CHAPTER II
SHE hurried from the room in terror. Marsland remained a few minutesexamining the papers that had been taken from the pocket-book.
With the lamp in his hand he was compelled to descend cautiously,and when he reached the foot of the staircase the girl had left thehouse. He extinguished the lamp he was carrying, relit the lantern, andstepped outside. The lantern showed him the girl waiting for him somedistance down the path.
"Oh, let us leave this dreadful house," she cried as he approached."Please take me out of it. I am not frightened of the storm--now."
"I will take you wherever you wish to go," he said gently. "Will youtell me where you live? I will accompany you home."
"You are very good," she said gratefully. "I live at Ashlingsea."
"That is the little fishing village at the end of the cliff road, is itnot?" he said inquiringly. "I am staying at Staveley, but I have notbeen there long. Come, I will take you home, and then I will inform thepolice about--this tragic discovery."
"There is a police station at Ashlingsea," she said, in a low voice.
He explained to her that he wanted to look after the comfort of hishorse before he accompanied her home, as it would be necessary to leavethe animal at the farm until the following day. She murmured a faintacquiescence, and when they reached the storehouse she took the lanternfrom him without speaking, and held it up to give him light while hemade his horse comfortable for the night.
They then set out for Ashlingsea. The violence of the storm had passed,but the wind occasionally blew in great gusts from the sea, compellingthem to halt in order to stand up against it. The night was still veryblack, but at intervals a late moon managed to send a watery beamthrough the scudding storm clouds, revealing the pathway of the windingcliff road, and the turbulent frothing waste of water dashing on therocks below. Rain continued to fall in heavy frequent showers, but theminds of Marsland and his companion were so occupied with what they hadseen in the old farm-house that they were scarcely conscious of thediscomfort of getting wet.
The girl was so unnerved by the discovery of the dead body that shewas glad to avail herself of the protection and support of Marsland'sarm. Several times as she thought she saw a human form in the darknessof the road, she uttered a cry of alarm and clung to his arm with bothhands. At every step she expected to encounter a maniac who had theblood of one human creature on his hands and was still swayed by theimpulse to kill.
The reserve she had exhibited in the house had broken down, and shetalked freely in her desire to shut out from her mental vision thespectacle of the murdered man sitting in the arm-chair.
On the other hand, the discovery of the body had made Marslandreserved and thoughtful.
He learned from her that her name was Maynard--Elsie Maynard--and thatshe lived with her widowed mother. Marsland was quick to gather fromthe cultivated accents of her voice that she was a refined and educatedgirl. He concluded that Mrs. Maynard must be a lady of some socialstanding in the district, and he judged from what he had seen of thegirl's clothes that she was in good circumstances. She remarked thather mother would be anxious about her, but would doubtless assume shehad sought shelter somewhere, as having lived in Ashlingsea for a longtime she knew everybody in the district.
Marsland thought it strange that she made no reference to the companionwho had accompanied her to the farm. If no one accompanied her, howwas it that on opening the door to him she had greeted him as someone whom she had been expecting? She seemed unconscious of the needof enlightening him on this point. Her thoughts centred round thedead man to such an extent that her conversation related chiefly tohim. Half-unconsciously she revealed that she knew him well, but heracquaintance with him seemed to be largely based on the circumstancethat the dead man had been acquainted with a friend of her family: asoldier of the new army, who lived at Staveley.
She had told Marsland that the name of the murdered man was FrankLumsden, but she did not mention the name of the soldier at Staveley.Lumsden had served in France as a private, but had returned wounded andhad been invalided out of the army. He had been captured by the Germansduring a night attack, had been shot through the palm of his righthand to prevent him using a rifle again, and had been left behind whenthe Germans were forced to retreat from the village they had captured.After being invalided out of the Army he had returned home to live inthe old farm-house--Cliff Farm it was called--which had been left tohim by his grandfather, who had died while the young man was in France.The old man had lived in a state of terror during the last few monthsof his life, as he was convinced that the Germans were going to invadeEngland, destroy everything, and murder the population as they had donein Belgium. He ceased to farm his land, he dismissed his men, and shuthimself up in his house.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Thorpe, who had been in his service for thirtyyears, refused to leave him, and insisted on remaining to look afterhim. When he died as the result of injuries received in fallingdownstairs, it was found that he had left most of his property to hisgrandson, Frank, but he had also left legacies to Mrs. Thorpe and twoof the men who had been in his employ for a generation. But theselegacies had not been paid because there was no money with which topay them. Soon after the outbreak of the war the old man had drawn allhis money out of the bank and had realized all his investments. It wasthought that he had done this because of his fear of a German invasion.
What he had done with the money no one knew. Most people thought hehad buried it for safety, intending to dig it up when the war was over.There was a rumour that he had buried it on the farm. Another rumourdeclared that he had buried it in the sands at the foot of the cliffs,for towards the end of his life he was often seen walking alone on thesands. In his younger days he had combined fishing with farming, andthere was still a boat in the old boat-house near the cliffs. Severalpeople tried digging in likely places in the sands after his death, butthey did not find any trace of the money. Other people said that FrankLumsden knew where the money was hidden--that his grandfather had lefta plan explaining where he had buried it.
"What about the piece of paper with the mysterious plan on it which wefound on the staircase?" said Marsland. "Do you think that had anythingto do with the hidden money?"
"I never thought of that," she said. "Perhaps it had."
"We left it on the table in the room downstairs," he said. "I thinkwe ought to go back for it, as it may have something to do with themurder."
"Don't go back," she said. "I could not bear to go back. The paper willbe there when the police go. No one will go there in the meantime, soit will be quite safe."
"But you remember that his pocket-book had been rifled," he said, as hehalted to discuss the question of returning. "May not that plan havebeen taken from his pocket-book after he was dead?"
"But in that case how did it come on the staircase?"
"It was dropped there by the man who stole it from the pocket-book."
"He will be too frightened to go back for it," she declaredconfidently. "He would be afraid of being caught."
"But he may have been in the house while we were there," he replied."We did not solve the mystery of the crash we heard when we were in theroom upstairs."
"You said at the time it was possibly caused by the wind upsettingsomething."
He was amused at the inconsequence of the line of reasoning she adoptedin order to prevent him going back for the plan.
"At the time we did not know there was a dead body upstairs," he said.
"Do you think the murderer was in the house while we were there?" sheasked.
"It is impossible to say definitely. My own impression now is that someone was in the house--that the crash we heard was not caused by thewind."
"Then he must have been there while I was sitting downstairs before youcame," she said, with a shiver at the thought of the danger that waspast.
"Yes," he answered. "The fact that you had a candle alight kept himupstairs. He was afraid of discovery. When we went upstairs to the
first floor he must have retreated to the second floor--the top story."
She remained deep in thought for a few moments.
"I am glad he did not come down," she said at length. "I am glad I didnot see who it was."
Again Marsland was reminded of the way in which she had greeted himat the door. Could it be that, instead of having gone to the farm forshelter with a companion, she had gone there to meet some one, and thatunknown to her the person she was to meet had reached the house beforeher and had remained hidden upstairs?
"Did you close the front door when we left?" she asked.
"Yes. I slammed it and I heard the bolt catch. Why do you ask?"
"There is something I want to ask you," she said, at length.
"What is it?"
"I want you to promise if you can that you will not tell the policethat I was at Cliff Farm to-night; I want you to promise that you willnot tell any one."
"Do you think it--wise?" he asked, after a pause in which he gaveconsideration to the request.
"I do not want to be mixed up in it in any way," she explained. "Thetragedy will give rise to a lot of talk in the place. I would not likemy name to be mixed up in it."
"I quite appreciate that," he said. "And as far as it goes I would bewilling to keep your name out of it. But have you considered what theeffect would be if the police subsequently discovered that you had beenthere? That would give rise to greater talk--to talk of a still moreobjectionable kind."
"Yes; but how are they to discover that I was there unless you tellthem?" she asked.
He laughed softly.
"They have to try to solve a more difficult problem than that withoutany one to tell them the solution," he said. "They have to try to findout who killed this man Lumsden--and why he was killed. There will betwo or three detectives making all sorts of inquiries. One of themmight alight accidentally on the fact that you, like myself, had takenshelter there in the storm."
She took refuge in the privilege of her sex to place a man in the wrongby misinterpreting his motives.
"Of course, if you do not wish to do it, there is no reason why youshould." She removed her hand from his arm.
He pulled her up with a sharpness which left on her mind the impressionthat he was a man who knew his own mind.
"Please understand that I am anxious to do the best I can for youwithout being absurdly quixotic about it. I am quite willing to keepyour name out of it in the way you ask, but I am anxious that youshould first realize the danger of the course you suggest. It seemsto me that, in order to avoid the unpleasantness of allowing it to bepublicly known that you shared with me the discovery of this tragedy,you are courting the graver danger which would attach to the subsequentdifficulty of offering a simple and satisfactory explanation to thepolice of why you wanted to keep your share in the discovery anabsolute secret. And you must remember that your explanation to me ofhow you came to the farm is rather vague. It is true that you saidyou went there for shelter from the storm. But you have not explainedhow you got into the house, and from the way you spoke to me when youopened the door it is obvious that you expected to see some one elsewho was not a stranger."
She came to a halt in the road in order to put a direct question to him.
"Do you think that I had anything to do with this dreadful murder? Doyou think that is the reason I asked you to keep my name out of it?"
"I am quite sure that you had nothing whatever to do with thetragedy--that the discovery of the man's dead body was as great asurprise to you as it was to me."
"Thank you," she said. The emphasis of his declaration imparted aquiver to her expression of gratitude. "You are quite right about myexpecting to see some one else when I opened the door," she said. "Iexpected to see Mr. Lumsden."
"Oh, I beg your pardon. I never thought of that." He flushed at the wayin which her simple explanation had convicted him of having harbouredunjust suspicions against her.
"I went to the farm to see him--I had a message for him," shecontinued, with seeming candour. "The storm came on just before Ireached the house. I knocked, but no one came, and then I noticed thekey was in the lock on the outside of the door. Naturally I thought Mr.Lumsden had left it there--that when he saw the storm he had gone tothe stable or cowshed to attend to a horse or a cow. I went inside thehouse, expecting he would be back every moment. When I heard your knockI thought it was he."
"I am afraid you must think me a dreadful boor," he said. "I apologizemost humbly."
She replied with a breadth of view that in its contrast with hisungenerous suspicions added to his embarrassment.
"No, you were quite right," she said. "As I asked you to keep my nameout of it--as I virtually asked you to show blind trust in me--you wereat least entitled to the fullest explanation of how I came to be there."
"And I hope you quite understand that I do trust you absolutely," hesaid. "I know as well as it is possible to know anything in this worldthat you were not connected in the remotest way with the death of thisman."
Having been lifted out of the atmosphere of suspicion, she felt shecould safely enter it again.
"I was not quite candid with you when I asked you to keep me out of thedreadful tragedy because of the way I would be talked about," she said,placing a penitent and appealing hand on his arm. "There are otherreasons--one other reason at least--why I do not want it known I was atCliff Farm to-night."
He was prepared to shield her if she was prepared to take the risk ofbeing shielded.
"That alters the case," he said. "My reluctance to keep your name outof it arose from the fear that you did not realize the risk you wouldrun."
"I realize it," she said. "And I wish to thank you for pointing it outso clearly. But it is a risk I must take."
"In that case you can rely on me."
"You will keep my name out of it?" she asked.
"I will tell no one," he replied.