witha companion who brought him here to murder him. That's got to be foundout before the Coroner."
Miles pulled himself together. He was by no means a fool when sober,and in sight of this ghastly object the fumes of last night'sintoxication had absolutely cleared.
"I can show an alibi right enough," he said doggedly.
The younger and readier-witted of the two constables looked up and spokesharply. "So far, my friend, we have not accused you, but you may aswell tell us the details of your alibi."
Miles's explanation, delivered in the somewhat halting way of his class,bore the ring of truth. An old acquaintance of his, whose name andaddress he gave, had looked him up the day before and asked him to spenda day with him at Shepperton, where the said acquaintance kept a smallshop. Miles had succumbed to the temptation.
"It drives a man fair off his blooming chump to be tied by the leg in ahole like this," he interpolated in the midst of his narrative, "waitingfor would-be tenants who never call. I daresay you chaps do your eightor ten hours a day, but you're out in the open air, not looking on fourwalls. You see a bit of life, I don't."
Constable Brown cut across his narrative swiftly.
"Never mind your grievances, Miles. If you could get a better job, Iguess you would take it. Where did you spend the night?"
"At the same old show, down at Shepperton," replied the unabashed Miles."My old pal's a sport, I can tell you. When he shut up his shop, heplied me with some of the best. I wasn't backward, I admit. I missedthe last train back, and slept on the sofa in the back room. When Iwoke, I remembered things a bit, and got an early train home. Here Iam. My old pal Jack will tell you I'm speaking gospel truth."
Neither of the two men listening to him had any doubt that his narrativewas a true one. He was a poor, weak, bibulous creature, but by nostretch of the imagination could he be an accessory to the gruesomehappenings at Number 10.
Even had he been at his post, as he should have been on this particularnight, he would have been sunk in a stertorous sleep, and have heardnothing.
But to make everything sure, Constable Brown pulled him along and forcedhim to look at the dead man.
"You have never seen him before, Miles? I mean he has not called tolook over the house or anything?"
"No." Miles, looking shudderingly at the ghastly sight, was ready toswear he had never seen him before.
He turned his frightened gaze away: "It will be all over the townto-night," he said ruefully. "We shall never let the house after this."
"It will still be a soft job for you, Miles," retorted Brown, a littlespitefully. "You won't have to play up the damp and the beetles. Youare here for life, old man."
"I know," said Miles in a gloomy tone. "But I shall see him staring atme every minute of the day and night."
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The body was removed to the mortuary. The evening newspapers hadflaring headlines: "Gruesome Discovery in Number 10 Cathcart Square."An enterprising journalist had got hold of Miles, and speedilydiscovering his weakness, had taken him to the nearest public-house, andplied him plentifully with liquor, with a view to a sensational article.
The enterprising reporter made the best of his material, but it did notamount to much. The caretaker knew nothing about the dead man, he wasarmed at all points with his alibi. As regards the house itself,invested with so much tragedy, the present tenant was a Mr Washington,a man of considerable means, now abroad. Mr Washington was prepared tolet it furnished. The furniture was very valuable.
To a public greedily anxious for the smallest details, the astutejournalist served up a nice little article, describing the expensivefurniture, and adding a short life-history of Mr Washington, assupplied by the reminiscent Miles. The public swallowed this articleeagerly and awaited further developments.
These came with the inquest, and there was a somewhat tame ending towhat had promised to be a very sensational case.
Some three months previously, a certain man named Reginald Davis hadbeen suspected of committing a murder while driving a motor-car inCornwall. The evidence, although circumstantial, had been veryconvincing. The police had been on his track, but not quickly enough.The man had eluded their vigilance, and rim to earth somewhere.
On the body of the dead man in Cathcart Square, the two constables hadfound three letters addressed to Reginald Davis. Also a letter, signedReginald Davis, addressed to the Coroner in which he avowed hisintention of committing suicide at the earliest opportunity.
It was fairly evident from this that the wretched man, hunted by thepolice, and recognising that capture was imminent in the course of a fewdays, had resolved upon the fatal step, had effected his entrance intothe lonely house in Cathcart Square, had found it even more desertedthan he imagined, and in that little dressing-room cheated the law.
But, in addition to this overpowering evidence, there was added the factof identification.
A tall, handsome young woman, giving the name of Caroline Masters, hadbeen to the mortuary, and identified the body as that of her brother,Reginald Davis.
She gave her evidence before the Coroner with commendable composure,broken now and again with a little natural grief. Her disclosures werebriefly as follows.
Reginald had always been the black sheep of the family, not naturallyvicious, but impetuous, fiery-tempered and ungovernable. If he wasguilty of the murder in Cornwall, it had been due to no natural criminalinstinct, but to a fit of unbridled passion. Her theory was thatremorse had weighed upon him for this unpremeditated crime, and that,through remorse and the fear of justice overtaking him, he had creptinto this lonely house and passed sentence on himself.
She made a very great impression on the Court by the calm and dignifiedway in which she gave her evidence. The Coroner put to her a fewquestions. She was quite certain that the body was that of her brother,Reginald Davis? Were there any other members of the family who couldsupport her in her identification?
No, there were no other members of the family alive. There was anotherbrother dead, and a sister of whose whereabouts she knew nothing. Herfather had been a strange man, he had quarrelled with all the members ofhis family, and she had never known one of them. Her mother had diedsome years ago. Her voice broke a little as she related these touchingcircumstances of her domestic life, more especially when she added shewas a widow, her husband having been killed in the Great War.
There seemed but one possible verdict. The dead man, it was clearlyestablished, was Reginald Davis, first by the letters found upon him,secondly by his sister's identification.
It was also clear that Reginald Davis, hunted by the police, and knowingthat it was only a question of days or weeks before he would be rim toearth, had considered the two alternatives of self-destruction or theextreme penalty of the law--and that he had chosen the former.
The verdict was recorded. Mrs Masters was complimented on the way inwhich she had given her evidence. The Coroner assured her that thesympathy of the Court was with her. The tears welled into her eyes asshe listened to the Coroner's well-chosen phrases. She bowed hergrateful thanks.
Constable Brown was waiting in the corridor as she came out. Beside himstood the younger policeman who had assisted him on that verywell-remembered night in Cathcart Square.
Brown touched his helmet. "A very trying time for you, ma'am," he said,"a very trying time. You went through it bravely."
She smiled wanly. "My poor brother! He had so many good points. Butit is better as it is. I shudder to think of what might have been, ifhe had not done this dreadful thing."
"Much the best way, ma'am, much the best way," corroborated Brown.
She went out, a graceful figure, and Brown turned to his youngercolleague.
"A remarkable case, old chap. As we said all along, suicide."
The younger man paused a little before he replied. It may be mentionedthat a few months later he was promoted to the detectiv
e force inconsequence of some rather clever work connected with a gang of coinersin an obscure corner of the West End.
"It looks like it, but I'm not quite as sure as you are," he saidlaconically.
Brown stared, but made no comment. A verdict was a verdict. His youngcolleague had the inexperience and the vanity of youth, and thought hewas more clever than other people, perhaps!
But on one thing the young constable had made up his mind, and that wasthat Miles, the bibulous caretaker, had not told the truth when in thewitness-box. He came to this conclusion from his demeanour. Milesswore that he had no knowledge of the dead man, but the constablebelieved this to be a lie.
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And with the tame ending of the Coroner's inquest, the mystery of Number10 Cathcart Square ceased to hold the public