XI.Superintendent SaltOctober 4. 2.35 P.M.Yet the two men from New Aidenn had come up the Vale through that ruinous rain and wind. From the corner library window I myself had dimly seen them plodding up the leaf-stained drive against the blast, and had been at the cat-head entrance when Blenkinson admitted them, grotesquely dishevelled by the storm. The very tall one, whose hat was gone and who carried a bulgy black instrument-case, was Doctor Niblett, Coroner as well. Superintendent Salt, a man of more pulp, and built on the underslung plan, wore a necklet of grizzly beard and had short curly hair, like a Roman Emperor’s. I at once christened him Peggotty, “a hairy man with a good-natured face.”Quite a little lake had sluiced and oozed from their coats and shoes before Pendleton came rushing downstairs from his wife’s room.“You got here?”“I expect so,” answered Superintendent Salt in the indecisive way that I have learned is universal with native Radnorites. “I had my neighbour the Coroner come along, Doctor Niblett here.”“Oh, yes: glad you did. We’ve met, haven’t we, Doctor? Gad, you look war-shot, both of you. Is the storm so bad?”“We’ve tramped it from beyond the bridge or thereabouts.”“Tramped it!”“Half the bridge was down, Mr. Pendleton. We were forced to leave the car on t’other side and make a dash over afoot. The way it looked, Mr. Pendleton, with the water risin’ so, I doubt you’ve any bridge at all there by now. The stream’s fair ragin’. And you say there’s been a killin’ here or something? A guest of yours, maybe? Shockin’.”“What a day!” cried Crofts fervently. “This way, gentlemen.” But in the midst of the portrait-corridor, he paused. “This is murder, and a damned mysterious murder. There’s been a landslide up the Vale, and that path must be blocked. Did you pass anyone going south as you came along?”Peggotty, or perhaps I had better let his name go as Salt, responded, “We did not, and we have a witness who was by the bridge since before five o’clock to show that nobody had been across either way.”“What kind of a witness?”“Reliable. The Coroner and I have known him for these a-many years.” From aloft Doctor Niblett nodded grave agreement. “Road-mender, he is. Shelterin’ under a tree from the rain. Had been at work just beyond the bridge, so he couldn’t have missed seein’.”Elation seemed to make a dark glow in Pendleton’s soul. “Then he’s trapped, the dog! That is, if you—did you tell this witness to watch—?”“I think,” said Superintendent Salt, “that we might be havin’ a look at the body.”“Er, yes. Yes, of course—I was taking you. I’ll order a good fire lit at once to help you dry.”I followed Crofts with the overshadowing Coroner and the plump Superintendent into the Hall of the Moth. Doctor Aire and Lord Ludlow were waiting there; the body of Sean Cosgrove lay on the couch with theBrocade de Lyonsupholstering, and across it was stretched a decorative leather skin plucked down from the wall.Introductions were curt. Doctor Aire pulled off the cover, revealing the corpse. The limbs had been adjusted carefully.Rigor mortis, of course, had not yet supervened, and the features, save for the laxity of the jaw, had much the expression I should have expected to see in untroubled sleep. First Doctor Niblett bent for his swift, searching preliminary examination, turning the dead man’s head in his long, large-jointed fingers. The Superintendent followed in more deliberate manner, while Niblett went gratefully to the climbing fire.It appeared that Salt is not one of those master-minds who require a vacuum in order to get results. He actually began to function in our presence! For at length, rising ponderously from his knees, upon which he had been scrutinizing the soles of the dead man’s shoes, he said, “See here, where’s the weapon?”Crofts shrugged his shoulders, having a bit of a flea in his ear, and Doctor Aire answered, “We haven’t the slightest idea. There’s a pretty muddle about weapons. We’ve weapons to burn, but none of them appears to be connected with the case.”“We’ll go into that later, then. You haven’t disturbed the contents of his clothing, I see.”“Certainly not.”Methodically Salt removed what Cosgrove carried on him when he died, turning out each pocket when empty and examining the inside. Besides the loose coins, watch and chain, and wallet, there were a number of hand-written and printed sheets in several pockets.Ludlow singled out one slip from the heap and called Salt’s attention to it. “This thing,” he said, “was the subject of some acrimony on the part of the deceased last night. He accused me, in fact, of pilfering it.”“What’s that?”“Perhaps,” continued the wily Ludlow, “I had picked the sheet up somewhere, absent-mindedly, I suppose, and forgotten about it. It was rather a tense day. But Mr. Cosgrove saw fit to declare that I had rifled his correspondence—he claimed it as his, at any rate. Can you make any more of it than I?”“What do you make of it?” asked Salt, who had been reading it the while.I fancied a little spite in his Lordship’s tone. “In the light of events, nothing. Suppose you show it to my friends here. One of them may suggest some interpretation that will throw light.”Crofts was obviously bursting to get a look at the screed, and I myself was glad of the opportunity to see what else it contained besides the singular remark about “the mail.” It commenced without indication to whom addressed:“Dear Sir,I suppose that I shall see you before long, and we may discuss the topic conveniently.I must inform you, however, that my principals leave me no option in the matter. I hope you will realize your untenable and actually perilous position; we do not want your brains scattered about. On the evening of my arrival, I shall expect a communication from you, stating whether you will be amenable. Suppose you leave it in the mail—you know where; I’ll come and get it.”I studied the signature for some time before I made it out: “Lochinvar.”“And you say that you have no idea what this means?” asked Salt.“I wish I did!” responded Lord Ludlow; then, looking sorry he had spoken with such feeling, he added, “I mean that if I did, I might see some reason for Mr. Cosgrove’s bursting into a tirade against me.”“Oh, yes?” remarked the Superintendent dryly, and turned to Crofts. “I suppose you couldn’t tell when this was delivered?”“Not while he was here,” returned Crofts promptly. “The only delivery is at eleven, and I sort the mail myself. Cosgrove never got any.”“Well, I suppose we must show it to the others in the house and see if anyone recognizes the hand.” Salt stood pondering a moment, then braced with decision. “And now I think that I’ve heard enough puzzling odds and ends about this crime. I want somebody to tell the story of it right straight through, so I’ll get the tit-bits in their proper places.”This was clearly for Crofts, and I did not envy him. I remember that the rest of us were going to depart when Salt retained us with a gesture. So we were part of the audience while our host, with much nervousness and with some little assistance from the rest of us, told who were in the House, and what, in the main, had happened until the time Blenkinson had rung up the New Aidenn police station at five-twenty-two.Only once did the Superintendent put in a word. Crofts had been setting forth as well as he could our bodily dispositions after we had left the Hall of the Moth. “So none of us could have been near him, and there’s no trace of anyone else. And there you are, Superintendent.”“Oh—ah—um,” remarked Salt, his eyes moving about the walls. “Secret passages?”“None,” snapped Crofts.“Go on, sir, please. This is very interestin’.”When our host had finished, Salt emitted a noise both gruff and complacent.“A pretty job,” he observed. He cast a look about the room, as if the atmosphere of the Hall of the Moth impressed him for the first time, and he gave a conscious shiver. I saw his eyebrows twitch for a moment when his glance fell on the iniquitous portrait of Sir Pharamond on high. “A pretty job and will take a lot of doin’, I expect.”“Do you want to see the rest of us now?” asked Crofts. “The party is waiting in the conservatory.” He indicated the door with a nod.The Superintendent regarded the corpse with lack-lustre eye, and pulled his beard reflectively. “N‑no, not to-night, if you please. Not now, thanks. I’ll take ’em all in the morning. As a plain fact, there’s too much blood-and-thunder in the atmosphere to-night. Keeps people from thinkin’ straight. And we can’t catch the murderer to-night, anyhow.” He paused a moment, blinking thoughtfully again; he was given to these interludes of cogitation. “But see here; we may clear this matter up.” He showed the “Lochinvar” letter. “I’ll just pass this round and see if anyone twigs the writin’.”“This way, then,” ushered Crofts. He preceded us into the conservatory with its great windows, where the company was sitting in little breathless groups of twos and threes.Only Maryvale lingered alone, beyond the grand piano, his fingers sometimes very lightly pressing the keys in chords of some neutral mode, neither major nor minor.Salt explained that he intended to ask but one question just then, alleging anxiety lest anyone should be overwrought in the situation of time, circumstance, and weather. He gave an uneasy look at Maryvale, whose chords seemed to deepen the sombreness of the rain-beleaguered room. The “Lochinvar” letter went the rounds, until it reached Eve Bartholomew beneath a large potted plant whose leaves were like donkeys’ ears. She gave a pleased cry, then a gasp.“Sir Brooke wrote this! . . . But what does it mean!”“Never mind what it means, Ma’am,” said Salt. “And who’s Sir Brooke? Not here, is he?”“Don’t you remember?” Crofts asked. “He’s the missing—”“Idiot,” murmured Ludlow, and went on to say: “I haven’t known our infirm absentee as long as this good lady, and his writing is unfamiliar to me, but it surprises me greatly that he signs himself ‘Lochinvar.’ Curiously unfit I should say. Madam, was that one of his baptismal names?”Mrs. Bartholomew bridled. “I have no doubt Sir Brooke had good reason to sign himself any way he thought proper.”“I have no doubt either,” acquiesced Ludlow, and added the remark, “Don Quixote.”“Haven’t eaten yet?” Salt asked.Our host ejaculated, “Hardly!”“Suggest you do, then, and everybody try to get some rest. All doors locked, windows latched. No danger now, of course—only never give temptation.”“This way, then, if you’re for food,” bade Crofts, and led the way into the dining-room, where he himself was to make a wretched job of eating.The conservatory emptied slowly. A few people followed Crofts; perhaps two-thirds of men make for the stairs and the cold comfort of their bedrooms. At the bottom of the well I drew Miss Lebetwood apart from Mrs. Belvoir. Then, I confess, I felt ashamed, and spoke awkwardly.“Miss Lebetwood, forgive me if I—that is, I hope you won’t mind—if you don’t want to answer—”Her voice was quite controlled. “Yes, what’s the matter, Mr. Bannerlee?”“It may not have anything to do with this awful—”“What do you want to know, Mr. Bannerlee?”“You remember telling how Miss Mertoun—before she wandered out last night—how she said something about its being ‘his music’? Well—”Paula Lebetwood winced and said, “You want to know what that meant?”“It’s rather stuck in my mind, you see—and I thought—”“You’re not a detective, are you, Mr. Bannerlee?”“Why—no—I—”“Your nameisBannerlee, isn’t it?”“Certainly, Miss Lebetwood.”“Forgive me; it was rude. But I am so tired—and your question—”“Please don’t—”She interrupted, but her hesitation had become as great as mine, and there was certain displeasure in her tone. “Excuse me, I beg you, but I—don’t—think I want to tell you, Mr. Bannerlee. I can hardly call it my—secret, you know.”“Pray excusemefor asking. But you may be called on to tell to-morrow. It will be painful, I’m afraid.”“Oh, I hope I won’t have to. Really—really, it has nothing to do with—”She fled up the stairs, and I, full of musing, went into the dinner-room and tried to eat. But it was no use then. I excused myself from the group about the table (pale, they were, as if Death itself had taken a seat at the board) and slowly proceeded to my second-storey room.I wrote in this diary, and while I wrote I heard slight sounds below. Not until a long time later, when hunger had at last made itself felt and I hoped to burgle the larder, and stole down near midnight—not until then did I realize the full import of those sounds. While I passed through the corridor to reach the dining-room door and thence the kitchen, the far entrance of the Hall opened, and an unusual glare of light burst forth. Doctor Aire stood on the threshold. He wore a cook’s white apron tied beneath his arms and pinned to his trousers below the knees. He was rubbing his fingers on the edge of it. Using the instruments of the tall, wordless Coroner, he had just performed the superfluous but required necropsy upon the body of Sean Cosgrove.“The blow on the neck did it; nothing else the matter. He had a whale of a constitution.”Aire, too, was hungry. But it almost robbed me of my appetite again to see him eating with those gruesome fingers.As the Superintendent foresaw, it was well that thepost-mortemwas quickly done. After all, we were cut off from escape. The bridge was wholly gone; so we had already learned by telephone. Burial of the murdered man somewhere in the Vale might yet be necessary. The King-maker entombed alone, uncoffined, far removed from the odour of sanctity!Aire, Salt, and I came up together at half-past eleven. Poor Crofts had been troubled enough about finding places for the two officials overnight. On the first floor the rooms were filled: the Belvoirs, Oxford, and Miss Lebetwood take up the left portion of the storey not part of the upper reaches of the Hall, and on the other side the Pendletons, the Aires, Bob Cullen, Ludlow, and Miss Mertoun have rooms. Above these the only habitable chambers are those of Maryvale, Mrs. Bartholomew, and Lib at the south end, and mine up the passage. Between my room and Lib’s are two chambers filled with stores of oddments anything up to a century old. The great rooms across the passage from me are also depositories and magazines of much that has been undisturbed since long before Crofts bought Highglen House.I knew that our host took Salt and Niblett over the House in a sort of preliminary inspection about ten o’clock, for they arrived finally at my antique domicile. Crofts, thoughtless oaf, had given me no warning, and I was nearly caught in the exercise of pen and ink. I contrived, however, to thrust my writing-book underneath the table and to snatch a piece of notepaper. I was inditing a letter when the Superintendent looked in.Then they stood in the doorway and discussed sleeping-quarters.“Disadvantages every way,” complained Crofts, “whether you try the ground floor, the first, or the second—but of course I forgot—there’s no place available on the first.”“The first floor will do us very well,” said Salt.“Eh? What do you mean? You surely don’t mean—”“Mr. Cosgrove’s room? Yes. Dr. Niblett and I will divide the sleepin’ there and beside the corpse.”Cosgrove had occupied the east-projecting room furthest north in the older body of the House. Miss Mertoun’s, beyond it, is above the newly-built conservatory, and since, as I may have said, the conservatory does not extend the entire width of the house, Cosgrove’s room juts out, making a notched corner at that end of the mansion.“But surely—”“I’m leavin’ my superstitions out with my boots to-night,” observed Salt solemnly.“But why not carry the body up there? I’ll have a bed made—”Crofts gave it up after a while, though I am sure that not for a king’s ransom would he himself last night have occupied the narrow chamber that had been the Irishman’s. The voices became faint down the passage; the last I heard was Salt’s diminishing assurance.“I took the liberty of usin’ your telephone. I gave the Chief Constable a stiff surprise. There are two of the county police—”
October 4. 2.35 P.M.
Yet the two men from New Aidenn had come up the Vale through that ruinous rain and wind. From the corner library window I myself had dimly seen them plodding up the leaf-stained drive against the blast, and had been at the cat-head entrance when Blenkinson admitted them, grotesquely dishevelled by the storm. The very tall one, whose hat was gone and who carried a bulgy black instrument-case, was Doctor Niblett, Coroner as well. Superintendent Salt, a man of more pulp, and built on the underslung plan, wore a necklet of grizzly beard and had short curly hair, like a Roman Emperor’s. I at once christened him Peggotty, “a hairy man with a good-natured face.”
Quite a little lake had sluiced and oozed from their coats and shoes before Pendleton came rushing downstairs from his wife’s room.
“You got here?”
“I expect so,” answered Superintendent Salt in the indecisive way that I have learned is universal with native Radnorites. “I had my neighbour the Coroner come along, Doctor Niblett here.”
“Oh, yes: glad you did. We’ve met, haven’t we, Doctor? Gad, you look war-shot, both of you. Is the storm so bad?”
“We’ve tramped it from beyond the bridge or thereabouts.”
“Tramped it!”
“Half the bridge was down, Mr. Pendleton. We were forced to leave the car on t’other side and make a dash over afoot. The way it looked, Mr. Pendleton, with the water risin’ so, I doubt you’ve any bridge at all there by now. The stream’s fair ragin’. And you say there’s been a killin’ here or something? A guest of yours, maybe? Shockin’.”
“What a day!” cried Crofts fervently. “This way, gentlemen.” But in the midst of the portrait-corridor, he paused. “This is murder, and a damned mysterious murder. There’s been a landslide up the Vale, and that path must be blocked. Did you pass anyone going south as you came along?”
Peggotty, or perhaps I had better let his name go as Salt, responded, “We did not, and we have a witness who was by the bridge since before five o’clock to show that nobody had been across either way.”
“What kind of a witness?”
“Reliable. The Coroner and I have known him for these a-many years.” From aloft Doctor Niblett nodded grave agreement. “Road-mender, he is. Shelterin’ under a tree from the rain. Had been at work just beyond the bridge, so he couldn’t have missed seein’.”
Elation seemed to make a dark glow in Pendleton’s soul. “Then he’s trapped, the dog! That is, if you—did you tell this witness to watch—?”
“I think,” said Superintendent Salt, “that we might be havin’ a look at the body.”
“Er, yes. Yes, of course—I was taking you. I’ll order a good fire lit at once to help you dry.”
I followed Crofts with the overshadowing Coroner and the plump Superintendent into the Hall of the Moth. Doctor Aire and Lord Ludlow were waiting there; the body of Sean Cosgrove lay on the couch with theBrocade de Lyonsupholstering, and across it was stretched a decorative leather skin plucked down from the wall.
Introductions were curt. Doctor Aire pulled off the cover, revealing the corpse. The limbs had been adjusted carefully.Rigor mortis, of course, had not yet supervened, and the features, save for the laxity of the jaw, had much the expression I should have expected to see in untroubled sleep. First Doctor Niblett bent for his swift, searching preliminary examination, turning the dead man’s head in his long, large-jointed fingers. The Superintendent followed in more deliberate manner, while Niblett went gratefully to the climbing fire.
It appeared that Salt is not one of those master-minds who require a vacuum in order to get results. He actually began to function in our presence! For at length, rising ponderously from his knees, upon which he had been scrutinizing the soles of the dead man’s shoes, he said, “See here, where’s the weapon?”
Crofts shrugged his shoulders, having a bit of a flea in his ear, and Doctor Aire answered, “We haven’t the slightest idea. There’s a pretty muddle about weapons. We’ve weapons to burn, but none of them appears to be connected with the case.”
“We’ll go into that later, then. You haven’t disturbed the contents of his clothing, I see.”
“Certainly not.”
Methodically Salt removed what Cosgrove carried on him when he died, turning out each pocket when empty and examining the inside. Besides the loose coins, watch and chain, and wallet, there were a number of hand-written and printed sheets in several pockets.
Ludlow singled out one slip from the heap and called Salt’s attention to it. “This thing,” he said, “was the subject of some acrimony on the part of the deceased last night. He accused me, in fact, of pilfering it.”
“What’s that?”
“Perhaps,” continued the wily Ludlow, “I had picked the sheet up somewhere, absent-mindedly, I suppose, and forgotten about it. It was rather a tense day. But Mr. Cosgrove saw fit to declare that I had rifled his correspondence—he claimed it as his, at any rate. Can you make any more of it than I?”
“What do you make of it?” asked Salt, who had been reading it the while.
I fancied a little spite in his Lordship’s tone. “In the light of events, nothing. Suppose you show it to my friends here. One of them may suggest some interpretation that will throw light.”
Crofts was obviously bursting to get a look at the screed, and I myself was glad of the opportunity to see what else it contained besides the singular remark about “the mail.” It commenced without indication to whom addressed:
“Dear Sir,I suppose that I shall see you before long, and we may discuss the topic conveniently.I must inform you, however, that my principals leave me no option in the matter. I hope you will realize your untenable and actually perilous position; we do not want your brains scattered about. On the evening of my arrival, I shall expect a communication from you, stating whether you will be amenable. Suppose you leave it in the mail—you know where; I’ll come and get it.”
“Dear Sir,
I suppose that I shall see you before long, and we may discuss the topic conveniently.
I must inform you, however, that my principals leave me no option in the matter. I hope you will realize your untenable and actually perilous position; we do not want your brains scattered about. On the evening of my arrival, I shall expect a communication from you, stating whether you will be amenable. Suppose you leave it in the mail—you know where; I’ll come and get it.”
I studied the signature for some time before I made it out: “Lochinvar.”
“And you say that you have no idea what this means?” asked Salt.
“I wish I did!” responded Lord Ludlow; then, looking sorry he had spoken with such feeling, he added, “I mean that if I did, I might see some reason for Mr. Cosgrove’s bursting into a tirade against me.”
“Oh, yes?” remarked the Superintendent dryly, and turned to Crofts. “I suppose you couldn’t tell when this was delivered?”
“Not while he was here,” returned Crofts promptly. “The only delivery is at eleven, and I sort the mail myself. Cosgrove never got any.”
“Well, I suppose we must show it to the others in the house and see if anyone recognizes the hand.” Salt stood pondering a moment, then braced with decision. “And now I think that I’ve heard enough puzzling odds and ends about this crime. I want somebody to tell the story of it right straight through, so I’ll get the tit-bits in their proper places.”
This was clearly for Crofts, and I did not envy him. I remember that the rest of us were going to depart when Salt retained us with a gesture. So we were part of the audience while our host, with much nervousness and with some little assistance from the rest of us, told who were in the House, and what, in the main, had happened until the time Blenkinson had rung up the New Aidenn police station at five-twenty-two.
Only once did the Superintendent put in a word. Crofts had been setting forth as well as he could our bodily dispositions after we had left the Hall of the Moth. “So none of us could have been near him, and there’s no trace of anyone else. And there you are, Superintendent.”
“Oh—ah—um,” remarked Salt, his eyes moving about the walls. “Secret passages?”
“None,” snapped Crofts.
“Go on, sir, please. This is very interestin’.”
When our host had finished, Salt emitted a noise both gruff and complacent.
“A pretty job,” he observed. He cast a look about the room, as if the atmosphere of the Hall of the Moth impressed him for the first time, and he gave a conscious shiver. I saw his eyebrows twitch for a moment when his glance fell on the iniquitous portrait of Sir Pharamond on high. “A pretty job and will take a lot of doin’, I expect.”
“Do you want to see the rest of us now?” asked Crofts. “The party is waiting in the conservatory.” He indicated the door with a nod.
The Superintendent regarded the corpse with lack-lustre eye, and pulled his beard reflectively. “N‑no, not to-night, if you please. Not now, thanks. I’ll take ’em all in the morning. As a plain fact, there’s too much blood-and-thunder in the atmosphere to-night. Keeps people from thinkin’ straight. And we can’t catch the murderer to-night, anyhow.” He paused a moment, blinking thoughtfully again; he was given to these interludes of cogitation. “But see here; we may clear this matter up.” He showed the “Lochinvar” letter. “I’ll just pass this round and see if anyone twigs the writin’.”
“This way, then,” ushered Crofts. He preceded us into the conservatory with its great windows, where the company was sitting in little breathless groups of twos and threes.
Only Maryvale lingered alone, beyond the grand piano, his fingers sometimes very lightly pressing the keys in chords of some neutral mode, neither major nor minor.
Salt explained that he intended to ask but one question just then, alleging anxiety lest anyone should be overwrought in the situation of time, circumstance, and weather. He gave an uneasy look at Maryvale, whose chords seemed to deepen the sombreness of the rain-beleaguered room. The “Lochinvar” letter went the rounds, until it reached Eve Bartholomew beneath a large potted plant whose leaves were like donkeys’ ears. She gave a pleased cry, then a gasp.
“Sir Brooke wrote this! . . . But what does it mean!”
“Never mind what it means, Ma’am,” said Salt. “And who’s Sir Brooke? Not here, is he?”
“Don’t you remember?” Crofts asked. “He’s the missing—”
“Idiot,” murmured Ludlow, and went on to say: “I haven’t known our infirm absentee as long as this good lady, and his writing is unfamiliar to me, but it surprises me greatly that he signs himself ‘Lochinvar.’ Curiously unfit I should say. Madam, was that one of his baptismal names?”
Mrs. Bartholomew bridled. “I have no doubt Sir Brooke had good reason to sign himself any way he thought proper.”
“I have no doubt either,” acquiesced Ludlow, and added the remark, “Don Quixote.”
“Haven’t eaten yet?” Salt asked.
Our host ejaculated, “Hardly!”
“Suggest you do, then, and everybody try to get some rest. All doors locked, windows latched. No danger now, of course—only never give temptation.”
“This way, then, if you’re for food,” bade Crofts, and led the way into the dining-room, where he himself was to make a wretched job of eating.
The conservatory emptied slowly. A few people followed Crofts; perhaps two-thirds of men make for the stairs and the cold comfort of their bedrooms. At the bottom of the well I drew Miss Lebetwood apart from Mrs. Belvoir. Then, I confess, I felt ashamed, and spoke awkwardly.
“Miss Lebetwood, forgive me if I—that is, I hope you won’t mind—if you don’t want to answer—”
Her voice was quite controlled. “Yes, what’s the matter, Mr. Bannerlee?”
“It may not have anything to do with this awful—”
“What do you want to know, Mr. Bannerlee?”
“You remember telling how Miss Mertoun—before she wandered out last night—how she said something about its being ‘his music’? Well—”
Paula Lebetwood winced and said, “You want to know what that meant?”
“It’s rather stuck in my mind, you see—and I thought—”
“You’re not a detective, are you, Mr. Bannerlee?”
“Why—no—I—”
“Your nameisBannerlee, isn’t it?”
“Certainly, Miss Lebetwood.”
“Forgive me; it was rude. But I am so tired—and your question—”
“Please don’t—”
She interrupted, but her hesitation had become as great as mine, and there was certain displeasure in her tone. “Excuse me, I beg you, but I—don’t—think I want to tell you, Mr. Bannerlee. I can hardly call it my—secret, you know.”
“Pray excusemefor asking. But you may be called on to tell to-morrow. It will be painful, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I hope I won’t have to. Really—really, it has nothing to do with—”
She fled up the stairs, and I, full of musing, went into the dinner-room and tried to eat. But it was no use then. I excused myself from the group about the table (pale, they were, as if Death itself had taken a seat at the board) and slowly proceeded to my second-storey room.
I wrote in this diary, and while I wrote I heard slight sounds below. Not until a long time later, when hunger had at last made itself felt and I hoped to burgle the larder, and stole down near midnight—not until then did I realize the full import of those sounds. While I passed through the corridor to reach the dining-room door and thence the kitchen, the far entrance of the Hall opened, and an unusual glare of light burst forth. Doctor Aire stood on the threshold. He wore a cook’s white apron tied beneath his arms and pinned to his trousers below the knees. He was rubbing his fingers on the edge of it. Using the instruments of the tall, wordless Coroner, he had just performed the superfluous but required necropsy upon the body of Sean Cosgrove.
“The blow on the neck did it; nothing else the matter. He had a whale of a constitution.”
Aire, too, was hungry. But it almost robbed me of my appetite again to see him eating with those gruesome fingers.
As the Superintendent foresaw, it was well that thepost-mortemwas quickly done. After all, we were cut off from escape. The bridge was wholly gone; so we had already learned by telephone. Burial of the murdered man somewhere in the Vale might yet be necessary. The King-maker entombed alone, uncoffined, far removed from the odour of sanctity!
Aire, Salt, and I came up together at half-past eleven. Poor Crofts had been troubled enough about finding places for the two officials overnight. On the first floor the rooms were filled: the Belvoirs, Oxford, and Miss Lebetwood take up the left portion of the storey not part of the upper reaches of the Hall, and on the other side the Pendletons, the Aires, Bob Cullen, Ludlow, and Miss Mertoun have rooms. Above these the only habitable chambers are those of Maryvale, Mrs. Bartholomew, and Lib at the south end, and mine up the passage. Between my room and Lib’s are two chambers filled with stores of oddments anything up to a century old. The great rooms across the passage from me are also depositories and magazines of much that has been undisturbed since long before Crofts bought Highglen House.
I knew that our host took Salt and Niblett over the House in a sort of preliminary inspection about ten o’clock, for they arrived finally at my antique domicile. Crofts, thoughtless oaf, had given me no warning, and I was nearly caught in the exercise of pen and ink. I contrived, however, to thrust my writing-book underneath the table and to snatch a piece of notepaper. I was inditing a letter when the Superintendent looked in.
Then they stood in the doorway and discussed sleeping-quarters.
“Disadvantages every way,” complained Crofts, “whether you try the ground floor, the first, or the second—but of course I forgot—there’s no place available on the first.”
“The first floor will do us very well,” said Salt.
“Eh? What do you mean? You surely don’t mean—”
“Mr. Cosgrove’s room? Yes. Dr. Niblett and I will divide the sleepin’ there and beside the corpse.”
Cosgrove had occupied the east-projecting room furthest north in the older body of the House. Miss Mertoun’s, beyond it, is above the newly-built conservatory, and since, as I may have said, the conservatory does not extend the entire width of the house, Cosgrove’s room juts out, making a notched corner at that end of the mansion.
“But surely—”
“I’m leavin’ my superstitions out with my boots to-night,” observed Salt solemnly.
“But why not carry the body up there? I’ll have a bed made—”
Crofts gave it up after a while, though I am sure that not for a king’s ransom would he himself last night have occupied the narrow chamber that had been the Irishman’s. The voices became faint down the passage; the last I heard was Salt’s diminishing assurance.
“I took the liberty of usin’ your telephone. I gave the Chief Constable a stiff surprise. There are two of the county police—”