the well-head. On the whole, he was still inclined to believe that what had caused the splash was a stone from the coping. In fact, he rather thought, though he could not be certain, that there was a new gap. He had been intending to have the well repaired for some time; but the well was little used. Probably, unknown to themselves, they had already recovered the identical stone in the slimy collection which lay on the path...
The sergeant's replies grew shorter and shorter, until they were barely civil. It is no comfort to hear one's ideas put into words when one has got to go on with a fruitless and unpleasant task in accordance with the ideas of someone else. He stuck to his task grimly, until at last Mr. Charles Marney sighed and went away. Then he turned to one of his two assistants.
"Jones," he growled. "You'd better keep an eye on that old devil. Don't let him see you... James and I will manage here. We're nearly through, anyway. Have to give it up."
Charles Marney returned to the house, apparently quite unconscious that he had acquired a follower. Automatically he had turned towards the study when he remembered something. Retracing his steps, he sought for, and finally found the butler.
"My daughter?" he asked.
"Miss Joan came down a little while ago, sir." There was a suggestion of reproof in the words, for the servant had been with the family practically since its foundation as a separate entity. He often disapproved of Mr. Charles. "She asked for you, but you were with the policeman, sir."
"Superintendent," Charles Marney corrected mildly. "Where is she?"
"In the morning-room, sir."
There was a slight shadow on his face as he crossed the hall. He was sincerely fond of his daughter, and though since his wife's death he had schooled himself to a philosophy capable of absorbing almost any shock he realized only too well that she was not similarly protected. He opened the door quietly and looked in. Joan Marney lay on the chesterfield with her face buried in her arms, and her shoulders rose and fell convulsively. He stood for half a minute looking at her, and his rather cold eyes softened. Crossing the room, he made for the first time for years a demonstration of real affection. His arm went round her comfortingly, and his free hand gently smoothed hair.
"Joan, dear... You mustn't... It will come all right. One lives through things. One lives through anything."
It was his own motto, and he had proved its effectiveness, but the sobs increased. For several minutes he said nothing, while the sobs grew less. At last she looked up.
"Daddy, how can it come right? What is the end of it?"
"My dear—" He hesitated. The distress in her face disturbed him. In the face of a grief which he did not know how to cure, he took refuge in his normal manner. "I have often thought it a good thing," he said with a certain detachment, "that we are denied the gift of prevision. Or, at least, in most cases—"
"Daddy—please don't... Be—be as you were just now—"
Charles Marney's eyebrows rose a little. He decided to say nothing.
"How can it come right?" she went on dully. "Dick is dead... And they suspect Hugh... And uncle—uncle is dying—"
"His condition this morning is unchanged," he interposed mildly.
"But that means—that means—"
Her father inclined his head. "I'm afraid it does," he admitted. "Poor John... He's been a good brother—"
"And you, Daddy? What is wrong with you?"
The question took him by surprise. "With me, Joan?" he asked, and stared at her innocently.
"Daddy, why did you tell me—when uncle was taken ill—not to speak about the money?"
"My dear Joan," he remonstrated mildly, and she saw a slight flush colour his pale face. "You have not been brooding on that? It is a matter of no importance. Naturally one does not wish one's private affairs to be discussed—"
"Daddy, won't you—won't you let me help? Won't you tell me?"
"I assure you, Joan, that I am in no need of help. Indeed, quite the reverse. You have nothing to worry about so far as I am concerned."
She did not repeat the question. For quite a long time she sat staring out of the window. Charles Marney at last broke the silence.
"I hope, Joan, that in the past I have not interfered in a way which may prejudice your happiness... You know that I had hoped you would marry Dick. Was it—is it Egmont?"
"I—I don't know," she said dully. "I never did know... Perhaps it wasn't either... I liked them both. I thought I might be in love with one of them. Now—"
"There's someone else?" Marney's tact might fail at times, but his perceptions were sufficiently acute. "There is someone you love—now?"
"No!" She blushed hotly. "There isn't... There can't be."
Her father noted the blush; the denial he was inclined to disregard. He looked at her thoughtfully, frowning a little.
"It's not—it's not—Maurice?" he asked hesitantly.
"Daddy!" She stared at him in amazement. "Why he's quite old—old enough to be my father... And he's been married... He's never thought of anything—" She broke off at the look on his face. "You mean—? Has he?"
"Naturally, he has said nothing... Since you seemed fond of Dick. He was devoted to his brother... But I think he has loved you for some time."
Joan gazed at him at first with horrified disbelief; but something in her father's manner carried conviction. Several small things came into her mind of which she had thought nothing at the time.
"But—but it's impossible... If anything he's seemed to avoid me lately."
"If he thought you were in love with Dick—"
"But—but I don't love him. I never shall—"
"There's someone else?" Marney repeated gently.
"No one."
The words were barely audible, and she did not meet his eyes. He stood looking at her for a moment, a little sadly.
"Ah," he said at last and turned towards the door.
He was going towards the study when the shrill ringing of the telephone caught his ear. He waited for a moment, hoping that the butler would appear; for he disliked telephones; then he lifted the receiver.
"Mr. Charles Marney?" a voice inquired.
"I am speaking," he admitted. "Who is that?"
Behind him, the butler, who disliked telephones scarcely less, having successfully arrived too late to answer it, paused for a moment to listen.
"Oh, you, Maurice?" he heard. "What's that? What?... About Dick? Oh... You can't tell me?"
The person at the other end of the line seemed to be going into a long explanation, to which Charles Marney, who belonged to that class of telephone users who believe they can be seen, nodded assent at intervals.
"Of course," he said at last. "I understand that you can't leave. Yes. Certainly I will... At two o'clock... Oh, getting along very nicely. Thank you."
Rather to his daughter's relief, he was silent and abstracted at lunch-time. Hardly a word was spoken; but it was with a feeling that she had escaped that she slipped from the room as soon as she could conveniently do so. Marney hardly noticed that she had gone. He sat frowning doubtfully over a cigarette, with occasional glances at the clock. The hands showed a quarter to the hour when he rose, found his hat in the hall, and went outside.
Constable Jones had been chosen as a shadow by the sergeant in the heat of the moment, and not because he was by any means an expert at the task. Rather rashly, he had assumed that his quarry, in leaving the house, would proceed down the drive which offered the only means of communication with the highway, and he had in consequence taken up his position in the very summerhouse which had served the inspector the previous evening. It commanded a good view of both front door and drive; but it was some distance from the house. He was therefore rather pained when Marney, so far from turning down the drive, slipped quietly round the corner of the house towards the well.
Constable Jones sensed something wrong. It did not for one moment occur to him that it was natural enough there should be a direct way across the fields between the Dower House and Sir John Marney's. It was quite a clearly defined track, leading from just behind the well to a queerly shaped plantation which marked the beginning of the park, and from thence past the back of Shell Farm to the paddock adjoining the house. It was that way which Marney had decided to take, as being a good deal shorter, and when the constable finally thundered up to the well his victim had disappeared.
Only for a moment, however. Marney had apparently heard the noisy approach of his shadow and politely retraced his steps. He recognized the man as one of those who had been at the well, and smiled.
"You wanted me, officer?"
The answer must have been sufficiently obvious from the constable's face; but it was half a minute before he found an answer.
"No, sir... That is, I thought I heard someone. I thought I'd better see—"
Marney eyed him benignly. "Ah, of course," he assented. "The superintendent will have posted you to watch? My daughter is still in the house, I believe... I am just going over to my brother's, if I should be wanted. I shall be back in an hour."
If Constable Jones had wished, he could have said that Joan Marney had left the house something like half an hour before; but he was not interested in the movements of the daughter. It was sufficient for him that Marney himself seemed to take his presence for granted, and to be quite unalarmed by his appearance. But he scowled as the other disappeared through the gap in the bushes. At all costs, now, he must not be seen; or even Marney could hardly help suspecting. And he did not know the ground, being from the neighbouring town, and unused not only to that particular bit of country, but to the country in general. He waited on tenterhooks for longer than he liked to allow a decent start; then started along the path down which Marney had gone.
It led to a gate piercing the boundary fence of the grounds, and leading into a rutted lane which ran parallel with the fence. He looked dubiously up and down it for a moment before he noticed the worn railing in the hedge directly opposite the point where he was standing. Crossing the lane he peered cautiously through. His guess had been right. Marney was following a path which followed the hedge side of a small field on the other side, and was already across it, walking quickly, but with a curious limping gait which the constable, himself a victim, attributed to rheumatism.
His task seemed simplicity itself. Obviously the man in front had no idea that he was being followed. He never even glanced back once. Reaching the far hedge, he passed through a gap. The constable saw him slowly disappear, as though the ground fell away at that point, and waited no longer. Vaulting the rail he hurried forward.
He must have gained considerably going across the intervening space, but as he approached the gap he went more circumspectly. After all, Marney might be suspicious. He might have waited the other side; or at least he might look back. It came to him as a bright idea that, if he were surprised in that way he could tell Marney that his daughter had gone out and that he thought he might want to know. But there was no need of any such subterfuge. When at last he reached a position from which he could look down the hill he heaved a sigh of relief. Marney was crossing the next field, obviously quite ignorant of his presence.
He cast his eyes over the ground ahead, preparing to follow, and something like a groan escaped him. A long, shallow valley opened below, along the bottom of which double hedges, almost meeting, showed where an overgrown lane ran towards a copse about a quarter of a mile away. On the opposite slope he could see the path, going slantingly up the hill towards the red roofs of some farm buildings. Marney was about half-way down on his own side, and there would obviously be no difficulty in seeing him, unless he chose to turn along the lane.
But as for following—! The gap in the hedge led into a long field which covered all one side of the valley, and it was nearly in the middle. Once he left the shelter which protected him, he could be seen for miles; even from the opposite slope, if Marney looked back. The only cover was the lane in the valley bottom, and he could see no way of reaching it. On the other hand, if he did not follow somehow, Marney would have a start of about half a mile, and on the crest of the opposite hill he could see the trees and bushes of the park in which at such a distance a man could be lost inside a minute.
There was nothing for it but to make a long detour round the hedge side, and even so he would lose far more ground than he liked. One thing was on his side. The path ascending the opposite slope left the lane not precisely across it from that leading down, but some twenty or thirty yards along it towards the copse. And up the other side he traced the angles of a hedge which might allow him to retain at least a reasonable distance and be within sight when Marney reached the park. He set off briskly, glancing down from time to time to mark the other's progress, and had reached the point at which he could turn down before Marney gained the lane.
A hedge barred his further progress, and here there was no convenient gap. He had to push his way through it regardless of thorns and brambles, and with a scratched face, and with his helmet awry plunged uncomfortably into a muddy ditch on the other side.
"Here, what are you doing? Breaking down hedges like that? This is private."
He looked up to see a man in breeches and gaiters standing on the bank above him, and eyeing him dubiously. Extricating his legs from the mud, he scrambled up the bank and tried to regain his dignity.
"I'm a policeman," he announced a little unnecessarily.
"Oh?" There was heavy sarcasm in the word. "Well, you're trespassing, police or not. And you've no call to break hedges."
"Look here," Jones began. He had met the type of man before, and it was no use trying to bully him. "It's the murder," he explained. "I've got to get on. I'm following a man—"
"Who?" the farmer demanded.
The constable beckoned him towards the hedge and pointed. Marney was in the very act of entering the lane. The distance was considerable, but the farmer's laugh might almost have carried.
"Why you're daft... That's Mr. Charles!"
"Maybe it is," Jones said with significance; but the farmer paid no heed.
"He'll be going over to inquire about his brother," he said. "It's a bad business, that... Hullo!"
He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked. Marney had disappeared into the lane now. Jones began to be desperate.
"I don't care if he's the czar of all the Russias—!" he began.
"That'll be Mr. Maurice coming down the hill? With Miss Joan? Ay, it'll be Mr. Maurice. In mourning for his brother, that's what it is—"
Jones had started to push past him; but at the words he turned to look. Two other figures were descending the opposite path, one showing dark against the green field, and the other in a light raincoat such as he remembered Joan Marney had worn when he saw her leave the house.
"He'll be going to meet them," the farmer went on. "Now, I wonder if they mightn't hitch up? Now that Mr. Dick—"
"What's that?"
It had been the sound of a shot. He was sure of that. And it had come from somewhere just ahead, probably from the lane... In a moment he was clambering over the hedge.
The farmer laughed again. "That'll be Joe," he said. "Rabbiting. Trespassing in pursuit of coneys, as you'd say—"
From the other side the constable paused only for a second. He turned a white face towards the speaker.
"You damn fool, that was a rifle!" he snapped. "And look!"
The farmer's eyes followed the quick gesture of his hand.
"Good God!" he said blankly. "He's down! You don't mean—"
But the constable was already half-way down the field, running like a madman. As the farmer gathered his wits and started after him, from the opposite slope came the sound of a shrill scream of fear.
LEYLAND and the inspector jumped for the letter together. It was Lyly who got it. In the heat of the moment he ripped the flap recklessly, regardless of possible finger-prints. Inside was a single sheet, covered with half a dozen lines of rough printing. Retters and the superintendent peered over his shoulders as he opened it.
"'Sable on a field vert,'" he read aloud in a voice which shook. "'Between a pierced mullet sinister, and an escallop dexter. Party per fusil.'"
There was a moment of dead silence.
"Lord help us!" said Leyland. "What the devil—?"
"Fusil's a gun, sir! It's French!" Retters burst out. "And Vert is green—"
"By God, I believe you're right," Leyland said quite softly. "But what does it mean?"
Lyly drew a deep breath. "It means death!" he said slowly. "Unless we can stop it—"
Leyland frowned at the sheet. "The first came after it had happened," he said. "We're too late."
The crumpled envelope had fluttered to the floor. Lyly relinquished the sheet to the superintendent and bent to retrieve it. He smoothed it with his fingers, and looked for the postmark; then he glanced sharply at Retters.
"It's not been posted?" he said. "There's no postmark on the envelope."
"No, sir," Retters agreed. "I mean, yes, it has... I was going to tell you, sir—"
"Then, for God's sake do!" Leyland snapped.
"It was like this, sir. With all that being in the paper this morning, the postmen were naturally on the look out. And Jimmy—that's James Pember, who collects the Barden round—noticed the print when he emptied the box—"
"What box?"
"Barden cross-roads, sir. So he guesses what it was, and instead of taking it to the office to be delivered in the regular way he goes looking for me—"
"When was this?
"Twelve-thirty collection, sir. There's just the one a day from there."
"Posted any time in twenty-four hours!" Lyly groaned; then a thought struck him suddenly. "When would you have got it, in the ordinary way?"
"Evening delivery, sir. About four o'clock."
Lyly's face whitened. But Leyland was looking at the unmarked stamp reflectively.
"Barden cross-roads, eh?" he said. "Where last night—"
"Don't you see?" Lyly burst out violently. "That last letter was delivered at about a quarter to eleven. Marney died about ten-thirty. It brought the news too late... But only just... He's doing it now. And we don't know who or where!"
But Leyland had regained his self-control. "Wait a bit," he said calmly. "It's no use getting flustered. If we don't know who it is, we know who it isn't. Egmont's still watched. And there are men at both the Hall and the Dower House—"
But Lyly was poring over the sheet again. He did not look up.
"They were watching Egmont last night," he said, "and he got out... You hadn't put anyone on to protect the girl?"
"He won't be there yet, anyhow," Leyland admitted.
"And it's all here, if we could read it!"
"All there?"
"Damn it, yes! Remember the last? It told us the place—the method—and who it was. I'll bet this does the same... Who's the nearest who'd know about it?"
"Well, Norton, sir."
Lyly hesitated. "Not him," he said. "Anyone else?"
"The vicar might, sir—"
"Come on, then... The car... Where is it, Retters?"
"Down the hill, sir. Drive on the left... A big house among the trees."
They were speeding recklessly down the hill before anyone spoke. Retters cleared his throat diffidently.
"Miss Marney, sir... She wears a fur coat sometimes—"
"Sable, you're thinking of? No, it's not Sable.... I shouldn't think their income runs to that—" He spoke absently. "It can't be her—"
"In a green field!" Leyland quoted desperately. "And whoever saw a field any other colour, bar plough land?"
"Up here, sir," Retters directed. "Stop! There he is."
Lyly braked the car to a stop so suddenly that the constable, who had leant forward in his eagerness, nearly dived through the windscreen. An elderly man in clerical dress who was talking to an ancient, leaning on a spade, looked up at the protesting screech. He gazed in mild amazement as they piled out of the car; then recognized the constable.
"Retters?" he said. "Why, what— Oh, it's Superintendent Leyland, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," Leyland assented. "It's the murder... we want your help. It's life and death—"
"I'll come at once." The vicar looked shocked. "Not—not another murder, Superintendent?"
"We're hoping to stop one... You know heraldry?"
"Ah, the letter? It was in the paper... Not The Times, though. I thought it was mere sensationalism—"
"We've got another... You can help us?"
"Perhaps. I know a little—a very little. Now, Mr. Charles Marney—"
"Here's the letter, sir," Lyly interrupted. "What does it mean?"
The vicar felt for his glasses. But Leyland had had another idea. He must try and mobilize such forces as were available.
"Your telephone, sir? May I—?"
"Certainly... Just tell them at the house... Ah! Now, let me see."
He frowned at the sheet dubiously, muttering the words to himself. Then he looked up.
"This is the original?" he said doubtfully. "Or are you sure there's no mistake in the copy?"
"It's the original, sir... We've just got it. The murder may be happening at this moment."
"But, you see, this doesn't make sense. It couldn't be a coat of arms—" He pointed. "Sable? But sable what? A bend, a chevron?"
"It's not, sir!" Lyly interrupted desperately. "It's a message—telling us, we think, who's being murdered, where, and how... But in heraldic terms. And we can't solve it—"
"Ah! Now, I understand!" There was relief in his voice. "You'd just like me, as it were, to translate?"
"Yes. Fusil's a gun, isn't it? Retters suggests—"
"And Retters is quite right. A gun—of course, highly conventionalized. Let me see. 'Sable' is black, of course, and vert green. Black on a green field. Yes."
"Between—" Lyly prompted.
"Ah, yes... A pierced mullet—that's represented by a star, you know. And a pierced mullet by a star with a circle in the centre... But I scarcely see how that applies, do you? And escallop—a scallop-shell, of course. But how can a man be murdered between a mullet and a scallop-shell? Party per fusil.... Of course, that's absurd. But party means 'parted' as you might suppose—separated, that is, or divided. 'Per,' like the French 'par' is simply 'by.' And Retters was right about 'fusil.' But, heraldically speaking, how could anything be separated by a musket?... Parted from what?"
"Departed," Lyly said grimly. "It means, shot!"
"Good heavens!" The vicar said in a shocked voice. "You don't think so?"
"I do... Well, that's it. But we're not much further—" He frowned down at the sheet for a minute; then looked up, glancing from one to the other. "Local place-names?" he suggested. "Is there a scallop farm? Or an inn called the Star? Anything of that kind—?"
"There be Shell Farm, sir." All of them had completely forgotten the gardener. He was still leaning on his spade in pretty much the same position, but he had obviously been drinking in every word of it. "Yes, there be Shell Farm. Worked there as a boy, I did. That was in old Wilkie's time—"
"Where?" Lyly snapped.
"Up to the park, sir—Sir John's place. Right on the edge—"
"Star Wood, sir!" Retters burst out. "It's a queer-shaped bit of copse—"
"Where's Leyland?" Lyly looked anxiously towards the house. The superintendent appeared as he did so, pounding down the hill. "Here! Quick!"
"You're right again, Retters, I believe," the vicar approved. "Yes. Star Wood, an eccentricity of Sir John's father, I believe. Roughly a star. And, of course, the pool in the middle. A pierced mullet. Very ingenious!... But, you know, I think the writer had no great knowledge—"
"Got it?" the superintendent snapped as he came up.
"Jump in!" said Lyly. He was already at the wheel.
"Half a minute. Who? Where?"
"Don't know. Between Shell Farm and Star Wood."
"Vicar, would you tell them that? They're hanging on the 'phone. Thanks. Excuse us—!"
Lyly turned the car, regardless alike of the drive's grass verges, and its wings.
"Guide us, Retters," he said. "Dower House way?"
"Yes, sir, "Retters assented. "That is, at first, sir. There's a turning just beyond there to the farm. That's as far as we can get in the car—"
"In a green field—think you can find it?"
Retters wrinkled his brows. "Well, sir, it's a long time since I went," he admitted. "So far as I remember, there's just the one—a big one. Should be easy enough, sir."
"I hope to heaven it is," Lyly groaned. "You've called out the reserves, Leyland?"
"There'll be half the county there—if we get time. Look here, if that letter was delivered about four, and he timed it like last time, it wouldn't come off till three. It isn't two yet—"
"He may not... But who is it... Oh, sable means black—"
"We ought to have spotted that. Sable plumes and so on—"
"I know. But who does it suggest to you?"
Leyland considered. "Well, the girl's darkish," he said slowly. "Hardly black, though. And Maurice is brown. And Charles grey... The post office girl Maud?"
"You think it means hair?" Lyly said doubtfully. "I don't know... Seems to me the murderer has a fine eye for colour. I believe he means a general effect. Black on green—Well. I suppose we'll see—"
He drove in silence for a minute or two, taking the curves of the winding road with a recklessness which at another time would have terrified both his passengers. As it was they scarcely noticed it. Leyland spoke at last.
"If he pulls this off," he said, "there'll be hell to pay. For us. Absolute hell. With police scattered all round the district, and both of us practically on the spot—"
"Damn it, I don't care!" Lyly broke in savagely. "I'm not thinking of that—"
He was, in fact, thinking only of Joan Marney. Although he had rejected the superintendent's suggestion, he could not drive it from his mind. It had been the girl who was attacked the night before. And if genuine, the entry into Marney's house seemed as though it must have had the same object. He was reproaching himself bitterly that he had not insisted upon a guard for her day and night. It had, indeed, been his intention to lose sleep again that night, if he could hold out. But she might have gone out during the day— A thought struck him. "You didn't 'phone?" he asked. "Marney's? The Dower House?"
"Hadn't time. Told the station... So as to put them on their guard, you know... But the devil is, we may have warned the murderer." He glanced at Lyly, raised his eyebrows a little, and went on. "I heard one thing. The sergeant who was dragging there was so damned annoyed by Marney that he left a constable there to watch on his own responsibility. To shadow Marney."
"But the girl?"
Leyland hesitated. "No, I don't think he would," he admitted. "He was put on to look out for suspicious conduct on Charles Marney's part, not to guard her."
"Wouldn't he have the sense—?"
"To risk letting the murderer get clear? Hardly... He doesn't know about all this."
Lyly groaned. They were just approaching the Dower House. He cast a glance up the drive as they passed, half wondering whether it would not be better to turn in and make sure. But suppose they were too late? At all costs, it seemed as though they must get to the spot of which the murderer had written.
Uncomfortably the thought came to his mind that it might be a blind, that at least there might be some subtlety about it they had not fathomed. He dismissed the idea. The murderer had told them the truth, as he had before; only wrapping it up in a complicated jargon, and arranging that it should arrive too late. But this time chance had favoured them. They had got the letter two or three hours earlier than he could possibly have expected. And they had not wasted much time on the solution—"
"Here, sir," Retters's voice warned him. "Careful. It's not a very good road, sir."
The constable had understated the case. It was a very bad road indeed. Reckless as he was prepared to be, Lyly had either to drive slowly or be ditched. But it couldn't be much farther. He was on the point of putting the question when Retters himself spoke.
"Excuse me, sir... I've been thinking—"
"Well?" He snapped the word, and then remembered how much the constable had actually contributed. "What is it?" he asked more encouragingly.
"That shot last night, sir. You remember—?"
"I do," he rejoined grimly. "Seeing it missed me by inches."
"It wasn't a pistol shot, sir."
"It wasn't? The bullet—"
"Wasn't found, sir. It was a rifle... And fusil means that sort of gun sir."
"The devil!" For a moment he was inclined to reject the idea. And yet he was not sure. "Who'd take a rifle, house burgling?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Oh, damn it! Are you suggesting anything? Spit it out, man!"
"Well, sir. We're going to the place where the man's to be shot. But with a rifle, you could get him from a couple of hundred yards away. More perhaps. I could myself, sir. He might be the other side of the valley even—"
"Stop at the hill bottom, sir. There's a lane—not fit for the car. If I cut down there—"
"Good man... Right. Just here?"
It was an old occupation lane, now apparently disused except as a footpath, and almost choked with brambles and gorse. Retters descended. Leyland stretched out his hand towards the door-handle and seemed about to speak; but thought better of it. In first gear the car started to roar slowly towards the farm now visible on the hill-top.
"Retters, "said Leyland slowly, "is a damned queer chap... Too clever for a bobby!"
"Oh, yes," Lyly said absently. "He'll deserve his step, all right."
"That wasn't what I was thinking," Leyland murmured almost to himself. "Oh, blast this business! It makes one think things—"
Scattering a group of hens with a vast clucking, the car jolted into the farmyard. Lyly jumped out. In Retters they had lost their guide, but he had a sufficiently good general idea of the position by now to guess the direction. With Leyland hurrying after him, he led the way to a gate between a cowshed and a large Dutch barn which obviously led into the open fields.
All at once he stopped.
"What—?"
"My God!" Leyland jumped forward, struggled with the tied gate, and started to climb. "You heard?"
"A shot." Lyly stood as if turned to stone. "Too late—just too late—"
"Be damned to that!" Leyland snapped, and let himself drop. "Jump to it! We'll get him!"
Lyly came to himself. Vaulting the gate at a bound, he followed Leyland grimly along the hillside.
PARTLY it was mere defiance which made Joan Marney leave the house directly after lunch that day. Charles Marney had conveyed to her the warning that she should not go out alone, and had revealed its origin, without pleading guilty to his own share in bringing it about. And against Lyly, in spite of the fact that he had probably saved her life, she was conscious of a rather unreasonable feeling of resentment. He had tried to trap her into talking without telling her that he was a detective and she had as near as possible told him what she knew about Egmont's possession of the dagger. Besides, she was filled with the uncomfortable feeling that he was occupying in her mind a more important place than was justified, for a man whom she had scarcely seen, under however exciting circumstances, and there had been a reaction against him accordingly.
But partly too, the lonely house had become unendurable. Her father had never been a confidant; and his sympathy of that morning had achieved little more than breaking down her own resolution, and his revelation about Maurice Marney had added to her distress. She felt the need of someone to talk to; but she had spent a good deal of her time away, and most of her friends were too far distant to be of help. In the list of her acquaintances she could think of only one person on whom she might call for advice, and to whom she might talk, and she wanted someone desperately.
In the daylight the terrors of the night before had dwindled. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, with a suggestion of frost in the air, and under its influence she forgot even the horrible gripping hands to which her throat still bore witness. She had quite convinced herself that no harm could come to her by the time she had ascertained that her friend was out, and instead of returning home to the dreary house, set off to make a circuit by way of the park.
She had no desire to meet Maurice Marney; but it was sufficiently unlikely that she should do so. With his father hovering between life and death he would almost certainly be confined to the house. Of Sir John she found herself thinking with some horror, but less grief than she would have thought. Dick, with his boyish impetuousness had been the only member of the family she had really liked. Her uncle's views about women, in accordance with which he had succeeded in training Lady Marney almost out of existence, had occasioned frequent skirmishes between them, and until that morning she had never thought that Maurice had a single idea beyond his tenants, rents, hedges and the various details of the estate.
As she crossed the park and started to turn homewards, she found herself thinking a little bitterly that in all probability if Maurice were to propose to her it would be mainly because the estate needed a Lady Marney for its efficient running; someone to look after the household affairs, act as Lady Bountiful to the cottagers, and generally fill the province which had been the sole sphere of a wife of any of the baronets in the past one or two hundred years.
From Maurice her mind turned to Egmont, and his attitude in the interview the night before still rankled. Perhaps she had been wrong in condemning him so soon, in spite of the evidence against him; but he at least had made no allowances, and he need not have treated her quite so harshly. She had been inclined to resent the interference of Mrs. Handley, but it was natural enough. Egmont and her dead son had been on very friendly terms, while between the novelist and the Marneys, although they had tried to show her consideration following the tragedy, there was a distinct lack of sympathy. Then somehow the thought of the attack of the night before recurred to her. She shivered a little at the recollection, and for the first time realized the loneliness of the park. A little nervously she looked about her.
In the bright sunshine it appeared harmless enough. Here the trees were moderately thick, with occasional clumps of rhododendrons forming a denser cover here and there. If anyone had been following her, she thought, it would have been very easy for him to remain unseen.
She had had enough walking, and think as she might, she seemed to get no further. She stood for a moment looking about her, and all at once every clump of shrubs and bracken-filled hollow seemed to hold a potential danger. With a glance over her shoulder she turned and started forward, hurrying a little, making for the path between the Dower House and Hall.
Ahead, two clumps of rhododendrons almost met. Beyond them was the path. She found herself hesitating as she approached. If she went through the gap, the bushes, and anything they might conceal, would be very close. She told herself firmly not to be ridiculous. There could be nothing there in broad daylight. But as she drew near the gap her heart was beating very quickly, and she was ready to run at any moment. Then with a little gasp she stopped. Something was moving just the other side of the clump. There was the crackle of a dry twig; then footsteps. Someone was coming towards her along the path.
It was only for a moment she hesitated. Then, with a wave of relief she realized that there could be no danger in this open approach. In all probability it was some labourer or gamekeeper employed on the estate, whose presence would be a safeguard rather than otherwise. She started forward again, reached the gap, and stepped boldly out into the open. The man she had heard was only a yard or two away, and she recognized him with a start. It was Maurice Marney.
There was no chance of retreat. He had seen her almost at the same moment and she saw the look of surprise succeed the frown on his face. Then he smiled a welcome.
"You, Joan? You quite startled me... Surely you're not out alone?"
"Just for a walk." The gravity of Maurice usually aroused in her a desire to tease him; but now she felt shy and embarrassed. "I couldn't stand the house any longer, Maurice... Your father—"
Maurice was silent for a moment. "He's dying, Joan," he said quietly. "Probably he'll die to-night... But he's senseless—can't move, speak, or even hear. Death would be less terrible than being like that." He hesitated for a moment. "He spoke to me this morning. For the last time, I think—"
Joan could find no words to say which might comfort him. They turned as if by common consent along the path in the direction of the Dower House and walked for a minute or two in silence.
"I—I suppose I was to blame in a way," she said. "But—but I tried to tell them gently."
"It wasn't your fault. He had to know. But anything might have done it. I've known that for some time. He'd been living a bit too hard. That is a family failing, I think. Dick—" He hesitated for a moment. "Dick might have been the same."
Undeniably it was true, Joan admitted, and it had been kindly enough said; but she flushed a little. With a certain contempt the thought crossed her mind that the same could certainly not be said of Maurice. Perhaps he guessed what she was thinking. A queer little smile played for a moment round his lips and vanished.
"I've seen too much of it," he said as though in answer. "And I suppose it never appealed to me... It's not that I'm especially virtuous. And there have been responsibilities."
All at once she felt a distinct sympathy for him. She was conscious of the perversity of a world in which a man who did nothing but good was rejected in favour of his less perfect, but more likeable brother.
"I didn't expect to see you," she said. "I thought—"
"That I ought to stay at home? I expect people would think so. But I can do nothing—nothing at all. Hendyng thought a walk would help, and it was what I wanted. Besides, your father rang up—"
"Daddy?" There was astonishment in her voice. For her father, in her experience, would have preferred walking the whole way to the Hall to telephoning unless the need for haste was very urgent. "But why?"
"He said he'd like to talk to me." Maurice answered like a man who chooses his words.
The question escaped her before she thought. Before he could answer, another explanation crossed her mind as she remembered the conversation of that morning. It must be about herself. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks; but Marney was not looking.
"No," he said after a long pause. "It was about Dick."
"Dick? You mean—who—who killed him?"
"Perhaps," he evaded, and then seemed to think better of it. "No, I don't think it was that—"
"But Dick?" she persisted. "What had Dick done? What is there you need to talk about?"
He did not answer. There was nothing to be read in his face, but something told her that the subject of the conversation was not a pleasant one. They went for some yards in silence.
"Maurice," she almost pleaded, "surely you can tell me? Perhaps I could help... And—and I have a right to know—"
He was frowning now, and his jaw was set grimly.
"I don't think I've a right to tell you," he said almost with an effort. "No, Joan. I mustn't."
His manner was decisive, and she knew him too well to persist. But the thought tormented her. As they walked on, she tried to find even a clue to what it could be. If it was not money— Unexpectedly Maurice broke the silence.
"I told you that my father spoke to me this morning," he said. "I suppose he'll never speak again. He wanted me to marry. I promised I would."
"Marry?" Joan could only echo the word in amazement.
"Yes. To carry on the name. To provide an heir and so on. That was what was on his mind. You see, he's dying. Jack and now Dick are dead... Your father isn't likely to have any more children. That only leaves me of the male side."
"But—but to marry just for that?" She hesitated. "It would be horrible."
"It's done often enough. After all, it's no use pretending that most marriages are a matter of red-hot passion throughout. A good many of those which are arranged cold-bloodedly seem to work out better than the others."
"But—to marry anyone you didn't love? Maurice, you couldn't do that?"
"I did," he said very quietly.
For a moment she failed to understand. She had just realized, when suddenly he went on, in a quiet, strained voice.
"I suppose you never knew," he said. "My father arranged my marriage with Janet. For the same reason. I was the eldest son. At that time my mother's health was doubtful, and it was thought that Dick might be delicate. My father decided I ought to marry for the sake of an heir, and I did... I wasn't particularly in love with Janet. Or anyone. I was a good match and we were both pushed into it. We managed to get along fairly well, and we got quite fond of each other. But we weren't in love really."
"Maurice," she said gently. "I never knew—"
"We got on quite well together, up to—up to the time she died. And there was Jack... But I think it had its effect on me. I was too young. And I'd never even had any serious calf-love." He laughed shortly, but there was no mirth in it. There was a pause. "It all came afterwards," he said, "and I've been in love—once. Then I couldn't ask her."
"You mean—you mean you were married?" She did not know why she let him go on, or why she put the question to him. In her heart contempt had given place to a great sympathy.
"No," he said slowly. "It was after Janet's death. A long time. But someone—had a prior claim. I gave way."
"But—but that was why—" Joan began, and half thought better of it. Then she plunged on. It was not to Maurice she was speaking so much as to herself. "If you'd really been in love, could you have done it? Would anything else have mattered? Wouldn't it have come first?"
"That's what I found," he said, and there was a new note in his voice. "That's what I've been finding—for the last three years. And it's reached the point where I can't control it; where I'd do anything; where I must speak—"
Suddenly Joan realized the direction in which the conversation was going. She gave a startled glance at him, and what she saw in his face frightened her.
"Joan, wait!" he said suddenly. They had just reached the edge of the park, and were looking down into the valley beyond which the Dower House lay. "I've got to tell you. It was you I loved. But Dick came back from Oxford, and before I could say anything, he'd fallen in love with you. And you—you seemed to like him... How could I tell you?"
"Maurice!" she pleaded. "Don't—don't speak of it—"
"I've got to... I suppose it seems wrong when—when he's just dead. But you know I was fond of him. If I hadn't been, I shouldn't have kept quiet. But now, I must ask you. I could promise my father this time—or hoped I could. Though in a way, I'm going against what he wished... I can't help that. I'd do anything—"
They had stopped by the small gate leading from the park Joan could not look at him. She was gazing across the valley. On the other slope, dwarfed by the distance, a figure showed dark against the green as it descended the hill. She watched it automatically.
"It—it's no good, Maurice," she said at last. "I couldn't... I don't love you. I never could."
Perhaps it was her expression as much as the finality in her voice which convinced him. She heard him draw a deep, hissing breath; but still she dare not look at him. Quite suddenly he laid his hand upon the gate and pulled it open.
"Let's get on," he said, and his voice shook.
They had passed the farm buildings before he spoke again.
"There's someone else?" he asked. "It's not Egmont?"
"No," she said in a low voice. "It's not."
"But there is someone?" he persisted.
But this time she could not bring herself to answer at once.
"No one," she said at last.
"Dick—it's not Dick?" There was a strange note in his voice. "He came first with my father—really he came first. I've always known that. He's coming between us now—even when he's dead—"
"No!" she cried desperately. "No! It isn't that."
He disregarded her. "Dick never loved you, as I do." The words came in a torrent. "You thought he did. But I know. That's why I'm going to see your father. There was a girl in the village. While he was courting you—a village girl—Alice Norton—"
It was not the look on her face which stopped him; for he was staring ahead with a wild look in his eyes. But suddenly he broke off.
"Dick—" he said brokenly. "Dick—" It was almost as though he was speaking to someone she could not see. "My God, I never meant—"
Faintly from somewhere ahead came the sound of a shot. Right beside her came a little sound that made her look round. And as she did so, Maurice collapsed and fell.
For a moment she could only stand there staring down at him. He was as pale as death, but still she did not understand what had happened.
"Maurice!" she cried. "Maurice!"
Then she saw it. His hat had been knocked from his head by the fall. In the left temple there was a little blue hole from which a thin trickle of blood was just beginning to ooze.
She found herself screaming. For a minute everything had seemed to swim about her, with that white face and the ridiculously small hole as its centre. And then she ran.
In her mind there was no thought of any second shot. For herself she had no fear. She did not doubt even for a second that Maurice was dead. And somewhere ahead was the man who had killed him. It was only as she reached the lane that her senses began to return to her. She leaned weakly on the rail which barred her progress, and her eyes closed.
A shout from the lane aroused her. It was answered by another more distant, and from the hill above came yet another cry. With a last effort, she pulled herself over the fence, and almost tumbled into the lane.
Not twenty yards away, two men were struggling on the ground. Farther along towards the wood, a uniformed figure was running towards them. She recognized the stolid, comforting face, of Constable Retters. Somehow it seemed to rouse her. Maurice might need help. Perhaps after all he was only wounded. With a cry she started to run forward.
She was within half a dozen yards of them when the struggle ended. Still gripping his opponent, the larger of the two men rose to his feet. The action allowed her to see the face of the man he had captured, just as her eyes had noted automatically the gleam of sunlight on the dull metal of the rifle which lay beyond. It was her father.
FOR his size, Superintendent Leyland was a surprisingly fast runner. He was bending over the body before Lyly caught him up.
"Maurice!" he snapped. "He's dead!"
Lyly scarcely waited even for that. He was plunging down the hillside after the flying figure of the girl, and for a moment there was something very like relief in his heart. It was not Joan. Then he came to his senses.
"My God!" he whispered to himself. "Another— And we were told!"
There was not a sign of the murderer. From a modern rifle there would have been very little smoke, and that must have drifted away before they left the farm. The shot must have come from somewhere ahead; but where? The unruly hedges of the lane, the copse, and the hedges of the opposite hillside offered any amount of cover behind which a marksman could have waited to take aim. And the murderer must have been waiting. Somehow he must have known that Maurice had been passing that way at that particular time. But had he? The thought struck him suddenly that, after all the murderer might have missed his aim. Perhaps it had been the girl... He was praying that Retters might have had better luck at least in seeing where the bullet had come from. There was shouting in the lane. Perhaps—
Joan had climbed the fence by the time he reached it. He took it at a bound and, miscalculating the drop on the other side sprawled headlong, just as Leyland reached it. He scrambled to his feet as Leyland reached his side. Together they stood looking at the tableau which presented itself up the lane.
Charles Marney was standing in the grip of the constable who had been keeping watch upon him. He looked a little dazed, and seemed to be expostulating with the man who held him. Retters, still puffing from his dash from the lane, was supporting the girl, who seemed on the verge of a collapse. And then Leyland saw the gun which lay on the ground just beyond them.
"By God!" he said. "They got him!"
At the same moment the constable holding Marney noticed their presence. He shouted towards them.
"Got him, sir! Got him red-handed."
"No!" Marney heard the girl cry as they hurried forward. "No! He didn't... Daddy—"
Lyly could not bring himself to look at her. Instead he scrutinised the pale face of Charles Marney. Certainly if he was a murderer caught in the act, he was the coolest the inspector had ever seen. There was a certain amount of disquiet in his expression; but he did not seem seriously alarmed.
"I assure you, there is some mistake," he was saying. "I can explain—"
"What happened?" Leyland looked at the constable. "You saw him shoot?"
"Well, no, sir... But I came as near as possible to doing it. I was just up the hill when the shot came and ran down—I'd been following him, you see, sir—"
"I know."
"Yes," Leyland snapped.
"When I got to the lane, sir, he was standing pretty well where we are now. I saw the gun and grabbed him at once."
Lyly intervened. "You'd been following him. Had he the gun with him?"
"No, sir. Not that I could see."
"Damn it, of course you could see it!" Leyland exploded. "The smoke—you didn't see that?"
"Smelt it as I came down the hill, sir."
"You saw no one else?"
"Not a soul, sir, barring a farmer— He's coming now. He's nothing to do with it. Except that he stopped me. If he hadn't—"
Leyland was not prepared to go into past unfulfilled conditions. He turned to Retters.
"You, Retters?" he demanded. "See anything?"
"No, sir... I heard something, though. In the wood, or just beyond—"
"That might have been me," the constable suggested.
"No. I couldn't miss you. This was quite quiet—a bit of a rustling... I couldn't quite tell where it came from, then it stopped. I heard him shout, and ran to help."
Leyland frowned, and looked from Marney to the gun. At the first sight the case seemed conclusive enough; but under the circumstances he would have been glad of an eye-witness. He looked at the girl, and hesitated.
"And you, miss?" he asked.
"I—I didn't see anything... We were walking—down the hill. I heard a shot. And then he fell, and I saw where—where the bullet— I ran down—"
"Why was that, miss?"
"I—I don't know... I think I wanted to catch the—the murderer. I felt faint. When I got into the lane, they were struggling. But he didn't—he couldn't have done it—"
"You only heard the shot? Saw no flash, or smoke?"
"Nothing."
"No one else?"
"No one... Oh! There was a man coming down the field—"
"That would be the prisoner, sir," the constable supplied.
"Oh. He walked right down the middle of the field in full view of them as they came down the other side?" Leyland asked. "He didn't go down by the hedge?"
"No. I did, sir."
"Exactly. You didn't want to be seen... You suppose he didn't care?"
Lyly felt a sudden ray of hope.
"Let's get this straight," he suggested. "You were following Mr. Marney on the instructions of the sergeant. He was carrying no gun—"
"I didn't see one, sir... But he was walking lame."
"You mean he had one concealed... Look at it, man! Anyhow, he had no gun that you could see. At the top of the field, he crossed directly, and you went down by the hedge to avoid being seen. The dead man and Miss Marney were coming down the other side. There was a shot. When you got here, Mr. Marney was standing about where he is now... You, Retters, thought you heard a sound in the wood—"
"A rabbit, sir," the other constable suggested.
"Perhaps... Miss Marney saw nothing material, except so far as she confirms the evidence of how Mr. Marney came. That right?"
The constable nodded, a little sulkily. Lyly glanced at the superintendent, read acquiescence in his face and turned to Marney.
"And you, sir?" he said. "Perhaps you have some explanation to offer? I have to warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence—"
"Really, Inspector," Marney said mildly, "I've been wanting to explain for some time. And in the meantime the murderer may be getting away... I'll tell you exactly what happened. This morning my nephew, Maurice Marney, rang me up saying that he wanted to talk to me—"
"He rang—?"
Joan spoke the words before she realized what she was doing. But the look of horror in her eyes was almost more significant than the words. Her father looked at her pityingly.
"He rang," he said firmly. "Naturally, I understood that, in view of my brother's state of health he preferred not to leave the house. We fixed an appointment at the Hall for two o'clock. After lunch I set out by this path, which is the nearest route, speaking to the constable as I left the grounds. I supposed, naturally, that he was the guard I had requested for my daughter, nothing happened until I reached the lane—"
"You didn't see your daughter and nephew coming down the other side?"
"I saw them, but did not recognize them. I had no idea that Maurice might come to meet me, but he must have decided to do so. I was just walking up the lane to the second stile when I heard the shot. I was not very surprised, attributing it to rabbit shooting—"
"A rifle-shot?"
"Really, I didn't notice what kind of shot. I saw nothing. Then, quite suddenly, I saw the rifle flying through the air. It landed where you see it—"
"You mean someone threw it? From where?"
"I didn't see. I imagine from over the hedge... Naturally I ran forward. When the constable seized me, I was alarmed. I struggled for a minute or two, before I saw Retters and realized it was the police."
"You saw no one when the gun appeared? Heard nothing?"
"No. I think not. Except a scream, and running up the hillside—" He hesitated. "Really, I think that's all I can tell you—"
"You were walking lame?"
"Rheumatism. Doctor Hendyng is treating me."
"Would you wait there, sir? Just for a moment."
He caught the superintendent's eye, and they drew a little apart from the group. Leyland was frowning thoughtfully.
"I don't know," he said in answer to Lyly's unspoken question. "Under ordinary circumstances, I would arrest him. But the whole show is so damn queer—"
"He came quite openly—apparently without taking any precautions. He hadn't got the gun."
"He might have hidden it ready. My guess is that he arranged to meet Maurice—"
Lyly had a struggle between his personal and his professional feelings. To his credit, the latter won.
"No," he said. "I think we'll find that it was Charles who rang up, making the appointment. The girl knows it."
"So much the worse... Well, he carried out his programme. But he couldn't guess either that his daughter would be with Maurice—"
"We don't know that."
"Anyway, he certainly didn't know that the whole place was practically surrounded by police. I imagine he lost his nerve, and just stuck there."
"There's not much sign of lost nerve now."
"He's had time to recover... There's nothing inconsistent in the witnesses' evidence with his having done it."
"Retters heard a rustle."
"Maybe. You know how every living thing in the neighbourhood bolts at the sound of a shot. How did the murderer get away?"
Lyly thought. "I think that's a point to look into," he said. "We'd better keep Marney waiting a bit longer, and make sure. We can always arrest him afterwards."
"Yes... Practically, he is arrested. That bobby wouldn't let him bolt. Let's look round."
With a word of explanation from Leyland they passed the group, and stooped over the gun. Lyly got down on his hands and knees to sniff at the muzzle; then noticed that it was choked with mud. He pointed.
"It's been fired?"
"Well?" Leyland demanded.
"It's been fired all right. But there's a good wad of turf in the barrel. Looks as though it might have been thrown."
"Marney could have thrown it from him... He's wearing gloves, by the way."
"Well—so are you."
"Oh, yes... But if there aren't any prints, it might explain why."
But Lyly was looking round, trying to work out from what point the shot might have been fired. Curiously enough, at that point there seemed to be no obvious gap, and the undergrowth fringing the hedge showed no signs of trampling. Leyland was examining the gun, handling it with extreme care. As Lyly turned from his examination of the hedge nearest the dead man, he had transferred his attention to the ground surrounding it.
"Where's the case?" he asked.
"Case?"
"Cartridge... There was one shell in that rifle, and one shot fired. There's no sign of the spent shell."
Lyly frowned. "That's queer," he said. "Queer that he took the trouble to eject it at all, for that matter. If he was leaving the gun—"
"Perhaps he wasn't?"
"Then why leave a case that could be proved to have been fired from it? Oh, he didn't, of course, but unless he pocketed it—"
"He didn't want to carry round a rifle with a spent shell in it. Would you? The rifle was bad enough... Any luck?
"No. That's what bothers me. There's no gap here where anyone could have fired. If, as Marney says, the gun came sailing through the air when he could see up the lane, the murderer must have been hidden behind the hedge. But he wouldn't be on the side of the hedge that Maurice was. He'd have been seen. And he wasn't this side—"
"The other hedge? But it seems to me another proof Marney lied."
"I'm having a look, anyhow."
He forced his way into the mass of brambles and gorse which almost choked the space between the hedges, except for the narrow path down the centre. Between it and the hedge proper the ditch formed a sort of tunnel, and for a moment he regarded it hopefully. It could certainly have been a hiding-place, but it would have been quite impossible to hear the shot from it so as to hit the dead man. And it would have been equally impossible to regain it before Marney came up. Leyland looked on in some amazement as the inspector started to force a way through the hedge on the far side of the lane from the dead man.
"He wouldn't fire through two hedges," he objected. "And besides, if he was that side the constable and the farmer would have spotted him."
At the cost of a certain amount of skin, Lyly had gained the field on the other side. He stood looking about him.
"They wouldn't," he announced. "Come up."
The superintendent obeyed reluctantly. Up was literally the word, for the field level at this point was a good deal higher than the lane. On the other side, he saw, a clump of bushes masked that particular spot from the view of anyone on the hill behind.
"They'd have seen him when they passed, if he'd stayed here," he objected. "And if he bolted they'd still have seen him."
"But he could have fired from here."
Leyland was looking round again.
"No tracks," he said. "But there wouldn't be... No sign of the shell."
"He might have wriggled through the hedge into the tunnel and crawled along."
"You'll have to prove it."
"I'll try. Well. What next?"
"Look for tracks along the lane? You never know, and Marney seems docile."
Lyly assented. They regained the lane and retraced their steps, past the waiting group, keeping their eyes on the ground. Glancing up as they passed, Lyly caught the girl's horrified gaze. Marney, on the other hand, looked perfectly calm. They had gone about twenty yards, and had nearly reached the other stile when Leyland stooped quickly. His hand was outstretched.
"Look!" he said.
It was a brass cartridge-case, lying almost opposite a gap in the bushes which commanded a perfect view of the path down which Maurice had been coming. Leyland stood looking round him.
"That's done him," he said at last. "You see?"
"No," Lyly said obstinately. "If it was fired from here—"
"It's a dead certainty... Listen. He was in the lane when he heard the shot, wasn't he? Well, if it was fired from here, he'd not merely hear it. He couldn't help seeing it, unless he'd passed the spot."
"It might have come from behind?" Lyly persisted. "He wasn't paying much attention."
"We'll suppose it did. He walks on—past the spot where the murderer was. And suddenly he sees the gun flying through the air—ahead. How? The murderer couldn't pass him in the lane. He'd have been seen on either side in the fields. He couldn't have done your ditch-crawling job in the time—and, anyway, he'd have made such a noise that Marney would have heard. You can't get over it. On his story, Marney was between the spot where the shot was fired and the spot where the rifle appeared."
Lyly nodded a gloomy assent. There were no other visible signs, the trodden surface of the path being too hard to take them. They started back to where the others were waiting.
"You're going to arrest him?" he asked.
Curiously enough, Leyland was hesitant. "There's no hurry, as long as it's absolutely certain he can't get away or commit suicide," he said. "If he'll consent supervision, we may as well check up on the details first. And I'll talk to the Chief and get a warrant... We'd better have another look at Maurice."
"Details?" Lyly asked as they climbed the hill.
"Well—which did put through the call? Not that it matters. But if we can catch him out in another lie, so much the better. The gun—"
"We'd forgotten that. It may be in his favour."
"It may. But he'd got quite a well-stocked gun-room, hadn't he? That's a deer-rifle. He used to go deer-stalking. We'll make sure."
They knelt down by the body. Lyly glanced from the wound to the gap where they had found the cartridge-case. He felt a sudden hope.
"Unless he'd turned his head, the angle's wrong," he said.
"But he probably did. If you're walking with a girl, d'you keep your eyes fixed rigidly ahead?... I'm inclined to think his head was turned—in more senses than one, perhaps."
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean—?"
"Only an idea. A sort of dying duck look he had when her name cropped up... Poor devil! Who's that?"
Three men had just emerged from the gate of the farm above. Leyland scrutinized them and nodded grimly.
"It's my lot," he said grimly. "Too late for anything, bar the shouting."
Lyly's eyes strayed to the lane below.
"Poor girl," he said.
HALF an hour later, Lyly was at the Dower House. After all the arrangements had been changed. Marney had raised no objection to accompanying the superintendent voluntarily back to the station, where he might or might not be arrested, according to the mood of the chief constable. Personally, Lyly could see very little chance for him. The arrangement at least freed him from the unpleasant task of participating directly. Leyland's arrangements made by telephone had been very complete. They included, with a pessimism which was justified by the result, a doctor and an ambulance, and it had been possible to convey the body direct to the mortuary.
To Lyly had fallen a task which he would gladly have evaded. He was to escort Joan Marney back home, accompanied by a sergeant, a plain-clothes man and Retters as a temporary garrison. This time they were taking no chances whatever. If Charles Marney were not the murderer, he or Joan might be the next victim, and both were to be guarded like royalty until the matter was beyond doubt. Once established, Lyly had to undertake the clearing up of some of the details which still remained to be settled.
All the way home Joan Marney had not uttered a word. She seemed absolutely stunned by what had happened, and Lyly was glad when the doctor, having finished his preliminary work on the corpse, returned with them to see her safely in bed. In the ancient housekeeper he had no confidence whatever, nor in the rest of the household staff. He wished there had been some relative within reach who could have come to take charge, but inquiry revealed none.
Hendyng, on the point of departure, listened with patience to his theory about the angle of the bullet. At Leyland's suggestion, he had already paid particular attention to that point; but he could only make the same answer.
"I'm sorry, Inspector, but there's no earthly way of saying how he may have been facing at the time the shot was fired. If it had even been a body wound, it would have been better. If he was facing directly to his front, you are right. If not—" He shrugged his shoulders. "That's the best we can do."
"Miss Marney," Lyly suggested. "That housekeeper isn't any good. Perhaps you could send a nurse or someone?"
"Medically, she doesn't need one... I'll see Marney. Perhaps he knows someone. You know, Inspector, I think you're making a mistake—"
Lyly was very much afraid he was not. He had pushed his theory to its limits without result. If there had been anyone else there to do the murder he had left no traces and, apparently, had escaped unseen, both going and coming. Both were possible. There was a decently covered approach leading to the wood, and he noted with interest that its direction was that of Dr. Ashby's house. They had rather forgotten about the professor, he thought; but that scarcely mattered. There might be doubt about the murder of Dick Marney. About this one there seemed to be none whatever.
Conscientiously he set about the details. And almost his first inquiry offered him a little hope. He had tackled the manservant first of all on the subject of the telephone call, without revealing the reason for the inquiry. And the man was positive.
"It was Mr. Maurice who rang up Mr. Charles, sir," he maintained stoutly. "I heard the bell ringing, sir, and was just going to answer it. And Mr. Marney was speaking to Mr. Maurice, and used his name. And it was something about Mr. Dick. And he mentioned two o'clock, sir. I heard him."
So far that was all to the good. All that remained was to check it from the other end, and that he could do by telephone. It was the butler who answered.
"I just wanted to know at what time Mr. Maurice rang up his uncle this morning," he explained. "As near as you can tell me?"
"Mr. Charles Marney rang up Mr. Maurice, sir," the answer came with finality. "I answered it myself and, as he was working in the office, put the call through on the extension."
"You don't know what it was about?"
The butler hesitated, and from that hesitation Lyly knew perfectly well that he did.
"Well, sir, I didn't intend to listen. But it was about Mr. Dick, sir, and arranging an appointment for Mr. Maurice to go to the Dower House at two o'clock."
Here was a contradiction. It was small enough in itself, and yet it must mean something. Lyly thought for a minute.
"Did they arrange a meeting somewhere?"
"No, sir. Mr. Maurice was to go to the Dower House, sir."
He returned to the charge with Charles Marney's manservant. But here at first he got no further. Charles Marney's end of the conversation had not allowed the servant to tell whether he was to meet his nephew somewhere or go to the Hall.
It was, as the superintendent had said, a detail; but he set himself to get to the bottom of it. Apparently the line had been bad. Charles Marney had had to ask his nephew to repeat things. An idea struck him.
"Does Mr. Charles use the telephone much?" he asked.
"No, sir. We don't hold with it, sir."
"Then he would have to repeat things too?"
But apparently he had not. With the feeling that he was getting on to something, Lyly noted down in detail the conversation so far as the servant remembered it. Then leaving the sergeant in charge, he took the car and drove over to the Hall, having no faith in telephone calls when a personal interview was possible.
Here the result of his inquiries was very much the same. The line had been bad. Yes, the butler had recognized Mr. Charles's voice. Yes, he had asked who it was. Again Lyly took a note of the conversation as far as possible, and, so far as he could make out, both men had excellent memories. There was one other question he wanted to ask; but he had kept it until the end, being afraid of the effect it might produce.
"Just why did you listen to this particular conversation?" he asked. "You don't generally?"
The butler flushed. "Well, sir, Mr. Maurice had been so queer," he said, and explained about the early morning visit to the room of his brother.
That was interesting, but it cast no light on the immediate problem. It was not until he started to compare the two conversations that he caught a glimpse of what might be the truth. Then he drove in a hurry back to the Dower House. Leyland was already there, and in a very dubious temper. He shook his head in answer to Lyly's look of inquiry.
"Not yet," he said. "He's still at the station. The Chief can't make up his mind. There'd be a row if there was any mistake, of course, but—I can't see a loophole, myself."
"I've found one—a little one," Lyly answered and proceeded to recount the results of his telephone inquiries. Leyland did not seem to be excited.
"Well?" he asked.
"It's plain enough. The lines were bad. Why? They had to be. Because someone was imitating the voices of the two men—"
"What?"
"I believe that's the explanation. There wasn't a single telephone conversation between Charles and Maurice. There were two—between Charles and someone pretending to be Maurice, and Maurice and someone pretending to be Charles."
"Go on," Leyland said hollowly. "Any more?"
"It's easy enough to imitate a voice over the telephone. And Charles at any rate doesn't use one much. So Maurice wouldn't know his telephone voice, and he wouldn't know Maurice's... There's a detail which confirms it. Charles, who isn't used to telephoning, hadn't got to repeat anything. Maurice, who is, had to... The fault wasn't in the line, but in the voice using it."
"Maybe Charles is a bit deaf?"
"I hadn't thought of that. We'll ask afterwards... But the real proof is that the two conversations don't correspond. In facts, yes. Not in wording. But Maurice's butler was listening in on the extension, and heard both sides. He ought to have heard Charles say the same as Charles's butler did."
"Someone else made the appointment? But who?"
Lyly shrugged his shoulders. "The murderer," he said.
Evidently Leyland was unconvinced. He frowned down at the two reports.
"It's queer, all right," he admitted. "But not enough to let Charles out."
"No. But enough to make us go carefully... We might just find out if he was deaf."
The butler was almost indignant at the idea.
"No, sir. Very quick on the ear, Mr. Charles is. Now, Sir John, he's getting deafish, and seems to think everyone else is... Mr. Charles isn't deaf, sir, it's only his sight that's failed him."
"His sight?" Leyland demanded. "He doesn't wear glasses."
"No, sir. He's all right for the short sight, sir. It's the distance he can't see... Doctor said he'd be able to go on shooting if he wore glasses, but he hates 'em, so he had to give up."
"He gave it up, eh?" Leyland asked. "When?"
"Oh, three years or more ago. And hunting. He can ride, sir, but he couldn't be sure jumping."
This time Leyland was certainly shaken. He wrinkled his brow into a worried frown as the door closed behind the servant.
"If a man can't see to jump a horse, how'll he manage to shoot at two or three hundred yards?" he asked. "Of course, he might have had glasses. Or the man might be lying."
"We can ask Hendyng. And we'd have to prove he had the glasses." Lyly reflected. "You see, it isn't only the shooting. In the first murder, how did he watch to see which way the hunt was going? There may be apparent proof about the second murder, though we've introduced a doubtful element. There isn't about the first. And I think you'll admit he had to commit both."
"Yes," Leyland admitted. "Let's see what we have got on him. He's not accounted for his time at the hour the murder was committed. The motive, of course, was to get the estate, and there's no doubt he needs the money. The dagger—there's no proof, but he could have had it. And, if he himself wasn't on horseback, I think Dick might have stopped for him. Suppose, say, he pretended to be ill—"
"That's an idea!" Lyly exclaimed. "The flask! That's why Dick Marney had it out... And the murderer chucked it away after having stabbed him."
"Perhaps. But that doesn't help us to show how he managed to know Dick would be at that spot. We could never charge him with the first murder as it stands."
"And the second?"
"It depends on the gun, I think... And the glasses. We can find out about the gun, anyhow," Leyland thought. "Suppose you rang up the doctor—that's Hendyng—and found out what he'd got to say about the shooting—with or without glasses. I'll have a look at the guns. I want to get back to the Chief as soon as I can. He needs watching."
Lyly's own task was quite simple. Luck was on his side, for the doctor had returned, and was able to give him an answer without hesitation.
"Of course Marney couldn't have shot anyone at two or three hundred yards," he answered promptly. "I doubt if he could have seen him at all—certainly he couldn't have recognized him. Unless he's got glasses recently. If not, it's out of the question... You're not suggesting he shot his nephew?"
"There's some evidence, Doctor—"
"Well, the evidence you'll need is a pair of glasses. He couldn't do it without. And he hated them. I know that for a fact. Glasses, telephones and cats. It almost amounted to an obsession in all three cases. But don't for heaven's sake think I'm suggesting mania—"
Lyly stopped him as he was on the point of ringing off.
"When is the Norton baby due, Doctor?" he asked. "Approximately?"
Hendyng did not answer at once. "You've found that out?" he asked. "Though I don't see what business it is of yours... It's gone about six weeks, if you want to know."
"In fact, you've only just been consulted."
"Yes. But, as I say, you can rule Norton out—"
"Oh. One other thing. Mr. Charles Marney suffers from rheumatism?"
"I've been treating him. It's still bad, but we're hoping he'll be able to ride again soon—"
"Then he can't now?" Lyly asked in surprise. "He walks all right."
"He couldn't swing himself on or off. And he walks lame... But what—?"
Lyly turned a deaf ear. "Thank you, Doctor," he said. "That was all I wanted."
It was not often that Lyly felt cheerful after knocking holes in what had looked like a waterproof case; but as he turned away from the telephone he was smiling. Then, as he turned out of the alcove into the hall, he came face to face with the girl.
The look on her face sobered him abruptly. Evidently she misunderstood the reason for his cheerfulness; for a look of fear came into her eyes. She looked at him appealingly.
"Mr.—Mr. Lyly." Her voice faltered. "Daddy—you've not—you've not—?"
"Miss Marney," Lyly said quietly. "We haven't arrested your father. I'm hoping we shan't have to. We've found one or two things which seem contradictory... I'd like to talk to you, if you feel equal to it—"
She stood looking at him for half a minute before she answered, and Lyly, hardened as he was by the very nature of his profession, found himself colouring.
"I don't think you want to arrest him," she said at last almost to herself. "And I've never thanked you—for both times. But it was a shock hearing you were a detective when I'd practically told you—"
"Nothing which we shouldn't have found out, as it happens... Hadn't we better sit down somewhere? You ought not to have got up."
"I couldn't stop in bed... In here."
She led the way into the morning-room and sank into a chair. Lyly seated himself opposite.
"Miss Marney," he began. "I think I know what you nearly told me that night. You were going to say that Mr. Egmont had had a dagger like the one which killed your cousin? I've since heard it from another source, anyhow. And I'll make a confession. I overheard a good deal of what you and he said to each other that night." He saw her wince and hurried on. "You see, at that time everything pointed to him. We had to follow him. Since then, there's less reason to suspect him, simply because we've been watching him. And things have happened in spite of that."
She nodded. But it seemed as though she had become indifferent to Egmont.
"My father?" she asked. "You said he isn't—arrested?"
"No. And I'm hoping he may not be. I won't deny that the evidence against him is strong. But there are certain physical reasons why he can hardly be guilty... Have you ever known him wear glasses?"
She shook her head. "He hated them. But he ought to have worn them."
Lyly nodded. "I'm not pretending that everything is all right," he said frankly. "It's going to take us all our time to get him out of it—"
"Take you?" She stared at him. "But—but it's your business to convict people?"
Lyly felt himself colouring. "Not innocent people," he rejoined. "You believe me?" he asked after a pause.
Her eyes were upon him. "Yes," she said at last.
"The point is this. If your father isn't guilty, someone has arranged things so that he appears to be. Someone, in fact, hates him, or hates your whole family. It might be either. Have you any idea who that might be?"
She shook her head. Only the name of Egmont flashed across her mind. After all, it had not only been Dick he had quarrelled with. Between Hugh and her father relations had been politely distant; Sir John and he had quarrelled openly on several occasions.
"Egmont?" Lyly asked suddenly, as though he had read her thoughts.
"He—he didn't get on with them," she admitted. "But—but there wasn't anything like that. I mean, they didn't hate each other enough—enough to—"
"Well, a certain limited number of people have cropped up during the course of our enquiries in one connexion or another. I'll go through the list. Professor Ashby?"
"Really, I don't know much about him... There was the hunting trouble, of course. He may have hated Dick. Unless my father quarrelled with him recently, they used to get on quite well. Better, perhaps, than Doctor Ashby did with most people. He isn't popular in the district. I don't know why exactly."
Lyly could hazard a guess. In a hunting country, a person of the professor's disposition who deliberately opposed the whole business so vigorously as he had done was not likely to be. But there were probably other reasons. In his experience, the vague conclusions of a community about a man were generally based on something.
"Mrs. Handley?" he said after a moment's hesitation.
"Constance? Oh, but that's absurd. There's never been the least trouble. The only person she was cross with was me—about—about Hugh. They've all been very kind to her, especially since her son's death—"
"He and Jack were great friends, I gather? They knew each other before they went to Oxford?"
"Not exactly. You see, Mrs. Handley originally came from this part—or her husband's family did. They used to live at the Grange. Then they lost money, and her husband went out and did something in Kenya. The Egmont's bought the house. She came back so that her son could go to the university, after her husband had died."
Lyly thought about that for a moment, and made very little of it. Certainly he could see no motive for murder.
"She's well off?" he asked, more for the sake of acquiring information than anything else.
"Oh, yes. She needn't live in that cottage if she didn't want. She makes quite a lot from her books. Besides, there was money left from another branch of the family that has died out. That was why Sir John even was so sympathetic. He always believed in the old families, and her son, you see, was the last of the Handleys. Just as—"
She stopped, and a little shiver went through her as she recalled the conversation in the park.
"That's interesting," Lyly said. "I don't quite see where it gets us. But what I do want, if I can, is to learn the general position. That cramps one's style more than anything coming as a stranger to a district... There's one more. You know Norton at the post office?"
It had never occurred to him that she could know anything about the affair between Dick Marney and the daughter. Obviously she did. She had gone suddenly pale, and she looked at him with startled eyes.
"You—you know then?" she asked.
"Yes. But I thought you didn't. Or I wouldn't have asked you."
"Maurice—Maurice told me—to-day. After he—he... wasn't himself, and he was sorry—"
She was so distressed that he did not press the point. All the same, he could form a very fair guess about what had happened.
"But, so far as you knew, there had been no trouble between old Norton and the family?"
"None... I don't think—I don't think he knows. Even now. He was just the same—when I went in to-day. Except that he was upset."
Lyly nodded. That was quite in accordance with what Retters had told them.
"And everyone else has been the same?" he asked. "I mean, was fairly normal before all this happened?"
"Daddy—Daddy was worried. But he was better before it actually happened. Dick—"
"Yes?"
"I hadn't seen him for a day or two. He'd been away, I think. It struck me he wasn't quite the same at the meet. But I didn't see him for more than a minute or two then."
"Not the same?"
"He seemed to be avoiding me... But I thought he was sulking... About Hugh." She hesitated. "I suppose you can't understand exactly how things were. Now this has happened everyone blames me. I wasn't really in love with either of them. I know that now—"
She broke off, staring miserably into the fire. It was a minute before she looked up, caught Lyly's eyes upon her, and flushed. He sought desperately for an official question.
"You saw him afterwards?" he asked. "During the hunt?"
"Yes. Not long before I fell out... He seemed in good spirits then. In fact—"
"Yes?"
"Almost too good, if you know what I mean... What the scots call fey?"
Lyly nodded. He could not quite understand the sudden change of mood, but the rest was quite intelligible.
"And other people?" he asked.
"I think they've been just the same—"
"Lyly! Inspector! Where are you?"
It was Leyland's voice, and there was an urgency in it which made Lyly jump to his feet.
"Here!" he answered. "What is it?"
Leyland met him as he emerged into the hall. From his face it was plain that he had bad news.
"What—?" Lyly began.
"Guess!" Leyland snapped with a sort of heavy humour which his manner belied. "I give you three shots!"
"Damn it!" Lyly began angrily, and stopped. Then he laughed. "The gun—?"
"That's Marney's. The servant knows it... But that's not it."
Lyly thought, a little irritated by the superintendent's foolery.
"Charles—" he suggested.
"No."
"Oh, don't be an ass... What is it?"
Leyland grinned mirthlessly.
"Egmont's bolted!" he said.
AS Inspector Lyly munched a sandwich that evening with the savage appetite of a man who has missed two meals he was feeling the reverse of cheerful. For one thing he had just finished a conversation by telephone with headquarters which had been distinctly critical in tone. Next morning he was to expect the appearance of his superintendent and it was fairly certain that the case would be taken out of his hands. And yet, he told himself, he was not a great deal to blame. They could scarcely have been expected to watch everyone, and they had acted on the warning letter as soon as could possibly be expected. A little unjustly, he was inclined to attribute the failure to the local assistance which he had been given, and who had certainly allowed Egmont to slip through their fingers.
His evasion had been the simplest thing in the world. He had merely left the house in the normal way, gone to the garage, and taken out the car as naturally as though he was going for a joy-ride. That had been provided for, largely owing to the grim determination of Chief Inspector Boreman. He had stationed a motor-cyclist with strict orders to follow if anything of the kind occurred. And it had been the merest bad luck that had prevented him from doing so. Barely a mile from the house, the motor-cyclist had run over a dog which emerged unexpectedly from the hedge. The accident had knocked him out completely, and it had been some time before he had come round. All unconscious of what had happened, Egmont had driven off into the blue, and nothing had since been heard of him.
No one could be blamed for it, except the dog, and the dog was past worrying about. And that very fact bothered Lyly. If Egmont had, by any special cunning, eluded his shadow, it would have helped to prove his guilt. He had not. No definite prohibition had been imposed by the police, and he had simply gone out. That was all.
Certain circumstances were suspicious. For example, Egmont was a good shot, good enough at least to have been fairly certain of bringing a man down at two or three hundred yards. And he had put through a number of telephone calls during the morning, among which might or might not be numbered the calls to Charles and Maurice. Local calls were not booked at the exchange, and no one remembered. In addition, he had put through two trunk calls to London and Oxford. Those might be arrangements for his escape, and the numbers were being investigated by the police concerned.
There remained one enormous difficulty. Egmont had gone to the library after lunch and had stayed there for rather over an hour. The testimony of the reluctant servants proved that. Certainly he had not been seen in that time; but the servants were positive that he had not come out, while the position the detective had taken up commanded the library windows. Apparently, then, he could not have killed Maurice Marney.
But he had got out once before. And the servants were so obviously on his side that the wooden-faced butler, for example, might be lying. It remained for Retters to add a final complication. With his usual romantic imagination he suggested a secret passage.
At that, Leyland swore at him simply and forcibly, but nevertheless investigated the possibility. Was there a secret passage? No one knew of one. Was there a story of a secret passage? Undoubtedly. The house was Elizabethan, and the original owners had been Catholics. Beyond doubt there was a priest's hole. And the story was that there was also a passage to the church. But stories of secret passages in connexion with houses of any age are the rule rather than the exception. Leyland had found no trace of it.
Lyly himself was not inclined to any theory which depended upon an undiscovered secret passage. Neither was the superintendent. But, combined with the discovery about Marney's eyesight and the telephone calls, Egmont's disappearance provided a sufficient element of doubt to allow them not to arrest Marney, and Lyly was grateful for that. And the situation seemed to have clarified itself so far that they had two main suspects. Though there were obstacles in each case which seemed almost insuperable.
Lyly was not satisfied with that position. Neither, it appeared, was Leyland. He came in just as the inspector was finishing his meal, and slumped into a chair without speaking. He filled and lit his pipe before he finally ventured to explain the reasons for his weariness.
"No alibis," he said.
"Who for?" Lyly asked in surprise.
"Anybody, really. Except the Honourable Toby Wilmot—"
"You never suspected him?"
"I've got to the stage when I suspect anyone... D'you know, there was just a minute when I even suspected Retters? Only he simply couldn't have done everything."
"Who are your others?"
"The old lot. Mrs. Handley—I'd like to get that woman! She's irritating. When I went there to-day, she as good as suggested that anyone but a—policeman wouldn't have any doubt at all. She'd been at home all afternoon. Writing. And why not? Only of course no one could swear to it. Damned convenient that she's lost her maid."
Lyly considered. "Seeing that the maid was that Norton girl, she can hardly be suspected for that," he said. "And she thinks the guilty person is—?"
"Charles. She says she practically warned me to keep an eye on Maurice. Which, you know, she did. And she absolutely went off the deep end at the idea of Egmont having done it."
"You told her?"
"She knew. After all, we've been buzzing about the Grange for an hour or two. Everyone in the village will know by now."
"You know, Leyland, we've nothing against her, really," Lyly said thoughtfully.
"I know very well," Leyland admitted, "but in this business I won't acquit anyone. Not even the girl—"
Lyly caught the other's sharp eyes upon him and laughed a little self-consciously.
"She didn't kill Maurice, anyhow."
"No. And she didn't strangle herself, of course—or knock you out. But one mustn't let personal feelings interfere with one's profession."
Obviously the words were intended as a mild warning. Lyly opened his mouth to give an angry denial; but the superintendent waved his hand.
"I'm not saying you do," he said placatingly. "Though I did think you were a bit eager not to arrest Charles."
"It was just as well, wasn't it?"
"As it happens... Of course, you're young. And she is a pretty girl."
Lyly was angry, but the superintendent's good humour disarmed him.
"There's nothing of the kind," he said. "I haven't—"
"Of course you haven't. But, speaking as a man old enough to be your father, have you considered the position? Either, as things stand, she'll be a baronet's daughter and a considerable heiress; or she'll be a murderer's orphan."
Lyly digested that in silence. It was an uncomfortable thought which had already occurred to him.
"It isn't even as though it was one of those 'for political services' titles," Leyland went on. "It's a really old family—"
"So's mine for that matter. There have been Lylys since the sixteenth century—"
"For all I know, so may mine be," the superintendent said blandly. "There was a Leyland—but he missed out the 'y'—and who cared about spelling then. Probably he couldn't spell—"
Lyly grinned. "So's Mrs. Handley," he said. "It's like a page out of Burke or Debrett."
"No offence, I hope? Good."
"You didn't tell me about Ashby?" Lyly suggested. He was not sorry to change the subject. "He'd no alibi?"
"Of a sort. He'd been in his study all the time. But that old housekeeper has an eye like a codfish. I don't trust her. And he could easily have got out. No one saw him."
"Norton?"
"His wife and daughter say he didn't leave the house. But they're no good."
"That's a rotten business."
"Worse than we think... I wouldn't like it to happen to my own daughter... But, you see, the way Norton looks at it is that if she doesn't marry the man she's pretty sure of going to hell. He rather let himself go to me on the subject. Oh, he's got plenty of motive."
"Poor devil... But he'd nothing against Maurice?"
"I forgot." Leyland fumbled in his pocket. "Take a look at those. I'm not so sure Maurice mightn't have had something to do with it."
Lyly looked. There were two photographs. The first was a dark-haired, vivacious looking girl he had never seen; but as he turned it over he saw the inscription—"With love and kisses from Maud." But he scarcely had time to read it. He was staring at the second photograph. It was Joan Marney.
"Where—?" he demanded.
"In Maurice's breast pocket. Read the letter."
It was a cold, formal note, indeed, but something about it suggested to Lyly the effort which it must have taken to write. It offered payment of all expenses, and a pension of £500 a year to Alice Norton. Lyly handed them back.
"I never took to him," he admitted. "But that seems fairly decent."
"No one did, poor brute... Only, had he anything to do with, say preventing his brother from doing the right—or wrong—thing? We can't tell."
There was a long silence. Lyly sat frowning at the cigarette in his hand.
"Anyway," he said, "the murderer can't get in here to-night. We've taken precautions against that."
That was certainly true. Charles Marney had left it to their discretion to make what arrangements they thought fit, and had placed the house at their disposal. And they were taking no risks. Lyly himself had examined every window and door that could possibly afford an entrance, and they had arranged police patrols at intervals both inside and outside the house. In fact, the safeguards seemed almost excessive; but what had prompted them was that, if any further murder was to be expected, it was probably a member of the Marney family. Also, as Leyland had pointed out, it guarded equally against the escape of Charles. He was as much a prisoner as if he were in gaol. Probably it was the thought of that which prompted Leyland's next remark.
"Unless he's here," he said thoughtfully. "Or unless we bring him."
"Bring him?" Lyly ignored the first part of the remark.
"They'll bring Egmont here at once if they get him... Besides—" He paused. "Marney suggests that Mrs. Handley might come here to stay the night."
"Good Lord! Why?"
"Well—there's the girl. She's not in any too good shape, you'll admit. And Hendyng couldn't send a nurse as it happens. I think he made the suggestion.... Any objections?"
Lyly thought for quite a long time. "I suppose not," he said. "She couldn't do anything if—"
"You can be damned sure she wouldn't be allowed to... And, as you say, there's nothing against her. But I'm not quite comfortable myself. Why did Marney suggest it?"
"She's a family friend... I've no objection."
"I have. But none good enough to prevent it. Only, I'll see that the girl sleeps with the housekeeper, and Mrs. Handley doesn't stir six feet without a bobby in attendance."
"What's the programme, exactly?"
"Everyone goes to bed as usual. Lights out, and so on. Even Marney won't know about the patrols. And if a murderer does show up, we'll get him... I'm going round the house now. Coming?"
From the point of view of patrolling, the house was an awkward one. It was a mass of narrow passages, odd rooms and dark corners, and there were no less than three separate staircases. The absence of electric light, Lyly thought, was another complication. If anything happened, they had to rely on torches until someone had struck a match and lit the burners. And in the bulk of the rooms even these were woefully inadequate. They gave a sickly glow in their immediate neighbourhood casting huge shadows on the opposite wall.
"Creepy place, isn't it?" Leyland said as they were descending from the attic. "Wonder why the devil they didn't put in electricity?"
"Marney probably hasn't had the cash. And I suppose the place is just used for stray relatives and poor relations... What's that?"
He flashed his torch into the darkness as a slight sound came to his ears. Two greenish eyes glared at them for a moment; then a large black cat emerged and stalked slowly across the landing.
"Nerves," Leyland grinned. "Puss, puss, puss!"
The cat looked back at him hesitantly.
"All the same," Lyly suggested, "it might be just as well to catch the brute. All things considered, we don't want any real cat noises."
Leyland made a dive. He missed by inches, and the cat, startled, darted down the stairs.
"Missed it... Wonder if Marney's specially fond of cats? He obviously doesn't hate them."
"Why?" Leyland demanded.
"An idea of mine about the madness. If it is madness. I thought the murderer might do one or the other."
"You've not given up the idea of Marney, then?"
"I've not given up anybody. In fact, what I'm going to do now is to go right through the evidence and try and find odd things we've missed. We can't do much more, unless they find Egmont."
"I'll have a look outside," Leyland said. "There's a bobby in every bush, but I want 'em to keep awake."
Lyly shut himself up in the morning room again. And this time, he set himself carefully to go through every scrap of knowledge they had acquired, trying to work out some consistent plan for everything that had happened, or for any tiny mistake or falsehood they might have overlooked. He had been working for nearly an hour before he found anything which offered even the slightest hope, and even then he was not optimistic about it. But he went in search of Retters. The constable, as a normal part of the life of the village, and knowing everyone in it, could investigate that particular detail better than anyone else. He found him at the back of the house, having just finished guiding the newly arrived patrols over the ground about which he himself had learnt so painfully the previous evening, and dismissed him with minute instructions which obviously mystified him completely before returning to the house.
Leyland had been looking for him. "Mrs. Handley's arrived," he said as Lyly entered. "Wondered if you'd like to see the lady? You've not had so much to do with her as I have."
There was a certain constraint in his manner. Lyly looked at him curiously.
"Nothing wrong?" he asked.
"Not exactly... I've just been explaining to her—No, it's all right, really."
The novelist received him graciously as he entered, but there was something in her manner which suggested that her pleasantness was at least partly assumed.
"I'm glad you've come, madam," he assured her. "As an old friend of the family—"
"That your only reason?" She looked at him shrewdly. "I thought you might be collecting suspects."
"Suspects?" Lyly echoed the word with an innocence which he hoped was convincing. "I don't quite understand—"
"I've had a word or two with the superintendent... When I was asked, I understood that I was supposed to look after Joan Marney. Now, I gather, the real position is that Joan Marney is to be carefully guarded from me. I can't imagine why I'm here at all... Or rather, I can. You seem to forget I earn a living by writing this kind of thing."
Lyly smiled. "I'm afraid you misunderstood the superintendent," he said. "The fact is, you've offended him."
"I have?" She looked her astonishment. "How?"
"By being right. You warned him that an attempt might be made on Maurice, didn't you?"
"I did." A shadow crossed her face. "But I don't mind admitting I'd no idea it would be so soon, or I'd have been more explicit. I told the superintendent who I thought was responsible—or as good as told him. I still believe it."
"Charles Marney?"
She nodded. "That's really why I came. I don't think anyone is going to attack Joan. But it wouldn't surprise me at all if she needed someone badly before the night is out. If you have to arrest her father."
Lyly frowned a little. "There's no immediate question of that," he said. "There are certain reasons why he couldn't have done either murder—"
"I don't know about the second. But I'm sure of the first. He hasn't told you what he was doing that morning?"
"No," Lyly admitted. "But we haven't pressed him."
"And don't you think you should? He can't explain that—because he was at the Cliff waiting for Dick Marney to get there."
Lyly looked up quickly. "How did he know?" he demanded. "How did he or anyone know that the hunt was going there?"
She hesitated. "I could tell you," she answered at last. "But I've no evidence at the moment. I'm expecting it—even to-night. It may be in this house."
"Here?" Lyly looked his surprise. "Where?"
"In the study. Of course, he may have moved it. He's clever enough. Don't forget that. He seems a fool; over betting he is one. But he's the brains of the Marney family."
Lyly frowned. He was making it his business just then to know the whereabouts of everyone and the study at that moment was empty; for Marney, who had been more than a little shaken by the events of the afternoon, had gone upstairs to lie down.
"Couldn't you tell me?" he suggested.
"I will—if I can't show you. I'm expecting a wire or telephone call. Or I might find it here. Either way you'll know soon."
Lyly made up his mind. "Very well," he said. "We'll try the study."
She led the way in silence along the passage. Evidently she knew the house as well or rather better than he himself did. But he overtook her as they reached the door and entered first, at whatever sacrifice of politeness. The light had been left on, but the room was empty as he had thought.
"And now?" he asked.
She led the way towards the far corner where the desk and safe stood, and stopped opposite a wall on which were hung a number of framed photographs. They were old and faded. Looking over her shoulder, he saw that they all represented Marney in his youth. There were college and school groups, with a few showing what he guessed was the family at the Hall.
"There?" Mrs. Handley leaned forward excitedly. She was looking at what seemed to be a hunting group among whom he could distinguish Charles Marney as he had been some twenty or thirty years before. "No." She frowned a little in disappointment. "It is evidence. But you can't see it. The title's been cut off in framing."
"You say it is evidence?"
"It is... But I think you can leave it there. It wouldn't matter if it was destroyed—now."
Lyly took another look at the group. There was nothing in particular about it that he could see. Then he noticed a building in the background.
"This was taken at Oxford?" he asked.
"It was. You're getting warm, Inspector—"
She broke off suddenly. Someone had entered the room just behind them. They heard footsteps crossing the room, and turned a little guiltily just in time. Charles Marney advanced into view, and he was holding a paper in his hand.
"Good evening, Constance," he said courteously. "If you'll excuse me—Inspector, I was looking for you. I wonder if you would both mind witnessing this?"
He laid the paper on the desk. It was folded over, and only the space provided for signatures was visible. Marney signed in a clear, bold hand.
"And now, Constance?"
The novelist complied, and handed the pen to Lyly. Her eyes met his significantly, but he did not understand. Then he read the words opposite the space on which he was to write.
"Witnessed by us this day in the presence of the testator and of each other:"
Charles Marney was making his will.
LEYLAND was nowhere to be seen when they returned from the study. Probably he was making the round of his sentries, and Lyly was glad of the respite. Marney had offered no explanation about the will, but there was one which was only too obvious. He might feel that things were desperate and be preparing to kill himself. And if he were? It was Lyly's plain duty to tell the superintendent and see that he had no chance; but for the girl suicide would be the best way out.
In spite of everything he could not bring himself to believe in Marney's guilt. He was still hoping that the investigation on which he had sent Retters would offer a new line, and was awaiting his return impatiently when the superintendent entered. Leyland was a very worried man, and more nervous than Lyly had ever seen him.
"Sir John's dead," he announced without preliminary. "Half an hour ago."
"You've told Charles?"
"Sir Charles!" Leyland said significantly. "No. Not yet. He may want to go over there. I'll have to head him off somehow." He paused for a moment. "I don't see why it should," he said slowly, "but I've a nasty feeling that this may hurry things up."
"You mean—? Here?"
"I hope to heaven it is here. I'm damned sure a cat couldn't move in this house without my knowing about it. But I'll admit I'm scared... And it may not be here that it happens. I've a bit of news that shows it mightn't."
"News?"
"Evidence—of a sort. Apparently one of the village girls was with her young man four days ago in the lane by the Hall. I suppose they were kissing or something because they seem to have been out of sight. When they heard a couple of men coming along they just lay low. One of 'em was talking and he seemed pretty hot about something. They recognized his voice. It was Ashby."
Lyly thought. "Yes. His voice is pretty distinctive. And then?"
"As he passed they caught a sentence or two. 'It'll be murder if you don't—sheer murder,' he was saying. 'I'm warning you. It's two lives you're playing with—maybe three.' And that was all."
Lyly's eyebrows rose. "Enough, too," he said. "And the other man?"
"That's the trouble. The girl thought it was Mr. Richard Marney. The man thought it was Mr. Egmont. It was dark, you see, and he didn't speak. But what the devil would Richard be doing with Ashby?"
"They were quarrelling, I gather... But Egmont's bolted. You'll get hold of Ashby?"
"I've already sent asking him to come here. I'm not leaving this place til morning, if I can help it. If Marney's guilty, we've got him; if he's not, we can guard him."
"This Ashby business is in his favour," Lyly suggested. He hesitated for a moment. "He's made his will," he said. "I witnessed it."
"The devil!" Leyland exclaimed unhappily. "Suicide?"
"I don't believe it." There was a trace of obstinacy in Lyly's voice. "Maybe he just thinks he's next on the list, and that it's coming to him."
"Well, it isn't!" Leyland snapped irritably. "No one's going to be killed in this house... I'll talk to him. Maybe he'll agree to having a bobby in his room. If he doesn't, I can't make him. Short of an arrest, that is, and with Egmont missing and this business—" He shrugged his shoulders. "I'll see you later."
Lyly stood for a moment in thought as the superintendent went out. He heard Leyland and Marney talking as they moved across the hall towards the study. A sudden thought struck him. Joan and Mrs. Handley were alone. He did not know why, but the idea filled him with a sudden panic. On the impulse of the moment, he stepped out into the hall.
He almost collided with the novelist herself. She was just about to go upstairs accompanied by the housekeeper, and was presumably going to her room. At the sight of her his fears subsided. It was ridiculous to think that she was a double murderess. And yet, he stood frowning after her as she ascended until she was out of sight. He hesitated for a moment, then crossed the hall to the drawing-room.
Joan Marney was sitting by the fire staring into the flames. She was as pale as death, and the strained look on her face suggested that she was not far from a breakdown. As he stepped forward, she looked up for a moment; then averted her eyes.
"Feeling all right, Miss Marney?" he asked. It was scarcely an inspired opening, but it was the best he could find. "You're looking tired—"
She rose suddenly to her feet and faced him. "I can't—I can't stand it," she said in a strangled voice. "That woman—and the superintendent— They think he's guilty. All these police—"
"I'm sorry if we get on your nerves," Lyly said with an attempt at lightness. "You see, we've got to look after you and your father. The murderer is still at large.... Of course, there's nothing to worry about. Nobody can do anything here. You're as safe as if you were—"
"In gaol!" she burst out hysterically. "Do you think I don't know? Are you guarding us, or seeing we don't escape?"
Lyly hesitated. "I'll tell you the truth, Miss Marney," he said at last. "Of course your father is to some degree a suspect. After what's happened it couldn't be otherwise. But there are serious objections to his being guilty. I don't think he is. I'm working now in another direction entirely. I don't believe he did either murder. And you don't?"
He had fully expected a denial. Instead she stood staring at him with a look of horror in her eyes.
"I—I don't know," she said in a low voice. "That's just it... I don't know."
She swayed a little, and her eyes closed. Lyly stepped to her side and led her unresistingly to the chair. He was trying desperately to find something comforting to say, but nothing came.
"If—if he is?" she said at last. "I couldn't bear it. I'd be all alone... In this place. I've always hated it since I came back. But only a week ago—there was Dick, and Hugh, and Daddy... I hadn't any real friends. That was through being away. I didn't fit in."
Lyly nodded sympathetically. Probably talking was the best thing she could do.
"You were abroad, weren't you?" he asked. "In France?"
"Yes, for three years. I was happy there. And then I came back. Of course, I couldn't stay indefinitely. And I thought that Daddy needed me. But he didn't. He's always been kind, but—but—one seems to get no nearer to him. The older women disapproved of me, I think, because I wasn't just like them. And the younger ones—I couldn't help it... And now Dick is dead—"
She stopped for a moment. Then she looked up at him defiantly.
"I don't care about that village girl. He was a nice boy. He didn't mean... Probably it was her fault—"
"You've heard about that?" Lyly asked.
"Mrs. Handley told me. Just to hurt, I think... Hugh?"
"What has happened about him? There's something?"
"Well, he's gone away," Lyly admitted. "We don't know where."
"Then, you think that—?"
"Personally, I don't. He may have lost his head. He seems—impulsive."
She nodded. "I think—" she began and stopped. "I think that that woman set him against me."
"Mrs. Handley?" He looked his surprise. "Why?"
"I don't know. But she's so possessive about him. Of course, she lost her own son. That must have been terrible. One ought to sympathize—" She paused for a moment. "When I met him—that night—she was coming from the direction of the cross-roads. I think that she had seen him. He was so different from what I had expected from his letter. Of course, I'd hurt his pride... But I think she'd been saying something to him."
There was a brief silence. For the moment Lyly had forgotten that he was a detective, and that in all probability the girl was the daughter of the man he would have to arrest. He was conscious of an unreasonable feeling of jealousy at the pain in her voice.
"You—you love him?" he asked in a low voice.
She shook her head. "No. I never did... Don't you see? It's just that I've no one at all now. In a way I liked him—"
She broke off. Through Lyly's mind Leyland's warning ran maddeningly. "Either an heiress, or a murderer's orphan." That was the trouble. There was no way out. He found himself suddenly thinking with contempt of an income which, though by no means munificent, had hitherto been sufficient. Then the alternative brought him up with a jerk. If Marney were guilty, he would have to help convict him. And the girl—
"If—if it happened—" she said suddenly, almost as though she had been reading his thoughts. "You'd have to arrest him? At least to give evidence... Wouldn't you? That would make it worse."
Lyly said nothing. At that moment he was fervently hating his job. He struggled to frame a denial. But she went on.
"It was a shock to me, when I heard what you were. I thought you had been trying to trap me into giving away Hugh. I know now that you weren't. But it hurt me... You see, it wasn't that you'd saved my life. I can't quite explain. But even then I felt that we could have been friends."
"Can't we?" Lyly asked a little jerkily. "No. That's ridiculous, of course. I'm only a policeman earning—" He laughed bitterly. "Well, you'd think it was pocket money. And you—you'll be rich—"
"Or else—?" she asked, and shivered. "I don't blame you. If my father was a murderer—"
"That's absurd," Lyly said roughly. "That wouldn't make any difference... But it would. To you. How could you feel towards a man who had helped convict him? That would always be—" He broke off. "But I don't believe it," he said violently. "Your father's innocent... And if he is, you'd still be too rich—"
"But—but we're quite poor. We've always been poor. If Sir John hadn't helped us, we should have been bankrupt half a dozen times—"
Lyly smiled wryly. "There's poverty and poverty," he said. "Yours runs to hunters and a small mansion. Mine will just about keep a house in the suburbs. And you're forgetting. Sir John's estate—" He hesitated. "He—he died to-night—"
"And I—I helped to kill him," she said slowly. "It was when I told him—about Dick. He was so furious—"
She broke off and looked up quickly. From the hall came the sound of voices, and in the same moment they both recognized one of the speakers.
"It—it's Hugh! They—they've caught him—"
Lyly threw the door open. At the first glimpse, it was plain enough that nothing so exciting had happened. Except for the servant who had admitted him, and the sergeant who was on duty in the hall, Egmont was alone. It seemed as though he had returned of his own accord. And obviously he was in a very bad temper.
"I've got to see her at once," he was saying angrily. "I know that she's here—"
Lyly advanced to the sergeant's rescue. Obviously that officer was not sure of his ground. He was completely taken aback by the attitude of the man he had fully expected to see brought back in handcuffs. At the same moment another door opened, and Leyland emerged. The sergeant looked at them appealingly.
"You've come back then, sir?" Leyland eyed him grimly. "A bit late for a call, isn't it?"
"Come back? Of course I have... What the devil has that to do with you?"
"Perhaps you'd like to say where you've been, sir?"
"I've no intention of doing anything of the kind. I want to see Mrs. Handley for a few minutes. In private."
Leyland eyed him stonily. "Very well, sir," he said, and there was a tone in his voice which made the words seem to be almost a threat. "You may... And afterwards I'd like a few minutes with you myself—in private."
The expression on his face as he gazed after the young man's retreating form boded him no good in the interview. His nerves were on edge, and he was in no mood to be bullied. Lyly tried to soothe him.
"He was within his rights in going," he said. "Since he's come back."
Leyland scowled. "Even so, he's one or two other things to explain," he said, and after a pause. "I was always doubtful about that escape. Too darned lucky. Wonder where he did go?"
"Maybe he'll tell us. Better handle him gently, though. We've not much against him."
"Young cub!"
Leyland snorted, stopped to speak a word to the sergeant, and led the way back in silence to the morning-room. They had not long to wait. Egmont's words had been literally accurate. Only a very brief time elapsed before he was shown in; though it had been long enough for the superintendent partly to recover his temper. Egmont, too, seemed to have thought better of his attitude. His tone was conciliatory.
"I'm afraid there's been a slight misunderstanding," he said. "You've been looking for me? I had to see someone—"
Leyland accepted the olive branch with reluctance.
"You were asked to remain available, sir. Wouldn't it have been better to keep us informed where you were going?"
"Perhaps. I hope there's been no bother? It never occurred to me."
Leyland drew a deep breath before he managed to speak. "And you wouldn't like to say where you were, sir?"
"It has nothing to do with your investigations."
The stiffness had returned to his manner, and Leyland hardened accordingly.
"And this afternoon?" he asked mildly.
Egmont stared. "I was in the house. I told you."
"Yes, sir... But you told us too that you'd never seen the dagger that killed Mr. Richard Marney."
For a moment Egmont paled; then his eyes blazed.
"Yes," he said. "But, since she's told you, I needn't keep up that. No doubt Miss Marney—"
"Miss Marney is not the source of our information, sir. You admit, then—?"
"That it was in my possession for a few days about a year ago? Yes. Jack Marney leant it to me. He wanted me to get the opinion of a friend of mine on the work."
"And afterwards?"
"I gave it back to him. I suppose he took it home."
Leyland nodded his head slowly. That might or might not be true but they had no evidence against it.
"You didn't tell us before, sir," he suggested.
"No. It didn't matter—seeing that it all happened so long ago. And I'd no desire to incur any more suspicion."
Leyland nodded again. "Now, sir," he said. "You had an interview with Doctor Ashby four nights ago—"
"Nothing of the kind," Egmont snapped. "I've hardly spoken to the old fool for weeks."
"If I said that the conversation was overheard, sir? That it concerned the murder?"
There was a steely note in the superintendent's voice. He was pressing his victim harder, perhaps, than was legitimate, but he had some excuse. But Egmont coloured angrily.
"You must be mad. Four nights ago?... Well, I've an alibi from seven o'clock to the small hours of the morning. Playing bridge at Wilmot's. I dined there." He rose to his feet determinedly. "This has gone far enough... I'm going home. Any objection?"
Leyland eyed him for a moment; then shook his head. With a brief nod Egmont turned and strode from the room.
"Wilmot's?" the superintendent repeated heavily. "And I expect he was... And he's got the whip hand. There was a sort of case against him on the first one. There's nothing this time."
"No. And I think we can wipe him off the list... I was worried when he bolted, but—"
Leyland eyed him appraisingly. "You're after someone," he said. "And it's not Marney. Wonder what they're doing about the professor? It's high time—"
Apparently the sergeant had only been waiting until he had got rid of their visitor to tell them; for he entered almost as the superintendent spoke.
"Johnstone's on the 'phone, sir. Says Doctor Ashby hasn't been in all evening. His housekeeper's worried. Doesn't know where he is."
"Not in yet?" The superintendent glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven o'clock. An anxious look came on his face. "Not in?" he repeated. "Bolted? Or—?"
"And there's a message from Retters, sir, for you." The sergeant looked at Lyly. "He said to tell you 'No. None of them did, and there was no one else.' That's what he said, sir." The sergeant's voice was disapproving. Lyly nodded slowly
"What's he doing now?" he asked.
"He said he'd an idea, sir, and was just looking into it. Hoped you wouldn't mind, sir."
"Damn Retters!" Leyland interrupted savagely. "It's Ashby I want... I'll speak to Johnstone myself."
NEVER in his life before had Lyly experienced such a ghastly period of waiting. The lights of the house had been duly extinguished at the proper time, and Leyland was making a round of his various sentries. They had retained the morning-room as their headquarters on account of its central position, and Lyly seated himself in a chair by the dying fire to make the best of it. By the glow from the red embers he could just make out the furniture in the immediate neighbourhood; otherwise the room was in darkness, except where the blue point of the pilot jet showed in the gas-bracket overhead.
Like the superintendent, he was a prey to nerves. Nothing could happen. Their precautions were not merely adequate; they were extravagant. There were guards on each staircase and corridor; there were patrols outside; every window and door was barred. And yet he knew that something was going to happen.
He told himself that the girl was absolutely safe. The housekeeper was in the same room, and no one could get in, either from outside or inside the house. Even though Marney had refused to have a policeman in his room, it was hard to see how any harm could come to him; unless he brought it on himself. That risk they had had to take, and if he committed suicide he and the superintendent would certainly be blamed for it. Lyly did not think he would. If he were guilty, it might indeed be the easiest way out; but Lyly no longer thought he was.
Leyland was still absent. He glanced at the illuminated dial of his wrist-watch. He had been waiting for a bare twenty minutes, and it still wanted a quarter of an hour to midnight. With a start he realized that they had still heard nothing of Dr. Ashby. Had he bolted? Or was he the murderer, waiting somewhere in the darkness outside to attack. Or had something happened to him? Perhaps at that moment—
His thoughts broke off suddenly as the sound of a low whistle came to him. It was the superintendent's signal. He answered quietly. There was a slight creaking of the floor-boards. For a moment the blue glow of the gas-jet vanished as Leyland's head and shoulders blacked it out. He felt a touch on his arm.
"All's well—so far. They're in bed, and the lights out—barring a night-light in Miss Marney's room, and Marney's fire. They don't matter... It's just a question of waiting."
There was the creaking of a chair. Opposite him he could just distinguish the outline of Leyland's feet. An idea struck him.
"If they find Ashby?"
"The outside patrol will head them off and bring him round to the back... They're bringing him—whatever time he comes. And I hope to God he does come!"
"I'd thought of that... But I think Charles was right. It's the Marney family the murderer's after. And the only two living members are in this house... With all the precautions you've taken, they must be safe."
The superintendent did not answer. Perhaps he himself believed in Marney's guilt; perhaps he was oppressed by the same forebodings that Lyly himself felt. The house was very still. Leyland must have impressed upon his men very thoroughly the need for silence; for there was not a sound from them. He could hear the ticking of the grandmother's clock in the drawing-room on the other side of the hall. The clock struck the hour. Then suddenly he stiffened in his chair.
Something was coming. There was a movement as though someone was descending the stairs; then a slight rustle. From the door the barely audible whistle sounded twice. Leyland bent forward and whispered.
"Staircase patrol. Something to report. No danger."
Evidently the superintendent had fixed up some sort of code. He whistled in answer, apparently a signal for the detective to come in. There was the sound of a stealthy footstep, and Lyly saw the lighter oval of the man's face in the firelight. Apparently he had come for instructions. Lyly heard a muttered colloquy. Leyland moved, and came over to him.
"It's that woman," he breathed doubtfully. "Mrs. Handley. Says she wants to tell us—about Marney. Damn her? Why now?"
Lyly felt a slight shock of surprise. He thought quickly.
"She's being looked after?" he asked. "She's not—?"
"Of course." Leyland said irritably. This chap escorted her. "And there's a man in the hall with her now."
"Better see her, I suppose... But, I wonder—"
He heard the slight sound of the detective making his way from the room. Then the door closed gently. Leyland's torch flashed. The beam shone full on Constance Handley, where she stood with one of the plain clothes men holding her arm. In the light her face showed startlingly white, and her eyes seemed to glitter. There seemed to him to be a queer expression on her face, a blend of triumph and fear. Leyland flashed the light on to a chair between them, waited until she was seated, and then turned it off, leaving the blackness more intense than ever.
"And now, madam?" he said in a low voice. "Why—?"
"I suppose, Superintendent," her voice came slowly from the darkness, "you're wondering why I waited? It's not melodrama. I couldn't tell you while he was there. And I wasn't sure whether to tell you at all."
"You weren't sure, madam?" Leyland asked. "Why?"
"Compunction, perhaps... There's a difference between real life and fiction. In real murder the end is not—not pleasant. And I've known him for some years."
She paused for a moment. Now that their eyes were again getting used to the gloom, they could just make out the outline of her face. She was leaning forward staring at the red coals, resting one arm on her knee.
"You'll wonder how I first started at all," she went on. "It wasn't mere curiosity, or a desire for excitement. It wasn't even that Inspector Boreman annoyed me. But, at first, you seemed so determined to make a case against Hugh Egmont. That was absurd... Besides, he was my son's friend. You heard how—how I lost him. He was killed—killed—" Her voice faltered for a moment. "Egmont helped me then. I meant to help him."
There was another brief silence. Lyly felt a slight shiver run down his back. There was something horribly eerie about that quiet voice coming from the darkness. And he found himself dreading the disclosure she was on the point of making. If Marney was guilty, after all...? And there was a certainty in the speaker's voice which somehow carried conviction. She spoke again.
"The girl made me angry. It must have been so poor a love and such little trust that could believe a thing like that on the first suspicion. I am glad that everything is over between them. I have worked for that too."
Lyly was glad that she could not see his face. He felt himself flushing. The superintendent stirred restlessly.
"You'd got something to tell us about Mr. Marney?" he suggested.
"Yes... Before I begin, I want you to bear in mind just what kind of a man Charles Marney is. Everyone always thought he was clever, and he still is. But he is a man dominated by an idea—the success of his betting system. I think that he cares more for this than anything else in the world. I think it has unsettled him. But his brain is still clever.
"That system is the real motive. It isn't so much that he needed money, or that the betting business had kept him permanently poor. It was the idea that his system could succeed, given a little more capital. That has grown to an obsession. At last he determined to get it at all costs—the capital provided by the Marney estate.
"Three people stood between him and what he wanted, his brother and his two nephews. But it wasn't likely he'd have to kill more than two of them. Sir John is a good deal older. Even apart from this stroke, Charles would outlive him by years. As it is; he is dying—"
"Sir John died to-night," Lyly said quietly.
"So, you might say, his plan has succeeded. You may say that it was absurd to think he could murder two or three people and not be suspected if he inherited a large estate as a result. That was one of his difficulties. And so he had to introduce all kinds of complications. The anonymous letter. The—the cat noises. The attack on his daughter and so on.
"Besides, he begins with Dick. In that connexion, he would not be suspected very much, because apparently he has nothing to gain by it. And, while he will not be suspected, others certainly will. Doctor Ashby and Egmont have both quarrelled with the murdered man... There's some talk of a scandal in the village. Even Maurice is possible. But the last person who will be seriously suspected is Charles, who has always been on good terms with his favourite nephew.
"The friendliness between them, I think, was genuine enough. He was as friendly as his warped nature permitted. But friendship or anything else counted for nothing against his obsession.
"But he probably will be suspected after Maurice's death. So, as a second line of defence, he arranges this maniac idea. Someone is out to kill all the Marneys. Dick is dead; his own daughter is attacked. It just happened the inspector was on the scene. I doubt if he would have gone to the length of strangling her really. It would have been enough to leave her senseless.
"Then, his own house is burgled. Someone shoots at him. And only then he arranges the murder of Maurice, when every member of the family, nearly, has been attacked.
"He creates the idea of a madman by means of the letters, the—the cat noises, and the method. Because—"
"I beg your pardon?" Lyly said suddenly. "I'm afraid I was thinking of that attack and didn't hear. The madness—?"
"He created the impression by means of the letters, the—noises, and the very method of the murder. Because the method, of course, was so preposterous. It simply invited investigation. It advertised itself. Everyone must know it was a deliberate murder. But there was one big difficulty the investigator would be up against. How was anyone to know which way the hunt would head, so as to be lying in wait for Dick Marney at the Cliff? That is the point which I have solved, and of which the evidence has been brought to me to-night."
"By Mr. Egmont?" Leyland asked.
"Yes. That was why he went away—to see an Oxford friend who was likely to have a complete photograph like that one in the study. Of course, he's perfectly innocent. But Charles Marney's plan did involve him in one way.
"It was necessary, of course, that Dick should take the jump alone. But if Egmont were hunting, he would certainly have tried it as well. That was the reason for the faked message, to ensure that, when he'd jumped at the Cliff, Dick Marney would be riding alone for a couple of hundred yards or so. Somewhere in that bit the murderer is waiting. Because he is quite sure that the hunt will head that way."
"Why?" Leyland snapped.
"I'm coming to that in good time... He has already secured the dagger. That would be simplicity itself, because he has access to his brother's house. The night before he makes his preparations and writes the letter—"
"Why?" Lyly asked quickly. "Surely the heraldry would point to him? It did make us think of him."
"That was one point in which he showed himself too clever, I think. He uses heraldry, but he doesn't use it very well. With his knowledge he could have done much better. He only uses terms the mere amateur might know. From that point of view the letter is in his favour.
"Of course, it might be noticed that he was out of the house that morning, and that was a breach of his routine. Probably he won't be asked at all, but he provides himself with an explanation in case. Not a very good one. His story is that he'd an appointment with someone at a hotel in town, but that the other man didn't turn up.
"It was easy to gain the Cliff unobserved. The only risk was a chance encounter with someone following the hunt, and he was lucky. He hears the hunt coming. Perhaps he hears them shout when Marney jumps. Marney comes up the path. He meets him in the narrowest point and on some pretext gets him to dismount.
"You see, he's one of the few people Dick Marney would have stopped for—as the girl's father. Perhaps he pretended to be ill or hurt. His flask is missing, I believe—"
"We found it," Leyland said. "Thrown away."
"However he manages it, he succeeds. Marney dismounts, and he stabs him. The horse bolts... I don't think myself that Marney would have died at once. He'd stagger on a few paces... And then Marney went off and kept his faked appointment at the hotel.
"The attack on his daughter came next. I imagine that he had seen the letter Egmont wrote to Joan. He followed her and waited in the wood until she was coming back, not knowing, of course, that Inspector Lyly was going to be just behind her. He must have been waiting there when I passed, but, of course, he didn't want to attack me, or anyone, except a member of the Marney family. In fact, except Joan Marney.
"I gather that you Inspector, were unlucky. You nearly had him. Only he had the good fortune to wind you at the start, and for his age he is a fairly athletic man.
"I believe that the police suspicions about Egmont decided the method of the second murder. Egmont is a good shot. Besides, he has always got the excuse that he himself couldn't see well enough. Neither he could, without glasses.
"The burglary at his house was a part of that scheme. He had to get a rifle from somewhere. I suppose in the end he decided to use one of his own, having first provided evidence that it had been stolen the previous night—"
"Good Heavens!" Leyland exclaimed. "There was a gun—in Dick's room. We caught him breaking in—"
"At the Hall? I've heard nothing of that. In the end, however, he stages the mock burglary at his own house. Of course, he doesn't expect to find the police watching. But he does expect to rouse the house—and did."
"But he said that nothing was missing?" Lyly suggested. "He thought—or pretended to think—that the attack was aimed at his daughter."
"He didn't want to make the discovery himself. And I suppose that that fool of a butler of his didn't notice. At any rate, if you came to him trying to identify the gun, he'd be able to say, 'Why, that's what the burglar stole last night!' And remember, a shot was fired—which showed that the rifle had been taken from the house. And it had. He'd just hidden it."
"Not down the well?" Leyland asked.
"No. I'm inclined to think that what dropped down the well was just a stone dislodged when he fell against the wall. But that made you look there. In fact, it concentrated your attention on the well. But did you look, for example, in those thick clipped yew-trees to one side of it?"
Leyland muttered something under his breath. Probably he was swearing. It was one thing they had not done.
"I think he thrust it in one of those, and retrieved it later. Watching his chance, he took it to the lane and hid it. He had chosen the spot well. He could pick his own range for shooting Maurice, and no one could see. But you were too quick for him. Were you following him? Or was the letter somehow delivered early?"
"Both," Leyland said. "We were nearly in time—"
"The posting of the letter at the cross-roads was a good touch. He knew that Egmont had been there, and that you would know. So that was just so much more suspicion on Egmont.
"You came as near as possible to catching him red-handed. Even coming when you did, I imagine that he must have been within an ace of arrest. But he had two loopholes—the telephone calls and his bad sight. And he tried to make out, of course, that Maurice had made the appointment."
"But his butler heard?"
"His butler heard him apparently talking to Maurice. But that could easily be arranged. Suppose a call had come through, and the speaker at the other end had finished. Or suppose he held down the hook while he was talking?"
"The other call?" Lyly objected. "It was put through in his name."
"But surely you were lucky to know that? In any case, his main card was his eyesight. It was common knowledge that he'd given up shooting and hunting because of it, and he'd made a parade of his objection to glasses. And this is the one point where I had an advantage over you. Some weeks ago, I saw him slip a pair into his pocket."
"What?" Leyland demanded. "You'd swear to that?"
"I saw them. Only for a second. They looked like a dark tortoise-shell. And if you went the round of the opticians, you'd probably find where he got them... I suppose the eyesight is the chief reason why he hasn't been arrested?"
"That, and the disappearance of Egmont naturally weighed with us," Leyland admitted.
"And for the second I was responsible, as I said. I wanted the proof of how Marney could make the hunt follow a line to the Cliff. It's here."
In the dim light she held out a flat package. Leyland took it like a man in a dream, and turned it over.
"A photograph?" Lyly asked. "But I don't understand... That one you showed only proved that he hunted."
"No. There was more—or had been. On that one I've given you there's the title: 'University Drag Hunt.'"
"Drag hunt? Good heavens! You mean—"
"Yes. Marney laid that trail. It's obvious. Don't forget it was a good run, without a check—yet they never saw the fox—until the end. Luck helped him there. Where his trail finished, the hounds picked up a genuine scent. He hadn't foreseen that. So in the letter he wrote that bit about 'did not kill.'"
There was a long pause. Leyland was struggling to take it all in. Lyly himself was sitting back in his chair and his eyes were on the woman's face. He wished that he could have made out the expression more clearly. Perhaps it was imagination which made him picture it as something horribly sinister.
"What was the trail laid with?" Leyland asked.
"I don't know... Anything strong smelling that animals like. A search might bring something to light. The pad, say."
"Mrs. Handley," Lyly said suddenly. "Why have you told us this?"
She hesitated. "I might say it was my duty—but that's not the reason. I think to get it off my mind. It's not pleasant to help in the hanging of anyone you know. But—"
"It doesn't prove the case," Lyly said slowly. "We've got to find the glasses. And some evidence of the drag business. And there are still those 'phone-calls. Why two? I admit it's plausible—as you tell it. It holds together—even in some ways you couldn't know about. But still—"
"It's enough to justify our arresting him," Leyland said heavily. "If we don't and anything happens—"
Constance Handley rose abruptly to her feet. "That's your business—not mine," she said. "I've done—what I set out to do... Only, don't forget. Marney made his will."
She turned abruptly as she finished speaking. Leyland flashed his torch and spoke a word to the plain-clothes man who had brought her downstairs. There was silence in the room until the door closed behind the two of them.
"But why," Lyly asked slowly, and there was a queer note in his voice, "why tell us all that—now?"
Leyland made no attempt to answer the question. He made a movement towards the door; then stopped.
"You don't think—" he began uncertainly. "You don't think he can have done it? Killed himself? I've half a mind—"
"He's not killed himself!" Lyly said irritably. "He's not guilty! In spite of all that—"
"But surely she told us enough—"
"She didn't. Not enough to prove him guilty. And yet too much—"
Leyland grunted. He was not without sympathy for his colleague under the circumstances, but there was no reason for talking in riddles.
"All the same," he began. "I think—"
He broke off and stepped forward as the door opened to admit the policeman who had been on duty in the hall. Lyly could not hear the brief whispered conversation; but as the man disappeared the superintendent turned to him and explained.
"It's Ashby," he said a little blankly. "They're bringing him."
"Ashby?" Lyly echoed. Temporarily he had forgotten the professor. "Well, I suppose we'll have to ask him for an explanation—?"
Leyland did not reply immediately. He was thinking that there were better times to ask a respectable gentleman for explanations than at one o'clock in the morning, and praying that Ashby would not turn nasty. He struck a match and stretched up towards the gas-jet.
"I suppose it doesn't matter now?" he said.
With a faint pop the light blazed up.
NOT inexcusably, there were distinct signs of agitation on Dr. Ashby's face as he entered. He found the plain-clothes man waiting for him on his arrival home shortly after midnight, and his obvious trepidation had overcome any scruples that officer might otherwise have had about pressing the invitation at that hour. Leyland had not been happy about it. But the first glimpse of the professor reassured him. Certainly there was something on his mind. He seated himself obediently in the chair which the superintendent indicated, but he did not meet his eye.
"I'm sorry, sir, to bring you here so late," Leyland said a little sternly. "But you have yourself to blame. No doubt you know why we wished to see you?"
Dr Ashby fidgeted nervously and he gave a scared look at his questioner before he hastily averted his eyes again.
"Yes," he said in a barely audible voice. "Yes. I have been expecting it."
"In view of the seriousness of the case, sir, I think it was your duty to be frank with us. As it is, we have only heard from another source quite by chance—"
"He—he's confessed?" Ashby faltered. There were little beads of perspiration on his brow. "He's told you?"
"Confessed?" Leyland echoed. He was distinctly startled. "Who?"
"That man... Joe Wallis... I was wrong to trust him. I was wrong to have anything to do with the affair. But you can hardly understand the temptation, Superintendent, unless you are a collector yourself—"
Leyland leaned back in his chair and stared at him.
"A collector?" he said hollowly.
"Yes, Superintendent. My collection of wild birds is, I can say without exaggeration, not without some reputation among ornithologists... Of course, I realized that it was against the law. But when Wallis told me and I saw the opportunity of adding a unique specimen—"
"You'll excuse me, sir," Leyland said dazedly, "do I understand that you're talking about killing a bird?"
"Not myself," Ashby said hastily, "though I believe the man who instigates a criminal act is equally guilty with his agent. I am quite ready to pay the penalty. Under the Wild Birds Protection Act—"
Suddenly Leyland laughed, a little hysterically.
"When did the—the crime occur, sir?" he asked.
"It was the day of the murder. I had been down to the Cliff to see the bird for myself. That was how I came to be there. Naturally I was afraid... Wallis skinned it for me, and I received the skin from him the night you and Miss Marney came, Inspector. That is the whole truth— "
Leyland had regained control of himself. "But you'd hardly allude to that as murder, sir," he said sternly. "And I should warn you that your conversation was overheard."
"My conversation?"
Leyland frowned. "Do you deny, sir, being in the lane by the Hall at about half-past eight four days ago? You had someone with you, I believe?"
Ashby stared at him. But this time there was no fear in his eyes.
"You know about that?" he asked in surprise. "But it is of no importance now. It will soon be general knowledge."
"You were heard, sir," Leyland persisted grimly, "to use these words. 'It will be murder if you don't, sheer murder. I'm warning you. It's two lives you're playing with—perhaps three.' And, sir, Mr. Richard Marney, Mr. Maurice Marney, and Sir John Marney have since died."
"But, of course, I wasn't referring—" Ashby said agitatedly. "How could I know? I was using the word hardly in its literal sense, but with some justification—"
"To whom were you talking, sir?" Leyland snapped. "I think you'd better explain."
"I shall be only too pleased... To Mr. Richard Marney." He hesitated for a moment. "It was an unfortunate affair. You may not be aware that there was a girl in the village—"
"Alice Norton? Yes."
"Alice Marney, Superintendent."
"What?" Leyland stared at him. "You mean—he'd married her?"
"The day before he died. By special licence, of course... I may say, I was partly instrumental in bringing it about. I think my words were not without their effect upon the young man. I was able to show him that justice demanded some reparation and to appeal to his better nature... Poor fellow. Barring the brutality of fox-hunting, a good-hearted young man in his way—"
Leyland sighed heavily. "Perhaps, if you'd begin at the beginning it would be better, sir?" he suggested. "I understand that you were aware of the association between Alice Norton and Richard Marney?"
"Yes... It was by accident I got to know. And later I came across the girl. She had just realized about—about—" He hesitated. "She was very distressed. Her father, Superintendent, is a man of strong religious views. If it came to his knowledge, as it must have done eventually, it is hard to say what effect it might have had upon him. That was what I urged to Mr. Richard Marney. I believed then as I still believe, that if he had not married her it might have resulted in the death of herself and the child, if not of her father. That was what I was referring to—"
"I see... And Marney consented?
"Yes. The ceremony was carried out the day before he died... But he was anxious to prepare his family for the news. He asked that it should be kept secret until he had done so. Naturally, I agreed. And, when he died, the girl seems to have been so obstinately determined to keep her word that she refused to tell even her father... As a result, he did not know that she was married, or who the father of the child might be. That was the reason for my absence to-night. I took the law into my own hands. I have been arguing with Mr. Norton. I believe we may now hope that they will be reconciled."
For a moment Leyland sat looking at him in dazed silence. The combination of the marriage and the Wild Birds' Protection Act had been a little too much for him. A sudden thought seemed to strike him.
"By George!" he exclaimed, "if it's a boy—?"
He broke off and looked again at the professor. "I think, sir, that you should have told us this—in view of what has happened," he said in mild reproof. "But I understand you to say that Norton himself had no idea of the man's identity until you told him to-night?"
"None... And, Superintendent, you will understand that it had not occurred to me that the marriage was in any way connected with the murders. The girl was greatly upset, and I was reluctant to have her troubled... Also," he hesitated, "I had a feeling that you were suspicious of me. And, knowing that I was guilty—"
Leyland smiled. "I think, sir, we'll forget about the bird. And that's all you can tell us?"
Dr. Ashby nodded. He was obviously relieved. "Then, if you don't want me any more," he suggested, "perhaps you will excuse me? It has been a tiring evening—"
"Just a minute, sir," Lyly said suddenly. "I understand you were in the neighbourhood of the Cliff that morning? Shortly before Mr. Marney's body was found?"
Ashby shuddered a little. "While he was being killed, Inspector. I have realized that since. You see, I had some difficulty in finding the bird—"
"You were actually in the wood then?" Leyland asked in a startled voice. "When he was killed?"
"Yes," Ashby admitted a little nervously. "Not of course, within actual view of the path where Marney was found. But I heard him pass close to me—"
"And nothing else?"
"I fancied that he stopped. But I heard the horse again soon after."
"You saw no one?"
"Not then. Some ten minutes or quarter of an hour later I saw Mr. Egmont. He, of course, rode straight across the path towards the village—"
"You're sure?"
"Certain."
"And you saw no one else?
"No one. Until, that is, I came across the body. There were one or two people already there—"
"But you have no idea as to the murderer's identity?"
"None."
Lyly had nothing more to ask him. He glanced at the superintendent and nodded.
"Well, Doctor Ashby," Leyland said reluctantly, "we might like you to repeat what you have said at some more convenient time. In the meantime, as you wish to go home, I have a car at your disposal. And I must ask you to remain available in case we wish to question you on any further points."
Leyland simply collapsed into his chair as the door closed behind the professor. He wiped his brow with his hand and heaved a sigh.
"I hate to let him go," he said slowly. "He keeps on remembering things... Fancy a man like that a professor!"
"Why not?"
"Muddle-headed. He knows about the marriage—about Egmont—goodness knows what. And he doesn't tell us."
"He was afraid—of the Wild Birds' Protection Act," Lyly said and grinned. He sobered abruptly. "That lets out Egmont completely, I should say."
"It does. And if he'd married the girl, she'd no motive. And it seems fairly certain that Norton didn't know who it was who'd been with her. Which lets them out. And Ashby himself—?"
"If he was speaking the truth about that marriage business, it's highly unlikely he was the murderer... Besides, his motive has always been insufficient, and there's never been any real evidence. I think that lets him out, really, though he was on the spot."
"Leaving only—" Leyland began, but he was interrupted.
The door burst open suddenly, this time without any of the discreet knocks or whistles. It was the police sergeant from the hall who entered, and he was as white as paper.
"Gas, sir—there's gas!" he burst out. "We can smell it... Outside Mr. Charles's room, sir—"
"Gas!" Leyland jumped to his feet. "You mean—? My God, if—!"
"His fire's out, sir. At least, there's no light through the keyhole. And the smell—"
"You've not been in?"
"The door's locked, sir. On the inside."
For a moment Leyland stood as if turned to stone, staring at Lyly.
"He—he's done it," he said slowly. "Then, he was—?"
"Quick... We may be in time. Smash the door. Perhaps—"
He was dashing up the stairs before he had finished the sentence, with Leyland and the sergeant thundering behind him. There was a light along the corridor, the gleam of a torch on the varnished woodwork of Marney's door, and the sound of hammering. The patrol on duty in the corridor had not waited for orders. He was already battering at the panel with a curiously shaped axe which he had presumably torn from one of the trophies on the walls. As Lyly reached his side the steel bit through.
A rush of gas followed instantly. The policeman recoiled coughing. Lyly thrust him aside, and snatched the axe from his hands. With a couple of vigorous blows he enlarged the hole sufficiently to push his hand through. Holding his breath, he reached down towards the key and turned it. The door burst open.
Almost from the first second, he knew that there was no hope. The reek of gas pulled him up short right on the threshold, and he staggered back gasping. It was Leyland who pushed past him, flashing his torch with one hand, and holding his handkerchief to his face. In the same moment, he heard the girl's cry of horror.
From inside the room there came a crash of glass. Then Leyland staggered out, almost bursting for breath. His face was purple, and there was blood on his hand.
"Smashed—window," he gasped. "Clear—soon... Dead—on the bed—"
"What is it? Oh, what is it? Daddy—!"
Lyly heard the girl's cry as he plunged into the room. The beam of his torch touched the still figure lying on the bed, and found the stove. The gas was thinning a little under the combined effect of door and window. He reached the latter, and took another gulp of the cold night air; then crossed the room. His fingers found the tap and turned it. Even while he almost choked for breath, he touched only its edges. With one blow of his torch he smashed a second window, and breathed again. Then he moved towards the bed.
No doubt Marney was dead, though his face had not the usual waxen pallor, but was flushed with an unnatural red. He was lying half-in and half outside the covers, as though he had been on the point of getting out when the gas had overcome him. Lyly could guess what had happened. The next moment, he himself felt his limbs grow curiously powerless. Involuntarily he cried out, and inhaled the choking fumes. He was barely conscious of being dragged out into the fresh air of the passage.
It must have been some minutes before he came to himself again. The superintendent was bending over him anxiously, and there was a glass in his hand.
"Drink this," he commanded. "It got you... Damned fool!"
Lyly obeyed. His head seemed to be splitting, but he began to feel better. A thought struck him, and he turned his head weakly.
"The girl?" he asked. "Where—?"
"Sent her downstairs... She's being looked after. Better? It's nearly clear enough, I think. We'll have a look round."
He helped Lyly to his feet, holding his arm as he staggered.
"Feel all right?" he demanded. "We've moved him. Working on him now. But it's no good. I've sent for Hendyng... He's dodged the drop, all right."
"But—did—he—? Did he?" Lyly said weakly, and passed a hand across his aching head, trying to clear his brain. "Did he kill himself? You're sure?"
"If he didn't, no one else did it. Door was locked—stove full on—windows closed... We've had a man on guard outside all night. We know no one came. Besides, there's something in there— Ready?"
Lyly followed him inside. There was no more than a faint smell, but momentarily it sickened him. He swayed dizzily, and caught at Leyland's arm. Then he was aware that they were standing opposite the dressing-table. Leyland was pointing.
"I was going to search for those," he said. "He's saved us the trouble... I suppose he guessed we were on to him—?"
Lyly looked down. Just beside the brush and comb lay a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles. He stared at them stupidly for a moment.
"Then he was—he did—?" he said slowly. "But why didn't he destroy them?"
Leyland shrugged his shoulders. "Must have realized the game was up and didn't bother," he said, and frowned. "We ought to have arrested him... There's something else; the sergeant found it in the bathroom. There's a medicine cupboard there. I suppose he thought no one would ever guess—"
His hand went to his pocket and brought out a bottle. There was no label, but as he lifted it towards his face Lyly caught the smell of something that reminded him of his childhood. Dazed as he was, he struggled to place the scent. Leyland saved him the trouble.
"Aniseed," he said. "To lay the trail... Animals seem to love it, for some reason. And babies. I think that settles it... Poor girl. It's a bad job for her—"
"Where is she? She's all right?"
"I sent her downstairs as I said. She'll be all right, when she gets over the shock. Mrs. Handley's looking after her." He made a grimace. "Still, the woman's got some heart, I suppose—"
"With her? Alone?"
Again Lyly was conscious of the sudden onrush of panic. But Leyland shook his head.
"Housekeeper's with 'em. But she's no good. And the sergeant's within call... But you're not still thinking—"
"What's that?" Lyly almost screamed the words. "My God—!"
From somewhere below them came a long, moaning cry like the growling of a cat.
LYLY was half-way down the stairs before the superintendent understood. In the hall a startled sergeant was tugging desperately at the handle on the drawing-room door.
"In here, sir," he stammered. "It—it came from here... It's locked—"
Lyly pushed him savagely aside. His shoulder crashed against the door and a panel cracked. He threw himself at it again like a madman, and this time the lock gave. He staggered forward into the room, and stood for a moment transfixed with horror.
Joan Marney was seated on the couch, and her face was as pale as death. Her hand still clutched the stem of the empty wine-glass which she held, and she was staring with a look of fascinated terror at the woman on the hearth-rug in front of her.
For Constance Handley was transformed. Her mouth was curled into a snarling grin, and in her eyes was the wild light of madness. Even as Lyly entered, she raised her wine glass and drank.
"The last—the last of the Marneys!" She gave a queer, chuckling laugh. "You drank it... And you're the last—as I am." Her expression changed to a sudden fierce rage. "You killed him—you killed my son. He was the last of his name. He was all I had. Your name will die with mine—the last—"
Lyly sprang forward as she swayed and almost fell, but it was towards the girl he leaped, snatching at the glass in her hand. He lifted it and sniffed. Through the tang of the spirit he could make out distinctly the smell of bitter almonds. He whitened, clutching at her wrist.
"You—you drank? Quick!"
Joan Marney shook her head. "The cat—" she whispered. "The cat— It jumped up—knocked my hand—"
With a great wave of relief, Lyly glanced down to see the damp patch on the carpet beside her. From behind came the sound of a fall, but he did not look round.
"Joan—" he said hoarsely—"Joan—?"
For a second she looked at him dazedly. All at once she buried her face in her hands and her body was shaken with deep, racking sobs. Lyly's arm went about her.
"Joan!" he said. "Joan, darling—"
The room was filling with people. It was Leyland who bent over the dying woman. For a moment her eyes blazed up at him; then another spasm shook her.
"Emetic!" he snapped the word over his shoulder. "Doctor! Quick—"
Even as he spoke, he realized that they were too late. He glanced up. It was only then that he noticed the unconscious figure of the housekeeper lying beside the table. The sergeant was bending over her.
"My God!" he said in a low voice. "She's not—?"
"Only fainted, sir... She—she's dead?"
Leyland bent down and felt the wrist, listening as he did so. There was no pulse or breathing. He rose to his feet and nodded. With his hand he wiped the sweat from his face.
"My God!" he said again softly. "It was—it was her!"
The girl's sobs had ceased, though she still clung to Lyly. The superintendent turned towards them.
"What happened, Miss Marney?" He spoke sharply, even roughly; for he judged the girl to be very near hysteria. You're all right?"
Joan Marney nodded weakly. "I—I hardly know." Her voice was barely audible. "She seemed to be helping me... I heard her tell the housekeeper to get some brandy. She made me take it... I was going to drink. The cat jumped up, and upset it. And then—and then she drank as the door burst in—"
"The cat?" Leyland stared at her. "There is a cat? I thought— It wasn't she who cried out?"
"Yes... When she turned and saw the glass empty... There was a cat—"
Almost as she spoke a constable drew it protesting from under the couch and held it out. Leyland stared at it and drew a deep breath.
"I tried to put it out!" he said and turned away.
THE dawn was breaking before Lyly and the superintendent had the chance to explain to a shocked and sleepy chief constable exactly what had happened. It was on Lyly that the burden of the explanation fell and he was having an uncomfortable time. He was not only conscious that his audience was critical, but that he would probably have an even more unpleasant interview to come.
"It was the madness, sir, that was the trouble," he said apologetically. "You see, so far as we could make out, the woman hadn't got the shadow of a motive. We seemed really to have nothing against her at all, barring the fact that she was near the night Joan—Miss Marney—was attacked. And even that appeared at the time to work the other way.
"She'd no obvious motive. We had an idea about madness, of course, at the beginning, but even so we couldn't be expected to guess just what reason her brain had behind it for killing the Marneys. If you can call it a reason. It was her son's death. Jack Marney was responsible for that, in the sense that he was driving the car. I expect the shock of that finally deranged her mind, and she brooded on it.
"And then, sir, it was complicated by the fact that she was a novelist, and a writer of detective stories. Between her madness and her novel writing, she didn't give us many chances. There was only one real slip. I'd just got on to that, and we should have caught her even—even apart from what happened. Only, I was just too late."
"And that was?"
"When Inspector Boreman and the constable interviewed her right at the beginning. She said she'd heard of the murder and had come to see if she could help. No one could have told her. Retters ascertained that to-night. Except for Nicholson and those who came to the village, the people who knew about the murder stayed there. Of course, they knew at Nicholson's farm—his wife and girl. But no one came there in the interval. There was no one who could have told her. Therefore, she'd lied."
"It would be difficult to prove," Leyland suggested.
"Impossible to prove definitely. But it was an indication. And I was beginning to have some glimmering of an idea that she hated all the Marneys and felt very deeply on the subject of her son's death. But it wasn't really until to-night that I had any strong suspicion. When she made out her case against Charles Marney."
"It seemed a good enough case to me," Leyland admitted. "And when we found the glasses—"
"They shook me, I don't mind admitting. Of course, she must have slipped those into Marney's pocket—probably when we witnessed the will. That's why they were on the dressing-table in the full light of day, so to speak. Marney must have found them in his pocket, and wondered how the devil they got there."
"The case against Marney—?" Leyland suggested.
"The trouble was it was too good. She knew too much. For example, she knew all about the second letter. Retters might have told her, but I asked him, and he hadn't told anyone. The Vicar and the gardener might have told her, but not where it had been posted. She'd have had to have stupendous luck to find out all she was supposed to have done.
"There was another queer thing in that. Of course, she had to speak about the cat noises, but she couldn't quite bring herself to it. Every time she mentioned them she hesitated. I think she was able to convince herself that it was sane enough to kill the Marneys, but even her reason told her that there was something wrong about the noises.
"There was another thing. She cited the fact that Marney had once hunted with a drag hunt as a point against him. But it was equally a point against her, because she evidently knew all about it. And then, there was the heraldry—"
"But surely that did point to Marney?"
"Yes. And that was its great weakness. You see, granted that a man is going to be so fiendishly clever as she made Marney out to be, he'd know it would point to him, and her explanation of that was distinctly thin. There was only one reason for those heraldic letters. To point to Marney. And therefore Marney didn't write them."
The chief constable frowned a little. "If you'd begin at the beginning," he suggested, "it would be plainer, I think."
"Very well, sir... What happened about Richard Marney's death was pretty well what she told us, only she'd done it instead of Charles. She laid the trail—and, of course, the poacher heard her. She'd got the dagger, and I've an idea how. Jack Marney was interested in it, and he was friendly with her son. I think it was mixed up in her son's things after his death. Or, of course, she visited the Marneys too and could have got it.
"You notice that the use of that very individual dagger is rather like the heraldic letters. It points in a definite direction—towards the Marney family. She didn't know it, but it also pointed to Egmont. That was mere accident.
"Well, having laid the trail, she knows which way the hunt is going. She manages to get Egmont out of it, and, barring accident, is fairly sure of having a chance at him. I think she feigned illness, and that would stop even Richard Marney, who, as Ashby said, seems to have been a good-hearted enough lad. Besides, he couldn't pass her if she was lying in the path, unless he jumped over her. He got out his brandy flask to bring her round, and she stabbed him. I suppose she threw the flask away, but never noticed the stopper.
"It must have been a sort of horrible curiosity which made her stay to see what sort of job the police made of it. Boreman had a sort of suspicion of Ashby, but no one really wondered why she was there.
"Then, there's the attack on Joan Marney. I think we shall find that she had seen Egmont, and that he'd told her about the meeting that had been arranged. Otherwise, it may have been just chance. She followed the girl until she took fright. But Joan Marney went the long way round by the lane. It was easy enough for Mrs. Handley to cut through the wood and meet her instead of overtaking her. But by that time they were too near the cross-roads for anything to happen. Egmont might have heard. And she was worried about the police suspicions of Egmont. She wanted him well out of the way.
"I don't think it was then she posted the second letter. My own view is that that was an afterthought—when she'd got the rifle. The maniac had been encountered in that vicinity, and it was a good place, on account of the infrequent collections.
"After the attack, she had plenty of time to get home before I rang up her house. We'd waited a bit to look round, and we'd not walked fast. Also, if she took a short cut, it's not very far. She'd just got home and was changing her things—I suspect there was blood on them—mine—when Retters came.
"She stole the rifle from Marney's house. It was easy enough. She was on friendly terms with both families, and knew the houses thoroughly, and their weaknesses. Probably she even knew Charles was careless with that window. Or she could easily have forced it. Only Charles woke up, and we were watching. Also, she couldn't resist a few cat-calls. You see, she couldn't help those, when in a certain stage of excitement. That didn't work out according to her plan, which I think, was just to get a rifle of Charles's quietly. Again, you see, the weapon indicates a Marney. But if it didn't work out according to plan, her luck held. We felt very suspicious of Charles's burglary. And the curious thing is that we never ever suspected the one he really did—at the Hall."
"He did that?" Leyland demanded.
"I think so. I think Dick had lent him some of that nine hundred pounds—perhaps all of it, and he was ashamed. I think there was some kind of memorandum which he removed. That was his one crime. We've not found that yet, but we're hoping to trace the notes."
He paused and thought for a moment.
"She hid the rifle in the lane. And she did something else there I should think. She planted that empty cartridge case where we found it. You remember, she had fired a shot the night before.
"Then, I think, she posts the letter. Next morning, she puts through the telephone calls. The conversations didn't correspond, of course, and we'd spotted that.
"But just as an example of how far-seeing she was, there are the glasses. I don't know yet where they came from, but it must have occurred to her that Charles's sight wasn't good enough, and she provided them. I don't mind betting that they're even the right focal length and so on.
"She has a margin of some minutes for the actual murder of Maurice. That is, while he's walking down the field. She herself was a good shot. She'd been in Africa, and could certainly handle a gun. Things worked out beautifully. She was able to fire the rifle as Charles Marney reached the very spot. But she could have waited, or fired a little sooner.
"Then things went very wrong. We'd got the letter a lot too early, and we very nearly caught her—owing to Retters's foresight. She only just managed to slide away into the wood. And then of course, everyone was worrying about Charles, who was so obviously caught red-handed. We hardly thought of anyone else."
"I didn't. You did," Leyland admitted.
"It didn't do me much good. There were too many people to choose from. That was luck for her, I think, not management. She certainly didn't want to fasten suspicion on Egmont. I don't think she knew about the Norton girl, or Ashby and his ridiculous bird catching—much less the part he played in marrying off Dick. There was one piece of evidence against her we never got. Her alibi had been that she'd been at home working. As a matter of fact, Joan—Miss Marney, I understand, had called at her house that afternoon and found that she was out.
"But, in any case, you see, there's not much reason to worry about her, and with Sir John at death's door, Charles's motive is obvious. There was so much against Charles that we could hardly help suspecting him, and came very near an arrest—"
"You opposed that," Leyland suggested.
Lyly coloured. "It must have been instinct rather than reason," he admitted. "I believe her intention was that Charles should actually be arrested and hung. That would get rid of him. But she seems to have gathered that things had come unstuck somewhere. So she changes her plan at the last moment—that is, when she knew she was going to stay the night in the house."
"Plan?" the Chief Constable asked. You mean she drove Marney to suicide."
"No." Lyly hesitated, and bit his lip, frowning down at the carpet. "That's the devil of it. Marney didn't commit suicide. She murdered him. Under our noses!"
"What?" Leyland jumped to his feet. "She couldn't have done! She couldn't have got into the room. She couldn't have got near him! She was at the other side of the house—"
"Except when she came down to make out her case against Charles. She murdered him then, in the two minutes or so that it took the detective to come and tell us, and with the sergeant standing within three yards of her!"
"But—but—" Leyland protested. "There were two guards between her and Marney's room. She couldn't get there, much less fake the locked door and so on—"
"She didn't get there. She didn't have to. Marney had a gas-fire burning in his room. Just under the foot of the staircase where she was waiting was the main tap to turn off all the gas in the house. I only spotted it ten minutes ago. She came down. It was dark, and the sergeant couldn't see her clearly. She turned off the tap, and waited until she thought the fire would be out. Then she turned it on again."
"My God!" Leyland slumped back into his chair. "But—but you can't prove that?"
"There's one tiny shred of proof. I nearly missed it... When Ashby came, Superintendent, you said it didn't matter about the gas. You lit it."
"But it went on all right?"
"Of course. She'd turned on the tap again. But, you struck a match. Why? Because, when she turned out Charles's stove, it must even have affected the pilot jet... I might say there are no prints on the tap. She knew too much for that."
"The aniseed?"
"She put that there when she went upstairs with the housekeeper. And, actually, it would have been a proof against her. And that, and the fact that we couldn't catch that cat, saved Miss Marney's life."
Leyland raised his eyebrows. "I don't get that?" he admitted. "Just how?"
"Well, the bottle leaked a little. Everything in Mrs. Handley's handbag, when we looked, smelt of aniseed. Including her handkerchief." He frowned a little. "And she'd lent that to Joan just before she got the housekeeper to give her the poisoned brandy."
The chief constable looked at him blankly.
"Cats like aniseed," Lyly explained grimly. "That's why it jumped up. I suppose she'd turned to have a look at the housekeeper or something. When she saw the empty glass she jumped to the wrong conclusion—and emptied her own... And that, sir, I think is all."
"I'm afraid it's a bad business," Leyland said gloomily. "Three murdered—under our noses. And yet we were fairly near stopping 'em."
"I really don't think you've a great deal to reproach yourselves with," the chief constable conceded. "I doubt if anyone would have done more. That business with the gas-tap—"
He broke off and shook his head. Obviously he thought it a most unfair trick. In spite of his troubles, Leyland grinned surreptitiously.
"Well, there's a good deal to be cleared up, of course. I'll see you later in the morning. About eleven—if that will give you time?... Good."
Leyland ushered out his superior officer, leaving Lyly standing there looking gloomily into the fire. It was true he was not satisfied with the outcome of the case; but he was depressed for another reason, He was scowling heavily when Leyland reappeared at the door.
"Miss Marney," the superintendent announced blandly. "She'd like to see you—"
Lyly's scowl deepened. "Leyland," he said. "What's the use? You said it yourself—"
"If you mean you're not keen on the girl," Leyland said judicially, "I consider the attitude I found you in a few hours ago showed at least an excess of zeal."
"I am," Lyly snapped savagely. "But, as you said, she's an heiress to a fortune, and the daughter of a baronet, and I—"
"You," Leyland assured him with some deliberation, "are an ass... And she isn't either."
"She's not—?" Lyly stared at him. "But the death of Sir John—and Charles—"
Leyland smiled at him sardonically for half a minute.
"There is, of course," he murmured to himself, "no difference in blood. The Lylys come of a fine old stock. Probably, if we knew, the name's a corruption of Noah... So that's all right. Only she's not an heiress of any great amount— And if Charles ever was a baronet, it was only for an hour or two."
The desperate look in Lyly's eye reduced him to seriousness.
"Look here," he said, "Richard married the Norton girl, didn't he? And Richard's issue would take precedence over Charles's. And there's a baby due in seven and a half months—"
Lyly suddenly grasped the point. He made a dive towards the door. The superintendent's last words were lost on his retreating back.
"So, if it's a boy, the poor little brute is born a baronet—" He shook his head, moved across to the stove and knocked out his pipe, then frowned reflectively. "I wonder what the law really is?" he asked himself. "Anyhow, if I'm any judge, the damage will be done by then... They'll be married."
And he was proved a prophet just six months later.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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