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"The Missing Grave"
Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1939
"The Missing Grave" opens with a chilling mystery: George Hedges, a humble gardener, is abducted from his cottage after a night at the alehouse. Blindfolded and threatened, he's forced to dig a grave at an unknown location—only to discover a dead body lying in it.
When Hedges recounts the ordeal, his story is dismissed as drunken fantasy. But reporter Christopher Davidson and magistrate's daughter Marjorie Richmond aren't convinced. Marjorie's father vanished the same night, and she suspects foul play. Together, they unravel a web of secrets involving murder, misdirection, and a grave that no one can seem to find....
GEORGE HEDGES woke with a start, still dazed with sleep and muddled by the beer which he had drunk the evening before, he sat up in bed, gazing bewilderedly about him. Slowly, full consciousness returned, and his dulled brain began to work. Something was wrong. Something had happened, something to disturb a rest which normally lasted unbroken from the time he lay down until the alarm clock rang next morning. With the realization came the first vague chill of fear. He leaned forward tensely, straining his ears to listen, and peering into the darkness of the cottage bedroom.
The moon had already set. Through the one small window opposite, the overcast sky was dimly visible as a patch of grey in a blackness like the pit. Even the familiar outlines of the furniture were indistinguishable. Outside, a light wind rustled the ivy leaves, but within everything was wrapped in a stillness which itself seemed full of menace. There was no sign or sound of anything which might have aroused him; but the fact only increased his disquiet. He felt puzzled and uncertain, half disposed to lie down again and half resolved to get out of bed and make investigations. All at once the hair on his scalp tingled and rose; he felt the sweat come damp on his forehead. He knew what was the matter. There was someone in the room.
He gulped once or twice, trying to summon his resolution. He had locked up as usual the night before. No one could have got in. There was neither cat nor dog which might have accounted for the disturbance. With a feeling of superstitious dread, he felt a horrified certainty that it could be nothing human. A courage born of desperation made him moisten his lips with a tongue which itself seemed suddenly to have gone dry, and shout.
"Here! Who's that?"
Hoarsely unlike his normal speech, the challenge startled him by its loudness; but there was a quaver in it which confessed his fears. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears from the wild beating of his heart; but for the rest there was only silence. More and more vividly he sensed some strange, threatening presence.
"God! What is it?"
This time the words were no more than a husky whisper. A violent trembling seized him as he tried to subdue the terror that threatened to overwhelm him. There was no one there—nothing. There could be no one. Yet from somewhere in the gloom he could feel eyes staring at him, watching him. Out of the turmoil of his mind a single coherent idea disentangled itself. Whatever it was, he must see. He must have light. Remembering the matches on the bedside candlestick, he stretched out a hand to grope for them.
As he did so, from the other side of the bed came a sound of movement. With a shuddering gasp he turned to face whatever danger might be lurking there. In the same instant something cold and hard pressed against his spine.
"Quiet!" said a thin, high voice. "Quiet, or you're dead!"
To save his life Hedges could not have moved. His flesh seemed to shrink from the icy contact; but his muscles were paralysed, less through any comprehension of the threat than by horror at that unnatural voice. It was like nothing earthly. He dare not turn his head; he could scarcely breathe. After what seemed an immense interval, the intruder spoke again.
"Your name is Hedges? You are a gardener?"
An inarticulate grunt was all the reply that he could manage, but the owner of the voice was apparently satisfied.
"Good," it approved. "Now, listen.... No harm is meant to you, provided that you obey me. If not—" In the unfinished sentence there was a suggestion of unutterable things. Hedges made a mighty effort to speak, his eagerness causing him to move jerkily. The cold object slipped from his neck for a second; then the pressure increased.
"I—I—" he croaked.
"Sit still!" The command was peremptory; but all the more weirdly impressive from the strange falsetto in which it was given. "And be quiet. I warn you, another move like that and this gun goes off—"
"Gun!" In the sudden wave of relief, the gardener disregarded the new threat. The speaker was human.
He felt his courage returning. "You—you're not—"
"Listen. Don't talk... I don't want to kill you. I should not hesitate, but I have a use for you. Nevertheless, I shall, unless you do exactly as you are told... You are a gardener. I want you to dig."
"Dig?" Hedges echoed stupidly. But there was something comforting in the normal, prosaic nature of the task which was demanded from him. "Ay, I can dig.... But what I want to know is—"
"You are to know nothing—except what I tell you... Now, you will get dressed. You will precede me downstairs. I shall be behind—with this." The gun muzzle emphasized the threat, and for the first time the gardener found himself afraid of the more tangible danger. "Outside there is a car," the voice pursued. "I shall bind you, and put you inside. I shall take you to the place where you must work. Understand, you are not to see where this is. You are not to know where you go. If you should know, if you should try to know—"
"If—if I do?" Hedges faltered. His relief had disappeared. He was beginning to realize the dangers of his position. "If—?"
"You won't come back... Now, dress. And hurry."
"I can't see—" the gardener protested. A sense of injury blended with his fears. "I don't know what right you've got to—"
"No right! Quick!" A beam of light, evidently from a powerful electric torch stabbed the darkness, hovered here and there for a moment, and came to rest on the heap of clothes at the foot of the bed. The pressure of the gun was removed. He shifted uneasily, and turned to glance in the direction from which the light came; but blinded by the glare he could see nothing behind it. "Don't look!" the voice snapped. "Get on!"
His toilet of the night before had been of the simplest. Delayed until closing time at the local inn, he had found energy to do no more than discard his outer garments and boots. As he reached for the clothes reluctantly he felt a growing sense of grievance. No one had any right to treat a man like this. He had put on his coat and trousers and was reaching for his boots when his pent up feelings found audible expression. He faced the light with a scowl.
"See here," he protested. "I won't go! You and your gun. You can't do this! I don't know who you are—"
"You'd better not!" Something in the sound of the queer voice made Hedges' indignation subside abruptly. There was a brief pause. "You fool! I've no time to waste... Which is it to be?"
The gardener hesitated only for a second. Then he reached hurriedly for the boots.
"All right, sir, all right—" he began deprecatingly; but the intruder cut him off.
"'Sir', you said?"
Hedges did not immediately understand. Then it dawned upon him. Of course he did not know. There was no saying from the voice whether the speaker was man or woman. How was he to know? He blundered into a correction.
"Mum, I mean," he amended. "That is, if you are—"
"That's better. Never mind which I am.... Hurry with those boots."
The silence which followed was broken only by his own heavy breathing as he bent down to fasten the laces. At last he stood erect and looked towards the light inquiringly.
"Ready? Good.... Now, downstairs!"
The light described an arc across the room and rested on the doorway; but in passing showed the gardener something else. For a moment the white face of the clock on the mantelpiece had been visible, and the hands pointed to twenty-five past two. He moved across the room obediently, keenly aware of a light footstep behind him. Now that it had come to the point, he feared almost equally the prospect of the midnight ride and making any attempt at resistance. Something told him that the stranger was in deadly earnest; that if he attempted to escape the shock of the bullet would be his last conscious sensation in this world. He descended the stairs circumspectly, halting at the bottom before the closed front door.
"Stop there!" the voice commanded. "Put your hands behind you!"
A gloved hand touched his wrists as he obeyed; then a rope was passed round them, and pulled tight. But his captor seemed to be fumbling curiously. Once he fancied he caught a muttered exclamation; but he was not sure. The hard coils of the rope cut into his skin. There was no prospect of loosening them. At last it was finished. For a moment the light vanished. The night air blew coldly on his face as the door opened. When the torch shone again the stranger spoke.
"Straight down the path. The car is outside the gate. Stop when you get there... There's light enough—"
The torch was switched off. Hedges stumbled forward obediently, the darkness and his bound hands combining to make his progress awkward and uncertain. The stranger was still close behind. He could hear the gravel crunching under his feet. The idea of shouting for help came to him, but he dismissed it instantly. His cottage was some distance from the village; at that time of night there was no prospect of being heard by anyone. And he was only too sure that the stranger would carry out his threat.
At the end of the path the gate was open, and a dark mass showed against the roadway just outside. Evidently it was the car, and he stopped as he reached it. A hand touched his shoulder, and moved exploringly, as though trying to ascertain his exact position.
"Stand still!" the voice commanded and almost with the words something descended over his head and he felt a cord drawn about his neck. Instinctively he struggled. The bag, or whatever it was, was thick and stifling. He could hardly breathe. "Stand still!" The voice came again, muffled by the cloth. "Now, get in!"
He was pushed forward. His shins encountered the running board painfully, and he fell rather than climbed into the rear seat. The door closed. A minute later there was a jerk as the car began to move.
How long he lay there he had no means of telling. Blinded and half stifled, he could see and hear nothing. Only the vibration of the engine and now and again a particularly violent jerk which threatened to throw him off the seat afforded the least clue to their progress. Twice they stopped, and the second time seemed to reverse; but he had no idea of their direction, or how far they had travelled. After a time he lost interest alike in their destination and in his own horrible imaginings, lapsing in a semi-stupefied misery. The cord cut his wrists cruelly; inside the bag the air was heavy and stale. The journey seemed interminable. Consciousness had almost left him when they stopped again. This time the door opened, and a hand gripped him.
"Get out!" came the muffled command. "Quick!... Stand there."
To his unutterable relief, he felt the cord which secured the bag loosen. The next moment he was blinking about him as he drank in the cool air in great gasps. For a moment he could think of nothing else but the fact that he could again breathe freely. He scarcely noticed where they stood, or thought of it. Then from over his shoulder the light flashed. With a revived interest he looked about him.
Evidently they were in a wood. The road along which the car had come was a mere track, ending just in front in a maze of ruts left by the timber drags. The light glistened on the damp leaves of the fir trees surrounding the spot where they stood. They stood there for a moment or two. Hedges wondered what was going to happen. The night was very silent. Then, somewhere near at hand he heard a church clock chime the hour. It was four o'clock.
"Get on!" his captor commanded suddenly. "Through the trees. Follow where I point the light."
Hedges started forward obediently. There was no path, but here the trees were sufficiently far apart to make the going easy enough. They had gone about twenty yards when a broken down fence barred their way.
"Over!" the unknown ordered. "And don't forget what's behind you."
On the other side, they were in the open. It seemed to Hedges as though they were in some kind of park. A few paces further and they stopped. The light from the torch shone on a rectangular space marked in the turf; beside it a tarpaulin sheet had been spread on which lay a spade.
"Listen!" the voice said. "I want you to dig out the space marked. Cut the turf carefully so that it can be replaced when we have finished. I want a hole about three feet deep. Now, begin...! You will put the earth and grass on the tarpaulin.... Understand? Then, dig!"
There was something reassuring in the familiar feel of the spade handle. As he began his task, for the first time his imagination began to play, not on his own position, or the sinister stranger, but on the more romantic possibilities. It came to him in a flash that it could mean only one thing—buried treasure. The riddle of why his captor should have dragged him from bed to hide or search for it defied him, but the explanation rang true. He wished that he had been able to get more idea of their whereabouts. The circle of light on the surface of the field gave him no clue. They were near a church; and a fir plantation. But then, they had been travelling for an hour and a half. They must have come forty, perhaps fifty miles or more. Unless he could find out more on the return journey, there seemed to be no hope of re-discovering the place.
As he finished removing the turf he straightened his back for a moment. Beyond the torch the figure of the stranger was dimly visible against the sky, heavily muffled, apparently in a big coat and scarf which concealed its shape. He spat on his hands and prepared for the heavier work of removing the earth. Then, just as he was on the point of starting, something in the shape of the marked space made him pause. For an instant he stared incredulously. Then the awful truth dawned upon him. He started back with a cry of horror.
"God—! God above us! It's a grave!"
In an instant the stranger was beside him; the gun was pressed against his forehead.
"Dig, you fool! Dig!"
"A grave—a grave!" Hedges babbled in an extremity of terror. "Lord—Lord save us—!"
"It'll be yours—unless you dig!... This is your last chance. Quick!"
For a moment only the gardener delayed, paralysed by fright. Then the finality in the voice seemed to penetrate the confusion of his thoughts. Grave or no grave, death was very near. He gripped the spade frenziedly and began.
The hole deepened; the pile of soil on the sheet grew steadily. Hedges scarcely noticed. Sweat was pouring from him; his breath came in the sobbing gasps of exhaustion, but he worked on, dreadfully conscious of the dark, silent figure watching him. His head was swimming. The bright flash of the spade seemed to fascinate him; he moved like an automaton, hardly knowing what he did. When at last his captor spoke he did not hear.
"Deep enough! ... Deep enough, I said! Get out!"
Almost in a state of collapse the gardener scrambled out. He leaned on his spade with closed eyes, unaware that the stranger had moved away a little distance. When he returned he was dragging something behind him, something heavy. The thud of its fall into the hole roused the exhausted man. He looked up. Then a queer, strangled cry broke from him.
The torch had been extinguished, but the first grey streaks of dawn were already enough to reveal the long, blanket-wrapped bundle which now occupied the grave. Hedges stood staring at it in horrified fascination. The stranger had to seize his arm.
"Fill it! Fill it in! Hurry!"
At the menace of the gun the gardener moved, but he seemed incapable of haste. Wearily, deliberately his spade sought the heap of earth, and the first few clods crumbled into the hole. Scarcely more than a handful, their weight was enough. A fold of the covering fell back. In the dim light he saw the white outline of a human hand, one finger pointing stiffly in his direction. He gave a shriek, regardless even of his own danger. For a moment he stood staring. Then, with the strength of madness, he began to shovel at the pile. He did not think of the gun. He wanted only to cover up the accusation of the pointing hand. Steadily the hole filled. The earth was level with the top, but he still shovelled. The stranger gripped his arm again and shook him.
"Enough! Now the sods!"
But the gardener paid no heed, bending again to fill his spade, unknowing what he did. The stranger's hand rose quickly, then descended. With a grunt, Hedges subsided unconscious on the grave.
SUPERINTENDENT FREEMAN leaned back in his chair and laughed. A large, comfortable man of middle age, he enjoyed such jokes as life sent his way, and this seemed to him a particularly good one. Still laughing, he pushed across the box of cigarettes to the young man opposite, and looked at him with the affection one feels for those who contribute to one's amusement. True, with the other reporters who had bothered him that morning he had been less affable; but he had known Christopher Davidson's father long before his son so far fell from grace as to join the staff of a newspaper.
"Well!" he exclaimed as soon as his mirth permitted him. "And they sent you down for that!"
The young man smiled in answer as he accepted the cigarette; but his keen eyes were on the older man, studying him as though to find out whether the laughter was sincere. Apparently it was. He struck a match and lit the cigarette before he spoke.
"Not exactly sent me down," he corrected. "I was down here on holiday, heard the story, and naturally rang through... Then you think it's nonsense? That Hedges invented it? Why should he?"
"I don't think he invented it—I think he dreamed it!" The Superintendent grinned. "Oh, I know how you feel. It's a good story, and you fellows would like to make a lot of it. But even you can't take it seriously. Dragging a man from bed to dig a grave!" He shook his head. "Oh, no! That's a bit too much—even for your rag! Murderers don't do that."
"Perhaps that's what the murderer thought—I mean, that no one would believe it," Davidson suggested seriously. "Perhaps he knew that it wouldn't be investigated—"
"Oh, we investigated all right," Freeman interrupted. "I'm too old a bird to be caught that way. Went myself and looked the place over and found—what d'you think?"
"Nothing," Davidson suggested as the other paused.
"That Hedges' supper consisted of chips, kippers, cheese and Spanish onions!" The Superintendent smiled triumphantly. "And him nearly sixty. I'd be in hospital myself after that. You can't wonder if he had a bit of a nightmare and nearly broke his neck."
"He told you that?"
"We found the remnants. That's not all. He'd been at the pub all evening. Don't know how many pints he'd have, but it must have been a good drop.... And, all things considered, I think it's pretty plain what happened. He went home, ate that awful supper and went to bed. Naturally he dreamed. In his dream he got up and fell downstairs. That's how he came to find himself at the bottom—and how he hurt his head. That's all there is in it."
"You said that you investigated," Davidson said slowly. "There are various points which might have been checked, if he'd been speaking the truth—"
"Such as?"
"First, assuming his story is true, how did his mysterious visitor get in? He said he'd locked up."
"There was no sign of an entry having been forced," Freeman began and paused. "But, as a matter of fact that isn't conclusive, because there was a window open. He could have got in that way."
"So far in Hedges' favour... Then, the car. Did anyone see it? Were there any tracks?"
"No, in both cases... But it's only fair to say that the road is tarmacadamed, and it rained about six this morning. There wouldn't be tracks. And, at that time of night, I think it's hardly probable that anyone would have seen the car. You see, Hedges' cottage stands alone."
Davidson thought for a minute. Then he looked quickly at the Superintendent.
"You're taking this more seriously than you pretend," he accused. "You seem to have thought about it quite a bit."
"I tried to. There's nothing like being on the safe side—and if it had been a murder and I'd done nothing, I'd be in the soup.... But nothing led anywhere."
"His clothes—boots and so on?"
"Upstairs in the bedroom—where he admits having put them when he went to bed."
"I didn't mean that... What I'm getting at is that, supposing a man digs a three foot hole, it's likely to show on his trousers. He passed through a fir plantation. There might be traces—"
The Superintendent hesitated. "I don't mind admitting that his clothes might have borne out his story. But then, they would anyway, simply because he is a gardener. And as for the fir needles—"
"There were some?"
"As a matter of fact, there were. But he'd been working in Miss Ferrard's garden at White Gables. There are firs there. And there's something else. We found a dead ilex leaf in the mud on his boots. There's a whole row of 'em there."
"The wound on his head?"
"Just a bruise. Who's to tell if it was a gun butt or a banister?"
Davidson thought for a moment. "As a matter of fact," he said at last, "you've found no reason why his story can't be true?"
"But we have... Can't you guess?"
The reporter shook his head. "No. There's improbability, of course—"
"I'd say there was!" Freeman grinned. "On the one hand you've got a strong probability that he'd dream after that supper. On the other hand, assuming you've got a body to dispose of, would you have enough respect for trade union rules to employ a gardener to do the digging. Why should one?"
"That's a question." Davidson sat upright. "If his story were true, it might be a vital point. Why, even at the risk of advertising the crime, employ a gardener?"
"No, Davidson, my boy, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's no go this time. Even if it is true—" He broke off and frowned.
"If it were?" Davidson prompted.
"Well, what the devil are we expected to do about it?" Freeman scowled at his cigarette, ground it into the ash tray and felt for his pipe. "In an hour and a half a good car could go fifty—sixty—seventy miles or more. All we should know about the place would be that it was near a fir plantation within earshot of a church. He can't tell us a thing more. Are we to dig up everywhere in a sixty mile radius?"
"It's difficult, certainly," Davidson admitted. "It could be done."
The Superintendent's good humour seemed to have vanished. Davidson guessed that his suspicion had been right. Freeman was really taking the business far more seriously than he liked to have people think.
"Could it?" Freeman asked. "Well, you can do it then! If you've plenty of time and can show us how we ought to do our job, I'll give you best... With regard to the hold-up man—if it was a man. Hedges never saw him—never got a glimpse. Doesn't know if it was man or woman. The voice must have been disguised. Nothing much to start from there, eh?"
"Perhaps not—as you put it."
"As I've said, there's no tracing the place. And that leaves only one thing. The corpse."
"Ah!" Davidson looked up and smiled. "I was wondering if—"
"I wasn't born yesterday. Well, that's no good either. Know why?"
Davidson shook his head. "I'll buy it," he murmured.
"There isn't a corpse!" The Superintendent's spirits seemed to revive at the thought. "That's a stroke of luck, you know. As a matter of fact, we've generally got a few unexplained disappearances on our hands. Ordinarily, it might have been one of those... But, it just happens that at the moment there are no candidates. None fresh enough, anyway. If there was a corpse, it must have been imported. And who'd do that?"
"As you've checked up everyone in the county—" the reporter was beginning with elaborate sarcasm when he was interrupted. There was a knock at the door. A uniformed sergeant opened it. He looked at the Superintendent.
"A Miss Richmond would like to see you, sir," he said. "It's about the Hedges affair—"
"Um?" Freeman sat up. "What does she know?"
"Nothing, sir, so far as I can find out." The sergeant repressed a smile. "Only she's sure Hedges is a nice old man who wouldn't tell a lie!"
The Superintendent groaned. "Tell her the matter is still under investigation," he decided after a pause. "Get rid of her."
"I did, sir. She won't go.... Her father's John Richmond, the magistrate you know, sir. I didn't like to—"
He broke off and turned quickly to look over his shoulder into the passage. His jaw dropped in dismay. The next moment the subject of his conversation swept past him into the room.
Under ordinary circumstances, Marjorie Richmond was not the type of person whom most men would have avoided. Davidson's first impression was that she was distinctly pretty. But for once it was evident that her auburn hair did not belie its reputation. She was manifestly angry. Her blue eyes sparkled indignantly as she looked at Freeman, and the slightly tilted nose managed to convey the idea of supreme contempt.
The Superintendent shrank visibly. Recovering, he rose to his feet.
"Really, Miss Richmond—" he began in mild protest.
"I wanted to see you." The clear voice interrupted him ruthlessly. "This man—" A small hand indicated the sergeant who was edging towards the door. "This man lied to me. He said you were out."
"As you see—" Freeman began, but once again she cut him short.
"I've just come from George Hedges. He works for us. I heard what had happened and went to see him. I'm glad I did.... It's quite plain that your police have been treating him abominably!"
Davidson was trying not to grin. The big Superintendent reminded him of a whipped schoolboy. The sergeant had disappeared. At Davidson the girl threw a single withering glance before she ignored him.
"If you've any complaint, Miss Richmond," Freeman began.
"Most certainly I have... The poor old man has been kidnapped by a murderer, brutally treated and left for dead... All the police can do, apparently, is to laugh at him, and suggests that he drinks too much. Why don't you do something?"
"Well, Miss Richmond," the Superintendent said mildly. "He does drink—"
"What if he does? Is that any reason why he should be half killed? What are you doing? Instead of going out and catching the murderer, you're just sitting here and—"
"Just a minute, Miss Richmond." Freeman's tone was placating. "Let's look at it reasonably... Won't you sit down?"
The girl took the chair which he offered, but her expression showed no signs of relenting. She faced Freeman uncompromisingly.
"Well?" she demanded.
"It's like this, Miss Richmond," Freeman began. "We're doing our best. But in the first place, even if his story is true, you must see that there's very little to go on—"
"If it's true? Of course it is. Hedges wouldn't invent anything like that. And I suppose he hit himself on the head to bear it out."
"He might have dreamed it," Freeman said bluntly.
"That's what the man at the desk said. It's nonsense. A man of Hedges' education couldn't dream a story like that—everything fitting in properly. And he couldn't invent it. Of course, it happened."
The Superintendent actually seemed struck by this devastating conclusion. He frowned a little.
"Perhaps you're right, Miss Richmond," he said. "But you see how it is. We've found nothing that actually confirms his story—nothing inconsistent with the idea that he had a dream and fell downstairs. There's no kind of proof one way or the other. Under the circumstances, it's not surprising if my men asked how much Hedges had had to drink... We're still making inquiries—"
"And in the meantime, the murderer—"
"That's just it, Miss Richmond. Is there a murderer, and, if so, whom did he murder? You see, so far as we know, there's no one missing. As I was saying to Mr. Davidson—he agrees with you, to some extent—there's nothing to go on—"
The girl looked at Davidson and smiled. Apparently it was a reward for championing her cause. He bowed in acknowledgment of the introduction and smiled in answer. She turned to Freeman triumphantly.
"You see, your own detectives—" she began.
Impolitely, the Superintendent burst out laughing. The thought of Davidson as a detective was apparently too much for his sense of humour. The girl's anger had been simmering down; but now she flushed indignantly.
"I'm sorry, Miss Richmond," Freeman apologized. "But, you see, Mr. Davidson isn't one of my detectives. He's a reporter on the—"
The look which Marjorie Richmond gave Davidson indicated that in her view newspaper men belonged to the lower forms of animal life. He might have regretted Freeman's precipitancy, but he was struggling with a mirth which threatened to overcome him.
"I see," she said icily. "And of course, my business is sufficiently unimportant to be discussed before—"
The ringing of the telephone bell interrupted her. Freeman removed the receiver gratefully.
"Hullo?" he said in defiance of Post Office instructions. Then he looked across at the girl. "For you, Miss Richmond," he said, and his eyebrows rose a little.
"For me?"
She was evidently surprised. Freeman held out the receiver and nodded.
"From the house," he said. "Of course, I told them I was coming," she said dubiously; then took the instrument.
"Hullo!... Oh, it's Woods. Yes?... What? A wire?" The two men watching saw a look of blank astonishment pass over her face. She frowned. "But—but that's impossible! There must be some mistake... Read it again... Oh."
There was a pause. Evidently the speaker at the other end of the line was explaining something. The girl's face had suddenly lost the look of assurance with which she had bullied the Superintendent. There was a scared look in her eyes as she spoke again.
"Thank you, Woods... No, no answer yet. I—I'll have to inquire..."
She hardly seemed conscious of their presence as she replaced the receiver and stood for a moment staring down at it. Her face was anxious.
"But—but I don't understand," she said to herself. "What could have happened?"
"No bad news, I hope, Miss Richmond?" Freeman asked sympathetically. "Anything we can do?"
"I—I don't understand," she repeated, and looked at him appealingly. "That was Woods, the butler. A wire's just been delivered at the house. From Mardon House—where Sir Arthur Nillett lives—"
Freeman nodded comprehension. He remembered Sir Arthur as a neighbour of the Richmonds before his removal to a place fifty miles away.
"Yes, Miss Richmond?" he prompted gently.
"Daddy was going there for the week end. He was fearfully excited about some old manuscript which he had found. He said he simply had to ask Sir Arthur's opinion. He's a collector too, you know. He was going there for dinner last night. He went there—"
Her voice trailed away. She looked from one to the other desperately. Every scrap of colour had left her face.
"I saw him go. He walked to the station—"
"Yes, Miss Richmond?" Freeman moved a pace nearer, and his voice was grave. "The wire?"
"It's addressed to daddy—from Sir Arthur." She hesitated, then went on, speaking as though she was reading from the written form. "'Presume error about visit. Hope nothing wrong. When may I expect you? Nillett'."
"Then—then Mr. Richmond—" Davidson began and stopped. Somehow he did not like to put the idea into words.
"He isn't there! He never got there!" Her voice rose as panic overcame her. "But—but where is he?"
THERE was a long silence in the room. Davidson looked questioningly across towards the Superintendent; but Freeman refused to meet his eye. He was fiddling with the papers on his desk and frowning. The reporter turned to the girl.
"I shouldn't worry, Miss Richmond," he said. "I expect it's some perfectly simple mistake. Probably your father changed his mind; met a friend, or something, and decided to spend the night with him—"
He broke off, discouraged by the girl's stony face, and uncomfortably aware that, however possible in his own case, the explanation was extravagantly improbable in the case of the elderly J.P. But Marjorie Richmond scarcely seemed to have been listening. She was standing by the telephone with a strange look in her eyes. Davidson wondered if the same idea had occurred to her as to himself and the Superintendent, and sought desperately for something comforting to say. But Freeman stepped in.
"I expect it's quite all right, Miss Richmond—quite all right!" he encouraged her; but his heartiness was a little overdone. "You say that you saw him set off for the station. When was that?"
The direct question seemed to bring the girl to herself. She frowned thoughtfully.
"Just after tea," she said, and paused. "It would be about a quarter past five—I think. He was just carrying a small case... I went down with him to the gate to say good-bye. I saw him go down the lane. He stopped for a minute to talk to Miss Ferrard, and I went inside... He was in plenty of time for the train. He couldn't have missed it... Besides, if he had, there's another one three quarters of an hour later. Or he'd have come home. Surely he'd have come home, or let me know?"
"It's quite possible that he did leave a message with someone who forgot to deliver it," Davidson suggested. "You know what some people are. After all, a dozen things might have made him change his mind. He might have met someone—"
"But he'd have let me know. Or Sir Arthur. Both messages couldn't have gone astray."
"They could, if he'd given them both to one person—" Davidson began uncertainly; but Freeman interrupted.
"Your father had fixed this visit? He was very anxious to see Sir Arthur? Can you tell me just what his business was?"
"I don't know." She hesitated. "That is, I do know that it was something to do with an old manuscript he'd just got hold of.... Something which ought to have been very valuable, he thought. But he didn't tell me—not really."
"Then he did say something?"
"No... He was very busy. I was curious, and I expect I bothered him rather. I think I made some kind of a silly threat—you know, something like 'I'll never forgive you if you don't tell me!' and he just smiled and said 'Very well. As you like.' Then I gave it up... That's all I know."
"He was coming back to-day?" Freeman pursued.
"Not until to-morrow afternoon."
"You can't think of anything that might have detained him, or made him alter his plans? No one whom he might have gone to see instead? Suppose, for example, he'd decided just to run up to Town and show the manuscript to some expert—at the British Museum or somewhere... By the way, he had it with him?"
"Of course." There was a suggestion of impatience in her voice. "Why, that's the reason he was going to see Sir Arthur. Of course he'd take it."
"And this—this manuscript. When did he acquire it? Where did it come from?"
"I think it was among some things he bought second-hand somewhere.... Or some man came to him with it? I don't know... But where could he have gone?"
"That's just what we're trying to discover." The Superintendent gave a fatherly smile. "You see, Miss Richmond, I expect that everything is quite all right and that you will hear something during the course of the day. But, just in case—" He stopped for a moment, searching for a milder way of putting what was in his mind. "In case of accident, there could be no objection to the police making a few inquiries—quite privately, of course. We could at least inquire at hospitals and ring up neighbouring stations—" The look on the girl's face warned him that he was treading on dangerous ground. He hurried on. Of course, I don't say that I think there is anything wrong. Probably there isn't. But to be on the safe side, if you've no objections, you might help by telling us everything you can."
"But—but there isn't anything to tell." Marjorie Richmond looked at him appealingly. "Don't you see? I just saw him as far as the gate—and then I don't know what can have happened."
"You don't happen to know, for example, how much money your father was carrying?" He saw her look of surprise and hastened to explain. "You see, a good deal depends on that. If a man hasn't money he can't travel—"
"I don't know—not exactly, that is.... Daddy wasn't in the habit of carrying very much. I suppose it might have been about five pounds. I shouldn't think that he had more."
Freeman nodded as if completely satisfied; but he was thinking that five pounds, converted into mileage, while it might rule out a trip to South America, would still enable one to travel to most places in the British Isles.
"Besides, he was probably carrying his chequebook?" Davidson suggested a little diffidently.
"Yes," the girl assented. If she had harboured any ill-feeling against Davidson owing to his connexion with the Press she seemed to have forgotten lt. "I should think he would... But I could look at home."
"Then that doesn't help much." The Superintendent frowned. "He could have gone almost anywhere. Only, there seems to be nowhere where he was likely to go?"
"I can't think of anywhere.... You see, daddy wasn't a man to change his mind suddenly, and he was rather particular about appointments than otherwise. I simply can't imagine his not going to Sir Arthur's after saying that he would, except for some very urgent reason. And if there were such a reason it's unthinkable that he shouldn't explain or apologize."
"I see." Freeman drummed his fingers on the table. With an effort he smiled reassuringly. "Well, Miss Richmond, I hope that there's nothing to worry about... I'll make such inquiries as we can quietly, and let you know if we find anything.... You're going back home now?"
"I—I don't know." She hesitated. "I'd got some shopping to do. I was going to come here about—about—"
To Davidson it was significant that she could not bring herself to mention the gardener's name. But in a moment she had regained control of herself.
"I'll do whatever you think best," she said simply.
"Well, if I were you, I should go and do the shopping as you intended," Freeman suggested. "No doubt we're alarming ourselves about nothing. If you came back in a few minutes I might be able to tell you more—"
Marjorie Richmond rose to her feet. Her eyes were fixed upon the Superintendent's face with a look of curious intensity; but his expression was blandly reassuring. She drew a deep breath.
"Thank you, Mr.—Mr. Freeman," she said. "I'll come back."
The door had scarcely closed behind her before the Superintendent was speaking into the telephone. Covering the mouthpiece with his hand he looked up and caught Davidson's eye.
"Well, here's another mystery for you," he said. "A real one, this time. Or it looks like it."
"Another?" Davidson asked simply.
Freeman's eyes dropped. He did not answer the question; but instead appeared to think that the call had been put through. Next moment, however, he looked up again.
"Look here, Davidson. You're not to use this yet. After all, this disappearance isn't common property. And, anyway, probably it isn't a disappearance. There'd be the devil of a row if any fuss was made and—"
Davidson hesitated. He was confronted with the choice which all reporters hate, of not using a good story or offending a valuable informant. It was not only his friendship with Freeman but the fact that it would probably be to his own advantage which decided him.
"Very well. I won't say anything yet... Not, at any rate, until I hear from another source, without fishing, that Richmond's gone... That's fair enough. You know very well that if he isn't found it can't be hushed up. The servants are bound to talk for one thing. Or it might get out at the other end. Besides, isn't there a probable connexion—"
"Excuse me a moment." Freeman uncovered the mouthpiece. This time the call was genuine. "That the station?" he demanded. "I want the stationmaster. Superintendent Freeman speaking.... Right. I'll wait." He looked across at Davidson and smiled apologetically. "I don't want to strain your journalistic conscience too far," he said. "If you wouldn't mind—"
Davidson nodded, rightly interpreting his glance towards the door.
"Right," he assented. "No objection to my coming back? Just to find out if it's a wild goose chase or not?"
"In about quarter of an hour. I'll tell you what I can... Hullo! Is that the stationmaster—"
Reluctantly, Davidson closed the door behind him, and walked slowly towards the exit. The line which the Superintendent was following was plain enough. Richmond, no doubt, was well known in the district. There was every chance that, if he had gone by train he had been seen by one of the station staff as he set out; or, alternatively, a description might lead to identification at the other end. Quite soundly, Freeman was trying to establish at what point of his journey he had last been seen, and was trying the most obvious places first.
The reporter was very thoughtful as he stepped out into the street and began to stroll absently in the direction of the town centre. In his own mind there was a growing conviction that the disappearance of the magistrate and the wild tale which Hedges had told to the police must somehow be connected, and in that case it was a story in a thousand. For a moment he regretted the conditional promise which he had made to the Superintendent. But, unless Richmond was found soon, the matter was bound to come out; and in the meantime he was first in the field. The obvious course of following up the line Freeman had taken he rejected. Probably, in any case, he would hear the result of that, and at the moment he was inclined to think that inquiries in other directions might be more fruitful. His immediate need was all the information which he could possibly gather about the missing man, and it was with that aim in view that he turned into a quiet public house not far from the market place, and led the conversation in the right direction.
When he emerged a quarter of an hour later he was in possession of quite a variety of material. One thing seemed certain, that John Richmond would find it difficult to go anywhere in the town where he was not known. Fierce, bushy eyebrows, a white walrus moustache, high colour and excitable manner were easily identifiable features, and the magistrate had the reputation of being a "character" in whose doings most of the town seemed to take a critical or a benevolent interest. But in all that he had heard there was nothing which afforded the clue to why he had vanished. As a magistrate he leaned rather to the side of mercy; as a collector of ancient manuscripts he was at least harmless. He was conscious of having got very little further when he returned to the police station.
The Superintendent's face showed at first glance that he had been no more successful. He was evidently worried, and in answer to Davidson's look of inquiry he shook his head despondently.
"Not a trace—yet," he said. "Our luck's out. There was a lot of holiday traffic that evening. The ticket collector wouldn't swear to his having gone or not... Some blasted outing or other—Buffaloes or some such lot. Dozens of elderly men... No luck the other end either. As things are, he's simply vanished."
"From the time he stopped to talk to Miss Ferrard," Davidson supplied.
"That's right. Or—well, it may not be. Have a look at this map." He indicated the six-inch ordnance sheet which lay on the desk before him. "See. Here's his natural way to the station. It passes about half a dozen houses—and no doubt they all know him—"
"You've asked there?" Davidson was studying the curving line of the road minutely. His own inquiries were likely to take him in that direction soon, and he wished to have as clear as possible the general plan of the land. "Any luck?"
Freeman hesitated. "The trouble is, that as soon as I start asking questions of those people I'm likely to cause a first-class scandal," he said. "Then, if he should turn up—"
"I see." With a smile Davidson reflected that in all probability the girl had inherited her father's temper. The smile faded. If what they both suspected was true, she was in for a bad time. He looked again at the map. "And Hedges?" he asked. "Where does he live?"
"Hedges? You're still on that?" Freeman asked promptly; but the reporter was not deceived. "Oh, he's right over here—quite off the track as you see."
"You don't connect the two?"
He had put the question more with the intention of finding out how Freeman would avoid it than with any expectation of a truthful answer. The Superintendent raised his eyebrows and laughed.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, and his tone might have deceived most people. "Richmond's disappearance is a serious matter—unless he turns up soon. It's nothing to do with that nonsense.... In any case, the times don't fit at all. What was Richmond doing between half-past five and half-past two in the morning?"
"Just getting himself murdered. It might take quite a time."
"And no one saw him?"
"Oh, yes. One man at least—or woman. The murderer... Besides, he might have been getting to the place where he was murdered."
"Getting to the place—?" Freeman glanced at him sharply. There was a pause.
"Hedges was an hour and a half in the car," the reporter said, as though starting a fresh subject.
"So he said.... But even if there was anything in his story, are his times to be relied upon?"
"Why not? It's one of the points on which he seems absolutely clear. Isn't it?"
The Superintendent did not answer. He pulled out his pipe and began to fill it as though the packing of the tobacco in its bowl was his one aim in life.
"I suppose you rang up Sir Arthur Nillett?" Davidson asked innocently.
Freeman gave the slightest possible start, like a man who suddenly hears his own thoughts spoken by someone else.
"Sir Arthur isn't on the telephone," he said, after the least possible hesitation. "Old fashioned, I suppose. Like Richmond himself. He wasn't, either."
"That's interesting.... Of course, that's why Nillett wired."
"Obviously." The Superintendent frowned a little, as though, after all, there was something not so obvious about it. "He couldn't 'phone."
"And, naturally, he'd be getting anxious. I mean, when he'd expected to see Richmond the previous evening. By two o'clock in the afternoon next day he might be bothered."
"It took him a long time," Freeman said irritably. "Why didn't he—"
He stopped as though he had been on the verge of an indiscretion. Davidson might not have noticed it, if one judged by his manner.
"Perhaps it was an afterthought," he said.
"Afterthought?"
The word seemed to irritate him. He frowned down at his pipe for a moment, and when he looked up his tone was less cordial.
"Well, I'm afraid there's nothing more to say at the moment—and no doubt you'll be pretty busy yourself," he said. The words amounted to a dismissal. "I expect I'll be seeing you again later?"
"If anything turns up. Well, thanks very much."
"Don't forget—"
Davidson grinned reassuringly. "For the present, I've no official knowledge that Richmond's missing," he said. "Though, of course, if I should hear—"
"That's understood." Freeman opened the door. "Well—"
He broke off. Marjorie Richmond was coming along the passage towards them. As she saw the two men she hurried forward, giving the Superintendent no chance to get rid of Davidson.
"Have you—have you heard—" she asked eagerly.
But the Superintendent's expression was enough. Her face fell.
"Nothing yet, Miss Richmond." Freeman spoke briskly, almost cheerfully. "I've made a few inquiries, but no one seems to have seen him.... Of course, I've not had time to do much yet. I'll let you know at once if— You're not on the telephone, I think? How did the butler get through?"
"Miss Ferrard is... Then, you think—you think—"
"I think that when you get home you may very well find there's a message or something from your father. I don't see what could have happened... I suppose you've got your car?"
"No. I walked in to-day. I think there's a bus at—"
In a flash Davidson saw his opportunity.
"Perhaps I could give Miss Richmond a lift?" he suggested. "I expect she'd like to get back as soon as possible... I'm going that way. About Hedges, you know."
Freeman opened his lips as though he was on the point of objecting; but he said nothing. Davidson's eyes were on the girl. At the mention of the gardener's name she had suddenly grown pale. She tried to smile.
"It—it would be very kind of you," she murmured. "If you don't mind... It's not out of your way."
"I'd be pleased. My car's just round the corner in the hotel yard. See you later, Superintendent."
"Good afternoon, Miss Richmond."
Freeman only nodded in answer to the reporter's last words, but he was repaid in kind. The girl ignored his farewell, and fell into step beside Davidson. They walked in silence for some distance. Davidson felt that he was neglecting a golden opportunity, but for the life of him he could not think how to lead delicately up to the subject about which he wished to speak. In the end the girl helped him.
"You believe Hedges then?"
There was an eager note in the question. Davidson was on the point of replying when he was interrupted. A tall, well-built man of middle age, who had just emerged from a photographer's, lifted his hat and smiled.
"Good morning, Miss Richmond. Can I give you a lift, or are you driving?"
Davidson's heart sank. The girl hesitated.
"No, thank you," she decided. "Mr. Davidson has been kind enough to offer."
The stranger nodded in acknowledgment. He looked at Davidson curiously, but put a good face on it.
"Just been about some photographs," he said. "Those I took when we were in Scotland. I'll bring them to show you some time."
He smiled and raised his hat. Davidson looked after his departing figure. The girl sensed his unspoken question.
"Mr. Branden is a friend—of daddy's," she explained. "They talk about books together. Or daddy does. Mr. Branden only pretends, I think, because—" She broke off and coloured. Then she seemed to dismiss Branden from her mind. "You do believe Hedges?"
She looked at him appealingly. Davidson nodded emphatically.
"I do. Partly because I agree with you that a man like he seems to be couldn't have invented or dreamed so full and consistent a story. Partly because the mere fact that the police haven't been able to disprove it in all kinds of ways is an indication that it might be true... There are other reasons—or I expect to find there are."
"But the police made inquiries." Her attitude had undergone a change. Now she seemed to be trying to find reasons why the gardener's story should be false. "After all, it is improbable."
"Violently. I'll admit that. And, as I told the Superintendent, it's possible that the murderer might have taken that into account."
"Murderer!" She echoed the word in a voice little above a whisper. Davidson glanced at her face, and was glad that they had reached the turning into the yard.
"Here's the car," he said. "You'll ride in front?"
She nodded and stepped in as he opened the door. As he started the engine, he stole a single look at her. There was a strained expression on her face, and an anxiety in her eyes which she could not conceal. He let in the clutch and they started forward.
For several minutes neither spoke. It did not seem to occur to her that he might need direction, and as a matter of fact his memory of the map was sufficiently clear to enable him to choose the right way with some confidence. They were clear of the town when she at last broke the silence.
"Mr. Davidson," she said hesitantly. "You and the Superintendent—" she stopped. Suddenly her self-control seemed to give way. "Why are you lying to me?" she burst out. "Why are you hiding things?"
"Lying?" Davidson asked. His eyes were on the road ahead.
"You know... You—you both think—that daddy's having gone like this might have had something to do with—with what Hedges said!"
Davidson hesitated for a moment.
"Yes," he admitted bluntly. "What you say is literally true. I mean, it has occurred to me—and, no doubt, to Freeman—that there might be a connexion. Only I'm sorry the idea occurred to you. Because it's only the vaguest possibility, and there's no reason yet why you should be worried by it.... Why, when all is said and done, there might be a dozen ways of explaining your father's absence. It's ridiculous to think the worst at this stage—except for a reporter."
He could feel her eyes on his face. She drew a deep breath.
"Thank you," she said. "That is true. I can tell that. You know, I was afraid that you were hiding something; that there was something I didn't know... I'm not going to worry—"
Davidson nodded approval. They were reaching a fork in the road which they had been following.
"Which way?" he asked.
"To the left. It's the first house. Just round the corner."
Davidson stopped the car accurately opposite the little wooden gate which was evidently a short cut to the front door.
"By the way," he suggested. "Just where does Hedges live?"
"Straight along... Not the turning to the station—the other... It's the sixth house. There's White Gables, just beyond here."
"Miss Ferrard's house?"
"Yes." She paused momentarily and then hurried on. "Then Major Bexley's a little further on... You go round the bend, and come to Mr. Branden's, with Mr. Kemsley's cottage near it... Beyond that there's the station turning. You go to the right. There's a labourer's cottage, and then Hedges'."
"Thank you. I can't miss it." He smiled, then his eyebrows creased into a slight frown. "What name was that you said? Kemsley?"
"Yes. Mr. Kemsley. He's an artist—not a very good one... We see him quite a lot. Because, as a matter of fact, daddy saved his life—" She cast a glance up the path towards the house. "If you don't mind—"
"Of course. I wonder if you'd mind my calling on the way back—to see if there's any news? And I could tell you what I think of Hedges."
"Please. And thank you for bringing me."
He watched her go up the path until a clump of bushes hid her from view. Then he felt for the gear lever; but as he gripped it he stopped, frowning again.
"Kemsley?" he murmured. "And where did I hear that name?"
IT is a commonplace of human life that misfortunes never come singly. Hedges was realizing the truth of it at that moment. It was enough, one would have thought, to have suffered a broken head and the ridicule of everyone in the neighbourhood; but there was worse. For something like thirty years Hedges had eschewed the pleasures, and avoided the restraints, of female society in the home. Now, while he was helpless in bed, the enemy was upon him. For Hedges had an aunt; and the first breath of rumour had brought her flying to his side, intent on the supervision both of his physical and his moral welfare.
Hardened though he was by the necessities of his profession, even Davidson was slightly taken aback when Mrs. Boulden opened the door in answer to his knock. The years seemed to drop from him until he felt like a schoolboy. He had to take his courage in both hands. Following his invariable rule in awkward situations he smiled charmingly.
"Mr. Hedges?" he asked.
"Ho." The syllable was non-committal, but with a suggestion of hostility. A pair of particularly shrewd eyes surveyed him for a half a minute. Either the result of the scrutiny was satisfactory, or it was inconclusive. "And why might you be wanting him?"
Davidson decided to equivocate. Instinct warned him that, as a reporter, his chances of passing the guardian of the gate were negligible.
"I've just come from Superintendent Freeman," he said with ambiguous truthfulness. The thought crossed his mind that he might lay himself open to a charge of impersonating a police officer; but he was in no mood to bother about trifles. "There were just a few questions I wanted to ask Mr. Hedges."
"Oh, police. Well, I suppose you must come in. He's upstairs—you can find your way, I suppose... I've no time to waste with that nonsense.... Don't you go upsetting him!"
She turned her back rudely; but Davidson was grateful. In a more lengthy parley he might have been forced to commit himself more deeply. He ascended the stairs with a dignity demanded by his supposed occupation.
Hedges had evidently been listening in. His head was wrapped in a bandage; there were bottles on the chair beside his bed. He had obviously been receiving thorough treatment; but he had not thriven on it. He looked bitterly at Davidson.
"Police, hey!" he said. "I suppose you've come again to ask how much beer I had? And to tell her, too!"
"I'm afraid the lady downstairs misunderstood me," Davidson said. A muttered comment came from the sufferer; but he ignored it. "I've just come from Superintendent Freeman, and he gave me the official view—that you had been dreaming and fell downstairs. I don't agree with it. That's why I came to see you... I wonder if you'd mind going over it again?"
"You're not police? One of them newspaper fellows?"
Davidson nodded. To his relief, the gardener's reaction to the admission seemed to be a certain pride in his own importance.
"Shut the door then, sir, for God's sake! She'll hear... What was it you wanted, sir?"
"I'd like you to go over the whole story. All you can remember—the least details. Right from the beginning."
Given for the first time a sympathetic listener, Hedges probably excelled himself, and, since he had already told the story some half a dozen times, he was getting into his stride. Davidson listened without interrupting; though sometimes mentally cursing the man's tendency to repeat himself. Yet, on the whole, the gardener's errors were on the right side. By the time he finished, Davidson was satisfied that there was little more he could tell.
"Just a few points," he said after a moment's thought. "First, you've no idea whether it was a man or a woman?"
"Not the least, sir. There was just that horrible voice—"
"Yes. But what was your impression? Which did you think it was?"
"Well, sir. I thought it was a man—at first, that is. Then he—she—said—"
"I see... Now, about the corpse. You saw the hand only. Which was that? Could you tell?"
"Well, sir, I wasn't noticing." The gardener shuddered at the recollection. But I thought that was a man's—"
"Fat or thin?"
Hedges thought. "Thinnish, I think, sir. Sort of skinny and ghastly it looked—all stiff, sir."
"You're sure about the times—the clock and the chiming of the church bells?"
"Positive, sir."
"And when you came to, what time was it then?"
"Well, sir, I was that bad I couldn't move for a bit, sir... It must have been quite a bit before I got upstairs to find a bit of rag... It was just on six then, sir."
"You'd been working in the afternoon, hadn't you? For Miss Ferrard?"
"I suppose the blessed police told you about that? Why, look at my boots, I said to them; and that fool constable said, well, Hedges, he said, if you've cleaned your boots since I come five year ago, I've not noticed it—"
"There are fir trees there, then? And ilex?"
"Yes, sir. Proper fine place it is. You'd pass it."
"Looks after it, eh?"
"Yes, sir. And not afraid to spend a bit—unlike some."
"Now, the place you dug the grave... That wasn't a garden was it? How'd you know?"
"I've got eyes, sir. 'Twas a field. That was old turf I shifted—hadn't been touched for years."
"And you went pretty deep?"
"Matter of two or three feet, sir." He shuddered at the recollection. "Not that I was in a state to say, sir."
"What had you been doing at Miss Ferrard's? Trenching?"
"Lord, no, sir! Nothing but planting out a bit, sir."
"Those the trousers and boots you were wearing? Mind if I have a look?"
Without waiting for permission he picked them up and carried them to the window. Secretly he was elated at finding Hedges still in possession. He was by no means sure that the Superintendent would not have carried them away. Holding them close to the light, he examined boots and clothes in turn. To the man in the bed the process appeared to take an unduly long time. When the reporter finally produced a couple of envelopes and slipped something into them, his mystification increased tenfold; but he was flattered by the obvious seriousness of his audience.
Davidson finished at last and returned the garments with a word of thanks. He stood for a moment considering before he put his next question.
"Now, I want you to think carefully.... Did it occur to you at any time that the person with the gun was someone you knew? Was there anything at all familiar about—well, the manner of talking, gestures, and so on?"
"How could I tell, sir? You see, the voice was that queer you couldn't say it was like anything. And most of the time the light was in front of him—or her—you see, sir. Even when I hadn't got my back turned, I couldn't make out anything."
Davidson nodded. It was no more than one might have expected, but the gardener's memory had been so faithful in certain details that it had nourished a faint hope in that direction as well.
"Well, Hedges," he said. "I'm grateful for your help, and if anything can be done to get hold of the man who attacked you we'll see it's done. After all, the police—"
"They think I made it up, sir!" Hedges said aggrievedly. "Came here, they did, and asked about the pub, and what I'd been eating and so on—"
Davidson smiled. "Don't let that worry you. They naturally want to check up on your story as much as they can. And, after all, it's the kind of thing that's pretty hard to believe. What would you have said yourself if someone else had told you?"
"Perhaps, sir." The gardener was unconvinced. "But coming and taking away a man's character—"
"Anyhow, I believe you. And Miss Richmond. I think the way that things are going the police will have to believe you too... By the way, you've worked for Mr. Richmond some time?"
"About six years, on and off. Of course, it's only odd jobs. A day here and a day there, sir. Though I have my regulars."
"Mr. Richmond was—is one of them? Who else?"
"Well, there's Miss Ferrard—one day, sir. There's Major Bexley, two days. He can't do much himself you see, poor gentleman, having lost an arm—"
"The war?"
"Yes, sir. Though he's pretty handy with the one he's got left. Well, that's about all, sir. I give Mr. Kemsley and Mr. Branden an odd half day now and then, and sometimes give a hand at the big house—the Priory, sir."
"Where's that? I don't think I've seen it."
"You couldn't miss it, sir—the grounds, I mean. Behind Major Bexley's. Mr. Glinton lives there; but they're abroad just now."
"I see." Davidson frowned a little. "But I suppose you've worked for a good many other people at one time or another? Anyone in particular you can think of?"
"Well, there was Sir Arthur Nillett, sir, until he removed. Two days a week helping I got there for a bit. It pretty well filled my time up. Since then, things haven't been so easy. And Dr. Walbersley. He has me sometimes... I can't call to mind anyone else very special."
"It's not important," Davidson said untruthfully. "Well, look here, Hedges. I'll do my best to see that the police really take the business up. And, if we can get it into shape and it makes a good story, I'll see you get something out of it... Only just bear this in mind. The trouble at the moment is that we can't prove anything very much. If you can think of anything, the smallest detail, which can be shown to be true—which we can really confirm—I want you to let me know at once. Get that?"
"Yes, sir. And thank you, sir."
"Good afternoon, then." He opened the door. "And, I say, don't talk about it too much to anyone else.... If they make fun of you, let 'em. The laugh'll be on your side yet."
Somewhat to his relief, the cottage's self appointed guardian seemed to have disappeared; but as he let himself out he caught a glimpse of her hanging out washing in the garden and raised a hand in salute. On the point of getting back into the car it occurred to him to take a look at the road itself; but here he drew blank. There was no sign of any tyre marks; indeed, there was no possibility of any. As he looked, it struck him that he at least, and, so far as he knew, the police had neglected an essential point. Which way had the car been facing—towards the town or the open country? He was half tempted to go back and ask; but the sight of the woman returning from her task deterred him. He climbed in hastily, reversed the car and started back the way he had come.
In some ways his interview with the gardener had been disappointing; but he had not expected very much. There was one point at least which might afford definite evidence, and it was certainly interesting that practically everyone in the immediate neighbourhood seemed to have employed the gardener at one time or another. Not to mention Sir Arthur Nillett. He wished he had asked Hedges a little more about the knight or baronet, whichever he might be; the others it was his intention to interview personally, and upon reflection he decided to begin with Miss Ferrard.
As he drew his car up at the gate it seemed as though chance was favouring him. The middle-aged woman who was busying herself with a pair of shears in an effort to improve the contours of a straggling holly bush might, from her dress, have been anything; but her face put the matter beyond doubt. The firm jaw and the clear grey eyes undoubtedly belonged to someone used to giving orders and having them obeyed whether she wore a silk dress or a sacking apron. Davidson sighed. On this job there seemed to be an excess rather than otherwise of the strong minded type of woman. With a mental reflection that he agreed with the poet in "liking them fluffy", he got out and raised his hat. The woman with the shears turned a level, appraising glance upon him.
"Excuse me," he apologized. "I was looking for Mr. Richmond—Mr. John Richmond. He lives somewhere about here?"
"He does."
The two words were discouraging; but she showed no signs of amplifying them. Davidson tried again.
"I have to see him on business—rather important business. Perhaps you could direct me to his house? Is he likely to be at home?"
A grim smile played about Miss Ferrard's lips.
"I suppose his daughter couldn't tell you when you drove her there half an hour ago?" she asked. "And she wouldn't know if he was in, either, would she?"
Davidson found himself colouring. The woman was evidently of that type which possesses the ability to make one feel a fool. He affected a look of innocent surprise.
"Dear me! Was that Miss Richmond?" he asked.
Miss Ferrard made no attempt to answer this question. Evidently she dismissed it as too futile to require an answer. She looked at Davidson again and nodded with the air of someone who has solved a problem.
"You're a reporter, of course?" she stated rather than asked.
Davidson bit his lip. Among his miscellaneous colleagues he could think of any number of reporters who looked like artists, bank clerks, navvies or anything else; it seemed a little hard that, for the second time that afternoon someone should have detected the brand of his profession upon him. He decided to smile frankly.
"Of course," he admitted.
"And you know as well as I do that Mr. Richmond has gone away for the week end," she pursued relentlessly. "Why waste time? What do you want?"
"Even though I am a newspaper reporter," Davidson said with some dignity. "I may still have important business with Mr. Richmond... I wonder if you could tell me where I am likely to find him."
Miss Ferrard thought a little. "I see. You've heard some gossip to the effect that he stopped to talk to me for a minute just as he was going off. You'd like to know the subject of a purely private conversation, I suppose."
"I should," Davidson admitted shamelessly.
"Lime."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Lime. Or perhaps you can't understand anything but journalese. The principal discussion centred round the effect of calcium salts upon the fertility of soil. In other words, I told him that his garden was acid, and suggested he ordered a few hundredweight of lime. That's all. Satisfied?"
Davidson decided that she might have a sense of humour. He took the risk.
"More than that—overwhelmed, Miss Ferrard!" he said. "I'm afraid I'm not much of a gardener myself. But I had noticed how well your stuff was going on."
"You hadn't... Your methods remind me of the Irish lawyers: 'First of all you butter them up, and then you sleuther them down'. I've passed the age for flattery. Now, that's all I've got to say."
It was not the first time by a great many that Davidson had been told that. In his experience, the words generally meant that the interesting part of an interview was about to begin. Miss Ferrard was certainly disillusioned and unapproachable; but he told himself, in the words of the Wodehouse character, that there was always a way. It seemed a desperate step, but he decided to tell the truth.
"I'd better explain," he said. Her back was already turned towards him, and the shears were raised purposefully, but he went on. "From the way you have treated me, Miss Ferrard, it's quite clear that you are aware that there may be something more behind Mr. Richmond's absence than a week-end visit. I say there may be, because at the moment, except, for professional purposes, I still hope that there is not."
Miss Ferrard lowered the shears and looked at him, still half turned away. But she said nothing, having apparently decided that silence was golden.
"The reason I said that," Davidson explained hastily, "was not that I wanted you to confirm or deny it. I don't mind. The point is that I'm in a curious position myself—pledged not to spread any idle rumours, by print or otherwise, until matters become a little clearer. So, before I can talk freely myself, I have to make up my mind that you are already aware of the position. In all probability either the butler, or Miss Richmond told you about the wire from Sir Arthur."
"You seem to be speaking the truth." There was a note of real or assumed surprise in her voice. "Go on."
"That being so, as you said just now, you become an important witness as one of the last people who saw him. Also for another reason. And, that being so, there are three or four questions I should like to ask."
"You are speaking the truth... You don't do it very well. No practice, I suppose?.... Well. You can ask your questions. I please myself whether or not I answer them."
"Talking with Mr. Richmond," Davidson said at once, "you discussed nothing except er—soil acidity? He didn't mention, for example, that he was going to stay with Sir Arthur Nillett."
"He did. Just mentioned it."
"And nothing you said might have made him change his mind?"
"Not unless he went right off to order the lime!"
"I see. So, to the best of your belief, he did go to visit Sir Arthur Nillett?"
"All I know is that he said he was going; that he went down the road to the station as far as the bend by Mr. Branden's house. I saw so much for myself."
"You can't imagine any reason why Mr. Richmond should disappear?"
"I can imagine reasons why most people should disappear." Davidson felt that he was included. "That sort of question is absurd."
"Of course," he said hastily. "I meant any special reason. You see, I have never met Mr. Richmond. I wondered whether he was the kind of man likely to suffer, say, from loss of memory."
"No. Nor to be supporting a mistress in Bloomsbury or embezzling trust funds or in the hands of blackmailers."
It was plain that she was losing her patience. He dare not risk another straight question unless he could put her in a better humour. He took a risk again.
"Why Bloomsbury?" he asked.
This time she actually smiled. "Or anywhere else," she amended. "You seem to have a literal mind." Davidson laughed. "Well, to be quite candid, I thought you were just going to tell me to go," he confessed. "And there's another subject I've not touched upon.... I think you employ Hedges, the gardener?"
For the first time she seemed a little disconcerted.
"Oh. You've heard that too?" she said after a pause. "Well?"
"And no doubt you've heard the extraordinary story he has been telling... Could you tell me what you think of the man's character? Does he strike you as the kind of person likely to make it up for the sake of the fame, or notoriety, attached to it?"
"No. He's a plain fool. Hasn't got an idea outside his beer mug." Apparently she felt called upon to explain herself. "I suppose you wonder why I employ him? Well, he does what he's told. And he's got what some people call a 'green touch'. What he plants grows.... Personally, I think it's a sort of instinct which makes people treat a plant like a rational being—"
"I see," Davidson said hastily. "He was working here yesterday, wasn't he?"
"Yes."
"The point of all this is that, if his story was true, there might be certain traces left on his clothes. The police found the traces; but they say they might very well have been left when he was working here.... I wonder if you'd mind my seeing where he worked."
Without a word she moved towards the gate and opened it. Davidson followed her docilely up the path. He had more than half expected a refusal which would have put him to some inconvenience; but she seemed to have accepted him as harmless or decided that he was on the side of the angels.
His insincere tribute to Miss Ferrard's gardening was amply deserved. On either side of the path herbaceous borders offered a rich profusion of colour; but Davidson had no eyes for them. He was looking at the dark foliage of the firs which formed a wind break on one side of the house. So far the police theory was confirmed. As his guide came to a stop before a newly planted patch, he ventured a question.
"Ilex? What is that?"
Miss Ferrard looked at him pityingly. "Quercus Ilex. Holm oak. Evergreen oak." She noticed his desperate attempt to appear intelligent. "That sort."
Davidson eyed the dark-leaved tree to which she pointed and nodded slowly.
"This is the place he was working?" he asked.
"Yes."
He stooped and prodded the soil gently with his thumb. It was soft and well worked. Like everything else in Miss Ferrard's vicinity, he reflected, it had probably felt the touch of her masterful hand. He felt in his pocket and produced yet another envelope.
"You don't mind if I take a sample?" he asked.
"Take a bucketful if it helps you."
"I shan't need quite so much." He took no more than a small handful and carefully sealed down the flap. "Thank you. I'm really grateful—"
"Finished? Very well... You can let yourself out, I suppose. Now that I'm here, I might as well look in at the house... Good afternoon."
This time his dismissal was final, and she did not wait to see whether he had any more to say. He watched her walk with long, manly strides towards the house and enter the front door. Then, with a last look round, he himself turned towards the gate.
As he stopped the car opposite the gate of Richmond's house for the second time that afternoon, he was conscious of a curious and most unprofessional hesitation. The satisfaction which he should have felt in the progress of his investigation eluded him. He was thinking rather that the more certain his suspicions became, the greater became the probability that the girl would have to suffer. As he went up the path he tried to make up his mind exactly what he was going to say.
Evidently his approach had been noted. Before he had time to touch the bell, the door was flung open. Marjorie Richmond stood there, and her face showed that there was no good news.
"Mr.—Mr. Davidson," she said, and there was a catch in her voice. "We were waiting for you. They've found—they've found—"
"They've found your father?" Davidson asked, and his heart sank; because at that moment he had no thought that John Richmond would be found alive. She shook her head. "The Superintendent—he's inside. He'll tell you... Will you come in?"
The Superintendent was waiting in what seemed to be the morning-room. Davidson noticed a paper on the table before him. It seemed to be some kind of a list.
"Hullo, Davidson." Freeman greeted him. His face was very grave. '"Found anything?"
The reporter hesitated. "Nothing very definite. One or two things which might work out... But I understand from Miss Richmond that you—"
"Yes." Freeman gave a quick glance to where the girl stood in the background and looked away again. "We've not found Mr. Richmond," he said at last. "But we have found the case he was carrying. They 'phoned through a list of things in it. I've just been verifying them with Miss Richmond. There's not the least doubt. Besides, some of them had his name on them. That's how they knew—"
"They—?"
"The police at the Mardon end.... Naturally I asked them to make inquiries to see if anything had been seen of him at that end. It seems that nothing has. Only, quarter of an hour ago they rang up to say that this case had been found. It was burst open, and seems to have been pretty well looted. Nothing valuable left—"
"Where was it found?"
"That's what's so puzzling. Not far from the main lodge. Just inside Mardon Park."
"Then he did go there?"
"I don't expect the case walked there alone," Freeman said irritably. "But they questioned Sir Arthur Nillett who swears he hadn't seen a sign of him."
Davidson made no comment. He pursed his lips as if to whistle, but he made no sound.
"I wonder—" Freeman began and broke off. "Care to come along?" he asked after a brief pause. "I'm going over now."
Davidson nodded. "I'll drive you, if you like," he offered. "It would be quicker."
"I'd be glad if you would." The Superintendent seemed to realize all at once that the girl was standing there. "Well, Miss Richmond," he said turning to her. "You mustn't worry too much. There's nothing definite yet, you know. Why, it's even possible there's some mistake about this case. We shall let you know as soon as there's anything to tell you—"
The girl made no answer. As they left the house, Davidson was painfully aware of her white face watching them from the window.
IN the ordinary way driving of the style effected by Christopher Davidson was calculated to give the Superintendent heart failure. It was a sign of his preoccupation that on this occasion he neither ventured to protest nor sought imaginary brakes with his feet. They were on the main road and making the most of a straight stretch at some sixty miles an hour when he broke the silence.
"You expected this, didn't you?" he asked.
Davidson shook his head. "Not exactly. I don't mind saying that I always believed Hedges' story and do now; that I think there's a strong suspicion that it's connected with the disappearance of Richmond—if only because it's so unlikely that two such unusual things should happen almost simultaneously without being connected... I've nothing against Nillett except so far as he fits in with the Hedges' story."
"I don't see why it should be Nillett, even if you believe that stuff," Freeman growled. "What is the line of argument you're following? So far as I can see, it might have been anyone who dragged Hedges from bed."
"You're wrong... It's quite true that his description doesn't give any clue to the person's identity, and from that point of view his story leaves the question open. But it does raise two points. And the first is, who would need to employ a gardener to dig a grave?"
"That's just what's been puzzling me. It's against reason that anyone should be such a fool."
"Not at all. Suppose you've committed a murder, or, for that matter, have any other reason to dispose privately of a body. Assuming that there are no facilities for burning it; no convenient holes or rivers; and that you don't feel like just leaving it about somewhere, burying is practically all you have left. But suppose you can't dig a grave yourself."
"Why not?"
"For one of several reasons. First, your strength isn't adequate—if, say, you're a woman or an old man. For anyone who isn't used to it there's a good deal of exertion about digging a hole three feet deep and six feet long. A good many people wouldn't be equal to it. Second, your strength might be adequate, but you might have lost an arm or a leg. It would be really difficult to dig well with any except a very good artificial limb, in the case of a leg, even. Thirdly, you might be suffering from some illness—heart trouble, say—so that you daren't risk the exertion."
Freeman only frowned at the mascot on the bonnet of the car.
"No doubt there are other possibilities," Davidson went on. "A minor injury, for example. You might have hurt yourself while committing the murder.... You might even have a very tender skin. A person who had couldn't use a shovel for any length of time without getting his hands like raw beef... But whatever it was, I suggest the reason for getting Hedges to dig the grave was some physical incapacity on the part of the murderer—enough to prevent his digging, but not enough either to stop his killing Richmond or kidnapping Hedges."
"We don't know Richmond's dead yet," Freeman objected without conviction.
"Officially, I suppose you don't know until a Coroner's jury brings in a verdict." Davidson smiled grimly. "But what do you think?"
The Superintendent made no reply.
"That being so," Davidson went on, "our list of suspects is narrowed down to those incapable of doing it for themselves. But we can narrow it still further. The next question is, who would think of getting Hedges in particular?"
"I don't quite follow." Freeman wrinkled his brows. "I don't see why anyone should, except that he's used to the work."
"Yes. He's used to the work, and, therefore a good choice... But, who knew it? Hedges' fame isn't world wide. Surely it's someone he works for, or has worked for, or who lives in his neighbourhood and knows him?"
"Good heavens! That's why you thought of Nillett among others. At the time I didn't know who the others were, though I've found some since. But Nillett was the only one then. Also, there were other points. Richmond's visit concerned a valuable manuscript; Nillett was a collector himself. There might have been a motive there. Then, there is Nillett's delay in making any kind of inquiry. One would surely have expected him to wire the same night, or at least first thing next morning, as soon as he found there wasn't a letter. Instead, he waits until afternoon. It looks possible that, having killed Richmond, he decides to pretend that Richmond never arrived and, as an afterthought, sends the wire so that everyone shall know he didn't. This, of course, is all supposition, and highly circumstantial—"
"There's more than that, though," Freeman interrupted. "This is where local knowledge comes in.... Nillett is fairly well built, and hearty enough for his age. But he's sixty-nine. Not an age for grave digging. There's something else, too, but you'll hear about that later. And, finally, there's the time Hedges says it took to get there. That would fit."
"The time? An hour and a half?" Davidson made a grimace, looked at the speedometer and laughed. "I hope to improve on that!"
"You will," Freeman said feelingly. "But you said that at the time you didn't know who the others were. You do now?"
"Some of them. Naturally, if it was just someone who had heard of Hedges, it's hopeless. But everything shows it isn't. It was someone who knew about Hedges—who knew his house, his habits, that he lived alone, and that his reputation would never stand a story like that... Looked at from that point of view, getting that... Hedges is moderately reasonable. From any other, it isn't. The murderer's justification is that, in fact, Hedges' story was universally laughed at."
Freeman grunted. "We looked into it all the same," he said. "And, after all, when it was known that Richmond was missing we were bound to look into it again."
"Yes. You looked into it—but didn't find out much. The murderer had worked it pretty cleverly. There's another possibility. Perhaps he thought that it would never get to you. I mean, that Hedges himself would think it was a dream and not report it. And then, it was quite possible that there would be a good deal of delay before John Richmond's disappearance was put in the hands of the police. His daughter might have waited a bit longer, even after she got the wire. It was just that she happened to be at the police station which accelerated things a bit. Besides, perhaps by the time the wire came the murderer had finished his arrangements and didn't mind it being known."
"You're assuming Nillett's the murderer? That's going rather far." Freeman frowned thoughtfully. "Who are the others you think suspect?"
"Everyone Hedges worked for. All I know up to date are Miss Ferrard, Major Bexley, Mr. Kemsley, Mr. Branden, Dr. Walbersley and Mr. Glinton. Mr. Glinton seems to be ruled out because he's away. But that might be a blind. It would be a good thing to convey that impression if you were going to do a murder."
"Good Lord! Not Glinton!" Freeman sounded shocked. "Why, he's a magistrate—"
"So is Richmond.... Of the others, I've met Miss Ferrard. She's a woman, and elderly—though I wouldn't say she couldn't be pretty handy with a spade from the way she was using the shears this afternoon. She was the last person he is known to have talked to and might have asked him inside and given him a dose of strychnine. Major Bexley lost an arm in the war."
"Good God! So he did!"
"Dr. Walbersley and Mr. Glinton I've not seen, and they mean nothing to me—"
"And they're both pretty big chaps. So is Branden. They ought to be able to have done it themselves. But, good Lord, Davidson, this is absurd! You can't suspect those people?"
"Why not? We're all equal in the sight of the law—or aren't we?" Davidson grinned. "Not in the sight of the Press, of course. I'd prefer the murderer to be someone prominent!"
The Superintendent maintained a shocked silence. There was a perceptible interval before Davidson continued.
"That leaves Kemsley... Now, my trouble is that his name does mean something to me. That is, I've heard it before. Miss Richmond told me that he was an artist... I've a vague feeling it must be black and white—woodcuts or something. Isn't it?"
"No," Freeman denied bluntly. "His line's water colours. And he's pretty bad at those.... Not that I'm any judge, but I know what people say. His colour is simply a disgrace."
"The difficulty is, I can't think when or where I heard the name... And, of course, it's only the name. It may not be the man at all."
"AII I can tell you is that he looks pretty sick," Freeman said. "Consumptive, I should say... But he's the last man to murder Richmond. Why, Richmond saved his life. Pulled him out of the sea when a boat upset, and nearly got drowned himself in the process."
"One might kill a man for saving your life—but I admit it's unlikely. However, those are Suspects Nos. 2-7 as they stand at present."
"And they're none of them any good," Freeman objected. "Because they don't explain why his case should be found at Mardon.... Good Lord, we're nearly there!"
"'How time flies when one is thoroughly enjoying oneself'. You'd better decide what words of wisdom you're going to address to Sir Arthur... By the way, you'll have to direct me at the village. I know Mardon, but not the house."
"You can't miss it. It's right through, on the main road. Obviously the abode of the local earthly providence.... But we'll call at the police station first."
It seemed as though the Superintendent was taking Davidson's advice. He did not speak again. Once, when a herd of cows made Davidson brake and stop, he glanced at his companion and smiled to himself. Obviously Freeman did not relish the task before him in tackling Nillett. The reporter, himself without much reverence for titles or dignitaries, had at least sufficient sympathy with the official point of view not to interrupt the current of his thoughts until they drew up in the wide main street opposite the police station.
"There you are!" Davidson said triumphantly with a glance at the clock. "An hour and a half, indeed! Fifty minutes!"
"Fifty— Good heavens!" Freeman was stunned by the realization of the risks he had survived. "But any sensible man—"
"Thank you. But a murderer needn't be. He'd be in a hurry. Ah. Here comes one of your minions. Two, in fact—"
Not only the village constable, but a sergeant summoned from some more important region were advancing to meet them. The Superintendent frowned and waved them back irritably. He had no desire at that stage of the proceedings to excite more attention than was positively necessary. It was quite possible that something had already leaked out, and the whole village might be watching. His air was almost furtive as he led the way inside.
"This way, sir." The sergeant assumed charge of affairs. "I came over as soon as Constable Mason reported it, sir... There doesn't seem to be a shadow of doubt—"
The room into which he ushered them obviously served the purpose of an office on the rare occasions when the village constable required one. Both the case and its contents were neatly laid out on a table by the window, and Davidson, though content to adopt the role of a spectator, was able to see everything. Mentally he made a list of the objects which John Richmond had apparently considered necessary for a week end. They seemed to be curiously scanty, and in the fair-sized case which had contained them must have rattled about in a way scarcely calculated to improve their appearance at the other end. When he was sure that he could name everything there, he retired unobtrusively to a chair in the corner, from which he could see and hear all that happened.
At first there was little to interest him, though the deference of the sergeant and constable to their superior afforded him some entertainment. Freeman was going through the things minutely, noting down particulars in a pocket-book, and saying little or nothing. All at once he gave a muttered exclamation, and snapped a sharp question to the sergeant.
"What's this? This wasn't reported."
Peering between them, Davidson could make out a dark stain on the spotless white surface of one of the handkerchiefs.
"We must have missed it, sir." The sergeant coloured. "It looks like—"
"It's blood. Of course it's blood. But how did it get there?"
Neither of his subordinates, apparently, had any suggestion to make. The Superintendent finished making his list and stood for a moment frowning at the table.
"Just where were they found?" he demanded. "Yes, I know it was in the Park... Near the road?"
"Not six feet away, sir. In the ditch." The constable took it upon himself to answer. "It was the lodge-keeper who actually came across them, sir. Apparently he cuts across that way regularly— It's about twenty yards from the lodge, going towards the house."
"Then, presumably, anyone leaving it there would pass the lodge?"
"Yes, sir. Unless, of course he was leaving the Park. But he'd have to pass that lodge, or another, to get in, sir."
"Unless he climbed the wall," the sergeant supplemented. "The lodge-keepers have seen no one, sir."
"Richmond wouldn't climb a wall! That's absurd," Freeman snapped. Then he seemed to become aware that his temper was suffering as the result of his anxiety; for after a pause he spoke more mildly. "One of you had better come with me to show me the place. You, Mason."
"Yes, sir... But there isn't a trace, sir. I went over the whole ground most carefully."
The Superintendent paid no attention. "That'll do for the present," he said. "I'll look back." He glanced across to Davidson, who rose to his feet. "You've seen all you want?"
"Quite enough."
Something in his tone made the Superintendent look at him suspiciously, but his face was perfectly innocent. Without a word Freeman led the way towards the car. Stowing the constable in the back, they started towards the Park. For some time Freeman was silent.
"I don't know quite what I can ask Nillett," he said a little savagely, almost to himself. "But I have an excuse to ask him something. And I'll give him a jolt, baronet or not... You don't seem so interested in him as you were."
"Perhaps not." Davidson's non-committal answer was calculated to exasperate the Superintendent still further. "It all depends—"
Freeman grunted. They said no more until, soon after they had swept through the lodge gates, the constable leant forward and diffidently touched the reporter's shoulder.
"Just here, sir. By the tree."
Davidson stopped the car. Almost while his foot was still on the running board the oddity of the hiding place struck him. Strictly speaking, it was not a hiding place at all. The shallow ditch could not conceal anything by daylight; and the point which the constable indicated was right beside a distinct track where people were evidently accustomed to climb the fence.
"There?" Freeman was evidently no less surprised. "But—"
He shrugged his shoulders and bent down to examine the ground in the neighbourhood. But this time he had no reason to complain of his subordinate's negligence. Except for the exact spot where the case rested, not so much as a bent blade of grass suggested that anything had happened there. There was a puzzled expression on his face as he returned to Davidson, who was already standing beside the car.
"I can't make it out—" he began: then stopped as the constable joined them. "I suppose we shall have to search the Park."
"It can't do any harm." Davidson smiled, and felt in his pocket. "Just a moment, if you don't mind."
He knelt down at the side of the drive and with his pocket-knife cut away a portion of the grass. Freeman looked down, completely mystified.
"There's nothing there," he objected.
"That's why I chose it." Laying the sod aside, he scraped up a little of the earth which lay beneath it and placed it in yet another envelope. The Superintendent knowing nothing of the other samples, looked on impatiently. "Right." The reporter pocketed the package. "Shall we get along?"
It was only a short distance to the hall. As they drew up opposite the entrance, the door opened and a man emerged whom Davidson, though he had never seen him, had little difficulty in identifying as the baronet. First impressions were not favourable. In spite of his age Sir Arthur still retained the semblance of a comparatively athletic body; but his face was the face of a pedant, with a mean cunning about the eyes and mouth which was anything but attractive. He peered at them short-sightedly through powerful glasses.
"Ah. Superintendent—Superintendent Freeman," he greeted them fussily. "Any news, Superintendent? Any news?"
Freeman shook his head. "Nothing since the case was found. No doubt you have heard of that?"
"A most mysterious affair, Superintendent. Most mysterious... I was expecting you earlier."
"We got here in under the hour," Freeman said. Perhaps it would be better, sir, if we went inside? There are one or two things I should like to ask you."
"Of course. Of course... Come in."
He was leading the way inside when Freeman stopped him.
"This is Mr. Davidson," he said. "I should like his help."
"As you like, Superintendent." He looked curiously at the reporter. Evidently Davidson did not conform to his ideas of what anyone connected with the police should look like; but he failed to draw the conclusion which Hedges and Miss Ferrard had reached. "Perhaps you need notes taken? Naturally."
In his character as official shorthand writer, Davidson was able to produce his note-book openly when they were finally seated in a remarkably well-filled library. There were books everywhere; but even among those which had been forced by lack of space from the shelves and lay in piles here and there there was a scrupulous order which indicated a tidy mind.
"And now, Superintendent?" Nillett seated himself facing them. Looking at him, Davidson could not determine whether he was nervous at the prospect of the interview or whether he was naturally fidgety. He suspected the latter. "What can I tell you?"
"I'd like to know the exact circumstances of the visit, if you don't mind. Did you invite Mr. Richmond?"
"It was like this. I had better explain. Yes, I had better get everything clear.... I had not heard from Richmond for some time. The other day—Thursday? Yes, Thursday—I received a letter from him, saying that he had come into possession of an important manuscript, about which he would like my opinion. He said that he would come over to-day. I suggested that he should come last night, and stay the weekend. That was the final arrangement. He was coming in time for dinner. When he did not arrive, I became anxious. I wired to the house asking if there had been any mistake."
"That was this afternoon," Freeman suggested. "I should have imagined that you would do it earlier?"
"Earlier? Why?" Nillett demanded. "Naturally, when he did not come, I supposed that something had occurred to prevent him and that in all probability he had written to me. There was no letter in the morning post. I was in a difficulty, but I thought it possible that, for some reason—perhaps mere absent-mindedness—he had gone back to the original plan and was coming this morning. I waited until lunch time before sending into the village to telegraph."
Freeman nodded. Put that way, it sounded reasonable enough, he thought. Certainly it was plausible.
"Then you haven't seen him at all?"
"Not—not for—some months. Since I left the district, in fact—"
There was a trace of uneasiness in his manner for which Davidson could not account. A peculiar expression on the Superintendent's face suggested that he did not suffer from a similar ignorance.
"Can you suggest any explanation of how his case might have got where it was found? It is a matter only of some hundred yards from here. You would have expected Richmond having got so far to come here."
"The whole affair is bewildering, Superintendent—utterly bewildering. What could have induced Richmond, having got so far, to turn back? Why should he abandon the case? Where did he go? I cannot even conjecture."
"I suppose you would raise no objection to our searching the park?"
"I should welcome it. Anything, Superintendent, which might throw some light on this horrible affair... Although, I am inclined to think, we may be taking too pessimistic a view? Yes, we may be unduly anxious. There might be many innocent explanations of what has happened. Quite possibly we shall hear from Richmond to-morrow? Or say, Monday."
"We can scarcely wait until then," Freeman said dryly. "I'm bound to say, sir, that if there are any explanations of the facts as we know them, I can't think of them."
"Perhaps. Perhaps you're right. Of course, I am not fully informed as to the circumstances... Then, you fear the worst? You suspect that this mystery may conceal a tragedy? That Richmond might, for example, have taken his life?"
"I think other things are more possible," Freeman said expressionlessly. "But at the moment I wish to ascertain the facts as far as possible... Were you surprised by Mr. Richmond's letter?"
"Er—under the circumstances as he described them? No." The baronet seemed to swell visibly with self-importance. "You may have noticed—" He waved his hand round the library. "Or, perhaps you have heard—that I am myself a collector—in a modest way Superintendent, in a modest way?"
"I understood so, sir."
"People have been good enough to value my poor opinion on certain periods—notably the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Yes, without vanity, Superintendent, I think I may claim to some small degree of knowledge in matters relating to that period."
"I see. It was quite natural, then, that Mr. Richmond, if he had a manuscript about which he was doubtful, should consult you."
"Outside London—yes, and one man in Edinburgh—" He smiled expansively. "I believe he could do no better."
"He gave you no idea as to the nature of the document?"
A slight shadow passed over the baronet's face.
"Unfortunately, none." His regret over this omission seemed greater than over the disappearance. "Not the least clue, Superintendent.... Of course, perhaps in his papers—"
"We can scarcely go so far yet. In all probability he had taken the manuscript with him. If he intended to show it to you?"
"Possibly... Can Miss Richmond give you no idea? Can she tell you where it was purchased? How he acquired it? These things, of course, come into one's possession in various ways—"
"So I am informed." This time there was no doubt about the dryness in the Superintendent's tone. "And so, in actual fact, you had seen or heard nothing of Richmond since you ceased to be his neighbour?"
"That is so—yes." Nillett fidgeted. "And so, of course, I can tell you nothing—"
"Why was that? I believe you were friendly at one time?"
"Well—friends drift apart, Superintendent. No doubt that is your own experience. 'Out of sight—' you know."
He smiled in a very sickly fashion. Davidson wondered what exactly Freeman might have up his sleeve. He was enlightened immediately.
"But you didn't part on very good terms, did you?" he asked sweetly. "There was some—some misunderstanding about a manuscript, I believe? Mr. Richmond consulted us at the time, and gave us his version of the matter—"
The effect of the words on the baronet was remarkable. He went pale; then red. He jumped to his feet, almost incoherent with some strong emotion.
"This—this is insufferable! Intolerable! I—I—" He almost sprang towards the bell and pressed it. "After this—this impertinence—this—I must decline—" He broke off and turned towards the servant who had answered the bell. "Show these—these gentlemen out!"
More than a little mystified, Davidson turned to the Superintendent as the front door closed behind them.
"He didn't say 'throw' did he?" he asked.
"He meant it." A grim smile played about Freeman's mouth. "Touched him up, didn't I?"
"You did. Shut him up, too, unfortunately... What was the quarrel about?"
"A manuscript... I think there's not the least doubt that Nillett pinched it. Richmond knew he had done. But there was a sufficient element of doubt to make proceedings undesirable... That was the little unpleasantness which made him leave the district."
Davidson whistled. "So you think, if he didn't stop at theft once, he mightn't stop at murder another time?"
"It's possible... All collectors are mad. Well—"
"What now? Back again.... "
"Yes. I'll just look into the station."
"Right. I want to go to the post office myself." He caught the other's glance of suspicion. "Oh, no. I'm not wiring off a full account just yet.... I'll meet you at the station after—"
"What—!"
Freeman's exclamation had nothing to do with what his companion had been saying. He turned sharply in his seat to look through the rear window.
"What the hell—?" he asked again.
"What is it? You've not seen Richmond's ghost?"
"No... Kemsley. What the hell's he doing here?"
IT was half-past nine that evening when Marjorie Richmond saw the sturdy figure of Jane Ferrard striding up the drive; and for once in her life she was conscious of a feeling of sincere thankfulness. Ordinarily between herself and the older woman there existed a lack of sympathy which at times amounted to a positive antagonism; but just then she was feeling that any company was preferable to her own. The four hours which had elapsed since the departure of Davidson and the Superintendent had been a long agony of uncertainty which was rapidly growing unendurable, and there was still no news. At that moment even the self-assurance which usually irritated her in her visitor seemed actually comforting.
She had turned from the window and was crossing the room to welcome her guest when a sudden thought made her pause. Her hand went to her throat. The next moment she was running to the front door. Breathless with haste and agitation, she brushed the butler aside.
"Is there—? Have they—?"
But one look at the other woman's face was enough. The eagerness faded from her eyes.
"I thought—I thought perhaps you had news... They might have telephoned—"
"They might—if from a policeman and a reporter together you could expect the sense of a half wit... Which means that you've no news either?"
"There's been nothing.... I've waited and waited—" All at once she remembered. "But, of course, you haven't heard. They've found the case—daddy's case. The one he took with him."
Jane Ferrard's eyebrows rose. "Where?" she asked. She took the girl's arm firmly. "Come along. We'd better go and sit down; then you can tell me all about it."
Seated in the drawing-room, she listened in silence to the disjointed account of the discovery so far as Marjorie had been told about it. She did not speak until it was finished. Then she frowned.
"Mardon Park? He did go there, then?.... Looks funny. Don't like it—"
The expression on the girl's face made her break off. Marjorie Richmond did not possess her own passion for the ruthless facing of facts, however painful. She eyed the girl pityingly, and when she continued her voice was almost gentle.
"Now, you're not to worry," she exhorted. "There's nothing certain yet. You're only imagining things... I'll bet you haven't had anything to eat?"
"Oh yes. I left things to Woods... He served the meals as usual—"
"Which you didn't touch, of course... Best thing for you would have been a bit of gardening. Nothing like it to take your mind off things."
Marjorie did not trouble to deny it. Her thoughts had reverted to her visitors' earlier indiscretion. There was a look of something like horror in her eyes.
"What did you mean—that it looked funny?" she asked suddenly. "About the case—"
"Why, nothing to—"
"But you did." Her voice had sunk to a strange whisper. "I know what you think... If daddy went to Mardon, why didn't Sir Arthur see him... Why does he deny having seen him? .... He must have done."
Her guest stirred uncomfortably. "What are you talking about?" she demanded.
"I know... They'd quarrelled. You know they'd quarrelled. He hated daddy, because of that business... If Hedges' story was true—about the grave... Suppose that daddy went there? Suppose it was Sir Arthur who—"
Jane Ferrard strode across to her side. She gripped the girl's arm and shook her vigorously.
"Stop that! Stop it, d'you hear?... Ah, that's better!"
The girl had suddenly collapsed, burying her face in her hands. Her visitor watched without visible emotion as her shoulders rose and fell convulsively. After a little the sobs grew less.
"That's what you needed... Here's a handkerchief. Now, don't be a hysterical idiot. You don't know anything has happened yet."
Marjorie Richmond wiped her eyes obediently, but she shook her head.
"It—it's kind of you. But I know.... I feel it, somehow. He—he's dead."
"You know nothing of the kind. Nor does anyone else... That young fool of a reporter hasn't been putting silly ideas into your head?"
"He's not a fool." There was indignation in her voice, and she seemed to revive under the stimulus of it. "He didn't say anything. He was very kind—"
Jane Ferrard sniffed. "One of the smooth sort. Oh, he tried it on me... Naturally he's out to make a sensation. They all are."
"But he isn't!" Marjorie contradicted, not without a feeling of surprise at her own vehemence. "The Superintendent told me. He's promised not to send anything to his paper until—until there's something definite—"
"Oh. He promised that?" Her voice did not suggest any great confidence in Davidson's good faith. "I shouldn't tell him anything, all the same. They're all alike."
This time Marjorie refused to argue. There was a short silence. Abruptly her mind recurred to the question which had occupied it to the exclusion of everything else.
"But, what could have happened? Where could he have gone?"
"Well—" Jane Ferrard hesitated. Her eyes studied the girl shrewdly, and she came to a decision. "Probably you're the person who can help most in answering that... There's nothing you can think of? Nowhere he might have gone unexpectedly?"
"I don't understand—" Marjorie began wearily, but the other woman interrupted her.
"Look at it like this. He was going to Sir Arthur's, wasn't he? He'd fixed up the appointment and so on; he told me he was going. Could he have met anyone between here and Sir Arthur's who would make him change his mind? Could he have remembered another engagement—more important, perhaps? Oh, I know there's the difficulty of the case. There may be some explanation of that—"
"He didn't say anything to me—"
"Well, he wouldn't. He hadn't thought of it then... But had he a note of it anywhere? Probably he kept a diary. Or there might be letters among his papers—"
"I—I don't know. I couldn't look. I couldn't."
Her father's study, imbued as it was with the mark of his personality, was the one room in the house which she felt incapable of entering. But the idea had evidently taken hold on Jane Ferrard.
"But it's a thing which ought to be done.... This manuscript business. You don't know what it was, but there may be a record somewhere. It's the one thing we could do—"
Marjorie only shook her head miserably.
"It's what the police will have to do sooner or later if—" the other persisted, and stopped. "Well, you may not feel you could do it yourself. I'll do it if you like."
"No! Please! I couldn't—"
"Just as you like, of course." She shrugged her shoulders, evidently considering that mere sentimentality was preventing the obvious course of action. "All the same, it's a responsibility— Hullo!" She broke off and bent forward to peer through the window into the gathering dusk. "More visitors, eh?"
"Who? Oh, who?"
The girl was at her side in an instant.
"Mr. Branden, and Dr. Walbersley... I wonder—? No. They'll hardly have any news. Don't build any hopes on it—"
Her deduction was confirmed by Branden's first words as he entered. He came to the point immediately, in his usual blunt manner, though there was a suggestion of nervousness or restraint in his voice.
"Good evening, Miss Richmond. I'm here really as a messenger for Mrs. Bexley—and to express my sympathy, of course.... She thought that perhaps you would be alone, and suggested that you should spend the night there—"
"Hm... Better have come herself."
Branden glanced at Jane Ferrard. As a neighbour, he was accustomed to her bluntness of speech. A trace of amusement showed for a moment in his eyes; but it had vanished when he turned to the girl.
"As Miss Ferrard says, Mrs. Bexley would have preferred to come herself, in case she could have given any help. But I regret to say that Major Bexley is unwell again and confined to his bed. Under the circumstances, she asked me to apologize—"
"Sorry." Jane Ferrard made her amends briefly. "But, if it's a question of Miss Richmond's going anywhere, I've the first claim, I think. That's one reason I came over. I was just on the point of asking—"
Marjorie looked from one to the other in something like desperation. Excellent as their intentions might be she was wishing that they would leave her alone. She shook her head.
"It—it's very good of you," she said. "I appreciate it—really I do. But I must stay here.... I shall be quite all right. It isn't as though it was the first time I've been here alone. When daddy went to sales—"
"My dear girl, don't be absurd. The circumstances are entirely different."
"They might need me. There might be news. There might be something I could do—?"
"If there was, my house isn't fifty yards away. And there's the telephone. Probably that's the way you will hear, anyway.... As for doing anything—" She shrugged her shoulders. "I've already suggested the only thing you could do—"
"But I couldn't. I couldn't look through daddy's papers. Not yet—"
Branden's eyebrows rose a little. He looked at Jane Ferrard curiously and exchanged a glance with the doctor.
"Really, I don't think Miss Richmond should be troubled with these things just now," he suggested. "I should have thought there would be time to consider that—"
"Oh, I suppose you'd wait until it can't do any good?" Jane Ferrard retorted. "Well, it seems to me that, if there is a chance that there might be some record to show where Mr. Richmond ought to have gone it ought to be taken. I think—"
Behind Marjorie Richmond's back, Branden met the doctor's eye, and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Dr. Walbersley gave the slightest possible nod and stepped forward.
"Really, Miss Ferrard, I think it isn't a point we should insist upon," he said. "No doubt Miss Richmond is tired. Perhaps to-morrow—"
Jane Ferrard made no answer; but there was an obstinate expression on her face. The doctor turned to Marjorie.
"My dear Miss Richmond," he said persuasively. "We naturally thought that it would be better if you were not alone. But that is just as you like... Strictly speaking, this visit was sympathetic rather than professional—but since I'm here—" He smiled. "If you don't mind my saying so, you're looking worn out. Don't you think it would be a good thing if you went and lay down for a little?"
"I couldn't. I couldn't sleep, until—"
"Not to sleep, necessarily. If you would just rest for a little? If you were needed you could be called at once... Otherwise, should anything happen, you will be fit for nothing. And I think—yes, on the whole, I think it would be a good thing if you took a mild sedative. Let me see—I believe I have some bromide with me? Yes, here it is."
She took the two white tablets which he held out and swallowed them meekly. As the doctor had said, she was feeling desperately tired; but she had reached the stage when it seemed impossible to relax. Walbersley smiled and nodded his approval.
"Now, if Miss Ferrard would just take you upstairs... I think you should lie down. Just for half an hour or so, to give the tablets time—"
Quite docilely, Marjorie allowed herself to be conducted from the room. She did not notice the significant glance which passed between the doctor and her visitors. All at once she felt terribly weary. The effect of the drug began to make itself felt, and by the time she reached her room she could scarcely keep her eyes open. Removing her shoes, she lay back for a moment on the pillow, and her eyes closed. Looking round from drawing the curtains, Jane Ferrard saw that she was asleep and gave a satisfied nod. Pausing only to draw the quilt over her, she left the room, closing the door noiselessly.
It seemed to Marjorie as though she had only dozed for a moment or two before she sat up in bed. Then she realized that it must be longer. Her mouth was dry, perhaps from the after effects of the drug, and her head swam slightly, but after a moment that passed. She glanced at the illuminated dial of her wrist watch and started. It was half-past three. She had slept for nearly six hours.
At first she was bewildered. All at once the truth came to her. It had not been bromide, but something more powerful that the doctor had given to her, something intended to make her sleep as she had done. As she recalled the attitude of Jane Ferrard and Branden she felt sure that both had known this. At the thought she felt a wave of anger. It had been a conspiracy, then, to get her out of the way by putting her to bed like a child.
In a moment she had slipped the quilt from her and jumped out of bed. Her brain was strangely clear. Though the thought of her father and what might have happened to him crossed her mind with a pang, the anxiety which had haunted her had disappeared. All at once she felt a cold certainty of her father's death, and with it came a grim determination to avenge him. Standing in the darkness the recollection of Jane Ferrard's suggestion came to her. Perhaps, after all, she had been wrong in not accepting it; perhaps there was, among the papers on the study desk, some clue to what had happened. She felt an unreasonable hope, which died the next moment; but her purpose persisted. The idea of waiting until morning scarcely occurred to her. Pulling on a pair of soft slippers, she went to the door.
As she had said, it was not the first time she had been left in sole charge of the house. Since her mother's death five years previously, John Richmond had devoted more and more time to his hobby, and had frequently left her when its demands necessitated a week end in town. Although she knew that she was the only person in the whole wing the thought did not alarm her. With the idea that the lights might be seen and that the butler might come to investigate, she did not even press the switch, but set off down the corridor past the closed doors of the empty rooms, the felt soles of the slippers making her passage almost noiseless.
But twice before she reached the head of the stairs she stopped. The first time she did not know what it was that she had heard, only that it came from somewhere in the darkness behind her. She stopped for a moment listening; but the noise, whatever it might have been, was not repeated. She told herself that she had failed to close her bedroom door properly and that it had banged in the draught. But she had only gone a few steps further when another sound came to her, this time from in front. With a momentary curiosity rather than fear she paused again. She was almost at the head of the stairs, and she was convinced that what she had heard had come from somewhere below. Once again she could not identify it. It was like the snapping of something forcibly broken, and it was close at hand.
She hesitated for a moment only. The old house, she knew, was capable of making the weirdest creakings in the silence of night; but this was different. She listened, but there was nothing more. Almost convinced that she was the victim of too vivid an imagination, she descended the stairs and started along the ground floor corridor at the end of which lay the study.
But her confidence in herself and the house had been shaken. She found herself thinking of the empty rooms; of the distant servants' wing to which no cry for help was likely to reach. Even the switches for the electric light were at either end of the passage along which she was going, and though she would no longer have cared about rousing the servants, she realized suddenly that she dare not turn back. Something was following her, she told herself; and the next moment laughed at her own fears. With a sudden return of courage she turned and stood listening, staring back the way she had come. It did not bring her the reassurance she had hoped.
The blackness seemed full of small noises, trifling whispers of sound which she could not locate. The conviction grew upon her that she was not alone. Someone was coming up the passage after her. For a moment she had nerved herself to confront her pursuer; then abruptly her resolution failed. Turning again, she fled towards the study as though it was a haven of refuge.
The door was open. In her haste, she was inside the room before she realized it, and had passed the switch beside the door. She turned a little wildly, missed her direction, and collided noisily with the book-cases lining the walls.
From the darkness nearby there was a crash, as though something had been knocked over. With her heart beating furiously she waited, uncertain whether to flee or to hold her ground. She guessed that whoever else was in the room was waiting, perhaps for some indication of where she stood. The thought that it was in all probability a burglar oddly renewed her bravery. She was not afraid of burglars. There was not a tremor in her voice as she challenged.
"Who is that? What are you doing here?"
For a moment there was no reply. Though the night was as dark as pitch she could still just make out the outline of the long windows. Slowly against the opening of one of them she saw a dark figure rise. Without a sound it came towards her. It was only a few feet away when she screamed, this time in real terror.
"Who—? Help! Help—!"
There was a quick movement. She was aware of someone very close. With a gasp she recoiled as a hand touched her. The next moment she felt herself gripped by the throat.
She struggled desperately, choking for breath. Lights swam before her eyes. With the strength of despair she gripped a wrist, striving to break its grip. Her senses were leaving her. Then she was flung violently backward, bruising her arm against something hard so that she could have cried out with the pain.
For a moment she lay where she had fallen, gasping for breath. She was dimly aware that her assailant was somewhere near, of footsteps. Then, from the direction of the door, came another sound. It was a woman's scream.
Even in her half-dazed condition, she found herself wondering what any woman could be doing there at that time of night. With a great effort she stood up. The one thought in her mind was that she must have light. Inspiration came to her. She dare not retrace her steps to the door; her attacker, in all probability, barred the way. But all at once she had realized where she was. Only a yard or two away was a standard lamp. If she could find that...
Another scream came from the darkness. There were sounds as of someone struggling. She groped desperately; then her fingers touched what she sought. Pressing the switch, she jumped backwards, turning to face whatever dangers the light might reveal.
For an instant utter amazement held her speechless. The room was empty, except for the sprawling figure of Jane Ferrard, prostrate on the floor near the doorway. Bewilderedly Marjorie noted the brilliant flowered dressing-gown and masculine-looking pyjamas. Apparently her unexpected visitor had just risen from bed. She stared stupidly. Jane Ferrard sat upright wriggling about as though to ascertain how many bones were still intact, and even in her astonishment Marjorie noted that the thick black hair which she had always admired evidently owed more to art than nature. She found her tongue.
"You—you—" she gasped. "What—"
Jane Ferrard stood up. She looked quickly round the room before she spoke.
"Don't ask me," she said a little breathlessly. "Heard your door. Followed you... When I was coming in, someone pushed past me. Fell over the stool—"
She pointed. Marjorie looked without comprehension. Then her eyes returned to her visitor.
"You heard—?" she began. "But what—what are you doing here?"
"Didn't think I'd leave you alone, did you?" the older woman snapped ungraciously. "You wouldn't be sensible and come to me. Of course, I told your butler—" She broke off. "That can wait. Who was it?"
"I—I don't know." Marjorie fingered her throat. She looked at Jane Ferrard doubtfully, and tried not to let her eyes drop to the large, competent hands. "Someone—someone choked me—I fell—"
"What? There was someone?" Jane Ferrard snapped. "Why didn't you—? Perhaps he's still—"
She strode towards one of the trophies which adorned the wall. Reaching up her hand, she snatched from it a formidable club, and swung it tentatively as she turned.
"That's better... This way! He went past—"
She turned her head with a start. "What's that? Quick!"
Before the last words had left her lips she was making for the door. Next moment she was running up the passage. But Marjorie could not have followed if she had wished. Her strength seemed suddenly to have left her. It seemed as though her legs were giving way. She took an uncertain pace forward, almost fell, and collapsed into the chair by which she had saved herself, listening to the footsteps receding along the corridor.
Suddenly Jane Ferrard's voice came challengingly.
"Who's that? Stop!"
Judging by the sound of the shout, she and her quarry must already have been at the foot of the staircase; but the crash which followed rang through the house. She heard Jane shout again. Then all was silence.
AT that precise moment Christopher Davidson was wishing that he had never learnt to smoke. Then, he reflected, he would not have been in the position of wanting a pipe more than Paradise and not daring to light one. The other reflection occurred to him that if he had not been a fool who allowed impulse to override his judgment the point would not have arisen; for impulse had resulted in his three hours' vigil behind a holly bush in Richmond's shrubbery.
He sighed. Following their interview with Nillett, events had been both exasperating and exhausting. Belatedly Freeman had decided Kemsley's presence in the village required investigation, and they had turned the car. From then until nearly ten o'clock they had spent in finding the places where Kemsley was not; for the man himself seemed to have vanished into thin air. It was after only one pint of beer that the premonition had come to Davidson that Richmond's house needed watching, and in spite of Freeman's ridicule he had acted upon it, knowing that there are times when instinct is a reporter's best friend. He was just realizing that there were other times when it was not, and the thought of Freeman comfortably in bed brought a worse pang each time it recurred.
The spot which the Superintendent, perhaps facetiously, had recommended as the ideal hiding place had its disadvantages. One of them struck him each time he shifted his position and found new holly prickles. On the other hand, it afforded perfect concealment and, if it had been possible to see anything, a view of two sides of the house. More to keep awake than anything else he rose to his feet and peered into the darkness. He had scarcely done so when the cracking of a twig in the bushes behind made him turn sharply.
"Ssh!" A large figure loomed out of the darkness in front of him. "That you, Davidson?"
"Freeman!" Davidson exclaimed in astonishment; then his voice sank to the cautious whisper the Superintendent himself had used. "Thought you were in bed? You said this was nonsense—"
Freeman stepped to his side, peered round the bush for a moment and grunted at the darkness before he spoke.
"I said it was nonsense your coming here for no reason. It wasn't nonsense to keep a look out for Kemsley... He's not come home yet."
Davidson whistled. "Not home?" he echoed.
"I'm wondering if he means to come. It was the devil's own luck missing him— Nothing happened here? Told you so—"
"I'm not such a firm believer in instinct myself at the moment," Davidson confessed. "There's not been a sign of anything—"
"And you wouldn't have seen it if there had been. It's too damned dark. But I'm sure of Kemsley. My men have been right by his door."
"Queer enough," Davidson agreed. "And your theory is—?"
"I don't see why he shouldn't be in with Nillett... Or, for that matter, he might have been working on his own. The case—" He stopped. "If you've wasted your time here long enough—" he began again.
"Perhaps I haven't." Davidson replied merely for the sake of argument. "It might be important that someone should be here to swear that no one went in—or out—"
"My God! What's that?"
Both men turned to look towards the house as the sound of a woman's scream reached them.
"Miss Richmond—!" Davidson began and started forward. Freeman's hand gripped his arm.
"Was it?" he asked. "Listen a moment—"
As he finished speaking the scream came again; then silence. This time the Superintendent made no attempt to restrain Davidson. In a moment they were both hurrying across the grass in the direction of the house. The sound of shouting and then a crash reached them faintly. Lights were going up in the servants' wing, and as they turned the corner of the house they saw the yellow reflection from the study window.
"We'd better—" Freeman began, and broke off.
From somewhere just ahead came the sound of running footsteps; then a crackling of twigs as the fugitive plunged into the bushes surrounding the lawn.
"This way—!" Davidson exclaimed.
He started at a run, but Freeman overtook him and gripped his arm.
"Heading for—lane!" he panted. "Cut off... I'll follow! Know the ground."
Davidson realized that the Superintendent was right. From the sounds ahead, it was evident that the runner was bearing left evidently intending to make his way out from the garden by the drive entrance near Jane Ferrard's house. He swerved obediently, found the path and dashed down it, almost running head first into the gate at the bottom.
In the lane he stopped for an instant to listen, and the wisdom of the Superintendent became evident. The longest way round had proved the shortest way home; for he could still hear the noise made by the fugitive, and presumably Freeman, as they made their way through the trees. Judging by ear, he moved a little down the lane towards the spot at which he expected the chase to emerge. As he did so, for the first time he had leisure to think of what might have happened at the house. The recollection of the screams he had heard came to him sickeningly. Except for the servants, the only woman in the house was Marjorie Richmond, and it seemed only too plain that she had encountered the intruder.
The crashing on the hillside had ceased; but suddenly he heard the pad of running footsteps. He quickened his pace. The runner must be coming down the drive, but in the darkness he was far from sure just where he was with relation to the gate. He stopped for a moment to listen and heard the footsteps behind him. In his haste he had gone past his destination. Whirling round he was just in time to see a shadowy figure outlined against the sky on the top of the hedge.
"Stop!" As he shouted he realized the futility of it, and ran back the few paces up the hill. "Stop there!"
But his quarry did not pause in his flight. It took Davidson no more than a few seconds to reach the point where he had glimpsed the figure; but it was too long. Whoever it was had already dropped from the hedge into the field beyond; but he tumbled across the ditch and felt the bank desperately, conscious that the sound of footsteps which was his only guide was no longer audible.
It was a typical Devonshire hedge, several feet of clay and granite topped by a ragged row of thorny bushes and brambles; and though he struggled with it regardless of scratches it was a minute before he could negotiate it. As he did so, he thought that the person whom he was pursuing evidently knew the ground, and had struck some easy spot which he himself had missed. By now, he must be some way behind. Incautiously he let himself drop, not thinking of the depth on the far side.
He landed in a heap at the end of what must have been a six foot drop, and for a moment lay there half stunned, dimly realizing that the ground on the field side of the hedge must have been considerably lower than he had expected. More than a little dazed, he stood up and looked round him. He was obviously in some kind of a pit, for the weeds and grasses fringing its edge showed almost level with his neck. He stood there listening and his hopes dwindled to nothing. There was not a sound. He cursed his luck in choosing the one point at which he should not have scaled the bank. The mishap seemed to have ruled out his last chance.
Momentarily he wondered where the Superintendent had gone. It looked as though he had been equally unlucky. There was no sign of him, and in all probability he had given it up and gone to the house to investigate, leaving the pursuit to Davidson. As things were, Davidson had not the faintest idea in which direction to pursue; but hoping against hope he waited for a minute or two, straining his eyes and ears for anything which might afford a clue.
Unexpectedly, his vigilance was rewarded. He had heard nothing; but all at once he was aware of a dark shape looming against the sky not ten feet away. He had scarcely realized what it was when it turned along the edge of the pit and disappeared.
Davidson was scrambling up the bank in a moment; but this time he was taking no risk of spoiling his chances by undue haste. The thought flashed through his mind that it had certainly not been the Superintendent; for whoever it had been had worn a coat and the Superintendent had not. As he gained the top he realized his stupendous luck. The stranger must have lain in wait the other side of the hedge, expecting the pursuit to over-run the mark in the darkness. By falling into the pit and staying where he had landed he had done the one thing that no one could have expected, and it was not surprising if the fugitive was puzzled.
The sound of hurrying footsteps was just audible when he reached the top, and he started in that direction. Almost immediately he struck a path, slightly sunken below the general level of the grass. The unknown was evidently proceeding along it and Davidson found the task of following an easy one. He guessed that the track was a short cut across the curve of the lane and judged that they should come out near Major Bexley's, or somewhere at the end of the more aristocratic row of houses.
Obviously he was gaining. By the time they reached the stile through the first hedge he was near enough to get another shadowy glimpse, and there was little doubt that he could catch the other if he wished. But he hesitated. On the one hand the apprehension of whoever had caused the scream was desirable; on the other, it might be equally important to find out where he or she was going. He was still uncertain when the choice was suddenly made for him.
From the darkness ahead came a gruff male voice raised in challenge.
"Who's that? Stop, you! Ah, would you—!"
The sentence ended in a cry of pain. There was the sound of a struggle. For an instant a torch flashed and immediately went out. Breaking into a run, Davidson hurried towards the place of combat.
He was nearly too late. As he vaulted the stile he saw that his guess had been right. The path had rejoined the lane and somewhere near he saw the lights of a house. A dark moving mass in the roadway below showed where the struggle was proceeding. But before he could reach it a figure detached itself and started to run past him. Without pausing to consider, he dived in a flying tackle: caught a pair of legs and with his captive crashed to the ground.
In spite of the unexpectedness of the attack his opponent was not beaten. The legs kicked desperately in his grasp so that he could hardly maintain his hold. Groans from behind him suggested that the man on the ground was in no condition to come to his assistance. He hung on grimly, trying to shift his grip to a better position. Something heavy struck him violently on the shoulder, almost rendering his arm useless. Feeling a second blow whistle past his head, he released his hold with one arm, trying to catch at the weapon. Then to his intense relief, he heard a voice behind him call out. The next moment the beam of a flashlight shone down on them.
"Here, what's this?" the gruff voice demanded.
In sheer amazement Davidson let go his hold. He was clutching the pyjama clad legs of Jane Ferrard, and she, on her part, had clearly been doing her best to brain him with the club which she still held. He stood up, and politely offered his hand to help her.
"I—I beg your pardon," he said weakly. "It's Miss Ferrard, isn't it? Believe me—"
Jane Ferrard ignored the hand. She scrambled to her feet, a wild, dishevelled, but majestic figure blinking in the light. The club still swung in her hand and for a moment Davidson thought she was going to use it.
"You!" she said witheringly. "You—you fool!"
"Here, what's this about?" The man holding the torch broke in. "I'm a police officer—"
"Police!"
Davidson and Jane Ferrard exclaimed simultaneously. And Davidson at least, had nothing more to say for the moment. He was trying to work out what had happened, with a conspicuous lack of success.
"One of you hit me with a club. That's assault." There was a distinct note of grievance in the policeman's voice as he made this announcement of the obvious. "And it looks as though that might be the club, too."
"Police!" Jane Ferrard snapped. "And all you've got to do is to hang about getting in the way and misleading people when a burglary's been committed. Why aren't you after the man? Why did you stop me? Police and reporters—!"
The constable was slightly staggered by this attack. Perhaps, in spite of the dressing-gown, he realized that the woman in front of him was not of a type to be bullied with impunity. He turned to Davidson.
"Perhaps you could explain, sir?" he appealed. "A burglary—"
"That's right—or I suppose so," Davidson confirmed. "At Mr. Richmond's house. I was watching there with Superintendent Freeman. I heard a scream and started off in pursuit of someone who was running. It looks as though there was a mistake. Miss Ferrard, I hope—"
"Of course. You've muddled it. When the man practically ran into your arms. And that poor girl—"
"She's not hurt?"
The words brought a return of Davidson's anxiety for Marjorie Richmond. In his haste, he had forgotten her.
"It's not your fault if she isn't," Jane Ferrard snapped. "She was nearly choked to death."
"The Superintendent was there, you said, sir? And it was this lady you were running after?"
The torch light was off his face. Davidson grinned; then sobered suddenly.
"Yes, I suppose so," he admitted. "Miss Richmond is hurt?"
"I've told you... Well, are we going to stop here all night? Now you've let the man go—"
Davidson turned to the constable. "It seems to me that the best thing would be for us to go to the house," he suggested. "No doubt the Superintendent would want to ask a few questions—"
"Yes, sir." The constable sounded relieved. "I'll speak to our man along here, sir—"
"You see—"
He hesitated as though on the verge of an indiscretion, and said no more.
"Right," Davidson assented. "Whoever it was we were chasing must be miles away by now. No harm in mentioning him, though—"
The sound of approaching footsteps broke in on his words. The constable turned hurriedly, switching the beam of the torch on to the new arrival. It was an elderly man, partly dressed in a coat and trousers evidently pulled on over his pyjamas. One coat sleeve hung limp and empty; in the other hand he was gripping a heavy revolver. As the light focused on him he swung it up.
"Who's that?" he demanded in a parade-ground voice. "What's all this?"
Apparently words failed the constable. Jane Ferrard stepped forward.
"Oh, it's you, Bexley?" she said. "Do for goodness sake deal with these fools. There's been a burglary at Richmond's, and they've let the man go free. They're mad or drunk—"
"A burglary?"
"That's right, sir—or it looks like it," the constable confirmed. "There's been a bit of a mistake, sir—"
"So, I suppose we're to stay here all night?" Perhaps Jane Ferrard was beginning to realize the inadequacy of her attire. Her impatience seemed to be increasing. "Better come to the house, Bexley. I'll tell you as we go."
Without waiting for Davidson and the policeman, she seized the Major's arm and led him up the lane. The constable hesitated for a moment; then followed suit. They went a few paces in silence.
"The lady's a friend of yours, sir?" the constable asked finally.
"Hardly a friend," Davidson amended gravely. "Until to-night I wouldn't even have called it a close acquaintanceship. She's Richmond's neighbour."
The constable digested that. Perhaps he detected a sympathetic note in Davidson's voice.
"She damn near brained me with that club," he said thoughtfully. "But for my helmet—"
"Me, too," Davidson answered. "She's a lady of strong character."
"She's strong as a horse... Well, I was knocked a bit silly, of course, but she slipped me all right—"
Davidson put up a hand and rubbed his shoulder. "And I'm not sure what would have happened to me if you'd been much longer!" he confessed. "You're watching Kemsley's I suppose?"
"Yes, sir." Presumably the constable thought that the fact that Davidson was aware of the watching justified the admission. "He's not back yet... Doubt if he's coming—"
"Just a minute, sir. Let me speak to Jim."
Politely Davidson held back as the constable moved to the hedge side and whistled softly. He would have enjoyed hearing the constable's account; but when a second shadow loomed out of the darkness the two spoke too softly for him. Up the road he could hear Miss Ferrard's voice raised emphatically. He grinned in the darkness. Then the grin faded, as an unreasonable suspicion began to form in his mind. He and the constable both thought Jane Ferrard was the fugitive. Their first conclusion had been that there was a mistake. But had there been anyone else? What was she doing on the scene at all? Supposing—
The return of the policeman interrupted his thoughts.
"All right, sir.... I wonder if you could tell me what happened?"
Davidson gave his version briefly. His hearer made no comment. There was a short silence.
"Just what happened to you?" Davidson asked.
"Well, sir. I heard someone running. And being on the look out I ran in that direction. Someone—Miss What's-her-name I suppose, jumped over the stile nearly on top of me. I called out and she made a swing at me. Then I grabbed her. She got away just as you came up—"
"And I pulled off a proper Rugby tackle! Must have shaken her up. Not that it was noticeable."
"No, sir," the constable agreed. "I wonder what the Superintendent will say?"
He appeared to brood on that uncomfortable thought as they went up the path. The windows of the house were blazing with lights; the front door was open. Through it, Davidson saw Jane Ferrard gesticulating to the embarrassed Superintendent; then the sight of someone else brought a wave of relief. Marjorie Richmond was standing there, pale but evidently unhurt. It was not until he was going up the steps that he noticed the red marks on her throat. He felt a sudden anger against her assailant.
Freeman hurried forward to meet them, relieved at being offered a prospect of escape from Jane Ferrard's clutches.
"He got away from you, Davidson?" he asked.
"I'm inclined to think I was never after him," Davidson admitted. "I'm afraid it was Miss Ferrard who—"
"Yes, I've heard her story," Freeman said hastily.
"No news, Jones?"
"No, sir. Except that I—I heard the lady, sir—"
"Just so. I've heard that too. You can give me a full report later. The point is, did you hear anyone else?"
"No, sir. I don't think so, sir."
"Right." Having temporarily silenced Jane Ferrard, the Superintendent evidently did not intend to give her another chance. "You'd better stop here, Jones. I'll just take a look round the study. Come with me, Davidson?"
The reporter was conscious of a curious reluctance as he followed. He wished that he could have had a word with the girl, and was surprised at himself for entertaining any such thought under the circumstances. Freeman maintained a grim silence as they moved along the passage. It was not until the door was closed behind them that he spoke.
"And now, what happened?"
Davidson told him. To his surprise, not the ghost of a smile showed on his hearer's face. Instead, he frowned.
"What happened here," he said as Davidson finished, "seems to have been that Miss Ferrard quartered herself upon the house for the night. Miss Richmond, who had been given a sleeping powder by Walbersley, with the knowledge of Miss Ferrard and Branden, slept until half-past three, had the idea of looking at her father's papers and came down. She thought she heard someone and was attacked in the darkness. She got the light on, and the only person there was Miss Ferrard, who seemed to hear someone and dashed in pursuit."
Davidson said nothing. In the bald recital he sensed something that had not been put into words. Freeman waited, as though expecting some comment.
"The point is," he said, "was there anything you saw which proves the existence of the burglars? Need there have been anyone but Miss Ferrard?"
Davidson considered. "No," he said. "You mean that he'd got away before then? You lost him in the shrubbery?"
"Not exactly." Freeman hesitated. "I mean, nothing happened in the house that proves there was a burglar—"
"Good heavens!" The idea in Freeman's mind suddenly penetrated. "You mean—the woman could have done the whole show!"
"On the evidence—yes. Look here. Suppose that there's something whoever murdered Richmond wants to get hold of. It's in the study. Suppose Jane Ferrard is the person who wants it. Doing the sympathetic, she comes over here, and first of all tries to induce the girl to let her look through the papers. The girl won't. Then Walbersley comes in and gives her a sleeping powder. Jane Ferrard sees her upstairs and asleep; then fixes up with the butler to stay the night. They're the only two people in the whole wing. Isn't everything easy for her—barring the bad luck that the girl had come down?"
"She ran out—?" Davidson suggested.
"Yes. After a burglar she was the only person to hear. And, you admit, everything you saw after that could have been done by her."
Davidson rubbed his shoulder. "And some of it certainly was," he added. "Yes. She certainly conveyed the impression of a burglar all right. No signs of entry?"
"Oh, yes. A window catch snapped. But she'd naturally do that."
Davidson took out his cigarette-case, offered it to Freeman and lit one before he spoke.
"The trouble is," he said, "there are other suspects. Walbersley gave the drug. You said Branden knew about the drug. What was he doing here?"
"Came with a message from Mrs. Bexley. She asked the girl to sleep there. The Major being ill—"
He broke off abruptly as if some thought had just struck him. Davidson smiled.
"Yes," he said. "You see how it is. Walbersley administered the drug. Branden knew about it. Bexley hoped that she wouldn't be in the house that night... I didn't know that, of course. Only it struck me that the Major's arrival was rather opportune. We hadn't made all that noise."
Freeman scowled at the carpet. "It doesn't alter things," he said. "That woman's still the favourite... Look here. When you were in that ditch, you didn't hear anything. But when she sets off, she goes right along the path straight away. How did she know where to go?"
"You'd better ask her," Davidson smiled.
"I will... Again, when she hits Jones on the head, she doesn't call out for help or anything. Not even when you grab her. Why?"
"She's a self reliant type! Besides, who should hear her there at that time of night?"
"Major Bexley did."
"Major Bexley heard though she didn't call out. And got up from a bed of sickness to investigate. He didn't seem ill."
"Don't know about that. You didn't get a good look at him, perhaps. He's got a face like death—" Freeman stopped for a moment and went on in an altered voice. "By the way, do you remember what you said about the necessary conditions for a man to need a gardener to dig a grave?"
Davidson nodded. "Yes. Bexley's only got one arm. That struck me... And, incidentally, that's in Miss Ferrard's favour. Speaking as one who's just had an all-in wrestling bout with her, I can assure you she's muscle enough to do her own digging!"
"So's Branden... Well, let's look round. Doubt if we'll find much."
It seemed at first as though his pessimism was going to be justified. The sole sign of disorder discernible in the room was the chair which had been overturned at the far end near the window, and the rug slightly rumpled where the girl had struggled with her unseen attacker. Then, almost when he was beginning to lose hope, Davidson found something else. He called across the room to Freeman.
"Freeman! Here a minute!"
The Superintendent hurried across. The reporter was standing in front of a cabinet, and pointing. At first Freeman did not see what he meant.
"Well?" he asked.
"Those scratches... Pretty fresh, I think. And not quite normal—"
Freeman did not bother to answer. He was on his knees, looking at the marks in the polished surface. Then he nodded.
"Yes," he said briefly. "Quite fresh. I—"
He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and very gingerly pulled at the drawer. It slid open easily. At a glance it was plain that the lock was broken. Inside lay nothing but a single ancient, musty-looking volume.
"Forced," Freeman said unnecessarily. "He—or she—managed that then. The point is, did he get what he came for?"
He hesitated for a moment; then lifted the book from the drawer. Opening it, he glanced at the title page.
"Eighteenth century," he said. "I suppose it might be what he was after? Some of this old stuff is valuable?"
"That isn't." Davidson looked over his shoulder. "Curious, but not very rare. Bought one myself a year or two ago for a bob—"
"Then he got it?" Freeman fingered the leaves impatiently. All at once one of them seemed to come loose in his hand. It fluttered to the floor. As he stooped to retrieve it, Davidson noticed that it was covered, not with print, but with faded writing. The Superintendent frowned at it without comprehension.
"Can't read the damned stuff," he growled. "Poetry or something—"
"May I try?" Davidson took it from him and looked at it. Then he started. He looked up at the Superintendent with his lips pursed as if to whistle. "Good Lord!" he said.
"What's the matter? Can you read it?"
Davidson nodded. Holding the paper almost reverently in his right hand, he struck an attitude and declaimed:
"They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. First the infant
Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms—"
Freeman let him get no further.
"What the devil's that balderdash?" he snapped. "Sounds like Shakespeare or someone?"
Davidson eyed him with a mixture of incredulity and compassion.
"It is Shakespeare," he said simply.
"Well, what of it?"
Davidson made no immediate reply. He strode across the room to where in his search he had noted the one case of comparatively modern books in the room, selected a leather-bound volume, and returned, holding it out so as to show the gilt letters on the cover.
"Notice the writing?" he asked. "Don't you think—"
"Good God, it's the same!" Freeman stared at the facsimile gilt signature in amazement. Still he only half understood. "You mean—"
"It looks like an original manuscript," Davidson said cautiously. "Of 'As you like it'. By Mr. William Shakespeare."
THE Superintendent stared at him for a moment; then snatched at the sheet in a way which would have torn it if Davidson had not let go quickly. He studied it carefully for a moment before he looked up with a frown.
"I suppose you're sure it's what you say?" he demanded. "I can't read the darned stuff. Looks more like Burmese than decent English... You're not kidding me?"
Davidson shook his head. "You can't read it because the fashion is that which existed in Shakespeare's day," he said. "I've done a bit with old manuscripts, or I couldn't myself. In fact, I couldn't have read it out like that if I hadn't spotted a bit I knew. But that's what it is."
"But—a Shakespearian manuscript!" Freeman repeated. "Why, it would be worth—what would it be worth?"
"An odd sheet? I don't know. "But a whole play—!" He threw out his hand. "Almost whatever you liked to ask... And that's the point. If this is genuine, was it the only one?"
Freeman drew a deep breath. "At any rate, that gives a motive for murder," he said. "If that's what Richmond was so excited about, and why he wanted to see Nillett—"
He broke off. Davidson smiled. "Yes, we've rather been forgetting Nillett, haven't we?" he suggested. "And how does he fit into this?"
"That depends on how he accounts for his time. At the risk of hurting their feelings, I've got to ask quite a lot of people to do that."
"Account for what time? You see, at present you don't know when Richmond was murdered. If he was murdered, because we mustn't assume that yet. And it would be simply unreasonable to expect everyone to explain exactly why they shouldn't have murdered him sometime between five o'clock and the small hours of the morning. To-night, I can imagine what Nillett will say. And some of the others."
"What?"
"That he was in bed and asleep. Then, it's your business to decide that he wasn't—and prove it. If he came here, his car might show traces. That would be worth looking into in the morning. Kemsley may say the same, but we know he wouldn't be speaking the truth; unless he was back before your watch was set?"
"He wasn't," Freeman said, and left the details to be imagined.
"Bexley will not only say that, but appears in pyjamas to prove it. Branden will say the same. And why not? You were telling me not long ago that any sensible man would have been!"
Freeman frowned. "There may be finger-prints," he said without much hope. "We'll have to look at that later. Otherwise—" He broke off and looked round the room. "Well, there's nothing very much to show one way or the other who did it. Except that it was someone who knew the house."
"And of the existence of the manuscript. And its value. And where to look... It can't be just chance that the burglar only forced one drawer in the room and that was the right one."
"Yes. But anyone who knew it was a Shakespearian manuscript would know it was worth something."
Freeman looked at the document and laid it carefully on the table. "But how did it get in that book? Who sold Richmond the book? Is there any more of it?"
"Those are a few little points for the police." Davidson grinned. "But our knowledge of the murderer is extending, isn't it?"
"I suppose so. He's a man with some knowledge of ancient manuscripts and who knew Richmond had acquired this one in particular. Also he knew where he kept it and how to get in. All that suggests he knew Richmond fairly well. He's a man of poor physique, or with some physical infirmity. He can't account for his time yesterday evening, when he was murdering Richmond; nor to-night, when he was doing the burglary. He knows Hedges, and has probably employed him. That's the lot?"
"Perhaps. Though you ought to add that he owns a gun, drives a car, and can pick a lock.... But there's one thing which strikes me. Was it the same person?"
"What's that?"
"Did the same person kill Richmond as burgled his house to-night. Always assuming Richmond is dead.... I mean, there's one obvious difference. The man who dragged Hedges from his bed seems to have been such a weakling he couldn't dig a grave himself. But the burglar seems quite hearty. Nothing wrong with him, so far as one can see. He attacked Miss Richmond. She's not an Amazon, or in the Jane Ferrard class; but she's quite a normal girl. And he had no trouble in dealing with her. Not much sign of physical infirmity about that?"
"Kemsley!" Freeman exclaimed suddenly. "Look here, why shouldn't two of them be in it together? Nillett might have put one of the others up to it—say Kemsley. Perhaps he's just a kind of fence, and had nothing to do either with the murder or the burglary, except telling Kemsley to do them."
"Or Miss Ferrard!" Davidson smiled. "You were keen enough on her a little while ago... You've plenty of choice."
"I have," Freeman said ruefully. "Anyhow, this isn't helping things. Lord knows there's plenty to do.... Wonder if my men have come yet?"
He was moving towards the door when Davidson stopped him.
"Just a minute. You remember that conditional promise I made you?"
Freeman looked blank. Then he remembered and groaned.
"Oh, Lord.... Goodness knows, I suppose it's definite enough that something has happened... Must you send?"
"I must. It would be sheer neglect of duty not to. I'm only praying that the Sunday papers won't have got hold of the business and splashed it. If they have, I'm in the soup... Then you release me?"
"Yes," Freeman assented unwillingly. "But for heaven's sake be careful—"
"I will. Thanks.... In return, I'll make you a present of a theory—a new one we haven't considered yet."
Freeman looked his inquiry without any great interest. He was obviously worried. The prospect of seeing the case at that stage reported under the glaring headlines it was bound to earn depressed him.
"It's this. From the evidence, Richmond may not have been murdered because Richmond isn't dead. He's got mixed up in some kind of dirty business over this manuscript. Kemsley is working with him. Perhaps he's an accomplice, perhaps he's got some kind of a hold over Richmond—or both. He's an artist, and a bad one; therefore, on the conventional way of reckoning, he's a man of few moral scruples and hard up. Richmond had to disappear to save himself. He staged this burial business. It was he who came back to get something he'd forgotten."
"But—!" Freeman protested. "He half strangled his daughter!"
"He didn't know who it was. When he guessed, he stopped...."
"And Hedges saw the corpse!"
"He saw a bundle with a hand peeping out. That could easily be arranged. In any case, the great thing seems to be to find the missing grave. After that, all sorts of things should be clearer."
"You're damned helpful," Freeman growled. "As for all that rigmarole, it's the least probable of the lot, and that's saying a good deal... There's a car. That'll be the men I 'phoned for."
He was moving towards the door when Davidson called out to him.
"Don't forget Exhibit A—the manuscript!" He held it out. "I suppose I'd better come with you? All things considered—"
The Superintendent nodded, holding the door for Davidson to precede him. He locked it carefully, and then accepted the faded and stained piece of paper. He looked at it for a moment gloomily.
"Doesn't look worth twopence," he said. "Well—"
The group in the hall had dispersed. Davidson, a little at a loss, was waiting there while Freeman spoke to the new arrivals when the butler bore down upon him.
"If you would care for coffee, sir," he invited. "Major Bexley is in the morning-room—"
"I certainly should." Davidson's assent was enthusiastic. Apart from the fact that coffee was exactly what he needed, the invitation held a prospect of interviewing one more potential murderer. "I suppose you didn't hear what was happening until it was all over?"
The butler eyed him warily. Davidson guessed that his connexion with the Press was no secret from him.
"No, sir," he answered. "Not until Miss Ferrard screamed, sir."
He volunteered no more, and Davidson decided that it was useless to push matters further, all the more so as he would probably hear details from Freeman later. He allowed himself to be conducted into the room where Major Bexley was already seated. From the stiffness of the soldier's manner, Davidson strongly suspected that, in all probability, he too was aware of the serpent in their midst; and Major Bexley looked the kind of man who might well write to his Member of Parliament if the police misbehaved.
"If I may introduce myself—" Major Bexley began.
"Major Bexley, isn't it?" Davidson helped him out. "My name's Davidson. Terrible business this."
"Very. I should hardly have imagined that you would think so."
"Why not?" Davidson asked innocently. "Oh, because I'm a reporter? Well, Major Bexley, one has to do a good many things one doesn't enjoy. And people who read newspapers very often don't like figuring in them."
Bexley seemed a little taken aback; but he thawed slightly.
"I suppose that is so... I understand that you were actually on hand?"
"Yes," Davidson admitted. "The Superintendent and I heard the screams from the house—Miss Ferrard's, I think. Then I chased someone. I'm sorry to say that that turned out to be Miss Ferrard. In the darkness—"
"I heard what had happened." There was the ghost of a smile on the Major's lips, but he sobered suddenly. "Then you saw no one?" he asked.
In the second or two before he answered, Davidson wondered why the Major had put the question. Probably it was merely curiosity, but he found his eyes wandering to the empty sleeve. Yet the idea of the Major as a kidnapper seemed preposterous; much more so that he should be a burglar and a murderer.
"Not distinctly. It was so dark. Just shadows against the sky.... The whole affair is most mysterious." He smiled. "To tell the truth, I wasn't disposed to treat the matter seriously until to-night. As I said to the Superintendent, Mr. Richmond might easily have gone off to a sale on the spur of the moment. But of course, this affair—"
"Might be pure coincidence," Bexley said hurriedly. "From my acquaintance with Richmond, I shouldn't be surprised if you were right."
The Major's eagerness to stretch the long arm of coincidence had not escaped Davidson; but the conversation was following the lines he wanted.
"Mr. Richmond was an enthusiastic collector, I believe? Did he ever speak to you about his manuscripts?"
"Your question, Mr. Davidson, shows that you did not know him. Without meaning it unkindly, I might say that he rarely spoke of anything else."
Davidson nodded. "And yesterday?" he asked. "Did he happen to mention anything to you then?"
But the Major was on his guard instantly. "I had not the pleasure of seeing Mr. Richmond yesterday," he answered after the slightest possible pause.
"Thought you might have noticed him going to the station," Davidson said. Your house lies that way, doesn't it?"
"I did not."
"I just wondered. After all, it might be a matter of importance to find out from all the houses along his route. If anything had happened, I mean... Let me see. Besides you and Miss Ferrard, there's Mr. Branden and Mr. Kemsley. I had the pleasure of a glimpse of Mr. Kemsley to-day."
The Major grunted. His emotions, Davidson thought, were as beautifully obvious as a child's. The grunt meant that Mr. Kemsley was not the sort of man of whom it would be a pleasure to have a glimpse.
"That was in Mardon," Davidson said. "Near Sir Arthur Nillet's place—"
"What?"
His surprise was genuine enough. Davidson pressed his advantage, though doubtful about his own wisdom in giving information away.
"Yes. I was just driving through... I'm afraid Mr. Kemsley is not exactly popular."
Bexley only grunted again; but the grunt implied that Davidson had been guilty of a ridiculous understatement.
"I think Mr. Branden's a friend of his, though?" the reporter plunged utterly at random. "Being neighbours—"
"Branden! Good God, sir! Branden's been trying to get him out of the cottage for the past three years! They've been to law twice!"
"Dear me!" Davidson said in a shocked voice. "Most unpleasant.... Anyhow, Mr. Richmond saved his life."
"I think Richmond realized his mistake later," Bexley snapped and then seemed to see that he was being led on. He drew a deep breath, looked at Davidson fixedly and then, without speaking, rose to his feet and took a quick pace or two backwards and forwards. Davidson ignored him, and poured a cup of coffee. The irate Major came to a halt in front of where he sat.
"Mr. Davidson," he said bitingly. "Spying may be your trade. Personally, I prefer the occupation of the dirtiest untouchable bazaar sweeper; but the law allows it. I've only this to say. If Miss Richmond receives any annoyance as a result of your activities, I'll horsewhip you!"
Davidson drank his coffee and put down the cup. If the Major could have read his thoughts, he would probably have lost control of himself. For mentally Davidson was misapplying a quotation: 'Who would have thought that the old man had so much blood in him?' and he was quite sincerely admiring the soldier's chivalry even though he was amused at the form in which it had manifested itself. Then the truth flashed upon him bewilderingly. Major Bexley loved Marjorie Richmond. It was incredible, but it was true. But he had gathered from Freeman that Bexley was a married man...
He realized suddenly that the Major was glaring at him. He must say something.
"Major Bexley," he said with dignity, "as a newspaper man, I am accustomed to being misunderstood—generally by people who may be excused on the ground of complete ignorance—"
This time he really thought that the Major would burst.
"Ignorance, sir!" he bellowed. "Why, sir, I had an uncle who was sub-editor of the Times!"
"You have my sympathy," Davidson said gravely.
Bexley had to do something. It was a toss up whether or not he assaulted Davidson; but perhaps the horsewhip was wanting. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Davidson poured himself another cup of coffee, smiling a little. Then the smile faded. The Major had amused him; but upon reflection he was not very proud of his victory over an older and disabled man. And after all, Bexley had meant well. To his own surprise, he found himself thinking that meaning well to Marjorie Richmond was enough to excuse a good deal. He reached the heroic resolution that, unless Major Bexley horsewhipped him on sight at their next meeting, he would endeavour to make amends. Only then it occurred to him all at once that Bexley was among the suspects. He was trying to recall the conversation when the door opened. He rose hurriedly. It was Marjorie Richmond.
She smiled as she advanced towards him. Her face was very pale, and she looked worn out; but Davidson noticed that the haunted look had gone from her eyes. She seemed quite calm. Then the red bruises standing out in sharp contrast to the white skin of her neck made him set his jaw grimly. Quite apart from murdering Richmond, he would have liked to hang the man who did it.
"I came to thank you, Mr. Davidson," she said. "I am really grateful—"
"But I did nothing," Davidson protested. "Except flooring Miss Ferrard. I daren't meet her now."
She actually laughed. "There have been times when I think I could have thanked you for that," she confessed. "Miss Ferrard is a dear—but sometimes being looked after is oppressive, don't you think? When people insist on watching over you and trying to protect you?" She smiled again; then became serious. Her emotions reminded Davidson of a stormy spring day. "But I do thank you. You tried to look after me—"
Davidson felt embarrassed. He was over keenly aware that his reasons for watching the house had not been entirely altruistic.
"Which is oppressive!" he rejoined.
"I didn't mean that... Besides, the Superintendent told me how good you'd been in not sending to your paper about—about—"
She broke off. Davidson's eyes fell. It was unpleasant to be thanked for something he had scarcely intended; all the more now that he had been released from his promise to the Superintendent, and would certainly have to send as full a story as possible to his paper next day. It was not only the thought that it would avail him nothing that made him put aside the temptation to say nothing. With Marjorie Richmond the thought of the deception was unbearable.
"Miss Richmond," he said almost roughly, "the plain fact is that you don't owe me anything.... I promised Freeman that I wouldn't raise a scare until there was good reason to think that something had happened. And I did that because, if I hadn't, Freeman would have kept me out of the way in subsequent investigations... Only to-night I got him to release me from my promise, providing I didn't get him into trouble."
The girl's lips opened, but for a moment she said nothing. Davidson blundered on.
"I wish, for your sake, it was possible to keep this out of the papers," he said. "I expect it will distress you. But the fact is that it's not. Whether I send anything or not, someone will. Especially after to-night. And now, the choice doesn't lie with me. I simply have to send. For Freeman's sake and yours I'll try and make it as little nonsensical as possible. But that's all I can do. You can't hush up the facts."
"You mean—you mean—?"
"I mean that on Monday my paper will be carrying a full story about what has happened. That may be the first announcement—an exclusive, in fact. Unless the Sunday papers get it first." He realized abruptly that, in his desire to be frank he was being unnecessarily brutal and paused. The girl said nothing. She stood looking at him, and he could make nothing of the expression on her face. He felt moved to a defence.
"Even if the facts could be suppressed, I wouldn't," he said almost violently. "Once that started, there's no saying where it would end. You can imagine for yourself. Anyone with any kind of influence, any kind of pull would come round to stop something or other. A newspaper's got to print the news. It may be bad for people sometimes—" He shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, I can't accept your hospitality under false pretences. As you can see, merely from motives of self-interest and for the sake of the story I should have acted as I have done."
There was a silence in which Davidson called himself a fool for adding to the troubles of a girl who already had more than she could bear. He cursed his stupidity, at the same time marvelling a little at himself. He was not used to being so clumsy; or to ruining his prospects of getting news so completely. The girl's eyes had not left his face. At last she spoke.
"But that wasn't why," she said simply. "Otherwise you wouldn't have told me."
There was a kind of obscure logic in this which took him completely aback. He had no answer ready.
"I think I understand," she went on. "It's not the least use your making yourself out to be the villain of the piece, Mr. Davidson. And, now that there is no question of an abuse of hospitality and I know the worst, won't you—won't you have a rock bun? Or a sandwich?"
Davidson stared at her. Then the anti-climax proved too much for him. He laughed. To his intense relief, the shadow of a smile appeared on her own lips in answer.
"A sandwich, then!" he said almost gaily. "If it's a peace offering—I mean, if my accepting it is—"
She came to his rescue. "It is one of the conditions," she said gravely. "Ham?"
Davidson took one blindly, and bit it before he realized that by doing so he had filled his mouth at a time when he wanted to speak. He felt horribly nervous, an unfamiliar sensation which he had not experienced for years. He could only chew doggedly on a piece of bread which seemed indestructible.
"You met Major Bexley?" she asked. "I thought I saw him coming out a minute ago. He's a dear, isn't he?"
"I met him," Davidson agreed ruefully. Bexley had not struck him as a dear; and he was conscious of the faintest twinge of jealousy. The unwonted spring of truthfulness insisted on bubbling up. "The fact is, he's going to horsewhip me," he blurted out.
"When?"
The calm question disconcerted him on the verge of a confession. He laughed in spite of himself. A sort of gaiety possessed him. He responded to her mood.
"I don't think to-morrow," he said. "It's Sunday. I'm sure it's one of the pleasures that would be classed as Sabbath breaking—"
All at once he understood that her flippancy was assumed. At the realization, he himself became serious.
"I think I owe him an apology," he confessed. "He doesn't like reporters. And I irritated him. Besides, I don't want to cause trouble. I'm sure he's fond of you."
She made no comment. Her eyes studied him gravely, and she puckered her brows into the faintest possible frown.
"You're not a bit like a reporter," she said at last. "I understood that reporters were always tough. That's the word, isn't it?"
"And chewed gum? And emptied cigar boxes into their pockets? And said 'O.K. Chief' to the editor? That's the cinema."
"Perhaps," she agreed gravely. "I suppose one's ideas of what any given type of person ought to be are generally wrong—" Her voice died away thoughtfully, as though she had been speaking almost to herself. She stared in front of her for a moment; then her eyes met his challengingly. "I don't suppose I'm in character either?"
The bitterness in her voice came as a shock to him. He scarcely knew what to say.
"I suppose I ought to be weeping and so on," she said almost savagely. "Well, I won't... My father's dead. You know that—just as everyone else does. They think I can't face it... I have faced it. I knew—I knew as—"
There had been a trace of hysteria in her voice. She broke off. Davidson opened his lips to speak with only the dimmest idea of what he was going to say; but she anticipated him, and her manner had grown all at once unnaturally calm.
"I know that my father has been murdered. I want to find who murdered him. Newspapers do that, don't they? Sometimes— You believed Hedges and were investigating when the Superintendent wasn't going to do anything. I want you to help me."
Davidson would have thought that it was slightly horrible if his sympathy had not been too great. He would almost have preferred it if she had broken down; her cold determination rather appalled him.
"I—" he began uncertainly, and stopped. "Well, of course I shall try... But the Superintendent knows far more about it than I do, and really he is much more likely to succeed. I don't say that newspaper reporters have never solved a murder but—"
He broke off and shrugged his shoulders. She still eyed him fixedly.
"But you will?" she insisted.
"I'll do my best. I don't know what—"
She rose suddenly. For a moment she faced him, a small defiant figure in the big room.
"Thank you," she said simply.
Davidson himself stood up. He felt called upon to explain his position, but she gave him no opportunity. Without another word she turned and went out. He stood where he was, staring after her. He was still facing the closed door when it opened again, this time to admit a different kind of visitor. He did not recognize the uniformed policeman who advanced towards him, but guessed that it must be one of the men Freeman had sent for. The man looked at him and hesitated.
"Mr. Davidson, sir?" he asked.
Davidson nodded.
"The Superintendent would like to speak to you, sir," the policeman said. "In the study."
Davidson felt a curious mental weariness. At that moment he had no desire to think about any theories Freeman might have to propound, scarcely any interest in discoveries he might have made. He stared for a moment at the constable.
"Anything important?" he asked. "He didn't say what it was?"
"No, sir. Except I believe it was something to do with Mr. Kemsley, sir."
"Kemsley?" Davidson's interest quickened. "Right. I'll come at once."
With a last glance round the room, he followed his conductor along the passage.
THE Superintendent was bending over something at the table by the far window. He half turned and looked up as the reporter entered, and momentarily the grey pallor of his face startled Davidson. Then he saw the reason. Through the window the eastern sky was already whitening with the dawn, and in the cold light the reading lamp already looked yellow. Davidson crossed towards him.
"You've found Kemsley?" he asked.
Freeman shook his head. He stood aside so as to allow a view of the object he had been examining.
"His hat," he said briefly.
Davidson eyed it for a moment. It was a black felt with an extravagantly wide brim which somehow seemed to suit the personality of Kemsley though he had never seen the man. He looked up.
"Where?" he demanded.
"Near his house. As you know, I had a couple of men watching it back and front. Also, unofficially, I'd gone into it myself before. He certainly wasn't there then. The hat was found not far from where you must have floored Miss Ferrard."
"That was by the stile."
Freeman nodded. "And the hat was about ten yards up the lane. The other man on duty spotted it as soon as it began to get light."
"But—we came that way—" Davidson began. "The constable's torch was on—"
"You weren't looking for anything. The hat was in the ditch at the edge of the road. And now, I'm wondering. Before I was almost inclined to think that Miss Ferrard was the only burglar. But she certainly couldn't have put Kemsley's hat there. I've been talking with the constable, and he's by no means sure that there couldn't have been anyone else—someone before Miss Ferrard who would naturally take alarm at the racket while you three were doing your stuff there. And if Kemsley wasn't there, how do we come to find his hat?"
"He didn't go to the house?"
"No. I'm quite sure of that, because I sealed the doors. If he'd entered it would have shown.... But he may have meant to. Then, finding that the place was watched, it's quite possible that he decided to make a bolt for it instead. Presumably he's got a guilty conscience—"
"Even so, I don't quite follow the course of events." Davidson frowned down at the hat. "Let's see... For reasons unknown, but probably in connexion with the manuscript and possibly as a tool of Nillett, Kemsley follows Richmond and is concerned in his death. We'll suppose that this takes place at Mardon. Why does Kemsley go back?"
"Perhaps Nillett sent for him. If Kemsley was the murderer and wanted to steal the manuscript, he may not have known just what he wanted to steal, or have stolen the wrong thing. Nillett finds out about the mistake and tells him. He goes there to ascertain exactly what is wanted, and somehow he keeps out of our way. Then he comes back to do the robbery, and does it. Thanks to a combination of circumstances he is surprised while in the house and makes a bolt for it—"
"But does he get what he came for? I've been thinking it over, and it seems to me that he didn't. I mean, quite apart from that leaf we found. I don't think that was just a part he missed. I think that was all there was—and, besides, that Richmond himself didn't know it was there."
"Richmond didn't know?" Freeman raised his eyebrows. "But he told Nillett—"
"That he'd got a manuscript he wanted his opinion on? Yes. I suggest that that was another part of the same—another leaf, or more than another leaf. But still I don't think Richmond knew about the one we found."
"Why not?"
"For two reasons. The first, that if Richmond was taking the manuscript to Nillett, he'd presumably take all of it, and not leave one sheet. The second, Richmond has a safe in this study—not a very good safe, but still what he probably thought was burglar proof. Whoever mightn't be aware of the value of a Shakespearian original if genuine, Richmond certainly was. He'd have put it in the safest possible place."
Freeman reflected for a moment. "That makes less sense than ever," he said finally. "I can't think of any possible combination of circumstances by which the burglar should know it was there when Richmond didn't."
"Oh, I don't know. I can think of half a dozen possible theories... As, for instance, the burglar knew about the manuscript before Richmond acquired it, but Richmond bought it first, not knowing what he'd got—I mean, bought the volume containing it. Or again, what Richmond found that made him so excited might not have been the actual manuscript, but some clue, perhaps a cryptogram, to where the manuscript could be found. It all depends on how he acquired that volume."
"I can tell you that. He bought it at an auction in London; one of a job lot, of which that was about the best. In fact, the other five are lying over there now. I've been through them."
"When? When did he buy it?"
"Over a week ago. But the point is that he'd only looked at them just recently—not thinking them particularly valuable... From what I can make out, Richmond hadn't enough money to concentrate on famous first editions; but there's a certain amount of lesser stuff which, if you can get it in good condition and make complete sets, is worth quite a bit. That's right?"
"Yes." Davidson nodded, and waved a hand towards the shelves. "That's what I'd guessed. Sold in odd volumes, most of this wouldn't bring much."
"That cryptogram business—" Freeman made a grimace. "Isn't that rather far fetched?"
"Oh, I don't know. It has at least the advantage of explaining why the burglary occurred a day afterwards. The point is that someone had to solve the cryptogram then, knowing what books Richmond had bought in that lot, knew that there was something in one of them."
"It sounds utter nonsense to me," Freeman said a little irritably. "And, in the meantime, where's Kemsley?"
Davidson shrugged his shoulders. Freeman continued:
"Assuming the thief knew before Richmond bought it, how did he know? Seems to me there's room for inquiries about where that lot of books came from. Miss Richmond doesn't know any more than what I've said."
Davidson had scarcely been listening to him. He was struggling with an obscure half memory which just eluded him, though he was positive that somehow Marjorie Richmond was concerned in it.
"We're to suppose that Richmond only found the cryptogram, not the manuscript—" he murmured, more in an attempt to clear his thoughts than anything else. Even as he spoke, a sudden illumination came to him. "No, by George, we're not! Richmond had found a part of the manuscript!"
"Why?"
"He told his daughter, and she told us."
"Told us?" Freeman repeated blankly. He made a vain effort to remember and shook his head. "Not that I recollect."
"Don't you? Don't you remember she said something about pressing him to tell her what it was, and his answering 'As you like—'.... That's what she thought he said. But it was really 'As you like it'!"
Freeman looked at him in unassumed admiration. The next moment Davidson himself thought of an objection.
"No, it doesn't necessarily. We'll have to ask her more carefully.... It might only show that he knew what he was looking for. Now, it seems to me that the cryptogram—"
"If any," Freeman interjected.
"If any," Davidson agreed. "Was of later date than the manuscript. A good deal later. In all probability those books had changed hands several times—and besides, that particular volume was eighteenth century. If the cryptogram had been there all that time, not to mention the actual manuscript, someone would probably have found it."
"But mightn't have solved it. Or mightn't have known what that sheet was. I didn't."
"That's true... But the next step seems to be to find out where those books came from."
"One of the next steps." The Superintendent's voice was mournful. "Among others, we've got to make further inquiries whether Richmond was seen going to Mardon; whether a man with a case or any suspicious character was seen at Mardon; whether Kemsley in particular has been seen at all—and I think I'm justified in issuing a description of him. It would also be helpful to know what all possible people were doing last night and when Richmond vanished. And, certainly, we should search Nillett's place, and the Park. I'll get a warrant if necessary."
"Doubt if it will be... If there's anything to hide there, he'll have to hope you miss it, and his right line would be to let you do it as freely as possible—be positively helpful and eager. There's something else. How about tracks in the garden here?"
"I've got a couple of men doing that.... Also, you might be interested to know that finger-prints are washed out. There weren't any on that drawer. Which by the way, is in Miss Ferrard's favour. She wasn't wearing gloves so far as we know... Of course, she might have disposed of them."
"Wonder if Miss Richmond's attacker wore gloves?"
"I'll ask her again. She didn't say."
"And yet, it's a thing she'd have noticed, perhaps. But the burglar might just have wiped the drawer."
"Which is what it looks like... Care to come along and see how the men are getting on about tracks?"
Davidson nodded, and with a final glance at the hat followed the Superintendent as he made his way along the corridor. Just before the staircase Freeman stopped, and pointed to a small window.
"That's the one which was forced. And it looks as though it was done from outside. And then, the girl said something about hearing a snapping sound. It might have been the catch breaking."
Davidson went forward to look. As the Superintendent said, there was every appearance of the forcing having been done from the far side; but it had been comparatively easy to do. Any instrument which would provide a little leverage could have snapped the weak catch.
"That's the way people lock their houses up," Freeman grumbled. "I don't mind betting that if you go into nine houses out of ten you'll find the front doors locked, bolted and perhaps chained, while somewhere there's a scullery window or something held with a tin tack—"
"Including your own?" Davidson smiled; then a question occurred to him. "But assuming the burglar was actually breaking in when Miss Richmond was coming down, would he have had time? To force the drawer?"
"He might have. She didn't hear anything, but this is a casement window and it opens without a sound."
He swung it to demonstrate. "He'd land on the carpet and go straight along.... Well, Miss Richmond says that she waited for a moment when she heard the snapping. We don't know how long a moment is, but that's the first delay. Then, I expect, she'd go down the stairs fairly slowly. And the more scared she got, until she bolted, the slower she'd go. Then, you remember, she stopped again and looked back. Oh, yes, I think the man would just about have had time to force the lock, if he knew exactly what he wanted to do and where. All the evidence is that he did know. So that, if he'd had much longer, he'd have got what he came for."
Davidson nodded. "But it shows a good nerve. For example, most men would have waited a bit to see if the noise made by the breaking catch had been heard. And most men, I think, would have closed the door of the study: because one would need some light, even if it was a glimmer— Hullo! Looks as though they'd found something."
A sergeant of police was hurrying to meet them across the grass, and his face alone was sufficient evidence that he had news. They stood on the path edging the lawn waiting for him. Casually Davidson noted that it was paved and that apparently it ran right along the side of the house. The thought came to him that in all probability there would be no tracks below the broken window.
"Found anything?" Freeman demanded as his subordinate came up.
"Plenty, sir. Looks as though two or three people had gone through... First of all, sir, there's a woman. She wore slippers, dived into the bushes just near here, struck a bit of a path and we lose her for a bit. But you can pick her up in the drive again, and beyond the lane in the fields. That would be Miss Ferrard, sir?"
"Yes. And in the field? Any more tracks?"
"Well, sir, we can see where this gentleman tumbled over and his tracks here and there—or I suppose they are. It's not too clear in the field, and there's no positive sign of anyone else there." He hesitated. "But, you see, sir, as the tracks aren't clear, it's quite possible that some of the ones we think are this gentleman's belong to the other chap. Because his footmarks are as plain as print in the shrubbery."
"Ah!" Freeman's face brightened. "You can see where he went?"
"Quite a lot of the way, sir. We lose him at the lane. Up till then they're unmistakable. A great big ugly boot he wore, sir, and from the depth I should say it just about suited the rest of him. If we look out for a pretty big man, with big feet, and probably fatter than he ought to be I don't think we'd be far wrong."
Mentally Davidson found himself going through the list of possible candidates. The description scarcely fitted Nillett or Kemsley. It was more like Branden, or perhaps the Major. All at once he was aware of a queer look on the Superintendent's face. He was eyeing the sergeant almost grimly.
"We can add a bit to that description," he said. "He's got iron grey hair, pretty thin on top. All but two of his top teeth are false. He—"
The sergeant was looking bewildered. "I don't see, sir," he said hesitantly, "just how—"
Freeman stepped across to a newly-raked flower bed. Regardless of what might have been planted there, he planked his right foot firmly in the mould and withdrew it.
"Were the tracks like that?" he asked.
"Why, yes—" The sergeant suddenly flushed scarlet. "I didn't mean— Of course, sir—"
"Don't try and make out that they were the tracks of a finely proportioned, upstanding man of middle age looking like a film star." Freeman grinned. "Your deductions were correct, Sergeant... Those were my tracks, of course. Any more?"
"Well, sir, there are a few traces of another man. Roughly speaking, they enter the bushes near the woman's. But they're not so clear. And we can't find where they go."
"Can't you? Then probably they're the ones we want.... Let's look."
They crossed the lawn in silence. Seeing the garden by daylight, Davidson understood better what had happened the night before. Beyond the expanse of grass, a herbaceous border intervened, and beyond this again was the shrubbery; but looking along it he could see the end of the drive leading to the front door and before it what seemed to be a smaller path. In theory, Freeman's command during the chase had been correct; for anyone running down the drive would have to follow its sweeping curve which the footpath to the small gate cut across. He was wondering why the intruder should have chosen such a comparatively roundabout method of escape when the sergeant stopped and pointed.
"There are the woman's tracks, sir."
They looked down. Miss Ferrard, certainly, had been at no pains to hide where she went, for the footprints cut right across the border in a trail of trodden earth and bruised plants. A little to one side a bigger track was equally clear. Freeman eyed them and nodded.
"The woman, and the fat man with big feet," he said cruelly. "Yes. The others?"
Abashed by the reminder, the sergeant led the way a little to one side. Here the border narrowed, and an untidy riot of Michaelmas daisies covered it throughout its breadth. He had to point out the spot before Davidson saw anything.
"There, sir. You can see the crushed stems—"
"You can just see them. This chap knew his way about. It's the only bit of the border that hasn't been dug, and those plants are pretty tough. He's hardly left a mark. Well. How about beyond?"
He crossed the bed circumspectly and entered a thicket of rhododendrons, taking care to avoid the exact line indicated by the traces in the bed. But here things were no better. Under the low branches a thick carpet of leaves made a covering which had prevented any but the slightest signs. A yard or two further on the bushes ended and they came out on to a paved path. Davidson looked up and down. Plainly one end came out on to the lawn which they had just left. It was more a walk than a path, not leading anywhere very definitely, and evidently little used. A little below them was a garden seat in a recess; beyond, the path wound down to where it connected with the drive.
"There's a soft bit a little lower down where the paving's gone, sir," the sergeant volunteered. "You can see the woman's tracks near a puddle there, sir."
"And the big-footed man's," Freeman agreed. "I remember splashing through it. But how about this chap?"
"Not a trace, sir. And it's hard to see how he missed it."
The Superintendent nodded slowly, looking this way and that.
"Might have gone back to the lawn?" he suggested.
"He might, sir," the sergeant agreed. "But I noticed, sir, the light from the study windows shines full on the end of that path. He'd hardly risk that, you'd think?"
"Maybe not... Let's look."
Davidson waited while the Superintendent examined minutely the verges of the path for a yard or two in each direction. He came back to where the reporter stood thrusting out his bottom lip as if dissatisfied; then, without speaking, led the way back through the shrubs. Over the Michaelmas daises he paused again, brooding over them for a long time, and even going down on his hands and knees. At last he rose to his feet.
"Hell!" he said simply.
"Just why?" Davidson asked curiously. To some extent he was still mystified. "How did he get away?"
"By having a little sense," Freeman said bleakly. "And nerve. It needed that, of course.... It's plain enough what happened up to a point. He went into the bushes. Miss Ferrard arrived on the scene in time to hear him and plunged in after. I suppose when they got through to the path she was just far enough away to hear him running down; so she followed. And I, of course, plunged after her. While the two of us were leaping about like spring lambs, what would anyone sensible do?"
Davidson shook his head.
"Why, stop still!" said Freeman savagely. "That's what he did. Probably there by that seat. And then, when we'd both gone past and he could hear that the coast was clear, he just went back through the bushes to the lawn. After which, he probably followed you down the front path! What makes me mad is that I must have passed within a yard or two of him!"
Davidson thought. "That's all supposition," he said. "So far as I can see, you can't check it."
"Oh, yes. We can. When you look carefully, those prints on the bed are going and returning. Thought they were close together. Besides, there's another point we may be able to ascertain. When did Miss Ferrard last hear him? I want to talk to her."
Davidson grinned. "More than I do. I expect she still wants my blood. Like the Major. He's going to horsewhip me for bothering Miss Richmond... By the way, isn't he married?"
The Superintendent shook his head. "Widower. Lives with his mother."
"Oh," Davidson said. "I see."
Freeman glanced at him, opened his mouth, and changed his mind.
"Didn't know you'd met," he said after an interval.
"Oh yes. Didn't get anything useful out of him. Seems a decent old bird."
"Um... Shall we get back? I think Miss Ferrard's about still. Might as well get it over. I don't suppose you'd care—?"
"I should... You know: 'When duty calls or danger—'"
There was a short silence. They were mounting the steps before Davidson spoke.
"Then she's acquitted, I gather?"
"Not by any means. If anything, it makes the whole show fishier than ever. Because after the man stopped, she must have been chasing a shadow completely. And yet she crossed the lane—didn't go up or down—runs across a couple of fields, and assaults a policeman!"
"A good point... And the answer? Why did she?"
Freeman did not answer at once. "It's not very easy to see. The only thing I can think of is that she was some kind of an accomplice, and her idea was to lead the chase astray. Which she did."
"It's a bit thin... Suppose they weren't friendly; but suppose she and the burglar were after the same thing. She might know who it would be and go the way she'd expect to find him. Why—!" A brilliant idea occurred to him. "She might have been looking for Major Bexley! They might have declared an armistice under our noses!"
"And that's thinner than ever—or a bit too thick. No, I'm not sure what the old girl's game is—"
"Ssh!" Davidson warned him. "She's coming."
Clothed and more than ever in her right mind, Jane Ferrard looked if possible even more formidable. She turned as he spoke and seeing who it was waited for them. Davidson felt a momentary qualm.
"Excuse me, Miss Ferrard," Freeman began. "We've been looking over the ground. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes?"
"Certainly. Where?"
"In here?" Freeman pushed open the door of the room where Davidson and the Major had met. "If you don't mind... It might be helpful if I had a few notes taken. Do you mind if Mr. Davidson—?"
Jane Ferrard turned her eyes to Davidson. To his surprise, they were almost friendly.
"Not at all. I wanted a word with this young man... Mr. Davidson, I owe you an apology. In the circumstances, you were right. Sorry."
"Believe me, I am too," Davidson assured her. "I'd no idea—"
She nodded curtly. "Well?" she demanded of the Superintendent. "Sit down."
Both obeyed meekly. "It's like this, Miss Ferrard," Freeman explained. We've searched the shrubbery for tracks. And those tracks lead us to a certain conclusion which we'd like to check as far as possible. Now, you were in the study with Miss Richmond. Would you mind repeating what happened? I will ask a few questions if I may."
"I heard the burglar," Miss Ferrard said simply. "So naturally, I got a club and chased him. He'd evidently gone through the window; it was swinging. I followed. I heard him in the bushes, and guessed he was making for the drive. When I came to the path I listened and heard his footsteps just as I expected. So I ran on—"
"This is one point," Freeman interposed. "You heard him as you started to run down the path. Not afterwards?"
"No. Why?"
"How did you know which way to go?"
"The path doesn't go anywhere else. He'd hardly run back to the house. Besides, in the bushes I should have heard him."
Freeman nodded. "And then?"
"When I got to the end of the drive, I listened to hear if he'd gone up or down the lane. I couldn't hear him at all. So, obviously, he'd gone across the fields. I followed as well as I could, hoping to catch up. When the constable heard me—"
"It comes to this," Freeman asked. "The last positive knowledge you had of him was when you heard him on the path?"
"No. Because I should have heard him if he'd gone down or up the lane. Therefore he must have gone through the fields—"
"But in the fields? He needn't have kept to the path?"
"If he wanted to get out he had to. The hedges are too good."
"Of course, he might have waited somewhere, hoping you would pass him?"
She thought. "He might," she decided. "If he'd the sense."
"You'd no idea who it might have been?"
"Naturally not. Never saw him."
"You heard him. But I understand Miss Richmond didn't? Can you explain that?"
"For one thing, she'd just been half choked. But, in any case, I was nearer the door... Why, good heavens! He suspects me!"
The laugh that followed was so heartily sincere that any suspicions Freeman had dwindled almost to nothing.
"Not at all," he denied hastily. "We merely wished to know—"
Jane Ferrard laughed again. "Now, it's no use denying it, Superintendent!" she said almost roguishly. "Why shouldn't you? That's what you're for."
Freeman winced a little. "Thank you, Miss Ferrard," he said hastily. "I really think that's all.... Thank you very much."
"Not at all. It's been very amusing."
She nodded and went out. Freeman felt for his handkerchief and mopped his brow.
"She's a fine woman—in her own way," he said cautiously. "Don't believe any jury dare convict her... Well, my next move's back to town.... Give you a lift?"
"Thanks. Got a car here?"
"No. We're going to be gentlemen... I sent the car back that brought our chaps, but Miss Richmond's offered hers—and the chauffeur. So I'll be spared your driving. I fancy he's waiting now."
"He'll be thanking you for an early day's start to his work," Davidson suggested, smiling, as they went out.
"Not at all. He was up anyhow. Besides, think of the glory of it. Think how many people will want to know what it feels like to drive a real Superintendent—"
"Hope he appreciates it.... That him?"
The chauffeur came forward and touched his cap.
"Just getting the car out, sir," he said. "If you'll wait, sir—"
"We'll come along," Freeman suggested turning to Davidson. "You've not seen the back?"
The reporter shook his head. As they passed along the edge of the lawn he saw that the sergeant and another policeman were still at work.
"Looking for trouser buttons and so on," Freeman explained. "You never know.... It's this way. Hidden away pretty well, isn't it?"
The garage, in fact, was completely invisible from the house, up a continuation of the drive from the point where it turned to the front entrance. Between it and the house was a thick group of trees which afforded perfect cover.
"Old Richmond didn't like cars," the Superintendent explained. "All the same, he had to have one—in fact, I think his daughter had something to say about it. Not that he didn't drive himself sometimes—when he had to. That's why he had all that done."
Davidson looked with surprise on the red scar in the hill-side caused by the roadway which had been cut several feet through the steep bank behind the garage.
"It goes right through?" he asked.
"Yes. He can—or could—drive down all right and turn into the lane, but he always got stuck coming back. So he got permission from the man at the big house up there—what's his name? At the Priory—and cut through into the drive leading to it. That way, he could come in and go out downhill both ways!"
The chauffeur had swung open the doors as they were talking. He was on the point of opening the door on the driver's side when he stopped and bent down, putting his hand on to the wheel. For a moment Davidson thought there was a puncture; but as the man rose he stood there staring at his hand like one who cannot believe his eyes. Freeman stepped forward.
"Anything wrong?" he asked.
"Well, sir," the chauffeur held out his hand, "it's wet! The mud, sir!"
"Well?"
"But, sir, the car wasn't out yesterday. And I cleaned it last night, all but the wheels. Was going to turn the hose on them this morning. It wasn't wet then, sir."
"What time?" Freeman snapped.
The man thought. "I suppose I shut up about half-past eight, sir," he said.
"Then it wasn't Miss Richmond—" Freeman began. "But it went out? Who took it?"
Davidson gave no answer to his question. Suddenly he stooped down and touched something on the near side running board. His finger came away clean, but he whistled.
"What is it?" Freeman demanded.
Davidson stood aside, to let him pass.
"If I'm not mistaken," he said carefully, "it's blood. Dry."
THE Superintendent sprang forward with an exclamation, pushing past Davidson impatiently. He bent down over the dark spot which the reporter had seen, scratched at the corner of it tentatively with his nail and nodded as he looked up.
"You're right," he said. "It's blood. But when—?"
He stood up and frowned down at it for a moment before turning to the chauffeur.
"You didn't notice that before?" he asked.
"No, sir." The chauffeur looked bewildered. "I can't think, sir, how it could have got there—"
"You've not cut yourself lately? Nothing you remember that might account for it?"
"No, sir. Not for weeks... You see, sir, I didn't make a real job of cleaning it yesterday—just gave it a rub with polish. I was going to clean it properly today."
"You mean it might have been there yesterday?"
"Well, it might, sir. I think I should have noticed, but—"
"It's not been there long," Davidson suggested. "Not since anyone has ridden in the back—using that door anyway. They'd have been pretty sure to step there."
"But it's dry," Freeman said. "Absolutely dry. Would it have dried in the time?"
"And the wheels are wet, sir," the chauffeur insisted. "It's been out, sir. I'd swear to that. Miss Richmond didn't use it last night, sir?"
The Superintendent shook his head. He glanced round the garage, then stepped outside and looked towards the house, trying to estimate the distance. His frown deepened.
"But only a madman would risk being heard," he said. "The servant's wing is this side—"
"She runs pretty quietly, sir," the chauffeur suggested. "Though I think I'd have heard—"
Davidson joined them as he spoke. "Besides which, in all probability whoever used the car wasn't running the engine at all," he said. "That's the peculiar beauty—from his point of view—of this arrangement. He could use the engine to the top of the hill, and then just slide down. You'd never hear that. And between the cutting and the trees, you'd never see it—even in daylight."
"But why's the blood dry and the wheels wet?" Freeman asked.
"Why are the wheels wet at all, if it comes to that?" Davidson countered. "The roads aren't."
"I can explain that, sir," the chauffeur volunteered. "If he did what you said, sir—and it's what I'd have done myself in his place—he'd have to go through the water splash at the bottom of the lane before he started up the hill. That wouldn't be long before he got here, sir."
"And the blood must have got there earlier. The wind would dry it," Davidson suggested.
"Don't know," Freeman said briefly. He turned to the chauffeur. "We won't be needing the car," he said. "In fact, no one's to use it. It must be locked up just as it stands. You'd better give me the key... By the way, you didn't notice anything wrong with the lock? It hadn't been forced or anything?"
The chauffeur shook his head. Freeman went over and examined the door. There were no signs that it had been tampered with in any way.
"Who had keys?" he demanded.
"I have, sir. And Mr. Richmond, and Miss Richmond... That is, sir, both for the garage and for the ignition."
"And Mr. Richmond generally carried his?"
"I should say so, sir. I can't be sure."
Freeman nodded grimly. "Lock it," he said. "But I think we'll need to move the car—or get a new lock... Right? Thanks."
He pocketed the keys and made a gesture of dismissal. It was not until the chauffeur was out of earshot that he spoke again.
"It's pretty plain that Richmond's keys were used," he said. "And it looks as if whoever used the car killed Richmond. That might account for the blood. And if that was last night—the night before last, I mean—it would give plenty of time for it to have dried."
"There are other explanations," Davidson said thoughtfully. "First, Miss Richmond was drugged. Whoever knew that she was drugged might have stolen her keys."
"I hadn't thought of that," Freeman agreed. An idea struck him suddenly. "Don't you think that might have woken her up?" he asked. "When whoever it was put them back?"
"If you're sure they've been put back."
"I'm not, of course... But let's see where this gets us. If Miss Richmond's keys were used, the bloodstain presumably got there last night and dried. I wonder if it would?"
"The wind would help to dry it."
"Yes. So that's possible.... On the other hand, it looks as if the murderer had had something to do with it the day before, that is, if it's Richmond's blood. And Miss Richmond wasn't drugged then."
"No. There's another possibility. Two, in fact. The first is that the chauffeur did it himself."
Freeman shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "He didn't look guilty. And when you found the blood spot which would have been pretty damning if he'd known anything about it, he was just surprised. Besides, he himself called our attention to the condition of the car. I know I shouldn't have noticed it. Would you?"
"Pretty sure I shouldn't. Well, then, we'll wash out the chauffeur—though it's still possible someone stole his keys. We didn't ask where he kept them... But there's still another thing that could have happened. Richmond might have used it himself."
Freeman stared. "But Richmond—" he began and broke off.
"The trouble is that we're tending to assume, not only that Richmond's dead but also that he's been murdered. Now, there's Hedges' story of the corpse. But that's all the evidence there is that there's a corpse at all—and there's no evidence that the corpse was Richmond."
"As you said, it might have been faked," Freeman said slowly. "But—but all this which has happened—?"
"That's just what's making us think of murder. If it hadn't, and if Hedges had thought he'd been dreaming, we shouldn't have thought anything of the kind... What I'm getting at is, were we intended to think that Richmond was murdered? Has he himself staged all this just to help us towards that idea?"
"The manuscript?"
"Bait.... Or he mightn't have known he left that leaf there."
Plainly Freeman was unconvinced. "No motive," he said. "Unless he'd gone off his head."
"We can't reject even that, though I admit it's not likely. No, at the moment there's no known motive, but it's not hard to imagine one. Suppose he'd acquired that manuscript dishonestly; because collectors are queer people. Suppose someone, say Kemsley, knew about it. Or Kemsley and Nillett. Kemsley might have threatened him and he bolted—"
"With Kemsley after him? I doubt it." Freeman scowled at the keys in his hand. "The trouble with this case is that there's a damn sight too much imagination at the moment."
"Then I'll ask you to imagine a step further... Suppose Kemsley was threatening Richmond. Whose corpse would you expect to find?"
"You mean—? Good God! You can't think that Richmond murdered Kemsley!"
"Which is more usual—for a blackmailer to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, or for the man blackmailed to kill the blackmailer?" He waited, but the Superintendent made no reply. "But there is one objection, and I myself think it may be a valid one. Richmond saved Kemsley's life. D'you think he'd do a dirty trick like that on the man who rescued him?"
Freeman shrugged his shoulders. Only too plainly, he had no faith in human gratitude.
"There are dozens of objections," he said. "That's about the least of them... Who did Richmond think we should say murdered him? Why wasn't it made a bit more obvious?"
"It's obvious enough for us to think so. That might be subtlety. Anyway, I won't be quite sure until we've found the corpse."
"And maybe not then... If you were right, it would be the devil of a job for Miss Richmond. Having your father hung is one degree worse than his being murdered."
"Yes," Davidson assented slowly. "I almost hope he is dead. If we could find that grave—"
"I've every hope we shall. I've got men searching the Park—or they should be by now, unless Nillett raises any objection."
"That's hardly likely," Davidson said. He thought for a moment before he asked: "You really think that the grave may be there?"
"Don't see why not. There are the right trees and so on there. It seems to me that it shouldn't even be hard to identify the spot. There's the fir-wood, the ilex and so on—" He broke off. "What's the matter? Got something up your sleeve?"
"Yes," Davidson admitted. "Two things at least... But I'm not going to tell you what they are just yet. Wait till we see how your search goes."
Freeman grunted. "Well, besides that, there's the fact that the case was found there; there's the fact that it's where Richmond was going, and Nillett all handy as a candidate for the murder... It's the most likely place, seems to me."
"Maybe... What's the next move?"
"Search that car. Fingerprints, photographs and so on. Though, for that matter, I've not much hope. Whoever is responsible isn't making those mistakes. He's been pretty careful."
"Or she. Don't forget Miss Ferrard."
"Don't think she did it," Freeman replied. "She came out of her examination pretty well. It didn't seem to worry her, did it?"
"Can't think of anything that would.... All the same, I'd be sorry if we pinned it on her. She took my knocking her down in pretty good part. And made amends honourably."
"Let's get to the house. I want to 'phone."
They had gone nearly half way before Freeman spoke again.
"We've plenty of candidates," he said. "but I'm hanged if there's anything very definite against any of them. Who's your favourite?"
"Haven't one.... And, in fact, we haven't got far enough yet to say. Look at it coldly. Motive? Well, if robbery was the motive, any of them might have had it. It's simply a question of trying to find out who could have known that he had anything so immensely valuable to steal. And he might have let it slip to anyone in passing."
"He didn't tell his daughter at first. I'm not sure that he would let it out. It was a bit too important... It seems to me that Nillett is the one man he might have told."
"Yes. But then, there may have been some entirely different motive. Who knows? Revenge, passion—"
"I wouldn't call Richmond a passionate type—not in the romantic sense. He'd a devil of a temper—"
"And consequently might make any number of enemies. So we're not even sure of motive. There's the means. Well, we don't know how he died so that's ruled out. And we don't know where or when, so we can't do anything with opportunity. Hullo, who's this?"
"It's one of your list whom you haven't noticed much up to date. Branden.... Wonder what the devil he wants?"
"Might be coming to see if you've suspected him as the burglar."
"Good Lord! Why on earth should I?" Freeman asked. "Except that he employed Hedges and was here when Walbersley drugged Miss Richmond there's not the slightest thing against him."
Certainly the man who was advancing to meet them up the path did not look oppressed with guilt. He had the air of a respectable, retired business man, and as Davidson noted his big frame, well-built and erect in spite of his advancing years, he reflected that their visitor did not look as though any physical infirmity would compel him to employ a gardener for digging. Up to date, he was easily the most muscular suspect he had seen.
Branden smiled as he saw the Superintendent and hurried forward.
"They told me you might be here, Superintendent," he began without preliminary. "When I rang up the station. So I thought that my best course would be to come over... But you've not heard?"
"Heard what, sir?"
"They said that they'd ring through and tell you. Seemed to think it might be important—though I can't think why. My own belief is that it was all the girl's imagination—"
Freeman restrained his impatience with an effort.
"If you'd tell me what it was, sir?" he suggested.
"Moonshine, probably.... Well, it's like this. One of the maids at my place has toothache. According to her story, it kept her awake last night and she was wandering about the room in the small hours—somewhere about half-past three or thereabouts. Might have been a bit later. Her story is that she saw a man in my garden. And that's all it is."
"A man?" Freeman asked. Did she see him plainly, sir?"
"No. Just a figure, from what I can gather. According to her account, she couldn't even be sure it was a man, but it would have to have been a very big woman. She couldn't distinguish details at all."
"Wearing a hat or not?"
Davidson understood the point of the question; but it apparently conveyed nothing to Branden.
"She didn't say... I suppose you'll want to see the girl? Bearing in mind Richmond's disappearance, and the stories that are flying round. Though personally I think that the stories made the girl imagine it."
Freeman hesitated. "Maybe, sir... You didn't know that there was a burglary here last night?"
"Burglary?" Branden echoed. "What d'you mean?"
"Or attempted burglary, sir. The house was broken into, and it's uncertain whether or not anything has been stolen. Miss Richmond was attacked—"
"Miss Richmond?" There was a note of anxiety in his voice which made Davidson wonder whether, besides a suspect, Branden might not also be a possible rival. "She's not hurt seriously, I hope? What happened? Did the thief hit her?"
Freeman was watching him carefully, but there had been no sign of any more sinister reaction to the news than might have been expected from any ordinary person.
"Choked her, sir," he said. "No, she's not hurt seriously. But you see, the story of your maid bears a rather different interpretation in view of that, sir."
"By George, it does!" Branden agreed. "I don't mind saying I never believed it for a moment, but what you say certainly alters things.... You think that he might have run in my direction? He got clear away, then?"
"We know he did, sir. Miss Ferrard followed him—and Mr. Davidson—"
He indicated the reporter; but Branden seemed to pay little attention to the introduction.
"Miss Ferrard?" he asked. "Why, did she hear him? I should have thought her house was too far away."
"Miss Ferrard decided that she'd stay the night to keep Miss Richmond company. Weren't you there, sir?"
"No. I left just after she went upstairs. I'd given Mrs. Bexley's message, and that was all I could do. Besides, I was a bit tired, and wanted to get to bed."
"Then you yourself heard nothing, sir?"
"No, not a thing. Slept till the housekeeper heard about it from the girl this morning and called me. Naturally, I thought it was nonsense. It was only a bit of luck that I decided to ring you, in case."
"I'm glad you did, sir... The girl didn't raise the alarm, then?"
"No. Says she was afraid to go out into the passage—goodness knows why, if the man were in the garden. At the time I heard it, I was glad she let us have our sleep out. Now—!"
"It's a pity she didn't, sir."
"Yes. You think that this has some connexion with—well, with Richmond's disappearance?"
"It's an extraordinary coincidence if there isn't any connexion, wouldn't you say, sir?"
"Yes. It's a puzzling affair... Of course, you've heard Hedges' yarn and what people are saying. But I can't imagine anyone murdering old Richmond. Not even Kemsley."
Freeman looked at him. "You haven't seen Mr. Kemsley anywhere, sir?" he asked.
"To-day? No. Why? It's too early for him to be about."
"I just wondered why you mentioned him, sir."
Branden laughed. "I suppose because he's the one man among my neighbours whom I dislike enough to think he might be a murderer. That's all. I've absolutely nothing against him in that way. But, as I expect you've heard, we don't get on too well."
"He doesn't seem to be exactly popular, sir. I wonder if you happened to see Mr. Richmond at all that evening he left home? You see, sir, at the moment we've lost trace of him from the time he spoke to Miss Ferrard. It's desirable to narrow things down a bit."
"Let me see..." Branden thought. "Fact is, queerly enough, I'm not quite sure if I did nor not—"
"Not sure, sir?"
"I was used to seeing him, you see. He regularly used to go that way for a constitutional before dinner... No, I don't remember seeing him. But I wouldn't be positive."
"You see, he must have passed your house, sir. And I'm asking at all possible points along the road where he might have been seen."
"Of course. At the moment you hardly know if he was murdered outside his own gate or miles away? Yes."
"We don't know that he's been murdered yet, sir."
"I suppose not. But there's that queer story of Hedges', and now this business. I suppose you do connect the two?"
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that. When all is said and done, it might have been just an ordinary burglar who was interrupted before he could get down to work."
"And he attacked Miss Richmond when she found him. That's possible. But I thought that most burglars would go a long way before shooting or hitting people."
"Some will, and some won't, sir. It all depends on the man. All the same, I think most of them would be tempted if there was a chance of getting away. And this man might be a violent customer."
"In that case, I'd better look to my own windows!" Branden laughed, and Freeman smiled with him.
"I should think you'd be able to deal with him, sir," he said.
"I think so." Branden tensed an arm which was still muscular. "My athletic youth hasn't entirely deserted me, Superintendent. Not but what I feel sometimes I overdid it. But Bexley's safer still, I should say. He's got a gun, and he's a dead shot."
"Leaving Miss Ferrard, sir," Freeman said gravely; but Branden grinned.
"I'd sooner risk Bexley's revolver!" he said. "Well, if you want to see this girl, Superintendent, she's there and any time will do."
"Thank you, sir... There's one other point, sir. I was just wondering if Mr. Richmond happened to ring you up the night he went away?"
Branden stared. "Of course not. If he had, I should have told you."
"It's like this, sir. If Mr. Richmond hasn't been murdered, but has just gone away unexpectedly, he might have tried to ring up his daughter and failed. Then, the natural thing to do would be to leave a message. Telephone a friend, say."
"He didn't!" Branden denied. "I was in all evening. I should have got it."
The Superintendent nodded. Branden glanced at his watch.
"If I can't do any more, I'll leave you," he said. "Come when you like—if you think it's worth looking into."
He nodded and turned down the path. Davidson was on the point of making some comment when he saw a servant hurrying towards them. There was a note in his hand.
"Telephone call for you, sir," he handed it to Freeman. "I took a message, not being able to find you, sir—at Miss Ferrard's."
Freeman took the paper and glanced at it. His face brightened.
"They've found the grave!" he announced. "At Mardon."
"Mardon?" Davidson echoed.
"Yes. Good work... Coming along?"
IT was not at the main entrance to the Park but at a less imposing gateway further along the road that the car finally drew to a halt, in response to the signal of the policeman who stood there. Davidson jumped out almost before they had stopped, and looked about him. Evidently that way was little used; only the merest track led through the thick fir plantation which fringed the estate for about fifty yards in each direction. Beyond a second gate at the end of it he could see the bright green of the sunlit grass through the trees, but the wood itself had a sombreness which seemed appropriate.
As the Superintendent stepped across to speak to the constable, the reporter stood there frowning a little for two or three minutes before he moved over to examine the padlock and chain which hung from the post. He had just transferred his attention to the faintly visible marks of a car in the soft earth when Freeman hurried over.
"Careful!" he said warningly. "The constable says that there are signs of a car entering—"
"Richmond's," the reporter answered briefly.
"Sure? They're pretty indistinct—"
Davidson pointed to a spot where the bare mould showed through the carpet of pine needles. The print of a tyre was plainly visible for the space of about a yard.
"Same tyres," he said. "And it's a fairly uncommon make. Besides, I noticed that cut. See there? I'd swear to it."
Freeman scowled down at the print. "We'll get a cast and make sure, anyhow," he said. "Pretty careless, isn't he? Leaving his signature like that?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's not his car—or I suppose not. Unless Richmond isn't the corpse but the murderer? They've not dug it up yet?"
The Superintendent grunted.
"They've started," he answered irritably. "Like an idiot I didn't tell them to leave things. It might have been a help to see it exactly as it was. He seems to have hidden it pretty well. Smoothed the earth down properly, and lit a heap of hedge-cuttings over it. They might have missed it, only one of the constables noticed the earth was soft when he trod there. Come along."
Davidson kept his eyes for the most part on the ground, following the occasional traces of the wheels. Freeman had apparently been doing the same. He stopped and pointed, as they reached a place where a little clearing broke the dark ranks of the pines on their right.
"Here's where he turned. We'll look properly afterwards. No definite footprints that I can see, but you can see someone's been here."
"Not your own police?"
"They're not quite so dumb as that. Besides, it was when they were beating the Park inside that they found the place. Better walk at the side."
There was no lock on the second gate. Freeman gave an exclamation of annoyance as he pushed it open. Following the direction of his gaze, Davidson felt his pulse quicken. Only a few yards away a little group of men were carefully lifting something from a newly-made hole in the turf.
"Damned idiots!" Freeman exploded, and broke into a run.
Even in the excitement of the moment Davidson paused for a second to glance from the excavation to the gate through which they had come, quickly estimating the distance from the grave to the ruinous stone wall which formed the inner boundary of the wood. There was a puzzled expression on his face as he hurried over to where the Superintendent was expressing his mind to an abashed-looking Inspector.
"You'll have to sift every thimbleful of that earth," he concluded, pointing to the heap. "Now—let's look at him."
Even as he bent down to pull aside the earth-stained blanket, something about the bundle struck Davidson with a shock of surprise. Then he realized what it was. It was too short. The covering could never conceal the body of a full grown man. Even so, he was unprepared for the horrible fact as the folds of the blanket parted.
"Good God!"
Freeman jumped back with a cry. Something between a shudder and a gasp came from the watchers. There was no head. Where it should have been, only the mangled bloody stump of the neck projected from the stained and crumpled collar of the evening shirt.
"No head," Freeman said in a low, horrified voice. "No head... No—"
He seemed to realize what he was saying, and bent down with a scowl to pull the covering from the rest of the body. Davidson stared down at it stupidly. He felt utterly bewildered and slightly sick. He was prepared for almost any horrors as the blanket yielded and fell away.
But there was nothing more. Apart from the single ghastly mutilation, the body seemed completely uninjured, lying stiffly with limbs composed like an effigy on a tomb. Davidson's eyes dwelt on the hands folded across the breast. He was on the point of speaking, then thought better of it. He watched in silence as the Superintendent's hands moved deftly over the clothing.
"No wound," Freeman commented to himself. "Not visible, anyhow."
Even in that moment it struck Davidson as a little ludicrous to speak of a man whose head was off as unwounded. But Freeman's meaning was plain enough. As he looked at the neck again he was sure that it could never have been amputated so neatly unless the victim had been dead or unconscious. In that case, something must have killed him.
The Superintendent had transferred his attention to the dead man's pockets. Almost instantly his search was rewarded, but at the first glimpse it was plain that the wallet he drew out had already been rifled. Two or three envelopes were its only contents. Freeman glanced at the addresses and nodded.
"It's Richmond," he said. "Poor girl!"
Davidson said nothing. For a moment he felt a wave of sympathy, but almost at once it was succeeded by a very different emotion. During the whole time he had been driving there he had been struggling with the idea that, after all, the body might be that of someone else and that Richmond might prove the murderer instead of the victim. And from Marjorie's point of view even his death was preferable to a charge of murder.
The Superintendent stood up and snapped a question to the Inspector.
"Doctor coming?"
"Yes, sir. Said he'd start at once."
"Then why isn't he here?" He scowled down at the headless corpse again. "What d'you make of it yourself? How long?"
"The doctor, sir?"
"Damn the doctor... How long has he been dead?"
The Inspector hesitated.
"Of course, I can't say for sure, sir—"
"Guess, then.... Well?"
"I'd have said a few hours, sir, only—"
"Exactly. And Mr. Richmond's been missing since the night before last. Looks queer. There may be some explanation—"
He broke off. Davidson himself could claim no expert knowledge of corpses, but one thing was plain. If the Inspector's guess had been right, the body which they had found could not be that which Hedges had helped to bury. He gave a startled look at Freeman.
"But if it's not Richmond—" he began.
"It may be," the Superintendent snapped. "We don't know yet. It must be Richmond."
"We don't even know there's been a murder," Davidson broke in. "Still less that it's Richmond."
The Inspector was looking at him as though he was a lunatic, but Freeman nodded slowly.
"Meaning just what?"
"There's no wound, except for the head. There's evidence of a concealed burial, and an attempt to hide the corpse's identity. But we don't know the cause of death yet."
"An attempt to conceal identity?" Freeman echoed. "And they leave him with his pocket-case—and in his own clothes. And they're marked."
"Then, why cut off the head?"
"Perhaps—" Freeman hesitated. An idea came to him suddenly. "Concealment of method? If the wound was a distinctive one—a gunshot made by a weapon which could be traced. It was on the head. The murderer removed the head and disposed of it more thoroughly. Burnt it or something."
Davidson considered. The ingenuity of the explanation appealed to him, but he was more than doubtful.
"If it's Richmond, where was he from the time he was last seen until he died? You said a few hours. Did he drive here himself, last night?"
"He didn't bury himself and then take the car back!" Freeman rejoined irritably. "And we don't know yet how long— Thank heavens, here's the doctor."
Davidson retired discreetly into the background as the police surgeon hurried across to where they stood. Temporarily Freeman seemed to have forgotten the fact that he was a reporter, whose plain duty was to telephone the full story as soon as possible. He had no wish to recall that fact to the official memory. From behind the Inspector he could watch all that was happening and hear everything necessary.
"How long dead, Doctor?" Freeman asked impatiently. "It's important."
The doctor eyed the body speculatively, and tried to move one of the hands.
"About midnight," he decided. "Roughly, of course. I've not examined him properly."
"Last night?"
"Of course."
"It couldn't have been longer? The night before last?"
"I don't see how it's possible. Look at that rigor. There are variations, but not to that extent."
Freeman frowned.
"Cause of death?" he asked.
"None visible. Might have been knocked on the head or wounded somehow."
"Or poison?"
"No obvious symptoms. I wouldn't even rule out natural death. Of course, the head was cut off afterwards. Someone made a good job of it!"
"Yes, I thought that. Would you say that the murderer had professional knowledge? A doctor?"
"I'd only say that he knew how to cut meat!" the doctor answered grimly. "I'll have to have a full post-mortem. Calling in the Home Office?"
"If you think so. I'll get on to the Chief Constable immediately."
"Who is it? Any idea?"
"Richmond."
"The J.P.? Good Lord! Why, I dined with him just over a week ago!" The doctor was shocked. His professional callousness deserted him for the first time. "You're sure?"
"Practically. Nothing more that you can tell us?"
"Not right away.... Yes, he would be about Richmond's age... It's a bad business. You'd better break it gently to his daughter."
Mentally, Freeman had cast Davidson for that part. It was not a job that appealed to him.
"I fancy she's pretty well prepared. You see, Richmond vanished at about half-past five the evening before last."
"The evening before last," the doctor echoed. "Why—"
"I'd like a word with you privately, Doctor," Freeman interrupted, glancing meaningly at the group about the grave. The police searchers had already been augmented by game-keepers and others who had taken part in the hunt. The doctor nodded. They withdrew a little to one side, and the reporter could not hear what was said. Freeman seemed to be pressing some point to which the doctor was returning a more and more emphatic negative.
Davidson was at a loss what to do. He could guess the subject of the Superintendent's conversation, but it would be as well to make sure. On the one hand he wanted to get to a telephone as soon as possible; on the other, he had the field to himself for the moment, and he was reluctant to miss anything. Rather restlessly he moved away, making a circuit of the site. His search, if it could be called a search, revealed little except a yellow patch which might have been the place where the boughs or clippings had been lying. Over and over again the great contradiction of the grave recurred to his mind. How could Hedges have told the story of the burial the previous morning when the death had only occurred at midnight. Taking out a cigarette, he lit it, and stood considering.
It was less than half finished when the Superintendent came over towards him. His face was troubled. He came to the point at once.
"Look here," he demanded. "What are you going to send off about this?"
Davidson did not answer at once. He threw his cigarette away and smiled, and there was something in his face which Freeman found irritating.
"Superintendent," the reporter said, with aggravating slowness. "Some time ago there was a murder case—in Ireland, I think. All the evidence is that the local inn-keeper's wife dreamed that murder the night before it happened. It was only her dream that led to the murderer's arrest.... D'you think Hedges did the same?"
Freeman made a noise expressive of disgust. Plainly he was no believer in dreams.
"Don't be a damned fool!" he growled.
"No, I don't believe it, either. Alternatively, do you think that Hedges is the murderer or acting in collusion with him? That, for some incredible reason, he faked that story because the murder was going to be done that way? Or did the murderer hear the story of Hedges' dream and copy it? You see, I heard what the Inspector and the doctor said. What's the explanation?"
"How the hell do I know?" Freeman asked wearily. "Can't you answer a civil question without drivelling all this bilge? What are you going to print?"
"I'll tell you what I'm not going to print—or send off to my paper. I'm not going to say that the body of Richmond, a well-known collector and magistrate, has been dug up headless in the grounds of Mardon Park!"
"You're not?" Freeman exploded. "But—"
"I'm not. Because it would be telling lies, and though I can, I don't, if the truth's better."
"The truth?"
Davidson smiled again.
"The truth," he said. "Freeman, we've got the wrong murder, the wrong corpse, and the wrong grave!"
THERE was a long pause before Freeman spoke.
"You mean—?" he said slowly.
"The wrong murder, in the sense that it isn't the one Hedges was kidnapped for—nor the one we thought we were investigating. Accepting his story, and the doctor's evidence, you'll admit that the body can't be the one he buried. Hence, except for the unlikely possibility that the body was changed last night, this isn't the grave he dug."
"Well?" Freeman demanded, as he paused. "Any more?"
"Yes. It's the wrong body because it isn't Richmond."
"What?" The Superintendent exploded. "Man alive, it's wearing his clothes. It's got his letters in the pocket—"
"Yes. But the clothes don't make the body. Look here, if a murderer's gone to all this trouble to hide a body, he presumably hopes that, if it should be dug up it won't be identifiable. Would he leave the marking on the clothes, and the letters in the wallet from which everything else had been taken? Would he do that, when he's even taken the trouble to remove the head? I don't say I don't admire your theory about that—but I don't believe it for a moment. Do you?"
Freeman shook his head doubtfully.
"I think it's absolutely certain that the letters and markings were left because we were meant to find them; that this grave is here because it's where we were meant to look; that the case was left in the park—not hidden, mind you, but in a place where it was bound to be discovered—so as to bring us here. It isn't Richmond, but the murderer meant us to think it was."
Freeman was plainly unconvinced. He glanced round.
"But there may be some mistake—about the time of death," he said. "The doctor said there were variations—"
"But not to that extent."
"Anyhow, the place corresponds to Hedges' description."
"It doesn't. It corresponds to what the murderer remembered of Hedges' description, or the nearest he could get to it. Take the way through the wood. Hedges said the car stopped in a blind alley; that they went through the trees without a path. This is a track going right through, with gates at each end."
"Perhaps when the car stopped it was facing the wood and Hedges thought the road had stopped."
"Well, Hedges said they got over a fence. There isn't a fence. It's a wall. And why get over when there's a gate?"
"There may be a few details which don't fit."
"Plenty. Here's another. There are fir trees here, but no ilex. Hedges saw the hand pointing at him when he filled in the grave. But the hands of this corpse were lying quite tidily, and they weren't uncovered. Another point. Richmond wasn't wearing dress clothes when he set out, was he? Then he must have changed somewhere, presumably. Where, and when?"
"At Nillett's," Freeman suggested. "Before dinner."
"But no one saw him at the Hall at all. Consider the improbability of his having got there, been shown to his room, changed and so on all without any of the servants having an idea he was there. It's absurd. Obviously the evening clothes came out of the case. I thought it queer when we found it that there wasn't any evening stuff. It was put on the corpse to make us think we'd found Richmond. And the idea was to provide a grave to correspond with Hedges' story."
The Superintendent took out his pipe and filled it deliberately.
"It's a bit thin—barring the doctor's evidence," he said. "And there may be something fishy about that. There have been cases where bodies were preserved or something."
"The doctor's examination will show that, I imagine. You see, it can't be a case of suspended animation, because the head's cut off."
"I don't see what happened or where it gets us," the Superintendent said a little desperately. "What happened? What do you think was the course of events?"
"Something like this. Hedges' kidnapper had murdered someone, probably Richmond, and, for reasons unknown, couldn't bury the body himself. That's why he gets Hedges, hoping his story won't be treated seriously. That body, whoever it may be, hasn't got to be found, because there's something about it which might point to the murderer. But he finds that we're investigating Hedges' story. So, having for some reason another corpse on his hands, he provides us with a grave that will be accepted as the one the gardener dug, and put an end to the search."
"This time digging the grave himself?"
"Well—I suppose so."
Freeman shook his head.
"But it's possible, even if there are two murders that there are two murderers. The first imitated the second. Or, perhaps someone heard about Hedges' dream and made use of it. Then, after all, it might be Richmond."
"Who, in the meantime, had vanished from the face of the earth."
"It's possible," Freeman said obstinately. "If not—"
He broke off as though a new idea had suddenly struck him. Davidson looked his interrogation.
"Well," Freeman said slowly. "The one person who might want the corpse to be accepted as Richmond is—Richmond. Richmond's car was used; the burglar knew exactly where to look in Richmond's house. There are plenty of indications of Richmond's being the murderer and wanting to disappear. In that case, the question is, who have we found?"
"I don't agree with your theory—about Richmond, I mean. But I think it's obvious who the corpse is—Kemsley."
"Kemsley?" Freeman's eyebrows rose. "Just why?"
"Kemsley was here yesterday behaving mysteriously. Kemsley vanished, and never came home last night. Kemsley's the obvious person to be either the corpse or the murderer. I plump for the corpse."
"But his hat?"
"Planted there. Anyone could do that. Because if this body was to be Richmond, according to the murderer's plan, Kemsley had to be alive and on the scene to do the burglary. In the district so far as we know, there are just two people missing—Richmond and Kemsley. Is it likely the corpse shouldn't be either of them?"
Freeman digested this for a time.
"No obvious motive," he said at last. "It would have been reasonable for Kemsley to kill Richmond for the manuscript. There's no sense at all in Richmond's killing Kemsley. And we don't know of any reason why anyone else should. As a murderer, Richmond is incredible. He's the last man on earth to have, say, a dark past which might be exposed. He's not in the least likely to have been blackmailed. So far as one can tell his whole life has been a model of respectability."
"That's exactly the kind of person who is blackmailed."
"The only thing I can think of is that he killed someone in a fit of temper, or accidentally, got scared and decided to cover it up. And that doesn't explain his disappearing before the death could have taken place."
"But who else is there?"
"All your suspects." Freeman grinned maliciously. "But there's one man I'd like to interview now. That's Nillett. I'll have another word with him soon. That manuscript business must have something to do with it, and he's the obvious person to suspect in connexion with manuscripts."
Davidson was looking past him towards the Hall, just visible beyond the trees.
"In that case, you won't have long to wait," he said. "He's coming now."
"Coming?"
The Superintendent turned quickly. Accompanied by a man dressed like a game-keeper, the baronet was hurrying towards them. No doubt he had been informed by one of the searchers. Freeman eyed the approaching figures gloomily and swore under his breath. Davidson guessed that he would have preferred to take Nillett by surprise with the announcement that the grave had been found.
Freeman hesitated for a moment, then hurried forward, evidently with the intention of intercepting Nillett before he could reach the grave-side. The baronet was breathless with haste as he recognized the Superintendent and stopped.
"A terrible—terrible business!" he panted. "I hear—I hear, Superintendent, that Richmond's body has actually been found. Buried! Here! In my Park! It's—it's incredible!"
Freeman eyed him grimly. There were signs of agitation, not unmixed with anxiety, on the baronet's face; but, in view of the way in which their last interview had ended this was scarcely surprising. Nillett must know that, not only his ownership of the place where the grave had been found, but his grudge against Richmond, would make him an object of suspicion. He shifted uncomfortably under the Superintendent's eye. Deliberately, Freeman delayed answering.
"I should—I should have been informed!" Nillett broke out in a kind of weak anger. "In my grounds! It is outrageous—"
"This discovery was made only a short time ago," Freeman said coldly. "You would have been informed in due course. As it is, it appears to have been unnecessary."
Nillett moistened his lips with his tongue. He seemed to read something significant into the Superintendent's words. Probably, since the estate servants had been co-operating with the police, he had made his own arrangements for learning about anything which might be discovered, and was feeling that this might somehow tell against him. He pulled himself together, and was apparently on the verge of another outburst. Freeman anticipated him.
"So you see, sir, my questions yesterday were not entirely unwarranted," he observed. "A dead man has been found in your grounds—as Mr. Richmond's suitcase was yesterday."
"It—it—I can't believe—" Nillett stuttered and broke off. All at once he seemed to understand what Freeman's words might mean. "A dead man, you said?" he asked eagerly. "It's not—not Richmond?"
Again the Superintendent was in no hurry to reply.
"We were just engaged in trying to solve the problem of identification when you arrived, sir," he said after a pause. "Perhaps you could help us there, sir? As a friend of Mr. Richmond's?"
"I—I—" Nillett hesitated. Fascinated curiosity seemed to be struggling with reluctance. "Of course, I am at your service, Superintendent—completely at your service," he said at last. "I shall be very pleased—"
He broke off, perhaps aware that his last words were scarcely suitable to the occasion. Freeman turned without further words and led the way towards the grave. The blanket covering the body had been replaced after the doctor had finished his preliminary examination. There was nothing very shocking visible, but Nillett shuddered and hung back as he looked at the bundle. Freeman bent down and prepared to uncover the body.
"Is he—is he disfigured?" Nillett asked shakily. "I couldn't—I can't—"
"I'm afraid so, sir," Freeman said grimly. "Look."
He had counted on the effect of surprise, but the experiment was almost too successful. Nillett staggered back, covering his face with his hands. Something between a scream and a gurgle escaped him. The Superintendent watched him as one might an interesting specimen, but if he had hoped for any indication of guilt he was disappointed. Nillett's reaction, he decided, was, after all, no more than might have been expected from a sensitive, nervous man unprepared for the shock of the headless trunk. He rose to his feet.
"Steady, sir," he said. "Perhaps I should have warned you... You see now why there's a difficulty about the identity. The point is, do you remember any marks on Mr. Richmond's body, or other physical peculiarities by which you could recognize him positively?"
Nillett lowered his hands. He gave one hasty glance at the ghastly neck; then looked away again.
"Horrible!" he said tremulously. "Horrible!"
"Quite so, sir," Freeman soothed him. "'You see, the clothes are Mr. Richmond's—"
"Then, of course, it must be Richmond. It—it's dreadful. Someone attacked him as he was crossing the Park—"
"Only, sir, then he would not have been wearing evening clothes," Freeman countered.
Nillett struggled to reply but no words escaped him. It was no feeling of pity, but a desire to give Nillett time to think it over which prompted the Superintendent's next words.
"Maybe you'd prefer if I called to see you later at the Hall, sir?"
Nillett only nodded his assent. He beckoned to the man who had accompanied him and leaning on his arm staggered back the way he had come. Freeman watched him.
"And the result of that," he said with regret, "is just nothing. Would he have been so surprised if he'd been guilty? That wasn't acting. And now—"
Davidson glanced after the baronet.
"And now," he said with decision, "I'm going to telephone an account to my paper before I get into a position when I can't help getting the sack. So long."
"But—"
Freeman made a movement to restrain him, but thought better of it. Davidson turned to give him a crumb of comfort over his shoulder.
"By the way," he said, "if all goes well, I'll tell you one thing before the day's out."
Freeman looked his question.
"Whether Hedges actually dug that grave or not," said Davidson. "So long."
TO Davidson, as he stepped from the telephone booth after sending a lengthy message the Sunday morning calm of the respectable hotel had an air of complete unreality. He almost smiled as he thought how it would startle the elderly man in the gold-rimmed spectacles who was the only occupant of the lounge if he had described the scene from which he had just come. Then he frowned a little. Things were not going well. If it had only been a question of telephoning, he could have done that nearer the scene of action, but he had hoped, perhaps unreasonably, to have found waiting for him a message which would have opened up definite possibilities. As it was, the best thing he could do seemed to be to return to Mardon in the hope of further developments.
And yet he hesitated. Freeman, he believed, would give him anything available, and unless the Park yielded further traces there was little to be expected until the body had been examined. Of course, there was Nillett; but Davidson, for a variety of reasons, was not inclined to rate Nillett very high in his list of suspects. Otherwise, there seemed a possibility of finding out more in the neighbourhood of Richmond's house. He was still undecided when a page boy hurried up.
"Mr. Davidson, sir? Special message."
Davidson's spirits rose as he glanced at the envelope: but his face showed nothing as he dismissed the boy with a tip. Crossing to a quiet corner of the room, out of sight of the elderly man, he ripped open the flap. Three heavy envelopes marked A, B, and C he recognized as the samples of earth which he had despatched the previous day; but the thinner envelope probably contained the answer to his question. He tore it open impatiently.
The first three sheets which it contained were a meaningless jumble of figures and symbols at which he looked askance, with a pang of regret that such chemistry as he had learnt at school had long since been forgotten. The fourth was more helpful.
"Dear Davidson," he read. "Herewith are samples and analyses. Don't understand your hurry, but am sending by a pal who is motoring down... Are you thinking of deserting the pen for the spade, or merely giving the Marketing Boards a stinger? Of course you won't understand the chemistry. In plain English, none of the samples is identifiable with either of the others. A and B are very similar; but B has more lime and phosphates. C, as you'd observe if you weren't a complete ignoramus, is basically different. Plump for B if it's horticulture; the others are acid. In haste, Bill."
Davidson whistled softly. The second sample, of course, was that which he had taken from Jane Ferrard's garden—and it showed distinct resemblances to the earth he had taken from Hedges' boots and trousers. But they were not identical. The third sample, from Mardon, was quite different. Abruptly he made up his mind. Freeman could work his own sweet will at Mardon. At the moment it was the grave which the gardener had dug which promised the best news, and that must be his next objective. He stuffed the envelope into his pocket and made for the garage.
He was approaching the cross-roads before it occurred to him that his next step was actually far from clear. If Jane Ferrard was guilty it would be asking for trouble to ask her if she minded him looking round her garden for some unfrequented spot to which her lime and fertilizer had not penetrated. But in any case he was not counting much on Jane Ferrard. Hedges had been quite clear that the grave had been dug in a Park; and that in itself ruled out her garden. She did not strike him as a murderess—except when armed with a club in the cause of justice and, thinking it over, he could see no possible way in which she could have left Richmond's house in time to kill the victim, dig the grave, and return to take part in the burglary. At the worst she could only be a confederate to the second murder, and he did not think she was even that. Still undecided, he pulled his car up at the top of the lane and started down it towards the gate of Richmond's house.
With his hand on the latch he was conscious of an unusual feeling of bashfulness. Professionally and socially he had every reason for calling; on the one hand to extract further information about Jane Ferrard, Kemsley, and the others; on the other to tell Marjorie about the latest developments and to give her a reassurance which he suspected might only be temporary, about the dead man's identity. He had just made up his mind when the sight of two figures seated in a secluded corner of the paved garden made him pause.
They were Branden and Marjorie Richmond. He felt a shock of surprise; then a less amiable feeling. Branden's attitude and the girl's half-averted face even at that distance left no doubt as to the subject of their conversation. An unreasonable impulse to go forward and interrupt them came over him, but he restrained himself. Unconscious that he himself was being watched, he stood glaring rather than looking at the Couple on the stone seat. Then a voice behind him made him jump.
"You believe in love at first sight, Mr. Davidson?"
He turned. Jane Ferrard was standing a couple of yards away regarding him with a look of grim amusement. He felt his colour rising.
"I beg your pardon?" he said stiffly; then recovered and achieved something like a smile. "Good morning, Miss Ferrard. I'm sorry that I—"
"You'd better come away from the gate to make your apologies. They might look up... Now, don't be a fool and go bursting in!"
"I wasn't going to—" Davidson protested.
"Of course not." Jane Ferrard smiled. "Your interest was merely professional? Come into my place. I'd like to talk to you."
The reporter obeyed reluctantly, forgetful of the fact that only a short time before it had been his intention to bring about such a conversation. He felt angry and embarrassed, as much by his own reaction to what he had just heard, as by the fact that it was evidently no secret to Jane Ferrard.
Out of sight of the road and Richmond's garden she stopped and faced him.
"About that—" she began and jerked her thumb eloquently.
"Really, Miss Ferrard—" Davidson protested.
"Don't trouble to lie. I said yesterday you were bad at telling the truth. You're not much of a liar either... About that. You needn't worry."
"Worry?" Davidson echoed stupidly. "I—"
"There's nothing in it—now, particularly. Good heavens, man! Couldn't you see? You were staring hard enough. She didn't want him."
"You mean Miss Richmond—" Unaccountably he felt his heart lighten. "Mr. Branden—"
"If you think a girl who's as pretty as Marjorie Richmond is going to remain unnoticed even in a godforsaken place like this—until Reporter Prince Charming comes along, of course—well!" She made a gesture of despair. Davidson flushed uncomfortably. "Branden fell for her some time ago. He's been at it pretty steadily for months. And he's not the only one."
"Major Bexley," Davidson said.
"Oh, you know that?.... Yes, but Bexley's too old and battered. Richmond himself thought that. And, anyway, Bexley has got some sense. He knew it too. But he'd die for her."
Remembering the scene of the night before, Davidson could well believe it. But just at that moment he was not interested in the Major.
"Then Mr. Branden—" he began.
"Branden's a different proposition. Richmond favoured Branden. If he'd had his way, Marjorie would have married him. Now—"
"He couldn't have made her," Davidson retorted. "If she didn't love him—"
"Couldn't he?" Her eyebrows rose. "Besides, it's not impossible that she might. Love Branden, I mean."
"You mean she does?"
Jane Ferrard sighed. "I meant what I said... Not every girl is so decisive and tempestuous in her ideas about these things as—as young reporters seem to be, Mr. Davidson," she said acidly. "I only mean that there's nothing much wrong with Branden. A little old, perhaps, but still a decent fellow and a good match. A little encouragement and pressure from her father, a little persistence on Branden's part—" She shrugged her shoulders. "Who knows?"
Belatedly, Davidson's professional instinct awoke. He did not exactly see the bearing of this upon Richmond's death, but it might have one.
"You didn't tell this to the Superintendent?" he asked.
Her eyebrows rose. "My good man! Why should I?"
"But, don't you see, if Richmond has been murdered—" he began.
"Mr. Branden murdered him?" She laughed. "Well, I suppose Branden would want to abolish his last hope of getting Marjorie!"
But just at that moment Davidson had not been thinking of Branden. The words she had spoken a short time before recurred to his mind.
"I meant, if Bexley were jealous—" he suggested.
"But Major Bexley wasn't!" she interrupted impatiently. "He's no dog in the manger. If he thought Marjorie wanted to marry a man and that he'd make her happy—"
"You think Branden would?"
"Why not?" Her eyes met his challengingly; then she laughed at his discomfiture. "Well, that's all. I shouldn't worry."
Davidson looked at her, scarcely knowing what to say. He felt a conviction which was almost a certainty that the woman before him could have had nothing to do with the abduction of Hedges or the murder. Suddenly he decided on what might have been a rash step. Drawing from his pocket the envelope which he had received he extracted the three sheets of analysis and held them out to her.
"It's changing the subject rather," he said, "but I'd be interested if you'd tell me what you make of those?"
Her expression changed a little, but she accepted them. Manifestly to her the technicalities which had puzzled him were no obstacle. She studied them attentively; then looked up with a suggestion of hostility in her eyes.
"A trap, Mr.—Reporter?" she demanded.
"Nothing of the kind!" Davidson denied hastily. "You see—"
"Well, that doesn't matter. One of these—" She held out the sheet marked B, "appears to be an analysis of the soil in my garden.... I see. The sample you took yesterday? You've lost no time. The other two, I'm afraid—"
She broke off with a shrug. It was evident that her suspicions were aroused. Davidson felt that he had blundered, and, in his haste to mend matters, made things worse.
"The first is a sample of the soil from Hedges' boots and trousers—" he began.
"And, of course you've noticed that there are distinct resemblances to the soil in my garden?" Her face hardened, as though she was on the point of saying something violent; then she laughed. "But, thank God! My garden's not in that state!"
"I didn't mean that at all—"
"You did. Let's see what kind of a case you've got against me... Of course, I know Hedges, and might think of employing him as a grave digger. And I knew Richmond pretty well—but I really don't see that you can prove much motive... What's your suggestion? Unrequited love?.... Well, I suppose you think I behaved suspiciously last night—going in chase of the burglar and so on? Anything more?"
"Yes," Davidson admitted. He was watching her face, but it showed nothing but a kind of scornful amusement. "One or two things—"
"I'd be interested—"
"I'm scarcely at liberty. The Superintendent—" He tried a disarming smile. "In any case, I don't believe it. Should I have shown them to you otherwise?"
She sniffed contemptuously and handed back the papers.
"What I was going to say was," Davidson continued, "that the third sample was taken from Mardon Park—not far from the spot where the headless body of a man wearing Richmond's clothes was dug up this morning!"
"What?" Her surprise was obviously genuine. Almost at once it was succeeded by a look of comprehension. "Of course, Nillett...! Poor Marjorie! That's why you came?"
"Not exactly." Davidson hesitated. He felt that he had perhaps already said too much to please Freeman, and he was wondering how far he should go. "There's a doubt about the identity—more than a doubt, I think. And it can't possibly be the grave that Hedges dug."
"Obviously, in view of your third sample."
"And there are other reasons... But, you see, the point is that, if it isn't Richmond, we don't know who it is. And where is Richmond?"
Jane Ferrard's face was inscrutable. He realized that her quick brain must have read something into the words which he had not intended.
"Who do you think it is?" she demanded.
"We've really no data yet—" Davidson began and succumbed. "Kemsley," he admitted.
"Kemsley?" Her eyebrows rose. "Why?"
"That's the point. We know that he was at Mardon last night. We know that he never came home, because the police were watching his house... As he's disappeared—"
"That's your only reason?"
"Up to date... Miss Ferrard, who is Kemsley? The name sticks in my mind somehow, but—"
"Apart from being a beastly little bounder and an execrable artist—"
"I heard that. Even the Superintendent seemed to be horrified by his colours."
"That's the funny part. He can't paint, but he can draw.... Well, there's nothing else. Except that he's been a nuisance in one way or another ever since he came. Particularly to Mr. Branden. It's his cottage Kemsley lives in, you know. He let it to Kemsley about a year after he came here and has been regretting it ever since. They almost fight when they meet."
"Who is he friendly with?"
"No one locally. Oh, I suppose Richmond tolerated him."
"Because he'd saved his life?"
"I suppose so. Not that it's a logical reason. He used to have friends down sometimes. Artists, probably. A scrubby lot." She frowned. "But why kill Kemsley? Disliking him is one thing. You don't kill everyone you dislike."
"That's what puzzles me. Mind you, I'm not positive that it is Kemsley... I'm saying this under the seal of the confessional. I doubt if Freeman would approve at all. But you might help me."
"How?"
"By telling me what you know about them all. Mr. Branden, for example. Who is he? What is he?"
"A shopkeeper!" she said, and laughed at his expression. "That is, I believe he gets his income from a chain of furniture shops. He's nothing very active to do about them. Highly respectable. Rich. Unmarried—so far. Conservative. C. of E.—but never goes. That's about all. Doesn't sound very sinister, does it?"
"Major Bexley?"
"You can look up his war record for yourself. It's a good one. About three-quarters of the description applies to him—but he does go to Church."
Davidson was disappointed. There seemed to be nothing to his purpose in all this, no obvious link between these highly respectable people and the murder. He had the feeling that perhaps Jane Ferrard could have told him more if she had been willing. He tried again.
"Dr. Walbersley?"
"Really, Mr. Davidson, I don't know how far one should go in discussing personal friends as murder suspects. Surely the doctor can't have anything to do with it?"
"He was here last night—drugged Miss Richmond. Why?"
"I suppose someone had the sense to send for him... Or probably he was attending Bexley. But he's a perfectly normal doctor. Nothing at all—" She broke off and looked past him. "Ah, he's going!"
Davidson turned in time for a glimpse of Branden as he went down the lane. He did not look in their direction. He was evidently too occupied with his own thoughts and, judging by his expression they were not particularly cheerful. The reporter made an involuntary movement towards the gate; but his hostess barred the way.
"Just a moment, Mr. Davidson," she said forbiddingly. "If you're going to see Marjorie, I'd like some assurance that—well, that your visit won't be too ruthlessly professional."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Otherwise," she continued, ignoring him, "I shall come with you and tell her that you're trying to use her to trap her father."
"But, good God—!" Davidson cried.
"Don't say the idea had never entered your head. Kemsley the victim, Richmond the murderer. Tries to make out that he's been murdered and bolts. That was it, wasn't it?"
"It was suggested," Davidson admitted. "But I don't believe it for a moment. There's no motive. And there's the other grave—the one Hedges dug. And, anyhow, if you think—" He broke off, flushing angrily. "I should never dream—!"
She scrutinized him for a minute; then her face relaxed.
"Good boy! I don't believe you would. Then I won't stand in your way—unless the Superintendent does."
"Freeman?" He was suddenly aware of footsteps coming up the path and turned just as the Superintendent came round the corner. He raised his hat.
"Morning, Miss Ferrard," he said. "I thought Mr. Davidson might be here—"
"You're not arresting him?"
"Not this time." Freeman essayed a smile. "I'd like his help if you can spare him."
"Just going to.... Well!" She eyed them for a moment and nodded. Good morning!"
She turned abruptly. Freeman watched her as she went up the path.
"What's the idea?" he asked.
"Oh, trying to get some dope about our suspects."
"You're quite friends again?" Freeman grinned; then sobered suddenly. "I've got a search warrant. Oh, by the way, the body's been identified. It's Kemsley."
"Who by?"
"Walbersley. Tell you later. Come on."
"And where to, anyway?" Davidson asked, falling into step beside him.
"Kemsley's cottage. It's time we looked it over."
FREEMAN seemed disinclined to be communicative. They had passed Branden's gate before the reporter ventured another question.
"How did Walbersley come to identify him?"
"Walbersley? Oh, he'd attended Kemsley for a dog bite. The scar was there. Quite unmistakable, he said."
"You sent for him?"
"Yes. Kemsley didn't seem to have any close friends—and anyway, people don't notice things. Walbersley used to treat him for rheumatism."
"Rheumatism?" Davidson repeated thoughtfully. "That might be suggestive. The Hedges' suspects—suffering from some physical infirmity, you know—"
"Damn it, he wouldn't arrange for someone to dig his own grave!"
"But probably there are two. And, for that matter two murderers. The same man needn't have done both. There was a difference. Whoever killed Kemsley seems to have dug the grave himself."
"Perhaps.... Walbersley agrees with the doctor's evidence, by the way. But still, there might be something wrong—"
They had reached the gate of Kemsley's cottage. As the Superintendent stepped across to speak to a policeman who was evidently on duty there, Davidson stood looking at it. Right on the edge of Branden's property, and overlooking it, the house might have been the ideal picturesque country cottage; but it seemed as if Kemsley had had no taste for the picturesque. Or perhaps he disliked gardening. The whole place wore an air of untidy neglect; the hedges were unclipped; the borders unweeded. Probably, Davidson reflected, Kemsley's carelessness as a tenant had something to do with the disagreements between himself and his landlord.
Freeman's conversation with his subordinate seemed to be unduly prolonged. As he waited, the reporter tried to impress the details of the locality on his mind. The cottage was a little beyond the stile where he and Miss Ferrard had encountered the policeman. Obviously the field path would have been the natural way for anyone going to the cottage to take. From where he stood he could look beyond Branden's grounds to the trees of the Priory, and as he looked something made him think of its absent owner. He was wondering whether the police had done anything to check Glinton's alibi when the Superintendent's voice broke in on his thoughts.
"Ready?" he asked. "My men are waiting."
Two obvious detectives were waiting near the porch, one burdened with what seemed to be a camera and an oilskin case. The other man stepped forward as they opened the gate.
"Door's locked, sir," he reported. "All the windows as well."
Freeman grinned and felt in his pocket.
"I don't expect that'll worry me," he said. "These locks are easy."
In this he was mistaken. The dead artist, perhaps, had had an exaggerated idea of the value of his work; for he had been at some pains to make his dwelling secure. In the end it was the kitchen window which yielded. Davidson scrambled through in the wake of the Superintendent, followed by the two plain clothes men.
Inside, the cottage was much as the outside might have made one fear. Furniture had been reduced to a minimum, and a glance through the open door of what was apparently the sitting-room showed that that was no more habitable than the room in which they stood. Kemsley apparently did, or neglected to do, his own housework, and a pile of unwashed plates suggested that recently inspiration had not moved him that way.
Freeman gazed round the bare kitchen. The rusty stove, a table and chair, an upturned box accommodating a Primus, was all that it offered, and the small pantry beneath the staircase was almost bare. He nodded to the man carrying the baggage, who began to unstrap his case.
"Nothing here, I'm afraid," he said. "Come along."
He motioned the reporter into the sitting-room. It was as barren as the kitchen. A pile of crumpled newspapers and a remarkable quantity to cigarette ends in the grate showed that it was used, but except for a decrepit easy chair there was no attempt at comfort. But there were pictures. As he looked at them, an exclamation escaped from Davidson's lips.
"Good heavens!"
Freeman grinned. "Striking, aren't they?" he asked. "They'd almost provide a motive for murder in themselves... D'you think he was colour blind—?" His expression changed. "Or is the art business a blind? That's what I've been wondering. I've ideas about Mr. Kemsley."
Davidson had stepped over to examine a particularly glaring specimen which might have been a seascape. He shook his head.
"Don't know," he said, "but I'd say he was an artist—a good one up to a point."
Freeman looked at him in amazement.
"The devil he was!" he ejaculated. "Then there's hope for me as leader of the Russian ballet. Modern art beats me anyhow... See anything here?"
"Nothing. Don't even see where anything could be. Except those."
He nodded towards the pictures. Freeman shuddered.
"Let's try upstairs," he suggested. "Don't expect he sleeps with them!"
The two rooms above opened on either side of the stair head. Freeman pushed open a door on the right. He had been right in his guess. Kemsley had hung no pictures on the wall of his bedroom. Its simplicity was severely utilitarian. A bed, a chair, a wash-stand and a row of hooks containing an assortment of garments was all the furniture; an open trunk on the floor near the window apparently contained the rest of the dead man's possessions.
It was the trunk which first attracted Freeman's attention. In a moment he was kneeling down beside it, exploring its contents with expert fingers. But again he drew blank. Garment after garment, mixed with odd boots, socks and ties in wild disorder came out in turn, each being scrutinized carefully before it was added to the heap. But when the trunk was empty Freeman had found nothing. He knelt looking at the pile for a moment; then, without a word walked towards the clothes which hung on the pegs.
But even here there was nothing to find. Such oddments as their pockets contained had nothing very significant about them. And there was not a scrap of writing. The Superintendent turned to Davidson with a puzzled face.
"It's funny," he said. "Damn funny."
"What, exactly?"
"Why, just that there is nothing... How many houses do you think you could search and find nothing—absolutely nothing, connected with the past of the occupants? There's not a letter—not even a bill or a photograph. It's just as if someone had gone through it already and taken everything that might be helpful."
"Perhaps someone has?"
"Maybe. But I don't think it's only that. It looks to me as though Kemsley had deliberately avoided having anything here which might connect him with his past—as though he'd completely cut himself off from something... It's fishy. Looks as though he might have a record."
"Damn funny," Davidson agreed. "And I know his name suggests something to me.... Incidentally, there are no artists' materials that we've seen up to date. The other room—"
"Perhaps," Freeman said dubiously. "If he was an artist. I wonder if anyone ever saw him painting?"
He led the way out to the door the other side of the stairs. But here an obstacle confronted them. This door was locked, and like that on the front door the lock was a good one. It took Freeman some little time to deal with it, and then only by the crude method of forcing out the socket. He pushed the door open.
"Wonder what sort of a mess there is here?" he asked. "I expect—"
He broke off. This room was in complete contrast to the rest of the house. True, it was littered with a variety of objects; but it was a businesslike litter, like that of a busy, but comparatively methodical man, and the large desk which occupied the window was curiously neat in its arrangement. As Freeman bent down over a pile of papers, Davidson strolled across the room to look at the array of bottles it contained. After a moment he called across to the Superintendent in surprise.
"Thought Kemsley didn't deal in black and white or ink drawing?" he said.
"He didn't—from what people say."
"Well, he'd got a remarkable comprehensive outfit for it. And it's been well used."
Freeman only grunted. He was hopefully wading through the pile, but finding nothing to reward his efforts. It was obviously the raw material for Kemsley's sketches. He looked up. Davidson was copying something into a note-book near the window.
"Nothing here," he said. "But he used some queer stuff. All old scraps—and pretty dirty at that.... Don't artists prefer white paper?"
"Not necessarily. For a lot of subjects and styles a slight tint is better."
"What have you got?"
"Hanged if I know. But it seems to be the only written stuff we've found in the place—"
Freeman left the heap of papers and went over to where the reporter stood. On the wall a paper had been pinned, evidently some kind of a list, written in a beautiful copperplate hand with absolute precision.
"If he couldn't paint, he could write," Freeman conceded. "But what is it?... 'Bilberry, D.Litt. I fol' ... There's a tick against it. 'Dinley, B.So. inc—' and another tick. But what does it mean?"
Together they scanned the list of names. There was almost a score, but only the first half-dozen had been ticked. But the names conveyed nothing to them; the letters even less.
"D.Litt," Davidson murmured thoughtfully. "Doctor of Letters. I wonder if there is a Bilberry who is a D.Litt? It might be possible to find out. But what on earth is a B.So.? Bachelor of—of—?"
"Brandy and soda," Freeman suggested unhelpfully. "Who d'you think they are? Customers? Those ticked off already taken to the asylum?"
"Don't know." Davidson ignored the Superintendent's heavy playfulness. "There's one at the end though you might trace. 'Cotterson and Parley Ltd.' As a company, that will be registered."
"And it's got no degree," Freeman responded. "Well, it looks as though it's all there is. I'll take it anyhow."
As he carefully unpinned it, Davidson was looking round the room. His eyes fell on a heap of ashes in the fire-place.
"Looks to me as though that's why we've found nothing," he said. "Someone has been here before us."
"When was it then?" Freeman countered. "We were watching the place all last night. My own idea is that Kemsley himself burnt everything he didn't actually need—and probably carried the rest about with him. To me it looks more and more like blackmail. If we can find the people on that list—"
"Probably they won't say anything.... What's that?"
Freeman had opened a large portfolio which stood against the wall.
"Only sketches," he said. "And aren't they horrors?"
Davidson peered over his shoulder. Besides the finished work in colour, there was a number of ink sketches. They presented an odd contrast. For Freeman's description of the colour work was accurate; but the pen and ink sketches were beautifully finished and beyond criticism. Freeman closed the portfolio and went over to the grate.
"Not a hope here," he said. "It's been beaten up too fine. Of course, we'll have to try—I wonder who he was? If he's a criminal we'll trace his record all right. Otherwise—"
He shrugged his shoulders. Davidson was frowning. "And the worst of it is I know the name," he said. "Yes, as you say, it's queer. No papers, photographs or anything—except that list... Who's that?"
From below came the sound of voices. Davidson's eyebrows rose as he looked at the Superintendent. Unless he was very much mistaken, Branden was one of the speakers. Evidently Freeman had also recognized the voice. He nodded and moved over to the door.
They had not been mistaken. It was Branden, who had been halted by one of the detectives in the doorway. He stared curiously at Davidson and the Superintendent as they descended the stairs.
"I was told you were here, Superintendent," he greeted them. "Thought you might like to see that maid of mine and get it over. What's happening? Has my tenant been arrested or something? You seem to be in possession."
"Why should we arrest Mr. Kemsley, sir?" Freeman countered blandly. In the more exciting incidents of the morning he had temporarily forgotten all about the servant's story. "Do you know of anything he'd done to warrant arrest?"
"Unfortunately, no!" Branden laughed. "Otherwise he'd have been arrested long ago! He's been a damned nuisance to me for years... Is it the murder?"
"Murder, sir?" Freeman echoed in innocent surprise.
"Well, I suppose it's murder? What with Hedges' yarn and Richmond vanishing—"
"We can't go on suppositions, sir.... There was something we thought Mr. Kemsley might have told us, but he seems to be out."
"Then I should say he's bolted. Owes me a quarter's rent, incidentally." Branden glanced towards the camera and smiled. It was evident that he was perfectly aware of the purpose of the police visit; but he said nothing to indicate it. "Well, I won't interrupt you. Perhaps you'll be over when you're ready? In the meantime, I don't mind telling you that my whole household is disorganized by the prospect. I'll be lucky if I get any lunch."
He laughed good-humouredly, nodded and went down the path. The Superintendent frowned after him.
"Now, why in the hell did he come?" he demanded.
"Curiosity, perhaps.... More probably, he was actually telling the truth—that he heard you were here and wanted to get that servant interview over... You're going?"
Freeman grunted. "If he asks me to go the odds are that there's nothing in it!" he said pessimistically. "He guessed what we were at, didn't he?"
"He could hardly help it. He didn't seem worried, anyhow."
Freeman grunted and stood for a moment without answering.
"If he was sure we'd draw blank he wouldn't be," he said finally. "Look here, I'd just like to talk things over. Let me put Williams on to that stuff upstairs. I'll be right down. Wait in the sitting-room, will you?"
DAVIDSON was smoking a cigarette and eyeing the pictures thoughtfully when Freeman rejoined him a few minutes later. He sank wearily into the easy chair and filled his pipe.
"It's time we straightened things out a little," he said after a pause. "Now, at any rate, we have got a corpse—even if it is the wrong one. We know a crime has been committed. That's something."
"Didn't we before?"
"No. Not till the burglary, anyhow. And even that might have been Richmond. Otherwise it was all supposition, based on Hedges' yarn—which may be nonsense—and Richmond's disappearance. It looked like a crime, but we didn't know."
"I'd bank on Hedges' story being true. Wouldn't you."
"Perhaps I would—now. But it doesn't fit."
"I can confirm it in one way... That was one of the things I meant to tell you. The earth on his trousers doesn't completely correspond with that of Miss Ferrard's garden where he'd been working. Neither is it the same as the earth from Mardon Park. I've an idea about that."
"More than I have," Freeman said wearily. "There may be another grave. Or, I still think, Kemsley's murderer might have heard of the dream and worked things to fit it.... The great question is, why was Kemsley killed?"
"Obviously because he knew something about the first murder."
"If there was a first murder... The position is that we saw Kemsley alive when we went to see Nillett at Mardon. Why did Kemsley go there? Perhaps to plant the suit-case; perhaps to see Nillett."
"That's an idea."
"Which doesn't get us very far.... Kemsley vanishes. Some time later, Richmond's house is burgled. We find Kemsley's hat near the scene of your struggle with Miss Ferrard. Then, looking for Richmond, we find Kemsley's body in Richmond's clothes. Without a head."
"Yes." Davidson nodded. "And the point seems to be that we found him only because of Richmond's case—which was put there for us to find. Somebody wanted Richmond to be found dead—or a body people would think was Richmond. That seems clear enough."
"It's certain that Kemsley's death is connected with Richmond's disappearance. But we don't know that Richmond is dead. On the face of it, it rather looks as if Richmond was the murderer."
"Too many objections. For one thing, I can't reject Hedges' story. But if Richmond vanished at half-past five, and is still alive, where did he go? Where is he?"
"He might have come here."
"But he's not here now... I'm sure that the right line is to accept Hedges' story as gospel; to assume it was Richmond who was murdered; that the house was burgled because it contained something bearing on Richmond's death; and that Kemsley died because he knew something about Richmond's death, or was somehow concerned. That way, it does make a complete picture."
"And the manuscript?"
"I've very little doubt that that provided the motive of the whole thing. In that way, it all links up. .... I admit that, theoretically, it needn't. But to believe it doesn't is to stretch coincidence worse than if it does."
"If we could find the grave—Richmond's grave," Freeman said unhappily, "we'd know where we stood. Supposing you're right. Who killed Richmond? Why?"
"The reason was obviously to get possession of that manuscript. As for who killed him, I don't think we can get away from what we said before. It was someone who knew the Richmond household and Richmond well; someone who knew about Hedges: someone physically incapable of digging the grave."
"But, in fact, the murderer must have dug Kemsley's grave."
"I don't know.... It's even possible that Kemsley might have been induced somehow to dig it himself. Still, these seem to be the indications in Richmond's murder. And the people who fit them are Bexley, Branden, Jane Ferrard, Walbersley, and Nillett—in greater or less degree. Not to mention Glinton, if we can't prove where he's been. Now, taking them in order—"
"Just a minute. Let's hear your version of what the murderer did in chronological order. When did the business start?"
"Either when Richmond comes into possession of the manuscript, or when he finds out what he's got and tells someone about it. I think it's quite possible he told several people. He may have been more specific than he was to Nillett, whom he distrusted. He sets off to go to Mardon, and is murdered quite soon after leaving the house; before he gets to the station. The murderer hides the body. Being unable to dig a grave himself, he gets Hedges to do it, hoping that the gardener's story won't be believed, or that he himself will think he dreamed it. Richmond must have been carrying the manuscript—all but the leaf we found. The murderer somehow knows where it is; the next night he goes to get it and attacks Miss Richmond. In the meantime, Kemsley has some idea who the murderer is. He goes to Mardon, probably with a view to confirming his suspicions; accuses the murderer, and is himself killed—perhaps after digging his own grave. The murderer has been using Richmond's car—perhaps because he doesn't possess one himself. He buries Kemsley, leaves the suit-case, returns the car, and plants the hat for us to find next morning."
Freeman grunted. "And the murderer is—"
"Let's try a process of elimination. Now, first, I'd eliminate Nillett. You see, there's every sign that a lot of this business has been well thought out, and that there has been the deliberate intention of focusing our inquiries on Mardon. Naturally Nillett wouldn't do that. Again, Richmond's car is used and brought back, but it would be no advantage for Nillett to use Richmond's car. He'd have to provide his own transport to Richmond's house to get it, and back to Mardon. The use of the car shows it was someone at this end, not the other. Again, there was the old manuscript scandal. Nillett must have known that would come up, and make him an object of suspicion. It would have frightened him. But the murderer counted on it. Again, Nillett couldn't have known that Miss Richmond had been drugged when the burglary took place."
"Well. Perhaps."
"I'd be inclined, myself to rule out Miss Ferrard. She's quite strong enough to dig graves for herself—and gardening is her hobby. She wouldn't have needed Hedges. On the other hand, she did talk to Richmond; she might have known about the manuscript; she had the best chance of doing the burglary but, I don't see how she could have got to Mardon in time to do the burial. It's not impossible; but it would need a lot of luck."
"And the others. Well, Branden wouldn't need a gardener, either. And there's no evidence that he knew about the manuscript. He'd every motive for wanting to keep Richmond alive—because Richmond was in his favour so far as Miss Richmond was concerned. All there is against him is that he knew Hedges, and that he knew Miss Richmond was to be drugged.... Against Bexley, there's that and the fact that Bexley couldn't dig the grave. On the other hand, I doubt if he knows anything about manuscripts."
"Leaving, out of that list, only Walbersley. But couldn't he dig a grave himself?"
"Perhaps... But there is one special point against him, and that is that the amputation of Kemsley's head was an expert job."
"The head," Freeman repeated. "Now, if I knew where that was—"
"So, you see, unless we can tie things down a lot more, there's nobody in the whole list who really fits on all points. That's what bothers me."
"And the answer to that is that your list can't be long enough; or that you're making an assumption which isn't warranted. We don't know that this manuscript was the reason for the murder. Even if it was, there are other possible suspects. Hedges himself. Mrs. Bexley—"
"But surely—" Davidson began and stopped.
"I expect that there are others too... Well, we're not much further. Suppose we run along and see this girl?"
He rose to his feet and led the way out of the cottage. They walked down the lane in silence for some little distance. Freeman broke it, speaking half to himself.
"If we could find that head—"
"If we could find the other grave, with Richmond's body in it we'd know that things happened something like I believe," Davidson countered. "That's what I'm aiming for. By the way, about alibis. You must have some?"
Freeman shook his head.
"All in bed—or say they were," he replied. "No confirmation, naturally. Except Bexley. And his only witness is his mother."
"But at the time Richmond vanished?"
"Bexley was in bed even then—being ill. Branden was in his study. Miss Ferrard was in her garden. Dr. Walbersley was coming back from golf. Nillett was in his library.... And nobody saw any of them at the critical moments."
They entered the drive leading to Branden's house. As they did so, Branden himself emerged from a summer house just inside the gateway. Evidently he had been on the look out for them.
"Glad you've got here," he welcomed them. "You probably can't imagine how shattering official visits of this kind are. Well, you can see what you get out of the girl. Not much, I'm afraid."
He led the way towards the house. It seemed as though his sudden appearance had disconcerted the Superintendent, for it was a minute or two before he put a question.
"You didn't see Mr. Richmond the night he went away, sir?"
"You asked that before, Superintendent. I think I said I wasn't sure. Perhaps that sounds queer, but when you're used to seeing someone— But thinking it over, I'm almost sure I didn't."
"You'd have remembered if you'd spoken to him, anyhow, sir?"
"I'm quite sure I didn't."
"And you were sitting in the summer house all evening?"
"Yes. You see, it's really my study—in summer."
"You heard nothing?"
"Nothing at all."
"And last night, sir? You weren't disturbed at all?"
"No. Just went to bed and slept as usual."
"What time did you go to bed, sir?"
"Oh, about ten o'clock. I'm an early riser. You can't have it both ends."
"I see, sir."
As they reached the house, Freeman temporarily abandoned an examination which was leading nowhere. Branden led the way into a pleasant room, lined with books and ornamented with guns and trophies. Davidson noted that the shelves had obviously been filled with what their owner wished to read, and his tastes were more modern than those of Richmond. He ran his eye along the titles of a row near him. Their host was evidently widely read; but he failed to trace any special peculiarity of character. Then a few ancient calf-bound volumes in a corner caught his eye.
"You collect yourself?" he asked.
"No." Branden laughed. "To tell the truth, Richmond persuaded me. I visited a few sales and got thoroughly stung—as Richmond pointed out."
Davidson nodded, remembering what the girl had told him at their first meeting about Branden's pretended interest in old books. Of course, it would be a good card to play. He bit his lip and subsided. But Freeman was more persistent.
"Anything valuable, sir?" he asked. "Old manuscripts?"
Branden gave him an amused glance. "Worth about threepence apiece, most of them," he said. "Here's the girl coming now."
Obviously scared, but with apprehension partly relieved by pleasurable excitement the maid who was ushered in had an innocently stupid face which promised to respond well to questioning. The stern-faced woman with her was a different proposition. Davidson guessed she was the housekeeper, and experience in interviewing the type told him that with either police or Press she would be as close as an oyster. Branden spoke to her.
"Ah, thanks, Mrs. Wilby... I'm glad to say the Superintendent is ready to get it over. Won't take long, I think."
"No, Mr. Branden."
"You yourself saw nothing?" the Superintendent asked.
"Nothing, sir. If there was anything to see. I was asleep."
"And everyone else, I suppose?"
"So far as I could ascertain, sir." She gave a scornful glance at the maid, who met it with a trace of defiance. "Mary is the only one."
"And she told you?"
"Next morning, sir. She said she was afraid to give the alarm. I'm inclined to think it may have been imagination, sir."
Davidson glanced from one to the other. The girl, he thought, did not look an imaginative type. Probably it was awe of the housekeeper even more than fear of the burglar which had prevented her from raising the alarm.
"Thank you, Mrs. Wilby," Freeman said. He glanced at Branden. "If you don't mind, sir," he said apologetically, "I think I'd like to question the girl alone."
"Of course," Branden assented readily. "I'll wait outside. Let me know when you're through."
There was no obvious reluctance in his manner as he withdrew. Freeman waited until the door had shut behind him.
"And now," he said pleasantly. "You've something to tell us, Mary? That is your name?"
"No, sir. May—May Annabelle Walker."
"You've been here some time?"
"Oh yes, sir. Nearly four years."
Freeman waited for a moment to see if she would continue voluntarily; but she was still too scared.
"Perhaps you'll tell us about it?" he prompted. "It may be important, you know."
"Oh yes, sir. The burglary—and poor Miss Richmond. If I'd known I'd have screamed right away... Well, sir. It was like this. I'd had toothache, and Mrs. Wilby gave me something for it. I went to sleep, but it must have wore off, because I woke up and it was driving me silly, sir, so I got out of bed—"
"You didn't put on the light?"
"No, sir. We're not supposed to, sir, not after eleven. Well, I took some aspirins, and rubbed my face with some of that smelly embrocation stuff, but it didn't seem to go off and I was walking up and down. I just happened to look through the window and there he was!"
She paused dramatically, now thoroughly wound up.
"He?" Freeman asked. "It was a man?"
"Oh, yes, sir. You could see he wore trousers, sir."
"That's no guarantee these days." Freeman grunted, and the girl giggled. "Had he a hat?"
"Yes, sir. Just an ordinary sort, sir. Felt."
"You saw his face?"
"No, sir. It was too dark for that, sir... Crossing the lawn, he was sir, just as if he was prowling round the house. A sort of shadowy, mysterious figure, like they have in books—"
"And then?"
"Well, sir, at first I was scared, and I nearly woke Fanny—she sleeps in the next room, sir. And then I didn't like to and my tooth felt better. So I waited a little while, sir. But nothing else happened. I went back to bed and dozed off, sir."
Evidently she felt that this was something of an anti-climax. Freeman's eyebrows rose a fraction.
"Wasn't that rather an unusual thing to do?" he asked. "If you thought you'd seen a burglar—"
"But I didn't, sir. Not then. Only afterwards in the morning—"
There was a trace of embarrassment in her manner. The Superintendent seized upon the vital point.
"You didn't think it was a burglar?" he asked. "Then, who did you think it was?"
"I—I don't know, sir."
"You recognized him?" Freeman snapped abruptly.
"No. No, sir. Not to say recognized him."
"But you thought you knew who it was?" Freeman pressed his advantage. "That's the real reason why you didn't give the alarm, wasn't it?"
The girl was obviously frightened. She could not meet his eyes.
"Now, I know that's the truth," Freeman said persuasively; but there was an undertone of threat in his voice. "You'd better tell us everything. Who did you think it was?"
"I thought, sir—it was silly of me, sir—"
"Well?"
She took a deep breath and plunged.
"I thought it might be Major Bexley, sir. Or the master!"
IN spite of himself Davidson started at the unexpectedness of the answer; but the Superintendent's face remained absolutely impassive. The girl, scared by her own rashness, was gazing from one to the other fearfully. After a perceptible pause Freeman spoke again.
"I see," he said. "It was—let me see—about half-past three at night, wasn't it? You saw someone in the garden, and you thought, almost immediately, that it might be Major Bexley. Or Mr. Branden. Why?"
The girl did not answer. Freeman went on inexorably. "Are you suggesting that the Major or Mr. Branden are in the habit of taking midnight walks? In that case, of course, no doubt they can explain."
"No! Please, sir!" She was evidently terrified at the thought of what result her indiscretion might have if reported to Branden. "I didn't know, as you might say. I just thought—"
"You had some reason. You'd better tell us."
"Well, sir," she hesitated. "I did think that the Major might be watching the house—keeping an eye on Mr. Branden. I've seen him, sir, waiting—when it was my evening out and I came home late."
"Often?"
"Several times, sir."
"And that's all? You've built up this fairy tale on such trifles as seeing Major Bexley out late at night? My good girl, don't you know what may happen to people who spread malicious gossip without reason?"
Davidson was more than a little surprised at Freeman's tone; but the Superintendent had judged his subject well. The girl flushed and broke out angrily:
"It isn't, then! Fanny could tell you the same. Regularly he waits for the master. And I know why it is as well as they do. It's that Richmond girl."
"What do you mean?" Surprised as Freeman must have been, his feelings were nothing to those of the reporter. "What has Miss Richmond to do with it?"
"They're keen on her. Everyone knows that. And the Major is jealous mad about her. I know. I heard them. And her carrying on with Mr. Branden and meeting him when any decent girl would be in bed—"
Davidson could hardly restrain himself. He caught the Superintendent's warning eye upon him.
"You're suggesting that there was an intrigue between your master and Miss Richmond?"
"There was, sir. He'd go out late at night—and I suppose she'd slip out to meet him."
"But you've never seen them together?"
"I have then! It was when I was coming back from my aunt's funeral. The train came after midnight and it was late and there'd been a car ordered but it hadn't come. I got a lift part way and walked the rest. I was just coming to the corner of the road when I saw them—the master and her. He was holding her arm, but I couldn't hear what they said. Well, he took her up to the house, and I heard him say 'Hope you don't wake up your father', and she said 'Oh, daddy sleeps like a log' and laughed. She went in, and Mr. Branden turned round sharp and started back home. I had to hide in the hedge—"
"You'd followed them to Richmond's house?"
"Well, sir, of course. I wondered—"
"Then that was all?"
"It wasn't, sir. Mr. Branden had only gone a little way when someone else stopped him. He must have been very quiet behind me or I'd have heard. Master said 'Why, hullo, Bexley! What are you doing here?' Then I heard the Major. 'Look here, Branden,' he said, 'this has gone far enough. I won't stand it. I'll go to Richmond first.' And the master said 'What the devil d'you mean? Are you mad?' Proper angry they were."
"What happened?"
"The Major said 'I saw you with her to-night. I've seen you slink out before, but I didn't suspect at first. It's got to stop.' And Mr. Branden didn't say anything for a bit, and then it was something quiet I couldn't catch. The Major flashed out at once. 'I'll stop it one way or another,' he said. 'You'll see.' And Mr. Branden said 'Mind your own damned business, Major. You can something well do what you like!' I mean, sir, he swore."
Freeman nodded. He believed every word of it and in the unconscious mimicry of her gestures could even see the two men.
"And what happened then?" he asked.
"Nothing, sir. I thought the Major would hit him, but he didn't. He turned away and that was all."
"And you heard no more about it?"
"No, sir?"
"But you've seen Mr. Branden and the Major together. Did they quarrel?"
"No, sir. But the Major was stiff like, sir."
Freeman considered for a moment. Davidson was bursting with questions which he would have liked to ask, but this was the Superintendent's affair. The girl looked appealingly at her inquisitor. The reaction had set in, and her lips quivered.
"You—you won't tell them, sir? That I was watching? I'd get the sack—"
"Not if you've told me all the truth," Freeman assured her. "I'll have to make a few inquiries. Perhaps I'll need to see you later. In the meantime, keep your tongue still. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's all, then. Don't forget!"
She was very subdued as she went out, and Freeman had very little doubt that, for her own sake she would do as she was told. The unexpectedness of this new line rather bewildered him and he failed to see its exact bearing on the case. Davidson broke in on his thoughts with explosive violence.
"It's a damned lie! Miss Richmond wouldn't—!"
Freeman eyed him. "You seem to know a lot about her—in two days," he said dryly. "No. The girl wasn't lying. Though, I admit, she may have misinterpreted the facts."
"But it's impossible—"
"Shut up! Branden's coming... For God's sake try to look normal—"
Branden, at any rate, was absolutely unperturbed. It seemed as if the thought had never crossed his mind that anything detrimental to him might have emerged in the interview.
"Well?" he asked. "Got everything you want?"
Freeman hesitated for the fraction of a second. Then he smiled.
"Yes, sir," he said. "Doubt if there's much in it, though you never know. In any case, she couldn't identify the man... She says she took something for her tooth, sir. What was that?"
"A good stiff shot of hot whisky!" Branden grinned. "That may have had a bit to do with it, you think?"
"Shouldn't be surprised, sir.... Of course, we can't reject her evidence; but it's not worth much. I think that will be all, sir—unless there's anything you'd like to add?"
"Nothing." Branden ushered them out. "Of course; if anything should turn up I'd let you know at once. Hope you find Richmond."
"I hope so too, sir. Good day."
They were scarcely out of earshot before Davidson exploded.
"You didn't ask him—"
Freeman's cold eye made him realize he was making a fool of himself.
"My good ass!" the Superintendent said witheringly. "We've just this minute found a possible motive for two people. Your idea seems to be that I should lose no time in telling suspects we've found it. If that's the way reporters work—"
"Sorry." Davidson flushed. "But it can't be true. Miss Richmond—"
"All women are pretty much the same. And men for that matter. And when they're in love they're daft."
Davidson made no comment. They walked in silence for a few paces. The reporter scarcely noticed which way they were going. His mind was too full to worry very much.
"You've said a new motive," he said at last. "But it isn't. Richmond was in favour of Branden. He was pressing Marjorie to marry him."
"Who told you?" Freeman's eyebrows rose. "You seem to be well informed—"
"Miss Ferrard. He was using all his influence in Branden's favour. Marjorie—Miss Richmond, didn't love him, but—"
"But she might have done? I see. If that's true it complicates things. But if it lets out Branden, it lets in Bexley."
"Bexley would never kill Richmond—"
"Not even to save the girl? If he knew Richmond's influence was likely to be decisive and make the rest of her life unhappy? I'm not sure I'd trust him myself. You met him. How did he strike you?"
"He wanted to horsewhip me—if I wrote anything against Miss Richmond's interests. I don't mind saying I think he's in love—in a manner of speaking. If he thought Branden was a rotter, I believe he'd go a long—"
"Even as far as murder? Yes. I'm not sure that he wouldn't do even that. But all the same, it would be more logical for him to do Branden in, I should have thought. He knew Hedges. He knew Richmond's house. He couldn't dig the grave himself—"
"But why should he burgle the house? Why steal the manuscript?"
"Perhaps he'll tell us." Freeman grinned and with a start the reporter realized that they were just turning into the Major's gate. "Of course, one could make up a perfectly coherent theory—but it's all theory. Bexley, let us say, was determined to break off any engagement between them. He approached Richmond, but Richmond favoured Branden. Perhaps Bexley wrote a threatening letter. It was that, and not the manuscript Bexley went to steal."
"And the manuscript is just coincidence? It's incredible."
"And yet, coincidences do happen on police work. Believe me, it's the exception rather than the rule in which all the suspicious factors have anything really to do with the crime. Once you stir things up and get people frightened—well, there's no saying what you may unearth, even in the most respectable people."
Davidson made no reply until they had almost reached the door.
"If we only knew where Richmond got the manuscript, and who he told about it—?" he suggested at last.
"If we only knew Richmond was dead," Freeman interrupted. "Or what reliance can be placed on Hedges' story... Though, personally, I think I believe it. One thing I'm doing to-day sometime. Take Hedges along to Mardon and see if he can recognize the spot."
"He won't. I'm sure of that.... We've got to find who Kemsley is. And what that list meant."
"There's plenty to do... Let's watch the Major's reactions first. Maybe he'll spill something."
It crossed the reporter's mind that in the case of Bexley Freeman was evidently preparing to do precisely what he had refused to do with Branden. But he raised no objection. Bexley had evidently seen them coming. He received them on the doorstep with a degree of coldness which, the reporter felt, was probably due to his own presence. The Superintendent's manner, however, might have soothed anyone.
"Awfully sorry to trouble you, Major," he said. "But you'll understand we've got to get the fullest possible details about last night. As you were on the scene almost at once—"
"But there seems to have been no evidence the burglar went that way?" Bexley suggested. It seemed to the reporter that he was suspicious and uncomfortable. Clearly he did not understand the purpose of this visit. "Certainly I saw nothing of them."
"Perhaps not, sir. Still, if you don't mind—" Bexley nodded consent and he proceeded. "I suppose it was the noise of the struggle which roused you, sir?"
"I was awake already. As you may not know, I'm a victim to insomnia. Just lately things have been worse than ever. One of the results of my illness seems to be sleeplessness. I was actually at my window looking out when I heard a shout, and saw the light flash. Naturally, I went out to see what was happening."
"I see, sir. And, in point of fact, you saw nothing to indicate that there was a burglar at all?"
"Why should I? Especially if Miss Ferrard was mistaken in thinking he would come this way."
"Well, sir. That's one reason for our seeing you again. We've found a witness who saw someone quite close. Just about at the right time, sir."
Bexley looked interested, but that was all. He was not in the least worried.
"That alters things," he admitted. "Someone, you say. Couldn't you identify him?"
"That's the point." Freeman paused. His eyes were fixed on Bexley's face. "The impression was, sir, that it might be you!"
Guilty or not, Bexley was undoubtedly completely taken aback. For a moment he just stared. Then he laughed harshly.
"You're suggesting that I'm the burglar?" he asked.
"Not at all, sir," Freeman answered suavely. "But we understand that you were often out late—"
"What if I was? Who says so?"
Bexley was evidently perturbed. Freeman decided to bring matters to a head.
"Someone who witnessed a quarrel between Mr. Branden and yourself after midnight near Richmond's house," he said carefully.
The effect on the Major was peculiar. For a moment it seemed as though his temper was going to get the better of him. All at once he was perfectly calm, though his tightly compressed lips showed the strain under which he was labouring.
"Well?" he asked. "What has that to do with you?"
"I suppose you wouldn't care to say what was the subject of the quarrel?"
"If it had anything to do with Richmond's disappearance of course I should. It had not."
"I think I should judge that, sir."
"I'm sorry."
"I think Miss Richmond—" Freeman began, and paused intentionally.
Bexley's calm collapsed. "She's nothing to do with it!" he burst out.
"Not with your quarrel, sir?"
Bexley did not answer.
"I understand Mr. Richmond would have favoured an engagement between Mr. Branden and his daughter?" Freeman persisted. "I gather, sir, you didn't feel quite the same?"
Bexley opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. He rose to his feet and stood glaring down at the Superintendent.
"You must realize, sir, that it's our duty to inquire into anything which might be connected with Mr. Richmond's disappearance," Freeman continued. "We have to explore every possible motive. Now, if you could see your way to explaining—"
Anger had been succeeded on Bexley's face by an expression of utter weariness.
"I—I have nothing to say to you," he said in a low voice. "Nothing."
"Very well, sir. Good day."
Freeman rose obediently. Bexley made no effort to show them out. He stood staring after them like a man in a dream. As they went down the drive, Davidson glanced back. The Major, he could see, was still standing by the window where they had left him. All at once he turned to Freeman.
"But—why did you do it?" he asked. "On the word of a silly, lying servant girl—"
The Superintendent's eyebrows rose a little but he made no answer.
"Look here, I'm going to see Miss Richmond," Davidson burst out. "I'm going to settle this. I'm positively certain—"
"You're lucky," said Freeman simply. "Well. Go if you like. It's your funeral!"
AS he made his way slowly up the path to the house, Davidson's mind was in a tumult. He had scarcely the vaguest idea what he intended to say, and how this latest development might affect the problem with which they were dealing did not even occur to him. He only wanted to get a denial of what he had just heard from the lips of the girl herself. Desperately he tried to tell himself that the story was the result of a romantic servant's imagination; but in the attitude of Bexley there had been a confirmation that he could not ignore. The Major, at any rate, believed it, and, however clumsily, had tried to shield Marjorie Richmond; and in Davidson's own mind the very vehemence with which he rejected it was the measure of his doubt.
Marjorie was smiling as she entered the room into which he had been shown. At the first glimpse of his face the smile faded. Her hand went to her throat where the marks of the attack of the night before still showed redly; the colour left her face. For a moment she could not speak.
"They—they've found him?" she faltered at last.
"Found him?" Davidson repeated stupidly.
"My father—the grave? Tell me!"
With an effort Davidson forced his mind from the subject which had occupied it to the exclusion of everything else, even the ghastly discovery they had made that morning.
"No," he said. "That is, we found a grave—with a headless body in it. It wasn't your father, though it was dressed in his evening clothes. It was Kemsley."
"Ah!" For a moment relief showed in her face; then her fears returned. "But—but you're sure? Mr. Kemsley—"
"You'd better know the whole truth." Davidson averted his eyes. "We don't think that was the grave Hedges dug. There may be—there may be another."
"Mr. Kemsley? You're sure?"
"Dr. Walbersley identified him. He said there was a scar on the hand—"
"There was." The colour had returned to her face a little. "He used to come here sometimes, you know. I didn't like him, though I was sorry for him—" She broke off. "But why? Who should kill him? What possible reason—?"
"We don't know." Unfortunately, her allusion to motive brought back to him the original reason for his visit. His face set a little more sternly. "That's what Freeman's trying to find out."
"In daddy's clothes?" Her eyes suddenly widened with horror. "You don't—you can't think that daddy—?"
"No. Your father had nothing to do with it." He met the look of appeal in her eyes and his own dropped. "But, Miss Richmond, I shouldn't build too much on this. The grave Hedges dug—we've not found that yet."
The light died from her eyes. Her lips trembled slightly.
"I didn't—I didn't really think—" she began and broke off. "I've always known he was dead—right from the time I first heard in the police station—"
She stopped and stood staring vacantly out of the window with a look of utter misery on her face. Davidson gently led her to a chair.
"It's no use my pretending that I don't think as you do," he said after a while. "It would only be giving you false hopes. I think your father was murdered. What we've got to do now is to find the grave—and the murderer."
He had spoken with the intention of reviving some of the fighting spirit she had shown the night before, and it was only when it was too late he realized that his words sounded brutally practical. This time she failed to respond.
"But—but no one had any grudge against daddy—" she said helplessly. "There was no reason daddy—why—"
Davidson plunged recklessly, the chaotic state of his own emotions making him cruel.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "You know of nothing—nothing that might help?"
She was quick to catch the slight change in his voice. As she looked up at him the hardness in his face frightened her.
"But what—what should I know——?"
"Didn't Major Bexley have some kind of a quarrel with him?" he pursued ruthlessly. "About you, and Mr. Branden?"
She stared at him without comprehension. "But that—that was nothing. Only Major Bexley was too anxious to look after me. When father told him—"
"Did your father know—about your meetings with Branden?" By now he had thrown caution to the winds. Seeing her lips forming the denial he blundered on. "You were seen. There's a witness—a servant—to a quarrel between Bexley and Branden after you had been out late with him one night—"
He stopped at the sight of the expression on her face. When at last she spoke her voice was dangerously quiet.
"I see, Mr. Davidson," she said slowly. "And this witness of yours? What else has she to say?"
"She knew—and Bexley believed it too—that you were meeting Branden."
She rose to her feet. A red spot of colour glowed on either cheek.
"Major Bexley has the right to interest himself in my affairs—as a friend. He is not a reporter, Mr. Davidson."
"But this isn't— I'm not—" Davidson began.
"But what right had you? Except, I suppose, the impertinence which usually justifies your intrusions into private affairs. It would be a good story, I suppose?"
Davidson's own temper rose, partly, perhaps, because he knew himself to be in the wrong.
"You're being unreasonable," he said. "I never thought of it that way—"
"But you—you believed that about me—on the word of a servant? You pried round until you found something—something to link me up with—with— You came here to accuse me—"
"Bexley did worse. He spied on you."
It was perhaps the silliest thing he could have said, and he knew it the moment he had spoken; but she gave him no opportunity of retracting.
"Major Bexley, as I said, is a friend of mine." And her voice faltered. "And you—you—I never—never want to see you again."
"Miss Richmond—" he began helplessly.
"Go away!" she blazed out. "Get out—before I call the servants to—to—"
All at once she broke down. Collapsing into the chair, she buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook convulsively. Davidson took a step towards her. Then a sharp voice behind him made him turn towards the door.
"Well, Mr. Davidson? I suppose this is your idea of sympathetic treatment?"
Jane Ferrard was standing on the threshold, looking at him grimly. Striding past him she knelt down beside the sobbing girl in the chair.
"You fool!" she jerked over her shoulder at him. "Get out!"
Davidson obeyed. Even Miss Ferrard could scarcely call him worse names than he was calling himself. He had been a clumsy fool, and as he went down the path he was filled with a bitter self-reproach for the pain which his words must have caused the sobbing girl who had had so much to bear. Heedless of where he went, he almost collided with the Superintendent who casually emerged from the shade of the hedge where he had been waiting for the past ten minutes.
"Well?" Freeman ignored the reporter's scowl. "What luck? You asked her about it?"
Davidson made no reply; but the Superintendent ignored the warning in his face.
"She denied it?" he persisted. "Angry at the very suggestion, I suppose?"
Davidson looked at him. "Yes," he said.
Freeman nodded. The monosyllable and Davidson's expression were quite enough to give him a good idea of what had transpired at the interview, and the young man was certainly in no mood for any detailed questioning.
"I saw Miss Ferrard go in," he said casually. "What was she doing there?"
"She called me a fool," Davidson said bitterly. "And she was quite right. But she should have said a damned fool... That's .... That's enough about it. All that story is a lie. I don't believe a word of it."
"But Bexley did," Freeman rejoined. "That's the point. And, after all, my immediate business is to find a murderer. Bexley certainly thought—"
"Curse Bexley! Besides, he said nothing—"
"It was what Bexley didn't say that was interesting.... And yet, heaven knows, it's a silly enough reason for killing a man. Perhaps two men, if Richmond's dead Now, if you could only get that instinct of yours going and tell us where it is—"
"Leave me alone!" Davidson snarled. "I'm through with this. I wouldn't touch the damned business again if—"
"Just as you like," Freeman assented suavely. "Though, of course, there is your paper.... And it seems to me that, if you've annoyed the girl your best course would be to push on with it and solve the mystery... However, unfortunately, I'm not through with it. You'll excuse me?"
Before Davidson had had time even to give the grunt which was his only answer he had turned quickly and was retracing his steps in the direction of Kemsley's cottage. Left there alone, Davidson almost called him back. At that moment any company seemed preferable to his own. Instead, he began to walk slowly up the hill to where he had left his car.
The more he thought of it the more unforgivable what he had said appeared. He could think of no possible way of apologizing. Probably Marjorie would not even see him again. And yet, perhaps after all the Superintendent had been right. His one hope might lie in discovering Richmond, dead or alive, or Richmond's murderer. With a new resolve he quickened his pace. After all, he had one or two lines of approach which he did not think had occurred to Freeman. If he could only see some clue to the tangle of conflicting evidence he had the feeling that everything might clear itself up quite suddenly.
He had almost reached the place where he had left his car when a blue saloon braked to a halt on the opposite side of the road. A voice hailed him.
"Mr. Davidson?"
There was a question in the words, and the man who descended from the car was certainly a stranger.
"It is Mr. Davidson, isn't it?" the newcomer asked again. "We haven't met, but my name's Walbersley—"
"Dr. Walbersley?" Davidson eyed him with interest. It struck him that he was meeting for the first time a suspect whom he had rather tended to ignore. "Of course, I'd heard your name... Yes, I'm Davidson."
"I thought I'd take the liberty of asking if there was any news? You've not solved the mystery yet? I've heard quite a lot about a brilliant young newspaper man—"
Davidson had an unpleasant suspicion that the other was laughing at him; but the face was perfectly good humoured. He attempted a smile.
"I'm afraid the whole business is still a complete puzzle," he admitted. "It gets worse, if anything. First the gardener's story and Richmond's disappearance—"
"Poor Richmond... You think he's dead?"
Davidson shrugged his shoulders. "What other explanation could there be?" he asked. "If one believes Hedges—"
"But you've found a grave which corresponds."
"Perhaps." Davidson had no intention of giving anything away. "But the body doesn't. I believe you saw it and confirmed the police doctor's view about the time of death?"
"Yes. Freeman swore me to secrecy; but if you know—" He paused, studying the reporter's face attentively. "There's another grave, you think?"
"You were sure that was Kemsley?"
"Absolutely no doubt whatever. The scar was very distinctive, and even in the absence of the head—"
"You attended him?"
"For rheumatism—and a dog bite. I don't mind saying when I saw the house I was surprised to get my bills paid. But he always seemed to have plenty of money."
"Yes. And don't you think that that was queer? I've been wondering. As a matter of fact, I'm expecting an answer any time to an inquiry I put through about him to my office. I can't help feeling I know the name—"
He broke off, realizing that he might be saying too much to a man whom he hardly knew, and who was at least among the possible suspects. There was something about Walbersley which invited confidences.
"Yes?" the doctor prompted; but Davidson did not accept the invitation.
"Rheumatism, you said?" he asked. "I suppose you've several patients up here?"
Walbersley nodded. "All of them, on occasion," he said. "Bexley's my stand by, of course. Most of the others are remarkably healthy."
"I should have thought Mr. Branden might need you?" He tried to make the question innocent. "I mean, these athletic men often go to seed. Rheumatism and so on."
"Yes. But Branden's kept it up. Still goes deerstalking in Scotland. And he's a great photographer—wild life and so on. Gets plenty of exercise—" Walbersley smiled slowly. "Am I to understand that the physical health of this neighbourhood is an important point?"
Davidson had no wish that he should understand anything of the kind but denials were obviously useless.
"I wondered if any of them suffered, say from sudden attacks of lumbago or anything which would make them incapable of any great physical exertion?"
"No. Except Richmond himself... Lumbago as a clue is new to me."
Davidson laughed. "By the way, how did you come to attend Miss Richmond last night? Did someone ring you up?"
"No. I was attending Major Bexley. Mrs. Bexley was worried but actually he was no worse than usual. A remarkable woman. Dotes on her son. I believe she'd die or do murder for him—" He stopped abruptly as he realized what he had said. "Of course, I don't mean that literally—"
"Of course not," Davidson assented at once; but even so he mentally reviewed the evidence. Mrs. Bexley was out of the question; she could never have dug the second grave. "I think she's one of the few people we haven't suspected at all," he said. "The whole case is still in a terrible mess. You see, we've no decent motive. You don't happen to know anything, say, about Richmond's collections, which might provide a reason?"
"Actually, I suppose I know more than most people, because my own tastes lie that way... I should say that there was nothing there worth murder."
He glanced at his watch, evidently preparing to leave.
"One reason I spoke to you was that I saw you come out of Richmond's," he said. "I wondered how Miss Richmond was? You've seen her this morning."
"Yes," Davidson admitted constrainedly. "I'm afraid that she's rather upset... Like an idiot, I said something—"
Walbersley nodded sympathetically. "She's in a highly nervous state—naturally," he said. "In that case, I'll just look in. Thank you, Mr. Davidson. Good hunting!"
Davidson stood there for a moment after the saloon had swung round the corner. He did not quite know what to make of the doctor, and he was half inclined to think that he had been gently pumped with a view to ascertaining the latest developments. Like Miss Ferrard, he seemed to have a disconcertingly quick brain.
All the same, the conversation had done him good. Momentarily he felt almost optimistic about his chances. All the same, it was with a slight pang that he stood for a moment looking down the lane, recalling how he had done so with Marjorie on the occasion of his first visit. Everything looked the same, even to the lazy column of smoke which ascended from a garden fire. And yet, it was not quite the same. He puzzled over it for a moment; then a sudden illumination came to him, and with it several pieces of the puzzle seemed to fall into place like magic. Leaving his car where it stood he turned and retraced his steps down the lane.
ODDLY enough, that particular wreath of smoke had already attracted the attention of Superintendent Freeman. It came from the incinerator in Major Bexley's garden, and as he watched it, Freeman was conscious of something very like the inspiration which he had just been deriding in Davidson.
Unlike the reporter, he could comfort himself with the knowledge that a fairly efficient staff were dealing with all kinds of details even though he himself might be at a loss. Though a purely negative report from the detectives who had been examining Kemsley's house had closed one line of approach, he knew that he was on the way to establishing as definitely as it could be established that Richmond had never been seen since he had left Miss Ferrard's gate. He had elaborately investigated the movements of possible suspects; equally without result. But there still remained the possibility of something developing from the manuscript which he was having examined by experts, and the list of names from Kemsley's which he had just despatched to the station. In the meantime, watching the grey wreath of smoke, he was trying to work out his next move. And as he looked, his mind was suddenly made up. He turned to his subordinate.
"Williams," he demanded. "What would you do with a head?"
"Pardon, sir?"
"How do you destroy a head? Assuming that you've already buried the body, but, for sufficient reasons, want to take the head away and dispose of it elsewhere?"
"Bury it somewhere else?" Williams suggested, with a singular absence of brilliancy.
"No. You want to destroy it if possible. It doesn't matter if the body is found in this case; or you don't think it does. But the head would be fatal. You want to destroy it permanently and completely."
"Yes, sir," Williams assented. "How?"
"Burn it." He jerked a thumb towards the smoking incinerator. "And why not here?"
"Why, sir?" Williams asked stolidly.
"It's handy. Near your base of operations. It's hot enough—and an ordinary fire wouldn't be. And if you cover it with rubbish... Williams, we'll have a look at that thing."
Williams cleared his throat like a man who is on the verge of a tactful objection, but Freeman did not wait for him. He had surrendered completely to his inspiration and was already moving towards the gate. But before he reached it he stopped, frowning a little.
"Windows command the gate," he said more to himself than to his subordinate. "Not a case for official action—yet. If there wasn't anything there we should make fools of ourselves—and if there was— Ah. That's better."
Before the detective had completely taken in his meaning he was already moving down the lane to a point where a gap in the hedge at the top of the bank gave easy and concealed access to the corner of Branden's garden. A little way up the boundary fence between the two another weak spot made their task easy. Freeman peered through. The incinerator itself was just the other side, and it was completely screened by bushes from any view of the house windows. Freeman squeezed himself through, followed reluctantly by his subordinate.
Probably the tidy disposal of domestic refuse in a semi-rural district was a problem; for the incinerator was a substantial brick affair, with a little shed nearby containing a supply of coal and wood. Freeman knelt down beside it and peered into the pit which received the ashes underneath. It was disappointingly empty, though the heat from the cylinder above made his efforts uncomfortable. He raked in the small pile with a rusty iron bar without result, before transferring his attention to the fire door.
"Nothing," he said, "and yet—Williams, why burn coal—quite a lot of coal in an incinerator?"
"To start it up, sir."
"Yes. Or to get things really hot. Which it is. We'll have to look inside— What's that?"
Williams had darted forward and plunged his hand down into the hot ashes. He held up a small round object in between his thumb and finger. It was nothing more exciting than a trouser button, but Freeman nodded.
"It's possible," he said dubiously. "I get the idea. When we found Kemsley's body, it was wearing Richmond's clothes. Therefore something must have happened to Kemsley's own. And the best thing to do would be to burn them. It's quite possible—but we'll have a devil of a job tracing and identifying a trouser button... What we want is the head."
He lowered the fire door gingerly. Certainly his statement about the amount of heat was correct. The whole of the interior was a glowing mass of red, and even before he had removed the bars the perspiration was streaming down his face blending messily with the light dust from the ashes. Shielding his face with his hand Freeman began carefully to rake out the glowing coals.
The cinders fell to the ground in a red cascade, sizzling and blackening as they touched the damp earth. The heap grew, and the carbon fumes made both men cough a little, but Freeman stuck to his work. The furnace was half empty before the heat compelled him to stand back, wiping his face with his handkerchief. Picking up the bar, Williams prodded tentatively at the pile which had already been raked out. All of a sudden he gave an exclamation.
"What's that?"
At the first sight it seemed no more than an oddly shaped piece of clinker; but it showed the red rust of iron. Freeman snatched the bar from Williams' hands and gingerly prodded it out of the cinders. Then he gave a low whistle.
There was no longer any doubt what it was. Without any possibility of mistake it was the broken blade of a long, thin knife. Freeman picked it up in his handkerchief, and examined it.
"It might be something," he said. "Somehow, he had to cut the head off. He might destroy the knife? Or perhaps it was the weapon? If Kemsley was stabbed in the throat—"
He looked at it frowning for a minute; then from it to the half emptied furnace. It was already obvious that nothing so large as a head could be concealed there, at least in its entirety. There seemed to be no sign even of any fragments.
"What we want is bone," Freeman said. "This might be just ordinary rubbish. We've got to be sure—"
Williams suddenly clutched his arm excitedly.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "Look!"
He was pointing to the blackened edge of the still smouldering heap. In the cinders, now that they were sufficiently cooled, a few white fragments stood out in sharp contrast. Then Freeman saw what had excited his subordinate's exclamation. Regardless of the heat he snatched at the largest of the calcined white pieces and held it up. In it was embedded a single tooth. And Freeman had not even a moment's doubt that it was human.
"There's more. We'll have to get every bit out—" Williams said excitedly. "It must be—"
Freeman nodded. "Yes. Then—is it Bexley?"
Still holding the piece of bone, he knelt beside the furnace considering, while Williams retrieved other portions from the embers. Although he should have been congratulating himself on the success of a very long shot, he did not feel any great elation. Bexley had actually been one of the last people he would have suspected; and now, all at once they had found not only a possible motive but this more tangible evidence. He glanced round the space in which the incinerator stood; then shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose I shall have to," he said. "To be on the safe side... Williams. Go to the station. Arrange at once for a warrant for the arrest of Major Bexley on a charge of murder. I'll write a note to the Chief."
He scribbled in his pocket book for a minute or two and tore the sheet out.
"Find a couple of men," he proceeded, handing it over. "Put one on guard here; another at the gate. You understand that no one is to leave without my permission. You can let people in if visitors come; but they're not to get out again. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
After the departure of the detective, he busied himself for a time in collecting the pieces of bone. He had retrieved quite a large number, some of them like the first, sufficiently unmistakable by the time the man he had sent for crawled through the hedge. He wrapped them carefully in his handkerchief with the piece of knife blade.
"You'll stay here," he ordered. "Don't touch the incinerator—just see no one else does. Right."
As he moved up the path towards the house he found his pace slackening. Even now he was far from sure that he had enough evidence to arrest Bexley. He was horribly conscious of several big gaps in his case, besides innumerable details still unsettled. But, as he saw it, it was a choice of risks. If he delayed, Bexley might escape; if he acted then, he might find he had arrested a man whom he could not prove guilty. Three points at least urged delay. Richmond's body was still missing; there was no reasonable motive for the burglary; and there was the problem of who had dug Kemsley's grave. Before he reached the house, he was beginning to think he had acted precipitately. The serving of the warrant would have to depend on circumstances.
"There might have been a threatening letter," he murmured. "Bexley could have written to Richmond—"
He broke off suddenly. Just too late he was aware of a figure seated in an arbour beside the path. It was a woman, white-haired and frail; but from the way in which she rose and advanced towards him still active and determined.
"Superintendent Freeman?" she asked.
"Yes." For a moment he was at a loss; then he realized who it must be. "Mrs. Bexley?"
She inclined her head without speaking. Her eyes were fixed upon him with a look of curious intensity, and something in her expression made him feel uncomfortable. He hesitated for a moment.
"Major Bexley?" he asked at last. "I should like a few words with him—"
"I am sorry, Superintendent. That is impossible."
Freeman's eyebrows rose a little in spite of himself.
There was a finality in her voice which only increased his determination.
"I am afraid, madam, it is necessary," he rejoined. "I understand that Major Bexley is at home? It is really important that I should see him. At once."
"My son is unwell. I have no wish to criticize the way in which you do what you suppose to be your duty, Superintendent; but your recent interview—" She broke off expressively. In spite of her gentle manner, there was a flash in her eyes. "Surely it is not necessary—to torture a sick man?"
"I am afraid, Mrs. Bexley—"
"But my son!" She was pleading now. "You do not understand. His nerves... In the war—"
Freeman set his face grimly. "I must see him," he said.
Momentarily she hesitated, still barring his way. Then she bowed her head in assent.
"If you insist," she said and stood aside, falling into step beside him as he advanced towards the house.
The Superintendent was thinking furiously. Mrs. Bexley's manner had gone far to strengthen his resolution. He felt more convinced of the Major's guilt. Quite possibly Mrs. Bexley had seen them at work by the incinerator; obviously she guessed something. But, if Bexley was guilty, at this stage of the case his best hope was to secure some kind of confession. He must try to prevent the mother from giving a warning.
The silence of the woman beside him was oppressive. He ventured an apology.
"I am really very sorry," he said. "I'm afraid that last night's affair must have troubled Major Bexley. He suffers from insomnia, I believe."
"Yes."
"And, naturally Mr. Richmond's death would upset him—"
"You have found the grave?"
The question took Freeman aback. It was unpleasant to think that at present he had no positive evidence of Richmond's death, and that was the absolute centrepiece of the case against Bexley.
"Not yet," he admitted. "But we are afraid—"
The woman beside him made no comment. They had almost reached the house.
"Of course, Miss Richmond is very upset," he said rather inanely. "It was kind of you to offer to have her last night—"
"Surely, as neighbours, we could do no less? My son was ill, or I should have come myself—"
The words gave Freeman a certain amount of encouragement. If Bexley was ill then, he was well enough a few hours later when he had met the policeman in the lane. They were silent until they reached the house. Mrs. Bexley led the way inside and opened a door.
"If you will wait here, Superintendent," she commanded rather than invited. "I will get my son—"
Freeman had no alternative; though it was just what he had wished to avoid. Undoubtedly if Mrs. Bexley had seen anything in the garden her son would be warned. The horrible thought came to him that he might even escape by the back of the house. It seemed a long time before the door opened and Bexley entered. One look at his face was enough. His expression was that of a man who had steeled himself against the worst. But he faced the Superintendent resolutely.
"Well?" he demanded abruptly. "You wanted to see me?"
Freeman nodded. "Unfortunately, there have been further developments," he said slowly.
Bexley stood looking at him. Behind him the door opened and his mother slipped inside, placing a hand upon his arm.
"Well?" he asked again.
"The fact is, Major Bexley," Freeman said after a slight pause, "we have just made a discovery. In your garden."
"A discovery?" There seemed to be the merest surprise in the words. Bexley put his hand wearily on his eyes. "What?" he asked.
"You may have heard, at Mardon this morning, the headless body of Mr. Kemsley was dug up?"
Bexley nodded, still as though he did not comprehend.
"I have to ask you for an explanation of how the remains of a human head come to be found in your incinerator.... And I should warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence."
"In my incinerator?" Bexley stared at him stupidly. "I don't know!"
Freeman produced the handkerchief. Mrs. Bexley shuddered at the sight of the white fragments. Freeman picked up the broken knife blade. Bexley eyed it dully.
"You'll find out," he said. "I may as well tell you. That knife was mine. I don't know what happened to it." Abruptly his strange calm gave way. He took a pace forward. "I know! I know!" he said wildly. "You think I did it! You think I had motive. That was what you were getting at to-day... It's damned nonsense... But as for this, I can't explain. Do what you like!"
In the silence which followed, the violent ringing of the front door bell sounded like a thunder clap. With the thought that it must be his detective with the warrant, Freeman moved towards the door. But it was Davidson who pushed his way past the astonished servant.
"Freeman!" he shouted. "Freeman! I've found it... The grave—Hedges' grave!"
FOR nearly half a minute the Superintendent stood staring at Davidson with a look of utter incredulity on his face. The reporter was breathless and dishevelled; his hands and coat sleeves were stained with mud. At last Freeman found his tongue.
"The grave!" he said. "You've found it? Where?"
"Where else but ten minutes' walk away? If we hadn't been idiots—"
Freeman interrupted him. Two of the plain-clothes men had followed Davidson into the room. He turned to them.
"Jones, you watch here," he ordered. "No one's to leave without permission. Ronaldson, get a party with spades. Follow us to—where the blazes is it?"
"Priory Park. Not two hundred yards from Branden's house."
Freeman nodded to the detective; then turned to Bexley.
"I'll ask you to stay here for an hour," he said. "Then I'll come back—or send word. Any objections?"
Bexley shook his head like a man in a daze. "I—I'm under arrest?" he asked.
"No," said Freeman. "I'd just like you to stop here... You may be arrested if you don't!" He turned to the reporter. "Come along, for God's sake."
Davidson nodded. They started together at a run down the drive. As they reached the lane, Freeman, already a little breathless, motioned his companion to slow down.
"No—damned hurry!" he said. "We can't dig him up till we get spades... How did you find it?"
"Partly luck—partly I worked it out. After I left you, I was standing at the top of the road. It looked just the same as the first day I came. Or rather, it was nearly the same, but not quite. To-day there was smoke coming from Bexley's garden—"
"We found Kemsley's head there!" Freeman interjected.
"The head? How—?"
"Tell you later. Get on."
"The first day I saw it, it was coming from the Park—beyond Branden's garden. And it just struck me, the murderer duplicated everything he could in the two graves. Suppose he duplicated the fire on top as well? Then it all fitted in. We were mugs to miss it—"
"All what fitted in?"
"I suppose it didn't strike you. Hedges' car-drive out lasted a couple of hours or so. But, coming back he couldn't have taken more than half an hour. If that. All that car drive was a blind—trying to pretend the place was fifty miles away. Actually, it was right on the doorstep... Then, there's the earth from Hedges' trousers. It was like Miss Ferrard's garden, but an acid, uncultivated soil. Obviously it was somewhere in the same neighbourhood which hadn't been cultivated. And Hedges said it was a Park. After that, one simply had to look for the pine trees and general indications. Down here."
He shepherded the Superintendent into a narrow, rutted track between high banks leading towards the park. Freeman did not speak for a moment. He was digesting what he had already heard.
"But who—?" he asked after a pause.
"Don't know that yet. Perhaps the grave will tell us something."
"When you came I was within an ace of arresting Bexley."
"You think he did it?"
"I don't. But it was almost forced on me. As I say, we crawled through Branden's garden and had a look at his incinerator. We found a broken knife there—and the burnt out jaw bones, or bits of them. Bexley owned to possessing the knife. And his whole conduct has been pretty fishy."
Davidson was silent for a moment. "You went through the fence," he said at last. "Suppose Branden did?"
"Branden? But we've nothing against him."
"No. But Kemsley's grave alters matters. While we were only looking for the one Hedges dug, we thought we wanted a cripple. But to dig Kemsley's needed an able bodied man. And, for that matter, to half strangle Miss Richmond and burgle the house. So far as I can see, the likeliest now are Branden and Miss Ferrard. And I'm ruling out Miss Ferrard."
"Walbersley?"
"Perhaps." Davidson frowned. "I had a talk with him. I like the man but he struck me as being a tricky sort of customer. Too clever by half. But I don't see what he gains by it."
"The manuscript?"
"Perhaps. He did let out, incidentally, that he's interested in them... By the way. About that manuscript. You've had it examined?"
"I am having it examined," Freeman sighed. "They may take a week or so. Why?"
"Just a dim feeling... I'm beginning to place Kemsley, I think. When we searched his cottage, we both thought of blackmail. But surely we were wrong. The whole place shouted something quite different."
"What?"
"Why, here's a competent black and white artist and a fine penmen who insists on doing the most outrageous daubs in colour. But he's got a first-class pen and ink equipment. And that old drawing paper was old paper. No I think blackmail is off. The answer is—forgery!"
Freeman whistled. "Then, that's why you asked about the manuscript? Yes. I see. You think that that's forged too?"
"Why not? It might be quite a racket. Forging old manuscripts, and then placing them innocently to catch mugs."
"Kemsley might be the forger," Freeman admitted. "But you were talking about Branden... Much further to go?"
"Only a few yards. There are the trees. Yes. It's a pity he doesn't own a chain of bookshops. But he does furniture shops. And maybe some of them deal in second hand stuff. If so, they often include books picked up in job lots—the smaller shops, of course."
"Well?"
"Don't you see? Odd lots of books like that would be just the way to entice collectors—if you managed it properly. Of course, I don't know just how. Here we are. Look!"
Freeman obeyed. Just ahead of them was a fir plantation which he guessed must screen the Park from the road through the water splash beyond Richmond's house. He stood gazing about him for a moment, then nodded.
"It would fit," he admitted. "The grave—"
"Just over here."
Davidson led the way towards the plantation. In another moment they were looking down at a white patch of ashes, in the middle of which two square sods had been removed, showing the soft earth beneath. Freeman bent down and touched it. Under his fingers it crumbled easily.
"Recently dug," he admitted. "It might be—"
"It must be!" Davidson corrected. "I've been in the plantation. There's the timber track, the fence—everything. Besides, it must have been somewhere close—if we'd only thought."
But Freeman was already kneeling among the ashes, tearing up the loose sods. They came away easily. The shape of the grave grew quickly as Davidson helped him. They had almost cleared the surface, when Freeman rose to his feet and shouted:
"Here!"
Davidson saw a small party of men carrying picks and spades hurrying towards them. But with them was someone they had not expected. It was Dr. Walbersley. Freeman nodded in a satisfied way.
"Smart work!" he said. "Brought a doctor, too. We'll need one—if—"
Davidson was conscious of a momentary doubt. After all, he reflected, Walbersley was still on the list of suspects, though at that moment he was more inclined to bank on Branden. The Inspector detached himself from the group and hurried up to where they stood. His face brightened as he saw the oblong of bare earth, but he made no comment.
"Got them, sir," he said a little breathlessly, fumbling in his pocket. "And there's a message from London, and one for Mr. Davidson."
"For me?" the reporter asked in surprise. "I hadn't arranged to have anything sent."
"I had," Freeman confessed. "I've had people listening in to you—just in case you were holding out on me.... Thanks. Put them to work—and hurry!"
He ripped the flap of the envelope, then as an afterthought handed over Davidson's message, not without reluctance. His brows creased into a frown as he read, but at the end he smiled. He glanced across at Davidson eagerly.
"This is something!" he said. "That firm on Kemsley's list—it's an auctioneering business. And who d'you think runs it?"
Davidson glanced up from his own paper.
"Well?"
"Branden! At least, Branden's Company. They've traced two of the other names. In the Bankruptcy lists—small bookshops that went bust."
"That's it. It must have been! ... I've something, too. About Kemsley. Remember the Sandersman forgery case? He was a witness there. Wasn't charged, for lack of evidence, but there was plenty of suspicion."
"You were right, then?... Here, careful there! You'll be damaging the body."
He moved over to supervise the digging and to restrain the enthusiasm of his subordinates. Walbersley, who had waited politely a little distance away while they had been talking, moved over to his side. There was suppressed excitement in his manner, but he spoke quite calmly.
"You've got it this time? Hedges' grave—Richmond's, I mean?"
"Perhaps." For a moment a horrible doubt recurred to the reporter. Suppose, after all, it was not Richmond. In that case, it seemed all too probable that Richmond was somehow involved in the killings. He put the thought from him; then another question came into his mind. He looked at Walbersley, and there was a trace of suspicion in his eyes. "How did you come to be here?"
"Mere luck. Brought back a sedative for Miss Richmond. The Inspector ran into me and brought me along."
"A sedative?" Davidson frowned. For a moment he stood there, only half conscious of the thud of the falling earth from the spades of the policemen. The hole was emptying rapidly; they had already reached a depth of over a foot. He looked up at Walbersley. "I asked you once before, and you answered—but not quite fully," he said slowly. "How did you come to call on Miss Richmond last night? You were at Bexley's. Did he suggest it?"
Walbersley appeared to consider.
"No, I don't think he did, actually. You see, Branden had noticed my car outside the house, and came along to catch me. He'd had a recurrence of his old trouble. I think it was he who actually said it would be a good idea if I went along... Yes, and I think he even mentioned sleeping tablets, now I come to think about it."
"Branden!" Davidson exclaimed. "You're sure that—" he broke off as another thought crossed his mind. "His old trouble, you said? I thought he was pretty healthy."
"He is. This is the merest accident—hardly bother him in the ordinary way. You see, years ago he had a slight dislocation in his right hand. Ordinarily they go back perfectly well and one is as strong as ever. He had bad luck. He put it out again before it was properly set. Since then, it's never really recovered. I suppose it's been out a couple of dozen times—he doesn't always bother me about it. There's very little pain—only a few hours' inconvenience."
"Branden!" Davidson repeated softly. "Branden again... It must be—"
"Lord! There it is!"
An exclamation from the Superintendent made him turn sharply. The movement of the spades had ceased; the diggers were clustered round the hole. He pushed his way to a position where he could peer through, then he drew his breath sharply. In the loose mould he could see a fragment of grey blanket and, pointing up towards them, the discoloured fingers of a human hand.
Freeman dropped the spade with which he had been lending a hand. In a second he was in the grave, straddling the place where the corpse presumably lay, and shovelling with his fingers at the loose earth near the grave head.
There was not a sound from the watchers. They stood staring in an agony of suspense as more and more of the blanket became exposed. Freeman worked carefully but with incredible speed. At last he straightened himself for a moment and paused to survey his work. Nearly half the blanket-wrapped bundle was exposed; the hand peeping through the folds showed white and stiff. Davidson had a queer fancy that it was raised in a gesture of appeal, calling vengeance on the murderer. And the murderer was—?
"Now!"
Freeman bent down. He gripped the fold of blanket which covered the head; then, still holding it, he seemed to hesitate. Davidson waited in horrified anticipation. The memory of that very morning made a little shiver run down his spine. Kemsley had been headless. Supposing— With a quick movement the Superintendent flung aside the blanket.
Freeman's exclamation had a note of satisfaction in it, which the Inspector did not fully appreciate. He was looking down at the calm, waxen features of an elderly man whom he had never seen. Then the suggestion of a resemblance told him the truth even before he put the question.
"Richmond?"
"Yes. It's Richmond."
With an audible sigh of relief, he clambered out of the hole. Evidently, like Davidson, he had feared that a new complication might have been added by the finding of someone entirely different. He stood for a moment on the grave side staring down at the still face, then nodded to the waiting policemen.
"You take over. Uncover him first carefully. We want to know just how he was lying."
He moved over to where Walbersley and the reporter were standing. There was a suggestion in his manner of the strain under which he had been labouring, but when he spoke it was with a callousness which seemed slightly forced.
"Kept well, hasn't he, Doctor?"
Walbersley frowned. As a doctor, death was a commonplace to him, but not death under such circumstances. And Richmond and he had been on friendly terms. He answered stiffly:
"It is only two days. There is no reason, under the conditions which appear to have existed, why the body should not be perfectly preserved."
"Two days? You think that's right this time? That he has been dead two days?"
He nodded to the grave. Almost the whole of the blanket had been exposed. They could trace the outline of the limbs.
"I haven't made an examination yet," Walbersley responded. "I can't say... I should think it very probable, from the general appearance—"
Freeman did not wait for him to finish the sentence. The men who had been working straightened themselves and looked at him for instructions. At a jerk of his head they got out. Kneeling on the edge of the hole, Freeman tugged at the covering. In a moment the whole body was exposed. The group stood gazing down at it in silence.
In contrast to the headless body that morning, Davidson noticed there had been no attempt to compose the limbs. They were awkwardly bent, as though the body had been allowed to stiffen in a cramped position. There seemed to be no trace of a wound. He glanced at Walbersley as the doctor muttered something to himself.
"Anything wrong?" he asked.
"No—perhaps not. Only the rigor—"
He broke off. There was the click of a camera, and for the first time Davidson noted that the party included the plain clothes man who had been with them at Kemsley's cottage. Of course, it was desirable that the body should be photographed as it lay, he reflected. The camera clicked again. Freeman looked at the detective, who nodded.
"Right!" The Superintendent stood up. "Lift it out—gently."
He watched four policemen grip the blanket and raise the corpse. When it lay on the ground beside the excavation he turned to Walbersley.
"Now, Doctor," he suggested. "If you'd just have a look at him—just a preliminary examination. How he died, and when."
Walbersley made no reply. Kneeling down beside the corpse, he began his task, while Freeman moved over to Davidson's side.
"You were right, all the way," he admitted. "You know, right till I saw the face I was afraid it wasn't Richmond. It's a scoop for you, all right. But we've still got to find who did it—Bexley, Branden or—"
For a moment his eyes wandered to where Walbersley bent over the dead man. He smiled grimly. Davidson knew the thought that was in his mind. He shook his head.
"It's Branden," he said. "I'm sure of it. Those two messages alone—he and Kemsley must have been working together. They only pretended to be on bad terms."
Freeman nodded.
"I'm half inclined to think so myself. But we've a good way to go yet before—" he broke off and frowned. "I wonder—will you tell Miss Richmond? She might take it better from you."
Davidson hesitated. He was far from sure that he was the proper person under the circumstances, but he nodded assent.
"Right.... I'll leave that to you. And I suppose you'll want to telephone. Yes, Doctor."
Walbersley stood up.
"The time of death," he said, "probably about a day and a half ago. That would be about right.... The cause—" he paused. "I'm not sure, but I'm inclined to think poison—cyanide."
"Cyanide?" Davidson said quickly. "And Branden—"
Freeman scowled at him and he was silent. But Davidson was thinking that the man whom he most suspected was, on Marjorie's statement, a keen photographer, and might be in possession of the poison.
"You've finished?" Freeman asked.
"For the present."
"Then I'll just look through his pockets." He looked at Davidson. "You'll want to go."
"Yes," Davidson said a little doubtfully. "I'd better telephone."
"And Miss Richmond. She might hear. I'll see about Branden. Here, Jones!"
He beckoned to one of the detectives and gave him whispered instructions. Davidson waited for a moment uncertainly, then started off on his errand. He had only gone a few yards when the detective to whom Freeman had spoken overtook him.
"If you're looking for Miss Richmond, sir," he suggested, "I doubt if you'll find her there. You've more chance where I'm going—Mr. Branden's. I saw her at the gate."
"Branden's?" Davidson echoed stupidly. "Branden's?"
For a moment he was conscious only of jealousy, combined with a feeling of distaste at the thought of the girl being friendly with her father's murderer. All at once he felt a sudden, inexplicable wave of fear.
"Branden's," he repeated again. "God, if—!"
Leaving the detective where he stood, he began to run madly across the Park.
TO Jane Ferrard the eccentricities of human emotion were a constant source of aggravation. On Marjorie Richmond she had lavished for years all the affection she might have given to her own daughter; towards Davidson she admitted to herself that she was far more kindly disposed than their brief acquaintanceship warranted. Privately, she had made up her mind that a match between the two would be admirable from all points of view, and that her plan should be upset by the idiocy of the parties concerned at a time when everything seemed to be going smoothly annoyed her profoundly.
In her irritation, she was guilty of an error in tactics. Marjorie Richmond might be silenced by the powerful arguments of common sense, but the smart of her quarrel with Davidson remained. The more her self-appointed guardian supported Davidson's cause, the more kindly disposed she felt towards Branden. When Jane Ferrard left, convinced that she had prepared the way for a reconciliation, Marjorie Richmond had finally resolved to accept the offer from Branden which she had that morning refused.
There was a flush on her cheeks as she walked resolutely down the lane, but it was a flush produced by temper rather than happiness. By the time she had passed the detective still on duty at Bexley's gate, her resolution was ebbing rapidly. She had to remind herself again and again of Davidson's abominable treatment that morning, and Branden's idealized shape had begun to lose much of its radiance. By the time she reached the drive, she was almost in a mood to turn back; but fate was against her. Branden himself emerged from the summer house, just as she had finally come to a halt. Perhaps he guessed something of how matters stood. He hurried forward eagerly.
"Marjorie! I was just thinking about you—and you came! If all our wishes were fulfilled like that—"
He laughed, and the girl managed a smile in reply, but the result was distinctly tremulous. Branden looked at her keenly. He was not quite sure why she had come; but he guessed that she was in a mood when she might go at the least provocation. The great thing at the moment was to keep her amused and make her cheerful.
"The reason I wanted to see you—one reason," he said, "was to show you my latest photographs.... Some of them are really good. Particularly those in Scotland. You remember?"
"I'd love to see them." This time the smile was more stable. Then it faded. "That was a happy time," she said a little mournfully. "And now—"
"It's always something to remember," Branden said quickly. "Come into the summer house. I'll show you them."
She followed him meekly, outwardly smiling; but inwardly she felt a desperate shrinking from the very man whose proposal she had come to accept. Perhaps Branden was a better psychologist than Jane Ferrard. He carefully kept the conversation on ordinary matters and when at last he introduced Davidson's name it was in a casually complimentary reference. He saw the girl bite her lip and the colour rise to her cheeks and ventured a step further.
"Why, he's not been annoying you, has he? He's a clever young man—but of course newspaper reporters—" He broke off with a smile. "They've got to get news—no matter whose feelings are hurt."
Marjorie stirred restlessly. "You think—you think he's like that? That he just came down—because of the sensation—"
"Well, why else should he come? But I wouldn't condemn a man on a two days' acquaintance—or favour him either. We don't know a lot about him."
Watching her face, he realized that even these comparatively mild attacks were dangerous. He changed the subject quickly.
"But I was going to show you the photographs. They're in the dark room. Just a moment. I'll get them."
Marjorie was grateful for the respite. All at once she felt a desperate desire to get away. She rose to her feet and moved restlessly over to the window, gazing idly out over the garden. Then, to her surprise, she saw the door of Major Bexley's house thrown open. Freeman and Davidson emerged together, followed by a man she recognized as one of the plain-clothes detectives. They set off down the path at a run, and the next moment were hidden from view.
She stood there divided between fear and excitement. The glimpse of Davidson had finally disposed of any desire for Branden's society. She would just stay as long as politeness and the photographs demanded before going home. As she went slowly back to her chair, she felt one of her shoe-laces trailing and bent down to retie it. She had just finished when a gleam of gold caught her eye, far under the long settle which ran along the wall at the side facing the window.
Branden was a long time. Moved by a mild curiosity, she knelt down at the expense of her tweed costume on the floor and stretched out her hand. But the golden thing, whatever it was, was not to be gained so easily. She was several inches short. She could not tell what it was, except that it seemed to be a round disc of metal, rather larger than a sovereign. Her failure only made her the more determined. Two or three walking sticks stood in the far corner of the room. She rose to her feet and went over to select one. As Branden's footsteps sounded on the veranda outside, she was lying flat on the floor poking at the disc.
"Hullo! What is it? Have you dropped something?"
She looked up smiling as Branden came over to her.
"Treasure trove!" she laughed. "Do you scatter sovereigns about here?"
"Sovereigns!" Branden was mildly amused. "Haven't had one for years. Might be a new penny.... Let me try?"
"No. I won't be beaten. I nearly got it that time. Ah—it's coming."
Her last effort was successful in bringing the coin just within reach of her outstretched fingers. She rose with a flushed face smiling at Branden as he bent to retrieve the stick. Just for a second or two he could not see her face. But as he heard her gasp he looked up quickly. Her face was as white as paper. She was staring at her capture with eyes wide with horror.
"Marjorie!" Branden jumped to his feet. "What is it? You—you're ill!"
She struggled to speak, but no words came. She held up the coin in trembling fingers.
"Marjorie! What's the matter?"
It might have been only concern which made his voice tremble a little; but his eyes were all at once alert and wary. He advanced a pace towards her, staring at the disc of metal.
"This—this! It's daddy's!"
Branden drew a deep breath. His hands clenched until the knuckles showed white. He gave a quick glance round, and moved between the frightened girl and the door; but when he spoke his voice was perfectly calm.
"I suppose he dropped it some time when he was here... I'm sorry if it upset you. I'd no idea he'd got anything of the kind."
"It—it was his mascot. He carried it in his waistcoat pocket—"
She backed away from him trembling until the wall barred her further progress.
"What's the matter, Marjorie? Why are you so upset about it? He was often here—"
"I saw him—put it in his pocket—just before he went out." She stopped. With a great effort she regained a measure of self control. "John—you said you were here all evening—that you didn't see him—"
"Really, Marjorie—" he protested; but his voice was suddenly harsh. His eyes were fixed upon her savagely.
"You—you killed him! You—" Branden's self control seemed to snap. He covered the space between them at a bound and gripped her wrist roughly.
"Quiet!" he said in a terrible whisper. "You'd better."
The girl did not shrink from him. Her eyes were blazing in defiance. "You—you killed him! Murdered him!"
Branden dropped her wrist. He stood back, looking at her, and his eyes were coldly calculating.
"Sit down," he said quite gently.
Somehow it was more terrifying than violence. She shrank back obediently into a chair and sat shivering, staring at him with fascinated eyes, her fingers still clutching the gold piece.
"Yes. I killed him," he said in the same deadly quiet tone. "Naturally I had no idea he carried that, or I should have been more careful... If you must know, he was going to send me to gaol. Kemsley and myself. He refused to give me a chance. I took the only chance there was, and risked my neck." He laughed mirthlessly. "And now—you find out!"
"You—you murdered him, and—and then you came to me—asked me to marry you—!"
He did not wince before the horrified contempt in her voice.
"Yes," he assented. "I wanted you to marry me. I still do. In fact, I have even more compelling reasons."
"You—you—" Her breath came in quick gasps. Then another thought struck her with added horror. "And Kemsley—you killed him!"
"And Kemsley," he assented. "Kemsley fancied he owed a debt of gratitude to your father. He discovered what I'd done and was going to betray me. He got what he deserved... And now—" He stepped over to a bureau and jerked open a drawer. Something gleamed dully in his hand; but she could not see clearly. The room for a moment seemed to swim around her. When she opened her eyes again, Branden was seated in a chair opposite, with his eyes fixed upon her. A vicious-looking automatic rested on his knee.
"Now, you'd better listen," he said quietly. "I'm not going to hang. That leaves me three possible things to do. I could kill you. That might give me a bare chance—but it would be a poor chance. If I have to run, I'm done for. I could kill us both. Or—you could marry me!"
"Marry—you!"
She echoed the words almost inaudibly. He nodded.
"Yes. Because a wife can't be compelled to give evidence against her husband. Besides, I don't think, if you accepted me, you'd care to hang your husband."
She shuddered. There was a moment's silence.
"It is a risk," Branden said coolly. "But I'd take your word for it. I've got a licence—though not intended to be used under these circumstances—"
"You—you're mad!"
"It's my only chance—and yours." He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "I'll give you five minutes to think it over. If not—"
His eyes dropped to the gun in his hand. She stared at it in fascination. After all, she was not afraid. It seemed an oddly small thing to be fatal. It would be quick. There was a dead silence. She could hear the clock ticking. The steady, rhythmical beat unnerved her. She wanted to scream—to throw herself upon him, but she felt paralysed. She could only sit there staring at the gun.
The thought of Davidson came into her mind. If they were found there dead together, what would they think? What would he think? She would never be able to explain; to tell him how she had felt about their quarrel. With a great effort she turned her head to look at the clock.
"Two minutes!" Branden announced.
Perhaps another half minute had gone. All at once her quicker ears caught a sound which Branden seemed to miss. There was someone outside. She felt a sudden clutch at her heart, as the hope which she had abandoned revived. And yet, what could anyone do. Before Branden could be overpowered—
"Half a minute!" Branden said. His voice was high-pitched, as though he himself felt the intolerable strain. There was a pause which seemed like an age. "Now!"
"Branden!"
Someone was standing in the doorway. She could not see distinctly, but she recognized the voice. The murderer half turned, but the gun remained pointed at her.
"Davidson!" he said quietly. "You're just in time... We're going together—and you—you can come with us! Damn you, it's your fault that this—"
"Branden, you swine!" Davidson said in a voice which she scarcely knew. "If you hurt her—"
He took a step forward. The gun swung quickly in his direction.
"You'll go first!" Branden almost screamed. As his finger tightened on the trigger Davidson sprang. In mid-air he felt a shock which nearly flung him to the ground. A sharp pain stabbed his left shoulder as the noise of a dull explosion reached him. The next moment they were at grips. He felt something wet trickling down over his chest. He was conscious that his strength was leaving him. Grimly he clutched at the wrist of the arm holding the gun. Despite his efforts, the muzzle was curving down towards him. He heard a confused shouting. Then there was a flash of light and his senses left him.
DAVIDSON came to himself, lying in bed in a room which he had never seen before. His head ached abominably and there was a dull, throbbing pain in his left shoulder. For a moment he blinked round him confusedly; then, as the light hurt his eyes, closed them with a groan. There was the sound of a quick movement by the bedside. Jane Ferrard's voice reached him.
"Better, Mr. Davidson?"
He opened his eyes again. She was bending over him, holding a glass in her hand. His mouth was too dry to answer. He drank gratefully, and began to feel better.
"I—I'm all right," he said weakly. "What happened?"
"You were shot."
"Ah! Branden!" He made a desperate effort to rise, and sank back. "Marjorie? She's—"
"She's not hurt. Superintendent Freeman and the police arrived in time."
"Branden? They got him?"
Jane Ferrard nodded grimly, but she did not speak. Perhaps she was thinking that for years she had been on friendly terms with the murderer. Davidson was conscious only of a vast relief.
"Thank God. Where am I? This isn't a hospital."
"It's not far off, between the two of you," she responded tartly. "No; it's Richmond's house. Marjorie insisted on your being brought here."
"She—she's all right?"
"She's a wreck!" Jane Ferrard held the glass to his lips again. "And that's what she deserved after sitting up with you for twenty-four hours. Thank heaven she's asleep now!"
"Twenty-four hours. I've been unconscious?"
"Obviously. Fortunately, there doesn't seem to be anything in your head a bullet could hurt. He shot you twice."
She broke off at the sound of footsteps. It was Freeman who entered, and as he saw that Davidson was awake his face grew more cheerful than it had been for the last three days.
"Hullo! You've come round. How d'you feel?"
"AII right," Davidson responded. He tried to rise, and sank back with a groan. "That is—pretty rotten."
"It's no more than you can expect if you will play the hero against an armed murderer." Then his face grew grave. "Though it's a darn good job you did. D'you realize he was going to kill Miss Richmond and himself?"
"But why?"
"Miss Richmond found him out. It seems she discovered on the floor a coin which her father always carried. She knew that he'd had it with him the night he went, and accused Branden. I suppose he thought the game was up. It's just as well, perhaps. The case against him wasn't exactly a water-tight one—until he confessed."
"He confessed?"
"Yes. Once we'd got him he gave up the fight. Think he just wants to get it over as soon as he can. He hasn't a chance now, in view of the confession as well as the other evidence."
Davidson considered.
"I hardly know what it was," he said after a pause. "Why did he kill Richmond?"
"Because Richmond was going to gaol him for forgery for a long, long time. Also, of course, stop any idea of marriage with his daughter. Actually our first idea was right. It all centred in that manuscript, but it wasn't because the murderer really wanted it, except as evidence against himself. It was a clever forgery by Kemsley. A very clever forgery. Ink, paper and everything imitated perfectly. Even the experts would hardly believe it was one. But Richmond spotted it, and that's why Branden killed him."
"But how did Richmond know?"
"By the merest bad luck—and because Branden lost his nerve. You see, they'd been trying it on for a couple of years. Branden's business hadn't been doing as well as it should have been, and things were getting to the stage when he was on the verge of going bankrupt. He met Kemsley and they seem to have worked out this plan as a profitable side line. They'd actually found it so in a small way. Those letters after the names on Kemsley's list weren't degrees. 'D.Litt.' meant Dickens' Letter, and 'B.So.' was a Browning Sonnet. One way and another they'd put over quite a bit. Branden was the brains of the affair and Kemsley provided the manuscripts. Then Kemsley decided to have a shot on his own. That was how the trouble began."
"The Shakespeare manuscript?"
"Yes. It was really too ambitious for one thing, too likely to raise a big stir. But in other ways luck was against them. You see, Branden had to get paper of the proper date, and he could only get that from old books—fly leaves and so on. That was the paper we found in Kemsley's studio. He pretended that he was following in Richmond's footsteps, but naturally he bought any kind of rubbish, if it had a blank leaf or two. He'd shown some of them to Richmond and that's where he slipped up. Richmond recognized on the 'Shakespeare' manuscript a stain he'd seen in one of Branden's books."
"Ah, I wondered why—"
"He didn't trouble at once; but it struck him as curious. So, seeing Branden as he was on his way to the station he stopped to ask about it. Branden got the wind up at once. He managed to get Richmond into the summer house and pressed him to have a drink—which he'd poisoned with some stuff from his dark room. Apparently, Richmond was getting suspicious and insisted on Branden showing the book, which he couldn't do. So he killed Richmond, and trying to stuff the body into a cupboard till he could dispose of it, he had some more bad luck in dislocating his thumb."
"Walbersley told me."
"Yes. It's a pity we didn't know earlier. That left him in a nasty hole. He didn't like to call on Kemsley for help, partly because he didn't trust him, partly because gratitude towards the man who'd saved his life was one of Kemsley's few good qualities. Eventually, he hit on that scheme of getting Hedges, and, rash though it was, it was nearly good enough to fool us."
"It was only right at the end I realized that it couldn't be far away, as Hedges could never have been brought back in time. Then of course, the earth like that of Miss Ferrard's garden, but not quite—"
"Exactly. The earth in the Park, of course, hadn't been limed or manured. Well, it looked as though everything was going smoothly; then Kemsley got busy. Apparently, he'd seen Richmond with Branden, and when Hedges' story got round he began to be worried about him. So he went to Mardon to see if Richmond had gone there, and finding he hadn't, came back and accused his partner. It seems Branden admitted it finally, but Kemsley didn't react according to expectations. He was for going to the police and getting Branden hung. Branden stopped that by knocking him on the head. He says he didn't mean to kill him and it wasn't a hard blow, but Kemsley just crumpled up. You can please yourself if you believe him."
Davidson grunted. He himself was not inclined to credit the murderer with any excess of humanitarian scruples.
"Well, he'd got another corpse on his hands, but this time he could dig the grave himself. His hand was better. So he hit on the brilliant idea of burying Kemsley as Richmond at Mardon and so providing both a corpse and a murderer—who of course would be missing.
"The one weak point he knew about was the Shakespeare manuscript. He'd destroyed what he found on Richmond's person, but, through Kemsley, he knew there was another sheet, and knew what book it was in. Richmond himself told him what drawer he'd put the book in. Hence the burglary. He knew Marjorie Richmond would be drugged; he didn't know Jane Ferrard was sleeping in the house. It all seemed easy. Instead of that he was nearly caught and when he was getting back into his own house the maid sees him, but doesn't know who it is."
"But he came to us himself."
"Yes, but putting a good face on it was his best line. The girl was sure to talk... Of course, he'd already planted the suit-case. He used Richmond's car because he'd have been certain to be seen if he'd used his own. The blood spot came from Kemsley's body. The wind made it dry quickly."
"The head? Why put that in Bexley's place?"
"Just an additional precaution. As it was, the odds were we'd suspect either that Kemsley killed Richmond, or Richmond killed Kemsley. But if we didn't, Nillett and Bexley were to be the next suspects. Apparently he'd borrowed that knife from Bexley's tool shed some time before. Bexley still doesn't remember losing it. And that, I think, is the lot."
"Miss Richmond—" Davidson began.
"Oh, she's all right. Your hero act went over magnificently. She was up most of last night with you."
"It wasn't very heroic," Davidson protested. "He was going to shoot me anyhow."
"Don't argue. You'll overtire yourself. There's no harm in letting her think so—and no hope of persuading her different. Better let it stand. Now, I'll leave you—and send the nurse."
"Just a minute—" Davidson began; but the Superintendent had already gone.
He closed his eyes wearily, trying to go over the whole of Freeman's explanation in his mind. He felt confused and incapable of any coherent thought, and into the Superintendent's story there intruded the white face of Marjorie Richmond as she had sat opposite the murderer.
He must have dozed off. When he woke, it was with the vague feeling that someone was in the room. With an effort he turned his bandaged head—his heart leaped as he recognized the figure seated by his bedside. It was Marjorie Richmond.
She had heard him stir. She rose to her feet and bent over him. There was a smile on her lips but her eyes were moist.
"You—you're better?" she asked. "I thought—I thought that—"
Davidson managed to smile.
"I take a lot of killing," he said. "And Miss Ferrard said there was nothing in my head to hurt. You—you shouldn't have worn yourself out over me. Freeman told me you—"
"That was nothing," she said quickly. "Anyone would have. You were ill."
There was a silence. Davidson shifted a little to get a better view of her. Perhaps a degree or two of temperature emboldened him.
"Marjorie," he said and stopped. "Marjorie, about yesterday. I'm sorry."
"It's all right—Christopher."
But Davidson frowned gloomily.
"I don't know how even I could be such a fool," he confessed. "I can't understand."
"I think I can."
Something in her voice made Davidson try to raise his head. She was not looking at him.
"Jane says emotions often show themselves the opposite way from what you'd expect," she said in a small voice. "I was pretty beastly to you."
There was a pause. Davidson struggled to sit up, but all he could do was to get his right arm from under the bed-clothes. Marjorie was looking out of the window; the rays of the late afternoon sun made of her hair a halo which, to Davidson at least, seemed positively angelic. She turned and met his eyes.
"Marjorie," he said with a great effort. "I think—I think you look awfully ripping like that."
"I'm glad, Christopher," she said very softly.
Davidson again tried to rise, and swore under his breath as he fell back. Marjorie frowned at him.
"You mustn't—" she began.
"Marjorie, if only I could sit up, do you know what I should like to do?"
She stood for a moment smiling down at him.
"Yes, Christopher," she said.
Kneeling by the bedside she kissed him. His one sound arm closed about her.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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