“Did you take a spade with you?” asked Gillett.
“What would I want to do that for?” asked Tom.
“Well, you can’t dig without a spade,” said Gillett.
“There’s spades enough in the barn,” said Tom.
“You meant to dig for the money?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the garden.”
“Whereabouts in the garden? Don’t you know that the garden has been turned over several times?”
“I’ve heard that, but I wanted to dig for myself.”
“It would take one man a week to dig over the garden. No one knows that better than you.”
“I was going to try just near the pear-tree. I count that’s a likely place.”
“And did you dig there?”
“No. Didn’t I tell you there was lights in the house when I got there?”
“A likely story,” sneered the detective. “You went there to dig in the garden, although you knew it had been turned over thoroughly. You didn’t take a spade with you, and you didn’t turn over as much as a single clod. But you came away with a bullet wound in the arm from a house in which the murdered body of the owner was subsequently found.”
Dull as young Tom was, he seemed to realize that the detective had a gift of making things appear as black as they could be.
“I’ve told you the truth,” he said obstinately.
“And I don’t believe a word of your story,” said Detective Gillett.
Crewespent two days in making investigations at Cliff Farm and at Ashlingsea. He went over the farm very carefully in search of any trace of disturbed ground which might indicate where old James Lumsden had buried the money he had obtained from the sale of his investments. But he found nothing to support the theory that the money had been buried in the fields.
There were, of course, innumerable places where a few bags of money might be hidden, especially along the brook which ran through the farm, but though Crewe searched along both banks of the brook, as well as in the open fields, he found no trace of disturbed ground. The garden, he ascertained, had been thoroughly searched under the direction of Frank Lumsden.
Crewe realized that searching for the money without the assistance of the mysterious plan which Marsland had seen on the staircase was almost hopeless, and he was not affected by his failure.
His inquiries at Ashlingsea concerned the character and habits of the grandfather and the murdered man. In the course of his inquiries about the grandson he went up to London and called on the former employers of Frank Lumsden, and the firm of Messrs. Tittering & Hammings, wholesale leather merchants, gave Frank an excellent character. He had been a sober, industrious, and conscientious clerk, and they were greatly shocked at the fate that had befallen him. They could throw no light on the murder, for they knew of no one who had any enmity against Frank. Inquiries were also made by Crewe at the headquarters of the London Rifle Brigade, in which the young man had enlisted. His military record was good, and threw no light on his tragic fate.
Crewe returned to Staveley to continue his work on the case. Sir George Granville, in his anxiety to be helpful in solving the mystery, put forward many suggestions to his guest, but they were not of a practical kind. On points where Crewe did ask for his host’s assistance, Sir George was unable to respond, in spite of his eagerness to play a part in the detective’s investigations. For instance. Sir George was not able to give any information about the old boatman whom Crewe and Marsland had seen at the landing-place, at the foot of the cliffs near the scene of the tragedy.
Sir George had often seen the man in the scarlet cloak, and knew that he plied for hire on the front, but he had never been in the old man’s boat, and did not know where he lived or anything about him beyond the fact that he was called Pedro by the Staveley boatmen, and was believed to be an Italian.
“I’ll tell you what, Crewe,” said Sir George, a bright idea occurring to him as the result of reactionary consciousness that he was not a mine of information in local matters. “You go up and see Inspector Murchison. He’s a rare old gossip. He has been here for a generation and knows everybody and all about them. And mention my name—I’ll give you my card. You will find he will do anything for me. I’d go along with you myself, only I have promised to make a call with Mildred. But Harry will go with you—Harry knows Murchison; I introduced him yesterday on the front.”
After lunch, Crewe, accompanied by Marsland, walked up to the police station at Staveley to call on Inspector Murchison. The police station was a building of grey stone, standing back in a large garden. It would have been taken for a comfortable middle-class residence but for the official notices of undiscovered crime which were displayed on a black board erected in the centre flower-bed. A young policeman was sitting writing in a front room overlooking the garden, which had been turned into a general office.
Crewe, without disclosing his name or using Sir George’s card, asked him if he could see the inspector in charge. The young policeman, requesting him to take a seat, said he would inquire if the inspector was disengaged, and disappeared into an inner office. He shortly returned to say that Inspector Murchison would see them, and ushered them into the inner office, where a police officer sat writing at a large desk.
Inspector Murchison of Staveley was in every way a contrast to Police-Sergeant Westaway of Ashlingsea. He was a large and portly man with a good-humoured smile, twinkling blue eyes, and a protecting official manner which ladies who had occasion to seek his advice found very soothing. He had been stationed at Staveley for nearly thirty years, but instead of souring under his circumscribed existence like Sergeant Westaway, he had expanded with the town, and become more genial and good-tempered as the years rolled on.
He was a popular and important figure in Staveley, taking a deep and all-embracing interest in the welfare of the town and its inhabitants. He was a leading spirit in every local movement for Staveley’s advancement; he was an authority in its lore, traditions, vital statistics, and local government; he had even written a booklet in which the history of Staveley was set forth and its attractions as a health and pleasure resort were described in superlative terms. He was regarded by the residents as a capable mentor and safe guide in all affairs of life, and was the chosen receptacle of many domestic confidences of a delicate and important nature. Husbands consulted him about their wives’ extravagance; wives besought him to warn husbands against the folly of prolonged visits to hotels on the front because there happened to be a new barmaid from London.
It was striking proof of Inspector Murchison’s rectitude that, although he was the repository of as many domestic histories as a family physician or lawyer, none of the confidences given him had ever become common gossip. For all his kindly and talkative ways, he was as secret and safe as the grave, despite the fact that he had a wife and five grown-up daughters not less curious than the rest of their sex. He was an efficient police officer, carefully safeguarding the public morals and private property entrusted to his charge, and Staveley shopkeepers, as they responded to his smiling salutations when he walked abroad, felt that they could sleep in peace in their beds, safe from murder, arson, or robbery, while his portly imposing official personality guarded the town.
Inspector Murchison swung round on his office chair as Crewe and Marsland were brought in by the young policeman.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asked courteously.
“This is Mr. Crewe,” said Marsland. “Mr. Crewe has been making inquiries about the murder at Cliff Farm.”
“Glad to see you both,” said Inspector Murchison, extending his hand. “If I can be of any assistance to Mr. Crewe he has only to say so. Of course I’ve heard all about the murder at Cliff Farm. It was you who discovered the body, Mr. Marsland. A terrible affair. Poor, inoffensive Frank Lumsden! I knew him well, and his grandfather too—a queer old stick. Buried his money where no one can find it. And that is what is at the back of this murder, Mr Crewe, I have no doubt.”
“It certainly looks like it,” said Crewe.
“What is your opinion, inspector, with regard to the money?” asked Marsland. “Do you think that young Lumsden found it and refused to pay the legacies, or that it has never been found?”
“It has never been found,” said Inspector Murchison in a positive tone. “I’m quite certain of that. Why, it is scarcely more than a week ago that young Lumsden and his friend Brett came to ask me if I could throw any light on it. They had a mysterious looking cryptogram that young Lumsden had found among his grandfather’s papers, and they were certain that it referred to the hidden money. They showed it to me, but I could not make head or tail of it. I recommended them to go and see a man named Grange who keeps a second-hand book shop in Curzon Street, off High Street. He’s a bibliophile, and would be able to put them on the track of a book about cryptograms, even if he hadn’t one in stock himself.”
“What was the cryptogram like?” asked Marsland. “Was it like this?” He took up a pen from the table and attempted to reproduce a sketch of the mysterious document he had found on the stairs at Cliff Farm.
“Something like that,” said the inspector. “How do you come to know about it?”
“I found it at the dead man’s house before I discovered the body. I left it there, but it was stolen between the time I left the house and when I returned with Sergeant Westaway. At any rate it has not been seen since.”
“Ah,” said the inspector, “there you have the motive for the murder.”
“You spoke just now of young Lumsden’s friend, Brett,” said Crewe. “Who is Brett?”
“He lives in Staveley—a young fellow with a little private means. He and Lumsden were close friends—I have often seen them together about the town. They served in the same regiment, were wounded together, taken prisoners together by the Germans, tortured together, and escaped together.”
“Brett?” exclaimed Marsland in a tone which awakened Crewe’s interest. “I know no one named Brett.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t know him, Mr. Marsland,” said the inspector genially. “You have not been so long in Staveley that you can expect to know all the residents. It’s not a very large place, but it takes time to know all the people in it.”
“I was thinking of something else,” said Marsland.
“What sort of man was Brett to look at?” asked Crewe of the inspector.
“About the same age as Lumsden—just under thirty, I should say. A thin, slight, gentlemanly looking fellow. Rather a better class than poor Lumsden. I often wondered what they had in common.”
Crewe, who was watching the effect of this description on Marsland, pressed for further particulars.
“Average height?” he asked.
“A little under,” replied the inspector. “Dark complexion with a dark moustache—what there was of it.”
“I think you said he had been wounded and captured by the Germans?” said Marsland.
“Tortured rather than wounded,” replied the inspector. “The Germans are fiends, not men. Brett and Lumsden were captured while out in a listening patrol, and because they wouldn’t give their captors any information they were tortured. But these brave lads refused to give the information the Germans wanted, and ultimately they succeeded in making their escape during an attack. I’ve listened to many of the experiences of our brave lads, but I don’t think I’ve heard anything worse than the treatment of Brett and this poor fellow who has been murdered.”
“Was it at Armentières this happened?” asked Marsland.
“I think it was,” replied the inspector. “Then you’ve heard the story, too, Mr. Marsland?”
“No, I was thinking of something else,” he answered.
“We must look up Brett,” said Crewe. “Just write down his address, inspector—if you don’t mind.”
“He lives at No. 41 Whitethorn Gardens,” said the police officer. “But I don’t think you will find him there to-day. His landlady, Mrs. Penfield, promised to send me word as soon as he got back. When I heard of this murder I went down to see Brett to find out when he had last seen Lumsden, and to get a statement from him. But he had gone up to London or Liverpool the day before the murder. Mrs. Penfield expects him back early next week, but it is impossible to be certain about his return. The fact is, Mr. Crewe, that he does some secret service work for the Foreign Office, and naturally doesn’t talk much about his movements. He is an excellent linguist I’m told, knows French and Russian and German—speaks these languages like a native.”
“There is no hurry about seeing him,” said Crewe. “I’ll look him up when he returns. In the meantime will you write down his address for me?”
Marsland, who was nearer the inspector, took the paper on which the police officer wrote Brett’s address, and before handing it to Crewe looked at it carefully.
“And now can you tell me anything about an old boatman who wears a scarlet coat?” asked Crewe. “A tall old man, with a hooked nose and white beard?”
“That’s old Pedro,” replied Inspector Murchison. “He’s well known on the front, although he’s not been here very long, certainly not more than twelve months. But I hope you don’t think Pedro had anything to do with the Cliff Farm murder, Mr. Crewe? We’re rather proud of Pedro on the front, he’s an attraction to the place, and very popular with the ladies.”
“Marsland and I saw him in his boat at an old landing-place near the farm a few days ago,” replied Crewe. “He’s a man not easily forgotten—once seen. I’d like to find out what took him over in the direction of Ashlingsea.”
“He’s often over there,” said the inspector. “That is his favourite trip for his patrons—across the bay and over to the cliff landing, as we call it. That is the landing at the foot of the cliffs near Cliff Farm—I daresay you noticed it, Mr. Crewe?”
“Yes. They told me at Ashlingsea that the landing-place and boat-house belong to Cliff Farm—that they were put up by old James Lumsden.”
“That is right,” said the inspector. “The old man used to do a bit of fishing—that is ten or fifteen years ago when he was an active man, though getting on a bit—a strange thing to combine farming and fishing, wasn’t it? But he was a queer sort in many ways, was James Lumsden.”
“And where is this man with the scarlet cloak to be found when he is not on the front?” asked Crewe. “I’d like to have a little talk with him.”
“You’ll find that rather difficult,” said the inspector with a laugh. “Old Pedro is deaf and dumb.”
“Has he any friends here, or does he live alone?”
“He came here with his daughter and her husband and he lives with them. His daughter is a dwarf—a hunchback—and is supposed to be a bit of a clairvoyant or something of that kind. The husband is English, but not a very robust type of Englishman. They have a shop in Curzon Street off High Street—second-hand books.”
“What is his name?” asked Crewe.
“Grange.”
“And it was to this man you recommended young Lumsden to go for a book on cryptograms?”
“Yes; the same man,” said the inspector. “I can tell you a queer thing about his wife. I’ve said she is a bit of a clairvoyant. Well, you know there is not much love lost between the police and clairvoyants; most of them are shallow frauds who play on the ignorant gullible public. But Mrs. Grange is different: she isn’t in the business professionally. And, being a broad-minded man, I am ready to admit that there may be something in clairvoyance and spiritualism, in spite of the fact that they are usually associated with fraud. Well, one of my men, Constable Bell, lost a pendant from his watch-chain. It was not very valuable, but it had a sentimental value. He had no idea where he lost it, but he happened to mention it to Mrs. Grange—this dwarf woman—and she told him she might be able to help him in finding it.
“She took him into a sitting-room above the shop, and after getting his watch from him held it in her hands for a few moments. She told him to keep perfectly still, and concentrate his mind on the article he had lost. She closed her eyes and went into a sort of trance. Then in a strange far-away voice she said, ‘I see water—pools of water among the rocks. I see a man and a woman walking near the rocks, arm in arm. I see the man take the woman in his arms to kiss her, and the pendant, caught by a button of her blouse, drops into the pool at their feet.’ That was true about the kissing. Bell when off duty visited Horseley three miles from here, with his sweetheart, and he thought the dwarf must have seen them and was having a joke at his expense. However, he cycled over to Horseley when the tide was out next day, and much to his surprise he found the pendant in the water—just as the dwarf had told him. How do you account for a thing like that, Mr. Crewe?”
“It is very difficult to account for,” said Crewe. “Does this dwarf hold spiritualistic séances?”
“Not that I am aware of,” replied the inspector. “If she does, it is in a private capacity, and not as a business.”
“Her acquaintance is worth cultivating. We will go and see her, Marsland.”
Crewe cordially thanked Inspector Murchison for the information he had supplied, and set out with Marsland for Mr. Grange’s shop in Curzon Street.
“A good man, Murchison; he has given us a lot of information,” he said to his companion as they drove along.
“It seemed very scrappy and incomplete to me,” was Marsland’s reply.
“Gossipy is the right word—not scrappy. And there is nothing more valuable than gossipy information; it enables you to fill in so many blanks in your theory—if you have one.”
“You have formed your theory of how this tragedy occurred?” said Marsland interrogatively.
“Part of one,” replied Crewe.
Marsland accepted this reply as an intimation that the detective was not prepared to disclose his theory at that stage.
“That story about the pendant was remarkable,” he said. “Do you believe it?”
“It is not outside the range of possibility,” replied Crewe. “Some remarkable results have been achieved by psychists who possess what they call mediumistic powers.”
“Do you really think it possible that, by surrendering herself to some occult influence, this woman was able to reproduce for herself the scene between Constable Bell and his sweetheart, and see the pendant drop?”
“That is the way in which psychists would explain it, but I think it can be accounted for in a much less improbable way. I know, from my own investigations into spiritualism and its claims, that some mediums are capable, under favourable conditions, of reading a little of another person’s thoughts, provided the other person is sympathetic and tries to help. But even in this limited field failure is more frequent than success. But let us suppose that Constable Bell was an extremely sympathetic subject on this occasion. How was this woman, after getting Bell to concentrate his thoughts on the events of the day when he lost the pendant, able to discover it by reading Bell’s thoughts?”
“Bell’s thoughts would not be of much help to her, as he did not remember when or how he lost the pendant,” said Marsland.
“The point I am aiming at is that sub-consciously Bell may have been aware of the conditions under which he lost the pendant, and yet not consciously aware of them. The human brain does not work as a uniform piece of machinery; it works in sections or in compartments. Suppose part of Bell’s brain became aware that the pendant had become detached and tried to communicate the fact to that part of Bell’s brain where he keeps toll of his personal belongings. That would be the normal procedure, and under normal conditions a connection between these two compartments of the brain would be established, and Bell would stoop down and pick up the pendant. But on this occasion Bell was intoxicating himself with kisses and had put his brain into an excitable state. Possibly that part which keeps toll of his personal possessions was particularly excited at the prospect of adding the lady to the list of Bell’s belongings.
“Let us assume that it was too excited to hear the small warning voice which was crying out about the lost pendant. And when Bell’s brain had become normal the small voice had become too weak to be heard. It was never able subsequently to establish a connection between that part of the brain to which it belonged and that part where Bell keeps toll of his property—perhaps it never tried again, being under the impression that its first attempts had succeeded. And so when Bell was asked by Mrs. Grange to concentrate his thoughts on the lost pendant he was able to reproduce the state in which his brain was at the time, and the medium was able to hear the warning in Bell’s brain which Bell himself had never consciously heard.”
Marsland looked hard at Crewe to see whether he was speaking jestingly or seriously, for he had been shrewd enough to discover that the detective had a habit at times of putting forth fanciful theories the more effectually to conceal his real thoughts. It was when Crewe talked most that he revealed least, Marsland thought. But as Crewe’s face, as usual, did not reveal any clue to his mind, the young man murmured something about the explanation of the pendant being interesting, but unscientific.
“What science cannot explain, it derides,” was Crewe’s reply.
“Do you sympathize with the complaints of the spiritualists, that scientists adopt an attitude of negation and derision towards spiritualism, instead of an attitude of investigation?” continued Marsland inquiringly.
“I think there is some truth in that complaint, though as far as I am concerned I have not found much truth in spiritualism. However, Mrs. Grange may be able to convince me that she uses her powers to enlighten, and not to deceive. I am most anxious to see her.”
Staveleyonly differed from a hundred other English seaside resorts by having a sea front which was quite flat, the cliffs which skirted the coastline from Ashlingsea falling away and terminating in sand dunes about half a mile to the south of the town. At that point the cliff road, after following the coastline for nearly twelve miles, swept inland round the sand dunes, which had encroached on the downs more than half a mile from the sea, but turned back again near the southern outskirts of the town in a bold picturesque curve to the sea front.
From the sea front the town rambled back with characteristically English irregularity of architecture to the downs. There was the usual seaside mixture of old and new houses, the newest flaunting their red-tiled ugliness from the most beautiful slopes of the distant hills.
Crewe and Marsland drove slowly along to High Street by way of the front after leaving the police station. A long row of boarding-houses and hotels faced the sea; and there were pleasure boats, bathing-machines, a pier and a bandstand. The season was practically over, but a number of visitors still remained, making the most of the late October sunshine, decorously promenading for air and exercise. It was a typically English scene, except that the band was playing German music and the Kursaal still flaunted its German name.
The front was bisected about midway by the main business thoroughfare of the town, and there was a sharp distinction between the two halves of the promenade which it divided. The upper half was the resort of fashion and the mode: the hotels were bigger and more expensive; the boarding-houses were designated private hotels. All the amusements were situated in this part of the front: the pleasure boats, the pier, the band, the goat carts, and the Bath chairs. The lower part of the front was practically deserted, its hotels and boarding-houses looked empty and neglected, and its whole aspect was that of a poor relation out of place in fashionable surroundings.
Although Marsland did not know much about Staveley he was able to guide Crewe to Curzon Street, and once in Curzon Street they had not much difficulty in finding the shop kept by Mr. Grange. It was a curious little white house standing back a few feet from the footpath, and trays of second-hand books were arranged on tables outside.
Crewe, after getting out of his car, began an inspection of the books on the trays outside the shop, and while engaged in this way he saw a young lady being shown out of the shop. She was a well dressed graceful girl, not much more than twenty. Behind her was the shopkeeper, a tall thin man past middle age, with a weak irresolute face disfigured by some cutaneous disorder, small ferrety grey eyes, and a straggling beard. As he opened the door to let the young lady out Crewe’s quick ears heard him remark:
“Well, as I said, we didn’t go because we saw the storm coming up. I’m very glad now we didn’t, as things turned out. It’s a dreadful affair—dreadful.”
To Crewe’s surprise Marsland stepped forward when he saw the young lady, lifted his hat and put out his hand. Crewe thought she hesitated a little before responding.
“I am glad to see you, Miss Maynard,” Marsland declared. “You are the very person I wanted to see. But this is quite an unexpected meeting.”
“It is very kind of you,” said the young lady with a smile.
To Crewe it was evident that she was more embarrassed than pleased at the meeting.
Marsland walked along the street a few paces with Miss Maynard and then came back to Crewe.
“Please excuse me for half an hour or so, Crewe. I have some things to talk over with this lady.”
He rushed back to Miss Maynard’s side without waiting for an answer. Crewe watched them for a moment and then he became aware that the shopkeeper standing at his doorway was watching them with a gaze of perplexity.
“Mr. Grange, I believe?” said Crewe.
The shopkeeper produced a pair of spectacles from his pocket and put them on before replying. With the spectacles on his small grey eyes he peered at Crewe, and said:
“What can I do for you, sir?”
Crewe saw that the man was ill at ease, and he endeavoured to bring him back to his normal state.
“Have you a copy of a book calledNotitiæ Monastica?” asked the detective. “It’s a work on the early British religious establishments,” he explained.
“No, sir: I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the book. But perhaps I could get you one if you particularly want it.”
“You might try and let me know. I’ll leave you my address. Inspector Murchison told me that if anyone could help me you could.”
“Inspector Murchison?” echoed Mr. Grange peering again at Crewe.
“He was most enthusiastic about you,” continued Crewe. “He said that if ever he wanted to know anything about rare books he would come to you. You have a good friend in the inspector, Mr. Grange.”
“I did not know—yes I think so—it was very good of him—very good indeed.” Mr. Grange was both relieved and pleased at being commended by the head of the local police, for he smiled at Crewe, blinked his eyes, and rubbed his hands together.
“And about Mrs. Grange he was no less enthusiastic,” continued Crewe. “He told me about her extraordinary psychic powers and the recovery of Constable Bell’s watch-chain pendant. A most remarkable case. I take a great interest in occultism, Mr. Grange, and in all forms of psychic power—I have done so for years. Perhaps your wife would grant me the favour of an interview? I should so much like to meet her and talk to her.”
“Certainly,” exclaimed Mr. Grange, who was now delighted with his visitor. “I am sure she would like to meet a gentleman like yourself who is interested in—er—occultism. Excuse me while I run upstairs to her.”
He left the shop by a side-door opening on the passage leading to the private apartments above the shop. A few minutes later he came back with an invitation to Crewe to follow him upstairs to the sitting-room. Crewe followed him into a room which overlooked the street. In an arm-chair beside one of the two windows sat Mrs. Grange. She rose to meet Crewe. She was about four feet in height but her deformed figure seemed to make her look smaller. Her skin was dark and coarse and her teeth were large. On her upper lip there was a slight growth of hair and her eyebrows were very thick and shaggy. She had deep black eyes, and after her bow to Crewe she gazed at him in a fixed penetrating way—the look of an animal on the watch.
Crewe took particular note of the way in which her black hair was dressed. He closed the door behind him and took a seat near it when the dwarf sat down in her arm-chair. Mr. Grange stood a few feet from his wife and again rubbed his hands together to express his satisfaction.
“It is very good of you to see me,” said Crewe to the dwarf. “I was so much struck with the account Inspector Murchison gave me of your psychic powers that it occurred to me that you might be able to assist me in a somewhat similar way to that in which you assisted Constable Bell.”
“I shall be pleased to try,” said the dwarf slowly. “But success is not always possible.” She spoke in a thin high pitched voice.
“So I understood,” said Crewe. “But my case is, I think, less difficult than that of Constable Bell. I have not lost anything. On the contrary I have found something, which I want to restore to the owner. If I gave you this thing I have found to hold, you could describe the owner to me, could you not?”
“It is possible,” said the dwarf.
Crewe produced from one of the pockets of his motor coat a brown paper parcel. He unwrapped the paper, keeping covert observation on the Granges as he did so, and displayed the old felt hat which he had found while making his way down the path from the top of the cliff.
“I am anxious to restore this to its owner,” he said, as he held out the hat to the dwarf.
He intercepted the glance of angry reproach which she gave her husband. The latter had stopped rubbing his hands and now stood gazing alternately at the hat and at Crewe, with visible trepidation on his features. The dwarf gave the hat a quick glance, and then resolutely turned to Crewe.
“It is of no value,” she said, in her high pitched voice, meeting his glance intently.
“Of very little value—from the monetary point of view,” said Crewe. “But there are other reasons why the owner would like to have it restored to him. Do you think you could help me to find him?”
“No,” she replied decisively. “I could not help you.”
“Why?” asked Crewe.
“Because it does not interest me. I must feel an interest—I must feel in sympathy with the object on which I am asked to exert my powers. Without such sympathy I can do nothing, for when I close my eyes to see the vision I become as blind as those born without sight.”
“And you have no interest in helping me to restore this hat to its owner?” asked Crewe.
“None,” she replied.
“And you?” said Crewe, turning to her husband.
“I—I know nothing about it,” he stammered. “It is not mine.”
“This hat was lost over the cliffs near Ashlingsea. It was lost the night that the murdered body of the owner of the Cliff Farm was found. The owner was so anxious to secure possession of it that the morning after the murder he sent a boatman over to the scene to look for it. Is not that correct?” asked Crewe looking searchingly at Mr. Grange.
“I know nothing about it,” was the reply.
“Perhaps you would like to try it on,” said Crewe, picking up the hat and holding it out to the woman’s husband.
“Me?” exclaimed the man, recoiling as he spoke. “Why should I? It is not mine.”
“Come,” said Crewe, “I will exchange the hat for a candid statement of what happened at Cliff Farm on that fateful night.”
“It is not his,” declared the dwarf. “We know nothing about Cliff Farm—we have never been there.”
“Willyou come to some place where we can have a talk?”
“Yes. Where shall we go?”
Her eyes met his frankly, as she replied, and Marsland as he looked at her was impressed with her beauty and the self-possession of her manner. She was young, younger than he had thought on the night of the storm—not more than twenty-two or twenty-three at the most—and as she stood there, with the bright autumn sunshine revealing the fresh beauty of her face and the slim grace of her figure, she made a striking picture of dainty English girlhood, to whom the sordid and tragic sides of life ought to be a sealed book. But Marsland’s mind, as he glanced at her, travelled back to his first meeting with her in the lonely farm-house where they had found the body of the murdered man on the night of the storm.
He led her to one of the numerous tea-rooms on the front, choosing one which was nearly empty, his object being to have a quiet talk with her. Since the eventful night on which he had walked home with her after they had discovered the dead body of the owner of Cliff Farm, several important points had arisen on which he desired to enlighten her, and others on which he desired to be enlightened by her.
“I thought of writing to you,” he said after he had found seats for his companion and himself in a quiet corner of the large tea-room and had given an order to the waitress. “But I came to the conclusion that it was unwise—that you might not like it.”
He found it difficult to strike a satisfactory balance in his attitude to her. On the one hand, it was impossible to be distant and formal in view of the fact that they were united in keeping from the police the secret of her presence at Cliff Farm on the night of the murder; on the other hand, he did not wish to adopt a tone of friendly familiarity based on his knowledge that she had something to hide. When he studied her from the young man’s point of view as merely an attractive member of the opposite sex he felt that she was a charming girl whose affection any one might be proud to win, but his security against her charms was the feeling of distrust that any one so good-looking should have anything to hide. He had no sentimental illusion that she would confide her secret to him.
She waited for him to continue the conversation, and pretended to be engaged in glancing round the room, but from time to time she gave him a quick glance from beneath her long lashes.
“What I wanted to tell you most of all is that, when I went back to Cliff Farm the next day, the detective from Scotland Yard found a comb on the floor of the sitting-room downstairs where we sat after you let me in.”
“A comb!” she cried. “What sort of a comb?”
“A tortoise-shell comb about three inches long, with a gold mounting.”
“That is strange,” she said. “It was found on the floor?”
“Close to the chair where you stood.”
“Do they know whom it belongs to?”
“No, fortunately. But they are very anxious to find out. Naturally they think it points to the conclusion that there is a woman in the case.”
“Of course they would think that,” she said.
“Do you think any one in Ashlingsea could identify it as yours?” he asked. “Have you had it any length of time?”
“It was not mine,” she declared. “I did not lose a comb.”
“Not yours?” he exclaimed in astonishment.
“I am trying to think to whom it belonged,” she said meditatively. “As far as I know, lady visitors at Cliff Farm were few. And yet it could not be Mrs. Bond—the woman who went there to tidy up the place once a week—you say it was gold mounted?”
“Rather an expensive looking comb, I thought,” said the young man.
“Yes; it looks as if there was a woman in the case.”
The arrival of the waitress with the tea-things brought about a lengthy pause in the conversation.
To Marsland it looked as if there must be two women in the case if the comb did not belong to Miss Maynard. But he was not altogether satisfied with her statement that it was not hers. It is difficult for a young man of impressionable age to regard a good-looking girl as untruthful, but Marsland recalled other things which indicated that she was not averse to seeking refuge in false statements. He remembered her greeting when he had knocked at the farm-house on the night of the storm. “Where have you been?” was the question she put to him, and then she had added, “I have been wondering what could have happened to you.”
They were not questions which might reasonably be directed to a chance visitor on such a night, and he remembered that there had been a note of impatience in her voice. This impatience harmonized with the start of surprise which she gave when he spoke to her. Obviously she had been expecting some one and had mistaken his knock for the arrival of the man for whom she had been waiting. And yet her subsequent story to Marsland in explanation of her presence at the farm was that she had been overtaken by the storm and had sought shelter there. She had made no reference to the man whom she had expected to see when she opened the door in response to Marsland’s knock. When directly questioned on the matter she had declared that it was Frank Lumsden she had expected to see.
“Whom do the police suspect?” she asked, after the waitress had departed.
“I do not think they suspect any one in particular just yet,” he replied.
“Have they no clue of any kind?”
“They have several clues of a kind. They have discovered some footprints outside the window of the room in which we sat. The window itself has been forced. And that reminds me of something else I wanted to tell you. The police have naturally questioned me in order to obtain any light I can throw on the mystery. One of the first things they asked me was how I got into the house. I told them that the door was open, and that as no one came when I knocked I walked in and sat down. I think that was what you told me you did.”
“Yes,” she replied. “The door was open.”
“You see, I forgot to fortify myself with a ready made story which would fit all these questions. The theory of the police at present is that the murderer was in the house all the time we were there.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. It was obvious that she was deeply interested in that theory. “Because of the crash we heard?”
“Partly because of that, and partly because that strange looking document we found on the stairs has disappeared. It was gone when I went back to the house with the police sergeant. Their theory is that the murderer was in the house when I arrived—that is, when you arrived—but of course they didn’t know about your being there. As they reconstruct the tragedy, the murderer was making his way downstairs with the plan in his hand just as I—meaning you—arrived at the door. In his alarm he dropped the plan and retreated upstairs. The crash we heard was made by him knocking down a picture that hung on the wall near the top of the staircase—that is on the second floor. After we left the house he came down, found the plan in the sitting-room and made off with it.”
“To think of his being in the house all the time I was there alone!” she said. “It makes me shudder even now.”
“The police are under the impression that they will not have much difficulty in getting hold of him, but on the other hand Mr. Crewe thinks there are some puzzling mysterious features which the police have overlooked.”
“Mr. Crewe!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean the famous London detective?”
“Yes.”
“How does he come into it?”
“My uncle, Sir George Granville, is responsible for that. Perhaps you know him?”
“I know him by sight,” she said.
“I have been staying with him,” continued the young man. “And when I rang him up from the police station at Ashlingsea, after leaving you, he was greatly excited about my discovery. He knows Crewe very well—they used to be interested in chess, and that brought them together. Crewe had come down to Staveley for the week-end as my uncle’s guest, and they were sitting up for me when I telephoned from Ashlingsea.”
“Was that Mr. Crewe who was with you this morning?” she asked.
“Yes. Rather a fine looking man, don’t you think?”
She had other things to think of than the appeal of Mr. Crewe’s appearance to her feminine judgment.
“What did he want at Grange’s shop?” she asked.
It occurred to him that he would like to ask that question concerning her own visit there. What he said was:
“He wanted to make some inquiries there.”
“Inquiries?” She looked at him steadily, but as he did not offer further information she had to put her anxiety into words. “About this comb?”
“As a matter of fact, I am not fully in his confidence,” said Marsland with a constrained smile. “Crewe is a man who keeps his own counsel. He has to, in his line of business.”
She was not quite sure that a rebuke was contained in this reply, but she gave herself the benefit of the doubt.
“Does Mr. Crewe know that I was at Cliff Farm that night?” she asked.
“No. I thought I made my promise on that point quite definite.”
“You did,” was her candid reply to his undoubted rebuke. “But I will release you from that promise if you think you ought to tell him.”
“I am under no obligation to tell him anything more than I have told the police.”
“I thought that perhaps the fact that your uncle has brought Mr. Crewe into the case might make a difference.”
As he made no reply to that suggestion she branched off to something else that was in her mind:
“Do you think Mr. Crewe is as clever as people say he is?”
“There is no doubt that he is a very remarkable man. I have already had proof of his wonderfully quick observation.”
“Then I suppose there is no doubt that he will find out who killed Frank Lumsden?”
He looked at her steadily as he replied:
“His appearance in the case lessens the guilty person’s chance of escape. But Mr. Crewe does not claim to solve every mystery which is presented to him.”
“Do you think he will solve this one?” she asked.
He knew that she had a secret reason for hoping that some aspect of it would prove insoluble, but this knowledge did not influence his reply.
“It may baffle him,” he replied meditatively. “But I have been so deeply impressed with the keenness of his observations and his methods of deduction that I feel sure he will get very near to the truth.”
Crewewalked to the street known as Whitethorn Gardens, which he learned was situated in the older portion of the town, off the less fashionable end of the front. It was a narrow street, steep of ascent, full of old stone houses of deserted appearance, which faced cobbled footways from behind prim grass-plots. It looked like a place which had seen better days and was proud in its poverty, for very few “Apartments” cards were displayed in the old-fashioned bay windows. No. 41 was half-way up the street on the right-hand side, and was distinguished from its fellows by a magnolia in the centre of the grass-plot, and two parallel close-clipped ivy screens which had been trained to grow in panel fashion on both sides of the front door.
Crewe walked up the gravel path and rang the bell. After a considerable pause, he rang again. His second ring brought a grim-faced servant to the door, who, when he asked if her mistress was in, opened the door and invited him to enter. She took him into a small sitting-room, and vanished with a gruff intimation that she would tell Mrs. Penfield.
Five minutes elapsed before a woman entered the room noiselessly and stood before him. She was a woman of attractive appearance, about thirty, with clear grey eyes and well kept brown hair, and her graceful and ladylike demeanour suggested that she was of superior class to the type of womanhood usually associated with seaside apartment houses.
“I understand that you are looking for apartments?” she said in a pleasant voice.
“No,” said Crewe. “I came to see Mr. Brett.”
“He is not in,” was the reply. Her smile had gone and her voice had lost its ingratiating tone. She looked at Crewe steadily.
“When do you expect him in?”
“He is away.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“I cannot say definitely when he will be back.”
“Do you expect him in the course of the next few days?”
“He may come any time.” Her suspicions were fully aroused, and with the object of dismissing him and also extracting some information from him she said, “And who shall I tell him called?”
Crewe handed her a card and watched her as she read the name.
“Mr. Crewe!” she exclaimed with a note of surprise and alarm in her voice. “Not Mr. Crewe of—of London?”
“I live in London,” he replied.
“Not Mr. Crewe, the—famous detective?”
“That is my occupation,” was the modest rejoinder.
“Oh, I am pleased to see you,” was her unexpected exclamation. She smiled as she looked him over. He was much younger and much better-looking than the Mr. Crewe of her imagination, and these things lessened her fear of him. “Inspector Murchison came down to see Mr. Brett on Saturday last, but he had gone away two days before,” she said. “I promised the inspector I would send him word when Mr. Brett returned.” She seemed to have changed completely since learning Crewe’s name, and to be anxious to supply information.
“I have seen Inspector Murchison,” he said.
“If I knew Mr. Brett’s present address I would telegraph to him,” she continued. “I don’t think he can have heard of the murder of poor Mr. Lumsden, or he would have come back at once.”
“I have no doubt of that,” said Crewe.
“As of course you know, from the inspector, Mr. Brett is engaged from time to time on very important business of a confidential nature for the Government. He has often been away for three weeks at a time without sending me as much as a postcard.”
“On what day did he go away?” asked Crewe.
“On Thursday last—Thursday morning. It was on Friday night that Mr. Lumsden was killed, was it not?”
“It was on Friday night that his body was discovered,” said Crewe.
“A dreadful crime,” she continued.
“Did Mr. Brett leave by train?” he asked.
“Yes—that is, as far as I know. Oh, of course he must have gone by train. He only took a light suitcase with him, so I do not expect he will be away very long.”
There was a pause during which she did some earnest thinking.
“Perhaps you would like to look at Mr. Brett’s rooms?”
“If it is not too much trouble.” He was suspicious of the change in her attitude after learning his name.
She led the way upstairs and opened a door on the first landing.
“This is his sitting-room,” she said.
It was a large, comfortably furnished room, with a window looking onto the front garden. Crewe’s keen eye took in the details of the interior. The manner in which the room had been left suggested that its owner intended to return. Several pipes and a box of cigars, nearly full, stood on a table near the fireplace. Beside them was a folded newspaper, and on top of it was a novel.
An arm-chair was drawn up close to the fire-place, and beside it was a pair of slippers. Near the window was another table, on which there was an open writing-desk containing notepaper, envelopes and pens. The room looked neat and tidy, as if for an occupant of regular habits who liked his comfort to be studied. It was this impression which gave Crewe the clue to the landlady’s invitation to inspect the apartments. If Brett had anything to hide he could depend on the loyal support of Mrs. Penfield.
Among the photographs which decorated the room, the one that claimed Crewe’s attention was that which occupied the place of honour in the centre of the mantelpiece. It was enclosed in a silver frame. He took it in his hands to examine it closely, and glancing at Mrs. Penfield as he lifted it down he saw her give a slight disdainful toss of her head.
“A very pretty girl,” said Crewe, looking critically at the photograph.
“It is very flattering,” was the cold comment of his companion.
“But even allowing for that”—he left the sentence unfinished, as if unable to find words for his admiration of the subject of the photograph. His real interest in the photograph was that he had recently seen the sitter, and was astonished to find that she had some connection with Brett. “Do you know her?”
“I have seen her. She came here several times to see Mr. Brett. She came to-day about an hour ago.”
“She didn’t know that Mr. Brett had gone away?”
It occurred to Mrs. Penfield that she had made a mistake in volunteering this information—a mistake due to the feminine desire to convey the impression that the subject of the photograph was in the habit of running after Mr. Brett.
“She wanted to know when he would be back,” she answered hastily.
“What is her name?” asked Crewe.
“Miss Maynard.”
“Is she Mr. Brett’s fiancée?”
“I have heard some people say that they are engaged, but I never heard Mr. Brett say so. At any rate, she doesn’t wear an engagement ring.”
“That seems to settle it,” said Crewe, who knew the value of sympathy in a jealous nature. “And this photograph, I presume, is one of Mr. Brett,” he added, pointing to a photograph of a young man which stood at the other end of the mantelpiece.
Mrs. Penfield nodded without speaking.
“Would you like to look at Mr. Brett’s bedroom?” she asked after a pause.
“I may as well, now that I am here.”
She led the way to the door of another room and Crewe entered it. Here, again, there were many indications that the occupant of the room did not expect to be absent for any great length of time. It was smaller than the sitting-room, but it looked very cheerful and cosy. Behind the door a dressing-gown was hanging.
Crewe’s rapid inspection of the room showed him that there was no shaving tackle visible, and that there were no hair-brushes or clothes-brushes on the dressing-table. It was to be assumed from these facts that Mr. Brett had taken his brushes and shaving things with him. As far as appearances went, his departure had not been hurried.
“A very nice set of rooms,” said Crewe. “I think you said you promised to let Inspector Murchison know when Mr. Brett returns. I shall get the inspector to ring me up when he hears from you. There are one or two questions I should like to ask Mr. Brett. When he comes back, will you please tell him I called?”
Crewe’s next act was to get his car and visit the garage kept by Gosford in High Street. Inside the building he saw the proprietor standing by a large grey motor-car in the centre of the garage, watching a workman in blue overalls who was doing something to one of the wheels.
“Not much the worse,” said Crewe, nodding his head in the direction of the grey car, and addressing himself to the proprietor of the garage.
Gosford, a short stout man, looked hard at him as he approached. He was clean-shaven, and his puffed-out cheeks made his large face look like a ball.
Gosford again looked at Crewe out of his little black eyes, but said nothing. His business caution acted as a curb on his natural geniality, for he had learnt by experience of the folly of giving information to strangers until he knew what business brought them into the garage.
“Not much the worse for its accident,” said Crewe. “You were not long in getting it into repair.”
The proprietor’s glance wandered backwards and forwards from the car to his visitor.
“As good as ever,” he said. “Do you want to buy it?”
“No,” said Crewe. “I have one already.” He nodded in the direction of his car outside.
“She’s a beauty,” said Gosford. “But those Bodesly touring cars run into a lot of money. You paid a big price for her, I’ll be bound.”
“Oh, yes. You motor-car people are never reasonable—manufacturers, garage proprietors, repairers, you are all alike.”
“No, no, sir, we are very reasonable here. That is what I pride myself on.”
“In that case I’ll know where to bring my repairs. But to-day all I want is some petrol. That is what I came for, but when I saw this car I thought I’d like to see what sort of job you had made of it. The last time I saw it was when it was lying in the ditch about six miles from here on the road to Ashlingsea.”
“Oh, you saw her there?” said Mr. Gosford genially. “But there wasn’t much the matter with her, beyond a bent axle.”
“I hope that is what you told the gentleman who left it there—Mr. ——?”
“Mr. Brett,” said Mr. Gosford, coming to the relief of his visitor’s obvious effort to recall a name.
“Ah, yes; Mr. Brett,” said Crewe. “Was it Thursday or Friday that I met him on the Ashlingsea road in this car?”
“Friday, sir. This car wasn’t out on Thursday. Friday was the night of the big storm. She was out in it all night. I didn’t know where she was until Mr. Brett rang me up on Saturday morning.”
“So he was in Staveley on Saturday morning?”
“No, no, sir. He said he was speaking from Lewes. He must have caught an early train out from Staveley or Ashlingsea before we were open. That is why he didn’t ring up before.”
Crewe, on leaving the garage, drove through the western outskirts of the town, and kept on till he passed the sand dunes, and the cliff road stretched to Ashlingsea like a strip of white ribbon between the green downs and grey sea. About a mile past the sand dunes he saw a small stone cottage with a thatched roof, standing back on the downs about fifty yards from the road.
Crewe stopped his car, and walked up the slope to the little cottage. The gate was open, and he walked through the tiny garden, which was crowded with sweet-scented wallflowers and late roses, and knocked at the door.
His knock brought a woman to the door—an infirm and bent old woman, with scattered grey locks falling over her withered face. She peered up at him with rheumy eyes.
Crewe looked at the old woman in some doubt whether she was not past answering any questions. Before he could put the point to the proof she solved it for him by turning her head and crying in a shrill cracked voice:
“Harry, lad, come here and see to the gentleman.”
A man approached from the back in reply to the call. He was short and stout, and his perspiring face and bare arms showed that he had been hard at work. He looked at Crewe, made a movement of his knuckle towards his forehead, and waited for him to speak.
“I am trying to get in touch with a friend of mine who I believe motored along this road on Friday last,” said Crewe. “It was on Friday night that we had the big storm. He must have driven along here on Friday afternoon; he was driving a big grey car. Did you see him?”
“Friday afternoon?” the man repeated. “I’m just trying to get my bearings a bit. Yes, Friday was the night we had the storm, and Friday was the day I seen this gentleman I’m thinking of.”
“In a grey car?” suggested Crewe.
“In a grey car, as you say, sir. There ain’t so many cars pass along this road this time of year.”
“Then you saw a grey car go past in the direction of Ashlingsea on Friday afternoon?” said Crewe. He put a hand in his trousers pocket and jingled the silver there.
“I did,” exclaimed the other, with the positiveness of a man who had awakened to the fact that he possessed valuable information for which he was to be paid, “I was standing here at this very door after selling two bushels of apples to Mr. Hope, and was just thinking about going back to dig some more taters, when I happened to hear a motor-car coming along. It was the grey car, sure enough, sir. No doubt about that.”
“And was there anyone with my friend—or was he alone in the car?”
This was a puzzling question, because it contained no indication of the answer wanted.
“I can’t say I noticed anybody at the time, cos I was thinking more about my taters—it’s a bit late to be getting up taters, as you know, sir. I’d left ’em over late through having so much thatching to do, there being so few about as can thatch now that the war is on, and not many at the best o’ times—thatching being a job as takes time to learn. My father he was best thatcher they ever did have hereabouts, and it was him taught me.”
“And there was no one but my friend in the car?”
“I couldn’t say that I did see any one, my mind being more on taters, but, mind you, sir, there might have been. Your friend he went past so quickly I didn’t rightly see into the car—not from here. It ain’t reasonable to expect it, is it, sir?”
“No, of course not,” said Crewe. “I’m very much obliged to you.” He produced half a crown and handed it to the man.
“Thank you, sir.” The unexpected amount of his reward had a stimulating effect. “I’ll tell you a strange thing about your friend, sir, now that I’ve had time to think about it. I hadn’t dug more’n a row, or perhaps a row and a half of my taters, when I seen him coming back again.”
“Coming back again?” exclaimed Crewe. “Surely not.”
“Yes, sir; the same grey car.”
“Driving back in the direction of Staveley?”
“Driving back along the road he’d come.”
“And this would be less than an hour after you saw him pass the first time?”
“Not more’n half-hour. I reckon it don’t take me full twenty minutes to dig a row o’ taters.”
“But the grey car I mean didn’t go back past here to Staveley,” said Crewe. “It was wrecked on Friday night about four miles from here in the direction of Ashlingsea.”
“That’s right,” exclaimed the man, with childish delight. “Didn’t I see it go past here noon Saturday—another car drawing it because it wouldn’t work. I said to myself, something’s gone wrong with it.”
“But, according to your story, it was driven back to Staveley that afternoon. The car you saw going back to Staveley could not have been the car that was wrecked on Friday, unless the driver turned round again and went back towards Ashlingsea—but that seems impossible.”
“That’s what he did, sir. That’s what I was going to tell you, only I hadn’t come to it. What I said was, I hadn’t dug more’n a row and half of taters after dinner afore I see this car coming back Staveley way, and when I’d got to end of second row I happened to look up the road and there was this car coming back again. I didn’t know what to think—that is, at first. I stood there with the fork in my hand thinking and thinking and saying to myself I’d not give it up—I’m a rare one, sir, when I make up my mind. I don’t wonder it’s puzzled you, sir, just as it puzzled me. What has he been driving up and down for—backwards and forwards? That’s how it puzzled me. Then it came to me quite sudden like—he’d lost something and had drove back along the road until he found it.”