CHAPTER VI
The butler left the moat-house at a brisk pace which became almost a runafter he crossed the moat bridge. His way across the park lay along thecarriage drive, bordered by an avenue of tall trees, between anornamental lake and some thick game covers, and then through the outerfields to the village.
It was a soft and mellow September night, with a violet sky overheadsprinkled with silver. But a touch of autumn decay was in the air, whichwas heavy and still, and a white mist was rising in thick, sluggishclouds from the green, stagnant surface of the lake. The wood was veiledin blackness, in which the trunks of the trees were just visible,standing in straight, regular rows, like soldiers at attention.
Tufnell hurried along this lonely spot, casting timid glances aroundhim. He was not a nervous man at ordinary times, but like many countrypeople, he had a vein of superstition running through his phlegmatictemperament, and the events of the night had swept away his calmness.The croaking of the frogs and the whispering of the trees filled himwith uneasiness, and he kept glancing backwards and forwards from thelake to the wood, as though he feared the murderer might suddenly appearfrom the misty surface of the one or the dim recesses of the other.
He had almost reached the confines of the wood when he was startled by aloud whirr, which he recognized as the flight of a covey of partridgesfrom a cover close at hand. What had startled them? Glancing fearfullyaround him he saw, or thought he saw, the crouching figure of a man inone of the bypaths of the wood, partly hidden by the thick brancheswhich stretched across the path a short distance from the drive.
Tufnell's first impulse was to take to his heels, but he was saved fromthis ignominious act by the timely recollection that he was anEnglishman, whose glorious privilege it is to be born without fear. Sohe stood still, and in a voice which had something of a quaver in it,called out:
"Who is there?"
In the wood a bird gave a single call like the note of a flute, the windmurmured in the tall avenue of trees, a frog splashed in the stillwaters of the lake, but there was no sound of human life. Glancingcautiously into the wood, the butler could no longer see anythingcrouching in the path. The man--if it had been a man--had vanished.
"It may have been my fancy," muttered the butler, speaking aloud asthough to reassure himself by hearing his own voice.
He walked quickly onward, and was relieved when he had left the woodbehind him, and could see the faint lights of the village twinklingbeyond the fields. Crossing a footbridge which spanned a narrow streamat the bottom of the meadows, Tufnell climbed over a stile, and walkedalong the road on the other side until he reached a cottage standingsome distance back from the road at the summit of a gentle slope.Tufnell ascended the slope and knocked loudly at the cottage door.
After the lapse of a few moments the door was opened by a woman with acandle in her hand--a stout countrywoman of forty, with a curved nose,prominent teeth, and hair screwed up in a tight knob at the back of herhead. Her small grey eyes, scanning the visitor at the door, showed bothsurprise and deference. The butler of the moat-house was not in thehabit of mixing with the villagers, and by them he was accountedsomething of a personage. He not only shone with the reflected glory ofthe big house, but was respected on his own merit as a "snug" man, whohad saved money, and had a little property of his own.
"Is your husband at home, Mrs. Lumbe?" he asked, in response to her muteglance of inquiry. He spoke condescendingly, like a man who recognizedthe social gulf between them, but believed in being polite to the lowerorders.
"Yes, he is in, Mr. Tufnell. Will you come inside?"
The butler rubbed his boots carefully on the doormat, and followed thewoman down a narrow passage to a small sitting-room at the end of it,where a man was sitting, reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe.
"Robert," said the woman, "here is Mr. Tufnell to see you."
The man looked up from his newspaper in some surprise, and got up togreet his visitor. He was not in uniform, and his rough, ungainly figureand round red face revealed the countryman, but from the crown of hisclose-cropped bullet head to his thick-soled boots he looked like arural policeman. There was an awkward pose about him as he stood up--aclumsy effort to maintain the semblance of an official dignity. Thequestioning look his ferret eyes cast at the butler through the haze oftobacco smoke which filled the room indicated his impression that thevisit was not merely a neighbourly call. Tufnell did not leave him indoubt on the point.
"You are wanted at the moat-house at once, Sergeant Lumbe," he saidgravely. "A terrible crime has been committed. Mrs. Heredith has beenmurdered."
"Murdered!" ejaculated the sergeant, looking vacantly across the tableat his wife, who had given vent to a cry of horror. "Murdered!" herepeated, as though seeking to assure himself of the truth of thebutler's statement by a repetition of the word.
"Yes. She was shot in her bedroom a little while ago while the otherguests were at dinner. You must come at once."
Sergeant Lumbe laid his pipe on the table with a trembling hand. He wasoverwhelmed by the magnitude of the catastrophe, and hardly knew what todo. His previous experience of crime was confined to an occasionalarrest of the village drunkard, who invariably went with himconfidingly. His eye wandered to a bookcase in the corner of the room,as if he would have liked to consult a "Police Code" which wasprominently displayed on one of the shelves. Apparently he realized theindignity of such a course in the presence of a member of the public, sohe turned to Tufnell and said:
"I'll go with you, but I must first put on my tunic."
"Be as quick as you can," said the butler, taking a chair.
Sergeant Lumbe went into an inner room, where his wife followed him.Tufnell heard them whispering as they moved about. Then Sergeant Lumbehastily emerged buttoning his tunic. There was an eager look on hisface.
"The wife has been saying that we ought to take her brother along," hesaid. "He belongs to Scotland Yard. He's spending his holidays with us."
"Where is he?" asked Tufnell, impressed by the magic of the name ofScotland Yard.
"He's just stepped over to the _Fox and Knot_ to have a game ofbilliards, finding it a bit lonesome here, after London. Do you think wemight send for him and take him with us?"
"I think it would be a very good idea," said Tufnell. "But can he be gotat once?" he added, with a glance at the little clock on themantelpiece. "The sooner we return the better."
"The wife can bring him while I am changing my boots. Hurry down to the_Fox_, Maggie, and tell Tom he's wanted at once."
"Don't tell him what it's for until you get him outside," hastilycounselled the butler as the policeman's wife was departing on hererrand. "Sir Philip won't like it if he hears that what happenedto-night was discussed in the _Fox_ tap-room."
The little clock on the mantelpiece had barely ticked off fiveadditional minutes when Mrs. Lumbe returned in a breathless state,accompanied by a young man with billiard chalk on his coat and hands.
"This is my brother, Detective Caldew," said Mrs. Lumbe, between pants,to the butler. "I told him about the murder, and we hurried back as fastas we could."
"It's a horrible crime, and we must lose no time while there is still achance of catching the murderer," said the young man, regaining hisbreath more easily than his stout sister. He brushed the billiard chalkoff his clothes as he spoke. "Let us go at once."
Tufnell cast a curious glance at the new-comer. He saw a man of aboutthirty-five, tall, well-built and dark, with a clean-shaven face andrather intelligent eyes under thick dark brows. He had some difficultyin recognizing Detective Caldew as the village urchin of a score ofyears before who had touched his cap to the moat-house butler as a greatpersonage, second only in importance to Sir Philip Heredith himself.
Tufnell was not aware that in the former village boy who had become aLondon detective he was in the presence of a young man of soaringambition. Caldew had gone to London fifteen years before with the ideaof bettering himself. After tramping the streets of the metr
opolis forsome months in a vain quest for work, he had enlisted in themetropolitan police force rather than return to his native village andreport himself a failure. At the end of two years' service as apoliceman he had been given the choice of transfer to the CriminalInvestigation Department of Scotland Yard. He had gladly accepted theopportunity, and had shown so much aptitude for plain-clothes work thatby the end of another two years he had risen to the rank of detective.Caldew thought he was on the rapid road to further promotion, and hadmarried on the strength of that belief. But another ten years had passedsince then, and he still occupied a subordinate position, with not muchhope of promotion unless luck came his way. And there seemed very littlechance of that. Caldew's professional experience had imbued him with thebelief that the junior officers of Scotland Yard existed for no otherpurpose than to shoulder the blame for the mistakes of their officialsuperiors, who divided amongst themselves the plums of promotion,rewards, and newspaper publicity. That, of course, was the recognizedthing in all public departments. Caldew found no fault with the system.His great ambition was to obtain some opening which would bring himadvancement and his share of the plums.
He believed his opportunity had arrived that night. It had always beenhis dream to have the chance to unravel single-handed some greatcrime--a murder for choice--in which he alone should have all the gloryand praise and newspaper paragraphs. He determined to make the most ofthe lucky chance which had fallen into his hands, before anybody elsecould arrive on the scene. He had confidence in his own abilities, andthought he had all the qualifications necessary to make a greatdetective. He was, at all events, sufficiently acute to realize thatopportunity seldom knocks twice at any man's door.
The three men set out for the moat-house. At the butler's requestSergeant Lumbe went ahead to summon the doctor, who lived on the otherside of the village green, and while he was gone Caldew drew the detailsof the crime from his companion. Lumbe rejoined them at the footbridgewhich led across the meadows into the Heredith estate, and theyproceeded on their way in silence. Sergeant Lumbe's brain--such as itwas--was in too much of a whirl to permit him to talk coherently;Tufnell, habitually a taciturn individual, had been rendered more sothan usual by the events of the night; and Caldew was plunged into sucha reverie of pleasurable expectation, regarding the outcome of hisinvestigations of the moat-house murder, that the stages of hispromotion through the grades of detective, sub-superintendent, andsuperintendent, flashed through his mind as rapidly as telegraph polesflit past a traveller in a railway carriage. The crime which had struckdown one human being in the dawn of youth and beauty, turned anotherinto a murderer, and plunged an old English family into horror andmisery, afforded Detective Caldew's optimistic temperament such extremegratification that he could scarcely forbear from whistling aloud. Butthat is human nature.
They passed through the wood, and crossed the moat bridge. The mist wascreeping out of the darkness on both sides of the moat-house, casting afilm across the faint light which gleamed from one or two of the heavilyshuttered windows. Caldew, pausing midway on the bridge to glance at themist-spirals stealing up like a troop of ghosts, asked hisbrother-in-law if the moat was still kept full of water. He received anaffirmative reply, and walked on again.
A maidservant answered Tufnell's ring at the front door, and informedhim in a whisper that Sir Philip and Miss Heredith were in thedrawing-room. Thither they bent their steps, and found Musard awaitingthem near the door. He nodded to Sergeant Lumbe, whom he knew, andglanced interrogatively at Caldew. Lumbe announced the latter'sidentity.
"You had better come in here first," said Musard, opening the door ofthe drawing-room and revealing the baronet and Miss Heredith sittingwithin. Brother and sister glanced at the group entering the room.
"This is Detective Caldew, of Scotland Yard," Musard explained to them,indicating the young man. "He is staying with Lumbe, who thought itadvisable to bring him."
"Have you told them everything?" Miss Heredith spoke to Tufnell. Her drylips formed the words rather than uttered them, but the old retainerunderstood her, and bowed without speaking. "What do you wish to dofirst, Detective Caldew?" she added, turning to him, and speaking withmore composure. She was quick to realize that he would take the lead inthe police investigations. A glance at Sergeant Lumbe's flustered facerevealed only too clearly that the position in which he found himselfwas beyond his official capabilities.
Caldew stepped briskly forward. He was in no way embarrassed by hisunaccustomed surroundings or by the commanding appearance of the greatlady who was addressing him. He was a man who believed in himself, andsuch men are too much in earnest to be diffident.
"I should like to ask a few questions first, madam," he said. "So far, Ihave heard only your butler's version of what happened." Without waitingfor a reply he launched a number of questions, and made a note of thereplies in a pocket-book.
Musard, who assisted Miss Heredith to answer the questions, was ratherimpressed by the quick intelligence the detective displayed in elicitingall the known facts of the murder, but Sergeant Lumbe, who remainedstanding near the door, was shocked to hear Caldew cross-questioning thegreat folk of the moat-house with such little ceremony. He thought hisbrother-in-law a very forward young fellow, and hoped that Miss Heredithwould not hold him responsible for his free-and-easy manner.
"Now I should like to commence my investigations," said Caldew,replacing his pocket-book. "There has been too much time lost already. Iwill start with examining the room where the body is, if you please."
"Certainly." Miss Heredith rose from her seat as she uttered the word.
"My dear Alethea!"--Musard's tone was expostulatory--"I will take thedetective upstairs. There is no need for you to come."
"I prefer to do so." Miss Heredith's tone admitted of no furtherargument. She was about to lead the way from the room when she pausedand glanced at Tufnell. "When will Dr. Holmes be here?" she asked.
"Almost immediately, ma'am."
"You had better stay here and receive him, Philip." Miss Heredith placedher hand affectionately on her brother's shoulder. He had not spokenduring the time the police were in the room, but had sat quietly on hischair, with bent head and clasped hands, looking very old and frail. "Itwill be as well for him to see Phil before going upstairs," she added.
Sir Philip looked up at the mention of his son's name. "Poor Phil," hemuttered dully.
"I think the doctor should examine Phil the moment he comes," continuedMiss Heredith, aside, to Musard. "His look alarms me. I fear the shockhas affected his brain. Tufnell, be sure and show Dr. Holmes to Mr.Philip's room directly Sir Philip has received him."
"You can rely upon me to do so, ma'am," said Tufnell earnestly.
"Very well. We will now go upstairs."
She left the drawing-room and proceeded towards the broad oak staircase,with Musard close behind her. Detective Caldew followed more slowly,noting his surroundings. When they reached the head of the staircaseMiss Heredith switched on the electric current, and the bedroom corridorsprang into light. Detective Caldew was surprised at its length.
"Where does this passage lead to?" he asked abruptly.
"To the south side of the moat-house," replied Musard.
"Has it any outlet?"
"Yes; a door at the end communicates with a narrow staircase, leading toanother door at the bottom. The second door was a former backentrance--it opens somewhere near the servants' quarters, I think?" Heglanced inquiringly at Miss Heredith.
"Those stairs are never used now," she replied. "The entrance door atthe bottom of the staircase is kept locked."
"There are such things as skeleton keys," commented the detective.
Musard opened the door of the death-chamber and switched on the light.Caldew walked at once to the bedside. He drew away the covering whichhad been placed over the face of the young wife, and stood looking ather.
Death had invested her with pathos, but not with dignity. On the pallorof the death mask the tinted lips, the spo
ts of rouge, the pencilledeyebrows of the dead face, were as clearly revealed as print on a whitepage. The lips were parted; the small white teeth were showing beneaththe upper lip. The little nose rose in the sharp outline of death;between the half-closed eyelids the darkened blue eyes looked outvacantly. The thick, fair hair, spotted with blood, flowed in disorderedwaves over the white pillow; the numerous rings on the dead hands blazedand glittered with hard brilliance in the electric light.
It was these costly jewels on the murdered girl's hands which promptedthe question which sprang to the detective's lips:
"Did the murderer take anything?" he asked. "Has anything been missed?"
"No," said Miss Heredith. "Nothing has been taken."
"Mrs. Heredith had more jewellery than this, I suppose?" pursued thedetective. "Brooches and necklaces, and that kind of thing. Where werethey kept?"
"Mrs. Heredith's jewel-case is downstairs, in the safe in the library,"replied Miss Heredith. She did not feel called upon to add theadditional information that she had taken it there herself, and lockedit up, not half an hour before.
Detective Caldew made a mental note of the fact that the motive for thecrime was not robbery, unless, indeed, the murderer had become flurried,and fled. His eye, glancing round the room, was attracted by the windowcurtains, which were stirring faintly. He flung them back, and saw theopen window.
"How long has this window been open?" he asked.
Miss Heredith gave her reasons for believing that the window was closedwhen she left Violet to go downstairs to the dining-room. Caldewlistened thoughtfully, and nodded his head in quick comprehension whenshe added the information that the bedroom window was nearly twenty feetfrom the ground.
"You think the murderer did not jump out of the window," he said. "Themore important point is, did he get in that way? It is not a difficultmatter to scale a wall to reach a window if there is any sort of afoothold. It is a point I will look into afterwards."
He tried the window catch, and then walked about the room, examining itclosely. His quick, eager eyes, looking about in every direction, werecaught by something glittering on the carpet, close to the bed. Heglanced at his companions. As a detective, he had long learnt the wisdomof caution in the presence of friends and relatives.
"I should like to be left alone in the room in order to examine it morethoroughly," he briefly announced.
When Miss Heredith and Musard had left the room he locked the doorbehind them, and, kneeling down by the bedside, disentangled a smallshining object almost concealed in the thick green texture of thecarpet. It was a trinket like a bar brooch, with gold clasps. The barwas of transparent stone, clear as glass, with a faint sea-green tinge,and speckled in the interior with small black spots. Caldew had neverseen a stone like it. The frail gold of the setting suggested that itwas not of much intrinsic value, but it was a pretty little trinket,such as ladies sometimes wear as a mascot. Caldew reflected that if itwere a mascot it was by no means certain that the owner was a woman.Many young officers took mascots to the front for luck.
As he turned it over in his hand he observed some lettering on theunderside. He examined it curiously, and saw that an inscription hadbeen scratched into the stone in round, irregular handwriting--obviouslyan unskilled, almost childish effort. Holding the brooch closer to thelight, he was able to decipher the inscription. It consisted of twowords--"Semper Fidelis."
It seemed to Caldew that the inscription rather weakened the correctnessof his first impression that the trinket had been worn as a femininemascot. He doubted very much whether any modern woman would cherish amid-Victorian sentiment like "Always Faithful." On the other hand, manymen might. His experience as a detective had led him to the belief thatmen were more prone to such sentiments than the other sex, though theirconduct rarely accorded with their protestations and temporaryintentions.
Struck by a sudden thought, he dropped the trinket back on the carpet.It was just visible in the thick pile.
"A good idea!" he murmured, as he rose to his feet. "I'll watch thisroom to-night."
As he stood there, speculating on the possibility of the owner of thetrinket returning to the room to search for it, he was interrupted by alow tap at the door. He walked across and opened it. Tufnell stoodoutside, grave and composed.
"Mr. Musard would like to see you in the library," he said.
His tone was even and almost deferential, but the detective's watchfuleyes intercepted a fleeting glance cast by the butler over his shoulderin the direction of the still figure on the bed.
"Very well, I will see him," said the detective.
"I will take you to him, if you will come with me." The butler precededhim along the passage with noiseless step, and Caldew followed him, deepin thought.
The butler escorted him to the library, and entered after him. Musardwas in the room alone, standing by the fireplace, smoking a cigar. Helooked up as Caldew entered.
"I have just learnt something which I think you ought to know," he said."The information comes from Tufnell. He tells me that while he was goingaround the house this afternoon he found the outside door of the backstaircase unlocked."
"Do you mean the door at the bottom of the staircase in the left wing?"asked Caldew.
"Precisely."
"I understood from Miss Heredith that this door was always kept locked."
"So it is, as a rule. It was only by chance that the butler discoveredthis evening that it had been unlocked. You had better explain to thedetective, Tufnell, how you came to find it unfastened."
"I was going round by the back of the house this evening," said thebutler, coming forward. "As I passed the door I tried the handle. To mysurprise it yielded. I opened the door, and found that the key was inthe keyhole, on the other side. I locked the door, and took the keyaway."
"What time was this?" inquired Caldew.
"A little before six--perhaps a quarter of an hour."
"Is it your custom to try this door every night?"
"Oh, no, it is not necessary. The door is always kept locked, and thekey hangs with a bunch of other unused keys in a small room near thehousekeeper's apartments, where a number of odds and ends are kept."
"When was the last time you tried the door?"
The butler considered for a moment.
"I cannot rightly say," he said at length. "The door is never used, andI rarely think of it."
"Then, for all you know to the contrary, the key may have been in thedoor for days, or weeks past."
"Why, yes, it is possible, now that you come to mention it," said thebutler, with an air of surprise, as though he had not previouslyconsidered such a contingency.
"The key had been taken off the bunch?"
"Yes."
"Do the servants know where the key is kept?"
"Some of the maidservants do. The back staircase is occasionally openedfor ventilation and dusting, and the maid who does this work gets thekey from the housekeeper."
"Who has charge of the room where the keys are kept?"
"Nobody in particular. It is really a sort of a lumber-room. Thehousekeeper has charge of the keys."
"Thank you; that is all I wish to know."
The butler left the room, and Caldew looked up, to encounter Musard'seyes regarding him.
"Do you think this has anything to do with the murder?" Musard asked.
Caldew hesitated for a moment. It was on the tip of his tongue to replythat he attached no importance to the butler's statement, butprofessional habits of caution checked his natural impulsiveness.
"I want to know more about the circumstances before advancing anopinion," he replied. "Tufnell's story was rather vague."
"In what respect?"
"In regard to time. The door may have been left unlocked for days."
"Who would unlock it?" replied Musard. "The inference, in view of whathas happened, seems rather that the door was unlocked to-day, andTufnell stumbled upon the fact by a lucky chance--by Fate, if you like.At least it loo
ks like that to me."
"And the murderer entered by the door?"
"Yes."
"I think that is assuming too much," said Caldew. He had no intention ofpointing out to his companion that such an assumption overlooked thefact that Tufnell's discovery, and the locking of the door, had notprevented the crime and the subsequent escape of the murderer.
He turned to leave the room, but Musard was in a talkative mood. Heoffered the detective a cigar, and kept him for a while, chattingdiscursively. Caldew was in no humour to listen. His mind was full ofthe problems of this strange case, and he was anxious to returnupstairs. He took the first opportunity of terminating the conversationand leaving the room.
It was his intention to conceal himself in one of the wardrobes of thebedroom in the hope that the owner of the trinket he had found wouldreturn in search of it. As he reached the landing he was surprised tosee that the door of the murdered woman's bedroom was wide open,although he remembered distinctly that he had closed it when he left theroom to accompany the butler downstairs. With a quickly beating heart hehurried across the room to the spot where he had left the trinket. Butit was gone.