“I was told about that, sir. A harmless-looking gentleman, I should say.”
“And you’ll probably remember that the only person on whom suspicion really fell was Mr. Millicent’s gardener. I think that’s common knowledge, too.”
“Yes, sir, it is, but he cleared himself somehow, got out of the country, and hasn’t been seen since.”
“Well,” said Derrick slowly, “that’s the man you found in the cottage, the late gardener of Beech Lodge, and I’ve engaged him to work for me. Can you guess why, constable?”
The policeman’s mouth opened wide. “But he’s the one who the sergeant thinks—” He broke off confusedly, while over his face spread a look of dawning astonishment and admiration. “By George, sir, but you’ve done a bold thing, and there’s not many would have done it. Perhaps you’re on the right track. But what brought the fellow here again into the middle of it?”
Derrick smiled grimly. “Now you’re asking too much. We haven’t come to that yet, and there’s no immediate hurry. Main thing is, he’s here and settled for the present. That gives one time to think. As for my end of it, I may be on the right track, and I may not. At any rate, I’m going to make a push for it. So far, I’m trying to piece some of the bits together, and Martin’s arrival is one of them. There’s bound to be a good deal more. So don’t disturb our friend in the cottage, for I fancy he’ll be rather badly needed. And, look here, do you think the sergeant will be willing to have a talk about this matter?”
“If you’re on the track of the man who killed Mr. Millicent, the sergeant would walk twenty miles to see you. I think he dreams about that case every night. It’s a sort of reflection on the police force of Bamberley. It hurts him. That’s the way he feels still.”
“Good! But perhaps it would be better if I went to see him. I’ll do that within the next few weeks. Meantime do you have to report this visit?”
“Only that the cottage is occupied with your authority. That takes it off our special list of empty buildings.”
“I’d be glad if it went no further than that, and the sergeant will agree with me there. Good night, officer. I shall sleep peacefully now, thanks to you. You can’t take a drink, I suppose?”
The big man smiled ruefully. “No, sir; thanks just the same. I think you’ll be a welcome visitor at the station. Good night, and I’ll slip past the cottage without disturbing our friend.”
He saluted, the French window closed behind him without a sound, and his great bulk melted into the darkness.
CHAPTER IVJEAN
SOME TWO weeks after the staff of Beech Lodge had been completed by the engagement of the gardener, Mrs. Millicent and her daughter were walking along a quiet lane at a little distance from their old home. The house itself they had not seen since the time of the tragedy, and over them still hung the weight of a great grief. It had touched Mrs. Millicent’s hair with gray and given her a strangely wistful expression. Her sorrow was increased by the belief that her husband had had an enemy, the husband who had worshiped her with love and devotion for twenty years of married companionship. What enemy could such a man make in all the world?
For Jean, her daughter, the blow had been no less severe. And it had a deeper significance. Dazed and stupefied, she was nevertheless aware of the power behind the blow, the power that dealt it. Where her mother was inclined to give way with a hopeless wonder at the cruelty of fate, Jean perceived that the hand that thus struck the helpless might not have been stayed by her father’s blood. If her father were in the way of something—she knew not what—might there not be others similarly threatened? The resiliency of her youth refused merely to accept the situation.
They came to a fork in the lane, one turn of which led past Beech Lodge and then on to their own small house. Mrs. Millicent took the other turn instinctively, but Jean, for some reason she could never explain, felt a sudden impulse to pass this time by the road they had both hitherto avoided. She stopped, and her mother glanced back with surprise.
“What is it, dear?”
“I don’t know, mother, but”—she hesitated—“I rather want to go this way.”
“But why?”
“I can’t tell you, really. It’s rather an odd feeling. Would you much sooner not?”
It flashed into Mrs. Millicent’s mind that perhaps she had been unwise in allowing her own shrinking timidity to influence the girl. The only reason she had to put forward sounded a little too personal to carry much weight, and if time was healing the wound in Jean’s heart, should she not be thankful—and show it?
“Very well, dear,” she said slowly. “Perhaps it is better to begin this way. I think I’d like your arm.”
They went on thus, with unvoiced recognition of remembered things. Came the bend in the lane beyond which lay Beech Lodge, and the older woman seemed to feel the knife in her own throat. So many times had she walked here, and so happily. The dip in the hedge, the glimpse of rolling fields patched with woodland, the belt of timber that marked the grounds of Beech Lodge, the cluster of old trees with their pale gray trunks close by the roadside; then the white gates and tiny red-roofed cottage. Her fingers tightened on the girl’s strong arm.
“My dear, my dear,” she whispered. “Just two years ago!”
Jean nodded sympathetically but did not speak. She was staring up the drive at the house with its shining windows, its clustering ivy, and the wide door, in every timber of which seemed to be a welcome.
“Isn’t it strange?” she whispered. “So different, and yet so unchanged.” She paused, then went on uncertainly. “I sometimes wonder, mother, whether houses have some kind of consciousness and are aware of us who live in them. Isn’t it queer, but I feel now as though Beech Lodge was somehow glad to see us, and was wondering why we had never come before.”
Mrs. Millicent shook her head. “It’s a pretty fancy, child, but—”
Jean stopped, nearly opposite the white gates. “Who’s that at the window—your old room? Mother, it looks like Perkins!”
“It is Perkins. You knew she stayed on when the Thursbys left.”
“Yes, but I did not know she was still here. And yet I’m not surprised. She’s part of the house. I wonder if the Derricks like her.”
“She always had a very peculiar manner, but she was an excellent servant.”
Mrs. Millicent’s voice faltered. This inspection was becoming too poignant, and she moved on. It seemed that any moment there might emerge that well-remembered figure, with the straight, familiar form and those clear, thoughtful eyes. She had turned away, her lips trembling, when Jean spoke quickly and sharply.
“Mother, who is that?”
From the climbing rose-bushes that bordered the wide drive, a figure had emerged, shears in hand, a figure that halted and stared. The broad shoulders, the uncouth head, the powerful and deliberate movements of the man were unmistakable.
“Martin!” she said under her breath. “It’s Martin!”
Mrs. Millicent stopped, turned, and came unsteadily back. Then she too looked, and became weak and agitated.
“ItisMartin—”
“But where can he have come from, and why come back here?”
For a moment her mother could not answer, being too shaken by this quivering recognition of one who she felt held the key to her husband’s tragic death. It was Martin who had moved with threatening domination through the nightmare of her dreams for the last two years. Now the threat was alive again. It had returned with him. Then she heard Jean. The color had fled from the girl’s cheeks, but her eyes were alight with some thrilling instinct.
“What does it mean, mother?”
“I do not know, child. Come away now, please; I must get home.”
Jean held back. Something more was stirring in her soul than Martin’s return. He had come back to strangers who probably knew nothing of him. If they did, he could not be at Beech Lodge. And Perkins was there, too, and Perkins knew all. It followed, then, that the woman had not spoken. Was it all in preparation for another tragedy? At this thought she felt frightened and choked. Some one must speak—before speech was too late. She glanced again at the motionless figure. Martin was staring, too, and he also had recognized. He touched his cap, and at the curve of that arm she nearly cried out.
“Mother,” she whispered again, “we must tell them.”
“Tell them what, Jean? Come along. I can’t stand this.”
The girl held her ground. “We must tell the Derricks about Martin. Don’t you see it would be utterly unfair, and perhaps cowardly, if we didn’t? They’ve taken the place and, being strangers, can have known very little about it. They have probably heard about father’s death through Perkins, but perhaps not. The agent would naturally say nothing about it, and I don’t suppose the Thursbys would advertise the truth. Perkins has evidently said nothing about Martin, or the Derricks would not have engaged him. We know all, and the suspicions as to Martin, and we simply cannot be silent. Oh, we must tell them, and now!”
“If you feel so strongly I’ll write to-night,” protested her mother faintly, “but, Jean, I cannot go in now. I could not walk past that man.”
The girl was unmoved. “That won’t do, mother. There are too many things one can’t put on paper. One of us must speak.”
“I cannot make myself speak now, and you can’t go in there alone.”
“Why not?”
“There’s Martin looking at you. He knows what we are talking about.”
“Perhaps he does, and if so he’s more afraid of me than I am of him. At any rate I must go. You keep on toward the village, and I’ll catch you up. If I have to wait I’ll have some one walk home with me. And please, please understand that I’m not afraid, because there’s nothing to fear. I know now why we came this way to-day for the first time.”
Mrs. Millicent sighed despairingly and turned away. There was a look on the girl’s face she could not meet, and Martin had not moved.
Jean rallied her courage, passed between the white gates, and walked firmly up the drive. Martin saw her coming and stepped back till he was half screened among his roses. His face was working. When she drew level he touched his cap the second time, and for an instant their eyes met. In hers there was a cold recognition; in his a sort of mute and restless petition. Yes, he knew why she had come and what she was about to impart to his new employer. A surge of impotent anger shot through him, and he turned silently lest he should betray it. He had not reckoned on this when in the Burmese jungle there reached him the first of those discomforting promptings that finally brought him half-way round the world, he knew not why. Jean did not look back. Her eyes were fixed on the too familiar door. It opened almost at once, and she met the changeless look of Perkins. Now she could speak, but the sight of the hall, its rugs and pictures, all as though she had never left them, was nearly too much. They were as unchanged as Perkins herself. Suddenly she felt like an intruder or a thief and wanted to leave. At that she remembered Martin.
“Good afternoon, Perkins. Is Mrs. Derrick in?”
“There is no Mrs. Derrick, miss. It’s Mr. Derrick’s sister who is here.”
“Oh, is she in, then?”
“No, miss, but Mr. Derrick is here.”
“Then I’d like to see him for a moment.”
“Will you wait in the living-room, miss? Mr. Derrick is working in the study.”
“Thanks, I’ll wait here.”
Perkins tapped at the study door.
“Miss Millicent, sir.”
Derrick put down his pen. “Miss Millicent,” he repeated puzzled.
“She is waiting in the hall and would like to see you. She asked for Miss Derrick first, but Miss Derrick is out.”
He got up, his pulse beating hard, and came quickly into the hall. They glanced at each other, these two, drawn thus together by the shadow of a crime. Instinctively she held out her hand, feeling for a strange moment almost as though no introduction was necessary.
“How do you do, Miss Millicent? My sister will be very sorry to miss you. Will you come into the living-room or”—he hesitated an instant—“the study?”
“I won’t keep you a moment,” she said a little nervously. “Are you working in the study?”
He nodded, smiling. “I think it’s a wonderful room. Please come in.”
He followed her in, while Perkins, after a lingering glance, closed the door. Jean took a big chair by the fireplace, and for a moment neither spoke. Then she saw the manuscript littering the desk.
“I’m so afraid I’ve interrupted you.”
He shook his head ruefully. “What I was writing, or trying to write, is all the better for being interrupted. And,” he added, “we have been hoping to meet you and your mother.”
Again their eyes met. Derrick noted the smooth oval of her face and the sensitive curve of her lips. Her expression suggested imagination, a mind at once alert and subjective. She was looking now at her father’s portrait, and he saw the resemblance between these two. And, try as he might, he could not guess her thoughts or what brought her there. But something whispered that a Millicent was again in Beech Lodge.
“I did not know I was coming here to-day,” she said gravely, “not till mother and I came past the gates. Then I knew.”
It was all so strange, and yet so utterly real, that Derrick did not answer at once. Here was Millicent’s daughter in Millicent’s study. That to begin with. And there was about the girl a nameless aura she had brought with her that made the ordinary preliminaries of acquaintance seem pointless and out of place. He did not feel that he had always known her, but that somewhere and somehow they possessed something in common.
“Please tell me,” he said quietly.
“Yes, if I may begin by asking questions.”
“It will be very kind of you.”
“Then, did you know about Beech Lodge when you took it?”
“No; that is, if I understand what you mean. I was looking for a quiet place to work in, found this, and fell in love with it. I went straight to the agent in London and made an offer. He telephoned to Mr. Thursby, and the offer was accepted so quickly that it surprised me—and here we are.”
“It was Perkins who showed you over the house?”
“Yes, she was alone here, and in charge.”
“And the rest?” She glanced at him as though counting on his intuition.
“I discovered that after we moved in.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said involuntarily.
“But why, Miss Millicent?”
“Because I’m sure you would not—”
She stopped abruptly. A whisper came to her that she was saying things of which she was not quite sure. What if Beech Lodge had imparted the edge of its secret, the secret of which she had long been conscious, to its new tenant? His face was that of one who might be able to receive such things.
“You were going to tell me that if I had known what happened here two years ago I would not have taken the house.”
She nodded thankfully. Yes, he did understand.
“Then may I say that I think I realize what it must have meant to you to come in here for that purpose? And, Miss Millicent, while I did not know at the time, I do know now, and regret nothing.”
“Nothing?” she murmured.
He shook his head. “Nothing. Shall I go on?”
She nodded again and, lifting her eyes, took a long straight look at her father’s portrait. Perhaps he was here now, and knew, and was in a way glad she had come. She noted, too, with a sort of thankfulness that Derrick did not sit at the desk.
“When I came first,” he continued, “I saw Perkins. She gave me a strange impression, but it was not altogether discomforting. I took the house without consulting my sister, being attracted to it in a way that I only began to understand by degrees. I actually felt what had happened here before being told about it. That isn’t the sort of thing one can explain, but—”
“It doesn’t need explanation,” she put in.
He sent her a quick, searching glance. “It helps to have you say that. Well, after we moved in, the thing, or perhaps it was the influence, grew stronger—I can’t express it in any other way—till presently I was sure we were meant to come. I got some details from Perkins, but they were incomplete; I was convinced that I must wait for more—which would certainly be furnished from some source.” He paused, reflected for a moment, and went on rapidly. “Does it seem impertinent for me, an utter stranger, to be so interested and allow myself to be drawn into something which is not my affair? If it does, I can only assure you that it is not curiosity, or,” he added thoughtfully, “the result of anything I have done or said.”
“It is impossible to think that.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, because it brings me to Martin. Is it on account of Martin you were kind enough to come in?”
“Yes.”
“Then, some day, if you or Mrs. Millicent will tell me, I’d like to hear more about him; but meantime please be assured that Martin’s being here is all part of the rest of it. I knew what was said and thought about him when I took him on. He told me why he happened to come back at this particular time.”
“Why was it?” asked Jean swiftly.
“Hehadto come. Telling you that seems to explain a good many other things one can’t very well put into words. I know now that Perkins had to stay, that I had to take this house, that you had to pass this way for the first time in many months; and I know, too, that the gathering is not yet quite complete. It is all utterly intangible; there is no one point on which one can put a finger and say the reason lies there; and one of the most remarkable things is that we can meet for the first time and talk like this. It is something more than fate; it is purpose.”
She looked at him wonderingly. The room, with its poignant memories, was speaking to her now, its ancient walls vibrant with mystical messages. Here was the sounding-box of the unknown, where in times past she had thrilled to mysterious whispers. Here her father had sat—himself even, with all his love, something of a mystery—and here at the end his life had been snatched from him. What reason was there to assume that evil and danger had passed away? And till it did pass the tale could not be complete.
“I am not going to try and thank you,” she said slowly, “for having made my coming here so much easier than it promised to be, but when I saw Martin I knew what I had to do. Mother was with me, but she could not face it and has gone on to the village. Martin looked at me as I came in and knows why I came. He must know that.”
“Would you and your mother feel more comfortable if I sent Martin away?”
“No, you must not do that. We are in no danger from him. I mean you must not do it on our account. But there’s your sister and yourself to think of.”
He shook his head. “I am convinced that this need not trouble you. The police know of the new arrangement, and Martin knows that they know. No danger of the sort you mean lies there. I want to leave Martin to his roses and Perkins to her house-work till something I cannot describe is reëstablished. Beech Lodge seems to be waiting for that. Perkins and Martin are also waiting, though unconsciously. I am certainly waiting. And, Miss Millicent, I think that without knowing it you have been waiting, too.”
“Yes,” she whispered, “it’s the only thing.”
“Then, may I ask something that’s rather difficult to ask? I wouldn’t unless I believed that you too felt something that’s very difficult to express.”
“Please—what is it?”
“You hold with me that we are all surrounded by influences we do not understand, and in so far as we are able to interpret them the difficult things become less threatening?”
“One cannot escape that,” she said slowly.
“I thought as much. But there are some who fight against such powers, and, believing them to be all for evil, are frightened, they know not why. If they are not frightened, they scout them. But since these powers are both for good and evil, and I believe those for good must be the strongest, it is only right to admit that the beneficent and invisible influences are always fighting for readjustments of some kind and will conquer in the end. If this were not the case, what advantage could there be in life? You believe all this?”
“I must believe it.”
“Well, my sister does not; she says she’s too practical, and I do not argue the point. Unless one can accept it, there’s no room for anything but restlessness and probably fear. So what I’d like to suggest, if I may, is that you do not say anything of all this to—to any one who does—not see this as we do.”
“You mean my mother?” she said quickly.
He nodded. “You told me she could not face coming in here, but you came, and that explained much.”
“Mother would not understand,” she admitted, “and I think you’re very wise. But is there nothing else I can do?”
“Yes, if you will, a little later on, tell me some of the things I would like to know. May I bring my sister to see you?”
“Please do; we should be very glad.”
She said good-by. The ordeal she had dreaded was over and concluded in a fashion she never anticipated. It was all strange—and yet not strange. She was persuaded that this interview had been dominated by something her father had left behind, in order that it might fight for what Derrick called readjustment. And in that she was ready to aid to the utmost. There was no room for fear now. She declined Derrick’s offer to walk home with her and went thoughtfully back with a new sense of being fortified in things that for years past had stirred secretly in her soul.
Derrick sat in the study late that night, with no pretense at work. Beech Lodge had dipped into utter silence, and the fire was low. His mind was full of the visitor of the afternoon, whose coming had lent a new significance to his surroundings. Now he perceived more clearly what it must have cost her to come. He was conscious of her communicable courage, the charm of her youth, and above all of the fact that to her also something had whispered from the infinite. How vivid she was, how understanding!
He wondered, too, what impression she carried away. Had he said too much, or too little? In talking, as he had done, to the daughter of a murdered man while she sat in her father’s study beneath her father’s portrait, in taking on himself the office of avenger—had he not already gone too far and too fast? Could Jean Millicent have done otherwise than approve while she must have been still struggling with profound and reawakened emotions? Had he been stilted and self-assured and pedantic? Had he assumed too much? These questions harassed him.
Against it he put the girl’s coming. She had not known what manner of person she would find but, braving the revival of her own loss, had determined to do what she could to save others from any tragic experience. This thought grew in his mind till, in turn, he recognized a new element in this strange affair. He had desired to answer if he could the voiceless petitions of the dead man, but now, in addition, he felt a wave of protection for those whom Millicent had left behind. It was this, he realized, that had animated him during his talk with Jean Millicent. And she had promised to help. He got up restlessly, lowered the lamp, and, moving to the French window, stared out at the moon-smitten lawn. How often must Millicent, who was so close to-night, have stared like this? Perhaps it was on such a night that the evil thing came, strong and merciless. But whence and how?
It was in the midst of a space of profound silence that he heard the faintest click at the door. He started at that, for his sister had been long in bed, and Perkins’s room was in the far corner of the house. What moved in Beech Lodge now? The door was opening, so slowly that it was almost imperceptible. His hair began to prickle. Was this the evil thing, and what did it seek?
He stood, breathless and motionless, his pulse hammering, till through the widening crack projected a hand, followed by a long arm and white-clad shoulder. The fingers were empty and extended as though feeling blindly. Then a face, pallid as of the dead. It was Perkins!
She glided forward without sound or speech, a wraith, a spirit of the night, so unreal, so remote as to be divested of human attributes, the thin hand still held out, exploring and testing the half-light that filtered through the silent chamber. It was the hand rather than the body that had life, with consciousness in its quivering finger-tips. She was only partly dressed and wore a loose white wrapper that accentuated the tall straightness of her figure. Her black hair hung in two thick ropes over her shoulders; her feet were bare; and her face was that of one who sees unspeakable things. The eyes were wide open, and in their glassy stare was a strange hunger and a great question.
She came on like an uncaptured spirit, feeling delicately along the paneled wall, a creature of body and flesh, but directed by some mysterious influence beyond human ken. She did not look toward the window but paused for a moment to survey the portrait with an unearthly and profound recognition. From this she turned to the desk, leaning over it, her dangling ropes of hair rendered semi-luminous against the lamp, peering, peering, till at length the long, questing fingers found what they sought, and poised, quivering above the stain.
Now she swayed, leaning ever a little more forward, till at last her head drooped, her arms stretched out, and her lips touched that darkened patch where they rested in a mute and desperate caress.
“Master,” she pleaded, “master, where are you now? Why did you go; why are you not here where you used to be? The evil waits still, and all is empty and cold and dead without you, all dead, all dead!”
The voice ceased like a wail in the night, drowned in silence. Her lips pressed close to the stain till they seemed to infuse into it the message of her own blood, while the blind fingers groped and groped for that they could not find. Then with a sigh that hung tremulous in the throbbing air she moved to the portrait, made a slow, despairing gesture of farewell, and glided back to the door and out of sight.
Derrick, rooted where he stood, thrilled to a new light that began to flicker in his brain. The fabric of his imagination was becoming more substantial. He had seen the soul of a woman stripped of all disguise, and heard a voice that was robbed of all powers of concealment. The essential meaning of this danced before his mind’s eye.
CHAPTER VTHE PAPER-KNIFE
THE VILLAGE of Bamberley lay about two miles from Beech Lodge, a homelike nest of buildings gathered in a wrinkle of the Sussex hills. It was well removed from any main road, and its thatched roofs and crooked cobbled streets had fortunately escaped the demoralizing finger of progress. It was, in fact, just as it had always been in the memory of its oldest inhabitant. A village green, with the pens of the cattle market just across the road, a rambling public house, whose swinging sign creaked cheerily when the wind was high, a few diminutive shops, the contents of which were huddled in the meadows, perhaps a hundred cottages, a dozen more pretentious buildings dominated by the village institute—and then the encircling hills, velvet and brown and wide, patched with irregular coverts and dotted as far as the eye could reach with farm-house and barn.
Bamberley happened to be the most important of four adjoining villages; so here were the police headquarters of that utterly rural district. It was a neat brick building with the local jail immediately behind, standing where the cross-roads provided the main interest in life.
The road from Beech Lodge climbs the crown of a low hill ere it dips into the village; and Derrick, as he strolled toward the station and looked down on all this, thought he had never seen anything so peaceful.
The sergeant, a large, ruddy-faced, cylindrical man, greeted him with undisguised interest, and Derrick lost no time in getting to the point. They talked in the tiny office, which seemed filled by the other man’s bulk. Derrick knew what he wanted, for this visit had occasioned him much thought. He was aware, too, that minor officials in isolated places were apt to regard with a jealous eye anything that might infringe on their position and privilege. It was at once obvious that the sergeant felt an added sense of responsibility when the visitor asked if he might read the official documents in the Millicent case.
Burke had been prepared by the constable for Derrick’s coming, and during the past few weeks had chafed at his delay. He wanted to talk about the Millicent case more than anything else in the world. It was the biggest and most baffling puzzle in his career, and for a day or so the eyes of England had turned curiously toward Bamberley. After the inquest they turned away to the next sensation, leaving the police force of that tiny community with the stinging sensation of having fallen grievously short. Since then, Burke, feeling his position more than he would ever admit, had explored every avenue that presented itself to his methodical mind. And always with the same result. Now, after nearly two years of silence, the thing was up again, brought up by a complete stranger who had actually taken into his employ the man suspected of the crime, against whom no definite charge could be laid. Burke secretly wondered whether by any chance Derrick and his gardener knew each other a good deal better than appeared on the surface of things. This was undoubtedly a matter for caution.
“The point is, sir,” he said slowly, “that I have no authority to tell you anything whatever, unless it is clear that the law may be aided thereby, and you have supplementary evidence with a direct bearing on the case.”
Derrick nodded. “I quite understand, sergeant, and that’s entirely reasonable. Would you sooner I looked up the counsel acting for the crown at the inquest? I’m quite willing, if you’d rather not talk about it.”
Burke reflected. He did not want to lose anything that might help himself, nor did he want to go beyond his boundaries. There was probably nothing here, but he could not get the reappearance of Martin out of his head. He had walked past the cottage at Beech Lodge only the week before and had a look at the man. Martin had nodded coolly and gone on with his work. A hard man, any way one took him.
“Please yourself, sir, about that; but if you’ll tell me what’s in your mind perhaps it won’t be necessary to go any further.”
“It may take a little time, sergeant.”
Burke glanced out of the window and along the cross-roads. “We’re not likely to be disturbed this morning.”
“Then I’ll begin with a question. Do you believe in the theory that when a serious crime has been committed, I mean one of passion or revenge, that the criminal, wherever he may be, is constantly reminded of it by the process of his own brain—that in spite of all he can do he builds up picture after picture, and lives it all over and over again?”
“There are too many proved instances of that to doubt it.”
“And do you also believe that something constantly suggests to such a man that he should go back and revisit the scene of the crime?”
“There was the Hardwick case, like that,” said Burke reminiscently. “You remember the Gloucester Square doctor who was killed by the man who afterwards took rooms immediately opposite the doctor’s house; and the murderer never could tell why, except that it seemed the only thing to do.”
“Then I take it that in your profession the likelihood is really weighed and considered.”
“Yes, sir, it is. Some of the London men who came down here two years ago were talking about it.”
“Another point is the matter of coincidence. How do you feel about that?”
“It’s something that has played a big part in our work. One can’t put it aside. Coincidence and the other things you’ve mentioned often seem to run together.”
“And you know, of course, that Mr. Millicent’s gardener turned up very soon after I took Beech Lodge?”
“Yes, Mr. Derrick; Constable Peters reported that you had authorized him to occupy the cottage.”
“Then can you guess what brought him here all the way from Burma?”
“Did he go that far?”
Derrick nodded. “And came back by way of Canada—”
“There might be several reasons,” said the big man thoughtfully.
“Well, as a matter of fact there is but one.”
“How do you know, sir?”
“Martin told me himself.”
“What was it?” Burke’s tone had changed a little.
“Hehadto come. He had no bones about saying so.” Derrick paused a moment. “Sergeant, could an innocent man have felt like that?”
The sergeant stared at his own massive boots, glittering mountains of leather that shone with official luster.
“Anything else, Mr. Derrick?”
“Of course you remember Perkins?”
“Perfectly; the sort of woman one can’t forget.”
“Yes; a strange character, showing nothing on the surface, and so much a part of Beech Lodge that we took her on with the house.”
Burke grinned. “I can see that she hasn’t changed much.”
“No, she can’t change. But did you know that she walked in her sleep?”
The sergeant looked at him sharply. “For a newcomer, sir, you’ve unearthed a good deal. I never heard that before.”
“And would you think it of interest if I told you that the desk at which Mr. Millicent was found is of particular attraction to both Martin and Perkins?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’ve seen them both examining it closely when they thought they were unobserved. They were looking for something, sergeant.”
Burke got up, stood at the diminutive window, and with his hands folded behind his back stared at the verdant expanse of Bamberley Green. Obviously he was thinking very hard. Derrick lit his pipe and contemplated the big frame, the thick neck, and round, neatly clipped skull. There was no promise of great ability here, no quick perception, no imaginative brain. Burke found his inspiration in his official regulations. Law, order, and discipline, was it not all in a book? He was the type for whom it was hard to let go, and impossible to forget. And the biggest thing in his life was still the Millicent murder. It hurt, just as Constable Peters had intimated. Presently he turned.
“Mr. Derrick, in most cases of crime, and especially that of murder, the force is pestered with amateur detectives who believe they have the one and only clue. It’s very often a reporter for some paper. They make all kinds of trouble, and always mix things up if you give them any rope. But you’ve said enough to justify me in talking about what took place at the inquest on Mr. Millicent; though, mind you, it’s entirely unofficial.”
“That’s all I ask, sergeant; and if this thing can be solved I have no desire to appear in it at all. I’d much sooner not. If we get any results, they’re yours, not mine. I don’t pose as an amateur detective; but, from what I have already seen and know, I believe this thing can be run to earth.”
Burke reached to a shelf above his head and took down a large leather-bound volume. On the well-thumbed pages of this were pasted envelopes, from one of which he extracted a docket bearing the name of Millicent, with a date. The manner in which he turned to it suggested that this procedure had often taken place before. He cleared his throat and began rather stiffly.
“At ten thirty on the night of October fourteenth—that’s two years ago less three days—I was just leaving this office when Paling, the groom of Dr. Henry, drove up in great haste and said that I was wanted at once at Beech Lodge by the doctor, who was himself at that time at the Lodge. He had been summoned there by Martin, Mr. Millicent’s gardener, who told him that a murder had been committed. We galloped all the way to the Lodge, arriving there at ten thirty-seven by my watch. I left instructions here that Constable Franklin should follow me without delay. I was admitted by the maid Perkins, who took me to the study, where I found Mrs. Millicent, her daughter, and the doctor. A lamp was burning on the desk, and beside it was Mr. Millicent, lying forward so that his head rested on the desk. He was quite dead. There was a large wound in his neck that had bled profusely and formed a puddle among his papers. The doctor very wisely had left things undisturbed, because his first examination proved that life was extinct.”
“Were Perkins and Martin in the room at this time?” asked Derrick evenly.
“No, only Mrs. and Miss Millicent and the doctor. Perkins and Martin waited in the hall with the doctor’s groom.”
“And then?”
Burke turned a page. “It was, of course, most important not to destroy the slightest clue that might have been left, so a very careful examination of the room was made, with exact measurement of the position in which the body was found. I searched the room, examined the door leading to the lawn, and found that it was fastened. By this time Constable Franklin had arrived, and he helped. We went over the entire ground floor, made sure that all windows were closed, then locked the study door, and took Mr. Millicent up-stairs to his own room. I left the constable on guard outside with instructions that no person should be allowed to enter or leave the grounds.”
“What sort of a night was it?”
“Dull, mild, and rather cloudy, with no rain.”
“And the outside of the house?”
“Nothing could be done till next morning except make sure that any tracks should remain undisturbed; but after a most careful examination we found nothing of the kind. My own conclusion, and it has not been changed since, was that the blow must have been struck by some member of the household—or”—here Burke paused significantly—“at any rate some one in the family service. Mind you, Mr. Derrick, this is absolutely unofficial.”
“I quite understand that. Now what can you tell me about the inquest?”
“I was just coming to that. The witnesses were narrowed to five: Mrs. Millicent and her daughter, Dr. Henry, Perkins, and Martin. I’ll take them in their order, so Mrs. Millicent comes first. She told a very simple story. Her husband was forty-five, and the latter part of their married life had been spent at Beech Lodge. He had at one time a very comfortable income, which latterly had been reduced by speculations. They were not, however, in difficult circumstances, although she seemed to know very little of his financial affairs. He was always much interested in anything that had to do with the Orient. So far as she was aware he had no enemies. He spent a good deal of his time in the garden and often went for long walks, always alone. Since his last trip to the East, from which he returned five years before his death, he seemed to have some kind of worry, of which he would never speak, or explain. Letters had arrived for him from Singapore, at which his worry seemed to increase; but he always destroyed these and never referred to their contents. From what I make of it, he was up to his eyes in something he found it necessary to conceal from those he cared for most. There had been no hard words with any of the staff, and no stranger had been at the house that day so far as we could learn.”
“I understand that Mrs. Millicent engaged Perkins, while later on her husband employed Martin. How much later?”
“About a year.”
“So that any collusion between them before this is improbable?”
“I should say so; and it seems that they took very little notice of each other at any time.”
“Then, as far as we have gone, the period between the actual moment of the murder and the time when Perkins notified Mrs. Millicent is unaccounted for.”
Burke nodded. “Exactly!”
“Before we go on to the other evidence, can you tell me whether anything was missed after the murder?”
The sergeant opened another envelope, extracting a sheet of brown paper some eighteen inches long.
“This is a drawing made by Mrs. Millicent of a thing that her husband used as a paper-knife. It’s not been found since that night.”
Derrick took it eagerly and scrutinized the outline of a murderous-looking weapon. Its curving blade must have measured a foot, being chopped off at the point in a curious and characteristic fashion. The handle was heavy and carried a short guard. Its deadly curve was unmistakable.
“By George!” he said. “That’s a Malay creese!”
“Yes, Mr. Millicent got it in the East and seemed to attach some kind of sentimental value to it. He always kept it on his desk. Of course, it may be that it was there for protection, though the average man would have preferred a revolver. On the other hand, you can see what chance any one would have against a thing like that.”
“Then there are two assumptions,” answered Derrick thoughtfully, “one that the person who committed the crime knew that this thing was on the desk available for his purpose; the other, that he came without any evil intent, but a dispute developed and in a burst of anger he picked up the creese, and struck.”
“And there’s just one person to whom both of those cases might apply, at ten o’clock at night,” said Burke grimly, “the person against whom we have no evidence.”
“I agree with that. Did anything else disappear at the same time?”
“So far as we know only one thing, and that apparently not of any importance. It was a sort of little toy image, about three or four inches high, that Mr. Millicent used as a paper-weight. It was carved out of a block of jade. He used to joke about it in a queer sort of way and say it was more valuable than they knew. Sometimes it was on his desk, but only when he was in the room himself. At other times he used to hide it away; but no one ever knew where. He never talked about it, except in that joking manner. It seems to have been an ugly-looking thing, too, but Mrs. Millicent could not make a drawing of it.”
A sudden light danced in Derrick’s eyes. “Then there was no concealment about this?”
“No more than that it used to be stowed away, and he’d never allow it to be touched. You know how men sometimes get queer ideas about things?”
“Yes, I know.”
“And it’s generally something quite unimportant. Well, it was like that with this image. Matter of fact, it was so ugly that no one in the house seemed to want to touch it, except Perkins.”
“Ah!” said Derrick slowly. His eyes were very keen. “Now, there are a few other questions I’d like to ask, but first you might tell me what other evidence was given.”
The sergeant glanced out of the window. “That’s queer! I was going to say that Miss Millicent couldn’t tell us anything important, and there she is now.”
Derrick looked up. The girl was just abreast of the tiny office, walking slowly. Involuntarily she turned her head, and their eyes met. Color mounted to her cheeks, and she bowed. Derrick went out to her quickly. There were no preliminaries.
“May we come over in a few days? I think perhaps you could help then.” He spoke as though their last conversation had only been interrupted.
“Do!” she nodded.
“And till then I hope you’re not worrying, or anxious?”
She shook her head, smiled, and sent him a look of complete confidence. “Would it seem odd if I said that I worry less now than in the past two years?”
“I’m so glad of that!”
“It’s quite true. I’m happier, and so is mother. I”—she hesitated a little—“I think we don’t feel so horribly alone.”
“You’re not.” His voice was queerly strained. “Indeed, you’re not.”
She glanced at him again, then turned quickly away.
Derrick looked after her, following the slight figure till it came to the corner of the green. Something of him went with her, and he reëntered the sergeant’s office wondering at himself.
Whatever doubts the latter might have had about this unofficial conference had been laid at rest. The new master of Beech Lodge was animated by more than mere curiosity. That was now established; and, surveying the past two years, the big man realized how heavily the unfathomed crime had rested on his own spirit. The memory of it could never leave him till the mysterious scroll was unrolled. This visit of Derrick’s might result in nothing; but, in a way not entirely clear, the chance of solution seemed at last a little more probable. He looked at the young man almost with respect.
“As I said, Miss Millicent could really tell us little more than her mother. She seemed just as frightened of something that might still take place as of what had happened. She knew about the image, but nothing of its history; and my impression was that she linked it up with the crime in a way that none of the rest of us did. She had no explanation of this. I got the impression that she understood her father, if one can put it that way, better almost than her mother—although I have no real reason for saying this.”
Derrick glanced at him shrewdly. “Nevertheless, I’m glad you mentioned it. Anything else?”
“No, sir. Perkins was the next witness. She had been in Mrs. Millicent’s employ for nearly five years. An Englishwoman, aged thirty-eight, she had traveled a good deal before she went into service. She stated that on the night in question she was on her way up-stairs from the servants’ hall—there was no other servant there at the time—and passed the study. The door was closed, and there was no sound; but she could see the lamplight under the door. A little later, when she was ready for bed, she went back to the servants’ hall for a book and noticed that the door was ajar and the lamp still burning.
“She went in, thinking that Mr. Millicent had gone to bed and forgotten to put it out. There she found him, bent forward over the desk, his head on one side and a deep wound in his neck from which the blood had poured in a pool. She said that for a moment she could not move, then ran up-stairs, hammered at Mrs. Millicent’s door, and told the latter that there had been an accident in the study. Mrs. Millicent called to her to send Martin at once for the doctor, so she raced down to the cottage at once without going again into the study. She found Martin, who ran for Dr. Henry, coming back a little later with the doctor and groom in the cart. Then the groom came for me. As you probably know, Beech Lodge is about half-way between Bamberley and the doctor’s house.”
“Did Perkins admit having missed anything from the desk?”
“She mentioned the paper-knife but said nothing about the image till she was questioned.”
“And then?”
The sergeant reflected a moment. “I didn’t make much of what she said then. She was very upset, and rambled a good deal, till I think the coroner was glad to have done with her. I almost thought she attached as much importance to that as to the paper-knife, but of course she was hysterical.”
“Possibly,” murmured Derrick. “So I take it that Martin could not actually have seen the body till he returned with the doctor?”
“That is his evidence, which I will come to in a minute, and also Perkins statement. It would be a matter of perhaps twenty or twenty-five minutes after Perkins waked Mrs. Millicent.”
“And Mrs. Millicent, and I suppose her daughter, stayed with the body till the doctor came?”
“Yes.”
“Where was Perkins then?”
“Also in the study, trying to help Mrs. Millicent, who she thought was going off her head.”
“Let me go back a minute. The first time Perkins passed the study on her way up-stairs the door was shut, and the next time ajar. How long intervened?”
“Perkins says perhaps half an hour, while she undressed.”
“So during that half-hour the crime was committed, and the door was probably left ajar by the murderer?”
“I could never see it any other way, Mr. Derrick.”
“And that is the time left unaccounted for?”
“Exactly. Now you’ve reached the point where I’ve had to leave the thing for two years, and you’ve reached it by the same road of reasoning.”
Derrick smiled. “Tell me what the doctor said, sergeant.”
“Very little. He testified that from the condition of the body life could not have been extinct for more than one hour.”
“That again narrows it down to about one half-hour in which the thing happened. The question is what did happen, so perhaps we’d better hear what Martin said.”
“There again it didn’t amount to much. He stated that he was smoking in the garden of the cottage when Perkins came running in, half dressed, crying out like a mad woman that Mr. Millicent had been murdered, and—”
“She used the word ‘accident’ to Mrs. Millicent,” interrupted Derrick.
“Yes, but not this time. She told Martin to get Dr. Henry as soon as possible. There was no horse at Beech Lodge then, so he ran all the way to the doctor’s place. The rest of it coincided with Perkins’s evidence. He also said that he had been outside the cottage all the evening and could swear that no one had entered the grounds from the road.”
“Had there been any difference between him and Mr. Millicent?”
“Apparently not. Mr. Millicent had been in the garden with him that afternoon, discussing the pruning of the roses and general preparations for the winter. Mrs. Millicent confirmed this, subsequently, and said that her husband trusted the man implicitly.”
“Did Martin mention the paper-knife?”
“He was questioned but said he knew nothing about it. From what the others testified, it seems that he very seldom came into the house, so it’s reasonable he should not have known.”
“Or the image?” asked Derrick thoughtfully.
“No, sir, nothing of that, either.”
“And how long had he been in Mr. Millicent’s employ?”
“A matter of something less than five years.”
“And before that?”
“According to his statement, knocking about in the Orient.”
“Do you think it is possible that he may have met his master somewhere in the East, and the fact never came out?”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but now it begins to seem possible.”
“And that there had for some time existed between them something that ultimately culminated in murder?”
“We could not get as far as that at the inquest, sir.”
“Let it stand for the present. What was Martin’s manner or attitude while he gave evidence?”
“A bit surly, as he always is, though I think without meaning it. It’s a bit against him that he’s apt not to look one in the face.”
Derrick nodded. “Now I’ll only put one or two more questions. From what you know, do you imagine there can be any link or understanding between him and Perkins?”
The sergeant shook his head with decision. “What makes me feel there is not is that, from all I can gather, Perkins dislikes the man.”
“That seems to be so. When I took him on she preferred to do the boots and coals herself, though he was available. She’s doing them now. On the other hand, Martin has come back around the world, and Perkins seems riveted to the house. Neither of them displayed any particular interest in their wages. Martin jumped at thirty shillings a week, which is not much as things go now. The point is, why are they both so keen on Beech Lodge?”
Burke stroked his chin. “I suppose that’s one of those coincidences you spoke of. I’ll admit that they almost certainly know a good deal more than we’ve been able to get out of them, but we haven’t got enough evidence to hang your hat on. One can’t make an accusation on anything else, much less an arrest. It’s up to me to prove that so and so is guilty, and not for him to prove that he isn’t.”
“What then would you call a step toward real evidence?” asked Derrick, with a little lift in his voice.
“Proof that either Perkins or Martin had been lying at the inquest, or”—he added with an incredulous smile—“the discovery of that paper-knife, or even the image.”
Derrick put his hand in his pocket and laid a small dark green object on the table.
“Was it at all like this, sergeant?”
The blood rushed suddenly to the big man’s temples. “My God, sir! where did you find that?”