“Elizabeth Braxfield!”
Mr. Fransemmery and his eleven companions felt a new interest arise in their hearts as they stared at the ex-landlady of the Sceptre. Eleven of them were already wondering what she could tell. But Mr. Fransemmery, knowing what he did of Mrs. Braxfield’s early habits, began to anticipate.
The Coroner left the examination of this witness to the barrister who appeared for the police authorities. He lost no time in getting to the point.
“I believe, Mrs. Braxfield, that you were formerly Mrs. Wrenne, of the Sceptre Inn, and that before you were Mrs. Wrenne, you were a Miss Rawlings, a daughter of Thomas Rawlings, who kept the Sceptre Inn before your late husband, Peter Wrenne, had it?”
“Quite correct, sir,” answered Mrs. Braxfield.
“Then you have lived all your life in Markenmore, and know all the people in it?”
“Yes, sir—and for a good many miles round.”
“Do you know Mr. John Harborough?”
“Yes, sir—known him ever since he was a boy.”
“Did you see him on Tuesday morning last?”
“I did.”
“What time?”
“Ten minutes past four o’clock.”
“Where?”
“Near my house, sir.”
“Where is your house?”
“Up on the downs, sir—Woodland Cottage; about two hundred yards from Markenmore Hollow.”
“How came you to see him—or anybody—at that early hour?”
“Nothing unusual in that, sir. I often get up at four o’clock—that is when the mornings get light. I keep a lot of fowls, and I get up to attend to them.”
“Was it light that morning—Tuesday?”
“Light enough, sir.”
“Light enough to see—how far?”
“Well, sir, when I looked out of my window I could see a lot. The Court here—the village—all that’s in front—and Withersley Beacon on one side and Pole Clump on the other. The morning was a particularly clear one—very fine.”
“And you saw Mr. Harborough?”
“I did, sir.”
“From your window?”
“From my window.”
“Where was he when you saw him?”
“Coming down the hill-side from the direction of Markenmore Hollow, sir. He was walking along the side of a fence.”
“How far away from you?”
“About a hundred yards.”
“Mr. Harborough, until the day before, had been away from Markenmore for seven years. Weren’t you very much surprised to see him there?”
“No, sir, I wasn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d heard that he’d got home again—heard it the night before. I’d been down to the village and everybody knew he’d got home.”
“And you are certain that the man you saw was Mr. Harborough?”
“Perfectly certain, sir. I couldn’t be mistaken about that.”
“Well, where did he go?”
“Down the slope in the direction of his house, sir—Greycloister.”
“How far is Greycloister from Woodland Cottage?”
“Half a mile, sir.”
“Was Mr. Harborough walking quickly when you saw him?”
“No, sir—he was just going along at the ordinary pace—sauntering, you might say.”
“And you are sure of your time—ten minutes past four o’clock in the morning?”
“Certain, sir. I have a very good clock in my bedroom—never gains or loses. I looked at it just before I saw Mr. Harborough.”
The barrister nodded to Mrs. Braxfield and sat down, and as no one else rose to ask her any questions she left the box. The Coroner bent over to some officials; while he was whispering with them, Walkinshaw rose and approached the table again.
“Mr. Harborough desires to go into that box and give evidence, sir,” he said. “I suggest that now—following upon the evidence you have just heard—is a favourable stage for hearing him.”
The Coroner, an elderly man, leant back in his chair, took off his spectacles, and glanced at Walkinshaw and from him to his client.
“I suppose that Mr. Harborough fully understands that he is not bound to answer any questions that—answered in a certain fashion—might incriminate him?” he suggested. “Of course, if he wishes to make a statement.”
“What my client desires to do, sir,” interrupted Walkinshaw, “is to tell you and the jury the plain truth about himself and his movements in relation to this enquiry. He has nothing to conceal and he has everything to gain by telling the truth.”
“Very well,” said the Coroner. “Let us have his evidence now.”
Walkinshaw turned to Harborough and motioned him to go into the box.
CHAPTER VIII
But before Harborough reached the witness-box a new development arose. The Chief Constable who, since Mrs. Tretheroe stepped down, had been in close conversation with the detective, Blick, left his seat and going over to the barrister who had examined her, made some whispered communication to him. Presently the barrister rose and turned to the Coroner.
“If, as I understand, sir, Mr. Harborough wishes to make a statement, which, I suppose, will amount to giving evidence about his movements on the morning of Guy Markenmore’s death,” he said, “I should like to suggest that before you hear it you should take the evidence of Detective-Sergeant Blick, who has had this case in hand since the discovery of the crime. Sergeant Blick will produce some evidence on which I should like to examine Mr. Harborough. I submit that this course will be most convenient to everybody, especially to Mr. Harborough himself and to his legal adviser.”
The Coroner looked at Walkinshaw, who bowed his assent.
“Let us have Detective-Sergeant Blick, then,” said the Coroner.
In company with the rest of the people there he looked with some curiosity at the detective as he stepped into the box. Most of the folk present in that room had never seen a detective in their lives. Blick, they thought, was certainly not at all like what they had conceived men of his calling to be. He might be thirty years old, but he looked younger. He had a somewhat cherubic, boyish countenance, rendered more juvenile still by the fact that he was clean-shaven; he was very smartly and fashionably dressed in a blue serge suit, traversed by thin lines of a lighter blue; his linen and neck-wear proclaimed him a bit of a dandy; his carefully brushed hair, golden in hue, matched admirably with the pretty glow of his cheeks; his bright blue eyes, keen and alert, were as striking as the firm lines of his lips and the square, determined chin beneath them. Altogether, Blick looked more like a smart young army officer than a policeman, and the people who had gained their notions of detectives from sentimental fiction began to feel that somebody had deceived them.
Blick and the barrister confronted each other with glances of mutual understanding.
“Detective-Sergeant Charles Blick, of the Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard, I believe,” said the barrister.
“I am,” answered Blick.
“Tell the Court how you came to be associated with this case.”
“I came down to Selcaster some days ago, in connection with another matter,” said Blick. “I had to remain in the city—at the Mitre Hotel. On Tuesday morning, very early, the Chief Constable sent an officer of his force to me, saying that he had just received news of a probable murder at a place close by, and asking me to dress and go with him. I drove with him, the police-surgeon, and a constable, to Markenmore Hollow. There we found the dead body of a man whom some of those present recognized as Mr. Guy Markenmore. The Chief Constable requested me to take charge of matters; since then he has obtained permission from my Department for me to take this case in hand.”
“With a view of finding the murderer?”
“With that object, certainly.”
“You have heard the evidence of the previous witnesses, Blick?—I refer especially to that of Hobbs, of the Markenmore policeman, and of the doctor?”
“I have.”
“All correct.”
“Quite correct.”
“After taking charge of matters, did you accompany the body here to Markenmore Court?”
“I did.”
“Did you then make an examination of the clothing?”
“Yes; a thorough one.”
“What did you find?”
“A purse containing seventy-five pounds in notes and gold—mostly five-pound notes. Five pounds, twelve shillings, and ninepence in gold, silver, and bronze, loose, in the trousers pockets; a silver cigar-case; a silver cigarette-case; a silver card-case; a——”
The Coroner leaned forward.
“A moment, if you please,” he said. “It just strikes me—up to now, nobody has afforded us any information as to where Mr. Guy Markenmore lived in London. So—is there any address on the cards which were presumably found in the case which the witness mentions?”
The barrister held up some cards.
“I have the cards here, sir,” he answered. “There are several in the case—some of them have a private address, some a business address. The private address is 847b Down Street, Piccadilly: the business address is 56 Folgrave Court, Cornhill. I may say—it can be given in evidence if necessary—that the police have made enquiries at both these addresses. At Down Street Mr. Guy Markenmore had a bachelor flat, which he had tenanted for some four or five years. He had a valet there, one Alfred Butcher, who had been in his service for three years. At Folgrave Court, he had a staff of three clerks——”
“What was Mr. Guy Markenmore’s profession, or business?” asked the Coroner.
“He was a member of the Stock Exchange, sir, of six years’ standing. As I have just said, the police have made enquiry at his flat and at his office. They learnt nothing particular at either, except that on Monday last Mr. Guy Markenmore, then in his usual health and good spirits, told his valet and his head-clerk that he was going into the country that afternoon, but would be back at the flat for breakfast next morning and at his office at the usual time—ten o’clock.”
“There is another matter that the police may have enquired into,” said the Coroner. “I mention it now, because we naturally want to know all we can—the matter of circumstances. There were no money troubles, for instance?”
“The police have also made enquiry amongst Mr. Guy Markenmore’s acquaintances on the Stock Exchange, and in financial circles, sir,” replied the barrister. “There seems no doubt that the deceased was in exceedingly prosperous circumstances—a very well-to-do man. All this can be put in evidence later; it seems probable, sir, that you will not be able to conclude this enquiry today, and——”
“Just so—just so,” said the Coroner. “Let me hear the rest of the detective’s evidence.”
Blick resumed his catalogue as if there had been no interruption.
“A gold watch, chain, and pendant locket,” he continued. “Various small matters, such as a penknife, keys, gold pencil-case. And a letter case, comparatively new, and a pocket-book, evidently old, each containing letters.”
“All these are in charge of the police, I suppose, Blick?”
“They are all in charge of the Chief Constable, with the exception of the letter-case and the pocket-book which I have here and now produce.”
Herewith Blick, diving into the inner breast pocket of his smart coat, brought out and held up a black morocco letter-case, and a faded green leather pocket-book.
“Have you examined the contents of those things?” asked the Coroner.
“Yes. The Chief Constable and I examined everything in them, carefully, on their discovery.”
“What do they contain?”
“This pocket-book contains seven letters, addressed to Sir Guy Markenmore, and all signed either Veronica or Nickie.”
“Are they all in the same handwriting?”
“They are, and the address on all is the same—Markenmore Vicarage.”
“What are the dates?”
“Only one bears any definite date—New Year’s Eve, 1904. The others are dated Monday, or Wednesday, or Friday, as the case may be. But each is in its envelope, and the postal marks are of the year I have just mentioned—1904, and the following year, 1905.”
“Anything else in that pocket-book?”
“Yes. Two locks of hair—evidently the same hair—folded in tissue paper, and a small lace-bordered handkerchief.”
“Since finding these things, Blick, have you shown them to any one?”
“Yes. After consulting with the Chief Constable, I showed them to Mrs. Tretheroe, at her house, yesterday. On seeing them, she said the seven letters were written by her to Mr. Guy Markenmore some years ago, that the two locks of hair were given by her to him, about the same time, and that the handkerchief was certainly hers—she fancied that he must have stolen it from her at some time or other.”
“Now the letter-case. What did you find in that?”
“Two business letters, of recent date, referring to some ordinary share transactions. A receipted bill for a lunch for two persons at the Carlton Hotel, in London; date, April 3rd last. One letter of a private nature; an invitation to dinner. Two receipts from Bond Street tradesmen—one, a jeweller, the other a bookseller. And, in an inner compartment, a letter in its original envelope, addressed to Guy Markenmore, Markenmore Court, Selcaster, and signed John Harborough.”
“Is that letter in the case now, there, before you?”
“It is.”
“Has it been shown to any one since you found it?”
“It has not been seen by any one but myself and the Chief Constable.”
The barrister raised his hand and pointed to the ledge of the witness-box.
“Take that letter from the case,” he said peremptorily. “Hand it to the Coroner.”
There was a tense silence in the room as the Coroner, handed the letter, slowly drew forth a sheet of folded note-paper from its envelope, and adjusting his spectacles, read the contents. All eyes were now bent upon him—and they were all quick to see the start which the old gentleman gave as he read, and the shade of annoyed surprise that came over his face. Being human, he was unable to repress a little, smothered exclamation. It was drowned by the sharp accents of the barrister.
“I must ask you, sir, to read that letter to the jury,” he said.
The Coroner looked round on Mr. Fransemmery and his eleven companions. Clearly, he had no relish for the task which his duties imposed. But he braced himself—with another look which took in the whole scene before him.
“This letter, gentlemen,” he said, turning again to the jury, “is written on a sheet of note-paper, on which is engraved the address Greycloister, Selcaster, and it is dated December 8th, 1905. It runs as follows:
‘GUY MARKENMORE,
The next time I meet you, wherever it is, and whenever it is, whether tomorrow, or a year hence, or five years hence, or ten years hence, I shall shoot you dead like the dog you are.
JOHN HARBOROUGH.’”
The Coroner laid the letter on his desk, took off his spectacles, leaned back in his chair, and looked round him with the air of a man whom something has suddenly wearied. Just as suddenly he leaned forward again, picked up the letter, and passed it to Mr. Fransemmery. As it went from hand to hand amongst the jurymen, the barrister glanced at the detective and nodded. Blick vanished from the witness-box, and the barrister, catching an inclination of the head from the Coroner, turned to the latter’s officer.
“Call John Harborough,” he said in a low voice.
Harborough once more walked to the witness-box. During the reading of the letter he had sat steadily watching the Coroner; his face, grim and impassive, betrayed nothing of whatever it was that he was thinking. It remained equally impassive as he took the oath and faced Coroner, jurymen, and the barrister, who, as the witness came forward, had possessed himself of the letter and now stood holding it in his right hand. Waiting until Harborough had taken the oath, he passed the letter across the table to a policeman and motioned him to hand it to the witness. Amidst a dead silence he asked his first question, sinking his voice to a low, but intensely clear whisper and fixing Harborough with a steady look.
“Did you write that letter?”
“I did.”
“Did you mean what is said in it?”
“When I wrote it—yes.”
“If you had met Guy Markenmore on the morrow you speak of, would you have shot him like a dog?”
“On the morrow—yes, I should.”
“Or—a year afterwards?”
“I am not so certain of that.”
“Or—five years afterwards.”
“No—certainly not!”
“Did you hear the evidence given by Mrs. Braxfield?”
“I did.”
“Was it correct?—were you on the hill-side, near her house, at about four o’clock on Tuesday morning last?”
“Her evidence was quite correct—I was.”
“You have travelled a great deal in wild countries, I believe, Mr. Harborough. Are you in the habit of carrying a revolver?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Had you a revolver on you when you were out on the downs on Tuesday morning?”
“Yes, I had!”
The barrister looked round at the jury. Then he suddenly sat down, and, for the second time that morning, helped himself to a pinch of snuff. He turned from his snuff-box to the Coroner. But the Coroner was nodding at Walkinshaw, who presently rose and faced his client.
“You have just admitted, Mr. Harborough, that you wrote the letter which has been read. Did you write it under great provocation?”
“Under greatest provocation. I firmly believed that Guy Markenmore had prejudiced Miss Leighton against me, in a most despicable fashion.”
“Do you believe that now?”
“I am not at all sure—one way or the other. I began to be doubtful on the point some years ago.”
“Is that why you said just now that if you had met Guy Markenmore five years after writing that letter you would certainly not have carried out your hasty threat?”
“Precisely!”
“Your anger had cooled down?”
“It had become simply non-existent.”
“May I take it that when you wrote that letter you were passionately in love with Miss Leighton, as the lady in question was then, and that you were furious because you thought Guy Markenmore had wrecked your chance of winning her?”
“You may. That is the fact.”
“Finding that you had no chance with the lady you went abroad?”
“Yes—cleared out altogether.”
“Did you get over your trouble? You know what I mean.”
“I certainly got cured of my infatuation for Miss Leighton. I can truthfully say that I was quite heart-whole again within a couple of years.”
“Cured?”
“Absolutely.”
“So then, your anger against Guy Markenmore died out?”
“Altogether! I began to see that I might have been mistaken, and that I had made a fool of myself.”
“Now supposing you had met Guy Markenmore again, what then?”
“I should have begged his pardon and offered to shake hands with him.”
“But—you never did meet him again?”
“Never! I have never seen Guy Markenmore, alive or dead, since I last saw him at Markenmore Vicarage some seven years and five months ago.”
Walkinshaw, in his turn, glanced at the jury. Then he nodded to his witness.
“Say, in your own fashion, what were your movements last Tuesday morning,” he said.
“I can tell that in a few words,” replied Harborough. “I returned home, after seven years’ absence, on Monday afternoon. I was somewhat excited by my home-coming, and by meeting two or three old friends and so on. I came to this house for one thing—and I did not sleep very well that night. Also, I am always a very early riser. As I couldn’t sleep, I got up at three o’clock, left my house, and went up the downs to the highest point. I came back by Markenmore Hollow and Woodland Cottage, and went home. I was in my own bedroom again at a quarter to five.”
“You never saw Guy Markenmore?”
“Never.”
“Nor men walking on the downs?”
“I never saw anybody from leaving Greycloister to returning to it.”
“Do you know anything whatever of the circumstances of Guy Markenmore’s death?”
“Nothing!”
“On your oath. You are innocent of any share in it?”
“Absolutely innocent!”
Walkinshaw sat down, and as nobody else showed any intention of questioning Harborough, he presently walked away from the witness-box. The Coroner glanced round the officials at the table.
“This would seem a convenient stage for adjourning the enquiry,” he said. “But I understand there is a witness here who has volunteered information, of what nature nobody seems to know, and I think we had better hear what he has to say. Call Charles Grimsdale.”
CHAPTER IX
The numerous people in court who knew Markenmore and its immediate vicinity, turned with one accord as the Coroner spoke and looked at a corner of the room wherein, all through the proceedings, a man had leaned against the oak panelling, carefully watchful, eagerly listening to all that had been said. He was a thick-set, clean-shaven man, save for a pair of close-cropped whiskers that ornamented the upper part of his fresh-coloured cheeks, a man of a horsy appearance, who ever since the Coroner took his seat, had persistently chewed at a bit of straw that protruded from the corner of his firm-set lips. This horsy appearance was accentuated by his garments—a suit of whipcord cloth, of the pepper-and-salt variety, smart box-cloth gaiters, and a white hunting stock, fastened by a large, good horseshoe pin. He looked like a head groom, but the folk in court knew him well enough for Grimsdale, landlord of the Sceptre Inn.
The Coroner had reason for saying that he had no idea of the evidence which Grimsdale had volunteered to give. The truth was that nobody in that room had any idea. And of all the people there who regarded the landlord with curiosity the police regarded him with most—for a good reason. In the course of the enquiries which they had made in the village and the neighbourhood Blick and his satellites had visited the Sceptre, and had interviewed Grimsdale as to whether he knew anything. Grimsdale, in his shrewd, knowing, reserved fashion had told Blick that he did know something—maybe a good deal—and would tell what he knew . . . at the right time and in the proper place. Blick had exerted all his powers of persuasion in an effort to find out what Grimsdale knew, and had failed, utterly; Grimsdale, always hinting that he knew a lot, had steadfastly refused to say one word until the inquest on Guy Markenmore came off; he would only speak before the Coroner and the jury. Blick, defeated, had set the Chief Constable on to Grimsdale then; the Chief Constable had met with no better luck. Not one word, said Grimsdale, would he say until he got into the witness-box; then, he added, with a knowing wink, they’d be more than a bit surprised, on hearing his evidence. And now here he was, at last, before them, and every police official in the room, from the Chief Constable downwards, was all agog to learn what he had to tell.
Grimsdale in the box, thought more than one keen-eyed observer, looked like a man that knows the importance of his own testimony. There was an expression in his eye, and about his lips, which seemed to indicate that all that had already taken place was nothing—what really was of importance was his story. He was the coolest hand, thought the barrister, that he had ever set eyes on; the sort of witness whom nothing whatever will move: whose testimony, once given, nothing will shake. His entire appearance and calm attitude made the whole roomful of people more attentive than to any previous witness; there was that about him which made everybody feel that at last something vitally important was going to be heard.
The Coroner took this witness in hand, eliciting from him a few formal facts. Charles Grimsdale, formerly groom in the service of Sir James Marchant; now landlord and licensee of the Sceptre Inn, Markenmore. Had lived in the neighbourhood of Markenmore all his life—born in the village. Knew every member of Sir Anthony Markenmore’s family. Knew the late Mr. Guy Markenmore particularly well from the time he was a mere child until he left home seven years ago.
“Have you ever seen Mr. Guy Markenmore since he left home, Grimsdale?” asked the Coroner. He was somewhat at a loss as to what questions to put to the witness, and thought it best to get to useful facts. “I mean—recently?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When, then?”
“Last Monday night.”
“Where did you see him?”
“At my house—the Sceptre.”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore came to your house, the Sceptre Inn, on Monday night?”
“Mr. Guy, sir, was at my house, the Sceptre Inn, from five minutes to twelve on Monday night until a quarter-past three on Tuesday morning.”
“He came there?”
“He came there, sir, at the time I’ve mentioned.”
“Did he come alone?”
“He came alone, sir. But he wasn’t alone for the rest of the time.”
“Who was with him?”
“From twelve o’clock until two, sir, one gentleman. From two o’clock until three, two gentlemen.”
“He saw two gentlemen at your house? Who were they?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You don’t know? But—I suppose you saw them?”
“I saw one of them, sir. I didn’t see the other. At least, I only saw his back—some little distance off, too.”
The Coroner looked at the jury and from them to the legal practitioners. From them he turned to the witness-box.
“I think, Grimsdale, you’d better tell us what you know—about whatever it was that happened at your house on Monday night and Tuesday morning—in your own way. Just give us a plain, straightforward account of things.”
“Yes, sir. About nine o’clock on Monday night, I was standing in the hall of my house. A gentleman suddenly came in by the front door. He was a tall, well-made, fine-looking man; I should say about fifty years of age. Slightly grey of hair and moustache; fresh-coloured; an active sort of gentleman. Very well dressed in a grey tweed suit; one of those big slouch hats that gentlemen wear nowadays: grey, with a black band; no overcoat, carried a gold-mounted cane. He asked me if I was the landlord; I said I was, at his service, and showed him into a private parlour that I keep for better-class sort of customers. He then said that he wanted to book a room for the night, as he had business in the village. I told him I could give him a very good room, and offered to show it. He said that would be all right: he was sure it would be comfortable, and added that the Sceptre had been highly recommended to him. He then told me that he expected a gentleman to call on him, late that evening, on business, and asked me if I could prepare supper for two in a private room—a cold supper, he said, would do. I said I could give them a cold chicken and a fine tongue, some tart, and a prime old Stilton cheese, and they could have that room—there was a good fire in it, then, and I would have it made up. He then asked if eleven o’clock would suit me for the supper? I said any time he liked would suit me. We fixed on eleven. He then told me to put a bottle of my very best Scotch whisky and some bottles of soda-water on the side-board, and that I could lay the supper whenever I pleased, for, after he’d had a drink, he was going out for an hour or so, to see some one. I got him a Scotch whisky and soda. While he was drinking it he pulled out a five-pound note, gave it to me, said that he’d probably be in a hurry in the morning, so would I settle his bill that night and give him the change at breakfast, which he wanted at seven-thirty sharp. He then went out. I made up the fire, saw that all was comfortable and ready, and about half-past ten, after I’d closed the house for the night, I laid the supper myself, as my wife wasn’t well and had gone to bed early in the evening. At five minutes to eleven he came back.”
“Alone?” asked the Coroner.
“Yes, sir, alone. He remained alone, in that parlour, until an hour later. Then, at five minutes to twelve, I heard a knock at the door. I went and opened it, and found Mr. Guy Markenmore there.”
“You knew who he was?—you recognized him?”
“Oh yes, sir—I knew Mr. Guy well enough in the old days. He hadn’t altered much.”
“Had you any conversation with him?”
“Just a bit, sir. He said, ‘Hullo, Grimsdale, how are you? I heard you’d blossomed into a full-blown landlord,’—that sort of thing, sir—he was always a gentleman for his joke.”
“Did he seem in good spirits?”
“The best, sir! He stood in the hall, laughing and talking a bit about old times, when I used to see him in the hunting field. Then he said, sudden-like, ‘I believe you’ve got a gentleman here who’s expecting me?’ I said we had, and took him straight to the parlour where the strange gentleman was waiting. I showed him in and closed the door on them.”
“Did you hear any greeting exchanged between them, Grimsdale?”
“Well, sir, I just heard the strange gentleman say, ‘Hello, Markenmore!’ and I heard Sir Guy say, ‘Hello, old chap, sorry to be so late.’ That was all, sir.”
“You didn’t hear Mr. Guy mention the other man’s name?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither then nor at any other time?”
“I never had any further chance, sir. I never went into the room again. The supper was all ready for them. I’d taken in the bottle of whisky and the soda-water which the gentleman had ordered, and the fire was made up. The gentleman had told me, when he came in the second time, that he and the friend he was expecting would very likely sit up very late, as they’d a lot of business to talk over, and he said that if I wanted to go to bed he’d let his friend out, and see that the front door was fast and the parlour lights turned out.”
“Did you go to bed?”
“No, sir, I did not. I sit up late myself, as a rule, and I thought that what he meant by late would perhaps be half-past one, or so. I’d my own supper to get, too, and after I’d had it I sat up smoking in the bar.”
“Did you hear anything of the two men in the parlour?”
“Well, sir, I once or twice crossed the hall, and I could hear them talking.”
“Just ordinary tones, I suppose? What I mean is you didn’t hear any sounds of quarrelling—high voices, or anything of that sort?”
“Oh no, sir! Just ordinary tones.”
“Very well. Now then, you said just now that there was one man with Guy Markenmore until two o’clock, and after that there were two men with him until three. What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Well, sir, this. I told you that my wife was poorly that night and had gone to bed early. About two o’clock in the morning I went upstairs to see how she was getting on. She was sleeping all right, so I went down again. As I passed the parlour door, I thought I heard three voices instead of two. I stopped and listened, and I distinctly heard three voices. So I knew then that another man had joined the strange gentleman and Mr. Guy.”
“But—that seems a strange thing, Grimsdale! How could the third man get into your house without your knowledge? At that hour of the night I suppose all your doors were fast, eh?”
“They were all fast, sir—locked. But this third man could get in easy enough. I think you’re familiar with the Sceptre, sir? Well, you know that we’ve a flower garden and lawn in front of the house—between the road and the house. Now, the parlour that these gentlemen were using opened on to the garden and lawn by a French window. They could admit anybody from outside by that—there’d be no need to open any door.”
The Coroner looked round at the jury and the lawyers.
“That would look as if some appointment had been made between these two—Guy Markenmore and the first man—with a third man,” he remarked. “Grimsdale,” he continued, turning to the witness, “you’re sure that the strange man who came to your house at nine o’clock on Monday night didn’t mention that he was expecting two visitors?”
“Positive, sir! He only spoke of one.”
“And you’re equally positive that after two o’clock he had two men with him?”
“Certain of it, sir. I made out distinctly that there were three men talking in the parlour, and afterwards I saw them—all three!”
“In the parlour?”
“No, sir—outside.”
“What did you see—exactly?”
“Well, sir, after hearing three voices I went back to my easy chair in the bar. I thought that Mr. Guy, having come home again, had asked somebody to slip down to see this friend of his, and that they had heard him come in at our garden gate—they’d opened the French window, and brought him into the parlour in that way. Of course, as the first gentleman had taken a room for the night that was all right—he could have in whoever he pleased. And as Mr. Guy was there, I knew things would be satisfactory. So I didn’t bother myself as to who it was—I thought it might be Mr. Harry—the third man, I mean. As it got toward three o’clock, I began to doze in my chair in front of the fire, and I think I fell asleep. I was awakened by hearing the garden gate clash. I jumped up and looked out of the window. I saw three men in the road outside. They——”
“Stop a bit, if you please,” interrupted the Coroner. “This is likely to be a very important point. Now, do you know—precisely—what time this was, Grimsdale?”
“Yes, sir! I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece—an uncommon good timekeeper, sir—as I rose from my chair to pull aside the blind and look out of the window. It was precisely seventeen minutes past three.”
“That,” observed the Coroner, with a glance at the jury, “is about an hour and a half before sunrise. Now, Grimsdale, how could you see at that time of the early morning?”
“Well, sir, it was a clear night, there was a bit of a moon, and altogether it was a good night for seeing—grey light, you might term it. I could see our stables on the other side of the road clear enough, and the trees round about there, and the road. And I saw those three gentlemen—their figures, I mean—plainly.”
“What were they doing?”
“Walking slowly away from the Sceptre up the road towards Greycloister and Mitbourne, sir.”
“Could you distinguish them, one from the other?”
“Yes, sir. I knew which was Mr. Guy, and which was the first man who came to the Sceptre. Mr. Guy was walking in the middle; the gentleman who came at nine o’clock was on his left-hand side; the third man was on his right.”
“What sort of man was he?”
“A tall man, sir—a good six foot.”
“Did you recognize his figure as that of anybody belonging to this neighbourhood?”
For the first time since his appearance in the witness-box, Grimsdale began to show signs of hesitation. He paused, shaking his head.
“Well, sir, you’ll bear in mind, if you please, that it was not as light as it might have been,” he answered. “It’s difficult, at that time of morning.”
“Did you form any idea at the time as to who the man was?” enquired the Coroner.
“Well, I certainly did have a notion—a sort of thought,” admitted Grimsdale.
“What was it?”
Grimsdale hesitated again.
“It was only a notion,” he said at last. “Just—just the sort of thing that comes into one’s mind, like. I’d rather not say!”
“I’m afraid you must say, Grimsdale. You evidently, on seeing him, had some notion as to the identity of the third man. Now, what was it?”
“Well, sir, if I must, I must! I wondered—only wondered, mind you, gentlemen—if it wasn’t Mr. Harborough.”
“You wondered if the third man, the man walking on Guy Markenmore’s right hand up the road was not Mr. John Harborough. You thought you recognized his figure?”
“Yes, sir. But it was only because the man was very tall, had just about Mr. Harborough’s build, and because the three of ’em were going in the direction of Greycloister, Mr. Harborough’s house, and then you see, sir, I’d heard that Mr. Harborough was home again, and—well, maybe I’d got him in mind a bit. I—I shouldn’t like to let it go out that I say it was Mr. Harborough, because I don’t!”
“You couldn’t swear that the third man was Mr. Harborough?”
“No, sir—certainly I could not!”
“But he was a man of just about Mr. Harborough’s height, build, and personal appearance?”
“Just that, sir.”
“Well, about the first man—the man who had taken a room at the Sceptre. What time did he come back there, after this?”
“He never did come back, sir!”
“What!—never came back at all?”
“Never at all, sir! Never set eyes on him since! I’ve got three pound fourteen shillings change belonging to him, sir—the bill came to one pound six. But as I say, he never came back. I went into the parlour after seeing them in the road—the French window was slightly open, and the two lamps had been turned down. I thought then that I wouldn’t bother about going to bed—and I set to work clearing away the supper things and tidying up the parlour. Of course, I expected the gentleman back any minute—my idea was that he’d just strolled up the road a bit with the other two. But he never came—never seen nor heard of him since, sir.”
The Coroner looked down at the officials and the lawyers. His manner became that of a man who after following various tortuous ways, suddenly finds himself in acul-de-sac.
“It is very evident that this is going to be a protracted enquiry,” he remarked. “The police must get on the track of the two men who were with the deceased at the Sceptre Inn on Monday midnight and early on Tuesday morning. I think we had better adjourn now.”
“I should like to put one or two questions to the witness,” interrupted the barrister. “Grimsdale, you said that the man who came to you at nine o’clock on Monday evening, and booked a room for the night gave you a five-pound note, out of which you were to pay yourself. Have you still got that note?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Grimsdale, pulling out an old-fashioned purse. “Here, sir.”
“That note must be handed over to the police,” said the barrister. “Now, another question—‘What sort of man was the stranger? Was he an Englishman?’”
“My impression, sir,” replied Grimsdale, “was that he was one of them Americans—from his speech, sir. When I was in Sir James Marchant’s service I saw a lot of American gentlemen: I took this to be one.”
“Very good—now just one more question. When you tidied up your parlour, did you find anything, any small article that any of these men might have left? Guests do leave things behind, you know, sometimes.”
Grimsdale thrust his hand into another pocket and drew something out.
“I did, sir—I meant to mention it. I found this, lying on the supper table.”
And having first held it aloft, so that every one present could see it, the landlord laid on the edge of the witness-box a silver-mounted briar-wood tobacco pipe.
CHAPTER X
The barrister possessed himself of the tobacco pipe, examined it, and passed it up to the Coroner, who in his turn looked it over before handing it to Mr. Fransemmery and his fellow jurymen. It went the round of the twelve and returned to the barrister, who held it up for Grimsdale to look at once more.
“You found this—which is a briar-wood tobacco pipe, of superior manufacture, silver-mounted—on the supper-table in your parlour after the three men had gone, Grimsdale?” he asked. “Did you come to the conclusion that one of them had left it there?”
“Certain of it, sir.”
“Why, now, are you certain? I suppose you’d had other customers in that parlour, during the previous day?”
“Yes, sir. But I’d laid the supper-table myself. That pipe, sir, when I found it, was lying on a small plate—where one of the gentlemen had sat. And it had just been used, sir—the bowl was warm.”
“I congratulate you on your power of observation, Grimsdale,” said the barrister with a smile. He laid the pipe on the table before him, amongst his papers, and turned to the Coroner. “I think, sir, you spoke of adjourning at this stage?” he continued. “If I may make a suggestion, it would, I think, be best if the adjournment is of such a nature as to afford time for more searching enquiry; it seems to me that there is a good deal to go into, and——”
“We will adjourn to this day fortnight,” said the Coroner. He turned to the jury and gave them some instructions and advice as to keeping their minds open until further evidence was put before them. Then, with a murmured expression of his hope that by the time they met again the police would be able to throw more light on what was a very painful problem, he left his chair, obviously relieved that the morning’s proceedings had come to an end.
The old dining-hall rapidly cleared. Spectators, witnesses, officials began to unpack themselves out of nooks and corners and to drift away in groups and knots, discussing the events and revelations of the morning. Mrs. Tretheroe went off with her two guests; Harry Markenmore and his sister left the room in company with Harborough; the jurymen filed away in twos and threes. But in the centre of the temporary Court, around the big table at which the lawyers and officials had sat, with books and papers before them, several men gathered, and began to discuss matters informally—the Chief Constable; Blick; the barrister who had represented the authorities; Chilford; Walkinshaw, and Mr. Fransemmery, who, in spite of the Coroner’s admonition, felt himself justified in hearing whatever there was to hear.
“What I feel about it,” Chilford was saying as Mr. Fransemmery joined the group, “is just this—and I say it as solicitor to the Markenmore family—there must be a searching investigation into Guy Markenmore’s business affairs and his private life in London! This affair was not originated here, nor engineered here! If Detective-Sergeant Blick wants to get at the bottom of things he ought to begin in London—where Guy Markenmore has lived for some years past.”
“You think he was followed down here?” suggested the barrister, who, business being over, had lighted a cigarette, and sitting on the edge of the table, was comfortably smoking. “You think this was a job put up in London?”
“I think there’s every probability that all and everything that we’ve heard this morning has practically nothing whatever to do with the real truth about the murder of Guy Markenmore!” answered Chilford. “I’m quite certain—in my own mind—that John Harborough is as innocent as I am, and I’m not much less certain that the two men who were with Guy at the Sceptre are also innocent. The probability is that those men will be heard of—they’ll come forward. You’ll find that the meeting at the Sceptre—an odd one, if you like!—was nothing but a business meeting. No—we’ve got nowhere yet! As I say, if Blick there wants to do some ferret-work, he’s got to go back and start in London. How do we know what Guy Markenmore’s affairs were? Or his secrets? For all we know, somebody or other may have had good reason for getting rid of him.”
“What puzzles me considerably,” observed the Chief Constable, “is—how did those two men who were with Guy Markenmore at the Sceptre come into and get out of the district unobserved? My men have already made the most exhaustive enquiries at every railroad station in the neighbourhood, and we’ve got hold of—nothing!”
“Strangers, too!” said Walkinshaw.
“How do we know that?” demanded Chilford. “There are a tidy lot of men within an area of twenty miles who might have business dealings with Guy Markenmore. His business here that night might have been just as much with those two men as with his brother and sister. Probably it was.”
“Grimsdale asserts that the first man was an American,” remarked Walkinshaw. “We haven’t a plenitude of Americans in residence about here. I could count them on my fingers.”
“That’s so,” said the Chief Constable. “If the man was an American—and Grimsdale says he’s met a good many in his time, so he ought to know—he came from somewhere outside our neighbourhood. But what beats me is—how did he and the other man get away, unobserved, on Tuesday morning?”
Mr. Fransemmery, who, like Blick, had listened attentively, but silently, to these exchanges of opinion and idea, coughed gently, as if deprecating any idea that he wished to interfere.
“Talking of—of America,” he remarked, “it may be of no importance, and not even relative to the subject under discussion, but I may observe that a mail steamer left Southampton for New York at one o’clock on Tuesday afternoon last. Now, Markenmore is within thirty miles of Southampton by road, and if this man—the first man—was an American, it is possible that he journeyed to Southampton, caught that boat, and was away to sea before hearing of what had befallen the man whom he had entertained to supper. I know about that boat, because I mailed some antiquarian documents to a friend of mine in the United States by it.”
The Chief Constable twisted his military moustache and considered Mr. Fransemmery.
“Um!” he remarked. “Might be a good deal in that—he might certainly have taken this place in his way between London and Southampton. But—the queer thing is, we can’t hit on a trace of his coming or going!”
“Why did he never return to the Sceptre—where three pounds fourteen shillings change was due to him?” asked Walkinshaw.
“I don’t know,” said the Chief Constable. “But I’m very sure of this—whoever he was, he didn’t board the early morning train from Selcaster to London, either at Selcaster or at Mitbourne, that particular morning. There were only five passengers went aboard at Selcaster, and two at Mitbourne, and the railway folks know every man jack of ’em!”
“It’s not necessary to board a train to get into or out of a district,” observed Walkinshaw. “My own belief is that these two men came here and left here by motor-car.”
The Chief Constable looked at Walkinshaw and grunted his dissent.
“Do you think I haven’t thought of that?” he said. “I’ve had my men making enquiries of that sort all over the place! Every neighbouring village—every farmstead on the hill-sides! And—not one scrap of information.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, nor affect what I say,” retorted Walkinshaw. “You know as well as I do that where we are now is about the middle of what we’ll call a triangle. On each of all three sides of us lies a big main road. On every one of these three roads there’s no end of motor traffic nowadays. I ought to know, for I live on one of them. I reckon there are at least forty cars of one sort or another pass my house every hour.”
“Not first thing in the morning!” interrupted the Chief Constable sceptically.
“I’m giving you an average,” said Walkinshaw. “From five o’clock onward, anyhow. Do you think one car would be noticed out of the hundreds that come and go? Rot!”
“Where did they put their car while they came to the Sceptre?” asked the Chief Constable.
“I see nothing difficult about that,” replied Walkinshaw. “I’d engage to hide any car, however big, in one of our byways or plantations, or in a convenient spot in the hollows of the downs, for a few hours, without anybody seeing it. A lonely district like this, and at night, too! Easy enough!”
“If these two men came together in a car,” said Chilford, “why did one man present himself at Grimsdale’s at nine o’clock in the evening and the other at two o’clock in the morning?”
“For that matter—if you’re going into whys and wherefores,” retorted Walkinshaw, “where did the first man go when he walked out of the Sceptre’s door after first going there? He was away until close on eleven o’clock. Where had he been?”
“Well, we’ve gone into that, too!” said the Chief Constable, almost defiantly. “There isn’t a soul in the village who saw any stranger at all that night!”
“But no one knew of him till Grimsdale had testified.”
“Or—who’ll admit that they did!” sneered Chilford. “He must have gone somewhere, and seen somebody.” He pulled out his watch. “I’m going home to lunch,” he said. “This is waste of time. My advice to Blick is—go back on your tracks and get to work at the fountain-head—in London!”
“What’s Blick say?” asked the barrister with a laugh. He had steadily smoked cigarettes in silence while the others had talked. “Come, Blick?”
“Blick is a wise young man,” said the Chief Constable. “He’s going to say nothing. You’ll take your own line, eh, Blick?”
“As at present advised,” answered Blick, with a smile. “Always ready to hear anything in the way of suggestion though.”
“Come along,” said Chilford, “it’s two o’clock. Glad to give any of you—all of you—some lunch if you’ll come with me. Cold food—but plenty of it.”
The men trooped out into the hall. And there, coming from the morning-room, they saw Harry Markenmore and Valencia. Harry came up to the group and nodded at Blick.
“My sister wants to ask Sergeant Blick a question,” he said, turning to the Chief Constable. “Something about my late brother’s personal effects.”
Blick turned to Valencia; the other men paused, interested and attentive. Valencia looked at the detective with something of anxiety.
“It was you, wasn’t it, who examined my brother Guy’s clothing and what he had on him?” she asked. “You mentioned a lot of things in the witness-box this morning. Did you mention everything?”
“Everything—yes,” replied Blick.
“Every single thing that you found?”
“Every single thing!”
Valencia’s eyes grew more troubled. She looked round at the attentive faces.
“There—there was something that you didn’t mention that my brother certainly had on him when he went out of this house on Monday night at half-past ten,” she said, turning again to Blick. “A ring!—a ring of very curious workmanship, on the third finger of his right hand.”
“He had one ring on the third finger of his right hand,” said Blick. “A very fine diamond ring—a single stone.”
“He had two rings on the third finger of his right hand,” asserted Valencia. “The diamond ring you speak of, and this other one. I spoke of it to him while he was here. It was a ring of very odd appearance—it looked to me like copper, with some enamel work on it. It attracted my attention because—because I know some one who has a ring exactly like it—its duplicate, in fact.”
“Yes?” said Blick quietly. “Who?”
“Mrs. Tretheroe,” replied Valencia.
The men standing by glanced at each other.
“You are sure your brother was wearing this second, odd-looking ring when he left you?” asked Blick.
“I am certain of it,” affirmed Valencia. “Absolutely!”
“And you say that Mrs. Tretheroe has a similar ring?”
“Which she always wears,” said Valencia.
“There was no such ring on your brother’s finger when I made my examination,” remarked Blick. “But now—I’ll see into the matter.”
Harry and Valencia went back to the morning-room, and the others made for the front door. But before they reached it, another interruption in their progress towards Chilford’s hospitable table occurred. A young, alert-looking man, who held a note-book in one hand, and pencil in the other, came up.
“Mr. Chief Constable,” he said, with confident assurance, “allow me to introduce myself—Mr. Summers, of theDaily Sentinel—specially sent down, sir.”
“What do you want?” asked the Chief Constable. He was thinking of Chilford’s cold roast beef, and had a natural dislike of reporters. “Nothing more to tell you than what you’ve heard.”
“I should be obliged if you’d show me the five-pound note which the presumed American gave to Grimsdale,” said Mr. Summers, “and the tobacco pipe which was left at the Sceptre.”
The Chief Constable turned to Blick.
“Any objection to that?” he asked.
“I should say that Mr. Blick—from what I happen to know of his great abilities—has no objection,” interposed Mr. Summers, who was clearly one of those young men who leave no stone unturned in the effort to build up good copy. “Mr. Blick, sir, knows the value of publicity—especially in a journal of our immense circulation—as well as I do.”
“No objection at all,” said Blick, laughing. “There’s the note—I suppose you want the number? B. H. 887563. The pipe—that’s on the table inside—the police have it. Here, I’ll show it to you.”
He went back into the old dining-room with Summers; the others waited, chatting about Valencia’s information respecting the ring. A few minutes passed; then Blick, looking slightly puzzled, put his head into the hall.
“Chief Constable!” he called. “That pipe!—have you got it?”
The Chief Constable turned around with a suddenly roused alertness.
“I?” he exclaimed. “No—I haven’t got it. Isn’t it there?”
Blick shook his head, his puzzled look changing to one of vexation. He withdrew into the dining-room again, and the Chief Constable strode after him. The other men followed, each impelled by a curiosity for which they would have found it hard to account. Blick was rummaging about amongst the books and papers on the table. Two or three policemen were there; so, too, were a similar number of solicitors’ clerks, and the Coroner’s officer; at one end of the table a couple of local reporters were busily writing out their notes.
“I’ve never seen it—at least since it was held up,” said a police-sergeant to whom Blick was appealing. “I saw Grimsdale produce it, and I saw the Coroner and the jurymen handling it, and I’ve never seen it since.”
“Who had it last?” asked Blick.
“I had!” answered the barrister. “I took it from the jury, and laid it on the table—just there.”
“Well, it’s gone!” said Blick. He turned to the police-sergeant. “Have any of your men gone away who might have been likely to pick it up?”
“Nobody’s gone away yet,” replied the sergeant. “We’re all here—all of us that came.”
Blick turned over everything that remained on the table. His face curiously set, and he said nothing.
“Everybody that went out of the room passed along that side of the table,” remarked the sergeant. “If anybody wanted to pick it up and carry it off, they’d nothing to do but put a hand out. Nobody would notice—in that crush.”
“Who should want to carry it off?” asked Blick with asperity.
Summers, who had been assisting in the search, suddenly chuckled.
“There’s one man in existence who’d have been jolly glad to carry it off!” he exclaimed.
Blick looked up, frowning.
“What do you mean?” he snapped out. “Who?—what man?”
“The man who left it on the supper-table at the Sceptre, of course!” retorted Summers, with another chuckle. “How do you know he wasn’t there amongst the deeply-interested audience? May have been!”
Blick threw aside a final mass of papers, and turned to the door.
“Well, it’s gone, anyway!” he muttered.
“Nice piece of evidence disappeared, too,” soliloquized Summers. “You might have traced it to its rightful owner, Mr. Blick. But I think he’s got it—what? Clever! However, if he’s the person who purloined it off this table, you know one thing—he’s somebody who’s somewhere close at hand. Eh, Mr. Blick?”
But Blick was once more in the hall, and the Chief Constable and the other men followed him.
“Odd, that, Blick!” said the Chief Constable. “Who can have got it—and why?”
“There may be something in what that newspaper chap says,” answered Blick in an undertone. “The man who left it at the Sceptre may have been here this morning, and taken the opportunity to possess himself of it. However——”
“Now come across the park to my house, you fellows, and have some lunch,” broke in Chilford. “All ready—come on!”
Blick excused himself—he had work to do, he said. On the previous day, finding that his labours at Markenmore were likely to be protracted, he had taken rooms at the Sceptre, and thither he now hastened. He had many things in hand; much to think over. That morning, before going to the inquest, he had sent a messenger into Selcaster with instructions to buy certain matter for him: his first question on reaching the Sceptre was—had the messenger returned?
“Parcels on your sitting-room table, Mr. Blick,” answered Grimsdale. “Lunch there, too.”
Blick sat down to his lunch, alone, and ate and drank steadily for half an hour. Then, when the table had been cleared, he lighted his pipe, pulled out his penknife, and cut the string of the parcels that had been sent him from Selcaster.
CHAPTER XI