I stood at Harley’s open window—looking down in the Tudor garden. The moon, like a silver mirror, hung in a cloudless sky. Over an hour had elapsed since I had heard Pedro making his nightly rounds. Nothing whatever of an unusual nature had occurred, and although Harley and I had listened for any sound of nocturnal footsteps, our vigilance had passed unrewarded. Harley, unrolling the Chinese ladder, had set out upon a secret tour of the grounds, warning me that it must be a long business, since the brilliance of the moonlight rendered it necessary that he should make a wide detour, in order to avoid possible observation from the windows. I had wished to join him, but:
“I count it most important that one of us should remain in the house,” he had replied.
As a result, here was I at the open window, questioning the shadows to right and left of me, and every moment expecting to see Harley reappear. I wondered what discoveries he would make. It would not have surprised me to learn that there were lights in many windows of Cray’s Folly to-night.
Although, when we had rejoined the ladies for half an hour, after leaving Colonel Menendez’s room, there had been no overt reference to the menace overhanging the house, yet, as we separated for the night, I had detected again in Val Beverley’s eyes that look of repressed fear. Indeed, she was palpably disinclined to retire, but was carried off by the masterful Madame, who declared that she looked tired.
I wondered now, as I gazed down into the moon-bathed gardens, if Harley and I were the only wakeful members of the household at that hour. I should have been prepared to wager that there were others. I thought of the strange footsteps which so often passed Miss Beverley’s room, and I discovered this thought to be an uncomfortable one.
Normally, I was sceptical enough, but on this night of the full moon as I stood there at the window, the horrors which Colonel Menendez had related to us grew very real in my eyes, and I thought that the mysteries of Voodoo might conceal strange and ghastly truths, “The scientific employment of darkness against light.” Colin Camber’s words leapt unbidden to my mind; and, such is the magic of moonlight, they became invested with a new and a deeper significance. Strange, that theories which one rejects whilst the sun is shining should assume a spectral shape in the light of the moon.
Such were my musings, when suddenly I heard a faint sound as of footsteps crunching upon gravel. I leaned farther out of the window, listening intently. I could not believe that Harley would be guilty of such an indiscretion as this, yet who else could be walking upon the path below?
As I watched, craning from the window, a tall figure appeared, and, slowly crossing the gravel path, descended the moss-grown steps to the Tudor garden.
It was Colonel Menendez!
He was bare-headed, but fully dressed as I had seen him in the smoking-room; and not yet grasping the portent of his appearance at that hour, but merely wondering why he had not yet retired, I continued to watch him. As I did so, something in his gait, something unnatural in his movements, caught hold of my mind with a sudden great conviction. He had reached the path which led to the sun-dial, and with short, queer, ataxic steps was proceeding in its direction, a striking figure in the brilliant moonlight which touched his gray hair with a silvery sheen.
His unnatural, automatic movements told their own story. He was walking in his sleep! Could it be in obedience to the call of M’kombo?
My throat grew dry and I knew not how to act. Unwillingly it seemed, with ever-halting steps, the figure moved onward. I could see that his fists were tightly clenched and that he held his head rigidly upright. All horrors, real and imaginary, which I had ever experienced, culminated in the moment when I saw this man of inflexible character, I could have sworn of indomitable will, moving like a puppet under the influence of some unnameable force.
He was almost come to the sun-dial when I determined to cry out. Then, remembering the shock experienced by a suddenly awakened somnambulist, and remembering that the Chinese ladder hung from the window at my feet, I changed my mind. Checking the cry upon my lips, I got astride of the window ledge, and began to grope for the bamboo rungs beneath me. I had found the first of these, and, turning, had begun to descend, when:
“Knox! Knox!” came softly from the opening in the box hedge, “what the devil are you about?”
It was Paul Harley returned from his tour of the building.
“Harley!” I whispered, descending, “quick! the Colonel has just gone into the Tudor garden!”
“What!” There was a note of absolute horror in the exclamation. “You should have stopped him, Knox, you should have stopped him!” cried Harley, and with that he ran off in the same direction.
Disentangling my foot from the rungs of the ladder which lay upon the ground, I was about to follow, when it happened—that strange and ghastly thing toward which, secretly, darkly, events had been tending.
The crack of a rifle sounded sharply in the stillness, echoing and re-echoing from wing to wing of Cray’s Folly and then, more dimly, up the wooded slopes beyond! Somewhere ahead of me I heard Harley cry out:
“My God, I am too late! They have got him!”
Then, hotfoot, I was making for the entrance to the garden. Just as I came to it and raced down the steps I heard another sound the memory of which haunts me to this day.
Where it came from I had no idea. Perhaps I was too confused to judge accurately. It might have come from the house, or from the slopes beyond the house, But it was a sort of shrill, choking laugh, and it set the ultimate touch of horror upon ascène macabrewhich, even as I write of it, seems unreal to me.
I ran up the path to where Harley was kneeling beside the sun-dial. Analysis of my emotions at this moment were futile; I can only say that I had come to a state of stupefaction. Face downward on the grass, arms outstretched and fists clenched, lay Colonel Menendez. I think I saw him move convulsively, but as I gained his side Harley looked up at me, and beneath the tan which he never lost his face had grown pale. He spoke through clenched teeth.
“Merciful God,” he said, “he is shot through the head.”
One glance I gave at the ghastly wound in the base of the Colonel’s skull, and then swayed backward in a sort of nausea. To see a man die in the heat of battle, a man one has known and called friend, is strange and terrible. Here in this moon-bathed Tudor garden it was a horror almost beyond my powers to endure.
Paul Harley, without touching the prone figure, stood up. Indeed no examination of the victim was necessary. A rifle bullet had pierced his brain, and he lay there dead with his head toward the hills.
I clutched at Harley’s shoulder, but he stood rigidly, staring up the slope past the angle of the tower, to where a gable of the Guest House jutted out from the trees.
“Did you hear—that cry?” I whispered, “immediately after the shot?”
“I heard it.”
A moment longer he stood fixedly watching, and then:
“Not a wisp of smoke,” he said. “You note the direction in which he was facing when he fell?”
He spoke in a stern and unnatural voice.
“I do. He must have turned half right when he came to the sun-dial.”
“Where were you when the shot was fired?”
“Running in this direction.”
“You saw no flash?”
“None.”
“Neither did I,” groaned Harley; “neither did I. And short of throwing a cordon round the hills what can be done? How can I move?”
He had somewhat relaxed, but now as I continued to clutch his arm, I felt the muscles grow rigid again.
“Look, Knox!” he whispered—“look!”
I followed the direction of his fixed stare, and through the trees on the hillside a dim light shone out. Someone had lighted a lamp in the Guest House.
A faint, sibilant sound drew my glance upward, and there overhead a bat circled—circled—dipped—and flew off toward the distant woods. So still was the night that I could distinguish the babble of the little stream which ran down into the lake. Then, suddenly, came a loud flapping of wings. The swans had been awakened by the sound of the shot. Others had been awakened, too, for now distant voices became audible, and then a muffled scream from somewhere within Cray’s Folly.
“Back to the house, Knox,” said Harley, hoarsely. “For God’s sake keep the women away. Get Pedro, and send Manoel for the nearest doctor. It’s useless but usual. Let no one deface his footprints. My worst anticipations have come true. The local police must be informed.”
Throughout the time that he spoke he continued to search the moon-bathed landscape with feverish eagerness, but except for a faint movement of birds in the trees, for they, like the swans on the lake, had been alarmed by the shot, nothing stirred.
“It came from the hillside,” he muttered. “Off you go, Knox.”
And even as I started on my unpleasant errand, he had set out running toward the gate in the southern corner of the garden.
For my part I scrambled unceremoniously up the bank, and emerged where the yews stood sentinel beside the path. I ran through the gap in the box hedge just as the main doors were thrown open by Pedro.
He started back as he saw me.
“Pedro! Pedro!” I cried, “have the ladies been awakened?”
“Yes, yes! there is terrible trouble, sir. What has happened? What has happened?”
“A tragedy,” I said, shortly. “Pull yourself together. Where is Madame de Stämer?”
Pedro uttered some exclamation in Spanish and stood, pale-faced, swaying before me, a dishevelled figure in a dressing gown. And now in the background Mrs. Fisher appeared. One frightened glance she cast in my direction, and would have hurried across the hall but I intercepted her.
“Where are you going, Mrs. Fisher?” I demanded. “What has happened here?”
“To Madame, to Madame,” she sobbed, pointing toward the corridor which communicated with Madame de Stämer’s bedchamber.
I heard a frightened cry proceeding from that direction, and recognized the voice of Nita, the girl who acted as Madame’s maid. Then I heard Val Beverley.
“Go and fetch Mrs. Fisher, Nita, at once—and try to behave yourself. I have trouble enough.”
I entered the corridor and pulled up short. Val Beverley, fully dressed, was kneeling beside Madame de Stämer, who wore a kimono over her night-robe, and who lay huddled on the floor immediately outside the door of her room!
“Oh, Mr. Knox!” cried the girl, pitifully, and raised frightened eyes to me. “For God’s sake, what has happened?”
Nita, the Spanish girl, who was sobbing hysterically, ran along to join Mrs. Fisher.
“I will tell you in a moment,” I said, quietly, rendered cool, as one always is, by the need of others. “But first tell me—how did Madame de Stämer get here?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know! I was startled by the shot. It has awakened everybody. And just as I opened my door to listen, I heard Madame cry out in the hall below. I ran down, turned on the light, and found her lying here. She, too, had been awakened, I suppose, and was endeavouring to drag herself from her room when her strength failed her and she swooned. She is too heavy for me to lift,” added the girl, pathetically, “and Pedro is out of his senses, and Nita, who was the first of the servants to come, is simply hysterical, as you can see.”
I nodded reassuringly, and stooping, lifted the swooning woman. She was much heavier than I should have supposed, but, Val Beverley leading the way, I carried her into her apartment and placed her upon the bed.
“I will leave her to you,” I said. “You have courage, and so I will tell you what has happened.”
“Yes, tell me, oh, tell me!”
She laid her hands upon my shoulders appealingly, and looked up into my eyes in a way that made me long to take her in my arms and comfort her, an insane longing which I only crushed with difficulty.
“Someone has shot Colonel Menendez,” I said, in a low voice, for Mrs. Fisher had just entered.
“You mean—”
I nodded.
“Oh!”
Val Beverley opened and closed her eyes, clutching at me dizzily for a moment, then:
“I think,” she whispered, “she must have known, and that was why she swooned. Oh, my God! how horrible.”
I made her sit down in an armchair, and watched her anxiously, but although every speck of colour had faded from her cheeks, she was splendidly courageous, and almost immediately she smiled up at me, very wanly, but confidently.
“I will look after her,” she said. “Mr. Harley will need your assistance.”
When I returned to the hall I found it already filled with a number of servants incongruously attired. Carter the chauffeur, who lived at the lodge, was just coming in at the door, and:
“Carter,” I said, “get a car out quickly, and bring the nearest doctor. If there is another man who can drive, send him for the police. Your master has been shot.”
“Now, gentlemen,” said Inspector Aylesbury, “I will take evidence.”
Dawn was creeping grayly over the hills, and the view from the library windows resembled a study by Bastien-Lepage. The lamps burned yellowly, and the exotic appointments of the library viewed in that cold light for some reason reminded me of a stage set seen in daylight. The Velasquez portrait mentally translated me to the billiard room where something lay upon the settee with a white sheet drawn over it; and I wondered if my own face looked as wan and comfortless as did the faces of my companions, that is, of two of them, for I must except Inspector Aylesbury.
Squarely before the oaken mantel he stood, a large, pompous man, but in this hour I could find no humour in Paul Harley’s description of him as resembling a walrus. He had a large auburn moustache tinged with gray, and prominent brown eyes, but the lower part of his face, which terminated in a big double chin, was ill-balanced by his small forehead. He was bulkily built, and I had conceived an unreasonable distaste for his puffy hands. His official air and oratorical manner were provoking.
Harley sat in the chair which he had occupied during our last interview with Colonel Menendez in the library, and I had realized—a realization which had made me uncomfortable—that I was seated upon the couch on which the Colonel had reclined. Only one other was present, Dr. Rolleston of Mid-Hatton, a slight, fair man with a brisk, military manner, acquired perhaps during six years of war service. He was standing beside me smoking a cigarette.
“I have taken all the necessary particulars concerning the position of the body,” continued the Inspector, “the nature of the wound, contents of pockets, etc., and I now turn to you, Mr. Harley, as the first person to discover the murdered man.”
Paul Harley lay back in the armchair watching the speaker.
“Before we come to what happened here to-night I should like to be quite clear about your own position in the matter, Mr. Harley. Now”—Inspector Aylesbury raised one finger in forensic manner—“now, you visited me yesterday afternoon, Mr. Harley, and asked for certain information regarding the neighbourhood.”
“I did,” said Harley, shortly.
“The questions which you asked me were,” continued the Inspector, slowly and impressively, “did I know of any negro or coloured people living in, or about, Mid-Hatton, and could I give you a list of the residents within a two-mile radius of Cray’s Folly. I gave you the information which you required, and now it is your turn to give me some. Why did you ask those questions?”
“For this reason,” was the reply—“I had been requested by Colonel Menendez to visit Cray’s Folly, accompanied by my friend, Mr. Knox, in order that I might investigate certain occurrences which had taken place here.”
“Oh,” said the Inspector, raising his eyebrows, “I see. You were here to make investigations?”
“Yes.”
“And these occurrences, will you tell me what they were?”
“Simple enough in themselves,” replied Harley. “Someone broke into the house one night.”
“Broke into the house?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But this was never reported to us.”
“Possibly not, but someone broke in, nevertheless. Secondly, Colonel Menendez had detected someone lurking about the lawns, and thirdly, the wing of a bat was nailed to the main door.”
Inspector Aylesbury lowered his eyebrows and concentrated a frowning glance upon the speaker.
“Of course, sir,” he said, “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but you are not by any chance trying to be funny at a time like this?”
“My sense of humour has failed me entirely,” replied Harley. “I am merely stating bald facts in reply to your questions.”
“Oh, I see.”
The Inspector cleared his throat.
“Someone broke into Cray’s Folly, then, a fact which was not reported to me, a suspicious loiterer was seen in the grounds, again not reported, and someone played a silly practical joke by nailing the wing of a bat, you say, to the door. Might I ask, Mr. Harley, why you mention this matter? The other things are serious, but why you should mention the trick of some mischievous boy at a time like this I can’t imagine.”
“No,” said Harley, wearily, “it does sound absurd, Inspector; I quite appreciate the fact. But, you see, Colonel Menendez regarded it as the most significant episode of them all.”
“What! The bat wing nailed on the door?”
“The bat wing, decidedly. He believed it to be the token of a negro secret society which had determined upon his death, hence my enquiries regarding coloured men in the neighbourhood. Do you understand, Inspector?”
Inspector Aylesbury took a large handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Replacing the handkerchief he cleared his throat, and:
“Am I to understand,” he enquired, “that the late Colonel Menendez had expected to be attacked?”
“You may understand that,” replied Harley. “It explains my presence in the house.”
“Oh,” said the Inspector, “I see. It looks as though he might have done better if he had applied to me.”
Paul Harley glanced across in my direction and smiled grimly.
“As I had predicted, Knox,” he murmured, “my Waterloo.”
“What’s that you say about Waterloo, Mr. Harley?” demanded the Inspector.
“Nothing germane to the case,” replied Harley. “It was a reference to a battle, not to a railway station.”
Inspector Aylesbury stared at him dully.
“You quite understand that you are giving evidence?” he said.
“It were impossible not to appreciate the fact.”
“Very well, then. The late Colonel Menendez thought he was in danger from negroes. Why did he think that?”
“He was a retired West Indian planter,” replied Harley, patiently, “and he was under the impression that he had offended a powerful native society, and that for many years their vengeance had pursued him. Attempts to assassinate him had already taken place in Cuba and in the United States.”
“What sort of attempts?”
“He was shot at, several times, and once, in Washington, was attacked by a man with a knife. He maintained in my presence and in the presence of my friend, Mr. Knox, here, that these various attempts were due to members of a sect or religion known as Voodoo.”
“Voodoo?”
“Voodoo, Inspector, also known as Obeah, a cult which has spread from the West Coast of Africa throughout the West Indies and to parts of the United States. The bat wing is said to be a sign used by these people.”
Inspector Aylesbury scratched his chin.
“Now let me get this thing clear,” said he: “Colonel Menendez believed that people called Voodoos wanted to kill him? Before we go any farther, why?”
“Twenty years ago in the West Indies he had shot an important member of this sect.”
“Twenty years ago?”
“According to a statement which he made to me, yes.”
“I see. Then for twenty years these Voodoos have been trying to kill him? Then he comes and settles here in Surrey and someone nails a bat wing to his door? Did you see this bat wing?”
“I did. I have it upstairs in my bag if you would care to examine it.”
“Oh,” said the Inspector, “I see. And thinking he had been followed to England he came to you to see if you could save him?”
Paul Harley nodded grimly.
“Why did he go to you in preference to the local police, the proper authorities?” demanded the Inspector.
“He was advised to do so by the Spanish ambassador, or so he informed me.”
“Is that so? Well, I suppose it had to be. Coming from foreign parts. I expect he didn’t know what our police are for.” He cleared his throat. “Very well, I understand now what you were doing here, Mr. Harley. The next thing is, what were you doing tonight, as I see that both you and Mr. Knox are still in evening dress?”
“We were keeping watch,” I replied.
Inspector Aylesbury turned to me ponderously, raising a fat hand. “One moment, Mr. Knox, one moment,” he protested. “The evidence of one witness at a time.”
“We were keeping watch,” said Harley, deliberately echoing my words.
“Why?”
“More or less we were here for that purpose. You see, on the night of the full moon, according to Colonel Menendez, Obeah people become particularly active.”
“Why on the night of the full moon?”
“This I cannot tell you.”
“Oh, I see. You were keeping watch. Where were you keeping watch?”
“In my room.”
“In which part of the house is your room?”
“Northeast. It overlooks the Tudor garden.”
“At what time did you retire?”
“About half-past ten.”
“Did you leave the Colonel well?”
“No, he had been unwell all day. He had remained in his room.”
“Had he asked you to sit up?”
“Not at all; our vigil was quite voluntary.”
“Very well, then, you were in your room when the shot was fired?”
“On the contrary, I was on the path in front of the house.”
“Oh, I see. The front door was open, then?”
“Not at all. Pedro had locked up for the night.”
“And locked you out?”
“No; I descended from my window by means of a ladder which I had brought with me for the purpose.”
“With a ladder? That’s rather extraordinary, Mr Harley.”
“It is extraordinary. I have strange habits.”
Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat again and looked frowningly across at my friend.
“What part of the grounds were you in when the shot was fired?” he demanded.
“Halfway along the north side.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was running.”
“Running?”
“You see, Inspector, I regarded it as my duty to patrol the grounds of the house at nightfall, since, for all I knew to the contrary, some of the servants might be responsible for the attempts of which the Colonel complained. I had descended from the window of my room, had passed entirely around the house east to west, and had returned to my starting-point when Mr. Knox, who was looking out of the window, observed Colonel Menendez entering the Tudor garden.”
“Oh. Colonel Menendez was not visible to you?”
“Not from my position below, but being informed by my friend, who was hurriedly descending the ladder, that the Colonel had entered the garden, I set off running to intercept him.”
“Why?”
“He had acquired a habit of walking in his sleep, and I presumed that he was doing so on this occasion.”
“Oh, I see. So being told by the gentleman at the window that Colonel Menendez was in the garden, you started to run toward him. While you were running you heard a shot?”
“I did.”
“Where do you think it came from?”
“Nothing is more difficult to judge, Inspector, especially when one is near to a large building surrounded by trees.”
“Nevertheless,” said the Inspector, again raising his finger and frowning at Harley, “you cannot tell me that you formed no impression on the point. For instance, was it near, or a long way off?”
“It was fairly near.”
“Ten yards, twenty yards, a hundred yards, a mile?”
“Within a hundred yards. I cannot be more exact.”
“Within a hundred yards, and you have no idea from which direction the shot was fired?”
“From the sound I could form none.”
“Oh, I see. And what did you do?”
“I ran on and down into the sunken garden. I saw Colonel Menendez lying upon his face near the sun-dial. He was moving convulsively. Running up to him, I that he had been shot through the head.”
“What steps did you take?”
“My friend, Mr. Knox, had joined me, and I sent him for assistance.”
“But what steps did you take to apprehend the murderer?”
Paul Harley looked at him quietly.
“What steps should you have taken?” he asked.
Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat again, and:
“I don’t think I should have let my man slip through my fingers like that,” he replied. “Why! by now he may be out of the county.”
“Your theory is quite feasible,” said Harley, tonelessly.
“You were actually on the spot when the shot was fired, you admit that it was fired within a hundred yards, yet you did nothing to apprehend the murderer.”
“No,” replied Harley, “I was ridiculously inactive. You see, I am a mere amateur, Inspector. For my future guidance I should be glad to know what the correct procedure would have been.”
Inspector Aylesbury blew his nose.
“I know my job,” he said. “If I had been called in there might have been a different tale to tell. But he was a foreigner, and he paid for his ignorance, poor fellow.”
Paul Harley took out his pipe and began to load it in a deliberate and lazy manner.
Inspector Aylesbury turned his prominent eyes in my direction.
“I am afraid of this man Aylesbury,” said Paul Harley. We sat in the deserted dining room. I had contributed my account of the evening’s happenings, Dr. Rolleston had made his report, and Inspector Aylesbury was now examining the servants in the library. Harley and I had obtained his official permission to withdraw, and the physician was visiting Madame de Stämer, who lay in a state of utter prostration.
“What do you mean, Harley?”
“I mean that he will presently make some tragic blunder. Good God, Knox, to think that this man had sought my aid, and that I stood by idly whilst he walked out to his death. I shall never forgive myself.” He banged the table with his fist. “Even now that these unknown fiends have achieved their object, I am helpless, helpless. There was not a wisp of smoke to guide me, Knox, and one man cannot search a county.”
I sighed wearily.
“Do you know, Harley,” I said, “I am thinking of a verse of Kipling’s.”
“I know!” he interrupted, almost savagely.
“A Snider squibbed in the jungle.Somebody laughed and fled—”
“Oh, I know, Knox. I heard that damnable laughter, too.”
“My God,” I whispered, “who was it? What was it? Where did it come from?”
“As well ask where the shot came from, Knox. Out amongst all those trees, with a house that might have been built for a sounding-board, who could presume to say where either came from? One thing we know, that the shot came from the south.”
He leaned upon a corner of the table, staring at me intently.
“From the south?” I echoed.
Harley glanced in the direction of the open door.
“Presently,” he said, “we shall have to tell Aylesbury everything that we know. After all, he represents the law; but unless we can get Inspector Wessex down from Scotland Yard, I foresee a miscarriage of justice. Colonel Menendez lay on his face, and the line made by his recumbent body pointed almost directly toward—”
I nodded, watching him.
“I know, Harley—toward the Guest House.”
Paul Harley inclined his head, grimly.
“The first light which we saw,” he continued, “was in a window of the Guest House. It may have had no significance. Awakened by the sound of a rifle-shot near by, any one would naturally get up.”
“And having decided to come downstairs and investigate,” I continued, “would naturally light a lamp.”
“Quite so.” He stared at me very hard. “Yet,” he said, “unless Mr. Colin Camber can produce an alibi I foresee a very stormy time for him.”
“So do I, Harley. A deadly hatred existed between these two men, and probably this horrible deed was done on the spur of the moment. It is of his poor little girl-wife that I am thinking. As though her troubles were not heavy enough already.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I am almost tempted to hold my tongue, Knox, until I have personally interviewed these people. But of course if our blundering friend directly questions me, I shall have no alternative. I shall have to answer him. His talent for examination, however, scarcely amounts to genius, so that we may not be called upon for further details at the moment. I wonder how I can induce him to requisition Scotland Yard?”
He rested his chin in his hand and stared down reflectively at the carpet. I thought that he looked very haggard, as he sat there in the early morning light, dressed as for dinner. There was something pathetic in the pose of his bowed head.
Leaning across, I placed my hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t get despondent, old chap,” I said. “You have not failed yet.”
“Oh, but I have, Knox!” he cried, fiercely, “I have! He came to me for protection. Now he lies dead in his own house. Failed? I have failed utterly, miserably.”
I turned aside as the door opened and Dr. Rolleston came in.
“Ah, gentlemen,” he said, “I wanted to see you before leaving. I have just been to visit Madame de Stämer again.”
“Yes,” said Harley, eagerly; “how is she?”
Dr. Rolleston lighted a cigarette, frowning perplexedly the while.
“To be honest,” he replied, “her condition puzzles me.”
He walked across to the fireplace and dropped the match, staring at Harley with a curious expression.
“Has any one told her the truth?” he asked.
“You mean that Colonel Menendez is dead?”
“Yes,” replied Dr. Rolleston. “I understood that no one had told her?”
“No one has done so to my knowledge,” said Harley.
“Then the sympathy between them must have been very acute,” murmured the physician, “for she certainly knows!”
“Do you really think she knows?” I asked.
“I am certain of it. She must have had knowledge of a danger to be apprehended, and being awakened by the sound of the rifle shot, have realized by a sort of intuition that the expected tragedy had happened. I should say, from the presence of a small bruise which I found upon her forehead, that she had actually walked out into the corridor.”
“Walked?” I cried.
“Yes,” said the physician. “She is a shell-shock case, of course, and we sometimes find that a second shock counteracts the effect of the first. This, temporarily at any rate, seems to have happened to-night. She is now in a very curious state: a form of hysteria, no doubt, but very curious all the same.”
“Miss Beverley is with her?” I asked.
Dr. Rolleston nodded affirmatively.
“Yes, a very capable nurse. I am glad to know that Madame de Stämer is in such good hands. I am calling again early in the morning, and I have told Mrs. Fisher to see that nothing is said within hearing of the room which could enable Madame de Stämer to obtain confirmation of the idea, which she evidently entertains, that Colonel Menendez is dead.”
“Does she actually assert that he is dead?” asked Harley.
“My dear sir,” replied Dr. Rolleston, “she asserts nothing. She sits there like Niobe changed to stone, staring straight before her. She seems to be unaware of the presence of everyone except Miss Beverley. The only words she has spoken since recovering consciousness have been, ‘Don’t leave me!’”
“Hm,” muttered Harley. “You have not attended Madame de Stämer before, doctor?”
“No,” was the reply, “this is the first time I have entered Cray’s Folly since it was occupied by Sir James Appleton.”
He was about to take his departure when the door opened and Inspector Aylesbury walked in.
“Ah,” said he, “I have two more witnesses to interview: Madame de Stämer and Miss Beverley. From these witnesses I hope to get particulars of the dead man’s life which may throw some light upon the identity of his murderer.”
“It is impossible to see either of them at present,” replied Dr. Rolleston briskly.
“What’s that, doctor?” asked the Inspector. “Are they hysterical, or something?”
“As a result of the shock, Madame de Stämer is dangerously ill,” replied the physician, “and Miss Beverley is remaining with her.”
“Oh, I see. But Miss Beverley could come out for a few minutes?”
“She could,” admitted the physician, sharply, “but I don’t wish her to do so.”
“Oh, but the law must be served, doctor.”
“Quite so, but not at the expense of my patient’s reason.”
He was a resolute man, this country practitioner, and I saw Harley smiling in grim approval.
“I have expressed my opinion,” he said, finally, walking out of the room; “I shall leave the responsibility to you, Inspector Aylesbury. Good morning, gentlemen.”
Inspector Aylesbury scratched his chin.
“That’s awkward,” he muttered. “The evidence of this woman is highly important.”
He turned toward us, doubtingly, whereupon Harley stood up, yawning.
“If I can be of any further assistance to you, Inspector,” said my friend, “command me. Otherwise, I feel sure you will appreciate the fact that both Mr. Knox and myself are extremely tired, and have passed through a very trying ordeal.”
“Yes,” replied Inspector Aylesbury, “that’s all very well, but I find myself at a deadlock.”
“You surprise me,” declared Harley.
“I can see nothing to be surprised about,” cried the Inspector. “When I was called in it was already too late.”
“Most unfortunate,” murmured Harley, disagreeably. “Come along, Knox, you look tired to death.”
“One moment, gentlemen,” the Inspector insisted, as I stood up. “One moment. There is a little point which you may be able to clear up.”
Harley paused, his hand on the door knob, and turned.
“The point is this,” continued the Inspector, frowning portentously and lowering his chin so that it almost disappeared into the folds of his neck, “I have now interviewed all the inmates of Cray’s Folly except the ladies. It appears to me that four people had not gone to bed. There are you two gentlemen, who have explained why I found you in evening dress, Colonel Menendez, who can never explain, and there is one other.”
He paused, looking from Harley to myself.
It had come, the question which I had dreaded, the question which I had been asking myself ever since I had seen Val Beverley kneeling in the corridor, dressed as she had been when we had parted for the night.
“I refer to Miss Val Beverley,” the police-court voice proceeded. “This lady had evidently not retired, and neither, it would appear, had the Colonel.”
“Neither had I,” murmured Harley, “and neither had Mr. Knox.”
“Your reason I understand,” said the Inspector, “or at least your explanation is a possible one. But if the party broke up, as you say it did, somewhere about half-past ten o’clock, and if Madame de Stämer had gone to bed, why should Miss Beverley have remained up?” He paused significantly. “As well as Colonel Menendez?” he added.
“Look here, Inspector Aylesbury,” I interrupted, I speaking in a very quiet tone, I remember, “your insinuations annoy me.”
“Oh,” said he, turning his prominent eyes in my direction, “I see. They annoy you? If they annoy you, sir, perhaps you can explain this point which is puzzling me?”
“I cannot explain it, but doubtless Miss Beverley can do so when you ask her.”
“I should like to have asked her now, and I can’t make out why she refuses to see me.”
“She has not refused to see you,” replied Harley, smoothly. “She is probably unaware of the fact that you wish to see her.”
“I don’t know so much,” muttered the Inspector. “In my opinion I am being deliberately baffled on all sides. You can throw no light on this matter, then?”
“None,” I answered, shortly, and Paul Harley shook his head.
“But you must remember, Inspector,” he explained, “that the entire household was in a state of unrest.”
“In other words, everybody was waiting for this very thing to happen?”
“Consciously, or subconsciously, everybody was.”
“What do you mean by consciously or subconsciously?”