CHAPTER XII
IT was not Elsie Maynard's first visit to London, but her visits hadbeen so few that London had presented itself to her as a vast labyrinthof streets, shops and houses. The prevailing impression of all previousvisits was that, since it was a simple matter to get lost involuntarilyin the labyrinth, it would be a simple matter for any one to disappearvoluntarily and remain hidden from search. But on this occasion, whenthere was need for secrecy as to her visit and its object, she fanciedthe vast city to be full of prying eyes.
It seemed improbable that among the thousands of people she met inthe streets there would not be some one who knew her. There might besome one watching her--some one who had received a telephone messageregarding her journey by train from Ashlingsea. To disappear from someone who was watching her seemed to be impossible, for among the throngof people it was impossible to single out the watcher.
From Victoria Station she took a tube ticket to Earl's Court, so asto give the impression to any one who was following her that herdestination was in the west of London. She inspected closely all thepeople who followed her into the carriage. She alighted at SouthKensington and changed to the Piccadilly tube. She got out at Holbornand then took a bus to Aldgate. She walked along to the junction ofWhitechapel Road and Commercial Road, where she took a tram. After ashort journey by tram along Commercial Road she got out and walkedalong the south side of the street, keeping a look out for the names ofthe side streets.
When she reached Quilter Street she turned down it, and eventuallystopped at the door of No. 23. It was a short street with a monotonousrow of houses on each side. At one side of the corner where it joinedCommercial Road was a steam laundry, and at the other side a grocer'swhich was also a post office. The faded wrappings of the tinned goodswhich had been displayed for many months in the windows were indicativeof the comparative poverty of the locality. In the ground-floor windowsof most of the houses were cardboard notices showing that tailoring wasthe craft by which the inhabitants earned their bread. It was here thata great deal of the work sent out by tailors' shops in the City wasdone, and the placards in the windows proclaimed a desire for work fromchance customers whose clothes needed repairs and pressing.
There were dirty ragged children playing in the gutters, and dirtyslatternly women, with black shawls over their heads and shouldersand jugs in their hands, were to be seen hurrying along the pavementfor milk and beer. Although Miss Maynard had taken care not to dressherself elaborately for her journey to London, she was aware that herappearance before the door of No. 23 was attracting some attentionamong the women standing at their doors and gossiping across arearailings. When the door was opened by a girl in her early teens whohad her sleeves rolled up and was wearing a piece of sacking as anapron, Miss Maynard entered hurriedly and closed the door after her.
"Does Mr. Miller live here?" she asked.
"Yes," replied the girl.
"Is he in now?"
"Yes, he told me he was expecting a lady to call. Are you her?"
"Yes."
"First floor--front," said the girl, jerking a dirty thumb in thedirection of the stairs as an indication to her visitor that she couldfind her way up unaided.
But before she had reached the top of the stairs the door of the frontroom on the first floor was opened, and the man she had come to seeappeared on the stairs to welcome her. He clasped her hands eagerlyand led her to his room, closing the door carefully behind him. Fora moment he hesitated and then placed his arms around her. Her headfell back on his shoulder and he pressed his lips to hers in a longlingering kiss.
Arnold Brett was a young man of spare build whose military traininghad taught him to keep his shoulders well back. He had a slight blackmoustache, and his hair, which was carefully brushed down on his head,was raven black in colour. His aquiline nose seemed to emphasize thesharpness of his features; the glance from his dark eyes was restlessand crafty.
"Darling, I knew you would come," he said. He released her, but onlyfor the purpose of taking her again in his arms and kissing her.
"But why are you here?" she asked, giving a glance at the impoverishedfurniture--the narrow bed with its faded counterpane, the cheap chestof drawers, the dressing-table with a cracked mirror, the dirty windowcurtains and the single wooden chair.
"Before God, I swear I had nothing to do with it, Elsie," he exclaimedpassionately.
It was a relief to hear him declare his innocence. Even if he hadspoken without emphasis she would not have doubted his word. It wasbecause her belief in his innocence deepened the mystery of his reasonfor hiding that she repeated:
"But why are you here?"
"Do you believe me?" he asked. Between lovers faith counts for muchmore than reason.
"Of course I do."
"I knew you would," he said. "It is because I know you were true that Iasked you to come. I am beginning to think that perhaps I made a greatmistake in running away. But I was unnerved by the accident. I wasthrown out of the car and I must have been unconscious in the road formore than an hour. And, recalling how poor Frank had met his death, itseemed to me that there was a diabolical scheme on foot to murder me aswell. Perhaps I was wrong. Tell me everything. Do the police suspectme? Have they a warrant out for me? Did you go to the farm that night?I have sent out for a newspaper each day, but the London newspapershave said very little about the murder. All I have seen is a couple ofsmall paragraphs."
She was more immediately concerned in the discovery that he hadbeen thrown out of a motor-car and injured than in his thirst forinformation about the murder at Cliff Farm. She was solicitous as tothe extent of the injury he had suffered, the length of time he hadbeen unconscious, and his movements after he came to his senses onthe lonely road. Not only were her feminine sympathies stirred by thethought of the sufferings of the man she loved, but by the fear thatthe accident must have affected his mind temporarily and prompted himto hide himself.
He was too impatient for her news to spare time for more than a vaguedisconnected account of the accident. He assured her that he was allright again, except for a cut on the head which he showed her. It wason her news more than on anything else that the question of his returnto Staveley depended.
She told him in response to his questions that the murder had created asensation. Every one was talking about it. The _Staveley Courier_ hadpublished a two column account of the tragedy with details about thevictim and the eccentricities of his grandfather in later years. Stresswas laid, in the newspaper account of the story, on the rumour that oldJoseph Lumsden had buried his money after the war broke out, and on thedisappointment of the legatees whose legacies could not be paid at hisdeath because the money could not be found. The police, it was stated,had questioned these legatees as to their movements on the night of themurder. The theory of the police seemed to be that the murder had beencommitted by some one who had heard about the buried money and believedit was hidden in the house, or thought the victim had known where itwas hidden.
She told him that Scotland Yard had sent down a detective toinvestigate the crime, and that Mr. Crewe, the famous privatedetective, was also working on it.
"Crewe!" he exclaimed in dismay. "Who has brought him into it?"
"He happened to be staying at Staveley with Sir George Granville onthe night of the murder, and when Mr. Marsland rang up his uncle, SirGeorge Granville, from the Ashlingsea police station to say he was allright, and to tell Sir George about the murder, Mr. Crewe was naturallyinterested in it. He took up the case on his own initiative because hishost's nephew discovered the body."
"I can't follow you," he said. "Who is Mr. Marsland?" He started backwith a look of terror in his eyes. "My God, you don't mean CaptainMarsland? That is who it is; that is who it is! I knew I was right."
"Arnold, what is the matter?" she exclaimed, rising to her feet andputting a hand on his shoulder. "You look dreadful."
"Captain Marsland," he muttered. "Captain Marsland come to lifeagain." He raised his clenched hand
and shook it slowly as if to giveimpressive emphasis to his words. "That is the man who shot poor Frank.I knew I was right."
"Impossible."
He turned on her fiercely.
"Impossible," he echoed. "Who are you to say it is impossible? What doyou know about it or about him? Perhaps you are in love with him?"
"Don't be foolish, Arnold," she said sternly. "The Mr. Marsland I amspeaking of is not a captain--at least, he does not wear uniform,and I have not heard any one call him 'captain.' At any rate, it isimpossible for him to have killed Frank Lumsden. I was at the farmbefore he was, and poor Frank's dead body was upstairs all the time Iwas there, though I did not know it."
"All the time you were there? When did you get there?"
"About six o'clock--just as the storm came on."
"Six o'clock? And was there no one at the house when you got there?"
"No one."
"You saw no trace of anyone having been there?"
"No. I found the key of the door in the lock and naturally I thoughtthat Frank had left it there--that you and he were inside. You rememberthat you told me to be there about six o'clock, and that you and Frankwould be there before then."
"Yes. That was the arrangement, but--well, never mind that, Elsie, now;tell me your story."
"I opened the door and walked in," she said. "I called out 'Is thereanybody in?' but I got no answer. I thought then that you and Frankwere in one of the sheds, and I sat down in the sitting-room, expectingyou would be back in a moment. I took the key out of the door so as tomake you knock in order to get in. The rain was just commencing then,but it had been blowing hard for half an hour. About ten minutes afterI had been in the sitting-room there was a knock at the front door.Naturally I thought it was you. I rushed to open it and as I flung itback I asked what had kept you so long. But the man on the door stepwas a stranger--this Mr. Marsland."
"What is he like?" asked Brett quickly.
"He is rather good-looking; fair-haired and fair-skinned andblue-eyed--the Saxon type. He is about medium height--not quite so tallas you."
"How old is he?"
"Quite young--about 26 or 27, I should say."
"Does he wear glasses--gold-rimmed eye-glasses?"
"He was not wearing them then, but he does wear them as a rule. I thinkhe told me subsequently that he had lost a pair while he was ridingalong--blown off by the wind."
"What explanation did he give of his visit?"
"He had been riding across the downs from Staveley and had lost his wayin the storm. His horse was lame and when he saw the house he decidedto seek shelter."
"Did you believe him?"
"Of course I did--then."
"Do you believe him now?"
"I don't know, Arnold, after what you have said. He may have been therebefore I was--it may have been he who left the key in the door."
"I am sure of it."
"He came in and sat down--he certainly acted as if he had neverbeen in the house before. I do not know how long we were in thesitting-room--perhaps twenty minutes. We did not talk very much. I wasbusy trying to think what had become of you and Frank. I thought itbest to tell him as little as possible, so I made up a story that Ihad found the door open and had walked in with the intention of takingshelter until the storm was over. I said nothing about the key. I beganto get a little nervous as we sat there listening to the storm. I wasupset about you."
"Go on," he said impatiently, as she paused.
"Presently we heard a crash upstairs--it was like breaking glass orchina. Mr. Marsland said he would go upstairs and see what it was. Idetermined to go with him, as I was too frightened by that time tostay alone. On one of the stairs he picked up Grandfather Lumsden'scryptogram. I felt then that Frank had been there, and that somethingdreadful had happened. We went upstairs, and there we found Frank'sdead body in the arm-chair. I thought at first that he had been takenill after you and he got there that afternoon, and that he had diedalone while you were away trying to get a doctor. But Mr. Marsland saidhe had been shot. Poor Frank! What a dreadful end."
"What time did you leave?"
"We left almost at once. That would be about a quarter to seven. Hewent to Ashlingsea police station to report the discovery of the body.I asked him not to drag me into it--not to tell the police that I hadbeen at the farm. I thought that was the best thing to do until I sawyou--until I found where you had been."
"Quite right, Elsie--everything you do is right, my dear girl. Andwhile you and this Marsland were at the farm I was just recoveringconsciousness on the Staveley road after a bad smash. It was after fiveo'clock before I left Staveley; I had told Frank I would leave aboutthree o'clock, but I was delayed by several things. He told me he wouldcome along the road to meet me. I was driving along the road fairlyfast in order to reach the farm before the storm broke, and I must havebeen dazed by a flash of lightning. The next thing I remember was beingawakened by the rain falling on my face as I lay unconscious besidethe car, which had been overturned."
"Were you badly hurt, dear?"
"I was badly shaken and bruised, but the only cut was the one on myhead. I didn't know what to do at first. I thought I would walk backto Staveley and tell them at the garage about the car. But finallyI decided to go on to the Cliff Farm, as it was so much nearer thanStaveley, and then go to Staveley by train in the morning. It must havebeen nearly eight o'clock when I reached the farm and found the frontdoor open."
"We locked it," she interposed. "That is, Mr. Marsland did: he told methat he was sure he heard the lock click."
"It was open when I got there--wide open," he persisted.
"Then Mr. Marsland was right. The murderer was in the house while wewere there. The crash we heard was made by him, and after we went awayhe bolted and left the hall door open."
"The murderer was in the house while you were there," he said. "Thereis nothing more certain than that. The murderer was Captain Marsland."
"I can't believe it," she said.
"Wasn't it he who put the idea into your head, after you had left thehouse, that the murderer might have been upstairs all the time?"
"Yes, it was."
"And he told you that he had slammed the hall door when he left? Youdidn't see him close it?"
"No, I was waiting for him down the path. After seeing poor Frank Ifelt too frightened to stay in the house.
"Marsland left the door open, but told you he had closed it, his objectbeing to give the police the impression that it had been left openby some one who left the house after he did. But I closed it when Ileft--I distinctly remember doing so."
"What makes you suspect Marsland? He had no grudge against Frank. Whyshould he kill him?"
"If Marsland didn't kill him, who did?"
"Any one may have done so. A tramp, for instance, who had broken intothe house and was there when Frank came home."
"Do tramps in this country carry revolvers?"
"Not usually. But since the war many of the men discharged from thearmy do."
"There you've said it. Many of the officers who have been dischargedcarry revolvers, but not the men. They have got used to doing it. Atthe front only officers carry revolvers. And Marsland is an officer--acaptain. He was a captain in the London Rifle Brigade, in the battalionto which Frank and I belonged."
"Oh!" There was a note of dismay in the exclamation of surprise. "Doeshe know you, Arnold?"
"I was not one of his company, but of course he knows me."
"Did he know Frank? Do you think he knew Frank when he saw his deadbody in the room?"
"Of course he knew Frank. Frank was in his Company."
"He did not say anything to me about this as we walked home," saidElsie thoughtfully. "And perhaps he has not told the police. It is verystrange."
"There is nothing strange about it. He had good reasons for sayingnothing."
"You think he shot Frank? Why should he commit such a crime?"
"My dear Elsie, strange things happen in war. Frank tol
d me somethingabout Captain Marsland, and as soon as you mentioned his name it allcame back to me. But we thought he was dead. Frank told me he waskilled at the front--a stray bullet or something."
"What was it that Frank told you about him? I must know."
"Marsland sent a man to certain death to get him out of the way.One night he sent Frank and another man--Collingwood, I think Franksaid his name was--as a listening patrol. They had to crawl up nearthe German trenches and, lying down with their ears to the ground,listen for sounds in the German trenches which might indicate that theGermans were getting ready to make an attack. While they were out thisfellow Collingwood told Frank his history. Collingwood had a sort ofpremonition that he would not get back alive, and he took Frank intohis confidence. He said he knew that Marsland had sent him out inthe hope that the Germans would get him. It appears that Collingwoodand Marsland were both in love with the same girl, and she preferredCollingwood, though her parents didn't approve of him. Collingwood wasa gentleman, like a great many more of the rankers in Kitchener's Army.He gave Frank a letter to this girl, and her photograph, and askedFrank to see that she got them if he himself was killed. And killedhe was that night--through the treachery of Marsland. While they werelistening they heard the Germans getting ready for an attack. Theycrept back to warn their comrades, but there was no one to warn. Thetrench had been evacuated. When Marsland sent Frank and Collingwoodout as a listening patrol he had an order in his pocket to vacate thetrench, as it had been decided to fall back half a mile to a betterposition. He thought he was sending Collingwood and Frank to theirdeath. Collingwood was killed. The Germans attacked before he and Frankcould get away, but Frank, as you know, was taken prisoner. I was takenprisoner the same day, but at a different sector about a mile away.Subsequently Frank and I met as prisoners--and after being tortured bythe Germans we got away."
"And did Frank deliver Collingwood's letter to the girl?"
"No, that is the sad part of it. The Germans took all his papers fromhim and he never saw them again. He did not know the address of thegirl or even her name."
"It was a dreadful thing for Captain Marsland to do," she murmured.
"A great many dreadful things have been done out there," he said. "I'lltell you my idea of how this murder was committed. Marsland thoughtFrank had been killed by the Germans. After riding across the downsbeyond Staveley he met Frank, who was walking along the road to meetme. He stopped Frank and pretended to be very friendly to him. Theytalked over old times at the front, Marsland being anxious to knowhow Collingwood had died and whether Collingwood had any idea thathe had been sent to his death. As there was no sign of my car, Frankturned back with Marsland to the farm. While they were in the houseFrank let slip the fact that Collingwood had confided in him before hedied. Perhaps Marsland became aware of it through an effort on Frank'spart to get from him the name of the girl to whom Collingwood had beenpractically engaged.
"No doubt there were angry words between them; and Marsland, inorder to save himself from being exposed by Frank to the regimentalauthorities, and to the girl, shot him dead. That would be a fewminutes before you reached the farm. When you reached the houseMarsland had gone outside to remove traces of the crime--perhaps toburn something or to wash blood-stains from his hands or clothing atthe pump. He left the key in the door so that he could enter the houseagain. When he found the key gone he was confused: he was not certainwhether he had placed the key in the lock. He did not believe that anyone had entered the house, but to make sure on that point he knocked.He was surprised when you opened the door, but he played his part sowell that you did not suspect he had been in the house before. As youhad not discovered the body, he thought it best that you and he shoulddiscover it together. That would be less suspicious, as far as he wasconcerned, than for you to go away without discovering it. Had youbetrayed any suspicion that you thought he was the murderer he wouldhave shot you too, and then made off."
"But his horse was there," she said. "It was quite lame. He could nothave ridden away on it; and to leave it behind was to leave the policea convincing clue that he had been to Cliff Farm."
"I was forgetting about his horse," said Brett. "It was the fact thathis horse was there which made him knock after he saw the key had beentaken from the door. He had to brazen it out."
"The police have no suspicion of him, so far as I can ascertain," saidthe girl.
"We must direct their attention to him," was the reply.
"Will you come back to Staveley and tell Inspector Murchison?"
"No, that would be injudicious. My instinct was right in telling meto get out of sight when I saw Frank's dead body. It was after youleft the house with Marsland that I got there. The door was open asI said--Marsland left it open purposely, and told you a lie aboutclosing it. I went upstairs, as I couldn't see Frank about below, andwhen I saw him dead I felt immediately that his murder was but thecontinuation of some black deed in France. I knew instinctively thatif I didn't disappear I should be the next victim. And so I should beif Marsland knew how much I know about him. The man is a cold-bloodedvillain, who thinks nothing of taking human life. If I went back toStaveley and accused him, he would take steps to put me out of the way.We must get him arrested for the murder, and when he is under lock andkey I'll come back to Staveley and tell the police all I know abouthim."
"But how can we get the police to arrest him unless you first tell themall you know?" she asked.
"We must find a way," he said thoughtfully.