Miss Maynard’sstatement made such an impression on Sergeant Westaway that he determined to ride over to Staveley that afternoon and lay it before Inspector Murchison. He was so restless and excited at the new phase of the Cliff Farm murder which had been opened up by the young lady’s revelations that he decided the matter was too important to be allowed to remain where it was until Detective Gillett returned to Ashlingsea on the following day.
Besides, twenty-five years’ rustication in Ashlingsea had made him so much of an idealist that he actually believed that any zealous activity he displayed in the only great crime which had ever happened during his long régime at Ashlingsea would be placed to his credit in the official quarters.
After a midday dinner Sergeant Westaway wheeled forth his bicycle and, having handed over to Constable Heather the official responsibility of maintaining order in Ashlingsea, pedalled away along the cliff road to Staveley. The road was level for the greater part of the way and he reached Staveley in a little more than an hour of the time of his departure from Ashlingsea.
Several persons—mostly women—were in the front office of the police station, waiting their turn to lay their troubles before the recognized guide and confidant of Staveley, but the constable in charge, who knew Sergeant Westaway, deferred to his official position by taking him straight into the presence of Inspector Murchison and closing the door behind him.
The inspector was seated in his office chair talking earnestly to a shabby young woman who carried a baby, and was crying bitterly. He looked up as Westaway entered, and then he rose from his chair, as an intimation to the young woman in front of him that he had given her as much of the Government’s time as she had a right to expect. The young woman took the hint, rose to her feet and turned to go. On her way to the door she turned round and said in a pleading voice:
“You’ll do the best you can to get him back, won’t you, sir?”
“You can rely on me, Mrs. Richards,” responded the inspector, adding cheerily: “Keep your heart up; things are bound to come right in the end.”
The young woman received this philosophic remark with a sob as she closed the door behind her.
“A very sad case, that,” said Inspector Murchison to Sergeant Westaway.
“Eh—yes?” responded the sergeant absently, for he was thinking of other things.
“She’s Fanny Richards, the wife of Tom Richards, the saddler’s son,” continued the inspector. “I’ve known her since she wasthathigh. Tom Richards was called up for service a little while ago, and his wife moved heaven and earth to get him exempted. She went to the right quarters too—she used to be housemaid there—but perhaps I’d better not mention names. At all events, the tribunal gave her husband total exemption. And what does her husband do? Is he grateful? Not a bit! Two days after the tribunal had exempted him the scoundrel cleared out—disappeared from the district with a chambermaid from one of the hotels on the front. I tell you, Westaway, the ingratitude of some of our sex to the women they have sworn to love and cherish makes me angry. But, however, you haven’t come from Ashlingsea to discuss the failings of human nature with me. What can I do for you?”
Before leaving Ashlingsea, Sergeant Westaway had withdrawn Miss Maynard’s statement from its official repository, and placed it carefully in his pocket-book. His hand wandered towards his breast pocket as he replied that his visit to Staveley was connected with the Cliff Farm case.
“And what is the latest news about that?” asked the inspector with interest.
It was the moment for Sergeant Westaway’s triumph, and he slowly drew his pocket-book from his breast pocket and extracted the statement.
“I have made an important discovery,” he announced, in a voice which he vainly strove to keep officially calm. “It affects a—well-known and leading gentleman of your district. This paper”—he flattened it out on the table with a trembling hand—“is a statement made by Miss Maynard of Ashlingsea, which implicates Mr. Marsland, the nephew of Sir George Granville.”
“In the Cliff Farm case?”
Sergeant Westaway nodded portentously, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead—for the office fire was hot and he had ridden fast.
Inspector Murchison took up the girl’s statement, and read it through. When he had finished it, he turned to the front page, and read it through again. Then he glanced up at his colleague gravely.
“This is very important,” he said. “It throws a new aspect on the case.”
Sergeant Westaway nodded.
“This girl,” pursued Inspector Murchison, “she is of fairly good position, is she not?”
Sergeant Westaway nodded again.
“Her mother is a lady of independent means.”
“I’ve heard of them, and I’ve seen the young lady and her mother once or twice when they’ve visited Staveley. Do you think the young lady is telling the whole truth here?”
“Undoubtedly.” Sergeant Westaway’s tone indicated that when a member of the leading family of Ashlingsea set out to tell the truth nothing was kept back.
The inspector got up from his chair and took a few turns up and down the office in a meditative way.
“It’s a most extraordinary disclosure that this young woman has made,” he said at length. “Extraordinary—and awkward. I do not know what Sir George Granville will say when he learns that his nephew, instead of assisting the police, made a false and misleading statement. It is a very grave thing; a very dangerous thing in such a grave crime as this. It will give Sir George Granville a dreadful shock.”
“It gave me a shock,” said Sergeant Westaway.
“No doubt,” replied the inspector. “But Sir George Granville—is a different matter. We must consider his feelings; we must try to spare them. I hardly know what is best to be done. Obviously, the matter cannot be allowed to remain where it is, yet it is difficult to see what is the proper course of action to pursue. I think the best thing will be to wait until Gillett returns from London and leave it to him. When do you expect him back?”
“I expect him back in the morning. I wired to him that I had obtained most important information.”
“I’ll be at the station when the London express comes in in the morning. If Gillett is on board I’ll go on with him to Ashlingsea.”
In accordance with this arrangement, Inspector Murchison arrived at Ashlingsea in the morning, in the company of Detective Gillett.
If Sergeant Westaway expected praise from the representative of Scotland Yard it was not forthcoming. Detective Gillett seemed in a peevish humour. His boyish face looked tired and careworn, and his blue eyes were clouded.
“Let me have a look at this statement that you are making such a fuss about,” he said.
Long afterwards, when Sergeant Westaway had ample leisure to go over all the events in connection with the Cliff Farm case, he alighted on the conviction that the reason Detective Gillett was so offensive and abrupt in regard to Miss Maynard’s statement was that he did not like important information to reach the police while he was absent.
“It is a voluntary and signed statement by Miss Maynard, a young lady of the district, who was at Cliff Farm the night of the murder,” said the sergeant, with dignity.
“So much I know from Inspector Murchison, and also that the statement in some way implicates young what’s his name—Marsland. Let me have the document itself, Westaway.”
The sergeant took it from his desk, and placed it in Detective Gillett’s hands.
“I have added on a separate sheet of paper a few notes I gathered in the course of conversation with Miss Maynard. The most important of them deals with the fact that young Marsland was a captain in the Army, and that Lumsden was under his command in France.”
Gillett began with an air of official weariness to read the document Westaway had handed to him, but before he had read far the abstraction vanished from his face, and was replaced by keen professional interest. He read it closely and carefully, and then he produced his pocket-book and stowed it away.
“Westaway,” he said, “this is a somewhat important contribution to the case.” He paused for a moment and then turned sharply on Inspector Murchison. “I think you should have told me, Murchison, how damaging a piece of evidence this is against young Marsland.”
“Not so damaging,” said the inspector, in defence. “You see, young Marsland is Sir George Granville’s nephew——”
“So you told me half a dozen times in the train,” said Gillett, “and as I knew it before I wasn’t much impressed with the information. What I say is that this statement places Marsland in a very awkward position. He has been deceiving us from first to last.”
“I admit it is very thoughtless—very foolish of him,” replied the inspector. “But surely, Gillett, you don’t think this young gentleman had anything to do with the murder?”
“I am not going to be so foolish as to say that it could not possibly be him who did it. What does he mean by hiding from us the fact that Lumsden was under his command in France, and that on the night of the murder he met this girl Maynard at the farm. He seems to be a young gentleman who keeps back a great deal that the police ought to know. And I think you will admit, Murchison, that in that respect he is behaving like a very guilty man.”
“But there may be other explanations which will place his conduct in a reasonable light—reasonable but foolish,” said the inspector, with an earnest disregard for the way in which these words contradicted each other. “Sir George Granville himself told me his nephew was an officer in the Army, but on account of his nervous breakdown the Army was never mentioned in his presence. And as for keeping Miss Maynard’s name out of his statement after she had asked him to do so—why it seems to me the sort of thing that any young man would do for a pretty girl.”
“Especially if it played into his hands. If Marsland committed the crime, he must have jumped at the chance offered him by Miss Maynard to keep silence about her presence at the farm, because that left him a free hand in the statement he made to Westaway. He had no need to be careful about any part of his statement, because he had not to harmonize any of it with what she knew about his presence there.”
“And what are you going to do about her statement?” asked the inspector. “You will confront Marsland with it?”
“Yes, but before I do that I am going to make a search of the farm for clues.”
“But you have already done that. Westaway told me that he and Heather put in two days searching the buildings and the ground round the house.”
“Inspector, you are not quite equal to the demands of the situation,” said the Scotland Yard man patronizingly. “Westaway, myself and Heather searched the house, the outbuildings and the grounds for clues—for traces left behind unwittingly by the murderer. Our impression then was that the murderer had got away as soon as he could—everything pointed to that. But in the light of this girl’s statement we must now search for clues purposely hidden by the murderer. What was Marsland doing when he went outside the house and left the key in the door so as to let himself in again? Hiding something, of course! And where would he hide it?
“There is only one place we haven’t searched, and that is the well,” continued Gillett. “The reason I didn’t have it emptied before was because I was not looking for hidden traces—the circumstances of the crime suggested that the murderer had gone off with the weapon that ended Lumsden’s life. But this girl’s statement showed that Marsland went out of the house and came back. What was he doing while he was outside? This is what I am going to find out.”
“I’ll go up to the farm with you,” said the inspector. “I want to see what comes of this. I want to know what I’ve got to say to Sir George Granville.”
“You’ve got to say nothing; you leave it to me,” said Detective Gillett. “How long will it take to get the well emptied, Westaway?”
“Four or five hours ought to be long enough, if I can get a couple of good men,” said the sergeant.
“See about it at once. Send Heather up with the men to superintend. We will drive out there this afternoon. I have some inquiries to make in the village this morning, and I must also see Miss Maynard.”
Gillett, after interviewing Miss Maynard and having his lunch with Inspector Murchison atThe Black-Horned Sheep, got into an antiquated hooded vehicle, drawn by a venerable white horse, which Sergeant Westaway hired at the inn to take them to Cliff Farm. The innkeeper, who, like all the rest of the town, was bursting with curiosity to learn the latest developments in the case, had eagerly volunteered to drive the police officers up to the farm, but Sergeant Westaway, determined that village gossip should learn nothing through him, had resolutely declined the offer, and drove the equipage himself. They set off with half the village gaping at them from their doors.
Sergeant Westaway had intended to ask Detective Gillett for details concerning his interview with Miss Maynard, but he found that the sluggish and ancient quadruped between the shafts needed incessant urging and rein-jerking to keep him moving at all. This gave him no time for conversation with the detective, who was seated in the back of the vehicle with Inspector Murchison.
When they reached Cliff Farm Sergeant Westaway found another problem to engage his attention. A number of Ashlingsea people had been impelled by curiosity to take a hand in the pumping operations, until tiring of that mechanical labour, they had distributed themselves around the farm, strolling about, gazing vacantly at the farm buildings, or peering through the windows of the house. Constable Heather, who had been sent up with the fishermen in order that constituted authority might be represented in the pumping proceedings, frankly admitted to his superior officer that he had been unable to keep the curious spectators away from the scene.
On hearing this, Sergeant Westaway jumped from the vehicle, and strode into the farmyard with a stern authority which had never been weakened by convivial friendship atThe Black-Horned Sheep. It says much for the inherent rural respect for law and order that he was able to turn out the intruders in less than five minutes, although the majority of them lingered reluctantly outside the front fence, and watched the proceedings from a distance.
The two fishermen whom Constable Heather had engaged for the task of emptying the well had, with the ingenuity which distinguishes those who make their living on the sea, reduced the undertaking to its simplest elements. A light trench had been dug on that side of the well where the ground had a gentle slope, and, following the lie of the land, had been continued until it connected with one of the main drains of the farm. Therefore, all that remained for the two fishermen to do was to man the pump in turns till the well was empty, the water pouring steadily into the improvised trench and so reaching the main drain, which was carrying the water away to the ditch beside the road. The originator of this plan was an elderly man with a round red face, a moist eye, and an argumentative manner. As the originator of the labour-saving device, he had exercised the right of superior intelligence to relegate to his companion most of the hard labour of carrying it out.
“You see,” he said to Inspector Murchison, who happened to be nearest to him, “Tom here”—he indicated his assistant—“wanted to dig a long trench to yon hedge and carry the water out into the valley, but I says ‘What’s the use of going to all that trouble when it can be done a quicker way?’ I says to Tom, ‘Let’s put a bit of gumption into it and empty it the easiest way. For once the water’s out of the well, it don’t matter a dump where it runs, for it’s no good to nobody.’”
“Very true,” said Inspector Murchison, who believed in being polite to everybody.
“‘Therefore,’ says I to Tom, ‘it stands to reason that the quickest way to empty the well, and the way with least trouble to ourselves, will be to cut from here to that there drain there.’”
“How much longer will you be emptying it?” demanded Detective Gillett, approaching the well and interrupting the flow of the old man’s eloquence.
“That depends, sir, on what water there’s in it.”
This reply was too philosophical to appeal to the practical minded detective. He declared with some sharpness that the sooner it was emptied the better it would be for everybody.
“We are getting towards the bottom now, sir,” said the man at the pump, who interpreted the detective’s words as a promise that beer would make its appearance when the water had gone. “It ain’t a very deep well, not more than fourteen feet at most, and I should say another half hour—maybe more—would see the end of this here job.”
“Very well, then, be as quick as you can.”
The three police officers remained beside the well, watching the pumping. In a little more than half an hour the flow of water from the mouth of the pump began to decrease. Then the pump began to gurgle and the water stopped. Suction had ceased and the well was practically empty.
Under Detective Gillett’s instructions the men who had emptied the well removed the boards which covered the top, and one of them went to the barn and returned with a long ladder. Between them they lowered the ladder into the empty well. The ladder was more than long enough to reach the bottom, for the top was several feet above the mouth of the well.
“That will do, men,” ordered the Scotland Yard detective. He climbed to the edge of the well as he spoke.
“Have you a light?” asked Sergeant Westaway in a moment of inspiration.
For reply Detective Gillett displayed a powerful electric torch, and placed one foot on the ladder.
“Better take the stable lantern, sir,” urged the inventor of the well-emptying plan. “You’ll find it better down there than them new-fangled lights. You’ll be able to see further with a sensible lantern.”
“And you’d better put on my boots,” said the other fisherman. “The well’s a bricked ’un, but it’ll be main wet and muddy down there.”
Detective Gillett pronounced both ideas excellent and acted on them. Sergeant Westaway procured the stable lantern, and lighted it while the detective drew on the fisherman’s long sea boots. Thus equipped, and holding the lantern in his right hand, with an empty bag over his shoulder, the Scotland Yard man stepped on to the ladder, and disappeared from view.
Sergeant Westaway intimated to the fishermen who had emptied the tank that the work for which they had been engaged was finished; but it was some minutes before he could make it clear to their slow intellects that their presence was no longer required. When they did understand, they were very loath to withdraw, for they had looked forward with delight to seeing the emptied well yield up some ghastly secret—perhaps another murdered body—and it was only by the exercise of much sternness that Sergeant Westaway was able to get them away from the scene by personally escorting them off the farm and locking the gate after them.
He returned to the well to see Detective Gillett emerging from it. Gillett was carrying the bag and the lantern in one hand, and it was obvious that the bag contained something heavy. The triumphant face of the detective, as he emerged into the upper air, indicated that he had made some important discovery. He stepped off the ladder and emptied the contents of the bag on the ground. They consisted of a heavy pair of boots, hobnailed and iron-shod, such as are worn by country labourers and farmers, and a five-chambered revolver. The revolver was rusty through immersion in the water, and the boots were sodden and pulpy from the same cause.
Inspector Murchison and Sergeant Westaway inspected the articles in silence. At length the former said:
“This is a very important discovery.”
“I would direct your attention to the fact that it is a Webley revolver—one of the two patterns approved by the War Office for Army officers,” said Detective Gillett. “Unless I am much mistaken it is a 4.5—that is the regulation calibre for the Army. And I have discovered more than that!”
The police officers ceased looking at the articles on the ground, and directed their eyes to the Scotland Yard detective in response to the note of exultation in his voice. In answer to their look he put his hand into a side pocket and withdrew a small article which he had wrapped in a handkerchief. Unrolling the latter carefully, he held up for their inspection a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
“Wehave evidence, Captain Marsland, that the statement you made to Sergeant Westaway regarding your discovery of the dead body of Frank Lumsden at Cliff Farm on the night of Friday, 16th October, is untrue.”
If Detective Gillett had expected the young man to display either alarm or resentment at this statement he was disappointed. Marsland made no outward sign of astonishment at being addressed by his military title by the detective, or at being accused of having made a false statement. With steady eyes he met the detective’s searching gaze.
In response to a request telephoned by Detective Gillett to Sir George Granville’s house at Staveley, Marsland and Crewe had motored over to Ashlingsea police station. They had been met on their arrival by the detective and Sergeant Westaway, and after a constrained welcome had been conducted to the Sergeant’s inner room. The door had been carefully closed, and Constable Heather, who was in the outer room, had been told by his superior that on no account were they to be disturbed.
There was such a long pause after Detective Gillett had exploded his bomb, that the obligation of opening up the situation suggested itself to him.
“Do you deny that?” he asked.
“I do not.” In a clear tone and without any indication of embarrassment the young man made his reply.
“You admit that your statement is false?”
“I do.”
“What was your object in making a false statement to the police?”
“I am not prepared to tell you at present.”
“Well, perhaps you know your own business best, Captain Marsland, but I warn you that you are in a very serious position. It is for you to decide whether the truth will help you or not.”
“Do you intend to make a charge against me?”
Gillett was taken aback at this blunt question. He had arranged the interview because he believed he was in a position to embarrass the young man with a veiled threat of police action, but the young man, instead of waiting for the threats, wanted to know if the police were prepared to act. But Detective Gillett was too experienced an officer to display the weakness of his hand.
“I intend to detain you until I have made further inquiries,” he said.
“How long will these inquiries take?” asked Crewe.
“No one knows better than you, Mr. Crewe, that it is impossible for me to answer such a question,” said the Scotland Yard man. “One thing leads to another in these cases. As Captain Marsland shows no disposition to help us, they will take at least three or four days.”
“But perhaps I can help you,” suggested Crewe.
“Well, I don’t know what evidence you have picked up in the course of your investigations, Mr. Crewe, but I can tell you that Westaway and I have some evidence that will startle you. Haven’t we, Westaway?”
“Very startling evidence, indeed,” said the sergeant, in a proud official tone.
“I am glad of that,” said Crewe. “Perhaps the addition of the little I have picked up—that is the addition of whatever part of it is new to you—will enable you to solve this puzzling crime.”
“Very likely indeed,” said Gillett. “There are not many links missing in our chain of evidence.”
“I congratulate you,” responded Crewe. “There are a good many missing in mine.”
Gillett broke into a laugh in which there was a distinct note of self-satisfaction.
“That is a very candid admission, Mr. Crewe.”
“As between you and me why shouldn’t there be candour?” said Crewe. “But what about my young friend Marsland? As it is a case for candour between you and me, we can’t have him present. For my part, I should prefer that he was present, but of course that is impossible from your point of view. You cannot go into your case against him in his presence.”
“Certainly not,” said Gillett decisively. “And before I produce my evidence to you, Mr. Crewe, I must have your word of honour not to tell a living soul, not to breathe a hint of it to any one, least of all to Captain Marsland. If you give me your word of honour I’ll be satisfied. That is the sort of reputation you have at Scotland Yard—if you want to know.”
“It is very good of you to talk that way,” replied Crewe. “I give you my word of honour not to speak to any one of what happens here, until you give me permission to do so. Marsland will wait outside in charge of Constable Heather. He will give you his word of honour not to attempt to escape.”
“Is that so?” asked Gillett of the young man.
Marsland nodded, and was handed over to Constable Heather’s care by Sergeant Westaway. When the sergeant returned he closed the door carefully.
“Lock it,” said Gillett. “And cover up the key-hole; we don’t want any one peeping through at what we’ve got here.”
“I like this,” said Crewe with a smile. “I feel that I am behind the scenes.”
“As regards Captain Marsland,” said Gillett after a pause, “I may as well tell you, Mr. Crewe, that I don’t want to deal more harshly with him than the situation demands—at this stage. Things may be very different a little later—it may be outside my power to show him any consideration. But I don’t want to detain him here—I don’t want to lock him up if it can be avoided. You know what talk there would be both here and in Staveley. I am thinking of his uncle, Sir George Granville. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If he will give me his word of honour that he will not attempt to escape, and if you and his uncle will do the same, I’ll let him go back to Staveley in charge of Heather. There will be no difficulty in explaining Heather’s presence there to any friends of Sir George’s. What do you think of it?”
“Excellent!” said Crewe.
What was most excellent about it, in the private opinion of Crewe, was the ingenious way in which it extricated Detective Gillett from an awkward situation. When he had arranged the interview for the purpose of frightening Marsland with a threat of detention, he had had this plan in his mind. He had not quite sufficient evidence against Marsland to justify him in arresting that young man without some damaging admissions on the part of the young man himself. And the plan to place him in charge of Heather was a technical escape from the difficulties that surrounded Marsland’s actual arrest at that stage; but, on the other hand, it would appear in the young man’s eyes as though he were under arrest and this was likely to have an important influence in getting some sort of confession from him.
“Bring out those things,” said Detective Gillett to Sergeant Westaway, and pointing to the cupboard against the wall.
Westaway produced a hand-bag and placed it on the table. Gillett took a bunch of keys from his trousers pocket and unlocked the bag.
“First of all, here is the key of the house,” he said, as he held out in the palm of his hand the key of a Yale lock. “As you must have noticed, Mr. Crewe, the front door of the farmhouse closes with a modern Yale lock; the old lock is broken and the bolt is tied back with a string. You will notice, inside the hole for the key to go on a ring, that there is a stain of blood. Next, we have a pair of heavy boots. These were worn by the man who murdered Frank Lumsden, for they correspond exactly with the plaster casts we took of the footprints outside the window.”
Westaway, who had opened the door of the cupboard, placed on the table near Crewe two plaster casts.
Crewe, after returning the key he had been examining, compared the boots with the plaster casts.
“I believe you are right,” he said, after a pause.
“Here we have the bullet that was fired. As you will remember, Mr. Crewe, it went clean through Lumsden’s body, and through the window. But what you don’t know is that it struck a man who was hiding in the garden near the window. It struck him in the left arm.”
“Who was this man?” asked Crewe.
“His name is Tom Jauncey. He is the son of an old shepherd who worked for Lumsden’s grandfather.”
“One of the servants who was left a legacy in the old man’s will?” said Crewe inquiringly.
“That is correct,” replied Gillett. “From the bullet we go to the weapon that fired it. Here it is—an ordinary Webley revolver such as is issued to army officers, Mr. Crewe.”
“Yes, I know a little about them,” said Crewe, as he took it in his hands to look at it.
“And, last of all, here is a pair of glasses which we have ascertained came from the well-known optical firm of Baker & Co., who have branches all over London, and were made for Captain Marsland.”
“Where did you find them?” asked Crewe.
“In the well at the farm.”
“How did they get there?”
“I don’t think it is an unnatural assumption that they were blown off when the wearer was stooping over the well to drop some articles into it. Remember that there was a big storm and a high wind on the night of the murder. The boots and the revolver we also found in the well. Our theory is that the murderer dropped these things into the well in order to get rid of them, and that while he was doing it his glasses were blown into the well. As you know, Marsland wears glasses—he is wearing them now. But Sergeant Westaway will swear that he was not wearing them when he came to the station to report the discovery of the body. We have other interesting evidence in the same direction, but let that go for the present.”
“But the boots,” said Crewe. “You don’t pretend that they belong to Marsland?”
“They probably belonged to the murdered man—that is a point which we have not yet settled.”
“And how does that fit in with your theory that the murderer broke into the house?”
“The murderer found these boots in the barn, the cowshed, or one of the other outbuildings. Lumsden did not wear such heavy boots habitually—remember that he had been a clerk, not a farmer. But he would want a heavy pair of boots like these for walking about the farm-yard in wet weather, and probably he kept them in one of the outbuildings, or at any rate left them there on the last occasion he wore them. The intending murderer, prowling about the outbuildings before breaking into the house, found these boots, and with the object of hiding his traces put them on. After he had finished with them he put on his own boots and threw these down the well.”
“And your theory is that Marsland is the murderer?”
“I don’t say that our case against him is quite complete yet, but the evidence against him is very strong.”
“Can you suggest any motive?”
“Yes, Marsland was a captain in the London Rifle Brigade; Lumsden was a private in the same battalion. They served together in France.”
“But the motive?” asked Crewe.
“Our information is that Lumsden and a man against whom Captain Marsland had a personal grudge—a man whom it was his interest to get out of the way—were sent by Captain Marsland on a false mission towards the German lines. Marsland expected that both would fall victims to the Germans. Lumsden’s companion was killed, but Lumsden was captured alive and subsequently escaped. What is more likely than that Marsland, riding across the downs, should call in at Cliff Farm when his horse fell lame. There, to his surprise, he found that Lumsden was the owner of the farm. They talked over old times, and Marsland learned that Lumsden was aware of his secret motive in sending them on such a dangerous mission. Marsland took his leave, but determined to put Lumsden out of the way. He stole back and hid in the outbuildings, broke into the house, and shot the man who could expose him.”
“A very ingenious piece of work,” said Crewe. “Everything dovetails in.”
“I am glad you agree with it,” said Gillett.
“But I don’t,” was the unexpected reply. “Lumsden was not murdered at the farm. He was shot in the open, somewhere between Staveley and Ashlingsea, and his dead body was brought into the house in a motor-car. It could not have been Marsland who brought the dead body there, because he was on horseback, and his lamed horse was in the stable at the farm when we were all there next day.”
“Youare on the wrong track, Mr. Crewe,” said Gillett, who was determined not to part with the theory he had built up round the evidence he had collected. “I was positive the murder took place in the house. This man Jauncey, whom I mentioned, can swear that he heard a shot fired. And more than that, he can swear that he was hit by the bullet. This is the bullet that was extracted from his wound in the left arm. It fits this revolver.”
“My dear Gillett, I don’t dispute any of these things,” said Crewe. “They merely support my contention that the murder was not committed at the farm, but that the body was brought there, and that the man who took the body there took certain steps with the object of creating the impression that the tragedy took place in the room in which the body was found.”
“What evidence have you of that?” asked Sergeant Westaway, coming to the aid of his official superior.
“The bullet that killed Lumsden went clear through his body—so much was decided at the post-mortem examination,” Crewe said. “But that fact was also evident from a cursory examination of the body, as we saw it in the chair. You will remember that I drew attention to the fact when we were looking at the body. Your theory is that the shot was fired as Lumsden was standing at the window, with his back towards his murderer, that the bullet went through him, through the window, and lodged in the arm of this man Jauncey who stated he was outside in the garden. But the course of the bullet through Lumsden’s body was slightly upward. How in that case could it strike downward and wound a man on the ground ten or twelve feet below the windows on the first story?”
“The bullet might have been deflected by the glass of the window,” said Gillett.
“It might have been, but it is highly improbable that ordinary window-glass would deflect a bullet—even a spent one. In any case this bullet hit the cherry-tree outside the window before hitting Jauncey. You will find that it cut the bark of the cherry-tree—the mark is 4 ft. 4½ inches from the ground.”
“Then it was the cherry-tree that deflected it?” said Sergeant Westaway.
“Yes and no,” said Crewe. “Certainly its course was deflected downwards after hitting the cherry-tree—I assume that Jauncey was close to the tree. But if it had not been travelling downwards, it would have hit the tree much higher up—somewhere near the level of the window. The bullet that hit Jauncey was fired in the room in which we saw the body, but it was fired by the man who took the body to the farm, with the intention of giving the impression that the crime took place there. Knowing that the bullet which killed Lumsden had gone through his body, he placed the body in a chair near the window and then fired a shot through the window. He made the mistake of going close up to the window to fire, and as a result he fired downwards instead of on a level at the height of the wound in Lumsden’s body.”
“If that is all you have to support your theory——” began Detective Gillett.
“It isn’t all,” said Crewe, with a slight indication of impatience. “It is only my first point. You will recall that on the stairs there were indications that a wet rag had been used for wiping away some traces or stains. Inspector Payne suggested that the rag had been used to wipe away muddy boot-marks on the stairs—the traces of these boots. These boots were not worn by the man as he went upstairs; he put them on afterwards. Presently I will tell you why he did. But the marks on the stairs were not the marks of muddy boots. They were stains of blood which dropped from the dead man’s wound, as his body was carried upstairs. These marks are in the hall leading to the stairs and on the landing leading to the room in which the body was placed. In the room itself no attempt to remove the blood-stains was made, because they were an indication that the shooting took place there. If he had been aware that there was a stain of blood on the latch-key which he took from the dead man’s pocket, he would have washed it away.”
“If he had possession of the key in order to get the body into the house in the way you state, Mr. Crewe, why did he break into the house? Remember one of the downstairs windows was forced.”
“It was forced by the man who took the body there. But he forced it in breaking out of the house—not in breaking into it. He wanted to give the impression that some one had broken into the house, but he was pressed for time—he was anxious to get away. In searching for a rag in the kitchen with which to wipe out the blood-stains, he saw these boots. They belonged to Lumsden, as you have said, but it was more likely that Lumsden kept them in the kitchen than in the barn or cowshed. This man—let us call him the murderer—saw in the boots a means of averting suspicion from himself. He decided to leave clues that would suggest that the murderer broke into the house. But, instead of going out of the front door and breaking into the house, he forced the window from inside the room. Then, with these boots on, he climbed out of the window backwards, and when he reached the ground he walked backwards across the garden bed to the path in order to give the impression that some one had walked forwards across the bed to the window.
“You saw from the sash of the window that the catch had been forced back by a knife, but apparently you overlooked the fact that the marks of the knife are much broader at the top, where the catch is, than at the bottom, where the knife would enter if the catch had been forced by some one outside. It was at the top, near the catch, and not at the bottom below it, that the knife was inserted; that is to say, the knife was used by some one inside the room. The footprints outside the window showed that they were made by a person walking backwards; the impression from the toe to the ball of the foot being very distinct and the rest of the foot indistinct. A person in walking backwards puts down his toes first, and gradually brings the rest of his foot down; a person walking forwards puts his heel down first and then puts down the rest of his foot as he brings his weight forward. Our man, having made his way to the garden path from the window, walked along the path to the motor-car at the gate, probably carrying his own boots in his hand. As soon as he entered his car he drove off along the road in the direction of Staveley with the lights out. He took a risk in travelling in the dark, and in spite of the fact that he knew the road well he came to grief before he reached Staveley.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Gillett. “How do you know he had a car?” He had not given up his own theory in favour of Crewe’s, but he realized that Crewe’s theory was the more striking one.
“In Marsland’s statement he said that his horse swerved from something in the dark as he was coming down the Cliff road, and fell lame,” said Crewe. “The horse shied at the motor-car as it passed. Marsland neither saw nor heard the car because of the darkness, intensified by the storm, and because of the roar of the wind and waves.”
“You don’t really expect us to regard the swerving of the horse as proof there was a motor-car there?” demanded Gillett, with a superior smile.
“Contributory proof,” said Crewe. “If you went along the cliff road, as I did on leaving the farm after meeting you there, you would have noticed that the danger post nearest the farm was out of the perpendicular. That was not the case previous to the night of the storm. This motor-car without lights bumped into it. The mark of the wheels where the car had left the road was quite plain when I looked—it had not been obliterated by the rain. Four miles away the car was run into the ditch and overturned. I saw it as Sir George Granville and I drove along to Cliff Farm on Saturday morning. If you want information concerning it and the person who drove it you can obtain it at Gosford’s garage at Staveley. The car was hired from Gosford.”
“By whom?” asked Gillett.
“By a man named Arnold Brett, who was a very close friend of the dead man.”
“I know all about Brett from Inspector Murchison,” said Gillett. “He rang me up about him and promised to let me know when he came back to his lodgings at Staveley. He said that Brett was a close friend of Lumsden’s, and would probably be able to give us some useful information when he returns.”
“When will he return?” asked Crewe.
“You think he has cleared out?” suggested Gillett.
“I’m sure of it,” was the reply.
“Murchison gave the impression that he was sure to come back—that he had left Staveley the day before the murder. I understood from Murchison that Brett is doing some secret service work for the Government, and that it was quite a regular thing for him to disappear suddenly.”
“No doubt it was,” said Crewe. “But this time he is not coming back.”
“I’ll ring up Murchison,” said Gillett.
“Don’t waste your time,” was Crewe’s reply. “Murchison is an excellent fellow—an ideal police official for a quiet seaside place where nothing happens, but too genial and unsuspecting for an emergency of this kind. Go and see Brett’s apartments at Staveley—No. 41 Whitethorn Gardens—and the landlady, Mrs. Penfield, will tell you as she told Murchison, and as she told me also, that Brett left Staveley on secret service work on Thursday morning, 15th October, and that she expects him back at any moment. But go to Gosford and he will show you the car that Brett hired on Friday.
“He will tell you that on Saturday about midday Brett rang him up—from Lewes, Gosford says, but it was more probably from Marlingsea, on his way to London—and told him that he had met with an accident with the car, and that it was lying in the ditch on the side of the road about six miles out from Staveley on the road to this place. It was there that Gosford’s foreman found the car when he went for it. If Brett hired a car at Staveley on Friday he couldn’t have left Staveley on Thursday, as his landlady says. She doesn’t know what to think in regard to this murder, but she is ready to shield Brett all she can because she is in love with him.”
“I mustsay that I feel very grateful to you, Mr. Crewe,” said Detective Gillett after a pause. “You have certainly got hold of some facts of which I was not aware. And your deductions are most interesting. What do you say, Westaway?”
“Most interesting,” said the sergeant. “I had heard a lot of Mr. Crewe before I met him, but I’d like to say that it’s a great privilege to listen to his deductions.”
“Oh, I don’t go so far as to accept his theory and abandon my own,” interposed Gillett hurriedly. “To my mind there is truth in both of them, and the whole truth will probably be found in a judicious combination of both.”
Crewe could scarcely hide his impatience at Gillett’s obstinacy, and his determination to claim at least an equal share in solving the mystery.
“My dear Gillett,” he said, “let us abandon theories and keep to facts. The great danger in our work is in fitting facts to theories instead of letting the facts speak for themselves. If you still think you have a case against Marsland, let us go into it. It is no part of my work to prove Marsland innocent if he is guilty; I have no object in proving Brett guilty if he is innocent. But as the guest of Sir George Granville, I want to save him and his nephew unnecessary distress and anxiety. By a full and frank discussion we can decide as man to man whether there is any real case for Marsland to answer. I admit that you have justification for some suspicions in regard to him, but let us see if the fog of suspicion cannot be cleared away by a discussion of the facts.”
“It will take a great deal to convince me that he doesn’t know more about this tragedy than he has told us,” said Gillett doggedly.
“But are we to find him guilty merely because he chooses to keep silence on certain points?”
“What is his object in keeping silence? What was his object in making a false statement? What is his object in putting obstacles in our way? Is that the conduct of an innocent man?”
“It is not the conduct of a man anxious to help the police to the utmost of his power without regard to consequences,” said Crewe. “But there is a wide gulf between being guilty of keeping something back and being guilty of murder.”
“When the thing kept back suggests a motive for getting the man who was murdered out of the way, it is natural to see a connection between the two,” returned Gillett.
“And what was the thing that Marsland kept back?”
“He kept back that he was an officer in the army—Captain in the London Rifle Brigade. He kept back that this man Lumsden was a private in his company.”
“But the discovery of these things did not present any great difficulty to a police official of your resources, Gillett.”
“No, they did not,” the detective admitted. “But we should have been told of them in the first place.”
“True. But listen to the explanation why you were not told. Marsland has been an invalid for some months. He was invalided out of the army because of wounds and nervous shock. He broke down as many others have broken down, under a long experience of the awful horrors of the front. In order to assist in his recovery the doctors ordered that as far as possible his mind should be kept from dwelling on the war. For this reason the war is never mentioned in his presence by those who know of his nervous condition. He is never addressed by them as an army officer, but as a civilian.”
“All that is very interesting, Mr. Crewe, but it does not dispose of the information in our possession. You see, the circumstances in which Captain Marsland came into this affair were so very extraordinary, that he might well have told Westaway the truth about the military connection between himself and Lumsden. It was an occasion when the whole truth should have been told. We could not have been long in learning from his relatives that he was suffering from nervous shock, and we would have shown him every consideration.”
“That is an excellent piece of special pleading,” said Crewe. “But you do not take into consideration the fact that the evasion of everything that dealt with the Army, and particularly with his old regiment, has become a habit with Marsland.”
“Our information,” said Gillett slowly and impressively, “is that he believed Lumsden was dead—that he had been killed in France. That in his capacity as an officer he sent Lumsden and another man to their death. He had a grudge against this other man. Lumsden’s companion was killed but Lumsden was taken prisoner and subsequently escaped. If that is correct, it supplies a strong motive for getting Lumsden out of the way when he discovered that Lumsden was alive and in England.”
“When did Marsland make this discovery?”
“That I don’t know. But he could easily have made it and obtained Lumsden’s address from the headquarters of the London Rifle Brigade.”
“Did he make such inquiries there?”
“I have not obtained positive proof that he did. But as a retired officer of the Brigade, who knows his way about their headquarters, he could do it for himself in a way that would leave no proof.”
“Who was the man that Marsland sent out on a mission of death with Lumsden?”
“I haven’t got the name.”
“Can’t you get it?”
“I am afraid not. It is not a thing one could get from the regimental records.”
“But cannot you get it from your informant—from the person who is your authority for the story?”
“Not very well.”
“What does that mean?”
“Our informant is anonymous. He sent me a letter.”
“And since when have you begun to place implicit faith in anonymous letters, my dear Gillett?”
The detective flushed under this gentle irony. “I don’t place implicit faith in it. But it fits in with other information in our possession. And you ought to know better than to despise anonymous information, Mr. Crewe. It is not difficult to conceive circumstances in which a man is willing to give the police very valuable information, but will not come into the open to do it.”
“But it is even less difficult,” replied Crewe, “to conceive circumstances in which a man tries to divert suspicion from himself by directing the attentions of the police to some one else by means of an anonymous letter.”
“I haven’t overlooked that,” said Gillett confidently.
“And this anonymous communication fits in with other information in your possession—other information that you have received from Miss Maynard?” Crewe looked steadily at Gillett, and then turned his gaze on Westaway.
“So, you know about her?” was Gillett’s comment.
“She did me the honour of asking my advice when I met her two days ago at Cliff Farm.”
“What was she doing there?”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“She did not.”
“I understood from her that it was her firm determination to tell you everything—to take you fully into her confidence, and throw all the light she could on the tragedy.”
“She told us that she was at the farm the night Captain Marsland was there,” said Gillett. “She sought shelter there from the storm and went upstairs with Captain Marsland when the body was discovered. He said nothing whatever about this in his statement to Westaway.”
“Nothing whatever,” said Westaway. “He led me to believe he was entirely and absolutely alone.”
“But why didn’t she come to the police station that night and make her own statement?” asked Crewe. “Why all this delay?”
“Her first impulse was to keep her name out of it because of the way people would talk,” said Sergeant Westaway, who, as an old resident of Ashlingsea, felt better qualified than Detective Gillett to interpret the mental process of one of the inhabitants of the little town.
“And so she asked Marsland to say nothing about her presence at the farm?” asked Crewe.
“She admits that,” was Westaway’s reply.
“Of course she had to admit it in order to clear the way for a statement implicating Marsland in the crime,” said Crewe.
“That was not her motive. After thinking over all that happened, she decided that by shielding herself from idle gossip she might be helping unconsciously to shield the murderer.”
“And she told you everything,” said Crewe.
“Everything,” said Sergeant Westaway emphatically.
“She told you why she was waiting at the farm on the night that Lumsden’s dead body was brought there?”
“She went there for shelter from the storm,” explained the confident sergeant. “That would be after the body was brought there—if your theory is correct, Mr. Crewe; and after he was shot in the house—if our theory is correct. Our theory is that Captain Marsland, after committing the crime, went outside the house to hide the traces of it—probably to get rid of these boots and revolver, which he threw down the well.”
“It hasn’t occurred to you, sergeant, that these things may have been placed in the well within the last few days in order that you might find them there?” said Crewe.
“Who would place them there?” asked Gillett coming to the rescue of the sergeant with a poser.
“I think you asked me just now what Miss Maynard was doing at the farm two days ago,” said Crewe.
“And you think that there may be some connection between her visit there and these things?”
“With all due deference to the sergeant as a judge of character, and particularly of the feminine character, I am quite convinced that she has not told you everything.”
“Can you tell us anything she is keeping back?”
“She is keeping back the real reason why she went to Cliff Farm on the night the body was taken there.”
“You do not think she went there to shelter from the storm?”
“She had an appointment there,” said Crewe.
“With whom?” asked Gillett breathlessly.
“With Brett—the man to whom she is engaged.”
“What!” exclaimed Gillett.
“Surely she explained to you the nature of her relations with Brett?” said Crewe maliciously. “Except in regard to Marsland she does not seem to have taken you into her confidence at all.”
“She may be playing a deep game,” said Gillett, in a tone which indicated that although an attempt might be made to hoodwink them, it was not likely to prove successful.
“I think you will find that she is a very clever young woman,” was Crewe’s comment.
“What was the nature of her appointment at Cliff Farm with Brett? Why not meet him at Ashlingsea or at Staveley?” asked Gillett.
“As to the nature of the appointment, I will refer you for full details to Mrs. Grange. You know her, sergeant, of course?” Crewe said, turning to Westaway.
“The dwarf woman at Staveley?” asked the sergeant.
“Yes. If I am not much mistaken Grange and his wife were in the vicinity of Cliff Farm when the dead body of the owner was brought there. What part they played in the tragedy I must leave you to find out from them. I am not certain myself of their part, but I have a fairly clear idea. You can let me know what admission you get from them. Before they admit anything it may be necessary to frighten them with arrest, Gillett. But I don’t suppose you mind doing that?”
“Not in the least,” replied Gillett with a smile that was free from embarrassment. “But what evidence can I produce to show that I know they know all about Miss Maynard’s presence at the farm? What evidence is there that this man and his wife were anywhere in the neighbourhood of the place?”
“They went over in the afternoon of October both in a motor-boat in charge of a boatman at Staveley, who is called Pedro, and wears a scarlet cloak. Murchison told me that Pedro is the father of Mrs. Grange, the dwarf woman—they are Italians. But Grange, the husband, is an Englishman. He keeps a second-hand bookshop in Curzon Street, at Staveley, and lives over the shop with his wife. Is that not so, Westaway?”
“Yes, sir. That is quite correct.”
“They reached the landing-place at the foot of the cliffs, near the farm, before there was any appearance of the storm. The next morning, as I was descending the cliff by the secret path, I found an old felt hat on the rocks just before Pedro, who had come over in his boat to look for it, reached the place. My impression is that the hat belonged to Grange, and was blown off as he was descending the cliff by the path when the storm was abating. If it had been blown off in the afternoon, while he was ascending the cliff in daylight, he could have recovered it without much difficulty. The fact that he left it behind indicates that it was blown off in the dark and that he was too excited and upset to hunt for it. But on reaching Staveley in Pedro’s boat, after the storm had abated, he began to think that his old hat was a dangerous object to leave about in the vicinity of a house where there was the body of a murdered man awaiting discovery by the police, so he sent Pedro back to the landing-place to recover the hat.”
“But, hang it all, Crewe! Some of your reasoning about the hat is merely surmise. You say it was blown off while Grange was descending the cliff path. How do you arrive at that conclusion? It might have been blown off at any time—while he was crossing to the farm, or standing on the cliffs.”
“No,” replied Crewe. “The gale was blowing in from the sea, and if Grange’s hat had blown off while he was on the cliffs it would have blown inward—that is, across the downs.”
Detective Gillett nodded.
“I overlooked that point,” he said. “Have you possession of the hat now?”
“Yes. You can have it if you call for it at Sir George Granville’s, on your way to interview Grange this afternoon or to-morrow. But the Granges know that I have the hat. I went there with it just to convince myself that Grange did own it.”
“Did he admit that it was his?”
“He denied it. But he is not a good hand at dissimulation. I offered to hand over the hat to him in exchange for a truthful account of all he and his wife knew about the tragedy, but the offer was not entertained. They denied that they were there at all.”
“I’ll soon get them to alter that tune!” exclaimed the resourceful Gillett. “I will put the screw on this man in the scarlet cloak until I squeeze something out of him.”
“I am afraid you will have a slight difficulty in making Pedro reveal anything,” said Crewe. “He is deaf and dumb.”
Gillett looked somewhat confused at finding that his impetuous confidence had carried him beyond his resources.
“That is unfortunate,” he said.
“It is of no consequence,” returned Crewe, “for you have evidence in your possession that Mrs. Grange was inside the farmhouse. The comb you found in the sitting-room downstairs belongs to her. When I went to see her she was wearing one exactly similar to it. Apparently she had two of them. And she does not know where she lost the one the police have, or she would not wear its fellow.”
Dinnerwas just over at Sir George Granville’s house, and Crewe, on hearing that Detective Gillett and Sergeant Westaway had called to see him, took them into the library at his host’s suggestion.
“I have seen Grange and his wife, and also Mrs. Penfield,” said Gillett.
“And what did you get from them?” asked Crewe.
“A great deal of interesting information—and most of it bearing out your theory, Mr. Crewe. I must say that this crime has more twists and turns than any I have ever had anything to do with.”
“I formed the impression some time ago that it was a complicated and interesting case,” said Crewe.
“And I want to say, Mr. Crewe, that you have been a great help to us. If it wasn’t for you we shouldn’t have got on the right track so soon, should we, sergeant?”
Sergeant Westaway, who was not very quick at arriving at conclusions, had discovered that Detective Gillett was generally ready to call him to official comradeship in the mistakes that had been made, but less disposed to give him an equal share in any success achieved. He nodded in silent acquiescence with the admission that they owed something to Crewe.
“And whom did you see first?” asked Crewe.
“I went to the garage first to learn about the motor-car Brett hired,” said Gillett. “I had a look at their books, and found that he had the car on Friday afternoon. Gosford will not only swear by his books, but he remembers quite distinctly that it was on Friday that Brett had the car. As he told you, the next thing he heard of it was that it was lying in the ditch about six miles away. He says Brett, when telephoning, said he was speaking from Lewes—but that is probably a lie. As Brett was making his escape he would not be likely to say where he was. But I can easily find out from the telephone exchange where the call came from. It was a trunk call, and the only trunk call Gosford received that day, so there will be no difficulty in getting it from the records of the exchange. Then I went to Brett’s lodgings in Whitethorn Gardens. This woman, Mrs. Penfield, tried to bluff me—she said she was certain that Brett had left on Thursday, and that Gosford was mistaken in thinking Brett had the car on Friday. But, when I threatened to arrest her for being an accessory, she broke down and admitted that Brett left her place after lunch on Friday to drive to Cliff Farm, and that she has not seen or heard of him since.”
“Not seen or heard of him?” echoed Crewe meditatively.
“By this time I felt that I was getting on,” continued Detective Gillett.
Sergeant Westaway nodded to himself in sour depression at the deliberate exclusion of himself from the story of progress.
“I next called at Grange’s shop. Westaway showed me the place.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the sergeant, as if he were in pain.
“I explained to Grange who I was, and he nearly fell through the floor with fright. I saw there would not be much difficulty in dealing with him. But the ugly little dwarf upstairs was a different proposition. She protested that she and her husband knew nothing about Cliff Farm, or what had happened there. Even when I produced the hat you gave me she would not give in. But when I produced the comb—it is exactly similar to the one she was wearing—it made an impression, and then when I followed that up with a threat to arrest them both——”
“Ah!” interrupted Crewe with a smile, “that is where you Scotland Yard men have the advantage. And I must say that you don’t neglect to use it on every occasion. If I could only threaten people with arrest I should be able to surmount many of the difficulties which confront me from time to time.”
“It is a good card,” admitted Detective Gillett, with the pride of a man who holds a strong hand which he has dealt himself. “It enabled me to get their story out of them, and a most interesting story it is.”
“I thought it would be,” said Crewe.
“The body was brought to the farm by Brett. Grange and his wife were in the house when he carried it upstairs.”
“But did Brett know they were there?” asked Crewe.
“He did not; he never suspected there was anybody in the house. They hid on the top floor.”
“And they were there when Miss Maynard came after Brett had gone,” said Crewe, pursuing a train of thought. “They were there when Marsland and she went up to the first floor and discovered the body. It was Grange who knocked over the picture at the top of the staircase, and caused the noise which alarmed Marsland and Miss Maynard.”
“Right,” said Gillett. “You seem to know the whole story; it is not worth while for me to go over it.”
“Oh, yes it is. If you got the whole truth out of that little dwarf and her husband, you will be able to fill in for me some blanks in my reconstruction of the crime.”
Detective Gillett was mollified by the assurance that he had in his possession some information which was new to Crewe, and he resumed his story with interest:
“What do you think took the Granges over to the farm? It was to hold a séance there with the object of finding where old grandfather Lumsden had hidden his money. Young Lumsden had heard from Murchison something about the dwarf’s psychic powers, and in company with Brett he went to see her. First of all they produced the cryptogram old Lumsden had left behind, and asked Grange if he knew anything about cryptograms or could get them a book on how to solve them. Grange couldn’t help them there, and from that the conversation turned to spiritualism, and one of them—probably Brett—suggested that Mrs. Grange should try to solve the cryptogram by getting into communication with the spirit of old Lumsden and asking him where he had hidden the money. A splendid idea, don’t you think, Mr. Crewe?”
“Excellent!”
“There is nothing in this spiritualistic business,” said Sergeant Westaway, with official certainty. “No good ever comes of those who dabble in it—I’ve seen cases of the kind at Ashlingsea. We had a sort of medium there once, but I managed to clear her out, after a lot of trouble.”
“Once spiritualism gets into good working order there will be no work for police or detectives, sergeant,” said Crewe. “The mediums will save all the trouble of collecting evidence.”
“I don’t believe in it at all; it is nothing but fraud and deception,” returned Sergeant Westaway.
“Here is the cryptogram,” said Detective Gillett.
He held out to Crewe a sheet of paper which he took from his pocket-book.