CHAPTER X.
YET ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH
Next morning my head ached. After all I'd suffered, I could hardlybear to recur to the one subject that now always occupied mythoughts. And yet, on the other hand, I couldn't succeed inbanishing it. To relieve my mind a little, I took out thephotographs I had brought from the box at The Grange, and began tosort them over according to probable date and subject.
They were of different periods, some old, some newer. I put themtogether in series, as well as I could, by the nature of thesurroundings. The most recent of all were my father's early attemptsat instantaneous electric photography--the attempts which led up atlast to his automatic machine, the acmegraph, that produced allunconsciously the picture of the murder. Some of these comparativelyrecent proofs represented men running and horses trotting: but thebest of all, tied together with a bit of tape, clearly belonged to asingle set, and must have been taken at the same time at an athleticmeeting. There was one of a flat race, viewed from a little infront, with the limbs of the runners in seemingly ridiculousattitudes, so instantaneous and therefore so grotesquely rigid werethey. There was another of a high jump, seen from one side at thevery moment of clearing the pole, so that the figure poised solid inmid-air as motionless as a statue. And there was a third, equallysuccessful, of a man throwing the hammer, in which the hammer, inthe same way, seemed to hang suspended of itself like Mahomet'scoffin between earth and heaven.
But the one that attracted my attention the most was a photograph ofan obstacle-race, in which the runners had to mount and climb over awagon placed obtrusively sideways across the course on purpose tobaffle them. This picture was taken from a few yards in the rear;and the athletes were seen in it in the most varied attitudes. Someof them were just climbing up one side of the wagon: others hadmounted to the top ledge of the body: and one, standing on thefurther edge, was in the very act of leaping down to the ground infront of him. He was bent double, to spring, with a stoop like ahunchback, and balanced himself with one hand held tightly behindhim.
As my eye fell on that figure, a cold thrill ran through me. For amoment I only knew something important had happened. Next instant Irealised what the thrill portended. I could only see the man's back,to be sure, but I knew him in a second. I had no doubt as to who itwas. This was HIM--the murderer!
Yes, yes! There could be no mistaking that arched round back thathad haunted me so long in my waking dreams. I knew him at sight. Itwas the man I had seen on the night of the murder getting out of thewindow!
Perhaps I was overwrought. Perhaps my fancy ran away with me. But Ididn't doubt for a second. I rose from my seat, and in a tremulousvoice called Jane into the room. Without one word I laid bothpictures down before her together. Jane glanced first at the one,then turned quickly to the other. A sharp little cry broke from herlips all unbidden. She saw it as fast and as instinctively as I haddone.
"That's him!" she exclaimed, aghast, and as pale as a sheet. "That'shim, right enough, Miss Una. That's the very same back! That's thevery same hand! That's the man! That's the murderer!"
And indeed, this unanimity was sufficiently startling. For nothingcould have been more different than the dress in the two cases. Inthe murder scene, the man seemed to wear a tweed suit andknickerbockers,--he was indistinct, as I said before, against theblurred light of the window: while in the athletic scene, he worejust a thin jersey and running-drawers, cut short at the knee, withhis arms and legs bare, and his muscles contracted. Yet for allthat, we both knew him for the same man at once. That stooping backwas unmistakable; that position of the hand was characteristic andunique. We were sure he was the same man. I trembled with agitation.I had a clue to the murderer!
Yet, strange to say, that wasn't the first thought that occurred tomy mind. In the relief of the moment, I looked up into Jane's eyes,and exclaimed with a sigh of profound relief:
"Then you see how mistaken you were about the hands and Aunt Emma!"
Jane looked close at the hand in the photograph once more.
"Well, it's curious," she said, slowly. "That's a man, sure enough:but he'd ought to be a Moore. The palm's your aunt's as clear asever you could paint it!"
I glanced over her shoulder. She was perfectly right. It was a manbeyond all doubt, the figure on the wagon. Yet the hand was AuntEmma's, every line and every stroke of it; except, of course, thescars. Those, I saw at a glance, were wholly wanting.
And now I had really a clue to the murderer.
Yet how slight a clue! Just a photograph of men's backs. What men?When and where? It was an athletic meeting. Of what club or society?That was the next question now I had to answer. Instinctively I madeup my mind to answer it myself, without giving any notice to thepolice of my discovery.
Perhaps I should never have been able to answer it at all but forone of the photographs which, as I thought, though lying loose byitself, formed part of the same series. It represented the end of ahundred-yard race, with the winners coming in at the tape by apavilion with a flag-staff. On the staff a big flag was flyingloosely in the wind. The folds hid half of the words on its centrefrom sight. But this much at least I could read:
"ER...OM..OY...LETI...UB."
I gazed at them long and earnestly. After a minute or two ofthought, I made out the last two words. The inscription must surelybe Something-or-other Athletic Club.
But what was "Er... om.. oy..."? That question staggered me. Gazingharder at it than ever, I could come to no conclusion. It was thename of a place, no doubt: but what place, I knew not.
"Er"? No, "Ber": just a suspicion of a B came round the corner of afold. If B was the first letter, I might possibly identify it.
I took the photograph down to Aunt Emma, without telling her what Imeant. She couldn't bear to think I was ever engaged in thinking ofmy First State at all.
"Can you read the inscription on that flag, auntie?" I asked. "It'san old photograph I picked up in the attic at The Grange, and I'dlike to know, if I could, at what place it was taken."
Aunt Emma gazed at it long and earnestly. Her colour never changed.Then she shook her head quietly.
"I don't know the place," she said; "and I don't know the name. Ican't quite make it out. That's E, and R, and O. You see, theletters in between might be almost anything."
I wasn't going to be put off, however, with the port thus in sight.One fact was almost certain. Wherever that pavilion might be, themurderer was there on the day unknown when those photo-graphs weretaken. And whatever that day might be, my father and the murdererwere there together. That brought the two into connection, andbrought me one step nearer a solution than ever the police had been;for hitherto no one had even pretended to have the slightest clue tothe personality of the man who jumped out of the window.
I went into the library and took down the big atlas. Opening the mapof England and Wales, I began a hopeless search, county by county,from Northumberland downward, for any town or village that would fitthese mysterious letters. It was a wild and foolish idea. In thefirst place not a quarter of the villages were marked in the map;and in the second place, my brain soon got muddled and dazed withtrying to fit in the names with the letters on the flag. Two hourshad passed away, and I'd only got as far down as Lancashire andDurham. And, most probably even so, I would never come upon it.
Then suddenly, a bright idea broke on my brain at once. The Index!The Index! Presumably, as no fold seemed to obscure the first words,the name began with what looked like a B. That was always something.
A man would have thought of that at once, of course: but then, Ihave the misfortune to be only a woman.
I turned to the Index in haste, and looked down it with hurriedeyes. Almost sooner than I could have hoped, the riddle unreaditself. "Ber-, Berb-, Berc-, Berd-," I read out: "Berkshire: Berham:Berhampore: that won't do: Berlin: Berling: Bernina: Berry--what'sthat? Oh, great heavens!"--my brain reeled--"Berry Pomeroy!"
It was as clear as day. How could I have missed it before? There itseemed to s
tand out almost legible on the flagstaff. I read it nowwith ease: "Berry Pomeroy Athletic Club."
I looked up the map once more, following the lines with my fingers,till I found the very place where the name was printed. A village inDevonshire, not far from Torquay. Yes! That's it; Berry Pomeroy. Themurderer was there on the day of that athletic meeting!
My heart came up into my mouth with mingled horror and triumph. Ifelt like a bloodhound who gets on the trail of his man. I wouldtrack him down now, no doubt--my father's murderer!
I had no resentment against him, no desire for vengeance. But I hada burning wish to free myself from this environing mystery.
I wouldn't tell the police or the inspector, however, what clue Ihad obtained. I'd find it all out for myself without anyone's help.I remembered what Dr. Marten had said, and determined to be wise.I'd work on my own lines till all was found out: and then, be it whoit might, I sternly resolved I'd let justice be done on him.
So I said nothing even to Jane about the discovery I'd just made. Isaid nothing to anybody till we sat down at dinner. Then, in thecourse of conversation, I got on the subject of Devonshire.
"Auntie," I ventured to ask at last, in a very casual way, "did Iever, so far as you know, go anywhere near a place called BerryPomeroy?"
Aunt Emma gave a start.
"Oh, darling, why do you ask?" she cried.
"You don't mean to say you remember that, do you? What do you wantto know for, Una? You can't possibly recollect your Torquay visit,surely!"
I trembled all over. Then I was on the right track!
"Was I ever at Torquay?" I asked once more, as firmly as I could."And when I was there, did I go over one day to Berry Pomeroy?"
Aunt Emma grew all at once as white as death.
"This is wonderful!" she cried in an agitated voice. "This iswonderful--wonderful! If you can remember that, my child, you canremember anything."
"I DON'T remember it auntie," I answered, not liking to deceive her."To tell you the truth, I simply guessed at it. But when and why wasI at Torquay? Please tell me. And did I go to Berry Pomeroy?" For Istuck to my point, and meant to get it out of her.
Aunt Emma gazed at me fixedly.
"You went to Torquay, dear," she said in a very slow voice, "in thespring of the same year your poor father was killed: that's morethan four years ago. The Willie Moores live at Torquay, and severalmore of your cousins. You went to stop with Willie's wife, and youstayed five weeks. I don't know whether you ever went over to BerryPomeroy. You may have, and you mayn't: it's within an easy drivingdistance. Minnie Moore has often written to ask me whether you couldgo there again; Minnie was always fond of you, and thinks you'dremember her: but I've been afraid to allow you, for fear it shouldrecall sad scenes. She's about your own age, Minnie is; and she's adaughter of Willie Moore, who's my own first cousin, and of courseyour dear mother's."
I never hesitated a moment. I was strung up too tightly by thattime.
"Auntie dear," I said quietly, "I go to-morrow to Torquay. I mustknow all now. I must hunt up these people."
Auntie knew from my tone it was no use trying to stand in my way anylonger.
"Very well, dear," she said resignedly. "I don't believe it's goodfor you: but you must do as you like. You have your father's will,Una. You were always headstrong."