Ephraim Judd was the victim of an insatiable curiosity with regard to the affairs of other people. To pry into the private business and personal histories of his fellow clerks, and of those with whom he was brought into contact in business, was with him a sort of mania. He had a special bunch of keys, procured it would be impossible to say how, which gave him access to nearly every drawer in the office; and many an evening when he stayed after the other clerks had gone, and was supposed to be busily at work, he was, in reality, engaged in prying into private correspondence, and other matters with which he had no manner of concern. It was not that the knowledge thus surreptitiously obtained was of any value to him, or was made use of to the detriment of those from whom it was stolen; it was simply hoarded up in his memory, where so much useless knowledge was stored up already, doubtless greatly to the satisfaction of his curiosity, which was the sole end he had in view. He was stopping to-night after John Brancker's departure because, in the course of the day, John had received a letter by post, the contents of which had seemed to puzzle him greatly, and Ephraim was hungering to know what the letter could possibly be about. After reading the letter two or three times, and wrinkling his brows over it, John had put it away in one of his drawers, and Ephraim was in the hopes of finding it there now.
John Brancker had not been gone more than ten minutes before Ephraim wiped his pen and laid it down. Then he sat perfectly still for a few moments, listening intently with those large, flexible ears of his. Nothing was to be heard save, now and then, the footsteps of someone passing in the street. With a hop and a skip, Ephraim was off his stool and at the door. Long practice had enabled him to turn the handle noiselessly. Holding the door half open, he waited and listened again. Sweet was probably downstairs getting his supper. A moment later Ephraim was on one knee against Mr. Hazeldine's door, and peering through the keyhole. In his india rubber overshoes he moved without a sound. He kept his eye to the keyhole for about a couple of minutes, and then he went back noiselessly to his own office.
"He doesn't seem to have much to do that need keep him so late," muttered Ephraim to himself. "I wonder what he's thinking about. He's got something on his mind, I'm positive he has. He's not the same man he was half a year ago."
While speaking thus he drew from one of his pockets a steel ring, on which were strung about a dozen keys. Selecting one of them, he inserted it into the lock of John Brancker's drawer, which it opened as easily as the proper key could have done. A crafty smile lighted up Ephraim's thin, sallow face as his fingers gripped the handle of the drawer. He pulled, but the drawer stuck and would only open to the extent of a few inches. A little patience would have remedied this, but Ephraim was in a hurry; Obed Sweet might come his rounds at any moment, so into the drawer went his long, lean fingers in search of the letter.
Now, John Brancker was in the habit of using a quill pen nearly as often as he used a steel one, and in his drawer was an office-knife, almost as sharp as a razor, which he used for the making and mending of the former. Ephraim never thought about the knife till his hand came in contact with the blade, a gash being the immediate result. He drew back his hand with an exclamation of pain, but not till the contents of the drawer had been sprinkled with sundry drops of blood. At this moment Sweet's premonitory cough was audible, and then the door was opened, and his head protruded into the room. Ephraim was obliged to stand still and let his wounded hand hang by his side.
"Not gone yet, sir?" said Sweet.
"No, but I'm just about done, and shall be off in a few minutes," answered Mr. Judd.
"All right, sir," responded Sweet. "The Guv'nor seems as if he was going to stick at it late to-night," he added. And with that he went on to talk of the weather, and lingered for fully five minutes before he finally went.
Looking down, Ephraim saw with dismay that there was quite a little pool of blood on the floor by this time. He had no means of cleaning it up, and was utterly at a loss what to do. He tied his handkerchief round his hand, and stood thinking for a minute or two. At length he decided that he would leave the floor as it was for to-night, and come to the Bank an hour earlier than usual in the morning, when the woman who cleaned the offices would be at work. He would give her sixpence, and with her soft soap and scrubbing-brush she would quickly efface the stains from the floor; or, if by chance any signs still remained, a little ink spilled carefully over the place would effectually hide them. Five minutes by daylight would suffice to so re-arrange the contents of the drawer, that John, who was the most unsuspicious of mortals, would never find out that they had been disturbed. Having thus decided on his plan, Ephraim proceeded to re-lock the drawer, then he put on his overcoat, muffler and hat, and took possession of his stick, after which he turned off the gas. At the door he paused to listen, but all was silent.
About half way along the main corridor, and nearly opposite the door of Mr. Hazeldine's office, was a spiral, iron staircase which gave access to certain upper rooms used as storerooms for old books and papers transferred from the offices below. Up this staircase mounted Ephraim Judd till he reached a certain height, and then he paused. Over Mr. Hazeldine's door was a fanlight which could be used as a ventilator if so required. From his perch on the stairs Ephraim could see through the fanlight into the interior of the office. He could see, too, as previous experience had taught him, Mr. Hazeldine's table as well as Mr. Hazeldine himself, if that gentleman happened to be seated at it. He was so seated now, and for a space of about a dozen seconds Ephraim's eyes seemed as though they would transfix him. "What can he be after? What is he going to do?" he muttered to himself in genuine surprise, and with somewhat of a scared look on his face.
But there was no time for further prying. He heard Sweet's footsteps ascending the stairs from the lower premises. Half a minute later, and he had opened one of the big outer doors and had let himself into the street. He set off homeward in a more thoughtful mood than ordinary. Twice he turned to look at the lighted windows of Mr. Hazeldine's office. With the exception of them and the fanlight over the main entrance, the building was in darkness; Sweet's rooms in the basement having windows that looked the opposite way.
His tea was waiting for him when he reached home. After he had partaken of it he sat awhile, puzzling himself over a chess problem in a magazine; then he decided that he would go for a walk. He had not gone far before John Brancker nearly ran against him at the corner of a street.
"Hallo! Mr. B., whoever thought of meeting you at this time of night?" cried Ephraim.
"I'm on my road to William Strong's," answered John. "I hear that he's ill, and I'm doubtful whether he will be able to attend to the organ next Sunday. That was a spot of rain. Now that I'm so near the Bank, I may as well step in and get my umbrella, which I forgot to bring away this evening. Sweet will hardly have shut up for the night yet."
Ephraim's heart sank within him. Should John light the gas in the office, he would infallibly discover the bloodstains on the floor, and his doing so would lead to inquiry; but all he said aloud was:
"I daresay you will find Mr. H. still in his office."
Then the two men bade each other good-night, and John turned off towards the Bank.
Ephraim turned off too, but only to take another road which led to the Bank a little further on. He strode along with his stick and overshoes, making no noise as he went. Coming to a dark corner within sight of the Bank, he halted there and was just in time to see John go in. Mr. Hazeldine's office was still lighted up. Ephraim stood and watched with a beating heart. Would John light the gas, or would he not? His anxiety was of short duration. In three minutes John was out of the Bank again with his umbrella in his hand. He had found it in the dark. Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief, and then slunk further into his corner till John's footsteps had died away. The clock of St. Mary's Church was chiming the half-hour past ten as he turned up the street again.
From ten o'clock at night till six o'clock in the morning it was Obed Sweet's duty to perambulate the Bank premises once an hour and satisfy himself that everything was safe. At six o'clock Mrs. Sweet rose and got her husband's breakfast ready, after which Sweet generally went to bed for four or five hours. At seven o'clock Peggy Lown, who assisted Mrs. Sweet to clean the offices, rang and was admitted.
John Brancker had not been gone more than three or four minutes after fetching his umbrella when Obed Sweet came slowly up from the lower regions with the intention of locking up the premises for the night. He had heard, as he fancied, the front door clash, and he never doubted that it was Mr. Hazeldine who had gone home at last. Mr. Brancker had let himself in with his pass-key, of which he and Mr. Hazeldine each possessed one, and Sweet had not heard him enter. Feeling sure that Mr. Hazeldine was no longer there, Obed opened the door of the private office without any preliminary knock. He was quite startled at finding the "Guv'nor" still there, and the latter was evidently just as much startled at being so suddenly intruded upon. He put something away hastily into a drawer, and turned an ashen face on the night-watchman.
"Ah, Sweet, I did not hear you knock," he said in a faint, weary voice, very unlike his usual decisive way of speaking.
"Beg pardon, sir," answered Sweet, in a flurry, "but I made sure that I heard you go out about five minutes since."
"I shall be about half an hour yet. I will let myself out when I am ready. I suppose everyone else has gone?"
"Yes, sir; some time ago."
"That will do. You need not trouble further."
Sweet retired and shut the door very gently. Then he stood on the mat for a few moments, rubbing his nose thoughtfully.
"I could a' sworn I heard somebody shut the front door," he muttered; "and yet Mr. Judd went away more than an hour ago. I suppose I'm getting old and stoopid."
He tried the front door and found it fast. Then he opened the door of the general office and peeped in, but all was darkness there. Satisfied that he must have been mistaken, Sweet made his way downstairs to his cosy little room and lighted his pipe. His wife had gone to bed by this time, and he sat for nearly an hour, smoking and sipping occasionally at his mug of beer, and listening for the sounds of Mr. Hazeldine's departure. But Sweet's listening was in vain; no sound broke the silence. By-and-bye he put his pipe down and finished his beer. The room was warm and the ale was old; Sweet's eyelids drooped, shut, opened and shut again: the night-watchman was asleep. This was no uncommon occurrence during his long, lonely vigils; but he had a happy knack of waking up, alert and fresh, at the end of about half an hour. So it was in the present instance. Sweet awoke with a start and a shiver. The fire had burned low, and the clock pointed to half-past eleven. "The Guv'nor must surely have gone by this time," he said to himself, as he got up and yawned. Then he lighted his lantern and went upstairs.
Placing his lantern on one of the chairs in the corridor, he went to the door of Mr. Hazeldine's room and knocked. He was not going to make a breach in his manners again. But there came no response. He waited a few seconds, and then he opened the door and looked in. Everything was in darkness, as he had expected it would be; both the gas and the fire were out. Sweet shut and locked the door, the key being outside. Then he bolted and barred the heavy front door, and after a final glance into the other offices, he locked them also. His last act was to extinguish the gas in the corridor, after which his duties were over for another hour.
Next morning, a few minutes before seven o'clock, Peggy Lown rang the bell and was duly admitted by Mrs. Sweet. It was Peggy's duty to clean the two general offices and the passage, while Mrs. Sweet herself looked after Mr. Hazeldine's and Mr. Avison's rooms. The first thing Peggy did was to draw up the blinds and let more daylight in through the heavily-barred windows. She had got her broom and her pail of water and was about to set to work, when her eye was caught by a splash of something dark on the floor. She stooped to examine it more closely. Was it nothing more than some red ink which had been spilled, or was it blood? Peggy shuddered involuntarily. At this moment she heard Mrs. Sweet's cough in the corridor, so she went and beckoned to her and brought her in and pointed out the stain on the floor without a word.
Mrs. Sweet stooped as Peggy had done. "It's blood!" she exclaimed next moment, and the two women looked at each other in mute questioning.
Peggy was the first to speak.
"Look at these red finger-marks on this drawer," she said.
"Why, that's Mr. Brancker's drawer! What can it all mean?" queried Mrs. Sweet.
Peggy shook her head.
"Perhaps the gentleman has only cut his finger," she ventured to suggest.
Mrs. Sweet brightened up.
"That must be it; it sent me all of a shake, though, when I set eyes on it," she said.
"I shall have some trouble in getting them stains out," remarked Peggy. "I should have thought such a particular gentleman as Mr. Brancker might have tied his handkercher round his finger."
But Mrs. Sweet had gone, being in a hurry to get on with her own share of the work.
Peggy drew back the fender and fire-irons, and was on the point of sweeping up the hearth, when she was startled by a piercing shriek. "Lord a' mercy! What's that?" she cried, as she let her brush fall and ran out into the corridor. The door of Mr. Hazeldine's room was open. She rushed in. Half way across the floor lay the body of Mrs. Sweet in a dead faint. A few yards further away lay another body, that of Mr. Hazeldine, cold and stark. Not far from it, gleaming brightly in the morning light, lay a long-bladed, murderous-looking knife.
St. Mary's clock was chiming half-past seven when Ephraim Judd, suddenly turning the corner of a street on his way to the Bank, all but ran against Peggy Lown. She was the very woman he was coming thus early to see. He wanted her to get the office floor washed before John Brancker should arrive; but the sight of her white, scared face sent a sudden thrill of terror to his heart. Was anything suspected? Had anything been discovered? were his mental queries, thinking of himself alone.
"Oh, Mr. Judd, thank heaven I've met you!" cried Peggy, with a great gasp. "Run to the Bank, sir. There's been murder--murder! Poor Mr. Hazeldine----" But here Peggy caught sight of a policeman at the top of the street, and hurried off without a word more.
Mr. Hazeldine murdered! Ephraim Judd caught hold of a garden railing to keep himself from falling. For a moment or two the street and its houses faded away, and he was looking through the fanlight again, as on the previous night. A boy stopped and stared curiously at him; then Ephraim's wits came back. A few rapid strides brought him to the Bank. One of the heavy doors was open, left so by Peggy Lown. Ephraim passed through, and made at once for Mr. Hazeldine's room. He took in the scene at a glance. Mrs. Sweet had had some water thrown over her, and showed signs of returning consciousness. Sweet himself, only partially dressed, was kneeling on one knee a foot or two away from the murdered man. He had tried to lift up the body, but had been compelled to let it drop again, and now he was staring at it as though he could not believe the evidence of his senses. A short distance away lay the knife--no one would touch that till the police arrived. And then Ephraim saw something else which Sweet in his perturbation had failed to notice; the iron door which opened into the strong room was partially open. Had there been robbery as well as murder?
Mr. Hazeldine was lying on his face, with one arm under his head, and the other outstretched, the hand of the latter being clenched as if in a spasm of mortal agony. Mr. Judd stooped and took hold of the hand; it was as cold as marble and apparently as senseless. No life was there.
"Oh, Mr. Judd, sir, what a sight is this!" cried Obed, while the tears streamed down his pudgy cheeks.
Mr. Judd did not answer. He heard the policeman's heavy footfall, and next moment that functionary came in, accompanied by Peggy, and followed at a respectful distance by a crowd of some half-dozen people from the street, who felt sure that it must be a case of burglary at the least, and that, by good luck, there might perhaps be murder as well.
Mrs. Sweet was sitting up by this time, and staring round in a dazed sort of way. The sight of the constable roused her. She put her hands to her head and felt at her drenched cap and hair. "What a sight I must look! I wish I had my other cap on," was the first thought in her mind. Then she whipped off her apron and hid her saturated head-dress with it. It was the touch of comedy which is seldom absent from even the grimmest of human tragedies.
The constable advanced without a word, and turned the body of the dead man over on its back. Mr. Hazeldine's vest was unbuttoned, the ends of his cravat were hanging loose, and his collar had apparently been torn by violence from the stud which had held it. His shirtfront had been cut by some sharp instrument just above the region of the heart, a small red patch marking the place.
"He's dead enough, poor gentleman," said he, with a shake of his head, as he let his fingers rest for a moment on Mr. Hazeldine's wrist. "But we shall have the doctor here in a minute or two."
Then he picked up the knife and examined it curiously. The eyes of all present moved as with one accord from the dead man to the weapon that had slain him. Fresh footsteps were heard outside, the crowd at the door divided for a moment, and in came Mr. Chief Constable Mace attended by one of his men and Dr. Barton.
The idlers were driven out, and the front door was shut and bolted. The news had spread, and already some half-hundred people had assembled outside the Bank. Those inside were waiting for the first words of Dr. Barton. Not long had they to wait.
"He has been dead for several hours, probably since midnight, or even earlier," was the verdict. Then he asked that a table might be brought in from some other room, and the body be laid upon it.
The knife was in Mr. Mace's possession by this time. He showed it to the doctor.
"Yes, it looks like it, but we shall know better before long," said the latter. He was taking off his coat and rolling up his shirt-sleeves. Sweet, who was trembling like a jelly, had gone with one of the constables to fetch a table.
"It seems to me as if there has been robbery as well as murder," said Mr. Judd, in a whisper to the chief constable, as he pointed to the open door of the strong room.
Mr. Mace nodded.
"You know the premises, Mr. Judd," he said. "Suppose you and I have a look."
The strong room was in darkness except for a sickly gleam of daylight which penetrated through the small grated opening in the outer wall, but Ephraim struck a match and lighted the gas. The door of one of the three iron safes, the one in which bullion was always kept, was wide open. Apparently the safe had been rifled. Strewn about the floor were a number of documents, three or four empty cash-bags, and some books. There, too, open and empty, lay the black leather bag which had contained the twelve hundred pounds brought by Mr. Hazeldine from London the previous afternoon.
"It looks as if somebody had been here that had no right to," said Mr. Mace.
"It does indeed," assented Ephraim. "I think we ought to have Mr. Brancker here as soon as possible."
"Right you are; and there's the poor gentleman's relations to be told. Who's to do that?"
"I will go and break the news to Mr. Clement--that's the doctor--if you like, and then he can tell the others."
"Do so, please; and could you not call on Mr. Brancker at the same time?"
"He lives in an opposite direction. One of your men might fetch him in ten minutes. By-the-bye, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Mr. B. was the last person who saw the Governor alive."
"Ah; in that case the sooner we have him here the better. But what reason have you for saying so?"
"Why, I met him about half-past ten last night on his way to the Bank. He said that he was coming to fetch his umbrella, but he may have seen Mr. H. at the same time."
"Um! Well, we shall hear what he has to say when he arrives."
"No doubt Sweet can tell you more of the matter than I can."
In speaking thus of Mr. Brancker, Ephraim had no ulterior motive, nor did it strike him at the time that his words might be the means of placing John in a very awkward position.
Two more constables had arrived by now. Mr. Mace planted one of them at the door of the strong room.
"Don't let anyone enter here without my permission," he said. The other man he sent in search of Mr. Brancker, while Mr. Judd left the Bank at the same time to break the news to Clement Hazeldine. At the doctor's wish Mrs. Sweet and Peggy had retired. They would be required later on, but at present they were only in the way.
"There seems to have been robbery here as well as murder," said Mr. Mace to Sweet. "I suppose you have no idea how it has all come about?"
Sweet had recovered his faculties in some measure by this time. Sorry though he was for Mr. Hazeldine, he yet felt that he himself must of necessity be a personage of some note for a considerable time to come. Now that he had partly recovered from his first fright, he was beginning to swell with a sense of self-importance, and he proceeded to put on his most official air, and began to enter into a long, rambling statement which might have lasted for half an hour had he not been sharply pulled up.
"Tut-tut, man, can't you answer a plain question in a few plain words?" said Mr. Mace, impatiently. "Do you, or do you not, know anything of this affair?"
"No, I don't," answered Sweet, shortly, and very red in the face.
"I thought as much," said Mr. Mace, dryly. "In these cases the person one would naturally expect to know the most is nearly sure to know the least. But, don't be afraid, my good man; you will have an opportunity of telling all you know before long. Meanwhile, the less you say the better, except when you are asked a question by those who have a right to know."
Mr. Mace mounted a chair, and examined the iron bars which protected the two windows of the office. There was nothing the matter with them. Evidently no entrance had been effected that way.
"And now you and I will take a little walk round the premises," said Mr. Mace to Obed; so away they went, the latter ungraciously enough, although he was in a dreadful state of puzzle as to how anyone could possibly have made his way into the Bank overnight, and left it again without his knowledge.
The front door was first of all examined, and afterwards the back door, which opened into a small paved yard, shut in by a high wall protected by revolving iron spikes. There was nothing about either of them to show that they had been tampered with in any way. The two men went next into the general office, where everything seemed in its usual state, and from that they passed into the inner office. Here Mr. Mace's sharp eyes seemed drawn as if by instinct to the blood-stains on the floor.
"Ha! What are these? Who has been here?" he said.
"God bless my heart! I know no more about 'em than you do, sir!" cried Sweet, beginning once more to quake like a jelly.
"These are the marks of blood," said Mr. Mace, gravely. "And here are finger-marks of a similar kind outside this drawer."
"Why, that is one of Mr. Brancker's drawers," said Sweet.
"One of Mr. Brancker's drawers, hey? Does that gentleman keep any money in it, do you know?"
"Oh, no, sir; that's not one of the cash drawers; and, besides, the money's all put away in the strong room at night."
Mr. Mace made a careful examination of the rest of the office, but discovered nothing further out of the ordinary way. He then locked the two doors that opened into the office, and put the keys in his pocket. He and Sweet were just crossing the corridor when John Brancker, pale and breathless, came hurriedly in.
"This terrible tale, that I have just heard, cannot be true, Mr. Mace," he said.
"Only too true, I am sorry to say, Mr. Brancker. Come and see for yourself," answered the chief constable, and he led the way into Mr. Hazeldine's office.
The body had been covered with a sheet, and Doctor Barton was in the act of putting on his overcoat. He shook hands with Mr. Brancker, whom he had known for years. John's glance traveled from the table with its terrible burden to the doctor's face, and then tears rushed to his eyes. It seemed all like a hideous dream.
"We can do no more at present," said the doctor to Mr. Mace. "There will have to be a 'post-mortem,' of course; but that, I apprehend, will merely serve to verify what we know pretty well already. The tissue of the heart has doubtless been punctured by some sharp instrument--probably by the knife in your possession--and death must have been almost instantaneous."
"But who can have done it?" asked John, in a stupor of horror and grief. He lifted a corner of the sheet, and gazed for a moment on the well-known face, on which there now rested such an awful calm, while the firm-set lips gave John the impression of keeping back by main force some grim secret, untold in life and now frozen into silence for ever.
"That's just what we would all like to know," answered Mr. Mace, dryly.
"There was a light in his office when I called for my umbrella about half-past ten," said John.
"But did you see Mr. Hazeldine, and speak to him at that time?" asked Mace.
"No, I never saw him at all yesterday evening. He did not get back from London till late, and I would not disturb him."
"Then it must have been you, sir, that I heard going out about that time," said Sweet.
"Most probably. I let myself in with my pass-key, found my umbrella in the dark, and was out of the Bank again in three minutes."
"And I came upstairs when I heard the door bang, thinking it was Mr. Hazeldine who had gone," said Sweet. "I was quite dumbfounded when I opened the office-door and saw him sitting there in his chair. 'I shall not be done for about half an hour yet,' says he. 'I will let myself out when I'm ready. You needn't trouble any more, Sweet.' So with that I went, leaving him sitting there. Little did I think----"
"Never mind what you thought; tell us what happened next," said Mr. Mace.
"What happened next was that I went downstairs and got my supper," responded Sweet, with a resentful glance at the chief constable. "After that I sat and had a pipe, waiting to hear Mr. Hazeldine go, that I might lock up for the night."
Sweet paused and rubbed his nose with his forefinger.
"But you never heard him go, hey?" queried Mace.
"No, I never heard him go. I waited till half-past eleven, and then I went upstairs again."
"Perhaps you had a little snooze meanwhile," said Mace, insinuatingly.
"Me go to sleep when I'm on dooty!" exclaimed Sweet, with an indignant sniff. "No, sir, I'm not one of that sort, and nobody ever hinted at such a thing before."
"I am glad to hear it. But tell us what happened when you came upstairs for the second time."
"Not caring to disturb Mr. Hazeldine again if he was still there, I peeped through the keyhole to see whether there was a light, but I couldn't see one. Still, to make sure, I knocked, but there was no answer, so I opened the door and looked in. Everything was in darkness; the gas was out and the fire was out. Says I to myself, 'He's gone;' and with that I locked the door on the outside, feeling sure that everything was right."
"But ought not the fact of your not having heard Mr. Hazeldine leave the premises have caused you to suspect that something was wrong?"
"Mr. Hazeldine was a very quiet gentleman. He would shut the front door and make hardly any noise about it. Mr. Brancker here, begging his pardon for saying so, generally bangs the door after him."
"What did you do when you found, as you thought, that Mr. Hazeldine was gone?"
"I did what I always do--I put out the gas in the lobby and fastened up the front door for the night, and then went the rest of my rounds to see that everything was right."
"How often in the course of the night are you supposed to go your rounds?"
"Once every hour; and I'm not only supposed to go 'em, but do go 'em."
"And you neither saw nor heard anything last night out of the ordinary way--nothing, in fact, to make you suspicious that anything was wrong?"
"Nothing whatever. I was as comfortable in my mind when I turned into bed between six and seven this morning as ever I was in my life."
"The inference would seem to be that the crime was committed between the hours of half-past ten and half past eleven," said Mace. "But that is a point which will have to be inquired into more minutely later on." Then turning to John, he added, "You, Mr. Brancker, will probably be able to tell us whether there has been robbery here as well as murder," and beckoning him to follow, he led the way into the strong room.
"Yes, there has certainly been foul play here as well as in the other room," said John Brancker, after a brief examination of the strong room. "In the first place, the twelve hundred pounds are gone which Mr. Hazeldine fetched from London yesterday, and I have no doubt that there were cash and notes to the amount of three or four thousand pounds in the safe, which also seem to be missing. The exact sum I cannot, of course, tell till I have examined the books. Of this safe Mr. Hazeldine himself always kept the key. The other safes in the cellar are under my charge. I must at once send a telegram to Mr. Avison, who is staying for a few days in Paris on his way home."
"That's an ugly bruise, Mr. Brancker, just above your left eye," said the chief constable, gazing straight into the other's face.
"Yes; it is the result of a little accident last night," answered John, indifferently. "A woman flung a stone at me. I suppose I shall be disfigured for a few days; but it might have been worse."
"If you will step this way for a moment, there is something I should like to ask you about," said Mace, and with that he led the way to the inner office, Dr. Barton and Sweet bringing up the rear. Mace unlocked the door and they all went in. "Can you explain how those marks came there?" asked the constable, pointing to the stains on the floor.
"Good gracious, no!" cried John with a start. "I know no more about them than you do"--which was precisely the remark Sweet had given utterance to. "And there are more marks outside my drawer! What can it all mean?"
"It may, perhaps, be as well to open the drawer, if you have the key about you."
John produced his bunch of keys at once. "This is the one," he said, handing the bunch to Mace. "Perhaps you had better open the drawer yourself."
The constable took the key and opened the drawer. The books and papers were marked here and there with drops of blood. John stared as he had never stared before. "Someone has been here to a certainty," he said. "The books and papers have been disturbed, and as for those stains----" He was too agitated to say more.
"And yet the lock does not seem to have been tampered with," said Mace, with his keen eyes again fixed on John's face.
"It's all a mystery, and I can throw no light on it whatever," answered the latter.
"Can you call to mind the last occasion of your having to open the drawer?"
"It was when I put my papers away last evening before leaving; that would be sometime between eight and nine o'clock."
"Then you did not open the drawer when you came back to the Bank at half-past ten?"
"Certainly not. I had no occasion to do so. I did not even light the gas, but searched for and found my umbrella in the dark. I was not more than two minutes in the office."
"I shall have to keep this office locked up till the jury have visited it," said Mace. "I have no doubt the Coroner will be able to sit this afternoon."
John looked at him for a moment as though he hardly understood his meaning; then following Mace's lead, they all left the office, the door of which was carefully re-locked. They had just got back to the other office when Clement Hazeldine rushed in, white and breathless.
Although lame, Ephraim Judd, with the assistance of his stick, could get over the ground as quickly as most people, and it did not take him many minutes to reach Clement Hazeldine's door. Clem lodged with the widow of the practitioner to whose business he had succeeded. He was still in bed when Ephraim knocked, having been attending a patient till four A.M.; but the summons sent upstairs was so peremptory that he lost no time in coming down. In what words Ephraim told his terrible tidings he never afterwards knew; it is sufficient that they were told.
"What about your brother?" asked Ephraim, as soon as Clement seemed in some measure to be recovering from the shock. "Ought he not to know as soon as possible?"
"Will you please go and tell him, Mr. Judd, while I go down to the Bank? There's my mother and sister, too; but Edward must break the news to them. It seems impossible that it can be true--impossible to. think that I shall never see my poor father alive again! What wretch's hand has done this deed?"
Beecham, the suburb of Ashdown, where Edward Hazeldine lived, was a clear mile and a half away. Ephraim would have hired a fly, but there was none to be had at that early hour. He was far from being easy in his mind as he walked along. It was almost a certainty that during his absence Mr. Mace would discover the blood-stains on the office floor, and Ephraim felt terribly afraid lest, by some means or other, they should be traced back to him. He did not well see how they could be, but his conscience made a coward of him. He had taken away the knife that had cut his hand, and it was now locked up in his trunk at home, while the cut itself, although it had bled a good deal at the time, had not proved a severe one. It was in the palm of the hand, and he had covered it with a little gold-beater's skin to keep the air out. He made a mental note that on no account must Mr. Mace's eyes be permitted to discover the wound.
Edward Hazeldine was an early riser. While breakfasting, he made a point of running through his correspondence. It was a saving of valuable time. He had just sat down to table with his heap of letters before him when Mr. Judd was announced. Edward, who knew that Ephraim was employed at the Bank, leaped in a moment to the conclusion that his visitor could only be the bearer of ill news, and one glance at the latter's grave face was enough to assure him that such was the case.
"My father--what is amiss?" he said, as he started to his feet.
Then Ephraim had to break the same news to him that he had already broken to his brother. Edward's face blanched, and his eyes filled with horror as the tale was told.
"My father murdered!--he who never harmed a creature in his life."
Then he bowed his head on his hands, and there was silence in the room for a little while.
But Edward Hazeldine was a man of action; to sit still for any length of time was for him next to an impossibility. Presently he lifted his head, wiped his eyes, and rang the bell. To the servant who came in, he said:
"Order the mare to be put into the dog-cart and brought round as quickly as possible." Then to Ephraim: "We will drive over to the Bank together as soon as I have given certain instructions to my clerk."
Left alone for a few minutes, Ephraim glanced with curiosity round the handsomely furnished room. He had never been inside Edward Hazeldine's house before. Then his eyes wandered to the breakfast tray, and the little heap of post-letters lying beside it. As has been said already, other people's letters always had an irresistible fascination for Mr. Judd. If he could not see the inside of a letter, he would rather see the outside than not see it at all. His long, thin fingers shut and opened automatically. He half rose from his chair, and one hand went out towards the table. His big ears were on the alert for the slightest sound. Another moment and the letters were in his hands.
He ran them quickly through, noting the post-mark of each, and the handwriting of the addresses. Evidently they were chiefly business communications. But over one of them he paused, looking at it this way and that some half-dozen times.
"I could almost swear that this was the poor Governor's hand, only disguised a bit," he muttered. "Posted in London yesterday, too! That 't' is certainly his, and so is that 'h.' It's his writing, I would wager anything. Now, what could he possibly have to write Mr. Edward about yesterday that he could not tell him to-day? I would give something to know what's inside."
But at this juncture he heard Edward Hazeldine's firm, heavy tread outside. The letters were replaced on the table, and three minutes later the two men were on their way to the Bank.
Edward Hazeldine got back home about two o'clock. Never would he be able to forget what he had gone through that forenoon. On him, as the elder son, had devolved the duty of breaking the tragic news to his mother and sister. Mrs. Hazeldine had fainted and Fanny had gone into hysterics. The scene had tried him almost beyond endurance.
The jury had been summoned for three o'clock that afternoon. As Edward could be of no further service at present, he had made his escape. He fervently hoped that the Coroner would not think it needful to call him as a witness. Everything at present was conjecture and vague surmise. So far, the police seemed to be without any clue to the perpetrator of the crime.
Edward had not been home more than a few minutes when Lord Elstree was announced.
His lordship was one of two sleeping partners in the brewery, having about ten thousand pounds invested in the concern. He was on excellent terms with Edward, of whose business abilities he had a very high opinion. His home for three parts of the year was at Seaham Lodge, a splendid property some four or five miles from Beecham. His family were all grown up; the daughters married and the sons out in the world; but with himself and his wife, as companion to her ladyship, there lived a distant kinswoman, Miss Winterton by name, whom Edward Hazeldine had secretly made up his mind to win for his wife, if it were anyhow possible for him to do so. Miss Winterton was thirty years old, and plain looking, but accomplished and amiable; and had, moreover, a fortune of fifteen thousand pounds in her own right. Edward, who had frequent occasion to visit the Lodge on matters of business, and who was generally asked to stay for luncheon or dinner, as the case might be, had as yet ventured to whisper no word of love in Miss Winterton's ear; but there may have been that in his looks and manner which afforded her some inkling of the state of affairs. If such were the case, her treatment of Edward was not of a kind to lead him to fear that when the time should have come for him to urge his suit, he would be very hardly treated. He told himself that he would wait till after Christmas; till the year's balance at the brewery should have been struck. Business was going up by "leaps and bounds," and he wanted to secure not merely Miss Winterton's approval of his suit, but the Earl's as well, and he knew that nothing would put the latter into such a good humor as the assurance of a thumping dividend on his investment in the brewery.
"My dear Hazeldine, what is this terrible rumor that has just reached my ears?" said his Lordship, as he came hurriedly into the room and held out his hand to the other. "Surely, surely there can be no truth in it!"
He was a short, podgy, sandy-haired man, with a fresh complexion and a tip-tilted nose, and looked far more like a retired tradesman than a "belted Earl." In one respect, indeed, he would have made a first-rate tradesman; in him the commercial instinct was very strongly developed, and half his time was given to the consideration of schemes by means of which his large income might be made larger still.
"My father was murdered last night, if that is the rumor to which your Lordship refers," answered Edward, with a little break in his voice.
The Earl sat down and stared at the other for a full half minute without speaking. Then he said, "If not too painful to you, I should like you to tell me such particulars of the affair as are already known."
This Edward proceeded to do as briefly as possible.
"It is terrible--terrible!" ejaculated the Earl. "I need scarcely say, my dear Hazeldine, that you have my most unfeigned sympathy--both you and your mother--in this dreadful affliction. How little we know what a day--nay, an hour--may bring forth!" The Earl had a habit of indulging in mild platitudes, which he enunciated with an air of profundity which almost lent them a touch of freshness. "I left home the bearer of an invitation to you to dine at the Lodge to-morrow, but that, of course, is now out of the question. It will be Agnes's birthday"--Agnes was Miss Winterton--"so her Ladyship is going to ask a quiet half-dozen to dinner, and you were to have been of the number."
A glow of satisfaction burnt for a moment in Edward Hazeldine's cheeks. Even at a time like the present he could not help feeling a keen sense of gratification that his name should have been remembered on such an occasion. Might he not accept it, he asked himself, as an augury of the good fortune that would attend him when the time should have come for him to put to Miss Winterton a certain momentous question?
As soon as the Earl had gone, Edward's eyes fell on the heap of unopened letters left there from morning. Business must go on whatever happens, and it was with a sense of relief that he endeavored to bring his mind back for a time to the commonplace details of everyday life. He took up the letters one by one, opened them, read them, and his mind took in their contents automatically, but his real mind was back at the Bank--he was gazing again on that ghastly, upturned face, on those sightless eyes into which no light of recognition would ever flash more. Only last night he had been sitting by his father's side, worrying him about the details of a paltry debt of twenty pounds, hardly noticing how ill and careworn he looked, parting from him in his usual off-hand, careless fashion; only last night--and now!
There was one letter still left unopened. He took it up and looked first at the address, as he always made a point of doing. There was a familiar look about the writing, and yet he could not call to mind whose it was. Without more ado he tore open the envelope, and then he saw in a moment that the letter inside was in his father's writing. He was startled, to say the least. His father had not written to him since he was a schoolboy, unless it was now and then two lines of invitation to dinner, or on some equally trivial matter. What could he possibly have to say to him now? Before beginning to read the letter, he took up the envelope again and saw that it bore the London post-mark of the day before; then he turned to the signature as if to make sure that it really was his father's writing. Then he drew his chair a little nearer the window and began to read.