Police-Sergeant Westawaysat in the sitting-room of Cliff Farm preparing an official report, with the assistance of his subordinate, Police-Constable Heather, whose help consisted in cordially agreeing with his superior on any point on which the sergeant condescended to ask his advice.
The constable was a short, florid-face, bullet-headed young man, and he whistled cheerfully as he explored the old farm-house. His superior officer was elderly and sallow, with hollow dark eyes, a long black beard streaked with grey, and a saturnine expression, which was the outward manifestation of a pessimistic disposition and a disordered liver.
Sergeant Westaway looked like a man who found life a miserable business. A quarter of a century spent in a dull round of official duties in the fishing village of Ashlingsea, as guardian of the morals of its eight hundred inhabitants, had deepened his natural bent towards pessimism and dyspepsia. He felt himself qualified to adorn a much higher official post, but he forebore to air his grievance in public because he thought the people with whom his lot was cast were not worth wasting speech upon. By his aloofness and taciturnity he had acquired a local reputation for wisdom, which his mental gifts scarcely warranted.
“Heather,” he said, pausing in his writing and glancing up irritably as his subordinate entered the room, “do not make that noise.”
“What noise, sergeant?” asked Constable Heather, who gathered his impressions slowly.
“That whistling. It disturbs me. Besides, there is a dead man in the house.”
“All right, sergeant, I forgot all about him.” Constable Heather stopped in the middle of a lively stave, sat down on a chair, got up again, and went out of the room with a heavy tread.
Sergeant Westaway returned to his official report with a worried expression on his gaunt face. He was a country police officer with no previous experience of murders, and twenty-five years’ official vegetation in Ashlingsea, with nothing more serious in the way of crime to handle than occasional outbreaks of drunkenness or an odd case of petty larceny, had made him rusty in official procedure, and fearful of violating the written and unwritten laws of departmental red tape. He wrote and erased and rewrote, occasionally laying down his pen to gaze out of the open window for inspiration.
It was a beautiful day in early autumn. The violent storm of the previous night had left but few traces of its visit. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky, and the notes of a skylark singing joyously high above the meadow in front of the farm floated in through the open window. The winding cliff road was white and clean after the heavy rain, and the sea was once more clear and green, with little white-flecked waves dancing and sparkling in the sunshine.
Sergeant Westaway, gloomily glancing out at this pleasing prospect, saw two men entering the farm from the road. They had been cycling, and were now pushing their machines up the gravel-path to the front door. One of them was in police uniform, and the other was a young man about thirty years of age, clad in cycling tweeds and knickerbockers, with a tweed cap on the back of his curly head. He had blue eyes and a snub nose, and a cigarette dangled from his lower lip. He was a stranger to Sergeant Westaway, but that acute official had no hesitation in placing him as a detective from Scotland Yard. To the eye of pessimism he looked like the sort of man that Scotland Yard would send to assist the country police. His companion in uniform was Detective-Inspector Payne, of the County police headquarters at Lewes, and was well known to Sergeant Westaway. The latter had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that the County Commissioner of Police, having several other mysterious crimes to occupy the limited number of detectives at his disposal, had asked for the assistance of Scotland Yard in unravelling the murder at Cliff Farm. Sergeant Westaway knew what this would mean to him. He would have a great deal to do In coaching the Scotland Yard man regarding local conditions, but would get none of the credit of sheeting home the crime to the murderer. The Scotland Yard man would see to that.
“How are you, Westaway?” exclaimed Inspector Payne, as he stood his bicycle against the wall of the house near the front door. “What do you mean by giving us a murder when we’ve got our hands full? We’ve burglaries in half a dozen towns, a murder at Denham, two unidentified bodies washed ashore in a boat at Hemsley, and the disappearance from Lewes of a well-known solicitor who is wanted for embezzling trust funds. Let me introduce you to Detective Gillett, of Scotland Yard. I’m turning the investigation of this murder of yours over to him. You will give him all the assistance he wants.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Sergeant Westaway.
“Glad to meet you, Westaway,” said Detective Gillett, as he shook hands with the Sergeant.
Sergeant Westaway had come to the door to meet the new-comers, and he now led the way back to the room where he had been preparing his report.
Detective Gillett took up a position by the open window, and sniffed gratefully at the soft air.
“Fine view, here,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the cliff road and open bay. “Fine, bracin’ air—sea—country—birds—and all that sort of thing. You chaps in the country have all the best of it—the simple life, and no hustle or bustle.”
Sergeant Westaway looked darkly at the speaker as though he suspected him of a desire to rob him of the grievance he had brooded over in secret for twenty-five years.
“It’s dull enough,” he said ungraciously.
“But the air, man, the air!” said the London detective, inhaling great gulps of oxygen as he spoke. “It’s exhilarating; it’s glorious! Why, it should keep you going until you reach a hundred.”
“Too salt,” commented Sergeant Westaway curtly.
“The more salt in it the longer it will preserve you,” said Gillett. “What a glorious day it is.”
“The day is right enough,” said Westaway. “But to-morrow will be different.”
“Westaway doesn’t like to be enthusiastic about this locality for fear we will shift him somewhere else,” said Inspector Payne. “However, let us get to business. I must be on my way back to Lewes in an hour.”
Sergeant Westaway coughed in order to clear his throat, and then began his narrative in a loud official voice:
“At five minutes past nine last night a gentleman named Marsland came to the police station. I was in my office at the time, preparing a report. He told me that he had found the dead body of a man in this house.”
“Who is this Marsland?” asked Inspector Payne. “Does he live in the district?”
“He does not,” replied the sergeant. “He lives at Staveley. That is to say, he lives in London, but he is staying at Staveley. He is staying there with his uncle, Sir George Granville.”
“I know Sir George,” said the inspector. “And so this young gentleman who discovered the body is his nephew. How old is he?”
“About twenty-eight, I should say.”
“What sort of young man is he? How did he impress you?”
“He impressed me as being an honest straightforward young gentleman. He gave me a very clear statement of who he was and how he came to call in at this farm last night. Nevertheless, I took the precaution of telephoning to Inspector Murchison at Staveley and asking him to have inquiries made. The inspector’s report coincides with what Mr. Marsland told me. He has been in ill-health and came down from London to Staveley to recuperate. He has been there five days. Yesterday he left Staveley for a ride on the downs. He got lost and was caught in the storm which came up shortly after dusk. His horse went lame, and seeing this house he came here for shelter. The horse is in the stable now. There was no light in the house, and when he went to the front door to knock he found it open. He struck a match and lit a candle which was on the hallstand. He could see no one about. Then he lit a lamp in this room and sat down to wait until the storm was over. He was sitting here for some time listening to the rain when suddenly he heard a crash above. He took the lamp and made his way upstairs. In a sitting-room on the first floor he found the dead body of a man in an arm-chair. At first he thought the man had died a natural death, but on inspecting the body he found that the man had been shot through the body. As the storm was abating, Mr. Marsland made his way down to Ashlingsea and reported his discovery to me.”
“And what did you do?” asked Inspector Payne, in an authoritative voice.
“I closed the station and in company with Mr. Marsland I knocked up Police-Constable Heather. Then the three of us came here. I found the body as Mr. Marsland had described. I identified the body as that of Frank Lumsden, the owner of this farm. Leaving Heather in charge of it, I returned to Ashlingsea accompanied by Mr. Marsland, and reported the matter by telephone to headquarters at Lewes, as you are aware, inspector. This morning I returned here to make a minute inspection of the scene of the crime and to prepare my report.”
“Is the body upstairs now?” asked Detective Gillett.
“It has been left exactly as it was found. I gave Heather orders that he was not to touch it.”
“What sort of a man was this Lumsden?” asked Inspector Payne. “Had he any enemies?”
“He may have,” replied the cautious sergeant. “There are some who bore him no good will.”
“Why was that?”
“Because they thought he hadn’t acted rightly by them. He was the executor of his grandfather’s will, but he didn’t pay the legacies his grandfather left. He said there was no money. His grandfather drew all his money out of the bank when the war broke out, and no one was ever able to find where he hid it. But there are some who say Frank Lumsden found it and stuck to it all.”
“This is interesting,” said Detective Gillett. “We must go into it thoroughly later on.”
“And what makes it more interesting is that a sort of plan showing where the money was hidden has disappeared,” continued Sergeant Westaway. “It disappeared after Lumsden was murdered. Mr. Marsland told me that he found it when he was going upstairs to find out the cause of the crash he heard. It was lying on the second bottom stair. Mr. Marsland picked it up and put it on the table with the candle stuck on top of it. But when we came here this morning it was gone.”
“That is strange,” commented Inspector Payne. “What was the plan like? And how does Mr. Marsland know it had anything to do with the missing money?”
“Of course he doesn’t know for certain. But when I happened to tell him about the murdered man’s grandfather and the missing money he called to mind a strange-looking paper he had picked up. As he described it to me, it had some figures written in the shape of a circle on it, and some letters or writing above and below the circle of figures. He did not scrutinize it very closely when he first found it, for he intended to examine it later.”
“And it disappeared after Mr. Marsland left the farm to go to the police station?” asked Detective Gillett.
“Showing, to my mind, that the murderer was actually in the house when Mr. Marsland left,” added Sergeant Westaway, with impressive solemnity. “In all probability the murderer was hiding in the top floor at the time. I have ascertained that the crash Mr. Marsland heard was caused by a picture being knocked down and the glass broken. This picture I found on the stairs leading to the top floor. It used to hang on the wall near the top of the stairs. My theory is that the murderer, feeling his way in the dark while Mr. Marsland was in this room, accidentally knocked it down.”
“I take it that Marsland did not go up to the top floor but left the house after examining the body,” remarked Detective Gillett.
“That is so,” replied the Sergeant. “He forgot about the crash when he found the body of a murdered man. His first thought was to communicate with the police.”
“And the murderer, leaving the house after Marsland had gone, found this plan on the table and took it?” suggested Detective Gillett.
“That is my theory,” replied Sergeant Westaway. “I forgot to say, however, that the plan was probably stolen in the first place from the murdered man’s pocket-book—his pocket-book was found on the table near him. It had been opened and most of the papers it contained had been removed. The papers were scattered about the table. The way I see the crime is this: the murderer had killed his victim, had removed his pocket-book, and had obtained possession of the plan. He was making his way downstairs to escape when he saw Marsland in the doorway. In his alarm he dropped the plan on the stairs and then crept softly upstairs to the top of the house. After Mr. Marsland left, the murderer came downstairs again, looked about for the plan, and after finding it then made off.”
“A very ingenious reconstruction, sergeant,” said Inspector Payne. “I shouldn’t wonder if it proved to be correct. What do you say, Gillett?”
“Westaway is wasting his time down here,” said the young detective. “We ought to have him at Scotland Yard.”
Sergeant Westawaywas flattered at the manner in which his theory of the murder had been received by men who were far more experienced than himself in investigating crime. His sallow cheeks flushed with pleasure and his pessimism waned a little. In his determination to place his hearers in possession of all the facts concerning the crime and the victim he gave them details regarding Lumsden’s mode of life at Cliff Farm after his discharge from the army, and the gossip that was current in the district concerning him. While he was dealing with these matters they heard a motor-car approaching. It stopped outside the gates of the farmhouse, and the three police officials went to the door to see who had arrived.
“Why, it’s Crewe!” exclaimed Detective Gillett, in a tone of surprise. “I wonder who has put him on to this?”
“That is Sir George Granville with him—the stout elderly man,” said Inspector Payne.
“The other gentleman is Mr. Marsland,” said Sergeant Westaway.
“Which is Crewe and which is Marsland?” asked Inspector Payne.
“The tall one on the left is Crewe,” answered Detective Gillett.
As a police official, Inspector Payne was indignant at the idea of Crewe intruding into the case, but as a man he was delighted at the opportunity of meeting the famous private detective who had so often scored over Scotland Yard by unravelling mysteries which had baffled the experts of the London detective department. Crewe’s fame had even penetrated to Ashlingsea, and Sergeant Westaway studied the private detective with awed interest as the three occupants of the motor-car walked up the drive.
Inspector Payne had pictured Crewe as a more striking personality than the tall young man in tweeds who was accompanying Sir George Granville and his nephew. The latter was talking earnestly, and Crewe was listening closely. Inspector Payne had an opportunity of noting the distinction and character which marked the detective’s face in repose: the clear, clean-cut profile, the quick penetration and observation of his dark eyes as they took in the exterior of Cliff Farm. He concluded that Crewe was rather young for the fame he had achieved—certainly under forty: that he liked his face; that he looked like a gentleman; and that his tweed suit displayed a better cut than any provincial tailor had ever achieved.
His companion, Sir George Granville’s nephew, was a young man of Saxon type, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with a clear skin which had been tanned brown as the result of his war campaigning in France. He was two or three inches shorter than Crewe, but was well set up and well-built, and although he did not wear khaki his recent connection with the army was indicated by his military carriage and bearing.
After the necessary introductions Crewe explained with an air of modesty that, Sir George Granville’s nephew having had the misfortune to become associated with the tragedy through the discovery of the body, Sir George, as a public man, had conceived the idea that he ought to do something towards discovering the author of the crime. That was how he himself came to be present. He hoped that he would not be in the way of the police.
“Not at all; not at all,” said Inspector Payne, answering for the County Police. “We’ll be glad of your help. And as for anything we can do for you, Mr. Crewe, you have only to ask.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Crewe.
“You are just in time,” continued Inspector Payne. “Gillett and I have been here only a few minutes. We were just going upstairs to look at the body when you arrived.”
On their way upstairs Gillett drew attention to some marks on the margin of the stairs between the carpet on the staircase and the wall. These marks were irregular in shape, and they looked as if they had been made by wiping portions of the stairs with a dirty wet cloth. Some of the stairs bore no mark.
“It seems to me that some one has been wiping up spots of blood on the stairs,” said Inspector Payne, as he examined the marks closely.
On the linoleum covering the landing of the first flight there were more traces of the kind, the last of them being beside the door of the room in which the body had been discovered.
The dead man was still in the arm-chair near the window. There was such a resemblance to life in his stooping posture that the men entering the room found it difficult at first to realize they were confronted with the corpse of a man who had been murdered. A ray of sunlight fell through the narrow window on the bent head, revealing the curly brown hair and the youthful contour of the neck. The right arm was slightly extended from the body towards the table near the arm-chair in which the corpse was seated, as though the murdered man had been about to pick up the pocket-book which lay on the table. The pocket-book was open, and the papers which had been in it were scattered about the table.
Payne, Gillett and Crewe inspected the body closely. Sir George Granville and Marsland waited a little distance away while the others conducted their examination. The dead man had been fully dressed when he was shot. On the left side of his vest was the hole made by the bullet, and around it was a discoloured patch where the blood, oozing from the wound, had stained the tweed. There were numerous blood-stains on the floor near the dead man’s feet, and also near the window at the side of the arm-chair.
“I see that the window is broken,” said Inspector Payne, pointing to one of the panes in the window near the arm-chair.
“By a bullet,” said Sergeant Westaway. He pulled down the window blind and pointed to a hole in it which had evidently been made by a bullet. “When I came in the blind was down. I pulled it up in order to let in some light. But the fact that there is a hole in the window blind shows that the murder was committed at night, when the blind was down. I should say two shots were fired. The first went through the window, and the other killed him.”
“I think the bullet that killed him has gone through him,” said Crewe, who had moved the body in order to examine the back of it. “It looks as if he was shot from behind, because the wound in the back is lower down than the one in front.” He pointed to a hole in the back of the coat where the cloth showed a similar discoloured patch to the one in the vest.
“It must have been a powerful weapon if the bullet has gone through him,” said Gillett. “That means we shall have no bullet to guide us as to the calibre of the weapon, unless we can find the one that went through the window.”
“Perhaps there was only one shot fired after all,” remarked Inspector Payne. “The victim may have been standing by the window when he was shot, and then have staggered to the chair. Otherwise if he were shot in the back while sitting in the chair the bullet should be embedded in the chair or wall. But I can see no sign of it.”
“Not necessarily,” said Gillett. “Look at the position on the arm-chair. It is possible that the bullet, after going through the man, went through the window. That would account for the broken pane of glass.”
The pocket-book and the papers it contained were next examined. Inspector Payne asked Marsland concerning the mysterious plan he had picked up on the stairs. Marsland borrowed a sheet of paper from the inspector’s large official note-book and drew a rough sketch of the plan as he remembered it. He explained that as he had lost his glasses while out in the storm he had not been able to make a close study of the plan. While he was engaged in reproducing the plan as far as he remembered it, Sergeant Westaway enlightened Crewe and Sir George Granville about the theory he had formed that the murderer was in the house when Marsland discovered the body, and that, after Marsland left, the murderer made his escape and took from the sitting-room downstairs the plan he had dropped on the stairs when he heard Marsland in the house.
“What do you make of this, Mr. Crewe?” asked Inspector Payne, as he took up the paper on which Marsland had sketched what he recalled of the plan. “Do you think this was meant to show where the old grandfather had his money?”
“That is very probable,” said Crewe. “But it is not worth while trying to solve the riddle from a sketch drawn from memory. Get the murderer and you will probably get the original plan as well.”
Sergeant Westaway, in pursuance of his duties as guide, took his visitors downstairs to the sitting-room for the purpose of showing them how the window had been forced in order to provide an entrance. He pointed to a mark on the sash which indicated that a knife had been used to force back the catch.
This was the room in which Miss Maynard had been sitting when Marsland had arrived to obtain shelter from the storm. Marsland noticed the chair beside which she had stood while they were in the room together before going upstairs to investigate the cause of the crash they had heard. He gave a start as he saw behind the chair a small tortoiseshell comb such as ladies sometimes wear to keep their hair up. He stooped quickly to pick it up, and as he did so he realized that he had blundered badly. In order to rectify the blunder he made a weak attempt to hide the comb, but he saw Detective Gillett’s eye on him.
“What have we here?” asked the Scotland Yard man genially.
Marsland held out his hand with the comb resting in it.
“A woman in the case,” commented Inspector Payne. “That ought to help to simplify matters.”
Marsland bit his lips at the thought of how he had been false to his promise to Miss Maynard. He had kept her name out of the discovery of the crime, but he had unwittingly directed attention to the fact that a woman had only recently been in that room.
The comb was handed to Crewe for examination. It was about three inches long and was slightly convex in shape. On the outside was a thin strip of gold mounting. Crewe handed the comb back.
“You sat in this room before going upstairs, Marsland?” he asked, turning to Sir George’s nephew.
“Yes; I was here about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes.”
“Was the window open when you came in? Did you close it?”
“I did not close it, but it must have been closed, as otherwise I would have noticed it open. It was raining and blowing hard while I was here.” Marsland thought to himself that any information he could give about the window was useless in view of the fact that Miss Maynard had been in the room some time before he arrived.
“Was this the room in which you found the lamp that you took upstairs?” continued Crewe.
“Yes.”
“I think you told me that there was no light in the house when you entered?”
“The place was in darkness. I found a candlestick on the hallstand. I lit that first and after coming in here I lit the lamp.” He had decided to adhere in his statements to what Miss Maynard had told him she had done before he arrived.
“Did you notice when you lit the lamp whether the lamp chimney was hot, warm, or quite cold?” asked Crewe.
“I cannot be certain. I think it was cold, or otherwise I should have noticed.”
“You lit the lamp before you heard the crash which startled you?”
“Yes. I lit it a few moments after I came into the room.”
“Any foot-marks outside the window?” said Inspector Payne, thrusting his head out of the open window. “Yes, there they are, quite plainly, in the ground. Made by heavy hobnailed boots. We must get plaster impressions of those, Gillett. They are an important clue.”
“I notice, inspector,” said Crewe, “that there are no marks of any kind on the wall-paper beneath the window. One would expect that a man getting in through this window would touch the wall-paper with one foot while he was getting through the window, and as it was a wet night there ought to be some mark on it.”
“Not necessarily,” replied the inspector. “He may have jumped to the floor without touching the wall-paper.”
“But there do not seem to be any impressions inside the house of these heavy nailed boots,” returned Crewe. “Those impressions beneath the window show that they were made when the ground was soft from the rain. Wet muddy boots with nails in the soles ought to leave some traces on the carpet of this room and on the staircase.”
“And what about those marks we saw on the staircase? They show that some one had been over the staircase with a wet rag.”
“To wipe out the traces of those boots?” asked Crewe.
“Why not?”
“Why did the person wearing those boots walk on the uncarpeted part of the stairs near the wall instead of the carpeted part?”
“Because he knew that it would be easier for him to remove the traces of his footprints from the wood than from the carpet.”
Crewe smiled at the ingenuity displayed by the inspector.
“One more doubt, inspector,” he said. “Why did the man who wore those boots take such care to remove the traces of footprints inside the house and show so much indifference to the traces he left outside?”
“Because he thought the rain would wash out the footprints outside. And so it would have done if it had rained until morning. Let us go outside and have a good look at them.”
They went out by the front door and made their way to the window, taking care to keep clear of the footprints.
“There you are, Mr. Crewe,” said Inspector Payne. “There is evidence that the man got in through the window.” He pointed to a spot beneath the window where a small piece of mortar between the brickwork had been broken off about fifteen inches above the ground. “And look at those parallel scratches on the mortar. It looks to me as if they were made by the nails in a boot.”
“Very true,” assented Crewe, examining the marks closely.
“Now let us follow the footsteps to see where they start from,” continued Inspector Payne.
It was no difficult matter to follow the marks of the heavy boots. In the soft soil, which had formerly been part of a flower-bed, they were quite distinct. Even on the grass beyond the flower-bed the impressions were visible, though not so distinctly. Eventually they reached the gravel-walk which skirted the front of the house, and here the traces were lost.
“I should say that the boots which made these marks are the ordinary heavy type worn by farm-hands and fishermen in this locality,” said Crewe.
“No doubt,” answered Inspector Payne. “But, though there are some hundreds of men in this locality who wear the same type of boot, the number of pairs of boots absolutely the same are small. That is particularly the case with these heavy nailed boots—the positions of some of the nails vary. A cast of three or four of the best of these impressions will narrow down the circle of our investigations. What do you say, Gillett?”
“It looks to me as if it is going to be a comparatively simple affair.”
Inspector Payne turned to Marsland.
“I think you said you found the door open, Mr. Marsland. Do you mean wide open or partly closed?”
“I found it wide open,” replied Marsland. “I thought at the time that it had not been properly closed and that the wind had blown it open.”
“That means that the murderer got in through this window and left by the door,” said Inspector Payne to Detective Gillett. “He left it open when he fled.”
“But what about Westaway’s theory that he was in the house when Mr. Marsland came here?” asked Gillett. “What about the crash Mr. Marsland heard when the picture fell down? What about the plan of the hidden money that disappeared after Mr. Marsland left?”
It was plain that Detective Gillett, who had to investigate the crime, was not in sympathy with Inspector Payne’s method of solving difficult points by ignoring them.
Inspector Payne stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“There are a lot of interesting little points to be cleared up,” he said cheerfully.
“Yes, there are,” responded Detective Gillett, “and I’ve no doubt we will find more of them as we go along.”
It was obvious to Marsland that in keeping silent about Miss Maynard’s presence at Cliff Farm on the night of the storm, and the means by which she had entered the house, he was placing obstacles in the way of the elucidation of the tragedy.
Fromthe front gate of Cliff Farm the road wound up the hill steeply and sinuously, following the broken curves of the coastline till it disappeared in the cutting of the hill three hundred yards from the house, and reappeared on the other side. As far as could be seen from the house, the cutting through the hill was the only place where the road diverged from the cliff.
No other short cut on a large scale had been attempted by the makers of the road, which, for the most part, skirted the irregular outline of the bluff and rocky coast until it seemed a mere white thread in the distant green of the spacious downs which stretched for many miles to the waters of the Channel.
On the far side of the cutting the downs came fully into view, rolling back from the edge of the cliffs to a low range of distant wooded hills, and stretching ahead till they were merged in the town of Staveley, nearly ten miles away. Staveley’s churchspires could be seen from the headland near Cliff Farm on a clear day, and the road in front of the farm ran to the town, skirting the edge of the cliffs for nearly the whole of the way.
Crewe and Marsland walked up the road from the house for some distance in silence. Sir George Granville had gone back to Staveley in his car, but his nephew and Crewe had arranged to stay behind and spend the night at Ashlingsea. Crewe desired to begin his investigations without delay, and Inspector Payne had asked Mr. Marsland to remain at Ashlingsea in case Detective Gillett wanted further light from him on incidental points. As they walked along, Crewe was thoughtful, and Marsland scrutinized the way-side closely, anxious to find the spot where his horse had swerved and stumbled on the previous night. Thus preoccupied, they reached the highest point of the cliff, a rocky headland which ran out from the hill-top on the other side of the cutting, forming a landmark well known to the fishermen of the district.
The headland, which was not more than a hundred yards across at the base, jutted sharply out into the sea. Immediately beyond it, on the Staveley side, the road ran along the edge of the cliffs for several hundred yards, with a light rail fence on the outside as some protection for traffic from the danger of going over the side to the rocks below. Where the grassy margin of the headland narrowed to this dangerous pass, an ancient and faded notice board on a post which had departed from its perpendicular position warned drivers that the next portion of the road was DANGEROUS, and a similar board was affixed to the other end of the protecting fence.
Marsland stopped opposite the point where the first notice-board confronted them from the narrowing margin of headland.
“It was somewhere about here that my horse took fright last night, I think,” he said, examining the green bank on the side of the road farthest from the cliff. “Yes, here is where he slipped.”
Crewe examined the deep indentation of hoofmarks with interest.
“It’s lucky for you your horse shied in that direction,” he said. “If he had sprung the other way you might have gone over the cliffs, in spite of the fence. Look here!”
Marsland followed him to the edge of the cliff and glanced over. The tide was out, and the cliffside fell almost perpendicularly to the jagged rocks nearly 300 feet below.
“They’d be covered at high tide,” said Crewe, pointing downward to the rocks. “But even if one fell over at high tide there would not be much chance of escape. The breakers must come in with terrific force on this rocky coast.”
“It’s a horribly dangerous piece of road, especially at night-time,” said Marsland. “I suppose there was some bad accident here at one time or another, which compelled the local authorities to put up that fence and the warning notices. Even now, it’s far from safe. Somebody’s had a narrow escape from going over: look at that notice-board leaning down on one side. Some passing motor-car has gone too close to the edge of the road—probably in the dark—and bumped it half over.”
“I noticed it,” said Crewe. “I agree with you: this piece of road is highly dangerous. There will be a shocking accident here some day unless the local authorities close this portion of the road and make a detour to that point lower down where those sheep are grazing. But local authorities never act wisely until they have had an accident. Still, I suppose the people of the country-side are so well used to this cliff road that they never think of the danger. Apparently it’s the only road between Ashlingsea and Staveley.”
Crewe slowly filled his large pipe, and lit it. He smoked thoughtfully, gazing round at the scene. The high headland on which they stood commanded an uninterrupted view of downs, sea, and coast. It was a clear day, and the distant city of Staveley, with its towering spires, was silhouetted against the sky like an etching in grey. To the left the fishing village of Ashlingsea nestled on the sands, its stone-grey houses gleaming in a silver setting, the sails of its fishing fleet flecked white on the sunlit blue of the sea.
On the Ashlingsea side the cliffs fell away quickly, and sloped down to a level beach less than a mile from the headland. About five hundred yards from the headland the cliff front was less precipitous, and a footpath showed a faint trail on its face, running down to a little stone landing place, where a fisherman could be seen mooring a boat. Crewe pointed out the path to Marsland.
“I should like to explore that path,” he said. “I should say it is not very far from Cliff Farm. Do you think you could manage it?”
The question referred to the fact that Marsland was a wounded man. Crewe had taken a fancy to Marsland on account of his unaffected manner and manly bearing. It was evident to him that the young man had been a good officer, a staunch comrade, and that he had been extremely popular with the men under him. No word in reference to Marsland’s military career had passed between Crewe and his companion.
Crewe was anxious to respect the medical advice which forbade Marsland to discuss the war or anything relating to his experience at the front. But in order to clear the way for candour and companionship Crewe thought it best to give an occasional indication that Sir George Granville had confided in him about his nephew’s state of health and the cause of it. Crewe was somewhat amused at the pains taken to make Marsland forget his past connection with the Army, when in so many ways he betrayed to any keen observer the effects of military training and discipline.
“I can manage it quite easily,” said Marsland with a smile, in reply to Crewe’s question. “I am not such a wreck as you’d all like to make me out. Come along! I’ll get to the bottom before you.”
They walked along to the cliff path. When they reached it they found it was not noticeable from the road, which at that point ran back three hundred yards or more from the cliff to enter the hill-cutting. Cliff Farm stood in the hollow less than a quarter of a mile away. The commencement of the path was screened from view by the furze which grew along the edge of the cliffs at this point. It took Crewe and Marsland some minutes before they could find the entrance to the path, but when they did they found the descent by it to the rocks below tolerably easy, the cliff at this point not being more than seventy feet high. The track ended abruptly about fifteen feet from the bottom, but the rocks afforded good foothold and handhold for the remaining distance.
The tide was out, and the coastline at the foot of the cliffs showed for miles towards Staveley in black rocky outline, with broken reefs running hundreds of yards out to sea.
“It’s a bad piece of coast,” said Marsland, eyeing the reefs and the rocky foreshore. “If a ship had run ashore anywhere between here and Staveley in last night’s storm she would not have had much chance.”
Crewe did not reply; his keen eyes were fixed on a line of rocks on the right about a hundred yards from where they stood. He walked rapidly to the spot, and Marsland could see him stoop down by a pool in the rocks and pick up something. As he returned, Marsland saw that the detective was carrying a man’s soft grey felt hat, stained and saturated with sea-water.
“I suppose somebody lost it from the cliffs last night,” remarked Marsland.
Crewe wrung the hat as dry as he could with his hands, rolled it up, and placed it in an inside pocket of his coat before replying.
“I do not think it blew off from the headland,” he said. “In fact, it couldn’t have done so. There may be nothing in the find, but it’s worth a few inquiries. But look at that fisherman, Marsland. He’s a picturesque touch of colour.”
The fisherman who had been mooring his boat had turned to come off the rough landing-stage. He stopped when he saw Crewe and Marsland, and stared suspiciously at them. He was an old man, but vigorous and upright, with a dark swarthy face, hooked nose, and flashing black eyes, which contrasted strikingly with a long snow-white beard. He wore a long red cloak fastened to his neck with clasps, and reaching nearly to his feet, which were bare.
He stood for a few moments looking at the two men, his red cloak making a bright splash of colour against the grey stones of the landing. Then, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he walked quickly off the landing-place. Crewe nodded to him pleasantly as he approached, and asked him to where the path they had just descended led.
The old man, with a slight shake of his head, pointed to his lips and his ears, and then, accelerating his pace, walked rapidly away along the rocks towards the headland.
“Deaf and dumb, poor beggar!” said Marsland, watching his retreating figure until it turned the headland and was lost to view. “I say, Crewe, did you ever see such an odd fish on an English foreshore?”
“Italian, I should say,” said Crewe. “But he looks as if he might have stepped out of a Biblical plate. He would make an admirable model for St. Peter, with his expressive eyes and hooked nose and patriarchal beard. We’ll have a look at his boat.”
They walked along the landing-place to the boat, which had been moored to an iron ring at the end. It was a halfdecked motor-boat about twenty feet long, empty except for a coil of rope thrown loosely in the bottom, and a small hand fishing-net. The boat was painted white, and the nameZuliettacould be seen on the stern in black letters.
They turned away, and Crewe suggested to his companion that they should walk along the beach and back to Cliff Farm by the road instead of returning by the path they had just descended. He added that he wanted to have a good look at the approach to the farm from the village.
Marsland readily agreed, and they walked for some distance in silence. He glanced at Crewe expectantly from time to time, but the detective appeared to be wrapped in thought. When they had covered more than half the distance between the landing-place and the point where the cliffs sloped down to level ground, Marsland spoke.
“Have you reached any conclusions yet, Crewe?”
“About this murder?”
“Of course.”
“I have not come to many definite conclusions so far,” said Crewe meditatively. “But of one thing I am certain. The unravelling of this crime is not going to be quite such a simple matter as Inspector Payne seems to think.”
“I gathered that you were doubtful about his theory that the man who killed Lumsden got in through the window.”
“Doubtful about it?” echoed Crewe. “Doubtful is a mild word. I am absolutely certain that he didn’t get in through the window.”
“But the catch was forced.”
“It was forced from the inside.”
Marsland looked at him in amazement.
“How did you find out that?” he asked.
“By inspecting the sash. I had a good look at it from the inside and out. Apparently it hadn’t been opened for some time before last night, and the marks of the knife which was used to force it were very distinct in the sash in consequence. But the marks were broader and more distinct at the top of the sash inside than at the bottom. Therefore the knife was inserted at the top, and that could be done only by a man inside the house.”
“But why was the window forced if the man was inside?”
“In order to mislead us.”
“But the footprints led up to the window.”
“No,” said Crewe. “They led away from it.”
“Surely you are mistaken,” said Marsland. “I don’t like trying to put you right on a matter of this kind, but the marks of the boots were so distinct; they all pointed the one way—towards the window.”
“Look behind you, at our own footprints in the sand,” said Crewe.
They had left the rocks behind them some time previously and for five minutes had been walking on a strip of sand which skirted the cliff road—now level with the sea—and broadened into a beach nearer the village. Crewe pointed to the clear imprint of their footsteps in the firm wet sand behind them.
“We’ll try a little experiment,” he said. “Let us walk backwards for a few yards over the ground we have just covered.”
He commenced to do so, and Marsland wonderingly followed suit. After covering about twenty yards in this fashion Crewe stopped.
“That will be sufficient for our purpose,” he said. “Now let us compare the two sets of footprints—the ones we have just made, and the previous ones. Examine them for yourself, Marsland, and tell me if you can see any difference.”
Marsland did so. With the mystified air of a man performing a task he did not understand, he first scrutinized the footprints they had made while walking forwards, and then examined the backward ones.
“Find any difference in them?” asked Crewe.
Marsland stood up and straightened his back with the self-conscious look of an Englishman who feels he has been made to do something ridiculous.
“I cannot say that I do. They look very much alike to me.”
“You are not very observant,” said Crewe, with a smile. “Let me explain the difference. In ordinary walking a man puts down the heel of his boot first, and then, as he brings his body forward, he completes the impression of his foot. He lifts his heel first and springs off the ball of his foot for the next step. But in walking backwards a man puts down the ball of his foot first and makes but a very faint impression with his heel. If he walks very carefully because he is not sure of the ground, or because it is dark, he may take four or five steps without bringing his heel to the ground. If you compare the impressions your boots have made in the sand when we were walking forward with the others made by walking backward, you will find that few of the latter marks give the complete impression of your boot.”
“Yes, I see now,” said Marsland. “The difference is quite distinct.”
“When I examined the window this afternoon, and came to the conclusion that it had been forced from the inside, I felt certain that a murderer who had adopted such a trick in order to mislead the police would carry it out in every detail,” said Crewe. “After forcing the window he would get out of it in order to leave footprints underneath the window in the earth outside, and of course he would walk backwards from the window, in order to convey the impression that he had walked up to the window through the garden, forced it and then got into the house. As I expected, I found the footsteps leading away from the window were deep in the toe, with hardly any heel marks. It was as plain as daylight that the man who had made them had walked backwards from the window. But even if I had not been quite sure of this from the footprints themselves, there was additional confirmation. The backward footsteps led straight to a fruit tree about twenty feet from the window, and on examining that tree I found a small branch—a twig—had been broken and bent just where the footsteps were lost in the gravel walk. The man who got out of the window had bumped into the tree. Walking backwards he could neither see nor feel where he was going.”
“I see—I see,” Marsland stood silent for a moment evidently pondering deeply over Crewe’s chain of deductions. “It seems to me,” he said at length, “that this man, clever as he was, owed a great deal to accident.”
“In what respect?”
“Because the window where you found the footprints is the only window on that side of the house which has a bare patch of earth underneath. All the others have grass growing right up to the windows. I noticed that when I saw the footprints. If he had got out of any of them he would have left no footprints.”
“On the contrary, he knew that and chose that window because he wanted to leave us some footprints. The fact that he selected in the dark the only window that would serve his purpose shows that he is a man who knows the place well. He is clever and resourceful, but that is no reason why we should not succeed in unmasking him.”
“Doesn’t the fact that he wore hobnailed boots indicate that he is a labouring man?”
“My dear Marsland, may he not have worn boots of that kind for the same reason that he walked backwards—to mislead us all?”
“I gathered that you do not agree with Inspector Payne that the marks on the stairs were caused by the intruder trying to obliterate with a wet cloth the marks he made by his muddy boots.”
“Outside the house he does his best to leave footprints; and inside, according to Inspector Payne, he takes special pains to remove similar traces. It is hopeless trying to reconcile the two things,” said Crewe.
“Well, what do you think were the original marks on the stairs that the intruder was so anxious to remove?”
“Blood-stains.”
“But why should he go to the trouble of removing blood-stains on the stairs and yet leave so much blood about in the room in which the body was discovered?”
“I have asked myself that question,” said Crewe. “At the present stage it is very difficult to answer.”
“You think it adds to the mystery?”
“For the present it does. But it may prove to be a key which will open many closed doors in this investigation.”
“Your mention of closed doors suggests another question,” said Marsland. “Why did this man get out of the window and walk backwards? If he wanted to leave misleading clues it would have been just as easy for him to go out by the front door, walk up to the window from the path so as to leave footprints and then force the window from the outside.”
“Just as easy,” assented Crewe. “But it would have taken longer, because it is more difficult to force the catch of a window from the outside than the inside. I think that we must assume that he was pressed for time.”
“But I understand that this man Lumsden lived alone. In that case there would be little danger of interruption.”
“A man who has just committed a murder gets into a state of nervous alarm,” was Crewe’s reply. “He is naturally anxious to get away from the scene of the crime.”
“But if this man knew the place well he must have known that Lumsden lived alone, and that the discovery of the crime would not take place immediately. But for the accident of my taking shelter there the body might have remained undiscovered for days.”
“Quite true. But that does not affect my point that a murderer is always in a hurry to get away.”
“Isn’t the fact that he went to the trouble of washing out blood-stains on the stairs evidence that he was not in a hurry?”
“No,” said Crewe emphatically. “I should be more inclined to accept it as evidence that he expected some one to call at the farm—that either he or Lumsden had an appointment with some one there.”
Marsland looked very hard at Crewe as he recalled the greeting Miss Maynard had given him when she opened the door to his knock.
“I did not think of that,” he said.
“That supposition gives us a probable explanation why the blood-stains were wiped off the stairs, and not off the floor of the room in which you saw the body. The murderer was expecting a visitor by appointment. The suspicions of this visitor would be aroused if he saw blood-stains on the stairs. But as he was not expected to go upstairs the murderer did not trouble about the stains in the room. This is another indication of pressure of time.”
Marsland felt that Crewe was on the track of discovering Miss Maynard’s presence at the farm. He began to see in the light of Crewe’s deductions that her chief object in having asked him to keep her name out of the affair was to shelter some one else. But having given his word he must keep it and stand by the consequences.
Detective Gillettmade a journey to London in order to visit Somerset House and inspect the will left by James Lumsden, the grandfather of the man who had been murdered. He had been able to ascertain, from local sources of information at Ashlingsea, some of the details of the will, but as an experienced detective he knew the value of exact details obtained from official sources.
His perusal of the will showed him that Cliff Farm and all the testator’s investments and personal property had been left to his nephew Frank, with the exception of legacies to three old servants who had been in his employ for over a quarter of a century.
Gillett had ascertained from previous inquiries that Frank was at the front in France when his grandfather died. He had been brought up at the farm, but as his inclinations did not tend to a farming life, he had left his grandfather, and gone to London, where he had earned a livelihood as a clerk prior to enlisting in the Army. According to Ashlingsea gossip, old James Lumsden had been a man of considerable wealth: though local estimates of his fortune varied considerably, ranging from £20,000 to five times that amount. Gillett’s inspection of the terms of the will convinced him that the lower amount was somewhat nearer the correct figure; and an interview with Messrs. Holding, Thomas & Holding, the London solicitors who had drawn up the will, supported this view.
It was the elder Mr. Holding, the senior partner of the firm, who had transacted Mr. Lumsden’s business and had taken the instructions for drawing up the will. The document had been executed seven years ago. Mr. Holden, senior, a white haired old gentleman whose benign appearance seemed out of harmony with the soulless profession he adorned, told Gillett that Mr. Lumsden had consulted him on several occasions about business matters, but the old man was extremely intelligent and capable, and kept his affairs so entirely in his own hands that he was not a very profitable client.
The solicitor did not even know the extent of the old farmer’s investments, for his client, who hated to disclose much of his private affairs even to his solicitor, had taken care when the will was drawn up not to tell him much about the sources of his income. Mr. Holding had been consulted by Frank Lumsden after he had come into his grandfather’s estate, and on his behalf had made some investigations concerning the time the old man had converted his securities into cash. Of course the grandfather had lost heavily in doing so, for the stock market was greatly depressed immediately after the war broke out. But he had probably realized between ten and fifteen thousand pounds in cash.
Where this money had gone was a mystery. All the ready money that Frank Lumsden had handled when he came into the property was the sum of eighty-five pounds, which had been standing to the old farmer’s credit in the bank at Staveley. Most of this amount had been swallowed up by the funeral and legal expenses connected with the transfer of the deeds. The young man had naturally been eager to find some trace of the missing money. Mr. Holding was inclined to the belief that the old man’s mental balance had been disturbed by the war. He thought that fear of a German invasion had preyed on his mind to such an extent that he had buried his money, intending to dig it up after the war was over. Frank had sold some of the farming machinery in order to provide himself with ready money. In this way over £200 had been obtained.
Nothing had been paid to the three old servants who had been left legacies. The old farmer had fractured his skull through falling downstairs, and had died without recovering consciousness, and therefore without realizing the emptiness of the reward he had left to his faithful servants. To Mrs. Thorpe, his housekeeper, he intended to leave £200, and legacies of half that amount to two of his old farm-hands, Samuel Hockridge and Thomas Jauncey.
Mrs. Thorpe was a widow who had had charge of the domestic management of the house for thirty-seven years. Hockridge, who was over seventy years of age, had spent over thirty years with James Lumsden as shepherd, and Jauncey, another shepherd, had been twenty-eight years at Cliff Farm.
Detective Gillett had no difficulty in tracing each of these three old servants and interviewing them. Mrs. Thorpe had gone to live with a married daughter at Woolwich. Gillett found her a comparatively cheerful old woman, and, though the loss of her legacy which her old master had intended to leave her was a sore memory, she had little complaint to make against him. She was full of hope that her master’s money would ultimately be found and that she would get her legacy.
Hockridge had gone into the service of a neighbouring sheep-farmer on the Staveley Downs. It was true that his best days were over, but he had a profound practical knowledge of sheep, and as labour was scarce, owing to the war, the farmer had been glad to get him. When Gillett interviewed him in his new employment he found that the loss of his promised legacy from his old master had soured him. To the detective’s optimistic view that the missing money would be found, he replied that it would be too late for him—he would be in his grave.
One hundred pounds was more than his year’s earnings, and it represented wealth to him. He dwelt on the ease and comfort he would have been able to command with so much money. He could give no clue regarding the hiding-place of the old farmer’s fortune. He was familiar with every foot of ground on the farm, but he knew of no place that suggested a hiding-place for a large sum of money. If it had been buried, his old master must have buried it himself, and therefore the garden was the most likely place. But the garden had been turned over by zealous searchers under the direction of Master Frank, and no trace of money had been found there.
It was evident to Detective Gillett that this feeble old man had not killed Frank Lumsden. Although he regarded the loss of the legacy as the greatest disappointment that could befall any man, he felt no active resentment. He accepted it as a staggering blow from fate which had dealt him many blows during a long life. The detective’s inquiries showed that on the day of the murder, and for weeks before it, Hockridge performed his ordinary duties on the farm of his new employer, and therefore could not have been near Cliff Farm, which was ten miles away from the farm on which he was now employed.
Thomas Jauncey was an inmate of Staveley Infirmary, suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism which rendered him unable to get about except with the aid of two sticks. Gillett’s inquiries established the fact that he was crippled in this way when Frank Lumsden was murdered. Nevertheless, he went over to Staveley to interview the old man. He found him sitting in a chair which had been wheeled into the yard to catch the weak rays of the autumn sunshine. He was a tall old man, with a large red weather-beaten face surrounded by a fringe of white whisker, and his two hands, which were crossed on a stick he held in front of him, were twisted and gnarled with the rheumatism that had come to him as a result of half a century’s shepherding on the bleak downs. The mention of the legacy he had not received brought a spark of resentment to his dim eyes.
“Seems to me I ought to have been paid some’et of what belongs to me,” he said to Detective Gillett, after that officer had engaged him in conversation about his late master. “Why didn’t Master Frank sell the farm and pay his grandfather’s debts according to what the will said? That’s what ought to be done.”
“Well, of course, he might have done that,” said the detective soothingly. “But there are different ways of looking at things.”
“There is a right way and a wrong way,” said the old shepherd, in a tone which ruled out the idea of compromise as weakness. “I ought to have been paid some’et. That’s what my son says.”
“Ah!” said Gillett, with sudden interest. “That is how your son looks at it, is it? And now I come to consider it, I think he’s right. He’s a man with ideas.”
“No one can’t say as he ain’t always been a clever lad,” said the withered parent, with a touch of pride in his offspring.
“I’d like to meet him,” said the detective; “Where is he to be found?”
“He is gard’ner to Mrs. Maynard at Ashlingsea. Mrs. Maynard she thinks a heap of him.”
“Ah, yes,” said Gillett. “I remember Sergeant Westaway telling me that you had a son there. I’ll look him up and have a talk with him about your legacy. We may be able to do something—he and I.”
On returning to Ashlingsea, Detective Gillett made inquiries concerning the gardener at “Beverley,” the house of Mrs. Maynard. Sergeant Westaway was able to supply him with a great deal of information, as he had known young Tom Jauncey for over a score of years. Young Tom was only relatively young, for he was past forty, but he bore the odd title of Young Tom as a label to distinguish him from his father, who to the people of Ashlingsea was old Tom.
The information Gillett obtained was not of a nature which suggested that young Tom was the sort of man who might commit a murder. Mrs. Maynard lived on her late husband’s estate two miles south from Ashlingsea. The household consisted at present of herself, her daughter, a cook, a housemaid and young Tom, who was gardener, groom and handy man. Young Tom bore a reputation for being “a steady sort of chap.” He liked his glass of ale, and was usually to be found atThe Black-Horned Sheepfor an hour or so of an evening, but no one had ever seen him the worse for liquor.
Detective Gillett took a stroll over to “Beverley” in order to interview young Tom. The house, an old stone building, stood in the midst of its grounds—well away from the sea—on a gentle eminence which commanded an extensive view of the rolling downs for many miles around, but the old stone building was sheltered from the fury of Channel gales by a plantation of elm-trees.
The detective found his man digging in the kitchen-garden and preparing the ground for the spring sowing. Young Tom was a thickset man of middle age with a large round face that he had inherited from his father. He was a man of slow thought, slow actions, and hard to move once he had made up his mind. According to Gillett’s standards his appearance scarcely justified the parental description of him as a clever lad.
The detective was not an expert in gardening, his life having been spent in congested areas of London where the luxury of a plot of ground is unknown, but something in young Tom’s method of digging attracted his attention. It was obvious that young Tom was not putting much energy into the operation. The fact that his shirt-sleeves were not rolled up but were buttoned at the wrist seemed to bear out this opinion. With his heavy boot young Tom pressed down the spade vigorously, but he brought up only a thin spadeful of earth each time. Then with his spade in his right hand he twisted the blade among the earth so as to break it up.
Detective Gillett brought the conversation round from the weather and vegetable growing to his recent visit to young Tom’s father. He spoke of the legacy and expressed regret that old Tom, who if he had his rights would be able to pay for proper care and nourishment, should have had to go to the infirmary. But, according to Detective Gillett, even adversity had its uses. The fact that old Tom was practically bedridden when the murder was committed prevented the idle gossip of the town from trying to connect him with the tragedy.
The detective had not expected to find in young Tom a fluent conversationalist, but after a few moments he came to the conclusion that he was a more than ordinarily hesitating one, even according to the slow standard of Ashlingsea. Apparently young Tom did not want to discuss the murder. Detective Gillett kept the conversation on that subject and soon arrived at the conclusion that young Tom was uneasy. It came to him suddenly that what was wrong with the man’s method of digging was that to all practical purpose he was using only one arm. Young Tom was careful not to put any weight on his left arm.
“What is wrong with your arm?” exclaimed the detective in an imperative tone.
Tom stopped digging and looked at him.
“Nothing,” he replied in a surly tone.
“Let me have a look,” said the detective, stepping towards him.
“No, I won’t,” answered young Tom, stepping back slowly.
Gillett looked him over from head to foot as if measuring him. His eyes rested on the man’s boots, and then turned to an impression made on the soft earth by one of the boots.
“I want you to come along to the police station with me,” he said suddenly.
“What for?” asked Tom in a tone of defiance.
Gillett looked him over again as if to assure himself that he had made no mistake in his first measurements.
“I’ll tell you when you get there,” was the reply.
“I had nothing to do with it,” said Tom.
It was plain to Gillett that the man was undergoing a mental strain.
“With what?” asked the detective.
“With what you want to ask me about.”
For a clever lad young Tom seemed to be making a hash of things.
“I have not said what it is,” said Gillett.
“But I know,” said Tom.
If that was the extent of young Tom’s cleverness it seemed to be leading him in the direction of the gallows.
“You think it is about this murder?” suggested Gillett.
There was a long silence. Gillett kept his eyes steadily on his man, determined not to help him out by substituting another question for the plain one that Tom found it so difficult to answer.
“I’ll come with you to the police station,” said Tom at length. “But you go first and I’ll follow you behind.”
It was obvious to Detective Gillett that Tom wanted to avoid giving the village cause for gossip by his being taken to the police station by a detective. The detective was not disposed to consider Tom’s feelings, but he reflected that his main purpose was to get Tom to the station, and that since he was not prepared to arrest Tom at present it was desirable to get him there as quietly as possible.
“No,” he said. “You go on ahead and I’ll follow.”
Tom accepted this plan and walked up the village street to the police station with the detective about forty yards behind. Constable Heather was in charge of the station, and when he saw Tom he greeted him affably. When Heather was made to realize by Tom’s awkwardness that Detective Gillett was responsible for his visit, he whistled in a significant manner.
When Gillett entered the building Tom rolled up the sleeve of his left arm and displayed a bandage round the upper part.
“Do you want to see this?” he asked doggedly.
“I do,” replied the detective with keen interest. He was anxious as to the nature of the wound, but he was too cautious to display a curiosity which would reveal his ignorance. He assisted at unwinding the bandage.
“Be careful,” said Tom wincing, as the detective’s hand touched his arm. “The bullet is in it.”
“Is it?” said Gillett.
When the bandage was off he examined the wound carefully. It was a bullet wound through the fleshy upper part of the arm, dangerously inflamed and swollen from dirt and neglect.
“You had better get this attended to,” said Gillett. “There is a risk of blood poisoning and the bullet must be removed. You’ll be more comfortable without that bullet, and I want it.”
“I had nothing to do with him,” said Tom. He spoke in a loud excited voice. It was evident that he was feeling the strain of being under suspicion.
“But you were at Cliff Farm the night Frank Lumsden was murdered,” said Gillett, eyeing him closely as he put the question.
Young Tom nodded a surly admission, but did not speak.
“What were you doing there? How did you get this?” Detective Gillett pointed to the wound. “Take my advice and make a clean breast of it. I’ll give you five minutes to make up your mind.” Gillett picked up a pair of handcuffs from the office table as he spoke, and jingled them together nonchalantly.
Young Tom’s ruddy colour faded as he glanced at the handcuffs, and from them his eyes wandered to Police Constable Heather, as though seeking his counsel to help him out of the awkward position in which he found himself. But Police Constable Heather’s chubby face was set in implacable lines, in which young Tom could recognize no trace of the old acquaintance who for years past had made one of the friendly evening circle in the tap-room ofThe Black-Horned Sheep. Young Tom turned his gaze to the floor and after remaining in silent cogitation for some moments spoke:
“I was in the garden. It was before the storm came on. I don’t know who killed Frank Lumsden. I didn’t see either of them. They were in the house before I got there. I saw a light in a room upstairs. Then a gun or something of the kind was fired and I felt that I was hit. I got up and ran.”
“Do you mean that some one fired at you from the house?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Whereabouts were you?”
“Just near the cherry-tree at the side of the house.”
“Did you see who fired it at you?”
“No.”
“Didn’t anyone call out and ask you what you were doing there?”
“No.”
“He just fired—whoever it was.”
“I heard the gun go off and then I felt a pain in my arm. I touched it and saw it was bleeding. Then I ran and that is all I know.”
“I want to know a lot more than that,” said Gillett sternly. “Your story won’t hold water. What were you doing there in the first place? Why did you go there?”
“I went there to look for the money. I thought there was no one at home and I meant to look for it in the garden round about.”