About half a mile to the north-east of Markenmore Court, flanked by a narrow, deep-set lane that ran up from the main road of the village to the overhanging downs, and backed by the woods and coverts which lay between the foot of those downs and the level lands beneath, stood a small, comfortable, picturesque old house called The Warren. It had been built in the middle of the eighteenth century by the fifth baronet, Sir Geoffrey Markenmore, as a residence for his steward, and had been occupied by successive stewards until recent years, when they were relegated to a more convenient house in the centre of the village. Since then The Warren had been let to tenants; its position, its fine outlook over park, meadows, and sea made it a desirable property for any man of quiet tastes. Its present occupant was Mr. Samuel Fransemmery, a middle-aged bachelor, by profession a barrister-at-law, who, once taking a holiday in these regions, had found The Warren to let and had immediately snapped it up on a twenty-one years’ lease. It was, indeed, the very place for which Mr. Fransemmery had been looking for some time; barrister though he was (of the Middle Temple) he had scarcely ever held a brief in his life, and the law had no particular attraction for him. Nor was he in any way dependent upon it: he possessed very ample private means, which enabled him to gratify his particular tastes to the full. Those tastes were simple. Mr. Fransemmery’s days were passed in collecting books and antiquities, doing a little flower-cultivation in his charming gardens, and taking long walks in the country. He was a bit of a botanist, and a bit of a geologist: what with one thing and another his time went pleasantly—and uneventfully.
In outward appearance, Mr. Fransemmery was a cheerful little person. Somewhat under medium height, he was inclined to portliness; like many little men, he carried himself very erect, and was proud of the fact that he was as straight of back and square of shoulder at fifty as he had been at twenty-five. His clean-shaven face was round and rosy; his eyes were bright behind his big gold-mounted spectacles; he had beautiful teeth and plentiful light-brown hair; scrupulous to a fault about his personal appearance, he always looked, said the village folk, as if he had just come out of a band-box, by which they meant that he was perfectly groomed. There was, indeed, an air of perpetual youth and freshness about Mr. Fransemmery: each spring seemed to find him younger than the last. People chaffed him about his juvenility; if he ever troubled himself to explain it, he did so by solemnly repeating the old saying—“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Mr. Fransemmery, since his arrival at The Warren, and his beginning of a truly rural existence, had always gone to bed at half-past nine o’clock and risen with the lark.
He was up with the lark on this particular morning; was rising, as a matter of fact, at the very moment wherein, half a mile away at Markenmore Court, Harry Markenmore was quietly telling his sister Valencia that their father had died in his sleep. Mr. Fransemmery, of course, knew nothing of that; his thoughts were not of death but of life. He, too, drew his blinds and saw the red dawn, and heard the thrushes and blackbirds in the neighbouring plantations; he smelled the scent of the spring-tide, and longed to be out of doors. It was his custom to go for a long walk every morning before his nine-o’clock breakfast; he was going to keep to it this morning. But first there were things to be done. His servants were never up before six: Mr. Fransemmery did things for himself. He was a great man for labour-saving devices; in his house at any hour of the day or night, hot water was ready in any sleeping chamber. Accordingly Mr. Fransemmery could get his bath and his shaving water by merely twisting a tap; he had a patent stove, too, in his own bedroom whereon he would make tea or coffee in a few minutes. So now, long before his housekeeper, his parlourmaid, and his housemaid had opened their eyes, he was bathing, shaving, dressing, and in due time sipping his fragrant Mocha and nibbling digestive biscuits. At precisely six o’clock, clad in a smart suit of grey tweed, and shod in stout shooting boots, strong enough to meet the searching morning dews, he went downstairs, picked up an ashplant stick in his hall, and putting a rakish-looking cap on his head, set out across the high lands across The Warren.
Mr. Fransemmery’s first steps took him out of his own trim surroundings and across a little well-stocked orchard—planted by himself—to the lane which ran up from Markenmore to the crest of the downs. This was one of those lanes peculiar to the south of England, and rarely found elsewhere. It was deep-set in the land; high banks on either side shut it in; each bank was topped by an equally high hedgerow of hawthorne, holly, and elder-bush, liberally mixed with bramble, gorse, and honeysuckle. The road-surface, rough and rutty, lay deep down beneath these prodigalities of vegetation; in winter it was usually a mass of mud; in summer it was ankle-deep in dust. But Mr. Fransemmery did not propose to follow the lane: he descended into it by a rustic stairway of logs, set in the bank, crossed the ruts at the bottom, and ascended the opposite bank by a similar series of steps. There he climbed a stile and betook himself along a narrow footpath hedged in on either side by laurel shrubs; this led him to the palings of a smart little garden at the back of which stood a commodious dwelling house, Woodland Cottage, the residence of Mrs. Braxfield. And there, on a bit of open ground at the side of the garden, flinging corn to her fowls, Mr. Fransemmery saw Mrs. Braxfield herself.
Mr. Fransemmery had known Mrs. Braxfield for some years. He had once or twice stayed at the Sceptre Inn before he came to live at The Warren. In those days Mrs. Braxfield was Mrs. Wrenne, relict of Peter Wrenne, deceased. She was a clever, bustling, managing woman, who knew how to do things. Peter had left her money and one child—a girl named Poppy, who from the days of short frocks bade fair to be a beauty, and had made good her promise. Mrs. Wrenne continued to make money at the Sceptre; folks said she was putting by a fortune for Poppy—certainly Poppy was being brought up like a lady, sent to smart boarding schools, and such like. And then, all of a sudden, Mrs. Wrenne retired from business, took Woodland Cottage, and married Braxfield. Why she married him, nobody ever knew; Braxfield continued to live in his accustomed fashion at Markenmore Court, and if he ever visited his spouse, it was only for an hour or two of an afternoon or evening, or for a very occasional week-end. But, as people of the neighbourhood said, Braxfield, too, would retire sometime, probably when Sir Anthony died—and then, no doubt, he would go home to Woodland Cottage and his wife for good.
Mr. Fransemmery looked approvingly at Mrs. Braxfield as he drew near to her and her chickens. He admired her. Being a little man himself, he had a keen eye for women of the somewhat massive order. Mrs. Braxfield was a big, strong, handsome woman of forty-seven or so, who looked quite five years younger—she had an excellent figure, fine hair, teeth, and colouring, and a pair of quick, shrewd, hazel eyes, in which there was still a spice of roguishness. She smiled at Mr. Fransemmery as he put his fingers to his rakish shepherd’s-plaid cap, and Mr. Fransemmery smiled back.
“The top of the morning to you, ma’am!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Many of ’em, too! Ah, Mrs. Braxfield, you and I are the only sensible people about here, I think. Here we are, fresh and rosy—and in your case, beautiful as the day itself—enjoying fresh air and these delightful country sights and sounds while most of our neighbours—forgetful of Dr. Watts and his little hymn—are snoring in their beds. You’re a wise woman, ma’am!”
Mrs. Braxfield laughed, showing her white teeth, and bringing a dimpled chin into play.
“Why that’s as may be, Mr. Fransemmery,” she retorted, coquettishly. “But perhaps I’d lie snoring—not that I ever do snore that I know of—in my bed, if I’d the chance. You get up early because you like it—I get up because I’ve things to do. If I’d three strong women servants, as you have, I’d not get up at five o’clock of a morning, nor yet at six, I’d promise you—not I! I could do with more bed than I get.”
“In that case, ma’am,” said Mr. Fransemmery, “I should do one of two things. Either I should get a stout serving-lass into the house, or I should request Miss Poppy to rise and feed the fowls.”
Mrs. Braxfield emptied her sieve of corn amongst the chickens and drew nearer to the hedge.
“Oh well,” she said. “Poppy’s not a bad one for getting up and doing her bit. But she’s away just now, visiting one of her old school friends, so I’m alone. And as to having a girl, Mr. Fransemmery, I’d rather not be bothered with one—they’re more bother than they’re worth. Of course, I’ve a woman comes every day to do the rough work—what else there is to do, Poppy and me can manage well enough. I don’t know how it’ll be though, when Braxfield comes to live here—a man makes a difference, and I suppose we shall have to keep a servant or two when he retires.”
“He’s expecting to retire, then?” asked Mr. Fransemmery, who had a weakness for village gossip. “Had enough of it, eh?”
“He’ll not retire while Sir Anthony lives,” answered Mrs. Braxfield.
“From what I hear that won’t be long,” observed Mr. Fransemmery. “When I called at the Court, yesterday morning, to enquire, as I do every day, ma’am, I understood from Miss Markenmore that according to the doctors her father might go any time.”
“He’s a very old man, Mr. Fransemmery,” said Mrs. Braxfield. “He was near sixty when he married the second time. However, whether he lasts long or little, Braxfield’ll stop with him till the end.”
“Good old faithful servant, Braxfield,” observed Mr. Fransemmery. “Well—when he does retire, ma’am, you’ve got a very cozy nest for him to come to! Lucky man!—pleasant home, delightful surroundings, and—the handsomest woman in the South Country! Eh, ma’am?”
“Lord, Mr. Fransemmery, what a flatterer you are!” said Mrs. Braxfield with a conscious laugh. “Go away with you!—you’ll be turning my head.”
Mr. Fransemmery laughed too, and went. He had a trick of teasing people, and derived great pleasure from it; its exercise kept him in good spirits. He was in high good spirits now, and he began to whistle when he had passed Woodland Cottage and had stepped out on the open downs beyond. But before he had gone far across the springy turf his whistling stopped abruptly. Rounding a corner of the undulating surface Mr. Fransemmery suddenly saw that which made him pause. A hundred yards or so in front, a little to the left of the broad grass-covered foot-track which led from Markenmore Court to Mitbourne, a village on the further side of the downs, lay a deep depression in the land, locally known as Markenmore Hollow. It was, in reality, a long-disused chalk pit of unusual extent, but since its workings had been given up, a hundred years previously, thick under-growth of gorse and bramble had accumulated there beneath a cluster of old Scotch fir, and the place was now a wilderness as lonely as it was wild. But it was not lonely at that moment. Standing by one of the Scotch firs, in close proximity to a great clump of gorse, were men—one of them, from his uniform, Mr. Fransemmery immediately recognized as the Markenmore village policeman; another, from his velveteen coat, as Sir Anthony Markenmore’s gamekeeper; the third was a farm-labourer whom Mr. Fransemmery often met of a morning as the man crossed the downs on his way to work in the village.
But it was not the sight of these three men that made Mr. Fransemmery suddenly halt and stop his blithe whistle and catch his breath. He was familiar with the three men—to his eyes they were known. But as they moved, he saw that at their feet there was lying something that was unknown. That something looked like the figure of a man, supine, motionless, covered by some wrap, a coat or overcoat, thrown carefully across its immobility. And it was with a sudden sense of he scarcely knew what, that Mr. Fransemmery, grave and silent enough by that time, went down into the Hollow.
The village policeman, a sharp-eyed fellow, who had once confided to Mr. Fransemmery that he had ambitions and meant to rise in the force, came towards him. His face betokened a good deal, and he shook his head slightly as he put his fingers to his peaked cap.
“What’s all this?” asked Mr. Fransemmery in a hushed voice. “Something wrong?”
“Something very wrong, sir,” replied the policeman. He drew nearer, and turning, pointed to the shrouded figure. “Gentleman lying there dead, sir. Shot through the head!—but whether its murder or suicide, I can’t say, sir. Murder I think—anyhow, there’s no revolver lying near. And it’s been a revolver.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Why—who was he?”
The policeman gave him a sharp look.
“I couldn’t have said, sir,” he replied. “I’ve only been here three years, so of course I don’t know him. But these other two men, they do: Mr. Guy Markenmore, sir.”
Mr. Fransemmery started.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Sir Anthony’s elder son? You don’t mean it.”
“They say so, sir, and they know him well enough,” answered the policeman. “That man, Hobbs, the ploughman, found him. He ran down to the keeper’s cottage, and to me, and we came up at once. But before coming I telephoned to Selcaster, and the Chief Constable himself is coming along—they said he was starting out then, with the doctor. Come and look at him, sir.”
Mr. Fransemmery nerved himself to this sad task, and went nearer. The keeper and the labourer touched their caps; the policeman drew aside the cloak which the labourer had taken from his shoulders and laid over the dead man. And Mr. Fransemmery, wondering what all this meant, bent down.
Dead enough, he thought. And peaceful enough. A calm, bloodless face, neither smile nor frown on it—nothing but a little drawing together of the finely marked eyebrows, a slightly puzzled expression. Otherwise, so still. . . .
“It must have been murder, sir,” whispered the policeman, “and at close quarters. Look there!—the skin over his temples slightly burnt. And——”
“They’re coming,” said the keeper suddenly. “Two or three of them.”
Mr. Fransemmery straightened himself and looked across the downs. A dog-cart, driven at considerable speed, was coming along the grass-track from the direction of Selcaster, the tall spire of whose cathedral showed above the woods which lay between the downs and the old city. In the gleam of the rapidly rising sun he caught the glint of the silver and blue uniform of the county police, and as the keeper had said, the dog-cart, driven by a policeman, seemed filled with men. And presently it raced up the sward to the lip of the hollow, and the Chief Constable, a military-looking man of middle age, jumped out and followed by two other men, one the police-surgeon, the other obviously a plain-clothes officer, came hurrying down to the little group beneath the Scotch firs. He nodded to Mr. Fransemmery, whom everybody in the district knew, and turned sharply on the village constable.
“Who found this man?” he asked quickly.
The ploughman came forward, with evident distaste.
“I did, sir!” he answered. “James Hobbs—work at Mr. Marrow’s.”
“When—and how?” asked the Chief Constable.
“About an hour ago, sir—maybe a bit more,” replied Hobbs. “I come this way to my work every morning. I caught sight of him as I was passing the top there, and I came down to take a look at him. Then I saw he was dead, so I covered him up with my coat and ran along to the village to tell the policeman there.”
“He was dead when you found him?” asked the Chief Constable.
“Made out he was dead enough, sir! I touched his hand and his face—stone cold they was, both of ’em.”
The Chief Constable turned to the police-surgeon, who went forward and removed the cloak. He stooped down and made a hasty examination; then rose and spoke with decision.
“He’s been dead from, I should say, two to three hours—perhaps a little longer,” he said. “Shot dead—a revolver, presumably.”
“Found anything of that sort?” asked the Chief Constable of the policeman.
“Nothing, sir. I’ve looked carefully all round. There’s nothing.”
“Murder then!” muttered the Chief Constable. He went nearer and looked intently at the dead man. “I suppose this is Mr. Guy Markenmore?” he said, glancing at the keeper and the policeman. “I’ve never seen him, you know—he’d left before I came to Selcaster.”
“This is Guy Markenmore, without a doubt,” said the police-surgeon. “I knew him well enough. He’s very little altered, either. You knew him, too, of course,” he continued, with a look at the keeper. “You can recognize him?”
“Oh, I know him, sir,” exclaimed the keeper. “That’s Mr. Guy, right enough, that is! I’d know him anywhere—poor gentleman!”
The Chief Constable looked round. Markenmore Court caught his eye, lying amongst its elms and beeches three-quarters of a mile away across the shelving hill-side. He shook his head.
“This is a bad business,” he muttered. “Who on earth should want to murder him? Been away for—seven years, isn’t it? Well, he’ll have to be removed, and we shall have to inform the coroner at once. Blick,” he continued, turning to the plain-clothes man, “you take charge of this. Send down to the village for help—have the body brought down to the Court; the inquest can be held there. Let Hobbs there run down to the village—send Walshaw back in the dog-cart to Selcaster for the other policeman—and have all round here thoroughly examined for footmarks, and so on. Doctor, will you stay by and come down with them to the Court when they’re ready to remove him?—you’ll no doubt want to make a more careful examination. Now then—we’ve got to break the news to the family. Mr. Fransemmery, I think you know them all pretty well—will you walk down with me? A painful duty, but it’s got to be done.”
Mr. Fransemmery bowed his head, and he and the Chief Constable set off at a smart pace across the downs. For awhile they walked in silence: the Chief Constable broke it.
“I understand that Sir Anthony’s about at his last end,” he said. “This—hello, what’s that?”
The two men stopped, staring at each other. Then, with a mutual understanding, they turned sharply towards the valley. From the tower of Markenmore Church came the deep, booming note of a bell; a moment passed and it was repeated.
“The minute bell!” muttered the Chief Constable. “Then—Sir Anthony Markenmore’s gone!”
CHAPTER V
Listening, against their will, to the monotonous tolling of the death bell, the two men crossed the deep-set lane into which Mr. Fransemmery had tripped only an hour before in high spirits, never anticipating tragedy and gloom, and took their way across the sunlit park towards Markenmore Court. For awhile neither spoke: each was occupied with his own thoughts. But suddenly the Chief Constable turned to his companion.
“A remarkable thing, Mr. Fransemmery,” he said, “that if Sir Anthony is dead—and I make no doubt of it, for there’s nobody else in the village that they’d toll a minute bell for—he and his elder son should come to their deaths on the same morning! And now, I suppose, the title passes to Mr. Harry Markenmore—of course.”
But Mr. Fransemmery had been thinking on lines of his own, and he shook his head.
“Maybe,” he answered, as if in doubt.
“Aye?” said the Chief Constable. “But why maybe. He’s the next, isn’t he?”
“Well,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “Guy Markenmore, so I’m told, left home seven years ago, and has never been there since—I know that much. Now, the probabilities are that during those seven years, Guy Markenmore married—it’s likely, anyway. And in that case, if he’d a son, the title—and the estates, for I happen to know that the Markenmore property is strictly entailed—will pass to him. That, of course, will have to come out.”
“A lot will have to come out,” muttered the Chief Constable. “That Guy Markenmore has been murdered I haven’t the least doubt! But why! Evidently he has returned to the old place—summoned to see his father, I should think—and here he’s found shot dead, first thing in the morning! It will take some working out. Luckily, I had that man Blick in Selcaster when I heard the news, and I roused him out of his hotel, immediately, and brought him along.”
“Who is Blick?” asked Mr. Fransemmery.
“A C. I. D. man,” replied the Chief Constable. “One of the smartest men they’ve got at New Scotland Yard just now—detective-sergeant already, and likely to rise still higher. He’s been down in Selcaster for a day or two in connection with a case of fraud that’s given us a lot of trouble—now I shall get him switched off on to this affair. From what I’ve seen of him already—and heard of him, previously—he’s all the qualities of a human ferret.”
“He’ll need them, I think,” remarked Mr. Fransemmery. “There’s all the semblance of some extraordinary mystery about this morning’s work, and apparently no clue on the spot. But we may hear more presently.”
They were now walking up the drive to the front of the house; as they came within a hundred yards of the terrace they saw a tall man emerge from the shrubberies, approach the front door and enter.
“I shouldn’t wonder if that’s Mr. John Harborough, of Greycloister, the big house on the other side of the village,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I heard from my housekeeper last night that he’s come home at last. Like Guy Markenmore, he’s been away a long time—the same time, indeed. Seven years—hunting, shooting big game, in all parts of the world. I’ve never met him and I suppose you haven’t.”
“Heard of him,” replied the Chief Constable. “Belongs to the big banking firm—Harborough, Chettle, and Fairweather, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but it’s as a sleeping partner,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “He’s never taken any active part in the business. A very rich man, I understand. Well, here we are—and I wish we came on any other matter than this.”
The front door of Markenmore Court stood open, and just inside the inner hall the two new arrivals caught sight of a little group—the tall man they had just seen, an elderly man of professional appearance, and Braxfield.
“Here’s Chilford, Sir Anthony’s solicitor, here already,” whispered the Chief Constable, as he and Mr. Fransemmery advanced without ceremony. “We’d better tell him before letting the boy and girl know. Fortunately I don’t see either of them.”
The three men in the hall gazed at the Chief Constable’s semi-military uniform with evident astonishment; the elderly man came hastily forward. The Chief Constable gave him a warning look and got in the first word.
“Young people anywhere about, Chilford?” he asked. “No? Then let Braxfield take us into some room for a minute or two—to ourselves.” He bent and whispered in the solicitor’s ear. “Some bad news.”
Chilford stared as if unable to understand the communication; he in his turn whispered to Braxfield; the old butler threw open a door and ushered the group into a dimly-lighted room, one of the many in Markenmore Court that were rarely used. He was closing the door on them when the Chief Constable called him back.
“Don’t go, Braxfield,” he said. “Come in—close the door. Am I right in supposing that your old master’s dead?” he continued, motioning the butler to join the group. “Mr. Fransemmery and I heard the death bell, so we thought——”
“Sir Anthony died in his sleep early this morning, sir,” replied Braxfield mournfully. “The exact time I couldn’t say.”
“Well, I want to ask you a question or two, Braxfield,” continued the Chief Constable. “Was Mr. Guy Markenmore here?”
“Here, sir? When his father died? No—no, he was not.”
“Has he been here? Was he here yesterday?”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore, sir—Sir Guy as he is now, to speak correct—was here last night. He was here for a while—left about half-past ten, sir.”
“Left for where?”
“That I can’t exactly say, sir. He had a call to make on some one in the neighbourhood, but I don’t know who the person was. His intention, sir—Sir Guy’s—was to catch the early morning train for London at Mitbourne.”
The Chief Constable glanced at Mr. Fransemmery.
“Markenmore Hollow is on the side of the downs’ path to Mitbourne,” he whispered, in an aside. “You’ve not seen or heard of him since he went out of this house at ten-thirty, then, Braxfield?” he went on, turning again to the old butler. “Heard—nothing?”
“I, sir? No, sir. Neither seen nor heard.”
“What is all this?” asked the solicitor suddenly. “Has something happened?”
“I’d better tell you straight out,” answered the Chief Constable. He glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I don’t want the young people to be alarmed,” he said. “You must break it gently to them, Chilford, as you’re the family solicitor. The fact is, Guy Markenmore’s body has been found, up there on the downs, at the place called Markenmore Hollow. He——”
Braxfield let out a sharp cry. His usually rosy face paled.
“Body!” he exclaimed. “Then——”
“Steady, my friend!” said the Chief Constable. “Keep calm! Yes—he’s dead—and I’m afraid—in fact—there’s no doubt about it—he’s been murdered!”
Braxfield burst into tears. And Mr. Fransemmery, gently taking the old man by the arm, led him away into one of the deep window-places, soothing him. Meanwhile, the Chief Constable rapidly narrated the events of the morning to Chilford and Harborough. The solicitor’s grave face grew still graver.
“You’re sure—from what you’ve seen already—that it’s a case of murder?” he asked at last.
“Haven’t one doubt,” affirmed the Chief Constable. “Murder! We shall have to go deeply into his doings, his whereabouts, between half-past ten last night and early this morning. According to the police-surgeon he was shot about four o’clock. What was he doing?—where was he?—in that interval? You live in Markenmore, Chilford, don’t you?”
“Outskirts,” answered Chilford, “but he never came to see me, if that’s what you’re thinking of. I didn’t know he’d been here, till just now.”
“I suppose he didn’t come to see you, Mr. Harborough?” asked the Chief Constable.
“No,” said Harborough. “Certainly not.”
“I thought you’d probably known each other before he left home,” said the Chief Constable. “Well, there’s a lot to do, Chilford; you’d better go and tell his brother and sister and prepare them. His body will be brought here—presently—and the inquest will be held here. Break it to them—they’ve got to know.”
Chilford nodded, and silently left the room. Braxfield, wiping his eyes, came back.
“You’ll excuse my emotion, gentlemen,” he said. “Forty years’ service in this family, you know—like my own, if I may say so. Come to the morning-room, gentlemen, if you please—there’s a good fire there, by now; this room’s never used, and it’s too cold to stay in.”
The three men followed the old butler across the hall to the room in which Harborough had talked to Harry and Valencia the previous evening. And there, escorted by Chilford, the brother and sister presently joined them. One glance at their faces made the Chief Constable turn to Mr. Fransemmery with a sigh of relief.
“Good!” he whispered. “Cool as cucumbers! Know how to control their feelings!—sure sign of old blood and good breeding that! That’s your sort, Fransemmery—true stuff!”
Then, next minute, he found himself quietly explaining matters to Harry and Valencia, who listened attentively, taking in each of the preliminary details that he could give them.
“At present,” he concluded, looking from one to the other, “the first thing is to find out where your brother was between half-past ten, when, I’m told by your butler, he left here, and early in the morning. You’ve no idea?”
“None,” said Harry. “He told us nothing.”
But Valencia shook her head.
“Scarcely that,” she said. “He told us something. Don’t you remember, Harry—just before he went?”
“Nothing definite,” replied Harry. “I gained no definite idea, anyway.”
“What did he tell you, Miss Markenmore?” inquired the Chief Constable.
“I remember perfectly,” answered Valencia. “He said he must go, because he had a business appointment in the neighbourhood. He said that where he was going, supper would be ready for him. But—that was all.”
“Not a hint as to where he was going—nor as to whom it was to see?”
“None!”
The group presently broke up into sections. Harborough and Mr. Fransemmery drew off into one corner of the room; Chilford and Harry into another; the Chief Constable and Valencia remained on the hearth, talking in low tones. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Braxfield, still lachrymose, announced, in a half-whisper:
“Mrs. Tretheroe!”
Everybody looked round as Mrs. Tretheroe—who had not forgotten the conventions and presented herself in a tailor-made gown of dead black habit-cloth—came rapidly into the room and made for Valencia. But one man shared his observation between her and his immediate company: Mr. Fransemmery, while giving Mrs. Tretheroe and her beauty a quick, admiring glance was sharp enough to see that at sight of her John Harborough not only started, but turned pale, and then red, and then pale again, compressing his firm lips. Another in the room saw all that, too—Valencia.
But Mrs. Tretheroe saw nothing—or seemed to see nothing. She was obviously excited; her cheek had more than its usual glow; her lips were slightly parted; she looked, thought at least three of the men there, as if she had come to receive congratulations rather than to offer condolence. But as she approached Valencia she moulded her mobile face into an expression of decorous sympathy.
“My poor Valencia!” she said in a soft, cooing voice. “Your dear father!—I came at once, the very moment I heard, to tell you and Harry how sorry I am, and to see what I could do. But—you’d expected it, hadn’t you?—and he was so very, very old, to be sure. And another thing—of course, you’ll let Sir Guy know at once—I—the fact is, Valencia, I saw Guy last night after—after I was here, you know—and—well, he’s altered his plans, and the address he gave you in London won’t find him for a few days. But I know where to find him—and hadn’t you better wire him at once? You see——”
She had run on so rapidly that neither Valencia nor any of the men had been able to get in a word. But now, as she was pulling out a scrap of paper from her muff, Harry Markenmore broke in, sharply.
“Stop her, somebody!” he said half-angrily. “Tell her!”
Chilford moved across to the hearth, holding up a hand.
“Mrs. Tretheroe!” he said quietly. “I—the fact is, you are not aware of what has occurred this morning. You’d better hear. It’s not only that Sir Anthony is dead—his son is dead, too. He——”
“Look out!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery, keenly watchful. “She’s going to faint!”
The Chief Constable stretched out a hand. But Mrs. Tretheroe pushed it aside. She had turned pale to her lips; her eyes blazed as she fixed them on Chilford.
“Dead?” she said intensely. “Guy Markenmore! Dead! It’s a lie!”
“Unfortunately, ma’am, it’s the strict truth,” retorted Chilford, as if a little nettled, and not a little scornful. “Mr. Guy Markenmore was found dead this morning, on the way between here and Mitbourne, and there’s no doubt that he was murdered.”
Mrs. Tretheroe gasped and started back against the big table that filled the centre of the room. Leaning heavily against it she lifted a hand towards her throat, as if something began to choke her. Her eyes, growing wild and desperate, fixed themselves on one face after another; finally they rested on Harborough, who was watching her intently. And then, with a cry that was half a scream, she lifted her hand still higher, pointing at him.
“Murdered?” she said. “Guy!—murdered? Then—then—there’s the man who murdered him!—I know it! Dare to say you didn’t, John Harborough!—you know you did! You threatened—seven years ago—to kill him whenever, wherever, you and he next met—and now—now—you’ve done it! Guy?—dead?—I—oh, God—I—I promised—last night—only a few hours ago—to—to marry him! We—Valencia!—we were going to be married—at once!”
“Now sheisfainting!” muttered Mr. Fransemmery. “Good God!—what revelations!”
He started forward as Mrs. Tretheroe, with a sharp moan, slid heavily to the ground; with the help of Chilford and Valencia he got her out of the room, and sent Braxfield for the housekeeper. Leaving her and Valencia with Mrs. Tretheroe, he and Chilford went back to the other three men. The Chief Constable, his hands behind him, was leaning against the big mantelpiece; Harborough, very white, faced him from the other side of the table; Harry Markenmore stood a little way off, glancing doubtfully from one to the other.
“An awkward—but a decidedly definite accusation, Mr. Harborough,” the Chief Constable was saying. “She seemed to have no hesitation in making it!”
“You saw that she made it in a moment of intense excitement,” said Harborough. “And of—of grief.”
“It’s precisely in these moments—in my experience—that truth gets blurted out,” observed the Chief Constable drily. “However, as she said it before the lot of us, perhaps you’ll tell me something for your own sake. Did you ever make such a threat as that she spoke of?—did you ever threaten to kill Guy Markenmore, whenever and wherever you next met?”
Chilford gave a dry, deprecatory cough.
“I’m not Mr. Harborough’s solicitor,” he said, “but if I were, I should strongly advise him not to answer that question, Chief Constable. You know.”
“This isn’t a court of law,” retorted the Chief Constable. “It’s a private conversation between gentlemen. As Mrs. Tretheroe said what she did before us, Mr. Harborough has the right to say his say—before us.”
“I will say!” exclaimed Harborough suddenly. “I did make such a threat—years ago. It was made under great provocation—the greatest provocation. But—all that’s died out, long since—I mean the feeling of anger—and so on—has died out in me. If I’d met Guy Markenmore, now—or any time these last four or five years—I’d have shaken hands with him.”
“Good!” said the Chief Constable. He pointed to Harry, and looked at Harborough. “For his—and his sister’s—satisfaction,” he went on, “tell me—when did you last see Guy Markenmore?”
Harborough, too, looked at Harry. And as he looked, Valencia came back into the room. He turned towards her.
“I’ll tell you,” he said quietly. “I’ve never set eyes on Guy Markenmore for seven years. I know nothing whatever of the circumstances of his death—nothing!”
The Chief Constable nodded; the other men made no remark. But Valencia looked at Harborough steadily for a moment; he, too, looked at her; it seemed to Mr. Fransemmery’s keenly watchful eyes that a glance of intelligence passed between them. Then she went up to her brother, tapped him on the arm, and turned to the Chief Constable.
“Aren’t there things to be done?—preparations to make?” she asked. “Will you tell me about them?”
The Chief Constable went off with the brother and sister; Harborough went away, too, without further word; Chilford and Mr. Fransemmery were left alone. Presently they walked out on the terrace, and began to pace up and down, at first in silence.
“I imagine,” said Mr. Fransemmery at last, “that what we heard just now from Mrs. Tretheroe originally arose out of some early love-affair? I suppose Harborough and Guy Markenmore were rivals, eh?”
“Everybody knows that, my dear sir!” answered Chilford. “When Mrs. Tretheroe was Veronica Leighton—her father was Vicar of Markenmore, you know—she was a decided and incorrigible flirt, and she’d no end of young men running after her. But these two were first in the running, and I’ve always felt that it was through her, and because of her, that both of them left home as they did. She either married old Colonel Tretheroe out of pique, or for his money—money, I should say. There’s some mystery about what happened at that time—some strange mystery that’s never been made clear.”
“And now there’s another!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “And—she seems to be in it.”
“Aye!” observed the solicitor with a dry laugh. “She let things out just now. But Markenmore was with her last night. Now, where?—and how long?”
Mr. Fransemmery made no reply. He had caught sight of something, and he lifted a hand, pointing to it. The men carrying Guy Markenmore’s dead body were just emerging from the fringe of wood.
CHAPTER VI
Two days later, Mr. Fransemmery summoned to discharge the functions of a juror at that ancient institution, a Coroner’s inquest, found himself acting as foreman of twelve good men and true in the old dining-hall of Markenmore Court. That venerable apartment had been specially prepared and fitted up for the occasion; it was the first time, observed Braxfield mournfully, that it had ever been used since the grand state dinner which Sir Anthony had given to his friends and neighbours when Guy came of age. It was a room of vast size: baronial in appearance, and in its time there had been many gay and striking scenes in it. But never, since its first building by a dead and gone Markenmore, had it been so filled with folk of various degree as on this bright spring morning. There were jurymen and police and witnesses; there was Chilford, representing the family, and another solicitor representing Harborough; there was a London barrister in charge of the case as it presented itself to the authorities; there were officials of many sorts; there were reporters from the local Press, and two or three representatives sent specially from London newspapers. But all these were as nothing to the crowd of spectators—village folk; county family folk; folk from near and far. Already, decided Mr. Fransemmery, as he adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles and looked around him, the Markenmore problem bade fair to be acause célèbre.
Mr. Fransemmery at that moment could truly say that he and his fellow-jurymen brought open, unbiassed, and uninformed minds to that important enquiry. During the forty-eight (to be exact, fifty-two) hours which had elapsed since the discovery of Guy Markenmore’s dead body, nothing further had leaked out to the general public. Much had been going on. Police had been drafted into the usually quiet village in considerable numbers; they had been searching woods, towns, all the immediate surroundings of the crime. Blick, with two or three lesser satellites, had been pursuing enquiries all round the neighbourhood; there was scarcely a soul in a side area round Markenmore that had not been questioned for news.
But all through these investigations those who made them had preserved an unusually strict silence, and outside the police there was not a soul in the big dining-hall, now transformed into a court, who had the faintest notion of what was about to be revealed. Yet one thing was known. Mrs. Tretheroe had not been content with her denunciation of John Harborough before the brother and sister and the men assembled in the morning-room. She had denounced him again—to the Vicar; to the village folk; to other people; it was already well and widely known that she firmly believed that Harborough had killed Guy Markenmore. Naturally, therefore, she was the object of great interest as she sat near the big tables arranged in the centre of the room, attired, somewhat theatrically, in deep mourning. She was not alone; although her house-party had dispersed on the day of the tragedy, two of her friends had remained with her; one, a Mrs. Hamilton, a middle-aged woman of fashion: the other, a Baron von Eckhardstein, a handsome and well-preserved man of fifty who was said to be a great European financier. These two sat on either side of Mrs. Tretheroe; a little distance away Harborough sat, grave and imperturbable, by the side of Mr. Walkinshaw, his solicitor.
Mr. Fransemmery and his eleven companions went automatically through the usual dismal preliminaries: and the gruesome duty of viewing the dead man’s body. They listened respectfully to the Coroner’s opening remarks, conscious all the time that this was routine—the real thing to be considered was the evidence. And suddenly the Coroner brought his remarks to an abrupt conclusion, and jury and spectators settled down to the real business—the hearing of what could be said towards clearing up, one way or another, the all-important problem: Who killed Guy Markenmore?
The first stages of the enquiry yielded little that was new or exciting. Harry Markenmore identified the body as that of his elder brother, Guy, who, he said, was thirty-five years of age. He was not aware if Guy was married or not. Guy had left Markenmore Court seven years before, and had never been seen or heard of by his family since, until the evening before the murder, when he had turned up unexpectedly. He detailed the doings of the short visit, and said that his brother had left the house at about half-past ten. He had spoken of having an appointment in the neighbourhood, and had mentioned that supper would be awaiting him where he was going. He had no idea whatever as to where Guy then went. He did not return to Markenmore Court—no one there ever saw him again until his dead body was carried in, early next morning.
Hobbs, the ploughman, gave evidence as to finding the dead man, whom he had at once recognized, and detailed what he had done to get assistance. He had seen no one about in that part of the downs, nor noticed anything suspicious near the scene of the crime.
The village policeman spoke as to the investigations made round about Markenmore Hollow: there was no sign whatever of any struggle, and there were no footprints—the turf, thereabouts, he said, was very wiry, close-knit, and full of spring: there had been no recent rain, and the closest examination had failed to yield anything in the shape of such prints. No weapon of any sort had been found near the place, nor in the adjacent undergrowth. This witness, too, gave evidence as to the examination of the dead man’s clothing, made when the body was brought down to the Court. There was a considerable sum of money in notes, gold, and silver. There was a gold watch, chain, and locket. There were three rings—two of them set with diamonds. There were several small items—a silver cigar-case, silver match-box, and so on; and there were two pocket-books. All these were now in possession of the police. He was sure that, when he was brought to the Hollow by the last witness, the body had not been interfered with in any way, and that the clothing, and the various objects he had just mentioned, had not been touched. From these facts and from the additional fact that the dead man had a large sum of money on him, he had at once formed the impression that the murder had not been committed for the sake of robbery.
There was more interest in the evidence of the police-surgeon. It was, he said, about twenty minutes to seven o’clock when he, with the Chief Constable and Detective-Sergeant Blick, reached Markenmore Hollow. He saw at once that Guy Markenmore had been shot dead, and his impression was that he had then been dead between two or three hours—nearer three than two. His opinion remained unaltered—he should fix the actual time of death at about four o’clock. Death had been instantaneous. From a subsequent post-mortem examination he had ascertained that the bullet—produced—fired, in his opinion, at close quarters from a revolver, had entered the head at the right temple, passed through the brain in a curving downward direction and finally lodged in the muscles a little below the left ear.
“This,” suggested the Coroner, “could have been a self-inflicted wound?”
“Certainly,” replied the witness.
“But in that case, the weapon would have been found close at hand?”
“In that case, I should have expected to find him still grasping the weapon. The probability in such case is that a man who shoots himself grips his revolver very tightly in the act, and his fingers would tighten their grip as the shot took effect.”
“As there was no revolver near, you came to the conclusion that this was a case of murder?”
“Yes—murder!”
“Did you come to any conclusion as to how it was done?”
“Yes, I did. An opinion, that is, I think that the murderer and his victim were walking side by side, probably in close conversation, the victim on the left. I think the murderer brought his right hand, armed with a revolver, suddenly round across his own body, and shot his victim at literally close quarters, the victim being absolutely unconscious that he was to be attacked. The revolver must have been placed close to the temple—the skin and the fine hair about it were burnt.”
The Coroner looked round at the jury.
“The sun rises at about ten minutes to five, just now,” he observed. “At four o’clock, then, it would be fairly light. This is an important point, gentlemen. You must keep it in mind, in view of what you have just heard.”
None of the legal practitioners had any questions to put to the police-surgeon; he stepped down, and a whispered consultation took place between the Coroner and one of his officials. Then came the moment for which the crowded court had waited with suppressed eagerness.
“Mrs. Veronica Tretheroe!”
Mrs. Tretheroe rose from between her supporting friends, and walked slowly forward to the witness-box. Evidently well coached as to what she was to do, she drew off the glove from her right hand and threw back her thick veil. Taking the Testament in her ungloved hand she repeated the words of the oath in a low voice, and turned a very pale, but perfectly self-possessed face on the Coroner, who bent towards her with an expression of sympathetic consideration. Amidst a dead silence he began his preliminary questions.
“Mrs. Tretheroe, I believe you knew the late Mr. Guy Markenmore?”
“Yes.”
“You knew him well, one may say?”
“Yes—very well—once!”
“How long had you known him?”
“I knew him from the time my father came to Markenmore, as vicar of this parish, when I was a girl of seventeen or eighteen, until Guy left this house, about seven years ago.”
“How old were you then, Mrs. Tretheroe?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Then your acquaintanceship with him at that period lasted about four or five years?”
“About that.”
“You were then Miss Veronica Leighton?”
“Yes.”
“I think you married the late Colonel Tretheroe just after Mr. Guy Markenmore left home—seven years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And went with your husband to India?”
“I did.”
“You have only recently returned from India—where Colonel Tretheroe, I think, died last year?”
“Quite recently.”
The Coroner leaned a little forward from his desk—sure sign, thought Mr. Fransemmery, that his questions were nearing a most particular stage.
“Now. Mrs. Tretheroe, during those seven years, did you ever see Guy Markenmore?
“Never!”
“Did you ever hear from him?”
“Never!—nor of him!”
“For seven years you neither saw him, nor heard of him, nor heard from him. When did you next see him again?”
“On Monday evening last—two—or three—days ago.”
“You met him—for the first time for seven years?”
“Yes, for the first time for seven years.”
“Just tell me, Mrs. Tretheroe, how the meeting came about?”
Mrs. Tretheroe folded her hands on the ledge of the witness-box and distributed her glances alternately between the Coroner and the twelve jurymen. By that time she had regained her colour; her eyes had begun to sparkle; she looked as if she was beginning to feel some extraordinary interest in the proceedings.
“In this way,” she said, in quiet, even tones. “During Monday evening, after dinner, I had occasion to give some orders to my coachman, Burton. When he was going away, he mentioned that he had just seen Mr. Guy Markenmore; he had seen him, he said, going up to the Court. I thought Burton must be mistaken, but he was positive—and, of course, I knew he had known Guy since boyhood. So——”
Here Mrs. Tretheroe paused. Her fingers began to tap the ledge before her; she looked at the Coroner and the jury with a slightly embarrassed expression.
“What happened, if you please?” asked the Coroner in matter-of-fact tones.
“Well—I wanted to see Guy!” continued Mrs. Tretheroe suddenly. “And so—not just then, but after a while—about half-past ten, I think—I put on a coat over my dinner dress and ran across the park to the Court—there’s a path, a short cut. I came here—I saw Braxfield, the butler, and Valencia Markenmore. I told Valencia that I’d heard Guy had come home. She said he’d gone. Then I thought that, perhaps, hearing I was at the Dower House, he’d come down there to see me, so I went away, thinking I might find him waiting for me.”
“Did you find him?”
“No—but—I met him. He had been to my house. I met him at the gate.”
“What happened then?”
“He went back to my house with me.”
“I believe you were entertaining a house-party, Mrs. Tretheroe?”
“Yes.”
“A large one?”
“Eight, altogether.”
“Did you introduce Mr. Guy Markenmore to your guests when you took him in?”
“No, I didn’t. They were playing bridge, some of them—some were playing billiards. He didn’t see any of them.”
“Where did you and he go, in your house?”
“We went up to my boudoir.”
The Coroner leaned still nearer.
“We have heard—from Sir Harry Markenmore—that his brother spoke of an appointment, which he hurried away to keep? Now—was that appointment with you?”
“No—certainly not!”
“Did he mention any appointment to you?”
“Yes—merely to say that he had one—close by.”
“Close by? Did he say with whom, or where?”
“No, he did not. He merely mentioned the fact—casually. I didn’t question him about it.”
“And—how long did he stay with you at the Dower House?”
Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated—obviously, not from uncertainty.
“The question is a highly important one,” said the Coroner.
“Well, he stayed until a quarter to twelve,” answered Mrs. Tretheroe.
“Then he was with you about an hour?”
“About an hour—yes.”
“Alone—all the time?”
“Yes.”
“Did any of your guests—or any of your servants—see him, coming or going?”
“No one saw him. He and I entered the house by a side door, of which I have the key always in my possession. We went straight up to my boudoir. I let him out of the house in the same way. No—nobody saw him.”
“You let Guy Markenmore out of your house, yourself, at a quarter to twelve. Did you notice which way he went when he left?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I walked down the drive with him, to the entrance gate. He went along the main road, towards the village.”
“And, after that, you never saw him again?”
Mrs. Tretheroe shook her head, and for a moment those about her thought that she was about to burst into tears. But she suddenly controlled herself, and there was an almost defiant expression in her eyes as she answered the last question.
“I never saw him again—until I saw him yesterday dead—murdered!”
The Coroner drew back in his chair: clearly, he had got at what he particularly wanted to know: the glance that he gave the jurymen was obviously intended to remind them that they now knew that from half-past ten to a quarter to twelve o’clock of the night before his death Guy Markenmore had been with Mrs. Tretheroe, alone in her boudoir, unknown to any one. From the jury he turned to the men of law, sitting at the table beneath his raised desk.
The barrister who had been instructed by the police authorities slowly rose to his feet, and turned himself to the witness.
“I believe it is pretty well known, Mrs. Tretheroe,” he said in bland, half-apologetic tones, “that before your marriage to your late husband, you had a good many suitors.”
“Yes!” answered Mrs. Tretheroe readily. “At least—I don’t know what you mean by well known. But I had—certainly.”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore was one of them?”
“Yes.”
“A particularly favoured one?”
“Well—yes, I think so.”
“There was, in fact, at one time, some prospect of marriage between you?”
“We were certainly very fond of each other.”
“We will pass from that for the moment—nothing came of it then. You married Colonel Tretheroe. But, I may take it, you—you still retained some of the old feeling for Guy Markenmore.”
Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated. When she spoke again, her voice was lower in tone.
“I—I didn’t know of it until—until I met him again, the other night,” she said.
“But, you realized it then?”
“I suppose I did. I was very pleased to see him.”
“And he to meet you again, I suppose?”
“Yes—indeed he was.”
“Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, in the interest of justice, we want to get at the truth. When Guy Markenmore was with you alone, in your house, on Monday night, did he ask you to marry him?”
“Yes—he did.”
“And you replied—what?”
“I promised him that I would,” answered Mrs. Tretheroe.
CHAPTER VII
Amidst the ripple of murmured interest that ran round the room, the questioner looked significantly at the twelve jurymen, as much as to tell them to keep their ears well open; from them he turned once more to his witness.
“You accepted his offer of marriage, then. Did you arrange when it was to be?”
“Yes, we did.”
“When?”
“Almost at once. For this reason—he told me that he was obliged to go over to New York on most important business within the next week or two. I decided to go with him. So we arranged that he should get a special license and we would be married straight off.”
“Any particular date?”
“Yes. Next Monday morning—at Southampton.”
“We may take it, then, that you and Guy Markenmore, as old lovers, on meeting once more, and you being free, fell in love with each other again, and decided to marry without further delay?”
“Yes—I suppose so.”
“Very well. Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I want you to let your mind go back to the days when you were Miss Leighton. You have admitted that you had a good many suitors. Is it not a fact that out of the many there were two young gentlemen of this neighbourhood who were specially favoured by you, and that one was Mr. Guy Markenmore, and the other Mr. John Harborough, of Greycloister?”
Mrs. Tretheroe showed no hesitation in answering this question.
“They came first—in those days—certainly,” she admitted.
“So much so, that it was commonly said, hereabouts, that you couldn’t make up your mind between them?”
“I daresay that was said.”
“Now, how was it that, in the end, you didn’t marry either, but did marry somebody else.”
“There were reasons.”
“What reasons? All this is important to the issue before the jury. What were the reasons.”
“Well—they became terribly jealous of each other. From being great friends they became bitter enemies. Or, rather, Harborough conceived a terrible, wicked enmity towards Guy. Harborough got an idea that Guy had poisoned my mind against him.”
“Had Guy Markenmore poisoned your mind?”
“No, he had not! But Harborough was always jealous and suspicious, and he became so—so violent about things that—well, I dismissed him.”
“And—what then as regards his rival?”
Mrs. Tretheroe began to finger her rings.
“Well,” she answered after a pause. “I—the fact is, I got a bit sick of the squabble, so I told Guy it wouldn’t do—and I accepted Colonel Tretheroe.”
“I see. You got rid of both the youthful suitors, and married one who was older and more sensible. Very good. But now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I think something had happened before that. You said just now that Harborough conceived a terrible, wicked enmity towards Guy Markenmore. Now, is it a fact that Harborough threatened his rival in your presence?”
“Yes—it is.”
“When? On what occasion?”
“It was one day when he met Guy and myself coming home from hunting. There was a scene—high words, Harborough lost his temper. He told Guy that he’d settle him. And I know for a fact that he afterwards threatened him again—he said he’d kill him.”
“How do you know that for a fact?”
“Because Guy told me of it.”
“Was he afraid of Harborough?”
“I think he was. Harborough had a very black, ugly temper—when crossed.”
“And he threatened to kill his rival because of—what, exactly?”
“Well, as I said just now, he’d got it into his head that Guy had said things about him to me, and that his chances with me had been destroyed by that.”
“Then I take it that Harborough, at that period, had asked you to marry him?”
Mrs. Tretheroe arched her eyebrows in a glance of surprise.
“Lots of times!” she answered. “He was always asking me to marry him.”
“And—did you give him any decided answer?”
“I don’t know about decided answer. At one time—perhaps I would: then I used to think that I wouldn’t. No—I don’t think I ever said I would or I wouldn’t, definitely.”
“And all this time, I suppose, Guy Markenmore was in the running, also.”
“Yes.”
“Was he asking you to marry him, too?”
“Oh, yes. They were always teasing me—both of them.”
“And in the end Harborough got the idea that his rival was undermining him?”
“Yes—he certainly did. He said so.”
“And later—you—shall we say, dismissed both, and accepted Colonel Tretheroe?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever see either of them again after becoming engaged to Colonel Tretheroe?”
“I never saw Guy Markenmore. I saw Harborough once. I met him one afternoon, near here, accidentally.”
“Anything take place?”
“Yes. He went into one of his passions. He reproached me bitterly. He said I’d led him on for three years and then thrown him aside. And he finished up by repeating that he knew he’d Guy Markenmore to thank for it, and that if he ever came across him again, however long it might be, he’d shoot him like a dog.”
When the sensation caused by this reply had died down, the questioner gave Mrs. Tretheroe a searching look.
“You swear that he said this—on your oath?”
“On my oath!”
“Harborough said—to you—that it was due to Guy Markenmore that he, Harborough, had lost his chance with you, and that if he ever met Guy again, however long it might be, he’d shoot him like a dog?”
“Yes. That is precisely what he said.”
“I take it, then, that at that time Harborough was passionately in love with you?”
“Madly, I believe!” murmured Mrs. Tretheroe. “He acted like a madman. I was afraid of him.”
“When this threat was made had Guy Markenmore gone away from here?”
“Oh, yes—some little time before.”
“And did Harborough go soon after?”
“He went away a few days before I was married.”
“Now, during the seven years of your marriage—six years, rather, I think—did you ever meet Harborough?”
“Never!”
“Ever hear from him?”
“No.”
“Or of him?”
“I heard—just once—from a friend of mine in Selcaster that he was still travelling abroad, and that Greycloister had then been shut up for some years.”
“Very well. In time your husband died, and you came back to England and took the Dower House here. And last Monday Mr. Harborough returned to Greycloister. Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I want to ask you a most important question. Did you meet John Harborough last Monday?”
A dead silence fell on the room. For Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated in her answer. Every neck was craned forward. At last she spoke.
“Yes!”
“Where?—and at what time?”
“Just outside his own gates, at Greycloister, about five o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Were you alone?”
“I was. I had gone out for a short walk by myself, with my dogs.”
“The meeting was accidental?”
“Certainly. I had no idea he’d come home.”
“Was there any—shall we call it embarrassment?”
“Well, yes. I was surprised. He seemed taken aback—agitated. Of course we shook hands and talked a little. Mere talk.”
“Any reference to your former relations?”
“No.”
“Just a mere polite exchange of—nothing in particular?”
“Just that. But he asked if—or, rather, when—he might come and see me.”
“And what did you reply?”
“I replied—well, that he might come whenever he liked. What else could I reply?”
“He knew that you were free?—that Colonel Tretheroe was dead?”
“Oh, yes—I mentioned that myself.”
“And then, I suppose, you parted?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you next see him?”
“On the following morning, in the morning-room here, when I came in to offer my condolences about Sir Anthony, and heard that Guy was dead.”
“And I believe that you immediately denounced John Harborough as his murderer?”
“I did.”
The barrister paused in his examination, hesitated a while; and then, as if satisfied, suddenly dropped back in his seat, and pulling out a snuff-box, tapped it thoughtfully before helping himself to a substantial pinch. A murmur of excitement had run round the spectators when Mrs. Tretheroe gave her last decided answer; it had scarcely died away before Harborough’s solicitor, Mr. Walkinshaw, rose at the table. He looked fixedly at the witness.
“I want to ask you a very pointed question,” he said. “And I want a very definite answer. Do you honestly believe that Mr. John Harborough killed Guy Markenmore? Think!”
“I have thought!” retorted Mrs. Tretheroe defiantly. “I do!”
“You believe that Mr. Harborough nursed his desire for revenge—if he ever really had any—for seven years, and took the first opportunity of gratifying it?”
“I think he shot Guy Markenmore,” said Mrs. Tretheroe, with some show of sullenness.
“You think that Mr. Harborough returned home still in love with you? Answer!”
“I think it’s possible. He used to swear that he could never love anybody else. And he certainly hadn’t married.”
“I will put this to you. Mr. Harborough met you on Monday afternoon. Let us suppose that all his old passion was revived at the mere sight of you—let us suppose, still further, that he made up his mind to once more become a suitor for your hand. Do you think it very likely that he would begin matters by shooting a man?”
“I’m not going to suppose anything. I believe he did shoot Guy. They met—accidentally—and Harborough shot him.”
“You are a ready hand at making assertions, Mrs. Tretheroe! You calmly assert they met. What! at four o’clock in the morning—at Markenmore Hollow?”
Mrs. Tretheroe looked round. Up to then she had confined her occasional glances to the Coroner and the jury, but this time she took a comprehensive view of the crowded room. And as she turned to face Mr. Walkinshaw again, it was with a smile that signified contempt for his insinuation.
“I know that John Harborough was up there at Markenmore Hollow at four o’clock that morning,” she retorted boldly. “And, I know, too, that he was seen!”
Walkinshaw paused, abruptly. He looked round at his client; so, too, did everybody in the room. Once more a murmur of surprise rippled round. Walkinshaw went back to Harborough, who sat unmoved and silent; the solicitor whispered rapidly to him; Harborough did no more than nod, almost unconcernedly. A moment later Mrs. Tretheroe had been dismissed from the witness-box and another witness had been called into it.